Chapter 7: The Dreaded Dream Depiction
Mrs. Weasley smiled, and turned to Harry who was sulking on one of the few disrupted armchairs.
"Don't worry about it, dear. You'll get him next time."
"Humph," Harry said, again.
Mrs. Weasley laughed. "Any way, it's about time you lot started heading up to bed. Knowing you, there's bound to be shenanigans before you actually turn in tonight, and so I'd rather send you up now."
"Humph," said Harry, one last time.
He, Hermione and Ginny headed toward the door, leaving Mrs. Weasley to round up her youngest son.
Hermione giggled, "Now you know why I stopped playing him after first year. He's awful."
Now it was Ginny's turn to harrumph. "Yeah, just be thankful you didn't have to grow up with that. Every match, without fail he had some sort of antic planned out. I must say though, Harry, that this is by far the worst I've ever seen it."
"If that's supposed to be comforting, Gin, it's really not," said Harry, but the girls could tell that it had still made him feel better all the same. Knowing that this was a normal routine from Ron (and that he wasn't just gloating at having finally beaten Harry at something) had lightened his mood quite considerably, not that he would ever admit it.
"Well, I'm off to bed," yawned Hermione. "Those essays really made me sleepy."
"No kidding. I thought the one from Snape was particularly murderous," Harry admitted, "but don't tell Ron."
Hermione laughed. "Well, if you're still speaking to him by the time he comes up, will you ask him to come in and tell me goodnight?"
"Sure, 'Mione. Good night."
Hermione paused for a second, and then asked, "Harry? Did you say downstairs that you did ALL the essays while you were still at the Dursley's?"
"Yeah, why?"
"Well, um, because we didn't even have our OWL scores back at that time. How would you have known which entry essays to do for NEWT's?"
Harry blushed, and shrugged his shoulders.
"Well, 'Mione, to be honest I was so bored that I did all of them, except History of Magic. I figured it to be pointless with the way I ran out of there halfway through."
Hermione and Ginny's eyebrows raised in surprise.
"Wow, Har!" beamed his brown-haired friend. "I'm really impressed! Maybe I should ask you to review my essays when I'm finished."
He shrugged again, "Sure, if you really want me to I will. We can trade. I'll look over yours and you can look at mine, but I bet all I'll be able to say is 'you forgot to dot one of your I's' or something."
"Great! Thanks, Harry! Well, good night, you guys."
Harry hugged Hermione, picked her up and twirled her around in the way that had been customary for them ever since fourth year and wished her good night.
As she retreated down the hallway to the girls' room, Ginny smiled.
"You know, Mr. Potter, anyone other than 'Mione and they would be hexed before they could say 'Snitch'. But with you two, it's just cute. I wish I had a friend like how 'Mione has you."
Harry nodded, "Yeah, I know what you mean. You and Ron are close, but you're brother and sister so it doesn't really count."
Ginny inclined her head in affirmation. "Well, good things come to those who wait," she declared wisely.
"You're telling me," grinned Harry cheekily. "I had to wait five years for you to start talking to me, but it was worth it."
Ginny punched him lightly on the arm, "HEY!"
"It's true, Gin. Don't deny it."
She blushed, "Yeah, it is, but that still doesn't give you right to tease me about it."
"Oh, quite the contrary, Miss Weasley, I believe it does."
She sighed, "Fine. Be that way. Good night."
And she began to stalk off down the hall to her room, but Harry caught up easily as he was already in close pursuit before she had taken her first full step. Grabbing her around the waist, he spun her around, picked her up and threw her over his shoulder.
"Put me DOWN!" she cried in outrage, though Harry could hear the laughter behind her voice.
"And if I don't?" he asked evilly.
"I'll spank you. I have quite easy access from up here you know!"
"Fair enough," Harry said, and dropped her gently back to the ground.
This resulted in another punch from the vivacious redhead, although this one wasn't quite as on target since her hair was in her face. Frustrated, she attempted to blow it out of her eyes.
Harry chuckled, "Don't, Gin. It looks really cute that way."
"Oh what, because it hides half my face?" she laughed.
"You don't have to see your entire face to know that its attractive. It's mysterious- like those Muggle fashion models that pose outside. Their hair is always in their face because of the wind."
"I see…" she replied playfully, raising her eyebrows. "And what have you been doing looking at Muggle fashion models?"
"Well, seeing as I don't have a picture of you, now do I?"
Ginny opened her mouth to reply, but evidently could find nothing to say. Harry laughed, and leaned down to peck her on the lips.
