Author's Notes: I've begun putting my responses to reviews at the end of
the story instead of the beginning, just because I tend to get a bit.
verbose. 8-) So, that in mind, on with the story!!! Enjoy.
Chapter 18
Hermione yawned, quietly treading downstairs. She was exhausted but not sleepy, a frustrating combination. The blankets had seemed to irritate her skin and her foot insisted on wiggling under the covers. 'Blast!' she'd finally thought in frustration. Her eyes felt like they were filled with sand and she refused to look in the mirror. She hoped Mrs. Weasley might know a wizard way to diminish the bags under her eyes and conceal the redness. To hide the telltale signs that she'd been crying.
She'd cast a silencing spell around the room to keep the sound of the twins at bay after finally retiring to bed around six in the morning, but she'd yet to find a way to keep the floor from shaking each time Fred and George tromped upstairs for yet another item to amuse themselves with. In Hermione's opinion, they should have been as skinny as Harry with the amount of calories they burned.
As Hermione stopped at the foot of the stairs to stretch, her eyes slid to the clock, noticing that Mr. Weasley's hand said he was still at home. That was odd. It was Friday morning. Hermione had tried to sleep for at least four hours before finally giving up, making it about ten. He normally left for work by eight.
"What do they hope to gain? Can't we get them to stop? He's a child, Arthur. They have no right doing this to him!" Mrs. Weasley's voice exclaimed from the kitchen. Footsteps indicated they were heading back into the living room.
Surprised at her instincts, Hermione instantly turned on her heel and sprinted back upstairs to perch on the uppermost step and continue to listen to the conversation taking place below. Hidden by the shadows of the hallway, Hermione had a clear view between the wooden slats of the banister of Mr. and Mrs. Weasley settling on the couch below.
"I know. But right now we have no way to stop them. The only ones legally who could silence the Daily Prophet are the Dursleys as Harry's legal guardians."
"Which is a mockery of justice in and of itself," Mrs. Weasley spat.
"Headmaster Dumbledore felt it unwise to expose Harry to the scrutiny of actually trying to legally remove him from their care just yet. Of course the Ministry is aware somewhat of Harry's circumstances, but if such a thing became a matter of public consumption." Mr. Weasley let his words drift off. The implications were clear.
"Arthur, people *believe* what they read from the Daily Prophet. Look what damage that Skeeter woman did to Harry last year!" Mrs. Weasley said. Mr. Weasley cleared his throat.
"Dear, *you* believed those articles, too, remember?" he asked gently. Hermione nearly giggled at the bright blush that lit up Mrs. Weasley's face.
"But I know better now!" Mrs. Weasley protested weakly. Mr. Weasley laughed and reached across to pat Mrs. Weasley's hand affectionately.
"That's right. You do. The trick is to do the same for the rest of the wizarding public," Mr. Weasley said. "We have to find a way to discredit Fudge. He's the one keeping the lid on You Know Who's return. If we can prove him wrong, the rest of what he's been hiding will naturally come to light," he said soothingly.
"We're running out of time, Arthur," Mrs. Weasley said sadly. Hermione felt her eyes widen in fear.
"I know. It's a race to see if we can find where Fudge is hiding the evidence of You Know Who's attacks before he comes to question Harry himself," he said. Hermione's breath caught in the back of her throat.
"You know he's manipulating these articles, Arthur. He holds the public's high opinion. I'm afraid he'll come sooner than anyone expects," Mrs. Weasley said.
"I've spoken to Remus about this, but I don't think it's a good idea to mention this to Sirius. He's got enough to worry about," Mr. Weasley said. Mrs. Weasley nodded her head vigorously.
"I agree," she continued. "There's nothing he can do about it, and it will just upset him."
"Remus knows what's brewing. He's asked for me to..." Mr. Weasley paused for a moment, swallowing, "do something for him should the time come. He seems to feel as you do. I'm doing everything I can, Molly. I swear it," he said, his eyes searching for something from Mrs. Weasley's expression.
"I know, love. I know. It's okay. You're doing your best. That's all *anyone* can ask," she replied, tenderly touching his face for a moment before leaning forward to kiss him. Hermione's eyes widened. That certainly wasn't a chaste kiss! Blushing, she stood and yawned loudly before stepping loudly onto the second step. The rustle of robes told her the Weasleys had separated as Hermione proceeded to continue to clomp downstairs, her own footsteps rivaling Fred's enthusiastic hops.
"Hermione! What are you doing up?" Mrs. Weasley asked. Hermione scanned their faces to see if they suspected that she'd been eavesdropping. They looked surprised, not suspicious. She was getting far too good at this.
"Have you ever been too tired to sleep?" Hermione asked wistfully. Mr. Weasley laughed.
"Far too often," he replied, and Hermione caught Mrs. Weasley's wistful smile as she glanced at her husband. Hermione suspected his sleepless nights were more likely to be caused by worry.
"Would you like some tea, dear?" Mrs. Weasley asked. Hermione nodded.
"If I'm up, I may as well get hyper on caffeine!" she said far more lightly than she felt. Mrs. Weasley chuckled fondly. Hermione followed her into the kitchen as the beginnings of an idea swirled in her mind. Perhaps. It might work. And in the meantime, to get rid of those bags.
I'm back. In my *favorite* home in all of England. Molly Weasley smiles warmly at me as I raise my fingers, directing my trunk to a discrete corner. It settles loudly.
"Welcome back, Professor Snape. I hope your time away was. fruitful," she says. I raise an eyebrow ironically.
"As do I," I reply. I glance at the infamous Weasley clock. 'Anyone in mortal peril today?' I wonder. No. Not yet. Good sign.
I'm bone weary from the Death Eater's meeting I was summoned to last night. I arrived here far later than I intended due to the overwhelming need to take a scorching hot shower. I'm well aware of the increasing number of Death Eater attacks during the evening, but my need to reapply *firmly* my public face before facing Lupin, Black and *him* are more important.
My forearm burns with the newly healed injuries I'd inflicted just hours before. How I've lasted this long without amputating the damn thing amazes me. If it weren't for the fact that I know what would happen if I did, I would. Poor Willaby. He never really did have what it took to be a Death Eater.
He'd been so easy for Lucius to corrupt. He certainly had a way with words. Willaby was a discouraged bureaucrat with failed expectations and far too bright a mind to be bogged down in political paperwork and sycophant underlings. He had a biting sense of humor that manifested at the most inappropriate times *for him*. I personally found him marvelously funny. Merlin knows his mouth put him under the Cruciatus Curse more times than anyone else in Death Eater history. He'd been a delightful addition to our ranks, but I knew. Willaby was a good man, just frustrated. He had no stomach for what he learned the Death Eaters to truly be.
I'd watched in horror, and more than a little hope, as he'd tried so hard to break alliances with Voldemort. Begging, bargaining, promises, hiding... But the Dark Mark binds us all, and in the end. In desperation he'd cut his forearm off at the elbow. They'd treated him at St. Mungo's.
"It seems I miscalculated," he'd said dryly as I settled beside him to visit.
"How so?" I had replied vaguely.
"Severus, I appreciate what you tried to do for me. Looking back, I was far too starry eyed to see the hints you tried to drop," he said. I kept my face calm. I knew that he would never go back to Voldemort now, but some habits are hard to break.
"Hints?" I asked.
"Lucius could talk a nun out of her virginity," Willaby said, shaking his head wistfully.
"I think he might've, once," I replied. He snorted, turning his pale blue eyes to look at me intently.
"I can't do what you've done," he said.
"Done?" I ask, feeling a tingle of fear crawl up my spine.
"It's what you're here for, aren't you? 'Buck up, old chap. There are other ways *not* to serve him,'" he said, mocking my voice with eerie exactness. Always precise, as was his nature.
