Disclaimer: Wow. If you haven't figured out that I don't own Harry Potter by now, there's no hope for you. g
Author's Note: I know I promised this chapter sooner, but unfortunately RL hit me… literally… A car accident pushed off this chapter by a few weeks. I'm okay, just sore, but the next time someone wishes for you to live in interesting times… Smack them. For me, okay? 8-)
For all those who reviewed to ask when I'm posting the next chapter… I was trying! For nearly six days. *grrr* It's uncanny how often I try to upload chapters when the site is down. The odds shouldn't be quite this high, should they? Never mind. Better not to ponder such questions… g
Well, if it's any consolation, I've already been working on the next chapter for a while.
My most grateful and profound thanks to all who reviewed. Not only am I addicted to them (it's embarrassing how often I check my mail), but I intend to edit this story and polish it up a bit (my beta's marvelous suggestion g), then repost at FictionAlley. Your input helps me do this (Can you say 'gillywater' instead of 'gillyweed'?) *blushes*
Enjoy!
Chapter 37
Sirius stared around him in shock at the smoldering robes that had been Dementors only moments before, at the fallen Death Eaters and stunned Aurors, at Remus' shivering, unconscious body… at the limp boy in his arms. Harry wasn't breathing. He didn't have a pulse.
The magic had surged back into Harry as suddenly as it exploded outward. The silence following the roar of raw power that had engulfed the island was pregnant. It was the silence after a clap of thunder exploding directly overhead. Would another bolt strike? Would it begin to rain? Had the storm passed?
Brief seconds of possibility, when the dice hadn't stopped rolling yet... The numbers weren't up. *Harry's* number wasn't up. He wasn't breathing and he didn't have a pulse. But it's not too late. Not yet. The handkerchief has to be here. It simply can't *not* be. Sirius quickly patted down Harry's tattered robes and felt for it.
They can't have detected it. The wards nullified Portkey magic anyway, so their detectors wouldn't have noticed anything odd. It would have appeared perfectly harmless. Fudge would have left the handkerchief with Harry. He would have thought it amusing, Sirius thought with burning hatred. Come on. Where is it, Harry? Where would you keep it? He struggled to keep his hands from shaking as he ruffled through Harry's robe pockets. The handkerchief had to be there. Sirius couldn't wrap his mind around a world in which it wasn't.
After the raging torrent of energy had ravaged Sirius' memories and cast him aside untouched, he had remained hypersensitive to the swirling eddies of magic that still drifted around him. As the last of Harry's spell had finished, Sirius felt the brush of magic against his skin, the subtle shift of power that heralded a change. He'd almost missed it.
He knew it for what it was, though. The wards were down. He could feel it, as if his magic was less… constricted. A tiny window of opportunity had arisen. A moment in time, a fork in the road, where things could go either way. This was his moment, as it had been just a few years before, when the newspaper photo had shown him the path. He had a chance, tiny and nearly infinitesimal. He leapt for it.
Sirius slipped his hand inside Harry's robes and found the handkerchief tucked near his heart, folded into a seam of fabric. There you are. Good boy, Harry. Come on. Here we go, Sirius thought tenderly as he pulled out the cloth and reached out, placing Remus' quivering hand over his own and gathering Harry closer to him as he activated the Portkey.
Sirius found it much harder to hold onto Remus and Harry than he'd anticipated as the familiar tug pulled them all forward. The howl of wind and jumble of colors that shifted past his vision seemed oddly unimpressive after Harry's spell.
For that brief moment, when Sirius felt like he was only partially in both places; still on the floor of Azkaban while also sitting in a lonely clearing in the woods near Hogwarts, Sirius pulled Harry closer, wishing it was within his power to freeze time entirely and preserve these precious moments, when it wasn't too late and Harry still had a chance.
"Sirius! Quickly, drape this across the lot of you," Professor Minerva McGonagall said as she threw something at Sirius that he caught out of reflex, cursing himself as he did so. Why do I keep doing that? He berated silently. His reflexes would be the death of him.
