Fury, Vindication, Betrayal, Exhiliration, Unstaved Curiousity, Bewilderment.
Harry had stopped thinking, and just let himself feel.
It was like painting a picture in three dimensions, and by throwing paint everywhere.
A thousand lines of thought cried out for attention, but, shaking, Harry realized he couldn't think of a single one.
His brain rippled, and his body tensed, his stomach churning with butterflies of unsought emotion.
Hagrid, Sirius, Lupin, even McGonagall flashed thorough his mind. Looming over all of them, charging into the front, was Albus Dumbledore himself.
None of them had said a word - and he'd asked.
He was seized by a mad moment of curiosity - shot through with vermillion rage, to shake them all, to demand answers even if he had to get them from bloodied and bleeding mouths. Betrayal, black as tar and cloying to boot, threatened to bubble up beneath his feet.
Confidence, steady and deep blue, shot through him - he knew how to punch now.
Snape's scene from earlier hit him like a freight train - the slight yellow tinge of fear nearly washed away with the sickly green of disgust.
No - his anger screamed for release, and Harry cast about frantically for any distraction, not wanting to set the room on fire, like he'd set the paper ablaze.
It was difficult, like standing straight in a hurricane - his emotions threatened to sweep him over the side, immersing him in the sea.
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.
Harry hadn't realized how disobedient his soul was - humor rippled through him, cheery, boldly bright-yellow, and that calmed the sea, somewhat.
His curiosity shot through him, like a wave of focus, like the scythe of the cutting curse. Images lept to the fore, scenes, little things.
Snape's eyes, that he hadn't seen, but now found he could picture, as he stood in the teachers' stand at Harry's first quiddich game. They burned, as he softly chanted a counterspell.
"Your mother, on the other hand... She was a talented witch, deft with a wand. Not even the Dark Lord would dare to say that she wasn't competent. I'll certainly not be the first." Harry remembered that quite well, he'd made a mental note of it, because nobody ever mentioned his mother.
Snape's voice didn't change in the slightest, and yet by intonation and speed alone, he achieved a completely different feel to his voice. "Severus, you can't keep going after them! You're just encouraging them to come up with more vile pranks! They're in my house for god's sake, I know them well enough to know that!" Somehow that last thought was calming. He'd heard it at the time in Hermione's voice, as she was often the Voice of Reason... But, Harry was sure of it, suddenly, that'd been his mum. It somehow, oddly, helped, knowing that Snape hadn't been trying to hide his friendship with her... that he wasn't ashamed... of her.
And... Shite. The Pensieve! He'd almost glazed over the fact that his mum had been there. What his father had done was sickening, after all. But that hadn't been why, at all, had it?
It wasn't quite remembering.
It was realigning, reinterpreting.
Understanding, teal green - Harry tried to use it to distract himself, letting the magma beneath cool into fluffy stone.
He felt the moment when it cracked, when rage and betrayal began to pour out of his depths, red and black - and as unwavering as lava.
Harry closed his eyes, letting the emotion sway his mind, and not his magic.
He opened his mouth, and screamed.
That was the sound that the Dark Lord Voldemort heard, echoing down past his frail shields.
Lord Voldemort stirred, and surged in, battered by the deluge of emotion shoved at him.
[a/n: Voldemort hadn't taken the time to put up intricate shields. Just enough to shield himself from being bothered by adolescent angst.
... this? is far more that that.
Fluffy stone is called pumice, which floats. It's filled with air.
I really feel like I suck at chapters like this. Emotional turmoil just isn't my thing. Maybe I'll rework this.
Any suggestions would be Most Appreciated! Review, help, please!?]