Chapter Five
"Once the strings of fate have been tangled, they can never be undone." - Kikyo, 'Inuyasha', as suggested by PsychicLunar.
The Forbidden Forest, 15th January 1988
"I've been waiting a long time to meet you … Harry Potter."
The words seemed to echo around the clearing. They pounded into Harry's skull like each syllable was solid brick and he stood there, stunned and fearful. She knew who he was. Nothing good had ever come of anyone knowing who he was - a freak. Ungrateful ingrate. Dirty child. Shameful boy.
As though each new recriminatory thought was a two by four between the eyes, Harry suddenly scrambled backwards, yelping and tossing his head with each misjudged step, but never taking his emerald eyes away from the woman.
Who was she? What did she want with him? How did she know his name? How was she going to punish him?
The questions shot through Harry's mind in time with his tripping heart beat. In his moment's of distraction, Harry didn't notice the abrupt dip in the ground until he'd already tumbled headlong backwards over it. Squeaking, he hastened to his feet, but a hand between his shoulder blades stopped him before he could straighten fully.
He hadn't even heard her move.
Harry tried to skirt out from underneath her massaging fingers, but they tightened around the scruff of his neck and held him in place. He snapped a growl at her hand, but the lady didn't seem to notice - she certainly didn't flinch. Instead she just continued her ministrations, carefully working to flatten a particularly stubborn ruff of fur just behind his ears.
Under such soothing actions, Harry's muscles loosened and he calmed despite himself.
The clearing was surprisingly peaceful for somewhere within a Forest that housed a colony of giant spiders and a Centaurian village. Even straining, which Harry was loathe to do, he couldn't hear so much as a warbling bird. All there was, was the rustling of the trees in the practically non-existent breeze and the bum-bump of his own heart. He felt rather than heard the air as it stole in and out of the lady's lungs and the blood as it was pumped around her body - it was more of a presence than any easily discernable sound.
As though she sensed the direction of his thoughts - perhaps she saw his ear twitching - the lady spoke from where she was kneeling in the dirt beside him, her voice softer than feather down and curiously unaccented, "magic keeps the still."
Magic? Harry thought, lifting his snout from where it was scenting the soil.
"My, you have a lot to learn, Harry Potter," the lady continued, sounding distinctly amused. The tone seemed to wrap around Harry, quilting him in a warm blanket and tickling his stomach with absent fingers. A niggling in the back of Harry's head frowned at this, but the wolf cub found himself far too content now to care much for such trivialities at all.
The lady had continued slowly, her voice low so as to not pierce the quiet of the clearing, "enjoy your ignorance while it lingers, Harry Potter - the taste of powerful magic flavours the air around you. Your oblivion will not survive very long."
She said it so matter-of-factly, like she was merely commenting on which monarch held the throne in present times. But then she gasped - a put-on sound that coincided with a stutter in the circles she was tracing into one of his ears.
"Listen to me, stating and citing and supposing while you do not even know my name," the lady sounded appalled at her lack of manners and an apologetic wave consumed Harry. "Or, rather, names. I have many … a dubious honour you shall soon come to understand the annoyance of, I'm afraid, Harry Potter, but enough of such things. You may call me Brigid. Or," she added swiftly, tapping a finger against his head to forestall any protest, "you may call me such when you again have the required mechanics of human speech. Until then I take no insult from you being incapable of doing so. I understand that your affliction - if it may indeed be called such - imposes certain restrictions. Though, if I may say, the benefits seem to far outweigh any current limitation."
She frowned then, gnawing on her lower lip in thought. The pause in her monologue stretched until Harry shifted his weight against the ground and twisted back to blink at her in concern. Her eyes were glazed, though aligned in Harry's general direction. The hand on his back had stilled to the point that it would have felt more alive if rigor mortis had set in.
Not knowing what to do, Harry tried to squirm out of her grip, but the sudden movement seemed to ensnare Brigid's attention and her eyes snapped to his, questioning annoyance giving way to contrite indulgence in a single, careful blink.
"My apologies, Harry Potter - the temptation was more than I could resist." Brigid said slowly. Apparently sensing his confusion, she continued, fingers returning to their earlier movements. Harry let out a breath he hadn't been aware he'd been holding as she spoke, "it is unique - the way of your magic. The chance to look upon such a thing was perhaps the first and last that there ever would be and I am ashamed to confess that I …" Brigid trailed off, sounding distinctly uncomfortable, a tone that twisted Harry's stomach. "I should have asked permission first, Harry Potter. My apologies."
