Idle Blatherings

Circadia

2008-01-13T07:05:41Z

Title: Circadia, Part I
Rating: R
Characters: Bobby, Dean, Sam, and Ruby
Word Count: 3,230
Warnings: language, brother angst
Summary: It’s almost like Sam’s dead all over again. Only this time there isn’t a deal that can undo what he’s done.
Disclaimer: Not mine, the boys, I mean. The words are mine; I take full responsibility for mangling what’s left of their damaged psyches, but Ruby’s not so much. ;)

Notes: Written for sammessiah’s DJ100 Flash Fanworks-Athon. Because my prompt was #38 Outside POV--the Sammessiah and his Consort, I tried my hand at reining in narrative distance and writing through an uber-filtered voice. It turned out that meant writing in alternating first person POV *meep* whereby this fic become possessed by the voices of Bobby, Missouri, and Ruby and spread out in all directions. So sorry, but this will be a three-part story. Thanks to dreamlittleyo, who let me submit this as a WiP, and dianne_37, a wonderful beta who reads faster than the speed of light. Concrit always welcome.

[+] [O] [~]

“When life hardens into a bead of such cruel perfection you see it with the purest clarity. Everything suddenly there--life as it truly is, enormous, appalling, devastating. You see the great sinkholes it makes in people and the harrowing lengths to which love will go to fill them.”

-Sue Monk Kidd “The Mermaid Chair”

[+]

Heil, North Dakota, March 20, 2008

Dean’s got that wild, desperate look to him. The same one he wore at Cold Oak and that long night and day afterward.

If there was anything that could split a soul in two it would be what I saw that night. Dean’s yell stopped me cold, been hunting long enough to know the sound of someone damn well breaking from the inside out. These legs made it back fast as anything, and I half expected to have a heart attack the way the old ticker was going double time. Found Dean in the middle of that road in all that mud, kneeling with Sam propped up. The two of them weren’t right, too still, too close, the angles all wrong. And I knew right then there was only going to be white breath coming from one of them. Would’ve traded the pain in my chest right then for a heart attack.

Dean was careful, kept saying to keep Sam out of the mud and dirt. He was all business until we got Sam inside and laid out, then he went to someplace inside himself. Kept real quiet. Wouldn’t budge for hours, just sat there in that half-rotted crap piece of chair staring at nothing. Wouldn’t touch Sam, wouldn’t let me touch him even after the blood started leaking into the mattress and seeping around toward the edges. That whole ghost town smelled like death, dark and stale and unnatural, but that room was heavy with it.

Dean didn’t start talking until the next morning. First words out of his mouth were ‘damn whiskey’, then ‘please’ and ‘Bobby’. It was like going back twenty-odd years. Saw pieces of another hunter, young and half mad with grief, standing in front of me, and it hit me that these were John Winchester’s boys. God help us all, I thought.

Dean wasn’t right in the head that night. He wasn’t right until he showed up unapologetic and squared for one of those silent Winchester tests of wills on my doorstep with Sam, the walking undead, the next day.

I knew I should never have let him alone.

Now here we are again. Sam’s gone and done the fool thing this time and Dean’s going out of his head again.

“Bobby, what’d you let him do!” he yells, shouldering his way past the splintered doorframe and carrying in the cold. Dean zeros in on the beds and either doesn’t notice or give a damn that he’s destroyed the salt lines nearly ground into the carpet in his rush. His eyes dart to the blonde girl spread out broken-like on the corner bed and then go hard. “Who else? Ellen, Jo?” Dean grabs a hold of me and screams, “Who else knew!”

I’d be a fool to give Dean real answers right now. Like a blind bull stuck with a hot poker, he’s on a rampage, tearing up the trail Sam tried to hide and leaving a highway of broken junk and rubble about a mile wide. Idiot kid. It’s enough to lead the rest of them straight to us. But Dean’s not one to look twice at common sense, least where Sam’s concerned. He’d face down Hell’s army with a feather duster and a paper clip if they stood between him and that stray brother of his.

The lights flicker. Then go out. The flowered rag-tag curtains hanging above the plastic heater go still as the fan stutters and dies. Dean lets me go and yanks up his sleeve, stares at his watch. On the wall the hands on the cracked cowboy clock stop at thirteen past eight, the second’s hand frozen near around twelve.

My gut starts rolling and that spot behind my ears starts tingling, hunter’s intuition. I tell Dean it’s started.

A growl crawls up from somewhere inside him, and in three steps he’s kneeling on bed where Sam’s lying with his eyes open.

“Sam. Sammy! Wake up!” Dean’s fingers turn white as he digs them into Sam’s shoulders and shakes. “Bobby, we gotta stop his walking!” He rounds to run at the girl lying on the other bed, but I drag Dean away before he does something that’ll screw up Sam’s chances of finding his way back.

“Dean, there’s nothing you can do. Your brother’s a stupid, stubborn ass just like you.”

When I get a good look at Dean’s face that deep down gut ache of guilt hits me. I can’t think of anything to do but yell about Dean and his deal making and how it started this whole mess ‘cause it keeps the wreck of grief, pain, and fear buried deep where it belongs. And whiskey helps.

The last time I got real acquainted with a bottle of Jimmy’s stiffest was two years ago when John left those boys lost and floundering like two wounded tigers. When they finally drove off in that soccer mobile, I was sure they’d tear each other to pieces with their grief, or else crash that minivan with all that bundled up anger (there was a reason I made sure they got the slowest car I had). Never did see that noisy bucket of rubber bands on wheels again, and never been gladder to hear Ellen’s voice. When she called about John Winchester’s boys showing up on her doorstep and taking a case in Medford, I damn well exhaled for so long she thought I went and died on her. As those boys limped their way back from the edge, I locked up the Jim Beam good and tight along with thoughts of their daddy.

But I could probably do with a couple of mouthfuls of whiskey now ‘cause Dean’s not moving, just stares me down like he wants to burn to me with his eyes. Then something changes, realization maybe, acceptance maybe, understanding, or maybe it’s that damn burden of responsibility I’ve seen that boy carrying since age seven when John rolled into the yard with a trunk full of ammo and knives, a mouth full of demon questions, and a backseat loaded with kids.

I lay a hand on Dean’s shoulder and squeeze hard. He’s all knots and quivering panic pent up with nowhere to go.

“You couldn’t know,” I say. Sam was bull-headed and sure this was the only way, and for all my years of hunting and reading I couldn’t argue with him. If it comes down to it, burying a young hunter is something you never want to do, but burying two young hunters is worse.

Dean steps away, squares his shoulders.

“He’s coming back.” He says it like he’s speaking some God-promised truth. Dean tears off his jacket, then pulls out his Colt and lays it next to Sam’s Taurus, dusty and cold on the side table. He’s rolling up his sleeves when I catch sight of the bruises on the inside of his arms. The ones like Sam’s.

“There’s a med kit in the trunk.” Dean jerks his head toward the door.

When I don’t move, he says matter-of-fact-like, “I can lead him back. I’ve done it before, this time’s no different.”

“Dean--”

“If you try and stop me, Bobby, so help me God.” His eyes go to the girl staring at the ceiling with black eyes. “I don’t care what Sam said. I’ll kill her.”

“You can’t. She’s in there with him.”

Dean goes stock still like some animal caught in the middle of the road with an eighteen wheeler screaming around a blind corner. The bathroom light flickers to life, dumping light and shadow into the room. From the corner bed come two yellow flashes. I tell myself they’re only the florescent lights reflecting off those demon’s eyes. The charm around her neck winks silver.

“Ruby, that bitch.”

I don’t tell Dean it wasn’t her idea. No sense speaking what the heart already knows.

[+]

The med kit is full of needles. Dean lines them up next to the guns in two rows, five syringes each, and touches each of them like they’re something holy. They shine hard and smooth in the light from the candle stubs ‘cause Sam’s made the lights go out again.

Judging by the calluses and faded bruises on Dean’s arm, they’ve been doing this for weeks, months maybe. I knew Sam’s wandering was getting bad. Knew he had trouble staying in his own head. Knew after he left Dean stabilized in that Pocatello hospital and the Impala with an empty gas tank and a flat tire in the parking lot two weeks ago, he and Ruby had fallen off the map. But I didn’t know Sam’s dreamwalking had him tearing himself and his brother up.

It makes a hell of a lot more sense why Sam left Dean, why he was so desperate to not be found. “Bobby, you can’t tell him. Not until after it’s over.” Sam’s voice was real hard to make out between the static, so I pressed the phone to my ear like that would make a difference. “He’s gonna be pissed, but the doctor said he’ll be fine. I just … can you make sure he’s … you’ll be there when he wakes up, right?”

I should’ve known that damn kid was trying to save his brother.

Dean peels back the corner of the wool blanket he covered Sam with and lays Sam’s right arm flat. He rolls up his brother’s sleeve like this is nothing more than putting a Band-Aid on a paper cut.

“Alright, Sammy, it’s gonna be fine.” Dean’s voice is low and quiet, even. Like John’s when he’d be talking comfort into some poor person who just had their whole world upended by the supernatural. John, for all his rough talk and silent spells, had a way of talking when words weren’t important, just the tone. Dean ties the rubber tubing around his own arm and starts tapping for veins.

“There’s only so much blood you can give before you’re dried up,” I say, running my hands up over my face and back down. A day of chasing Dean down blacktop and gravel roads and an hour of watching the heater go on and off, the lights flicker, and Sam and that demon lie like the dead have me worn down dull and to the quick.

“I’m real juicy, Bobby. Got more than my share of Winchester blood, enough for me and Sam. And this?” Dean holds up a syringe filled with blood. “This’ll drown out that demon blood.”

And keep Sam on this side of human.

I don’t say the words, but Dean reads them on my face before I can turn my back and head toward the only place of privacy in this damn motel room.

I knew things were wrong when I got Sam’s note written on paper from the Trident Motel in Heil, North Dakota yesterday. Notes leave trails. Too messy a move for someone who’d spent the last couple weeks making them self invisible. Too sloppy for Sam, who knew Dean would be wrecking half the world looking for him. Hunters know never to send messages through the mail ‘cause it makes it easy for other eyes to see what they’re not supposed to be reading. And it takes too long, is too unreliable. More than likely you’d be left sipping beer in some stale-smelling bar, waiting for somebody who didn’t know where they were supposed to be until days later. Sam never would’ve mailed a letter if he was planning on meeting us. It was more like he was telling us where to find him after the fact.

His note was post dated two days earlier. It said:

March 20^th

Room 3b

Your promise.

I promised not to say anything to Dean. I’m not so high on myself to think me not promising Sam would’ve stopped him. He would’ve still run off stubborn as ever but without anyone to turn to in a tight spot, and the last thing I wanted was Sam running alone in the dark.

But there wasn’t much of a promise to keep ‘cause I didn’t know much more than anyone else. There’s been talk these last two weeks of dark rituals only a hunter would know how to do, things about pulling powers and dreamwalking. People are worried, panicked. A hunter gone off the rails needs to be pulled back in. The quieter and gentler the better, but not everyone sees it the same as me. So it took no words out of my mouth for Dean to find Sam’s note and recognize his writing. My square edges may be going round, but if a soft spot for those boys is gonna land me in Hell, then I’ll be bringing marshmallows and hot dogs to my funeral pyre.

The water blasts into the sink hard and cold. And I let it run. The white noise is good, drowns out the outside world. I rest my hands on either side of the basin and lean forward until my head’s resting against the mirror. Close my eyes.

Something’s not right in all of this. Never heard of such deep, unbreakable wandering before. Never for more than a night’s sleep, never in pairs. As far as I can tell, the electrical outages and time freezing are Sam telegraphing something fierce. There’s something going down, and it ain’t good.

After I’m done soaking my face, I’m searching for a towel to wipe my hands when I knock over the garbage can with my boot. There’s a thud and a clink and a glass rolls across the floor and stops at the doorjamb. And that’s when I smell it, strong, bitter sharp, and unmistakable.

“This ain’t like before, Dean.” I march out of the bathroom and shove two motel glasses rimmed with dirty green into his face. “You know what this is?”

Dean sniffs and bats the cup away, saying, “Liquid blue cheese in a cup?” before giving me his smart ass face.

“It’s valerian powder.” I slam one of the glasses down next to alarm clock blinking 8:13. “It’s a plant sedative, a hypnotic … makes you sleep.”

“I know what a sedative is.” The irritation in Dean’s voice doesn’t cover his alarm.

“Sam’s gone and done something crazy.”

“Sam’s not crazy.”

I don’t know what Sam’s got planned, but Dean’s soul is on the line, and there ain’t nothing short of bringing down the world that Sam wouldn’t do to keep Dean out of Hell. Demons don’t make deals that can’t be undone. They’ll trade up if they can get something better. And Sam knows better than anyone that demons are greedy bastards.

“No? I’ve seen all sorts of crazy crawl out of desperate.”

Dean stands up with his eyes full of fire and jaw twitching.

“He’s gone walking deep this time and pulled that demon in with him to save you,” I yell louder than I mean to.

Then Dean shuts down, pulls a mask over his face. He drops his eyes and reaches down quiet and cold as anything and picks up a syringe.

“If you don’t like it, Bobby, there’s the door.”

What is it with these Winchesters thinking they got to do everything alone? My sigh makes Dean’s eyes dart up. But when I go to look him in the eye he’s staring at Sam.

“Your brother is a lot of things, but stupid ain’t one of them.” I walk to where Dean’s standing and press the other glass into his free hand and say quieter, “He’s put himself down so he won’t wake up for a reason.”

Dean puts the glass down on the yellow blanket next to Sam’s leg. “Then that’s all the more reason he needs this.” He pulls the plastic cap off the needle with his teeth.

“Your brother and that demon, they’re tangled up in his mind someplace. You can’t just shock them out. There’s no telling what’ll happen, and you don’t know what you’ll be interfering with. Sam’s gone to someplace where you can’t follow this time--”

Dean’s head snaps around, and I recognize that look.

“No,” I tell him.

But it’s a waste of air ‘cause Dean’s up and in the bathroom with the door shut in my face. I hear him pulling open drawers and sorting through the wrapped soaps in the chipped dish on the counter. By the time I jimmy open the lock, he’s pulling out his arm from up under the sink, a plastic bag tied with red string in his hand.

“It’ll be a hell of a lot safer if you stick around, Bobby. But I’m telling you right now, your being here or not isn’t gonna change my mind. I’m doing this.” Dean’s got a death grip on that bag of powdered valerian and is puffing himself up for a fight.

And suddenly I’m more tired than I’ve ever felt. Trying to keep that family together all these years after losing mine, I never thought it would turn to me squaring down Dean, telling him to just let Sam go.

“Sam’s somewhere in there doing something because of me. And whatever it is, I can’t let him do it alone. He’s my responsibility, Bobby. Mine. There’ll be nobody left after my year is up. And I can’t just leave him without--” Dean looks away and pulls his hands through his hair. When he turns around all I see is a young boy who looks so lost and scared I barely hear his words: “Please. He’s my brother. I need to do this.”

And there’s nothing I got that can do battle with a look like that. I glance over my shoulder at the girl lying harmless and quiet and then to Sam. The bruises stand dark on his arms, and his chest rises slow and steady and in time to the tick of the second’s hand on the clock skipping backwards. And below the stillness and silence, I think of them trapped in a nightmare.

“You idiot,” is all I manage. Then I mutter something about getting whiskey from the truck to chase down the bitter of the valerian.

Dean opens his mouth and then closes it. The hard lines on his face go smooth, and his eyes change like something inside's just opened up. He nods.

“I’ll wait until you come back,” he says.

That’s as much of a reprieve Dean’s capable of. Real words and straight-forward communication don’t mix with the name Winchester just like tears are a waste of salt for a Singer.

It’s cold outside. The sky is dark and naked. And there are stars everywhere, staring down like a million eyes. Though the closed door I hear Dean drag a chair across the floor to Sam’s side. And it’s almost like Sam’s dead all over again. Only this time there ain’t no deal that can undo what he’s done.

Through a layer of peeling varnish I get a good hard look at the knots in the wood door, sliced through their hearts and cracked along their weakness by hot and cold. I run my hand along the frame and catch a splinter. It’s such a little thing, would barely know it was there except for the blood and the sting.

[+] [O] [~]

TBC

Dark Spin

2007-08-03T01:44:25Z

Title: Dark Spin
Rating: R
Characters: Dean, Sam, the RED, and the once-Meg-once-Sam demon
Word Count: 7,030
Notes/Warnings: Post “ALBL-2”, Death fic, strong language
Summary: Dean knows there’s a difference between a bird navigating the clear skies of the Kansas prairie and a bird trapped in the placid blue eye of a hurricane. Not all calm is the same. Perception isn’t reality. Sam would’ve understood.

Disclaimer: I don’t own Sam or Dean. I just abduct them and make them slow dance to Chris De Burgh.

***

John taught Dean how to navigate the dark with a loaded weapon.

If it goes dark, go still, shut your eyes, and let your vision adjust before opening your eyes. Keep the barrel steady … no sudden movements.

The words “be patient” left unsaid.

Patience was never Dean’s forte, but in the last year he learned to shut up and just deal. Bobby thinks he has accepted life for what it is, maybe found peace. But Dean knows there’s a difference between a bird navigating the clear skies of the Kansas prairie and a bird trapped in the placid blue eye of a hurricane. Not all calm is the same. Perception isn’t reality. Sam would’ve understood.

There are seven days left until Dean’s free of himself. He has thought about ending it early, but he won’t touch the weapons anymore. The Colt 1911 remains buried in the dark of the trunk, undisturbed since the night almost a month ago. But Dean tells Bobby that he doesn’t want to give that red-eyed bitch the satisfaction of thinking that he chickened out, because if there’s one thing that a Winchester isn’t, it’s a pussy. And now that he’s the last, he feels some insatiable compunction to uphold the family name, to go down honorably as if that would atone for everything he’s done and set right what went wrong. Sam used to talk about redemption. Dean now understands what he was really saying: intent matters.

Dean leans his palms against the dented metal of the hood and lets his head hang heavy from his shoulders. He closes his eyes and then opens them. But everything remains the same. He thinks that it couldn’t have happened yet, the adjustment, the shift into the after.

After Red Shift, South Dakota.

After Sam.

He waits for the slow slide into what everyone calls healing. But in twenty-five days it hasn’t come. He’s pissed that the world doesn’t stop because Sam deserved something more than a pile of wood soaked with lighter fluid in the field behind Bobby’s. He deserved a full on sixty-six soldier salute with bells ringing and a goddamn cannon. He deserved a grave and a pile of dirt like a normal person. And if Sam couldn’t have any of that then at least the world could have the balls to give a damn. Just. For. A. Second.

A part of Dean wants to piss Sam off so he’ll come back just to tell him off. He considers a parade of clowns, barrelfuls of itching powder, an economy size bottle of Nair, yelling “Samalamadingdong” over and over. He considers messing with Sam’s laptop. Then he remembers it’s lying in pieces and half covered in dirt on the far side of Bobby’s property, a victim of his anger and frustration one blurry afternoon. Instead Dean settles on Jack and Jim, liquid Novocain in a bottle. He decides getting drunk alone on the hood of the rusted-out and wheel-less shell of a 1974 Buick LeSabre in the middle of the night would piss Sam off to holy hell. Sam would launch into him for being self-destructive and feeling sorry for himself blah blah blah blaahhhh...

Shadows flutter at the corners of Dean’s vision. He stops, inhales, tries to center himself because he wants to remember this time. But the dark flashes Bobby says are his mind’s way of expelling the residuals come strong and hard. The dark swallows him as the past punches into his present: the friction of the rope in his hands … twin flashes of red … the shudder and jerk of his palm from the kickback … the clotted black under Sam’s fingernails. Dust rises in jagged clouds as Dean slips down the night-cooled metal of the car, his mind turning inward. Sam’s eyes are open as the familiar notes, high and sharp, perforate Dean’s thoughts. And this time he sees the words sear through the stain of the South Dakota sky as they twist and break, a backwards nursery rhyme carved into the night.

Downdarkward

Dust bleeds black

One shines to his end

At the other’s back

Darkdownward

Sweet the fall

One follows the other

Surrender the call

The tune disintegrates into broken chords as backwards-slanting scrawl wraps around Dean’s vision.

DoyoureallyknowwhathappenedThatNight?Doyoureallyknow … doyou?KNOW?

Then the crickets are singing and the sky is a dome of black arching over him. Dean’s breath is a jagged staccato that catches in his chest. His fingers scratch blindly through the dust in search for the dropped bottle of amber liquid. It’s only when he finds his hand coated in viscous ooze does he realize that his ass is planted in a puddle of motor oil. With a twist of his wrist, Dean breaks the plastic teeth holding the bottle shut and throws the cap as hard as he can. It ricochets off an amputated bumper and skitters to a stop back at his feet. He stares. Everything he’s never wanted always seems to come back. The only things he’s ever needed don’t. Dean raises the bottle to his lips and jerks it back, his throat working, pushing down the burn.

Doyoureallyknow?

He knows what happened. He was there.

A voice that sounds Sam-like rattles in his head: Dude, what the hell do you think you’re doing?

Celebrating, Sammy.

He imagines the ultimate bitch face he’d get for that and takes an extra long pull on the bottle. Oil bleeds down the leg of his jeans as the words from the dark flash burn out.

I’m celebrating my damn life.

Dean stares at the bottle cap in the dirt and waits for the shift into the after. But there’s only the crush of brittle plastic that feels like the shattering of bone under the heel of his boot. He closes his eyes and glares into the dark imprinted on the back his eyelids, daring the world to look different when he opens his eyes.

***

Every hunt John repeated his warning:

Your gun always follows your eyes, especially in the dark. Don’t point at anything you’re not prepared to shoot.

Now the words, especially Sam pass through Dean’s head.

Dean remembers that night twenty-eight days ago. He remembers the demons bound and gagged. Latin streams from Sam’s mouth as he circles, eyes trained on the pages anchored to his palms. Two pairs of black track Dean across the room, eyes that once belonged to Meg, to Sam, and now to the man who will forever remain nameless … as well as the eyes of the she-demon who sits silent and grinning. He remembers a hot, unnatural wind scratching across his skin like nails of an invisible hand. There’s a tug at his neck, and before Dean can react, the charm slides cool and liquid with a quiet metallic clink past his belt buckle to the floor. A flash of red blazes behind his eyes and then the world upends in a crash-swirl of black.

Then there’s the burn of Bobby’s metal charm trapped between his skin and Sam’s cold hand, a searing bite his mind clings to for purchase. The world refocuses by degrees: the rawness in his throat, the bitter smell of gunpowder, the grit of ash on the air, and clatter of the empty flask of holy water on the floorboards. His gun, the Colt 1911 with the ivory handles, sits heavy and familiar in his hand, his finger white-knuckled and locked around the trigger. Sam’s eyes are glossy and the muscles in his jaw tense as he exhales, his voice tight.

“Dean? … Dean!” Sam’s hand knots in his shirt and pulls him to a sitting position. “You alright?”

The miner’s cabin is burning. Behind Sam a bound figure engulfed in flame sizzles and topples to the floor as fire devours the wooden legs of their chair, their grin stamped white against dancing red and yellow. The other now demonless body ignites. Sam’s mouth moves fast and frantic. Open. Shut. Open. Shut. Dean thinks it strange he can’t hear anything when the words splatter across his vision, a visual echo imprinted on the inside of his skull, obliterating Sam, the bodies, and the fire:

Darkdownward

Dust bleeds black…

Dean’s eyes lock on Sam’s shoulders canted at an angle and his arm curled into his right side, elbow dug deep.

…One shines to his end…

Dean’s chest seizes as Sam reaches across with his left hand and presses hard into the heart of the dark stain climbing across his jacket.

…At the other’s back

Dean’s finger stutters over the fine lines engraved in the warm metal of his Colt. Something raw and hot bursts in his gut, and his body lurches into cruise control as his emotions cram themselves into the overstuffed lockbox in his head. Sam can’t afford it if he lets his real thoughts spill, sloppy and complicated. Sam needs decisiveness. Sam needs action. Dean propels himself from the floor and stumbles, the toe of his boot dragging across the uneven boards. He grabs his brother with both hands and shoves him toward the door, placing himself between Sam and the flames rearing off the walls.

“It’s not your fault,” Sam grunts.

Dean remembers the brittle and dry grind of gravel underfoot, Sam’s uneven breaths, his brother’s arm heavy on his shoulders, and the warm wetness unfurling across his shirt pressed into Sam’s side. A litany of assurances tumble from Dean’s lips, and Sam mumbles something about him having diarrhea of the mouth, punctuated by a quiet, “Shaddup, Dean” followed by, “everything’ll be alright now.” But Dean hears the timbre behind Sam’s words, knows the effort he’s exerting to bend the pitch of his voice to normal. He hitches more of Sam’s weight onto his shoulders and barks that he better not go all pansy because he’s not carrying his lead-heavy ass.

Sam, pale and sweaty, sets his jaw and locks his eyes on some infinite point in front of him. It’s the same look John wore as he carried an unconscious Sam and Dean with a broken ankle a mile out of the Kentucky woods after a leprechaun ambush. It was that hell bent, determined look that meant they were all getting back to the Impala under no uncertain terms because not getting back wasn’t an option. And just like fourteen years ago, Dean tells himself that everything will be alright if they can just get back to his girl with the kit in the truck full of gauze, instant ice-packs, and Vicodin. Because the Impala is how he’s going to get Sam to the nearest hospital at the speed of light even if he has to bend the whole damn universe to do it.

“C’mon, put those freakishly long legs of yours to use.”

Sam exhales loud and heavy through his nose and jerks his head in an affirmative. But his feet continue to drag, scattering pebbles and sending puffs of dust swirling skyward.

“Buck up, Sammy. When you make it to the car, I’ll let you drive.”

He doesn’t answer, and Dean knows it’s bad if Sam’s not bothering to be pissy. He presses his free hand over Sam’s left fisted at his side. Dean lets himself feel the burn of exertion in his thighs and the flex and twist of his shoulder muscles because it distracts him from the warm wetness sluicing over his knuckles, down his forearm, and off his elbow. Dean tries to ignore the Colt in his pocket weighed down with his guilt.

They’re half way to the car when Sam begins listing to one side like a flagpole in quicksand. Dean takes more of Sam’s weight, lengthens his strides, and keeps his eyes on the dark. He concentrates only on putting more of the gravel road behind them. Dean tells himself that it’s determination and anger, not the black panic curdling in his gut that’s causing his pulse to pound double time to Sam’s.

Dust rises from their heels. The dark crawls around them. The only sounds are labored breaths and the crunch and drag of gravel as they march through the still night. In their wake, black drops glisten in the dust. Only when the Impala comes into view does relief surge though Dean. But before he can exhale, Sam’s breath hitches and his knees buckle. And the only thing Dean can do is make sure Sam never falls.

***

Throughout their childhood, John told his boys to watch out for each other in the dark.

Always know where your brother is.

The word, “Dean” spoken only with John’s eyes.

Dean doesn’t like to think about where Sam could be or where Sam isn’t. Instead, Dean pretends Sam’s at the prepster factory with the other giant craniums, jamming his brain full of law facts and drinking those fairy fluff lattes with his whole life laid out like a blank map in front of him. Dean convinces himself that he can get into the car and catch a glimpse of Sam whenever he wants or, if he chooses, drag him back. He fools himself into believing that it’s his choice Sam isn’t with him.

Dean puts Sam’s laptop back together. The screen fades in and out and the “s” key sticks so sssssssssssssssssssssssssssss marches across the screen with every tap, but Dean doesn’t need the keyboard. He stares at the Stanford School of Law webpage until he makes himself see Sam sitting at the curved tables arching around the lectern at the front of those carpeted lecture halls. The light from the overhead pot lights reflect off of Sam’s new laptop. Sam’s fingers fly across the keyboard as his eyes follow a bald dude in a tweed jacket and a puke-colored tie pacing back and forth in front of the tiered mass of eyes. His hair is flipping all over the place like some girl, and Dean wonders if whoever cuts Sam’s hair now knows he hates the metal-on-metal snap of the scissors near his ears.

Dean wraps himself in the secret illusion that Sam’s living his life somewhere else because it dulls the ache and buffers Bobby’s words. He tells himself that the hollow spot in his chest is because Sam amputated himself from the family. Dean lets himself get angry because it’s easier to be mad at someone for their past choices rather than to hate himself for his own. But there’s not enough denial in the world to bury the fact that it was Dean who pushed to exorcise two demons at once. It was risky and stupid and arrogant. He knows that if it weren’t for his single-minded obsession with putting as many of those sons of bitches back in hell before his time was up, Sam wouldn’t have been in Red Shift, South Dakota that night.

Bobby says crap about dreams being guilt working its way out, a way of processing things that are too big for the conscious mind. But Dean thinks dreams are just wishes stitched together with random thoughts. They’re useless brain junk that will never be because Dean dreams about Sam. And, like John taught him, in every single dream he knows where Sam is: with him.

Tonight Sam is driving the Impala. The seat is pushed back so Sam’s practically sitting in the back seat. He’s slouched back, shoulders resting against the seat with his elbow balanced on the ledge of the half-opened window. The pads of his fingers nudge the steering wheel while his right hand is wrapped around a paper cup leaking steam. Sam’s face is open and relaxed as if nothing more than the weather was on his mind. Dean sees himself in the passenger seat with his head back and mouth hanging open. He’s got on his badass sunglasses.

It could be any time, any place. And even in the haze of his dreamscape, Dean suddenly realizes what he misses most is the mundanity of being on a stretch of highway with Sam, the in-between time he’d been so impatient to skip to get to the adrenaline rush of a hunt.

Sam lets out an exasperated groan. His eyes slide over to Dean as he rolls down his window all the way, his arm working fast. “Dude, you’re friggin’ rotten inside.”

Dean sees himself shift in his seat. “Just keeping you awake, making sure you don’t crash us, Sammy.”

“No more onions or else you’re gonna wake up with a biohazard symbol on your ass.”

A slow smile materializes on his face. “Whatever, Francis, you don’t have the balls to get close enough.” Dean watches as he tilts his shoulders toward the window and slaps his own ass.

“Point your vile canon somewhere else.” Sam face contorts; his nostrils flair. “You’ve polluted this car so it’s officially a Superfund site. If you don’t stop, I’m gonna call the EPA.”

“Aww, Sam, you’re just mad about loosing all your panties to the big bad monster called the laundromat.”

“And I’m not wearing yours.”

“Do you see me offering?” Dean grins and readjusts his sunglasses. “They’d be too big anyway. Watch out, going commando chafes.”

Sam rolls his eyes and mutters under his breath. A gust of air blows through the window and rattles around inside the car. Dean watches himself frown and rub the back of his neck. Sam leans forward and flicks on the radio. He turns the dial and then sits back, gripping the wheel with both hands. The crackle of static is loud. Dean sees himself open his mouth to tell Sam his taste in music sucks.

“Cake hole. Shut it,” says Sam, his eyes fixed on the road and mouth pressed into a line. He reaches up and tugs at his hair.

“Sam.”

The tips of Sam’s fingers turn white as he presses them into the plastic volume dial and twists his wrist. White noise fills the car.

“Not funny,” says Dean.

The wind blowing through the window turns hot. Sam’s face is blank as he knots his fists along his scalp and pulls.

“You don’t really know what happened, Dean.”

Dean watches himself take off his sunglasses, the mask of get-to-business calm that accompanies Sam’s visions hiding everything but the panic in his eyes.

“Don’t you hear it?” Sam’s voice is flat. He opens his hand and stares at the clumps of hair falling into his lap.

Dean reaches across to bat Sam’s hand away as he reaches for his head. “Sam, what the hell are you --”

Then, one at a time, the notes of a familiar, jagged tune emerge from the static:

Darkdownward

Sweet the fall

One follows the other

Surrender the call

Dean watches himself go pale. His eyes lock on Sam as he yanks out handfuls of hair that cascade down his shirt and scatter in the wind. Sam’s nose falls onto the seat. His mouth melts and his eyes roll back in his head. Then sandy blond tuffs emerge from the bloody scalp, a stub in the middle of the featureless face bubbles upward, and two flaps flesh merge and curl into a familiar smirk until Dean is staring at himself.

There’s a flash of ivory and silver in once-Sam-now-Dean’s hand. And suddenly the scene tilts and Dean is part of the dream -- he’s himself sitting in the passenger seat, staring at the thing that was his brother and is now him. He feels the muzzle of his Colt pressing into his sternum, smells his own sweat, sees the thing’s eyes go milky white. The car accelerates and begins to drive itself as once-Sam-now-Dean places his left hand over his right, steadying the gun. A slow grin spreads across once-Sam-now-Dean’s face.

I can show you what really happened. All you have to do is ask. Nicely.

Dean’s eyes flick from the gun at his chest to the eyes of the thing using his voice.

Do you know where your brother is? Little Sammy--

“Don’t say his name.”

He’s waiting for you to follow, Dean. You can end everything now. It’d be so smooth … I can make it easy for you. Painless and sweet and nothing like how Sam chose to go.

Once-Sam-now-Dean tilts its head and licks its lips. Then its eyes glow red. It smiles.

Howdy, Dean. You Winchesters, what a triple deal … and more fun than a barrelful of monkeys, I just can’t get enough.

Dean bites on the inside of his cheek and clenches his hands.

You know, all blood gleams black in the moonlight. Even a demon’s. The red-eyed demon’s lips twist into a smirk. Its breath is humid and rank; its hand cold against Dean’s skin. He tells it to screw off. Okay then, no deal-o, Dean-o. Seems like Sam’s always ending up with the short end of the stick these days. It waves its fingers. Say goodbye, big boy.

The demon pulls the gun from Dean’s chest and stuffs it into its own mouth. And suddenly Dean’s staring into Sam’s eyes, open and glassy and completely blank.

“Shuddup, Dean. Everything’ll be alright now,” says Sam.

He opens his mouth to scream “NO!” but the gun goes off. The Impala lurches. Dean is thrown sideways and flies through the air. He finds himself lying on the ground, gravel and blood on his palms. The Impala is a hunk of metal burning on the side of the road. And suddenly he’s running toward it with the Colt in his hand, screaming for Sam as the shrieks of two demons curl on the hot wind.

Dean wakes with his mouth dry, eyes itching, and choking on the smell of Bobby burning toast and frying bacon. He unknots his hands from the sheets and runs them over his face. And in between heartbeats, Dean realizes that he’s no longer afraid of the look on Sam’s face before the shot went off. He knows it can’t be worse than his dreams.

***

Through the years, John taught his boys what to do in the dark.

Stay together. When outnumbered, stand back to back.

The words, “remember to watch each other’s blind spots” passing silently between the three of them.

For eighteen years Dean watched out for Sam. Until Sam was nine and decided he hated Halloween, Dean made Sam carve the pumpkin with the plastic Kiddie-No-Kut knife even though he threw a fit every year. He taught Sam how to make farting noises with his armpit, how to spit through his teeth, and that cans of warm Coke would spew farther if they were shaken first. Dean always packed Sam’s lunch before his own and sometimes gave him the last Fruit Roll-Up. He even mastered John’s signature in order to sign Sam’s permission slips so he wouldn’t miss the field trips to the museums, the historical societies, the zoos when John was away.

Even after Sam left them for Stanford, Dean kept one eye turned westward. A Kiddie-No-Kut knife was mailed every Halloween for three years. That fourth year the orange-handled plastic blade still in its package was stuffed into the garbage can of a Nevada gas station as Sam, slumped in the passenger seat, dreamed about Jess and fire.

Dean remembers John’s words and tried to cover Sam’s blind spots. He tried to keep Sam from over thinking everything and told him to stuff it when he got all emo and that mushroom-shape set of wrinkles appeared between his smashed-together eyebrows. He kept him away from the Jagermeister except for that one time in Connecticut. He pushed him toward upstate-New-York Sarah. Dean navigated for Sam when he struggled blindly and folded in on himself for those two silent days after Madison.

Even though Sam could remember the three E’s of chaos magic, who the thirteenth president of the United States was, and the square root of 169, Dean’s mind has its jaws of life locked around its own brand of important details. He remembers peaking though the bars of the crib and seeing his little brother blinking back at him for the first time. He remembers Sam dressed as a green grape for his school play and choking down his laughter after John shot him his back-to-the-car look. He remembers showing Sam how to shave and teaching him how to drive stick because Sam and John couldn’t be in the car alone together without Winchester War eleven-hundred and ninety-two breaking out. Dean remembers Sam’s shit-eating grin. He remembers Sam wearing that smarty pants golden rope thing over his robes at his high school graduation and how proud he was of his brainy brother. Dean’s hands remember the weight of the stiff paper bearing the Stanford University crest and the feel of the creases worn deep and lose from being unfolded and refolded. And that first night after Sam left, Dean remembers how the cramped silence of Sam’s empty bed screamed louder than he ever could.

But it’s the minutes when he was possessed that night in Red Shift, South Dakota that Dean can’t remember. Those moments are a vast blind spot while the before and the after are embossed in his consciousness so clearly they stand vivid and tall against the backdrop of his other memories. Dean can’t remember the beginning of the end of Sam’s life. But now he’s ready to.

There are three nights until Dean’s time is up. While Bobby is doing an emergency tow three towns away, Dean scrawls out the circles and lines with white chalk on the concrete floor of Bobby’s workshop because there are no crossroads within a five mile radius and Bobby’s hidden his keys and the whiskey again. Dean places the crimson candles for the summoning ritual in the powered circles. The box cutter slices through the heel of his palm as his and Sam’s knives are locked in the trunk he refuses to open. Blood rushes with the pull of gravity and drips in synchrony with the Latin pouring from his lips. Dean blinks through the ribbons of light burning at the edge of his vision from the sparks and waits, one hand holding the cool end of the red-burning metal that will be his only leverage.

Finally the notes play though his head as the backward-slanting scrawl overrides everything else.

Darkdownward…

Dean pulls himself up and stands on shaky legs. He’s done hiding.

Sweet the fall…

I can show you what really happened. All you have to do is ask. Nicely.

…One follows the other…

He’s waiting for you to follow, Dean. You can end everything now. It’d be so smooth … I can make it easy for you. Painless and sweet and nothing like how Sam chose to go.

…Surrender the call

Then she’s there, wearing the body of a girl no older than sixteen. Jeans pulled taught around her hips, a braid snaking around her neck to hang between her flannel-clad breasts. Her boots, buffed to a high gloss so they reflect the red glare of the candles, click her slow approach on the concrete.

Dean fixes his eyes and makes his face go neutral. He’s played this game long enough to know that Red loves the power trip that desperation brings. He’s not giving her that satisfaction this time. Even though he’s got nothing to bargain, his pride keeps his spine straight. He needs answers, and she’s going to give them to him.

“Dean, back for more, I see.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“But you didn’t ask nicely,” her lips twist coyly and she fingers the curled tail of her braid. “I only play with gentlemen.” Dean plants his feet and levels his eyes at her. After a long silence, she says, “Chivalry must’ve died with your brother.”

“Tell me what happened,” Dean repeats, his fingers tightening around the metal hidden behind his back.

“Dean, Dean, Dean … why you already know what happened. You were there.” She raises her eyebrows and says, “You did it.

“Well, actually it was your old friend … you remember Meg? Or, sorry, that would be Sam. But that’s really of no consequence; it was your finger that pulled the trigger.” She laughs. “You should’ve seen the look on your face. You should’ve seen your baby brother’s face.” She steps closer, her face contorting in mock seriousness. “He was saving your sorry soul, Dean. And you…” she arranges her hand into the shape of a gun and aims it at his chest, “…shot him. Pow!” The sound of her imitating a gunshot echoes, and Dean flinches. She leans up, brushes her lips against his ear and whispers, “That’s Winchester gratitude for you.”

Dean’s hand flies out and his fingers wrap around her neck. His other hand holds the tip of hot metal at her side. “You’re gonna tell me exactly what happened, or I’ll stamp you so full of binding links that you won’t be able to see through the scars. I’ll lock you in this body forever.”

Her eyes burn red. “I’m not the one you should be angry at. It’s Sam who did this to you,” she rasps. Dean’s grip tightens and the smell of burning flannel spirals up between them. Her hands clamp around his wrist, fingernails digging crescents into his flesh. “So you want to know about our little deal … his deal … the deal on top of a deal on top of a deal?” When Dean presses the hot iron closer she draws a breath and continues hastily, “Sam was always the one keeping secrets. He lied to John about school. He lied to his sweet little Jessica about who he was. Why do you think you were the exception?”

Sweat begins to leak down Dean’s back. His hand falters. “If Sam made a deal, then why didn’t he get time?”

“Let me go and I’ll play nice. Otherwise you’ll never know what really happened.”

Dean’s jaw clenches. His eyes flicker over her face. And with a grunt he pushes her away, but continues to wield the branding iron. She stumbles, rights herself, and examines the burns in her shirt, smoothing them with her palms.

“Not nice, Dean,” she says.

“WHY DIDN’T HE GET TIME!”

Now that she’s out of arm’s reach she recovers her bravado. She eyes the burning poker in Dean’s hand and softly clicks her tongue against her teeth. “Tick tock tick tock.” She tilts her head, her braid swings like pendulum. “Oh, Sam got plenty of time. You think I’d short change your little brother? A deal’s a deal, and I never go back on my word.” She waves her hand casually. “Sam had three months. When time was up, he had to find me, bring you, and we’d finish the deal. Otherwise everything was null and void and both of you would be D-E-D dead faster than a lonely, drunk Winchester with a gun.” She grins at her own joke. “You see, your life was enough to keep Sam on the straight and narrow. If he breathed a word of this to you, the deal was off.”

Dean’s mind spins. His fingers go cold. His chest contracts as images from the last four months flip through his head: Sam, closed-lipped and quiet, slinking into that motel room in St. Cloud, Minnesota one morning after “a night out”; Sam staring at him like he was trying to memorize something, and Dean saying, “What, I got a cling-on or something?”; Sam pointing out signs of demonic activity in western South Dakota; Sam suggesting they stop by Bobby’s to get some advice; Sam telling him not to bring the guns because some innocent might get hurt; Sam quiet and edgy and ignoring Dean smart ass remark about it being that time of the month as they parked down the road from the miner’s cabin; Sam’s last words that night, “Shuddup, Dean. Everything’ll be alright now.”

Dean’s breath erupts hot from his lungs. He digs his nails into his palms and glares long and hard, unable to move, at the truth solidifying before him as Red continues:

“But, Sam, he was so dead set on saving his big brother that he didn’t see our little loop hole -- exactly how we’d take him was left wide open.” She shakes her head. “To be shot at point blank range by the person you’d given you life for, by your own brother, is one of my more clever arrangements. Poetic, isn’t it? Like a Greek tragedy, or maybe more Shakespearian.” Red circles Dean and tosses her head. “Anyhow, you Winchesters might just go down in my little black book of memorable deals. Tell me, Dean, how does it feel to be the on receiving end of a great conquest?”

“You bitch,” is all Dean can muster.

“You should be calling Sam that, not me. Such bad manners, Dean.” The candles reflect red-on-red in her eyes. “He summoned me. He made the deal. He waited the three months. He pointed you toward Red Shift. He let you pull that trigger. He abandoned you. I just gave him what he wanted.”

She steps over one of the candles. The light flickering across her face makes her look young and innocent, and Dean remembers there’s a girl trapped somewhere in that skin.

“Sam, the overachiever he was, did everything textbook perfect … except for one thing. He always over estimated you, Dean. He thought he could save you from me, but it never occurred to him that eventually you’d let me take you, too. See, this way, I get two Winchesters for the price of one … first Sam and now you.

“You’re nothing without your family. You spend you days drinking yourself away, shuffling around in the dirt and wallowing because you know that you brought this on yourself with your desperate deal making. John and Sam were both convinced you were the strong one. But I know you, Dean, you’re not. And now that there’s nobody left to save, you’re through. You’ve even thought about how you’d end it.”

Dean swallows and tells her to shut up to which she only smiles sympathetically and softens her voice, her eyes lingering on the faintly glowing tip of the branding iron that has slipped to Dean’s side.

“You don’t have to be alone anymore, Dean. Sam’s waiting for you. I can give you what you want ... wouldn’t half of a Winchester family reunion be better than nothing?” She walks closer, her boots leaving prints in the red pools of candle wax. “Just surrender to it all. I’m the best deal around … bargain prices. Just. For. You.” She punctuates her last words with a tap of her finger against his chest. “I’ll show you what really happened that night in exchange for a little something.” She brushes the curls that escaped her braid away from her face and lowers her voice, “You just consider my offer for the next three nights. Then I’ll come back and we can strike a new deal. I can save you from yourself and give you what you want if you just let me.” Red brushes her fingers against the cold metal of the branding iron. “Until then, here’s a token of my goodwill…”

Her hand closes over his and suddenly Dean’s in the miner’s cabin. Before him is the man who was possessed by once-Meg-once-Sam. He’s bound to the chair, wide-eyed and breathing hard, asking what has happened to him. Next to the man, Dean sees himself black-eyed and staring hungrily over his shoulder. Dean spins around to find Sam leaning over the woman, the other demon, tied to the chair. His mouth works against hers as her eyes flare red and her fingers splay wide across Sam’s hands braced against the arms of the chair.

Dean yells, but the man continues to babble and Sam doesn’t acknowledge him. He tries to run forward to pull Sam away, but his feet are bound to the floor.

Sam straightens and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His face is closed, his eyes hard. The woman Red highjacked licks her lips and turns her mouth upward into a self-satisfied smile. Dean hears his own laughter, high and manic, echo through the cabin.

“Let him go,” says Sam. His eyes dart to once-Meg-once-Sam-now Dean ginning at him. “This wasn’t part of the deal.”

Red smiles. “The deal was your life for your brother’s. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Rage coils in Dean’s chest when he hears the demon use his voice: “Oh, Dean will live a nice long life. He’ll just be along for the ride in this meat suit of his.” Once-Meg-once-Sam-now Dean spins the Colt on a finger and leers. “You know what joy your brother’s in for, don’t you, Sam.”

“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE!” screams the man tied to the chair.

There’s a bang and the man’s head jerks back before he slumps forward against the ropes. Dean struggles to pull his feet from the floor and rush the demon that’s using his skin and gun.

“God he was annoying. Wouldn’t stop screaming the whole time,” says Once-Meg-once-Sam, rolling Dean’s eyes. “I hate screamers.”

The muscles in Sam’s jaw clench and unclench as his chest rises and falls. “I’m going to kill you.”

“That’s not how it’s going to work,” says Red calmly. “Tonight it’s our way or the highway, littlest Winchester. We have a deal … unless you want to throw your brother’s life away and, in that case, we’ll use his pretty shell without him rattling around inside.”

Something wavers behind Sam’s eyes. A cold clicking echoes through the cabin as once-Meg-once-Sam-now Dean plays with the Colt’s safety.

“It’s Judgment Day, Sammy.”

Hearing his own voice used against Sam has Dean yelling threats and obscenities even though he knows it’s useless.

Sam pauses and then spits out, “Fine.” He hitches his shoulders and turns to face the demon wearing his brother. Sam’s eyes flicker to Bobby’s silver charm lying where it fell inches away from the demon’s feet. Dean watches helpless as Sam slowly raises one hand, palm forward, then the other in a gesture of trust. As Sam walks forward, the flask of holy water winks at Dean from Sam’s back pocket, and, in one sinking moment, Dean realizes what Sam’s going to do.

“SAM, NO!”

Sam’s eyes hold steady and never leave his brother’s face as he presses the Colt against his heart. The demon behind Dean’s black eyes smiles wide and whispers, “You’re not going that easy,” and jerks the gun down to Sam’s side. When the shot goes off, Sam doesn’t blink. The only sound is Dean screaming, water spilling from the flask of holy water, and the screeching of demons as the cabin erupts in flames.

***

After a couple of glasses of whiskeys loosened his tongue, John would impart his wisdom on his sons:

People are afraid of the dark because they’re afraid of the unknown. But we know what’s in the dark. We know what to do, right boys?

The words “don’t be afraid” hovering behind his breath.

Dean doesn’t think about those moments when he was trapped inside his own shell. He doesn’t think about what the demon said to Sam with his mouth, his voice. He doesn’t think about the hollow sound of Sam’s boots on wood as he walked toward him. He doesn’t think about what it felt like to pull the trigger, or Sam’s hands scrambling for the charm on the floor. Dean doesn’t think about the look on Sam’s face when he hauled Dean up by the front of his shirt and yelled his name. But mostly, Dean doesn’t think about how cosmic justice can be so fucked up in such a perfect way.

Instead, Dean thinks about what he and Sam said to each other without saying a word. He thinks about Sam absently picking through his french fries with his fork, separating the soggy from the burned as his eyes dart across the computer screen searching for a new case. He hears Sam laughing and the way he’d emphasize the “k” on “jerk” when he wasn’t really pissed. He thinks about Sam next to him, sleeping in the passenger seat with his knees smashed against the dash, his head lolled to the side, and arms everywhere. Dean thinks about how Sam prayed every day and where Mary, John, and now Sam are. And Dean begins to imagine that there’s more beyond this world than what he’s seen.

