The Proud Man's Contumely

Harry closed his eyes. He would just let this happen...There was nothing he could do to prevent it.

That fact seemed to absolve him, allowed Harry to concede with clear conscience that perhaps he even wanted this in a way. Through no weakness of character, no failing of his own, he was being set free from the endless pressures and expectations that came with simply being who he was. But even as the thought of death grew more and more seductive, Harry felt the icy hands release him. He opened his eyes.

The dementor was shrinking away from him. Harry was slightly disappointed, and more than slightly confused, but just then a great, glimmering, gryphon patronus swooped down soundlessly from overhead, back claws splayed, wings beating in slow, powerful grace. For a moment, Harry forgot the immensity of his situation and was simply awestruck. The mythical beast was immediately followed by a very large, shining bat and a spider, resembling a gigantic, luminous, albino Black Widow, scurrying along beneath. As Harry watched the three drive the dementor, flailing, out of sight, a hand seized him from behind and jerked him roughly to his feet, at the same time turning him to face his assailant.

"What in bloody hell is wrong with you?!" Snape demanded harshly, nonetheless holding Harry at arm's length and frantically inspecting him for injury. "Were you just going to sit there, wand-in-hand, and let the accursed thing kiss you?" he asked, taking Harry's face roughly in hand to examine his eyes and colouring.

Harry, still numb, did not answer. He only stared at the Potions Master, seeing him in a new light since the night before. There was the usual anger and disgust, but also distress and, in some small amount, concern in the man's expression. Harry didn't know what to make of it, and so filed it away in his memory, incapable of analysing it at the moment. Snape, quite confident Harry still possessed his soul, gave a small, satisfied snort. But before he looked away, his eyes, quite on accident, were caught by Harry's. Snape was suddenly very still, completely frozen in place but for the subtle shadow of inquiry that drifted across his features. Neither blinked. It was one of the eeriest experiences of Harry's young life, exchanging a gaze with Snape which wasn't filled with anger or hatred or any kind of animosity.

"Severus," Harry heard Dumbledore call from the darkness behind Snape, jolting the man to his senses. Realizing he still cupped Harry's chin in the palm of his hand, Snape jerked his hand away as though the contact stung him. He gave Harry one, last, uncertain look before stepping aside to reveal the Headmaster. He was approaching quickly...more quickly than one might have guessed a man of his age was capable, and he was accompanied by the wiry, blond witch Harry recognized from Grimmauld Place.

"He appears to be intact," Snape reported stiffly, taking another small, uncomfortable step away from Harry. Dumbledore heaved a sigh of relief and placed a heavy hand on Harry's shoulder.

"Excellent...though it hardly surprises me," he smiled. Harry thought Dumbledore might burst if he appeared any more proud of him, and it made Harry slightly angry for some reason. "Professor Cobbleshot has informed me of the marvellous way in which you and your friends have defended the others during the attack," he gushed. "I can't tell you-"

"Ron," Harry interrupted in a dull voice, his eyes trailing away from the Headmaster's. How could Dumbledore be so cheerful when Ron...He must not know. But didn't Dumbledore know everything? Harry needed to tell him. But he couldn't find the words, or rather, he couldn't speak them. Dumbledore's smile disappeared and he sobered, waiting patiently for Harry to go on. "Ron," Harry repeated shakily, "He...They..." Harry's wand slipped from his fingers and fell dully to the ground, and Harry himself teetered as though he might follow. Snape caught him easily beneath the shoulders, but it was clear Harry wouldn't be able to support himself and Snape held him upright with an irritated groan.

Despite Harry's ambiguity, Dumbledore seemed to understand him perfectly.

"Severus, come with me," he said already turning toward the train himself, "Rainey, see to Harry. Get him back on the train." Harry was hastily handed over to the stranger, more hastily than simply the urgency of the situation required. The little witch possessed far more strength in her spindly limbs than Harry might have guessed and bore Harry easily when Snape heaved him like a sack of stones in her direction. Snape and Dumbledore disappeared into the shadows of the train, two billows of starched black and soft crimson velvet, with Harry, disoriented by the sudden flurry of activity, looking numbly after them.

