Disclaimer: I own nothing you can recognize, so don't bother, everything else though, is and will always be mine, so you can't touch it ^_^' Well, maybe if you ask ne nicely…
Well, here I'm at it again, nearly an entire year after the ending of KoaM. I guess I should apologize for the long delay, but I really can't apologize for something that I have no control over, such as the twists of my life (my parents are still on me about writing our biography, but I just don't find it fun to write something that you've already lived, fiction being much more entertaining, especially when it has the Harry Potter universe thrown in.) In any case, this won't be very romantic, but it's seventh year sequel will be, and I'm really priding myself of this work, because it goes, I think, a little bit more into this reality than the last fic did. Just a warning though. It's REALLY going to be angsty, and, I think I've said this before, Hermione might die at some point or another. Hope that caught your attention. Anyway, you'll just have to read and see if it's true! Oh, and in my last fic, I described things while jumping from one character to another, which is generally how I write all stories, but, for this, I thought it would be best to stick to JKR style and what things from Harry's point of view, and least until I think it's necessary to change to another. By the way, I suck at summaries, so if anyone can help me with a better one, I'm all ears. Oh, and thanks to the lovely J Choo for reading over this for me. I love you J! ^___^ And to my betas who still haven't gotten back to me: shame on you! Michelle and Lola are excused though, cuz they have good reasons.
Well, on with the fic then.
Harry Potter and the Bite of No Mortibus
By Pearl Drop Angel
Chapter 1: Here comes Aunt Marge again
He could feel something rising, gurgling against his will, like some foreign thought being placed into his mind, stirring contrasting reactions, conflicting emotions. Impatient excitement against a weary sense of foreboding; calculating glee opposed to frozen fear; cold, senile triumph and terrified despair; rebirth and a loss of self. And there in the midst of it all, a blur, an image trying to clear, a mist dissipating. As though in slow motion, the scene played in his mind again, Sirius speaking to him, shouting curses, fighting. And then falling, and disappearing. Back into the mist his mind went, where another image was, slowly, trying to reveal itself. Leaving behind a face, one that he knew well, that was now convulsing in pained spasms, and then stopping altogether, leaving empty eyes staring into space.
Cold…
Ashen.
Unmoving, unfeeling, dull…
Dead…
Hermione's.
THUMP, THUMP, THUD!
The hard pounding against the door of his room ripped him from those images, the shout of his angry uncle on the other side stopping his agonized screams from escaping his mouth.
"STOP WHIMPERING, BOY! AND GO MOW THE LAWN BEFORE MARGE GETS HERE!" bellowed uncle Vernon loudly.
Harry groaned inwardly, rubbing his throbbing scar, mumbling something about being out in a moment, all the while chanting in his mind that it had all just been a dream. It was a reoccurring dream, one that he'd been having for more than two weeks now. Ignoring the fact that he was covered in a cold sweat, he dressed, knowing that in any case nobody cared. He didn't bother to look in the mirror, or try to tame his hair-what was the point? No one would notice the difference-but he did glance out the window, to see if an owl was already bringing the usual copy of the Daily Prophet.
Nothing yet, sighing, he gave a heartless glare to the growing pile of papers by his bedside. He'd learned his mistake the previous summer, so now he read everything from cover to cover, searching for hidden meanings in the words, but nothing. Only reports of Muggle-hating Wizards attacking innocent people. He would have been worried about this, but Hermione had told him this was to be expected. She'd said that when Voldemort would do something, he would know.
But Voldemort hadn't done anything!
And that was the most alarming thing when compared to those dreams.
What if they were true? What if Voldemort was intentionally showing him those images to warn him of what was to come, so that it would wear him down, make him paranoid? What if they were a farce, and, instead, he was just trying to distract Harry from his real purpose, like he'd done in the Department of Mysteries? All these questions, along with the fact that the Ministry wasn't doing anything to help at all, were wearing his sanity thin. Or whatever was left of it.
"GET OUT, BOY! I WANT THIS HOUSE TO LOOK PERFECT WHEN MARGE GETS HERE!" Vernon shouted at him again. Oh, yes, Aunt Marge. The last time he'd seen her he'd accidentally inflated her like a hot air balloon. He reckoned she wouldn't be too happy with him when they'd meet, not that she'd ever been before.
Sighing, he opened the door with a subdued, "Yes, Uncle Vernon," which seemed to put an immediate halt to his shouting.
