Without Thorn the Rose

by Threadbare Threnody

A bittersweet coming-of-age story for fans of good writing. Lily died, and left James to raise a stranger's son alone. In the shadows of Azkaban, Harry learns from Dementors and Death Eaters, while in the caverns of the sea a mysterious power awaits the chance to steal his soul. Warnings inside.

7. The Seer

o─-o─-o─-─-─-─ WITHOUT THORN THE ROSE ─-─-─-─o-─o-─o

Disclaimer: I am not J.K. Rowling.

Notes: Thanks for all you guys' reviews, favs, and follows. They really cheer me up and make me want to work harder on this. Also, I thought you guys might like to share in some of the visual inspiration that I use to help me write, such as people I've chosen to be the faces of my versions of the characters, or photos of what I think Azkaban looks like, what souls look like to Harry, etc. I don't know about you guys, but I was pretty underwhelmed by some of the choices made in the movies. I already had my own private Pinterest boards to help me organize my inspiration, so I just reorganized them a little so as not to spoil anything and made some stuff public. My name on there is the same as on here so you can just go and search for me if you want to see that. So I hope you all enjoy that.

o─-─-─-─-─ 7. THE SEER ─-─-─-─-─o

The week at Remus' flew past, as Harry spent his days practicing his magic and playing in the woods around Ottery St. Catchpole. Lady was delighted to be in a warmer and drier environment, as evidenced by her ditching Harry the moment he brought her back to the woods where they had first met.

"Ahhh, no more horrid sssalt and cold," she sighed happily, when Harry set her at the edge of the little brook that fed Remus' pond. There were no fresh water sources on Azkaban, and she always complained that she could still taste salt no matter how many times James desalinated the drinking water. "Do we have to go back?"

"Yesss. Or Death Eaters will get cussstody of me."

"I don't sssee a problem; death isss deliciousss."

"Yesss, well, being baked into a pie isssn't exactly my idea of a good time," Harry replied. There was a long silence, and for a moment he thought he'd finally gotten the last word in with his impertinent familiar, but, when he looked around, he saw that she had disappeared.

Bloody snake, Harry thought to himself, as he kicked a rock in the direction that her soul was slithering off in. It seemed that Lady was unique amongst her kind; every book Harry had read on the subject had indicated that familiars were supposed to be the most loyal and devoted of companions. Probably thinks I'm her familiar.

Harry made the most of his week. During the days, he practiced new spells: a sticky spell for his hands and feet to help him climb trees, a cushion spell for the ground so that he could jump down, a drying spell so that Remus wouldn't notice that Harry had been swimming in the brook when he'd been expressly forbidden. For all the man tried to be understanding, he never could quite seem to fathom that Harry wasn't going to catch his death of cold no matter how frigid the water was. At night, Harry sat on the couch with Remus while the man watched Omnivision and Harry paged through Remus' library, occasionally pestering his uncle with questions.

Remus' favourite show was a cooking competition in which the contestants had to make the best dish they could from randomly assigned ingredients. Harry had never enjoyed Omnivision much. The sofa in front of the Omni was where James had usually washed up when he was plastered. Remus, however, seemed riveted, as a witch with a hot pink Mohawk raced around a flaming kitchen, trying to catch a Runespoor that had escaped from her oven. Harry wasn't quite sure that was what the judges had meant when they challenged the contestants to 'set our palettes afire'.

"Do you fancy her?" Harry asked idly, wondering what was so fascinating about the program.

"Hm?" Remus grunted absently. He blinked at Harry, then seemed to catch up. "Her? No, no. She's a brilliant cook, that's all."

"Do you only fancy blokes, then?"

Remus sighed. "Harry," he said pleadingly. It was his why-must-you-question-everything tone.

"Do you fancy my dad?"

Remus slapped a palm to his face. "Harry."

"Well, do you?"

