Harry Potter

Chapter five: a feast for your eyes =) [I hope!]

Thanks to all those who reviewed: you have no idea how much you make me happy! Ü Thanks a lot!

And oh yeah, just a warning for all you people who want a fic to last into his sixth year: It's gonna end at the same time before the Hogwarts term starts. J

I am not capable of writing something that can be as long as a year in Harry's schooling; I simply will run out of ideas (read: Life of a Flower) I lost my idea for that.

And I have a penchant to be overly descriptive sometimes, so forgive me!

And this fic will most likely go into one scene and the next scene will be what other people are doing at the same time as the previous scene.

Get me? Sorry if I'm like this!

The reason as to why it took such a looong time to come out: Went to China for one and a half weeks!

Anyway, enjoy! ………

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Far across a great distance, away from the safe haven the Burrow provided for Harry Potter, his unconscious self was struck with deep anger caused by the turn of events, which was a far cry from his physical vulnerability.

In the unmerciful chill of the dark dungeon, his brows furrowed, creating shadows upon his deathlike face. He closed his crimson eyes, and brought his hands to his temple.

"Do tell me, Mulciber, how the Aurors came to know about our attack in Essex?"

The aforementioned wizard's eyes grew panicked. He looked alarmed, and turned to his fellow Death Eater and best friend with a silent plea for help, very well aware of the fact that if her tried to lie, he would be tortured for information or much worse, killed.

"I-I don't know, master. . . . Maybe. . . . Maybe Potter's been having dreams again and he's taken care to inform the Ministry of our plans to attack. . . ."

He was indeed fortunate that the Master's eyes were closed, and he couldn't see the developing panic that his actions were giving off. What Mulciber didn't know was the Dark Lord was highly skilled in Legilimency.

And the Dark Lord was never known for wasting his skills.

"Why, Mulciber! Are you," he assumed an expression of shock, and gasped, "Afraid of me? Why is that so?"

One could only imagine the inner turmoil that Mulciber was suffering. It was a wonder that he kept his cool. Or tried to. With a gulp of fear that he tried his hardest to conceal, he said, trying to look at anything apart from Master's mocking eyes, "I'm not afraid, my Lord."

Wrong move, Mulciber winced inwardly as those slits of red clouded over with unsurpassable rage.

"Liar!" he hissed venomously, and Mulciber shrank back, as if trying to shield himself from the inevitable. "You have committed a grave offense in lying to me, Mulciber. All of you know that I despise liars!"

Turning to one of his cloaked followers on the side, who exists merely for the small job of opening the dungeon door, he said, "Bring them in." Then, the Dark Lord settled down, a satisfied grin flitting across his face, but the smile didn't quite reach to his eyes. It never would.

Mulciber was confused but he clearly was relieved. The tiny breath that escaped his semi-parted lips that was so because he was on the verge of begging for forgiveness showed his release of tension. Little did he know that that tension would flare up again; his opulence was short-lived as it quickly paved way for his imminent fear.

The metal bolts squeaked as they were unhinged. The creaking of the chains and screws turning added to the eeriness of the ambience lingering in the unnerving, damp underground chamber.

For a soundless second, the dimly lit room's stone floor was warmed by the reflection of the dancing orange embers of the torches lighting the equally dark hallway.

The Death Eater whom the Dark Lord gave orders to barked into the castrating caliginosity, "They're wanted."

Another few moments of anxiety and apprehension. Then, the ostensibly glowing reflection of the incandescence on the algid ground was replaced by the silhouettes of what looked to be another Death Eater, judging from the unmistakable outline of the hood and robes, holding the hands of a. . . . child?

Whispers were exchanged, and the hushed voices wouldn't have been heard if it weren't carried by the wafting scent of burning wood, from the torches, unequivocally.

Yes, it was definitely a child, Mulciber decided, as soon as he heard a high-pitched squeal and an angry deep voice.

The disturbing silence descended again, before-

"Daddy!"

A short bounding figure ran to the man in the middle, rich, red curls bouncing behind her. She was wearing a light green frock, complete with white frills on the neckline and on the hem. Holding her hair in place was a matching green headband. A wide smile formed on her cherry lips.

