Half Lives – Chapter Four

Harry lay in bed that night. Thinking. His arms were folded beneath his head and he stared up at the moisture stained ceiling which looked yellowed in the weak dawn sunlight. If he was honest, it was yellowed in every light. To his left, Ron lay curled up under the covers, sleeping peacefully. Harry envied him.

His parents' death had been decided by some batty fraud who liked cushions too much.

His spiteful Potions professor had effectively written their death certificates.

Dumbledore was to give him private lessons in the new term.

He had passed through the Veil and lived.

He had led his closest friends into the path of the worst Death Eaters and Voldemort himself.

Sirius had called him James.

He was being used as some bargaining chip in reinstating an old professor.

By hearing and believing the Prophesy, Voldemort had effectively set it in motion.

This last kept Harry's brain turning over more than anything had done in a very long time. It was true that, if Voldemort had remained ignorant of the Prophesy, Voldemort would have never set out to find the mentioned child. Lily Potter would never have set up blood protection. That child would never have been cursed. Voldemort would never have marked an equal. There would never have been a link between the two. The incident at the Department of Mysteries would never have happened. Harry would never have fallen through the Veil. Harry wouldn't be wide awake at dawn, agonizing over what, exactly, the Veil had done to him and how he had survived.

Harry freed one arm and rubbed his chest as though in pain. He frowned. He had lied. As he had fallen through the Veil, everything had become muffled, he had taken far too long to hit the ground, and he had felt absolutely alive when he was eventually reacquainted with the ground. But...As he hung there, immobilised mid-flight, he felt torn. Gravity was pulling him to the ground, but, something, was pulling back. It writhed and twisted and hung on to the Veil, until suddenly, with a great whiplash of tension, the connection snapped, and Harry went sprawling to the ground.

Or, Harry thought darkly, the thing hadn't clung onto the Veil, the Veil had clung onto it.

A door banged.

Harry sat up sharply. His wand was in his hand and he was halfway to the door before he realised what he was doing. Harry faltered and looked back at his sleeping friend. Ron would skin him if Harry left him out of an exciting situation. But what if it wasn't 'exciting'? What if it was Death Eaters? What if they'd gotten to Kreacher? What if they'd gotten into the house? What if they were coming to kill everyone in their beds? What if they were coming to capture everyone and take them to separate locations, in far-flung corners of the world, which people no longer knew to look for, and they tortured them with ancient magics?

Harry then realised that maybe he was over reacting.

But still, what if it was...? Harry couldn't lead Ron into death's clutches, not again. There was a 'clink!' from downstairs. Harry wheeled round to face the bedroom door. Whatever was going on, Harry wouldn't drag anyone else into this. Ron would just have to get over it. Better indignant and alive than gratified and dead. He crept downstairs, heart beating painfully in his chest. He followed the faint noises to the kitchen. A candle was lit. The light flickered beneath the door. Hoping their backs were turned, Harry gently inched the door open and peered through the gap.

There was no 'they'. There was Sirius Black. Sitting at the kitchen table with a goblet in his hand. Harry nearly laughed with relief. He pushed the door open properly and slipped through. "Hello." He said quietly. Sirius looked up sharply. His eyes were bloodshot, and he looked ready to collapse from exhaustion, but he looked sane and calm, so Harry felt it safe to approach. "Can't sleep." He said by way of explanation of his presence. He sat at the table.

"You should sleep." Sirius replied. "It's been a tough time. You're too young."

Harry didn't answer. Instead he asked; "Why are you up so early?"

"Can't sleep." Sirius shot back with a twisted grin. He lifted the goblet to his mouth and, after a contemplative pause, took a swig.

As Sirius swung the goblet back to the table, Harry caught a wave of sent. Whatever it was, it was alcoholic. Harry didn't want to dwell on his godfather's actions. They were no doubt a reference to Azkaban, and it didn't do to discuss such things. For despite the dependence and fierce affection that Harry held for his godfather, they actually had very little interaction, and barely knew each other. Maybe it was something to do with nearly losing him in the Department of Mysteries, but Harry wanted to change that.

"Sirius," Harry began awkwardly, "at the Ministry...thanks. You risked your discovery and your life by coming to rescue me." He looked down. "Um, thanks."

That clumsy teenage expression of sentiment had Sirius snorting into his goblet. "You'll understand one day. A child can never understand the love of a parent until he himself has children." Harry wished he was partially drunk, like Sirius, maybe then he would know how to respond to that. "You're not my son." Sirius continued. "But you may as well be." Harry wondered how much of this Sirius would have said had he not been drinking. "And you're not James. No matter how much you look like him, you're different. It's just, the shadows. It was so dark around the Veil, and you looked so much like James fighting alongside me, the two blurred...I think I called you James. Or maybe I called him Harry. It's hard to hold on to people after Azkaban. They overlap...I can't tell. But it holds onto me, and I'm drawn back. They flit in and out of the shadows, and they team up and sit with me through the night. Their half-lives and their half-words. I can't hear them, but I hear voices. Voices with no words. No meaning. Half-voices. Half-voices for half-lives for a half-human like me." He mumbled off, settling into a stupor, known only to Azkaban and himself.

Harry stood, knowing he was no longer part of this conversation, and, feeling uneasy, quietly went back upstairs. He pulled the covers up and rolled onto his back. He folded his arms beneath his head and he stared up at the moisture stained ceiling which looked yellowed even in the strengthening dawn sunlight. In the Department of Mysteries, Sirius had called him James.

To his left, Ron lay curled up under the covers, sleeping peacefully. Harry envied him.