Harry Potter and the Avatars of Atlantis

It was Harry Potter's wedding day.

As Harry tugged self-consciously on his dark black dress robes and ran a nervous hand through his forever mussed-up hair, he blinked a bit. He put a finger in the corner of his right eye next to his nose; careful not to knock his glasses off or poke the white (or worse, the pupil) of his stark green eye.

His best man, Ronald Weasley, was at his arm, cracking some sort of joke or another to try and lighten the mood. Ron, standing a full six foot four (Harry had barely manage to six one), looked at Harry and gave a sort of chuckle.

"Wasn't funny Harry?"

The Boy Who Lived simply nodded. He had no idea whatsoever what Ron had just said...and frankly he didn't really care. "Hilarious Ron," he muttered, sneaking a glance at where his fiancee would soon appear, in those wonderful new magisilk white wedding robes...

Harry's skin tingled at the very thought. As a child, and even during his stay at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Harry had rarely ever given a thought to the possibility that someday, somehow, he might be married to some witch, with the intent of spending the rest of his life with her.

The wedding was taking place in the Great Hall, and the enchanted ceiling above showed a crisp, sunny August afternoon. If Harry closed his eyes and ignored the din of people talking and whispering (and in the case of Mrs. Molly Weasley, already crying)...he might imagine that he was standing in a meadow with a slight but feeble breeze pressing around him. Why, he could almost hear a robin chirping, the trees rustling...

Crookshanks meowing.

Harry opened his eyes bitterly, and noticed a red and black cat thumping it's way down the center aisle amidst laughter and shouting. Remus Lupin, who had been sitting in the front row, got up with an amused look on his countenance. As he stood he ran his hands down the front of his gray dress robes; which despite being made of the finest silk in the wizarding world, somehow looked...almost shabby.

Lupin went into a crouch and scooped up the cat, who mewed furiously and frantically tried to claw Harry's third-year Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. Lupin just grabbed the cat, got back up, and hustled back to his seat. He held the cat tightly to prevent a further escape, all while wearing a look of almost embarrassment.

"Blimey," Ron sighed next to Harry, "She must be pretty nervous, mate. Seems if the little tiger's escaped there's no telling what's next."

Harry rolled his eyes and turned back to face the minister, who was naturally Albus Dumbledore. Looking almost regal in purple robes and wizard's hat (which, definitely not to Harry's surprise had crescent half-moons on them, all moving excitedly), the former Headmaster of Hogwarts had been brought out of retirement so he could supervise what he termed "the greatest honor of my life".

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled as he gave a rather kind smile at his former pupil, "Here she comes Harry."

As if on cue, which Harry strongly suspected it was, several enchanted organs all throughout the Hall begin to loudly intone "Here Comes The Bride". Harry grinned a bit, and gazed about Great Hall, which seemed to have been converted into a massive cathedral. Along the sides of the walls there were several stain-glassed windows, and the old House tables had been transfigured in return for pews which went back seemingly hundreds of rows...and yet Harry had distinct memories of crossing the red carpet in only about thirty or forty paces...

Every member of every Gryffindor class of all of Harry's seven years at Hogwarts was present, along with their families. The two front pews held Harry's closest friends, while the second row sat: the Weasleys, Neville, his parents (looking, oddly enough perfectly fine), and grandmother, as well as Hermione's mum, and Hagrid (who took up an eighth of the enlarged pews by himself).

The fourth row held Harry's family and other teachers: Remus Lupin, Minerva McGonagall, Severus Snape, Sirius Black, and...Lily and James Potter, alive and well thank you very much. His father was beaming, and his mum, Harry grinned out of a mixture of embarrassment and love, was crying into his dad's shoulder.

Perhaps it was this that should have given Harry a bit of a start, as well as the presence of Sirius the Longbottoms...but it didn't ruffle his feathers at all (not that he had any). Instead, he simply looked with bemusement at Fred and Angelina's little daughter Miranda as she tossed roses out of a basket in front of his soon-to-be-bride as was Muggle custom.

