A/N: Thanks so much to all who left feedback! In no particular order-
Fluidity of Ink, I hope you love this chapter as well. Thank you for reading!
Serenitylove07, I warn you that it's going to be some serious slow-burn on any romance. But it will be there. In time, all in good time, I promise you.
Jujulicia, thank you for the review! Brazil... You have no idea how envious I am. I live in Canada. Enough said.
B-Mine, you make an excellent point. I'll give you a hint... it's probably a good thing, a very good thing, that only one person has been resurrected. Not a good hint, I know. Thank you for the review!
Smithback, short and sweet. Just how I like it!
Moonbeam, I hope you like this chapter.
., yes, you will have to wait and see. I hope you are patient!
And to all of my readers, you are appreciated. Now on with it.
Kisses
Chapter #2
"Life is hard. Then you die. Then they throw dirt in your face. Then the worms eat you.
Be grateful it happens in that order." - David Gerrold
Dumbledore stopped Harry outside the hospital wing. He seemed more nervous now than excited.
"Harry," he said quietly. "I know this will come as a shock to you, as it should, but I must ask you to... keep your head, please."
"Er..." Harry said. He wondered briefly if maybe Dumbledore might believe he actually was mentally unstable. No. He dismissed the idea. "Why would I lose it?"
"This will be a dreadful shock," Dumbledore said, and Harry felt the first faint glimmer of fear in his chest. "I understand if you do or say something that is out of your character. But Harry, you must trust me. You must trust my judgement. And you must trust yourself."
"Professor," Harry said, now truly alarmed, "what's going on?"
"Come inside. I would like you to meet somebody," Dumbledore answered gently, and opened the hospital wing door. Harry stepped in. He didn't really know what to expect. His mind immediately began to spout wild fantasies- a sibling? A cousin? Grandparents? Why was he thinking about relatives? His family was all dead. He knew that.
Harry looked around. Madam Pomfrey was sitting beside a tall, bespectacled man with untidy raven hair and hazel eyes that seemed naturally mischievous. He had a kind, good-natured face, but there was an air of something dreadful about him- Harry recognized it immediately. He looked haunted, as Sirius had looked the night Harry had met him in the shrieking shack.
The man stared at Harry. Harry stared back. Neither moved.
He was looking at his dead father.
Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Harry?" he said gently.
His stomach had done something odd- it seemed to have lodged itself in his throat. He felt suddenly faint, disoriented. Any desire he'd had to go to sleep was gone, and Harry became aware of the fact that his breath was coming in slow and ragged gasps. His chest was heaving. His vision blurred.
Harry opened his mouth, and vomited all over his shoes.
The man who looked so much like his father jumped to his feet, but Dumbledore held up a hand, an order for him to stay back.
"Give him a moment, James."
Shaking uncontrollably, Harry wiped the string of vomit from his lips onto the sleeve of his clean school robes. He slowly raised his eyes to look once more at this man.
Hazel eyes met his, and the look that the man was giving him sent an alien sensation coursing through Harry's body. Nobody had ever looked at him like that, not Sirius, not Dumbledore, none of the adults in his life. And yet, Harry had the bizarre feeling that he recognized that look, that those same eyes had gazed at him in that same manner before. He blinked and turned to Dumbledore. His voice had left him, and when he opened his mouth nothing came out. He felt robbed, and oddly powerless. He glanced from Dumbledore to his father, his mouth moving silently.
"Harry," the man said softly.
Harry stared at him. He knew that voice, as he knew the look in those familiar hazel eyes. He tried to speak again, but only managed to make a strangled little noise in his throat.
"I believe introductions are unnecessary," Dumbledore said, and despite it all he sounded rather amused. His hand rested on Harry's back, and he gave him a little nudge. "Go on, Harry. Your father would like to meet you."
"My dad is dead." Finally his voice had returned. He looked up at Dumbledore. "Sir... you said..."
"I have been proven wrong before," Dumbledore said firmly.
Part of Harry's mind was screaming at him, screaming that it was impossible, no magic could resurrect the dead; this was either a cruel joke, a hallucination, or the man was an imposter. But another part of his mind, ruled not by thought but rather by instinct, had already decided that yes, this was James Potter, his father. On a deep and biological level, Harry knew it to be true.
