Harry Potter and the Halcyon Phantasmagoria by Phantasmagoric Blade

IMPORTANT: THIS IS NOT MY WORK. I TAKE NO CREDIT FOR THIS FIC.

Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling. This fic belongs to Phantasmagoric blade, but I've noticed it is no longer available, as well as the author's entire profile. This is a reupload of the work.

Tags: H/F

Chapter: 1

'The Resurrection'

Every person, at some time in their life, has felt shivers.

Shivers of cold. Shivers of anticipation. Shivers of disgust. Shivers of excitement. Shivers of great and terrible fear.

Sometimes, people shivered for no reason at all. No discernable reason, that is. Just a brief tremor, that leaves them the same afterwards, and wondering what would make them tremble in such a manner.

And in an almost deserted cemetery, in Little Hangleton, Harry James Potter shivered.

This could have been attributed to several things. One, the dense, unnatural fog that covered the dour location in swirling pockets of dampness. It was rather cold, and Harry had naught but a faded red long sleeve shirt and jeans. He could feel the goosebumps, hard on his skin.

Or, it could have been the tombstone he was tied rather roughly to, the harshly hewn stone letters of TOM RIDDLE SR. digging into his shoulder blades.

It may have been fear, mostly of the many Death Eaters that began to pop into the clearing, as the Dark Lord Voldemort, Tom Marvalo Riddle Jr., arisen from his potion of macabre sacrifices, not the smallest being Harry's blood, taken from a cut that still stung now, called to him his closest and most powerful followers.

Harry could hear him dimly through the pounding of the blood in his ears.

"Malfoy...Goyle...Crabbe..." The hissing voice buzzed in his ear, as he tried to shake off the pulsating migraine he had suddenly developed, like a jackhammer on both his temples. "...-have refused my call...rewarded beyond their wildest-..."

Harry groaned quietly.

His vision of the graveyard, dim as it was, was suddenly obscured by a sense of vertigo and flashing lights which blinded him for a moment. He swung his head fitfully, as his brow accumulated sweat as if he had suddenly contracted a violent fever.

He felt the ropes against his arms, and briefly writhed in their containment, the sense of complete helplessness dominating every other instinct he had for a moment, with total panic.

Luckily, the ropes fell away, cut by invisible blades, and he sucked a breath in quickly in relief, drawing his knees to his chest as his heartbeat gradually began to slow.

His reprieve was short lived.

A short, straight stick fell in front of him. His wand. He snatched it quickly, attention very quickly diverted as a voice cold as a glacier spoke in high tones.

"I assume that Dumbledore has taught you how to duel, Potter." Voldemort drawled, his own bone white wand held in a loose grip.

Harry stared up at the Dark Lord. Even clothed in a simple robe as he was, hands and legs bare, he was still utterly terrifying.

Red eyes narrowed in annoyance.

With almost lazy flick of a wand, Harry was thrown a good foot in the air, where he uncoiled in surprise, and landed shakily on his feet.

There was a fair bit of laughter around the small circle of dark wizards as Harry wind-milled his arms frantically to keep from falling down.

The motion wasn't any good for the throbbing headache, not even going into the matter of the piercing pain from his scar. If he touched it, Harry would bet his Firebolt that it had broken open and was wet with blood.

Harry regained his balance, his condition not much improved by this, as he raised one of his hands to his temples, his head swaying drunkenly.

A blow, like a harsh shove, hit him in the chest, sending him stumbling back.

Voldemort's face was one of perverse glee, very similar to that of a young boy pulling the legs off of an insect, as he jabbed his wand again, sending Harry careening back once more.

"Look at him! The great Harry Potter! Boy-Who-Lived!" Voldemort cackled, in tandem with jeers and taunts from the Death Eaters. "Look at his terrifying powers!" Voldemort announced in a mocking voice, sending Harry back in a lopsided spin, like a drowsy ballerina, with another harmless concussive blast on his collarbone.

Harry groaned, before his back hit a rather tall tombstone, in the classic shape of a Celtic cross. He slid down it, his shirt riding up, and the stone scraping red marks and small slivers of skin from his back, as he sat in the mud, heedless of the location or circumstance.

It felt like the end of the world, to Harry. His darkening vision was punctuated by flashes, while his body shook with terrible small convulsions. He tasted bile and something coppery and metallic in the back of his throat, the latter he dimly recognized as blood.

It felt like his skin, his muscles, were burning, like some terrible imp of torture had left coals smoking and sizzling in every joint and fiber of his body. The very ground beneath him seemed to shake, something many others would describe as shell-shock.

He felt something wet on his cheeks, as the front of his shirt was suddenly hoisted up by a single, unnaturally powerful hand, and reacquainted with the hard stone of the cross as he was slammed again against its rugged surface.

"Don't pass out on me now, Potter." A serpentine face, all flat and angular planes with slit nostrils and burning red eyes, invaded Harry's dull vision. "Oh..." A cold, thin finger traced along Harry's cheek. "What's this?"

Harry heard the great laughter of the Death Eaters, as Voldemort turned to his followers, presenting the object on his finger to their inspection.

"Look! Potter cries tears of blood! Methinks our very presence has made him ill, Milord!" One voice called, jeering calls of agreement and dark amusement soon following it.

Voldemort threw back his head and laughed, right along with them.

Harry raised one feeble arm, and wiped away the sticky wet substance, the shining red on his digit surprising even him.

That...that isn't what's supposed to come out...Harry's brain processed dimly. It's too red...much too red...supposed to be clear...too red...

