Chapter 34 – The Godfather

A young zombie of a wizard slowly made his way back to the Gryffindor common room. He wanted nothing more than a comfortable bed, and failed to even acknowledge the presence of other students walking here and there, or the familiar stares of the first and second years. As he stepped through the portrait hole, he heard the voices for which he should have been well prepared.

"Where have you been?" squawked Hermione on seeing him, "Professor McGonagall told us you'd come back, but that was ages ago!"

Noting the look of equal concern and curiosity on Ron's face, Harry decided that it was only fair to enlighten them as far as he was able. As he recounted the events of the morning, their eyes seemed to widen further and further with each sentence.

"But…how did you find this seeing stone?" Ron demanded, frustrated that Harry was carefully edging around the subject.

"I can't tell you," he replied, before adding quickly, "not that I wouldn't if I could, but the truth is, I can't tell anyone; not another living soul."

"But you…you destroyed it, didn't you?" repeated Hermione, "So surely that's a good thing?"

Harry shrugged.

"I suppose I'll feel better about it tomorrow, but all I can think about right now was how I wanted to kill my best friends a few hours ago. I don't want to feel like that ever again."

"Don't worry, mate. We…" Ron began, before Hermione interrupted.

"Ron, please, just let him go to bed."

Harry gave a weak suggestion of an appreciative smile, then turned and slumped off up the stairs. He was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow, and there he was determined to stay until he could view the world in a more positive light.

Opening his eyes with some difficulty, he found himself standing in the middle of a muddy field with smoky clouds of dust drifting this way and that. Taking a moment to survey the scene properly, he could see that the ground was littered with bodies; many dead, some dying. He was so tired that his study of Occlumency only allowed him to block out the faces of the corpses that lay there. At that point, he just didn't want to know.

Peering through the haze, he made out a shadowy figure picking a way through the bodies. Silhouetted against whatever light the grey sky afforded, Harry could see that the figure, wearing a long, tattered coat and curtains of straggly hair, was holding a wand at his side. He paused in his tracks as he saw Harry, then proceeded with a far more relaxed posture. As his features became gradually more defined in the failing light, Harry could only hope that his eyes weren't playing tricks on him.

"S…Sirius?"

"You know, it's not every day I see a friendly face," he replied.

"Wha…what are you doing here?" gaped Harry in disbelief.

"It's where I live now, Harry," said Sirius, now only a few yards away, "Sorry it's such a mess."

"But…but…I don't understand…" Harry replied, shaking his head.

"I died in combat," he said, rubbing his eyes wearily, "so here I am, on the battlefield. It's been strangely quiet here today, so I'd say it's fortunate that you chose now to come and visit."

"If I'd known where you were, I would have been here in a second!" snapped Harry indignantly.

"Harry, please, don't get me wrong. I'm not blaming you. It seems that your dreams are the only way here, and nobody can be expected to foresee what will happen when they close their eyes. I'm just glad to see you."

Hearing these words, Harry lunged forward and hugged his godfather.

"Why did you have to go?" he moaned, sniffing back the tears that made his eyes sting.

Sirius considered. Being dead didn't make this question any easier to answer.

"Well, I can't say that it was just my time," he said resentfully, putting an arm around Harry, "Some of us are just born into the wrong families, I suppose."

Harry couldn't help thinking how dismissive this sounded. Sirius had, after all, been murdered by his own cousin, and he seemed to be the only member of his pure-blood family who had never been seduced by the Dark Arts. He gripped his godson's shoulder and looked him dead in the eye.

"Just remember, Harry, if it weren't for you, I would have surely died in Azkaban, or executed by the Dementors at Hogwarts, which amounts to the same thing. But as it is, I was able to prove my innocence to those who mattered, and at least make an exit with my head held high."

He could see that Harry took little comfort in this. Now was the time to give him strength.

"Look around you," he said, indicating the carnage that surrounded them, "These are the souls who gave up; the ones who surrendered. I will fight this battle for as long as I have to. All you have to know is that when your battle ends, for better or worse, so will mine."

"What do you mean?" asked Harry, "Why does my battle matter here?"

"As long as there is magic, the Dark Arts will always be part of life. If, however, they are allowed to rule, my struggle will never end. You aren't just fighting for those in your world, but also for many here in the next. So you see, Harry, you are still the hope I hold on to, and one day, hopefully, I shall be at peace."

What Sirius must have had to endure since the moment of his death, Harry quite simply didn't want to imagine. Wasn't your own demise bad enough without the possibility of being locked in an eternal fray in the afterlife? It was several moments before either of them spoke again, but Harry could tell that there was a question that his godfather was itching to ask.

