|
Post by Tathrin on Apr 2, 2012 19:08:17 GMT -8
Title: Hart's ReflectionChanging Canon Challenge[/b] Summary: When Harry looked into the Mirror of Erised, he saw his parents standing behind him. But in this world, that is no mere reflection...Rating: PG-13 (language, some violence) Word Count: 4959Back to Part OnePrevious PartHarry was starting to feel warm and sleepy. He idly sucked treacle tart off his spoon, and looked up at the High Table. Hagrid was drinking deeply from his goblet. Professor McGonagall was talking to Professor Dumbledore, their heads bent very close together. A professor Harry didn't recognize, but who was wearing an absurd purple turban, was talking to someone that Harry knew quite well: Severus Snape. Snape had been a friend of Harry's parents at school (although his dad liked to grumble about him, which usually earned him a smack from whatever mum was holding at the time), and he came round the house from time to time, and of course turned up at nearly every get-together of the old Order of the Phoenix. He had, after all, helped destroy Voldemort, which made him a hero of sorts, really, although Harry had a hard time believing that his parents’ dour, sallow-faced friend could ever have been any sort of heroic figure. Harry caught Severus's eye, quite by accident, and gave him an embarrassed little half-wave. It was going to be really weird, having someone he knew for a professor. It was weird enough seeing McGonagall and Dumbledore here, but they had always been professors that Harry’s parents just happened to know; with Snape, it seemed more the other way around. He hoped he wouldn't mess up and call him “Sev,” or something, like his mum did, by mistake in class. Harry would frankly rather die. Not that he ever did call Severus by nicknames, but still -- he worried. He decided that he’d better get into the habit of saying “Professor Snape,” as soon as possible. “Hey,” Harry said, and elbowed Ron, “do you know who that funny-looking fellow is, sitting next to Professor Snape?” Ron looked up, chocolate smeared on his chin. “Which one’s Snape?” he asked. “The gloomy fellow.” One of Ron’s brothers -- Fred or George, Harry wasn’t sure which -- leaned across the table before Harry could reply. “All in black, nose like a beak, looks like he’s swallowed twenty lemons and is too uptight to spit them out again.” Harry snorted quietly, and bit the inside of his cheek. Laughing would have felt like a betrayal, but that description really was both funny and accurate. He made a mental note to pass it along to Sirius. Harry's godfather loathed Severus, and loved to tease and needle the other man. He’d appreciate the thing about the lemons. “Ah,” said Ron, peering at Snape’s companion, “no I don’t. Who’s that sitting next to Snape, then?” he asked his brother. “Oh, that’s Professor Quirrell,” Fred-or-George explained. “He teaches Defense Against the Dark Arts--” “Don’t lie to the boys, Fred,” Ron’s other, older brother broke in. His name was Percy, Harry thought, or maybe Patrick. “Quirrell teaches Muggle Studies.” “Don’t be a prat, Perce,” Fred retorted automatically. “And anyway, no he doesn’t, not anymore. That prefect badge go to your head already?” he snickered. “Yeah, Perce,” the other twin -- must be George, then -- chimed in. “Where were you last year, when Quirrell took over? Too busy sucking up to McGonagall to notice that a professor got switched?” Both twins chuckled and Percy’s face went red. “Of course I noticed,” he said primly, “but that was only a temporary appointment, and--” “Well, it’s permanent now,” Fred interrupted. He smirked and added, “Or haven’t you noticed the way Snape’s been glaring daggers at him?” The twins laughed again. Percy flushed even darker and turned away, muttering. Harry nodded in understanding. Snape taught Potions, of course, but Harry had eavesdropped -- quite innocently and totally by accident -- often enough on the adults to know that Severus really wanted to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts instead, and for some reason that Harry had never been able to puzzle out, Dumbledore refused to let him. Now that Quirrell had the job, he had no doubt become Severus’s least favorite co-worker. No wonder Quirrell looked so nervous. Harry grinned, and looked at the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor more closely. Severus might be an annoying stick-in-the-mud, but Harry had seen him lose his temper just often enough to know that he wasn’t someone to cross idly. He wondered how long it would be before Severus and Quirrell came to hexes, and how long the twitching, turbaned professor could possibly last against his cross co-worker. Harry chuckled and helped himself to some pudding. He wasn’t hungry, but that had never stopped him from eating desert before; he saw no reason to change his ways now, just because he was at Hogwarts.