An intruding, hard thing under Harry's chin interrupted his broken thoughts. Wand...He belatedly realized. Wandtip...

"Pathetic. Disappointing." Voldemort spat. "That's all you ever were, Potter. A failure. A disgrace. Just like your parents!"

The noise faded. The pounding ceased. The ground steadied. The world became clear.

All on the utterance of those words, the world became focused, too focused, completely silent for a single moment in Harry's life.

Stillness. A world of stillness. He could see their mouths moving, Voldemort calling back to his followers to watch closely the demise of the Boy-Who-Lived, their cheers and shouts of approval, but he could hear no noise.

His hands, moving slowly as if through water, reached up and grasped Voldemort by the forearms as his vision filmed in crimson, and the fire in his muscles turned to strength.

"Don't talk about MY PARENTS!" Harry roared.

Voldemort roared something back, but it was not words, not of any tongue that Harry knew. Suddenly, he recognized the language. It was the sound of pain.

Harry felt the grip on his shirt intensify, before he was flung bodily across the courtyard, actually bouncing once from the force of the toss.

He had scrambled to his feet in an instant. He was no longer weak.

Instead, there was a burning fire in his blood, and a roaring in his brain, an inhumanly loud sound Harry would closest equate to the sound ten thousand chainsaws would make, revved all at the same time.

There was a bellowing pulse, like a monumentally huge heart beating, and his vision went black for a single second, before returning, showing him the visage of Voldemort and his followers approaching, wands drawn and expressions thunderous and wrathful.

He had to do something, had to act, had to sate the scorching power in his bones that demanded in voices more ancient than man itself to be used.

Some voice, some flicker of rationality, some brief spurt of neurons in his adrenaline drenched brain allowed him a brief moment of horror and confusion.

What's happening to me? His flicker screamed, before disappearing, in just more red, just so, so much more red.

Red.

Red.

Red!

RED!

His last sight was of his own hands, cupping his face, burning with unmistakable red.

The giant's heart boomed once more, before Harry's vision, Harry's entire world, turned to red.

Several minutes later, a golden cup and a shirtless messy-haired boy appeared on the green in front of crowds of anxious spectators with an almost imperceptible 'pop'.

Naturally, there was quite a commotion.

Harry awoke in a hospital bed.

He stared blankly at the ceiling for one moment, counting the bumps on the plaster for a moment, before he sat up, reaching one bandaged hand behind him and adjusting his pillow to support his back.

He very calmly surveyed the size of the room, taking in the small nightstand and several chairs arrayed by his bedside, along with the long ajar window with a view to a sandy beach and afternoon sun before deducting this wasn't the Hogwarts Hospital Wing.

He stared at his hands, wrapped heavily in white bandages and cotton, and completely numb, before glancing around, looking for some method with which to call a nurse.

He found it in a switch by his bedside, with a small picture of a stick woman with a red cross on her hat above it. He pressed it, using his elbow, since he doubted mussing with his hands would be very smart at this point in time.

He had almost thirty second to wait, before a nurse bustled in, a bright smile on her face. If possible, her smile seemed to get even wider at the sight of him, staring dispassionately back at her.

"Well, well, , you're up! Even faster than we expected, too." She added, almost playfully.

Harry wordlessly held up his hands. The nurse smiled, and unlatched the clipboard Harry noticed attached to the end of his bed.

"Can't feel them? Don't worry about it, dearie." She flapped a lazy hand. "That's normal, under all the Numbing Solution we have on those bandages. You wouldn't want to feel them right now, trust me."

"...Why not?" Harry asked. His voice was a little rough, so he hurriedly cleared his throat.

"Mother Mary's chickens, don't you remember?" The nurse seemed genuinely surprised. "You burned your hands something fierce. Nasty. You should've seen when we brought you in." The nurse tutted and started pulling his blankets and sheets straight.

"...How bad was it?" He asked, after a moment's consideration.

The nurse gave him a very stern eye. "You really want to know?"

After a moment's deliberation, Harry nodded firmly. "Yes." He answered, wincing when his voice wavered slightly.

"Right down to the bone. The reason you can't move them fingers of your right now is because there's nothin' to move'em with. Almost all the muscles were charred away."

A bit of a panic attack hit Harry. "I'm going to be alright, right? I mean, these, this-" Harry held up his dead hands, which refused to move even as Harry willed them to. "They'll get better, right?"

"What, those? Oh, ya-" The nurse scoffed. "They'll be fine. The only danger was removing the burning muscles before they started melting the bone. If that'd happened, then we would've had to vanish the bones your hand and Skele-grow'em all back. Now that would'a been right unpleasant."

"Oh, good." Harry sighed in relief. The panicking fears choking his throat, like loss of Quiddich and holding his wand and hence, magic, gently faded away, to just the racing pulse in his veins.

"Well, everything seems to be fine; We'll keep you here a couple more days, since regrowing muscles takes much longer than bones, don't you know. Is there anything else you need?"

"Er...no, thanks. Is Professor Dumbledore here?" Harry asked anxiously.

All the things that had happened, Voldemort's return, Cedric's death, the Tri-Wizard Cup as a portkey, even that strange thing that had happened when Harry had gotten angry. If anyone knew or needed to know about them, it would be him.

"Are you sure? I could run down to lobby and pick you up a magazine, if you like?" The nurse tried again.

"No thank y-"

"What about some food? I'm pretty sure I can sneak a few trays from the nurse's lounge. A growing boy's got to eat, and the regular St. Mungo's food tastes horrid." The nurse seemed almost annoyed.