The Dursleys had been watching him strangely since he'd come back, and that wasn't surprising. The previous summer he was always trying to eavesdrop on the news, and he would shout, answer back, and get angry. Now he stayed in his room until called, spoke only when spoken to, and even then he was subdued, quiet, and lifeless. Dudley and Vernon watched him wearily, more so than usual, but Petunia had been down right bizarre near him. She looked…well, she looked worried for him. Sometimes he thought that she might have gone mental enough to actually hug him, what, with her watching him all teary eyed.
But Harry didn't pay them any heed.
He knew that he could leave this house whenever he wanted to. He knew that he could join his friends and be in the company of those who loved him if he so chose. But how could he choose to be with them if they were at Grimmauld Place? Once Sirius had been there, now he was there no more. How could he choose to live in that place of death, when the only spark of life was gone from it? Hermione had written him a week prior, when she had arrived at the Black estate, telling him that it had changed very much, that it looked very different now. She even told him of a device, of Dumbledore's invention, that could communicate with Muggle phones, which she used to speak to her parents while gone. She asked if he would mind their calling him. He didn't answer. Who cared for those things anymore? Sirius would never bark his laughter in that house again, there would only be a dull, painful echo of it. And even if he ached for that echo, he knew it would never be the real thing. He knew it would only deepen the realization of his passing. He knew that it wouldn't bring him back. It would only bring the pain back.
He didn't want the pain. He had become numb in the attempt to run from it. He didn't want to go to Grimmauld Place. He knew that if he stayed out of the Dursleys' way, they would be civil, so out of their way he stayed. Without bothering to eat breakfast he walked out and began his work on the lawn, knowing that soon enough Mrs. Figg would come around asking of his health. She'd been watching over him all summer, and probably reporting everything to Dumbledore, not that she needed to. Now that he knew that he was being watched over at all times, he could detect the presence of any and all Order of the Phoenix members on duty. "Morning, Dung," he mumbled as he heard a bush rustle. A throat clearing was his only response. And Harry went on with his work.
At noon, Petunia had come out of the house, as furtive as a thief, carrying a handkerchief wrapped bundle in her hand, while looking over her shoulder as though afraid of getting caught. Of what, Harry didn't know, but he stopped what he was doing and waited for her. She was breathless as she spoke. "Your Uncle doesn't want you in the house till you're finished, so this is your lunch," she said, stuffing the bundle in his dirty, grass stained hands. She watched him expectantly. Not sure of what to do, he opened the bundle and found a large ham and cheese sandwich well stuffed. He mumbled a much-surprised thank you, which seemed to make her happy enough. "I'll bring you some lemonade later," she rushed out before rushing back into the house. Under normal circumstances Harry would have wondered if she was under some kind of hallucinogenic substance or if one of the Order members had put an Imperious on her, but he simply didn't care how he was treated anymore.
He would have gone back to work if he hadn't heard the distinct sound of shouting from the kitchen, where Petunia had just disappeared into. It seemed that his Aunt and Uncle might have been having a row, which was unusual enough, but that they would be arguing so loudly while the windows were open-and all the neighbours could hear-was an unprecedented event. For some reason he had a feeling that it had something to do with him.
"I SWEAR, PETUNIA! EVER SINCE YOU CAME BACK FROM LONDON YOU'VE BEEN TREATING THAT FREAK LIKE SOME KIND OF HERO! IT'S DIGUSTING! AND I WON'T HAVE YOU ACTING THIS WAY IN FRONT OF MY SISTER!" Harry could distinctively hear Dudley whimpering, which made him realize that the sandwich in his hand was probably meant to be his cousin's appetizer. Vernon was right about one thing; Petunia's behaviour toward Harry had changed entirely after she'd gone to London to call on an old friend at the beginning of the month.
In any case, Harry heard enough of his Uncle's booming voice directed at him all day; he didn't need to hear it indirectly if he wasn't held to it. "Dung, how about some kind of diversion?" He asked before he turned on the lawn mower again, already drowning a bit of the angry sounds from inside the house. Of course, Mundungus Fletcher's wonderful choice in divertive techniques had to involve a pack of Filibuster Fireworks which was thrown against the now active lawnmower that he'd been pushing.
Uncle Vernon was not a happy camper on this happy day.
*°*°*
Vernon was even less of a happy camper than Harry had originally thought.
When Aunt Marge had arrived an hour earlier, Harry was still washing Dudley's grungy, sweaty, downright disgusting wrestling suits-that, he guessed, had been piling up for at least a year so that he could do them all himself-and, after said hour, he still had half the pile to do. How many could Dudley have of those things? It looked like there was one for each day of the year. At least while he was doing that he could try to look like he was concentrating on his work, and not purposely ignoring the conversation the Dursley siblings were having about him.