|
|
|
Post by Tathrin on Apr 2, 2012 19:46:44 GMT -8
Quirinus Quirrell dropped his fork in shock. It clattered loudly on the empty golden plate, and he quickly slapped his hands down to silence it. Quirrell trembled slightly as he lifted his palms from the vibrating silverware. The sudden disappearance of the deserts had caught him off-guard. He hadn’t been eating any himself, of course; he had barely been able to eat anything all night. What little he had managed to force down, to prevent anyone from noticing his lack of appetite, had tasted like sawdust, and had nearly choked him with every swallow. Despite his meager dinner, Quirrell had still managed to spill some of what he had tried to eat on his robes. He hadn’t even noticed until now, when the fork had drawn his attention downwards. It looked like some sort of berry-based sauce, and was very sticky. Quirrell mopped pointlessly at the smear along his robes with a napkin, despite knowing that it would take magic to get that stain out. His hands shook, so he smoothed the napkin across his lap and laced his fingers together on top to stop them quivering. Slowly, inexorably, almost entirely without him willing them to, his eyes were drawn upwards again, away from the stain, back to the point they had been staring at all evening. Quirrell’s gaze fixed unblinking on one particular small boy sitting obliviously amidst his fellows. Something sharp and hot, like pain, stabbed through Quirrell’s skull. He gasped and closed his eyes. They were wrenched open again a moment later, fixing once again on the boy. On that boy. Smirking, and singularly pale, with a pointed face and cold gray eyes, and a languid arrogance as though the whole world lay waiting at his feet. He looked so much like his father. Quirrell’s mouth twisted in a grimace that was not his own, and he quickly raised his glass of pumpkin juice to his lips to cover the expression. Was it only his imagination, or had Snape’s eyebrow twitched, ever-so-slightly, as if in observation? Snape. It was hard, to sit so close to Snape, and not kill the man, when he hated him so much. Snape, the traitor; Snape, the fool. This castle was filled with things that Quirrell hated: Severus Snape, sitting right beside him...Draco Malfoy, down at the Slytherin table, grinning like an idiot...and of course, Dumbledore. Albus Dumbledore, the biggest fool of them all. When Quirrell prised his fingers away from the stem of his goblet, dark half-moon imprints from his nails stayed behind, like wounds on his palm. He clasped his shaking hands together in his lap and lowered his eyes -- it was an effort -- lowered them away from the boy, and away from Snape. He could not risk exposure, he reminded himself. He wasn’t strong enough -- not yet. Be patient... Quirrell thought -- pleaded -- silently inside his own head. His only response was a wordless snarl, half-imagined, but all too real. Quirrell swallowed very hard, and shuddered. He realized belatedly that the Headmaster had risen, and now was speaking. Quirrell quickly schooled his features into an attentive expression and turned to look, trying not to glare. “...contact Madame Hooch,” Dumbledore was saying. “And finally, I must tell you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death.” A few people laughed, scattered here and there throughout the Great Hall, but most silently regarded Dumbledore with respectful unease or even, in a few cases, outright terror. Quirrell caught himself leaning forward eagerly, and quickly disguised his motion by dropping his fork to the floor. By the time he emerged from under the table, utensil in hand, the old fool had moved on to the school song. Quirrell fixed a smile in place, relieved that he was no longer the only one of the professors faking good cheer, and let his lips mechanically mouth the words while his mind wandered: The night was wet and windy, two children dressed as pumpkins waddling across the square, and the shop windows covered in paper spiders, all the tawdry Muggle trappings of a world in which they did not believe.
A tall man in a long, hooded black cloak glided silently along the sidewalk. He seemed to be paying no attention to the frolicking children and their weary parents, and they likewise ignored him; as if in their inability to process the unfathomable sense of menace he exuded, they simply chose not to notice him, instead.
“Nice costume, mister!”
One small boy, more perceptive than the others -- or simply more foolish -- had run right up to the man. The child smiled, and peered up at the face beneath the hood, and his smile faltered. The boy stumbled backwards, and then he turned and ran for his mother. The tall man in the cloak hesitated, fingering something beneath his robes, but then he moved on, did not pursue; the boy reached his mother, and they moved towards safety, and never knew their danger.
