What They Seek
Disclaimer: A fictional story about Harry Potter written by a fan for the SOLE purposes of creative exercise, self-exploration, and general entertainment – it provides no monetary gain and I don't own any of the Harry Potter cannon characters. Many thanks to J.K. Rowling, who stands now among the greatest authors of history, having stirred minds and hearts throughout the world with her words, imagination, and courage. The characters are mostly her cannon but there may be a few of my own creation either in this story or in its inevitable sequel. Not exactly Horcrux cannon compliant, although Horcruxes are mentioned, and I've taken some liberties with the rules of the world itself.
Additional warnings: Lots of references to Death Eater torture throughout. Also, lots and LOTS of references to mental health. I am NOT a mental health expert, nor even in that general profession. It's just something that's been on my mind in my personal life. So, if that's a trigger for you, proceed with extreme caution or maybe give this story a miss.
One last word: this is my first fanfic. Please, please, please be nice. Thanks!
(Starts the summer after Harry's 5th year at Hogwarts)
Chapter 1
Nobody saw the fire coming.
It was entirely un-anticipateable.
But Voldemort was nothing if not patient. Good things come to those who wait, after all. Although, 'good,' in this case, must be considered in relative terms, as that word would not have crossed the minds of any of the dozens of fire fighters, brandishing water hoses as they fought to extinguish black and orange flames, nor any of the dozen aurors who arrived to obliviate unanswerable questions from the tongues of the milling muggle public – questions like 'why is some of that fire green?', 'why are those fire fighters wearing capes?' and 'are the Dursely's of number 4 still alive?'.
In the shadows of the chaos, an elderly woman with a curiously shaped walking frame watched from her front yard as ambulances pulled away, and the dancing red light of the fire engines painted the scene in florescent ethereal tones. The doorway behind her opened suddenly and an elderly man emerged to stand beside her.
"Any word, Mrs. Figg?" Albus Dumbledore asked gravely, putting an aged hand on her bony shoulder. The elderly squib looked up at the foremost wizard of their age and just shook her head.
"He just disappeared, Albus," she said, just loud enough to be heard over the surrounding squabble. "I watched him drop to the ground of the window and then a few paces down the street," she said, gesturing at blackened window shards that had once belonged to the Dursley parents' bedroom. "It was right after the big explosion, which I thought might be the gas stove catching fire. Poor boy dropped to the ground from that long distance, managed to get up, and then just disappeared before my eyes. I can't explain it." She looked again at Albus. "Perhaps you might?"
But his eyes were hard and dark, absent of their usual sparkle of vigor and joviality. He shook his head.
Silence fell between them for a moment.
"How on earth could such a thing happen, Albus?" Mrs. Figg lamented, shifting her gaze from the smoldering home to the observing huddled families scattered on front lawns. "How did that fire even start?"
Bacon.
The word turned over and over in Harry's mind.
Bacon. Bacon. Bacon. Bacon. Bacon…
The word consumed his thoughts. He allowed it to. The alternative was to return to the reality of his own personal hellscape and his brain was resisting the best it could. There were limits, however, to the brain's ability to tune out pain, hunger, and general suffering. In long, nightmarish gaps, Harry would return to full consciousness and take stock of his body. His burned fingertips, his broken left arm, and the array of bruises he'd contracted when he'd fallen 10 feet to the ground from his Uncle's window were there, as expected. But there were new pains too. His back spasmed as the nerves along his spine complained about the assault they'd taken from a Cruciatus or 12.
Bacon.
Wrapped around his right shoulder to his left rib was an angry red welt from a curse. He didn't know the spell, but it caused a spiky ache with every breath.
Bacon.
Dudley had had the bacon. Harry didn't eat bacon at the Dursley's. Dudley had wanted some bacon.
He shuddered against the stone floor.
Dudley and the bacon. Dudley had burned the bacon and set fire to the whole kitchen. It's not his fault, Harry thought, muddily. Dudley has never had to cook for himself in his life. He wouldn't have known how.
A metal gate somewhere nearby clanged and the spike of pain from his scar, in addition to his growing dehydration headache, threatened to crack open his skull. He became aware someone was groaning loudly, but then, after a moment, realized it was coming from his own mouth.
Stupid Dudley. I'll never eat bacon again, Harry promised himself.
Suddenly, someone was there with him. He felt fabric brush against his face a half second before that same someone, presumably, grabbed him by the hair and hauled him to his feet.
"Potter!" It was the only word Harry chose to distinguish amid the menacing blabber of his captor.
