You aren't getting rid of me

A bright red light caught him square in the chest. *It seemed to take Sirius an age to fall: his body curved in a graceful arc as he sank backwards through the ragged veil hanging from the arch.

Harry saw the look of mingled fear and surprise on his godfather's wasted, once-handsome face as he fell through the ancient doorway and disappeared behind the veil, which fluttered for a moment as though in a high wind, then fell back into place.

Harry heard Bellatrix Lestrange's triumphant scream, but knew it meant nothing-Sirius had only just fallen through the archway, he would reappear from the other side any second ...

But Sirius did not reappear.

'SIRIUS!' Harry yelled. 'SIRIUS!'

He had reached the floor, his breath coming in searing gasps. Sirius must be just behind the curtain, he, Harry, would pull him back out ...

But as he reached the ground and sprinted towards the dais, Lupin grabbed Harry around the chest, holding him back.

'There's nothing you can do, Harry-'

'Get him, save him, he's only just gone through!'

'-it's too late, Harry.'

'We can still reach him-' Harry struggled hard and viciously, but Lupin would not let go …*

So Harry bit down, hard. It was the only thing that came to his mind to make Lupin release him. He bit so hard he drew blood. Harry didn't want to hurt him, but Lupin didn't understand. Sirius was stuck within those drapes, needing help to get out, and Harry will help him. There was no way he would let Sirius fare for himself when it was obvious he needed help. The werewolf, in both surprise and pain, let his grip loosen for a fraction of a second; it was enough.

The teen fought against his grip at the precise moment with everything that he had. Then, without knowing how, the older man was sent seven feet back and Harry was sent flying to the ground, but he quickly got up and launched himself after Sirius.

The last thing Harry was conscious of was of the Headmaster and the ex-professor running towards him, soft, black, ragged curtains and a blinding white light before everything went black.

He was floating. His clothes were heavy as if underwater and the air was as cold and wet as clouds in the sky, but there was neither liquid nor height. Everything around him was pure white, including his clothes. Harry was as clean as possible, and no scars nor could blood be found on his skin. It was a peaceful place, and Harry forgot why he was even here.

Moving was so difficult, he never felt as heavy nor as light in his entire life. The feeling resembled to when Barty Crouch Jr., while impersonating Alastor "Mad-eye" Moody, cast the Imperius Curse on him in class. Or when Voldemort also cast it to try to make him answer, to make him obey.

It was bliss, not thinking, just floating, dreaming, and not feeling any pain.

Pain? Why would he be in pain? He couldn't remember.

Remember…

Obliviation? Lockhart? Had he been obliviated? Did the Professor make him forget everything?

No. No, ex-Professor. Lockhart obliviated himself down there. Down in the Chamber of Secrets. Secrets. Dumbledore's Army. It is secret, isn't it? Secret Keeper, too, is secret. Pettigrew was secret. As was Dumbledore. No, not was, is. And Dumbledore isn't secret, he is Secret Keeper. What was he keeping though?

A faint tingling went through his whole body, like a small gust of air, a breeze. His hair was moving in gentle waves. A funny contrast, pure white decor and hair the colour of a raven's plumage...

Black. The Secret kept. The Most Noble and Ancient House of Black. Number 12 Grimmauld Place. A dark, dreary home with a portrait screaming obscenities when you made too much noise near it.

A childhood home for two people. Two people with black hair. Black hair… heir?

Sirius Black. His godfather.

He remembered. He remembered everything. But with remembrance came memories. And with memories came pain.

It was as if the Cruciatus Curse, the feeling of a thousand white-hot knives on each and every one of his pores, focused solely on the lightning bolt scarring his forehead.

Harry had experienced many hardships in life. He had gained many scars emotionally, mentally, and physically in his almost sixteen years on earth, but never had something hurt as much as the pain he was now feeling.

It was unbearable, he wanted it to stop, he wanted to die, and he would do anything to cease suffering. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping it will help bear the torture while it lasted, hoping it will alienate some of the pain. His back was arched in an almost inhuman angle, his hands gripping his forehead, throat already raw from incoherent screaming, eyes having long ago rolled in his head.

Harry was unable to decipher anything, the pain blinding all of his senses. He only had the faintest of feelings of his scar fending wide open, the sensation of something slimy sliding out of his body: a great black mass so big Harry could hardly see any white anymore.

Then it was all over. Harry fell onto his knees on solid ground. He was madly trembling, and he saw that he was no longer in the pure white space. The sky was blue with clouds scattered across it, colours were surrounding him, and the road was made of stone. He lifted his head and saw in front of him an imposing estate: it was roughly the size of Malfoy Manor, if not bigger.

Everything about this manor screamed wealth and old age. The great walls were made of ancient stone, and climbing vines were distributed evenly on about two thirds of the chateau. Incredible gardens and sculpted hedges were plastered across the property, which was surrounded by an ancient brick wall. Two grandiose silver gates were attached to the barrier, one on each side, and in the middle of each of these portals was a magnificent P on top of a creature Harry recognized as a Thestral. There was even a fountain shaped in said magical beast, from what Harry could see.

