Lynx, Harriet, PVipertooth, Phoenix, erin (it's coming. Really!),Hyper
Princess, Tense, Caitlin, Sou, venus4280, Kate the Great, SpiderGirl05,
Endriago Luna, Lizard, summersun, Tempest Princess, kapies,
Japangirlcarley24, Kayla Summers, and Bianca: Thank you for all your kind
words and comments. I *really* appreciate reviews! As requested - Here's
the next chapter. Hope you enjoy!
Mihoshe: Certainly!
Kaydee: Thank you so much! blushes I love Snape, too! I had no idea how much fun he'd be. He really dominates the chapters, too. I don't mean for him to, but he's just so complex! 8-)
WeasleyTwinsLover1112: Saturation means that Harry can't have any more of the potion for now because it's reaching toxic proportions within his body.
Tanya: Good questions! Hopefully I'll begin to answer some of them soon.
Nicky: Thanks for the review, and as always thanks for your amazing beta reading!
Chapter 17
This is absurd. The boy keeps reading and rereading Quidditch through the Ages like it's Muggle scripture! I've been watching the boy and his friends now for three days. I haven't hexed them. I've only *moderately* insulted them (my restraint now knows no bounds). All in all, I'm not sure if that's bad or good.
Since Potter's bizarre comment before falling asleep nearly four days ago, I keep catching him looking at me strangely. I'll let my eyes wander (those Weasley twins are flirting with disaster if they think I will not retaliate to any foolish pranks they devise. We're not on Hogwarts grounds now, and they will *deeply* regret messing with a Potion's Master if they decide to disregard their promises to both their parents and Albus) only to find Potter staring at me. He has the oddest look on his face. I've tried to call him on it. Ah hah. And will try to do so again.
"What, Potter, do you find so fascinating?" I snarl in annoyance. I am here to be observing him, not the other way around.
"Nothing, sir," he replies. Weasley and Granger stare at the two of us nervously. They rarely speak above a whisper, determined to make sure I hear nothing of their discussions. I do, of course. Please. But their talk is vague enough not to allow me to clue in to what they're really discussing. It's quite annoying, really, to be able to eavesdrop so effectively but garner no more useful information than I have. And what's with this Quidditch through the Ages book? How much more boring can one text be? I'd rather reread Hogwarts, A History. Far more interesting stuff there.
"Then why do you persist in staring?" I ask, placing my observation out in the open.
"I didn't realize I was," he says softly, his eyes sliding off my face to return to Weasley and Granger. They practically slump in relief. Yet another confrontation avoided. It's just not fun to pick fights with invalids. They've caught him watching me as well, but I can tell by the fleeting, frustrated looks they exchange that they know no more than I what is going in that boy's head.
Over these last few days, I've had to come to the realization that Albus is right. Potter's health is failing rapidly. Tools we've utilized so far do nothing but mask the greater problem. Voldemort is at full power again. The throbbing in my forearm has not been a summons, for which I'm thankful. But I remember well when my arm last pulsed like this. Back before Halloween in 1981. During Voldemort's prime. My mark, my ridiculous folly, had burned as the attacks had increased. As they are increasing now. He's gaining confidence. Multiple attacks throughout the night, coordinated attacks. The more Voldemort utilized the Dark Mark back then, the more his strength, his stench thrummed through us, letting us know how pleased he was. How confident Voldemort was. and is.
It's as if no time has passed. It's been oddly haunting in a way, in the company of Black and Lupin. Every once in a while I'll see Potter's eyes gleam that unnaturally bright green color and think *Lily*. Then his glasses reflect in the light, and the eyes that held no face or body suddenly contain *his* body. James. The hair which is never tamed, the stark look of honesty and integrity. All those things that just made me want to slap him upside the head. But it's not James, it's his son. A tiny boy who looks more like a thirteen year old than fifteen, whose gaunt features show none of the cherubic youth that adolescents should have.
Potter's strength drains day by day. He tries to sleep, but fails often. He evidently is a light sleeper anyway, and startles easily. I may be silent in my observations of him. The rest of the Weasley household seems physically incapable of producing anything beside a stomp as they traverse the hallway and stairs. Even silencing charms fail to hide how the floor shakes. Herds of elephants walk more softly.
He is plagued by normal nightmares as well. Though I don't know the actual events, I know the Triwizard Tournament haunts him. He speaks often to the boy Cedric Diggory in his dreams. Their conversations appear unpleasant.
After finally witnessing one of the famous Potter visions, I realize I would have been much happier not having done so. I had thought it would take the boy accidentally falling asleep during the night for me to witness it, but such was not the case. Things are escalating quickly. Voldemort is now attacking during the day as well.
It's excruciating to watch. First he begins to whimper. Then the thrashing occurs as he appears to try to resist whatever compulsion takes his dream self to wherever Voldemort is. The stillness that happens next is oddly what chills me most. His whole body is tense, and his breath is uneven and panicky. This must be when he becomes acquainted with the victims and discovers just what their fate will be.
I've come to recognize which of the Unforgiveables he witnesses based on what happens next. Sometimes his whole body convulses and the screams that tear from his lips burn into me. Do I sound like that? I certainly know the Cruciatus Curse when I see it. Oddly though, the Imperius Curse is just as hard on him in a different way. He begins to whimper again, but now tears leak from his eyes as well. Tears of shame and sympathy. Sometimes I can garner enough from his muttered words to know some of what he sees. and am so shamefully grateful not to be included in this disgusting ritual of Voldemort's. He begs for it to stop, pleads for mercy, but I know that will never happen. Whenever Potter awakens from these dreams, the first thing he does is vomit.
I'm not quite sure how much Potter is protected, buffered from these spells. It appears as if he feels them as much as Voldemort's victims, yet that cannot be so. Otherwise Potter would already be dead. But watching this debacle day after day is frustrating to say the least. Nothing helps.
Black is falling apart. He's unkempt and haggard. He hardly leaves the room day or night to stay with Potter. In fact, the man desperately needs to take a shower. He reeks. He fawns over the boy ridiculously, and I have to suppress the urge to sneer as he helps him down the stairs at night, or tries to coax one more bite of food into him. I'm not clear why I respond this way. It's as if I cannot reconcile all that I perceived Potter to be with what I'm learning he is. I don't like to feel this way. I may revel in being cruel. After all, I've been given a gift. The gift to injure. But even I do not like kicking a dog when it's down. Unless it's Black, of course. Or Neville Longbottom.
I've taken to baiting Black, but he's been oddly reticent. It's disappointing. There's no catharsis like a good fight, and Merlin knows how frustrated I am at my lack of success with the Potter boy. Lupin sits with me often. He rarely speaks. I know he must still be angry with me for the comments I made in Potter's bedroom the night I arrived, but he doesn't let it show. Only his lack of attempt to dialogue with me is an indicator at how upset he is. I cost the man his job. Why on Earth he would even still try is beyond me.
