A/N Hey, I'm sorry this took so long. Suffice it to say I've had a few
personal problems. I also decided that I didn't like my writing style. It's
changed a little so tell me what you think. I'm also recovering from a bout
of bad luck today. I've heard of Murphy's Law, I've even experienced it a
few times but never *never* did I think it would go so far as to somehow
make me set an oven on fire. And precisely how do you set an oven on fire?
Don't ask.
Don't worry; I will NOT abandon this fic. It WILL be finished. The only
question is exactly when.
Chapter 16
During his brief stay at Hogwarts this Christmas, Sirius had discovered two things. The first was that the ancient castle was a lot quieter with the absence of a large body of screaming children. The second was that by one way or another he had somehow managed to acquire not only the best godson in the world, but also the most infuriating.
Sirius hadn't asked a lot of questions about Harry's life with the Dursleys. He could sense that they were still a sensitive topic to his godson but the main reason he refrained from questioning Harry was that, simply, he felt he should probably obtain better control of his temper before he learnt the truth.otherwise he had the ominous feeling that there'd be three very dead Dursleys knocking around.
At first, Sirius had assumed that the reason Harry didn't want to tell him anything was due to the fact that Harry didn't know him too well. After all, the teen hardly knew him except by reputation (and he would be the first to admit it wasn't a particularly good reputation) and they'd talked face to face only four times. But as the Christmas festivities waned and Filch could be seen scanning the corridors for wayward fairies past their extinct-by-date, Harry still refused point blank to tell him anything. And as the holidays progressed further into the New Year celebrations, Sirius had begun to lose his patience. He *knew* there were things bothering Harry, any number of them. And he wanted to help, he really did (even if Moony had laughed at the idea of him actively *helping* anyone), but there wasn't an awful lot he could do if Harry remained silent.
The teen remained just as stubbornly silent on the subject of help as he had ever been (*just like his father*). This had resulted in many hair- pulling and teeth-gnashing sessions on Sirius' part when Harry wasn't around. As Remus had bluntly put it two days ago, "Harry will tell us what he wants to *when* he wants. Don't pressure him, Sirius. He can't deal with that right now. You'll just have to learn patience, Padfoot." And Sirius had promptly lost his hold on his temper, hurling a priceless vase at the mantelpiece.
Now, staring out of the window at the starry sky above, Sirius felt a profound sadness. Remus was right, of course. He smiled slightly, *Always has been.*.
When had his priorities changed from surviving whilst on the run, to fussing over his godson like a mother hen? When Harry had been a baby, he'd never worried *this* much and James had always joked that he worried enough for the both of them. Of course, that probably had something to do with the fact that a one-year old wouldn't be able to lift a sword, never mind attempt to slay a basilisk with it.
His mind still boggled at that one. A basilisk! How could he have not known? It had happened, what, three years ago and no one had told him! His godson, only twelve at the time, had killed a fully grown basilisk! He'd a hard time with not passing out when Remus had informed him of that particular adventure. He *had* passed out, however, when Remus had then informed him, with no small amount of malicious glee, about an acromantula colony as well. He had developed a new-found respect for arachnids of the large hairy variety. In his experience (granted it *was* limited but it was probably a lot more than any other silly suicidal sod had managed to acquire), only one type of man ever made it out of those colonies, and they were generally referred to as corpses. Well, there was him.but he didn't really count, he'd had help. And Hagrid wasn't even a man to begin with. The fact that his twelve-year old godson had not only apparently got out alive but actually had a conversation, however one-sided, with the things, astounded him.
Sirius felt a rush of pride towards Harry. The boy was certainly special, unique. There was an uncanny aptitude for dealings with magical and potentially lethal creatures that neither Lily nor James had possessed. In fact, he could still remember that unforgettable autumn morning when one of the hippogriffs had escaped and chased the couple through the greenhouses. No, it was something belonging solely to Harry. How many fifteen-year-olds could claim that they'd killed a basilisk, talked to an acromantula, called a phoenix, flown on a hippogriff, defeated a dragon, outwitted the mermen, tackled a three-headed dog, taken on a fully grown mountain troll.and succeeded in politely eluding a House Elf.
He shuddered uncontrollably. Those elves were something else. He'd taken to hiding behind Harry whenever they were around because they didn't seem to bother his godson. He'd almost died of laughter when one of them referred to Ron as 'Harry Potter's Wheezy'. The red-head had flamed crimson from the roots downwards. He'd had his comeuppance, however, when he'd been mentioned in passing as 'Harry Potter's Sniffles'.