In truth, I had hoped to reassure him that there *were* ways to retain your beliefs after doing something as foolish as taking on the Mark. As pathetic as I had found his childish cries of 'I didn't mean it' to be, I also respected his courage and determination to say those things which I have privately felt for years aloud. Willaby knew he simply wasn't strong enough to bear the burden he'd placed upon himself.
"Well, you've certainly come across a *unique* solution to your dilemma," I said, using my statement as a question. What happened next?
As soon as I saw his face, I knew my deepest fears were realized. In a place I refused to even acknowledge, I'd rooted Willaby on, praying that something as simple as an amputation would sever the link forever. I'd miss the arm, don't get me wrong, but some sacrifices are worth it. His face told me otherwise. As I'd known, deep down.
"Severus, I can't do this. Bloody hell, man, do you know where it's popped up now?!" he asked me, and even with no hope in his eyes there was still a smirk at the irony only he was aware of. I held my breath as he ripped the front of his pajama shirt open. There, directly above his heart, was the Dark Mark in all its horrible glory. "He even said it, remember Severus? That I never took him into my heart. Well," he said and snorted loudly, "I can't cut this off."
And I knew it would only be a matter of time before Willaby severed the link in the only remaining way he knew how. Even under the watchful eyes of the St. Mungo's staff, he ended his life six days later.
I settle at my usual place in the corner of the living room and watch as all the starring members of my little melodrama begin to appear. Granger has been up since I arrived, pouring through some book or another. Her avarice for knowledge borders on obsessive/compulsive in my opinion. She barely even acknowledges my presence as I settle in with the tea Molly had given me.
In truth, and much to my surprise, I rather like the Weasley staple tea. It seems Molly Weasley special orders it out of a little town just south of London. In fact, in a moment of embarrassing candor I even ask for a contact to order some for myself. I rather missed it while I was away. Molly Weasley smiled brightly as she wrote down the information, and damned if she's not said a word to anyone about it since.
Next to arrive is Lupin. He looks haggard, of course. The full moon has come and gone, and he teeters downstairs as if every joint in his body aches. I'm sure it does. But for all that his body is diminished, the man's mind never suffers. He's seen and acknowledged my presence with a nod before he's halfway downstairs.
"Good morning, Hermione. I'm surprised to see you up so early," Lupin says politely to her. She smiles tiredly at him and rolls her eyes.
"I am, too," she replies. "I just couldn't sleep. Although, I swear, I'll put cushions on the outside of Fred and George's shoes!" she says. A simple Jellylegs curse in my opinion would be far more effective. Lupin laughs softly just as Molly comes swooping into the room.
"Professor. Remus! Would you like some breakfast, dear?" she asks, correcting herself midstream. He nods and she immediately leaves to begin bustling in the kitchen. Exit, stage left.
"Gack!" a voice says enthusiastically from the stairs and I turn to see Black, palms wide and arms straightened nearly behind him in wide half circles as he tilts his head back, body arched in an energetic stretch. How he manages not to fall down the steps is something left to greater minds than I. He, too, notices me right away. His eyes slip to my trunk in an unspoken question, which I answer with a nod. His eyes slide away to land on Lupin. "What are you doing up?" he asks him. How had the man been able to exist previously without having someone to mother? He certainly excels now. Someday I'll check him for teats, I vow silently. Okay. 'Perhaps I'll remain *really* quiet today,' I think as I realize just how snide I already am. And I've already had two cups of tea.
There are moments. like last night. In the quiet of the morning hours, when I'm all alone; tired and exhausted and spent. When I feel like I have nothing left to give. I let the despair, the self pity and darkness swallow me whole. I sob and tear at the skin on my forearm, scratching it away, relishing the brief seconds when all I see is vessel and tendon, when nothing else is there. I try to freeze those precious moments, pretend like this time I've scrubbed it clean, wiped my slate. In this moment, the scales balance and I can begin again.
Thudding on the stairs indicates another Weasley approaches even as Black drops next to Lupin. It almost drowns out the pained squeak of protest the chair emits, but not quite. Ron Weasley, with red hair sticking in directions that rival Potter's black nest and puffy, bleary eyes, surveys me as well. His progress downstairs is far from enthusiastic. I smirk at the barely controlled fall each step is. If it weren't for gravity, he'd never make it to the bottom floor. He groans loudly at the sight of me and rolls his eyes as Granger hisses, "Ron!" reproachfully at him. He doesn't nod or acknowledge me in any other way.
As he plops loudly on the couch beside Granger, she leans over and begins whispering.
"Is Harry awake yet, Ron?" Molly calls from the doorway, startling all of us. Ron nods.
"He'll be down in a minute," he mumbles. Molly nods enthusiastically and I watch in amusement as her eyes scan all the bodies currently in her living room.
"Excellent. Then I shall begin on breakfast," she says enthusiastically. I almost raise my hand and open my mouth to let her know that I've already eaten, that I in fact prefer small breakfasts anyway, but close my jaw with a snap before that silliness can escape my lips. Trying to refuse Molly Weasley anything is much akin to trying to get a freight train to stop on a knut. It simply can't be done. I feel eyes on me, and glance up in time to see a flash of amusement on Lupin's face. I scowl, but it makes him smile wider. Grrr.
A creak of the floorboard directs my eyes towards the stairs once more. Potter is on the bottom step, his foot frozen a moment as he glances around him, his eyes oddly panicked. I frown at his expression, wondering at its origin. He looks around the room, and exhausted eyes seem to take in his surroundings more clearly. With a slight shake of the head, the expression from his eyes clears completely. 'Now where on Earth did that come from?' I wonder.
His gait is much slower than the last time I saw him several days ago. He concentrates now on placing one foot in front of the other, his legs shaking noticeably beneath his bathrobe. He pauses for a moment to rub his hands against his face and underneath his glasses, although I cannot tell if it's weariness or frustration that drives the gesture.
He looks up in time to catch my eye. He smiles at me. It's not ironic, or bitter. It's almost. sympathetic. A chill slips up my spine as he nods his head courteously at me.
"Professor," he greets me. I nod in return.
"Potter. I see you've managed to survive," I reply. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Black bristle, but Lupin puts a hand against his arm soothingly.
"Yes sir," he replies, the corners of his smile edging away from sympathy and returning to irony. My domain.
"Ready for another round of tasty treats?" I ask and marvel at the absurdity of my own statement. Apparently everyone else does as well. As Potter manages to sit beside Weasley and Granger on the couch, I feel multiple sets of astonished eyes on me.
"Only you, Severus, would call them tasty," Lupin says dryly, and Potter snorts, startling Black. He smiles as well as he glances at Potter, and frowns slightly. His eyes flash to me in warning. 'Don't push it,' his eyes warn. I won't. At least, not on purpose. No guarantees for what might happen otherwise.
As Lupin and Black meander into the kitchen to keep Molly company as she cooks, Granger leans forward eagerly. Ah. It's time for me to hear just what she's been researching.
"Harry, I've been thinking," she whispers, leaning across Weasley who looks decidedly pleased. Potter smiles gently at her.
"What about?" he asks. His voice sounds scratchy and hoarse. 'Merlin. It's from screaming,' it dawns on me. I feel an increasing sense of horror. Those looks. Could he? 'No!' I clamp down on that thought before it can manifest any further. There are things I simply refuse to think about. Potter witnessing things I go through as a Death Eater being top of the list.
"Hermione, how about 'How'd you sleep, Harry?' or 'How are you feeling?' or 'Are you hungry?'" Weasley growls in exasperation. Definitely not a morning person.
"'Badly,' 'Lousy,' and 'Not really but I'll eat to appease you anyway.' Right, Harry? Now, about your dreams," she says, and I see Weasley stiffen uncomfortably. Potter stifles a small laugh.
"About right," he replies softly under his breath, but I doubt either of them hear him.