Harry wasn't entirely sure what she was apologising for, or even if an apology was necessary, and it showed. He snorted something noncommittal and Brigid sighed lightly.
"You have no concept or notion of what I am apologising for, do you?" Brigid asked, though it seemed to be a rhetorical question. She sounded odd - her voice was guilt and anger and regret mixed all into a single palette. For a moment Harry's gut clenched, but then he realised that her anger, wherever it had flared from, was not directed towards him. He relaxed again. "I shall come to you again when you are grown and again two-legged. Not for what is destined or what is already written, but to apologise for my intrusion."
Brigid didn't pause to allow for Harry to toss his head or lift a shoulder - as was the limit of his side of the conversation - like she had before. Instead, she ploughed straight on, and Harry got the impression that, whatever she was seeing through her eyes, it wasn't the other side of the clearing.
"You're beautiful, did you know that, Harry Potter?" Brigid sighed, letting a fingertip flutter across his eyelids. "Inside you're exploding - the energy of a million magical evolutions is twisting and pounding through you every second … sunlight and ocean and forest and blood all in one undoubtedly volatile concoction. Your power saved your life. Your power brought you here. And even now your power is fighting the virus that threatens to bring ruin to all of the hope that the world has left. To watch it is exquisite …" she trailed off, and he could practically taste her hesitation on his tongue.
Harry whined an encouragement and she tugged lightly on his ear. 'Be patient', her actions said, 'be patient and learn to do more than just hear.'
Brigid's attention was no longer on Harry. Instead, it had slipped past him to rest on a small, shrivelled bluebell, half-smothered by the ugly weeds coiling around it. Harry followed her line of sight and lifted his snout with a small furrow of what eyebrows he had left as he twisted his canine body so he could hold himself up straight.
Harry may have known little to nothing about these magical beasts lurking in this forest, or magical evolutions, or even about his seven times tables, but he did know quite a bit about bluebells - Number Four Privet Drive had won the neighbourhood award for Best Garden twice in a row and was firm favourite for stealing the prize this year, too, even though the year had yet to really properly begin. While Aunt Petunia had been keen on soaking up the praise, and posing for the local Gazette with a trowel in her hand, Harry was the one who had done much of the work. And if there was one thing he knew about Bluebells, it was that they didn't flower until June.
Brigid rocked back onto her feet from where she was kneeling next to Harry and crossed the few metres to the fledgling Bluebell. She sank gracefully down to the soil before the flower. Harry hesitated a second and then lurched forwards towards her, nearly careening into her thigh as he tried to stop his impromptu burst of motion. Somehow, he managed to skid to a halt before hitting the seemingly oblivious woman, his tail wind milling to try and disperse his momentum.
The woman in question had her eyes locked on the suffocating Bluebell. For a long moment Harry thought that Brigid had forgotten he was there but then, as she reached out so that her hand was hovering, palm down, over the Bluebell, she spoke: "sometimes all things need is a little …" Brigid paused and Harry stared up at her face in concern, watching as the bridge of her nose wrinkled in concentration. Her eyes slid shut. And it started to happen. The weeds entrapping the Bluebell peeled away, running from the dark green glow radiating from Brigid's fingertips. It was like electric - it sizzled and popped, bursting from Brigid's skin in daring loops of static before arcing back to her nails. The glow starting to envelope her hand twinkled and crackled, and seemed to glitter and spark. The Bluebell flourished under the glow, uncurling its stem and stretching ever higher. It was in full bloom when Brigid stopped, clenching her fist and letting the aura dissipate. She smiled softly and finished, "… push. I always did so adore the underdog."
The 'speaking of which' was left unsaid as she blinked and glanced down at Harry. He was crouched by her ankles, his mouth gaping open to reveal the glistening white peaks of his largest incisors. Brigid laughed lightly, a sound which Harry would later describe as bells pealing. Either way, it made his heart lift and his stomach do ambitious acrobatics.
"I shall restate what I said earlier: you have a lot to learn, young Harry Potter. A lot to learn, indeed."
Harry managed to force his mouth closed with an audible click. Brigid took that as a cue to continue, lowering her outstretched hand till it rested lightly between Harry's fluffy ears, and then humming a haunting melody 1 as she took her time remembering where she had left off.
