HP fic: Unto the Breach, chapter 2, part two
“…and then McCallister went, ‘oh, is that what you meant?’ and I replied, ‘well, no, just because I called you an inbred ignoramus doesn’t mean it’s correct, it’s just an opinion of mine, I can’t help it though if my opinions are correct, though, does it?’ and then he practically blew his top, Henry,” laughed Edgar, rolling about the bottom bunk of their room on Christmas Eve, “but of course he couldn’t do or say anything about it because the teacher was only a bit away and if he made a move on me he knew I’d just shout and call attention and then where would he be?”
“Oh, clever, Eddy,” laughed Harry, clad already in his jimjams, watching his brother glow and giggle his way through a story about him and a bully at Little Whinging Public School.
Thank goodness that Dudley is my age and at Stonewall Academy instead of at the same school as Edgar, thought Harry.
Harry was fairly quiet since his return to Privet Drive-and not because of the glares his relatives gave him, for daring to disturb their perfect Christmas-but because he hadn’t realised just how much he would miss his baby brother. He was trying to memorise his face: the way his brown eyes would scrunch up and narrow in laughter, the way his dark black hair turned red under the artificial light from their bedside lamp; the way his brother already grew another two inches and was nearing Harry’s height and was eating properly.
Harry watched his brothers’ eerily familiar middle-finger poke to the bridge of his spectacles and wondered if he had always copied his older brothers’ habits, or if it was anew thing in the wake of Harry’s attendance to Hogwarts. Harry loved Hogwarts, he did, but he loved his brother more and wondered how he made himself leave Edgar behind.
“You aren’t listening, are you?”
Harry jerked in surprise. “Pardon?”
Edgar smiled. “I thought you were a million miles away. What’s on your mind, Harry?”
“Just realised how much I missed you,” the older Potter laughed, reaching forward and tugging Edgar towards him and under his arm in a lose chokehold. The two laughed and roughhoused on the bunker bed for a bit, ignoring Iris’ indignant growls from her perch by the window and Caesar’s grumpy hiss of “so immature.”
Finally exhausted, the two fell asleep next to each other in the bottom bunk, their heads nearly touching. They had done that every Christmas Eve since they could remember, having never been separated before, and both sought comfort and familiarity that night.
The two never had the chance to sleep in on Christmas morning; Petunia’s iron demand of the family was to continue the religious upbringing from the Evans family. The two Potters donned their Sunday best and helped each other with their ties, and tried to get their hair to lie flat. The Dursleys then joined them at the entrance foyer and the group of five drove to the nearest church for their holiday prayers.
Neither Harry nor Edgar considered themselves very religious, and with their recent discovery of their magical powers, Harry wondered if they would feel awkward in a church of any sort, but was surprised: Harry felt the same sense of peace as he always had-it was Dudley who was fidgeting and pulling at his neck cloth in agitation during the sermons.
After the morning church service, the Dursleys plus Potters returned to Privet Drive, and Harry and Edgar began the laborious task of preparing Christmas lunch with turkey and pudding in excess. It was only after two in the afternoon, once the two Potter brothers also had their midday meal and the Dursleys were settling down for afternoon tea and the Queen’s Christmas message on the radio, when Harry and Edgar were able to escape to their room and give their presents.
“What the…?” were the first words from Harry’s mouth as he stepped into the smallest room at Privet Drive, with Edgar just behind him. At the foot of each bunk bed, laid out on the duvet, were several wrapped gifts (with a notably larger bottom pile for Harry than Edgar’s).
Harry reached over and picked the first up, blinking as he recognised the wrapper and tag: it was the gift Cedric gave him on the train several days previous, which he had stored at the bottom of his trunk with no intention of moving the present elsewhere until after New Years’.
“Are those…” Edgar hesitated, his voice whispery and almost breathless in wonder. “Are those Christmas presents, Henry?”
The novelty of actually receiving gifts from people other than the brothers was shocking and incredibly surprising. The Dursleys’ gifts were usually items that aided the Potters in their chores or little tokens meant to insult and belittle, like an old sixpence or toothbrush. Vernon had taken great delight in telling Harry and Edgar at a very age that Santa Claus didn’t exist, and even if he did, only “good boys” received presents.
Harry nodded, flabbergasted, and put Cedric’s gift down. He began to catalogue the gifts, slowly sitting on his bed while Edgar scrambled up the wooden ladder to his bunk, exclaiming softly over his gifts.
There was the present from Cedric Diggory; two from Theo, and one from Nate; a rather large and heavy package from Hermione; Hagrid and Kettleburn both sent a chipped-in gift to Harry, and there were small gifts from McGonagall, Flitwick, Sprout, Sinistra, Quirrell and two, surprisingly, from Dumbledore (although Snape was notably absent). A large, rectangular package was nearly buried underneath the pile, with a spiky script stating it was for Henry & Edgar; Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, from Remus Lupin.
Edgar’s head appeared in Harry’s line of sight, upside-down, startling the preteen. “What did you get?”
“I haven’t opened them yet, I wanted to know who sent me things, first,” argued Harry defensively.
Edgar grinned, and swung down to gently land beside his brother on the lower bunk. Harry glared, having admired Edgar’s graceful swing. He was sure once at Hogwarts he’d get on a Quidditch team for his house.
“I got gifts from your friends, Harry!” smiled Edgar, “From Theodore,” he began, relishing over-pronouncing the names, “and Nathaniel and Her-mi-o-ne, Cedric, Professor Kettleburn, and one from the headmaster, Albus Dumbledore.”
Harry smiled, amused at his little brother’s enthusiasm. “There’s one from a man named Remus Lupin for both of us.”
Edgar’s smile froze. “Who?” Neither Potter fully trusted strangers-especially those sending gifts.
Harry shrugged. “Shall we open it?”
“Is it hexed or something?” asked Edgar suspiciously. “And why aren’t you more concerned? This isn’t your curiosity that is taking you by the bollocks, is it?”
“Edgar!” snapped Harry, glancing in shock at his little brother. “It’s one thing for me to say ‘bollocks’ but it’s another coming from you!”
Edgar shrugged. “I attend public school, and you’re not around to monitor my bad habits, Henry.” Edgar finished with a cheeky smile. “Live with it.”
Harry sighed and gathered the gift from Lupin in his lap, and slowly unwound the twine holding brown paper wrapping from it. The paper fell away to reveal a leather-bound book of some sort, but once Harry opened it, he felt his breath catch and Edgar muffle a gasp of surprise.
The leather bound book was actually a leather bound photo album, and the first picture was that of their parents, each holding one of the Potter brothers in their arms, posed in front of a quaint looking cottage.
Lily and James Potter were smiling, and James took picture-Harry’s chubby baby hand and waved it as Harry’s eyes darted towards his father.
“Do…” Edgar stopped to clear his throat, completely overwhelmed with emotion. “Do all wizard pictures move?”
“Yeah,” breathed out Harry, his gaze still caught on his father.
The two Potters remained on Harry’s bed for the majority of the day, slowly going through the various pictures in the album and lingering over made-up memories and feelings of want and loneliness until the room descended into evening darkness.
*
Back at Hogwarts for the New Year, Harry effortlessly fell back into his routine of study, socialise, and sleep. Harry had several classes before his Friday appointment with Kettleburn in his office, but was eagerly looking forward to speaking to the care of magical creatures professor because Caesar was crotchety, incredibly slow, and very moody, refusing the majority of food Harry pushed at him-and all Harry could figure was that he was fighting his nature to hibernate in the winter seasons.
Since he figured his meeting with Kettleburn wouldn’t take too long, Harry made plans to see Cedric afterwards so that they older Hufflepuff could take Harry down to the greenhouses with a few of Cedric’s friends following their Quidditch practice.
He had stuffed one of his Christmas presents from Dumbledore in his satchel (in case Cedric would keep out past curfew; he didn’t need Snape to find him wandering the halls and remove points), which turned out to be an invisibility cloak that belonged to his father. Edgar was beyond raptures with the cloak, and the two brothers decided that they would rotate ownership by year. Harry would use it for his first year and then Edgar for his; if the other brother would require using it, it would be loaned.