At catching a glance of her father, who most probably shadowed their homestead so rarely, her happiness was discernible. She charged enthusiastically at the astounded man and hugged him, her head reaching only his middle.

And at the look of pure fear that crossed his face at the sight of her, her confusion was unfathomable.

"Sandara?" he said weakly, not daring to believe his eyes, not wanting to. His sweet little girl, here at their meeting place. He felt as if he were about to pass out. It was common Death Eater knowledge that once a family member or a loved one was in your presence and the Dark Lord's, it was a way of conviction.

A conviction that never failed to convince.

His ears detected booted footsteps outside drawing nearer and nearer. The shadows splayed across the floor once more, but this time, they weren't as detailed; the fiery flames must've been dying.

His eyes smarted as they suddenly were very bright; his heart started beating faster and slower at the same time as he heard the tear- stained voice of his wife.

"Malcolm?"

He wouldn't have been able to recognize his wife if only it weren't for her voice, which was a beautiful, tinkling sound. Her russet hair that their child inherited hung in clumpy strands, and her face was smudged with the remains of her ruined mascara.

Her appearance was a far cry from that of which she usually kept in the presence of all the other pureblooded families.

"Carmine?"

A humorless laugh rang throughout the chamber, the walls responsible for the dying echoes. "Adorable, isn't it?" The Dark Lord stood up, and walked swiftly beside Mulciber. "This family reunion of sorts?"

The cold sneer of the Dark Lord was directed towards the redheaded woman who was eyeing her child and husband, frightened. Gliding towards her, he said, "Mrs. Mulciber. . . . Carmine, I presume your name is?"

Mulciber watched his wife nod quickly, her pale face an emotional storm.

"Did you know that your husband here," the Dark Lord cocked his head slightly towards the Death Eater, "is a liar?"

Sandara peeked from underneath her auburn spirals with the same hazel eyes her father possessed. Her mother's weary gaze locked with her wide-eyed one.

The Dark Lord's attention shifted to the child, who clung to her father fiercely, refusing to let go. She stared at the man with the snakelike eyes defiantly, still unaware of what this man who threatened her Daddy and Mummy could do.

He chuckled mirthlessly. It wasn't a surprise to any of those Death Eaters present. Their master usually did things with irony. In all actuality, they all pitied Mulciber, none of them wanted to be in his position, with their family members at risk. But they didn't dare interfere; it would only secure their untimely deaths.

Within a moment; in a swift motion, dark russets clashed horribly against a sickening pale white, as a thick lock of hair from the child was suddenly in the vice-like grip of the Dark Lord. The slight rustle of the part of her hair that stood up a little, the growing baby hairs at the top of her head, to stress the point exactly, indicated just how terribly close he was.

"Tell me, child, have you heard of the Dark Lord?"

Mulciber instantly regretted all those hasty cover-ups he had had to invent in order for his daughter to not find out the real reason why Daddy couldn't come and see the unicorn she'd drawn, or read her stories of meadows with butterflies, or mighty kingdoms with kings and queens.

With questioning in her suddenly huge chocolate eyes, Sandara shook her head slowly. "Who's the Dark Lord?"

This simple inquiry extorted another chortle that lacked in humor from the man in question. He ran his fingers down through the lock of hair he had in the palm of his hand, painfully untangling the curls that were naturally tangled.

A wince graced the angelic features of Sandara. "Let go! You're hurting me!"

He let go of her hair instantly, and turned to Mulciber, who had not moved at all since seeing his family. "A beauty, isn't she, Mulciber? And an honest one at that."

He put an emphasis on "honest".

"One can ruin your faith with casual lies, Mulciber, remember that."

The Dark Lord turned once again to the child, and knelt to her level, his breath once again causing her hair to dance. "Now, to your question, Sandara. The most the Dark Lord does is hurl shadows unto the light side, because on that side are fools who use their magic for fighting him, when they could do the right thing, for once, and help him.

