Disclaimer: See any other chapter.
A/N: It took a while to get the information out that I wanted without giving too much away. Hope it works, and please R&R. Thanks, Miss Laine
00000000000 Chapter 31: Explanations and New Questions 000000000000
The gargoyle swept aside for Harry without a word, and he took the stairs two at a time, eager to hear what Dumbledore had unearthed. The old man did not answer his knocking, though, and Harry pushed open the door impatiently.
He was surprised to see Dumbledore sitting at his desk, eyes trained on the book in his hands. "Sir?" Harry asked, wondering what was wrong.
Dumbledore looked up slowly, then blinked. "Harry…I had forgotten," the wizard admitted, then smiled wearily. "Please, take a seat."
Harry did so, feeling off balance because of the old man's odd behavior. "What's wrong?" he finally asked. "Was there an attack?"
"No, no," Dumbledore said, finally setting down the book somewhere in his desk. "Nothing like that, my boy…would you care for a lemon drop?"
Harry shook his head. "I'd like to know what that castle is," he said. Dumbledore nodded slowly, as if thinking hard.
"Ah, yes," Dumbledore said softly. "I am afraid I do not have all the answers you may seek, Harry."
"But—" Harry started to object, frustrated. Dumbledore held up a hand to silence him.
"That does not mean I have nothing to give you," Dumbledore assured him. "That castle…fortress, rather…is something of which I know little. The book that you gave to me…I think I understand now just what you have been seeing in these visions."
Harry leaned forward a little. "And?"
"It is called Fortress Nocturnus, though most often it is just called the 'Dark Fortress,'" Dumbledore explained. "It was supposedly built sometime during the last millennium…I say supposedly because, up until now, no one at all believed that it really existed."
"Why not?" Harry pressed.
"Fortress Nocturnus was supposed to have been built by the four founders of Hogwarts—although some seem to feel that only Slytherin and Gryffindor were involved. No one knows for certain, and, up until I read this book, I'd went along with the assumption that the 'fortress' was never built."
"Why do people think it wasn't built?" Harry asked.
"It had been assumed it was never really built because all accounts of the four's lives mention nothing of any sort of fortress. No one felt they had time to build any such fortress, especially since they then built this castle."
"But they did build it," Harry said. "I've seen it."
"That you have…because you are related to at least two of the founders," Dumbledore explained. Harry sighed.
"Godric and Salazar, I suppose," he said. Dumbledore smiled.
"Possibly, Harry," the aged wizard told him. "Indeed, both your mother and father passed on to you some of the founder's blood lines."
"So I'm related to at least one evil wizard and one good wizard," Harry said flatly. "Does that even out or something?" he asked humorlessly. Dumbledore sighed.
"Following bloodlines is very difficult, Harry, and you will find that most witches and wizards can trace themselves back to some great witch or wizard. There are certainly dozens out there that can trace their roots back to Merlin, for example, and there are numerous witches and wizards that have at least some little part of a founder's blood line in them," Dumbledore explained.
"Bloody great," Harry muttered. He just had to have one more weird thing happen to him. He couldn't have just one little thing normal about him. That would make too much sense.
"This book gives a few hints as to where this…fortress…is located, but it will take time to research all of these leads," Dumbledore broke into his thoughts gently. Harry looked up.
"Where?" he asked.
"Somewhere in France, it seems," Dumbledore said. "Possibly near the border with Spain. It may have been the four's first attempts at a magical school that failed, or it may have been something entirely different. It may possibly be in Germany as well."
"Possibly? That's it?" Harry asked, frustrated with the lack of information. Dumbledore sighed, holding the book out for Harry to take back.
"I've darkened the writing and made it clearer, as well as translating the majority of it, so that you'll be able to read it. If you find anything useful in it, tell me," Dumbledore asked. Harry nodded, thinking to himself that it was ironic that the tables were now turned on the old headmaster.
Harry was the one with the information this time, or at least a possible source of information, and Dumbledore was the one seeking answers. "It was on the coast," he offered finally, remember his first 'dream' of the castle. "It was on the sea."
Dumbledore nodded, though he didn't look any less pensive. "That suggest France, but still leaves a lot of coastline to be searched," Dumbledore admitted. "And I do not have very many Order members to spare."