His father was alive.
He took a tentative step forward. His vision blurred once more, this time with tears. "Professor... is he really...?" He trailed off, then decided it was rather rude not to address his father. "You're really... him?"
James Potter scratched the back of his head. Harry recognized that as well; he realized with a rather unsettling jolt that it was a movement he himself made when asked a very serious question. "Yes."
"I believe Harry is going to ask you for proof, James. As well he should." Dumbledore's voice drifted over Harry's head, absurdly calm.
"Of course." James Potter vanished, and Harry was staring at a rather large but slightly thin-looking stag.
"Prongs," he whispered to himself.
His father reappeared. When Harry didn't move or say anything, he sighed. "Not good enough, eh? All right. You've a mole on your left cheek."
Harry touched his cheek.
"Your other left cheek," James Potter added, the corner of his mouth twitching.
Harry felt his face flush crimson. He did, in fact, have a mole there... and seeing as how, to his knowledge, nobody had ever seen that particular part of him...
He rushed forward and flung his arms around his father. James hugged him back, and suddenly any remaining doubt and uncertainty drained out of his body; it was being syphoned out as his father held him in the most comforting embrace Harry had ever been given. He meant to say something, but when he opened his mouth a sob escaped his throat, and he broke down, his body going completely limp in his father's arms. James caught him easily and sat him down on the bed, holding onto him as though he feared Harry might simply vanish if he let go. Harry felt tears that were not his own trickle down his cheeks.
"Harry," James Potter whispered, his voice cracking slightly. "Shh, Harry... it's all right, sprout... it's all right... I'm here now..."
Harry could not stop shaking unless his father held him very tight. He forced himself to speak. "Dad..."
Again those hazel eyes peered down at him, that concerned look that was so alien and yet so familiar. But mixed with the concern was something else, a deep and powerful relief that sent a tremor up Harry's spine. He wondered what his father had been through, what had happened to him to make him so relieved to see his son. "You look so much like me," he whispered, tousling Harry's hair gently. His eyes fell on the lightning bolt scar on Harry's forehead.
"I know," Harry said. The cold fury in his father's eyes startled him.
James touched his scar gently, tracing it with his finger. His eyes softened once more. "But you have-"
"My mother's eyes," Harry finished for him with a weak grin. He'd heard it so very often.
James laughed. He had a pleasant laugh, smooth and deep. Harry had never felt quite as safe as he did now, sitting with his father. The greatest relief he'd ever known suddenly filled him, washing away every negative feeling he'd ever had. Everything would be okay. He had his father.
Dumbledore cleared his throat, and Harry looked over at the Headmaster. "You two have much to catch up on," he said, his blue eyes twinkling but also gleaming with barely held-back tears. "If you like, Harry, we can give the two of you some privacy."
"Okay," Harry said.
Madam Pomfrey sighed and stood up. She too had tears in her eyes. "Very well. But the both of you ought to get at least some sleep tonight. I will fetch a sleeping draught." They left Harry and James alone.
"Harry," his father said, his voice suddenly curious. "Tell me... how is your godfather getting on? Do you like living with him? He hasn't spoiled you, has he?"
Harry had not been prepared for this. James Potter didn't know that his best friend had been framed by Wormtail. He didn't know that Harry had been raised by the Dursleys. "Err... Dad... well, Sirius is doing all right," he answered, his throat constricting. He didn't want to be the one to tell his father this.
James looked startled. "He... you don't call him...? Have you always called him Sirius?"
Harry's heart gave a painful lurch in his chest. "Dad... I've never lived with Sirius. Except for this summer, because Sirius is letting the Order use his house as headquarters. The Order of the Phoenix," he said weakly, searching his father's face for a reaction. His hazel eyes went suddenly blank, then confused.
"But Harry... Sirius is your godfather. You should have been sent to him, when... when you had no parents."
"I know," Harry said swiftly. "It's not his fault. Sirius was... he was in Azkaban. The Dursleys raised me."
"What? The Dursleys? No." James got to his feet and began pacing the length of the hospital ward. "You mean that great beefy muggle that Petunia married?"
"Yeah," Harry said, and his father let out a string of very rude expletives.
