FIC: "The Hero's Haunting" by irislock (1 of 2)
To: nicodemusfleur
Title: The Hero's Haunting
Author/Artist: irislock
Pairing: Harry/Ginny
Rating: light R
Word Count: 16,200
Summary: It started on an ordinary day when a book found Harry in the Restricted Section.
Warnings: I don’t think anything here will offend, but there is some Dark Magic at work, and themes of mental derangement. Sexual situations. POV changes.
For nicodemusfleur , fellow Snapple lover and fan of Mumford & Sons, who likes a medley of genres and is interested in ancient magic and wandless magic. The request included the following:
1.(prompt) I'd love to read an angsty/drama AU where the war is still going years later.
2.(element) Ginny being good friends with someone other than Hermione; maybe someone you wouldn't expect (for example: Fleur, or Daphne Greengrass ect.).
3.(prompt) A more introspective Harry fic inspired by 'Krwlng' by Linkin Park - I think the lyrics and tone could really work with his state of mind in OotP.
4.(prompt) Mrs. Weasley walks in on Harry and Ginny while they're "busy". Hilarity ensues.
Author’s notes: My sincere apologies for the lateness of this fic. Challenging as it was, I really liked this prompt and decided to attempt blending all of these ideas into one fic. This is the (rather long) result. Although I’ve read some AUs that I really like, I simply couldn’t write a strictly AU fic so this is canon compliant.
I see from the recently posted masterlist that my recipient has defaulted, so I suppose this can be considered a gift to the community, or to tosca1390 , who stepped up to pinch hit for my giftee. I do hope that nicodemusfleur will someday read this and like what I came up with.
Many thanks to my beta aggiebell90 for her patience and enthusiasm and to flyingcarpet , who deserves a Neverending flower arrangement for all of her work on this fest.
___________________
Harry crouched under his dining table listening to the pounding at the door and berating himself for not fleeing when he had the chance.
But where would he have gone? There were Death Eaters everywhere, undercover at the Ministry and Hogwarts. He even suspected the clerk at his favorite market. Leaving the country might keep him alive, but it would do nothing to get rid of Voldemort. He’d chosen to stay and fight, and there was no point in regretting that choice now.
Though you couldn’t exactly call this fighting - hiding out in his own flat under the Invisibility Cloak and hoping that the Death Eaters at his door would simply give up and look for him elsewhere was a bit cowardly on its face.
“Harry! Please! Let us in! We only want to help!” It was the voice of Dylan Ross, a fellow trainee whom he’d considered a friend until very recently.
“Harry? This is Auror McTavish - Mac. Look, we know something’s wrong. You haven’t shown up for lecture or practicals in two days, and even before that, you were looking tired and unwell. I know you didn’t go to the Healer like I told you to, but it’s not important. You’re not in trouble. We just want to get to the bottom of this. And we can’t do that unless you let us in.”
Harry wanted to believe them, he did. But he couldn’t let down his guard. He knew that his real job was not to finish Auror training but to track down all of the Horcruxes and destroy them. The locket had been taken care of - Ron and Hermione had taken it to Australia - but he still had to find Hufflepuff’s cup and Ravenclaw’s diadem. This would have been a daunting challenge under any circumstance, but it was made even more so by the insidious voice that kept taunting him, and, even worse, the intense discomfort he felt all the time, like his skin literally wanted to crawl off of his body. He felt, just now, that he would be happy if it did.
“Harry? Harry, It’s me. Can I please come in?” It was Ginny. Oh, no. Oh, Merlin, no. Had they captured her and forced her to help them get to him? It was unthinkable. They wouldn’t kill him. Even if they managed to get in, he knew Voldemort wanted Harry all to himself. They might make it highly unpleasant, but they would deliver him to Voldemort whole. Not so with Ginny; they would not hesitate to kill her if she ceased to be useful.
He very nearly spoke. He didn’t know what good it would do, but he couldn’t leave her with them. Just as he opened his mouth, though, she spoke again.
“I - I don’t think he’s there,” she said tremulously. He could hear the fear and worry in her words. She was trying to deflect them and protect him. He took a shaky breath and let it out silently.
There followed some mumbling, none of which he could make out, and he succumbed to his overwhelming urge to scratch at his skin. There was barely an inch of him that was not covered by scratches or scabs, and his fingernails were packed with clotted blood and something foul smelling. He reached up to the back of his neck, tore off a scab and then raked a fresh wound. He knew it would only hurt worse when he stopped, but for now, he reveled in the temporary relief.
His scratching was interrupted by the sound of the door opening, and this was a bit of a surprise. He had excellent wards, and the only way they could have been breached was if someone knew how to get through them. Ginny knew. Had they tortured her for the information, or had she betrayed him?
He didn’t have much time to ponder it as he watched several sets of feet fan out around his flat, searching for him. He still thought his best option was to remain under the Cloak; they couldn’t see him there. Something must have given him away though, because suddenly all of the feet surrounded the table, and he heard “Stupefy!” from four different directions.
His last thought before losing consciousness was of Ginny. Please, oh, please, let her be alright.
_____________________
Two weeks earlier
“Good morning, Prof - Headmistress,” said Harry as he dusted Floo powder off his robes.
“Ah, Potter,” replied Professor McGonagall. She glanced at the clock on the mantle as she stood behind her desk and rose to greet him. “Right on time.”
She took his extended hand in both of hers and shook it warmly. “It’s good to see you.”
“You too, Prof - Headmistress.” He wasn’t sure why it was so hard to call her Headmistress. Perhaps because he always thought of Dumbledore as Headmaster or because he had always known her as Professor. In any case, he hadn’t seen her in a long while and was out of practice. “You’re looking well.” He noted as he said the words that it was true. He’d never seen Professor McGonagall looking this well; in fact, the word happy came to mind. She looked older, but the lines around her mouth were much less taut than he was used to seeing them.
“Thank you,” she said, almost sheepishly. “As are you. Auror training becomes you, I see. It’s difficult to believe you’re already starting your third year.”
Harry nodded. “Yeah. It’s hard, but I like it.”
“Have you eaten? Somehow the elves found out you were coming and sent up breakfast.” She gestured to a small table near the fireplace set for two. Harry had overslept and left his flat without so much as a cup of coffee. He looked at the toast and eggs gratefully.
Harry sat. “That was thoughtful. ” Professor McGonagall seated herself across from him and began pouring coffee. “As a matter of fact,” Harry continued, “I was a little rushed this morning, and this smells delicious.” He took that first transforming sip of coffee and spooned some eggs onto his plate. “Thanks, Prof - Headmistress.”
“Potter, please, you may call me ‘Professor’, or even Minerva if you wish.”
Harry could not imagine ever calling her by her first name, but he was glad not to have to keep correcting himself.
“Malcolm wrote regarding your visit today. He said you need access to the Restricted Section of the library.”
“Malcolm?”
“I’m sorry, Auror McTavish. I know him as Malcolm. He was a student here many years ago.”
“Ah,” Harry said, as if that made everything clear. “Did he know my parents?”
“No, not quite that long ago. He and Bill Weasley were in the same year. Both Gryffindors. Excelled in Defense and Potions, though he and Professor Snape never got along well.”
Harry laughed. “I didn’t know we had that in common.”
“Well, Severus never liked anyone that he thought was someone else’s favorite.”
“Auror McTavish was someone’s favorite?”
Professor McGonagall smiled slightly. “I had the same high standards for him as I do for all students,” she said evenly, “perhaps even higher. But Malcom McTavish is my great-nephew, and Professor Snape seemed convinced that it was that, and not his hard work, that was responsible for his successes at Hogwarts and after.”
The subject of Snape was a delicate one, and had nothing to do with his visit. Harry was relieved that Professor McGonagall did not dwell on it.
“He worked with Bill for a time in Egypt, and then he received a field assignment in Transylvania for several years. Kingsley had the sense to call him back after the war and appoint him Director of Auror Training. He’s quite up to the job.”
Harry agreed. “Yes. He’s very demanding, but fair. Which, come to think of it, must be a family trait.”
“I like to think so.” Professor McGonagall smiled again, and the conversation turned to other topics. He asked about repairs to the castle (complete, finally) and enrollment (up, thankfully). She asked what brought him to the Hogwarts library.
“Oh, I’m doing some research on the origins of wandless magic for Historical Magical Theory. Turns out some of the oldest magical texts are right here, and from what I understand, still in very good condition.”
“Yes, Irma is justifiably proud of our collection. Whatever her faults, she is meticulous about its maintenance. The older volumes must be handled carefully, though. Be sure you follow her rules.”
He didn’t answer because his mouth was full, but Harry wouldn’t dream of doing otherwise.
“You know, “ said Professor McGonagall, refilling his coffee cup, “Neville is apprenticing this year under Professor Sprout. You could pop down to the greenhouses when you’re finished in the library. Come to think of it, Hagrid would be pleased to see you as well.”
“I should, but I probably won’t have time. Ginny just found out that she’s being moved up from reserve status to starting Chaser this season, and we’re having a little celebration. She leaves for training in a few days.”
“What excellent news!” exclaimed Professor McGonagall, and she seemed truly excited. “That’s wonderful. Though,” she added, “I’m sure it will be difficult, being apart.”
