"No good sittin' worryin' abou' it," Hagrid said. "What's comin' will come, an we'll meet it when it does. Dumbledore told me wha' you did, Harry."
Hagrid's chest swelled as he looked at Harry.
"Yeh did as much as yer father would've done, an' I can' give yeh no higher praise than that."
-- Hagrid, in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire
*
Disclaimer: Everything *still* belongs to J. K. Rowlings. I admit that I've freely borrowed quotes (and lines) from the books – but, hey, I'm not making money off of this. And I never will.
A/N: Thanks to TheRedFeatheryPlug, All Mighty Terrestrial, Midnight Dragon, Waxwing, and spangle star for reviewing. :-)
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
NO HIGHER PRAISE:
A tale covering the summer after Harry's fourth year, among other things … with a heavy emphasis on James Potter.
CHAPTER TWO
"I miscalculated, my friends, I admit it. My curse was deflected by the woman's foolish sacrifice, and it rebounded upon myself. Aaah . . . pain beyond pain, my friends; nothing could have prepared me for it. I was ripped from my body, I was less than spirit, less than the meanest ghost. . . but still, I was alive. What I was, even I do not know...
-- Tom Riddle, in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire
* * *
He knew that time was passing. Although he had no way to measure minutes, hours, days, or years, he was aware of each moment as it slid by, painfully conscious that, somewhere, the sun was setting and rising, birds were singing, the wind was blowing, people were working, playing, eating and sleeping – and he hoped desperately that, somewhere, Harry was alive, being raised by Lily – perhaps even starting Hogwarts.
Trying to think about Harry and Lily helped a little, as long as he could avoid wondering if Voldemort had caught and killed them. He didn't really think that the Dark Lord had managed – after all, he knew that something had gone wrong just moments after the curse had taken effect. He had barely arrived in this Swamp of Dementer-Essence, as he had since dubbed it, when the connection that he could feel tying him to Voldemort had gone haywire. It had felt almost as if a gigantic rubber band (fun Muggle invention) had connected their two minds – and something had happened to Voldemort's end of the connection.
It had elongated, pulling painfully at him, then snapped back, almost vanishing, and the loss of the tether had sent him tumbling through the twisting darkness of his new hell. He had lost something then – it had felt as if a soul he hadn't even known he still had had been torn out. It had hurt as badly as the original curse, and he had not been able to think straight for – well, he had no idea how many days, but it had certainly been a long time.
He could still feel the elastic sometimes, when it momentarily pulled taut, but there seemed to be very little on the other end. His hypothesis – he had, after all, had many years to think about it – was that Lily had managed to kill Voldemort. The latter's mind had then been pulled into this same nasty place by the binding curse, which certainly served Voldemort right.
Now, his only hope was that Voldemort was as miserable as he was.
Chances were that the seeping, biting coldness would affect anyone, even someone as serpentine as Mr. Formerly-Immortal-and-Very-Evil Riddle. He still hadn't figured out how he could feel the cold and see the darkness if he'd lost all his senses, but the problem at least provided him with something to think about.
One had to think constantly, for an empty mind called out to be filled – and evil memories, pain, and nightmares were all that the darkness could summon. He had given up wishing he could die – if Voldemort really *was* here too, it meant that he, James, was stuck here forever, so trying to imagine ways one could kill oneself without any weapons – without any *body*, for that matter – wasn't too useful.
Sometimes, he thought that the darkness would drive him mad, and, indeed, some of his thoughts were painfully unhinged. He could remember a time when he had been unable to think, had been trapped in a tearing whirlpool of nightmarish images, unable even to scream, but he had gotten better. That was odd, that was. Now, he could almost always think straight. He had a feeling it had something to do with the tether, which had been moving recently, pulling intangibly at him, tightening and growing more corporeal. He didn't know what it meant, and he didn't really want to think what it might mean.
In fact, as long as he didn't think about possible explanations for the phenomena, the tether's presence as the one solid thing in this liquid blackness was almost comforting.
Lily and Harry. He pushed away an insidious image of Voldemort returning to life, wreaking havoc on England, and instead concentrated on his wife and son.
