Chapter Text
Harry blinked his eyes.
For a second he couldn’t move, and he wondered who had woken him up when it must have been the middle of the night, and why he had the worst headache he’d ever had in his life.
Then he remembered.
He thrashed, around the same time that he felt the ropes around his body and the grass underneath him and the cloth around his eyes.
“Our guest has awoken, Wormtail. Why don’t you help him up?”
There was the sound of feet over grass, and his blindfold vanished. He blinked, dazed as he tried to clear his spotty vision. Then a black shape blotted out the lights, and Harry realised his eyes weren’t spotty at all, that it was stars that hung above him, and Wormtail who was bending over him, hauling him to his feet and pressing his back against a stone wall. The ropes rebound to hold him there.
A pale green light cast a sickly glow over their surroundings, illuminating enormous stone blocks that rose from the ground like pillars and gates, encircling the small clearing they stood in. Beyond them was a grassy field that fell quickly into inky blackness.
Dumbly, Harry realised he was somewhere he had only ever seen in magazines, little travel books that Petunia had occasionally brought home and flicked through: Stonehenge. And in the middle of the circle of rocks lay an enormous, bubbling cauldron.
“Is it your first time?” came the high voice, and Harry’s eyes latched onto the speaker.
It was a boy, who couldn’t have been older than ten or eleven. He sat atop a fallen stone, one leg crossed over the other and wand hanging lazily from his hand. His eyes were bright red. Pain shot through Harry’s forehead when he met his gaze.
“I thought you might have come before. Muggles favour this location, don’t they?”
Harry couldn’t speak.
“Their fascination, I believe, is architectural in nature. The idea that mere rocks could be so alluring… isn’t it amusing?” The boy glanced away from Harry, and the ache in his head abated. “Prepare yourself, Wormtail. The potion’s end is nigh.”
The hunched man bowed low. “Of course, my Lord…”
The boy swung his legs up onto the rock and laid his wand at his feet. A short finger tapped against the rock as Wormtail approached with a large blanket that he laid behind the boy.
Harry watched, feeling as though the world had stopped its turn and was waiting with him, holding its breath.
The boy’s shoulders shuddered, there was a strange fleshy noise, and his figure began to shrink, twisting and folding and diminishing until finally, what was left on the blanket was a tiny, wrinkled baby, as red as the boy’s eyes had been.
Wormtail gathered the infant up in the blanket and took it over to the cauldron. The water sloshed and hissed, and Harry shut his eyes for the first time, wishing desperately that the thing would die, that it would drown or burn alive, and more than that—that someone would come for him.
Sable had said they would come. Sable—
Harry suddenly looked around. Shouldn’t Sable be here? Where was he? He swept his eyes over the clearing, the rocks—and finally, his eyes landed on a tiny black lump, nearly invisible at the foot of another stone block about four feet away.
He breathed a sigh—but it was shallow, because Sable was unmoving, and he didn’t know how long he would have to wait before someone would come for him.
Distantly, he realised Wormtail was speaking. “…unknowingly given, you will renew your son!”
There was a stream of fine dust at the end of his wand, that drifted through the air and paused above the cauldron. It descended into the water, and the surface of the potion cracked and hissed as sparks flew out.
Harry came to the startling realisation that he had to stop the ritual now. If he didn’t—if it went on—
“Wormtail!” he called, and to his surprise the man broke out into sobs. But it wasn’t because of Harry: he held a knife in his hand.
“Flesh—”
“Wormtail, stop! Stop—I—”
“—of the servant—”
“Don’t do—you’re doing it wrong!”
“—w-willingly given—”
Harry was scrambling for something he could say, something that would stop Wormtail in his tracks. He thrashed against his bonds, but the ropes were all but immovable. He cast his eyes at Sable and cursed the cat for being asleep. Or knocked out. Not worse. It wouldn’t be worse. The thought came to him suddenly—“You’re here! Finally!” he called, fixing his eyes on the distant darkness beyond the rocks.
Wormtail whirled around, and he followed Harry’s gaze with his eyes, but of course there was nothing there. Harry had hoped—maybe he would say something, and he could get the man talking. But he only turned back to the cauldron. “…revive your master.”
He swung the knife down, and Harry shut his eyes but could not shut his ears to the blood-curdling shriek that struck him like a physical blow. Harry opened his eyes, dizzily saw the lump of flesh on the ground that Wormtail stooped to grasp with shaking fingers. The cauldron whirled, sparking with energy and life as it consumed the hand. It flared red, so bright Harry had to look away. When the light had subsided, he saw Wormtail stumbling towards him.
His insides turned to ice. That was what was next: blood. His blood. He struggled, watching Wormtail’s stump drip onto the ground, hearing his moans as he drew closer, until he was inches from his face and rasping, “Blood of the enemy… forcibly ta-… taken… you will resurrect… your foe.”
The knife pierced his arm, the blood ran down its length. He watched it as though in a dream, unable to believe it was happening.
Wormtail dropped the knife and fumbled in his pocket for a glass vial that he clutched in his last remaining hand. The chill of the glass pressed against the wound, and then Wormtail stumbled back to the cauldron and let the drops fall, one by one, into the rumbling liquid.
