Title: Shades of Surrender--Chapter 4: Blood and Tears
Author: Wandwaver
Rating: PG
Summary: Draco is wriggling with curiosity about T.M. Riddle. So much so that he dares to ask Professor McGonagall about it. In the middle of class. The Transfiguration Professor is not amused, and Draco becomes confused and angry as he not only earns detention, but somehow gains the scrutiny of his least favorite Gryffindors. Adding insult to injury (in Malfoy's mind, at least) he must serve detention with Ginny Weasley, whom he himself had assigned the punishment. Meanwhile, Harry's Occlumancy lessons are not going well, but he feels curiously reluctant to discuss them or his new professor with his friends, almost creating a barrier around himself. It's an afternoon of unpleasantness as Malfoy is confronted with a Weasley he can't figure out how to antagonize on top of Ron's mysterious desire to pulverize him every time they see each other. And through it all, no one will tell him what he wishes to know; Who is T.M. Riddle?
Chapter Four - Blood and Tears
" . . . The motions we make
Combine as if dancing . . . "
Transfiguration
The steady hum lessened as the class began. "Today we are going to learn how to Transfigure the desks before you into living, breathing kittens," Professor McGonagall stated without ceremony. There were comments made underneath their breath as several of the students wondered if they were capable of performing the spell. Draco wasn't worried. He made it a rule never to fail at anything if he could possibly help it. He resisted the urge to make a disparaging remark as some of the girls including Pansy made "how cute" noises by his side. He was sure she was only taking the class to play the dutiful girlfriend. Not that he actually classed her as such, regardless of how much she chose to disillusion herself regarding the matter. He had more important things to deal with. He raised a hand in the air, thinking now was as good a time as any to make his enquiry.
"Yes, Mr Malfoy?" McGonagall asked dryly.
"I was just wondering before we start if you could help me with a little research I've been carrying out," he began.
"Does this research have anything to do with today's lesson?" the professor asked.
"No, but . . . "
"Then it might be more usefully carried out on another occasion," McGonagall stated dismissively. "Stop wasting class time."
"It's important," Draco argued. He couldn't afford to be ignored! He had to know!
"Really?" Professor McGonagall queried sarcastically. "I'm interested to know what might be so important you're practically dancing around in your seat with impatience." There was a subdued murmur as a few students chuckled, none too loudly for fear they would succeed in attracting Professor McGonagall's wrath.
Without giving another opportunity for rebuttal, Draco posed his question. "I was just wondering where I could find information regarding a T. Riddle," he said. Draco saw each and every member of the Tiresome Trio turn to stare in his direction. Weasley looked shocked, the Mudblood apprehensive; Potter's expression was unreadable. That in itself was a rarity. Normally it was possible to read him like a flaming book. Why would they care if he asked McGonagall for a little extra information?
A long pause followed the sentence as Professor McGonagall's eyes bore into Draco's uncomfortably. "Is this some kind of joke, Mr Malfoy?" she asked sharply. "I can assure you, if it is, I find it to be in incredibly bad taste! There will be no discussion of previous students in my classroom now or in the future and you will see me after class to arrange an evening to attend detention," she concluded grimly. Crabbe and Goyle were open mouthed with disbelief in their usual fashion on either side of him. Blaise Zabini had covered his mouth in a less than obvious attempt to hide a smirk. Git! Just because it wasn't him getting into trouble for once! There'd be some pay back involved there if he had anything to do with it! He was rapidly running out of options. Scratch that. Had in fact run out of avenues to pursue. It was a lost cause. T M Riddle would remain a mystery to him. He couldn't help but notice McGonagall was eyeing him furiously. Suddenly he realised the rest of the class were engaged in various stages of struggling with the tricky transfiguration charm. Pansy's section of the desk had a mottled piebald tinge to it and slight indentations as opposed to ears. His own section remained resolutely composed of wood. He hadn't so much as gotten out his wand yet. He fumbled within the pocket of his robes for the magical implement.
"Mr Malfoy," Professor McGonagall stated, having lost patience eventually, "if you are unwilling to join your fellow students in attempting this exercise I will be forced to ask you to leave the classroom and report directly to the Headmaster's office to explain your apparent apathy!" she remonstrated. "Ten points will be deducted from Slytherin for your inattention. Count yourself lucky I don't extend the number of hours you will be spending in detention," she added. There were distinct disadvantages to taking classes with the Head of a rival House, Draco found himself thinking ruefully. Although, why she hadn't said anything to the three Gryffindors whose heads were bent together towards the back of the classroom had him somewhat frustrated. Whatever happened to the famous Gryffindor sense of fairness? Seemed it deserted both staff and pupils alike where Slytherin was concerned. He concentrated upon the Transfiguration exercise instead. There was a lot of ground to make up since he wouldn't put it past old McGonagall to extend his detention for each minute he sat there idle. He couldn't wait for whatever punishment she would see fit to dole out and sincerely hope his father's spy network wouldn't take this particular bit of information home. If it did, he wouldn't just have his teacher's displeasure to deal with. "Finished already, Mr Malfoy?" Professor McGonagall enquired. "Doesn't look like it to me." Draco bent hastily over his work and concentrated his mental efforts on the spell once again. How he loved school!
****
Occlumency
"Oh no, Harry, you'll have to work a little harder than that," Professor Kaede Jenkins taunted infuriatingly. "I'm not easily broken." She pushed her long hair away from her face impatiently as it threatened to impede her line of vision.
"I can't!" he glared. He wondered why she had chosen those particular words. After all, she was the one seeking to force the memories from him.
"Let's try again," she instructed. "Legilimens!" Professor Jenkins commanded. Once more her office flickered in and out of focus before Harry's eyes and image followed image in his mind. Crossing the lake and his first view of Hogwarts . . . signing autographs with Lockhart in detention . . . unwrapping his Firebolt at Christmas with Ron . . . saying farewell to the members of the Order at King's Cross station . . . He came to himself, still on his feet, with one hand flung before him in an attempt to ward off the final vision. "Proves a point, doesn't it, Harry?" Professor Jenkins inquired mildly. Whilst he had disliked Occlumency sessions with Professor Snape, he was beginning to worry about sessions with Professor Jenkins for the simple reason that she was perfectionist whom he actually wished to please. His progress was never quite enough to satisfy himself. Even so, Harry realised he was gaining ground at an unprecedented rate. The ability to block out Voldemort's wraithlike presence from his mind was incentive enough to keep trying, straining reserves he hadn't even known he had.
"You can and you will learn this, Harry. Other lives than your own depend upon it. This isn't some game we're playing here. Do you want Voldemort to be able to bend your will to that of his own? To be forced to betray those you care for?" Professor Jenkins chided. "Had I not been initiated into the Order prior to my introduction as your Occlumency professor, I might have discovered vital information out about your associates today. Isn't that something you've always feared?" she assessed accurately. Her aqua eyes watched him closely.
"Of course I do!" he returned, frustrated. He was so tired . . . "I trust Dumbledore though," he returned loyally.
"You can't afford ever to let your guard down; you have to be protected at all times," Kaede Jenkins continued relentlessly. "Learn to trust your own abilities. There may be an occasion when you are the only weapon you have."
"I know!" Harry snapped. His head hurt from the attempts to concentrate . . .
"Then why are you getting so angry with me?" she asked reasonably. "Frustration clouds your ability to concentrate and shield yourself. You have to stay focused." Her words began to flow into one another as Harry struggled to block the mental energy directed at him. Suddenly, it diminished in a blessedly early conclusion. "I know it's hard, Harry, but this is the way it is. You owe it to your parents to fight every inch of the way."
