Disclaimer: Obviously, I didn't write the Harry Potter series. J.K. Rowling is responsible for those masterpieces, and I will always worship her for it. Please don't sue me. I'm already poor and my mom would yell at me.
A/N: If I was smart, I'd say this chapter took so long to get out because I've been so busy, it was hard to write, "I was distraught!", yada yada yada…As I am not really smart, I'll admit that this update is so late because I have been having too much fun enjoying my first few weeks of summer. I've already been out dancing, jet-skiing, seen a few movies, rode in my friend's new hot rod, tormented some of my old high school teachers, sweated out a few Tae Kwon Do club sessions, fixed a lawn mower, and am still somehow managing to not get any calls back on my job applications. All in all, great fun! Now is the part where I apologize profusely, but happily point out that this is my longest chapter yet! Oh, also an ecstatic thank you to my all time high of SEVENTEEN reviewers on the last chapter—I love you all!
Natalie—thanks for reading, I should have some feedback for you on your story in my next update; I'd love to have Harry teach DADA this year and even thought about it, but I decided it didn't sound very realistic. He may be capable, but he is still only going to be sixteen and the Ministry would throw a fit I think.
Wiccan PussyKat—school may have finished earlier for me, but I got no fall break, a short spring break, and very few holidays that most other colleges got off. But yeah, it is great to be out of school already. July 20th? That's insane—er, nutters (I'm trying)! That club idea sounds interesting, not a bad idea! My lips are sealed about Lupin's role and fate in this fic. Yes, Justin is a bit boastful and sneaky for a Hufflepuff, but then again, Harry is a Gryffindor despite some of his more Slytherin tendencies…goes to show most people are multifaceted. According to Spellcheck, forgivability is not a word. Sorry! But I loved your idea for a measurement system for the severity of curses! I was cracking up as I read your ideas—very creative and Rowling-esque. I'm drifting between feeling sorry for Dumbledore and angry at his manipulations, if you can't tell. You're spot on with your reasoning concerning Harry's schooling. The same thoughts went through my head as a was writing the chapter; Harry's not as studious as Hermione, and would probably not do as well studying completely on his own the whole school year. Love your reviews, especially hyper ones!
Ootp-rules—good, someone noticed that Harry forgot to mention a very important detail to Dumbledore! That will come into play this chapter. Thanks for pointing out the DADA error—I read too much fanfiction where it's abbreviated and got that mixed up with the actual books. Sorry! I'll fix it sometime. Other than that, I'm very glad to hear you think everyone's in character and close to canon! Glad to have you reading!
Avalon, jeff, bfergu01, Omagic, csferosha, Mooncinder, sarily, gaul1, David305, LunaLovegood61, Allie (thanks! Hizzah's a good thing, right?), jbfritz, Kjkit, and holly, thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy the new chapter! Your reviews are very much appreciated!
Chapter 10: Whisper to a Scream
"So what is the point of this again?"
"Saving the princess, I think."
"Riiight. Tell me again how squashing evil mushrooms and turtles with turkey heads can save anyone?" Harry asked, jabbing the 'A' button to make Luigi hop over an angry looking creature with a shiny black shell.
"Oh, shut up Harry. You're not supposed to analyze it, and you have to admit it's fun."
"Pointless fun," Harry mumbled under his breath, as Luigi was sucked down a green pipe.
Heather had called for him at the Dursleys' the day after Dumbledore's visit. Harry had been in the kitchen fixing a sandwich when Aunt Petunia answered the phone, and was surprised when she snarled his name and thrust the headpiece at him. The only phone call he had ever gotten before that moment was from Ron, and it was all he could do not to stutter when he heard Heather's voice on the other end of the line. Luckily, she had taken control of the conversation and casually asked him to visit on Monday so that she would not die of boredom during the house arrest her parents had cruelly inflicted on her.
As Heather was the first muggle Harry would ever dare call a friend, this was the first time he had been invited over to a muggle house just to "hang out". He had been a bit unsure of himself at first, but the casual atmosphere of the Gaines household was contagious and he soon felt very relaxed. Unlike the Dursleys', Heather's home had a cluttered, lived-in appearance. Magazines and books were strewn across the coffee table, some of the pictures on the walls hung crooked, and the refrigerator was covered with reminder notes and a wide variety of magnets. Harry imagined his own house would have looked similar had his parents survived, and surprisingly, the thought made him smile fondly.