The light was explosive; Harry shut his eyes tightly and tried to turn his face away, but even through his eyelids it was oppressive in its brilliance.
When it died, he heard a sigh.
Harry opened his eyes to see a pale figure rising from the cauldron, unfurling itself tall above the rim. “My robes,” he breathed, stretching a hand out in front of him as though inspecting it, and when Wormtail approached, still weeping and shivering with a bundle of black cloth, he only had to flick his fingers before they rose from the rat’s arms and came to wrap around his shoulders.
Harry stared, knowing he had failed.
Voldemort stepped out of the cauldron, caressing his body as he inspected it. He seemed in near-disbelief, his face alight with a sinister joy. His hand twitched again, and his wand flew from the rock into his palm. At the sight of it, Harry’s fingers curled unconsciously, but there was no wand for him to grip, nothing he could defend himself with.
“At last,” said Voldemort, and he extended his wand, and one of the rock pillars exploded. Harry turned his face away, but no shards came raining down on him. He chanced a look, and his jaw fell open. The shards of rock were hanging in the air, perfectly still, and at another swirl of his wand, they dissolved into a fine powder that settled into the grass.
“My Lord…” whimpered Wormtail, “my hand… you promised…”
But Voldemort did not even glance at him. He turned, and his gaze fell on Harry, and Harry’s scar burned. It made his vision dizzy. He set his eyes on the front of Voldemort’s robes, watching as they drew closer.
“Harry Potter… unremarkable in every way, and yet…”
Harry could hardly think with the pain.
“Your arm, Wormtail.”
“Oh thank you, my Lord…”
A high, cold laugh. “The other one.”
The man wept. Harry forced his eyes up to see Voldemort pressing a finger to Wormtail’s forearm where a black mark lay, a skull and snake that twisted under Voldemort’s touch.
“Let us see who dares to come… and who dares to stay away. But they will all know.” He moved away from Wormtail, who collapsed onto the floor, gripping his stump as it bled onto the ground.
“You will not feel it, Harry Potter, but there is magic in this place,” spoke Voldemort. “There was a time, long ago, when it was used by the mages of old. The blood spilled here nourished the earth for centuries, though seldom has it seen magic in the last few. The muggles, as Wormtail found, had overrun the area. It was a simple task to remove them. Tonight… this night, the earth will be nourished again.”
Harry could still feel the blood dripping from his arm, could see Wormtail’s stump flowing freely. He had the feeling that was not all Voldemort intended.
“Often this year I have wondered why fate set itself against me. My plan, artful in its simplicity, brought to ruin at the first step. My servants dead, imprisoned, or apostate. The ritual, discovered—my efforts, undone.” He sighed, running a finger over the length of his wand. “But I have found that what fate takes away with one hand, it provides with the other. And what Voldemort is not provided, he takes.”
There was a pop, and the swish of a cloak, and a figure appeared among the stones. For the barest moment a splinter of hope pierced Harry, thinking it might be Dumbledore, or Sirius. But the figure kneeled, and Harry saw they were cloaked in black robes, a silver mask upon their face. His hope flagged.
Voldemort fell silent, standing in the centre of the stone formation, eyes on the figure who had arrived. There was a crack, then another. Slowly, the clearing filled with people, all robed and masked. There was a moment where no one moved, and then the first of them crept forward and kissed the hem of Voldemort’s robes, and the rest followed.
Harry looked away, back towards the black lump lying still. Harry could not even see if Sable was breathing. He shifted in his bonds again, probing for any weaknesses—and froze as his foot touched something. He glanced down, and saw Wormtail’s knife lying between blades of grass at his feet. Hope surged; he looked away from it quickly, watching Voldemort address the masked figures and calling each by name. The words echoed towards him as though down a tunnel: Malfoy. Mulciber. Crabbe and Goyle. Nott. Wormtail’s attention had been seized by the metal growth at the end of his wrist, a silver hand that covered the bleeding stump.
With the heel of his shoe, Harry pushed the knife through the grass to the foot of the stone.
“…six are missing… two too craven to return, and four dead. Yet one remains in my faithful service, more useful in his demise than any of you have been in life…”
There was the faint scrape of metal against rock as Harry tried to slide the knife up the stone towards his hand, but his legs were bound as tightly as his arms, and he couldn’t find the leverage to manage it.
“…It was through his actions, his surveillance of my enemies, that I gathered the knowledge necessary to bring us here tonight… yes, all of us… even our young friend, who has long evaded my grasp…”
He turned, and Harry froze as thirty-some pairs of eyes fell upon him.
“Yes, Harry Potter. My guest of honour. Without whom, this would not have been possible.” Voldemort took a step towards him. Harry’s scar seared.
One of the masked came forward, said something, but Harry hardly heard it. Voldemort was walking to him now, and Harry’s scar began to pound, splintering pain that began to overwhelm him as Voldemort neared—his head was splitting open; he thought he felt blood running down his face and then he tasted copper and wondered if it might be real. He heard nothing, could hardly see past the spots in his vision, but then came Voldemort’s voice, and it was clearer even than his own thoughts as it rung in his ears.
