UNIMENCY

* * *

Same day, the Sun Cottage

"Wait… I don't understand. I don't doubt you or think you're lying or anything, but, Harry… Magic doesn't work like that. It just doesn't."

Hermione and Harry loitered about the library a couple of hours after Snape had fled the cottage, while Harry told his friend a few things about his way of doing magic. She seemed uncertain, which was quite insulting in all honesty.

"What are you doing then? If not doubting me." Harry sat down on the armrest of one of the soft plush armchairs in the furthest corner of the library and crossed his arms.

"I'm sorry," Hermione looked apologetic. "I just… I just don't understand. Not a single book I have ever read had even a hint on what you're saying."

"Believe me, I know. I've spent a couple of years in the ministry's restricted archives searching for the lore, and all I've managed to find was a single piece of parchment. An unfinished and barely legible draft of some Ancient bloke's study."

"Where did you get the name of the art then? Whatever it is."

"It doesn't matter. What does, though, is whatever stood for the government at the time forbidding the use and study of this art with the most awful consequences. They basically tortured to death anyone who dared to study it, even those who were just noticed talking or being in a hearing distance from someone who spoke the art's name."

Hermione's eyes widened and she put the mug of freezing cold coffee she was holding onto the small corner-table on her left. "It can't be that bad, cat it?"

Harry measured his friend with a calculating gaze. Should he tell her? It kind of was the whole point of this discussion, but… Something nagged at him. "It's not a great idea. It's not a great idea. It's not a great idea…" Hermione, although, might get it into her head to look for answers by herself if she didn't understand the magnitude of the situation. It was more than likely, actually. Bollocks…

"But it is. It's like a quintessence of all that unforgivables are. There's no defence against it, no way to hide. I can control your magic, your body, and your mind even at great distances. And I can do it without even a conscious thought, let alone lifting a finger. You see that fly over there?" Harry asked, pointing at the nearest bookcase. "What's it doing?" 

"Er… Flying?.."

"And now it drops dead." The poor fly froze in the air and fell on the carpeted floor, dead as a rock. "Imagine it being a human. You see what I mean?"

Hermione stared at the fly, completely horrified. "I do," she whispered and looked up at Harry who continued:

"Promise me that you will never even think of this art again. Promise me that you will never ask me to tell you its name. Promise me that you will never ever again ask me to explain how I do things. This art is not bad in itself. It's just a tool like any other, but in the wrong hands it will be a complete and utter horror. It will be Hell on Earth. Promise me Hermione."

She was gobsmacked, which was what Harry was aiming for. She sat in the opposite armchair, just staring at him for a few moments, and finally nodded. "I understand." She hesitated. "And… And I promise, of course."

Harry nodded.

"So what do you think of my library?"

Hermione beamed and erupted in praise. "It's so great! I love it, Harry! It's not a Hogwarts library, of course, but all the good books that I could think of, I found. You even have a large muggle fiction section! Can I borrow something? I swear, I'll be extremely careful, you know me. Please?"

She looked so hopeful, it made Harry smile fondly. "Of course, you can borrow whatever caught your fancy, I don't mind."

"Thanks!" Hermione jumped out of her seat and shot for the bookcases. Harry didn't follow her. He sat down in the armchair properly, taking out his cigarettes and a lighter. He could use magic instead, but there was something calming in the soft click of the lighter. Harry leaned his head on the backrest and took a long drag, looking at the white ceiling and thinking.

He trusted Hermione. He really did. He could've told her more, there really wasn't such a grave danger of people finding out. The only way for it to happen, besides the obvious one, would be through Legilimency, and in all of magical Britain there wasn't a big number of people who knew of its existence to start with, let alone were capable of successfully using it. But Harry wouldn't have lived that long if were so careless.

He glanced around the room. The library was quiet and warm. Plain beige walls were lined with shelves from top to bottom along the perimeter of the room, interspersed with six windows and two doors. In the centre of the room also stood several three metres high bookcases, forming a large "U". The armchairs and a small table were in the furthest from the main double doors corner and directly across another simpler door that led to Harry's study.

There was a time when Harry thought of magically enlarging the space, because, as it turned out, the Manor's collection combined with his own was quite large, but in the end he decided against it. He divided the collection instead, placing the books on Dark Arts and Defence in the study and everything potions and muggle science related — to the basement where his labs were. A big part of the Manor collection — the more useless one — stayed in the main house and was diligently tended to by Dorothy — the Head Elf of the Potter family.

Harry blinked, tearing himself out of thoughts about books and elves. He had to decide whether to put some protections on what information about Unimency Hermione now had or try to become less paranoid, which did not seem possible in all honesty.

"You're not thinking of obliviating me, are you?" Hermione glided out from behind the nearest bookcase, looking worried. Harry glanced at her, breathing out a wisp of smoke towards the ceiling.

"I'm thinking about putting a shield around the dangerous information in your mind."

"How are you going to do that? The only person I know who knows Occlumency is professor Snape. Are you going to tell him too? Isn't it dangerous?"

Harry raised an eyebrow. 

