WARNING MAJOR ESCALATION: Fuck this chapter. I'm sorry, my brain decided it wanted to share its 'feelings' and now we all have to live with this.
Brace. For. Impact.
This story has a happy ending, but like the opposite of smooth sailings. I'm not upping the rating because aside from the swearing, this really doesn't get as bad as Fantastic Beasts and parts of Deathly Hallows (also there are as of yet no lemons). But there are further Horror genre elements moving forward.
I can at least promise you that nobody dies in this chapter ;D
Still, proceed at your own risk.
Chapter 6 - Promises, Promises
Severus was furious.
How much of his life had he given up to play the part of 'Dumbledore's Pet Death Eater' in order to protect Lily's son?
And all that had gone to shit if the boy was going to bleed his brains out through his ears.
He waited long enough for Poppy to stabilise him before going to Albus's office.
"Severus—" Albus greeted, stepping back as if he were to head down for breakfast.
Severus slammed the door shut behind him, "What is your plan for Potter?"
"Such concern," Albus mocked, never pleased with being greeted with such rudeness by those he considered friends.
"Don't test me," Severus spat. "How are you protecting him?"
"Voldemort is—"
"Is already inside of his head!" Severus roared. "And Potter is ready to die to merely hurt the Dark Lord, what are you doing?"
Albus looked stunned, not only at his tone but his volume.
"What's happened to Harry?" he asked catching on to what was happening, that Severus wasn't angry about something the boy had done but because of something that happened to him.
"What does it matter?" Severus asked. "What does it matter when you will continue to do nothing?"
"Severus," Albus warned.
"No," he said, refusing to be cowed. "Enough, that boy is dying!"
Albus walked behind his desk and asked again, "What happened?"
"What happened was that the Dark Lord managed a long-distance Legilmens attack, and Potter managed to rail against him, in the process, harming himself."
Albus didn't look surprised.
Shouldn't he have been?
Severus hated how closely Albus kept his cards to his chest. He had known something like this was possible.
He had known.
"Damnit, Albus!" Severus swore. "Whatever you think you've been doing, it isn't enough. You need to go to him, you can't keep avoiding him as you have been. You let this go on, and he will be dead by Yule."
"Severus," again the old man warned.
"Just look at his mind! He's fractured, Albus, he's losing—"
"He's an Obscurus," Albus said shortly.
Severus swallowed, thinking of his mother and the description of those creatures he had read of.
His mother had not become an Obscurus, partly because of her age and partly because she had no desire to go on living.
Potter might have lost hope, but that was different from losing the desire to live.
The boy had just done the math between himself and the Dark Lord and thinking he was alone had come to the natural conclusion of his inevitable death in that fight.
"You want him to survive those attacks?" Severus asked. "Then go to him. He's not a lost cause. He's just lost. I don't think the Dark Lord will risk attacking him anytime soon. It is safe for you to speak to him, the Dark Lord will never possess Harry."
"Why?" Albus asked, his defensive mask slipping.
"Because only a fool would possess someone who would rather kill them both than let his dreams be invaded. Only a fool would rob a burning house. And the Dark Lord is no fool."
"Do you think I should teach him Occlumency?" Albus asked.
"I think if anyone could save him from becoming an Obscurus, it's you. Black is no father, Minerva acted too late, but you? For some forsaken reason he loves you."
Albus made to speak but Severus held up a hand and continued speaking, "Maybe because the Dark Lord fears you. Maybe because he believes with a child-like naivety —he seems to have otherwise outgrown— that you could change the world if prompted. So you have to do something, because he's going to keep going to that hospital wing, and one day he's not going to be allowed or able to leave it."
Love was both a choice and not a choice at all. She liked Harry, and that was not a choice, it was a fact.
Holding his hand, however, was a choice.
Letting herself love him a little more each day was a choice as well.
Despite knowing he would leave her, just as her mother had.
She could see it.
