CHAPTER – 10 SHADOW OF THE DOUBT
Harry's days of recovery were a mixture of progress and restlessness. With Healer Andromeda Tonks' unwavering care, his physical injuries from the doxy attack steadily healed. The pain in his shattered femur subsided, the lacerations faded, and the contusions on his back and arms gradually disappeared. The severe doxy poisoning, which had initially been a grave concern, showed signs of improvement as well. Harry's body seemed to be adapting to the treatment exceptionally well, and within a week, most of his physical wounds had healed to the point where they were almost imperceptible.
However, his road to recovery wasn't without its challenges. He often experienced moments of weakness and disorientation, his body still adjusting to the trauma it had endured. Fatigue frequently washed over him, leaving him exhausted and unable to concentrate for extended periods. These episodes frustrated him, as he was eager to regain his strength and get back to his normal routine.
During his stay at Grimmauld Place, Harry found himself growing restless. He longed to return to Hogwarts and reunite with his friends. The uncertainty of the outside world troubled him, especially with the rumors of Voldemort's return circulating. He couldn't bear the thought of the Ministry's ignorance endangering more people, and he was determined to do his part in the fight against the Dark Lord.
One evening, as the sky outside darkened, Harry sat by the window, lost in thought. He felt a deep sense of responsibility weighing on him, as if the burden of the wizarding world rested on his shoulders. He knew he needed to act, to ensure that Voldemort's return was acknowledged and that measures were taken to protect the innocent.
Sirius, his godfather, joined him by the window. His expression was grave, indicating that he had something important to discuss.
"Harry," Sirius began, "there's something we need to talk about."
Harry turned to face him, his curiosity piqued. "What is it, Sirius?"
Taking a deep breath, Sirius looked into Harry's eyes with a serious gaze. "I've been thinking about your safety, especially considering the current circumstances. I believe it's time to make some changes."
Harry furrowed his brow, silently urging Sirius to explain further.
"I've been in contact with Professor Dumbledore," Sirius continued. "We both agree that it might not be safe for you to return to Hogwarts this year, given the Ministry's stance on Voldemort's return. Dumbledore has arranged for you to stay at a secure location until things settle down."
Harry's initial reaction was a mixture of disappointment and frustration. He wanted to be at Hogwarts with his friends, continuing his education and delving deeper into the mysteries surrounding the Department of Mysteries. However, he understood the importance of his safety, and he trusted both Dumbledore and Sirius implicitly.
"Where will I be staying?" Harry inquired, his curiosity overriding his initial disappointment.
Sirius hesitated briefly before responding. "You'll be at the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix."
Harry had heard snippets about the Order from Sirius and had a vague understanding of its purpose. It was a clandestine organization dedicated to opposing Voldemort and his Death Eaters. The thought of being in the midst of a war made him apprehensive, but he knew that Sirius and Dumbledore had his best interests at heart.
While Harry grappled with the decision, he couldn't help but feel a growing sense of responsibility. He was acutely aware of the perilous times they were in and the imminent danger posed by Voldemort. Sitting idly by wasn't an option. He wanted to take an active role in the fight against the Dark Lord and do whatever it took to protect the wizarding world.
"I understand the need for caution," Harry began, carefully choosing his words, "but I also feel a deep responsibility to help. I can't stand by while Voldemort and his followers cause chaos and suffering."
Sirius nodded in understanding, his eyes filled with pride. "I knew you'd feel that way, Harry. Professor Dumbledore believes you have a crucial role to play in the days ahead, but he also wants to ensure your safety and preparation."
As the days passed, Harry's physical recovery continued, and he dedicated himself to preparing for the challenges that lay ahead. The uncertainty of the future weighed heavily on his mind, but he was determined to face it head-on, armed with the support of his godfather and the guidance of Professor Dumbledore.
In scarcely a day's time, I found myself unintentionally stirring trouble for him.
"Sirius, I'm..."
"Harry..."
"...deeply sorry!"
"I'm sorry too!"
Their gazes locked in a mutual state of bewilderment.
"Hold on!" Sirius was the first to regain his composure. "What in the world are you apologizing for?"
"I've caused so much turmoil in your home," Harry began with solemnity, mentally bracing himself for this conversation. "I know you insisted that I stay with you, but considering everything that's transpired, I completely understand if..."
"Allow me to interrupt you right there," his godfather interjected firmly. "It wasn't your fault. You should never have been in danger in the first place. The responsibility for your safety rests solely on my shoulders!"
"But, Sirius..."
"Ahem!" Andromeda cleared her throat, serving as a reminder of her presence.