"You'll not want to lose this, my little one," the witch said, drawing Harry's arm around her neck to better support him as she bent to retrieve his wand and slip it slowly and carefully into his trouser pocket. Finally, Harry turned to look at her. Her voice had unnerved him worse than her look had before. It was low and dark and husky. It made Harry think of cheap brandy for some reason, even though he'd never had brandy in his life.

"Who are you?" Harry heard himself ask her.

"Hmm," she said, a noncommittal, ragged vibration low in her throat. "Let us get you onboard before we bother with introductions."

Harry allowed himself to be pulled back onto the train. Most of the carriages were now empty, as the others congregated further up. Harry wondered if this was the carriage where he'd found Malfoy. Though, there was no sign of the boy, and all the carriages looked the same, really. Oh well. Harry realized he didn't really care.

She directed Harry to a central compartment and as he took a seat, the lights flickered and came back on. Harry winced, not only because his eyes were so accustomed to the darkness, but also because the sudden light was too warm, too cosy, too...normal. The cabin he sat in, like all the others, was plush and colourful, an inviting space where nothing dark or devastating happened. It turned Harry's stomach. He hated it...He hated its cheerful lie.

Once he was settled, Harry's chaperone indifferently handed him a fair chunk of chocolate, which Harry only stared at and turned in his hands while she went to the door and peeked out. After checking the corridor in both directions and satisfying herself of their safety, she settled into the seat across from Harry, paying him little notice. She seemed far too at ease for Harry's liking. It annoyed him the way she sat there, relaxed, legs crossed, chewing the inside of her lip and idly brushing dirt from her black trousers. He found her almost as repulsive as the compartment.

Long moments passed in silence. The witch glanced around, patiently waiting on the Headmaster to return, but Harry fixed his eyes on her. She reminded him of Sirius and Remus, in that he guessed her to be about their same age, yet looked much older. She too bore creases of extreme hardship. Time and trial had left their bitter claw marks at the corners of her eyes and mouth, but unlike Remus, they appeared in no way kind, nor did they flatter her. She looked hardened, not necessarily wizened, and her face was too cold, angular, and ashen to be Thought lovely. Though, Harry guessed she might have been quite so at one time, many years ago.

Only very slowly, Harry came to realize that she returned his stare. Their eyes met and, again, her look rattled him. It was not malicious, just cold and unabashed, which Harry felt was almost worse. He looked away and took to studying the design on the rug instead...

Merlin, was the whole wizarding world covered in patterns, Harry wondered wryly. How many times in the past few weeks had he found himself doing this very thing, idly tracing designs with his eyes while he waited. Wallpapers, rugs, cloaks, book covers, everything was swirled or checked, embroidered or embossed. Design was woven into the very fabric of the wizarding world. Harry wondered if any of it held any magical significance, or if it was just a covering. Something to make the otherwise unlovely more appealing...a distraction...a deception. Harry sighed. Why on earth was he pondering paisley at a time like this?

Time. It felt like it was standing still. In the complete silence, without the ticking of a clock, he couldn't gage its passage. Everything seemed to lose its proportion, and his perception swelled and contracted. One moment he thought he'd go mad with waiting, with being unsure what he was even waiting for, really. The next, all structured thought would leave him and he felt he could drift in this timeless silence forever. At last Harry heard the soft hiss of the door to the compartment poison the silence and tear him from his tangential thoughts. He glanced up to see Dumbledore standing in the door with Hermione before him, still crying steadily but silently now. The Headmaster shepherded her inside to sit beside Harry, as she seemed not to know, or either not to care, where she was.

"Ride with them the rest of the way to Hogwarts would you, Rainey ?" he asked their escort solemnly before turning to Harry and Hermione. "You are in excellent hands, I assure you," he promised gently. "This is Professor Cobbleshot, your new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. I will see you both again when we arrive." And with that, he withdrew again.

Harry turned to Hermione, but had no idea what he might say to her. He felt as lost as she looked. He wanted to comfort her somehow, but she looked so fragile, as though she might crumble should he dare to touch her. Before he could bring himself to put his arm around Hermione, Professor Cobbleshot slipped from her seat to kneel before her, boldly taking one of Hermione's hands in both of her own.

