Harry Potter and the Fulcrum of Destiny

Harry Potter and the Fulcrum of Destiny

Chapter One - Dreams in the night

The girl is dead.

Lying, broken, where she fell, where the force of the curse hurled her, Harry cannot see her face but she isn't breathing. The sounds around him are muffled, distant as he stares at her empty body. There is darkness, now, surrounding him; she is all he can see. She looks smaller, somehow as if, without movement, she has collapsed in on herself like a dying star. Her limbs seem wrong, awkward, and a thin whisp of smoke is rising, obscenely, from her torso. The adrenaline in his system seems to be leeching away leaving his bones heavy, impossible to move. A distorted roaring is growing in his ears, filling his mind with a numbing greyness, filling his head so tight that he can feel the pressure, taste the pressure, sharp, metallic and bitter in his throat.

The girl is dead.

Neville has reached her and is kneeling beside her. His shaking hand reaches out to her neck, pauses, shifts and retreats. From where he stands, Harry can see the tension in his shoulders break like a twig as he collapses forwards. His whole body is convulsing now, like a fish on a line and Harry doesn't need to see his face to know that tears are pouring down it.

The girl is dead.

Harry knows that the other Death Eaters cannot be far away. That he could be attacked at any moment. The others are still lost somewhere in the Department, fighting for their lives. He should find them, find Sirius, find help, find something. Anything would be a better option that standing, insensible where he is. Survival, if nothing else demands that he move, look around him, return to the world of the living, but...

The girl is dead.

Beyond her body a door is opening. Harsh light spills across the room. Bright and sickly, the light is the wrong colour. Just wrong. The shadows leap and twist, the contrast between light and dark making the whole scene seem fake, like a stage show. There is a figure in the doorway, now, but all Harry can see is a silhouette. In the middle of the brightest light is an area of deepest blackness. Black like an absence, black like death, black like the void that is eating at his ribs. He is vaguely aware of two eyes burning red within the shape, but all he sees is the body on the floor. The figure is moving, its arm is rising, but Harry cannot bring himself to care. There is something familiar about this intruder, but what can it matter now? A wand is pointing straight at him, mere feet away, but his own remains loose in his hand a thousand miles away. Perhaps he should feel fear, or anger or shock, but all he can feel is empty, hollow.

The girl is dead.

Green light is rushing towards him, blotting out the sight of the corpse on the floor but nothing can change the truth.

Hermione is dead.

Wrenching a breath into his burning lungs, Harry bolted upright. His mouth was dry, his throat sore as he gulped night air. Shaking, he leant forward in the bed, head in hands, his arms braced against his raised knees. Gradually his pulse slowed and as it did so he began to be aware of his surroundings. Sodium light from a streetlamp was flooding in through his open bedroom window, bathing his desk in an orange glow. Hedwig's cage was open, the feed bowl upended and trail of owl treats had spilled onto the tiny desktop which was covered in an untidy heap of scrolls, books and quills. His face and arms were damp in the cold breeze and a chill began to settle deep within him.

The wall behind the bed was shaking as it quailed under repeated blows from a meaty fist in the bedroom beyond. Harry realised that some of the shaking he was feeling came from the bed lurching under the onslaught. Slowly the incoherent ranting through the thin wall began to form into his Uncle's voice, hoarse with rage.

"...like a damn banshee. Keep it up, boy, and we'll see what those freaks of yours say to a little discipline. If I have to come in there to shut you up you'll be sorry. It's the middle of...". Harry tuned out the familiar refrain. Sooner or later Vernon would notice that he'd stopped screaming, or his Aunt would point it out to him. He wasn't entirely sure that his Uncle's shouting wasn't louder than his own screaming had been but that would hardly matter when the accusations flew over the breakfast table the next morning. Resolving to leave the joys of life with the Dursleys to another time, Harry rolled over to his right, groped under the bed and fished out his glasses. Slipping them on, he focused on a familiar patch on the far wall where the wallpaper was starting to peel away. In the half-light of the early morning it was little more than a shadow, but it was enough. Fixing his eyes on the familiar point, he took a deep breath and blew it out slowly letting the rest of the world drift away.

