Harry Potter and the Summer's Secret

Chapter 2 - Disturbing Revelations

In the past he had made terrible mistakes, but he never made one twice in his life.

That was the reason the dark figure crouched silently behind the bushes at the edge of the woods and observed watchfully through narrowed eyes the ruins of the former residence of Lord Voldemort.

He had come here to the pit of doom on order of his mentor, who wanted to know what had happened as much as he himself.

It was a risk to have come here, for if the Dark Lord was still around it would be his death to have come without summoning.

He could not sense another presence in near vicinity, so he did not rush forward, for too many had seen the end of life for being too sure of oneself.

It urged him to know what had been going on, but he was slow to go further. Whatever it was the Dark Lord had thought to accomplish, it was a puzzle, whose resolution would change more lives than his own.

A few days ago, the tremors of an outburst of raw magical energy had been noticeable throughout the whole country. Even the lesser gifted wizards and witches had felt something shift in the core of magic that penetrated every living being and surrounded the world itself.

He himself had stood numb for a moment, forgetting everything else and relishing in the feeling of liveliness and power in an amount as frightening as it would taint the purest of souls.

As suddenly as it had come, the feeling had given way to the dull grey of everyday life and left him gasping for breath, his heart throbbing painfully in his too-tight chest.

Half an hour later, he had still felt slightly dizzy and unable to catch a clear thought, recounting the unbelievable experience and reliving every second like a drug addict.

That was the moment the Dark Mark had disappeared, and he could not do anything else but sit on the ground and stare at his forearm like it was a foreign being.

Before he could get a grip on himself and possibly go to the headmaster, he furled up in pain when only moments later the Dark Mark appeared again, but now in a dangerously glowing purple that faded after minutes to a hardly visible shade of violet.

The whole event had left him panting on the ground, his voice screamed raw. He had been shaken to the core. Something like that had never happened before; at least it was not heard of.

Hell, he still felt his whole body tremble when he thought about it and he, like all of the others who were marked for life, whether committed to the cause or not, had waited for hours with growing expectation for a summoning by their master.

However, until now it never had occurred. The more time passed without a call from the Dark Lord, the steadier the man grew in his belief that something like that would - just maybe - never have to happen again. Then a repulsive and, in its matter ridiculous, thought had crossed his mind.

That the grating Potter-child had somehow done what nobody wanted to say out loud.

Though, if for some reason the Potter boy had accomplished what was told to be his destiny, one had to ask doubtfully, why the Dark Mark kept burning away his nerves with excruciating pain.

The Potions Master kept himself rigorously from falling into the same trap as everyone else. He refused to believe that a boy as irresponsible and arrogant as that one should be able to do something any grown wizard wasn't competent to do with as easy a snap of the fingers as that.

There had to be a snag somewhere amidst that whole mess.

The figure scowled darkly. Why ever it had happened? Potter had been amidst of that; and to put the lid on it, now the awful boy could not even remember what had caused an outburst of that tremendous strength.

It was absolutely ludicrous and if he were not who he was, he would long since have lain rolling on the ground yanking out his hair or laughing, at least after the report the werewolf and consorts had given rather reluctantly to Dumbledore. Understandable, when they had finished their account of being outsmarted by a dunce.

Apparently they had not noticed the boy coming home. The werewolf and that crazy girl had been sitting in the kitchen indulging an early breakfast when Moody arrived at Privet Drive only a few hours after he had gotten the order to check on him from Albus.

Allegedly the boy had been peacefully asleep, and of course Moody had ranted about Potter's lack of respect for his elders; the wolf seemed rather subdued and lost, as if not knowing where to go.

The shadowed figure, while lurking in the darkness, honestly could not gather what that mangy beast of carnivore found of worth in that child.

The boy was too much like his father. He could not stand that bad egg and its attitude, as much luck as fate seemed to throw on this child. The occurrences of the last days were taking it a bit far.

He could see the Dark Lord obliviating the boy; that much he admitted. However, from whatever directions he looked at the whole charade, he could not bring himself to believe that the Dark Lord would let the Potter boy walk out of his reach with nothing but his memories changed.

