AUTHOR'S NOTE: Before I say anything at all, I must apologize for my lack of incessant updating. My last update was, I believe in February, and it is now three months later. Let me explain, I haven't had time. Simple as that. A bad excuse? No. In those three months, I dealt with a lot of stress, an overload of stress. I went through a series of emotional rollercoasters, all of which can top any rollercoaster at Six Flags Magic Mountain. On top of that, there were the HUGE state tests to study for, stress over, and take, and I've also had to study my bum off for math finals. I had failed four tests, was seeing a tutor and still doing poorly, so I have had to rearrange my priorities. Now, you'll read this chapter and say, "It took her three months to write this?" but the truth is, I had just about finished chapter fourteen, and then erased the whole thing. I read it and decided that it didn't work well with my storyline and didn't really develop into anything so I rewrote chapter fourteen's outline on a piece of discarded napkin. Now, chapter fourteen was supposed to be longer, but I felt extremely guilty that you hadn't had an update in three months so I split it up and decided to give you this. Enjoy and fifteen will be on its way!
14. The Return Home
His eyes fluttered open, blinking back the cool moisture beginning to slide down his face. He stared up at the filthy-white ceiling of his bedroom in number twelve. Breathing as little as possible, he searched frantically in his pockets for his wand. It wasn't there. Harry sat bolt up right, but fell back down with a sharp yelp at the immense pain in his back. He convulsed for a split second in an effort to control the stab of pain and relaxed as it started to fade away. He again attempted to sit up, was successful, and got to his feet.
His knees quaked under his weight causing him to grab hold of the bed post to keep him from falling. What happened? Everything seemed normal. Harry could smell the sour scent of the peeling wallpaper, and feel the draft coming up from the floorboards. Nothing had changed. But what's wrong with me? his conscience asked. With a slow, but steady pace, he hobbled downstairs.
The living room was as silent as death. Midnight splashed onto the walls and left a puddle of moonlight on the floor. The portraits in the hallway were sleeping soundly and there was an occasional snore from one painting with a large mustache and pointed chin.
He proceeded into the kitchen and squinted into the darkness trying to locate his wand. His knees suddenly gave a heavy jerk and he slipped backwards onto the cold tile. Cursing under his breath, Harry hoisted himself right side up again, leaning on a chair for support.
"Where is my wand?" he spat through clenched teeth. "What happened to it?" He sat down in the chair in which his hand rested upon and placed his hands in his pockets. He felt the vial against his finger tips and pulled it out into the open. Dried blood was caked on the entire vial. The blood was not red like Lily's, but black and resembled molasses. The room swam Harry found himself watching a flash back.
In a foggy picture, he was crouching down in a dark room. The only light source was flickering and straining to maintain its last vital watts and the shadow it cast sent eerie images dancing on the wall. There was a figure in the corner, huddled over and screaming in a chair. He was alone. Harry advanced towards the figure and it became agitated, thrashing around in his chair, gnawing at the restrictions around his wrists. The light broke; the figure leaped and started attacking him. Harry wrestled with the thing and pinned him down until Tonks entered the room. She called for help and straddled the attacker. Lupin dragged Harry over to a chair and plopped him down. He fetched Harry's wand and placed it in his hands. The side- effect of the shock of the whole event had sunken into the pit of his stomach and caused the strength in his hands to die. The wand fell out of his hands and rolled across the floor. All went black.
Harry blinked and realized that he was still sitting in the kitchen. He felt the hair on the back of his neck rise and goosebumbs shiver their way across his skin. Cautiously, he placed the vial back in his pocket and covered his eyes with his hands. His wand was still on the basement floor. Harry drew a shaky breath and slowly stood up. He looked down the hall and saw that Mrs. Black was sleeping heavily in the corner of her picture frame.
"She won't notice if I go down," he reassured himself. He shuffled towards the portrait and froze, deciding if he should go through with it or not. I have to get out of here, he thought determinedly. Staring up at the wizened face in front of him, he noticed a mirror image of Sirius looking back. He shook off the memory and began to pull the portrait up.
The door shrieked loudly as Harry opened it. He rested his foot on the first step and felt the air in his lungs catch in his throat. The faint light that filled the room from the open door revealed traces of blood on the floor and the overturned pile of towels. Every detail of the fight came rushing back to him as he felt his hands clam up. He cleared his throat and squinted into the darkness.
