A Feather of Time

Chapter 1

Stars

~*Harry*~

Harry was running...why? An unknown evil, creeping closer to him. He heard his mother scream, a terrified yet resigned scream of horror. He saw the flash of green light, blinding him momentarily...the wand tip, pointing at him from the darkness. He heard a yell, an inhuman noise, harsh to his ears. He then saw the face: the red eyes, snakelike nose, and terrible mouth, growing from another's body. He tripped over something, looking down he saw smooth stone. Turning, he saw a flame-red haired girl on the floor, he beheld the giant snake and laughing boy behind her. He stumbled forward only to find himself hitting a gravestone, falling back onto the ropes binding him. His head burned with the effort of not screaming, his scar splitting in half. His ropes were gone, he fell headfirst into a cauldron, where white, foaming liquid was swirling...he landed hard onto something, looking down, he saw a familiar face. Screaming, he jolted backwards, away from those open, lifeless gray eyes. His own fault...all his fault... His vision blurred, and suddenly there was another body, lying not too far off. His scream became bone chilling and high as he recognized the face, the red hair...closing his eyes, he cried, as a horrible, high laugh filled his ears and green light filled his vision.

Harry Potter jerked awake, screaming. He took deep breaths, his heart ready to pound itself out of his chest. Tears were running down his face, stinging his eyes and causing his mouth to taste of salt. Sweat mingled with it, and he had kicked off most of his quilts. His scar burned as though someone had put a hot iron to it, and his head felt as though it were being split apart into a thousand pieces. For a moment, he wondered why he was here, in this strange bedroom. He barely knew who he was in those few, heart-wrenching seconds. The only thing running through his mind was the face of a boy of seventeen, his open gray eyes staring at nothing, his mouth half open in shock. Harry shook with emotion. He had killed him. Harry knew that, had been struggling with it. The only reason Cedric Diggory was dead was that he had been foolish enough to let them both take it. No matter what Hermione or Ron said, it was his fault.

He sat up, shivering, and stood, hoping that the Dursleys had not been awakened by his yells. Uncle Vernon had threatened to turn him out if the nightmares continued, as though it was entirely his fault that he was haunted by dreams of death. He stood in front of the mirror, gazing at his blurry, dark reflection. His black hair was sticking up even more due to the tossing and turning, his emerald eyes glinting from underneath. He groped around in the darkness on his bedside table for his glasses, and then put them on. His bedroom instantly snapped into focus. Harry stepped over to the window, carefully dodging his broomstick and a few piles of textbooks on the floor. He made a mental note to clean it all up tomorrow. He reached the window, and threw it open to let the cool night air in.

White pinpricks of light shone through the blanket of night, shining their radiance onto Privet Drive. They shone on the identical houses, the carefully pruned yards, the dark windows. Like eyes, they watched the quiet street, watched for some sign of movement. Long fingers of darkness crept through the houses, feeling for something. The small lights seemed far away compared to the darkness close at hand. Usually, Harry would appreciate the brilliance of the stars, but not tonight. He was staring out into the dark, moonless night. The lamps were extinguished on the street, causing the stars to be the only source of light. His eyes followed a cat as it wandered aimlessly down the street towards the end. Harry felt the tug of a smile, as he realized that it was Mr. Boots, Mrs. Figg's cat. He remembered quite clearly the day she had scratched Dudley right across the face when they were ten, one of the best moments of Harry's life. But then, his mind wandered, and he remembered the dream. His smile ceased to exist, and his eyes took on a new light.

