Chapter Text
Instinct, practice, and a honed sense of danger, all screaming in tandem, despite the seemingly innocent scene, had Harry pulling his wand and holding it at the ready the moment he stepped through the front door of the Dursley's house. He paused just inside the door, wondering if Voldemort was willing to attack his home so soon after having been resurrected.
If he attacked Privet Drive, no one was going to believe him. The ministry would throw him into St. Mungos and leave him there. There was no telling what the Dark Lord was going to do now.
The house didn’t look like it had changed or been attacked. It didn’t look like anyone was home. Which was automatically suspicious because Harry knew his relatives were supposed to be eating dessert right about this time. The upstairs lights were on, the ones down the hall and in the kitchen were off, and the footsteps he was waiting for were nowhere to be heard. The car was still parked outside.
He whipped around the corner, wand at the ready and a jinx on his lips. To find Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley all sitting on the couch holding cups of tea in trembling hands. All three were stiff, by terror or magic, Harry couldn’t tell. They glanced his way briefly before turning back to the wizard sitting in front of the fireplace. The boards were missing, and a crackling fire burned within the grate.
“You have excellent instincts, Mr. Potter.” Given the chair's height, he could only make out white-blond hair. The voice was old, crackling with authority and lined with a faint German accent. It couldn’t be Voldemort, and it wasn’t any of the people he’d seen in the graveyard. “How soon did you know that something was amiss?”
“As soon as I walked up the front steps,” Harry kept his wand up, advancing slowly. “Who are you, and what do you want?”
“You should have noticed when you were down the street, but I cannot fault you given your turbulent emotional state.”
“Who are you?” Harry demanded, “get up.” He jerked his wand up even though the man couldn't see it. His uncle made a small noise.
“You’re holding your wand as if you could cast a spell,” the stranger leaned on an armrest, and Harry caught sight of a black sleeve. “Given your ministry's strict, unrelenting laws regarding underage magic, I am sure that you are well aware that if you cast a spell right now, you would be in even more trouble than before.”
“What?”
“Aren’t you in enough trouble, Mr. Potter?”
“I can cast a defensive spell,” Harry retorted and was met with an amused chuckle. Not one like Voldemorts, high, sinister, and mocking. This was low and from someone who was genuinely entertained.
“I could oblivate your relatives and be gone before you stop me, Mr. Potter. No one would believe you.” Harry gritted his teeth, tightening his grip on his wand. The old man gave a sigh, and Harry wasn’t sure if it was apologetic or not. “Surely you can grant me the favor of a simple conversation?”
“Tell me who you are first,” Harry demanded, and he paused a few steps away from the chair. He glanced at his aunt and uncle, who were angry and terrified.
“No,” the man flicked a wand, and another armchair popped into existence and slowly sank to the floor. “Join me, if you please, Mr. Potter.”
“You seem pretty confident that you’re not going to get caught,” Harry glanced back at his relatives but edged around the second chair and stared at the man sitting in the Dursley’s living room. He was old, maybe older than Dumbledore, laugh and frown lines having turned into deep wrinkles. Bright white-blond hair, cut short and styled upright, looking young and old at the same time. His black suit was of a wizarding style Harry wasn’t familiar with but was worn with an air of absolute and unquestioned authority. He looked old, dignified, and his bizarrely mismatched eyes were focused on Harry with unnerving intensity. The old man sat up, waving a hand and summoning Aunt Petunia's silver tea service and part of her fine china.
The tea poured itself, and the cup covered around his ear until Harry plucked it out of the air and held it in one hand, and kept his wand trained on the stranger.
“If you work for Voldemort.”
“That fool?” The old man smirked, “sit, Mr. Potter.”
Harry sat reluctantly, glaring at the intruder while he poured his own cup and waved the teapot away.
“I do apologize for the tea. It seems your aunt only carries the worst of muggle tea. I had to make do.”
“It's fine,” Harry said shortly, and the man raised a pale eyebrow.
“You haven’t had any.”
Harry took a short sip, glaring. “What do you want?”
“I said I only want to speak with you.”
“You went through a lot of trouble to talk to me.”
“I wouldn’t have had so much trouble if your aunt had any sense of hospitality.” There was a short, angry aborted noise behind them as if Petunia was going to get up and argue with him. “Told me to take myself and leave. They shouted some very unpleasant things. I would have been happy to have this conversation under much less stressful conditions.” He shrugged, sipping his tea. “It is a wonder that you were willing to protect them.”
“Why are you here?”