"Unfortunately, I am not the only one who thinks so," she said abruptly, and it took Harry more than a second to figure out what she was talking about - to remember what Brigid had been saying before she had noticed the Bluebell. "You are being hunted as we speak, Harry Potter, by both collectors of beautiful things and those who would wish to eradicate them. Plots have been set into motion. Darkness is starting to creep into the edge of my vision. He has returned, Harry Potter, and He is enraged. He will tear the world apart to find you and leave burning wreckage in His wake. I can no longer see your path, but it is not heading in the direction either of us would wish it to take."
Brigid looked away sharply, but she needn't have bothered. Despite, or perhaps because of, Brigid's weighty words and the quietly distraught tone they had been delivered in, the emotional strain finally caught up with him. The attack, the weeks spent in his own self-contained Hell as his magic fought and adapted the werewolf virus, his encounter with the Acromantulas, the obvious suspicion most of the Centaurs felt towards him, and the forgotten about demands of his stomach all came crashing down on him like a Boeing 747. He was out like a light before he had even realised he was feeling drowsy, and now only the occasional twitch of his paws disturbed his sleep.
The lady noticed this a second later and she closed her mossy eyes, taking a moment to collect herself. When they opened again, they glistened slightly, though it was probably a trick of the light. For what seemed like hours she just sat there, legs tucked neatly underneath her as she carefully massaged Harry's ears. The clearing was still silent, and she still made no sound. She sat listening to the rise and fall of Harry's fur-covered chest, before ducking her head and opening full lips to break the quiet with a murmur.
"No doubt you are feeling very far from home, Harry Potter. Or, rather, from where you have laid down your head all these past years. You must be scared, but you must understand that home is not what you are walking away from … it's what you're fighting for." Brigid sucked in a deep breath, though Harry wasn't aware of it, and she whispered, "I only hope, for all of our sakes, that you find it … Harry."
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, 15th January 1988
Remus Lupin was feeling decidedly high strung.
He hadn't slept at all last night, too busy cursing the Headmaster in languages that would have made even Severus Snape grudgingly impressed, and worrying about Harry. It was clear that something was going on - Remus didn't need Dumbledore, who had disappeared to attend to 'urgent business' soon after arriving back at Hogwarts and hadn't been seen by the agitated werewolf since, to tell him that. After all, you didn't scent a werewolf and a young, evidently missing, child together at the same place and the same time and then put your money on the happy ending.
Remus growled as he remembered what Dumbledore had said before disappearing with the letter that a tight-lipped McGonagall had met him at the gates with. What could possibly be more important than the safety of James and Lily's son?
He felt a flare of frustrated anger towards Professor Dumbledore and then a wave of burning shame directed at himself. Who was he to question the Headmaster? Dumbledore had cared for James and Lily just as much as Remus himself had. He would never do anything to hurt them, or their child. If his business was of such import then he did not need the distraction Remus would provide.
Pressing his palm against his forehead, Remus found comfort in his own body heat and sank into a plush chair. Previously, he had been pacing the rooms provided for him overnight, his long body stalking like a malnourished jungle cat.
Wrong animal, Remus thought bitterly. If he hadn't been a werewolf, he could have had Harry since that fateful Halloween. He could have protected him, kept him close, warded off werewolves and other creatures of the night. Remus's lips quirked upwards into a momentarily bittersweet smile as he imagined checking under Harry's bed for monsters and poking around Harry's closet with a drawn wand … just in case.
Remus suddenly tensed and his head shot up. A werewolf: creature of the night. What in Merlin's name had a seven year old boy been doing out, presumably alone, at night? Had he sneaked out, shimmying down the drain pipe like James used to do? Or maybe he had been running away, fuelled by a temper that would have put Lily's outbursts to shame.
The werewolf hoped so - the only other alternative he could think of was too horrible to bear.
Shaking his head, and forcing himself to settle on his inherent personality theory, Remus glanced up at the clock. It was getting late and he was still cooped up in the plush red and gold rooms that Professor McGonagall had so kindly found for him the night before. Where was Dumbledore?
No sooner had he articulated the question in his mind's eye (or should that be ear?) did Remus realise he was thinking in circles. Deciding that it was both unproductive and unhealthy, Remus once again turned his attention outwards. However, this time, instead of looking at the clock face, he glanced towards the tall, sturdy-looking wooden bookcase in the corner of the room. It was packed full of books of varying thickness, size and colour.
Remus had already worked his way through two of the thinner tomes after he'd become bored of staring at candlelight: 'A Thousand Conspiracy Theories They Don't Want You to Know About' by Parrie Noah and 'Corsets and Bonnets and Testosterone, Oh My!' by Irma Sheila. Since he was starting to suspect that he was going to be here a while, he couldn't see the harm in just flipping through another. Though perhaps this time one which sounded a little more respectable, Remus thought, his bones creaking as he stood from his seat and carefully made his way across the room to the book case.