Just as he was turning it over in his mind, Harry felt something else come into the range of his senses. It was the same inconceivable evil that he had felt in the dream, the same gripping fear that something was about to happen...or had happened. His eyes wandered down Privet Drive, across the mostly watered lawns, and the occasional wilting flower, and they landed on number 7. Harry would never know why his eyes settled on that house, or why they stayed there. For some reason that he would never know, Harry's conscience was screaming at him to stop watching. It was telling him to get out of the Dursley's house, and to flee. The thought maintained that the best and safest place to be right now was where he was looking. He ignored his inner thoughts, but still gazed at number 7. He recognized the house; it was Mrs. Figg's house. Mrs. Figg, with her cats, who had looked after Harry all of those afternoons when Dudley had gone out with his friends. She was quite friendly with Harry, but never very sociable towards anyone. He would never admit this to anyone, not even himself, but he was secretly quite fond of Mrs. Figg and her cats. There was a feeling there that Harry could never quite describe, almost an air of magic. But that was ridiculous. Mrs. Figg could never be a witch. And yet...

Harry leaned forward, squinting against the darkness at the corner of her garage. It had seemed for a moment that something had moved. Nothing stirred in the yard, but Harry kept gazing fixedly on the spot. Suddenly, there was light in his peripheral vision, blinding him for a fraction of a second. He turned his head, staring. Something had swept past the motion detector light on the driveway of number 7. He saw the tip of a black cloak before it disappeared behind the corner. Harry pulled away from the window immediately, slamming the sash shut with a bang. He leaned back against it, his scar burning. His thoughts were now echoing with Dumbledore's words to him, 'Your scar hurts, Harry, when Voldemort is close, or when his power is especially strong.' Harry quickly reminded himself that Voldemort could never be here, not on Privet Drive! It was protected with a very powerful magic, that was what Dumbledore had said.

Just as he was thinking this, there was a creak on the stairs. Harry whipped around, messy hair flying. His hand went immediately to his wand, which he stretched out before him. To his surprise, neither his wand nor his hands were shaking. He felt, in fact, quite calm. He was sure it was not Voldemort, or his scar would be exploding with pain, instead of throbbing slightly. In fact, he had become quite used to fear. That didn't stop him from starting when he heard the step, or shuddering slightly at the thought of what might come in. A whistling came from the hallway, and Harry shivered. The room had gone eerily cold, and a great chill went through Harry, right down to his bones. Harry recognized that cold, that chill. His green eyes widened.

His wand hand faltered and shook as the Dementor entered, the cold in the room becoming almost unbearable. Harry could now see his own breath in front of him, and even then it seemed to crystallize before his very eyes. The Dementor's cloak barely moved as it moved across the bedroom towards him. It glided, almost as though it was floating. Of course, Harry had no idea whether or not the Dementor was walking, so it could be. The Dementor drew in a long, rattling breath that seemed to drain the last drop of courage from Harry. Harry stumbled backwards without thinking, and his wand slowly slipped out of hand.

Harry saw everything in very slow motion after that. The Dementor reached out a hand, the very type of hand that had given Harry nightmares ever since his third year at Hogwarts. It was slimy, rotten, and seemed to be itching for something. He turned his head, and saw, as though he had no control over it, his wand fly out of his hand. With a small sound, the wand hit the floor, bouncing slightly. It was now on the floor directly between Harry and the Dementor. The Dementor seemed to be smirking at him, mocking him, daring him to try and get it. Harry's face contorted with concentration and he began to walk forwards, fighting the fog that was ever enveloping his mind.

The Dementor watched him with an air of bemusement, and then reached out his arm. It was longer than Harry's own, and Harry watched, in shock, as the Dementor picked up his wand and held it between its rotting fingers. Harry's shock weakened his hold on reality, and his mind began to give in to the rolling fog. Through the murkiness, Harry stumbled forwards, blindly feeling for his wand. He needed it...without it he would be dead! Or, perhaps, he already was...

Then, abruptly, Harry ran into something. A cloaked something. He backpedaled hurriedly, but it was too late. Two slimy hands, one holding a wand, clamped around his throat. Harry struggled, but they slowly lifted him off the ground. Screaming began in the back of his head. It was his mother, crying her last words to Voldemort. He heard his father's voice, with a background of screaming, and began to wonder if he heard himself, screaming as a child. Then, slowly, he felt breath on his face. He fought, and then found himself gripping his wand. He knew what he had to do.