Heather's mother, Bridget, had been home when he came over, and Harry found her to be a kind and friendly woman. Bridget was slightly plump with short, curly brown hair and rosy-red cheeks. She had beamed at him and shaken his hand emphatically when her daughter had introduced him, and smiled and waved until they left the room. As they walked upstairs to Heather's room, she had whispered in his ear that her mother believed he was a model student at Smeltings and was thrilled that her daughter was finally settling down and dating a 'respectable young gentleman'. She giggled and rolled her eyes. Harry hid a blush and a bit of guilt knowing that neither Heather nor her mother really knew anything about him. However, he decided to excuse his lies as they were necessary for both Heather's and his own safety.
So far, he was truly enjoying himself and was extremely grateful to spend his Monday outside the borders of Dursley Hell. Had it not been for Heather, he would surely be straining his eyes for the fifth hour straight to read more of his defense books. While not a despicable task in itself, Harry had been holed away in his room for days doing nothing but reading, and it was beginning to get to extremely boring. He was also grateful to be in the company of someone who wasn't disgusted by him, even if she was a bit strange herself.
Despite the fact that Heather's room was painted in a frightful hot pink and decorated with kittens reminiscent of the former "High Inquisitor" Umbridge, Harry felt comfortable with her. She was easy-going, funny, and so chatty she reminded Harry of Lavender Brown (with a higher IQ). In fact, she talked almost nonstop about everything from Justin Finch-Fletchley to world hunger, and was still going strong.
"So Harry, what do you do for fun?"
"Fun?" he asked distractedly, attention focused on guiding Luigi to escape a troupe of ghosts chasing him through a castle.
Heather punched his bicep lightly, resulting in him accidentally running Luigi straight into a bubbling pit of lava. "You heard me! Fun. You know, something that keeps you going in this dreadful, hopeless world."
He sighed as the words 'Game Over' blinked on the television screen, and searched his mind for a suitable answer. "I like to fly on my broomstick and read up on unusual hexes and jinxes," was not an answer one would hear from a normal muggle teenager.
"I…uh…I write letters to my friends from school—er, St. Brutus', that is. Sometimes I watch the telly or read. Mainly I just try to avoid the Dursleys." Well, at least part of it was true.
Heather nodded sympathetically; he had told her all about the Dursleys and their view of him. Of course, the story of his parents' deaths and the main reason for his relatives' hatred of him had to be altered a bit, but she had gotten the gist.
"How about you? What do you do for fun?" Harry asked, as she expertly directed Mario through a game level full of leaping killer fish, collapsing bridges, and flying turkey-headed turtles.
"I visit my friends, shop, go to parties, that kind of thing. Speaking of which, a friend of mine in Westfield is having a party this Friday if you'd like to come. I think Justin's going to be there."
Harry would have liked to accept the invitation for no other reason than to find out first-hand what went on at parties, but could list about a thousand reasons why it was a bad idea, and impossible to boot. "Uh, no thanks. I'm not allowed to leave the neighborhood."
"Oh, honestly. Harry, you go to St. Brutus'. Sneak out!" Heather ordered him incredulously.
He could feel a blush on his cheeks as he tried to come up with a better excuse. "I can't because…I…" It was very hard to make up an adequate lie while she was beckoning impatiently for him to deliver an answer. "I'm on probation!" he finally exclaimed, inwardly congratulating himself on his quick thinking.
"Wow, really? What for?" she inquired excitedly.
Harry got the feeling he had just dug himself a deeper hole. Wracking his brain again, he said, "Er, I got in a fight with a street gang." Visions of 'Big D' and his henchmen floated dimly in the recesses of his mind. "The police came and broke it up, but now I'm stuck reporting to a probation officer every time I leave the house. Besides, even if I did go, this gang is always after me," Harry added, pretending to be annoyed
Heather looked worried. "You really shouldn't be fighting. It's dangerous, and it won't do anything for you in the long run except get you in trouble. You're lucky all you got was probation; you could've been hurt," she said seriously.
