Beyond Redemption

A silver flicker hit his face.

And then dropped on his features, stripping it of its glory, so vivid, so alive, that he could almost sense its unrivalled burn as an eternal inscription on his flesh. An moment's demise, and realization struck just as sharply - a tear, unique in its innocent perfection. The time for weeping had long passed. No longer was it a burned, but a privilege, in which time had asked for him to no longer indulge.

The whispers lingered in infinity.

He discerned vaguely, as they lost themselves in the wind. Felt them stroll by his ears, yet somewhat never reach him. Felt their tempting laughter, their seductive promise. Felt it, and grew ever more unaffected.

His hand laid cold aside his body - fingers caressed the wand in their rigid numbness. The latter, secure, in his grasp, felt rather like a weakness than the true weapon it was supposed to constitute. He had long desired to throw it away- renounce it, and by such his legacy. But as time had proven, there some things that would never fade. Not of mind, not of thought and, as he let the tip of finger run over the fierce carving on his forehead, not in body.

The voices still called.

His each step carried him closer to them, in a rhythm he had no longer believed capable to impose on his wretched material constraints, for by such motion he again and again denied the rectitude of the threats is mind still bothered to compose.

They rung to him with despicable clarity. These new voices offered him nothing. They appalled and terrified him, because they were voices he did not know how to question, voices he did not know how to answer. They was still and small, yet he deciphered them unmistakably.

Come, they would say, Come.

And, still, a part of him knew he was challenging the inevitable.

The veil hung like the same sea of black curled waves, in constant preparation for a storm only present in his treacherous reflections, as it had last he had laid unfortunate eyes upon it. Its each flash of a perilously calm nuance spoke to him of knowledge. Each curve, as it writhed and tangled in a breeze he only felt by the shiver in his heart, of emotion too long sheltered.

The arch stood as a menacing memento. It shocked and at the same time enthralled him to see it still standing. Just as, in the moments before it, had the dusk who'd oppressed by its resilience. He held no notion as to what he had expected. Not this, however, not the incessant cringe in his every nerve, as his limbs dared him to go further, not the untainted stillness that he had learned to abhor. Silence left place for guilt to plant its seed, to root and develop. To conquer him up to the point where he would coil, and squirm, and scream and find himself again alone in the dead of the night.

No one understood.

And in acknowledgment of own selfish fashion, he admitted he did not even want them to comprehend. Better his pain be imbued to his soul, better it tangled to it, and it alone, better he need not face compassionate glares and ridiculous attentions or remarks of sympathy. And, above all, better he maintain the image that had him stir through the embrace of endless nightmares, so that he alone may gaze in those eyes and keep them close, mark each feature and now that it was his for the preservation.

Because as he clung by each hope to that specter, it would not fade, would not leave him again in the abject tranquility.

The pavement expanded in the shadow from which he had emerged. Amusing how he could not even say on what it was that he strolled, nearside what he passed or whom it was who cried his name with the smallest sign of weariness in the dripping echo.

Maybe it was he.

Maybe he urged him to go.

He would find soon enough.

He inhaled deeply, and though the air bathed his lungs, and though he the beat of his heart strengthened, he could not catch the glimpse of relief, could not connect further to his surroundings. He lived for the veil, which spun as if directed by his cruelly piercing gaze.

And as he drew close enough, as he raised his wand and spoke the words, as they left his lips with the same bitter glint as the tear had joined them, he lived for the voices.

"Give him back!. "

No answer came - he doubted he had even once expected any. Instead, the mask of shadow slipped in greater rings, carried by the wind, by his hatred for all it represented, by the whispers.

"Give him back!"

His wand raised, fingers crossed icily, as if marble sculptured with great care upon it. His voice, little but a shriek, enough to cover the screams that came from he other side, enough to aid him in ignoring the laughter. They mocked his request, as had destiny - they were thieves, like the last, for robbing him of what he must cared. Perhaps that had been his true blame, that for which he had been punished. In his own damnation, affection was not his in which to delight. Because to demand love towards a monster, was to sentence those close to him to a similarly severe fate. Such was his gift to the world - and those valiant enough to claim it had paid the price.

But no longer.

"Give him back!" The shout tore his throat, even as he willed, it unfocused him further in a new lair of pain.

Again, no stimulus on that he had been heeded. Only the cripple sparkle of light, first from his wand, then lost in the coils of darkened matter.

Mirth pursued, and again the disgusting laugh.

