Prongs Rides Again

And Ulysses said, "I am no god, why should you take me for one? I am your father, on whose account you grieve and suffer so much at the hands of lawless men."
As he spoke he kissed his son, and a tear fell from his cheek on to the ground, for he had restrained all tears till now. But Telemachus could not yet believe that it was his father, and said:
"You are not my father, but some god is flattering me with vain hopes that I may grieve the more hereafter..."

-The Odyssey, Book XVI

Not for the first time, Harry Potter lay fully awake on his bed at Number Four, Privet Drive. Night had not yet fallen, but he had retreated to the safety of his room early in the afternoon, and didn't really want to come downstairs to face the empty house. Mercifully empty. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had gone to Brighton for the bank holiday, and Dudley was spending the weekend at a friend's. His solitude was only ever interrupted by brief visits from Mrs. Figg. Harry wondered why they had had the nerve to leave him alone in their house -- they were perpetually afraid of him blowing it up or some such thing. Perhaps it had to do with the carefully hidden letter he had spotted in the sitting room.

When Mrs. Figg came, once at ten in the morning, and again at six in the evening, Harry had the strongest urges to ask her things. Like her first name.

"You are to alert Remus Lupin, Arabella Figg, Mundungus Fletcher -- the old crowd."

On her first checkup, he'd watched her, examining her movements and words more closely than before. He paid particular attention to the chatter he'd previously considered inane -- about her many cats, and her garden -- hoping for a clue. But if she was a witch, she was keeping the fact closely guarded. Harry sighed. There were too many weird things going on, shaking the foundations of what he'd believed all his life.

The first shock, of course, had been learning he was a wizard. And a famous one at that on top. Sirius's innocence, Voldemort's return, Cedric's death... each event had showed him that not everything could be what it appeared to be. He had grown up in a world with no magic and no parents. And now... in his realm of the supernatural, he was learning stunning things about the truth.

Many parts of the Third Task haunted him relentlessly. Often he woke up in a cold sweat after dreaming about Wormtail cutting off his hand, or Voldemort rising from that cauldron, or... or...

"Isn't he with you?"

What was that supposed to mean? Of course, he hadn't actually seen his mother, or her ghost for that matter. But the fact that his father hadn't appeared at all... After Lily Potter had emerged from Voldemort's wand, another woman had followed. But unless she had been present at his house, and was killed in between his parents...

Harry lifted his glasses and rubbed his eyes. I wish I knew... he thought. For once, he had no hope of a real answer from his two best friends. Ron would just gape, and Hermione wouldn't even have a book she could turn to for an answer. He could hear her right now:

"Well, Harry, the most logical explanation would be to say that your father isn't actually dead... but, the thing is, well, he is. Everybody knows he is."

Harry rolled onto his side and focused on Hedwig's cage. Hedwig was off hunting at the moment. He needed to write to Sirius. A real letter this time. Even better: he needed to see his godfather. He was harboring questions he somehow felt he couldn't properly convey in ink. What did Dumbledore ask you to do? What's going on? And why did my mom say that to me...? Even in his head they sounded weak and tinny.

He shuddered, and tried to think of Sirius again. I wish he'd stayed. Not that we could have spent any time together, but still, all the same... Harry wondered how owls always knew how to find the addressees. If only he could hitchhike on Hedwig's back, or follow her on his Firebolt. Just to see Sirius. To talk to him.

He lay on his back again and stared at the ceiling, wondering how he could get in touch with Sirius right now. There was Floo Powder, of course, but where would he get any? And the Dursleys hadn't been on the network since that day the Weasleys came through to pick him up...

It then occurred to Harry that he didn't quite know where Sirius was staying. "Lie low at Lupin's for a while" Dumbledore had said. Where was that? Harry hadn't heard from Professor Lupin in over a year, not since he's resigned from Hogwarts. He could be anywhere.

Anywhere.

"Anywhere you like, long's it's on land."