"What the hell do you know about my parents?" Harry snapped mulishly.
"Enough," Kaede retorted. "I know of them. We all do. They're famous by wizarding standards."
"Harry, believe me when I say I only have your best interests at heart. I've seen people affected so badly by Legilimency that their worst fears and memories were literally paraded before their very eyes."
"When?" Harry interjected.
"I can't speak about it." The conversation seemed to have reached an impasse. "Believe me when I say there are some things it is better not to discuss even if it were a possibility," she said soberly. Curiously enough, Harry found he knew exactly what she meant. The fact that he understood the sentiments of a professor a decade older than himself, if not more, did not disturb him in the least. Life was teaching him certain lessons well.
"Your parents are an emotional black spot for you," Kaede lectured seriously. "One sharp retort from an enemy might be enough to distract you momentarily. That lapse in concentration allows an opening into your thoughts that a skilled Legilimens could use to great advantage. You already know Voldemort is such a gifted wizard. Now that he's aware you have access to his thoughts he is no doubt attempting to observe you particularly closely. Waiting for an opportunity . . . .Have you had any intrusive experiences since you recommenced your Occlumency studies?" Professor Jenkins asked suddenly.
Strangely enough, Harry hadn't had any episodes since Voldemort had attempted his momentary possession in the Department of Mysteries last year. He shook his head in response. He could only imagine the Dark Lord was biding his time. He shuddered, remembering how Voldemort had forced alien words from his lips and unfamiliar emotions to express themselves. He had felt violated, unclean.
The feelings had centred entirely upon his scar as it burst open in a kaleidoscope of pain, as his mind and that of Voldemort's fused together in a moment of intolerable clarity from which there could be no escape...Harry had no control over his movements and the only thought he could process was the dim need for release from the agony which pounded upon the inside of his skull as though it could fight its way from inside to out . . .
The longer he was without an occurrence the better. The fact that Voldemort could strike without warning, using his own body as a weapon against him was unnerving in the extreme.
"Good," Kaede returned. "Remember your evening practice. As long as possible to clear your mind of all thoughts. Try to build gradually each night. I also want you to start working on your shielding."
"Shielding?" Harry questioned curiously, unsure exactly what she meant by the word in a magical sense.
Professor Jenkins grinned. "Not literally, although you can work with a metal if you want. You need to find a form of defensive "shield" behind which to hide your innermost thoughts. Those memories you particularly wish to suppress. It isn't enough to block everything. That arouses suspicion in itself. You'll find a format of preference - metal, rock, plants, fire, water, wind, earth . . . you get the picture, Harry. You'll know when you've found the right one. Then we'll work at reinforcing it."
"How will I know?" he asked.
"It's the form that will leap instinctively to mind unbidden," his tutor clarified. Harry found himself curious as to what element would present itself to him.
"That's enough for today, I think," Professor Jenkins stated briskly. "Same time next week."
"See you," Harry said his farewells. He had the feeling he had missed something important somewhere along the way. Perhaps the thought would resurface again further down the track...
****
Detention
"Weasley!" Draco exclaimed. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Ginny Weasley looked up briefly from staring at the desk in front of her. "I should have thought that was perfectly obvious," she muttered.
"No. I meant why," he corrected hastily.
"You've only got yourself to blame," she retorted. "Seeing as it's your fault I'm here."
"How do you work that one out?" he inquired nastily.
"You took the points from me, didn't you?" she snapped.
"I beg your pardon?"
"The House points," Ginny clarified impatiently, looking at him as though he blatantly needed help. "You must have known what would happen when you did it. McGonagall was furious when she found out our total was below zero within the first week of term. Incidently, so was my brother." Abruptly, she shut her mouth as though she had said too much.
Seemed his plan had been even more fruitful than he had anticipated but now he was suffering for his success. He would have to spend the whole detention with the Weasel. Surely even McGonagall couldn't devise a more cruel punishment than that?
"I find the idea of your brother on the warpath utterly terrifying," Draco stated sarcastically. "So much the better, in fact. I haven't tormented him for at least six hours or so. That's practically a record in abstinence for me." He smirked. Ginny Weasley looked up sharply at this, opened her mouth to speak, and closed it again with an obvious effort. What? Now she wouldn't even talk to him? If he wanted her to speak, she would! He wouldn't stand for being ignored by some insignificant fifth year! He was a Malfoy, for Pentheus' sake! It wasn't to be born! "Why so quiet all of a sudden, Weasel?" he queried spitefully. "Scared to answer back?"
She looked back at him calmly. "Not scared, Malfoy. I could never be afraid of you," she stated truthfully. "It just doesn't seem worth wasting my breath when there's so little worth responding to."
Draco thought that was rather rich from the youngest of such a renowned family of blood traitors as the Weasleys. "I'll have you know I'm practically top of my class, Weasley!" he exclaimed impetuously. His lip curled. "Well, after Miss Mudblood, at any rate." Ginny Weasley turned to stare at him. Initially, he thought it was in protest as his use of the word "Mudblood" but soon realised he had in fact almost sought to justify his intellectual capabilities to a Weasley, for Hera's sake! His late night escapades must have addled his brain. Draco slowly became aware that Ginny Weasley was watching him curiously. No doubt thinking along the selfsame lines as himself. A disturbing thought. "What?" he snapped defensively.
Ginny rolled her eyes expressively. "Nothing." She was seemingly reluctant to share her thoughts and recommenced staring at the surface of the desk in front of her. Now who was ill versed in the subtle art of conversation? Draco thought triumphantly.
Professor McGonagall swept into the room without warning. "I see you're both here already," she began, speaking in a clipped, precise tone. "Mr Malfoy, you will commence writing "I must not poke my nose into affairs which are none of my business" on the blackboard. It will be written in your best handwriting one hundred times before you leave." His lip curled imperceptibly. Unfortunately, Professor McGonagall caught sight of the movement. "Any further comment will result in yuorself and Miss Weasley being forced to stand in the middle of the Quidditch pitch for seven evenings with one foot each in a waste paper basket holding hands, Mr Malfoy. I believe you would consider that a punishment worse than death, wouldn't you?" she questioned accurately. Draco heard a small noise from Ginny Weasley. He thought she was trying to stifle a snigger. He turned to glare at her furiously. How dare she laugh at him? "Miss Weasley, you will sharpen and supply Mr Malfoy with the chalk with which to write his sentences." Ginny's head reared sharply and her eyes began to sparkle. Draco waited for her to object to the command but she assented to the task without protest. McGonagall handed her a box of white chalk and she began to pare the tip of the first piece down to a point by hand with a small art knife. Draco knew it was a laborious task and almost felt he had fared the better of the two of them. "You will complete this task in silence. I will know when it has been concluded." Professor McGonagall stated, looking at both of them, and swept from the room as quickly as she had entered it.
Draco took up the piece of chalk Ginny Weasley had laid on the desk for him to use. Although it was perfectly adequate to write with, he muttered, "Can't you be bothered to do any better than this, Weasel? I would have thought all of your family were used to menial work already. Honestly, even my house-elf could make a better job of it." The Weasley chit showed no sign of having heard him. She merely continued with her task at a slightly increased speed. "Come on," Draco urged. "I know you're dying to offer some pearl of wisdom." He heard her breath released in a rapid gesture of impatience and saw a slight frown crease her brow. Otherwise, there was no response. "Surely you're not telling me you can't even think of anything to say, Weasel?" He pressed onward, determined to rattle her by any means necessary. "I'd expect more - even from the likes of you." He paused. "Admittedly, not much more but I guess I can credit you with being able to string a sentence together," he stated condescendingly.
