"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: I disclaim all responsibility for anyone and anything in this story. They belong to J.K.R. – but you knew that already.
Sorry about the length of time it's taken me to get this out – hopefully I'll be able to post more regularly in the future.
A/N: Thanks to Jedi Cosmos, Tarawen, vmr, Xaiver, Kitana, spangle star, TheNovice, MidnightDragon, Luna Rose, Nicky, kaydee, CrazyStacy, Padfoot's Heir, TheRedFeatheryPlug, Ice, Jeva, Prongs, Ashley, Shei, anime girl, Ariana Deralte, pixydust, Sailor Hylia, Chrysta, Denise, Chrissy, pastshadows, Storm Witch RD, Ari, Chrysta, and Roxy for their lovely, uplifting reviews.
As always, responses to questions and comments are down at the end of the chapter. I'm trying to keep them brief, though, in the interests of time and space … sigh.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
NO HIGHER PRAISE:
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Patronus turned. It was cantering back toward Harry across the still surface of the water. It wasn't a horse. It wasn't a unicorn, either. It was a stag. It was shining brightly as the moon above ... it was coming back to him....
It stopped on the bank. Its hooves made no mark on the soft ground as it stared at Harry with its large, silver eyes. Slowly, it bowed its antlered head. And Harry realized... "Prongs, "he whispered.
~ from Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban
* * *
Slumped against the back of the couch, James watched his son struggle with the door – the only means of egress in the otherwise-bare cellar room. They'd been trying to pick the lock for over an hour now, using sundry broken bits of metal broken off from the springs of the couch (which, as a result, was now extremely uncomfortable), and they had yet to make the slightest bit of progress. They only thing either of them had succeeded in doing, James thought ruefully, was scraping half of the skin off of their fingertips. His own were bleeding slightly. It was highly annoying, really – he knew how to pick locks, even if Harry didn't. But it just wouldn't open. He had no idea whether Voldemort had cast a charm on the old lock, or whether his failure was simply due to the general shakiness that still had hold of him.
He ached all over – definite aftereffect of that blighted curse. And he was having trouble concentrating – he kept forgetting what they were trying to do, kept losing his train of thought. It was perplexing and a bit frightening.
Across the room, Harry yelped faintly as the brittle wire in his hand snapped, drawing a thin line of blood across his fingers. He bounded to his feet, shaking his hand indignantly. James stared at his son, tracing the familiar yet strange lines of the face, the green eyes that looked so much older than they had just two months ago … James shook himself mentally, struggling to reorient his mind. It had been fourteen years, almost, and he had to think of it that way. He couldn't keep looking at Harry as if he was a stranger, some random teenager who had taken the place of the laughing, unscarred baby that James remembered so vividly. Harry was his son, Harry was fifteen years old, and he, James, had to remember those important facts.
Never mind wondering what Lily would think if she could see him – what she'd say about those worn-out, horrendously oversized pajamas her precious son was currently wearing. Worrying about things like that could wait until Harry was safe. James knew that he could not put off thoughts of his wife forever – in fact, the nebulous pressure on the back of his mind had been steadily building for the past hour. Sooner or later, all of the things he did not want to think about would come bursting through the frail mental blocks he had erected. And when that happened, his dubious concentration on the task at hand would be lost, and he knew he would not be able to think straight, would not be able to function, would not be able to protect Harry. Never mind that wondering how he knew would involve thinking about those things anyway.
In fact, that whole line of thought was skating dangerously close to very perilous issues.
James shook himself free of his momentary abstraction. His gaze came back into focus to reveal Harry standing in front of the door, staring at him through wide, alarmed eyes. The fearful expression vanished instantly, and Harry pasted a blatantly fake smile onto his face. "I don't think this is going to work …" He stopped speaking, the sentence sounding oddly incomplete. It sounded, James reflected, as if he had considered adding the word 'Dad' to his statement, and decided against it. The thought brought a painful twinge to his stomach.
He forced himself upright, grabbing at the back of the couch as a momentary wave of dizziness swept over him. "I don't think so either," he agreed, wondering if his voice was really as shaky as it sounded to his own ears. "Maybe we should …" He trailed off, wondering how much time they had left, how long it would be before he came for them. They hadn't really talked about his offer yet, but, after all, they didn't need to. It was a given that they would refuse to have anything to do with him. The fact brought a warm glow of pride to James's heart – Harry had obviously inherited Lily's unshakable moral strength. But Voldemort would doubtless be more than a little put out when they told him "no," so it was imperative that they escape soon.
Having gone full circle in his thoughts, he picked up his sentence where he had left off, barely noticing the worry in Harry's transparent eyes. "… should try battering it down. Sirius always says that that's the big problem with wizarding folk – they rely so much on spells that they ignore Muggle methods of doing stuff. So even if that door is layered ten inches thick with locking spells, a well-placed blow with a well-wielded sofa ought to take it right down. I seriously doubt he's bothered to magically reinforce the hinges."
