Ingenio ab Artifex (Formerly: Flowers for Your Grave)

by JaimeJabs

There have been many rumours surrounding me and my life—especially my love life. So, after due consideration—and a few well-aimed words from our resident bookworm—I have decided to publish my autobiography. For any questions and questionable charms placed on your copy of my self-updating autobiography, feel free to owl my publisher, Jaime.

2. Episode I

Chapter 1: Mr Tweety

July 15, 1994
"Come on, Harry, focus. You are almost there," Sirius' says excitedly. I can see him wag his non-existent tail. I want to punch him in the face but I don't have hands and am much smaller than my normal size at the moment, what with being in the middle of animagus transformation. This is a crucial point where my body doesn't really function because my internal organs are in a flux state and are not working properly. If I stay in this form much longer, I won't be able to live to tell the tale. That's why training to be an animagus is so dangerous. If done without a partner who can reverse your transformation, it would most definitely end in death.

While Sirius is wagging his tail, or at least trying, I am trying to focus past the agony rocking through every cell of my body. Who knew turning into a bird could be so damn painful. According to aunt Minerva, the bigger the difference between body masses of one's human form and animagus form, more difficult and painful the transformation is, at least until I become adept enough to bypass the mid-transformation stage.

And they say Pettigrew was talentless. The man could turn into a fucking rat.

From what the books on the subjects say, one's animal form has a deep connection with their physical and personality traits, and habits. Sirius is an excitable, friendly person who is a fierce protector of who he considers family; thus dog. Tabby cats are aloof and intelligent, kinda like aunt Minerva. You know what they say about rats.

I love flying and have an aptitude for the seeker position. Rough-legged hawks are predators that can detect the smallest movements from a mile away and they are one of the fastest birds. You get the point.

The world gets bigger and Sirius' voice becomes more and more irritating. Oh, how I want to be back in my human form so I can punch him in the nose. Okay, I know he's done nothing to deserve a punch but, dammit, I'm in pain and his voice just keeps getting worse. Slowly, the pain subsides and I find myself a fifth of my normal height. Sirius is grinning like a loon and clapping. I try to insult his mother in the most fascinating way I can think of but the voice I make sounds like a cat going through a cruel puberty. It doesn't matter anyway: knowing how much Sirius likes his late mother, he'd just laugh and congratulate me.

In the meantime, Sirius is talking in rapid-fire but, for the life of me, I can't understand a word he says. We are in the small forest behind our villa.

My wings spread out of their own accord, flapping. I can feel the mid-afternoon sun on my skin - sorry, feathers - as I fly with jerky flaps of my wings. Ten feet. Twenty feet. I circle around the clearing, feeling the euphoria of freedom in my bones as I fly. This is much, much better than flying on a broom. At least, the guys downstairs won't suffer the after affects of flying on a broom.

Is it any wonder most Quidditch players don't have no more than two children? Blue balls, man.

I see a small brown squirrel playing with a nut in the shade of a tree out of the corner of my eye and it's writhing in pain three seconds later. I wonder just why the raw and bleeding animal seems so delicious and why I attacked it.

A moment later, I am back to my usual height and breathing like I ran a marathon and dropped one of my lungs a few miles in to the run in a most painful manner. My phantom wings hurt like hell. "I killed that squirrel," I say in-between breaths.

Sirius shrugs, unconcerned. "Yeah, that happens during the first couple of times you transform until you get the hang of your instincts." He smiles in remembrance. "I chased my tail for ten whole minutes the first time I transformed. James and Peter were laughing so hard, they neglected to untransfigure me."

He shakes out of memories and gives me a hand to help me up. "This is enough for today. Tomorrow, we'll work on keeping your wits in your new form and reverse transformation. I would have guessed it would take time for you to figure out how to fly but you managed just fine."

I smile as we amble to the house. "That's splendid, Sirius, but you're forgetting one crucial thing," I wait for drama reasons. "What will my marauder name be?"

I watch him from the corner of my eye; he looks thoughtful. "Sharpclaw? No, that makes you sound like a goblin. Silverbeak?"

"Nope." I glare at him. "I'm not a hippogriff."

"Hey! You don't get a say. It's a nickname. How about… What was the name of that bird in that cartoon you used to like so much? The yellow one. 'I tawt I taw a puddy tat,'" he mimics in a childish, girlish voice.

My only response is a growling "no."

"Yes!" He jumps up in victory as soon as he finds the answer to his own question. "Tweety. Yes, from now on you shall be forever known as Mr Tweety." He gives me an oddly respectful bow. "Welcome to the Marauders: a group of misfit troublemakers."

"Have I ever told you how much I hate you?"

-JB-

July 20, 1994
"How goes your animagus training, Harry?" grandpa Albus asks as he puts down his cup of tea on the coffee table next to his chair.

I sit across from him, my back ramrod straight with confidence and pride. Once again, I proved myself a prodigy as I am one of the youngest animagi. Well, outside of a few communities that excel in the art and refuse to share their methods with outsiders.

We are in my 'temple', a large room in the basement where I spend most of my waking time. The room is anything but simple with thirty feet walls at four sides. One of those thirty feet walls is converted into a single bookcase, filled to brim with books on every magical subject and books on history, art and many other subjects that wizards would consider 'Muggle' subjects. For all their immaturity, Sirius and Remus value education a great deal. In the corner, right next to one end of the book-wall is a large work table, cluttered with knick-knacks I'm working on. Several canvases stand on easels spread half a dozen feet away from the table, most of them half finished.

A piano occupies a one corner of the room; next to it several other instruments I can play or tried to play at one time but never got the hang of.

Sirius still grumbles about the harp, maybe rightfully so.

A loveseat sits near in front of a fireplace, with a coffee table next to it that holds two books I am reading interchangeably at the moment. The rest of the room is in a state that could only be described as organised chaos, filled with everything and anything.

I grin at my mentor and puff my chest before answering, "I finally completed the transformation. I have a good grasp of and control over my instincts," I begin and grimace before finishing, "but I am having a little trouble with reversing the transfiguration."

One thing you should know about Albus Dumbledore. He loves to talk like a centaur. He never gives you the information you ask for. He gives you a roadmap to that information for you to figure it out. For him, knowledge is a great asset you need to work for.

That's why I am not really surprised when he says, "from time to time, Harry, I wonder to myself if I am ever the same person I was when I was but a year ago." After a small pause, he adds, "Muggles have a great saying. 'You can't bathe in the same river twice.'" He gave a small smile and nodded to himself, pleased. "A little food for a thought."

Great. Now I have to spend my evening doing Albus to English translation. "I'm sure I'll figure it out eventually," I comment with a sigh and a small smile, ignoring the satisfied twitch of his beard.

After a short, contemplative silence, Dumbledore speaks up again. "As you know, Hogwarts will host the Triwizard tournament this year. What are your thoughts on that?" This one is easier to translate: he's asking me if I plan on competing.

