Intersections

Chapter 19: Tears

A deafening shrieking woke Hermione.

"MUDBLOODS! BLOOD-TRAITORS! SHAME OF MY FLESH! BEFOULING THE HOUSE OF MY FATHERS -"

"Shut up!" roared Sirius from somewhere down below. His feet slapped against the wood as he wrenched open the front door, its hinges squealing loudly. "I'm sorry," he said, "I should have told you not to use the doorbell..."

Hermione rubbed her eyes groggily. She was lying in a massive four-poster whose dusty hangings had been drawn back to reveal a dim, musty room covered in dark green wallpaper with silver snakes writhing at the edges. A worn, dark wooden dresser and vanity sat in the corner, covered with lacy green cloth and topped off by a filthy, tarnished silver mirror with an ornate design that Hermione was certain had once been beautiful. The bedroom door was open, and she padded over to it, looking down the winding staircase.

Several people were crowded into the long entry way of the house. She could see Remus Lupin's sandy, graying hair and two shocks of orange-red, which must be Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. A tall black man that looked vaguely familiar stood near the staircase, his gold hoop earring twinkling in the light of the flickering gas lamps. Behind him stood a square-jawed wizard that Hermione recognized as Sturgis Podmore, the man who had accompanied her and Harry to Diagon Alley, who was murmuring to a short, black-haired witch with rosy cheeks and a stately-looking woman whose high-collared robe reminded Hermione of an old Victorian painting. Near the odd drapery that Hermione had passed earlier, next to Sirius, stood a tiny, elderly wizard with a violet top hat and matching robe, a young woman with violently pink hair and an open grin, and a very old wizard with long silver hair like Dumbledore's. Finally, in front of the door stood the strangest man Hermione had ever seen. He had a wooden leg, a battered, scarred face with a crooked nose topped by grizzled, dark grey hair, and a swiveling electric blue eye that scanned the room like some sort of radar system. The sole eye swung upward toward her, and she jumped, staring as the man's other eye - a normal, squinting brown - slowly moved to accompany its neighbor.

"Girl's awake," he growled to the room at large, and the rest of the adults looked up at her curiously. Hermione flushed, knowing she must look like a mess, and tried to smooth down the wisps of bushy brown hair that had escaped from her plait while she was sleeping.

"Hello," she said nervously.

"Wotcher," said the young pink-haired witch brightly, lifting an arm to wave at Hermione and knocking over something behind her in the process. It crashed to the floor with a very loud thud. "Oh, sorry -"

The infernal shrieking that had woken Hermione started again.

"FILTH! SCUM! BY-PRODUCTS OF VILENESS -"

Sirius whirled and stuck his head in between the curtains hanging behind his head. "Shut up, you wretched hag!"

"YOU! ABOMINATION, BLOOD-TRAITOR, HOW DARE YOU ENTER THIS HOUSE -"

"Shut up! Shut up or I'll burn you myself!" Sirius screamed, wrenching the curtains shut, and the screaming woman miraculously fell silent.

"Sirius, I'm so sorry, I didn't know -" the pink-haired witch began.

"It's all right, Tonks," Sirius cut her off, and he snorted. "I should have introduced you. That was my dear old mum, your great-aunt Walburga. Fortunately Andromeda had the sense to stay away from her once she married your dad - and when we were kids, too."

"Can we move this down to the kitchen, Black?" growled the scarred man near the door, whose blue eye was still fixed on Hermione. "Time's pressing on us. We haven't got all day."

"All right, Mad-Eye, keep your pants on," Sirius said, running a hand through his hair. "Everyone, follow me. And try not to knock anything else over, Tonks - I guarantee that it won't be pleasant."

The adults slowly filed out of the room. Remus and Mrs. Weasley lingered behind, gazing at Hermione in concern. "Are you all right, Hermione?" asked Remus.

"I brought your things with me, dear," said Mrs. Weasley, before Hermione had a chance to respond. "Let me bring them up to your room before I go to the meeting." She started up the spiral staircase, followed by Remus, and wrinkled her nose at the room as she pulled out what looked like a tiny, miniature suitcase and laid it on the hardwood floor. "Engorgio," she said, tapping the suitcase with her wand. The suitcase expanded in size until Hermione recognized it as her own. Its brown leather was bulging at the seams. "All of your things are in there - your clothes, your letters, and your books," Mrs. Weasley explained. "I packed everything that was in Ginny's room. If I left anything behind, you can tell me and I can go back to fetch it."

