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 7: What Dreams May Come

I really messed it up this time, didn't I.

"It's under control, is it, Alex?" Dad—no, Mr. Lupin, must remember that—said softly from behind the dream-barrier, with that edge to the tone that was about the only thing that could ever scare him.

Yep. Definitely in deep stinky doo-doo.

The black-robed figure that looked like an elongated skeleton draped with white skin—Lord Voldemort, Alex reminded himself, though he preferred Ms. Letha's very descriptive 'Snakeface'—turned slowly on his heel, taking in the scene. Glowing ruby eyes with catlike slits—eyes were never meant to be that color—alit briefly upon Mum, Hermione, and Alex in turn, dismissing each as unimportant, then landed on Harry, barely five feet from him.

"Harry Potter," Voldemort said softly, and the high-pitched voice sent icy chills down Alex's spine. "Such a pleasure to see you again."

"Go to hell," Harry snarled back. Hermione gasped. Alex didn't know why she was surprised. He knew she didn't like swearing, but if ever there was a time for it, this was it.

Voldemort smiled, a thin, lipless smile. "I think not."

"What, you expect me to believe St. Peter will let you anywhere near the Pearly Gates?" Harry snapped back. "The only thing that might keep you out of hell is if the devil's too scared of you to let you in."

Just what we need, Alex thought. Two smart-alecs. Then he had to snicker, but silently—he did not envy Harry that hellspawn's attention. But there's only one of me...

Voldemort's smile grew a trifle wider. "Such courage. I do value courage. A pity I must kill you...you would make a fine servant..."

Not good...if you die in dreams, you die in reality...

Well, maybe not, never met anyone who'd died in a dream, but I'm not anxious to find out...and I can't do anything to even the odds, can't change it at all, I'm not the one dreaming this and I'm not the one who made him dream this...

I wonder—I can't possibly make it any worse than I already have—

Alex gave a cautious tug to the second-strongest of the bonds that connected Harry's—mind? Soul?—to someone else's. It had a very different feel than the first one—not terribly surprising, since that one linked Harry to his parents' murderer. And if I'd just seen that earlier...

A thump behind him and to one side told him that one of the spectators on the far side of the dream-barrier had just been propelled into what amounted to a brick wall. Probably Freckles, Alex thought. He knew from what Hermione had said in dreams that Harry and Ron were the best of friends, though it hadn't once occurred to her to put last names to the boys. (As if it would have mattered—Alex had never heard of the Weasleys and until Sunday had been thinking Harry's last name was Dursley.)

Let's try third-strongest... no, that was a blood-bond. There was another element to it, something completely unfamiliar, but a blood-bond it certainly was. Petunia Dursley's 'feel' was unmistakable. Mostly because she had quite a bit in common with her son, and Alex was intimately familiar with the feel of Dudley's mind. (Dudley would likely never learn that certain recurring nightmares of his were in fact Alex's work.)

"Must kill me?" Harry asked, with an expression on the visible half of his face that told Alex that Harry's curiosity had just trumped his common sense.

There were three bonds that just about tied for fourth-strongest, though one was rather newer than the other two—or considerably older—whatever. Alex picked one of the other two and tugged. Hermione skidded towards him a few inches. Number two—another thump from behind. Little Red? From the way she blushed whenever his name came up, she had a major crush on Harry...but that sort of thing wasn't usually strong enough to create a bond like this...and Mr. Lupin hadn't known Harry for more than a tenth of his life, and the longest-ago tenth at that...contemplate later, Alex, work to do.

There was something blocking the older/newer one...if Alex had to guess, he'd say the person on the other end was wide awake. But a little subtle dreamshaping—no, the term was 'dreamweaving'—and s/he would be out like a light...

"Oh yes," Voldemort whispered, though the words were perfectly clear. "I spent thirty years becoming the greatest sorcerer in the world—"

"You're not," Harry interrupted, his voice full of quiet hatred.

Go Harry! But Alex couldn't pay much attention to the drama; whoever it was on the far end of the link, though obviously desperately worried about Harry—no kidding, he's with Sirius Black—was being exceptionally stubborn about remaining awake.

"Not what?" Voldemort asked, his voice dangerous.