"Look, that's…it's a little…well…"

Harry took pity on his uncle, and turned his attention back to the show. The pink-Mohawked witch was now mixing the Runespoor's eggs for an omelette. Harry's mind was still clicking away, however, and a few minutes later he popped out with,

"Why does your patronus make you sad?"

Remus did not respond, but his jaw clenched. Pay-dirt, Harry thought, observing closely.

"I always thought they were supposed to make people feel happy," Harry continued. This produced no response, so Harry dug around for a suitable goad. "Do some patronuses not work? We've only got three that guard the wizenguards' village, so it wouldn't be too good if one of them was off."

Remus exhaled. "No, it's—not that. He—it—just…reminds me of old memories."

"What sort of memories?"

Remus' jaw clenched again, and his face started to go a bit hard like it had when he was facing off with Bjorn. Harry backed off for a few more minutes before he tried again. The Omni was focusing on another contestant now, a wizard with spiralling runes tattooed up and down his arms, whose dish kept sending sticky tentacles over the sides of the pot it was cooking in and gobbling other ingredients.

"Is it to do with Hogwarts?" Harry asked. "Dad never wants to talk about that. Once he threw a fork at me when I asked."

Remus shot Harry a sympathetic look, but there was still irritation mixed in with it. Harry turned back to the Omni. Now the tentacled dish was waving a spatula at its cook, who was fending it off with a potato masher. Harry glanced at Remus, impatient. Adults were so much work.

"Is it to do with someone you fancy?" Harry asked pointedly.

Remus' head thumped back against the couch, and he stared at the ceiling as though asking the gods to witness and judge Harry's behaviour. "You're not going to give this up, are you?" he asked flatly.

"Nope," Harry agreed cheerfully.

"Fine," Remus answered, in a subdued tone. He drew a deep breath, and sighed. "When I was in school, I had three best friends, and I fell in love with one of them." He paused, staring into space. "Those were the happiest days of my life. We were inseparable—got engaged, even. But…" Remus' expression grew distant. "It turned out that he wasn't the man I thought he was."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked.

"He joined the Death Eaters."

Harry inhaled sharply. "It was Sirius Black, wasn't it?"

Remus nodded, once. "There. Now you know. Happy?" His face was anguished.

Harry blinked. He hadn't meant to make Remus so upset; he had only wanted to know. Harry threw himself against his uncle's chest, wrapping his skinny arms around the man's neck and burying his face in Remus' jumper.

Remus held Harry back, rubbing circles on the dark-haired boy's back. "Oh, Harry. It's all right," he comforted, as though Harry were the one who needed it. Still, Remus seemed to thrive on caring for others, so Harry let him have the illusion.

"Have you ever visited him?" Harry asked as he settled back onto his own side of the couch a moment later. "In Azkaban?"

"No," Remus answered flatly, and turned the volume of the Omnivision up, signalling the end of his cooperation.

Harry watched absently as the tattooed wizard's gelatinous and semi-sentient creation glorped onto the pink-Mohawked witch's flaming omelette and swallowed it, but he couldn't so much as chuckle even when the judges got a face full of exploding blue goo. Harry's mind was set on Remus' problem, and the gears of his brain were clicking away.

─-─-─-─-─o─-─-─-─-─

The day before Harry was to return to Azkaban, Remus surprised Harry by inviting Neville Longbottom over, with the excuse that Harry must be lonely, since there were so few other children to play with on Azkaban. Harry felt this forced socialization was a bit presumptuous, but he didn't mind Neville, really, so he went along without complaining too much.

When he went down to meet the other boy at the apparation grounds, Harry was both pleased and irked to encounter Lady sunning herself atop a nearby boulder.

"Ssso, you finally turned up," he observed, arms folded.

"Stop blocking the sssun, you third-classss tree," she mumbled, turning over to expose her belly to the light.

Harry just rolled his eyes and lifted her to his shoulders. Lady could be a trial, but who would he sharpen his repartee against without her?

