Getting Harry Back

Chapter 8
Trials

To do ought good never will be our task,
But ever to do ill our sole delight....
And out of good still to find means of evil
Which oft times may succeed....

John Milton
Paradise Lost, Book I

She writhed, twisting herself into knots and double-knots. Still she couldn't discharge the pain, that Harry-sent pain. Never, never, never - not since those scars were made - had she felt such agony, had she felt herself so near to unbecoming.

Nagini vaguely heard Tom roar. But this time he was on his own, she had no magic to spare, regardless of his need, regardless of the needs of her unborn self in him or in Harry. So suddenly assaulted, and so far from her sons, she needed everything she could draw on to survive that dismembering light.

That light, she could feel it burning into her, searing the dark fibers that held her together. In desperation, she lunged,attacking the closest Death Eater, the small, rat-tasting creature with a silver hand. While too big to swallow, his pain and, especially, his prey-terror gave her a black den for hiding.

She closed her eyes, bit down harder, and held on, careful not to loose her poisons. She needed those for herself. And she also needed his living, on-going horrors to replenish her, to hold her together, to battle that dreadful light.

The subterranean Great Hall was motionless except for Nagini and her prey, and for the three Death Eaters under Tom's Cruciatus. No one else did anything to call attention to themselves. The dimly lit Hall reverberated with screams, magnified by the others' silence.

Nagini breathed more easily as she sensed herself re-solidifying. While the light didn't recede, she could now replace her vulnerable fear with a cold, black wall of hate. She released the Death Eater; she no longer needed him. Though his pain and terror had exceeded her expectations, still he had a... bitterness. That one would bear further tasting.

But now she needed to concentrate on other things.

That love from Harry, as always, she'd doubly felt it - through Tom as well as through Harry. This was no aftershock from Tom's bungled possessing at the Ministry of Magic. Something had changed, something in Harry, and she'd been caught, once again, unprepared.

She knew her risks, ever since that fool, Tom, had gotten himself nearly killed death-cursing that boy and then - she still didn't know how - he'd transferred not just part of himself into Harry, but part of herself, too, part of her unborn self that she'd implanted in him, in Tom. Now she was linked not just to Tom, but also to Harry. Two surrogates.

Surrogates. "Part living larder," she thought, "food for my not-yet-transformed self, which feeds on their hate and fears and pains. Which also feeds, Dementor-like, on the surrogate's soul, slowly devouring that deepest self. And, of course, surrogates are part scaffolding, too, the raw biology that ultimately transforms into my new serpent body."

She smiled as she thought of Tom. "So nicely along in his physical transformation - those red eyes - red, like mine! -- with their vertical pupils, those lovely flat slit-nostrils, and all those beautiful elongations. Well on his way. But Harry...."

She sighed and wondered, as she often did, what would happen when, as it seemed likely, her Tom-surrogated self-transformed first, while her Harry-self was not yet complete. As always, she came to no conclusions.

"And Harry...." She shivered. "Odd. Partly he tastes as good as Tom. And yet, at the same time, I also taste a stubborn, life-cherishing indigestibility." She'd never understood it, and it had caused her much worry for her untransformed self and her Harry-link.

She sighed, and then checked herself. Her hate in place, she was fully re-become, though tired. She noticed, in the Great Hall, that Tom had dismissed the Death Eaters; it was just him and her and the comforting, flickering emptiness. She decided she couldn't yet risk sleep, not while Tom was going through his transformations again. But she could allow herself to relax. She felt herself drifting into memories.

From the moment she'd seen him as a boy, she'd known that Tom would make a fine surrogate. Surrogates had to be carefully chosen because of that link. But Tom, once he was through Hogwarts, had more than lived up to her expectations.

Until Harry.

At first, right after the failed death curse, she had barely enough of herself left to come together again. Tom's shattering had been her shattering, almost her uncreating - that, of course, was the great risk of surrogates.

But fortunately, several of her Dementor sons had been nearby, and she'd been able to swallow them, to reabsorb them and stabilize.

"All that time and energy spent creating my sons!"

She shifted her scales and wished, not for the first time, that she could have fed on something other than her Dementor sons, that something else would have done. But she knew better.

