HARRY POTTER AND A MEMORY OF LIGHT
CHAPTER ONE: A MEMORY OF WHAT ONCE WAS AND MAY BE AGAIN
If
asked, Harry Potter would have called himself quite ordinary. His hair was a mess, he never focused on
homework like he should, and whenever a pretty girl looked his way he
completely fell apart. Normal kid stuff,
really. And so he was safe in calling
himself a normal kid.
Alright,
yes, so he got into more adventures than the Famous Five—but, he would be quick
to point out, he owned no dog. He had a
snowy-white owl, but it wasn’t as if she was ever there whenever he risked his
life. His home-life was a bit too
Dickensian, as a bookish friend of his put it, for his liking. But then many people had terrible home lives.
And of
course his school was like Greyfriar’s as run by Merlin. Instead of learning chemistry, he was being
taught potions; and instead of mathematics, he got charms. But none of his enemies were nearly as funny
as Billy Bunter, though some were quite as stupid and gross.
Finally,
and oh very well, he had a mysterious scar on his forehead that he’d received
when the man who had been terrorizing magical Britain had snuck into his house
when he’d been a baby and murdered his parents, only to somehow be utterly
destroyed when he’d tried to kill Harry in his cradle. When Harry walked down the street, people
took one look at his forehead and bowed, or tried to get his autograph, or some
such nonsense.
None of
that meant that Harry Potter wasn’t perfectly normal and ordinary—average,
even. Dull as dishwater and as
remarkable. He had the grades to prove
it.
Sitting
in one of the compartments of the grand red steam locomotive that wound its way
unseen through the British countryside , Harry felt his spirits rise. He was leaving his miserable home life and
going to his true home—Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, his magical
public school. The only blood relation
he had were the Dursleys: fat bully Uncle Vernon, skeletal bully Aunt Petunia,
his mother’s sister, and even fatter bully cousin Dudley. Each in their own unique way had his life
quite terrible. Until he had been
twelve, he’d lived in a cupboard underneath the stairs. His clothes were hand-me-downs from Dudley,
who was not and had never been even close to his size. He’d frequently been told that he was a)
unwanted, b) a freak, and c) a waster.
It had
been particularly bad this summer.
Firstly, he’d been forbidden his school books. He’d been unable to start his holiday
homework until the night he’d snuck down to where they’d been hidden and stole
his books back. Harry had been forced to
do his homework in the dead of night like a fugitive.
Secondly,
Harry had been forced to run away from home after he’d accidently blown up
Uncle Vernon’s sister like a balloon. It
had been an accident, and she had deserved it, but it was enough for him to
flee his home –again, like a fugitive.
Harry had imagined police chasing after him for breaking magical
law. Not only was he an underage wizard,
thus not allowed to do any magic at home away from school, but he’d done magic
upon a muggle, or non-magical person.
This was a serious breach of the secrecy laws that protected muggle from
wizards (or possibly the other way around; it was supposedly taught in History
of Magic, but as that was the most deadly boring subject in school, he’d never
been bothered to remember anything that was taught).
However,
it had all turned out fine. The Minister
of Magic himself had reassured him that no legal consequences would dog him,
and Harry was allowed to stay at Diagon Alley, the magical high street and market
town that was located in the heart of London.
He’d stayed there for the rest of summer, enjoying strange sweets and
browsing weird shops. Everything would
have been fine except for the third thing.
Harry
was being chased by a great big dog. He
had noticed it on the night that he had run away from home. A huge dog, black as anything, had been
watching him on that summer night, just as the wizarding bus had picked him up
to take him to Diagon Alley. It had
badly frightened Harry, not least because it was one more thing in a night of
one more things. However, Harry would
have thought nothing more of it if he hadn’t seen a picture of a similar great
big dog on the cover of a book of death omens.
Apparently, the Grim, as the dog was called, was the most terrible sign
of oncoming death.