St. Mungo's. So that was where he was.

Harry shook his head. "I don't-"

"I could drop by your flat, pick up a few things you want. You have any pets? Where do you live?" She asked, seeming almost anxious.

"I'm fine!" Harry hollered, finally a bit annoyed, and a bit amused by the thought of a witch dropping by Privet Drive. "I don't need anything, now can you please go get Professor Dumbledore?"

The nurse blinked, like a startled sheep, then frowned and turned. "Fine, then." She replied, a bit waspishly, before shutting the door a little harder than necessary.

Harry sighed explosively and leaned back against the pillow, glaring at the door. Honestly, what was the deal with her? First she's practically jumping to his demands, and then she's acting like a sulky teenager who couldn't get permission to go to the prom.

He sat, propped up against the bed frame, staring at his hands, vainly willing them to move, until he heard the latch of the door move, and his gaze snapped upwards.

Dumbledore closed the door quietly. Today, he wore robes of dark and navy blue, looking every bit the image of a wizard from the Muggle stories, save for his hat which he had removed in order to get through the door-frame.

"It is a great relief to see you are well, my boy." Dumbleodre intoned, smiling as he Conjured a plush red cushion, and placed in the chair he lowered himself into.

Harry, of course, all but leapt down his throat with excitement and anxiety.

"He's back! Voldemort's back! I saw him with my own eyes!" Harry blurted quickly, leaning forward.

The bushy white eyebrows on the ancient wizard's forehead furrowed into a worried V. "Is he, now?" He replied softly. "I suspected as much."

"Yes! And-And-" Harry could find no place to begin. "Maze-Ced-portkey-!"

Dumbledore seized the word he could understand, and nodded sagely. Harry fell silent as the Headmaster opened his mouth.

"Ah, yes, the matter of the Cup. That, Harry, I am afraid is the work of Crouch." He informed the younger wizard gravely.

"Crouch? But he disappeared into the forest. You found him?" Harry asked, frowning. "Is he alright?"

"Yes, but Mr. Crouch Sr. is not the Crouch as to whom I refer. I am speaking of his son, Bartemius Crouch Jr.." Dumbledore corrected, folding his hands in his lap. "I believe you witnessed his trial in my memories."

Harry nodded, recalling the courtroom and black and white scenes he had witnessed through Dumbledore's Pensieve. "Wait, isn't he in Azkaban? No, wait, didn't he die in Azkaban?" Harry asked, still rather discombobulated.

"I'm afraid not..." Dumbledore began solemnly.

Harry listened in complete silence, as Dumbledore described in entirety the plot of Barty Crouch Jr.. How his own mother had sacrificed herself for him, taking his place with Polyjuice Potion. How Crouch had escaped the clutches of his father by help of the house-elf, Winky, and then shortly followed to kidnap-or replace, was a better term-Mad-Eye Moody.

Harry, to his surprise, actually found some empathy with the escaped convict. After all, hadn't he been basically a slave to the Dursleys every summer, and the first nine or so years of his life, when he had first been able to perform chores.

He honestly couldn't blame Crouch Jr. for hating his father. As much as he attempted to totally despise the man who had sent him into the mess of the Little Hangleton graveyard, he found the worm of damnable empathy just crawl back into the mix.

"How did you know, sir?" Harry asked, after a moment's contemplation of this strange feeling, of hate and compassion mixed together.

"The Cup, Harry." Albus replied, smiling gently. "I simply followed the trail of magic, straight to the person who had made it into a portkey. How do you think the Ministry discovers and stops those who create illegal ones?"

"...Right." Harry muttered, turning back to stare in front of him. Harry could understand logic as well as the next bloke.

"Harry." The unusually stern voice drew his attention like a moth to a lamp. Harry turned, and resisted the urge to gulp.

Before him, stood not the kindly Professor, who students admired and went to whenever they needed advice or a pat on the back.

Before him sat Albus Dumbledore, Chief Mugwump of the Wizengamot, legendary wizard and the only one the Dark Lord Voldemort had ever feared.

It was a truly strange and terrifying thing, how a slight straightening of the back, darkening of the face and shifting of the posture, could turn the man Harry looked up to as the pinnacle of kindness and understanding into a harsh, unforgiving warrior without a shred of mercy.

"I need to know what happened in the graveyard. I'm sorry, but I believe I need to perform a process known as Legimency upon you. If you wish, I can explain it for you, but it is absolutely imperative that I do this."

It was like standing in the path of a avalanche. There was no stopping. There was running, though.

"P-Please do." Harry quickly affirmed. Dumbledore nodded.

"It is a very complicated branch of magic, so I shall stick to the specifics. I will be going in and viewing your memories for myself." Dumbledore stated shortly.

"So,...sort of like mind-reading?" Harry asked cautiously. That sounding like the sort of thing he had hoped didn't exist in the Wizarding World, when he first stepped into it.

"Not anywhere near it. I can only look at your memories, Harry, nothing more. The reason I am reluctant to do this is that it is a most obscene invasion of your privacy, which I fear is unavoidable." The Headmaster's voice was touched with true regret. "It may be uncomfortable, but I can obtain the clearest memory this way, perhaps clearer than you yourself can recall."

Harry felt a twinge of gratitude towards the Headmaster for his concern. He took a deep breath, and firmed himself.

"I'm ready." He announced, rather proud of his unwavering voice.

"Very well." Dumbledore drew his wand, and pointed it to Harry's forehead. "Legimens." He intoned.

