Coming Of Age

Coming of Age

Chapter Two - Imperio

The car came to a halt in front of a converted lighthouse, sending up a cloud of gravel dust, and Harry staggered out. Half an hour ago he didn't think he could feel any worse. Now he had changed his mind. Everywhere his clothes touched his skin, it felt like they were burning his flesh. And the seeping scar was now bleeding freely, sending rivulets of scarlet down his face to splatter little rubies across the front of his shirt.

Taking the stairs two at a time, Harry headed for the bathroom. Each step jarred through his head, streaking white pain into his scar. In the bathroom he didn't bother undressing. He all but fell into the shower and turned the water on full power.

The power jet sliced into his face and body, soaking into his clothes. For several minutes he simply stood, allowing the water to wash the blood from his face. Then slowly - painstakingly slow because each movement ripped pain through to the core of his being - he stripped off his shirt. He expected to find the flesh red raw.

It was untouched. Clean and clear. Smooth and slightly tanned. There was no sign of the burned flesh he expected.

Pushing his hair back from his eyes, Harry began to remove the rest of his clothes, struggling with the jeans, which now clung to his legs. The jeans joined the growing pile of sodden clothes on the increasingly wet bathroom floor. He leaned forward, resting his hands on the tiles and let the water flow down his back. Drops of blood splattered onto the white tiles, and he struggled to hold back tears of pain.

"Harry, is everything alright?"

He physically jumped and turned towards the voice. Blood ran into his eyes and he immediately looked away from the woman stood beside the pile of soaking wet laundry. "Emily. Nothing. Nothing is wrong. I ..." How could he explain this to his girlfriend? "I ... umm ... spilt developer chemicals down myself." He pressed hard on his forehead, trying to stop the bleeding.

The auburn haired woman bent to pick up his shirt, scrutinizing it. "Is this blood?"

"No ... Yes. I've got a nose bleed."

"Oh, no." Emily stepped over the clothes, nearly tripped on a shoe, and pulled open the shower door. "Come here. Let me help."

"It's nothing." He kept his back to her. "Look, don't touch anything. I don't want you to get any chemicals on yourself. I'll be down in a minute."

"But ..."

"Please, just leave everything." His tone changed, voice rising in fear. Emily thought it was anger. She turned on her heel and left, slamming the door behind her with such force the window rattled.

For some time Harry didn't move. Then slowly he leaned back against the wall and slid to the floor. Cradling his knees to his chest, he sat on the shower floor, his sobbing tears mingling with the hot water.

********************

"Well done." Ron's grip on Hermione's shoulders tightened and he held her against him.

Hermione clasped his hands tightly. "Well done you too. You know, that was extraordinary. I haven't come across power like that since ..." She shook her head in wonderment. "Since Harry's last battle with Voldemort. If I didn't know any better I would think it was him."

"What? Voldemort? We both know that's not possible." The pair didn't move. "Is Harry okay?"

"For the moment anyway." Hermione had found she had a talent for medical magic and particularly counteracting charms and curses. "I've managed to put up several blocking charms, which should help him deal with the pain and other nasty things. But I really need one-on-one contact to get rid of the hex completely."

"That's going to be difficult."

"Well, someone needs to do it." She finally pulled away, sad to leave the safe cocoon of Ron's arms. "I think we need to contact Sirius and the others. Something really bad is going on here."

********************

Draco had no idea how long he sat curled up against the cold, rough wall. His father ... Voldemort ... had stood over him for some time after his trick with the scar. Draco didn't see him leave. One moment Voldemort had been there, the next he was gone. No flash of bright light, just a ripple and nothing.

The glow from the bowl still illuminated the room, but Draco had the impression it was slowly dimming. Or perhaps there was something wrong with his eyes. He knew sooner or later the light would go out and he would be left in darkness. He would have no choice but to get to his feet and walk out of the room.

Walk out to where? To what?

There was a part of him which still thought this all had to be a big joke. Or maybe his father was testing him in some weird way. The Malfoys were renowned for their 'little tests'. Or ...

