Of things remembered part II

It was past midnight, and Hogwart's infirmary was basked in the eerie glow of several potions that gleamed in a mixture of colours, not unlike the strange reflection of moonlight by the sea. As it was long past curfew, the room was-of course-deadly silent. Or at least, it should have been.

'Daphy, please lower your voice! It's a miracle Pomfrey hasn't come charging in already.' Tracey stood slightly behind her best friend, one hand anxiously grabbing Daphne's robes. Her whole body was tense, and she seemed ready to bolt at a moment's notice.

'You know,' Daphne said in a carrying voice that made Tracey wince, 'I've decided that I just don't care anymore. I'll be damned if some matron tells me when to visit Harry!'

'Is that why you lost your temper with McGonagall? I don't think that was such a good idea. You know how you irked her at your sorting,' Tracey pointed out.

The Greengrass heiress just waved the shorter girl's concern aside with a shrug. 'That old sawney had it coming.'

Tracey looked somewhat confused. 'Sawney?'

'Yeah, that's what Phineas' portrait usually calls them. I hear he refused to call his Scottish students anything else on principle.'

'That's kind of mean,' said Tracey, stifling a small laugh.

'If you think that's mean, you should get him started on the French when you're over at Harry's or in the headmaster's study.' Daphne's gaze seemed to be fixed upon something invisible and far away, the corners of her mouth twitching ever so slightly.

'I like the French!' huffed Tracey in a slightly hurt voice, causing her friend to blink in confusion.

'Well, never mind that, Tracey. We all have our quirks,' she said as she gently patted the shorter witch's head. Ignoring her best friend's scowl, Daphne turned her face towards the bed before them, and her expression grew grim. 'Do you think he'll wake up soon?'

Taking note of the serious tone of the other girl's voice, Tracey finally advanced a few small steps so that the both of them stood beside the bed that had been Harry's for the last ten days. 'Don't worry. If they haven't sent him to St Mungo's yet, then he's bound to regain consciousness soon.'

'But you heard Pomfrey, too. She was clearly worried that he hasn't woken up yet because he normally bounces right back after something like this...'

'Yes, well,' Tracey said in a serious voice of her own, 'it's a bit more than some bruises this time, isn't it? Two dorsal vertebrae shattered, arm broken in six places, some issues with organs where a broken rib did some damage. You know, we should be glad that Pomfrey was there as fast as she was. If he was a Muggle, I don't think he would've pulled th...'

'DON'T SAY THAT!' Daphne screamed hysterically, causing Tracey to flinch again and throw a worried look towards the office door. 'Don't ever finish that sentence,' she whimpered, her voice hoarse and clearly suppressing a sob.

Tracey rubbed her arm comfortingly. 'He'll be fine, Sweetie. You know he will be.'

'This time, maybe.' Daphne snivelled, reaching out to smooth the edges of Harry's duvet quite unnecessarily. 'But it's been getting worse. I...I don't know what'll happen if this keeps going...'

Tracey sat down on the edge of Harry's bed, causing Daphne to shoot her a reproving glare. 'And that's exactly why we're here tonight, Sweetie.'

'But...but I decided we'd be heading to the infirmary tonight. I practically dragged you along!'

Tracey smiled disarmingly and pointed towards the door, where two people stood in the flickering lights of the torches in the corridor. 'I told you that we would probably end up needing Draco's help. Well, now we're all here to figure this one out.'

Daphne frowned, watching the second person close the door and hurriedly follow who she supposed was Malfoy. When the pair of them were finally near enough, Daphne reached out to draw her wand. 'What's she doing here?!' she hissed menacingly, pointing an accusatory finger at Hermione.

'Keep your temper in check, Greengrass. Do you really want to start shooting hexes in the infirmary?' Draco drawled offhandedly. 'Granger is with me.'

Daphne's eyes widened in disbelief. 'You're kidding, right? You and Granger?'

'Ehm, good evening,' Hermione almost whispered. Daphne ignored her, but Tracey waved at her cheerfully.

