Potter47
Part One
The Shadow of Death
"But, strangest of all, the very instant the shore was touched, an immense dog sprang up on the
deck from below, as if shot up by the concussion, and running forward, jumped from the bow on
the sand. Making straight for the steep cliff, where the churchyard hangs over the laneway to the
east pier so steeply that some of the flat tombstone—'thruff-steans' or 'through-stones,' as they
call them in the Whitby vernacular—actually project over where the sustaining cliff has fallen
away, it disappeared in the darkness, which seemed intensified just beyond the focus of the
searchlight. "
Bram Stoker
Chapter Three
Missing Pieces
The darkness of the night had vanished before she had progressed half way down the street, so careful and planned were her movements. She did not take a step without the care of a thousand Aurors.
Step—stop.
Now the haze of an overcast morning hung low over the unnaturally bright day, a paradox that she did not care to attempt to comprehend. She took a breath.
Step—stop.
The end had begun now, and this was the part she was to play: a starring role, as promised by her master. A starring role in a production for the ages, that's what this would be.
A breath.
Step—stop.
She could see it now, the house of her fathers. Just there, in the distance, beyond this grim old haze.
Her eyelids fluttered closed — a moment of silent meditation, just a moment, the most vague of all measurements. A breath — with which she could smell it, smell her dreams, her ambitions, her desires.
Her triumph.
Step—stop.
Harry's eyes opened, and he found he was no longer goo. He was himself again, fully lifelike, and he was leaning uncomfortably against the wall of the hallway, outside the twins' room.
At the Burrow, he thought. I'm back at the Burrow.
He stood, a crick in his back, and reached for the doorknob of the twins' room. His hand, inches away, pulled back in pain, his palm on fire yet not truly burned.
What the...?
He held his hand in front of his face, and there were no burn marks. Had he imagined it? It felt far too real for that...but it had also felt very real to be goo, and that had only been some sort of dream.
Hang on...how did I...?
—get out in the hallway. Indeed, how had he? The last Harry remembered, he had been in the twins' room with Ginny, and Aunt Petunia. When had he gotten out here, onto the floor?
Harry made to try the doorknob again, but thought better of it. Instead, he turned round and headed for the stairs.
"Harry, I was just looking for you," said Albus Dumbledore, stepping just in front of Harry as he came to the foot of the stairs, (nearly causing Harry to walk into him). Harry did a bit of a double take, having not expected the headmaster to be at the Burrow—in fact, Harry had never seen him in the Burrow, and he looked quite out of place.
But Harry had a hard time believing that Dumbledore could have been looking very long.
"You were?" said Harry, and Dumbledore nodded, gesturing for Harry to walk with him.
"Walk with me, Harry."
Harry did, somewhat hesitantly—and then he wondered why he was hesitant about it. It was Dumbledore, after all.
"How is your aunt, Harry?" said Dumbledore. "I came as soon as I heard."
"Asleep, still, last time I saw her," said Harry.
"And how are you?" said Dumbledore, looking at him deeply. They had come to the kitchen, and sat down at the table, Harry opposite Dumbledore. "How have you been?"
"I've been—" and Harry was going to say 'fine' but something stopped him—something deep inside him told him not to say he was all right, to actually tell Dumbledore what was going on for once.
Perhaps it was something he ate.
"Actually," Harry said, "I had this weird dream—"
Step—stop.
There, there it was...near enough practically to touch it. But no, she couldn't—no, she must not get caught up in the moment of triumph...at least not until she had truly triumphed over him.
She did not know how her master had found a way round the Fidelius Charm, but she knew he must have—otherwise, how could she see the house, the house that was just there before her nose?
Step—stop.
It did not matter—all that mattered was that he had done it, and now she could do it, could do what she needed to do. Could force the king into the far corner of the board, so that it is only a matter of time before...
Step—stop.
...checkmate.
"Dream?" said Dumbledore. "A vision, do you mean? Or just a...dream?"
"I don't really know," said Harry. "It was just very strange."