There was a crack, the sound of air being abruptly forced to make way, and Neville appeared, clutching his grandmother's arm. The boy had put on a little height since Harry had seen him last, a few months before, but he was still carrying his baby fat, and also that slightly hunted look that Harry always seemed to inspire in his former schoolmates.

"Hi, Neville," Harry greeted, sticking his hands into his pockets as Mrs Longbottom gave him a sharp looking-over, snake and all. There was someone else with them, Harry noticed, as a girl with white-blonde hair and wide blue eyes emerged from behind Neville's grandmother. She was a wisp of a girl. Harry was reminded of a dandelion seed blowing in the wind.

"Harry, this is Luna Lovegood," Mrs Longbottom introduced, shoving the tiny blonde forward. "She lives near us in Ottery St. Catchpole. Luna, this is Harry Potter. He's the Boy-Who-Lived."

Harry scowled and combed his fringe over his scar. "You didn't go to the day school," he observed. He thought he'd known all the children in Ottery St. Catchpole, but he must have missed one.

"I know I didn't," the girl observed, without any of the wary suspicion Harry was accustomed to receiving from other children. Luna seemed pleased to be there. It was refreshing. Her eyes drifted down to the collar of Harry's shirt. "You've got a snake wrapped 'round you."

"I know I have," Harry replied in kind, stroking Lady's smooth scales. "She's my familiar."

Mrs Longbottom cleared her throat and shot the snake a look of frank disgust. "Yes, well, have a good time, dearies. I'll be back at seven." With a pop, she was gone.

"Er, hello, H-Harry," Neville managed, looking grey and nauseous as he always did near Harry. Harry sighed and grimaced at his sometime friend.

"All right, let's get you in the house, Neville, and you can just lie down until dinner," Harry decided. Neville groaned in a combination of gratitude and queasiness.

"What's the matter, Neville?" Luna asked, concerned, as she and Harry guided Neville into Remus' cottage. "It wasn't Daddy's gulping plimpy stew, was it? Goodness only knows what he really used."

Harry, who had heard tell of Xenophilius Lovegood's propensity to invent new taxonomies, chuckled along with Luna before explaining, "It's me, I'm afraid. The sight of me makes Neville vomit."

"Ah," Luna murmured, nodding her head as though this made perfect sense. "I have an aunt who vomits at the sight of me." She paused. "Although, that might be because she's had the Regurgitating Gurgles since 1983."

Harry snorted. He wasn't actually sure whether the girl was joking, but she was funny either way.

"It does make for rather awkward family dinners," Luna continued placidly.

"It's not so much the sight of you," Neville explained as he reclined on the sofa in front of the Omnivision. "It's the nearness. I get a sort of chill, on the inside, and everything goes a bit wavy, like being on a boat."

Harry backed away, looking a bit forlorn. He might have been friends with Neville, if it weren't for that. If only I knew how to turn it off, he thought, biting his lip.

"Well, I don't feel anything odd," said Luna brightly, taking Harry by his coral-pierced hand. The touch of her slim, cool fingers startled him. "C'mon, Harry, let's go play!" she sang, and skipped out the door with him in tow.

─-─-─-─-─o─-─-─-─-─

Later on, after Harry and Luna had been swimming and played hide-and-seek, Remus got out the photo album for something to do, and Harry sat on the porch with Luna and showed her some of his favourite memories. He had discovered over the course of the afternoon that the girl was easily as quick-witted as Harry, and he quite enjoyed her company.

"Oh, and here's where Charlie turned Ron's nose into a trunk—ah, he's hiding again." Harry turned the page. "And here's me at the Magical Menagerie feeding the Chinese Fireball…and here's me and Lady showing Dad where it says in the Code of Magical Britain that even kids are allowed to keep familiars…I had Remus take that one just in case…"

"Snakes must be interesting to talk to," Luna observed, reaching up to pet Lady, who was draped around Harry's neck. The insufferable creature had been dead asleep all afternoon.

"Not really," Harry answered, before he had time to think better. "Er, because I can't understand them, of course," he hastily added.