Behind the little girl stood a bushy-haired brunette wearing pearly white dress robes that hugged her figure almost precariously. The hems of her robes swished daintily around her feet and she slowly processed up the aisle with Ginny Weasley, her maid of honor, and her father who held her by the arm.

From the back of the newly decorated Great Hall, several photographers (Harry thought he could spy Rita Skeeter) began snapping off as many pictures as they could take, and for a ludicrous second Harry was afraid he would go blind from the constant bright glare from the popping of flashbulbs.

Harry looked at the pale Caucasian face of his future wife. Her brown hair still retained a look that was often compared to a plant normally residing in a garden, but had been curled a bit by some sort of potion or another. Upon seeing Harry, she smiled gorgeously and Harry James Potter knew without a doubt that he was looking at the most beautiful creature in the entire world.

His bride wore no make-up, nor any lipstick, but her lips had a vibrant pink color that made Harry want to leave his position, run over and begin snogging her in front of the around one thousand attendees to his wedding.

He gazed into those warm chocolate brown eyes and smiled with the pure pleasure of knowing that he could now look into them for the rest of his life.

On his left, Ron waggled his eyebrows and whispered through his teeth joshingly, "Not too late to back out Harry."

Harry sniggered a bit, but kept his eyes on the love of his life, who had now made her way to the altar. Her father...Harry's future father-in-law, smiled broadly and handed her arm to Harry, "She's yours now Harry. Take good care of her."

Harry nodded, no need to say "I will" or "Yes, sir", because he stared into the eyes of his fiancee, smiled and said, "I love you, Hermione Elizabeth Granger."

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And with those words, on number four, Privet Drive, in the smallest bedroom on the second story of a very normal suburban English home; Harry Potter sat up straight in bed gasping for air.

Slowly, after a good fifteen seconds or so, Harry's breathing returned to an almost normal state (although his pulse was still clipping at a very steady centaur sprint). Harry glanced over at the other side of his bed, half-expecting to see Hermione there, curled up asleep and wearing her wedding robes.

Fortunately, that was not the case, and Harry sank back down into his pillow. The dream he had just experienced had been so vivid...

He shook his head, as though if he did that, he could clear it of what he had just seen and experienced...and perhaps allow the unsettling thoughts now swirling in his head to stop. Unconsciously, Harry raised his hand to the cheek that Hermione had kissed after the troubling fourth year at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Upon realizing this, Harry quickly moved his hand down as though if he didn't, he would be Avada Kedavraed immediately. He sighed and tried to roll over and go back to sleep (his alarm clock reported that it was three minutes past two), but he could not.

Eight days after the end of term, and the first seven nights had filled Harry with continual nightmares. His dreams kept focusing on Bellatrix Lestrange hex Sirius in the Ministry of Magic. Harry's eyes watered as he didn't even know what spell she had used to knock Sirius over backwards, and toss him over into the veil. At this recalled memory, Harry Potter scrunched up his eyes, willing the image to go away.

He also often had visions of Voldemort dancing in his head as he tossed and turned screaming either for Sirius, Cedric, or some friend of his (most of the nightmares centered on Hermione) receiving Avada Kedavra and falling over like a leaf that had been standing on its stem until a breeze came by, sweeping it forward and into the ground.

Then he heard Voldemort's evil, cackling voice "Now Potter, now you will die. Now I shall win! The wizarding world is mine Harry!"

If it weren't for the fact that his scar didn't hurt whatsoever at these moments, as well as the fact that two already dead individuals were being killed by Voldemort in his nightly horrors, Harry would have immediately fired off letters to every member of the Order telling them that Voldemort had Ron, Dumbledore, Hermione, etcetera and had just killed them.

At that moment Harry would wake up, not in a dissimilar fashion from the awakening he had just performed seconds ago. But this dream..It's random stuff, Harry, his mind told him, The brain has plenty of time for odd, entertaining dreams...and Heaven knows you need it after what's happened. But that thought only led to another recollection of Sirius' death, and just for good measure how his heart had constricted when he saw Hermione hit with purple light from a Death Eater's wand. His mind's eye raced forward and he saw Neville hit with a Cruciatus Curse; then Bellatrix Lestrange laughing at his rather weak (and even thinking that he had used such curse, Harry felt extremely guilty) attempt to use an Unforgivable on her.