Finally, Ginny Weasley made eye contact with him. She seemed calm. "It's no good, Malfoy. No matter how much you insult me, it won't help you escape the fact that you'll always be a git. You can't get away from yourself no matter how hard and fast you run. Find a way to get over yourself," she continued. "Hard as the task may prove to be. Stop taking your frustration out on others. I suppose I shouldn't even hate you for it. I should pity you," she added mercilessly.
Draco was struck dumb by her insolence. Then astounded. How dare the Muggle loving piece of scum presume to know anything about him! "Thank you for that astounding two second insight into my infinitely complex psyche, Miss Freud," he exclaimed angrily. Or should that be "fraud"? he wondered.
"I'm surprised you've even heard of him," Ginny returned. Suddenly, she smiled scornfully. "I bet that's the first time you've said thank you for something too - and you can't even mean it when you do manage to force the words from your lips."
Somehow, breaking the Weasel's resolve to maintain a frosty silence had left him even more dissatisfied than before. How was it that a girl he hated could take one look at him and think she knew more about him than those he associated with every day? Even if everything she had said was a complete load of codswollop, he confirmed mentally. Everyone else seemed to want something from him. Constantly. There was nothing he could offer her she would ever deign to accept. Not from a Malfoy. Not that that made her worthy of any particular attention. It just made her stupid for opposing a family with such wide reaching influence. If the game was hers, the set and match would most definitely be his in the end.
****
The Great Hall
God, it was predictable how the Weasel reacted whenever Precious Potter was around! They were sitting at the Gryffindor table across the Great Hall, Potter sandwiched between Weasley and his Mudblood tart. Now the Weasley brat was opposite them. Waiting. Waiting for what, he couldn't tell. Presumably, a time when she would get a life as opposed to trying to substitute everyone else's for her own. Precisely what was it about Potter that entitled him to such loyalty? He hadn't even done anything to defeat Lord Voldemort when his parents were killed. He certainly hadn't been a role model since. Blatant disregard of school rules - the three of them both . . . and they got away with it every time! Then there was Ginny Weasley with her ratty, tangled, impossibly red hair waiting to be noticed. Finally, Weasley condescended to notice his sister and Potter addressed a brief remark to her also. There she was. Watching Potter. And Draco himself watching her. The irony didn't escape him. He wished he could obliterate her altogether then she wouldn't bother him any more. He wished even more fervently he could forget that blasted poem.
****
Ginny hesitated at the breakfast table. Ever since she had remembered that initial dinner she had been struggling to decide how precisely to broach the subject with Harry.
The chit chat had gone on long enough. "We need to talk," she began, wincing as the clichéd phrase emerged without warning. She had thought she had rid herself of her awkwardness around him but it appeared there were still certain matters she lacked the finesse to deal with appropriately. This was more than that though. She didn't know where to start. "Listen, Harry," she rephrased. "There's something I need to tell you."
"Sounds ominous," Harry teased, green eyes dancing.
"I'm serious!" she protested, hating that she would be the one to spoil his good mood. An upbeat Harry was becoming more of a rarity these days.
"I'm all ears," he stated solemnly, expression still playful.
"I've kept wondering whether I should bring this up or not but, in the end, I figured you ought to know. Kaede Jenkins - your Occlumency tutor."
"What about her?" Harry asked, his smile exchanging itself for a slight frown.
"I think she knows Snape," Ginny said, determined to make her point.
Harry let out a quick breath. "So what?" he stated coolly.
"So what?" Ginny repeated in disbelief. "Don't you think that might be important?" she argued.
"Not particularly," Harry said dismissively. "They knew each other at school, I guess. It doesn't mean she's in league with the Dark Lord," he continued.
"I'm surprised you can even joke about it!" Ginny exclaimed. "Anyway, you didn't see the way he looked at her! There was more to it than that! I know there was!" She changed tack. "Wouldn't Sirius have mentioned it if they were at school together?"
"I'm sure Sirius wasn't the slightest bit interested in Snape's "friends" at school! Anyway, isn't it possible they know each other through the Order?" he added reasonably.
"Snape never stays for meals, you know that! Professor Jenkins is a new member, isn't she? Brought in straight before the new term?" Ginny queried, annoyed by Harry's prompt dismissal of her concerns.
"Maybe he just fancies her," Harry suggested, looking frankly disturbed at the thought of Snape having the hots for anyone.
Ginny's mouth twitched slightly. "Well, firstly there's the permanent forbidding scowl, then there's the knock-me-dead glare. Finally, there's that greasy shoulder length hair. Who could resist?" she added triumphantly as Harry's face became pale and nauseated. "Promise me you'll think about it," she pressed.
"I don't need to," he said, the crease in his brow deepening as his emotions took hold. His voice lowered itself to a whisper. "She knew my parents," he murmured.
Ginny stared in shock. "Fine," she said. "I guess that settles it. If that's your decision, I won't question it any further," she muttered, head reeling in light of Harry's revelations.
Harry let her leave. His eyes made a mute plea of Ron. "I'm not getting involved in this one, mate," his friend cautioned. "Any quarrel you have with my sister you can sort out yourself," he said.
****
Draco watched Ginny Weasley stalk from The Great Hall in high dudgeon, smouldering in the aftermath of whatever insignificant trifle had caused her to snap at her precious Potter. Nice to know his life wasn't entirely without angst. The fact that the youngest Weasley was having troubles had also brightened his day considerably. Things were on the up.
****
Herbology
"Excuse me, Professor Sprout," Sarah said politely. "Professor Snape asked me to fetch a sample of daisy roots for our next Potions class," she explained. "It has to be freshly picked." She had arrived deliberately early to avoid being late for her next class. The greenhouse was empty aside from the presence of herself and the teacher.
"Preparing a shrinking solution, are we?" Professor Sprout inquired knowledgably.
"A super shrinking potion," Sarah admitted reluctantly. "Snape said it was such a waste of time teaching some of us maybe our fellow students would be sensible enough to shrink us away entirely so he'd be saved the bother of wasting his energies in teaching us," she added.
"That would be Professor Snape to you, Miss Taylor," Professor Sprout admonished, although there was a wry smile on her face as she spoke. "If you'll follow me," she beckoned. "We'd better not keep Severus waiting. He's apt to become somewhat short tempered if kept waiting for too long." Sarah had been all set to follow when she was arrested by the sight of Neville Longbottom apparently deep in conversation with Hermione towards the entrance of the greenhouse.
"I wanted your opinion on the theory that sage aids clarity of thought," Neville asked intensely.
"Possible, nothing proven," Hermione returned quickly. "I've read about the Hadrian test which sought to establish a causal link between the two. The study was inconclusive. Why do you ask?"
"I just thought . . . " He tailed off.
"Oh!" Hermione exclaimed. "No, Neville, I'm sorry but if St. Mungo's haven't managed to find a cure in this many years, anything I'd suggest will be of little use to you."
Neville smiled wistfully. "You know Healer Smethwyck suggested I look for work within the Potion and Plant Poisoning Department whilst I was there?" He shook his head infinitisimally. "I guess I should consider it. After all, Herbology is one of the only subjects I'm actually good at. It might make sense."
"You hate Potions though!" Hermione protested.
"True - although it would have made lessons easier if we'd had anyone other than Snape," Neville concluded ruefully. Hermione couldn't disagree with that particular statement. Aside from Harry, Snape had made a career of tormenting Neville regarding his lack of skill in the art of potion making.