But there was no other 'or'. There was no mistaking what had just happened. The Dark Lord was here, in Draco's home, inhabiting his father's body. And his father was ...?

Draco realised he was going to be sick. Without thinking he dropped to his hands and knees and retched. When he finally sat back on his heels, he saw stars from the strain of trying to throw up on an empty stomach.

He crawled back to his spot by the wall. And started to laugh. The hollow painful convulsions lasted for several minutes before slowly subsiding. Everything had suddenly become so overwhelming he knew if he didn't laugh he might cry. Of course, it was no joking matter, but what did he have left? All his life, Draco had carefully avoided any really dangerous situations. Yet here he was in one of the most deadly he could think of. Oh, he had delighted in tormenting people since he was old enough to understand the process. But deep down, he never really meant anything by it. At first he just acted the same way his mother and father had. Later it became a release valve against the oppressive rules his father imposed.

Damn it! It was expected of him, so who was he to be anything different?

In a real fight, he would always find a way out, which prevented him from getting hurt, but still allowed him to take the credit. Even while supposedly being a follower of Voldemort in recent years, he'd managed to find ways and means of not getting involved. More importantly, he always managed to find ways of not taking Voldemort's oath of allegiance. He'd even weaseled his way out of submitting to being branded with the Dark Mark.

When he was about 12, the idea of having one of those marks seemed really cool. Muggles had things called tattoos and here was his chance to have something better. Fortunately Lucius had refused, telling Draco he was too young to be able to understand what having a Dark Mark meant. His infatuation remained, however, and it lasted right up to the opening of the new Slytherin School and his first encounter with the Dark Lord.

It was on that day he finally realised this was not a game. Voldemort was playing for keeps and at some point Draco would have to pick sides. He'd attended several Dark Mark ceremonies since that meeting and felt smug because he always managed to prevent having the Mark branded on his arm.

Of course, now he realised why the man he thought was his father hadn't pushed him into the ceremony. Draco already carried the Dark Lord's Mark.

********************

The small bathroom window looked out over a granite patio, which lead to a small path leading to the cliff edge. Emily Shaw was busying herself with setting a table for the supper party she and Harry were having that evening. Harry's actual party would be a big affair in London in a couple of weeks, but this evening would be for Harry and his closest friends.

Harry, wrapped in a white towel, watched Emily from the window. She moved lightly around the space, sorting out flowers and table linen and shooing away Thomas, her big lazy black cat. Occasionally, she would push a strand of hair behind her ear; an action Harry knew meant she was thinking deeply about something. He watched as the sun picked out red flecks in the brown tresses, which curled across her bare shoulders, and sighed.

They had met a year and a half ago at a launch party for a book of Harry's photographs. Her hazel eyes had stared so uncompromisingly into his own, that he felt he was going to topple into them. He hadn't fallen in love overnight. In fact, if he was honest, he wasn't sure even now if he loved her. But they were comfortable together and they made each other very happy.

Which was why he felt guilty now for having shouted at her. Well, he would apologise later and hope she would forgive him. But for now he had other problems.

He was calmer now, because the pain had gone, but he still felt weak and was very confused, with more questions and not enough answers. He knew in his heart what had happened was not a 'normal' sickness. He didn't want to admit it, but he recognised a curse even after all those years.

And then there was the scar.

It had stopped bleeding now, but instead of being a thin silver line, it was bright red and ragged like a fresh wound. He turned slightly and looked again in the mirror. The scar now had an unsightly scab on it. How on earth was he going to explain this?

He pursed his lips and touched the scar. It felt soggy, like it didn't belong to him anymore. For several minutes he studied at his reflection, unsure of what to do.

You could try magic, the image in the mirror told him.

But it won't work without a wand, Harry replied.

You never know. It's worth a try.

Taking a long controlled breath, Harry ran both hands through his short hair, holding onto it for a second. Before he could change his mind, he intoned the words that would heal the scar and return it to its former glory.

