A Feather of Time

Chapter 3

Horizon

Harry's breath caught. His aunt? Aunt Petunia? He looked at Dumbledore, scared. What if something had happened to the Dursleys? Where would he go during the summer? And...they were his only living relatives...

Harry gulped. "What about Aunt Petunia?" he asked in a very small voice. Dumbledore quickly shook his head.

"No, Harry, not Aunt Petunia. I know this will be hard to swallow, but you have another aunt...your mother had another sister."

Harry stared at Dumbledore. He had to have been imagining things. Dumbledore couldn't have just said that he had another aunt. Petunia and the Dursleys were his only living blood relatives! But then, he thought about this statement. He had never asked Dumbledore if they were his only living relatives, and Dumbledore had never said otherwise, so he assumed that they were. But...what if they weren't? Harry's mind whirled at the possibilities. He could go live with this aunt...he would be happier than he had ever been in his life...

Then, his mind froze. Dumbledore had looked sad, and that could only mean something bad.

"She did?" he asked, trying to keep the hope out of his voice.

"Yes, Harry," said Dumbledore, surveying him. "Her name was Narcissa Evans."

"Oh, so her name was another flower, Narci---" Harry trailed off as he recognized the name. Dumbledore looked sadly at him.

"I know this may be a shock, but her name is now," Dumbledore paused, and then uttered the two words that changed Harry's life forever. "Narcissa Malfoy."

Harry jumped off the bed as though he had been electrocuted. "No."

Dumbledore tried to reach for him, but Harry darted beyond his hands. He had to get away, had to run away. It wasn't true, it couldn't be true...how could he be related to...He pushed the unwelcome thoughts away and ran up the stairs to Ron's room, slamming the door shut behind him and locking it.

********************

The sky was light, strange for a cold, spring evening. It was a color no one could name nor describe, for it would take a lifetime to capture it with a brush. It was the color of the crests of breaking waves, the foam of the sea, new fallen snow on apples mixed with lime juice. The charcoal clouds made a grave contrast, haunting the sky like death haunts a cemetery. The trees appeared black, simple outlines of the true complex beings that they were. Every leaf was apparent, stark against the bright evening sky. Slowly, the clouds began to drift away, sinking below the horizon. The sky had turned a deep blue, the color of the flowers in the Hogwarts courtyard during the winter. Everything but the sky was black now, making outlines against the sky. The sky darkened, beginning to match the color of the trees against it. A single dark cloud floated past, a ghost ship in a sea of tears.

Harry Potter watched this night begin as he had so many others, sitting at the window on the top floor of the Burrow. He could hear a faint clinking of glasses and murmur of talk from below, where dinner was taking place. As he gazed out the window at the now inky sky, he thought of what he would give to be down there with them, not a care in the world.

But it could never be.

Harry was different, special, he had always been. It had begun when he was but one year old, when he had been given the title of the Boy Who Lived, a name wizards everywhere knew and worshiped. His scar became legend, and he became someone who would go down in the history books just for having it on his forehead. But Harry had realized, a decade later, that there was nothing for him to live up to. Everyone simply accepted him as courageous and strong. He could have been in Hufflepuff, and been as forgetful as Neville, and still people would think of him as their idol. Even then, when he was only 11, he and his classmates were separate. It could be in the way that teachers exclaimed over his name while calling role. It could be in the stares he got, the whispers that followed him. But no matter what it was, his classmates regarded him not as one of them, but as something else. Something different.

But then, even in his first year, he began to feed that rift between him and others. He braved things that others had nightmares about, things that landed him in every wizarding newspaper from the United States to New Zealand. Soon, he did have something to live up to.

That all stopped in his fourth year at Hogwarts.