The chaos that had originally erupted after the announcement of Sirius' innocence had died down somewhat, especially when his story took backstage to the headline the following day: "Fudge: Past its Use-By-Date!" Inside, he'd jumped with glee when he read that, and he was relatively certain that he wasn't the only one.
Not that he and Harry had been paying much attention to the media recently. Luckily, that Skeeter woman still hadn't reappeared from whichever hole she'd been forced to crawl under. As a result, there were no horrific lies about the state of Harry's mental health. And now the entire wizarding world was clued into the fact that Voldemort was indeed back and intent on regaining the sort of power he had held fourteen years ago.
But Sirius tried not to worry about that, not that it was easy when there were muggles disappearing all over the country. No, he much preferred the time he spent with Harry. And despite that bonding, Harry *still* wouldn't talk to him. It was enough to give Sirius a hernia. His godson seemed to have some ridiculous notion, probably ingrained by the Dursleys, that he mustn't burden others with his problems.
Despite Harry's lack of willingness to talk to him, Sirius thoroughly enjoyed the time he could now speak with Harry without the fear of being shipped off to Azkaban. He'd vowed to himself as soon the trial had ended that he would take care of Harry. Sitting beside Harry's bed, waiting for the teenager to wake up, he'd enforced that vow a dozen times. He'd been touched by what Harry had endured to prove his innocence and if he had anything to say about it, the fifteen-year-old wasn't about to go through the experience again. And while he'd spent a lot of time feeling useless while Madame Pomfrey fussed over the sheets, he'd made a second promise. He would never turn his back on Harry when his godson needed him, never.
Harry had taken a long time in recovering from the effects of the Pensieve Projector and Sirius had taken the time to think. He'd thought about Pettigrew and Voldemort, but mostly, he'd thought about Harry's part in the upcoming war.
Fifteen years old and already at the top of Voldemort's 'To Do-in' list. Fifteen years old, and he'd already escaped from the Dark Lord more times than most ever saw him.
Sirius desperately wanted to protect Harry from what was coming but it seemed that fate was spiteful. Even without the Order, Harry saw enough of Voldemort through his scar. And Sirius was decidedly *not* happy about Remus' news. *Apparently*, the Order didn't seem to do what it was *supposed* to, and that frightened Sirius beyond belief. With that amount of power malfunctioning, one wrong move and the Order could kill either of its participants. Not that he'd have minded if Voldemort had kicked the bucket, but seeing as there was a link, there was always the possibility that Harry would go with him. Sirius wasn't going to risk that.
As if there wasn't already enough to worry about.
As much as Sirius hated to admit it, there was something special about Harry. He performed well in all subjects; apparently without realising he did so. He inspired confidence and brought out the best in people. He had a knack for getting out of nasty scrapes. Sirius knew that those qualities would be needed in the upcoming war. And there was the added strange detail that Fawkes seemed to like the boy. Albus was indefinitely amused by this but Sirius was less happy. It didn't bode well.
Sirius hadn't liked the conclusion he'd reached, sitting on his wide, comfy chair, listening to the sound of the fire crackling. Harry was essential to the war effort and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.
Whilst Sirius had sat and sulked, Madame Pomfrey had come bustling in with yet more stomach-turning medicines. Sirius' stomach had tried to escape through his mouth just *looking* at the stuff. She's disappeared into the side room and for half an hour, the silence had been broken by the ominous clinking of glass vials leaving Sirius to wonder what she was concocting.
To say he had been surprised when Madame Pomfrey had emerged finally with a tiny steaming goblet was the understatement of the year. She had spared him only a glance before turning towards Harry and doing some wonderfully complex, impressive and, no doubt, useless examination. Eventually, she straightened up and set the goblet carefully on the bedside table.
"Give that to him as soon as he wakes up. It'll make him sleep for as long as his body needs it. I believe Albus has arranged rooms for you."
Sirius had nodded absently and she had bustled from the room.
Admittedly, in hindsight, no one had expected quite how much Harry's body had needed to recuperate. Evidently, the events of the last year or so had caught up with him and his body had seized the opportunity for uninterrupted rest.
Sighing heavily, Sirius pulled his gaze from the window and turned to watch his godson sleep.