"Or are you telling me that you've mastered Occlumency and I'm just continuing to think of you as the boy you no longer are? How long have you been smoking, by the way?"

Harry extinguished his cigarette, and, magically vanishing it, got up. "So many questions at once, Hermione," he smirked. "Let's go to the study, I have a book on Occlumency there."

The two of them went to the next room: Harry — leading the way, and Hermione — following, hugging three thick books she'd picked to her chest.

"Frederick, you dead bastard, let the bird go…"

The next morning was cloudy, but thankfully it did not rain. Harry got up at seven, as was his habit, feeling unusually energetic, so after brushing his teeth, he put on some shorts and a t-shirt, and went for a run in the garden. He rarely did it, only when the mood was right, which was the case this day. Like cooking, fresh air did wonders with his equilibrium, and not for the first time, Harry was glad that he lived on a sparsely populated island among trees and hills. His ancestors sure knew how to pick places.

After a quick shower, Harry made himself a cheese omelette, fried some bacon, and had a peaceful breakfast with Penelope, quietly discussing what needed to be done around the house that day. Approximately at nine, he finally sat down at his desk in the study to deal with a large pile of safe mail that made it through the sifting ward around the grounds that didn't allow anything dangerous to get inside. Most of what had gotten through it was complete bullshit: letters from his faithful fans who, naturally, always believed in him without a hint of a doubt, letters from leeches, as Harry called them, who barrelled him with invitations to their numerous social events, job openings, invitations to take him on as an apprentice, love letters, marriage proposals, and so on. His desk was perpetually drowning in scribbles, often perfumed, and it was only two weeks since the battle. Heaving a world-weary sigh, Harry started to sort through the pile, burning everything unimportant and vanishing the ashes before they hit the floor.

It took him forty-five minutes to finish the task. He counted one hundred and thirteen letters total, and only one of them survived. It was an official notice from the Gringotts goblins, who asked him to the bank next Thursday to "reach an agreement concerning the events of the 1st of May to the complete satisfaction of both parties". 

"Satisfaction my arse," Harry mumbled, scanning  the page one more time. Money, that's what those little belligerent wankers wanted.  Money, or everything that was easily converted into money, nothing more. After his stunt with the Lestrange vault that left a giant stain on the bank's otherwise pristine reputation, the goblins definitely were going to ask for a hell of a lot more than Harry was willing to give. He made a mental note to dig up all bank-related information the ministry had before the meeting.

His musings were interrupted — once again — by Kreacher. The elf appeared in front of his desk, pulling at his ear.

"Good morning, Kreacher. What is it?" Harry asked patiently. Kreacher's mood swings were legendary… The elf still wasn't completely recovered from the prolonged contact with Riddle's horcrux, probably never will be, and Harry tried to be mindful of that fact. 

"Good morning, sir. It is the female professor from the Order organisation. McGonagall. She asks Kreacher…" he shook his head slightly. "She asks me to bring her to you, master. Says she has important things to tell."

Harry leaned back in his chair. "She does, doesn't she. Why are all of them apparently unable to leave me be, hm, Kreature?" He got up. "Don't answer that."

Kreature bowed.

"Bring her to the Entrance hall then, I'll get down shortly."

The elf left. Harry put the Gringotts letter into the top drawer of his desk, stretched, and made for the door to the library.

What the hell did she want from him now?

He made his way downstairs. McGonagall was standing near the railing, gripping it and looking at the ceiling. 

"His name's Alfred," Harry said, also shifting his gaze up at the magnificent white cockatoo who curiously watched the newcomer from one of the branches.

"It's good to know, Mr Potter," replied McGonagall, glancing at him briefly.

"Well, I have good news,” she announced cheerfully to the glass back door behind him. So she talked with Snape then. Interesting.

"Let's go to the drawing room," invited Harry and without another word moved deeper into the house.

The drawing room was in the left wing of the ground floor, and was about the same size as the library above it. It had a big ornamented fireplace, two narrow half-empty bookcases in the furthest corners, a large soft couch with two matching armchairs, and a coffee table. The rest of it was just air and light. It looked nice, but for some reason Harry didn't like this room much, so he almost never was here.

When they were seated — Harry on the couch and McGonagall on the armchair on his left — the professor cleared her throat loudly and tried to keep her eyes on Harry's face without staring outright or broadcasting her shock. A truly commendable endeavour…

"So what's the good news, professor?" Harry asked, breaking the silence, but not the tension.

"Yes," McGonagall blinked out of her stupor. "Excuse me, Mr Potter. We'll get to it in a minute." Her gaze turned back to Harry's face. "First, I'd like to hear some sort of explanation from you concerning your older appearance and this place, if you don't mind."

"And if I do mind?"

McGonagall's eyebrows jumped to her hairline, and Harry leaned toward her. 

"What if I do mind sharing my personal business with former teachers for no reason whatsoever, professor?" he repeated calmly. "Why are you asking?"

"Why am I… War hero or not, Mr Potter, this—"

"You people seem to be awfully fixated on my supposed status as a war hero," Harry snapped, interrupting her, and stood up. "If you also came here to berate me for whatever reason, I have no interest in listening to any of it. My elf will see you out."

