AN: It's Finals Week! But, my term paper is in, which is what had been holding this up so much. Oh, ou're all going to hate me.
EDITED 1-9-13
Chapter Two: The Dead Left Unburied
Sharp pain lanced into Harry's side as he hit the ground. Air whooshed out of his lungs in a pained gasp and he rolled over, trying unsuccessfully to breath. Above him the smoke and light from the fire blocked out all but the brightest stars and he focused on these and the act of breathing. With every breath, pain coursed through his side and chest to settle somewhere behind his eyes, turning everything a bit redder. He had landed wrong after he jumped and now lay sprawled out under the window.
Distantly, he could hear the sirens of fire trucks careening down the road and fuzzily thought that they were already too late. The Dursleys were surely dead, either from the fire or smoke inhalation, and he wouldn't last much longer. The night air was laced with smoke and he coughed, absentmindedly remarking on the line of blood that now ran down his cheek. He could place the pain as a broken rib and with the blood, decided it had probably pierced his lung. His breathe rattled wetly in his chest and his lungs still burned from the smoke in his room.
No, I won't to give up! What will happen to Ron and Hermione? And Voldemort's still out there and Cedric's still dead and, and… His mind was fogging and he couldn't think. His lungs were on fire and he couldn't breathe without rasping. Something wet ran down his cheek and it wasn't blood. It was cool and more landed on his eyelids, nose, and forehead. Wearily, he struggled to open his eyes. The sky had clouded while he had had them closed and it had begun to rain. How ironic, Harry thought cynically, that it should start to rain now.
"Are there any survivors?" The question was asked by a soot-stained firefighter standing In front of the burned out hulk of Number Four Privet Drive. The rain pounded on, drenching the smoking ruins and emergency responders alike. The whole scene was a blur of sirens, lights, and movement as paramedics tried to find survivors and carted away the victims.
"Not so far, sir. All we've found is the parents and their son, all dead. Some of the neighbors have said they had another boy living with them and the paramedics are searching for him now," the report was delivered matter-of-factly by another drenched firefighter, soot running in rivulets over his gear.
He was about to give his report on the structure itself when a cry went up from the side of the house, where a paramedic was shouting, "Over here! We found him!"
A stretcher was rushed to the spot, just behind the house and over some rubble where the paramedics were gathering around a still form on the ground. Unnervingly green eyes stared up through the rain and sodden black hair at the fire chief. This was no survivor, he thought grimly, just another casualty. From the looks of it, he had tried to escape by jumping from a window on the second floor and broken a rib and punctured a lung. He was dreadfully thin, dressed only in a worn pair of sleep pants two sizes too large. His chest was mottled with bruises, especially along the left side. Perhaps the rib had caught his heart as well? The chief didn't have time to see any more, as the boy was quickly loaded into a body bag and carted back to the awaiting ambulance to lay with his family.
With a sigh, he rubbed a hand over his face and called for his SiC, "Make sure they keep the hoses on this for a while. We don't need it flaring or spreading to the rest of the neighborhood."
"Yes, sir!"
It was going to be a long night.
Number Twelve Grimmauld Place was in chaos. The dual shrieking of an alarm and Walburga had driven everyone from their beds and the Order members had been half way out the door before the children could question them. Now only Molly, Hermione, and the Weasely brood were left in the house, along with a worried, disgruntled Sirius, who had wanted badly to go with the rest. Though they questioned Molly intensely, the students got no answers in regards to the siren. Instead, they sat around the kitchen table, trying to decide for themselves what it had meant.
"Maybe You-Know-Who attacked?" It was Ron's question, from where he sat between Ginny and Hermione, rubbing one eye.
"That doesn't explain how the Order knew, Ron. The alarm was for something specific," Hermione was mumbling into her tea mug, absentmindedly tugging her fluffy robe closer.