"Hermione." Weasley says warningly. Granger shakes him off. She's like a dog on a bone. I glance at the kitchen to make sure Black is still there. He has hawk ears as well, I've discovered, and I don't want him interrupting this conversation. I'm curious.
"No, just. You see things, right? Well, what if. Harry, I've been thinking, and what if you try to stay around long enough in your dreams to figure out what the Ministry is doing after You Know Who leaves?" she blurts in a rush. I'm impressed. She's both aware enough to sense the growing pressure to press charges against Potter and keen enough to know just what needs to be done to disarm it. It's what Arthur Weasley has been trying to do for the past month.
Weasley looks from one friend to another, but my main focus is on Potter. His face has blanched, and I sense she's touched on a very sensitive subject. I force myself not to lean forward to hear better.
"It's a good idea," Potter says weakly. He opens his mouth as if to say more, then closes it. Then he says, "But." he pauses.
"But?" Weasley interrupts. I want to throttle him. Shut up, boy. He's working towards it.
"But. Erm, well. When," he pauses here to clear his throat. *Yes?* I mentally try to prompt the boy. Great Merlin, quit leaving me in suspense! "When he's. when he's torturing them, I feel it. It's like I'm linked somehow to what he inflicts. I. I'm afraid that if I stay for the whole dream, that I'll die with them. That I won't wake up," he finishes, looking profoundly uncomfortable. Weasley and Granger stare at him in horror, and I have to suppress my own rising dread.
The potions I've inflicted on him in the past have sometimes done just that. forced him to remain in the dream longer than he would naturally have been. Not that I'd intended this, but. His is a unique case. 'Has he ever stayed through until someone's died?' I wonder. Granger asks my question aloud. Good girl. Potter shakes his head.
"No," he says, clearing his throat again. "I've stayed past when other Death Eaters have killed, but not Voldemort," he replies. My eyes unconsciously travel to my trunk sitting in the corner. My stomach clenches in tension and I know Molly Weasley's bangers and black pudding are going to sit in my stomach like lumps. "It was a good idea, though, Hermione, and maybe I won't. I'm just reluctant to try. You understand, right?" he asks hesitantly. Granger leaps up and hugs him tightly. His arms flail a little and I see Weasley tense up beside them.
"Of course I do, Harry. It was just an idea. Don't you even try, you understand?" she demands abruptly. I silently send my *amen* to that statement, although I fear my latest potion might just do that. Gads, as if I already didn't have *enough* to worry about with the boy. 'No, no pressure here, Severus,' I silently say and bemoan my fate privately for a moment. It's not often that I'd rather be teaching first years Potions, but now is definitely one of those moments. At least I can torment them.
Harry threw the drink far back into his throat. The trick was to let as little of Snape's potion touch his tongue as possible, and gulp as much of it as he could before the gag reflex kicked in. He was back in *his* bedroom. For now. Ron had already tried twice to switch rooms with him. The second time Ron had nearly finished, having enlisted Ginny and the twins' aid before Mrs. Weasley caught them. Harry shook his head fondly at the bedlam that ensued. Needless to say, he was still in Percy's old room.
It was about one o'clock in the afternoon, and time for another round of 'Let's Get Harry to Try to Sleep'. He sighed, looking up into Sirius' warm, concerned eyes. Sirius looked so tired lately. There were lines of stress on his face that Harry hadn't remembered seeing before. The only thing that cheered Harry was the fact that his godfather was no longer skeletal thanks to Mrs. Weasley's cooking. He was in fact filling out nicely, and even his coloring seemed healthier. He was certainly a far cry from the frightening banshee of a man Harry had encountered a year and a half ago.
Harry's eyes locked on Snape as he seated himself in the corner of the room, his robes falling dramatically to either side of his chair. His black eyes glittered, and Harry wondered, not for the first time, just what his Potions Professor thought about. Snape now spoke very little, and Harry knew with a secret smile that he was likely practicing 'If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all.' The potion roiled dangerously for a moment in Harry's stomach as he leaned back into the pillows.
"Harry?" Sirius asked, and Harry suspected he'd just turned a little green.
"I'll be okay," he rasped, but had to fight the nausea. His throat tightened threateningly, but after a moment relaxed and Harry felt the magic within the potion begin to overtake him. He took a deep breath and tried to suppress a shudder. 'Please, let Voldemort take a vacation today,' he prayed silently. Something of his thoughts must have shown in his expression, for Sirius put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
"You'll be okay," Sirius reaffirmed. Harry nodded as his eyes closed. It was as if a curtain were slowly drawn over his conscious mind, and he drifted blissfully downward. 'Please, let him be silent today,' he begged to the Fates, or whomever dictated these things. 'I'm so tired.' he thought, then. stillness.
There was a pattern to Harry's visions that he'd grown familiar with; steps that seemed to take him to wherever Voldemort was, rather than an instantaneous macabre scene. Sometimes he would be dreaming nice, normal dreams which would begin to morph and change. darkness would begin to swirl around him and a tugging reminiscent of a Portkey drew him onward. He always struggled, intangible fingers trying to grasp at his fragile dreams to keep the nightmare at bay, but it never worked.
Sometimes, like today, he hadn't been dreaming at all. His awareness rose towards the surface of the vision like a bubble of air out of the depths of the sea, each passing moment more inevitable than the last. As his surroundings began to solidify, Harry automatically pulled his arms tightly around his chest defensively, all too painfully aware of what was about to begin.
He'd spent so many visions desperately looking to run away, to break the connection, that it had been hard for him to no longer try. But whatever it took to sever the vision, Harry wasn't capable of doing it, and all his struggling seemed to do was make it more painful for him in the end. Instead, he did the only other thing he *could* do; pay close attention to the surroundings, the people, taking note of any names; listen to any discussions for hints of future attacks; and honor the dying by witnessing their tragedy. Each time Harry did this, he tried to be strong, tried to do what he thought was right, but inside he felt himself grow more hollow, more alone. He died a little each time he failed to help *his* victims. So Harry forced himself to witness their undignified death. And each time, when he awoke, he felt a little more separated, muffled from life; the sharp cries and vivid images of blood and death drowning out the gentle warmth and soothing comfort of companionship.
A cold, brutal truth Harry learned all too well was that there was no *glory* in death. Perhaps only relief. eventually. He'd never seen a childbirth, but he couldn't imagine how people could compare life and death, describing them as 'natural' cycles, inevitable and in their savage way, beautiful. Harry had seen too many times how the body struggled to still breathe, long after there was no chance to inhale. How the heart still tried to beat, even as the blood was pumped outside the body. Hands still clenched in determination, even as eyes glazed and no longer saw.
He knew most of Voldemort's favored Death Eaters by stance and build alone now and no longer even needed to hear their voices to tell them apart. He could recite their favorite modes of torture, what kind of victims they preferred, and now acknowledged that sometimes Avada Kedavra was a mercy.
But since the night the voices of the dead nearly overwhelmed him, one voice in particular had oddly enough given him a tiny grain of hope. Somehow, that old woman had seen him. He was connected, and if he could just learn how to manipulate it, perhaps. Perhaps he could do something after all.
He'd spent countless desperate moments trying to touch, to aid, to throw, distract, tear, or otherwise assist the doomed. He failed each time, but had discovered in the final moments between life and death. sometimes they saw him.
There was a barrier within himself that Harry was trying to understand. It was hard to describe, but deep down he *knew* there had to be a way to affect the outcome. He'd given up on the physical, but there had to be ways. He refused to believe that the link he shared with Voldemort was strictly one sided. If Harry could feel the pain Voldemort inflicted, there had to be a way for Harry to return the favor. He just needed to figure out how.