Good night, sleep tight. Angels are watching over you, sweetie.

It’s only dark because it’s unknown. Don’t be afraid.

Shuddup, Dean. Everything’ll be alright now.

Dean finally understands what it means to be patient. He lets the memories come deep and hard like the dark flashes once did. Forgiveness washes over him on the high, sweet notes of his dreams. The space around Dean’s heart fills with his family’s gifts. And finally, Dean sees hope in the curve of a familiar smile the beautiful something that lies beyond the dark. When that red-eyed bitch tries to re-spin her pathetic deal, he knows exactly what he’s going to tell her.

Dean stops drinking. He cleans the rifles, the hand guns, the knives, melts down silver for bullets, and buys tins of salt. He washes, waxes, and buffs the Impala until she shines pearl black and white silver in the sun. He tucks Sam’s laptop in the trunk between the dream catcher and his Colt and begins to think about what it means to say goodbye to Mary, to John, and finally to Sam. But mostly, Dean thinks about what it means to live again. And he’s not afraid.

After three nights, he stands in the burned patch of ground behind Bobby’s and waits for the deal he'll never make. Green buds have climbed though the ash and charred wood from the fire thirty-one days ago. The smell of wet earth has worn away the sour chemical of a fire set to burn hot and long on a diet of lighter fluid. A cool breeze now replaces the waves of heat that singed the hairs on his hands and arms as he put Sam to rest. Dean looks past the dark grass edging the place that will forever be Sam's and sees the yellow lights of Bobby's place shining beyond the tangle of car parts and falling-down fence. Bobby left the lights on for him. The dark doesn't seem as impenetrable when he knows someone is waiting for him. Dean reaches down and touches his fingers to the ash. And as sure as he feels the earth turning under his boots, Dean feels the shift happening, the shift into healing, into the after.

After Red Shift, South Dakota.

After Sam.

Dean closes his eyes, opens his palms, and lets it come, slow and easy, as the black dome of the South Dakota sky spins silently above him.

***

Fin

Every Little Space Once Filled

2007-05-06T02:04:55Z

Title: Every Little Space Once Filled
Rating: PG
Characters: Sam/Jess
Word Count: 949
Notes/Warnings: SPN Fandom. Set during the Pilot.
Summary: Sam never pulls away, even in sleep, as Jess fills the space around him.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Sam or Dean or any part of the Supernatural universe. Although on Thursday nights, I lure them to my house with the promise of caffeine, sandwiches, and geekboy books where I hold them hostage and make them rub my feet.

Every Little Space Once Filled

Jess likes sleeping Sam. He’s different than awake Sam.

Sleep makes Sam swallow space. As soon as his conscious mind isn’t there to retract his limbs and collapse himself into a less imposing package, he becomes all spread arms and sprawled legs, a veritable human heater plunked down in the middle of the bed, one that Jess can’t move. She does her best to sleep around him in the pockets that aren’t occupied by a knee or a foot or an elbow. She shifts slowly and gently tugs at the twisted sheets, but Sam always wakes. After the apologies and sheepish, sleepy grins, he curls in on himself, arms tucked neatly at his sides or under his pillow. But Jess is glad when Sam falls back asleep and refills the bed because there’s too much empty space when he folds into himself.

Jess doesn’t mind small spaces. She secretly likes the divot in the middle of the bed that causes them to list toward each other as if drawn by a huge gravitational force. She likes the feel of Sam against her. When she wakes to find him hogging the covers, Jess tucks her cold feet behind his knees and slips her hands under his T-shirt and into the warm spots between his ribs and upper arms. She loves the half-awake and slightly annoyed sound he makes in the back of his throat when she does this. She feels it vibrate through her as she molds herself into the broad plane of his back and lays her cheek against his shoulder blade. Jess notes that Sam never pulls away, even in sleep, as she fills the space around him.

Jess wonders about sleeping Sam. He’s different than awake Sam.

Sleep untames Sam. He consumes it with abandon, like he’s starved for it. Chest swelling, arms spread, fingers loosely curled, eyelashes fluttering, his breath grows ragged and uneven, twining through Jess’s hair as he dreams. Sometimes he mumbles, exhaling his secrets. Even though the broken phrases and Latin mean nothing to her, Jess understands by the way they meander through the dark toward her night after night that they aren’t meaningless. But the mysteries that weigh down the words are cocooned in a dark space she can’t reach.

Jess can’t help her curiosity. She wonders what other secrets are struggling to break free. She feels them fluttering behind his heartbeat like tiny feathered birds. She catches them in his gaze. Jess is certain Sam will tell her someday, like he’ll explain the curved knife hidden in the green duffle bag at the back of the closet or the three one-pound boxes of rock salt behind the garbage under the kitchen sink. She knows about his secret ring shopping escapades. He wants to marry her. So Jess waits, trusting her Sam, and fills the silence with her steady patience.

Jess wishes for sleeping Sam. He’s different than awake Sam.

Sleep relaxes Sam. A full course load, a part-time job, and preparing for the interview that will open the doors that he deserves have him tense and nervous. He’s not sleeping at night. Sam tries to hide his fatigue behind dismissive jokes and crooked grins, but Jess knows better. She finds him asleep in a cubical on the second floor of the library with his books arranged around him, spread open and flattened by the weight of his arms, the pen still perched between his fingers and his legs spilled into the space beneath the adjacent cubicle.

Jess can’t suppress her worry. Sam’s headaches and nightmares make him restless. He slips from beneath her grasp and retreats to the living room. She makes him chamomile tea that he pretends to drink. She kneads his shoulders until her fingers stiffen. After his reassurances and her failed attempts to get him back to bed, she listens to the springs in the second-hand couch groan under his weight and the floor boards bend beneath his bare feet. The space between them swells in the dark, and Jess, not sure what to do, pours her love into the void.

Jess is anxious about Sam. He’s acting different than normal Sam.

She hopes Sam is sleeping wherever he is. If he comes home looking like hell for his interview, she’ll lay into that so-called brother of his. She bakes Sam chocolate chip cookies to temper her annoyance with Dean and his lousy timing. It helps distract her from the thoughts about the man standing across the street staring at their apartment building. Jess wraps herself in the familiar: she sketches, she studies, she has movie night with friends. She locks the doors and says her goodnight on Sam’s voicemail before her evening shower. Jess leaves the bathroom door open as the empty night presses against the windows.

Jess can’t move or scream or blink. She’s fused to the ceiling. Below her, Sam glances toward the half-open bathroom door leaking the scent of lavender. He falls backwards onto their bed with his hands behind his head and eyes closed as steam from her never-taken shower threads through the dark. Jess curls her fingers toward him. He sighs. A smile brushes his lips. Cookie crumbs cling to the front of his shirt. Her Sam is home. Jess’s eyes fill with tears. Gravity pulls wet drops from her, only it’s not tears that reach him. His eyes open, then grow wide. His words are lost in the scream that splinters the darkness and forces the breath from her lungs. As fire spirals toward Sam, eclipsing her view, Jess exhales the remains of her love in hopes it will fill every little space around him.

~o*O*o~

The House of X (The Passing of the Stand: K’Avra Oristos)

2007-05-06T01:33:53Z

Title: The House of X (The Passing of the Stand: K’Avra Oristos)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,763
Notes/Warnings: scary things like pissed-off vampires
Summary: “The House held a relic, the only item to ever leave the Island of Ancientos. Many hypothesized about what form this artifact was, but none could ever confirm its true shape, for the House held it close. A theory that could not be verified, but that almost none deny, is that this artifact brought the House Leader power beyond imagination.” – The Rise of X, Book 1, Chapter 3, Page 40.

The House of X is the first project from bahproductions.com. It is a product of eight authors bending their brains around a fantasy world of humans, vampires, werewolves, dwarves, elves, and fairies. I’m a guest writer, penning the female character K’Avra Oristos. You can check out the HoX timeline and the other characters: Eckes, William Eaton, Dania Aplobitos, Vivian Johnston, Duncan, and Bevin here. This is a work in progress.

The Passing of the Stand

I am K’Avra Oristos. I am the first female Elder in a line of twenty-three patriarchal standings. In honor of the bloodlines that have passed and in respect for future Vampire families, I will reverse our fortune.

That was the original vow I took when accepting the title of the Eldest of Elders from my predecessor, D’Arcy Vlamanivos. It is the vow I strive to fulfill before my death. If I do not see its completion, then it will pass to the next Elder and then to their successor until it is completed, for vows and life debts are inherited through titles, passed down through families, and persist undiluted by time until they have been repaid. Such is the code of honor in dignified societies with long memories.

My past, although fascinating, is inconsequential as it is for all Elders once the stand has been passed to them. Only one fact holds significance in my new vocation: my blood purity. Blood has deemed me a member of the highest echelon of Vampire society. My line can be traced forty blood lives back to The Originals. I am a descendent of one of the twelve Great Pure-blooded Vampire Families – families that have been lost to time except for three. In my veins pulses The Gift. The powers of lengthened life and healing remain potent, for they are unsoiled by the blood of lesser stock.

This is why blood segregation has kept our society strong. It is the scaffolding that the rest depends on whether the hybrids speak this truth or not. For without the pristine pure blooded, our powers would have been tainted beyond reparability generations ago. Our society would have been lost, our power diluted until we were made human. It is the duty of the pure blooded families to protect The Gift.

As all things complex, The Gift has many faces. For the pure-blooded ones who favor smiles upon, it is called The Benediction; for those that stray it is The Castigation; and for the just and vengeful, The Vindication. In its triality, The Gift is each fiercely beautiful, coolly dispassionate, and unrelentingly savage. These faces represent The Three Sisters: the moon who grants us beauty and our ferocious power; our rightful land which awaits our return, indifferent to the feet that now tread upon her surface; and the sun, certain to rise daily in her hot vengeance.

The three remaining pure-blooded families have adopted the Three Sisters. The Oristos family, the third family of The Originals and my bloodline, claims the sun. A paradox for certain as the sun is no friend of Vampires. However, an enemies’ weakness can be exploited, their powers harnessed and manipulated for gain. They can grow to be a powerful ally. All one requires is the will to triumph, a clever strategy, and a golden tongue. These are the talents my ancestors have passed to me. I will use them to my advantage.

I am K’Avra Oristos. I am the first female Elder in a line of twenty-three patriarchal standings. In honor of the bloodlines that have passed and in respect for future Vampire families, I will reverse our fortune. The Three Sisters shall return to power; the family of the Sun will rise.

Like all things great, The Gift can be turned terrible. In recent generations it has been bastardized, perverted beyond what is natural. So great are the powers of pure Vampire blood that those hungry for it will climb over the bodies of the fallen for one warm drop. Those unworthy of our blood have stolen and manipulated it for their own purposes – medicine, the humans call it. They save lives that should not be saved, tainting of our bloodlines with the most helpless of their mud society. As a result, we are made reluctant cousins to these unfortunate hybrid creatures. Once human, now half vampire, they are outcasts to the very society that claimed to have saved them.

We take the hybrids in. We are forced to teach them, for it is our decree to care for any creature that carries our ancestors’ blood in their veins. We are bound to this duty by blood honor, least the hybrids desecrate The Gift and bring shame upon us all. However, by enfolding them into our society, we dilute our own kind with their filthy half-human ways and befouled blood. For these reasons, the hybrids now call the Second Isle home. We provide for them. After the beating hearts of our prey pass over The Bridge onto the First Isle – the home of the pure blooded – and we have selected the best products, the remainders are shipped by boat to their waiting mouths. It is more than their human counterparts would do.

The hybrids should be grateful, but they are not. It is their human half that compels them to escape the Second Isle. They roam as solitary creatures over the mainland. Bound to no family honor or duty, they do not respect or understand the ways of Vampire society. They are lost, barbaric souls. They procreate and turn others – sharing The Gift with other lesser beings. Their numbers escalate. We cannot find and save them all. Now the Gift surges wild through many veins, our secrets spread open for anyone who is attentive enough to decipher.

This desecration must be stopped. The hybrids abolished. No one shall steal The Gift from us, least of all the thieves of lesser beings. We have outlasted millennia of humans, wolves, dwarves, and elves. We will continue to flourish long after they have caused their own ruin. Even if we must endure servitude and unjust rule, we will persist in our purist form.

I am K’Avra Oristos. I am the first female Elder in a line of twenty-three patriarchal standings. In honor of the bloodlines that have passed and in respect for future Vampire families, I will reverse our fortune. The Three Sisters shall return to power; the family of the Sun will rise. Our blood will be pure once again.

The consequences of the last war now threaten to seal our fate by placing us under the heel of the humans. Something more powerful than enchantments, stone walls, or menacing words hold my kind in the mercy of its cupped palms. It is written word sealed with blood and our honor. The Treaty. A simple piece of parchment drafted at the end of the last war imprisons my kind to these two islands, gives the humans in the Capitol City the illusion of peace, and supplies a steady supply of thumping hearts to the twin shores of our island prisons in exchange.

Five years ago, The Treaty was a promising arrangement for those who were in agreement. I was not one of them. However, I reluctantly gave my mark, knowing that it was our only chance of survival. It was the only way to preserve the purity of our bloodlines for our once great families had been scattered to the edges of the mainland during the previous ten years of battle. The hybrids’ numbers continued to surge. The Elder, D’Arcy Vlamanivos, lay murdered in his chambers, his body desecrated and his teeth stolen for trophy. We had lost the war. We were weak. As the newly anointed Elder, I had no choice. It was this unsavory arrangement with the humans or the slow, undignified death of my kind. I gave my mark.

However, I did not give my will or the will of my kind.

It was not long after the remains of the three Great Families were reunited on our islands that we began to spin our plan. The thread of civility between the humans and the wolves grows thin. When it breaks and they are occupied with each other’s blood, we will rise and reclaim what is ours. We will assume what is theirs. We will banish them to these isles just as they have done to us. But we will destroy The Bridge that connects the isles to the mainland and burn the boats. The humans will be left to the fate they have created for themselves.

More importantly D’Arcy’s murderer will fall to justice. Coincidence does not exist in wartime. Our beloved leader expired at the hands of the human named William Eaton while the ink on the first Treaty draft still glistened wet, yet unseen by foreign eyes. The humans knew. They orchestrated it. They stood quiet with greed and thinly disguised triumph warring in their eyes while I was forced to choose the fate of Vampire society with no Elder council or preparation, the Elder staff I carried high still warm from D’Arcy’s hand. And in their appreciation, the humans bestowed golden titles upon Eaton and placed him at our gates. He passes through uninvited to mock us. His presence is an insult. One day William Eaton will regret his arrogance and pay for his disrespect.

However, we will not bow to their barbaric ways. No mouths stretched wide in hoarse screams, ragged ribbons of white-red flesh, or twitching, limbless corpses will mar our dreams or stain our hands, for graceless murder is not our way. Our enemies will slay themselves in the end. We will make it so.

For now, we follow The Treaty out of honor.
We capitulate to their demands.
We hold ourselves to these two rocky island prisons.
We grant Eaton and his men entry.
We allow them to supply our blood meals.
We give the illusion of being controlled.
We will lull them into an easy and careless rule.
We will covertly cultivate their greed and set the wolves against them.
We will rise and they will fall.
For now, we wait for the right moment when circumstance and destiny meld.

I am K’Avra Oristos. I am the first female Elder in a line of twenty-three patriarchal standings. In honor of the bloodlines that have passed and in respect for future Vampire families, I will reverse our fortune. The Three Sisters shall return to power; the family of the Sun will rise. Our blood will be pure once again. We will reclaim what is ours; we will begin anew.

That is the vow I now undertake as the Eldest of Elders. It is the vow I will strive to fulfill before the end of my days. If I do not see it to fruition, then it will pass to the next Elder and then to their successor until it is completed. This is promised.

We will rise stronger than before.

–X–

What Remains Unspoken (Preface)

2007-05-06T00:39:32Z

Title: What Remains Unspoken (Preface)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,660
Notes/Warnings: post-DH, probably AU
Summary: In post-war New Britain, the re-established Ministry is under the control of a malevolent dictator and the once strong Phoenix Fire Alliance, now led by wanted terrorists Granger and Longbottom, has gone underground. After the fall of Voldemort and the Chosen One, Ginny must find her own way. This is where her story, the events that led to the destruction of the Light wizarding world, and an undying love from her past meld.

This is my pet story. I'll be using it to play around with different writing "stuff". Once again, there's a heavy dose of angst, but (as it stands now) the ending isn't tragic. :) Ginny belongs to JKR, Harry is mine. :P This plot is the product of too much caffine and not enough chocolate.

To survive was to escape fate. But if you escape your fate, whose life do you then step into?
– Anne Michaels, Fugitive Pieces

What Remains Unspoken

~*Preface*~

I live a stranger’s life. It is as if I’ve simply materialized fully realized into the void vacated by someone who grew tired of their existence and stole mine. Now I am trapped in a foreign reality like a Muggle cosmonaut abandoned on the moon, alone and left staring at the small blue and white pearl that was home.

Sometimes I fantasize that this is really the case; that I’m just the victim of some unjust Voodoo Dark Magic; that someday this can all be reversed. When I’m alone and willing the dreams to come, I imagine a red-headed family of nine congregated in a rickety house with corners that meet at odd angles. The house is in state of harmonious chaos; it’s filled with the sounds of children’s footsteps pounding up and down the stairs. Shrieks, scolding, and bursts of laughter reverberate to its foundations. The floors are littered with Quidditch supplies, folded laundry, and well-used second-hand broomsticks. And among the clutter, loudness, and the plethora of kitchen aromas, there squats the imposter. The thief is basking in my family’s smiles and gentle ribbing and hungrily devouring the life that is rightly mine. I dream of the moment they are discovered and my family bursts through these invisible walls. I dream of returning to my former life. I dream of going home.

But even I know that those silly imaginings are impossible because their once-smiling faces are now owned by a lost past, for they each clasped the out-stretched hands of the inevitable and one-by-one accepted their fates unselfishly. Now their names are tucked between long-buried words of truth, and they’ve passed into the stories of heroic bravery, impossible feats made possible, unwavering faith, inextinguishable love, but most of all magic.

The reality in which life is now framed is devoid of magic. At least for those deemed unworthy: those who are said to be defiled by their own blood, those who have not paid their dues, those who have resisted the magistrates, those who are mere victims of circumstance, and sometimes those who are innocent. But even in this reality there exists hope. And certainly with hope on our side, the truth will resurface … someday.

Until then, truth is only uttered in hushed tones and veiled in secrecy behind drawn windows and locked doors in the mixed-blood ghettos. It’s disguised in songs whispered to the wide-eyed children tucked in their beds so that they are taught what hope is. Now truth is just words that linger in dark corners and like silent ghosts, fragmented and powerless because they exist in isolation. The names of my family and the other forgotten truths are kept like that on purpose because unspoken words are like the sleeping past – if they are not resurrected or joined to something greater they will be forgotten.

And that is what they want.

There are others like me that remember and keep the past hibernating in some carefully concealed place in their minds and the names of the unspoken stored in the back of their throats. You see, words can be powerful when united to represent an idea. When memory catches up with the present and is ignited by determination, it will result in action that will spread like a raging wildfire through the populace. This is why words are banned. In particular, three words that when spoken together comprise a name that once represented faith, love, and hope.

It is a name so infused with promise that it and the stories that claimed him are illegal, the books recounting the rebellion are burned, and those that dare utter his name publicly mysteriously disappear, likely executed or imprisoned in the catacombs snaking under the city. It was the name of the one who we thought could save us. And he did. He saved us from the one we all feared, but he couldn’t prevent the events that transpired after the fall of Voldemort because he was already lost.

We had already sacrificed so much in the struggle that there was little left. The endurance of the Phoenix Fire Alliance, which rose from the ashes of the Order of the Phoenix, had been stretched beyond its tensile strength like a hot wire connecting the past and the present. We clung desperately to hope and willed our efforts to make a difference. We vowed victory in the names of the fallen so that their weighty sacrifices would never be forgotten. We held strong, rallied repeatedly, recruited new members, attempted to infiltrate the ranks of what were once the Death Eaters while simultaneously negotiating with the vestiges of Scrimgeour’s government.

But the Fire Alliance was so busy attending to the obvious that we all missed the signs. By the time the weed had embedded its roots into the soil of society, the Alliance was too weak. The Ministry’s new dark hand silenced our protests and began to systematically smother what remained. It was the beginning of the end for the Light and the birth of the new Dark League.

But even then I did not see it, for my world was stained by the colors of romantic love. I foolishly thought that we could weather anything. Because love does triumph over evil does it not? This was the belief that propelled me though those dark years. That was the tiny sand speck of an island that I clung to as the unstoppable, inevitable, and unrelenting waves of change began to slowly erode what I thought once was unchangeable, impenetrable, and true.

You see, I had convinced myself that the future consisted of something better. Now I understand that the glowing innocence of youth had eclipsed the bold letters that spelled out the facts – the words I knew were there, but refused to read. The facts that clearly told me what my future held because of whom I loved and whom I willingly chose to surround myself with. The facts that arranged themselves around the unassuming raven-haired, emerald-eyed love of my life.

Back then life smelled of my mum’s cinnamon-creamed honey and sunshine and was filled with the feel of his cotton shirts against my skin and those shy, lop-sided grins. But that was before the fall from the tower, before the war had christened us adults, before the weight of responsibility hung heavy from our necks. That was before everything changed. Yet, even with all that has happened, I would do exactly the same thing, and I believe that the others would, too. The only regret I have is letting him go. If only…

A perverse part of me is almost relived he cannot see what has become of his sacrifice, that he doesn’t know about the dark and twisted weed that has sprouted from the ashes of our fight. I'm glad he cannot bare witness that the wizarding world has been depraved and overrun by nefarious wizards with twisted ideologies and palates for gold, authority, and prestige. But most of all I am thankful he cannot see what I have become.

A lifetime ago I was a different person.

I cheated destiny by reverting my fate, and she has awarded me with this life – her just revenge. How ironic. Now I struggle to find my place and to make sense of my new life. I stare at myself in the mirror in mute wonder, touching my face to make sure that I am real. But the mirror does not lie. Beneath the jewels, rouge, elaborate up-do’s, and expensive suits and gowns reflecting off its silvery surface is a traitor, a fake, a liar, a coward. I am the imposter. I am the thief. I am the one who has robbed me of the irreplaceable.

Freedom. Love. My family. Him.

Regret and guilt have slowly eroded my soul, and now there exists a chasmal hole that is as expansive as time is unstoppable. Sometimes I wish for it all to end. But then I remember everything we fought for, our vow, and the pounding in my chest quells. I reinforce my resolve by reminding myself that other’s lives depend on mine, although they do not know it or are unable to comprehend such a thing. I am the keeper of the past, the truth, and it is my responsibility to pass this on so that they are remembered. So I wait quietly, patiently, secretly. I stand ready for the day that I will escape and reclaim the life that awaits my return.

All I ask is that you do not judge me. The choices I’ve made were done with one goal in mind – survival. Do not pity me for I do not ask for it, nor do I need it. Everything that has happened is of my own making, and this is the burden that I must bare. I wade through the days that now compose my life with my head held high because I have to. I close off my mind to the past and concentrate on the immediate. It is only when I give myself willingly to sleep and cast myself headfirst into one of his remaining dreamscapes that I revisit my real life and allow myself the luxury of regret. This is the only time that I allow myself to think about him and the life that could’ve been ours. If only…

This is my unfinished story. I hope in the dark corners of my mind that it will have a happy ending even if he’s gone. So read on and you’ll see what has brought me to the present. Only then will you understand why I am Mrs Ginerva Malfoy, wife of the heir to the Steward of Wizarding England and faithful supporter of the New Republic of the Dark Lord, Lucius Malfoy.

~*~

Parallel Reflections "The Past"

2007-05-05T23:56:31Z

Title: The Past
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,279
Notes/Warnings: pre-HBP, severe angst
Summary: If you leave the unknown unexplored, you free yourself to imagine what you may in a place where disappointment doesn’t exist.

This is a companion fic to Consequence and Redemption, but it can be read as a stand-alone piece. I don't own HP in any way, shape, or form.

The past is desperate energy, live, in electric field. It chooses a single moment, a chance so domestic we don’t know we’ve missed it, a moment that crashes into us from behind and changes all that follows.
– Anne Michaels, Fugitive Pieces

She was half laughing, half crying, running to keep up with the train until it gathered too much speed, then she fell back and waved.
– JKR, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone

The Past

~*Spring 1997*~

It was the moment our paths crossed for the first time. I like to imagine this is when some divine being gathered the separate and far-flung threads of our lives and began weaving them into a single strand. Of course, I didn’t sense any sort of great cosmic shift or hear a choir of angels break into song; rather, I marked this momentous occasion by hardly noticing it at all.

It was one of the most significant moments in my life, but I didn’t pause. Like a warm breeze sweeping past your face in the middle of a screaming hurricane, it’s completely overwhelmed by the enormity of a greater circumstance. It’s brushed aside, but its presence just curious enough to remember. It tugs on your conscious gently and persistently, only to disappear as you focus on it, leaving only wisps of what you want the past to be.

She was half laughing…

Her laughter is what I miss most. Those wry smiles, the determined set of her jaw, the tilt of her head, the challenge blazing on her face. That private half-grin that would appear before she’d run off to do something we’d never find out about if it weren’t for Hermione. Then she’d come back smiling with triumph in her eyes. She’d feign innocence and pretend not to know what we were asking her about. Of course, it was all part of her game. The one she only seemed to know the rules to. The game I failed at every time. The one that made me first notice her.

…half crying…

Words aren’t enough to absorb the tears, for time has passed beyond the comforting reach of apologies. And really, are words ever enough? Can the ripped edges made ragged by the collision of circumstance and wrong choices ever be made smooth and joined up again? Can the scars of time itself ever be mended?

If I’d known, maybe I could’ve stopped it. Then the tears might’ve been different. Joyful. Warm. Sliding down her cheeks to touch her smile instead of lips clenched tight in effort. I wish I could go back and redirect the course of time, revert us onto a different path. They say time can be overcome. I would do it if I could. I think she would, too.

…running to keep up…

She was always there even if she was a few steps behind, running. She was always there even if I didn’t notice, watching. She was always there even when I didn’t want her to be, waiting. She was there even when I told her that she couldn’t follow. Even when I had tried to banish her from waking thought. Even when I told myself that it was because I cared for her. She was there while I tried to purge myself of the emotions that would swallow me whole. I tried for her and for me and for Ron and Hermione and Sirius and everyone I loved. But love alone wasn’t enough. At least not for me. Not this time around.

…then she fell back…

She fell….

.…and fell….

….and fell.

I still see her laying there, a smudge of vibrant red against a grey canvas of cold stone. The Chamber was the beginning of the end. It was there that the future – mine, hers, ours, his – was made, where it began to condense until it grew solid. I didn’t notice then, but rarely did I notice when significant events of my life swept past. I was only twelve and scared senseless. But I’m no longer twelve and I’m not scared. I know what to look for. Time has a way of revealing its intentions long before it acts. Time can march backwards. Now I understand that the end always comes first.

…and waved.

Her hand was a blur hovering in the air above her head as the train carrying me to my future sped forward. That I remember with clarity just like the feeling of her fingers around mine, her reassuring squeeze infused with vitality and a sureness that always made me believe. She squeezed the doubt right out of me. Always.

That wave from the edge of the train tracks was from a time when the world glowed with promise and adventure. A time when I believed that nothing could be more terrible than what I was leaving behind. I thought it was the beginning. But now I’m unsure. I wonder if she was waving hello or if she was bidding me goodbye.

But now that the moment of our meeting has passed, all I can do is curse myself for not paying more attention, or grabbing onto it before it was swept away.

A secret part of me doesn’t want to remember that moment perfectly despite the other part of me that wishes to revisit it to memorize the details: her face, her tears, her laughter, her hand waving. But even as I let the darkness in, my thoughts wander back to what I think I can remember from that fleeting instant. And, as always, I imagine a different detail.

But that is the beauty of not really remembering. It leaves the door of possibility cracked open. Half of a memory is like the light thrown from a candle flickering in a dark room – it illuminates everywhere but the darkened corners. You wonder if you should venture forward, hands outstretched, so that whatever lies behind the light can condense into your consciousness. Or you hesitate, afraid that the corners are empty, and wonder if it would be wiser to linger in the light and let mystery claim them forever. Because if you leave the unknown unexplored, you free yourself to imagine what you may in a place where disappointment doesn’t exist.

Just don’t turn on the light.

Let the darkness come.

It’s amazing how you can become lost in a single moment and, if you look hard enough, a lifetime of memory can be found. Peeling back the crumpled edges of remembrance reveals a kaleidoscope of hidden threads of memory curled and twisted between in the tissue-paper thin layers of time. All it takes is the patience to untie the knots and the fortitude to examine the small gifts as they reveal themselves. Appreciate them for what they are. Accept what time has made of you. Be thankful for what you have, like the lint in corners of your empty pockets, or the fact that if you feel pain, then it means you’re still alive. Perhaps.

I drink in what I can see in the wavering and flickering light as the candle burns down, wax dripping like tears as memory grows ragged with time. The dust of the past grows thick. Images begin to fray at the edges, unraveling thread by thread until they are unrecognizable and irreconcilable strands made strangers by your own hand.

–x/X\x–

Consequence and Redemption (Chapter 13: Four Sets of Ears)

2007-05-05T23:47:50Z

Title: Chapter 13: Four Sets of Ears
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,716
Notes/Warnings: pre-HBP
Summary: Dumbledore makes decisions regarding Harry’s future.

I don't own any of this sadly, only the computer this was typed on. This is the end of Part I!

Chapter 13: Four Sets of Ears

The magical candles that floated around the grand mahogany desk bobbed serenely in the air, creating a warm yellow orb of light that lit up the otherwise dark office. The portraits that hung on the high circular walls were covered and magically sealed, for this conversation was to be strictly heard by only four sets of ears.

Dumbledore stood in the shadows stroking Fawkes lightly on the head, his back to Minerva and Severus who sat in high-backed chairs near his desk. “Harry needs to be taught.”

“Dumbledore, this is extremely risky,” said Minerva.

“There is little choice. Harry’s Dark Magic has grown very powerful at an alarming rate. This cannot be delayed any longer.” Dumbledore turned slowly, his face half hidden in the darkness. “Harry could be a danger to himself and others if his powers continue to develop unchecked.” He was amazed that no magic, accidental or otherwise, had occurred at the Dursleys’ all summer.

“So the incendia found at the accident site is evidence of Potter’s Dark Magic?” she asked.

“No, the magical signature is unusual. It does not carry the distinguishing qualities associated with either Dark or Light Magic, something I have never seen before.”

“Are we certain that it was human magic? Perhaps other magical beings –”

Dumbledore slowly shook his head, “It does not appear to be associated with any recognized incendia we –”

“Headmaster,” Severus spoke sharply, causing Minerva to raise her eyebrows as she turned her head slowly to survey him with a severe look.

Dumbledore knew that Severus was intent on directing the conversation back to the matter at hand as they had previously discussed this topic. Patience had never been Severus’s forte.

“May I suggest that we first evaluate Potter, before entertaining this option. Complicating the situation by the addition of yet another unknown and unnecessary factor could compromise everything.” Dumbledore stood motionless as Severus continued, his low baritone reverberating through the office, “We must first be absolutely certain that it is true Dark Magic. As you know, to possess the potential to even begin to cultivate Dark Magic is exceedingly rare, let alone the ability to actually harness it.”

“Yes, Potter is an exceptional wizard, but how can we be sure that he has the abilities?” Minerva asked, seeming to concede reluctantly to the abrupt subject change. That was very like her. She was careful to pick her battles, especially with Severus.

Dumbledore suspected that Harry had yet to even begin to access his true magical powers. There was the potential for greatness and the potential for great failure. But dwelling on failure was not a luxury. He had to convince them to support Harry in the training, for they could not afford to let him continue alone any longer.

“He is capable of Projectionary Magic.”

Something flickered through Severus’s eyes. Minerva blanched, “Albus, are you certain?” her voice wavered.

“Partial or complete?”

“The latter, Severus,” said Dumbledore. Severus looked skeptical and Dumbledore knew to curtail his next question quickly to prevent those carefully placed insinuations from derailing the conversation. “Yes, quite extraordinary, considering his age and lack of any prior training. I myself would have been dubious, if I had not heard Harry describe it. But it is very clear that even Harry is unaware of his magical abilities, for he does not know the significance of what he accomplished in the Muggle hospital.” Dumbledore sat down gracefully behind the dark desk. “That ignorance in and of itself is extremely dangerous in the wrong hands.”

Minerva looked at Dumbledore solemnly. “Then it would be wisest for you to teach Potter, not Amaranth.”

Passing the mastery of Dark Magic would have to be handled delicately and skillfully by someone Harry would need to learn to trust unconditionally. Dumbledore knew that this could not be him. The Order could not afford to fail this time – he could not afford to fail.

“That would be a grave miscalculation.” Dumbledore chose his next words carefully. “Harry has grown … wary. Although he does not yet realize it, he will not accept my mentorship.”

“Insolent child!” The words shot through Severus’s lips like a bullet. “Does he not comprehend the gravity of his duty to the wizarding world?”

“Severus, it is not his duty, but his choice – a choice that he has yet to make.”

Minerva closed her eyes.

Dumbledore continued, “We must be content to merely be his guides and assist him through the training.”

Severus’s face remained impassive and Dumbledore had no doubt that he was closing his mind off. “So, there no other Dark Arts Masters, Headmaster?” he asked stiffly.

“There are very few left, due to the Ministry’s stance on Dark Magic, and even fewer who are willing to risk exposing their powers by taking on an apprentice. I believe that Cornelius is watching Hogwarts more intently than usual – we must be careful who we allow into the school. I fear that there are no others trustworthy enough to entrust this task to.”

“But how do we know that we can trust Amaranth?” Minerva looked back at Dumbledore steadily, “We know very little about her.”

Dumbledore pressed his long fingers together as his brow furrowed. “Yes, this is very undesirable situation. But she was the one who found Harry at the hospital and brought him back to us. That act is a demonstration of her goodwill. As well, she has been abroad and removed from the wizarding world for many years, and I do not believe that she is aligned with the Ministry.”

“But we have yet to fully determine her motivations.” Severus’s voice was tight.

Dumbledore spoke after a long pause, “That is true. She will have to be watched very carefully. Harry’s training will not go unmonitored. It will require the cooperation of all of us,” he fixed his eyes on Severus.

Severus inhaled slowly as if trying to harness what little patience he possessed. “Then how do you propose, Headmaster, that Potter be trained by one of the few remaining Dark Arts Masters without Ministry detection?”

“Ah yes, the Ministry.” Dumbledore shook his head and sat back in his chair. “Under no circumstances can Cornelius know about Harry’s training or his Dark Magic. I fear that is all he will need to confirm his incorrect assumption that I am conspiring against him. I suspect that will be all the evidence he will need to convince the rest of the Ministry that we are enemies.” Dumbledore paused, he knew that this was not going to be popular, “Amaranth will occupy the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. As a legitimate teacher, she will remain at Hogwarts where she can mentor Harry and we can keep watch over her and the training. Here, her activities cannot be questioned by the Ministry.”

Severus’s carefully composed features twitched.

“Severus, you shall continue to teach the Defense Against the Dark Arts for the majority of the students, as it is now compulsory, given the present state of our world. Amaranth will only be undertaking the Advanced Defense Courses for the sixth and seventh year students once the proper arrangements can be made.”

Minerva was staring stonily at Severus, her eyes glinted in the candlelight. She spoke her next words slowly, “Severus, Potter must learn how to control his Dark Magic, it’s the only way –”

“I’m capable of simple comprehension. It’s the only way to defeat the Dark Lord,” finished Severus, lips barely moving.

“– the only way that his magic will fully mature,” said Dumbledore pointedly. He glanced at Severus before continuing. “Only then do we stand a chance.”

Minerva gazed resolutely at Dumbledore and he drew strength from her.

“Furthermore, because of Harry’s current condition, it’s advisable that he not yet be made privy to this. Strong Light Magic is necessary to counteract Dark Magic and until we know the extent of his injuries and the status of his magical abilities, we do not want to disturb the natural balance that his Light and Dark Magic seem to have found. I do not feel that this additional burden would benefit him right now for, as you know, turbulent emotion and the mental state are integral components of Dark Magic.” Dumbledore’s eyes saddened, “Harry has quite enough to deal with as it is.” Minerva nodded slowly as Dumbledore continued, “Until he’s ready for the formal training and Amaranth has arrived, we will concentrate on honing his control and focus. It’s imperative that he learn how to center his thoughts and master his emotion before any intensive training can commence.”

Severus arched an eyebrow. “Deliberate and methodical thought and emotional restraint are not Potter’s strengths. How is he to learn without knowing our intent?”

“Occulmency and Legilimency training,” Dumbledore said simply.

There was burst of green flame in the fireplace and the head of a house-elf appeared and squeaked, “Headmaster, sir! The students have arrived, sir.”

Minerva and Severus departed quickly to complete their final Head of House duties, leaving Dumbledore alone in his office. He massaged his temples with his finger-tips as he stared into the small green flames smoldering in the fireplace. Now, all that was left was to convince Amaranth to undertake this grave responsibility and that would be an arduous task. But he must succeed; he knew more than anyone else that Dark Magic, taken without an understanding of the associated responsibility and coupled with untutored power or left to propagate unchecked, could have disastrous consequences.

It cannot happen again.

Dumbledore centered his thoughts as he stood slowly and exited his office, his midnight-blue robes billowing around him. He was lost in thought as he descended the narrow passage on the revolving stairs…

My students are waiting.

…and strode silently through the newly scrubbed halls…

They are the future.

…and past the moving staircases and smiling paintings which waved almost manically in greeting…

They will carry the wizarding world through this war.

…and into the cavernous Main Hall where the four gleaming hour-glasses containing House Points stood full with quietly glittering gemstones…

They are hope.

Dumbledore smiled and his blue eyes twinkled as he threw open the gilded doors to the Great Hall.

Ah, the Welcoming Feast!

Another year at Hogwarts had begun.

–x/X\x–

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

The Strength of Three (Chapter 3: Crimson)

2007-05-05T23:23:33Z

Title: Chapter 3: Crimson
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 6,234
Notes/Warnings: post-HBP, mention of blood
Summary: Ginny is determined to prove her worth. Ron takes desperate measures. Hermione and Harry fall.

I wanted to practice writing action sequences as well as depicting simultaneous point of views linked by common events. Therefore, this story will have lots of running, yelling, and other such silliness. Also, the time stamps are important as alternating points of view may jump in time. The characters are JKR's. Many grateful thank yous to Bug for her beta work!

Chapter 3: Crimson

6:25 am, December 27, 1998, Grimmauld Place in London, England (two hours behind The Caves of Comcelare, Jordan and one hour behind Azkaban Fortress, the Black Sea)

Ginny stared down at the tea cup steaming before her, crossing and uncrossing her eyes repeatedly. The pale swirls of cream creeping through her tea doubled, blurred together, and then merged. She sighed and leaned her chin into her palm.

Sitting around Grimmauld Place with the walking mold-bogie, Kreacher, was more torturous than Potions with pervy Slughorn who always hovered around her cauldron. Why the Order needed someone to watch over a house that was relocated and re-hidden by the Fidelius Charm eluded her. She suspected her mum had assigned her to be the watcher to curtail her protests about not being involved in the Horcrux missions and to prevent her from doing anything rash, or, in Ginny’s opinion, remotely useful for the Order. It wasn’t fair she was still in school.

But hope glimmered in a tiny corner of Ginny’s mind. Maybe being watcher was finally her chance. Maybe she’d be entrusted with a password or a secret spell. Maybe she’d catch snippets of the Order meetings and then casually suggest some brilliant, yet unthought-of strategy, forcing the Order to induct her regardless of what her parents said. Maybe then she wouldn’t have to keep sneaking around with Neville and asking Hermione to fill her in. And maybe she could finally prove to Harry that she didn’t need protecting – she could show him that there wasn’t anything standing between them being together.

Ginny worried her lip and absently brushed a strand of hair away from her face, trying to replace another thought with the one she knew was inevitable. She pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes as if that could divert her mind’s path.

Her thoughts spiraled back to the night almost two years ago when she found Harry kneeling by Dumbledore’s side, the glow of the Dark Mark coloring everything shades of sickly green. That was when she knew Harry was going to break things off with her. It was written all over his face, although she doubted that Harry knew just what he was going to do; he was in shock just like everyone else. But she could read him like a book. The secret was his eyes – they always spoke for him. And that night they were filled with a grief so potent that she knew he wouldn’t survive losing someone again.

So she had steeled herself for his pronouncement, certain that arguing with him wouldn’t accomplish anything. And, of course, she would never beg, not even for Harry. So when he told her they couldn’t be together, she bit back her tears for Harry’s sake because he didn’t need another burden. She let him go with what she hoped was a brave and understanding smile. Ginny vowed that Harry would never see her cry over him, and for that reason, only Hermione and Luna knew what had caused her sobs that night.

Ginny knew she was strong willed and stubborn. She knew she’d survive being apart from Harry. However, she wasn’t prepared for just how hard it was to be relegated to the role of Ron’s little sister once again. Or how difficult it would be not seeing Harry on a daily basis, or paradoxically how painful it would be to see him on the number of occasions their paths happened to cross: Christmases, his past two birthdays, sporadically throughout the summer holidays. However, being that she was behind the protective walls of Hogwarts for most of the year and the Horcrux missions carried Harry further abroad which required much strategizing with the rest of the Order behind locked doors, Ginny rarely saw him.

But the times they did speak he’d been friendly enough, although a little distant. He was careful to situate himself on the other side of the table or the room or whatever other obstacle he could negotiate between them. It seemed like Ron or Hermione or Fred or George or Neville were always with him, or if she and Harry suddenly found themselves alone, he would find an excuse to leave. Harry didn’t smile at her the way he used to – those spontaneous lop-sided grins that used to flash across his face had vanished. His eyes had grown very serious. And he never touched her. Except once.

It was the evening of Bill and Fleur’s wedding. Fred and George had been teasing her about eyeing Harry all night. To prove to her brothers that she was utterly over Harry (which she wasn’t), she marched over to where he was talking to Lupin, grabbed his arm, and pulled him onto the dance floor. Harry was so stunned that he just stood there. The butterbeers and Firewhiskey and the fact that his dancing experience wasn’t particularly extensive likely had something to do with his dazed expression. Ginny leaned up and hissed at him to dance otherwise she’d be testing for Fred and George’s Instant Illness Patches for the next week. She was pretending to be unaffected by his proximity and was hiding behind a larger-than-life smile until she glanced up and found him staring at her in that way. His eyes fluttered down to her lips. She sucked in her breath. He leaned down as his hand slid to her back, his fingers brushing against the sash of her dress. His breath was warm against her cheek. The familiar smell of him surrounded her as the smooth fabric of his dress robes pressed into her. Then Harry’s eyes met hers and seemed to focus. He stopped and pulled away. Muttering an excuse, he turned on his heel and left her standing alone, her heart in her throat, choking her words.

But Ginny had seen it in his eyes. He wanted to be with her. In that moment, while people twirled around her bathed in the glow of the fairy lights, Ginny revised her plan. Instead of simply waiting for Harry to finish off Voldemort for them to be together, she’d prove to him that she could take care of herself – she’d outlast Harry’s stubbornness and simultaneously undermine his reasoning why he needed to keep his distance from her. Now the only problems were her parents refusing to let her do anything for the Order, besides guard an empty house, and the fact that she was stuck at Hogwarts and unable to do anything that proved her capabilities.

Ginny grabbed her spoon and thrust it into the murky concoction that was her tea and began to stir violently. The clinking of silver against china echoed loudly in the cavernous kitchen. She knit her brow in consternation. Where had everyone gone off to? The hasty departure of her mum, McGonagall, and a grey-haired wizard named Elphias Doge armed with their wands and traveling cloaks meant that the mirror message had something to do with either the diversionary Order mission at Azkaban where Neville and her dad were or the Horcrux mission wherever Harry, Hermione, and Ron were.

Worry began to creep back into Ginny’s thoughts. Hermione had refused to tell her much about the Horcrux mission. Ginny had only been able to deduce that it was somewhere sunny and probably hot because Hermione kept practicing Sun-Shielding Charms on Ron who vacillated between grumpily tolerating them to shrugging them off when Harry was around. Her mum was fussing more than usual. Her dad was distracted – he wasn’t nearly as excited as he normally would’ve been about the Muggle stapler that Hermione had given Ron to give to him for Christmas. Everyone had been on edge and tense; never before had the Order run two separate missions at the same time. Neville was so nervous that he could talk only about Azkaban. Anything he knew about the Horcrux mission was likely squashed by the pressure of being Harry with the aid of the Polyjuice Potion they had brewed.

A pulsing glow drew Ginny’s attention. She dropped her spoon, splattering tea across the table. She reached into her satchel lying open on the floor from last night’s studies and pulled out her wand. A thin band encircling its base glowed golden. Then the light diminished, only to return a second later. Ginny held the wand up to her face, her eyes widening.

Her alarm band was activated. Everyone who regularly stayed at the Burrow had been given one: her entire family, including Phlegm (her mum had even sent one to Percy the prat), as well as Harry and Hermione. Someone was at the Burrow. Someone had breached the outer wards. Nobody was supposed to be there, not even her mum or dad. The whole family had been herded to Grimmauld Place for the holidays despite the new wards and Fred and George’s alarm system. The Burrow was simply no longer safe. Voldemort’s attacks had become more severe and daring – the Macmillans had barely escaped with their lives last month.

Ginny stood up abruptly, causing her chair to jump backwards, its legs grating loudly against the floor. She looked around the empty kitchen. Who was she supposed to alert? She glanced down at her fingers clenched around her wand. The golden glow illuminated the edges of her fingers and pulsed like a heart in her fist. The pool of barely-suppressed frustration and anger in her chest began to churn and bubble. Ginny set her jaw and narrowed her eyes. Bugger! Someone was trying to get into her house!

In the front hall, Ginny grabbed her warmest cloak and threw it over her shoulders. She yanked open the front door and sprinted down the street beyond the anti-Apparation wards to an alley hosting the Apprarition Point. Blood raced through her body, making her fingers hot and twitchy. Glancing quickly around to make sure there were no Muggles about, she clutched her wand and concentrated on the three D’s, the image of her home firmly cemented in her mind.

8:25 am, December 27, 1998, The Caves of Comcelare, Jordan (one hour ahead of Azkaban Fortress, the Black Sea and two hours ahead of Grimmauld Place in London, England)

Ron shuffled forward and tripped when his feet hit something solid. He broke his fall by lunging out and finding the sharp edges of newly-cracked stone. He swore under his breath and shook out his scraped hand. It was too bloody dark to see anything. How was he going to find Harry creeping along and holding onto the side of the cavern wall? And what was he going to do without a wand, yell the Inferi and Death Eaters away?

Maybe he could get Hermione to sing. That would do a couple of Death Eaters in; make them bleed at the ears and beg for Merlin’s mercy. She really was a horrible singer – what came out of her mouth sounded like high-pitched Mermish. He had discovered her musical disinclination when he’d snuck up behind her in the library at Grimmauld Place one evening last week when she had obviously thought she was alone. There she was flipping through some huge, wordy volume about the Lost City of Petra in preparation for the trip, swaying back and forth, and singing what must’ve been some Muggle Christmas song because he certainly didn’t recognize the noise emanating from her. He made a smart remark about her being the next Celestina Warbeck and Hermione spun around and yelled at him to never sneak up on her, the flush on her cheeks and creeping across the bridge of her nose the only sign of her embarrassment. Ron secretly loved it when her cheeks went all pink like that, which is why he liked to take the mickey out of her whenever the opportunity presented itself. He also thought it satisfying and enduring that Hermione was finally bad at something.

Under the current circumstances, Ron wouldn’t mind her singing so much. In fact, he didn’t care if he was stuck listening to horrible singing for the next fifty years as long as it was Hermione doing it. He just needed to find her. Then they could get Harry, destroy this bloody snake, and go home. Ron pushed forward determinedly, stumbling over large boulders and uneven ground.

Suddenly the cavern was illuminated with a golden glow. Ron froze. The light disappeared. His eyes darted around and his breathing picked up. The light was back. Then it was gone.

Something was blinking.

Ron waited for something to happen: Inferi to come groaning around the corner, Death Eaters to materialize, spells to zing through the air, but all was still and quiet.

By the golden light flashing on and off, he could make out the half-collapsed cave. He supposed that it must’ve fallen in during the shaking. Crumbling rock crunched underfoot as he made his way toward the source of the light. Lying in a crevice where the wall and the floor met was a wand. Ron shivered involuntarily as he picked it up. Drops of water from his robes slid down its length and clung to its tip. He swallowed with difficulty around the lump forming in his throat. It was Hermione’s.

Ron’s eyes darted to the cave walls and then to ground, searching for signs of her. Between the muddy puddles at his feet were patches of sand with dark crimson stains and scuffle marks. The image in his mirror of Harry bleeding and without his glasses blazed in Ron’s head.

