Disclaimer: Nope, still not owning it.
Author's Notes: Sorry for the wait. University owns my soul, most unfortunately. Anyway, this is the first chapter of the "Past" sequence, bringing you back to a directly post-HBP timeline. Enjoy.
"Lumos." The soft sound of a hoarse voice broke the thick silence blanketing the shabby, small third bedroom of Four Privet Drive. Intense green eyes peered thoughtfully at a yellowed scrap of parchment, their gaze focused through large, round glasses and framed by perpetually disheveled raven hair. A work-calloused hand smoothed the wrinkled paper before running through the dark locks and adjusting the blanket held about the awkward form to block out the light. Just a week, the boy thought, intently reading the neat script on the letter. Just a week, and he would be seventeen; an adult wizard no longer bound by the restrictions on underage magic.
Most soon-to-be-seventeen witches and wizards were ecstatic about the simplification that magic brought to their lives---- the charms and transfigurations they would use in their daily rituals as they had at Hogwarts and the ability to Apparate as necessary or at a whim. However, Harry Potter was not an average wizard on the cusp of adulthood; instead of looking forward to hover charms and everyday transfigurations, he was grimly anticipating the unrestricted usage of shielding charms, countercurses, and defensive hexes. Instead of looking for a career, Harry Potter was looking merely to survive; and, with the advent of the Prophecy that had unfortunately dictated his life since he was a year old, to survive for Harry Potter meant murder.
It should have been more difficult, Harry reasoned idly as he continued to study the parchment before him, to conjure the anger and the hatred to foster the desire that would allow him to use an Unforgivable. But then, Harry had been walking down a darker path since the death of Sirius at the end of fifth year. And, for everything he disliked about Snape, he had learned some applicable and handy information from his former professor's old potions book. While Snape himself hadn't been much for Harry, the Half Blood Prince certainly had, he mused, his mouth twisted ironically. But, then again, Snape was good for something too---coupled with visions of Bellatrix Lestrange, Harry was almost positive he could do what destiny and the Wizarding world at large wanted him to do---kill Voldemort.
A noise downstairs caught the sixteen-year-old's attention, and Harry froze, whispering a hurried, "Nox," his bright green eyes focused intently on the door and his muscles taut and tense. For the most part, his relatives had ignored him all summer, and Harry was glad for that. However, he was also acutely aware that the blissful negligence could shift at any moment, and he would once more be fending for himself against his relatives' hateful fury. That was another good point about turning seventeen, Harry reasoned---he could legally leave the Dursleys'. Not, of course, that Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon wouldn't kick him out at precisely midnight on July 31st. Hell, as far as he knew, they'd probably throw a small party after his uncle's lead foot and his cousin's Smelting stick ushered him violently into the so-called 'real world.' Nevermind, of course, that Harry considered himself a victim of reality since he'd been a year old.
Tensely he waited, poised to shove his wand and parchment beneath the pillow and feign sleep at the slightest of indications that his relatives were prowling about. His beautiful snowy owl, Hedwig, lifted her head from beneath her wing as she shifted along her perch. Piercing her master with her luminous yellow gaze, she gave a soft hoot, barely audible even in the anxious silence. Harry's green eyes flicked to her, not quite daring to release so much as his breath at the sudden thought that gripped him----with Dumbledore's dead, how strong were the wards about Four Privet Drive? With Voldemort resuscitated with Harry's own blood, impervious now to the poison of love in Harry's touch, would the blood magic his mother had died imparting to him hold any sway before the evil megalomaniac?
But as the moments passed and he heard nothing further from downstairs, Harry chastised his growing sense of paranoia and allowed himself to breathe. It was probably only Dudley sneaking another midnight snack, as his continued diet still had yet to produce noticeable results. Little wonder, Harry thought, given the frequency of his cousin's late-night binges. As the tension drained from his limbs, replaced by the tingling feel of excess adrenaline, Harry forcefully tore his emerald gaze from the door to the yellowed parchment in his hands, twisting his lips in exasperated annoyance at the realization that he had wrinkled it in his death-grip. During the summer, his supply of parchment and ink was always limited, and he wanted to conserve whatever he had. Chewing his lip, he attempted to force the yellowed paper once more to smooth, running his hands intently over the surface.