Maybe it was breakfast time around where they were. Lily might be scrambling eggs, humming one of those quaint Muggle songs she loved so much. Harry might be setting the table or feeding the cat. They'd have a cat, of course – Lily liked cats. At a guess, he'd say Harry was – oh, at least ten now. He tried to envision his son, tried to picture the bright green eyes and the untidy hair he'd doubtless have – probably glasses too – but, just as every time before, all he could summon was more darkness and an infant's desperate cry.
It would be so much more bearable if the darkness would let him sleep.
* * * * *
Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son.
Flesh of the servant, willingly given, you will revive your master.
Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, you will resurrect your foe.
* * *
And then, suddenly, the sparks emanating from the cauldron were extinguished. A surge of white steam billowed thickly from the cauldron instead, obliterating everything in front of Harry, so that he couldn't see Wormtail or Cedric or anything but vapor hanging in the air. ... It's gone wrong, he thought. . . it's drowned. .. please . . . please let it be dead. ...
But then, through the mist in front of him, he saw, with an icy surge of terror, the dark outline of a man, tall and skeletally thin, rising slowly from inside the cauldron.
* * * * *
The Godric Hollow Cemetery was not a public burial place. Rather, it was something along the lines of a wizarding tourist attraction – and also something along the lines of a memorial to those who died during the war.
There were only a few tombs, most of them represented by small, old tombstones sprawled unevenly about the neatly trimmed grass. But the most recent grave was marked by a marble dome ornamented by statues – angels, warriors, mothers, and cherubs, among others. On one side, a moving picture of the grave's occupants (before their death) and their infant son had been placed, charmed against the weather. This was the expensive tomb, the tomb that had necessitated the closure of the cemetery to common graves, the tomb that people came to see – the tomb where Lily and James Potter lay hand-in-hand in a single coffin, together in death as they had been in life.
Every October 31st, crowds of people congregated at the graveyard, quietly standing about the dome, tucking flowers into its niches, staring at the side ornamented by the picture, or talking softly among themselves.
"People need heroes," the Minister had said. "Let it be a memorial to the war; let people come. They were You-Know-Who's last victims, and Harry Potter's parents – of course the nation will wish to remember them. No expenses spared."
He was right – and people did not just come on October 31st. There were flowers on the grave year-round. Families who had lost loved ones tended to come on the anniversaries of their bereavements, drawn by an undefined feeling of thankfulness for those who had ended the killing. Those who had known the dead came whenever they thought of their lost friends. Tourists always dropped by Godric's Hollow when they were in the area – first to visit the Site of You-Know-Who's Defeat, then to stand around the grave, fidgeting and looking sober.
The Ministry even paid for caretakers to trim the grass, weed the flower borders, polish the tombstones, act as a tour guide, and clean up after the crowds of visitors. It was a great source of grief to those dour old men that Harry Potter himself had never come to see his parents' tomb – they would have dearly loved to trot out his reaction before their tourists.
But he did not come, and they continued to devote themselves to earning their paychecks by keeping the cemetery spotless. They even succeeded in preventing vandalism of the Potter Memorial – from the day of its construction until the evening the Triwizard Tournament was completed.
They had no idea that one of the bodies under the dome had not altered a fraction since the day it was laid there. No-one had thought to test the corpses for lingering remnants of magic before the funeral.
And none of them were even in the cemetery the evening of June 24th, 1995.
If they had been, they might have died of shock.
* * * * *
James had no idea what was happening, but he was fairly sure he did not like it.
A surge of power had just rushed through the connection – and it had hurt. He had thought that whatever form was left to him would explode from the rush of raw magical energy, and had welcomed the thought, for he was certainly ready to die. Instead, it wrenched at him, pulling him through the thick blackness at an insane speed. The sensation of being dragged through molten lava only lasted a few moments; then he seemed to burst through a barrier – and then he was being crushed back into shape, compacted and stretched and twisted.
Returned to a body.
He didn't even realize what had happened until he heard himself give a hoarse cry of pain. The fact that he could hear and speak again tipped him off that he wasn't wandering in that howling wilderness any more … although he certainly had no idea where he was.