“Yeah, I’ll miss her. But, this is good for her career, and we’ve been apart before.”
“That you have. This is a bit different, though,“ Professor McGonagall observed. “It’s for a much more pleasant reason, and it won’t be for long. The season starts in less than a month.”
Harry nodded, but inside he felt a flicker of disappointment. It was true that he would see a bit more of Ginny once the season started, but it would mostly be from the stands, and that seemed cold comfort after having her gone (completely, no contact with the outside world allowed while at training camp) for two weeks. Her schedule for the next several months was demanding, and his was not exactly light. He was pining already for the summer holidays, which had ended just a few weeks ago.
He didn’t have much time off, and what he did have rarely coincided with Ginny’s, but last month, right around her birthday, they’d had seven glorious days together. Molly had made plain her disapproval of any plan that involved the two of them alone together overnight, and rather than defy her mother outright, Ginny had come up with the ingenious idea of visiting family.
They spent a day and night in London at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, helping George and Ron take inventory (and taking full advantage of the privacy afforded by the stockroom), and two days with Andromeda and Teddy before going to Shell cottage where Fleur, much to his surprise, lobbied Bill successfully to allow them to share a room. They’d spent the remainder of their holiday at The Burrow, helping Molly and Arthur with projects around the house. They had separate rooms, but they’d been able to spend long hours flying and swimming in the pond and generally falling even deeper in love.
And it was there, out on the freshly mown lawn on the morning of their last day at The Burrow, Harry had an epiphany. He was standing in the very spot he’d stood when Ron had told him to keep away from Ginny, and he’d had a most unpleasant vision of Ginny marrying a tall stranger. He had another vision now, of Ginny in a white dress, marrying him, and he knew suddenly and with his whole being that he did indeed want to marry her.
She’d walked up behind him then and slipped her hand in his. “Do you ever wish it could always be like this?” he asked softly.
“Living with my parents?” she said, surprised.
“No, just being together - all the time.” For some reason, he avoided using the word marry, but she understood.
“You mean like Bill and Fleur are together all the time?”
He nodded.
“Well, sure,” she said, with altogether less seriousness than he had hoped for. “But, it’s not very practical right now, is it? We’re both busy with training and all.”
This seemed to him a flimsy excuse. “And after that, we’ll be busy with jobs. It’s not like we can put our lives on hold forever for our careers.”
“Harry, I don’t have a career, not yet. I’m a reserve Chaser who lived with her parents until six months ago. We have lots of time to...be together.”
She’d kissed him then, and he let the subject go. He wondered if this was a transient feeling, if perhaps their impending separation was making him wistful enough to consider proposing. He didn’t think so, but he decided it was best to keep the information to himself for now.
Professor McGonagall stood abruptly and walked toward her desk, interrupting his thoughts. “Well, then, you’d best get to the library so you won’t keep Miss Weasley waiting. Here is the form you need to give to Madam Pince.”
He took it. “Thanks for letting me come on such short notice - and for breakfast,” he said, draining his coffee cup.
She made a dismissive gesture. “Think nothing of it. You know you are always welcome here. I’ll give your regards to Hagrid and Neville, and please give mine to Miss Weasley.”
Harry made his way down the spiral staircase and headed in the direction of the library. It was still very early, so there were few students in the corridors. He couldn’t help but notice how magnificent the castle looked, better even than when the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students had been visiting. He also couldn’t help the sharp pangs of nostalgia he felt as he passed certain landmarks; that corridor would lead to where Fluffy had been hidden in his first year; behind that suit of armor was a now-sealed hidden passage to Hogsmeade. The classroom to his left was where Professor Lupin had taught him the Patronus Charm, and that corridor down there was a private one he and Ginny had discovered his sixth year.
Madam Pince inspected the note from Professor McGonagall as if she suspected it might be forged. He showed her the list of books he was looking for and watched the furrows in her normally pinched brows deepen further. She gave him a long list of instructions that he promised to follow and found a large, dusty table at the very back of the Restricted Section.
He had little difficulty locating what he needed, and he spent several uninterrupted and productive hours there before his stomach notified him that he’d skipped lunch. Astonished at how quickly the last six hours had flown, he hurriedly packed his things. He’d meant to leave 15 minutes ago in order to have everything ready by the time Ginny got to his flat.
He wasn’t allowed to touch the books directly, so he levitated them back to their shelves, and just as Incantations for War and Pestilence was settling into its empty slot, he noticed a smaller book sticking out on the shelf above. It was bound in green dragon hide, and, unlike all of its neighbors, it looked new. The title was embossed in bright silver letters along the spine. The Hero’s Helper: How to Achieve Happiness and Success Now that You’ve Saved the World by Mercurius Herculaneum.
Odd, Harry thought. Why would that be in the Restricted Section? He didn’t think there would be any harm in touching this one, so he pushed the book back in alignment with the others. As soon as his hand left the book, it emerged again, this time just over the edge of the shelf. Harry was amused, but not inclined to spend any more time here. He was an Auror in training with a gorgeous, talented girlfriend; he was completely - or at least mostly - content, and there wasn’t really anything a book could tell him that would make his life any better. He pushed the book back a second time. Almost immediately, it leapt into his hands, and he saw the same silver lettering on the front, but it wasn’t the book’s title. It said: This book has chosen you.
His curiosity got the better of him, and he opened it very carefully.
Have you just slain a dragon or defeated an evil magician? Not easy, was it? But you did it, and the world is a better place. Now what? Do you ever wonder if you will become bored with the banalities of everyday life? Do you secretly miss that rush of accomplishment and certainty you felt when you knew your quest had been successful? Then this book is for you. It contains time-honored secrets for contentment in a world that is free of the conflict that consumed you and gave you purpose for so long. Turn the page and read on...
Harry turned the page, and it was as if all of the dust that should have been collected on the outside had instead seeped inside and came out in a cloud of white powder. It shimmered like fairy dust, but it had a peculiar odor, and it burned his eyes and lungs as he gulped in one breath and then another. Closing the book and then waving it in front of his face, he coughed and spluttered until the burning sensation subsided. Just then, he heard a clock chime and was galvanized into action. Whatever the book’s secrets were, they would have to stay that way for now. He put the book back firmly on the shelf, gathered his things, and left.
_____________________
It had been something of a surprise to Harry that he was a good cook. All those years of servitude in Petunia’s kitchen, and he’d actually developed some skills. Without Petunia around to bark orders at him to mince garlic faster or broil the chops while she made salad, he found that he was not only good, he enjoyed it.
In his last years with the Dursleys, they never left him alone in the kitchen. Harry suspected this was because they were all afraid he would poison them. Now, though, he took pleasure from working alone in the kitchen. It was a way for him to relax, and though his flat was humble in most respects, it had a large and well appointed kitchen that included more than a few Muggle machines that Harry found superior to his culinary charms work and gave Mr Weasley no end of delight.
Tonight, the menu was relatively simple, but he had no time to waste. He started cutting basil and tomatoes for the bisque and mixed up a quick glaze for the fish. In spite of the date on the calendar, there was a distinct autumn chill in the air, and he decided to make a nice, comforting risotto. It would take a bit more time than the rice pilaf he’d initially planned, but Ginny loved his risotto. While stirring stock into the rice and wine mixture (he always burned it if he used magic for this part), his thoughts strayed again to Ginny.
This was the last time they would be alone for two weeks, and once again, thoughts of marriage were at the forefront of his mind. He still hadn’t told anyone, and he was more or less aware of why. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel the same way; he still wanted to marry her. It wasn’t that they were young. He was twenty, the same age his father was when he’d been born. At nineten, Ginny was the same age his mother had been when she’d gotten married. And Ginny’s parents had married at eighteen, fresh out of Hogwarts.
It was Ginny. He knew she loved him; she’d said as much, but he didn’t know if she wanted to marry him. Maybe she was afraid that it would cut short a career she hadn’t really begun yet, or that she didn’t want to enter a marriage that she could bring nothing but herself to, but he had the sense that marriage was not something she spent a lot of time thinking about.
He wondered again whether it was the prospect of being without her was making him think about marriage more urgently than he otherwise would, but every time he examined this uncertainty, it seemed to have no foundation. He wanted to marry Ginny when he was with her on their regular Tuesday night dates, he wanted to marry her when he woke up in the morning in a lonely bed, and he wanted to marry her when her picture appeared in the Daily Prophet after having been moved up in the Harpies’ roster. He was ready, and he didn’t care that they were young, or that they still had budding careers that demanded lots of time and energy. He was so ready that he’d checked to make sure that his mother’s engagement ring was still in his vault at Gringott’s the last time he’d made a withdrawal.
“Hi - it’s me,” Ginny announced. It wasn’t necessary; only three people in the world knew how to get through his protective wards, and she was the only one in England at the moment. They’d long passed the point in their relationship that required her to knock and him to open the door for her.
“Mum sent treacle tart,” she said, placing the scrumptious looking pie on the table and coming over to give him a quick kiss. He handed her a glass of wine.
“I don’t know why she sent your favorite dessert - I thought this was supposed to be my party.”