“Hmm,” mumbled Kettleburn, stroking Caesar’s brown scales thoughtfully. Harry had explained the situation, and what his thoughts were. Harry knew Kettleburn didn’t think that it was anything he purposefully did; Harry was diligent in Caesar’s care.
“Tell the Pot-Warm one to stop stroking my stomach, Henry,” Caesar finally grumbled as Kettleburn made another pass down the snake’s body. “I think he’s given me indigestion.”
Harry struggled to not snigger, but Kettleburn turned to him anyway, a single eyebrow over his eye patch raised.
“And what about this situation amuses you, Mr. Potter?” the professor asked.
Harry cleared his throat, wondering how to proceed. After the boa incident at the London Zoo, Harry and Edgar promised to not reveal their abilities to speak with snakes unless it was an emergency. However, Harry was unsure if Caesar was sick-and he rather thought that the snake wouldn’t tell him if he was, anyway-so Harry felt he had no choice in the matter.
“Caesar would prefer if you didn’t stroke him anymore, sir,” said Harry, tacking on the ‘sir’ hastily, “as he says it’s probably giving him indigestion… and,” Harry glanced at the snake in question, directing the next English sentence to him regardless if he couldn’t understand it, “you really need to learn that his name is Kettleburn and not Pot-Warm.”
Kettleburn’s other eyebrow shot up.
Harry’s face flushed and he shuffled his feet, misinterpreting Kettleburn’s expression. “He sometimes has problems with names, sir.”
At the professor’s flabbergasted look, Harry continued, “I think he’s just taking a longer time to digest his food. Uh, sir.”
“You can understand him?” asked Kettleburn, finally, after several moments of silence.
“Um,” said Harry, panicked. “Yes?”
Kettleburn let out a large breath through his nose, staring at Harry before sitting down heavily in his desk chair, looking between Caesar and the Boy-Who-Lived.
“Do you know anything about Parseltongues, Henry?” the professor began in a heavy-sounding voice, causing Harry to start. The professor only ever kept himself professional when the two were together, and he never, ever referred to Harry as ‘Henry.’
“Parseltongues, sir?”
“‘Parseltongue’ is the name for magical folk who can speak to snakes,” began Kettleburn. “It is a trait that is considered Dark in recent times, due to You-Know-Who, who was also a snake speaker.”
Harry hesitated before slowly sinking into the seat across from Kettleburn’s desk. “I… see.”
Kettleburn regarded Harry from his single eye. “Do you? If the general population leant about your parseltongue abilities, Henry, I think that would be lynched despite being the Boy-Who-Lived. You’re in Slytherin, like the Dark Lord; you speak to snakes, like the Dark Lord; you align yourself with friends who have known Dark pasts, like the Dark Lord. They’ll see you as You-Know-Who reborn.”
Harry felt a small bubble of hysteria float from his stomach to lodge in his throat, and a mental image of himself cackling evil and gleefully rubbing his hands together made it known in a few, brief moments. Harry felt that hysteria turn towards humour, and realised that while he had a fairly dark background-and how could he not after growing up in the Dursley household?-he was hardly going to become the next Dark Lord.
The two remained silent a little longer, both lost in their own thoughts, until Kettleburn shifted a little and Harry looked up at him.
“Mr. Potter,” the professor began, looking hesitant.
“Yes, sir?” asked Harry.
The professor glanced at Caesar, who was watching with two lazy eyes, and then looked back at Harry. “Pot-Warm? Really?”
The gleeful, if not incredulous, tone made Harry burst into laughter, starting Caesar who rolled into a tight ball, and then hissed his complaints as his full stomach pained him.
*
When Cedric Diggory came to Professor Kettleburn’s classroom, sweaty, dirty with grass smudges on his yellow uniform, and rather tired, he did not expect to see Harry and Kettleburn staring intently at Harry’s pet snake Caesar, as though he were a trained dog ready to perform a trick.
And then… he did perform a trick: Caesar hissed something, and Harry translated and then Kettleburn tried to mimic the hiss.
Cedric wasn’t exactly sure at first what he was seeing. He thought it was a bit of a hallucination from the Bludger that clipped his head during practice, intent to go after the new Hufflepuff seeker. And then his brain caught up to him and he realised Harry was speaking Parseltongue, and was… teaching Kettleburn.
And neither had noticed the door open or Cedric standing in the doorway. He rather thought it was poor observation skills from both the wizards, and was going to ream something harsh into Caesar, who, as a snake, should be able to sense Cedric’s heat signature.
And then the rest of Cedric’s brain caught up to that statement and Cedric Diggory, fourteen year old Hufflepuff student, Pureblood, realised that he just calmly accepted Harry’s ability to speak to snakes, moved right past him teaching Kettleburn, to deciding that Cedric had the right to chastise a snake as though it were a friend-or another human-because he thought Caesar was in the wrong.
Cedric spent a moment thinking that that was just plain odd, but practically everything since meeting Henry Potter had been “odd.” Inwardly, he shrugged and rapped harder on the wooden door, causing both wizards and snake to look up in surprise.
Harry paled, gulping, while Kettleburn twitched and remained in a half-standing, half-crouch.
Cedric decided to take initiative and looked at Caesar, who seemed ashamed and curled into himself in a ball-the Hufflepuff knew that the snake was feeling defensive or preparing for an attack.
“And what do you have to say for yourself, Caesar?”
Kettleburn, Harry, and the snake all looked surprise that Cedric directed his question at the snake.
Finally, Caesar unwound himself and hissed something; Harry glanced at his pet and then at Cedric in a decidedly nervous manner. “He asked what you meant by that.”
“I meant,” here Cedric stressed the word, “that I could have been anyone coming through the door, and there I see the three of you having a blast playing tourist!”
Harry shared a look again with his snake, who hissed something, and Harry hissed back, and then Caesar kind of wilted was the best way to describe it, thought Cedric. It was obvious the snake was suitably chastised, and feeling depressed.
“It’s okay,” continued Cedric genially, as he stepped further into the classroom and shutting the door. As he neared the snake, he pet Caesar on the head like one would a dog. “You just need to be more careful in the future, that’s all.”
Caesar hissed something that had Harry’s cheeks turn pink; Cedric imagined it was something very uncomplimentary towards him, and he resolved to not pet the snake again on the head unless he was feeling confident that he could dash away from the tiny python quickly.
“Caesar, um,” began Harry, his voice a bit higher than normal, “Asks that you politely not pet him on the head again, Cedric Diggory, as he is not a dog but a snake.” Harry paused as Caesar continued, and this time Kettleburn looked a bit contrite-they had clearly been at translating for some time before he arrived. “And that he appreciates your… ah… kindness at not getting upset at my abilities, he will… erm… be terribly inconvenienced if he had to… um… yeah, I’m not translating the rest. Just that it’ll be very, very unpleasant for you if you decided to stop being my friend or pet him on the head again. Or the belly. He’s still a bit spotty about the professor doing that earlier.”
Cedric did his best to keep his lips from twitching into a smile, and solemnly accepted the angry snake’s words. He then turned to Harry and asked, “Ready to go?”
The Slytherin nodded, gently picking up the growing snake and wound him about his neck and tucked him underneath the collar. The snake was still hissing insults at Diggory, but they seemed to be in good sport now, Harry decided.
He still wasn’t going to tell the older boy that, though.
*
By April, Harry could safely say that he was enjoying Hogwarts and was eager for Edgar to attend so that the Potter brothers could be together again. He did well in all his classes (except Potions); he had several very good friends in three of four of the Hogwarts houses, and found a best friend in Theodore Nott; he even participated in various social activities his friends forced on him (in particular Cedric and his mates’ Quidditch practices, but since Harry wasn’t too fond of using a broom to fly-it still boggled his mind something silly-he spent the time teaching the third year students football and somehow cricket was introduced as well).
