Disclaimer: Sooooooooooooo not my story. Sooooooooo wish it was. Sigh
Chapter 28
I sit at the edge of my bed, my toes curled within my slippers against the cold that seems to have permeated every fiber of my body. Since last night, when I was thrown from Potter's dream, Pomfrey has been plying me with my *own* healing potions to strengthen my reserves. And she doesn't understand why I'm skeptical of her abilities…Unfortunately, the healing potions do nothing for the painful, hollow emptiness that reeks from my bond with Potter. I suspect it's because he's unconscious.
No one understands why I love the dungeons as much as I do, and I'm certainly not inclined to enlighten them. Hogwarts is safe, people say. It's a last bastion of Light against the ever encroaching darkness. Lovely sentiment. Absolute hogwash. I've met Voldemort… and Dumbledore's Defense Against Dark Arts professors… Believe me when I tell you Hogwarts is *far* from secure. Mountain trolls, basilisks, Voldemort himself carried within Quirrell, Crouch…. Hurmph.
Moving staircases, secret passageways, hidden rooms… *Where* they got the idea Hogwarts was safe is beyond me, but I don't disabuse them of the notion. Dumbledore propaganda. Ah well, it serves me well enough. The passageways, the tunnels, the rooms in the dungeons below are known to me as intimately as my own heartbeat. The alarm spells and monitoring charms I've placed throughout insure that *should* Hogwarts be breached, I will not be caught by surprise.
But now my own precious dungeons, my haven, has become hauntingly cold and dank… far too reminiscent of Azkaban for my liking. The memory of Potter convulsing, caught within the throes of the Cruciatus Curse as the Barnes couple was tortured has brought back a memory of my own… a memory I wish I had thought of *right* before checking on Potter rather than hours in advance.
I vividly recall Potter's confessed fear to his friends that *if* he stayed within his nightmares instead of waking up, suffering though them to their logical conclusion, that he might die as well. As I'm still here, I assume he's alive. I also remember, back when I had the luxury of simply *observing* Potter as opposed to having to interact with him, wondering if the pain he felt was of the same intensity as the curse itself. I finally have my answer… Yes.
I'm rather an expert witness of just what the Cruciatus feels like, and my few shared moments with Potter have answered it irrevocably. The potions Pomfrey has fed me are specifically for dealing with the after effects of Cruciatus, so even the post curse symptoms all remain the same.
This has led me to some frightening conclusions… and also some intriguing questions. How on Earth is Potter even alive?! I admit. This bothers me… intellectually, of course. He's been suffering Dark Magic curses now for months. How is he not mad? How is he still functioning? Well, how *was* he still functioning, before being brought to Azkaban? And, now that the Dementors force Potter to remain within his nightmares, what kind of condition will I find him in?
I close my eyes and sigh as I kick off my slippers and slip into bed. Albus charmed my sheets to keep them warm. I'm embarrassingly touched by his thoughtfulness. Sentiment. Pah. I suspect it's the bond I now share with Potter that has caused my perpetual chill. I cannot seem to get warm. Even the large fire within my fireplace seems washed out and ineffectual.
I glance at the clock against my wall. It's two minutes closer to Potter's meal than when I last looked. In a few moments the Dementors should retreat briefly to allow the prisoners their meals. This is my window of opportunity to insure Potter eats and is filled with healing potions before we begin the arduous task of teaching him to become an Animagus. *If* he can become an Animagus. I'll just continue to operate on the likelihood that he can. After all, he *is* the Boy Who Lived. Of *course* he'll be an Animagus. Well, I suppose it's close enough to mealtime to check on the boy. I'm not worried. I'm not.
The bond I sensed so vaguely before beats now like a thready heartbeat. Like *his* thready heartbeat. I follow it easily. It's as if, even unconscious as I can now sense where he is, he draws me to him, and I am simply holding on to the proverbial rope. The screams within his mind are gone, leaving behind an eerie silence. All that manifests itself as distinctly *Potter* is still. No emotions, no sentiments, no thoughts. Don't let him be in a coma. As I leave my own body further behind, I feel his unspoken permission envelop me as I slip into his skin. Yes. The pain, the aches, the utter agony of being Potter absorbs me once again, and I nearly lose consciousness myself. I pride myself on having a high tolerance for pain. Call it an occupational hazard. *This* takes suffering to a new threshold. I suppose I'll have to take Potter more seriously when he says he's hurt, I realize reluctantly. How disappointing.
I can no longer delineate what hurts and what doesn't. Breathing, moving, not moving; all of it hurts. Potter's muscles burn and cramp, his skin sears, nerves pulse with a hateful life of their own, and all the while an ice pick is slipped right between my eyes where Potter's scar is. As I slip further into Potter's body, I tentatively try to flex his fingers as my own. Air fills my lungs and I cough painfully. My fingernails **his fingernails** grind against stone… Stone? I try to open my eyes and find they're dry and gritty. He's dehydrated. My lips are wet, though. Frowning, I struggle again to open my eyes and see… a blur. You're eyesight is atrocious, Potter. A faint moan escapes Potter's lips as I struggle to move. Oh. That's me. I blink repeatedly, and wonder if the rocky beaches of Azkaban have been pounded into Potter's eyes and mouth. The granules of sand grind against my teeth annoyingly as I try to swallow.
The metallic taste of blood hits me. Blood? I wipe my mouth and struggle to raise my hands ridiculously close to my face in order to be able to see them. Red fingertips swim into view. I wipe Potter's face again and look closely at the color of the blood. Good, it's not a frothy pink. It's red and slightly diluted with saliva… He's bleeding from the mouth, then, not the lungs. I swish his tongue around and hiss in pain as fresh blood fills my mouth. Yes, it's the tongue alright. I use Potter's hands to press against his ribs, just in case. No broken ribs then. Good. Dumbledore's proverbs must be getting to me. Better safe than sorry. Annoying man. I struggle to look around the tiny cell. We *really* must do something about that eyesight of yours, Potter. Not that I expect to see anything new, but it helps my mind to focus beyond his pain. So how did you end up on the floor? I ask the boy silently. During the Cruciatus, perhaps? Convulsions during his nightmare might have thrown him off the mattress and caused him to bite his tongue. Hmmm. Yes, that seems likely.
Annoyed at Potter's appalling lack of vision… I pause at my own thoughts. Appalling lack of vision. Heh. I've always held a keen appreciation for the ironic. I flap my arms around Potter's body like a child making angels in the snow in search for Potter's glasses as I've realized I don't stand a chance of finding them otherwise. A plastic scratching sound catches my attention, and the cold frames brush against my wrist. Ah, there you are. I reach to my side **Potter's side** and with trembling hands drag them across the floor to then place his glasses onto my face. I turn myself over and try to take a deep breath. Instead, I cough painfully once again. Air is so underrated. Especially when you can barely breathe. I realize, now that I'm moving around, I can hear Potter's breath rattling and whistling noisily. I notice the band of tension wrapped around his ribs and groan. Lovely. Let's add pneumonia to that list.
I brace myself against the metal frame of the bed and pull Potter's body up. The exertion in my **his** arms is so great that it takes all my will to keep my grip as I reach Potter's other hand within the mattress. My vials remain intact and protected. Of course. Hmmm. I inspect the vials trying to decide which combinations would be best. Potions for Post Cruciatus, dehydration, food supplementation…. Pain relief, Pepper Up, nerve repair… There's so much to fix. I swallow quickly from each with all with the ease of someone who's drank foul tasting substances for most of their life. I certainly didn't waste any efforts hiding their acrid taste, I realize with a silent snort, and decide Potter would appreciate the irony that *I* have to enjoy the taste of my own bitter creations.
The food, No, gruel, sits in a metal tray across the room beside a thick clay goblet. How do you expect him to reach his food? Rage rises up within me with an intensity that surprises me. He can barely stay conscious. How on earth do they expect him to eat? The answer stuns me. Of course. They don't.
"You'll bring the next tray and drink and set them on Potter's bed," I hiss in Potter's voice. It sounds frighteningly sinister, and I feel Potter's lip curl with my anger. "You'll leave his charmed blankets alone, and you'll bring his tray to his bed because it's evident he cannot reach it on his own," I snarl to the house elves I suspect are still lurking about. I don't know if they are following protocol or orders, and I don't care. I know the little buggers can hear me.