"I looked into the history of the tournament. It's one giant bloodbath and a rip off from Roman Empire's famous trials of the damned." I shake my head. "It sounds time-consuming and frankly, I'd rather spend my time studying enchanting or something else useful. I still haven't figured out why my enchantments last so little. Besides, I had enough dangerous adventures as it is. I don't need a tournament to spice things up."

Albus smiles and I can see his pride at my, what I'm guessing is, mature answer; yet that same smile does not hide the flash of sadness that passes his eyes. "Yes, you've had quite a few adventures in your time at Hogwarts. I fear, lately, I am not doing a good job as the headmaster." He is a little too self-accusatory for my taste.

"All's well that ends well," I offer. "Besides, you are not omniscient no matter how much you portray yourself to be."

"I know, my boy. I know." He seems to forget I'm in the room with him and loses himself in his thoughts of what I am assuming past failures and regrets. Many consider Albus as either infallible or an old fool, depending on which shade they wear to the political arena. I see a great man with a tragic past.

Past filled with a broken family, a lover turned enemy and a mistake that killed a thousand people before a baby put a stop to it; not that many knew much of his tragedy. It wasn't a secret, but a shame hidden by his hard-earned pacifistic outlook in life.

The silence stretches for a minute, and I can't find it in me to disrupt the old man. He has a lot on his plate even for a young man, which he is most definitely not.

He realises where he is and returns to the present. "Now, Harry, I agree with your desire to not compete. Because of the past death toll, it's decided that only those of age should be allowed to compete," he informs me. "That doesn't mean I don't want my colleagues at Durmstrang and Beauxbatons to enjoy the talents of Hogwarts' finest." He smiles at me mischievously, his eyes bright with an energy that is almost childish.

"So, you want me to show off?" I ask for a clarification, my eyebrows raised in surprise. Albus is generally not a showoff.

"We may have a side bet on which school has the finest student," he confesses with a nod. "Both Headmistress Madame Maxime and Highmaster Karkaroff's star pupils are of age and will put their name forward for the tournament."

"And because I can't compete, you want me to do... what exactly?"

"It is imperative we welcome our guests with the dignity and flourish they deserve." His answer is enigmatic per usual with the man's linguistic torture scheme. "For international cooperation, of course."

There is an awkward silence where I expect him to clarify further as he throws a candy on his mouth and sucks on it loudly, ignoring my silent plea through narrowed eyes. Albus Dumbledore can be an arsehole sometimes.

"I will leave the details up to you." Great. That means I am on my own in this little project.

-JB-

July 26, 1994
"Sigh."

"Did you say 'sigh'?" Remus asks me incredulously, a small grin playing at his lips.

"I have never been this bored in my life. Ever," I grumble and curse myself for deciding to spend my day with Remus in the store. It is far too boring for my taste and I forgot to bring books to keep myself occupied.

"If memory serves me right, I warned you. We rarely get any business during the summer, unlike most other shops."

"Can you blame me? I thought curse breaking would involve a sense of danger and adventure and I would get to watch you as you go against the most dangerous curses in existence," I complain. "Instead, I can hear my brain cells contemplating suicide."

The werewolf snickers as he puts down the newspaper he has been reading for the last few hours on the counter. "Oh, no. We must prevent that." His tone is mocking, his face showing faux-horror. "The world would never survive."

I blindly grab the first my hand reaches on the shelf behind me and throw it at his head. His eyes widen and he jumps to his feet, falling down face first instead.

The turtle-shaped paperweight hits the wall behind Remus with a loud thud and breaks in two, emitting strange, brown smoke as it falls, clattering on the ground.

The smoke stays shapeless for a long moment as I watched, breathless and worried, before it amassed to create two spheres that rotate around a central point, getting smaller and smaller at each turn, emitting sparks from surfaces.

Remus raises himself to his feet and jumps over the counter, crosses the store in two long steps and grabs my shirt, pushing me behind him. "What is that?"

"I- I don't know," I croak, leaning over Remus' left side to watch the spheres. "It was on the shelf… A turtle paperweight, I think."

Remus tilts his head, his arm still out to hold me behind him. "I… think remember that. A blonde woman, Madame Laframboise brought it," he pauses, his face scrunched up as he tries to remember the details. "My memory… There is something wrong. It's hazy. I remember Laframboise bringing it but I can't remember what I did with it. She… She said there was… something inside it - she didn't know what."

"Suffice it to say, those are it." The spheres are now no larger than a quaffle each, emitting bigger sparks at every turn. "The question now is, what the hell are those?"

Remus scratches his head as if the answer may come to him through the action and half-turns his head, keeping the spheres and me in his sight. "I'll run diagnostics. You need to leave," he orders me, pushing me out. "Now!"

I push back, shaking my head. I can't leave him with my mess. Whatever those things are, I have a gut feeling they would harm him more than they would harm me. Besides, the day is finally getting interesting and there is no way I will miss the excitement. "No, I'm staying." A flick of a wrist and my wand is out, the incantation for the shield charm on my lips as my wand's tip lights up a soft blue. "You go ahead with casting; I'll cover you in case those things - whatever they are - attack."

Remus looks torn but nods. Taking a step forward, he chants a long series of Latin incantations, forgoing the simplest identification charms. The first set returns with no results and Remus doubles his efforts, casting a vast variety of detection, intent, identification and diagnostic charms; while the two balls continued to shrink, now both the size of a small fist.

None of his magic answers Remus' questions as a steely edge sets on the man's jaw. He grits his teeth in frustration.

"Nothing?" I ask as Remus takes a step back in my direction.

Remus only grunts in response as the orbs become even smaller than a snitch each but now elliptical, oddly reminiscent of two, monochromatic eyes. The smoke slows and slows, stopping before folding back, revealing two small, pink stones that shines bright lights at our direction.

They are eyes; I have no doubt now, and the most magnificent things I've ever seen; and keep in mind I have seen my share of epic in my young age; from a secret chamber filled with grand statues, to a thousand old Basilisk; from an immortal bird of fire, to an intricate sword worth a few fortunes.

Yet, as these eyes, to whoever they belong, gaze at me, judging me, I step forward, wanting to bask in their presence and prostate myself so I may share at their wisdom. They are eternal.

Before I can take two steps, Remus' hand clamp down on my wrist, pulling me back. I turn to him, reluctant and exasperated, and open my mouth to reprimand him for acting so silly but an errant thought stops me. Why does Remus look so miserable?

I tilt my head and examine his scarred face, a thousand and one questions shooting around in my head. My head, it feels heavier somehow, filled with unasked and unanswered questions, ideas and plans.

Somehow, my mind feels freer, like every limitations I had are no more and I can solve the world's greatest mysteries with nary a thought. Remus is talking but I am too busy pondering the single simple solution to his every problem to care about what he's saying.

Death, she is the answer to all questions. I can see it now. And I can see myself, sitting on a throne at the edge of the universe as every question in it becomes null and void.

Void, he is calling me, speaking through a mist and those unimaginable eyes, whispering sweet nothings to my ear; 'death is solution to all problems'.

I raise my wand to cure Remus of his troubles, of his curse, but it feels dead in my hands. No, not dead. It rejects me. My wand rejects me.