None of the books there really caught his eye. Narrowing his eyes Remus moved along the shelf, running the tip of his index finger along the spines as he scanned the titles.
Suddenly he stopped, finger resting on a mere slip of a book, which couldn't possibly have been more than five pages thick. Quirking a single brow in curiosity, Remus pulled it from where it was wedged between two encyclopedia sized volumes and then glanced at the front cover. The book was black, simple and unassuming. Scrawled across the front of the leather bound tome was barely legible silver writing, announcing the title: 'How to Duel A Dark Lord'. There was no author name on the front, so Remus cracked the book open.
Inside the book, there was only one single line of cursive text. The rest of the pages seemed to be padding, there simply to bookend the one thing that whoever had written this had wanted to get across. The words read:
'Don't die.'
Like it was that simple.
With a pained growl, Remus slammed the book back onto the shelf and whirled, stalking back to the cushioned chair. He made it halfway across the room before the fire in the hearth sparked to life. The werewolf jumped and spun to face the fireplace, immediately relaxing as he recognised the ashy face there.
"Professor. You startled me." Remus said after a moment, trying not to sound accusing and failing miserably.
From the glint in Dumbledore's eyes, he heard the edge to Remus' words, too. He just chose not to comment on it, ever benevolent.
"For that I apologise, my dear boy. I'm afraid that I had assumed you were eager to get this conversation underway. Perhaps I was wrong?" It was a question, not a statement, and for one long moment Remus hated what he knew Dumbledore was trying to do. But if he let his pride dictate his next words, he would be cutting his nose off to spite his face, as the saying went.
Remus had never placed much value in pride.
"I should be the one apologising, Professor." Remus said, shaking his head slowly and sinking to the ground, partly so he could be on eye level with Professor Dumbledore and partly because he suddenly felt like he needed to be sitting on something he wouldn't be able to fall off of. "I never meant to snap, but I'm -"
"Understandably tense," Dumbledore finished for him, an understanding smile painted across his face. "I apologise, again, Remus, for keeping you waiting for so long. I'm afraid that an old friend was having a bit of trouble." Dumbledore paused, an even though they were not their usual azure blue, and were only coal and flakes of dried out wood, Remus could read the apology in his eyes as though it was written out as clear as day. Suddenly they widened, as though the older man had just remembered something, "now, now, Remus, how many times must I ask you to call me Albus?"
"As always, at least once more, Professor," Remus said with a soft, barely discernable frown. He hardly thought that this was the time to be debating titles. "Have you heard any word of Harry?"
"Ah. I regret to inform you that I have not. However, it is early days yet. We will find him."
But when? Remus wanted to ask. And will he be alive when we do?
Instead he remained silent, and Dumbledore continued: "at the moment, there is, unfortunately, very little that we can do but wait. In the mean time, I would imagine that you are most impatient to know what events took place two weeks ago." He didn't wait for an answer, which was fortunate since Remus wouldn't have deemed it necessary to give one. It was obvious to any man with sense, Remus thought, that Dumbledore was, as always, right. "I believe we should continue this conversation in my office. The very walls of this castle have ears and, in some cases, I am quite convinced I have seen eyeballs watching me as I go about my midnight wanderings."
And with those ominous - and slightly bizarre - words, the fire dulled and the Headmaster's face faded from sight. For a heartbeat Remus just stared at the fireplace, before reaching up and pulling a fistful of floo powder out of the ceramic jar on the mantle. He tossed it into the burning fire, turning his head away to protect his retinas as the flames roared green. The fire settled then and Remus turned back, his pupils dilating in the relative darkness as he stepped into the fireplace. The flames were warm, not burning, and they tickled his calves through his robes as he called, "the Headmaster's Office!"
With another flare of floo powder, Remus found himself being pushed back away from the grate. He was spinning in tight circles, his arms pinned to his side by gee forces. Fireplaces flashed before his eyes even though they were closed to protect against ash. Remus squinted at the afterimages printed on the back of his eyelids - McGonagall's office, the Divination classroom, the Gryffindor common room … ah, there: Professor Dumbledore's office.
The fireplace spat him out, but since Remus had spotted the opening, he was ready for the sudden burst of forward motion. He stepped into it, and out into the Headmaster's Office.