Potter's voice filled with my rage is chilling, and I feel a surprising surge of gratitude that Potter is *so* good as to be nearly incorruptible. My heart skips a beat at his hissed, wispy tone and I wonder if it's the novelty of speaking with someone else's voice that is frightening me, or something more. "He's fifteen years old, and if he dies, you will be his murderers," I say venomously and begin the slow process of crawling across the cell to his food. Neither he nor I have the energy to do anything more. As I move, a cold thrills through my veins and voices not my own fill my own thoughts. Merlin. Not all the Dementors have left yet, I realize in horror and as the chill zings up my spine and I fall into Potter's nightmares…
It's Christmas morning. I don't know *how* I know this, but I do. The tiny hand that reaches in front of me indicates that this memory of Potter's must be when he was only five or six. The small hand turns a knob, and then he takes a quick glance behind him which shows me his bedroom. It's a closet, I note in surprise. He steps out into the main house with bare feet nearly tripping over the long pant legs of his pajamas. His cousin's pajamas. I'm not sure how I know this, but I do. His feet are freezing as he steps across the cold floor, but understanding floats up to me… He has no slippers. Miscellaneous bits of knowledge which are understood by him, but not known by me, slide into my mind. Interesting.
A family sits within the living room gathered around the Christmas tree. They are remarkably repulsive looking. The man… Potter's uncle… is obese and blustery. He appears bullish and sour, although his face is clenched into a smile at the moment as he watches his son tear through Christmas wrap. Vernon Dursley is his name… is wearing silk pajamas and a robe he obviously thought would look sophisticated but instead fails to cover his girth completely. I *feel* Potter's hesitancy to join this scene. He's already cooked them breakfast? I realize from his memories. How can that be? I've seen how Muggles cook. How could he even reach the stove? Nonetheless, the fact evidently remains.
Potter's aunt would look right at home amongst mules. Her long angular facial structure and jutting jaw make me scour her face looking for *any* signs of Lily Potter… How can you be related to this?… and her thin lips are pursed together nervously as she awaits her son's reaction to his present. She's all bones and angles, with none of Lily Potter's healthy, wholesome beauty. Aunt Petunia… the name floats up to me. Of all of the memories to get caught up in, I count my blessings that it's *this* one. Things could have been much worse, I realize, and decide to wait out the rest of Potter's memory, pleased that so far my own memories remain happily buried. I'll stick this out and wait for the Dementor to pass by, then resume my trek for the gruel. Oh joy.
As Potter *the child* steps into the room, three heads snap up and glare at him. He is clearly not welcome here, yet feels obligated to remain. I feel Potter's desire to flee to the closet as he determinedly pushes forward. He chooses a place in the corner and folds himself onto the floor… He's not allowed on the furniture, the knowledge drifts into my mind.
Potter's stomach rumbles loudly, and his 'Uncle Vernon' snarls out, "If you'd have gotten breakfast done earlier, perhaps you'd have gotten more to eat." I freeze. What's this? He's… what?… six at the most? You don't withhold food from a child. And on Christmas day nonetheless. Potter remains silent, although he maintains eye contact with the man. Interesting defense, Potter. I suspect it is probably more useful than my own defensive mechanism: sarcasm. And less painful.
Potter's cousin is an overweight monstrosity of a boy. I cannot quite tell how old he is, although I suspect he's near Potter's age, but their *size* difference is amazing. If I were to judge the age of the two boys based upon size alone, I'd put the cousin nearly twice Potter's age. As he sits on the floor I can clearly see rolls of fat peak out from underneath his pajama top, and his face is swollen and pudgy. Dudley is his name… Dudley's pig eyes dart towards Potter maliciously and he seems to be taking extra pleasure in unwrapping his gifts, insuring Potter sees every moment that he cannot share, for it quickly becomes clear that Potter has no gifts at all. The adults may have forgotten Potter's presence for the moment as he strives to blend in with the furniture, but the cousin most certainly has not. Although it's obvious the adults in this family have encouraged this malice, to see it in a child so young directed at Potter is obscene. I have no doubt it's never gotten better.
As I watch this mockery of a family tear through presents, I feel a question burning within Potter. Don't ask it, boy. Don't do it, I plead as I begin to understand what it is he wants to say. He asks anyway, once all the presents are unwrapped.
"How come I don't get presents?" Harry asks innocently. His voice takes me by surprise. I don't read anger or bitterness, but rather a lonely curiosity. He knows he'll be swatted back with cruel words, but feels he must ask nonetheless. It's taken him years to gather up the courage to do this. They all blink at him in surprise. Even his cousin appears shocked.
"Only good boys get presents, boy. Santa knows you're not a good boy," his Aunt Petunia replies, her eyes narrowed in disapproval.
I feel the surge of triumph within Harry as he replies, "Yes, but not all of those presents are from Santa. Some are from you, too," Harry replies, pointing to a name tag. Vernon Dursley had read each tag aloud before handing the gifts to his son. I myself was quite pleased with the Lamb pajama set Dudley's 'Aunt Marge' sent. It would have been better if his parent's had had the backbone to actually make him wear it.
"Why would we want to get you a gift?" Vernon Dursley asked angrily, clearly appalled at Potter's nerve. I can see the steam building up behind his words. He's about to become furious. Petunia Dursley reaches a hand out and rests it on Vernon Dursley's forearm.
"Do you want a gift, too, boy?" she asks, and my breath hitches. Harry nods hesitantly. The smile that lights up her face is stark cruelty. Vernon appears astonished at her words and is about to argue with her when he sees her expression. His own face lights up as his eyes glare dully at Harry.
"Next year, then," Vernon announces abruptly. Dudley's eyes go round angrily as he begins to protest loudly. "Now go to your room," he orders, and Harry hastily complies as Vernon scoops up his repulsive son and obviously whispers what he intends to give Harry next year. Dudley giggles happily. Harry remains painfully oblivious as I feel the faint hope surge within him. It becomes hard to swallow for a moment as I anticipate the scene to come.
I flit from one moment to another for the next year of Potter's life; all those moments he contemplates what his relatives will get him. Actually, I'm rather surprised by his realism. Potter isn't so much anticipating the gift itself as he is the act of opening it.
I discover Potter has a rather vivid imagination as he closes his eyes occasionally, having finished with housework given for the sake of having him do *something*, and pretends to feel the paper rip underneath his hands, the anticipation of *not knowing* what the gift will be.
"It could be anything," I hear him think. "It could be a puppy, or a book, or a toy. It could be a blanket…" A blanket? I wonder, then realize how cold much of Potter's childhood has been with only a thin blanket to keep him warm in winter; "…or a photo of my parents," he thinks, his inner voice innocent and hopeful. He's never seen them, I suddenly understand, appalled.
Potter's memory progresses, and I'm once again with him as he opens the closet door to peer at the obscene family blissfully opening presents before him. Lovely. Next Christmas. And I see he's cooked breakfast again. His heart is beating in anticipation even as he cautions himself against getting too excited. I can easily hear, deep down, the part of him that desperately yearns for a kind word or gesture from this family, and I feel sick to know he'll never see it. I don't even need to see any further memories to know that.
He waits patiently as everyone opens their presents but him. One gift stands alone, separated from the rest as if the Dursleys fear it may contaminate *their* gifts. Potter has seen it for days. He knows exactly where it sits underneath the tree. Occasionally, his aunt or uncle's hands will come tantalizingly close to picking the gift up, then skim over it to pick up another one for Dudders… I shudder at the nickname. Their eyes watch Potter squirm anxiously, their own tight lipped smiles unnoticed. Dudley himself can barely contain his snickers. Potter doesn't miss his cousin's behavior, even if the adult's more subtle actions are lost on him. Nonetheless, it's a present, and Potter's never had one.
I realize that although *this* is far more mild than some of the things Potter has witnessed, it is wringing me out nonetheless. I feel my stomach…or is it his?... clench painfully as I silently wish for Potter to never open the *gift*. By the end of the morning, only two gifts remain; one for Potter and one for his cousin. Ah, even if it's a cruel present, the Dursleys know that Dudley would never tolerate having Potter open the last present of the day. Petunia Dursley's hands hover over Potter's present teasingly, then reach for Dudley's. I'm surprised for a moment, then let out a breath I didn't know I'd held as her hand releases Dudley's present and clasps Potter's gift instead. She stands with the gift held between her hands and walks slowly over to Potter. I still am unsure of his age. Perhaps seven, at this point? So he was six last year?