The teen's face was relaxed in slumber, the absence of recently acquired stress and fatigue lines painfully obvious. His complexion was pale, almost unhealthily so, and his eyes were ringed by dark, heavy circles. He was thinner than Sirius remembered and his hair was even messier than James' had been at the same age.
Sirius would never admit it, but the look in Harry's eyes when he'd first woken up had scared the hell out of him. The dazzling emeralds he remembered had fogged, but there had been fear and self-condemnation. And hatred. The idea that a young boy could harbour so much hatred for anything caused him to rethink his opinion on Harry's situation. It was harmful to hold that much hatred, he knew, and he'd be a hypocrite if he tried to deny he was doing the same.
Still, there was little he could do, save getting rid of Voldemort which, if it wasn't impossible enough already, was even more so now since no one could find the little bugger. The evidence of his having been there in the first place, however, was all too clear.
Since his dream experience with Harry, Voldemort seemed set on reinstating the sort of power he had held before his downfall. The Headlines of the Daily Prophet were becoming all too similar to those of fourteen years ago. Missing persons, mysterious and sudden deaths, random members of the public turning insane. The Daily Prophet was having a field day, or rather, an entire field trip. Bodies would appear all over the place, reasons for death remaining ambiguous.
Luckily, as of yet, the muggles hadn't noticed anything too out of the ordinary. Sirius was fairly sure that if they had, there would be a few extra bodies floating down the River Thames.
Harry, of course, had been a complete angel over the entire thing. He still blamed himself to a certain extent but Sirius was a lot happier and he couldn't blame the kid, not when he felt much the same towards Harry's parents. What he was decidedly *not happy* about were the dreams that now plagued the young teenager almost every night.
Harry never told anyone the intricate details of the dreams he had, for which Sirius was slightly grateful. Not that he didn't want to help his godson, but having witnessed the horrendous effects of Voldemort's actions, he had no wish to hear and see the thoughts that led to those actions. And from what little Sirius had managed to glean from Harry over the course of the holidays, it was clear to him that Harry's night time shows were seen from a seat in the front row.
Harry never said what happened in his dreams, the horrors that were Voldemort's doing. The only information he would give was victims and locations. But however brave a front Harry put on during the day, his dreams were riddled with powerless whimpers. It was during these times that Sirius felt incomparable anger towards both himself and Peter Pettigrew. It was during these moments that Harry, trembling with pain or fear or both, needed comfort. Every time, without fail, Sirius offered whatever solace he could.
According to Remus, there was precious little he could do to help Harry with the Order. Aside from the obvious problem that everything he did was based on pure speculation, there was the added disturbing concept of Voldemort's tenacity. He had found a foot-hold in Harry's mind, and it didn't look like he was planning on letting go any time soon.
Despite the futility and sheer frustration of the situation, Harry appreciated everything Remus tried, and Sirius thought, or maybe hoped, that there had been a small improvement. Certainly, the dreams came less often than they had two weeks ago, but Sirius was unsure if this was because Remus' attempts had hit the mark or if Voldemort was simply tiring of his new-found power over the lives of wizards and muggles alike.
No one aside from Harry had any idea how well Remus was helping but, judging by the anticipation Harry displayed before each session, Sirius was able to surmise that at least *some* good was coming of it.
Sirius wasn't entirely sure of what exactly it was that Remus did in their hour-long sessions but he was sure that, if it involved Moony, it was complex and hideously incomprehensible. Harry seemed happy enough with it, though, and that was all that mattered to Sirius.
Watching him now, Sirius found it hard to believe that Harry was only fifteen. He had seen and done things no child should have to; his eyes held, at times, the universal wisdom that Sirius usually associated with Dumbledore. And he had survived it all, holding out to the very end. How any one could do that, was beyond him completely.
There was a soft sigh from the bed and Harry shifted minutely in his sleep, his eyes flickering rapidly. Sirius' heart contracted with despair. *Please, let it be a normal dream, please.*
That night, his prayers went unanswered. * * *
The night was black, serene, silent, sharp. Hanging low in the sky, the pale moon gave out a feeble watery light, splashing only the highest of the tree-tops with a silver halo. From somewhere in the hushed scene, an unknown bird called harshly, abruptly, a high throaty sound like fingers pulled down a blackboard. Long, suspense-filled minutes passed, occupied only by the haunting sound of the wind sobbing quietly through the leaves.
