In Eyes Of Innocence

Abby Ebon

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Pensive To Present

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"Harry…your hand." Sirius sounded horrified, his gaze intent upon the appendage; it was with some dismay that Harry looked to his wand hand. His eyes widened at what he saw. Bruise, was the word that came to mind, but no bruise could look so intricate, like feathers – or scales.

Sirius reached out to touch, fingers running along the black swirls on tanned skin. Harry was aware of how much larger Sirius's hand seemed then his own, even with Connor tucked safely in his arm. With wide eyes, Connor is staring at the marks with the same sort of intensity as Sirius. Harry bounces him on his hip to distract the boy, but Sirius is not so easily swayed.

He frowns, eyes narrowing with a thought. Harry dreads finding out what it is.

"These looks like…" Sirius begins, but Harry suddenly has the insight that he does not want Sirius to finish those words, following his gut, Harry blurts out some meaningless muggle comparison.

"Tattoos…?" In the pause that follows, it seems the silence in the stillness between them stretches to be both gapping and uncomfortable. Sirius is aware that his question had made Harry uncomfortable. Harry, after all, wasn't meeting Sirius's eyes – and to a wizard, that meant something more substantial then honesty.

"Harry…" With gentle fingers and soft voice, Sirius began even as he turned Harry's wrist around and followed the pattern that wove into the skin like some plant – creeping upward along the blood veins. "What have you been doing, Harry?" There is something like disappointment in Sirius, and Harry closes his eyes, pained.

He has no right to question me! A defiant protest, pointless and senseless; Sirius has every right to ask, Harry can't lie like this, not with Sirius – his godfather – and not when they are the only two true wizards in the entire world.

"What do you see, Sirius?" Harry asks, remembering moments, swallowing down inherited demonic traits while his magic was wide open to save his partner and her baby; spewing up demon blood, his body rejecting it – a vampire drinking it and the rest – the Phoenix Tears and Basilisk Venom, and the blood acting as a catalyst for the undead drinker, changing him from vampire to some other, newer and stranger, monster – his magic behaving, even though it shouldn't have. For all his recklessness, Harry had only suffered a bone-bruise Fawkes had healed. It should have been worse.

Sirius now probably had the answer to why it hadn't been, in his hands, in the knowledge he'd been raised with as a Black. Harry had been playing blind and dumb, to think a vampire bite could settle this, could take back what he'd done with his own magic. It had evened out the balance in his body, Phoenix Tears and Basilisk Venom and now Demon –magic, inheritance…blood, all of it, along with his own natural born magic tightly bound together –unwillingly combined and each deadly in it's own way – all of it, in his body. It was a wonder he wasn't dead already.

"Harry, this is a demon mark – from demon blood; dark magic, the blackest sort." Sirius's voice wavered, and Harry could think of what was going through his godfather's mind – was Harry dark? What had happened to Harry and his world while Sirius had been absent? Was it his – Sirius's – fault?

Sirius let his wrist go, fingers failing away like tears.

"No." Harry hissed, holding onto Sirius's hands when Sirius would have let him go in defeat.

"Sirius, I did this to myself – do you understand? No one else is to blame, certainly not you. I…it… I did it, she …she was going to lose the baby, I…I can't…" Harry's hands were shaking and he was aware that his eyes were blurred and his cheeks hot. Connor crooned uselessly, tiny fists clutched in Harry's shirt. Harry fought to speak, but he couldn't – what use had his sacrifice been, in the end? – Astoria and her baby were surely…gone.

"Harry, it's alright, if you can't tell me – show me?" Harry nodded his movement jerky and sharp.

"Sirius, what is that?" That was a crude silver bowl that looked to have been carved from solid silver and beaten down. It was inlayed with black ash that twisted about the sides like waves and within the rim was dull gold, and the carved patterns there could be bent by age or magic.

"Pensieve." Sirius declared, tight lipped and defensive. He cradled it almost protectively between them, and Harry didn't ask another question. Harry puts his wand to his head and thought of the moment he lost Sirius forever; it was like tearing off a scab to watch the blood begin to flow. Something that should always be inside of himself, pouring out, there was relief in it, like crying, like being able to breath instead of just using the air he needed.