"He is hated, fought against, feared. But all he wants to do is prove that only Pureblooded witches and wizards are worthy of living. After all, what is the point in having magical powers if you are the son of a common Muggle?

"And we all know that Muggles don't deserve to live," he spat viciously, obviously remembering what his own father had done, many, many years ago.

"Many serve him, that is important for you to know. Many follow the Dark Lord, despite what the imbeciles at the Ministry could do to them. They cannot operate openly, however, because they will surely be hunted down, and therefore, the Dark Lord will be left alone, without any of his followers. He cannot then proceed with his plans of eliminating those unworthy half- bloods and Mudbloods.

"But should they get caught by those Muggle-loving fools they call Aurors, they will not hesitate a millisecond to announce their loyalty and pledge to the Dark Lord.

"They're his Death Eaters, and they are loyal."

His eyes turned to those of each of his Death Eaters in turn, penetrating into their souls, before speaking with firmness and certainty, "They are loyal."

No one dared to move, as if the spell of his powerful tale was Then, the Dark Lord continued with the story of himself.

"Some aren't as loyal as each other, and they know that their betrayal of the Dark Lord has a terrible price to pay. If they are unaware of what he is capable of doing, should they turn against him and his followers, then what the Dark Lord will do to them will make what he is competent of painfully obvious."

Getting into the spirit of his little "story telling", the Dark Lord stood up, and walked slowly away from Sandara, and directed towards her mother.

"They are all in the right side to fear and respect greatly the Dark Lord, for he is the one who can do thing worthy of your awe. He is the one who will bring the Wizarding world to justice. He is the one who will prevail."

He circled Carmine like a hawk does his chosen prey. She shivered unconsciously; he had that effect on people. "The Dark Lord hates those who choose the wrong direction and deceive him. He hates blundering and conniving fools. But most of all, he hates half bloods, Mudbloods and liars.

"The English language, as well as any other language known to mankind, is insufficient to describe how much he loathes those who possess magical powers, but aren't of pure magical blood."

There was a very pregnant moment when he paused, allowing them to absorb what they had just heard, for surely, his dark accounts of all his deeds were unnerving. The tension in the air grew stifling.

A small voice broke the silence. "But who is he?"

The Dark Lord himself whirled around, the impetuous mobility instigating the fluid swishing of his robes. In an alacritous point, he was once again at the side of Sandara.

"My, my," he murmured, his breath causing her to blink repeatedly in succession, "Aren't you an inquisitive little girl. A little too impudent for my liking, but inquisitive. I like that."

Returning to her initial inquiry, he asked, "Tell me, child, are you afraid of the Dark Lord?"

She nodded apathetically after a long moment's hesitation. "He sounds mean to me. And scary," Sandara added.

The glint of malice that the Death Eaters had come to familiarize with so well appeared in his eyes. Then-

A deadly whisper.

A hiss of annoyance.

"Do you really want to know who he is?"

"I've been telling you again and again. Yes!"

"In time, then. . . . I could also tell you where he is right now!"

"Really?"

The Death Eaters and her parents held their breaths, as Voldemort bent down to her level, and put his mouth dangerously close to her ear.

"But of course. He's standing right beside you."

She gasped, terrified, and tearing her arms off her father, she made a mad dash for her mother. "Mummy!"

"Yes, run," the Dark Lord said, undaunted. "Everyone does, but I'll carelessly cut you and laugh while you're bleeding."

Carmine wrapped her arms lovingly around the small, quivering body, and pulled her daughter close to her, and moved forward, in an effort to shield the child's body with her own in the case the Dark Lord chose to attack her.

"Now, you'll see what happens to liars around me, Sandara," the Dark Lord said, advancing towards her father. "My followers have seen it many times before, yet they still try and hide the truth from me. But I, Lord Voldemort, always find a way."

Mulciber braced his body for pain as he found himself at the receiving end of his master's wand. But all the preparation in the world would've been able to get him ready for the immense pain that followed.

"Crucio."

The word uttered with impossible ease and boredom caused Mulciber tremendous amounts of pain. He hurt in places he never knew existed; the lines obscuring his vision were rapidly shrinking then expanding again. He felt as if his limbs were being torn off, as if someone was pricking his skin one by one.