That realisation finally snaps me out of the haze I am in and with a single thought, two bright blue shields lock around those damnable eyes. I fall to my knees, breathing heavily, mental exhaustion of the pseudo-possession exacting a vengeance on me.

Remus is all over me in an instant, his eyes wide and fearful. "Are you okay, Harry?"

I don't have the energy to fight the chuckle that escapes me. "Just peachy," I answer, my voice hoarse and weak.

"Come on." He pulls me up and hugs me tightly. "Let's get you home."

I smile and hug him back, and if my arms hang around him more desperate than ever, neither of us mention it. "First, we should destroy those things."

Remus gives me a long look before nodding. "Yes, but we still don't know what they are."

"Something that affects a person's mind, changes the way the target thinks. I knew it was influencing me yet I welcomed it."

He lets out a deep breath. "That sounds like the Imperius Curse."

I consider what I've read about the unforgivable and shake my head. "Similar but no. There was no sense of euphoria. Enlightenment, that's more like what I felt. Like I finally knew the answer to every question there is and was blessed and commanded by a nihilist's anthropomorphic wet dream."

Remus raised an eyebrow, corners of his mouth twitching upward. "I sense Miss Granger's influence on you."

I grumble in response though not at all unpleased with the comment. "The question is, how do we get rid of it - or them?"

Remus raised his wand. "Finite Incantatem Praeterquam Protego."

I roll my eyes at the failed effort. "Seriously? This is what it takes to call yourself a curse breaker?"

The man shrugged unashamedly. "It's surprising how often a good general counter-spell works. Half our job, really."

I twirl my wand, a nervous habit I exhibit whenever I'm faced with an uncomfortable dilemma. "Any other bright ideas?"

Death is solution to all problems.

"Few," Remus says with an exited note to his voice. He is a Marauder at heart, no matter how responsible he may seem at surface. He grins and casts spell after spell at the orbs, bypassing my shields as he dislikes the risk of a repeat of the orbs' spell as much as me.

Nothing he tries works as his casting complexity increases to areas and spells I only have a rudimentary knowledge of and the grin on his face grows with each failure. He likes a good challenge as much as anyone.

After half an hour, midway which I relocate to a couch, he stops and throws his hands in the air. "I give up: it's undispellable."

"Is that even a word: undispellable?"

Remus shrugs but doesn't answer as he scratches his head for an idea before giving me a pointed look. "Okay, what is it?"

Death is solution to all problems.

I ignore him, watching the orbs with narrow eyes. No matter how much I want to deny it, a part of me wants to dispel the shields and give into the eyes, and I'm not sure if that is the diluted effect of them or not.

"I know you figured it out already," he says, pointing at my wand. "What is it?"

I breathe out my frustration. I have the solution, there is no doubt in my mind. "Do you know if Madame Laframboise has Russian ancestors? From World War II era?"

"No," is the man's answer. "She never spoke of her ancestry and I never asked. Why?"

"Death is solution to all problems. That's what the thing kept - I guess whispering is the right word, I'm not sure." I shake my head and glare at the eyes looking at me with a ghost of amusement. "I think it's the answer to our problem."

"So what? Are you saying we need a sacrifice to dispel whatever this magic is?" Remus asks, incredulous.

I give him a puzzled look for a moment before understanding. "Don't be ridiculous. I'm saying we shot a killing curse at the thing."

Remus looks me in the eye, searching for something before he turns and the room lights up in green and two pink stones fall to the ground, allowing us to breathe easier.

We wait silently for a minute to make sure the danger has past. When the minute is up, and I realise the diluted effect of the eyes are gone from my mind, I smile.

"Now, that was exciting."

- Flowers for Your Grave -

Part 2: Hell of a Birthday & The Morning After

July 31, 1994
"James!" I hear the booming voice of Balzac and turn to find him towering over me, a trench coat hanging on his shoulders same colour as his short, dark brown hair. "Happy birthday, little guy." He hugs me awkwardly and lifts me up to his eye level. Freaking giant.

"Thanks. And, sincerely, fuck you for that little guy comment." I smile at him and punch him in the arm though I doubt he feels the hit.

"Swearing does not suit you, James," Dacia clucks disapprovingly at me, French flowing from her mouth like a silk as skips towards me in her soft pink dress, causing her soft-brown hair to go every which way. "I will let it go this once but only because it's your birthday, young man." She gives me a kiss me on the cheek as soon as Balzac drops me on my feet. "Happy birthday."

"What's with all the jabs about my age? You weren't like this last week," I complain, exasperated. "Am I not older than I was a week ago?"

"Don't mind them." Gerard steps forward, pushing Balzac and Dacia and gives me a half-a-hug. He steps back and shakes his head, causing his long blonde hair to flip around. "They are trying to remind you they are still older than you."

"Then I shall inform them I haven't unlearned how to calculate during the past week," I grumble in French, shaking my head in faux-distaste. "Oh, and it's good to see you, Gerard. How is your grandfather?"

His looks away for a moment, troubled. "It won't be long now. He's slipping away further and further every day."

Balzac cuts in, "Enough of that. Today is James' birthday. We shall celebrate and laugh and get drunk like there is no tomorrow."

"Yes, our table at L'Epuisette awaits us." Dacia is very excited about that.

I grumble a little. I don't like fancy restaurants much. Sirius took me to a handful of them so far and I haven't enjoyed myself much there, neither did Sirius though he claims otherwise. They know how to make delicious food, but I still find most of them a little too soulless for my taste. I prefer the so-called 'hole-in-the-wall's and family ran restaurants. But hey, what do I know?

"Where is Paula?" I turn to and ask Gerard.

Balzac, Dacia, Gerard, and Paula are my 'summer friends' as I like to call them. I met them at a daycare for working magical families and parents who want their children to socialise with other children. Except Dacia. I met her when she first dated Balzac two years ago. Unfortunately, they all go to Beauxbatons so I can't see them during school term. Balzac is seventeen while her girlfriend, Dacia is sixteen. Gerard is my age and so is absent Paula.

"She arrived from Italy a couple hours ago. She'll join us at the club."

We enter the restaurant and wait the customary fifteen minutes to be seated. The conversation stops as everyone orders their food and drink.

"Tell me, little guy, have you discovered 'girls' yet?" Balzac asks far too seriously. Credit where credit is due, delivering that sentence without a snigger is an accomplishment. He is right to be proud of himself.

"Yeah, I went outside today and there were these weird creatures with extra bits called boobs," I answer sarcastically. "Thank god, there are no one with breasts in our group." I pointedly look away from Darcia as I say the last part.

The only girl in our little group lifts her nose at me. "I will not lower myself to your level."

I chuckle. "That'd be the day."

That does it. "Now, see here, mister, I'll have you know I am a lady. Just because I don't advertise my femininity, doesn't mean you get to be rude," she declares passionately.

Gerard and I laugh while Balzac tries but fails to hide his smile.

Dacia is a Muggle-born Feminist with a capital f. It's too easy to rile her up about women's rights, whether magical or Muggle. It's a little game we like to play, not that any of us thinks she's in the wrong with her ideals.