Harry's eyes stung as he remembered his last encounter with Voldemort. How he had finally gotten his full powers back, along with his body...Harry shuddered. Harry had barely escaped from Voldemort's clutches, only to bring back the corpse of his classmate, Cedric Diggory. He remembered the stark disappointment in everyone's faces, the shock in their eyes, the hatred issuing from their mouths. Their only hope, Harry Potter, had failed them. He had let down Cedric by letting him die, while Harry lived on. The stories about them in the newspaper...Cho's face at the leaving feast...the tears...the sadness...

Harry closed his eyes, fighting the tears that would drown him if he let them come. Harry was tired of being treated differently, tired of being the Harry Potter everyone expected him to be. Harry shook his head. It was no use trying to think that way. Whenever anyone was in trouble, he knew that he would save them. It was almost an instinctual thing for him. And with that bravery came fame. He knew that now.

A step on the stairs brought his head up. He turned around, almost wishing that it were his imagination. Ginny was standing on the threshold of Ron's room, watching him with concern. They stood there for a while, just looking at each other.

Harry realized, looking at Ginny, that she wasn't the little girl he had rescued from the Chamber of Secrets any longer. She was almost fourteen now, and her face had lost almost all of its girly qualities. Her freckles were still there, but they were now placed across an elegant face, a face that hid what she was feeling. She was wearing a blue skirt and a white blouse, both of which set off her red hair wonderfully. Harry suddenly realized that he hadn't really paid attention to Ginny for almost two years. It was high time they became friends again.

"Hi, Ginny," Harry said, flashing her a genuine smile. She grinned back, though her eyes were still worried. She walked across the room to join him at the window, still looking at him.

"Harry..." she began, but he shook his head.

"It's okay Ginny, there's nothing wrong." Her eyes remained suspicious, so he took her hand. "Really." Ginny smiled and nodded, her hand drawing away from his. She then turned and looked out the window, breathing in the cold night air. He watched her for a time, wondering whether he could ever regain her friendship.

Ginny closed her eyes as the wind picked up. It made her red curls flow backwards, and a small smile curled around her mouth. Then, Harry thought he must have imagined it, for the wind died down, and she was gazing out onto the fields once more, a thoughtful look on her face.

"Have you ever felt the need to just...escape?" she asked aloud. Harry had the feeling that this was not so much directed at him, as it was a question to herself.

"To just jump, and find that you can fly higher than you could have ever imagined. The urge to touch the clouds with your fingertips, and brush the stars with your toes. The thrill of cold wind rushing through your hair, stinging in your eyes, making you cry with the joy of being alive. Of being able to see- to feel- everything. The feeling of love, happiness, and joy. But then, then you return to that dead feeling of being locked up, never being able just to be free, and wishing with all your heart that you could be. I have never been free."

Tears were now rolling down her pale cheeks, and Harry found that his own eyes were brimming. He blamed it on the wind, quickly brushing his hand across his eyes. Ginny closed her eyes, and seemed to give herself a mental shake. She took a deep breath, and then turned to Harry, unnaturally cheerful.

"Mum just sent me up to see if you wanted to have any dinner," she said, a forced smile plastered on her face. Harry looked at her intently, searching for any sign of sadness. But there was nothing, and her eyes were now closed to him. He strained to smile back.

"Yes, I'll come down in a few minutes."

Ginny nodded, gave a mock curtsey, and left. Harry stared at the doorway for a few minutes, turning over the last few minutes in his mind. He then turned back to the window, looking at the only source of light now, the horizon. Had Ginny meant what she said? Was there a side to Ginny that even her brothers didn't know about? Harry had once read a Muggle book that said, 'All men's dreams are on boats, floating near the horizon.' Right at that moment, he felt that statement was the truth.

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"Oh Arthur, you know that isn't true!"

"Well Molly, there was that one time that Amos and I got into a scuffle and...well..."

"ARTHUR!"

"Albus, that's wild, where did you hear such a joke?"

"You haven't heard the half of it. So, the banshee, the dwarf, and the sailor go to a pub, and the banshee asks the waiter..."