Harry's sight cleared as he drew closer to the next chosen location. He hovered above, viewing an abundance of trees and a delightful cottage with flaking yellow paint and a faint puff of smoke still lazily floating up from the chimney. It was nearing sunset, and in the warm amber light it seemed impossible that anything bad could happen here. As Harry drew closer, he began to note more details. There was an overflowing garden behind the house whose very wildness made up in enthusiasm what it lacked in organization. Some of the windows, Harry realized, were made of stained glass, and the detail work was exquisite, the colors so rich and vibrant that they almost seemed to have a texture. He drifted further down towards the home, noting the uneven shingle roofline that only added that much more character, then through the front door.
And heard screams. Harry could already feel the warning tingles of power and energy as Dark Magic was unleashed within the confines of the cottage. Harry looked around frantically for information. They were gathered in what appeared to be the living room, the Death Eaters surrounding them. So this was to be a group thing? Harry frowned. then this must be a retaliation of some sort. One of the four victims gathered in a tight group, or more, must have gone against Voldemort directly. Harry drew closer, trying to see their faces.
Two men and two women, all in their late thirties or early forties. One man was shorter, balding with brown hair sticking out in a half circle around his skull in what Harry thought of as the 'Frair Tuck' look. He wore round spectacles, and had a cherubic face with ample laugh lines. His eyes darted around him, but Harry wasn't sure what he was looking at, because it didn't appear to be the Death Eaters. The woman he clung to was taller than him by nearly a foot, with long straight brown hair, narrow blue eyes and a strong, weathered face. Her focus was strictly on Voldemort, and she held herself with quiet dignity. She didn't utter any words of defiance, or exude any bravado, but her very presence seemed to anchor the couple beside her.
Harry frowned as he looked closer at them. They were younger, and the woman held certain physical resemblances to the dignified woman beside her. But her composure was gone, and she kept her eyes glued to the floor. The man who held her kept glancing about as well, as if he were looking for something. Did they have wands nearby, Harry wondered? Did they have a means for escaping? Harry began to prowl the perimeter of the room, trying to see what they were searching for.
".what you've said and done. Everyone is entitled to an opinion, after all," Voldemort said, than lazily pointed his wand at the dark haired woman. "Crucio," he said, and the curse flowed through Harry's veins like acid, bled through his skin and whipped muscles and tendons like overstretched springs that no longer could fit back into place. Harry knew he screamed, but his mind couldn't register it, couldn't process anything but the pain. Voldemort finally paused for a moment. How long had he held the curse?
Flat on the ground, barely able to raise his head, Harry gasped for breath. He closed his eyes, trying to regroup. He needed to get up, to search the room more. If only his limbs would cooperate. Stifling a moan of pain, Harry forced his eyes open, and found himself staring into two enormous brown eyes that peered from somewhere beside him.
"Help my mum and dad," a child's voice whispered. Harry felt himself jolt in shock. There was a little girl hiding underneath the couch. and she could see him.
TBC
Vmr, Arinya, Lady FoxFire, Badger Lord, Sobbing Sally, Kate the Great, Blah, Lizard, Caitlin, Amelie, Phoenix, Marauder chick, Hyper Princess, Tanya, Kelley, Cierra, gwen, Japangirlcarley24, connie, AllAboutMe, Tempest Princess, kapies, hpfan, emilie: Thank you all SO MUCH for your reviews and kind words. I'm thrilled that even this far into the story you're still enjoying it. It's going to be a roller coaster ride soon, so I hope you stay with me. Enjoy!
VON: I'll send you Chapter 15 today. I did see it out on the site, but. Microsoft works in mysterious ways.
Lily of the Valley: Wow! Thanks for all the reviews! I'm really glad you liked it! LOL Here's more.
Kaydee: Stephen King wrote the lines. They're from Shawshank Redemption (the movie was terrific!). I absolutely agree with your assessment of Snape. Thanks for liking the words. I was particularly proud of them myself. g
Mihoshe: You are most welcome. Ask and ye shall receive. 8-)
Lothey: Excellent! I loved your previous one! I look forward to it!
Arabella Figg: Sure! Um. Hurm. I guess I need to look at my map. I thought that would encompass everything. Sorry.
Maraudermoony: I absolutely agree with you about Harry. He has had it so hard for most of his life, that what little joy from family he gets seems to quickly be snatched away! Just tiny samplings of what life *should* be like, but for Harry never will be.
Lin-z, -_-: Hang in there! Um, wow. Nothing to get tense about steps away from the keyboard, hands in the air defensively. I promise, by chapter 20 things begin to hop!
Nicky: Thanks again as always! I'm hoping I can get you one more before you go. I'm sure trying! g
Venus4280: Thank you so much for liking 'my' Snape. I'm rather partial to him! As for Remus. he's so tragic! I just want to make him smile, because he's had so little call to do just that for most of his life! I agree that Ron and Hermione need to be more involved, and I promise that will begin within the next two chapters. As for your comments about Sirius: I certainly see your point. No worry, though. He's complex to explore, so I've discovered it's best to do it during the quiet times of the story. Needless to say, there will be more conversations between Remus and Sirius soon. He's got a lot of healing to do himself!
P.A.R.: Okay. I'm going to gush, I just know it. I LOVE your writing and am absolutely thrilled to death that you've been reviewing my story! I cannot tell you just *how much* it means to me. Thank you so much for taking the time to do it!
I agree, the rescue was a bit rushed. Your suggestions with where to put things in a paragraph has left me looking at things in a whole new way. Just alter where it goes, and it can sure change the impact, can't it? I also agree with different choices for some of the words. Cacophony is a bit *cheerful* isn't it? Yep, figured out that 'thought' works much better. Too busy otherwise! Good point about Madam Pomfrey. I have always perceived her, not necessarily as a specialist, but certainly not a nurse either. Yes, my school only had a nurse, but I didn't live there, either. I figure, especially since she has to address such a *variety* of ailments g, that she would be more like a general practitioner and St. Mungo's would have the specialists. But I certainly have attributed a great deal to her skills, haven't I?
Okay. I'm going to print your review and post it on top of my keyboard. I cannot tell you *how* nice your compliment was. Thank you *so* much. Okay. I'm gushing again. I'll stop.
Yep, some of the scenes I know what I want to project, but it doesn't come out smoothly. I'm sure that's what you're seeing. Those scenes I still press through, because they need to be there, but they are three times as hard to write as some of the others.
Hmmm. Mind reading characters. Missed that. Good point. Besides, Sirius is just not *that* intuitive, is he? Okay. Bad joke. I'm stepping away from the kitchen table now.
Yep. I've discovered that's my favorite scene to write. The plot gets driven along, but the realness of the idle chit chat and banter that goes beside the plot is what breathes life into the story. I really work at that. I'm glad you like it.
Ginny, Ginny, Ginny. I thought it would be simpler to keep her out of the picture, because I wanted the focus to remain on Harry, Ron and Hermione. Of course, that focus grew anyway. but I hadn't mentioned Ginny at all (no peeks around the corner or anything) so I felt I had to explain why.
As for Lily. I picture their relationship as one where Petunia has gone out of her way most of her life to be cruel to Lily, and get her into trouble. You know, the kind of bad blood between siblings where Lily tried to reconcile them one too many times, and then decided she'd had enough? I pictured their relationship more like that. I did try to stay in canon, but took a little extra step with her. I certainly never picture her *ever* wanting Harry to live with them, and just took it backwards.
Snape was a big decision. I agonized how to do him for a while. This format I am the happiest with, and in upcoming chapters this type of perspective I think will be invaluable for some plot developments. But I certainly see how it can fail. Even transitioning from him to one of the other characters is jarring. I still like it, though. I'm thrilled to death that you do too. 8-)
All in all, I am *so* grateful for your input, and eagerly await any more you may have. Thank you so much. By the way, once I'm done with the story, I do intend to go back and clean it up, tighten it, etc. It's just that I'm more concerned at the moment with actually *finishing* it (I'm the queen of rewrites. To actually step away from the story and just *post* it is something monumental in itself g), but once done, I intend to spit shine it nicely! Thanks again for everything. It really meant a lot to read these reviews.