The Portkey had taken them just outside Hogwarts' wards, probably near the path that led to Hogsmeade. It appeared as though McGonagall had been there for a while, alone, waiting for them. Where's Dumbledore?
Sirius looked at the necktie with Gryffindor colors McGonagall had thrown that rested in his hands. He wrapped one end around Remus' wrist and the other around Harry's. Firmly, he grasped the fabric in the middle.
The bright afternoon, full of sunshine and birdsong, felt discordant and wrong as he looked at the slack grey boy facing him, so still. Remus hadn't stirred beside him either, but at least he continued to breathe, albeit shallowly.
Sirius watched as McGonagall walked briskly forward, wasting no words as her eyes were drawn to Harry, and kneeled in front of Sirius, placing her hand on his and activating the Portkey. She looks so sad, he realized disjointedly.
Once again Sirius struggled to gather his bearings as he felt himself fall forward, losing grip on Harry for a moment as he tried to regain his equilibrium. The endless walls of white and light could only be one place… the Hospital Wing. The Portkey must have been created by Dumbledore himself to bypass all the Hogwarts wards.
"Harry?" Sirius said desperately as he tried to stand up. He hadn't meant to let go of Harry. He'd spilled off his lap, sprawled on the tile floor limply. He's not a corpse. He's just unconscious. It's not too late. Madam Pomfrey kneeled in front of Sirius as if she too had been waiting for them and gathered Harry up in her arms effortlessly. He's so light even she lifted him easily. Her eyes were dark and shadowed as she stared at Sirius for the briefest moment, then turned, rushing away.
"Harry?" Sirius asked again, slowly struggling to his feet, intending to follow. It felt like he was moving underwater. Everything felt sluggish and weighed down. His time isn't up. I got here so fast, there's still much they can do… He wished he could believe it himself, but his hope dwindled with each passing second.
There was still something for him to do… wasn't there? He couldn't let go now. He couldn't bear to. He watched Madam Pomfrey walk away and stumbled forward to follow.
"Sirius… Sirius, it's okay. We've got specialists from St. Mungo's here. They're going to be looking after him. They'll do everything they can," McGonagall stepped into his line of vision and tried to reassure Sirius, placing a hand on his shoulder firmly both to comfort him and keep him from following Pomfrey. Her eyes took in his trembling, then widened in concern. "Sirius… Have you been under the Cruciatus?" she asked. Sirius frowned. How could she tell? Creepy.
Blearily, he shook his head, desperately trying to look past her. Don't ask. Don't tell. Talking about it makes it real. On the far end of the room were a series of white fabric screens placed side by side, pulled like a wall to block from view anything that happened on the other side. One folded slightly as Pomfrey whisked Harry past it, giving Sirius the briefest glimpse of two other hospital beds, both occupied. He couldn't see their faces, but one he knew for certain had to be Snape.
Remus groaned faintly, still unconscious as he was floated up by one of the medics. Sirius turned and scowled at them. "Be careful!" he scolded, and the medic who was currently moving Remus squeaked and turned grey, his eyes widening in obvious recognition. Sirius felt powerless now that Harry was out of his arms. He couldn't just stand there and wait for them to tell him… Don't think it. Don't make it true.
"Yes, sir," the medic said in a thin, shrill voice, and Sirius remained still a moment more, torn between forcing past McGonagall or going with Remus. McGonagall planted her feet and lowered her head, looking at him through lowered lashes and frowning at him disapprovingly. She obviously had no intention of letting him go after his godson.
"Sirius? Where's Harry?" Remus croaked, his voice the faintest whisper. You're awake! Thank Merlin! Sirius glared at McGonagall once more, then turned and stumbled to his friend, taking hold of Remus' hand as if to stabilize him as he was floated onto a bed. He ignored McGonagall, who grabbed an orderly's elbow and spoke quietly to him, looking directly at Sirius and nodding as she did so. Once Remus was settled, Sirius carefully pulled the covers over his friend and had to refrain from tucking him in entirely.