"Um, right," Sirius responded, looking slightly sheepish as he shifted his attention toward her. "I'll leave you to tend to your patient, cousin." He then turned back to Harry, a sincere smile gracing his face. "If you need anything, kiddo, don't hesitate to call for me, alright? I'll be downstairs."
Harry blinked, his expression conveying both surprise and gratitude, and he nodded in acknowledgment.
"So," the woman drawled as Sirius exited the room, "what's all this talk about a wraith?"
Harry swallowed, bracing himself for the retelling.
The world around him seemed devoid of color, except for the wraith.
It was shrouded in a deep crimson hue. Anger, resentment, and hatred—Harry recognized these emotions clearly. How? The method didn't matter. A strange, enigmatic creature stood beside him, bearing an uncanny resemblance to something—or someone—but who...
"You shall not harm Harry Potter—"
Harry recognized the words, each fragment contributing to the whole. Nevertheless, the collective meaning slipped through his fingers like grains of sand. So why—why—WHY...
He tilted his head, regarding the creature still standing there, unwavering, its finger pointing forward. He now felt a hunger? No, it emanated from the peculiar creature, this defiant, almost diminutive entity. It had a desire to protect. A yearning...
Maybe he should assist it. Infuse a bit of coldness, a touch of death. Reveal to it the profound, dark depths of the blackest night, bestow upon its life a sense of purpose.
"Harry... Potter..."
The voices echoed once more, strange and resonant, touching something deep within him. Oddly, he hadn't thought there was anything there to touch. Yet, he couldn't recall who was speaking. Or what they were speaking about. Or WHY...
A familiar coldness enveloped him, the tranquility of death. The prelude to a mournful dirge. It was comforting. Pure. No debates about right or wrong, motivations or goals.
Doubt had no foothold here.
Only the untainted purity, the unyielding coldness, and the serene embrace of death.
The creature remained resolute. Defiant. Fragile.
With a derisive snort, he displayed his disdain. A dismissive flick of his tail sent the fragile creature plummeting to the ground, where it lay quivering in fear. Emitting a low grunt, he paced around, his unrelenting gaze fixed upon the wraith. This ethereal entity was a veritable cornucopia of emotions, those troublesome little morsels: hate, envy, anger, jealousy, arrogance, resentment… All these emotions hung in the air like a sumptuous banquet, ripe for his consumption. The lesser creatures that orbited the wraith pulsed with its tainted energy.
It was a feast, indeed.
Another contemptuous snort escaped him, expressing his supreme confidence.
Then, it all unraveled. The wraith unleashed a spine-chilling, ear-piercing screech, and from the depths of his shrouded form, more of his true essence emerged. His jaws morphed into bony appendages, his flesh adopted an inky, ominous hue, and wicked horns sprouted menacingly from his head. His deathly green eyes glared with malevolence, radiating an aura of primordial energy that snarled at the very fabric of the world.
So much life.
So much emotion.
So much magic.
So much... to obliterate.
The doxies rallied against him, a pitiful onslaught of futility. They buzzed and darted at him like tiny, inconsequential waves attempting to engulf the moon. They launched themselves at him, their stings akin to feeble spears. They tore and bit, clawed with tails and nails, leaped and howled in ravenous hunger.
Yet, he swatted them away with the casual grace of a flicked pebble.
A swift, lethally precise swipe of his massive paw caused reality itself to shriek in protest as the world contorted and warped around him. The air thickened with malevolent energy once more, and everything he touched disintegrated in his wake. Everything.
The wraith screeched once more, but this time, it was pure, unadulterated terror. He reveled in it. Fear was the most exquisite of emotions, the ultimate acknowledgment of his power.
Yes, he would manifest her deepest fears.
Obsidian claws glinted ominously in the surrounding darkness as he inched ever closer to his prey.
The wraith, now desperate beyond measure, unleashed a cacophonous symphony of screeches and wails. She tore down curtains, shattered glass, and obliterated the very structure that contained her. Her wide, terrified eyes mirrored the realization that her end was nigh.
He bared his monstrous fangs, power surging through him. A void of unrelenting darkness radiated from his very being, enveloping the wraith, binding her, gnawing relentlessly from the inside as she screamed and screamed and screamed...
And then...
...
...
Fire erupted across his chest, a searing blaze that defied all explanation.
Harry struggled to pry open his eyes and draw a breath, but each attempt triggered another agonizing burst of pain, radiating from the very core of his being. He fought the urge to inhale for as long as he could, prolonging the inevitable, but eventually, he had no choice. When he did take that breath, it scorched his throat and lungs.
The cycle repeated itself several times, his entire world reduced to the relentless struggle to breathe and endure the searing pain. He was undeniably on the losing side of this battle, but as time passed, the pain, though never truly diminishing, gradually became more tolerable.