"Well, would you explain it to me, please?"
"Yeah...," said Harry, and he did so. He told of the Dursleys and their costumes, of the Dementors, of the unending fog and its end as well—of Grimmauld Place, of the sunlight, of the breakfast cereal, and finally of the end: Sirius's disappearance, and his own transformation into goo.
This explanation took a great deal of time, for it takes much longer to explain a dream—or attempt to, anyway, for Harry was sure he had jumbled it up terribly—than it takes to dream the dream itself.
When Harry was quite sure he had told of everything — though he was actually wrong about that — he waited for Dumbledore to comment, to explain, to inquire.
"Interesting," said Dumbledore, and somehow Harry had known that that would be all he would say—of course, that was all he would say—when did Dumbledore explain anything to Harry? Except...well, the end of last year was an exception, but still...
"Interesting," said Dumbledore again, and Harry thought that maybe the headmaster would elaborate after all.
"Harry, are you sure you've told me everything about this...dream? Absolutely everything?"
"Yes," said Harry—again, he was quite wrong about that.
Dumbledore stood, and pulled out his wand. "I shall return to you soon, Harry," he said, but—
Suddenly, Harry felt something—vaguely painful—on the back of his head—he spun round, but no one was there, nothing was there. What had it been? An odd feeling, that was all he knew...but...it left him feeling unsure about something.
"I don't know," said Harry now, and Dumbledore stopped as he was about to Apparate away.
"Don't know what?" he said curiously.
"I don't...maybe I didn't tell you everything..."
"You're not sure?" said Dumbledore, and Harry felt as though he had lied to the headmaster, even though that was hardly what happened at all—he felt it nonetheless.
"No," said Harry, and Dumbledore raised his wand once again.
"Interesting."
One final time, and she was there:
Step—stop.
"Hey," said Ron, walking into the kitchen of the Burrow. He yawned. "I'm tired. Hardly slept at all last night..."
He sat down where Dumbledore had been. "How've you been?" Ron said. "You haven't really said much this summer. Of course, you haven't yelled much either, and that's always good."
Harry realised he hadn't been talking very much. But...what did he have to talk about, anyway?
He was about to say so, but at that moment an owl swooped into the kitchen; it was one that Harry had never seen before, though it seemed Ron had.
The owl landed on the table in front of Ron, let him remove an envelope from its leg, and then flew away once again.
"Who's it from?" Harry asked idly. Ron hadn't made a move to open the letter.
"Luna," said Ron, shaking his head slightly, looking at some point behind Harry. "She's been sending them every day—sometimes more than one. I reckon she's trying to break some sort of record for the most letters sent to one person in a single summer."
"Luna?" said Harry. He paused for a moment. "Since when does Luna send you letters? I mean, until the end of last term, you didn't even seem to like her all that much."
"Yeah," said Ron. He was quiet for a while, not looking at Harry. "I know."
Silence.
"You gonna open it?" Harry said, indicating the letter.
"Oh, no," said Ron. "They're all the same. You see, she wants to send a lot of letters—but I don't think she can think of anything to write in all of them. That," — now he did tear open the letter, and unfold the paper; he handed it to Harry — "is why they're all blank."
Harry snorted. "Well, that's Luna for you. Maybe she's just sending you paper to write her back with."
"Yeah, I guess." Ron took back the paper and just looked at it for a while, as if wondering something about it. Then he shook his head, and stuffed it back into the envelope.
"So," said Ron, "how's your aunt doing?"
"OK, I guess," said Harry. "She hasn't woken up."
"That's always good," said Ron. "But do you have any idea how she got here?"
Harry considered explaining, but thought better of it: he had just told Dumbledore everything, and he didn't feel like explaining it all again to Ron. Instead, he offered the shortest reply he could think of:
"Dementors."
Ron furrowed his brow at this, perhaps wondering how Dementors had taken Petunia to the Burrow, and was about to comment further, when Harry stood and walked out of the kitchen. He didn't feel like talking any more.