His head pumped with uncommon pressure. Thoughts mingled, united, impregnated, then broke off. Memories launched: a smile first, then glittering eyes, and an armed hand by a wand singing the horrid cast of the ruthless jolt of light...and then again those same eyes, this time even greater, followed by the veil, which struck back through the shadow...like a beast who had once tasted its favored nourishment and now pleasured in the new conquest of pray.

His chest began to ache in ways he had not even as much as imagined - short strips of pain, like dagger planted with exquisite caution, so that each would provoke the maximum in intensity, tearing, discontenting. Not from outside his carnal borders, not as veritable sufferance, as he had on many occasions been forced to confront...rather, a new source of excruciation, intoxicating by that it could not be banished. One which consumed him by all extents, one which devoured his strength and gave new meanings to those of defeat... because with ever irrepressible ease, those orbs had reflect the form of their master, springing a new torment by each clad reminiscence...

He thrived to his knees, felt the flesh mold to the flooring with an unpleasant shatter, then again cried the demand, let the echo follow, again and again, until he could no longer, and with his bare he sought to touch, to feel, to rip, to dismember the cloth by each fiber.

But he could not, for his hands froze in midair. Could not, for the voices so bid him.

And with each fleeting moment, he loathed them ever more.

"You claim you are death!" his fists ravaged the marble, as he exploded in a fury of material act. The clenched knuckles hurt, the skin was soon torn, leveled parts of it sewn still to the bone. A part of him submitted to the sufferance so resulted, but he did not aid in its liberation of the cause - instead, he carried on, until the flesh itself was battered, and the blood bathed his feet, and he could no longer.

And then he only threw his head back, rich shreds yet another cascade of the overwhelming darkness, and let the tears he had too long now restrained take life of their own and wash of the crimson mass.

"Give him back - give him back- give him back-..." the words staggered in his mouth, rusted on his tongue, and came out with an unbearable sting, to meet their unbroken echo, just as persistent.

"If you are death, then why him?! It was not his time! " another slam of his fist, this time taming the bone, the din sheltering his mind from the same cobalt eyes who sprouted in his vision, glancing back in utter disappointment. "Not HIS time!"

He blinked it off and retook the wand in his weary hand, weighing each gesture by a compliant nod, as again he aimed to convince himself of the accuracy of what had occurred. Sirius was not dead. Not his godfather, not the man who had defied an entire group of Dementors, who had craved vengeance on the wizardry world itself yet not took it, though it had been his to endure. Not dead...no...not Sirius...

"GIVE HIM BACK!"

Again the blisters of pain in his throat, again the fatigue by which he had long saturated his senses, along with the foul semen on his soul.

His fault... If only he had not grown close to him...If only-

He rose to his feet, the mere gesture as motivation enough for new basis of agony climax. His wand too close, pointed as if seeking to peak the very skies and demand to them gratification.

No - something much simpler.

"Then if you are death, let me all be one with you! Give him back to me! "

His eyes flung into twined jaded slits. The laughing had ceased, or so he believed, for it strengthened his will even if in the slightest. Determination is sufficient tool for he who omniscient to its true usage.

He hung as a shadow - the last of the great wizards, come to wage battle. The last of a new Order, finding consequence in blood.

"I'll play your game! Death you are? Then this shall in no way harm you! "

And as he conjured the spell, his hand did not waver from its fixed target, did not loosen the wand plummeting to the dreaded veil. His lips did not tremble, the saying did not hesitate in its subsequence of the last, despite of gaining even more awareness of true chances to triumph.

"Aveda Kadevra!"

The flash of light was spawn through an unbearably livid connection to the dusk towards which so many shielded trepidation. His eyes unaccustomed to it, met in a short closure, alluring the dark. He fought back the necessity to let go, even to this faint reminder of power, even though he realized, by each instant, that there was nothing beyond, even though he knew that in ordinary battle, this curse would have gained his opponent little more than ache.

The link was thrown, the veil pinned through the jolt of rays - his thoughts ran to Sirius, even as his fingers began to swim on the wand, thought of his pain, of a demise he did not wish to accept, of his true part in it - and it drained him, since he felt the weakness growing in his bones, it exhausted his every reserve, as it accomplished nothing, it- it caught and held.