Professor Dumbledore was waiting for him, his fingers steepled against his lips as he sat behind his formidable desk and watched Remus walk out of the fireplace. A tired smile graced the wizened man's lips, and Remus was suddenly struck by the realisation that Dumbledore was old. Far older than anyone ever considered. And today he looked every one of his years.
"Ah, Remus. Welcome," the Headmaster said, sounding for all the world like they weren't meeting to discuss something so tragic as the untimely disappearance of Harry James Potter. "May I interest you in a lemon drop?"
Remus imagined he would have taken offence to the Professor's seemingly carefree outlook, had he not noticed the conspicuous absence of the twinkle in Dumbledore's eye. Instead, the tawny-haired man shook his head and sat, without being prompted, in the plush armchair opposite Dumbledore. He drew in a deep breath, collecting himself under Dumbledore's azure gaze, and then got straight to the point, "what happened, Professor? He should have been safe. You said …"
As the werewolf trailed off, Dumbledore rubbed the bridge of his nose beneath his half-moon glasses. "This old fool has said a great many things, my boy, not least in regards to James and Lily's son. I, myself, do not know how the wards were breached or, indeed, if they ever were. However, I have managed to piece together what I believe were the events of that night," here Dumbledore paused, "do you wish me to continue?"
To anyone else it would have seemed a stupid question, one uttered perhaps to stall the inevitable or to deny that which could not be. However, Remus knew that the churning dread in his gut was broadcasting itself on his face, and he could understand Professor Dumbledore's reticence. So he simply said, "yes."
And Professor Dumbledore continued. He told Remus of what he had managed to discover through conversations and distracted musings. He told Remus of how the Dursleys had sent the young Potter to walk the family dog after dark, of how neither Harry nor Killer had returned. He told Remus that the Muggle police were calling it an animal attack and of how they were interviewing zoo keepers, private collectors and Professors of Zoology. He confirmed what Remus had already known - the Muggle experts said 'large wolf', Remus himself had added the 'were' prefix. He told Remus of how careful examination had unearthed traces of Harry's blood among the meat that the Dursley's pet had been reduced to … and the faintest sliver of lingering magic.
"… you think someone has him." Remus said as Dumbledore finished his explanation, eyes hardening at the thought.
"It … is a possibility I am considering," Dumbledore agreed carefully, glancing down to where his index finger was tapping out some unconscious staccato rhythm. Remus followed his gaze. Dumbledore's hand was surprisingly smooth and unlined, marred only by an ugly purple line stretching from the base of his thumb to the pad of his ring finger. "This scar I earned over forty years ago. It was thought I would lose my hand, but at the time the full implications of such a thing did not occur to me. I had slain Lord Grindelwald and if the Gods asked of me only such a trivial thing then I was all too willing to relinquish what it was they requested. The exchange seemed more than fair - the lives of the Wizarding world for the use of a hand I only needed to button my robes. Sometimes conquest requires sacrifice, I said … and I was far more accurate then than I think even I knew."
Remus wasn't sure he liked the implications of what Professor Dumbledore was saying. Eyes narrowed, and the cogs inside his head visibly turning, Remus said, "but you didn't lose your hand."
"No," Albus acknowledged, looking both resigned and hopeful at the same time. It was as if he was a falling man, suspended above a sharp horizon of unyielding stone by nothing more than a fraying thread … just counting down the seconds, watching and waiting with raw desperation as tiny ants of people scurried about below with nets and mattresses. Remus frowned, wondering what was behind the expression, as naked as it was. "No, I did not."
As words failed the both of them, neither man noticed the single black beetle resting on the stone window sill.
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, 16th January 1988
When Harry's eyes opened again, more time had passed than he knew. The Sun was higher in the sky than it had been when he'd fallen asleep, enchanted by Brigid's voice, and it stung his corneas. Wincing, Harry slammed his eyelids shut and then, after taking a moment to regroup and convince himself that it wouldn't hurt as much this time around, Harry cracked his eyes open just barely.
Wherever he was, he wasn't in Brigid's clearing anymore. That much was perfectly obvious, and Harry lifted his snout from where it was resting languidly on the ground. From his new, more alert perspective, Harry looked around his new surroundings again.
He didn't recognise anything, but he was fairly sure that he'd found the edge of the Forest. He was still outnumbered by trees, but just a head of him the tree line broke and gave way to a huge lawn and an only slightly smaller expanse of water. Framed by these, a Picasso surrounded by Monet, was a castle which easily dwarfed its landscape. It was beautiful - something out of a glorified history book. It looked magnificent in its complete dominance of the horizon, welcoming warmth epitomised. Its stones seemed to shine in the sunlight, its four towers stretching north like glistening beacons to the angels.
