Disclaimer: HP… still not mine.
Author's Note: I'm going to voice here my disappointment in ff.net for the unannounced censorship that has occurred. Although I understand the liability aspect, notice would have been appreciated. Also, perhaps a sub-site with required registration would allow those authors to continue posting. I've found many quality NC-17 stories with amazing plots done by gifted authors. I'm sad to see that I no longer have one comprehensive site (ff.net has definitely held the majority of my favorite fics) to peruse. I do understand the concern… clicking a button to say you're 17 can be done by anyone, and Harry Potter was first and foremost a children's story… But how many of you reading this now are children? You don't need to reply, I'm just throwing my question out into the Great Void. Ah well, change happens, and not all of it is better. Thanks for reading my rant, and as always, please read and review.
-Bored Beyond Belief
Chapter 25
I can't believe I'm doing this. Yes, yes, I know this is becoming a mantra of mine, but nonetheless... I've spent the last half hour floating in a boat with Albus Dumbledore heading to Azkaban, hidden underneath Harry Potter's invisibility cloak, seriously questioning my sanity. I don't even *like* the boy. Stupid, stupid Gryffindor refused to use his portkey in order to try to prove Voldemort's return and his godfather's innocence. Quintessential Gryffindor. Truly.
I think my beloved Headmaster has finally cracked. The pressure's gotten to him. Too many chess games in his head and not enough players. Bats and belfries. Missing screws. Lights on and no one home. So why, you may ask, am I here? Sitting in a miserable wooden boat going to the one place I vowed *never again* in my lifetime to visit?
Because he asked it of me.
"You think too loud," Dumbledore says quietly underneath his breath.
"What do you hope to accomplish? Crouch had the right of it. Switch us and be done," I say. What Crouch did to free his son was so simple it was brilliant. All you needed handy was a dying mother willing to trade places with her imprisoned son. As I do not qualify as a dying mother, or dying at all, I have to refrain from hitting myself in the forehead even as the words leave my mouth. Great Merlin. Did I just say that? The last time I visited that hellhole I vowed to swallow my tongue first rather than go back. And that was two weeks. Was there something in that Pepper Up Potion he insisted I take before coming here?
"You would fare no better than he, my friend, and *that* is not an option," he says softly. As odd as it is to admit, I'm touched by his sentiment. And grateful. I'd rather not swallow my tongue, thank you very much.
"I still wish you would have given them my wand and kept your own," I say. One condition for anyone visiting Azkaban is to turn over your *own* wand beforehand. As insurance. Now granted, as evidenced by both Crouch and myself, there are ways around this, but why on earth Dumbledore gave up his own wand when he didn't need to…
"As proven by my latest chocolate frogs card, I've discovered it pays to expect people to know more about me than they realistically should. Besides, I don't need it," he replies, and shrugs. I shake my head ruefully even as I suppress a smile. In anyone else it would be bragging.
The misty tendrils around us are swirling as we pass through. I remember my time here too well. The oppressive, ever present fog forever concealing the island; how the cold permeates everything. Summertime never seems to reach Azkaban. The rain doesn't cleanse here, either. Here it feels as if it coats more than it cleans, as if the Dementors have corrupted the weather, sucking all cheerfulness and joy out of every aspect of life here so completely that even the birds sound sorrowful.
"I'm still unclear what your big plan is to smuggle me past the Dementors," I say, more to pass the time. Actually, I'm a bit unclear on the *entire* big plan, but don't say this aloud.
Damned ancient spells… Dug up in some buried text which hasn't been used in centuries…. Generally there's a *reason* for this. I trust Albus implicitly of course. Why me? But there's got to be more to it than the fact I'm likely a world record holder for being held under the Cruciatus Curse the longest without losing my mind. But who's counting? True, I'm probably more capable of surviving whatever Dark Magic flows through Potter's veins when his bond with Voldemort is active than anyone else, but...
Well, that's actually a bit of irony now, isn't it? Of all the people in Potter's life, *I* am the one that Albus thinks will be most able to help Potter survive Azkaban. Lucky me. Through all my questions, complaints, skepticism and just plain annoyance Albus just twitches his lips upward enigmatically. It's a damned annoying trait if you ask me. But no one does.
I turn my attention back to the glaring hole I see in Albus' current plan to get me on to the island. Dementors, being sightless, *sense* in a way that we do not. Crouch was able to smuggle his wife through, no doubt in part because she was already dying. I, on the other hand, am in fine health and am not looking forward to being sensed as an unauthorized, invisible addition to Albus' entourage of one.
"Just stand close to me and you'll be fine," Albus says quietly. His voice sounds oddly flat, deadened by the fog around us. I've noticed the boat isn't rocking as much as it had earlier, and the waves around us are smaller and more choppy. I suspect we'll be there soon.
I appreciate him trying to keep my spirits up. In truth, since I found him in my office, I've been shaken by his behavior. He's always seemed wise, but now he seems so sad and solemn, although he hides it well. But I'm trained to notice things. The slouch of his shoulders is more pronounced, as if the burden he carries is beginning to get too heavy. His face, already so etched with life, seems fatigued, his eyes less animated. I recognize the symptoms, or at least think I do. Guilt.
