THE EMPTY VESSEL
Ass-covering clause: Harry Potter & co. are the property of JK Rowling, that filthy filthy rich bitch. I suck. I have no money. I have no job. I wish I could make a living writing. The real word sucks.
Warnings: Slash dum-de-dum.
Chapter 1: Discoveries at St. Mungo's
Harry wondered aimlessly through the crowded corridors of St. Mungo's. The fact that he was doing this during visiting hours accounted partially for the sheer number of people bustling about – most with vexed expressions and edgy dispositions. Still, the number of visitors was also disproportionately high, compared with the time Harry had come to see Arthur Weasley; Harry was dismayed to notice this, but didn't even have to conclude why. He knew.
The death count was rising, on both sides, and with it the number of wounded. The Death Eater attacks were getting more ambitious, with more casualties and more people getting caught in the crossfire. The Minister of Magic had incompetently organized a defense, but it was only providing the Death Eaters with obvious targets. Dumbledore was presumably scheming, but Harry certainly hadn't been let in on his plans. Indeed, most of what Harry did know was courtesy of Daily Prophet clippings that had been sent to him by Hermione.
Ironically, Harry was not at St. Mungo's visiting any victims – Ron had been sent to Romania for a short stint over the summer to spend some time with his brother, and had managed to contract a virulent strain of dragon pox. By now it was almost the end of the summer, and Ron was still confined (most unhappily) to the Magical Bugs floor of St. Mungo's. He was not, however, without company – his family and Hermione visited often, as had Harry during the last two weeks. Previous to that he had been dwelling with the Dursleys and had been only permitted his usual restricted set of activities. Once he had moved to Grimmauld Place his options had expanded, though he hardly took advantage of them.
He had spent the first month after Sirius' death alone, depressed, shut up in his barred room in the Dursley home. The distress and hysteria that had at first threatened to erupt was eventually repressed, with two consequences. On one hand, Harry found himself able to think clearly and rationally for the first time in what felt like ages; on the other hand, he felt so numb that he found it hard to care enough to think. His sense of urgency was gone.
So there he was, wandering the corridors, feeling like Moses parting the sea of people and misery. He was untouchable. When he had walked all the corridors on the second floor, he went up to the third floor and walked those, barely taking in all the patients suffering from either potion or plant poisoning, taking even less notice of their visitors. Harry couldn't explain it, but he felt calmer amongst the masses of strangers than he did with his friends, or all the adults who claimed to care for him, or even anyone who knew him at all. No matter how much they loved him, he felt the pressure that they unknowingly (or sometimes, not so unknowingly) placed on. The wizarding world was falling apart, and no one could help looking to the great Harry Potter for salvation.
Hermoine, Ginny, and Molly were downstairs with Ron; Harry knew that his behavior worried them, but, like with so much else, he found it hard to care. When they asked where he went during their visits, he told them that he wanted to see the victims, which was only partially true. He let them see him how they wanted – as the Boy-Who-Lived, visiting the wounded and sick, bring hope to those who might not live.
On this day, Harry decided to do something he hadn't done on any of his other visits – wander the fourth floor, where the victims of Spell Damage resided. The only reason he had avoided that floor was because he didn't want to run the risk of running into Neville, or even of seeing Neville's parents: he didn't want to see anyone he knew. But on this day his normal wanderings had not settled his mind, and he felt a curious sense of anticipation, though for what he could not tell.
The fourth floor looked just like he remembered it, except that now noise and commotion livened its drabness. Harry made his way through the people, not so easy now that he was actually noticing them. Gradually, the people in the corridors began thinning out, a pattern Harry recognized from the other floors – he was entering the long-term care wing, where terminal patients were kept. Morbid fascination pushed him to peek through the little windows on the doors, to see those that the rest of the world wished to forget about. When he came to Agnes and Broderick Longbottom's room, he stood and watched for a long time, though there was little to watch. Agnes was sleeping and Broderick was just shuffling in aimless patterns across the floor. Finally, Harry felt a shred of sympathy, and he welcomed the feeling. It was a drop of beauty in his cup of numbness, spreading and dissipating and tainting, so that nothing was left untouched; sending a faint flush of warmth through him.