"Wouldn't it be . . . hard for you to work there on a constant basis?" Hermione asked cautiously. She didn't want to risk offending her friend.
Sarah realised this was definitely a conversation she should not listening to and moved rapidly after the diminishing form of Professor Sprout before she heard anything further, cheeks burning slightly.
Neville looked at Hermione defensively. "Just the opposite, I think. I'd be able to visit as often as I wanted. I wouldn't feel restricted, if that's what you're thinking. I might not be able to help them personally but being part of the association which has taken care of them for so many years . . . I'd class that as an honour not a hindrance," he finished simply.
Hermione felt swift tears of compassion welling in her eyes at the speech. "Don't ever let anyone sell you short," she told Neville. "You're one of the bravest people I know and I'm happy to call you my friend," she said boldly
"I just want to do what I can," he protested. "The same as everyone else. The determination was reflected on his chubby face which seemed to take on a new maturity. "I guess before last year I couldn't see myself as anything other than little old me. Good at Herbology, useless at everything else." Hermione opened her mouth to protest. "Don't say it, Hermione, you know everyone thought it was true," Neville admonished. "Well, everyone except for a few of you," he amended. "I never understood when my Gran said I should be proud to be who I was. Then you saw me at St. Mungo's. At first I was embarrassed. Didn't really know what to say. Then I thought better of it. Suddenly it was okay to acknowledge the fact that I had parents who had fought against the Dark Lord. Fought and survived in at least one respect." He sighed. "There are so many who can't even say that much. And yet - there are times when I wonder whether death wouldn't be a kinder option than the half life they're forced to live. There isn't a Healer alive who's found a cure for madness. All that's left is hope."
"Isn't hope enough?" Hermione asked gently.
"I guess it has to be," Neville returned tonelessly. "Even knowing all I know I have to do what's right. I can't sit back and watch things happen," he added.
"You haven't ever done that, Neville," Hermione protested. "No matter what it's cost you. It isn't in you to turn away. That's part of what makes you a true Gryffindor. The Sorting Hat saw it even on the first day."
"I know that now, Hermione," he agreed. "it's just hard sometimes. I'd love to tell them all about the DA but they just won't understand and I can hardly do it with Gran there. She just humours whatever mood they're in," he finished helplessly.
"Do you ever go on your own?" she asked hesitantly.
"Sometimes," he admitted.
"Tell them then," she suggested. "It can't hurt. They'd want you to."
"I know," he said. "That's the worst thing of all. They'd totally support everything the group's doing if only they knew."
He thought back to last year in the Department of Mysteries when he, too, had been subjected to the Cruciatus curse as had his parents before him . . . He had not thought there could be such intense pain in the world . . . Finally, he had the physical memory to accompany the visual images which had plagued him on an occasional basis. They tended to crop up in his dreams when he was least expecting them . . . The pain had brought them back with startling intensity.
Four hooded and masked Death Eaters standing before his father, younger than he had ever known him, postures accusatory, wands at the ready. His father shaking his head frantically before a triple jet of red light emerged from the wands of three of the assembled Death Eaters whilst one continued to watch. He fell backwards slowly, sinking to the floor, before jerking in uncontrollable spasms. Tears ran down his mother's round face as she was held back by the individual who had observed the torture in progress. No matter how hard she struggled she could not break free . . . Finally, once his father was slumped unconscious upon the floor, his mother was subjected to the same harsh treatment.
"I might not be an Auror but I know there are things worth making a stand for," he stated, returning from his reverie with a renewed sense of purpose and understanding of his parents' motivations.
As Neville finished, the pair became aware of the others in the greenhouse and looked up. "Miss Taylor?" Professor Sprout prompted, turning back. "Do you want your fresh daisy roots or not?"
"Yes, Professor," she replied, blushing a fetching shade of beetroot from head to toe. She moved to the back of the greenhouse before either Hermione or Neville could pose the question she could sense hovering on their lips. What precisely had they meant by "visits"? Was the mysterious secret responsible for Neville's prolonged absence from school at the start of term and, more importantly, what would he think of her if he had the impression she'd been eavesdropping on his conversation deliberately - even if that hadn't in fact been the case?
****
Chapter 3
Author: Berilac
Rating: PG
Summary: It's time for the Dursleys to leave, but Harry's mood has not improved since the disastrous night. Neither has his uncle's, and Harry is darkly amused when he's rushed over to Mrs. Figg's house only half a block a way. But there are questions he still has, and even Mrs. Figg seems to be holding back. But when a mysteriously cloaked stranger appears, Harry has the feeling that the madness has just begun!
CHAPTER THREE
BREAKFAST AT FIGG'S
Harry awoke the next morning tangled in his bed sheets and blinded by the rising sun that was pouring in through his undraped windows. Surprisingly, it had been a dream-free night (from what Harry could remember), if he didn't count the horrible experience in the evening before.
As Harry stood up and stretched, a nervous knot slowly tightened inside his stomach. He remembered what was going to happen today. The Durselys would leave for a week's journey in Majorca and Harry would stay here, being watched by Mrs. Figg, his neighbor.
What would the next few days bring, and will Mrs.Figg actually be nice to me this time aroundfloated through Harry's head as he pulled a too-big T-shirt and unusually baggy jeans from amidst the unbelievable mess of a room he had made the prior night. Would Mrs. Figg know about the close watch the Order of the Phoenix was keeping on Harry this summer? Or was she just as in the dark as he had been the year before when everyone was so tight-lipped?
Hopefully she knew... Harry didn't feel much like hearing the snaps and tuts from Mrs. Figg every ten minutes. He also wasn't looking forward to the many cats that would be swarming around her house....
And then suddenly, from underneath Harry, there came Uncle Vernon's loud booming voice. He wasn't pleased.
"Potter, you'd better be up!"
Harry sighed angrily and picked up a shattered ink bottle that lay in an inky pile next to a few textbooks of his. He then tried to sort out a pile of crumpled pieces of parchment that he had thrown everywhere the night before in his unbridled rage. One was torn in halfHermione's letter to him. Sadly, Harry looked over the note and something written on it stood out to him so vividly that he flinched and sat down on his disheveled bed.
Only one owl is allowed per family a month and I was hoping to wait until your birthday to send you this note...(I'm only one day off!)...
Harry reread this sentence once more and groaned furiously. How could he have forgotten about his birthday? It was today...! After fourteen straight years of anticipating the 31st of July with an insane impatience, this year the thought of turning another year older was not on Harry's list of priorities. Nowhere...
Everything that occurred the day before must have driven the idea of his birthday out of his headHarry thought to himself, blinking back tears of frustration. All the crap that had been happening... but still! This is a birthday...not some stupid ceremony or holiday! A birthday!
After a few more seconds of self-disgust at his forgetfulness, Harry suddenly stood up and frowned. If it was his birthday and Hermione could only send one letter a month, where was her present?
A strong surge of disappointment seethed through Harry and he crumpled up Hermione's letter and flung it fervently at the garbage can. It bounced off and landed on the floor next to other balls of used paper. Harry frowned again and felt completely miserable. Had he really just gotten angry at Hermione because she didn't give him a present? She had mentioned his birthday...was that all Hermione meant to Harry? Her friendship wasn't good enough unless she gave him a present...?
Still grumbling because of his superficial emotions, Harry walked over to his trunk and opened it. Lying there at the bottom, untouched the whole summer, was his Firebolt, gathering dust, spiderwebs stretching from the broom handle to the corners of the trunk while even larger circular webs lay around the neatly-clipped twigs at the broom end. Harry picked up the Firebolt and blew the dust that lay over the handle. The want to return to Hogwarts began to filter in and Harry closed his eyes imagining himself in the cool crisp air over the Quidditch field, thoughts of practicing with the Gryffindor team once again without the fear of being suspended from the team like he was last year.