Potential lecture from Dacia is cut short by our food. We eat and chat about unimportant things. The ongoing Quidditch World Cup and France's shameful performance comes up a lot.

"So, Balzac, are you excited to come to Hogwarts? You know, the greatest magical school in the whole wide world?"

"Who wouldn't be excited to go to a school where Basilisks and Trolls roam the corridors and Professors attack students?" Is it me or was that answer sarcastic?

I play my trump card. "We have Dumbledore."

"That, you have but does he teach? No." This time it's Gerard who answers.

"We have Hagrid." All I get for that one is a confused silence. I decide it's a good time as any for a change of subjects. "Do you think you'll get picked for the tournament?" I ask Balzac.

"I doubt it. I am not even in the top five of our year."

That's one quality I like the most in Balzac. He's unfailingly modest. A guy who knows his strengths and weaknesses and doesn't resent others for them.

The conversation turns to the World Cup once again when the desserts arrive and it stays that way until we finish.

With our desserts out of the way, we leave the restaurant and walk to the nightclub. We walk in with no trouble thanks to a concept called 'bribery'. I am told- by Sirius- it is a common practice; one they took advantage of during their youth.

We meet Paula near the club and enter together. The first thing to hit me is the smell. As we move further inside, the music gets louder and my ability to think gets lower. I see people dancing and I can't help realise is how ridiculous most of them seem. I start second guessing Sirius' idea of fun.

-JB-

One hour earlier
Sirius and Remus walk to the club their young charge will arrive in an hour. Their mission is simple: convince the bouncer of the club to let the children in by any means necessary - cough, bribery, cough - and find a good seat where they can keep an eye on Harry but remain unseen.

"I don't think James and Lily had this in mind when they asked you to be Harry's godfather," Remus whines, for the tenth time that day.

"You may be right about Lily but you know damn well James would want a front seat for tonight."

"True," the werewolf concedes, a small reminiscent smile on his lips. "Still, isn't Harry a little young to be out drinking all night?"

"That, he is." Sirius nods. "But he needs to learn his limits. He's growing up. In two years, he'll pull away from us. We were the same when we were sixteen, thinking nothing could hurt us, thinking we knew best. By then we won't be able to keep up with him to keep him safe. This way, he'll learn how to act and we'll be here to help him if he gets into trouble."

"That's oddly mature," Remus says, confused.

"And let's not forget the comedy potential of a drunk Harry," Sirius adds as an afterthought.

They find the club entrance and make their way to the bouncers. Sirius half drags a mountain of muscles aside to a quiet corner and they start a heated discussion in French, of which Remus only understand every few words due to the distance. Instead, he watches the other mountain in case Sirius pisses them off and requires help.

They talk rapidly for fifteen minutes and a large sum of bills change hands. Sirius returns to Remus' side half smiling, half grimacing. "I need a drink or three."

"Sold a kidney then?" asks the sane one.

"Shut up, Moony. Let's get inside and find a good table to watch my godson humiliate himself. I paid good money for this and I plan to gather blackmail material."

They spend next half an hour drinking and making bets on how drunk Harry will get and how much he will make a fool of himself. You know, parental things.

"Here they are." Remus nudges Sirius.

"My boy grew up," Sirius cries dramatically. "Soon, he'll bring girls to the house and I will have to catch him sneak them out in the mornings."

Remus shakes his head though the grin on his face is evidence enough of what he thinks of the idea.

They watch as Harry and his company order drinks and dance. Well, his friends dance. Harry... He imitates a drunken monkey.

"The boy can cast spells that would make an adult balk, create his own even and play any instrument his eyes closed, fly like he was born on a broom but, by Merlin, he can't dance," Sirius comments, his eyes never leaving Harry, fascinated.

"This... There is no describing this. It must be on purpose." Remus' eyes wide as he watches the train wreck, wincing at the highlights of the performance.

"Oh, good. He stopped dancing."

"And now, he's brooding."

"Where did I go wrong?" Sirius looks up at heavens. "This must be my fault somehow."

Remus nods, agreeing.

They keep watching and discussing Harry's impeccable style for the next hour and a half. They agree that James and Lily must have been drunk when they made Harry.

"They are leaving," Sirius points out in relief and they chug their drinks and rise to follow their charge.

Before they could take a step away from the table, Sirius sits back down with his head between his hands. "Why is Harry staying? No. Harry, don't do this to me. I can't take it anymore."

The two men watch as Harry downs a shot and make his way towards a group of girls. He asks one of them to dance.

Sirius whistles. "At least he has good taste in women."

"Yes," Remus agrees. "That girl is a veela."

Sirius just facepalms using the table, repeatedly, causing few people near them to look at him with distaste until Remus interrupts, "She agreed to dance with him."

"What?" Sirius's head rise in shock. "I can't believe it. If I danced like that, no woman would ever touch me with a ten-foot pole."

"I am constantly surprised any woman will come near you," Remus jokes.

"Everyone's a god damn comedian. A galleon says he'll kiss him and gets slapped." He takes out a Galleon and slaps it on the table before raising his hand to a waiter for new drinks.

Remus considers for a long moment. "I'll take that bet." He adds his own galleon to the table.

They spend next hour planning how they will mock Harry for his dancing and recount their past successes with women. You know, manly stuff.

Sirius nudges Remus. "Her friends are leaving. I guess this is the moment of reckoning."

"There she goes," Remus comments sadly.

"No way!" Sirius exclaims when the girl in question leaves her friends' side and joins Harry on a table. "She stayed?" He shakes his head unbelievingly.

"Maybe he's a veela too," Remus offers weakly.

Sirius' only response is to look at him like he's crazy. He pushes both golden coins towards Remus who looks at him questioningly.

"She stayed, man. If he kisses her, she'll kiss back. I can't believe my godson is cooler than me. I never landed a Veela. I need a drink."

For the next two hours, Sirius drinks away his existential crisis and Remus watches the proceedings with amusement. They watch as Harry kisses the girl and takes her home.

Sirius looks at Remus concededly. "He really is awesome."

-JB-

I watch my friends leave and make my way to the bathroom to wash my face. Tonight was fun. The moment I realised I didn't like dancing, I focused all my attention on embarrassing my friends. You should have seen their faces. They most definitely regret bringing me to a club. Except Balzac. That dude rocks the dance floor as well as I do.

Mind you, I'm not saying I could have done better. Dancing is just not in my blood, I guess.

I return to the bar and order a shot of liquid courage. There is a reason I stayed while my friends left. During my eye-catching performance, I saw this blonde girl, this goddess. She must be a few years older than me. When I say goddess, I don't just mean beautiful. I mean the way she moved, the way she commanded attention…

This must be what they call hormones because, dammit, I want to touch her and make her laugh. There is an aloofness to her, like us lowly mortals don't matter and I want to matter.

I drink my nervousness away and walk to the table she's sitting with two other girls, both of whom are beautiful in a mortal sense. "May I have this dance?" I ask chivalrously, holding out my hand.

She turns and judges me. "No."

I am not surprised. I watched as men after men asked her to dance. It must get tiring. I have to prove myself to her if I want her time.

