Harry Potter and the Mirror of Nostradamus
A/N: Before you start reading, this fic contains spoilers for the fifth book, OotP. You have been warned.
I loved the fifth book, and I'm grieving for Sirius like all of you. But my fic does NOT include him coming back- not that I don't like those stories- but I think Rowling wouldn't have killed him if he was going to come back. In this fic Harry does find a way to communicate with him, sort of. But that's not the point of the story, it's something else. Anyway, I hope you like it and plz review!
Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me. Even the idea of the mirror, I borrowed it from a book I've read, but the plot is basically mine.
Oh, as for the rating, its basically PG now but I rated it PG- 13 for the romance and some references to sex but those will come much later.
Chapter 1: The Marauders' Map
The evening August breeze ruffled the boy's wild black hair as he slowly made his way up the front steps of Number four, Privet Drive, back from one of his nighttime strolls. Hitching up his baggy jeans, he lifted a pale hand and rapped softly on the front door. His aunt Petunia let him in silently, and he just as silently started up the stairs to his room.
"Er-" His aunt's voice stopped him as he was halfway up the staircase. Harry turned his head, dull green eyes focusing on Petunia.
"It's pretty late. Maybe- maybe next time you should come back earlier. For your own safety, of course," she said hastily. His aunt had been acting strangely ever since he had returned back from school, even more so than his uncle and cousin- who had just turned to the old way of completely ignoring Harry's existence after the threats from the members of the Order of the Phoenix. No, his aunt was being painfully polite to the young wizard and sometimes-sometimes- even showing the slightest signs of concern for him. That could have been the case now, but then again, she might also just be trying to avoid a repeat of last summer's 'dementoid' incident which would have led to suspicion on the neighbors' behalf.
"Fine." Harry shrugged indifferently and now doubled his pace, unaware of his aunt watching his back helplessly from below. He slammed back the door of his room as soon as he reached it and flopped on the old bed, restlessly staring at nothing.
The room didn't look any different than it had been last summer. There was the old bed, the old cupboards, the window, Hedwig's cage in the corner, the snowy white owl perched inside it, Harry's trunk beside it, a couple of socks and books strewn on the floor, and the lone occupant lying on his back, seeming for all the world like he'd lost his best friend- which was not far from the truth.
No, the only slight adjustment to Harry's room this summer could be seen only if one looked underneath the loose wooden floorboard next to his bed, and then any person would see what looked like a pile of rubbish: a melted pocketknife, numerous broken pieces of glass, a photograph torn from an album, and wrinkled pieces of parchment that looked like they had been crumpled up and then straightened out. On the floorboard, propped against the bedside table, was a shiny broomstick with the word Firebolt faded slightly on it.
The 'pile of rubbish' meant the world to Harry Potter. He tried not to look at the broomstick and the floorboard, but his emerald eyes kept wandering back, and he ended up staring at them miserably as the night drew closer and the sky grew blacker.
The scene wasn't new to Harry, or for his aunt, who regularly stopped by his room to call him to eat or ask him for help in some chore or other. Ever since he had come back from school last year, he had done nothing but lie restlessly in his room feeling sorry for himself, occasionally taking walks in the neighborhood and visiting old Mrs. Figg after a lot of coaxing on her behalf. Obeying Alastor Moody, he had exchanged letters with select Order members every couple of days to reassure them he was fine, as well as with his worried friends, but his letters were always short and choppy. The only two really lengthy letters he had written had been to Remus Lupin, who Harry decided was the only one who could truly see how Harry felt, seeing as he and Harry had suffered the same, common loss, and to Hermione Granger. On a burst of consciousness, he had admitted to her that she'd been right all along and that he wished he had listened to her warning instead of snapping at her. As for the others, he felt he didn't want to burden them with his feelings, and pretty much kept to himself. They had sent him the usual cards and presents on his birthday, apologizing for the delay in fulfilling their promises of 'seeing him very soon', and assuring him that it could be any time now. Though he was grateful and touched, he wasn't entirely sure he didn't want to stay here the rest of the summer- the Dursleys were basically leaving him alone and he wouldn't have been very good company to anyone anyway.