"Lumos," he muttered again, waving the lit wand about the bedclothes, searching for the quill he had dropped. Aunt Petunia wouldn't be happy that he had spilled some ink on her sheets, but he really didn't care. If the only thing wrong when he gladly left their unwelcoming house was slightly stained sheets, his relatives would be lucky. Grumbling to himself, he shifted the blankets wrapped about his lower body, looking for the gorgeous eagle feather. After some more shuffling and a few more minutes, his fingers clasped about the familiar, light weight, and he pulled the quill from where it had fallen, only to freeze at the creak of the staircase and the sound of a soft curse. Immediately, his body flooded with adrenaline, heart beating rapidly within his chest and senses hyperactive. Dropping the quill and killing the light of his wand, he ducked silently to the floor, pulling up the loose board and snatching his invisibility cloak in a series of quick movements. Throwing the silky, silvery material about his lithe form, Harry straightened, wand held at the ready as he silently crossed the barren floor to wait aside the door.
There had been no further sounds indicating the presence of more than one individual, but Harry was neither stupid nor naïve. If there was one Death Eater in his midst, there would be others soon to follow.
Well, this answers my question about the wards, he thought dryly, holding his body tense as he listened intently to the sounds outside the door. He couldn't open it just yet, lest he give away his location. As it was, he suspected that whoever it was outside of his door had already used a locator charm on him. They would know which way to come, and he would have to meet them. Cursing silently and wishing for the Order to recognize the wards' breach quickly, Harry waited anxiously. All of his nerves felt as if they were quivering with anticipation, and his eyes and ears and every sense in his body was keenly attuned to any noise beyond his door. And he wasn't disappointed---he heard the soft footsteps once again.
Any doubt of who, or what, the intruder was faded from Harry's mind. Dudley could not walk so quietly if his life depended on it, and neither could his aunt and uncle. No, this was an intruder, and likely a Death Eater intent upon his death, as an Order member would not sneak so and would have warned him via owl before appearing. No. Harry was once more going to have to fight, but he would also have to protect his relatives, who would be helpless against anything the Dark wizard or witch had in store.
Not for the first time Harry cursed the poor information he had gotten about the state of the world since school had let out. It was too risky, the Order had said, for him to subscribe to the Prophet, even if all of its news was exaggerated. It was difficult enough to send post between himself and his friends---owls could not take a direct route. Instead, all post was forwarded through Neville's Great Uncle Algie, a quiet, outwardly neutral contact, rather than full member, of the Order. They were afraid that someone would recognize his distinctive snowy owl or be alert for his name on the Prophet's mailing list and trace their way back to him. Load of tosh, Harry thought. Particularly since they'd seemed to find him anyway.
Stilling his motions, he listened avidly for any sounds to give away the intruder's location. A telltale squeak of loose floorboards met his ears, as well as a muffled curse in a distinctly familiar voice. Upon hearing it, Harry's veins flooded with ice and hatred rose in his belly like bile. How dare he? How dare that filthy traitor attempt to sneak in here against him? Biting his tongue fiercely to keep from doing something stupid that would give away his position, Harry tried to work through the fury raging through his chest. His hand clenched on his wand, the familiar holly wood held tight in his white-knuckled grip. Green eyes flashed with the force of his poorly restrained loathing, the young wizard beyond caring about Underage Magic Decrees or minding the Dark impulses shooting through his mind like wildfire.
A moment later, there was a creak just outside his door. Every nerve in his body was alert, and it took more willpower than Harry had to stay completely still. However, he did so---but it was not willpower staying his body, merely the desire for vengeance. That darker, more vicious part of him that had begun to emerge ever since he had first cast the Cruciatus on Bellatrix and had intensified as he had attempted to do the same to Snape, rose to the surface, swirling about his heart. All of the anger and bitterness that he had felt upon Sirius' death clouded his vision, and when the sound of a whispered, "Alohomora," reached his ears, he wasted no time. As the door creaked open, Harry struck with all the speed and viciousness of a coiled serpent.
"Expelliarmus!" The portly man who had appeared in the doorframe let out a surprised gasp, his flaccid body rippling with the movement. Graying, sandy hair was quickly slicked with nervous sweat as he nearly trembled, his small, watery eyes darting back and forth as if looking for escape. For a moment, his features seemed to shift, almost dissolving, as Pettigrew tried to return to his Animagus form.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," came Harry's snarl as he pulled the hood of the cloak away from his head, Pettigrew's wand held tightly in his hand. His own wand was trained on the pudgy Animagus, his manner daring the Potters' betrayer to continue in his actions. The portly man froze at the ice in the teenager's tones, bringing his hands up in a nervous, ratlike gesture, apparently not disturbed by only seeing his master's nemesis' head. His beady eyes glanced quickly back and forth as he attempted to find an avenue of escape, but to no avail. Eventually, cringing, sniveling, he looked up at the small, dark-haired boy who had spared his life three years previous.