For the longest time all Harry could do was gape. And then he heard it.
Then he wondered how he could have possibly missed it before.
'It' was a buzzing, coming from the open air complex off to one side of the lawn. It was almost literally static in the air turned sound. It was growing louder and louder, like a giant bee being relentlessly prodded and poked. It made Harry's bones tremble with something indefinable - some anticipatory need and instinctive drive.
It exploded into a roar.
If Harry strained his ears just right, he could hear something beneath the breathless noise. Something with a structure … with words … with -
"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaand welcome, ladies and gents, fish fingers and mackerels, to the first game of the season! Flying today: Gryffindor and Hufflepuff. I don't know about you, but there's one pressing question on my mind today: who the Hell are the Slytherins going to cheer for!"
"O'Sullivan!"
The noise flared then, and Harry managed to recognise it as booming laughter. There was a crowd out there. Harry sprang into action so quickly that anyone watching would have seen nothing more than a black blur. When his muscles stilled again he was hidden in a bush with thorns shoved into places thorns really oughtn't go. But still he listened, ears pricked.
"Okay, okay! I promise!" The voice insisted, before adding in a low mutter, "jeez. Women." Unfortunately, his amplified voice was more than audible, and an even louder burst of laughter swept across Harry's hearing range, not quite masking the short scuffle that was broadcast by what Harry assumed to be a microphone. Curious, Harry poked his head out of the bush and cocked his head.
"Anyway, as I was saying," the voice continued after a few moments, sounding breathless, "all you Slytherins are just going to have to wait until it's your turn to be steamrolled by the Kings - and Queens - of the Jungle." More laughter, but boos now, too. Some sounded joking, others sounded murderous, but the voice just brushed them off with a dismissive laugh. "Just kidding, you crazy Huffles. Did I say 'steamrolled'? … I meant 'flattened'. Oh, wait … oi, Professor!"
This time it seemed that even the 'boo'ers were finding it difficult to take offence and only a few good-natured jeers could be heard amongst the cat calls.
The voice coughed, sounding indignant as it continued, "right. Moving on. As every living person on the planet with sense will be able to tell you, the Gryffindor Quidditch Team has never looked so good. There. Full stop. End of sentence. Hello folks, what's this? Looks like the teams are ready. To entertain their adoring - only slightly blood-thirsty - fans. Oh, speaking of entertainment, don't think we don't all see you there, Burke … sneaking back from that peephole business you've got going in the girl's locker room. The shame. The horror. The unbelievably lucrative business idea -" The voice paused, and there was the unmistakable sound of something swiping through the air in its place. Harry's head snapped up and he shot around so that his nose was where his tail had been a second or so previous. But nothing was there, trying to sneak up on him, and the voice was talking again, "not to go all 'voulez vous coucher avec moi' on you all, but as the French say: le'z giz reazzy to rumble!"
There was barely a pause for appreciative laughter as the horrendous French accent suddenly gave way to bursts of rapid fire speech. "And here they are, for Hufflepuff: Smith, Patterson, Holland, Hutchinson, Sloan, Duggan and, cutting a rather fine form in those Quidditch robes if I do say so, their Captain, the luscious Roberta Grey. For Gryffindor: Ratchett, Castle, Troy, Doyle, Weasley, another Doyle - hey, Agalia, looking good - and Gryffindor's very own Captain, star Beater, and all round nice guy … let's hear it, people, for Michael Penn! … Was that it?" The voice wondered aloud in the aftermath of a massive cheer, "where's the crying women, the tidal waves of drool … c'mon, tell a guy why it isn't raining knickers already."
"O'Sullivan! There are childr -"
"I know, Professor. We tried to get rid of those last week. It's tragic, but they just won't leave," the voice burst out distractedly before suddenly it almost tangibly froze, a sensation distinct in the atmosphere of the place. Harry didn't have to see the owner of the voice to know that he was visibly gulping. "Um … heheh?" The voice articulated hesitantly.
A sigh cut it off. "Oh, just get on with the job, Mr. O'Sullivan."
"Er … thanks, ma'am. Anyway, the Captains are lining up to shake hands and promise to play a good, clean game. Blah blah blah. If Penn's got any sense, he's taking the opportunity to ogle Grey's -"
"Kesler!"