His magic was taking on a life of its own. The more he used his magic, the better he felt, and yet, the more injured his magic seemed to become.
Harry was racing toward the grave. Burning brighter and brighter, for all the world to see.
He was, perhaps, the definition of one who burns the brightest, burns out the fastest.
And still Luna could not bring herself to leave him. Nor could she ask him to slow down, not when she saw the pain it caused him. He was just like her mother, he would not be himself if he was stuffed back behind safe lines.
Pandora Lovegood had been a wildfire, dancing, spreading further and further beyond the boundaries of any nation or human derived border.
Pandora had told her once, that she had touched the heart of magic, tasted it at the heart of creation.
And she had chased the feeling to the end.
In Luna's heart of hearts, she knew that her mother's death had been a beautiful thing, even if it had nearly destroyed her father, even if she would never learn what spell her mother had been trying to cast.
In the end, it didn't matter, because her mother had died being who she was, living as she was meant to.
She had been a bird learning to fly, and she would not have been a bird if she had not dared to jump.
Harry was the same.
He was the wind and he would go wherever the tides led him.
She could not ask him to stay, no matter how much she wanted to, she could not ask him to stay because he would cease being the person she craved.
"My dear?"
Luna looked up, startled into taking her hand back from Harry's. She reclaimed it a moment later, Harry was unconscious, how else would he know she was there unless she was holding her hand?
"It's late," Professor Flitwick said gently.
Luna didn't look up at him, just squeezed Harry's hand a bit tighter.
Madame Pomfrey had long forgotten she was here an hour ago.
In answer to her Head of House, she said softly, "I know that, the moon told me."
The moon was nearly full tonight, silver light shimmering down through the windows.
"Don't you think you ought to get some sleep?" Flitwick asked gently.
She shook her head, "He's going to leave me, Professor. His time is quite limited."
Flitwick hopped up onto a tall stool on the other side of Harry's bed so that they spoke across from each other.
Which was fine, because Harry was unconscious, not sleeping. She had tried to explain the difference to Hermione but she didn't seem to understand that it would be a good thing for Harry to wake, up so he could go back to sleep and truly begin to rest.
"He will be here tomorrow, I promise," Flitwick said.
Luna shook her head, "Tomorrow, yes, and maybe the day after, and perhaps the week after that, but not forever. He's fading, Professor. He begins to be himself more and more and yet day by day he fades a little more."
"Madame Pomfrey—" he began.
"Failed to weigh his soul," Luna interrupted. "He's shattering, one day soon, death will be a mercy."
"My dear girl…" Flitwick said so gently she looked away from Harry's face, only then realising tears were falling from her eyes.
She blinked to clear her vision, and had to swallow hard before admitting, "He's my only friend. My only human friend," she corrected herself.
Flitwick looked at her with pity which felt like knives dragged along her skin. "Mr. Potter has a long life ahead of him."
Luna's smile was not real as she answered, "That's what they said about my mother. And she was not in pain when she left us."
"Ms. Lovegood, if I asked you what could save him, would you have an answer?" Professor Flitwick asked, taking her seriously.
Luna didn't answer immediately, before leaning over the bed to pet back Harry's bangs and ran a finger over his scar.
It was hot to the touch.
"Neither can live while the other survives," she intoned. "But it's more than that though." She let her hand fall away as she looked back at her professor. "He can forgive everyone except himself, and he will not live long enough to outgrow that. And there's no one who can make him see otherwise."
Flitwick was quiet for a much longer time then, as they sat in the quiet night lit only by the pale light of a setting moon.
"Harry is very fond of you, Ms. Lovegood."
She shrugged, "That doesn't matter."
"I believe it does."
She shook her head. "He is my friend, he would die for me, but he will never love me."
"And why would you believe such a thing?"
She squeezed Harry's hand tightly then, "Because he doesn't love himself." Hot tears spilled down her cheeks and she didn't care.
Harry was unconscious, he wouldn't wake up to see her like this. To see the pain she was in. She could not bear to show it to him.