Harry understood quite clearly what Dumbledore was telling him—he did not have the resources nor the ability to search an entire coastline for a fortress that might or might not exist. Assuming that wards were not keeping it out of sight, of course. "I'll read the book," he said aloud. "Thanks for looking into it, too."
He stood to go, but turned back as Dumbledore cleared his throat. "There is the matter of Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore began.
"Are you going to punish me for hitting him?" Harry asked levelly. Dumbledore sighed.
"Firstly…Malfoy had been granted the chance to fly in the next quidditch match…against Gryffindor."
Harry knew Dumbledore was gauging his reaction, and tried to keep his emotions in check. On one side, he was excited that he'd have the chance to embarrass Malfoy, and on the other he was angry that the other teen ever got to fly again, period.
Instead of answering, he nodded. "Are you punishing me?" he asked again.
Dumbledore sighed again, leaning back in his chair. "I should—I am expected to—but I won't. I can't bring myself to punish you for something that he did, this time, seem to deserve. I would ask that you try to bring all concerns up with me, though. In these times it is important to practice a little…decorum."
Harry caught the look Dumbledore was giving him and nodded, angry still but trying to see things the old man's way. "I'll try," he promised. "He should have been expelled long ago, though."
"Many wish for things that they will never get, nor that they really want," Dumbledore said softly, looking as if he were thinking about something else, and then blinked and smiled. "Off with you now, my boy. I'm sure you have plenty of homework to be doing this fine afternoon.
Harry nodded. "Goodbye, sir," he said, then slipped out the door and down the stairs, eager to read the book he held tightly clutched in his right hand.
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It is often suggested that Gryffindor mainly lived as a wandering wizard, doing good deeds in the towns that he traveled through, but it has been suggested by many scholars that Godric may have in fact had his own fortress, built sometime before his part in the founding of Hogwarts castle. Strange discrepancies in dates and in events make it difficult to know exactly where this great wizard was at every point in his life, and few agree on just how long it would have taken the man to build anything of any size and power.
Remnants of building plans and rumors from old witches are the only evidence that still remains concerning the fabled 'Fortress Nocturnus,' and these sources are highly suspect. In my own opinion, the idea that Godric, alone, had the time and the power to build his own fortress is not unreasonable—he was a wizard renowned for his seemingly limitless power and talent, and to assume that he could not build something so grand is to assume blindly.
That is not to say that it isn't possible that he received help in the form of other founders—namely Salazar Slytherin, his supposed 'hated friend.' Whether he did or did not actually receive any aid in building this fortress is still very much open to debate.
Harry wasn't sure if the passage was really of much use—obviously, the guy that wrote it was several generations removed from the Four Founder's time, it seemed, and he didn't know if anything had been lost in the translation to modern English.
He sighed, looking up from the book and around at the empty common room. Ron and Hermione were probably in Hogsmeade, but Harry couldn't find the energy to go after them, even if he was willing to butt into their 'romantic' weekend in order to tell them about the book.
A pang of loneliness surprised him, and he quashed it by pulling out his potions homework and burying himself in the admittedly boring essay on 'Ethical Issues Involving the Use of Veritaserum.' Snape had demanded over three feet on the subject, and he was having trouble coming up with more than six inches.
He sighed, resigned to the fact that he'd have to visit the library, and wondered idly just when had his life become so…well, he wasn't sure what it was. It certainly couldn't be described as 'fun' anymore.
He flipped the book open idly, putting off his library trip a moment longer, and his eyes trailed down the page he had opened to:
Darest thou enter the forest green?
Darest thou challenge the darkened gates?
Seek thee not the power here
That some do want and others fear.
Child, hath thou suffered enough,
At those the hands of frightening fate?
Or dost thou wish to seek revenge and death,
And listen to thine enemy's dying breath?
Ill will and anger break thee softly,
Tendrils threading thine stone-turned heart.
Shalt thou forget to live and thus die,
Somewhere under that burning sky?
Harry shuddered and did not finish the poem, glad that it had probably lost some of its morbid edge in translation. Something felt very familiar and yet very wrong about the whole thing, and he closed the book with a snap and took it back to his dorm room, hiding at the bottom of his trunk. He'd look at it again later, he told himself.
