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Chapter 9 - Caring and sharing

The next morning, Harry sat in the Great Hall. The breakfast meal period on Saturday always had an extra hour, to accommodate those who liked to take advantage of the day off to sleep in a little. As a result, Saturday mornings the crowd was spread out more, and there was more elbow room. He had a section of the long Gryffindor table to himself. He had finished his breakfast and his coffee, and had just stepped away from the table. He had his shrunken Firebolt in his pocket; and planned on meeting with his Head of House, and then spending the morning flying.

"Well, take a look, boys! If it isn't ol' Scar-Head." Harry sighed. There wasn't a single student in the school who didn't know that voice belonged to Draco Malfoy, no matter what the words were. He turned to face Malfoy, seeing his ever-present cohorts, Crabbe and Goyle, flanking him.

"Living up to your name again, I see." A part of Harry's mind was pleased with his detachment. A year earlier, and he would have been nearly apoplectic, unable to think clearly, and would have embarrassed himself. This is going to be my easiest confrontation this week.

"Of course, why not? I have a name to be proud of," answered the smug boy, swaggering and grinning.

"Ah... I see you don't understand. Let me help you, Malfoy. A very old name, from the Norman -- that's very old French -- /mal fois/, meaning 'bad time'." He could see that the blond hadn't known that. "Fitting, don't you think? Whenever a Malfoy is in the room, someone is having a bad time?"

"Get him!" growled Malfoy -- or at least that's what he tried to say, reaching for his wand at the same time the two thugs began to move forward. He never got to finish the words or the movement.

Harry, conversely, had already moved -- too fast to see. He punched out with both hands, catching both the conveniently-positioned sidekicks upon the points of their chins. They lost consciousness before they even began to fall, their jaws broken. Soon enough after as to make little difference, his left leg had kicked out to Malfoy himself, nailing him in the goolies. Malfoy would have been squealing in the fetal position, save that it was impossible for someone being dangled upside-down by one leg.

Hanging head-down, Malfoy was in a superb position for seeing, at close range, exactly how effective his bodyguards were being at the moment -- which is to say, none at all. Harry was holding him off the floor by one ankle, using only one hand.

"I appears as if Mr. Bad Time has difficulty learning from life experience," Harry said to him. "Let's find out for sure, shall we?" The only sound Malfoy could make was a strangled, gurgling-mewling squeal. The pain from his crotch having usurped his capacity for speech, he found himself needing all of his concentration to keep from vomiting. "You must be a very caring, sharing sort of bloke, I think. Always looking for ways to be a part of my life. I think I understand, now. You just want to be around me, to know what my life is like.

"This is what my life has been like, Draco. Until now, sixteen years of pain, without let-up. Sixteen years of helplessness. Sixteen years of 'not fair'. While you whined like the spoiled little bitch that you are when your porridge was too cold, I got broken limbs for daring to ask permission to go take a shit." Harry reached with his free hand and twisted an arm, breaking it at the elbow. Malfoy let loose a piteous, squalling scream. "I got black eyes to match the scar on my head, and punches to the stomach when I cried for being hungry." Harry punched the upside-down Malfoy in the gut, causing the crying rich boy to throw up all over the floor.

Harry turned Malfoy right side up so he wouldn't drown, and continued to hold him off the floor with one hand -- this time, bunched in the arrogant young wizard's robes. He was still talking in a normal, calm tone of voice; as if talking about the weather, or asking a shopkeeper what was on sale.

"Every time you have attempted to bully me, Malfoy, you have gotten hurt or embarrassed. Right?" When no answer was forthcoming, Harry punched him in the side of the head. "Pay attention, arse-wipe. Every single time, you've either walked away red in the face, or had your arse handed to you." Another crushing punch, breaking a cheekbone. "And every time, you've said the same kind of thing. 'Just you wait, Potter!'" Punch. " 'The Dark Lord will get you, Potter!' " Punch. " 'I'll get you next time, Potter!' " Punch. " 'You can't hide behind mudbloods forever, Potter!' " Punch. "You reek of the stench of stupidity, Mr. Malfoy. Your petty, spoiled, childish little brainlet hasn't figured out yet that you're not strong enough to be the bully." Punch. "Not good enough." Punch. "Not smart enough." Punch. There was little remaining intact on the face of the once-handsome young man; what wasn't bleeding had collapsed.

"Now that your face is hamburger pulp, you're covered in your own puke, and your rather unimpressive wedding tackle has just been rendered even more ineffectual than it already was, I want you to listen very carefully. I'll try to explain in small words. Are you listening, ferret-boy?" He shook the barely-conscious Malfoy with one hand, rattling him about like a doll, dripping blood, snot and vomit on the floor. "Good." Harry allowed some magic to pool behind his eyes. "Leave me alone. Leave my friends alone. Leave everyone alone. Do not ever speak in my presence. If I ever hear your voice within range of my hearing, even so much as a whisper, ever, at any time, for the rest of your life, here or anywhere else... there will be nothing left of you but a shit-stain on the ground for the house elves to scrape up and mail to your mother."