He bit his lip in order to keep the cry that tried to emerge from being released, and in all his agony, he didn't notice that his palms were bleeding for his nails had dug into the now pale surface. He screwed up his eyes, taking a stab at the chance that he could concentrate on something else, something that wasn't in the same league as hurting.

He distinctly heard a far - away voice yelling, "Daddy! DADDY!" and he could only hope that the Master hadn't done the same to Sandara or Carmine.

Then, as quickly as the pain erupted like long-awaiting volcanoes, letting out all its majestic rage, it stopped. Mulciber had no conscious remembrance of falling on the stone-cold floor, but when he opened his eyes, the tips of someone's shoes were extremely close to his eyes. He closed them again, anticipating the harsh blow of a kick.

It didn't come. . . . Instead. . . .

A cruel voice.

"Get up."

Trying his damnedest to ignore the after-effects of the Cruciatus curse, which was quite a difficult task, he picked himself up off the floor, wishing his family didn't see him as a weak person.

As soon as his feet were firmly planted on the ground, a thick glob of saliva found its way onto his cheek. He didn't dare wipe it off, just standing unblinkingly as it slivered its path down his chin, his neck.

"Had enough?" Voldemort asked coldly, his gaze penetrating right through Mulciber. He didn't wait for an answer. "Dolohov, bring them to me." He inclined his head a little bit to his left.

Dolohov kept his head bowed, and whispered softly, but loud enough for Voldemort to hear, "Yes, my lord."

For a split second, best friends' shoulders collided, and both stiffened. Both froze momentarily, both moved away abruptly. They didn't show any other indication that they'd physically connected. Perhaps it was the over domineering way their Master ordered Dolohov to bring Mulciber's family forward that brought that nagging little thought in both their minds that it was over. Their best friendship. . . .

Dolohov remembered that day well in Hogwarts when they'd first met, already showing the true, undeniable characteristics of a real Slytherin. . . .

The memory going through Mulciber was of the one when an Auror shot the Cruciatus Curse*, meant for him, and Dolohov had jumped at the last minute in front of him, guarding Mulciber's body with his own, at the last possible minute. . . .

They knew it.

It was over.

Their camaraderie was over the moment the Dark Lord voiced his orders. The moment Dolohov accepted.

"Please," Carmine whispered, a soft sound barely capable of cutting through the cold dungeon air, as he roughly guided them, making the mother stumble a bit over a slightly raised stone, "Remember the years, Andrew, remember the years."

He was confused, but didn't even try to ask her what she meant. Voldemort was nodding approvingly, a satisfied smile plastered on his unnaturally pale face. "Good."

"Good," he said again, as Dolohov let go of the two female Mulcibers, therefore, taking away the balance they had come to find in him as he none too gently pulled them into position. "Now. . . . This will wrench my heart, but. . . ."

Mulciber dreaded the next words to come out of his master's mouth more than anything else he'd been truly afraid of in his life.

". . . .Andrew, you are best friends with Malcolm here, am I correct?"

A quick nod.

"And you don't deny it, do you, Malcolm?"

An equally as quick shake of the head, no.

"Well," Voldemort said, his countenance giving off glee in a twisted sort of way, rubbing his hands against the other, "You, Malcolm, have the honor of being one of the witnesses to your beautiful family's torture, to be taken care of your closest, almost-brother like friend. . . ."

Two hearts dropped, two brains went numb, two looks of shock that were attempted to be dulled appeared.

"Ah, yes," the Dark Lord said, averting his gaze from Sandara and Carmine to the face of his Death Eater, "Andrew. . . . If you please?"

Mulciber, on instinct, moved quickly towards his wife and daughter, intent on protecting them. With a casual flick of the Dark Lord's wand, he found his back aching, along with the back of his head, plastered to the stone wall, unable to move. Aghast, he strained as much as his invisible bonds allowed him to, trying not to draw attention to himself.