"Hello, Harry," said Dumbledore, once again appearing in front of Harry, but now holding a large stone basin. He smiled a weak smile that did not quite reach his eyes, and walked with the bowl back into the kitchen. Harry followed, thinking that his departure had been rather useless.
"Dumbledore?" said Ron, taken aback. "What are you doing here?"
"That's Professor Dumbledore," said a voice from the doorway, and it turned out to be Mrs Weasley, looking at her son sternly. Harry thought that perhaps she had a sixth sense to tell when people were not addressing their elders with proper respect.
"Sorry, Professor," said Ron. "But...when did you get here?"
"I just arrived, Mr Weasley," said Dumbledore. "But then again, I just left."
Ron blinked, but did not try to decipher the headmaster's words any further.
"You have used the Pensieve once before, Harry," said Dumbledore, and his words seemed rather hurried. "You know what to do."
It took Harry a moment to recall when he had used the Pensieve before; the event did not particularly stand out in his recollection of the end of term. But yes, he had used it, used it to siphon the vision he'd had of Voldemort and Hermione, in the Riddle House...what had that been about, anyway? He couldn't remember...
He did, however, remember what to do. He placed the tip of his wand to his temple, only to be interrupted by Ron.
"But we're not supposed to use magic outside school," he said. "Remember last year? You'll be expelled."
Harry wondered for a moment if it was indeed Ron who was speaking—it certainly didn't sound like him.
"Do not worry, Mr Weasley," said Dumbledore. "The Ministry will know nothing of this; and even if they did, this is far too important. Proceed, Harry."
Harry did. He concentrated on his dream, replayed it in his mind, and though he still felt there was something he could not remember, he felt that it would show itself in the Pensieve, despite his not recalling it.
The silvery substance drooped from the end of the wand as Harry pulled it away — he realised, with a shock, that it was not his wand at all; he had forgotten. It was Voldemort's. And yet it felt so right, so natural...and that fact in itself felt so wrong.
Harry flicked his wrist over the Pensieve now, and the strand of silver fell within its depths, disappearing without so much as a splash. In a moment, the swirling image of the Dursleys' kitchen appeared, though it too soon faded.
"Go ahead, Harry," said Dumbledore now. "Follow it. Find the missing piece."
Harry looked around a moment, glanced at the faces of those around him. Ron looked utterly confused. Mrs Weasley probably didn't comprehend much more than her son, though she did not show it quite so clearly. And Dumbledore's face was as calm as ever; Harry could only vaguely see the sense of urgency writ upon it.
Taking a breath, Harry swirled Voldemort's wand round the Pensieve, and dipped his face into the swirling depths. This missing piece, he knew, had to be found.
Bellatrix' hand hesitantly spread itself upon the door, the wood cool beneath her palm and fingers. Her other hand reached for the knob, turning it slowly and quietly until a faint click greeted her.
The door opened inward, and she found herself inside the house for the first time in years—since long before her trip to Azkaban. It amazed her, the simplicity of it all. How on earth had her master done this, breached the security of this house?
Once again, it did not matter; all that mattered was that he had. And she was here.
Now all she had to do was find him. Take him. For real, this time. Potter was crumbling already. He did not know of even the tiniest bit of the plot, the plots that were all coming together to destroy him. All coming together now, beginning now, ending then. Ending when it all had to end.
He had no idea.
Back to him, back to her cousin, back to Sirius. Where could he be? Where could she find him in this place?
She would try the kitchen first, yes, of course that was the only place he had stayed when they were children. He didn't care about any of the other goings-on of the house; no, he just liked the food, that was him.
On the way down, a mirror hung upon the wall, and there she stopped, a stair creaking precariously as she did so. She turned to look at her reflection, and she noticed for the first time in years, noticed the resemblance between herself and those depicted in the paintings...the few that still survived in this place, at least. She was a Black, just as he was. More than he was. And it made her wonder.
She had not known him, known her cousin, known Sirius since childhood. Not really known him. She had never liked him, of course, but they had seen each other often enough.