Maybe I did just need a respite, and my brain worked it out for me...perhaps the Occlumency kicked in a bit, Harry decided, and he saw the image of his dad grinning at him, he felt himself swell with a bit of pride. Then, naturally, reality came crashing down on Harry as, after all, his parents were dead, he never could see them in life again...thus they could never be at his wedding.

In the drive for happier thoughts, (as Harry knew now there was absolutely no way he could possibly go back to sleep for awhile), Harry began wondering just what kind of girl he would want to to spent the rest of his life with. In his mind Harry began designing the perfect witch: tall or short? Blonde or brunette? Redhead? Green eyes or hazel?

By the time he was done, Harry was only more thoroughly confused, and was suddenly having trouble thinking of such a witch with comparing her to Hermione. As he did so, he was clearly able to hear a ringing tone in his ears that was undoubtedly Cho's voice "Well, if it's for darling Hermione!" That tone had implied that Harry had more than simple platonic feelings for a certain Miss Granger, something he had vigorously denied in fourth year.

Now that Harry paused to think about it, Hermione was pretty darling...even though she was only his best friend. He could easily see how Krum had been interested in her, and for the first time felt a pang that someone else besides either himself or Ron was able to communicate with Hermione via owl post. But certainly, such feelings were ridiculous, and he shoved them away.

Harry desperately wanted to think of something else but everywhere he turned he smacked into a wall. (Except, naturally, the long dark corridor of thought that was Sirius' death, but Harry had been skirting that since he left Hogwarts and certainly had no wish to head back there.)

A quick mental scanning of some new Quidditch moves that had been made popular by the now champion Tutshill Tornadoes in hopes he could adapt them for the Gryffindor team next year (the Tornadoes had ended up taking the Pride of Portree down to the wire in a tie-breaker for league champion, and just managed to win, as Javenson had caught the Snitch right after the ejection of two Tornado Chasers...who could, by Quidditch rules, not Eve replaced) also spectacularly failed to occupy his thoughts for longer then a few measly minutes.

Harry twisted and turned a bit...his latest dream was just to intriguing not to think of. Normally, after such a dream, Harry would have written to Sirius..but...no, you git, no, don't think of Sirius falling forever into that veil...

Sighing, tears beginning to form in his eyes (You're almost sixteen years old, DO NOT cry!), Harry threw off the covers of his bed, and sat straight up.

He did not know how long he sat there, looking out stupidly at the stars as if they granted some special answer to his wedding dream. But he was only brought out of this reverie when heard his door creak open, and Harry's hand instinctively went under his pillow; where he had hidden his wand. He was actually fearful that a dementor might sweep upon him once more, perhaps this time under Voldemort's and not Dolores Umbridge's commands. He leapt to his feet and pointed the wand at the door (realizing just how ridiculous he must look adorned in old plaid pajama bottoms and a T-shirt bearing the inscription "DAILY PROPHET", which he had received as a "special benefit" from his taking out a subscription).

The hulking, Neanderthal form of Dudley Dursley, ploddingly began to walk over the threshold. At the sight of someone walking over the threshold, Harry had a giddy vision of himself holding Hermione princess-style and swinging her around as he walked over that threshold and-Stop it! She's your best friend for Heaven's sakes!

"Oh," Harry mumbled dully, "It's you." And with a flick of his wrist, Harry leaned over and slipped the wand back under his pillow.

Ever since the dementor attack, the summer before his fifth year, Dudley had become increasingly afraid of Harry, and indeed was even more paranoid of the word "magic" then ever before. After that experience, Dudley had apparently gone on an eating binge unrivaled since the one he performed to grow wider than he was tall when he was thirteen.

The former Junior All-County Heavyweight Boxing Champion had soon moved so sluggishly that by September he became one of Smelting Academy's all-time worst boxers, losing a spectacular twenty-seven matches in a row. Most of "Big D's" gang had soon left him, and his admirers were mostly limited to Piers Polkiss and a few underclassmen that Dudley had either bought or threatened to kill them unless were his friends, this being a supposition felt he had confirmed after less than a week of staying at Privet Drive after seeing how fearfully Diddy Duddydums' pals tread around him.