Luna laughed in a polite but wooden manner, as though Harry had made a joke that wasn't very funny.

"And here's me and Dad at Florean Fortescue's…"

"Why do you keep calling him 'Dad'?" Luna inquired, turning her large, luminous eyes on Harry.

Harry glanced at her askance. "Because he's my dad, of course."

Luna looked puzzled, but nodded politely. Harry frowned. He closed the photo album and set it on the coffee table.

"You're better at it than I am," Luna remarked after a moment in which they simply enjoyed the warm summer air and the sound of the wind in the trees.

"Better at what?" Harry asked idly.

"Lying," Luna replied, quirking a mischievous smile at him.

Harry's stomach dropped. He had been so close to making a friend.

"It's all right," Luna told him gently, still smiling. "I don't like to tell people about the odd things I can do, either."

"You couldn't possibly be as odd as I am," Harry muttered bitterly.

Luna laughed. She covered her eyes with her fingers in a strangely ritualistic gesture, and took a deep breath. Then she exhaled. "You were bitten by a salty fang," she pronounced, "and a bear healed you." She frowned. "A one-eyed bear," she added. Then she let her hands drop and looked at Harry curiously. "Does it mean anything?"

Harry was speechless for a moment. "Yes," he answered, when his wits had returned. "It…how…?"

Luna shrugged. "I just know things. My Mum did, too, but…she's gone now."

"You're a Seer," Harry realized.

Luna nodded. "Sometimes I let things slip without meaning to. It gets me into trouble."

"I think it's brilliant," said Harry admiringly. "Still not as odd as me, though." She shoved his shoulder, and Harry chuckled. "Can you See things purposely? Can you tell me the muggle lottery numbers?"

Luna made a face. "I can see the future if I try, but it gives me a headache, and I never know what I'll get. It's totally random, just—you know, places where it's going to rain, and whether so-and-so's baby will be a boy or a girl. Nothing important. The past is much better. Because it's already settled, I suppose."

"Does it always come out all—poetic?" Harry asked curiously. "Is it just the words, or do you really see things, like on the Omnivision?"

Luna's lips pursed, and she was slow to answer. "It's like dreaming. Sometimes there are images, or sounds or even smells, but most of the time I just know things. Sometimes I only sense an emotion. Like when I try to See my Mum. I get this warm fuzzy feeling like I used to feel when she hugged me." Luna trailed off, staring into the distance with a melancholy look.

"That must be nice," Harry offered. He only said it to fill up the silence, but the words came out tinged with jealousy, and he was startled to realize that he was jealous. He could not remember even a single embrace from his mother.

"I could try to See her for you," Luna offered, intuiting his thoughts. "Or your dad. Your real one, I mean."

Harry blinked. Now that was an idea. If he could find out who his real dad was, maybe he could find out how to control whatever it was that made Neville sick. Surely Harry must have inherited that from his father?

"Could you…could you See who he is? My real dad? Mum never told anyone."

Luna's face pinched in sympathy. "That's dreadful. I won't know until I try, but that does make it harder. The more I already know about what I'm trying to See, the easier it is. Do you know anything about him? Even just the colour of his hair, or where he's from?"

Harry's face darkened, like a cloud passing over the sun. "The only thing I know is that he…" He paused, not certain he wanted anyone else to know how he had been conceived. On the other hand, what if Luna saw the worst that Harry feared? "It was an accident," Harry said around a lump in his throat. "Some kind of magical accident…she didn't…it's wasn't…voluntary. You might not want to See that."

Luna's eyes widened, but then she lifted her chin stubbornly, and covered her eyes. Harry felt a rush of gratitude and affection for the blonde girl. There was a long silence while Luna's brows furrowed the way Harry's did when he was practicing his magic. Harry closed his eyes and waited in breathless anticipation, head bowed as if praying. That was why he didn't notice it at first.