"You asked for a present, boy. Here you go," she says without preamble. I wish I could close my eyes, but cannot. Potter takes the brightly wrapped gift in trembling hands. He looks closely at his aunt and uncle's faces and sees the malice there. He watches as Dudley has to turn away to hide his snickers, obviously not remorseful in the least at his mother's glare trying to try to silence him into not giving their secret away.
Potter closes his eyes, and mine close with him. He doesn't have faces to put to his parents, but instead imagines their warm voices and cries of happiness as he sits at their feet.
"Look what Santa brought you, Harry. A slingshot!" I start at Potter's ideal toy, surprised, and suppress a snicker. Ah, to be a little boy again... Or perhaps not. I realize my own mirth is merely a release for nervous energy. "After gifts, let's all sit by the fire and eat cookies," the masculine voice says. It must be what Potter imagines his father's voice to be. It's actually quite off, but then, this *is* the imagination of a little boy. "No, you don't give him sweets, you cook Harry a nice breakfast and send him out to have snowball fights with his father. You *did* notice it's started snowing, didn't you, Harry?" Potter's imaginary mother says. I feel the warmth that Harry derives from this pathetic attempt at a happy home life and feel ill. The incompleteness; Potter's own inability to fully flesh out a good memory is painfully obvious. So how did he find his Patronus? My brain wonders randomly.
"Give me that. You're taking too long," Vernon Dursley says, ripping Potter's gift out of his hands. Where Potter had carefully pulled the Muggle tape from the paper, fully intending to keep it as a memento, Dursley rips and shreds viciously at it until only a cardboard box remains. He pushes it back into Potter's hands. "Open it," he says. Potter stares at the closed box and holds his breath as he opens the lid. Inside is an empty tomato sauce can surrounded by tissue paper, still dirty with traces of its contents. It's from last night's dinner, Potter realizes. He'd watched Aunt Petunia throw it in the trash. The room bursts into laughter as Harry lifts the can out of the box. He looks at the wrapping paper strewn across the floor in disappointment, and I can hear his mind decide that *that* was not a memento he wanted anyway.
"Merry Christmas, boy," Vernon Dursley says mockingly, then nods to Petunia who takes the last present under the tree and hands it to Dudley, kneeling beside him to watch him unwrap it. Her eyes slip to glance at Potter as he sits and silently watches his cousin. I can see they're disappointed in his lack of response, and although he shows little, I can feel the emotions bubbling under the surface. The sadness is so natural to him now, the loneliness held into place by yet one more pin. He aches for love… I can feel it. It's so raw and real that it nearly overwhelms me even as I feel Harry draw within himself. He offers himself no platitudes, nothing to buffer the blow his relatives deliver. He simply sits, absorbs the pain, and moves on. It's far more than I've *ever* wanted to know about him.
"What do you say for the Christmas gift, boy?" Vernon Dursley growls as Dudley shrieks with joy at the electronic toy he's been given, his attention diverted back to his own presents now that the fun in picking on Potter is over. Vernon Dursley is talking to Harry, not Dudley. Evidently, no thanks are expected from the brat. Dudley's toy begins to light up and make the obnoxious sounds of Muggle gunfire while Vernon waits for Potter's reply.
"Thank you Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia," Harry says flatly and stands to leave. He holds the can in his hand, and I know he fully intends to throw it away later. He walks away to return to his closet… his room… and I feel something deep within Potter that I hadn't realized was *always* there. The moment I'd activated the bond with him, I sensed a deep melancholy within him, a thoughtfulness and watchfulness that most *adults* I've met lack. I'd rather thought it was a later development due to his dreams. Now I see it has been with him since early childhood. I refuse to reanalyze all my interactions with the boy based on this knowledge, I decide. Have I mentioned that ignorance is bliss?
One final thought from Potter drifts into my mind, and I recognize it for what it is. "I'm not going to count this as my first Christmas present then," he decides resolutely. I sense his disappointment that he didn't even get to unwrap the present. "But at least I tried." Yes indeed, I know a motto when I hear one.
As the Dementor finally passes by Potter's cell, I finish crawling to the tray and stuff Potter's face with the gruel before my gag reflex kicks in. It's disgusting. Potter's fingers can't quite wrap securely enough around the cup to hold it steady, and I too spill more water than I can make him drink down the front of his robes. I'm losing energy fast as I work to get Potter settled. I drag across the floor to the mattress, and the simple act of climbing into bed proves to be my undoing. Thankfully, the charmed blankets remain, and I force Potter to cocoon himself within them. I had feared the house elves might have changed the sheets, and taken his charmed blankets with them. I'm pleased that this is no the case. I'm going to need a long rest before I can help him with his Animagus training. Blocking my own memories from Potter as I experience even mild Dementor flashbacks has proved to be my undoing. I'd been caught by surprise.
When I initiate the bond and pull the boy to me, the Dementors don't affect me as much. But as I was *in* Potter's body at the time, their direct influence has exhausted me. Although I don't lose consciousness when Dementors are about, it's certainly not pleasant in the least either. I've not mentioned it to Dumbledore, but I suspect it's by sheer will alone that I *don't* pass out. What he doesn't know won't hurt him. Take that proverb and… Ahem… Sighing, I make one last check to see that Potter is settled. Closing his eyes, I allow myself to slide out of his skin. I drift away, the stale sea air is replaced by musky smoke and tea. Tea? A hand presses a bit of chocolate into mine and I open my eyes to see Albus sitting on the edge of my bed. I've arrived home then. Yeay.
"I can see what happened. Are you alright?" Albus asks gently as he sets about filling my goblet with Pepper Up potion. I nod as I chew on the chocolate bar thoughtfully. The aches and pains of my own body prove delightfully simple compared to Potter's. All in all, I'm feeling much better. "Were you able to help him?" Albus asks gently after a moment. I nod again, then look in his eyes and see something that doesn't necessarily surprise me, but makes me pause nonetheless. I suspect he *knew* what it was like for Potter. His childhood. All those years.
I decide to look at this logically before the thought slips away in exhaustion. Could anyone have provided a better home for the boy? Yes. Could Dumbledore have provided as much magical protection? No. But then again… Did Potter need it? All this concern for Potter's safety, and the only real threat he faced would have been Death Eaters seeking revenge.
Voldemort's followers lost their momentum when their leader disappeared. Placing Potter with the Muggles *immediately* after Voldemort's demise was appropriate. But once Dumbledore brought me from Azkaban, and I showed him my own faded Dark Mark; proof of Voldemort's diminished power to the point of *what I'd then hoped* permanent incapacitation… why did Potter remain with those people? Potter needs more protection *now* than he ever did, and the option to remain with those appalling Muggles has thankfully been taken off the table. Until the Ministry stepped into the picture, my understanding was that Potter was quite safe at the Weasleys.
As Albus and I look at each other quietly for a moment, I realize something I really wish I hadn't. He is fallible. He's trying, but he's not omnipotent. He's done the best he can, and lives with the consequences. Perhaps because he's more powerful, the consequences are more far reaching. Either way, even as I wish I didn't see this side of Albus Dumbledore, I'm also slightly glad I did. After all, I too, am doing the best I can. And that's all anyone can do.
I chew on the chocolate thoughtfully and let Albus give me more Pepper Up. Although steam comes out my ears, I also find I'm drifting to sleep. Albus doesn't feel the need to question me. I suspect he senses my need for silence. He's satisfied I've insured Potter will survive another day. As I drift, I find I'm already beginning to think of the best approach to try to help Potter turn into his Animagus form. Since when do I care? my mind asks. I know the answer, but don't dignify my brain with it. Damn meddling insight. It's almost as burdensome as a conscience.
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The pleas of the old woman, begging Harry to wake up, oddly began to fade. Reality, nightmares… It had become hard to tell when he was awake and when he was in a memory. Images blended until all he saw was one long cinema in his mind of pain and suffering. He longed to grow numb of the spectacle of human cruelty he witnessed… But it was all so real. Nothing diminished. The helplessness, the desperation, the pity and anguish he'd felt the first time he dreamt of her… of *all of them*… didn't diminish now that he knew their outcomes. They always died. Except once. But the hope he'd held in his heart for the one life he'd managed to save wasn't allowed in this place.
Harry found there was no way to steel himself for the onslaught of emotions, no way to center himself or prepare for the pain that always came. The agony of the curses still coursed through his body just the same, their cries for help, for mercy didn't fade. He failed them again and again.