The pockmarked face of Stan Shunpike rose unbidden in his mind. Harry frowned. Surely not. Surely it wouldn't work again. And anyway, the first time he'd done it, it had been on accident, after seeing Sirius. Well, maybe you can reverse the process: call the bus and then go see Sirius.

What was it Stan had said after he'd helped him up? "Stuck out your wand ‘and, dincha?" If it was that simple, then if he hailed the Knight Bus, he technically wouldn't be breaking the Decree for the Restriction of Underage Wizardry... and an exchange of wizarding money couldn't be classified as magic, otherwise any Muggle showing a stray Knut to a curious friend would have a swarm of Ministry officials on their heads in minutes.

Harry slid off his bed and opened his sock drawer. A small pouch of gold was hidden in a back corner. He slipped it out and tucked a few Sickles in his pocket, enough for two trips. Then, just in case, he got out his wand and put it in the pocket of a light jacket which had belonged to Dudley before Harry had gone to Hogwarts. He wished he could climb out the window, but the drop was too far, and besides, Aunt Petunia would have a fit if her rose bushes were crushed, letter in the kitchen or no. Very quietly, in spite of the abandoned house, he crept through the door, down the stairs, and outside through the back. He didn't have a key to get back in, so he left the back door unlocked. He walked past the garage, over the driveway, and into the street. He looked up, examining the other houses for lights. Then, in a moment of recklessness, his right hand shot skyward. He squeezed his eyes shut and waited.

A strange pop from behind made him jump. He turned around to see a much smaller, though still violently purple, single-level bus puffing patiently in the middle of Privet Drive. The door opened with a wheeze, and Harry jumped on before any questions were asked.

There was no doorman, only a bedraggled-looking driver behind the wheel. Several older women were snoozing in the back rows, their heads lolling onto each other's shoulders. The driver cleared his throat and leaned forward. "Where headed, son?" he asked in an almost indecipherable accent.

Harry wasn't quite sure what to say for a moment. "I... I don't exactly know," he said lamely. "I don't have an address, but I--"

The driver sighed, and pushed forward a clipboard with a quill dangling off the side. " S'extra when y'don't know. One Galleon round trip. Sign ‘ere an' give us th'name."

Harry obliged, and handed the clipboard back with the assorted change that made up a Galleon. The driver shook his head wearily and pointed to a small box to the right of the door. Harry slid the coins in, one by one, and the bow spat out a small sheet of paper with a number on it. "Jus' give ‘t to th'driver when y'ail ‘gin."

"A-alright," he stammered, and as the bus lurched forward, he slumped down in a moldy, imitation leather seat with cracks and stuffing coming out. I hope you know what you're doing, the voice of reason cautioned.

The ride did not last very long, and the bus touched down in front of a modest cottage on a wide, deserted moor. "Residence of Remus Lupin," the driver called in a flat voice. Harry scuttled forward, so he wouldn't repeat the name again. All the ladies were still asleep. The driver looked up at him. "Don' ferget yon ticket," he reminded Harry as he stepped off the bus. When Harry turned to reply, the bus was gone.

"Well, here you are," he said firmly to himself. He studied the house. Although there were obviously no inhabitants for miles around, the cottage seemed highly illuminated. No lights were on inside. Harry imagined Lupin and Sirius were sleeping. For a moment, he felt some hesitation. What was he doing? What right had he to disturb them? Surely they were doing pressing work for Professor Dumbledore. They would need all the rest they could get, and an impromptu visit from Harry was probably the last thing they needed. Snape's biting words from last year stung him again, echoing in his ears involuntarily. Just an arrogant boy who thinks rules are beneath him. Harry felt indignation rising in his gut. But this is important. I really need to talk to Sirius. He raised his hand and knocked on the door.

Nobody answered. Harry drew his hand back, and frowned. Perhaps they were out. Why hadn't he just waited until morning, and sent Hedwig? His regrets were interrupted by a shuffling within. The movement sounded labored, and they seemed to be doing their best to come to the front of the house. Maybe Professor Lupin is sick, Harry thought. Maybe something has happened to Sirius!

