Harry Potter - Series Fan Fiction ❯ Harry Potter and the Halcyon Phantasmagoria ❯ Extrication ( Chapter 5 )

AN: Only a few to respond to this time, so shorter note.

 

DanielHimura : And why, precisely, do you not like stories with plenty of people after Harry? The more conflict, the better, I say.

 

UnholyGod : Amen, brother. They're some of the most overused characters in the series. Even if people hate them, they positively can't get enough of them. No, after maybe five or so more chapters they should almost vanish entirely.

 

Primaaryet : You're probably referring to Secrets of the Male Veela. It was abandoned. Believe me, I asked. I'm trying to avoid clashing or overlapping with it as much as possible, other than the `male veela' thing.

 

Underscore1990 : A little, yeah. But I've totally redrawn the Veela society in my mind. People always seem tunnel-visioned on France as the Veela hangout, for some reason. Why not Bulgaria, they're the ones who had a whole team of freaking cheerleader Veela? And yeah, scary and intimidating is generally what I'm going for with Lucienne. And manipulative. Read back during her stint with Harry, if you want to look for signs.

 

KingDavid : I respect your right to leave me an unflattering review, especially since you left a good warning to stay away from overlapping too much with SotMV. I hope you change your mind somewhere along the line, and continue to read and leave reviews.

 

Revan : Chill, man. Seriously. I've got that hazard bolted down and locked fucking tight. Not going to happen.

 

Glrasshopper : Thanks, I pride myself on my lack of (knock on wood) spelling errors. It's the grammar and such I need Ivan D. Wright for, did you hear he's a chief editor at his high school? Nice, right?

 

Creature_of_the_pitch_black : Don't like, don't read, my friend. And if you're going to pointlessly insult me, at least have the balls to leave a return email address, you pussy.

 

EDIT : Sorry about the long wait, my new school schedule is slowly killing me. I volunteer on Mondays and Fridays, work on Wednesdays, have lessons on Tuesday, and have a club on Thursdays. On weekends, I try to catch up on the precious hours of sleep I can steal.

 

Well, whatever. No point bitching. Just know that these are getting harder to squeeze out. Don't expect snappy updates, I just don't have the time.

 

Onwards!

 

Harry Potter and the Halcyon Phantasmagoria

Chapter 5

 

 

Harry took a deep breath. He opened and closed his hand fitfully. He stared intently at the burn-marred digits.

 

Okay…think anger…fury…fire…He stared down, raising one finger, resisting the urge to retch at the smell or the sight.

 

He had no idea how to control the aura. Hell, he couldn't even tell it was gone. Harry didn't know if male veela had a `angry' form, like the veela at the World Cup, so he had decided to concentrate on the only power he could vouch that existed. The fire.

 

The veela's fire was green…mine was red…is there a difference? Harry pondered this for a moment, before shaking it off. Later. First, fire.

 

He glared at the tip of his finger, as if he could ignite it with the mere power of his stare. That thought brought another notion to bear.

 

I don't want to light my finger on fire, even though it's doubtful I'd feel it…I want a fire just about above it. Like a match. I doubt I could snap my fingers, considering their…er…condition, at the moment.

 

Harry concentrated on the feeling he had when he first seen the crimson flames. Anger, most certainly. But he wanted to control the fire, so…what? Suppressed anger?

 

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes before delving into his memories for suitable material. It wasn't hard to find.

 

“Kill the spare.”

 

“Freak!”

 

“BOY!”

 

“JUST LIKE YOUR PARENTS!”

 

Harry gritted his teeth, letting the experiences and remembrances wash over him. There was a large amount of regret, grief, and guilt but oh, yes, there was a good dollop of anger in there.

 

His eyes fixed his finger with twin green lasers of contained fury. Come on, fire, fire Fire! BURN, DAMN IT!

 

It started small, almost invisible. One tiny, individual red spark danced lazily on the tip of his finger.

 

Harry felt a fierce grin spread across his face, as he saw the tiny light at the end of his index finger. He took a deep breath, and pushed his anger into that spark.

