Take Me Away

Chapter One

Even though I try
I can't let go
Something in your eyes
Captured my soul
And every night I see you in
My dreams
You're all I know
I can't let go
No I just can't get you out of my mind
I never can say goodbye
'Cause every night
I see you in my dreams

~Mariah Carey--Can't Let Go

The pale moonlight cast shadows on a figure in the bed. A male stirred restlessly in his bed as he tried in vain to get some sleep. Growling in frustration, he finally gave up and tossed his sheets off, ignoring the stifling, itchy fabric as it slid silently to the floor. He could, however, ignore it no longer, when he tripped over it and fell to the floor himself.

Emotionlessly now, he grabbed the round, wire-rim glasses that sat on his Hogwarts trunk, lying at the foot of his bed and slipped them on, letting them slide down his nose as usual, settling crookedly after being bent and broken so many times. The room came into sharp focus and he noted idly that his owl still had yet to come back from hunting. The young man moved to the window and sat on the rickety chair next to it, absently figuring that he could await her return, half cursing his failed attempt at sleep that hot, summer night. Because when he was awake he had to remember. Remember the pain, remember the shock, and the gut wrenching horror of witnessing the only parent that he had ever known die. But most of all, he had to remember the vague look of surprise and shock on Sirius' face as he fell, an unnecessary sacrifice. Dead.

And then, he also had to suffer through the still lingering guilt of the death of Cedric, which was also his fault. And the last frozen expression that had crossed his face as he died. "Kill the spare," the cold voice had ordered. So they had killed him. And he had fallen also. Dead of course. Avada Kedavra was, of course, foolproof.

But then, perhaps it wasn't. Because the teen himself had survived. He had survived Voldemort's attacks on him for five--going on six--years of his life. And then there was the attack that had made him a household name. Shivering in speculation, the haunted boy raised a shaking finger to trace the lightening bolt scar that marked him out from the crowd, the mark that made him famous. The scar that told everyone who he was. The Boy Who Lived. The boy who had lived, even though the greatest, most terrible Dark Wizard since Salazar Slytherin himself had made that first attempt on his life. The same attack that had killed the young woman and man, once alive with love and laughter. Lily and James. His parents. He had never known them and it haunted him, that knowledge that Voldemort had so tauntingly thrown at him at their second meeting, at Hogwarts, his first year.

"How touching," the hideous face of Voldemort hissed, its mouth twisting in a malevolent grin. "I always value bravery...Yes, boy, your parents were brave...I killed your father first and he put up a courageous fight...but your mother needn't have died...she was trying to protect you..."

Just the fact that even Voldemort had known his parents better than their own son, could remember their faces, could hear their voices, nearly drove him mad with jealousy, though he knew it was ridiculous, knew that Voldemort didn't care for such things as hearing Lily's laugh or seeing the mischievous twinkle in James's eyes that shone through with love for his wife, only son, and friends. But worse than the jealousy was what almost killed him. Guilt. The guilt that his mother could have lived, could have lived, breathed, and loved if it hadn't been for him was something that he tried to live with. It had grown more intense now. Because now, he knew her last words, knew that she had been scared, for him, for his father, and for her. His third year had made sure of that. He desperately attempted to shut out the voices as they resurfaced in his mind, the same terrified but oh-so-determined voices of his parents.

"Lily, take Harry and go! It's Him! Go! Run! I'll hold him off--"

The sounds of someone stumbling from a room--a door bursting open--a cackle of high-pitched laughter...

A woman screamed...

"Not Harry! Not Harry! Please--I'll do anything..."

"Stand aside--stand aside, girl--"

"No! Kill me instead! Not Harry, anything but Harry...please..."

Of course, Avada Kedavra wasn't the only method of causing a devastating death. Just last June, his godfather, Sirius, had been killed, had died because of his stupid, stupid mistake. If he hadn't foolishly blundered into the Department of Mysteries, Sirius would still be alive. Sirius would have survived...the boy missed Sirius with a painful ache, an ache that hurt him so badly he couldn't stand it...being awake and remembering made him want to scream and tear his hair out.