“Help us! Anyone … time’s up. We’re trapped. Help!”

Harry and Hermione were together. Hermione didn’t have her wand and….

His eyes snapped to the blood on the ground and it was as if he’d suddenly been winded by a Bludger to the stomach. Ron didn’t know how long he stood there staring. It was only when the golden band embedded in Hermione’s wand handle stopped blinking, did he realized that the Burrow was being attacked. His hands began to shake as a hot rage overtook him. If he couldn’t find the Death Eaters who had taken Hermione and Harry, then he’d make them find him.

Ron raised Hermione’s wand, aimed it at a large boulder, and yelled, “REDUCTO!” He ducked behind a fallen stone, tightened his grip on Hermione’s wand and trained it on the darkness which swelled with angry voices and the echo of pounding feet.

6:30 am, December 27, 1998, The Burrow, Ottery St. Catchpole in Devon, England (two hours behind The Caves of Comcelare, Jordan and one hour behind Azkaban Fortress, the Black Sea)

Ginny was greeted by complete darkness, a face full of viscous, sticky goo and a frantic flapping of wings and feathers. She hastily repeated Fred and George’s incantation in her head, Arrestare Alarme! Everything went silent. Ginny strained her ears, cursing herself for mis-Apparating into the chicken coop again and Fred and George for adding another one of their Intruder Interceptors without telling her. There went her stealthy surprise.

But there was no yelling, spellfire, or any other sounds of her home being pillaged. Ginny did a Scouring Charm and banished the foul-smelling goo and feathers and stepped out into the cold morning with her wand raised, her Bat Bogey Hex on the tip of her tongue.

Glittering in the blue light of pre-dawn and barely discernable under the drapery of white snow was the garden, crisscrossed with garden gnome tracks. Stretching up behind it sat the Burrow, unnaturally silent and still, its shutters closed to the world. Adorned with icicles and layers of white, it looked like a gigantic, frosted gingerbread house leaning precariously to one side. Her eyes darted around and then stopped. Twisting around the corner of the house and into the garden was a newly hewn path. It was deep and uneven as if something heavy had been dragged through the snow. There were deep impressions where it looked like someone had fallen. The indentations were dirty and spattered with crimson.

Ginny’s heart thudded in her chest. Someone injured by another werewolf attack? A child? She pointed her wand at the garden wall that obscured whoever was there and stepped quietly through the snow, her breath forming small puffs like the smolderings proceeding dragon fire.

There was a horrible wheezing followed by a fit of coughing. A familiar voice pleaded frantically. Ginny broke into a run. She tripped in the knee-deep snow and pushed herself up, not paying the least bit of attention to the gash on her palm or the coldness seeping through the edges of her shoes. She propelled herself past the garden wall, the snow crunching under her pounding feet and catching the hem of her cloak.

Harry was crouched on his knees in the snow, trying to heave something wrapped in black toward the back door. He wore only a shirt and ripped trousers and was shivering as he gathered up the bundle and tried to stand.

“Come on … we’re almost there! We’ve passed the wards, they’ll come, I know it. Just hang on, all right?”

Ginny ran forward, dropping to her knees. Hermione lay wrapped in Harry’s cloak. Her eyes half shut, her breath was nothing more than a shallow gurgling. Both of them were dirty and covered in a sparkly powder that made them look grey except for the crimson that stained their clothes and was pooling in the snow.

“Ginny, help her!” Harry rasped, his eyes wild. “Spells don’t work … not Scourgify or Levicorpus – I can’t get it to stop!” he clutched at his chest. His hands were covered in the sparkly powder. “It won’t come off!”

“Water. Inside,” barked Ginny.

Harry nodded and coughed. Ginny set her jaw and took Hermione’s legs. Hermione’s head lolled loosely onto Harry’s chest and her knuckles scraped across the snow as they struggled to their feet and staggered to the kitchen door. Harry stumbled and caught himself on the doorframe. Ginny thrust her wand into the key hole and uttered the incantation that would allow the security wards to admit them.

Once inside, Ginny motioned toward the stairs leading to bathroom on the first floor. They heaved Hermione fully clothed into the large claw-footed bathtub. Ginny sprinted back down the hallway to the steps and summoned her mum’s healing kit from the kitchen. It soared through the air into her hands just as the scream of the water flowing through the pipes reached her ears.

She found Harry fully clothed, kneeling next to Hermione in the bathtub, the water pounding down around them. He was fumbling with the silver clasps of Hermione’s outer cloak as the water plastered his hair to his forehead and ran in heavy streaks down his face. The white powder was running off as a strange mud, coloring the water violet.

“Listen, Harry … HARRY! Just hold her head out of the water!” Ginny jumped into the bathtub, pushed him aside, and removed Hermione’s cloak. She turned to toss it out of the tub when she froze, her eyes wide and transfixed on the water collecting around her. Ribbons of crimson were slowly threading themselves through the violet water towards her. Ginny’s eyes traced them slowly, traveling from where she was kneeling, past Hermione’s torn jeans and Harry’s legs.

She blinked through the stream of water cascading down her face. Harry was holding Hermione’s head and desperately trying to stem the flow of blood issuing from her nose and mouth with his drenched sleeve. It was mixing with the falling drops of water, coloring the front of Hermione’s jumper pink, and running in thick rivulets down Harry’s arm like tongues of dragon fire, streaming off his elbow into the water.

“Hermione! Can you hear me?” Harry’s voice broke.

Ginny grabbed the medical kit and began rummaging though it, unceremoniously discarding bottles and phials onto the floor and into the bath until she found a small, brown, glass bottle labeled Blood Thickening Potion. Harry tilted Hermione’s face back as Ginny dumped the entire contents of the bottle down her throat. Immediately the blood began to ebb. Ginny heaved a sigh of relief. She sat back on her heels and covered her face with her hands.

“Ginny!” Harry grabbed her hands away from her face. He wiped his fingers across her chin and stared at the crimson stain. His eyes filled with panic.

“It’s only my hand. I’m all right.” Ginny held up her palm where a jagged gash from her fall near the garden wept red.

Harry closed his eyes and sagged against the side of the bath tub. Ginny plunged her hand into the pool of violet water, leaving tendrils of scarlet. The wound began to burn.

“We need to get help,” she said, reaching for her wand with her other hand.

“Just don’t let Ron see. Not yet.” Then Harry fell into a fit of coughing.

Realization hit Ginny with the force of a thousand trains – where was her brother? He’d never leave Harry and Hermione.

“Harry, where’s Ron?”

Harry looked up slowly, his eyes searching her face. “He’s not at Grimmauld Place? Hermione said he’d meet us. She insisted we leave–”

Through the swirls of steam curling upward, Ginny could only stare as the enormity of the situation swelled in Harry’s eyes. She was barely aware of the water falling, washing away the violet and crimson until what remained was only a pool the color of tears.

12:40 am on December 28, 1998, Grimmauld Place in London, England

Harry stared numbly at his reflection. The night pressing in from the other side of the window rendered everything grey. It was like a funhouse mirror; the uneven surface of the hand-blown glass distorted images, making things unfamiliar. His face, pale and barely recognizable, stood out against deep black.

Ron was still in Jordan. He had left him.

Harry’s eyes drifted slowing around the wavy images in the black window, his gaze touching the reflections of belongings that once were Sirius’s. His chest constricted painfully. He squeezed his eyes shut.

Mrs Weasley and Madam Pomfrey had arrived at the Burrow and swept Hermione away, insisting that they leave the Burrow immediately. Ginny had helped him Floo to Grimmauld Place where it seemed like the world had exploded. The Azkaban mission had not gone well. Lupin had been hit with an unknown curse and was being looked at by Elphias Doge, who had experience with spell damage. Tonks, who was sporting a good number of Madam Pomfrey’s bandages, was going spare. Moody had lost his magical eye, and Neville was sick from overdosing on Polyjuice Potion.

Harry didn’t remember much, only Ginny holding him upright as he tried to keep his knees from buckling while he frantically explained they needed go back to get Ron. Faces blurred and he felt himself being lowered onto something soft and warm. Someone removed his shirt. He struggled and kept trying to tell them what had happened, but the words wouldn’t come. He remembered looking for Ron as if he’d come strolling around the corner twirling his wand.

He knew why Hermione had lied to him. It had been she who had suggested that he stay out of the Horcrux missions all together until only Voldemort was left. “Harry, I know what you’re going to say, but just think about it – we need you. I don’t think you should be taking unnecessary risks.” Of course he didn’t need to think about it, he’d be destroying every single one of those Horcruxes if he had anything to say about it. But after his initial anger subsided, he recognized the concern behind Hermione’s words. Even though he was glad she cared, he found her over protectiveness smothering. Didn’t she understand that he needed to do this, not be kept under glass like a trophy?

But now Hermione had got her way – he’d been spared, she was hurt, and Ron was missing. But Harry wasn’t angry at Hermione. He didn’t blame her. He was consumed by guilt and a deep, rolling panic, for it was his secret fear that he’d live at the expense of the people he loved. That was why he’d always insisted on leading the Horcrux missions and why the mission to the caves in Jordan had been so small. Harry couldn’t bare the thought of someone else giving their life for him.

Harry rubbed his hands over his face and slid down into his chair, leaning his head against the hardness of its wooden back. Even though he knew it was unlikely, he needed to be awake in case Ron was able to transmit through the cave’s wards and enchantments. Harry propped his cracked communication mirror on the desk in front of him.

He was tired even though he’d been unconscious most of the day. He had come to sometime after dark. Kingsley, Mr Weasley, and McGonagall forbid him from doing anything or going anywhere. They assured him that they were working on a plan to find Ron. After Madam Pomfrey had looked him over again, he was given strict orders to rest. “You’ve done everything you could, dear. It’s best for Hermione if you just rest. She’ll want to see you when she wakes,” said Mrs Weasley.

However, Hermione didn’t wake. Her magic dwindled by the hour. Spells weren’t working; only potions seemed to have a temporary effect. There was talk of a strange sickness, something that thrived on magic, consumed it, and rendered magical remedies ineffectual. Nobody was allowed to see her.

Harry had been checked again and again. Although nothing particularly strange had been found besides the cough and discomfort in his chest when he breathed, he had been quarantined just in case. After the emergency Order meeting in the basement kitchen, in which Harry corresponded using his mirror, there was nothing left for him to do but wait until the quarantine was lifted. So he’d simply sat and watched the candle burn lower, trying to call Ron, and turning over plans in his mind until he was exhausted and his head ached.

Harry buried his face in his hands and suppressed the urge to cough. His chest burned.

There was a noise behind him and the room was flooded with light. Harry jerked his head up and blinked. In the grey reflection of the window stood Ginny backlit by the hall lanterns. She raised her finger to her lips and then silently eased the door shut. The room was cloaked in darkness once again. Harry sat up and turned around in his chair to find her advancing towards him like she’d expected him to be wide awake and sitting in a dark room. She was wearing her bedclothes and dressing gown; her hair was rumpled.

“I’m supposed to be sleeping. If Mum finds me up I just nipped down to the kitchen to get some tea. I have to look convincing, you know,” she said gesturing to her slippers.

“I might be contagious or something.”

“You might. But being that we were in the bath already with Hermione, I don’t see how it really matters anymore.”

Ginny’s eyes darted to the tea service bearing the Black family crest and the cold and untouched meal sitting at the edge of the desk. Mrs Weasley had brought it up earlier that evening, but Harry hadn’t felt like tea or dinner. Ginny pulled her wand from her dressing robe and tapped the teapot. Steam spiraled upward and the pleasant, sweet smell that reminded him of summer mornings at the Burrow wafted past Harry’s nose. Without a word, Ginny relit a couple candles and began preparing tea.

“Here.” Ginny pressed a warm teacup into his hands, her fingers brushing Harry’s.

He pulled his hand away. “Dreamless Sleeping Draught or one of Madam Pomfrey’s sedatives?”

“Both probably.”

And in a gesture of solidarity, Ginny drained her teacup. She placed it down on its saucer and fixed her eyes on Harry. He looked away. But when the silence became unbearable, he picked up his cup and raised it to his lips. The tea burned down his throat and settled in his stomach. He imagined the potion-laced tea spreading through his body, wiping away the day’s events in the same manner as the Dreamless Sleeping Draught could simply destroy his dreams.

Harry glanced at Ginny out of the corner of his eyes. She was sitting on the edge of his bed, her slippered feet tucked underneath her, rubbing the corner of Sirius’s quilt between her fingers. She was staring unseeingly at a spot near his foot, a forlorn look on her face. Harry involuntarily reached for her, but realizing his mistake, he grabbed his cup instead and drank the rest of his tea quickly, trying to disguise the fact that his hands were shaking. He hoped that she didn’t hate him for leaving Ron.

“Ron … I didn’t know he wasn’t here. I never…” Harry’s throat constricted.

Ginny pressed her lips together tightly and looked down at her hands. She took a deep breath. After a moment she said quietly, “You did the right thing, Harry. He would want Hermione to be taken back.” When she looked up her eyes were filled with tears.

“I’m sorry, Ginny.”

“We’ll find Ron.” Ginny wiped at her eyes and tried to smile. “As long as he’s not alone with spiders, he’ll be fine. Even then, spiders might do him so good.”

Harry only nodded, at a loss for words. The silence seemed to choke out his thoughts, or maybe it was the potions in the tea. His body began to feel unnaturally heavy.

“How’s your hand?” he asked, noticing her bandage. The room began to blur at its edges. He blinked.

“Oh, um, fine.” Ginny shrugged.

Harry knew that things between them were strained because of him. He hadn’t really been thinking about what it would be like with Ginny after he’d called things off with her. He’d been so centered on doing the right thing, finding the Horcruxes, his eyes fixed on the end goal of destroying Voldemort that he hadn’t let himself think about what was right for him. But now with Ron missing and Hermione ill, he realized just how much he relied on their strength. He couldn’t do this alone. For the first time the impossible possibility of having to carry on without them loomed large in Harry’s mind. If he happened to live, then what would be on the other side of the battle? What would he have left? As Harry gazed at Ginny, a tiny door leading into the future cracked opened.…

“I should go.” Ginny stood up.

Harry pushed himself up from his chair. The room tilted suddenly. He grabbed for the desk and missed, hitting the tea service instead. Hot tea splashed across the desk and flew through the air. Harry’s hands slipped off the edge of the desk. Then a warm pair of arms was suddenly around his waist. A firm voice was commanding him to lean on a slim shoulder. A silky head of ginger hair brushed against his chin as he was being lead across the room. A familiar flowery smell drifted over him.

When he was lying down, Harry pressed his hands against his eyes and tried to breathe. He coughed. It felt like something was pressing on his chest. He wasn’t sure if it was because of the potions in the tea, if he was sick, or if it had something to do with wishing that Ginny weren’t so far away. He didn’t know what to do anymore. He just didn’t want her to leave.

“I’m going to get Mum.”

Harry reached up and touched Ginny’s hand. She froze, her eyes darting to his face.

“I … it’s all right,” he said.

Harry tugged her down next to him. She didn’t resist. He rested his head on her shoulder and wrapped his arms around her middle. Her dressing gown was wet with spilled tea, but Harry didn’t care. He leaned into the rhythmic thumping of her heart, letting its steady sureness wash over him. Her fingers brushed his hair tentatively. Harry breathed in the flowery smell of Ginny’s hair, closed his eyes, and concentrated on making his breaths even.

“Gin,” he muttered. “Thank you.”

2:01 am

Something was very warm and very heavy. Ginny open her eyes slowly. An unfamiliar ceiling crawled with shadows. She found it difficult to move. Glancing down, she saw a head of tussled, dark hair resting on her chest. A long arm was thrown across her waist, and a warm hand rested on her arm, fingers loosely curled around her wrist. Her heart squeezed in an extra beat or two.

Harry had fallen asleep almost as soon as she’d lain down. Once his breath had steadied and the tension eased from his body, she had gently removed his glasses and studied his sleeping face. It was the same Harry she remembered – the long eyelashes, the tiny mole on his jaw – she brushed aside his fringe – and the scar. She resisted the urge to wake him. Instead, she closed her eyes, resting her cheek against his head and matched her breath with his until sleep swept over her.

But now she was uncomfortable. Ginny tried to shift, but her arm was pinned underneath Harry. The cut on her hand was hurting again. She brushed her fingers over the bandage on her palm and found it damp. Even though her mum had treated and dressed the wound repeatedly, it kept bleeding. She’d get a new bandage in the morning; a little blood never hurt anyone. Besides, she was a mess already being that the front of her dressing robe was still soaked with tea.

She slowly inched her arm up and touched the silky head of messy hair. She’d always loved Harry’s untidy hair even though he secretly hated it. The way it always seemed to stick up in the oddest angles, especially in the back, was enduring. She used to tease him by tussling his hair. He would pounce on her, pin her hands, and tickle her until she was breathless and begging him to stop. Then she would pretend to be sorry and lean in to give him a kiss only to reach up and tussle his hair again.

A wistful smile materialized on Ginny’s lips as she lightly traced her fingers along Harry’s temple, down the side of his face, and along his neck. She leaned her head back into the pillow and stared at the dark shadows creeping across the ceiling. Ginny didn’t know what she’d do if something happened to Ron. For as long as she could remember, he’d always been present. Annoying, overbearing, and sometimes unreasonable, but regardless of what happened, he was her big brother, stubborn, and fiercely protective.

Neville had been sitting in on the Order meeting earlier that night with a bucket in case he was sick again. He told her that the Order was concerned about going to the caves before they knew what the magical powder that made Hermione sick was. He said that even her parents had reluctantly agreed, for it wouldn’t do Ron or anyone else any good if everyone was incapacitated. Ginny’s eyes filled with tears. Surely they couldn’t just leave him there for much longer….

Suddenly she stopped and brought her hand up to her face. A dark wetness coated her finger tips.

“Harry?”

Ginny glanced down and shook him gently.

“Harry, wake up.”

His hand slid from her arm onto the bed where it landed heavily, leaving a trail of glistening wetness on her wrist. Ginny pushed the sheets back with her free hand. A dark stain soaked the front of her shirt, her arm, as well as the bed sheets that had covered them. It was then that she noticed the metallic smell. She summoned her wand and whispered an illumination charm. Ginny’s eyes widened. She sucked in her breath as a strangled scream wound itself inside her chest.

“HARRY!”

She dropped her wand and bolted upright, causing Harry to slump to the side. A thick stream of blood ran from his mouth and began to pool in her lap. She grabbed him by the shoulders and forced his head back into the crook of her arm. She brushed his hair away and her eyes darted frantically across his face. Harry’s eyes were closed, his face pale. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead and his entire neck and shirt was a mass of soggy scarlet. His breath was shallow and labored. Ginny hastily pressed her shaking fingers into his neck. The slow dull thud of his pulse beat against the pads of her fingers. Suddenly a horrific sound issued from Harry’s chest as if he was trying to breathe underwater. Ginny pressed her hand against his chest and felt him struggling to breathe.

Ginny fumbled for her wand and yelled, “Anapneo!” and then “Episkey!”

Nothing happened. Ginny recalled that spells hadn’t worked on Hermione either. Blood began to seep down her leg. She turned Harry on his side and pressed her hands over his nose in an attempt to stem the blood, her heartbeat thundering in her ears. Then she screamed for help as loudly as humanly possible as the crimson stain soaking the bed sheets grew.

***

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Consequence and Redemption (Chapter 12: The Scarlet Dragon)

2007-05-05T22:23:30Z

Title: Chapter 12: The Scarlet Dragon
Rating: PG
Word Count: 5,528
Notes/Warnings: pre-HBP
Summary: It’s September 1st. The journey on the Hogwarts Express is never dull.

I’m not as brilliant or creative as JKR, so I borrow her creations and pretend they’re mine.

Chapter 12: The Scarlet Dragon

Harry found himself standing on the crowded Platform nine and three quarters with Hermione, the rest of the Weasleys, and the Order entourage that now accompanied him wherever he went. Wizards were bustling about him, students were chatting animatedly, and tearful parents were hugging fidgeting first-years. Excited yells and screams of recognition cut through the air as bodies darted back and forth past him.

However, this was all lost on Harry. He stared mutely at gleaming Hogwarts Express billowing copious amounts of steam like a great scarlet dragon, snippets of his conversation with Lupin replaying through his head, “Since Sirius’s death, I’ve been appointed your legal guardian. Next summer you’re welcome to come stay with me, that is of course, if you’d like…” Harry didn’t know how to feel. Now that Petunia’s and Dudley’s funerals were over and there was officially no reason to return to the Dursley home ever again, he ought to be ecstatic about Lupin’s offer. After all, Lupin was the closet thing that he had to a family now, but Harry couldn’t repress the horrible sinking feeling that seemed to be almost constantly plaguing him. He was afraid of what could happen to Lupin … afraid of another disappointment ... afraid of losing someone again…

“Oi, Harry! You gonna stand there all day like you’ve seen a centaur, or what?” Fred walked up to him and slapped him on the back. George, who had suddenly materialized on the other side of him, popped out his eyes and slackened his mouth in a convincing imitation of Deloris Umbridge and screeched in a high voice, “Detention, Potter! Under Educational Decree Number 87,098, no student shall stare blindly into space for more than ten seconds on any given Monday in the month of September.”

“Hey, Fred, George,” said Harry, grinning. The twins looked just as freckly and mischievous as ever.

Fred grabbed Harry’s arm and steered him away from Ron, Hermione, and the rest of the group, sending a flock of pigeons scuttling and flapping in all directions. “There’s some serious work to be done here. It’s a new school year after all.” he said with a mock tone of urgently.

Harry eyed the small brown package in his hand. If they had really been as busy this summer as Ron had claimed, then it was probably wise not to accept anything from them.

“Yeah, the Halls of Hogwarts are awaiting another set of new unsuspecting victims … er … students,” said George with a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

A couple of fourth-year Ravenclaws looked over suddenly and began to point and whisper excitedly. For once, Harry was sure that he wasn’t the topic of conversation. Ever since the twins notorious exit from Hogwarts last year, they had become local legend. They seemed to be enjoying their newfound celebrity and had dressed themselves in very loud identical hairy jackets and dragon-hide boots.

“It’s a pity that we’re not there to welcome all the little gits,” said Fred, feigning a look of utter devastation. “But not to worry young Potter –”

“– we’ll be there in spirit!” finished George, boisterously.

“Let me tell you, we have some great new joke stuff –”

“– working on them all summer, we have.”

“They’re fantastic –”

“– gonna be the next big thing after Biting Teacups –”

“– fortunately for you, we’ll cut you a deal –”

“– because you’re our investor and all. But don’t let this out, Harry.”

“Yeah, we don’t want people thinking that we’ve gone soft, you know.” George winked and nudged Harry. “We have our reputations to uphold.”

Fred pressed two small lumpy packages into Harry’s hand, “One’s for you. Just drop the other one into the blenching vase by the petrified troll sculpture in the West Tower. For a pick-up, you see.”

Harry glanced over his shoulder. Ron and Hermione were bickering as usual, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were standing with their backs to him, talking to Hermione’s parents, and Ginny was chatting animatedly with Dean Thomas and showing off her new black raven, Wymond, who was perched in a large domed cage on her trolley. Her excited voice carried across the platform, “Dad gave him to me; he’s dead smart. Ravens are supposed to be faster than owls – they’ll probably replace them in the future…”

Harry hastily stuffed the packages into his pocket and turned back toward the twins. “So, business’s going well, I take it?”

“Smashingly well.” George was positively beaming.

“Loads of sales. We’re completely out of the Skiving Snackboxes – with school staring and all.”

“Yeah, good thing, too. We’re able to help out Mum and Dad.”

Harry raised his eyebrows.

“You know that deranged imbecile, Fudge, is cracking down on anyone he thinks is buddies with Dumbledore. Dad’s had a hard time at work.”

Harry wondered why Ron hadn’t mentioned this to him.

“Especially with him lurking about.” Fred and George exchanged dark looks.

“Who’s him?”

“Shhhhh,” whispered Fred, slapping a hand over Harry’s mouth and glancing toward the red-haired group that was the rest of his family. Ron was now openly glaring at Dean who was holding Ginny’s hand. “T.P.,” Fred muttered icily.

“Triple P,” said George, motioning to Fred to unclap his hand from Harry’s face. “That pompous pinhead, Percy, of course. Who else? He’s still Fudge’s little lap dog. Probably doing everything he says, running around humping his leg or something equally revolting.” His ears began to flush as he began to mutter under his breath. “wait … bed-pan … slimly little newt…”

Fred leaned toward Harry and said warningly, “Just a word of caution, don’t bring up the ‘P’ word around Ginny – you’ll be sorry.”

Harry glanced over Ginny who was cooing over her new pet and wondered what she’d done to Fred and George that warranted such a warning.

Fred glanced at George, who was still carrying on with his nearly silent tirade, cleared his throat loudly, and said, “Well, slipping Mum and Dad some gold is the least we can do.”

George, snapping back to the conversation at hand, crossed his arms and nodded vehemently. “Sitting around Diagon Alley on our arses when You-Know-Who’s still out there is ridiculous. If Mum wasn’t so against us joining –”

“– but, as usual, we have an absolutely brilliant plan thanks to –”

George punched Fred in the arm before quickly saying, “Not a word to anyone about that Harry, least of all to Ron or Ginny.”

“FRED! GEORGE! HARRY! Time to go!” Mrs. Weasley was waving at them while trying to fuss with Ron’s hair. Ron was trying to pull away and unsuccessfully ruffle his fringe. His face was a spectacular shade of red.

“Bet you a kneazle’s whisker that Mum’s going to try to shove us on that train…” Harry heard Fred and George chortle as he hitched a smile on his face and turned to join the others.

It was, as usual, mass chaos as Hermione, Ron, Ginny, and Harry gathered their belongings and loaded them onto the Hogwarts Express along with what seemed like the entire teenage population of London. Bodies were jostling back and forth while toads, owls, cats, and parents were jumping, hissing, and fussing. On top of the semi-domesticated creatures running amok on the platform, there was a flock of red-eyed pigeons that managed to get underfoot at every possible inconvenient moment. The semi-controlled state of confusion was compounded by the fact that Fred and George were taking turns jinxing Ron’s trunk open and sending his various belongings hurtling through the air every time he’d turn his back.

“Bloody hell! Not again!” Ron cried the third time the lid sprang open, sending a pair of socks whizzing through the air, hitting Dean, who was leaning over attempting to help Ginny with her trunk, square in the behind.

“Weasley, watch it!” Dean snapped, glancing over his shoulder and grabbing his rear.

“Ronald, watch your language!” Mrs. Weasley scolded.

“It’s not my fault! Something’s broken…” Ron was now lying across his trunk and banging on the latches out of frustration, his face nearly purple. “Stupid old hand-me-down!” He swatted at a fat pigeon with red eyes that had begun pecking at the brass buckles on his trunk. “Where’d all these pigeons come from? Urg! Rats with feathers, they are … get off!”

“George. Fred,” Mr. Weasley said warningly as he frowned in the general direction of the twins, looking not quite sure that they were actually responsible.

They both smiled back unabashedly. Fred motioned over his shoulder with his thumb and said cheerfully, “Looks extra shiny, that train does.”

Ginny was doing her best to keep a straight face.

Harry was about to go over and help Ron with his trunk when he felt a hand on shoulder.

“Have a good year, Harry,” Lupin said. “I’ll be in touch. You’ll hear from me, I promise.”

Lupin was referring to Sirius. Unable to speak, Harry nodded. Just then, over Lupin’s shoulder, Harry spotted a wizard and witch hovering in the shadows at the back of the platform. He froze. His heart skipped a couple of beats.

“Harry?”

Harry’s eyes darted quickly back to Lupin’s and then back to the witch and wizard who began walking down the platform toward the front of the train. “Uhhh … yeah, I’m fine.” He shook his head slightly and tried to relax. They were likely the undercover Aurors that Mr. Weasley had persuaded Madame Bones to let accompany them to the train. They didn’t even remotely resemble the pair from the hospital; he had to stop being so paranoid.

A high-pitched whistle echoed through the air. It was the five minute departure warning. This only caused everything to reach a feverish pitch as more hasty goodbyes were issued. Hermione was hugging her parents and attempting to say goodbye to Moody and Mr. Weasley at the same time. Ron, who had finally realized that Fred and George were behind his trunk problem, was trying unsuccessfully to wrestle their wands away from both of them. Crookshanks hissed loudly from his wicker traveling basket as Dean stumbled backwards, accidentally hitting it with his foot. He was struggling to lift Ginny’s trunk onto the steps. “Ginny, what do you have in here?” he huffed.

Harry suppressed a grin. He suspected that Dean was trying to impress Ginny. However, Ginny was missing the show and, instead, was laughing at George who had managed to get Ron in a headlock and was busy messing up his hair and declaring in a loud voice, “Gonna subtract house points from me, Ronniekins? Oh, yeah, I forgot – I’m not in school anymore!”

Suddenly Harry was engulfed by a bone-crushing hug. He looked down to find Mrs. Weasley’s face smiling up at him. She reached up and placed her hands on either side of his face and looked him square in the eyes. “Harry, dear, if you need anything at all, you just ask. Arthur and I are here whenever you need us. Is that understood?”

Harry tried to smile as his throat constricted. “Yes, Mrs. Weasley. Thank you.”

“Tosh, no need to thank us, dear.” Then, to his surprise, she bent his face down and kissed him on the forehead and embraced him tightly once again. “You take care of yourself this year. Be careful,” she whispered into his ear as she squeezed him again.

Perhaps it was because Harry couldn’t ever remember having someone act like a mother before that his chest twinged so painfully. “I will,” he said quietly as he closed his eyes and let himself be hugged tightly. It was as if he almost had a mother seeing him off to another year of school. Somehow it seemed to make things a little more bearable.

“I want to see you back here on this platform in June no worse for wear.” Her voice became pinched and strained. Mrs. Weasley pulled away and smiled warmly. Harry swore he saw tears in her eyes. “Then we’ll take you home…”

Just then, a pair of Ron’s unmentionables flew past them and hit the side of the train with a resounding ‘thonk’.

“George! Fred!” Mrs. Weasley spun around and marched after the twins who were already half-way down the platform and trotting briskly toward the barrier exit.

Ron, with his hair standing up in all directions, made a rather rude gesture with his hands in their general direction.

“We’ll send you some new gold underpants to go along with that prefect badge, Ronnie!” yelled Fred (or was it George?) as George (or was it Fred?) gave them a two-fingered salute before they both turned and leaped through the barrier, their laughter following them.

–x/X\x–
After watching Ron and Hermione hurry off to the prefect’s compartment, Harry navigated his way slowly through the train, trying to ignore the stares of the new first-year students. I ought to be used to this by now, he thought to himself dully. He nodded as familiar faces greeted him and continued past half-full compartments until he reached the back of the train where he found an empty compartment. He closed the door, deposited a sleeping Hedwig in the overhead luggage compartment, and threw himself onto the seat by the window with a heavy sigh.

The news about the Ministry crack-down and Fudge’s attitude toward Dumbledore and Mr. Weasley played heavily through his mind. Then there was also the matter of Sirius’s … capture. It was all just too much to think about. Harry leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes as the train began to slowly crawl forward like a great metallic snail. Fatigue pressed on him like a heavy blanket.

“Harry!” shrieked a muffled voice. Harry’s eyes fluttered open at the sound of his name. Lavender Brown, Pavarti and Padma Patil, and some other Ravenclaw girls were standing outside the door. Seeming to take fact that he was simply conscious as an invitation to join him, Lavender opened the door and ushered the girls in.

“Well, how was your holiday?” she said breathily as she sat down across from him. Harry wondered if she had asthma.

“Fine,” said Harry automatically, not wanting to think about anything that had happened that summer or even the previous year for that matter.

Padma and Pavarti sat down next to him and the other two girls were surveying him curiously. Lavender was staring at him so intently that Harry suspected Fred and George had done something to his face. He brushed his hand against his cheek in an attempt to remove whatever the twins might have plastered to him. Did his nose feel like its normal shape? “Erm … and your summer?” he asked, feeling more and more like an animal in a zoo.

Harry nodded, pretending to listen as Lavender and the other girls chatted animatedly and giggled as the train sped down the tracks. His head began to throb painfully and he silently hoped that this wasn’t signaling another scar-screaming incident. He told himself that it could just be their perfume, but a wave of dread began to roll through his chest. When Harry caught sight of a familiar face walking past the open door, he lunged forward and yelled, “Hey, Neville!”

Neville’s round face peaked around the side of the door. Relief swept through Harry. “Hiya, Harry.” Neville straightened up and he nodded like a gentleman as he greeted the rest of the compartment’s occupants, “Lavender, Padma, Pavarti, Mandy, Lisa.”

“Hi, Neville,” said Pavarti dully. The other girls greeted Neville with equal enthusiasm.

A blond head appeared suddenly behind Neville. Luna cocked her head to the side and said to Harry, “You’ve lost weight,” before floating past Neville and sitting down lightly next to Lavender. Luna looked calmly around at the other girls in the compartment, her large blue eyes pausing at each of them in turn.

“How was your summer, Luna?” asked Padma, conversationally. Lavender was eyeing Luna’s wand which dangled from a slimy gray cord tied around her waist.

“Very nice, thank you. Father and I collected some carboniters in Wales.” Luna held out a rock. “Carboniters, they’re invisible, of course, so you can’t see them.”

Harry stared. There was absolutely nothing extraordinary about the cream colored rock cradled in her palm. Lavender snickered.

“You can only see them with they’re drinking. It took me three days to figure out what they like best. They love white vinegar … but not balsamic as much.” From a small bottle that hung from her neck, she dripped some clear liquid onto the rock, which began to fizz and bubble violently.

Mandy pursed her lips and rolled her eyes, “You do know that it’s just a chemical reaction that produces those bubbles. The calcium carbonate in that limestone reacts with acid to form carbon dioxide and –”

Luna closed her fingers around her rock. “Suit yourself. There are things that exist that simply can’t be seen by those who refuse to see them,” she said in a sing-song voice before bending over and rummaging through her satchel at her feet. She was wearing mismatched socks. “I’m sure that you can all see Charles, though.” Luna pulled out a glass jar containing very large and hairy orange and green striped spider.

The other girls in the compartment gasped and recoiled. Luna held the jar to her face and tapped on it lightly with her wand. “He likes it when you sing,” she explained earnestly, “but only on Mondays.” To demonstrate her point, she began to loudly hum something that sounded eerily like ‘Weasley is our King’.

To Harry’s relief, the girls vacated the small compartment quickly, leaving a noxious cloud of perfume in their wake. He silently thanked Luna and Charles. Luna continued to hum and stare avidly at Charles, tipping his jar this way and that.

Neville sat down next to Harry and held his wrist watch out, “It’s my mum’s,” he said proudly, indicating the small apple green Apparition Amulet embedded into the watch’s face. “Neat how they only work based on bloodlines, isn’t it?”

But before Harry could ask what he meant, the compartment door slid open.

“What’s that smell?” said Ron strolling into the compartment and wrinkling his nose. “Did you guys set off one of Fred and George’s Floral Flings? They’re really horrible. You’re going to smell like that for the next few days – URGHH!” Ron leaped behind Hermione at the sight of Charles who was now crawling slowly up Luna’s arm.

Luna laughed. She stood up, holding her arm with Charles out.

“GET THAT HAIRY THING OUT OF HERE!” Ron wielded Hermione stiffly in front of him like a human shield and moved her back and forth to keep her between Charles and himself as he negotiated his way back towards the door.

“Is that a ten-legged striped spinacula?” Hermione’s eyes were very wide as she was jerked back and fourth, clearly too enraptured to take notice of Ron who was hyperventilating behind her.

Luna nodded dreamily as she carefully slipped Charles back into his jar.

Ron, who was backing up to the compartment door, said in a rather high squeaky voice, “I don’t care what it is! Things like that don’t belong in small confined places, or inside at all for that matter!”

Hermione continued to stare fixedly Charles and took no notice of Ron who had released her, tripped spectacularly over the gap in doorway, and now lay across the hall. “They’re related to acromantulas, but are incredibly rare and extremely useful. Why, their silk has spell-repulsion properties and even their venom can be used –”

“They’ve got FANGS?” came Ron’s very alarmed voice from the hall.

“DID YOU HEAR?” Dean and Seamus flew into the compartment, stepping over Ron as if he were nothing more than a doormat, and cramming themselves into the seat next to Luna. Seamus looked as if he was about to have a stroke and Dean was gasping and panting like he’d just run the length of the entire train.

“Snape’s the new Defense Against the Dark Arts Teacher!”

Harry felt like someone had just forcibly removed his stomach with a dull spoon.

“Nice joke,” said Neville nervously.

But Dean and Seamus didn’t laugh.

“I don’t like the Dark Arts,” commented Luna dreamily.

“We just heard from Justin who heard from Susan who heard from Davies whose Dad has a friend who knows –”

“It’s true,” interrupted Dean, “what are we going to do?”

Everyone looked at Harry, who stared back at them confused. “Why are you all looking at me?”

“Hello, Harry, because of something you formed called DA.” Ron’s voice floated in through the doorway.

Harry was too stunned to say that DA had been mostly Hermione’s idea. He hadn’t thought about it being anything more than just a temporary fix to the Umbridge problem. He felt flattered that they wanted him to continue teaching, but they wanted him to do something about Snape?

“I think Professor Snape eats too much garlic,” said Luna unnecessarily.

“We’re reforming DA, aren’t we?” asked Neville, slightly alarmed as if the possibility of not doing so was simply unfathomable.

Hermione studied Harry carefully. “Only if Harry wants to. I mean, only if it’s necessary,” she said quickly as Harry glared at her. “Now that that horrible woman isn’t here anymore, we might not need to.”

“C’mon, Hermione, with Snape as the Dark Arts teacher, we might as well move straight into the Hospital Wing permanently. We’re going to need all the real help we can get with him teaching and…” Dean lowered his voice to a whisper, “…with You-Know-Who coming back.”

Harry, Dean, Seamus, Neville, and Hermione exchanged worried glances as Luna thumped her feet loudly against the bottom of her seat and examined the ceiling, “…and asparagus.”

Ron, who was completely oblivious to the sudden mood change in the compartment, snorted from the hall, “Yeah, or maybe Madame Pomfrey should just set up in the classroom. That way the blood won’t get trailed all through the castle. You know how Flitch’ll get his grungy old knickers in a pickle!”

Neville paled suddenly and said in a shaky voice, “Wait, he won’t be teaching the Advanced Dark Arts class as well, will he?”

Ron’s head suddenly popped around the base of the doorframe, “Bloody hell. No way, Snape twice in one day … Advanced Dark Arts and regular Dark Arts? Could you imagine double Dark Arts and Advanced Dark Arts in ONE DAY?” His eyebrows disappeared underneath his fringe.

Neville looked faint. Seamus collapsed against the seat, covered his face with his hands, and moaned miserably, “Holy Niffler’s snout, once a day’s gonna to be bad enough!”

Harry sat quietly as the rest of his friends continued to abuse Snape at length and bemoan their unfortunate predicament. There was no way that he’d ever forgive him for what happened to Sirius. There was no way that he was going to give Snape the satisfaction of besting him in Dark Arts, absolutely no way.

–x/X\x–
Harry pressed his forehead against the window as the world flickered past. The cold glass alleviated the pulsing in his scar and kept him semi-alert. Although Harry wanted nothing more than to fall asleep, there was no way he was going to risk having another nightmare right there. Waking up screaming in a cold sweat in the privacy of his dormitory or at the Dursleys was one thing, but doing so in a train full of other students was something completely different.

After finishing his fourth prefect round about the train, that monitoring snotty little first- and second-years was more tiring that Quidditch practice, Ron promptly fell asleep. He was now sprawled across the opposite seat as if he had just washed up unconscious on a beach, his mouth hanging open, and sleeping with such abandon that Harry was slightly jealous. But, thanks to Hermione’s modified Bubble-Head/Silencing Charm, the usual sounds that accompanied Ron’s forays into the dream world were mercifully eliminated.

Luna had delicately arranged herself next to Ron, and was intently scribbling on pieces of parchment that were tied loosely together with packaging string and humming tunelessly. She had absently placed the jar holding Charles on top of Ron’s almost-invisible bubble, and the spinacula hung bizarrely in the air as though he was going to tumble at any moment directly into Ron’s gaping mouth.

Hermione was sitting next to Harry and knitting, what Harry assumed to be, more elf clothing for S.P.E.W. “I miss him, too,” she said softly, not looking up, as the needles made soft hypnotic clicking noises.

Harry knew that she was trying to get him to talk to her about Sirius again. She kept casually bringing the subject up as if catching him off guard would simply startle him into talking.

He stood up, irritated. “I’m starved. I’m going to find something to eat.” And before Hermione or Luna could say anything, he was out the door. Harry was half-way down the hall when he felt a hand on his arm.

“Hermione, can’t you just leave it alone?” said Harry tiredly. He leaned back against the window and ran his hands through his hair.

“I’m just worried that’s all. You have to stop running away, Harry.”

“I’m not running away.”

A gaggle of students, who, by their size, could only be first years, ran past, laughing wildly with their wands sprouting green clovers and eucalyptus. Hermione gazed anxiously after them, then fix her eyes back on Harry. She lowered her voice and gestured toward the direction that he had been walking, “Then what do you call this?”

“Getting food.”

“Don’t be impossible. You know exactly what I’m talking about and you know exactly what you’re doing.”

“Fine,” he said in a resigned voice, “Whatever you think, then.” The last thing he wanted to do was argue. He was just so tired.

A loud bang reverberated down the hall, followed by shrieks and raucous laughter. Hermione, unable to ignore her prefect responsibilities any longer, squeezed Harry’s arm and then hurried down the hall, glancing worriedly over her shoulder before disappearing into the next car.

Somehow that small demonstration of affection unhinged something deep inside Harry and an all too familiar prickling sensation began behind his eyes. Why am I acting like such a prat? Hermione’s only trying to help, he reminded himself angrily. He spun on his heel and walked blindly down the hall, not entirely sure where he was going.

The train lurched to the side, and Harry was thrown against the wall. It was as if a film hat had been paused suddenly snapped back into action: Aunt Petunia’s screams filled his head and Dudley was flying toward him, the glare of headlights illuminating his screaming face. Harry gasped and pushed against both walls with his hands, trying to steady himself.

“You all right?”

Harry focused on a pair brown eyes. It was Ginny. Harry figured that he must have looked atrocious because she didn’t bother waiting for an answer before she said firmly, “C’mon. This way.”

A flask of pumpkin juice was thrust into his hand. “Drink that. You’ll feel better,” Ginny commanded.

Harry drank. After a couple of minutes he began to feel steadier and he opened his eyes. “Thanks.”

She shrugged and smiled at him. “You looked like you needed it.”

Harry was grateful she didn’t prompt him further. He looked around. They were sitting in a compartment that was strewn with Chocolate Frog Cards, bits of parchment, and Gryffindor robes. The distinct feeling of being watched washed over him. Ginny’s raven, Wymond, cock his head and stare down at him with bright red eyes from his cage that was perched precariously on top of Dean’s trunk which was shoved, along with Seamus’s, carelessly into the luggage compartments opposite him.

“Where’s Dean?” Harry tore his eyes away from the dark bird and tried to ignore the hairs standing up on the back of his neck.

“Oh, he and Seamus are trying to get a petition going to get Snape sacked from the Defense Against the Dark Arts position.”

“But, nobody in their right mind would sign that knowing that Snape would probably see it.”

“I know, but I signed it anyway,” said Ginny sticking her chin out defiantly. “But at least they’re doing something. Snape really is a terrible teacher and besides –” she wrinkled her nose in disgust, “– he smells like dungeon.”

The corners of Harry’s mouth turned up in a small smile. Snape certainly did have a particular musty aroma about him. “Hey, what’s up with the windows?” he asked when he noticed that he couldn’t see out of them.

Ginny blushed. “It’s an Opaque Concealment Charm, so nobody can see in.”

Harry reckoned the reason the windows of this particular compartment had been magically tinted had something to do with Dean and a very long two months of summer holiday, “Don’t worry, I won’t tell Ron or anything.”

Ginny turned an almost-impossibly deeper shade of red and fidgeted in her seat as Harry stifled a yawn.

“You know, I can cast a Silencing Charm if you want,” said Ginny suddenly. “So you can sleep without anyone knowing about your nightmares. I heard you, at Grimmauld Place.” She stared at him unblinkingly.

Harry felt the blood drain from his face. He wasn’t aware that anyone had heard him. He was going to have to get some stronger Dreamless Sleeping Draught from Madame Pomfrey once he got back to Hogwarts.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone else.” She wagged her eyebrows and grinned. “Looks like we both have a secret.”

Harry didn’t quite know how to respond. Instead he stared at Ginny with his mouth slightly open. Perhaps this was the Ginny and Fred and George had warned him about.

–x/X\x–
The train shuddered and slowed. Harry opened his eyes and sat up, grabbing the robes that had been covering him as they slid away. He straightened his glasses with his other hand and blinked. He’d fallen asleep.

In the nearly dark compartment, Harry could make out Ginny lying across from him, her red hair spread across the seat like a fiery halo. Harry reached over and placed a hand on her shoulder, “Ginny,” he whispered, “Ginny, we’re here. It’s time to get up.”

She frowned and mumbled. It seemed like red hair and a healthy appetite wasn’t the only Weasley trait. Harry smiled to himself as he shook her gently.

“Mmmmm. But, Mum, I don’t like pickled herring – it’s too salty. Neither does Bill…”

Harry’s green eyes sparkled with suppressed laughter. He leaned over her and said quietly into her ear, “But Bertie Bott’s Every Flavoured Beans leaves out the salt.”

“But they’re green, and so’s his eyes … and Tom, he was here again…”

The compartment door slid open. Harry jumped back. Ginny bolted upright as light from the hall fell across them. Harry held up a hand and squinted against the brightness. Dean stood in the doorway with an odd look on his face.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt anything,” his voice was strained.

The sounds of laughter and trunks being hauled down the train hallway flooded the room as people skirted past the doorway behind Dean.

“No. You didn’t interrupt anything,” said Harry quickly, “We … I … just feel asleep. I was just getting Ginny up.” He stood up, nearly knocking his head against the trunks that were leaning precariously over the edge of the luggage railing.

“Dean,” Ginny yawned and stretched. “It’s all right. I was just taking a quick cat-nap. Did you get any more signatures?”

“Hey, let’s get moving here. What’s the hold up?” chattered Seamus whose forehead appeared behind Dean’s shoulder. “Oh, hey, Harry,” he said when he spotted him standing in their compartment. “Ready for Quidditch this year? Heard the good news about your ban being lifted.”

Harry was relieved for an excuse not to look at Dean who continued to stare at him frostily. He swore he could feel Dean’s eyes boring into his back as he exited the compartment and made his way back down the train to fetch his own belongings.

He found Hermione and Luna packing their satchels, already dressed in their Hogwart’s robes. Ron was still flat on his back and dead to the world, blissfully unaware of their arrival or the fact that he had yet to change.

Harry carefully avoided looking at Hermione and instead playfully slapped Ron’s leg, “Ron, time to get up.”

Ron opened his eyes and, upon seeing Charles inches from his face, jumped up and began to flail around the compartment like a deranged fwooper, pointing angrily at Luna while his mouth opened and closed furiously. By the look on Ron’s face and his scarlet ears, Harry figured that he was probably screaming enough profanities to make Fred and George proud. His bubble began to steam up.

“Leave the bubble-head on him until he calms down,” said Luna absently as she gently tucked Charles back into her satchel and floated out the door.

–x/X\x–

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Consequence and Redemption (Chapter 11: Reflections of Responsibility)

2007-05-05T20:54:08Z

Title: Chapter 11: Reflections of Responsibility
Rating: PG
Word Count: 3,583
Notes/Warnings: pre-HBP
Summary: The past catches up with Remus as he tries to make sense of his future responsibilities.

This is JKR’s Potterverse. I only gallop around on a broomstick and cause trouble.

Chapter 11: Reflections of Responsibility

Remus stared at the worn vertical grain of the oak door.

“Harry?”

The staccato of his knuckles rapping on the doorframe echoed down the long hall. Remus pushed open the door. Sirius’s room was empty, the air stale with loneliness. If it weren’t for the rumpled sheets on the bed and the trunk gaping open in the corner, he never would’ve suspected that it was occupied. Yes, they’re all gone... the room seemed to mock. Remus shut the door.

It was just like Harry to go off to some isolated corner of the house. However, this wasn’t the time for him to be alone. Remus knew what an empty companion solitude could be. Hermione told him that Harry held himself responsible for Sirius’s death. Harry always seemed to find a way to blame himself – it would be the end of him if they left him alone to marinate in his guilt.

Remus began to pull open doors as he walked down the long hall. Harry couldn’t have gone very far. He’d just barely been able to walk unaided and, no matter how stubborn Harry was, Remus knew that he likely wasn’t able to manage the steep flights of stairs to the upper floors of the house.

