Disclaimer: Except for a few characters borrowed with permission from whydoyouneedtoknow, this is Jo Rowling's beach, and she has been kind enough to allow persons such as myself to play here. All I'm laying claim to is the design of this sand castle.
When the Wind is Southerly
by MercuryBlue
Chapter 2: Perchance to Dream
Sunday, the eighth of August, dawned bright and early.
Much, much too early, in Alexander Granger's opinion. For one, it wasn't a school day and he preferred his sleep, which could not be gotten with the newly risen sun shining directly in his eyes. For two, church services were in—he checked the clock—thirty-eight minutes, and he did not want to go to church.
His and Mum's customary seats (which couldn't be changed unless somebody else in the congregation was willing to trade places, which was unlikely for several reasons) were directly in front of the Dursleys from two streets over. Which meant that if His Royal Fatness—Alex sniggered; it would be more accurate if he swapped the 'ne' in that last word for an ' A', but while Mum shared Alex's opinion of the brat, she would not approve of Alex's emendation to the title—if HRFA wasn't tormenting the skinny scarred spectacled kid (whose name Alex did not know and whose reason for putting up with the other Dursleys Alex could not imagine), then he was tormenting Alex.
It was better during the school year, when the Dursley boys were off at boarding school, but of course this was summer. Mum sympathized with Alex's plight, but since Mr. and Mrs. Dursley believed that their precious Diddykins could do no wrong, and it wasn't anything to call the cops over, there wasn't a great deal she could do about it.
Church was boring anyway.
The third reason Alex didn't care to wake up regarded the dream he'd been having. It was the good dream again; one of the good dreams, more accurately, because it was hardly ever the same twice. Once an amusement park, once a visualization of the library at Alexandria for which Alex had been named, complete with Egyptian garb and an uncanny ability to read ancient Greek as if it was his native tongue (an ability that had sadly not outlasted the dream), a forest where everyone was lupine rather than human (this one turned up quite regularly), a variety of other things, but most often scenes from normal everyday life.
Well, as normal as could be when everyone could do magic and Dad was a werewolf.
These everyday-life dreams in particular seemed so very like real life, only better, especially where events in the dreams connected with reality. For instance, last night, the adults were discussing Serious Black (who'd give a child that name?), who'd been on the news a week or so ago. The phrases "cold-blooded murderer" and "worried for Harry" had come across loud and clear, but beyond that, Alex hadn't caught more than one word in five. It was difficult to listen when trying to keep one's cards from exploding in one's hand.
The dreams featured Alex, of course, and Mum because the two were only apart when Alex had school, cousin Neenie playing Alex's big sister, and somebody Alex had never seen outside of the dream world, cast in the role of Dad.
Not Alex's father, of course. Mum had no idea who Alex's father was, beyond a vague impression of white hair and a vivid impression of icy gray eyes, and Alex didn't care to remind her of the only time she'd met him. Well, no more than Alex's mere existence reminded her, anyway.
No, this man had kind eyes, sapphire blue like Alex's own. Straight hair unlike Alex's, a lighter shade than Alex's chocolate brown, except where it had gone gray. Three thin white lines across his face, barely visible against the pale skin he and Alex shared. Odd how greatly Alex resembled this dream-father—well, that was the point of dreams, wasn't it, to have what one couldn't have in reality?
But oh, how he wished it was real...
"Alex! Church in twenty minutes! Up!"
"Oh, all right," Alex grumbled, rolling out of bed. He thoroughly expected the next hour and a half or so to be exceptionally boring, exceptionally maddening, or some combination thereof.
Alex and his mother had only just gotten to the church, a bare two minutes before the service was supposed to start, when he saw the first hint that neither usual Sunday adjective would apply today.
Mr. Dursley and Dudley were in their accustomed places. (Thankfully without the ambulatory glob of fat who had accompanied them last week, elderly dog in tow.)
Mrs. Dursley and Dudley's bony black-haired brother were not.
Ten seconds before the pastor would have begun the service, Mrs. Dursley came flying up the aisle, blonde hair in disarray and Sunday dress both wrinkled and crooked. This was not at all unusual for certain others of the congregation, for example Julia Harrington, who'd zipped in two seconds before Mrs. Dursley, but on the normally impeccably dressed woman, it was not at all normal.
And her second boy still wasn't there.
"Petunia, whatever is the matter?" Mum asked politely, turning around in the pew to face the Dursleys.
"Serious Black," Mrs. Dursley gasped out, breath heaving. Had she run all the way here? Her house was within walking distance of the church, as was Alex's, but it was a longish walk... "Last night—our house—kidnapped Harry—"
Instant uproar.