Bacon. Bacon. Bacon. Bacon…he chanted to himself as he was dragged down a corridor, up some stairs, down another corridor, and through a massive wooden door. His captor's blonde hair fell into Harry's face, and the shock of recognizing Malfoy Sr. jolted him out of his chant just as he hit the floor again. That scream, yes, that was him screaming again, he acknowledged, and tried to keep his eyes shut.
Someone else was there now. Someone important. Harry wheezed into the floor once and then that someone gripped both upper arms and hauled him into a kneeling position. He could not help it – he had to look. He wasn't wearing his glasses, but the other person was mere inches from his face and staring back at him with red slitted eyes.
Voldemort. Even through Harry's aches and nerve damage, the sight of those eyes still sent a painful shiver down his spine. He distantly wondered where he got up the nerve to spit in the snake's face, and then, even more distantly, wondered how on earth he still had saliva. Oh, he noted, it was blood, not saliva. That made more sense.
Voldemort did not recoil from the spittle. In fact, he smiled.
"Good, good, Potter," Voldemort cooed. "You do have a spirit about you." He turned away to bark an order to someone else.
"Bring in our other prisoner. I think they'll want time to get reacquainted."
Another spine stabbing smile. Harry vaguely wondered if the Killing Curse hurt as it killed you. Just as quickly he decided, at this point, it really didn't matter.
Someone else was being dragged into the room. Voldemort transferred Harry to a Death Eater, so as to better greet the new guest. Harry couldn't see who it was, as they were out of his poor range of vision, but he quickly realized that it was either another Death Eater, or Snape, because all he saw was a blur of black. Realization was slow in coming, but when it came, it hit like a ton of bricks.
Of course, he thought. It was both.
"No," Harry breathed audibly. Snape. His hated enemy at school, but also his strongest ally in this war, if Dumbledore was to be believed. He'd been discovered.
"So," Voldemort said, casting a pleased look at Harry and then at Snape, who appeared unconscious. "You do recognize our other resident guest." He knelt down purposefully and gripped Snape by the long greasy hair. "Rennervate!" he enchanted. The spell was a flash of blue and was followed almost immediately by a cry of pain so anguished Harry had never heard anyone utter the like before, as Snape fluttered back to life.
"Our little snake, the traitor," Voldemort hissed. "Don't worry, Severussss," he hissed loudly into Snape's ear. "You won't be with us for much longer." Snape, whose face was slick with blood from a cut on his forehead, did not visibly react. He kept his eyes glued to the floor and remained kneeling.
"Well, what do you think of our little sneak, Potter? Can you imagine, your awful, mean potion's professor was caught trying to save you. You really ought to treat your friends better, dear boy," Voldemort taunted.
"But, of course," he continued, stepping back over to Harry, locking eyes with him, "that probably won't be much consolation to all the rest when I'm through with them."
Silence. Voldemort glared at the boy, disappointed he had not responded to his bait. But Harry was responding. He was doing something he had not done for several months, and was not even very good at, but, just at this moment, felt confident in his ability to accomplish: Harry occluded his mind.
Voldemort stared some more, confused, and then grew bored. "Well then, Potter. Here's a taste of your friends' futures you will not live to see."
He pointed his wand at Snape, who looked up and stared unfazed at the unwavering white tip.
"Avada Kedavera!" Voldemort enchanted furiously. But it was drowned out by three other sounds – the cry of surprise from the Death Eater holding Harry up, Harry himself as he did what he secretly planned to do, and Snape, who protested in horror as he watched Potter fling his broken body across the short distance between them and, so doing, take the full brunt of the Killing Curse. On contact, it blew Harry into Snape, and Voldemort back into Bellatrix, who had until then been watching with rapturous glee.
Bellatrix screamed. Snape, more cognizant of his surroundings than anyone could have guessed, grabbed at a ring from a chain around his neck and touched Harry's limp hand to it. The portkey glowed blue and, in an instant, they spun away.
There was nothing, for a moment. And then there was Harry. His fingers and toes, his knees and elbows, his hair. He marveled at his fingers as he wiggled them before eyes that could now see more than a foot from his face.
Hmmm, he thought, and the thought seemed to resonate throughout the universe. As though it were his universe.
His universe looked like King's Cross Station.
And he was naked.
He should have felt a blush but felt no heat rising to his cheeks. Oh, he thought, another ping in his universe, that's right, I'm dead. Dead people can't blush.
He stood up and looked at the empty platforms and lines. Where are the trains? He wondered. And what's in the fog?
Ahead of him, down about a hundred paces, was a bank of thick white fog that seemed to be hiding a number of shadowy figures. He felt a bit more ashamed at his nakedness now, but there was nothing he could see to do about it. He took a step towards the fog and, strangely enough, the fog seemed to take a step towards him. He took another step and so did the fog. And then, two shadowy figures seemed to be pressing through it. His brow narrowed in apprehension. Then his face went lax completely as he recognized the two people who emerged, as clear and visible as himself. The green eyes on her. The messy black hair on him.