A minute, no more, had passed, before Luna made a sound. It was not the words of prophecy, however, but a high, pained whimper. Harry's head whipped up, searching her face. Her fingers were still pressed to her eyes, but the knuckles were bloodless with pressure, now, and she was trembling. Harry stared, wide-eyed and frozen. Something terrible was about to happen.

Luna's entire body shuddered, and a strangled shriek issued from her grimacing mouth. She twisted and writhed as though trying to throw something off, but her fingers remained firmly over her eyes. Then those delicate little spindles that had grasped Harry's hand so firmly, and rekindled within him the hope of companionship, hooked into the shape of claws, and began to scrabble at her eyes.

"No! Luna," he cried, seizing her wrists and trying to stop her from scratching her eyes out. She fought him like a wild cat, and Harry was afraid to use too much force. The thought of trying his magic did not even occur to him. "Uncle Remus!" he shouted desperately. "UNCLE REMUS!"

Luna threw her head back, maddened eyes dripping with blood, and screamed at the top of her lungs into the sky.

─-─-─-─-─o─-─-─-─-─

Remus, naturally, insisted on accompanying Harry on the boat ride back to Azkaban. They spent most of the trip in silence, the rough spray and sheeting rain seeming to mirror their moods.

"You're sure you don't know what she was trying to see?" Remus asked for the umpteenth time as he tossed Harry's bags on to the weathered wooden jetty on Azkaban.

"I don't know," Harry answered, and by that time he was so exasperated by having answered the same question a hundred times that the lie sounded quite realistic. When Luna had woken at St. Mungo's, her memories of the entire day had been wiped away, and Harry had been too horrified by the sight of her red, ravaged eyes to admit that she'd been trying to see his real father.

All Harry could think was that something about his father was frightful enough to scar a mind as smart, brave, and kind as Luna's. Absurdly grotesque visions of dripping tentacles and eyes on stalks floated before his mind's eye, and he pushed them away, but the fear that he was conceived in a fiendishly gruesome act of violence was not so easy to shake. Thinking of it made him want to cry. How terrible it must have been for his mum, first being raped, and then being reminded of it every day by Harry's mere existence.

"I'll see you in three weeks, then, I suppose," Remus said, smiling at Harry a little wanly, and hugging him. "And I won't say anything about your—er—new accessory—for now. But you must stay in the village from now on, Harry."

"Thank you," Harry answered, surprised. He had completely forgotten about his coral focus, in the wake of Luna's attack. "I'll try."

Remus favoured him with an exasperated but tolerant look. "For the gods' sakes, at least stay away from the cliffs."

"I will," Harry lied, hugging Remus again to hide the brittleness of his smile. Harry's face kept wrinkling up of its own accord, as though his eyebrows were trying to cling to each other.

Remus sighed and shook his head.

─-─-─-─-─o─-─-─-─-─

In the following weeks, when Harry wasn't practicing his magic, he spent his days exploring the island and the cliffs more than ever. He was restless, incapable of sitting still. He often took Lady with him, though he never spoke to her too close to the village. She wasn't thrilled to be back in the cold and salt, but it was nice for Harry to have someone to talk to, even if that someone never let him have the last word.

Harry worked on his classes, too, sometimes simply to distract himself from his brooding thoughts, and he even visited the warden's children when he was truly desperate. They were as unpleasant as the man himself, which took some doing, frankly. Three girls with mouse-brown ringlets, all younger than Harry, who thought calling him names and chucking things at him would somehow convince him to behave the way they wanted. Sadly, it usually worked. That was how he found himself the victim of their mad hairdressing schemes, and, once, as the groom in a faux wedding with their cat in a baby's bonnet as the bride.

The Warden's wife, Mrs Oakes, was a genial woman, whose biscuits and pastries alone were worth the pain of removing sticky beads and rubber bands from his hair. But she seemed to think Harry should spend all his time there, as she couldn't imagine any boy wanting to be alone all day, and while it was pleasant to spend time with someone gentle and caring, Harry was cautious of becoming too attached to a mother figure. Losing one had been plenty, as far as he was concerned. Besides, the woman couldn't be all there, or she would never have married Oakes.