It appeared that Dudley had just come in from another night out with said mates, and he staggered so much that Harry believed he was drunk...until he saw the blood running down from Dudley's right eye.

Dudley was muttering curses under what he thought was under his breath but was, in fact, quite at conversational level. Harry was deeply reminded of Kreacher, but then he closed his eyes for a few seconds again and begin telling himself over and over again.

Don't think about Sirius. Don't think about Sirius. Don't think about Sirius.

Dudley, meanwhile, had stopped his cursing tirade and instead was murmuring, a bit more loudly now, "Oughta-oughta-illegalize that...that...taw can dee bloody, blimey..." Dudley's voice trailed off and his knees buckled under him. He collapsed entirely and his head was prevented from crashing into the hard floor by Harry's mattress. He began to sag down off the bed, and Harry; quite glad for the distraction, grabbed his shoulder and yanked him backup.

Half-dragging his overwrought and overweight cousin was not among Harry's favorite pastimes. At the moment, however, it certainly beat staying in his bed all night, trying not to think of Sirius, or notice that his mind was slowly attempting, against his will, to change the way he thought about Hermione Granger.

"Just because you saw her in those wedding robes," Harry mumbled to himself, and he pulled the barely conscious Dudley Dursley to Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia's room, which was naturally locked tight to deny Harry entrance at any time. As Vernon had put it when Harry was twelve, "If you come into our room at any time you little rat, you'll never see another year of that-that...school you go to." He was about to knock on the white paneled oak door when Dudley yelled, almost lucidly but a bit slurred, "Saw who in wedding-w-w-edding coves?"

Harry's eyebrows raised with shock, he had not even been close to aware that Dudley was partially awake...in fact, he had figured that after slumping into unconsciousness on Harry's bed, his portly cousin would not regain such powers of alertness to hear Harry whisper. In a sudden decision to make up for this gross miscalculation, he let go of Dudley (who crashed into the door with a resounding thud) and sprinted down the hall and into his room as swiftly as possible.

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In the morning, Harry woke up only remembering bits and pieces of his dream the previous night. His most vivid images of the, well, "his" wedding were his father and mother...and a fantastic looking Hermione Granger. Although he would only admit to it in a very deep recess of his subconscious, the Hermione of his dream had a figure that defeated every witch he had ever seen at Hogwarts (and for that matter, Beauxbatons and Durmstrang), a gorgeously winning smile, and whenever Harry received this image of her in his mind, he would secretly admit that he was beginning to notice a want for more than friendship with Hermione.

As he got dressed, this analytical track of his mind begin wondering when such a change had taken place; while a more emotional "Shut up" portion of his brain tried to prevent it from doing so. Before it was successful, Harry began to remember his stunned expression at seeing Hermione on the night of the Yule Ball and how fantastic it had felt when her lips had brushed against his cheek when she kissed him at King's Cross at the end fourth year.

At around that point, Harry finished putting on his ragged set of old hand-me-down clothes and walked downstairs, unable not to notice that the gaping hole in his left jean leg around the knee was getting to be so huge and big it wouldn't be long before Harry would be walking around Little Whinging with one pant leg and one short leg. Perhaps, Harry hoped, his Aunt Petunia would have finished washing his only other pair of jeans by tomorrow, as those had suffered Dudley's running them over multiple times with a motorcycle he had apparently borrowed from Piers.

At the kitchen table, Dudley was telling his enraptured parents about how eight members of a tae kwon do gang had assaulted him in a dark alleyway on Magnolia Road while coming home from drinking a spot of tea with Piers Polkiss and Horatio Willington; who was, Harry noted with some distaste, one of Dudley's bought/threatened-within-an-inch-of-their-lives friends. Knowing his cousin's extreme gift for embellishment and painting a picture for Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon that he was absolutely innocent, Harry had no doubt that Dudley's story was noting more than an perfect fraud.