Draco rolled his eyes. 'Yes, I'm working with Granger, Greengrass,' he responded calmly. 'If you'd stop to think for a few seconds without braying like a nine-year-old, you'd see the benefit of this arrangement, too.'

'Well, I don't,' stated Daphne categorically, folding her arms.

'We need four people for this, Daphy,' Tracey chipped in.

'What? You, too, Tracey?' Daphne looked at her best friend as if she'd just drawn a dagger. 'We can't trust her!'

'Who is she supposed to betray us to?' Malfoy asked smugly.

'Well,' Daphne eagerly pounced at the opportunity to muse on the depths of Granger's treachery, 'obviously, there are loads of people, like...like...' She closed her mouth, clearly thinking furiously, before she snapped, 'The Pillars.'

'Unlikely. Not well-connected enough for that.' Draco regarded Hermione coolly. 'Besides, she's already antagonised the Bones brat, and they do seem to hold grudges. Also, Crouch or Prewett would never employ the services of someone who could turn out to be a spy for the Blacks, seeing as she was too close to Harry at some earlier point. It would only be plausible if they'd contacted her before she'd come to Hogwarts, but only the Department of Mysteries and Dumbledore know the addresses of Muggle-born students before they arrive at Hogwarts.'

'Excuse me, but who's this Crouch person?' Hermione asked, completely bewildered and desperately trying to keep up.

'And lastly,' Malfoy continued, gesturing towards Hermione's puzzled expression and pointedly ignoring her question, 'she's a terrible liar. Most of the time,' he added as an afterthought.

'We can't be sure!' Daphne growled in a guttural fashion. 'You basically admitted she could be placed in Slytherin just to spy on us.'

'True,' Malfoy shrugged his shoulders. 'But she doesn't seem the type. And I had her watched for four weeks. If she can stay inconspicuous for a whole month without us catching her, it's unlikely we ever will.'

'You had me stalked for four weeks?' Hermione gasped in a shocked voice, clearly outraged.

'Just a precaution.' He waved his hand in what he clearly considered a placating manner, but that Hermione, judging by the narrowing of her eyes, interpreted as dismissal. 'I'm just saying she's no more suspicious than you are, Greengrass.'

'WHAT?' Daphne shouted angrily. 'How dare you?! I've known Harry nearly all my life!'

'Yes, we know.' He shot a swift look towards Hermione, while Tracey hid her eyes behind her hands and shook her head, sighing audibly. 'Well, now we all know.' Daphne winced slightly. 'But the point is that you desperately cling to your connection to Harry even though your grandmother proceeds to publicly renounce everything Black. You have to agree that is a tad suspicious, right?'

Daphne clenched her fist. 'I'm my own person, you stuck-up ponce. Don't you dare bring my family into this...'

Malfoy merely smirked at that. 'So you do consider the Greengrasses your family? Good to know...'

Daphne's eyes flared dangerously, causing Tracey to jump between the two. 'Ehem, maybe we could get back on track? Now that we've all agreed that none of us is beyond suspicion, we should probably focus on the point that we are still the least suspicious people in this whole stupid school.'

'I suppose,' Draco answered equanimously.

'I'm still not even sure what you are all suspicious about, to be honest,' Hermione admitted in a weak voice, clearly lost somewhere in the conversation.

'Well,' Daphne gritted her teeth, 'I guess so.'

'Wonderful!' exclaimed Tracey happily. 'So now to the first business at hand. Daphy, apologise to Hermione!'

Daphne's eyes bulged. 'WHAT?'

'Daphne, apologise to Hermione!' Tracey repeated patiently.

'There is nothing to apologise about! Why would I...'

But she was interrupted again when Tracey furrowed her brow, looking accusingly at her best friend. 'Daphne, this won't work if you bite Hermione's head off all the time. That's why you will apologise to her.'

Greengrass took a step back from her best friend who fixed her with a steely gaze. 'I...but...'

'Daphne, you will swallow that pride of yours and apologise to Hermione.' Slightly softer, she added, 'I know it's been eating at you. You can't hide that from me.'