"Why not?" I grab the free seat next to her and turn it around before sitting down, my attention is on her and her only.

She sizes me up, glaring at my presumptuousness. "Tell me why you asked me instead of my friends and I may give you a chance."

"Because I don't like dancing." It makes sense. No?

"And that's a reason to ask me to dance?" she cocks her head to a side and questions my sanity.

"Yes. If I am to ever enjoy dancing, it would be with you," I explain. I look directly into her eyes and talk rapidly and rhythmically. "You move with a grace I have never seen." I turn to her friends and offer, "No offense, ladies."

I turn my attention back to the woman of my future dreams. "You don't walk, you glide. The way you move on the dance floor commands attention; like you are a goddess that rewards us, mere mortals, with your presence. You dance with a purpose. You don't just follow the rhythm, you add to it. I can't dance but I know music and I could 'see'- for the lack of a better word- make the music better. That's why I can't help think you are my only chance to enjoy dancing."

She stares me for a long moment, judging the truthfulness of my words. She can't find any deception because I am talking from heart, and alcohol. What? I am a slightly drunk teenage boy in the presence of the divine.

A blonde friend of hers takes pity on me. "Oh, go on, Fleur, dance with the poor boy."

Fleur. Flower. That's fitting.

The goddess gives me her hand and I lead her to the dance floor. We dance. Honestly, I try to dance while she puts every deity to shame.

That may be alcohol speaking. I'm not sure. I don't care either way.

I watch as her silver hair swings and her hips sway hypnotically. I lose track of time. I try to keep up with her, to understand how can one person be this graceful and purposeful at the same time but I am having no luck.

So, instead of trying to understand, instead of treating her like a mystery to solve, I try to enjoy myself, enjoy her presence. It pays off. I am having a great time. I can say with certainty that only times I enjoy myself and lose myself this much is when I am particularly lost in the music I play on my piano or when I paint. The way she dances makes me want to compose a song just for her; a perfect composition of dance and music.

After a while, I learn to follow her rhythm. We move together instead of her leading me. I stop thinking and just do. I never stop watching her while I dance. I thought she looked like a goddess before when I got glimpses of her from afar. I was half right. She looks even better up close. There is a serenity to her that wasn't present on the table; like she's doing what she came to earth to do and nothing else matters.

She enjoys herself too, her greyish blue eyes shine brighter and I smile in response and move just a little closer to her.

A lot of time must have passed because I notice her friends make their way out of the club from the corner of my eye. I lean into her ear and speak regretfully. "Your friends are leaving, I think."

She turns to where her friends are and I feel despair. This is what coming face to face with a dementor must feel like.

"Get me a drink while I talk to my friends." She looks at me, her blue eyes soft and her pink lips curled up in a gentle, sultry smile, and suddenly, there is joy on earth once again.

I feel my pride rise. You may think less of me for thinking so but I feel proud of the fact that while most men would kill to have just one dance with her, I had my dance and more, and now, she stays to spend more time with me while her friends are leaving. I must be doing something right.

I nod and make my way to the bar. I order a glass of martini for her and whiskey for myself as she talks to her friends. I pay for the drinks and make my way to a table in a less crowded part of the club.

Two minutes later, she walks back, her hips swaying, and I thank whatever gods may be for my luck. She really didn't leave.

She sits down and I ask, "Why didn't you leave?"

"Do you want me to leave?" She tilts her head and pouts cutely.

"No. I find myself enjoying dancing with you more than I would have thought."

"Good. You aren't half bad."

My chest puffs under the half-praise. "Tell me about yourself."

"What do you want to know?"

"You," I state simply.

She smiles a true smile and I am in love.

I can tell she doesn't do that often, truly smile, and that is a crime of highest order. The aloofness she wears like a second skin, it's a sad, sad thing. She makes the world more beautiful simply by smiling.

"I go to a boarding school near the Pyrenees mountains. My father is a law officer and mother is a... crafter, I guess you could say. I have a younger sister." Her tone is formal despite her smile.

"Good for them. But I want to know more about you, not your family," I clarify. "What do you enjoy in life? What excites you? What saddens you?"

She looks at me appraisingly and I sit up a little straighter. "You ask hard questions, Mr?"

"James Black, at your service." I smile my learned Potter half-smile. Sirius was adamant I learn how to smile like my father. I should thank him.

"You are an Englishman?"

That sounded a little like an insult but I truly can't care any less.

I can also see she's avoiding answering my question but I let it go. "Yes, after my parents' death, my godfather adopted me and we moved here." I know that is more truthful than I normally allow myself to be but at the moment I don't care. If I tell her something real, she will tell me something real. I don't know when we agreed to it but that is the deal here. Tonight is far too magical to dirty with lies.

"I am sorry." She looks at me with sad eyes and I hate that. I want to kill Voldemort for indirectly causing her to frown, no matter how irrational and ridiculous that may sound.

"None of that, now," I admonish her. "Your eyes shine brighter when you smile."

Her smile returns and I am lost.

"It's my birthday today and I want to celebrate the life they gave me instead of mourning the lives they lost."

"That's a good philosophy."

"I know," I say and allow the silence to take hold. I am more than content with watching her in silence.

"I am beautiful. And that's all I am to most people; just beautiful. It doesn't matter if I act like a vapid blonde or I talk about most complex issues. Most people won't or can't see past my beauty to talk to me. That's why I love to dance. It lets me express myself and for once, my beauty helps me instead of being a hindrance. That's also why I love to play the violin. With music, it doesn't matter how beautiful I am. Only the music matters. It's never just entertainment. I can be my innermost self."

Isn't that sad? Yes, I asked her to dance because she looks magnificent when dancing but it's a sad world where people don't listen to her. There is a hard to match intelligence in those sky-blue eyes. Humans are stupid.

"It's criminal, really. You are both beautiful and talented." I shake my head and whine with a smile. "I am just talented."

"Talented in what?"

"Most things, really." I wink. She grins. "I'm good with most instruments but I enjoy playing the piano the most. I paint. I am good at making things, like sculpting and carpentering." That edges close to being a lie but hey, I can't very well say I am good at Transfiguration to a Muggle, can I? "I love to create. My life, at least the most defining aspects, is filled with destruction. My parents' death. Followed by more death and cruelness. When I am in my temple, when I am creating, be it playing the piano or painting, I feel useful. I feel like I add to the beauty of the world; and the cruelness, the pain and selfishness that are always prevalent in life don't matter. The art, or whatever you want to call it; it lets me share a part of me I can't express with simple words."

I can see the interest in her eyes, not at me per se but it still gives me pride. "Talented, indeed."

"I know. I'm awesome." I massage my neck and smile flirtatiously. She laughs musically, her hand finds my arm and I dance a jig in my head. I did it. I made her laugh. "Why don't you smile more often?"

"What makes you think I don't?"

"I'm not sure. Intuition? There is an aura of melancholy to you, wrapped in this aloofness you created for yourself."

"Let's dance," she orders me instead of answering and I am but her lowly subject.

We make our way to the now less crowded dance floor and dance. She is closer and I can feel her body heat causing my blood flow to change.