"Why, for Christ's sake? Why would Dumbledore let those people take you in? I thought he knew me better... he could have given you to Remus, or the Longbottoms, they would have gladly... without question..."
"Well..." Harry began, but James appeared to be quite beside himself, and burst into more angry babble.
"Given over to muggles... unbelievable... completely unbelievable... Dumbledore should have... I say..."
"Dad, it's okay," Harry said quickly.
"Sirius is in Azkaban?" James asked, his voice growing quiet.
"Err...not anymore."
"What did he do?"
Harry swallowed. He looked up at his father, desperately wishing he didn't have to answer this question. "Dad... he was framed... by Wormtail. He faked his own death and made it look like Sirius had killed him."
His father's face was very hard to read. He seemed calm enough, but Harry could see a blood vessel throbbing near his temple. "That would be a life sentence," he said softly. "But Sirius is out of Azkaban? How?"
"He broke out."
To Harry's surprise, James laughed. "Sirius broke out of Azkaban. Nobody's ever done that... I imagine he's been the only one... Well, if anybody could pull that off, it would be him."
"Yeah," Harry said, relieved to see his father smiling again. "Yeah, he broke out two years ago. Everyone thought he wanted to kill me, because nobody knew you'd made the switch. Even Dumbledore thought Sirius had betrayed you. He's a wanted criminal."
James shook his head. "How could anyone believe that? Sirius, betray me? And... he would never hurt you. Sirius adores you."
The realization hit Harry like a punch to the gut. Sirius could have his name cleared now. James could tell the world what had really happened. "You can help him, Dad. Get his name cleared."
"Who had him put in Azkaban?"
"Crouch. He didn't even give Sirius a trial." Harry had only learned this last year.
"Of course he didn't. But all the same... Sirius, a dark wizard? Of course... being a Black probably didn't help his public image. The Blacks have always had a... colourful reputation." James ran his hand through his unruly hair. "Dumbledore is taking me to the Ministry tomorrow. I'll make damn sure Sirius is a free man by tomorrow night," he added vehemently.
Harry felt as though a great weight had been suddenly lifted from his shoulders. Sirius would be cleared. He would be able to finally leave Grimmauld Place, the house he hated so much, and be free to wander wherever he pleased. He would be free to help the Order in more ways than simply giving them a headquarters. "I thought he was one of Voldemort's followers too."
James shook his head slowly, as though shaking unwanted thoughts from his mind. "You must have hated him."
"Yeah, I did." Harry remembered all too well the overwhelming anger he'd felt, staring at Sirius in the Shrieking Shack. Anger so powerful it almost turned him into a murderer.
James seemed to sense Harry's guilt, because he slapped Harry's shoulder, his face suddenly brightening. "Never mind that. Tell me about yourself, Harry."
"What do you want to know?"
"Everything," his father said promptly. "Do you like Hogwarts? How are your grades? Do you get into much trouble? Tell me about your friends. Do you play quidditch? Please tell me you play quidditch, Harry."
Harry laughed. The amount of questions being hurled at him was astounding. He was quite used to people taking an interest in him, of course, but never like this. His father didn't want to know about him. He wanted to know him. "I love Hogwarts. My grades are... okay, I guess. Except for Potions , because Snape hates me so much..."
"Snape? That greasy git? He teaches here?" James asked, visibly horrified.
"Er, yeah."
Another round of rude profanity burst from his father's mouth. "Bloody Snape," he finished breathlessly.
"Yeah. And... I don't really get into trouble. I don't have to. Trouble usually finds me."
James laughed. "Oh dear. Anything exciting?"
Harry grinned. He had a story or two that would definitely be classified as exciting. "Well, in first year Ron and Hermione and I fought a mountain troll."
"Ron? Hermione?"
"My best friends. Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. They're amazing, Dad. Wait til you meet them... they've always stuck by me, no matter what. Ron's the best. He's always sticking his neck out for me. He always takes things in stride. And Hermione... well, she's the smartest student at Hogwarts. She figured out Lupin was a werewolf before any of us knew."
"Lupin? Remus Lupin?"
"Yeah, he taught Defence Against the Dark Arts during my third year. He's brilliant. He taught me how to do the Patronus charm."