"Stand by you? That's your plan?" I ask, realizing when my mind has replayed the sentence the second time around how inane it sounds. "That's how you intend to conceal me?" I ask dumbly. Albus nods, a gentle smile playing on his lips.
"Of course," he replies. I wait for elaboration. None comes.
"Do you have some sort of cloaking spell in mind?" I ask after a pause. He shakes his head. "Sensory distraction?" I try again. Another shake. "Sensory transfiguration?" I'm grasping now. Another shake.
"No. Just stand close," he replies. I must admit, my confidence is beginning to falter here.
"And this will work…" I prompt.
"Because they'll think it's all me," he says.
"But it will be twice as much life energy… possibly more. Who knows what they sense when they see you anyway," I say.
"Precisely," he answers patiently, as if I were a particularly slow child who's just come across the proper answer to a charms question. Precisely?
"And this will work why?" I prompt.
"Because I'm me," he says, and now I do snort.
"Although there's no doubt you are a remarkable wizard… Just what makes you think that that will be enough?" I ask, unable to believe I'm bantering even as a chill begins to settle on my soul that has *nothing* to do with the cold weather.
"There are occasional… perks to being me. If I have a brighter life essence than many, who's going to refute it? Dementors do not live in this world as you and I do, but they are still aware of the key players in it. They know who Voldemort is, and they most certainly know who *I* am. Trust me, Severus. Just… don't make too much noise trying to get out of the boat, will you?" he asks me. I swallow my retort as the shoreline slowly appears before us.
There are no Dementors present. They save that welcoming committee for new arrivals. In fact, there won't be anyone present for the length of our visit. However, even the Dementors' distant presence echoes through my spine, hollowing out my nerves. They will remain on the other side of the island for the duration of Dumbledore's visit.
We already know exactly where Potter is. The Azkaban caretakers who live on the mainland provided us with a map of his location. They only come to Azkaban once a week. Food and water are provided by house elves who live deep below ground in separate quarters, protected from the Dementors by distance.
The boat runs aground, the wood scraping against the worn, rocky shore, and I scramble as quietly as possible to step out, grateful that Albus is taking his time for my sake. I'm also grateful that he's managed to keep me distracted for as long as he has. I suspect that the regrets I carry with me are far more of a torment than anything the other captured Death Eaters, my former companions, face on a daily basis. Sometimes there are advantages to being stupid, self absorbed and shallow. Ah well.
I follow behind Albus silently as he steps confidently inside the walls that hold the most feared villains of our time… and a fifteen year old innocent boy. He knows the way. He's been here before. To visit me. My legs are trembling painfully, as I'm forced to crouch down so that the invisibility cloak conceals me completely. Just in case. Even though James Potter was a tall man, I am as well and would rather not chance having something peek through. As I try to keep my attention *only* focused on the man before me, my senses take in the tactile memories of this place.
Weathered stone walls held by crumbling mortar, rusted metal bars on the windows and discolored metal doors. The worn rock floors are slippery with moisture, and the stench of dead fish and mildew fills the air. I'm shaking, I realize, and take a trembling breath to try to calm my nerves. This is the hard part. Once the spell is done… I stop myself from pursuing that thought as Albus stops before a door. It begins to slowly open of its own accord. We're there. I hold my breath, waiting to see how bad it is. I have so little hope for him. I remember all too clearly what effects the Dementors had on Potter before the dreams of this summer.
I hear Albus gasp as he rushes through the door, scooping Potter's limp body from the floor and cradling it close while carrying him to the thin mattress in the corner of the tiny 10x10 cell. His limbs dangle limply, and the uneaten meals carefully placed in the corner, enough for two days, are testimony to what has occurred. Potter hasn't even been conscious since he arrived. He hasn't moved since the Dementors threw him in this cell.
"Severus," Albus says, his voice tight. I reach into my robes, the invisibility cloak tossed aside now that we're safely in Potter's cell. I pull out the satchel full of potions I have brewed for the last two days. Meal supplements, Pepper Up, extracts, replenishers, rehydrators and also an ample supply of chocolate, among other things. I unwrap a piece and quickly hand it to Albus. Potter's robes are soaked and icy cold. Even from this distance I see how blue his lips are. As Albus coaxes a chunk of chocolate into Potter's slack mouth, I mutter drying and heating charms on his robe and mattress. He remains deathly still. I can't even see the rise and fall of his chest.
"Harry?" Albus says tenderly. The grief in his voice is very real. I've known how much he cares for Harry, but to see him holding him… like a grandfather, almost seems too personal. I wish I didn't have to witness this. "Harry? Can you hear me? Come on, Harry. It's time to wake up," Albus says, and I realize he's rocking him gently. The chocolate has melted in Harry's mouth, *Potter*, some of it dribbling down his chin. I see his throat work abruptly. Good sign.