"Mum," he managed, "Dad."
They were smiling, although there seemed to be a touch of melancholy in their eyes.
"Harry, my darling boy," Lily said. She smiled, waved her hand through the mist behind her, and drew from it a long dark crimson robe. She closed the distance between them and wrapped Harry in it without a moment of hesitation. He just stood and watched her do it, gazing wonderfully at her flowing red hair and willowy figure, clothed, like him, in a simple crimson flowing robe.
"Mum," he said again. She reached over and cupped his cheek a moment before gathering him in her arms. He relaxed there, glorying in the moment he'd been dreaming of his entire life. But, he noticed, something felt off. She was not warm. Her skin was not cold, like a corpse, but chilled, more like solidified air than actual flesh.
This was the difference between life and death.
He smiled at her, drawing back, and then at his Dad who approached slowly and almost timidly.
"Harry," he said, putting a hand on Harry's shoulder. "We've been waiting to meet you properly for a long time. I think," he paused and glanced at Lily, "I probably have some explaining to do."
"No, Dad, of course not. About what?" Harry asked, looking between them.
"Well," he started. "I wasn't exactly a model student growing up. Or even a model human being."
Harry looked at him and saw shame in his father's eyes and felt immediately that he hated seeing it there.
"That doesn't matter, Dad," Harry said, distantly glorying at the taste of that word on his tongue. He paused and looked around. "I guess nothing really matters anymore." The station and its white fog and empty railway lines seemed less glamorous now that he'd had a moment to process it. It looked wrong. It looked dead. He looked back at his parents, who were watching him with a mix of sadness and patience as they waited for him to work things out. "I remember how I died," he said. Lily grabbed his hand.
"We know, Harry, we were watching," she said. "That was a very brave thing for you to do for Severus."
Harry looked down, remembering properly now, and the universe around him rippled and took on a red-ish hue for a moment as he grew angrier.
"It was the only thing I could do. He wouldn't even have been there if it weren't for me. All I do is pull people into my trouble with me," he lamented. James put an arm around his shoulder. It, too, was chilled, reminding him about what else he had lost that he could never get back. Someone else he had failed to save. Or avenge.
"Harry, you can't blame yourself for the risks others have taken on your behalf," Lily told him, running a hand through his hair. "You cannot rob people of their honors or their will and blame them for caring too much. That's just how love works."
"But it was all in vain anyway," he retorted, tears coming to his eyes. "We both suffered for nothing. My friends have suffered, you suffered, but I'm still dead and, for all I know, Snape might be too. All of it was for nothing!"
"That's not entirely true," someone said from behind him. Lily and James looked over Harry's shoulder and broke into matching smiles. Harry turned around.
Standing, as bright as day and with as big a smile, was Sirius Black.
"Sirius," Harry breathed.
"Hey, kiddo. It's good to see you again," Padfoot said with a jaunty grin and opened his arms for a hug. Harry, numbed with surprise, accepted the invitation, and noticed, with further shock, that the hug was exactly as warm as it should have been. Harry stepped back and patted Sirius' arms, testing this reality.
"Hang on, are you alive?" he asked, and then felt stupid.
"Not so much, Harry," Sirius said with a grin. Lily came over and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "I'm not much dead, either, though. It was the veil," he explained. "I went through whole, undead, as it were, and so, even though I'm not technically alive, here in Limbo, I'm also not technically dead."
Harry stared at him, reached out to him again, and then stepped back into his arms. Burying his head against his godfather's neck, he breathed, "I'm so sorry, Sirius. So sorry. It was all my fault. All my stupid fault. I should have checked! Should have opened the gift you'd given me. Should have learned Occlumency. You'd still be alive if it weren't for me…"
Sirius let him talk and then he let him cry against his shoulder wordless tears of rage, shame, guilt, grief he had not felt able to express before.
Eventually, the sobs subsided, and Sirius pulled him away, held him at arms' length, one hand against his cheek, obliging Harry to look him dead in the eye.
"Listen to me Harry," Sirius said fervently, "You are not to blame. Tragic things happen all the time, Harry. Sometimes, we make mistakes, but the world is not cast in black and white. You did the best you could with the resources you had. I know that, your parents know that, Dumbledore knows that. Everyone who matters. You have absolutely nothing to feel ashamed of."
Someone touched Harry shoulder and he turned to look, finding himself staring directly into his mother's loving, familiar green eyes. She took one of his hands in two of hers.