"Thank you," said Hermione tightly.

Mrs. Weasley gave her a warm smile. "It was no trouble, dear, no trouble at all."

"Are you all right?" Remus asked again. His eyes fell on her hand, wrapped in white bandages stained lightly with blood, and he winced. "I'm sorry about the model. I know it was a gift from one of your friends."

Hermione nodded mutely, not certain what her feelings were at the moment. Waves of hurt and betrayal and anger were roiling beneath the surface, threatening to break her calm façade, and she wished her parents were here to comfort her.

"We'd better hurry to the meeting, Remus," said Mrs. Weasley. "Hermione, dear, get some rest."

Remus glanced at Hermione once more, his brow creasing, and followed Mrs. Weasley out of the room. Hermione watched them descend the staircase and disappear down the hall before she returned to the bedroom, shutting the door behind her. She knelt down and unzipped the suitcase, taking out a stack of jumpers, jeans, and underthings and laying them on the bed. Beneath the clothing sat a neat stack of letters from various people, mostly her parents, and tucked into the corner of the suitcase were her two favorite photographs: one of her parents and herself, beaming excitedly, and the other of herself and her friends, standing in front of her old school and grinning without a care in the world. Hermione's breath caught, and she examined the photographs, memorizing every line of her parents' faces, every upturned lift of her friends' mouths, frozen in a moment to which they could never return.

Hermione closed her eyes and tried to remember what her life had been like before magic, before the explosion, before moving. Right now, she would probably be over at Cecilia's house, revising for her GCSEs with Matthew while Cecilia fiddled about on the piano and Daniel and Richard argued the merits and flaws of the latest electronic technology. Cecilia would turn around periodically and tell them to be quiet in an exasperated tone, and Hermione and Matthew would attempt to get the two boys to join them in revision with moderate success. And then Richard would ask if there were anything to eat, Cecilia would roll her eyes and go to the kitchen, and she and Hermione would prepare tea while complaining about the unnaturally large appetites of teenage boys...

Hot tears spilled down Hermione's face as the scene in her mind became so clear that she could have stepped into it. She could envision the potted plant that Cecilia's parents kept on the piano, much to their daughter's disgust; Matthew's messy scrawls as he tried to work out a difficult physics problem; Daniel's scribbled drawings of constellations and planets on the side of his English text (his least favorite class); and she could hear Richard's snigger as Cecilia played a dissonant chord on the piano (they both played piano, but only Cecilia really loved it), the subsequent thwack as Cecilia threw a pillow at him, and the shrieks and giggles and Daniel's weak protests as the entire room dissolved into a pillow fight, revisions and compositions ignored in favor of friendship and laughter and fun. Three years of a friendship that Hermione had thought unbreakable had been snatched away from her in an instant full of screams and blood and breaking glass, and now, the same thing had happened to the life she'd been building so carefully ever since she left London. Her friends were impostors, her teachers didn't trust her, and her parents were far, far away.

But beyond the aching loneliness that squeezed her heart with iron fingers, there was a deeper hurt Hermione felt - a burning, roiling anguish that rose up in her blood and caused salty tears to press against her eyelids once more. She was furious at herself for not recognizing earlier that Harry was an impostor. Of course, she hadn't known about Polyjuice Potion, she'd noticed for a long time that Harry hadn't been acting like himself. Then, he'd "confessed" that he fancied her, and she had accepted his explanation without questioning and not a little excitement, because no boy had ever fancied her before, and the very knowledge of it was thrilling. That, of course, had been a lie. The Death Eater had simply manipulated her feelings so that she wouldn't suspect something was truly wrong.

What hurt her the most, however - a hitching sob tore past her throat - was the fact that Remus, Sirius, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had all known about the impostor and hadn't bothered to inform her about it. Was she not trustworthy enough - not important enough - to know the truth, to protect herself from being used like a fool? She could have acted normally toward the impostor; she could have pretended not to notice that Harry's behavior was a little strange; she could have prevented herself from indulging in feelings that weren't even real. Hermione flinched as she remembered holding onto the impostor for dear life as he took her up into the sky. She'd never be able to feel clean again.

Something brushed against her leg, startling her out of her thoughts. Hermione sniffed and wiped at her eyes, frowning in bewilderment at the ugly house-elf who had one hand in her suitcase and a shifty expression on his face. "What are you doing?" she asked.