Harry inhaled sharply as a sense of vertigo and lancing, cold pain overtook him. The room spun, and soon he was encased in a whirlwind flood of memories and pain.

He saw it like a video fast forwarding, almost. He saw his point of view rushing through the maze. The pain in his temple gave another painful throb, and Harry gritted his teeth. Get the fuck on with it! He thought, as strongly as he could in the hopes that Dumbledore could hear him while doing this memory searching thing.

Thankfully, it seemed to work, as the memory blurred even faster, past the Screwts, fake dementor, finding Fleur, the Beauxbatons Champion, under attack by Viktor Krum, and saving her. Riddling with the Sphinx, fighting the giant Acromantula alongside Cedric.

Just as the spider fell, the memory slowed down to normal speed. The pain increased, and Harry felt himself groaning lowly, almost inaudibly. The image rippled, like a surface of water when touched.

Be calm, Harry. The more agitated you become, the harder it becomes to view the memory. Dumbledore's soft, apologetic tone rang out like a distant echo in the memory.

You're not the once feeling like a bloody axe is lodged in your cranium! Hurry up! Harry snarled.

There was no answer, but the image sped up a little, until Cedric and Harry were standing in the graveyard.

The cold voice rang out.

"Kill the spare."

Green light flashed, and Cedric fell dead on the ground, and shortly after, Harry was Stunned and roped to the tombstone.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, but as hard as he could, he could not make himself not see the memory. He took as many deep, calming breaths as he could, feeling disconnected from his body, as if his eyes were simply floating in this memory cloud. It was very strange.

Try as he could, however, he could not ignore the pain. His jaw clenched tightly, refusing to let it interrupt Dumbledore's viewing. If he fucked it all up now, then they'd have to start all over again, and Harry did not under any circumstances want to go through this twice.

They came to the part where the strange sickness had overcome him, and image stopped.

Harry, are you calm? The Headmaster's gently rebuking voice came through again, in the watery echo.

Yes. That's just the memory. Harry replied, as evenly as he could, blinking the few tears of pain out of his 'eyes' quickly. It gets weirder, trust me.

The video memory resumed, just as Voldemort began to beat Harry back like a helpless, intoxicated doll. Harry felt his gut twist with guilt and shame at the ease with which he had been beaten, and forced himself to keep watching.

The minute that his vision filmed red, the memory did as well. Harry got the feeling that the recall had 'paused'.

What happened here? Dumbledore asked curiously.

I don't know...I just got really, really angry...furious beyond belief, and then suddenly, that red, and I woke up here. Can we stop, please? Harry begged, in a miserable tone he could not believe was coming out of his mouth.

I want to attempt to force through to this memory. Forgive me, but this will hurt.

No, DON'T!

An explosion of pain hit Harry like a grenade exploding in his ears, and he screamed. The red film flickered.

Harry saw brief flashes of memory previously blocked out. His hands, wreathed in fire. Angry, hissing voices. Black robes aflame.

Harry, you must control yourself! Dumbledore called sharply.

More memories. Crawling along the ground. His charred hands, reaching out to touch the cup. The blackened skin holding Cedric's hand.

Harry!

Make it stop! MAKE IT STOP! Harry screamed.

The memories faded, and the world sucked away with a pop.

Harry found himself hunched over on the bed, his face red, and his throat hoarse, the screams and green flashes still dancing through his mind, his hands clenching the white sheets in an iron grip.

Dumbledore quietly replaced his wand in his robes, and folded his hands in his lap, a neutral expression on his face.

After a few seconds of Harry's wheezing panting, he saw fit to speak.

"I did say it might be uncomfortable." He offered, as a way of apology.

"Uncomfortable! It felt like a bloody explosion blowing my fucking brains out!" Harry snapped immediately.

"Language, Harry!" The Headmaster replied sharply, in a manner not too different from Hermione.

Harry cringed, and looked back down, letting his mouth hang open like a landed fish, sucking in air, thoroughly chastised.

"The pain was due to something that may please you, Harry." Dumbledore offered. "You seem to have some basic Occlumency built up."

Harry frowned. "Occlumency?" He asked.

"The opposite of Legimency, the art of defending your thoughts from attack." Dumbledore offered.

"Oh." Harry replied dumbly. He raised one thumb to knead his temple, helping spread the pain and even it out. "Is that common?"

"It fairly rare, but completely natural." Dumbledore assured the young boy. "It happens when a person is either very paranoid or has secrets they very dearly wish to keep. The mind...heaps up defenses, crude ones, to protect them subconsciously."

"So, I can protect my mind without learning this...Occlumency thing?" Harry asked, a bit hopeful.

"Sadly, no." Dumbledore chuckled. "Think of Occlumency like the making of walls in your mind. You have a pile of rocks, while a true Occlumens would have a straight stone wall. Do you understand?"

"...Sort of." Harry replied doubtfully. "So, it's like...the better or finer your wall is, the harder it is to get past?"

"Precisely, Harry." The ancient wizard agreed, with a smile.

For a moment, the only sound was Harry's almost normal paced breathing. Harry cocked his head.

"Er...Professor Dumbledore..." Harry asked, in a questioning tone.

"Yes, my boy?" He replied.

"That power...the flames...in the cemetery...do you know what that was? I mean, like...what happened?" Harry asked hesitantly.

"I have a theory." Intoned the Headmaster. "You see, Harry, our magic is very much linked to our emotions. I assume you went through the normal magical childhood? Strange occurrences, things you couldn't explain?"