Yes, staying awake was horrible, living the consciousness, absolute agony. But he only cursed his insomnia halfheartedly because the sleep was worse. For every time he closed his eyes, he not only heard the voices, he saw them. Saw his mother's desperate face, his father's jaw, set with grim resolution, the look on Cedric's face when he died, Sirius' shocked, astonished gape as he fell. But it was different when he slept. Instead of surprised look and blank expression, Sirius' face held a sharper air, a more bitter, filled with hate and accusation. Because he knew, knew that it was his fault that Sirius had died. If only he hadn't run into there, with only Kreacher's word...perhaps Sirius might have lived on...if only...he would still have been alive. But because of him, he wasn't. It was his fault. Just like Lily. Just like Cedric. If it hadn't been for him...if he hadn't stupidly rushed in...the combined guilt of the death of so many burdened him and he carried it alone.

All by himself.

He supposed that his friends would gladly help him but he couldn't palm it off to them. It just wasn't that easy. And they wouldn't understand. They had never felt what he was feeling right now, couldn't know the grief and the saddened loss of life that had been Sirius'. It hurt like mad, like a sore muscle that steadily grew. And he couldn't find it in himself to stop to put a salve on that muscle. He let it pain him. After all, he deserved it, he figured. He had even stopped bothering to defend himself against his aunt, uncle, and cousin when they ridiculed him.

"What's the matter?" his cousin sneered, his face twisting into a smirk. "Miss that freak show of a school of yours? Don't worry; I heard that the circus was in town next week."

He had remained silent throughout all of this. He had not reacted. He had not commented. In his reports to Lupin, Tonks, Moody, the Weasleys, and the rest, he had not mentioned their continued tormenting. When they taunted him, he had not given any indication that he had heard. But he had. And, inside, the small part of him that still had not been ruined, had not been ripped to shreds the night that Sirius had died, screamed in anger and protest. And, in his deepest, darkest corners of his heart, he had never despised anyone more than he despised the Dark Lord. For all of those that he had killed. For not caring what it did to the families. And for making him into this hollow shell of bitterness and shame.

The tall, lean man closed his eyes, too tired to go on, emotionally and spiritually exhausted. As the haze of the dream world began to envelope him, he reflected drowsily. Yes, his friends would be glad to help him through this. They cared. They pitied him. They sympathized for him, this was true. And that meant something, at least. But, he knew, deep down, to no fault of their own, they didn't know enough to understand, to empathize. They didn't know, firsthand, the guilt and agony that came with being Harry James Potter, the Boy Who Lived.

*~*~*

In the dark of the night, five shadows skulked towards an imposing manor. The moonlight shone on the gleaming marble and alabaster stone, the windows unlit while the homeowners slept. The tallest of the five, a skeletal, monster of a creature, lifted the hood of the robe to reveal a twisted face. Starkly white with flaring slits in place of a nose and luminous red eyes, it made even its supporters shudder in revulsion. The face of the newly risen Lord Voldemort smiled an ugly smile at the home of his once loyal followers turned traitor. There would be killings by the end of the night.

The other four people looked at their master for instruction. They didn't have to wait long.

"My faithful Death Eaters," the Dark Lord murmured and all four figures looked up, ready for command, grateful for being rescued from the wizard prison, Azkaban. "Bring them to me." He flicked his wand carelessly and they nodded, stealing off into the shadows once more.

"Tonight," Voldemort whispered to himself, "they will all know what happens to those who oppose me. Oh, yes, they will know." A malicious laugh filled the air. He was going to enjoy killing them.

*~*~*

Somewhere in the vast manor, a door banged open. A young girl sat bolt upright in her bed where she had once lain in a deep sleep. Irritation, fear, and confusion flashed through her eyes and she untangled herself from the silky enchanted sheets of her bed and stealthily crept to the door. What was going on? Her mother, she knew, would not have slammed open a door; she was the epitome of ladylike elegance and preferred to slip through the house gracefully, while still letting all know that she was the lady of the house. Not that anyone could forget. The servants loved her and feared her so. Loved her for being so clearly strong and gentle at the same time. Feared her because she had been hurt many times and was not a trustful person. If she doubted you, you were gone. No ifs, ands, or buts. No, it couldn't be her mother. Her father, perhaps? But, while she knew he loved to make an entrance, she was also aware of the fact that he was already tucked away in his study. So who then?