Harry. So that's his name. Alex had met him once before, not counting in church where they didn't speak. The incident had involved Dudley Dursley and about four other junior thugs, age nine-ish, intending to pound six-year-old Alex to a pulp for no particular reason Alex could see. Harry'd distracted them with a bit of astonishingly accurate rock-throwing, then took off like an Olympic sprinter, junior thugs in pursuit, which gave Alex the chance to find a better place on the playground to hide during recess.
Alex had never managed to find out why exactly Harry had done that for someone he'd never seen before, mostly because the only times Alex ever saw him were at recess when he was either running from Dudley or taking bruises from him, and Alex had no desire to approach Dudley for any reason whatsoever. Nor had he ever clearly heard Harry's name.
Wait—Harry. Isn't that who Dad was worried about Black hurting?
Coincidence. Common name, Harry. Pure coincidence.
But what if it's not?
"I froze," Mrs. Dursley was saying to the attentive crowd. Apparently services were being delayed today. "I just froze—so did Vernon and Dudley and Marge—Harry was brilliant, he truly was. He started talking, to distract him, he went straight for a kitchen knife—Black got it from him first thing, of course, but it's the thought that counts. He was so brave."
"Is he—dead?" asked a timid girl from the grade above Alex's, whom he thought he recognized. She was one of Dudley's other would-be victims, rescued by Dudley's little brother without ever having worked up the nerve to say thank you, Alex thought.
"No, no, not when I saw him last—Harry tried to fight him, he gave us time to run for it—I called the Black hotline from next door and the police came right away. They didn't find a trace of Harry or Black, and all Harry's things have disappeared too. There wasn't any blood or—anything—except a bit on the kitchen floor and that's Black's. So we think he's alive—"
"But you left him behind." The voice wasn't immediately familiar to Alex. "He saved all your lives, and you left him behind."
It was only a moment later, when everyone turned to look at him, that he realized it was his own.
"What else could we do?" asked Mrs. Dursley shakily. "What else could we do?"
"For now," interrupted the bass voice of the pastor, "perhaps we could hold our service and pray for your boy?"
"Yes," Mrs. Dursley said tremblingly, "yes, that would be good, thank you..."
Alex couldn't pay attention to the service, even less than he usually could.
What would Serious Black want with Harry—and how could someone I dreamed up know Black wanted him?
xXxXx
Sunday, the eighth of August, dawned bright and early.
Not that Hermione Granger saw the sunrise. She'd translated the newest article about Sirius Black in the French version of the Daily Prophet, deduced some of what wasn't being said and made a few leaps of faith, and been awake till four-thirty worrying about her best friend.
So it wasn't terribly surprising that she was asleep at a time approaching noon.
Well, it wasn't surprising if you didn't know her.
Her parents slept in late, then woke to find her snoring softly on top of the desk in the hotel room, and by mutual silent agreement decided to let her sleep as long as she wanted. She obviously needed the sleep, and if she was asleep, then they had some time all to themselves...
xXxXx
Sunday, the eighth of August, dawned bright and early.
Or so Harry assumed. He hadn't been wearing his watch to wash dishes (water did bad things to non-waterproofed watches) and hadn't grabbed it on the way out, so he had no way to measure time. The cave was brighter than it had been earlier, so it was probably past sunrise, but he couldn't get close enough to the entrance to see if it was actually daylight.
If nothing else, his stomach was insisting it was breakfast time.
Harry glanced over at the other side of the cave, where what looked like a long gray pile of rags was snoring. After Black had finished fussing at the entrance to the cave, he'd released Harry from the improvised manacle, restored Harry's trunk and Hedwig's cage to their normal sizes, and started to make the promised improvements to the cave. The dirt floor was now solid, smooth, even, and most undirtlike, in fact closely resembling kitchen tile. Two bed-sized patches of floor, on one of which Harry was presently sitting and on the other of which Black was presently snoring, bore a close resemblance in firmness, springiness, and texture to featherbeds with cotton covers. A lump of rock in the ceiling glowed softly, providing enough illumination for the inhabitants to have an idea of where the walls were, even in the much darker cave of a few hours earlier. The walls themselves resembled the floor, smooth, even, and perfectly vertical, though they curved along the contours of the cave. Or rather, most of the walls resembled the floor. The parts nearer the entrance Black hadn't gotten to before collapsing from exhaustion.