Murky clouds sailed over the starless sky, pulled by invisible threads to come to a rest obscuring the moon from sight. The entire scene was thrown into an even darker black, only rivalled by the gloom of eternal sleep. The wind ceased its relentless crying and wailing into the night and the whispering of the leaves died. The clouds were pulled back and the moon was once again allowed to shine its weak light on the scene below. Somewhere, in the vast overgrown, tangled forest, a second bird answered the call of the first in the same inhuman shriek, a twig snapped, something prowled in the undergrowth.
The moon sailed behind another billowing cloud, and when it reappeared it cast its light on something that had not been there before.
The new apparition was low on the ground, and even from the moon's light, it was easy to tell that it was compiled mostly of stone. Broken stone. Bricks and columns, arches and turret-tops littered the ground in an ugly pretence of what the vast structure must once have been like. Amongst the wreckage, the occasional gleam of glass reflected in the moonlight could be seen. Pieces of rotting wood and rusting metal lay dotted around, grotesque lumps of material decayed over the years.
Moss and lichen grew in abundance over the deep stone foundations of what must have once been a great castle. Weeds sprung up all over the wreckage, mocking in their tenacity, staying erect where the castle could not. Chair legs and table tops lay strewn in a huge pile at the West of the wreckage. Here and there, large scorch marks marred the wood and stone, the only visible sign of how the castle had fallen.
And in the middle of the ruins, amongst the sprawling weeds and the crumbling stone, lying atop the rotting tables and the rusting torch brackets, rested a shield bearing a coat of arms.
The shield was old and weathered, a large crack running down the right side and ending at the bottom where a huge chunk had fallen off. The colours, once bright and vibrant, were now faded, evidence of the neglect of centuries. The engravings were almost worn flat by the ruthless weather and all that could be recognised was the large elaborate 'H' carved into the centre of the shield and the single line of Latin at the bottom. Half of the line was missing, torn off and crumbled at the base, but a few letters were still legible:
' raco dorm ens numqu-'
tbc.
A/N: There you go! Hope you like it. Chapters 17 and 18 are already in the works and at least one should be up within the week.
Thanks go to: Irish Rose Coventina Hyper Princess Ashie Nuts autumngurl 102 Deathscythe Custom Lome_Roquen Storyspindler Lakergurl 13 Bob (Thank you for putting me on your favourites! You made my day!) Nicky
Chapter 16
During his brief stay at Hogwarts this Christmas, Sirius had discovered two things. The first was that the ancient castle was a lot quieter with the absence of a large body of screaming children. The second was that by one way or another he had somehow managed to acquire not only the best godson in the world, but also the most infuriating.
Sirius hadn't asked a lot of questions about Harry's life with the Dursleys. He could sense that they were still a sensitive topic to his godson but the main reason he refrained from questioning Harry was that, simply, he felt he should probably obtain better control of his temper before he learnt the truth.otherwise he had the ominous feeling that there'd be three very dead Dursleys knocking around.
At first, Sirius had assumed that the reason Harry didn't want to tell him anything was due to the fact that Harry didn't know him too well. After all, the teen hardly knew him except by reputation (and he would be the first to admit it wasn't a particularly good reputation) and they'd talked face to face only four times. But as the Christmas festivities waned and Filch could be seen scanning the corridors for wayward fairies past their extinct-by-date, Harry still refused point blank to tell him anything. And as the holidays progressed further into the New Year celebrations, Sirius had begun to lose his patience. He *knew* there were things bothering Harry, any number of them. And he wanted to help, he really did (even if Moony had laughed at the idea of him actively *helping* anyone), but there wasn't an awful lot he could do if Harry remained silent.
The teen remained just as stubbornly silent on the subject of help as he had ever been (*just like his father*). This had resulted in many hair- pulling and teeth-gnashing sessions on Sirius' part when Harry wasn't around. As Remus had bluntly put it two days ago, "Harry will tell us what he wants to *when* he wants. Don't pressure him, Sirius. He can't deal with that right now. You'll just have to learn patience, Padfoot." And Sirius had promptly lost his hold on his temper, hurling a priceless vase at the mantelpiece.
Now, staring out of the window at the starry sky above, Sirius felt a profound sadness. Remus was right, of course. He smiled slightly, *Always has been.*.