It got easier, because Harry was determined not to quit until he was finished, and harder, because he wanted to share his life with Sirius until this moment, but not everything that had happened in his life. It became something like a trance, ease slipping between Harry and his memories, rather then any sense of peace or calm.

"Harry," Sirius's voice woke him, lulled him away from the moments that made up hundreds of memories – so little to weigh into so much, "that's enough, more then enough." If Sirius told him so, Harry reasoned, it must be true. Harry blinked, the room around him focusing, becoming details rather then a blur in the background of his own bright memories.

Connor snuggled his head closer to the center of his chest, a warm sleeping weight, around his numb skin and muscles. Harry rolled his shoulders, stretching his spine and hearing bones creak and crack into their proper place.

"How long…?" Harry asked, looking to the window even as he asked. Behind the curtains, it was bright day. He suddenly didn't want to know the answer, as if Sirius knew it, he hadn't answered – letting Harry look and find out. Harry glanced to the discomforting crude silver bowl of burnt black ash and gold rim, Sirius had put it onto the table with his engagement ring. It was full of mist and silver threads. Sirius looked longingly to it, rather then him, and Harry understood what Sirius wanted but dared not ask.

"Go ahead; I'll be back, after I find someone to put him to bed." Harry certainly didn't know where Connor slept during the day; he stood carefully from where he had settled onto the floor cross-legged. Sour muscles protested their treatment and Harry thought fondly of when he was younger. Sirius gave him a nod as he fled, and Harry could only hope Sirius was as understanding when he returned.

Harry turned the corner toward Cordelia's room, and runs into Angel like he's a brick wall. Well, Harry's shoulder (the one opposite Connor) hits Angel, the rest of him twists away as if he's going to fall. Angel's hands come up to his shoulders, catching and steadying. The grip tightens and loosens, as if Angel doesn't want to let go and doesn't know what to do with his hands, either.

"Angel," Harry greets softly, voice whispering as he's very aware of Connor on his shoulder "I was, uh, just putting him to bed." Harry tilts his head toward his room – and Connor – but Angel smiles a little, clearly amused.

"He looks awake to me." Bright baby blues peer up at Harry sheepishly.

"Scamp." Harry tells Connor, teasing. Angel inhales to laugh, and then his grip tightens on Harry's shoulders and Harry is very aware that Angel isn't human.

"Angel? What's wrong?" Harry asks, eyes flicking over their surroundings as if to catch a glimpse of what Angel had smelled. Angel has his wand hand in gripped between his own large hands, and Harry can't remember when that happened because all he did was look away. Very slowly, as if to mock Harry for not seeing before, Angel brings his wrist up to his nose – his mouth.

"You smell like him." It's an accusation if Harry has ever heard one. Angel's eyes are dark as a night without stars, and when he snarls Harry thinks he catches a glimpse of fangs. Connor is suddenly very still and quiet against him, and Harry opens his mouth but only gets half a word out.

"Wh -..?" Angel is pressed against the front of him, and the wall is at Harry's back. He's half grateful for that, at least – but it's a bit pointless when 'the enemy' coming at him is in his face; Harry can't help as he grunts at the force Angel had used to put him there. Angel bends to sniff at his neck, inhaling slowly, as if to savor it – or be sure, or something else, some twisted mix of the two. He hisses, as if to rid himself of the smell on his tongue. Angel's fangs are very visible, but there is intelligence lurking in the murky black eyes staring at Harry – and, better yet, a human face looking back at him.

"He's touched you." Possessively, Angel presses even more firmly against Harry's side, the side that Connor isn't on Harry notices. Harry is grateful for whatever sense Angel has remaining, to not endanger his own son. It makes dealing with Angel easier, that Harry doesn't have to fear for Connor. Black eyes like a shark, predator's eyes, look into his own, seeking something.

"Who… Sirius…?" Harry asks of him, baffled, because other then Connor, that is the only 'him' Harry has had near him all day. Angel very clearly, growls – just a little, but with his cheek nuzzling Harry's neck it isn't as if Harry could ignore it. His body tenses up, straining with the effort not to push Angel away, his every nerve screaming that there is a vampire at his neck and Harry needs to get the hell away. If he did that, Harry knows, it would only make things worse. His wand hand is still clutched possessively in Angel's grip, like some prize.