"Albus," I say, and immediately set to work mixing up a cocktail for the occasion. If he can swallow, I can help. Hmmm. Supplement, nutrient, calming potion, and some Pepper Up for kicks. I hand Albus the goblet and watch as he holds it gently to Potter's lips. More liquid runs out the corners of his mouth, underneath his chin, to dampen his robes once again. But I see Potter's throat move faintly. At least a little bit has gotten into him.
"Harry? Open your eyes, child. It's time to wake up," Albus says quietly. I realize that no steam comes out of Potter's ears from the Pepper Up. My own throat constricts. That means he is *very* close to death. I watch as one of Potter's fingers, pale against his black robes, begins to twitch.
"Albus, his hand," I say, and look at the food Harry's been given. Broth and water. No special attention here for The Boy Who Lived. I'd thought of trying to get him to eat before we leave, but my potions will help more. We need him conscious to perform the spell, and it will take a while before I'm strong enough within the bond to insure he's eating consistently.
My attention turns back to Albus as he holds the boy close to his chest, using his voice to try to coax Potter back to consciousness. It's more of a plea than a command, with hope intertwined. Be sane, be whole, be Harry, his voice begs silently. He cannot be, I know, and I believe Albus knows this too. Not with what the Dementors force him to face.
His fingers curl and I realize I see Potter's jaw begin to tense. Relief floods me as I see animation on his face once again. In truth, he looks more dead than alive. His tremors begin to return, and I suppress the morbid glee of realizing that if his *condition* remains, he isn't too far gone… yet. His body still struggles if the tremors persist. It is in the stillness that the fight is lost, for the body is no longer trying.
"Harry, open your eyes. It's Albus Dumbledore, and I really need to talk to you," he says, his tone of voice warm and loving. A gasp of air startles me as Potter's back arches momentarily, a spasm of some sort. He struggles against Albus, then stills. Albus continues to speak soft words, to try to coax him from whatever dark place he's currently residing in. "Harry, wake up. It's time to wake up now," he says repeatedly, and abruptly I feel pinned like a butterfly on display in a collector's case by two nearly luminescent green eyes fluttering open.
Although he looks my direction, his eyes don't focus on me. Those are not the eyes of a fifteen year old boy. Indeed, they remind me of Black during his darker melancholy moments. Only Potter's eyes hold no hope or peace, no humor, no curiosity. Only pain remains, and a piercing quality that reminds me too much of Albus himself. He frowns as I see him struggle to focus. Ah. Where are his glasses? I find them near where we found him and gently set them on Potter's face. Albus smiles at me gratefully. I take the goblet and refill it. He needs much more than one cup. Albus once again puts the drink to Potter's lips, only this time he accepts it, closing his eyes as he swallows. Again, no steam.
"That's it, Harry. That's it. There. That should help. Can you hear me, Harry? Do you know who I am?" Albus asks gently, as if speaking to a small child. The look on his face is painful to see. Hope, fear, guilt, love, pain, concern… I realize I'm holding my breath as I wait for a response, anything, from Potter. He's awake, which is better than I feared. But what of his sanity? His eyes begin to focus on Albus' voice, his face flickering with so many frowns and grimaces that I start to wonder if he's developed a nervous twitch.
His eyes begin to look around him, as if seeing his surroundings for the first time. I can see him taking note of the details of his cell. His eyes flicker to me, and dismiss me just as easily. I'm chilled by the passing glance. Okay. He's downright creepy. It's only once his eyes get back to Albus that he truly focuses. They stare at each other for a moment. Albus smiles gently and takes Potter's limp hand in his.
"I've got you. That's right, Harry. I'm so sorry it took me so long to get here," he says. I see Harry's fingers curl weakly against his hand, and Albus breaks into a bright smile. "Can you drink some more potion? You need your strength," he says. Potter nods weakly, and I'm shocked. He's awake, he's aware. Color me impressed. Albus tips the cup until it is completely drained. No steam. I run my hand through my hair in agitation. He's not in good shape.
"Harry, we've broken Percy's memory spells. We have a scroll of what actually occurred and know they gave you Veritaserum. We've got some potions that should help counteract some of the effects, but I need to know how you feel. I know it's a foolish question, but indulge me," he says gently. Potter's face remains passive as he seems to take assessment of himself.
"It still burns," he rasps, his voice flat. "But it burns cold now, in my blood. I… The rest is as it was, only more so," he says. Short and to the point. Tremors, chills, scar pains, tingling nerves, the beginnings of partially obscured vision, muscle spasms, stomach pain from newly developed ulcers that appear as quickly as they're healed. The list goes on… I sigh. He's lucky he lasted two days.
I hand Albus another goblet that should neutralize any trace amounts of Veritaserum in his blood. Potter drinks it without grimacing, but I know the taste is bitter and highly unpleasant. After a moment, he closes his eyes briefly, the faintest flicker of relief, before nodding. "That's helped," he says, his voice more air than sound. His eyes keep capturing my attention. His focus is distant, although I can tell he sees Albus just fine. It's as if he's looking from the bottom of a deep pit. Perhaps he is.