"I didn't start it!" Harry replied indignantly. "It was dark out and they jumped me before I even knew they were there. I had no way to defend myself. I wouldn't start a fight for no reason." He didn't know why it was so important to him to make her believe his innocence in the imaginary fight.
She regarded him appraisingly for a moment, then abruptly switched off the Nintendo in the middle of her game. Harry watched her with confusion as she jumped up from the shaggy pink rug and began rifling through a dresser drawer.
"It won't do to have you wandering around the neighborhood alone and defenseless at night, especially when this dangerous gang is after you. If there's one thing my dad taught me, it's to always carry some sort of defense weapon," she said, struggling to speak over the noise she was making as she sorted through the drawer.
Harry assumed Heather had found what she was looking for when she plopped back onto the rug clutching what looked like a miniature spray can and something compact and shiny. He looked up at her questioningly when she tried to hand the objects over to him.
"This little can is pepper spray; aim it for your attacker's eyes and it will make them tear up bad enough for you to make a run for it. This," she said, holding up the shiny object, "is a last resort only. If you're being attacked and you think your life is in danger, this has a three-inch blade that can be pushed out with a flick of your thumb." Heather demonstrated. "Really, though, last resort only. Pepper spray hurts like hell, but this thing'll leave a big bloody hole in someone!"
The thought of carrying a knife and pepper spray made Harry a little nervous, but when he thought about it, they couldn't do half the damage his wand could. If he felt perfectly comfortable being constantly armed with a potentially lethal stick of wood, then a bit of metal and a spray can shouldn't bother him at all. He accepted the items and offered to pay Heather for them, but she laughed the idea off.
"I have about three more of each where those came from, plus a taser and two and a half years of self-defense training. Like I was saying, my dad's kind of a freak when it comes to my safety," she answered.
Personally, Harry thought all her father's safety techniques were being rather wasted if Heather's recent intoxication was any clue to her normal behavior. All the weapons and training in the world weren't enough to protect a person who was too pissed to use it. Harry thought it was wiser not to mention this to Heather, however. He could only hope that the state he had found her in when they first met was a very rare occurrence.
Heather and her mother somehow succeeded in talking him into staying for dinner that evening. Mrs. Gaines had prepared a nice roast with a vegetable platter that would have been much more enjoyable had Mr. Gaines not been eyeing Harry suspiciously throughout the entire meal. Harry gulped his food down quickly and pretended not to notice. Heather, however, ate calmly, alternating between shooting glares at her father and apologetic glances at Harry. Apparently Mr. Gaines wasn't quite as euphoric about Heather's new 'boyfriend' as Mrs. Gaines.
Harry was relieved when dinner finally ended. While he was helping clear the table, Mrs. Gaines pulled him aside and assured him it wasn't that her husband didn't like him, he was just a bit overprotective of his daughter. Harry thought that could qualify for "Understatement of the Year", but nodded politely anyway.
After a gruff "Good-bye" from Mr. Gaines and a promise to visit again soon to Heather and Bridget, Harry started back to the Dursleys' at sunset. He slowed his steps when he saw an old woman with odd black and white streaked hair approaching him, leaning heavily on a thick wooden cane. His hand hovered warily yet inconspicuously near his hidden wand at his waistband. The woman was watching him intently, which made Harry nervous considering he had never seen her on Privet Drive before.
He let his guard down when the woman winked and grinned broadly. Her body and facial features may have been completely different, but Harry could recognize Tonks' body language and smile anywhere.
"Wotcher, Tonks," said Harry, stealing the Auror's favorite greeting.
"Right back at ya, you little arse! I see ickle Harrykins has a girlfriend!" came Tonks' voice, sounding too youthful to be natural for a hunchbacked old woman.
Harry made a face at her and shook his head. "She's just a friend, although it's none of your business anyway. Now watch what you say or I'll steal your cane," he threatened jokingly. He and Tonks had gradually become friendlier with every guard shift she had. Harry appreciated that she would actually converse with him during her duty, unlike the newer guards who stayed hidden the entire time, bitter at being assigned to baby-sit.
"You wouldn't!" Tonks cried in mock horror, holding the cane tightly to her chest.
"You're right; not with half the neighborhood watching, at least." Harry gestured to several houses where glimpses of nosy neighbors could be seen peering out from behind floral-patterned curtains.