The door swung open. The light from within didn't reveal who it was, but one thing was certain, it wasn't Sirius or Professor Lupin. Harry stepped back, frowning. "Who--?"

"Get inside! Quickly!" a man's voice rasped. Before Harry could react, a thin, shining hand wrapped itself around his upper arm and dragged him inside. The door slammed shut behind, and the speaker went about resetting a variety of locks. "It's the full moon tonight, what are you thinking?" he said with a touch of anger in his voice.

The man's back was still turned, but Harry could see through the outline of his robes that he was dreadfully thin. The physical effort of turning the locks seemed almost too much for him. Harry felt the urge to help, but the urge to watch was even stronger. He peered into the darkness.

"Who are you?" he asked as the man cranked the final lock and turned around to lean on the door. The man didn't answer. He seemed to be staring at Harry. Harry could make out some features too, now that his eyes were better adjusted to the light. The man wasn't really glowing, but his skin was so pale and translucent it seemed to. The moon shone off a mop of thick hair which seemed to be streaked with white.

"Harry?" the man asked in a soft voice. "Are you... Harry? Harry Potter?" He really should be used to it by now, but the stranger was saying it in a different tone than everyone else ever had...

"Who are you?" he repeated warily. "Where's Sirius?"

"Out with Moony," the man replied, a note of shock in his voice.

"What?" Harry said, startled. "How do you--"

The speaker stepped into a patch of moonlight. Harry didn't blink. He didn't even gasp. But that was because he couldn't. He was frozen as surely as though someone had placed a Full-Body Bind on him. For he was looking at the most impossible thing in the world.

Of course, Sirius and Remus had shown him pictures, but it simply wasn't the same. All those had been newspaper clippings, and he'd been fighting to leave the photo in all of them. In person, even in the darkness, there was so much more to him. He has so much of Lily shining through, James thought, a stitch of pain and longing in his chest. But so much of me as well.

How well he remembered being fifteen and living with the gangly limbs and the rebellious hair and the strange in-between-ness of adolescence. The jacket Harry wore was far too big for him. Was he growing that fast that Vernon and Petunia had bought it for him so large? He sounded like he still wasn't used to his new voice either. So many things are unsure for him, and then I have to come in. Why couldn't this have waited?

"It really is you, isn't it," he said wonderingly, reaching out a hand. He wanted to sweep away the mop of hair, to see the fabled scar, to touch his son for the first... for the second time in fourteen years. Harry jumped back, alarmed and still unable to speak. "Harry," James tried, "I hadn't wanted us to meet like this--"

"What are you talking about?" he shouted suddenly, regaining his voice. "Who do you think you're supposed to be, anyway?"

James rested his hand on the back of a red plush armchair for support. "I..." He gulped, feeling his face growing hot and his throat constricting. How am I supposed to word this? "Harry, it's me. Your father."

Now father and son were the same unhealthy shade of white. "What are you talking about?" Harry whispered painfully. "My father's dead."

"By all rights, he should be," James replied, a bit grimly. "It's a long story, but I'm not. If you'll sit down, I can tell you--"

Harry wrenched himself away again, and pressed his back against the stout wooden door. "What do you think you're trying to pull? Nobody's ever survived the Killing Curse!"

James smiled faintly at the irony. "Except you, Harry."

A new note of anger entered the boy's voice. "Yeah, that's because my mum died to protect me! And my dad! So what are you doing, talking about him like... like you can even pretend to be him?!"

"Harry... Harry, please, come sit down--"

"So have you tricked Sirius and Professor Lupin into thinking you're my dad, then?" he snarled accusingly. "Have you used their pain to get them to take care of you or something? Well it's not going to work! I'm going out right now and telling them--" His hand moved swiftly behind his back for the knob.