Before he knew it, or before he would have liked it to happen, Harry found himself at the bottom of the stairs and at ground level with the fiend that had attacked him so viciously. The man had been replaced in his corner, but his eyes were closed and the restrictions around his wrists were replaced by chains around his ankles and torso as well. His eyes pierced the basement atmosphere, only there wasn't the faintest sign of activity behind them. The only sound throughout Number 12 was the breathing of the man.
Since the Death Eater hadn't stirred or grunted or made any indication that he recognized Harry's presence, Harry decided that it was safe to get on his hands and knees and grope for his wand. His hands sifted through the towels, scratched against the ground, and felt beneath the dust, but it did not turn up. His face grew hot with frustration and he slammed a fist on the ground. Then the man stirred. Harry froze, eyes wide, heart galloping in his chest.
"I see you," the Death Eater whispered. "Get out or I'll kill you." Harry started crawling backwards and towards the staircase. The man thrashed against his chains and began to yell. He tried to kick, but the chains hugged him tightly to the chair. The chair rocked to the side, sending something rolling across the floor. Harry lunged and grabbed the rolling object.
"My wand!"
"Get out of here!" Harry scrambled to his feet and sprinted for the stairs. His left foot caught the bottom one and sent him collapsing onto the steps. As if it had never happened, he dusted himself off and leapt onto the foot of the staircase. The chair had toppled over and the Death Eater began screaming and yelling. Harry slammed the portrait shut, waking up a cranky Mrs. Black, but fled to the kitchen before she saw him. Breathing hard, he ran up stairs, grabbed his trunk, and practically jumped the whole staircase. With a shaky hand, Harry scribbled out a note:
Dear Lupin, Moody, and Tonks,
I can't stay here. I'm taking floo to Hogwarts so don't panic. I will talk with you soon I suppose. Bye. —Harry
He folded the note and set it down on the table. Without giving it a second thought, Harry yanked his trunk over to the fire place and grabbed a handful of floo powder. The man was still screaming in the basement.
"They'll wake up soon," he said. "They'll wake up and find the note and be angry, but I have to leave." He threw the floo powder into the furnace, commanded that he be taken to Hogwarts, and was engulfed in the roaring green flames.
He landed face first into the carpeted floor of Dumbledore's office. His trunk came zooming out after him, nearly missing his head as it flew into the wall. A picture fell off and began to scream in panic. Harry put on his glasses, rolled his eyes, and ran over to the frightened portrait, grinding his teeth.
"Ssssh! Ssssh! Shut up! You'll wake up Dumbledore!" he whispered as he mounted the picture of an albino witch back on the wall. He didn't know why he told her to shut up; he was going to wake up Dumbledore anyway.
"Dumbledore!" she screamed. "Dumbledore! Dumbledore come quick! There is an intruder!"
"Shut it!" he pressed his hands against her lips to stifle the noise, but she kept on yelling through his fingers.
"PROFESSOR DUMBLEDORE!" An undisclosed door slammed open and a weary- eyed Dumbledore appeared dressed in his regular day clothes. He had obviously fallen asleep before properly preparing for bed.
"What is it?" he asked stiffly.
"Hi Professor," panted Harry. "Good to—er—see you." Dumbledore turned menacingly towards Harry's direction and then sighed.
"Harry, what are you doing here? You are in no condition to travel."
"I know, but I had to leave. . ." he trailed off. Dumbledore walked over to his desk and sat down in his high-backed chair. Harry stood by his trunk until Dumbledore beckoned for him to take a seat opposite. Dumbledore began to rub both eyes and as he opened his mouth to speak, a yawn escaped.
"Why did you really come here? It's not like you to leave a place where you were previously attacked two days ago, especially if your attacker was securely tied to a chair," Dumbledore said.
"Two days ago? It happened two days ago? I only woke up tonight!"
Dumbledore nodded and then said, "Yes well, you were pretty badly beaten. We took you to Saint Mungo's but you wouldn't wake up," he paused and allowed himself a soft giggle, "and you frightened Remus a fraction of an inch from death. He thought that you would never wake up and forever be in what muggles call 'a coma.'"