“But your Mum loves me,” he said, smiling as he picked up his own glass and touched it lightly to hers. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,
“Yes, she does love you. But you’d think, being the only daughter and finally having a job that will pay the bills so I can stop borrowing from them would convince her to make something for me.”
“Maybe she doesn’t know what to make.”
“Pfft. That’s ridiculous. I’m easy to cook for - you said so yourself. I like everything. Well, almost everything.”
“Yes, but what dessert is your favorite?” he prompted.
“Hmm. Bread pudding. No. Um, maybe apple tart.” She paused. “Although I really loved that chocolate mousse you made last week.”
“I rest my case.”
“No! I have a favorite. I do! Just give me a minute.”
“Okay, but can you ponder it while you’re setting the table. I’m almost ready to serve the soup.”
Ginny busied herself with the tableware. They would clear the table and clean the kitchen together afterward, but she knew better than to bother Harry while he was still cooking.
“Good?”
He surveyed the table. She was so much better at household charms than he was - the tablecloth, which he hadn’t touched since she was here last week, was spotless and freshly pressed. There were flowers and candles on the table, and she’d folded the napkins to look like coordinating blooms. “Perfect,” he said. “Now, you sit.”
“Mmmm, Harry. This is delicious. Tomato basil bisque. That’s it. My new favorite dessert.”
He laughed. “I’m glad you like it. Don’t be hasty, though; that’s just the starter.”
“So,” she said, settling in to the entree of baked salmon and green bean risotto, “How was your day?”
“Good. I got a lot done. All of the background research for the four feet of parchment McTavish wants on the origins of wandless magic. And Professor McGonagall says hello. She’s Mac’s aunt, did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t.” She took another bite of food. “Harry, this is so good. Seriously.”
“Thanks. I’m glad you like it.” He took a spoonful of soup himself and had to agree that it was quite tasty. They chatted some more about his research and ate and he asked about her day.
“Good. I went to Diagon Alley to get new gloves and shin guards, and I spent the afternoon at Shell Cottage with Fleur. I have news.”
“Oh?”
“It’s official. Fleur’s pregnant. Baby’s due in April. She and Bill are both over the moon about it.”
“Wow,” Harry said. “So that means - “ he started counting on his fingers, but Ginny finished his thought.
“Yep. She was pregnant when we were there. She knew, but made me swear not to tell anyone until they told the rest of the family.”
“So you were the first to know?”
She nodded. “Besides Bill, of course.”
“I didn’t realize you and Fleur were that close.”
“Hark who’s talking,” Ginny teased, “I wasn’t the one pestering her for her bouillabaisse recipe. ” She took a sip of wine and added, “I do like her. She’s good to Bill and doesn’t mind working hard. And I’ll always be grateful to her for taking care of you during the war.”
“Wow,” Harry said again. “A baby. That’s - great.”
“I know! I’m going to be an aunt.”
“So - you’re excited about it?” he asked.
“Of course! It’s going to be great to have niece or nephew; Fleur thinks it’s a girl, but it’s too early to tell. I hope so. This family needs more girls.”
“Maybe you’ll have one of your own someday,” Harry ventured.
Ginny’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, and she looked at him.
“Have you been talking to Fleur?”
“Me? No, why?”
“Well, she asked me basically the same thing. When was I going to get married and have one of my own. Which is a ridiculous thing to ask really.”
“Because you never want to get married?” Harry tried to sound neutral.
Ginny took a large sip of wine and swallowed it very slowly and deliberately. “I didn’t say that,” she finally said. Her lips were pressed tightly together the way they did when she did not want to talk about something.
After a moment, she seemed to think better of it and opened her mouth to take another bite. Expression changing, she let out a rather satisfied moan. “Harry, I’d marry you on the spot if you promised to make me risotto every day for the rest of my life.”
He looked at her, wishing he’d never started this. “It’s not a joke, Ginny.”
The air was suddenly charged with unspoken thoughts, and they both retreated temporarily to the safety of eating. Ginny finished first, and she crossed her fork and knife on her plate and pushed it gently away.
“Harry,” she said softly, “do you really want to talk about this?”
“I know the timing isn’t great,” he offered, “but, yeah, I’m kind of curious.” He pushed his plate away, too.
Ginny took a deep breath. “I only meant that it was a ridiculous thing to ask because I haven’t even played in my first professional match yet. Yes, I want to get married and probably have kids someday, but I’m in no rush. Are you?”
It was his turn to take a deep breath. “I can see why you wouldn’t want kids right away, but why - I mean, lots of Quidditch players are married.”
“Yes, but most of the married ones got married after playing for awhile, after their careers were established.” It seemed like there was more to say, but she wasn’t sure how to say it. “And...well, it’s different for witches, isn’t it? Most of the married players are wizards. When a witch gets married, every one just assumes that she’ll quit to have babies.”
“But you wouldn’t have to do that.”
“No, I wouldn’t have to. But some people, including Fleur and my mum, would start asking annoying questions that, frankly, I just don’t want to deal with.”
“Well, they’re asking them now, and you’re not married,” he pointed out.
“True,” she conceded. “But what if I get pregnant before I want to? That’s what happened to Olivia. The only reason I got moved up was because she got pregnant.”
Now they were getting closer to the real issue, or at least one of them, Harry thought, and he could see that Ginny was genuinely distraught about it.
“This isn’t about sex is it? You don’t want to get married just so we can have sex?”
Harry was so taken aback by this question that he laughed. The parameters of their physical relationship had been negotiated long ago. Ginny had been all but paranoid about getting pregnant, and for every charm, potion, and Muggle contraption her friends told her about to prevent it, she knew at least one person for whom they had all failed - her mother. She loved her mother and admired her in many ways, but she did not want to be a mother at nineteen, and she made it clear to Harry very shortly after the war ended that attracted to him though she was, and as bold in her exploration of his body as he was of hers, actual intercourse was off limits.
Harry had admittedly been a little disappointed at first, but Ginny had persuaded him that there was more than one way to please each other, and they’d gotten rather creative and adept at doing so. He could honestly say that he was satisfied with his sex life. Sure, he wanted more eventually, but he was willing to wait. He was willing to wait for Ginny.
But the obvious problem with his plan only became obvious to him at that moment. “No, it isn’t just about sex. But I see what you mean. If we... got married (there, he’d said it), I’d definitely want to have sex with you, and you’d still be worried about getting pregnant, which wouldn’t be good for either of us. So - I guess you’re right. There’s no rush.” That ring would still be in his vault whenever she decided she was ready.
He levitated their dishes to the kitchen and then refilled their wine glasses. “So what kind of gloves did you get?”
Thankfully, she smiled. “The dragon hide Royce’s. Green, for the Harpies.”
“Nice. There was a review of those in Quidditch Weekly a couple of months ago. Supposed to be really good. I guess if I were any kind of boyfriend I would have gotten them for you when you got promoted.”
“Harry, you already bought me a broom and servicing kit for my birthday. You don’t need to keep buying me stuff. And you’re the best kind of boyfriend.”
“Oh, yeah? How so?”
“Well,” she said thoughtfully, “aside from being a gourmet cook, you are the kind of boyfriend that knows how much I love you but also supports the things that I want to do. You never push me to do anything I’m not ready for.”
__________________________
The first thought Harry had the next morning was that his nose itched fiercely; he kept thinking he was going to sneeze but didn’t. He stood up and saw his reflection in the mirror next to his wardrobe, and for just the briefest instant, his eyes looked red. Had he suddenly developed an allergy to something in his room?
In the shower, his nose finally stopped bothering him, but the inside of his right arm now itched. He inspected the skin as closely as he could without his glasses, but couldn’t see any reason for the itchiness. He gave it a more thorough examination as he got dressed, but nothing was wrong except for the red streaks he had now scraped across his skin.
It was a strange day. While in class, he would get a sudden, irresistible urge to scratch in seemingly random places - behind his ears and knees, between the first two toes of his left foot, a place right in the middle of his back that he could only reach with his wand. McTavish asked the class who had put an itching hex on Potter and everyone laughed. When Harry looked up, he thought, just for an instant, that McTavish’s eyes looked as red as his had that morning. It reminded him uncomfortably of Voldemort’s red, slanted eyes.
He was relieved when it was time for practicals in the afternoon; he could finally get out of his chair and move, making his squirming and scratching less obvious. Some friends, including Dylan and Susan Bones, invited him out for a pint after the day’s lessons ended, but he politely declined and headed straight for his potions book when he got home.
Maddeningly, there was no recipe for a general anti-itch potion. His spellbook wasn’t much help either. According to all the references he checked, he couldn’t make the itching stop without knowing what caused it, and with no signs like crusty warts (indicating exposure to Wartcap powder) or boils (from Bulbadox root), he didn’t have a lot to go on. He felt fine, and his skin still looked like his skin, just red from all the scratching.