"There, there," she cooed. Yet her face was devoid of expression. Hermione wasn't looking at her anyway, or at anything in particular. But Harry was. The scene sent a searing bolt of protectiveness through him. He had the impulse to swat the vile woman away from Hermione. He felt like growling at her. But he did neither, only watched distrustfully. When she got no response, Professor Cobbleshot shrugged very slightly and, after regarding Hermione curiously for a moment , resumed her seat. Harry immediately wrapped his arm around Hermione, pulling her around to cry into his chest and throwing the professor a sour look. Oblivious to Harry's caustic glower, Cobbleshot simply curled her fingers under her chin and watched them.

The remainder of the journey passed surprisingly quickly. It seemed only a heartbeat before they arrived at the school. Harry was held in the carriage while the others detrained. Hermione was immediately whisked off to the hospital wing with several others to have the gash on her forehead mended. There would be no trip across the lake tonight for the first years, perhaps for one of the first times in Hogwarts' history. Time was of the essence, they simply wanted to get everyone safely inside. Harry was taken to the school in a carriage all his own after the others set off, and was to be accompanied by his new teacher. When he stopped to affectionately stroke the neck of the thestral that would bear them, Cobbleshot allowed it, even gave the beast a pat herself before sauntering over and opening the carriage door for Harry. Neither spoke as they bounced along toward the school, but again, Cobbleshot studied Harry in her unnerving way. He might have thought he'd be accustomed to being the object of attention by now. But hers was not the adoring gaze of those at Grimmauld Place. It was simply and coldly curious, almost indifferent. It irked him immensely, but he held his tongue. Perhaps he was only being overly sensitive.

When they finally shuffled into the school Harry could hear Dumbledore's voice already carrying through the cavernous halls. Harry halted before the doors of the Great Hall, listening to the Headmaster make his speech. Again, Cobbleshot allowed him to tarry. Dumbledore was attempting to lend comfort to the frightened student body, particularly those closest to Ron, though ironically those the very closest to him were not even present. He praised Ron's courage, his loyalty. He lamented the tragedy of his 'death'; and, in so many words, urged everyone to remember him, like Cedric, not only as the wonderful person he was, but also as further proof of the ruthlessness and sheer heartlessness of the Dark Lord. This angered Harry greater than anything else that had happened that night.

How was it Dumbledore always seemed able to twist tragedy into a rally point against Voldemort? Why couldn't he just let them all grieve without stuffing bloody propaganda down their throats? Because they all were his army, and he knew it, even those who weren't members of DA...and he was programming them. A whole new generation was being trained, not only to become competent, productive members of the wizarding world but also, and more importantly, to battle Voldemort and his followers. And the next Dark Lord after him, like Grindlewald before. Harry's resentment dropped like a lead weight to the pit of his stomach.

Cobbleshot ran a hand lightly down Harry's arm to pull him back to the here and now. It made Harry shiver in a decidedly unpleasant way. For fear she would touch him again, Harry began walking again, leaving the doors of the Great Hall behind. He didn't need to be told their destination was Dumbledore's office, he'd been through the 'school crisis' drill before.

Cobbleshot whispered the password to the gargoyle statue, right into its ear as though it were a living breathing sentinel, and stepped aside for Harry to enter. Without so much as a nod, she wandered off elsewhere as Harry rose on the rotating stair and out of sight. Harry shook his head. The woman's oddity might almost have fascinated him, if it did not presently bother him so severely.

He found the door to the office unlocked and he went inside, taking a seat in one of the familiar chairs, and waited for the Headmaster, as he had far too many times before. He had recovered himself considerably by now. He didn't feel quite so dazed. Anger can be surprisingly sobering. And unfortunately, he didn't find this space as soothing or reassuring as he once had. Sometime during his last visit here it had changed. Or rather, Harry had changed, and it no longer had it's usual effect on him. Now it was just a room. Harry sat there, trying to drown Dumbledore's speech from his thoughts...trying not to replay the evening in his mind, trying to stop himself from wondering what he could have done differently. He ignored the eyes from all the dozens of paintings he knew were prone on him.

Despite himself, his and Ron's last, angry exchange echoed through his thoughts. Dumbledore's words may have riled him, but Ron's cut him deeply. If he didn't quiet them soon he'd surely go mad. Harry tried to dwell in the remembrance of the trust he'd felt in Ron's grip when Harry had helped him to his feet, or the reassuring clap on the back he'd received after Ron return the favour soon after. But then all Harry's forced avenues of thought came to an abrupt end as realization began to slowly sink in.