There were, of course, always isolated and amorphous strains, sometimes even vast oceanic flows of evil. In normal times, she could feed on these, though they were only minimally nourishing. But they would not do at all when she was faced with uncreation. Then she needed a deeper nourishment to replace the destroyed dark bonds that held her together.

"Without feeding on something with the intentionality," she thought, "with the drive to choose evil, not just to be and to do evil, but to plan and nurture evil like my Dementors -- without absorbing that, and in huge quantities, I would, indeed, have gone uncreated, blasted apart and thrown back into death's other side. And who knew when or even if I could have ever re-emerged."

She felt a shudder slide down her scales.

"My Dementor sons," Nagini thought, "they're good sons. They serve me well."

Worker bees, they decomposed love and happiness, feeding maggot-like on the fetid remains, on fear and misery. From that nectar, they distilled the honey-like concentrate with which they fed her, and with which, through her Harry-link and her Tom-link, she also fed her untransformed selves.

"That honey," she thought, "is not merely mindless concentrate. It's like my sons. Indeed, it's of my sons; it carries their conscious purposefulness. It carries some of their unsoul."

Their unsoul. Most of all, their unsoul was what nourished her, what allowed her to rebuild her black inner bondings. Which was why she swallowed her sons, dissolving them in her serpentine digestion.

"Their unsoul." She flicked her tongue in a snake-smile. "Actually, my unsoul. Mine. For that is what I put into the eggs when I created them. My unsoul, with its hungers, its stealthy hates, with its will to actively seek evil's power and control."

"But I didn't give them my unsoul, I invested it. So I may take it back, at any time of my choosing, at my will. And I may take it back with interest."

She sighed.

"But once linked to my untransformed self - my continuation -- and, of course, its surrogate...." She detested that forced joining. It unnerved her with that hated vulnerability, even shame at her loss of control. Nothing but the drive for her survival, for her own, personal continuation could ever induce her to so debase her independence.

Once linked, she knew that she would be released only by her continuation's birth - her rebirth when those surrogates became fully lost and transformed. "Or by my own uncreation." She reluctantly conceded that this was worth the danger and the bother. For this was not the small seed of unsoul in her Dementor sons, this was no mere child. This, her untransformed self, was her own personal continuation, "My new life, my future. My doorway through death."

But she was puzzled, because she had two continuations, and also, two surrogates - something unheard-of. "How can I become two?"

She sighed again. While she didn't know how she could become two, she did know that her two continuations took much more nourishing, which took much more out of her. And they doubled her mortal risk. "Worse than doubled. I would never have chosen that boy to surrogate, though for many years he seemed at least an acceptable choice. But since he went to Hogwarts..."

She shuddered.

"And what was that love which just came from him?" So strong, so powerful, she was surprised that it hadn't killed her Harry untransformed self. She definitely felt it weakened, her poor Harry-continuation. But she also sensed that her Harry-continuation had... "a place of unlovability to hide," she thought, "and to nourish itself."

She checked and decided that she had enough to feed her Harry untransformed self with the honey of rage and hate. And besides, she must, she must keep it alive lest she, too, go uncreated.

Nagini sent a powerful flow of nourishment through her Harry-link.

* * * * * * * * * *

Harry sat up in the night.

He'd gone to bed drained, even dazed, but happier and more at peace than any time this summer, maybe any time he could ever remember. He'd gone to bed not only feeling loved but - it was so hard to take in, to hold onto - worth loving. He could still feel that. It hadn't faded.

Harry shook his head, sighed and smiled.

He thought about replaying what had happened - Dumbledore, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Professor Lupin, and of course, his Hermione and his Ron - this to get it all even more firmly into his mind and heart. Then he realized, "Something woke me up."

It hadn't been a nightmare. He'd been hearing Ron snoring peacefully, and he looked over, just to check. "Yep, he's all right." Harry smiled. He noticed, too, that he felt Ron's peacefulness inside him. "Odd, that," he thought, still smiling, "but I rather like it. Actually..." He smiled even more. "I like it a lot."

Harry briefly wondered what it was about, his being able to feel Ron's feelings. All he knew was that ever since waking up after his beating -

"No," he thought firmly, "I need to find out what woke me." He put Ron-feelings on his ever-lengthening "I'll think about it later" list.