“It is a fascinating tale,” he said. “The pieces of which seemed obscured, even to my eyes, until very recently. This boy, who they called my downfall. That night, the first time we met, I intended to kill him. His parents fell to me, though I might have spared his mother… unforeseen to me, it was her death that provided him with a protection, her sacrifice that spared him from joining them in death. That old magic ripped me from my body, stripped me of my powers, sent me closer to death than anything had before it…”
He raised a hand and it gravitated towards Harry’s face. Harry watched it, unable to meet Voldemort’s eyes, feeling a cold sweat run down the back of his neck—or maybe that was blood as well.
“…Now, I am its master.” The spidery fingers pressed into Harry’s face, and he screamed.
As quickly as it had come, the pain abated, as Voldemort’s hand dropped and he stepped back, eyes sweeping over the crowd as he began to talk again. In the space of his mind that the pain had evacuated, he found himself grateful—as absurd as the feeling was—that Voldemort was so long-winded, because surely that would give Dumbledore time to find him. To come.
Voldemort spoke to the crowd of his time as a wraith, waiting for the Death Eaters who never came, then of the teacher who stumbled upon him—Quirrell, Harry remembered, but the thought was dull and echoed limply in the back of his mind.
Voldemort told them how he had conspired to obtain the stone, but failed in the eleventh hour because of Harry. Then, he spoke to them of Wormtail’s return, and the woman he brought, Bertha Jorkins. Of the secret she revealed; of the Death Eater waiting to be freed. Of the ritual he intended to return him to his body.
“…I had found, three years ago, exactly how his mother’s protection had lingered in his blood. I knew if I was to return, to use the blood of an enemy, it must be his blood. Yet how was I to obtain it? For he was well protected outside of the castle, by magics I am sure not even he understands…
“But I had found a method by which I could reach him, one illuminated to me by Bertha Jorkins, who knew of the impending Triwizard Tournament. Again I conspired to enact it.
“Wormtail and my most faithful servant, newly freed, were to visit Alastor Moody, the man who was to blame for the ill fates of so many of my most loyal followers… They were to imprison him, impersonate him, and thereby giving me a method by which I could reach Harry Potter, even in Hogwarts…”
Voldemort turned, then, and faced Harry once more. The pain flashed through him again, like an open wound salted.
“And yet,” he said, and it was as though he was whispering in Harry’s ear, “again, my plans were thwarted. My most loyal servant, with whom I had been reunited only weeks before, dead. I was forced to flee my rudimentary body, once again no more than a fragment of a thought, flying on the currents of the wind.” He drew closer. “But fate had not yet abandoned me, for I found a new host, and it gave me the body I had lost. I grew stronger, all the while I was plagued by the question: how had we been foiled?
“The answer evaded me for many months. I focused on rebuilding my strength, and evading my enemies, for they had also discovered where I had hidden myself for a time, in the house of my forefathers. I could not return there. Again I asked: how did they discover it?
“At last, my answer came. My servant, who had died, returned to me. He became a ghost, so that he might serve me even in death. He had arisen from where he had died in Alastor Moody’s house with renewed intentions to follow my instructions. He found an envelope, on which was writ Harry Potter’s own name. He journeyed then to Hogwarts castle, carrying the scrap of paper with him on the breath of the wind. Wind, which he discovered would respond to his will, for his will was strong and desired nothing more than to fufil the instructions I had given him before his death. He entered Harry Potter’s name into the Triwizard Tournament.
“Though our plans had been brought to ruin, the boy was still chosen to compete.” Voldemort chuckled at this. “Truly the crop of students at Hogwarts has diminished, if a mere boy of fourteen could win the Goblet’s regard over all others.” There was scattered laughter in the crowd.
“My servant,” he went on, “realised soon that his existence as a ghost leant itself to espionage: he could live in the castle walls and listen to those who spoke beyond them. What he found, and what he told me, when he returned to my side at last, was… illuminating.
“For how could I have guessed? That there was an agent, entirely unknown to me, who seemed to be aware of my intentions, perhaps before I myself had considered them. It was baffling, but it was incontrovertible: this agent spoke on multiple occasions of my plan to enter Harry Potter into the Tournament, it spoke of my intention to return to my full strength, indeed it even spoke of the events of tonight, of the necessity of Harry Potter’s blood for my potion.
“Imagine my surprise, when I heard all of this… imagine my disbelief, when I heard it was a mere animal.” He turned, then, to the slumped form of the cat. “Rennervate.”
Harry’s heart seized. He watched as Sable twitched, then moved, staggering to his feet. He looked around the clearing, at the crowd of Death Eaters, at the enormous cauldron, at Voldemort and then at Harry himself.
How much longer? Harry wanted to ask. How much longer until Dumbledore comes?
But Sable met his eyes, and Harry’s blood turned to ice.
No one will come.
Somewhere far away, Voldemort was talking. “…the night of the final task, I acquired it at last, and began to investigate: what could this creature be…?”