We dance the night away and to a new day. Our bodies get closer; I feel luckier; the dance floor gets emptier.

One song ends and I find myself lost in her eyes. I stop thinking. No, I don't stop. I simply can't. My eyes find her lips involuntarily. They are just there, so damn kissable, but I can't find the courage.

She does. She kisses me. The world disappears around me. I am lost, and I never felt this good. I don't need a map where I am because I don't ever want to leave.

Damn, maybe I shouldn't have had that last drink but at the moment, I don't care.

Her arms tighten around my neck and I deepen the kiss. After a while, I end it, cursing my mortal body and its need of air, and look into her magnificent eyes.

"Take me home," she whispers and I sing a happy birthday song.

It's good to be me.

-JB-

We don't waste a second after entering the house; I direct her to my room, and boy, oh boy, do we have a great half an hour. Half an hour filled with sweat and ecstasy, and I am now a religious man.

After resting, I give her one of my shirts to put on and hold out my hand for her to take. "Come, I want to show you something."

She looks at me doubtfully but agrees.

I lead her to my temple, the room where my instruments are, where I paint, where I read. This room carries my essence. I made everything in here or bought from the best. I can feel her interest in the room; she's impressed. It's hard not to be. The room is a work of art if I do say so myself and she agrees.

I hold out my violin to her. "I want to hear you play," I tell her when she looks at me questioningly. "You said you love the violin."

"I'm not going to play for you," she informs me haughtily, a small smile still grazing her lips.

"I'm not saying play for me. I want you to play with me."

She's not sold on the idea, I can tell. So, instead of using words to convince her, I put down the violin on a desk and sit on the piano bench. Without waiting, I play.

For a while, all she does is watch me and I enjoy the feeling being judged gives me, the excitement. After a minute of listening, she joins me with the violin. Judged and found worthy.

When the song ends, I don't start on another one. I want to hear her play, and watch her. She doesn't even bat an eye. She just plays.

It takes me a couple seconds to recognise the piece she is playing. She's playing Nothing Else Matters.

Damn, she's cool.

What? I like a good rock song, sue me.

I watch her for a while and commit the scene to my memory to paint later. She is beautiful in every sense and the fact that standing there only in my t-shirt that barely covers her pale blue knickers and playing her heart out makes me feel giddy.

I sit stock still for too short a minute and enjoy her at her most beautiful and at peace. I join her only after she looks up at me with a raised eyebrow that practically orders me to.

We spend the next hour playing song after song. No word leaves our lips. We communicate only through our instruments, saying things we can't mean. I tell her to keep me in her heart. She tells me we could be heroes just for one day. We go back and forth, and during that hour, she rewards me with more and more smiles that only the rare person ever sees.

There are no words, no sentences worthy enough to describe how it feels to watch her play and, more importantly, play with her. I know I will remember tonight forever, and tomorrow, I will sit on that same bench and play the same songs with my eyes closed, dreaming of this moment and imagining her violin escort me through the music.

After playing to our heart's content, we return to my room and follow it with another round of lovemaking, a more intense one fed by a mutual understanding of what we shared in the temple.

We fall asleep with content smiles and nothing between our bodies.

-JB-

I wake up with a mild headache and a weight on my chest. The weight on my chest is something wonderful, but I don't know why or how I know that. I open my left eye and see the silvery hair. Memories rush back and I can't help myself, I breathe in her delicious smell and smile.

I enjoy the sensations coursing through me as I caress her skin for ten minutes before I gently roll her over, kiss her and get up. I put on a boxer and a t-shirt and make my way downstairs to the kitchen. Four eggs sizzle on a fry-pan but something is missing. I feel great and I must enjoy the moment to the fullest.

Two minutes later, it hits me: there is no music. That is a crime and I know just the song for the occasion. A flick of a wand later, a record starts playing and my morning is perfect. I return to my cooking - if you call making a cheese and pepper omelette cooking.

I hear footsteps and turn to see a most saddening sight: Fleur is dressed. "It's a crime to cover that body." I smile at her.

"Original," is her only response.

"I'm making an omelette."

"You know how to cook?" she asks unbelievingly.

"Only some breakfast food and spaghetti."

"You must good." Her voice is devoid of any emotion but sarcasm when referring to the song I chose: Feeling Good by Nina Simone.

"What makes you say that?" I'm not sure but I think she's not too happy at the moment, and slowly but surely, her mood sucks out my serenity.

Fuck.

I focus back on cooking and an awkward silence ensues. Once done, I turn off the stove and serve the omelette and some fruits, and pour us some coffee. We eat in silence. I want to talk to her but I get a feeling she's not interested.

Fifteen minutes of tension-filled silence is all I can endure. "Are you not a morning person, or did I offend you somehow?" I ask, looking her in the eye.

"I'm fine," she intones, looking away.

"I thought that was a myth." She looks at me questioningly. "You know, women saying 'I'm fine' when they are obviously upset about something."

She shrugs and continues eating.

I let it go for now and we finish our breakfast in silence. She wants to get out of the house as soon as possible. I don't want her to.

Sirius chooses that moment to walk in. "Morning lover birds."

I see Fleur get flustered, a red tinge on her cheeks and a tightness around her eyes, and I curse Sirius internally and with my eyes. "I should get going," she says and I want to kill Sirius. He must have sensed my doubt regarding the usefulness of his existence because he flees the room with no effort to make it seem natural.

I look at Fleur's retreating form pleadingly.

What? I don't want her to leave. Give a guy a break. It's not everyday you meet someone like her. A whisper escapes my lips, "Please, don't."

She doesn't turn back, still facing away. "I really should."

"Why?"

She takes a breath before turning and regards me with cold eyes. "How old are you, anyway?"

Fuck.

"What does it matter?"

"It matters a lot." For a moment we regard each other. I can feel disappointment roll off of her in waves. "This was a mistake."

"Why?"

The blonde turns around and raises her nose at me. "You are but a child," she sniffs, "and I was drunk."

That sounds like an excuse.

"Don't insult my intelligence by lying."

"You wouldn't understand."

I tilt my head. "You haven't tried to explain."

She doesn't explain. I sit still, my chin resting on my intertwined fingers as my elbows are on the table and wait for her to make a move, make a decision but there is nothing. I don't want her to leave but I will not have her walk all over my pride so I decide for her.

"It's funny," I intone, "how what's beautiful at night can turn ugly on sunlight." A dry chuckle, void of anything good, escapes my lips. "Goodbye, Fleur. It was nice to play with you."

Oh, yes, I can be an arsehole when I'm ticked off.

She looks at me and for a second, her regret is tangible. "I'm sorry," she whispers in a sad little voice.

"Don't be," I tell her. "I will remember last night with fondness. This morning... Well, not even you can be perfect."

She stands there hesitating for a moment before twirling around and leaving the house.

I hear Sirius entering the kitchen a few minutes later but I don't look up. "I'm sorry, kid," he sighs.

"Have I told you how much I hate you?"

