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The Art of Self-Fashioning	By : Lomonaaeren Category: Harry Potter > General > General Views: 26077 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 3
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I am making no money from this story.

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Chapter Seven—The First Christmas That Mattered
            Harry checked his gifts for his parents one more time. They were both wrapped in multiple layers of paper, and no matter how many times he shook them, he didn’t hear any noise coming out of them. He smiled, remembering the way Dudley would shake his own presents, and walked down to the common room.
            No one else was there. Only two or three other Ravenclaws had stayed for the holiday, and that didn’t include any of Harry’s roommates. Professor McGonagall had said she would meet him outside Ravenclaw Tower. Harry opened the door, half-wondering if she would be late.
            But no, she was there, turning towards him with a pleased nod. “Do you have everything you want to take, Mr. Potter?”
            “Yes, Professor.” Harry patted the gifts one more time. The one for his mum was in green paper, like her eyes. The one for his dad was in red and gold paper for Gryffindor. He saw Professor McGonagall looking at them with a hint of sadness.
            When she met his gaze, she looked away a second later. “You know they will most likely not be able to respond to the presents, Mr. Potter?” she asked in a thick-sounding voice.
            “I know, Professor,” Harry said gently. He was surprised that he had to be gentle with Professor McGonagall, who was always so stern. “But I’ll know I gave them, and that’s what counts.”
            Professor McGonagall breathed out. “I hope so,” she said, which Harry thought was an odd response, but he didn’t say anything. Professor McGonagall took his hand and led him gently towards her office, where she had a Floo connection that would take them to St. Mungo’s.
*
            “See, this is for you, Mum.”
            Minerva closed her eyes. She was near tears more often than most people would know; sometimes she felt teary reading about the achievements of past Transfiguration experts and what heights they had reached in the art. But the worst moment of her life—well, at least one of the worst—was standing there while Harry Potter held out a green-wrapped package towards his unresponsive mother, and chattered to her as if she was looking at him.
            In fact, Minerva saw when she looked again, Lily’s eyes were fixed on the package. But Minerva knew that was only because she had happened to be glancing in that direction when Harry waved the gift in front of her eyes. That didn’t mean she had any interest in it, or any response.
            Harry went on talking as if she did. “And see, this is what I got you.” He unwrapped the package, not seeming to care that Lily simply lay in bed with her hands at her sides, not reaching out at all. When he opened the box, Minerva stepped nearer, curious. She knew Harry had probably simply owl-ordered the gift, but she wondered if he’d had enough Galleons. Being in debt to goblins or shopkeepers wasn’t something she wished for him.
            The small wooden flower Harry lifted out of the box made Minerva’s breath catch. It was a lily—of course it was. It must have been the work of a skilled carver. Minerva could see the outline of each petal, even down to the fact that they subtly pointed different ways, which the petals of a real lily would.
            “It’s lovely, Harry,” Minerva said, supplying the commentary that would never come from Lily. “Where did you buy it?”
            Harry jumped and turned to stare at her as if she had forgotten she was there. For a second, his eyes were wide. Then he shook his head and said, “One of my roommates has a cousin who does wood-carving. I ordered it from him.”
            “It will be a good token for her,” Minerva said softly, and watched as Harry laid the lily on the table near his mother’s bed. For some reason, she felt as if a little bell were being rung in the back of her head, or as though someone was ruffling her whiskers when she was in cat-form. Something about the lily…
            “And this is for you, Dad,” Harry said, moving over to James’s bed and opening the box in red and gold.
            This was also wood, a tiny carving of a broom with glasses perched on the bristles. Minerva smiled. She had never seen something so whimsical. “You ordered that one from the same place?”
            Harry gave her a sideways, cautious glance. “Yes, Professor.”
            Minerva nodded. Something of the same current of magic distracted her, sighing as it passed over her. What could it be? It wasn’t as though she thought Harry would be giving Dark artifacts as gifts to his parents.