Chapter 18
Hermione yawned, quietly treading downstairs. She was exhausted but not sleepy, a frustrating combination. The blankets had seemed to irritate her skin and her foot insisted on wiggling under the covers. 'Blast!' she'd finally thought in frustration. Her eyes felt like they were filled with sand and she refused to look in the mirror. She hoped Mrs. Weasley might know a wizard way to diminish the bags under her eyes and conceal the redness. To hide the telltale signs that she'd been crying.
She'd cast a silencing spell around the room to keep the sound of the twins at bay after finally retiring to bed around six in the morning, but she'd yet to find a way to keep the floor from shaking each time Fred and George tromped upstairs for yet another item to amuse themselves with. In Hermione's opinion, they should have been as skinny as Harry with the amount of calories they burned.
As Hermione stopped at the foot of the stairs to stretch, her eyes slid to the clock, noticing that Mr. Weasley's hand said he was still at home. That was odd. It was Friday morning. Hermione had tried to sleep for at least four hours before finally giving up, making it about ten. He normally left for work by eight.
"What do they hope to gain? Can't we get them to stop? He's a child, Arthur. They have no right doing this to him!" Mrs. Weasley's voice exclaimed from the kitchen. Footsteps indicated they were heading back into the living room.
Surprised at her instincts, Hermione instantly turned on her heel and sprinted back upstairs to perch on the uppermost step and continue to listen to the conversation taking place below. Hidden by the shadows of the hallway, Hermione had a clear view between the wooden slats of the banister of Mr. and Mrs. Weasley settling on the couch below.
"I know. But right now we have no way to stop them. The only ones legally who could silence the Daily Prophet are the Dursleys as Harry's legal guardians."
"Which is a mockery of justice in and of itself," Mrs. Weasley spat.
"Headmaster Dumbledore felt it unwise to expose Harry to the scrutiny of actually trying to legally remove him from their care just yet. Of course the Ministry is aware somewhat of Harry's circumstances, but if such a thing became a matter of public consumption." Mr. Weasley let his words drift off. The implications were clear.
"Arthur, people *believe* what they read from the Daily Prophet. Look what damage that Skeeter woman did to Harry last year!" Mrs. Weasley said. Mr. Weasley cleared his throat.
"Dear, *you* believed those articles, too, remember?" he asked gently. Hermione nearly giggled at the bright blush that lit up Mrs. Weasley's face.
"But I know better now!" Mrs. Weasley protested weakly. Mr. Weasley laughed and reached across to pat Mrs. Weasley's hand affectionately.
"That's right. You do. The trick is to do the same for the rest of the wizarding public," Mr. Weasley said. "We have to find a way to discredit Fudge. He's the one keeping the lid on You Know Who's return. If we can prove him wrong, the rest of what he's been hiding will naturally come to light," he said soothingly.
"We're running out of time, Arthur," Mrs. Weasley said sadly. Hermione felt her eyes widen in fear.
"I know. It's a race to see if we can find where Fudge is hiding the evidence of You Know Who's attacks before he comes to question Harry himself," he said. Hermione's breath caught in the back of her throat.
"You know he's manipulating these articles, Arthur. He holds the public's high opinion. I'm afraid he'll come sooner than anyone expects," Mrs. Weasley said.
"I've spoken to Remus about this, but I don't think it's a good idea to mention this to Sirius. He's got enough to worry about," Mr. Weasley said. Mrs. Weasley nodded her head vigorously.
"I agree," she continued. "There's nothing he can do about it, and it will just upset him."
"Remus knows what's brewing. He's asked for me to..." Mr. Weasley paused for a moment, swallowing, "do something for him should the time come. He seems to feel as you do. I'm doing everything I can, Molly. I swear it," he said, his eyes searching for something from Mrs. Weasley's expression.
"I know, love. I know. It's okay. You're doing your best. That's all *anyone* can ask," she replied, tenderly touching his face for a moment before leaning forward to kiss him. Hermione's eyes widened. That certainly wasn't a chaste kiss! Blushing, she stood and yawned loudly before stepping loudly onto the second step. The rustle of robes told her the Weasleys had separated as Hermione proceeded to continue to clomp downstairs, her own footsteps rivaling Fred's enthusiastic hops.
"Hermione! What are you doing up?" Mrs. Weasley asked. Hermione scanned their faces to see if they suspected that she'd been eavesdropping. They looked surprised, not suspicious. She was getting far too good at this.
"Have you ever been too tired to sleep?" Hermione asked wistfully. Mr. Weasley laughed.
"Far too often," he replied, and Hermione caught Mrs. Weasley's wistful smile as she glanced at her husband. Hermione suspected his sleepless nights were more likely to be caused by worry.
"Would you like some tea, dear?" Mrs. Weasley asked. Hermione nodded.
"If I'm up, I may as well get hyper on caffeine!" she said far more lightly than she felt. Mrs. Weasley chuckled fondly. Hermione followed her into the kitchen as the beginnings of an idea swirled in her mind. Perhaps. It might work. And in the meantime, to get rid of those bags.
I'm back. In my *favorite* home in all of England. Molly Weasley smiles warmly at me as I raise my fingers, directing my trunk to a discrete corner. It settles loudly.
"Welcome back, Professor Snape. I hope your time away was. fruitful," she says. I raise an eyebrow ironically.
"As do I," I reply. I glance at the infamous Weasley clock. 'Anyone in mortal peril today?' I wonder. No. Not yet. Good sign.
I'm bone weary from the Death Eater's meeting I was summoned to last night. I arrived here far later than I intended due to the overwhelming need to take a scorching hot shower. I'm well aware of the increasing number of Death Eater attacks during the evening, but my need to reapply *firmly* my public face before facing Lupin, Black and *him* are more important.
My forearm burns with the newly healed injuries I'd inflicted just hours before. How I've lasted this long without amputating the damn thing amazes me. If it weren't for the fact that I know what would happen if I did, I would. Poor Willaby. He never really did have what it took to be a Death Eater.
He'd been so easy for Lucius to corrupt. He certainly had a way with words. Willaby was a discouraged bureaucrat with failed expectations and far too bright a mind to be bogged down in political paperwork and sycophant underlings. He had a biting sense of humor that manifested at the most inappropriate times *for him*. I personally found him marvelously funny. Merlin knows his mouth put him under the Cruciatus Curse more times than anyone else in Death Eater history. He'd been a delightful addition to our ranks, but I knew. Willaby was a good man, just frustrated. He had no stomach for what he learned the Death Eaters to truly be.
I'd watched in horror, and more than a little hope, as he'd tried so hard to break alliances with Voldemort. Begging, bargaining, promises, hiding... But the Dark Mark binds us all, and in the end. In desperation he'd cut his forearm off at the elbow. They'd treated him at St. Mungo's.
"It seems I miscalculated," he'd said dryly as I settled beside him to visit.
"How so?" I had replied vaguely.
"Severus, I appreciate what you tried to do for me. Looking back, I was far too starry eyed to see the hints you tried to drop," he said. I kept my face calm. I knew that he would never go back to Voldemort now, but some habits are hard to break.
"Hints?" I asked.
"Lucius could talk a nun out of her virginity," Willaby said, shaking his head wistfully.
"I think he might've, once," I replied. He snorted, turning his pale blue eyes to look at me intently.
"I can't do what you've done," he said.
"Done?" I ask, feeling a tingle of fear crawl up my spine.
"It's what you're here for, aren't you? 'Buck up, old chap. There are other ways *not* to serve him,'" he said, mocking my voice with eerie exactness. Always precise, as was his nature.