Tonight Lupin looks at me strangely, though. He's only just joined this little melodrama occurring in the Weasley living room. I'd tried a relaxation potion on the boy today to try to counteract his own terror of sleep. It had been an unqualified disaster. As his body spasmed with the Cruciatus Curse, muscles spasmed too easily. With no defense, Potter's limbs caused a great deal of damage both to himself and his surrounding environment. namely Black. I hate convulsions. They strip away all pretense of control to reveal the vulnerability underneath. Too often my poise has been stripped away with the Cruciatus Curse. It's infuriating. and damned difficult to retain my dignity after writhing and screaming on the floor. Even if it is also a great equalizer if your fellow Death Eaters are on their knees as well.
Black's godson gave him a double shiner that I simply couldn't resist commenting on this evening. It wasn't much, and in truth it was in poor taste, but I had hoped my latest potion would have helped at least a little, and the failure still tastes bitter on my tongue.
I know now that there's nothing I can custom blend here that might aid him. Only the tomes in my dungeon can help now, and whatever I try on him from here in will be far more complicated. and *riskier* than I've ever tried before. Nice as it is to have a human subject to test things on right away, I only get a few shots at success before Potter fades completely. Lovely.
"Stop it," Lupin says abruptly, quietly beside me, interrupting my reverie. I start in surprise. I wasn't doing anything. Lupin glances at Black. He has drifted off to sleep at the moment in the corner.
It's odd to watch him wake, I've discovered. Black doesn't gradually waken. One moment he's asleep, the next he isn't. The expressions in his first moments of wakefulness are fascinating. Unguarded looks, some of which I recognize as fear and panic sprawl across his face before he asserts himself and regains control. Sometimes I wonder what my face shows when I awaken in the morning.
"Stop what?" I ask blandly. Potter and his lackeys are whispering amongst each other again. Discussing that blasted book. They remain oblivious to us.
"Baiting him," Lupin replies, nodding his head towards his slumbering friend.
"They have Quidditch. I have Black. Sports are important, you know," I say, nodding my head toward the young Gryffindors.
"Don't be absurd. He's trying. You're not. I thought you respected the Headmaster more than that," Lupin says crossly. I don't like being scolded. Especially since he's got a point. Black has been trying. hard.
"I do. It's just." I say, and realize I don't know what comes next.
"It's frustrating for all of us, Severus. But Sirius has enough on his plate, and your behavior isn't appropriate. Amuse yourself privately. Harry's dying in front of us all, and watching you entertain yourself at his distraught godfather's sake is obscene," Lupin says. I'm stung by his scathing words. Ouch. I'm also shocked at Lupin's up-until-this-point unknown ability to verbally assault me. Unable to find an appropriately witty response, I simply glare. It's not nearly as effective.
Potter's eyes are on me again. I feel the heat rising in my face and find myself hoping he didn't hear Lupins' words. Oddly, it's because I hope he didn't hear his admission that Potter is indeed dying.
Relaxation potions of all sorts, induced comas, all levels of vision suppression draughts (there are plenty out there), unconsciousness potions, thought suppression draughts. the list goes on. I've tried them all on the boy, and suspect I've inflicted some horrific moments on him in the process.
But each concoction I give the boy, he still willingly drinks. The expression in his eyes is of trust mingled with dread as he looks at me, trying to suppress the disgusted grimace at the flavor. He tilts his head back, trying to throw as much of it past his tongue as possible. If he lives to see adulthood, I realize he'll make a fine hard liqueur drinker. Potter's apparent faith in me makes me feel ill, truthfully. There is a very real possibility that I could kill him. I'm shooting in the dark. his nightmares. and those visions could very well become the last thing he sees.
I find myself spending a great deal of time in the fruitless wish that none of this had ever happened. When the most interesting part of my holiday was researching some remarkably obscure and ancient potions text. When I didn't hold The Boy Who Lived's life in my hands.
It's time for me to leave, I realize. I've seen all I can see. I turn to face Lupin. His face remains cool and impassive.
"I should return in two days time with hopefully more useful potions," I say coolly to the werewolf. I stand, and suddenly feel the silence in the room. All three of them are watching me as I prepare to leave. "Potter, I'll return within several days. Try to stay alive until then, would you?" I ask dryly, well aware how inappropriate my joke is. Lupin cringes at my callous words. Harry smiles faintly.
"I'll try," he replies wryly, although his eyes remain dark. I realize I'm now racing against both his failing health and flagging hope. I levitate my trunk behind me and ignore the glares of all in the room save Potter. He simply watches me with interest as I throw the floo powder in the fireplace and step through. I finally admit to myself that I find it damned unnerving that he finds me so interesting, but am too proud to confront him about it. Considering what he's seen, perhaps I don't want to know *what* is so intriguing.
**********************************************************************
Ron took in a deep breath of relief as he watched Snape leave. It had been torment having him at the Burrow. All this time Ron and everyone else were trying to keep Harry's spirits up, keep him happy and distracted, and then there was *him* in the corner. Skulking. Brooding. His glittering black eyes missing nothing, observing everything. His thin lips compressing into disapproval or disgust. If he smiled, Ron knew it was at someone's expense. Ron hated having Snape at home. For more than just the obvious reasons.
Ron knew each deeply personal, treasured moment, each idiosyncracy, each individual thing that made his family and his home important to him was being catalogued away for later ridicule. Hell, Ron even went so far as to wonder if Harry's suffering was being filed away for the same reasons. It wasn't much of a stretch to picture Snape mocking Harry's illness. If Harry lived.
Ron's heart fell. This was it. This was the truth he hadn't dared to breathe a word of to Hermione when Harry slept. He never spoke it aloud for fear it would make it real. Possible. But Ron knew. since the talk with Dumbledore, Ron's instincts were screaming something. What were they screaming? To run. Because it was coming. What? Ron had tried to put an action or a face to 'It'. He had no idea what 'It' was, but 'It' was even more unwelcome than Snape.
At first Ron had feared that perhaps it was Harry's death. He didn't think so anymore, but that didn't make sense either. Harry certainly wasn't getting any better. He could still stand, and traveled about the Burrow very slowly, pausing often for breaths. His tremors were back in full force. He drank through a straw now, for fear his tremors would break another glass against his teeth.
Something was going to happen. And it would change everything. Sometimes Ron saw a flash in Hermione's eyes as she looked at Harry. It was more than pity or concern or sorrow. It looked a lot like. anticipation. Harry's book slipped to the floor from limp fingers. He was dozing again. Ron locked eyes with Hermione, and she smiled widely.
"Thank God Snape's gone!" she whispered candidly. Ron laughed softly, his eyes shifting to Harry for a moment as he stirred, then settled again.
"Let's take this a little further away," Ron whispered. Hermione nodded and they both stood. Ron froze as the floor creaked a little underneath him. Hermione watched as Ron tried to tiptoe past Harry without making any further noise. She giggled. Ron frowned at her, but he knew he did probably look the sight. He'd had another growth spurt, and his limbs seemed ridiculously long compared to his torso. His center of gravity felt off, and Ron had begun drinking copious amounts of milk in the hope that the rest of him would catch up by the time he went to Hogwarts. He had Quidditch to try out for after all.