"Ah! Harry, Harry, Harry! You wouldn't kill me, would you? You're such a sweet boy, a kind boy, a noble boy!" Pettigrew pleaded, his tones greasier than Snape's hair after a long day in the potions labs. His grubby fingers twisted nervously together, and the excess pounds of flesh hanging from his short, stocky frame quivered with apprehension that only intensified at Harry's harsh stare. He let out a small squeal when Harry raised his wand, only to find himself bound by unbreakable ropes. Vainly, Pettigrew struggled against the bindings, but with every struggle, the ropes tightened about his flesh until he nearly fell over, unable to move. There would be no hope of escaping the ropes, Animagus form or no. Apparition, too, was impossible.
"Don't start!" Harry growled in a fierce whisper, unwilling to bring anymore attention to his room in the fear that other Death Eaters might be in the house. Green eyes flashed angrily as he advanced almost predatorily on Pettigrew, wand in each hand.
"The only reason I didn't gag you was for information."
"So start talking, Pettigrew. Why are you here?" The coldness and revulsion in his voice surprised even Harry, but the young Gryffindor didn't let the moment's trepidation show through his loathing. The anger and hatred he was feeling was sharp, sending pulses of electricity through his body as it fed on itself and intensified. Briefly, Harry felt a twinge of doubt at the anger and the powerful, heady sensation coursing with blood and adrenaline through his veins. A voice in his head (that sounded suspiciously like Hermione) equated his rage with Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Most certainly, the desire to practice his Unforgivables on the sniveling wreck at his feet was Dark. With an internal snarl, Harry shrugged off the doubts and focused his wand more intently on Pettigrew. The rat gave a small yelp, as if the fierce, angry youth before him was far from what he had been expecting.
"The debt! The debt!" he cried, trying to wriggle away but ceasing with a painful gasp of breath as the ropes tightened about him. Beady, watery eyes fixed on the young man's, as he used the dresser as leverage to keep upright. "The life-debt, Harry Potter!"
Harry started. The life debt? Wormtail hadn't given any indication previously that he held anything other than denial of and contempt for the fact that Harry had saved his life from Sirius in third year. He had been perfectly ready and willing to use Harry's blood to resurrect Voldemort that horrible night after the third task. Shaking off his momentary stupor, he thrust his wand at Pettigrew again, taking perverse pleasure in the way the man cringed and ignoring the fact that he should feel guilty for it. This was Wormtail: his parents' murderer, spy against the Order, responsible for the death of countless Muggles and Sirius' false incarceration in the hell of Azkaban. Harry didn't want to feel guilty for enjoying the feeling of power pulsing through him as Pettigrew shied away from the point of his wand.
"And what makes you think I'm going to believe you?" the Gryffindor youth demanded, trying his best not to let his emotions show on his expressive features. However, that, like many other skills, was still just out of his reach. Pettigrew, however, did not react as expected; if anything, the rat Animagus became furious, struggling against his tightening bonds.
"Because! I can do nothing for my Master with it in place, brat! He knows of it, and won't give me any important duties! I'm tired of being slave to that slimy git Snape!"
The small tirade cooled most of Harry's anger as it shifted to puzzlement. And what did Pettigrew hope to accomplish in coming here? Surely…
"So go on! They'll be here soon! Master's convinced that with the old fool gone he can get to you here, and he's testing it tonight. So be gone, little Potter, and debt be done with you!"
A sour feeling rose in Harry's gut. Voldemort, coming here? As much as he wanted to face the bastard, to make him suffer and to finally kill him and rid the world of his presence, he knew he wasn't strong enough. He couldn't even stop Snape. What hope did he have against the bastard's master?
"Surely," he said slowly, ignoring the tendrils of cold anxiety twisting about his heart, "You don't think I'm going to leave you here?" He lowered his wand ever-so-slightly as he tried to consider the best alternatives. He didn't want to leave Pettigrew here where he could return to his master, but he didn't want to leave the Dursleys to Voldemort's tender mercies, either.
"You don't have a choice! You can't Apparate with me and those Muggles! Or are you going to let them die?" He gave another squeal, courage and tenacity deflating with the angry expression once more crossing Harry's features as the younger man shoved the wand back in his prisoner's face.