"I know you must have some bad news for me," he began, pausing to order his thoughts, "Things are never easy here, but summer was nothing short of a nightmare. Something terrible must have happened in your world."

In reality, this would have presented Harry with the dilemma of whether or not it would be wise to burden a dead man with further troubles, but in a dream state, his sense of restraint was lacking.

"We lost Dumbledore," he said, hanging his head sorrowfully, "The Death Eaters found a way into Hogwarts and he was killed."

Sirius looked as if the wind had been completely knocked out of him.

"Dumbledore…dead?" he said finally, as if trying to find sense in the words themselves, "Death Eaters…? But…Harry, that's impossible! You know as well as I do that he could've taken on any number of them. They wouldn't have had a chance!"

"It was Snape," said Harry, before rapidly adding, "but it was on Dumbledore's orders. It's complicated…"

Sirius was already shaking with rage, but unsure as to how he could express it.

"Were the Death Eaters driven out?" he asked.

Harry nodded as he saw him slowly clenching his fists.

"Did…Snape…go with them?"

"Yes, but – "

"I KNEW IT!" Sirius growled, "Once you're a Death Eater, you're marked for life, and Snivellus is NO exception! And to think I actually believed that drivel about him turning his colours! I wouldn't be surprised if the lot of them are sitting in my…sorry, your house right now, with that bloody Kreacher cheerfully serving them tea and crumpets!"

"But Sirius, I heard it from Dumbledore's portrait," protested Harry, "He told Snape to do it. He said Snape was still serving the Order and…I've seen it for myself."

"You've…seen Snape since?"

"I found him at my parents' grave in Godric's Hollow," he replied, "He…"

Harry broke off as he heard a rumble in the distance and saw what looked like a small storm of red flares on the horizon. The ground beneath them started to shake, and Sirius drew his wand once again.

"What's happening?" asked Harry, panicking slightly.

"They're coming," said Sirius, with a genuine sense of urgency, "Harry, listen. You must leave, now."

"I don't understand…Who's coming?"

The rumbling sound grew louder, and Sirius now turned and grabbed Harry's arm.

"I don't have time to explain. Don't worry about me; I can take care of myself. Just go! Get out of here! Wake up, Harry! Wake up!"

"Harry, wake up!"

It was as he heard this second familiar voice that Harry's eyes blinked open. Ron was standing at his bedside with a face of both concern and amusement.

"Never known you to be that restless, mate," he grinned, "Tossing and turning all over the place. I was considering waking you up a while ago; thought you'd actually do yourself some damage!"

A little disorientated, Harry rubbed his eyes and reached for his glasses.

"Ron?" he yawned, "What time is it?"

"Just gone nine, I think," came the reply, "What were you dreaming about anyway?"

This wasn't a matter Harry wished to discuss. The last thing he wanted was Ron picking his brains about Sirius, and Hermione giving him a stern lecture on how such dreams would have a disastrous effect on his Occlumency.

"Can't remember now," he said as convincingly as he could, "Think it was something about Fred and George using me as a guinea pig."

Luckily, Ron let out a small laugh and threw a t-shirt at him.

"Well, you'd better get dressed. McGonagall said she wanted to see you once you were up and around."

"Wonderful…" Harry murmured as he dragged himself out of bed.

Upon his arrival in the Headmistress's study, Harry found her in conference with Professor Flitwick.

"Ah, Potter, there you are," the old witch said as she looked up, "Do sit down. I certainly hope you feel a little more refreshed. Life does seem to be quite exhausting for you at present."

Glancing briefly at Dumbledore's portrait, he could have sworn the late Headmaster gave him an encouraging wink.

"However," she continued, "Be that as it may, things are not about to get any easier. Erm, Filius, if you would be so kind?"

Professor Flitwick hopped up on to the chair next to Harry and cleared his throat.

"I've been exceptionally pleased with your progress in our Charms lessons, but the Headmistress and myself believe that your wits should now be…well, put to the test."

"Go on," replied Harry after a moments' thought.

"I must warn you, Potter," Flitwick said with a confident smile, "The practical assessment we have in mind will be both demanding and hazardous, and I would strongly advise that you spend the next few weeks immersed in preparation. Allow yourself a little freedom for the Yule celebrations of course, but make sure your spell work in Transfiguration and Charms is as tight and fluid as it can be. I would imagine that we will be arranging your test for the beginning of January, and rest assured, neither of us will be giving you an easy time of it."

So saying, the professor rapidly drew his wand, levitated a paperweight from McGonagall's desk and sent it soaring in Harry's direction. The moment it had started moving, Harry had drawn his wand, but so sudden was the attack, that his only attempt at defence was to transfigure the missile into an inkwell that still caught him in the stomach and upset ink all over his trousers.

"A little more concentration required, I think," the Headmistress sighed.