And as far as he could tell, there wasn’t a peep out of any of the professors about bad behaviour (how Snape wished that weren’t true), about his social circle, or about his Slytherin placement. On the last matter, it seemed the majority of the school had managed to understand that Harry was a Slytherin and a happy one at that; and thankfully, his blatant association with Cedric Diggory and Hermione Granger truly destroyed any chance of people seeing him as a Dark Lord incarnate.
There were a few students that still had issues with him, and although he got along well enough with Draco Malfoy and the other Slytherin first years he didn’t have much exposure to them outside class or hanging around the common room near curfew. Harry stuck to Theo and Nate, and had no use for Crabbe and Goyle’s thug-like façades, or Zabini’s isolation, or any of the girls’ scheming and giggling.
So, Harry was fairly confident that there was nothing in his life that would warrant Dumbledore sending him a note one morning at breakfast in April, asking him to skip his meeting with Kettleburn and join him in his office.
Had Harry known that Ashley Kettleburn returned from Privet Drive directly to Hogwarts, only to shout angrily at Albus Dumbledore until he was forced to take a throat-soothing potion, back in July when he delivered Harry’s acceptance letter, Harry might have been a little more concerned. Unfortunately, he never knew about that meeting, and was thoroughly unprepared to meet Albus Dumbledore.
After giving the password to the guardian gargoyle (“Jelly babies”), Harry found himself surprisingly nervous. In the past, when facing authority, Harry always managed a cool façade that worked in his favour or his indiscretion was so well known about the school in Little Whinging he never had to deny anything. Dumbledore, however, was a bit of a void for Harry-he was an unknown element and Harry was unsure if he could get away with what he did at Little Whinging.
Harry raised his hand to knock on the heavy wood door, but before his knuckles rapped, a voice said, “Ah, come in Harry.”
Startled, Harry took a moment to shift his face into a bland, uninterested look, and stepped into Albus Dumbledore’s office-and felt like he was transported into Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory, minus the chocolate.
The office was large and spacious, designed to mimic a smoothed hexagon shape, and along the walls that weren’t covered in portraits of previous Headmasters and Headmistresses, shelves were overflowing with knickknacks and trinkets and books. Several trinkets were emitting puffs of smoke; one whistled pleasantly; several knickknacks looked like they had springs or cogs hanging loose or had recently popped.
The room was nothing like the Spartan and minimalist offices his previous instructors favoured; Dumbledore’s office was more like a favourite, eccentric uncle’s study or library.
As he eyed a large wardrobe, or shelving unit, off to one side of the large desk Dumbledore use, Harry wondered if it would take him to Narnia. He almost suspected it would.
“Would you have a seat, Harry?”
The voice startled him and Harry turned to see Dumbledore standing just behind his desk, watching him with twinkling blue eyes and a slight smile.
Harry nodded and sat gingerly on a cushy chair in front of the desk, and waited until Dumbledore seated himself to ask, “Is there a reason why I’m here, sir? I don’t think I’ve done anything wrong.”
Dumbledore chuckled, waving his wand and summoning a platter with two tea cups, a milk jug, a small cup of sugar cubes and a plate of biscuits. “Not at all, Harry. I was just wondering if I could have a conversation with you.”
“About, sir?”
“Anything and everything,” began Dumbledore, taking a cup and offering it to Harry, who accepted but did not drink yet. Dumbledore offered a tong with a sugar cube and Harry nodded, holding out his cup. “How are you finding Hogwarts?”
“Very well,” said Harry, answering truthfully.
“I’m glad. We were most anxious about your arrival,” confessed Dumbledore, adding sugar to his tea as well.
Harry frowned. “Why was that, sir?”
Dumbledore blinked, momentarily surprised. “Ah… I would have thought that young Mr. Diggory had explained to you about your position in our world, Harry. Or that Professor Kettleburn had explained when he took you to Diagon Alley.”
Harry nodded in understanding. “You mean the whole Boy-Who-Lived thing, sir. No, Professor Kettleburn did not tell Eddy or I anything about what happened the night Voldemort attacked our parents, and neither did Cedric or my other friends. Eddy and I read about it in several books we purchased at Flourish and Blott’s.”
“Oh?” Dumbledore looked surprised, and then his eyes twinkled some more as he regarded Harry over his half-moon spectacles. “And how is your little brother doing? I only saw him once, when your mother was receiving guests just after his birth.”
Harry’s sip of tea mingled with an inhalation of surprise that had him coughing, and sputtering. “You… you knew my parents? You saw Eddy when he was born?”
“And you as well, Harry,” confirmed Dumbledore with a reminiscent smile. “Your mother was quite unimpressed with your father when he began calling you ‘Harry’ instead of ‘Henry’ just days after you were born.”
Harry felt a small smile appear on his face. “I never knew my father was the one who started that.”
At this, Dumbledore’s smile slipped a bit, but he recovered well, “Alas! It was not your father, but his friend, Sirius Black, who wanted you to have a more ‘common’ name, I believe he said. He and his brother, Regulus, had such strong, regal names amongst the Pureblood circle and I am sure that he did not want you exposed to that. Hence, Harry and Eddy instead of Henry and Edgar.”
Harry murmured the name under his breath, tasting the syllables.
Silence fell between the two wizards.
“Are you enjoying Slytherin, Harry?” asked Dumbledore, finally breaking the silence of munching on biscuits and sipping their tea.
Harry smiled. “Yes; I can imagine it was a bit of a surprise for people… but I really do like it. I fit in well with my friends, and I tend to stay out of the power politics they play.”
Dumbledore’s eyebrows rose. “And they let you?”
Here, Harry shifted uncomfortably, before mumbling, “They did when me mates and I hexed them enough.”
Dumbledore chuckled, ignoring the confession. “I must admit, Harry, that at first I was worried about your placement in Slytherin.”
“How come?” asked Harry, surprised.
Dumbledore had his turn to shift uncomfortably. “Long ago, another boy was sorted there and turned down a path of darkness.” His eyes took on a look of sorrow and pain, and he continued in a much softer voice. “He was brilliant, talented, and very charming. And yet he later became one of the worst Dark Lords we have ever seen.”
“Voldemort?” guessed Harry.
At Dumbledore’s surprised, owlish blinks, the older wizard garbled out, “You do not fear the name?”
“Why should I? It’s just a name,” answered Harry.
Dumbledore smiled; one full of pride. “Quite right, Harry. Well done; most grown wizards and witches-some of our very brightest and talented-cannot speak his name without shivering in horror. It is quite admirable that you can, especially all that he has taken from you.”
“You can’t regret things you don’t remember having in the first place,” answered Harry quietly, lost in his thoughts of the photo album Remus Lupin had sent the Potters.
“No, no,” agreed Dumbledore, just as softly. He cleared his throat. “I am sorry to learn that your home life was not as… agreeable as I had hoped.”
“You hoped, sir?” queried Harry, a note of something sharpening his tone.
Dumbledore winced. “Yes. I placed you and Edgar at Privet Drive, hoping that your aunt would love you like her own. Professor Kettleburn quite assures me that this is untrue.”
Harry snorted, refusing to answer.
Dumbledore sighed. “I am sorry Harry. I apologise to you, and I will apologise to your brother as well. There were still many followers of Voldemort’s on the loose in the days following his departure from Godric’s Hallow and I was worried they would try to track you down and harm you or your brother.”
Harry immediately noticed he said ‘departure’ and not ‘destruction.’ It seemed Edgar, Caesar, and Harry were right: Voldemort was not gone, but hiding in the shadows.
“And afterwards?” asked Harry, waiting patiently.
“There were wards placed around your aunts’ that would protect you and Edgar as long as you called that place home. It was the closest I could conceive in lieu of the Fidelius Charm, and that had failed your parents. I could not risk the last remaining Potters either.”
Harry could almost, but not quite, read the words between what Dumbledore was saying. He tried to reason it out, verbally. “You had a reason, sir. And while Edgar and I hardly consider Privet Drive our home, or Petunia and Vernon and Dudley ‘family’ as the word implies, I understand you did what you had to during a period of war.”