I watch Potter closely. Did he know? When he took this risk and faced the threat of Veritaserum, did he know what it could do? Did Albus tell him? A *magical* lobotomy. Is he damaged? Watching him now, as flat emotionally as he is… I still see traces of *that insolent boy*. Concern for others, empathy, self-insight, creativity, initiative, autonomy, abstract reasoning, judgment, foresight, will-power, determination, concentration… These are all destroyed in an overdose. Considering they gave this frail boy in a child's body an adult dosage, I can only marvel at his healing capacity. Either that, or a metabolism most witches would die for. I, for one, would have *sworn* we'd find scrambled eggs instead of a mind.
"Harry, I'm afraid I can't get you released yet," Albus says. Potter's eyes scan Albus' face, but there is no flicker of emotion. No disappointment or fear. I frown.
"So the Portkey won't work then? I still have it," Potter says faintly, his one hand weakly reaching inside his robes for a handkerchief. Dumbledore shakes his head, closing his eyes for a moment, but not before I see them sparkle unnaturally. Look away. I don't want to see this. But I don't. I watch as Albus takes Potter's hand and guides it back to his pocket.
"Hold onto it. Wards surround Azkaban, but if you're outside them, or if they should go down for any reason, it will work," Albus says. Potter nods in acceptance. He has to know he won't survive more than another couple of days. Does he want to die? "But there is something that will keep you alive until I can get you released," Albus says. Potter doesn't seem to care. Albus hesitates for a moment, frowning thoughtfully. "Harry… do you expect to live?" he asks after a moment. Potter shakes his head, his eyes still the same, fathomless green.
"No, Headmaster. I don't," he replies softly. Fifteen. Merlin.
"Harry, although you and I both discussed the possibility of this day, I did not mention that I had a backup plan for *this* as well," Albus said. Harry frowns faintly. Finally. At least a little animation. "In the instance where I could not get you immediately released from Azkaban, because Fudge is too far gone and I am forced to get him removed, I have spoken with Severus and he has agreed to help me do this," Albus said, his eyes sliding gratefully to me. Why did I agree to do this again?
***********************************************************************
"Do what, sir?" Harry asked wearily. The memories and pain had become more of a swirling vortex, still circling in the distance, but not with Harry *in* them. As the screams continued to fade, more and more things came in to focus. This is my cell. Faint cries promised to swoop down on him the moment the Dementors returned, but for now… Headmaster Dumbledore has come. His wrinkled hands were warm to the touch as his fingers gently pressed against Harry's hands. His skin seems so thin and fragile, Harry marveled distractedly, yet he's considered one of the strongest wizards alive. The black figure shifted to hand Dumbledore another goblet of potions, but Harry forced his eyes to remain only on the Headmaster. As long as you're here, I'm not reliving anything. With Snape, however, the same cannot be said.
"I know that although you've been studying to become an Animagus, you have not been in any condition to try it," Dumbledore said. Harry nodded and noticed the brief look of surprise on Snape's face before it was gone. Dumbledore coaxed even more potion into him. Harry tried to swallow as much as he could, but in truth he'd already drunk too much. His stomach rolled in protest. Harry closed his eyes and felt himself begin to drift away as the heating charms on the robes and mattress finally began to take effect.
"Harry, wake up now. I know you're unwell, but I need you here with me. You're a bit green… Severus?" Dumbledore prompted. Harry felt himself lifted up to be in more of a sitting position. Again a goblet was at his lips. He was so tired that he just wanted to drift away, and each distraction from that was a jarring and painful reminder he was still awake. But Harry swallowed anyway, more out of habit than anything else. Immediately, his stomach calmed. Harry opened his eyes again. Dumbledore's expression appeared to relax. Focus, Harry. Wake up.
"Good boy. As I was saying, although you've studied, you've been too weak to become an Animagus, and at this rate it would likely kill you to try. This is where Professor Snape comes in," Dumbledore said. Harry glanced over at his potions professor who remained at a distance, looking distinctly uncomfortable. Harry thought sympathetically, I wouldn't want to be here either.
"Yes, Headmaster?" Harry prompted, frowning at how his voice sounded. In truth, he found it difficult to muster up enough energy to be curious, or care. The only emotion that seemed to be filtering through the tremors at the moment was a small sense of comfort as the Headmaster held him. Everything else was… a void.
"There is an ancient spell called Portus Animus. It connects two people, creating a link or bond between them. It's done by both potion and spell, and can be maintained even from great distances. Professor Snape has agreed to perform this spell with you," Dumbledore said. Harry frowned, the first stirrings of curiosity, however morbid.
"Why?" Harry asked, or rather, croaked. He glanced at Snape who was still looking profoundly uncomfortable. Then, after a moment's thought, Harry shook his head as if already dismissing the thought. "What would happen if I died?" he asked. Snape froze, and Dumbledore stiffened underneath Harry.
"You won't. Even if you're unconscious, the bond will enable Severus to manifest within your body to insure that you eat and drink. We'll leave plenty of potions for you, and the robes and blanket will remain warm indefinitely," Dumbledore said confidently. He paused for a moment, watching Harry intently, before continuing.