Kreacher ignored her, muttering under her breath. "Kreacher does not answer to the Mudblood, oh no, she who smells of rot..." He started to shuffle away slowly toward the door, but not before she caught the glimmer of gold behind his back. Hermione leaned over, gasping. The pearl necklace her parents had given her for Christmas dangled from his fist, dragging slightly on the hardwood floor.

"Put that down," she said sharply, her heart beating furiously. "Give it back to me now."

"Mudbloods do not deserve such finery, oh no, Kreacher will keep this for his mistress -"

"Give it back to me," Hermione repeated, her voice shaking as she held out her hand. "Please, Kreacher. It's mine."

"Begging will not sway Kreacher, oh no, mistress has warned Kreacher about Mudbloods..." He was inching closer and closer to the door. "My poor mistress, her house invaded by beasts and blood-traitors, oh, if she could see poor Kreacher now..."

Hermione couldn't stand it. She grabbed Kreacher by the shoulder and reached for the necklace. Kreacher let out a keening scream, writhing under her grasp. "The Mudblood has touched Kreacher, Kreacher is dirty now, dirty, dirty, what would mistress say!" he wailed, obviously distressed. "Kreacher must go; Kreacher must clean himself of its touch!"

Hermione was shocked. She released the house-elf, and he sent her a glare of deepest loathing, his fingers clenched around the golden chain. "Just - just give me the necklace, Kreacher, please," she said, trying to keep herself calm as Kreacher's ugly little fingers tightened around the chain. "It's mine. You can't go around stealing what's not yours. It isn't right."

"What's going on here?"

Sirius stood at the door, panting, his wand drawn in front of him. "Hermione? Are you all right?" He looked down at Kreacher, disgust and loathing passing across his face. "Kreacher, what did you do?"

"Kreacher did nothing, Master, nothing," Kreacher muttered to the floor. "Filthy Mudblood..." he added under his breath.

Hermione felt a furious heat rise in her cheeks. "He took my necklace, and he won't give it back," she explained in a choked voice, flushing with embarrassment. She sounded very much like a five-year-old.

"Kreacher, give the necklace back to Hermione and don't touch any of her things again," Sirius ordered.

Kreacher glowered. "Kreacher must do as Master says, Kreacher does not like it, oh no, Master is a blood-traitor who has upset Kreacher's mistress..."

"Do it now!" Sirius snapped.

Kreacher flung the necklace in Hermione's direction and slinked away, muttering, "Filthy Mudbloods, filthy blood-traitors, fouling the house with their half-breed beasts..."

Sirius' wand twitched as he waited for Kreacher to leave the room. "I'm sorry, Hermione," he said. "I wish I could get rid of him, but he's bound to me and to the house, and he might give away some of the Order's secrets, not to mention the fact that I'm here. I'm hoping he'll just crawl into the cupboard and die one day, and then I wouldn't have to worry..."

Hermione's eyes widened at Sirius' last statement, but she didn't protest. She couldn't really blame Sirius for what he felt. Kreacher was a foul little creature. She picked up her necklace from the floor, checking for any damage, and let out a sigh of relief when she found none. Then she clasped the necklace around her neck, calming a little as the pearl's familiar weight rested against her collarbone. "Thanks," she said to Sirius.

"You're welcome." He checked his watch and sighed. "I need to go back. Stay in this room - it's the safest place in the house right now. I'll let you know when the meeting's over and we're having dinner." And with that, he turned and hurried away.

Hermione listened to him leave and turned back to the contents of her suitcase. She trailed her fingers along the photograph frames, wiping away her tears, and placed them onto the wooden table next to the bed. Then she slowly began to move about the room, cleaning, sorting, and unpacking the rest of her possessions as she tried to make this new place feel like home.

----------------------

"He needs to be here, Dumbledore. Harry needs to be with people who care about him - who love him!"

Sirius' angry shout echoed up the narrow stairwell as a freshly showered, freshly healed Hermione followed Mrs. Weasley into the kitchen-basement of Grimmauld Place.

"Oh dear," Mrs. Weasley clucked.

"I understand, Sirius," Dumbledore answered, "but unfortunately right now the safest place Harry can be is his aunt and uncle's house. It has protections, blood wards, that even Voldemort cannot break. There, he will be safe from harm, and his aunt and uncle will care for him. I have made certain of it."