Voldemort did see his futile attempts, and glided soundlessly towards his follower, the graceful movement nearly beautiful, if not portrayed as so silent and deadly. "This should give you a great view, Malcolm," he whispered, his voice so quiet yet, because of the room's stillness, it seemed as if he'd shouted.

"Do it, Dolohov," he ordered.

Dolohov wasn't sure what to do, whether to obey his master, and gain pure hatred from his best friend, or not to follow, and surely get the Cruciatus, or even worse, death from Voldemort.

After a millisecond that seemed like a lifetime of sorting out the possibilities and what to do, Dolohov looked Mulciber directly in the eye.

With mounting unease forming at the pit of his stomach, which churned uncomfortably, Mulciber watched on helplessly. He could do naught else.

"I am a man of little patience when I desire something done," the Dark Lord seethed. "Do it, now. Do it now, you incompetent idiot."

Dolohov regarded Voldemort with high abhorrence, deciding frantically what to do.

"Do it, or I will force you to," threatened the Dark Lord, this time, with a malicious edge to his clipped words. "Believe me, Andrew, you wouldn't want that. . . ."

He didn't move, he wouldn't. Instead, he let his mind wander and thought to himself why he wouldn't want the Imperius cast upon him? The feeling was one of blissful light headedness, and he presumed it was how one would feel after a good dose of the Muggle drug, Ecstasy**, they called it.

He closed his eyes, the darkness coming in from the side, just in time before—

"Imperio!"

As all the others whispered and yelled before, the word bounced right directly off the walls, its sound reverberating throughout the cramped dungeon, as if a speeding invisible sphere of sound that wouldn't rest.

A beautiful, hazy trance came over him. He was swimming through fluffy white clouds, he swung his arms with surprising ease. He felt good; he was free!

Dolohov. . . .

Hmm? He tilted his head towards the slightly commanding, but otherwise friendly voice. Yes?

You want to, you know it. . . .

What do I want?

You will, I'm sure. . . .

What? I will what?

Will you do something for me?

. . . .Ok, sure. . . .

Cast it. . . . Cast the spell. . . .Cast it on them!

Cast what? What will I cast?

I've told you. . . . Cast it, Andrew. . . .The Cruciatus Curse. . . . Cast it. . . .

On whom?

On them. . . . On the woman and the child. . . .

But. . . . It will hurt them. . . . I don't want to—

Incapable fool! I'm not asking you, I am telling you! Do as I tell you. . . .

A moment's hesitation before the cold air was viciously slashed apart by various screams and shouts—

"Crucio! Crucio!"

"Finite Incantatem!"

The two spells overlapped each other. Two green rays headed for the direction of the female Mulcibers; the white one's destination the caster of the Cruciatus Curses.

Dolohov fell— his mind immediately cleared of its foggy state, even before his impact on the hard floor. He was in the possession of his own will again, he could see clearly, now.

Everything seemed to be in slow motion for Malcolm— the sound of his best friend's fall wasn't as loud as those of the two— Sandara was screaming, the indescribable torment she was going through apparent on her youthful face— soft whimpers escaped the prison of Carmine's mouth— The surrounding Death Eaters glance at each other awkwardly, not wanting to meet the sight with their eyes— Dolohov stared at his hands, unable to believe that he had caused his goddaughter and his best friend's wife so much anguish— Malcolm Mulciber didn't notice the lone tear that cleared a path down his pale cheek over the noise—

The Dark Lord laughed mordantly; it was the most evident sound amongst the unbeatable noise around him. Another family ruined for life. Another friendship broken. It was all almost too perfect.

"Yes, I do believe you won't lie to me in the future, hmm, Mulciber?"

His laughter would echo in the minds and hearts of the broken family before him, just as their screams would in his.

Harry's red eyes gleamed positively with cracked delight as he kept on laughing and laughing—

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"It was most fortunate that we'd gotten word of it before long. Goodness only knows how much longer the poor boy could take before he — never mind. We were lucky," Madam Pomfrey said, after a few moments' pause.

The two Hogwarts staff members had just walked Apparated a mile from the Burrow, since the Weasley house had wards around it, just like at number four. After Flooing to Hogwarts, where Madam Pomfrey had nimbly picked out her strongest healing potions and some books, they'd sat down to wait for Dumbledore's instruction.