“Like a dog with a bone,” the old man sighed, and he settled one ankle on a knee and leaned to the side. “Mr. Potter, there is going to be another wizarding war. Albus might say that war has already begun. With Voldemort's return, it is only a matter of time before his plans come to a head.”
“You believe me?” Harry blinked a few times. The Daily Prophet was full of stories that painted Harry as a madman, an idiot, a hopeless student crying for attention.
“Of course. Tom Riddle has been a recognized threat to the wizarding world for decades. His rise to power was only stalled by the actions of your mother and father.” Mismatched eyes flickered up to Harry’s forehead, to his scar. “His rise was inevitable, Mr. Potter, despite the sacrifices they made.”
“How do you know that?” He tightened his grip on the teacup and his wand, furious.
The man didn’t answer, choosing to take a drink of his tea. “This is truly awful tea. All of the modern delights that muggles have invented and worked to build and some of them still manage to ruin tea. I do love what they’ve managed to do with coffee, though.” Harry blinked a few times as the wizard continued as if unaware of his captive audience. “I’ve spent a great deal of time in America. It gave me an appreciation for well-brewed…joe, as they call it.” The ancient man nodded, “as the Boy Who Lived, you might rate better drinks but given by the state of your bedroom, I might be wrong.”
“What do you want?” Harry demanded, “this isn’t a conversation; this is a monologue.”
“You’re correct,” he stared at Harry, “what happened the night of the Triwizard Tournament?”
“I was attacked,” he answered automatically, “Voldemort came back.” Harry stared down at his tea, reality sinking in. He twisted around to throw the tea into the fire. It blazed a bright pink before settling down into its normal orange and red.
“Veritaserum,” the man told him, “you should know better than to drink something given to you by a stranger.”
“You.”
“From the beginning of, Mr. Potter. What happened at the end?”
Slowly, fighting the potion's effect, Harry told the stranger everything that had happened that night in the cemetery. Occasionally he had to clarify a few statements and go into detail about what had happened. He refused to acknowledge the tears in his eyes or how his hands shook holding the empty teacup and his wand. The painful memories, of Cedric's cold-blood murder and the following torture, of having his blood thrown into a potion, of having his greatest enemy rise from the brink of death, of nearly being murdered by Crouch just an hour later. By the time the old man seemed satisfied with the information, Harry was shaking violently, his heart thudding in his chest, and he seemed to be having trouble breathing.
“You poor boy,” the old man clucked in sympathy, reaching over to pat Harry’s knee. “I am truly sorry for asking you to walk through such a painful memory. So young and already fighting a war. A madman stalking you, hunting you.”
Harry sucked in a painful gasp as the teacup in his hand shattered.
“Ah,” a wand emerged, he tapped the handle still in Harry’s grasp, and the teacup reassembled itself. “My apologies, Mr. Potter, but all is not lost.”
“You son of a.” He tried to speak, his heart racing against his ribcage.
“Ah, ah, no,” he set a bony finger against his lips, “shhhhh. You are a young man. 14, and you have already faced down a power-hungry lunatic.” The odd-colored eyes roved over Harry's face. Harry couldn’t help but stare back. “You did so well, Mr. Potter. I have fought so many witches and wizards who would never think to act as you did — using your surrounding environment to protect yourself. So many would stand, utterly complacent in their foolishness, and more than willing to die rather than fight to live. You cannot blame yourself for young Cedric's death. It isn’t your fault, young Potter. He was another victim in Mr. Riddle’s rise. You cannot accept the blame for a madman. Tom Riddle is responsible for Tom Riddle.” It was almost like hearing words of encouragement from Dumbledore, except Harry didn’t trust this strange man one bit. The old man gave his knee another pat, still leaning in close. “So much pain when you are so young, my boy. Not all of it related to Tom Riddle.” Harry held his breath as the old man lifted his wand, pointing it back at the Dursleys.
For a moment, he was frozen before moving around to intercept the old man, whipping his wand up. “STAND BACK!” Harry shouted, trembling as he did so. He could see Dudley cowering into the couch from the corner of his eye.
“You want to protect them?” The old man tilted his head to the side, considering the Dursleys with a critical eye. He glanced at Harry. “You are an odd creature, Mr. Potter.” He tucked his wand into his sleeve, but Harry didn’t lower his wand. “I look forward to speaking with you soon.” With hardly a sound, he apparated and was gone.
Harry stood still a moment longer, searching the air where the man had vanished, but he seemed gone for good.
