Butterfly 20 - LM/HP
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Ok so the exams are over! Three went well, one went shit (so let’s not talk about it), and I couldn’t think of a decent clue-rhyme-riddle to use in this chapter, but oh well. On the plus side, YEAR ONE IS OVER! And I know what I’m doing for Year Two!
Please enjoy. And Reviews are Angel Food! :)
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Words: 4,031
Chapter 20
March 27th 1992.
It was Slytherin’s last Quidditch match of the year. Despite the fact that they were playing Hufflepuff, and were practically guaranteed an easy victory, Draco, Theo and every other Slytherin in the school had gone to watch the match. The Slytherin seeker was refusing to chase the Snitch, content to simply keep Hufflepuff’s seeker out of reach, and watch as his team scored Quaffle after Quaffle. When the score was 260-20 Harry decided to leave.
It was quite embarrassing. As a Quidditch fan, he couldn’t help but be disappointed by the Hufflepuff team. The too easy win for Slytherin made the game rather boring and pointless, and he didn’t take much pleasure in watching the Hufflepuff’s cringe and wince either. His friends cheered and booed and laughing loudly, but Harry had watched the game with a blank face, rolling his eyes with every goal and sighing in disappointment whenever Slytherin fouled.
The others noticed him get up, but they didn’t try and stop him. Draco was rather engrossed in the game, and Harry was rather surprised that the boy had noticed him leaving in the first place. He returned Draco’s nod, and waved away Theo’s offer to go with him, and left.
He didn’t know why, but once he was back inside of the castle, he found himself heading towards the Mirror of Erised. Harry knew that whatever Dumbledore wanted from him had something to do with the Mirror being there, but he couldn’t help himself. He had always been a curious child, and here was an opportunity for learning. There was nothing more that Harry wanted, other than a family who loved him, than knowledge. Nearly everyone he knew lived his or her lives by the adage that ‘knowledge is power’. Despite the fact that ‘power corrupts’, people still sought to attain it. Wealth, fame, notoriety: everyone wanted it. Wanted it all. But most people never achieved it.
It wasn’t about that for Harry.
Harry supposed he had a little in common with Lord Voldemort. Both wanted knowledge, both wanted to know, and both would go to lengths to learn. But while Voldemort was ignorant and needed to learn, he also enjoyed it. Harry needed to learn too, but not to fit in, not to convince people that he was one of them - Pureblooded. If Voldemort did not accept Harry among his ranks, did not welcome Harry with open arms like Evan assured him he would, then Harry would need to know how to defend himself, for surely the only other option would be to die? He refused to lie back and let Voldemort kill him. He knew Evan loved him, but enough to betray the Dark Lord?
He would only have himself to rely on, and in order to live, he needed to obtain as much knowledge as possible. It would take years, but eventually he would be on par with the Dark Lord. He had promised himself that when he had learnt that he was a Horcrux. He was worth more to Voldemort, he knew he could be, than just a container for his soul. Harry was worth more.
The urge to examine the Mirror bubbled away inside of him. He feared what he would find, and he was cautious about everything to do with the object. Dumbledore wanted him to find the Mirror for a reason, and whatever reason it was had to be a bad one as far as the Dark side were concerned. Regardless of the fact that he was neutral for the moment, Harry knew that any plans or ideas Dumbledore concocted concerning him couldn’t be good either.
The Mirror was in the same place as it always was. Harry had visited the room four times since the start of February, when he and Lucius had been in the room together. Each time, Harry simply saw his reflection, just the way he was with the room behind him. Lucius had told him it meant that Harry was content with life. It might change, the blond had said, or it might not. Harry half desired to know what it might change into. Would he see a lover? Or a child? Or himself by Voldemort’s side?
He didn’t know what he wanted. How was a Mirror supposed to show him his true desires and wishes and needs, when he couldn’t decide what to want? He had so many desires, but each one arose so many questions within him, and when he answered those to the best of his abilities, he realised that he couldn’t desire what he had.