"Shut up!" Harry hissed, yanking his arm away from Pettigrew's face to start pacing. He knew that if what Wormtail was saying was true, he didn't have much time. He had expected Order members to have noticed the wards' breach and be here by now, but no such luck. Who would he sacrifice? The family that had never loved him, starving and mistreating him all his life, or the acquisition of one of Voldemort's more inconspicuous spies (not to mention clearing Sirius' name)? Which decision could he live with? Cursing because he knew the answer, Harry whirled away from Wormtail, casting a parting spell as he did so that shoved one of his dirty socks in the rat's mouth, the force of it undermining the tenuous balance Pettigrew had against the dresser and sending the rat with a slight squeal that Harry entirely ignored to the floor.
Wasting no time, he trained his wand on the rest of the room, magically packing his belongings in his trunk in the space of seconds. Once he was done, he quickly cast a shrinking charm on it before hurriedly pocketing it, doing the same moments later with Hedwig's cage upon freeing the snowy owl. Luminous amber eyes stared reproachfully at him before the bird gave a soft hoot, understanding her master's wordless plea, and flew out the window. That detail taken care of, Harry whirled around, warring with himself as he stared at the helpless form of the Death Eater lying bound and supine on the floor. Part of him wanted desperately to exact vengeance on his parents' murderer, but he knew he didn't have the time if he wanted to save the Dursleys. And he would, he knew. As much as he hated being manipulated, he knew he was reacting exactly as Pettigrew---or whoever was controlling him--- had anticipated. And he also knew he wouldn't kill a helpless man; for all the darkness brewing within him, he could not bring himself to fall that far. Not yet. However, that hesitancy did not stop him from casting a nasty Bat-Bogey hex in frustrated retaliation against all of the emotions storming within him. Not allowing himself the satisfaction of a smile, the young wizard quickly opened the door, green eyes darting to and fro to make sure that no other Death Eaters had appeared just yet.
Seeing none, he didn't allow himself to breathe a sigh of relief. Instead, purposeful dedication spread over his features, and he impatiently brushed strands of hair in dire need of a trim from his face. Gripping his wand tightly, the faithful holly wood now slick with cold sweat, Harry quickly and quietly hurried down the hall to Dudley's room. Thankfully, the porkish boy hadn't locked his door; not, of course, that a well-placed Alohomora wouldn't have taken care of it if he had, but it saved time. As he surveyed the room for the overlarge form, Harry couldn't help the subconscious wrinkling of his nose at the smell and sight of the putrescence littering the floor. Dirty clothes---many with stains and smears that Harry didn't even want to think about--- were strewn from end to end, along with stashed foil wrappers and fizzy drink cans.
Some diet, Harry thought, but brushed it quickly aside. There was no time. Trudging through the mess with the courage that defined him as a Gryffindor, Harry moved quickly to his obese cousin's side. He shook Dudley quickly to wake him up, cutting off the other boy in mid-snore as piggy blue eyes opened wide with fear and sleep-induced bewilderment.
"You!" Dudley began to exclaim, eyes wide and fearful at the sight of only Harry's head, but was cut off harshly by his wizard cousin's broomstick-calloused hand falling over his thick lips.
"Shut up, Dudley," Harry hissed, green eyes intense as he glared down at his cousin, not daring himself to wonder if this was the right choice. "There are evil wizards coming. Do you want to live?" His tones, though quiet, conveyed absolute, fierce solemnity, and even Dudley could sense it. Watery blue eyes darted from side to side, looking for escape, before he nodded.
"Good," Harry said shortly, breathing out a small sigh of relief. If this didn't alert the Order to the wards' breach, nothing else would. Grasping his pudgy cousin's arm tightly, hauling him ungainly to his feet, the Boy Who Lived closed his remarkable, almond-shaped eyes and the sight of Four Privet Drive faded with the telltale crack of Disapparition.
When Harry and Dudley reappeared on the familiar front lawn of the Burrow, the only sound that reached their ears was the furious beating of their hearts. The sky about them was dark, lit with only a few glittering stars beneath a heavy cloud cover. The moon was new, showing no light. Dudley appeared too unnerved and frightened for words as he gaped at the misshapen house and back at Harry, unsure of which might seem the better option. For his part, Harry didn't have the time to deal with Dudley's insecurities. He tried to shrug his arm away, but the much larger boy held firm with panic in his piggish face, jowls quivering as he fought to say something. Even after all these years of knowing that magic existed and that Harry was a wizard, the Dursley heir was unable to grasp what, to him, was the enormity of being hundreds of kilometers from where he'd been.