It
certainly didn’t help that Sirius Black, an insane follower of Lord Voldemort,
the man who had murdered Harry’s parents, had recently escaped from
prison. Apparently, Black had vowed to
avenge his master by killing Harry, or some such. Honestly, Harry wasn’t too bothered—people
vowing to kill him were getting to be pretty old hat by this point.
And
life went on. He’d boarded the train to
Hogwarts on a dreary day that was rapidly becoming dark with rain. Already it seemed more night than day outside
the train’s windows. The light from the
gas lamps that had automatically lit up some time before gave a cheerful, warm
glow that was nothing like the cold florescence and garish neon that Harry
associated with muggle lights. There was
something more human and humane about the flames that danced about on the walls
of the cabin.
Harry
was sitting in the rearmost cabin of the train, his school trunk stowed above
him. With him were his two best friends,
but surprisingly there was an adult in the cabin. The only adult that the Hogwarts students
ever saw on the train was the lunch trolley woman, who came by to sell treats
and other food. But this tired-seeming
man, who had spent the entire time since before the train left Kings Cross
Station sleeping, was apparently a new teacher on his own way to Hogwarts. His name was R.J. Lupin, which had a slightly
sinister sound to it. In the back of his
mind, Harry hoped that this one at least wouldn’t be trying to actively murder
him. It would make for a nice change to
not be threatened by a grown-up.
A
thought occurred to Harry. Turning to
one of his friends, a girl with bushy hair who had her face stuck in a book—The
Standard Book of Spells, Grade Three—Harry asked, “Hermione, how is my life
‘Dickensian’? I mean, the only ghosts I
ever meet are at Hogwarts and they’re quite nice, really.”
“What?”
said a baffled Hermione Granger. The
daughter of two non-magical dentists, she had taken to magic with a
passion. She read voraciously,
oftentimes did things to her friends ‘for their own good,’ and had built a
reputation as one of the smartest girls in the school, if not the
smartest. She also had a reputation for
being the swottiest swot this side of Swotland, but that was counterbalanced by
the number of times she’d almost died in one of Harry’s adventures. Being one of the smartest people around, she
quickly picked up the thread of conversation.
With a sigh, she answered. “Oh,
honestly, Harry. Haven’t you ever read
any of Charles Dickens’ other books?”
“I
haven’t read that one,” said Harry proudly.
Hermione gave a disgusted sniff in response. “I only used to watch the movie before the
Queen’s Christmas message.”
The
third occupant of the car looked at them curiously. He was a tall, redheaded boy, with a long,
thin nose and an explosion of freckles on his face. Ron Weasley was the first friend that Harry
had ever made, never mind the first wizard friend he’d made. He was in the same year as Harry and
Hermione, but unlike them came from a wizarding family. As oftentimes as Ron was astonished by
Harry’s ignorance of the wizarding world, so was Harry surprised by how wrong
Ron could be about the muggle world.
“Sorry, what’s this?”
“Well,
on Christmas day, the Queen comes on the telly to make a speech,” explained
Harry. “I haven’t seen one since I
started going to Hogwarts, but before then Uncle Vernon used to make us all
watch it. It’s usually about, oh I
don’t know, wars and marriages and like that.”
“I know
about the Queen,” said Ron in exasperation.
“We get her on the wireless, though I can’t understand half of what she
bangs on about. No, who’s this Charles
Dickens bloke?”
“Well,
he’s a writer,” started Hermione excitedly.
Hermione loved books, and one of the best ways to both distract her and
get her attention was to mention a book.
Already a pleased flush was spreading across her face.
Ron, on
the other hand, cared very little for books.
If it was not about the history of his favorite sport, Quidditch, then
he would much rather not have anything to do with a book. This meant that when studying with Ron, Harry
was far more likely to skive off than not.
Already Ron was tuning out, his gaze not-so-politely blank as Hermione
went on to describe Charles Dickens and his impact on Victorian-era social
justice.