He wanted to join Voldemort. But did Voldemort want him? Would Voldemort simply kill him? Or torture him first? What if Voldemort hurt Evan for taking care of him? But what if he didn’t join Voldemort? What if he joined Dumbledore? He didn’t want to join Dumbledore, but if he did, would he be safe? Would Evan be safe? What would Lucius think about him joining Dumbledore? Would Lucius hate him? Why did he care what Lucius thought? If Lucius liked him, he might convince the Dark Lord to spare him, but would Voldemort listen? Did he really want to join Voldemort, or were those around him influencing him? No, he wanted to join. But would Voldemort let him, or just kill him?
It went around inside of his head, like a broken record, repeating itself continuously until Harry was sick of it. The doubts and the questions made his head hurt, and there was no one who could assuage them except for Voldemort himself. And Voldemort wasn’t available right then.
Instead, he looked into the Mirror. One hand pressed against the glass, leaving a smudge in the shape of his palm and fingertips. He pressed harder, pushing against the Mirror, trying to force his way through.
“What do I want more than anything else?” He asked his reflection.
It wasn’t unusual for reflections to respond in the Wizarding World. Harry had grown quite used to having his mirror image tell him his hair was atrocious first thing in the morning, or for a pocket mirror to insist that he needed to clean the lint out of his pockets during the afternoon. But he had never had his reflection offer him up a stone before.
Harry dropped his hand and moved backwards. A frown took over his face, and his eyebrows drew down together, as his eyes studying the object resting in the palm of his other’s hand. The reflection held it out unhesitant. It was a small red stone, shinny and rough around the edges, and Harry was compelled to reach out and grab it, to take it for his own. It had been drawn from the reflection’s trouser pocket, and Harry patted his own, checking for anything that he knew shouldn’t be there. There was no stone in his pocket, and the Mirror-Harry smiled widely at the action and stretched his arm out further.
“Take it,” the reflection mouthed. “It’s yours. You know you want it, more than anything.”
It was like the whisper of the wind, brushing faintly against the shell of his ears, only the words didn’t comprehend. Harry had to squint his eyes, locking his gaze onto the mouth in the Mirror, and lip-read the words he could not hear.
His hand itched to take the stone. It was his, wasn’t it? It was what he desired most, right? As suddenly as he thought that, Harry remember the night he had been in the same position, with Lucius at his back, about to lead him away, and his reflection had started to throw something shinny and red into the air, before catching it and hiding it in his pocket. The memory jarred him, like a punch in the face, and he jumped back away from the Mirror.
Dumbledore was behind this, Harry thought angrily. He turned away from the Mirror, quickly, before the stone could disappear into his pocket. He didn’t want the stone. He didn’t even know what it was, so why would he want it?
What he did want was to know why Dumbledore was so determined to give it to him? And it must have been Dumbledore. Because who else would play such disconcerting, intriguing games?
XXX
May 4th 1992.
Apparently there were many ‘stones’ in the Wizarding World. Harry had spent rather a few nights within the library, hidden under his Invisibility Cloak, researching. So far, none of the references he had found referred to a stone that was red.
Apparently Dumbledore had grown impatient with him. That evening at dinner, an owl came for him. Birds swooped low over the heads of the children, dropping letters and packages, and evening editions of newspapers or magazines for those that subscribed to them. A school owl perched on the table beside Harry and held out a leg. Harry was sitting at the Slytherin table, and Draco reached over and untied to note from the bird’s leg. He unrolled the parchment without waiting for permission, but Harry was used to his behaviour by now and took no offence.
“What the hell?” Draco mumbled. “Harry, you have some seriously messed up friends.”
The brunette frowned, reaching out and taking the note from Draco to read for himself. Theo stopped eating, his hand moving to rest lightly on his wand. “Are you ok?” He asked softly, worried for his friend.
“Yes I’m fine. It’s fine. I need to go.” He pushed away from the table. His plate was barely touched, and his stomach was still rumbling, but Harry ignored it. It wasn’t important if he was hungry. He could always beg food from a house elf later, or convince Hermione to conjure him some. Apparently, food cannot be conjured when it does not exist, but if you cast the spell in the Great Hall (where people eat everyday), leftovers will appear.