"You're an Animagus?" Harry asked Snape directly. His lips thinned as he shook his head.
"No. But I've taught how to become one. Not everyone can *be* an Animagus, Potter," Snape said. Harry was amazed at his professor's ability to be bitter even in the worst of circumstances. It was oddly reassuring.
"Because your father was an Animagus, I'm confident *you* will be able to become one as well," Dumbledore said soothingly. Harry decided not to ask about the odds. He was betting it would be more like 50/50. "This spell is to insure that Professor Snape can help guide you step by step, providing his own energy as needed, to become an Animagus. In this way you will be able to diffuse some of the effects of the Dementors." Harry looked at Dumbledore suspiciously. He may be exhausted and sick, but he wasn't slow... at least not all the time. Either that, or he was beginning to be able to read Dumbledore. His reassuring smile looked a little too innocent.
"But what if I *do* die?" Harry persisted. "Or I'm given the Kiss?"
"Then Severus dies, too," Dumbledore replied solemnly. "But you won't die. That's what this spell is for, Harry."
"Why would you do this?" Harry asked Snape directly. If this had more to do with the debt he felt he owed Harry, Harry wanted no part of it. "You don't even *like* me."
"Believe it or not, this has little to do with you," Snape replied. Harry shook his head. He was too tired to feel much anger, but annoyance was beginning to seep through. Forget it, he thought.
"I have too many deaths on my conscience. I'd rather not have yours," Harry replied softly. Dumbledore remained silent, watching the two of them keenly. Harry wondered, as he often had, how much of this Dumbledore had planned, or foreseen. He wasn't bitter about it, but… sometimes he wondered if all his conversations fit right into the Headmaster's schemes.
"Are you aware…" Snape began, his eyes narrow and dangerous, his face slack in its intensity. Only the faint hint of color at the Potions Master's neck and pale cheeks indicated that he was truly angry. It was enough. "…of something called a Wizard's Debt?" Snape asked. Harry nodded.
"You owed one to my father for saving you from Professor Lupin," Harry replied calmly. Old news.
"Why do you think Pettigrew was sorted into Gryffindor?" Snape asked abruptly, throwing Harry off. Harry frowned. In truth, he'd wondered about that himself.
"Why do you think he was loved and accepted by the *beloved* Marauders? What do you think he was like? *Why* would your parents consider him as a Secret Keeper if he lacked in such obvious moral fiber?" Snape asked fiercely. Harry had spent nights trying to find a way to ask Sirius and Remus that very question, but hadn't found a way yet that didn't sound accusatory. Harry shrugged.
"I don't know why," Harry replied honestly, sighing. Although the pain from the Veritaserum had abated, the remaining fatigue and muscle spasms remained. Even as Harry rested in Dumbledore's arms, wrapped with the blanket, he had to carefully position himself so his muscles didn't cramp. At the moment, both calves were doing so, curling his toes impossibly. He knew his undivided attention was expected, but felt the grey of unconsciousness beginning to cloud the sides of his vision. He knew he wouldn't be able to stay awake much longer. But this was the most he'd heard about *why*, so he willed it away as much as he could. Just do it and be done. Harry ignored his inner voice.
"Do you consider Longbottom cowardly?" Snape asked. Harry stared at the professor in surprise. Huh?
"No. Of course not. Just not… confident," Harry replied, his own accusation laced in his reply. And whose fault is his lack of confidence?
"Pettigrew was a lot like Longbottom is. Simple, uncomplicated, insecure, but loyal and brave when need be," Snape said. He was silent for a long time, his face unreadable as his eyes stopped focusing on Harry and instead seemed to see something in the distance, a memory. He paled.
"Severus," Dumbledore prodded gently. Snape's eyes snapped back to Harry's face. He seemed furious now, but oddly Harry could sense a lot of it wasn't necessarily directed at him. Of course, his professor's wrath didn't make him quake in fear now as it had in the past. It's all about perspective, his mind chirped. Harry idly wondered when his thoughts had started to speak without his permission.
"Why do you think Pettigrew revealed your parents? Do you think he was jealous of them? That he didn't love them?" Snape asked. It was odd to hear the word *love* out of Snape's mouth. Harry shrugged, then, seeing that Snape expected an answer, nodded. The man he'd met in the Shrieking Shack and in the graveyard had been so… pathetic and weak. He couldn't imagine what his parents, Sirius and Remus had seen in him.
"I don't know," Harry croaked. Dumbledore gave Harry another sip of Snape's potion. Some of the gray left his vision and Snape's face swam into better focus. Good. He wanted to remember this conversation.
"What does it take to make a man betray his best friends and their child? He's Gryffindor, so he's known for at least a modicum of dumb courage. What would Voldemort bribe him with? Wealth? Power? Fame? What did it take to make him reveal them?" Snape asked. Harry frowned.
"I don't know. I've wanted to know. What? What did it take, Professor?" Harry asked, his direct question sounding like an accusation. Snape flinched.