He had some dittany on hand, and he remembered how useful it had been while he, Ron and Hermione had been hunting Horcruxes so he put some on the most irritated spots. It helped for the better part of an hour, and then, slowly, the itching started again. First one spot, then another, until two hands did not seem sufficient to tend all of the places on his body that demanded attention. More dittany, and more temporary relief. He returned to his books with a fresh determination to find something, anything, that might help. He tried a skin softening solution, and an allergy antidote, and any number of charms that produced comical (and in one case, frightening) results on his skin, but still did not stop the itching. Well after midnight, and with only a precious few drops of dittany left, he brewed himself a sleeping draught. Just as he closed his eyes, a familiar cold voice whispered “I’m still here.”
The next several days were similarly strange. His skin developed a nasty rash from all of the scratching; angry red wheals dotted with pustules lined the inside of his arms, and like an invading army, they progressed across his chest and started marching down his belly. His legs and ankles were also affected, and now the itching sensation was mingled with pain. The sores were exquisitely sensitive to touch, and even the simple act of putting on robes made him wince. He was secretly grateful when it was his turn to be on the receiving end of a stunning spell during defense practice because it replaced the pain with a more tolerable one.
He walked around his flat naked, which felt better than being clothed, but left all of him exposed and available for compulsive scratching. He didn’t want anyone to see, so when he left the flat, even on the last warm days of autumn, he was covered from neck to toe with only his hands showing. Camouflauging charms would have been easier, but they didn’t last long.
He now looked like he had a severe case of body acne, and in desperation, he’d tried some bubotuber pus on the sores. Much like the dittany, which he was now purchasing by the gallon, it provided some temporary relief, and mixing the two together seemed to have a synergistic effect. He could get to sleep, at least, and stay that way for an hour or two, and by applying the balm at every possible break during his day, he managed to get through his training sessions.
It wasn’t just the sores that were getting worse. Periodically throughout the day, he would look at someone - McTavish, Dylan, Susan, Kingsley’s secretary, and once, even Mr Weasley - and see red eyes flash back at him, and every time this happened, that high, cold voice spoke to him. “They are mine,” it said. “I have vast armies, and I will defeat you.” The logical part of him concluded that this had to be his imagination, but why was his imagination overacting this way? And what if it wasn’t? He began to suspect that his skin condition was allowing him to see the true nature of his friends. Perhaps they were Death Eaters in disguise, biding their time until they could once again seize control of the MInistry. Or worse, what if they were innocent, and that voice was making him think that they weren’t so he would be bereft of allies?
When he was alone, the voice was even more cruel. “You haven’t won, Potter. I’m still here.” And, worst of all, “I will destroy everything you hold dear.” This made him genuinely fearful for Ginny, and he was glad that she was safe under Gwenog Jones’ watchful eye. He began to wonder if there was some way that Voldemort had survived. Was there another Horcrux? That was impossible. He’d seen Voldemort’s dead body. “It wasn’t real,” the voice answered. “It was a dream.”
"Was not,” Harry said aloud. “If it was a dream, why did it hurt so damn much, and why did all of those people who died stay dead?” He paused, breathing hard and wondering if it was a good thing that he was talking to himself. “This is a dream.” he said firmly, and without even thinking about it, scratched at his right thigh, tearing off a scab and cursing at the pain of it.
“Then why does it hurt so damn much?” answered the voice in a high, cold sneer.
He thought he should tell someone. More than once he woke and resolved to go straight to McTavish, and always his resolve crumbled under a fresh assault from the voice. “No one will believe you,” it said. “You’ll be accused of mental derangement and dismissed from the training program,” and this he believed. He thought perhaps he could tell Neville, who surely had access to vast supplies of bubotuber pus, or even George, whose line of skin products for witches, according to Ginny, had gotten glowing reviews in Witch Weekly. He oscillated between not wanting to trust them in the event they had somehow been corrupted and wanting to protect them from what was becoming to him a gathering evil. Every day that passed separated him a little more from his friends and colleagues, until it seemed his only real companion was the voice in his head that belonged to the red-eyed reflection in the mirror.
"Potter, I’d like a word.
Harry turned around but kept from looking directly at Mac. It unnerved him to see those red eyes, and he was already at his limit after having listened to a lecture on legal vs. illegal methods of apprehending a suspect for the last 80 minutes. He desperately needed to get to the loo and wipe himself down with the salve that was his only tenuous connection to sanity.
“Can it wait a moment, sir? I really need to use the loo.”
“It will only take a moment.” Harry didn’t move to leave or to sit so Mac started walking toward him. He put a hand on Harry’s shoulder, and Harry couldn’t help but flinch.
“I want to know what’s going on, Harry. You’ve been different lately. You keep asking security questions when it’s not necessary, you’re not talking to your friends, and you look like you haven’t slept or changed clothes in a week.”
A knot of anger and desperation coiled in Harry’s stomach.
“Some of that I might attribute to your girlfriend being out of town,” Mac tried unsuccessfully to laugh, “but what you did to Dylan yesterday was serious. It was a simple tap on the shoulder, and that hex you hit him with was bad enough that we had to call in a Healer to make sure he was alright. That’s an actionable offense.”
“Is that what you wanted to tell me?” Harry said sullenly. “That I’m on probation? Or dismissed from the program?” He knew he was being rude, but his discomfort was so great that he didn’t care. He just wanted Mac to finish so he could get out of there.
“Nooo,” Mac said slowly. “That’s not what I meant. I will have to make a note in your file, but no one here, including Dylan, wants you on probation.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to happen, and I’m glad that Dylan will be okay. It’s just...” He really didn’t want to say anything else. He didn’t want to waste precious time, and he certainly didn’t want to give away any information to someone he couldn’t completely trust.
“Just what?”
“It’s just that...we’re being trained to find and capture dark wizards, right? So shouldn’t we always be on guard? We have to be ready to fight evil whenever and wherever it appears. It’s like Professor Moody always said - Constant Vigilance. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone, I was - being vigilant.”
Mac considered this. “You know, Harry, there is a fine line between vigilance and paranoia. And I think that -” He looked down and stopped short. “Potter - what’s happened to your arms?” He picked up Harry’s hands and examined the cuffs of his sleeves stained with blood. He dropped one and lifted the sleeve on the other arm, and Harry couldn’t yank his hand back fast enough to prevent Mac from getting a glimpse of the macerated flesh of his wrists.
“Good lord, Potter, what is going on?”
“I don’t know,” Harry replied honestly . “I think I must be allergic to something.”
“It’s more than that. Looks like you’ve been attacked by flesh eating slugs.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, whatever it is, it needs professional attention. Take the afternoon and go to St. Mungo’s. I want you to see a Healer.”
Harry agreed and all but ran out of the room grateful for the excuse to leave Mac and not have to answer any more questions.
After dousing himself in more dittany and bubotuber extract, he did go to St. Mungo’s. He got as far as the lobby but couldn’t decide which ward was appropriate for his condition. While waiting to ask the witch at the information desk, he started looking around at the other patients and their families and noticed that no one, not one person he looked at, seemed to have red eyes. Maybe this was the right place after all; he should have come here days ago.
“I’m not here,” the voice said condescendingly. “I’m hidden for now. Where you can’t find me.”
“I know where you are,” Harry said, and a few of the witches and wizards around him turned and stared. He stepped out of the queue and headed toward the exit, muttering under his breath. “You’re hidden in the Horcruxes, but I know about them. You don’t think anyone does, but I do.”
He went home and began planning how to destroy the Horcruxes. He knew the diary and the ring were gone; there was the locket, the cup, the diadem, and the snake. He wrote down what he knew about each of them and where they might be found. He read and reread his notes obsessively, until he could recite them verbatim, and when the itching became simply too much to bear he stepped into a cold shower.
He had the presence of mind to send an owl to McTavish the next day saying that the Healer had recommended a couple of days’ rest. In preparing for his Horcrux hunt, he’d need some food. He hadn’t cooked in a week. The leftovers were gone, and the milk was sour, but the clerk at the market had fixed him with such a fiery stare that he’d left without buying anything and returned to the relative sanctuary of his flat.
He quit sleeping. Between the relentless voice, the itching and the nightmares about insects crawling on his skin, he couldn’t rest. He kept thinking he should leave, start his hunt in earnest, but he was stymied: which one to look for first? Or should he concentrate on gathering weapons to destroy Horcruxes? After all, what good would it do to find them if you couldn’t destroy them? His notes offered some help; basilisk fangs, Gryffindor’s sword and Fiendfyre could destroy Horcruxes. Two of those things, along with the diadem, could be found at Hogwarts, so perhaps that was the best place to start. But he had the deep fear that going to Hogwarts with that taunting voice in his head would be tantamount to opening the gates to Voldemort. He pondered the possibility that perhaps he was a Horcrux and that’s why the voice was so clear to him. If that were true though, he could only destroy it by dying himself...
It was a genuine relief when the owl appeared at his window with an invitation. Penelope Clearwater, Ginny’s flat mate, was throwing a welcome home party for her. He desperately wanted to see her, but he did not want to risk exposing her to Voldemort. One look in the mirror confirmed his worst suspicions. He looked as unkempt and mad as Sirius had when he’d first met him, and after the incident with Dylan, he feared that he was becoming less safe to be around.
He decided to write Ginny a letter explaining that he had been given a dangerous mission, and that he wouldn’t be able to see her for awhile. He had to start the letter over three times because his handwriting had gotten so irregular and unreadable. He tried to sound believable without giving too many details.
