There had certainly been a bit of strange magic in Harry’s scar when he first came to Equestria, his mum had said last December, but there were no traces of it now.
What had happened when Tirek had attacked him? What had happened to the soul-piece? Based on what he remembered of Quirrellmort’s death, the soul-piece emerging from the wizard had been like a black cloud that had formed a face.
Harry had had a black mist around him, when Tirek attacked.
He didn’t remember seeing a face, at that time.
But he hadn’t exactly been in the most alert of conditions at that time, either.
The pain had been rather overwhelming.
He wondered if the reason his magic had been different from the other ponies was because he had had part of that vile creature’s magic and soul in his head?
His stomach felt like it had fallen to his toes.
Instead of Voldemort’s soul-piece absorbing him, as the diary-Tom was absorbing Goyle, according to the books, Harry had done the absorbing, back then.
Harry and Voldemort were now one person.
That would explain those odd memories he had from time to time. They weren’t his, but Voldemort’s.
He couldn’t stop shivering.
He had read that a person was the sum of their memories of their experiences. If a person had been burnt by a fire, and now feared fire, you could change the person by removing their memory of being burned. Then they wouldn’t fear fire anymore. Conversely, if you put the memory of being burned into a person, a “fake” memory, they would then fear fire.*
What did it mean when Tom had had seventeen years of memories and he had had only ten when they merged? Or had it been that only some of Voldemort’s memories persisted?
He had teleported, with Hermione, to get with the others. That was supposed to be impossible. He hadn’t tried it last year, keeping it as a secret escape should things go pear-shaped. It hadn’t helped. Quirrell had had him too firmly under his control for Harry to try, at first. Later, he had been to hurt to concentrate properly and try.
How had he done that? Was that another holdover from Tom? Had Tom, cursing the DADA position, added an exception to apparition in Hogwarts for himself? Or perhaps he had done it while still a student, when his wanderings and experimentation wouldn’t have been questioned? Perhaps he had carved out a privilege to bypass the spell that prevented apparition?
Which had then been inadvertently extended to the teleportation spell when the protective spells on the castle were modified by the ponies? His mum wouldn’t have deliberately let them miss such an obvious security problem. Maybe because it didn’t cross the school’s boundaries, that tiny alteration to the basic spell had been missed? Maybe Tom had added a magical trip-line that you could use magic to activate to allow him, or anyone he told the secret, to use apparition in Hogwarts?
Harry certainly wasn’t powerful enough to blow through the Castle’s protective spells! He would have to try, later.
Another disturbing aspect to discover. If anyone tried to say he had teleported, he would, as he had already planned, just say that it was impossible to use apparition and teleportation in Hogwarts. He must have used his magic to move very fast, and it had only seemed like he had teleported?
The Dursley’s had been right.
He was a disgusting freak.
Unknowingly, they had been trying to beat Voldemort out of him.
Too bad they had failed.
What would his mum say?
He had to keep this a secret!
If anypony found out they would fear and hate him.
They would say he was Voldemort.
He would lose everything.
Hermione and Ginny would disappear so fast, it would be like teleporting. The fillies might try to stay, but they, too, would eventually leave he wasn’t really Harry.
He would be alone. Again.
And this time, it would be for a good reason.
He would have to be especially vigilant about not thinking bad thoughts. Maybe he could remove all of Tom’s memories that weren’t spell-related? Instead of putting them in a pensieve, he could discard them! If they weren’t there, they couldn’t influence him. Right?
He had to protect his herd. Leaving wasn’t an option, Tom would just go after them in the hope to hurt him.
As the tears ran down his face, he had a bitter smile.
With some diligent digging into what memories he had, he would soon undoubtedly be far ahead of Tom in the magic department. He clenched his fists. When they next met, he would crush the insect for what he had done.
He would have to start setting aside time every night to go over his memories. He had to carefully and cautiously examine each and every one to separate his memories from Tom’s. That would be the only way to isolate the sources of those bad inclinations he had from time to time.
He would be a good pony!
^-~-^
Tom used a small bit of magic to wake him at sunrise. It was so small that he had doubts that the so-called “trace” would even have reacted. That he didn’t need his wand to cast it was a factor, too. If anything, it would have been counted as accidental magic.