            “Do give me the name of that young man,” she said. “I might like to order some of those wooden pieces myself.”
*
            Harry felt his face freeze.
            You should have known this would get you in trouble, said a nagging voice in the back of his head that sounded like Aunt Petunia. Harry hadn’t heard it since he came to Hogwarts, but then, he’d been a little more careful than that since he went to school. You shouldn’t have said anything at all. Give her some vague answer. Say you bought it from Diagon Alley.
            But Harry would have to admit the truth. He hadn’t because lying had seemed simpler. But he had nothing to offer Professor McGonagall as far as the name of a carver, because these pieces hadn’t been carved. He had simply thought she wouldn’t question the lie, because no one had ever cared enough about what Harry did to ask questions like that.
            “Mr. Potter?”
            Harry touched the broom one more time and turned around again. Professor McGonagall was watching him with a look that seemed baffled, as if she thought he was breaking the rules, but couldn’t comprehend what rules those were.
            “I was stretching the truth, Professor McGonagall,” he muttered, gaze on the floor. “I didn’t buy those pieces from anywhere.”
            “I don’t think you would have stolen them.”
            She still sounded confused, but that could turn to anger any second. Harry knew that from long experience with adults. He braced himself. “No, Professor McGonagall. I Transfigured them. From a lily and a little model of a broom with glasses on it that I made of paper.”
            There was silence. Harry listened fiercely to his parents’ breathing. No matter what, he thought, they were still his parents and they wouldn’t be disappointed in him. Not like the Dursleys, not like Professor McGonagall might be now.
            “Harry. Look at me.”
            Harry jumped at the sound of her first name and turned to meet her eyes. Professor McGonagall was bending down in front of him, studying his face. Maybe she wanted to make sure he was telling the truth now, Harry thought.
            “I only wanted to know what you were doing,” Professor McGonagall whispered. “Where you got the gifts.” For a moment, she waited, and then she reached out and put her hand on his hair, because Harry supposed he hadn’t answered her quickly enough for her liking. “And I want to know why you lied.”
            Harry knew he had no choice now. But he still couldn’t tell the professor the real reason. There was no doubt that she would tell him, sadly, that his parents couldn’t be cured. And Harry didn’t intend to accept that.
            Luckily, there was another reason that was closer to the truth right now, and also a lot less dangerous.
            “Because it’s advanced Transfiguration,” Harry said. “I thought you would get worried about me practicing outside of class.”
            Professor McGonagall smiled at him and shook her head. Her hand stayed on the top of his head. Harry tensed, but didn’t throw it off. If he had to endure that strange touch to get through this, then he would.
            “I’m not frightened,” Professor McGonagall said. “I am enormously proud of you, Mr. Potter. I had no idea you could do something like this.” She reached out and picked up his mum’s gift, turning it over in her hand. “Of course, changing flowers into other materials is something I teach my students, but few of them can manage something this perfect. The weight of the wood settling on the petals usually alters their angle and damages them. This looks like a living lily.”
            Harry slowly relaxed. Maybe the professor wasn’t about to yell at him after all. “So you don’t mind even though I didn’t do it in class?”
            “No.” Professor McGonagall put the lily back down. “But when we go back to Hogwarts, I do have a few questions for you, Mr. Potter.”
            Harry nodded, and turned to visit with his parents. Because “when we go back to Hogwarts” wasn’t “now,” and he needed to fill his eyes and ears with memories of his parents to get him through the next few months without them.
*
            Minerva waited until they were back in her office and she’d called up some tea and biscuits from the house-elves to speak to Harry. Harry didn’t eat. He kept looking warily between her and the tray instead, as if he assumed he would get scolded the minute he reached for the food.
            “Please, eat,” Minerva said at last, when long minutes had passed and Harry hadn’t relaxed. “It’ll make me sick if I eat all this by myself, and I’d feel compelled. I don’t want good food to go to waste.”