Tonks gaped, bright blue eyes bulging beneath wrinkled, heavy eyelids. "I still can't believe you grew up in this strange place and managed to turn out relatively normal."
An unflattering snort escaped Harry as he marveled at the concept of him being the normal one and the Dursleys being weird.
"Coming from a woman who likes to color her hair hot pink and can barely walk straight, I'm not sure that's a compliment," Harry quipped, earning him a jab from Tonks' cane.
The two made small talk for a few minutes before Tonks broke into her usual report on wizarding current events and attacks.
"This latest attack has Dumbledore more than a little worried," Tonks said, her demeanor changing from lighthearted to serious in a flash.
"Muggles again?" Harry asked.
Tonks shook her head. "Muggles still. We don't know why he hasn't attacked any wizards yet. It's not as if he has any reason to lay low now that the world knows he's back. The Order reckons he's waiting for the opportunity to make a big entrance," she said darkly.
That didn't sound good to Harry. "How do they figure?"
"Let me put it this way: The most recent attack was only eight blocks from your house. It was a family with a boy about your same age, height, and hair color. Even had glasses." Tonks answered with an air of sadness and anxiety.
Harry wasn't nearly as scared as he was angry and remorseful. All of this death for him… Voldemort was probably having a spiffing good time, taunting the Order and the Ministry by letting them know how close he was to his first goal. Harry hoped that his trust in Dumbledore wasn't misplaced. If the Dursleys really couldn't provide him enough safety, his wouldn't be the only wasted life.
"Still with me, Harry?" Tonks asked concernedly. "I'm sorry to always be the bearer of bad news."
Although he couldn't quite wipe the frown off his face, he shook his head furiously in denial. "Don't worry about it, Tonks. I need to know what's going on, and I'm not likely to get much good news while we're at war, am I? Thanks for giving me news at all. It's not like anyone else will, or can, since it's dangerous to send information by owl."
Tonks' expression lightened a bit. "Glad to help. I think most of us in the Order agree you have a right to know what's happening, even if you're not a member yet yourself. Well, a few of us at least…Or maybe just me and Remus…but since my opinion's the only one that matters anyway, the rest can get stuffed," she finished with a grin.
Harry returned the grin, though he hoped that the Order did see him as more than a victim or pawn in the war. Thinking about it, though, Dumbledore never mentioned telling the Prophecy to the Order, so they probably wouldn't think of him as anything more than a troublesome child. It was good to know at the very least that he had Remus and Tonks by his side.
"Thanks again, Tonks. You've done a lot for me, and I don't give you enough credit," he said appreciatively.
"Damn right you don't!" she teased. "I'm about to do more for you, too. Here's another bottle of Pomfrey's Dreamless Sleep potion. Your other bottle should be about empty in a week, if I remember correctly."
As Harry accepted the bottle graciously, a memory that had been lurking at the back of his mind made a sudden reappearance. He gasped and stopped dead in his tracks.
"What is it?" Tonks asked in alarm, tripping over her own feet when she turned to run back to where he had halted.
"I completely forgot! I had a dream the other night I meant to tell Dumbledore about! It was important!" he exclaimed, feeling incredibly stupid for forgetting.
Tonks made him recount the entire dream, which Harry did in detail and without argument. She listened intently the entire time, her aged face changing from worried to angered, and finally, confused.
"French Toast?"
Harry nodded.
The look Tonks gave him was indecipherable. Harry sighed. "I'm not crazy. Besides, it worked, didn't it?"
"I suppose, but French Toast? You can't expect that to work for long. This is The Dark Lord we're talking about here!" she stressed. "At the very least, that warrants Belgian Waffles with whipped cream and strawberries!"
"Haha," Harry said humorlessly, playfully shoving her away. Tonks chuckled lightly before straightening up as much as her humpback would allow and repositioning her cane.
"This is serious, though," she said with a small frown, "I'll let Dumbledore know immediately. Keep working on that Occlumency, Harry. I know it's tough; Lord knows I'm rubbish at it, but you know how important it is."
Tonks walked with him all the way back to the Dursleys, where Harry bade her farewell and ran immediately to the sanctuary of his room. He didn't know or care what his relatives were doing so long as they didn't bother him. After flipping on the light switch, he stripped down to his boxers and settled into the thin, threadbare sheets of his bed.