- Flowers for Your Grave -

Chapter 3: The Gentle Full Moon

August 21, 1994
I am so excited. Tonight, I will join my first run as a Marauder. Well, flight for me but… whatever.

I know it may not seem as much to you; a bunch of dudes turning into animals and running around in the wild. For me, it's a big deal. Tonight, I will honour my father by following in his footsteps. By being there for his friend at his worst.

Marauders were more than just friends- Peter notwithstanding- and tonight, I will reinforce my connections to the two father figures in my life, no matter how unnecessary it is in truth.

We- that is Sirius and I- are in the great hall in Hogwarts, eating lunch with Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, Sprout, and Dumbledore; waiting for Remus. We returned to Britain early for both the full moon and the Quidditch World Cup final.

Professor Dumbledore gives me a pointed look and gestures towards Professor McGonagall before winking. Message understood, I nod and take one last bite of my meal before standing straight and stretching my muscles.

I glance around the table to make sure I have McGonagall's attention and jump using my seat as a step, turning to a rough-legged hawk and flying a couple circles around the great hall before zipping back and sitting down like nothing happened, turning to human mid-fall.

The hardest part of it is ignoring the shocked looks of the teachers at the table and pretending like I never left my seat. Sirius has a cocky smirk plastered all over his face while Albus is imitating me: acting like nothing is out of ordinary.

Okay, maybe I am imitating Albus' general disposition but hey, this is my story.

First to gather his wits is Flitwick. "Congratulations, James."

"Thank you, professor," I reply humbly and give the excitable man an appreciative smile.

"James Black!" Minerva shrieks. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Well, professor, I didn't want to tempt fate by turning into a bird while there is a hungry cat around," I answer with a smug smile.

"Congratulations, young man. I trust you will not use your newfound abilities for causing trouble like certain young men I remember."

Sirius puts a hand on his chest, offended but no one gives him more than a pointed look.

I sniff and raise my nose in the air, acting like I smell something distasteful. "You offend me, madam. I would never break rules or act in any manner less than that of a perfect knight unless I have a good cause."

She glares at me but the effect is ruined by the smile on her face. "Yes, like the time you set loose a bunch of charmed bats in the potions classroom that would multiply every time a spell hit them."

I can see Sirius trying to hold his laughter from the corner of my eye.

"Professor Snape looked very upset that week. I thought he could use the support of his family." I put on an innocent expression. "Not that I'm saying I did it, mind you. I am just speculating on the possible motive of the scoundrel responsible for that excellent charm work."

"Or the time you charmed every suit of armour and convinced every painting to say 'I am Batman' in that god awful voice every time Severus walked past them," supplies Professor Sprout, always helpful.

"Batman is an international hero and deserves to be celebrated."

Sirius loses the battle completely and barks out a belly deep laughter. I never got around to mentioning the small war going on between Snape and I.

"Or the time you somehow charmed Severus' robes to exclaim 'No dandruff, just fabulous hair' every time he did that robes billowing trick of his," Professor Flitwick adds, though he has no quarrels with shoving his appreciation of my charm work.

Professors Sprout, Flitwick, and McGonagall are all smiling now while Dumbledore finds the ceiling of Great Hall fascinating. Sirius is breathless, guffawing with a red face.

"I never saw any dandruff on his hair, ever. Have you?" I retort. "Besides, this is all pure conjecture. If you keep tarnishing the good name of Black, I will have to call my lawyer."

Remus chooses this moment to walk in. "What's going on?"

Sirius brings Remus up to date in-between laughs while I continue my exaggerated act of innocence.

Now, I must be clear on something. I'm not a prankster like the twins. I did all those things, true, but I did them as a punishment when Snape was being considerably more of an asshole than usual. He deserved every one of those pranks.

Besides, it's damn funny to watch him turn red, knowing it's me behind the pranks but unable to prove it and having to ask Flitwick for help.

I turn to Remus when Sirius is done and ask him, "Are you ready for tonight?"

He nods at me a little sadly.

"Me too," I reply and wait for the penny to drop.

"Wait, what are you ready for?"

"For the full moon, of course." I roll my eyes at him like he's being stupid.

"James, last time I checked, you weren't a werewolf."

"I still am not. What I am is an animagus."

He's lost for a second before it clicks. He knew I was trying to become an animagus but we didn't tell him I finally managed. "You did it?"

"But, of course."

"James and Sirius couldn't manage until they were fifteen."

"I am just that awesome, Remus," I remind him haughtily. "You know that."

"I know. My bad," he concedes. "Ha- James, are you sure you want to join us for the full moon? It's dangerous, you know."

"Oh, come off it!" I admonish. "You are just a gentle puppy when you drink your little potion and you know it. Besides, I can fly, you can't."

"I've never heard anyone call a werewolf gentle puppy before. Okay, fine but I want you to return to the castle at the first sign of danger," he agrees with a sigh.

"Sure, you big, bad wolf. Besides, anything happens and I'll conjure a red scarf and wait for Sirius Orion, the hunter to save me."

Remus answers with a roll of his eyes and a soft punch to my shoulder. "Oh, and Madame Laframboise sends her regards. Those stones are worth over fifty thousand Galleons each and she was more than a little miffed about how long the job took."

I smile, satisfied that little adventure turned out so profitable. "Good. I would hate it if I almost killed you for less than that."

-JB-

The sky is dark as we walk out of the castle doors and make our way to the forbidden forest to wait for the full moon. We hanged a bag of clean clothes on a thick branch of a tree, knowing Remus would need them if not all of us. The werewolf amongst us has already drunk his wolfsbane potion so we are good to go.

I can't wait to stretch my wings. I love flying. There is no comparison to the freedom it allows me and the fact that I will have that freedom tomorrow as well makes everything better in the grand scheme of things.

I'll be honest, I've not been my cheeriest self since my birthday and it translated into many an hour in the sky, dancing with the winds instead of a goddess.

The effects of the upcoming transformation are clear on Remus' face as his scars get more pronounced with the pain-filled grimace on his face, and shallow breathing gives him a rabid vibe. He seems more energetic yet sicker.

It's sobering, seeing him like this. It's easy to forget he's a werewolf when you see him any other time of the month but the day of the full moon and the days before and after. I can't help feel closer to him by sharing what he considers his lowest.

We sat in silence while the sky gets darker and darker, and the moon comes up at its earnest. Remus' growling is our signal to transform. A minute later a dog and a hawk circle around the man.

Hair sprouts out of every inch of Remus' skin and his mouth transforms to a snout of a wolf. His back arches and he finishes the transformation to a grotesque version of a large wolf, whimpering on the ground.

Moony howls to the moon and Padfoot soon joins him. I can't howl but I add my high-pitched, cat-like cry to theirs.

Padfoot nudges Moony with its snout and runs off, leaving Moony and me to chase after him.

The three animals let loose on the forest, chasing each other and playing with each other. I can feel I am losing myself in the instincts of the bird the more I fly. Normally, I'd try to keep it in check but for tonight, I am an animal.

I fly up, leaving my companions on the ground and watch the magnificent view from up in the sky as I allow the wind to hold me up. Hogwarts is beautiful, the moonlight is reflecting off the windows and giving it a haunted vibe. Once I am high enough, I let go of my humanity completely and do what hawks do best. I dive to the ground.