Harry frowned thoughtfully, reaching up to adjust his glasses. James stared at him, entranced. Harry really did look an awful lot like him, James, so … was that very mature and intelligent look of consideration the same as his own "Hmmm … It Seems That I Have Glasses, But I Don't Know Why" thinking look, as Sirius had dubbed it? It had taken him almost half an hour to forgive Sirius for making fun of his expression when he was grappling with a difficult problem … really, Sirius's impression of him had been almost cruel.
Well, looking back on it ten years later, it had been funny.
Not ten. Twenty-four.
James looked past his son, concentrating on the door. This was not the time to think of Sirius. Or of Peter, who had been laughing so hard at Sirius (wearing James's glasses and a ridiculously exaggerated expression of Deep Thought) that there had been tears running down his cheeks as he thumped Remus's shoulder…
No, better not go there.
Harry was saying something. James looked back at him, chagrined. "I'm sorry … could you say that again, Harry?"
Harry ran a nervous hand through his hair, eyeing James with an almost distrustful expression. "I said, I don't think either of us is strong enough to, er, run the couch into the door hard enough to do any damage."
James blinked. He hadn't thought of that. He was definitely losing it.
"You're losing it, Jamesie. Bats in the belfry. Nutters as Dumbledore on a bad day. Too many late nights staring at the fire composing odes to Lily's eyebrows, I expect. We *can't* go down to the kitchens and get chicken broth for Remus because Professor McGonagall *confiscated your invisibility cloak,* remember, James? Hulllllooooo – Jaaaames? Anyone home today? No, Pete, I *don't* think he accidentally swapped minds with Snape – he's blinking, see? Anything requiring that much muscular coordination would be utterly beyond Slyther-Snape…"
James curled his hands into fists, staring at his gaunt fingers, struggling to banish the laughing voice from his memory. Would Sirius be laughing now, laughing after being in Azkaban, bloody, hopeless Azkaban? He'd hated Dementers – they'd all hated Dementers back in the days when they'd been young and together and invincible and had considered a lack of happiness to be the ultimate evil.
"Dunno who created Dementers in the first place, but whoever did sure as anything deserves to be stuck in Azkaban himself. No, I take it back – nobody deserves that."
"You're right. It's probably too heavy for us." James turned briskly on his heel, studying the couch's sagging frame.
Concentrate. Get Harry to safety. Don't fail again. Concentrate. Concentrate, dammit!
"If only I had my wand," Harry was saying mournfully. "If I had my wand we could, I dunno, banish the couch toward the door or something. Of course, if I had it, I could cast Alohomora anyway, but …"
"Great idea!" James spun around again, wondering why that ridiculously simple idea hadn't occurred to him earlier. "I'm an idiot," he muttered half-aloud. "Too many years not being able to do magic, I expect."
Harry was gaping at him, baffled. "But … er … but we haven't got a wand, remember?" he said carefully.
"I know," James answered, marching over to the door and spreading his hand across the lock. "But we can still do magic without wands, can't we?" he asked triumphantly.
It was meant to be a rhetorical question, but Harry certainly didn't seem to think that the answer was obvious. He continued to stare, frowning now. "Er … can we?" he asked dubiously. "I've never … well, there was Aunt Marge, but I …"
"Any wizard can do wandless magic," James pointed out, puzzled at his son's lack of knowledge. "You've seen Dumbledore do it, surely?"
"Well, yes," Harry admitted, "but he's … Dumbledore."
James nodded. "He's exceptional, all right. Most wizards couldn't do it that often without exhausting themselves. It rather depends on the strength of the wizard, after all … at least, that's what I read. Although any wizard can do … things … if he's angry enough, scared enough, upset enough … you know."
Harry nodded thoughtfully. "Yes – I've accidentally done stuff before. I made the glass vanish from in front of a snake's cage once."
"Exactly. Use of a wand simply –" James cut himself off abruptly, shaking his head. "Never mind. I'll explain it in detail later – there's not time for me to go all Professor Moony on you. Just believe me when I say it's possible for us to do Alohomora without a wand – it'll just be kind of draining, that's all."
"To go all Professor Moony on me?" Harry asked, amusement creeping over his face. "Let me guess – Sirius made that up, didn't he?"
It was amazing what a difference a smile made on his face. James stared at his son's dancing eyes for a moment, then felt a grin overspread his own face. "Yes – he got tired of having to listen to Remus giving lectures on any little piece of information Peter asked a question about."
Harry's face darkened again, but it took James a moment to realize that it had been the mention of Peter that had banished the momentary light-heartedness. His own smile vanished, and he looked away, depression settling on his mind again.
"Well, should I try it, then?" Harry asked shortly, surveying the door.
"No, let me," James demurred. "I've had more experience at trying to get a spell to work sans wand."
Fifteen minutes later, he was wishing he had let Harry try. Light-headed from the intense focusing, James slid down and sat with his back against the door, wordlessly giving up.