As he was placing his Firebolt neatly back into his trunk, Uncle Vernon's voice boomed reverberatingly again from the first floor of the house.
"Potter?" There was silence and then again- "POTTER?"
Harry stood stock still as the scream sifted from underneath him. Then, he dashed around trying to straighten everything else up before any of the Dursleys could step inside the room. The door creaked open and the smirking face of Dudley appeared from the other side.
"Dad wants you," he said, grinning and cracking his knuckles, trying to appear threatening.
"Oh really?" Harry said, shutting his trunk loudly. "That's why he was screaming my name. Thanks Dudley! You deserve a treat-"
"He also says that you better not give him any cheek," Dudley interrupted his grin getting wider and wider. He stood right where he was on the threshold and gazed around the room.
"Well, seems like you got a little irritated last night," he said vaguely. He picked up a piece of parchment that still lay forgotten next to his bed.
"Yeah, a bit," Harry said coolly, his eyes peering menacingly at Dudley. "Now if you don't mind, I'd like to finish getting ready."
"Dad says you have to see him...now," Dudley said not moving an inch.
"Thanks Big D," Harry said his voice rising in a tone of aggravation. "I would go, but your fat arse is blocking the way out."
At Harry's last words, Dudley's face became such a shade of pink, it would have made Professor Lockhart jealous at its luridness.
"You take that back," Dudley said through gritted teeth.
"No," Harry replied.
"Well, I guess that you'll have to learn the hard way," Dudley raised one of his fists high in the air, mustering as much strength as he could to perform a deadly uppercut he was only too famous for in his boxing league.
"Go ahead and hit me," Harry said calmly, "and I'll write to my friends and they won't be happy. You remember what they did the first week I returned here...."
Dudley automatically lowered his fist, his eyes widened in fear. His face clashed horribly with his blond hair.
"I remember..."
"Yeah, that was some surprise, wasn't it," Harry said evilly, his green eyes twinkling with sadistic delight at watching his cousin squirm upon remembering the incident.
During a typical summer at the Dursleys, the magicking of all the pictures on the wall to chant monotonously at two in the morning would not have been taken too kindly. Nor would have been the incident that occurred the following morning. Uncle Vernon would have murdered Harry if it weren't for the warning note that Mad-Eye Moody gave that ordered Harry to send them letters telling them how he was doing. Uncle Vernon had read it to a continuously screeching Aunt Petunia, her hair gone and replaced with long slimy maroon worms that struggled to crawl out of her scalp. The few that escaped fell upon the bed with a sickening quickness that Uncle Vernon would not soon forget.
The taker was when Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia (with her head wrapped in a towel that did nothing to stop the worms that had escaped) found Dudley in his room, headless. That was when Aunt Petunia had fainted and Harry had entered the scene completely normal. Before Uncle Vernon could pulverize Harry, Dudley's squeal of fright came from the den where his head was daintily perched upon the mantle. His eyes were wide and when he saw Uncle Vernon enter the den, his head started bouncing back and forth on the immaculate mantle like an out-of-control extra large tennis-ball. That was when Uncle Vernon saw his own reflection in the grandfather clock. He had sprouted an extra nose and three extra ears.
With that realization, he rounded upon Harry in a rush of fury and ordered him to write to those insufferable wizard freaks if he wanted to stay intact.
Harry readily acquiesced and sent Hedwig off to the Order of the Phoenix with Uncle Vernon muttering angrily about "dementoids" and "Voldythings" and how Harry was not going to live to see the light of day after they returned to normal....
Within hours, Uncle Vernon's extra body parts vanished, Aunt Petunia's hair grew back, Dudley's head reattached to his body, and the pictures on the wall stopped chanting eerily in a hypnotic trance. Despite the act humorous, Harry didn't want to see his aunt and uncle that way again. The next few days, Harry walked on eggshells all day, waiting for some grandiose punishment to be administered.
The mishaps of the weeks before spilled out of Harry's head in a good quick second as the voice of Uncle Vernon's roared louder than before.
"You ruddy-" His footsteps thundered from just outside his room. "You better be-"
And then he appeared, livid, with eyes narrowed.
"You-" He pointed at Harry. "Out-now!"
"But I'm not finished pack-"
"GET OUT IN THE HALLWAY, NOW!" Uncle Vernon snarled with such ferocity that it made Harry double back onto his bed.
A few stunned seconds afterward, Harry got up and slowly ambled out of his room. He looked up at his uncle's violently puffing face. Uncle Vernon was taking in air at a disturbing rate and the color in his cheeks were redder than Harry had ever seen them.
"POTTER, WE'VE BEEN WAITING FOR A GOOD HOUR! EXPLAIN WHY YOU'RE NOT READY!"
"No one woke me up!" Harry answered exasperatedly, appalled at the injustice of his accusation. "If you wanted to leave on your precious trip on time-"
"I will not-" Uncle Vernon roared, interrupting Harry abruptly. "I will not tolerate that tone of voice!"
Dudley edged among the wall silently, peering at Harry and an angry Uncle Vernon. He was clearly enjoying the spectacle.
"You will be ready in ten minutes, OR you will be sorry indeed," Uncle Vernon said, his voice encased with malice.
Harry had the strong urge to kick Uncle Vernon down the stairs in one nonchalantly forceful motion, but held the temptation in as his uncle stormed down the stairs, violently slamming his feet on each step. Dudley grinned evilly at Harry and followed his father.
In exactly ten minutes, Harry had dragged his trunk along with Hedwig in her cage. His uncle peered nastily at him as he made it to the bottom stair, his aunt was gazing at Harry in a different way than he had ever witnessed. She was obviously angry with him, but her face showed a certain misty unconcern...as if it was a kind of veil blocking out her true emotions.... Dudley was nowhere to be found.
Harry stopped at the foot of the stairs and readjusted the trunk he was lugging behind him. He made sure he had everything inside it while he was upstairs and double-checked that his wand was in his direct possession before leading the way toward the front door.
"Wait!" Uncle Vernon shouted from the silence that followed Harry's entrance downstairs.
Harry turned around and looked at his uncle; he was approaching Harry with a slight tenseness fixed upon his brow.
"I go first," Uncle Vernon muttered quietly and nervously. He opened the front door and stood there looking out, peering from one side to the other, making sure no one was peeking out their windows or traipsing by on the sidewalk.
"Coast's clear, Petunia. We're headed out..."
Harry peeked around Uncle Vernon's bulky frame to get a glimpse of the outside... he couldn't see much, but he saw the outline of Uncle Vernon's car, which was parked at an odd angle, the trunk facing the doorway.
"Walk quick and I mean quick..." Uncle Vernon ordered. He dashed outside and briskly walked to the trunk of the car and unlocked it.
"You can shove your things in here."
"But-" Harry interrupted perplexedly. "Why're we taking the car? Mrs. Figg lives across the str-"
"Didn't I tell you to walk faster?" Uncle Vernon said warningly, his eyes narrowing as the trunk flew up revealing the inside to be completely devoid of anything. "Put that ruddy cage in here too...."
"Hedwig's in it!"
"So...?"
"She'll get irritated. She'll squawk the entire way there."
Saying the last sentence made Harry smirk uncontrollably. The entire way consisted of Uncle Vernon leaving his driveway, crossing the street and pulling into Mrs. Figg's.
Uncle Vernon didn't seem to realize this.