"Not the greatest sorcerer in the world," said Harry, breathing fast. "Sorry to disappoint you and all that, but the greatest wizard in the world is Albus Dumbledore. Everyone says so. Even when you were strong, you didn't dare try to take over at Hogwarts. Dumbledore saw through you when you were at school and he still frightens you now, wherever you're hiding these days—"

There was a snort from Hermione's direction, the first sign in minutes that she wasn't a statue. On her far side, Mum was doing something, tilting the playing field in their favor as best she could, Alex was sure, but carefully, making sure Voldemort wouldn't notice. Alex ignored them both in favor of contemplating how to make Harry's friend go to sleep.

"Hiding no longer," Voldemort said, his frightening little smile back. "I believe the proper way to announce my return will be to display from the Hogwarts Astronomy Tower the flayed and gutted corpse of the boy who defeated me twice before, and whom I shall now defeat in turn."

Mum and Hermione both went green, and Alex felt a little green himself. Harry didn't twitch a hair. There was a steely glint in his emerald eyes. "I was one, the first time I beat you," he said quietly. "I'm stronger now. Bring it on."

Something flashed through Voldemort's eyes, gone too quickly to identify. In a heartbeat, his wand was pointed square at Harry, the motion too fast to be seen. "Crucio!"

Harry collapsed, screaming, his muscles spasming uncontrollably. Alex winced. That's gotta hurt...come on, you, you're nearly asleep, I know you're worried for Harry, you'll be able to help him much better if you're asleep too...

A hint of a smile appeared on Mum's face. Behind Voldemort, the dream-figure of Harry's dead father lurched to his feet and delivered a right hook to the back of Voldemort's head.

Voldemort whirled with a snarl, going, if possible, paler. Judging by the momentarily crossed eyes Alex had seen, that punch had hurt.

One "Reducto!" and Harry's father was splattered red history. But the distraction had done its job. Harry was back on his feet.

Voldemort pivoted back to face Harry, but turned, his eyes traveling unerringly to the source of the distraction. Alex's mother.

"Avada Kedavra!" Voldemort shouted. For a peculiar moment, Mum's brown eyes seemed as green as Harry's, because of the acid-green light reflected in them as it flew towards her. She closed her eyes as the spell hit—and vanished.

"HERMIONE!" Harry shouted.

Avada Kedavra was the Killing Curse, Alex remembered.

If you die in dreams, you die in reality.

Please God no.

Mr. Lupin, behind Alex, said something involving much swearing that amounted to the same thing.

Harry's gaze had followed the green light along its path. Now he looked back at Voldemort. "You killed her," he said softly, and Alex's instincts told him that this skinny boy, only three years older and barely taller than Alex himself, was suddenly more dangerous than anyone Alex had ever seen. Including the hellspawn in front of him. "I hope you like hell."

He charged.

If there was anything Voldemort didn't know how to react to, this was it. Harry, a strange light in his eyes, was punching every inch of Voldemort he could reach. Judging by the cracks Alex was hearing, that walking skeleton was a very fragile walking skeleton, now sporting at least three broken ribs and a fractured left arm.

Naturally, this infuriated Voldemort, who was maddened further still by the fact that Harry was completely ignoring most of the spells Voldemort was hitting him with. Crucio knocked him to the ground, yes, but he was biting his lip and refusing to scream, and through what looked like sheer bloody-mindedness he was forcing himself back upright despite the spell. Avada Kedavra he simply dodged, so that the worst he got was a scorch hole in his T-shirt and a raw red mark below the hole where the fringe of the curse brushed him.

"Harry, catch!" Hermione shouted, and threw—something—across the space between them. Harry turned to her and snatched the something from the air. It rippled and shifted, and snapped into focus as a gleaming silver sword, a large ruby glittering at the end of the handle.

Harry pivoted in place, holding the sword in both hands, looking, despite the bruises and blood and his small stature, like a hero out of legend. But there was a gray tinge to his skin—he was running out of strength, he couldn't go on much longer. If he didn't or couldn't wake himself before he completely exhausted himself, he'd be in deep trouble—and if he couldn't fight and couldn't wake, Voldemort would kill him.

Somehow that struck Alex as a bad thing.

"On guard," Harry whispered.

With a wave of his wand, a sword appeared in Voldemort's hand, twin to Harry's but with emeralds instead of rubies. He swung it straight for Harry's neck. It slid off Harry's sword with a metal screech and a shower of sparks, and the fight was on.

Just then, on the far end of the mind-bond Alex was manipulating, Harry's friend slid into sleep. Alex yanked on the link. Hard.