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By the time Hermione and Ron came back from Hogsmeade, her giggling in an alarmingly un-Hermione-ishly way, Harry had finished the Potions essay and had made a large dent into the Transfiguration essay due later the next week. Ron looked somehow betrayed at his progress, and Hermione smiled proudly.
"This is a one time thing," he warned her, putting away the half-finished essay. "It's just because I didn't feel like going anywhere."
Hermione flopped down next to him, while Ron reluctantly retrieved his own texts. "Still," she said. "At least you're getting something done."
He rolled his eyes silently and shoved his books away from himself. "I'm going to go send a letter to Remus," he told her. "Make Ron get some homework done."
"Are you sure you're all right?" Hermione asked. Harry nodded, not looking back.
"Sure. I'm fine," he promised. "I'll be back in ten."
"All right," Hermione agreed slowly, and Harry strode out of the common room and down the hallway.
At first, he did plan to go up to the owlery, though he had no letters to deliver. He hadn't seen Hedwig the entire week, and he was interested to know how she was. What he really wanted to do, though, was slip into the Room of Requirement and work on his Animagus transformation. He seemed to be stuck at the leg and arm stage, unable to make the transformation spread to his body and head, and Remus had been unable to provide any insight.
Hermione and Ron were still several weeks behind him at best, and Neville was just beginning to see some changes in his skin texture. Ginny wasn't much better, though Harry was pretty sure that she wasn't having to imagine that something had changed, like Neville usually was. It wasn't that he didn't have any faith in the other teen—it was that Neville had no faith in himself to actually make the spell work. Hopefully, Neville would figure it out before too long.
Harry was drawn out of his thoughts by the sounds of bootsteps, and he purposely did not hesitate as he went past the Room of Requirement's door and kept on walking. He definitely didn't want anyone to see him slipping into the somewhat secret room, and especially if he didn't know just who it was.
"Wandering aimlessly, are you?" the person finally called.
Harry turned. "Professor Murkwater," he said by way of greeting. "I was just headed—"
"Hmm, yes, 'you were just,'" the man said with a very knowing smile. "You've been doing well in class," the man said, changing the subject the instant Harry opened his mouth to answer. "Although you seem to be unable to do any offensive magic without your wand."
Harry nodded. "Even the shields are still shaky sometimes," he admitted. Murkwater eyed him, as if measuring him for some certain purpose.
"You'll get it soon," the man said. Harry nodded.
"I hope so, sir," he said. The man sighed, as if he had not seen what he wanted.
"You don't have much ambition, do you, Potter?" the man asked suddenly. Harry blinked.
"Ambition?" he echoed. I have to kill Voldemort, he thought to himself. That's enough ambition for a lifetime. Aloud, he said, "I guess not."
Murkwater smiled, winking at Harry in a conspiratory fashion. "At least you've got some brains," he said. "Won't last long anywhere without those."
Harry wanted to edge away, but forced himself to stand still. Murkwater's wildly changing personalities made him nervous, and he wasn't sure just what the man was about. "Look—I need to get going, sir," he finally said, keeping his voice even and pretending this very strange professor didn't bother him. "I'm supposed to be meeting my friends to study."
The man nodded and waved him away. "Off with you, Potter. Just—keep your eyes open."
Harry nodded, reminded of Mad-eye Moody for a moment, and turned to leave. He kept his attention on Murkwater as he walked away, listening attentively as the man walked away. Now, he didn't have enough time to even practice his form once before he went back to the dorm. If he was even five minutes late, he was sure Hermione and Ron would be upset.
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If it wasn't for the old wife's tales and the rumors that spread through the villages, it is doubtful that anyone would believe any of it. There's no doubt that Gryffindor had help. He had to have had it, to have built something so complex and so terrible. It is his great folly, his only mistake.
He should never had done it, but he was confident, too confident, in his power. He thought he could make something that was only good. He thought he could make something that only those of pure intention could wield.
He was wrong.
And now, supposedly, he's hidden it away. So no one at all can use it. No one will be able to get into it and use the power, be it for light or for dark. He's shut it way, guarded it with only he knows what, and it will never be opened again.
Supposedly, he hid it from Slytherin and even Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff. He hid it from them all, and, perhaps, even himself. And then, together, they created a lesser castle. A castle meant as a school, not a fortress.