With one last glance at the professor, Harry started to walk toward the door. 

"I worry about you, Harry, is it so wrong of me?" McGonagall called after him, and he stopped. "You three have been through a lot in recent years, unforgivably more than you should have. I just wish to know what happened to you to make sure you're alright."

Harry turned around.

"I am fine. Although, however it is, professor, no amount of worries on your part gives you a right to demand anything from me, least of all explanations. Regardless of my name or any possible social statuses, I am a grown man. I'm not your student anymore, professor, I don't owe you any answers."

Silence fell again, and with every second McGonagall was becoming more and more visibly angry.

"You're mistaken, Mr Potter. You still are one of my students as you are still enrolled at the school, and you do owe me a lot more than just answers. I have been your teacher for six years, for a start, and I have always helped you."

Harry's calm wavered as well. For a fleeting moment he debated whether or not he should dump on her head some of his thoughts about her helping hand in Albus Dumbledore dumping him on the Dursleys' threshold (because it was the only thing he could blame her for, even if only partially), just to see her reaction, but decided against it. Simultaneously, he decided against having this whole argument altogether, therefore let the silence stretch. He strode leisurely to the window and watched the wind toying with the leaves gently. About five minutes passed.

"Headmaster Snape and I decided to try and reopen the school this September, and if we do, we'll be offering your year an opportunity to properly complete your studies and pass your NEWTs," McGonagall said at last, giving up.

Harry was silent for a moment. "Snape's still the Headmaster then?"

"He's agreed to stay."

"Has the Board agreed too?"

"Oh, they will, don't you worry about that."

Harry smirked, turning back to the professor. "I see. And has he asked you to make house calls to me and my ex-yearmates to share the news?"

"No, Mr Potter. The rest of your class will receive a letter tomorrow, explaining all the details."

"And I won't?"

McGonagall sighed in exasperation. "You will too, naturally."

"Don't bother with it."

"Why the heck not?"”

"Because I will not be returning to your school."

"Why not?!"

So eloquent… She started to really piss him off.

"Because I don’t want to," he drawled. "Is there anything else?"

“YES!”

Harry wanted to sigh — or scream — but didn't. He just watched his guest calmly, waiting. McGonagall looked uncertain all of a sudden, nervous even, which in turn made Harry less certain that allowing her to come here was a good idea.

"Mr Potter, I can see that we had gotten off to a wrong start. If I offended you in any way, accept my apologies. I sincerely do worry about you and wish you nothing short of the best. All my enquiries, however inappropriately you think them phrased, were made to dispel my worries, nothing more. I am your friend, Mr Potter."

"Indeed…" Harry shook his head and returned to the couch.

"Professor. In the interest of speed. I did not mean to imply that I'm offended by your questions. Believe me, I'm not. There was nothing there to feel offended by. Shall we move on? Whatever so outlandish happened that you felt it necessary to make it all the way here?"

"You're not going to answer any of my questions, are you?"

Oh, for fuck’s sake!

"Fine. If you insist. In regards to my appearance: I'm looking older because I am older. I'm twenty-four. I've been using — legally — a… let's call it a kind of time turner I bought in Japan. If you want further explanations, you can ask Shacklebolt for them. As for the scars and what-not, I'm afraid, you'll have to demand explanations from Dumbledore. This cottage is a former dowager house on Potter Manor grounds, so it is (as is everything around it in about ten miles to the east) mine. I will not be returning to the school because, as strange as it may seem to you, I do not want to. Hogwarts gave me nothing but troubles, and the overall level of education there frankly is not worth it. Now, could we please return to the matter at hand?"

McGonagall paled. "Of course. I just…"

"Oh, for god's sake!.. I don't have all day. Leave your shocked sorrowful exclamations to yourself."

"Fine!" McGonagall snapped. "Be it that way. I came to you, Mr Potter, to discuss the state of the school—" Harry opened his mouth to say that he wasn't really interested in it, but wasn't fast enough. "Do not interrupt me, young man! You, after all, are the one who's responsible for it!" she continued in a loud voice, but then her brain seemed to catch up with her mouth, and McGonagall flushed. "At least partially…" she added quietly.

Honestly. Harry wasn't a fan of the house system, but this was the one occasion when he truly wanted to scream, 'Gryffindors!'. She was right, though, damn her. Thinking back, he could've — should've really — taken his confrontation with Tom to some other place that at the very least wasn't swarming with small children. But at that moment he selfishly thought only of his impending death, not giving a flying fuck about potential casualties, be they humans or castles. Flashing news: he was not infallible!

Shocking. Truly.

But the very first thing that he learned about this world over the Dursley’s knee all those years ago was that his every action, even the smallest one, always had consequences. And that thing still held true.

"Alright. Fine. What would you want me to do about the state of the blasted castle?"

"I need you to attend the Board of Governors’ meeting next Tuesday."

It was Harry’s turn to be stunned into silence.

"And I need you to make a donation to the school. If you’re willing, of course, it’s completely up to you…"

"Is it now?"

* * *