Sirius closed his eyes for a moment and listened closely. The room was unnaturally silent. Only the faintest tendrils of magic against his senses told him of the lifesaving spells being cast on the other side of the room.
They have silencing spells up, then, he thought wearily, and tried to force his mind away from it for now and put on a brave face as Remus' eyes flickered open, registering where he was before settling on Sirius. It was out of his hands. Even though Sirius knew in his heart Harry stood a better chance with the specialists from St. Mungo's, he couldn't help but wish Harry was back in his arms. I'd give my life for his. So many of us would. Why does it have to be him…? Stop thinking that!
"Sirius?" Remus asked again weakly, and Sirius forced his thoughts back to the present. He glowered at a St. Mungo's doctor who'd begun to assess Remus, as if daring him to say something stupid about Remus being a werewolf.
"I say… You *are* Remus Lupin, aren't you?" the doctor asked distractedly as he glanced at a scroll he'd taken from a passing orderly's hands. Remus nodded, then coughed, closing his eyes weakly. Sirius looked at his friend's face closely. Remus was sweaty and pale. His eyes were watering, and Sirius realized that it was in response to pain.
"I'm Dr. Niles," the doctor said, not even bothering to look up. Sirius wasn't impressed.
"Why's it always so damned bright in here?" Remus whispered, his eyes calculating. Even while in pain he paid close attention to Sirius' responses, and was trying to distract him.
"The woman's name is Poppy, Remus. What did you expect?" Sirius joked lightly, trying not to insult the doctor. He'd only just met him, after all.
Okay. Give the twerp a chance, Sirius braced himself to respect Remus' unspoken wishes.
They'd spent a great deal of time in the Hospital Wing during their school years, and it felt oddly like coming home to Sirius as he tentatively perched at the foot of Remus' bed.
"Former professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts? Diagnosed with Lycanthropy before puberty?" Dr. Niles continued. Remus turned his head wearily to look at the man directly.
He was short and thin, with glasses that carried a strong prescription, considering how large his eyes appeared behind the lenses. The doctor had a bald spot on the back of his head that was obvious to anyone taller than a leprechaun, and Sirius found himself staring at it for a moment distractedly, before pulling his attention back to what Dr. Niles was saying. Keep it together. You're getting loopy.
"Just what is this about?" Sirius asked, belatedly realizing he should have been concerned that they knew who he was. Merlin. Well, the terrified medic certainly had. Brilliant, Sirius. Get caught and sent back to Azkaban when Harry needs you most.
Sirius glanced around him discretely, warily gauging everyone's behavior. Considering he hadn't been assaulted and wrestled to the ground yet, he figured at this point it would be safe to assume they knew the truth about him. Constant vigilance, he mocked his own inattentiveness. Nonetheless, he didn't like the tone Dr. Niles was taking with Remus.
"I'm reading magical and physical shock, Mr. Lupin. You've taken some internal damage and… Chocolate! Bring that bar over here now," the doctor commanded briskly over his shoulder at the same medic that had transported Remus. The medic froze under both the doctor and Sirius' stare before nodding and scurrying off. Dr. Niles turned his attention back to Remus. "You're showing signs of prolonged stress to your internal organs, but…"
"Out with it!" Sirius barked. He wished the man would get to the point. Dr. Niles was sorely trying his patience... Not that he'd had a tremendous amount to begin with. The doctor started, losing his composure for a second before glaring at Sirius as he pushed his glasses back onto his nose. Surreptitiously he peered at the end of his wand, his eyes crossing briefly as he did so. Then Dr. Niles shook it gently and ran the tip of it over himself for a moment before turning it back on Remus. He shook his head, obviously puzzled.