It simply was not possible. For too long the wizard had searched for a way to get his hands on him, trying to end his pitiful existence for good.

Why would the Potter boy be telling everyone that he had lost his memories instead of gloating and relishing in his new heights of popularity?

No, somewhere the Dark Lord was still very much alive. He had to be, for the Dark Mark was, even if changed, still burned into his skin and an everlasting reminder of his past deeds.

The new experimental potion he had been making that day had obviously been ruined. That, of course, was Potter's fault, too. However, he did not loathe the boy as wholeheartedly as he displayed during the school year. Loathing was a strong word and solely reserved for the Dark Lord.

When he thought about the boy and his open, bright and mischievous grinning face, he found that he hated the wretched child immensely, at least as long as he could not fire some well aimed insults at its swelling head. The boy did a good job as - he thought the term was punching bag, which Muggles used to get rid of their piled up aggressions. On his list of people not worth knowing Potter held steadfastly his place among the top two.

Deeply immersed in his thoughts, his attentiveness never failed and he stopped like dead on his way when he picked up the rustling of leaves and the breaking of branches just a few meters away from his position in the forest.

His muscles as tense as steel springs, he watched the quietly swaying rows of trees, highly alert, waiting for the source of noise to leave the shadows behind. His breath caught in his chest the nearer it came to his hiding place, which was in itself not really a safe point to stay unnoticeable for a long time. Moving would just have called them over sooner, so he stayed were he was, gripped his wand tighter and hoped his stars were lucky today.

They were four men who stepped out of the woods without care for dangers, and full of themselves if their way of arrogantly strutting in the dirt was any indication. Dark, crimson coloured robes were wrapped tightly around their bodies, the hoods pulled down deeply into their faces.

Oblivious to their silent watcher, one could just make out the outlines of masks, similar to the ones the Death Eaters wore when summoned or at work, but much different in appearance. None the less when they strolled past him as if they thought themselves to be the masters of the world.

Robes and masks alike were from the finest quality, hemmed with black bands of velvet and on one of them a gold border surrounding the sleeves glittered in the sunlight like one of the finest grounded gems.

They talked to each other in low voices, a strange humming noise erupting now and then from their throats. To his utter surprise the watcher couldn't understand one word of what they said.

The puzzle was just getting greater than anticipated.

It was as if Albus had had his own hands in it. He would pull something like that whilst pretending complete innocence to whatever resulted of his scheme and watching with that mad twinkle in his eyes, when everyone else tried to save their hide with as few casualties as one could manage.

The only thing that spoke for Dumbledore's innocence in this matter was his real show of surprise after the Potions Master had gone to the man with the astonishing news of the Dark Mark's changing.

Everything had frenzied at that point. The search for the Potter boy magnified for a short amount of time until Albus called them back all at once without further notice. Only Moody got the order to check on Privet Drive.

Everyone was looking for the centre of the sudden outburst of magic that never had been seen before in its density and strength. The Potions Master did not even know it was possible to call that much magic in oneself and still be able to use it. Maybe it was not possible, and that was the reason for the Dark Mark's change.

The Potions Master looked thoughtfully down on his covered left forearm, aware of what he would see should he pull back the black cloth of his robe.

Nearly invisible, the tattoo was just a thin violet image on his arm. It looked like a badly painted children's picture, but quite often during the last days it would flare up and heat painfully at the most inconvenient times possible.

His contacts that had served years long confidentially as one of the order's most reliable sources for information suddenly were untraceable and the Dark Lord's right hand man still sat rotting away in Azkaban, unaware of any plans his master had come up with during weeks of dwelling on carrying out his revenge on an obnoxious child who had bested him once again.

Despite of his innards squirming like a living beast, the man ignored his instincts that told him to run as fast and far as he possibly could. On countless times these instincts had saved his life in the past.

This time around he consciously decided not to notice his own magic's warning and stepped further into the remains of a monstrous castle, hideous in his gargantuan dimensions and utterly fitting to a man who had left humanity behind long ago.