"Remus was a teacher? Here? Blimey," James scratched his head, "I'd give my left arm to see that. Do you play quidditch, Harry?"
"Yeah, I do. I'm the Seeker for Gryffindor." Harry felt a tingle of excitement at the mention of quidditch. "Wait until you see my broom, Dad. Sirius got it for me in third year. I didn't know it was from him, of course, and it sort of caused an uproar, because everyone thought Sirius was out to kill me. But anyway, it's a Firebolt! It's the fastest broom in the world."
"Bloody hell, Harry." James reached under the hospital bed and pulled out a slim bottle of amber liquid. "Bloody hell," he repeated, conjuring a shot glass with a wave of his wand and filling it to the brim with amber liquid. He downed the contents, screwed up his face, and shook his head. Harry felt a jolt of concern for his father. The man seemed rather lost, uncertain what to do with his hands. Not that Harry blamed him. Waking up after being dead for nearly fourteen years surely wasn't easy on the mind.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
James scratched his head. "I suppose." His eyes strayed to Harry's forehead. "If only we hadn't done the switch," he said softly.
Harry felt a painful twinge in his chest, a sympathetic pang for his father. Everything would have been different if his parents hadn't trusted Peter Pettigrew. If they'd stuck with Sirius. "You couldn't have known he was a spy."
"I didn't think any of my friends... Maybe that makes me naive." James frowned, poured himself another shot, and tossed the liquor down his throat. "I couldn't imagine not trusting my friends."
Harry decided that action needed to be taken immediately. He steered the conversation back to quidditch, and the change that came over his father was remarkable. That lost look vanished, he became animated and lively, and his cheeks had colour again. The firewhiskey had certainly helped loosen him up, and it didn't take very long at all for both of them to be chatting like they'd known each other their whole lives. They talked well into the night, until eventually Harry found his way onto the bed next to his father, where they both slept undisturbed.
"Wake up!"
Somebody was shaking him quite roughly. Harry came to very slowly, groggy from the sleeping draught he'd taken last night. It was far too early to get out of bed; in fact, it was so early Ron and Hermione were probably just arriving in the Great Hall for breakfast. He closed his eyes, unwilling to rise and face the day. "Too early..."
"Wake up, Harry, or you'll miss breakfast."
"Think I'll sleep til lunch," he mumbled.
"I think not, you'll miss your morning classes."
Something poked him in the stomach, and he received a fairly unpleasant electrical shock. "Aghh!" he groaned, rolling out of bed and just barely managing to land on his feet. "What...? Dad, I don't have to go to classes today."
His father's expression became severe, and Harry decided that such a look didn't suit James Potter at all. "Sorry Harry. You wanted a father, now you've got one, and this father says you are not missing school because of him." The corner of his mouth twitched. Harry realized he was trying valiantly to keep a straight face.
"You probably skived off classes all the time."
"That's quite beside the point. Anyhow, do you want to be unemployed and single at thirty-five?" James disappeared into the bathroom, leaving Harry free to sit back down on the bed. Ron and Hermione would think he really had lost his mind when he told them his father was alive and well. He entertained that possibility for a moment. Maybe he'd suffered a psychotic break last night and this was all a delusion.
James came back and crossed his arms over his chest when he saw Harry sitting down.
"I guess I should go get ready for school," he said, hoping to change his father's mind.
"Not to worry." James waved his wand, and Harry was wearing his school robes. "I had your book bag sent down to the Great Hall as well. A house-elf named Dobby- he went a bit bonkers over the whole thing. Strangest elf I've ever met."
"Oh," Harry said, disappointed. He was so tired that he couldn't imagine how he would manage to stay awake through all of his classes, but if his father wanted him to attend, he would. "Dobby used to be the Malfoys' house-elf, but I tricked Mr. Malfoy into giving him a sock, and now he works in the kitchens here."
James stared at him for a long moment before bursting into laughter.
"Mr. Potter, may I remind you that this is a hospital wing!" Madam Pomfrey seemed to appear out of nowhere to frown at both of them disapprovingly. "And what are you doing up?" she asked Harry.
"Going to class," he said, trying his best not to sound sulky.
"Well, good for you. Off you go, then."