"Yes, doctor?" Remus prompted gently. Sirius turned his attention back to his friend as Remus began to nibble on the chocolate the medic handed him. Color began to return ever so slightly to his cheeks. With trembling hands the medic handed Sirius a slab of chocolate, and the orderly McGonagall had spoken with earlier arrived as well with a goblet of something he didn't recognize. Sirius stared at the medic, who quickly scurried off, and the orderly, who was obviously waiting until Sirius finished the drink. He was still unsure, afraid someone was about to scream out his name in terror and stun him into oblivion. Perhaps the goblet's poisoned…
"Sirius. Quit terrorizing the orderlies," Remus scolded and nodded at the potion. Well? Remus' tired eyes asked, then frowned in silent instruction. Drink it. Sirius raised an eyebrow and drank deeply. Oh well. Here's testing my luck. The relief that flowed through him nearly undid his composure. He hadn't realized how badly he felt until he started to improve. He was profoundly grateful he wasn't still standing, as he would have collapsed in a heap right then and there.
"Yes, chocolate for you as well… Hmmm… Prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus Curse," the doctor muttered as he pointed his wand at Sirius, taking his vitals as well. He glanced up at Sirius to scrutinize him, but still managed not to make eye contact. "Sanity appears *relatively* intact…" The rest of the doctor's words blended into background noise as Sirius watched realization dawn on Remus. He turned deathly pale again, and Sirius knew the memory of all that transpired had come crashing down upon Remus once more.
"Sirius?" Remus whispered in reawakened horror. "Sirius, how is Harry?" he asked firmly, finally recognizing he'd been deftly sidetracked.
"I don't know. They've got him over there," Sirius said huskily, unable to hide his own anguish, and nodded his head over his shoulder, directing Remus' eyes to the screens behind him.
It was taking every ounce of energy he had not to fling himself past McGonagall, past the damn screens, past the doctors, and scooping Harry up in his arms once more, willing his own magic, his own life into him. He can't die. Stop thinking about this. It's not finished yet. The flow of magic hadn't ceased, which Sirius took to mean there was still a chance.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Lupin, but they must have mixed your charts with someone else," Dr. Niles said with pursed lips, shaking his head disapprovingly and turned to walk away.
Sirius forced his attention back to the present. "Why is that?" he tried to call after Dr. Niles, curious, but he croaked it instead. Remus quirked his head to the side as he examined his friend closely, and Sirius braced himself for a lecture. He knew he was falling apart, both physically and emotionally, and grasped desperately at the fraying edges of dignity that still remained to him.
"My readings show Mr. Lupin isn't a Lycanthrope. He's as normal as you or me," the doctor said, obviously still bewildered by the charts he'd been looking at. Sirius spluttered potion everywhere mid sip, nearly inhaling it in his surprise. Remus' eyes widened impossibly, and he didn't notice when his chocolate slab dropped from slack fingers onto the floor.
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Hysterical. I'm dying, trying to save the life of the boy who killed me. Marvelous. Terrific. Nothing like having one's past in all its sordid, suppressed details displayed for Potter to see. I need a bath.
The pain was white hot, mostly in my arm, but it's fading now, and I'm able to drift within myself, away and into Potter's mind to try to catch him. I'm chasing a ghost. A ghost who doesn't want to be found, heard, or comforted. He just wants the silence. Too many voices, too many memories. Potter is fleeing his own body, and here I insist upon pursuing him ruthlessly.
I can still feel those faint trickles of memory… thought? Whatever was going through his head the moment the spell ended. Echoes of thoughts, perhaps, because I sense so little of him now.
He rails that he's still alive at all. What justice is that? Is there no hope for peace for him? I feel his dwindling thoughts, just as he feels my pursuit. He's stepped into the abyss, and welcomes the freedom it gives him. No more obligations. No more expectations. He's done what he can. The rest is up to us. It's a legacy he wants to leave me with. I refuse to let him leave at all.
He's drifted into the twilight between life and death, and I follow without a thought. I think it frustrates him, even now, to know I'm choosing death *with* him rather than life without.