However, the trace only worked on children under the age of wizarding majority, seventeen. Because the cut-off for Hogwarts was being born before September First, and his birthday was in December, he had started Hogwarts at almost twelve. Meaning he had been eighteen when his diary-self had been created. Goyle had been under majority, but Tom wasn’t. Tom had absorbed him and used his magic, with the diary’s, to create a new body with his magic. Which meant that the trace on Goyle’s magic would consider him to be sixty-eight years old. So, no trace to worry about!
Be that as it may, however, Tom was up, dressed, and finished with his morning routine in only a few minutes. He stepped outside the room, closed the door and cast a locking charm on it, followed by a muggle-aversion charm. Anyone thinking of going into this room would suddenly realize they needed to do something else more important, somewhere other than here. He also disillusioned himself to look like the man he had appeared as yesterday.
He headed down to the check-in desk. The morning muggle clerk had just arrived, fortunately. It was simple for him to walk over and lightly touch the muggle’s arm. He cast the confusion charm and a compulsion charm through his touch.
“You remember me coming down at eight, asking for a breakfast recommendation, and leaving. I returned an hour later. I said I had work to do, and I didn’t want to be disturbed. I did the same for lunch and dinner. You will remember that happening every day that you work. You will only vaguely remember the different restaurants open at eight that you recommended.” He stepped back from the blank-faced muggle.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said loudly.
The muggle blinked and shook his head uncertainly.
“Excuse me, sir,” Tom repeated.
The muggle jerked and turned to him, “Oh! I’m sorry!” he said with a conciliatory tone, “What can I do for you?”
“Could you suggest a nearby pub where I could get a decent breakfast?”
“Ah,” the muggle blinked again, “At this hour. I think the only thing open this early is the Chislehurst. That would be out the door, turn right, and about ten minutes up the street. You shouldn’t have any troubles finding it, it’s beside the Chislehurst Clinic. The meals are reasonably priced, if a bit plain.”
Tom nodded and murmured, “Thank you.” He headed out the door, and turned right. Once he was well out of sight, he ducked into an alley and apparated to another alley that was near a street much further away, and closer to the heart of London. After casting a new illusion, he looked to be a man of thirty in an expensive suit. Just in case someone was trying to track him.
It took a few minutes, but he finally waved a taxi down. “Gatwick airport, please.”
He hopped inside. The driver started moving the taxi. “Which terminal? U.K, France, Germany?” His voice trailed off.
Thinking quickly, Tom said, “Berlin.”
The driver nodded.
The airport was . . . stunning. It was all he could do not to stare as the cab approached. The size of the planes was beyond his imagination. They made the planes he had seen in 1945 look tiny. It was like seeing a train fly.
And their speed!
Nothing, absolutely nothing the wizards had could compare with the speed these planes had as they took to the sky. They easily climbed higher and faster than any wizard could hope to fly a broom — in only a matter of minutes. Not even the planes he had seen in 1944 could compare.
Of course, watching yesterday’s replay of the launch of the Buran spaceplane as it left for Mars — MARS for Merlin’s sake — had left him thoroughly shaken. The muggles had two bases on the moon and were now half-way to Mars to set up that base. The announcer had even talked about plans for the first flight to the next STAR!
The wizards had never considered, seriously, going to the moon. And Mars? Never even crossed their minds. They were quite happy with the world they knew.
All because of the “Special Technology” brought through the portal by the Atlanteans . . . no Equestrians. The Equestrians had managed to do what no wizard or witch had ever imagined — convinced them that magic was technology, and nothing to be alarmed or afraid of. As one news-reporter had put it, “Any technology sufficiently advanced from one’s own is indistinguishable from magic, but it isn’t magic, it’s technology!”
He knew it was magic, though, after watching the Equestrians in Hogwarts in Goyle’s memories, and watching them, himself, this year.
These Equestrians were much smarter than he had given them. Clearly smarter than the muggles, at the very least.
Which was why he was going to Gatwick. Heathrow was still recovering from yesterday, he imagined, with rescheduled and postponed flights. The general confusion should help to slip out of the country.
