Nicky: Thanks again so much! Great suggestions! 8-)
Lady of Arundel, vmr, Kat, aleema_darkose, venus4280, Lindsay, Phoenix, velondra, tsuki tatsu, LauraBlade: Thank you all for your kind reviews and input! I'm glad you like it!
Sou: Wow, thank you very much!
Aly Teima: I'm glad you liked Vernon's POV, too. That was hard.
Kate the Great: Yeah, I thought that since Voldemort is back and has been aggressively attacking all summer that Harry's scar might react differently.
Ratgirl: Here you go…
Chapter 6
Swirling shades of black and grey pressed against Harry's face, whispering softly into his ears. Nearly tangible wisps of fingers caressed the sides of his cheeks.
"Harry," the faceless voices breathed softly in his ear. "Avenge us," they begged, their voices rising in a chorus of rage and grief. Soon their howls became painful to hear. Harry clutched his hands to his ears, but he couldn't dampen the sound. Desperately he began to shout as well, begging them to be quiet. He didn't know how to help them! He may be The Boy Who Lived, but he certainly didn't know how, or if he could even do it again! Abruptly there was silence, and Harry blinked as his eyes adjusted to sudden light. He could see too much.
He stood in the corner of a tiny living room. It didn't have many windows or lights, but still managed to feel comfortable and homey. A knitted afghan in a variety of bawdy colors lay spread over a threadbare brown couch. A floor lamp beside it had a sheer red scarf with blood red fringe draped over the lamp shade, softening the light that illuminated the room. A dark wood coffee table in the middle of the room lay in pieces on the floor, two legs snapped outward and the center broken jaggedly in half, as if it had encountered a weight far too heavy for it and had collapsed in on itself. A dinner tray with broken pieces of china and spilt tea darkened part of the worn rug underneath.
An older woman lay on the floor gasping for breath. She had long silver hair that must have been twisted in a bun before, but now it hung in a loosely tangled mess about her shoulders. Her eyes were clenched shut in pain, but she wasn't unconscious. Wizarding photos were abundant on the shelves surrounding the room, which were also filled with books, an astounding array of trinkets and muggle photos. Several wizarding photos must have been on display on the coffee table, for now they lay beside the old woman on the ground. Smiling faces oblivious to the events unfolding beside them waved happily up at Harry and the woman's attacker.
An upturned lazy-boy recliner lay in a distant corner, probably where the woman had been sitting when they'd stormed the room. A basket filled with brightly colored yarns laid overturned, balls of string partially unwound like a colorful spider web. The room was eerily silent; the only sound the woman's harsh breath.
It wasn't just the Deatheaters that had attacked this place. It was Voldemort himself who stood above the woman. Harry didn't know who else had been in the house, but suddenly distant screams, followed by cruel laughter told him the old woman hadn't been alone.
Who else was there? Tears spilled out of the woman's eyes and her body shuddered with suppressed sobs as she listened to the cries down the hall. It was a man's voice. Harry wanted to sit next to the old woman, to hold her, to rush Voldemort, to attack the Deatheaters in the other rooms, to do something. Anything.
How many were in the small home? Who else was with her? Harry tried to surge forward, tried to reach for his wand, but of course it wasn't there. It never was. He wasn't there, and yet he was.
"Crucio," Voldemort said with quiet satisfaction, and as the woman arched painfully backwards she cried out in agony, Harry felt the curse surge through his scar and course through his body as well. His limbs felt like fire and glass pumped through his veins instead of blood.
When it hurt like this it took all of Harry's willpower not to let blackness overcome him. He knew if it did, he couldn't wake up and he'd be forced to stay and witness it all. He'd see what happened to this poor woman and whoever else was in the quaint little cottage. He couldn't bear to stay. Not again. She looked so grandmotherly. Gasping for breath himself, knowing that he was sobbing in pain, he lay on the floor beside her, wishing he were anywhere but there. Wishing she and her companion were as well.
"Crucio," Voldemort said again after just a moment's pause. He didn't ask questions. He wasn't searching for anything. What he wanted… he had. A bit of entertainment for the night. Harry felt his insides writhing and spasming with her, and the screams he'd tried to hold back broke free nonetheless. How could he help her? He couldn't even help himself. What chance did he have against this?
Eventually the pain began to dim, and Harry realized the spell had stopped. Voldemort stepped closer, leering over the woman with his red eyes soaking up her pain, his fingers idly twisting the wand in his hand. Voldemort had a faint smile of pleasure on his face, and it made Harry feel nauseous and unclean, an unwitting participant in this obscenity.