As the words left his lips, Harry felt the familiar tingle of magic settle over him like a sprinkling of summer rain. He'd forgotten what it felt like to be surrounded by magic. Forgotten the taste and smell and feel of it running over his body into his skin and along each and every nerve and fiber.

He let out a little sob of emotion. It was the same sensation he had felt in Ollivander's Wand Shop ten years ago to the day when he waved his first wand - 'holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple'.

He felt like a drowning man reaching for dry land.

He'd come home.

********************

"Evening all!" The door between kitchen and garden flew open and in swept two tornados, which were Fred and George Weasley. "Never fear, the cavalry has arrived." Fred gave a theatrical bow and headed straight for the fridge.

George, meanwhile, emptied a bag on the kitchen table. Several boxes of Chocolate Frogs spilled out. "Only one thing for a crisis like this. Lots of chocolate."

Hermione watched openmouthed. The arrival of the Weasley twins often left her openmouthed. She was reminded of a pair of overexcited puppies rather than two grown-ups. Fred and George never failed to raise a smile even in the darkest hours.

The boys (Hermione found it hard to think of them as anything but 'boys' even though they were older than her) sat down at the table. Fred handed his brother a Butterbeer and they gave each other a quick toast. "Where's Ron?" Fred pulled the stopper from his bottle.

"Somewhere. I don't think we expected you to get here quite so quickly."

"Well, needs must!" George took a drink from his bottle, his long ponytail swinging with the movement. Their brother Bill had grown his hair just as long; much to his mother's horror, and Hermione knew George hadn't cut his hair since Bill died. It suited him and sometimes she was quiet envious of the long flame-red locks, especially on the days her own rather mousy brown hair did nothing more than hang in a long bushy mess. It should be, she decided, against the law for boys to have such beautiful hair! Bill had also worn an earring, but George drew the line at that. It was Fred who took to wearing one - a small gold stud.

The noise from the kitchen brought Ron out from the study where he'd been checking emails on the computer. Owls were okay, but sometimes Muggle technology had its uses. He greeted his elder brothers with a smile, clasping each by the hand. Seeing the three together it was hard to tell who was the youngest. The twins spent their time running 'Weasleys Wizarding Wheezes', their joke shop ("Now open in Hogsmeade as well as Diagon Alley"). It had left them with their boyish charm and a passion for practical jokes. Ron, meanwhile, had become old beyond his years. Somehow, when Harry left, it had been just assumed that Ron would take up Harry's mantle. People expected Ron to run things, take decisions and generally be in charge. Even Sirius often deferred to Ron when it came to organising things. And Ron, being Ron, never complained about it. He just got on with things and somehow forgot what it was like not to have responsibilities. His quick sarcastic wit was still there, but wasn't much in evidence anymore. It was difficult to joke when people hung on to your every word and expected a serious answer to their questions.

"Didn't expect you for hours." Ron joined the trio at the table. "Not very busy today then?"

"Half-day closing!" Fred began working his way through one of the boxes of Frogs, still checking the 'Famous Wizard' cards. He tutted in. "Merlin again. More importantly, that little scanner device Neville made - you know the one that's supposed to glow if Harry gets hexed. Well, boy did it glow today. It could have lit up the whole of London."

"Neville will be pleased to know it works." Hermione quickly told the boys what had happened earlier. "We've owled Sirius, but he's in France at the moment. I'm not sure how quickly he can get back, so it's up to us to do something about this."

When necessary Fred and George could be very solemn and thoughtful and this was one such occasion. They both listened intently, casting each other furtive glances at appropriate pauses in Hermione's story. "Dark Magic?" George finally said. "Are you sure?"

"Way serious Dark Magic. I haven't seen or felt anything like it for ages. And what we got here was only the echo. Imagine what it must have felt like for Harry as the target. I've managed to put up some temporary blocks to it, but we need to actually have contact to sort this one out."

"That's going to be difficult." Ron made the same objection to his brothers as he had made to Hermione earlier. "We can't just turn up on his doorstep."