 

It flickered weakly, before igniting into a tiny, tiny flame, smaller even than a candle. Yet it was there, and it was real. Harry could feel it's heat, as he brought it closer to his face. It put out a great deal of warmth for just a tiny flicker. And if it was larger…? The young savior felt a bubble of excitement and determination build within his chest, like a monster roaring to get out.

 

But, as he expected before, the anger slowly drained away. It wasn't real anger, after all, just a sort of forced fury. The flame flickered and died, and Harry scowled.

 

But it was a start. And using it…the veela fire, instead of fearing it, felt good. Exhilarating. Liberating. Like the glow of satisfaction after a long struggle.

 

The door opened, and Harry hastily let his hands drop to his sides.

 

A Death Eater, rather short, and fat looking, shambled in, holding a tray of food. Harry's mouth watered, as he tried to remember the last time he had eaten. More than a day, at the very least. Maybe two. This made the hunk of bread and the decidedly raw looking hunk of meat, with the small wood cup of water, look like a meal fit for kings.

 

But something was odd about the Death Eater. He couldn't see the face, with the silver mask, of course, but the slumped posture, the shuffling walk, the careful steps…they all screamed of wariness and suppressed fear. That's strange, since Lucienne said she'd locked my aura up…what reason would this Death Eater have to be afraid of me?

 

Then, he raised his eyes for a brief second, and Harry's green eyes met a pair of watery, gray ones. All hunger was forgotten in favor of a vicious surge of rage that swept through him, heating his skin and making him remember that feeling, that satisfaction, begging to be achieved, with only a simple thought. Release us. Harry briefly imagined it saying.

 

“Peter…Pettigrew.” Harry slowly let out, in a low voice that came from deep in his chest, thick with emotion.

 

The traitor flinched slightly. Harry felt his lips twitch at the corners, the first time he'd smiled in a good many hours.

 

“What's wrong, Peter? Can't even look me in the eye?” Harry asked softly. “Pitiful. You fucking coward.” His tone was absolutely flat.

 

The use of his birth name sent a small tremor through Wormtail. Harry capitalized on that, and decided to explore it. He flexed his hand experimentally, feeling rather than seeing it start to hum with energy, feel those sparks aching to ignite.

 

“I've got to ask you, Peter-“ Another twitch, as he lowered the tray to the floor. “-what exactly was going through your tiny little brain to make you believe that your own pathetic life was worth more than James Potter's? Than Lily Potter's? Than mine?”

Silence. “I'm waiting, Peter.”

 

“…It wasn't-…shut up.” He finally mumbled, pausing over the tray, not yet rising to leave.

 

He had his attention. Harry let out a small, weary laugh. “Ha. Shut up? What kind of comeback was that? Some Maruader you are. Oh, wait-“ Harry broke off. He watched in furious amusement as Wormtail's fist clenched until his knuckles were white. “-you aren't one, anymore, are you? `Messer Wormtail'.” Harry finished mockingly.

 

“Shut up! Shut the hell up, I never said that!” The man shrilled angrily.

 

“Said what!? That you're a backstabbing little shit of a best friend? Because you really ought-!”

 

“I never said…” Wormtail took a slow breath. “I never said my life was worth more than theirs. Than yours…or hers.” The last part was a mumble Harry barely picked up on.

 

Several things clicked at once, like pieces falling into place. Harry's face contorted into a rictus snarl, and those imaginary voices rose again. Release us. They begged. Use us!

 

“You sick fuck.” Harry could barely get the words out. “So, besides being a fucking turncoat, you were a lecher, too? She was married, you twisted son of a bitch! Happily married!” This seemed to anger the Death Eater more, as he swung his head like a man trying to shake memories away.

 

“Shut up! It doesn't matter. It didn't matter. He promised! He lied!” Wormtail moaned lowly. “It was always him. Always. James Potter. Always had everything he ever wanted. Always!”

 

This sounded important. Harry licked his lips, cracked and dry as they were. His eyes flickered to that cup of water. “Who promised? Promised what? Tell me.” Harry ordered.