James moved forward again. "Harry... there's a werewolf out there. And we're locked in against him. Please, why don't you come sit down?" He suddenly found himself staring down a wand. Harry's shoulders were heaving, and his eyes were wide.

"I'm not stupid," he said, breathing heavily. "I know the Alohomora Charm. And the Decree for the Restriction of Underage Wizardry doesn't apply in terms of self-defense..."

"What do you think Remus will do if he catches scent of you? If you're out running on the moor, there's only so much Sirius can do to protect you."

Both Potters were silent for a tense moment. Moving very slowly, James lifted his hands and spread his fingers. "I'm not armed," he said in a low voice. "There's not a thing I can do to hurt you."

"You could have fooled me," Harry replied, a strangled quality to his voice that wrapped itself around James's heart and squeezed like an anaconda. "And anyway, if you were really my dad, Prongs could keep Moony away."

James closed his eyes. There is no point in getting angry. He does not know, he doesn't understand. "I have spent more than my fair share of time as Prongs," he said in a measured tone. "It was Prongs that kept me alive for thirteen years." And the thought of seeing you again. But he didn't say it.

Harry's head moved slightly. In the brief moment it was bathed with moonlight, James could see it was shining with wetness. "You may go if you wish," he continued. "The locks are all manual Muggle ones, no magic needed. You can take care of them without getting in trouble. I saw the bus drop you off. It can be here before Moony finds you. But do this for me: ask Dumbledore. He will tell you the truth."

Harry shook his head. "I have no need to tell Professor Dumbledore about my nightmares," he replied, and began toying with the locks without looking at them.

James looked down at his feet, over to his left, where the kitchen table stood on uneven aluminum legs, and then back at Harry. He backed up a little, and lowered himself onto the arm of the chair. Wordlessly, he and Harry kept up eye contact while Harry frantically fiddled with the locks. With one final click he opened the fifth one, opened the door, and backed out. A few moments later, bright headlights flooded the room though the window above the kitchen sink.

James closed his eyes. So Harry is gone. I hope he doesn't remember me like this. I hope he believed this is some sort of cruel dream, and that by the time he wakes up tomorrow he won't remember the stub of paper for the return trip. He sank backwards, and then turned himself around so he was sitting in the chair properly. Next time... when the time is right... then perhaps it will be better.

Oh God. What just happened tonight?

At dawn, when Sirius dragged Remus inside, James was still slumped in the armchair, hand resting on his temple, staring blankly into space. Once he'd finished pulling their friend into his bed, Sirius joined James and sat down opposite him on the floor.

"Rough night," he commented abruptly. "You didn't miss anything." He looked up at James, to gauge his reaction. His face fell. "What's wrong?"

James blinked, still fixed on the same spot on the wall. "Harry was here last night," he said.

"What?" Sirius squawked. "That's impossible. You must have dreamed it."

James leaned back, and felt his neck crack. He then lifted an arm and pointed at the door. "He was standing there for maybe five, ten minutes. A Knight Bus brought him over and back. You'll probably see the tracks now that it's light."

Sirius furrowed his brow. "Do you... want me to go and look?"

James shrugged. "I don't know. I'm... I'm still reeling."

Sirius studied him briefly, and then stood up. "I'm famished," he declared, in a tone that clearly meant he was trying to change the subject. "Want something to eat? I could go for a roast ox at the moment, I think."

A small smile crossed James's face. "Carnivore," he laughed, willing himself not to dwell on last night. Nothing will come of mulling it over. And you'll know what to do once you've got something inside you. "A hot chocolate for me, maybe. With lots of whipped cream, what do you think?"

Sirius snorted. "That's hardly nutritious, don't you think, Mr. Potter?"

"What, are you the new health expert now? He who would be content to eat Every Flavor Beans for every meal?"

"Well, there's always the chance you'll get a full course. I mean, you could have broccoli, chicken, cod liver oil, cheesecake, vodka, haggis--"

James gagged, feeling a little better now that Sirius was with him. "Is that what your mother cooked when she didn't have company? No wonder you turned out the way you did!"