He waited patiently for a sufficient time for the unknown visitors to disappear in a fissure twice as high as a grown man but just wide enough for a child to wedge through. With a deep breath and a long glance cast at his surroundings he sneaked forward, attentively staying out of the light.

Careful to set his feet on sturdy ground, the Potions Master cursed his fate to leave him with a task like this. Excitement pumped through his veins and the knuckles of his hand turned white until he realized how hard a grip he had on his wand and forced his hand to let loose to be able to flick his only weapon with all his expertise should such a need arise.

He was aware of the risk he incurred when following further, but he needed to know what these strange foreigners were doing in a place where, until days ago, the most feared Dark Lord had resided.

The Potions Master knew the stakes in his job; hence, he listened cautiously for movement before giving up his position to a safer place.

Hidden away behind a much darker part of the collapsed wall, he merged in the shadows as if he himself was nothing more.

Only when his eyes had become inured to the twilight of his new surroundings he took his course down to the subterraneous arches, where the dungeons and laboratories where situated, as well as the torture hall.

Countless Muggles and wizards alike had left their lives in this room whilst the Death Eaters had laughed themselves hoarse with delight at their suffering and participated with mad gleams in their eyes when their victims' screams for mercy echoed through the hall.

He wrinkled his nose when something foul-smelling drifted through the corridors, in which stones, broken columns and knocked over statues bared his way.

Something, or better someone, had obviously been dying in these rooms not too long ago. It was the rotten scent of death the lone spy followed amidst dirt.

Several times he stopped and searched for the magic that surrounded them. Not just their careless behaviour seemed strange in a place like that.

The Potions Master hid his body in a small, partly collapsed alcove and warily looked at the centre of the room where the red robed men had gathered in a loose circle.

His whole being grew stiff and he tilted his head to the side, his eyes going wide in a rare moment of freely displayed, blank astonishment.

Some daylight shone through the cracks in the ceiling and illuminated floating rays of dust. The whole scenery seemed to be taken from a bad novel and the dozen or so lifeless bodies on the ground, all of them clad in the dark robes and white masks, a sign of their service to the Dark Lord, only appeared to emphasize this impression.

What had awoken his rare display of emotion? It was not the corpses of fellow Death Eaters, although he possibly had talked to most if not to all of them at one time.

It was their magic that had caught his interest, for the whole lot of it was utterly ... deranged.

There was no other word to describe it. It was not bound to their inner core the way everyone else's was. In fact, their magical core was not much more powerful than that of an average wizard or witch.

It was the way their magic reacted with the environment that left him awestruck.

Continuously they seemed to draw the magic out of the earth itself in an amount surprisingly strong. It was a task even Dumbledore would have struggled with; impossible for anyone else. These men didn't even need to consciously try. They just did it, and how they did it!

Abruptly the lone witness of the actions that the wizards set in motion sunk deeper into the obscurity of undulating shadows, though he never averted his eyes for one moment for not to miss anything of importance.

The tendrils of magic surged through the space, sucking in violently whatever energy they could get.

From his hiding place he had a good look around the hall, but he was cautious not to get closer. It would have been a temptation for fate to go much further. It was hardly possible without being noticed, anyway. Every sound in this room echoed widely throughout the whole castle.

The Potions Master had chosen his hideout with care. The torture hall was an ample room, but from his vantage point he could see into every corner and the centre lay open in front of him.

He could not fathom them. Unfazed by the dead men, the buzzing of the flies and the penetrating smell, they kept chanting wordlessly, and to his utmost amazement without wands. Arms raised high above their hooded heads, open to receive the whirling wild energy they still soaked up from their surroundings, it seemed as if they tried to invoke some sort of ritual, but up till the unsighted amount of magic they used, they did nothing for him that indicated what the dangerous wizards where doing.

He did not know whether they were allies or foes. There was nothing left for him from which he could draw conclusions to explain the unbelievable happenings.

With a feeling of uneasiness, Severus Snape turned his back to them while blending deeper in the darkness. Deep inside he knew that he would see the mysterious men again much sooner than he would ever want to.