 

“The Dark Lord. He said. If I told him, he'd let me have her. Make her love me. For real, don't you see!” The gray eyes were desperate behind the mask. “I could have her! For once, I could have what I wanted!”

 

Total and utter revulsion replaced his anger, for one brief second.

 

“She was always…always, the one. Always, the kindest. Never looked down on me. Never left me out, like they did. And beautiful…so beautiful.” Peter crooned brokenly.

 

The anger built itself back up slowly, like a pyre rising higher and higher.

 

“But it was him! Always him!” Wormtail hissed. “Always fucking James Potter!”

 

“You can't manufacture love, you idiot. You know that.” Harry voice was quiet, but his body shook with compressed fury. “You couldn't have possibly believed that anyone, even Voldemort, would be able to. Even a pathetic little nothing like you should have known that he would probably either betray you, or just dope her up with love potions.”

 

“No! No! The Lord…The Dark Lord…he could do things!” Peter whispered fearfully. “ Great things…Amazing things! He would have let me have her, if she hadn't fought back! He said so! He promised!”

 

“Open your eyes, Peter!” Harry snapped. “He was just using you! He was using all of you!”

 

“NO! I am…I am…his most faithful servant. He said that. I helped him live, helped him survive! I am his most faithful, and I shall be rewarded handsomely when the Dark Lord finally triumphs! Beyond my wildest dreams!” Those watery gray eyes were desperate. “He promised us!”

 

Harry curled his legs up and let his arms hang loose. “Look into my eyes and tell me believe that. You owe me that much. You owe me that.” Harry snarled.

 

A strange shudder seemed to wrack Wormtail's body, before he hesitantly took a few steps closer, and removed his mask. His face hadn't changed much, still paunchy with a great deal of steel grey stubble starting to grow.

 

“I believe-!” He began, but got cut off, as Harry struck out with both legs, an angry yell falling from his lips, desperation and fury fueling his blow.

 

Before Wormtail could do anything but let out a brief cry of pain, Harry struck out again, sending a rubber soled sneaker straight into the man's groin.

 

The traitor's knees buckled without a sound. Harry locked his legs around the man's neck, and pulled him closer as the man instinctively curled into a ball, cradling his damaged twig and berries.

 

Harry finally pulled him close enough to grab with his hands, at which point he lowered his head to Peter's ears as the man groaned in pain.

 

“The lowest circle of hell is reserved for betrayers and turncoats, Peter. I hope you like to fucking burn!” Harry snarled, placing both palms on Peter's face and releasing.

 

He pushed his revulsion, his anger, and all of his sorrows into those two red flames that appeared, lighting and his palms like fireworks, and watched in satisfaction as they spread to cover his entire palms. Peter's screams as his flesh melted were rather annoying, however, which Harry remedied by placing one of his burning hands on Peter's throat.

 

After a few seconds, the screams retreated to rasps, which were then silenced. Peter nearly bucked free several times, but Harry held on for dear life. The smell of cooked flesh filled the room, sickly sweet and rancid all at once.

 

Finally, Peter's convulsions ceased, just as the door opened and Death Eaters began rushing in, wands drawn. Harry could care less, as he let Peter's body slump to the side, to inspect his hands. He could have burned them off for all he cared, because it had felt just so fucking good, but he figured he should at least assess the damage.

 

And as he watched strange, shiny black flesh recede from his palms and fingers, leaving smooth, unblemished pink skin in their wake, Harry raised his eyebrows and spoke.

 

“That's interesting.” Was all he got out before several Stunners slammed into him at once.

 

 

Dumbledore smoothed his robes calmly as he sat down in the well cushioned chair. He had hoped, dreamed that this day would never have to come, but the reality was all too stark.

 

A trade. The prophecy for Harry's life. One life for possibly thousands, once Tom's knowledge of the prophecy was complete.

 

A deal with the devil. Dumbledore knew very well that the road to hell was paved with good intentions, and was sure that his stubborn insistence on placing the boy's happiness before the boy himself, preferring to keep the boy ignorant and happy rather than aware and possibly terrified, had lead to the place he was now at.