"… freckles?" The crowd snickered, but the voice seemed to pay them no heed. "The Captains shake on it and Madame Hooch gives the order … and they're off!"
The noise flared into a bone-shaking roar and for the longest moment time and colour bled together until all Harry knew was the commentary. It didn't take long for words like 'snitch' and 'quaffle' and 'broomstick' to gain his interest. He had certainly never heard of a game called Quidditch that involved broomsticks and balls which sounded like a choked sneeze. For a second Harry entertained the thought that he was somehow in a foreign country. But there was something in the way the air tasted that said otherwise … and the commentator spoke English.
The tiny wolf cub was reticent to leave the relative safety of the forest's cover. But, with the noted exception of the giant spiders, nothing had tried to hurt him in this new world. It wasn't like Privet Drive, where there was a slap around every corner and no way out.
Maybe he could … just for a minute …
Mind made up, Harry slowly crept out of his hiding place and out into the open space that succeeded the Forest.
He could see some of what was going on in the large stadium now, refined vision revealing the blood red and honey crimson blurs in the air above as people, suspended by nothing that Harry could make out. Harry's breath hitched and he waited for them to fall. As though on cue, a red-tipped crimson blur suddenly thrust downwards, succumbing to gravity in tight spirals. A hush fell over the stadium - not even the voice was talking. All was silent and then - VROOOMPH! Like an erupting volcano, the air suddenly exploded with ecstatic noise. Harry's emerald eyes flared and he skipped back a few paces, tossing his head in a mixture of denial and confusion.
Why … why would anyone cheer someone falling to their death? Just like Uncle Vernon. Just like -
A scarlet blur rocketed upwards and corkscrewed into Harry's peripheral vision. The tiny wolf cub's head snapped around and he gaped. It was … but how? The blur twisted in the air, spiralling ever higher. Another blur, this one yellow, was following the first smudge in the sky now. Chasing … chasing …
By the time Harry realised his paws were moving he was already standing by the huge, canvassed wall surrounding the stadium. The noise was near deafening now, but he seemed unable to stop himself from stepping even closer. Harry ducked his nose under the heavy drape and peeked inside to find a skeleton of wood and something unseen that smelled of ozone. Scrunching up the thin skin over his snout, Harry darted inside.
The covered area was wide, like a tented moat. The black cub had to hop across planks of timber to make it from one side to the other and then, by the opposite sheet of tarp, Harry paused for a moment. The muscles in his shoulders tensed unconsciously before, limbs quivering, Harry shoved his head unceremoniously through to the other side.
And gaped.
There was a huge sea of colour directly across from him. Somehow he could make out the faces and the bodies that made up the cacophony of visual noise; could see the expressions of delight and - in some cases, surly mocking - on their faces. There were people above him, too - he could hear them. He could practically smell their excitement.
And in the open air between circular stand and circular stand were fourteen figures, seven decked out in red and seven clothed in yellow, and all of them flying.
Harry did a double take at his, scarcely able to believe his eyes. His lower jaw felt unhinged.
"… And a darn near perfect example of a Wronski Feint from Gryffindor Seeker Charlie Weasley! Nice work, Charlie," the booming voice added as an after thought, "too bad Grey's not just a pretty face … oh! Hot damn, that had to hurt! Ratchett's nearly taken off of his broom by a particularly nasty bludger from Holland and -- no! NO! NO! -- Hufflepuff's equalised. Heh. Way to go, Patterson. Eighty all."
A sudden hush fell across the crowd then as the tan ball was thrown back into the mix and the hovering figures surged into motion. They were fast and skilled, leaving little time for mistakes, but all eyes were on something else: one lone individual, clad in scarlet and gold, who seemed to have spotted something.
Without warning, the figure suddenly took off, speeding up higher into the heavens and then twisting and dropping down. He was silhouetted against the sky as he spun and cart wheeled and then, with fierce determination, shot towards the ground. He was followed by a member of the opposing team. But the player who joined him was slower and clumsier, unable to complete the sharp turns and tight manoeuvres that the first figure did. Harry's breath caught in his throat as the scarlet player skimmed along the ground like a skipping stone and then suddenly thrust his hand out into thin air.
The player braked sharply and shoved his right hand skywards and there was something in his clenched fist … something glittering and golden and struggling and … amazing, Harry thought, simply amazing.
The stadium all but burst with the resulting cheer and Harry, unable to stop himself, added his own exaltation to the mix: a long, delighted howl that went unheard and unremarked upon in the din of hoarse cries.