Quidditch. Ron glanced back at his sleeping friend. Remus smiled at both of them. Ron pointed towards the kitchen. Remus nodded, silently indicating he'd stay with Harry. Of course he would.
"Let's sit on the back porch, Ron. I don't know about you, but I think I would like some fresh air," Hermione said quietly. Ron thought about it for a moment, then nodded.
Harry was always cold now. They kept the living room stiflingly warm, yet still Harry was forced to huddle under piles of blankets. It seemed to be more than a physical chill that affected him. To Ron it seemed more magical. After all, with *all* those blankets and layers of clothing, surely he couldn't still truly be cold. It was disturbing to see how pale and sickly Harry was contrasted with Ron's favorite, multi-colored quilt. It seemed to mock Ron with its cheerfulness.
Forcing his thoughts away from Harry, Ron smiled at the sound of frogs croaking merrily in the nearby stream as they stepped outside. He sat on the second step, letting his legs splay in front of him on the dirt. Hermione settled beside him, pulling her legs close to her chest.
"Are you cold?" he asked her. She shook her head. She'd gathered her hair into a ponytail which she then braided and had tied off with a little ribbon. As her head shook in the moonlight, her braid nearly whipped him in the face. "Hey, watch it with that thing!" he said jokingly. Hermione mock glared at him, then leaned back on her arms, letting her head tilt up to look at the night sky.
"It's cool, but it feels a lot better than in there," Hermione replied.
"It is hot in there, isn't it?" Ron asked, then paused for a moment speculatively.
"What do you think Remus said to Snape?" Hermione asked.
"I don't know, but that's the most expression I've seen on him in days. And he sure left in a hurry afterwards, didn't he?" Ron said with a shake of his head. "Whatever Remus said, he should have done it days earlier."
"He's Harry's only hope right now. *I* wish he didn't look so stumped," Hermione said. Ron nodded. "I don't think he wanted to stay any more we wanted him here, but he did . I think he's really trying to save him," Hermione said. "Look, a falling star!" she exclaimed. Ron jerked his head skywards, but caught the barest hint of a light trail.
"I missed it," he replied, now keeping his eyes trained on the sky in case there was another.
"In the Muggle world, you're supposed to wish on a falling star. It's like blowing out the candles of a birthday cake," Hermione said softly.
"Why?" Ron asked, frowning. Hermione shrugged.
"Superstition. Muggles have lots of them. Knocking on wood, crossing their fingers when they lie, not walking under ladders. It's interesting, really. Do wizards have superstitions?" she asked.
"Geez, Hermione. We don't even say You Know Who's name. What do you think?" Ron asked with a laugh. Hermione laughed with him.
"I see your point. Do you want to know what I found out before I came here?" she asked quietly. The murmur of voices that drifted through the screen door told Ron that Remus was keeping Harry company, keeping him awake.
They'd decided that little catnaps wouldn't do any harm. Half hour increments of time helped to assuage Harry's permanent fatigue, and the intervals lowered the chance of him being asleep during an attack dramatically.
"What did you find out?" Ron asked, curious. They really hadn't had much of a chance lately to talk. Just talk. It felt nice, with the gentle summer breeze, frogs croaking and crickets singing in the background. If Ron blotted out everything that was happening inside, he could almost pretend that this summer was no different than any other. That he was on holiday with his friend, and all they had to worry about was what classes would be like next year.
"I found out that before my parents found out I was a wizard, they dreamt I would go to medical school," she said. Ron raised his eyebrows in surprise.
"To be a dentist?" he asked, pleased he remembered the Muggle term for what they did. Ron remembered Hermione telling him how upset her parents had been when she had had her teeth altered magically. Hermione nodded. "What do they dream for you now?" Ron asked.
"They don't. They know so little about the Wizarding world, Ron. They don't know what's available. So, they just want me to be happy," she replied.
"That's a nice wish," Ron said.
"How about your parents? Do they have any expectations?" Hermione asked. Ron rolled his eyes, unsure if she could see his expression in the darkness.
"Not really. Probably go to work at the Ministry or some such nonsense," Ron said bitterly.
"So what do you want to do?" Hermione asked. Ron smiled a little.
"Something different. Not Gringotts, not dragons, not the Ministry, not a joke business. I want to do something on the other end, completely on my own," Ron said frankly.
"I don't have any shadows to step out of," Hermione said sympathetically.
"You do, though. You have Harry's," Ron said.
"Do you still resent it?" Hermione asked. Ron sighed. It was a complicated question.
"I resent how we're *perceived* by everyone else, not what Harry has. Not anymore. He doesn't *have* anything. He doesn't even have a home of his own," Ron said. "Does that make sense?" Hermione nodded again.
"I think it would be neat to be an Auror," Hermione said. "It sounds exciting. I have to admit, most academic jobs sound pretty, well. boring now. and it's yours and Harry's fault!" she said with a light punch to the arm.
"Do you think Harry wants to be anything when he grows up?" Ron asked. It was fun to talk like this. Light chatter, nothing heavy. Stuff he was curious about, but bringing it up with Harry always seemed. wrong.
Harry didn't have parents to dream for him. He'd never had anyone pester him about his grades. No one had been there his entire childhood to heal his scraped knees with a wave of a wand and a kiss to make it right. No one to tuck him into bed at night. So Ron skirted these casual questions with him, because it seemed cruel to talk about it.
"I think he just wants to grow up," Hermione said softly. It felt like a blow to his gut, the truth of her statement. So much for light conversation. He sat there in companionable silence with her, and wished on her falling star that Harry would be able to do just that.
*******************************************************************
The early morning hours, 'witching hours' Harry had told Remus wryly, were the worst. Remus had to agree with him. It was odd at the Burrow. Isolated as it was, protected and warded until nothing could be heard from any nearby neighbors or Muggle contraptions, the Burrow still seemed more silent at three thirty in the morning than it did at midnight. Remus let out a sigh and started as he realized Harry was watching him.
"I thought you were asleep," Remus said with a gentle smile.
"I was," he replied. His eyes traveled to where his godfather slept.
"Do you want me to wake him?" Remus offered. Harry shook his head firmly.
"No, no. Let him sleep. I was just checking up on him," Harry replied. Remus laughed softly.
"Yes, he does need to be kept tabs on," Remus agreed. "What woke you up?" he asked curiously. Harry shrugged.
"I don't know. I've always been a light sleeper," he replied. Remus stood and crossed the room to sit beside Harry on the couch. He always seemed to keep his distance, allowing others near Harry. His friends, Sirius, Madam Pomfrey.
"Me too," Remus replied. Unless it was near the full moon, he amended silently. Harry watched him closely.
"But not always," Harry said aloud.