The neck nuzzling becomes a nod of a head, as if Angel can read that thought, but Angel only pauses to switch to the other cheek – and the other side of his neck, scent marking Harry's neck as if he's a cat. As if he's property. Harry becomes very still as he tries to reason though his suddenly thick anger.

"He is my godfather, Angel." Part of Harry can't believe he's having this- whatever this is – with Angel …in the hallway, with Connor in his arms. Angel turns his face back toward Harry, his nose nuzzling Harry's own.

"Mine." Angel says simply, as if it's already a proven fact. As if he's…drugged. Harry feels a twisting fear in his gut as he brings his hand up to finally do something (though he doesn't know what – and can't keep track of when he got his hand back from Angel) when he sees the black demon mark running the length of his finger tips up his wand arm.

What have I done to him? Harry wonders, pained, it's his blood – his blood mixed with Demon and Phoenix Tears and Basilisk Venom, held together with his magic which is in who knows what kind of condition. All of it, he'd forgotten, is inside of Angel too. Whatever has happened with Angel, he knows now – is sure of the fact – that what's in Harry did this, is doing this, to Angel.

Harry slumps in defeat in against the wall where Angel holds him, facing that reflection, that final truth, and something like sanity comes back into Angel's eyes after he blinks once or twice.

"Wow, awkward much?" Cordelia's voice rings out, having opened her door to find the two men pressed against the wall hallway. She's quick to see Connor, wide eyed and silent and still like no baby should be, held protectively at Harry's side.

Cautious now, she flicks a gesture for Harry to hand over to Connor – Harry doesn't hesitate to obey. Cordelia eyes them a long moment, as if there is something she can see that they can not. Harry squirms, feeling as if all his secrets are spilling out of him (they might as well be, with a Pensieve in his room) and Angel, he feels, tenses against him warningly.

"You two need to talk to each other like normal people, or its therapy." Cordelia warns, a finger pointing as if it's the final verdict. Angel nods, not arguing, and Cordelia goes back into her room – Harry can hear her mumble about 'vampires' and 'wizards' and is glad he doesn't hear more.

Angel relaxes, his eyes closed as he breaths in Harry's scent. The realization is both alarming and relaxing. Alarming because Harry wonders how long Angel has been…sniffing him… without his notice. Relaxing, because if Angel is calm enough now to 'stop and smell the roses' then he isn't about to regress into 'vampy face'.

Harry is reminded of the first night they met, and can't help but chuckle.

"What?" Angel asks softly, as if nothing that Harry is doing could really bother him- but he's asking, because it's Harry.

"The night we met…" Harry trails off, because he isn't sure how sensitive Angel is to his looks, and it reminds him of the demon blood in him – and…in Angel. Angel flinches a little away, as if Harry struck him.

"Harry…I…I'm sorry, your blood in me – blood, when we feed…it ties a vampire to it's victim, makes them…it's probably making you behave how you wouldn't, ordinarily, I mean, I have no way to tell if this is how you normally would be around me, or if it's…some kind of side-effect." Angel isn't going any further away from him, isn't backing down, but then again – he isn't moving any closer. He stands part way between near and far, like stone. It helps Harry think, that distance.

He grips his wand in his hand, tightly. That he hasn't had a thought to use it against Angel tells him something, he ignores the tug as he thinks, really thinks, for the first time since he's had a wand in his hand. It should have been the first thing he'd done, finding Sirius here with a wand, or after getting his own.

Because he remembers something else now, that he'd been in Angel's head, invaded memories and thoughts as invasively as a wizard was able. Fear plunged into his gut like ripping claws, and Angel smells that to – or simply senses it, and stills even more. Not breathing, not moving, barely there – in the here or now.

"You have more then my blood in you, Angel, I was in your mind, trying to find you when you…weren't yourself. It's possible that I…left something of myself behind, it would explain you're…" Harry doesn't finish, he doesn't know how to say it 'attraction', isn't the half of it. It's almost like Angel is his, his only in a way that magic could claim him. That tie, Harry knows, goes both ways – so Angel, even after never having met him, would be friendly, would want to protect him.

Angel shakes his head, frowning as if what Harry is saying doesn't make sense.

"There is nothing in my mind and memories that shouldn't be there." Angel claims, sounding so sure that Harry wants to believe him. Maybe a vampire can tell about these sorts of things, living so long and knowing themselves and their memories so well over all that time. He won't believe that though, not really - not until he's sure he hasn't caused Angel any harm.