In, out. In, out. Regular and even breaths rolling like soft waves on the shore. The cold air of the unheated bedroom scratched on the back of his raw throat. Without disturbing the rhythm he closed his mouth and swallowed. The sights in front of him slipping away, his body soft and heavy. Nothing forced, nothing rushed. Letting the mind relax its clenched hold on the past and the uncertain future, gently embracing the now. Shortly after his return to Privet Drive, Harry had sent Hedwig to Flourish and Blotts with an open owl order for anything they had on Occlumency, Legilimancy or methods of concentration and mental focus. He had received by return a copy of Mentalism, the Magic of the Mind by Alfred Strommblatt and had pounced on the book like a Ravenclaw at exam-time. Thinking about the book was better than thinking about anything else. Concentrating on the exercises listed was better than concentrating on the broken bodies in the Department of Mysteries, on the remnants of the Headmaster's office, on the veil slowly flapping in a breeze no living being could feel.

Harry shook his head. Now was not the time to wallow in his misery. He had to stop thinking, damn it. He blew out a sharp breath and lay back down. Clenching and relaxing his fists and flexing his feet hard he tried to get his tired muscles to relax.

'Forget the past.' He told himself. 'Focus on the future. You can't change what's happened, but you're never going to let them down again. Recriminations won't help. Learn your lessons and move on.' This was a familiar refrain over the last fortnight and although it failed to calm him, somehow anger beat down the guilt and resolve helped him to focus. Feeling a new rush of energy, Harry swung himself to his feet and set off for the bathroom.

Leaving the light off so as not to disturb the Dursleys, Harry splashed cold water over his face. Looking down, he could see a slight tremor still evident in his hands in the fractured moonlight shining through the frosted bathroom window. He leaned his weight against the basin and tried once more to relax the tension in his shoulders and chest. Of all the dreams he had been suffering from this summer that was the worst. The surprise on Sirius' face or the sadness and guilt on the face of Dumbledore were bad enough, but it was the stillness, the absence, the emptiness of Hermione's body that tore into him the most. Even as he thought of it again, a hot flash of panic flared into life in the pit of his stomach and without being quite aware of what he was doing, he was out of the bathroom and heading down the stairs.

He was stood by the front door, with the telephone receiver in his hand before he realised two things. Firstly, he needed to hear Hermione's voice, to know that she was still alive, that she hadn't been killed by Dolohov. Secondly, shortly after that, he realised that he had no idea what her telephone number was. There was no point in trying directory enquiries as he didn't know her address either and he didn't think that asking for 'anyone called Granger within a hundred miles of London' was going to get him very far. His knuckles were turning white on the receiver in a mixture of frustration and panic. This was bloody typical! He bet that Hermione had his number at the Dursleys, probably cross-indexed by name and postal address. He knew that this wasn't entirely rational, but just at the moment, he couldn't even picture her face. Every time he tried, all he could see was her dead body from the dream.

What was the point of being a bloody wizard if it was no damn help to him when he needed it? Sending Hedwig wouldn't let him hear her to be sure she was fine and his fireplace wasn't on the floo network - for that matter neither was hers. It wasn't as if he was at Hogwarts and could just send one of the House Elves for her...

"Dobby!" Harry hissed in triumph. All he had to do was owl Dobby and get him to... to do what? Suddenly deflated, Harry replaced the handset and slumped against the wall of the hall. The little elf was hardly likely to carry around the telephone number of Hogwarts muggle-born.

"Master Harry wants Dobby at last!" Harry was jolted roughly from his thoughts by a surprisingly solid grey blur thudding into his ribs. Just as soon as his brain belatedly informed him that a badly-dressed house elf was simultaneously hugging him and weeping copiously, the pressure lifted as Dobby shot back to his feet.