"Care for him?" Sirius asked incredulously, as Hermione gave a little gasp. Harry was back in Surrey! "Dumbledore, do you know what they - how they treat him?" Sirius ranted. "He told me once that they'd never given him Christmas gifts until this year! Nothing but a - a coat hanger and a toothpick! After all he's been through, that house is the last place he should be!"

"I am aware of the injustices that Harry's relatives have perpetrated against him," Dumbledore said, his voice becoming a little colder. "However, I have sent someone to watch over him and to help him through the healing process. Harry will be fine. He will get the rest he deserves, and he will do so in a safe place."

"This house is the safest place in the country!" Sirius exploded as Hermione and Mrs. Weasley entered the room. He was leaning over the table, his chest heaving with fury and his wand shooting sparks from his hand. Remus stood off to the side, his posture rigid, his fists clenched at his sides, a pained expression on his face.

"This house is not the safest place for Harry," Dumbledore rejoined sharply. "I will not discuss this with you any longer." His piercing blue eyes swept over the room, coming to rest on Mrs. Weasley and Hermione. "Ah, Miss Granger," he said with a nod, "It is good to see that you are doing well. Enjoy your dinner." Before she could protest that she was not well at all, he threw a fistful of Floo powder into the fireplace, stepping into the bright green flames and disappearing to Hogwarts in a whirl of smoke.

Sirius mad a convulsive movement and turned around to look at Hermione and Mrs. Weasley. His eyes were crazed and wild, and Hermione was reminded of the picture she'd seen of Sirius on the Muggle news - that of an insane, dangerous fugitive on the run. She fought the urge to step back in fright. Mrs. Weasley's hand came down on her shoulder, squeezing reassuringly.

"Sirius," Remus said from the counter, his voice strained. "Sirius, you know why -"

"Don't, Remus," said Sirius roughly. "Don't even start -" He brushed past them, trembling, running up the stairs and slamming the door with such force that the iron pots and pans hanging from the ceiling rattled violently and nearly fell off their hooks. Remus turned his face away.

"Well!" said Mrs. Weasley loudly into the silence. "I had better start on dinner. Arthur will be joining us when he comes back from the Ministry. Hermione, dear, would you like to help?"

"I'll help," Remus put in unexpectedly, his smile stretched thinly across his face.

Hermione set the table for five and waited for a moment in the tense, awkward silence of the kitchen, punctuated only by the chopping of vegetables. She slipped out of the basement and up the stairs, intending to return to her room, halting when she spotted Sirius curled at the bottom of the stairwell, his face in his hands as he silently wept. "Sirius?" she said softly, her heart twisting.

Sirius looked up. His grey eyes were bloodshot. "Hermione," he said hoarsely. "I thought you were downstairs."

Hermione shook her head. She crossed the room and settled onto one of the steps, staring down at Sirius' fine black hair as she tried to find some words of comfort. Nothing came to mind.

Her thoughts drifted to Harry, who was in Surrey, and her parents who were in the same place, and how badly she wanted to be there with them and stay with them forever, even if it meant giving up the magic she'd learned. Running her thumb along the pearl hanging around her neck, she took in a deep breath as she tried to push away the lump in her throat. Sirius twisted his head slightly to look at her, his face haunted by guilt and old ghosts.

Together, they sat in silence, the flickering lamps casting shadows across the dim entry way as they lost themselves in their thoughts.

-----------------------------

Harry's return to Privet Drive began uneventfully.

He slept on most of the way home, of course. Surprisingly, Uncle Vernon didn't complain. He even helped Harry up the stairs to his bedroom, which had been untouched since Harry had left on Boxing Day. Aunt Petunia hadn't said a word when they entered, merely pressed her lips together tightly and continued stirring the tomato stew she was cooking.

Harry shucked off his shoes and socks and dully looked around the room. He placed Frank's walking stick in the corner of the room and the three Death Eaters' wands on the desk, shuddering and grimacing as his fingers brushed against a strand of his greasy, sweat-soaked hair. He was filthy. He stumbled over to the bathroom and turned on the tap, slowly unwrapping the old dressings along his wrists, arm, and ankles as he waited for the water to warm up. The long cut along his arm had started to scab over; it was a disgusting reddish-purple color, surrounded by dried blood that gave off a metallic coppery smell. Harry hoped that it wasn't infected. He inspected his wrists and ankles; the shallow cuts along them had also begun to scab over, and one or two of them had already become pale scars. Harry sighed, stripping off his clothing. Ever since he'd discovered his magic, he'd become injured far more frequently. It was rather irritating, to tell the truth.