It had not been difficult at all for Harry to swipe back the wand, float Black to one of the 'beds' where he'd be less likely to wake up, and grab cloak and broomstick (everything else was easily enough replaceable), intending to make a run for it. The hardest part of the exercise was waiting long enough to be sure Black was really asleep.
Then he ran into the barrier across the doorway.
No wonder he thought he could let me loose...
Whatever it was, it was invisible and impassable, and Harry didn't know how to take it down. It probably wasn't the only barrier, either, given how long Black had spent magicking the entrance passageway. There wasn't another way into the cave, nothing that anything bigger than a field mouse could get through, anyway, and the only other way out that Harry could think of involved bringing the roof down on both their heads. Which somehow didn't seem particularly bright.
And it was positively galling because, despite Black being so deeply asleep that bringing the roof down on him likely wouldn't wake him, and despite Harry having all the weapons, the only means of concealment, and the only means of transportation in the cave, the only thing Harry could do was sit and wait for Black to wake up!
What could Harry do that wouldn't be counterproductive? He literally had nowhere to run and nowhere to hide—well, he could do laps around the cave, or sit with the Invisibility Cloak on, or do laps wearing the cloak, but laps would exhaust him without getting him anywhere, and it didn't much matter if Black couldn't see him because Black knew within a fifteen-foot radius exactly where Harry was. Threats from a skinny thirteen-year-old, wand or no wand, wouldn't do much good, because Black had to know that Harry couldn't make good on them. Incapacitating or killing Black would leave Harry trapped in this cave, no food, no water, no one knowing where to find him. Harry didn't much fancy death by starvation.
No, better to save his efforts for when they might do some good.
So there was nothing, absolutely nothing, that Harry could do but sit and wait, or pace and wait, whichever suited his mood, to see what Black would do next, and hope that it involved either food and water or a chance to escape.
A sudden noise, like a dog's whimper, drew Harry's attention back to Black. He was thrashing around in his sleep, mumbling something. As Harry listened, the words became clear. "James, James, please, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—Lily, no, I didn't, I swear—James, please—"
Harry found himself moving to wake him and offer comfort, then remembered. He's a kidnapper, a murderer, and a madman. Why should I help him?
Because he needs it, part of him answered.
Not half as much as you need not to be here, another, colder part replied. Nowhere near as much as the people he killed need not to be dead. He doesn't deserve any help.
Harry sank back onto his 'bed'.
He couldn't help thinking, though, that he should be helping Black with his nightmares anyway. Harry knew all about nightmares.
And it sounded like it was Harry's parents he was seeing...
Right about then, Black, still caught in the nightmare, cracked his head on the rock-hard floor and sat bolt upright with a yelp. It was a minute or so before his eyes uncrossed and focused properly, and even then they were flickering frantically around the cave, until they caught and held Harry's own. Black seemed to relax all at once, letting out a sigh and lying back down, crossing his arms behind his head to serve as a pillow. He turned his head to look at Harry. "Good morning."
"Good morning," Harry said warily.
"You look like a raccoon," Black observed. "What did you do, try to run through the wall?"
"How stupid do I look?" Harry snapped back, almost without thought.
"Right now? Very." Harry glared at him. "Well, you do. The raccoon look does not suit you. Come here, I'll fix that."
Harry glared for two beats more, then stood, crossed the cave, and plopped down ungracefully next to Black's head. Black half-sat up, leaning on an elbow, grabbed Harry's wand, and started tapping various points on Harry's face. The aches faded in patches around wherever the wand touched, though Harry didn't much care—he was used to bruises.
"When'd you get this?" Black asked, tracing along the long stinging place on Harry's cheek. "It's older than the bruises, but I know you didn't have it at your aunt's..."
Odd how kind Black's voice sounded. Almost as if he cared...
"Last night. Right after you popped us here. I fell and hit a rock."
"And it was so dark last night, I never saw it..." Did he sound apologetic? The cool tip of the wand ran the length of the stinging area. "You're probably going to have a scar along there, Aletha never showed me how to heal cuts without leaving one..."
"Aletha?" Harry asked, curiosity overcoming sense.
"A friend of your mother's. She and I were the Gryffindor Beaters for four years—speaking of which, what House are you in, and why were you pretending not to know what Gryffindor meant?"
"It got your attention away from the Dursleys, didn't it? Not that it did any good. They were supposed to run for it right when you weren't looking at them anymore."
Black snorted, sitting up. "Them? Run? Wouldn't that involve getting their fat arses off their chairs?"
Despite himself, Harry laughed.
"Oh, so you can smile. But that still doesn't tell me which House you're in."
Harry glared. Then gave up glaring. "Yes. Gryffindor."