Tired silence blanketed the warm room, broken only by the crackling of the kitchen fireplace. Ginny's head had fallen onto her older brother's shoulder when she fell asleep and Ron looked about ready to follow her. The twins were trying to keep each other awake, but their attempts were waning as the night grew on. The group collectively jumped when the door squeaked open and Sirius staggered in, going straight to the teakettle and pouring himself a mug before turning to face the blearily questioning looks, "Don't bother asking. I don't know any more than you lot do about any of this. No one bothers to tell me anything anymore."
On that dreary note, the fugitive staggered back out the way he had come. Ron's head thunked to the scarred table, startling his sister awake as his shoulder moved, "Huh? What?"
It was a soggy group of misfits that stood before the smoldering ruins of Number Four Privet Drive. The rain still thundered on, sweeping in visible drifts across the dark road. The emergency crews were long gone when the Order had arrived, leaving the wizards with grim wreckage and caution tape.
"How did… That is… Was it Voldemort, do you think?" Tonks' hair was a dismal grey, darker in the rain, and reflected the mood well.
"It couldn't have been. The wards would have been in place. No Dark wizard may enter them," Moody, gruff as ever, false eye whirling in its socket.
"Then how?" The question was so simple, but there seemed to be no answer for it. For a few moments more the group stood in rainy silence, before another spoke up, Remus, face haggard and pale, "I don't believe that's the question we should be asking. Where is Harry?"
This time, the silence was crushing.
"Rules?"
"No weapons. Hand-to-hand only. Death at five second pin."
"Acceptable. Begin."
Two figures jumped apart and began circling the other. The taller began searching for cover, not for a moment believing his height gave him an edge. He might be more cunning than his opponent, but Hiei was much faster and had strength on his side. There was no cover, their sparring ground a flat plain in Makai. Distantly, Kurama shook away a buzzing in his ear and ignored the pressure in his chest. It's nothing. Don't think about it, just concentrate on the fight.
Hiei, sensing his opponent's distraction, took full advantage, disappearing in a blur, only to reappear behind the yoko, one arm raised high to strike. Whirling, Kurama raised an arm to guard, swiping the other low, landing a solid blow to the smaller demon's rib cage. With a gasp he sprung away settling into a guarded stance and seemingly ignoring the bruise forming and fading on his stomach. Kurama's tail flicked and he moved to the offensive, feinting to the side before switching to land behind Hiei, hand flat to slice across his back. His hand never made contact as Hiei was already moving, wrapped hand jabbing into kidneys while his foot caught Kurama's chin as he instinctively curled over his wounded stomach. There was a buzzing behind the fox's eyes, almost blurring the world, and the pressure in his chest was back, stronger. He coughed once, rubbing the blood away from his bitten lip. Staggering upright once more, he turned to face the other, who was waiting for him to compose himself.
"So kind of you to wait for me, Hiei. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were being quite the gentleman," the yoko let himself smirk, enjoying the scowl sweeping across the fire demons face.
"You've spent far too long among ningen, Fox, if you think that's what I'm doing."
"Yes, yes, I know. But back to our little spar…" He lunged, tackling his smaller opponent to the ground. They scuffled, rolling over and over, each trying to gain dominance over the other. When they came to a stop Kurama lay under Hiei, wrists pinned and teeth snapping. He struggled but could not get free; finally stopping after the count was up.
"Let me up," there was a growl there, accompanied by laid back ears and narrowed gold eyes.
"Hmm, I'm not sure about that. I think I rather like you where you are," there was no challenge here, that battle had just been fought.
Kurama hissed, the buzzing had returned and with it the pain, again stronger. His face twisted and his teeth were bared, unmistakably in pain. Pain was somehow worse when it was internal. Hiei had noticed, of course, "Fox? What's wrong?" His brows were furrowed and face darkening.
The other didn't reply, to busy fighting off the pain, pounding now in his chest. The white noise was forming almost-words, jumbled garbling pleas echoing through his mind. His teeth grit together as his eyes clenched tight and Hiei began shaking him, demanding to know what was wrong. Finally, when the pain seemed at its crescendo and the noise was causing his eyes to water, something snapped and only a quiet whispering was left:
Help me.