Potter47
Part One
The Shadow of Death
"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
Chapter Four
Crying Wolf
Harry sat now at the kitchen table of number four, Privet Drive, and he wondered how he had gotten there.
Harry also sat opposite himself, at the kitchen table, though he knew how he had gotten there. He had entered the Pensieve, and now he was watching his own dream. It was a bit like an out-of-body experience, he reckoned; for he, not really there, saw himself, also not really there, right there, living and breathing or so it would seem.
He saw himself, and also saw that it was not truly him: the image was basically the same, the image that Harry thought of when he thought of how he looked. But if he were to look in a mirror, or at a photograph of himself, he would see a different person. Essentially, Harry apparently did not think of himself exactly how he was—but who does?
Harry watched himself stand, and furrow his brow, and in another moment Dudley came charging into the room, heading for the refrigerator. Harry saw himself open his mouth. hesitate, and then say: "Dudley?"
Dudley did not look up. The large boy grinned as he flung open the refrigerator door, a manic glint in his eyes.
Harry watched himself walk over to Dudley and wave an arm in front of the large boy's face. But, watching this, he knew that the missing piece was not here, not yet. It would not be for a long while, the thing that he could not recall. And so Harry found himself wishing that he could skip over this part, sort of fast-forwards to the interesting part of the dream, the important part.
As it would happen, his wish was fulfilled: the kitchen faded into swirling darkness. Harry could only see himself—his current self, not the one of his dream. When the world returned, however, Harry was not in his dream, no, not in the memory of his dream. He was in a different memory.
The Dark Lord sat, in his high backed chair, facing the fire. Nagini was curled around his feet, warming her head.
Harry was in the Riddle House, and it took him a moment to place the memory—but it was simple enough to place. This was the other memory he had stored in the Pensieve. At the end of term.
"How nice it is to meet you at last, Miss Granger," Voldemort said to the girl in the doorway. He couldn't see her of course, but Lord Voldemort hadn't needed to see someone enter a room for quite a while. He could sense her. Smell her. Feel her. Her very presence invaded his mind, announcing her arrival.
Harry looked round to see Hermione, looking dreadfully sick. Her face was green, and Harry didn't blame her; this was her first glance of the Dark Lord, after all, and he—it, practically—was a nauseating sight.
"Can't say the same," came Hermione's voice, "Voldemort."
"Well," he said, "it's taken long enough for Dumbledore to convince someone to call me by that name."
"He didn't. Harry did. Without even trying to."
Voldemort could smell the bile rising in her throat. She would vomit soon, if she wasn't careful...
Fade to black.
Another memory. This one was not his, not Harry's.
It was Snape's, Harry knew in an instant, seeing the small gathering of Death Eaters around the room. Harry knew the room, though he had only seen it briefly, at the end of term. When he had gone to rescue Sirius. Just before the bell jar fell.
An arch stood in the centre of the room, the centre of the...amphitheatre, yes, that was what it was called. The arch was at the bottom, raised upon a...upon a dais, that was it. Hung from the arch was a tattered old curtain, a tattered old veil...and that veil seemed to sway slightly in the still room, disturbed not by the wind but by something much more complicated.
Harry was standing on the dais, though he was sure that a moment ago he had been overlooking the room from above. Next to him was Snape, looking much younger (though a great deal older than when Harry had first ventured into the Potions Master's past). Next to Snape were two young Death Eaters that Harry had never seen before—he would not have thought of them as Death Eaters, if not for the robes that they wore and the masks that they held.
"Please...please no...don't do this..."
Harry stepped around the dais, moving more gracefully than he ordinarily did. He now saw that between the two unknown Death Eaters, a third Death Eater was held. This one was smaller, or at least was hunched over, curled up in as much of a foetal position as is possible when one is standing.
This man had black hair and looked extremely familiar—in fact, if Harry did not know that Sirius had never been a Death Eater, he would have mistaken the man for his own godfather.
But no—he only looked like Sirius. He did not have at all the same disposition, the same...way about him. This man appeared much weaker than Sirius—even when Sirius had been fresh out of Azkaban.
This was Regulus Black—Sirius's brother.
"Please," Regulus begged again. "You don't have to do this..."
Snape suddenly lunged for the man, and threw him against one of the sides of the archway. Regulus recoiled once he collided, and slid to the floor in pain. Snape kneeled down and whispered to him with a sneer. Harry crouched down to listen.
"I do have to do this," Snape said. "But I also want to do this. I want to do this very, very much. My only regret is that I must settle for you, when your dear big brother would be so much more satisfying..."
"Sirius?" murmured Regulus. "Why...why do want to kill him?"
Snape snarled and spoke: "Because he exists, mainly. He made my life hell for seven years and tried to kill me to boot. I only wish that he cared about you enough to actually be pained to hear that I killed you."