Harry was in disbelief. How could that be true? Sable—he had said—
I know. I’m sorry. I thought I knew where he would take you. I was wrong. Dumbledore will not know where this is.
He looked at the cat, who stood there on shivering legs, staring at him.
“…this was the magic of familiars, of course. But it was not my answer, as a familiar is only an animal until it meets its master. Was it the animal, or… the boy?
“The animal could not be communicated with, and yet it could be controlled. With this, the path forward became clear to me. It would lure the boy from the halls of Hogwarts, beyond the protection of Dumbledore and into my waiting arms. Now you see him, the one you had believed had brought about my end…”
Voldemort raised his wand. “Crucio!”
His body erupted; his insides were alight, and whatever pain his scar had brought him was dwarfed, made nothing, by the agony that ripped through him then. He wanted it to end, wanted to die, wanted to disappear.
It ended.
He hung limp against the ropes, breathing ragged. There was laughter in the air. Blearily he opened his eyes, looking not to Voldemort but Sable, whose jade eyes stared firmly back at him.
“…now, we shall see the secret that lies behind the creature’s knowledge—Legilimens!”
A force as physical as the crucio barrelled into Harry’s mind, tearing it apart—he saw years of his life flash by, saw his conversations with Sable—
It’s dragons.
What do you mean—dragons?
I had another dream.
Of Voldemort?
I think so.
I guess Dudley left his chocolate out here.
That’s yours.
I wouldn’t call it seeing the future.
Well, what is it then?
…knowing things.
At least your cat has some sense, Harry—if only she’d gone and gotten one like him…
I don’t think psychic cats are all that common, Ron.
How many are there?
Seven.
Suddenly Harry screamed. His mind split at the seams as the force tearing it apart turned white hot and rage coursed through him like nails in his flesh. He didn’t hear the crucio but he felt it, and all his thoughts scattered like ash on the wind, as molten steel poured down his bones, eating through him and leaving him with nothing but the pain of it.
It ended.
He became aware that he was still alive, though he was detached from it. It was as though his soul had left him and was watching his body lie on the grass. He could see his eyes were open, staring blankly at the night sky and its stars.
Get up.
The words passed over him like the wind he couldn’t feel, but that he saw stirring the hairs on his head. How could he obey, even if he wanted? He was gone.
Harry, get up.
He noticed faintly that he was crying. There were sounds around him, sounds that refused to resolve in his ears. A cloaked figure leaned over him. His mind was empty of thought; it had been hollowed out.
GET UP NOW.
He moved, and a knife that had found its way into his hand stabbed up, burying itself in the Death Eater’s robes. Suddenly he heard it all, the roaring in the air, or maybe in his ears as he jumped up and a flash of green struck the grass where he had lain.
He dove—behind the nearest rock just as it shattered and he moved again, ducking. He knew (how?) that Sable was a pace away from him, holding his wand in his mouth, and Harry grabbed it from the cat even as he began to run.
“LUMOS MAXIMA!” he bellowed, not sure where the thought to cast it had come from, but there it was, blinding his eyes as surely as it blinded everyone else’s. He ran—without sight, and yet he found he could still dodge the pillars of stone as they exploded around him. He felt the burn of spellfire graze his shoulder, and he stumbled—his legs nearly gave way, but they didn’t, he was upright, and he kept running.
His vision cleared slowly and in patches. At one moment, he saw the field stretch before him, endless, and he despaired. At another, he glanced behind him, and he saw a dark shape moving against the stars.
He ran.
He dove to the side before he saw the flash of green—rolled, got up, kept running.
Patronus, Harry. Cast your Patronus.
Incredulity bubbled up from whatever was left of his mind—it was impossible. It couldn’t be done.
In the next moment he was not in the field at all—he was on the bench in the Dursleys’ backyard, and he was talking to a boy with green eyes. It’s yours.
The light spilled from his wand, a great stag that took flight ahead of him, and he watched it go, hardly believing his eyes.
“Stonehenge,” he heard someone say. It might have been him.
EXPELLIARMUS NOW.
He flung his arm out again behind him, seeing the green light streaking towards him as the scarlet from his own wand rushed forward to meet it, and they met—they met in the air, and when they collided a burst of golden light blinded him again.
His wand burned in his hand, his fingers wrapped tightly around it as though held there by an invisible force. And then, beyond all reasoning, his feet lifted off the ground. He sagged against the weight, all but sure that his legs would not support him if he were to touch the ground again.
As his vision returned once more he saw the jet of golden light bridging the space between his wand and Voldemort’s, sparking with energy and splintering into a web that surrounded them. A song filled the air, clearer than any other sound Harry had heard before. It was everything Voldemort’s Cruciatus was not—it filled his bones with light, with hope, and he gasped air into his lungs as he breathed deeply for the first time since his mind had been torn apart.
He saw Voldemort’s face, contorted in fury and astonishment, he saw Sable on the ground below, saw the dozens of Death Eaters crossing the field towards them.
Don’t break the connection.
I won’t, he promised.
He poured what was left of him down into his wand, felt the golden beam shudder and jolt.