It took all of his control to bring up his occlumency barriers so he didn’t look like a child from a country village staring at the big city. He calmly thanked the driver, paid, and started inside the terminal. He took a long look around, trying to project the air of someone merely scanning their surroundings.
He was quite happy with his progress in occluding. It had progressed to the point where if he hadn’t known he was occluding, he would have thought he was a regular businessman in a new location, getting his bearings. All his emotions, except a mild curiosity, were firmly locked away.
Undoubtedly, he didn’t need to do this. The wizards were probably still looking for him in Hogwarts. That he might have fled would probably come to them later today. Then they’d start with the standard wizarding locations, first. That Goyle, or even a vampire, could manoeuvre in the muggle world would leave them slack-jawed in disbelief.
Back in 1944 he wouldn’t have worried about wandering in the muggle world — his magic was more than up to the task of dealing with problems. But the programs he had watched yesterday seemed to indicate that these muggles were much more aware of their surroundings. The bobbies had radios, now, and they could call for help too easily for his comfort.
He didn’t want to attract the attention of the muggles. Too much of a disturbance would attract the obliviators. In the clean-up, they might realize he had been the cause, giving a clue that his cover story of a vampire was a lie. So, he would act as if he were under observation.
The building was bloody huge! The entirety of Diagon Alley would easily fit in the concourse area. There were shops and offices looking out onto the floor, too.
It was easy to ignore his distaste for the muggles in admiring their building.
Hanging from the ceiling were a series of display boards with headings of “Departures” above them, in several different languages. It was confusing to a newcomer, to say the least. He didn’t know which way to turn, or where to go.
There was nothing for it, he’d have to ask. Looking around, he noticed a bobby not far away. He headed over.
“Excuse me, officer,” he said approaching the man. “I usually use Heathrow, but with all the excitement, yesterday, I was worried about getting a proper flight. However,” he paused and looked around, “I’m a bit lost, here. Can you tell me where to go for the next flight to Marseille?” He smiled at the muggle, using his occlumency to help him appear harmless and innocent.
A woman seated in the row of chairs at the street windows facing into the lobby, was staring at him curiously. He glanced at her and nodded congenially. She looked away, as if embarrassed at being caught. He would have sneered if he hadn’t locked his emotions away.
“Marseille, you say?” The man looked up at the big boards hanging from the ceiling and shifted a few steps to get a closer look. “The flights are in alphabetical order by destination,” he said, staring intently. “Looks like you’re a bit early, the flight for the day isn’t until almost noon. And you’ve a bit of a hike, too. You want the British Airways counter at the far end of the building.” He pointed. “The cabby must have dropped you off over here by mistake.”
Tom shrugged. “That’s alright. It gives me time to review my speech.” He looked off down the terminal. “A little exercise won’t hurt, either.”
“Glad I could help, sir.”
Tom murmured, “Thank you,” and set off.
The woman was staring at him as he walked off. He pretended not to notice. A bit of irritation at being stared at leaked through his shields.
He took his time and studied the building as he walked. Despite his dislike of muggles, their recent achievements were incredible, and he had to admit a grudging respect for their construction and aesthetics.
It was a marvellous building. Clean uncluttered lines, clean surfaces, the feeling of efficiency, everything clearly marked in multiple languages, with large windows on the street-side and everything else on the other. Periodically, there were extremely wide hallways leading off with designations of which numbered “gates” could found in them. Superficially, it reminded him of Charing Cross Station, but bigger, cleaner, and more commercially-oriented.
Completely unlike the wizarding world where the only concern seemed to be, “Is it dirty enough? It can’t be good if it isn’t a century old!” An extremely ridiculous attitude given how simple it was for even the worst wizard or witch to cast a cleaning spell! It seemed as if they revelled in their shops being dark, dingy, and difficult to find anything in.
It was also remarkably crowded for the time of the morning. Most wizards would barely be stirring themselves, only the merchants would be up and about.
On the other hand, the confusion in the crowd made it easy for him to fit in.
Observing the crowd allowed him to see how people purchased their tickets. So, when he finally reached the proper ticket counter, he was prepared.