His time was short and she refused to hurt him worse than he was already hurting.
"If you need to skip tomorrow's classes to sleep in, I will speak to the other professors on your behalf."
"Thank you," she said as he hopped off the stool. "And thank you for listening, Professor."
"My door is always open to you, Ms. Lovegood. Try to remember that Harry's condition is in no way your fault or responsibility."
She smiled rubbing her thumb over the scars on the back of his hand, "I know. Whatever comes, that was my wish, to help him make it right. Not to fix him."
She didn't remember what Flitwick said after that. The next thing she knew she was waking up to sunlight and Harry smiling down at her.
She had no choice but to smile back.
Come what may, she would forever treasure these moments where she was not alone and had the ability to share with someone she loved.
Hermione and Ron arrived after dinner that night with a friend.
"I found this guy hiding in your luggage," Ron said, sitting beside Harry on the bed.
"Pen!" Harry exclaimed, holding out his hand for the Gingko Bowtruckle.
"I brought yesterday's homework," Hermione said, placing a stack of books on the side table.
Harry grinned, "Thank you."
Her own smile grew, and for the first time, Harry thought maybe his excelling in classes could bring them closer together rather than drive a competitive wedge between them.
Ron sighed, "Oh good, mate, I'm so far behind. I need all the help."
Hermione rolled her eyes, "Well we have the night." She glanced at Madame Pomfrey. "Hopefully."
"I slept until late morning and went back to sleep after lunch. She's not going to kick you out till curfew."
"Sweet," Ron said, pulling out a blank piece of paper. "Help. Please?"
Harry grinned, "Homework party it is then."
"The best kind of party there is," Hermione deadpanned.
"I hate you both," Ron said equally dryly.
Then the three of them began laughing.
As evenings in the hospital wing went it made for a rather pleasant night, even it ended with Ron rewriting his essay with all the corrections Harry and Hermione had added to it as Harry and Hermione debated the different branches of magic included in Defense Against the Dark Arts.
When Harry woke the following day —still in the hospital wing— he thought to himself that they really ought to have given him that plack they kept joking about. Especially, if Madame Pomfrey was going to insist on keeping him under observation for a full week.
When he saw Dumbledore sitting beside his bedside, for a moment, Harry forgot all that had happened between them and his heart soared, help had come, and then immediately sank when he realized why he must be here.
"You're here," Harry rasped.
Dumbledore smiled, his eyes twinkling, "I am indeed, Harry."
"How long?"
Dumbledore shifted, "Well, I've cleared my morning—"
"How long until it's over?" Harry clarified.
The Headmaster's expression sobered a bit, and he asked gently, "Until what's over?"
"Me."
"I'm pleased to inform you that you will be making a full—"
"Don't lie," Harry snapped. "You wouldn't be here, you wouldn't look at me, not unless it was the end."
All hint of mirth had vanished from Dumbledore's expression.
No eye twinkles.
He suddenly looked much older.
"I am sorry for my behaviour of late. You must know I did have—"
"You were afraid of him possessing me to get to you."
The man froze, then agreed, "Yes, that was my fear."
"Tom's the one afraid now," Harry informed, then added a bit snidely. "And it's not because of love."
Dumbledore arched a brow, "No?"
"No," Harry affirmed. "It's because he's afraid of death, and I'm not. He thinks he's a god and I taught him otherwise."
"Taught him how?" Dumbledore asked, sounding concerned.
He should have been concerned, if he was going to only show up at Harry's death bed, he could damn well do the decent thing, the bare minimum, of being concerned.
"I made him bleed."
"In the dream?"
Harry shook his head, "In real life." He touched his neck, "I can feel it. His pain. His fear. He's shaken. He bit off more than he can chew with me. Next time, perhaps neither of us will wake up."
"Harry," Dumbledore breathed.
"I thought you would be proud," Harry said, acid on his tongue. "Isn't that what you want, for us to destroy each other?"