With that thought, he apparated straight to Hogsmeade and hastened to reach the headmaster as soon as possible to inform him of what he had witnessed.

A third party had arrived on the playground and had to be reckoned with.

Chapter 3 - Living Again

A week had come and gone since the excitement at his birthday, and slowly Harry became accustomed to the changes his body had gone through.

He was lucky to have had the foresight to get rid of all evidence of his absence just an instant before Moody had stormed his room as if to take down a gang of drug dealers. Even if Harry's strength had been drained to nothing in physical and emotional exhaustion, he had to commend himself to a good show.

After the wizards had left, he had not been able to sleep. One thought chased the next and the dreams of Voldemort, alternating between promises of anything he could possibly wish for and threats to the lives of everyone he had ever loved, left him staggering and breathless.

The few days locked up with Voldemort in his hideout had been beneficial in one point that already had stood the test. The experience, although he did not want to repeat it ever again, had been everything Harry needed to get a hold on his occlumency skills, although he could not say whether his method was the official procedure or if it was born out of necessity to stay alive.

Naturally, Harry was not naive or desperate enough to ask one of the two persons who could possibly answer that question to his satisfaction.

His ability was better kept secret for as long as possible, for he had to use everything he could to stay ahead of everyone else. Also, Harry did not think he had gotten every loophole there was. Snape surely would find a way to fool him if Harry took his invincibility for granted.

After all, Snape had fooled even Voldemort, something not many could pride themselves with. Sooner or later Harry would have to heed Hermione's advice and save time to visit the library when he got back to Hogwarts.

For the first few days after his return Harry had to fight fervently to keep up his shields at any time, for the temptation to go with the dark lord's suggestions were strongest.

Eventually, Harry had roused himself and worked on his mental shields with all his might until he believed himself able to know when Tom tried something naughty. Then the day came when his hideous excuse of an uncle remembered his freakish nephew's existence and came rolling in with high speed to drag him out of his sheets.

It seemed that Harry's time for recuperation and grieving was over if his uncle had anything to say about these matters as the boy was shoved through the bathroom door emphatically, given short shrift by his uncle.

When the first drops of water touched his feverish skin, Harry felt himself suck in a sharp breath. He was not one to normally favour ice-cold showers, but the little warm water his uncle allowed would not heat the fluid much more, so Harry forewent that decision and just used the cold water to at least lose the last remnants of the former lord's visit, whose presence echoed through his veins nauseously.

It took only minutes for him to adjust, and Harry held his head high into the spraying wetness and indulged in a moment of silent joy, for he still was breathing and thinking and very much alive. Harry leaned on the cool wall of the shower stall and let his body go limp, unbending his cramped muscles, while thinking what he should do with the rest of his summer.

The matter of killing dark lords had to be put behind for now, because he did not have the resources to further his plan and secondly he wanted to be selfish for once in his life. Surely he wanted to get rid of Voldemort, too, but what everyone else had to say to that matter did not cause him nightmares.

For all Harry cared they could go and sit on a tack. It was not Harry's sole purpose to free them from their bogeyman, but, he admitted with a heavy heart, it was the most important one. Nobody would save him from his fate; each the wizards and witches around the world were busy feeling tremendous relief for not being the one chosen to deal with the evil wizard until one of them died. They had missed the opportunity to disabuse Harry from the notion that he had to follow his destiny's path on the shortest route possible. Nobody had mentioned that he couldn't look for something pleasant while doing so.

It was already too late for any actions to try to prevent the inevitable in any case. Harry had chosen his path and now had to follow it until the very end, but some fun would be good for his self-esteem. Surely they did not want him to hide behind their backs when he went into the ring - not that their backs were wide enough for hiding behind. He laughed at the irony. They did not know that Harry had already won the first round.

Surely in their fight for control Harry just had been lucky to maintain the bond to his body, whereas Voldemort had had to leave the one he occupied to have a chance at taking over Harry's after he had finished ripping his soul to shreds. At least, that was what he had planned on doing after getting his claw-like hands on him.