"Oh, Dobby is a bad elf. Forgets his place. But Master Harry was hurting so bad and Dobby just wants to help. Mustn't touch the master. Dobby is watching for weeks now and wanting to stop bad dreams and bad muggles but master never call. Bad Dobby has no patience. But then Master Harry calls for Dobby and Dobby is so glad and... Dobby attack master!" Harry stared, completely stunned as the tiny figure worked himself into a frenzy. He had no idea that Dobby had been watching so closely. And as for the idea that he would appear the moment Harry spoke his name out loud; well, he had no idea how he felt about that. There was no time to consider it, however, as the elf in question had grabbed the telephone and was braining himself repeatedly with it.

"Dobby! Stop That!" Harry was worried that a crazed house elf with concussion was probably even less reliable than normal.

"Dobby is sorry. But Dobby must punish himself for offending Master." Dobby's ears were drooping so much that they looked like they'd been glued to the back of his skull. This had to be headed off firmly. There was no way in hell that Harry was going to have anyone else suffer on his behalf. Not any more.

"Dobby. Do you see me as a master? I mean, would you take orders from me?"

"Oh, yes. Master Harry Potter is Dobby's master. Dobby will do anything that Master Harry Potter says."

"Right, erm, well." Such an immediate and positive answer rather took Harry by surprise. He had a creeping feeling that there was more going on here than he was aware of and he might be about to initiate something irreversible but there was no time to worry about the consequences. "Ok, firstly, I don't want you to punish yourself ever again. Can you do that?"

"Never?"

"Never." Dobby seemed torn between delight and confusion as if he'd been handed a brightly wrapped present which started to tick.

"But what if Dobby is bad?"

"Then we'll sort something out, but you are not to just start hitting yourself because you think you should."

"Then Dobby will leave his punishment to his Master." This appeared to be as good as Harry was going to get and time was wasting.

"Fine. Secondly, I need to get in touch with Hermione immediately. How long would it take for you to find out her telephone number?"

"Tefelone?" Clearly this was going to take longer than Harry had hoped.

"No, telephone. Like the one you're holding. Hermione's got one in her home and if I type in the right number then the two will be connected and I can speak to her. But I don't know her number." Understanding lit up Dobby's eyes. His ears sprung back over his head and he beamed.

"Dobby understands. Master must speak with Miss Hermy. Dobby will go." And with that, he clicked his fingers and was gone. Harry was not convinced that Dobby understood in the slightest and was a little nervous about what, exactly, he had rushed off to do. However, left alone in the darkness of the hall he was again assailed by the sensation that something was badly wrong with Hermione.

There was little he could do other than wait, so Harry decided to try to reinforce his Occlumantic shields. Slipping slowly into the trance, he was aware that his focus was a little off, but he had sufficient control after a fortnight of solid practise to check that his permanent shields were still in place, even if he could not erect additional conscious barriers due to his state of distraction. Just as he bringing the exercise to an end, he was thrown out of the trance by the explosive ringing of the telephone beside him. Hoping his reflexes were enough to stop it before it woke his Uncle again, he snatched the phone from the hook, his heart thumping against his chest.

The sudden burst of adrenaline had left Harry breathless and panting and the dim corners of the Dursleys hall seemed to have sprung into an unnatural focus. As his pulse slowed once more he strained to listen for any movement upstairs. There appeared to be a muffled voice calling his name, but it was curiously metallic and distorted. It also didn't appear to be coming from above him and was becoming louder and increasingly shrill.

"...Harry! Harry! Are you alright?" In a burst of embarrassment, Harry realised that the voice was coming from the telephone receiver buried in the voluminous cast-off t-shirt he was wearing. Sheepishly, he raised the 'phone to his ear.

"Answer me, damnit! Harry! Are you there?" For a brief moment, Harry allowed the sound of Hermione's voice to wash over him like a cool balm. She was alive. She was breathing. She was pretty worked up about something from the tone of her voice. Two hands grasping the receiver, he luxuriated in the familiar noise of his best friend's voice as he tried to bring his breathing back under control.