"Fine! Put it in the backseat. Now hurry!"
Finally, when everything was packed, Harry got into the front seat and looked back at the Dursley house. At the front door stood Aunt Petunia alone, Dudley forgotten somewhere inside, most likely back in his room doing who-knows-what. Harry suddenly felt a slight pang of resentment for his aunt, most likely stemming from the prior night's occurrences. He looked away and ahead as Uncle Vernon's car smoothly crossed the street and pulled into Mrs. Figg's driveway.
Mrs. Figg's house was almost identical to the Dursely's, except for the fact that the lawn wasn't as well-kept as the other lawns on Privet Drive. The entire house looked a bit shabbier than the rest, but still gave off the common ordinary vibration of the mundane as the car came to an abrupt stop dangerously close to the garage of the house.
This was when Mrs. Figg made her entrance. She walked outside and stood there waiting, her frizzled gray hair crammed tightly into a hairnet. She was wearing a loose tartan nightgown along with a pair of tartan carpet slippers. The expression on her face was partly disgruntled and partly anxious. One of Mrs. Figg's many cats was stalking around her slippers and sniffing on the paved path she was standing on.
Uncle Vernon and Harry came to a squealing stop. Then, Uncle Vernon moved quicker than Harry had ever seen him move in his life-possibly even faster than when Harry had set loose a vole in the house when he was six, nonplussed as to how he did it. Harry knew that he was rabidly angry and that he wanted Uncle Vernon as far away as possible.
Harry's trunk and Hedwig's cage flew out of the car so fast that Harry only had to unbuckle his safety belt for Uncle Vernon to be completed with the job. Uncle Vernon almost yanked Harry's arms off as he pulled him out of the now-empty car and ushered him in the direction of Mrs. Figg.
"Here he is," Uncle Vernon said curtly.
"I see..." Mrs. Figg yapped unnecessarily loud. "You won't be gone too long, will you Vernon?"
"A week at the least," Uncle Vernon replied, looking around warily, trying his utmost to get Harry into the house before any of the neighbors witnessed Hedwig, Harry's gigantic trunk, or Harry.
"I supposed that would suffice. C'mon inside Harry."
Uncle Vernon forced his face into a grotesque smile and dashed back to his car.
"Enjoy the trip," Mrs. Figg said a little more lightly than when she first started talking. Her cat had now been looking at Uncle Vernon, eyes flashing wildly and hair bristling unwelcomingly; it was right next to Harry's trunk and cage. Hedwig didn't seem all too pleased with the feline being so close....
Uncle Vernon sped in such a clip that people now were looking out their windows and glaring irritably at Uncle Vernon's escapade between driveways.
"Yeah, enjoy the trip...." Mrs. Figg mumbled as she shoved Harry into her house. Mrs. Figg slammed the door so quickly that the cat outside waiting for Harry with her didn't get all of it inside the house as the door slammed shut.
"I can't believe that that bumbling fool had to drop you off at my doorstep, now! They'll be far away...who is going to protect you now? Who?"
"Excuse me?" Harry said with obvious confusion as he released the cat from the closed door.
"You obviously know why you're at the Dursleys, right?" Mrs. Figg's hairnet was slowly beginning to loosen its grip on her hair.
"Well, yes...I know," Harry was starting to feel a little aggravated. It seemed that Mrs. Figg didn't want to be the babysitting him. But Harry wasn't really a baby after all. He just turned sixteen...today!
"Well, well, well... then you know, silly boy, that the protection that you get will be insanely far away," Mrs. Figg said shrilly as her skinny self ran into the kitchen.
Harry peered around the place and remembered the insipid décor immediately from his prior visits. The faint smell of cabbage rose slowly from the depths of the floor and off the walls. As Harry entered the kitchen, he had seen at least fifteen cats already in the other rooms. There was around ten more lounging about in the kitchen, on the table, eating food and gazing out the windows, a numerous number more than Harry had seen a while ago when Mrs. Figg had watched him.
Mrs. Figg was stirring something on the stove as Harry found his way near an open, cat-free chair. She was muttering to herself.
"Majorca? Honestly!"
"It's not that bad having me, is it?" Harry asked.
"Not that bad?" Mrs. Figg shouted as she dropped her wooden spoon in a pot of something that smelled vaguely like bacon. She looked at Harry, a manic glint twinkling in her eyes as one of her cats jumped on the stove and started to paw around what was inside the pot. "With that aunt of yours gone...there's no one round this street or town to watch over you!"
"Well, you're here-" Harry said looking at an unnaturally large cat with spotted black-and-white fur that began to sprawl on the table, covering most of it. Its larger-than-normal ears were upright and listening intently.
"Me? Can you use your brain, dear boy?" Mrs. Figg looked hysterical. "I'm a Squib! A Squib! I can't do anything. If You-Know-Who comes now-"
"He won't."
"How do you know he won't?" Mrs. Figg left the pot on the stove and sat down in the chair across from Harry. A yelp followed. Mrs. Figg had sat on one of her cats. With an exasperated sigh, she picked up the squashed feline and stroked it slowly in her lap. It began to purr, completely forgetting that it was just in contact with Mrs. Figg's rump a minute before.
"'Cause he's somewhere else," Harry said nonchalantly. He looked at Mrs. Figg with an air of importance that he hadn't felt all summer. "I saw Voldemort in my dreams."
"You did?" Mrs. Figg said with extreme concern. "You dreamt about him?"
Harry nodded, grinning widely.
"When?"
"Last night," Harry said, shocked at how calm his voice was at saying this.
"This is big-I mean-bad news!" Mrs. Figg screeched and stood up. She placed the cat down on the floor and shuffled over to the stove to check on whatever was cooking there.
"I've dreamt of him before this summer, you know," Harry said, his voice low and serious. "And I know I shouldn't. But I do."
Mrs. Figg pursed her lips tightly and turned the temperature for the stove higher. The sizzling from the pot grew louder and the pungent smell of bacon cut through the air like scissors cutting through paper.
While Harry waited a little longer wondering if Mrs. Figg would say something else, the enormous cat stood up. It was then when Harry decided to speak up once more:
"Where'd you get all these cats? And this one, it's huge!"
"Ah, that one on the table-Mr.Tibbles-he's not a cat," Mrs. Figg said, readjusting her hairnet. "He's a kneazle."
"A kneazle?" Harry said dumbstruck.
"You know what those are, don't you..."
Harry nodded and watched the cat-like creature intently. It stretched its front paws and ambled around the table, seemingly awaiting for some breakfast and looking at Harry from time to time curiously, as if it had some treats in his pocket. Mrs. Figg was now dishing freshly cooked bacon onto a place.
"I have some toast already made as well. Black pudding, too. Hope you're at least a bit hungry," Mrs. Figg said with a grandmotherly air to her voice.
"I am, thanks," Harry said as Mrs. Figg placed the plate of bacon on the table along with another porcelain bowl of black pudding next to it.
After a few minutes of the three of them eating, Mrs. Figg looked at Harry and chuckled softly.
"So, I hear your aunt's real irritated with you..."
"She told you?" Harry said disgustedly.
"A little bit, but c'mon dearie!" Mrs. Figg smiled and pulled the kneazle away from the bowl of black pudding. "I have nothing better to do than make sure you're all right over there-"
"So you've been snooping around the place..."
"Well, I wouldn't call it snooping," Mrs. Figg said hesitantly, dishing more bacon onto Harry's now-empty plate. "I said I've been making sure you're all right...making sure the Durselys are treating you okay."