"Can you believe it Marge? The three of us were having a nice, quiet lunch together, and all of a sudden that ruckus comes from outside. I don't know what he put in that blasted thing, but there were sparks and whistles covering the whole yard! You saw the mess outside! And the neighbours! You just don't know the complaints!" He exclaimed, his double chin bouncing with his sputters, his chubby face as red as ever before. Although in Harry's point of view, he didn't remember them having all that quiet of a lunch.
"I can't believe he did this! Blew up the lawnmower! Oh, he must have leaned it from someone at that delinquent school of his, I bet! I tell, you Vernon, a good walloping is all he needs! That's the only way to straighten out those crooked ones! Look, boy! Look at what you did to his moustache!" She replied. Oh, yes, the moustache. When the Filibusters had gone off, the quick reflexes of five years of Quidditch gave him the speed to run around the corner of the house fast enough to be out of the line of fire. Vernon, instead, driven by his outrage and curiosity, ran out into the garden, which was looking like a Vietnamese mined war zone, and lost one half of his once proud moustache to a green petard. The neighbourhood had been terrified to leave their homes for hours. Mrs. Figg thought it was the grandest laugh. So did Mundungus. Harry suspected that Moody would have enjoyed seeing Vernon with only half a moustache, too.
After that Petunia and Vernon took up their arguing in a much more subdued manner. Harry hadn't seen her since he'd come back into the house-a long time later, since he'd had to try and hide the fact that a very large pack of wizarding fireworks had just blown up near the front door.
"I told you to look, boy!" Marge screamed in order to get his attention. Oh, right, he was being spoken to.
"Wha?" He uttered intelligently.
"Oh, I see that school has done absolutely no good on you has it?!" Harry didn't bother to answer, just turned, grudgingly, back to his work and tuned her out. But it was getting increasingly harder to do so, since her voice was rising very quickly. It was funny how at first she watched him fearfully. It didn't take her long to notice that there wasn't a thing in the world she could say to make him react. He was too numb for that. And she took advantage of it, enjoyed it for a while. Now, Harry's lack of response was angering her. She tried everything to get a rise out of him, even that old line about his parents. But the only real family Harry had ever known was now gone. Yet, the growing hostility coming from Aunt Marge was beginning to affect that blasted dog of hers, who was barking louder and louder at his feet. The beast was beginning to foam at the mouth, and, from a previous experience in which Dudley had tormented the dog long enough that it chased him up a tree, Harry knew that was not a good thing. He was ready to bite.
But Marge beat him to it as her temperance broke and she lunged for Harry with the intention of giving him that "good walloping" herself. Harry's Quidditch expertise came in handy once again. After five years of dodging high-speed ferocious bludgers, ducking slow Aunt Marge was rather easy. The problem with that was that the missed impact of her fist with his jaw caused the woman to lose her balance. She ended up kneeing that evil beast of hers, who, aggressive as he had been already, sunk his teeth as deeply as he could into her leg.
Again, screams filled the household. Marge instantly began shouting for help and trying to beat the beast off her bleeding limb. Vernon yelled at the dog, ordering it to let go, and trying to pry the animal off his sister's leg. He almost lost a hand. Sighing, Harry handled the dog like he would a loose bludger, he wrapped one arm around its neck, and the other was used as a vice to close its mouth between his arm and forearm (he'd seen Marge do it to one of her "more crooked dogs" once) and shoved him into a linen closet, where it barked and growled and, from the sounds of it, ripped the linens to shreds, but why care? After all, Harry was practically already dead.
"PETUNIA!" Screamed Vernon, "PETUNIA! I'M TAKING MARGE TO THE HOSPITAL, YOU CAN STAY AND MAKE SURE THE BOY DOESN'T DISAPPEAR AGAIN!" He yelled up the stair while telling Dudley to come with him so that he would be safe, away from dangerous Harry. Vernon was shaking with anger, trying to carry Marge's girth while she bellowed; his skin a mix of white and purplish red dots, and with only half a moustache, Vernon looked rather senile as he threatened Harry. "Just you wait until I come back, boy!" He whispered menacingly and left with such a strong slam that the door fell off its hinges.
"What happened?" Asked his Aunt as she rushed down from her bedroom, where she had exiled herself after her row with her husband. Harry pointed to the linen closet where the sound of shredding could still be loudly heard, when a rustling that was very familiar to him could be heard all around. Out from under their invisibility cloaks came Mundungus Fletcher, (he'd stuck around for the whole day? How unlikely), Kingsley Shacklebolt, Mad Eye Moody, Nymphadora Tonks (with lime green hair and Snape's nose, for the occasion), and Remus Lupin, while at the door stood Arabella Figg, as always, dressed in her house robe and slippers.