Although…some still see it. Something must have been wrong with his spells. Even the peasants, those with and without magic, sometimes catch glimpses of it. They write stories about it…tales to tell their children at night.
Are any of the rumors true? Is any of it true? Godric knows.
But he will not tell.
Harry dropped the book in surprise when the dorm door burst open loudly. Seamus and Dean came in, laughingly loudly about something, and only glanced at him a moment before Seamus picked up some magazines and they both went back out.
Carefully, he picked up the old book, frowning at the worsening crack in the spine, and slipped it back in with his other books. Mostly, the text was filled with references to some castle, but never did it actually mention just where the thing was supposed to have been located. He needed to do a lot more research in order to figure this out, and he resigned himself to long hours in the library.
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"Lumos" he hissed quietly to his fingers, glaring at them as if that would convince them to give in and light for him.
But nothing happened, just as nothing had happened the million other tries, in the moments he had alone between classes and when he could slip away for a few minutes at a time. It was too suspicious to disappear for more than fifteen or twenty minutes, and he was loathe to tell his friends something that might just be a fluke. Perhaps, he was inclined to think, it had been just a random burst of magic that had actually worked for him. His head felt that this made sense, but his heart did not.
The magic in him had obeyed him, had expressed itself when he needed it.
Perhaps, he supposed to himself as he headed back toward Gryffindor, he just needed it to be an emergency. Maybe, he thought, the magic only worked wandlessly when he really, really needed it to, and now it could somehow sense that he didn't really need any help.
"Harry!" Hermione called, grinning. She was holding Ron's hand, he noticed, and he got the distinct impression that they'd taken the few minutes without him to snog each other senseless. "There you are!"
"Yeah, here I am," he responded, grinning half-heartedly. Hermione didn't noticed his lack of enthusiasm, instead grabbing his hand.
"Come on," she said, tugging him along. "We're headed to dinner."
Harry let his friends pull him along, although his mind slipped back again to the mysterious problem of his wandless or not so wandless magic.
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It was a sunny day, perfect for Quidditch. And yet…he couldn't help but feel as if something dark, some dirtied shadow, was hovering just near the edge of the earth. Something was poised…but he forced himself to ignore the gloomy feeling, expecting that most of the feeling was caused by the old book, which certainly had a dreary and death-oriented theme.
Instead of thinking about it, he reveled in the feeling of the warm spring breeze ruffling past his face and did a couple of loops before settling down again to look for the snitch.
The match was fairly even—Slytherin had scored four times, but Gryffindor had five goals now. Both teams knew that the snitch would decide the match, and Harry was doing his best to spot the elusive thing.
Malfoy was on the other end of the pitch right now, circling in his own pattern. The other teen had a better broom, but Harry knew that his flying skills were better. He knew for a fact that he practiced more than the other teen, and hopefully that would make up for the disparity in their brooms.
Especially since he was quite eager to put Malfoy in his place…preferably six feet under the ground.
The game was into its second hour already, Harry mused, and he hadn't seen the Snitch even once. It was like it had vaporized, but he had the feeling that perhaps it had just hiding itself rather well somewhere on the pitch and was not moving.
"Getting bored?" he heard a lazy, sour voice drawl.
"Malfoy," he said flatly. "Still remember which end of the broom is the front?"
"You're not going to win today, Potter," Malfoy said, ignoring Harry almost completely.
"That's funny," Harry said, keeping his eyes trained on the skies around him, scanning for the snitch. "You say that every year, every match, and yet you never win."
He heard Malfoy growl angrily but didn't take his eyes from the pitch. He thought for a moment he'd seen something in the corner, and he was watching alertly for any other signs of the snitch. "You aren't going to catch it, Potter," Malfoy said. Harry almost jumped—Malfoy sounded closer now, behind him somewhere.
His surprise was forgotten in an instant, though, when he again saw a flash of gold. The snitch had taken to circling the supports of the stands behind the Gryffindor goals, and was moving slowly so as not to reflect much light. It was hard to see, but Harry kept his eyes on it alone, tuning out Malfoy while he tried to figure out the best approach to catching the snitch.