Harry's classes, although they did not receive the attention they once might have, proved to be both interesting and informative. His favourite was the history class. Reading about kings and queens and necromancers and Druids and the old gods was just like a novel. His least favourite class, on the other hand, was Law, not because it was badly taught, but because he dreaded what new revelation each lesson would bring. Some of the Ministry's policies really were appalling.

Harry couldn't even blame a culture of stagnation for it, as many of the worst policies, such as the Werewolf Registry or the placement of wizard orphans in muggle orphanages, were quite modern. If someone high up in government were deliberately trying to alienate as many subsections of the population as possible, they could not have done a finer job. Harry entertained fantasies of charging into the Ministry and overturning desks, and simultaneously vowed to stay as far away as possible from that cesspit of corruption.

But most of Harry's time was spent simply wandering the island. He mapped all its slopes and ridges, its every rock and cliff. When the tide was high, the scanty beaches were underwater, but sometimes Harry went down to the water anyway, and sat on a rock a little way out in the surf, dangling his legs in the brine and staring out to sea. Fish nibbled at his toes, and Harry froze their hearts so as to watch their souls dissolve. That drew bigger fish, and he froze them, too. Once he saw a merman, with white scales and a white trident, watching him from beneath the waves. Harry left him alone.

Between exploring, evading the Oakes family, visiting regularly with Bjorn, and school work, Harry was able for several weeks to keep his mind for the most part off what had happened to Luna and the fact that she was still in St. Mungo's. But each night when he lay in bed, he heard her shrieks again, and he often found himself returning to the little strand of beach where he'd made his bargain with the sea.

When he lay with his feet in the water and let his mind drift, Harry could almost hear a susurrating voice in the crash and hiss of the waves—a voice that spoke to the darkest part of him, the part that didn't care what happened to Luna, as long as she gave him the knowledge he craved.

─-─-─-─-─o─-─-─-─-─

September 19, 1990, M.E.

No. 14 Azkaban Village

Azkaban Island

North Sea

Dear Luna,

I just heard you were out of Mungo's, and I wanted to write to say how horribly, dreadfully sorry I am about what happened that day. Are you okay? I visited you in hospital, but you were sleeping. Are your eyes better? I have enclosed a get-well present. I hope you like it. It's a shell I found on the beach here. Useless, but quite pretty. I have loads of them, so I suppose it's not a very good present, but they haven't exactly got shops here. (My dad's a guard at Azkaban, and I live on the island. I told you that before, but I don't know if you remember.)

I'm planning to catch a gannet and get him to bring this to you, since they read all the owl post around here before sending it off, which is bloody annoying. Short-sighted policy on an island teeming with birds, eh? You should see these blokes nesting on the cliffs here. They blanket the rocks from top to bottom, and it's a wonder their chicks don't all fall in and drown. They look quite fetching from far off, with the white body and black-tipped wings, but when you get up close you see how funny-looking their faces are and they seem quite silly. You should see them hunt, though—they shoot into the surf like arrows. If you like the bird, feel free to keep it since there are thousands here.

Anyway, I don't suppose you remember anything about that night, do you? I know they said you had forgotten the whole day, but I thought perhaps that was just something you said, like when I tell my Dad I haven't been doing anything I shouldn't because it's just easier that way. Well—I'm sorry about what happened anyway. Let me know if you do remember anything.

Sincerely hoping the sight of me doesn't give you the Gurgy Gurgles,

Harry Azrael Potter

PS – I told the gannet to give this to you when you're by yourself; could you let me know if he does? It'd be good to know how smart they are.

PPS – Give Neville my regards.

─-─-─-─-─o─-─-─-─-─

September 20, 1990

Lovegood Lookout

Ottery St. Catchpole

Dear Harry,

Your bird did bring me the letter when I was alone, but he also crashed into the window and nearly broke his neck, poor dear. I'd say he's smart, but a bit near-sighted. He looks a little like me with the yellow on his head and the big eyes. My eyes look a little funny, too, now. They sort of stick out and water constantly, but they don't hurt anymore. I think I'd better keep the gannet here and look after him. Thank you for the lovely shell, too.