In truth, I had hoped to reassure him that there *were* ways to retain your beliefs after doing something as foolish as taking on the Mark. As pathetic as I had found his childish cries of 'I didn't mean it' to be, I also respected his courage and determination to say those things which I have privately felt for years aloud. Willaby knew he simply wasn't strong enough to bear the burden he'd placed upon himself.
"Well, you've certainly come across a *unique* solution to your dilemma," I said, using my statement as a question. What happened next?
As soon as I saw his face, I knew my deepest fears were realized. In a place I refused to even acknowledge, I'd rooted Willaby on, praying that something as simple as an amputation would sever the link forever. I'd miss the arm, don't get me wrong, but some sacrifices are worth it. His face told me otherwise. As I'd known, deep down.
"Severus, I can't do this. Bloody hell, man, do you know where it's popped up now?!" he asked me, and even with no hope in his eyes there was still a smirk at the irony only he was aware of. I held my breath as he ripped the front of his pajama shirt open. There, directly above his heart, was the Dark Mark in all its horrible glory. "He even said it, remember Severus? That I never took him into my heart. Well," he said and snorted loudly, "I can't cut this off."
And I knew it would only be a matter of time before Willaby severed the link in the only remaining way he knew how. Even under the watchful eyes of the St. Mungo's staff, he ended his life six days later.
I settle at my usual place in the corner of the living room and watch as all the starring members of my little melodrama begin to appear. Granger has been up since I arrived, pouring through some book or another. Her avarice for knowledge borders on obsessive/compulsive in my opinion. She barely even acknowledges my presence as I settle in with the tea Molly had given me.
In truth, and much to my surprise, I rather like the Weasley staple tea. It seems Molly Weasley special orders it out of a little town just south of London. In fact, in a moment of embarrassing candor I even ask for a contact to order some for myself. I rather missed it while I was away. Molly Weasley smiled brightly as she wrote down the information, and damned if she's not said a word to anyone about it since.
Next to arrive is Lupin. He looks haggard, of course. The full moon has come and gone, and he teeters downstairs as if every joint in his body aches. I'm sure it does. But for all that his body is diminished, the man's mind never suffers. He's seen and acknowledged my presence with a nod before he's halfway downstairs.
"Good morning, Hermione. I'm surprised to see you up so early," Lupin says politely to her. She smiles tiredly at him and rolls her eyes.
"I am, too," she replies. "I just couldn't sleep. Although, I swear, I'll put cushions on the outside of Fred and George's shoes!" she says. A simple Jellylegs curse in my opinion would be far more effective. Lupin laughs softly just as Molly comes swooping into the room.
"Professor. Remus! Would you like some breakfast, dear?" she asks, correcting herself midstream. He nods and she immediately leaves to begin bustling in the kitchen. Exit, stage left.
"Gack!" a voice says enthusiastically from the stairs and I turn to see Black, palms wide and arms straightened nearly behind him in wide half circles as he tilts his head back, body arched in an energetic stretch. How he manages not to fall down the steps is something left to greater minds than I. He, too, notices me right away. His eyes slip to my trunk in an unspoken question, which I answer with a nod. His eyes slide away to land on Lupin. "What are you doing up?" he asks him. How had the man been able to exist previously without having someone to mother? He certainly excels now. Someday I'll check him for teats, I vow silently. Okay. 'Perhaps I'll remain *really* quiet today,' I think as I realize just how snide I already am. And I've already had two cups of tea.
There are moments. like last night. In the quiet of the morning hours, when I'm all alone; tired and exhausted and spent. When I feel like I have nothing left to give. I let the despair, the self pity and darkness swallow me whole. I sob and tear at the skin on my forearm, scratching it away, relishing the brief seconds when all I see is vessel and tendon, when nothing else is there. I try to freeze those precious moments, pretend like this time I've scrubbed it clean, wiped my slate. In this moment, the scales balance and I can begin again.
Thudding on the stairs indicates another Weasley approaches even as Black drops next to Lupin. It almost drowns out the pained squeak of protest the chair emits, but not quite. Ron Weasley, with red hair sticking in directions that rival Potter's black nest and puffy, bleary eyes, surveys me as well. His progress downstairs is far from enthusiastic. I smirk at the barely controlled fall each step is. If it weren't for gravity, he'd never make it to the bottom floor. He groans loudly at the sight of me and rolls his eyes as Granger hisses, "Ron!" reproachfully at him. He doesn't nod or acknowledge me in any other way.
As he plops loudly on the couch beside Granger, she leans over and begins whispering.
"Is Harry awake yet, Ron?" Molly calls from the doorway, startling all of us. Ron nods.
"He'll be down in a minute," he mumbles. Molly nods enthusiastically and I watch in amusement as her eyes scan all the bodies currently in her living room.
"Excellent. Then I shall begin on breakfast," she says enthusiastically. I almost raise my hand and open my mouth to let her know that I've already eaten, that I in fact prefer small breakfasts anyway, but close my jaw with a snap before that silliness can escape my lips. Trying to refuse Molly Weasley anything is much akin to trying to get a freight train to stop on a knut. It simply can't be done. I feel eyes on me, and glance up in time to see a flash of amusement on Lupin's face. I scowl, but it makes him smile wider. Grrr.
A creak of the floorboard directs my eyes towards the stairs once more. Potter is on the bottom step, his foot frozen a moment as he glances around him, his eyes oddly panicked. I frown at his expression, wondering at its origin. He looks around the room, and exhausted eyes seem to take in his surroundings more clearly. With a slight shake of the head, the expression from his eyes clears completely. 'Now where on Earth did that come from?' I wonder.
His gait is much slower than the last time I saw him several days ago. He concentrates now on placing one foot in front of the other, his legs shaking noticeably beneath his bathrobe. He pauses for a moment to rub his hands against his face and underneath his glasses, although I cannot tell if it's weariness or frustration that drives the gesture.
He looks up in time to catch my eye. He smiles at me. It's not ironic, or bitter. It's almost. sympathetic. A chill slips up my spine as he nods his head courteously at me.
"Professor," he greets me. I nod in return.
"Potter. I see you've managed to survive," I reply. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Black bristle, but Lupin puts a hand against his arm soothingly.
"Yes sir," he replies, the corners of his smile edging away from sympathy and returning to irony. My domain.
"Ready for another round of tasty treats?" I ask and marvel at the absurdity of my own statement. Apparently everyone else does as well. As Potter manages to sit beside Weasley and Granger on the couch, I feel multiple sets of astonished eyes on me.
"Only you, Severus, would call them tasty," Lupin says dryly, and Potter snorts, startling Black. He smiles as well as he glances at Potter, and frowns slightly. His eyes flash to me in warning. 'Don't push it,' his eyes warn. I won't. At least, not on purpose. No guarantees for what might happen otherwise.
As Lupin and Black meander into the kitchen to keep Molly company as she cooks, Granger leans forward eagerly. Ah. It's time for me to hear just what she's been researching.
"Harry, I've been thinking," she whispers, leaning across Weasley who looks decidedly pleased. Potter smiles gently at her.
"What about?" he asks. His voice sounds scratchy and hoarse. 'Merlin. It's from screaming,' it dawns on me. I feel an increasing sense of horror. Those looks. Could he? 'No!' I clamp down on that thought before it can manifest any further. There are things I simply refuse to think about. Potter witnessing things I go through as a Death Eater being top of the list.
"Hermione, how about 'How'd you sleep, Harry?' or 'How are you feeling?' or 'Are you hungry?'" Weasley growls in exasperation. Definitely not a morning person.
"'Badly,' 'Lousy,' and 'Not really but I'll eat to appease you anyway.' Right, Harry? Now, about your dreams," she says, and I see Weasley stiffen uncomfortably. Potter stifles a small laugh.
"About right," he replies softly under his breath, but I doubt either of them hear him.
"Hermione." Weasley says warningly. Granger shakes him off. She's like a dog on a bone. I glance at the kitchen to make sure Black is still there. He has hawk ears as well, I've discovered, and I don't want him interrupting this conversation. I'm curious.