            That got the tiniest smile out of Harry, and he chose a white chocolate biscuit and chewed on the corner of it. Minerva watched him, and tried to understand.
            He was such a silent child. So self-possessed. So solitary. Minerva had thought earlier in the term that some of it came from being at a new school and around magical people for the first time in his life, but now, she couldn’t hide the truth from herself. This was the real Harry Potter, walking around like a little adult and looking at the biscuit as if he thought it would explode any second.
            What made him so distrustful?
            Unfortunately, Minerva thought she knew the answer, and none of the letters she had written so far to the Wizengamot had stirred any interest. Children should be raised by family; Harry Potter was with family, and there was no one else who could have taken him that was more nearly related; therefore, he was where he should be.
            Minerva knew her world’s prejudice in favor of family, and most of the time, she approved of it. Children should grow up with their aunts and uncles and cousins if they couldn’t know their parents, to give them people who knew their parents and other children to play with. Even grandparents might not be as good, because they were likely to be a lot older than parents’ siblings and wouldn’t have as much energy.
            Then Harry came along and confounded all her explanations.
            Minerva sighed. She would just have to keep trying.
            “When did you start developing such advanced skill in Transfiguration, Mr. Potter?” she asked. “You haven’t shown it in class.” Harry’s Transfigurations in class were perfectly acceptable, but always a little off—the match still had a gleam of silver in it, the teacup he was supposed to change from china into wood was still fragile—and he never completed the spell first. That was always Miss Granger or Mr. Malfoy or Mr. Smith.
            “I can’t do that kind of Transfiguration right the first time.”
            “Why?”
            “Because I don’t care about it that much, Professor McGonagall.” Harry’s voice was soft enough that Minerva had to lean near him to hear it. “Transforming one object into another object is fine, but it’s not—it’s not important. I want to learn how to Transfigure living things.”
            Minerva frowned a little. “One of the great lessons of academic life, Mr. Potter,” she said, and picked up a dark chocolate biscuit, “is mustering an intellectual interest in things that don’t interest you much emotionally. You should be able to do my lessons well, with that innate talent you have, even if you like some of them better than others.”
            Harry watched her from under his hair. Minerva wondered if he ever cut it. Well, he must, sometimes, or it would have grown past his shoulders by now. But he never seemed to cut his fringe, and he looked at people from underneath it like a sheepdog.
            Perhaps that will be his Animagus form. By now, based on his skills that would have done a fifth-year student proud, Minerva was certain he would become an Animagus someday.
            But she also needed to caution him about some of the dangerous areas his enthusiasm could lead him into. With a nod to encourage Harry to eat his biscuit, Minerva leaned back in her chair and spoke softly.
            “Transfiguring living things is impressive, Mr. Potter, but it will become ethically chancy once you get much beyond changing flowers into wood and temporarily creating animals from objects like combs. Changing one animal into another when you are an inexperienced wizard can result in great pain for that animal.” She paused, even though Harry only sat there like a polite shell and showed no response. “I don’t think you would ever want to cause pain to an animal.”
            For an instant, there was hurt in Harry’s eyes that made them look like cracked glass. But it was gone again, before Minerva could find the words to ask what it was about. Harry only said, “No, Professor McGonagall,” and drained his tea.

            “And human experimentation…” Minerva sighed. “I lost my temper once when I was thirteen, Mr. Potter. One of my classmates was taunting me about my father, and I changed his ears into rabbit ears. It was a combination of true Transfiguration and accidental magic, and it took Professor Dumbledore most of the term to change them back.”
            “Why was he taunting you about your father, Professor McGonagall?”
            Strange child. Why ask about that, instead of about the theory of why the spell lasted so long? I know he’s interested in theory. “My father was a Muggle, Mr. Potter.” Minerva shook old sadness away and added, “Blood prejudice was more active in the time I was a young witch at school than it is now.”
            “Blood prejudice is stupid.”