Dumbledore blinked, his eyes taking on a slight sheen. “That is very mature of you, Harry. I appreciate your words very much.”
Harry shrugged, finishing his tea and placing the empty teacup on Dumbledore’s desk. “We all do what is necessary at times, sir.” Harry turned his head away to look out of the window, at a spectacular view of the Scottish highlands. “Just as I have done things that Eddy won’t appreciate when he learns of them, or of things he already knows I’ve done-I did what was necessary at the time to ensure his happiness, or protection.”
“You are truly your mother’s son, Harry,” answered Dumbledore, with a smile. The sombre mood passed as Dumbledore leaned forward, and asked enthusiastically, “Now-tell me if you are planning any midnight strolls with your father’s invisibility cloak anytime soon? May I recommend the seventh floor corridor? There is such a lovely lavatory there…”
Harry burst out laughing.
*
While it didn’t sit well with Edgar that Dumbledore had placed them in a generally unhappy home and left them there deliberately, Harry had no issues with it at all. In the letters that followed the incident, and as exams loomed, Harry and Edgar soon found themselves at odds on the issue of Dumbledore.
Harry, of course, knew how it felt to do something that might not want to do, but was best solution at the time; he had done it often enough when he sacrificed his own studies or meals to ensure that Edgar was not bullied by Dudley or his gang, or the other schoolchildren in Little Whinging.
Harry had hopes and dreams before Hogwarts of a rich relative finding them, and when he grew older, that dreamed turned to him receiving a scholarship for grades he could never displays at school on the Dursley’s orders, and taking Edgar away. Harry would become a famous footballer; a politician and later Prime Minister of Britain; later, it was anything where he had enough money to take Edgar away.
Oh yes, Harry understood Dumbledore well. It didn’t mean he liked what the Headmaster had done… but he understood.
Edgar, however, was filled with anger and righteous fury against the wizard for circumventing proper channels of government. Edgar was still rather enamoured with laws and justice and government and authority, despite his own bad experiences with authority figures. Harry also did his best to keep Edgar away from the darker, nastier politics at Little Whining; he liked keeping Edgar in the dark as much as possible about what Harry got up to, ensuring bullies left Edgar alone, ensuring that the Dursleys never knew about Edgar’s time in the school library.
It was unusual for the two Potters to be at odds, but Harry sadly realised that he was growing up, and possibly, away from his little brother. He didn’t doubt that they would not be close-how could they not? They were the last two Potters-but perhaps they would soon be on different paths, learning different things. It made Harry sad and depressed for several weeks.
Things improved soon as the Potters “agreed to disagree” in one of their last letters of Harry’s term at Hogwarts. Harry spent the majority of his time concentrating on his grades, and was found in the library with Theo, Nate, and Hermione.
They had commandeered a quiet, dusty corner in the library near a large stain-glass window depicting St. George slaying the dragon. A window seat, unusual for the library, was an added bonus.
Hermione would madly quiz them, and the boys would take turns answering her until they knew all the answers she threw at them. They were quiet confident that they would pass their exams with flying colours.
Harry knew that Hermione’s blitzkrieg style of studying was beneficial, and thanked her profusely once their potions exam was complete. She laughed and waved her goodbyes to the Slytherin boys as they turned to the Great Hall for dinner, and she, to the Gryffindor common room.
Cedric, however, came upon them with his friend Mike Summers. “Harry! Have you heard?”
“Heard what?” asked the Potter boy, looking in surprise at Cedric’s flushed face.
“Dumbledore’s in the hospital! McGonagall and Snape are going mad, rushing about, and Quirrell’s disappeared!” Cedric explained in a rush.
“What?” gapped Theo, wide-eyed.
“Apparently,” interjected Mike, “Quirrell was going after whatever is in the third-floor corridor and Dumbledore and Snape knew about it. They went to stop him! But something happened and now Dumbledore’s in the hospital wing.”
Harry, Theo and Nate shared a look of surprise. Snape had seemed fine barely two hours ago when they had him breathing down their necks during their potions exam.
“Are you sure?” asked Harry, sceptically.
Cedric rolled his eyes. “Yes.”
Nate shrugged when Harry looked at him. “I know as much as you, Harry.”
Harry let out a breath. “I guess we’ll have to wait and learn about it like everyone else.”
Of course, he was lying; he and Theo and Nate would use the invisibility cloak and visit the hospital wing soon enough-after dinner though. They didn’t want to be given away by their growling stomachs.
*
They had to wait until near curfew, but they managed to sneak out without anyone in Slytherin being any of the wiser (Slytherins always snuck out after curfew). The three boys fit comfortably under the cloak, and crept up several flights of stairs and down several dark passageways and had one, very worrisome near encounter with Mrs. Norris, but were soon sequestered in the hospital wing by Dumbledore’s bed.
He was arguing good-naturedly with Madam Pomfrey, the school nurse, about lemon drops or something and how they couldn’t possibly interfere with Snape’s potions, but Pomfrey was adamant.
Finally, once she left, sternly waggling a finger at Dumbledore’s crooked nose to, “Get some rest because you aren’t as spry as you once were and I saw those wobbly knees, Albus!”, the three boys moved closer.
“I was wondering when you three would show up,” Dumbledore finally said, turning at looking directly at Harry and startling Theo so bad he yelped and nearly knocked over a bedpan.
Dumbledore chuckled and Harry grumbled as he removed the cloak and folded it.
“Your curiosity will one day be the death of you,” cautioned the Headmaster.
Harry shuffled his foot. “Eddy always says that.”
“And he would be right,” muttered Nate, rubbing his ribs where Theo’s elbow had hit when he yelped.
“I imagine you’re here to ask what happened?” interrupted Dumbledore, eyes twinkling as he took in the dynamics of the three Slytherin boys.
Harry, Nate and Theo all shared a look and turned their imploring gazes on the Headmaster, who chuckled some more. “Now, now, boys-I have been Headmaster for quite some time. I think I can spot that look coming a mile off.” He sighed wistfully, recalling his own youthful escapades. “However, I think I shall tell you what happened.”
“How come?” asked Theo, suspiciously.
“Because Harry needs to know, as some of it relates to him, and you are his friend, Mr. Nott. He would tell you anyway,” explained Dumbledore honestly.
He cleared his throat and continued, “The wards I placed around a certain, priceless artefact were tripped after your exams this afternoon. The artefact, if falling into the wrong hands, would grant someone of a Dark nature almost limitless wealth and near immortality. An agent of Voldemort’s had been hiding in the castle, and, I must say, right under my nose. Professors McGonagall and Snape, and I, went down to the room where this artefact was residing and fought the agent.”
“Quirrell,” interrupted Nate softly. “And the third floor corridor.”
“Yes, very good, Mr. Moon,” answered Dumbledore, nodding at Nate who flushed under the praise. “We managed to stop Professor Quirrell from obtaining the artefact for his master, but he perished in the ensuring fight. And Voldemort escaped.”
“So he’s still alive,” sighed Harry. “I had thought as much.” The four were silent, and then Harry shifted his weight. “Thank you, sir, for telling me and trusting my friends and I with this information.”
Had Harry have any Legimency skills, he would have been humbled by the proud, awed thoughts Dumbledore had at that moment, thinking about his maturity and handling of the situation.
Unfortunately, Harry still did not know what Legimency or Occlumency were, having barely skimmed his Mind Magics book. The boy did know, though, that this was what the hat was speaking of, several months previous: there was more to the story than Dumbledore was currently telling, a reason why there were so many wizards and witches interested in him, Harry Potter.
And it had something to do with his destiny… and Harry was ready to meet that destiny head-on. Maybe he had a choice, and maybe he didn’t… but he wasn’t going to sit around and wait, no-he was going to learn, understand.
A touch of destiny? When he was done, it would be more than a touch, thought Harry determinedly. He thought back to the black king he carried in his pocket, and wondered if fate was taking a larger interest in his life than he previously thought.
