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. (Oh, and not my song. Kermit's song. Please don't report me, I have no idea how this chapter will work without the song. And besides, if you bitch about me borrowing the lyrics with a disclaimer but without permission, you have to bitch about me borrowing the Harry Potter characters and world with a disclaimer but without permission, and then you have to bitch about all fanfiction authors borrowing published authors' characters and worlds with disclaimers but without permission, and then you can kiss this site goodbye...)
Nameless
by MercuryBlue
Chapter 1: What's to Come is Still Unsure
For once, there were no chores to be done. Nothing that didn't involve going outside, anyway, and Aunt Petunia wouldn't tolerate his tracking mud into her surgically sterile foyer and dripping rainwater all over the carpet. So he sat on the windowsill, leaning against the cool glass, watching rain fall from the slate-gray sky.
It was just enough brighter inside the room than outside to allow him to see his reflection superimposed on the image of number eighteen Privet Drive across the street, but it wasn't telling him anything he didn't know. He couldn't have looked more different from the Dursleys if he'd tried.
Well, Uncle Vernon's got black hair, but his stays neat. And Aunt Petunia's just as skinny as I am, she just doesn't look it, because her clothes aren't sized to fit a small whale.
I wonder what my parents looked like.
His mother, Lily, was his aunt's sister, that he knew, so it would make sense for his mother to resemble Aunt Petunia, blue-eyed, blonde, and thin—but prettier, much prettier. Except that his imagination kept inserting the image of a lovely woman with long dark red hair and his own green eyes, who looked no more like Aunt Petunia than...well, than a tiger lily looked like a petunia. They were both flowers, but that was as far as it went.
In his objective and completely unbiased opinion, a single tiger lily looked far nicer than the entire meticulously tended garden at number seventeen.
I must look like Dad, then. The man who came to his mind was an older version of himself—black hair, completely untamable, and black-framed glasses, but the eyes behind them were hazel, and no lightning scar marked his father's right temple.
Odd, how whenever he tried to picture these imagined parents acting like parents, they always morphed into other people, two men and two women, none of whom looked the least bit like him. A black woman sitting at the piano, dark fingers flying across white keys—a sandy-haired man accompanying her on the violin—a brunette woman at the kitchen stove, stirring something in a pot—a dark-haired man leaning into the kitchen, asking a question; whatever it was, it earned him a spattering of whatever was on the spoon, or it would have if he hadn't ducked out of the way. But she was smiling, so it couldn't have been too bad...
The rain was slowing, turning into a fine mist. He smiled a bit, letting the cozy domestic scene play through his head, and ran the tips of his fingers along the little ridge in his shirt where the thin chain of his necklace was. Four small smooth-edged discs hung from the chain, though they never seemed to clink together, or not so loudly that anyone might hear and remark upon it. Of course, there were plenty of odd things about this necklace; the way it warmed up sometimes, seemingly unrelated to his body heat; the way one or another of the small animals carved on the medallions glowed whenever the necklace was warm; the way it had fallen out the neck hole of his shirt one time when he'd tripped (over Dudley's foot), but gone back through the shirt when he stood up...
Like a ghost necklace, or—what's the word—illusionary. Like it wasn't even there.
There was a rainbow above number eighteen, and the dark woman and pale man he envisioned were playing the tune to a song about rainbows, a song he knew, to which he silently sang along; why are there so many songs about rainbows, and what's on the other side? Rainbows are visions, but only illusions, and rainbows have nothing to hide—it would be nice, he thought in the pause between phrases, not to have to hide—hide what from whom?—just his necklace, and his worn stuffed lion? No, there was more—but there wasn't—and he'd missed two lines of the song. He waited a moment, then picked up at the start of the next line: someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection, the lovers, the dreamers, and me...
The curly-haired woman tasted the red sauce on the spoon, nodded in satisfaction, and turned the stove off, then turned to the others and said—
"Boy! Come make dinner!"
That was not her voice.
The vision went pop like a bubble.