Ron was gone.

It seemed so difficult to imagine. Harry's life before he'd found the wizarding world seemed like an illusion, and after...afterward there had always, always been Ron. Everything that had happened to Harry since he was 11 years old had been shared in some way with the boy. But never again. They would never share another adventure, another secret, another grudging word or friendly gesture. The memory of Ron's face in the blue green glow before the attack drifted to the surface of Harry's thoughts. He'd looked so corpse-like, a portent of things to come. Harry tried and failed to banish the image. It was only replaced, finally, by the memory of Ron's face as he lay in Hermione's arms. Despair welled in Harry like liquid in a container too small and frail to hold it. He fought it, but half-heartedly. It was a battle he knew he wouldn't win. Harry clenched his fists. His cheeks were already wet, and he was trembling again. It was far too quiet in the room. He needed a distraction. If he did escape these thoughts...

"Heard you had a rough time of it."

Harry's head snapped toward the voice, startled, but relieved. Phineas was seated haughtily in his frame, looking down at him. Harry might have been irritated by the very sight of Phineas, had not his comment pulled Harry from such dangerous thoughts. Still, Harry didn't bother with a response. Grateful though he may be, he still couldn't stand Phineas.

"Though, as usual, you seem to have blundered forth to save the day. What would we all do if not for Harry Potter, eh?" Phineas continued sardonically, apparently none too impressed. However, his remark emboldened the many who were, and from every side Harry was pelted with comments like 'Bravo, my boy', 'Brilliant show', 'Truly marvellous,' and 'Taught them well, you did!' All the former heads of Hogwarts looked down on Harry, grinning, misty-eyed, and proud to bursting. Harry groaned quietly, though after that short outburst, they all seemed too overcome to comment further anyway. Everyone, that is, except Phineas.

"Yes, yes. Bravo and all that," he said with a wave of his hand. "You'll be pleased to know your flea-bitten guardian is well on his way here." Harry bristled, but only shook his head. He felt quite certain Phineas simply enjoyed the sound of his own voice, and far too much at that. He'd just ignore Phineas. "Though I can't say I would have elected him for the job...of being your keeper that is. Why Dumbledore didn't see fit to chose another, considering the blatant spell that nancy cast on my grandson, is beyond me. How does he expect that to be a positive influence on you?" Instead of taking the hint, Phineas seemed somehow encouraged by Harry's lack of response. "Personally, I can't say I trust him," he confided nastily. "The mangy bitch ruined my lineage and now I imagine he'll want to ruin your father's." Harry's teeth ground and he finally turned a slow, venous glare in Phineas' direction.

"Phineas, Shh!" scolded a witch two paintings over. All the rest were scowling at him as well. But apparently Phineas enjoyed having an audience, even an irate one.

"I will not 'shush'," he snapped, nose rising a little higher, getting a bit riled himself. "My house, the most noble and ancient house of Black, is finished. Our name is but a memory, all because that queer-"

"Phineas!" someone gasped. Harry was on the edge of his seat, fists clenched for an entirely different reason now.

"Well it's true!" Phineas insisted to the objecting wizard across the room. "Sirius produced no heir all because that sulking..."

"This is not appropriate!"

"...bestial..."

"Really!"

"...faggot corrupted him!"

"Shut. Up." Harry voice was quiet but dangerous, and his nails were embedded in the arm of his chair. Phineas started. He was so busy arguing with the others he appeared to have forgotten Harry was even there. His chest puffed in offence.

"Excuse me, young man, but I don't think you have any place telling me-"

"SHUT UP! Shut up! Or I'll shut you up!" Harry shouted, swiftly rising to his feet and overturning his chair in the process. Phineas ruffled further and filled his lungs to shout back, but was interrupted when Dumbledore walked through the office door.

"Harry?" he inquired, looking at him down his spectacles. Anyone in that wing of the castle could have heard Harry's outburst. All of the portraits spoke up at one to tattle on Phineas.

'It was him again, sir...'

'...being absolutely-'

'No respect for -'

Dumbledore raised his hand for quiet. "...Phineas," he said calmly, drawing further into his office, "kindly remove yourself for the time being."

"Well, I-"

"Phineas," Dumbledore repeated firmly, "go and see if Remus has left yet."