Harry knew he couldn't take much more. He turned his eyes away from the monster above him and looked at the woman beside him. He realized he lay nose to nose with her. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth, and her breath now rattled liquidly. Blearily the old woman opened her eyes, widening them as she almost seemed to see Harry. The screams in the other room had ceased, and excited voices were heading back towards the living room. Whoever had been there was most likely dead. Harry felt himself drawn into the woman's pale blue eyes, bloodshot and glazed with pain.
"Oh, child," she whispered, so faintly that no one besides Harry heard. "Wake up."
Harry's eyes flew wide open as he felt hands on his shoulders and his face. His palms stung, but his fists couldn't clench as Harry realized Remus Lupin's hand was in his. Mrs. Weasley stroked Harry's forehead, brushing the hair back as she tried to wake him up with soothing words, as if Ron weren't screaming beside her.
"Harry, wake up!" Ron yelled frantically, shaking his friend fiercely, no longer concerned with Harry's injuries, desperate to end his dream.
Harry tried to lean forward. He had to get away, run away. The pain still echoed through his limbs and hands held him down. His mind began to register what he saw and heard. He was back at the Burrow with the Weasleys. Sirius and Remus Lupin were there. Harry looked around for a moment. Where was Sirius? Was he okay? Harry felt his eyes roll in his head as he tried to catch his breath and still his wildly beating heart. He was at the Burrow. He was safe…
Harry saw the woman's eyes behind his own closed lids and suppressed a sob. His scar still burned, although not nearly as bad as earlier. This was it then. This was the end. The woman could not survive another wave of the Cruciatus Curse. Abruptly, the pain in Harry's scar ceased. Harry stopped struggling as he felt grief envelope him. Hands stilled around him as everyone in the room waited to see what would happen next. Harry didn't move as he fought with emotions that would overwhelm him completely if he didn't try to calm himself, distance himself from what he'd seen. She'd looked so gentle…
"Harry?" Ron asked tentatively. His friends… Hold on to that thought! He tried to make his mouth form words, but found he didn't seem to have much of a voice.
"Ron," Harry rasped wearily. Remus squeezed Harry's hand reassuringly, and Mrs. Weasley sobbed as she kissed Harry's forehead.
"Welcome back, Harry," she whispered, still caressing his forehead. Ron released Harry's shoulders abruptly, sighing in relief. Harry flinched as his ribs sent flashes of pain in his efforts to regain control of his breathing. He tried to open his eyes again. Glasses were slipped on his face with ease. Ron or Mrs. Weasley must have put them on, Harry realized. His eyelids fluttered open, and Harry swallowed as he focused on the room. He was in Ron's room. He didn't remember going there. Someone must have carried him. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were there, as well as Ron and Remus. Where was Sirius?
"Ron, where's Sirius?" Harry asked in sudden concern. Ron frowned, and Harry started as he saw a dark look cross Professor Lupin's face.
"I…" Ron tried to reply.
"I'm right here, Harry," Sirius said and Harry sighed in relief as he realized that at least the Weasleys, Remus and Sirius were safe. Sirius strode into the room carrying a small blue vial which he sat on the nightstand next to Harry's bed and kneeled beside him.
Harry noted the expression on Professor Lupin's face and the unspoken exchange that seemed to pass between Sirius and Remus, then his eyelids fluttered shut.
"Harry?" Professor Lupin asked.
"Yes, Professor?" Harry replied weakly, already feeling himself falling back into oblivion. Terror forced his eyes back open. He was not going back to sleep!
"Harry, please call me Remus," he said warmly. Harry smiled wistfully and nodded faintly, wrapping himself in the normalcy of life at the Burrow. Nothing bad was happening there. He was no longer with the Dursley's. Mrs. Weasley was still brushing Harry's hair off his forehead tenderly. Harry marveled at her soft touch. Her fingertips felt cool against his hot skin, and he was so grateful to have those small gestures of comforts that a lump formed in his throat as he thought of the older woman in the cottage. He didn't even know her name.
"Harry, how do you feel?" Professor Lu…Remus asked. Harry suppressed the urge to scream and cry and rant. That's what he wanted to do. There was one lesson he seemed destined to learn over and over again, and it was the lesson of powerlessness. It made him want to break things and curl into a ball and beg for it to end.