 

Which, incidentally, was across a table from the darkest wizard in history. Tom Marvalo Riddle. His narrow, crimson eyes bored into him across the distance.

 

He had taken all the necessary precautions, true. Both leaders of the conflict had just moments before sworn Unbreakable Oaths to uphold their ends of the bargain. Dumbledore would provide the prophecy. Voldemort would return Harry, alive and intact. And they would be granted safe passage out of the Manor.

 

Of course, this still left much room for argument and bargaining.

 

“I shall bring in the boy once you show me you possess the prophecy.” Tom drawled.

 

“I will reveal the location of the prophecy once you have brought Harry in.” Dumbledore returned simply. There was a pause of silence.

It was a delicate negotiation, to be sure. Tom would certainly love nothing more than to find some loophole to wriggle through.

 

However, in this first negotiation, Dumbledore held the high ground. He knew Harry was on the grounds somewhere, while Tom could not knew whether the prophecy was on Dumbledore or merely in a secret location.

 

This fact was realized in seconds. Tom crooked a finger behind him, and the single Death Eater there stiffened slightly. “Bring in the boy.” He ordered.

 

The servant grasped the handle and quickly yanked it open. Two Death Eaters already waited, and hoisted up by the arms in between them, was Harry, unconscious.

 

The first thing Dumbledore noticed was that he seemed unharmed, if a bit pale. The old wizard let out a soft breath he did not know he had been holding.

 

The second thing he noticed was that Harry still was in possession of both of his eyes.

 

The Headmaster's eyes widened, before he quickly reached inside his robes and pulled out the `eyeball', before concentrating briefly.

 

It quickly turned gray and hard, before all that was left in his palm was a smooth, flat stone. Tom watched with an amused gleam in his eyes.

 

“A sufficient motivator, wouldn't you say, Dumbledore?” He jeered. “Now, the prophecy.”

 

How crude. Dumbledore pursed his lips. But it had worked. He had been so panicked, so desperate to ensure Harry's safety, that he had missed a simple Transfiguration, even minor as it was. Tom always had had a rather morbid sense of humor, even back in his school days…

 

The legendary wizard reached one wizened hand into his robes, and fished out the softly glowing white orb. Tom's eyes seemed locked on the small sphere, hunger shining in his blood-red irises.

 

Dumbledore arose from the chair at the same time as Riddle. They both crossed the distance of the long table at the same pace, Tom closely followed by the two Death Eater's supporting the sleeping savior's weight.

 

They both stopped, a good two paces from each other. They gazed into their adversary's eyes, each locking their Occlumency shields tighter than a goblin's wallet, probing with the lightest breezes of Legimency for signs of any cracks or weaknesses. Neither expected one, but neither would take the chance.

 

Tom moved first, twitching his finger. The two Death Eaters slowly proceeded forward, dragging Harry along as they went.

 

Dumbledore opened one arm, and took the boy, managing his weight with surprisingly little difficultly for a wizard his age. At the same time, one of the servants broke off, and delicately plucked the orb from the Headmaster's open palm, as if it were made of the most fragile blown glass.

 

That was it. Dumbledore watched as the Death Eater scurried quickly over to his Master, and deposited the prophecy in his eager hands. The small glass ball disappeared quickly into the folds of his robe.

 

Another time, perhaps, Dumbledore might have tried an appeal to Tom's humanity, or whatever was left of it. He was a firm believer in second chances, seeing as he was on his at the moment.

 

But at this moment, he couldn't care less. All that mattered, all that was important, was getting Harry out of here, as soon as possible.

 

He felt his own magic shift uneasily, as the Unbreakable Vow reasserted it's presence. I Albus Wulfric…Dumbledore…swear…Leave immediately after the transaction is done. The words of his oath rose like a flood in his ears.

 

He made no effort to fight it, turning immediately and striding to the door at the other end of the room, and pulling it open.

 

Sirius and Remus were waiting anxiously. Both seem to sag in relief as they saw the unconscious, but alive boy in his arms. Sirius took the boy from the Headmaster as he took the once-eyeball from his inner breast pocket, and held it out flat on his palm.