Then he looked over at Mr. Weasley: neither stir nor sound there.

He listened for Hermione in the next room, at the same time checking his inner sense of her, a sense that appeared the same time as his sense of Ron, though it was less strong. Like Ron, feeling Hermione's feelings also gave him an odd-but-happy feeling. After a few moments checking, both his ear and gut agreed, "Nope, not her."

Since Ron and Hermione began sleeping in his expanded "room", Hedwig had returned to her usual pattern, and was out night-hunting, so it wasn't her, either. And after listening a few moments to the sounds from the open window, Harry also decided that there was nothing unusual outside.

"Then what...?"

Some instinct led him to check the wound.

"Ahhhh," he whispered. "There it is."

"Yes," he thought, "there it is. But... what is it?"

He frowned. He could feel it but, like his sense of Ron and Hermione, it didn't seem to be his feelings. It was as if he were feeling someone else's feelings. And these emotions were... stranger than his friends, much stranger -- even alien.

He shuddered. "Then whose?"

He could feel fear and horror and agony, all mixed together. And more: "It's like there's something inside of me, feeding on that rage and hate," a rage and hate also not-his. He tried to inner-see and inner-hear, like with his shelter. But nothing came - only darkness and silence and all those feelings.

Shuddering again, Harry shook his head. "None of this makes any sense. And it creeps me out." He scrunched his forehead, then realized, "My scar is tingling. Not burning or aching, but tingling." He frowned again. "Weird. Usually it's aching - at least a little. Wonder what this tingling means?"

Suddenly Hedwig burst through the open window. She didn't go to her perch or cage, but instead flew right to his headboard, alighting as close to him as she could and staring at him intently.

Harry smiled. "You okay, girl?", he whispered, not to wake the others.

Hedwig dropped down onto the bed beside him and nuzzled his arm.

"What's got into you?"

She stopped and, again, stared deep into Harry's eyes.

"It's like you're looking inside me."

He held her gaze a few moments. Their linked gaze felt.... More than relaxing, it felt soothing, even healing. He realized, too, that those wound-feelings, now, seemed diminished, more contained. And with that, he felt sleepiness returning.

Harry puzzled over this, then shrugged, smiled at Hedwig and laid down. As he did, Hedwig flew back up to the headboard, perching right over Harry.

After a few minutes, Harry went back to sleep.

Hedwig stayed there, watching.

* * * * * * * * * *

"With the crying, I began to see.... Only with crying, only then does vision begin."

David Michael Levin
The Opening of Vision

"James, Sirius, Lily...."

"I've...."

"I've come to apologize."

There, you've said it, Remus, and don't you feel the proper fool. Standing here, crying in front of three gravestones, and one of them with nothing under it, just a stone with a name and two dates--

No, that's not it. You know better. You're here because this is the closest you can get to them.

Them.

One word, four letters, for three people who were... your world, your life. Who gave you your life, you know they did. By loving you, a werewolf. Not in spite of being a werewolf, no, never that. I would have seen that -- actually, I would have smelled it out. No, they loved me as a werewolf, for who I was, all of who I was.

And am. Though they are no longer. Leaving me.

And Harry.

No, again that's not it. If it were, I'd owe no apology. They didn't leave Harry and me. They left Harry... with me.

With me.

And I failed. I failed them, I failed Harry. So at the very least, I owe them an apology. And I'm here because.... Well, because my heart led me here, and--

Admit it, Remus - they led you here.

Mad, I know, but... they led me from that wound inside me. That wound.... There since I was bitten as a small child, more there when Mum and Dad died soon after, more still after Lily and James died, and Sirius gone, then dead, too.

And now this - what's happened, what's been happening to Harry.

So they led me here, almost as if - dare I hope? or fear? - not just I have something to say to them, but... they have something to say to me.

And I can well imagine what that might be, after everything that's happened. After everything I allowed to happen. Damn you, Remus, you--

What's that? Must be barmy, but I could have sworn I heard... a dog whining?

Say it, Remus, you know you must.

Say It!

"Padfoot? You there, old boy?"

There, in the shadows.... Say It Again!