Remus’s mind raced as he continued to open doors. Harry wasn’t a fool; he wouldn’t have left Grimmauld Place under the circumstances. There were just too many unknowns – the incendia from the accident site, the witch and wizard at the Muggle hospital, Voldemort, Sirius’s vault and the likely corruption of Gingotts, Fudge and the Ministry, not to mention that they were still scrambling to redraw new wards. Finding a combination that offered as much, if not more, protection as the previous ones was proving to be a challenge. Furthermore, Harry’s injuries complicated the situation. The Order had taken numerous precautions to prevent kidnapping and, although it had not been a pleasant conversation, they had reluctantly discussed plans of action if that ever came to pass. However, they never had entertained the thought, or at least nobody voiced any concerns, of Harry simply being incapacitated or rendered nearly magicless – at least not until a couple of days ago.

He hoped that Harry’s condition was a case of trauma-induced latent magic and his magic would return as he healed. Poppy remained cautiously optimistic. She predicted Harry would eventually make a full recovery, but, in confidence, Cass mentioned that she’d seen similar Auror injuries and free-flowing Light Magic was not always achievable.

Remus found himself in front of a door embellished with a large brass knocker carved with the Black Family Crest. He squinted into the darkness. The room had a vaulted ceiling and was stuffed with large bureaus, dusty boxes, and lumpy items. It was as if some invisible force took command of his body and Remus found himself wandering deep into the dimly lit room.

His eyes fell on a dusty picture underneath cracked glass that sat on top of a familiar trunk stamped with the initials S.B in red and gold. Sirius was leaning against the edge of the picture frame, arms folded, with a lazy smirk on his face. James was in front, ginning wildly and showing off his new broomstick. Peter stood to between them, glancing back and forth expectantly. His image was hiding behind Peter and James.

Remus smiled despite the twisting pain in his chest as he watched Sirius stalk over and begin to push his younger self toward the front of the picture. James turned quickly, grabbed the Remus in the picture, and began to gesture wildly at the sign they had pinned to the front of his robes that read, “Bite me, I’m harmless” as his past self desperately tried to turn so his back was facing front. They had attached it smack dab to the middle of his robes with a Permanent Sticking Charm. He had to walk around with it like that for an entire morning until he shrunk it to the size of a postage stamp.

Sirius had befriended him first – perhaps simply out of curiosity or boredom or, he suspected, as a joke. Their friendship happened gradually, almost by accident. It started with tutorials and dinners in the Great Hall, then he found himself streaking down the darkened halls of Hogwarts, adrenaline pumping through his body, and bursting with an overwhelming sense of belonging as he hid from Filtch and that wretched cat with three other grinning and breathless boys under a too-small Invisibility Cloak. That was the first night they had tried to get into the Kitchens. Sirius and James had always shared an unhealthy obsession with nicking sweets. Then there was the incident in the fifth-year girls’ dormitory and that bewitched rubber mongoose.

Sirius had been a good friend despite his infuriating arrogance. Underneath his façade of cool indifference, Sirius was true and loyal. Those that he allowed himself to trust and grow to love were never forgotten and always forgiven, even if they were responsible for a dislocated shoulder and a twelve-inch scar on his back. “Forget it, Moony. If you don’t stop apologizing, I swear, I’ll report you straight away to the idiots at the Werewolf Capture Unit for harassment.” Sirius had yelled.

Then there was James – the one who was always the first to say, “Go!” and who could navigate his way through the seemingly impossible. How his laughter always seemed to be winking from behind those sharp hazel eyes, at least in those early years. It was James who had first posed the challenge that would bond them forever. It was James who had saved them all from expulsion and willingly took the blame before they could intervene.

They had all been best friends, or so they thought.

His countenance twisted in fury. He dared not even utter the name aloud. He was sure that if he ever laid eyes on Peter again that he wouldn’t hesitate this time. Rage curdled in his gut. Then, as if by instinct, his fist shot out and he was left clutching his hand and staring at the splintered armoire door as its newly released contents cascaded onto the floor and over his feet.

He cursed angrily as he shook his hand. He yanked open a drawer of an adjacent dresser and bent over to quickly shove everything into it. The last thing he wanted was sort through Sirius’s belongings. That hoarding mongrel never could throw anything away, his trunk had always been heavier than his and James’s combined. Then he paused as something sliver reflected the feeble light streaming from the hall. A smooth surface winked at him from the corner of a small rectangular package wrapped in peeling brown paper. He extended his hand, pulled back the folds of stiff paper, and was rendered speechless.

The mirrors, small in his palms, glittered in the darkness and threw jewels of light wildly around the room. Dumbledore had reluctantly allowed the Auror-Standard Multi-Path Communication Mirrors after the ‘incident’ with Snape. They were supposed to make his transformations safer as James, Sirius, and Peter we no longer allowed to accompany him. The mirrors had been made compatible with the wards that protected Hogwarts, and, as far as he knew, they were the only Multi-Path Mirrors operational within the school. He thought they’d been returned when they finished school. How typical of Sirius to conveniently forget. Padfoot, you dirty dog. Lupin shook his head, his lips tugging into a sad smile.

All four of the mirrors were identical except for two. He ran his fingers over the hairline crack that traversed his mirror and then found the imprinted paw mark on the back of Sirius’s. That mongrel had always had a propensity to mark things he thought were his, if they actually were or not was completely irrelevant. Sirius had always been fiercely protective of those that he loved, just like a … dog.

Suddenly, he stopped and the smile slipped from his face. Lupin counted the mirrors as the lines in his face deepened. There were only three. James’s or Peter’s mirror was missing.

After all these years, Peter couldn’t possibly still… Lupin’s heartbeat quickened. If Peter still had his mirror, this could be a way to possibly track Voldemort. With numb fingers, Remus lined up the three mirrors side-by-side on an old bureau. He tapped the surface of each with his wand, uttering in turn, “Reflexio Quattour.” The surface of the mirrors rippled slightly like a breeze would ruffle the surface of a still pond. They were now all receptive to each other.

He raised his mirror to his face as spoke softly, the word catching on his lips, “Pad … Padfoot.” But Sirius’s mirror remained blank, only the cobweb-covered beams that stretched across the ceiling reflecting off its smooth surface. Nothing happened when he uttered Prongs. He picked up the remaining mirror with shaking hands. His hot breath fogged the surface, rendering his image hazy and indistinct. Only his pale face stared back at him. It was like looking into the face of a ghost. With his heart pounding in his ears, Remus raised his mirror one last time and hoarsely whispered, “Wormtail.”

The remaining companion mirror darkened and fogged over.

Lupin’s lips twisted into a bitter grimace as disappointment flooded his stomach. How fitting, James’s mirror was gone and lost or more likely destroyed, Sirius’s was intact but mysteriously broken, Wormtail’s was barely operational, and his was perfectly functional but useless without the others. The grim irony was not lost on him.

He stood alone, clutching the small mirrors, his chest heaving with carefully controlled breaths as he squeezed his eyes shut and commanded himself to curb the sudden urge to hurl Wormtail’s mirror across the room just to watch it splinter into a thousand pieces. He needed to be reasonable and in control – not at all like the barbaric other half that hibernated inside him. He needed to find Harry now.

Remus tapped the two operational mirrors with his wand, uttering, "Velum Duo." He wrapped them in his handkerchief and thrust them deep into his pocket before striding toward the door without looking back. He paused at the door and shook his head. Something wasn’t right. He shook his head. He needed to find Harry. That’s why he had entered the room in the first place.

“Harry,” he spoke his name as if it would make him suddenly appear.

Remus shut the door, drenching the room in shadow. As the sound of that uttered word seeped into the dark, the surface of a lone mirror left on top of a scratched and battered bureau rippled and then became calm, reflecting only broken darkness.

–x/X\x–
Remus entered the small storage room just off of the main hall on the first floor. He narrowed his eyes and squinted into the shadows. A solitary figure sat on a box in the corner by a boarded-up window, forearms resting on bent knees, head bowed, staring at an imaginary point somewhere on the floor between their feet. In the slices of light that radiated through the cracks between the shutters, dust motes hung in the still air. It was as if time was holding its breath, waiting to be kick-started it back into its measured respirations.

Lupin stared, completely transfixed. The resemblance was disturbingly uncanny. It was the same profile, the same slim build, the same ruffled and longish hair. Ever since the day he had seen Harry on the train he knew the resemblance was striking and, on a number of occasions, he caught himself staring at Harry and unwillingly being propelled into the past. But it had always been easy to distinguish between them before, for Harry had a slightly milder disposition and completely different mannerisms. Although they both had the same sheepish grin and the Quidditch talent, Harry had Lily’s sense of humor and fierce loyalty, and a laugh that was all his own, for this one moment Remus was staring at James.

Remus blinked and the image before him snapped into focus. He felt like he had just stepped out of a dream. James had never been this small and wouldn’t be caught dead sitting alone in a dark room. James, who had exuded an air of enthusiastic recklessness and had a habit of turning everything into a joke or a challenge, would’ve left the house just to see if he could. This was Harry – Harry with the serious green eyes and the almost too-thin face. This was Harry who wasn’t at all like James. This was Harry who didn’t leave Grimmauld Place because he understood. He knew what responsibility was.

As Remus stepped into the room, Harry’s shoulders shifted slightly.

“It’s me,” Remus said.

“I know.”

Remus sat down on another box next to Harry and waited for him to direct the conversation.

After minutes of dense silence, Harry finally spoke, “Do you believe in prophecies?”

Lupin did his best to mask his surprise. After their conversation in the kitchen, he was certain that Sirius would be the chosen topic. “They do seem to have a way of foretelling the future,” he offered in a neutral voice. When Harry didn’t respond, he continued, “There are an untold number of prophecies made. The ones archived at the Ministry are only the ones that have been officially recorded. I image that there are a great many more that are made that are lost and never heard by their intended owners. Perhaps all of us have our own prophecies without knowing it.”

“You know about it then.”

He knew that this conversation was inevitable. “Yes.”

“How long?”

He remembered Lily’s emerald eyes meeting his as she held Harry who gurgled and clutched at her hair as James sat stunned and silent, his head in his hands. It was one of the only times he had ever seen James at a loss for words. They could all hear Sirius raging loudly at the entire wizarding world from the adjacent room. Her gaze was steadfast and her voice strong, “He won’t win.” That was all she had said before turning and walking quickly over to James. Harry gazed curiously at him over Lily’s shoulder as he stuffed a tiny fistful of his mother’s hair into his mouth and then screeched with delight as she absently tickled him. That all seemed to have been part of another world. Back then they had all been so sure of themselves. Lily had been so certain. He won’t win…

“Fifteen years.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” The unmistakable undertones of blistery anger reverberated in Harry’s words. Remus thought sixteen was too young to be bitter and angry at the world.

“It wasn’t up to me to say anything. Dumbledore –” Lupin cleared his throat, it wasn’t appropriate to drag Dumbledore into this conversation, especially because he didn’t trust himself to keep his tongue bridled. “Harry, there was nothing to tell. Now only the prophecy maker, Dumbledore, and you know the words of the entire prophecy.”

Something flickered behind Harry’s eyes as he whispered something that sounded eerily like Dumbledore’s words, “Yeah, the responsibility of knowledge.”

“Knowing that you are somehow linked to the future destruction of Voldemort would’ve done you no good without a full explanation. Anything I would’ve told you would have left you with more questions than answers.” Dumbledore had strictly refused to allow anyone to hear the prophecy for their own protection and, of course, for Harry’s. They all knew that Voldemort had barbaric ways of extracting information. But Remus wondered if he really wanted to hear those terrible words – those words that were responsible for altering the trajectories of their lives and catapulting them onto a path in which they could not return. Anger mixed with morbid curiosity overtook him. How could Dumbledore do this…allow a sixteen year old to shoulder such responsibility?

Harry scraped the toe of his trainer over a scratch in the floor.

Lupin frowned. Why did those shoes look so strangely familiar?

“I suppose the rest of the Order knows all about it, too.”

Lupin pulled himself from his thoughts. “No, only the Inner Circle know the nature of the prophecy. They were ones who were on guard at the Department of Mysteries last year – they needed to know.”

Harry looked to be waging a great internal battle with himself. “Do you think that knowing about them … prophecies, I mean somehow makes them come true?” he blurted.

“Nothing’s impossible. But there’s no way to tell if that would be true or not.”

“Maybe if you heard the prophecy after whatever it was prophesizing actually happened … then you’d know,” said Harry hopefully.

Lupin paused. “I don’t know, Harry. Prophecies don’t exactly have expiration dates and the Ministry records of prophecies dematerialize as soon as the events they foretell have come to pass. Otherwise the Ministry would have an infinite number of prophecies to archive.”

Harry chewed on his lip. Lupin shifted. He had never been good at emotional intimacy, which explained quite a lot. He silently wished for Sirius. He had always been the one who would talk and charm the pants off anyone. He had a way of talking with people. Lupin was about to get up and retreat back to the safety of the hall when Harry broke the silence.

“Do you think that my parents … do you think that they believed it?”

He settled himself back against the box he had been sitting on, hoping that Harry hadn’t caught on that he had been about to leave. “They didn’t want to believe it, but as events began to transpire, I think they were forced to act and unwillingly believe. Of course, they loved you more than anything and they wanted what was best for you so they did the only thing they could’ve done.”

“But why didn’t they just leave? Why stay and hide and just wait for him to come?” Harry’s voice was thick with desperation. “Maybe if they had just left…”

Harry had probably been thinking about this for quite a while. He wished that Dumbledore had told Harry about the prophecy sooner when Sirius was still with them. Now it was too late, for the answers were lost – their keepers silenced forever. This was Sirius’s responsibility. After all, it was Sirius who’d been involved in the planning, it was Sirius who was James’s best friend, and it was Sirius who was Harry’s godfather. He wasn’t the one who was supposed to be hypothesizing why Harry’s parents and his friends were murdered. Remus hated that it had to be him because he didn’t have any answers. How could he possibly make him understand when he himself had yet to make sense of it all? But he owed it to James, Lily, and Sirius. He was the only one left to look after Harry – the one they had sacrificed their lives to protect. It was now his responsibility.

“Harry, your parents didn’t just wait for Voldemort. They stayed because the Order needed them. They stayed because this was their home, to fight, and protect those that they loved.”

Harry met his eyes. “But the prophecy –”

“I’m sure that your mother did not want the prophecy to dictate your lives. You can’t blame them for doing what they thought was best. But by then things were out of their control, everyone’s control.”

“Not everyone’s.”

Remus nodded reluctantly and dug his hands into his pockets. It seemed like destiny, at that point, was in the hands of the one who they were now struggling to defeat. He wondered how many more times they would be forced to react instead of act.

“They chose to stay,” Remus said firmly.

Harry seemed to be turning over these words carefully in his head and after a long silence he asked slowly, “But what if you could break a prophecy? Purposely do something so it wouldn’t come true?”

Lupin stiffened. Harry was stronger than that. Of course, it was natural to question the nature of destiny, it didn’t necessarily mean anything. Harry had the right to ask, didn’t he? After all, they had kept so many secrets from him all these years that he was entitled to some honesty, even if it meant revealing that there weren’t any answers whatsoever.

“The future is a complex thing. The consequences of our actions are impossible to predict. They can’t be controlled. How could one be so sure that in trying to prevent events from occurring, one was not causing them to transpire?”

Harry nodded slowly as if this confirmed his own thoughts. “Just like him.”

Just like him, Voldemort… Lupin bent toward Harry and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Harry, prophecies are nothing but predictions. Yes, they are powerful tools that can have good or ill effects, but their influence over our daily lives is only as powerful as we let them be. They don’t dictate how you live your life. You have choices, we all have choices, nobody or nothing can make them for us, not even prophecies.” His chest contracted painfully and he squeezed Harry’s shoulder. “Don’t let your life be bound by those words.”

Harry’s face was set. His dark eyes burned with heated determination and something else Remus couldn’t place. Harry’s voice trembled with quiet rage. “He won’t win.”

Lupin blinked. This isn’t James, he reminded himself. Harry has green eyes, his mother’s eyes.

–x/X\x–

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Consequence and Redemption (Chapter 10: GV 711)

2007-05-05T18:46:14Z

Title: Chapter 10: GV 711
Rating: PG
Word Count: 5,158
Notes/Warnings: pre-HBP
Summary: Harry, Ron, and Hermione learn some disturbing information.

HP owns me, not the other way around. I wrote this before I knew the value of exposition, forgive me.

Chapter 10: GV 711
“They said WHAT?”

Hermione and Ron were staring at him as if he’d just told them that Dobby had become the new Minister for Magic.

“I told you it’s bizarre,” said Harry, who was somewhat relieved that he wasn’t the only one who thought it practically beyond comprehension.

They sat together on Harry’s bed the next day, having just finished a very satisfying lunch of tuna and tomato sandwiches. Hermione perched next to him on the bed and Ron sprawled at their feet. Harry had just spent the last hour recounting everything that Dumbledore had said and everything that he could remember from the accident and the Muggle hospital.

“But it’s just so unlikely!” Hermione protested.

“Yeah, why would anyone besides You-Know-Who want to do anything to you? I mean, it’s not like you’re an evil Dark wizard or anything.” Ron, the insatiable human vacuum as Hermione had called him, snorted heartily through a mouthful of what were the remains of Harry’s second sandwich.

“I dunno,” said Harry, looking down at his hands. He’d been up half the night pondering the exact same thing. “But just think about it, if it was Voldemort and those were a couple of Death Eaters, then why didn’t they just finish me off right then? I mean, they had plenty of time … I wasn’t going anywhere. They didn’t use any Unforgiveables or anything. They weren’t trying to take me anywhere. They weren’t even in a hurry … they were just –”

The room was very quiet. Harry looked up. Hermione’s face was pinched as she blinked rapidly. Ron was pale. He dropped the crust of Harry’s sandwich onto the plate balanced on his leg and clenched his jaw. In his frantic to make sense of the situation, Harry had forgotten how horrible it must’ve been not knowing where he was. Somehow when you were the one in trouble it was easier to deal with because you had no choice – you didn’t have the luxury to sit and worry. Even time seemed to be a foreign concept. “Er … sorry,” Harry said, “I didn’t –”

“Don’t be sorry, Harry,” said Hermione, shaking her head, “What happened wasn’t your fault.”

Harry signed. Hermione was right, but why couldn’t he shake that nagging little voice in his head that suggested something different? “It just doesn’t make sense that they were Death Eaters,” he said quietly.

“The question is: what would Voldemort want with a memory of Professor Lupin and you?” Hermione muttered quietly, her eyes unfocused as she stared at a spot over Ron’s head. “And if it wasn’t Voldemort, then who else would want those memories and why?” She was worrying at her bottom lip with her teeth so intently that Harry thought she’d be likely to chew it right off. She began twisting her hair around her index finger. “Whoever was talking with the Dursleys and sent that witch and wizard to the hospital has been planning this…”

“Gee, you reckon? Brilliant deduction, Professor Granger,” interrupted Ron. “Since when does a raging psychopath need a reason to do anything?”

“But Voldemort is definitely not stupid; look at all the trouble he went to in order to try to get that prophecy last year,” Hermione insisted.

“HA! And look at all the good that did ... smashed right there so nobody could hear it! Serves him right, that did.” Ron grinned.

Harry suddenly felt like the bed had dropped out from under him. He’d been waiting for the right time to tell them about the prophecy. It seemed like this would be a perfect opportunity, but somehow Harry couldn’t make himself speak the words. It was as if saying it out loud would somehow make it truer. Instead, Harry found himself saying rather lamely, “Well, they also wanted my memories of Snape.”

“Why would anyone want your memories of that manky nose hair?” Ron twisted his face and gagged.

“I’m not sure.” Harry frowned. “Have you been able to listen in on any of the Order meetings?”

“Ginny’s tried, but Mum’s finally back to her old self – Impertuble and Silencing Charms and all, rotten luck for us. You’d think the Kitchen was Azkaban or something.”

Hermione looked thoughtful, “But what I find interesting is that you broke that Silencing Charm somehow, didn’t you?”

“Look, I don’t know what happened, maybe it wasn’t well cast or something,” Harry was tired of everyone fussing over him. Figuring out what these memory stealers wanted and why was more important than some Silencing Charm. Harry diverted the conversation back on course. “But they stole my memories and put it in this glowing cube –”

“An Anamnesis, you mean,” said Ron.

Harry’s head snapped up. “You know about them?”

Hermione explained that Anamneses were used to archive information: recording keeping and storing documents. But they could also store images, sounds, and if recorded properly, they could be refabricated into three-dimensional images that could be walked through. A chill ran down Harry’s back as he imagined someone walking through the stolen memory of Lupin and him. But to Harry’s surprise, they had nothing to do with Dark Magic for Ron said that his parents had some Anamnesis images of the entire family. Upon seeing Hermione’s eyebrows shoot up, Ron quickly amended that they were all of Percy in nappies, age two, bossing everyone around.

“No, they just recorded the smell part of Ron.” Harry grinned.

Hermione laughed and then ducked when Ron threw a pillow at her and then Harry. She straightened up, her eyes shone with tears of laughter.

“How come I’ve never seen them before?” asked Harry, shielding himself from the bits of left-over bread crust that Ron was lobbing at him from the foot of the bed.

“They’re banned at Hogwarts. It’s too easy to use them to cheat – stop it, Ron!” said Hermione, as a wad of tuna flew through the air and landed on her shoe. She made a great show of ignoring him and turned back to Harry. “They can hold a huge amount of information, assignments, scores, exams, essays –”

“We get the point,” growled Ron who Harry thought was overly irritated by Hermione’s reaction to the smell comment, “So, explain to me why Remberalls are allowed at school, then.”

Hermione shook her head and sighed heavily, “For heaven sakes, Ron, it’s because they don’t tell you what you forgot, just that you forgot something.”

Harry didn’t want to listen to Ron and Hermione talk each other in circles again. Apparently the time away for the summer holidays and a handful of countries separating them, did nothing to temper their bickering.

“C’mon, I’m ready to get out of here,” Harry slid his legs over the side of the bed and pushed himself up. He inhaled sharply and closed his eyes, trying to ignore the pain in his side.

Ron jumped up and quickly grabbed his left arm and Hermione hurried around the bed and carefully slid herself under his other. Harry fought off the dizziness as Ron adjusted his weight to hold him upright. He tried not to lean too heavily on Hermione who was squeezing his hand that was draped over her shoulder tightly. He took a shaky step and Ron and Hermione moved to keep up with him.

“What’s the hold up? You two are slower than Crabbe and Goyle in Arithmancy,” Harry said in what he hoped wasn’t a strained voice.

Neither Ron nor Hermione laughed.

“This isn’t a good idea,” said Hermione.

“I’m fine,” said Harry a little too forcefully. He steadied himself and began again. “I just need to get up.”

There was silence and Harry saw out of the corner of his eye that Hermione and Ron were exchanging worried glances.

“You heard Madame Pomfrey, I’m fine. That operation in the hospital was no big deal and my arm is working.” he squeezed Hermione’s hand back to demonstrate his point.

“That’s not exactly what Madame Pomfrey said,” Hermione said.

Harry tried to hide the growing frustration in his voice, “Ron, your mum even said I could go downstairs. I just can’t lie here anymore. I’ll become permanently fused to the bed, or something.”

To Harry’s great relief, Ron began to lead him slowly toward the door and he followed, forcing Hermione to move with them reluctantly. However, instead of going toward the stairs, Ron began negotiating him down the opposite end of the hallway toward the drawing room.

Harry was just relieved that he was wearing regular clothes and that he had escaped that bed and that room, which he suspected was once Sirius’s. Harry wasn’t about to argue about trudging down the stairs or not. However, he was slightly relieved because his side really did hurt – more than he’d ever admit to anyone.

–x/X\x–
Harry leaned his head back against the chair he was resting in and enjoyed the feeling of the sun on his face. They’d spent the afternoon in the drawing room and he was beginning to get tired. But not wanting to be shut away in that room alone again, Harry was determined to stay awake for as long as possible. Hermione had been watching him the entire time and he didn’t dare close his eyes.

Ron was setting up a new game of wizard chess on the floor and trying to persuade Ginny to play with him. “Come on, Ginny, I promise. I won’t jinx your Queen again. I’ll even play with one of my eyes closed and a hand behind my back.”

“How’s that even relevant, Ron? It’s chess, not Quidditch,” she countered quickly.

Harry was absently twirling his wand in his left hand to ward off his drowsiness when Hermione looked up from the floor next to Ginny and said knowingly, “Oh, that’s where you put your Apparition Amulet.”

Harry looked down at the end of his wand handle where the small red disk was glowing.

Ron glanced up from where he was trying unsuccessfully to prevent two opposing Bishops from attacking each other. “I put mine on my wand, too. You know, it’s the best place … I mean, who Apparates without their wand! Ouch! Stop it.” One of his Kings was repeatedly ramming its armored head into his big toe, which was sticking obnoxiously out of his sock.

Ginny rolled onto her back on the rug and admired her freshly painted fingernails. “Bill put his in his fang earring when he was learning.”

“How’d you know?” asked Ron, rubbing his toe furiously. He had pinned the offending King underneath his old copy of ‘The Dream Oracle’, which now belonged to Ginny.

Ginny raised her eyebrows and cocked her head to the side and said with a mock tone of superiority, “He told me.” She rolled over, propped her hands under her chin, and turned toward Harry. “You should have seen Mum’s face when he came home with that great big fang hanging off of his ear – she was fit to explode.”

“Wizards or witches don’t need a wand to Apparate, Ron,” said Hermione knowingly. She waved her hand absently, ignored Ron’s protests that he already knew that, and continued to peruse through a very thick leather-bound book. “Anyway, everyone knows that as long as Pre-Apparition permit wizards have their amulets on their person when they Apparate, everything’s fine.” She pulled her necklace out from her collar and jingled it for emphasis, showing off her amulet which was dangling from it and glowing a faint violet.

Ron laughed derisively. “Yeah, they’re only for thick wizards who accidentally Apparate to some weird place and can’t get home.” He prodded one of his Knights into place who abruptly began to poke an adjacent Pawn with his sword.

Ginny cut in, “It’s because the Ministry keeps a record of everyone who is learning to Apparate and Disapparate. That’s why you all have to be registered.” When Ron looked at her quizzically – no doubt wondering why she knew so much about Apparation when she was still a year from training – Ginny added indignantly, “William told me. What? Can’t I learn stuff?”

“We’re registered?” asked Harry blankly.

“Oh, I suppose you wouldn’t know because we did it when we went to Diagon Alley, but Professor Lupin had your dad’s Amulet reset and registered under your name,” said Hermione.

“You should’ve seen all of the paperwork – you’d think that he was trying to buy Gringotts or something.” Ron lowered his voice and continued, “William was telling us about how the Ministry can locate an Apparating wizard or witch carrying an Apparition Amulet in a couple of minutes. You know, for safety reasons. They can send a whole hoard of Ministry Transport Rescue Wizards and Obliviators just like that.” Ron snapped his fingers.

“Obliviators?” asked Harry, wondering how it was possible to feel behind even before school started.

“To erase any traumatic memories,” said Ginny casually. “Splinching yourself is supposed to be really painful.”

“The primary purpose of the Apparition Amulets isn’t to detect a splinched wizard, anyway. They function like one of those avalanche safely beacons,” said Hermione.

“Huh? A whatsit?”

“A locater, Ron.” Hermione rolled her eyes.

“You could’ve just said that.”

“And they’re like a student driving permit,” added Harry with a smile.

Ginny laughed.

“A what?” Ron gave Ginny a dirty look.

“Oh, never mind, Ron. It’s a Muggle thing,” said Hermione impatiently.

“But Muggles can’t Apparate!” Ron frowned. When Hermione turned back to her book he mouthed to Harry, “Can they?”

Hermione, whose eyes were quickly scanning the page in front of her, said off-handedly, “I’m curious to know how we’re actually going to learn how to Apparate. We’ll probably leave Hogwarts for our lessons.”

“Hogsmeade. I can practice Apparating to Honeydukes.” A faraway, dreamy look emerged on Ron’s face.

Hermione rolled her eyes at Ron. “Or maybe they’ll just weaken the wards and Spells that protect Hogwarts.”

“What kind of spells d’you reckon they use?” asked Harry.

“I don’t think anyone except Dumbledore and some of the professors know. It’s certainly not in ‘Hogwarts a History’. I suspect it’s highly confidential. I’m sure that some of the wards are quite ancient, probably extending back to when the school was founded, and they’re probably extremely complex. Maybe they have origins in Dark Magic.”

“They’re probably nested with lots of horizons.” Harry explained the charms and Wards that protected him and the Dursleys.

Ron’s mouth was slightly open when he finished. Hermione looked thoughtful and tapped the end of her quill against her teeth. “So what did Dumbledore say you’re going to do? You can’t go back to the Dursleys, now.”

“Well, it doesn’t really matter now that I’m going back to Hogwarts for the year.”

“But what about after that?” she pressed, frowning.

“I dunno. I’ll be of age next summer and would be leaving the Dursley’s, anyway. I guess I’ll just have to find a place somewhere.”

“You’ll stay with us at the Burrow,” said Ginny.

“Yeah, excellent!” Ron bounced on his heels, obviously very excited, but worry lined his face. “Only you’ll have to stay in Fred and George’s old room. I don’t know about that, Harry – it might not be safe…”

Harry fiddled with his wand. He wouldn’t dare stay with the Weasleys all summer with Voldemort and his Death Eaters running around and especially now with these new wizards following him.

Hermione seemed to sense his change of mood and quickly said, “Ginny, let’s play chess.” She got to her knees and pulled the board towards her, sending the now organized chess pieces scampering onto the hearthrug back towards Ron.

“HEY!” Ron yelled.

Harry grinned and suppressed a laugh; Ron’s chess pieces didn’t like Hermione playing with them because she never listened.

–x/X\x–
They sat at the large table in the far corner of the drawing room with their heads together and whispering animatedly. Scrolls of parchment, broken quills, ink bottles, and enough books to stock a small library were scattered around them. For all intents and purposes, it looked to be an especially intensive study session, which was exactly what Ron and Harry intended.

Hermione had been nagging them relentlessly for the last two days to finish their summer holiday essays, so Ron and Harry purposely spread their homework materials haphazardly on the table and around the drawing room floor, forcing Hermione to leave out of sheer frustration at their lack of organization. However, to Ron’s annoyance, she kept stopping by to check on them with the pretense that she had forgotten a book or needed to borrow ink or a quill. “When has Hermione ever not had a quill? I mean, have you ever seen inside her school bag? It looks like Scrivenshaft’s Quill Shop exploded!” Ron hissed.

Every time they heard the jangling of the serpent-shaped door knob, they each dived for whatever book that was within reach and pretended to be engrossed in Transfiguration and Charms before the door fully opened. But not even Hermione’s attempts at stealth tracking would deter them. Ron knew very well that some things were just more important than homework and he was elated that Harry felt the same way. After all, they weren’t best mates for nothing.

“But don’t you think it’d be better to have all the Chasers just cut off the play over here?” Harry tapped on the board displaying a Quidditch pitch and the small players zoomed over the pitch and then froze into a new position.

“Nah, it’s too predictable. That’s what you would expect. But if you just move two of the Chasers here…” Ron ran his finger over the board and the images sprang into motion. “…and then have one of the Beaters position themselves there,” he pointed near one of the small golden goal posts. “It would do the same thing and –”

“You’d have an extra Chaser who could grab the Quaffle and score cross-wise, from the left side of the pitch,” finished Harry.

Ron and Harry stared open-mouthed at each other.

“Where’d that come from?” said Harry in a quiet voice.

“Hey, that’s the third time that’s happened. Are you sure that Snape didn’t accidentally teach you Legilimency?”

“That greasy bat didn’t teach me anything.”

“He doesn’t teach anyone anything. He just tries to stare it into you … like he can pound loads of useless Potions stuff into your head with his eyes.” Ron scrunched his face up and placed his finger over his face to imitate Snape’s hooked nose and lowered his voice, “I endeavor to teach you the exact art that is Potion making but, as you can see, I can’t do anything about the fact that I have a great ugly troll bogey for a nose.”

Harry chortled and then grew silent.

Ron knew that he was thinking about flying again. He drew one of the new offensive Chaser formations he’d come up with on the small Quidditch pitch. Leaving Grimmauld Place was absolutely out of the question for Harry. Ginny had overhead Lupin, Dumbledore, and McGonagall talking about drawing new wards and alternative magical protection for him now that those dung-for-brains Dursleys were dead. Spending the summer at Grimmauld Place was not something on Ron’s priority list. It was damp and smelled slightly sour, like a dirty dishcloth that had been left in the sink too long. But because Harry couldn’t go anywhere, he and Hermione had firmly decided that they would also stay at Grimmauld Place for the rest of the summer.

Luckily, Lupin and Moody had managed to unstick that horrible shrieking portrait of Mrs Black from the hall shortly before Harry arrived and, lucky for Kreacher, Lupin had done some fancy spells while Harry was asleep all those days to keep that nasty toe-rag locked away in the attic. Ron had just about hexed him into oblivion – he had found that little shriveled pig-nosed excuse for a house-elf poking around Harry’s trunk, which Dung had fetched from the Dursleys.

“I’m starving,” said Harry suddenly.

“Me too.” Ron glanced at his watch. “Hey, it’s three o’clock – it’s time to eat.”

Ron pushed open the door to the basement kitchen to find Hermione and Lupin sitting at the far end of the massive kitchen table. A number of very old, dusty books were spread out before them. Crumpled pieces of parchment were scattered on the floor. Hermione’s hair was frizzier than usual. She had a feverish gleam in her eye.

“So, that’s the only difference between the Eternal Death Elixir and the Restorative Life Elixir? But what if you simply changed one of the two primary conditions? Wouldn’t that then – oh, hi,” Hermione said. She hastily hid the parchment in front of her underneath one of the large books.

Harry shot her a perplexed look. “What are you studying?”

“Potions,” said Hermione evasively as she began rolling up another piece of parchment. Lupin began to pack some of the books into a rather shabby looking travel trunk sitting on the floor between them.

“Snape didn’t give us Potions essays, did he?” Harry asked.

“It’s extra Potions,” said Hermione, her face flushing.

Ron opened one of the cupboards near the fireplace. “It’s okay, Hermione, we can let Harry in on your secret. He’s our best mate after all,” he said as he scanned the contents of the cupboard.

Hermione stared at Ron’s back with her mouth open.

Ron turned toward Harry, holding a large loaf of bread, pickles, a block of cream cheese, and a stack of smoked ham, and said in a tone of mock seriousness, “She’s trying to read all of the books in the Hogwart’s library before leaving school. She’s nearly finished reading the Transfiguration and Charms Sections, and now she’s working on the Potions Section.” He began to hack the bread into very thick slices. “Oh, yeah, and she’s upset because ‘Hogwarts: A History’ only counts as one book, even if you’ve read it ten times.”

Hermione crossed her arms and glared at Ron.

“See, I told you she was really sore about ‘Hogwarts: A History’…” Ron gave Harry a significant look before he began to slather the chunks of bread with copious amounts of cream cheese. He grinned to himself. He loved the library joke.

Harry shook his head and then snatched a slice of Ron’s cream-cheesed bread and stuffed part of it into his mouth. Ron pretended to punch Harry. Harry wagged his eyebrows, his mouth full, and eased himself down slowly into the chair next to Lupin.

“I see you’ve regained your appetite, Harry,” said Lupin wryly, a small smile playing on his lips.

“And a couple of pounds,” added Hermione.

Ron glanced over his shoulder. Hermione was smiling at Harry. At least she wasn’t still trying to hex him, Ron, with her eyes. Ron snorted and rolled his eyes. Keeping Harry in the dark about her not-so-little secret seemed incredibly stupid for someone who was supposed to be the brightest witch in the entire school. It’s not like Harry wouldn’t find out eventually. Anyway, he loved getting Hermione riled up just so he could see her do that crazy thing with her left eyebrow.

Ron tottered toward the table, carefully holding possibly the best sandwich he’d ever made. As he sat down, he caught sight of a corner of The Daily Prophet sticking out from underneath one of Hermione’s books. He pulled the edge of the paper toward him. “The Cannons almost beat Puddlemere United! Hey, doesn’t Oliver Wood play Keeper for them, now?” Ron held up the paper.

Harry ripped the paper from his hands. Printed in large black letters were the words, Murderer, Sirius Black, Spotted in Sheffield. He began to read aloud in a tight voice, “Under the adept leadership of the Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge, Ministry Aurors have tracked the deranged murderer, Sirius Black, to Sheffield, where it is believed he has been hiding for the last month disguised as a large black mutt. Special correspondent, Rita Skeeter…”

Hermione sniffed loudly. Ron’s throat constricted

“…has learned from an anonymous but reliable source that Black is an unregistered Animagus…”

“Malfoy, that git,” Ron snarled.

“…It is well known that Black has a history of extreme and unpredictable violence and is the number one supporter of You-Know-Who. In fact, Black was single-handedly responsible for the mass break-out of his fellow Death Eaters from Azkaban prison last year…” Harry’s voice trailed off although his eyes continued to dart back and fourth across the page as his face hardened. Suddenly Harry slammed the paper down onto the table, causing Hermione to jump and Ron to drop his sandwich. “His name needs to be cleared! Why doesn’t the Ministry know about his death? It’s been months!”

“It hasn’t been in the best interest of the Order to release the news of Sirius’s death,” said Lupin.

“So, it’s all right that the entire world thinks that Sirius is some criminal when he’s innocent?” Harry’s eyes flashed.

“Was innocent, Harry,” corrected Hermione quietly.

A shadow passed across Harry’s face. He tore his eyes away from Lupin to stare at the mug shot of Sirius on the front page. Ron tapped his finger on the edge of his plate and bit the inside of his mouth.

Lupin leaned toward Harry. “There are some important things that I need to tell you, Harry. Things that will help you understand why Dumbledore and the rest of the Order have decided to keep Sirius’s death a secret. Maintaining the illusion that Sirius is alive has freed Kingsley and Tonks from other Ministry Auror assignments based on the pretense that they’re still searching for him. This is how they’ve been able to do so much for the Order. Without their extra help, we would be severely limited. As it is, things are … difficult.” Lupin paused. “However, recent findings have changed the Order’s position on Sirius’s death.”

Harry continued to stare fixedly at the paper. Hermione bit her bottom lip as her eyes darted anxiously between Lupin and Harry. Ron was certain she was going to give herself a heart attack.

Lupin surveyed Ron and Hermione carefully before he spoke, “What I am about to tell you cannot leave this room. Now, Ron, I know your mother would not approve, but I assume that Harry would tell you, anyway.”

Ron sat up and readied his ears. Anything that he wasn’t supposed to know was definitely worth knowing.

“We have discovered recently that Sirius’s assets have been disappearing from his vault in Gringotts.”

“But how could they be? He’s dead,” sputtered Ron after an awful silence.

“Precisely,” Lupin nodded. “Of course the Goblins and the Ministry don’t suspect any foul play as it confirms that Sirius is still at large. However, we suspect that Bellatrix Lestrange may be siphoning the Black family fortune from Gringotts and using it to finance Voldemort’s activities.”

Ron glanced worriedly at Harry who continued to stare silently at the table in front of him. His jaw twitched.

“Why not just prevent any more withdrawals from Sirius’s vault, then?” Hermione asked.

“Yeah,” Ron swiveled around to face Lupin.

“The Ministry needs to maintain the illusion that they are intently tracking Sirius and the best way to do that is by monitoring his financial transactions.”

“So that means there’s also a way to find out where Voldemort is hiding,” said Hermione.

Lupin leaned forward in his chair. “The Order is working on it now. There are many ways in which gold can be redistributed without leaving a clearly defined trail, but we’re hopeful that we can track the destination of the funds and flush out Voldemort before he can put together whatever plan he’s working on.”

Harry’s head snapped up. “What plan?”

“We’re not sure yet. Voldemort has been quiet. But if this can’t be achieved in a timely manner, we may have to simply cut off the funds.”

Harry gaze hardened. “But then the Ministry will need to know that Sirius is … gone in order to lock his vault.”

Lupin inhaled deeply as he rubbed his chin. “Yes, that’s the only way to secure Sirius’s funds and surely debilitate Voldemort. We wouldn’t know, of course, exactly where the Black Family Fortune would be directed until after the reading of Sirius’s will, but we are quite certain that he will not have left anything to the Lestranges.”

Harry suddenly threw the paper aside and raked his hands through his hair.

Lupin continued, glancing briefly at The Daily Prophet now lying on the floor. “This is a last resort, as tracing the funds would certainly give us valuable information. However, this is the one action that would surely yield results.” Lupin looked suddenly very agitated and his face darkened. “It would be a necessary sacrifice.”

Harry raised his eyes slowly. “How would you do it?” his voice was eerily calm and quiet, his face nearly expressionless.

Ron had no idea what he was talking about. “Do what?”

Hermione kicked him under the table.

Ouch!

“How would you fake the death of someone who’s already…”

Lupin closed his eyes and inhaled slowly. “Cass and Kingsley are working on that in the unlikely case that we’d have to carry out that option. There are a number of different scenarios we’re considering but, likely, news of Sirius’s whereabouts and impending capture would be fed to The Daily Prophet in the days preceding some sort of staged stand-off.”

Ron glanced down quickly to move his legs out of Hermione’s kicking range before he spoke and saw that Harry was clenching and unclenching is hand underneath the table. “Er … staged, like with that rat?” Images of Pettigrew blowing himself up in the middle of a busy Muggle street, leaving Sirius to take the blame for the death of Harry’s parents played through his head.

Hermione looked horrorstruck, and Harry almost fell out of his chair. “You mean –?”

Lupin closed his eyes. “I can’t say any more. I’m sorry.” He placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “But I promise you that I will get you word before it happens so you can prepare yourself.” Lupin looked as if it took all his effort to prevent himself from speaking. “It’s the least I can do.”

Harry mumbled something about having to take one of Madam Pomfrey’s potions and quickly excused himself. Ron heard him limping up the stairs. After a couple of minutes of uncomfortable silence, Lupin pushed slowly up from the table and also left the room.

As the door shut with a dull thud, Hermione spoke, “Ron, I hate to say this, but I think this may be a good thing. Pretending that Sirius was still alive wasn’t helping Harry cope with his death.” Her eyes filled with worry.

Ron stared back at Hermione. Dealing with someone’s death a second time around was something that he wasn’t sure that anyone could ever be prepared for.

–x/X\x–

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Parallel Reflections "The Promise"

2007-04-10T08:59:38Z

Title: The Promise
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2,985
Notes/Warnings: pre-HBP, severe angst
Summary: Sleep is a bittersweet thing.

This is a companion fic to Consequence and Redemption, but it can be read as a stand-alone piece. My first attempt at writing in first person and a little sneak peak for you all. Enjoy! By the way, I don't own HP in any way, shape, or form. Thanks to Dianne for her beta help.

The Promise

~*Winter 1997*~
Harry’s been having The Nighmares again. He doesn’t say anything, but I know. The dark circles under his eyes, his ashen complexion, and the fact that he’s always the first one in the common room no matter how early I rise betray his carefully constructed facade of normalcy. This morning he’s on the couch – the one closest to the fire. He sits there because of the warmth … because he needs it now. There he is with his palms pressed flat against his forehead, eyes tightly shut, and sitting perfectly still like he can just empty himself completely. His foot is crossed over his knee, bouncing slowly, steadily, as if he’s concentrating on some infinitely tiny point beyond this world. Maybe he’s practicing again. But then there’s nobody to practice on except me now. Or maybe he’s just thinking. Yeah, thinking.

I snap out of my secret staring fest and descend the curving tower stairs. He jolts upright at the sound of my feet touching down on the worn stone as I jump down the last few steps two at a time in a laughable attempt to convey an air of unconcerned casualness. I hitch a smile on my face that is too bright and probably appears as artificial as those horrid blood-flavored lollies from Honeydukes taste, but I don’t care.

He stands and rubs his arm and says something about getting breakfast and then studying in the library or visiting her… again. He looks tired, but I don’t say anything. We both pretend that it’s just another Saturday which is part of just any other year at Hogwarts. In fact, we’ve perfected this little dance like practiced professionals. We can talk about nothing while at the same time talk about everything and, all the while, carefully maneuver around the unspeakable. Hidden meanings are embedded in our words. And it somehow seems appropriate because the world is now full of painful contradictions and double meanings.

His green eyes plead for me to understand and I try. I really do.

He says that he was waiting for me, but I know better. He’s waiting for something else. He’s always waiting. I can see it in his eyes. The thoughts are slowly grinding away behind the daily distractions of classes and essays and the mundane events of everyday life. They are thoughts of war and darkness, but most of all, they are thoughts of the future. They keep him in a perpetual state of agonizing nothingness. He’s stuck permanently in a state of suspended animation, not fully in the present, living half in the past, and anticipating what has not yet come to pass. He’s waiting until time catches up with destiny.

I know that they will come for him. Harry knows this too, and that’s why he waits, quietly preparing himself for that day or night or whenever Voldemort feels it’s appropriate to release himself upon the wizarding world like some destructive wave, rife with filth and hate. It doesn’t matter though because we’ll be ready.

Whenever I think about the inevitable it’s always in terms of us together, a team. However, he thinks of it only in terms of him alone, sans team. It’s his ridiculous saving-people thing. Harry is always unreasonable and stubbornly blind when it comes to things like that. He’s like one of those horses that wear those blinders so they can tromp through Muggle traffic without getting spooked. Harry has tunnel vision when things like life and death are concerned. But I’m more stubborn than him. I will outlast him.

I dread that moment when he will leave, and that is why I have all of his classes memorized and know where he’ll be most times during the day. It is obsessive, but I do it because it gives me the illusion of control. Sometimes it’s the only thing that holds me together. But it’s logical. If he’s late or not at any of the places he’s likely to be, then I’ll know. Then I’ll go pelting to Dumbledore’s office, which, by the way, is no more that five minutes and forty-three seconds from the furthest point in the castle at a full on sprint. I know because I’ve timed it. I’ll go straight to Dumbledore’s office and make them let me in because I’ve promised. And a promise is a promise. I never break my promises.

Of course, Harry doesn’t remember the promise. How could he possibly? There are so many things that he doesn’t remember or refuses to remember, I’m not sure which. But I uttered those words to him that fall night when he clung to me like he was drowning and I was the only stable thing anchoring him to something that faintly resembled reality. I told him that I’d be with him to the end. “I won’t leave you. I promise,” I whispered to him over and over again. How could you just not remember something like that? I think those words lay buried somewhere deep inside him, waiting for just the right conditions to germinate. One day, they’ll spring into his consciousness and flower. I hope.

But when the inevitable does come and Dumbledore and the others are busy raising that pedestal they’ve perched him on to impossible heights, I know he’ll refuse to let me go with him. First he’ll try to reason with me into staying behind and when that doesn’t work, he’ll plead, and then it’ll escalate into one of our famous yelling matches. Maybe he’ll even spell or jinx me – my guess is a Full Body Bind or Jelly-Legs or something as equally incapacitating but harmless. Well, I’m ready for whatever he may throw at me. I know him so well that I can practically predict what he’ll do (take that Trelawney) and that is my strength. I will use it to my advantage if it means possibly saving him.

But for whatever the reason, in my mind’s eye, I can never picture the actual battle. It’s like a great blank space in my head. It’s peculiar because that is what everyone else is so fixated on. They say: Harry study this, Harry try harder, Harry do this, Harry remember, Harry concentrate! Maybe it’s an act of unconscious self-preservation, for thinking about something so horrific would surely drive anyone to the brink of sanity. But maybe that’s for the best; I’ll conquer that barrier when it looms directly before me. One day at a time, one step at a time, one battle at a time … no correction, one victory at a time.

I’ve imagined how everything else will happen more times than there are stars in the sky. Harry, by some impossible feat of hope and love or act of mind-blowing magic, will suddenly spring into action and free us from this suffocating war. But most importantly, he will free himself. He’ll shed his past self like sloughing the skin of some great vulgar serpent. I’ve imagined the look on his face a million times as he emerges victorious – he’ll look like an angel or something just as stupidly innocent. But I can’t help it; sometimes even daydreams need to be fictitious. He’ll be smiling; his greens eyes alight with joy and happiness and relief. I’ll hear his laughter again; it will resonate, strong and throaty as it wraps around me like golden sunlight and fills me completely.

In my mind, I see Harry as he could be if it weren’t for the prophecy. No, I shake my head, it’s Harry as he will be when this war is finally over. And then he will come to me and whisper, “You didn’t leave” because in my daydreams he always remembers.

~*Weeks Later*~
Sleep is a bittersweet thing. It’s where peace and horror overlap in space and time, where the wispy fringes of dreams and nightmares mingle and come bursting to fruition within minutes of each other. At least that is what sleep means to me now because of Harry.

It’s the beginnings of sleep that brings Harry true peace because he’s able to escape this life and be whomever or whatever he’d like. At least that’s what I tell myself. I like to think that he’s dreaming, really dreaming, like the rest of us do when we are lost in our nocturnal slumberings. I hope that his dreams are absurdly hilarious and full of random weird events, regurgitations from the previous day, stuffed full of disjointed images and unlikely scenarios. I desperately want his dreams to be threaded with happiness and love and stitched together with nonsense words. I imagine that he dreams of the sun, flying, and those past days of Quidditch. And sometimes, when I feel especially destructive, I imagine that he dreams of me.