"No, Harry, that isn't at all what I want."
"Pity, because that's what's going to happen. He's going to kill me, but I promise to do my best to take him down with me."
The Headmaster sighed, "I have failed you."
Harry didn't want to have this conversation again, "I don't want your regret."
"What do you want?"
Harry's hands fisted on the bed as he looked down at the white covers, "I want to go to class."
Mercifully, Dumbledore allowed the topic to change. "You've been doing better this year in all of your classes, including Potions. I'm quite proud of you."
Since he was cheating, that approval didn't mean as much as it might have otherwise.
At his silence, Dumbeldore continued, "Minerva and Filius have praised your teaching skills."
Some of the tension seeped from his shoulders, "Thanks."
"Do you want to become a teacher one day, Harry?"
Harry looked back up, and some of his anger abated when the Headmaster held his gaze, "Maybe? I'm really starting to like Magizoology. I think Hagrid's job would be a lot, but I like the research and getting to know the creatures."
Dumbledore hummed, "It might be a bit soon for career counselling but Magizoology would require you to continue in Transfiguration, Charms, Defence, Potions, Herbology, Astronomy, and, of course, Care of Magical Creatures. I am also pleased to inform you that Flitwick will be teaching Alchemy next year. I think you would do well in that class."
"So everything save History of Magic with an advanced elective?"
"History of Magic is written by wizards, and while history is important, I have encountered very few texts in my life that are at all sympathetic much less charitable to non-human communities. It would help you very little. Independent research of specific creatures would do you far more good in that regard."
Talking about classes with Dumbledore was possibly the most normal conversation they had ever had, and Harry couldn't deny that he wanted to like Dumbledore.
"I was thinking of joining the Art club, Professor Flitwick is pretty incredible," Harry said, feeling lighter to be talking to this man about something that had nothing to do with Voldemort.
Flitwick taught art and music too, devoting so much time to his students.
"He is a great credit to this school."
Harry nodded, a little lost as to what to say next.
"Who is your friend?" Dumbledore asked.
Harry froze, feeling Pen peek out from his breast pocket. "I didn't steal him," he defended. "He found me."
Dumbledore's eyes were back to twinkling, "It is rare for a Bowtruckle to become curious in a wizard or witch."
The last proved he really did know everything that happened in his school.
Well, almost everything.
"Luna and I have determined he has a higher IQ than Draco."
Dumbledore shook his head, beard twitching but he let the remark pass unchastised, "I knew another young wizard who befriended a Bowtruckle. They remain in each other's company to this day."
"If you say Voldemort, I swear, I'll—"
"No, Harry, I was referring to Newt Scamander."
"Oh," Harry said, not knowing how to respond to that.
Dumbledore passed him a cup of water as he said, "He was one of my favourite students, and he remains a good friend of mine."
"Luna would really love to meet him," Harry said.
"Would you?" Dumbledore asked.
"Sure, but not as much as Luna. I have Hagrid."
"Indeed," Dumbledore said. "Hagrid is well, Harry, he was merely delayed in returning due to a family matter."
Harry nodded, he already knew this, of course, thanks to time travel, but it was nice to be told without asking all the same.
"And Snuffles?"
"He's gone north," Dumbledore said. "I'm afraid his previous domain didn't have a big enough yard."
Nothing Dumbledore could have realistically said could have raised his spirits faster than that.
It didn't matter Sirius was, even if Harry couldn't speak to him until the holidays, it was better than Grimmauld Place.
Sirius's chances of survival and sanity had just increased astronomically.
"And he'll be warm, for the colder months I mean."
"Warm and fed, surrounded by people who are very found of canines, indeed."
Which translated to Lupin being with Sirius still, and also being housed and fed.
Grinning, Harry held out his hand for Pen, who carefully climbed out of his pocket. "This is Pen, the Gingko Bowtruckle, Pen, this Headmaster Albus Dumbeldore."