"Oh, I don't know." George pondered. "We could go to Harry's party. I can just see him introducing us. 'This is Ron, my best friend'," he mimicked Harry's Surrey accent, " 'This is Hermione who I used to shack up with and is now sleeping with my best friend and these are Ron's mad brothers who have made a fortunate out of joke wands and trick sweets'. No, I can see it isn't a good idea."

"And," Fred interjected, "I haven't gotten him a birthday present yet."

"But you have just given me a brilliant idea." Ron's face broke into a huge grin. "We'll get him to come to us."

"Great plan, Ron. No wonder you didn't get into Slytherin." Fred added another card to his discarded pile of wizards. "Why should he suddenly change his mind now after three years?"

Ron got up, disappeared from the room and when he returned carefully placed something on the table. "Because of this." The object was Harry's wand. They had all seen it before. It had looked like it had died when Harry left it at Hogwarts. The holly wood became brittle and dry and no one else had been able to get even a little magic out of it.

But the wand on the table looked completely different. It was vibrant, almost shimmering with power. Ron's grin widened (if it was at all possible considering how big his grin already was!). "Harry had got to be using magic again and that's what the wand is picking up. If he's using magic, he might just want to come home."

"You git!" Hermione punched him on the arm. "How long have you known about this? You let me rabbit on for hours when you had that all the time!"

"Ouch!" Ron playfully grabbed her arm. "The wand was on my desk and I noticed earlier it looked different but to be honest didn't really give much thought as to why. It's only just occurred to me now what it might mean."

"And your plan is?"

"Two things. We need to check out Harry's car. He was in it when the hex was put on him. If the car has been cursed, he'll be just as ill next time he uses it."

"Easy," George shrugged, "we'll go and check it out as soon as it's dark. Hopefully the Muggles will all be drunk by then."

"If not, a little mist off the sea will cover our tracks." Fred waved his own wand and the table suddenly looked like it had been covered with dry ice. "And second?"

"We send Harry some presents!"

********************

A gentle tapping on the study door roused Harry from his thoughts. "Come in," he called.

Emily looked into the room. "You've got the 'Keep Out, I'm Working' sign showing."

"I've always got that sign showing."

She crossed to the desk and put her arms round Harry's neck. "Is everything all right? You've been acting very strangely."

"Well, you wouldn't like me if I was normal."

Harry's arms slipped round her waist, pulling her into the 'V' formed by his legs. "I'm fine." He turned his face up towards Emily and allowed her to kiss him. It was a gentle slow touch, which made him relax into her arms and close his eyes. "I'm sorry," the words were spoken into the kiss. "I didn't mean to shout."

Emily pulled away from his mouth, pleased that he tried to maintain the contact. "You're forgiven. You can find a suitable way to say sorry later." He leaned forward, dark head resting against her chest. She smelt of the meadows surrounding their home and of the sea and he kissed her on the soft skin between her breasts. She let out a very small sigh.

For a long time they didn't move. Harry was deeply aware of the beating of her heart and of the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. He felt like he was outside of time, like the moment would last for an eternity. It didn't.

"Ron and Candice are here." She finally spoke and felt him tense against her.

Harry was surprised that the name 'Ron' should cause such vivid images to flash into his mind. But the Ron in those images wasn't the publisher friend who sat downstairs -the Ron who had published his book and introduced him to Emily. "I'd better get dressed. Your table deserves more than a pair of shorts."

Emily grinned at the rather short shorts, the only item of clothing Harry was wearing. "Oh, I don't know." She gazed down at him with an apprising look, and then ran a finger through the fine hair on his chest, down his torso to the waistband. "I rather like it and I know Candice would approve. Or ..." Her finger slid between material and flesh. "We could send them home."

"Hmm. Interesting idea. But not very tactful." Harry kissed her quickly and removed her hand. "I'll be down in a minute."

He waited until he was once again alone in the room before turning back to the computer. The photograph he called up was one he had taken of Isabel. Was it only three hours ago he had been stuck on the M25 Motorway?

