Harry Potter and the Rest of the Story

Harry Potter and the Rest of the Story

Chapter 1 - Past, Present, Uncertain Future

(Little Hangleton, early 1920s ...)

It didn't take long after Morfin Gaunt was released from the wizard's prison, Azkaban. The old gossip in Little Hangleton took on new life when the (unequivocally non-magical) townspeople realized that the local madman had returned to an empty, derelict house after a three-year absence. "That crazy-eyed whore, Merope, trapped Tom Riddle into marriage, then disappeared when he dumped her ... served her right." "Old Marvolo, now there was a scary old bloke, was dead for weeks before anyone noticed." "Too bad the madman is back ... some say he escaped from prison somewhere, or bedlam. You don't want to get too near that one." "He doesn't even speak the King's English most of the time, just some strange hissing, acting like he can talk to those snakes he keeps in that hovel." "He's a dangerous one, he is."

Three years in Azkaban prison had only compounded the mental instability of this warped example of excessive inbreeding. Hiding in shadows, Morfin learned what had gone on in his absence, including his sister's elopement with a filthy Muggle (albeit a rich and handsome one). "The dishonor of it, you thieving slut ... where are you? Alive? Dead? You must have run out of love potion, tramp. Couldn't keep him, could you? It killed our father, I know it. It's all your fault, blood traitor," Morfin hissed into the darkness of the room where he sat, drunk again on stolen liquor.

As always, he spoke in Parseltongue, the language of snakes, a hereditary gift of the Slytherin line, a nearly extinct line. Usually, his venomous monologue was for his sister's betrayal. Usually he spent most of his time, when he wasn't singing nonsense songs to his snakes, sneaking and spying, and laying in ambush to scare off any Muggles who dared to approach the pathetic remains of the ancestral Gaunt estate. For some reason, more drunk than usual, more insane than usual, he decided that he wanted revenge on the Muggle who had tempted his sister into such a disgusting union. Who was it that Riddle favored now, after abandoning Merope? Who could Morfin damage in order to damage in turn his sister's seducer? He remembered that last day before he was taken to Azkaban. Riddle and his female had ridden by, he had called her 'Cecilia, darling'. Morfin's recent spying had revealed that Riddle was engaged to Cecilia, after buying an annulment of his marriage to his long-missing wife.

"I'll strike at Tom Riddle by striking at Cecilia-darling. Merope may have dishonored the name of Gaunt, the proud lines of Slytherin and Peverell, by marrying a Muggle, but that Muggle dared to abandon a witch of the name of Gaunt, of the lines of Slytherin and Peverell. I'll ruin Cecilia-darling ... Riddle will be robbed of his new prize ... he'll have no use for damaged goods." Afterwards, he would barely remember that night, and only as though it had been a strange, disgusting, but compelling dream.

Cecilia was found in the woods behind her house the next dawn, beaten and ravished, with no memory of how she had gotten there, or of who her attacker had been except for a vague sense of someone blonde and handsome ... the exact opposite of reality. She was quietly sent away to a distant cousin's estate, where she gave birth to a boy, sent the child to an orphanage, and spent the rest of her life as a reclusive spinster, since her former fiancé had found another, more worthy companion.

This son, like his unknown cousin, Tom Marvolo Riddle, didn't take after the Gaunt side of the family, thankfully. The infusion of Muggle blood into the dangerously inbred line was most beneficial. Both cousins were exceedingly good looking and intelligent. The similarity ended there, however. Cecilia's son, a squib, before he was a year old, was adopted by a gentle, loving Muggle couple, and named Andrew Evans. Andrew in time became the grandfather of two girls: Petunia, who had no magic, and Lily, who had a great deal of magic and, with James Potter, bore a son named Harry.

Andrew's cousin, a powerful wizard, grew up in a bleak orphanage, attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, opened the Chamber of Secrets and mastered a basilisk, murdered the man who fathered him (and that man's parents), framed his uncle Morfin for the crime, followed instinctively his Gaunt grandfather's pureblood obsession, and eventually, consumed by darkness and bitterness, and a compulsion to rid himself of every iota of his half-Muggle heritage, became the Dark Lord known as Voldemort.