As Theo and Nate shuffled the invisibility cloak over Harry’s end, and murmured their goodnights and goodbyes to Dumbledore (who was shooing them out of the hospital wing), Harry shoved his hands into his trouser pockets, and his hand closed around the king piece.
“Kings to you,” he murmured under his breath.
King, indeed.
*
TBC...
“Oh, clever, Eddy,” laughed Harry, clad already in his jimjams, watching his brother glow and giggle his way through a story about him and a bully at Little Whinging Public School.
Thank goodness that Dudley is my age and at Stonewall Academy instead of at the same school as Edgar, thought Harry.
Harry was fairly quiet since his return to Privet Drive-and not because of the glares his relatives gave him, for daring to disturb their perfect Christmas-but because he hadn’t realised just how much he would miss his baby brother. He was trying to memorise his face: the way his brown eyes would scrunch up and narrow in laughter, the way his dark black hair turned red under the artificial light from their bedside lamp; the way his brother already grew another two inches and was nearing Harry’s height and was eating properly.
Harry watched his brothers’ eerily familiar middle-finger poke to the bridge of his spectacles and wondered if he had always copied his older brothers’ habits, or if it was anew thing in the wake of Harry’s attendance to Hogwarts. Harry loved Hogwarts, he did, but he loved his brother more and wondered how he made himself leave Edgar behind.
“You aren’t listening, are you?”
Harry jerked in surprise. “Pardon?”
Edgar smiled. “I thought you were a million miles away. What’s on your mind, Harry?”
“Just realised how much I missed you,” the older Potter laughed, reaching forward and tugging Edgar towards him and under his arm in a lose chokehold. The two laughed and roughhoused on the bunker bed for a bit, ignoring Iris’ indignant growls from her perch by the window and Caesar’s grumpy hiss of “so immature.”
Finally exhausted, the two fell asleep next to each other in the bottom bunk, their heads nearly touching. They had done that every Christmas Eve since they could remember, having never been separated before, and both sought comfort and familiarity that night.
The two never had the chance to sleep in on Christmas morning; Petunia’s iron demand of the family was to continue the religious upbringing from the Evans family. The two Potters donned their Sunday best and helped each other with their ties, and tried to get their hair to lie flat. The Dursleys then joined them at the entrance foyer and the group of five drove to the nearest church for their holiday prayers.
Neither Harry nor Edgar considered themselves very religious, and with their recent discovery of their magical powers, Harry wondered if they would feel awkward in a church of any sort, but was surprised: Harry felt the same sense of peace as he always had-it was Dudley who was fidgeting and pulling at his neck cloth in agitation during the sermons.
After the morning church service, the Dursleys plus Potters returned to Privet Drive, and Harry and Edgar began the laborious task of preparing Christmas lunch with turkey and pudding in excess. It was only after two in the afternoon, once the two Potter brothers also had their midday meal and the Dursleys were settling down for afternoon tea and the Queen’s Christmas message on the radio, when Harry and Edgar were able to escape to their room and give their presents.
“What the…?” were the first words from Harry’s mouth as he stepped into the smallest room at Privet Drive, with Edgar just behind him. At the foot of each bunk bed, laid out on the duvet, were several wrapped gifts (with a notably larger bottom pile for Harry than Edgar’s).
Harry reached over and picked the first up, blinking as he recognised the wrapper and tag: it was the gift Cedric gave him on the train several days previous, which he had stored at the bottom of his trunk with no intention of moving the present elsewhere until after New Years’.
“Are those…” Edgar hesitated, his voice whispery and almost breathless in wonder. “Are those Christmas presents, Henry?”
The novelty of actually receiving gifts from people other than the brothers was shocking and incredibly surprising. The Dursleys’ gifts were usually items that aided the Potters in their chores or little tokens meant to insult and belittle, like an old sixpence or toothbrush. Vernon had taken great delight in telling Harry and Edgar at a very age that Santa Claus didn’t exist, and even if he did, only “good boys” received presents.
Harry nodded, flabbergasted, and put Cedric’s gift down. He began to catalogue the gifts, slowly sitting on his bed while Edgar scrambled up the wooden ladder to his bunk, exclaiming softly over his gifts.
There was the present from Cedric Diggory; two from Theo, and one from Nate; a rather large and heavy package from Hermione; Hagrid and Kettleburn both sent a chipped-in gift to Harry, and there were small gifts from McGonagall, Flitwick, Sprout, Sinistra, Quirrell and two, surprisingly, from Dumbledore (although Snape was notably absent). A large, rectangular package was nearly buried underneath the pile, with a spiky script stating it was for Henry & Edgar; Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, from Remus Lupin.
Edgar’s head appeared in Harry’s line of sight, upside-down, startling the preteen. “What did you get?”
“I haven’t opened them yet, I wanted to know who sent me things, first,” argued Harry defensively.
Edgar grinned, and swung down to gently land beside his brother on the lower bunk. Harry glared, having admired Edgar’s graceful swing. He was sure once at Hogwarts he’d get on a Quidditch team for his house.
“I got gifts from your friends, Harry!” smiled Edgar, “From Theodore,” he began, relishing over-pronouncing the names, “and Nathaniel and Her-mi-o-ne, Cedric, Professor Kettleburn, and one from the headmaster, Albus Dumbledore.”
Harry smiled, amused at his little brother’s enthusiasm. “There’s one from a man named Remus Lupin for both of us.”
Edgar’s smile froze. “Who?” Neither Potter fully trusted strangers-especially those sending gifts.
Harry shrugged. “Shall we open it?”
“Is it hexed or something?” asked Edgar suspiciously. “And why aren’t you more concerned? This isn’t your curiosity that is taking you by the bollocks, is it?”
“Edgar!” snapped Harry, glancing in shock at his little brother. “It’s one thing for me to say ‘bollocks’ but it’s another coming from you!”
Edgar shrugged. “I attend public school, and you’re not around to monitor my bad habits, Henry.” Edgar finished with a cheeky smile. “Live with it.”
Harry sighed and gathered the gift from Lupin in his lap, and slowly unwound the twine holding brown paper wrapping from it. The paper fell away to reveal a leather-bound book of some sort, but once Harry opened it, he felt his breath catch and Edgar muffle a gasp of surprise.
The leather bound book was actually a leather bound photo album, and the first picture was that of their parents, each holding one of the Potter brothers in their arms, posed in front of a quaint looking cottage.
Lily and James Potter were smiling, and James took picture-Harry’s chubby baby hand and waved it as Harry’s eyes darted towards his father.
“Do…” Edgar stopped to clear his throat, completely overwhelmed with emotion. “Do all wizard pictures move?”
“Yeah,” breathed out Harry, his gaze still caught on his father.
The two Potters remained on Harry’s bed for the majority of the day, slowly going through the various pictures in the album and lingering over made-up memories and feelings of want and loneliness until the room descended into evening darkness.
*
Back at Hogwarts for the New Year, Harry effortlessly fell back into his routine of study, socialise, and sleep. Harry had several classes before his Friday appointment with Kettleburn in his office, but was eagerly looking forward to speaking to the care of magical creatures professor because Caesar was crotchety, incredibly slow, and very moody, refusing the majority of food Harry pushed at him-and all Harry could figure was that he was fighting his nature to hibernate in the winter seasons.
Since he figured his meeting with Kettleburn wouldn’t take too long, Harry made plans to see Cedric afterwards so that they older Hufflepuff could take Harry down to the greenhouses with a few of Cedric’s friends following their Quidditch practice.
He had stuffed one of his Christmas presents from Dumbledore in his satchel (in case Cedric would keep out past curfew; he didn’t need Snape to find him wandering the halls and remove points), which turned out to be an invisibility cloak that belonged to his father. Edgar was beyond raptures with the cloak, and the two brothers decided that they would rotate ownership by year. Harry would use it for his first year and then Edgar for his; if the other brother would require using it, it would be loaned.
“Hmm,” mumbled Kettleburn, stroking Caesar’s brown scales thoughtfully. Harry had explained the situation, and what his thoughts were. Harry knew Kettleburn didn’t think that it was anything he purposefully did; Harry was diligent in Caesar’s care.