There had been something about the women at the time that unnerved him, but he had forgotten about the weird effect seen through the viewfinder. Now as he looked at the image on the computer screen, he could see it again. It looked like a double exposure. The dark-haired Isabel was superimposed by another image. Blonde hair, slim, older than Isabel. He thought he recognised her, but couldn't place the woman. The other photographs showed just Isabel.

Harry would have accepted the strange photograph if he'd been using a wizard camera, but his digital camera was as Muggle as you could get. How had he managed to capture such an image on it?

However, all this would have to wait till later. He reached for the mouse to close the computer down, but stopped, his fingers a few inches above the desk. What was it Isabel had said as her car drove off? "Hope the traffic doesn't keep you too long, Harry Potter. Hope we meet again soon."

Harry Potter! She had actually called him by name and he knew he had never mentioned his surname! How could she know unless?

Of course she had to be a witch. It all began to fit in together. He remembered the tacky sensation of her hand when they had touched each other and the irritation afterwards. He looked down at his right hand, which now looked perfectly normal, but if she had used some sort of potion - perhaps a poison - what could it still be doing to him?

Or, he could be just imagining things and there was a perfectly reasonable 'normal' explanation. Why would someone suddenly decided to hex him out of the blue? It just didn't make sense. It wasn't as if he had upset anyone in the Wizarding world recently.

Even more frustrated, he went to dress and join his guests.

Ron the Publisher met him in the lounge with a big bear hug. He couldn't be more different from Ron the Wizard. In his early 30s, Ron was big, muscular from hours in the gym. He looked like he could snap the rather skinny, gangling Harry in two. "Happy birthday, mate." He pumped Harry's hand, shaking the arm almost out of its socket.

"Thanks. Is Candice about?"

"She's out in the garden with your good lady. Theresa and Mac are out there too."

"Then I guess I should be a good host. Do you want that glass topped up before we go out?" Harry nodded at Ron's almost empty glass.

"Better not. I understand you have some nice champagne in the fridge." The two men crossed the lounge. Ron stopped at a small alcove, which was lined with a dozen or so nicely framed prints. "I see your gallery has grown."

Harry grinned. "Nothing to do with me, thank you very much. This is all Emily's work. I'd like to take them down."

Ron cast a critical eye over the photographs, all taken by Harry. Some he'd seen before as they featured in Harry's book, but others were new. One caught his attention. It was of a sleeping woman. "You know, I swear that she moves each time I see her."

"It's a photo, Ron. Photos don't move."

"Hmm. Then maybe I've had too much already." He peered closer. "Doesn't she look a bit like Emily?"

"Well," Harry coloured a little. "Perhaps there's a slight resemblance. It's probably because the hair is a similar colour." Harry swiftly steered him away, casting a quick glance at the image of a sleeping Hermione Granger. Ron was right, she had moved, but almost imperceptibly. Muggle photographs didn't move, but wizard ones did. He'd taken that one of Hermione back in their 5th year at Hogwarts with a Christmas present camera from Sirius Black.

Harry found he was a natural at taking pictures and he spent the rest of the school year chronicling everything from Quidditch to afternoons at Hogsmeade. He was particularly proud of the photo of Hermione, but that all changed when he realised the image never woke up. It was like watching Sleeping Beauty waiting for the prince to waken her with a kiss. But the prince never made it through the thorn fence and she was trapped forever slumbering in that print. He had wanted to get rid of it but couldn't bring himself too.

So it had been hidden away until Emily found it, fell in love with what she termed a 'great study' and insisted on hanging it on the wall.

It was almost the last wizard photograph he took. That summer, Harry bought his first Muggle camera, he was much happier taking images that never moved. There was a slight resemblance between the two women, but Harry chose to ignore it. He wasn't going out with Emily because she looked like Hermione.

A breath caught in his chest as he looked back at the photograph.

The image's eyes had opened and Hermione smiled back at him. She winked and went back to sleep.

********************

Draco's birthday celebrations were not going quite so swimmingly as Harry Potter's. For a start there was no patio at Malfoy Manor positioned so the summer sun baked it during the day and bathed it during the evening in the red afterglow of the sunset.