            Minerva felt her eyebrows creep higher. There was passion lurking behind his words, and she had no idea why. It frustrated her. “It is indeed, Mr. Potter. But do try to use a higher order of language. And thought,” she added. “Think about your Transfigurations before you do them.”
            For a single instant, Harry’s eyes met hers. Then they dropped. “Yes, Professor.”
            “That is not to devalue your skill.” Minerva leaned towards him. After the criticism, the praise. “You have a stronger talent than anyone I have seen in two decades, Mr. Potter. You will make a skilled wizard indeed.”
*
            Good. Then maybe I can heal my parents.
            Harry went back to the Ravenclaw Tower with Professor McGonagall’s words whirring in his head. He planned to read up on some more Transfiguration theory and then go down to his workroom in the dungeons. He had a spell he’d practiced the wand movements over and over for, and he thought he was finally ready to try it.
            When he entered his bedroom, he paused for a second. There was something wrong with his bed. For an instant, Harry thought some kind of glittery creature had crept in and thrown up in it.
            Then he made out the shapes of boxes behind the brightly-colored paper. Harry took another step closer and stared. They were gifts.
            Gifts from Boot, and Goldstein, and Corner, and Patil, and Smith, for some bizarre reason. A slender package that had a note attached to it, but no name. And Professor McGonagall, and Finnigan.
            Harry shook his head. He could feel air catching in his throat. He gagged. He reeled another step back, and shook his head again.
            They’d all got him things. And he hadn’t got them anything.
            Why had they—he didn’t expect—had he somehow showed he did expect something? When—
            Why did they do it?
            Harry fled. He couldn’t deal with this right now. At least one thing was sure, and he found his way to his workroom and cast the spells that would close it up without incident. Then he took out his wand and aimed at a broken pot in the corner that he’d brought from Herbology the other day with the intent of Transfiguring it.
            His hand on the wand was steady. He knew exactly what he needed to do, and he did it.
            “Commuto fideliam murem ex bona fide.”
            The pot wavered and drew in on itself, and then Harry saw dark fur rush over it like a tide. Suddenly there were legs where there had been broken edges, and eyes popped into being above a long snout. The jagged top of the pot became a spine and then a long tail, and a second later a brown rat scampered to Harry’s feet and stared up at him, squeaking.
            Harry knelt down next to it. The rat leaped into his palm and nuzzled his face with its whiskers. Harry closed his eyes.
            He had done it right. He knew he had.
            If he was going to get some of the ingredients he needed, and some of the knowledge he needed, and some of the food he needed during the summers, and stop some people from being obstacles in his path, he knew he would need to have help. He had actually intended to create a mouse first, but the pot had been big, and his concentration on the word “murem” not absolute. So the spell had made a rat instead.
            That was okay. That was fine.
            And the little addition Harry had made to the spell meant that the rat would be faithful and loyal to him. It would be good to have a friend he could trust.
            The rat leaned heavily against his cheek. Harry leaned back, and swallowed all the emotions that he couldn’t deal with right now. He would stay down here until he could deal with them, and then he would Transfigure some things for gifts for the people who had got him things. If he was as good as Professor McGonagall seemed to think he was, that would probably be fine.
            The rat squeaked again. Harry looked at him, and blinked. He supposed he couldn’t go on calling him “the rat.”
            “Your name is Amicus,” he told the rat. “Because that means ‘friend’ in Latin. Got it?”
            Amicus whipped his tail around his feet and stared at Harry with ratty adoration. Harry chuckled and sat down, holding Amicus close to his neck and closing his eyes.
            He was going to get up and make other things in a little while. He was. And then he would go up and deal with the gifts on the bed.
            But for right now, he would sit here and be happy about having one pet Uncle Vernon would never get the chance to hurt. Besides, if Harry played things right, Amicus would actually help him get revenge on Uncle Vernon.
            “Revenge,” Harry said softly. “Would you like that?”
            Amicus squeaked.
*
     Eren: No, Harry does like flying. But he’s not going to spend much time at it, either.
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The Art of Self-Fashioning