"No, just. You see things, right? Well, what if. Harry, I've been thinking, and what if you try to stay around long enough in your dreams to figure out what the Ministry is doing after You Know Who leaves?" she blurts in a rush. I'm impressed. She's both aware enough to sense the growing pressure to press charges against Potter and keen enough to know just what needs to be done to disarm it. It's what Arthur Weasley has been trying to do for the past month.
Weasley looks from one friend to another, but my main focus is on Potter. His face has blanched, and I sense she's touched on a very sensitive subject. I force myself not to lean forward to hear better.
"It's a good idea," Potter says weakly. He opens his mouth as if to say more, then closes it. Then he says, "But." he pauses.
"But?" Weasley interrupts. I want to throttle him. Shut up, boy. He's working towards it.
"But. Erm, well. When," he pauses here to clear his throat. *Yes?* I mentally try to prompt the boy. Great Merlin, quit leaving me in suspense! "When he's. when he's torturing them, I feel it. It's like I'm linked somehow to what he inflicts. I. I'm afraid that if I stay for the whole dream, that I'll die with them. That I won't wake up," he finishes, looking profoundly uncomfortable. Weasley and Granger stare at him in horror, and I have to suppress my own rising dread.
The potions I've inflicted on him in the past have sometimes done just that. forced him to remain in the dream longer than he would naturally have been. Not that I'd intended this, but. His is a unique case. 'Has he ever stayed through until someone's died?' I wonder. Granger asks my question aloud. Good girl. Potter shakes his head.
"No," he says, clearing his throat again. "I've stayed past when other Death Eaters have killed, but not Voldemort," he replies. My eyes unconsciously travel to my trunk sitting in the corner. My stomach clenches in tension and I know Molly Weasley's bangers and black pudding are going to sit in my stomach like lumps. "It was a good idea, though, Hermione, and maybe I won't. I'm just reluctant to try. You understand, right?" he asks hesitantly. Granger leaps up and hugs him tightly. His arms flail a little and I see Weasley tense up beside them.
"Of course I do, Harry. It was just an idea. Don't you even try, you understand?" she demands abruptly. I silently send my *amen* to that statement, although I fear my latest potion might just do that. Gads, as if I already didn't have *enough* to worry about with the boy. 'No, no pressure here, Severus,' I silently say and bemoan my fate privately for a moment. It's not often that I'd rather be teaching first years Potions, but now is definitely one of those moments. At least I can torment them.
Harry threw the drink far back into his throat. The trick was to let as little of Snape's potion touch his tongue as possible, and gulp as much of it as he could before the gag reflex kicked in. He was back in *his* bedroom. For now. Ron had already tried twice to switch rooms with him. The second time Ron had nearly finished, having enlisted Ginny and the twins' aid before Mrs. Weasley caught them. Harry shook his head fondly at the bedlam that ensued. Needless to say, he was still in Percy's old room.
It was about one o'clock in the afternoon, and time for another round of 'Let's Get Harry to Try to Sleep'. He sighed, looking up into Sirius' warm, concerned eyes. Sirius looked so tired lately. There were lines of stress on his face that Harry hadn't remembered seeing before. The only thing that cheered Harry was the fact that his godfather was no longer skeletal thanks to Mrs. Weasley's cooking. He was in fact filling out nicely, and even his coloring seemed healthier. He was certainly a far cry from the frightening banshee of a man Harry had encountered a year and a half ago.
Harry's eyes locked on Snape as he seated himself in the corner of the room, his robes falling dramatically to either side of his chair. His black eyes glittered, and Harry wondered, not for the first time, just what his Potions Professor thought about. Snape now spoke very little, and Harry knew with a secret smile that he was likely practicing 'If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all.' The potion roiled dangerously for a moment in Harry's stomach as he leaned back into the pillows.
"Harry?" Sirius asked, and Harry suspected he'd just turned a little green.
"I'll be okay," he rasped, but had to fight the nausea. His throat tightened threateningly, but after a moment relaxed and Harry felt the magic within the potion begin to overtake him. He took a deep breath and tried to suppress a shudder. 'Please, let Voldemort take a vacation today,' he prayed silently. Something of his thoughts must have shown in his expression, for Sirius put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
"You'll be okay," Sirius reaffirmed. Harry nodded as his eyes closed. It was as if a curtain were slowly drawn over his conscious mind, and he drifted blissfully downward. 'Please, let him be silent today,' he begged to the Fates, or whomever dictated these things. 'I'm so tired.' he thought, then. stillness.
There was a pattern to Harry's visions that he'd grown familiar with; steps that seemed to take him to wherever Voldemort was, rather than an instantaneous macabre scene. Sometimes he would be dreaming nice, normal dreams which would begin to morph and change. darkness would begin to swirl around him and a tugging reminiscent of a Portkey drew him onward. He always struggled, intangible fingers trying to grasp at his fragile dreams to keep the nightmare at bay, but it never worked.
Sometimes, like today, he hadn't been dreaming at all. His awareness rose towards the surface of the vision like a bubble of air out of the depths of the sea, each passing moment more inevitable than the last. As his surroundings began to solidify, Harry automatically pulled his arms tightly around his chest defensively, all too painfully aware of what was about to begin.
He'd spent so many visions desperately looking to run away, to break the connection, that it had been hard for him to no longer try. But whatever it took to sever the vision, Harry wasn't capable of doing it, and all his struggling seemed to do was make it more painful for him in the end. Instead, he did the only other thing he *could* do; pay close attention to the surroundings, the people, taking note of any names; listen to any discussions for hints of future attacks; and honor the dying by witnessing their tragedy. Each time Harry did this, he tried to be strong, tried to do what he thought was right, but inside he felt himself grow more hollow, more alone. He died a little each time he failed to help *his* victims. So Harry forced himself to witness their undignified death. And each time, when he awoke, he felt a little more separated, muffled from life; the sharp cries and vivid images of blood and death drowning out the gentle warmth and soothing comfort of companionship.
A cold, brutal truth Harry learned all too well was that there was no *glory* in death. Perhaps only relief. eventually. He'd never seen a childbirth, but he couldn't imagine how people could compare life and death, describing them as 'natural' cycles, inevitable and in their savage way, beautiful. Harry had seen too many times how the body struggled to still breathe, long after there was no chance to inhale. How the heart still tried to beat, even as the blood was pumped outside the body. Hands still clenched in determination, even as eyes glazed and no longer saw.
He knew most of Voldemort's favored Death Eaters by stance and build alone now and no longer even needed to hear their voices to tell them apart. He could recite their favorite modes of torture, what kind of victims they preferred, and now acknowledged that sometimes Avada Kedavra was a mercy.
But since the night the voices of the dead nearly overwhelmed him, one voice in particular had oddly enough given him a tiny grain of hope. Somehow, that old woman had seen him. He was connected, and if he could just learn how to manipulate it, perhaps. Perhaps he could do something after all.
He'd spent countless desperate moments trying to touch, to aid, to throw, distract, tear, or otherwise assist the doomed. He failed each time, but had discovered in the final moments between life and death. sometimes they saw him.
There was a barrier within himself that Harry was trying to understand. It was hard to describe, but deep down he *knew* there had to be a way to affect the outcome. He'd given up on the physical, but there had to be ways. He refused to believe that the link he shared with Voldemort was strictly one sided. If Harry could feel the pain Voldemort inflicted, there had to be a way for Harry to return the favor. He just needed to figure out how.
Harry's sight cleared as he drew closer to the next chosen location. He hovered above, viewing an abundance of trees and a delightful cottage with flaking yellow paint and a faint puff of smoke still lazily floating up from the chimney. It was nearing sunset, and in the warm amber light it seemed impossible that anything bad could happen here. As Harry drew closer, he began to note more details. There was an overflowing garden behind the house whose very wildness made up in enthusiasm what it lacked in organization. Some of the windows, Harry realized, were made of stained glass, and the detail work was exquisite, the colors so rich and vibrant that they almost seemed to have a texture. He drifted further down towards the home, noting the uneven shingle roofline that only added that much more character, then through the front door.