“Are you alright?” He asked, pocketing his own wand and turning to his relatives. Aunt Petunia was staring at him, shocked, but Uncle Vernon seemed on the verge of a meltdown now that he wasn’t cowering in fear.
“WHAT?”
“Shut up!” Aunt Petunia shrieked, and he shut his mouth with a snap. She rounded on Harry. “Who was that?”
“I don’t know,” Harry clenched his fist to hide his trembling. “I have no idea. Did he introduce himself when he came to the house?” He was the only wizard on the street. Seeing another one in the house was too bizarre.
“No,” Petunia stomped over to the tea tray and began inspecting the silver for damage. “He didn’t.” She was terrified, shaking and stuttering but pulling through, and Dudley hadn't moved. Harry couldn't hardly focus, his mind slipping among the many inputs.
“We don’t want any of your lot hanging around the place,” Vernon snarled, mustache bristling.
“He wasn’t one of my lot! He broke into the house! I’ve never seen him before in my life!” He jerked around, raising his wand at the windows only to see the outline of a cat slip by.
“Well, I don’t want a raving lunatic in this house!”
“I don’t want one here either!” He looked around again, trying for a sign of the intruder, “he broke in, Uncle Vernon. He forced you at wand-point. What the hell makes you think I had any part in that?”
“Go to your room,” Petunia snapped, turning around and holding her tea set carefully. Vernon and Dudley gaped at her.
“What?” Harry paused, staring at her. "What?"
“Go to your room,” she glowered at him until Harry retreated slowly up the steps and into his room. Hedwig poked her head up, blinking blearily at him and waking completely when she caught sight of his worried face. He sighed and dropped onto the bed as his head spun around.
Who was that stranger? Why would they have bothered to drug him with veritaserum? What did he want with Harry? What was the whole point?
“Do you feel up for a trip, Hedwig?” She fluttered over to his bed, landing on his pillow as she waited for him to write a note and fold it up enough for her to carry. “Can you take this to?” He paused, wondering who he was supposed to send it to. No one had responded to any of his letters. Ron and Hermione hadn’t sent him any letters. Did anyone want to talk to him? “Professor Dumbledore?” She hooted softly and took wing, soaring out the window easily.
The next day he left that house as early as possible, wandering around Little Whinging until his feet hurt. It occurred to him that that was the first time he’d thought about that night in such detail. Relaying every single event that he’d suffered hurt, agonizing his every step. If he knew the man's identity, it might be easier to deal with the shame of spilled so much. How could he explain that he allowed himself to be drugged by a stranger?
Harry sighed, turning over the man's face in his mind, trying to find something familiar. He sat on the swings in the empty playground idly pushing himself back and forth.
“Harry?”
He whirled around, reaching for his wand. It was only Dudley, none of his friends were hanging around, and he looked worried.
“What do you want?” He turned back around, staring at the woodchips below.
“That man,” he tensed as Dudley came closer. Finally taking the swing beside him, “when you said…you were tortured?”
“What’s the question, Dudley.” The boy was acting strangely, almost concerned, but clearly confused.
“Did that really happen?” Dudley spoke up, “all of that? Where you were attacked, did you get slashed by that guy? Did you really get…kidnapped. Cedric, I’ve heard you…he was killed right?”
“It really did happen,” Harry shrugged, refusing to look at his cousin. “Why do you care?”
“I don’t,” Dudley puffed his chest up, “but you said…Mum said your world worshipped you.”
Harry couldn’t help the bitter, angry laugh that came out. “It doesn’t matter, Dudley; go bother Perkins.”
“He’s out with his Mum,” Dudley answered, “that guy, was he going to…kill us?”
“Probably,” Harry remembered the promise in the two strange eyes, the deliberate motions, the lack of concern for his deeds. He’d seen that before in murderers. He’d faced them down during the graveyard. They didn't care about anyone, ever.
“Really?” Now his larger cousin sounded concerned. “He really was going to.”
“There’s a lot of different spells that could kill you,” Harry told him, focusing on his fingertips. “Some you bleed out, some break every bone in your body, and there’s one that kills you soundlessly and painlessly. A bright green light is all you’ll see, and then nothing. It’ll be over.” He glanced over; Dudley seemed to be staring at him oddly. “What?”
“Like the war movies,” Dudley looked away. “What?” He blurted as Harry stood, wand out and eyes trained on the small back gate in the park. “What is it?”
“Somethings here,” Harry pushed his cousin behind him, glancing around.
“What?”
“Something,” his throat closed as the familiar freezing cold began to creep outward. “Shit.”