"Let go, Dudley!" Harry snarled, finally wrenching his arm free of his trembling cousin's grasp. With a whimper, Dudley fell to his knees in the dew-laden grass. "Look, go up to the house and tell them who you are, and that Death Eaters are on their way to Privet Drive. I've got to go back for Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, unless you want them dead." He glared at the frightened, quivering mass of surplus flesh that was his cousin for a split second more, ignoring the contempt rising in his belly at the expression of abject horror on the porkish features. He paused for only a second, handing Dudley Pettigrew's wand. "Take this with you, and give it to them."
"NOW, Dudley!" he demanded fiercely when his cousin merely stared, frozen. He didn't wait for Dudley to obey before Disapparating.
As he Apparated into Dudley's room, wand held tightly in his fingers, Harry had no idea what to expect. Voldemort himself could have been there, waiting for him at the first sound of Disapparition. Or, which he thought likely, the Dursleys could have awoken, and be ready with a weapon at Dudley's vacated bedside to demand the return of their obese child. But as he opened his green eyes, Harry saw none of these scenarios. Not allowing himself to hope that maybe, just maybe Wormtail's information was wrong, he stealthily darted over the piles of refuse to Dudley's door, glancing out into the dark hall. He could hear the sounds of wriggling and shuffling coming from his own room, and lamented briefly having not cast a full body-bind on Pettigrew. Sneaking into the hall with quick, purposeful steps, Harry jogged to his aunt and uncle's room, sparing a moment to dearly hope they were clothed. As he stopped outside of the door, the sound of multiple creaks from one singly creaky stair rose to his ears and left his blood cold in his veins.
Order members would not sneak.
Fighting against the panic rising in his heart, Harry didn't bother to knock for propriety's sake. He didn't think he could Apparate with two passengers; and he wasn't about to sacrifice one of his, if miserable, relatives. But what could he do? To stay was surely to kill them all. He would have to hope that someone would discover his plight and answer with backup soon. Cursing the Order for their delay, Harry threw open the door, not bothering to muffle the sound even as a cry arose from downstairs in familiar, high, cold tones, and bounded into the room. With a start, Petunia and Vernon sat up, clutching their duvet to their clothed chests and staring at Harry in stark disbelief and unmitigated fear, as if wondering where he had dug up the sheer audacity to appear in their bedchamber and why he had no body. But even as his uncle was purpling for a tirade, Harry had leapt to the bedside and yanked his aunt to him with the hand not holding his wand. A second later, they were gone.
When he reappeared on the Burrow's lawn, Harry didn't take the time to notice the lights or the Weasleys running about. He pushed a gawking, disheveled Petunia away from him and disappeared with a resounding crack to astonished cries of "Harry!"
Even as he reappeared in Petunia and Vernon's room, he knew what he would find. Steeling himself to the knowledge that in choosing to save his aunt and cousin he had likely killed his uncle, Harry Potter opened his green eyes just in time to dodge a blow from said great bear of a man. Vernon let out an enraged bellow, only to turn his attention to the door at the sound of rushing feet and incanted Latin. A jet of red light sizzled through the air, eliciting a whimper from the beefy man who quickly retreated, cowering, to the corner as all Hell broke loose in his home.
"It's Potter! I've found him!" Harry barely had time to register the voice as Lucius Malfoy's before he saw the three Death Eaters already charging down the hall.
"Harry!" That was Lupin's voice, sounding as close to panicked as the werewolf ever would. The sound was muffled, obviously coming from downstairs, before being cut off by the gruff, distinctive tones of Fenrir Greyback. Harry couldn't afford to dwell on the older man's situation, however. He was far too busy staying alive and protecting Uncle Vernon---however strange that notion might have been.
Without the benefit of listening to them speak, Harry had no idea who the other two men (or women) in the Death Eater regalia might have been. Lucius Malfoy was in the forefront, wand extended and hex on his lips as Harry threw the hood of his cloak back over his head, shielding himself from view. It wouldn't offer him too much help, but Harry was willing to take whatever aid was available at this point. A lucky chance wasn't going to help him here: at least, not help him and allow him to help Remus. For now, though, he would have to subdue his "saving people thing" and let Remus and whatever other Order members accompanied him fend for themselves.
"He's in an invisibility cloak!" Malfoy barked, barely sparing a glance over his shoulder at the two other Death Eaters fanning out to either side of him. Faceless white masks gazed predatorily across the room, focusing on the quivering mountain of adipose tissue that was Uncle Vernon. From below, Harry heard the high, cold tones once more. This time there was no mistaking: Voldemort himself was here. Harry didn't know if the Dark Lord had grown simply more bold with Dumbledore's death or if this was just a special instance or a declaring of outright war, but it didn't matter. The Death Eaters were advancing on his Uncle, and the situation had just grown more perilous.