A tall, pale, dark-haired man tumbled out of nowhere and hit the floor with a thud. Harry didn't even glance in his direction, being more intent on attacking like a madman—or trying to—than in other people invading his dream. Voldemort did look at the new person, though, and his face twisted. The momentary distraction gave Harry the chance to land a good blow, his sword biting into Voldemort's shoulder.

The man rolled to his feet and ran, circling the combatants, eyes flicking frantically around. Alex didn't know what he was looking for—probably something he could do, Alex realized. He had a wand out, but Harry was moving so fast, there was no way he could be sure any spells aimed at Voldemort wouldn't hit Harry.

"Sirius!" gasped Mr. Lupin behind Alex. Startled, Alex took a closer look at the man.

Sirius Black!

What did I say before about not making it any worse?

Obviously the opinion of a second ago needed rethinking. Black couldn't fire off spells at Harry because they might hit Voldemort.

Hermione hissed something, turned, and ran to Alex. "We've got to get that barrier down," she whispered quickly. "Moony can't do anything to Black if he's behind it."

"Never mind him," Alex whispered back. There was an easier way to get someone here who would like nothing better than to pound Black to a pulp. He felt for the people close to Hermione, then having found the salt-water-wind girl, hauled on her blood-bonds.

Black skidded three feet closer to Alex—now why was that? A few feet from Alex, Ms. Letha appeared.

Bingo.

"Now we can try to get this down," Alex told Hermione.

"You!" Voldemort snarled. Alex didn't turn away from the barrier, nor did Hermione. But then something told him, look.

Alex looked.

There was a jet of acid-green light bearing down on him at Mach 2.

Alex, wake up!

xXxXx

This kid's really something, Sirius thought, trying to wriggle his way into a semi-vertical position without disturbing the boy using him for a pillow. Thirteen years old and pint-sized, not five minutes after he'd been out cold from dementor breath and half an inch from the Dementor's Kiss, and Harry could pull off a better Patronus than someone twenty years older who had a fair bit of power himself. And that was despite his never having heard of the spell before (else he'd probably have called it by name). Yeah, the kid was amazing.

Not that I'd expect anything else from James and Lily's son.

Harry started tossing around, twisting in Sirius's arms. Sirius thought he heard a whisper, something like "Mum, no..."

Having a nightmare, probably. Somehow I'm not surprised. Dementors. There are no swearwords adequate to describe dementors.

Then Sirius smacked himself on the forehead. Shouldn't have let him go to sleep. Not till he had some chocolate, anyway. I could do with some myself... "Accio bags!"

The two paper bags obediently soared through the entrance. One clanked against the floor next to Harry's trunk. The other hit the floor by Sirius with a splat.

So much for that omelet.

He cleaned up the broken eggs—no sense letting them go rotten—then dug into the chocolate, which tasted like heaven, and relaxed against the wall, or mostly relaxed. He didn't dare go to sleep, not till sunrise, not with dementors wandering about. They'd all be in hiding by dawn...there was something about sunlight they didn't like...or something about daytime; he seemed to recall that they didn't venture out much on cloudy days, either...not that it mattered, in Azkaban. There was more than enough stone between the inhabitants and the sky.

Sirius caught himself yawning. No. I will not go to sleep. I will not. If we're both asleep, he's got no protection...hell, he's got no protection if it's just me asleep. I can't imagine that he could have done a Patronus as powerful as he did without running very low on magic...he's only thirteen, after all...

More chocolate, Sirius decided. Aside from the anti-dementor effects, something in it—'cafeen', Letha had called it—kept people awake, supposedly. Which was a good thing.

But he kept on yawning despite the 'cafeen'...so tired...sleep...no sleep...yes sleep...

The world blurred—

Thud.

Ow.

Oh God.

Harry.

Voldemort.

Coulda sworn he was dead...hi, there, Coldyshorts, I love you too...yeah Harry! That's my boy! Make him bleed!

Now to figure out how to help him take Lord-He's-Ugly down...God he's fast. I don't dare try any spells, I might hit him instead of What's-His-Name...

"Sirius!"

A familiar voice, but not immediately identifiable. Sirius glanced over. Two brunette children stood in Lily's living room—but the house was destroyed, I saw the ruins—one a brown-eyed girl Harry's age, one a blue-eyed boy Harry's size, who seemed rather familiar. Remus's son? Sirius wondered—it had sounded like Remus's voice—minor problem with that theory, Padfoot. Werewolves can't have kids.

The girl ran over to the boy, who was standing by the front door, and said something; the boy replied in a whisper, then—

what the hell?