 

“Portus.” He intoned hoarsely, linking it back to his office in Hogwarts with a brief thought.

 

Both men put their hands on the stone. Sirius maneuvered Harry's limp appendage so it was touching as well.

 

Dumbledore waited, waited, and felt the anti-Portkey wards flicker down for a brief moment, and-!

 

“Portus Activatus.”

 

There was a brief tug, and they were gone.

 

 

Voldemort hastily swept open the door to the Riddle Library, which he had renovated into a private study over his stay.

“LEAVE!” He snarled in Parceltongue at the one Death Eater guarding the door. The wizard, sensing the intent if not understanding the words, made a most undignified retreat, fleeing down the hallway.

 

A few other Death Eaters had followed him in his hasty stride through the halls of the manor, out of curiosity. They milled anxiously in the hallway behind him.

 

“No one will enter here!” He snarled. “Any who disturb me will perish.” He growled lowly, before slamming the door shut.

 

In the process of minutes, Tom barricaded the room with silencing wards, proximity alerts and several nasty traps that would cause rather terminal cases of death to any who tripped them.

 

Satisfied for the moment, he swept all the papers from his large, mahogany table. Thinking again briefly, he summoned several pieces of parchment and inked quills off the floor, before charming all the quills to record everything said within earshot.

 

Then, he gently, ever so gently, set the orb down upon the table, and gave it a tap with his wand.

 

A blue light sent shadows skittering down the walls of the room as a spectral image of a woman arose, and spoke in a high, dark tone. The quills instantly leapt to writing.

 

“The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies … and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not … and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives … the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies …”

 

Voldemort's triumphant, high pitched cackles echoed hauntingly off the walls of the study.

 

Several hours later, he found Bella, Luicus and several other members of his Inner Circle, waiting dutifully outside the door of the library.

 

They all hesitated as he closed the door softly behind him, a wide smirk tugging at his bloodless lips.

 

“Gather our forces.” He ordered, one hand feeling the orb tucked safely in his robes. “We're relocating.”

 

 

Harry woke up in the Hospital Wing. He didn't jump awake or get thrown awake, just simply opened his eyes and sat up.

 

He wasn't especially startled by the Headmaster already waiting at his bedside, either. For some reason, everything seemed rather surreal.

 

“You've got quite a bit of explaining to do, my boy, so I think it would be best you start at the beginning.” Dumbledore stated mildly, handing him a silver goblet filled with cold water, which he drained gratefully.

 

Is he angry? Harry wondered. Did it really matter, now, though? He took a deep breath, his mind running through the events of the past few days. And he made a choice.

 

“…Well, Professor, it started like this…”

 

Harry shifted his feet nervously in the small, musty shop, as Ollivander drifted back towards the shelves, replacing the wand that had so recently backfired violently the second Harry touched it.

 

He hadn't liked lying to Dumbledore. After what the man had gone through, giving up something he had spent the better part of Harry's life protecting, it felt like he should deserve the truth.

 

But that woman's, that Veela's—Lucienne's—words kept drifting back to him. How the incubi had been destroyed—hunted down—simply by insecure men who could not stand the fact that they felt inferior. How governments and histories around the world had blotted out their existence. Normally he would have dismissed it as a conspiracy theory, but he himself was living proof.

 

So, Harry had, on an impulse, blotted out the parts of the story that hinted at his new transformation. Also, the conversation he had had with the mysterious Veela.

 

Everything else, he had stubbornly kept, refusing to deceive the grandfatherly old wizard any more than he had to.

 

He had felt like shit when all that disappointment had filled Dumbledore's eyes, as he told him how he had killed the Death Eater with Unforgivable Killing Curse (Which he hastily edited to be Wormtail; He didn't think that Dumbledore would buy him killing the traitor with his bare hands).

 

Then, he felt like shit that had been thoroughly pissed upon when Dumbledore, instead of getting angry or giving him a stern lecture, merely donned a sad smile, and said,-

 

“It wasn't your fault, Harry.”

 

Somehow, that was worse than any disapproving lecture he could have given him. Far worse.