Opening the door a crack, the girl had to stifle a gasp as four robed wizards strode past her room, dragging her mother behind, kicking and biting. She stopped her cry in time but slipped through the door to follow, having had plenty experience with spying. Their shadows grew shorter until she could see nothing at all and the voices were muffled but she caught enough to know what was going on. She dashed back into her room to watch and make a plan. Her reeling mind was still confused. Confused and very, very scared. They were headed for the woodland, she noted from her window. They had already reached the edge of the forest and she would have to do something. Hesitating for only a second, the girl turned away and ran.

She followed their tracks silently, into the open air and the dark mocking serenity of the forest that surrounded their property. Peering past a tall tree that shielded her from their view, she recoiled at the sight. Her father was bound but not gagged, staring helplessly at her mother. Oh, dear God...her beautiful mother...Her face was twisted in anger, hate, fear, and pain. Her body was deformed, every bone broken, snapped in two and she looked nothing like the woman who had soothed and hugged her young daughter when she felt scared or lost, enveloping her in a cloud of elegance and fragrant perfume, nothing like the woman who had stood and watched as her daughter became tough and independent, beaming with pride at the girl's achievements.

"--won't get away with this!" her father was snarling at the five men, four standing reverently around the tallest one. She felt her stomach contract. Voldemort...

"Oh, I think I will," the Dark Lord said in a silky voice that carried to the girl's ears as she hid behind her tree. "Such a pity, Polaris. Of all people...I must admit, not even I predicted your treachery. Or beautiful Larissa's own. Tsk, tsk." He laughed humorlessly. "Ah well. There is still your young daughter. She would have already turned sixteen now, wouldn't she? The perfect age to mold into a model Death Eater. Impressionable, and oh so young. The age that I really should have recruited you. Perhaps then you wouldn't have been so anxious to leave the Circle."

" Don't you dare touch her," her father said quietly; she could tell it was taking all of his self-control not to shout out. "Don't you dare--."

"Soft spot for your daughter, Polaris?" Voldemort waved a hand, face perfectly emotionless. "I won't touch a hair on her head." He paused and then went on. "But I do feel that my loyal Death Eaters would enjoy such an event." Her father's face contorted with rage for a split second and opened his mouth to speak before he was cut off.

"Nevertheless, such chit chat bores me, as do you," Lord Voldemort spoke languidly. "Does it not weary you also, my Death Eaters?" Here he turned to the four robed shadowy figures that had remained silent thus far. Now they all spoke, their words running over each other's as they stumbled to appease their master.

"Yes, Master."

"Of course, my Lord."

"Truly, my Lord."

"Without a doubt, Master."

"Farewell, Polaris," the Dark Lord smiled lazily. "Perhaps we will meet again in hell. Of course, I have no intention of dying but it would still please me greatly to have a reserved seat. Avada Kedavra!" A flash of green light filled the clearing, a thump echoed through her ears, and, when the air cleared, Pansy Parkinson was staring into the blank, empty face of Polaris Parkinson and the mangled remains of Larissa Parkinson. Her parents.

*~*~*

Harry opened his eyes blearily. A glimmer of the sun was just starting to peek over the edge of the houses on Privet Drive, Surrey. Dawn was arriving. He supposed he must have fallen asleep after all while waiting for Hedwig to return from hunting. Harry was still sitting at his makeshift window seat by the dusty window--Aunt Petunia never came into his room; she was terrified that he would curse her into oblivion--or worse, get Moody to do it. However, she had gotten braver now that she realized that he wasn't doing anything to stop her.

The air felt suddenly cold around him and, with a shiver, he retreated back to his bed and pulled the covers around him, trying to drift back to sleep and ignore the eyes of the watchful reproaching eyes of his parents, Cedric Diggory, and, perhaps most painful of all, Sirius. A distraction was provided almost instantly, though it was a most aching, gut-wrenching one.