Harry moved on, feeling human again – if only faintly – for the first time in almost two months. Three doors down, he saw someone else he recognized: Narcissa Malfoy.
He had to do a double take, almost walking away before realizing who she was. She lay almost motionless on her bed, eyes blinking occasionally, chest rising and falling slightly. Her hair was dull, her face almost unrecognizable without all the makeup, and her body was unnaturally thin. Harry's mind flashed to the only newspaper clip he had received from Ron – over a month ago now. Ron had been ecstatic at the turn of evens
Apparently Lucius Malfoy had been killed shortly after his imprisonment in an attempt to escape the now Dementor-free Azkaban. This article Hermione had sent him. It was the follow-up a week later that Ron had sent him.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
DEATH, DEMENTIA, AND DISAPPEARANCE
Just a week after the death of notorious Death Eater Lucius Malfoy, the Malfoy family gardener, Gergen Tress, found Narcissa Malfoy unresponsive and slumped over a plate of food in her dining room, a state she appears to have been in for a number of days. She was promptly taken to St. Mungo's, where all attempts to revive her have failed. Cause is yet unknown, and though Dark Magic has been suggested, no detrimental spells of any kind have been found on her person. Healers are pessimistic with regards to her odds of recovery and, as no family has come forth to care for her, she will remain at St. Mungo's indefinitely. Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy's only child, and heir to the Malfoy fortune, Draco Malfoy, has not been seen by anyone since schools have been let out for the summer. The Ministry of Magic has speculated that he may be dead, but cannot liquidate the Malfoy fortune until the required six months has passed without reason to believe that Draco Malfoy is still alive.
The article sported red ink marks where Ron had scrawled, "HA! NO MORE DRACO MALFOY! FINALLY SOME GOOD NEWS!" Being in an emotional rut at the time, Harry had taken the information in stride, though now he was vaguely sickened both by the article's preoccupation with the Malfoy fortune and with Ron's continuing glee at the Malfoys' fate. He had not rejoiced over it too much since Harry's arrival, but according to Hermione he had celebrated the fact for days before both Molly's and Hermione's reproaches had gotten him to shut up.
A slight movement in the corner of room caught Harry's eye. A thin hand was stubbing out a cigarette as its owner continued to face towards the window. All Harry could see of him (her?) was a graceful stance, a strong back, and straight black hair tucked behind barely visible ear-tips.
"Who...?," Harry mouthed to himself. The question was not answered when the figure turned around, a familiar yet unrecognizable face making itself half- visible and a foreign black eye, framed by a scarred eyebrow, focused on... him. Harry wrenched himself away from the door and backed up, hoping to avoid a confrontation with young man inside the room.
The door did open, though it was not thrown open in flurry of rage, as Harry had initially feared. The tall, thin figure stepped through without even looking at Harry, softly closing the door behind him. After a momentary pause – for effect? – he turned purposely towards Harry, crossed his arms over his chest, and turned both eyes to stare into his emerald greens.
Harry felt distinctly strange, as though the air itself was charged; he sensed danger, but it was of an unpredictable sort, not like the kind he always felt when Voldemort or any of his Death Eaters were near. "Uh... sorry?," he offered lamely, if only to see what would happen. He fought off the desire to hold in his breath while waiting to witness the result of his words.
It was an unexpected one. The head was thrown back, a loud maniacal laughter was ripped from red lips, thin arms slid down a lanky frame to hold a quaking stomach. The laughter was short-lived, and the youth suddenly went deathly still, frightening eyes glaring across the corridor at Harry. "I'll not accept your apology yet, Harry Potter. Recent developments have not yet outweighed horrors of the past."
The youth bared his perfect teeth in a disturbing parody of a smile. Harry stood stunned as the stranger sharply turned away and walked off.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Please review. I promise a long-fic. And I think I've found a new angle – well, at least, I haven't read anything else along the lines of what I have planned.