Title: The Hero's Haunting
Author/Artist: irislock
Pairing: Harry/Ginny
Rating: light R
Word Count: 16,200
Summary: It started on an ordinary day when a book found Harry in the Restricted Section.
Warnings: I don’t think anything here will offend, but there is some Dark Magic at work, and themes of mental derangement. Sexual situations. POV changes.
For nicodemusfleur , fellow Snapple lover and fan of Mumford & Sons, who likes a medley of genres and is interested in ancient magic and wandless magic. The request included the following:
1.(prompt) I'd love to read an angsty/drama AU where the war is still going years later.
2.(element) Ginny being good friends with someone other than Hermione; maybe someone you wouldn't expect (for example: Fleur, or Daphne Greengrass ect.).
3.(prompt) A more introspective Harry fic inspired by 'Krwlng' by Linkin Park - I think the lyrics and tone could really work with his state of mind in OotP.
4.(prompt) Mrs. Weasley walks in on Harry and Ginny while they're "busy". Hilarity ensues.
Author’s notes: My sincere apologies for the lateness of this fic. Challenging as it was, I really liked this prompt and decided to attempt blending all of these ideas into one fic. This is the (rather long) result. Although I’ve read some AUs that I really like, I simply couldn’t write a strictly AU fic so this is canon compliant.
I see from the recently posted masterlist that my recipient has defaulted, so I suppose this can be considered a gift to the community, or to tosca1390 , who stepped up to pinch hit for my giftee. I do hope that nicodemusfleur will someday read this and like what I came up with.
Many thanks to my beta aggiebell90 for her patience and enthusiasm and to flyingcarpet , who deserves a Neverending flower arrangement for all of her work on this fest.
___________________
Harry crouched under his dining table listening to the pounding at the door and berating himself for not fleeing when he had the chance.
But where would he have gone? There were Death Eaters everywhere, undercover at the Ministry and Hogwarts. He even suspected the clerk at his favorite market. Leaving the country might keep him alive, but it would do nothing to get rid of Voldemort. He’d chosen to stay and fight, and there was no point in regretting that choice now.
Though you couldn’t exactly call this fighting - hiding out in his own flat under the Invisibility Cloak and hoping that the Death Eaters at his door would simply give up and look for him elsewhere was a bit cowardly on its face.
“Harry! Please! Let us in! We only want to help!” It was the voice of Dylan Ross, a fellow trainee whom he’d considered a friend until very recently.
“Harry? This is Auror McTavish - Mac. Look, we know something’s wrong. You haven’t shown up for lecture or practicals in two days, and even before that, you were looking tired and unwell. I know you didn’t go to the Healer like I told you to, but it’s not important. You’re not in trouble. We just want to get to the bottom of this. And we can’t do that unless you let us in.”
Harry wanted to believe them, he did. But he couldn’t let down his guard. He knew that his real job was not to finish Auror training but to track down all of the Horcruxes and destroy them. The locket had been taken care of - Ron and Hermione had taken it to Australia - but he still had to find Hufflepuff’s cup and Ravenclaw’s diadem. This would have been a daunting challenge under any circumstance, but it was made even more so by the insidious voice that kept taunting him, and, even worse, the intense discomfort he felt all the time, like his skin literally wanted to crawl off of his body. He felt, just now, that he would be happy if it did.
“Harry? Harry, It’s me. Can I please come in?” It was Ginny. Oh, no. Oh, Merlin, no. Had they captured her and forced her to help them get to him? It was unthinkable. They wouldn’t kill him. Even if they managed to get in, he knew Voldemort wanted Harry all to himself. They might make it highly unpleasant, but they would deliver him to Voldemort whole. Not so with Ginny; they would not hesitate to kill her if she ceased to be useful.
He very nearly spoke. He didn’t know what good it would do, but he couldn’t leave her with them. Just as he opened his mouth, though, she spoke again.
“I - I don’t think he’s there,” she said tremulously. He could hear the fear and worry in her words. She was trying to deflect them and protect him. He took a shaky breath and let it out silently.
There followed some mumbling, none of which he could make out, and he succumbed to his overwhelming urge to scratch at his skin. There was barely an inch of him that was not covered by scratches or scabs, and his fingernails were packed with clotted blood and something foul smelling. He reached up to the back of his neck, tore off a scab and then raked a fresh wound. He knew it would only hurt worse when he stopped, but for now, he reveled in the temporary relief.
His scratching was interrupted by the sound of the door opening, and this was a bit of a surprise. He had excellent wards, and the only way they could have been breached was if someone knew how to get through them. Ginny knew. Had they tortured her for the information, or had she betrayed him?
He didn’t have much time to ponder it as he watched several sets of feet fan out around his flat, searching for him. He still thought his best option was to remain under the Cloak; they couldn’t see him there. Something must have given him away though, because suddenly all of the feet surrounded the table, and he heard “Stupefy!” from four different directions.
His last thought before losing consciousness was of Ginny. Please, oh, please, let her be alright.
_____________________
Two weeks earlier
“Good morning, Prof - Headmistress,” said Harry as he dusted Floo powder off his robes.
“Ah, Potter,” replied Professor McGonagall. She glanced at the clock on the mantle as she stood behind her desk and rose to greet him. “Right on time.”
She took his extended hand in both of hers and shook it warmly. “It’s good to see you.”
“You too, Prof - Headmistress.” He wasn’t sure why it was so hard to call her Headmistress. Perhaps because he always thought of Dumbledore as Headmaster or because he had always known her as Professor. In any case, he hadn’t seen her in a long while and was out of practice. “You’re looking well.” He noted as he said the words that it was true. He’d never seen Professor McGonagall looking this well; in fact, the word happy came to mind. She looked older, but the lines around her mouth were much less taut than he was used to seeing them.
“Thank you,” she said, almost sheepishly. “As are you. Auror training becomes you, I see. It’s difficult to believe you’re already starting your third year.”
Harry nodded. “Yeah. It’s hard, but I like it.”
“Have you eaten? Somehow the elves found out you were coming and sent up breakfast.” She gestured to a small table near the fireplace set for two. Harry had overslept and left his flat without so much as a cup of coffee. He looked at the toast and eggs gratefully.
Harry sat. “That was thoughtful. ” Professor McGonagall seated herself across from him and began pouring coffee. “As a matter of fact,” Harry continued, “I was a little rushed this morning, and this smells delicious.” He took that first transforming sip of coffee and spooned some eggs onto his plate. “Thanks, Prof - Headmistress.”
“Potter, please, you may call me ‘Professor’, or even Minerva if you wish.”
Harry could not imagine ever calling her by her first name, but he was glad not to have to keep correcting himself.
“Malcolm wrote regarding your visit today. He said you need access to the Restricted Section of the library.”
“Malcolm?”
“I’m sorry, Auror McTavish. I know him as Malcolm. He was a student here many years ago.”
“Ah,” Harry said, as if that made everything clear. “Did he know my parents?”
“No, not quite that long ago. He and Bill Weasley were in the same year. Both Gryffindors. Excelled in Defense and Potions, though he and Professor Snape never got along well.”
Harry laughed. “I didn’t know we had that in common.”
“Well, Severus never liked anyone that he thought was someone else’s favorite.”
“Auror McTavish was someone’s favorite?”
Professor McGonagall smiled slightly. “I had the same high standards for him as I do for all students,” she said evenly, “perhaps even higher. But Malcom McTavish is my great-nephew, and Professor Snape seemed convinced that it was that, and not his hard work, that was responsible for his successes at Hogwarts and after.”
The subject of Snape was a delicate one, and had nothing to do with his visit. Harry was relieved that Professor McGonagall did not dwell on it.
“He worked with Bill for a time in Egypt, and then he received a field assignment in Transylvania for several years. Kingsley had the sense to call him back after the war and appoint him Director of Auror Training. He’s quite up to the job.”
Harry agreed. “Yes. He’s very demanding, but fair. Which, come to think of it, must be a family trait.”
“I like to think so.” Professor McGonagall smiled again, and the conversation turned to other topics. He asked about repairs to the castle (complete, finally) and enrollment (up, thankfully). She asked what brought him to the Hogwarts library.
“Oh, I’m doing some research on the origins of wandless magic for Historical Magical Theory. Turns out some of the oldest magical texts are right here, and from what I understand, still in very good condition.”
“Yes, Irma is justifiably proud of our collection. Whatever her faults, she is meticulous about its maintenance. The older volumes must be handled carefully, though. Be sure you follow her rules.”
He didn’t answer because his mouth was full, but Harry wouldn’t dream of doing otherwise.
“You know, “ said Professor McGonagall, refilling his coffee cup, “Neville is apprenticing this year under Professor Sprout. You could pop down to the greenhouses when you’re finished in the library. Come to think of it, Hagrid would be pleased to see you as well.”
“I should, but I probably won’t have time. Ginny just found out that she’s being moved up from reserve status to starting Chaser this season, and we’re having a little celebration. She leaves for training in a few days.”
“What excellent news!” exclaimed Professor McGonagall, and she seemed truly excited. “That’s wonderful. Though,” she added, “I’m sure it will be difficult, being apart.”