"Oh," said Harry, staring absent mindedly at Dumbledore's red, bleary eyes.
"Yes," Dumbledore continued, "the doctors said that it wasn't just the injuries, but the shock of the whole situation that left you unconscious. I feel terrible. You've been through quite a lot this week haven't you?" Before waiting for Harry to answer, Dumbledore walked over to his shelf and brought back the penseive. Inside were swirling silver clouds of thoughts and memories.
"This always does the trick when I have a lot on my mind. Would you like to use it? Clearing your thoughts is the key to a nice long rest." Harry looked from Dumbledore to the stone basin and thought of how Snape's memories were easily accessible. He hesitated.
"Erm, will I still be able to remember everything?" he asked.
"Yes," Dumbledore replied. "Just not as vividly as before."
He sighed and peered into the penseive once again.
"Er—no. No I—I'm fine," Harry replied feeling tension come between him and Dumbledore. "I can handle it rather well." Dumbledore threw up his hands in a shrug.
"Your choice. I hope you know that my intention was not to trick you into anything. I just thought it might help you relax. This week has been trauma after trauma for you and I don't want you to be overwhelmed."
"Thanks," he said. Dumbledore nodded. Now that the adrenaline had left his body, Harry could feel the effects of the late hour. He left his seat and began to lift his trunk. "Can I stay here?"
"Of course. You may use your dormitory for the remainder of this, well this isn't exactly holiday, so you can use it for the rest of this break."
"Thank you Professor," Harry grinned, heading towards the door. "By the way, how are the others doing?" Dumbledore smiled at the question.
"They're recovering nicely. In fact, some of them have a healthy immune system and are willing to give an interview. No," Dumbledore said as Harry's eyes widened, "it will not be conducted by Rita Skeeter." Harry nodded and apologized to Dumbledore for waking him up. They bade each other a "goodnight" and then Harry left for his dormitory.
He didn't have the faintest idea what time it must be. The hallway loomed evilly in the darkness. Mrs. Norris darted across his feet and made him jump. He clutched his wand and the vial closer to him.
When Harry reached the portrait, the Fat Lady was not there. He lifted the painting and climbed inside. The common room was worse than the hallways. It was cold, empty, and oddly resembled a mortician's office. He shivered as he set his trunk down in a corner. Despite its funeral home characteristics, Harry felt more at home than at Grimmuald Place. He never regretted returning to Hogwarts. It was his home. The Dursleys were shelter. Grimmuald Place was a house to flee to, but Hogwarts was home. With that feeling of comfort, Harry climbed the stairs to his bed, which he could hear soothingly calling his name. He was half asleep by the time he hit the pillow.
14. The Return Home
His eyes fluttered open, blinking back the cool moisture beginning to slide down his face. He stared up at the filthy-white ceiling of his bedroom in number twelve. Breathing as little as possible, he searched frantically in his pockets for his wand. It wasn't there. Harry sat bolt up right, but fell back down with a sharp yelp at the immense pain in his back. He convulsed for a split second in an effort to control the stab of pain and relaxed as it started to fade away. He again attempted to sit up, was successful, and got to his feet.
His knees quaked under his weight causing him to grab hold of the bed post to keep him from falling. What happened? Everything seemed normal. Harry could smell the sour scent of the peeling wallpaper, and feel the draft coming up from the floorboards. Nothing had changed. But what's wrong with me? his conscience asked. With a slow, but steady pace, he hobbled downstairs.
The living room was as silent as death. Midnight splashed onto the walls and left a puddle of moonlight on the floor. The portraits in the hallway were sleeping soundly and there was an occasional snore from one painting with a large mustache and pointed chin.
He proceeded into the kitchen and squinted into the darkness trying to locate his wand. His knees suddenly gave a heavy jerk and he slipped backwards onto the cold tile. Cursing under his breath, Harry hoisted himself right side up again, leaning on a chair for support.
"Where is my wand?" he spat through clenched teeth. "What happened to it?" He sat down in the chair in which his hand rested upon and placed his hands in his pockets. He felt the vial against his finger tips and pulled it out into the open. Dried blood was caked on the entire vial. The blood was not red like Lily's, but black and resembled molasses. The room swam Harry found himself watching a flash back.