Tom Riddle had played a game without knowing which cards Harry held in his own hands, a game with unimaginably high stakes. He had underestimated Harry's will to come out of their encounter with his heart still beating. Tom had played a game without a safety net and had fallen. Harry giggled. How could Voldemort have known Harry's when Harry himself had been completely oblivious? It had not helped the dark lord to rip through his mind, searching for hidden secrets that were not there, or to resort to physical violence when Harry could not deliver what he sought.

For all rights Harry should be dancing on the bastard's grave, but the devil's flop had managed to survive once without a body; why should he not do it again? If Harry would have to move into hell with nothing but Tom Riddle's soul as luggage, he would run away with utmost surety. For Tom certainly would not have harps playing for him when he arrived.

So the fact of Tom's second flight was understandable to Harry, as he himself did not want to die just now, as he was not explicitly sure in which way he would be welcomed there. That did not mean that Harry had to stand aside for Tom to take his body. Normally Harry was not against giving presents when he had something to give away; he just did not like to share his body with Tom Riddle's soul. A teacher of his had done so a few years ago and had paid with his life.

Add to that, Harry was certain that the lying bastard was not one to share himself. Should Harry loose control just once, Harry did not doubt that the snake-faced bastard would take the chance offered and throw his soul out of his own body or worse. He could capture Harry's soul in his mind. Just as Harry was doing in that moment with Lord Voldemort's soul itself.

A cackling sound vibrated in Harry's head and a cold tremor ran through his body and forced him to take action. Right away he strengthened his shields to his utmost ability. He must not lose control; he had to keep his concentration at all times. Nothing was more important for the time being.

Abruptly thrown back into the small bathroom in Privet Drive, Harry climbed out of the shower, his mind still working on building his shields stronger and as steady as a rock. He gripped the worn out towel his uncle had ungraciously bestowed upon him and rubbed the goose bumps from his skin vigorously, trying not to think about this alien being caged in his head.

Just getting ready to leave the shower, the towel wrapped safely around his hips and his much used pitiful looking toothbrush, the hilt had broken off times ago, already packed away in his small bag, Harry, out of the corner of his eye, saw something in the mirror and jerked around, filled with dread. Adrenalin surged up and washed away all joy Harry had felt as he ripped away the towel and let it drop carelessly, his eyes never leaving his right hipbone where a glaring violet mark sat innocently on his skin as if it had been there always.

Hesitating, he looked down. It looked like the Dark Mark, Harry realized, but instead of a snake coming out of a skull's mouth it was a lightning bolt much like his scar that pierced through its grinning face and appeared to illuminate the hollow space in the skullcap. Harry swallowed heavily and covered the mark with his hand. It was not even big enough to fill the palm of his hand. With his other hand steadying him on the washbasin, Harry bent down on wobbly knees and picked up the towel to cover the mark at the first opportunity.

Then he held his hand out in front of him and frowned darkly at its quivering form, for he could not allow any weakness. He balled his hands to fists before taking a deep breath and, with determination glowing in his eyes, Harry pulled the cloth away, taking his time to fold it and put it safely on the basin's brink. Every second he got to delay was welcome. Finally, Harry turned to the new absurdity and traced the outlines of the tattoo with still trembling fingers.

If he concentrated on it he could feel a weak breeze of presence, and behind that a mass of fleeting thoughts that were not his own. Desires, hopes and anxieties flooded his mind and where gone before he could consciously acknowledge them.

With furrowed brows, Harry sank down on the plastic stool in the corner, studying the mark with growing interest, never taking his fingers away from it. With closed eyes, Harry could follow the mark's magic into the realms of other people's minds. He could barely make out different people. A father holding his child, another being amused at something; he was gone before Harry knew what the reason for the feeling had been.

When Harry worked with it, he could follow the rays of the magical energy to the bonded and he would know where any man was and what he was thinking. Harry thought that he could read at least the thoughts floating near the surface of a bonded mind, the ones one had just moments before someone decided to give them voice or to stay silent. Harry could not tell one mind from the other. He could not consciously influence whom he was following or what one was thinking, though, perhaps that could be remedied in the future. Surely Harry would be able to draw magic from everyone bonded to him through that mark.