"My scar's not hurting as bad. My ribs hurt, and…" Harry said, trying to assess without alarming everyone. He knew he wasn't doing well. His hands trembled violently in Remus', and Harry now knew that he'd ripped his palms up with his own fingernails, digging them into his skin as he'd balled them into tightly clenched fists. At least she wasn't feeling pain anymore.
"Yes?" Remus prompted.
"It burns... Under my skin," Harry whispered, reluctant to admit it. Sirius sucked in a breath loudly as his blue eyes searched Harry's barely focused green ones. Harry felt tears slip down his cheeks, but his heart seemed to ache too much to sob. The tears seemed to fall on their own, completely autonomous from anything Harry intended.
He closed his eyes wearily, then willed them open again. No one was asking about the dream, and for that Harry was profoundly grateful. He couldn't recount it. Not yet. Maybe in the light of day, with the sounds of the twins infuriating Mrs. Weasley. He might be able to write it down for Dumbledore with Ron and Hermione's banter nearby as they played chess, or talked about something Hermione read in a book somewhere.
"You need to rest, Harry," Sirius said gently, his face next to Harry's, his presence a comforting warmth against Harry's still trembling body. His teeth rattled and his ribs ached. Remus squeezed Harry's hand, another reassurance that Harry welcomed.
"I want to, but… I can't," Harry admitted. Ron put a hand gently on Harry's shoulder, and Harry smiled weakly at him. "I just don't want to dream anymore," Harry whispered wearily. The expressions on Sirius' and Remus' faces seemed inscrutable. Mr. Weasley, who stood beside Harry but had kept his distance, allowing Ron and the others better access to Harry, tightened his lips in unspoken sympathy. He wouldn't want to, either, his expression said.
"I brought some Dreamless Sleep potion with me, Harry. No more dreams tonight," Sirius said, and unstopped the vial he'd placed on the nightstand. Sirius tried to hand it to Harry, but changed his mind and curled his fingers against the back of Harry's neck, gently lifting his head off the pillow to allow for him to swallow comfortably.
"Drink it all, Harry," Sirius said, and Harry did, grateful for the warm, peaceful oblivion that enveloped him before his head could even be lowered back on to the bed. He smothered the small voice in the back of his head that whispered how nice it would be if he didn't wake up. Then all thoughts drifted away meaninglessly, and Harry softly sighed with relief.
Lady of Arundel, vmr, Kat, aleema_darkose, venus4280, Lindsay, Phoenix, velondra, tsuki tatsu, LauraBlade: Thank you all for your kind reviews and input! I'm glad you like it!
Sou: Wow, thank you very much!
Aly Teima: I'm glad you liked Vernon's POV, too. That was hard.
Kate the Great: Yeah, I thought that since Voldemort is back and has been aggressively attacking all summer that Harry's scar might react differently.
Ratgirl: Here you go…
Chapter 6
Swirling shades of black and grey pressed against Harry's face, whispering softly into his ears. Nearly tangible wisps of fingers caressed the sides of his cheeks.
"Harry," the faceless voices breathed softly in his ear. "Avenge us," they begged, their voices rising in a chorus of rage and grief. Soon their howls became painful to hear. Harry clutched his hands to his ears, but he couldn't dampen the sound. Desperately he began to shout as well, begging them to be quiet. He didn't know how to help them! He may be The Boy Who Lived, but he certainly didn't know how, or if he could even do it again! Abruptly there was silence, and Harry blinked as his eyes adjusted to sudden light. He could see too much.
He stood in the corner of a tiny living room. It didn't have many windows or lights, but still managed to feel comfortable and homey. A knitted afghan in a variety of bawdy colors lay spread over a threadbare brown couch. A floor lamp beside it had a sheer red scarf with blood red fringe draped over the lamp shade, softening the light that illuminated the room. A dark wood coffee table in the middle of the room lay in pieces on the floor, two legs snapped outward and the center broken jaggedly in half, as if it had encountered a weight far too heavy for it and had collapsed in on itself. A dinner tray with broken pieces of china and spilt tea darkened part of the worn rug underneath.
An older woman lay on the floor gasping for breath. She had long silver hair that must have been twisted in a bun before, but now it hung in a loosely tangled mess about her shoulders. Her eyes were clenched shut in pain, but she wasn't unconscious. Wizarding photos were abundant on the shelves surrounding the room, which were also filled with books, an astounding array of trinkets and muggle photos. Several wizarding photos must have been on display on the coffee table, for now they lay beside the old woman on the ground. Smiling faces oblivious to the events unfolding beside them waved happily up at Harry and the woman's attacker.