When had his priorities changed from surviving whilst on the run, to fussing over his godson like a mother hen? When Harry had been a baby, he'd never worried *this* much and James had always joked that he worried enough for the both of them. Of course, that probably had something to do with the fact that a one-year old wouldn't be able to lift a sword, never mind attempt to slay a basilisk with it.
His mind still boggled at that one. A basilisk! How could he have not known? It had happened, what, three years ago and no one had told him! His godson, only twelve at the time, had killed a fully grown basilisk! He'd a hard time with not passing out when Remus had informed him of that particular adventure. He *had* passed out, however, when Remus had then informed him, with no small amount of malicious glee, about an acromantula colony as well. He had developed a new-found respect for arachnids of the large hairy variety. In his experience (granted it *was* limited but it was probably a lot more than any other silly suicidal sod had managed to acquire), only one type of man ever made it out of those colonies, and they were generally referred to as corpses. Well, there was him.but he didn't really count, he'd had help. And Hagrid wasn't even a man to begin with. The fact that his twelve-year old godson had not only apparently got out alive but actually had a conversation, however one-sided, with the things, astounded him.
Sirius felt a rush of pride towards Harry. The boy was certainly special, unique. There was an uncanny aptitude for dealings with magical and potentially lethal creatures that neither Lily nor James had possessed. In fact, he could still remember that unforgettable autumn morning when one of the hippogriffs had escaped and chased the couple through the greenhouses. No, it was something belonging solely to Harry. How many fifteen-year-olds could claim that they'd killed a basilisk, talked to an acromantula, called a phoenix, flown on a hippogriff, defeated a dragon, outwitted the mermen, tackled a three-headed dog, taken on a fully grown mountain troll.and succeeded in politely eluding a House Elf.
He shuddered uncontrollably. Those elves were something else. He'd taken to hiding behind Harry whenever they were around because they didn't seem to bother his godson. He'd almost died of laughter when one of them referred to Ron as 'Harry Potter's Wheezy'. The red-head had flamed crimson from the roots downwards. He'd had his comeuppance, however, when he'd been mentioned in passing as 'Harry Potter's Sniffles'.
The chaos that had originally erupted after the announcement of Sirius' innocence had died down somewhat, especially when his story took backstage to the headline the following day: "Fudge: Past its Use-By-Date!" Inside, he'd jumped with glee when he read that, and he was relatively certain that he wasn't the only one.
Not that he and Harry had been paying much attention to the media recently. Luckily, that Skeeter woman still hadn't reappeared from whichever hole she'd been forced to crawl under. As a result, there were no horrific lies about the state of Harry's mental health. And now the entire wizarding world was clued into the fact that Voldemort was indeed back and intent on regaining the sort of power he had held fourteen years ago.
But Sirius tried not to worry about that, not that it was easy when there were muggles disappearing all over the country. No, he much preferred the time he spent with Harry. And despite that bonding, Harry *still* wouldn't talk to him. It was enough to give Sirius a hernia. His godson seemed to have some ridiculous notion, probably ingrained by the Dursleys, that he mustn't burden others with his problems.
Despite Harry's lack of willingness to talk to him, Sirius thoroughly enjoyed the time he could now speak with Harry without the fear of being shipped off to Azkaban. He'd vowed to himself as soon the trial had ended that he would take care of Harry. Sitting beside Harry's bed, waiting for the teenager to wake up, he'd enforced that vow a dozen times. He'd been touched by what Harry had endured to prove his innocence and if he had anything to say about it, the fifteen-year-old wasn't about to go through the experience again. And while he'd spent a lot of time feeling useless while Madame Pomfrey fussed over the sheets, he'd made a second promise. He would never turn his back on Harry when his godson needed him, never.
Harry had taken a long time in recovering from the effects of the Pensieve Projector and Sirius had taken the time to think. He'd thought about Pettigrew and Voldemort, but mostly, he'd thought about Harry's part in the upcoming war.
Fifteen years old and already at the top of Voldemort's 'To Do-in' list. Fifteen years old, and he'd already escaped from the Dark Lord more times than most ever saw him.