The Forbidden Forest was forbidden for a reason, and most people were wise enough to heed that fact. Beltane had passed a few nights ago, and the trees right at the very edge of the forest bore witness to that. Rags and scarves and ribbons and belts were wrapped around the trees, knotted tightly in a mismatch of brightly coloured fabrics, calling the attention of the Goddess Bel. The further into the forest Harry walked though, the more apparent it was that not many people would have dared as he did. The cloth offerings slimmed out, then vanished, after about two minutes of walking, and by now Harry was so far into the forest that he couldn’t even see the flashes of colour when he looked back in the direction he had come. Everything around him was a dark green, turning black in the twilight. But he wasn’t afraid.
Not of the forest, at any rate.
Harry looked down at the note in his hands. It wasn’t sinister sounding, and it wasn’t threatening looking either. A simply note on simple parchment, but Harry knew it had come from Dumbledore. And it was about the Stone.
Flamel created me to give new breath to life. I am like the Hand of Midas. A month I will wait for you to come seek what you truly desire. 1
Harry sat down on a fallen branch, the note held out in front of him. He knew who Midas was; he had heard the story in primary school. But he hadn’t read about a stone that could turn things to gold by touch? Unless… Flamel. Wasn’t he an alchemist? Perhaps?
Harry stood again. He crumpled the note up and shoved it into his pocket. He ran back in the direction he had come, tripping and falling several times, his feet caught on roots and vines and his face catching on branches, but he didn’t care. There was something he needed to know. He was willing to go to lengths for knowledge.
XXX
June 4th 1992.
It had been exactly a month. Harry had known what kind of Stone was hidden within the Mirror of Erised, but he did not try to obtain it. The Philosopher’s Stone is a legendary alchemical substance, supposedly capable of turning base metals, especially lead, into gold; it was also able to create an elixir of life, useful for rejuvenation and for achieving immortality. For a long time, it was the most sought-after goal in Western alchemy, meditated upon by alchemists like Sir Isaac Newton, Frater Albertus, and eventually created by , Nicolas Flamel, with the help of Albus Dumbledore.
Harry wanted to know why Dumbledore would offer up something so powerful to a child, especially one the man couldn’t control? But perhaps that was the point. Maybe he was trying to see if he could in fact control Harry, to see if it were possible that Harry might one day work for him, fight for him. Regardless of whether or not Harry joined Voldemort, he knew he would never join the light side. To do so would mean that he would risk killing a friend or a family member every time he engaged in a battle with a Death Eater. He wouldn’t risk that. He had enough Slytherin within him to know it was better to run and hide than it was to betray your family.
Harry sat curled up on the cough in the Gryffindor common room. It wasn’t actually that he wanted to be there, but he and Hermione had been partnered for a last minute Transfigurations project, and at least this way Dumbledore couldn’t ‘accidentally’ stumble upon him, like he might have done if Harry were in the library. Hermione had gone up to her dorm to get something, leaving Harry surrounded by Gryffindors that liked him almost as much as they liked his Mudblood associate. He pointedly ignored their glares and drew a book out of his bag. Opening it to the page he wanted, Harry stared down at the picture, ignoring the text he had read so many times already.
“What’s that?” Hermione questioned him as she sank onto the couch beside him. She had her Transfiguration notes in her arms, and a quill tucked behind her ear.
“The Philosopher’s Stone.” Harry told her softly, worried about someone overhearing. Ron Weasley was huddled beside the fireplace, within hearing distance of them, and also being glared at by the other Gryffindor’s. The rumour was that, the week after Dumbledore sent Harry the clue, Ron had been caught trying to smuggle a dragon out of Hogwarts. His mother had sent several angry Howlers, Ron had been badly burnt and spent the weekend in the Infirmary, and he and Seamus Finnegan had lost 150 House Points each.
“What does it do?” Hermione inquired, leaning over to trace the shinny red stone drawn on the page.
“Here,” he said handing her the book. “Read about it another time. I’m finished with that book anyway.” She looked curiously over at him, and he shrugged. “It wasn’t as interesting as I thought it might have been. My curiosity is satisfied.”