"Not going to escape are you, baby Potter? Going to leave the Muggle to die?"
For a moment, it was all Harry could do to keep from acting rashly. He knew that voice, with those obvious nuances of madness clouding its sound. That was a voice he hated above all others except Tom Riddle himself, and instantly hatred and revulsion spread like wildfire through his limbs. He wanted to act recklessly. He wanted to hurt her, to make her feel the pain and suffering he had known, that Sirius had known. Harry's fingers twitched about the smooth holly in his hand. It wouldn't be the first time he had tried to cast the Cruciatus…
"Now, now, baby Potter, hiding is very naughty!" Bellatrix continued to taunt, pulling her mask away so that her face might inspire stupidity from the young Gryffindor.
"I think we should pull him out of hiding, Lucius. A little demonstration, hmm, before Master arrives?" the unhinged witch glanced about the room, dark eyes gleaming with madness and sadism. Her wand twirled absently in her fingers, and her movements carried the light, rhythmic quality of a dancer. Dark hair swirled about her thin, angular face. Years ago, she had likely been a beautiful woman. Now… Azkaban had stripped her of the majority of her aesthetic appeal as well as her sanity.
"Crucio!" The release of power was random, instantaneous, holding none of the logical execution of a sane individual. But then, Bellatrix Black-Lestrange was far from sane. At the instant that the curse connected, Vernon let out a bellow of excruciating pain, sheer agony rippling his stout form as the mad witch toyed with him.
"It's been a long time since I've tortured a Muggle to madness." Her tone was jovial, giddy.
"Bella," Lucius admonished, his voice deep and brooking no argument. "I enjoy Muggle torture no less than the next person, but Potter is our goal." To his annoyance, the insufferable woman pouted . However, the blond aristocrat knew better than to truly upset her---she might have been mad, but she was as close as anyone to what remained of Voldemort's heart. The Dark Lord regarded her as a favorite pet, often indulging the madness of her whims.
Harry could no longer take the sound of his uncle's screams. "NO!" he shouted, firing off with all of the hatred and anger rising within him the first spell that came to mind:
"Sectumsempra!" Bellatrix shrieked in pain, the spell catching her in the right shoulder. Blood spurted from wounds unwilling to knit, rushing in unhindered rivulets over the glimpses of pale skin and sinew through the slashed black fabric. Dark and wet the sleeve of her Death Eater robes grew, the blood slowly dripping from her dirty nails to the floor, pooling at her feet. Dark eyes filled with rage as the mad witch stared at him, clutching her injured arm. Her other raised her wand with the howl of a wounded animal.
"Avada Kedavra!" she screeched madly, the wounds still refusing to knit. "Avada Kedavra! Avada Kedavra!" Harry ducked, not wanting to give the "Boy Who Lived" title another go, and with a flick of his wand, quickly sent his relatives' bed in a crash course with one of the jets of vicious green light. Due to her pain and madness, the dark-haired witch's shots were wide and random, and mental and physical anguish was written plainly over her harsh features.
"Bellatrix! Get a hold of yourself!" Lucius roared, arresting the woman's arm, "Potter is the Dark Lord's! Not yours!" Seething, Bellatrix struggled, tears of maddened rage and fury coursing down her pallid cheeks. Bellatrix didn't listen, her insanity giving her added strength. She snatched her arm free enough to level her wand at Harry.
"Crucio! Crucio, you little half-blooded bastard! Dirty boy! Dirty, dirty little filth!"
Harry attempted to dodge, throwing up a Protego that he knew would not stop the Unforgivables hurtling his way. The first of the curses missed him, but the second hit its target, and despite himself, he screamed, muscles jerking, synapses firing, back arching in the epitome of suffering and agony. The Cruciatus was rather remarkable in that respect. He did not drop his wand, but, rather, closed his fist so tightly against it in his torment that his uneven, dirty nails drew blood.
"Bellatrix!" Lucius was furious. Voldemort might view Bellatrix as his mad little pet, but Lucius wasn't about to take the fall for harming Potter without his Lord's express permission. "Expelliarmus!" Snatching the woman's wand, he pushed her away. "Return to headquarters!" Bellatrix looked about to protest, her pale cheeks tinged with pink blotches, her nails digging into the fabric of Lucius's cloak. Yet, with a final curl of her lip and vicious snarl at Harry, who was reorienting himself at the curse's release, she disappeared with the crack of Disapparition.