However, it is the depths of sleep that unearth the true dark terror that he keeps carefully hidden inside and tucked away from the majority of the waking world. Most of the school knows that he has nightmares, but few really know about The Nightmares.

Dense, rolling waves of dread overtake me every time his eyelids begin to flutter, as he shifts restlessly, and then begins to thrash and grab and cry out. This is when I allow myself to finally be weak because no matter what I do, no matter how hard I shake him or plead, he will not wake. This is the only time when it’s safe to cry. I’m not talking about the gentle cascade of two or three drops of salty moisture you see in those romantic Muggle movies with all the backlighting. I’m talking about the soul shaking, dry heaving kinds of sobs where you think your going to suffocate because you can’t breath – the kind that leaves you drained and empty and barely able to lift your head because you’ve exhausted yourself beyond belief. Thank Merlin a million times over for Silencing Charms.

It is in the throws of those horrific nightmares when I am broken that his dark secrets slice themselves open, weeping and oozing poison like jagged festering wounds for anyone who can decipher the words through the moans and screams to hear. They are words that tear me open from the inside out. They are cold and hard and they cut and burn and chill me at the same time. They are caustic words that arrange themselves into descriptions of unspeakable horror and emit the acrid stench of evil.

He doesn’t know what he says, of course, although I’m certain he has an idea, but I won’t tell him. He’s asked repeatedly in his off-handed, fake casual way when he doesn’t want you to know something is bothering him. But nobody, not even Harry, can drag those utterances past my lips. Ever. It’s not because I’m strong. It’s because I’m weak. I’m afraid that by saying those acid words, it’ll somehow make them more real. More true. And that’s my greatest fear … the truth.

Sometimes he speaks in Parseltongue. A twisted selfish part of me is relieved because I can’t possibly understand what he’s saying nor comprehend what’s he’s experiencing. But the strange hissing and down-out syllables scare me – they stir up a deep-seated paralyzing terror that is so consuming that I think I might pass-out because I know that when Harry utters them he is a prisoner in his own mind. And no matter what I do, I cannot help him. In his nightmares he is alone … except for the presence of one other.

Voldemort.

I will that name to mean nothing to me. For fear of a name inspires fear of the thing itself. I recite this to myself over and over again like a mantra. But I know it’s a lie. That name means everything to me because that is the name of the retched thing that Harry must defeat. It is because of this name and the evil embedded in it that he must become a murderer. I don’t dwell on this obvious but terrifying revelation often, but when it comes creeping to the surface of my thoughts, coating them slick with glossy fear, I’m plunged into a dark and isolated place in my mind.

I know the realities of war are undeniable. Maybe I’ll too become a murderer in the name of the Light and for the sake of good and justice. Just like Harry. But what is the difference between taking a life despite the intentions? The results are inarguably the same – death. Could you call it murder if it was for all the right reasons? After all, we are fighting for all the right reasons, aren’t we? Sometimes I wonder what right actually is now. What does that word mean anyway? I struggle to remember.

It’s these thoughts of morality that plague me now in the cold light of early morning as I watch him. I won’t let him sleep alone anymore. He can’t because then who will be there when he wakes too weak to get his potions? I do it willingly and lovingly, although sometimes I kid him about it and pretend to be mildly annoyed when he’s in the mood to tolerate it. We still need to laugh, after all.

He thinks that I’m sleeping at night. I tell him I’m here because I need him for my dreams. It’s true – I do. But we don’t ever speak the whole truth – I’m here because he needs me. Because saying so would acknowledge that evil is clambering up out of the atramentous depths foothold by foothold, handhold by handhold.

His head lolls on his pillow and his jaw relaxes. That mop of dark hair is spread haphazardly around his face. He’d really be embarrassed if he saw the state of affair his normally messy hair is currently in. I smile as I brush my fingers over that thing that’s responsible for carving out his path in this life – his scar. I tilt my head and study it as his breathing becomes regular … in … out … in … out. His scar seems so harmless – it’s just a little zigzag-y line really. Strange, isn’t it, how the most unassuming things can be the most insidiously dangerous.

His chest rises and falls slowly … up … down … up … down. It’s hypnotic, steady, dependable, and unfaltering. Like him. When he sleeps he looks so fragile, innocent, and young which is not all the Harry I see walking around the castle. But I guess we’re all different in sleep than when we are awake for sleep is when the unconscious stretches its wings and takes control. In sleep we are all at our most vulnerable.

It’s moments like this that I crave. When I can watch him without question, without his self-consciousness getting in the way or his sarcastic remarks, or worse, that stupid pillow that he stuffed over his face that time he woke early and caught me in the act like a thief.

He was on me for that for at least a week. “Was I drooling?” He stuck his tongue out and pretended to be slow. I rolled my eyes and walked away as he yelled, “What, did I sprout ultra-long nose hairs?” Underneath it all, he’s still the same Harry I met years ago, despite the Darkness that he struggles to keep harnessed. I know he’s afraid of what he’ll become. I am afraid too because we are all changing, no matter how much we try to ignore it.

I have become a thief. I steal snippets of sleep here and there and in the early hours of the morning when the sun is just rising or just after dinner or sometimes, if it has been an especially bad night, between classes. But I also steal small parts of him, parts that I tuck away and save for another time. I study him and memorize his face and the way he mumbles and twitches if I tickle his nose or the way he flaps his hand in a hilariously uncoordinated fashion if I gently flick his ear lobes (strange that is, considering he was such a phenomenal Seeker). I save these memories so I’ll always have something of him with me … just in case. I chastise myself for thinking these thoughts because there should be no room for doubt – Harry will win. In a perfect world there is no such thing as ‘just in case’. However, we all know that this world is far from perfect.

I know that tonight will be no different than the other nights. The routine is well established. After the Dark Magic blows itself out he will bolt upright, hair plastered to his forehead, shaking and gasping as his unfocused eyes dart around frantically, looking for something or someone. What or who exactly I still don’t know, but I have my ideas. As always, I’ll be there waiting with the glistening phial of golden liquid, a warm cloth, and comforting words. He will apologize profusely like he somehow could’ve prevented it all and then mumble thanks and say something about how he wouldn’t know what he’d do without me as the potion begins to sear through his veins and sleep kidnaps him once again. And I’ll sit there silently, listening to his breath slow as he delves back into the world of the sub-conscious and inevitable terror.

This is the nightly dance that we have choreographed together. I’ll be here night after night as long as he needs me, until this monstrous thing called war marches out of our lives and into the archaic history books. I will be here because I promised that I wouldn’t ever leave. Not like the others.

I do all of this because, in reality, he doesn’t remember my promise. But I hope that maybe someday he will. And hope is all I have now.

~*oOo*~

The Strength of Three (Chapter 2: White)

2007-04-10T08:34:41Z

Title: Chapter 2: White
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 3,712
Notes/Warnings: post-HBP
Summary: The mission continues as Ron flounders in the caves, Harry and Hermione struggle against the elements, and the Order launches an attack in the North Sea.

I wanted to practice writing action sequences as well as depicting simultaneous point of views linked by common events. Therefore, this story will have lots of running, yelling, and other such silliness. Also, the time stamps are important as alternating points of view may jump in time. The characters are JKR's. Many grateful thank yous to Bug for her beta work!

Chapter 2: White

7:58 am on December 27, 1998, The Caves of Comcelare (concealment) near Wadi Musa and the Lost City of Petra, Jordan

The silver streak of a Bludgeoning Spell sliced past and impacted the wall in front of them as Harry turned his back and awkwardly negotiated the corner. Hermione bit her lip, stifled a scream, and clenched her fingers more tightly around the bunched fabric of Harry’s robes as a barrage of sand and pebbles rained down upon them. She could feel his chest heaving. His breath brushed against her forehead in hot bursts as he struggled to keep ahead of the pursing Death Eaters.

If only he’d agreed to leave her in order to find Ron and retrieve their hidden brooms. She was certain she’d be fine if they just found a big enough hiding place for her. She had discovered that Harry had stuffed his Invisibility Cloak into the inside pocket of her traveling cloak sometime before they had parted. At first she was thoroughly irritated and then worried – Harry should be the one to have the advantage of Invisibility, not her. But now she thought it ridiculous that they didn’t use the cloak. Even though it was impossible for both of them to completely fit under it, she could still conceal herself in some out-of-the-way place. She knew that Harry and Ron would come back for her. But Harry had stubbornly refused, and, despite her protests, had picked her up like a sack of potatoes and began to run. It was all well and good for the first five minutes, but she could tell by the way his arm muscles were straining and the sweat soaking through his shirt that he was growing tired.

Harry ducked down a smaller passageway and then another, continuing to take every turn that presented itself. Hermione was sure they had to be so deep in the network of tunnels that half of the Death Eaters hadn’t even ventured this far. The passage began to slope downward and the sound of rushing water cut through the darkness. The passage flattened out. An eerie white light flickered on the cracked and crumbling walls. Harry slowed. They were at the entrance to a very large cavern that had a circular, flat platform in the middle with a swiftly flowing river flowing around its perimeter. Before them stretched a crude-looking footbridge that connected the narrow ledge that swept around the edge of the room to the platform and across to the other side. There wasn’t a cavern leading out.

Harry set her down and leaned his hands on his knees, breathing heavily. Hermione bit her lip and clutched her leg, and tried to concentrate on the situation at hand. Her eyes darted through the cavern, searching for another way out. Every surface in the chamber was white, smooth, and polished. It reminded her of the jumble of sand-smoothed, bleached bones Ron had stumbled across in the desert on the way to the caves. Hermione hoped that wherever Ron was, he was safe. If he wasn’t, she’d have to seriously hurt him.

Harry glanced over his shoulder as the echo of pounding feet swelled out of the darkness.

Hermione’s eyes settled on the water flowing along the edges of the platform. “Harry, the river. That’s our way out!”

Harry hurried forward and knelt down by the water. “It’s moving pretty quick, but – hang on … wha–?” He straightened up slowly, his eyes fixed on something in his hand. “It’s Ron’s,” he whispered in a horrified voice, his eyes wide and disbelieving as he stared down at the wand in his wet palm.

Hermione’s breath caught. It was like a giant had just sat on her chest. She told herself that Ron was fine. He always was. He always got himself out of trouble. But she couldn’t deny the fact that no matter what, Ron would never willing part with his wand. She angrily brushed away the tears that had somehow found their way down her cheeks. Crying wasn’t going to help anything. It certainly wasn’t going to find Ron and it wasn’t going to help them all get out of here.

THINK! THINK!

“Wait here.” Harry’s face was hard. He pulled his Invisibility Cloak from the inside of her traveling cloak and threw it over her shoulders. “I’ll come back.”

Hermione’s eyes widened as she realized what Harry was going to do. She opened her mouth to protest when movement over his shoulder drew her attention.

“HARRY!” she screamed as she drew her wand.

7:06 am on December 27, 1998, Azkaban Fortress somewhere in the Black Sea (one hour behind The Caves of Comcelare, Jordan)

Neville sank to his knees and tried to ignore the frigid dampness that began to bleed through his trousers. Instead, he traced with his eyes the barely-visible letters that stared back at him silently through a layer of grimy ice.

M…O…R…F…I…N

The small, ice-encrusted stone that lay six inches from his face was the only thing visible through the strange, suffocating white fog that clamped around him like a wet blanket.

G…A…U…N…T

Holy godmother of Merlin! He was treading on someone’s grave! With a small yelp, Neville scrambled around the headstone, slipping on the thin layer of crusty slush and landing on his behind on the patch of rocky earth and ice that he hoped did not conceal some dead bloke. Neville squeezed his eyes shut and hoped that Mr Morfin Gaunt would forgive him.

Just relax. You can do this. There’s nothing to it really. Just follow the plan, do what Professor Lupin said and let them see you. he told himself. His breath issued from his mouth in slivery-white puffs and melded with the dense whiteness.

This was finally his chance to prove himself. Blimey, this had been his idea after all! He practically had to plead Professor Lupin, Mr Weasley, and Tonks to let him come. In fact, nobody but them and Ginny – who had helped him with everything – knew about it, not even Mrs Weasley or his Gran (both would’ve surely vetoed it), or even Harry as he, Ron, and Hermione had already left for Jordan.

Stay calm. You can do this. Stay calm. Don’t trip. Don’t drop your wand.

Neville glanced down at the foreign hands that were white-knuckled and clenched in his lap and did a double take. Good grief, he’d been holding the wand in the wrong hand! He hastily switched his wand to his right hand, nearly dropping it. The dampness of the fog made it almost impossible to hold onto anything, or was it his sweaty palms? He couldn’t be sure, so just in case, Neville quickly wiped his hands on his traveling cloak which was now slightly too small in the shoulders.

Just wait for your mark and focus. It will only take a second. You can do this –

A yell punctuated the air.

Neville scrambled to his knees and peaked over the glistening top of Morfin Gaunt’s headstone. Spellfire illuminated the shadowy hump of the small embankment that separated the derelict graveyard from the main entryway to the Fortress.

They were coming.

He began to make his way closer to the embankment, ducking behind the decaying trunk of a fallen tree. He was startled by how fast he could move. Even though he and Harry were roughly the same height, Harry was slightly more … athletic, at least that would be the polite way to put it. Neville was unaccustomed to his new physique and was surprised by how fast he could run. But even though the Polyjuice Potion had taken care of the physical resemblance, it did not transfer the command over his new physical abilities and, and more importantly, given him coordination. And this is what Neville was deeply concerned about. He still had to act his part if the Order was going to convince Voldemort and his Death Eaters that Harry was actually here and not in Jordan hunting Nagini with Ron and Hermione.

Neville smashed the round spectacles up the bridge of his nose with the back of his hand, inadvertently leaving a wet smudge that obscured half of his field of vision. He hastily rubbed his sleeve over the front of the glasses, hitting himself in the nose. He groaned. Now the world was reduced to a white blurry mess AND his eyes were watering. He wondered how Harry ever saw anything in the first place.

You are Harry! He commanded himself as he squinted through the filthy panes of his glass perched on his nose. DON’T TRIP!

Then, in a flurry of disorienting color, the sharp staccato of spells impacting stone, and the smell of pulverized mortar and rock, dark masses began pouring over the embankment. Neville immediately began casting Shielding Charms from behind the safety of the fallen tree just as his Order mirror concealed in his hidden cloak pocket crackled to life.

“Neville, where are you?”

It was Professor Lupin.

Neville fumbled with the front of his traveling cloak and produced the mirror. “I’m here,” he panted to the image of a very sweaty and dirty Remus Lupin. Then suddenly realizing that “here” was not at all helpful, he amended hastily, “I mean, I’m here … in the graveyard –” He glanced up and through the swirling white fog and could just make out the cloaked figure that was probably Professor Lupin now crouched behind the remains of a crumbling wall slightly in front him and across a wide pathway strewn with cobbles that seemed to have punched through the icy layer of snow like frozen fists, “– just behind you.”

“Neville, this fog is too dense. They won’t see you from the embankment. Waiting until they’re practically on top of us to reveal yourself is –” Lupin ducked as a spell sliced past him, “– is not wise. I want you to go back.”

“No, I can do this!”

It was as if fate heard him. A freezing tongue of salty air scoured his neck. The white fog began to dissipate and the true form of the battle began to take shape. At least half a dozen Dementors were floating over the embankment as Mr Weasley and Mr Shacklebolt were holding them back with blasts of silver issuing from their wands. Moody was volleying curses back an forth between two cloaked Death Eaters. Neville caught a glimpse of Tonk’s purple hair streaking towards Azkaban’s entrance with Avery and the Carrows in hot pursuit. Three dark haired figures crested the hill with their wands raised – the Lestranges had finally appeared.

“I’m ready,” he said, trying his best to keep his voice, Harry’s voice, from wavering.

Professor Lupin nodded. Neville stuffed his Order mirror into the front pocket of his cloak with numb fingers. Professor Lupin turned and raised his hand and held up three fingers and began to count down.

Three…

Neville nodded once, acknowledging the signal.

…Two…

He narrowed his eyes and he drew his wand.

…One!

Neville threw off his hood and bolted across the wide path as Professor Lupin sprang to his feet and sent barrage of counter-curses and hexes toward the Lestranges who were now sprinting down the embankment.

He was half way across the pathway when he realized that the Lestranges were veering toward Professor Lupin. They had taken no notice of him! Bellatrix Lestrange was laughing. Her eyes gleamed as a slew of Unforgivable Curses rushed past her curled lips, “Avada Kedavra! Crucio!”

A white rage began boiling in Neville’s stomach. They were the ones who tortured his parents! Forgetting that he was only supposed to make an appearance during battle and not engage in combat, Neville was suddenly running straight towards them, curses and hexes flying from his mouth, “Reducto! Stupefy! Sectumsempra!”

Rabastan fell backwards. A stream of scarlet began staining the snow. Rolodphus stopped, glanced down at his fallen brother, and then at Neville who was running full speed past Professor Lupin. “It’s Potter!” he snarled as he raised his wand.

Then, to Neville’s horror, his toe caught on a cobble and he fell forward, skidding to a stop on his stomach on the jagged and icy path. His glasses clattered away. He tasted blood as Rolodphus’s spell ricocheted off of something solid behind him.

“Wooky here, what do we have but a fallen wittle boy who scrawped his wip and wost his gwasses!” Bellaxtrix’s voice cut through the wind like a razor as the toes of pair of black polished boots came into focus.

But before Neville could do or say anything, Bellatrix screamed in rage as her wand flew backwards through the air.

“MOVE!” yelled Professor Lupin as he charged toward him, spells issuing from his wand.

Bellatrix sank to her knees clutching her hand. Neville rolled to the side just as an Instant Freezing Spell collided with Rolodphus who had suddenly sprang forward. The dull thud of Rolodphus falling face-first where he had been only seconds before jolted Neville out of his shock. He jumped up and took off running, narrowly missing another curse as he dove behind the crumbling wall. As he landed, his Order communication mirror shattered.

Then there was a flash of orange light and a screech of triumph. Neville scrambled to his feet to find Professor Lupin lying immobile on the pathway.

“PETRIFICUS TOTALUS!” Neville thrust his wand forward.

A look of absolute rage froze on Bellatrix’s face as she stiffened and fell sideways.

Panting, Neville knelt down and pulled Professor Lupin into the protective cover of the wall. An unnatural coldness suddenly swept over him.

Dementors.

He glanced down at the still face of Professor Lupin and shook him. “Professor Lupin?” He couldn’t tell what was wrong with him. He seemed fine except the fact that he wasn’t conscious.

The rattling sounds of dead breaths approached. Neville began to shake. He couldn’t hold of a hoard of Dementors alone. He wasn’t going to leave Professor Lupin here to get help. Neville retrieved Professor Lupin’s Order mirror and yelled, “Tonks! Mr Weasley! Anyone! Can you hear me?”

There was no response. Maybe the mirror was transmitting to the wrong person? He tapped on it rapidly. “Hello? We’re here … er … in the graveyard! Anyone?” Suddenly his stomach cramped up. Neville doubled over, gasping. The Polyjuice Potion was wearing off despite the fact that Ginny had him take twice the recommended dose in order to try to offset the fact that he’d be metabolizing it faster than normal due to his adrenaline and his elevated heart rate. He rapped on the blank mirror with his wand and gasped, “Help! Help! Help! Help us! Anyone … time’s up. We’re trapped. Help!”

The mirror fell face down into the snow as Neville fell to his knees. His head of unruly dark hair morphed into a mop of light brown, his face widened, and his eyes lightened into shades of blue. The world came back into focus. Neville reached his hand out and panted, “Accio Professor Lupin’s mirror.” It skittered across the snow and into his outstretched hand as he clutched his stomach with the other. He tapped the upturned back of the mirror with his wand and then flipped it over with a shaking hand. “Tonks! Mr. Weasley! We need to get back straight away! It’s Professor Lupin! We need help!”

A hazy image suddenly materialized. The scene in the mirror jerked back and forth. It looked as if someone was trapped in a gigantic windstorm. There was a flash of a hand, a glimpse of smooth rock and a still figure lying face down, and then a pair of wide brown eyes and a tear-streaked face came into focus before the mirror fogged over.

It was Hermione.

And it was obvious that something had gone wrong in Jordan.

8:20 am

Ron shivered and pulled his wet robes around him as he continued to slosh through the shallow stream flowing through the narrow passage.

Holy Salazar’s knickers, it’s freezing!

If he hadn’t dropped his stupid wand then he’d be able to snap out a nice Drying Spell and mutter an Impervius for his shoes. Hell, there was nothing worse than being cold, wet, wandless, lost, and alone in a Death Eater-infested hole.

He hoped that Harry and Hermione were faring better than he was. He still hadn’t heard from them. Ron ran his hand through his wet hair and frowned deeply. If anything happened to them he’d personally make sure that whoever was responsible would pay.

The air around him began to hum and crackle and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He glanced around as a strange, hot breeze began to lick at his robes. He heard a muffled voice yelling for help.

Bloody hell, the mirror! He fumbled in this robes and whipped out the mirror in time to hear: “Help us! Anyone … time’s up. We’re trapped. Help!” Harry’s lip was bloody and he didn’t have his glasses.

Ron clutched the mirror to his face and yelled, “Harry! Mate, where are you? Hermione, is she –”

But then there was only white. Then the mirror went blank and Ron was left staring at his own stricken reflection. He stuffed the mirror into his soggy back pocket and took off at full speed down the passage. He didn’t know where he was going and he wasn’t sure where exactly Harry and Hermione were, but he knew that he had to find them no matter what it took. His best mates were in trouble and there was no way that he was going to let anything happen to them.

8:14 am

“HARRY!” Hermione screamed as she drew her wand.

Harry spun around. His eyes darted up to where the mass of Inferi were congregated on the ledge above. Hermione watched in horror as the ghastly white bodies began throwing themselves off the ledge. They landed with a sickening watery thud, and then pulled themselves to their feet.

“REDUCTO!” she yelled.

Harry ran forward and began casting, and a barrage of spells erupted from his wand tip. With hardened determination, Hermione pulled herself upright and began stunning the bodies emerging like swarming ants from a dark hole near the top of the cavern. If she could just stop them from coming in, then maybe Harry could take care of the others.

“Gahh!”

Hermione turned. An inferius had jumped on Harry’s back and was wrestling him to the ground as the others began to rush forward and grab at him. She trained her wand directly at the struggling mass of bodies. But as soon as she had managed to petrify one or two, three others would materialize. Soon only Harry’s thrashing arm was visible under the pile of bodies that was slowly dragging him toward the edge of the platform and closer to the rushing water. Then the Inferi began to close in on her. She threw the Invisibility Cloak over her head.

Suddenly, an unnaturally hot and foul-smelling wind screamed through the cavern. The cloak was ripped from her hands. She watched helplessly as it flew higher and higher, twisting and snapping in the grip of the wind. The Inferi suddenly stopped moving. They lifted their heads into the wind. Then at once, they began screeching and hurling themselves into the swiftly flowing river en mass.

The cracking of magic snapped and the air began to sparkle with a strange silver-color. She barely felt the sand and pebbles blasting her face as she crawled toward Harry who was lying motionless and face-down on the ground. As she inched closer, Hermione could see his shoulders rising and falling. He was alive. She sighed in relief and reached out her hand.

The air began to vibrate. Something warm pressed against her thigh. She reached into her pocket and retrieved her Order mirror. She had quickly discovered after leaving Ron and Harry that the mirrors didn’t work in the caves, but she had cast a Silencing Charm over it and set it to warm instead on the off chance that a message was able to breach the wards.

“Tonks! Mr Weasley! We need to get back straight away! It’s Professor Lupin! We need help!” Neville’s face appeared as he screamed in a panic-stricken voice. Then his image wavered and faded.

Hermione blanched. What was Neville doing with the Order? But regardless of the details, something had gone wrong with the decoy mission. She knew that it was imperative that Harry get out of the Caves in case Voldemort and the rest of the Death Eaters were on their way.

“It’s the wards. Something’s happening to the magic in the caves – it’s weakening, I think. I just got a mirror transmission,” she yelled over the rushing wind. Harry slowly turned his head. “Harry, something’s happened to Lupin. You need to get out of here!”

“But Ron –” Harry croaked as he blinked and then slowly rolled over and coughed.

The air began to darken and all of her exposed skin began to tingle.

“I just … I just heard from Ron – he’s on his way out,” she lied. “He’ll meet us back … home,” she rasped. It was becoming difficult to breathe.

Harry paused. His green eyes darted to her leg and then searched her face. “You reckon we can Apparate out of here now if the wards are weakening?” He held up his arm to block the wind as he began to slowly crawl toward her.

She kept trying to take deep breaths but something was constricting her chest. The air was hot. It was as if she was inhaling sand. Hermione coughed and sputtered as a searing heat swept through her lungs and spread through her chest in waves. Her head began to reel. She clawed at her chest.

Harry was moving toward her, his face and hair were coated in something white and glistening and he had his sleeved clamped over his mouth and nose. He was wheezing and coughing. He was pleading and saying her name as the hot wind tore at his hair. She closed her eyes and silently pleaded for Ron to forgive her as breath left her lungs.

***

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The Strength of Three (Chapter 1: Black)

2007-04-10T08:22:22Z

Title: Chapter 1: Black
Rating: PG
Word Count: 3,809
Notes/Warnings: post-HBP
Summary: In a desperate attempt to destroy one of the last Horcruxes, the trio unwittingly falls victim to Voldemort’s newest weapon.

I wanted to practice writing action sequences as well as depicting simultaneous point of views linked by common events. Therefore, this story will have lots of running, yelling, and other such silliness. Also, the time stamps are important as alternating points of view may jump in time. As always, the characters are JKR's, but I’m the one responsible for this particular bit-o-craziness. A huge thank you to Bug for lending her eyes to this chapter and giving excellent feedback.

Chapter 1: Black

7:17 am on December 27, 1998: The Caves of Comcelare (concealment) near Wadi Musa and the Lost City of Petra, Jordan

In the cool dimness of a subterranean grotto, multi-legged creatures only accustomed to the quiet and the dark recesses of the forgotten past froze and lifted their heads. Something was approaching fast. The telltale sound of pounding of feet on crumbling sandstone and the frantic breaths echoing through the black cavern indicated danger. They quickly scurried to the safety of the crevices they called home as the shadow of a tall figure flew past, their robe billowing behind them as the yells and moans that belonged to a mass of shadows followed closely at their heels.

Harry ducked around a corner, flattened himself between the walls of a narrow fissure, and tried to control his breath as his chest heaved up and down. He drew out a small mirror with trembling hands and panted, “Hermione! Ron! You have to get out! Ron! Can you hear –?”

But the grimy surface remained blank and reflected only the desperation burning in twin flashes of emerald green. Harry dragged the back of his hand across his brow to wipe away the sheet of cold sweat and looked closer – the mirror had a crack that bisected it down the middle.

He swore under his breath, shoved his shoulder deeper into the gap, and hastily drew his hood over his face as the cavern erupted in a flash of white light. A group of Death Eaters rushed passed him, barking orders with their wands trained on the Inferi that shuffled in front of them with a disturbing agility and an unnatural swiftness.

They were using Illumination Charms to find him. Harry knew that the Death Eaters were under strict orders to capture him and bring him to Voldemort. He understood that he would be spared from death at least for the time being, but Ron and Hermione did not have the immediate safety that the title the ‘Chosen One’ afforded.

Panic seized his heart. Harry wondered why he’d ever agreed to let Ron and Hermione join him, but he knew deep down that it was because he was scared out of his mind. Dumbledore was dead, the Order was floundering like a cork in a sea of devastation, and the Ministry was spinning a web of lies with him at the center. He needed his best friends, so he had selfishly pulled them into this suicidal quest, grateful for their friendship and desperately needing their love.

But Harry knew he had no choice – Ron and Hermione would be with him to the end regardless if he wanted them there or not. It was their unwavering support and loyalty that, above all else, kept him going all this time. When he’d left Hogwarts after his training last year, Harry had vowed that he’d defeat Voldemort so they could live in a world free of his dark tyranny and terror. He was doing this for them, and, as a logical consequence, it meant that they had to live – even if he did not.

Hermione and Ron have to be alright. They’re alright…they’ll be fine.…

Harry clung to this thought as irrational as it seemed considering the bleakness of their current circumstances. Their cover was blown and now their only choice was to abort the mission and get out of there as fast as possible. The problem was that he didn’t know which way was out, he didn’t know where Ron and Hermione were, and now he didn’t have any way of contacting them.

The plan had been simple enough. A decoy mission headed by Lupin, Tonks, and Shacklebolt was underway back in England and was supposed to have drawn away most of the Death Eaters so that Ron, Hermione, and he could covertly slip in and take care of Nagini. They had surmised that it would be an advantage that there were only three of them as Voldemort would probably suspect a large-scale attack on one of his last remaining Horcruxes as had been their general (and successful) protocol.

It had started well. The three of them had found the caves easily based on the information that Macnair had supplied the Order during his interrogation. They had Apparated to Jordan and then taken brooms to Hermione’s dismay to the caves where they had hidden them and proceeded on foot. However, navigating through the network of dark, half-submerged, crumbling passageways was a completely different matter. The shear number of dead ends and collapsed passages had them doubling back nine times out of ten, and they had quickly learned that the passages had been spelled so that orientation and landmark charms were useless. Time was running out and they had grown desperate. They needed to find Nagini and get out before Voldemort and the rest of the Death Eaters discovered that he was not involved in the decoy mission and sensed a trap, sending reinforcements straight to the caves and the other hidden Horcrux location. But what had severely worried Harry more than anything was that there were very few places for all three of them to hide together if they were found. He knew that they would inevitably be discovered if they kept floundering around in the passageways for much longer.

So reluctantly they had decided to split up in order to cover more ground and to keep themselves hidden. They’d use their Order mirrors to communicate. However, Harry now realized that was the worst decision that they could’ve made. In hindsight, the entire mission had been poorly conceptualized. It had been put together hastily in order to capitalize on the fact that Voldemort would likely not suspect something so soon after their last encounter and immediately following the holidays. They had intended to use the element of surprise to their advantage, but it was becoming clear that they were the ones taken by surprise. Their divide and conquer strategy had backfired spectacularly, and now they were each facing a significant number of Death Eaters and an unanticipated battalion of Inferi alone.

Suddenly the walls began to tremble and shake. Harry pulled out his wand and was about to cast a Shielding Charm when he jerked his head up and froze. Over the sound cracking of stone came a familiar scream. His eyes dilated in alarm and fear. Without thinking, Harry dislodged himself from the narrow opening and propelled himself down the dim cavern, running and stumbling back in the direction from which he had come as the walls began to crumble.

7:11 am

Hermione thrust her wand forward into the darkness and let loose a stream of non-verbal spells in quick succession, REDUCTO! EXPELLIARMUS! REDUCTO! STUPIFY! Not bothering to see if any of them had hit their mark, she spun on her heels and bolted down the narrow cave, her arms pumping madly. She kept lapping back into what she hoped were her previously traveled paths to prevent herself from getting lost and accidentally propelling herself head-long into a dead end again.

She was growing tired, and the wound on her leg from that Cutting Curse was still bleeding profusely despite the fact that she’d muttered Episkey! more times than she’d like to acknowledge. The curse probably had been blended with an anti-healing hex. They had discovered a couple of weeks ago that crossed spells were Voldemort’s new favorite weapon in his ever growing arsenal of Dark Magic. In fact, Hagrid was still being treated in secret at Hogwarts from some sort of lung burning and bleeding hex.

But Hermione tried to pull her focus from the pulsing pain in her thigh and concentrate at the task at hand. If she could just hold on a little longer and draw more attention to her, then that would give Harry more time to find Nagini. She knew that without a doubt once he found that Horcrux vessel in the form of a hulking mass of scales and teeth that it would be over. Then there would only be one remaining and then Voldemort himself.

She knew that Harry could easily take care of this Horcrux. She’d been with him the last time. She had been awed by his focus and the power that radiated from his wand as he sent the remaining remnants of the infamous house at Godric’s Hollow crashing down. All three of them had been lucky and emerged thoroughly exhausted but relatively unscathed. She and Ron had been shocked at first and then almost giddy with a perverse jubilation as that had been their first Horcrux mission with Harry. She remembered that she wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh or weep with relief as she hugged Ron, then Harry, then Ron again, and then both of them.

But that had been before the grim reality of what had just transpired began to obscure the glow of victory and before the last bits of adrenaline exhausted itself in their veins. She had just pulled away from Ron when she noticed Harry had walked away and was standing next to what remained of the stairs leading to the second floor of what had been his parents’ final residence.

“Let him alone,” Ron had said quietly, following her gaze.

That had been when she’d noticed that there were fewer Order members standing after the battle than before, and the loss of the irreplaceable began its unstoppable rampage through her chest. Hermione could only stare helplessly and watch Harry walk around slowly touching the remains of the life he had never known like a lost soul who had inadvertently stumbled home. The first snowfall had begun to fall, and with flecks of white settling on his shoulders and catching in his hair, Harry suddenly looked very young and very tired.

Hermione knew there was much more than just anger and frustration behind the tears that she’d seen him shed throughout these past two difficult years. If only Harry would let Ginny back in. She saw the way he looked at her when he thought nobody else was around and the way he was always careful not to talk about anything that could potentially make her a target (well, more of a target anyway because they all were targets already simply by association). However, she understood Harry’s reluctance to have anything to do with Ginny. After all, she was still in school and Hogwarts was no longer as safe and secure as it had once been. They knew very well that Voldemort wasn’t above using student spies.

She knew that that night would be permanently etched into her memory like someone had carved it into her conscience with a blade. She had struggled to reconcile what she knew intellectually was a victory with the empty pain in her chest as she surveyed the landscape of devastation around her. Hermione was not quite sure what had happened. If they had won, then why had it felt like they had lost so much?

But now was not the time for thoughts of loss and the fallen -- not unless she wanted a crash course in close-proximity dueling with Inferi, and that was definitely not on her long list of desirable activities. Hermione pulled herself from her thoughts as she continued to run in circles, shooting hexes over her shoulder to keep the attention of Nott and whoever else was pounding through the black caves after her.

Hermione hastily glanced over her shoulder as she rounded a corner, causing her to slip on the wet stone and sending her crashing into the wall. Her wand flew out of her hand and clattered away into the darkness. She rolled over and began to frantically run her splayed fingers over the uneven, muddy stone floor.

Suddenly she froze as footsteps echoed weirdly around her. Someone was running. Was it a lone Death Eater? Ron? Harry? Her eyes darted frantically through the blackness, trying to gauge whether or not the person was heading toward or away from her. But the sounds only seemed to compound the disorientation that the darkness and twisting passageways had already imposed. Then the footsteps abruptly stopped, and the moans of a number of Inferi assaulted her ears. An involuntary shudder swept down Hermione’s spine.

There great rumbling emanated from the rock around her. Everything began to vibrate so furiously that even the darkness seemed to lurch back and fourth. There was a low crackling and the sound of splitting stone seemed to swallow her whole. Hermione covered her head with her hands, completely forgetting the search for her wand as rock and sand fell around her. Suddenly a bolt of pain knifed up her leg. She screamed.

7:27 am

Lumos! Harry thought. He held his wand aloft and squinted into the dusty darkness as he stumbled through the rubble left by what he desperately hoped was just an earthquake. He was positive that it had been Hermione who’d screamed; she had to be there somewhere.

“Hermione?” he hissed into the blackness beyond his orb of wand light.

Only the sounds of falling pebbles and shifting sand answered him.

Harry flicked his wrist. Lumos Dupuls! The light intensified. He could see that the narrow passage had almost completely collapsed.

“Hermione?” he called louder this time and cringed as his voice echoed loudly, amplifying and distorting as it traveled through the endless network of caverns. Harry decided the hell with it; he just needed to find her first and then they’d deal with whatever happened after that. “HERMIONE!” he bellowed loudly, no longer caring if anyone heard him as his eyes darted across the jumble of broken rocks.

“Harry! Shhhhhh! They’ll be sure to find us if you keep carrying on like that!”

Harry closed his eyes and exhaled in relief. There was only one person who could possibly be that bossy regardless if it was a life or death situation. He quickly swung his wand around in the direction of the voice and found Hermione hauling herself upright at the far end of the cavern using the wall for support.

He hurried over. His stomach drop into his toes – her jeans were stained with something dark and wet and her foot dangled at an awkward angle below the muddied cuff of her jeans. Her face was very pale and pain seared through her eyes as she bit her lip and tried to move toward him.

Their eyes met. Then Harry bent down, silently slipped her arm around his shoulder, and grasped her firmly around the waist. There was simply no choice – they’d all leave together or not at all.

“C’mon,” he said quietly, fixing his eyes determinedly down the long dark passage that stretched before them, “it’s time to find Ron and get out of here.”

7:15 am

Ron glanced over his shoulder and down at the inky pool that gaped up at him like a great black mouth. He turned and pressed his forehead back into the slimy roughness and security of solid rock. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly against the wave of dizziness that assaulted him and concentrated on breathing slowly through his nose.

Bloody hell, he hated heights almost as much as spiders. Ron swore loudly and bit down on the slender piece of wood clenched between his teeth as he clung to the sheer cliff face by his fingernails. What was he thinking scaling this bloody cliff like a monkey?

Escaping, you idiot, a voice in his head retorted.

He tried to calm his nerves by telling himself that he’d have a wicked story behind the inch-deep incisor marks embedded in his wand. They’d all get a good laugh out of the fact that he’d likely be plucking splinters out of his gums for the next month. He just had to get out of this stinking snake hole first.

He hadn’t had a good feeling when he and Hermione had parted. She’d simply told him to be careful and then kissed him lightly before jogging away, her wand held high. He’d assured himself that everything would be fine as he’d watched Hermione’s pin-prick of wand-light bounce down the dark cavern and then disappear as she turned a corner. After all, how many times had they done this before? Harry could take care of himself and Hermione was perfectly capable of handling a hoard of Death Eaters – the ambush near Little Hangleton last March had certainly proven that. If there was anyone to be concerned about it should be him. With that last thought lingering in his head and a snort, Ron had set out at a brisk pace in the opposite direction.

But that had been over three hours ago, and despite the fact that he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of anything, Death Eaters or otherwise, Ron’s anxiety continued to mount. It had all just seemed too quiet. He had yet to hear anything from either Harry or Hermione. There had to be some powerful wards or some other messed-up Dark Magic that interfered with the mirror communication just like McGonagall had warned.

Ron had been moving quickly down yet another deserted cavern while whispering frantically into his mirror when he’d suddenly fallen into a hole and down a chute, dropping like a stone straight into a gigantic cavern. He had quickly scrambled off the floor and hidden himself behind a large boulder with his wand at the ready. He’d waited tensely for something to happen, for one of the Lestranges, Malfoys, or Carrows to descend on him, but the cavern was completely deserted. A secret part of him almost wished to see Malfoy’s bum of a face so he could hex his sorry arse straight into Kranthlocke, the new underwater Ministry prison.

From what Ron could make out from his vantage point, he had fallen into some sort of enormous brewing chamber that rivaled the size of a Quidditch pitch. Hundreds of lidded cauldrons large enough to comfortably fit a couple of people squatted on magical roaring fires next to an enormous subterranean lake. Each cauldron was fitted with a tube which was a conduit for a silvery purple mist that was rising slowly from the bubbling cauldrons. The tubes joined together, growing greater in girth as the mist they carried became greyer and more opaque until everything eventually funneled into one large pipe that snaked its way up into the darkness, disappearing beyond sight.

Whatever was going on in the chamber was not good. If he was going to tell anyone about it, then he had to get the heck out of there. However, he had quickly realized that the only way out was either the lake or the way in which he had come. Not wanting to dip so much as a toe into the unnaturally still water, Ron had begun climbing, hoping to find the gap through which he had fallen and discover where the pipe went. But he had overestimated his climbing abilities and the height of the cliff. Now he was stuck like a stupid kneazle in a tree.

Ron cursed himself again and was about to resume climbing when the water below him began to fizz and bubble vigorously and the crumbling rock under his palms began to shake. Ron glanced around frantically, looking for better hand and footholds as he scrambled to maintain his purchase. He crammed his fingers deeper into a crack and dug the tips of his trainers into another and held on for all that he was worth as the entire cliff face began to tremble and jerk violently, causing him to swing back and fourth like a flag in a windstorm.

With a great slurping sound, the water in the lake began to drain. As it became shallower and the blackness of the water gave way to inky blue, an aggregate of bloated and blue-veined limbs emerged. In the suction of the emptying lake, they floated back and fourth like a mass of maggots. Lidless eyes began rolling slowly in their sockets.

A strangled yell issued from somewhere in Ron’s throat as he scrambled higher, not noticing the blood on his palms or his ripped traveling robes. His only thought was not falling and getting as far as possible from the lake and the awakening Inferi.

He’d just managed to get his fist around a large knot of rock when the sandstone beneath his fingers grew damp. His eyes widened as he desperately clenched his fingers around the rough stone as the dampness turned into saturating wetness and then coalesced into trickles of cold water. The stone cliff was thumping like a gigantic heart, causing the rock to eject water like a sponge and sending sheets of icy cold slicing down the shear face.

His right hand slipped and he screamed, “NO!”

As soon as the word flew from his lips, his vice-like grip on his wand loosened. He could only watch transfixed in horror as his wand plummeted in slow motion, finally reaching the tangle of stirring bodies below.

Damn! Why can’t I ever keep my mouth shut when it counts?

Just then the rock above him split open and water and rock poured out over him in a white frothy arc. Ron flattened himself against the wall and then glanced up frantically as the flow dissipated and water began to spill around him. He could make out a gap that looked large enough for him to fit into. The stream of water had to be coming from somewhere. Maybe it was a way out, because according to the cramps in his fingers and forearms, he knew that he wasn’t going to last much longer.

Ron hoisted himself upward and jammed his entire arm into the bottom of the crack. He sputtered and choked as cold water spilled onto his face and began to drench his clothes, but his nearly numb fingers had grabbed something solid enough. Without a second thought, Ron grunted as he swung his other arm up and into the hole, hooking his elbow over the edge. He kicked and scraped his feet higher as he hauled himself into the dark opening, fighting against the torrent of water surging against his chest.

Ron wasn’t aware of anything but the hammering of blood pounding in his ears and his gasping breaths as he crawled forward on his hands and knees and collapsed just inside the small opening. He didn’t notice the frigid water of the shallow stream swirling around him and tugging at his robes. He didn’t feel the cuts and bruises on his hands and legs. He didn’t hear the echo of the familiar panic-stricken voice that pierced the darkness.

“HERMIONE!”

***

Next Chapter

Consequence and Redemption (Chapter 9: A Trio of Charms)

2007-04-05T01:17:09Z

Title: Chapter 9: A Trio of Charms
Rating: PG
Word Count: 4,961
Notes/Warnings: pre-HBP
Summary: Dumbledore casts light on the situation. The trio reunites.

HP owns me, not the other way around. Dysfunction. I wrote this before I knew the value of exposition, forgive me.

Chapter 9: A Trio of Charms

Harry stretched out his right arm and placed it in the patch of sunlight streaming from the window next to his bed. He didn’t remember much from the hospital, anything about being found and brought back to Grimmauld Place by Lupin, Kingsley, and Moody, or even being at here until yesterday when he woke. But, according to Ginny, he had slept for five straight days, which explained why he was famished.

He pushed aside the empty bowl and leaned back into his pillows. Mrs Weasley had been preparing his favorite meals which he greatly appreciated after a summer of practical starvation. Ron also seemed to appreciate his mum’s attempt to fatten Harry up. Harry vaguely recalled Ron saying that he should’ve checked himself into a Muggle hospital sooner. Then he distinctly remembered Hermione’s indignant whisper, “Ron, you have no tact!”

The corners of Harry’s mouth turned up slightly. It was good to know that some things never changed regardless of the circumstances. He was just relieved to be with Ron and Hermione, even if he was at Grimmauld Place, which was practically the last place he wanted to be besides that Muggle hospital or the Dursleys. The same hollow feeling returned when he thought about Sirius and the Dursleys and how it was his fault. Harry shoved their names to the back of his mind.

Harry craned his neck and peered out the window. It was a perfect afternoon for flying. His stomach lurched suddenly as a horrible thought floated into his head, What if I can’t play Quidditch again? He knew that his life-time ban had been revoked earlier that summer now that that Umbridge hag was gone (Ron had screamed the good news so loudly during one of their secret conversations that Harry thought he had practically burst an eardrum). But what about his arm?

Not playing Quidditch wasn’t an option. Flying again was practically the only thing that had kept him sane this past summer. He flexed his fingers. There was definitely more mobility than yesterday, although he still couldn’t make a fist. Then there was that annoying tingling sensation in his shoulder that wouldn’t go away. He gripped his wand as best he could and determinedly uttered, “Lumos.”

Nothing happened.

He switched his wand to his left hand and repeated the incantation. The wand tip glowed faintly. Harry frowned and waved his wand around. Madame Pomfrey had said that it might take a couple of weeks for his right arm to completely heal and, in the meantime, not to be too concerned if he was weak. He supposed that meant weak magic, too.

Just then the door creaked open to reveal the smiling face of Remus Lupin.

“I see that you’ve found your wand. I left it here for you last night.”

“Hello, Professor Lupin.” Harry managed a shaky smile and pushed his wand under his pillow. He was happy to see him, although slightly alarmed – Lupin looked grayer and more worn then he’d remembered. The lines in his face seemed to have deepened and his eyes were tired despite his smile.

“Harry, there’s no need to call me professor. I think we can both admit that we’re both far beyond those formalities.” Lupin sat down in the large purple chair next to his bed and surveyed him carefully. “How do you feel?”

“Tired,” said Harry truthfully. “And sore.” Well, sore was a bit of an understatement. He felt absolutely horrendous, like he’d been turned inside out and then reassembled backwards with pieces missing.

“I’m not surprised. You’ve been through quite a lot in the past week.”

Harry’s mind snapped into motion. There was a barrage of questions on the tip of his tongue. He wanted to know what exactly had happened.

Lupin held up a hand. “Harry, before we talk about what happened, I want to give you something.” He paused as if he were carefully considering his words. His eyes took on a far-away gleam. He smiled wistfully and said, “Sirius was saving this for your birthday, but I wanted to give it to you in person on his behalf.”

Lupin held out his hand. Cradled in his palm was a small round gold disk no larger than a shirt button. It glinted brightly in the sunlight that fell through the window. Harry gazed at it curiously as Lupin tipped it gently into his outstretched palm where it immediately turned a deep scarlet and began to glow faintly.

“This year you will begin Apparition lessons. You’ll need an Apparition Amulet. I’m told that it has been in the Potter family for many generations.” Lupin looked at the small glowing disk fondly. “James used it when he was in Apparation training.”

Harry’s heart swelled as he turned over the small glowing bead. Embedded on one side of the smooth surface in elaborate script was the letter P. Harry imagined his dad carrying this amulet with him at Hogwarts, and Sirius, Lupin, and him proudly showing off their Apparition Permits. Harry could almost imagine the countless other faceless Potters who had done the same over the years.

“Thank you.” He kept turning over the small disk in his hands, noticing how it seemed to absorb the heat from his hands and radiate it back. It felt almost alive. Harry couldn’t ever remember feeling closer to his dad. The all too familiar dull ache of longing began to grind through his chest.

Lupin leaned in and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Your dad would be so proud of you, Harry, so would Sirius.”

Harry closed his eyes and swallowed. The emotions that he had tried so desperately to bury all these months surged toward the surface and threatened to break through his carefully constructed façade.

“I’m here whenever you are ready to talk about Sirius.”

Lupin’s eyes clouded over as he spoke Sirius’s name, and Harry realized that other people who loved Sirius were also hurting. Could he talk to Lupin? Would he understand anything? Somehow even saying Sirius’s name aloud would be impossibly painful…

“Hello, Harry, I see that you are doing extraordinarily well.” Dumbledore stood in the doorway dressed in a long blood red traveling cloak with small silver phoenixes emblazed on the front.

Harry quickly pushed the bubble of grief that had been so close to shattering under his layers of stoicism and false bravery. He sealed the gaping hole in his chest associated with Sirius with the distractions of reality. Harry nodded and tried to smile as Lupin sat back in his chair stiffly and folded his arms across his chest.

Dumbledore appeared older than he’d remembered, and he looked as if he’d not slept well. He sat down on the edge of the bed and placed a gnarled hand on Harry’s leg. A tingling sensation ran from Dumbledore’s hand through the thin blanket that covered Harry.

Dumbledore’s sudden appearance caught Harry off guard, and he wasn’t sure how to react. Part of him was relieved that Dumbledore was talking to him again and wanted nothing more than to release the deluge of questions that were practically bursting out of him. But another part of him wanted nothing more than to just stare out the window and simply be left alone. Unsure of how to deal with these conflicting feelings, Harry remained silent and stared at Dumbledore’s hand patting his leg.

“Harry, there are many things to discuss. However, before we do so, I want you to know that there are things that I cannot reveal to you for your own safety and the safety of others.”