A shadowy figure began to materialise at the end of Voldemort’s wand. When it had stepped out, leaning against a cane, Harry recognised the figure as the man who had died to Voldemort nearly a year ago in his dream. The question sprung from Harry’s mouth without thought: “What’s your name?”
The man chuckled. “Frank Bryce.”
Harry swallowed.
A woman came next, and though he didn’t recognise her, he knew she must have been the one Voldemort spoke of, Bertha Jorkins. “Don’t let go, Harry,” she called. He nodded, and then his eyes fell again on the tip of Voldemort’s wand, where another ghost was emerging.
He knew it before he saw her face—but when he did see her face, it was smiling. “Mum,” he said brokenly.
“Your father’s coming,” she told him quietly, but he’d known that too.
“I miss you,” he said, though he hardly noticed the words as they escaped him.
She smiled again, but it was sadder, this time. “Oh, Harry. We’re so proud of you.”
His father stepped away from the end of Voldemort’s wand and spoke, as quiet as his mother had been, “You can’t hold on for much longer. When the connection breaks, we’ll hold him off. You have to run. As far as you can. Silence your steps. There’s no moon, you’ll be hard to spot. You can escape them. Promise me, Harry. Promise us you won’t stop running.”
Harry’s vision was blurred, but his hands were clenched around his wand and he couldn’t wipe his eyes. It made him angry—when would he ever see his parents, if not then, and he couldn’t even look at them properly.
He pressed his face roughly into his shoulder and turned back to them, nodded firmly. He didn’t know how he could—he was exhausted, wrung out, and knew that as soon as his legs touched the ground they would give out.
“Good,” his father said, and shot him a quick grin. Harry’s chest was about to burst. “We love you.”
The thread broke; the cage of light vanished and the birdsong died, and the ghosts of Voldemort’s wand rushed at him as one, and Harry—Harry was running. He barrelled through the crowd of Death Eaters, who were staring in shock at their master, knew that Sable was at his heels. He rasped out the silencing spell, thanking Hermione for every hour she forced him to learn spells he thought he would never use, and made for a crop of trees that he couldn’t see through the darkness but knew was there.
You’re almost there.
He ran.
He ran, and when he saw the stars above him disappear, felt the roots under his feet and saw faintly the outline of boughs before him, he slowed.
But Sable pressed on. Not yet.
He nearly fell over; exhaustion was dragging him towards the earth. How could it not be over yet?
He stumbled, caught himself on a branch his hand reached for, kept running.
Slow down.
For a moment he wasn’t sure he could, wasn’t sure he wouldn’t just fall over, but his lungs were burning and he gave into the sensation, let his pace slow until he was walking through the trees—and he heard it.
The crack of apparition, spellfire.
GET DOWN.
He fell to the ground as a jet of purple light flew over his head.
“I saw something!” came a shout.
Get behind a tree and stay there.
Harry struggled to crawl behind a bough, just as he felt Sable leave him, and heard the heavy footsteps that approached. He lay still as a faint light illuminated the trees around him, but the shadow of the tree hid him.
A wild yowl filled the air in the distance.
“Over here!” someone called, and the footsteps that had been nearing him paused, and set off in that direction. The air darkened again.
Move, he told himself. MOVE.
His legs trembled as he forced them under himself and pushed off the ground. He nearly fell over as quickly as he’d stood up, but he caught himself with a trembling hand on a tree, and forced himself forwards. Still he found his eyes couldn’t see past the darkness, and he stumbled over every tree root, knocked his body into every stray branch. Emotion clawed at his throat; desperately he wished he could just lie down and let it end, whatever end it was.
Faster, Harry.
He realised Sable was at his feet again, pushing him forwards, and he moved, the blackness clearing before him. He pressed on, ducking under the branches and stepping over the roots. Between the trees he could see the end of the grove, and he jolted as he realised another stretch of grassland lay beyond it. What now?
We hide.
His steps slowed. He could hear shouting, now. The sounds of spellfire had grown, had moved closer to the grove.
They’re here.
Harry’s chest seized with joy as the breath left his lungs. A pair of tiny teeth clamped down on his ankle, and he glanced down. Sable was staring up at him.
Don’t speak.
He nodded. He wasn’t going to do something so stupid, like call for help.
Are you sure?
He scowled at the cat. They were still walking, slowly now. When a pair of heavy footsteps cut through the forest he froze, and ducked behind a tree as they ran past. He wondered if it was someone on his side. Or another Death Eater.
Then he heard footsteps of a different kind—a soft padding, near-silent over the leaf litter. Four feet.
DOG.
It took all his self-control not to shout with joy, but he did leap out towards the figure of the enormous hound ambling towards them, and in the space of a breath the dog had transformed into Sirius, who embraced him tightly, and then they were spinning, being squeezed through a tube, and stumbling out onto a dirt road.
“Two more, Harry,” he whispered, and Harry was confused for a moment before the sensation recommenced, and they were being sucked through another tube. They landed, hard, on a patch of grass, but he barely had time to take a few lungfuls of air before they spun again, and this time when they came out there was no more spinning—except for the dizziness that swarmed him and threatened to bring the ground closer.