But as the old woman's face faded, Harry realized that other thoughts were beginning to seep into his mind… My thoughts, not memories. Are the Dementors leaving? Is it mealtime already? Will I be able to stay awake? He wondered. As he waited in the deafening stillness, a vacuum after the screams, neither awake nor asleep, Harry was pleased to note he no longer felt his own body anymore. Well, perhaps that's not a good thing, but nonetheless it's a relief. Such thoughts always reminded Harry of Sirius, of *who* he needed to be strong for. Harry no longer needed to try to imagine how it was for his godfather all those years.
Now I understand, he realized, and marveled again that he'd been able to think of *anything* besides his visions. Now he understood so much more about Sirius than he ever had before. Twelve years… How many days have I been here? I can't even imagine. The respect and admiration he felt for the strength and resilience in his godfather multiplied daily. How is it I'm even thinking? Harry wondered. This was probably the longest Harry had been able to think clearly since the night Voldemort killed the Barnes couple. A tiny bit of warmth seep into Harry's senses. What? Warmth? He hadn't been warm in ages.
**Awake now, are we?** a voice chirped in Harry's mind. Blackness still engulfed him, but oddly he didn't feel like he was even *in* his cell anymore. The faint pop of wood burning in a fireplace confirmed it. Warmth and comfort seeped into his senses, which Harry gratefully accepted with a silent sigh.
**I'm not sure. I guess,** Harry replied as he struggled to be more aware of his surroundings. He knew the voice immediately of course. He would *never* be able to not recognize his potions professor's voice.
**There's a bond between us, and I'm pulling you to me… away from Azkaban. Are you going to sit there all day or try to help me? It will go much faster if you do,** Harry's vexed Potions Professor said, and Harry tried to muster enough energy to comply. Although the aches and pains of his own body appeared to have been left behind, an overwhelming sense of exhaustion remained.
Harry wasn't sure *what* he was supposed to do in this dark void with only the sarcastic voice of Professor Snape to guide him. Harry tried to concentrate on what Snape was talking about, and soon enough he felt a pull at his breastbone. I assume this is it, he thought absently and consciously tried to move forward. He could feel the tug, much like a Portkey, trying to pull him in a direction that didn't feel natural. Is that because it's away from my body? He wondered. This must be what Snape's talking about then. Harry concentrated on moving forward, assisting the pull in his chest, and found himself flying forward so fast that he became disoriented and no longer knew if he was rushing *towards* Snape or back to his own body.
The moment he stopped trying, Harry felt a snap of energy that seemed to seal him into… breath. A heartbeat. Limbs. Light peeked from between eyes now beginning to open… Warm sheets, firelight, cool air, the sight and scent of tea and pastries at a bedside… Tea and pastries? Definitely not Azkaban, then. Harry realized he must be in Snape's bedroom.
**That was interesting,** Snape observed, and Harry realized as his vision cleared just *what* had occurred.
I'm in Snape's body. Harry stilled and tried to absorb just what the implications were.
**Wouldn't it be simpler if I told you?** Snape asked dryly.
Can he read my thoughts? Harry wondered, curiosity overriding his fatigue.
**Now what do *you* think, Potter?**
Harry goggled at the ramifications, deciding it was too weird for words. Can I read his thoughts as well?
**Only when I want you to… Which I don't,** Snape replied.
That's rather unfair, Harry decided tiredly, but not surprised.
"Rather ironic, coming from you," Snape said aloud, startling Harry. He found he liked it better when Snape spoke into the empty bed chamber than when he talked directly into Harry's mind. It gave Harry more of a sense of distance. He found it disconcerting to know Snape was reading his thoughts. After all, he'd spent his whole life guarding his tongue against his relatives, but never had to guard his thoughts before. "Very well. I'll continue conversing with you in this fashion, then," Snape said, reading Harry's preferences. He assumed Snape could also sense his relief.
So am I supposed to become an Animagus here? Harry wondered.
"If you'd quit jumping ahead, I'll explain things to you. Will you stop babbling in my mind?" Snape asked in annoyance. Harry remained silent. Snape grunted in satisfaction. "Thank you. Now… As you can see, I've drawn you to me. Your body remains in Azkaban. Your spirit currently resides here with me. Your heart still beats, you still draw breath, but the spell and potion Headmaster Dumbledore performed allow me to bring your soul, your essence here for relief. It distances the effects of the Dementors. It also takes a great deal of energy to hold you here, though, so I will only be able to do it for a couple of hours," Snape said and sat up in bed, pushing back warm bedcovers. Harry sighed at the loss. Deep green velvet curtains were drawn at the four bedposts on his bed, leaving the Potions Master's private chambers clearly visible.
Snape slid his feet over the edge of the bed and into charmed slippers. Harry decided that *that* was a brilliant idea as warmth once again enveloped his toes. As Snape stood and looked for his robe, Harry's vision roamed where Snape looked.
"Yes, you do seem perpetually cold," Snape observed quietly as he crossed the room. Harry felt a great deal like an invisible watcher in the back of Snape's mind, seeing his actions but seemingly unable to affect them. Out of curiosity, Harry tried to tap Snape's finger against his thigh, just to see if he could. Nothing happened, but Harry wasn't surprised. Simply curious.
"It's because you're too weak. If I were to give permission *and* you had the strength, you would probably be able to do as I did: manifest completely within the other person. I did so earlier when you were unconscious. You've eaten and taken potions," Snape explained.
Thank you, Harry thought.
"You're welcome," Snape replied. Harry searched for any sarcasm within Snape's words, but found none.
This is very strange, Harry realized. Snape was being entirely too nice. Even exhausted as he felt, Harry's curiosity helped to keep his attention riveted, and he found he was intrigued with this side of the Potions Master. Snape remained silent.
Instead of making comments on what Harry was thinking, Snape slipped on a warm black robe. He must have sensed Harry's interest in the Head of Slytherin's private chambers, for Snape allowed his head to swivel, his vision taking in the furnishings of the room and giving Harry a detailed glimpse. It was a thoughtful gesture, and certainly nothing Harry had ever seen the bitter Professor indulge in before.
The room seemed disappointingly unexceptional. It was actually rather cozy. Harry definitely hadn't expected that. The tapestries on the wall were faded with age until only the hues of color remained as opposed to the actual images. The rugs on the stone floor were plush and ornate and covered most of the room. Candles burned brightly throughout, and couches and chairs were tucked into corners and against walls with writing desks beside them, all filled with books of every shape and size. It's a scholar's room. It appeared Snape didn't have just one area where he studied, but rather quite a few. Shelves against the stone walls were filled with what Harry recognized to be the more exotic potions ingredients seldom necessary for class, but often used for medicinal purposes. Probably the ingredients he doesn't trust to leave in the store room, Harry decided.
"Precisely," Snape agreed with Harry's thoughts and crossed the room, settling into a chair beside the fireplace as he poured some tea for himself. "I suppose you should enjoy this as well," Snape observed with only slight sarcasm in his voice and took a sip. The warmth of the tea against his tongue was absolute bliss for Harry. Glancing at the pastries beside the bed, Harry felt a brief rush of humor from Snape before it was squelched. "I'm normally not partial to croissants, myself, but I'm not above begging," Snape said and reached for the croissant accommodatingly.
Now that Harry was beginning to grow comfortable as an observer within Snape's mind, he truly began to feel what it was like to *be* Snape. Harry looked down at Snape's long, slender fingers as he took another sip of tea and realized he was actually quite graceful. Each move was a conscious act, calculated and precise.
Is this from being a Potions Master? Harry wondered. Looking back, Harry realized that Snape's menacing gait as his black robes billowed behind him was actually quite… aristocratic. Interesting, Harry realized.
"I'm still here, you know," Snape observed wryly.
Then would you take a bite of the croissant, please? Harry asked, marveling how much better he felt. It's because I've left my body behind, Harry realized, and closed off *that* thought before his mind went anywhere further. Down that road lay things he didn't want to think about at the moment. Snape wisely said nothing.
As Snape took another bite of the croissant, Harry was aware of an odd burning sensation on Snape's left forearm. Snape set the croissant down and rested his left hand on his leg, palm facing up. "Yes, that's what you think it is," Snape said, his voice somber. Harry watched as Snape slid the sleeve of his robe up to his elbow. The Dark Mark was clearly visible against his forearm.
It burns. Does this mean Voldemort's active? Harry wondered.
"No. Otherwise, I suspect the pain in your scar would make it harder for me to hold you here than it is. No, this is simply a *reminder* that he's returned," Snape answered. Harry stared at the stark markings on Snape's skin and marveled at his control. It itched and burned, and if Harry had been in control of Snape's body, he'd have scratched it bloody by now. It was driving him batty.