"So it's not working," Harry observed, eyeing the door belligerently. "Why d'you think that is?"
"I don't know." James cradled his head in his hands, wishing the hammer pounding on the back of his forehead would go away. "I'm doing the spell right … I think … but it just won't do anything. Either I just can't do it, or it's no simple locking spell he's put on it. I rather think it's the latter."
Harry nodded. "So, should we just use magic to slam the sofa into the door instead?" James brought his head up, gaping. Harry shifted uncomfortably. "What?"
"Nothing," James said sincerely. "I'm just embarrassed that I keep getting shown up by my own son – it's not real good for one's ego, you know." Harry blushed. James levered himself to his feet, leaning heavily on the wall, and motioned for Harry to move out of the way. "Don't want to hit you with the couch," he explained, then moved back himself, narrowing his eyes in determination. "This time," he muttered, pointing at the old couch, "I'm going to do it right."
The couch wrenched itself up from the ground, hovered in place for a fraction of a second, then streaked for the door like an augury with its tail-feathers on fire. Like a javelin thrown by a giant, it smashed into the door – and the door, insufficiently reinforced to deal with rabid, rampaging couches, went down with a resounding crash. The couch dropped heavily on top of it – and then there was silence … as soon as the echoes died away.
Harry stared at the splintered door and smashed furniture in the hallway outside, then turned to James with raised eyebrows. James swallowed, a trifle abashed. "Well," he pointed out, "I said I'd had experience, not that I was good at it."
"We'd better leave now if we're going to leave," Harry said with a down-to-earth practicality that reminded James all too much of Lily. "The Death Eaters are sure to have heard that racket."
And before James could order the reckless kid to let him, the responsible adult, go first, Harry had briskly clambered over the shattered remains of their improvised battering ram and dropped onto the stone floor of the hall outside.
The next moment, he yelled loud enough to wake the dead – which brought a very bad mental image to James's subconscious – and leapt two feet into the air. He landed on one foot, muffled another yelp, and hopped awkwardly to the couch, face twisted in pain. Completely ignoring the splinters and twisted springs, Harry collapsed on its battered frame, wrapping his hands around his bare feet and saying some very nasty things under his breath.
Could she have heard him, Lily would not have been pleased.
James had covered half of the distance to the doorway before Harry had even come back down to earth from his first leap, and now he scrambled across the couch to his son's side, heart pounding with worry. "What is it? Are you all right? What happened?"
Harry looked up, grimacing in a valiant effort to suppress tears. "The floor – it was hot."
James glanced down at the flagstones. They could use a good sweeping, certainly, but they didn't look hot. Then he turned his attention to his son's feet and gasped aloud. The soles were red and scorched – blisters were forming on them already, blisters that ominously resembled the second-degree burns Sirius had once acquired from trifling with Severus Snape's locked school trunk.
"Hell!" James hissed, and looked wildly about for nonexistent ice packs. "Oh, damn – I'm so sorry – don't move, you'd better not touch the burns –"
Harry swallowed hard and moved his hands away. "It's not that bad," he said in an almost-steady voice, but his pale, strained face testified to the untruth. "It just startled me. I'll be okay in a second." Now he looked faintly chagrined, as if ashamed he was making such a big deal out of it. "It's nothing."
James gave up the futile search through the pockets of his new Muggle clothes. Obviously whoever had given them to him hadn't had the foresight to add a handkerchief. "Don't be ridiculous," he said firmly. "Just hold still." He wasn't sure how one went about doing a cooling charm without a wand, but he was sure as anything going to give it a try. His first attempt was less than successful – Harry jerked away as if James had prodded his injured feet with a sharp-tined fork, and informed him quite frankly that if that was meant to be cold, then Blast-Ended Skrewts were harmless kittens. James had no idea what a Blast-Ended Skrewt was, but he gathered from Harry's distressed face that these Skrewts must be pretty far from harmless kittens.
His second effort seemed to work, though, and Harry relaxed with a mumbled expression of thanks. James had no idea how long he could keep it up – black clouds of exhaustion were edging across his vision already, and they were less than three feet closer to freedom than they had been half an hour ago.
"He must have charmed it," Harry muttered tightly, staring at the innocent floor of the hallway. "If only I had shoes!"
"I have shoes," James remarked, then added thoughtfully, "Maybe I could carry you …"
Harry looked a trifle dubious. "Maybe."
"All right, that's Plan A, then," James stated. "If I'm not … well … not strong enough to manage it, I guess Plan B could be that you take my shoes and –"
"I'm not going anywhere without you," Harry interrupted implacably, fixing a stern gaze on James's face.
James stopped short, oddly moved by the words. He suddenly realized that he had tears in his eyes, and hoped desperately that his glasses would hide them. Few things could be more embarrassing than crying in front of one's teenaged son …
Harry fidgeted, looking uncomfortable again, and hastily said, "Maybe we could use some cloth from this couch. We could, say, tear some of it off and wrap it around my feet, and maybe that would keep the heat away."
