The Haunting
A/N : This is the true Haunting, my friends. I just felt like writing it, so bear with me, OK? This has nothing to do with my other haunting. I'm feeling lazy. Please review, if you like it; if you don't I'll take the hint and not continue it.
Disclaimer : They belong to J. K. Rowling, although it might not seem so at first...
Note : 'Bran' is pronounced with the vowel in farm or barn and means raven in Welsh.
The forest had always been unrelenting, and now during the autumn it was beginning to chill, leaves strewing the ground, the streams supplying freezing cold water. Icy clear liquid flowed into a canister against a makeshift dam of leaves and twigs, and further away a small fire crackled on a space on the ground cleared of dead leaves. A young man warmed his hands, pulling the jacket closer around him.
The sunlight glinted off the wispy hair as the young man unfolded his thin limbs to get up and take his water. Splashing a little of it onto his face out of his cupped hands, the young man sighed. He would have to find a warmer place if it was going to snow. Yes, he, because his other companion was absolutely no use. He was probably asleep now, and would have to be woken up for dinner. It was almost as though he had gone into hibernation like the other wild animals [thank goodness for that]…
Slowly he got up and threw a handful of dirt onto the fire, extinguishing it immediately. His once elegant garments were now tattered, darns with rough twine showing here and there. His companions' were no better, though he had darned them with the only real thread left to them, the man recollected sourly. And had damned them, too, with the soft clear voice that was so familiar to him.
He made steady pace towards the camp, and found James chucking stones idly across the floor of the cave. 'Stop that!' he admonished, and the slender boy looked up. 'I got some water. Hand me the cups.' The black-haired boy handed over some smooth wooden cups, hewn with his own knife.
'Bran, what's for dinner?'
'Nothing, there's nothing there. I sat there for ages and all I caught was this.' Bran held up a leaf. 'We'll just have to make do with soup. Come here, I want you to mix these.' He pulled a pile of herbs out of a small leather bag and began to sort them out furiously. 'Here… no, we don't want this…'
James took the herbs and threw them into the pot, then sat down on the floor to light a fire. Bran moved to the edge of the cave, inhaling cold air. The air itself was no longer invigorating, and every breath you took seemed to take something out of you.
A sudden audible intake of breath sounded from the corner of the cave.
'What's that?'
'Something touched my cheek.' James was holding a hand to his cheek in bewilderment. 'It was cold… reminded me of…'
'Of what?'
'I can't remember.' His brows knitted in a frown as he heated the water over the fire. 'It's strange. I feel like there's something I ought to remember, something from another life.'
'What life?' Bran snorted. 'You're just imagining things, James – Ouch!' He put a hand to his cheek as well, staring across at the boy across the cave who was frozen in the same position. 'Someone slapped me!'
'Nothing, it was nothing,' James said abruptly, dismissing the subject with a wave of his hand. Bran sighed and went back to staring out of the cave and wondering exactly how long it would take before he froze to death.
'Here, eat.' James pushed a bowl of steaming stew into Bran's hands. He took it wordlessly and lifted it to his lips – they had a wooden spoon, but James was using that – and took a sip, swallowing slowly. He ran his fingers over the grooves in the bowl that said his name – Bran – in roughly carved letters. He had taken his name from his Animagus form, the raven, because before that he had been drifting in the woods, nameless and alone. Before he had met James…
As he sipped thoughtfully at his stew he looked up at James, who was using the spoon delicately. His hair was getting rather long, and Bran resolved to cut it before the month was out. James's tattered denim jeans were turned up at the ends to keep them from fraying, and a gaping hole showed at the knee where he had encountered an unfriendly weasel. It was hard to find out anything about James; either he had forgotten everything or he was being extremely stubborn.
'D'you think it's going to be cold this winter?' James queried suddenly, looking up and perceiving Bran's eyes boring holes into his. 'Hey, what's the matter with you?'
'Nothing, and I hope not,' replied Bran, smoothing back his wispy hair. 'If it does…' He left the rest unanswered. James looked back down at his bowl and began to eat a little more hurriedly. Bran realised he looked hungry, and looked down at his own bowl. James hadn't eaten lunch; he had been too tired to wake.
'Here, eat,' he echoed his companion. 'I'm not that hungry.'
'Nah, I couldn't…' James insisted, but his eyes flicked hungrily towards the bowl.
'Go on!' Bran shoved it towards him.
'You sure?'
'Of course, dimwit.'
He watched as James finished the stew, affection and annoyance battling themselves in his mind. There was a strange feeling in the air as well, as though something was waiting for them. What had slapped him just a little while ago?
He didn't want to know what it was.
Bran dreamt he was holding a ticking time bomb in his hands, a very clichéd time bomb at that, with the numbers clearly written in red and the classic fuse at the end of a rounded black sphere. Wait a minute, there shouldn't be a fuse in the time bomb.
He was in a little cottage, and James was laughing at him. He was angry, very angry, but when he tried to throw the bomb at James, it wouldn't explode, only made a little popping noise and lay mutilated on the floor like an insult. James stopped laughing. Bran woke up frowning.
He looked across and saw James fast asleep, his meagre covers thrown off, breathing softly with his mouth slightly open. His wild black hair fell in locks across the heather and one arm was thrown wide as though welcoming an invisible entity. Bran reached out to pull the covers back up on him.