"I have my moments," Snape murmured, and Harry wondered if Snape even intended for Harry to hear the words. "Now that I've discovered the mystery of Black and Lupin's gift to you, I find myself *hopeful* that you actually managed to study it enough for us to immediately begin working on your Animagus transformation," Snape said, settling further into the chair beside the tea. Harry eyed the tea and croissant longingly, and Snape sighed martryishly while he sipped, then took another bite of the pastry. Harry thrilled in the sensation and allowed himself to just enjoy it for a moment.
Other than that bloody itch, it's quite nice here, he decided. Harry knew his threshold for pain was not in doubt, so he suspected that Snape's forearm bothered him as much as it did simply because it *was* tied to Voldemort. Harry was surprised to realize that seeing the Mark so vividly didn't make him view Snape any differently.
Just last year the concept of knowing *anyone* who'd received the Dark Mark repulsed him. The Death Eaters who'd appeared in the graveyard for Voldemort's rebirth had seemed disgusting; their groveling fear tangible, their lust for power seeming to ooze from their very being. They were cruel men, predators like Voldemort. Harry hated few people in his life, but even *before* the nightmares he'd hated these men.
Not so with Snape. Once Harry had learned of Snape's role as a spy, when he'd exposed himself as a former Death Eater to Fudge the night after the Triwizard Tournament, Harry had thought a great deal for the kind of life it must have required Snape to live.
The conversations Harry saw later in his nightmares between the Potions Master and Voldemort were very clearly a giant chess match. Snape picked and chose what truths he spoke, and interspersed them with pure fiction. It was nerve-wracking to say the least, and stressed Harry nearly out of his skin. By the time the final Cruciatus Curses were cast, Harry decided Snape must live on his instincts. Wormtail provided just enough knowledge to constantly test Snape's truthfulness, and he often walked a very fine line between revealing himself and causing his own death.
Harry wasn't sure *when* he'd stopped hating his professor, but as he looked at Snape's Dark Mark and felt the shame that burned through the man, still perceivable even behind Snape's defenses, Harry realized how much he had in common with him. When a man's currency is regret, debts can only be paid in blood... Where'd *that* come from? Harry wondered.
"Let's save the introspection for when your professor isn't here to eavesdrop, shall we?" Snape asked ironically. Harry rolled his figurative eyes and began to concentrate on recalling all the steps to becoming an Animagus.
How's this going to work with me here? You already said you cannot become an Animagus, so how am I supposed to practice while in you? Harry wondered, still weary. He hoped he was up for this.
"What you do *here* will affect your body *there*. Your connection to magic is with your spirit… here," Snape said, tapping his own breastbone. "As you concentrate on the steps, the magic *should* flow through you. By keeping your soul here, it prevents the Dementors from distracting you, and allows me to provide any last minute energy or tutelage you may require. Once the change is complete, I will allow the bond to pull me to join you in your new form, and we'll find out just *what* you are... Quickly, what are the three most dangerous aspects to becoming an Animagus?" Snape snapped.
One, using a magic not controlled by a wand to manifest physical internal changes within the human body can prove fatal if not monitored closely, as it takes a while for the human body to develop a tolerance for such raw and primal magic, Harry said, then paused to organize his thoughts. Snape remained silent.
Secondly, any stop, reversal, or hesitation within the transformation process can cease the magical preservation of your health. For example, if you're half dog and half human, and the dog's heart has already been transformed, *that* heart will not be capable of sustaining life in the morphed body, Harry said, using Sirius' Animagus form as an example.
"Too bad you can't study like this in Potions," Snape snorted. Harry ignored him, and restrained himself from mentioning how much more *interesting* studying to become an Animagus was than potions anyway. "I heard that," Snape said sharply, but Harry sensed his bark didn't have much bite.
Also, once the process is completely halted and magic ceases to aid the body in its transformation, it cannot be restarted without having to *permanently* rearrange your own physical mass, likely causing damage in the process. After all, most people aren't aware of every single valve and chamber necessary for the human heart to function, so their attempt at such repair inevitably proves fatal as outside intervention is impossible, Harry said and marveled that Pettigrew would have had the courage to take such a risk. Harry still had a hard time reconciling the man who killed Cedric with the story Snape had told.
"Focus, Potter," Snape instructed.
Finally, without careful control of your physical transformation and the magic it requires, wizards have been known to overshoot the mark and end up a tangle of limbs and fur. Without a clear beginning and end, the magic used to become an Animagus can wipe all traces of *both* the human and the animal, becoming irrevocably lost, Harry quoted.
"Well done," Snape said, and he did sound somewhat impressed. "Time is short, Potter, and the sooner we do this, the more energy I have to give if you need it. Do you honestly believe you're ready to actually try to become an Animagus?" Snape asked sincerely.
Harry hesitated as he searched within himself. He'd practically memorized the book. He'd spent countless hours visualizing what to do. But he was so perpetually tired now. Was he ready? No. Would he try anyway? Yes.
"This does not instill confidence, Potter. Please consider that you'll splinch *me* as well should you fail," Snape said dryly.
Yes, well, I've been thinking about that, Harry thought, not mentioning how long he actually *had* been thinking about it. After all, he'd had no idea that if he failed he'd splinch Snape as well. But now that he did… The Dementors leave at mealtime, right? If you could find a way to insure I take enough potions to wake up, *then* sever the link, I could try it on my own and not endanger you at all, Harry commented. Snape's annoyance was both audible and mental.
"I understand this is an obsession of yours, Potter, so I'll let your ludicrous comments slide. But to answer your suggestion… No. My debt is *not* your concern, and neither is my life. There's only so much even *my* potions can do. More needs to be done to keep you alive. The wheels of bureaucracy are moving to free you, but it will still require a little more time, time I don't think you have unless we try this. So ignore my previous comment, center yourself before you begin, and for Merlin's sake don't fail. How does that sound?" Snape asked peevishly, his voice hard.
Certainly, Harry replied and pulled further back from Snape's senses to try to focus more on his own. The moment he tried to distance himself, the exhaustion returned in full force, flooding his awareness. He took a deep breath and tried to feel the magic he knew he had within him even without his wand.
It was something Harry had *known* without really knowing. The moment he'd saved his own and Hermione's life after first learning the truth about Sirius and Remus, the moment he thought he'd seen his father's Animagus form fight off the Dementors... Something deep within him, something Harry had never admitted aloud, whispered to him that he could do that, too. He had it within him.
But to do it without a wand… Harry missed his wand. Fudge himself had taken it, and Harry had had to restrain himself from reaching out to grab it back. He'd not realized how much a part of him it now was until it was gone. It's one thing to know the magic is within me, but it's another to put it into play, Harry decided. Theory is all well and good until you put it into practice.
"We'll get your wand back, Potter. Now would you *please* focus on the task at hand?" Snape asked. Harry gathered his wandering thoughts.
Right. Sorry, Harry thought. Focus, Harry said and allowed himself to quit worrying about his surroundings and the chair Snape sat in. The warmth of the fireplace against his legs dimmed, and even Snape's presence seemed to fade as Harry tried to look within himself, gather his energies as the book had instructed, and begin the process. His skin seemed to tingle as the air around him seemed to shimmer. Is it the air in Snape's room or my cell?
"Concentration isn't a strong point of yours, is it Potter? Don't worry about the details, worry about the process," Snape instructed curtly.
Yes, sorry, Harry said.
"Are you *sure* you're ready to try this?" Snape asked, the first real concern shading his voice.
Would you quit breaking my concentration? Harry asked and couldn't help the humor that tinged his thought. Snape snorted in annoyance and snapped his jaw shut. Harry was properly gratified. Allowing his senses once again to pull back, Harry immediately felt the tingling now. He wasn't sure if it was Snape's skin or his own, but pushed his curiosity aside as he pursued the sensation.
Harry decided it must be his own skin. He must be beginning to feel the process. The tingling started at his fingertips and moved up his arms, into his chest and lungs. Quickly it surged down his legs and up into his head. Suddenly Harry's senses seemed to go topsy turvy as perceptions changed around him. He felt muscles contract, bones shift and rearrange themselves, and ligaments stretch and expand. He was shrinking and expanding at the same time, and although it was highly uncomfortable, it wasn't quite painful, simply… tiring and extremely disorienting. Harry felt his own grip on the magic humming around him begin to slip and…
"Oh no you don't," Snape said, and a surge of magic filled Harry, carrying him through. He'd lost momentum, but not the process. His arms seemed to stretch for miles as did his neck, even as Harry knew he was nearly half the size he'd originally been. The magic seemed to stop coursing through his bones, but still sung in his ears.