James blinked a few times, trying to clear his vision, and managed to speak with reasonable steadiness. "We'll call it Plan B. Plan C is that the shoed person levitates the shoeless person … no, scratch that. I have no idea where we are and it would be pretty much impossible to keep a levitation charm going for more than a couple of minutes without a wand …"
Alarm edged onto Harry's face. "What about this cooling thing, then? Hadn't you better stop?"
"I haven't fainted yet," James quipped. "Have a little faith, will you?"
"I feel fine now. You can stop." Harry pulled his feet back protectively
James let the charm go reluctantly. Harry was obviously still in pain, but it really would be stupid to completely exhaust himself in the middle of their escape attempt. He moved to stand, but his muscles were refusing to cooperate.
Perhaps I did overdo it just a little …
"I wonder why he charmed the floor?" James mused aloud, stalling for time. If he just sat still for a few minutes, he'd feel fine again. No need to scare Harry by revealing how weak he really felt.
"To keep us from escaping?" Harry suggested dubiously.
James frowned. "If that's so, it's certainly a terribly inefficient way to go about it. He'd have done better to just put up some wards, or blocked the doorway better."
Harry was fidgeting nervously, obviously uninterested in the question of Why Evil Overlords Do Stupid Things. "We'd better get going," he hinted. "Somebody must have heard all the noise we made – we've got to get out of here before Death Eaters come."
He's right … but why haven't they come already? Surely anyone near enough to overhear us could have gotten hear by now …
An awful suspicion was creeping into James's mind.
If no-one's here yet, then no-one is coming. Which either means that there aren't guards at all, or that he ordered them not to interfere if they heard funny noises. Which probably means that he either doesn't care whether or not we escape (very funny, that), or that he's going to let us almost escape before dragging us back … in other words, he's toying with us.
James narrowed his eyes angrily. "Well, he's going to find out that Potters are the wrong people to toy with," he muttered under his breath, earning a very strange look from Harry.
"Are you … feeling alright?" Harry asked carefully, and James threw him an apologetic half-grin.
"Fine. Sorry. I was wondering … but that's not important." James gave the floor a quick, dubious glance before getting to his feet. "Here goes – ouch!"
The heat went right through the soles of his shoes. He forced himself to take one step, then realized that he'd never be able to keep it up. One jump brought him back onto the sofa, which obligingly rammed a few splinters into one of his hands.
Harry's eyes widened in concern. "You could feel it right through your shoes?"
James wrenched one of the splinters out of his palm, wincing, then bent to examine his own feet. "Yes …" Oddly enough, the soles of his shoes didn't seem to be in the least damaged. Yet his feet were, without question, rather nastily scorched. "This is ridiculous," he muttered.
"So much for Plans A, B, and C," Harry sighed. "Now what?"
James replaced his shoes and heaved a sigh. "Well, the way I see it, we have three options now. Option One is that we go back into the jail cell and pretend we have no idea how the couch came to be lying in the hall when he comes back. Personally, I don't think much of that plan."
"Neither do I," Harry admitted. "What's Option Two?"
"Staying right where we are and thinking up nasty things to say to him about the state of the doors in his base – this is his base, isn't it? – when he comes back."
Harry considered it solemnly. He was certainly doing an excellent job of hiding any trepidation. "Better than Option One, but Hermione wouldn't approve."
"Hermione?" James asked, before remembering that Harry had mentioned the name before. "Oh, your girlfriend."
"She's not my girlfriend!" Harry yelped in exasperation.
"Sorry." James suppressed a smile. "Who is she, then?"
"She's one of my friends. She's really smart and an awful bookworm, but she's a wonderful person." Harry's expression softened, and James felt a momentary lifting of the burden on his heart. At least Harry had some good friends, even if he had had to grow up without a family. "She'd probably say, 'Honestly, Harry – isn't making You-Know-Who even angrier at you a terribly silly risk to take?' And then she'd probably slap him once he did turn up." Harry grinned, and James managed a chuckle.
"Sounds like you have some great friends – I hope I get to meet her sometime."
"Yeah … so do I. And Ron too - he's my best friend. He's –" Harry cut off suddenly and glanced about nervously.
"What is it?" James demanded, tensing. "Did you hear something?"
Harry shook his head, looking ashamed of himself. "No – it's just that anybody could be listening, you know. I shouldn't be talking like this."
Harry's right. It would be simple for him to eavesdrop. But if he's still listening at this point rather than *stopping* us, it definitely means he's toying with us. So he probably is. Well, let him. He'll see we're not afraid…
"Option Three," James said firmly, "is staying right where we are and trying to think of a way to get past this problem."
"Option Three has my vote," Harry promptly said, straightening his shoulders. "Er … got any ideas?"
James looked up the dimly lit corridor – it stretched on for perhaps ten yards before vanishing around a corner. "Not beyond making a sprint for it and hoping we don't get too badly burned," he admitted. "But I don't think your friend would approve of that either. We might have to check all of those doors there to find a way out – or this hallway might go on for miles without any exits … there's no way to tell." James sighed again. "If only we could just summon some broomsticks."