"Yeah." Harry replied tersely, remembering several instances where he had been chased by Dudley and his gang, before Apparating away. Or when that frog suddenly got nailed to the door of a teacher he didn't like, without him touching it. Or talking to the Brazilian snake in the zoo, before shortly setting it loose.

"Those occurrences are referred to as accidental magic, magic you are unable to control. Now, if you'll recall, each time this occurred, you were strongly feeling a certain emotion. What was it? Fear? Anger? Happiness?" Dumbledore smiled as the light of understanding dawned in Harry's eyes.

"So...that thing in the graveyard...it was because I was angry?" Harry asked, a small tone of doubt in his voice.

"Not just angry, Harry." Dumbledore said solemnly. "Furious. Beyond yourself with rage. In addition, you were already sick, so this may have contributed to your rather powerful bout of what I believe to be accidental, wrath-driven magic."

To Harry, this explanation seemed to be a bit shaky. "Are you sure?" He asked, that doubt stronger.

"Fairly sure." Dumbledore offered. "And the important thing is, Harry, that you're safe now. All you have to do is avoid becoming as angry as you did in that cemetery."

"He insulted my parents." Harry replied quietly, and venomously. "I don't care if it's Voldemort or Merlin himself. No one insults my parents." The last was a bare hiss.

"Your defense of your parents is admirable, Harry, but I doubt they would want the simple mention of their memory to instill such a terrible rage in you, Harry." Dumbledore informed him gently, yet sternly. "You must promise me to keep your temper in check, lest another incident like that occur, and you damage more than simply your hands."

Harry stared at the bandaged lumps attached his wrists, and bit his lip as he overcame the urge to argue.

"I promise." He replied reluctantly. Dumbledore's face broke into an easy smile.

"Now, I believe that an old man has held you up long enough." Dumbledore offered, eyes twinkling. He placed it on the door handle and turned. "There is much better company waiting for your attention."

The door opened, revealing Ron and Hermione with teary eyes. She didn't wait a second shooting past the Headmaster to attach herself to Harry's midsection.

"Oh, Merlin, Harry, I was so worried!"

"Jeez, mate, you look like a bloody wreck."

Harry allowed himself a genuine smile as Dumbledore closed the door, leaving them to their small reunion.

The muscles regenerating were much worse than Skele-Grow. The most lovely and bitchy part about it was that they couldn't use any numbing solution; it'd negate the potion.

You would've thought they'd try to invent a separate numbing solution to circumvent that, but then again, Wolfsbane couldn't even be sweetened without losing it's effect. Harry gritted his teeth and simply bore through the worst of it, which basically felt like his digits and hand were on fire, like lava filling a mold, and you couldn't ignore it, because it was constantly but slowly tightening the tendons, so it was constantly shifting.

There were some upsides, however. The nurses, for one, seemed to wait on him hand and foot. He wasn't alone for a single second in that room.

He eventually learned that they would do things for him whether he liked it or not, from the amount of times they walked in with extra food, or beddings, or just asking if he wanted to.

So he told them. Sent them on errands, like servants. Harry felt a nasty twist in his gut every time he did, but he honestly couldn't take any more 'Is there anything else I can get you, Harry, dear?'.

It was like a trained team of Molly Weasleys. Very nurturing, and he honestly liked the Weasley matriarch and appreciated her kindness and generosity, but he could only take her in small doses. He had no idea what living with her year-round, fussing and suffocating you constantly would be like.

Horrid, most likely.

He couldn't honestly tell why the nurses' faces lit up so radiantly every time he gave up and made up something and pretended to want it, so they could go get it. He always made sure not to ask for something that costed money, because he had a sneaking suspicion they would actually buy it for him.

Then, there was the hospital stories. They would sit by him, in groups, trying to outdo one another with the best story of themselves excelling in some medical case or another, until a Healer managed to scatter them back to their respective tasks.

Harry always thoroughly thanked the Healer that did this. The stories were awfully boring, to tell the truth.

He was mildly horrified when some of the nurses actually began crying on the day of his release. He had had no idea they had gotten so attached to him.

When he finally managed to extricate himself from the nurses, with as many farewell cards bundled onto him as possible, he vowed never to get injured bad enough to get sent here ever again.

He was less scared at the end of the muscle regrowth potions than of the administering them.

Harry stepped off of the Hogwarts Express, grabbing his trunk and trolley, and Hedwig's cage, and piling it atop a bit sloppily, earning an indignant hoot and jab through the cage, which he winced at.

He was a bit sad he had missed the end of year speech, but he had only had time to grab his stuff from his room before having to run to catch the train. Dumbledore had assured him that Cedric's parents did not blame him for the incident, even though Harry had not had the chance to apologize to them himself.

Hermione was almost immediately in his arm as he stepped off the train, hugging him fiercely. He awkwardly patted her back as best as he could with a owl cage in one arm and trolley lever in the other.

She had been acting weird the whole train ride, fussing over Harry's arrangements with the Dursley's, asking how he had been being treated, insisting that he owl her should anything whatsoever out of the ordinary happen.

Along with that, Ron had been silent the whole train ride, staring at Harry with a mixture of what seemed to be awe and slight fear, of all things. He twitched every time Harry looked at him, and quickly agreed with anything he said.

Very queer.

Other than that, though, the train ride had been almost completely perfect. He had bought too many sweets (He really felt he needed to burn off some of the Tri-Wizard money, and giving it all away for no reason seemed pretty dumb, even to him), loading Ron up for the summer.

Malfoy hadn't even shown up to bother them! Harry had heard the door rattle once, but there had been no one there.