"You notice too much," Remus said with a smile before nodding. "Yes, right before and right after the full moon I sleep like the dead," he agreed.
"It's a lot, isn't it? I mean, it's at least a week out of every month," Harry said. He didn't say *what* was a week out of the month. He didn't need to. Suffering. That's what he meant. Pain. Remus nodded.
"You get used to it," Remus said. This was something he'd hoped Harry would broach with him, although as ever he felt profoundly uncomfortable talking about himself. But if it got Harry to open up, he felt it was worth it.
"How?" Harry asked. His eyes held no humor now. And they certainly weren't the eyes of a fifteen year old.
"You face it. You survive, and when the next time comes around, you remind yourself you did it before. That you can do it again," Remus said thoughtfully. How explicit should he get? How much could he compare?
"I heard a term once. It's a weird phrase. Someone once said that they're 'circling the drain'. Have you heard of it?" Harry asked. Remus frowned.
"No," he replied, unsure where Harry was taking this.
"I thought a lot about it. A paramedic said it to his partner as they took Mr. Ensley away a couple of years back. He lived two doors down from me, and one day he collapsed while he was mowing his lawn. I tried to help him, but I didn't know CPR or anything. He was breathing, but he was so pale. His eyes didn't focus anymore, you know? I was trying to reassure him while Aunt Petunia called the paramedics. He seemed to look right through me. Anyway," Harry said, shaking himself out of his memory. Remus smiled encouragingly.
"And?" he asked, prompting him to continue. It was more than Harry had said in days.
"When the Paramedics finally came, they attached tubes to his arm and put an oxygen mask on him. They stayed there for a while, which seemed strange. I thought they should have just rushed off with him, you know? He looked like he was dying. It seemed like a long time later, but I don't think it was, when they rolled him off to the hospital. I wanted to ask if he'd be okay. He was a nice guy. He smoked, but his wife refused to let him do it in the house. So he stood outside and smoked in his driveway all the time," Harry said with a shake of the head. "He was funny." Remus frowned.
"Did he survive?" Remus asked. Harry shook his head.
"That's just it. I went up to ask them if he'd be alright, but they were talking to each other. I didn't want to interrupt, so I just listened. The one man shook his head and said, 'Not much more we can do.' The other man nodded and looked at Mr. Ensley with a sad expression on his face. 'Yeah, mate. He's just circling the drain now,' he said. I didn't know what he meant, but I knew Mr. Ensley wouldn't make it. And he didn't," Harry said.
"So what do you think it means?" Remus asked. Harry smiled gently.
"It bugged me for a long time. I never really knew. Spiralling downward. Spinning out of control. I visualized spiders in the kitchen sink that Aunt Petunia squirted at with the kitchen nozzle. No matter how hard they'd try, they couldn't get out of the water current. Each circuit they made, they're one step closer to the drain. Maybe it's like a black hole. Once you're caught in its gravitational pull, you haven't got a chance," Harry said.
"So what does this have to do with what we're talking about?" Remus asked. He suspected he already knew, though.
"Each day I get more tired. I dream. I try to get better, but I can't seem to. One step forward, two steps back. I feel like I'm running out of steps," Harry said. Remus felt his heart rise in his throat.
"You feel like you're circling the drain?" he asked. Harry nodded, his eyes shadowed.
"I was one of the youngest cases to survive a werewolf bite in England's history. Did you know that?" Remus asked Harry. Harry shook his head.
"How old?" Harry asked.
"Five," Remus answered. Harry's eyes grew big as Remus nodded. Remus snorted in disgust. "I can't imagine what I looked like when I transformed as a five year old," he said, shaking his head.
"I'm sorry," Harry said, and put his shivering hand on Remus'. Harry's knuckles were still slightly bruised from where he'd nearly cold cocked Sirius. Remus smiled, pulling himself away from the memories of pain and rejection he'd felt as a child, as those he'd loved turned away from him in disgust.
"You know how long they said I would live?" Remus asked Harry, his gaze intent. Harry shook his head.
"Eighteen. They thought I wouldn't make it through school," Remus said. Harry's eyes were huge. "It was hard for a long time, Harry. I won't lie to you. The days add up quick. Multiply them by years and it seemed I was doomed. I'd endure this curse. until I died. Until my body finally quit on me. But I came to some realizations," Remus said.
"What?" Harry whispered. Remus knew that this was what had been on Harry's mind. Death.
"I realized. people invent things every day. When I first got bit, there was no Wolfsbane Potion. It's been the best thing to happen to me in a long time. I keep my mind now. I'm still me. It makes a difference. But it's not just that," Remus said, looking at Harry intently.
"Then what is it?" Harry asked breathlessly.
"It's about one week out of the month. I *have* three other weeks. I have friends, colleagues, things to learn, things to do. I spend one week dying, and three weeks living," Remus said. Harry nodded. He was quiet for a long time after that, his trembling hand still resting on top of Remus'. Remus didn't move. He stayed beside Harry and watched the expressions that crossed his face. He was so complicated! That any teenager could be this. complex amazed Remus. Eventually, Harry began to smile a little.
"'Get busy living, or get busy dying'," Harry said, then laughed gently.
"What?" Remus asked, frowning.
"A Muggle book I read once said that. 'Get busy living, or get busy dying'. It makes a lot more sense now," he said.
"Heavy reading," Remus commented.
"Beggars can't be choosers. Free is free," Harry said. Remus laughed.
"I can't agree more," Remus said, indicating his threadbare robes.
Harry lifted a trembling hand to his forehead, frowning. Dread creeped along Remus' spine as Harry's fingers began to clench until the knuckles turned deathly white. *Not again! It's almost morning! Give him some peace!* Remus cursed the fates. He knew these symptoms.
"Sirius," Remus said firmly. Sirius started, his eyes wild for a moment before he focused on Harry.
"Damn," Sirius said, standing up and crossing the room as if he hadn't just been sound asleep.
"Harry?" Remus asked. Harry nodded his head at the unspoken question.
"Yeah, it's another one," he said through gritted teeth. Harry closed his eyes as he arched back in pain, pressing against the pillows.
"Just listen to my voice, okay? Stay with me," Sirius said, instantly on his knees in front of Harry. Harry nodded as his breath came in gasping jets.
"Remus, get some ice for his forehead," Sirius said. Remus nodded and quickly strode across the room towards the kitchen. Ron and Hermione were oblivious, sitting on the porch as the first rays of sunrise tinted the horizon, talking companionably. He left them there, knowing they would be upset when they found out. But also knowing they needed time away, too.
Even awake, Harry felt the attacks. That was the surprise no one had expected. No one had realized how much more of a connection Harry now had to Voldemort since his rise to power. Since his rebirth.
Harry's first year, Ron mentioned once what Harry had described he felt in his scar when Voldemort was nearby, or angry. They all had assumed he would feel the same now. No one had been prepared for the sheer, raw agony that arched through Harry since the Triwizard Tournament. Their connection had increased exponentially.