Casually flipping his wrist around, Harry flung Malfoy all the way across the Great Hall and into the stone wall, where he fell to the ground in a broken heap fifty-three feet away.

***

Eleven minutes later at nine o'clock, Harry was standing outside Professor McGonagall's office door, having knocked and determined that she wasn't there.

Thirty minutes after that at nine-thirty, she appeared at the end of the hall moving toward her office, where Harry was still waiting. He was seated on a rather comfortable wing-back chair, his staff leaning against the wall, leafing through a book at a rate of a page every few seconds.

Seeing her, he stood, put the book away inside his robes, took up his staff and vanished the chair. Minerva noted that he wasn't standing belligerently, or repentantly, or timidly, or even indifferently. He was just standing, no emotion showing at all, as if he could wait thus until the end of the universe.

She's afraid, realized Harry. She saw what I did in the Great Hall, and she's terrified that I'll get violent with her.

"Good morning, Professor McGonagall." He bowed slightly, knowing that she was of the old 'upright' upbringing and would understand it. "It really is very nice to see you again."

She stopped in front of him, just out of arm's reach. She's trying to hide it, but she's worried now. "Please don't worry, Professor. You have no reason to fear me."

She drew herself up, almost haughty, saying, "It has been a very long time since a sixteen-year-old boy caused me to fear, Mr. Potter." Nice one, Minerva. You don't actually deny being afraid, but you make it look as if you deny it. She kept up the pretense until, having opened her door, she had seen them both seated by the fire in her office.

They both looked into the fire for a few moments on the cold November morning -- she searching for a way to begin, and he giving her the few moments she needed to collect her thoughts. After a bit, she sighed and began.

"Mr. Potter, I'm afraid I just have no idea what to do with you." Her look took any sting out of the words that may have been there.

Harry could tell that her emotional side desperately wanted to light right into him at top volume for what he'd done to Malfoy. Her teacher side wanted to punish or report him. But he could also tell that her intellectual side was acknowledging the only effective way of dealing with a schoolyard bully. The level of conflict within her was so high that she didn't trust herself to give voice to any of those sides. Not yet, at least.

He looked at her and said, "Will you please call me Harry?"

"I'm afraid not, Mr. Potter; it won't do. I cannot be seen to be partial to any student, no matter how much I may wish. Favoritism, or unequal treatment, just won't do; any more than any other injustice."

Harry sighed. This wasn't going to be easy. "Has Dumbledore told you the rest of the prophesy concerning me and Voldemort?"

"No," she said, quietly.

Harry recited it to her, word for word -- the words that were burned into his soul -- with no emotion, no inflection, no emphasis.

"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 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..."

It didn't take long. When he finished, she was still looking into the fire, saying nothing.

"Now, wouldn't you say that's pretty flagrant unfair treatment? Which part of that prophesy contains the much-vaunted justice you seek?" He paused, giving her time to answer, but she did not so much as blink.

"Last June, the last day of school, emotions came the closest yet of all the things that have nearly killed me. Do you know why I'm alive?" He heard her breath catch, stopping herself from gasping at the last second. "I spent the first three days of my summer holiday lying in a puddle of my own blood and urine, unable to move, unable to call for help, and unable to think of anything but pain. Then I spent another week in bed, being fed potions by a house elf because I couldn't trust the healers.

"Tea?" he asked, waving his hand. A small table with a complete tea service appeared. "Please, help yourself. Do you know how many times I have been subjected to the Cruciatus curse, Professor?" He saw her flinch. "Including from Voldemort himself?" Another flinch. "Why am I still sane, while Neville's parents endure as vegetables in St. Mungo's?"

He was speaking as gently as he knew how, very quietly, almost mumbling. "I'm not asking this to make you feel bad, Professor; but to make you actually think of the answer. Why are Neville's parents in the booby-hatch, while I remain functional? The simple fact of the matter is that, in general, wizards and witches don't know what real pain is, or how to handle it."

She perked up at that. "Now just a moment, Mr. Potter; I cannot agree. How can you mean that? With all of the painful things you have seen in our world, how can you say such a thing?"

Harry replied, still gently, "I'll tell you how I can say such a thing. The Cruciatus curse is not the worst pain I have felt."

He could see her eyes widen, though she was still watching the fire. "When a wizard is injured," he said, "he gets magical pain potions to lessen the effect. He gets magical healing potions to make the most horrific maiming simply 'go away'. The first thing Madam Pomfrey does, the first thing St.Mungo's does, is to drug you or spell you to sleep so the poor wizard or witch doesn't have to suffer through all that nastiness.