In a foggy picture, he was crouching down in a dark room. The only light source was flickering and straining to maintain its last vital watts and the shadow it cast sent eerie images dancing on the wall. There was a figure in the corner, huddled over and screaming in a chair. He was alone. Harry advanced towards the figure and it became agitated, thrashing around in his chair, gnawing at the restrictions around his wrists. The light broke; the figure leaped and started attacking him. Harry wrestled with the thing and pinned him down until Tonks entered the room. She called for help and straddled the attacker. Lupin dragged Harry over to a chair and plopped him down. He fetched Harry's wand and placed it in his hands. The side- effect of the shock of the whole event had sunken into the pit of his stomach and caused the strength in his hands to die. The wand fell out of his hands and rolled across the floor. All went black.
Harry blinked and realized that he was still sitting in the kitchen. He felt the hair on the back of his neck rise and goosebumbs shiver their way across his skin. Cautiously, he placed the vial back in his pocket and covered his eyes with his hands. His wand was still on the basement floor. Harry drew a shaky breath and slowly stood up. He looked down the hall and saw that Mrs. Black was sleeping heavily in the corner of her picture frame.
"She won't notice if I go down," he reassured himself. He shuffled towards the portrait and froze, deciding if he should go through with it or not. I have to get out of here, he thought determinedly. Staring up at the wizened face in front of him, he noticed a mirror image of Sirius looking back. He shook off the memory and began to pull the portrait up.
The door shrieked loudly as Harry opened it. He rested his foot on the first step and felt the air in his lungs catch in his throat. The faint light that filled the room from the open door revealed traces of blood on the floor and the overturned pile of towels. Every detail of the fight came rushing back to him as he felt his hands clam up. He cleared his throat and squinted into the darkness.
Before he knew it, or before he would have liked it to happen, Harry found himself at the bottom of the stairs and at ground level with the fiend that had attacked him so viciously. The man had been replaced in his corner, but his eyes were closed and the restrictions around his wrists were replaced by chains around his ankles and torso as well. His eyes pierced the basement atmosphere, only there wasn't the faintest sign of activity behind them. The only sound throughout Number 12 was the breathing of the man.
Since the Death Eater hadn't stirred or grunted or made any indication that he recognized Harry's presence, Harry decided that it was safe to get on his hands and knees and grope for his wand. His hands sifted through the towels, scratched against the ground, and felt beneath the dust, but it did not turn up. His face grew hot with frustration and he slammed a fist on the ground. Then the man stirred. Harry froze, eyes wide, heart galloping in his chest.
"I see you," the Death Eater whispered. "Get out or I'll kill you." Harry started crawling backwards and towards the staircase. The man thrashed against his chains and began to yell. He tried to kick, but the chains hugged him tightly to the chair. The chair rocked to the side, sending something rolling across the floor. Harry lunged and grabbed the rolling object.
"My wand!"
"Get out of here!" Harry scrambled to his feet and sprinted for the stairs. His left foot caught the bottom one and sent him collapsing onto the steps. As if it had never happened, he dusted himself off and leapt onto the foot of the staircase. The chair had toppled over and the Death Eater began screaming and yelling. Harry slammed the portrait shut, waking up a cranky Mrs. Black, but fled to the kitchen before she saw him. Breathing hard, he ran up stairs, grabbed his trunk, and practically jumped the whole staircase. With a shaky hand, Harry scribbled out a note:
Dear Lupin, Moody, and Tonks,
I can't stay here. I'm taking floo to Hogwarts so don't panic. I will talk with you soon I suppose. Bye. —Harry
He folded the note and set it down on the table. Without giving it a second thought, Harry yanked his trunk over to the fire place and grabbed a handful of floo powder. The man was still screaming in the basement.
"They'll wake up soon," he said. "They'll wake up and find the note and be angry, but I have to leave." He threw the floo powder into the furnace, commanded that he be taken to Hogwarts, and was engulfed in the roaring green flames.
He landed face first into the carpeted floor of Dumbledore's office. His trunk came zooming out after him, nearly missing his head as it flew into the wall. A picture fell off and began to scream in panic. Harry put on his glasses, rolled his eyes, and ran over to the frightened portrait, grinding his teeth.