Sirius desperately wanted to protect Harry from what was coming but it seemed that fate was spiteful. Even without the Order, Harry saw enough of Voldemort through his scar. And Sirius was decidedly *not* happy about Remus' news. *Apparently*, the Order didn't seem to do what it was *supposed* to, and that frightened Sirius beyond belief. With that amount of power malfunctioning, one wrong move and the Order could kill either of its participants. Not that he'd have minded if Voldemort had kicked the bucket, but seeing as there was a link, there was always the possibility that Harry would go with him. Sirius wasn't going to risk that.
As if there wasn't already enough to worry about.
As much as Sirius hated to admit it, there was something special about Harry. He performed well in all subjects; apparently without realising he did so. He inspired confidence and brought out the best in people. He had a knack for getting out of nasty scrapes. Sirius knew that those qualities would be needed in the upcoming war. And there was the added strange detail that Fawkes seemed to like the boy. Albus was indefinitely amused by this but Sirius was less happy. It didn't bode well.
Sirius hadn't liked the conclusion he'd reached, sitting on his wide, comfy chair, listening to the sound of the fire crackling. Harry was essential to the war effort and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.
Whilst Sirius had sat and sulked, Madame Pomfrey had come bustling in with yet more stomach-turning medicines. Sirius' stomach had tried to escape through his mouth just *looking* at the stuff. She's disappeared into the side room and for half an hour, the silence had been broken by the ominous clinking of glass vials leaving Sirius to wonder what she was concocting.
To say he had been surprised when Madame Pomfrey had emerged finally with a tiny steaming goblet was the understatement of the year. She had spared him only a glance before turning towards Harry and doing some wonderfully complex, impressive and, no doubt, useless examination. Eventually, she straightened up and set the goblet carefully on the bedside table.
"Give that to him as soon as he wakes up. It'll make him sleep for as long as his body needs it. I believe Albus has arranged rooms for you."
Sirius had nodded absently and she had bustled from the room.
Admittedly, in hindsight, no one had expected quite how much Harry's body had needed to recuperate. Evidently, the events of the last year or so had caught up with him and his body had seized the opportunity for uninterrupted rest.
Sighing heavily, Sirius pulled his gaze from the window and turned to watch his godson sleep.
The teen's face was relaxed in slumber, the absence of recently acquired stress and fatigue lines painfully obvious. His complexion was pale, almost unhealthily so, and his eyes were ringed by dark, heavy circles. He was thinner than Sirius remembered and his hair was even messier than James' had been at the same age.
Sirius would never admit it, but the look in Harry's eyes when he'd first woken up had scared the hell out of him. The dazzling emeralds he remembered had fogged, but there had been fear and self-condemnation. And hatred. The idea that a young boy could harbour so much hatred for anything caused him to rethink his opinion on Harry's situation. It was harmful to hold that much hatred, he knew, and he'd be a hypocrite if he tried to deny he was doing the same.
Still, there was little he could do, save getting rid of Voldemort which, if it wasn't impossible enough already, was even more so now since no one could find the little bugger. The evidence of his having been there in the first place, however, was all too clear.
Since his dream experience with Harry, Voldemort seemed set on reinstating the sort of power he had held before his downfall. The Headlines of the Daily Prophet were becoming all too similar to those of fourteen years ago. Missing persons, mysterious and sudden deaths, random members of the public turning insane. The Daily Prophet was having a field day, or rather, an entire field trip. Bodies would appear all over the place, reasons for death remaining ambiguous.
Luckily, as of yet, the muggles hadn't noticed anything too out of the ordinary. Sirius was fairly sure that if they had, there would be a few extra bodies floating down the River Thames.
Harry, of course, had been a complete angel over the entire thing. He still blamed himself to a certain extent but Sirius was a lot happier and he couldn't blame the kid, not when he felt much the same towards Harry's parents. What he was decidedly *not happy* about were the dreams that now plagued the young teenager almost every night.
Harry never told anyone the intricate details of the dreams he had, for which Sirius was slightly grateful. Not that he didn't want to help his godson, but having witnessed the horrendous effects of Voldemort's actions, he had no wish to hear and see the thoughts that led to those actions. And from what little Sirius had managed to glean from Harry over the course of the holidays, it was clear to him that Harry's night time shows were seen from a seat in the front row.
Harry never said what happened in his dreams, the horrors that were Voldemort's doing. The only information he would give was victims and locations. But however brave a front Harry put on during the day, his dreams were riddled with powerless whimpers. It was during these times that Sirius felt incomparable anger towards both himself and Peter Pettigrew. It was during these moments that Harry, trembling with pain or fear or both, needed comfort. Every time, without fail, Sirius offered whatever solace he could.