An upturned lazy-boy recliner lay in a distant corner, probably where the woman had been sitting when they'd stormed the room. A basket filled with brightly colored yarns laid overturned, balls of string partially unwound like a colorful spider web. The room was eerily silent; the only sound the woman's harsh breath.
It wasn't just the Deatheaters that had attacked this place. It was Voldemort himself who stood above the woman. Harry didn't know who else had been in the house, but suddenly distant screams, followed by cruel laughter told him the old woman hadn't been alone.
Who else was there? Tears spilled out of the woman's eyes and her body shuddered with suppressed sobs as she listened to the cries down the hall. It was a man's voice. Harry wanted to sit next to the old woman, to hold her, to rush Voldemort, to attack the Deatheaters in the other rooms, to do something. Anything.
How many were in the small home? Who else was with her? Harry tried to surge forward, tried to reach for his wand, but of course it wasn't there. It never was. He wasn't there, and yet he was.
"Crucio," Voldemort said with quiet satisfaction, and as the woman arched painfully backwards she cried out in agony, Harry felt the curse surge through his scar and course through his body as well. His limbs felt like fire and glass pumped through his veins instead of blood.
When it hurt like this it took all of Harry's willpower not to let blackness overcome him. He knew if it did, he couldn't wake up and he'd be forced to stay and witness it all. He'd see what happened to this poor woman and whoever else was in the quaint little cottage. He couldn't bear to stay. Not again. She looked so grandmotherly. Gasping for breath himself, knowing that he was sobbing in pain, he lay on the floor beside her, wishing he were anywhere but there. Wishing she and her companion were as well.
"Crucio," Voldemort said again after just a moment's pause. He didn't ask questions. He wasn't searching for anything. What he wanted… he had. A bit of entertainment for the night. Harry felt his insides writhing and spasming with her, and the screams he'd tried to hold back broke free nonetheless. How could he help her? He couldn't even help himself. What chance did he have against this?
Eventually the pain began to dim, and Harry realized the spell had stopped. Voldemort stepped closer, leering over the woman with his red eyes soaking up her pain, his fingers idly twisting the wand in his hand. Voldemort had a faint smile of pleasure on his face, and it made Harry feel nauseous and unclean, an unwitting participant in this obscenity.
Harry knew he couldn't take much more. He turned his eyes away from the monster above him and looked at the woman beside him. He realized he lay nose to nose with her. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth, and her breath now rattled liquidly. Blearily the old woman opened her eyes, widening them as she almost seemed to see Harry. The screams in the other room had ceased, and excited voices were heading back towards the living room. Whoever had been there was most likely dead. Harry felt himself drawn into the woman's pale blue eyes, bloodshot and glazed with pain.
"Oh, child," she whispered, so faintly that no one besides Harry heard. "Wake up."
Harry's eyes flew wide open as he felt hands on his shoulders and his face. His palms stung, but his fists couldn't clench as Harry realized Remus Lupin's hand was in his. Mrs. Weasley stroked Harry's forehead, brushing the hair back as she tried to wake him up with soothing words, as if Ron weren't screaming beside her.
"Harry, wake up!" Ron yelled frantically, shaking his friend fiercely, no longer concerned with Harry's injuries, desperate to end his dream.
Harry tried to lean forward. He had to get away, run away. The pain still echoed through his limbs and hands held him down. His mind began to register what he saw and heard. He was back at the Burrow with the Weasleys. Sirius and Remus Lupin were there. Harry looked around for a moment. Where was Sirius? Was he okay? Harry felt his eyes roll in his head as he tried to catch his breath and still his wildly beating heart. He was at the Burrow. He was safe…
Harry saw the woman's eyes behind his own closed lids and suppressed a sob. His scar still burned, although not nearly as bad as earlier. This was it then. This was the end. The woman could not survive another wave of the Cruciatus Curse. Abruptly, the pain in Harry's scar ceased. Harry stopped struggling as he felt grief envelope him. Hands stilled around him as everyone in the room waited to see what would happen next. Harry didn't move as he fought with emotions that would overwhelm him completely if he didn't try to calm himself, distance himself from what he'd seen. She'd looked so gentle…
"Harry?" Ron asked tentatively. His friends… Hold on to that thought! He tried to make his mouth form words, but found he didn't seem to have much of a voice.
"Ron," Harry rasped wearily. Remus squeezed Harry's hand reassuringly, and Mrs. Weasley sobbed as she kissed Harry's forehead.