"I thought so, somehow."
Harry rolled his eyes—Black's tone of voice positively invited an eye-roll—then winced at the volume of his rumbling stomach.
"Did you even have any dinner?" Black inquired. Harry shook his head. "Any particular favorites?"
"You aren't serious."
"Yes I am, didn't you know?"
The sentence had a distinct aura of Missed Joke. Harry decided to let it pass. "You're planning to just stroll down to the nearest supermarket, right?"
"Nah, London first to raid my bank vault. And I won't be recognized, if that's what you're worrying about."
"Oh really."
"Oh really," Black imitated. "Watch." He stood, turned to face the wall, traced an oval with the tip of Harry's wand, and flicked some magic at it, turning everything inside the oval into a decent-quality mirror. Black frowned at the skeleton-like apparition in the glass, then closed his eyes, concentrating, and started waving the wand in various directions. The accumulated dirt on him faded away; a bit of color came into his ghost-white skin; all his hair below about chin level fell away and vanished before hitting the floor, while the rest was cleaned, disentangled, and turned a honey color; a small honey-colored mustache grew; the tattered gray robes were made to look like new, and blue.
Black opened his eyes, which were pale green instead of the gray they'd just been, and grinned at his reflection, then at Harry's. "Look like anybody you know?"
"No," Harry had to admit. The man in the mirror did look like Black had, if only because magic couldn't apparently get rid of the skeletal look, but not so much that anyone who hadn't seen the transformation would recognize Black in this man. Which was, of course, the point. "Wait—how are you planning to get your money without being caught?"
"The goblins don't give a damn," Black said dismissively. "As long as they get their fee and the right person signs the withdrawal form, they couldn't care less. One of the human employees might spot my name on the transaction records and yell for Aurors, but that won't be till this evening if ever, and I'll be long gone by then. Do you have any favorite foods, or do you not care what I get?"
"Not care," Harry said, blinking at the sudden change of topic.
"I'll just get what I like, then. See you later." And with that, he was gone, snatching up the Invisibility Cloak and breezing through the invisible wall across the entrance like it was air.
Well, it is...
Harry waited, listening carefully over the thu-thump of his heartbeat—
A shriek, sounding exactly like—
Black poked his head back in, three long bleeding scratches across his face. "There is an infuriated snowy owl outside this cave. Yours?"
It was Hedwig! "Probably."
Black turned to the mirror long enough to repair the scratches, then ducked back out. A moment later, Hedwig came flying through the entranceway, in a manner more suited to a ball than a bird. She caught herself before hitting the wall and fluttered down to perch on Harry's knee, feathers thoroughly ruffled. Black vanished out the entranceway—
Crack.
—there. Harry darted to the entrance, not bothering to get to his feet first—Hedwig squawked at him and fluttered over to the trunk, which was unlikely to yank itself out from underneath her—
—and—
—what did he do that I didn't? Harry thought, angry. The wall he'd crashed into earlier was still there, still invisible, still rock-solid and rock-hard. Still impassable.
Goddamn it.
Harry's thoughts went on for a while in a similar vein, till he was interrupted by a yawn. Well, I didn't get to sleep last night either, so I shouldn't be surprised...I think I'll just go over where it's comfy and close my eyes for a bit...
His eyes slid closed.
Then open.
Something was different.
Nothing he could pinpoint immediately...very subtle, whatever it was...
I wonder...
Dreamlike, Harry stood and headed for the entranceway. It didn't hinder him a bit.
HALLELUJAH!
Outside, he found, as he was rather expecting, a rocky mountainside. Nowhere he recognized, also as he was rather expecting. There was a path leading down the mountain, which, given their arrival method, he was not expecting.
Might as well see where it goes.
Halfway down the mountain, he heard voices.
One, a boy's, was vaguely familiar, though for no reason he could immediately pin down. The other, a shrill girl's, he knew at once, though the name was for some reason evading him—
How did she get here?
Just a little farther—they couldn't be far, their voices were pretty close, though the words weren't clear enough to make out—
And there they were. A boy, about ten, slender and pale, vivid blue eyes and curly brown hair. A girl, thirteen, taller and not so slender, masses of brown curls.
She looked up—she saw him. Brown eyes locked for a heartbeat with green.
"Hermione!"
The world blurred—and vanished.
He was back in the cave, with the blond-haired Black leaning over him
What on earth just happened?
A/N: Reviews are good. Flames are bad. Praise is nice. Constructive criticism is preferred. Questions are welcomed. Proper grammar is appreciated. Email addresses are required if you want a reply. Clear enough?