Daphne looked in wonder, worry and no small amount of petulance at her best friend. Tracey rarely put her foot down and usually just went along with whatever she did, but Daphne conceded that her friend might still be more mature than her, however deeply irritating that admission might be considering Tracey's common attitude.

Clenching her fist again, she looked down, hiding her expression behind the long, blond hair that Harry had once so offhandedly complimented. Looking at her injured cousin, she exhaled and relaxed a bit. Eventually, she disturbed the pregnant silence that had befallen the room after several long moments and breaths.

'I'm...' Daphne began, but Tracey coughed meaningfully, effectively heading her off. Cringing slightly, Daphne heeded the subtle admonishment and straightened her pose, looking directly at Hermione for the first time since her arrival before hiding her eyes behind her hair again. 'I apologise for my unacceptable, rash and ungainly behaviour and actions after our first Transfiguration lesson, and I deeply regret threatening and injuring you, Granger,' she said in a very formal tone. 'As you might be aware of by now, Harry is a...delicate topic for me, even though I do not wish to bring this forth in an effort to extenuate my failings.' Daphne's voice was calm and her articulation crisp, completely at odds with her usual speech. Hermione looked at the source of many of her nightmares as if she'd seen Professor Snape dance to a drinking song. To her complete discomposure, Greengrass bowed gracefully. 'Though my actions are beyond expiation, I would ask you to forgive my shameful conduct.'

Hermione looked from the still bowing Greengrass, to a smirking Draco, and finally to Tracey, who looked away from Daphne with a soft expression on her face, and motioned for Hermione to accept.

Biting her lip for a few seconds, Hermione awkwardly reciprocated the bow, as it seemed appropriate to her even though she did not really understand the custom. 'I'm sorry for unwittingly causing Harry pain, and I too hope we can put his whole affair behind us.'

Greengrass straightened her back and gazed at her, cocking her head a touch. After a while, she nodded curtly.

'Aww, how cute!' Malfoy leered. 'How about you two kiss, so we can be done with this?'

Daphne's prior composure exploded in a fit of rage. 'Shut up, you stupid Maltese! Brushed your fur already?'

Glad to have overcome the strangely serious atmosphere, Hermione couldn't resist paying Malfoy back a bit after these last few hours. 'Maltese?' she repeated appreciatively. 'I'll have to remember that one.'

'Watch it, you two!' Malfoy grumbled.

'Yes, yes, leaving breeds of dogs behind us, can we now focus on the problem at hand, please?' Tracey called out in exasperation. Everyone nodded, though they all spotted Greengrass soundlessly mouthing something towards Draco that was very easy to guess. Malfoy narrowed his eyes in return, clearly trying to come up with something in retaliation.

Tracey sighed again, rubbing her eyes as if she had a day's worth of hard work behind her. 'Can it, all of you! Salazar, what have I done to deserve this?! At least now I know that I'll never work with children in the future.' She paused again. 'Look, let's just go over the plan. Draco, you first.'

'We have a plan?' Daphne asked in astonishment.

'Of course, we do! Did you think we'd just storm the Gryffindor common room and hex everything in sight?' Malfoy asked sarcastically.

'You mean we're not? Pity,' Daphne returned, apparently crestfallen.

'The plan, please?' Hermione reminded them in a subdued voice, earning a thankful nod from Tracey.

'Right,' Malfoy coughed importantly. 'As you can all guess, our priority should be to find out who stirs up trouble for Harry. While it's easy to guess that some Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors are riled up by the Pillars, they are relatively easy to evade. On the other hand, those who might attack Harry from within our own house could do so with easy access to him at all times and are thus much more dangerous. After thinking all incidents through, and especially keeping the last one in mind, Tracey and I are convinced that some Slytherins either collaborate with the Pillars or have their own agenda against the Blacks.

'While you, Greengrass and Tracey, will do your best to keep Harry safe,' Greengrass looked up, ecstatic when Draco came up with an an excuse to keep close to Harry, 'Granger and I will do our best to further investigate these attacks, beginning with their methods, our fellow students, and our general assessment of the parties involved.' Spotting Greengrass, who had seemingly retreated into her own world at the thought of sticking close to Harry, he cleared his throat again, a bit more forcefully this time. 'The both of you will need to be discreet, Greengrass. For now, you'll do yourself no favours being seen with him.'