 

“You always were a tricky customer, Mr.Potter, doubly so now.” Ollivander murmured, seemingly delighted by this. “Always harder, I find, to replace a wand then to get your first one. Try this one, siren hair with ebony, ten inches, rather graceful, I must say. A bit of a rivalry for Charms and Transfiguration. You are sure yours is lost?” He asked, seeming a bit hopeful.

 

“Absolutely.” Voldemort had probably snapped it himself, and laughed while doing it. Harry picked up the black wand, gave it a wave, and rolled his eyes as it gave off a brief, off key note, like a voice cracking when going a tad too high, before it was quickly snatched away.

 

“A shame. A good wand, that was. One of a kind…well, nearly one of a kind.” Ollivander sighed wistfully, tugging out another short case. He seemed to be going farther and farther back, and the combinations had started to get obscurer and obscurer as they went.

 

“Mm.” Harry answered boredly, his eyes roaming the walls for anything interesting to look at. There were only more cases, and boxes.

 

Suddenly, a bit of memory drifted back to him. “Er, Mr. Ollivander, sir?” He called out hesitantly. The old man had seemingly disappeared.

 

Suddenly, like a ghost, he came from around another corner, another case held open, a chocolate brown wand held in a case.

 

“Hmm…yes? Try this one now, cockatrice tail feathers, rather vicious one too, if I remember…12 inches and oak. Straight and stiff, good for advanced spells and serious business.” The old wand-maker seemed to hardly be listening as he quickly took back the wand, after Harry had barely lifted it from the case.

 

“Could…I try to guess one?” Harry asked.

 

“Guess? Why, Mr. Potter, I never guess.” Ollivander seemed almost offended. “But I suppose it couldn't hurt, seeing as you've gone through half of my store already. Guess away.”

 

“Maybe…a Veela hair?” Harry did his best to sound nonchalant. He saw something light up in Ollivander's eyes, and he quickly covered his tracks. “Or, er…a-“ He halted, trying to think up other wand cores they hadn't tried yet. “Chimaera heartstring?” He quickly blurted, remembering Krum's.

 

“No, no, of course, let us go with your first suggestion. Veela hair.” The old man seemed positively ecstatic. “Normally, too temperamental by far, but we're dealing with a rather temperamental customer, aren't we? Yes, yes…” He resumed his mutterings to himself as he scurried back into the racks.

 

Harry, unsure whether to be affronted at that last comment or not, merely waited silently, toying with the edge of his robe sleeve, until Ollivander came back with a quartet of rather dusty looking wand cases.

 

“A rather old shipment, I remember, from back when Alexia and I were still on speaking terms. Try this one, Veela hair, mahogany, ten inches, stout, good for-“ He didn't even finish his description before snatching it out of Harry's hand, as the wand emitted a rather animalistic growl and send a arm numbing shock up Harry's arm. “No, no, must have been in a rather foul temper when she plucked that one…” Ollivander offered jokingly.

 

Harry pushed on a polite smile, busy as he was trying to rub feeling back into his arm, wondering who the hell Alexia was. Ollivander plucked off another casing, and offered a second wand to Harry.

 

“Veela hair, nine inches, sandalwood, a bit-“ He cut off as Harry gasped painfully, his whole right side seizing up. “No?”

 

Mutely, Harry shook his head. It felt rather like something was trying to rip his arm off. Ollivander took it out of his hands, and the sensation lessened to a dull twinge. Harry watched the third wand warily as it appeared.

 

“Veela hair, eight and a half inches, cedar. Flexible enough. Good for strong Defense work.” Ollivander raised the case closer as Harry shied away slightly. “Come now, Mr. Potter, it won't bite you. Probably.”

 

Very reassuring. Harry thought sarcastically, as he gingerly lifted it from the case. Nothing happened. There was no sensation, nothing like the warm acceptance he felt from his phoenix-feather wand. He gave it a few waves. There was no reaction.

 

“Hmm.” Was all Ollivander said, before Harry found the wand tugged out of his hand and replaced in it's case.

 

Ollivander pushed the three boxes to the side and revealed the last wand, a dark, dark brown one, almost but not quite black.