Harry imagined it was the nonchalance with which Snape spoke of Regulus's death that made the younger man begin to sob openly. He put his head into his lap and cried. Snape looked down at him disdainfully, and grabbed him by the shoulder.
"Let's get to it then," he said. He got a secure hold on Regulus's shoulders and walked him over in front of the archway...in front of the veil. "Nighty-night."
And with that, Snape shoved Regulus through—in a last ditch effort, Regulus snapped out at him with his teeth, but came nowhere near to biting Snape. Harry was taken aback to see that his bicuspids were much longer than they had been only a moment before, making him look much like a vampire from some old horror film—or, at least, making his mouth look like that of a vampire from some old horror film. The rest of him looked normal enough, apart from a rather pale complexion, like Sirius's.
But Harry hardly had time to even notice the oddness of Regulus's teeth—for, quite simply, they weren't there to notice anymore. Neither was the rest of Regulus, for he had completely disappeared as he had been pushed through the curtain, through the veil. Harry had expected that he would come out the other side, of course he had, what was he supposed to expect?
"Let's go," said Snape, wiping his hands on his robes, and placing his Death Eater mask over his face. "We're finished here."
So was Harry, apparently, for the scene had faded away, faded to black, and Harry found himself on Privet Drive once again, with the feeling inside of him intensified considerably.
Harry saw himself, or what he supposed was himself. It was more like a vague shape that would look like him if he didn't have his glasses on and was looking from a great distance, perhaps from above.
He saw himself running, though he did not see himself start to run. But now he was running as well, running to catch up with himself.
Harry kept running, kept running, kept running until his knees felt as if they were about to unhinge themselves.
Harry and Harry's dream self eventually came to a stop, but only when they came to see a sight that Harry had not wished to see ever again, let alone within hours of his first viewing.
Swarming above Harry, in front of him, and to the sides, were what seemed innumerable Dementors. Thousands, he thought, but surely that number was crazy? There couldn't be a thousand Dementors—there hadn't been nearly that many at the end of his third year...but then, the Dementors had not revolted yet, had they?
Harry's eyes widened in disbelief as he took in the sight, and without another thought he began to run right back the other way.
Harry struggled to keep up with himself, and he reckoned that you could run much faster in dreams than in real life—of course, the opposite was also true. Many times, you can never run quite fast enough in a dream, and that feeling is simply horrible.
The scene faded again now, just as Harry neared his self.
"Why don't you come over here, like a nice little Gryffindor, and we can have a nice chat," the Dark Lord asked.
"I'd pr-prefer not to."
She held the vomit down. Impressive.
"Fine then."
The Dark Lord stood, his snake uncoiling itself from his feet. He turned, to see the girl struggling to keep still. To stop herself from shaking.
Granger was about a foot shorter than him. He towered above her, and she kept her gaze down.
Harry looked upon the scene and wondered why the Pensieve had decided to put him into the memories it had—he had entered for the dream and the dream alone, and he had gotten not only this other memory, this ghost from the past, so to speak, but also Snape's—the one with Regulus. This was the first time Harry had ever stopped to wonder why the Pensieve showed what it did, when it did, to whom it did.
This subject only became more mystifying as the scene faded once again. Quite frankly, Harry was getting sick of all the jumping around he'd been doing today.
It was dark, now, so dark that the fade from black was hardly perceptible. Harry thought that it probably would have been cold, too, if he could feel.
Harry was on Hogwarts grounds, he noticed after a moment. Out by the Whomping Willow.
Harry wondered when he was.
His question was answered as he noticed the boy standing in front of him—the darkness, not only of Harry's surroundings but of the boy himself, prevented Harry seeing him.
It only took a moment longer for Harry to identify the boy as Snape. He idly wondered what the Potions Master would think if he found out that Harry had again delved into the memories that he had so not wanted him to see. And, thinking this, Harry also thought that it probably wasn't the greatest idea in the world for people to share a Pensieve. It was probably like sharing a toothbrush or something.
"C'mon... c'mon...," Snape muttered to himself, and Harry wondered what he was waiting for. Then he saw them.
Sirius led the way, and Harry thought that he was perhaps attempting to sneak, but failing miserably. Behind him was Harry's father, James, and Lupin was third, looking rather sick. Trailing behind was Wormtail—just like always.
Harry's eyes widened as he saw the look in Snape's eyes as he saw the procession of Gryffindors.
This was that night.
"Where are you going, I wonder?" Snape muttered to himself, and Harry noticed that Snape was much better at blending in than the Marauders were. After all, he was standing right in the open—albeit in the darkness—and the Gryffindors had not noticed him.
Had they?
Because suddenly Harry noticed Sirius sending exaggerated looks in all directions except towards Snape (and Harry, but of course he wouldn't be looking at him anyway).