“Tell the Pot-Warm one to stop stroking my stomach, Henry,” Caesar finally grumbled as Kettleburn made another pass down the snake’s body. “I think he’s given me indigestion.”
Harry struggled to not snigger, but Kettleburn turned to him anyway, a single eyebrow over his eye patch raised.
“And what about this situation amuses you, Mr. Potter?” the professor asked.
Harry cleared his throat, wondering how to proceed. After the boa incident at the London Zoo, Harry and Edgar promised to not reveal their abilities to speak with snakes unless it was an emergency. However, Harry was unsure if Caesar was sick-and he rather thought that the snake wouldn’t tell him if he was, anyway-so Harry felt he had no choice in the matter.
“Caesar would prefer if you didn’t stroke him anymore, sir,” said Harry, tacking on the ‘sir’ hastily, “as he says it’s probably giving him indigestion… and,” Harry glanced at the snake in question, directing the next English sentence to him regardless if he couldn’t understand it, “you really need to learn that his name is Kettleburn and not Pot-Warm.”
Kettleburn’s other eyebrow shot up.
Harry’s face flushed and he shuffled his feet, misinterpreting Kettleburn’s expression. “He sometimes has problems with names, sir.”
At the professor’s flabbergasted look, Harry continued, “I think he’s just taking a longer time to digest his food. Uh, sir.”
“You can understand him?” asked Kettleburn, finally, after several moments of silence.
“Um,” said Harry, panicked. “Yes?”
Kettleburn let out a large breath through his nose, staring at Harry before sitting down heavily in his desk chair, looking between Caesar and the Boy-Who-Lived.
“Do you know anything about Parseltongues, Henry?” the professor began in a heavy-sounding voice, causing Harry to start. The professor only ever kept himself professional when the two were together, and he never, ever referred to Harry as ‘Henry.’
“Parseltongues, sir?”
“‘Parseltongue’ is the name for magical folk who can speak to snakes,” began Kettleburn. “It is a trait that is considered Dark in recent times, due to You-Know-Who, who was also a snake speaker.”
Harry hesitated before slowly sinking into the seat across from Kettleburn’s desk. “I… see.”
Kettleburn regarded Harry from his single eye. “Do you? If the general population leant about your parseltongue abilities, Henry, I think that would be lynched despite being the Boy-Who-Lived. You’re in Slytherin, like the Dark Lord; you speak to snakes, like the Dark Lord; you align yourself with friends who have known Dark pasts, like the Dark Lord. They’ll see you as You-Know-Who reborn.”
Harry felt a small bubble of hysteria float from his stomach to lodge in his throat, and a mental image of himself cackling evil and gleefully rubbing his hands together made it known in a few, brief moments. Harry felt that hysteria turn towards humour, and realised that while he had a fairly dark background-and how could he not after growing up in the Dursley household?-he was hardly going to become the next Dark Lord.
The two remained silent a little longer, both lost in their own thoughts, until Kettleburn shifted a little and Harry looked up at him.
“Mr. Potter,” the professor began, looking hesitant.
“Yes, sir?” asked Harry.
The professor glanced at Caesar, who was watching with two lazy eyes, and then looked back at Harry. “Pot-Warm? Really?”
The gleeful, if not incredulous, tone made Harry burst into laughter, starting Caesar who rolled into a tight ball, and then hissed his complaints as his full stomach pained him.
*
When Cedric Diggory came to Professor Kettleburn’s classroom, sweaty, dirty with grass smudges on his yellow uniform, and rather tired, he did not expect to see Harry and Kettleburn staring intently at Harry’s pet snake Caesar, as though he were a trained dog ready to perform a trick.
And then… he did perform a trick: Caesar hissed something, and Harry translated and then Kettleburn tried to mimic the hiss.
Cedric wasn’t exactly sure at first what he was seeing. He thought it was a bit of a hallucination from the Bludger that clipped his head during practice, intent to go after the new Hufflepuff seeker. And then his brain caught up to him and he realised Harry was speaking Parseltongue, and was… teaching Kettleburn.
And neither had noticed the door open or Cedric standing in the doorway. He rather thought it was poor observation skills from both the wizards, and was going to ream something harsh into Caesar, who, as a snake, should be able to sense Cedric’s heat signature.
And then the rest of Cedric’s brain caught up to that statement and Cedric Diggory, fourteen year old Hufflepuff student, Pureblood, realised that he just calmly accepted Harry’s ability to speak to snakes, moved right past him teaching Kettleburn, to deciding that Cedric had the right to chastise a snake as though it were a friend-or another human-because he thought Caesar was in the wrong.
Cedric spent a moment thinking that that was just plain odd, but practically everything since meeting Henry Potter had been “odd.” Inwardly, he shrugged and rapped harder on the wooden door, causing both wizards and snake to look up in surprise.
Harry paled, gulping, while Kettleburn twitched and remained in a half-standing, half-crouch.
Cedric decided to take initiative and looked at Caesar, who seemed ashamed and curled into himself in a ball-the Hufflepuff knew that the snake was feeling defensive or preparing for an attack.
“And what do you have to say for yourself, Caesar?”
Kettleburn, Harry, and the snake all looked surprise that Cedric directed his question at the snake.
Finally, Caesar unwound himself and hissed something; Harry glanced at his pet and then at Cedric in a decidedly nervous manner. “He asked what you meant by that.”
“I meant,” here Cedric stressed the word, “that I could have been anyone coming through the door, and there I see the three of you having a blast playing tourist!”
Harry shared a look again with his snake, who hissed something, and Harry hissed back, and then Caesar kind of wilted was the best way to describe it, thought Cedric. It was obvious the snake was suitably chastised, and feeling depressed.
“It’s okay,” continued Cedric genially, as he stepped further into the classroom and shutting the door. As he neared the snake, he pet Caesar on the head like one would a dog. “You just need to be more careful in the future, that’s all.”
Caesar hissed something that had Harry’s cheeks turn pink; Cedric imagined it was something very uncomplimentary towards him, and he resolved to not pet the snake again on the head unless he was feeling confident that he could dash away from the tiny python quickly.
“Caesar, um,” began Harry, his voice a bit higher than normal, “Asks that you politely not pet him on the head again, Cedric Diggory, as he is not a dog but a snake.” Harry paused as Caesar continued, and this time Kettleburn looked a bit contrite-they had clearly been at translating for some time before he arrived. “And that he appreciates your… ah… kindness at not getting upset at my abilities, he will… erm… be terribly inconvenienced if he had to… um… yeah, I’m not translating the rest. Just that it’ll be very, very unpleasant for you if you decided to stop being my friend or pet him on the head again. Or the belly. He’s still a bit spotty about the professor doing that earlier.”
Cedric did his best to keep his lips from twitching into a smile, and solemnly accepted the angry snake’s words. He then turned to Harry and asked, “Ready to go?”
The Slytherin nodded, gently picking up the growing snake and wound him about his neck and tucked him underneath the collar. The snake was still hissing insults at Diggory, but they seemed to be in good sport now, Harry decided.
He still wasn’t going to tell the older boy that, though.
*
By April, Harry could safely say that he was enjoying Hogwarts and was eager for Edgar to attend so that the Potter brothers could be together again. He did well in all his classes (except Potions); he had several very good friends in three of four of the Hogwarts houses, and found a best friend in Theodore Nott; he even participated in various social activities his friends forced on him (in particular Cedric and his mates’ Quidditch practices, but since Harry wasn’t too fond of using a broom to fly-it still boggled his mind something silly-he spent the time teaching the third year students football and somehow cricket was introduced as well).
And as far as he could tell, there wasn’t a peep out of any of the professors about bad behaviour (how Snape wished that weren’t true), about his social circle, or about his Slytherin placement. On the last matter, it seemed the majority of the school had managed to understand that Harry was a Slytherin and a happy one at that; and thankfully, his blatant association with Cedric Diggory and Hermione Granger truly destroyed any chance of people seeing him as a Dark Lord incarnate.