I throw the question back at him. If the roles were reversed, would he choose life over me? He doesn't answer. He can't of course. But some part of him hears me nonetheless, and we both know what his response is.
For a long time I feared for his sanity. How could one stay sane in the midst of so much anguish? The human mind can only take so much before it works without our knowledge to protect us. It splinters, it fractures, it turtles up and curls itself into a ball, protecting everything vital by shielding it from view.
I felt as each threshold was breached, each moment Potter yearned for death or madness and yet still held on. He drew himself up from depths I'll never stop having nightmares about, clawing back to reality each time with a brutal understanding that once more he'd stepped away from a form of relief, because he was needed; he was bearing witness, and perhaps there was still something left he could do. Because if he'd have let go, then that would mean he'd have given up, and the *doing* would have to be *done* by someone else. By me. By Dumbledore. By Black, and Lupin, and Granger, and the Weasleys.
He felt cowardly for wanting to die. I think he still does. But he has nothing left to give, and he's burned from the inside out, raw with the magic that exploded out of his skin. The life energy I try to pour into him leaks out like water through too many holes in a sinking boat. He's numb to everything but the blessed silence that engulfs and cradles him. There is no sensation left to him. No cold, no fever, no voices, no grief. No love, no life.
I have to stop for a moment, sick at heart as another truth drifts up to me, like the faintest whisp of smoke that curls around the edge of my mind before dissipating. He doesn't even expect to be reunited with his parents.
I try to examine this more closely. It puzzles me. Most Muggles believe in a life after death, and truthfully I'd intended to capitalize upon it to draw him to me, and keep him from dying.
Is he atheist? He can't be. He knows there are such things as spirits. He's met plenty of them at Hogwarts. The knowledge dawns on me gently. He doesn't know what happiness *is* anymore. He can't conceive of anything good happening to him. Even in death he has no expectations at joy, a reunion, or comfort. Just an end.
I plow faster towards him. It's a thin boundary between life and death, and can be crossed easily. I have no intention of letting him get away from me. I know while I'm here my own body doesn't breathe and my own heart doesn't pump. Another does that for me, their presence a ridiculous comfort as I go after the fractured spirit before me.
I'm not afraid of death. I haven't been for a long time. I even thought it a condition of my unemployment for many years. I think I may have even viewed it a bit like Potter does; as the chance not to feel pain or guilt anymore, as a freedom from the burden of responsibility I'd placed upon my own shoulders. But he didn't ask for his responsibility, did he?
No longer. I feel I must be the one who's insane. Who else can claim that it was Potter who gave them a new lease on life? Literally? Even here, in the dusk of death, I feel my own laughter bubble up around me like champagne just poured in a glass. Hysterical, really. Potter's spirit slows his descent.
Why did he slow down? Was it me? Did he hear me? Was it my laughter? I move tentatively forward. I think he's still unaware of me in all the ways that count, falling further into, or out of himself, distancing his spirit from anything that can make him *feel*.
But he slowed a bit. Can I do it again? I cringe at the thought. Humor for the sake of humor, and not at someone else's expense, is *not* something I excel at. He still drifts away, but not as quickly. Is he waiting for me? Is he even waiting at all, or am I reading into things? Forget the humor, Severus, it'll never work.
He's so close now. I can feel the tendrils of Harry's essence, his life energy, of everything that makes him Harry Potter. He's still dying, as am I, but appears to have deigned to allow me this luxury. If I insist on dying, too, the least I can do is die *with* him, and not alone.
How can he know? I freeze a moment, shocked. How can he know this fear of mine? The comfort I succumbed to again and again, crawling back to Albus to heal me instead of curling up and letting the darkness hide my pain and cloak my silent passage. It wasn't relief or forgiveness that I seeked, but companionship. A place where, no matter what, they would notice my absence… My passing.