"What are you all doing here?" Harry asked surprised. "How long have you been here?" He was sure that it had only been Dung until a while ago.
"Well, Figgy here thought it might be a good idea for a few of us to come on duty after Mundungus decided to set off those Filibusters," Moody began explaining, but was interrupted.
"He wanted a diversion, I delivered," was the indignant reply.
"In any case, Harry," Lupin began, "after what just happened, you can't stay here. I think your Uncle is ready to get very violent with you. By the way, great dodge. Do you have your cloak handy?" The ex professor asked.
"It's in my room, but I don't have anything packed," Harry answered.
"You don't? And how were you intending to come to your birthday party tomorrow? And don't worry about the packing, Nymphadora will take care of it, won't you, Nymphadora?" The werewolf replied.
"Don't call me Nymphadora," she threatened as she headed up to the room she'd seen a year prior.
"Birthday party?" Harry asked surprised. Oh, right, his birthday was tomorrow.
"I guess Hermione's owl didn't reach you yet. I told her she shouldn't have used Pig," he replied mindlessly. "How are you, Harry?" His tone was cordial, but Harry knew that the question itself was serious. The boy couldn't look the man in the eye. He felt guilty towards Lupin. Because of him, and his foolishness, a good man with too many troubles had lost his only real friend left. Lupin didn't wish to interpret the silence, so he simply placed a hand on Harry's shoulder and looked away. A throat could be heard clearing. Everyone looked to Petunia, who appeared entirely terrified, but at least she was composed. "Are you taking him away?" She asked, her voice a quiet, horrified squeak.
"Yah-huh," Tonks called as she came down from the upper story, a familiar silvery cloak in one hand, and a freshly cleaned birdcage wielding a slightly ruffled Hedwig in the other. Tonks wasn't being very careful with the way she carried the candid owl. Hedwig began to make her discomfort known by hooting loudly. "Oh, shut up you silly goose, it won't be a long trip," the young Auror muttered, though Hedwig didn't seem to care so much about the length of the ride as she did about the turbulence. Or the fact that she'd been called a goose.
"Don't worry," Lupin told Petunia as he took his eyes away from the one sided conversation Tonks was having, "Professor Dumbledore is already aware of this." Harry didn't know how that was supposed to allow his Aunt not to worry.
Strangely Petunia nodded. And then she gulped, placing a preoccupied hand on her neck, as though protecting it from something. "What shall I tell my husband?"
"Oh, just tell him we threatened you with some broomsticks," Tonks shrugged as she handed Harry his invisibility cloak all the while putting on her own. Petunia gasped when the strange looking girl disappeared under its material.
Speaking of broomsticks, Harry didn't see any. "We're not flying this time?" He asked.
"No, Dumbledore thought it would be a good idea for you to Floo," Moody replied, his eye moving frantically around his head, "thank Merlin, he asked Figgy to attach to it," obviously the retired Auror hadn't enjoyed the moonlit ride of the previous year. "Let's go, I don't want any unexpected company," he concluded, and disappeared under a silver swish of fabric, the others following suit.
Harry looked to his Aunt, not really knowing what to say. "Uhh, bye Aunt Petunia," he said awkwardly, and, thinking of her late behaviour towards him, added a very quiet "Thank you," before vanishing himself and following Mrs. Figg slowly, trying not to run in any of his invisible companions. Tonks was easy to avoid. She was walking slightly to the right of him, and he could tell simply by the sounds of Hedwig's complaints and the sound of her talons and beak beating on the metal cage, begging for mercy. Within minutes they were all at the door. Mrs. Figg opened it, and, acting as though she was pulling out weeds from a flowerpot, quietly called out Harry's name telling him to go in and wait by the fireplace. He did as told, and listened as he heard her whisper the names of those who had come to get him. She entered her residence only when she was sure they were all in, and then went to close all the windows and curtains, so that the neighbours would not notice the flames, which were already unusual at the end of July, but down right frightening when green.
"Okay," she whispered, and the group shed their invisibility cloaks, Harry following suit.
"Very well, Harry, you go first," Mad Eye ordered, and wordlessly the boy stepped into the fireplace. Moody took a pinch of Floo Powder, and, throwing it into the fireplace he shouted, "Number 12, Grimmauld Place!" and knocked the numbness out of Harry.
Oh, no! They were taking him to Grimmauld Place.
To Be Continued
Well, there's the first chapter, not too good, but hey it's just the beginning. Let me know what you think at Robbygal@hotmail.com or simply leave me a review.
Love
Pearl