"That's just what I was thinking!" Harry's startled expression faded into delight, and he grinned. "Great minds think alike, I guess. If I had my Firebolt here –"
"Is that a new broom?" James asked curiously.
Harry nodded, his whole face lighting up. Obviously, brooms, flying, and Quidditch were all topics near and dear to his heart. "Yes – it's a wonderful broom – top of the line! Sirius got it for me and it's practically saved my life already – I summoned it when I was fighting a dragon in the Triwizard Tournament, and –"
"Dragon?" James interrupted weakly. "Triwizard Tournament? What?"
"Last year –" Harry's face shadowed over suddenly. "Never mind. I'll tell you about it later – I don't want to talk about the tournament right now. We'd better just think about getting out of here. I don't suppose there's any chance we could summon some broomsticks?"
James abandoned his puzzled attempt to figure out why Harry didn't like thinking about this Triwizard Tournament thing, and considered the question carefully. "Well, it's difficult to summon something if you don't have any idea where it is – and I'm afraid the broom shed at Hogwarts is probably a little far away to be of any use to us. Anyway, seeing broomsticks flying down the corridors would probably tell even the densest Death Eater that something was up."
Harry slumped again. "Guess so. This is one of those times when I realize that Rita Skeeter had the right idea," he muttered. "I wouldn't object to being able to fly right now."
"Skeeter?" James frowned. "There was a Skeeter in seventh year when I entered Hogwarts. A really disagreeable girl."
"That's her. She's an animagus – she turns into a flying insect." Harry eyed the floor miserably. "That would solve our problems, all right …"
"That's it!" James snapped his fingers, and Harry glanced at him in confusion. "I'm an Animagus – I can turn into a –"
Harry's eyes widened in horror. "Shut up!" he yelped. James closed his mouth, shocked. "Do you want Voldemort to hear it?" Harry hissed.
James sighed. "Well, I have to admit you have a point, but – wait. Surely he already knows?"
"Does he?" Harry asked faintly.
James frowned, trying, for the first time, to remember exactly how he had ended up with Peter. "I was in my animagus form, I'm sure of it. I changed after I … after I woke up at the cemetery, and I don't remember changing back, not until I found myself … wherever it was. Peter's house." James gulped. "And if Peter is what you say, then … he already knows."
Harry moaned. "I didn't think of that. So I guess he knows about – everything else – too."
"Cheer up," James suggested. "Maybe he doesn't. Maybe he's not even listening to our conversation. Anyway, it won't hurt for me to finish what I was saying. I can turn into a stag, so maybe if I do, I can walk on the floor. There's always a chance it was charmed just to hurt you or me – which would explain why I could feel it through my shoes – but, anyway, if I can stand the heat, you can ride me. I'm sure hooves are less susceptible than feet, anyway."
Harry's face lit up hopefully. "You really think it'll work? But I'll be too heavy for you, surely, won't I?"
"I don't think so," James said cautiously. "You'll be a bit of a weight, but it isn't as if you're really, er, fat or anything. I used to carry Lily …" He trailed off, concentrating on damming up the memories again. It would have to wait. He couldn't think about Lily right now.
"Let's do it!"
James transformed right where he sat – which was probably a bad idea, as Harry shied away in surprise and one of James's thin deer-legs went through a hole in the battered piece of furniture and very nearly got caught. He scrambled up, keeping his head low to avoid scraping his antlers on the ceiling, then leapt down to the floor.
I'm brilliant.
It hardly burned at all. Well, perhaps that wasn't strictly true, but it was bearable. And his hooves could take being burned much better than his feet could, anyway. He found himself wondering if any (completely hypothetical) burns would carry over when he transformed back, but hastily shoved the idea away. This definitely wasn't the time to worry about inconsequential things like that.
"Wow," Harry murmured from his perch on the thing-that-used-to-be-a-couch. "I didn't think Prongs'd be so big …"
James shuffled closer to the couch and lowered his head, hoping Harry would take the hint. The hexed floor might be bearable, but that didn't mean it was comfortable, dash it.
"It's all right?" Harry asked, and James bobbed his head up and down impatiently. "So … I'm supposed to mount you?"
James turned sideways, hoping Harry would realize that a deer's back was not nearly as strong as a horse's.
Sit up near the shoulders, Harry, or you'll break my back …
From what he could see, Harry seemed very dubious. "You sure don't look like you could carry me," he muttered, then put a tentative hand out. "Er … hold still … er … is this where I sit?"
Intelligence personified, that's my boy.
More head-bobbing and a bit of impatient dancing later, Harry was seated gingerly on Prongs's back, obviously terrified that he would be too heavy for the admittedly frail-looking stag. And he didn't seem particularly happy to be within a few inches of a vast expanse of rather sharp antlers, either, judging by the awkward way he was leaning back.