"Hurry up, Wormtail," said James, beckoning to the lagging friend. Wormtail caught up with the group just as they had reached the Whomping Willow—outside of its reach, more like.
Wormtail turned into his rat-form, and scuttled towards the knot on the tree that froze it. When the branches halted, Snape moved forwards, slowly and surely.
"Go ahead in, Moony," said Sirius. "We'll catch up."
Lupin nodded, glancing over his shoulder to where the moon would be rising any moment now. He disappeared beneath the tree.
"Hey Padfoot, look at that!" James was pointing up towards the school, and Sirius looked up to see what he was on about.
"What?"
"Evans."
And now Harry saw what his father was pointing at—streaking through the sky by the school was Harry's mother, Lily, moving so quickly in the dark that it was a wonder James had noticed at all.
"I thought she hated flying," said Sirius, sounding perplexed yet amused.
"So did I...," said James. He grinned. "That witch!" He looked over his shoulder down at the passageway, and an apprehensive-looking Wormtail waiting by the entrance. "I'm gonna go bug her. I'll catch up."
"Sure thing," said Sirius, glancing over at where Snape was for the first time. "Take your time."
James ran off, and as soon as he did, Snape came forward from the darkness, wand raised. Harry watched him step up to Sirius who feigned blindness.
"Snape!" he said suddenly. "Where'd you come from?"
"Where did Lupin go?" said Snape, his wand at Sirius. "Where does this tunnel lead?"
Sirius tried to make it seem as though he hadn't been planning this all night:
"No where in particular," he said, looking overly guilty. "No where you'd be interested in, anyway."
"Get out of the way, Pettigrew," snapped Snape, stepping towards the passage. "I'll just find out for myself, shall I?"
Sirius contained his laughter, but only just slightly—Harry was rather sick at his nonchalance. Snape would be killed...it wasn't the worst image in the world, but it wasn't a laughing matter either, to Harry at least.
"No! Don't do that!" Sirius said, clearly insincere. Harry could only think of how drastically Snape had improved his powers of perception over the years. How could he be falling for this?
Snape, needless to say, ignored him. He sneered at Sirius, and stepped into the tunnel. Just as he did, James returned. Harry blinked, wondering if he would be forced to go along with Snape through the tunnel, since this was his memory—
But the blink was not a blink. It was a fleeting instant of black, and the scene had changed once more.
Harry was in the hospital wing, and for a moment it seemed as though he was in his dream once more—or at least one of his own memories—but it was as if the brief instant had not been strong enough to change memories, and only fast-forwarded the same one.
It seemed so to be because Harry was standing just over the bed of someone who appeared to be Harry himself, but was instead his father. On the bed to the right lay Snape, and seated in between were the other three Marauders.
Sirius and Wormtail were seated facing James, watching him sleep. There was a scar on his cheek that looked as though it had been rather deep, but Harry was sure that Madam Pomfrey—or whoever it was in this when—had been able to patch it up in a moment.
Lupin, however, was facing Snape. Harry walked over to him, bent down to his level (Lupin was seated, of course) and looked at his face—he was...crying. Sobbing, more like. And it was odd, because Lupin did not look like he cried very often—he was rather large, tall-wise, and just didn't look the type to cry, unless there was a very good reason—Harry knew he did have a very good reason. Lupin had, quite unintentionally, nearly killed Snape, and likely James as well. Harry watched him cry, and just before the scene faded to black, Harry noticed that Snape had one eye open, the one on the side of his face facing away from the Marauders, and was watching the Gryffindors in the mirror on the wall.
(This was, of course, logical, because otherwise how could this be Snape's memory?)
And then the scene was gone, and another, more familiar one had taken its place: Harry had found his dream again.
Harry was no longer at Privet Drive; he was back at Grimmauld Place, right inside the door.
Harry stood by himself—not alone, of course, but next to himself—and noticed Sirius standing in the shadows.
"Harry," said Sirius, hands up over his eyes. "Would you mind shutting the door? It's bright out there. I can't stand the sunshine, sometimes...guess I got used to the dark, you know?" He grinned at Harry as the latter shut the door, but Harry suddenly remembered the door slamming shut. How had it opened again? Had someone else come in?
Dream-Harry did shut the door, and Sirius grinned again and put an arm round Harry's shoulders. "That's better, isn't it? Now, what brings you here? I thought you were at the Burrow."
"So did I," said Harry, and he let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding.
Harry looked at Sirius and saw in him an odd quality, an odd...something, something that he had not seen while living the dream the first time...
"Something wrong?" Sirius asked.
Was he paler? Was he thinner? It would make sense—it wasn't as though he'd been getting out much lately, if at all. In fact, Harry was reasonably sure that the last time he'd been out of the house was the end of term, when he'd come with the others to Kings Cross.