Hermione finally released him, staring at his face anxiously, biting her lip. "And you promise to owl me or call me-bollocks!" She suddenly screeched, digging in her bag frantically, making Harry jump and stare at her as if she had grown a second head.

Hermione never swore. Barely ever. Further proof that something was wrong. Harry, after a moment's consideration, wrote it off as stress and worry from the whole Tri-wizard incident.

She scribbled something quickly onto a piece of paper, before shoving it into on of his coat's breast pockets. Her hands lingered there for a moment longer than neccesary, before quickly returning.

"That's my phone number. And address. I forgot to give it to you." She smiled quickly, nervously. "So if anything seems bad, or you just don't want to stay there, you promise to call me?"

Harry smiled wearily. "Yes, Hermione, for the hundredth time, I will."

"Okay. Okay." She said quickly. She bit her lip. "Are you sure you don't want to come with me? I mean I'm sure my parents wouldn't mind at all letting you stay for the summer."

"Hermione, no, I already told you. If Professor Dumbledore says I have to stay at the Dursleys, I'll stay." Harry replied.

She sighed explosively. "Fine. Just-be sure, you know." She patted his breast pocket, where her phone number and address were sitting. She seemed direly serious.

"I know, Hermione." Harry replied, and once again, that relief shone in her eyes, like she had just been assured she wasn't dying.

She wrapped her arms around his neck one more time. This time, she seemed a lot more intense, squeezing as if she'd never let go.

"I'll miss you." She whispered in his ear, and Harry shivered. The voice was husky and breathy and decidedly not Hermione.

"Right, now I got to go, I'm taking the Knight Bus to home." He murmured. No response. "Er, come on now, Hermione." The arms squeezed tighter, and Harry saw many people passing along, mostly women, send glares and looks in their direction. This was a bit awkward.

"Hermione, let go." Harry ordered in a no-nonsense tone, and she released him after one last squeeze.

"Bye, Harry. You'll owl me, right? Maybe visit?" She asked, as if the latter were the greatest gift in the world. "Harry, you promise to owl me, right?"

"I promise. Bye Hermione. See you, Ron!" Harry called over, to where Ron was standing, a bit of a distance off from the two.

He jumped almost a foot in the air, before grinning and jerkily waving his hand in a goodbye, his eyes bulging slightly.

Harry hurried up the steps, just in case Hermione got some impulse to follow him. With the way she had been acting lately, he wouldn't be half surprised.

He noticed that as he made his way up the steps, he found eyes trailing him wherever he went. Some people would avert them if he made eye contact, some just stare right back. Some would even crane their head not to lose sight of him.

Harry found the whole thing decidedly creepy, so he hurried around the corner, and pulled out his wand, before sticking it out.

In a flash, the smell of burning rubber filled the air, and the Knight Bus was standing before him, in all of it's double decked glory.

The doors folded open, and Stan Shunpike actually scrambled out of his seat, taking off his hat as if he were in Queen Elizabeth's presence.

"Bloody hell, it's you." He whispered. "Harry Potter."

"Yeah, I know." Harry replied, a bit annoyed with all of this strange behavior. "You're Stan Shunpike."

"You remember-...you remember my name?" Stan asked, a bare whisper.

"Course I do, now close the door." Harry snapped, now more than a bit fed up with this. He knew people would feel some sort of awe towards him, since he was the Boy-Who-Lived, and it had happened before, but Harry had never really found the attention very pleasant.

It was like they were trying to know what you were, not who you were.

"Oh-! Er, right away, sir." He stuttered, sitting down in his seat and pulling the door closed, before sitting stock straight and still, like some militia man. "I can take you anywhere you want, fast as a jippy. Our services are the best in England, nay, the country, and I assure you-!"

"Just take me to Number 4, Privet Drive, Little Whinging." Harry grumbled, as he dug in his coat for his small sack of Galleons he had taken out for this purpose. "How much do I owe you?" Harry inquired, finally pulling it free of an inner coat pocket.

"What!" Stan asked, as horrified as if he had been asked to kill a baby. "No, no no no no no! You don't have to pay!"

"But I-!" Harry protested.

"No!" Stan replied sharply, pushing Harry gently back into the back of the bus, before shoving him gently into one of the seats. "You just sit right there-or do whatever you please-but you don't have to worry about payment."

"I have the money!" Harry argued, jingling the sack. "Hell, you can keep it as a tip!"

Stan, however, was having none of it, standing straight and thrusting his chin up, his eyes flickering down every several seconds, before flying away. "It is my utmost pleasure to take you anywhere you want, . I refuse to accept payment for doing myself a favor, since I'm-"

"Oh, fuck it all." Harry muttered in resignation. "Just take me to Privet Drive."

"Yes SIR, Mr. Harry Potter SIR!" He practically bellowed, mopping some sweat off of his forehead with a sleeve before quickly going back to drive.

Harry sighed, and kneaded his temple, doffing his coat and throwing it over one of the chairs.

The ride took several hours. Harry was not saved any annoyance, considering the way Stan yelled back and asked if Harry wanted to stop anywhere just about every twenty minutes. And if Harry didn't answer, like the time he moved to the top of the bus to avoid it, Stan would stop the bus and go up and ask him.

It was stupid, and bloody confusing. Everyone around him seemed to have done a complete 180 from how he knew them in the last twenty four hours.

When he stepped off the bus, he was sure he had had to assure Stan at least seventeen times that he was completely satisfied by the trip and nothing could have made it better.