The players came back down to earth, dismounting something wooden and slapping the boy on the back. Harry pranced in nervous excitement, backing up and dancing forwards along the wooden beams and then, shivering anxiously, Harry misplaced a paw and fell. He cracked his skull on the plank on the way down and his entire world turned black.
When the world swam back into focus, Harry could no longer hear the ever present buzz of excitement and, while the unmistakably human scent lingered above him, it was no where near as strong as it had been before. Everyone was gone.
Whimpering as he lifted his head and stars prickled his vision, Harry gingerly got to his feet. He was in the moat beneath the planks of wood that crossed from the outside to the inside, hidden from the world by the thick drapes that hung beneath the stands of the stadium. If he dug his nails into the muddy bank on either side of the moat, Harry soon discovered that it was relatively easy to scramble out of the ditch and out of the stadium onto the lawn beyond it.
Out in the open, Harry stared up at the castle he had noticed earlier. He could see people waiting by its steps, its doors invitingly open. But, however much the people there would maybe be able to help him, they cut imposing figures and Harry was unwilling to move towards them. However, curiosity is a powerful motivator and, again, Harry found himself halfway across the stretch of grass before he'd even realised he was moving. Tossing his head in self-admonishment, Harry stepped back a few paces only to freeze in horror as he heard voices behind him.
" … and then Star Seeker over there goes and forgets his broom. Honestly. It's an insult to the commitment of Quidditchers everywhere!" Harrys ears twitched. He knew that voice. It was from before: the commentator.
"That's Mr. Star Seeker to you," a second voice answered, laughing in response to the teasing. "And 'Quidditchers'? Honestly, Kesler, that is not a word."
The first voice snorted dismissively, "when you're as indisputably gifted with the English language as I am, allowances must be made. Why, it's like telling Isaac Newton that he can't mess around with physics!"
"Isaac who?"
"Ack!" The commentator exclaimed, sounding mortally wounded, "C'mon guys, back me up here!"
"Hey, leave me out of it," a female voice said, "the sooner you two stop quibbling, the sooner we can all get up to the party." There was a sudden noise as though one of the boys had attempted to blurt something, but the girl cut them off, "and just imagine how annoyed all of the girls are going to be if they have to wait for Penn and Weasley-the-bigger-version. You probably won't get out alive."
"My sister dearest as a point … loathe though I am to admit it." A fourth voice piped up, "Admittedly, your arguing is hardly having an affect on your forward motion, and that was an unbelievably lame excuse not to get pulled into this from Doyle-the-lesser over there, but … yeah. Shut up and find your calm before you ruin mine."
"… you don't even pretend to speak English any more, do you, Yer?" The commentator asked rhetorically.
"Hey, it's not Yerodin's fault he swallowed a thesaurus," yet another voice teased, earning a wave of laughter from his audience as they came ever closer.
Harry had spun to watch their approach and was now crouched low in the short grass, the tip of his nose barely covered. They were only ten metres away from him now and would be noticing every minute … but something kept Harry in place. Some recognition … that was the boy who had caught the golden ball … and he stayed. He stayed and …
It was Charlie who spotted the cowering wolf cub first. He shoved his broomstick into his older brother's surprised hands and cautiously closed the distance between himself and the black animal.
Harry's emerald eyes widened and he tried to scramble backwards, but Charlie, apparently sensing Harry's intentions, dug into his pocket and produced a strip of bacon. It was cold, but the scent of it still reached Harry's nose. His stomach rumbled and he paused in his getaway. Charlie grinned, and offered the meat. After a moment's hesitation, Harry crept forward and snatched it. He swallowed it down whole with some difficulty and then nuzzled Charlie's pocket for more.
Laughing, the seeker reached out to stroke Harry's head, gently scratching behind his ears as the rest of the victorious Gryffindor Quidditch team stood back and watched uncertainly.
Harry let an ambitious Charlie scoop him up, and eagerly downed the next strip of bacon when it was offered. Stomach sated even after such a small meal, Harry tentatively licked Charlie's cheek as the Gryffindor turned to present the wolf cub to the team and to his brother.
"What do you say, Bill?" Charlie asked, "can I keep 'im?"
1 If anyone's ever heard it, think Christophe Beck's 'Close Your Eyes'. The start of it, at least. Before it starts getting all climax-y. For everyone who doesn't have a clue what I'm talking about, it's the Buffy/Angel love theme from Season Two of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. And it's absolutely gorgeous. swoons slightly.