Harry,
whose fault this was, made the effort of grunting every once in a while, as if
in agreement. However Hermione soon became
absorbed in her book once more, and all three of them fell into a companionable
silence. Though Ron had wanted to play
exploding snaps, Harry had pointed out the sleeping professor in the cabin. Instead he and Harry were playing wizard
chess, though Ron had made sure that the pieces fought each other
silently. To make up for it, the pieces
were being very melodramatic, pantomiming grievous wounds and taking a long
time to die.
Ron was
about to tell the pieces off when he became distracted by his stomach. Going over to the window, and being careful
not to disturb Professor Lupin, Ron went to see if he could tell how far from
the school and its feast they were. Even
as Ron looked out the window, the train had begun to slow down, which surprised
Hermione greatly.
“But
we’re not nearly at school yet,” she said, checking her wristwatch. “We shouldn’t be slowing down at all.”
“Well,
we are,” said Ron. “So why’re we
stopping?”
“I
don’t know,” said Hermione. Each word
was distinct and filled with distaste.
Hermione hated not knowing, and even more hated admitting not knowing to
someone other than a teacher. As often
as Harry led them into adventures, so too did Hermione lead the three of them into
investigations—though those investigations usually began in the library, ended
in the library, and stayed in the library.
The
train came to a stop with a great hiss and squeal, which was soon followed by
dull thuds and crashes as peoples’ luggage fell from their racks. Yells of pain and surprised floated through
the train corridors.
“I
think some people are getting onto the train,” said Ron, his face still pressed
against the window. “They look like—”
Whatever
else he was going to say was cut off by the lights of the train suddenly going
out. The gentle glow of the wall lamps
snuffed out in their cabin. Harry, who
had been sticking his head out into the corridor, saw that the same was true
for the rest of the train. With the
darkness outside from the storm, the train was completely dark. Already the grumbling complaints from the
other students on the train turned into panicked exclamations. People began shouting, trying to find friends
in the dark.
It even
happened in Harry’s cabin, as first Neville Longbottom, a fellow third year and
one of Harry’s roommates, stumbled in.
He was soon followed by Ginny Weasley, Ron’s little sister and a second
year. As they banged into each other in
the dark, yelling all the while, the Professor woke up and illuminated the
cabin with a flame that floated just above his open hand.
The
relief that Harry felt at having both light and someone taking charge was
snuffed out like the cabin lights when someone began to open the cabin
door. Standing there was a cloaked
figure. It— for it was impossible to
tell if it was a man or woman beneath that black cloak—loomed over everyone,
the top of its hood brushing the ceiling.
Mist gathered around its unseen feet and crawled up it and slowly filled
the cabin. The only thing that was
visible was a single hand, scabrous and skeletal.
As if
sensing Harry’s gaze somehow from beneath its concealing hood, the figure
started to withdraw its hand back into its cloak. But then, before it had halfway hidden it,
the figure stopped. Professor Lupin
began to lunge forward, but before he could pull Harry back the figure reached
out and grabbed Harry. The corpse-like
hand gripped Harry firmly. Terror filled
him, and his mind went blank with it.
Never before had he been so frightened.
Even facing his parents’ murderer, his monstrously pale face pushing out
the back of his Defense against the Dark Arts professor, had not been as
horrifying as that hand touching him.
The
cloaked figure drew in a deep breath, the hissing inhalation loud and
ominous. And with it, it seemed that the
figure was somehow breathing in all the happiness from the world. While before he had been struggling against
the grip despite his fear, Harry went limp in the figure’s grasp. The mist seemed to fill him, his mouth and
nose suffocated with it. The wand that
Harry had unconsciously drawn from his pocket, but had been too stupid to use,
fell to the floor. Harry was distantly
aware of the shouts of his friends and the Professor, but it all seemed so far
away. The figure drew back the hood
slightly, revealing . . . .