But the child shivered, once, as it walked away holding its mother’s hand; the boy would dream tonight, about the face that he had seen; would have nightmares about that face....
The cloaked man continued, crossed the street; there were several houses still between him and his quarry, several blocks, but the distance was nothing, nothing at all; he could have traveled faster, but he liked to walk up on his prey; liked to stalk it, rather than simply appearing at the victim’s side...everyone knew that, or at least, everyone who served him and was loyal, and those who claimed to be.
Just a few more steps, a few more houses, and he would be there, and the boy would die, and he would be safe forever. The man walked faster, eager, his robes flapping soundlessly across the pavement. He was getting closer....
“My lord!”
Voldemort turned at the shout, startled and half-disbelieving; it must be a coincidence, surely that voice could not be calling for him...
But it was. Lucius Malfoy, his robes as black as his master’s and his hair as pale as the wan moon above, hurried towards him out of the dark. Behind Lucius walked Severus Snape, the gaunt sliver of his face barely visible behind the curtain of his lank black hair.
Voldemort drew himself up to his full height and glowered down at his servants. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, his anger sparking dangerously in his bright red eyes.
“My lord,” Lucius bowed his head as he approached, “thank goodness we reached you in time.” Malfoy kept his head lowered deferentially, out of respect for his lord’s anger.
“In time for what?” Voldemort snapped, his patience as thin as his glare.
“My lord,” Severus stepped forward, half-bowing just like Lucius; it was good that they feared him, but something about their obsequience seemed out-of-place to Voldemort, something about it bothered him...
It did not occur to Voldemort, yet, that such deference also hid his servants’ eyes from any attempt at Legilimency on their master’s part, but he knew that something felt wrong.
Severus was still speaking: “I have learned of a plot against you,” he said. “The Order of the Phoenix intends to strike you, my lord -- you yourself.”
On this night, of all nights... “They dare?” Voldemort hissed.
The black and blond heads bobbed in unison. “Yes, my lord; they have grown bold indeed,” Severus replied solemnly.
“Bold, and foolish,” Lucius added, arrogant despite his humble pose. “They must know that they cannot hope to defeat you, my lord, of course; but they have been getting quite desperate -- we have seen evidence enough of that, these past several weeks.”
Voldemort nodded slowly, studying his servants. Something did not feel right. “And the two of you took it upon yourselves to warn me of this?”
“My lord, we could not trust it to others,” Lucius replied immediately. “Not given the details which we must impart.”
Voldemort raised an eyebrow. “And what details are those?” he asked suspiciously.
“Your spy, my lord.” Severus spoke this time, his words clipped and dry, although he shivered a little, as if nervous. “I do not think that he remains loyal.”
“My spy?” Voldemort asked.
“The one in the Order,” Severus explained, although Voldemort knew full well what Snape had meant. He merely wanted to know how much the other man knew, and what threat he might have become along the way. “Whoever he is, my lord, I think that he is playing a double game.”
“Indeed,” said Voldemort.
Severus nodded. “Yes, my lord. It was his information that sent you here tonight, was it not?”
“It was,” said Voldemort. He fingered his wand and studied the shadows behind the two cowering Death Eaters. Something was very, very wrong...
“My lord, I believe the Order knows.”
“What?” Voldemort’s attention snapped back to his servants.
“We think they have laid a trap for you, my lord,” Lucius said.
“A trap?” exclaimed Voldemort, “for me?” He laughed, high and cold and unafraid. “And how do they hope to trap me?” he asked, grinning.
“We do not know that, my lord,” Lucius replied, shaking his head in apparent sorrow. “Only that there is danger that waits for you, and while we do not doubt your ability to overcome whatever obstacles they may foolishly throw at you, we would not want you to risk yourself unnecessarily and uninformed.”
“Come back with us, my lord,” Severus urged. “Let your efforts wait a night, or a week -- wait until the Order is no longer watching, before you proceed with your plans for this pathetic village...”
Voldemort smiled. It was the thin, unkind smile of a snake, bloodless and fanged. “Are you sure this is not just one more desperate attempt, Severus, one last ploy to spare the girl?”