"Welcome back, Harry," she whispered, still caressing his forehead. Ron released Harry's shoulders abruptly, sighing in relief. Harry flinched as his ribs sent flashes of pain in his efforts to regain control of his breathing. He tried to open his eyes again. Glasses were slipped on his face with ease. Ron or Mrs. Weasley must have put them on, Harry realized. His eyelids fluttered open, and Harry swallowed as he focused on the room. He was in Ron's room. He didn't remember going there. Someone must have carried him. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were there, as well as Ron and Remus. Where was Sirius?
"Ron, where's Sirius?" Harry asked in sudden concern. Ron frowned, and Harry started as he saw a dark look cross Professor Lupin's face.
"I…" Ron tried to reply.
"I'm right here, Harry," Sirius said and Harry sighed in relief as he realized that at least the Weasleys, Remus and Sirius were safe. Sirius strode into the room carrying a small blue vial which he sat on the nightstand next to Harry's bed and kneeled beside him.
Harry noted the expression on Professor Lupin's face and the unspoken exchange that seemed to pass between Sirius and Remus, then his eyelids fluttered shut.
"Harry?" Professor Lupin asked.
"Yes, Professor?" Harry replied weakly, already feeling himself falling back into oblivion. Terror forced his eyes back open. He was not going back to sleep!
"Harry, please call me Remus," he said warmly. Harry smiled wistfully and nodded faintly, wrapping himself in the normalcy of life at the Burrow. Nothing bad was happening there. He was no longer with the Dursley's. Mrs. Weasley was still brushing Harry's hair off his forehead tenderly. Harry marveled at her soft touch. Her fingertips felt cool against his hot skin, and he was so grateful to have those small gestures of comforts that a lump formed in his throat as he thought of the older woman in the cottage. He didn't even know her name.
"Harry, how do you feel?" Professor Lu…Remus asked. Harry suppressed the urge to scream and cry and rant. That's what he wanted to do. There was one lesson he seemed destined to learn over and over again, and it was the lesson of powerlessness. It made him want to break things and curl into a ball and beg for it to end.
"My scar's not hurting as bad. My ribs hurt, and…" Harry said, trying to assess without alarming everyone. He knew he wasn't doing well. His hands trembled violently in Remus', and Harry now knew that he'd ripped his palms up with his own fingernails, digging them into his skin as he'd balled them into tightly clenched fists. At least she wasn't feeling pain anymore.
"Yes?" Remus prompted.
"It burns... Under my skin," Harry whispered, reluctant to admit it. Sirius sucked in a breath loudly as his blue eyes searched Harry's barely focused green ones. Harry felt tears slip down his cheeks, but his heart seemed to ache too much to sob. The tears seemed to fall on their own, completely autonomous from anything Harry intended.
He closed his eyes wearily, then willed them open again. No one was asking about the dream, and for that Harry was profoundly grateful. He couldn't recount it. Not yet. Maybe in the light of day, with the sounds of the twins infuriating Mrs. Weasley. He might be able to write it down for Dumbledore with Ron and Hermione's banter nearby as they played chess, or talked about something Hermione read in a book somewhere.
"You need to rest, Harry," Sirius said gently, his face next to Harry's, his presence a comforting warmth against Harry's still trembling body. His teeth rattled and his ribs ached. Remus squeezed Harry's hand, another reassurance that Harry welcomed.
"I want to, but… I can't," Harry admitted. Ron put a hand gently on Harry's shoulder, and Harry smiled weakly at him. "I just don't want to dream anymore," Harry whispered wearily. The expressions on Sirius' and Remus' faces seemed inscrutable. Mr. Weasley, who stood beside Harry but had kept his distance, allowing Ron and the others better access to Harry, tightened his lips in unspoken sympathy. He wouldn't want to, either, his expression said.
"I brought some Dreamless Sleep potion with me, Harry. No more dreams tonight," Sirius said, and unstopped the vial he'd placed on the nightstand. Sirius tried to hand it to Harry, but changed his mind and curled his fingers against the back of Harry's neck, gently lifting his head off the pillow to allow for him to swallow comfortably.
"Drink it all, Harry," Sirius said, and Harry did, grateful for the warm, peaceful oblivion that enveloped him before his head could even be lowered back on to the bed. He smothered the small voice in the back of his head that whispered how nice it would be if he didn't wake up. Then all thoughts drifted away meaninglessly, and Harry softly sighed with relief.