The water felt amazing against his sore limbs, and Harry reveled in it, closing his eyes as he washed away the pains and aches of the past week. He gently cleaned his injuries, flinching slightly as he rubbed off the dried blood along his arm, and then ran shampoo through his hair, which now reached the back of his neck. Aunt Petunia's going to have a fit, thought Harry dimly. She'd always hated how fast Harry's hair grew. When he was younger, he used to get it cut twice a week, and once, when Harry was eight, she'd shaved all of his hair off except for his fringe. Dudley had laughed for hours and hours, but then Harry's hair had grown back overnight thanks to his accidental magic. Harry had been punished for it with a week in the cupboard.

He stood in the water a moment longer, enjoying the soothing warmth against his skin, and then reluctantly shut it off, wrapping a towel around himself and examining himself in the steam-fogged mirror. He was very pale, even paler than he'd been when he attended Stonewall and never went outside, and shadows stained the area under his bloodshot green eyes. There were a few spots along his chin and his cheeks, and his scar laid pale pink and innocent against his smooth forehead. Harry traced it with his thumb, biting his lip, and scowled at the cause of much of his pain. He wished he could get rid of it somehow, but Dumbledore had told him that it was a curse scar that couldn't be removed by magical or Muggle means. He was stuck with it for life.

Gripping the stairwell tightly, he made his way downstairs to the kitchen on slightly unsteady legs. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had already begun to eat dinner. They were deep in conversation when he entered, and they didn't bother to acknowledge his presence as he set a place for himself and sat down at the table.

"We received a new batch of drills today," Uncle Vernon said to Aunt Petunia. "They're going to bring in quite a bit of money. The company's been growing and growing since I took over. I might as well give myself the Best Employee award!" He let out a hearty laugh.

"That's wonderful, Vernon dear," said Aunt Petunia, her lips pinched tightly together as she grabbed Harry's bowl and dumped a very large serving of stew into it. She shoved the bowl back at Harry without looking back at him.

Uncle Vernon puffed out his chest like a male peacock in a mating ritual. "Business is great, and the company's in good shape," he rumbled with a satisfied smile. "I think we might get a new company car soon...the make on the current one is too old. It'll be a good show for our neighbors."

"Oh, Vernon, how exciting! We ought to look into getting Dudley a car as well. He'll be able to get his provisional license soon, and then I think we ought to send him to driving lessons...Mrs. Brooks from Number Eleven said that there was an instructor in the next town that did wonders for her grandson." She paused to give Uncle Vernon another serving of stew. "Did I tell you what happened along Wisteria Walk today?"

"No, no, you didn't," said Uncle Vernon, clearing his throat and darting a glance at Harry with narrowed eyes.

"Well, Mrs. Flannery's niece visited, the one from Leeds I mentioned, and she was wearing the most atrocious outfit..."

Harry tuned out his aunt's gossip and picked at the pieces of beef in his stew. It tasted good, but not nearly as good as Mrs. Weasley's meals, and he found himself missing the Burrow, with Mrs. Weasley's bustling and Hermione's easy company. He forced himself not to think about Sirius and Remus (traitors, traitors, a voice whispered in his head) and instead tried to recall the first dinner he'd had at the Burrow with Hermione, Ron, Ginny, Fred, and George. Mrs. Weasley had made the most delicious Christmas pudding, and later on that evening the teenagers and gathered in the living room and indulged in various wizarding sweets. Harry could still remember the thrilling sensation of that had shot through him after he'd eaten a Fizzing Whizbee and floated weightlessly in the air.

"...and Mrs. Figg came out, Vernon, and asked me how the boy was doing." She glared in Harry's direction as if Mrs. Figg's nosiness was somehow his fault. "I didn't even think she'd remember him, batty as she is with all of those horrid cats about, but I told her he was doing just fine, thank you very much, that we'd sent him off to a special school that got him off of our hands..."