"Dolohov!" Lucius barked, "Go downstairs and assist our Master. I will handle the Potter brat until he gets here." The final cloaked figure turned his faceless gaze to the tremulous boy attempting to regain motor control with nerves misfiring throughout his body, before glancing at his lieutenant. With a silent nod, the Death Eater turned and raced down the hall to join the battle currently underway in the Dursleys' living room.
Not one to let opportunity slide, particularly with life and limb on the line, Harry used the moment's distraction to attempt another hex at Lucius. However, the feeble attempt was quickly parried, and the tremors in his hand had sent the shot wide anyway. The Gryffindor stumbled slightly, but lifted his head to stare harshly at the Death Eater mocking him in word and movement.
"That wasn't very becoming for a shining young Gryffindor," the blond man drawled, and Harry was certain there was a sneer on the thin lips behind the faceless mask. "Attacking a man with his back turned…not very honorable, are you?" The wand was pointed lazily at Harry, whose pain-numbed brain was trying valiantly to focus on his situation. He didn't dare a glance in Vernon's direction, only hoping that the bed he had flung had been enough to deflect one of the mad woman's curses from its target. His uncle was no longer screaming, at any rate.
Drawing on his reserves, Harry steadied his body and mind, allowing the righteous fury and indignant viciousness that had been steadily growing within him with each conflict with the Dark to take hold. He had to protect Uncle Vernon, and he wanted to stop Lucius Malfoy. Without responding to the aristocratic wizard's taunts, Harry fired off another hex, the anger and rage demanding an outlet. It was building beneath his skin; electrifying pulses of power that whispered sensually in his mind's ear, calling his magic to the surface, brimming with untried promise. He could feel his magic, could hear the soft hum in his ears and in his mind, could sense the sensation of the hairs on his arms prickling as if with static, and found himself lulled by its seduction. His very magic, his very core, was bursting with myriad desires: the desire to protect, the desire to live, the desire to hurt, and, curling darkly in a corner of his mind, the desire to kill.
Unbidden, the tingling sensation spread throughout the room; the windowpanes vibrating, the floorboards pulsating, and a charge in the air reminiscent of the atmosphere after an intense lightening storm. His rage was calling forth the storm, drawing out the latent coils of magic that his unapplied performances in class could never have hoped to harness. And it felt good. As he fell deeper and deeper into the waves of power, Harry was vaguely aware of sense of calculation and wariness he could somehow feel emanating from the blond, aware of the way Lucius had hesitated, stepped back ever-so-slightly… and then the awareness came crashing down, crushed under the unforgiving heel of agony. His head was on fire, his scar was splitting in anguish, and blood was running unhindered over his forehead and into his eyes and down his cheeks. Legilimency with all of the grace and precision of a sledgehammer slammed into his brain, memories coming forth beyond his control, memories he wanted none to see, much less this foreign, evil presence in his mind. Vaguely, he knew it was Voldemort; it had to be Voldemort ripping his mind asunder. He was gasping for breath, and the nerves in his knees were crying from abuse, as he had unknowingly slammed himself heavily into the wooden floor. He heard screams, only dimly recognizing them as his own, and recognized that his own nails had drawn the blood pooling in his eyes.
And he was trapped, trapped, trapped in the confines of his own mind, cold, high, harsh laughter resonating in his chest and in his ears, pain clouding his thoughts. He could stand, if only he could find his feet, if only he could find the floor. He could fight, if only he could find his wand, could call again the magic that had been so ready to unleash itself at Lucius Malfoy. But he could not, for all he saw were memories, memories he wanted never to relive.
He was four, staring wistfully from the corner of the room as Dudley unwrapped Christmas present after Christmas present, wanting only the books his cousin would never read, or a taste of the Christmas puddings his aunt would never share. And then he got his own present: the foil wrapping that had covered his cousin's. It was pretty wrapping, at least. The foil shined and shimmered and pictures of little old men with white beards and red hats with pretty deer with bright, shining noses danced over its length. It was ripped in places, but Harry could put it back together again. It would be almost like a puzzle… if only his cupboard weren't so dark.