Harry Potter sighed and got off the windowsill.
xXxXx
Light fingers moved across the ivory and ebony keys of the piano, following the pattern marked out in jet-black on the snowy page. Jane was half expecting the paper to turn cerise and the staff and notes ultramarine, and the keys each a different color of the rainbow; her brothers had done exactly that, the last time she'd played this song, though the whys and hows were presently escaping her. She'd certainly give herself a headache later, trying to figure out how that was possible.
Right now, she'd rather focus on the music; the flute accompaniment she could almost hear her blond brother playing, her brown-sugar-skinned sister moving through the steps of a ballroom dance with an imagined partner, her dark-haired brother stepping up to partner the smaller girl, he like her singing the words that matched the tune; who said that every wish would be heard and answered when wished on the morning star? Somebody thought of that, and someone believed it, but look what it's done so far—wishing hadn't done anything for her so far, though. But what could wishing do? It couldn't bring her parents back to life, it couldn't bring her family out of the dream-world into the all-too-real world she lived in—and she hadn't heard the last several measures she'd played. ...someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection, the lovers, the dreamers, and me...all of us under its spell, we know that it's probably magic...
Magic. Right.
But maybe...
xXxXx
"Have you been sleeping, and have you heard voices? I've heard them calling my name..." Oh yes, Draco had heard. He dreamed about them every night... "Is this the sweet sound that calls the young singers? The voice might be one and the same..." Slight substitution, but it was more accurate now. Meghan was singing along to the melody Draco played on the flute. He was sure that she, like he, was imagining Letha's voice alongside Meghan's, singing, "Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection, the lovers, the dreamers, and me..."
Draco glanced at Meghan, who showed no signs of stopping her improvised dance. He shrugged and continued playing.
"Why are there so many songs about rainbows, and what's on the other side? Rainbows are visions, but only illusions..."
xXxXx
...and rainbows have nothing to hide, sang his wife's voice in his head, as he whistled the matching tune. So we've been told and some choose to believe it, I know they're wrong, wait and see...
Now if only waiting and seeing would accomplish anything, he thought. I've nothing to hide—not anymore—but no one will believe me. They know what they were told, and they choose to believe it, and I know Pettigrew's out there somewhere—or I hope he is, I hope he's not dead—but waiting and seeing won't bring him to the attention of the authorities, will it?
And why was he being bitter about the little rat-bastard when he could be listening to his memory of Aletha's voice?
...wishes would be heard and answered when wished on the morning star?
xXxXx
"Someone thought of that, and someone believed it," she sang, chocolate-brown fingers dancing across the piano. "Look what it's done so far...What's so amazing that keeps us stargazing, and what do we think we might see? Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection, the lovers, the dreamers, and me..."
Someday we'll find them, our beautiful cubs, my husband, my friends, and be free...
xXxXx
(All of us under its spell, we know that it's probably magic...And I don't even want to comment on the irony of that line,) he interjected in the heartbeat before the next line.
(I love how you comment by not commenting,) she said dryly before continuing the song. (Have you been sleeping, and have you heard voices? I've heard them calling my name...)
(Is this the sweet sound that calls the young sailors? The voice might be one and the same...)
(I've heard it too many times to ignore it, it's something that I'm supposed to be...)
(Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection, the lovers, the dreamers—)
(Remus, that's it, that's it!)
(What's it?) he asked, startled into losing the thread of the song.
(Dreams. Our dreams. I can link us all together—even scattered across Britain the way we are, we don't have to be apart—why didn't I think of this before?)
(I've no idea, Danger my love, but I'm glad you did,) Remus told her, carefully keeping his broad grin wholly internal. He didn't really want any of the Healers presently engaged in his complete physical check-over number forty-two to ask what he was smiling about. (Tonight...oh, just wait until tonight...Neenie, Greeneyes, Fox, Pearl, Sirius, Aletha, we'll all be together tonight...)
(We will indeed,) Danger said. Remus could feel her smile all the way from her room, several hallways over. (We will indeed.)
xXxXx
"Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection," Meghan sang again, "the lovers, the dreamers, and me..." She twirled again and turned it into a graceful bow, just as Draco played the last notes of the song.
"I think I played my fingers off," Draco said ruefully, setting down his flute to shake his fingers out.