Stepping up the muggle woman, who, he had to admit, was rather attractive, he said, “I’d like a ticket for the next . . . flight to Paris.”
The woman nodded genially, “Will that be First Class, Business Class, or Coach?”
He blinked, having missed that distinction in his previous eavesdropping. Best to go for average. “Business Class.”
The price she quoted was breath-taking. Only a bit more than two hundred quid? That was the same price as in 1945! The change in planes and travel times was incredible, but the price stayed the same? Was she having him on?
He counted out the quid. She gave him his ticket and the gate number for the flight.
“I’ll need to see your travel documents,” she said. He handed her a quid, and cast a mild confusion charm. “This has everything. My name is Sweeny Todd, from Surrey, and I was born on May First, 1971,” he said. “I trust you don’t need anything else, or to do anything more.” She stared at the bill, blinking. She typed on what looked like the keyboard from a typewriter, but there were no levers pounding letters on paper, just little clicking sounds. Then she smiled and handed the quid back. “Everything appears in order, Mr. Todd.” He heard a buzzing sound repeated several times, then she reached down and lifted a paper up. “Your ticket, it has your flight and gate number marked on it.”
“Do you know where that gate is?” she asked pleasantly. “No?” She reached for something beside her and handed him a piece of paper with the terminal mapped out on it. She circled one of the numbers on one of the spokes, then drew a line from it to where they were on the map. “There now. That should do you. That wing is just down that way,” she pointed, “a short distance. Have a nice flight.”
He took the paper and headed off in the direction indicated. He had about an hour to kill, so he took his time and did some exploring in the shops he passed. Everything was well-organized, clean, and brightly lit. He stopped at one of the restaurants on the way and had his breakfast.
Then he spent time watching the planes land, take off, and taxi. It was incredible that the muggles had managed that feat. He observed how quicky they queued and bordered their plane, or deplaned. It was a marvel of efficiency. Dealing with wizards was frequently like herding cats.
Then his turn came, and he bordered the plane.
The seats, naturally, were organized with First Class, those paying the most, up front. Business class was second, and Coach, the vast majority, was last. After taking a look into the Coach section, he could see they had more seats per row. That would make it more crowded and uncomfortable, he could see. The rows also appeared a bit closer together, too.
Business class was quite nice, he decided. The seat was easily as comfortable as many of the seats in Slytherin Dorm, and a tiny application of the cushioning charm from Goyle’s wand made it even moreso. The window beside his seat gave him a decent look at outside the plane. He could see the leading edge of the wing if he leaned close to the window and looked back.
He was well-satisfied with his seat, he decided. Having to sit with so many muggles did set his nerves on edge, a bit, however. But his occlumency was up to the task, and he felt as relaxed and confident as he appeared.
The flight . . . was an experience. It was only when he sank into his seat as the plane abruptly accelerated and thundered down the runway that the reality of the situation sank in. Then the plane’s wheels left the ground and his stomach dropped as the plane rapidly climbed. In a few minutes he was higher than any broom-rider had ever been, and the plane was still climbing.
The plane had barely slowed its climb when the stewardess stood and started a brief lecture on what to do in an emergency. It was the first he realized that the cabin was pressurized, and if it lost that pressure, he would quickly pass out from lack of oxygen.
Truly, they were higher than any wizard had ever been, and lived to tell the tale. He stared out the window and realized they had already passed the channel and were now over France.
Then the pilot made an announcement that they were traveling at five hundred and fifty miles an hour. He also said that was eight hundred and eighty kilometres per hour, whatever that meant. Tom shook his head in disbelief. The muggles were basically flying a building full of people five-times-faster than the fastest broom on the market.
And they considered that normal.
He could only shake his head.
He was mesmerized by the view. Seeing things from a height of a thousand or two feet up was one thing, seeing it from miles up was another. Finally, he turned and looked around the cabin. He noticed there was a magazine of some kind in the pocket behind the seat in front of him.
He had barely started to peruse the magazine when the pilot’s voice came on. He announced they would be landing in twenty minutes, the temperature at the airport, and the weather forecast for day.