She took the book with a smile and laid it on the ground by her feet. She handed her notes to Harry and together, they dove into their project.
All the while, surrounded by the metaphorical enemy, Harry wondered how Dumbledore was taking his defeat.
XXX
Same time.
The boy hadn’t come. No, that was a lie. The boy had come, but he hadn’t stayed. Nor had he taken the Stone.
On the ground in front of the Mirror was the same sheet of parchment Dumbledore had owled to Harry a month ago. At the bottom of the clue, Harry had written, “Philosopher’s Stone. And no, it is not what I desire most.”
Kingsley Shacklebolt sighed. “Are you sure, Albus?”
“There was something wrong with him when he arrived here,” Dumbledore said, folding up the parchment and tucking it into his robes. “I need to make sure he is who we need him to be. Perhaps the Muggles raised him wrong, or his near death experience left some sort of trauma upon him, but he is nothing like his parents.”
“I’m sure you aren’t the very same as your father?” Left unsaid was the fact that Dumbledore’s father had been in Azkaban. “All children are individual, Albus. They are there own person, set to live their own lives and make their own mistakes.”
Albus sighed, a frown on his face as he looked back into the Mirror. A blond haired boy nodded to him, winding his arms around Albus’ reflection’s waist and he smiled warmly before burying his face against Albus’ neck. Dumbledore flinched, imagining he could feel those lips moving against his own skin, the way Gellart had done it so often when they were teenagers. “It’s for the Greater Good,” the blond promised. And Dumbledore believed him.
“Sometimes, that’s a bad thing.” The old Wizard said at last. “Harry should have been more like his parents. He reminds me too much of another boy who once came to school within these hallowed halls.”
“Yourself?” Kingsley asked, a small smirk on his lips.
“Voldemort.” Dumbledore took a strange delight in watching his friend flinch at the name. Kingsley accompanying him had ruined his plans for the night, and it felt good to get back at the man for that, even if Kingsley hadn’t known anything about it. Dumbledore had planned to wait for Harry to take the Stone and leave, or to hand the Stone over and leave, but either way once the boy was gone, the Wizard had planned to lose himself in the fantasy the Mirror offered. Men had wasted away in front of the Mirror of Erised, but Dumbledore planned only to indulge for one night. The Mirror would be gone from Hogwarts the next day. Tonight was his last night to spend with his lover.
“Would you leave us, Kingsley?” He asked softly, reaching forward to run his hand over the glass face of Gellart Grindelwald. When Kingsley was gone, Gellart reached forward, and offered Dumbledore the Philosopher’s Stone.
Dumbledore took the Stone, and slid it into his pocket, beside his note to Harry. The boy hadn’t taken the Stone, despite knowing what it does. But that didn’t mean anything. Perhaps Harry really didn’t want the Stone, or maybe he hadn’t known that Voldemort was searching for it? Regardless, Dumbledore had been in possession of it for long enough and it was time to return it to the Stone’s rightful owner.
And it was time to say goodbye to his lover as well.
XXX
June 20th 1992.
Slytherin won the House Cup again that year, not that anyone was surprised. Harry didn’t mind so much, he was proud of his House, but he was pleased for his friends as well. Anyone was better winning it than the Gryffindor’s, which was an opinion shared by the majority of the Slytherins and Ravenclaws. Ravenclaw would have won on Quidditch matches alone, except for Slytherin’s monumental win against Hufflepuff back in March shot them straight into the lead. Evan Ravenclaw crushing Gryffindor in May hadn’t been enough to save Harry’s House from second place.
The Hogwarts Express was almost overcrowded, or so it seemed. The Slytherin side of the train was packed with people, celebrating and congratulating, and the Ravenclaws had joined them. The Hufflepuffs weren’t exactly welcomed, but they came anyway, shaking hands and patting shoulders, full of well wishes and smiles. The other end of the train was filled with Gryffindors, but it looked rather empty in comparison.
The Platform was just as crowded, bodies crushed in on top of each other, pushing and shoving to get to their families, hugging and shouting and laughing. Most of the Purebloods waited on the train, their families hung back against the walls of the Station, keeping out of reach and away from the sweaty bodies that knocked against one another.