He was rather heavy. James hoped that this stupid little jaunt wouldn't do any permanent damage to either him or his stag form. But Harry couldn't be expected to walk, not with his feet burned that badly.
They paused next to each door as they proceeded up the hallway; Harry declared each one firmly locked. As the corridor wound on and on, twisting in a serpentine, circular pattern, James became very, very glad that they had opted out of his "spring for it" plan. It seemed hours before a shallow stairway appeared ahead, and James quickened his pace. They might yet get out of here.
Clambering up the steps proved difficult and rather painful for James; he had forgotten how much more difficult jumping was with someone on his back. And his legs were beginning to ache and tingle – he had a bad feeling that it was due to the charm on the stones beneath his throbbing hooves.
The door at the top of the stairs led to a broad, empty room lit by a dull chandelier. It was obvious which door led outside – the oddly ornate panels were fit with glass windows, which revealed a not-quite-pitch-black sky outside.
Harry jumped down to the ground, and James staggered slightly at the sudden release from his intolerable burden. His spine was hurting dreadfully. He'd probably been an idiot, again, but it wasn't to be helped.
"The floor's fine," Harry declared with relief. "You can turn back."
James considered that possibility carefully. He could turn back, certainly. And then he would be able to direct his son's movements and use magic again. But, on the other hand, he had a weapon in the form of his antlers, and he was too tired to use magic anyway ... and he had a very, very bad feeling about turning back.
Injuries in animagus form did carry over when one returned to one's proper shape.
He shook his head awkwardly, and Harry's face fell. "You sure? I don't need to ride anymore." James stubbornly remained a stag, and Harry finally turned toward the door, hobbling awkwardly over the carpet on his injured feet. "Well, we'll be out of here in a second."
The door was locked.
Harry jerked on the handle, shoved on the door, rammed his shoulder against it, and darned it to heck. "What now?!" he demanded. "I can't break a pane of glass – neither of us could fit through."
That was true, certainly. And the only other windows in this stupid room were too high to be of any use. The architect of this building had obviously been insane.
Harry slammed both of his hands against the door. "This is so stupid! Uh – Alohomora! Open up, you dratted piece of wood! Alohomora! Open sesame! Alo –"
The lock clicked audibly. The door gently swung open, letting in the cool early morning air.
"Wo-ow," Harry whispered, and grabbed the doorframe. "That felt weird…"
Well, wonderful as it was that Harry was obviously a powerful wizard, this wasn't the time to stand around and chat about the odd sensations that doing magic without a wand gave one. James trotted forward and shoved his muzzle against Harry's cheek. Harry grinned faintly. "Right. Got to escape. I remember."
They started out across the smooth sward of grass, heading toward a dark line of trees in the distance. Twelve yards away from the mansion, Harry's damaged feet gave way and he fell. While waiting for Harry to cease protesting that he was fine (he must have tripped and he'd be ready to go on in a moment), James glanced back toward the building, trying to fix its dim outline in his mind. Dumbledore would want to know what it looked like if it was Voldemort's base.
There was no-one chasing them. There were no lights in any of the windows. No movement. No guards.
He's letting us go … Damn. I don't know what it all means.
"Fine," Harry grumbled, and dragged himself back to his feet. "I'll ride." He scrambled back on board, and off they plodded.
Afterward, it seemed to James that he must have traveled for hours, stumbling through the rank grass, tripping over gnarled roots, ducking low branches, staggering with fatigue and constantly growing more certain that the charm on the floor of Voldemort's mansion had done serious damage to his feet. Harry offered directional suggestions occasionally, but was silent for the most part. Probably he recognized the futility of attempting to carry on a conversation with an exhausted stag.
As the sun rose, they found a bridle path and followed it up to a real road – one of those dratted Muggle highways. James kept well back from its edge. There were only a few cars on it this early in the morning, but he had a feeling that anyone who spotted a teenaged boy in pajamas riding an enormous stag would make an unwanted fuss.
Harry leaned forward, unaware that any shifting of his weight made his limping mount nearly fall. "Why don't you change back?" he whispered into one of Prongs's large ears. "If we just look like hitchhikers, maybe we can get a ride to London, and we can get to Hogwarts from there."
Had he been less exhausted, James might have been proud that his son was so good at coming up with plans. As it was, he merely jerked his head in weary acquiescence. Harry slid off awkwardly, and James collapsed to his knees, struggling to catch his breath before attempting re-transformation.
Here goes …
He heard Harry gasp softly as he returned to his human form; the next moment, a rush of exhaustion and blinding pain hit him as scorching tremors ran up from his hands and feet. His head hit the ground, for some odd reason, and the outer world seemed to be going fuzzy and indistinct. His last semi-clear thought was that at least this solved the question as to whether or not the charm on the floor of Voldemort's mansion could damage Animagi.
Then he quietly passed out.