I wonder if it shocked Potter to learn this about me. After all, how can someone like myself seek such things? Even before Potter's memories of my transgressions against him became my own as well, I knew how the student body perceived me. And I welcomed it. I still do.
Weak and sniveling, the lot of them. Ill prepared for the big bad world. *Life* isn't fair. It isn't right. The good guy doesn't always win. Justice is fickle, and blind, and bitter. The dreams of our youth are smashed against the stormy rocks of reality, and drift away, broken and lost and so… naïve.
Some would argue that *this* knowledge will come soon enough to the children. Why take away what little joy is left to them? Once, I would have argued that if they're better prepared to protect themselves from hurt, if they're better armored against reality, then perhaps it won't be as devastating when it happens.
But my arguments are useless in the face of this boy before me now. What if there was no 'joy of youth'? What if cold, hard reality was *always* there? What if he'd been prepared for it, and lived it, all his life? What can I say to that?
My arguments sound pathetic and weak and infantile. He already knows everything I've ever strived to teach. And all I can do is wish I'd been gentler, less cutting, less bitter over that which I'd known nothing about. But if I'd have known, would I have been? Probably not. I positively *hate* being honest with myself.
I reach my own consciousness out and gently start to wrap it around him. I do it slowly, tentatively; afraid I'll scare him off. He stills, unaware, his unconscious completely in control. I pull him to me closely. Hah! Hah hah!
**I have you, Harry** I say, and slow both our descent into the murky depths of oblivion. When I took on the burden of the harboring spell to keep Potter tied to life, I knew it would most likely be the death of me. It was a chance Albus was willing to take, and I as well. But since we first initiated the spell, I'd never felt I'd be able to truly *aid* Potter. Not in any way that mattered. I'm not good company, and the life energy given was only a delay for the inevitable. But *this*… This I can do.
They say time heals all wounds, and only just recently I would have laughed at that statement. Time doesn't heal, a bad memory does. Those of us cursed with astute memories have no such luxury. But I refuse to believe that after all Potter has gone through, Death is his reward. I won't have it. With my last breath I fully intend to insure just the opposite, in fact.
I hold his soul close, and subtly slow, then cease his tumble towards death. We still, motionless in a place neither living nor dead. I try to sense any sentience within the essence I hold so closely, but there is no stir within him, no consciousness at all. Only silence… then, the gentle thrum of my heartbeat.
Power swells within me, energy, magic, life… freely given and freely accepted, and I can feel, even here, as I take my first breath. I allow that same surge of life to flow into Harry as well, reaffirming my hold on him. The link between Potter and I synchronizes the breaths I now take and the blood my heart now pumps, and I can't help but feel ridiculously giddy. He's breathing. His heart is beating.
I've got him securely now, although his respiration is still faint and his pulse thready. It will only get stronger. I realize it's more of a vow than a prediction. He's so still in my arms, or what passes for them in this place, and so much damage has been wrought upon him both physically and emotionally. But it doesn't matter for now. I know I'm smiling foolishly, but Potter won't notice. The immediate danger is over. He's not dying today. Neither am I. Neither is Albus. The rest, although it may not necessarily take care of itself, as the trite cliché says, can wait.
I wonder with no little sense of irony what Harry would say if he realized that if he'd died, I wouldn't have been the only one to go with him? That the same spell that anchors me to him, anchors me to Albus. Crafty bastard. There's no way Harry would have permitted it, and no way I'd still be alive if it hadn't been for Albus' magic fueling us both, and buffering the backlash as well.
But enough of that. There's plenty of time for truths and revelations. Right now, all I need to do is keep Potter close, keep him alive, and let nature do the rest. He's got a lot of recovering to do anyway. No sense having him wake up in pain.
**Take your time here, Harry. You're safe. You're not going anywhere,** I tell him, although I know he can't really hear me, and send the briefest message of reassurance down my own link with Albus. He responds in kind, and I settle in for a long wait, wondering what, if anything, Potter's spell did to me.
TBC…