Why did you have to go, Sirius? He thought for the sixty-eighth thousandth time that summer. After continuous nightmares and a lot of urging from everyone, he had tried practicing Occlumency again, but his thoughts kept wandering to that very same question. According to Harry, its answer was pretty clear; it was mostly his own fault, of course, perhaps with a little bit of Kreacher, Umbridge, Dumbledore, Snape, and a teensy bit of Sirius' own recklessness. He had tortured himself, blaming himself for every possible tiny detail, including not opening the package with the mirror sooner- which could have enabled him to contact Sirius and verify that he was fine and in no need of a dumb 'rescue mission' , which would turn out to be a 'death mission'.
A helpless feeling of frustration welled up inside him and he growled, cracking his knuckles and trying to make it painful. He had secretly looked through numerous books, he had thought of everything, but had come up with nothing that could bring Sirius back, or allow Harry to communicate with him somehow. The type of spellbooks he needed were probably in Knockturn Alley, and he suspected even they would not be of much use. He had even considered using a Time- Turner to go back and fix everything, but rational thinking that could only have come from years of knowing Hermione and Dumbledore stopped him. As a result, he moped around his room, doing nothing, thinking of Sirius' wasted life…he could have had so much… in the old days he had been so cheery and troublemaking and fun, plotting with the Marauders…before his life had been torn away by Voldemort..
Plotting with the Marauders…Harry sat up suddenly, a frown on his face. It was a narrow hope, and wouldn't even be much use if it worked, but still, Harry was desperate…
He got up, knelt on the floor next to his trunk, and started rummaging inside, tossing things out until finally his trembling hand came across an old, yellowed parchment: The Marauder's map.
He took out his wand and paused. The Ministry had officially given permission to all underage students to perform magic outside school, in light of the recent developments, for self-defense. The officials were able to, of course, keep tabs on who was using magic and when, but Harry doubted they'd care much if he used an old joke map- besides, they had more important things on their minds.
Having decided, he tapped the map with his wand and said, very quietly, "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good." The map of Hogwarts appeared before him. He barely glanced at it and instead started thinking- how could he get them to write? He frowned, trying to remember that time when the Marauders had made fun of Snape…yes, he had tapped the map with his wand and shouted something like, 'I , Professor Severus Snape, master of this school, command you to reveal your secrets…' And what had Sirius said? 'Padfoot would like to register his astonishment that an idiot like that ever became a professor.'
A very slight smile tugged involuntarily at Harry's lips as he remembered.
Now what could he say to attract the Marauders' attention?
Slowly, he tapped the map with his wand again. "I, Harry Potter, would like to commend Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs on being role models for mischief makers everywhere," Harry said finally.
He waited with baited breath- nothing happened. I knew it was useless, he thought, and was about to put the parchment away when suddenly the map of Hogwarts disappeared, and shiny writing started appearing on the old parchment.
Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs thank Harry Potter for his good taste and would like to know if they can be of service.
Now he was smiling fully…maybe, just maybe, he could talk to Sirius… but he didn't get his hopes up. After all, the map was only saying what these men would say in such a situation, but it wasn't really them talking…was it?
"I want to speak to Padfoot," Harry said hastily, afraid they would get bored and leave him. The old letters disappeared, the parchment became blank, and then three new ones appeared.
Why?
"Because…because I know him very well in person…and I need to talk to him about something."
There was now a very long pause after the old writing disappeared, and it was a full five minutes before more appeared again. Harry assumed they had been considering it.
Padfoot here, Master of mischief, at your service. Now what is it that's so important you've got to interrupt the great minds of Hogwarts?
Sirius, thought Harry, tears starting to well up in his eyes.
"I- you're my godfather," Harry said, his voice choked. And this time, to his surprise, the response wasn't as surprised or immature as Harry had expected; it seemed thoughtful.
You must be from the future. Did you say your name was Potter?
Harry swallowed. "Yes- I'm…Prongs Junior…James' son," he almost whispered.
Then why do you want to talk to me, and not him?
"Before I answer you, I need to know…will any of what I'm saying affect the future if you people do something about it?" Harry was starting to get scared…this could be as bad as using a Time-Turner. But Padfoot's response was reassuring.
Smart kid. No, it won't. We are a recording of memories; we have no power whatsoever to affect the actions of our real selves, and we are not of any specific age.
It was a while before the long message was written out and when it was, Harry felt relieved. "All right then," he said. "I want to talk to you, because…until recently…I've always been in contact with you…James, though…he died…a long time ago."
Oh, well I can't pretend this isn't shocking. Until recently? Meaning…
"Meaning…meaning you died a couple of months ago," Harry replied, his voice trembling. Again, the response took a long time to appear now.