* * * * *
END OF CHAPTER EIGHT
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Responses:
Tarawen: Thank you! NHP is on your favorites' list? I'm really flattered … Well, 'necromancy' is magic relating to death – that is to say, people who are already dead. According to Webster's Encyclopedic Unabridged Dictionary of the English Language, "necro–" comes from the Greek word nekrós, meaning 'dead person,' 'corpse,' or, as an adjective, 'dead.' The stem "–mancy" is from the Greek word manteía, meaning divination. However, it is also used to mean "magic," such that pyromancy, for instance, is not simply divination relating to fire, but also 'fire magic.' So, I've seen "necromancy" used to simply mean "magic involving raising people from the dead," which is pretty much how I'm using it. So, that's what Remus and Sirius are envisioning … poor chaps.
TheNovice: Thanks … *blush.*
Luna Rose: Well, as you can see, James and Harry are "out" … but Sirius and Remus will also be showing up soon!
kaydee: Thank you! Well, no, that 'place' isn't going to feature later … James simply hasn't shaken off his Auror training – specifically, Rule 132: "In casual conversation, never name a person, place, or thing you have become acquainted with in the course of duty." :^) Certainly, I agree that there's good in Peter – as you say, he could hardly have been one of the Marauders if he had been an absolute rat from Day #1. As for Voldemort … hmmm … I think one would have to dig down quite, quite deep to find any sparks of humanity left. It's tempting to try to redeem him, but considering how very long he has been evil incarnate, I fear it may not be practical. Not that James and Harry know that, mind you… Harry's godmother? I really have no idea. I think that the books offer some small, tiny, microscopic, quark-sized justification for the Arabella-Figg-is-Harry's-godmother idea – but, then again, he may not even have one. Perhaps the Potters thought two godparents would be an awful lot of trouble and decided only to bother with one. Personally, that's the theory I'm most inclined to.
Padfoot's Heir: Thank you! :^) I suppose this chapter has answered your first question, and answering the second would, indeed, be giving away plot … I will merely say that, if or when Sirius and Remus meet up with Voldemort, not all of the 'orrible curses would be heading in Voldemort's direction. And we don't want You-Know-Who to kill any of our favorite Marauders, do we? Not yet, anyway … }^)
Jeva: Thank you, and you're welcome! Oh, yes, Grandaddy Voldie knows what's up … Voldemort is rather more cunning than most people give him credit for, after all … everything is proceeding as he had foreseen … *insert evil cackling laughter here.* I'm glad you liked the Dudley POV – it seems to have worked rather well. :-) Ah, yes, I can't really see Harry suggesting that James run over to Granddad's house on Father's Day for a nice heart-to-heart. By the way, have I ever mentioned how much I like your really long reviews? Because I love them! ^.^
Ariana Deralte: Thanks! Yes, Dumbledore took the wards around the house down before sending Remus and Sirius in to check things out. There wasn't really any opportunity to mention it, but, hey, if I mentioned everything, this story would be FIFTY chapters long … and who'd want that? ;^)
Sailor Hylia: Thank you!!! I'm happy you liked the Dudley-development. Hmmm, I fear we won't actually see much more of the Dursleys – too many other characters to be dealt with. So, much as I'd like to redeem everyone's favorite neighborhood bully (everyone who prefers Piers Polkiss, please raise your hand), I'm afraid it won't fit into NHP. You thought I did a good job with Sirius and Remus?! Hurrah! I'm always surprised and pleased when my characterizations actually work … it's so difficult to write a character someone else invented. Ah, yes, Peter – everyone's favorite – uh – rat animagus? He will certainly play a role in this story … though I can hardly give away what happens to him now. I mean, heck, maybe I'm not even sure. I've only planned out the first twenty-two chapters, after all. ;-)
Denise: Thank you, and welcome! Oooh, yes, Hermione and Ron and Draco will be making MANY appearances. This is, after all, a fifth-year fic … and it's fixing to be a pretty long one, too. Cursed plot bunnies … argh …
pastshadows: Thank you! As for the depressing-ness of this story – there will be some (hopefully) less angsty parts in the future, but, hey, it IS a Drama/Angst fanfic …
Storm Witch RD: Oh, wow. Such long reviews … wow … I can't tell you how absolutely overjoyed I was to see them. There's nothing that delights an author's heart as much as lengthy, constructive feedback … but you probably knew that already. :^) Excuse me while I go read them all again, goofy smile firmly in place. Comments will follow…
Aaaalllright. In reference to your review on Chapter Five: Thank you! Hurrah – you liked it! Yes, I've also seen fics where the Dursleys beat up Harry 24-7, or where he decides to give up on life because of Cedric's death – they are rather annoying. Probably Vernon wouldn't have said "young man," but "boy" just didn't sound right, somehow … I'll think about that. Someday. As for Harry's little speech, there – I'm glad you like it! It might be a little long – probably is – but Harry is extremely keyed up and a touch hysterical. I rather imagined it as a torrent of hastily-spoken nonsense that Harry flung out to deal with that same hysteria… all right, so I did overdo it a little.