No replicate of his motion came. No echo, no symbol of prevail, no definite sign. And still, he felt it, felt the true force he had unleashed, as it surrounded him, as a second skin, in numbness, in glory...a jaded form abandoned the string of sparkle - which continued its chain to the veil - as it wrapped onto him in a cold yet reinforcing sensation, crawling under his flesh, boiling in his blood...

One step through, at first. He did not fall, so he ventured in another. Again victory, and then - and then quiet. The same peace he had feared as a twilight to his thoughts now held great appeal, by that he did not, could not, feel alone.

He had walked through the veil, and there was no true pain within it. He had passed the veritable border, and, finally, he had found himself not a stranger, but a human. He found himself in his thoughts, in his mind, in visages he did not deem to throw, in memories of kind voices and features only bent in smiles, knowing that what he expected was what he would find...Sirius...

And in his elation, he could no longer perceive the voices.

"In a recent assembly, the ministry has confessed to a large yet somewhat belated scrutiny over the events of the past year. It would seem many indices have been kept back from certain reports, which may have just as well guaranteed failure.

"The revolt cringed at our very own Hogwarts was the first sign of there being more to this than to first meet the eye" said an insider in the highest of our esteemed circles Naturally, no one ever doubted the verity of Albus Dumbledore's words, as has been proven by the ministry's intense study of the true intercourses between the students of England's finest Wizardry School. We are glad to say that Dolores Umbridge's statements have more than provided out with sufficient detail as to decide on an according course. Professor Dumbledore, after his return from a late visit to the Northern regions, occurred during the last semester of the previous year, has reaccepted his positions as both chief Warlock and headmaster to Hogwarts.

" The Wizardry World faces a great peril" acknowledged minister Cornelius Fudge himself "but none for which the current government cannot account. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has returned. But to our side stands a much greater weapon. "

Such references may just have been made towards the famed Harry Potter, having ended his fifth year, who the ministry has always held in high esteem. "That boy has, evidently, under our guidance, cleansed the world of evil. " admitted the same high-wizard Cornelius Fudge.

"He has great confidence in me and our ability towards presenting the truth in his words and gestures, so rest assured we will prevail in sampling you Harry Potter's detailed view on the present circumstances, as soon as his whereabouts are known." Submitted Daily Prophet's favored journalist, Rita Skeeter, after her triumphal comeback to our lines.

He threw off the paper, a short flicker of his hand narrowing the edge as it little but tore off with an accompanying screech. By Merlin, Molly'd been all too right in her decision to renounce any intercourse to that wretched publication.

"...no one ever doubted the verity of Albus Dumbledore's words..."

Gracious Gods, they had truly grown mad or been so for all times. The alternative was sheer acknowledgment of their hypocrisy, which would leave to a more than painful contemplation of the decadence to the wizardry world he still laid forced to endure. An year before, they had been rebels, outlaws, sought as precious prays, to be executed in sweet lingering passing of time, rather than a sharp blow. And all that for venturing to speak up, for facing a much too alarmed ministry with responsibilities they could not handle. And now, as they had been forced to recognize their errors, they aimed to underline their part in their researches?

Was it they to have been mocked, tortured by both physical restraints and guilt, constantly opposed? Was it they to have fought a battle resulting in a victory tainted by the bitter taste of defeat? Was it their blood that was spilled three months before?

Alastor - "Mad-Eye" -Moody shook his head. No. To all the questions his soul deemed, there was the same much too cold and malicious answer. No.

The primitive outlines of these chambers brew a timid sensation of alienation in him. He loathed the neutral tonnages, the reserved absence of any signs of presence to occupants. He abhorred them to no extents, simply because they reminded him of the ministry's very implication in what had come to be, and their somewhat ridiculous - if not for the tragic note it radiated- manner of sheltering their failure.

At least now, however, they embraced them as their own, in formed upon their studies, shared their beliefs, even if theirs was a determination spawn by the uttermost of fears. Mad-Eye was sufficiently unaffected by their trepidation as to have not a moment hesitated in demanding this one chamber of the department of mysteries be opened, as soon as p-roof in its concern had been furnished. But it would seem that, had the last been veritable, then all hope was lost, for the boy was not here and held no place in which to have otherwise hidden, except for - but he wouldn't have. No one was as touched to the head.