"An honour," Dumbledore said, then offered Pen a finger, which Pen petted, his version of a handshake.
Harry smiled, sometimes, in all the scheming and epic magical powers, he forgot that Dumbledore was just a man underneath.
A man who liked lemon drops, and socks, and was kind to everyone, no matter who they were or how small.
"Now," the Headmaster said. "As I was saying before, I cleared my morning."
Harry arched a brow, not daring to hope that the Headmaster would actually devote any time to him that wasn't absolutely necessary.
When he pulled out a bag of marbles, Harry was at once suspicious and absurdly hopeful.
It was both wonderful and saddening to see Harry in that moment.
On one hand, there was his kindness that surpassed even Lily Potter. Harry had certainly inherited her temper and bravery, as well as his father's bravery and penchant for trouble.
Some might say that it was from Lily that Harry inherited his ability to see people. But that was a gross simplification.
Harry didn't see precisely the good in people, he saw their hardships, their reasons, their faults. He saw people not as they could be but as they were, and could offer them the rare gift of understanding, even forgiveness.
It was not quite the same thing as seeing the best in someone, no, perhaps more keenly than any, Harry saw the worst in them;
And valued their lives all the same.
It took a lot to alienate him, as Albus seemed to achieve, but in Harry, he saw a rare gentleness that Albus had rarely ever encountered.
It never failed to humble Albus the love this boy was willing to give.
Love and forgiveness, that somewhere along the line Albus had lost sight of in his own life.
It hurt to see Harry in pain, again, suffering, again, and to look at Albus with such profound distrust…
"I've come to play checkers, and since you're in the hospital wing, you can't escape me."
"Checkers?" Harry asked, clearly dubious.
"Chinese checkers, to be precise."
Harry blinked, "That would explain the marbles."
Albus smiled, "Interested?"
"Sure," Harry said, looking a bit uncomfortable but pleased.
"Have you ever played before?" Albus asked, transfiguring a napkin into a game board, decorated with Gingko leaves.
He began to explain the rules as Harry picked the pale jade marbles, while Albus picked the lapis lazuli.
Pen, the Bowtruckle picked the smoky quartz.
Pen seemed to understand the rules, and played accordingly for all of five minutes before becoming a wildcard in which Albus and Harry had to play around.
Pen did abide the rules, never taking the marbles off the board, never jumping a peg outside of a straight line and never outside of the correct patterns.
Otherwise, Pen played a game of sabotage, chittering as he thwarted Albus and Harry in turns to get their marbles to the opposing triangles.
They played the morning away, by the end of which, Harry was laughing and Albus could not stop smiling.
He promised to return each morning, their conversations taking them through interesting avenues of magical theory, making Albus realise just how much Harry had been underplaying his intelligence.
It disturbed him that he couldn't fully determine why Harry would do so. He wasn't lazy, far from it, but suddenly, Minerva and Severus's expressed frustration in Harry over past years made sense.
It was quite possible that Harry could manage any magical feet he put his mind to, and until this year, the only class Harry had ever been truly motivated in was Defence Against the Dark Arts.
Albus was relieved that Minerva and Filius had stumbled onto less dire motivators to give Harry a chance to excel and open a future to him beyond Tom Riddle.
Godric's Hollow - The 6th of October 1995
James Potter woke in a tight dark space, and immediately began panicking.
"Harry!" He cried, kicking and flailing his legs and arms at the oppressive fabric surrounding him.
He had never despised satin and silk more. There wasn't enough room to even get a good punch in at the door above him. Given the stiffness of the layered fabric, someone had gone to the absurd trouble of dressing him in formal robes. The air tasted foul.
He didn't like to think Lily was here with him, he called for her anyway. His voice did not travel far in claustrophobic space.
There was no light here, and his wild thoughts kept straying back to the reeking smell beside him.
Peter had done a thorough job in his betrayal of them, not even in his grave did they have their wands.
