Chapter 10: Chapter 10: The Year Begins

A.N Sorry I haven't made this clear before now, even though I think it's clear with this chappie –my setting for this story is fifth year. Ah, well. Read, review, and please, don't hesitate to drop me a review. I love to know what people think. In fact, this chapter goes out to everyone that has left their opinion.

A.N.N Edited.

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Chapter Ten

Harry made his way out to the Great Hall, just as everyone from off the coaches came pouring in, and took his regular seat at Gryffindor table. Seconds later, two people separated from the crowd and made their way over to him.

"Ron, Hermione." He nodded at them, and allowed a hint of a smile, before he was dragged out of the seat and hugged to within an inch of his life.

"What are you already doing here, Harry? Because it's normally against regulation for a student to be allowed access to the castle before term starts." Hermione was talking quickly, and it was only thanks to practise that he could follow here.

He shrugged, and grinned, "Special circumstances," before the three of them all sat down at the table.

"So, anything interesting happen on the train?"

"Not unless you count Neville spending the entire ride looking for his toad, as usual."

"Yeah," Ron nodded in agreement, "without you the ride was pretty much a drag."

After the sorting and the song, Dumbledore stood up again, and Harry peered towards the table with a tiny smirk. He'd discussed just the other day with Connor, just how much the Immortal preferred to avoid public speaking, or display. He'd have preferred to spend the opening fest in his quarters, but that was a no-go.

"Well, Filtch has asked me to remind you for what he says is the three hundred and fifty-sixth time, that use of magic in the hallway between classes is against the rules. And we also have a couple of changes amongst staff members. First of all, taking over as Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, I'm pleased to introduce Professor Connor MacLeod.

"In respect to his teaching role, Connor will also be holding an after class lesion on physical defence, should anyone need to defend him, or her-self while in Muggle communities.

"And I'd also like to introduce Madame Dolores Umbridge, who has been Ministry certified, and will be working in a supervisory capacity."

As he said that he looked as though he'd been forced to swallow a plate of stink-beetles, and Harry frowned to himself. This would make the rivalry that seemed to exist between Dumbledore and Connor a touch more interesting.

Once the feast was over, and everyone stood to go back to his or her room, Harry stayed sitting, to the curiosity of his friends. Yesterday afternoon Connor had extended the invitation remain living in his quarters, in order to make the training and anything else easier, and after a lot of deliberation he'd accepted.

Things were going to be difficult enough with this year as it was without having to worry about keeping his Immortality hidden from an entire dorm of people.

"Professor MacLeod?" Hermione questioned, as he left the staff table, and came over to where Harry still was.

Harry stood, "This is Ron Weasley, and this is Hermione Granger. They're my closest friends here."

Connor nodded to both of them in turn, "As well as your DADA teacher, I'm also acting as young Mr Potter's guardian. He is my ward. And he has been, and will remain staying in my quarters with myself."

Ron frowned, "Guardian? But there hasn't been a guardian appointed in about eight hundred years."

Both Harry and Hermione looked at him as though he'd grown two heads.

Ron shrugged, "Just because I normally sleep through History of Magic…"

"Yes, well. Just because something hasn't happened in a long time, doesn't mean that there's no good in the old ways."

Harry nodded, and Connor put a hand onto Harry's shoulder, to lead him away, "Anyway, I'll see you guys tomorrow morning."

One last quick hug passed between the three of them, before Harry turned and followed.

They returned to the room and settled in for the night. There was no training that night, because Connor felt that there would be enough on Harry's plate with the first weeks' worth of schooling.

And he preferred to put him through his paces first thing in the morning, because a vigorous workout first thing in the morning set him up for the rest of the day.

The fire was burning comfortably in the room that had been designed to act as a sitting room. Connor pulled out a bottle of ale, and poured out a small shot into a glass.

He arched an eyebrow in Harry's direction, "You want one?" he asked, gesturing for him to take a seat.

"Yeah, I will, thanks," Harry settled him-self into the indicated seat.

"So, boy," Connor spoke as he handed the glass over, "how long have you known Duncan?"

Harry tilted the glass from side to side, staring down at the dark golden liquid in it, "We only met at the start of the holidays."

The temperature was stifling, even though it was already nine o'clock at night. Not that the temperature made all that much difference, because he couldn't sleep either way.

He hadn't been able to sleep with any ease since Voldemort's return and Cedric's death only a week ago, because he kept on being woken by nightmares, which was why he was out wandering the streets after dark, trying to make himself tired enough to sleep with-out dreaming.