'Get busy living, or get busy dying.' Haunting words. Remus vowed to find out who wrote that. He lived by those words many days. As he filled a bowl with ice and water, he glanced at Harry's battle in the living room. He knew what Harry was doing right now, and prayed Voldemort's victims died quickly.
Mihoshe: Certainly!
Kaydee: Thank you so much! blushes I love Snape, too! I had no idea how much fun he'd be. He really dominates the chapters, too. I don't mean for him to, but he's just so complex! 8-)
WeasleyTwinsLover1112: Saturation means that Harry can't have any more of the potion for now because it's reaching toxic proportions within his body.
Tanya: Good questions! Hopefully I'll begin to answer some of them soon.
Nicky: Thanks for the review, and as always thanks for your amazing beta reading!
Chapter 17
This is absurd. The boy keeps reading and rereading Quidditch through the Ages like it's Muggle scripture! I've been watching the boy and his friends now for three days. I haven't hexed them. I've only *moderately* insulted them (my restraint now knows no bounds). All in all, I'm not sure if that's bad or good.
Since Potter's bizarre comment before falling asleep nearly four days ago, I keep catching him looking at me strangely. I'll let my eyes wander (those Weasley twins are flirting with disaster if they think I will not retaliate to any foolish pranks they devise. We're not on Hogwarts grounds now, and they will *deeply* regret messing with a Potion's Master if they decide to disregard their promises to both their parents and Albus) only to find Potter staring at me. He has the oddest look on his face. I've tried to call him on it. Ah hah. And will try to do so again.
"What, Potter, do you find so fascinating?" I snarl in annoyance. I am here to be observing him, not the other way around.
"Nothing, sir," he replies. Weasley and Granger stare at the two of us nervously. They rarely speak above a whisper, determined to make sure I hear nothing of their discussions. I do, of course. Please. But their talk is vague enough not to allow me to clue in to what they're really discussing. It's quite annoying, really, to be able to eavesdrop so effectively but garner no more useful information than I have. And what's with this Quidditch through the Ages book? How much more boring can one text be? I'd rather reread Hogwarts, A History. Far more interesting stuff there.
"Then why do you persist in staring?" I ask, placing my observation out in the open.
"I didn't realize I was," he says softly, his eyes sliding off my face to return to Weasley and Granger. They practically slump in relief. Yet another confrontation avoided. It's just not fun to pick fights with invalids. They've caught him watching me as well, but I can tell by the fleeting, frustrated looks they exchange that they know no more than I what is going in that boy's head.
Over these last few days, I've had to come to the realization that Albus is right. Potter's health is failing rapidly. Tools we've utilized so far do nothing but mask the greater problem. Voldemort is at full power again. The throbbing in my forearm has not been a summons, for which I'm thankful. But I remember well when my arm last pulsed like this. Back before Halloween in 1981. During Voldemort's prime. My mark, my ridiculous folly, had burned as the attacks had increased. As they are increasing now. He's gaining confidence. Multiple attacks throughout the night, coordinated attacks. The more Voldemort utilized the Dark Mark back then, the more his strength, his stench thrummed through us, letting us know how pleased he was. How confident Voldemort was. and is.
It's as if no time has passed. It's been oddly haunting in a way, in the company of Black and Lupin. Every once in a while I'll see Potter's eyes gleam that unnaturally bright green color and think *Lily*. Then his glasses reflect in the light, and the eyes that held no face or body suddenly contain *his* body. James. The hair which is never tamed, the stark look of honesty and integrity. All those things that just made me want to slap him upside the head. But it's not James, it's his son. A tiny boy who looks more like a thirteen year old than fifteen, whose gaunt features show none of the cherubic youth that adolescents should have.
Potter's strength drains day by day. He tries to sleep, but fails often. He evidently is a light sleeper anyway, and startles easily. I may be silent in my observations of him. The rest of the Weasley household seems physically incapable of producing anything beside a stomp as they traverse the hallway and stairs. Even silencing charms fail to hide how the floor shakes. Herds of elephants walk more softly.
He is plagued by normal nightmares as well. Though I don't know the actual events, I know the Triwizard Tournament haunts him. He speaks often to the boy Cedric Diggory in his dreams. Their conversations appear unpleasant.
After finally witnessing one of the famous Potter visions, I realize I would have been much happier not having done so. I had thought it would take the boy accidentally falling asleep during the night for me to witness it, but such was not the case. Things are escalating quickly. Voldemort is now attacking during the day as well.
It's excruciating to watch. First he begins to whimper. Then the thrashing occurs as he appears to try to resist whatever compulsion takes his dream self to wherever Voldemort is. The stillness that happens next is oddly what chills me most. His whole body is tense, and his breath is uneven and panicky. This must be when he becomes acquainted with the victims and discovers just what their fate will be.
I've come to recognize which of the Unforgiveables he witnesses based on what happens next. Sometimes his whole body convulses and the screams that tear from his lips burn into me. Do I sound like that? I certainly know the Cruciatus Curse when I see it. Oddly though, the Imperius Curse is just as hard on him in a different way. He begins to whimper again, but now tears leak from his eyes as well. Tears of shame and sympathy. Sometimes I can garner enough from his muttered words to know some of what he sees. and am so shamefully grateful not to be included in this disgusting ritual of Voldemort's. He begs for it to stop, pleads for mercy, but I know that will never happen. Whenever Potter awakens from these dreams, the first thing he does is vomit.
I'm not quite sure how much Potter is protected, buffered from these spells. It appears as if he feels them as much as Voldemort's victims, yet that cannot be so. Otherwise Potter would already be dead. But watching this debacle day after day is frustrating to say the least. Nothing helps.
Black is falling apart. He's unkempt and haggard. He hardly leaves the room day or night to stay with Potter. In fact, the man desperately needs to take a shower. He reeks. He fawns over the boy ridiculously, and I have to suppress the urge to sneer as he helps him down the stairs at night, or tries to coax one more bite of food into him. I'm not clear why I respond this way. It's as if I cannot reconcile all that I perceived Potter to be with what I'm learning he is. I don't like to feel this way. I may revel in being cruel. After all, I've been given a gift. The gift to injure. But even I do not like kicking a dog when it's down. Unless it's Black, of course. Or Neville Longbottom.
I've taken to baiting Black, but he's been oddly reticent. It's disappointing. There's no catharsis like a good fight, and Merlin knows how frustrated I am at my lack of success with the Potter boy. Lupin sits with me often. He rarely speaks. I know he must still be angry with me for the comments I made in Potter's bedroom the night I arrived, but he doesn't let it show. Only his lack of attempt to dialogue with me is an indicator at how upset he is. I cost the man his job. Why on Earth he would even still try is beyond me.