Dumbledore was referring to their conversation last spring about the prophecy and why Dumbledore had purposely kept this vital piece of information from him for sixteen long years. It was the reason why his parents were dead, why Cedric was dead, why Sirius was dead, and why he would eventually have to face Voldemort. It was the grim bearer of his destiny. Harry wondered again if Dumbledore would’ve ever told him about the prophecy in the first place if it weren’t for Voldemort’s attempt to retrieve it from the Ministry last year.

“It is not my wish for you to believe that I do not trust you.” Dumbledore was staring at him solemnly, “On the contrary, Harry, I believe that you, most of all, have proven that you are very capable of responsibility. However, with such responsibility comes burden of protecting others and it is not my wish to impose this upon you now.”

Lupin shifted in his chair.

Harry wasn’t sure how to take these words. If Dumbledore trusted him, then why had he spent all last year avoiding him, leaving him, without explanation, alone with Snape? And what was all this talk about burdens and protecting people? He couldn’t imagine anything that could possibly be more burdensome than the prophecy and having to murder Voldemort.

Dumbledore spoke his next words firmly, “We need to discuss the recent events surrounding the death of your aunt and cousin.”

Harry straightened up. Now it was time to finally get some answers. Or at least answers that didn’t involve any responsibility, a little voice whispered in his head.

He recounted everything he could remember from the accident, which wasn’t much. Lupin seemed especially interested in what shoes Harry had been wearing that night and where he had been during the crash and directly after it. Harry wasn’t sure why any of this was relevant, and Lupin was reluctant to elaborate. Dumbledore delved into a long discussion regarding details that were mostly lost on Harry. Did he do any magic in the car? (And get expelled from Hogwarts?) Had the Dursleys been acting strangely that day? (Had they ever acted normal?) Had they been using the fireplace? (In the middle of August?) Of course, Harry answered the Headmaster’s questions politely, but was growing impatient.

Finally, in a break in the conversation, Harry voiced the one thought that had been plaguing him above all else: “What were the Dursleys planning with the wards, and why did they want to take me to Aunt Marge’s house?”

Dumbledore looked out the window. Harry knew by the distance in his eyes that whatever he was about to hear was not good. It seemed like nothing but bad news ever came out of his talks with Dumbledore. Harry mentally braced himself.

“The wards that protected you in the Muggle world were based on a number of very powerful nested charms.”

Harry nodded, he already knew about this.

“There were three charm horizons that protected you. The first and most powerful were the Blood-Based Charms that linked you directly to your Aunt Petunia and cousin that were emplaced by your mother. The second was a Sympathetic Life-Binding Charm.” Dumbledore looked down at Harry though his half-moon spectacles and continued when Harry stared blankly back at him, “A Sympathetic Life-Binding Charm balances one wizard’s life against another’s – the survival of one depends on the survival of the other.”

Harry blinked. His life was balanced with someone else’s? “Who’s the other wizard that I’m … balanced with?”

“It's not another wizard; it's your Aunt Marge.”

Harry’s mouth fell open. He was magically connected to horrible Aunt Marge of all people? “She doesn't know, does she?” The words barely managed to escape his throat which was rapidly constricting. He glanced at Lupin for reassurance, but he abruptly stood up and walked over to the window where he stood with his back to them, his hands clasped tightly behind his back.

Dumbledore shook his head. “It’s unconventional for a wizard to be balanced with a Muggle, but there were few alternatives under the circumstances in which the wards were drawn. When you were born, your aunt was diagnosed with a grave Muggle illness – her death was certain. When it was clear to me that you would not be safe growing up in the wizarding world, you were placed in the care of the Dursleys but only under the condition that wards would be put in place to ensure your survival. However, the Dursleys needed an extra incentive to participate in the original ward contract that sealed the Blood-Based Charms. The Life-Binding Charm served such a purpose, for as long as you were well, your Aunt Marge’s life would continue.

“Protection and Shielding Charms for your Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and cousin were embedded in the Life-Binding Charm. This was the third charm horizon. As long as the Life-Binding Charm between you and your Aunt Marge was active, the Dursleys would also be protected from life-threatening magic. Therefore, the Dursleys would keep you out of harm’s way to ensure your Aunt Marge’s survival and for their own protection, but most importantly this also secured the Blood-Based Charms linking you to your Aunt Petunia and cousin and safeguarded you from the wizarding world.”

Dumbledore’s eyes drifted toward Lupin who continued to stare resolutely out the window. “The wards were almost fool-proof. However, there was one weak link.”

“The Sympathetic Life-Binding Charm,” Harry said.

Dumbledore inclined his head and smiled. “If the Life-Binding Charm that bound you and your Aunt Marge was broken, then the Protection and Shielding Charms placed around the Dursleys could be easily sundered. If anything happened to your Aunt Petunia and Cousin Dudley, the Blood-based Wards protecting you would also fail.”

“But how easily can Life-Binding Charms be broken?” Harry imagined that they must be very powerful.

“They are relatively easy to reverse. However, the charm can only be severed by the sympathetic wizards who are bound by it. Usually, this is sufficient enough to ensure the charms survival, as it is not in either of the wizards’ best interest to sever it.”

So that’s why the Dursleys were taking him to Marge’s that night – they wanted him to do magic.” But Professor Dumbledore, I don’t know how to sever a Life-Binding Charm. It would’ve been completely useless,” said Harry, desperately trying to make sense of this new news.

Dumbledore seemed to be considering his next words carefully, “Yes, you don’t know how to perform the Unlocking Charm, but others do.”

“You mean the other wizards – the Death Eaters – they’d make me undo the charm and then...” Harry couldn’t voice the thoughts that were running through his head. He felt the blood drain from his face. The faint chirping of birds outside the widow was the only sound that punctuated the sudden silence.

“Yes,” said Dumbledore. His blue eyes were tired and gray.

So the Dursleys had been communicating with Voldemort. They were taking him to Aunt Marge’s so they could break the wards and be rid of him, and then leave him to the Death Eaters and their master. Harry completely forgot his previous reticent attitude and described freely what he remembered from the events at the hospital. Dumbledore listened silently with his eyes closed and sat so still that Harry thought that perhaps he had fallen asleep. The only indication that he was actually listening was when his eyes flew open at the mention of the witch and the blue-glowing cube.

“Yes, memory stealers. It takes a very skilled and powerful witch trained in both Legilimency and Extortumency to invade another’s mind and forcibly extract specific memories.”

Harry didn’t like the sound of this. “Extortumency?”

“The forcible removal of specific memories and thoughts from the mind,” said Dumbledore.

“But why not just Obliviate me? What’s the difference?” Harry’s heart began beating rapidly. He smoothed his palm over the blankets.

Dumbledore spoke quietly, “A very skilled Extortumens can preserve the extracted thoughts, leaving the mind otherwise unharmed but without a record of the removed memory. Obliviation destroys the memory, for the most part, within the mind itself and doesn’t require memory extraction. However, some Obliviated memories can be refabricated with the aid of powerful Memory Revitalization Charms and, under very rare circumstance, they can resurface naturally and unaided. Extorted memories can never be retrieved as they no longer exist in the person’s mind. Unless, of course, they are returned and successfully rebound to the conscious mind.”

Harry turned over these words in his head carefully.

“It appears that they did not want to completely destroy your entire memory, but did not want to leave it up to chance that you could ever recall the memories that they took from you.”

Harry covered his face with his hands and spoke slowly, “They were searching for something … something … specific.”

“Harry,” Lupin turned from the window, his voice ringing with alarm, “Did they remove any memories?”

Harry closed his eyes tightly and desperately tried to recall what they had stolen. An image popped into his head of the little cube sitting in the wizard’s hand with the distorted image of himself and Lupin trapped in it. Harry opened his eyes, relieved that he could finally offer some useful information.

“One of you and me,” he told Lupin. “But I don’t know which one. She also tried to steal memories of the Occlumency lessons with Snape…Professor Snape, I mean.” Then Harry frowned and looked at Lupin. “But why would Voldemort want those memories? Wouldn’t he want something about the prophecy instead?”

“Yes, yes … that would be obvious, wouldn’t it?” Dumbledore muttered thoughtfully as he pressed his fingertips together under his chin.

Lupin stepped forward and said suddenly, “We believe that there may be other wizards who want to do you harm.”

“What? You mean besides Voldemort and his Death Eaters?”

Lupin glanced at Dumbledore who was staring impassively at him, before nodding firmly.

Harry felt like all the air had been forcibly sucked from his lungs. It was enough that Voldemort had stolen his chances at a normal life with a flick of his wand and was now busy impinging upon his every waking moment, but now, it seemed, there were other wizards who were running around trying to erase his brain.

Dumbledore continued to intently stare at Lupin who was staring determinedly back as if they were fighting some silent unspoken battle. Finally Dumbledore’s eyes flickering toward the door and he said, “Excuse us, Harry, but Remus and I have some issues to discuss.”

Harry barely heard Dumbledore’s words; he was choking back the new feeling of dread that had begun to wrap its steel fingers around his heart. Why would anyone want his memories? Why always him? Bloody hell, all he wanted was to just be a regular person with regular problems! Then he suddenly felt angry. Did Dumbledore just think he could come in, drop this news casually in his lap, and then just simply leave? Harry watched, stone-faced, as Dumbledore pushed himself up from the bed.

“There are some visitors to see you, Harry, and I daresay they’ve been waiting at the door long enough.” Dumbledore flicked his wrist and the door to Harry’s room burst open and two bodies fell forward onto the floor in a heap.

“Ooph!” a familiar voice bellowed.

Harry could barely make out the red-headed body that could only be Ron, who was sprawled face-down under a thick curtain of brown hair that could only belong to Hermione. Hermione was in the middle of hastily extricating herself from the tangle of limbs when she looked up and froze in mid-crouch over Ron. Harry struggled to keep his face neutral as he watched Hermione’s eyes widen in surprise and then was replaced quickly by a look of pure mortification. Suddenly, Ron’s hand flew through the air and accidentally hit her squarely in the face, jolting her back into action.

“Ouch, Ron!” Hermione stood up, brushing dust off her jeans hastily. Her face was scarlet. “Oh … Professors,” she said, clearly flustered.

Ron jumped to his feet and cleared his throat, muttering something that could only have been along the lines of, “Hello, Professors Dumbledore and Lupin,” but sounded like, “Hulpressorsdumdooroopin.” He was staring fixedly at the floor as if it suddenly was the most fascinating thing in the world.

Harry surveyed his two best friends fondly. They had visited him yesterday, but he had been too tired to really talk, and Mrs Weasley had ushered them out of the room as soon as they had made themselves comfortable. Ron must’ve grown at least another few inches over the two months they had been apart and practically towered over Hermione who also looked to have grown as well. Ron’s face was sun-burned (or was he blushing?) and Hermione was deeply tanned. Harry suddenly remembered that she had gone on holiday somewhere, probably to France again. He couldn’t remember her hair being so long, or her looking well … like a girl before.

“It’s good to know that Hogwarts prefects are always attentive. One can never been too careful. Now, if you excuse us, Remus and I have an appointment with Molly and a bowl of her excellent beef stew,” Dumbledore winked and walked out the door, followed by Lupin who told Harry he’d be back later.

As soon as the door shut, Hermione and Ron sprinted over to the bed.

“Oh, Harry, you look so much better!” Hermione hugged him tightly, but was careful to stay away from his right arm. “We would’ve come earlier but Mrs Weasley and Madame Pomfrey said you were sleeping, and then Professor Lupin and Dumbledore –”

“Give him some time to breathe, Hermione! You’re smothering him.” Ron sat down on the bed and was grinning broadly. “Between you and Mum, Harry’s going to have to be admitted to St. Mungo’s just to have some peace and quiet if you keep it up.”

Harry smiled back, extremely grateful for the distraction his two best friends provided from his own turbulent thoughts. It was all just too much right now and he was sure that there would be a time when he could mull over recent events in solitude. He needed to straighten things out in his own head before he could talk about things with anyone else, but that would be later … sometime.

“It’s good to see you both, too. You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting to get away from the Dursleys.” But as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he knew it was a mistake.

The smile on Hermione’s face faded. “Harry, I’m sorry to hear about your … family,” she said quietly.

Ron’s face darkened, it looked like it was taking all of his self-control not to say what Harry knew would be a barrage of insults. Harry appreciated his silence. It was still hard for him to believe that Aunt Petunia and Dudley were dead, and he wasn’t quite sure how he felt about the terrible price for his new freedom. Wishing more than anything he hadn’t accidentally brought up the subject, and not knowing what else to say, Harry finally settled on, “Thanks.”

Ron and Hermione looked at each other and then at Harry who shifted uncomfortably in his bed.

“It’s okay, I’m not going to die or anything ... at least not today,” said Harry finally.

Ron blanched and Hermione gaped at him. “Harry, that’s not funny. You almost –”

Harry grinned.

“Ooh! You’re worse than Ron,” Hermione said, clearly exasperated, but her eyes sparkled.

“C’mon, Hermione, if you can’t joke about something like that, then what can you joke about?”

Ron snickered.

Harry moved to scratch his neck. The salve that Madame Pomfrey kept slopping on his wound made it itch something fierce (“Potter! No itching, unless you want scarring!” She’d practically ripped his fingernails out). As he did so, the small scarlet disk slipped from his hand and landed on the bed.

“You have your Apparition Amulet!” Hermione was practically jumping up and down with excitement. She held out a small violet tear-shaped bead dangling on a delicate sliver chain around her neck. “I just got mine at Diagon Alley a couple of days ago when we –” she stopped and her eyes grew bright. “Oh, right!” She spun around and ran out of the room, her brown hair flying wildly behind her.

Ron shook his head. “She’s totally mental. I haven’t seen her like this since she got 167% on Vector’s Arithmancy exam back in third year. You’d think that summer holidays had been canceled or something equally as mad.” He folded himself into the large purple chair next to Harry’s bed. “Mate, it’s good to see you back to normal. I was getting sick of hanging out with Hermione and Ginny.” Ron lowered his voice and said knowingly, “Girl stuff, you know.”

Harry looked questioningly at Ron. “Girl stuff?” He wondered exactly what that meant. He couldn’t image Hermione doing anything remotely girly. She certainly wasn’t like Cho or anything.

As if to confirm Harry’s thoughts, Hermione suddenly appeared at the door half hidden under a rather intimidating stack of very thick books. She tottered across the room and deposited them heavily on the nightstand next to the bed, smiling brightly. “Your books!”

Harry gawked. He had never seen so many books in his life. “Hermione, did you rob a library or something?” He looked at Ron who stared back at him ginning and rolling his eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Harry said astounded, as he reached over and grabbed a few books from the top of the towering pile and turned them over in his hands.

‘Deciphering the Dark Arts: A History of Ancient Magic and Sinister Spells’ by Martha Debunkleman
‘Transfiguration Level 6: Transposing for the Advanced Student’ by J.B.K.L. Sumpty-Jones III
‘The Careful Craft of the Charm (N.E.W.T. Level Volume 1-3, Abridged Edition 107)’ by Ferdinand V. Cindercone

“Hey, hang on, how’d you know what books to get me? We haven’t got our O.W.L. results back yet –”

Ron cleared his throat and then gave Hermione a look that seemed to say, ‘I told you so!’

“– have we?” Harry suddenly felt very nervous. He remembered that he needed at least an ‘O’ in Potions to get into the Ministry Pre-Auror Training Program. He was sure that even without Snape hovering over him like a giant rabid bat that he had not preformed that well on the exam.

Ginny bounced into the room holding a large stack of sandwiches and a glass pitcher of pomegranate juice, likely another meal from Mrs Weasley, but stopped cold when she saw Harry holding his books and glancing apprehensively at Hermione and Ron.

Hermione began, “Well … um. Yes, we got them three days ago.”

Ginny’s eyes darted from Harry to Hermione to Ron. Then she blurted out, “Oh come on, Harry, it’s not like it’s a big mystery or anything – you’re going to be an Auror.”

Harry’s face flushed. He hadn’t really ever seriously considered being anything else, but it was strange to hear someone else say it.

“We didn’t open your letter or anything, but we just thought…” Hermione trailed off as Ron pulled a wrinkled letter from his back pocket and placed in on the bed next to him.

“Go on, open it,” Ron said encouragingly. “Believe me, it’s better just to get it over with once and for all. At least you don’t have five older brothers to live up to. You should’ve heard Mum and Dad…”

Harry wasn’t sure if he wanted to open the letter, and looked at it with trepidation. He remembered McGonagall’s vow she made last year about ensuring that he would become an Auror if it was the last things she did. Suddenly he felt quite ill.

“Well, maybe Harry doesn’t want to open it with us here,” said Hermione nervously. She grabbed Ron’s arm and turned towards the door.

Ron yanked his arm away. “Why not?” He frowned at Hermione.

“Because he might want privacy!”

“Give it a rest; we’re his best friends, nothing’s private!”

“Ron –”

Harry wasn’t sure if he could bare a bickering fest just yet. “All right, I’ll open it!” He ripped open the envelope and pulled out the small piece of parchment.

Harry’s look of eager anticipation quickly faded and was replaced by an expression of utter disappointment as his eyes quickly scanned the letter. The parchment fluttered onto the bed as he covered his face and groaned. “I’m not going to be Auror. I got an E in Potions,” he said quietly through his hands.

Harry saw through the outline of his fingers Ron smiling broadly at Ginny who was jumping from one foot to the other. Hermione leaned over and said, “Harry, you are going to be an Auror. The Ministry has changed the requirements for the Pre-Auror Training Program – you’re in!”

Ron let out a loud whoop and jumped on the bed; the sudden jerky movements caused Harry to cringe. He bit his lip as he tried to compose himself before he slowly removed his hands from his face. He stared disbelievingly at Hermione. He was sure that there must be some mistake, maybe he had heard wrong.

“All the words in those books’ll be worth seeing the look on Snape’s face when we walk into Advanced Potions next week!”

Harry turned to look at Ron, “Wait … Ron! You, too?!”

“Yeah, of course!” Ron was absolutely beaming. “Couldn’t let you run off on your own now, could I? I mean, who would make sure that you would keep up on all your homework?” Ron puffed out his chest and began strutting around the room brandishing his wand in a much exaggerated fashion. “Here we come Pre-Auror Training! Watch out! The Ministry isn’t going to know what hit’em.” He struck a dueling attack pose as Ginny grinned and Hermione smiled and rolled her eyes.

Harry laughed for the first time in months. And it felt good.

–x/X\x–

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Consequence and Redemption (Chapter 8: A Mother's Love)

2007-04-05T01:06:46Z

Title: Chapter 8: A Mother's Love
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4,115
Notes/Warnings: pre-HBP, angsty goodness
Summary: Molly mothers.

Unfortunately, HP and co. are not mine, they’re property of JKR. I just like to abuse them and make them cry.

Chapter 8: A Mother’s Love

Molly stood in the main entryway of the Burrow and let the smells, sights, and feel of her home a wash over her. She imagined that she was absorbing its quiet strength, that it was saturating her body, revitalizing her and making it possible for her to return to Grimmauld Place. It seemed like she had been away for months, and she hungrily took in everything: the wildly blooming garden, the corners that met at slightly odd angles, the mismatched throw rugs, even that blasted door that wouldn’t shut properly somehow seemed enduring. All were bathed in the golden light of the evening sun.

She had Apparated home quickly to fetch some basic medical supplies for Poppy and some very necessary cooking utensils such as her bottomless cast-iron cauldron. She needed to feed more and more people at Grimmauld Place as members of the Order stopped by for lengthy meetings that turned into mealtimes, and a hearty stew was the obvious solution.

She took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold. It was disturbing to see the house so quiet and empty. Having raised seven children over the last twenty-odd years, she could barely imagine that such silence was even possible. Even so, the familiar lines and smells were comforting. Molly smiled. A pile of shirts, trousers, and socks in a basket in the middle of the living room were folding and unfolding themselves on their own accord. She reminded herself to deactivate her Self-Folding Laundry Charm before she left.

Molly walked through the silent house – running her fingers over the top of the table that held the multitude of family photographs whose subjects were smiling and jumping frantically in their mismatched frames – and headed into the kitchen. She placed a large satchel on the table and began to levitate miscellaneous items from their shelves as she fumbled through a large drawer, searching for the spare set of Self-Chopping Knives. But instead of the knives, Molly found herself clutching something that took her breath away. She stared down with wide eyes at the unopened package of Sylvester’s Slightly In-Extinguishable Birthday Candles.

She had championed Dumbledore to allow Harry to leave the Dursley’s earlier that summer so he could spend his sixteenth birthday with them and celebrate properly, complete with his favorite foods, sweets, and, of course, a proper birthday cake with magical candles. However, it was not to be, for Harry’s safety was of paramount importance – the wizarding world needed him to remain safe and alive. In the meantime, she had to be satisfied with the pale imitation of his true birthday cake that she had sent with their presents by elderly and half-blind Errol.

It seemed to her that Harry’s destiny habitually overshadowed his present life. She thought that it was all too easy overlook the present when all eyes were fixed on his future and all efforts were concentrated on molding him into great wizard he was prophesized to become. She had repeatedly told Dumbledore that until that time came, he was a just a regular boy who needed to live a regular life, complete with birthday parties. But it appeared that her protests fell on deaf ears.

However, she had taken solace in the fact that he had simply survived to see his sixteenth birthday – that was cause enough to be thankful. She told herself that there would be plenty more birthdays in his future to celebrate, plenty more candle-laden cakes, presents, and birthday dinners. But deep down a tiny kernel of doubt festered.

She stuffed the candles back into the drawer and walked across the large kitchen, angrily blinking back tears. She would not let herself cry. There was no time for that. Not now. She was worried about Ron, Ginny, and Hermione. She angrily cursed Dumbledore for ordering Poppy to allow them to see Harry in such a state. It seemed that in situations like this, anger was a more productive emotion. She harnessed it – it was the catalyst that kept her moving; it drove her onward.

Clearly, they had been very upset. Ron had been stomping around Gimmauld Place for the past five days, blowing up at anyone who had so much as, in his opinion, breathed wrong. That morning he had tried, unsuccessfully, to provoke Kreature. She knew it was because he wanted an excuse to take out some of his pent-up frustration as Ron had occasionally used this same coping mechanism with Ginny and Percy when he was a child. Thankfully, Lupin had the sense to magically bind Kreature to the attic to keep him away from Ron.

She saw straight through Hermione’s collected exterior. The look on her face as she stood beside Harry and whispered his name said it all. She was desperately trying to hold everything together, likely for Ron and Ginny. Bless her soul; she was such as strong young woman. She knew that Ron relied on her much more than he realized. However, Molly was afraid that Hermione was in too much of a hurry to grow up. There was no doubt that she was mature for her age, but there were just some things that adolescent girls needed to experience: giddy conversations about boys, crushes, carefree love. Watching your friend struggling for their life and battling grown Dark wizards and witches were not on that list.

Then there was Ginny, her youngest, her little fiery powerhouse. Molly worried about her most of all. She had found her that morning curled in front of the fireplace in the drawing room with her dream diary. By the number of rumpled blankets and pillows, Ginny had slept there most of the night. Molly knew that she had begun to have the nightmares again.

Molly removed the bottle of Dreamless Sleeping Draught from the back of the kitchen cupboard with a heavy heart and brushed away the dust. Ginny hadn’t needed it for years. She would add some to her evening tea for she knew that Ginny wouldn’t ask for it unless the dreams became extremely disturbing. But she didn’t want them to reach that point – she’d just simply curtail the problem.

Molly was a strong woman. She had raised seven healthy children and ran her household like an efficient, albeit somewhat cluttered, machine. She had treated more than her fair share of cuts and bruises, soothed burns, and mended a number of broken bones as a result of childhood accidental magic gone awry, the twins ‘good-natured’ pranks, and stray rocks intended-to-be Bludgers. Although she had a tendency to lose her temper, and on occasion over-react (although she would only admit that to Arthur), she was calm under pressure … calm when it really counted. She was the stitching that held the substantial Weasley clan together, and she had to be strong for those that she loved now more than ever before.

She knew her strength would be tested after Ron’s first year at Hogwarts when he had coming tromping home, triumphant and proud, eager to retell his great adventure story to anyone who would listen (including the ghoul in the attic and the post owl who delivered The Daily Prophet). She had passed the same test year after year, always grateful and relieved that Ron, Harry, Ginny, and Hermione arrived back at Platform nine and three quarters in almost the same condition that they had left in the previous September. But Molly had no idea just how much her strength would be tested until that night. And she worried that this was just the beginning.

Harry had been in terrible condition. She shuddered every time she though of the frail form that lay too still in Kingsley’s arms as he rushed past her and up the stairs into Sirius’s room. She remembered thinking that surely that the bundle was much too small to be a sixteen-year old growing wizard and that there must’ve been some mistake. However, it was when Poppy began to pull back the dark cloth cocoon layer by layer to reveal Harry’s deathly pale features, those atrocious injuries, and the crude pieces of equipment that those Muggles used for healing, that the overwhelming sense of dread and fear began to overtake her.

She cringed as she began to quickly pack the assembled items into her satchel with a deft flick of her wand. Those Muggle stitches had been the worst of all.

Harry had been barely conscious and in obvious pain. He was cold and shivering. His eyes would flutter open and flit across the ceiling, glazed and unseeing, before they would suddenly close as they moved around him. He seemed to be fluctuating between a sort of half-consciousness and a fitful slumber.

They weren’t sure what was wrong. Although it was plainly obvious that his injuries from the car accident were their primary concern, there were other worrisome symptoms: the clammy skin, the cold sweat, the shaking hands, and the drained magic – they all had roots in Dark Magic. However, the most disturbing of all his injuries was the small round blistered area on his temple which looked to be the right shape and size for a wand burn – the type created during aggressive and invasive Obliviation.

Once the robes were removed, Dumbledore had relegated himself to the corner of the room and stood tall and silent, watching solemnly. Arthur refused to see Harry, and even Lupin was reluctant to linger long. But she had sat at his side for hours, casting Numbing Charms in an attempt to ease his discomfort as he wavered in and out of consciousness.

Poppy had been extremely worried about giving him any healing potions as they were unsure how they would interact with the Muggle drugs that were surely in his system. Not wanting to compromise Harry’s already serious condition, they decided it was best to wait until morning to begin the regimen of healing potions in order to give any Muggle drugs the chance to metabolize. She had watched the clock anxiously, counting down the minutes until Poppy could give him the powerful Sedative Potion that would alleviate the pain and keep him hovering just beyond consciousness, hopefully suppressing the formation of any memories of the pain and the horrific days and nights that were to come.

~*Flashback*~
The remnants of the Muggle cast lay scattered and forgotten on the floor – bits of wire curled themselves into cold knots while the bandages lay limp and twisted in a pile of crimson-stained ribbons. A solitary figure bent over the bed that had been moved to the middle of the room. Harry was moaning weakly as Poppy was gently prodding his arm, searching determinedly for the breaks and pieces of shattered bone fragments that had to be painstakingly fused, piece-by-piece, back together.

Molly stood across the room, her watchful eyes darting from the bed to the table in front of her as she continued to carefully measure out the ingredients required for the additional Sedative and Blood-Replenishing Potions and the Abrasion and Bruising Salves.

She silently repeated the words that had, of late, become her motto, Keep going…keep working…keep busy…

Her hands shook slightly, causing the glass bottles to clank together awkwardly. She emptied her hands hastily and grabbed the edge of the table to steady herself.

Concentrate! Two parts dandelion milk to four and a quarter parts aloe vera extract…

She gently stirred the thick mixture until it began to coagulate. She then turned to the other large glass pitcher and began to decant the thick brown liquid from the mixture of dark herbs and reconstituted liverworts that floated near the surface. The liquid would have to be boiled down because the concentrate was the primary ingredient for the sedative and there would be very little left. They would need every drop.

Suddenly her concentration was demolished as a strangled cry filled the room. The bottle slipped from her fingers and shattered as it hit the floor. The dark fluid began to creep unnoticed across the slats of wood and glide its way through the tiny shards of glass like a silent serpent.

Molly flew across the room to the bed. Harry’s eyes were wide open and filled with pain. His entire body was stiff and his left hand was clutching the wrinkled sheets tightly. Poppy, who had been working on mending his elbow joint, was now standing and taking his pulse. The stool that she had been sitting on lay on its side, rocking slowly back-and-fourth on the floor where it had fallen.

“Poppy, he needs more!” Her voice was harsh.

Poppy’s sharp eyes darted from Harry’s face to Molly. “I’ve administered the maximum dose that is advisable for his weight. We won’t be able to give him more for another –” she glanced at her watch, “– half-an-hour.” She shook her head angrily. “That’s the problem with bryophyte-based sedatives. Even though they’re the most powerful, they become less effective with increased use as the user begins to build up a tolerance to them. I knew that I should’ve switched to something fungi-based … a type of zygomycete perhaps…”

Harry was whimpering quietly and trying to pull his arm toward his body.

Poppy tightened the magical brace that was holding his limb still and in place. Her lips were pressed together into a thin line. Her face was white. “We will have to get some asphodel from Professor Snape when he returns,”she muttered.

Molly leaned over Harry and spoke in low, soothing tones, “Dear, it’s going to be just fine.” She didn’t really think that he was capable of understanding what she was saying, but this always seemed to help the other children when they were sick. In fact, she was certain that Harry had little idea where he was or was and wasn’t aware of what they were doing as he had not been lucid or anywhere near coherent the entire time they had been treating him.

His eyes were clamped shut, and his face was twisted in pain. His lips moved silently.

“Shhhhhhhh, it’s almost over.” She brushed back his damp hair and laid a warm hand on his forehead. He was too cold. “You’re doing so well,” she lied.

He began mumbling incoherently. She looked up at Poppy whose eyes seemed to reflect her own worry. Then she froze. It was barely more than a whisper, but she’d recognize that word anywhere.

“Mum?” his voice trembled with desperation as his green eyes searched blindly through space. “Mum ... I…”

“Harry, I’m here,” she cooed, as she stroked his face gently. “I’m here.” His eyes slowly moved toward the sound of her voice and she continued, “You’re going to be fine…” her voice broke. She hoped that he was not beginning to wake. Molly silently pleaded for all that was good in the world to have mercy on him. They just needed him to be under for another half an hour until it was safe to give him another dose of the sedative which would hopefully allow them the four more hours that they needed to finish mending his arm.

She gazed into his eyes that seemed to be struggling to focus on her face. They were two green jewels, framed by dark lashes and wet with unshed tears. They glinted in the light and seemed to stare straight into her soul. A deep ache began to spread through Molly’s chest as tears welled in her eyes. Here was the savior of the wizarding world lying broken before her, drenched in a cold sweat, sheets twisted around his body, and crying out in pain that couldn’t be alleviated. Then it suddenly struck her. This was not a grown man-warrior or a powerful wizard capable of killing untold numbers of Dark wizards and witches. This was a child. Their savior was only a child … a child who needed his mother.

What were they doing? What was this war about? At what cost was victory to be theirs? She wondered how many more times this scene would play out across the wizarding world – how much pain would have to be endured and how many children would suffer before the end. How many untold sacrifices would have to be made and would they ever be repaid? She hoped that what they were doing was right. Molly closed her eyes and willed the tears not to fall; she had to believe that their cause was right.

Molly gently unclenched Harry’s fingers from where they were twisted in the sheets and held his hand tightly in her own. He wrapped his fingers around her palm. It was as if he was holding on with everything he had. Hold on dear…hold on, she silently pleaded, bringing his hand up to her lips. He was strong. He would pull through. He would be just fine. He could be saved. “Hold on, dear…” she whispered to him.

Harry’s eyes closed and he fell silent. His labored breaths were the only indication of his struggle. Poppy continued to work diligently and Molly remained at his side, her hand clasped tightly over his trembling fingers. She held him until it was over.

~*End of Flashback*~
Molly turned from the cupboard and gazed out the kitchen window. She knew that children eventually out-grew their parents and needed to be set free. She had become accustomed to letting go with Bill, Charlie and, without warning, Percy. It was somehow easier when you had years with them, watching them grow, loving them, being cross with them. You learned to read them so well that their reactions were almost second nature and their needs could be anticipated – it was the gift of mother’s intuition.

But when a child just walked into your heart unannounced and claimed you, it was somehow harder to let go because you never really got a chance to grab on in the first place. They were a like a newfound treasure – there was always something to discover about them. When the time with them was so short, you wanted nothing more than to keep them close. And that is exactly how she felt about Harry.

She remembered the first time he had stayed with them. He had been clearly surprised to be welcomed into their home and had acted cautiously, almost unsure of himself. He wore an almost constant look of wide-eyed surprise that she had found alarming. It was the same look she had become accustomed to over all these years that would momentarily flit across his face when she’d cook one of his favorite meals, mend his clothes, or do any of the regular things a mother would do.

Harry was hungry for love, he craved affection. His eyes positively screamed it. Any parent would be able to see it if they looked closely enough. But yet, he always remained politely distant, almost elusive. He would linger tantalizingly close, unknowingly revealing just enough that you wanted nothing more than to grab him and hug him senseless and give him all the love that his parents would have wanted for him … the love that he deserved. But then he’d close his face down, ducking just out of reach, and leave you with nothing but a quiet smile and those green eyes.

But ever since that moment he had said that magical word, Molly knew that Harry was her child. He had chosen her. And there was nothing she wouldn’t do to protect him whether he liked it or not. There was nothing more ferocious than a mother’s love for her children.

Molly levitated the now full satchel and wandered back into the living room and eased herself down into the large chair near the fireplace, placing the bag at her feet. This was where she had nursed all of the babies, save one, and she savored the comforting feel of the worn corduroy fabric and the cushions that were molded to her form from years of familiarity. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Just for a moment, she told herself. The fatigue was overpowering…

She was floating like a bird on the breeze, a gull riding on the wispy updrafts of what seemed to be the breath of life itself. It was dark. Only the faint light that was characteristic of pre-dawn or a newly-set sun permeated the vast expanse of liquid nothingness that stretched infinitely before her.

Her heart was a small golden nugget of hope, and it beat rapidly in her feathered chest as she spotted a small outcrop of gray rock that rose out of the slowly rolling mass. It was an island. It pushed back the shoaling waters, birthed from the endless sea of waves that were relentlessly attacking its hardened edges. It seemed likely that his lone hump of stone had existed for eons simply out of shear stubbornness.

She just wanted a place to rest, a temporary respite from the buffeting winds. But as she approached, an unfamiliar sight greeted her. A ship groaned and rocked gently in the frothing surf. It was perched on the edge of the rocky shoreline as if it had been simply dropped from the sky. Figures, clad in dark robes, were waiting, assembled in a crude line that led to the gaping mouth in the great wooden hull.

She flew lower and landed quietly on the bald and rocky beach. At least a hundred were congregated, yet they uttered no sounds. It was silent, except for the calls of other gulls, the screeching wind, and the muffled crash of the waves. There was the familiar smell of rotting fish and salt and something else that she couldn’t quite place, something that seemed oddly familiar…

One of the robed figures drew her attention. A pale hand pushed back a tattered hood to reveal a shock of untamed dark hair. Silent eyes surveyed the figure standing next to him from behind cracked spectacles. The face of the other was hidden, but long strands of amber locks flickered out from the edges of their hood. It was a woman. The young man’s hand reached out and found her slim fingers which threaded themselves through his effortlessly like a well-practiced gesture.

Suddenly heads turned and faces darkened as the mass of bodies began to move slowly. The line surged forward, carrying the young man and woman toward the belly of the ship. He drew his hood back over his face and, in doing so, revealed a dark wand held loosely in his left hand…

“Molly.”

She jumped and sat up abruptly. “I’m here!” She looked around frantically. Arthur’s face swam in front of her as his familiar, warm embrace surrounded her.

“There’s nothing to worry about.” His voice somehow seemed to be out-of-focus as well.

She’d been dreaming. She struggled to remember exactly what it had been about, but the images were rapidly retreating into the fog of her sub-conscious.

“What time is it?” she asked. “I must’ve dozed off.” She chastised herself silently for just falling asleep when she was needed.

Arthur sat down beside her. “It’s about eight-thirty. Don’t worry, the meeting isn’t for another hour,” he said as she gasped. “We have plenty of time to get back to headquarters.”

“So you’re not here to tell me that Bill has arrived.”

“No, he hasn’t arrived.”

“What is it then?” Her heart began to hammer in her chest. She knew that only one other thing would draw Arthur away from Grimmauld Place in search of her.

“Molly, everything’s fine.”

Her eyes searched his face for the tell-tale signs of distress, but only found his smile.

“Harry’s awake.”

“Oh, sweet Merlin!” Her hand fluttered to her chest. They had stopped giving him the sedative early this morning and had been waiting all day. She had just stepped out for a moment and now…“I should’ve been there!” She jumped up.

Arthur placed a calming hand on her arm. “Lupin was with him,” and as if he had read her mind he finished, “He wasn’t alone.” He knew her so well.

She exhaled loudly. “Is he … how –?” the words wouldn’t come fast enough.

“It’s difficult to tell because he was only awake for a short time and he’s very weak. However, it looks promising.” Arthur paused. His brown eyes filled with hope. “He recognized Lupin, Poppy, and Dumbledore. He remembered the accident and that he was in the Muggle hospital.”

A wave of relief swept over her and she swayed slightly. Arthur stood up and pulled her to him and said softly, “You were wonderful Molly – Harry’s going to make it.”

And only then did she let herself cry.

~*oOo*~

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Consequence and Redemption (Chapter 7)

2007-04-05T00:51:39Z

Title: Chapter 7: Black Robes
Rating: PG
Word Count: 3,270
Notes/Warnings: pre-HBP
Summary: Grimmauld Place becomes very busy.

HP and co. are not mine, they’re property of JKR. Doh. Thank you to Dianne for her feedback as well as Allie, who could probably have a blossoming career as medical consultant.

Chapter 7: Black Robes

Hermione stared up at the blurred shadows on the high ceiling and blinked through the tears that were silently slipping down the sides of her face and soaking her pillow. Ron and Ginny were simply wrong. Harry had been her first real friends – she would know if he were dead because the world would feel different … somehow. Emptier.

She had only just received his letter the other day. How could someone who had just sent her a letter just simply not exist only a day later? Hermione brushed the wetness from her face. She told herself that Mr and Mrs Weasley were talking in private and what they said wasn’t necessarily fact. After all, the Order was still searching. They wouldn’t be searching if they knew for certain that nothing could be done, would they?

Her stomach clenched as she suddenly thought of the search for Harry turning into a body retrieval mission. She knew that she wasn’t thinking rationally or logically, but somehow it was easy to lose your sensibility when left alone in the middle of the night with nothing but your own frantic thoughts spiraling out of control.

Hermione had held strong to her sensibility during her hasty journey back to London after receiving Ron’s owl in Bulgaria. She wasn’t exactly sure what the problem was as it was next to impossible to decipher Ron’s normally messy penmanship, let alone something that was obviously scribbled hastily and, by the looks of it, probably in the dark. But judging by the number of exclamation marks and JP references, Harry’s coded initials, it had something to do with his. Hermione knew better than anyone else that news involving Harry was rarely good, especially when it arrived kamikaze-style in the middle of lunch and was delivered by an utterly exhausted Pig.

She had stayed calm and reasonable when she, Ron, and Ginny were all rushed, without explanation, to Grimmauld Place just moments after she had arrived at the Burrow. She had even managed to hold it together when Dumbledore said that Harry had been in a car accident with his family, despite Mrs Weasley’s mighty protests.

However, it was when Ron and Ginny revealed their grave suspicions in the dark attic of Grimmauld Place earlier that evening, that her rational thought began to slowly dissolve like a newspaper left out in the pounding rain. And now she was left with nothing but her own reeling thoughts. Harry … Death Eaters … the Weasleys … the Order … Sirius … the Department of Mysteries … her parents … being Muggle-born…

Hermione was considering slipping down the hall to Ron’s room to see if he was awake when her attention was drawn to the bed on the other side of the room. Ginny was whimpering quietly in her sleep, “Go away...”

“Ginny?” she whispered, propping herself up on her elbow and wiping her face quickly with her other hand.

Just then, there was a loud bang followed by the rumble of low voices that echoed up the stairs. Ginny bolted upright and looked around quickly. Their eyes met for a moment before they both jumped out of their beds and ran for the door, pulling on their dressing gowns as they went. Ginny collided with a very rumpled looking Ron who was already standing in the hallway, and by the dark circles under his eyes, it appeared that he hadn’t been sleeping well either.

They peered around the corner at the top of the grand staircase and saw members of the Order huddled in the front hall below talking in low, frantic voices. Visible among the modest crowd assembling below was Dumbledore’s silver head, Mr and Mrs Weasley’s red hair, and Kingsley’s gleaming crown.

“A call has come.” Dumbledore’s voice carried up the staircase.

“Kingsley and I will go.” It was Lupin. He yanked on his traveling cloak over their night clothes as Kingsley’s head began to migrate quickly toward the door.

“Urmph!” There was the clunking of wood on wood as Moody plowed his way down the narrow hall. “Not without me,” he barked.

Muffled voices rose, and individual words were drown out as everyone in the hall below began talking at once. Hermione strained her ears for any mention of Harry’s name or any definitive information that would explain the situation further.

Then Dumbledore’s voice rose clear and strong above the din, “Molly, alert the rest of the Order that they are to return immediately. The search is over.”

Hermione traded frantic glances with Ron and Ginny. They had found Harry.

It seemed like years had passed, but only an hour later they were still dressed in their nightclothes, waiting anxiously for Kingsley, Lupin, and Moody to bring Harry home. Hermione sat next to Ron on the low bench near the front door. Her palms were sweating. She felt like she did right before she wrote her O.W.L.s, only it was a hundred times worse, and by the way Ron’s freckles were practically jumping off his pale face, he didn’t feel much better. Ginny was pacing back and fourth between the hall and the front room, twirling a strand of her long ginger hair around her finger.

After Ginny had suddenly rushed down the stairs yelling Harry’s name, it was apparent that there was no way that they were going to be able to hide their presence, or the fact that they knew what was going on. But Hermione decided that perhaps this was all for the best; this way the Order couldn’t ignore them anymore. She was ready to make it very clear that under no circumstances were they going to stay upstairs or go back to bed, and by the fierce look in Ginny’s eyes and Ron’s set jaw, they were thinking the along the same lines. However, their demands were met with little resistance as the remaining members of the Order hurried off to the basement kitchen, leaving them to linger helplessly in the front hall with nothing to do but wait.

“I’m sure that he’s fine,” Hermione said to herself more for her own benefit than anyone else’s.

“Yeah, Harry always manages to scrape by,” said Ron, staring at the door as if he could simply will Harry to come striding through it that very instant.

Ginny stopped, stared at them, and then kept pacing. “Did you hear who Dumbledore said found Harry?”

“No,” said Ron. Hermione shook her head slowly.

Ginny frowned and then turned to walk back down the hall yet again.

“It couldn’t have been a member of the Order that we know,” said Hermione suddenly. Ron looked over at her startled and she continued thoughtfully, “Well, they were all out on assignment or else they were here when the call came in, weren’t they?”

Ginny turned slowly and stared at Hermione, her eyes wide, “That’s right. Dumbledore, Lupin, Moody, Kingsley, Cass, Dung, Dad, and Mum were all here; McGonagall’s back at Hogwarts, Tonks is still at the Dursleys, and –”

“I reckon it’s someone new, then,” Ron interrupted. “Everyone knows that Dumbledore’s been recruiting new members.” He surveyed Ginny skeptically, “Wait, how’d you know about McGonagall and Tonks anyway?”

Ginny turned out her pocket to reveal a tangled mass of Extendable Ears. “Mum’s been forgetting to cast Impertuble and Silencing Charms sometimes. I haven’t been able to hear much – they mostly just argue. You should hear William, he just goes on and on…” she moved her hand in a way that Hermione supposed was meant to imitate a talking mouth.

Ron gaped incredulously at Ginny. “Mum forgetting something like that? No way. You know how mad she is about making sure that we don’t know anything. She’s even banned Fred and George from Grimmauld Place just to make sure that they don’t get any funny ideas about joining the Order. Blimey, things must really be –” Ron clamped his mouth shut, suddenly realizing what he was about to say.

Ginny paled. “But do you honestly think that Dumbledore would entrust brand new members to find Harry?” she asked in what Hermione thought was an attempt to steer the conversation away from the unthinkable.

Hermione chewed on her bottom lip. “Ginny’s right. Why would Professor Lupin and Moody be sitting around Gimmauld Place with us if there was a chance of finding Harry?”

Ginny sat on the floor across from Hermione. “Maybe they had no idea where Harry was. Maybe they just found him –”

“– accidentally,” finished Hermione quietly.

Ron leaned forward and stared intently at Ginny. “D’you overhear anything besides Order Assignments?”

Ginny glanced down the hall and lowered her voice, “You know, now that you mention it, they kept talking about hoards falling … whatever that means.”

“Hoards? What’s a hoard?” asked Ron blankly. “And why would we care if it fell down?”

“I don’t know, but Mum was certainly upset about it. Maybe they’re talking in code or something.”

“But why would they talk in code to each other here at Headquarters? I mean, this has got to be one of the safest places to talk about Order business. It doesn’t make any sense,” reasoned Hermione.

“Unless they thought they were being overheard … maybe there’s a spy or something. You know like before with that flea-infested sleaze Pettigrew.” A dark look passed across Ron’s face.

They sat in silence, each mulling over the significance of falling hoards when Ron suddenly bolted upright as if he had been shocked, eyes blazing. “I knew it! Snape – it’s Snape. He’s got to be the spy, being a Death Eater and being all into the Dark Arts –”

Hermione gasped and covered her mouth. “Ron! It’s not hoards – it’s the wards! The wards that protect Harry in the summer – they must’ve fallen.”

Ginny looked perplexed. “What?”

But Hermione continued frantically, “This is terrible! It can only mean that something’s happened to Harry’s family –” she grabbed Ron’s arm and squeezed, “– that they’re dead.”

Ron’s blanched, his eyes locking on Hermione’s. He opened his mouth to say something, but Mrs Weasley came charging up the stairs from the kitchen.

“Upstairs now. All of you.” Her face was stony and her hair disheveled. She moved with an air of urgency.

“Mum! We always have to –” Ginny protested.

“Ginny, I don’t want to hear it! Ronald!” she glared at him as he opened his mouth.

Hermione reasoned that if they were quick, they might be able set up the Extendable Ears. She grabbed Ron’s arm and gave him a significant look. Ron looked at her quizzically and then suddenly catching on, quickly snapped his mouth shut.

Mrs Weasley looked to be at the end of her rope and her voice jumped up an octave, “THAT’S ENOUGH! Another word and it’ll be back to the Burrow for all of you where the twins can watch you!”

Ginny paled, and her eyes grew round.

Without hesitation, the three of them trundled up the stairs and into the room where she and Ginny were staying. After a few minutes of silently staring at each other and listening for the tell-tale sounds of Mrs Weasley holding vigil outside the door, they quietly tiptoed down the hallway and hid in the cupboard at the head of the stairs that had a clear view of the front door and hall.

Ginny was untangling the Extendable Ears when the front door banged open. Hermione hastily pressed her face against a crack in the cupboard door as Ron and Ginny jockeyed for a position. Ron’s breaths whispered past her cheek and Ginny’s hair brushed against her left ear as all three of them peered anxiously down at the scene unfolding downstairs.

Through the dirty yellow light that half illuminated the narrow hall, Moody and Lupin were levitating furniture to make room for Kingsley, who was hauling something wrapped in black robes through the front door. Mrs Weasley hastily motioned them towards the stairs, her countenance pinched as if she were holding back a great amount of emotion. Her usually ruddy face was pale. Nobody was speaking. Kingsley rushed up the stairs and turned, dashing down the hall with his load, sending a bust of cool air through the crack in the cupboard door. Dust flew wildly and Ron quickly clamped both hands over his mouth and sneezed loudly. She felt Ginny reach behind her and slap Ron with the back of her hand.

The door at the end of the hall swung open to reveal Madame Pomfrey and Professor Dumbledore waiting with grim faces. Madame Pomfrey hurried forward to usher Kingsley into the room. Hermione gasped and she felt Ron stiffen as she caught a glimpse of dark hair and a limp arm dangling from the bundle of black robes as Kingsley silently disappeared behind the door in a swirl of dark cloth.

~*oOo*~
“Only for a moment,” Madame Pomfrey said sternly as she hastily glanced over her shoulder. Hermione, Ron, and Ginny were silently rushing down the hall at her heels, hardly believing that they heard correctly and not daring to utter a word out of fear that she would suddenly change her mind. After an entire morning and afternoon of pleading, Madame Pomfrey had finally conceded to let them see Harry. “This is only because of Professor Dumbledore, if it were up to me this nonsense wouldn’t be happening,” she had said.

They entered the room. Hermione glanced around, blinking rapidly as her eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness. A small lamp on the bureau by the heavily-curtained window cast a somber glow over the entire room. Mrs Weasley looked up from a long table near the door that was groaning under the weight of numerous oobottles of colored potions and salves which glinted in the dim light. She looked very tired and, for the first time, Hermione noticed the lines of deep worry crossing face and the dark circles under her usually bright eyes.