"Doesn't matter if you've been snooping anyway," Harry said resentfully, not touching any more of the food Mrs. Figg was egging him on to eat. "I've been writing to Mood-certain people-almost every day...."
"And you best be doing that!" Mrs. Figg said as she buttered some more toast. "I can't make sure you're fine twenty-four hours a day...."
At these words, Harry's face reddened and his eyes narrowed. Why would Mrs. Figg know of Harry's promise to send owls? Perhaps she was tipped off by one of the members of the Order? Or Dumbledore...?
He couldn't delve further on the matter. He didn't want to. Only a few hours ago, Harry wanted Mrs. Figg to know what was going on with him. Right now, he thought strongly otherwise. Now, all Harry wanted to do now was surprise Figg so much that she'd fall off her chair backwards and stay there speechless for a good half-hour.
So he said it-
"My Aunt Petunia is my godmother."
"Well of course she is!" Mrs. Figg said as if it should have been common sense to know that bit of news. "And Uncle Vernon co-parenting you was such a scream, if I do say so myself-"
"Wait!" Harry clearly wasn't expecting this. He stood up and held out his hand as if signaling Mrs. Figg to stop. "You know all this? You know that my aunt was almost killed by Voldemort? That she kept letters from long ago? That she has some secret that she tells no one?"
"Harry, Harry," Mrs. Figg stood up and took the half-empty bowl of black pudding and the plate of leftover bacon and placed it on the floor. A swarm of cats and kneazles dashed to where the food now lay, cleaning both the bowl and plate in a matter of seconds.
"Harry-" Mrs. Figg continued. "You don't realize how much of a connection that I do have with your Professor Dumbledore. I've more than you, I'd imagine."
"Oh really now!" Harry said snidely, his green eyes glittering in a mocking fashion. He clearly wasn't enjoying this little breakfast with his neighbor as he had wished.... "So, you know everything about me? And you're just a Squib! You're all buddy-buddy with Dumbledore, eh? So, he comes round here, chatting with you? Making sure things are all good while I suffer living with my aunt and uncle-?"
"No, no, no! It's not like that at all!" Mrs. Figg snapped with obvious annoyance. "You don't see that I'm excruciatingly close with Dumbledore.... I chose this job to watch out for you because I cared. Because I know! Because I've listened in and have heard...."
Mrs. Figg paused and Harry stood stock still, waiting for her to continue her impromptu narrative. After a moment's silence passed Mrs. Figg groaned, almost gleefully, and said:
"C'mon boy, you should know everyone in this village is a snoop, and eavesdropper! Look at your Aunt Petunia! I clearly fit in here in this small community...for that reason...to snoop. I know all about your troubles because I'm close to Dumbledore. I heard him speak one day...about your prophecy, about your future," Mrs. Figg cleared her throat loudly and went on, her voice now quivering with excitement. "I'm related to Albus Dumbledore, boy! Actually, I'm related to Minerva McGonagall as well, to tell you the truth!"
Harry's jaw dropped in complete shock. What was he hearing? Mrs. Figg was related to Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall? Then that would mean both his professors were related!
"S-so," Harry stuttered finally after Mrs. Figg had finished basking in the shock she had created, "so, w-what's the relation b-between-"
"Albus and Minerva?" Harry nodded at Figg's question and she continued. "Well, Albus's brother married one of Minerva's aunts. So, they're related through marriage. Professor Dumbledore and my mother were cousins and close friends. I accidentally overheard the major piece of news, about you. Naturally, I'd be around him when he was in his younger, more vibrant days...."
Harry flinched at the last sentence, although he was still trying to take in everything else he was hearing. In his younger, more vibrant days.... Dumbledore was getting old, now that Harry was thinking about Mrs. Figg having older relatives. Dumbledore must been getting downright ancient compared to Muggles. With that thought, Harry became saddened greatly and he looked at the floor, where a few of the smaller cats were stalking around-
BAM!
The back door suddenly flew open and a man emerged from the dark shadows of the backyard. His face was silhouetted from underneath a dark brown cape that was draped messily over his head. When the light filtered down from the kitchen lamps, his face was still barely visible. He did have a devilish smile on his face and the eyes through the shadows were raptly soaked with definitive determination.
Mrs. Figg dropped the dishes she had in her hands and they shattered all over the linoleum floor. She looked at the caped man and screamed.
"I would like to ask what you are doing in this house?"
The man made no noise at first; then he walked quickly toward Harry and grabbed the collar of his shirt. He peered resolutely in Harry's eyes and Harry could see that the man's eyes were as brightly green as his were.
"You," he said in a sleek and composed voice. "You, Potter. You're coming with me."
Title: Through The Eyes of a Child
Author: Rochelle
Rating: PG
Summary: Remus Lupin has a twin brother who's been locked away since childhood. Romulus was kidnapped as a child and kept prisoner and lost his mind, and Remus has never wanted to see him in such a state, preferring to remember the happy boy he'd once been. But Sirius recognizes Remus's need to confront this demon, and pushes his love to face his brother, and consequently his own fears. Sirius/Remus slash.
Through a Child's Eyes
by Rochelle
Sirius held Remus' hand tightly as they walked through St. Mungo's off-white corridors, led by Dr. Francesca Morrow. The lighting in the place was kept purposely muted; otherwise, it might upset the asylum's more excitable patients. Nonetheless, to Sirius, the place was tangibly depressing, and he could understand why Remus hadn't wanted to come here. But this was a necessary visit as far as Sirius was concerned, and he wasn't letting Remus avoid it any longer. The world had become too dangerous since Voldemort and his followers had gained so much power. If Remus didn't do this now, there might not be another chance.
"This is his room," Dr. Morrow said quietly. "As I've said before, he poses no danger, but it is still necessary that I supervise your visit." She took a wand from the pocket of her robes and tapped the door twice. There was the sound of a lock being opened.
Sirius nodded once. "Let's go." He reached for the doorknob then, but Remus placed his hand over Sirius' own before he could turn it.
"I've changed my mind, Sirius," Remus said in a world-weary voice. "I just can't go in there."
Sirius said, "Remus, we went over this. We agreed you have to do this."
"But I want to remember him as he was," Remus insisted earnestly, his amber eyes pleading with Sirius' storm-gray ones. "I don't think I could bear to see him this way." Normally, that look could have gotten him anything he wanted. But Sirius wouldn't back down this time, not for something so important.
Sirius put his arm around Remus and told him, gently but firmly, "Moony, you have to go see him. He's your own twin brother. I know it's hard for you, but you've already come this far. You can't just leave him when you're right outside the door."
"It may be good for him," Dr. Morrow agreed, adjusting her glasses. "He speaks about you often, Remus, and if my understanding is correct... he has no other family left."
Remus didn't answer right away. Then he said, "Sirius, you go in first. I just need a little time."
Sirius looked at Dr. Morrow, questioning. She nodded her approval.
"Just remember," Dr. Morrow reminded him, "whatever he says, please play along. He isn't prepared to leave the world he's created for himself, and every attempt to draw him out has only made things worse."
"All right." Sirius opened the door -- slowly -- (he'd been told that Remus' brother was skittish) and stepped inside the small, padded room. He saw a young man sitting on the floor. His knees were drawn up, and he rested his head on top of them.
"Romulus?" Sirius said quietly. The young man raised his head.
When Sirius saw Romulus' face, he had to do a double take. Save for having shorter hair, paler skin, and bangs that weren't as tidy, Romulus looked exactly like Remus. Same slightly turned-up nose. Same oddly pure, vaguely boyish face. Same expressive honey-hazel eyes. No, when Sirius looked a bit closer, those eyes weren't quite the same. They didn't belong to a man who was twenty-one years old. Romulus had the eyes of a child, and a very young, frightened child at that, and Romulus gasped a little when his gaze met Sirius' own.