"I'll see you at lunch, son." James ruffled his already messy hair as Madam Pomfrey shooed him out.
Harry stumbled tiredly down to the Great Hall, where he picked out Ron and Hermione arguing lightly over breakfast. "Are you two fighting already?" he asked, slumping down in his seat and loading his plate with bacon and fried potatoes.
"Harry, where have you been?" Hermione handed him his book bag and a copy of their new timetable. "We stayed up last night waiting for you."
Harry swallowed a mouthful of food, looked at both of his friends, and shrugged. "Hospital wing," he said, continuing to shove his breakfast down his throat as quickly as possible. Classes started in ten minutes. "What do we have first?"
"Transfiguration, go figure," said Ron, abandoning his argument with Hermione. "What were you doing in the hospital wing? What did Dumbledore want?"
"You don't look well," Hermione fretted.
"I'm fine. I was visiting someone." He hadn't a clue how to go about telling them.
Ron waited for a more thorough explanation, and when Harry didn't deliver, he shared a confused look with Hermione. "Well? Who were you visiting?"
Harry sighed. "A family member. Look, I'll tell you guys later, okay? I'm sort of half asleep here."
"A family member? I thought you didn't have any..." Hermione trailed off when Harry gave her a pleading look, but her eyes took on a determined gleam. "Harry, what's going on?"
"Hey, there's no teacher for Defence," he said, now almost desperate to distract them. They would think he'd gone mad. "Did I miss something last night? Did Dumbledore say anything about it?"
Hermione shook her head. "No, but it's on our timetable. We have Defence Against the Dark Arts on Wednesday." She bit her lip, obviously debating on whether or not she should pursue her questioning Harry. But the thought of classes distracted her thoroughly, and she studied her timetable once more. "We've got Potions this afternoon as well."
"Lovely way to start the week," Ron muttered.
Harry turned his head to glance at the high table. Snape sat where he always did, looking sour and sallow. He seemed to be moving the food on his plate around with his fork, not so much eating as he was poking at it. It seemed Professor Dumbledore hadn't shared the news with any of the staff yet, as they were all going about their business as usual. How would Snape react? Would he treat Harry even worse than he already did? Or perhaps, Harry thought with a grin, Snape would ignore him altogether with his father around.
It would be thorough and unpleasant. That was about all Madam Pomfrey could tell him. James had half a mind to slip out of the hospital wing and out onto the grounds. From his seat in the windowsill he could see Hagrid's hut, a welcoming curl of smoke rising out of the chimney. Oh, a belt with Hagrid would be nice right about now. It was a damn shame, all this Ministry business. Apparently being dead really drew up a lot of red tape. Diagnostics, paperwork, and on and on and on. And he just wanted a short jaunt in the bright autumn morning.
More than that, though, he wanted to be with his son. Harry. He felt so conflicted, so pulled in two entirely different directions. Harry was fifteen years old, and obviously could take care of himself. And that was good. Wonderful, in fact. James had never felt so... proud, and elated, in all his life. His son was a clever, talented boy who understood that rules were often simply recommendations.
There was a flip-side, though. He worried for Harry. He felt an aching concern. The world was a dangerous place. So much could go wrong. So many things could hurt the young wizard. And people. Wicked, evil people. Friends who weren't friends at all, but backstabbers, liars, cowards...
He opened the window and let the cool morning air in. Behind the cloth curtain that gave him some privacy he could hear voices and see the faint silhouettes of Ministry people, bureaucrats and probably the Minister himself, a man named Fudge. Whoever the bloody hell that was. Cornelius Fudge, apparent thorn in poor Dumbledore's side. James had gotten the inside scoop on the rise of Voldemort, though it had pained him to hear Harry talk about such terrible things with startling familiarity. Fifteen, and he had seen too much of the world. At that age James had been concerned with a select few things- quidditch, his friends, and Lily Evans.
He cut down that train of thought instantly. He was getting good at that. It was surprisingly easy. That disturbed him.
The curtain was drawn back, and a collective gasp went up, as though his audience was viewing a rare creature on display in a zoo. James hopped down from the windowsill and extended his hand to the wizard with the purple bowling hat. He put on his very best pompous airs. "Minister Fudge, right? Pleasure, sir. Pleasure to meet you."