The teen looked down at him and realized that he wasn't in the white clothes anymore. The scars were back, as were his tattered robes and the dried blood from the battle. Harry sighed and got up, albeit shakily, for he was still banged up from the excruciating pain. He touched his scar with his hand and felt something hot and sticky. Blood. With his sleeve he wiped it off as best as he could.

He looked around him and saw what could only be described as a miles long and large forest, with probably hundreds of magical creatures living in it. Harry turned back and focused on the crest: it was obviously a magical family's, and if he had to guess, he would say it belonged to a very old pureblood family starting with a P. Harry approached the portals, put his hand on the right gate, wand in hand, and gave a light push. The gate opened a bit with a creek and nothing bad happened, so Harry pushed it all the way and took a step forward.

Nothing. No guards, no alarms, no curses or jinxes or hexes coming his way, no expulsion from the grounds. Nothing.

Harry, on edge, took a few more steps cautiously; ready to dodge if anything were to come his way.

Still nothing. He took that as a good sign but still kept his wand out, just in case.

Constant vigilance, as Moody would say.

Harry looked around in awe: the estate was magnificent. Hedges were sculpted in the shape of magical creatures as impressive as Sphinxes, Direwolves, Merpeople, and others were Niffler, Kneazle, and even Demiguise, shaped. All of them were life sized, so when Harry encountered a Dementor shaped one, it was huge with its ten feet tall.

Harry then made his way towards the Thestral shaped fountain. The creature's head was held tall and proud, and water was gently coming out from the statue's very surface, keeping the beast wet at all times. The horse's hooves were in a polished stone circular basin of a foot deep and of seventeen feet of diameter. The distance between the edge and the hooves was about five feet long.

Harry was entranced by the beauty of the entire property, including the majestic exterior of the manor.

"This is the main Peverell Estate. Striking, isn't it?" a female voice said.

Harry jumped, turned abruptly and drew his wand to the speaker's neck, a spell on his lips. She scowled.

"No need to be jumpy," she snarked. "I was just giving you information. It was obvious that you were wondering to whom it belonged, and still belongs, come to think of it."

"Who are you?" he demanded, narrowing his eyes, taking her in. She was wearing a loose, modest, spaghetti strapped blood red dress. It went to mid-calf at the front, and to the ground at the back. Her feet were clad in black ankle boots with what looked like to be blood stains. Her right middle finger bore a ring made in bones with a single, small onyx on it. Her hair was darker than his and her violet eyes shined bright with mischief. Wisps of mascara and eyeliner could be found on her face. Her skin was pale and pore less and her lips were pouty and red, making a bright contrast. All in all, she was beautiful.

With her perfectly manicured hand, the woman gently pushed aside his wand away from her neck.

"I am known under many names, but I prefer Death. Now, Harry Potter, let's sit and talk."

Numbness. It was the only thing he was feeling right now, the only thing he could feel. Harry Potter, his best friend's son, had jumped through the veil after his godfather. He was gone. They were both gone.

Everything was going so well though. After Harry and his friends had been tricked into go to the Ministry, the Order was hurrying, rushing to go to their rescue, to help them. Sirius had insisted on coming and, not having the time to argue, the Order let him come, saying the more the better. Remus knew it was a bad idea.

Although, the battle had been going well. They took everyone in the Death Chamber by surprise, popping up one by one, taking down Death Eaters as they appeared.

But then, they fought back, and it was a true battle, where lives will most certainly be taken.

And the Light fought well, everyone fought well, and everything was fine, right up until Nymphadora Tonks was taken down by Bellatrix Lestrange and Sirius went charging at her, taunting her.

Then Sirius fell through the Veil.

Remus couldn't believe it. Sirius was still laughing, still taunting Bellatrix when she shot a bright red jet of light at him, knocking him backwards and sending him through the black drapes. He wanted to cry out, he almost cried out: he felt the pain of when your mate died, though it wasn't as intense as he heard it to be.

Maybe it was because his body couldn't take more. Maybe it was because Sirius' death hadn't totally registered yet. Maybe the books had exaggerated so Remus was expecting more torment, more misery, more despair.

Even though Remus only wanted to crawl into a hole and never come back out, even though he wanted to die, he knew he couldn't. The Order of the Phoenix needed him, the Light needed him, and most of all, Harry needed him. The boy who called him "Unca Mooey" when he was just a babe, the teen who called him "Professor Lupin" during his third year, and still does, the teen on whom the fate of the Wizarding World is on his shoulders, and his shoulders alone.

So when he saw said teen running towards the dais, he knew he couldn't wallow in grief, he knew he couldn't just curl up in a ball under his bed sheets and do nothing.

He ran as fast as he could, using some of his werewolf strength to go even faster, and enveloped his arms around Harry's thin chest. The youth fought against his grip, determined to go after Sirius even though Remus told him he was gone, he was dead, he wasn't coming back.