Lucius darted a curious frown at his companion; apparently Snape had not seen fit to mention the Mudblood, and her part in Voldemort’s plans this night.
For the first time, Severus met his Dark Lord’s eyes. “Quite certain, my lord,” he said. The man’s black eyes glittered like broken mirrors, but Voldemort could see no lie hiding in their depths. He frowned...
And then a sharp CRACK from behind made him swirl around, just as Severus yelled, “my lord -- Dumbledore!” and Voldemort spun to look, his wand already raising.
Albus Dumbledore stood only a block away, his beard white and his robes blue. He looked, for a moment, as if he was every bit as startled to see Voldemort and his Death Eaters as they were by his presence, but then the old man blinked, and his face hardened, and his wand was up by the time Voldemort’s first spell hit, spilling uselessly upon the Hogwarts Headmaster’s hastily-conjured Shield Charm.
Voldemort snarled, rage and terror twisting together in tendrils of ice and fire throbbing through his veins. Dumbledore, here! It could not be!
But it was. The old man’s wand danced, and Voldemort barely deflected the blast of fire; it skittered along the sidewalk, burning old leaves and dry grass and bits of rubbish, and licked hungrily at the hem of Voldemort’s black robes.
Severus and Lucius stepped forward, their own wands up, and sent spells of their own, but the Headmaster blocked them both handily, and the two Death Eaters were left scrambling to protect themselves from his retaliation.
Voldemort had never seen the old man look so cold and so angry. Worry gnawed at his pride. He had not wanted to face Dumbledore, not yet -- not now...it was too dangerous, too risky. For all that the man was a fool and an old one, he was powerful, and Voldemort had no desire to meet him in a duel. The Dark Lord had been prudent enough to leave the man’s school unassailed, knowing that Dumbledore would not dare leave the children unprotected in order to face him, not if he kept just slightly to the shadows...stayed out of Dumbledore’s way, until it was time to deal with him forever...
But this was not the time! Not now, when he was so vulnerable -- when less than two blocks away there was a boy who could destroy him, who was fated to end him, if Voldemort did not end the child first! This night, of all nights, he could not afford to fight with Albus Dumbledore!
But Dumbledore was here.
The furious flurry of spellwork alone was proof of that; no one but Dumbledore himself could have stood alone against Voldemort and two of his most favored Death Eaters, let alone offer more than desperate defense against their assault. But Dumbledore did not just protect himself; he attacked, and Voldemort’s Death Eaters fell back, and their lord with them.
How could Dumbledore be here? Was Severus right, had he been betrayed? But surely Pettigrew would not have dared; not that cowardly wretch of a man! He feared Voldemort far too much, surely, to ever turn his back on the Dark Lord! But if not Pettigrew, who then could have told Dumbledore where to come, where to find him? Who save for his fearful spy, and his most trusted lieutenants, knew the import of this night, of this place?
Voldemort lunged forward, his spell stabbing at the foolish old Headmaster; it clanged hollowly against his shield, but the old man staggered under the force of the blow, and Voldemort pressed on fast, his spells tumbling one after another from his wand, fueled by rage and hate and by fear.
At his side, his Death Eaters faltered: Snape gasped for breath, struggling against tendrils of smoke that threatened to engulf the man and suffocate him. Smoke rose also from Lucius’s robes, one side of his head scorched, the pale hair there blackened and glowing with embers. They both looked frightened, and Voldemort scorned them for it, even as he quivered with secret fear himself.
But Dumbledore faltered, if only for a moment, and Voldemort’s bloodless face split into a grin. Spells blasted past Voldemort, and while Dumbledore batted aside Lucius and Severus’s attacks, between their efforts and the Dark Lord’s own onslaught, he could mount no further offense of his own.
The man might have come here to destroy the Dark Lord, but in his arrogance, Dumbledore had come alone. Whether he had not wanted to share the victory, or whether he was simply too foolishly noble to risk any lives but his own, he had not brought any of his followers with him. Voldemort, however, had two of his best; and even without them, surely the Dark Lord himself was more than a match for one lone, aging school teacher?
Voldemort stepped forward, easily batting aside a blur of red light that blew a deep hole in the Muggle street when it hit. “It seems you have miscalculated, Albus,” he hissed. “Whatever hopes or lies led you here, tonight will be your end, not mine.”