Harry watched them through the window, smiling and happy, and so uncouth. He couldn’t help but snort lightly. He loved hugs as much as the next needy child, but watching Mrs Weasley scoop her unwilling children into smothering hugs was a bit much in his opinion. Fred looked like he could barely breathe! Draco appeared beside him, a sneer on his lips, and he let out a disgusted tsk before heading towards the door.
A House Elf appeared in the compartment, wearing a dirty pillowcase with an elaborate ‘M’ sewn across the chest.
“Dobby’s be missing Harry Potter, sir!” The Elf said. Despite the fact that the Elf belonged to the Malfoy family, Dobby overlooked Draco’s trunk, grabbed hold of Harry’s things and disappeared with a ‘pop’.
Harry laughed softly, but Draco’s angry comment was cut off by the appearance of a second Malfoy elf, which hurriedly took hold of Draco’s things and disappeared too.
“Favouritism. From your own servants, even!” Harry teased as they stepped off of the train. He was carrying one handle of Theodore’s trunk, while the boy in question held onto the other strap. “I don’t see why you don’t shrink it down, Theo?” Harry questioned as the heavy box thumped against his calf again.
“My father won’t unshrink it for me.” The boy admitted.
Harry frowned, and Draco scoffed. “You have a wand, don’t you?” The blond said, his chin tilted up in contempt. “Unshrink it yourself.”
Theo didn’t respond, and Harry frowned harder at his silence. Something wasn’t right in the Nott household, and Harry was determined to find out over the summer. Theo had become a close friend of his, almost as close as Draco, and even though there were secrets between them, Theo wouldn’t be keeping them much longer if Harry had his way.
“I’ll see you next year.” Harry said, dropping Theo’s trunk to the ground beside a House Elf who was waiting impatiently to take Theodore back home. “Write to me?”
“I’ll try.” The boy offered tentatively, before the Elf whisked him away.
“Well, Harry,” Draco said, his voice turning coy, “aren’t you going to greet my Father?” Harry’s head snapped to the side, Draco’s wide-eyed look didn’t fool him at all, and he knew the blond was up to something.
“What?” Sure enough Lucius and Narcissa were making their way over, but Harry didn’t look at them for long. “What are you eluding to?”
“Did you know, sometimes, you talk in your sleep?” Draco threw the comment out quickly, and then hurried towards his parents, knowing that Harry would never say anything in Lucius’ presence.
The brunette shot him malicious looks, eyes cutting into Draco’s flesh as handily as a knife, but the blond just scowled back and fluttered his eyelashes teasingly when Lucius’ back was turned. Lucius glanced back and forth between the two, but before he could question their odd behaviour and the tenseness between them, a hand fell onto Harry’s shoulder and squeezed, nails biting into his skin through his shirt.
“Come freak, I haven’t all day.” Petunia Dursley scowled down at him. Evan had decided she needed to make a public, magical, appearance if they were going to avoid Dumbledore’s suspicions over the summer holidays. She wasn’t happy about the fact, but from the bruise she was trying to hide under her concealed, Harry guessed she didn’t have much choice.
“Yes Aunt Petunia.” He almost felt bad for her, and then he remembered how much he hated her, and instead felt glad it was her suffering, and not he. “Let’s go home. I’ve missed my Uncle very much.”
Harry waved at Draco, momentarily forgetting about the blond’s teasing comments, and allowed his aunt to leave him off of Platform 9 and ¾. The further away they drove from the train station, the more he should have felt like he was leaving home. But he didn’t. There was no grief, or resentment, or apprehension. He would be back next year, so there was nothing to mourn.
He wondered if the adage about home being where the heart was was as true as the one about knowledge being power? The closer he got to Evan, the more he felt like he was going home.
XXX
1 - Midas was a King who was ‘gifted’ with the ability to turn whatever he touched into gold... Rocks, food, water… his daughter. He prayed to a Goddess to have the ‘curse’ removed.
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Ugh, there is something wrong with the scrolling thing on my mouse. Glare.
Words: 3,693
Chapter 21
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