"Good," came a raspy, feminine voice, an almost comforting presence amidst the turmoil. "Very good."
Slowly, he began to regain his sense of self and awareness of his surroundings. He lay upon something cool and contoured, not exactly comfortable but far from the torment he had experienced. He tightly clenched his hand into a fist, but something felt amiss. His fingers barely responded, as though his flesh and bones had been replaced with lead weights. His body felt heavy and unresponsive, and his tendons and muscles seemed too feeble to overcome the inertia.
The soft silk sheets beneath him were one of the few consolations in his current predicament.
"Excellent," rasped the voice, which now seemed oddly familiar yet just out of reach. "I know it's difficult, but try to open your eyes, Harry."
The sound of his own name acted as a trigger. He made another attempt to open his eyes, and this time, while the brilliant light still stung, it no longer seemed confined to his core. After a series of blinks, he managed to keep his eyes open without exacerbating the pain.
Then, the flood of memories came crashing back.
"And— Madam Tonks," he croaked.
"Just call me Andi," the voice replied. Shifting his gaze upwards, he found himself staring into the eyes of Andromeda Tonks, his healer and mentor over the past few days.
"I told you it would be painful at first," Andromeda, or Andi as she preferred to be called, chimed in. "But we've made significant progress."
A feeble smile formed on Harry's lips. A day after he'd awoken from his healing coma, Andi had granted him permission to gradually rekindle his magical abilities, beginning with a basic lighting spell. His body had undergone a profound transformation due to the immense surge of magic that had coursed through it. She likened it to a human body being struck by actual lightning, not the mere Fulminis spell.
Regrettably, she was in the dark about how this extraordinary event had occurred, and she was certain it had jeopardized Harry's ability to wield magic, necessitating a kind of re-education for his body.
Whatever that meant.
This was why she, with assistance from Sirius, closely observed his spellcasting, one incantation after another. The magical surge had wreaked havoc on his previously commendable transfiguration skills. A pin he had attempted to transfigure into a pillow had swelled to enormous proportions, pelting feathers like projectiles before spectacularly exploding. Then, he had successfully transformed a goblet into a mouse, only for the mouse to emit an earsplitting squeak before meeting a similar explosive fate.
At that moment, Andi had quipped whether he had ambitions of becoming a Dark Lord, given his apparent knack for destruction. Harry had struggled to register her jest, his attention riveted on the gruesome puddle of gore before him.
Fortunately, his proficiency in Charms had remained mostly unaffected, which was, he supposed, a silver lining. However, Defense Against the Dark Arts was a different beast entirely, and an unexpected one at that.
Especially when he accidentally incapacitated a transfigured pig with a Stunner.
A Stunner.
Andi had been far from thrilled.
He understood that his wand was reputedly well-suited for Dark Arts, but this felt like an entirely different realm.
That was when Sirius stepped in. His godfather had handed him an Auror manual, brimming with offensive spell recipes, and had him execute each one. Surprisingly, it had been relatively straightforward, albeit incredibly draining. Both Sirius and Andi had pushed him to his limits until he dropped to his knees, teetering on the brink of unconsciousness from magical exhaustion.
And so, each day had concluded in the same manner for the past few days.
"I—" he coughed, his voice feeble, "I had another dream."
Andi's brow furrowed with concern as she gazed at him intently. "The doxies?"
He gave a slow, affirming nod.
"Harry, you've been through a traumatic incident. It's only natural that you—"
"You don't understand!" he hissed, his voice rising in frustration. "This was—this was different. I was killing them. The doxies, they were dying, and I was—I was— and that wraith—"
The searing pain surged through his temples, and he winced, his voice dropping to a pained whisper. "Merlin, it hurts like hell."
"Do you remember what happened?" Andi asked, her tone gentle and concerned.
He shook his head despondently. "Nothing. Only that I was killing them, and..." He paused, locking eyes with Andi. Over the past week, he had grown increasingly comfortable around the healer. Despite her stern exterior, she had been a constant presence whenever he needed her, always there when he woke up, and never judgmental. It made him feel...normal.
"The wraith, she was screaming. And I— I felt good. Powerful, even. I was— I was winning, and the doxies were nothing before me. I moved, and they just..." He swallowed hard, his voice shaky. "...died. And then I woke up."
The wraith. It always came back to the wraith. He had discussed the entity with them before, and Sirius had scoured the entire townhouse—no small feat—searching relentlessly for the elusive spirit. Three days of active searching had yielded no results. Nevertheless, his godfather had gone the extra mile, hiring someone to perform an exorcism, just to be certain. Even the demented house-elf Kreacher had confirmed that there were no wraiths in the house.