He decided quickly, and he whipped his head around as if he'd seen something. An instant later he was in a dive, headed almost straight at the ground. He could hear the crowds gasping but it did not even register fully as he watched the ground, measuring, calculating, listening to Malfoy catch up to him. Malfoy drew alongside, and Harry steeped his dive to vertical. Malfoy followed suite—and then suddenly pulled up. Harry smiled grimly. It was what he expected—for Malfoy to think he hadn't seen a thing and stop and wait for him to go out of his feint and return to searching for the snitch.
But at the last moment, perhaps six feet above the pitch, he jerked sharply on the handle of his broom while rolling sharply, and he was wrenched almost painfully around, so that he was flying back towards the snitch. The incredible force behind the move made his neck and shoulders creak with the strain, but then he was leveled out again—and moving at probably twice the Firebolt's normal maximum speed. He was whizzing about ten feet above the ground now, a red blur with an even more blurred shadow, and he only barely noticed as he shot beneath the level of play.
He was at the goals at an instant and past them, still moving incredibly fast, but he knew without a doubt that by now Malfoy was after him, knowing exactly what he was doing. Hopefully, the little time he'd bought would be enough.
He stayed tight against his broom, eyes squinting through the wind tearing at his face, and locked onto the snitch, which was still innocently fluttering about, lost in its own little world.
A second more and he would be there…and the snitch 'saw' him and shot straight upwards, zooming vertical at an incredible speed.
But Harry was moving fast, faster than he'd ever flown in his life, and he jerked up sharply on his broom, doing a sharp loop before relaxing it to head straight up into the sky. He was closing on the snitch, closer, closer, until he was six, five, four feet…and then Malfoy was beside him, having cut the corners to catch up. But Malfoy wasn't even close to being fast enough.
Harry lunged forward, wrapping his fingers around the snitch with one hand while he tried to hold onto his broom. He smiled back at Malfoy, knowing that it probably looked much more like a sneer.
"HE'S GOT IT! POTTER'S CAUGHT THE SNTICH!" he heard the announcer…Colin Creevey, he thought it was…shouting out excitedly. "Gryffindor wins the Quidditch Cup!" Harry smiled, satisfied. The perfect way to end his sixth year of playing the sport…Quidditch Champions, finally.
He felt rather than heard Malfoy catching up to him as he continued to fly almost straight upwards, reveling in the soaring feeling while he clutched the snitch in his hand. He thought he heard Malfoy say something and turned.
There was a scream from the stands.
"Potter!" Malfoy was shouting, pointing over Harry's right shoulder. "Merlin, Potter! Look out!" Harry whipped around much too late.
He was too surprised to resist, and even as he was roughly slammed by something dark and heavy, he said nothing. Fire burned down his chest as the something buried claws in his torso.
A fraction of a second later, he was jerked straight off his broom, and without a single shout or cry he fell like a stone, straight towards the ground. As he fell, he could only watch Malfoy's face, looking down in frozen horror.
Finally, he found his voice and swallowed sharply, the wind tearing all words from his mouth. The snitch seemed to sense their final destination and fluttered madly in his hand. He didn't scream, trying to stay as calm as a person falling to their death could, while fumbling with his free hand for his wand. It was tangled in his wildly-flapping robes, but he finally managed to pull it free.
He rolled so that he was facing the ground—but it was too late. "Wingardium Leviosum!" he shouted. The spell tried to act, tried to catch him in his fall, but it only slowed him a fraction before he slammed into the turf. He knew no more.
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He touched the cold stone with one hand, knowing that the stones were certainly very thick. He shivered with cold, only now noticing that he was in the middle of a terrible storm, the world lit up only by lightening and a fire that blazed despite the rain.
The stones hummed with magic, almost. They were testing him…searching him, trying to figure out just what he wanted. Would they let him in? Would they accept him?
He didn't know.
A scream…he turned and saw a half dozen teenagers below him at the base of the hill, wands drawn and fighting for their lives. One lay on the ground, unmoving. Bright red was splashed across their left leg, and he could only hope that they were not dead.
Bow to death, Harry…
He turned. Tom stood just beside him, smiling down at him with cold hatred. "Bow to death, Harry."
He pushed on the stones, begging them as best he could to let him in. But there was no chance for him. He stood there, drenched in rain, looking up into the face of his enemy…the face of the monster that wanted nothing more than to kill him.