The quiet and dark of Privet Drive were almost welcome after the long, hectic day. He poked one finger through the finger of Hedwig's cage, rubbing her downy feathers. She cooed affectionately and leaned in for better contact.

"Home sweet home. Or not. Eh, Hedwig?" Harry murmured softly.

He removed the finger, and rolled his trunk down the sidewalk and path to the door, with the large gilded 4 placed on it, the wheels making a clunk every time they met a break in the sidewalk tiles.

The door was unlocked, which he deducted after a quick jiggle of the knob. He turned it completely and let himself in.

"I'm home, Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon." He announced, reverting to old habits naturally, keeping his eyes downcast and his voice quiet as he closed the door behind him.

A rather loud series of clatters and a large crash snapped Harry's head up.

His uncle and cousin, who had previously been sitting at the table, enjoying dinner, had gotten up so fast that they had knocked over their chairs, pressing themselves flat against the wall, their beady eyes fixed on him, practically bulging with unmistakable terror.

To the left, Petunia had dropped the dish she had been scrubbing with a washcloth, in favor of staring at him, her mouth slightly ajar and her eyes wide. She hadn't even looked down at the crash, despite the fact that the dish she dropped was a present from her grandmother, which Harry had learned though numerous death threats made should he ever break it.

He stared right back.

Okay, something was definitely wrong.

"What's wrong?" He asked.

"Wrong? WRONG! Nothing is wrong. Is anything wrong?" Vernon quickly jabbered. His head snapped to the side to regard his son. "DUDLEY! Go and check if something is wrong!"

Dudley nodded jerkily, before bounding down the hallway, heedless of the fact that there was nothing wrong or the fact that he wouldn't even know where to specifically look. Harry got the feeling he was just trying to put distance between them.

"Oka-a-a-ay..." Harry said slowly, his eyes wide. "Aunt Petunia."

Time to test this.

She jumped slightly, before her cheeks colored slightly. "Yes, Harry?"

The overly sweet tone made him shiver. "I want get contact lenses. Could you schedule a appointment?" Harry asked slowly.

She practically broke her neck nodding, before she leaped to the telephone, her hands hurriedly scanning the phonebook.

"Wait, fuck that." Harry suddenly snapped. Aunt Petunia stopped dead, and Vernon, who had been sidling along the wall in the same direction Dudley had disappeared, froze like a statue.

There was no reprimand for the foul language. Nothing.

Harry felt his pulse racing. "I want laser-eye corrective surgery. I heard it's much more effective."

"Absolutely. Anything you want, Harry." Vernon quickly blathered, before shutting up when Harry glanced at him.

Harry. Vernon Dursley, in all of Harry's eleven years in his presence, had never once called Harry by his first name.

"Uncle Vernon...the surgery costs several thousand pounds." Harry reiterated his request.

"It's fine, don't worry about a thing." He quickly assured Harry, disgusting flop sweat forming on his brow.

"Several thous-"

"IT'S FINE!" Vernon roared. Then, he almost squeaked, and pushed himself harder against the wall. "I'm-I'm terribly sorry. I didn't mean to yell." He quickly chattered.

"Absolutely. Yes. Harry, you can have anything you want." Petunia assured him sweetly.

And that was when Harry knew the shit had hit the fan.

And in France, on a stormy night in a tower connected to a castle many times referred to by it's owners as the Forsaken Nursery, it did.

On the Nursery, sat many strange, bulbous iron rods. They stood straight and tall, tapering out to triangles in the top, making them all look like arrows to the sky. This would not be a bad description, seeing as that was the direction they pointed.

Attached to the bulbous ends were long pieces of copper wire, extending into the windows of the tallest room of the keep.

In the room, there sat a huge table, build to support the weight of a great magical artifact, built almost like a cauldron with a very puckered mouth, allowing only the strips of wire into the mouth.

On the front of the cauldron only two things stood out from the black iron. A small dial of numbers, only four rows long. Currently, it sat o 0, inactive, as it had been for a very, very long time.

The second noticeable feature on it was another row of dials, this one much larger and longer with many more sides. It held letters, many letters.

And in front of this giant Connector, sat a very beautiful, and very bored, Fleur Delacour.

She sighed, her chin resting on the back of the straight wooden chair, which she had turned around to straddle.

"Haah...Michelle, you bitch..." Fleur muttered wearily. "I can't believe you foisted babysitter watch off on me. Whore!" She growled. Thunder boomed suddenly, as if it disapproved such language coming out of perfectly proportioned lips such as hers.

A very beautiful, very bored, and very annoyed, Fleur Delacour.

This is why she was totally unprepared, when a whirring alarm filled her ears, and her eyes shot to the lone streak of visibly blue magic shooting down one of the threads.

"Merde!" She breathed, as the number and letter dials began to move.

0 0 0 7

/ / N

Fleur quickly whipped out a piece of parchment, and scribbled this down, before dashing down the stairs behind her.

The lower floor was a mess of confusion. Veela were darting all about, trying to triangulate the signal, and feedback machines were spitting out great wads of data and numbers that Fleur could not hope to understand, having only arrived a short few weeks ago.

In truth, she had not known why she had been stationed here, having been drafted almost straight out of Beauxbatons for her impeccable grades and connections to one the 13 Matriarchs of the Veela Nation.

She shot down the final flight of stairs, to the bottom floor. The Mistress's office.

The office was large and lushly decorated, with rich red Persian rugs, and extremely expensive tapestries, depicting scenes of battle, and grand balls, of transformed Veela descending upon hapless human defenders from the skies with fire in their hands.

