Day 1
If Remus had awakened slowly, perhaps he wouldn't be so distressed, but he couldn't stop hyperventilating. His eyes were fixed on the slab covered in a white sheet across the room from him.
There was something under it.
And he could not smell it, could not see more than the shape of it, but he knew. Every part of him screamed it, the wolf in perfect alignment with the man howling 'that is my cub'.
His cub, unmoving under a sheet. No breathing. No moving. No noise.
His cub, dead.
Remus no longer had a cub. His reason for living, for staying away from danger and for putting down his wand when he was the danger to himself.
His Harry, the last link between himself and his family. James, his brother, his steadfast defender and optimist. Sirius, his lover, his advocate and devotee, the man who loved him so deeply and expected nothing in return, and… Lily, his dear sister. She'd been the center of that family, firey and bold and an absolute genius to boot.
Remus remembered sitting in the house they'd died in, holding baby Harry and listening to James and Lily argue about whether to flee the country to protect their son or trust in Dumbledore's protections. He remembered agonising over telling Harry the brutal truth; his parents were young, flawed and scared, marriage barely holding together as they tried to protect Harry from it all. Remus remembered wondering if Harry wasn't perhaps a bit thin, even for a teenage boy.
Merlin, he was a waste of space.
He was sobbing now, curled up, shoulders shaking and aching as he pulled himself into a tiny ball. What did his life matter? Why was he still here? He wished he was dead, and then he could be with Sirius and James and Lily and Harry once more, not chained in this black ritual chamber with Harry's corpse across the room.
Tugging uselessly at the chains, he howled in anguish, the wolf inside him screaming in time.
He was so weak, so useless, so stupid.
Harry… Harry was dead. And Remus hadn't even told Dumbledore his suspicions about the Dursleys, foolishly thinking the man knew and Harry was protected. Or would be protected.
Harry was gone, and it was all Remus's fault.
A steaming bowl of soup had appeared in front of him at some point, and by the time he calmed enough to examine it, it was cooling.
Odd.
Was it poisoned?
He looked back over at the body, what probably was the body, and shivered.
He hated that he couldn't smell it. A sure sign of preservation spells and protection over the body, which he supposed was probably a good thing because he was sure to go mad if he could smell it, but…
What was Voldemort planning for Harry's body? What horrors?
The hissed words he'd said to him when he had first been taken, "Calm yourself, wolf. I am going to resurrect him."
Surely that was not the truth? A full resurrection was impossible for… most… people.
Voldemort, though.
He'd already brought himself back from the dead. He'd proven mastery over inferi and vampires and other creatures of death during the last war, even treating with the dementors and promising sanctuary to werewolves. The man might be the most powerful Dark wizard alive, and he was definitely a necromancer.
Voldemort had raised hundreds of inferi more than once, though Remus had never personally witnessed such an activity. He'd fought them in a battle, in Diagon Alley once and again around Stonehenge during the height of summer. Voldemort had been attempting a Dark ritual within the stones and the Order had just barely disrupted him. The point being, Voldemort was the most talented Dark wizard Remus knew of, possibly the most talented Dark Wizard ever.
If anyone could do it right, it probably was Voldemort.
But the man had no reason to do it right! He hated Harry! He'd wanted to kill him since before he was born! And now Harry was dead, and the man wanted to resurrect him?! Why would he do that?
Unless he just wanted Harry alive so he could kill him himself. Horrified, Remus couldn't stop the animal howl that ripped from his chest. Not Harry, not his cub, not again!
He had to get out of here. He had to get Harry out of here, give him a proper burial, mourn and flee. This wasn't right, this was so wrong! Necromancy was wrong!
Locked in the darkness, Remus sobbed into his hands.
Day 2
Severus Snape stifled his whirling mind until he was far away from the Dark Lord, hiding any thoughts that could show on his face, any hesitation or frustration or fury. His position was far too precarious to show even a hint of emotion outside of his home.
Only when he was safe inside the house in Spinner's End, warded from basement to roof and with a cigarette in his shaking hand did he start to relax and actually think about the consequences of what he had discovered, and what that might mean for his future.
Whether the man knew or not, Severus's vow of protection and life debt had somehow transferred to Voldemort.
He could feel it, thrumming in his magic, the moment he had locked his eyes on his Lord, the same feeling he had had when he'd met that child's green eyes at the Gryffindor table for the first time. A binding magical vow, and a life debt.