A spidery hand suddenly gripped him, tightening like a vise around his neck. He gagged, struggling as burning fire ripped through his skull. He couldn't fight it. The fire was burning him up, he was dying…
"Give me the Key, boy," Tom hissed into his ear. Harry did his best to grit his teeth and shake his head. Spots danced in front of his eyes.
Lightening fairly slammed into the ground no more than one hundred feet away from them, but Tom did not act as if he were shocked in any way—Harry was no longer in contact with the ground, held up by the hand slowly hanging him.
His leg was twitching on its own now, feebly attempting a struggle against this slow death, but Harry's mind felt suddenly clear. In an instant, the world seemed to somehow snap into focus, and he could see…really see.
Tom dropped him with a hissed cry, drawing back his smoking hand, and Harry hacked and drew in air until he could stand again. He tried to speak, but words would not come to him, and so instead he stepped forward, only to stop as he heard a cry.
There was someone lying on the ground, her hair matted with mud. He thought she was unconscious…but instead her eyes were open, staring up at the rain. Water had filled them, dripping down her cheeks. She was crying…
No…he was crying now.
She was dead.
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When he awoke, it was with agonizing suddenness. His body was on fire, he was in agonizing pain…the world was drifting in and out wildly…and yet the snitch still fluttered in his mangled hand. His glasses were crushed against his face, the glass splintered but amazingly cutting everywhere but his eyeballs.
Blood streamed down his face, blurring his vision even more, but he could see that his arm was not at the right angle any more—and it hurt to breathe. Each time he tried to draw in a breath a sharp blast of agony shot through him, over and over. He could hear screaming, girls, women, boys, professors…but it all seemed very distant.
Suddenly, he felt a rolling feeling in his body and he coughed hard, vaguely worried at the copious amount of blood that he hacked onto the field. Blood dribbled down his chin, dribbled down from his lips in thick, hot, streams.
He wondered that he was even alive—but perhaps his latent defensive magic had kicked in as best it could, trying to keep the important bits of him protected in the fall. Otherwise, his head should have been squashed flat by now.
So much for wandless magic when he needed it, he thought weakly.
He was still worried about his back and lungs, though. No one should be coughing up blood like he was. It was painful and burning, but that wasn't the worst of his worries. What worried him most was that he couldn't seem to even being to feel his legs. It was like they were gone…was this what being paralyzed felt like, he wondered?
The screaming seemed to have stopped, and he saw feet approaching at a run. They looked like a professor's feet, but he wasn't sure who. He decided in a rather lucid moment of ironic thought that perhaps, after this was over, if this got over, he'd have to memorize what shoes each of his professors wore, just in case the need arose to recognize them by their feet.
There was a hand on his shoulder, and he felt a tingle as a spell scurried down his spine. He could feel his legs suddenly, and they felt almost as if they'd been half-severed from his body. He decided he liked it better when he couldn't feel them, but perhaps, he hoped, in the long run this would be better.
He tried not to scream as the hands rolled him onto his back, a pair cradling his head while the other straightened out his limbs all around him. His arms were both broken, he decided, as were his legs, probably in numerous places. On his back now, the blood on his face was pooling towards his eyes and he blinked again and again, trying to get it out.
"Don't do that, Harry," he heard Dumbledore say. "You make it bleed worse."
Harry had a great sarcastic reply at the ready, but when he went to say it, it came out as a painful groan accompanied by another mouthful of deep red blood. He was dizzy again, from blood loss he diagnosed, and he wondered just how much he could lose before dying. "We're going to have to treat you right here, Harry," he heard McGonagall's voice next. He twitched his head a little to let her know that he'd heard. Great, he thought. He got to lie on this stupid square of ground for hours while they worked to patch him back together.
"Someone get Malfoy!" he heard someone shout from far off.
Something odd was going on with Malfoy, Harry thought fuzzily. The teen had been warning him. Why Malfoy would warn him, he didn't know, and it wasn't like the warning had done much good. He'd just had enough time to turn to face his attacker before he'd been ripped from his broom. No time to defend himself. No time to escape.
He had to talk to Malfoy. He had to corner him somewhere where Malfoy wouldn't be putting on his usual act, and he had to find out why the teen had warned him. It just didn't…fit…with anything. It didn't make sense!