Tonight Lupin looks at me strangely, though. He's only just joined this little melodrama occurring in the Weasley living room. I'd tried a relaxation potion on the boy today to try to counteract his own terror of sleep. It had been an unqualified disaster. As his body spasmed with the Cruciatus Curse, muscles spasmed too easily. With no defense, Potter's limbs caused a great deal of damage both to himself and his surrounding environment. namely Black. I hate convulsions. They strip away all pretense of control to reveal the vulnerability underneath. Too often my poise has been stripped away with the Cruciatus Curse. It's infuriating. and damned difficult to retain my dignity after writhing and screaming on the floor. Even if it is also a great equalizer if your fellow Death Eaters are on their knees as well.
Black's godson gave him a double shiner that I simply couldn't resist commenting on this evening. It wasn't much, and in truth it was in poor taste, but I had hoped my latest potion would have helped at least a little, and the failure still tastes bitter on my tongue.
I know now that there's nothing I can custom blend here that might aid him. Only the tomes in my dungeon can help now, and whatever I try on him from here in will be far more complicated. and *riskier* than I've ever tried before. Nice as it is to have a human subject to test things on right away, I only get a few shots at success before Potter fades completely. Lovely.
"Stop it," Lupin says abruptly, quietly beside me, interrupting my reverie. I start in surprise. I wasn't doing anything. Lupin glances at Black. He has drifted off to sleep at the moment in the corner.
It's odd to watch him wake, I've discovered. Black doesn't gradually waken. One moment he's asleep, the next he isn't. The expressions in his first moments of wakefulness are fascinating. Unguarded looks, some of which I recognize as fear and panic sprawl across his face before he asserts himself and regains control. Sometimes I wonder what my face shows when I awaken in the morning.
"Stop what?" I ask blandly. Potter and his lackeys are whispering amongst each other again. Discussing that blasted book. They remain oblivious to us.
"Baiting him," Lupin replies, nodding his head towards his slumbering friend.
"They have Quidditch. I have Black. Sports are important, you know," I say, nodding my head toward the young Gryffindors.
"Don't be absurd. He's trying. You're not. I thought you respected the Headmaster more than that," Lupin says crossly. I don't like being scolded. Especially since he's got a point. Black has been trying. hard.
"I do. It's just." I say, and realize I don't know what comes next.
"It's frustrating for all of us, Severus. But Sirius has enough on his plate, and your behavior isn't appropriate. Amuse yourself privately. Harry's dying in front of us all, and watching you entertain yourself at his distraught godfather's sake is obscene," Lupin says. I'm stung by his scathing words. Ouch. I'm also shocked at Lupin's up-until-this-point unknown ability to verbally assault me. Unable to find an appropriately witty response, I simply glare. It's not nearly as effective.
Potter's eyes are on me again. I feel the heat rising in my face and find myself hoping he didn't hear Lupins' words. Oddly, it's because I hope he didn't hear his admission that Potter is indeed dying.
Relaxation potions of all sorts, induced comas, all levels of vision suppression draughts (there are plenty out there), unconsciousness potions, thought suppression draughts. the list goes on. I've tried them all on the boy, and suspect I've inflicted some horrific moments on him in the process.
But each concoction I give the boy, he still willingly drinks. The expression in his eyes is of trust mingled with dread as he looks at me, trying to suppress the disgusted grimace at the flavor. He tilts his head back, trying to throw as much of it past his tongue as possible. If he lives to see adulthood, I realize he'll make a fine hard liqueur drinker. Potter's apparent faith in me makes me feel ill, truthfully. There is a very real possibility that I could kill him. I'm shooting in the dark. his nightmares. and those visions could very well become the last thing he sees.
I find myself spending a great deal of time in the fruitless wish that none of this had ever happened. When the most interesting part of my holiday was researching some remarkably obscure and ancient potions text. When I didn't hold The Boy Who Lived's life in my hands.
It's time for me to leave, I realize. I've seen all I can see. I turn to face Lupin. His face remains cool and impassive.
"I should return in two days time with hopefully more useful potions," I say coolly to the werewolf. I stand, and suddenly feel the silence in the room. All three of them are watching me as I prepare to leave. "Potter, I'll return within several days. Try to stay alive until then, would you?" I ask dryly, well aware how inappropriate my joke is. Lupin cringes at my callous words. Harry smiles faintly.
"I'll try," he replies wryly, although his eyes remain dark. I realize I'm now racing against both his failing health and flagging hope. I levitate my trunk behind me and ignore the glares of all in the room save Potter. He simply watches me with interest as I throw the floo powder in the fireplace and step through. I finally admit to myself that I find it damned unnerving that he finds me so interesting, but am too proud to confront him about it. Considering what he's seen, perhaps I don't want to know *what* is so intriguing.
**********************************************************************
Ron took in a deep breath of relief as he watched Snape leave. It had been torment having him at the Burrow. All this time Ron and everyone else were trying to keep Harry's spirits up, keep him happy and distracted, and then there was *him* in the corner. Skulking. Brooding. His glittering black eyes missing nothing, observing everything. His thin lips compressing into disapproval or disgust. If he smiled, Ron knew it was at someone's expense. Ron hated having Snape at home. For more than just the obvious reasons.
Ron knew each deeply personal, treasured moment, each idiosyncracy, each individual thing that made his family and his home important to him was being catalogued away for later ridicule. Hell, Ron even went so far as to wonder if Harry's suffering was being filed away for the same reasons. It wasn't much of a stretch to picture Snape mocking Harry's illness. If Harry lived.
Ron's heart fell. This was it. This was the truth he hadn't dared to breathe a word of to Hermione when Harry slept. He never spoke it aloud for fear it would make it real. Possible. But Ron knew. since the talk with Dumbledore, Ron's instincts were screaming something. What were they screaming? To run. Because it was coming. What? Ron had tried to put an action or a face to 'It'. He had no idea what 'It' was, but 'It' was even more unwelcome than Snape.
At first Ron had feared that perhaps it was Harry's death. He didn't think so anymore, but that didn't make sense either. Harry certainly wasn't getting any better. He could still stand, and traveled about the Burrow very slowly, pausing often for breaths. His tremors were back in full force. He drank through a straw now, for fear his tremors would break another glass against his teeth.
Something was going to happen. And it would change everything. Sometimes Ron saw a flash in Hermione's eyes as she looked at Harry. It was more than pity or concern or sorrow. It looked a lot like. anticipation. Harry's book slipped to the floor from limp fingers. He was dozing again. Ron locked eyes with Hermione, and she smiled widely.
"Thank God Snape's gone!" she whispered candidly. Ron laughed softly, his eyes shifting to Harry for a moment as he stirred, then settled again.
"Let's take this a little further away," Ron whispered. Hermione nodded and they both stood. Ron froze as the floor creaked a little underneath him. Hermione watched as Ron tried to tiptoe past Harry without making any further noise. She giggled. Ron frowned at her, but he knew he did probably look the sight. He'd had another growth spurt, and his limbs seemed ridiculously long compared to his torso. His center of gravity felt off, and Ron had begun drinking copious amounts of milk in the hope that the rest of him would catch up by the time he went to Hogwarts. He had Quidditch to try out for after all.