And where'd Letha come from?

"You!" Voldemort snarled, turning towards the boy. A green jet of light shot from his wand, aimed dead center at the boy's heart—dammit, kid, look, get out of the way—

And the boy vanished utterly, just before the light hit, splintering the door.

Cool trick.

An inarticulate yell from Voldemort. There was six inches of bloody steel sticking out of his chest.

Good for Harry!

Voldemort whirled to face Harry, yanking the sword hilt from Harry's grip. Harry's face, too pale already and with too much gray, went dead white.

He should be dead!

Letha, just getting off the floor, seemed to have come to the same conclusion. She didn't seem to have noticed Sirius at all—probably a good thing. She's likely to castrate me.

"Had you not realized yet?" Voldemort asked quietly. "I cannot die."

Take his head off his neck, that ought to kill anything. Suiting action to thought, Sirius lunged for the ruby-studded hilt, yanked the sword from Voldemort's back, and brought it around in a half-circle that put the blade straight through Voldemort's neck—

Ow.

I really could've done without the broomless flying lesson...and if getting blown to bits didn't kill him, what made me think beheading would?

Not that beheading had even worked. The sword had gone through half Voldemort's neck and there was blood spraying everywhere, yeah, but it had refused to penetrate the spinal column. More's the pity. He was probably lucky to be alive, he considered; next to Harry, who was presently engaged in an attempt to simultaneously break Voldemort's wrists and relieve him of both his wand and the emerald-studded sword, Sirius probably qualified as a minor annoyance.

Hey, there's that sword... The ruby sword had gone flying the same time Sirius had, in a different direction. ...let's see if I can get it without getting killed—oh shit.

The emerald sword had gone straight through Harry's shoulder.

Voldemort, you are going to die.

And I don't really care whether you can or not.

Sirius moved at such a speed that he must have seemed a blur, snatching the ruby sword off the floor, throwing Harry to Letha with a quick charm to make sure he'd land soft, attacking Voldemort, aiming for the left wrist because that was apparently his wand hand and a spell at this range wouldn't be easy to dodge. You are going down.

"Sirius!" Letha shouted, her voice a tangle of emotions. Apparently she'd only just seen him.

"Letha!" Sirius shouted back. "Harry's dying!" I hope he doesn't...oh God I hope he doesn't... but there was blood all over him, that was never a good sign...

"Harry!" screamed the girl, but she didn't run to him, instead continuing to hammer on the door. "But—I—can't—get—through!"

"What's wrong with the doorknob?" Sirius yelled at her, both annoyed at her for her obvious lack of mental acuity and annoyed at himself for his obvious lack of focus on the important matter at hand. And annoyed that part of him was left over to admire his opponent's sheer stubbornness. Even ignoring the slashed neck and the hole through what passed for his heart, there were enough bruises and blood and broken bones to finish off any lesser man.

Except maybe Harry. Harry wasn't as beat up, that was true, but he was a lot more tired, hadn't had as much strength—magically or otherwise—to start with, and certainly didn't have whatever let Voldemort endure mortal wounds, but despite that, with Letha's semi-expert care, he was still clinging to life...

The girl got the door open, and three people tumbled through, a tall boy and a small girl, fiery hair and freckles in stark contrast to their white faces, and Remus, looking a great deal more gray than when Sirius had last seen him. Sirius thought he got a glimpse of bookshelves through the door—but that's ridiculous, the door goes outside—before three more people followed on the heels of the first, the brown-haired boy from earlier, someone who must be his mother and the brunette girl's because her hair was just as curly as theirs, and a girl who was Letha in miniature with lighter skin.

Voldemort half-turned, keeping most of his attention on Sirius's rapidly moving sword, to look at the newcomers. The expression on his face was truly priceless.

Two of the girls and the woman rushed over to Harry. Remus, the two boys, and the redhead girl moved to surround Sirius and Voldemort, Remus and the redheads with their wands out and the third boy holding a long knife, all with expressions containing various degrees of shock, horror, and determination, none of them quite willing to approach the flying sword.

"Don't worry, Harry," one of the girls was saying, probably the Letha miniature as it wasn't the same voice as earlier, "it's just a dream, you'll wake up, you'll be all right, it's just a dream..."