"He has," Phineas replied flatly, crossing his arms and hunkering down as though he had absolutely no intention of going anywhere. But Dumbledore's severe look, as well as the threatening ones he was getting from several of his neighbours who were brandishing their wands and inching slowly toward his frame, apparently changed Phineas' mind. Muttering crossly, he withdrew into the shadowy depths of his canvas and was gone.

Dumbledore sighed and make his way heavily toward his desk. There he stood looking kindly and sadly down at Harry, who was staring at the rug as though he aspired to set it flame through sheer will and chewed angrily on his bottom lip till it almost bled.

"Harry..." he said gently, drawing Harry's attention from the floor. Though, Harry's violent expression didn't change with his focal point. Dumbledore's brow furrowed ever so slightly.

"What?" Harry snapped. Instead of answering him, Dumbledore took a deep breath and finally seated himself. He cast Harry a concerned look and lay his hands on his desk, opening them toward Harry in a gesture of invitation.

"Would you care to discuss what has happened?" he offered kindly. Harry snorted.

"And just what do you expect me to say?" he asked scathingly. Dumbledore's furrow deepened.

"Perhaps...how you feel...about-"

"About losing my best friend? ABOUT BEING THE REASON HE DIED?"

"Harry. There is absolutely no reason you should feel responsible in any way-"

"Please. I'm not so bloody naive. I wish everyone would stop treating me like I am!," Harry interrupted. Dumbledore opened his mouth to object, but closed it again. "Of course it's my fault," Harry continued waspishly. "This whole ruddy mess involves me. It always does."

"Harry, it involves us all. But that certainly doesn't mean you are at fault," Dumbledore argued gently. "Voldemort, we believe, was under the impression you were not even aboard the Hogwarts Express at the time of the attack."

"Which is why he attacked it? Is that it? Because I wasn't there to throw a kink in the plan as usual?" This was not the point Dumbledore had been trying to make, obviously. Still, Harry could tell by Dumbledore's silence and expression that he had struck near to the truth. "See? I was part of his decision. I was the reason we were attacked. I was one of Voldemort's concerns...and so it was my fault," Harry said adamantly. Dumbledore shook his head sadly and began to argue, but Harry grimaced and shook his head, gesturing for silence. "I don't want to talk about it," he said feebly, laying his face in his hands.

"Hmph," came a voice from above them, "Dumbledore, really. Are you going to allow yourself to be silenced by a child? I've told you, they have no respect for auth-"

"Phineas," Dumbledore warned rather dangerously. Phineas shut up with a snap and disappeared again. Harry's anger flair again, but he only shook his head and went to retrieve his chair, where h e was then allowed to sit and think for a moment undisturbed.

...So he may not be technically at fault. What did it matter? It didn't take away his regret, his pain. It was easier to believe it was his fault, that he had had the ability to prevent it and somehow failed, than it was to believe he'd been powerless. He hated feeling helpless. And above all, that's why he hated Voldemort...for rendering him so, in this and in so many other things.

And Dumbledore wanted to discuss how he felt? He wanted to know what it felt like to lose everything? To have no one and nothing...no home, no family, and now to have lost his best friend who, quite possibly, died hating him? How could he even begin to explain what it felt like to be Harry Potter? How can one put into words the pressure and anxiety and aggravation of being expected to save the whole bloody world from a genius of the Dark Arts, a vengeful, near invincible madman he'd already killed at least twice already? How could he describe the sheer frustration that his only incentive to do so, beside to prevent anyone else he cared about from being killed, was that he had-no-choice? Dumbledore wanted to know how he felt? He was bloody pissed off, that's how he felt! Angry and oh so damned helpless...

Rage the likes of which Harry had never felt before, of such magnitude he never thought himself capable, erupted in him. It was so all-consuming he didn't think he could contain it, yet had no desire to. It was a cold fury. A malicious one. Harry felt destructive, but he didn't want to smash things. He wanted to obliterate them. He wanted to reduce the whole of Hogwarts, and everything and everyone in it, to ashes. He felt like strangling a bunny, decapitating a bloody unicorn. He felt like slaughtering everything innocent, pure, and carefree that had never known the kind of pain he was experiencing right now.

