Categories > Books > Harry Potter > Specialis
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Set in between Harry’s forth and fifth year
Specialis (- Secrets)
“V-Vol-Voldemort!” he gasped once he recovered from the sensation of travelling by Portkey. He gulped, trying to push all of his will into his weak, trembling voice to make it heard by anyone. They had to know.
“Vol-Voldemort! He’s back! … He’s alive!” he panted.
He felt the Triwizard Cup being pried from his tense grip, heard soothing words as he was pulled from Cedric’s body and lifted off the ground.
He looked up into the worried eyes of Dumbledore.
“What did you say, my boy?”
“He’s back!” Harry shouted as loud as he could, his voice cracking under the strain before the dark night sky engulfed his vision and his body became limp.
Harry had been sent straight back to his relatives’ home after he had been given the O.K. from the healers and a calming draught for his jittery state.
Dumbledore had thought it best for his safety to be sent back under the roof protected by his mother’s blood, the place where – he had assured the stressed Lupin and Co. – he would be taken care of by his ‘generous’ relatives.
The Dursleys.
Harry was really beginning to doubt whether Dumbledore actually cared for his well being. After all, how could such a powerful and intelligent wizard like him not notice something was wrong when he stayed at the Dursleys?
The calming draught had worn off around the time he had woken up the next morning, and hearing the heavy footsteps slowly pacing towards his bedroom door did nothing for his nerves.
By the time his uncle Vernon had made it to his door and through all 7 bolts, locks and chains on it, Harry had worked himself into a terrified frenzy, thinking that Death Eaters or something of the sort had found him.
So as soon as the overweight Muggle laid eyes on Harry, his face showed fear for a split second. Seeing the wand pointed at him had the same effect as if it had been a gun to his head. His survival instincts taking over for less than a minute before he realised it was his nephew. With this realisation his instincts quickly took the backseat and the magic-hater became purple with rage.
Within seconds, Harry was on the floor feeling the repeated bolts of pain from his uncle’s kicks stab at his sides as the ‘generous’ treatment at the Dursleys home began.
Three weeks later, The-Boy-Who-Wouldn’t-Die was still paying for his little slip up.
~~
Harry winced as he moved to sit up in bed, his ribs protesting that they hadn’t healed since the last time Vernon ‘reminded’ him of how much of a magic hater he was.
The teenager heard the familiar ‘Boy’ yelled from the kitchen directly below his room and doubled his efforts to ignore his pain, knowing only more would come if he didn’t manage to complete his doubled chores on time. The Dursleys had taken to deciding when that time was, just to torment him.
Harry risked a minute to take a mouthful of the healing potion he kept in his bed side drawer.
Since he’d found the proper instructions for the healing draught in second year, he had risked his grade in Potions with many, many failed attempts at reproducing it with his mediocre potion skills. This had resulted in many, many detentions for not completeting his actual class work.
That was until Professor Snape realised what his student was trying to do.
From then on they had built a sort of relationship in which the Potions master would allow him to make his healing potion without asking questions about why the ‘Golden Boy’ would need it, and Harry would actually try to pass in Potions with minimal damage.
“Get down here, you little brat! Before I come and get you!”
Harry jumped at the shout but hurried to comply.
Set in between Harry’s forth and fifth year
Specialis (- Secrets)
“V-Vol-Voldemort!” he gasped once he recovered from the sensation of travelling by Portkey. He gulped, trying to push all of his will into his weak, trembling voice to make it heard by anyone. They had to know.
“Vol-Voldemort! He’s back! … He’s alive!” he panted.
He felt the Triwizard Cup being pried from his tense grip, heard soothing words as he was pulled from Cedric’s body and lifted off the ground.
He looked up into the worried eyes of Dumbledore.
“What did you say, my boy?”
“He’s back!” Harry shouted as loud as he could, his voice cracking under the strain before the dark night sky engulfed his vision and his body became limp.
Harry had been sent straight back to his relatives’ home after he had been given the O.K. from the healers and a calming draught for his jittery state.
Dumbledore had thought it best for his safety to be sent back under the roof protected by his mother’s blood, the place where – he had assured the stressed Lupin and Co. – he would be taken care of by his ‘generous’ relatives.
The Dursleys.
Harry was really beginning to doubt whether Dumbledore actually cared for his well being. After all, how could such a powerful and intelligent wizard like him not notice something was wrong when he stayed at the Dursleys?
The calming draught had worn off around the time he had woken up the next morning, and hearing the heavy footsteps slowly pacing towards his bedroom door did nothing for his nerves.
By the time his uncle Vernon had made it to his door and through all 7 bolts, locks and chains on it, Harry had worked himself into a terrified frenzy, thinking that Death Eaters or something of the sort had found him.
So as soon as the overweight Muggle laid eyes on Harry, his face showed fear for a split second. Seeing the wand pointed at him had the same effect as if it had been a gun to his head. His survival instincts taking over for less than a minute before he realised it was his nephew. With this realisation his instincts quickly took the backseat and the magic-hater became purple with rage.
Within seconds, Harry was on the floor feeling the repeated bolts of pain from his uncle’s kicks stab at his sides as the ‘generous’ treatment at the Dursleys home began.
Three weeks later, The-Boy-Who-Wouldn’t-Die was still paying for his little slip up.
~~
Harry winced as he moved to sit up in bed, his ribs protesting that they hadn’t healed since the last time Vernon ‘reminded’ him of how much of a magic hater he was.
The teenager heard the familiar ‘Boy’ yelled from the kitchen directly below his room and doubled his efforts to ignore his pain, knowing only more would come if he didn’t manage to complete his doubled chores on time. The Dursleys had taken to deciding when that time was, just to torment him.
Harry risked a minute to take a mouthful of the healing potion he kept in his bed side drawer.
Since he’d found the proper instructions for the healing draught in second year, he had risked his grade in Potions with many, many failed attempts at reproducing it with his mediocre potion skills. This had resulted in many, many detentions for not completeting his actual class work.
That was until Professor Snape realised what his student was trying to do.
From then on they had built a sort of relationship in which the Potions master would allow him to make his healing potion without asking questions about why the ‘Golden Boy’ would need it, and Harry would actually try to pass in Potions with minimal damage.
“Get down here, you little brat! Before I come and get you!”
Harry jumped at the shout but hurried to comply.
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