Daphne murmured something about 'blasted politics' before she nodded very reluctantly at Tracey's annoyed glare.

Draco and Tracey continued laying out the plan, while Hermione and Daphne kept on asking questions every now and then, completely immersed in the task at hand.

In the corner of the room, completely missed by the lot of them and pointing his wand towards the office every hour or so, sat an invisible old man in flowing robes of pure velvet, an exiguous smile filled with pride playing about his lips.

~BLHD~

A boy found himself in the void. He'd just, for lack of a better word, woken up to find himself surrounded by nothing at all: no sounds, no temperature, and no light. Instincts, however, were not something that easily bowed to the laws of logic, and once he had willed himself to move, he was mildly surprised to realise that he was indeed...shifting. This insight, too, was mysterious, seeing as the boy still could not see, feel or even hear to ascertain any motion.

Floating aimlessly for awhile, the boy began to wonder where he was. Strangely, he could not remember anything at all. It was as if all his thoughts were muffled or behind a curtain, somehow inaccessible for now. The harder he strained his concentration, the more he tried to remember, the sturdier this obstacle seemed to become in response. It was rather vexing.

Suddenly, a sensation pierced the veil that shrouded his consciousness. Some kind of phenomenon crashed repeatedly against the serenely floating form of the boy. After careful consideration, the boy decided it was sound. Straining his ears, he could almost make it out: it was a female voice, and it was bursting with emotion, shouting, crying; but specifics were hard to make out. After a while, more voices joined the first, another female first, then an old, male voice, both clearly as agitated as the first. They seemed to be exclaiming something over and over, but the meaning of their calls eluded him.

Still, now he had a sense of relative positions: he was here, and the sound came from somewhere else. Curiosity nudging him into action, he decided to approach. The voices changed, sometimes there were pauses for a while, which had caused him some concern at first, but in the end, the voices returned without fail. The boy learned to differentiate the voices better after some time. The easiest were the two young girls, who so frequently called out to him. But there were others, too. An older male voice that for some reason made him redouble his efforts, and the voice of a young woman among some others.

At some point in time, the boy saw something. At first, it was but a speck of light and dark on the horizon, but even the mere glimpse of something, anything at all to touch, see and interact with filled the boy with such excitement that he closed the gap in what he considered mere moments. Curiously enough, he hadn't found the source of the voices. No, those were even further onwards. What he had found...was a black waterfall that poured forth into a, by comparison, very small basin of crystal clear yet still dark water.

Inquisitively edging forwards, he looked into the small pond at his feet and smirked as his reflection looked up at him with an apathetic, cool grin. He wasn't thirsty, but he still could not help himself and tried to scoop a bit of water into his hand. To his great irritation, he found the water to be as insubstantial as a ray of light.

Furrowing his brows, he turned towards the waterfall, but jumped back almost immediately, eyes bulging in shock. It wasn't water that fell from the sky without any discernible source; no, it was a steady flow of images. In fascination, he beheld how the constant stream of pictures seemed to form a chain of events, comparable to a story maybe. He couldn't help himself and hesitantly reached out.

The images felt refreshingly cool and consolingly warm at the same time, but as if it had awaited his touch, the waterfall came to a sudden and impressive halt, allowing him to study the last picture without any haste.

He saw the outlines of a small boy who was bleeding so much that a sizeable puddle of his lifeblood had formed at his feet. He was leaning back against a wall, panting heavily and eyes drooping, wand held loosely at his side. Something silver and rather small seemed to be halted in great speed and was just about to vanish through a wall. In the background, the boy could see several dark, faceless figures, one of them in the process of raising its wand towards the injured young man.

The boy blinked. Something akin to...anger welled up inside him as he watched the frozen scene, yet he could not say with certainty why he felt that way.