(Harry would later learn this was true after listening on the telephone line while Dudley called Piers and they shared their disgruntlements about Richard Riker, a ten-year old boy who was a full-fledged black belt in tae kwon do who had dispelled their attempt to "have a little bit of fun with him" by landing several choice blows.)

Apparently, Dudley's injuries, including his significant cut on his head, had been superficial enough that a slapped on Band-Aid had fixed him up. But little Richard had apparently known exactly where and how to place blows without causing significant injury...and Dudley was filled with yellow, green, brown, and purple bruises. Many of them were on his behind and stomach, which made telling the story practically impossible due to pain (unless, of course, he was making it worse than it actually was, something Harry would not have doubted).

Blissfully, Harry went unnoticed by the Dursleys; and apparently Dudley had little or zero recollection of Harry's involvement with his crashing into Vernon and Petunia's bedroom door earlier in the morning. As he thought of his early wake-up Harry yawned hugely as he headed to the refrigerator. He twirled around on the spot to ascertain that the Dursleys were still listening attentively, and he opened the fringe and pulled out a few pieces of Swiss cheese and a can of root beer. Rummaging around a bit more, he pulled out a few eggs and a bit of ham and set them all down on the counter by the stove.

Since Mad-Eye Moody had delivered what amounted to little less than an ultimatum to Vernon Dursley on the platform at King's Cross Station little more than a week ago, Harry had been given more free reign than he had ever been used to in his life. He could make his own breakfast, for example, (without having to make Dudley's either), and even turn a blind eye to the continual weeds building up in the garden and the lawn. That said lawn was now extremely wilted, having never recovered from the drought the previous summer...as well as an extra amount of neglect after the Dursleys had been skillfully tricked by the Order of the Phoenix to believe they had won a lawn manicuring contest. Afterwards, they hadn't been able to put much heart in its upkeep.

Harry began cooking himself a ham and cheese omelet, a dish that he had grown accustomed to making for Dudley back in his pre-Hogwarts days, as it was quick and relatively easy to make. If Harry was a bit more conceited he would have also mentioned he ate them because he was darned good at making them, but abstained on bragging about such an insignificant thing.

After he had successfully managed to finish his omelet, the Boy Who Lived walked over to the table, pulled out a chair and began eating, hoping he could get through the meal without having to utter a solitary word at the Dursleys. As he chewed on bits of egg, meat, and gooey cheese; Harry listened halfheartedly to Dudley's reenactment of the so-called "fight". At a critical juncture in his tale Dudley got up from his chair and attempted to do some sort of high kick one of the "gang members" had used on him. Unfortunately for him, but fortunately for Harry's sense of humor, in his haste Dudley forgot the multiple bruises and pains he had accumulated the previous night on his posterior.

His kick went low because he could not lift his leg very high without causing exquisite pain, and he screamed "YOWLLL!" just as his foot made solid contact with the back of the wooden chair, splintering it. To Harry's great amusement the top half of the backing simply spun off, crashing on the tile floor and completely smashing itself into dozens of smaller pieces.

Normally, Harry would have been assigned the clean-up job, during which he would undoubtedly gain five or six splinters that would throb in his hand until they broke through the surface of his palm. But, with a silent thanks ringing in the sixteen-year old's brain to Alastor Moody, Vernon's face turned a fantastic shade of purple and his vein seemed as if it would burst, shedding blood and aggravation out on not on Harry, but Dudley. Out of force of habit, Mr. Dursley turned to Harry and pointed a shaking finger at him, about ready to tell him to clean it up.

After a few tense seconds, that finger was pointed at Dudley Dursley, who was holding his right leg with considerable consternation. In a voice that sounded very much like a pig's oink he bleated out, "B-but but Dad! Harry, H-Harry m-m-made me d-do it! With some kind of mind trick...using you-know-what!"

Obviously, nothing could be further from the truth. As Harry seemed a failure enough at Occlumency, he certainly was no Legilmens, and could not shift through anyone's memories, let alone make Dudley kick a chair. In the wizarding world, one required the Imperius Curse to make someone do what someone else wanted them to unless there was some sort of notarized consent, like a wizarding contract.