Ass-covering clause: Harry Potter & co. are the property of JK Rowling, that filthy filthy rich bitch. I suck. I have no money. I have no job. I wish I could make a living writing. The real word sucks.
Warnings: Slash dum-de-dum.
Chapter 1: Discoveries at St. Mungo's
Harry wondered aimlessly through the crowded corridors of St. Mungo's. The fact that he was doing this during visiting hours accounted partially for the sheer number of people bustling about – most with vexed expressions and edgy dispositions. Still, the number of visitors was also disproportionately high, compared with the time Harry had come to see Arthur Weasley; Harry was dismayed to notice this, but didn't even have to conclude why. He knew.
The death count was rising, on both sides, and with it the number of wounded. The Death Eater attacks were getting more ambitious, with more casualties and more people getting caught in the crossfire. The Minister of Magic had incompetently organized a defense, but it was only providing the Death Eaters with obvious targets. Dumbledore was presumably scheming, but Harry certainly hadn't been let in on his plans. Indeed, most of what Harry did know was courtesy of Daily Prophet clippings that had been sent to him by Hermione.
Ironically, Harry was not at St. Mungo's visiting any victims – Ron had been sent to Romania for a short stint over the summer to spend some time with his brother, and had managed to contract a virulent strain of dragon pox. By now it was almost the end of the summer, and Ron was still confined (most unhappily) to the Magical Bugs floor of St. Mungo's. He was not, however, without company – his family and Hermione visited often, as had Harry during the last two weeks. Previous to that he had been dwelling with the Dursleys and had been only permitted his usual restricted set of activities. Once he had moved to Grimmauld Place his options had expanded, though he hardly took advantage of them.
He had spent the first month after Sirius' death alone, depressed, shut up in his barred room in the Dursley home. The distress and hysteria that had at first threatened to erupt was eventually repressed, with two consequences. On one hand, Harry found himself able to think clearly and rationally for the first time in what felt like ages; on the other hand, he felt so numb that he found it hard to care enough to think. His sense of urgency was gone.
So there he was, wandering the corridors, feeling like Moses parting the sea of people and misery. He was untouchable. When he had walked all the corridors on the second floor, he went up to the third floor and walked those, barely taking in all the patients suffering from either potion or plant poisoning, taking even less notice of their visitors. Harry couldn't explain it, but he felt calmer amongst the masses of strangers than he did with his friends, or all the adults who claimed to care for him, or even anyone who knew him at all. No matter how much they loved him, he felt the pressure that they unknowingly (or sometimes, not so unknowingly) placed on. The wizarding world was falling apart, and no one could help looking to the great Harry Potter for salvation.
Hermoine, Ginny, and Molly were downstairs with Ron; Harry knew that his behavior worried them, but, like with so much else, he found it hard to care. When they asked where he went during their visits, he told them that he wanted to see the victims, which was only partially true. He let them see him how they wanted – as the Boy-Who-Lived, visiting the wounded and sick, bring hope to those who might not live.
On this day, Harry decided to do something he hadn't done on any of his other visits – wander the fourth floor, where the victims of Spell Damage resided. The only reason he had avoided that floor was because he didn't want to run the risk of running into Neville, or even of seeing Neville's parents: he didn't want to see anyone he knew. But on this day his normal wanderings had not settled his mind, and he felt a curious sense of anticipation, though for what he could not tell.
The fourth floor looked just like he remembered it, except that now noise and commotion livened its drabness. Harry made his way through the people, not so easy now that he was actually noticing them. Gradually, the people in the corridors began thinning out, a pattern Harry recognized from the other floors – he was entering the long-term care wing, where terminal patients were kept. Morbid fascination pushed him to peek through the little windows on the doors, to see those that the rest of the world wished to forget about. When he came to Agnes and Broderick Longbottom's room, he stood and watched for a long time, though there was little to watch. Agnes was sleeping and Broderick was just shuffling in aimless patterns across the floor. Finally, Harry felt a shred of sympathy, and he welcomed the feeling. It was a drop of beauty in his cup of numbness, spreading and dissipating and tainting, so that nothing was left untouched; sending a faint flush of warmth through him.