“Harry,” mumbled Sirius through his hair, still clutching him tightly, the only thing stopping Harry from falling to the floor. “Thank the gods you’re safe.”
Harry gripped his godfather, hands fisting in his robes as the enormity of it washed over him: he was safe.
Except—“Sable!” he exclaimed, pulling back. “Did you bring him?”
He glanced around, but he needn’t have; he knew the cat wasn’t with them.
“Shh, don’t worry Harry. He’ll be all right. He’s a smart cat.”
“You don’t understand—if Voldemort finds him—” Harry’s hands were grappling at Sirius’ robes, voice hoarse.
“Okay, all right—all—oh thank Merlin, Hagrid, you’re here—take Harry—”
A shadow fell over them, and for the first time Harry realised they were at the school gates, and an enormous hand was taking his shoulder.
“Harry, yer all right,” said Hagrid, and it came out as a rasp. His face was wet and blotchy. Harry wanted to cry too, but the feeling caught in his throat as he saw Sirius disappear with a crack.
“C’mon, let’s get yeh ter Pomfrey, Harry.”
“No, I—” his voice cracked. “I have to wait for—”
“C’mon,” coaxed Hagrid, tugging him up the path. Harry thought his legs would give out, but though they shook beneath him they moved forward, one step at a time. He stumbled, and Hagrid’s hands gripped his shoulders.
“Easy there.”
“Hagrid I can’t…” Harry said, voice shaking. “I can’t…”
“Yes yeh can, there’s a good lad. Almos’ there…”
Harry lifted his eyes, saw the castle standing before them. It blurred; he didn’t bother wiping his eyes. The tears rolled down his cheeks and fell onto his collar.
“Nearly there, Harry…”
They climbed the castle steps, and there was Madam Pomfrey at the doors. She waved her wand, lifting him into the air. He felt as though he’d only blinked and then he was falling into a hospital bed. His eyes closed again, but this time they did not open.
𓃠
It had known.
The moment it saw the Legilimency spell leave Voldemort’s mouth, the cat had known they were as good as dead. It had snatched up Harry’s wand, laying idle beside a fallen rock, and hoped that Voldemort’s first instinct would not be to kill Harry.
It was not.
He unbound Harry in a fit of rage, to better see him writhe on the ground. But one of the Death Eaters was leaning over him, and the killing curse was moments away, and the cat had never wanted anything before like it wanted Harry to get up in that moment.
Against all odds, he did.
Against all odds, they escaped.
The cat kept him moving, kept him running and fighting, and when they reached shelter in the grove of trees at last and it caught the smell of the dog on the air, the cat felt its relief as Harry did, deep in its bones.
Moments later Harry disapparated with his godfather, and the tension in its chest relaxed. And then it remembered. He knows about them. He knows about the Horcruxes.
The cat sprinted for the edge of the forest, and across the field it saw them: Voldemort and Dumbledore at the ends of each other’s wands. The earth trembled around them, storm clouds gathered above, blotting out the stars. A wave of fire wrapped around them, was extinguished by an icy wind that the cat felt on its whiskers, even leagues away.
It couldn’t reach the old man to tell him. But the three, the three Horcruxes that were left stuck out clearly in the cat’s mind. The cup, the ring, the snake. Where was the snake?
As it raced out over the field, it cast its eyes around for the serpent. But when had only just reached the foot of the circle of rocks, more rubble than pillar now, something barrelled into it from behind, and the paws of the dog pressed it into the earth. The paws became hands, and then they were spinning away.
By the time they arrived at the castle gates, the cat was chewing on the dog’s ankles. Perhaps the abduction would have worked in its favour, except the dog’s ears were closed to the cat’s demands, and he hardly even glanced at it as he transformed again and sprinted up the path towards Hogwarts.
The cat followed him furiously. The ring, at least—they had to get the ring.
When it arrived at the great doors and saw dusty there, its anger disappeared, replaced by relief.
Where’s your human? it asked the duster, who scampered over to it, sniffing wildly.
By the stairs.
The cat looked over and saw the caretaker shuffling over, glint in his eyes.
Tell him that Sirius Black must come with me to Dumbledore’s office and take a sword. Then we must go to a place called Little Hangleton—where Voldemort dwelled. We cannot delay.
The man frowned as dusty relayed the instructions to him. He grumbled, opening his mouth as though to argue, but then he caught the cat's gaze. The seconds stretched on until the cat was ready to pounce on him, but at last he grunted, turned around to the stairs and began to climb them.
They found the dog by Harry’s bed in the hospital wing, gripping his hand so tightly the boy’s fingers had turned red. The matron was on the other side, waving her wand and frowning deeply.
“Cat wants you in Dumbledore’s office,” the caretaker grunted as he approached. “Something about a sword, and someplace called Little Hangleton.”
The dog looked up, brows drawn together. “What? Now?”
The cat meowed fiercely, and he glanced at Harry, before wetting his lips. “Okay. Okay…”
The cat led the dog to the gargoyle, who stepped aside at the dog’s bidding. Inside the old man’s office, the cat scampered over to the bookshelf and leapt up beside the velvet-covered sword.