Dumbledore’s eyes flicked over Voldemort’s shoulder for a moment, searching -- perhaps pleading -- for help, but all that stood there were Lucius and Severus, and his Death Eaters were utterly loyal, as only fear and ambition could make a man. Voldemort’s smile grew. First he would kill the old man, then he would hunt down the boy. Tonight would be the beginning of his eternal victory.
But Dumbledore was not entirely without fight just yet. A furious blast of air roared from the man’s wand, staggering his foes; Voldemort barely kept his own feet. Shouts from behind him told the Dark Lord that his followers were having a more difficult time, but he spared no concern for them. Dry, dead leaves swirled through the air, bits of grit and dirt that Voldemort could barely squint past; his own robes roiled like a living shadow wrapped around his pale limbs, trying to strangle him--
Voldemort persevered. Dumbledore barely shielded himself in time from the cascade of fiery sparks as the Dark Lord split the Muggle streetlamp above his head, and curled the fire into a swirling inferno that obscured the Headmaster from view. Voldemort’s wand wobbled and the spell slipped from his control, stolen by Dumbledore; Voldemort threw all his resources into the shield he conjured to protect himself from the gout of fire Dumbledore threw at him.
His Death Eaters cried out; he ignored them.
Dumbledore stood in fire, his blue robes pocked and scorched, his beard wild and wind-whipped. His blue eyes gleamed but the hand that held his wand seemed, to Voldemort’s eyes, to tremble, just a little. The old man couldn’t possibly keep this up for long. He would tire, he would slip, and the Dark Lord would win.
Voldemort threw the last of the fire aside. It caught in the hedges by the side of the road, smoldering and crackling. Somewhere Muggles screamed.
“Surrender, Tom,” Dumbledore said. His voice was hoarse, from smoke or shouting spells. “We can end all of this now.”
“We will end this,” Voldemort snarled, “with your death!”
And then the spells flew so fast that even the Dark Lord could barely keep track of who fired which. Flames and ice and smoke and serpents, all flashing past too quick to count, leaving scars and shattered pavement in their wake. The house next to them was afire, the Muggle inhabitants too frightened to flee from the flames into the carnage on the street.
Dumbledore staggered, his Shield Charm flickering under the triple assault from the Death Eaters and their master, although it had not yet broken. But Voldemort laughed, high and cold and certain of his victory.
And then -- suddenly -- there was pain.
The Dark Lord spun around, so shocked that he turned away from the threat of Dumbledore without a thought for the old man and the danger he posed. Blood ran down Voldemort’s face, dripped from the tip of his wand, stained his dark robes as he bled from the wounds in his back. He turned to face his attacker. Severus stood there, his wand extended, the word of the spell still half-formed upon his lips.
For a moment, Voldemort simply stared at his servant, stared at the betrayer. Severus did not look surprised, or repentant, or fearful; the curse had been no accident.
Snape nodded to him, calmly, like a man who has chosen to mount the executioner’s block of his own accord. Then with a wordless snarl Voldemort lunged forward, his wand sparked, and Severus crumpled. The shield Lucius conjured between the two of them snapped under the force of Voldemort’s assault, barely blunting it.
“You betray me!?” Voldemort shrieked.
Lucius staggered backwards. “My lord, I didn’t -- I wouldn’t -- please--” he stammered, his eyes wide. He stared at the motionless pile of black robes at his feet, and stumbled backwards. “I didn’t know he would--”
But Voldemort could see his servant’s eyes now. He could see, beneath the thin veneer of icy gray, the lurking shadows of a lie. He could see the real reason Lucius had come here, the betrayal he had planned. He roared with anger, Lucius dove out of sight--
And there was Dumbledore, taking advantage of the distraction, of the betrayal. The Dark Lord barely managed to turn the hurricane of broken glass aside; the sharp fragments thudded into the burning wall of the house next to him, leaving his robes tattered and his arms bleeding from a hundred tiny cuts.
“Is this your doing?” Voldemort shrieked at the old man.
“Evil will always turn in on itself, Tom,” Dumbledore replied calmly. “Surely you must know this, or you would not distrust your own associates the way you do.”