He was eight, proud of his maths test. He had been the only one to get perfect marks, and he had never gotten perfect marks before. The teachers always complained that he didn't do his homework, but he tried to tell them that he wanted to, but his parents wouldn't let him. He couldn't tell anyone he lived with the Dursleys; his uncle had forbidden it. The administration knew, but no teacher would believe that a guardian didn't want a child to do homework. And so Harry was punished, and called a liar, and rarely got to play with the other children during free time because he never had his homework… unless he could do it in the morning before classes. But he'd scored well on this maths test, and he wanted to show Aunt Petunia, thinking that maybe, maybe if he scored well, she might like him just a little bit. Maybe she would tuck him into his cupboard? Or maybe she'd let him have the leftover chocolate biscuits that Dudley didn't eat at tea? But of course she didn't. And so Harry learned that he couldn't rely on his relatives, because they would never love him. He was supposed to be grateful, his uncle would say, that they were taking care of him at all since his parents had died in that car crash…
And then he was in third year, hearing the pleadings and screams of his mum whenever dementors drew near. He could hear the bravery in his father's voice as James had tried to protect his wife and son, and knew that his father must have been everything that Hagrid and everyone else but Snape had said. His father was a good man, a brave man, and Harry was proud to be just like him. He wasn't arrogant, as the Potions Master had said. He was a good man. A good man…
…a good man who had levitated Snape upside-down for all to see, mocking and terrorizing the students of Hogwarts not of the good fortune to be Gryffindors like a bully. Like Dudley. But he must have become a good man, because his mother, a good woman, a loving woman who had given her life for Harry's, had married him. A good man…
And then it was fifth year, and Sirius was arching back towards the veil… Harry didn't want to see, didn't want to experience this again. The pain was too fresh, too deep, searing into his heart and mind. He had failed, he had been arrogant, he had been like his father, and it had gotten Sirius killed. He hadn't learned Occulmency, and what shards of the theory he retained weren't helping now. Harry couldn't find the tattered threads of his thoughts, couldn't articulate himself well enough to push the Dark Lord from this most personal, most vile intrusion. And he was seeing Dumbledore, hearing the prophecy that so much had been given to hear, the prophecy that had cost his godfather's life and the last bit of innocence he claimed, falling away with the stream of Crucio from his angry, grieved lips…
And now Voldemort knew the prophecy, knew he was searching for the Horcruxes. He knew, he knew, he knew, and Harry couldn't bring himself to care. This was not like Snape's attacks on his mind: this was vicious, blunt, and excruciatingly painful. The Dark Lord sifted through his memories with all of the subtlety of a rampaging griffin, slicing and tearing aside memories with no care in pursuit of his goal. Harry couldn't even think to stand, to push him away, to try and fight will with will. All he could think of was staying alive, not letting Voldemort win, protecting Hermione and Ron and Ginny. Dimly, he recalled that his feelings of love had banished the evil spectre from his mind before, and with great effort, thought about his love for his friends, his love for Ginny, his love for Remus and Sirius and the love for the mother and father he had never met. He remembered how his mother's love had saved his life, the love and dedication of his friends as they followed him, if haphazardly, into danger again and again. They were always at his back, at his side, encouraging him to go on and understanding when he could not. They had faith, they had love, and Harry would protect them with the same.
With a jerk, he felt Voldemort leave his mind. It would seem the evil wizard still could not stand the relative purity of those emotions, and as Harry dazedly ventured to open his green eyes, he could see the revulsion etched firmly in the red gaze above his prone form. He did not know when the wizard had appeared, or where Lucius had gone.
"You will not succeed, Harry Potter," the snakelike man hissed in Parseltongue, red eyes dangerous, "though I applaud you for the effort. You have evaded me for the last time. It has been a mistake underestimating your capacity for lucky chances. No longer." He raised his wand----
----only to be cut off by a panic-stricken voice from beyond the doorway.
"Accio Harry!" That was Lupin's voice, and it was obvious that the werewolf had reacted with the first spell that came to mind. But it worked, and Harry barely had the time to grasp his wand as he went shooting at blazing speed past the Dark Lord's legs and toppling into the Order member's lanky, weathered form. Later, he might have viewed his rescue as comical, but Harry was too tired, too shocked, and reeling too much from what had just transpired to muster the energy.
"I've got him!" Lupin yelled, loudly, over the din of spells and counter-spells and pain and blood. Even as he did so, Voldemort had already recovered from sheer disbelief and had whirled to face them.
"Imbeciles!" the Dark Lord roared, "Don't let them escape!" And even as the curse sped towards them, Harry felt the warm arms of his surrogate godfather surround him and allowed himself to fall into black nothingness as multiple cracks of Disapparition resounded in his ears.
For those of you interested, I've created a Live Journal for this story. You can find it on LJ at www . livejournal . com / users / attic(underscore) ghosts (no spaces) or there is a link at the bottom of my profile on my author's page. Review responses are there, as well as random nothings regarding this story and other projects of mine.
Again, sorry for the wait.
Autumn Ruby