The thought of Peter dimmed the panic beneath a wash of rage.
And with a memory of where he had been before the world had gone black.
Standing before death to give his wife time to run as he faced the consequences of his misjudgements.
Peter had stolen their wands.
How could they have mistrusted Remus?
Standing before Voldemort, unarmed, ready to give everything he had left for his family, Voldemort offered him one final chance to step aside, to join him.
And then when he refused him, he had promised James a fate worse death.
The spell had been white, stealing the light from the world to leave him waiting, suspended in the dark. Where neither time nor breath had reached him.
James called light to his fingers.
It took his eyes a long minute to adjust, after which his eyes informed him of the same thing his fingers had. He was in a cloth padded box.
James turned his head to the side, where he saw a spill of his wife's flame hued hair.
"Lily," he whispered, reaching his lit hand toward her.
The light kissed over her soken cheeks.
James screamed.
The burial spells delayed the rot, kept away the insects, but nothing could fully prevent decay, or the smell of spoiled meat.
James let the light go out as he attempted to escape, to get away from the corpse that was no longer his wife.
Voldemort had kept his promise.
James prayed and prayed as he ripped the fabric away from the interior of the coffin that Harry hadn't been buried with them. That he wouldn't feel the limp weight fall…
James screamed, screamed, and screamed as if he could will away the thoughts, as if he could drown out the horror and the sorrow of it all.
He wished he could lay back down and let himself die, wished he would suffocate and die choking on dirt but he couldn't stay here, he couldn't not try to escape.
Hours and lifetimes passed as he clawed through the wood, his nails splitting, his hands bleeding as the wood splinters shredded his skin. He finally worked his way through two boards and tore them down, creating a barrier between himself and the beautiful corpse beside him.
Then he was drowning in dirt as he dug himself out. His ears were ringing from his own screams as clawed his way upward through the freshly turned earth.
The pain of his wired framed glasses being jammed hard into his face was minimal compared to the fire in his lungs.
The funeral robes snagged and ripped on the opening he made in the coffin, slowing him down further. When he reached the surface, when he was able to breathe the night air, coughing up the soil he had taken in, he knew nothing could ever be as it was.
The James Potter who had been buried beside his wife, was not the same man who had woken beside her and crawled his way out of their grave alone.
"I hope you feel rested, Mr. Potter."
James looked up toward that high pitched voice, at the monster who had killed his family.
Who had woken him from a sleeping death, and had sat on his tombstone to watch in sick amusement as James climbed his way out. The demon had probably tilled the packed soil to ensure he would survive to suffer.
"Go to hell," James wheezed, splaying his injured hands in the dewy grass.
The monster towering above where he laid was no longer handsome. Only his red eyes remained the same, he was noseless now and bald.
Hardly human, Voldemort sneered down at him as he lifted a foot and stepped onto the side of James's face, pressing him back into the dirt, "My dear Mr. Potter, you're already there."
James had never known hatred as he knew it now.
"Death will find you," he choked out, throat so dry he felt amazed he could speak at all.
Voldemort tisked, stepping back and brushing imaginary dirt off his robes, "I made you a promise, James Potter, that if you did not join me, I would make you suffer. That I would show you the world I created before allowing you to rejoin your wife and child in the next life. It seems, however, that I need you to be a more active participant."
James snarled up at him wordlessly, as if he would ever help him.
Tom smiled, "Do not fret, your consent will not be required, only your endurance."
"You don't have that kind of patience," James rasped, his voice breaking over each word.
Voldemort pulled out his bone white wand and he cocked his head to the side like a curious crow, "I think you underestimate how much I will enjoy this."
James had no strength to fight against the iron collar that formed around his throat nor the leash of chains that pulled him into the next waking nightmare.
His only solace was the knowledge that his wife and his son were safe in death.
AN: If you're going to yell at me, just consider, this chapter is what it's like inside my head all of the time. Thoughts on said chapter, crows, or feedback, pretty please?