Am I done? Harry wondered. It had been an amazing sensation, like falling off a cliff and letting the air buffet his body into something completely different. Abruptly Harry realized he was freezing. Freezing? Am I changed now? Shouldn't I have fur or something? Harry asked. He felt a surge of relief flow through his bond to Snape as he opened his eyes. See, I didn't splinch you, Professor, Harry thought. He was back on his bed in his cell in Azkaban. As he opened his eyes, Harry saw the cell he was in clearly… all of it. At once. There was no need for him to turn his head. Ummm, Harry thought, unsure what to do now. Senses. What kind of senses do I have? He decided a mental checklist might help. His vision was amazing and creepy. He could clearly see every detail of the room, every nook and cranny… More so than he'd ever wanted to, actually. Scratch marks against the cell door, desperate words carved into the stone walls, blood on the floor. Oh. That's mine.
Harry realized he could still feel the chill of the Dementors, but instead of their magic overpowering his senses, they simply hummed on the outskirts of his consciousness, like bees flying near his ear. I can definitely live with this, except I'm so cold, Harry decided.
**Well, Potter, what are you?** Snape asked, his curiosity tangible in Harry's mind.
I have no idea, Harry replied, bewildered. As far as he could tell, his hearing was normal, he had seemingly near 360 degree vision that was extremely focused and precise, no fur, and somewhat enhanced olfactory senses. Enough to smell his neighbors, which was something he could have done without.
**Say something. See what sounds you make,** Snape instructed practically. Evidently Harry's Animagus form protected Snape from the Dementors as well, for Harry could sense that Snape wasn't having any difficulty staying with him. Harry tried to make a sound, but gagging erupted in the room instead. He was startled for a moment, then collected himself and decided to try again.
Okay, Harry thought, but the sound he made sounded more like a squawk than words. What kind of sound is that? Harry wondered, but warbling musical chirps sounded instead. A bird! I'm a bird! Harry decided and stretched out a leg in front of him to see what kind of feathers he should have. They must be ridiculously lightweight for me to be this chilled. Is there such a thing as a summer bird? Harry wondered.
**Ummm,** Snape said as Harry stared at the outstretched claws in front of him. They were gold. His leg, however, appeared to have no feathers at all. In fact, he rather looked like an unfortunate turkey he'd once seen Aunt Petunia cook.
If I'm a bird, aren't I supposed to have feathers? Harry asked, bewildered, of Snape's stunned presence within him. He felt so tired now, so cold, and now rather… exposed. He gathered his wings *arms* in front of him. That seemed to help a little.
**Ummm,** Snape tried again.
Professor, I'm bald, Harry said in exasperation, weariness making him shake his head. Snape evidently remained speechless.
You're not helping much, Harry scolded the former Death Eater in his mind. Warbled singing came out of his mouth instead of words. Harry froze as he suddenly remembered another bird, another time, whose warbled trills of music sounded very similar to his own. That's it… I'm a phoenix, aren't I? Harry said, pleased to have discovered his mystery form.
**Ummmm, yes. It appears you are,** Snape finally said. Harry's mind made the leap right away. He was a phoenix without feathers, so...
Near Burning Day. That's it, isn't it? I'm a phoenix near Burning Day, Harry thought. Snape remained silent.
Harry must have startled Snape when he began to chuckle, because Snape reached out through the bond tentatively, as if trying to make sure Harry hadn't snapped. He hadn't. It was just that, like the little moments of beauty or truth that Harry cherished, both in nature and in his friends, sometimes the silliness was too obvious to miss as well. Was this the kind of silliness that made Dumbledore offer candy with each meeting, and name his password after a magical sweet? Little trills of mirth filled the prison cell with merriment as Harry gently laughed.
**Potter?** Snape asked hesitantly.
Yes, Harry asked. Hm. Having a beak seemed rather strange, he decided. Not only did it seem too heavy somehow, but now that he looked at it, its gleaming gold color was quite shiny.
**Is there a problem?** Snape asked, obviously unsure how to voice his concerns. Harry shook his head tiredly.
No. No problems. My Animagus is a bird, but can I fly out of here? Harry asked, and in demonstration began to use his muscles to fly. His wings extended instinctively and the movements seemed natural, but without feathers he couldn't raise himself off the bed. Of course not, Harry answered his own question with a soft chuckle. At least if I'd been a penguin I could have *swum* out of here, Harry observed, and his mirth spread to Snape as well. Snape snorted.
It felt good to laugh. Harry realized it had been a *very* long time since he'd done it, since he had *felt* like doing it. In a way, he'd almost been afraid to. Harry had seen so much death and violence, it had broken his heart. It had felt more appropriate to respect that pain, to honor it by remembering the victims and not letting their anguish go. He couldn't get beyond their voices to remember who they were.
Now, though… Maybe this insight came simply because he'd been forced to relive all those awful moments, but the universal truth in each face, in each victim, Harry realized, had been their humanity. They were families, friends, lovers. In the face of so much death, Harry wondered, wasn't it better to honor life? What were all the things Voldemort was not? Humor, love, friendship, camaraderie, compassion, empathy, sharing… Harry began to see that the little joys Dumbledore seemed to revel in didn't make him weaker… they made him stronger. Yes, Dumbledore has the right of it. It's dark outside, but that doesn't mean we can't light a fire inside to keep us warm. Speaking of warmth…
Looking around at his cell, Harry realized that it in fact was larger than his cupboard under the stairs had been. Harry shook his head bemusedly at the thought. What a strange burst of optimism. It's all about perspective, isn't it? We'll see how long it lasts once I have another vision, he thought wearily, but suspected he'd feel the same. I'm so cold, though…
**Then get under the blankets, Potter. They're charmed, remember?** Snape snapped in annoyance. Harry was startled out of his thought and forced his long neck to lower his face to the sheets, a strange feat considering his body still stood upright. He took the edge of the blanket in his beak and pulled it up and over his head, effectively covering himself from head to… talon?... with warmth. Much better. Now if we could just get rid of the Dementors… Harry thought with faint humor. Snape snorted in Harry's mind, and he could sense the Potions Professor's thoughtfulness. Harry waited patiently for him to speak.
**This does put a hitch in our plans, doesn't it?** Snape observed wryly. Harry settled into the thin mattress and let the ramifications of what he was sink in.
Have you ever heard of anyone becoming a phoenix Animagus? Harry asked and tried to suppress the sudden urge to cough. He failed, and his beak opened to emit gagging sounds instead.
**No. You have the distinction of being the first on record,** Snape replied.
I must be quite close to my Burning Day if I have no feathers at all. If I die as a phoenix, do I die for real, or would I *rise again* like a phoenix does? Harry asked seriously.
**I don't know, Potter. I must admit… I'm stumped. Phoenix do have innate magical abilities, but I'm unsure if you'll be able to tap them. I suppose we can't leave you in this form until we've determined if you can survive your Burning Day,** Snape said thoughtfully after a moment. **You did well, and I can see that your Animagus form is protecting you from the Dementors, but I'm sorry. You'll need to change back until I talk to Albus,** Snape said after a moment, and Harry realized he could sense that Snape was indeed truly sorry.
It's okay, Professor. I'm rather pleased I survived the process, Harry replied. A brief shock shot across the bond between him and the Potions Master, but Snape remained silent for a moment.
**I'm going to have to leave soon, Harry. The change back should be a little easier as you'll be returning to your human shape rather than your Animagus form. You *know* what your body feels like. Just concentrate on putting yourself back together again,** Snape instructed. **I'll find out as soon as I can just what we can do with your new… abilities,** he said. Harry closed his eyes, his shivering finally beginning to cease beneath the warm blankets.
I don't want to go back, Harry thought tiredly even as he began the transformation, but knew he had to.
**I know,** Snape said, his thoughts tinged with sympathy, and as he supplied the energy needed to aid Harry in transforming once more back into his human shape, Harry felt the bond slip between himself and the Potions Master. Snape was releasing him back to his own body, back to the Dementors. **I'll be as fast as I can,** he promised, and Harry fell completely back into his own nightmares until a sharp burning in his forehead brought awareness to him once again.