"So then Fred says to me, 'Hey, there's this new candy I've been working on!' So, we go upstairs, and figure it out. Next thing you know, Canary Creams were born!"

"That's bull, George, you know that's not how it happened! It was really all my idea, he never had a say in it..."

"Bosh! You lie like a rug Fred..."

Harry was met by chaos when he walked into the dining room. Dumbledore was swapping jokes with Amos Diggory and Sirius at the head of the table. Lupin was deep in conversation with Ron, Hermione, and Charlie, who seemed to be talking about a highly excitable dragon. Bill, Fred, George, and Ginny were spiritedly arguing with each other, waving their forks around and showering everyone with bits of pork. At the other end of the table, Mrs. Figg and the unknown wizard were laughing while Mrs. Weasley yelled at Mr. Weasley.

As soon as Harry walked in, everything went silent. Ginny's fork dropped to the floor, the sound reverberating around the room. It made the hairs on the back of Harry's neck stand up. It wasn't so much the sound, as the feeling that something had just happened. Mrs. Weasley bustled over, her face red from yelling but smiling all the same. "Come now, dear, you must meet Mr. Fletcher!"

The talk started back up after Mrs. Weasley broke the tension. Harry saw Dumbledore stand up and detach himself from the joke telling session. Sirius got up after him, and both walked towards Mrs. Weasley.

"Molly," said Dumbledore quietly. "Sirius and I need to talk to Harry now. Surely you understand?" He examined her from over his half-moon glasses. Mrs. Weasley nodded silently, letting go of Harry.

The talk subdued slightly as Dumbledore and Sirius led him out of the room, into a part of the Weasley's house that Harry had never been before. A few doors later, they arrived in a small sitting room. Sirius sat on a large green couch next to Harry; Dumbledore sat across from them in a gray, moth eaten armchair.

"Harry, I felt the need to discuss this with you further," said Dumbledore, looking concerned. When I told you about your aunt, you positively fled."

Harry nodded. He had run as fast as he could, away from Dumbledore and away from the lies he had told him. Harry convinced himself that it could not be true, but now Dumbledore was here to tell him it was. He couldn't handle this.

Dumbledore leaned forward. "You do, of course, know what this new revelation means? What it makes you and Mr. Malfoy."

Harry's world lurched, and his vision went black and white and pulsing. It can't be her...not really...not Malfoy...

"Harry?" he heard Sirius's voice from far above. The next thing he saw was the ground rushing up to meet him.

********************

The first thing Harry was conscious of was pain. White hot, rolling waves of pain. It felt as though burning pokers were stabbing every inch of his body, and that his head was on fire. He writhed on the floor, his head banging into things, but he didn't care. He needed to get them off, needed to rid himself of them.

Then, a voice wandered into his world of pain.

"That's enough, Nott, don't kill the damn boy!"

The pain stopped abruptly. His head was still throbbing, and his body felt broken, but the pokers were gone, and he was alive. It hurt to open his eyes, but he forced them open anyway. They widened as they saw where he was.

Harry was lying on a cold, hard stone floor with cracks running on almost every inch of it. A wind whistled outside, causing the fire in some of the torches in brackets along the walls to sway. A domed, gray ceiling was hanging above him, which looked almost at a state of collapse. Light flickered across the dark walls, casting eerie shadows in the spaces between mortar and stone. Harry felt the back of his neck prickle as the sound of swishing came from one of the corners. He was suddenly aware that the sound of the wind was not wind after all, but whispering. He sat up painfully, and then was fully aware of his companions. It was them.

They were in a close circle around him, black hoods pulled up to hide their faces. There were only five of them, but all had their wands out, all pointed straight at Harry's heart. Harry felt his stomach roll as one of the figures stepped forward, wand outstretched.

"So...Harry Potter, we meet again." It was a smooth, slick voice, a voice of malice and hatred, a voice he knew almost too well.