"Professor, when you accidentally burn your hand, it hurts. So what do you do?"

"Put a healing poultice on it, perhaps some numbing salve if I have such around," she answered.

"And you do so immediately, as anyone would, because it hurts like... well, like being burned. Right?" She nodded, confused. "So, imagine that pain coming. And then think about the sure and certain knowledge that it isn't going to go away. That burned hand is going to hurt like a burned hand, twenty-four hours a day, for several days, and the pain will not be completely gone for at least two weeks."

Her face slowly fell slack, as the full horror of what she was hearing settled in. "Then... well, what do muggles do when they get burned?"

"They spray it with antibiotics to prevent infection, cover it with cloth, accept the pain as part of life, and get on with things. There are drugs for some kinds of pain like headaches and sprains, but almost none of them work for burn pain."

"But that's... that's barbaric! You mean to tell me that there are millions of muggles who feel pain like this and just try to ignore it?" Her eyes were as wide as Harry had ever seen.

"Professor, doesn't anyone ever bother to find out about muggles? There are six billion muggles on Earth. Billion, with a 'b'. Six billion living, thinking, breathing, feeling people who go through life knowing that if their leg gets pulled off, they don't get to just stick it back on. People for whom a two-week stint of pain for a hand burn is no big deal, just another painful fact of life."

He let her ponder this, knowing the new ideas would take a moment to percolate in. Especially since McGonagall was an older woman, and rather set in her ideas. Perfectly normal and predictable for senior members of any society.

"Just a moment ago, I almost said that burn pain hurts like income tax. But that would not have given you a frame of reference, because your income tax is less than one percent -- it doesn't hurt. Most productive muggles have one-third to one-half of their earnings taken from them by force, by their governments.

"So to continue, wizards don't like pain, will go to any length to keep from having to feel it, and have no idea how to handle it. Muggle broken arms aren't healed in two days like mine was in second year. Depending on what kind of break, they feel the pain of a broken arm for six /months/." She was looking at him in horror, her mouth silently forming the words 'six months'.

"Mr. Potter, what does this have to do with... well, with..."

"With you calling me 'Harry'?" He walked in front of her, between her gaze and the fire. Grasping his raiment in both hands, he pulled and tore the covering from his upper body. Her eyes widened in horror as his scars were exposed. Dozens of livid scars against his pale hide; large, small, deep, wide... showing exactly the kind of skin one would expect on the body of a boy who had been flogged without mercy for 16 years, with any object that came to the sadistic hand of a psychotic Dursley.

"It's unfair that, in the eleven years before I came to Hogwarts, before you even met me, I had twenty-three bones broken. It's unfair that I'm the one who has to fend off that slobbering madman, Voldemort. It's unfair that Dumbledore sentenced me to a lifetime of physical and mental torture. It's unfair that the world calls me an unbalanced glory-hound when I try to warn them.

"It's unfair that the head of the 'house of the brave' is afraid to be seen to love good and hate evil. And it's unfair that the only adult within reach to show any sign of caring what happens to me is afraid to be my friend."

Harry's voice took on the ring of command. Not loud, just with a timbre of strength. "Professor, I'm sick to death of 'fairness' and false 'justice'. I shall now concern myself only with what is right, and what is not. Where do you stand?"

McGonagall looked at him for some time, before one corner of her mouth raised in amusement. "Very well, Mr... Very well, Harry. That was quite a little speech. Did you have it prepared, or was it extemporaneous?"

"The content has been in preparation for six months. The words were new today."

"And is there a name for this new kind of thinking? This rejection... rejection of things most would hold sacred?"

"It's called 'critical thinking', Professor. It is the basis of the Scientific Method, and has been around since before Archimedes," Harry replied. "The easiest way to consider it is this; accept nothing. Question everything. Especially the 'known'."

"In less than twenty-four hours, Harry, you have rocked much of my world back on its heels. You have frightened many people, and shamed some, and destroyed the lives of some. Is this your plan?"

"Only the dishonest fear truth." He paused, then continued when he saw her nod. "Professor, everything I have said and done since my return to school last night follows reason -- yes, including my public destruction of Malfoy. There was a carefully determined rationale and purpose behind everything I have said and done.

"I have recently realized that I cannot expect to react as a child, unreasoning, subject to the dictates of emotion, and expect to continue to live."

He turned away from her, waving his hand to conjure a clean set of robes with which to cover himself. "Now, here's what I'd like to do..."

***

By the midday meal, Harry was back in the Great Hall, having a lunch that was prepared by Dobby. Dobby said he didn't trust anybody else to cook for Harry, and Harry was inclined to agree. There were certainly still people in the castle who wished him ill -- perhaps more than before, he reckoned solemnly.