It was still too early to call it a night, so Harry opened Complicated and Obscure Defensive Charms to the page he had left off. Despite the unconvincing title, he found the book one of the most informative defense texts he had read. It listed and detailed a great many spells he had never even heard of before, but could imagine using against Death Eaters and dark wizards. Of course, he couldn't actually try any of the charms yet, but he had practiced the wand movements and pronunciation and was confident he would be able to perform most of them back at Hogwarts.
Currently, he was digesting the section on "Rare but Effective Shield Charms". There were only a few that Harry was familiar with. He was surprised that the author of the book labeled the "Protego" spell as 'basic' and 'child's play', but as he read further, he could see why. The chapter described over forty other shield charms; some that defended against many spells and others tailor-made to counter specific, dangerous curses. A few shield charms even required several people to work them, which inspired Harry to add them to a list of spells to try in the DA.
The shield that most intrigued him was called "Myrian's Wall". According to the book it had been discovered rather than created over six hundred years ago. Two wizards and a witch had been defending their town during an invasion of dark wizards when all three unwittingly shouted the incantation for a simple defensive spell simultaneously. Instead of three separate spells, they fused together and formed a wall of translucent yellow light. The attacking wizards found that none of their curses could penetrate the wall, while the defending townsfolk could fire straight through it. The three casters were able to hold off the dark wizards long enough for the villagers to gain the upper hand, and the new spell was named after the town it had saved.
It was assumed that the bond of trust and friendship between the witch and wizards were responsible for the strange reaction that resulted in "Myrian's Wall". Since the spell's discovery, only a few select groups of people had been able to perform it, and every time the spell was successful the casters had been close friends. The book said it was not taught in magical schools because the charm rarely worked. Harry was willing to bet that, with a little practice, Ron, Hermione, and he could master it.
At eleven o'clock, Harry put the book aside and set his glasses on the nightstand. He downed a dose of Dreamless Sleep potion and was dead to the world soon after he closed his eyes.
…
The veil glowed ethereally in the darkness of the Department of Mysteries. Although the air was musty and still, the curtains billowed as if disturbed by a heavy breeze. Against his will, Harry drifted closer and closer to it, the whispers behind it becoming louder but no less jumbled.
He came to a stop mere feet from the veil, and the curtains mysteriously stilled. The babbling whispers suddenly became agitated and frantic. The sound was spine-chilling and made Harry want nothing more than to run away, but an invisible force kept him anchored to the spot.
Without warning, something burst through the delicate fabric of the curtains, and he yelped in fright. It was a hand; a bloody, flailing hand. If he could have, he would have backed away. As it was, Harry was forced to watch, paralyzed, as the battered, bony hand grasped at his shoe and pant leg, struggling to escape the archwayl.
"Help!" shrieked a voice separate from the anguished whispers. "Please, I'm almost through! Oh god, help!"
Sirius. The voice had haunted his dreams for weeks, so Harry knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the terrified voice belonged to his godfather. Whatever power had gripped him before shattered, and he found himself able to move freely again. Desperately, he grabbed hold of the thrashing arm and pulled with all his might.
The gangly, abused body of his godfather fell sprawled across the cold stone floor. Blood stained Sirius' raggedy clothes, and his hair was as long and scraggly as when he escaped Azkaban, but his body shuddered and heaved with life. Hot tears trailed down Harry's cheeks as he dropped to his knees and disbelievingly touched his godfather's warm, real shoulder.
"You're alive," Harry gasped, amazed.
The shaking lessened, and with much exertion Sirius was able to raise his head and look at him. Harry jumped forward and threw his arms around his godfather's thin neck.
"I'm sorry, I should have gone after you. I tried, but they told me it was too late. I shouldn't have believed them; I knew you weren't dead, I heard the whispers," Harry babbled.
"Shh, it's okay. You're here now, and that's all that matters," Sirius consoled, patting his back weakly.
A new flood of tears washed down his face and he hugged his godfather even tighter. Sirius drew back, however, and grasped Harry's shoulders firmly. Confused, he blinked the moisture out of his eyes and met his godfather's intent stare.