His body floated away from him as he was drawn once again to Voldemort. It appeared to be evening now and Harry could clearly see the countryside below. Thick trees obscured all but the Muggle roads until he approached a tiny village, faint plumes of smoke rising from a few of the chimneys. Flying quickly past the small town, Harry was drawn to a clearing just south of it where a desolate manor stood, run down and imposing. As Harry approached it, he could see a small cemetery to the side. The evening shadows played off the tombstones and ancient statues as he drifted past, and it took only a glimpse of the last name of one of those graves to know with awful certainty just where he was. Riddle.
Harry realized that *this* was where Cedric died, and his own memories threatened to overwhelm him for a moment as he floated beyond the graveyard, through the stone walls, down deep into the bowels of the manor, to a room lit only by firelight. He'd begun fighting the pull now, resisting even though he knew it was futile. It never did any good. Two figures were in the room where Harry settled. One sat lazily in a chair, the other kneeled at the base of the chair, his forehead pressed against the seated man's feet. Harry knew who they both were.
"…why you didn't tell me this earlier? It was a perfect opportunity. If I'd *known* he was a traitor, I'd have treated him accordingly, placing him under the Imperious Curse to poison the boy myself. As it is, you've made me waste valuable time with the traitor," Voldemort hissed. The room seemed thick with Dark Magic, the very air surrounding Harry felt dirty and wrong. He felt the hair rise up on the nape of his neck. Pettigrew kneeled before Voldemort, his forehead rested on Voldemorts foot, his silver hand practically radiating power. Harry was amazed at how weak Wormtail seemed, considering how strong the magic in Pettigrew's new hand felt to him.
"I'm sorry, Master, but I had to know for certain. I didn't want to reveal him unless I was sure," Pettigrew whimpered, his mouth muffled as it remained pressed against the rug covered floor.
"You do not serve me with your mind. You serve me with your blind obedience. I see you need a reminder of what I do to those who fail to fulfill their roles in my service?" Voldemort hissed, and in the firelight Harry could clearly see the red eyes, narrowed in anger and annoyance. "Crucio," he said casually, his hand lazily giving a flick of his wand, and Pettigrew writhed on the floor at Voldemort's feet, his body spasming, writhing and kicking against invisible forces as his mouth opened to emit an agonized scream of pain. Harry had joined him on the ground and found himself equally overwhelmed, but was able to keep his eyes open, to look into Pettigrew's face and try to see beyond his own perceptions to what his parents had seen in this man. Nothing revealed itself. Finally, the curse was lifted. Pettigrew remained on the floor, his hands wrapped around his torso in pain. He panted loudly.
For one odd moment, Harry could have sworn Pettigrew was looking directly at him, but once the moment had passed, Harry could no longer be sure of anything. He was exhausted and weary to his very soul. He'd endured what he had in the hopes that truths would be revealed, that he might someday be reunited with the godfather he'd grown to love in such a short time, with his friends and the people he cared about. But he was losing stamina fast. He hoped Snape returned soon. He, too, was amazed that he'd survived this long, but he also knew he couldn't keep doing it much longer. The lingering effects of the curse on Harry's senses left him raw and stripped bare to the scene unfolding before him.
"I've summoned our dear Professor Snape, to see how he accounts for himself. Let the others in, Wormtail," Voldemort said menacingly.
"No!" Harry screamed from his own place on the floor. No one heard him.
"I feel a public demonstration of just *what* I do to traitors is in order for my followers," Voldemort said, and his voice held a tint of sinister whimsy.
"No! Snape! How do I reach you? Professor Snape! Stop!" Harry screamed, his own voice loud in the room, even as the other two occupants appeared oblivious to it. In this scene, after all, he was just a phantom.
Harry watched in horror as Pettigrew stumbled to his feet and weaved his way to the door. The moment he opened it, Death Eaters poured into the room, spilling around Voldemort's chair as they all fell to their knees. "Master," they each whispered reverently, like mewling kittens, and the obscene scene began to fade just as Voldemort's anger did, placated by the adoration of his minions, allowing Harry to drift back to his own cell, into his body.
"No! Don't go! It's a trap! Please, Professor, don't go!" The screams of a fifteen year old boy wrongfully imprisoned echoed across the island of Azkaban and fell on deaf ears.
TBC…
Author's Notes: I promised a while back that once Harry actually became an Animagus, I'd explain my decision. First of all, I want to thank all of your for your thoughtful suggestions and comments regarding this. Some held terrific insight… and for those of you who disagree with my choice, let me present my case. 8-)
First of all, Harry's arrival as The Boy Who Lived comes from the ashes of his parent's death and the devastation of Godric's Hollow. Secondly, his love of flying and his unnaturally adept ability in the air *begs* for him to be a winged creature of some sort (I absolutely agree with whomever said this in a review… I apologize I haven't had a chance to look up names yet to give credit where credit is due! I thought so as well G).
Third, and this is something a thoughtful reviewer brought to my attention, that I *absolutely* agree with, is that Harry's tears and song are healing and give people strength and hope (even the public at large). Sirius is becoming more whole each day because of Harry. Even Lupin has gotten more closure and understanding in his life since Harry's stepped into it (I'm just presenting canon here, not from my fic g). Hermione and Ron I suspect have never had great friendships before like they have with Harry and each other.
Hermione I picture having spent much of her life ostracized because of her intellect, *and* her pride in said intelligence. Ron has spent his life as second fiddle to a string of family members, and doesn't even have the joy of being the youngest, with the (usually) spoiling tendencies that accompany it. Ron, even as second youngest, is most definitely more of the forgotten middle child. Harry saved Ginny. Life from near death. Heck, you can even say that Voldemort gains life from Harry's blood.
Finally, and this is stretching it a bit, but you could even say that Harry's terrible burden: Voldemort, Harry's life with the Dursleys and his role as savior of the wizarding world, could be compared to Fawkes ability to lift Harry out of the Chamber of Secrets by his tailfeathers. He can bear unnaturally heavy burdens.
And lastly, I leave you with these descriptive breakdowns of the different animals and their symbolic representations. I pulled these directly from http://members.tripod.com/~onespiritx/magick18.htm for your viewing pleasure. Tell me JKR isn't brilliant, anyway! G I took the liberty of making the text that struck me the most in bold.
Dog- Guidance, Protection, Loyalty, Faithfullness, Devotion, Trust
Deer, Stag- Gentleness, Healing, Connection to the Earth, Being Alert for Any Danger, Psychic Powers, Innocence, Love, Kindness, Sensitivity, Pride, Independence, Purification, Strength, Nobility.
Phoenix- Overcoming Impossible Odds, Reincarnation, New Life/Cycles, Cleansing Energy of Fire, Rebirth, Renewal, Growth Spiritually, Strength, Energy
Wolf- Facing the End of One's Cycle with Dignity and Courage, Death and Rebirth, Spirit Teaching, Instinct Linked with Intelligence, Social and Family Values, Outwitting Enemies, Steadfastness, Skill in Protection of Self and Family, Taking Advantage of Change, Intuition, Learning, the Shadow, Guardinaship, Ritual, Loyalty, Spirit, a Pathfinder, Psychic Energy, Inner Divinity, Teaching, Careful Study, Cunning, Escaping Hunters, Ability to Pass by Dangers Invisibly, An Astral Wolf Could Lead You to a Spiritual Teacher, Strong Protection, Spiritual Guidance in Dreams and Meditations, the Teacher, Success, Perseverance, Stability, Thought
And now, in response to all your amazing reviews! 8-)
Dilandra: Cheers!
Sirius Black: Yeah, yeah. Darn spell checker did that one, and once I posted, I didn't want to pull and repost as I would lose my reviews. I do intend to post this elsewhere as well, once it's done, and actually have a few things to clean up. Here's a brownie for you though. 8-)
Candledot: It was a lot of fun to hear your input as you progressed through the story. I'm glad you still liked it by the last chapter! 8-) Oh, and thanks! g
Nicky: As always, thank you SO much! As for your review, yep, I keep trying to keep those things in check. While I love writing, then reading feedback with each chapter, it does make foreshadowing a bit harder, as I *really* have to know what I want to introduce far enough in advance to make sure the story moves naturally and doesn't appear forced.