"EXPECTO PATRONUM!" Harry yelled, with a force the Dementor had never expected. "EXPECTO PATRONUM!" The Dementor threw Harry to the floor as something huge exploded from the end of his wand. Harry fell to the floor, cracking his head against the bedpost on the way down. He felt blood streaming through his hair, but all his energy was focused on the Dementor. It had begun to emit a high-pitched wailing. The stag, James Potter's Animagus form, was running around it, driving it away from Harry. The Dementor had thrown its hood back, and its large hole where its mouth should have been was open. The wailing reached such a pitch that Harry threw his arms over his ears to shut out the sound. Then, there was an explosion of such force that Harry was thrown backwards.

Harry heard rather than felt the glass breaking as he hit the window. He opened his eyes, and saw that the Dementor had exploded into hundreds of wispy bits of smoke. The next thing he experienced was extreme vertigo as he fell out of the window. He screamed, a sound of anguish and total surrender. He hit the ground with a horrible crack onto the sidewalk, the scream still reverberating around Privet Drive, where there was no one to break his fall.

"Dear God!"

"What happened? Oh my, are those his glasses?"

"That cut, it looks deep, he should be dead!"

"Its lucky you found him Arabella!"

Harry heard the voices, but could not make heads or tails of them. What were they talking about, his glasses? What cut? Harry didn't recognize these voices, nor did he know where he was, let alone who he was. Slowly, Harry began to remember. The Dementor on Privet Drive, the Patronus, the explosion...He opened his eyes.

Everything was incredibly blurry, and he realized two things. First of all, that someone had removed his glasses, and secondly, that he was in a bed with a strong smell of cabbage. He struggled; trying to sit up, but at last gave up and slumped back onto the pillows. The voices had gone silent. He heard a few murmurings, and then something came into his line of clear vision. He went cross-eyed, staring at the wand tip now pointing between his eyes. He winced as the owner of the wand muttered, "Oculus Repairando." His vision instantly cleared, and he had the strange sensation of being able to see without his glasses.

He raised his head slightly, and his eyes fell on the owner of the wand. It was Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic. He gaped as he looked around the crowded bedside. Besides Fudge, there were five other people there. Dumbledore, Hagrid, Mr. Weasley, Mrs. Figg, and...Harry's mouth dropped open. Remus Lupin. "Professor Lupin!" Harry tried to say, but all that came out was "Mmghfr Lufurg!" Dumbledore chuckled, his eyes glinting.

"Am I right to assume you are greeting Mr. Lupin?" he asked, smiling. Harry tried to nod, but it made his head hurt too much. Dumbledore's smile faded. "It is a very good thing Arabella found you! A few more minutes..." his voice trailed off as he surveyed Harry, making him feel as though he were in a very bright spot light.

"You're a very lucky young man!" said Fudge, who looked rather flustered. His badge was crooked, and he looked as though he had just traveled by Floo Powder halfway across the country. Then, Harry realized what had seemed odd from the very beginning. He looked quizzically at Dumbledore, and then found his voice.

"What--what is she doing here?" he asked quietly, nodding at Mrs. Figg. Dumbledore sighed.

"Of course, you don't know," he said, sounding tired. "Yes, Arabella, we might as well tell him the truth." Harry looked from one to the other. The truth? Hadn't Dumbledore always been honest with him? It had never even crossed his mind that they could have been lying to him all these years. Now that Harry thought about it though, there seemed to be a lot of times when Dumbledore had been about to tell him something, and then had been interrupted.

Mrs. Figg nodded, then turned to Harry. "Harry, I'm not sure how to tell you this..." she turned to Dumbledore pleadingly, as though asking for help. Dumbledore shook his head slightly, and she sighed. "I'm not the person you think I am." Harry looked at her, utterly confused. She looked at Lupin, who nodded.