“Poppy, the children! What in the name –?”

Hermione was only vaguely aware of the frantic hissing and whispering that was going on behind her as her eyes fell on the dark-haired figure lying in the bed in the far corner of the room. She hurried forward anxiously, but halted abruptly at the foot of the bed. She’d expected Harry to be sitting up with his usual grin, or at least ready to greet them with some smart remark as was customary. She had thought, at worst, he’d be sleeping, but she had certainly not anticipated this. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the still face that only vaguely resembled her best friend.

Harry’s breath was shallow and uneven. He was very pale, almost bloodless, his scar and dark hair contrasted starkly with his pallid skin. There was a very large gash with large purple bruises on the right side of his face and neck and a small round burn on this temple. By the look of the skin visible beyond the edges of the bandages that covered the entire right side of his torso, he was badly bruised and lacerated. Hermione knew that he always lost weight in the summer, but she couldn’t remember him ever looking quite so gaunt before. Then there was his right arm. It was bandaged to a stiff board. Visible beyond the cast, a series of wires protruded through his skin from the middle of his forearm to his shoulder. She shuddered involuntarily.

Madame Pomfrey hurried forward and pulled the bed sheets up over Harry’s chest and tucked them in gently along his sides, glancing worriedly at Mrs Weasley. She shook her head.

Hermione moved slowly around the bed and touched his hand. It was cool. “Harry?” she whispered. She searched his face for any sign of recognition, a fluttering of an eyelid, a sigh, a slight tilt of the head. But there was nothing.

“I’m sorry dears, but Harry can’t hear you,” Mrs Weasley said as she walked towards them. “Poppy has given him … well, it’s an accelerated healing potion. He won’t wake for days. It’s for the best.”

Ron remained at the foot of the bed, staring silently at Harry as if he had been stunned. Only his eyes reflecting light from behind the shadow his shaggy hair cast over his face were visible. Hermione wondered if the same desperate thoughts were running through his head. Ginny was holding Mrs Weasley’s hand, her eyes were tightly closed. Two wet tracks glinted down her cheeks.

“Is he … is he going to be all right?” Hermione’s voice sounded strangled and strange as she tried to repress the panic that suddenly flooded her stomach. Madame Pomfrey and Mrs Weasley exchanged glances, and Hermione knew that the situation was more serious then she had ever imagined.

~*oOo*~
“What did those bloody Muggles do?” asked Ron later that evening when he seemed to have finally found his voice. He and Hermione were sitting in the cavernous basement kitchen where a fire smoldered in large fireplace, casting long shadows throughout the room. For the last hour he had vacillated between utter silence and fits of angry questions that she couldn’t answer. Ron folded his arms across his chest and began to kick the chair opposite him. “What’s that thing on his arm and why does he have all those wires sticking out of his skin like that?”

Relieved to finally have an answer and not wanting to snap at him for the annoying thudding sounds as he swung his foot into the chair over and over again, Hermione said, “It’s called a ‘back slab’, a type of plaster cast that is bandaged on as a temporary way of immobilizing parts of the body after they’ve been operated on. Those wires hold the bones together so that they mend properly aligned. If he’d been left a few more days, he’d have had white plaster over his entire arm, almost.”

“Oh,” Ron fell quiet. The thudding stopped. He leaned forward with his elbows on the table with his head in his hands.

Hermione stared down at her Transfiguration essay and fought back tears. In the last hour she had only managed to write her name at the top of her parchment. Harry’s arm had been shattered and he had four broken ribs. Madame Pomfrey wasn’t sure what sort of internal injuries he had, but there had been an operation of some sort. Because he had been in Muggle care for those two critical days and already been subjected to Muggle treatment and drugs, magical remedies may not be able to completely heal him. She had also overheard Madame Pomfrey whisper something about Dark Magic to Mrs Weasley as they were herded out the room, and she knew that there was much more to this situation besides a simple car accident.

Ron suddenly slammed his fist into the table, causing her almost-empty ink bottle to topple over, “Those bloody effing Muggles! If they weren’t already dead, I’d –”

“Ron!” Hermione gasped.

“He’ll be all right.” Ginny stood in the doorway. Her small frame was outlined against the light streaming from the hall. “I just know.”

It was as if Ron lost what little self-control he had. He got to his feet and abruptly left the room, brushing past Ginny who continued to stand there, leaning heavily against the doorframe.

Hermione watched numbly as ink spread slowly across her parchment and began to consume her carefully written name. She lay her head down on her hands and closed her eyes, hoping more than anything that Ginny was right.

~*oOo*~

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Consequence and Redemption (Chapter 6: Stolen)

2007-04-05T00:44:24Z

Title: Chapter 6: Stolen
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,865
Notes/Warnings: pre-HBP, mild violence
Summary: Harry's attempt to contact his friends is thwarted. It is not without consequence.

Thank you to Dianne and Allie for their invaluable help with this story. HP and co. aren't my brainchildren. I just pretend they are.

Chapter 6: Stolen
Harry leaned back into his pillow and closed his eyes, willing himself to concentrate. Whatever pain medication they kept giving him made him slow and lethargic, and he desperately needed to think clearly. Even with his eyes closed, he could feel the world wavering erratically around him.

Okay, so Uncle Vernon said that someone’s trying to kill me.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Harry muttered under his breath. From the little that he remembered from his visit with Uncle Vernon, it was clear that the Dursleys had been talking with the wizarding world. He inhaled slowly and winced at the pain. Clearly, the wards were no longer in place now that Aunt Petunia and Dudley were … gone. And that meant that he was no longer safe from Voldemort in the Muggle world.

Harry’s mind turned toward the Order. Surely, they would know what had happened. But they hadn’t come yet. Harry’s heart began to thunder in his chest as he thought about the Weasleys, Lupin, Tonks, and the rest of the Order being in danger because of him. This is NOT going to happen again! I need to get out of here – I need my wand! The adrenaline began to rush through Harry’s body as he broke out into a cold sweat. He pounded on the nurse’s call button, and moments later a blurry blue and white clad figure was standing at the foot of his bed.

“Excuse me, but I was wondering if there was anything else with my things that I came in with. You know, like my wa – wallet,” he tried to make his voice sound calm.

“Dear, no. Everything of yours was beyond repair. Not to worry, once you’re ready to leave next week your uncle will get you some new clothes.”

Harry swore under his breath. The nurse jumped.

She walked quickly to one of the beeping machines they had him hooked up to with suction cups and surveyed him with concern. “How do you feel?”

“Fine.”

He knew his chances of getting out of here and contacting the Order was slim because without a wand, he had no way of summoning the Knight Bus. He didn’t know how to Apparate. There wasn’t a Floo handy. He didn’t have a Portkey, or any gold for that matter. Harry clenched his left hand as a burning sensation began to build in his chest. An annoying high-pitched beeping sound issued from the machine. He was barely aware that the nurse was holding something in front of his face and saying something. Harry looked up, agitated.

“Harry,” she said firmly. “You need to take these.” She held out two small white pills and a small paper cup filled with water.

Mind numbing and incapacitating drugs was the last thing that he wanted considering that he didn’t have his wand or any visible way of protecting himself, he could barely stand – let alone run, there were no longer any Wards to protect him from magic, something had happened to the Order, and Voldemort was probably marching down the hall this very moment. He couldn’t even be sure if Death Eaters weren’t already here. For all he knew, they could be disguised as hospital staff – maybe some of them were Metamorphmagi. Maybe the nurses on this very floor were disguised Death Eaters just waiting for the right moment to finish him off.

“I don’t need them.”

“Yes, you do,” the nurse said, pressing the pills toward him.

“I feel fine,” Harry said through clenched teeth. “The pain is … fine.” But the pain wasn’t fine; he felt like his chest was going to explode. Small puffs of smoke began rising from the incessantly beeping machine.

“They’re not for pain.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice, “I know this must be very hard for you … your aunt’s and cousin’s death. These will help.”

So they thought that he was upset because Aunt Petunia and Dudley had just died. Harry knew that arguing with the nurse was going to get him nowhere; he needed to stay calm. He reached out and took the pills with his left hand.

“Very good. Now you’ll feel better,” said the nurse after Harry had swallowed the cupful of water. She glanced at the machine worriedly and then tapped on it with her finger. “Strange…”

Harry half closed his eyes and pretended to relax as she removed the suction cups from his chest, unplugged the machine, and wheeled it out of the room. She glanced over her shoulder before disappearing into the hallway. Harry turned away from the door, spat out the pills which had left a disgusting, bitter taste in his mouth and placed them under his pillow. It was time to leave.

Harry reached up slowly and pulled the chain that switched off the small florescent light that hung over his bed. The room was drenched in darkness. A buttery yellow light creeping in from the hallway was the only illumination.

Harry looked up at the half-empty bag on the pole that was attached to his arm. If he was going to go anywhere he would have to get rid of it, but with a non-functional right arm it was going to be difficult. He tore off the tape that held the needle in place with his teeth and then wound his left arm around the metal railings on his bed, wedging the plastic cord between the cold metal and his left knee. He yanked his left arm away, stifling a yell. He clung to the edge of his bed and willed himself to breathe. OK, just move slow.

Moving too fast was going to make him pass out, and that definitely wouldn’t be good. He protectively covered his right arm with his left and slid slowly out of bed, gasping as his feet touched the cold floor. Harry clutched the railing along his bed and then reached for the wall. The room wavered slightly, but he remained on his feet even though he was hunched over because of the blinding pain in his right side. Harry shuffled along the wall to the door and peered into the hallway cautiously. The hall was long and narrow and a large circular desk cluttered with paper and files sat about ten meters from his room. Voices were coming from the room across the hall.

“No, Mr Densen, there aren’t any lobsters in your bed,” said a tired voice. It was his nurse.

“It’s a sponge. Yes, you want a nice sponge bath don’t you?” said another voice.

Harry heard incoherent mumbling and then a shriek.

“He bit me!”

“Janice, get the –”

Something heavy and metal crashed to the floor and was followed by a multitude of loud voices.

Harry crept down the hall, leaning heavily against the wall for support, and hoping that he won’t be noticed. His eyes darted up and down the corridor as he gripped his side and slowly crossed the hall to the desk, cringing with the effort of walking unsupported. He picked up the phone and dialed the operator, “Connect me to the home phone of Granger … uh –” What were Hermione’s parents’ names? Harry silently cursed himself for not paying more attention to Hermione’s Muggle life. “– Hermione,” he finished.

There was a pause that seemed to last forever and then operator’s nasal voice intoned, “There is no listing under that name –”

The phone was suddenly yanked out of Harry’s hand.

“Harry, what are you doing out of bed?” It was his nurse. She was tapping the receiver against her palm.

“I ahhh … was calling my … errrr…” Maybe he should just pretend that he didn’t know what he was doing.

“Where’s your IV?”

Brilliant, there goes the imbecile act. “I don’t need it anymore,” he said quickly.

The nurse raised her eyebrows at him. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

She began to walk towards him around the desk when, out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw her nod to another nurse, Janice probably, who picked up the phone and said quietly, “Page doctor Payne and get security on the line –”

He wasn’t about to let them give him any more medication. He reached blindly for something to defend himself with. His fingers closed around the first thing within his reach and he wielded it weakly in front of him. “I don’t need any more drugs!” he warned as he leaned desperately against the desk. Harry glanced at his left hand and did a double take. A PEN?! Harry swore he’d never let his want out of his sight again.

Two other nurses seemed to materialize out of thin air, grabbed him, and easily wrestled the pen out of his hand.

“GET OFF ME!”

Harry tried to struggle, but every movement caused him to want to vomit. Bolts of pain from his side and arm were shooting through his body. There was a sharp poke in his thigh. He staggered. Something was burning through him. Darkness was converging. His field of vision began to shrink until it was just a tiny pin-prick of light. Voices swarmed thickly around him.

“Did you see? He just ripped out his IV!”

“Attends St. Brutus’, that one.”

“I knew he was violent and mentally unstable. Janice, you wouldn’t believe the things he was saying in his sleep!”

“Of course, didn’t you hear what his uncle was yelling?”

–x/X\x–
Harry blinked opened his eyes and squinted. It was very dark. Only a small square of light that squatted on the side of his bed cut through the heavy blackness. It was coming from somewhere behind him. He turned his head and groaned – it felt like he’d been slammed in the head repeatedly by a gigantic Bludger. Harry tried to lift his arm to his face but it refused to move. He glanced down blearily and saw that his feet and left arm were firmly attached to the bed by thick padded straps. His eyes widened in alarm and then darted frantically throughout the room. The room was small, no larger than his bedroom at the Dursleys, there were no windows or doors that he could see, and the only object in the room was the bed. They think I’m a violent mental case! Harry snorted in disbelief.

He looked down. The large bandage around his middle had been changed, and it was now soaked with what was probably blood. He figured that he’d probably pulled his stitches during the phone incident. Now how am I going to get out of here? Harry began to pull weakly on the restraint that held his left arm.

Just then the door opened and a pair footfalls clicked across the floor. Harry squinted and lifted his head. He didn’t like the fact that he couldn’t see anything, or that these people were approaching him from behind. Two figures emerged around the sides of his bed, one on each side. One figure was tall, the other person walked with a limp.

“Hello, Mr Potter.” It was a man’s voice.

“You don’t understand, I don’t belong here –” Harry began hurriedly.

The man laughed. “In your case, however, you are quite correct. You certainly don’t belong here.”

“I need to get out of –” Harry stopped. He felt his stomach lurch as the shorter person leaned over him, causing their features coming into focus. It was the woman who had been following him at the Dursleys’, the one he’d mistaken for Tonks! His eyes jumped between the two faces looming over him and he knew it was them – the ones that Uncle Vernon and Dudley had been ranting about – the ones that wanted to kill him. But before he could recover from the shock, the woman unsheathed her wand from the depths of her jacket and pointed it at Harry’s chest.

“Silenco!”

Harry yelled, but nothing came out. He struggled against the restraints, ignoring the pain.

“Wouldn’t Dumbledore like to know where his golden boy is?” the man chuckled. He pulled out a small transparent cube no larger than a snitch from his back pocket and held it in his palm before Harry. “This will only take a moment, Mr Potter, if you please,” he spoke politely as if apologizing in advance for the inconvenience he was about to cause.

Harry tried to jerk away as the woman with strange, cloudy eyes placed a thin, spidery hand on his head. The cube began to glow icy blue. She pressed her wand to his temple and spoke in low tones, “Not to worry, we’ll take care of everything. You won’t remember anything we don’t want you to remember.”

Harry felt the familiar sensation of someone forcefully penetrating his thoughts and squeezed his eyes shut, pouring everything he had into Occluding his mind. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he strained to fight back the pain in his arm and side.

A terrible pressure pushed against Harry’s skull as he fought with all his might to expel her from his mind – it was as if there was a balloon expanding uncontrollably in his brain. Small lights began to flicker behind his eyelids. A strange, low chanting reverberated through his head. Harry lost all sense of time as he desperately tried to concentrate on repelling the presence crushing his thoughts. As the chanting intensified, Harry began to feel numb from the inside out. It was like someone had injected those horrible Muggle drugs directly into his brain. Then there was loud pop and a swirling sensation overtook him as she finally broke through his defense. She flipped through his mind like a dealer would shuffle cards. Harry lost all sense of where he was as memories flickered behind his eyelids…

Ron, Hermione, and him hiding in Filtch’s broom closet under his Invisibility Cloak, hands clasped over their mouths, shaking with silent laughter … Oliver Wood yelling up at him, through cupped hands, from the middle of the Quidditch pitch … Neville blowing up his cauldron during Snape’s potion class, sending purple slime hurling through the air directly at Malfoy … Him practicing the Patronus Charm with Lupin in his classroom…

Suddenly the flipping stopped and was replaced by sucking sensation. Harry opened his eyes and watched, eyes wide, as the thin strand of silver that clung to the end of the woman’s wand was deposited into the cube. Harry’s mouth widened into a silent scream. A distorted image of himself and Lupin was being projected onto the sides of the cube from its interior. They were stealing his memories.

She raised her wand to his temple again. Harry struggled weakly. He was breathing heavily. His head was throbbing. His heart felt like it was going to erupt from his chest.

NO!

Harry concentrated on Occulding his mind once more as she began to invade him again. As the chanting began to pound through his head, a strange pressure began to build in his chest and his throat began to constrict. Harry felt her pause and the pressure subsided. He refocused all his energy. He had no idea what he was doing but at least it was something. Images began to flash through his mind, but there was no explosion or swirling like before.

Him washing Uncle Vernon’s company car and Dudley spraying him relentlessly with the hosepipe … Snape glaring at down at him during an Occulmency lesson…

Then there was a powerful swirling sensation in the top of his head. He was suddenly outside of his body and standing in the corner of the room. Harry stared at the figure that looked to be him on the bed and then glanced down at himself, his pulse racing. He was standing there as if everything was fine – there wasn’t any pain, there was no cast, no bandages. But how can I be here when I’m still on the bed!? he thought desperately.

He watched himself bound and writhing. The witch’s grey eyes, wide and unblinking, were locked on his face, her wand pressed to his temple. There was a terrible burning smell. The tall wizard was holding the glowing cube in his palm and looking away, his face pinched in disgust. Fierce anger surged through Harry and his chest began to burn. It was as though a hot white ball of fire had ignited and it began to spread to his arms and legs. The room swayed crazily and dissolved into a blur of dark color and shadow.

And then he was back lying on the bed.

“NO!” Harry’s voice tore through the dark room. A throbbing pain gripped his chest as a surge of white-hot energy tore through his right arm. He screamed. The witch and wizard were thrown across the room where they collided against the wall as if a giant, invisible hand slapped them.

Harry felt the padded restraints fall away as a wave of intense coldness overtook him. He shivered. He was unaware of someone slipping silently into the room as he slumped sideways and fell off the bed and onto the sterile linoleum floor.

–x/X\x–

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Consequence and Redemption (Chapter 5: Them)

2007-04-05T00:30:20Z

Title: Chapter 5: Them
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,592
Notes/Warnings: pre-HBP
Summary: Harry learns about his family. The Others read the newspaper.

The same drill: HP and co. are not mine, they’re property of JKR. I just kidnap them.

Chapter 5: Them

“It seems that we don’t have any medical records for you, Harry,” the same voice from before said. “What school do you go to? Maybe we’ll be able to find something on file there.”

Harry’s head was throbbing painfully and he was acutely aware that he was not dreaming. He tried desperately to draw anything into focus.

“Dear, I’m sorry, but your glasses were in such a state. We’ll find you a new pair as soon as you are up and around. Now, your school.”

Harry knew he was in a Muggle hospital and any mention of Hogwarts was not going to be taken seriously. “St. Brutus’,” he croaked. He thought he saw the nurse jump back slightly.

“Um, well then. Right. That’ll be … useful.”

Harry didn’t care if the nurse thought he was an incurable violent raving lunatic or not. He just wanted to figure out what had happened and then get back to Hogwarts or the Burrow. He was lying flat on his back and couldn’t see the rest of his body. He shifted his arm and was greeted by a sharp pain that emptied the breath from his lungs.

The nurse tutted at him, “No, no, no, now it’s a little soon to be doing any of that.” She moved over him and began to fidget with something along the side of the bed. “You have a shattered arm and some broken ribs. You also have a concussion. Lucky, you are, that’s all you got away with.”

The top of the bed began to rise slowly and Harry felt like he was part of some involuntary science experiment. Through blurred vision, he surveyed the damage for the first time. His entire right arm was wrapped in gauze bandages and attached securely to a board that held his arm in place and there was a large padded bandage planted around his middle and right side. There was some weird pole on wheels with a fat bag of clear fluid attached to it which fed directly into his left arm. But as far as he could tell, his legs were fine and he still had all of his extremities. He wiggled his toes and exhaled slowly in relief.

“There was some internal bleeding, dear, but it’s all been taken care of. There’s nothing to worry about as long as you stay put. No running any marathons for you,” she chuckled.

Harry didn’t find the situation remotely amusing. “The car accident…” he cleared his throat, his voice was very hoarse, “my aunt and uncle…”

The nurse suddenly stopped as she bent over him, her face coming into focus. She wore a sympathetic expression and spoke in a hushed and concerned voice. “I’m so sorry, dear, your cousin didn’t survive, but there was no pain.” She placed a hand on his leg and patted in what Harry thought was supposed to be a comforting way and continued, “Your uncle is in such a state right now otherwise I’m sure he would want to be the one to tell you … your aunt passed about an hour ago. I’m so sorry.”

Harry felt like the world had suddenly stopped. Aunt Petunia and Dudley dead? He sat very still and stared straight ahead. He was barely aware of the nurse moving around him and calling, “Janice, page the chaplain to room 7, Udell Uden ward…”

He never would have guessed that after all these years of living with them, enduring their abuse and begrudging attitudes, that they would suddenly just simply be gone. Harry always assumed that Aunt Petunia would be there, gnashing her teeth at him and Dudley would continue to antagonize him relentlessly and use him as his personal punching bag. After all these years of wishing vehemently for them to be out of his life, now they finally were and somehow it was difficult to hate them. He never guessed that he’d feel so … hollow. Was it Guilt? Sadness? Relief? A deep shame at wishing them gone began to spread through him.

Harry swallowed with difficulty and said, “I’d like to see my uncle.”

Harry didn’t attempt to suppress his alarm when he was wheeled slowly into his uncle’s private hospital room. Uncle Vernon was lying in bed surrounded by a number of pillows. His legs – which both looked to be broken – were propped up by an elaborate assemblage of pulleys and pads. A large bandage was covering the side of his face and there was a large neck brace that was barely visible under the thick folds of skin that was his neck. Vernon’s grey hair hung limp around his pale fleshy face and he was staring vacantly at the ceiling. This was not the Uncle Vernon that he knew. Harry felt a pang of sadness, or was it pity? Nobody, even Uncle Vernon, should have to go through losing their family, Harry thought.

The nurse leaned down engaged the breaks on his wheelchair and whispered, “Dear, don’t worry if your uncle seems a bit off, it’s just the pain killers and the grief.”

Harry nodded and the nurse left.

“Uncle Vernon?” Harry said quietly as he leaned closer, squinting and trying to bring his uncle’s face into focus.

Vernon remained very still, only his eyes moved slowly until they came to rest on Harry.

“I’m sor–”

“YOU!” Vernon’s eyes rolled wildly and his arm swung desperately through the air.

Harry sat back as quickly as his body would allow and winced with the effort. This is sedated?

“YOU did this!”

Harry began to search frantically for the nurse’s call button. This was not a good idea, drugs or no drugs. Why did he think that things would be different?

“First it was those Dementroid thingys and now this! They said you’d kill us and now look what you’ve done!”

Harry froze.

“They said that they could free us … if we removed those disgusting spells they would get rid of you … but look! You’re still here! Get away from me, BOY! GET AWAY!” Uncle Vernon began to scream and thrash wildly in his bed. The pulleys that supported his legs began to creak and groan threateningly. “HE’S GOING TO KILL ME! KILLER! KILLER!” Uncle Vernon was shrieking and frothing at the mouth like a beet-red rabid hippopotamus as he grabbed desperately for Harry who was gripping the arm of his wheelchair, eyes wide as his mind struggled to process his Uncle’s words.

The supports that held Uncle Vernon legs came crashing down and Uncle Vernon’s legs fell heavily onto the bed. He bellowed in agony as his eyes rolled back in his head, “AHHHHHHH! YOU DISGUSTING LITTLE … THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT!”

Harry began to feel light-headed and the room was wavering in front of him as Uncle Vernon’s panicked screams bounced through his head. He felt himself being whisked out of the room as a number of figures in white rushed past him. A cold breeze blew against his face as he was wheeled quickly down the hall. Harry pressed a hand to his forehead – his head was killing him. Then he retched; he was going to be sick.

~*oOo*~
A man and a woman, sat side-by-side in a crowded coffee shop. Two large mugs of black coffee and a newspaper occupied the round table in front of them. Everything about the man screamed anxiety – his lean and unlined face held worry. Even his posture was one of suppressed energy and emotion, his long limbs were stuffed uncomfortably into the small chair. The woman, on the other hand, appeared oblivious to her tablemate’s discomfort. Her cloudy grey eyes were fixed resolutely on the paper as she slid a lock of her blue-grey hair through her fingers.

The man sat back abruptly and scanned the room, his eyes sweeping and darting through the shop as he held his head perfectly still. Then he bent forward toward the woman on the pretense of scratching his leg under the table. “We’re clear,” he muttered.

The woman smoothed out a crease in the newspaper and then pulled it toward her. She whispered, “Silens Incantare,” and tapped a small picture on page in front of her with the tip of her wand which was poking out of her sleeve inconspicuously. The picture moved to reveal a dark figure. She knew that communicating like this was always risky, but under the circumstances it was very necessary. Besides, if a Muggle saw them, it would appear that she was simply moving her lips while reading the daily newspaper.

“We found him,” her lips moved noiselessly.

“Where?”

“A Muggle hospital.”

“Alive?”

“Confirmed,” she mouthed.

“And the wards?”

“They’re no longer a problem.”

“Excellent. Proceed as planned.”

The woman brought her hand concealing her wand to the picture and stopped when the voice said coolly, “Only I want him to be awake when you do it. I want him to feel it, to fear it.”

The woman calmly closed the newspaper and nodded to the man. They pushed back out of their chairs. The bell above the door jangled loudly as they exited, but nobody seemed to take notice that their coffee mugs sat steaming and untouched on the table.

–x/X\x–

NOTE: The name of the hospital ward, Udell Uden, literally means “Grove of trees and dweller in the yew valley”. I thought that appropriate considering the Yew tree is a symbol of death and rebirth and was often planted in graveyards. It also is Voldemort’s wand wood.

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Consequence and Redemption (Chapter 4: Searching)

2007-04-05T00:21:43Z

Title: Chapter 4: Searching
Rating: PG
Word Count: 3,008
Notes/Warnings: pre-HBP
Summary: Ginny does what she does best. Lupin, Moody, and Arthur ride brooms and play with Muggles.

This is the updated and double beta-ed version of this chapter. HP and co. are not mine, they’re property of JKR. This story is for personal entertainment.

Chapter 4: Searching

Ron jammed his foot into the leg of the table.

Thunk.

HOW THICK AM I?

Thunk.

Harry was the emergency! He had sent Pig off immediately to Hermione, hoping that his letter would reach her soon and that she would be able to read and decode his cryptic message. Ron noted with some satisfaction that all those hours she’d spent proof-reading his Potions, Transfiguration, Astronomy, Care-of-Magical Creatures, History of Magic, and Defense of the Dark Arts essays would likely pay off.

True to his word to Hermione, Ron didn’t mention their secret conversations and how he knew that Harry was missing. His parents were truly pre-occupied – his mum didn’t blink twice when he had burst into the house yelling about Harry being in some sort of trouble. Her reaction, in and of itself, was enough to cause Ron to shiver. It was like she expected him to find out.

Ginny sat across from him with a plate of cold food perched in front of her, her eggs wobbling with every kick he gave the table. “What do you think happened to Harry?” she asked, her brown eyes following the path her fork traced on her plate as she pushed her food around. Ginny had been uncharacteristically quiet all morning and hadn’t even said a word when he had nicked the last piece of bacon from her plate.

“I dunno.” He felt sick. It was as if his stomach was slowly trying to eat itself.

Ron felt his mum’s hand on his shoulder, “Ron, dear, you need to get some sleep. You’ve been up all night.”

“Mum, what’s going on?” asked Ginny doggedly.

“The Order will find Harry. Ginny, finish your food.” Mrs Weasley turned toward the sink, dodging the question yet again. The tone of her voice indicated that this was a closed discussion. Ron glanced at Ginny who dropped her fork on her plate with a loud clatter.

“You don’t know what it’s like sitting here and knowing that something is happening and not being able to do anything!” Ginny said hotly under her breath. She stabbed at a lump of egg viciously.

Ron stared out the window and watched three garden gnomes struggling to heave an old boot over the garden wall. He knew exactly how she felt. If Harry was at the Dursleys or somewhere they knew for that matter, he’d just find a way to go fetch him like he, Fred, and George did three summers ago. But it seems like nobody knew where Harry was and now he didn’t know what to do. Ron bit the inside of his mouth and dug his toes into the bottoms of his trainers.

Where’s Hermione? he thought desperately. She’d know what to do.

~*oOo*~
Ginny lobbed a pair of Fred’s old socks through the air. They bounced off the wooden door with a quiet thud and then rolled away, coming to rest at the top of the stairs. She reached into the back pocket of her shorts and began to deftly untangle the twisted mass of string, her hands working automatically as her mind wandered…

She was sick and tired of always being the last one to know anything. Her brothers were older and bigger than her and were always trying to keep her out of the loop. Well, this year was going to be different! Last year she had finally been able to help Ron, Harry, and Hermione – she wasn’t about to be cast aside yet again. Besides, Harry is in trouble and I’m not going to sit around and wait for someone to tell me what to do.

Ron seemed to be content to just stare off into space like he had swallowed hermflapple juice, and her mum was busy cleaning everything in the house, although Ginny knew she only did that out of nerves. The only other time that the attic had been de-ghosted was last year when Percy decided that he was going to turn into an gigantic idiot to the fourth degree. And Dad, well, he was always at work or doing something for the Order that he couldn’t talk about, which, for all she knew, could very well consist of just sitting around Grimmauld Place with Professor Lupin. Ginny loved her family, but their lack of decisive action was enough to drive her out of her skin.

Ginny couldn’t wait until this year’s career training consultation; she already knew what she was going to be – an Auror. She had been practicing Disarming and Shielding Spells last year with Neville outside of DA meetings and was determined to be the best Auror the Ministry had ever seen. Well, maybe not the BEST, but she was definitely going to be up there. After all, she wasn’t going to always be the youngest Weasley or Charlie’s, Bill’s, Percy’s, Fred’s, George’s, or Ron’s little sister. No sir, she was going to be just Ginny Weasley. But in the meantime, she was determined to do anything to ensure that she wouldn’t be overlooked … again.

Ginny loosened the last knot and crept around the corner trailing two pieces of flesh-colored string to where Ron was crouching. “It’s a go, there’s no Impertuble Charm,” she said, jerking her head toward the door to their parents’ bedroom.

Ron nodded and hastily stuffed the end of one of Fred and George’s Extendable Ears into his ear as she did the same. Even though Ron was sometimes annoyingly overprotective, at least he recognized a brilliant opportunity to get some much-deserved information.

“They have a right to know. They’re Harry’s friends.”

Ginny jumped. Even though she had used Fred and George’s Extendable Ears multiple times, she was always startled by their effectiveness. She glanced over her shoulder just to make sure nobody was there as her mum’s agitated voice buzzed through the Extendable Ear.

“Arthur, don’t do this. You know what could happen and I will NOT have it!”

“Ron’s old enough to start making his own decisions. You know that he will eventually find out, the way those three – “

“We don’t know anything for sure. The children don’t need to be burdened any further – they need to have a childhood! I will NOT let You-Know-Who invade this house more than he already has!”

Ginny elbowed Ron sharply at the mention of You-Know-Who.

“Molly, it may be safer for them if they knew the truth.” Ginny heard the urgency in her Dad’s voice. He wasn’t going to back down on this one; this was going to be a quite a row.

“It is not up to us to tell them the truth! You know what Dumbledore said, it’s up to Harry to tell them, when he’s ready –”

“Yes dear, but Harry was just a sixteen year old boy. He didn’t –”

“What did you just say?” Ginny heard the unmistakable alarm in her mum’s voice.

Ginny froze and she heard Ron suck in his breath. Dad didn’t just say…

“We found it, Molly,” Ginny pressed the Extendable Ear flat to her head and scooted closer to the door. “The car … it was completely destroyed. I don’t know how anyone could –” her Dad’s voice break, “– could have survived.”

There was a gasp and then a choking sound.

“Dumbledore is checking the strength of the wards; they would confirm any … losses. Cass and Lupin are –”

Ginny slowly removed her Extendable Ear. She looked disbelievingly up at Ron who promptly flung his Extendable Ear across the hall and marched down the stairs. The kitchen door rattled angrily as it was yanked out its doorframe and then banged loudly as it slammed shut. She knew that he was running out to the paddock to try to talk to Hermione again. Ginny sat frozen, staring at her parent’s door, unshed tears glistening in her wide eyes.

No, not Harry…

–x/X\x–
Remus Lupin shifted his weight from foot-to-foot in the brightly lit Atrium of the Ministry of Magic. Witches and wizards were bustling past and quiet busts echoed behind him as people Flooed in and out of the Ministry Atrium. Cass Casely stood in front of him quietly talking with the Watch-Wizard on duty. “A small favor, Eric, that’s all I’m asking…”

His clasped his hands behind his back and tried to look slightly bored so as not to appear conspicuous. However, inside he was anything but. Remus silently urged the security wizard to cooperate.

Dumbledore felt that alerting the Ministry to Harry’s disappearance was unwarranted, especially because the identity of the other wizards who had been conversing with the Dursleys was unknown and the panic that would surely ensue if Harry’s disappearance became public knowledge would be disastrous for the Ministry. And panic and mayhem is exactly what Voldemort wants, thought Remus darkly.

The Order members who could be spared were working desperately to find Harry. Cass had Shacklebolt pull Tonks from her Auror assignment – as she was the only one appropriate, being a Metamorphmagus – to search around Marjorie Dursley’s house for signs of Harry or the other Dursleys. Arabella Figg was keeping watch over the Dursley’s residence, William had returned to the Ministry to keep an eye out for any unusual activity, Arthur was hopefully back at Headquarters with Dumbledore and Minerva by now, and Moody was, as usual, a step ahead of everyone else.

Earlier that day, he, Arthur, and Moody had located the address listed on the parchment found at the Dursleys. It was an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of London and, according to Moody, it was an old Apparition Safe Point used by Ministry Aurors. It had clearly not been used for decades as it had fallen into disrepair, and there were no traces of wizards, witches, Muggles, Dursleys, or Harry.

Cass had suggested tracking the most logical routes between the Dursleys, the warehouse, and Marjorie Dursley’s house; Remus appreciated her cool logic and preferred her systematic approach to problem solving over Dumbledore’s somewhat frustrating round-about and involved methods.

They were flying Disillusioned along the route from Privet Drive to the home of Harry’s aunt when they saw it: a blackened mass of twisted metal sitting along the side of the road. Clearly, two cars had been involved in a head-on collision, one of which was badly burned. There were strangely dressed Muggles everywhere, taking pictures and collecting pieces and scraps of metal in plastic bags. Yellow and white lines were drawn along the ground and encircled seemingly random pieces of wreckage.

They were hovering directly above the scene and he and Arthur had been discussing how best to distract the Muggles when Moody saw it, a small piece of wood lying in the gravel along the side of the road – a wand.

~*Flashback*~
“Is it Harry’s?”

“There’s no way to tell. It’ll have to be scanned,” said Remus solemnly. Arthur only looked at him worriedly as the two men stood side-by-side on the road, brooms in hand.

Moody ambled past them, his wooden leg crunching loudly on the gravel. “Muggles have been taken care of … got twenty minutes ‘til it wears off.” He waved his wand in the general direction of a huddled group of men and women staring blankly around them. One of them let out a loud quack and another began to squat and hop in place.

“Alastor, they’re Muggles. Surely, you didn’t –” said Arthur.

Despite the graveness of the situation, Remus felt the corners of his lips twitch. Neutralizing a group of semi-Obliviated Muggles by temporarily mind-charming them into animals was just something Moody would do. “Well, at least we don’t have to worry about doing more Memory Charms before we leave. They won’t understand anything they see.”

Arthur frowned and looked on anxiously as one of the younger Muggles began to roll languidly on his back in the dirt and another bent over and began to intently lick her knee.

Just then, Moody called them over. He was standing well away from the wreckage near a large knobby tree at the bottom of an embankment and pointing at something in the grass at his feet. Sitting among the tall weeds and twisted roots of the tree was a shoe.

Remus picked it up and turned it over carefully in his hands. It was a worn trainer – the type that teenagers wore. It couldn’t have been lying there long, at least not more than a day or two because there were no signs of dampness from the previous storm and the inside of the shoe was relatively clean. More worrying, however, were the small shards of glass embedded in the laces and the dark splatters on the toe which looked to be drops of blood.

“Someone’s survived and managed escape.”

“Or was pulled from the wreckage,” noted Moody gruffly.

Arthur surveyed the forested area around them, his brown eyes behind his glasses darting from the dense thickets near them to the tangled underbrush across the road. “I’ll send word to Dumbledore and have him organize a search party.” Arthur pulled out his wand. “In the meantime, we should start looking near –”

Remus placed a hand on his arm. “I think that Dumbledore will want to see the accident site for himself first.”

“There’s no time, Remus,” the urgency in Arthur’s voice was clear. “We all know that Fudge is monitoring Dumbledore’s every move; the only way for him to get out here undetected is to fly. Even that would be too risky.”

“Weasley’s right,” muttered Moody. “We have to find Potter quickly.”

“There may be something here that we’re not seeing. The scene needs to be Canvassed thoroughly – magical indicia may be still be detectable and if that’s the case, it may save us valuable time; we may not even need to search the forest.” Remus knew that looking for Harry in the forest would be time-consuming and extremely slow because of the few members available and they may not have that much time, especially if it turned out to be a dead-end.

Arthur paused as he considered this and then took the small transparent cube that Remus held out to him and attached it to the handle of his wand. “I’ll deliver it back to Headquarters then,” he said quietly.

He pointed his wand in front of him and uttered, “Recordari,” as he slowly turned in a circle. The Anamnesis, which was now glowing a deep emerald green, was recording and storing the sounds, smells, and images of the scene that were to be later replayed, examined, and deconstructed for any lingering signs of magical spells or auras – evidence that Remus desperately hoped would lead to Harry.

Arthur detached the glowing cube and tucked it into his robes. “In the meantime, I still think we should alert the other members and begin to organize a search of the forest. Magic or no magic, Harry could be out there…”

“I’m on it, Weasley.” Moody began to limp towards the trees. He turned, his magical eye swirled in his head while his other eye stared resolutely back at them and said, “If Potter’s here, I’ll find him.”

Remus couldn’t help but feel anything but deep respect for the knarled ex-Auror who held his wand before him and disappeared silently into the thick undercarriage of the forest without a backward glance.

Remus exchanged farewells with Arthur. Then he was speeding away toward the Ministry as fast as his broom would carry him with the mystery wand hidden securely in his traveling cloak, an urgent voice that sounded eerily like James’s propelling him onward.

~*End of Flashback*~
Remus jumped, the Watch-Wizard had returned with a small piece of parchment and the wand, muttering, “Only for you, Cass. Not a word of this to anyone, otherwise it’s my badge on the line – you know the new Ministry regulations about reporting all wand scans and registrations.”

“Thank you, Eric. You don’t know how helpful you have been.” Cass gave him a brilliant smile which faded instantly as she turned from the desk. “To the seventh fireplace on the left,” she whispered out of the corner of her mouth as she steered him quickly down the hall and past a very large hole that had once been the Fountain of Brethren.

They Flooed into a large white room. Remus glanced around apprehensively. A number of lumpy objects – which were concealed underneath large blue Ministry-standard Security Shrouds – lined the walls. There were no fewer than ten white doors along the side of the room opposite the fireplace; one was slightly ajar and he saw something metallic reflecting light. There was an elongated and elevated area in the middle of the room that looked to be a stage of sorts. Remus raised his eyebrows at Cass.

“Auror Pre-Training and Screening Headquarters,” Cass said simply. “It’s a Ministry WP Level 3 Security so there’s no surveillance. Don’t worry, it’s only accessible by the Floo,” she said this as he glanced cautiously toward the doors. Cass held out the piece of parchment. “I didn’t think it wise to wait.”

“Let’s hope that it hasn’t been unmarked.” Remus knew that the underground wand trade circulated unmarked wands that were commonly used for crimes because they were impossible to trace back to their users.

“It might give us an idea who may have been lurking at the accident site.”

Neither of them dared to speak their greatest fear – that it was Harry’s wand and he was now without any means to protect himself, or worse.

Remus took the parchment with a shaking hand and unfolded it.

11 inches/holly/phoenix feather core
Screened xxxxx by Watch-Wizard xxxxxxxxxxxx (the line had been scratched out)
Wand imprint match: 100%
Registered to: Harry James Potter
DOB: 31/7/80 DOD: -
Current status: active
Significant Spells Performed: the Patronus Charm & the Cruciatus Curse

His chest contracted. The edges of the parchment dug into his palm as he crumpled it in his fist. “Send confirmation to Dumbledore. It’s Harry’s wand.”

–x/X\x–

NOTE: Anamnesis is New Latin for “remember”.

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Consequence and Redemption (Chapter 3: Silence)

2007-04-05T00:09:09Z

Title: Chapter 3: Silence
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2,312
Notes/Warnings: pre-HBP
Summary: Ron's not as slow as everyone thinks. Hermione has a moment of contemplation.

This is the updated and double beta-ed version of this chapter. HP and co. are not mine, they’re property of JKR. This story is for personal entertainment.

Chapter 3: Silence

Harry’s eyelids slowly opened. His green eyes searched for the familiar, but only found a blur of white and grey. He couldn’t focus on anything, but he was sure there were people around him. He tried to raise his head, but it was unnaturally heavy. Harry felt like he imagined that sack of sawdust he’d seen last week must’ve felt – the one that had been run over on the motorway, the bag split open and its contents strewn over the asphalt.

“He’s up again.” The words seemed to float into his head. Harry slowly became aware of a cool, hard surface under his fingertips. He flexed his hand.

“He can’t be.”

There was a pause and then someone swore.

Harry couldn’t make out what was said next, but then he heard another voice utter, “Do you think that wise?”

Madam Pomfrey … I’m in the hospital … again. Harry wondered how seriously he was injured this time. Then he became aware of a rhythmic hissing and realized that it was him breathing or something breathing with him or for him.

The sound was strangely comforting, and Harry concentrated on the sound as blurry figures moved around him. He was just so tired and it seemed like his brain was working in slow motion; it required so much effort to think. He couldn’t remember what had happened or why he was there. Someone said something about giving him something more, but he didn’t want any more potions – he just wanted to sleep. The blurry shapes above him melted away as his eyes fluttered shut, the hissing of his breath ushering him back into unconsciousness.

–x/X\x–
Ron leaned his head against one of the splintery wooden post that lined the paddock near the forest that surrounded the Burrow. The half moon hung heavy in the sky. The field was bathed in liquid sliver and the cool grass tickled his ankles as the night settled around him. Ron shifted and stretched out his legs. His ankles gleamed pale and naked past the cuff of his jeans. He’d outgrown all of Fred and George’s old clothes earlier this summer and now he needed new trousers. Mum’s going to have a fit. Where would they get the money? Ron’s hopes for a new used broom quickly dissolved.

He sighed, and then felt for his pocket telescope which he had stuffed in his trouser pocket just in case Ginny had followed him again. He was going to tell her that he was busy doing an astronomy essay for Professor Sinistra and to bugger off. She was getting suspicious and it was increasingly difficult finding excuses to sneak out alone at night to talk to Harry and Hermione.

Ron jangled his foot nervously and pulled out a handful of grass. After practically an entire summer of anxiously waiting, something had finally happened! He wasn’t sure exactly WHAT had happened, but it was big; he and Ginny both agreed on that.

His parents had Flooed home briefly for dinner and then had rushed back out. Mum had only just returned to check on Ginny and him. The way she kept hugging them and then pacing about the house straightening things unnerved Ron. Finally, she had fallen asleep on the couch still in her day clothes, and Ron had covered her with a blanket before he crept out of the house and up the small hill to the grassy clearing.

Knowing that things were in motion, regardless of the consequences, was a relief. Ron felt slightly ashamed to think that he was almost happy that something had happened, especially with Harry being his best friend and all. But because of his family’s involvement, he practically lived and breathed the Order on a daily basis, and Ron found the constant waiting and anticipation to be torture. Waiting for You-Know-Who to attack … waiting for the Death Eaters to escape … waiting for someone to try to kill his parents or Bill or Charlie … waiting … waiting … always waiting. Almost anything had to be better than just sitting around and talking at Order meetings! Ron slammed his fist into the soft earth and watch as the grass began to straighten slowly in the indent his hand had made.

Fred and George had been adamant that they were ready to join because they were now of age and officially out of school, but his parents held strong and refused. Ron secretly was relieved, although he never mentioned that to anyone, not even Harry or Hermione. Even through Fred and George could be royal pains in the arse, he thought that Diagon Alley was far safer than chasing after You-Know-Who and his rotten Death Eaters. Anyway, he figured that somebody needed to look after Ginny, just in case.

Ron yanked back his sleeve and squinted at his watch; it was one o’clock in the morning. He shoved his piece of putty into his ear, quickly uncorked the phial of light blue liquid, and downed it in one gulp. The buzzing began immediately. He shook his head, squeezed his eyes shut, and gripped the grass, anticipating the potion’s next effect. The world was spinning and spinning. Then it stopped abruptly. Ron opened his eyes and thought, Urgh. Hermione’s going to have to fix that.

“Harry?” Ron pressed his right hand to his ear, “Hermione? You there?”

Nothing.

“It’s Bilius Weasley here!” Ron snorted at how ridiculous his middle name sounded.

There was no reply.

Well, Hermione was somewhere in Eastern Europe on the annual Granger family summer adventure. Because none of them knew just how far away they could be for this to work, she was probably sitting somewhere thousands of miles away doing exactly the same thing. He sniggered at the thought of Hermione sneaking away to talk to herself in the middle of the night. Her parents must think she’s mental! He grinned.

“Harry, where are you?”

Silence.

Fine time to be late - the one time that I actually have something to tell you, he thought, irritated. Ron pulled himself to his feet and hastily wiped his hands on his jeans. Sometimes it helped if he walked around.

But after three times pacing agitatedly around the paddock and uttering Harry’s name what seemed like a million times, Ron’s annoyance began to develop into concern. He’d never had a problem talking to Harry from the paddock before, and it certainly wasn’t like Harry just not to show-up, especially when he was the one who had arranged the meeting time. Ron frowned. Maybe Harry was somewhere weird, or those horrible Muggles had him locked up again, or maybe…

Ron’s eyes widened and he clutched his hand to his ear and yelled, “HERMIONE! HERMIONE! CAN YOU HEAR ME?”

The night was silent.

Where is Hermione when you need her? thought Ron frantically. He turned and ran as fast as he could back to the Burrow, his heart pounding frantically in his chest and hot breath exploding out of his lungs.

~*oOo*~
Hermione sat alone in Viktor Krum’s garden and sighed as she pulled her Secretive Speaker from her ear as the stars twinkled quietly above her. I’m definitely going to have to work the on their range for the future, she thought as she smiled proudly to herself. She had never imagined that they would work as well as they did – they operated perfectly over a distance of a hundred miles back in England! It was unfortunate that she was now out of range, but she reminded herself that every small victory counted.

Hermione got the idea from Fred and George’s Extendable Ears, which she had seen the previous summer. She had been researching and working on them all last year so she and Ron could freely communicate with Harry while he was at the Dursleys without the fear of accidentally leaking sensitive Order information to the wrong wizards.

She’d transfigured three Muggle walkie-talkies into small malleable lumps of flesh-colored putty and then used modified Binding and Activation Charms to connect them to a powerful Redoubling Potion which allows humans to enhance their natural abilities using parts of the appropriate animal with the desired qualities. She had used bat ears.

The potion was marginally legal, at least according to ‘Learning to Brew Legally: An Exhaustive Guide to Obscure Potions’. Apparently, there had been a problem in the 1920’s with wizards using the potion to enhance certain amorous abilities, which lead to a very unfortunate episode with some wild boars. Then there had been an embarrassing incident here in England involving goats. But even so, the Ministry had not outright banned it – yet.

Hermione felt a small prickle of guilt at taking such liberties with her pass to the Restricted Section of the library but quickly dismissed it. Even Professor McGonagall would approve even though she’d never say so, she reasoned.

She hadn’t actually been too sure that they would be able to use them undetected by the Ministry, but anything that would keep Harry from doing something rash was worth the risk. She knew that he was terribly upset about Sirius’s death and that he blamed himself even though he refused to talk about it. In fact, he had repeatedly danced around anything that had to do with the Department of Mysteries all summer. But she guessed that talking to her and Ron, even if it was about nothing, was better than being completely isolated for two long months.

A cool breeze lapped against her cheek. She shivered and pulled her arms around herself as she looked up at the moon. It was quite lovely in Bulgaria, and she had enjoyed herself immensely even though she had just arrived that morning. Viktor seemed eager to show her the mansion he had provided for his parents and his younger brother as well as the almost life-size pictures of the Durmstrang library that she suspected he had conjured for her. He claimed that it was larger than the library at Hogwarts.

Hermione glanced at her reflection in the fountain that stretched in front of her and then down at her hands resting in her lap and sighed. She quite like the challenge of learning complicated spells and reciting esoteric facts. She prided herself on being two steps ahead of most other students at Hogwarts, but somehow coming all of way to Bulgaria to talk about the Durmstrang library seemed a bit … sad really. She knew that Viktor was just trying to show her things he thought she would enjoy, but did people get the impression that all that she was interested in was books?