He had to give up thinking about that, though, as the pain made his mind almost foggy, and he could barely string two words together in his mind before losing the thought to his half-conscious brain.
He saw Madame Pomfrey now, kneeling down beside him, and then there was a tingling and his ribs started to feel better—until he coughed sharply and it all came apart in burning agony. He let out a whimper through the blood in his throat, and then tried to struggle as strong hands clamped down on his mouth and nose. He was suffocating, he couldn't breathe…
"Harry." It was Remus, and he managed to vaguely recall that Remus had been at the match. "You can't tear apart the healing tissue by coughing. You have to let her heal it."
Yeah, right, Harry thought to himself sarcastically, even as he felt the healing in his ribs once more. Spots were starting to dance in front of his blood-filing eyes, and his shoulder twitched as the only slightly-uninjured part of his body tried to put up some sort of resistance to death by suffocation.
His lungs were on fire again with a new sort of pain—the burning pain of too much carbon dioxide and not enough oxygen. He was dying, dying, burning in pain and primal panic, but the hands were tight, fingers brutally pinching his nose shut while the other pressed his head into the ground as they kept his mouth shout. "Only a little longer, Harry," he heard Dumbledore say. "Just hold on a little bit longer."
Harry wanted to tell Dumbledore that next time the old man could hold his breath until Pomfrey turned blue, but the spots in front of his eyes were getting worse. He felt like he was floating now, beyond pain, beyond worry, and he relaxed. "Stay awake, Harry," Remus pleaded with him. Harry smiled as best he could under the painful hand.
Remus was staring down at him with worry-filled brown eyes, and all could think was that it was ironic that the last thing he would ever see was the face of the only remaining link to his parents. He had to wonder, though—where the hell had the prophecy gone wrong? Surely he couldn't die now. It was ridiculous. Tom Riddle was the one that was supposed to kill him, not some bloody Quidditch accident.
And bloody was right.
Red had filled his left eye now—he couldn't see a thing out of it—and his right seemed to be having trouble seeing a face just a few feet from it. He blinked very slowly, once, twice. "Stay awake, Harry," Remus begged again, hands not relenting on his nose and mouth. "You're a Gryffindor, Harry. Just be brave and hold on a bit longer, please."
Harry wanted to laugh. He was in no pain at all…everything was fine. He did not need bravery to face this. It was pleasant, almost fun. It did not bother him to die now, because it would be good. Just more floating and relaxing, like he was now. For a moment he thought if he could answer he would tell Remus that Gryffindor didn't mean a damn thing…it was all stupid, all of it…but the thought fled his mind in an instant.
He had much more pressing matters to attend to.
Black was clouding out his vision…the burning was back, a fire in his lungs as the last ounces of his will to live fought back, struggled desperately…and then the pressure lifted. He gasped in a ragged breath—and halfway through the hands were back, keeping him from drawing in any more air. His vision started to clear…the hands lifted again, but were back before he'd even begun to draw in as much air as he needed. "You can't rupture the healing, Harry," Remus told him gently. "Only a little air at a time."
Harry now really just wanted to say 'Shut up, Remus,' but instead he just focused on the next release of the hands, taking in air as quickly as he could before it was cut off again.
The pain was worse now, but his vision was partially back in his right eye, the left still flooded with warm liquid. Again and again for what seemed like eternity, over and over he tried to suck in air…and then the hands began to let him breathe a little longer, a little more often, until he was breathing almost normally, the hands still making sure he did not draw in a full lungful even once.
There was a burning in his left arm and he twitched. "Pomfrey is healing it as best she can without potions," Remus explained. "Don't fight it, Harry."
A moment later there was a sharp jab of pain through his right arm, and he blacked out.
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She was dead. They'd killed her, he knew without a doubt. She was dead, dead, dead, deaddeaddeaddeaddead…
He knew he was panicking, something he could ill afford to do. But his eyes were riveted to her form, lying on the muddy grass as if she'd been tossed there. She was never going to wake again…
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He awoke, predictably, in the infirmary. He tried to count how many times he'd been in the infirmary just since classes had started, and gave up. He honestly couldn't remember. An instant after this thought passed out of his mind, he realized that he would have been much happier not waking up.