Something glinted in Voldemort's red eyes. Sirius was flung backwards—how did he do that?—Harry came flying out of Letha's arms to land at Voldemort's feet—there was a canyon, fifteen feet across and more than that deep, circling the ten-foot-diameter pillar on which Voldemort stood and Harry sprawled—but the room's not that big, and we're all still in it

Voldemort reached down and grabbed Harry by the left shoulder, the bleeding one, hauling him upright so that Harry could look him in the eyes. "There is no mother here to save you, Harry," he said quietly. "You die tonight...but..."

The look in his eyes was, to say the least, frightening.

"Who is to know that it is you who has died?"

Voldemort dipped his fingers in Harry's blood, then contemptuously flicked some in Harry's face, spattering Harry's glasses. He tasted the blood, an indescribable expression on his face, though whatever it was, it couldn't bode well.

Harry summoned a last bit of strength and spat in his face.

Square in the mouth. He's still got that much spirit.

Unfortunately, that's all he's got; it has to be magic and stubbornness keeping him alive, and he's just about out of both...James, Lily, please forgive me, I tried to protect him, I tried my best...I failed him, I failed you, I'll never forgive myself...

Voldemort laughed, a high, cold laugh that gave Sirius chills. "Today my triumph," he whispered, and faded from sight.

"God damn it!" someone swore.

Harry collapsed like a marionette with all its strings abruptly cut.

And that analogy is far too apt, Sirius thought, then next moment wondered why.

The redhead girl shrieked and threw herself across the canyon, just barely catching herself on the edge of the pillar and scrambling up to fling herself down at Harry's side. "Harry, you can't die, you can't, I won't let you..."

Odd, Sirius thought, it was the same voice as the brunette girl earlier...no, Remus and the redheads had been just on the far side of the door, it must have been her yelling before...

The brown-haired woman, a tear in her eye, did something, Sirius wasn't quite sure what, but it made the canyon disappear. The red-haired boy led the mad rush to Harry.

"You're not allowed to die, do you hear me, Harry?" someone said, one of the boys, Sirius thought, though just at the moment he was more concerned with getting off the floor and over to Harry than with who said what. "I still haven't figured out how to pay you back for scaring Dudley off me. You can't die till I've paid you back."

"Just find a—baseball bat—and crack him—upside the head—that ought to—do nicely." From the tone of voice, Harry had cracked a smile, but the struggling for breath was not good, not good at all.

He's dying, Sirius realized, and for the first time it hit home.

"Harry, don't you dare die on me!" the redhead girl yelled, sobbing. "You saved me so I'll save you, I'll die if that'll keep you alive..."

"Don't," Harry whispered. "I'm not worth dying for."

"Don't talk like that, Harry," Sirius ordered, finally on his feet and shoving people aside so he could get to Harry. Little Letha had torn off Harry's shirt and was using it for a pressure bandage, Letha was frantically flicking healing spells, the redhead girl was cradling Harry like a large infant, holding him as if her grip was all that was holding him to life, but none of it would help, everyone could see that. "Don't even think like that."

"But it's true," Harry whispered, and as Sirius reached to touch his cheek, his eyes slid closed, and he vanished, blown away like a handful of sand in the wind.

"Harry!" the redhead girl screamed.

"You," a woman's voice—not Letha's—said harshly, as if angry but fighting tears. "Black." Sirius looked up at the brunette. "Send Remus an owl, tell us the truth, and please, please tell us Harry's alive."

Huh? Remus is right here and Harry's dead...oh God, Harry's dead...

"Wake up," the woman ordered.

The world blurred and snapped into focus. The windows in the cave showed a starry sky just beginning to glow with dawn.

Just a dream, Sirius realized. Just a nightmare.

Harry was still lying on top of him—well, kneeling, now standing up—but he was alive.

Just a nightmare.

Thank God.

"Avada Kedavra," said a voice that both was and was not Harry's.

Sirius rolled to one side, just in time, his mind back in think-fast mode. Harry'd already been turning away when he'd said those words, Sirius had seen that much, so he wouldn't have seen the curse miss. Maybe if I play dead I'll be all right?

Harry. Trying to kill me.

Out of one nightmare into another.

Footsteps, walking away. Sirius waited ten seconds, then sat up and grabbed for the kitchen knife he'd taken from the Dursleys'. Quietly but quickly, he ran down the entrance passage, reaching the end just in time to see Harry pivot in place and disappear.

Sirius sat down in the entranceway with a thud. His one glimpse of Harry's face played over and over in his memory.

Compared to what he'd just seen, Harry dead might have been preferable.

Ruby lights in emerald eyes...

Out of one nightmare into another.

And this time, I don't think I can wake up.

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?