"Did the bad man send you?" Romulus whispered. He pulled his knees closer to his body. Even his voice was child-like. "I don't know you, and the bad man is after me. He's always, always after me, and he sends people to get me sometimes."
Sirius frowned and scratched his head. "I don't even know who the 'bad man' is."
"He's bad and very, very scary." Romulus closed his eyes and rocked a bit on the floor. "I remember how he kept me in a little, little room, and he came and he took blood from me, and he made me drink potions and did things to me, did lots of bad things. And he hurt me a lot. The bad man tries to trick me sometimes. Sometimes he tries to get me when I sleep so I fool him by not sleeping. It's hard for him to get me that way. Very, very hard."
Sirius felt foolish then for not having seen it right away. "Of course," he said to himself. "Who else would it be?" Romulus must have meant Voldemort, the man who had put him in this state many years ago.
Remus had told Sirius the story before. When he and Romulus were only seven years old, Romulus had disappeared while they were playing hide-and-seek. No one saw him again for almost two years. Then, in the middle of the night, he was left unconscious on the Lupin family's porch. He was found covered with bruises and sores and wearing only a thin, gray shirt. The family doctor had said that Romulus probably hadn't eaten in weeks.
"When he revived," Remus had said, "he was catatonic. He didn't speak, could barely move.... He was in a sort of waking coma, and my parents couldn't care for him. So they sent him to St. Mungo's for treatment, and eventually, he started speaking again. But from what I understand of it... the doctors don't think he'll ever be normal. He simply can't function in the real world." And that wasn't all.
Over the course of his therapy, the doctors had also figured out who'd taken Romulus and why. Apparently, it was Voldemort. He had needed a test subject for his experiments, and some of the formulas he wished to use required the blood of a very young child.
And now, Sirius thought, this is all that's left of him. Still but a child, mind frozen in time.
"The bad man didn't send me," Sirius said quietly. "I'm a friend. I know your brother Remus."
Romulus laughed delightedly. "Remus? You know Remus? Are you from his world, too?"
"His... world?"
Romulus nodded and explained, "He's very important there. That's why he doesn't come to see me." He closed his eyes and gave a blissful little sigh. "Everybody's happy there, and it's really, really pretty. Remus makes sure they're all happy, and the streets are all gold and the sun always shines." He stood up and placed his hand over the empty space to his left. "But he still thinks of me," he said. "He sent me this owl for a present, and I named it after him. He sent it to me for becoming Minister of Magic; he was really proud of me."
It took Sirius a moment to respond. The words kept getting caught in his throat. "I'm... sure he was," he faltered. What else could he say?
"And he sent me this, too," Romulus said, picking up something small that only he could see. "It's a bottled rainbow. They only have them on Aldebaran. He sent it to me when I made the English Quidditch team." He laughed. "When he has time, he watches me. He can see me in a magic pool in the castle, and he says he watches me. He's very, very proud of me, but we're both very, very busy." He set his rainbow aside, looking a little bit sad. "But we both have so much to do... so he doesn't come to see me. But his people need him more, so I understand."
Sirius Black couldn't remember the last time he had cried. Right then, though, it took all of his power to hold back his tears. His heart was breaking for this man, this child in a grown man's body, and he wanted more than anything to hold him for awhile.
"Do you know my parents?" Romulus asked. "Are they on Aldebaran, too?"
Sirius paled a bit and gave Dr. Morrow a questioning look.
"He doesn't know," she confirmed. "He doesn't understand."
"...I see." Sirius and the doctor both knew that Romulus and Remus' parents had been killed by Voldemort about three years ago. The had left all their money to Remus, who then gave the funds to the hospital to make sure they would continue to care for his brother. He'd known that, likelier than not, Romulus would be there for the rest of his life.
"Are they happy?" Romulus asked. "Are they on Aldebaran, too?"
"They're... they're very happy," Sirius told him, not quite meeting Romulus' eyes, "but they're... they're in a different world."
"Oh." Romulus was quiet for awhile. "When will I see them again?" he asked eagerly. "I haven't seen my Mum and Dad in a long, long time."
"It... may be awhile. They're quite far away."
"Well, I'm just glad they're happy. They should be happy."
Sirius ran his hand through his hair. "Look, ah, would it be all right if I left for a moment? I have a surprise for you."
Romulus said, "Okay," and smiled at his invisible owl, reaching through the bars of its cage with his index finger.
Sirius quickly left the room while Dr. Morrow remained inside. Remus was still waiting in the hall.
"Remus," Sirius urged, shaking him gently by the shoulders, "you have to go in and see him now. Do you know where he thinks you are? Do you know why he thinks you don't visit?"
Remus looked away in shame. "You're crying, Sirius," he said somberly. "You haven't cried since the day we found out my parents were dead."
Sirius blinked and put his fingers just below his right eye. Sure enough, they came away wet.
"I'll go in to see him now, but please, you must go with me."
Sirius held Remus' hand and opened the door again. Then, they both went inside. The instant Romulus set eyes on his brother, he gasped, clamped his hands over his mouth and laughed like a happy toddler who had just been given a new stuffed toy.
"Hi, Romulus," Remus said with a forced smile. "It's me. It's Remus."
Romulus ran up to him and clung to him like he would never let go. Remus hugged him back and smoothed his tousled hair. "You're here," Romulus said breathlessly, "you're really, really here! You came all the way from Aldebaran, just like I always wished you would!"
Sirius knew that Remus was trying to keep it together for Romulus' sake, but he realized it wasn't easy. It wasn't easy for Sirius, either, seeing how this young man's life had been stolen by Voldemort's evil, and Romulus wasn't his twin brother. He placed his hand on Remus' shoulder and gave him a small, supportive squeeze. "It'll be all right, Moony," he whispered. "I'm proud of you, you know."
Romulus talked animatedly about his life as the Minister of Magic and as seeker for the English Quidditch team. "I'm busy," he said, "just like you, Remus. I always have so much to do. Did you see me when I won the game for us last week? I said I won for you."
"Of... of course I did," Remus said, still smiling, even though his eyes were shining with tears. "You were quite wonderful in that game."
"And you see the owl you sent me when I made the team? See, I named him after you." Romulus laughed. "He really, really likes you. He sounds happy that you're here."
Sirius tried not to hear the rest, the bits of truth and fantasy, shards of a past best left to nightmares and a present that was nothing more than a dream. He tried not to show his grief over what this man might have been if only....
But he noticed that, as time went on, Remus seemed to grow more comfortable with Romulus' delusions. The forced smiles turned into real, sunny laughter; the tension left his shoulders and, gradually, his stance became more relaxed. If Sirius didn't know better, he might have thought that Remus believed what his brother was saying, and that Remus could actually see his brother's bottled rainbow.
"I should thank you," Remus said as they left, "for finally making me visit him. I was actually glad to see him this way."
Sirius made a face and said, "That may be going a bit too far."
"I don't think it is." Remus turned quiet and thoughtful. "Where Romulus lives," he explained, "he's made all his dreams come true. In his world, there isn't a war going on, and all of his loved ones are happy and safe." Remus averted his gaze. "I don't even know if I would want to take that away from him and give him what we live with instead." And when Sirius thought about it, Remus had a point.
Sirius held Remus close and kissed him on the forehead. "You," he said, "are one of a kind."
And they went home where, just for awhile, they might live in a similar world. A world where they thought of only each other, governed solely by their love.
The End.