His interest spiked; he waved his hand downwards on a hunch. The scene before him splashed into the lake and images flickered across the surface of the waterfall until he arbitrarily halted them once again. This time, he saw the same young man in festive robes dancing with a woman of almost blinding beauty. The boy seemed somehow younger than in the last picture. Not by age but rather by attitude: less guarded, more approachable. Both seemed to be enjoying themselves, and the boy, in particular, seemed to have an adoring look on his face. Lots of people stood around them, watching them dance. Some with humorous expressions, others with slight frowns, and yet a few with something akin to exasperation. He couldn't help but smile a bit at the scene.

He flicked his hand twice. This time the scene showed a smaller room with several pillars, all but shrouded in darkness while several pink lights seemed to bounce across the room. Still, he could make out two people in the dark: the boy and the woman. The ravishing beauty stood cocky and brazen in the middle of the room, one hand in the pocket of her robes, the other calmly handling a very bright wand. The boy was hidden behind a column and appeared to be breathing hard, eyes closed. A bit of broken glass lay at his feet in several circles of runes, and something...something decidedly odd. The visitor came closer to the picture, focusing intently on the layers of runes and the broken glass, his nose nearly touching the image. Something black seemed to swell within the runes, about to erupt into the room, darkness condensed into a package of...calamity. Still edging closer and closer, the boy couldn't help but sense that something was wrong with the picture. Just as a shiver crept down his spine, the darkness stirred abruptly within the otherwise frozen picture, readjusting its focus towards the boy and stared back at him. The visitor jumped back and nearly fell over, hastily swishing the image away.

Breathing deeply to quell the sense of panic that had taken hold of him, the boy waited for a bit longer this time to halt the stream of images. He did so only when the pond was more than half-full with drifting memories.

He saw a library and within it a small boy who could not be older than seven or eight. He seemed to be reaching towards a book in a special casing.

A sense of shame made the spectator wave the image again, and halt it shortly thereafter.

An old man in very imposing black robes held the same small boy's hand. The boy was clad in identical robes of sombre black. At a respectful distance, circled all around them, stood a few dozen people with serious expressions, and before the pair, kneeling in the mud, was a small girl with flowing, sleek blond hair, crying heartrendingly in front of a marked stone with an abundance of flowers scattered around it.

Blinking repeatedly, the observer swiftly dismissed the scene. The last picture had left him with a heavy mood, and he decided to inspect just one last image, one last scene of the boy's life.

With yet another wave of his hand, the stream came to a halt, and the onlooker froze. He saw an even younger little boy, and an older, stiff-looking woman in her forties who was wearing some kind of uniform, her hand raised in a gesture of reprimanding the boy who looked to be nearing tears. The scene seemed ordinary. A boy about to face the consequences of his foolish or youthful actions. Yet somehow, the spectator felt drawn towards the image with a sense of terror and revulsion that surprised him, filled him to the very core with the urge to turn and run. The scene was ordinary, probably a daily occurrence, but it stood for something else: something worse, something important. Without a thought, the visitor dived head-first into the image before him.

~BLHD~

'How often do I have to remind you not to visit the kitchens, Master Harry?' The stern-looking woman berated the boy. 'This is no proper conduct for the scion of a distinguished family.'

'B-b...but I just wanted to grab a snack, Marietta,' stammered the boy, squirming before the woman.

'Nonsense! You will adhere to the proper times of your meals, and that is that. No further discussion!' said the woman, towering over the little boy who seemed to melt into tears under her imposing figure. 'And no crying either! You should play or study a bit until we get you for dinner, young master.'

As if on rails, the woman turned about and strode down the corridor, and a thoroughly defeated little Harry made his way through the mansion towards his rooms. Upon entering, the boy scowled. There were lots of books and equally as many toys, but there really wasn't anything he wanted or had asked for. The books were boring, most were fiction or political introductions that, for some strange reason, always seemed to lean towards portraying the Potters as the best family there was. The room was bright and decorated in an inviting, friendly manner, but Harry held nothing but disgust for it. He had once asked to paint the room differently, but-of course-his request had been thoroughly denied: 'This room was decorated by your parents, Master Harry. You will want it to remain the way it is to have something to remember them by,' Angélique, another of his maids, had claimed in an authoritative voice. That was Harry's life in a nutshell: He'd ask for something only for it to be denied. And while the maids were all excessively polite to him, they were just so...cold.

