Chapter 1: Through a Dark Glass
It was cold. The mousy man sat back on his legs, his knees askew. He shivered, but not because of the cold. His eyes twitched from side to side. I watched as he slowly looked up at me, his mouth quivering like a pouting pair of wax lips. The strands of his hair were scattered across his grey and spotted face. Slowly, he lifted his hands as if to pray.
"I be-ee--eeg of you—lo—ord--" his teeth chattered in the calm of the clearing, distorting his speech. He slurred his words as if he had a stroke.
"Silence, Peter." The words were calm, but final. The voice was steady, without a single quaver. There would be no mercy for the man. A hand landed on my shoulder. I could feel my muscles tense under the alien touch. I could hear his leather gloves scrape against my coat as he squeezed my shoulder.
Softly, he whispered, like a lover's last words before that jerking release, "It's time, Draco."
My eyes spun once more across the scene, a gestalt flicker across this watershed. A heartbeat faded into the distance and time seemed to stop. The snowflakes seemed to pause in their gentle ballet upon the slight currents of the wind. The trees stopped and silence reigned. My hands were stiff and red with the cold. The gun's handle seemed to cling to my hand as I raised the gun. The little man whimpered as I pressed the cold steel ring of the barrel against his forehead. My finger rested upon the trigger, almost caressing it. I exhaled and the world faded to darkness…
The rolling crash of the thunder penetrated every single room in the house, so that the severed elf heads and the usually loud portraits both shook against the walls. Harry sat. He clutched his head. The scar burnt. It seared. Pain served as a beacon. Thoughts scattered by dreams or visions rushed back into his head, swirling around the pain, guided by the burning sensation. Slowly, he sat up. His formerly curved back straightened and he twisted in his chair to attempt to lose the tightness. His neck hurt, so he stretched it. Left. Right. Up. Down. It still hurt. It would hurt all day since he fell asleep over his desk this afternoon. That book had put him right to sleep, but that was inconsequential. The resounding crack of his neck joints reminded him of the thunder that had obscured Draco's choice. To pull the trigger or not to pull the trigger? He chuckled slightly at himself. Allusions to Shakespeare. Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant…and so useful too.
He pushed himself violently out of the chair and walked over to the bedside table. He picked up the dream-diary and began to describe the vision-dream-nightmare. The dream diary was necessary, he had thought that these vivid visions would remain with perfect clarity in his head, but always they seemed to fade so that only flashes remained in his memory. Flashes of death, destruction, and cruelty. That's all that he seemed to dream about these days. He hoped it was just because he was a normally depressed teenager. He prayed he was wrong, but there was scant little chance of that. He never shared his dreams with anyone else. They were confused, often only thirty seconds in length with distortion. For some odd reason, white rabbits continually popped up in the most inconvenient of circumstances. This one however had been remarkably simple. Well, perhaps he'd share this one with just Albus. Perhaps he might tell Albus, but no one else. Albus could at least keep a secret. Hey, he'd kept secrets from Harry for years. Nobody else needed to know the extent to which the Chosen One had lost his marbles. The pen scratched furiously across the paper. Harry tried to remember if there was a gunshot. He couldn't. Maybe there was and the thunder obscured it. Maybe there was and he forgot it. Maybe there wasn't and Draco didn't pull the trigger. Maybe butterflies don't die and people don't starve in Africa. No, Draco would have pulled the trigger.
Another rolling crash shook the house, as Harry pondered why Draco was holding a gun and not a wand. It wasn't as if the wizarding world actually used or for that matter knew about guns. The crashing sounds continued for far longer than they should have. Now Harry could hear the screams of the portrait and the shouts of spells. He sat, frozen for a moment. Running for the door, he pulled a wand out of his pocket and charged down the stairs. In a moment, thoughts flung themselves across his mind.
Had the Death Eaters attacked? Who was fighting? What should he do? Should he go into the fray and risk his own life or would Albus want him to run for strategic reasons? Was Ginny safe? Strategy be damned, Ginny has to be safe. Please let Ginny be safe. Please let her be alright. Please, God, let her be safe-
Harry jumped the last two stairs and flung open the door to the hallway. The entire Order stood on one side, while on the other side a naked man crouched against the wall. Above him a portrait of some supposedly venerable old lady of the most august family Black screamed obscenities that were surely taboo in her age as well as the current one. He was stick thin. His ribs were clearly visible through his pale skin; his muscles were stretched like thin pieces of cord. They were tensed distorting a few strange tattoos ran along his right shoulder and down his side. He was hunched over on his thighs, his buttocks almost touching his squatting heels. Slowly, he raised his head. His hair was brown and tussled. His face was sharp, like a hatchet. His eyes were brightest green and they roved wildly across the room. They momentarily caught at Harry's eyes and they stared at each other. Harry seemed to see fluttering dark wings in the large pupils. Like a hunted animal, the intruder crouched, and waited for the Order's next move.