It's exhilarating, the speed, the rush.

I am a chill guy. Without the trappings of many things that demand time and effort normal people face, I can safely say I am freer than most but at this moment, I am free in every sense of the word. There is no homework I need to do, there is no snitch I must catch, no society to force upon me their demands and views. There is only the wind and me. There is only me and my family.

I swoop low and chase after the lowly animals that can't fly. I hit Padfoot in the head with a wing as I pass him by and he barks at me, chasing me with his tongue hanging out of his mouth. We continue through the night to play and run and fly.

I understand now. I understand just what made Marauders the Marauders. I understand why they were such close friends and just why Pettigrew's betrayal was so unimaginable and why it stung so much.

Pettigrew will die. I know that now.

-JB-

August 23, 1994
I wake up from a nightmare with a jolt and draw my wand in a rush, bathing the room in a bright light. Breathless and soaked in sweat, I grimace at my pounding headache and blindly feel for my pounding scar to find it bleeding. It's odd. The charm on my necklace that disillusions my scar has never failed before.

It takes me a minute to get my bearings and realise what woke me. It wasn't a nightmare. It was a vision because no nightmare is that real. I refused to consider the implications of what having visions of Voldemort means in my state.

I put on a shirt and make my way to the Headmaster's office. He must be told about this. Arriving to the third-floor corridor and in front of the gargoyle that guards the Headmaster's office, I whisper the emergency password Albus gave me and step on the revolving staircase.

Once up, I knock and wait to be invited in. I don't have to wait long as I hear Albus' voice a few moments later and walk in. He's in his pyjamas and let me tell you, you wouldn't believe what he's wearing. His pyjama-robes are normal. I can't believe my eyes.

"Sit, Harry. How can I help you?" he asks in a voice that is sleepy yet appropriately serious.

Just as I sit down, Fawkes lands on my shoulder and demands me to pet him so I do.

I take a minute to gather my thoughts. "I'm sorry, Professor, I'm just surprised to see you so..." I trail off.

"They are pyjamas, Harry." He looks at me pointedly.

"Yes, but they are so... normal," I whine, using the time to find the words I need to explain my vision to the man.

"Harry, there must be a reason for you to come to my office this late in the night."

"Yes, sorry, Professor."

I describe the dream. I tell him about Voldemort. About Wormtail. About the now-dead Muggle. About Bertha Jorkins. About Voldemort's servant in Hogwarts and about his plans to abduct Harry Potter somehow.

I leave no detail out. This is Albus Dumbledore and there is no question of trust between us. If he asked me to stab myself, I'll do so and then ask what's next.

"This is troubling news."

A sigh escapes my lips. "Professor, you are wise and all that, but sometimes, you say the most obvious things."

He smiles his signature smile number thirteen. The one he uses when he knows something uncomfortable that I don't. Damn. I must've missed something but what?

"Tell me, Harry, what do you think it means for you to have this dream?"

I think about it long and hard. "It can mean one of two things. I am either a seer which would suck, or I have a deeper connection to Voldemort than you originally led me to believe, which would suck even more." I close my eyes for a moment and breathe deep, knowing the answer already before giving him my full attention.

He looks a little guilty. "Indeed, I have suspected something like this but never could know for sure until now."

He leans back on his chair, his hands clasped over his stomach, silent and thoughtful. I can see the gears in his head turning; he's planning and plotting so I don't disrupt him. I instead focus my attention on the hot chick on my shoulder.

Fawkes is a damn cool Phoenix and I can't help but feel my jealousy rise up. How cool it would be to have a Phoenix familiar. Puck is great and I love him but, dammit, he's no Phoenix.

Though, honestly, he's more attuned to my personality than a Phoenix could ever be and I wouldn't change him. Maybe two familiars? Hm. This thought requires further pondering.

Albus returns to the present and looks at me imploringly. "I fear what I am about to offer will be most upsetting for you."

I wait nervously for him to continue. "Do you know what Occlumency is?"

"Ability to protect one's thoughts from outside influence, be it reading by a legilimens or memory charms," I answer monotonously.

"Close enough for our purposes. Occlumency is the mastery of one's own mind in all aspects, and it includes protection from influence, outside and inside."

"Okay, but why, Professor?" I ask. "Isn't having insider knowledge to Voldemort's plans a good thing? It's like having a spy that can't be killed."

"That is essentially correct, but I fear, no road is one way." He's in teacher mode. No condescension. No answers forthcoming. As always, he drops hints and makes me work it out.

"So, it means he might have access to my mind too." I groan. "Okay, you are right. I need to learn Occlumency but why is that a bad thing?"

"We have one person in Hogwarts who is an expert of occlumency. He's so good he could fool the best and has done so in the past."

My mind runs a mile a minute. It's not McGonagall, she's far too obvious and I like her teaching style. Besides, she has the wrong bits to be called a 'he'. It's not Flitwick, he's a part goblin. His brain structure and chemistry differ from mine so he probably couldn't teach me efficiently, magic notwithstanding. There is no way it can be Hagrid. I mean I love the guy but he's just… You get it. It must be someone Albus trusts implicitly. Someone who he wouldn't mind if knew my real identity.

I groan in realisation. "No. Nope. Nada. Nein. Non. No way. Never."

"Harry, I implore you to think this through. Severus is the best occlumens I know," he pleads.

"What about you?" I look at him hopefully. "You are a legilimens. I know you are. To be a legilimens, you must be way beyond an adequate occlumens. You can teach me."

"But Severus is much better at it than I am. He had to be, to fool Voldemort. And you know I will be too busy this year with the tournament."

"Then give me the books you have on Occlumency. You know I'm good at self-study. I can learn this by myself just as well. I already know meditation techniques that works for me, albeit not perfectly. It won't be too high a jump to learn Occlumency." I know I'm babbling but dammit, I don't want Snape anywhere near my mind if I can help it. "You can test me when you have the time to see if I am doing well enough. If I don't live up to your standards, I promise I'll let you choose which path to take. I just can't, in good conscience, give Snape allowance to prowl through my mind."

He considers it for a moment before nodding his consent. "I can't stress enough how important this is, Harry. If I feel, at any moment, that you are not doing well enough, that you aren't giving it enough attention, you will go to Severus." For the first time, he doesn't just say it, he informs me. He's never that commanding with me which means he will make me do it if he thinks it's necessary.

"Yes, sir. My only project right now is the welcoming ceremony, and it is near completion. I reached a block in my studies into Enchantments so I might as well focus on something else."

"Good boy."

I sigh in relief at a bullet dodged and give the man a crooked smile. "Seriously though, normal robes that makes no one's eyes water? This is surreal."

Albus chuckles and gives me a mischievous look over his glasses that says I am about to regret my smart-arse comment. "It's because I don't normally use pyjama-robes."

I screw up my face in confusion before realisation hits me like a cauldron of pepper-up potion. "Please," I plead. "Don't say it."

"I sleep naked."

"Ugh."