Mrs. Weasley regarded what her two old mentors had just told her with a mixture of horror and amazement. "Bless the poor dear, we never had the faintest bit of a clue! I even see his discarded letters when I clear Ron's wastebasket. He seemed all right!"

She chanced a quick darting look at the direction where Harry lay on the couch, vulnerable and very much obviously in pain. What Madam Pomfrey had declared just a few minutes ago sill rang through out her mind.

***

"Severus was right. The drink in the mug was tinged with— oh Merlin."

"Do tell us what's wrong with the boy, Poppy."

"It's not what's wrong with the boy. It's the potion that the drink in the mug was mixed with!"

"Well?"

"Molly, oh dear, it's a potion, a Dark one, that's one of the most complicated known in our world. I've never seen a more difficult potion to brew, this including the Polyjuice potion, of course! It states here that once drunk, any wounds that might be inflicted on the drinker twenty minutes after the swallowing wouldn't respond to magical or Muggle treatments. . . ."

"What do you mean to say? That Potter will not heal?"

"No, no, Minerva, he will heal—"

"That's all we need right now. If he will heal, that's perfectly all right. We just need him alive and well, no matter how long it will take."

"Exactly my point! It will take twice as long for him to heal normally, without any outside help whatsoever. And even so, the effects of his wounds, however big or small, will always linger. Over the years, they will eventually heal, but it takes a long time. A very long time. "

***

"Well, Molly," McGonagall said with a heavy sigh, "All of us seemed to have lacked betterment in the judging department. I can speak for all of the Order's members when I say with all honesty, that we really were too tied up with all the goings-on of the summer, that we have, most unfortunately, forgotten about Potter."

The three women shared a minute's pondering, before Madam Pomfrey voiced her worries, startling a rather sleepy George, who was on his way down to get a cup of hot chocolate, in an attempt to soothe him to sleep.

"I wonder how Professor Snape is doing— I know he hasn't what you exactly would call a soft spot for Potter, but when matters concern a student of his, like all teachers, he won't fail to guard them."

They didn't see the look of plenary bewilderment that resided in his brown eyes— they didn't quite catch his ascent up the stairs, his cloth-clad feet making soft, padding thuds that were hardly loud enough to be heard. In fact, they didn't see him at all.

A few seconds later. . . .

"Fred! Wake up, you big lump!" George pulled on a foot that was sticking out of the blanket.

Some incoherent, mumbled words were educed from underneath the gray, mass of his twin's blanket before the foot was unceremoniously pulled back into the warm confines of their thinning quilt.

"Wake up, you sodding git! McGonagall and Pomfrey are here!"

He was up and about as quick as the legendary strike of lightning. "Ho, there, George, I might've not heard you right, for my ears are most probably crusty with the blessed earwax that our ears seem to develop during slumber. Are Minerva and Poppy really here?"

"I believe you are on the accurate side on the earwax issue, dear brother, but what I'm saying is true. They are here, and—" he hastily added upon seeing the suggestive look on his brother's face, "— and they're not here to visit us, because they miss us terribly so. They're talking to Mum!"

On his feet, and already pulling on his burgundy bathrobe, Fred said incredulously, "Surely they haven't only found out about the prank we pulled off on the trophy room? This is way earlier than the time I'd expected they'd find out about it."

George shook his head, pulling his brother towards Ron's room. "It's about Harry. Something bad's happened to him. They were talking about Snape helping Harry!"

They looked at each other, halting, their faces mirroring the other's. The resistance Fred had been putting up suddenly died.

"We have to get Ron," Fred said grimly, pushing the door open to his brother's room. The violent shade of orange was thankfully dulled by the night's veil of darkness. Faint snores floated along with the night air, its source from the low bed on the farther right side of the room.

Fred and George shared another glance, snickering quietly at the sight of their brother's opened mouth, with drool leaking out. His face was illuminated by the silvery luster of the moon, creating faint outlines of his features.