"Voldemort didn't get the information voluntarily. He broke Peter Pettigrew. That's what you've met, Potter. A broken man. Voldemort used my potions to break him," Snape said. Harry froze, a lump in his throat and a scream of his own threatening his thoughts. Thankfully, he didn't utter a sound. Instead, he stared at Snape in renewed horror.
"Where you there?" Harry asked. You monster. Snape shook his head.
"If I'd known… I'd have done something. Voldemort asked for these potions months in advance. I had no idea who they were for. But I assure you… Pettigrew never stood a chance," Snape said. Harry started to cough, his hands flying to his mouth. Bile rose in his throat and with shocking ease Dumbledore adjusted Harry so that he was leaning off the bed and facing the tiny bowl that served as a latrine. Harry vomited all of the potions they'd made him drink as Dumbledore held him, rubbing his back soothingly, saying gentle words. Harry couldn't help the tears that slid down his face, but felt betrayed by them. He hated for Snape to see his pain.
"Shhh. It's okay, Harry. Severus, could you hand me the water?" Dumbledore asked. When Harry's dry wretches finally ceased, Dumbledore eased him back onto the flimsy mattress. He tenderly wrapped the thin blanket around Harry's shoulders, tucking it around him so that no square centimeter remained uncovered. A cup of cold water was placed at Harry's lips, and he sipped gratefully, his body trembling horribly. Harry turned his eyes back to Snape.
"I've caused the death of the man I owed a Wizard's Debt to. My death is not your responsibility, Potter, whereas your parents' death is mine," Snape said. Harry stared at Snape for a long time, unable to say anything. What is there to say? Snape watched Harry closely, his arms wrapped around his chest defensively, as if the chill of Azkaban affected him deeply as well. That's why you treated me so badly. 'Here is the child whose parents you killed. Let's teach him* potions*, shall we?' How ironic.
"Since we're revealing all the skeletons in the closet," Snape asked, startling both Harry and Dumbledore, "I have a question for you, Potter. Why do *you* trust me? You know I'm a Death Eater, yet you still take any potion I give you. Why? I've never given you any reason to trust me," Snape finished. His face looked truly bewildered, as if he'd wondered this question for a long time and finally decided to ask it. Harry realized that that was the most unguarded he'd ever seen the Potions Master. He almost didn't recognize him.
"Because I've seen you," Harry replied. Snape stilled, a slight frown on his face. "Just last week I saw you tell Voldemort you hadn't seen me since the end of school. Why is he so fond of the Cruciatus Curse?" Harry asked. Snape took a couple of steps back, his eyes sliding to Dumbledore.
"*That* is why you didn't want me to read Potter's journal. Because I'm in there," Snape stated, his eyes wide in horror. "You've seen me? You've seen…" Snape said, his head snapping from Harry to Dumbledore and back again, then closed his mouth abruptly. Harry nodded. Snape ran a trembling hand through his hair, raking it back distractedly. Closing his eyes, he visibly calmed himself.
He's humiliated, Harry realized. He's ashamed of what Dumbledore's read that he's had to do. And of course, that's why Dumbledore didn't tell him. Harry watched as Snape pulled his shell protectively around himself again, the face returning to impassiveness, only the eyes revealing anything. It was the only part of himself that Snape didn't seem to have complete control over.
"Professor Snape has also perfected barriers so that… should he have to see Voldemort again and he… uses the Cruciatus Curse, it will not rebound onto you," Dumbledore said. His eyes looked tired. Harry could see the pain in them now. He hates that Snape has to do this. He hates that he had to ask it of him. And I remember when he did… Right after the Third Task.
"So are you going to do the spell or not, Potter?" Snape asked, his voice oddly hollow. Harry hesitated.
"How does this work?" Harry asked, forcing his mind to focus.
"Severus will be the one to initiate contact. He might not always be successful, but I think as your bond solidifies, you'll have an easier time. You won't be able to entirely escape what the Dementors do, but he will be able to buffer it enough to work with you. Two hours a day until you become an Animagus. Any more could hurt Professor Snape," Dumbledore said, chafing Harry's hands as if to try to warm them up. Harry looked at his Headmaster and sighed.
"I know that at mealtime the Dementors leave. Considering how we found you, I'll assume you'll be unconscious. Professor Snape will check in, and if you haven't eaten, he'll inhabit your body and do it for you. He can only do this when you're unconscious and he cannot do it without your permission… but remember, his life will be bound to yours." Dumbledore continued. "Will you do it?" Dumbledore asked, looking into Harry deeply enough to make him more uncomfortable than he already was. His throat burned from the bile and potions and he knew his breath must be atrocious. Dumbledore didn't appear to notice or mind. Harry had finally managed to uncurl his cramping toes, but the tremors still remained, and as hard as Dumbledore tried to warm Harry's hands, the relief only lasted for seconds.
