Title: An Claidheamh Soluis (Sword of Light)

Author: AineRose

Updated on: 22/07

Rating: PG, I suppose

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the storyline…

Author's Note: Wow, am I morbid and angsty or what! So So So So Sorry about the total stoppage of updates! In fact I'm going away soon so they'll be at LEAST another month but I was reading my reviews and I just had to post the next chapter! Please enjoy and review; reviews make me write faster! Love ye all!

Chapter Four: Waiting and Processing

Harry Potter had been staring at the same spot on the wall for over forty minutes, if Remus' watch was anything to go by. This spot seemed to be located somewhere behind Dumbledore, because he didn't seem to be making eye contact with him, or listening to a word he was saying. But the crinkle in his forehead betrayed him; he was frowning, a trait which usually meant he was in deep thought. Unfortunately, Dumbledore had finished speaking six minutes and seventeen seconds ago, and Harry showed no signs of movement yet.

Remus sighed softly and settled back into his seat. It was unusual for Harry to act so, well, so quietly to such startling news. True, it was a rather remarkable event, but Harry Potter had a habit of reacting a bit passionately to things almost slightly resembling this particular situation. Remus wasn't sure that he believed them, that he would ever believe them. He wouldn't be the least surprised if Harry suspected they were Death Eaters, as he had already said to Sirius, even though Dumbledore had both reassured him, and provided adequate evidence. The problem was that when Remus and Dumbledore, and everyone else had seen Lily, James and Sirius, they had known immediately it was them. Each had an unexplainable presence that could never be duplicated. Harry wouldn't know Lily and James if they Apparated in front of them, not the real ones anyway. Their only hope was that Harry would know Sirius, and believe him. Which was beginning to look rather doubtful.

Seven minutes and twenty-two seconds after that, Remus was deep in thought. Harry was still completely motionless and silent, and the silence of the room made Remus uncomfortable.

He was startled out of his thoughts by a cup which was slid over the table towards him. Looking up, he caught the small smile Dumbledore shot him, before the man pushed a similar cup towards Harry, who didn't notice a thing.

Amazed by the skill Dumbledore possessed, he didn't even pick up the cup. He hadn't even heard a sound, and yet Dumbledore had managed to either conjure up or, even more astounding, make a cup of tea!

Taking the cup into his hands, he swirled the amber liquid around, and took a grateful sip. Chocolate may be magically healing, he thought idly, but nothing could beat a good cup of tea. Especially with a shot of Fire Whiskey in it. He hoped Dumbledore had only put tea in Harry's cup, because the last thing he needed was another shock.

But it didn't matter anyway, because Harry still hadn't budged in the last fourteen minutes and forty-eight seconds.

Dumbledore wasn't doing anything to comfort Harry. In fact, he was acting differently towards the boy than was normal. Distant. And Harry had only greeted him casually when they had first met today. Something was definitely odd. Well, something other than the obvious

But finally, Dumbledore cleared his throat, and Harry jerked.

"I think, perhaps, Harry, that you should make your way down to the Hospital Wing. The answers to your questions are more likely to be there, rather than at the portrait of Phineas Nigellus you have been staring at for the past hour.

Harry gulped, and nodded.

Standing up took all of his strength, and he had to grab onto the desk to keep from falling, or perhaps even collapsing. Shock was taking its toll on him. Remus took him by the arm and began to lead him toward the door.

Just as Remus disappeared behind the large oak door, Harry turned around to look at Dumbledore. He stared at him for a few moments, acting as if he was only seeing him for the first time.

"You would think," he started, in a surprisingly strong and seemingly bitter, voice, "that you would have learnt to tell me things as they happened, and not long after the event has occurred. It would make things a lot easier. For all of us."

And Dumbledore did nothing but bow his head, as Harry strode out of his office.

His head was a whirlwind of thoughts. Beliefs, ideas, questions touched on the surface of his mind, only to spiral away again, replaced by another batch of questions, leaving him confused and perplexed, and more than a little lost.

It was a lie, that he was sure.

It wouldn't have been the first time he had dreamed odd things. Voldemort in an old manor, screaming men being tortured, snakes in the Department of Mysteries- all had invaded his subconscious over the past few years. He must have been doing the Occulmency wrong. He wouldn't have been the least surprised if this was a plan of Voldemort's. Torture the boy in his sleep, and he'll slowly wither away and die.

Was that his plan? To confront him with his deepest desires in his sleep? To give him what he wanted more than anything else in the world every time he closed his eyes, only to have it all snatched away when he opened them again, leaving him cold and empty inside? Was that his plan?

And if it wasn't a dream, if it was all real, and this was today, July 31st, then it didn't mean he believed it still. Dumbledore was known to keep him out of the loop, only telling him the truth when it was all over, when he was alone with no family and a destiny to look forward to. This could be a plan; some scheme of the Order's designed to trick Voldemort.