Suppressing a sad little sob, the boy climbed onto chair in front of his desk and very slowly deciphered the letter he had gotten this week.

'Esteemed Master Potter,

I have the distinct honour to formally invite you to our soirée at our humble abode in London next Friday evening. Your presence is requested from 4pm until 6pm.

Respectfully,
Bartemius Crouch'

All the letters were like this. Harry didn't know what a soirée was, but he had learned that it wouldn't do to ask such questions. He was expected to attend, and so he would attend, his maids would make sure of it. He would be paraded from guest to guest as 'Master Potter', shaking hands with foreign wizards, important witches, and sometimes he would be required to sign something he didn't fully understand. Usually, Marietta would accompany him, because, as she had put it, 'House-elves are just not acceptable for such an occasion'. Not that there were any at Potter Mansion any more. Harry dimly remembered a time when that had been different, but for the last years, it had only been his 'servants' (who oddly enough nevertheless ordered him around like an elf) and the occasional guest. He had once been foolish enough to ask why the maids, who were supposed to look after him, had so much say in his life, and he'd been grounded for a whole month for his impudence.

In the end, he'd just given up. His life had settled into a painful routine of denied requests and invitations to respectable families. He didn't have anything in particular against most of them. The Crouches and Prewetts were very distant but not unkind. The Abbotts were a bit deferential, as were the Bones, but Susan and Hannah were friendly enough. He had thought so at least, for awhile, until late last year, he had overheard Susan complaining to Hannah that they were 'supposed to play with that crybaby' again, and his outlook on their little gatherings had understandably dimmed.

Neville was alright, he supposed. A bit quiet, but much more earnest. He had even once snuck into the kitchens together with Harry, and his daringness had endeared him to the young Potter, who had been horrified at the thought of getting caught.

Unceremoniously throwing the invitation into the waste-paper basket, Harry got up and tiptoed towards the door, hand outstretched. Maybe he'd give it another go with the library? He had never actually managed to get inside, but Neville had shown him the Longbottom library once, much to his envy. There had been hundreds and hundreds of books, and none of them stupid fairy-tales. Neville had regaled him with the story of how he was to receive a tutor for magical education once he turned eight, and Harry had never been so jealous in his entire life. He knew he was supposed to be a wizard; his parents had been a witch and wizard, from what he'd heard. But when he had finally worked up the courage to ask, Marietta had said that he was much too young and would learn what he needed to succeed in life once he entered Hogwarts. She'd also made a point of saying that Harry, as the last of the Potters, had servants to perform any feat of magic that he desired (should it turn out respectable, no doubt).

Harry lowered his hand again, fighting a rising lump in his throat. No, he'd never be allowed into the library. The second time he had tried to stealthily gain entry at night, Marietta had informed him in a crisp manner, that even his eventual stay at Hogwarts was a 'privilege' that could quite easily be revoked if Harry didn't improve his unworthy demeanour, as there were private teachers who would only be too happy to teach him.

Suddenly, someone knocked on the door.

'Yes?' Harry called out, slightly taken aback.

The door opened, and a man with light brown hair, a slightly lined face and a doleful little smile entered the room, crouching down to ruffle Harry's hair.

'Uncle Remus!' Harry called excitedly, giving the man a fierce embrace.

'It's good to see you again, Harry. Happy birthday! How are you?' he asked in his calming voice.

'Same as ever, Uncle Remus. I'm bored!'

His uncle chuckled in a friendly manner. 'Don't you have anything to read or play with?'

Harry gently disentangled himself from the embrace and looked down towards his feet. 'Oh, yes. Guess I do.'

'See, it isn't so bad,' the man said in an appeasing manner.

'Don't you think you could ask Marietta to let me into the room with the books, please?' Harry turned his eyes towards Remus, trying to look as innocent as possible.

But the man's smile only widened. 'That won't work on me, Harry. And I'm sure Miss Miller knows what's best for you.'