*Sheepish grin.*
Right on! Harry's a brave kid – exceptionally brave – and usually very clear-headed, but he has trouble dealing with emotional problems like this. Everyone has a weak point, and since Harry's obviously isn't, as you said, Voldemort or death or Malfoys or physical torture, my guess would be that he would be extra vulnerable to mental/emotional attacks, especially given his upbringing... Oh, dear, now I'm feeling sorry for him …
You have more chapters of "Snake and Wolf"?! Forget your beta! Post them NOW! I'm certain they're quite good enough as they are. Have a little self-esteem, here! Post, I say, post!!! Of course, you may have already posted them, for all I know … I haven't been able to actually spend time READING fanfics for weeks now …
Chapter Six:
They cut that line out? Wretches … what a crying scandal. I'm happy you think the family thing almost makes sense – it's a ridiculously far-fetched idea, I know, but, hey, if Voldemort spared James, there had to be some reason why he did it. And when I looked at the timeline, it just fit too beautifully to be ignored …
I've gotten the impression from Book 4 that Harry actually is a bit sarcastic, though I may have taken it too far. I realize I could well be wrong, but it seemed that he dealt with pressure or stress with sarcasm, at least occasionally. Besides, he's growing up … I have two brothers who were teenagers fairly recently, and my experience is that fifteen-year-old boys are usually quite sarcastic.
(Sketchy evidence supporting Sarcastic!Harry from GoF:
"Yeah, that's right!" Harry found himself shouting as he wheeled around in the corridor, having had just about enough. "I've just been crying my eyes out over my dead mum, and I'm just off to do a bit more. . ."
"There you go," Harry said. "Something for you to wear on Tuesday. You might even have a scar now, if you're lucky.. . . That's what you want, isn't it?"
Instant scalping. . . but dragons had no hair. . . pepper breath.. . that would probably increase a dragon's firepower. . . horn tongue. . . just what he needed, to give it an extra weapon...
"What d'you think I'm trying to do?" said Harry angrily. "A great big dragon keeps popping up in my head for some reason…Okay, try again. . . ."
"Well, that's good," said Harry loudly, his temper getting the better of him, "just as long as it's not drawn-out. I don't want to suffer."
"I didn't see Madame Maxime anywhere, though, and she'd have a job hiding, wouldn't she?"
Hmm. OK, so some of it isn't particularly sarcastic …)
You like the quotes? Cool!
James, the T-Man. Maybe T stands for The Head Boy, or Transfigurations Expert, or Terribly Badly Cursed, or Tom Riddle's Son … argh, I can't believe I missed that. Oh, well. Thanks for pointing it out!
Do you mean you wonder why Voldemort didn't let Harry go in GoF? Well, my interpretation of the whole convoluted mess is that Voldemort actually does want Harry dead. He considers Harry a threat, partly because of that cheesy prophecy (which, as James pointed out, is very likely about as accurate as Trelawney's average prediction), and partly because Harry actually did defeat him in 1981. And he really does think that Harry, being descended from a Mudblood, is degrading the line of Salazar Slytherin. In addition, he is furious with Harry for humiliating him on three separate occasions – 1981, 1992, and 1995. As far as he's concerned, Harry deserves death for each of those occasions. However, after failing to kill Harry at the Riddle cemetery, he's become a bit worried about trying again. He has realized that the body he was returned to after his thirteen-year exile isn't invincible at all, and he doesn't want to risk getting killed again. Hence his decision to try neutralizing the Harry-threat through means other than "Avada Kedavra! Die, you stupid Gryffindor!" And, of course, he has real hopes that he can convince Harry to join him someday … He'd make quite a useful Death Eater, wouldn't he?
Chapter Seven:
Yep! I've been working on the plot … it's an awfully unwieldy plot, too – I've barely started. At the moment I've got twenty-three chapters all planned out (except for the minor, but vital details which will inevitably wreck my whole plan, trashing the extended outlines I've constructed … sigh …) – and I'm barely up to Christmas. Of course, I'm not necessarily going to wait until June for the Final Showdown. :^)
You liked the Dursley part? Hurrah! Or, in the immortal words of Darth Vader, "YIPPEE!"
You're right – the chapter title is wrong. I have changed it – please don't consider me hopelessly ignorant of the proper rules of grammar! Can we pretend it was merely an oversight?
In summary: Thank you so much! *Bows down before almighty reviewer.* I really can't tell you how much I appreciate reviews like yours. So I guess I'd better not try.
Oh, dear. So much for my decision not to write such long responses to reviews … well, that was a foolish resolution, anyway.
Chrysta: Glad you're enjoying it! As for the eyes question – I went back and reread the scenes featuring Tom Riddle in CoS, and I never found any mention of eye color at all. That rather surprised me, as I thought that I remembered his eyes were grey … I really think J.K.R. must never have mentioned it at all. So I decided to make 'em grey. :^)