My memories have come back in bits and pieces, so I do remember meeting you and playing together, but I think there are gaps. I don't remember what I was trying to See when I had the attack—I guess I didn't tell you? I remember we were looking at photographs, and there was one of Ron with an elephant's trunk for a nose, and the next thing I remember, everything got very dark and cold. I felt as though all the light had gone out of the world and it would never return. Then I started to remember terrible things.

Neville said you made him feel like that once, by accident. It sounds a little like a dementor. I don't care, though. If you did do it, I know it wasn't on purpose. People think my powers are strange, too. I used to tell them the things I Saw, but most of the time they either didn't believe me or thought I was wicked for spying. You will still talk to me, though, won't you Harry? I don't know when I'll be well enough to visit, but we can write, and we'll both be at Hogwarts. I'll be a year behind you, I think.

Hopefully,

Luna L. Lovegood

PS – I told Neville you wanted to regard him, but it seemed to make him feel ill. Do you suppose it's an early warning sign of the Gurgles?

─-─-─-─-─o─-─-─-─-─

Harry scowled at his latest letter as he rolled it up and tied it to the leg of a newly acquired gannet. He cast an impervious charm with a wave of his coral-pierced hand, and then touched the gannet's head, concentrating.

"Take this to Luna Lovegood, at Lovegood Lookout, Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon, England. But don't give it to her until she's alone, okay? And don't fly into the window."

The gannet looked into Harry's eyes for a moment, and then its head exploded in a shower of blood, bone, and brain. Harry cursed, cleaned himself with another wave of his hand, and snagged another bird. The cliffs on the far side of the island from the prison were crawling with the funny white birds and their nests of grass and sticks. They were easy to catch when Harry loosed a bit of his powers on them; they shivered and fell down just like the children on the playground had that day when they'd all laughed at Harry.

Harry watched the gannet's brilliant wisp of soul dissipate into the surrounding air and wondered for at least the hundredth time what made souls the size they were. Why were the souls of whales bigger than those of fish? Why were those of insects so tiny as to be almost invisible? Why was a crup's soul larger than a dog's? A kneazle's larger than a cat's? A wizard's larger than a muggle's? Why was a mermaid's smaller than a wizard's, but a werewolf's larger?

There were so many, many questions he wanted answered, but some were not so easy to put into words. And there were questions too thorny to bear thinking on, lest they cut him. So Harry did his best to wonder less and plan more.

Naturally, Harry had been planning to meet a dementor ever since stepping foot onto Azkaban. He'd wanted to meet one for as long as he'd known about them. But never before had he felt that he needed to meet one. He had waited—hoped—that Luna might remember something, but that avenue was closed to him now. He had no recourse but to seek information from the one creature he knew with powers like his own. What Luna had seen, the source of Harry's abilities, it all came down to the same thing, and Harry needed to understand, before anyone else got hurt by coming into contact with him.

Dad should set his patronus to guard against me, Harry thought forlornly, as he released the next gannet, whose head was thankfully intact. I'm as bad as a dementor.

That was another question lying in wait to sink its claws into him. Why couldn't Harry produce a patronus? He had been trying off and on with increasing intensity since he first began practicing magic, but he never produced even a wisp of silver. It was arrogant, he knew, to assume that he should be able to perform a NEWT level spell without even a day of formal training, but he'd done so many incredible things already. And Bjorn had been insistent that even a near-Squib could produce a patronus with the proper concentration and happy memory.

Harry was certain he'd wrung every drop of happiness from his memories already, but he dutifully focused himself and tried again as he started down the meandering footpath toward the village. This was the one piece in his plan to meet a dementor that just would not fit into place.

Mum. Long, silky red hair, flying in the breeze and strewn with bright autumn leaves. A smile on her face that could light up the whole sky. Eyes full of hope and love.