“Yeah, I’ll miss her. But, this is good for her career, and we’ve been apart before.”
“That you have. This is a bit different, though,“ Professor McGonagall observed. “It’s for a much more pleasant reason, and it won’t be for long. The season starts in less than a month.”
Harry nodded, but inside he felt a flicker of disappointment. It was true that he would see a bit more of Ginny once the season started, but it would mostly be from the stands, and that seemed cold comfort after having her gone (completely, no contact with the outside world allowed while at training camp) for two weeks. Her schedule for the next several months was demanding, and his was not exactly light. He was pining already for the summer holidays, which had ended just a few weeks ago.
He didn’t have much time off, and what he did have rarely coincided with Ginny’s, but last month, right around her birthday, they’d had seven glorious days together. Molly had made plain her disapproval of any plan that involved the two of them alone together overnight, and rather than defy her mother outright, Ginny had come up with the ingenious idea of visiting family.
They spent a day and night in London at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, helping George and Ron take inventory (and taking full advantage of the privacy afforded by the stockroom), and two days with Andromeda and Teddy before going to Shell cottage where Fleur, much to his surprise, lobbied Bill successfully to allow them to share a room. They’d spent the remainder of their holiday at The Burrow, helping Molly and Arthur with projects around the house. They had separate rooms, but they’d been able to spend long hours flying and swimming in the pond and generally falling even deeper in love.
And it was there, out on the freshly mown lawn on the morning of their last day at The Burrow, Harry had an epiphany. He was standing in the very spot he’d stood when Ron had told him to keep away from Ginny, and he’d had a most unpleasant vision of Ginny marrying a tall stranger. He had another vision now, of Ginny in a white dress, marrying him, and he knew suddenly and with his whole being that he did indeed want to marry her.
She’d walked up behind him then and slipped her hand in his. “Do you ever wish it could always be like this?” he asked softly.
“Living with my parents?” she said, surprised.
“No, just being together - all the time.” For some reason, he avoided using the word marry, but she understood.
“You mean like Bill and Fleur are together all the time?”
He nodded.
“Well, sure,” she said, with altogether less seriousness than he had hoped for. “But, it’s not very practical right now, is it? We’re both busy with training and all.”
This seemed to him a flimsy excuse. “And after that, we’ll be busy with jobs. It’s not like we can put our lives on hold forever for our careers.”
“Harry, I don’t have a career, not yet. I’m a reserve Chaser who lived with her parents until six months ago. We have lots of time to...be together.”
She’d kissed him then, and he let the subject go. He wondered if this was a transient feeling, if perhaps their impending separation was making him wistful enough to consider proposing. He didn’t think so, but he decided it was best to keep the information to himself for now.
Professor McGonagall stood abruptly and walked toward her desk, interrupting his thoughts. “Well, then, you’d best get to the library so you won’t keep Miss Weasley waiting. Here is the form you need to give to Madam Pince.”
He took it. “Thanks for letting me come on such short notice - and for breakfast,” he said, draining his coffee cup.
She made a dismissive gesture. “Think nothing of it. You know you are always welcome here. I’ll give your regards to Hagrid and Neville, and please give mine to Miss Weasley.”
Harry made his way down the spiral staircase and headed in the direction of the library. It was still very early, so there were few students in the corridors. He couldn’t help but notice how magnificent the castle looked, better even than when the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students had been visiting. He also couldn’t help the sharp pangs of nostalgia he felt as he passed certain landmarks; that corridor would lead to where Fluffy had been hidden in his first year; behind that suit of armor was a now-sealed hidden passage to Hogsmeade. The classroom to his left was where Professor Lupin had taught him the Patronus Charm, and that corridor down there was a private one he and Ginny had discovered his sixth year.
Madam Pince inspected the note from Professor McGonagall as if she suspected it might be forged. He showed her the list of books he was looking for and watched the furrows in her normally pinched brows deepen further. She gave him a long list of instructions that he promised to follow and found a large, dusty table at the very back of the Restricted Section.
He had little difficulty locating what he needed, and he spent several uninterrupted and productive hours there before his stomach notified him that he’d skipped lunch. Astonished at how quickly the last six hours had flown, he hurriedly packed his things. He’d meant to leave 15 minutes ago in order to have everything ready by the time Ginny got to his flat.
He wasn’t allowed to touch the books directly, so he levitated them back to their shelves, and just as Incantations for War and Pestilence was settling into its empty slot, he noticed a smaller book sticking out on the shelf above. It was bound in green dragon hide, and, unlike all of its neighbors, it looked new. The title was embossed in bright silver letters along the spine. The Hero’s Helper: How to Achieve Happiness and Success Now that You’ve Saved the World by Mercurius Herculaneum.
Odd, Harry thought. Why would that be in the Restricted Section? He didn’t think there would be any harm in touching this one, so he pushed the book back in alignment with the others. As soon as his hand left the book, it emerged again, this time just over the edge of the shelf. Harry was amused, but not inclined to spend any more time here. He was an Auror in training with a gorgeous, talented girlfriend; he was completely - or at least mostly - content, and there wasn’t really anything a book could tell him that would make his life any better. He pushed the book back a second time. Almost immediately, it leapt into his hands, and he saw the same silver lettering on the front, but it wasn’t the book’s title. It said: This book has chosen you.
His curiosity got the better of him, and he opened it very carefully.
Have you just slain a dragon or defeated an evil magician? Not easy, was it? But you did it, and the world is a better place. Now what? Do you ever wonder if you will become bored with the banalities of everyday life? Do you secretly miss that rush of accomplishment and certainty you felt when you knew your quest had been successful? Then this book is for you. It contains time-honored secrets for contentment in a world that is free of the conflict that consumed you and gave you purpose for so long. Turn the page and read on...
Harry turned the page, and it was as if all of the dust that should have been collected on the outside had instead seeped inside and came out in a cloud of white powder. It shimmered like fairy dust, but it had a peculiar odor, and it burned his eyes and lungs as he gulped in one breath and then another. Closing the book and then waving it in front of his face, he coughed and spluttered until the burning sensation subsided. Just then, he heard a clock chime and was galvanized into action. Whatever the book’s secrets were, they would have to stay that way for now. He put the book back firmly on the shelf, gathered his things, and left.
_____________________
It had been something of a surprise to Harry that he was a good cook. All those years of servitude in Petunia’s kitchen, and he’d actually developed some skills. Without Petunia around to bark orders at him to mince garlic faster or broil the chops while she made salad, he found that he was not only good, he enjoyed it.
In his last years with the Dursleys, they never left him alone in the kitchen. Harry suspected this was because they were all afraid he would poison them. Now, though, he took pleasure from working alone in the kitchen. It was a way for him to relax, and though his flat was humble in most respects, it had a large and well appointed kitchen that included more than a few Muggle machines that Harry found superior to his culinary charms work and gave Mr Weasley no end of delight.
Tonight, the menu was relatively simple, but he had no time to waste. He started cutting basil and tomatoes for the bisque and mixed up a quick glaze for the fish. In spite of the date on the calendar, there was a distinct autumn chill in the air, and he decided to make a nice, comforting risotto. It would take a bit more time than the rice pilaf he’d initially planned, but Ginny loved his risotto. While stirring stock into the rice and wine mixture (he always burned it if he used magic for this part), his thoughts strayed again to Ginny.
This was the last time they would be alone for two weeks, and once again, thoughts of marriage were at the forefront of his mind. He still hadn’t told anyone, and he was more or less aware of why. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel the same way; he still wanted to marry her. It wasn’t that they were young. He was twenty, the same age his father was when he’d been born. At nineten, Ginny was the same age his mother had been when she’d gotten married. And Ginny’s parents had married at eighteen, fresh out of Hogwarts.
It was Ginny. He knew she loved him; she’d said as much, but he didn’t know if she wanted to marry him. Maybe she was afraid that it would cut short a career she hadn’t really begun yet, or that she didn’t want to enter a marriage that she could bring nothing but herself to, but he had the sense that marriage was not something she spent a lot of time thinking about.
He wondered again whether it was the prospect of being without her was making him think about marriage more urgently than he otherwise would, but every time he examined this uncertainty, it seemed to have no foundation. He wanted to marry Ginny when he was with her on their regular Tuesday night dates, he wanted to marry her when he woke up in the morning in a lonely bed, and he wanted to marry her when her picture appeared in the Daily Prophet after having been moved up in the Harpies’ roster. He was ready, and he didn’t care that they were young, or that they still had budding careers that demanded lots of time and energy. He was so ready that he’d checked to make sure that his mother’s engagement ring was still in his vault at Gringott’s the last time he’d made a withdrawal.
“Hi - it’s me,” Ginny announced. It wasn’t necessary; only three people in the world knew how to get through his protective wards, and she was the only one in England at the moment. They’d long passed the point in their relationship that required her to knock and him to open the door for her.
“Mum sent treacle tart,” she said, placing the scrumptious looking pie on the table and coming over to give him a quick kiss. He handed her a glass of wine.
“I don’t know why she sent your favorite dessert - I thought this was supposed to be my party.”