He had long now desired departure from the horrid place. The mere sight of the veil had caused him undergoing the acute feeling, piercing his very senses, of a shadow creeping to snatch his very essence, despite of rigidly maintaining a cautious distance to the artifact. Of course, he had played an unusually careful game in not sampling that ardent wish to an outsider. Death startled him, but not in the way it did so many others. He felt, at times, that the burden he carried, was so heavy, that only an abrupt demise would steal him an endless journey of despair in the labyrinth of his own mind. And still, after such reflection, he would time and time again feel guilt at even the slightest nuance of abandon to his true liabilities. People needed him. Those who still laid innocent should not pay for his own weakness at carrying his task - and though others would see it all too vaguely different, he did not heed death for their sake, not his own.

In his regard, death would simply have come as a bliss. One he would only be as fortunate to be indulged. And so it was that he now craved to leave. The temptation of simply passing through the archway and meeting his deserved rest was not in his power to banish. He need only, however, inquire on the moment of their departure...and that last perspective was equally intolerable. It was, however, a battle in which he felt auspicious enough not to play a crucial part. But rather that of pained observer...

He readied his eyes for the weary vision which did not take long to materialize: aside him, gazing the archways, with veil's darkness as little but reflection to own vaunted image, stood Remus Lupin.

"I think we'd best go." He chanced, seeking even the lightest twitch of a feature on the other's behalf. None came. "He's not here - he has not been here."

Remus Lupin resembled a phantom - perhaps not even they, for the last were inexplicably versed in discussions. No - much rather...a shadow. There were some things Mad-Eye could not understand. But the pain of the loss of one's closest amity was not one of them. Sirius Black had faded, and for all his aid in their true duty, he had been more than just another member to the Order. So it was to them all, and most likely to Lupin.

Sirius was dead, and neither did the last live any longer. He would not sleep, he would not eat, he would not utter word. He would lay, at times, for days in a row, motionless, silent, yet haunted by a darkened mist that would never leave him. And then, he would begin his studies, give all he had to the Order until mere exhaustion. Only then, did the pain elude him. Even in his nights of twinge, his werewolf poison would in no way act. The beast would crawl, at most, then fall again on the flooring in unbreakable silence. They had been forced to tend to him in those nights, soon enough - after a while, he had begun inflicting tortures upon his body, seeking, most probably to end his torment.

It had not been so, at first... Sirius Black's disappearance had been passed by an inimitable effort on his behalf - but with the Boy now gone as well, Remus Lupin had remained little but a jest of his former self. Granted, he would sometimes raise, as signal of regaining his sentience. He would then retreat to his corner, with food, at times, or water. In his hands, always clung, a picture of Black with the child in his hands, taken moments after the baptism. He himself had fought Lupin hard all too much for it, convinced it held no positive effect upon the former professor.

"We should go, lad. There is nothing for us here. Like there was nothing at the Dursleys." He whispered in apathy, not even hoping for a response. He could almost tell a sparkle of conscience in those grayish eyes, however. A reminder, perhaps, of what had occurred at those Muggles. They'd dashed in, as decided should the Boy not present a sign of life periodically. A perilous journey in not attracting too much attention - with Tonks at their side, even howlering them a warning on that they would make an appearance would have been subtler. The door to his quarter had been locked and, as it would soon be found in a particularly edificatory session of Veritaserum, the Dursley man had been so counseled by Potter himself, after a specific quarrel. Lupin had been all too incensed - for a moment, he had feared Dursley would never rid himself of the fur in which he was covered.

Months of question, doubt, illusion followed. What had begun as a tale took ample proportions. The Boy had taken his wand, though not his owl, for the last had been sent to the Weasleys with a note so for it to be tended. No sign, none whatsoever...until a Healer, in need of an audience, had cracked the device introducing all wizards and run into the list of those to have previously engaged in the quarters during its entire service. Needless to say whom it was to strike out as oddity.

His gaze fell back onto the flooring. Lupin, a wishful oblivion in his own, supported a hand to the archway. Mad-Eye attempted to writhe it off - for a moment that took heart in death itself, fingers tangled to the veil. And in that same instant, the time's most eccentric Auror feared that Remus Lupin would not find in himself the true power to let go.

Surprisingly, he did.

"He'll come back."

Mad-Eye took a step backwards, and then, as he saw no motion on the other's behalf to suggest he would again fall prey to his certain madness, other more. A light sound tore the silence : only now did Moody realize Lupin's wand crippled the elegant marble as a darkened strip. Its possessor appeared reluctant to pick it. Or rather, no longer aware of its true usage.

"No" he shook his head, his hoarse voice tearing the inside of his mind, even as he did not dare call out all which troubled him in infinity. " No, he shan't. And you know it."