Harry remembered Mrs. Figg. She used to babysit him when the Dursleys left him at home, taking Dudley to various fun places like Alton Towers that Harry had never visited. Harry was quite certain that the first time he'd stepped foot outside of Surrey since he'd arrived as a baby was during Dudley's eleventh birthday, when they had gone to the London Zoo. He'd talked to a snake there...just like he'd talked to Voldemort's snake in the graveyard - no, he wouldn't think about that. He wouldn't, he wouldn't.

"What's the matter, boy?" Uncle Vernon asked gruffly.

Harry realized he was shaking his head at the stew, and he flushed. "Er - nothing."

"Finish your dinner, boy, I'll not have my cooking go to waste," Aunt Petunia said, her lips thinning as she glanced over at him.

Harry unenthusiastically stuck a piece of tomato in his mouth. He didn't feel very hungry. The sterile walls of Number Four, Privet Drive were a sharp contrast to the lively chaos of the Burrow, and Harry felt strangely hollow, as if something were missing inside of him.

"Have you finished yet?" asked Aunt Petunia impatiently, as he finished his last forkful.

Harry refrained from rolling his eyes and swallowed. "Yes, Aunt Petunia," he muttered as she snatched his bowl out from under him.

"Good, now go to bed," she ordered. "Hurry up!"

Harry stood up slowly and made his way out of the kitchen to the upstairs bathroom.

Running his tongue over his newly-brushed teeth, Harry pressed his face against the bedroom window, staring outside at the blurred glow of the streetlamps as he shifted uncomfortably in a Dudley's old pajamas, which were far too loose on his thin frame. It was too quiet here, too different. He missed Ron's bright orange bedspread and the Quidditch players flying around on the walls, the moonlight coming in through his window and lighting up the garden like liquid silver. He wanted to see Hermione with her endless stacks of letters, sit in the living room of the Burrow with its always warm fireplace, wanted to flip through the photograph album he'd made of his mother...

Fiery light suddenly exploded in the middle of the room. Harry gasped, diving for one of the wands on the desk and missing horribly. He groaned and cursed as his shoulder hit the edge of the chair, and he scrambled upward from the floor, reaching blindly for a wand, as his shoulder throbbed with pain. Something very red and very gold was in the center of the room; the brightness of it made Harry's eyes water. The creature flew straight toward his face, and Harry jerked and ducked, his heart pounding. Would he never get a break?

The red-gold thing, whatever it was, let out a rich, musical sound that comforted and strengthened Harry all at once. Harry slowly lifted his eyes and stared at the magnificent bird perched on his desk. It had crimson feathers, a very long, glowing golden tail, beady black eyes that were fixed on Harry, and a sharp beak that was holding a thick envelope. It chirped, hopping toward Harry, and dropped the envelope into Harry's palm. Harry opened it, wincing as the movement jostled his recently bruised shoulder, and pulled out a piece of parchment with looping handwriting. He squinted and brought the letter very close to his face so that he could read it.

Harry,

This is my phoenix, Fawkes. He will stay with you with a few days while we work out your new housing arrangements. Your friend Miss Granger, along with your godfather, Remus Lupin, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, and the rest of the Order, are all safe.

I will be in contact with you soon. Get some rest.

Check the envelope carefully.

-A. Dumbledore

Harry stared at the letter for a moment, then reached into the envelope and pulled out one item he thought he'd never see again: his glasses. His face broke out into a grin, and he set them onto his nose, breathing out a sigh of relief as the world finally came into focus.

Fawkes chirped again and took another step closer to Harry. Harry froze, startled, as something warm and wet dripped down his bare shoulder. The throbbing pain from his collision with the desk went away, and Harry reached out a hand wonderingly. The skin was smooth and unblemished; there wasn't even a hint of a bruise left. "Magic," he breathed, as Fawkes tugged insistently at his shirt sleeve. Harry rolled it back to reveal the clean white dressings on his left forearm. "D'you - d'you want me to unwrap it?"

Fawkes let out what sounded like an affirmative sound.

"All right," said Harry, peeling back the gauze. He watched in fascination as Fawkes' tears dripped down onto the long cut. The scabs fell off, reopening the wound and causing it to bleed freshly before the skin stitched itself back together, leaving no trace of an injury. Fawkes repeated the same process for Harry's wrists and ankles, and Harry's eyes widened as he felt the resulting smooth skin, marred only by two small, raised ridges of skin on his left wrist that had already formed into scars.