They were family, of course.
But she had not known him in decades...almost thirty years, she would wager. And this, too, made her wonder...
Had he become one of them?
Regulus had been. That had become so very obvious, at the end. But Sirius...had she ever seen him in—
"Hello, 'Trix. Long time no see."
Bellatrix spun around and found herself face to face with him, with her cousin, with Sirius. She had been too absorbed in the mirror, at the reflections of the stairwell, too notice him coming, to see him even through her peripheral vision. A foolish mistake.
She smirked grimly at him, wand raised to his neck before he could blink. "I'd say the same, but I've seen you too oft in my dreams; seen this in my dreams, seen your end in my dreams."
"You always had a way with words," he said, glancing disdainfully at the mirror before doing the last thing Bellatrix had expected, and the first thing that she should have:
He was a great black dog in a moment, and had bowled her down the stairs, into the kitchen. Another foolish mistake: why had she stopped on the stairs, of all places?
They rolled and rolled, the dog finally pining her to the floor of the basement kitchen. He growled at her, sniffing scornfully, and raised a paw to claw at her face—he never got the chance, however, as she had blasted him back against the wall with her wand.
"Ha!" she cried, and her wand was trained on him once again. "I've got you now, Black!"
It pained her slightly to address him by her own name; but what was she to call him? Cuz?
The dog barked mockingly and bounced back up the stairs, clearly enjoying itself. Bellatrix narrowed her eyes as she chased it, frustrated by his nonchalance. Did he not realise what she intended to do?
Sirius had the advantage on her at the moment, knowing the house better than the back of his paw. He lost his stride slightly at the top of the stairs, paws sliding him into the wall. A loud shriek went off as Bellatrix reached the top. He had already bounded away.
"TRAITOROUS BEAST!" cried the painting of Bellatrix' aunt. The witch ran by it without a glance, though the painting had apparently noticed her: "GO GET HIM, MY PRETTY! GET THAT LITTLE DOG, YOU!"
Bellatrix chased Sirius up the stairs now, and when she reached the landing she caught sight of a swishing black tail turning a corner. She sent a curse towards it, but the tail had disappeared. Bellatrix groaned in frustration.
It struck Bellatrix as ironic that after all the work she had gone through—all the stealth and sneaking through streets—she would have to resort to a wild dog chase.
"Slow down, you son of a bitch!" Bellatrix spit after the dog, not intending the literal meaning.
"HEY, YOU WATCH YOUR MOUTH!" shouted the painting downstairs.
Suddenly, as Bellatrix rounded into the room she had seen the tail swish into, she found herself in a death grip. Her wand clattered to the floor, and she glanced upward to see that it was Sirius's hand on her mouth, arm round her neck, keeping her in place. Not that there had been any doubt.
"Gotcha," he said, smirking. "Now you better not struggle—I'm getting Dumbledore down here in a second, and you know what he can do to you—"
Bellatrix did know, and it terrified her. She could not let Dumbledore catch her. Anyone but Dumbledore. And she did the first thing she thought of to free herself, to prevent her capture by the only one her master had ever feared—
She bit down on Sirius's hand, and she would never regret anything more in her life.
She knew it was a mistake the moment she'd done it, but there was nothing to do about it now; his blood seeped into her mouth, invading her like a virus, and his bark-like scream filled the air. She was free;he had let go. But it came at such a terrible price...for she knew in a moment that he had become one of them, just as his dear brother had. He was one of them, and now so was she.
And now there was nothing else to do. She had to finish him, though it would not be how she had planned—she could not deliver him to the Dark Lord, no, not anymore. But there was a window, stained-glass, just there, and—
Without another thought, Bellatrix ran at him, at her cousin, at Sirius, with all of her might, and he lost his balance completely. The glass shattered as he fell through it, his body a graceful arc as it fell into the sunlight.
He was gone before he could hit the ground.
"How happy is the blameless Vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot:
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each prayer accepted, and each wish resign'd".
Alexander Pope
Coming Soon
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