“But your Mum loves me,” he said, smiling as he picked up his own glass and touched it lightly to hers. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,
“Yes, she does love you. But you’d think, being the only daughter and finally having a job that will pay the bills so I can stop borrowing from them would convince her to make something for me.”
“Maybe she doesn’t know what to make.”
“Pfft. That’s ridiculous. I’m easy to cook for - you said so yourself. I like everything. Well, almost everything.”
“Yes, but what dessert is your favorite?” he prompted.
“Hmm. Bread pudding. No. Um, maybe apple tart.” She paused. “Although I really loved that chocolate mousse you made last week.”
“I rest my case.”
“No! I have a favorite. I do! Just give me a minute.”
“Okay, but can you ponder it while you’re setting the table. I’m almost ready to serve the soup.”
Ginny busied herself with the tableware. They would clear the table and clean the kitchen together afterward, but she knew better than to bother Harry while he was still cooking.
“Good?”
He surveyed the table. She was so much better at household charms than he was - the tablecloth, which he hadn’t touched since she was here last week, was spotless and freshly pressed. There were flowers and candles on the table, and she’d folded the napkins to look like coordinating blooms. “Perfect,” he said. “Now, you sit.”
“Mmmm, Harry. This is delicious. Tomato basil bisque. That’s it. My new favorite dessert.”
He laughed. “I’m glad you like it. Don’t be hasty, though; that’s just the starter.”
“So,” she said, settling in to the entree of baked salmon and green bean risotto, “How was your day?”
“Good. I got a lot done. All of the background research for the four feet of parchment McTavish wants on the origins of wandless magic. And Professor McGonagall says hello. She’s Mac’s aunt, did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t.” She took another bite of food. “Harry, this is so good. Seriously.”
“Thanks. I’m glad you like it.” He took a spoonful of soup himself and had to agree that it was quite tasty. They chatted some more about his research and ate and he asked about her day.
“Good. I went to Diagon Alley to get new gloves and shin guards, and I spent the afternoon at Shell Cottage with Fleur. I have news.”
“Oh?”
“It’s official. Fleur’s pregnant. Baby’s due in April. She and Bill are both over the moon about it.”
“Wow,” Harry said. “So that means - “ he started counting on his fingers, but Ginny finished his thought.
“Yep. She was pregnant when we were there. She knew, but made me swear not to tell anyone until they told the rest of the family.”
“So you were the first to know?”
She nodded. “Besides Bill, of course.”
“I didn’t realize you and Fleur were that close.”
“Hark who’s talking,” Ginny teased, “I wasn’t the one pestering her for her bouillabaisse recipe. ” She took a sip of wine and added, “I do like her. She’s good to Bill and doesn’t mind working hard. And I’ll always be grateful to her for taking care of you during the war.”
“Wow,” Harry said again. “A baby. That’s - great.”
“I know! I’m going to be an aunt.”
“So - you’re excited about it?” he asked.
“Of course! It’s going to be great to have niece or nephew; Fleur thinks it’s a girl, but it’s too early to tell. I hope so. This family needs more girls.”
“Maybe you’ll have one of your own someday,” Harry ventured.
Ginny’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, and she looked at him.
“Have you been talking to Fleur?”
“Me? No, why?”
“Well, she asked me basically the same thing. When was I going to get married and have one of my own. Which is a ridiculous thing to ask really.”
“Because you never want to get married?” Harry tried to sound neutral.
Ginny took a large sip of wine and swallowed it very slowly and deliberately. “I didn’t say that,” she finally said. Her lips were pressed tightly together the way they did when she did not want to talk about something.
After a moment, she seemed to think better of it and opened her mouth to take another bite. Expression changing, she let out a rather satisfied moan. “Harry, I’d marry you on the spot if you promised to make me risotto every day for the rest of my life.”
He looked at her, wishing he’d never started this. “It’s not a joke, Ginny.”
The air was suddenly charged with unspoken thoughts, and they both retreated temporarily to the safety of eating. Ginny finished first, and she crossed her fork and knife on her plate and pushed it gently away.
“Harry,” she said softly, “do you really want to talk about this?”
“I know the timing isn’t great,” he offered, “but, yeah, I’m kind of curious.” He pushed his plate away, too.
Ginny took a deep breath. “I only meant that it was a ridiculous thing to ask because I haven’t even played in my first professional match yet. Yes, I want to get married and probably have kids someday, but I’m in no rush. Are you?”
It was his turn to take a deep breath. “I can see why you wouldn’t want kids right away, but why - I mean, lots of Quidditch players are married.”
“Yes, but most of the married ones got married after playing for awhile, after their careers were established.” It seemed like there was more to say, but she wasn’t sure how to say it. “And...well, it’s different for witches, isn’t it? Most of the married players are wizards. When a witch gets married, every one just assumes that she’ll quit to have babies.”
“But you wouldn’t have to do that.”
“No, I wouldn’t have to. But some people, including Fleur and my mum, would start asking annoying questions that, frankly, I just don’t want to deal with.”
“Well, they’re asking them now, and you’re not married,” he pointed out.
“True,” she conceded. “But what if I get pregnant before I want to? That’s what happened to Olivia. The only reason I got moved up was because she got pregnant.”
Now they were getting closer to the real issue, or at least one of them, Harry thought, and he could see that Ginny was genuinely distraught about it.
“This isn’t about sex is it? You don’t want to get married just so we can have sex?”
Harry was so taken aback by this question that he laughed. The parameters of their physical relationship had been negotiated long ago. Ginny had been all but paranoid about getting pregnant, and for every charm, potion, and Muggle contraption her friends told her about to prevent it, she knew at least one person for whom they had all failed - her mother. She loved her mother and admired her in many ways, but she did not want to be a mother at nineteen, and she made it clear to Harry very shortly after the war ended that attracted to him though she was, and as bold in her exploration of his body as he was of hers, actual intercourse was off limits.
Harry had admittedly been a little disappointed at first, but Ginny had persuaded him that there was more than one way to please each other, and they’d gotten rather creative and adept at doing so. He could honestly say that he was satisfied with his sex life. Sure, he wanted more eventually, but he was willing to wait. He was willing to wait for Ginny.
But the obvious problem with his plan only became obvious to him at that moment. “No, it isn’t just about sex. But I see what you mean. If we... got married (there, he’d said it), I’d definitely want to have sex with you, and you’d still be worried about getting pregnant, which wouldn’t be good for either of us. So - I guess you’re right. There’s no rush.” That ring would still be in his vault whenever she decided she was ready.
He levitated their dishes to the kitchen and then refilled their wine glasses. “So what kind of gloves did you get?”
Thankfully, she smiled. “The dragon hide Royce’s. Green, for the Harpies.”
“Nice. There was a review of those in Quidditch Weekly a couple of months ago. Supposed to be really good. I guess if I were any kind of boyfriend I would have gotten them for you when you got promoted.”
“Harry, you already bought me a broom and servicing kit for my birthday. You don’t need to keep buying me stuff. And you’re the best kind of boyfriend.”
“Oh, yeah? How so?”
“Well,” she said thoughtfully, “aside from being a gourmet cook, you are the kind of boyfriend that knows how much I love you but also supports the things that I want to do. You never push me to do anything I’m not ready for.”
__________________________
The first thought Harry had the next morning was that his nose itched fiercely; he kept thinking he was going to sneeze but didn’t. He stood up and saw his reflection in the mirror next to his wardrobe, and for just the briefest instant, his eyes looked red. Had he suddenly developed an allergy to something in his room?
In the shower, his nose finally stopped bothering him, but the inside of his right arm now itched. He inspected the skin as closely as he could without his glasses, but couldn’t see any reason for the itchiness. He gave it a more thorough examination as he got dressed, but nothing was wrong except for the red streaks he had now scraped across his skin.
It was a strange day. While in class, he would get a sudden, irresistible urge to scratch in seemingly random places - behind his ears and knees, between the first two toes of his left foot, a place right in the middle of his back that he could only reach with his wand. McTavish asked the class who had put an itching hex on Potter and everyone laughed. When Harry looked up, he thought, just for an instant, that McTavish’s eyes looked as red as his had that morning. It reminded him uncomfortably of Voldemort’s red, slanted eyes.
He was relieved when it was time for practicals in the afternoon; he could finally get out of his chair and move, making his squirming and scratching less obvious. Some friends, including Dylan and Susan Bones, invited him out for a pint after the day’s lessons ended, but he politely declined and headed straight for his potions book when he got home.
Maddeningly, there was no recipe for a general anti-itch potion. His spellbook wasn’t much help either. According to all the references he checked, he couldn’t make the itching stop without knowing what caused it, and with no signs like crusty warts (indicating exposure to Wartcap powder) or boils (from Bulbadox root), he didn’t have a lot to go on. He felt fine, and his skin still looked like his skin, just red from all the scratching.
He had some dittany on hand, and he remembered how useful it had been while he, Ron and Hermione had been hunting Horcruxes so he put some on the most irritated spots. It helped for the better part of an hour, and then, slowly, the itching started again. First one spot, then another, until two hands did not seem sufficient to tend all of the places on his body that demanded attention. More dittany, and more temporary relief. He returned to his books with a fresh determination to find something, anything, that might help. He tried a skin softening solution, and an allergy antidote, and any number of charms that produced comical (and in one case, frightening) results on his skin, but still did not stop the itching. Well after midnight, and with only a precious few drops of dittany left, he brewed himself a sleeping draught. Just as he closed his eyes, a familiar cold voice whispered “I’m still here.”