After so long, having senses again was so strange as to be frightening. So much information, too much information, rushing in at once, overloading his mind, bewildering him. He could feel something like matted cloth underneath him, could feel cold air pressing down on every spot of exposed skin – he could hear himself gasping raggedly for breath, struggling to draw in the stale air in this otherwise-silent place. There was the coppery tang of dried blood in his mouth, but either his eyes weren't working or this place was utterly dark. And he could smell – dear God, what was that horrible stench? It smelled like … rotting … corpse …
A sudden spasm of complete, utter, unreasoning terror and claustrophobia shook him. One of his hands contracted violently – and he felt cold, bony fingers lying in his palm.
Something snapped in him, and he involuntarily released a flood of wandless magic.
His newly-regained ears weren't ready to handle the explosion that suddenly assailed them as half of the marble dome exploded in a shower of flying masonry. James rolled sideways, away from the decomposing body beside him, and tumbled through the splintered side of the coffin, sucking in a breath of suddenly clean air as he did so. He squeezed his eyes shut against the dim moonlight – it was much too bright after years of darkness.
Staggering blindly, he stumbled over shards of marble until he felt grass under his bare feet, and fell to the ground, quivering and retching.
It seemed a long time before he had calmed down enough to open his eyes, but the cold breeze was really growing unbearable. He blinked down at the fuzzy ground below him, correctly identifying the pale shapes against the darker grass as his outspread hands.
Laboriously, he pushed himself into a sitting position, somehow unsurprised to find that all of the bruises and aches he remembered from his
death
last encounter with Voldemort were still present and hurting. Even the blood from where he'd bitten through his lip under the Cruciatus curse was still there, though it tasted a trifle stale. He didn't question the oddity of the whole thing. It all seemed vaguely unimportant and irrelevant – he didn't even particularly care how he'd come back to life.
As he stumbled painfully to his feet, he noticed that the dress robes he was wearing were not in particularly good shape. They were rotted and crumbling - in fact, they appeared to be in danger of falling off of him altogether. That explained why he was so cold, at least. He took one step and instantly fell down again, bringing his forehead into violent contact with a chunk of stone. Blood trickled down his nose, and he shook his head, vexed.
Stupid this is stupid got to find Lily Harry bloody glasses can't see a thing it's cold hot chocolate Lily wonder where I am where they are ow this really doesn't feel good Lily can fix it good with charms embarrassing looking like this glasses got to find Harry Lily graveyard where glasses ouch bloody rock where's Lily …
He crawled forward again, then froze as the smell from the tomb wafted back across his nose. He was missing something, something important – he'd forgotten something – this meant something –
He raised his head slowly and squinted at the remaining wall of the dome, ignoring the blood trickling into his mouth. There were words on a plaque right next to the shattered edge, carved letters on a brilliantly polished gold plaque that reflected the moonlight back into his light-deprived eyes. He crept forward again.
JAMES AND LILY POTTER
BELOVED PARENTS OF HARRY POTTER
1960 – 1981.
REST IN PEACE
There were more words, many more words, but they were smaller, and he didn't even try to read them.
James and Lily Potter. Harry Potter. 1981. Rest in peace. Lily. Harry. Rest. Tomb. Corpse. Bones. Dead dead dead dead dead dead dead – dead.
Dead.
They were dead.
Gone.
Lily and Harry, dead.
Dead because he'd been a selfish, thoughtless, arrogant prat and married Lily when he knew it would be dangerous for her. Dead because he hadn't protected Harry as he had promised to.
Dead.
Lily, with her laughter and her smiles and her kind spirit and her long red hair that glowed in the sunlight; Harry, with his tufts of hair and enormous green eyes, his gurgling laugh and prattling infant voice. Dead and gone and rotting because of him.
He stumbled backward, a hysterical sob rising in his chest. It couldn't be true, but – but it was. He'd known all along, hadn't he? All those years, those *centuries* in wherever Voldemort had trapped him, all that time they'd been dead and gone and buried and turning into lifeless skeletons with cold fingers and horrible grins. And what about Sirius and Remus and Peter? How could Sirius and Peter possibly be alive? Voldemort had come to the house, had been able to see it, and he couldn't have done that without the Secret Keeper being dead, he couldn't. And surely he'd thought Sirius was the secret keeper.