They drew nearer, and, once Fred cast a Silencing Charm*** over the tangerine room, George put his mouth alarmingly close to Ron's ear, so close that he had to move away a few inches, due to the rather unpleasant feeling of earwax on his nose.

Rubbing at the tip of his nose irritably, George turned to Fred, who urged him on with a not-so-gentle shove, "He's got to set his priorities straight. He's too hung up on Hermione to even clear his bloody ears!"

Two withering looks were thrown towards their brother, who snored audibly more then ever, before—

"RON, WAKE UP! UP! UP! UP YOU GET!!!"

No reaction was drawn whatsoever from their brother by his yelling. The snores got louder still.

"That's no surprise, George—"

"— he sleeps like the dead, Fred—"

"—All Weasleys do," they finished in unison.

A cognate intuition struck them both at almost exactly the same moments.

Fred gestured towards their youngest brother, "You do the honors."

His twin had already conjured a bucket – its plastic was peeling horribly — of ice-chilled water, and, promptly dumping its contents on the bed before them, said, "It would be my pleasure."

"ARGH!!!"

Thank heavens for that Silencing Charm, George thought with a grimaced wince.

The newly-awakened, and very much angered Ron glared at them with a fierce look in his eyes, the tips of his rather large beginning to be tinged by a dull robicund color.

"We're very sorry, Ronniekins, if you were in the middle of the shagging Hermione part in your dream—"

His face turned the same shade as his wallpaper, and his mouth opened and closed soundlessly, like a fish out of water, which was quite amusing, because considering his current condition, he very well could've been a fish.

"— but this really is a matter of urgency, bro, for McGonagall and Pomfrey—"

"—have come!" George finished, with a harried expression settling into his eyes to replace the 'vacant expressions' Lucius Malfoy had said all the Weasleys all possessed that day in Flourish and Blott's, long, long ago.

Ron's face clouded over once more, but not with the previous embarrassment. It was more on the incredulity side. He gasped— sending droplets onto the window, the impact causing soft, splattering sounds.

"What are you two going on about?! Don't tell me— Merlin! Have you two been sneaking pints from Dad's Firewhisky again?"

Fred assumed a look of total innocence, which usually failed to convince anybody. "Ron, I am appalled! Surely you don't think so badly of us! We are telling the truth!"

"Oh, really," a cocky voice came from the doorway's direction, "Were you telling the truth the last time you snuck drinks from Dad's stock? Down like a players fallen of their broomsticks, and still denying it— that was a laugh—"

The three male Weasleys who'd been speaking so intently jumped like three cats just splashed with water. Their heads swiveled to the left in flawless unanimity, to the doorway, where their youngest sibling stood, in her brownish yellow pyjamas, her hair in a tousled style, her left eyebrow raised up, arms crossed in an egotistical fashion.

"Surprised, brothers?"

"How did you—"

"How long were you—"

"ARGH!"

________________________________________________________________________

"Actually, Minerva, I'm not worried about Severus," exclaimed the nurse, adjusting her sliding robes a little. Beside her, Mrs. Weasley worriedly sipped her chamomile tea, frequently darting concerned looks at Harry's way.

McGonagall brought her finger to her lips, and settled into the worn tan couch, enjoying the soft, shabby feel of the cloth, but not daring to say so. "Why ever so, Poppy? He is, after all, still our colleague."

Madam Pomfrey nodded understandingly, "Yes, yes, I know that Minerva. And I do think that he is a perfectly scholarly man who can wield powerful magic against enemies when threatened."

"Then, Madam Pomfrey," Mrs. Weasley said, uncomfortable with calling her old school nurse by her first name still, even after long years from graduating at Hogwarts, "Who are you worried about?"

"Vernon Dursley, the poor man!"

Exactly above them, in an orange room to be more exact, a boy named Ronald lost his mind completely.

________________________________________________________________________

"ARGH!"

Ginny bit her lower lip, trying to no avail not to let the smile that was threatening to submerge finally break through. The last one came from Ron. Apparently, he was speechless. She giggled at the thought of her brother dying from the thought of the twins implying his doing the deed with Hermione.