Everything
went dark.
CHAPTER ONE: A MEMORY OF WHAT ONCE WAS AND MAY BE AGAIN
If
asked, Harry Potter would have called himself quite ordinary. His hair was a mess, he never focused on
homework like he should, and whenever a pretty girl looked his way he
completely fell apart. Normal kid stuff,
really. And so he was safe in calling
himself a normal kid.
Alright,
yes, so he got into more adventures than the Famous Five—but, he would be quick
to point out, he owned no dog. He had a
snowy-white owl, but it wasn’t as if she was ever there whenever he risked his
life. His home-life was a bit too
Dickensian, as a bookish friend of his put it, for his liking. But then many people had terrible home lives.
And of
course his school was like Greyfriar’s as run by Merlin. Instead of learning chemistry, he was being
taught potions; and instead of mathematics, he got charms. But none of his enemies were nearly as funny
as Billy Bunter, though some were quite as stupid and gross.
Finally,
and oh very well, he had a mysterious scar on his forehead that he’d received
when the man who had been terrorizing magical Britain had snuck into his house
when he’d been a baby and murdered his parents, only to somehow be utterly
destroyed when he’d tried to kill Harry in his cradle. When Harry walked down the street, people
took one look at his forehead and bowed, or tried to get his autograph, or some
such nonsense.
None of
that meant that Harry Potter wasn’t perfectly normal and ordinary—average,
even. Dull as dishwater and as
remarkable. He had the grades to prove
it.
Sitting
in one of the compartments of the grand red steam locomotive that wound its way
unseen through the British countryside , Harry felt his spirits rise. He was leaving his miserable home life and
going to his true home—Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, his magical
public school. The only blood relation
he had were the Dursleys: fat bully Uncle Vernon, skeletal bully Aunt Petunia,
his mother’s sister, and even fatter bully cousin Dudley. Each in their own unique way had his life
quite terrible. Until he had been
twelve, he’d lived in a cupboard underneath the stairs. His clothes were hand-me-downs from Dudley,
who was not and had never been even close to his size. He’d frequently been told that he was a)
unwanted, b) a freak, and c) a waster.
It had
been particularly bad this summer.
Firstly, he’d been forbidden his school books. He’d been unable to start his holiday
homework until the night he’d snuck down to where they’d been hidden and stole
his books back. Harry had been forced to
do his homework in the dead of night like a fugitive.
Secondly,
Harry had been forced to run away from home after he’d accidently blown up
Uncle Vernon’s sister like a balloon. It
had been an accident, and she had deserved it, but it was enough for him to
flee his home –again, like a fugitive.
Harry had imagined police chasing after him for breaking magical
law. Not only was he an underage wizard,
thus not allowed to do any magic at home away from school, but he’d done magic
upon a muggle, or non-magical person.
This was a serious breach of the secrecy laws that protected muggle from
wizards (or possibly the other way around; it was supposedly taught in History
of Magic, but as that was the most deadly boring subject in school, he’d never
been bothered to remember anything that was taught).
However,
it had all turned out fine. The Minister
of Magic himself had reassured him that no legal consequences would dog him,
and Harry was allowed to stay at Diagon Alley, the magical high street and market
town that was located in the heart of London.
He’d stayed there for the rest of summer, enjoying strange sweets and
browsing weird shops. Everything would
have been fine except for the third thing.
Harry
was being chased by a great big dog. He
had noticed it on the night that he had run away from home. A huge dog, black as anything, had been
watching him on that summer night, just as the wizarding bus had picked him up
to take him to Diagon Alley. It had
badly frightened Harry, not least because it was one more thing in a night of
one more things. However, Harry would
have thought nothing more of it if he hadn’t seen a picture of a similar great
big dog on the cover of a book of death omens.
Apparently, the Grim, as the dog was called, was the most terrible sign
of oncoming death.