As much as his stubbornness had forced him to want to refuse Snape's help, Harry knew in his heart that he was terrified of dying. He hoped when he died he'd finally meet his parents, but wasn't so confident in an afterlife, or Heaven, or whatever. The Dursleys had been religious, but only in such an appallingly hypocritical way that it had caused Harry to scoff at the mere concept of it. They'd gone to church every Sunday until Harry was eight, but never took Harry because he was 'heathen'. In their mind, his magic condemned him to hell, which, as Aunt Petunia had told him frequently, was where his parents were. Harry preferred to reject any notion of an afterlife rather than contemplate his parents in hell. Of course, meeting the ghosts at Hogwarts had changed his perception of an afterlife. He preferred to think of his beliefs now as a work in progress. Harry nodded. "Yes, I'll do it," he whispered.
Dumbledore relaxed and even began to smile. "Excellent, my boy. We'll get you out of here as soon as we can, of course, but now we've got a little more time. I'm curious to see what kind of animal you'll become," Dumbledore said as Snape reached inside his robes and pulled out a tiny glass vial of cobalt blue liquid. It looked a great deal like ink, only the consistency appeared much thicker. "This spell hasn't been performed in centuries, so the extent of the bond will have to be explored by both of you. Not much is documented, but what is has already been read by Professor Snape. Remember that it is voluntary, and needs both of your cooperation. Once you're freed, Harry, the spell can be reversed with no ill effects. Now, take a big sip of this, hold my hand, and repeat what I say," Dumbledore instructed.
Snape handed the vial to Harry, careful not to let his fingers touch him at all. Harry took a swig of the vial. It tasted as bad as it looked, and he wondered if his teeth and tongue were now blue. What kind of animal will I be? It was the first nice idea Harry had heard in a long time. He'd envied Sirius' ability to transform at will, and longed to be an unregistered Animagus himself. It was a secret defense that Harry coveted. To walk in public, even as a wanted man, unrecognized. That kind of anonymity Harry definitely appreciated.
Harry placed his hand in Dumbledore's. Dumbledore took Snape's hand in his other, serving as a link between them. As he spoke the words of the spell, Harry and Snape repeated them, Snape's voice so much deeper and sonorous than Harry's scratchy whisper. The air around them seemed to shimmer as Harry spoke, and his hand grew increasingly warm in Dumbledore's. He felt a slight pressure building within his mind, like an idea he couldn't quite remember. As Dumbledore silenced, Harry and Snape finished the spell. His vision blurred for a moment, and he could have sworn he was looking at himself from Snape's eyes. He looked awful. Then he was back. He felt just the same, except for something swirling at the edge of his thoughts. Like a fading dream. Too bad the nightmares don't fade. Is that Snape? Harry frowned. This is kind of anticlimactic.
"For Severus to enable the link to be fully active, he must be as close to sleep as possible. You're connected even now, but one of the two of you must be more receptive at first to solidify the bond. In time, you may not need to be. My time is almost at an end here, Harry…" Dumbledore said. His eyes were sad. He doesn't want to leave me, Harry realized, and was oddly comforted. He's done what he can. Snape had pulled his hand away and was currently placing an amazing array of vials into a tear in Harry's mattress. Harry watched him quietly. Dumbledore eased Harry completely back onto the pathetic bed, tucking the blanket around him. Harry was too weak to do anything but watch. Eventually, Snape stood and looked at Harry expectantly.
"Thank you, professor," he said. Snape appeared surprised for a second, then nodded curtly. "Headmaster?" Harry asked, frowning. Dumbledore had stood to allow Snape to supply Harry's mattress but now took Harry's hand in his own tenderly. Harry was grateful for it, but unsure how much the Headmaster felt and how much was wishful thinking on Harry's part. Dumbledore cared, of that Harry didn't doubt. But that gesture, as holding him had been, was something only Mrs. Weasley had ever done. Harry was too tired to process his thoughts completely, so, letting it go, he focused on what he'd meant to ask. "When the Dementors are around… I'm not even aware. I… I'm in a bad place. I don't understand how this spell can work with that?" he asked. How could Snape even reach him?
"Because the foundation of this spell is based on your mutual dislike. It's negative in nature, therefore unaffected by the Dementors' magic," Dumbledore said and managed to look quite pleased with himself. Snape snorted loudly and appeared slightly annoyed. Harry shook his head. How appropriate. The final mystery solved.
"Ah," Harry replied and watched as Snape covered himself again with Harry's cloak. Snape looked at Harry for a moment, and appeared to want to say something, but didn't, disappearing. Harry stared back at the place where the professor he'd hated the most likely still stood and said nothing. What could be said? Good luck? Hang in there? Cheerio? Hope I don't kill you? Thanks for risking your neck for someone you hate? Harry shook his head. He was starting to fade. When his mind rambled, he knew it wasn't long before he passed out.
"Harry," Dumbledore said, bringing Harry's thoughts back to the present. "We'll be back. I promise," Dumbledore said. Harry nodded and patted the Headmaster's hand reassuringly. Dumbledore pulled his hand back and Harry caught the flash of a frown before his gentle smile was in place.
"Yes, Headmaster," Harry replied. Dumbledore stood and glanced behind him. Harry couldn't hear Snape, but knew he was there. "Good bye," Harry said, reluctant for the Headmaster to leave. But the chill in the air was growing. The Dementors were signaling the end of the visit. Harry tried to smile at the Headmaster, but instead it came out a grimace, so he gave up. Dumbledore looked at Harry a moment longer.