There were a few students that still had issues with him, and although he got along well enough with Draco Malfoy and the other Slytherin first years he didn’t have much exposure to them outside class or hanging around the common room near curfew. Harry stuck to Theo and Nate, and had no use for Crabbe and Goyle’s thug-like façades, or Zabini’s isolation, or any of the girls’ scheming and giggling.
So, Harry was fairly confident that there was nothing in his life that would warrant Dumbledore sending him a note one morning at breakfast in April, asking him to skip his meeting with Kettleburn and join him in his office.
Had Harry known that Ashley Kettleburn returned from Privet Drive directly to Hogwarts, only to shout angrily at Albus Dumbledore until he was forced to take a throat-soothing potion, back in July when he delivered Harry’s acceptance letter, Harry might have been a little more concerned. Unfortunately, he never knew about that meeting, and was thoroughly unprepared to meet Albus Dumbledore.
After giving the password to the guardian gargoyle (“Jelly babies”), Harry found himself surprisingly nervous. In the past, when facing authority, Harry always managed a cool façade that worked in his favour or his indiscretion was so well known about the school in Little Whinging he never had to deny anything. Dumbledore, however, was a bit of a void for Harry-he was an unknown element and Harry was unsure if he could get away with what he did at Little Whinging.
Harry raised his hand to knock on the heavy wood door, but before his knuckles rapped, a voice said, “Ah, come in Harry.”
Startled, Harry took a moment to shift his face into a bland, uninterested look, and stepped into Albus Dumbledore’s office-and felt like he was transported into Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory, minus the chocolate.
The office was large and spacious, designed to mimic a smoothed hexagon shape, and along the walls that weren’t covered in portraits of previous Headmasters and Headmistresses, shelves were overflowing with knickknacks and trinkets and books. Several trinkets were emitting puffs of smoke; one whistled pleasantly; several knickknacks looked like they had springs or cogs hanging loose or had recently popped.
The room was nothing like the Spartan and minimalist offices his previous instructors favoured; Dumbledore’s office was more like a favourite, eccentric uncle’s study or library.
As he eyed a large wardrobe, or shelving unit, off to one side of the large desk Dumbledore use, Harry wondered if it would take him to Narnia. He almost suspected it would.
“Would you have a seat, Harry?”
The voice startled him and Harry turned to see Dumbledore standing just behind his desk, watching him with twinkling blue eyes and a slight smile.
Harry nodded and sat gingerly on a cushy chair in front of the desk, and waited until Dumbledore seated himself to ask, “Is there a reason why I’m here, sir? I don’t think I’ve done anything wrong.”
Dumbledore chuckled, waving his wand and summoning a platter with two tea cups, a milk jug, a small cup of sugar cubes and a plate of biscuits. “Not at all, Harry. I was just wondering if I could have a conversation with you.”
“About, sir?”
“Anything and everything,” began Dumbledore, taking a cup and offering it to Harry, who accepted but did not drink yet. Dumbledore offered a tong with a sugar cube and Harry nodded, holding out his cup. “How are you finding Hogwarts?”
“Very well,” said Harry, answering truthfully.
“I’m glad. We were most anxious about your arrival,” confessed Dumbledore, adding sugar to his tea as well.
Harry frowned. “Why was that, sir?”
Dumbledore blinked, momentarily surprised. “Ah… I would have thought that young Mr. Diggory had explained to you about your position in our world, Harry. Or that Professor Kettleburn had explained when he took you to Diagon Alley.”
Harry nodded in understanding. “You mean the whole Boy-Who-Lived thing, sir. No, Professor Kettleburn did not tell Eddy or I anything about what happened the night Voldemort attacked our parents, and neither did Cedric or my other friends. Eddy and I read about it in several books we purchased at Flourish and Blott’s.”
“Oh?” Dumbledore looked surprised, and then his eyes twinkled some more as he regarded Harry over his half-moon spectacles. “And how is your little brother doing? I only saw him once, when your mother was receiving guests just after his birth.”
Harry’s sip of tea mingled with an inhalation of surprise that had him coughing, and sputtering. “You… you knew my parents? You saw Eddy when he was born?”
“And you as well, Harry,” confirmed Dumbledore with a reminiscent smile. “Your mother was quite unimpressed with your father when he began calling you ‘Harry’ instead of ‘Henry’ just days after you were born.”
Harry felt a small smile appear on his face. “I never knew my father was the one who started that.”
At this, Dumbledore’s smile slipped a bit, but he recovered well, “Alas! It was not your father, but his friend, Sirius Black, who wanted you to have a more ‘common’ name, I believe he said. He and his brother, Regulus, had such strong, regal names amongst the Pureblood circle and I am sure that he did not want you exposed to that. Hence, Harry and Eddy instead of Henry and Edgar.”
Harry murmured the name under his breath, tasting the syllables.
Silence fell between the two wizards.
“Are you enjoying Slytherin, Harry?” asked Dumbledore, finally breaking the silence of munching on biscuits and sipping their tea.
Harry smiled. “Yes; I can imagine it was a bit of a surprise for people… but I really do like it. I fit in well with my friends, and I tend to stay out of the power politics they play.”
Dumbledore’s eyebrows rose. “And they let you?”
Here, Harry shifted uncomfortably, before mumbling, “They did when me mates and I hexed them enough.”
Dumbledore chuckled, ignoring the confession. “I must admit, Harry, that at first I was worried about your placement in Slytherin.”
“How come?” asked Harry, surprised.
Dumbledore had his turn to shift uncomfortably. “Long ago, another boy was sorted there and turned down a path of darkness.” His eyes took on a look of sorrow and pain, and he continued in a much softer voice. “He was brilliant, talented, and very charming. And yet he later became one of the worst Dark Lords we have ever seen.”
“Voldemort?” guessed Harry.
At Dumbledore’s surprised, owlish blinks, the older wizard garbled out, “You do not fear the name?”
“Why should I? It’s just a name,” answered Harry.
Dumbledore smiled; one full of pride. “Quite right, Harry. Well done; most grown wizards and witches-some of our very brightest and talented-cannot speak his name without shivering in horror. It is quite admirable that you can, especially all that he has taken from you.”
“You can’t regret things you don’t remember having in the first place,” answered Harry quietly, lost in his thoughts of the photo album Remus Lupin had sent the Potters.
“No, no,” agreed Dumbledore, just as softly. He cleared his throat. “I am sorry to learn that your home life was not as… agreeable as I had hoped.”
“You hoped, sir?” queried Harry, a note of something sharpening his tone.
Dumbledore winced. “Yes. I placed you and Edgar at Privet Drive, hoping that your aunt would love you like her own. Professor Kettleburn quite assures me that this is untrue.”
Harry snorted, refusing to answer.
Dumbledore sighed. “I am sorry Harry. I apologise to you, and I will apologise to your brother as well. There were still many followers of Voldemort’s on the loose in the days following his departure from Godric’s Hallow and I was worried they would try to track you down and harm you or your brother.”
Harry immediately noticed he said ‘departure’ and not ‘destruction.’ It seemed Edgar, Caesar, and Harry were right: Voldemort was not gone, but hiding in the shadows.
“And afterwards?” asked Harry, waiting patiently.
“There were wards placed around your aunts’ that would protect you and Edgar as long as you called that place home. It was the closest I could conceive in lieu of the Fidelius Charm, and that had failed your parents. I could not risk the last remaining Potters either.”
Harry could almost, but not quite, read the words between what Dumbledore was saying. He tried to reason it out, verbally. “You had a reason, sir. And while Edgar and I hardly consider Privet Drive our home, or Petunia and Vernon and Dudley ‘family’ as the word implies, I understand you did what you had to during a period of war.”
Dumbledore blinked, his eyes taking on a slight sheen. “That is very mature of you, Harry. I appreciate your words very much.”