"Good night, Gin. Sleep well, ok?"
She smiled, "Thanks, Harry. I will."
After kissing her once more, Harry returned to his room to find Ron changing into his nightclothes.
"Hermione wanted you to come in and say good night," he informed him, with no hint of a grudge from the redhead's previous antics.
"Thanks, mate. I'll be back, then."
"Okay. Night, Ron."
After Ron had left and shut the door, Harry grabbed his pajamas out of the wardrobe and donned them. Pulling back the blankets and climbing underneath, Harry attempted to fall asleep. A few minutes passed before he realized that the torches were still flaming, and so with a wave of his hand he extinguished them. Smiling to himself as he nestled in for the night, he couldn't help but be pleased at the way his wandless magic had been improving since his return to the wizarding world.
An hour passed by, and a thought wondering why Ron wasn't back yet briefly entered Harry's mind before he pushed it aside and attempted to sleep once again. Finally, after what seemed like years of tossing and turning, the Boy Who Lived finally ensnared the elusive thing called sleep.
He opened his eyes to view a room that he had hoped he would never see again- the Death Chamber in the Department of Mysteries.
"Harry…" whispered a voice from no distinct direction, although Harry felt as if it was almost inside his head it was so close.
Making a swift circle, he checked the room for any eavesdroppers and the proceeded toward the veil.
"Harry…"
"Who's there!" he asked tensely, his voice barely audible.
Unsheathing his wand in a way that was becoming second nature to him, the boy made another circle to check for intruders.
"Harry Potter…"
Now he was beginning to get annoyed.
"Look, I know I'm dreaming, so why don't you just bugger off?" he replied quite heatedly to the eerie whisper.
"Harry… listen to me. There is a place, a place you must find. The key lies within."
The boy sighed, and sat down on the raised platform facing away from the veil. He knew he was dreaming, but how could he get out of here? He had been in this room before (much to his dismay) and all of the regular exits were no longer visible.
"Harry…"
"LOOK! Sod off, will you? I just want to wake up. This is the last place I want to be right now, especially listening to a creepy voice. In case you don't remember, the last time I was here the only person I ever knew to be anything like a parent was killed."
His voice began to choke with the memory of his late Godfather. Every reminiscence he had repressed into his subconscious since his arrival at Number 12, Grimmauld Place was fighting its way to the surface. Harry found that in this weakened state of consciousness he was unable to stop them. A choked sob threatened to escape his throat.
"Harry, it does you no good to get upset. We're trying to help."
The voice paused, and then in what Harry could only infer to be a broken whisper, it continued-
"Those that we love never truly leave us."
The head of the black haired boy jerked up.
"Sirius? Is that you?"
Shaking his head, he attempted to gather his senses.
"No, it can't be. Sirius is dead," he told himself firmly. "Nothing you can say or do will bring him back, and the sooner you accept that, the sooner you can begin to heal.
Then aloud, "All right- I have had enough. POTTER! WAKE UP! OY! You, in the bed up there! Get up, you git, and get me out of here!"
The distant whisper began to chuckle.
"You never were one to listen to the impossible. Do, yes, but listen, no."
Harry sighed, and once again sat down on the raised dais, this time facing the veil. He stared stonily at it, half expecting Lord Voldemort to walk through and curse him into oblivion. Staring into the veil, it suddenly began to shimmer and turn translucent. Harry gasped, and bored his eyes into the screen-like substance that had appeared before him.
'Interesting,' he thought.
As if by an instinct he didn't know he had, he chanted to himself, 'Fluito Clueo,' and began to rise off of the stone dais.
As he rose, he floated toward the now screen-like veil. Passing through it, he felt a sensation not very unlike when he had landed in a past memory of the Headmaster's Pensieve. Still allowing himself to float, he looked around himself and found his dream self to be in a room that was an exact copy of the one he had just left, only a perfect mirror image.
Surrounding the left (instead of right side) of the dais were the same stone steps, only instead of being empty they were filled with translucent people. With further observation Harry noticed that they almost seemed ghost-like. Gazing around the room, he noticed that those seated were wearing robes similar to the High Court at Wizengamot. There were many faces amongst those in the room, but Harry felt his gaze being pulled to a certain direction. Gazing specifically at a man and a woman, Harry levitated himself over to them. Although they appeared to be nothing more than spirits, there was no mistaking the identity of these two Angels of the Underworld.
"Cunctor Finite Fluito Incantatem," he thought to himself, and then descended slowly to the ground.
Turning to the couple before him, Harry attempted to speak.