"Padfoot?"

Damn these tears, blinding me, making me think I see what can't possibly--

Again, that dog whining.... And in the shadows I swear I can see--

Damn these tears!

Well... maybe not damn them. Maybe they make me see what I can't see otherwise. Or what I refuse to see. The old tales, they say there's an ancient magic in tears. A magic that makes us see deeper, farther, more powerfully and truthfully.

Hard to imagine magic in werewolf tears. But werewolf tears though they are, at least they're honest werewolf tears. And Merlin knows, my reason, my dry-eyed clarity and respectful distance, they haven't served very well now, have they?

Bloody hell, they've failed! I've failed! Failed, failed, failed!

Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry. I should never have--

What's this? Ghosts?

"Who are you? And why are you here? Don't you have the decency to leave a man alone to cry?"

"Well? Answer Me!"

"My god. It.... It can't be."

"James?"

"Sirius? Lily?"

"You... you're not ghosts.... You can't be ghosts! If this is some prank meant to--"

"But no. I can feel it. I know who you are. Nor are you... entirely unexpected. I've long known that those who've left leave behind... more than traces. Essences, that's it, essences. And purposes."

"So yes, I know that it's you, and that you've called me here. Calling me to account, I daresay. You have that right. And, doubtless, you've come to see the account paid."

"Very well. I owe you that, and more. I owe you love, and these tears. Even if they're only werewolf tears."

"Dear friends, never have I been so ashamed, so completely ashamed. I failed you. I failed Harry. And because of my failure, your son and godson has been repeatedly beaten, terrorized and almost killed."

"I offer no excuse. Because there can be none. None. Lily, James, you were dead. And you, Sirius, packed off in Azkaban, you might as well have been dead. And little better even after you escaped. So all of us knew that Harry was my responsibility. Mine."

"Yes, of course, Dumbledore was in charge, the responsibility was his. That's what he thinks, bless him. And I've tried to tell myself that. But I knew better, even when I was deferring to him, even when I knew that something was horribly wrong."

"But... who would give a child to a werewolf, eh? Disgusting creatures, werewolves. So dangerous, so undependable. Proved that now, haven't I?"

"Ah, but I see the answer in your eyes, the answer I knew in my heart. Who would give a child to a werewolf? You. You would. And did."

"So Harry was... my responsibility. Mine. With you gone, he...."

"He became my son. Or better, my cub."

"And still is."

"There, I've said it. Out loud and to you. And to myself. Harry is my cub, regardless of what he or anyone else thinks or feels. Because you've given him to me. The greatest gift you could ever have given. The most complete proof of your love."

"You gave your son to me, a werewolf, reviled and shunned. Gave him neither in words nor in actions, but by the strongest of magical bonds - by the love and trust you had in me, by making me one with you. Me, a werewolf."

"Werewolves! Right there with trolls and house-elves. No -- worse, much worse. House-elves, at least you can allow them into your home, you can trust them around your children. Trolls you can hire as guards. But werewolves...."

"Before you came into my life, that's what I thought. That's what I'd been led to believe about myself. Unwillingly, fearfully raised by distant kin. Distant kin who always kept their distance, always kept their eyes on me, even when they didn't have to cage me up, to lock me away. I could see it in their faces, and smell it in their fear, their unwillingness when they had to let me out as the full moon waned. Letting me out only because they had to. I could hear, too, with my keen ears, the things they said when they thought I was too far away. That's how they taught me -- a small boy."

"A small boy? No. Their eyes, their smell, their distance and their barely-heard words told me, screamed at me that I was no boy. No boy at all. I was a werewolf. My self, my shame."

"When you died and with Sirius gone, again there was nobody. I found myself slipping back into old thoughts, old ways. What could I, a werewolf, offer Harry? Better stay hidden away, disgusting thing that I am. Farthest from Harry is best for Harry. Better he never knows that his mother and father made friends with something so loathsome. Farthest from Harry is safest for Harry. Better he's never placed in jeopardy. For who knows, one full moon and...."

"Bah - Enough! Harry was my responsibility, my cub, left to me by my three most dear friends."