He had just sat down on a lonely swing, when a voice spoke behind him, making him start.

"A little late for someone your age to be out and about, isn't it?"

As he made to spin around in order to face the speaker, he managed to falloff the swing and land painfully on his back.

A pair of black boots came into his sight, and the guy that had spoken stepped towards him, extending a hand downwards to help in onto his feet again. Harry accepted the hand.

If this man had wanted to kill him then he'd already had ample opportunity.

Once Harry was on his feet, and had brushed himself off, he extended his hand.

"I'm Harry. Harry Potter."

There was no mocking eye-roll. No pointed 'I know who you are.' –Which meant that this was probably from the Muggle world rather than the magickal one.

Of course, it wasn't a sure-fire way to tell, but it was usually sure enough.

The man smiled at him, "It makes a nice change, to meet a boy of your generation whom can remember his manners," he took the extended hand, and shook it, "Richard."

Duncan had no idea why the false name had automatically jumped to his tongue, but it would only be suspicious were he to retract it now.

He spent an easy half-hour talking to the boy about trivial matters, and then he saw him back to his home. He didn't know why he felt drawn to protect the boy, why he felt so reluctant to leave him.

Ah, well. It was something to talk to Methos about, when he got back home.

Harry tossed back the few last drips of the drink, and lowered his glass back down, "You know, thinking about it, there's really not that much of a story there, is there?"

"From what I've heard, lad, I'd say your life is exciting enough without that having to be some grand adventure, as well."

At that, Harry laughed, "Too true. Pretty much everything seems to happen to me, in one form or another. Even last year, with the bloody Triwizard Tournament –I mean, I know that the cup was foxed, but it was still a right pain being selected. And there's about a hundred other examples that I could name, too."

"I'm sure there are."

Harry rolled his eyes, "You know, and here I was hoping that this year would finally lean towards being normal, for once. And before school even starts back, I'm already thrown into another bloody jumble."

"I'm sure that sooner or later you will get a normal year out of your life. God knows that you'll have long enough."

He gave Harry a lopsided smile.

Finally Harry said his goodnights, knowing that he'd be dragged out of bed at roughly the same time as sunrise tomorrow.

Connor looked at him over the top of his glass; in much the same manner as a father figure would survey a child, with a hint of pride and affection. It was really far too soon to be getting attached to the slip of a teenager, but he couldn't help it.

And as he sat in the chair, the crackling of the fire lulled him into a light sleep.

He heard the sound of a child's' laughter, felt a hand grasping at his own.

A cake sat on an oak table before him, with ten candles on it, and dark brown eyes peered up at him.

As he looked into those dark brown eyes they shifted, and became a cat-like green. Became Harry's.

Still, the same young voice spoke to him.

"Don't let him take me. Please, da. Don't let him take me."

He clutched tightly at the hand, which tore at him, nails scrabbling at him, trying to hold on, desperate enough to tear the skin.

"I've got you."

He narrowed his eyes at a shadow, which was solidifying, and coming forward, "Get out."

The hand grasping at him tightened, and the nails lengthened, becoming claws.

Agony shot through him, on the wings on darkness.

Connor woke, gasping for breath, and to find that the fire had gone out.

A dark figure stood outside of a perfectly normal looking house in Little Whinging.

Today the school year had started again.

He was sure that with the Imperious Curse he would have been able to spell the end of Harry Potter. He'd worked at it a little more every day, killing the boy by slow degrees.

Letting hurts pile on top of hurts, wounds and injuries build up, but so subtly that it would be too late to do anything before the end came into sight.

He'd seen the neglect, and seen a chance that he could work with.

Trauma, and pain, and abuse –they were all good for ensuring silence.

But then the boy had left, and not come back.

And with the year starting again today, the chance was gone. Gone again.

He'd obviously started the ball rolling too late, had made it too slow.

There was no point in keeping the spell holding the Dursleys any more.

Ah, well. At least he'd tried.

Snape, too, was having trouble sleeping.

Thoughts were racing through his mind at roughly a hundred miles a second, which meant that the first person to put a toe out of line tomorrow morning would either be met with detention, or a slow, torturous death via disembowelling slugs.

Depending on what felt worse at the time…

And it would probably be some hapless first year, as usual.

He hated feeling so uncertain of himself, but there wasn't anything that he could do about it, other than work through it. And that would take a lot longer than a night.

Grumbling to himself, he dug out a small bottle from in his personal supply cupboard, and poured out a small measure of dreamless sleep potion, which he took, before forcing himself to lie down.