It
certainly didn’t help that Sirius Black, an insane follower of Lord Voldemort,
the man who had murdered Harry’s parents, had recently escaped from
prison. Apparently, Black had vowed to
avenge his master by killing Harry, or some such. Honestly, Harry wasn’t too bothered—people
vowing to kill him were getting to be pretty old hat by this point.
And
life went on. He’d boarded the train to
Hogwarts on a dreary day that was rapidly becoming dark with rain. Already it seemed more night than day outside
the train’s windows. The light from the
gas lamps that had automatically lit up some time before gave a cheerful, warm
glow that was nothing like the cold florescence and garish neon that Harry
associated with muggle lights. There was
something more human and humane about the flames that danced about on the walls
of the cabin.
Harry
was sitting in the rearmost cabin of the train, his school trunk stowed above
him. With him were his two best friends,
but surprisingly there was an adult in the cabin. The only adult that the Hogwarts students
ever saw on the train was the lunch trolley woman, who came by to sell treats
and other food. But this tired-seeming
man, who had spent the entire time since before the train left Kings Cross
Station sleeping, was apparently a new teacher on his own way to Hogwarts. His name was R.J. Lupin, which had a slightly
sinister sound to it. In the back of his
mind, Harry hoped that this one at least wouldn’t be trying to actively murder
him. It would make for a nice change to
not be threatened by a grown-up.
A
thought occurred to Harry. Turning to
one of his friends, a girl with bushy hair who had her face stuck in a book—The
Standard Book of Spells, Grade Three—Harry asked, “Hermione, how is my life
‘Dickensian’? I mean, the only ghosts I
ever meet are at Hogwarts and they’re quite nice, really.”
“What?”
said a baffled Hermione Granger. The
daughter of two non-magical dentists, she had taken to magic with a
passion. She read voraciously,
oftentimes did things to her friends ‘for their own good,’ and had built a
reputation as one of the smartest girls in the school, if not the
smartest. She also had a reputation for
being the swottiest swot this side of Swotland, but that was counterbalanced by
the number of times she’d almost died in one of Harry’s adventures. Being one of the smartest people around, she
quickly picked up the thread of conversation.
With a sigh, she answered. “Oh,
honestly, Harry. Haven’t you ever read
any of Charles Dickens’ other books?”
“I
haven’t read that one,” said Harry proudly.
Hermione gave a disgusted sniff in response. “I only used to watch the movie before the
Queen’s Christmas message.”
The
third occupant of the car looked at them curiously. He was a tall, redheaded boy, with a long,
thin nose and an explosion of freckles on his face. Ron Weasley was the first friend that Harry
had ever made, never mind the first wizard friend he’d made. He was in the same year as Harry and
Hermione, but unlike them came from a wizarding family. As oftentimes as Ron was astonished by
Harry’s ignorance of the wizarding world, so was Harry surprised by how wrong
Ron could be about the muggle world.
“Sorry, what’s this?”
“Well,
on Christmas day, the Queen comes on the telly to make a speech,” explained
Harry. “I haven’t seen one since I
started going to Hogwarts, but before then Uncle Vernon used to make us all
watch it. It’s usually about, oh I
don’t know, wars and marriages and like that.”
“I know
about the Queen,” said Ron in exasperation.
“We get her on the wireless, though I can’t understand half of what she
bangs on about. No, who’s this Charles
Dickens bloke?”
“Well,
he’s a writer,” started Hermione excitedly.
Hermione loved books, and one of the best ways to both distract her and
get her attention was to mention a book.
Already a pleased flush was spreading across her face.
Ron, on
the other hand, cared very little for books.
If it was not about the history of his favorite sport, Quidditch, then
he would much rather not have anything to do with a book. This meant that when studying with Ron, Harry
was far more likely to skive off than not.
Already Ron was tuning out, his gaze not-so-politely blank as Hermione
went on to describe Charles Dickens and his impact on Victorian-era social
justice.