"Hey, let's go down to the kitchen, eh? You must be starved from all that running." He smirked. "I should know, right?"
"Sure," said Dream-Harry, and Sirius led him down to the basement kitchen. Harry followed, and stood attentively while Dream-Harry sat down at the table.
Sirius asked, "What do you want to eat? I'm quite the cook, you know—can make anything you want, except for...Chinese, French, Indonesian, Japanese...all sorts of others...and Italian. I've never had any luck with those. Especially Italian."
Dream-Harry laughed, and as he did Harry looked round the room. He had a gut feeling—OK, maybe more than a gut feeling—that this was it, this was the memory, this was the part of the memory he was looking for. But where was the missing piece?
"So what's it gonna be?" Sirius asked. "I don't have all day, you know."
Dream-Harry agreed to cereal, and then laughed at something Sirius said; Harry didn't hear this time. He was too busy looking round the room purposefully, trying to spot the something he'd forgotten, waiting for something to jog his memory.
Then Harry thought that perhaps it was something that was said that he'd missed? In that case, he'd better pay attention. (He didn't, however, really think this was true.)
"So," said Sirius, "how are you and Ginny doing? Any good snogging lately?"
Dream-Harry fought for a reasonable response to that, but once again Harry had zoned him out. He couldn't seem to pay attention to the words being said; something told him they weren't important.
"Trix? Count Chocula? Lucky Charms?" Sirius offered Dream-Harry. "That doesn't even look like a leprechaun..."
"I'll take the Lucky Charms," said Dream-Harry. "I could use some of them nowadays."
Harry felt some feeling inside of him intensify, even though he hadn't noticed it at its non-intensified stage; it was very close.
"Sure," said Sirius. "Whatever you say."
Sirius now opened the refrigerator—and Harry's eyes alighted as Dream-Harry noticed that there was a refrigerator. which looked not just slightly out-of-place but intensely out-of-place.
Harry saw a blood-red substance inside it, some sort of potion.
HARRY SAW A BLOOD-RED SUBSTANCE INSIDE IT, SOME SORT OF POTION.
This was it. This was the missing piece, and Harry knew it as soon as his eyes had noticed it.
And as soon as he had mentally placed this missing piece back into the puzzle that was this dream, this whatever-it-was, Harry was lifted out of the Pensieve, and he found himself on the kitchen floor of the Burrow.
"Red," he said as soon as he'd become aware of himself. "A bottle of red stuff, that's what was—"
"Harry, please sit and explain this—you'll find it is much more comfortable than the floor," said Dumbledore. He turned to Mrs Weasley. "Not that your floors are uncomfortable, Molly; I would hate you to think I was insulting you."
"No, I hadn't even thought of—" Mrs Weasley shook her head, not caring to finish the thought.
Harry stood, sat down at the table, and said:
"There was a phial of red stuff, some potion I reckon, in the refrigerator at Grimmauld Place. Sirius said it was some medicine. He seemed rather dodgy when he said it, though. Why...why was there red stuff in the refrigerator?"
Dumbledore quirked an eyebrow. "Indeed, what was the refrigerator doing there in the first place? I don't recall one from my last visit, and if there had been one when the Order adopted the house as its headquarters, I'm sure Arthur would have confiscated it by now.
"This red 'stuff', as you put it," said Dumbledore. "Could you describe it a bit more vividly? 'Stuff' is an awfully vague word—not an awful word, of course, because I think it is quite a wonderful word, but it is quite imprecise, you must admit."
Harry shook his head, not knowing how to describe it. "I dunno... it... it looked like blood, I guess."
And in a moment, without any intermediate stage of change, Dumbledore's face was intensely serious. Any glimmer of humour in his eyes had vanished, and in a moment so would he:
"He couldn't have become one as well, could he?" Dumbledore said, much to himself, very little if any to anyone else.
Dumbledore Disapparated, and it was felt to Harry like only a moment or two before there was a knock on the front door—a bang, more like. It really must have been at least an hour, but none of the kitchen's occupants said a word in that whole time—Ron, in fact, was the only one that had moved, fixing himself a sandwich with which to pass the time.
Time had blurred, to Harry, who now stood, and made for the door. Mrs Weasley cut him off.
"You'd best let me get it," she said, and Harry sat back down.
Minutes (pretending to be seconds) passed in silence, but for the quiet whisper of conversation that could be heard from the front door. Soon enough, Mrs Weasley had returned, followed by Remus Lupin, who was... was...
—who was crying.
Harry's eyes widened as Lupin said the words that Harry knew—knew—had been coming, deep inside. That did not prevent the shock he felt when he heard them aloud:
"There's nothing we could do, Harry... nothing... he's gone."
"Truths that wake,
To perish never."
William Wordsworth
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