It was torture, holding back his best friend's son to stop him from running to his death just after Sirius died, but alas, it didn't work, for Harry bit him, hard.

He was surprised that Harry had decided to bite him, and the throb he felt was enough, apparently, to make him loosen his grip. Then, the youth surprised the elder.

Accidental magic. Or was it wandless magic? Either way, Remus was blasted seven feet away from Harry, and both men fell to the floor, although Remus' fall was rougher than Harry's, who was able to get up as quickly as he fell.

The werewolf, even with his quicker than standard reflexes, even when he got up and started running towards Harry, even with Dumbledore on his feet, he could do absolutely nothing to save Harry and watched, powerless, as the last part of James, of Lily, of his old life, vanished behind ragged, black drapes, which fluttered before settling down again.

It seemed as if time had stopped when Harry went through. Even before the Death Eaters heard the agony filled cry of loss that shocked them to their very core coming from the werewolf, who was kneeling by the arch, his right hand on it, they had stopped fighting. Tears were streaming down the former Professor's face, though Remus didn't notice.

When the man started looking around and realized that Bellatrix Lestrange had escaped, he gave another cry, a fury filled one this time, and punched the dais with his left hand, the stone cracking underneath the force of it.

The Death Eaters, still in shock that an apparently soulless monster could emit such raw emotion, the Order benefited of the situation and started taking down the enemy, capturing them. Some still escaped though.

Ministry officials, most of them Aurors, then came running into the room, took in the damage, the situation, and started rounding up the Death Eaters, securing them and taking them away. The other ministry workers brought the still standing Order members to the Atrium and brought the hurt to St Mungo's.

Remus was in a pitiful state: tears streaming down his face in abundance mingling with the blood and sweat, torn clothes, non-seeing eyes. His heart, his whole body, was aching.

When in the grand circular room, Remus went for a bench and sat down, shoulders and back hunched, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

Then the questions started.

'How did you know of the attack?' A friend.

'What was your relation with Sirius Black?' Lover.

'Where is Harry Potter?' Gone.

'How long have you been collaborating with Sirius Black, a known criminal?' He is not a criminal.

'What was your relation with Harry Potter?' Undetermined.

'Did you know of the attack before it happened?' No.

'Gone where?' Hogwarts.

'Yes, he is. Killed 13 with one spell, that madman.' Shut up.

Finally, after two hours, the questions started diminishing. Spent, Remus lay down, one arm on his chest, the other dangling from the edge of the bench, not wanting to think of how he would never see Harry and Sirius again, how his pack was truly gone, forever.

Remus saw purple robes approaching him and sitting beside his head. They sat in silence for a long time, none of them acknowledging the other.

"I want to say goodbye." His voice was hoarse, dead. It held no emotion, no tone, nothing.

Dumbledore only nodded. He too looked as if the world had just ended. Remus had heard rumours that Dumbledore regarded Harry as a grandson, but never thought they were true. Apparently, they were.

The Headmaster got up and turned to face the still lying ex-Professor, his hand extended. Remus looked at the hand, and then gazed into his mentor's eyes, his amber orbs questioning his sad, comforting blue ones. The elder nodded once. Remus took the offered hand and got up, leaning on Dumbledore as his legs gave under him, too weak to carry his weight.

Together they made their way towards the elevator and descended to the Department of Mysteries, and then to the Death Chamber, Remus supported by Dumbledore all the way. They walked to the dais and Remus let go of the other man's hand, putting his right palm against the arch, sliding down to his knees, gazing up at the black veil.

"I failed him," sighed the purple robed wizard. "Had I told him about the prophecy instead of wanting to give him a proper childhood, none of this would have happened. It is my fault."

"It's not your fault." Remus corrected automatically. His voice was flat, lifeless.

He should have forced Sirius to stay at headquarters, going so far as hitting him with a petrificus totalus. Sirius wasn't ready to fight. It had been over twelve years, before Azkaban, since he had last fought in a true battle. He shouldn't have been permitted to come. During the battle, he should've stayed by his lover's side, helping, protecting him. He should've summoned Sirius' clothes to stop him from falling through the veil.

He shouldn't have let Harry get the better of him, he should've stupefied him. Had he used a spell against him, whether it be impedimenta or stupefy, there was a great possibility that Harry would have still been living. Grieving, yes, but living. Instead, he was dead, gone. He couldn't even have his body, their bodies.

Remus was so lost in thought that he didn't see a sombre purple light being emitted by the archway, nor did he hear Dumbledore's gasp of surprise. What he did notice, though, was two figures being forced out of the veil, grunting from landing roughly on the dais. Both of them had dark hair and torn clothes with dried blood on them.

The one with the longer hair coughed and started talking, and the werewolf suddenly remembered what had been said at Grimmauld Place before this whole catastrophe: 'You aren't get-'

"-ting rid of me so easily, Remmie."

3093

03/07/17

*Excerpt from Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix chapter 35, Beyond the Veil*

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. It belongs to J.K Rowling.