Harry shrugged, finishing his tea and placing the empty teacup on Dumbledore’s desk. “We all do what is necessary at times, sir.” Harry turned his head away to look out of the window, at a spectacular view of the Scottish highlands. “Just as I have done things that Eddy won’t appreciate when he learns of them, or of things he already knows I’ve done-I did what was necessary at the time to ensure his happiness, or protection.”
“You are truly your mother’s son, Harry,” answered Dumbledore, with a smile. The sombre mood passed as Dumbledore leaned forward, and asked enthusiastically, “Now-tell me if you are planning any midnight strolls with your father’s invisibility cloak anytime soon? May I recommend the seventh floor corridor? There is such a lovely lavatory there…”
Harry burst out laughing.
*
While it didn’t sit well with Edgar that Dumbledore had placed them in a generally unhappy home and left them there deliberately, Harry had no issues with it at all. In the letters that followed the incident, and as exams loomed, Harry and Edgar soon found themselves at odds on the issue of Dumbledore.
Harry, of course, knew how it felt to do something that might not want to do, but was best solution at the time; he had done it often enough when he sacrificed his own studies or meals to ensure that Edgar was not bullied by Dudley or his gang, or the other schoolchildren in Little Whinging.
Harry had hopes and dreams before Hogwarts of a rich relative finding them, and when he grew older, that dreamed turned to him receiving a scholarship for grades he could never displays at school on the Dursley’s orders, and taking Edgar away. Harry would become a famous footballer; a politician and later Prime Minister of Britain; later, it was anything where he had enough money to take Edgar away.
Oh yes, Harry understood Dumbledore well. It didn’t mean he liked what the Headmaster had done… but he understood.
Edgar, however, was filled with anger and righteous fury against the wizard for circumventing proper channels of government. Edgar was still rather enamoured with laws and justice and government and authority, despite his own bad experiences with authority figures. Harry also did his best to keep Edgar away from the darker, nastier politics at Little Whining; he liked keeping Edgar in the dark as much as possible about what Harry got up to, ensuring bullies left Edgar alone, ensuring that the Dursleys never knew about Edgar’s time in the school library.
It was unusual for the two Potters to be at odds, but Harry sadly realised that he was growing up, and possibly, away from his little brother. He didn’t doubt that they would not be close-how could they not? They were the last two Potters-but perhaps they would soon be on different paths, learning different things. It made Harry sad and depressed for several weeks.
Things improved soon as the Potters “agreed to disagree” in one of their last letters of Harry’s term at Hogwarts. Harry spent the majority of his time concentrating on his grades, and was found in the library with Theo, Nate, and Hermione.
They had commandeered a quiet, dusty corner in the library near a large stain-glass window depicting St. George slaying the dragon. A window seat, unusual for the library, was an added bonus.
Hermione would madly quiz them, and the boys would take turns answering her until they knew all the answers she threw at them. They were quiet confident that they would pass their exams with flying colours.
Harry knew that Hermione’s blitzkrieg style of studying was beneficial, and thanked her profusely once their potions exam was complete. She laughed and waved her goodbyes to the Slytherin boys as they turned to the Great Hall for dinner, and she, to the Gryffindor common room.
Cedric, however, came upon them with his friend Mike Summers. “Harry! Have you heard?”
“Heard what?” asked the Potter boy, looking in surprise at Cedric’s flushed face.
“Dumbledore’s in the hospital! McGonagall and Snape are going mad, rushing about, and Quirrell’s disappeared!” Cedric explained in a rush.
“What?” gapped Theo, wide-eyed.
“Apparently,” interjected Mike, “Quirrell was going after whatever is in the third-floor corridor and Dumbledore and Snape knew about it. They went to stop him! But something happened and now Dumbledore’s in the hospital wing.”
Harry, Theo and Nate shared a look of surprise. Snape had seemed fine barely two hours ago when they had him breathing down their necks during their potions exam.
“Are you sure?” asked Harry, sceptically.
Cedric rolled his eyes. “Yes.”
Nate shrugged when Harry looked at him. “I know as much as you, Harry.”
Harry let out a breath. “I guess we’ll have to wait and learn about it like everyone else.”
Of course, he was lying; he and Theo and Nate would use the invisibility cloak and visit the hospital wing soon enough-after dinner though. They didn’t want to be given away by their growling stomachs.
*
They had to wait until near curfew, but they managed to sneak out without anyone in Slytherin being any of the wiser (Slytherins always snuck out after curfew). The three boys fit comfortably under the cloak, and crept up several flights of stairs and down several dark passageways and had one, very worrisome near encounter with Mrs. Norris, but were soon sequestered in the hospital wing by Dumbledore’s bed.
He was arguing good-naturedly with Madam Pomfrey, the school nurse, about lemon drops or something and how they couldn’t possibly interfere with Snape’s potions, but Pomfrey was adamant.
Finally, once she left, sternly waggling a finger at Dumbledore’s crooked nose to, “Get some rest because you aren’t as spry as you once were and I saw those wobbly knees, Albus!”, the three boys moved closer.
“I was wondering when you three would show up,” Dumbledore finally said, turning at looking directly at Harry and startling Theo so bad he yelped and nearly knocked over a bedpan.
Dumbledore chuckled and Harry grumbled as he removed the cloak and folded it.
“Your curiosity will one day be the death of you,” cautioned the Headmaster.
Harry shuffled his foot. “Eddy always says that.”
“And he would be right,” muttered Nate, rubbing his ribs where Theo’s elbow had hit when he yelped.
“I imagine you’re here to ask what happened?” interrupted Dumbledore, eyes twinkling as he took in the dynamics of the three Slytherin boys.
Harry, Nate and Theo all shared a look and turned their imploring gazes on the Headmaster, who chuckled some more. “Now, now, boys-I have been Headmaster for quite some time. I think I can spot that look coming a mile off.” He sighed wistfully, recalling his own youthful escapades. “However, I think I shall tell you what happened.”
“How come?” asked Theo, suspiciously.
“Because Harry needs to know, as some of it relates to him, and you are his friend, Mr. Nott. He would tell you anyway,” explained Dumbledore honestly.
He cleared his throat and continued, “The wards I placed around a certain, priceless artefact were tripped after your exams this afternoon. The artefact, if falling into the wrong hands, would grant someone of a Dark nature almost limitless wealth and near immortality. An agent of Voldemort’s had been hiding in the castle, and, I must say, right under my nose. Professors McGonagall and Snape, and I, went down to the room where this artefact was residing and fought the agent.”
“Quirrell,” interrupted Nate softly. “And the third floor corridor.”
“Yes, very good, Mr. Moon,” answered Dumbledore, nodding at Nate who flushed under the praise. “We managed to stop Professor Quirrell from obtaining the artefact for his master, but he perished in the ensuring fight. And Voldemort escaped.”
“So he’s still alive,” sighed Harry. “I had thought as much.” The four were silent, and then Harry shifted his weight. “Thank you, sir, for telling me and trusting my friends and I with this information.”
Had Harry have any Legimency skills, he would have been humbled by the proud, awed thoughts Dumbledore had at that moment, thinking about his maturity and handling of the situation.
Unfortunately, Harry still did not know what Legimency or Occlumency were, having barely skimmed his Mind Magics book. The boy did know, though, that this was what the hat was speaking of, several months previous: there was more to the story than Dumbledore was currently telling, a reason why there were so many wizards and witches interested in him, Harry Potter.
And it had something to do with his destiny… and Harry was ready to meet that destiny head-on. Maybe he had a choice, and maybe he didn’t… but he wasn’t going to sit around and wait, no-he was going to learn, understand.
A touch of destiny? When he was done, it would be more than a touch, thought Harry determinedly. He thought back to the black king he carried in his pocket, and wondered if fate was taking a larger interest in his life than he previously thought.
As Theo and Nate shuffled the invisibility cloak over Harry’s end, and murmured their goodnights and goodbyes to Dumbledore (who was shooing them out of the hospital wing), Harry shoved his hands into his trouser pockets, and his hand closed around the king piece.
“Kings to you,” he murmured under his breath.
King, indeed.
*
TBC...