He had gained everything he had asked for. He was taking only one class: Defense Against the Dark Arts, which would start Monday for him. McGonagall had cautioned him that it was likely that the new professor would be quizzing him to find out where he stood in learning. Harry was fine with that, and intended to insert himself as assistant teacher, but felt no need to tell her that.

More importantly, he had the sanction of his head of house, the Deputy Headmistress, to hold his training classes in the Room of Requirement three times a week. Tuesday and Thursday evenings for four hours, and Sunday afternoons for five hours, Harry would be in that room, ready to instruct and help anybody who was interested in defending themselves against Voldemort and the Death Eaters. Merlin, it sounds like a low-rent punk band. 'Voldemort and the Death Eaters'. It's laughably pathetic, he mused. I don't know what sounds goofier; that or 'SPEW'.

At the beginning of the meal, Harry had sat alone at the end of the Gryffindor table furthest from the staff. Neville came in rather early, asking, "Do you mind if we sit with you, Harry?"

"Please do, Neville. Who's we? Ah... go ahead and tell Ginny she can come over too."

Neville waived to Ginny behind Harry, who came over and joined them. Harry could tell from the way they sat that both were hoping to get something going, but neither was ready to just say it yet. Hoping to get the conversation started on a positive note, Harry said, "So. What did you guys do this morning? Anything fun?"

Neville's eyes got wide, and Ginny's ears turned a little red at the tips. "Nothing as fun as that, Harry," Ginny said. "Neville was giving me some pointers on my Herbology. I have the OWL this year, and everybody knows he's the best herbologist in Gryffindor."

Harry chatted with them about how their school year had gone so far, when the procession began. In ones and twos, the Gryffs from the night before were coming in to lunch, seeing Harry there, and came over to apologize. Almost all of them were tongue-tied, stumbling through their apology like it was the hardest thing they'd ever had to do. For some of them, it may well have been.

Harry's answer to all was the same. "Thank you. If you'll come to the Room of Requirement tomorrow afternoon at two, I'm going to tell a story. Tell everybody to come."

He also stopped at the other house tables, chatting with some of the students, telling them the same thing. Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and even some of the Slytherins. "If you really want to know what's going on, come on by. I'll provide some snacks and drinks, tell the story, and we can have a little chat."

Hermione was the last to try to approach him. She was waiting for him in the hall, wringing her hands, and started crying as soon as she saw him, unable to even speak coherently. Harry took her by the elbow and led her outside. Since there were no classes on Saturday, they weren't the only ones out of doors on the cold November day.

He conjured a cloak for her, and drew his own close about him, silently casting warming charms on them both. They walked without speaking for a few moments, toward the lake. The world was grey around them; the winter overcast and making things look very drab. The air was cold and still, presaging a snowfall.

Harry waited. Hermione's betrayal had been the hardest to bear. Before he left the platform the previous June, he had been pretty sure he was in love with her. Now, he wasn't at all sure. In fact, with all that he had learned in the last six months, Hermione Granger's much-lauded intelligence was very much in doubt. Her next few words would determine what their relationship would be -- or even if there would be one.

Finally, she had gotten her tears under control, and she sat on the soggy grass, sniffing. Even though perhaps the kinder thing to do would be to help her along, Harry knew it wasn't the right thing to do. So he just waited, looking at her.

"Harry... why don't you say something?" she asked.

Harry didn't say a word, but raised an eyebrow pointedly.

"Okay, then... can you tell me just what is so wrong with me telling you to talk to Dumbledore? Why do you have to be so stubborn all the time? Why is my trying to get you to listen a betrayal?"

Harry let slam the doors of his face, quelling both anger and disappointment. "Your arrogance is blinding you. Still, even after all that you have heard, you refuse to admit even the barest possibility that you may have cocked things up. After all that, you would still sit here and dare to make any of this my fault? You are a consummate blame shifter, Hermione. You are still reacting, instead of thinking. Your histrionic tears do not absolve you, they condemn you -- they are as false as your words."

Hermione's face screwed up and started leaking again, her head shaking. "No, Harry, I really--"

"Stop. You didn't come to see me to open your heart and seek forgiveness. You came pretending to open your heart, and then attacked my character, in hopes that you could feel better about your betrayal. "

"How could you say that?" she wailed. "I just wanted to... I have always been..." and she trailed off.

"Always been what? Always been in the running for the Olympic gold medal in 'high-jump-to-the-wrong-conclusion'? You didn't even ask me any real questions; just accusations disguised as questions. You are still lying to yourself. You are not ready.

"Come to the Room of Requirement at two tomorrow afternoon. Or not. Up to you." With that, Harry walked away.