"He will."

The man's pale face flashed in the engulfing darkness, as his eyes, as cold as the flooring itself, sparkled a dead light no emotion could enhance. Mad-Eye's own glance narrowed to a slit, his lips pursed in a discouraging manner. He had dueled the best, and still it was something over which he could never hope to triumph. Love, for it to be perished, demanded a better knowledge of the human interior. And his own laid in most disappointing reserves.

"This has gone long enough, Remus. We've been here for two days."

"He'll be here."

"No, he won't!" Mad-Eye responded, wand cast, this time, as the other's weapon raised in a confident elevation through magic he had conjured with practiced precision. "Take it, and let us leave."

"I'm not leaving." His voice trimmed just a bit, though it did not dissolve. Instead, he only followed the outline the arch, deeper in, attending the curve, and-

Moody's wand snapped over his fingers, in a treacherous attempt to shorten the action.

"This isn't safe. We go." Their eyes met in a swift exchange that did more than a thousand words imbued to the dread. Lupin was first to look down.

"I stay."

Alastor Moody shook off and shrugged. He was tired, much too so. Tired of the guard, tired of the game, tired of the hopes. His eyes had long warned to shut in any instant, while his stomach had patiently tolerated intense protests of the organism demanding proper nutrition. His bones struck shallow, and he had commenced sensing the true weight of his flesh upon them, the pressure of the blood as it coiled nearside his every limb...

"Fine. When you grow hungry or tired enough, maybe you'll just find it in you to face reality. The Child is not returning. " his voice ushered, even as his steps carried him further, beyond the shadows.

Remus Lupin only vaguely perceived the words, only took in the form of their essence, never the meaning. They sounded to him much too trivial, too weak, too...too alive. As a deepened contrast, for in this new world he was forced to face, there was only death.

He eyed the archways with particular contempt. And then there was the veil.

Blood.

It trickled on his feet, like a crimson veil fighting for supremacy over his much too feeble organism. Surprising how he only acknowledged his veritable importance now, as it loosened from its material restraints and overwhelmed in sickening waves over skin and bone...

Each step was a burden for which he felt he could no longer respond - a responsibility he would much rather deny, but whose decline he was no longer offered. A part of him warned to the seed of nestled ache on his back, struck deep in the flesh as if a thousand syringes all pointed to the very same nerve, all shoved in similar accuracy and at exact occasion.

And he wanted to cry - he wanted to let that incessant burn in his throat cease in a momentum of liberation, whatever the cost, be it even the final price to be paid and the unleashing of his essence in a world that had been far too insignificant to stand his true might even from its very beginnings. But he didn't. He couldn't.

He couldn't let the jabbing bone flexed from his left foot have him waver in his pacing, totter over, fall. He couldn't allow the increasing soreness caused by numerous cells caught ablaze to have him stop his ascension, to let go. He couldn't permit the acid ache in his eyes, for long now perceiving alone the dark, have him pleasure in the darkness to have now grown his ally.

Because any of the last, for all their momentary bliss, would mean he had lost. And if in nothing else, in this gamble with a unforgiving fate, he prevail. Such was his destiny. And if not, so he would build it.

A sense that he had believed dead sprung to life with painful exactitude.

A light murmur, at first, then a creeping burst of sound - voices, whispers...resilient, pleading, crying, demanding...maddening...he had thought them gone. At one time, he had triggered mind so to ignore them. It had not come to his surprise to find them still piercing with even more aching clarity in the corners of his mind, intensifying in their echo of sufferance...

The dusk had overwhelmed them, as he had heeded their call. He had been one with them, at a time, his own voice a small semen of supplication, drowned by tears he had not acknowledged to spawn but which he sought to defy by menacing laughter he cast in regard to own dreaded condition. They had dissolved then - and now, as he aimed to abandon their side, they came again, just as lustful, just as tempting.

And he feared them, for a side of him still wanted to listen.

Another step carried him further. The mist had somewhat faded out - an unusual light in a real reigned by eternal night had spun both in his mind and focus. It took him a moment to admit its presence, to recognize its veritable significance. It took him another for the craving to its source to revive, for his feet to be enhanced by the wild rhythm which carried him in a rapid dash, only halted, periodically, by jolts of pain.

A veil. A veil of light, so pure, so sparkling, so idealistic that the mere thought of clenching to its depth equaled with that of living in a dream that appeared of no end. Its motion was so delicate, so livened, so bright, that he could not fantasize its maintenance in time if not as a bundle of rays, coiled up in oblivion...