Quidditch. Ron glanced back at his sleeping friend. Remus smiled at both of them. Ron pointed towards the kitchen. Remus nodded, silently indicating he'd stay with Harry. Of course he would.
"Let's sit on the back porch, Ron. I don't know about you, but I think I would like some fresh air," Hermione said quietly. Ron thought about it for a moment, then nodded.
Harry was always cold now. They kept the living room stiflingly warm, yet still Harry was forced to huddle under piles of blankets. It seemed to be more than a physical chill that affected him. To Ron it seemed more magical. After all, with *all* those blankets and layers of clothing, surely he couldn't still truly be cold. It was disturbing to see how pale and sickly Harry was contrasted with Ron's favorite, multi-colored quilt. It seemed to mock Ron with its cheerfulness.
Forcing his thoughts away from Harry, Ron smiled at the sound of frogs croaking merrily in the nearby stream as they stepped outside. He sat on the second step, letting his legs splay in front of him on the dirt. Hermione settled beside him, pulling her legs close to her chest.
"Are you cold?" he asked her. She shook her head. She'd gathered her hair into a ponytail which she then braided and had tied off with a little ribbon. As her head shook in the moonlight, her braid nearly whipped him in the face. "Hey, watch it with that thing!" he said jokingly. Hermione mock glared at him, then leaned back on her arms, letting her head tilt up to look at the night sky.
"It's cool, but it feels a lot better than in there," Hermione replied.
"It is hot in there, isn't it?" Ron asked, then paused for a moment speculatively.
"What do you think Remus said to Snape?" Hermione asked.
"I don't know, but that's the most expression I've seen on him in days. And he sure left in a hurry afterwards, didn't he?" Ron said with a shake of his head. "Whatever Remus said, he should have done it days earlier."
"He's Harry's only hope right now. *I* wish he didn't look so stumped," Hermione said. Ron nodded. "I don't think he wanted to stay any more we wanted him here, but he did . I think he's really trying to save him," Hermione said. "Look, a falling star!" she exclaimed. Ron jerked his head skywards, but caught the barest hint of a light trail.
"I missed it," he replied, now keeping his eyes trained on the sky in case there was another.
"In the Muggle world, you're supposed to wish on a falling star. It's like blowing out the candles of a birthday cake," Hermione said softly.
"Why?" Ron asked, frowning. Hermione shrugged.
"Superstition. Muggles have lots of them. Knocking on wood, crossing their fingers when they lie, not walking under ladders. It's interesting, really. Do wizards have superstitions?" she asked.
"Geez, Hermione. We don't even say You Know Who's name. What do you think?" Ron asked with a laugh. Hermione laughed with him.
"I see your point. Do you want to know what I found out before I came here?" she asked quietly. The murmur of voices that drifted through the screen door told Ron that Remus was keeping Harry company, keeping him awake.
They'd decided that little catnaps wouldn't do any harm. Half hour increments of time helped to assuage Harry's permanent fatigue, and the intervals lowered the chance of him being asleep during an attack dramatically.
"What did you find out?" Ron asked, curious. They really hadn't had much of a chance lately to talk. Just talk. It felt nice, with the gentle summer breeze, frogs croaking and crickets singing in the background. If Ron blotted out everything that was happening inside, he could almost pretend that this summer was no different than any other. That he was on holiday with his friend, and all they had to worry about was what classes would be like next year.
"I found out that before my parents found out I was a wizard, they dreamt I would go to medical school," she said. Ron raised his eyebrows in surprise.
"To be a dentist?" he asked, pleased he remembered the Muggle term for what they did. Ron remembered Hermione telling him how upset her parents had been when she had had her teeth altered magically. Hermione nodded. "What do they dream for you now?" Ron asked.
"They don't. They know so little about the Wizarding world, Ron. They don't know what's available. So, they just want me to be happy," she replied.
"That's a nice wish," Ron said.
"How about your parents? Do they have any expectations?" Hermione asked. Ron rolled his eyes, unsure if she could see his expression in the darkness.
"Not really. Probably go to work at the Ministry or some such nonsense," Ron said bitterly.
"So what do you want to do?" Hermione asked. Ron smiled a little.
"Something different. Not Gringotts, not dragons, not the Ministry, not a joke business. I want to do something on the other end, completely on my own," Ron said frankly.
"I don't have any shadows to step out of," Hermione said sympathetically.
"You do, though. You have Harry's," Ron said.
"Do you still resent it?" Hermione asked. Ron sighed. It was a complicated question.
"I resent how we're *perceived* by everyone else, not what Harry has. Not anymore. He doesn't *have* anything. He doesn't even have a home of his own," Ron said. "Does that make sense?" Hermione nodded again.
"I think it would be neat to be an Auror," Hermione said. "It sounds exciting. I have to admit, most academic jobs sound pretty, well. boring now. and it's yours and Harry's fault!" she said with a light punch to the arm.
"Do you think Harry wants to be anything when he grows up?" Ron asked. It was fun to talk like this. Light chatter, nothing heavy. Stuff he was curious about, but bringing it up with Harry always seemed. wrong.
Harry didn't have parents to dream for him. He'd never had anyone pester him about his grades. No one had been there his entire childhood to heal his scraped knees with a wave of a wand and a kiss to make it right. No one to tuck him into bed at night. So Ron skirted these casual questions with him, because it seemed cruel to talk about it.
"I think he just wants to grow up," Hermione said softly. It felt like a blow to his gut, the truth of her statement. So much for light conversation. He sat there in companionable silence with her, and wished on her falling star that Harry would be able to do just that.
*******************************************************************
The early morning hours, 'witching hours' Harry had told Remus wryly, were the worst. Remus had to agree with him. It was odd at the Burrow. Isolated as it was, protected and warded until nothing could be heard from any nearby neighbors or Muggle contraptions, the Burrow still seemed more silent at three thirty in the morning than it did at midnight. Remus let out a sigh and started as he realized Harry was watching him.
"I thought you were asleep," Remus said with a gentle smile.
"I was," he replied. His eyes traveled to where his godfather slept.
"Do you want me to wake him?" Remus offered. Harry shook his head firmly.
"No, no. Let him sleep. I was just checking up on him," Harry replied. Remus laughed softly.
"Yes, he does need to be kept tabs on," Remus agreed. "What woke you up?" he asked curiously. Harry shrugged.
"I don't know. I've always been a light sleeper," he replied. Remus stood and crossed the room to sit beside Harry on the couch. He always seemed to keep his distance, allowing others near Harry. His friends, Sirius, Madam Pomfrey.
"Me too," Remus replied. Unless it was near the full moon, he amended silently. Harry watched him closely.
"But not always," Harry said aloud.
"You notice too much," Remus said with a smile before nodding. "Yes, right before and right after the full moon I sleep like the dead," he agreed.
"It's a lot, isn't it? I mean, it's at least a week out of every month," Harry said. He didn't say *what* was a week out of the month. He didn't need to. Suffering. That's what he meant. Pain. Remus nodded.