 

“Veela hair, thirteen inches, cherry. Swishy. Tricky, but dependable if you've got a sure hand for it.” Ollivander raised the case and offered it forward.

 

Harry braced himself, and picked it up.

 

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, Ollivander sighed.

 

“Well, I suppose it was just a guess. Funny, though, I was sure-“

 

Something poked Harry in the chest, hard enough to drive him back a step. Then, he felt a slap on his arm. “Hey!” He exclaimed, a bit annoyed.

 

It didn't stop. A push on the arm, a flick on the forehead, a dig in his side. Then, he yelped and jumped forward. Did this wand…just…pinch my ass? He thought incredulously.

 

“It seems to be a bit playful.” Ollivander offered, chuckling slightly in mirth.

 

Harry felt an invisible hand grab a strong hold of his ear, and decided that was enough. He concentrated, and pushed into the wand.

 

The wand responded by quieting for a moment, before letting a warm sensation flow through his body, and a conflagration of sea green sparks fizz out of the end of the wand.

Not as intense as when he took his first wand, but Harry supposed it would suffice.

 

Ollivander let out a small exclamation of satisfaction as Harry replaced the wand in the case. “Well, Mr. Potter, it seems your guess was correct. A good intuition, or perhaps greater luck. Perhaps you might wish to follow the path of wand-maker when you grow up, hmm?”

 

Harry fought to keep the horror off of his face. Cooped up in a dusty old shop like this one for the rest of his life? He must've failed somehow, as the old wizard walked over to his register chuckling.

 

“That will be eleven Galleons and seven Sickles, Mr. Potter.” Harry nodded, as he took the wand and tucked it in his back pocket to start digging in his Bottomless Bag.

 

Ollivander noticed this. “Here you are.” Harry stated, holding out a handful of gold and silver.

 

“Not a very safe place to be putting that, nor a respectful one. You could blow your buttocks off.” Ollivander quipped, taking the money and dividing it somewhere under the counter.

 

Respectful? Harry quickly extricated the wand and stuck it in one of his front pockets. “Er-…is this right?” He queried.

 

Ollivander spared him an amused glance. “Now you're at risk of losing something even more important.” That certainly got it out of his pocket fast enough, making the old wand-maker chortle. “No, what I was going to suggest, was buying a holster for that.”

 

That notion took Harry by surprise. The more he thought about it, however, the more sensible it seemed. He'd always just stuck it wherever wasn't filled up.

 

“Fair enough.” Harry reasoned. “Where do I get one?”

 

Ollivander merely withdrew his wand and tapped a section beneath the counter. There was a rattling sound, before a board slid up from the bottom, with several holsters hanging from racks.

 

Harry eyed them speculatively. They all looked mostly the same, other than the odd gilding or gold engraving.

 

“They're all the standards, of course. Shoulder-holsters, hip-holsters.” Ollivander rambled, pointing to two that Harry honestly couldn't tell the difference between. “Ankle-holsters for the eccentric.” Harry rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and Ollivander leaned in, almost conspiratorially. “Personally, I think that they're all piffle. A wand isn't a sword, or a Muggle gun, or a knife. It's a finely and expertly crafted tool of wizardry, a conductor's stick of the arcane forces, a-“

 

“What do you suggest, then?” Harry cut in hastily, sensing that the old wizard would go on about this topic as long as he was allowed to.

 

Ollivander plucked one of the holsters off of the pegged rack, one made of simple black leather with a few more straps than usual. “A wrist holster. Simple, effective, practical, easy to get to in a pinch. This one has the standard Anti-Summoning charms, of course.”

 

“I'll take it.” Harry decided, whatever cost it may be.

 

“A wise choice, Mr. Potter. That will be five Galleons, a Sickle, and six Knuts.”

 

Harry quickly divvied it up, before placing the holster in his front pocket and leaving.

 

Ollivander listened to the bells on his door finally jingle to a halt, before letting a small smirk cross his features, as he began tidying up the many boxes he had thrown about.