Aniwda, darkphoenix (bwah hah hah), Eva Phoenix Potter (me, too), WeasleyTwinsLover1112, Anti Pasta (too true. My mom's favorite phrase is: Home is where no matter what you've done, they have to let you in.), Cierra (Hey, I try to update about once a week. That's not bad, is it? 8-( Although I *was later *this* week), Laterose (hehehe… thanks!), x-woman (good job, great ideas!), person who loves Harry (nope, sorry. Too much going on for *that*… Good idea. We'll see how far I take it, but I like your suggestion), Heather (Short!? Short?! Goodness, you're demanding! g Hmmm. We'll see), sk8reagle, Mella (lol Well, we'll see what I can do…), FirePixie28, teaser (G), Sakura Blossom (glad you did!), rowan (I'll bet… In my word document, it's 218 pages so far, not counting this chapter. Glad you stuck with it!), SpiderGirl05 (No worries. We're all fans here…), celebony (I'm sorry. Once a week is about the maximum for me. Now, if I wrote for a *living*… G), Vitamin_C2002, Katalina, Carley Watson (glad you did. No worries), Belle: Thank you all for your input and thoughts. The general consensus appears to be, "How long do you intend to keep the poor boy in there!?" Hehehehe… I appreciate all your kind words, and hope you're still intrigued!
Anoni: Me, too. Poor man. He's such a tragic, noble character. He carries his pain discretely. I do as well (although Snape intrigues me as well). I'd kind of thought so, but realistically, Hermione would still perceive Crookshanks as a pet. My thoughts were: a) Dogs have owners. Cats have staff, and b) Hermione was trying to unnerve Skeeter. The only thing better she could have done was mention how much Crookshanks likes to play with bugs! 8-) Thanks! And for the second review: Thanks for reading it all again! I like your observations about Dumbledore. Believe it or not, I have a reason for Dumbledore's… hand's off approach. You'll see (I hope). Hopefully, you'll come to understand *why* he's done what he's done. It's been one of my biggest challenges. How can someone *so* powerful do so little? Well… do keep in mind that *he* can't stop Voldemort. He's a challenge and a threat, but not the victor. Of course, how on earth can Harry be all that? Stay tuned… Maybe he does, maybe he doesn't… Sorry about the wait, but here's the next chapter!
Lisette: Well, thank you! LOL Well… We'll have to see about that…
Sakura: Mine as well. Absolutely! I agree! Of course, Hermione is quite strong! And Minerva as well! Don't forget her. I see her being not *quite* as strong as Dumbledore, but very helpful nonetheless!
Juushiita: Sorry if it was jerky. It's odd to transition back and forth, but I've enjoyed it. Sorry… I have my hands full so far. I have a hard time fleshing out Ginny without fearing I'm making her into my own Mary Sue. Now don't get me wrong: People have done it, and done it amazingly well! It's just that, from my perspective, as I've written this story, I've tried to keep as much in canon with JKR as I could, and Ginny just hasn't come *alive* for me like the others. This isn't to say that she won't in the future, but in this story… Oooh, I'm glad you think it's smooth! If you like, I can email you when I update. Otherwise, I think there's an alert thing you can set up within ff.net. I haven't done it myself, but… I hear it's possible. Thanks!
Aniron: Yep. Sure do! You're officially on the list. Sorry about the cliffhanger. Hehehehe… Sorry you had to wait. Hope the chapter's worth it!
Akasha: Queen of the Damned (lol Well… I don't think I'll be sending this to her anytime soon, but… Thank you. Each time I read someone else say I really should get published, I get all giggly. I love it. I'm SOOO glad I posted. Thank you so much for the kind compliments! They *really* mean a lot to me. You have no idea… Haven't seen the movie yet. Thanks for the recommendation.
Wonder: We'll see. That's going to be hard. She's going to have to go against the MOM *and* public opinion to publish the truth. I hope she's up to it. Thank you!
Gypsy Romance: Hmmm. Hope it got better the second time. I've been trying to keep the transitions understandable. Me too! Yep, Molly's responses surprised me as well. I knew how she'd feel, but was unsure how it would come across. Glad I succeeded! Oooh, I liked your Percy stereotypes, and that mine didn't fit within them! Yippee! Me, too. Wish I could study like her. If I were her, I would have considered feeding Skeeter to Crookshanks. Think of how cats like to play with bugs first… Okay. That was a little sinister, wasn't it? The real Hermione is a kinder, gentler girl… g
Green Eyed Knight: Well, Harry's technically not 1st person. Snape is the only one. I had a reason in mind for this. Besides… now that I've done it… He's *adorable* to write in the first person. I love his snarky thoughts. Harry's thoughts are in the 1st person because it fits. Harry won't think, "How is he going to do this?" He'll think, "How am I going to do this?" I put his *direct* thoughts in italic. Everything else is in 3rd person. Sorry if I've made it confusing.
Dilandra: Higher compliments are hard to come by. I giggled when you mentioned you felt compelled to pray for him. And here I'm plotting all kinds of things to *do* to him! Bwah hah hah hah! 8-) Thank you very much.
PurePsychicEspeon: Oh, I was just messing with you… I couldn't resist. I liked your suggestions! I just already had a form in mind… Kind of takes the fun out of it, doesn't it? I've heard rumblings about that… I would be mightily pi**ed if she did! Well, thank you to you and your cousin both! Hope you liked my choice, and the reasons why! 8-)
Colleen: Well *thank you* kicks toe bashfully against the floor. Okay. I'm blushing now. I *love* it. Hehehehe. I giggled like crazy as I wrote that scene. Oh, no. Hermione simply doesn't want to get in trouble. It's not necessarily that she's a stickler about rules. I like that about her. Thanks. I liked that as well. Dragons… you'll see more about that… Heck, I had no idea *I* liked Percy that much. I thought he was a dweeb in the books, but… while writing the story I had so much fun jumping into different people's perspectives, and Percy's seemed to have so much *potential*. You bet this is going to haunt him for a while. Rightfully so! 8-) Ooooh, I like that. Might do that one. I know. It always comes back to poor Harry, doesn't it? Well, I hope you liked this chapter. Your kind reviews mean a ton to me! Thank you!
Mara Arwen Black-McGregor: Thanks. Yeah, Remus is a complex one to write. Talk about contradictions! Yes, I definitely see the protectiveness and steadfast loyalty of a dog within Sirius. Hehehehe. I like your comparison. I hadn't thought of it that way, but you're right. At least Harry doesn't lie to himself. Hehehe… I can't say that I'm sorry I made you cry. On the contrary, it's quite the compliment! You know, I thought at the time to address that comment, but forgot about it. My thoughts go along these lines: I heard a joke once. Dogs have owners. Cats have staff. (I myself have 4 cats and 1 dog. Talk about high maintenance!) Hermione was mostly saying that to make Skeeter nervous, but there's truth in that Crookshanks is very much his own… cat? Kneazle? I think she'd still view him as her pet, just… something more as well. Nope, not nit-picky at all. I might throw in something for the integrity of the story in a later chapter about that, but we'll see. The best intentions of mice and men… No worries. I spend hours on this story, plus reading fanfiction myself. Wow. Potter's Anonymous, where are you? Oh, wait. New movie coming. New book coming. Maybe I'll start tomorrow… tomorrow… tomorrow… 8-)
Tempest Princess: Nicely put! I definitely agree with you. It's like the difference between watching the news and living it. They're worlds apart.
Bobbi: I absolutely know what you mean. Snape all warm and fuzzy? Pah! Thank you very much!
Draconic Ragnorock: Really? We'll see…
Lei Dumbledore: Well, I took longer with this one than the previous, but in my defense, it also *is* longer… I'm going as fast as I can! 8-)
Moonlight Yellow: lol Well, uh, maybe *sometimes* g. James and Sirius were closer, but I always saw James as the glue of the group. I don't see Remus as having as much in common with Sirius, especially after what he did to Snape… They were close friends, but… James was still the glue. Otherwise, how could Sirius have suspected Remus, and Remus believed what Sirius was accused of? You know what? I've looked everywhere, and I don't think you did! With all that Sirius has done (escaped Azkaban, tracked down Pettigrew, survived on the run, etc., I believe I just *assumed* he was. It's not canon. Heck, but I was sure it was. So, consider it author's liberty. Buy the premise, buy the bit. g I *totally* agree. Heck, poor Harry has no business being there at all! Okay, I'm intrigued. What about garden gnomes? 8-) I don't think it's possible to make Fudge likeable after what he's done. He's actually rather sinister. I've met people like him before… They look harmless, but will do *anything* they feel they have to to justify their cause, etc. I gave you *lots* of Snape this time, though. Does that help? And thank you very much! I hope to someday do just that.