Harry moved on, feeling human again – if only faintly – for the first time in almost two months. Three doors down, he saw someone else he recognized: Narcissa Malfoy.
He had to do a double take, almost walking away before realizing who she was. She lay almost motionless on her bed, eyes blinking occasionally, chest rising and falling slightly. Her hair was dull, her face almost unrecognizable without all the makeup, and her body was unnaturally thin. Harry's mind flashed to the only newspaper clip he had received from Ron – over a month ago now. Ron had been ecstatic at the turn of evens
Apparently Lucius Malfoy had been killed shortly after his imprisonment in an attempt to escape the now Dementor-free Azkaban. This article Hermione had sent him. It was the follow-up a week later that Ron had sent him.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
DEATH, DEMENTIA, AND DISAPPEARANCE
Just a week after the death of notorious Death Eater Lucius Malfoy, the Malfoy family gardener, Gergen Tress, found Narcissa Malfoy unresponsive and slumped over a plate of food in her dining room, a state she appears to have been in for a number of days. She was promptly taken to St. Mungo's, where all attempts to revive her have failed. Cause is yet unknown, and though Dark Magic has been suggested, no detrimental spells of any kind have been found on her person. Healers are pessimistic with regards to her odds of recovery and, as no family has come forth to care for her, she will remain at St. Mungo's indefinitely. Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy's only child, and heir to the Malfoy fortune, Draco Malfoy, has not been seen by anyone since schools have been let out for the summer. The Ministry of Magic has speculated that he may be dead, but cannot liquidate the Malfoy fortune until the required six months has passed without reason to believe that Draco Malfoy is still alive.
The article sported red ink marks where Ron had scrawled, "HA! NO MORE DRACO MALFOY! FINALLY SOME GOOD NEWS!" Being in an emotional rut at the time, Harry had taken the information in stride, though now he was vaguely sickened both by the article's preoccupation with the Malfoy fortune and with Ron's continuing glee at the Malfoys' fate. He had not rejoiced over it too much since Harry's arrival, but according to Hermione he had celebrated the fact for days before both Molly's and Hermione's reproaches had gotten him to shut up.
A slight movement in the corner of room caught Harry's eye. A thin hand was stubbing out a cigarette as its owner continued to face towards the window. All Harry could see of him (her?) was a graceful stance, a strong back, and straight black hair tucked behind barely visible ear-tips.
"Who...?," Harry mouthed to himself. The question was not answered when the figure turned around, a familiar yet unrecognizable face making itself half- visible and a foreign black eye, framed by a scarred eyebrow, focused on... him. Harry wrenched himself away from the door and backed up, hoping to avoid a confrontation with young man inside the room.
The door did open, though it was not thrown open in flurry of rage, as Harry had initially feared. The tall, thin figure stepped through without even looking at Harry, softly closing the door behind him. After a momentary pause – for effect? – he turned purposely towards Harry, crossed his arms over his chest, and turned both eyes to stare into his emerald greens.
Harry felt distinctly strange, as though the air itself was charged; he sensed danger, but it was of an unpredictable sort, not like the kind he always felt when Voldemort or any of his Death Eaters were near. "Uh... sorry?," he offered lamely, if only to see what would happen. He fought off the desire to hold in his breath while waiting to witness the result of his words.
It was an unexpected one. The head was thrown back, a loud maniacal laughter was ripped from red lips, thin arms slid down a lanky frame to hold a quaking stomach. The laughter was short-lived, and the youth suddenly went deathly still, frightening eyes glaring across the corridor at Harry. "I'll not accept your apology yet, Harry Potter. Recent developments have not yet outweighed horrors of the past."
The youth bared his perfect teeth in a disturbing parody of a smile. Harry stood stunned as the stranger sharply turned away and walked off.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Please review. I promise a long-fic. And I think I've found a new angle – well, at least, I haven't read anything else along the lines of what I have planned.