He had raged against it, furious that this tiny boy held so much power over him. The disrespect in their very first class had set a precedent for every further meeting, clashing and snapping together and apart, always loathing, always caring, always having to care.
But this new feeling changed everything.
He did not, could not, work against the Dark Lord anymore. Somehow the man registered as Harry Potter to his magic and that was enough. It was as if Harry Potter had switched bodies with the man, but Potter was not that good of an actor.
Besides, the magic had all been his Lord's, not a trace of Potter's violent, sparking cloud. Voldemort's magic always manifested as a chill at the base of Snape's spine, a distortion of the shadows around him, and the heavy tasteless feel of ice on his tongue.
Potter was like being stung by static, or bit by a snake. His magic was reactive and contemptful and combative, more powerful every time they met. He was loathe to admit it, but Potter's power levels made him almost believe the prophecy.
There was a reason a handshake was such an important first greeting in the Wizarding world. Skin contact between wixen caused their magic to collide. Anyone could sense magical compatibility within a moment, and magical compatibility indicated personal, professional and even sometimes romantic compatibility.
Snape did not need skin contact to sense magic.
It was a bloodline gift, a secret his mother made him promise to keep when he was just four years old and begging for her to tell him why she smelled of mint and turned the air red when she was upset. If he had any children, they could inherit it, but he did not wish it on a child. His youth had been a constant mess of overwhelming sensations, but Hogwarts had been worse- still was worse.
Potter's magic always stood out from the crowd, though. He was always able to identify it.
Sparking, violent, rude. Uncontrolled.
Potter's magic was not there, but Snape had still felt him. Just the faintest touch, as if that infernal mind connection had tugged Potter right into the Dark Lord's mind.
He groaned as the pieces clicked together, head falling into his hands.
This magic was beyond him.
He had never been a delicate spellcaster, preferring raw power to ritual or runes, and whatever connection Potter had with his Lord, it was the deepest form of magic, something he had never dared touch.
Soul magic.
Soul magic was deep, Dark and utterly forbidden, the Blackest magic Severus even knew about. To manipulate your soul in any way had so many risks and took so much power and mental fortitude that he had never looked closely at the subject, not thinking it worth the effort of hunting down the illegal books.
Obviously the Dark Lord had.
Again, not like he could tell anyone because that would not be allowed by either the vow or his Dark Mark, the brand on his arm that marked him as the servant of Voldemrt evermore, no matter what anyone seemed to think. And likely the Life Debt, too, would work against it.
And Voldemort had used the magic within the Mark during their meeting, which meant he could not possibly be Potter in disguise, because Potter could simply not know that magic.
Snape rubbed his forehead as a dull headache began to form, huffing in annoyance. This was pointless and he was thinking himself in circles.
He was a servant to his Lord, like before. He was just bound more tightly now.
He stood to find himself a bottle of something strong, dropping his cigarette in an ashtray.
Toasting Potter's insane luck, he knocked it back, planning on getting absolutely smashed. Tomorrow he would work, but tonight he needed to forget it all.
Day 3
Narcissa had enough to deal with. Lucius was awaiting trial in Ministry holding cells, Draco was a mess, and Severus wasn't answering her owls.
And Bellatrix was driving her up. The. Wall.
"Bella," she tried, for the third time since they'd sat down with the tea set. "Do you suppose-," she looked at Draco, who hastily turned his eyes down to his teacup in a motion that she was quite sure she had taught him never to repeat in formal company when he was six.
Bella was full of energy, her magic audibly crackling through the air, her curls frizzing up in the static of it. Her face seemed perfectly calm, the picture of a demure pureblood wife, but for the gleam of madness in her eyes. She seemed to be vibrating in her seat, and before Narcissa could come up with something to say she pushed herself up and began to pace, muttering.
"Why has the Dark Lord not called upon us yet? He must have Potter, nobody is as clever as our Lord to get to the boy, so why has he not called upon us?" She spun to look at Narcissa, then Draco, pleading and desperate. "Our Lord is clever, our Lord is cunning and genius and surely he is not having trouble with the boy, but- why has he summoned Snape but not me?"
She continued to pace, ranting and rambling her fury and frustration as Narcissa and Draco sipped their tea. It was uncomfortable.