Harry felt something inside him unclench at the image. He continued, feeding all the half-remembered, half-imagined ideas he had of her into his magic, until a surge of emotion crested inside him, and he then diverted it down his arm and through the coral in his palm. The magic blasted from his hand and—disappeared.

Harry snarled in frustration and took a moment to calm himself. The day before, he had flung his brand new copy of Confronting the Faceless against the wall so hard that the binding had split in two. He wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry when he was able to repair it on only the third try. Obviously he could do magic—in fact, he was brilliant at it, even if he did say so himself, so why not this magic?

"Try incanting it," he muttered, though he knew it was hopeless. Ministry-approved incantations were nothing more than a focusing aid on anything other than a Ministry-designed wand, or so Bjorn had relayed.

Harry calmed himself with the memory of floating in green light, then called to mind all his most beloved memories: his mother, his father, Uncle Remus, even Neville and Luna. It was exhausting, opening himself to such powerful emotion over and over again. He felt as quivery and defenceless as a shell-less lobster afterwards, but he persevered nevertheless. The magic shot down his arm like a bolt of lightning, leaving the flesh tingling and a faint whiff of ozone in the air. But when the magic shot out into the air, it simply vanished.

Harry made a strangled little growling sound and yanked at his hair. He was approaching the village, now, and couldn't afford to be seen doing any magic. He saw only sleeping souls, however, recognizable by their peaceful blue and purple hues and their markedly slow rate of pulsation. So Harry centred himself once more, calling on his oldest memory—swaying in a gentle sea of green light.

Just then, a glowing silver phantasm rounded the corner of a house. Harry glared at the patronus, which was took the form of a hare. Just the sight of what he couldn't achieve was infuriating. The joyful memories he'd gathered shifted suddenly. In place of his father's strong arms hugging him tight, he felt the slap of James' palm and the crack of the wall against his skull. In place of Lily's laughing green eyes, he saw dead, glazed orbs staring out of a grey, stiffened face. In place of Remus' gentle and understanding smile, he saw the feral rage the werewolf had directed at Bjorn.

Fury and spite crested in Harry's chest, and he rode at the top of the wave. Without thinking, he made the gesture he'd made so fruitlessly a hundred times before, aiming his coral focus at the object of his jealousy.

Something immense and black shot from Harry's hand like a bullet, and he was bowled over by the recoil. By the time he'd scrambled to his feet again, the spirit he'd summoned was savaging the silver hare. Before Harry's startled eyes, the patrolling patronus was clawed and chewed into ribbons and scraps of light that dissipated in the air like a passing soul.

Harry stared, shocked motionless, at what his rage, hatred, and envy had produced. It resembled a patronus in some ways. Its outline was blurred and wispy, as though it were made of flames, and it took the form of a beast: a stout raven about the height of Harry's knee. Yet in other ways it was as unlike a patronus as a corpse is unlike a person. It was coal black, all except for its eyes and the outlines of its body, which glowed fiery red like lava.

The bird ceased pecking the wispy shreds of the defeated silver patronus and turned one beady eye on Harry. For a moment, Harry held his breath, wary of the creature. Then, cautiously, he held out his arm. The raven took wing, leaving glowing red trails of energy in the air behind it, and settled as lightly as a feather on Harry's wrist.

"What are you?" Harry breathed. The raven cocked its head and opened its hooked beak at him, but no sound issued forth. It seemed to Harry that the bird was looking into the blackest depths of him, where the forces that had summoned it still lingered. Harry hung his head in frustration and shame. "Go away," he murmured. "Just go away."

But the raven only cocked its head the other way and stared deep into Harry's eyes. It seemed to mock him.

"Go away!" Harry hissed, making to shove the bird from his arm. His hand went right through the creature, which dissolved into whirling ribbons of black and red magical energy before disappearing entirely.

Harry looked around him, confirming that no one had seen the exchange, before trudging wearily the rest of the way home.