I have other interests! She thought hotly. There’s S.P.E.W. – a very worthy cause. There’s the DA. There’s Ron and Harry and … and … Hermione bit her lip and twisted her hands, … and …being a Prefect. She sat up and squared her shoulders. There certainly was no shame in her life; she had everything she needed – two best friends, school, magic, her parents, and her Muggle life. Her face fell. Who am I kidding?

Her Muggle life was, well, a Muggle life – absolutely non-magical, uneventful, and downright dull. Although she loved her parents – who she thought worked a little too much – she much preferred life as a witch. In fact, it was getting more difficult to reconcile her magical life with her Muggle life. Sometimes she tried to imagine what it would have been like if she had come from a wizarding family like Ron. She’d have access to everyday magic at home; she’d have wizarding traditions that he took for granted; but most of all she’d have a family who understood what it was like to grow up in the wizarding world and go to Hogwarts.

However, she reasoned, it might be a good thing that her parents were blissfully unaware of exactly how tense things had got in the past year. They did suspect that something was amiss, but she had neglected to tell them just how potentially dangerous the situation actually was. It’s just better that they don’t know, for now, she repeated to herself again.

Hermione placed her Secretive Speaker back into her ear one last time, “Harry? Ron? It’s me, Hermione.”

Silence.

She pulled the small piece of putty slowly from her ear and placed it and the now empty glass phial back into her pocket before standing up and walking back to Viktor’s guest house. She’d have to work on her Secretive Speaker range once she got back to school.

–x/X\x–
There were voices.

“Truly amazing he survived, really.”

“Yes, unfortunate through we have no records or medical history considering –”

“– considering the circumstances.”

“Hmm, yes, it’s very peculiar; never seen anything quite like it. We’ll have to keep a close eye on him – unpredictable, this one…”

Harry opened his eyes. Blurry shapes wavered before him; it was as if he were seeing everything through a thick heat haze. His entire body felt very heavy and his head felt like it was filled with cotton; it was difficult to think clearly.

“Hello, dear.” A blurry face came into view. “Can you tell me your name?”

Madame Pomfrey? Harry opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

“Do you know where you are?” The voice asked. Something cool pressed against his forehead.

“Water,” he gasped weakly.

The woman’s face disappeared. Harry felt a damp cloth being pressed against his mouth and drops of water fell onto his tongue. He swallowed and closed his eyes, completely spent. Definitely not Madame Pomfrey, definitely not Hogwarts, definitely feel completely horrible…

“Dear, what’s your name?” The woman’s voice was back.

Harry focused all his energy on fighting back the darkness that was pushing against his eyes. “Harry…” was all he managed before he felt himself slipping away.

–x/X\x–

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Consequence and Redemption (Chapter 2: Spread Thin)

2007-04-04T23:49:57Z

Title: Chapter 2: Spread Thin
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2,989
Notes/Warnings: Pre-HBP
Summary: Ron versus the kitchen table. The Order welcomes two new members and bends its collective brain.

This is the updated and double beta-ed version of this chapter. The changes are grammatical and stylistic with a few scene tweaks. Thank you to Dianne and Allie for the beta eyes. HP and co. are not mine, they’re property of JKR. This story is for personal entertainment.

Chapter 2: Spread Thin
Ron knew that something was definitely not right as soon as he stepped into the kitchen for breakfast Saturday morning. It was empty and there was no food on the table.

“Mum, Dad? Hellooooo? Ginny?”

He quickly grabbed a dirty pot from the sink and approached the table cautiously, eyeing it as if it were going to suddenly stick a leg out and trip him. To his great annoyance, Fred and George had been testing some of their prototype spells and products on him and Ginny all summer, and Ron learned the hard way that one could never be too cautious, especially after a visit from his brothers.

Maybe this is another one of those Invisible Bubble Charms and breakfast is sitting under there, thought Ron as he darted forward and furiously swung the pot over the table a couple of times before retreating a few steps back. He straightened up and frowned as the table continued to stand in the middle of the kitchen innocently. Another Biting Conceal-ALL-Tablecloth? He still had the marks from last time. Ron scratched his head, surveying the table suspiciously. Then his stomach grumbled loudly, prompting him into action. I’m not going to fall for that one again – it’s that bloody Biting Tablecloth. Ron snatched a dirty frying pan from the sink and, in one motion, flung both the pan and pot onto the table. They landed with a great clatter as bits of dried egg and congealed porridge flew through the air.

“Ron, what are you doing?” Ginny stood at the top of the stairs with a bewildered look on her face.

“I’m er … getting something to eat,” mumbled Ron, darting forward and grabbing the nearest pot before dumping it back into the sink. To his relief, the table didn’t bite him or try to trip him. He wiped his palms on his jeans as Ginny’s eyes darted from him to the table and then to the dirty pots. A slow grin materialized on her face.

“Don’t say anything, Ginny.” Ron said warningly as he picked egg off his shirt. “Otherwise I’ll tell Harry about Ashlen Acklefelt.” Acklefelt was the newest teen-witch heart-throb who had his own talk show on the Wireless and, in Ron’s opinion, he talked about rubbish: the newest celebrity wizards and witches, gossip, robe and wand fashions, fairy accessories, and other useless girl stuff.

Ginny froze. Then she squared her shoulders and flipped her hair back as she tromped down the stairs and brushed past him, her chin jutted forward. Apparently she was electing to ignore him again. Hermione had told him that Ginny fancied Harry last year and Ron thought that he’d finally have something to hold over her head, but apparently Hermione was wrong. Every time he brought up Harry, Ginny seemed perfectly indifferent.

“Fred and George told me that they only left a little something last night in the upstairs toilet,” said Ginny tapping her wand on the kettle and summoning two mismatched mugs from the shelf above the stove.

Ron groaned. Not another toilet jinx! Last time they visited from Diagon Alley, it had taken an entire afternoon for Mum to reverse whatever the spell was that produced such a foul odor that it burned one's nasal hairs to a crisp within seconds.

“Mum and Dad were called away for an Order meeting first thing this morning. We’ll have to take care of ourselves today,” she said a matter-of-factly, thumping the mugs down on the table.

“Oh, bloody considerate of them not to tell me.” Ron threw himself into a chair at the table as Ginny shook her head in exasperation. “What about breakfast?” he muttered to himself, laying his head face-down on the table. He groaned.

Ginny shot him a look and began rummaging through a large cupboard, “I don’t think that it was a scheduled meeting.” Her voice was muffled.

Ron was in no mood to hear more about You-Know-Who or the Order before he ate something. He had had enough of that half-dead chunk of goblin dung interfering with his life, let alone his breakfast – his favorite meal of the day besides lunch and dinner.

Ginny emerged from the cupboard with a half a dozen eggs in hand and her wand in the other. “It was an emergency meeting, Ron.” Her face was very serious. “I think something’s happened – finally.”

–x/X\x–
Dumbledore stared into the green flames that danced in the large kitchen fireplace of Grimmauld Place, his hands clasped behind his back. They would all would be arriving shortly, or at least as many as could be spared. Many of the members of the Order were on assignment and alerting them of this new situation would not be prudent.

There are too few this time.

The second war was upon them and the Order, although strong in spirit and bursting with determination, was composed of those who had seen too many battles and those who had seen too few, and he knew that Voldemort’s defeat could not be achieved solely by the efforts of these few. Dumbledore had never once mentioned his misgivings to another soul, least they give up hope.

But there is hope.

Dumbledore closed his eyes and inhaled slowly. Hope was in the form of a sixteen-year old dark-haired young man. They had only to keep him and those that he loved safe until he was properly trained and until he was ready to accept the responsibility – if he ever chose to accept the responsibility.

Dumbledore massaged his temples with his long fingers and sat down at the long wooden table as he centered his thoughts. There were much more pressing issues to discuss today. Harry’s disappearance sometime after ten o’clock last night and eight o’clock this morning was extremely worrisome. Petunia Dursley was fully aware of the conditions of their contract and the seriousness of her responsibility. But even so, the Dursleys had left without warning and taken Harry with them.

The door opened, and Minerva McGonagall and Arthur and Molly Weasley filed into the kitchen and sat down at the long table, their faces drawn and quiet. They had just finished their greetings when Alastor Moody thumped into the room and gruffly thrust himself into a chair next to Remus Lupin who had arrived shortly before.

Dumbledore surveyed his compatriots with pride and was about to rise to his feet when the newest members of the Order, Cassandra Casely and William Leinheardt, stepped into the kitchen.

Both were long-time Ministry employees and great assets for the Order. Arthur had managed to persuade William, a Junior Minister in The Department of Magical Transportation, to join their cause. Having a trusted contact who could easily give them access to Portkey set-up and the Floo Network was a much needed advantage. Especially now that Cornelius Fudge, the Minister for Magic, was adamantly refusing any of the assistance he had volunteered, and had heightened security around the Ministry substantially. Dumbledore feared that it was just a matter of time until his tenuous relationship with Cornelius unravelled completely.

On the other hand, Cassandra’s appointment to the Order was of an entirely different nature – she had to be brought into their circle out of necessity. Cassandra was an upper level administrator in The Department of Magical Law Enforcement – Auror Headquarters – and though a series of inadvertent blunders by Order Aurors, discovered the farce that was ‘The Search for Sirius Black’ headed by Kingsley Shacklebolt. They had no choice but to divulge their operation, or risk her reporting suspicious activity out of duty to the Ministry and lose four of their key Auror operatives in the process. Kingsley had vouched for her, and her much-decorated record against Dark Magic had convinced the other members of her fidelity.

“So, Dumbledore, why are we here exactly?” asked Cassandra, turning to survey him with polite interest.

“So has he finally decided to crawl out of his filthy rat hole and show himself? That scum,” sneered Alastor.

“No, Alastor, Voldemort continues to keep his whereabouts well hidden. We are here to discuss another pressing issue.” Dumbledore pressed his fingertips together and slowly surveyed the group gathered around him before speaking. He knew that there was no easy way to broach the subject, so he forged ahead. “Harry is missing.”

There was a stunned silence as the seriousness of the situation descended slowly.

Then William Leinheardt spoke, “What nonsense is this?! How could Potter be missing – he’s the most well protected boy in the wizarding world! It’s absolutely impossible!” His short moustache twitched and he stared disbelievingly at Dumbledore, as if he could simply will his statement to be true.

“It seems that his aunt and uncle removed Harry late last night without our detection.”

“How could that be? He’s under constant surveillance!” Minerva’s eyes widened as she paled. “Who was on duty last night?” she asked sharply, her lips pressed into a thin line.

Arthur glanced at Molly who was sitting beside him and then said gravely, “Fletcher.”

“Mundungus has been detained, and is well aware of the consequences of his lack of vigilance,” said Dumbledore.

“So what? He fell asleep again! What’s that man been doing all summer but sleeping!” seethed William.

Remus slammed his fist on the table and Alastor swore loudly.

Dumbledore’s eyes settled on Molly who sat at the opposite end of the table. He knew that she thought of Harry as her own son and would not take this turn of events well.

Predictably, she stood up shaking from head to toe, her eyes blazing with fury. “He was entrusted to watch Harry after last summer’s Dementor incident? How could this happen … how could you let those Muggles take Harry? He’s only a child –” She glared furiously at Dumbledore, unable to finish. Her fingers turned white as they tightened around the edge of the table.

“Molly, you are right to be upset.” Dumbledore concentrated on channelling his energy. “The wards were strengthened considerably after last summer, and the Dursleys understood that they were not to remove Harry from their home without proper Order protection. The watch on Harry this summer was intended to be a formality. Mundungus was the only member available. “We are spread thin and, as you know, there are other pressing matters that need to be addressed.” His Transmission seemed to calm her slightly and he broke eye contact when she sank back into her chair and placed a shaking hand on her forehead.

William grimaced. “It’s a seemingly simple task, watching at sixteen year old teenager sleep!”

Remus pulled both hands through his hair and exhaled loudly, as did Arthur.

“But how do we know that Harry is in any danger? Couldn’t his family have just taken him for a short trip away?” asked Cassandra calmly, her blue eyes searching the faces of her comrades.

“Believe you me, those Muggles that Harry lives with aren’t fit to breathe. The last thing they would do would be to take Harry on away for the weekend,” said Molly, her voice trembling with barely-contained anger.

Arthur reached over and placed his hand on hers and she gripped his hand tightly. Dumbledore noticed Minerva tensing as she did whenever Harry’s aunt and uncle were mentioned, and noted that Remus was unusually quiet. This was going as badly as he had feared.

Suddenly the kitchen door opened and Kingsley Shacklebolt walked swiftly into the room and straight towards Dumbledore. He was breathing heavily and wearing jeans with a tattered green blazer, and a hat was pulled low over his face.

“Why are you dressed as a Muggle, Shacklebolt?” William looked as if he was going faint from surprise, his head swivelling as Kingsley walked the length of the room.

“This was found at the Dursley’s home.” Kingsley pulled a small tattered piece of parchment from the inner pocket of his blazer and handed it to Dumbledore. It was badly burned and looked to have been shredded and then reassembled magically, for there were large jagged chunks missing. “It was written on Self-Inflaming Parchment, but fortunately it looks as if it was … deactivated.” A few drops of water slipped from the edge of the parchment and splattered onto the table.

“Hrumph, there’s those Muggles for you –” hissed Alastor out of the side of his mouth “– incompetent as they come.”

“Fortunately for us, those Muggles left us something that might prove to be very useful,” commented Remus coolly.

Dumbledore scanned the parchment and then raised his head and spoke slowly and deliberately, “We have evidence that the Dursleys have been communicating with others in the wizarding world.” He placed the scrap of mangled parchment on the table and seven heads leaned into read its contents:

669 Quanedung……London
11 pm
Bring him………all or noth……..……M. Dursley………alive……activeva.......charms

“Voldemort!” seethed Alastor, his magical eye rolling madly in his head.

“Perhaps, Alastor,” said Dumbledore thoughtfully, “However, there is no evidence to suggest that Voldemort was behind this.”

Angry voices immediately filled the room.

Dumbledore held up a hand, “Yet.”

William leaned forward, his palms resting on the table and his eyes overly bright, “Dumbledore, if you are suggesting that someone besides Voldemort has ill intentions towards Potter then you are mad! ” He slapped his palms on the table for emphasis. “Why, the entire wizarding world has pinned their hopes on him!”

Minerva turned toward Dumbledore, her face grim and voice strained, “Indeed, it seems very unlikely that any wizard would want to hurt Potter besides Voldemort. It would be simply nonsensical!”

“We must not jump to conclusions.” Dumbledore fixed his eyes on each person assembled around the table. “If Harry is in danger, then we cannot afford to be hasty. In such times, we must assume that we are not without other enemies.”

The room was enveloped in stillness. An unnatural hush descended – the only sound emanated from the fireplace where flame devoured wood.

Finally Arthur spoke, “What do our sources say about Death Eater activity?” He looked like one who was desperately trying to tackle an insurmountable problem by breaking into doable components.

Kingsley – who had taken a seat next to Cassandra – spoke, “The only information I can divulge is that Voldemort and the remaining Death Eaters have been unusually quiet for the past several months.” He glanced at Cassandra who nodded and he continued, “However, the Ministry has dispatched a number of Special Mission Aurors to try to track them. There’s nothing that suggests they have been planning any attacks, but again, Voldemort specializes in deception and covert operations. However, we are currently following up the lead that Bill found.” He looked pointedly at Arthur and Molly.

“It does seem rather civilized for Voldemort, doesn’t it?” mused Remus. “Persuading the Dursleys to deliver Harry to them…” he trailed off and stared into the fire, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

Arthur nodded. “I agree with Remus. I wouldn’t expect that he would resort to dealing with Muggles. But, perhaps, we’ve underestimated him. ”

“Could be the work of the Imperious Curse!” barked Moody, his magical eye gyrating madly in its socket.

“We’ve taken precautions to prevent Voldemort from operating through the Dursleys by such means,” said Dumbledore quietly.

Cassandra turned to look at Arthur and Molly. “But considering that the majority of his Death Eaters are incapacitated and still being held by the Ministry, he obviously can’t take Harry by force. So why wouldn’t he resort to more stealthy tactics?”

Minerva made a small noise, seeming to agree with this line of reasoning.

“Enough of this!” Remus stood abruptly, knocking his chair backwards onto the floor with a dull thud. “We have an address, and Harry is missing. Who’s with me?”

Dumbledore sat back in his chair; he knew that this was inevitable.

Arthur’s chair scraped against the stone floor as he rose. “Remus,” he said simply, his eyes conveying the rest of his thoughts. Alastor grunted and pushed away from the table. Remus looked at Arthur and Alastor, nodded slowly and bent down to collect his travelling cloak.

William cleared his throat loudly, “Excuse me, but I hate to be the one to ask, but before we rush out ready for battle here, how can we be sure that Potter is still alive?”

A stony silence descended upon the room. Everyone froze. Cassandra’s eyes darted from William to Remus to Dumbledore.

“Of course Potter’s alive, don’t be ridiculous, Leinhardt!” snapped Minerva, her words ringing loudly through the room.

Dumbledore spoke sharply, “Arthur, contact Jamison in the Improper Use of Magic Office immediately. Tell him to forward any underage accidental magic or defensive spells reports from the last twenty-four hours directly to me, particularly any reports involving the use of the Patronus Charm.”

“So, you do think Voldemort and the Dementors are behind this,” said Cassandra knowingly.

“This is merely a precaution. If Harry were in any danger, he knows how to defend himself and that his magic would lead the Ministry and us straight to him. We should only hope that we are so lucky not to be alerted to his whereabouts through this means, as it would confirm that he has been put in harms way,” Dumbledore said calmly.

Molly abruptly sat up in her chair, relief flooding her face. “The wards.” She turned to Arthur, her eyes shining with unshed tears, and whispered, “As long as Harry is with his aunt and cousin, he’s safe.”

“Yes, thanks to Professor Flitwick and Professor Snape, the wards that protect Harry were extended beyond the bounds of his Aunt and Uncle’s neighborhood. As long as his aunt or cousin remain alive and with Harry, no spell can harm him or his family.” Dumbledore concentrated on shutting down his face. He didn’t want the others to see his worry as he thought of other non-magical alternatives that Harry could fall victim to in the wrong hands.

–x/X\x–

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Consequence and Redemption (Chapter 1: And So It Begins)

2007-04-04T18:55:03Z

Title: Chapter 1: And So It Begins
Rating: PG
Word Count: 6,420
Notes/Warnings: Pre-HBP
Summary: The quiet strength of the mind and the healing flame of memory are powerful allies during a time when the wizarding world is slowly unraveling. The wheels of this story began spinning years ago. Harry goes for a ride.

This is the updated and double beta-ed version of the gigantic multi-chaptered WIP. *cheers faintly* The changes are grammatical and stylistic with a few scene tweaks. Thank you to Dianne for her terrific feedback and enthusiasm and to Allie for her attention to detail and setting me straight once and for all about those British colloquialisms. HP and co. are not mine, they’re property of JKR. This story is for personal entertainment. I don't get paid for this, no matter how many birthday wishes I use up.

Part I: Memory

The struggle against power is the struggle of memory against forgetting.
– Milan Kundera, The Book of Laughter and Forgetting

Chapter 1: And So It Begins

~*August 1989*~
Frantic footsteps resonated through the cavernous room as a lone wizard staggered through the endless rows of towering wooden barriers, wheezing and clutching his side. The small yellow flames quivering in the rusted iron torches suspended from the high ceiling cast savage shadows along the sides of the narrow halls, making it appear as if the walls were seething and twisting like something alive.

To any other wizard this would simply appear to be a great, indecipherable maze of indistinguishable walls leading to nowhere. However, to this wizard, this ancient maze of seemingly blank and interconnected walls was his savior. He had flung himself into its dark recesses, knowing that his knowledge of its depths could very well save the current wizarding world.

He halted abruptly in front of a towering vacant wall that stretched up and beyond his vision and uttered, “Revelare.” A number of drawers large enough to entomb three full-grown wizards side-by-side materialized in the wooden wall. He ran his hand over the glittering gold script that appeared, his fingers slipping over the grimy surface and catching in the notches of the engraved lettering that formed the words: MoM: Department of International Magic Co-operation’s Ancient Archives and Less Recent Records.

The wizard hastily dragged the sleeve of his sliver robes over his wet brow and glanced down the dark isle from which he had run. He heaved a drawer open and, with a shaking hand, produced a small glowing cube from the depths of his robes. He brought it to his face – its faint light illuminated his features that were now soaked in cold sweat and blood. Everything depends on this.

He raised the cube to his lips before carefully placing it among the other small cubes that lined the bottom and sides of the drawer. He was amazed that such a seemingly insignificant object could house information that was worth so many lives. He watched anxiously as its faint, radiating light sputtered and died. The cube and became indistinguishable from the rest of the drawer’s dusty contents. Its contents were safe.

This information was far too valuable to be destroyed, but if it were to be made known prematurely or if it fell into the wrong hands, the consequences would be unfathomable. The end of the wizarding world as they knew it would be a certainty. It was his duty to safeguard the future by preserving the information until the decision had to be made – if it had to be made at all.

Only time would tell if the other Unspeakables would have to be made privy. But he hoped that there would be no need to ever retrieve this file. Now that it was safely concealed, he only needed to ensure that the dummy file was circulated for it was clear that the others who were after it had a crude idea of its contents and would stop at nothing to have it. Only he and the other secret keeper, Bode – who he would soon join in hiding – knew its true contents. And they hoped for the sake of all wizards, that it was dead wrong. Now he was the only one who knew where the information lay hidden.

He jerked his head up, his body taut. He strained his ears. Then he heard it and hoped desperately it was only his imagination. The wizard quietly shut the drawer and whispered, “Concelare Finalis.” The outline of the drawer and the gold script disappeared as the wooden wall assumed its previous inconspicuous façade. He glanced over his shoulder and darted forward into the depths of the hall as measured footfalls radiated from the darkness.

–x/X\x–
Before slipping into the standard blue Ministry robes he had hidden beneath his muddied traveling cloak, he quickly flipped through the yellowing, blank pieces of parchment and photographs contained in the file. He surmised that the parchment and magical photographs were likely locked using a number of Unreadability and Concealment Charms. However, the Muggle photographs were peculiar. The man snorted derisively and slowly shook his head; this seemed like such a frivolous case to be classified as a level WP10 Security. He slammed the file shut between his thick hands, sending dust spiraling around him. It was no matter, he wasn’t interested in what he was actually sent to steal – that was not his concern, nor was the Ministry or any of the clueless idiots who worked mindlessly for it.

A malevolent smile materialized on his thin lips. He slowly extended his arm and twirled his wand with great fanfare, savoring the feel of wood under his fingers. He transfigured the broken body of the Unspeakable sprawled at his feet into a galleon and then slipped it silently into the front pocket of his Ministry robes. A body of a murdered Ministry official would arouse suspicion, and he was under strict orders to be discrete.

In fact, they had been so careful to conceal their identity that even he didn’t know exactly for whom he was stealing these scrap pieces of parchment and Muggle photographs, or why. But he was only too happy to comply – anyone who seemed to oppose the Ministry of Magic was fine by him. The entire establishment needed to be punished for its long list of crimes and concealed indiscretions.

It was empowering to be able to practice magic again. He had enjoyed toying with that Ministry scum by repeatedly allowing him to think he had almost escaped, until he finally had grown tired of their little game of Seeker-and-Snitch. Then he had taken his time killing him, stretching and kneading his magical abilities. To his satisfaction, he hadn’t lost his touch after all these years. However, it was unfortunate that he had to silence him – the screams were something that derived pleasure from. But there would be plenty of time for that later; now all he had to do was deliver this file and he’d be a whole wizard again – they had promised.

He ran his hands leisurely down the front of his Ministry robes and appraised himself in mirror that he had conjured, his dark eyes glittering coldly. His long hair and patchy beard retracted into his skull and face, his nose lengthened, and his eyes lightened to a pale azure. However, the scar that cut across his face in a great arc from his mouth to his ear remained. He buttoned a small badge to the front of his robes that read: Jean deMorte, Visiting Intern.

“Luxus Reversus,” he uttered. The heavy wooden door creaked open. He walked quickly down the corridor to the lift with the file clutched tightly under his arm.

On Level Two, six other wizards and witches entered the lift. He fixed a pleasant smile on his face and nodded curtly to a young purple-haired witch who clambered in and stood bouncing on her toes next to him. He glanced around the now full lift and sneered. The Ministry witches and wizards were too absorbed in their own conversation to take notice of him. Idiots, if they only knew what was happening right under their oblivious, conceited noses, he thought contemptuously.

A red-headed man in shabby green robes was clutching a large oddly-shaped satchel and the hand of a small, red-headed girl who stared up at him curiously. The man averted his eyes and busied himself with studying the Ministry Interoffice Memos flapping above his head.

“Good day, Arthur. How are Molly and the family?” asked an older witch with heavy eyebrows and sharp eyes. Her graying hair was lumped on top of her head in a way that resembled a stuck oversized cat.

“We’re all fine, Amelia, very fine indeed.” The man smiled down at the girl. “Yes, Fred and George – they’re a couple years older than Ginny here –” the red-headed man gently patted the girl’s shoulder and continued, “– will be starting at Hogwarts next week … lots of things to prepare. It’s hard to believe that they grow so quickly. Just the other day it seems like our other son, Ron, was accidentally magicking away his nappies and tearing across the paddock stark…”

He let their driveling conversation, filled with niceties and asinine small, talk wash over him. It seemed like a lifetime ago he had been like them, with a family to go home to and a son to love … until the damn Ministry interfered.

Suddenly the urgency of the situation struck him as his eyes fell upon the breast pocket of the woman’s silver robe. The letters DOMLE with a silver wand cutting through them stared back at him. He glanced swiftly at the other three young wizard’s robes and noticed that they had the same insignia.

Of all people to get stuck on a lift with … Amelia Bones – the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement – and a hoard of over-enthusiastic Aurors-in-training. They’re probably trembling with anticipation thinking about how they’re going save the world from Dark Magic. If they only knew the reality of the situation – they have no idea who they’re standing next to.

His mouth curled in on itself, a mockery of a smile. He chuckled to himself, but swallowed his amusement when he noticed Ginny (was that her name?) staring fixedly at the file under his arm. He glanced down casually – a number of the Muggle photographs were visible. He shifted the folder to his other arm and began to negotiate the revealed contents back into the folder.

Just then, the lift lurched unexpectedly and the Auror-in-training witch with purple hair stumbled side-ways, causing the entire contents of the folder spill haphazardly onto the floor. He thrust himself forward and began sweeping the bits of blank parchment and photographs towards him before anyone could glimpse their contents.

“Oh! I’m so sorry! I’m always doing things like that. Here, let me help!” The witch bent down awkwardly to help him and rammed her hip into one of the other witches who dropped a large silver instrument with spindly legs with a spectacular crash. The red-haired wizard jumped and the satchel he held split open. A cornucopia of strange objects sprawled across the floor of the lift.

“Tonks! Not again!” seethed Amelia Bones who was clutching her foot which had apparently been unfortunately positioned when the chaos ensued. “You’re never going to get past your pre-Auror training at this rate!”

“Oh! Goodness … here, I can fix it!” The witch unsheathed her wand.

“NO!” yelled another young wizard, lunging forward and tripping over the little red-headed witch who was giggling and filling her arms with square objects adorned with protruding wires and metal prongs.

The man straightened up with the file in his hands. A loud squeak issued from his left heel. A yellow duck rolled away as the lift touched down with a loud clatter. “C’est pas un problem!” he muttered. He stepped out of the lift and strode toward the fireplaces of the Floo Network at the end of the hall, leaving the chaos behind him.

~*oOo*~
Cassandra Casely strode purposefully into the small room and paused to examine her surroundings. As part of the Auror Special Tactics Team Investigating Mysterious Deaths, she was trained to observe just as she had been trained to examine the remains of expired wizards and witches without flinching. She surveyed the wizard who lay her feet lay, his light blue eyes staring unseeing up at the ceiling. A curved scar traversed his cheek.

Work had been so slow lately that she had volunteered to assist with the Ministry Hit-Wizards Training. She had been called to this scene at the last minute. Although she highly doubted that Dark Magic was involved in this case because Dark Magic-induced deaths now were far and few between, she had agreed to make an appearance. In fact, there had only been two suspected Dark Magic cases in the last five years. However, there were rumblings about a surge in Dark Magic-related activity and wondered if this was the beginning of yet another uprising.

They had been successfully repressing Death Eater activity ever since the last war. But, every couple of years, on the Anniversary of Voldemort’s defeat in late October, there was usually some renewed activity. However, it was nothing that the Ministry couldn’t handle. In fact, it seemed like the Ministry was poised to finally stamp out Dark Magic once and for all, especially with Cornelius Fudge poised to take the helm as the new Minister for Magic.

Cass made a mental note to give her letter of resignation to Amelia Bones as soon as she finished this case, hopefully before October. She was tired, and after twenty-odd years, the strenuous Auror-lifestyle was finally taking its toll. She had seen enough active duty and was ready for the safety and security of a desk job.

She turned her attention back to the task at hand. There was little evidence that pointed to a clear cause of death. In fact, it would seem like this man had been killed by the Killing Curse if it weren’t for the splattering of dried blood on his collar. She deftly slid her worn chameleon gloves over her hands before examining the man’s head. There was a small bruised lump protruding from behind his ear. She bent closer, her sharp blue eyes narrowed thoughtfully; it looked to be an embedded Magic Inhibitor and Tracking Device. She frowned. Those hadn’t been employed since before the last war. The Ministry had strictly banned their use on wizards and witches years ago.

Cass sat back on her heels and tapped her wand against her full lips as she stared into space, turning over the evidence in her mind. This man had obviously been a suspected criminal, and at one time had been under close Ministry surveillance. A suicide perhaps? It wasn’t unheard of considering the desperate state of many of the tagged. She would check with St. Mungo’s for escaped or recently released patients. However, to find a tagged wizard after all this time was curious as was the blood.

She began to methodically examine the rest of the man’s body. A black and white Muggle photograph lay crumpled in his fist. It was a picture of a small skinny dark-haired boy with glasses, sitting alone in a busy schoolyard. The picture appeared to have been taken hastily and from a fair distance, as it was slightly out of focus and blurry around the edges. It looked to have been taken while the photographer was moving. She turned the picture over. March 1997 was printed on the back in block lettering.

Cass frowned. The picture couldn’t have been taken in March 1997 because that was eight years from now. Perhaps this Muggle boy is a relation to this man? Could be a half-blood which would explain why it wasn’t magical. She extracted a thin metallic aerial from her belt and waved it over the picture. Nothing happened. There was no Dark or Light magic embedded in the photograph. She raised her eyebrows as she slipped the photograph into an Aquaflamora Sheath to protect it during decontamination.

Likely a suicide, she thought, if decontam doesn’t show anything, I’ll hand the entire case over to the newbie, Frankle; he’s been itching for some work lately. She pulled a small pocket mirror from a leather pouch on her belt and tapped it with her wand before holding it to her face, “Tell Frankle to get up here; he needs to see this.”

Cass rocked to her feet and walked swiftly out of the room. Now, the matter of her resignation…

~*August 1996*~
“In the car NOW, boy!”

Harry looked up from the note he was writing to Ron as the locks that separated him from the outside world of the Dursley’s clicked and snapped angrily, retracting into the doorframe. He turned quickly and surveyed the door; his body tense and ready for whatever abuse Uncle Vernon felt was appropriate at that moment. But there was no familiar crash of the door bouncing open or yelling, only the sound of heavy footsteps thumping loudly down the stairs reverberated through the room. Harry wondered if this temporary respite was a good or bad sign.

His eyes darted around the darkened room, searching for his one means of defense and his last link to his real life, his wand. Even if he was forbidden to use it, just holding it and feeling it gently vibrate under his fingers gave Harry comfort. Miraculously, that small demonstration of his magic was the only thing that had kept him from going out of his mind all summer – that and the plethora of letters and food that arrived almost daily from Ron, Hermione, and Lupin. And of course there was the secret he, Hermione, and Ron shared.

Harry quickly strode over to his bed and yanked his pillow away to reveal his wand, which he tucked into the back pocket of Dudley’s old jeans that he had been wearing for the past week. He had taken to sleeping with his wand tucked under his pillow just in case…

Death Eaters.

A surge of anger coursed through him. The Dursleys he could handle; after fifteen years he could keep himself in check and in control most of the time. But Voldemort and his Death Eaters were another story. Every time Harry let his mind wander to the dangerous and painful thoughts of the events that transpired at the Department of Mysteries a few months ago, he could feel himself losing control. And control was something that he needed to maintain if he was ever going to return to Hogwarts and his friends.

Just two more weeks. Two more weeks… chanted Harry for the hundredth time that day. He hated returning to the Dursley’s every summer, and, although the rational part of his brain understood that this was essential to ensure his survival, he positively ached for the day when he would be able to escape to the Burrow and see Ron and the rest of the Weasleys.

Harry returned to his desk and, still standing, hastily scribbled the same message from Ron’s note onto another piece of parchment: JG-BW/0100/14/8/JP. Harry reread the note quickly and made sure everything was exactly as he intended. He had to be ready tomorrow at one in the morning. Harry ginned as he remembered how much Ron had protested using their middle names in their code.

“You’d say the exact same thing if you had a horrible middle name!” Ron’s voice cracked.

“Honestly, Ron, I’m sure there’s nothing wrong with your name. Besides, this way nobody will know who wrote the messages or who they’re intended for. If we’re caught –“

“Hermione,” Harry interrupted, “explain to me again how we’re NOT going to get caught for doing underage magic.”

There was a pause and Harry imagined Hermione chewing on her bottom lip like she habitually did when thinking about something that could be construed as marginally rule-breaking, “Well, it’s not REALLY magic per se … I mean, it’s doesn’t require a wand. It’s spells, hexes, and charms that the Ministry monitors – you know, wand-requiring magic or powerful accidental magic, and this … well, this … this is more like a potion really.”

“So, let me get this straight. We just have follow your … er … directions and we can talk to each other all summer?”

“We’ll have to coordinate our communication time before hand using owls. We’ll use our middle names so nobody will suspect anything. I’m not sure how long the potion will work, or how far away we can be. I’m surprised that we are able to keep this conversation going for this long, actually…”

“This is brilliant!” Harry whispered, barely able to contain his excitement.

“It’s Bilius,” Ron whispered hoarsely.

“What are you talking about?” Harry and Hermione said simultaneously.

“There you have it. Go on … laugh all you want, that’s my horrible middle name,” Ron sighed.

“BOY! DON’T MAKE ME COME UP THERE!” Uncle Vernon’s voice jolted Harry out of his thoughts.

Harry closed his eyes and concentrated on stemming his temper. Uncle Vernon had been especially vile the past week. It may have had something to do with Harry accidentally punching a hole in the kitchen wall during one of Dudley’s thinly-veiled attempts to get him expelled from Hogwarts for doing accidental magic by threatening to dismember Hedwig.

“Hedwig, take these to Ron and Hermione straight away,” said Harry as he tied the small message satchel to her leg. Hedwig hooted softly and launched herself out the window. At least now she’ll be safe from Dudley for a couple of days, Harry thought numbly as he watched her disappear over the neighbor’s rooftop. Privet Drive always seemed bigger and lonelier without Hedwig.

Harry blinked and shook his head. How long had he been standing at the window? He knelt and then slid onto his stomach, pulling himself under the bed. He shoved aside a dusty copy of The Daily Prophet with the headline, ‘Murderer, Sirius Black, Still At Large’ emblazed across its front page. He dislodged the loose floorboard and retrieved a small phial of light-blue liquid and a piece of flesh-colored putty no larger than the tip of his index finger.

Harry grinned and suppressed a chuckle – if Snape only knew what some of his potions were being modified and used for. He silently thanked Hermione for her ability to pay attention in class. Jumping to his feet, Harry carefully wrapped these items in his Quidditch practice shirt and stuffed it in his trunk before walking toward the door. He would need them tomorrow.

Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley were assembled in the living room as Harry descended the stairs. As usual, Dudley was slouched in the corner, thoroughly engrossed in the latest issue of Boxing Champions Weekly – a magazine that Aunt Petunia had purchased in triplicate (one for every one of Dudley’s favorite places: the toilet, the kitchen, and his bedroom) once he showed the slightest interest in reading. Little did they know that Dudley had taken to hiding dirty magazines from Piers in between its pages. By the way Dudley’s eyes were currently fixed to the page inches from his face, he was do anything but actually reading.

Harry snorted in disgust.

Aunt Petunia was whispering to Uncle Vernon who was standing with his back to Harry, her thin lips moving frantically as if she was stuck in the fast-forward function on the video player, “…but Vernon what if it doesn’t work? You know that he’s not allowed!”

“Never stopped him before, did it? You know what they said: it’ll be no problem if –”

Harry narrowed his eyes and glanced between Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon. They were probably conspiring to remove another one of the few self-proclaimed luxuries they bestowed him. He wondered what it was going to be this time.

“What am I not allowed?” he said loudly.

Petunia jumped. Her hands flew to her throat. Vernon swung around as if he had been electrocuted – his beady eyes settled on Harry who was standing in the doorway.

“You’ll not be allowed to eat for the next week if you don’t get into the car NOW!” roared Uncle Vernon, gesturing violently toward the front door.

Oh, that’s terribly original, thought Harry darkly. He braced himself for the impending onslaught of fists. “No,” he said, planting his feet.

Dudley looked up from his magazine. A hungry gleam burned in his small eyes.

“How dare you say ‘no’ you ungrateful little abnormal…” growled Uncle Vernon who quickly lessened the distance between him and Harry. His face began to flush the bright tomato red that signaled dangerous territory.

Harry stiffened, pulled himself to his full height, and was surprised when he was looking slightly down at his uncle. “Not until you tell me where we’re going.” He didn’t really think that he’d get a straight answer, but it was worth a try. Anyway, Harry didn’t really care about what Uncle Vernon did to him anymore.

Aunt Petunia spoke, causing Vernon to freeze and Harry to turn in surprise. “We’re going to visit Marge. She … she would like to see you, Harry.” Aunt Petunia’s eyes darted Uncle Vernon.

Harry was dumbstruck. He momentarily forgot he was staring a spiting-mad Uncle Vernon in the face. What would possess the Dursleys to go out of their way to take him to visit Marge and her awful army of snarling bulldogs, let alone have her request that he actually visit? Probably because they would enjoy watching Aunt Marge constantly interrogate and berate me.

“Why are we visiting Aunt Marge in the middle of the night?” Harry said warily. Something is going on…this is definitely not normal. Harry tried to hide his alarm. He didn’t want to give the Durselys the satisfaction of seeing him put-out.

“Never you mind,” growled Uncle Vernon, turning away.

“It’s her birthday at midnight,” Aunt Petunia said suddenly as her eyes danced nervously around the room. Dudley was gaping at them like a giant blonde hog over the top of his magazine – which Harry noticed with satisfaction – was upside down and backwards.

Harry frowned. Why would they bring me to Aunt Marge’s birthday party? To do the dishes or serve cake? How thick do they think I am? Harry suppressed a snort.

Vernon must’ve sensed his doubt because he suddenly sprung to life and bellowed, “If you must know, BOY, I don’t want you alone in our house. You and your unnatural little friends will be running around doing who knows what! Blowing things up and…” Vernon gesticulated wildly to make up for the lack of words, “…blowing things up!” he repeated forcefully, spit flying. Lowering his voice, he peered up at Harry and sneered, “Don’t think that we didn’t know you let them into our house the last time.”

“Yes, they stole a potato peeler and –” Aunt Petunia’s face contorted with disgust “– they touched things in the kitchen!” she finished dramatically. As she said this, her pale eyes darted to kitchen as if there were some magical disaster lurking in the toaster, waiting to unleash itself on her at any moment.

Harry ducked his head, fighting desperately to keep from laughing. The “last time” had been last summer when members of the Order had broken into the Dursleys in order to bring him to Grimmauld Place. If he remembered correctly, they had been more alarmed at the cleanliness of house than anything else, but had hardly considered blowing anything up.

This seemed to be an appropriate reaction because Uncle Vernon just glared and gnashed his teeth before collecting his car keys and pushing past Harry to stomp out the front door. “In the car now, or it’ll be that bloody pigeon of yours next!” he snarled over his shoulder.

“Dudders, get into the car or we’re going to be late,” said Petunia briskly, approaching Dudley who promptly snapped his magazine closed and shoved it protectively under his large beefy arm.

Dudley walked past Harry and punched him hard in the shoulder. Harry glared at Dudley with disgust; he knew exactly what Dudley was hiding in his magazine.

Harry leaned heavily against the leather seat and let the smooth oscillations of the car carry him as they sped into the night. He was lost in thought and barely aware of Aunt Petunia nervously glancing back at him, or Uncle Vernon muttering under his breath, clenching the steering wheel until his knuckles were white.

Strangely, what troubled Harry the most was the lack of news about Voldemort all summer. It wasn’t that Hermione and Ron hadn’t been keeping him up-to-date on the events in the wizarding world, but quite the contrary. In fact, to his delight, they had done an exceptional job at keeping him abreast of what was going on.

Their conversations were at the point now where they were ridiculously predictable, almost scripted, but Harry never tired of them. They would begin with small talk and the re-telling of the latest escapades at the Burrow, which usually led to muffled laughter and sarcastic comments, much to Ron’s annoyance. Then, to Harry’s annoyance, Hermione would invariably steer the conversation toward him and what happened at the Department of Mysteries. After a verbal match of seek and evade, the conversation would end in a question and answer session with Harry, to Hermione’s annoyance, asking a different version of the same question, “Is there any news about Voldemort?” The answer was always the same, “No news, yet.”

Harry had no idea what the Ministry was doing besides sitting around debating with the Wizengamot about how to redistribute funds, which according to Hermione and The Daily Prophet was all Fudge and his cronies did these days. Who cares about bloody money when Voldemort’s lurking around doing who-knows-what? Harry thought angrily. Never mind that his scar had barely twinged all summer.

In fact, there was scarcely a word about Voldemort or Death Eater activity since the flurry of articles that came out at the end of the last school year. It seemed, to Harry at least, that the Ministry was purposely thrusting other issues into the spotlight in order to avoid addressing what they was doing (or not doing in his opinion) about Voldemort directly.

Certainly, there were the odd articles, but they were devoid of any real useful information. Just last week an article in The Daily Prophet explained how to defend oneself using only a bedroom slipper and a balaclava. Harry had made a very sarcastic remark about how he could now sleep soundly on very cold nights without fear of being attacked. There had also been an article on how to correctly identify the Dark Mark, although the editors had prohibited publication of a picture of the Dark Mark, so the article was reduced to a description of a skull with a snake for a tongue. The Quibbler faithfully published articles speculating about the whereabouts of the Voldemort and his Death Eaters. But somehow, Harry thought it unlikely that Voldemort was in Vanuatu searching for Fire-Breathing Lava-Crumpetiers or in Antarctica penguin-watching.

Harry turned towards the window so Dudley wouldn’t see how aggravated he was. Why had he even started thinking about all of that again? He knew that it was a complete waste of energy. It only left him feeling edgy and helpless and wanting more than anything to pack his trunk and head off to the Burrow.

During the day it was easy enough to keep his mind from wandering into dangerous territory. There was Aunt Petunia’s constant stream of criticism as well as the endless gardening and house work the Durleys imagined for him on a daily basis. Harry’s most recent past-time was determining which member of the Order was on duty and then tracking them with the intention of getting news about Voldemort’s activities. Twice he had successfully sneaked up on a napping Mundungus Fletcher hiding under an Invisibility Cloak (once in the neighbor’s tree, and once in one of the dustbins along the side of the house). Both times he’d accidentally scared him senseless before Dung had Disapparated. Harry also thought that he had spotted Tonks disguised as an old lady with blue hair driving a mobility scooter trailing him on his way home from his Friday errands. However, by the time he had double-backed to intercept her she was nowhere to be seen.

Harry pressed his forehead into the cool pane of glass and let his eyes drift across the sky, searching for the moon. He wondered what Ron and Hermione were doing right now. Thoughts of days filled with Quidditch in the paddock, warm buttered bread and stew, and post-dinner games of exploding snap floated into his head. He pushed the bitter feelings back into his stomach as the heavy dead feeling that had permanently taken residence in his chest since Sirius, Harry shook his head and pushed that name to the back of his mind, since … last year retuned.

Harry concentrated on the stars. He usually found the solitude of deep night comforting. There was something about the stillness, it was as if time was almost suspended and everything could be put on hold. The steady gleam of the stars was strangely peaceful. Maybe it was because they were a constant – something that could be depended on no matter what happened. He would sometimes stare out his window at Privet Drive and just let the darkness take him over. It had a mysterious numbing affect and quelled the dull pain in his chest.

Harry tried to find that dark comfort, but a disquieting feeling was tugging at his conscious. However, this wasn’t anything new as he usually felt like this around nightfall. There was something discomforting about the transition from the predictability of the day and light to the simplicity and solitude of the night and the dark. It was sort of a limbo where he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. Maybe it was because this was the time of day when his menial tasks were finished and the Durleys seemed to rather enjoy dinner without his company. It was then that he would write mundane letters at Hermione’s insistence, (“Well, we still have to write regular letters otherwise Ron’s parents and Dumbledore might suspect something, mightn’t they?”) or try to complete some of his summer coursework.

However, lately, the summer heat and the suffocating presence of the Dursleys drove Harry outdoors, and he had taken to wandering aimlessly around Privet Drive. Harry watched as parents returned from work and children bounced home to gather for dinner. He could see them sitting together in their living rooms, the warm light illuminating their silhouettes against closed curtains as he meandered among the lengthening shadows. It was this time of the day when he felt Sirius’s loss most deeply; it reminded him of how close he had been to having something like a real family until he had mucked everything up.

Harry studied his reflection in the car window generated from the green neon glow of the dashboard controls. The infamous mark that permanently branded him peeked out innocently behind the curtain of thick hair that haphazardly covered his forehead, his cursed scar. He averted his eyes and reflexively flattened his fringe with his hand.

Dudley – who had finally exhausted his reading material – surveyed Harry from across the backseat. “I’d hate to look at myself if I were you, too,” he sneered.

Harry stared at the back of Uncle Vernon’s large head directly in front of him, concentrating on how the lights from passing cars bounced weirdly off its baldness. He wasn’t going to fall for any more of Dudley’s attempts to get him to do more accidental magic and kicked out of Hogwarts.

Dudley seemed to read his thoughts. “Do you really think that you are actually going back to that school?”

Harry slowly turned and saw Dudley’s unmistakable smirk in the semi-darkness. He was apparently satisfied that he had got a response. “Shut up, Dudley, before I jinx your mouth shut permanently.” Harry’s fingers itched for his wand.

“You can’t do magic outside of school.” Dudley glanced at the front seat and then back at Harry and hissed quietly, “Besides, they’re coming to get you, and you won’t be able to do anything!”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Harry was barely maintaining control. The muscles in his jaw twitched and he dug his fingernails into his palms. What was he talking about?

“I know about you and your freak-of-nature friends.” Dudley narrowed his eyes and tapped his ear knowingly. “I know about Voldemort – he’s going to kill you.”

So Dudley had been listening to their late night conversations all summer, probably through the wall that separated their bedrooms. Well, if Dudley wanted to play that game…“You’re not the only one who has ears, Duddikins.” Harry tapped his ear in jest and leaned over. “I know what you have there in your magazine. I know what you do when you’re alone in your room.” Dudley’s eyes widened. Harry felt a strange energy pulse through him as he continued, “You wouldn’t want your mum to accidentally find something of yours…”

Dudley’s face contorted in anger and he pulled back his right arm. Harry turned and flattened himself against the door. Dudley’s mammoth fist tore through the air inches from his face and connected with the back of Uncle Vernon’s head. The car veered sharply to the right as Vernon slumped over the steering wheel and Petunia screamed. Harry was thrown forward toward Dudley and saw his hammy fist rushing towards his face.

“Urpphhh!”

Harry flew backwards. His head hit the window. Small white lights exploded before his eyes and he tasted blood. But before Harry could respond, he was pinned against his door as the car lurched suddenly to the left. Petunia shrieked and began grabbing at Vernon. Dudley fell on Harry, and then they were both thrown forward where they collided with the front seats. Dudley screamed.

The car was careening out of control and barreling down the road very fast, pitching violently to the left and then to the right, and tossing the occupants around like rag dolls. Harry caught a glimpse of headlights rushing toward them and threw himself onto the floor as the sound of squealing breaks and blazing horns filled his head. Then there were only Aunt Petunia’s panicked screams, the crunch metal, and the shattering of glass.

Harry was barely aware of anything except the blinding pain. It felt like his head was fit to split into a million pieces. His entire right side felt like it was on fire. Something warm and viscous was sliding down his face and neck and something solid and heavy was crushing his arm. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t see anything.

My wand… And with that thought, Harry slipped into darkness.

–x/X\x–

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