A/N: This might be a series, depending if I have enough inspiration to go on... Disclaimer: I own nothing. Flight of Death- Prologue It was night, the kind of night where you just wanted to curl up by the fire and roast marshmallows over the flames. The kind of night where you could be entranced by the fire for hours, just watching the colors. Outside, the night was like light shining through pin pricks on a blue-black paper; the moon was a crescent shaped cutout. The trees were thin lines of black paint that made lacy patterns on the blue-black paper and all of it was serenely still. Harry was doing just that, roasting marahmallows so ineffectively that when he remembered to pull them out, they were completely black and flames rose out of it. He kept on staring at the fire unblinking though his eyes were dry and hot, he never pulled his head away. The wizarding radio was playing though he wasn't really listening to it, it seemed to go in one ear and out the next. It was all the same. The rise of Voldemort was swift and silent. The fool Fudge had left the dementors to protect Azkaban, and as Dumbledore has predicted, they had left to join the Dark Lord. There had been an account of it in the Daily Prophet, a scathing article on Fudge's credibility. Now he was a enemy in his own home. A council of the department heads now governed the ministry and left Fudge for the public to rip apart to shreds. They had managed somehow to keep it from the Muggles, but how long could they keep it up? Harry was thinking none of this, his mind was wandering here and there, stopping every few times or so to think. "...news of more killings near Hogsmeade. Three children were totured to death, a fourth victim of Avada Kedavra. Officials are investigating the incident, it seems so far to be You-Know-Who related. This and other stories coming up, now lets go to Anthony Winterborne for the weather for-" Click. Harry turned the radio off and continued to stare at the fire. His eyelids drooped, still scorched by the heat of the flames. A grey fog was rising in his mind and... Lupin was standing by a gate, looking sad. he didn't seem to be earthly, his arms were columns of smoke and his eyes were bottomless holes of light. The rest of his body was translucent, you could see a faint beating. The area at where he was looking wasn't familiar yet at the same time it was. The moon was bright and full and before his eyes, Remus Lupin disentegrated. It happened quickly until all that was left was a pile of ashes. The ashes swirled and was carried upward by an immediate wind but the specks were clearly visible against the sky. Now, another man came in, looking satisfied. He wasn't ghostly but he had Lupin's eyes and his hair. But his mouth was different, it showed different emotions as if the mouth was the way to the soul, not the eyes. he rubbed his hands together gleefully and reached for the place where the ashes had been, but they weren't there. In its place was a package but Harry couldn't see. He strained, but the harder he tried, the more blurred the image became until it was just large blotches of blue, black and grey. The colors swirled again and- This time, a portrait hung in front of him. A man that he didn't recognize. The man had an austere expression and a pursed mouth. The picture, curiously enough, wasn't moving but the frame was. Carved acorns wiggled on the tree, squirrels dashed back and forth between them and a deer was striding quietly between it all. A large gold knob said "pull". Next to it, a large striped button said "push". Next to the button was a silk rose. A small engraved sign above it said "smell". He realized the whole hall was composed of such objects with inscructions like "kick", "pinch", "touch", "paint" and "scratch". But what was he supposed to do with the painting? He couldn't see a sign on it, just a few words painted on the portrait. All it said was, "Sir Kreaiengl Otil, Born 1845-1879", Below that was a number. "4" it said and that was all. And the face was changing, it was changing into a different person, but before he could examine it, it changed again. And again. But the words at the bottom seemed to stay the same, though different letters changed in it. Harry was floating gently back into conciousness, the fire flickering happily. The dream seemed to be floating at the back of his mind and soon, he didn't think about it at all. It was stored for later use, whatever that might be. Harry stood up and stretched; the doorbell rang. He didn't seem surprised at all, he just placed his feet in a pair of worn slippers and plodded to the front door. Upon opening it, he reached for the light switch by it and turned on the light for the doorway. There stood Professor Snape, gripping his cloak around him. "Come in, come in," was all Harry said. He pulled the door all the way open and Snape obliged. "I don't have long," was all he said, stiffly. And he slumped onto the floor, breathing heavily. "Well, get started." And Harry offered him the bag of marahmallows. --finish-- Well, this is the prologue. Er- yeah, it is. 100 points to anyone who figures out what the painting means...