The next several days were similarly strange. His skin developed a nasty rash from all of the scratching; angry red wheals dotted with pustules lined the inside of his arms, and like an invading army, they progressed across his chest and started marching down his belly. His legs and ankles were also affected, and now the itching sensation was mingled with pain. The sores were exquisitely sensitive to touch, and even the simple act of putting on robes made him wince. He was secretly grateful when it was his turn to be on the receiving end of a stunning spell during defense practice because it replaced the pain with a more tolerable one.
He walked around his flat naked, which felt better than being clothed, but left all of him exposed and available for compulsive scratching. He didn’t want anyone to see, so when he left the flat, even on the last warm days of autumn, he was covered from neck to toe with only his hands showing. Camouflauging charms would have been easier, but they didn’t last long.
He now looked like he had a severe case of body acne, and in desperation, he’d tried some bubotuber pus on the sores. Much like the dittany, which he was now purchasing by the gallon, it provided some temporary relief, and mixing the two together seemed to have a synergistic effect. He could get to sleep, at least, and stay that way for an hour or two, and by applying the balm at every possible break during his day, he managed to get through his training sessions.
It wasn’t just the sores that were getting worse. Periodically throughout the day, he would look at someone - McTavish, Dylan, Susan, Kingsley’s secretary, and once, even Mr Weasley - and see red eyes flash back at him, and every time this happened, that high, cold voice spoke to him. “They are mine,” it said. “I have vast armies, and I will defeat you.” The logical part of him concluded that this had to be his imagination, but why was his imagination overacting this way? And what if it wasn’t? He began to suspect that his skin condition was allowing him to see the true nature of his friends. Perhaps they were Death Eaters in disguise, biding their time until they could once again seize control of the MInistry. Or worse, what if they were innocent, and that voice was making him think that they weren’t so he would be bereft of allies?
When he was alone, the voice was even more cruel. “You haven’t won, Potter. I’m still here.” And, worst of all, “I will destroy everything you hold dear.” This made him genuinely fearful for Ginny, and he was glad that she was safe under Gwenog Jones’ watchful eye. He began to wonder if there was some way that Voldemort had survived. Was there another Horcrux? That was impossible. He’d seen Voldemort’s dead body. “It wasn’t real,” the voice answered. “It was a dream.”
"Was not,” Harry said aloud. “If it was a dream, why did it hurt so damn much, and why did all of those people who died stay dead?” He paused, breathing hard and wondering if it was a good thing that he was talking to himself. “This is a dream.” he said firmly, and without even thinking about it, scratched at his right thigh, tearing off a scab and cursing at the pain of it.
“Then why does it hurt so damn much?” answered the voice in a high, cold sneer.
He thought he should tell someone. More than once he woke and resolved to go straight to McTavish, and always his resolve crumbled under a fresh assault from the voice. “No one will believe you,” it said. “You’ll be accused of mental derangement and dismissed from the training program,” and this he believed. He thought perhaps he could tell Neville, who surely had access to vast supplies of bubotuber pus, or even George, whose line of skin products for witches, according to Ginny, had gotten glowing reviews in Witch Weekly. He oscillated between not wanting to trust them in the event they had somehow been corrupted and wanting to protect them from what was becoming to him a gathering evil. Every day that passed separated him a little more from his friends and colleagues, until it seemed his only real companion was the voice in his head that belonged to the red-eyed reflection in the mirror.
"Potter, I’d like a word.
Harry turned around but kept from looking directly at Mac. It unnerved him to see those red eyes, and he was already at his limit after having listened to a lecture on legal vs. illegal methods of apprehending a suspect for the last 80 minutes. He desperately needed to get to the loo and wipe himself down with the salve that was his only tenuous connection to sanity.
“Can it wait a moment, sir? I really need to use the loo.”
“It will only take a moment.” Harry didn’t move to leave or to sit so Mac started walking toward him. He put a hand on Harry’s shoulder, and Harry couldn’t help but flinch.
“I want to know what’s going on, Harry. You’ve been different lately. You keep asking security questions when it’s not necessary, you’re not talking to your friends, and you look like you haven’t slept or changed clothes in a week.”
A knot of anger and desperation coiled in Harry’s stomach.
“Some of that I might attribute to your girlfriend being out of town,” Mac tried unsuccessfully to laugh, “but what you did to Dylan yesterday was serious. It was a simple tap on the shoulder, and that hex you hit him with was bad enough that we had to call in a Healer to make sure he was alright. That’s an actionable offense.”
“Is that what you wanted to tell me?” Harry said sullenly. “That I’m on probation? Or dismissed from the program?” He knew he was being rude, but his discomfort was so great that he didn’t care. He just wanted Mac to finish so he could get out of there.
“Nooo,” Mac said slowly. “That’s not what I meant. I will have to make a note in your file, but no one here, including Dylan, wants you on probation.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to happen, and I’m glad that Dylan will be okay. It’s just...” He really didn’t want to say anything else. He didn’t want to waste precious time, and he certainly didn’t want to give away any information to someone he couldn’t completely trust.
“Just what?”
“It’s just that...we’re being trained to find and capture dark wizards, right? So shouldn’t we always be on guard? We have to be ready to fight evil whenever and wherever it appears. It’s like Professor Moody always said - Constant Vigilance. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone, I was - being vigilant.”
Mac considered this. “You know, Harry, there is a fine line between vigilance and paranoia. And I think that -” He looked down and stopped short. “Potter - what’s happened to your arms?” He picked up Harry’s hands and examined the cuffs of his sleeves stained with blood. He dropped one and lifted the sleeve on the other arm, and Harry couldn’t yank his hand back fast enough to prevent Mac from getting a glimpse of the macerated flesh of his wrists.
“Good lord, Potter, what is going on?”
“I don’t know,” Harry replied honestly . “I think I must be allergic to something.”
“It’s more than that. Looks like you’ve been attacked by flesh eating slugs.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, whatever it is, it needs professional attention. Take the afternoon and go to St. Mungo’s. I want you to see a Healer.”
Harry agreed and all but ran out of the room grateful for the excuse to leave Mac and not have to answer any more questions.
After dousing himself in more dittany and bubotuber extract, he did go to St. Mungo’s. He got as far as the lobby but couldn’t decide which ward was appropriate for his condition. While waiting to ask the witch at the information desk, he started looking around at the other patients and their families and noticed that no one, not one person he looked at, seemed to have red eyes. Maybe this was the right place after all; he should have come here days ago.
“I’m not here,” the voice said condescendingly. “I’m hidden for now. Where you can’t find me.”
“I know where you are,” Harry said, and a few of the witches and wizards around him turned and stared. He stepped out of the queue and headed toward the exit, muttering under his breath. “You’re hidden in the Horcruxes, but I know about them. You don’t think anyone does, but I do.”
He went home and began planning how to destroy the Horcruxes. He knew the diary and the ring were gone; there was the locket, the cup, the diadem, and the snake. He wrote down what he knew about each of them and where they might be found. He read and reread his notes obsessively, until he could recite them verbatim, and when the itching became simply too much to bear he stepped into a cold shower.
He had the presence of mind to send an owl to McTavish the next day saying that the Healer had recommended a couple of days’ rest. In preparing for his Horcrux hunt, he’d need some food. He hadn’t cooked in a week. The leftovers were gone, and the milk was sour, but the clerk at the market had fixed him with such a fiery stare that he’d left without buying anything and returned to the relative sanctuary of his flat.
He quit sleeping. Between the relentless voice, the itching and the nightmares about insects crawling on his skin, he couldn’t rest. He kept thinking he should leave, start his hunt in earnest, but he was stymied: which one to look for first? Or should he concentrate on gathering weapons to destroy Horcruxes? After all, what good would it do to find them if you couldn’t destroy them? His notes offered some help; basilisk fangs, Gryffindor’s sword and Fiendfyre could destroy Horcruxes. Two of those things, along with the diadem, could be found at Hogwarts, so perhaps that was the best place to start. But he had the deep fear that going to Hogwarts with that taunting voice in his head would be tantamount to opening the gates to Voldemort. He pondered the possibility that perhaps he was a Horcrux and that’s why the voice was so clear to him. If that were true though, he could only destroy it by dying himself...
It was a genuine relief when the owl appeared at his window with an invitation. Penelope Clearwater, Ginny’s flat mate, was throwing a welcome home party for her. He desperately wanted to see her, but he did not want to risk exposing her to Voldemort. One look in the mirror confirmed his worst suspicions. He looked as unkempt and mad as Sirius had when he’d first met him, and after the incident with Dylan, he feared that he was becoming less safe to be around.
He decided to write Ginny a letter explaining that he had been given a dangerous mission, and that he wouldn’t be able to see her for awhile. He had to start the letter over three times because his handwriting had gotten so irregular and unreadable. He tried to sound believable without giving too many details.