Harry,
whose fault this was, made the effort of grunting every once in a while, as if
in agreement. However Hermione soon became
absorbed in her book once more, and all three of them fell into a companionable
silence. Though Ron had wanted to play
exploding snaps, Harry had pointed out the sleeping professor in the cabin. Instead he and Harry were playing wizard
chess, though Ron had made sure that the pieces fought each other
silently. To make up for it, the pieces
were being very melodramatic, pantomiming grievous wounds and taking a long
time to die.
Ron was
about to tell the pieces off when he became distracted by his stomach. Going over to the window, and being careful
not to disturb Professor Lupin, Ron went to see if he could tell how far from
the school and its feast they were. Even
as Ron looked out the window, the train had begun to slow down, which surprised
Hermione greatly.
“But
we’re not nearly at school yet,” she said, checking her wristwatch. “We shouldn’t be slowing down at all.”
“Well,
we are,” said Ron. “So why’re we
stopping?”
“I
don’t know,” said Hermione. Each word
was distinct and filled with distaste.
Hermione hated not knowing, and even more hated admitting not knowing to
someone other than a teacher. As often
as Harry led them into adventures, so too did Hermione lead the three of them into
investigations—though those investigations usually began in the library, ended
in the library, and stayed in the library.
The
train came to a stop with a great hiss and squeal, which was soon followed by
dull thuds and crashes as peoples’ luggage fell from their racks. Yells of pain and surprised floated through
the train corridors.
“I
think some people are getting onto the train,” said Ron, his face still pressed
against the window. “They look like—”
Whatever
else he was going to say was cut off by the lights of the train suddenly going
out. The gentle glow of the wall lamps
snuffed out in their cabin. Harry, who
had been sticking his head out into the corridor, saw that the same was true
for the rest of the train. With the
darkness outside from the storm, the train was completely dark. Already the grumbling complaints from the
other students on the train turned into panicked exclamations. People began shouting, trying to find friends
in the dark.
It even
happened in Harry’s cabin, as first Neville Longbottom, a fellow third year and
one of Harry’s roommates, stumbled in.
He was soon followed by Ginny Weasley, Ron’s little sister and a second
year. As they banged into each other in
the dark, yelling all the while, the Professor woke up and illuminated the
cabin with a flame that floated just above his open hand.
The
relief that Harry felt at having both light and someone taking charge was
snuffed out like the cabin lights when someone began to open the cabin
door. Standing there was a cloaked
figure. It— for it was impossible to
tell if it was a man or woman beneath that black cloak—loomed over everyone,
the top of its hood brushing the ceiling.
Mist gathered around its unseen feet and crawled up it and slowly filled
the cabin. The only thing that was
visible was a single hand, scabrous and skeletal.
As if
sensing Harry’s gaze somehow from beneath its concealing hood, the figure
started to withdraw its hand back into its cloak. But then, before it had halfway hidden it,
the figure stopped. Professor Lupin
began to lunge forward, but before he could pull Harry back the figure reached
out and grabbed Harry. The corpse-like
hand gripped Harry firmly. Terror filled
him, and his mind went blank with it.
Never before had he been so frightened.
Even facing his parents’ murderer, his monstrously pale face pushing out
the back of his Defense against the Dark Arts professor, had not been as
horrifying as that hand touching him.
The
cloaked figure drew in a deep breath, the hissing inhalation loud and
ominous. And with it, it seemed that the
figure was somehow breathing in all the happiness from the world. While before he had been struggling against
the grip despite his fear, Harry went limp in the figure’s grasp. The mist seemed to fill him, his mouth and
nose suffocated with it. The wand that
Harry had unconsciously drawn from his pocket, but had been too stupid to use,
fell to the floor. Harry was distantly
aware of the shouts of his friends and the Professor, but it all seemed so far
away. The figure drew back the hood
slightly, revealing . . . .
Everything
went dark.