"Play something else," Meghan commanded.
"I've got a better idea. You play, I'll sing."
"Both sing," Meghan countered. "I want to dance."
"When don't you?" Draco wondered aloud, already running through the list of songs they could sing duet.
xXxXx
Dinner was over, the dishes were washed and the table wiped, the sun had set, and Harry again had nothing to do.
Except, of course, figuring out what Dudley and his friends meant to blame on him next, so he could avoid being nearby when it happened.
At least Aunt Petunia had absolutely no way to blame the muddy footprints in the hallway on Harry. Dennis and Gordon had quite obviously been out in the rain, and Harry quite obviously had not. Not that this kept Harry from having to mop up the foyer.
xXxXx
Practice was finished, the music was away, it was after nine so the children were in bed, and Jane was lonely.
As per usual.
She hadn't been lonely while she was playing. It was almost as if the family she'd dreamed up were part of the song, as if they were all hearing the same thing, even though they weren't all in the same place...but of course that was ridiculous.
Jane quietly slid out of bed, careful not to touch the girl in the bunk below hers; she'd discovered some time ago that Trista generally woke yelling. Why this might be, Jane had no idea. Not that she had any idea about a lot of things, such as who her parents were, or why she'd been on the doorstep of Holy Family Children's Home two months before, or what had happened in her life before Christmas Eve dawned.
Jane moved with catlike quiet to the window, where a daring ray of moonlight peeked between the curtains. She pulled the curtains open a tiny bit, then closed them again behind her head, leaning against the cool glass and looking up at the sky. She wanted to cry out, to howl to the quarter moon, a long drawn-out howl that spoke of all the pain her heart was in. But what was the point, when the sound wouldn't leave her throat?
She'd settle for cuddling her stuffed lion, tangling her fingers in the chain of her necklace, clutching the small carved medallions, and remembering the song.
A flash of heat in the metal startled her into a silent gasp. The necklace had turned scorching for a moment, then cooled off a bit, but not so much that it wasn't warm to the touch, and there was a bit of light peeking between her fingers.
Jane hastily extricated her fingers from the knot of chain, which fell apart the moment she got her hand free, letting the pendants swing freely. She caught them up in the same hand, taking a glance at each carving on the visible side—a rose on one disc, a lion and wolf on the next, two birds, one flaming, on the third, the fourth blank—then flipped the necklace around. She knew every detail of these carvings by heart—a book on the same disc as the rose, a dog and a winged horse on the one adjacent, a cat and dragon on the next one, a fox and a deer on the last—but it was the third carving on that last medallion that caught her attention right now.
It couldn't be her imagination, because there was a shadow shaped like her hand on the windowsill. The smaller wolf was glowing.
Jane clenched her hand around the pendants and looked back at the moon. I hope it'll be all right...
xXxXx
Harry pushed his face into his pillow and screamed.
The scream ended, and he pushed himself up on hands and knees, trying not to hyperventilate and listening for anything that might indicate he'd been heard. Nothing. That was good, at least; they didn't know how much it scared him to hear that lock click shut.
Who am I kidding? Of course they do. Else they wouldn't lock me in.
He took a deep breath, holding it for a count of four, breathed out two three, wait two, in two three, hold two three four, out two three, and again. Six or seven rounds later, he was calm enough that he didn't think he'd need to scream again, and could flop down on what passed for his bed and feel around for his lion. He turned on his side and curled up in a tight ball, arms tight around his knees, the stuffed animal pressed between his knees and neck, one hand stroking the lion and the other holding the necklace chain. It's all right, it's all right, it'll be all right, I'll be fine, they'll let me out tomorrow, I'll be all right...
Just pretend it isn't locked and you'll be fine.
It's not locked. It's not. It's just closed. And I like it closed, because Dudley can't reach me in here, and if he breaks something else, there's no way they can blame it on me. It's just closed, it's just closed, it's just closed, it's not locked, it's not locked, it's not locked, it's all right, it's all right, it's all right, it's all right, it's all right—
Click.
Harry jumped, startled out of his litany. What was that?
It did not just unlock itself. It did not.