He laughed mirthlessly when a crazy thought crossed his mind. He could drain every living Death Eater, one after the other, until they were just a bunch of squibs. He tilted his head. Harry could kill them, too. He blinked and shook away the anticipation and the temptation of power and felt a shadow of someone fall back into the darkness of his mind.

Was that what Voldemort felt through the Dark Mark's bond? If so, then Harry was wondering why that man had never found out about Snape and his spying for Dumbledore. It did not matter if Voldemort figured out about Snape's treachery now. The trapped, self-appointed lord could not do anything about it and Harry would see to the fact that the bastard would not have the possibility in the future.

With a sigh, Harry gathered his things. When he had come to terms with his being bonded to the Death Eaters through a strange form of the Dark Lord's mark, he would surely find means to use it to his advantage. Now, Harry just wanted to vanish from the face of earth. He did not want to live with that on his hip for the rest of his life. Hopefully the mark would be whisked away when Voldemort's soul perished. He would have to be careful when showering in the dormitory at Hogwarts. Probably he would shower long before any of the other boys.

With newly heightened senses, Harry left the bathroom soundlessly, tiptoed to his bedroom and looked over what he could find. Much choice of clothing was not given to him, in any case. Rags were rags, no matter what colour. With a last glance at Hedwig and the promise to come back to her with a bit of food sooner than later, Harry went down the stairs to take his daily dose of verbal punching. At least he would be left on his own for the rest of the day.

Harry took his uncle's rant without any expression of dismay, and the nagging of his aunt did not bother him in the least. He let the foul words wash over him without listening. He could not have said, what they had been on about if he had to fend for his life? It appealed to him that Dudley chose to ignore him this time around, so Harry nodded to him pleasantly and otherwise did the same.

In silent contemplation Harry left the house and walked down the street in a leisurely pace until he felt an irritating tingle sizzling through his body the moment he reached the border of the wards. Before this summer Harry had not been able to recognize them. Now he relished in his newfound ability while checking them intently.

Harry had fooled them once when he had arrived home at his birthday. He could do it again. Wary not to touch the wards physically, Harry searched for the point of concentrated energy where all of the protecting magic originated from and pushed cautiously until he felt the shields bending under the pressure of his power. It would not do to break the wards even if that would not be a problem.

Harry only had to adjust them to ignore his presence whenever he passed through. Nobody would know differently until they came to Privet Drive for themselves and checked it locally. To be aware of the faintest nuances one would need powers only Dumbledore himself called his own. Harry did not remotely consider how often the man had come here to check on Harry's well-being and his everyday problems with his relatives. Maybe he should rather count how often he hadn't come? The number would be much larger.

With great care Harry pushed and prodded, mended and bound magical energy around its previous object of attention. The wards would still recognize if he was injured in an attack, or if he left the borders of their protection range, but they would not be able to hold him in anymore, or to alert the headmaster when Harry chose to leave the surrounding streets.

Now he was ready to try his first piece of freedom. Harry thought, with a boyish grin, that a little exploration of the neighbourhood was in order.

He did not do anything out of bounds. Harry took a leisurely walk to the park, sat in the sun near the playground and dug his bare feet in the green softness of growing grass. It was the freedom of his mind he sought, and the right to decide what he wanted to do whenever, wherever or whatever he was craving for.

Sitting on a fallen tree trunk, Harry thought about the last weeks. He still felt restless and energetic, filled to the brink with magic that continually sought a release. First he had thought it linked to Voldemort, but for now the snake lord was out of his way and Harry felt even more on edge. It was, as if his body was waiting for something to happen. Could it be that he had received more of Voldemort's powers, like he had received parseltongue? After all he had this odd mark, too.

Twirling around the same thoughts fruitlessly again and again, Harry decided to draw a line under everything that had happened. With a deep breath, Harry stood up and looked around. When he did not see anything strange or important that needed an immediate resolution, Harry chose that moment to start his second childhood and to begin living again for as long and carefree as he possibly could.