"Ssssh! Ssssh! Shut up! You'll wake up Dumbledore!" he whispered as he mounted the picture of an albino witch back on the wall. He didn't know why he told her to shut up; he was going to wake up Dumbledore anyway.
"Dumbledore!" she screamed. "Dumbledore! Dumbledore come quick! There is an intruder!"
"Shut it!" he pressed his hands against her lips to stifle the noise, but she kept on yelling through his fingers.
"PROFESSOR DUMBLEDORE!" An undisclosed door slammed open and a weary- eyed Dumbledore appeared dressed in his regular day clothes. He had obviously fallen asleep before properly preparing for bed.
"What is it?" he asked stiffly.
"Hi Professor," panted Harry. "Good to—er—see you." Dumbledore turned menacingly towards Harry's direction and then sighed.
"Harry, what are you doing here? You are in no condition to travel."
"I know, but I had to leave. . ." he trailed off. Dumbledore walked over to his desk and sat down in his high-backed chair. Harry stood by his trunk until Dumbledore beckoned for him to take a seat opposite. Dumbledore began to rub both eyes and as he opened his mouth to speak, a yawn escaped.
"Why did you really come here? It's not like you to leave a place where you were previously attacked two days ago, especially if your attacker was securely tied to a chair," Dumbledore said.
"Two days ago? It happened two days ago? I only woke up tonight!"
Dumbledore nodded and then said, "Yes well, you were pretty badly beaten. We took you to Saint Mungo's but you wouldn't wake up," he paused and allowed himself a soft giggle, "and you frightened Remus a fraction of an inch from death. He thought that you would never wake up and forever be in what muggles call 'a coma.'"
"Oh," said Harry, staring absent mindedly at Dumbledore's red, bleary eyes.
"Yes," Dumbledore continued, "the doctors said that it wasn't just the injuries, but the shock of the whole situation that left you unconscious. I feel terrible. You've been through quite a lot this week haven't you?" Before waiting for Harry to answer, Dumbledore walked over to his shelf and brought back the penseive. Inside were swirling silver clouds of thoughts and memories.
"This always does the trick when I have a lot on my mind. Would you like to use it? Clearing your thoughts is the key to a nice long rest." Harry looked from Dumbledore to the stone basin and thought of how Snape's memories were easily accessible. He hesitated.
"Erm, will I still be able to remember everything?" he asked.
"Yes," Dumbledore replied. "Just not as vividly as before."
He sighed and peered into the penseive once again.
"Er—no. No I—I'm fine," Harry replied feeling tension come between him and Dumbledore. "I can handle it rather well." Dumbledore threw up his hands in a shrug.
"Your choice. I hope you know that my intention was not to trick you into anything. I just thought it might help you relax. This week has been trauma after trauma for you and I don't want you to be overwhelmed."
"Thanks," he said. Dumbledore nodded. Now that the adrenaline had left his body, Harry could feel the effects of the late hour. He left his seat and began to lift his trunk. "Can I stay here?"
"Of course. You may use your dormitory for the remainder of this, well this isn't exactly holiday, so you can use it for the rest of this break."
"Thank you Professor," Harry grinned, heading towards the door. "By the way, how are the others doing?" Dumbledore smiled at the question.
"They're recovering nicely. In fact, some of them have a healthy immune system and are willing to give an interview. No," Dumbledore said as Harry's eyes widened, "it will not be conducted by Rita Skeeter." Harry nodded and apologized to Dumbledore for waking him up. They bade each other a "goodnight" and then Harry left for his dormitory.
He didn't have the faintest idea what time it must be. The hallway loomed evilly in the darkness. Mrs. Norris darted across his feet and made him jump. He clutched his wand and the vial closer to him.
When Harry reached the portrait, the Fat Lady was not there. He lifted the painting and climbed inside. The common room was worse than the hallways. It was cold, empty, and oddly resembled a mortician's office. He shivered as he set his trunk down in a corner. Despite its funeral home characteristics, Harry felt more at home than at Grimmuald Place. He never regretted returning to Hogwarts. It was his home. The Dursleys were shelter. Grimmuald Place was a house to flee to, but Hogwarts was home. With that feeling of comfort, Harry climbed the stairs to his bed, which he could hear soothingly calling his name. He was half asleep by the time he hit the pillow.