"Arabella has been taking Polyjuice Potion all these years, Harry, to make her look older," said Lupin, sitting down on Harry's bed. "She's not at all what she seems. In fact," he checked his watch. "She should be turning back into what she is any moment now."

Harry's mind was in shock. Why would she be taking Polyjuice Potion? Unless... "You're a...a witch?" asked Harry breathlessly, wondering if it could possibly be true. Mrs. Figg nodded. "Through and through," she said, smiling slightly. Harry's mind was now reeling. They had never told him...never...

Then, Mrs. Figg stood suddenly straight. "Oh," she said, rather anxiously. "I'm changing back!" Lupin sprang off the bed immediately and rushed to her side. He held her up as she began to change. Harry felt a pang of sympathy, having once taken Polyjuice Potion himself. It rather felt like a can of worms had just been dropped into your stomach, and were now crawling up and down your veins. All of these thoughts were pushed out of her head, however, by Mrs. Figg's change.

Gray hairs were slowly turning into an auburn color, lengthening, and slowly becoming wavy. Her face was losing its wrinkles, and becoming smooth. Her eyes were changing from their crystal blue to a deep brown. Her nose was becoming smaller, her warts disappearing. Her usual old, sick face now looked young and healthy. She then began to grow taller. The short Mrs. Figg was gone, now replaced by a tall, beautiful, willowy woman of around thirty. Harry realized his mouth was hanging open and quickly shut it.

At last, the transformation stopped, and Mrs. Figg slumped over into Lupin's arms. "Thank you Remus," she muttered, smiling. For the first time in a while, Lupin gave her a wide, genuine smile. Then, he turned, more seriously, to Harry. "You see, Harry, Arabella is a witch, just like us. She was sent to watch over you when you were brought to the Dursleys, and she has done a smashing job."

Harry was still trying to process this. Mrs. Figg, the old, crippled woman with her cats, was actually a young, beautiful witch? Mr. Weasley seemed to know what was going on in his head.

"I know its hard, Harry," said Mr. Weasley, putting a hand on Harry's shoulder. "I would be reacting the same way if I were you." Harry looked up at Mr. Weasley and grinned, his first grin for a month.

"Hey Mr. Weasley," said Harry, still smiling. "How's Ron? I though you were going to talk about letting me come over at some point this summer." Mr. Weasley was now smiling. He looked at Dumbledore. Dumbledore's eyes were twinkling, and he looked over his spectacles at Mr. Weasley. "Go right ahead Arthur, he would have gotten it out of you anyway."

"Gotten what out of you?" asked Harry eagerly, looking from one to the other. Lupin laughed, and then all of them turned to Mr. Weasley.

"Well, Harry, Dumbledore has agreed that you would be much better off with Molly, the boys, Ginny, and me. He also asked us for another favor, but I'm not sure I should..."

"Yes?" Harry cut him off, looking even more enthusiastic than before.

Mr. Weasley glanced at Lupin. "Well, let's just say there will be more than just Weasleys there this summer!"

Harry looked at Lupin, who was grinning at him, and Hagrid, who was looking very happy. "No way!" he said, feeling elated. "You don't mean that they're coming as well?"

Dumbledore smiled serenely. "Harry, perhaps you should wait until you get there, and then be surprised by who will be in your company for the rest of the summer." Harry nodded, understanding that it might not have been a good idea for them to talk in front of Fudge. But that meant... "Padfoot!" muttered Harry, thrilled. Lupin gave him a warning look, but then grinned. Harry jumped out of bed, dressed in Dudley's old, huge pajamas, and dashed over to the fireplace. Everyone watched him, perplexed, until he shouted, "Come on! What're you waiting for? Let's Floo there now!"

Everyone laughed at the fifteen-year-old boy that had once saved the world from evil, the boy now so happily oblivious to what was happening in the rest of the Wizarding World at that very moment.