"Mum? Dad?" he asked, his throat choking on the tears that were threatening to fall.
Without warning, an enormous wind raged through the room, and those occupying the benches turned their attention towards the stone dais. When the wind had died and the veil had stilled, Harry turned his gaze to the person that had come through.
The man looked haggard, beaten, pathetic and broken. Harry had never seen a person look so appalling. His robes were tattered, his eyes looked unnaturally sunken into his skull, and he was painfully thin. His face was brown with congealed blood, and disfigured with wounds that had not yet healed marred what Harry figured once had been a handsome face. Harry could hardly bring himself to gaze upon the man; his visage was so badly mutilated.
The mystery man was the only thing in the room that was solid, in full color and not transparent. It appeared that whatever he had expected after he had passed through the veil from the side of the living was clearly not what had actually met his eyes. Harry looked, and saw almost what seemed to be a look of relief (or was that triumph?) in the man's eyes. He smiled, and attempted to greet the ghost-like people that sat before him, but was unable to make any sound.
The woman in the first row- Harry's mother, Lily Potter- rose to her see-through feet, and began to speak. Harry could tell that once upon a time her voice had been gentle, beautiful and caring, but when it spoke to this man it rang with all the infernos of hell.
"Andrawlson, you have been tossed here because the Living World wants nothing to do with you and your disgusting essence any longer. It has left it to the Underworld to decide your fate."
"No, please! I didn't- I swear," pleaded Andrawlson, realization dawning across his bloody face.
"I did nothing wrong. I had no idea I was leaking secrets to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. For the love of God, and all that is holy, please- spare me! Can't you see I've been tortured enough?"
The man that had been seated at the woman's right- James Potter, Harry's father- rose to his feet.
"Your pleas mean nothing to us. Unlike the living, we have no hearts or consciences to influence our decisions. They were torn from us the moment we died, most of them by your Master, Lord Voldemort. All we see is black and white, evil and innocence. You, by far, are the one of the blackest that has passed through the veil into our beyond. We need not see the brand on your forearm to know the truth, Andrawlson."
Another figure- this one much younger- very handsome, tall, with brown hair and eyes rose from the third row, and Harry gasped aloud at the sight of him.
"Cedric…" he breathed, even though he knew the spirit of his former schoolmate could not hear him.
"What IS this place?"
The young wizard began to speak, his voice also wrought with cold and fury.
"Only the righteous may pass through the veil and survive. Only the untainted may judge in this courtroom. Do you deny your traitorous actions?"
Andrawlson stared defiantly into the young man's eyes.
"I was there when he disposed of your worthless life, Diggory. I regret my allegiance not. The Dark Lord alone shall prevail. Potter does not stand a chance."
Cedric Diggory shook his head; in what Harry thought was almost a sorrowful manner. Straightening his robes, Cedric bellowed so the entire occupants of the Deceascengamot would not mistake the sentence of the filth before them.
"May the Fiery Demons of Hell consume you, Andrawlson, and we anxiously await the arrival of your Master."
As one, the entire Deceasengamot pointed their wands at Andrawlson, who dropped to the floor with a look of sheer trepidation on his face.
Harry didn't have time to close his eyes before the chamber began to pulse with a magic so powerful the walls shook. He didn't have time to shut out the hideous Demons of Hell that were unleashed upon the Death Eater.
Andrawlson was being burned alive in a smokeless fire. He would have no hope of suffocation before the flames began to consume the fleshy tissue that was his earthly body.
An image of burning, searing, scorching, smoking flesh etched itself permanently into Harry's brain. A vision of skin blistering, bubbling and then boiling before it began dripping off Andrawlson's bones like liquid was burned into Harry's retinas.
He did not have time to shut out the screams of terror as the Heliopaths- the Spirits of Fire- consumed the body of the Death Eater in the most painful way known to man.
Screaming, Harry awoke to find himself still in his room at Grimmauld Place. Unable to contain himself at the horrors he had just witnessed, he continued to scream bloody murder at the top of his lungs. Leaning over his bedside, he vomited onto the floor. Straightening up and grabbing his glasses off of the bedside table, he had just enough time to put them on before he retched again.
A cold hand rested itself upon his shoulder, and Harry screamed again, attempting to wrestle himself out of its grip- but soon, he stopped. Understanding reached his brain, and then confusion once again. He had been screaming loud enough to wake the entire population of London, let alone the occupants of Grimmauld place, and yet he had not heard a sound. Slowly, the torches in the room began to brighten, and he saw the concerned faces of Albus Dumbledore and Dobby the house elf standing before him.