Harry could have explained these principles to the Dursleys, but decided instead that he would be much better off if he simply said, "I didn't do it. If you don't believe me, I can owl my friends from King's Cross and they'll be glad to tell you why I couldn't have."

Aunt Petunia's white horse-like face got even paler as she tried to swallow her Adam's apple down into her stomach. "We can take away your owl you know!" she snapped.

Harry just grinned in response to this threat, and Vernon Dursley choked on the coffee he had just swallowed in his eagerness to counteract Petunia's command. "No, no! If we do that for three days...they'll come!"

Harry's smile only got broader as Uncle Vernon remembered this fact, and he begin to slowly let out some of his frustrations at losing Sirius forever out on his so-called "family". "Oh yes, and they have some wonderful curses they could use on you," he said in a taunting tone, although the Hermione-voice of reason inside his head was muttering insistently Oh honestly, why do you need to torture them when you all ready are going to get what you want?

To be quite honest, Harry wasn't all that certain, but he believed that someone it would make him feel better. On the contrary, however, it only served to make him more miserable as he described the effects of the Bat-Bogey Hex and the Jelly-Legs Curse.

After Harry had gone on for quite some time, Vernon bellowed mightily that Harry could eat the rest of his breakfast upstairs, but then mumbled sweetly that he could do whatever he wanted. Harry decided to take his plate and his two-thirds of an omelet to his bedroom. His mentioning of the Order had reminded him that Harry did, indeed, need to write to Kingsley Shacklebolt or Lupin or Tonks...just so they wouldn't mount an incredible rescue mission to free him from the tyranny of the Dursleys.

Although Harry noted sourly, it certainly was tyranny that deserved escaping from, and he remembered Ron and Hermione's words at King's Cross last year. They would take him away as soon as they could.

Harry's stomach sank as he sat into his desk chair, and pulled out a piece of parchment from his school things, which were, fortunately not locked in a trunk this year. He took out a quill (and grimaced as he remembered the detentions he had received from Umbridge last year and looked at his right hand just to double-check that the words "I will not tell lies," were no longer etched in a pale white on his skin) and leaned over to write.

However, the memory of Umbridge caused Harry to recollect how close she had come to torturing the information of what Harry and Hermione had been talking too in her fire. He grinned slightly as he remembered Hermione's clever method of getting them out of that sticky mess, but shortly afterward he fell into a deep, dank brooding. The reason Harry had been there was to try and save Sirius...who hadn't even been at the Department of Mysteries. And he had died, all because Harry-

Stop that! cried the Hermione portion of his brain again, Just write the letter so the Order of the bloody Phoenix doesn't think you're DYING over here.

Listening to his analytic side's advice, Harry scribbled out a "just checking in" message to the Order, and tied the scroll to Hedwig's leg. His owl squawked a bit at being pulled from her cage, as she apparently had not yet devoured all of her Owl Treats Harry had given her for supper the night before. He just shrugged and sent her on her merry way, standing with his hands on his hips as he stared after Hedwig, flapping her wings gracefully as she soared off in the distance towards number twelve, Grimmauld Place which still (as far as Harry knew anyway) was the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix.

Logically, since Sirius was dead, using the old Black family mansion made even more sense then ever before. No one would be able to suspect that a top-secret anti-Voldemort organization was working there. Still, Harry didn't want to go back to Grimmauld Place unless it became an absolute necessity. The last thing he wanted to do was look at a Dark family home that had once been Sirius' and bring back the memories of that house (especially that sick house-elf Kreacher). And there he went again, Harry sighed, thinking about Sirius. Harry wasn't quite sure whether it would be better to think and allow himself to grieve more for the death of his godfather...or whether it would be easier just to try and block his thoughts from going there as much as possible.

Harry sighed and looked at his bed, the sheets all askew from his frantic rolling and tossing the previous night and early morning. All of a sudden sleep sounded mighty tempting...and Harry blinked his eyes a bit and crawled under the covers.

His last thought before sleep consumed him was, I wonder if I'll dream of Hermione again?