"I saw, something, in your memories – triggered, I think, by my blood. It acts like a catalyst, you're turning into…something, one day, a long time from now – maybe – you'll wake up and you'll be alone Angel – the first of your kind, whatever that might be…I'm sorry, I…" Harry doesn't finish, because he can't find the words and Angel is shaking his head in denial, even as he let's Harry's words run out.

"It wasn't your blood, it was… my Soul." Angel says it softly, and Harry breaths in, relieved. It sounds like something Angel had been aware of happening to him for some time. It wasn't something Harry had done, then, maybe - this attraction between them – was… natural, not caused by manipulation of mind and magic and maybe not even Angel's tasting his blood. And if it had – or was – keyed to such origins? Harry didn't think he cared, really.

Harry closed his eyes, feeling within himself, he liked Angel – honestly had, at first sight. And even if he hadn't known where the liking had led to attraction, Harry wasn't going to turn it away, this gift - he wanted it, hell, Harry welcomed it.

"We've been fools." Angel whispers, amused as if he'd followed Harry's thoughts by looking at his face (and maybe he had, and seen the acceptance in the end) and there is awe – reverence – in how he looks at Harry, as if he can't quite bring himself to believe it. He begins to lean down, but Harry is determined to meet him as an equal, meeting half-way.

Lips like fire, Angel's thought opens the bridge between them, and when Harry would have jerked away in guild, he find he can't because he hasn't anywhere to run. He's pressed against the wall with the door between their minds wide open; a door that Angel had opened by taking his blood, a wizard's blood. Harry can feel everything Angel does, and he's aware, distant and content, that Angel knows his own feelings just as surely.

It throbs through their bodies, those reckless feelings of surety and lust, Angel presses forward against Harry as of he can't help it; and Harry groans as the kiss ends. He knows, vague and sure even as he tries not to invade a mind that isn't his own – that there is more to come, for there is no hesitation on Angel's part as he explores Harry's mind and emotions, probing gently but deeply. Harry gasps, shuddering against Angel; his mind convincing his body that he's being mind-fucked and his body mirroring the treatment. Angel doesn't know what he's doing, but he's learning quickly.

Harry wants more, and deeper, and he doesn't give a damn that he still has his clothes on. Angel sees everything that's in him, and he isn't turning away. Harry wonders if this it what if felt for Angel, to have Harry use magic and his mind to find the core of who Angel is and was and has always been and bring it to the surface of the vampire's instincts.

Yes…fair play, Angel's thoughts tease, and while Harry is trying not to enter his mind, Angel's thoughts – directed at him, about him – he can't help but pick up. He's never felt so accepted, so welcomed, so…so loved, in all his life, and Harry knows that between their minds they can't lie. It feels as if Angel is everywhere inside his memories, seeing and feeling everything – sharing it with Harry. There is nothing in Harry that Angel can't reach, and Harry clings to Angel, shaking and wanting more even as he feels he's about to fall into an abyss within his own mind –impossible, but there.

Angel, wordlessly, gives Harry as he asks, mentally touching and playing with…with everything that makes Harry, Harry – and when it's too much and his breath catches in mid-frantic breath, Angel catches him before he can fall into his own metal abyss, bringing him back to the here and now with gentle kisses.

Harry moans softly, blinking back tears even as he smiles shaky and honest, turning toward Angel's kisses, Angel is griped tightly in his arms. Angel leans against him, lazy and content.

Harry wishes it would never end, even as the open-door between their minds becomes smaller and window like; they are transparent to each other, but there were limits – agreed upon silently -now. It did not mean that the window could not open to become a door, only that they could not live on forever joined mentally so intimately. If they tried, one or the other would overwhelm, taking over without knowing it.

A wild shriek screamed through the building, near – in fact – just beyond a door that separated all from one bedroom. Harry could only think a name, while Angel called aloud what they both feared.

"Cordelia!..."

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Note: a little bit about tamarisk (tamarix, salt cedar) wood; it has a slender branches and gray-green foliage, when young the bark is a smooth reddish-brown. As the plants age, the bark becomes bluish-purple, ridged and furrowed. In Egyptian Mythology, the body of Osiris is hidden for a time in a tamarisk tree in Byblos, until it was retrieved by Isis.

Keep that in mind, yes?