Half-an-hour later, he was queueing with the other passengers as they disembarked. Barely a bit over an hour and the muggles had travelled to Paris. He had to shake his head in wonder. A port-key or apparition would be faster, but not nearly as comfortable. He couldn’t imagine how much faster the military versions of these things were.
He shuddered at vividly remembering the block-buster bombs being dropped on London. There was no warning where one would hit. The only thing protecting wizards was that most of them lived in the countryside, not in the big cities. Those that did, floo’d or apparated to the countryside when the warning sirens started.
And how deadly they were. Dropping a car-sized bomb from such a high altitude would go right through most spells protecting wizard residences before the owners even knew an attack was on the way! Spells could stop anything — but only if you were powerful enough! The spells protecting houses were strong, but thousand-pound bombs falling at 500 miles per hour had a HUGE amount of kinetic energy. Ignoring the whole explosion part, a one-ton bomb falling that fast would pass through almost any shield a wizard could make as if it didn’t exist.
If they were at all accurate in their aim, and he had no doubt they could get one of their bombs exactly where they wanted, they could drop a dozen of such bombs, one right after the other, on the same target. With careful timing, they could all hit with a few seconds of each other. Not even the fastest wizard would be able to react and reinforce his spells in that short a time. If the first didn’t make it through, at least one of the others would.
The protego maxima was fine for bullets and debris thrown by a spell, but when the stuff thrown at you out-weighed you by ten times? Good luck, because you’d need luck!
And that was nearly fifty years ago! Who knew how much bigger their bombs were today? He needed to do some serious research before he moved on any of his tentative long-range plans.
Having his “documents” vetted by the airline before departure apparently obviated the need for a customs desk at the Parisian airport. Not that he would have had a problem confounding anyone who might have gotten in his way. Minutes later, he was exchanging some of his quid for French francs, leaving the Terminal building, and looking for a taxi. Half-an-hour after that, he was entering the French Magical Quarter.
It would not take him long to acquire a wand that was as perfect for his new body as his old wand used to be for his old body.
He wondered where his old wand was. The books about his disappearance said his wand hadn’t been recovered.
^-_-^
Harry had not had a good night’s sleep. Even after his morning shower he didn’t feel quite as awake as he should. Still, he managed to fool his friends into thinking he hadn’t slept well because of the events, themselves, rather than his epiphany about himself late last night.
Hence his false cheer as they once more walked into the Great Hall. A cheery attitude which was doubly-hard to maintain as soon as they entered. The room was well-lit, of course, but it was from the torches on the walls and floating overhead. The simulacra of the morning sky that usually greeted them was gone.
Instead, only a normal, solid, wooden roof was overhead.
A reminder of yesterday’s disaster. That they hadn’t yet restored the magic that had made the Great Hall so distinctive was a telling tribute to just how much damage Malfoy and Crabbe had done. Plus, an indication of either how busy everypony was, or how difficult it was to recast the spells.
They weren’t the only ones subdued by the “normal” appearance of the Hall, despite how “new” it appeared in other aspects. Which was another remarkable aspect of yesterday. He couldn’t help but smile at the thought his mum had “restored” the hall to this pristine state.
They sat down and began filling their plates. Despite the events of the day before, everypony seemed to have a hearty appetite.
The number one subject, of course, was yesterday.
“I heard,” said Parvati in a whisper that was just a hair short of being at a normal conversational level, “That Malfoy and Crabbe are both on their way to Azkaban!”
Neville frowned heavily. “I doubt,” he replied sharply, “that the Ministry would send a second-year to Azkaban when no one was killed!”
Ron sighed. “Yeah, there’s no way we would be that lucky.” Despite appearing glum, he wasn’t slow about stuffing his plate and mouth.
“The only things you can blame on them are property damage and endangering other students,” Hermione said primly. “Besides, as the Headmaster said last night Goyle had compulsed them to act the way they did, so it’s not their fault.”
“Mental weakness against compulsion magic must be a family trait for Malfoy,” said Apple Bloom, “considering his father claimed to have been under compulsion charms for several years, twelve years ago.” She started cutting up a banger. “Somethin’ in their blood-line I would guess. My sister says you shouldn’t marry close relations for that reason.”