One finger at a time, Harry released the necklace, slowly uncurling himself. He'd heard the exact sound that always meant he was no longer locked in, and could therefore breathe a great deal easier, even though the fact of the door's being locked or unlocked made no difference to the air circulation in the cupboard. And there was absolutely no way any of the Dursleys had unlocked it, nor either of Dudley's friends; he hadn't heard any footsteps, and he would have heard the footsteps.
Moving a millimeter a minute, Harry reached for the doorknob—touched it—turned it—it did turn—it wasn't locked—it wasn't locked!
Hallelujah!
Harry let go of the knob and lay back down, his breathing turning shaky in sheer thanksgiving. The darkness of the cupboard was much easier to endure when he wasn't locked in. It could even feel cozy and safe, becoming a haven where he could choose to stay or go as he liked.
Soon enough, he heard voices outside the cupboard, then the front door opening and closing. Dudley's friends were going home, apparently. And shortly after that, a heavy pair of feet went by overhead, followed a few minutes later by two more. Harry counted ten thousand heartbeats, give or take (he lost count of how many times he lost count), which ought to have been more than enough time to assure that he was the only one awake in the house.
Of course, it also ought to have been more than enough boredom and repetition to put him to sleep, but he never slept easily after being locked in. Fortunately, he wasn't usually locked in more than two nights a week.
Quietly, as quietly as he could, Harry sat up, opened the door (which no longer had creaky hinges, as he made sure every other week with some judicious pilfering from the garage), and crept to the kitchen, where it was plain from the moonlight coming in the little window in the door that the skies had cleared. He opened the door just a crack, shivering a bit at the sudden chill in the air, then pulled the door open just far enough to let him slip through. Leaning against the glass of the storm door, he breathed in and out twice, then relaxed all at once. I did it, he thought at the moon—moon, something about the moon, something he couldn't quite remember—I did it, he thought again. I won something.
Even though he wasn't quite sure what he'd done, or what he'd won.
His eyes drifted a bit, to the silver stars sparkling in the sky. Every wish will be heard and answered when wished on the morning star... It couldn't hurt anything, certainly. He fixed his gaze on the brightest star, the one he thought he'd seen first, and silently recited the rhyme. Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight, wish I may, wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight...
I wish I didn't live with the Dursleys. I wish I had parents—I wish I had friends—I wish I had family. Real family, who love me. For a moment, he saw the dark man from his dreams, the black woman, the light man and the white woman, the pale brother and the light sister and the small dark sister, and the friends, the blonde girl and the redhead and her brother his age. Then the images vanished, leaving only the moon and stars and sky.
I wish the people in my dreams were real.
xXxXx
Jane breathed a sigh of relief as her necklace lost the last of its unnatural warmth. Whatever was wrong, it was over now. There was nothing to worry about tonight.
She began to push away from the window, but stopped when a bright star caught her eye. A line of music from earlier threaded through her mind...every wish will be heard and answered when wished on the morning star...well, what could it hurt to wish?
I wish I didn't live at the orphanage. I wish I had parents—I wish I had friends—I wish I had family. Real family, who love me. For a moment, she saw the light man from her dreams, the woman who looked like her, the dark man and the black woman, the pale brother and the dark one and the small dark sister, and the friends, the blonde girl and the redhead and her brother Jane's age. Then the images vanished, leaving only the moon and stars and sky.
I wish the people in my dreams were real.
Jane crept back to bed, careful as always not to disturb Trista. After all, how could she see her dream-family if she never got to sleep?
xXxXx
Harry curled up on his bed in the cupboard the way a wolf cub would curl up in his den. Well, not quite. The wolf cub would probably have mama wolf nearby...
But the door was safely closed behind him and his lion was tucked under his cheek, and in absence of mama wolf (whichever of the three she was, straight red hair or curly brown or braided black), he was doing very well.
And tomorrow we get to go see Annie, so I might not even have to worry about Dudley.
His mind wandered back to the song that afternoon, even as it slipped off into dreamland.
Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection, the lovers, the dreamers, and me...
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?
Also, this story is abandoned on this site and on hiatus on the site linked to from my profile.