"...to me Harry!" There was a slight pause in Hermione's tirade which then continued at a much lower pitch with steely tone. "Listen to me, Dudley, you filthy pervert. I realise this is probably the first time you've spoken to a girl in years, but I can hear your heavy breathing from here! It's customary for you to ring if you're going to make an obscene phone call so stop panting like a warthog in heat and get me my Harry on the phone." Harry realised that it might be a good idea to answer her before things got truly out of hand.

"Hermione..."

"Don't you 'Hermione' me, you fat, loathsome bully."

"Hermione..."

"Just because you're paddling in the shallow end of the gene pool doesn't mean I have to take this kind of behaviour from you."

"Hermione, it's me."

"If you don't... what?" Harry sighed. This wasn't exactly going the way that he'd hoped.

"It's me, Hermione. I'm sorry I didn't answer at first. I was rather startled by the phone ringing." Trying to sound as calm and reassuring as he could, Harry started to explain.

"Oh."

"It's the middle of the night and I was standing right by it and..."

" Yes, I understand, Harry." Hermione's voice had lost the threatening tone, but there was still a sharp sound of worry as she spoke. "Now would you care to explain why I was woken at three in the morning by a frantic Dobby insisting that I call you immediately? Why is he calling you 'Master'? Why were you standing by the telephone in the middle of the night? Are you alright? You're not being attacked are you?"

"Ah, well you see..." Suddenly, Harry found himself at a loss as to explain what was going on. This was all happening just a little too fast for him to catch up and he had a sneaking suspicion that this conversation was gathering speed and leaving him behind.

"Harry!"

"Look, I'm sorry. I'd no idea he was going to do that. I'm very sorry he woke you but one minute he was here and the next he'd gone. I was just asking him for your 'phone number and then he disappeared." That was better. Clear, logical and apologetic.

"So why did you need my number at this time of night? What's the emergency? And why in the name of all that is holy is he suddenly wearing a pillowcase with a large 'P' embroidered on it?" Or maybe it was a huge mistake that would open up a can of worms that he was in no state to deal with.

"Erm, I had a bad dream." Oh, that was great. Could he sound any more like an eight-year-old?

"What? Harry! You're not making any sense. Oh, where's he got to now?" Worry seemed to have been replaced by exasperation in Hermione's voice. Harry didn't think this was much of an improvement.

"I dreamed you were dead again!" Harry blurted out. "I needed to know you were okay. I had to hear your voice. I got to the phone and realised that I had no way of contacting you. I thought I might be able to get your number from Dobby and all I did was to say his name out loud and then he just appeared. That's when it started getting out of hand. He said he'd been watching me then he was calling me 'Master' and hitting himself and I tried to stop him and explain but he just vanished. And then you rang and I was so glad to hear your voice that I kinda forgot to answer and... And that's it, really. I've no idea why he's behaving like that or what he's wearing." Running out of explanation, Harry petered out hoping Hermione could make more sense of it than he could.

"Oh."

"You're not too angry are you?"

"Oh, Harry." Well she wasn't sounding angry or frustrated any more. That had to be a good thing, right? "You dreamed I was dead?"

"Um, yeah. It was the Department of Mysteries again."

"Oh, Harry." There it was again. What the hell was that tone of voice? Was she still upset over that whole fiasco? "I think we need to talk."

"Yeah. I need to apologise to all of you. I want to do it properly, though. Will I see you before September?" Harry mumbled. Why was this feeling so awkward? He felt like he was swimming in open water, miles from shore and the guilt was dragging him down.

"Leave that to me." Hermione was all business. " I need to speak to the Headmaster anyway. I'm fine. I'm here and we're both too tired to sort anything out tonight."

"Yeah." Harry did feel drained suddenly.

"Get some sleep and I promise things will look brighter in the morning."

"Um, okay then. Thanks. And I'm sorry..."

"Harry, it's fine." There was something deeply soothing about her voice and bed was sounding like a particularly good idea. "And, Harry..."

"Yes?"

"Thank you for caring." There was a long pause as Harry failed to come up with any form of response to this and then Hermione hung up. Startled by the dial-tone, Harry replaced the 'phone and started back up the stairs. Bone-tired and calmer now maybe a couple more hours of sleep might help him work out what the hell just happened.