Draco broke first. "Mother, Aunt Bella, may I be excused?" He asked quietly, head bowed. Narcissa sighed softly, but nodded.
"Very well, but remember to be on time for dinner," She reminded him. "I don't want you skipping again."
He nodded and left the room without another word.
Narcissa waited until the door closed, and reached into her robe pocket for a flask, adding a dash to her tea.
Bellatrix snorted, going to the window to push it open and stick her head out into the wind. "Don't think he doesn't know about your little habits, Cissy!" She called back, grinning.
Her mood had always been changeable, like the weather in spring, but this week was worse.
Ever since Draco had returned from Hogwarts, the Dark Lord had left Bellatrix in the dark, and she was chomping at the bit for something to do, anything to please her Lord and reassure herself that he had not forgotten her.
It was tiring, because all Narcissa could care about right now was her husband in that tiny ministry cell without his clothes or his cane, and his lawyer telling her that it was going to be a tight case no matter how good his arguments were. The Wizenagamot was simply a biased machine, and it had been for many decades.
Dumbledore's sycophants, Potter's supporters and fans of the new Minister, Scrimgeour, would all be looking to take Lucius down.
It would be up to Hector Gamp to give Lucius the best chance, but facts and logic couldn't always beat the clear party lines, not when Lucius was such a powerful figurehead for the Dark.
She'd been writing letters to as many neutral and swing-voters as names she could locate, politely pleading for their mercy, and it was humiliating but she was a Black. She would do anything to keep her husband from Azkaban. Legal methods preferred, but illegal was definitely on the table.
If nothing else, she was certain her Lord was planning a breakout at some point. He had lost a few of his best duellers that night - the Lestrange brothers, the Carrow twins - and he would need them in the rising conflicts.
But she would raise her wand at her Lord before she let Lucius be imprisoned in Azkaban.
Especially after what it had done to Bella.
Sweet, excitable Bella who hid her flinches with over-the-top gestures and cackles, leaning into the crazy woman that everyone thought she was. Sweet, doting Bella who'd miscarried the child she hadn't known she was carrying a week into her stay in Azkaban. Even Draco was scared of her, Bellatrix had admitted one night after she'd crawled into Narcissa's bed, lonely. It hurt, but it hurt even more knowing that it was her sister's defense mechanism to hide her shattered mind and soul.
Hiding it by baring it to the world, but only the most dangerous parts.
Bellatrix swung back into the room and flopped down beside Narcissa, taking up her own untouched teacup and downing it. She let out a suprised noise. "That is… Rudolphus's recipe," she said, voice raw. Rudolphus was back in Azkaban, and Bellatrix didn't talk about him.
Narcissa held her breath.
The black-haired death eater turned to her sister and smiled, tears glimmering in her grey eyes. "Do you suppose Draco will want to learn from me this summer, Cissa?"
The topic change threw her off, but Narcissa took it as a compliment, glad to have made her sister happy, even for a short moment.
Day 4
When Rita had registered her animagus form at the Ministry, there had been a small amount of controversy, but it was worth it to get her job at the Prophet back. Her article in the Quibbler had been infamous, despite having none of her usual embellishments, and that had been enough to get her through the door.
And once her foot was through the door, of course, she could work her way right back up off the back of her previous notoriety. Which she was currently doing.
Her latest articles were a series of discussion pieces picking on the poor selection of wand shops in the British isles, and she was doing some editing before passing them on to the secondary editor when she saw someone she knew was loyal to Dumbledore pass by the secretary's desk.
She glanced around.
She technically was allowed to shift any time she liked, now that she was a legal animagus, but her co-workers disliked seeing it and a few had tried to swat her.
Instead, she shot an eavesdropping spell at the man's robes and stared down at her articles as she waited for the man to find the person he wished to talk to.
He was approaching Hobbes office, which meant he must have a truly juicy piece of news on him. Hobbes was the Head Editor, and people only went straight to him if they were certain it would sell. And if they were wrong, they'd likely be banned from the premises - she'd seen this more than once.
"Mr Diggle, what can I do for you?" She heard Hobbes' voice clear as day and smirked to herself, adjusting her glasses.
"W-well, it's about Harry Potter." The man stammered, his voice low and uncomfortable, and Rita stiffened.
She remembered being kept in a fucking jar by that crazy Gryffindor girl, Potter's friend. No way would she write on that boy again, nothing whatsoever - she had sworn to herself. Nothing unless she had the boy's permission, which would never come. She knew that.