Harry could feel the heat rising to his face, he was shaking badly. He saw red, his anger blinded him to everything around him, to Dumbledore rising to his feet in alarm.

"Harry..." he said cautioningly, but Harry misunderstood his tone.

"I SAID I DIDN'T WANT TO FUCKING TALK ABOUT IT!" Harry bellowed. But as loudly as he had shouted, Harry never heard his own words. They were drowned out by a deafening roar that rushed through and around him, as though Harry were standing in the centre of a bonfire, and his scar exploded in pain. Though, rather than the usual, stabbing pain that seemed almost to pierce his very brain, this time his scar erupted outwardly, as though it had split open and poured forth liquid flame. There was an ear-splitting crash, as of much glass shattering at once, and everything went black.

Harry drifted in this darkness. His anger had been to much for him to bear, and he waited in this welcome oblivion for it to be spent. But even here, where he thought he was beyond all feeling, all pain, his scar throbbed a second time...and something dark, something malevolently exhilarated woke in him. His own cruel laughter sounded in his ears and he felt triumphant, though for the life of him could not understand why.

When Harry finally regained his senses, he found himself on his knees, covered in bits of tinted glass, and still grinning. He shook his head to banish the last of the strange delight and glanced around him. Every breakable object in Dumbledore's office now lay in pieces, covering the floor in a sparkling blanket as though it had just snowed shards of glass. Harry raised a shocked look to the Headmaster, and saw the wizard's beard glittered with the stuff, and his hands and face glistened where numerous nicks and cuts began to ooze. It looked as though Dumbledore sweated blood.

The Headmaster looked...afraid. It was the first time in Harry's life he'd seen him that way: not wary, not dreading or anticipatory, but truly fearful. Seeing it sent a glimmer of fear through Harry himself. He was afraid of Dumbledore's fear...was afraid of what he had just done to elicit it. Slowly, he lifted his trembling hand to examine the wounds he bore as well, but seeing them, cried out and bolted to his feet, taking several staggering steps backward as though he could escape his own arm. Dumbledore raised at hand to him as if to comfort or quiet him, but seemed too godsmacked still to manage speech. Harry turned round and round, looking at the damage, trying to comprehend that he had done this.

Most of the frames on the walls were empty, the rest revealed their owners peeking timidly from the corners...All, of course, except for Phineas. He leaned forward from the shadows, wide eyed curiously impressed by the ruin he beheld. But this only lasted for the split second before he noticed Harry's attention, at which time his expression dissolved instantly into a haughty sneer.

"You know, Dumbledore," he drawled, apparently trying to save face, "If you don't stop having the boy up here, you'll soon have no things left at all."

It was, by far, not the cleverest or most cutting remark that the man had even uttered, yet it washed over Harry as if he'd just insulted Sirius, Ron, Remus, Cedric, and his parents all at once.

"No, Harry," Dumbledore shouted, but it was too late. Harry had already taken up a large shard of glass and launched himself, with a rattled cry, toward Phineas, who let out a high pitched shriek of his own as Harry plunged the glass through his canvas.

"Who's the poof now?" Harry thought with frightening satisfaction as he drew the shard down the length of the painting. He lifted his arm to strike again, when his wrist was seized by strong fingers. They squeezed and shook until Harry dropped the shard, bloody where it had cut into his palm. Frustrated, Harry cried out and tore at the canvas with his other hand, doing a fair amount of damage before Dumbledore wrapped an arm securely around his waist and bore him back away from his victim. Harry clawed Dumbledore's arm, kicking against him and even gnashing his teeth.

"Shh," Dumbledore whispered into Harry's ear with surprising calm. Harry whimpered and continued to struggle. "Quiet now, Harry."

Exhausted but stubborn, Harry arched his entire body against the Headmaster's grasp and released a single, wordless roar, through which he bled out the last of his fury. "That's it, now calm yourself," Dumbledore soothed. Harry's legs trembled and gave way and they were pitched to the floor. He could feel the glass through his denim, cutting into his knees and leg, but Harry was beyond all physical pain at the moment.

"Let go, Harry"

And finally, Harry did. With a shattering sob he fell limp. The arms around his waist slackened and drew him around to cradle him. Dumbledore was saying something else, but Harry couldn't make it out. He was drifting. He closed his eyes, and immediately lost consciousness.