His friend raised an eyebrow. "Don't make me come over there."

"I'll throw a book at you."

"Oh yeah?"

"Oh yes. Some of Remus's light reading, perhaps?" He cast his gaze around. It fell on a hefty volume on a shelf beneath the rickety coffee table next to the chair. He leaned down, and with some effort, extracted it. James read the spine with amazement. "I can't believe he's still like this. Conceptual Physics? Isn't this Muggle stuff?"

Sirius shrugged. "Maybe he's on a kick. I found Physics for Poets on his bed when I put him in there. It probably won't last. Remember when he was so interested in tellyvizzins?"

"What are they again?"

"I don't really remember." The two were silent as Sirius shuffled around the pantry for something to eat. He returned to the table with a box of biscuits in hand. He ate them rather noisily, like he was purposely trying to break his teeth. James, however, was staring into space again.

Just a few hours ago, my son was here.

And he wondered when Harry would understand, and when he would get to see him again.

From the Pensieve of Albus Dumbledore:

First layer

Sirius Black's wan face rises up in front of me. "He still doesn't quite believe it all is happening again."

"Is he scared?"

"Strangely, he's not. He's been pretty calm, actually. He doesn't want to be scared. He wants to stop it."

Second layer

Through the flickering shadows, I see the contours of the visage of Severus Snape. "What news?"

"I have seen Wormtail. He is indeed alive, as Black and Potter said. No one is aware of Potter."

"I cannot thank you enough, Severus."

Severus's face is immobile. "I must go. Lucius Malfoy may be coming soon. We are to discuss Untraceable Poisons."

"What will you tell him?"

Third layer

Harry drew back the sleeve of his robe, his face still pale and ashen. "He said my blood would make him stronger than if he'd used someone else's..." abriefinstantofstaticintheimage somethinglikeashimmer "--he touched my face."

Dumbledore touches his wand to the Harry in the Pensieve. A new view spins into focus: Harry's point of view. Dumbledore watches as a gleam of something like triumph sparks in his eyes. A weary sigh.

And here is what I am thinking: that the spell Voldemort used has given us both something. And I know there is a chink in his armor.

But the problem with snakeskin is the way the scales are so close together. One must slip a very thin knife under each to reach the lifeblood and cancel it out.

Harry Potter dreams.

I remember having this dream when I was a third year, of chasing something white and shining through the Forbidden Forest. I couldn't make it out, though I could hear it galloping, and somehow I was keeping up. I used to know what it was, because I've seen it since then, but now I can't remember. This time I come into a clearing where there's no sound and all light. There's a little pool on the other side, next to a strange formation of rocks. There's something shimmering on top of the rock, and it's strange, because even though it's the bright creature I was chasing in the woods, it looks like a dark spot against the rest of the light. It looks like it's condensing, like those diagrams from Muggle school when they talked about the universe solidifying from gas and starlight.

But then I hear a noise, and since it's so quiet, even though it's just the crackling of leaves, it startles me. I jump, and I see a werewolf. I know it's Professor Lupin, even though only the Marauders have ever seen him like this. I keep waiting for him to attack me, because I know he has no control over himself like this. I just know he hasn't had the Wolfsbane Potion, and I stand frozen to the spot wondering what it will be like, being a werewolf. But he doesn't bite me. He looks at me with these horrible sad eyes and says, "You look just like your father but you have your mother's eyes."

He doesn't say anything else. A big explosion with no noise erupts in the bottom of my rib cage, like when a really low sound hits you. It does the opposite of blind me: I suddenly see that I'm not really in a forest, but at a bus station. Fawkes is sitting on my shoulder, and nobody is looking at him. All around him are these little sparks, like the dust that comes within a certain distance of him bursts into flames. He doesn't sing or anything: he just stands there and looks at the people walking by. I can tell they're all Muggles. I know this. Nobody glances at us. Slowly, they start to fade, and disappear, until I'm in an empty street. I start wandering through the neighborhood, which looks like some sort of financial district. At a T-intersection a couple of blocks away, I come to a big hole in the cobbled street. I can see swarms of rats in the sewer below. "Go find him, Fawkes," I say, and I can feel my throat close over. "Go get his eyes like you did with the Basilisk."