The whole horrible scenario flashed across his frantic mind – Sirius, caught and tortured until he admitted that Peter knew, not him, then killed – Peter, poor little defenseless Peter, hunted down, writhing under a curse, lying still with unseeing eyes, Voldemort laughing –
And Remus. What had happened to Remus?
The spy the spy it's his fault isn't it Sirius said so it must be true but Moony wouldn't ever do that, would he?
Your fault again. Would He have ever gone after Remus if he wasn't one of *your* friends?
He's probably dead too.
Dead and rotting, like Lily, my beautiful Lily -
The sob broke out, turned into a keening wail of pain.
Almost without thinking, he spun and fled from the cemetery, bashing his shins against gravestones, crashing through the gate, then weaving crazily down the lane. They were dead – everyone he had ever cared about, everyone he ought to have protect, was dead.
I failed, failed, failed …
He wished he could kill himself, smash his head against the ground until darkness took him back and made him forget the grief that ripped at his heart, but he couldn't, he'd promised.
What was left? What could he do now – go find Dumbledore?
James dropped to his knees under the shade of a tree, cradling his head in trembling hands. Was Dumbledore even still alive? Another paralyzing thought slammed into his mind – if he was back, hadn't Voldemort called him?
"… the caster can bring the subject back whenever he chooses …"
No. He wouldn't look at those horrible red eyes again. Couldn't. Couldn't put anyone else into danger, either. If it hadn't been for him, Lily and Sirius and Peter and Remus would all be happy and normal and alive – he couldn't risk bringing death on anyone else.
Almost without conscious decision, he transformed.
The gut-wrenching guilt vanished almost immediately – a deer, after all, could not feel as deeply. It lifted its antlered head and loped noiselessly into the forest. It knew it had to hide … and it was hungry. Food first.
Then sleep.
* * * * *
When the sun peeked over the horizon, its rosy light illuminated two corduroy-trouser-clad figures leaning on the cemetery's stone wall.
"Well, George," said Ed, "this ain't real good."
There was a long silence as George and Ed each took a pull on their pipes, then George nodded slowly. "Aye."
"Right bloody fix this is, what with young Potter winnin' that bloody Tournament las' night an' all. We can't 'ave toorists 'ere with the place lookin' like a ruddy junkyard. Once I find out 'oo did this 'ere bit 'o mutilatin' government property, they'll be sorry they ever 'eard o' Godric's 'Ollow Cemetery."
The birds could be heard singing in the distance as the two caretakers studied the chunks of white marble and torn flowers that littered the otherwise-pristine graveyard.
"Roight," said George.
"Can't stand these bloody vandals we git nowadays. A national toorist 'traction, that's what this 'ere is. An' ye git bloody pranksters what prob'ly think they're bloomin' hilarious comin' down here an' blastin' up government property. It's a cryin' scandal, George, that's what it is."
George squinted at his pipe, then slowly drew it out of his mouth and tapped it against the wall. "Aye," he said.
"And if'n it comes out what's happened, who's goin' t'git the blame, eh? Us, that's who. Us what's worked our very lives out keepin' this 'ere spot clean an' above reproach. It's a grim show, George."
George thrust his hat back and scratched at his scanty locks. "Roight."
"Bloody hell, they even took one o' them bodies. National 'ero or no national 'ero, 'oo'd want a ruddy skeleton, George? Bloomin' insane, that's what they are. Runnin' off with a rottin' corpse. Oughta be clapped in St. Mungo's the whole lot of 'em. Crackers. They're all bloody crackers."
George nodded, teeth clamped around his pipestem. "Aye."
"Guess we'd best get a move on it, eh?" Ed growled, beginning to clamber over the wall. "Won't be getting' no overtime pay for this, neither. Git yer wand out an' help, George – if'n we don't git this cleaned up right proper hasty-like, the bloody government'll 'ave our pay. Got ter keep it hushed up, eh?"
George squinted up at the sun, then back down at Ed. "Roight!"
END OF CHAPTER TWO
~~~~~~~~~