In a few quick strides, Ron had grabbed her roughly by the shoulders, shaking her violently and roaring in her ears, not to mention that fact that she was getting rather soaked from his hands and arms. "How long – GINNY! Why didn't you— what did you hear?! Gin, how could— ARGH!"

In the next second, the twins had moved to their sides, as well, Fred sporting a highly bemused grin, George clapping his brother's back buoyantly, chortling.

"Absolutely wonderful, dear brother, that new word of yours. Very. . . . intellectual."

Ron wasn't to be calmed down at all, however. Still wheezing vociferously, he all but growled, "What did you hear, Gin?!"

She smiled cheekily, "Oh, well, Fred and George weren't exactly mouse-like before they cast the Silencing Spell, so upon hearing strange, queer and definitely some shouts, I decided to check what was going on. And here I am, full to brimming with perfect knowledge of the entire conversation."

He opened his mouth to speak, but his anger and embarrassment were too much for him to handle alone. He was shaking a little; a danger sign for all within his immediate presence.

"Do close your mouth, Ron, it isn't very attracting to women you know. And that is the last thing you want Hermione to think that, am I right?"

Fred received a penetrating death glare from Ginny, and he literally shrank back, perhaps in his mind, the effects of what their younger sister was capable of was still fresh. "Fred! Now's not the time, ok? Anyway, as George said, the three are here, and it concerns Harry."

The twins nodded righteously, and all traces of his previous emotions fled from Ron's face.

"Well, come on then! What are we standing around here looking like idiots for?"

In a few minutes, the four redheads were creeping down the stairs, eyes fixed on the three figures before them with apprehension. The quiet voices sounded seriously grave.

"Well, Poppy, Dumbledore seemed unusually calm about it. He just insinuated very clearly that is important that we leave at seven o'clock for 12 Grimmauld Place. Elphias and Hestia have news about the latest Death Eater raid."

"Molly, is it all right if we turn over for the night?"

"Why, of course! You can take P-Percy's room, I'll conjure up another bed."

The four Weasleys whose presences weren't known exchanged dark looks at the mention f their brother. Rustling of robes and thuds on the coffee table were heard as three mugs of tea were set down.

"Good night, Molly, and many thanks," the whispered voice of McGonagall louder than ever.

"No, no, Professor, many thanks to you, for rescuing Harry," Mrs. Weasley said, gratefulness apparent in her wan voice.

A few more seconds and it hit Ron.

"Gin! Fred, George! They're going to go up the stairs!"

Quick as they could without alerting the three adults, they move sideways into the living room, and as soon as they were safely behind the wall, the sound of halcyon footsteps faded farther and farther away.

"What is that?"

Ginny squinted; the dim light that the lamp in the corner gave off wasn't really enough for them to see well. Her brothers turned around.

"What, Gin-gin?"

She gasped and turned very still and pale. Her brothers, too, scrunched up their eyes to get a better view. George actually went a few steps forward to see what exactly could shock their sister so much, before—

"Bloody hell! Is that Harry?!"

The four walked softly nearer, and when they got to the side of the couch, they just stared at their fellow wizard, at their fellow student, at their friend.

"Harry?" Ginny whispered as she laid an experimental hand on his arm, carefully, with extreme caution, afraid that he would break into a thousand pieces if she dared lay any more pressure.

Then, suddenly, those vividly alive green eyes flew open, pain and torment apparent, as Harry yelled loud enough to rattle even the ghost in the attic, "MULCIBER! SANDARA! CARMINE! ARGH!!!"

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Asterisk explanations:

*- That time when the Light side also used the Unforgivables. (I'm not sure about the Killing Curse, though. Come to think of it, I'm not sure about this whole Light side using the Unforgivables idea, either. It just exists for this purpose; the purpose of the best friends having memories)

** I DO NOT TAKE DRUGS. I JUST ASSUME THAT THIS WOULD BE HOW THE IMPERIO CURSE WOULD FEEL. ü

***They've graduated from Hogwarts, therefore, they are fully qualified wizards, and are allowed to use magic outside of their old school.

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