"You get used to it," Remus said. This was something he'd hoped Harry would broach with him, although as ever he felt profoundly uncomfortable talking about himself. But if it got Harry to open up, he felt it was worth it.
"How?" Harry asked. His eyes held no humor now. And they certainly weren't the eyes of a fifteen year old.
"You face it. You survive, and when the next time comes around, you remind yourself you did it before. That you can do it again," Remus said thoughtfully. How explicit should he get? How much could he compare?
"I heard a term once. It's a weird phrase. Someone once said that they're 'circling the drain'. Have you heard of it?" Harry asked. Remus frowned.
"No," he replied, unsure where Harry was taking this.
"I thought a lot about it. A paramedic said it to his partner as they took Mr. Ensley away a couple of years back. He lived two doors down from me, and one day he collapsed while he was mowing his lawn. I tried to help him, but I didn't know CPR or anything. He was breathing, but he was so pale. His eyes didn't focus anymore, you know? I was trying to reassure him while Aunt Petunia called the paramedics. He seemed to look right through me. Anyway," Harry said, shaking himself out of his memory. Remus smiled encouragingly.
"And?" he asked, prompting him to continue. It was more than Harry had said in days.
"When the Paramedics finally came, they attached tubes to his arm and put an oxygen mask on him. They stayed there for a while, which seemed strange. I thought they should have just rushed off with him, you know? He looked like he was dying. It seemed like a long time later, but I don't think it was, when they rolled him off to the hospital. I wanted to ask if he'd be okay. He was a nice guy. He smoked, but his wife refused to let him do it in the house. So he stood outside and smoked in his driveway all the time," Harry said with a shake of the head. "He was funny." Remus frowned.
"Did he survive?" Remus asked. Harry shook his head.
"That's just it. I went up to ask them if he'd be alright, but they were talking to each other. I didn't want to interrupt, so I just listened. The one man shook his head and said, 'Not much more we can do.' The other man nodded and looked at Mr. Ensley with a sad expression on his face. 'Yeah, mate. He's just circling the drain now,' he said. I didn't know what he meant, but I knew Mr. Ensley wouldn't make it. And he didn't," Harry said.
"So what do you think it means?" Remus asked. Harry smiled gently.
"It bugged me for a long time. I never really knew. Spiralling downward. Spinning out of control. I visualized spiders in the kitchen sink that Aunt Petunia squirted at with the kitchen nozzle. No matter how hard they'd try, they couldn't get out of the water current. Each circuit they made, they're one step closer to the drain. Maybe it's like a black hole. Once you're caught in its gravitational pull, you haven't got a chance," Harry said.
"So what does this have to do with what we're talking about?" Remus asked. He suspected he already knew, though.
"Each day I get more tired. I dream. I try to get better, but I can't seem to. One step forward, two steps back. I feel like I'm running out of steps," Harry said. Remus felt his heart rise in his throat.
"You feel like you're circling the drain?" he asked. Harry nodded, his eyes shadowed.
"I was one of the youngest cases to survive a werewolf bite in England's history. Did you know that?" Remus asked Harry. Harry shook his head.
"How old?" Harry asked.
"Five," Remus answered. Harry's eyes grew big as Remus nodded. Remus snorted in disgust. "I can't imagine what I looked like when I transformed as a five year old," he said, shaking his head.
"I'm sorry," Harry said, and put his shivering hand on Remus'. Harry's knuckles were still slightly bruised from where he'd nearly cold cocked Sirius. Remus smiled, pulling himself away from the memories of pain and rejection he'd felt as a child, as those he'd loved turned away from him in disgust.
"You know how long they said I would live?" Remus asked Harry, his gaze intent. Harry shook his head.
"Eighteen. They thought I wouldn't make it through school," Remus said. Harry's eyes were huge. "It was hard for a long time, Harry. I won't lie to you. The days add up quick. Multiply them by years and it seemed I was doomed. I'd endure this curse. until I died. Until my body finally quit on me. But I came to some realizations," Remus said.
"What?" Harry whispered. Remus knew that this was what had been on Harry's mind. Death.
"I realized. people invent things every day. When I first got bit, there was no Wolfsbane Potion. It's been the best thing to happen to me in a long time. I keep my mind now. I'm still me. It makes a difference. But it's not just that," Remus said, looking at Harry intently.
"Then what is it?" Harry asked breathlessly.
"It's about one week out of the month. I *have* three other weeks. I have friends, colleagues, things to learn, things to do. I spend one week dying, and three weeks living," Remus said. Harry nodded. He was quiet for a long time after that, his trembling hand still resting on top of Remus'. Remus didn't move. He stayed beside Harry and watched the expressions that crossed his face. He was so complicated! That any teenager could be this. complex amazed Remus. Eventually, Harry began to smile a little.
"'Get busy living, or get busy dying'," Harry said, then laughed gently.
"What?" Remus asked, frowning.
"A Muggle book I read once said that. 'Get busy living, or get busy dying'. It makes a lot more sense now," he said.
"Heavy reading," Remus commented.
"Beggars can't be choosers. Free is free," Harry said. Remus laughed.
"I can't agree more," Remus said, indicating his threadbare robes.
Harry lifted a trembling hand to his forehead, frowning. Dread creeped along Remus' spine as Harry's fingers began to clench until the knuckles turned deathly white. *Not again! It's almost morning! Give him some peace!* Remus cursed the fates. He knew these symptoms.
"Sirius," Remus said firmly. Sirius started, his eyes wild for a moment before he focused on Harry.
"Damn," Sirius said, standing up and crossing the room as if he hadn't just been sound asleep.
"Harry?" Remus asked. Harry nodded his head at the unspoken question.
"Yeah, it's another one," he said through gritted teeth. Harry closed his eyes as he arched back in pain, pressing against the pillows.
"Just listen to my voice, okay? Stay with me," Sirius said, instantly on his knees in front of Harry. Harry nodded as his breath came in gasping jets.
"Remus, get some ice for his forehead," Sirius said. Remus nodded and quickly strode across the room towards the kitchen. Ron and Hermione were oblivious, sitting on the porch as the first rays of sunrise tinted the horizon, talking companionably. He left them there, knowing they would be upset when they found out. But also knowing they needed time away, too.
Even awake, Harry felt the attacks. That was the surprise no one had expected. No one had realized how much more of a connection Harry now had to Voldemort since his rise to power. Since his rebirth.
Harry's first year, Ron mentioned once what Harry had described he felt in his scar when Voldemort was nearby, or angry. They all had assumed he would feel the same now. No one had been prepared for the sheer, raw agony that arched through Harry since the Triwizard Tournament. Their connection had increased exponentially.
'Get busy living, or get busy dying.' Haunting words. Remus vowed to find out who wrote that. He lived by those words many days. As he filled a bowl with ice and water, he glanced at Harry's battle in the living room. He knew what Harry was doing right now, and prayed Voldemort's victims died quickly.