"Thank you," he said to Fawkes quietly, and he reached out a hesitant hand to stroke the bird's beautiful plumage. Fawkes dipped his head and nuzzled into Harry's touch, letting out a contented, trilling noise, and then he flew away from Harry and landed on something in the corner near the door.

Harry's breath caught in his throat as he caught sight of Frank's walking stick, and he tried to beckon Fawkes back to the desk. "Come here," he whispered thickly, trying to push back the flood of memories. "Please."

Fawkes tilted his head as if he didn't understand, and then let out a low, mournful, quavering note that went straight to Harry's heart. He felt hot tears press against his eyelids, and he blinked them back, shaking his head as he took his glasses off and stumbled toward the bed, curling in on himself under the covers. He took a deep breath, pushing away all of his thoughts. Concrete walls, concrete barriers...he envisioned them in his mind's eye, taking a shaky breath as he slowly calmed himself down and was no longer at risk of bawling like a baby.

When he opened his eyes again, Fawkes was perched next to him on his bed stand. The bird opened his mouth and let out another low, quavering note. This one sounded even more mournful than before. Harry felt a lump form in his throat.

"Stop it," he whispered harshly to Fawkes, sitting up and rubbing violently at his eyes. "Don't."

But Fawkes didn't stop. Instead, he sang again, letting out not just one note this time, but a mournful, unearthly lament that took Harry's breath away as its tragic beauty enveloped him. He felt the concrete barriers against his emotions start to crack, piece by piece, until there was nothing left with which to repair them. Valiantly, he tried to hold back the onslaught of memories, his body trembling with the effort, but finally, he could bear it no longer, and a howl of misery rose up from his throat. He had enough sense of mind to shove his face in a pillow before sobs began to wrack his thin, exhausted frame.

Memories flashed across his mind, causing fresh new tears to spring to his eyes and spill down his cheeks. Frank Bryce's heartbeat stopping with a loud, shrieking beep...Frank, serving him soup, helping him walk through the pub, his throat bared awkwardly as he was used as leverage for Harry...Voldemort lifting his wand and torturing Harry, laughing coldly...the cold gravestone against his back, the ropes digging into his hands and wrists, the helpless despair as he was thrown into the cell...a giant snake, hissing menacingly as it approached Harry...kneeling before Voldemort, feeling disgusted with himself for giving in...Sirius and Remus encouraging Harry to drink Firewhisky, leading him outside, leading him to Voldemort...Severus Snape handing Harry over to Voldemort for more torture...the shock of betrayal from the people he trusted the most...Frank, cursed and controlled, destroying the telephone booth under the Death Eaters' commands...Hermione's disapproving glare as he downed a shot a burning liquid...

The scenes changed. Now he was remembering the good things...Hermione, introducing herself with a guileless smile in the unfriendly halls of Stonewall High...Hermione's warm brown eyes and teasing grin...Ginny Weasley's bright red, scented hair...playing Quidditch with the Weasleys high above the Burrow in the setting, golden sun...Sirius, tenderly pulling him close in the paddock of the Burrow, Sirius, the traitor, Sirius, the man Harry had trusted...and Remus, his gentle smile, his horribly genuine sincerity, Remus, also a traitor, traitor, traitor, and Snape, Harry's one last chance for protection, doing nothing as Voldemort tortured Harry again and again...

Harry wept for the loss of his innocence, for the child he'd once been, full of hope and dreams and resilience that had been shattered in less than a week. He'd always known that he would have to make it through life on his own, but entering the magical world had fooled him into thinking that it would be a little bit easier, that he had adults he could trust, adults who would help him, even adults who loved him. Now he knew, bitterly, that he could not rely on anyone to have his best interests at heart, even those who claimed they did. The world was full of enemies, enemies who wanted him dead, and he could not depend on anyone to protect him except for himself.

The weight of this realization settled upon Harry like a smothering, heavy cloak that he could not shake off. Letting out a choked breath, he curled his knees up to his chest and dropped his face in his hands, his tears drying in the chill winter air as he shivered and gasped. In a rush of red and gold, Fawkes flew across the room, perching on Harry's shoulder and softly chirping in his ear, his rich voice filling Harry with a tender warmth. Harry stroked the burning gold feathers gently, and his breathing gradually evened out as his eyes drifted shut from exhaustion.

Golden light filled Harry's dreams. Fawkes the phoenix perched on the bed stand, watching over him as the night passed into dawn.