The dog came over, but his eyes glossed over the weapon. “What is it?”
Patience flagging, the cat pawed at the sword and pushed it off the ledge. The dog jumped backwards as it clattered to the floor. The fall had loosened the velvet and the glint of silver could be seen beneath it.
He stooped and peeled back the cloth. “Little Hangleton is where Voldemort was.”
Maybe he’d heard it from the old man; the cat did not particularly care. It bobbed his head and he nodded back at it.
But at that moment there was a great crack and a flash of heat through the office: Dumbledore had appeared in the centre of the room, his phoenix on his shoulder.
The cat felt a surge of triumph, and then it did not.
His hand was black.
The old man took the sight of them in: the dog’s hand on the hilt of the sword, the cat in the bookshelf.
“You were there,” he said to the cat, as the phoenix flew from him and settled on its perch.
It didn’t answer; it couldn’t take its eyes away from his hand. “You’re a fool.”
He sighed. “I should think so.”
“How long do you have?”
“Oh, at least a few months.”
It stared at him. “Why did you go looking? When I told you—”
“Perhaps it is foolish of me,” he interrupted, “But I do not base all my actions on the advice of any lone creature.”
The cat was angry. “And you’ll die for it.”
He glanced at the blackened hand. “I suppose so,” he agreed mildly.
The dog interrupted them suddenly, “What are you talking about Dumbledore—die?”
The old man cast his eyes to the dog. “I must ask you to keep your silence on this matter, Sirius. No one can know.”
“It’s—it’s true, then?” His voice was strangled.
“Unfortunately so.”
The dog collapsed onto the nearest chair: the headmaster’s own. “Now?” he whispered. “When he has just returned?”
“Tell me what happened tonight,” said the old man.
“Voldemort regained his body,” the cat replied shortly. “He discovered our knowledge of his Horcruxes. Barty Crouch Junior became a ghost after his death—he was listening to us. I don’t know what he heard.”
A light dawned in his eyes. “I see,” he breathed. “Crouch—he is in the castle?”
“I don’t know.”
The old man lifted his unblemished hand, wand held lightly between his fingers, and began to murmur an incantation. A breath of air brushed past the cat, but nothing happened outwardly.
He explained, “There are but a few ways to hinder a ghost whose location is unknown. I have prevented any from entering or leaving the school.” He turned to the back of the room, where a collection of portraits looked on. “Headmasters, please instruct the ghosts of the castle to search for him.” The portraits nodded and shuffled out of their frames. The old man waved his wand once more. “Perhaps you do not notice, but I take great care to ensure our discussions remain private—every time we speak. Even the Headmasters are not made privy to our conversations.”
The cat felt a knot of tension released. “Crouch would not have heard?”
“Nothing between you and I,” he affirmed. Another flick, and an old black chest rose from behind his desk and settled atop it.
The old man strode forward as the cat leapt up onto the table. The chest opened under his touch, and within it the cat saw the charred remains of the Horcruxes. The diary and the diadem, but also… a ring, and a golden cup.
“When did you find them?” the cat asked, bewildered.
“I began my search in earnest following our conversation at the beginning of the term. Gringotts does not have sufficient protections against phoenixes. The ring took me longer, in part because of the demands of the Tournament, in part because your clue for it was less distinct.”
The cat found itself baffled. “You should have spoken with me.”
“You had expressed your reluctance at the time, you may recall.” He closed the lid of the chest, and it returned to its place on his bookshelf. “Now, there are three left.”
“Two,” the cat corrected. “Slytherin’s locket was destroyed by Kreacher in Sirius Black’s home where it was hidden.”
“That’s what you were doing?” the dog said incredulously, tearing his eyes away from the Horcruxes. “What do you mean, Kreacher—”
“I see,” replied the old man, eyes glinting. “But I believe these final two will be the most difficult.”
It stared at him. “No.”
He raised an eyebrow. “What are you disagreeing with?”
“We find another way.”
“Did you not expect this as well?” he asked. “Is that not why you allowed Harry to be taken this night?”
“I allowed?” it hissed furiously. “I allowed?”
He blinked. “I see.”
It bristled. “Did you know Voldemort had entered Hogwarts?”
The old man turned his eyes away. “No.”
“Did you suspect?”
He sighed. The cat’s hair stood on end.
“And if Harry had died?” it spat. “He should have died—were you counting on it?”
“You know as well as I,” he said quietly, firmly, “that like you, I believed Voldemort would show himself at Riddle Manor. I believed we would be able to interrupt the ritual, at the right moment.”
Its voice was scathing, “After Harry had died?”
His tone was still steady as he replied, “It was you who told me—”
“Not two minutes ago you spoke of not listening to other creatures, but when it is convenient you take me at my word?”
“As I have always done,” he countered. “Why are you angered by it?”
“BECAUSE,” it screeched, “YOU CANNOT KNOW.” Its claws dug into the table, leaving deep grooves. “You cannot know he will live, and you have not looked for another way, because it is EASIER TO LET HIM DIE THAN TO TRY.”
The room fell silent. It heard the dog make a sound, but it was not words and the cat ignored him.