"I need you to listen very closely, Harry. Did the Dark Lord get a hold of the Prophecy?"
An uncomfortable feeling bubbled up in his stomach, but he brushed it aside. "No," Harry answered, "he didn't. What does it matter though? You're back, you can worry about all that later," he said, smiling.
He made to stand up, but Sirius grabbed his wrist and jerked him back to the floor. Harry frowned, but complied.
Sirius' face was grim and determined. "Harry, this is important. You need to tell me what the Prophecy said." The suspicious feeling was suddenly back and amplified. Sirius had just returned from beyond the veil; what did he care about the Prophecy so much for? And since when did he refer to Voldemort as the "Dark Lord"? Harry pulled his wrist out of his godfather's surprisingly strong grip and backed away ever-so-slightly.
"Sirius, why don't we just go. We can talk about this later," he said warily.
Was it just his imagination, or did his godfather's eyes just glint red? Harry backed away a little more, and this time Sirius did notice. With surprising speed and agility for someone who appeared so battered and weary, Sirius sprang up from the floor and strode powerfully up to his startled godson.
"You must tell me," he demanded. "If you don't, how am I supposed to protect you from the Dark Lord?"
"What's wrong with you? Why do you keep calling him the 'Dark Lord'?" Harry cried, trying to keep a distance between them as Sirius circled him aggressively.
Unexpectedly, Harry found himself tackled to the hard floor. His godfather's weight trapped him helplessly on the ground, and before he could make a sound, his throat was constricted by a thin, strong hand. In a state of shock, all he could do was gape in disbelief at his attacker's face.
He realized much too late that he should have trusted his instincts. The face may have been Sirius', but there was no trace of his godfather in it. There was an abundance of hate and impatience, and a glimmer of crimson passed through his irises every so often.
"Tell me," growled Not-Sirius, tightening his grip.
Harry shook his head as much as he could considering the vise around his neck. Flashbacks of Dumbledore's office were playing on his mind again, though, and he knew it wouldn't be long before his mental resistance broke.
"Tell me," the fraud repeated coldly.
With Sirius' face glaring down at him, it was impossible to focus on anything else. He was failing; all the deaths the Prophecy was responsible for were for naught.
Black spots began to blur his vision, and his lungs burned. Harry couldn't bear to look at Sirius' face any longer and shifted his gaze to the infinite blackness beyond it. As Dumbledore's voice began to recite the Prophecy in his head, he closed his eyes and wished for unconsciousness, death, anything to end the pain and violation gripping him.
His wish was answered.
…
Harry rolled out of bed and sprinted carelessly down the hall. On the way, he knocked into various objects and walls, but took no notice of the pain or noise they caused. Once in the bathroom, he leaned in close to the mirror, gasping for breath, and inspected his sore neck.
There was nothing wrong with it. The skin was smooth and unblemished, with no signs of strangulation or injury. He closed his eyes and leaned his forearms heavily on the sink, forehead hitting the glass of the mirror with a thump.
It was impossible to block out any longer. Sirius was dead, and there would be no miraculous return from beyond the veil. Denial had done nothing for Harry but cause extra pain and vulnerability. His naïve delusions had nearly revealed important information to Voldemort tonight. He felt ashamed and gullible; it was no wonder the Order didn't trust him.
His hand drifted slowly up to caress his neck where minutes before he had nearly believed his godfather was strangling him. He had a sudden, frightening urge to hit something. Disgust consumed him; Harry was sick of his gullibility, sick of being predictable, sick of being used, and sick of being weak.
Tomorrow he would get serious with Occlumency, and he wouldn't sleep until he made progress.
...
A/N: I almost left off at the end of the dream, but then I figured it wouldn't kill me to go a little further. So, Harry's finally moving on to the next stage of grief, which means the issue of the will should be addressed soon. Heather's a rebel without a cause, Tonks is Tonks, Sirius is NOT Sirius, and it's late and I'm going to bed. To those who are already out of school, CHERISH YOUR SUMMERS!!! To those who are still in school, HANG ON, YOU'LL MAKE IT!!! To those not in school, don't let your job stress you out too much! To anyone I missed, take care and enjoy life—always remember, it could be worse. You could have a scar on your forehead, no parents, and the weight of the world jumping up and down on your shoulders!