“Trust is for fools,” Voldemort snarled, “fools like you -- and the Potters! And I’ll kill you all for it!”
Dumbledore went to his knees under the fury of the Dark Lord’s assault. Vines wrapped around Voldemort’s ankles and he incinerated them, ignoring the blistering heat that scarred his own flesh as they burned. He split the paving stones beneath Dumbledore, and a gush of water rose from broken pipes, a waterfall in reverse that poured up upon them both.
Soaking and singed, the two combatants struggled to their feet. Both were breathing hard, and both were bleeding. Despite their soaking, the tip of Dumbledore’s long beard still smoldered. He had lost his glasses in the deluge and now seemed, without those small half-moons of glass perched on his crooked nose, suddenly vulnerable.
Somewhere sirens wailed, and people screamed, but here, in the midst of the battle, no one dared to interfere.
“Give up, Tom,” Dumbledore croaked.
“I will never,” Voldemort snarled.
The jet of red light whizzed mere centimeters from Voldemort’s face, too fast for him to have shielded against it; had it hit, he would have fallen, but instead he just laughed. The laugh was harsher than usual for he was out of breath and wounded -- but a laugh it was nonetheless. He laughed, because he knew he would win.
“And you’re still too weak to kill me,” the Dark Lord cackled, “too weak even to try!”
“I am not, my lord.”
Dumbledore staggered backwards under Voldemort’s answering spell, but it was not Dumbledore that spoke.
“Avada Kedavra.”
For a moment, Voldemort thought the spell was one of his, the voice his own. But they were not his words, not this time. The Dark Lord turned as he fell, already dying. He saw a tall man with scorched blond hair and a ragged black robe; a man who should have by rights been wearing the mask that would have marked him as Voldemort’s own; a man whose torn robes revealed the edge of a Mark that did just that. A man whose cold grey eyes gleamed with the sharp light of betrayal.
Voldemort drew in a breath to shout, to curse, to kill...
And then he broke: He was nothing, nothing but pain and terror, and he must hide himself, hide from his enemies and the allies who had betrayed him alike; not here, but far away...far away...
Several streets over, where it was darker, and fewer children quested for candy, there was a house that no one else could see. Sometimes people would pause as they passed it, hesitating, as if they thought -- remembered -- that there should have been a house there; that there had been one, once....
But no one walked up the short path between the dark hedge. No one knocked on the door, or rang the bell. No one looked in the curtains, which hung open, revealing a little sitting room. It was very bright, in the darkness, but the light that streamed from the window did not reach beyond the boundaries of the Fidelius Charm that kept the house safe.
Inside the house, in the little sitting room, a tall man with black hair and crooked glasses made puffs of smoke erupt from his wand for the amusement of the small black-haired boy sitting on the sofa. The child was laughing and trying to catch the smoke, to grab it in his small fist....
A door opened and the mother entered, saying something that must have meant, “time for bed.” Her long dark-red hair fell forward over her face, hiding her smile. The father scooped up the son and handed him to the mother. He threw his wand down upon the sofa and stretched, yawning....
Lily Potter walked out of the room, her son in her arms, and carried the boy up to bed. She hummed a little as she tucked him in, and kissed him goodnight, and gently closed the door. She walked back downstairs to rejoin her husband.
Behind her, little Harry Potter closed his bright green eyes, and slept. The song ended, fading off into a slow funeral dirge. Two red-haired Gryffindor boys solemnly intoned the final bars while Dumbledore cheerfully conducted with his wand. He clapped loudly when the boys at last finished and resumed their seats with elaborate bows, cheerfully saluting all of the applause. Quirrell didn’t bother to clap, but he was sitting next to Snape. His own lack of enthusiasm was nothing compared to the dry displeasure radiated by the Potions Master, and would not be noted by any of the sleepy and over-fed students blinking up blearily at the line of teachers. “Ah, music!” Dumbledore exclaimed happily. “A magic greater than all we do here! And now, bedtime. Off you trot!” Quirrell rose as quickly as any of the students, but he still swept out the side door several steps behind Snape. Clearly he wasn’t the only one with things to do tonight. But whatever schemes Severus was hatching, they were of no interest to Quirrell, not tonight. Tonight, he had a corridor up on the third-floor to investigate.
|
|