Hermione nodded firmly. “Yes. If there are any defective genes in a family-group, marrying too close together will bring them out. Tay-Sachs disease is one such ailment. People with relatives diagnosed with that have to be very careful not to marry others who might also have that defective gene or their children will suffer from a nerve disorder and die.”
Harry and the other fillies nodded.
The pure-bloods just looked confused.
She stopped and looked off for a moment. “I wonder if the muggles can use their Special Technology to fix that?” she said softly, with a glance at Harry.
She shook her head and returned to the conversation.
“I wonder if his father never really threw off all the compulsions from back then?” Harry mused out loud. “It would explain why he is so persistent in his anti-non-magical views, and refuses to see reason.”
Ron chuckled. “Maybe one of the other Death Eaters keeps confunding him! How would we know the difference? Or anyone, for that matter?”
That seemed an interesting thought to the others, and Parvati got a bit excited at hearing his conjecture. Harry hid his smirk. This was one way to get back at the older Slytherins for spreading rumours about him.
It was as the owl-parliament flew in half-way through breakfast, and everypony raised the owl-shields, that Harry realized the lack of the magics on the roof might be an opportunity.
He knew his mum had closely examined the magics in the roof of the Great Hall with an eye towards showing them to the other Princesses. Perhaps he should tell her about their failure here? Ask her if she would be interested in recasting them to the Great Hall before trying them in Equestria? Being able to consult with the Headmaster and Professor Flitwick as she put them up would very helpful.
The arrival of the Prophet started to set off a whole new set of whispering and exclamations. From what Neville and Hermione were saying, Rita Skeeter was really taking the Headmaster to task for not being in Hogwarts during the attack, and taking so long to arrive after the fact, too.
Only a minute or two after the owls had started landing, the Headmaster stood and tapped his goblet. The room fell silent and waited.
“I am happy to report that there were no permanent injuries in yesterday’s regrettable incident.” He turned slightly and bowed to the Hospital Wing Matron. “As I said yesterday, Madam Pomfrey’s skills were on full display, and I thank her, again, for her expertise, professionalism, and dedication.” Just like yesterday, he clapped his hands lightly, several times, encouraging applause from the students. Which the students were happy to supply.
“Sadly,” he continued once the applause, whistling, and cheers subsided, “Mr. Goyle is still missing. If any of you have a suggestion as to where he might have gone, please confide in your Head of House, or a Prefect. We shall not disclose the identity of anyone who does so.” He swept the Hall with his kindly gaze, and stroked his beard. “Mr. Malfoy and Mr. Crabbe are currently at St. Mungo’s,” he resumed after a moment, “but will be returning to Hogwarts this afternoon.” He sighed, looked down, then back up.
“The healers at St. Mungo’s have determined that both were under strong compulsions and are not responsible for their actions in the Great Hall. There are signs of obliviations going back several months.” He paused. “They deeply regret what has happened, and deserve our sympathy and compassion.” He looked across the Hall. “That there were no permanent injuries means there is no cause to hold unjust feelings against them. They are just as much victims as anyone else is in Hogwarts.”
He paused a moment and peered over his glasses at the students. “Please do not harass them,” he said gently, but the steel in his voice was clear.
He paused and gave the students another long glance.
“On a much brighter note, however, I have invited your parents to visit Hogwarts today and tomorrow.” He looked up at Hall doors.
The room broke out into excited chatter.
“I expect the first group to be arriving shortly, after breakfast is concluded.” He said loudly, and took another look around the Hall. He focused more on the first-years, and smiled broadly.
“We have coordinated with the Princesses, and so it is with great joy that I relay their assurances that the parents for all of our . . . Equestrian . . . students will be visiting today and tomorrow.”
It was amazing how forty ponies could manage to drown out the entire rest of the school in celebrating. The pegasi were flying circles while the rest were jumping up and pronking around their tables. They were grabbing and hugging almost anyone who wasn’t quick enough to dodge.
Not that many did.
Pony hugs were appreciated by most non-pony students.
Anything else the Headmaster might have wanted to say was lost in the pandemonium.
The stunned looks on the other students’ faces was priceless.
^-_-^