There might also be more than six people in the large ballroom, but most were friends of his parents and none were really what he would call 'friends'.

And, most important, Harry didn't have Voldemort as a guest!

Twelve hours ago, Draco had been looking forward to this party, even with the guest list from hell. He had the perfect new set of robes to wear - midnight blue with the most incredible silver stitching. It was supposed to be worn with no undershirt and the silver fastening crisscrossed over the open front. The trouble was the neckline would show off his new scar, which he had no way of explaining. At least not an explanation anyone would believe. So the wonder-robe was in the cupboard and he was stuck with this deep mauve monstrosity, the only redeeming feature of which was its standup collar.

Bad dress sense or not, Draco still managed to play the perfect host, mingling, stopping to chat, paying suitable complements. All the time he was doing this, his eyes kept returning to Lucius. His father ... he had to think of him as his father otherwise he would go mad! Lucius was dancing with his mother, Narcissa. Did she know who she was sleeping with? That the person she was dancing with was really Voldemort?

Draco had never before seen his mother look at his father the way she was currently staring at Voldemort. There was adoration in her eyes, which spoke volumes, and he knew Narcissa was quite clear as to who was currently whispering in her ear.

How many other people in this room were aware of what had happened to Lucius? There were at least 50 or 60 he could name as Death Eaters. Avery, the Lestranges (freed from Azkaban after the Battle), the parents of his one-time friends at Hogwarts, Crabbe and Goyle (Crabbe and Goyle themselves had been branded in a ceremony only months before - the stupid fools), MacNair. The List went on. Did these loyal followers know?

And what about the others? Those who hadn't pledged themselves but who favoured Voldemort's ideals: the destruction of all Mudbloods and Muggle lovers; that only people from pure blood families should hold positions of power in the wizarding world; the end of Muggle/Wizard marriages. The list was endless.

He wondered if those working against Voldemort really understood what they were up against. Had they realised their Great Battle had actually accomplished so little? That loosing Dumbledore had only lead to so much fear in people that they would grasp at anything to rebuild their lives?

And who had been there with all the answers? Telling them what to do, how to act, who they should trust?

Why Lucius Malfoy of course!

It was funny how clear everything seemed to Draco now. It felt like he had always viewed his own life through a mist, but now the charm had been removed from the scar, everything else had come into sharp focus. He reached up under his collar and touched the raised Mark. On returning to his bedroom earlier, he had stood in front of a mirror for a long time staring at the scar, hoping to prove it was new and recently created. But he could tell it was an old scar, stretched as flesh grew, moulding itself to the changing contours as he matured from boy to man.

"Ladies and gentlemen ..."

Draco jumped as he was dragged back to the present by the sound of his father's voice.

Lucius tapped on the side of a glass, the sharp sound cutting through the hubbub. He beckoned Draco forward. "Ladies and gentlemen. You are here tonight to celebrate the birthday of my son." Lucius' hand rested on Draco's shoulder, leaving an impression on his skin as cold as ice. "Today he has reached 21, an auspicious moment in anyone's life. Today he becomes a man. Today he stands alone to make his own decisions and to live and die by those choices." There was a splattering of polite applause around the room. Draco could feel colour rising in his face, self conscious of these words and talk of death. "I know Draco will make the right choices and follow the path laid out for him. Is that not the case?"

Draco found himself drawn into the grey eyes, which were a mirror of his own. He saw Lucius' mouth move, forming a silent word. "Imperio."

And he fell into a big pit of darkness. At the bottom of the pit his fall was cushioned by millions of feathers. They covered him, blotting out everything but the sound of Lucius in his mind. He wanted to speak, but the feathers filled his mouth and the sound that came out was not his own. The voice seemed to be coming from somewhere else and he had no control over what it said.

"Yes father, I know what is expected of me. I will not let you down. Thank you for your trust."

********************

Miles away, in a converted lighthouse, Harry Potter felt like he was falling into a big pit of darkness. He sat down before the feathers broke his fall.

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