Whether the wraith still lingered or not, it had, at the very least, been driven away. Hopefully.
"Well, get up," Andi sighed. "I'll get your breakfast ready. Do you need any help?"
A rosy blush crept up Harry's neck as he vigorously shook his head. Regardless of being Sirius's cousin, Andi was a true professional, which meant she was willing to assist with practically anything, including his personal hygiene.
"If you're sure," she replied, rising from his bedside. Straightening her attire, she headed for the door, leaving him alone in the room.
And what a room it was.
Situated on the third floor of the expansive townhouse, the room boasted a view of the neighboring street. It featured a European king-sized bed, positioned to face the windows, adorned with thick, white curtains covered in rich red and gold sheets. A door leading to the hallway stood to the left, while a study desk and chair occupied the right side of the room. Further along, a spacious walk-in wardrobe awaited, adjacent to the en-suite bathroom.
This was his new room. His sanctuary. His space to use and decorate as he saw fit.
Regrettably, having spent the majority of his life confined to a cupboard and then sharing a dormitory with four others, the room's opulence made him somewhat uncomfortable. It was easily three times the size of Dudley's room back on Privet Drive. That, coupled with the fact that it was exclusively his, made it feel even more vast. The confined darkness of the cupboard had been comforting in its own way, but the expansive blackness of this room sent shivers down his spine at night.
He hadn't really discussed this with Sirius, nor did he intend to. His godfather had already done so much for him, and he didn't want to appear ungrateful. Early on, Sirius had brought in hired help to renovate the entire house while Harry was comatose and healing at St. Mungo's. Now, with the rooms cleaned up and furnished, he had a much better grasp of the sheer size of his new home.
Compared to the Dursley home, Black Manor was a foreboding chateau, and Harry wasn't one to exaggerate.
Erected sometime in the early eighteenth century, it boasted more gargoyles and gothic embellishments than even Notre-Dame Cathedral itself. This expansive and imposing structure was characterized by its scant intake of natural light. Harry could attest to that. His own room was one of the few that permitted direct sunlight to filter through.
From what he had gleaned, Andromeda had a husband who was involved in the magical spice trade, with most of his business dealings taking place on the continent. This often led him to stay away from Britain for extended periods. Their daughter, Nymphadora—Harry couldn't help but stifle a chuckle at the name—occupied her private apartment, keeping a comfortable distance from her somewhat overbearing mother. Or so Andromeda had playfully described herself.
Naturally, Sirius had extended an invitation for her to reside at Grimmauld Place. Despite her irregular hours and the occasional nights she spent away due to her job's demands, she had taken a room down the hallway. In a surprising turn of events, Sirius had opted to occupy his old room on the second floor, conveniently located next to the dojo. It was a revelation to Harry, but with the number of rooms in the house, he guessed it made sense for one of them to serve as a dojo.
He was willing to go along with it.
In many ways, it was reminiscent of Hogwarts during Christmas. Only, Grimmauld Place was less expansive, less brightly lit, and...well, lonelier.
Harry had toyed with the idea of inviting Ron to live with him. Maybe he could ask Hermione to spend her summer at Grimmauld Place this year? The Weasleys had invited both Harry and Hermione to join them for the Quidditch World Cup at the end of the previous year, so perhaps he could return the favor this time around?
He had mulled over broaching the subject with Sirius, but contemplating it and actually bringing it up were two distinct propositions. Being Sirius's godson didn't mean he was entirely comfortable making demands of his godfather. Asking for an extended sleepover felt like he would be testing the limits of Sirius's generosity.
Moreover, upon further reflection, Harry concluded that having people over might not be a wise choice. The house still bore traces of its Slytherin heritage, from the snake-themed doorknobs to the green and silver decorations. Much of it had faded with the renovations, but the signs remained unmistakable.
At least it no longer resembled the residence of dark wizards.
Four years had passed since the Sorting Hat had sorted him, and for better or worse, he had evolved from the starry-eyed child who clung to Ron Weasley and vehemently rejected Draco Malfoy simply because Ron didn't like him. Truth be told, he hadn't interacted with members of the other houses much at all. Aside from Malfoy and his cohorts, he couldn't even name any other Slytherins, let alone generalize them. Andromeda, for example, had been a Slytherin, and she was one of the kindest individuals he had ever met—though their time together had been limited to just a week.
So, no, he didn't subscribe to the 'Slytherins are evil' dogma Ron often professed. However, that didn't mean he was about to get up and embrace Draco Malfoy either.
"Better stick with Gryffindor," he chuckled to himself.
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