Harry grumpily kicked his waste-paper basket, making it spill its contents onto the scrupulously clean carpet. 'You're no fun anymore, Uncle Remus... Is Uncle Sirius coming by today? He gives me some really cool stuff to read sometimes!'

If Harry had been less preoccupied with kicking the crumpled invitations across his room, he'd have seen Remus' expression hardening ever so slightly. 'I'm afraid he won't be coming again at all.'

Harry turned around, his dismay easy to see. 'What? Why not? I like Sirius!'

His uncle grew thoughtful, and only after a while did he explained in a cautious tone, 'I'm sorry, Harry. But it's been deemed inadvisable to have him visit you any longer.'

Harry stood still, rooted to the spot. This was a disaster! Remus and Sirius were the only people remotely fun who came over to visit him. 'But...but you said that you and Sirius would look after me! Isn't that what you said last year?'

'That,' said Remus in a heavy tone, looking regretful, 'was a mistake. I'm really sorry about all of this.'

'NO!' young Harry shouted suddenly. 'No! I don't want this...I want Sirius to visit!'

'It won't happen,' Remus replied with a trace of coldness that shocked Harry. 'I need to be on my way. I'll...I'll see you around, Harry.'

'But you will still visit, Remus? You won't leave me alone, will you?' Harry called out in a small voice, almost too afraid to ask.

His uncle grimaced crookedly. 'I'll try, of course. But I don't think I'll be able to come over as often as I've done in the past. Just behave yourself and everything will work out, alright? Do as Miss Miller tells you, and it'll be okay.' The man walked towards the door and opened it.

Harry stood still rooted to the spot. This was the worst birthday ever. 'No, Remus! Don't leave me here!' he cried after the retreating figure. But the man in his robes that were slightly too big and rather worn-out didn't turn around again.

'I'm sorry, Harry,' he said curtly and closed the door.

Harry flung himself onto the bed and began to cry in earnest. Even now he could hear the voice of the head-maid reprimanding him, but as long as he stayed in his room and made no loud noises, he was usually left to his own devices. Harry whined and sobbed, cursing the unfairness of it all. He hated Marietta, Angélique and all the others who never let him do as he liked; who dragged him to parties where he was always nervous and couldn't play with his friends; who forbade him to read what he liked, play what he liked and go where he wanted to. He hated it all, this stupid house with the pictures of people he didn't know but who were supposed to be really important to him. He hated the people who invited him to their boring parties full of grown-ups who paraded him around like a well-bred dog.

And now Sirius wasn't allowed to visit any more, and despite what Uncle Remus might think, Harry wasn't stupid enough to believe that this had nothing to do with him. This was his punishment. Another privilege restricted because he wasn't their perfect little Master Potter, their respectable little scion, their subservient, most humble little Harry, best friend to the Ministry.

He wanted it all gone!

Just when Harry's desperation and self-pity had reached their apex, a shattering explosion rattled the whole mansion. Screams erupted further down the house, and Harry could hear some of his maids yelling in distress. Harry didn't get up but instead, almost apathetic, turned his head sideways so as to look out of the big window. Panicked shouts and what he believed to be magical incantations filled the air. Some white-blueish film around the estate seemed to flicker and die after another enormous blast shook the house and all its residents.

The little boy smiled a bit and closed his eyes. Perhaps someone had heard his late birthday wish and decided to answer his prayers.

~BLHD~

Miles and miles away, across a distance of nearly ten years, Harry awoke in the infirmary.

AN: Well, you guys have asked why Harry so casually and gladly forsook the Potter heritage in chapter two, you guys inquired why he's with the Blacks, and some of you questioned me about Sirius and Remus. While I admit that I left many questions unanswered for now, the last few chapters should, as a whole, paint a (hazy) picture.

Next chapter: Inaugurations part II on the 25th of December. Sorry, I'm incredibly busy at the moment, but I promise that I'll never even consider slowing down more than updating every two weeks. Sadly, lying in bed hoping to recover did nothing to lift my workload. From afar, my desk looks like a project-study for a new building.