"Harry, sweet Harry," she said. "This life, the life you were forced into, is not one we would have wished on you. But we have watched you stand tall and strong before every obstacle, and confront every misfortune, answer every call to action. We are so proud of you." She smiled and he returned it, though tears were still streaming from his face. "But, my darling Harry, please understand, you were only just 15 years old, a child, Harry. A child with very few guiding positive influences throughout your life. Those people entrusted with your care - my sister, her husband, Albus Dumbledore, Severus himself – they too stand responsible for your missteps. I tell you this not to embitter you towards them, but so that maybe you can be a little more forgiving of yourself. Allow yourself to be what you are, Harry, a scared, tired, worried young man, trying his best."
She drew him in for a hug and, despite its oddity, its lack of physical warmth, it calmed the sting in his eyes and eased his breath.
When he finally pulled away, he found Sirius and his father standing side by side, both glowing with intense and obvious pride.
"I can't believe," he said, "after all this time, you're finally here, I finally get to be with you. Forever."
Sirius, however, sobered a little.
"Maybe not quite yet, Harry," he said slowly, exchanging glances with Harry's parents, who also looked somber.
"What – what do you mean?" Harry said frantically.
"Harry, what do you see around you right now?" Sirius asked.
"King's Cross Station," Harry answered.
"King's Cross, huh?" He glanced back at Harry's parents and they all seemed to shrug.
"Let me explain," he said, "Limbo is specific to each individual according to their lives and preferences. It's supposed to symbolize somewhere journeys can start. Everyone's is different. But," he said, holding up one finger for emphasis, "there is one thing all Limbos have in common, and that is a means of transporting you somewhere. Look around, Harry," he instructed. "Do you see a train?"
"No, I – wait," Harry started. He knew there had been no trains just a moment ago, but now there were two silent engines on either side of his unnumbered platform. The only two in the station.
"There are two trains," he told Sirius.
"Two," Lily repeated, a strange hint of resignation in her voice. Sirius shared a sympathetic smile with her.
"What's going on, Sirius?" Harry demanded.
"Harry," Sirius said, stepping back a few paces and gesturing to the world around him that he evidently couldn't see. "As part of not being technically dead in Limbo, I am allowed to see the lifelines of the recently departed. I am allowed, as it were, to help turn people around who are still, in some way, connected to life. Sometimes, it's a hospital like St. Mungo's bringing a patient back to life, sometimes a drowning victim getting rescued. But you, you are different, and I'm not entirely sure why," he said. "You have two trains, Harry, because I can still see your lifeline and you still have a way back. Look at them, Harry, at the trains. What direction are they headed?"
Harry looked around again and noticed two signs that had not been there before, where the platform numbers should be. "One sign says 'North.' On the other side, it says 'South.'"
"Harry, you have a choice now. All people do, when they reach this side still tied to life. You can either go back, South, or go forward into the mist."
It was Dumbledore himself who found them. That was to be expected, as he had also been the only one who knew where to reasonably look. He heard a low whining whistle from where he stood just behind the 3 Broomsticks and looked up.
They fell from the sky, spinning. He drew his wand and arrested their fall, but journey by portkey takes a toll on all its users and these two travelers were already on the brink.
Dumbledore knelt by Snape first, noted his injuries, and frowned. He was still breathing, but only just. Dumbledore closed his eyes and held the tip of his wand above Snape's worn and then spoke an incantation.
"Vita Silentium." Still life. Snape's heart, lungs, and all autonomous functions stopped. He was now a statue frozen in time. It would give Madam Pomfrey, and possibly Dumbledore himself, enough time to treat his injuries. It was a risk, but also his only chance.
That done, he turned, almost reluctantly, to Harry. He lay half on his right side and his visible left forearm was clearly broken. Everywhere, Dumbledore saw bruising, welts, and gashes peaking from beneath stained and ripped clothing. He shifted over to kneel above him and quietly lay an aged hand on his forehead.
It was warm.
Heart pounding at the hopeful implication, he ran a quick diagnostic spell, which raced over Harry with blue and white sparkles.
The results were displayed in a cascade of colors which Dumbledore read quickly with gratitude and dismay.
The Headmaster turned.
"Expecto Patronum," he cast, and sent a wispy white phoenix speeding towards the towering walls of the castle, bearing a message for the deputy headmistress.
I found him. I found them both.
-SSS-
Author's note: I got the idea for Sirius having 'special powers beyond the veil' from one of my favorite fanfictions 'Resonance' by GreenGecko, which is listed in my Favorite Stories tab on my profile page (Highly recommend that fic for Snape fans, by the way) I didn't realize where I'd gotten the idea from until I went back and re-read Resonance hehe