But Fawkes won't. He takes off, and somehow I'm following him. I'm not flying on my broom or anything, but we end up in a dungeon with a skylight. The room is empty, but I can see hoof prints on the floor. I look around to ask Fawkes about this, but the phoenix is gone. The room starts to pulsate around the edges, and I know I have to get away. I run out, and don't recognize where I am at all. I wonder where the Marauder's Map is, and I shuffle around in my pockets, but I'm not wearing my school robes, I'm just in regular clothes.

But then I look up and I know I'm okay, because Sirius is standing in front of me. Not like I know him, but like my dad must have known him -- he looks like he's about twelve years old. He gives me this huge grin which I've only seen on Fred and George's faces before, only this is magnified; and he puts a finger to his lips. He leads me through a passage of corridors, until finally we come to a dead end. Only it's not a dead end, it's a door, a door which stretches from the ceiling to the floor.

I ask Sirius if he knows how to open it, but he just shakes his head and suddenly ages twenty years. He's starving, and dressed in the gray rags he escaped from Azkaban in. He frightens me, like he did in the Shrieking Shack; and I grab the handle of the door and yank. A huge flock of small tropical bird fly out, and I have to shut my eyes and back away, because they're a cloud and they really seem like Professor Flitwick's keys from first year.

The flock of birds finally abates, and I run headlong into whatever room is in front of me.

It's Professor Lupin's house, from earlier this summer. My dad is standing there, and this time I know it's my dad, unlike that other guy. Immediately I run to him, and he hugs me, and it feels like everything I've ever imagined it to be. We start talking, and while I understand each individual word, nothing he says as a whole I comprehend. I start asking questions, but my tongue is thick and uncooperative.

But then I'm breathing again, and I know we've let go, and Professor Lupin's front door is open again. My dad is telling me to go out, and I don't want to obey, but I know I have to, so I tear myself away and I do. There's no werewolf tonight. He's back in the Forbidden Forest.

The sky is perfectly clear: all the stars are shining brightly and precisely. The moor seems more like a savannah, with the long grasses rippling beneath an ill wind. I look back, and the house is now very far away. I can see my dad's shape outlined against the lights inside, and I ask him what am I supposed to do? But he doesn't say anything, he just watches me, so I turn around.

And there is a vast looming blackness, and lying before it is Cedric Diggory. He's dead, but still alive, because his eyes are moving, and his mouth is saying things I hear all too clearly. I look back up at the blackness, because it's almost easier, and inside I see my mother's red hair fighting to get out. My heart changes its rhythm, so it's even and slow, and then a pulse rips from my stomach and rushes through the air.

When I take my arms away from my eyes, I find I'm crouched on the ground, and shaking. My blood feels like its fizzing, and I can't feel any of my limbs. Cedric is gone, and so is the blackness. It's just stars and my dad's silhouette again. I stand up, and watch as the bright, silvery creature I was chasing at the beginning bursts through my chest and disappears into the horizon before I can identify what it is.

I'm speechless; I'm almost nothingness; and I look for my dad to hug me again. He's standing right behind me now, but I can't touch him, because something nagging inside of me is saying he might not be there, even though something deeper is saying you know what you saw! I feel like the gulf between us is somehow my fault, and if I could just pull a bridge from my pocket it would be okay, but I have no robes, only jeans. I try anyway, and reach my hand out. My dad's expression means that he really misses me, I know. I try and talk to him, but we're each in a bubble of silence. My dad shimmers, and my vision goes haywire. And then

And then I woke up and one of us was crying.