And heard screams. Harry could already feel the warning tingles of power and energy as Dark Magic was unleashed within the confines of the cottage. Harry looked around frantically for information. They were gathered in what appeared to be the living room, the Death Eaters surrounding them. So this was to be a group thing? Harry frowned. then this must be a retaliation of some sort. One of the four victims gathered in a tight group, or more, must have gone against Voldemort directly. Harry drew closer, trying to see their faces.
Two men and two women, all in their late thirties or early forties. One man was shorter, balding with brown hair sticking out in a half circle around his skull in what Harry thought of as the 'Frair Tuck' look. He wore round spectacles, and had a cherubic face with ample laugh lines. His eyes darted around him, but Harry wasn't sure what he was looking at, because it didn't appear to be the Death Eaters. The woman he clung to was taller than him by nearly a foot, with long straight brown hair, narrow blue eyes and a strong, weathered face. Her focus was strictly on Voldemort, and she held herself with quiet dignity. She didn't utter any words of defiance, or exude any bravado, but her very presence seemed to anchor the couple beside her.
Harry frowned as he looked closer at them. They were younger, and the woman held certain physical resemblances to the dignified woman beside her. But her composure was gone, and she kept her eyes glued to the floor. The man who held her kept glancing about as well, as if he were looking for something. Did they have wands nearby, Harry wondered? Did they have a means for escaping? Harry began to prowl the perimeter of the room, trying to see what they were searching for.
".what you've said and done. Everyone is entitled to an opinion, after all," Voldemort said, than lazily pointed his wand at the dark haired woman. "Crucio," he said, and the curse flowed through Harry's veins like acid, bled through his skin and whipped muscles and tendons like overstretched springs that no longer could fit back into place. Harry knew he screamed, but his mind couldn't register it, couldn't process anything but the pain. Voldemort finally paused for a moment. How long had he held the curse?
Flat on the ground, barely able to raise his head, Harry gasped for breath. He closed his eyes, trying to regroup. He needed to get up, to search the room more. If only his limbs would cooperate. Stifling a moan of pain, Harry forced his eyes open, and found himself staring into two enormous brown eyes that peered from somewhere beside him.
"Help my mum and dad," a child's voice whispered. Harry felt himself jolt in shock. There was a little girl hiding underneath the couch. and she could see him.
TBC
Vmr, Arinya, Lady FoxFire, Badger Lord, Sobbing Sally, Kate the Great, Blah, Lizard, Caitlin, Amelie, Phoenix, Marauder chick, Hyper Princess, Tanya, Kelley, Cierra, gwen, Japangirlcarley24, connie, AllAboutMe, Tempest Princess, kapies, hpfan, emilie: Thank you all SO MUCH for your reviews and kind words. I'm thrilled that even this far into the story you're still enjoying it. It's going to be a roller coaster ride soon, so I hope you stay with me. Enjoy!
VON: I'll send you Chapter 15 today. I did see it out on the site, but. Microsoft works in mysterious ways.
Lily of the Valley: Wow! Thanks for all the reviews! I'm really glad you liked it! LOL Here's more.
Kaydee: Stephen King wrote the lines. They're from Shawshank Redemption (the movie was terrific!). I absolutely agree with your assessment of Snape. Thanks for liking the words. I was particularly proud of them myself. g
Mihoshe: You are most welcome. Ask and ye shall receive. 8-)
Lothey: Excellent! I loved your previous one! I look forward to it!
Arabella Figg: Sure! Um. Hurm. I guess I need to look at my map. I thought that would encompass everything. Sorry.
Maraudermoony: I absolutely agree with you about Harry. He has had it so hard for most of his life, that what little joy from family he gets seems to quickly be snatched away! Just tiny samplings of what life *should* be like, but for Harry never will be.
Lin-z, -_-: Hang in there! Um, wow. Nothing to get tense about steps away from the keyboard, hands in the air defensively. I promise, by chapter 20 things begin to hop!
Nicky: Thanks again as always! I'm hoping I can get you one more before you go. I'm sure trying! g
Venus4280: Thank you so much for liking 'my' Snape. I'm rather partial to him! As for Remus. he's so tragic! I just want to make him smile, because he's had so little call to do just that for most of his life! I agree that Ron and Hermione need to be more involved, and I promise that will begin within the next two chapters. As for your comments about Sirius: I certainly see your point. No worry, though. He's complex to explore, so I've discovered it's best to do it during the quiet times of the story. Needless to say, there will be more conversations between Remus and Sirius soon. He's got a lot of healing to do himself!
P.A.R.: Okay. I'm going to gush, I just know it. I LOVE your writing and am absolutely thrilled to death that you've been reviewing my story! I cannot tell you just *how much* it means to me. Thank you so much for taking the time to do it!
I agree, the rescue was a bit rushed. Your suggestions with where to put things in a paragraph has left me looking at things in a whole new way. Just alter where it goes, and it can sure change the impact, can't it? I also agree with different choices for some of the words. Cacophony is a bit *cheerful* isn't it? Yep, figured out that 'thought' works much better. Too busy otherwise! Good point about Madam Pomfrey. I have always perceived her, not necessarily as a specialist, but certainly not a nurse either. Yes, my school only had a nurse, but I didn't live there, either. I figure, especially since she has to address such a *variety* of ailments g, that she would be more like a general practitioner and St. Mungo's would have the specialists. But I certainly have attributed a great deal to her skills, haven't I?
Okay. I'm going to print your review and post it on top of my keyboard. I cannot tell you *how* nice your compliment was. Thank you *so* much. Okay. I'm gushing again. I'll stop.
Yep, some of the scenes I know what I want to project, but it doesn't come out smoothly. I'm sure that's what you're seeing. Those scenes I still press through, because they need to be there, but they are three times as hard to write as some of the others.
Hmmm. Mind reading characters. Missed that. Good point. Besides, Sirius is just not *that* intuitive, is he? Okay. Bad joke. I'm stepping away from the kitchen table now.
Yep. I've discovered that's my favorite scene to write. The plot gets driven along, but the realness of the idle chit chat and banter that goes beside the plot is what breathes life into the story. I really work at that. I'm glad you like it.
Ginny, Ginny, Ginny. I thought it would be simpler to keep her out of the picture, because I wanted the focus to remain on Harry, Ron and Hermione. Of course, that focus grew anyway. but I hadn't mentioned Ginny at all (no peeks around the corner or anything) so I felt I had to explain why.
As for Lily. I picture their relationship as one where Petunia has gone out of her way most of her life to be cruel to Lily, and get her into trouble. You know, the kind of bad blood between siblings where Lily tried to reconcile them one too many times, and then decided she'd had enough? I pictured their relationship more like that. I did try to stay in canon, but took a little extra step with her. I certainly never picture her *ever* wanting Harry to live with them, and just took it backwards.
Snape was a big decision. I agonized how to do him for a while. This format I am the happiest with, and in upcoming chapters this type of perspective I think will be invaluable for some plot developments. But I certainly see how it can fail. Even transitioning from him to one of the other characters is jarring. I still like it, though. I'm thrilled to death that you do too. 8-)
All in all, I am *so* grateful for your input, and eagerly await any more you may have. Thank you so much. By the way, once I'm done with the story, I do intend to go back and clean it up, tighten it, etc. It's just that I'm more concerned at the moment with actually *finishing* it (I'm the queen of rewrites. To actually step away from the story and just *post* it is something monumental in itself g), but once done, I intend to spit shine it nicely! Thanks again for everything. It really meant a lot to read these reviews.