And if it wasn't the Order's doing, it could still be Voldemort's. A Polyjuice Potion could do the trick well enough- it wasn't as if Dumbledore hadn't been fooled by it before. It didn't matter how many tests the Ministry did, the Death Eaters could probably find away to get around them.

It wasn't as if he'd know, anyway. He'd never met his parents, not really. He couldn't think of a single memory of them that didn't involve the moment of their deaths. Or their fifteen-year-old selves screaming bloody-murder at each other. He didn't even know what they looked like, save for that vision he conjured up from the Mirror of Erised and the few pictures he owned of them. He didn't know their favourite foods, or the Quidditch teams they supported, or their relationship, or anything. No, he wouldn't know his own family if they jumped in front of him and shouted "BOO!" Not really.

But Sirius, Sirius he knew. Sirius he loved.

That was the part that really sickened him.

That they could bring him back, force him to look into the face of the only family he ever had, and expect him to believe them. Expect him to believe whoever the hell it was who wore his face.

But what if it really was them?

That was the question that troubled him the most. What if they were all here? What if he could have a real family? Luna Lovegood's words about the people lurking behind the veil came back to him. Remus believed that it was them, and he was their best friend. Dumbledore believed them, and they had trusted him with their lives. Harry may have been angry towards Dumbledore, been resentful towards the elderly man for keeping things from him, but the fact remained that Dumbledore was the most powerful wizard in the world. And he was trustworthy.

But it was stupid to get his hopes up. He'd learned to stop doing that.

But it was so late, and he was so tired, and all he wanted was to go back to his bed, and sleep peacefully until it was time for school to start again. Until he had to face Voldemort.

But another part of him wanted to scream. Wanted to scream that this was unfair, that he was only just gone sixteen, hell, that it was his birthday! Wanted to shout at Dumbledore, and Lupin, and everyone who was torturing him like this. Wanted to kick and punch and throw until he was so tired he would collapse and never have to face Voldemort, never have to walk into the Hospital Wing and be tortured. Wanted to cry on the shoulder of someone, anyone. Wanted to run, or to fly, away from this place, this world, this life, where everyone wanted to hurt him.

It was so cold in the castle that his breath rose as mist before him. Torches lit the stone passageways, and all he could see was what was directly in front of his face. The flashes he saw through the windows showed a jet-black sky, blanketed by millions of tiny twinkling stars. He wondered which one was Sirius; where the constellation was. The castle was surprisingly silent, too. All the residents of the portraits had disappeared, and all that was left was empty landscapes. The only sound was that of his and Professor Lupin's feet echoing as they walked.

And then they were there, at the Hospital Wing.

Lily was squeezing James' hand so hard it had gone white and the circulation was completely cut off. He was making pained expressions that he was trying to hide because he could see Sirius laughing at him, and he didn't want to admit that his petite wife was crushing his bones. Her eyes were wide, she was biting her lower lip, and she clung to him like a child.

Yes, it was exactly like the birth of their son.

At the beginning. Before she started threatening to magic his privates away, and cursing every Medi-Witch and Wizard into the next century, and, Thank Merlin, she hadn't actually broken his hand this time. Yet.

James was getting bloody sick of waiting. Admittedly, half of that impatience stemmed from the red-head beside him currently wringing her hands- and his- in worry. The other half came from the fact that he was about to meet his son for the first time in fifteen years.

Bloody Hell, he needed a drink.

Sirius wasn't much of a help, either. He wasn't doing anything except glance uneasily from the doors of the Hospital Wing and back to them again. It was quite unnerving, and if it was any other situation he would have told him to stop an hour ago.

But it wasn't any other situation, and that was the problem. He didn't know what to think, what to do. What was he going to say to Harry? What was he going to do? Being a father took practice, and he was just thrown into this. Sure, he could change nappies, and sing lullabies, and give baths, but he most certainly couldn't deal with a teenager. There was no way he could give manly advice, and talk to him about girls, and other stuff real fathers were supposed to do.

Real fathers.

Isn't that what he was, what he wanted to be? The last time he had seen Harry, well it had only been a few days ago. And he had been playing with him with those rubber Quidditch balls Sirius had bought him.

And then he had come. Lily ran. He remembered the fight, not so clearly, but he remembered it. He remembered the bright green light hitting him in the chest…and then he woke up. He woke up in a world where Peter had betrayed them, and Snape was the good(ish) guy, and Remus was old and tired, and Sirius was a wanted criminal, and Harry was fifteen. Sixteen, he reminded himself, he's sixteen today. Should he have got him something? What could he have possibly gotten? A card?

The idea was ludicrous, but, as Lily once said, so was being a wizard.

And then he heard them, footsteps in the distance. Remus' voice.

"You wait here, Harry."

And then his head poked in. "Sirius, It'd be better if you spoke to him, first. He needs to see you."

And Sirius swallowed and nodded and left to go outside. And James waited for his turn. Impatiently.

Next Chapter: THE MEETING (finally!)