"We'll get you out of here," Dumbledore said solemnly. Harry knew a vow when he heard one. He nodded and watched as Dumbledore turned and walked away. The door closed behind him, the echo of metal slamming shut ringing in Harry's ears long after Dumbledore's footsteps had retreated. It was such a permanent sound. Like a death knell. Harry closed his eyes as the chill overcame him, and the silence was once again filled with screams.
TBC….
Elektra, AllAboutMe (lol Poking me? Hehehehe. Well, just so you know, as the plot gets thicker, the writing takes longer, so do have patience with me. After all, you want me to do it right… right?), Elizabeth Batory, ditto2001, SpiderGirl05, ratgirl, kapies, Centra-gal86 (great cheer, by the way g), Von (Hadn't thought of the sea creature angle. You're the second to mention it. It's a clever twist. Alas…), Tempest Princess, Me (what's with the poking? g), Teigra (me, too), Sakura Le, Lei Dumbledore, Phoenix, summersun, sk8reagle, Videl86, Anti Pasta (see, here's Snape), WeasleyTWinsLover1112, Siri Kay (hey, I've done that too!), Hyper Princess G, Arien S (I agree. He was nice because Harry was still useful… Snape is dangerous, I'm telling you. You're going along, perfectly happy to detest the Slimy Potions Master when *whammo*, you see some insight into his brilliant mind and realize how you love snarky humor. He's a menace! Thanks for putting me in your faves. I promise to work hard to stay there!), Bridgie (I'm working on that. But as the plot steepens, it does seem to take longer for me to produce the chapters. Bear with me. Thanks!!!), LittleMy, x-woman (Yes, I do love Harry Potter. Perhaps a little too much. After all, you can love Harry Potter, but… hehehe.), Vitamin_C2002 (it was generally planned, but now it's getting trickier. Hang in there. I have lots planned for it), Ice (G), Kim 8-), witchchild hands you tissue (I'm glad. It sounds horrible, but I'm glad. Cheers to lots more angst and peril!), lothey (absolutely!): So, this chapter's general theme was What on earth is Harry's Animagus form going to be, and How on earth do you plan on the poor boy surviving? Hehehehehe. So… whaddya think? 8-) Thanks a million for reviewing. I love it!!! Really. I *live* for this stuff. G
Suspect: Thanks. Yes, Ron's strategic, but he's also extremely emotional. Percy's betrayal was more than just an intellectual disagreement. Percy chose to believe others above his family. Not a pretty thought.
Lady Foxfire: Oooh. Welcome back! I'm looking forward to seeing how *your* story progresses as well! G
Colleen: Thanks a bunch. No, I don't forsee Ron getting over this any time soon. Yes, he will be…
SammiSnape: Okay, okay! I'm updating already. g kicks toe at the ground bashfully Wow. Thank you. Compliments like these are what I live for, and what make me so pleased I actually *posted* my writing somewhere. It's the validation I've been craving for years to hear that 'Yes, I should dare to pursue this as a career' and 'You like me, you *really* like me' g. Either way, I'm grateful you feel as you do, and here's another chapter. Thank you again. 8-)
Moonlight Yellow: Thanks. As it gets grimmer, it also gets hard to insert the lighter stuff. Hmmm. Ginny's probably a better cook than Hermione. I forsee Hermione forsaking quality food for the sake of microwavables so as not to interfere with her reading. I *love* the nice long reviews. The more the merrier. Of course Ron's mad at his brother, but his anger is a little deeper than what Percy has *done* per se. Percy's not stupid by any means. The choices he made were conscious and deliberate… He turned a blind eye to the truth, at everyone, including his family's expense. It's betrayal that Ron is feeling as much as righteous anger for Harry. Percy turned his back and now *sees the error of his ways*. Who is to say Percy doesn't do it again in a couple of years? That kind of trust and family isn't easily rebuilt. It's like how some things said can *never* be taken back. Same idea. So many hints… so little included in the plot outline… sorry everyone. Dogs swim. Mine used to all the time. Wish she wouldn't have. Darn long hair. Harry become a fish? Hadn't thought of that one. 8-) Here's Snape for you! Hope you enjoyed him. Thank you so much for the kind review. Glad you like it!
Gracie: You know, I hadn't *quite* thought of it that way, but you are spot on. Good insight.
Lothey: Thanks. It's frightening how quickly I figured out how to do the cliffhanger. It's too easy. 8-)
Lu: Yes, angst is an understatement in my story…. g True. Very true. Hehehehe… Possible. Very possible… You know, I never realized how many words this was. Doesn't 100,000 make a novel? Cool! Yes, although he's lived it as well, n'est pas? Ooooh. Shhhh! Be quiet! Don't tell them what you know! Thank you so much for the kind words. I'm glowing at my keyboard… No really. I am. I'll be curious just how you think of this story as it progresses. The plot's rolling now.