"And what did I do? Yes, what did I do? I turned my back on him, and so he was beaten and hated and taught that he was unlovable, that he was disgusting and shameful. That's my legacy to Harry. A proper werewolf's legacy, eh?. See that he's taught unlovability. That's what you're fit for, werewolf, that's what you know!"

"Yes... that's what I gave him. My unlovability, my werewolf unlovability and self-loathing. I could see it in his eyes, I could hear it in his voice."

"And I could smell it!"

"Oh, Harry, Harry...."

"Why do you three look at me like that? Why the sadness, why the tears? Why... why no hate? I practically kill you son, I allow monsters to raise him! Why don't you hate me? WHY DON'T YOU HATE ME?"

"I do, you know. I hate myself. It's easy, you see, because I started so early, because I've had so much help, such good training. Comes as second nature after all that, and only those few years of you to tell me otherwise and--"

"Oh my God. My God!"

"Like Harry."

"You're all nodding. That's it, isn't it? Because of that, I know, I truly know what Harry's feeling, I do. And I can feel...you still love me? After all that, after all my hideous failures... you still love me?"

"Yes, you're smiling and nodding. You love me, you still love me. I've got it, I've finally got it. Bit slow on the uptake, but given enough time, even a werewolf--"

"No. Not 'a' werewolf. 'Your' werewolf."

"You made me that, you know -- your werewolf. I belong to you, and... and I guess... you still belong to me. Even now, you keep giving yourselves to me."

"Harry's werewolf, too. I belong to him. Whether he likes it or no, I belong to him. He belongs to me, too. If he'll let me. And I swear by all that's magical, and especially by your love, which to me has more magic than everything else, that I will find a way."

"I pray that maybe, just maybe he'll let himself belong to me. In time. At least a bit."

"Still the tears, but they're different now, aren't they? We'll see, we'll just see what this old crying werewolf can teach his young cub about the lies of unlovability. And the truth of love."

"It's what you taught me, all three of you. And what I must now teach your son, your godson, my cub - the lesson you taught me to the cub you left me."

"Fitting, that - most fitting."

"I'll show you the lie of your unlovability, you young Harry-cub, the lie and the love shown to me by your mum and dad, by your godfather. I'll show you as they showed me. By loving you."

"I do, you know. I love you, Harry. My cub. I love you."

"Your old crying werewolf, I'll show you."

"I love you."

* * * * * * * * * *

Again, Harry sat up in that night. Again, he felt feelings that were someone else's, and he didn't know whose. But it was much different than earlier. He didn't just feel feelings, he felt tears, actual tears on his face. He knew they weren't his tears, but somehow he knew these tears were for him. Just as he felt love, not his love, but love for him.

Harry sat for some time in wonderment, taking in those tears and that love, both for him.

Then he looked up and saw Hedwig, still perched right above him. Her eyes, they didn't look so worried now but, while it was hard to tell in the dark, he thought he saw... a tear?

"You okay, girl?" he whispered, his voice and face worried.

Hedwig flew to his shoulder.

Harry smiled, then he reached up to touch her face and felt wetness.

"You are crying, Hedwig." Concern filled Harry. "You all right? Something bothering you? Need something?"

Hedwig nuzzled his cheek, nuzzling her tears into Harry's face, into his "not-his" tears. Harry felt warm and knew that she was okay.

She flew back to the headboard and perched facing him.

Harry smiled, still feeling that warmth and love. And with that warmth and love, he felt a deep, peaceful sleepiness wash over him. He lay back down and was soon gently snoring.

But just before drifting off, Harry realized that neither his scar nor his wound were hurting. Both, in fact, were... not just feeling good, but....

The words came just as he faded away: "Comforting me. They're comforting me."

Hedwig stayed right above her Harry. From time to time, a tear came to her eyes and fell on him.

For the first night since Harry's most recent beating, there were no nightmares in that bedroom on Number Four Privet Drive.

And Hedwig, white-winged Hedwig was still there, above him, when Harry woke in the morning.

"...crying...can be an opening of our eyes to... the primordial field of vision. Crying also connects us very deeply to other living beings, for...all visible beings are inseparably intertwined in the invisible. This intertwining is something that can be seen - but only with eyes that have become the organs of this invisibility."

David Michael Levin
The Opening of Vision