(Little Whinging, 10 July 1997)

Anyone in the neighborhoods surrounding Number Four, Privet Drive could tell you, 'that Potter boy' spent most of the year at St. Brutus's Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys. A small percentage, slowly growing year by year, thought that his huge bully of a cousin, Dudley Dursley, ought to be sent there as well, preferably all year long. They were only half right, right about the cousin.

Harry Potter actually attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, magically hidden up north, somewhere in Scotland. He had just completed his sixth year of seven. For the third year in a row, he had returned 'home' for the summer, having seen someone die before his eyes. Two years ago, his schoolmate Cedric Diggory was killed by Voldemort's orders and wand, the Killing Curse cast by the Death Eater called Wormtail. One year ago, his godfather Sirius Black was pushed by a curse through the Veil, an archway into the afterlife, the curse cast by the man's own cousin, the Death Eater Bellatrix Lestrange. Three weeks ago, his headmaster and mentor, Albus Dumbledore, was killed by a man Dumbledore trusted beyond a shadow of a doubt, the Death Eater spy, the double-crossing traitor, Severus Snape.

And now, it seemed unlikely he would complete his seventh year at Hogwarts. Even if the Board of Governors decided not to shut the school down after a staff member murdered the headmaster during an attack on the supposedly-protected school, even if others returned to Hogwarts, Harry believed his path led elsewhere. A part of him had died as he lay helplessly, watching his greatest protector fall before the Killing Curse. He was on his own, and had only an inkling of how to accomplish what he must. For his destiny, revealed by a prophecy, was to be the only one with the power to defeat that most powerful Dark Lord, Voldemort ... a power that, supposedly, consisted of nothing more nor less than 'love'.

For now, he waited. He studied his old textbooks fervently. By owl post, he requested books from the school library, which the interim Headmistress, Minerva McGonagall sent willingly. His owl, Hedwig also made several trips to Flourish & Blotts, in Diagon Alley, to purchase references on magical artifacts, curses, and rituals so that he could learn more about those things shown to him in preserved memories, Voldemort's secrets. And his aunt, uncle and cousin counted the days until Harry's seventeenth birthday, waiting until their unwanted burden could be sent away, once and for all, as soon as Harry reached the age of adulthood by Wizarding standards.

Harry had slipped downstairs at dawn, grabbing some fruit and juice for a quick breakfast, then returned to his room. Avoiding the Dursleys had become second nature since he had arrived. Not long after he heard his relatives clunking about, a stately owl arrived outside his window with a small package, and a letter bearing an unfamiliar seal ... a white bumblebee. He mechanically gave the owl some treats and a muttered thanks as he relieved the creature of its burden. As the bird flew back out the window, Harry froze, recognizing the loopy handwriting on the envelope, addressed to 'Harry Potter'.

"Dumbledore?" he choked out, not understanding how this could be. With exquisite care, he opened the envelope, keeping the purple-waxed seal intact. His hands shaking, he carefully removed the letter inside.

My dear Harry,

We have just viewed Horace Slughorn's true conversation with Tom Riddle. We have spoken of the Horcruxes in which Voldemort has hidden the fragments of his soul. It will not be long, I believe, before we join together in the next step on the road to defeating a nearly-immortal Dark Lord.

I fear that I will not be able to stay with you along that entire path, however. The curse that damaged my hand has had lingering effects, progressive effects. There is no easy way to tell you ... I am dying, Harry. In the relatively near future, likely before you begin your last year at Hogwarts, I will have passed to the next great adventure, and my magic will no longer be able to assist and protect you.

However, I do not leave you completely without counsel. At the passing of each Hogwarts head, a portrait appears in the tower office. You have met several of them. It can take several weeks for my memory to adjust to its portrait life, since even natural death is a shock to be overcome, and I expect my passing will not have been gentle. This letter and package will be sent to you after that period of adjustment. You see, Harry, I have commissioned an additional small portrait, which is at this time unmoving, but is keyed to the same magic that produces the portrait for the headmasters' gallery. The package accompanying this letter contains that portrait, which should by now be fully animated and linked with the main portrait in what is now Minerva's office. The memories attached to my portraits will be complete to the moment of my passing. Though the image cannot perform magic, cannot offer you a sherbet lemon, cannot literally hold your hand along your journey, it can at least offer words of encouragement and comfort and occasional wisdom (I hope) as you complete your destiny and find what lies on the other side of it.