"Malfoy," he muttered under his breath, glaring at the man. He heard an intake of breath from under the hood.

"How touching, you remember my name. Yes, yes, I am indeed the man you speak of. But why bother with introductions? I'll cut straight to the part you are most interested in. You are, of course, wondering why you are here."

Harry didn't want Lucius Malfoy, father of his archenemy, his...uncle... to have the upper hand. He would prove that. Potter blood was thicker than Malfoy blood. So he was silent, but continued to glare at Malfoy like he was the devil himself.

"I'll take that as a delayed yes," said Malfoy, his voice dancing with held back amusement. "You are here because we obey someone. Someone who asked you to be here today. Someone who kindly has been helping us find you."

The torches went out, plunging them into darkness. Harry sat, his heart racing, his hair standing up on end, listening. The sounds of cloaks swishing filled the air, and then the grinding of stone against stone. Finally, there was silence. Harry's ears drummed with the silence, and his brain screamed with protest against it. He stood up slowly, squinting around. There was a faint buzzing in his ears as he strained his eyes, trying to see what was happening.

A single torch lit up, blinding Harry momentarily. His eyes adjusted, and he saw that the torch was opposite him, illuminating a doorway that a moment ago had been solid rock. He had barely begun to wonder how this had happened, when a figure stepped out of the shadows in the doorway. It was cloaked in black from head to foot, making no sound as it crossed into the pool of light. And then, without warning, Harry's scar exploded.

Harry's mind went numb, his brain black as he fell to his knees. The pain was unbearable, unthinkable, and unimaginable. He had only felt pain like this when he was right next to Voldemort...Voldemort.

Harry's eyes flooded as he raised his head, blinking to see through the tears. The man was slowly advancing, raising his wand as he went. Harry desperately threw himself backwards, but it was no use. His mind raced through the pain, and he managed to somehow get onto his feet. The room was ringing with something that sounded horribly like laughter...

The figure disappeared, and Harry stood still, his hands gripping his hair, trying to dull the pain. Through his tears and sweat, Harry tried to see where the man had gone, where he could have gone. There was no possible way he could be invisible...unless he had Apparated...

A figure swathed in black appeared right in front of him, and he found himself staring into cold, blue eyes. Harry's scar exploded with pain once more, but he fought it, trying to maintain consciousness so that he could fight back...had to fight back...

Harry stumbled backwards, away from the cloaked figure that had materialized before him. A high-pitched laugh filled the room, and Harry's head swam. How can this be? He hit the stone wall of the room, and felt himself slide to the floor. He couldn't give in now...he had to fight it...fight...

The figure drew its wand. His vision blurred, and he was aware of only the hand holding the wand, and the dark mahogany wand itself. The hand that was old, yet not even trembling. Harry's head swung slightly on his neck, as though he had no control over it. Then came the voice. The very voice that had haunted his dreams for four years, the voice that seemed to drain all the last hopes from him, all the last courage out of his soul. It was a high voice, a voice filled with internal bemusement.

"I've waited a long, long time for this, Harry Potter. But your mother isn't here to save you now. I'll just make your vision a little clearer, so that you will be able to see who it is that finally defeated you. Oh poor little Harry, does your scar hurt?"

The voice was full of mocking laughter, and some of Harry's fight came back. He kicked out, and it connected with flesh. The room rang with the laughter of the five cloaked men, and Harry could hear Malfoy ridiculing his feeble attempts to fight back. This drained the last source of hostility that Harry had. The man had taken away his pride and kicked away his hopes. It was over now.

The wand came back into view, and Harry heard the man mutter a small spell.

"There," the high-pitched voice came again. "Is that better?"

Slowly but surely, the sharp pain in his scar diminished to a horrible throbbing, and his vision cleared. Harry was violently sick on the floor at the man's feet, and then looked up, weak and shaking. Standing in front of him, half his face in shadows, was Albus Dumbledore.