'Yes, pretty, isn't he?'
Bran shot round abruptly, knocking his hand into James, who moaned softly but did not wake. There was a barely discernible shadow by the entrance to the cave, a formless, empty shadow. 'Who are you?' he wanted to scream, but the sentence did not listen to him, modified itself into 'What are you?' and sidled out of his mouth with a disturbing change of emphasis.
'What, you don't recognise me?' the thing asked, its voice harsh and cold. 'Why, I'm disappointed in you, my dear boy. Once I was everything to you.'
'I'm dreaming,' Bran muttered to himself, shaking his head.
'When was the last time you cut that hair?' the thing asked, moving closer with a small chuckle. 'We would never have let you look like that. I must say, it becomes you, however – you look very interesting. How long have you been living here?'
'Wraiths don't ask personal questions,' said Bran, a flash of understanding flowing over him, although he had no idea where he had got the name from. 'Neither do they insult others who, even if I say so myself, look much better than they do. Neither do they disturb others' beauty sleep. Leave me alone.'
'Spunky as always,' the Wraith hissed, doing a mad kind of twist and suddenly resembling the trees outside – twisted and ethereal. Bran shuddered as icy fingers brushed his neck. 'I'm come to remind you.'
'Remind me of what?' Bran challenged, although his heart was beating faster and faster.
In answer the Wraith laid a cold hand on his forehead, and the grey walls spun and turned a pure, blasting white.
He was surrounded by children, all in long black robes; he was face to face with James, and shouting obscenities. Before he had time to ponder this, he was whisked to another image, of a tall, cold man, and of being terrified; a blonde sad woman who leaked blue tears. He saw himself crouched in a corner with blows raining down on him, although he could not see from whom the blows came. He saw an old castle, a lake, boats; a tall giant of a man with beetle-black eyes and a wide grin. Then there were more images; a man, tall, cold and white-lipped, with horrible red eyes. A spider writhing in torment, and why was he chuckling?
Then suddenly, in a brilliant flash of understanding, he knew; he knew who he was, he knew his past, why he was here, who James was. And it was a fact he did not like at all.
'Yes,' the Wraith hissed in his ear. 'Yes…' And he was back in the cave, breathing heavily, his long hair all over his face. The peacefully sleeping James lay on his bed, his mouth still slightly open.
Bran did the first thing that came to mind, and pounced on James, shaking him awake. 'You! Why didn't you tell me? It was you!'
'Huh?'
'You're not James!' A long breath escaped Bran as he realised James had no idea what he was talking about. 'You're not James. You're… you're Harry Potter.'
'Huh?'
'Don't you know me? Yes, you know me! You hate me! I'm Draco, Draco Malfoy.'
The Wraith sneered as the two stared at each other, transfixed. 'Yes, yes, my two little gullible cubs. Now you remember what happened? My job is done… and now that that's finished, it's time to finish you.' It drifted closer and closer, circling them. 'You created me, both of you, between you,' it hissed, its voice sending shivers up their bones. 'Me and many more are waiting for you. You will not rest my dears, not for a long time.'
'You're him!' James exclaimed, still unable to comprehend the sudden flash of understanding. Not James; Harry, for indeed it was he. Draco lifted a hand to gently trace the lightning scar on his forehead, and knew. 'And… what's that?'
'You and your meddling,' hissed the Wraith, still circling, getting ever closer. 'You created us. We cannot rest. We serve the Lord, Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, the Dark Lord, and him alone. By running from him, defying him, hurting him, you evoke our wrath.'
'Quick, James – Harry – my wand!' Draco hissed at him. Harry snatched his wand off the ledge it lay on and passed it to him. Draco waved it at the Wraith, uttering words under his breath, and drew a circle on the ground. Blue flames erupted from the tip of the wand, surrounding the two who stood terrified in the middle.
More and more ghostly forms were drifting into the cave, some resembling the Wraith, others fully visible. A tall man whose gait was slow and jerky stumbled into the cave, reaching out for them, burning his fingers at the flames. Draco muttered some more strange spells, and the things began to snarl at him.
'What are you doing?'
'Trust me!'
The things were moving again, closer and closer to the flame. Draco felt suddenly very, very cold. He began to shout, spells of protection learnt under Professor Lupin in Defence Against The Dark Arts.
All of a sudden, they were alone. The blue flame was gone; the things were vanished. The wind beat against the grey walls. Harry turned to Draco, shaken, and they both sat down, facing each other. Draco was too stunned to speak.
'We went to Hogwarts together…' Harry said slowly. 'And I was fighting Voldemort. Their Dark Lord.'
'Yes, and my father put a Memory Charm on me and turned me out of the house.'
'Why?' Harry asked curiously. 'I thought you were the golden boy.'
'Never mind why. You were just overstrained, that's why you forgot?'
'Yes… I drove him away… then I…'
'James – I mean Harry – let's just go to sleep now, shall we? All that magic made my head ache…' Draco lay down again. 'We'll talk tomorrow, if I don't find out that all this is actually a dream.'
A/N : I actually posted this? Oh NO... Well, if you actually *want* to read more, please review. If you don't want to, just review anyway.