And yet Rita did not end the spell. How could she? She was an investigative journalist! It was her job to find out the news and exploit it into something interesting for the public! Even if she could not use it, it was always good to know these things.
"You'd better come in, Diggle. And… Crawley, bring a quill and pad in here!"
Gritting her teeth, Rita pulled off her glasses to polish them on her clothes before standing to move to the women's restroom. She could sit in there for a few minutes, get the important information, then get back to work. Crawley was a boring choice, but Hobbes didn't quite trust Rita on things like this yet.
Her article on Ollivander's was nearly complete, anyway. She just was waiting on one more owl response and then all it needed was some editing.
"What's happening, Boss?"
"Got some info on Harry Potter, need you to take notes, okay?"
"Yessir!" There was the sound of paper against paper.
"Alright, Diggle. You've got your stage, tell us what you have." Hobbes did not sound impressed, but Rita didn't care about that. She was on the edge of her seat, wondering what Harry had done this time. The boy was so good at getting into adventures.
"He's missing." Diggle said shortly, and then didn't say anything else.
"...and…?" Crawley questioned, tapping the quill against her face in that move she always did that so annoyed Rita. She could only barely hear the soft tap tap tap, but she knew what it was. Urgh! "We need more details for an article, Diggle. When did he disappear? Was there evidence of a struggle? Where might he be? Is anyone in contact with him?"
Hobbes hummed, and Rita imagined him leaning forward on his desk with a stern look on his bushy brows. "I understand a lot of this information is probably confidential for Potter's safety but give us what you can, Diggle."
"I- er, can't tell you much," Diggle squeaked, and Rita wondered if he was lying, and if so, why. She'd met Diggle a few times and the man was short and irritating, but he wasn't a stammerer, which meant he may well be telling lies.
"Why don't you start by telling us when you discovered him missing?" Crawley said impatiently, and Rita huffed and shifted into a beetle, climbing up to sit on the top of the bathroom cabinet. She'd wait as long as she needed, nobody had seen her, it was fine.
"The 14th, in the evening, Albus… he called a few friends and said he'd- his- he had become aware of something happening at Potter's muggle relatives home, his summer home, you know."
There was a sound of a quill scratching. "Mhm. And his relatives were there but Potter was gone?"
A pause. "Yes." Lie, Rita thought, her antennae twitching.
"Did you talk to his relatives? Find out anything?"
"I-I can't say." Diggle stumbled for a moment before settling on the word, and Rita wondered what that was about.
"Was there any sign of a struggle? Anything that suggested he was kidnapped, rather than running away?"
"I- he was…" Diggle seemed extremely uncomfortable at this point. "Albus was extremely worried. He said Harry was likely injured and wandless, but out in the muggle world somewhere."
"Goodness, and are the Aurors on the case yet?" Crawley asked, full of flimsy concern.
"Albus is talking to them while I am here," Diggle replied, and Rita heard someone shift in their seat. Probably Diggle. "It's imperative that Harry is found quickly, with You-Know-Who back and Harry being the Chosen One, you know. What if he is captured by Death Eaters?"
Hobbes huffed in clear annoyance. "Mr Diggle, we are journalists. If you wish to have the law enforced, go and visit the Ministry. Can you give us any other information?"
Diggle hesitated for a long moment. "He- Harry, lost someone very close to him at the Ministry battle. A close friend. He probably isn't thinking straight in his grief. We are all very worried about him. Can you… make sure that the article says that he has places to go? In case he reads it." His voice sounded so off, like he had rehearsed it.
Odd.
"Very well, Mr Diggle. Thank you for the tip, if you come up with any other information please make sure you let myself or Miss Crawley here know at once."
"It needs to be soon! Tomorrow morning!"
And then Rita heard the sound of a bag of money on Hobbes' desk and nearly fell off the cabinet in excitement.
She finally had blackmail on her boss!
This was just what she needed. She didn't even need to hear the rest of this!
She flew down to the floor, shifted back as she landed and quickly cancelled the spell just as a co-worker entered the room.
Rita moved to the sink and ignored the woman, mind whirring in excitement.
She could hardly believe that upright, straight-laced Hobbes would take a bribe from Dumbledore's man! But this was amazing dirt for when she was ready to take him down.
Merlin, Rita looked forward to the day.