According to Remus, there was precious little he could do to help Harry with the Order. Aside from the obvious problem that everything he did was based on pure speculation, there was the added disturbing concept of Voldemort's tenacity. He had found a foot-hold in Harry's mind, and it didn't look like he was planning on letting go any time soon.
Despite the futility and sheer frustration of the situation, Harry appreciated everything Remus tried, and Sirius thought, or maybe hoped, that there had been a small improvement. Certainly, the dreams came less often than they had two weeks ago, but Sirius was unsure if this was because Remus' attempts had hit the mark or if Voldemort was simply tiring of his new-found power over the lives of wizards and muggles alike.
No one aside from Harry had any idea how well Remus was helping but, judging by the anticipation Harry displayed before each session, Sirius was able to surmise that at least *some* good was coming of it.
Sirius wasn't entirely sure of what exactly it was that Remus did in their hour-long sessions but he was sure that, if it involved Moony, it was complex and hideously incomprehensible. Harry seemed happy enough with it, though, and that was all that mattered to Sirius.
Watching him now, Sirius found it hard to believe that Harry was only fifteen. He had seen and done things no child should have to; his eyes held, at times, the universal wisdom that Sirius usually associated with Dumbledore. And he had survived it all, holding out to the very end. How any one could do that, was beyond him completely.
There was a soft sigh from the bed and Harry shifted minutely in his sleep, his eyes flickering rapidly. Sirius' heart contracted with despair. *Please, let it be a normal dream, please.*
That night, his prayers went unanswered. * * *
The night was black, serene, silent, sharp. Hanging low in the sky, the pale moon gave out a feeble watery light, splashing only the highest of the tree-tops with a silver halo. From somewhere in the hushed scene, an unknown bird called harshly, abruptly, a high throaty sound like fingers pulled down a blackboard. Long, suspense-filled minutes passed, occupied only by the haunting sound of the wind sobbing quietly through the leaves.
Murky clouds sailed over the starless sky, pulled by invisible threads to come to a rest obscuring the moon from sight. The entire scene was thrown into an even darker black, only rivalled by the gloom of eternal sleep. The wind ceased its relentless crying and wailing into the night and the whispering of the leaves died. The clouds were pulled back and the moon was once again allowed to shine its weak light on the scene below. Somewhere, in the vast overgrown, tangled forest, a second bird answered the call of the first in the same inhuman shriek, a twig snapped, something prowled in the undergrowth.
The moon sailed behind another billowing cloud, and when it reappeared it cast its light on something that had not been there before.
The new apparition was low on the ground, and even from the moon's light, it was easy to tell that it was compiled mostly of stone. Broken stone. Bricks and columns, arches and turret-tops littered the ground in an ugly pretence of what the vast structure must once have been like. Amongst the wreckage, the occasional gleam of glass reflected in the moonlight could be seen. Pieces of rotting wood and rusting metal lay dotted around, grotesque lumps of material decayed over the years.
Moss and lichen grew in abundance over the deep stone foundations of what must have once been a great castle. Weeds sprung up all over the wreckage, mocking in their tenacity, staying erect where the castle could not. Chair legs and table tops lay strewn in a huge pile at the West of the wreckage. Here and there, large scorch marks marred the wood and stone, the only visible sign of how the castle had fallen.
And in the middle of the ruins, amongst the sprawling weeds and the crumbling stone, lying atop the rotting tables and the rusting torch brackets, rested a shield bearing a coat of arms.
The shield was old and weathered, a large crack running down the right side and ending at the bottom where a huge chunk had fallen off. The colours, once bright and vibrant, were now faded, evidence of the neglect of centuries. The engravings were almost worn flat by the ruthless weather and all that could be recognised was the large elaborate 'H' carved into the centre of the shield and the single line of Latin at the bottom. Half of the line was missing, torn off and crumbled at the base, but a few letters were still legible:
' raco dorm ens numqu-'
tbc.
A/N: There you go! Hope you like it. Chapters 17 and 18 are already in the works and at least one should be up within the week.
Thanks go to: Irish Rose Coventina Hyper Princess Ashie Nuts autumngurl 102 Deathscythe Custom Lome_Roquen Storyspindler Lakergurl 13 Bob (Thank you for putting me on your favourites! You made my day!) Nicky