The desk the Mistress sat at was a strong brown mahogany, with gold inlaid in the edges and many important papers and strange, convoluted artifacts.

Yet the whole room was a sham compared to the beauty of the Mistress herself.

Pure silvery hair seemingly poured down around a pale face fit to shame the gods themselves. The black and gold dress she wore seemed to bring every part of the Mistress to life, forcing you to slowly start from the black silk slippered toes to the skirted legs, straight up the round hips and snug way the dress clung to her bottom as she stood up, before curving around her waist to her indescribable bosom and swanlike neck.

Even in a complete panic and frenzy, Fleur could not help but feel the hopeless envy that any Veela, even a quarter-Veela such as herself, considered an abomination by many of the Veela, felt when faced with the presence of the Mistress

When faced with the presence of the Fourth Matriarch.

"Yes, Fleur?" She spoke evenly, her voice sounding like a soaring swan compared to hers even now. The small, Ming-porcelain cup of tea in her hand didn't waver, rising to her seductive lips as they curved around the rim, allowing the tea passage into her mouth. "What is all this commotion, hmm?"

Fleur took another moment to hopelessly envy the complete composure the woman-the Veela- in front of her held, before speaking.

"It's happened, Mistress." Fleur's voice sounded thick with emotion, which she took another pointless moment to hate about herself. "There's been a reading."

One delicately curved eyebrow rose. "Oh? Where, darling?"

Fleur nearly shuddered at the intoxicating sound of her name passing this woman's perfect lips. "London, England. King's Cross Station."

The alarm suddenly cut off, as if severed by a knife. Fleur stared upwards, as if she could see through the floor, in confusion.

"Hmm..." This tantalizing purr of a hum did make Fleur shudder. "He must have entered some heavily warded area. Perhaps Hogwarts? No, no, their year is over, and students are not allowed to stay during the summer. Hmm..." A sharp intake of breath. "Did you get his number?" The Matriarch asked innocently, as if she weren't mercilessly arousing the girl.

"Y-Yes." Fleur nodded shakily and produced her scrap of parchment. "0007."

For the first time, the Matriarch showed a sign of shock, which was a slight widening of her cool blue eyes.

Then, she laughed.

Fleur was struck completely still, rooted to the spot by the delightful tingle that traveled up her spine, as the Mistress's laughter filled the room. She heard thumping as a dozen other Veela pounded down the stairs, sending her derisive or mocking glares, before stopping

The Fourth finally ceased, wiping a single tear from her eye, her lips curved in an unmistakable smile. "Ah, ma lis de glace, I always knew you would come through."

"Mistress?"One of the other Veela queried. The Matriarch fixed them all with stern looks, and they straightened up, their breath quickening.

"You know your jobs." She replied, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. "Go and track him down. Find out who he is, where he lives. Go!"

A screeching sound filled the room as the Veela transformed into their bird-like forms, screaming their approval, before they soared up the stairs, Fleur's gaze following them with anger at their chance over hers, and despair that she, as a quarter-Veela, could never hope to acquire the avian form that full Veela enjoyed.

"Now, now, Fleur, I have a job for you too." The seductive coo was more than enough to bring all of Fleur's attention back to her.

"My life is yours." Fleur replied, bowing her head, her eyes wide. What else could she do?

Silently she listened to the Matriarch's calm commands, memorizing them completely, and vowing to write them down later privately. She bit her lip, though, at the last one.

She had once hoped for a normal life. A normal job, and normal relationship, a normal husband (Well, not normal, but acceptable for her), and a normal family.

It was simply not to be, it seemed. Not as a girl with Veela blood flowing through her veins.

Not with the Fourth Matriarch of the Veela nation as your grandmother.

"Go now, dear granddaughter." The woman smiled warmly, and Fleur kept her gaze downward. "First, we attract the fly with honey, and discover if it is necessary later to drown him in vinegar."

"Yes, grandmother." Fleur replied dutifully, before heading back up the stairs, so she could go and pack her bags.

After all, grandmother or not, a Matriarch's commands to a Veela or half-blood were absolute. That was the rule.

Unquestionable.

Yet try as she might, Fleur could not rid her heart of the tiny defiant spark that yearned to burn.

Fin.

SPOOF SPOOF SPOOF SPOOF SPOOF SPOOF SPOOF SPOOF SPOOF SPOOF

"It's happened, Mistress." Fleur's voice sounded thick with emotion, which she took another pointless moment to hate about herself. "There's been a reading."

One delicately curved eyebrow rose. "Oh? Where, darling?"

Fleur nearly shuddered at the intoxicating sound of her name passing this woman's perfect lips. "London, England. King's Cross Station."

The alarm suddenly cut off, as if severed by a knife. Fleur stared upwards, as if she could see through the floor, in confusion.

"Hmm..." This tantalizing purr of a hum did make Fleur shudder. "He must have entered some heavily warded area. Perhaps Hogwarts? No, no, their year is over, and students are not allowed to stay during the summer. Hmm..." A sharp intake of breath. "Did you get his number?" The Matriarch asked innocently, as if she weren't mercilessly arousing the girl.

"Yes!" She wailed. "It's OVER NINE THOUSAND!"

"WHAT?" The Matriarch screamed, reverting back to her natural language in her shock. "OVER NINE THOUSAND?"

"OVER. NINE. THOUSAND!" Fleur screamed in agreement, having somewhere acquired strange tan and white Saiyan armor and a bizarre glass pane over one of her eyes.