Snape was standing at the end of his bed, arms folded. "Potter," Snape stated. Harry rubbed his eyes with a hand and pushed himself up, ignoring the little jolts of pain in his body.
"Why are you here?" he demanded. "Where's Madame Pomfrey?"
"I am here because of my expertise, and Madame Pomfrey is sleeping because it is four in the morning," Snape said flatly. "You have been largely unconscious for the past twelve hours."
"Where is Malfoy?" he asked, suddenly remember his need to talk to the boy.
Snape eyed him. "In my office, though truly it is none of your business."
"What was that…thing?" Harry asked. Snape sneered.
"You don't know?"
"I only saw it a moment," Harry retorted defensively. "I didn't get a chance to see much more than the…whatevers it had."
Snape smirked. "You don't recognize a pseudo-wraith?" Snape asked him condescendingly. "How…pathetic. Surely you must have learned something in Defense Against the Dark Arts?"
"Yeah—something about fighting professors with Voldemort possessing them and almost being murdered by a death eater in disguise. I definitely remember learning that Crucio hurts a lot," Harry snapped back. "Yeah…I learned a lot."
"A pseudo-wraith has physical form, unlike a normal wraith," Snape said in a more level tone, as if unwilling to fight at four in the morning. "They are gifted with nullifying magic, which it did in order to rip you off your broom and keep your attempted levitation spell from working. They are…invisible…except in the few moments when they change to a more physical form…"
"How did it get onto Hogwart's grounds?" Harry asked, confused. "I thought wards…"
"Wards cannot protect against something that can nullify magic," Snape snapped at him, obviously irritable.
Perhaps Snivellus needs a nap, Harry thought mirthlessly. "So what—Tom sent it, right?"
"So it would seem."
"Why doesn't he just send lots of them?" Harry demanded. Snape looked almost bored.
"Pseudo, Potter," the man said. "The Dark Lord created this…thing. It takes a great deal of talent and…hate…to create such a thing, and it only lasts long enough for one, supposedly fatal, attack."
"Then why am I alive?"
Black eyes glittered in the dark.
"Good question."
"But…"
"I have no answer for you, Mr. Potter."
Harry was stumped by that one, and so moved on to his next question.
"Why did Malfoy warn me?" he asked. "Just last week he tried to deliver me to his father."
"Mr. Malfoy has suffered a…change of heart…of late," Snape admitted, then stopped as if reluctant to talk about it.
"His father was upset about me getting away?" Harry asked. "I figure that would have made Malfoy hate me more."
"Draco never meant for you to be taken to his father," Snape told him suddenly. Harry looked up sharply, then back down. An idea was forming in his mind…
Perhaps Malfoy had turned long ago. Perhaps the whole 'abduction' had been an act of sorts, meant to lure Lucius into coming into Hogwarts so that the Order could capture him.
And it had gone wrong…
The idea seemed far-fetched to his mind, but in his heart he was starting to wonder. Just whom did Malfoy side with?
"So why was your 'expertise' needed?" Harry asked abruptly.
"The wraith and your fall were rather…serious injuries, Potter," the man spat. "Despite your own…defense…against the spelled creature, you were seriously injured. Surely you do not think simple healing charms would allow you to regain normal function?"
"So you've been force-feeding me potions," Harry summed up. "Great."
"If you'd rather go without them?" Snape asked. Harry stared at the dark eyed man.
"I would," he said flatly.
"Since you are no longer in danger of permanent damage, I don't care," Snape hissed. "Albus can find someone else to treat you."
"I don't need anyone," Harry said. "I'm fine. I feel fine," he added, though he knew it was a lie. He ached terribly, and he knew trying to walk would be hell. But he didn't need Snape's help.
"Have it your way, Potter," Snape spat, then swept out of the room. Harry stared after the closed door, then sighed and flopped back on the bed, falling into a restless and nightmare-filled sleep.
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A/N: HMM…something's up with Malfoy, it seems. Or perhaps not. You'll find out someday soon. Poor Harry's in the hospital wing again. I thought of doing a million different things to have some certain events occur, but this was what worked. And Harry'll live. He's tough.
Anyway, hope you like the longer than usual chapter and please tell me if you like what you're reading.
Miss laine