 

“Take that, Alexia!…'No, no, Ollivander, a Veela hair wand only chooses girls with Veela blood!'” Ollivander's voice was in a mocking high pitched lilt as he pushed a box back into order. “That will teach her…stuck up French trollop…mock my wands, will you? Of course when hers are all…prettied up…all that carving and frillery…ugh!” Ollivander muttered in disgust.

 

He was soon lost in the world of his craft once more.

 

 

“Are you quite done?” Snape drawled, leaning against the outside of the wand shop. “Because, I assure you, I have much better things to do than to baby-sit you.”

 

Normally, Harry would have had to swallow resentment or an angry retort. Now…? He was just slightly annoyed. It all seemed rather trivial.

 

“Really? Like what?” Harry returned airily.

For a moment, Snape seemed rather disappointed at Harry's lack of reaction. “I won't bother your simple little head or waste my breath. Let us simply end this trip as soon as possible.” He muttered, retrieving the return Portkey, an eagle feathered quill, from his robes.

 

Finally, something we can agree on. Harry pinched one end of the feather between his fingertips as he felt the familiar tugging at his navel, before he was whisked away.

 

He landed hard in a corridor he recognized as where the eerie messages were painted in blood on the walls by Ginny Weasley. He stumbled slightly, trying to regain his balance, as Snape straightened his robes imperiously.

 

“When you are finished imitating a drunk-“ Snape's perpetual sneer lengthened. “You may visit the Hospital Wing. Madam Pomfrey wishes to confirm your health once more before you may go back to needlessly wasting our time.”

 

With that, Snape swept away in the direction of the dungeons, his robes billowing out behind him. Harry's lips twisted from a grimace to a scowl, before turning to stump off towards the Hospital Wing.

 

It didn't take long to get there. Harry stopped once to greet Nearly Headless Nick, and found the whole trip to be a bit disconcerting. The completely empty halls seemed almost too-quiet, missing the general racket and clatter he had become accustomed to.

 

But at the same time, the silence was…tranquil, in a way. There was no stress, no confusion, no frenzied rushing to his next class. No elbows jabbing or shoving. Just him, and a whole castle, and wherever he wanted to go in it.

 

It was comforting.

 

It was lonely.

 

Harry pushed open the door to the Hospital Wing. “Do we really have to do this ag-oh.” He finished rather dumbly, in his opinion.

 

After all, he hadn't expected to find Fleur Delacour here, after all. She was wearing a conservative gray dress with a high neck and a white smock over it, almost completely identical to what Madam Pomfrey wore, missing only the white cap.

 

She seemed as surprised as him, however.

 

“I remember you. Ze leetle boy. From ze Tournament.” She offered.

 

“Yeah, I remember you too. Er…” He searched for something to say. “How's your little sister?” He recalled the little girl he had pulled from the lake very dimly.

 

“She is well.”

 

An uncomfortable silence stretched, as Harry lingered by the door. He was the first to break it.

 

“So, what are you doing here?” Harry asked, wincing at the slightly accusatory sound to the words.

 

She opened her mouth to speak, but was cut off before she began. “I-“

 

“There you are!” Harry started slightly as he found Madam Pomfrey striding forward from the door at the far end of the Hospital Wing. “Well, Mr. Potter, it seems you've already met my apprentice.” There was an almost proud air to her words. “This is Fleur Delacour. She will be staying here at Hogwarts for the year, and perhaps the next. Come now, we need to run a few more tests, just to be safe. Come, come!” She ushered him quickly.

 

As Harry passed her, the Medi-Witch glanced at the blonde witch. “Fleur, dear, we haven't quite enough Skele-Grow, and we haven't even started on the Bruise-Be-Gone yet. Get started on that, will you?”

 

Harry heard the ruffling of skirts and her dutiful voice last as he closed the door behind him. “Of courze, Madam.”

 

Harry shrugged off his robe and folded it as he waited for Madam Pomfrey to come back with the assortment of tests and bitter tasting potions she wanted him to gulp down.

 

Well, I wasn't expecting that.

 

 

Sorry again for long wait and filler-ish feel. Next one will have more meat to it. Stay tuned.