I see…take it easy, kid. So you've been missing having me around and want to talk?
"Yeah…sort of," Harry said, embarrassed.
I've got no problem with that. Tell me then, have I been a good godfather?
Harry got up, sat cross- legged on his bed for a more comfortable position, and then replied, "The best. You got me a brand-new top of the line broomstick- the Firebolt. And, and you worried like heck about me all the time…you would help if I needed to talk…" He broke off, unable to continue.
Worrying? Doesn't sound much like me, pal. Guess I changed. Firebolt, eh? You're a Quidditch player then? What position?
"Seeker…I was the youngest player in a century to be picked on the house team; they let me play when I was in first year." He normally didn't boast about that, but he wanted to impress Padfoot. He wanted to talk to him as long as possible, about anything- he didn't care what. He didn't care if this Sirius didn't really know him, but his responses would be exactly the same as the real Sirius, and Harry wanted to know if Sirius would think that his death was Harry's fault.
Wow! Prongs would sure be proud. Are you a lot like him?
"I look like him, I suppose…you used to tell me that I remind you of him, but then you realized I wasn't as daring or mischievous… that I was more like my mother. Some people, they… they accused you of taking me as a sort of…replacement for James; they kept reminding you that I'm his son."
Is Lily Evans your mother?
"Was," said Harry quietly. "She's dead, too."
Damn. Voldemort?
"Yes." Harry didn't want to get into it, or into all the details about the Potters' death and the Secret Keeper and Azkaban- no, he was here only to chat with Sirius.
Did he kill me, too?
Now this was what Harry wanted to talk about. He took a deep breath. "No, well not exactly…it was your cousin, Bellatrix," Harry spat out the name with such loathing and venom that he was sure Padfoot was taken aback. "She's like Voldemort's right hand."
Figures it would be her, the slimy- never mind. Anyway, what happened?
"You were dueling, in the Department of Mysteries, at the Ministry. You had the upper hand, but then she took you by surprise…your body fell beyond this veil draped over an archway…" Harry was crying openly now. "And it was all my fault, too…"
Hell. Your fault, you say? Then I know that it isn't- without even knowing what happened. I can tell you're a Gryffindor. That's what they do; the noble ones- always blame themselves for the death of those they hold dear. I suppose Dumbledore and Remus blame themselves as well? Or are they dead, too?
The lengthy message took a long time to be finished, and Harry wondered at the shrewdness of Padfoot's words. "They're alive. And yes, Dumbledore blames himself." He was relieved he hadn't mentioned Pettigrew.
Told ya.
"But- but we're right…it is our fault, mine, mostly. If you just knew what happened…" And he went into a quick explanation of what had happened, trying to make it as brief as possible.
So you're saying that because you came to save me, I died? That must be killing you; I know how you feel. Damn. Poor kid. That hag Bellatrix, if I could just get my hands on her…and Kreacher too, I always hated them.
Yes, it was definitely Sirius.
Look, you mustn't blame yourself. I swear my real self would tell you that if I was alive. And you can tell Dumbly the same thing- he was just doing what he thought was right. Don't mess yourself up about it- you had no control over it, and in a weird way, I would thank you, because you risked so much to come and save me.
Something, like a monstrous, burdening weight, seemed to be lifting slowly from Harry's chest, and the empty, black, hole where Sirius had been, was starting to slowly fill up, with more cheerful memories. "Are you sure?" he whispered, his voice shaking.
You have my word.
There was a loud knock on the door. "Dinner!" his aunt called. Harry panicked, glancing at the map. "I'll be just a second," he called back, and waited until he heard Petunia's footsteps fading away, his heart racing fast.
Trouble?
"No-I – I've got to go. I- thanks, Padfoot. You made me feel a whole lot better…can I come talk to you again some other time?"
As much as you want. And Harry? I miss you too.
Tears trickled down Harry's cheeks, and stifling a sob, he was unable to respond. His hand shaking, he wiped the writing off and the map of Hogwarts reappeared. He gazed at it for a second, seeing Hagrid in his cabin, Madam Pince in the library, Fawkes in Dumbledore's office…
He stopped suddenly, and blinked, sure he was seeing wrong. His eyes widened in shock. A new dot had suddenly appeared, and it was coming through the secret passage leading from Honeydukes and towards the statue of the one- eyed witch.
Bellatrix Lestrange.