The old man turned away from the cat. “You misjudge me,” he said quietly. “Particularly when it was you who informed me about the ritual, you who confirmed my suspicions about what it could mean… for both of them. Was it wrong for me to hope that we could put an end to it tonight?”
The cat found itself in disbelief. “Arrogance.”
“Indeed,” he mused, “it was. I was mistaken to assume that his snake would be with him tonight.”
“And now he knows.”
The old man turned back to face it. “Where is Harry?”
“Why should I tell you?”
He turned to the dog. “Sirius?”
But the dog was pale-faced, fingers gripping the armrests. “What will you do?”
The old man sighed. “Do you really think so little of me?”
“Did you allow Voldemort to enter Hogwarts?” asked the dog.
“Unfortunately,” he said, “you are privy to only some of the information regarding tonight’s events. I will tell you more, once Harry is able to shed light on what occurred between Voldemort and himself.”
The dog shook his head. “Swear to me you won’t hurt him.”
“I won’t,” he replied quietly. “I swear it.”
There was a long moment of silence.
“The hospital wing. He’s asleep.”
At once the old man set off towards the oak doors. The cat jumped off the table, following closely as the dog scrambled to his feet behind them.
𓃠
When Harry awoke, he felt the absence like a missing limb. The absence of what, though? That, he couldn’t place.
Distantly, someone called his name. He just wanted to sleep again. If he slept, he wouldn’t have to think.
As he looked over he saw Madam Pomfrey, gesturing at him with her wand. He felt a thrill of fear at the sight of it and wondered for a moment why, but—no, he knew. The memories sat nearby, like vomit in his stomach. He’d rather be sleeping.
“Harry,” someone said, and he jumped at the closeness of the voice. Everything else had sounded as though he was listening through a wall.
It was Sable, of course. The cat leapt onto his bed and padded forward to sit on his chest.
“You need to wake up, Harry,” Sable told him.
“I am awake,” he replied, though he wasn’t happy about it.
The cat cocked its head at him. It looked like Padfoot, when it did that. “You’re not. The matron is going to give you a potion. You must drink it.”
Harry thought that if he really was asleep, he’d prefer to keep it that way, but something in him really wanted to listen to Sable. Listening to Sable was a good idea. Except for that one time when it had been a really bad idea.
“I don’t think I will,” he replied, flinching away when he felt something press against his mouth.
Sable’s claws dug through his thin shirt. “I know,” it said, “I could not control myself then. You may not forgive me for it. But you know it is me now, like you know yourself. You will not make that mistake again.”
Harry thought about it. “If I’m asleep, you can’t be real.”
“Don’t be a fool,” the cat told him. “There has never been anything more real than me.”
He laughed at that, and when he felt cold glass press against his lips again, he didn’t shy away from it. The liquid was warm down his throat, soothing as it fell into his stomach and washed away the acid that had been sitting there.
He opened his eyes.
He saw the cat first, sitting on his chest as it had been moments ago. It became obvious, as he stared at its eyes, that they had become as green as his own. Your missing limb, his brain supplied.
“Thank goodness,” said someone else, interrupting his thoughts. Sirius was clutching his hand, which Harry noticed was aching, and not in the same way the rest of his body ached.
“Harry, can you hear me?”
He glanced over and saw Dumbledore. “Yeah,” he tried to say, but it came out as a croak. It felt odd, when he’d been speaking to Sable just fine a moment ago. But then, maybe they hadn’t been speaking.
“Very good.” The old man stepped aside and Madam Pomfrey took his place, holding another potion that she coaxed him to drink. This one was hot, and it scalded his throat as it went down. Moments later his exhaustion eased.
“I must speak to you,” said Dumbledore carefully, “about the events of tonight.”
He slumped back into the bed, and glanced over at Sable. Couldn’t you tell him?
The cat let out a little puff of air. I was not awake for most of it, you may remember.
Harry really did not want to.
Eventually though, he opened his mouth, and he began to answer. He began in the middle—Voldemort’s resurrection—and Dumbledore gently steered him back to the beginning. He told the story of how he had met the cat, and followed it to the passageway behind the statue. What had come after.
𓃠
As the pale light of dawn hit the windows of the Hospital Wing, Harry finally drifted into sleep, one unmarred by visions or dreams. The cat had felt his exhaustion as its own, but it fought off the feeling as it glanced at the old man, who was preparing to leave.
“What will you do now?”
He glanced at it. He had acquired a glove that covered his blackened hand. The cat thought he might have been wearing it before that night as well. “That list is long and speaking it aloud will take more time than I am willing to spend on it. I will ask you both,” he said, addressing the dog sitting beside Harry as well, “to watch over him and send for me should anything happen.”
“Albus—” interrupted the dog suddenly, “what you said in your office—about your—” He was staring at the man’s hand. “What do we… what do we do?”
“Nothing, for now,” said the old man. “But I will ask you to remain available in the coming days. There is much I have to prepare before the summer’s end.”
With that, he swept out of the room. The dog’s head fell onto the bed beside Harry.
“What are we going to do?” he whispered into the sheets.
The cat didn’t answer. It wasn’t sure it had one.