You are a remarkable young man, Harry, and I have every confidence that you can prevail. I wish I could stand at your side when that time comes, but I suppose we must make do with what we have.

Your loving friend always,

Albus Dumbledore

Harry read the letter over and over, afraid to look at the small package, about half the size of the standard studio portraits that filled the Dursleys' living room. Gathering his courage, he finally looked at the package, noticing there was a note attached, this one from Professor McGonagall.

Harry,

If the portrait is empty when you open the package, touch the image of his candy jar and say his name. He will arrive shortly. He has much to tell you, some of which I am still trying to understand, some of which will undoubtedly shock you. He explained to me those matters which you were not at liberty to reveal, and disclosed some of what he included in his letter to you. Both that letter and the package are protected by his strongest charms and keyed only to you.

I know that no one can replace him, but I am here to do what I can to assist you in his absence. If my appointment as Headmistress is made permanent, I will need to relinquish my position as Head of Gryffindor House. However, be assured that I will never abandon my Gryffindors, whether Hogwarts resumes operations on September 1 ... or not.

Very sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Tears that he was unable to shed before were silently escaping, blurring his vision as though he'd lost his glasses. He had been determined that he would proceed alone, even if it meant tricking his best friends, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, who insisted on helping him. Even if it meant breaking up with Ginny Weasley, the girl he had finally realized was the one he most wanted at his side. Even if it meant not having Albus Dumbledore and Hogwarts as his support system. But now, at least that last might still be within reach. Dumbledore and even McGonagall might still be there to guide him. So what about the rest?

Maybe, just maybe, he was wrong to push everyone away, even if done out of his love for them, his need to protect them. Love, he thought, is supposed to be my weapon. Could it be, not just my ability to love, but my ability to accept love from others that is the key? If I refuse their help, companionship, advice in an attempt to protect them, am I throwing away my greatest strength? They are all at risk for other reasons anyways.

Oh, but it was so much harder to receive than to give. To protect himself in some measure from the hurt of repeated rejection, the pain of countless lies, he had fought to limit what other's feelings and expectations could do to him. To protect himself from the negatives, he had made it hard to accept the positives.

Gently, carefully he removed the wrapping on the small portrait, which was face down. Harry braced himself, then turned it over. The portrait showed the headmaster's desk, empty at the moment, and the perch where Fawkes was often to be found. With choked laughter, Harry saw the candy dish that always contained a generous supply of sherbet lemons. His hand was trembling as he reached to lightly place his forefinger on the candy dish, as though it would shatter at his touch, and he whispered, "Albus Dumbledore."

(Hogwarts, same day)

Minerva McGonagall paced in her office; at least it was her office for now. Tomorrow, the Board of Governors would decide if Hogwarts would remain open, and if she would be accepted as permanent headmistress. "Albus, are you certain I am the best choice in these times?" she asked the portrait nearest her desk. "Are you certain we should continue operating?"

Though his eyes could no longer twinkle as they had in life, Albus Dumbledore's face showed emotions quite effectively. "Minerva, we have already gone over this, both before my death and after. I have the utmost confidence in your ability to lead this school and anchor the wards, and I did my best to make that clear to our allies on the Board more than once. And we must continue operations. The security breach has been resolved; the cabinet has been destroyed. All the students, Harry in particular, need the stability of life-almost-as-usual." As Dumbledore spoke, he absently stroked the image of his phoenix, Fawkes, who had joined him in the portrait after the funeral.

The phoenix's contented trill seemed to reassure McGonagall. She was about to continue the conversation, when a soft chime echoed from within the portrait. "Ah, you will have to excuse me, Minerva. Harry has opened his package. I don't know how long this may take."

"Go, Albus. His need is the greater," she smiled sadly. "Give him my greetings, please, and take Fawkes with you. I suspect the lad could use some phoenix song just about now, even if Fawkes' voice isn't quite as effective as it was in life. Go, my friend."

to be continued