Alchemistaus Stahl

Chapter 4
Looking For the Dead

The book and its author – a name which, in its translated version, was beyond his current abilities to pronounce – knew a lot about what made up the human body, but it didn't seem to know much about the soul. There were several suggestions: another living thing, be that a human or even a little ant; something that contained the genetic material of that soul, like blood from a relative and thoughts of memories. Harry didn't much like the original idea; his cousin wouldn't have any trouble catching a moth or a butterfly to use – but his cousin had parents who loved him and would give the world for him. Harry didn't. That was the whole point.

And Harry didn't like the idea of sacrificing another living thing, no matter how small. Maybe it came from being small himself; there was no shortage of spiders if it really came to it, but a spider was still alive. Just like ants and garden snakes and butterflies. Just like him. It all made him feel rather insignificant. But blood was an easier thing: he had a plenitude of it, wasting away from the cuts and scrapes that came from everyday life. Whether he cut himself on the fences at school climbing them to get away from Dudley, or on the sharp knives in the kitchen cooking, or on a thorn in the garden, that blood was wasting away. It would be far better used to revive his parents – and he only needed a few drops. A wound not even big enough for a band aid could give him that.

The memories were more of a problem: he only had ill-remembered dreams and whispered scrapes from his relatives. He needed more; he needed to know his parents, so he could truly have them back. Otherwise they'd just be dolls or something to that effect.

Actually, the book wasn't sure about that, but it suggested it, and Harry woke up several nights since then in a cold sweat, seeing the cold unfeeling faces of the man and woman in the photograph he'd once seen at his grandmother's house.

If only she were still alive, he could have asked her more. But she wasn't. The only person he knew that knew his parents was Aunt Petunia, but he didn't think he'd be able to convince her to tell. He remembers his grandmother though, and he wonders if he should first bring her back and ask her, but his eight year old wonders if he'll only remember what he recalled for her when she came back. And he'd met her so few times he didn't really know her.

He realised quickly he was thinking himself into a corner. One question brought another question and the doubt accumulated. He tried to push them away, because he was suddenly afraid: afraid he couldn't bring his parents back the way he wanted them, the way they were supposed to be. But the teachers at school always said to believe in oneself, didn't they? That applied here too…right?

Harry took a deep breath and repeated that to himself. After all, no-one knew a person perfectly. They couldn't require memories that detailed.

It didn't even occur to him that resurrecting a human might never have actually worked before. It was in the book, even if he was still on its second chapter, the one after the introduction. Even if there was so many intricate details he didn't understand, even with the footnotes. But all the dots connected without it – all the dots except the ones regarding memories and the soul, because the author didn't sound particularly sure about them either. But it said either method would work: the living soul, or the information that made it up, that lived in a relatives blood. His blood.

It took a few more days before the nightmares of failure subsided and gave way to hopeful dreams, and he waited patiently. Waited because he didn't want to fail. He couldn't fail.

.

He picked a day his aunt, uncle and cousin were busy entertaining guests, and he was left to himself in the cupboard. He wasn't imagining any loud flashes and bangs, and the presence of guests meant he wouldn't be interrupted. Knowing earlier that day there would be visitors, he'd snuck everything else that remained into his cupboard. Luckily, Aunt Petunia was too harried to notice she was missing a bucket.

It was a tight squeeze, but by stacking things on top of each other, Harry had managed it. The cupboard fit his bed after all, and there was still a bit of growing room left in it. Perhaps enough to last him till he turned eleven. Maybe twelve. He didn't know what would happen after that, but by that time it was hopeful dreams of a happy family that filled his mind, so it didn't even matter.

It wasn't completely dark; the grating was left open, which was a relief. His uncle usually only shut it if curious kids were coming; they'd peek otherwise. But he left it open other times, because often that was Harry's only source of light and air without leaving the door open or turning on the light (which would raise questions, considering how obvious it would be), and the Dursleys did give him his basic human needs, if not much else besides. He had a dry piece of bread as well: his dinner, but that was less important.

The dinner could wait. He had everything he needed to complete the transmutation, and now that he had the perfect opportunity and had convinced himself it would work, there was no reason to wait any longer. He couldn't wait any longer.

He drew the circle painsickeningly in the poor light, removing things when they got in the way and replacing them afterwards. His back and knees and elbows hurt by the time he was done, but it was as perfect a copy of the transmutation circle in the book as he could make it, and that was what mattered. All the bits and pieces he'd collected were stacked in a fragile tower in the middle. He'd been careful to make sure not a single thing fell beyond the boundaries, that everything was properly arranged. He'd stood the bed up against the wall so he'd have more space. The floor was for the circle…and his parents.

His hands were steady as he added the last thing, a few drops of blood while thinking viciously about what he knew about his parents, how they looked. But they shook when he sunk to his knees beside the circle, ready to channel his energy into it. The doubt returned like a little shadow in the corner of his mind but he shoved it away. It wasn't the time for doubts. His parents would come back to him. They would!

A few tears splashed on to his hands regardless, and he brushed them away. His chest was so full of emotion he thought it would burst; he could see his parents again! They'd hug him, tell him they loved him, raise him like the wonderful parents they simply had to be because Aunt Petunia just didn't like his mother and told lies about the both of them.

Once, Harry had believed those lies. But never whole-heartedly, and less so once Grandma Evans had told him how much his aunt had hated his mother from their childhood. He couldn't trust the little snippets she gave after that, and he didn't want to. He had hope his mother was the kind woman who'd leave a feathery kiss on his forehead as he drifted off to sleep, who'd wear a yellow sundress and smile, or be warm and inviting in a red glow. And he had hope his father, whom no-one else seemed to know, wasn't a drunken man who'd gotten he and his wife killed, but a kind strong one, who'd create fireworks for his son because that little baby was the whole world to him.

Harry didn't know if those dreams were real or his own longing, but he, in the face of hope, believed them more than his aunt's words. And it was those memories that filled his mind, that plunged towards reality, that filled his heart as he finally clapped his hands sharply and slammed them into the circle.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then energy surged through his body, causing his skin to tingle and his hair to stand on end. Something cracked somewhere, and Harry looked up in alarm. But it wasn't the tower of human body constituents falling. It was the energy within him climbing to new heights.

His vision became yellow, then white. Something echoed in his ears: not a voice, but the spitting cackles of wild electricity in enclosed space. Shadows ran around him, outside the circle. He couldn't make them out though: his attention was inside, where the mass of things he'd grouped and piled were ripping themselves apart and stitching themselves together into new shapes. Once the background was pure white they looked humanoid, but by then his eyes were watering so badly he could only make out the vague shapes.

And then even they were gone in the white, and he screamed after them, hands lifting off the circle to try and reach them.

.

.

A/N: Sorry for the delay in posting this chapter; it was supposed to be done on the bus on Thursday, but my battery died (I need a new laptop I think). And the weekend was…rather busy.

And thank you to everyone; no-one's guessed the mystery author yet, so keep guessing. :D And to those of you who know German…I'm not sure how much detail it's going to require (my plan's rather loose), but if I need help, I'll definitely ask. :)