Harry was overcome with a burning rage and distress. He felt a grief-stricken stab in his heart and practically keeled over with surprise at the sadness.

"What the--?" he muttered but got no further. For the unhappy, distressed feeling was soon followed by a scorching pain, searing through his scar with white-hot lightning made him hiss with shocked agony. Voldemort! Harry knew instantly. His fifth year at Hogwarts had shown him that he could channel Voldemort's moods and some of his thoughts. But this time there was something else. Yes, he felt the cold hatred flowing from the Dark Lord but there was something else that wasn't his; caused by Him most likely but not directly from Voldemort. It was anguish and grief that surely Voldemort could never feel. It was too human. Perhaps he was sensing one of the victim's reactions? Harry could feel the sorrow and he nearly cried out. Tears sprang to his eyes as the lurching feeling started up again. He recognized this feeling now and he knew why too.

He had felt it before.

It had been there when Sirius had fallen through that gaping blackness, the night that Cedric had been killed, had lingered for five years or more. Maybe since he was one-year-old. Since the night his parents had been killed by the cold, unforgiving rush of green light that was Avada Kedavra. The Killing Curse. It was there now, but not his own. Someone else's, Harry could tell.

It was guilt and self-loathing.

Harry felt pity for the person if they were feeling it at this magnitude. With a gasp and a whooshing sound, for a second, Harry could feel everything. Not just emotions. It was difficult for him to grasp but, in that split second, he was aware of the rough bark of trees that grazed his fingertips as he stumbled through a forest, he could hear the wind that rushed through his ears as he ran, and he could feel the cool wetness of tears slipping down his cheeks.

*~*~*

She ran. Faster than the wind, without a thought, the horror of it all caused her mind to freeze with only one thing clear to her. Her parents were dead and she was running away. Self-hatred rose like bile in Pansy's throat and she nearly choked. They had sacrificed themselves for her and she was running. God, what a coward she was. No wonder she wasn't a Gryffindor. Not brave or noble enough to be a Lion, not studious enough to be an Eagle, and not loyal or trustworthy enough to be a Badger. No, she wasn't any of those things.

She was a Snake.

The great dirty, tainted snake. Branded as evil, as untrustworthy. The Enemy. Of course they were. They were ambitious, which, to everyone else, translated to nothing but money-grabbing, Machiavellian social climbers who lived for the Dark Arts. Never mind that they were the most stereotyped house. Never mind that they hurt, felt, loved, and were humans as well. Never mind all of that. No, they weren't good enough for the rest of the world. Dark wizards and witches in the making, all of them. And while most of them brushed it off, she had to wonder now.

Maybe they all were.

Why else would her once friends and people that Pansy had once thought of as family turn on her, just because her family wanted nothing more to do with the Dark Lord? Why else would that horrific, frightening skull with its ugly snake grin be hanging over her house at this moment? And why else would she be running away, leaving her dead parents to themselves?

Because, not matter how hard I deny it, she murmured to herself in her mind, sorrowful, I am nothing but a Slytherin. The cold-hearted, perhaps, the determined, and the unfeeling. But isn't there more to me than that? I thought that maybe there was. I know I was good at one time. But am I still? Or have I turned into something I always hated, even when Mum and Dad were one of them? She shuddered, reaching out blindly into the dark to avoid crashing into a tree. Death Eater. Slytherin. Evil. Insane. Dark witch.

Pansy tried to erase her mind of such thoughts but it was impossible. Her parents' faces remained, frozen in her mind with eyes that condemned her for running. She knew, in her mind, that they would never have faulted her for it. It was a favorite saying of her father's that it was all very heroic to die in each other's arms but, at the end of the day, it was better to live.

Not so sure about that, Daddy, Pansy gasped. Right here, right now, Pansy would give anything to have died along with Polaris and Larissa Parkinson.

*~*~*

Author's Note: Well, what do you think? Please review!

Next Chapter: Diagon Alley