In his arms, as sole center of undeniable warmth, a pale mass squirmed with belated intensity. Soon, he resumed to ponder, as he took another pace, even more trembling, more hesitant than the last. Soon, it would be alright. For his protected. For him. For them all.

And so it was that, in a second sheer defiance to a nature which was of him deemed unworthy, Harry Potter stood again to pass beyond the veil.

Cold. So cold.

Each cell of his body met undeniable counter in the rigid surface penetrating his tender flesh with ease. He had desired motion, for a moment. And then, as splinters of cold had shrieked through the bone, impregnated the fiber, he had confidently renounced even such notion. Thoughts swam in his head with a speed he did not care to elucidate, they tangled, they imbued, then they separated in full mist.

"Harry..."

Surprising, the resonance was familiar. The darkness in his mind seemed to diminish, only to find great renewal in that of the exterior. To his feeble senses, the wording was too vivid, too alive, too great for him to fully comprehend.

"Harry..."

Why did not the voice cease its torment? Did it thrive in his sufferance?! Then a mighty feast it must have been furnished to it, for he found ever invigorated sources of agony at each twitch of his head, whenever he so ventured.

"Harry..."

His hand snatched up, tightened on the warm figure lengthened upon him. A heartbeat met his own, and he wordlessly blessed the silence. And before he could utter a reply, he was again engulfed by the dusk.

Rarely did an event come to surprise Alastor Moody. And that simply because he had constructed a particularly fashionable habit of taking into account all realistic and currently appreciable possibilities as well as their direct consequences. His mind, as had been once quoted, worked far better than the most tedious of calculus, yet with the same definite results.

And still, at some points, life decided to play an uneasy jest, and he would find himself, as then and there, caught in a web of concepts and theories to which he could not commit, never estimate adequately.

"He came back."

Mad-Eye frowned, and did so evidently. To the other side of one of the many beds of Grimmauld place's exquisitely adorned chambers, Remus Lupin only shrugged. The sparkle in his grayish orbs had long died, as he laid half tilted upon a chair, again one of the best Galleons could afford, cradling his clenched hands. His previous statement left Mad-Eye all too eager in disrupting the quickly strengthening atmosphere of undivided tension.

The sheets coiled with a characteristic noise. Raising his glance from the barrier of his own cupped hands, he laid them softly on the still all too drained figure squirming incessantly in the bed. He had so for too long now, and many a minutes had he flirted with the notion of sampling him a deep-sleep potion. The boy seemed to require it - or rather, his organism.

"He did." He felt safe in answering, though did so bitterly.

And with that, he cast a quick glance to a second bed, in which another dormant boy fought demons only sleep could bestow...

The world seemed to revolve at a much too great a speed once the twined jades serving as Harry Potter's famed eyes met the light and their surroundings.

His mouth swam in a sharp dryness, while his limbs staggered inert nearside his body. He could sense his head a certain burden by itself, almost as requesting to existence as his every breath, once he bothered to take it. The sheets felt cold when pressed to his body - either that or the latter had indulged in a much too lethargic heat that now threatened to dissolve in the vicinity. He wanted to speak, but no words would come and, in truthful recognition, he realized neither did he wish them to.

The chamber took life in front of him. The ensemble was of pastel nature, richly adorned but in a simplistic, opulent nature. Stern yet pleasant colors reigned in a layer of velvet meant to shelter the walls and on one of the walls, a silver fleshing was carved with great care. Resembling a bundle of tentacles, they tangled in a fury of sparkles, serpents writhing, reuniting, imbuing to form a ruling...B...

He took the time to observe a door, as blurry as everything else had been. For a moment, he wondered how he had been able to decipher the cursed Black stem - only to then approximate the distance to it. Slapping a hand nearside him, he was surprised to feel the flesh spiked slightly by the roughened contact. Still curved uncomfortably, he planted it on the night stand he only then acknowledged. Palpating slowly, he covered a short distance, until the object of his desire laid spread in his grasp. Clutching it forcefully, he brought his glasses, adjusting them accordingly. He scowled, even if slightly, at the pain generated at the improper positioning. Tapping their middle, he could still distinguish the adhesive tape, even if less tighter. Slowly, he strived to fix it, by applying more pressure.

He shook his head, then attempted to raise. The world ceased to exist, for a moment, as he inhaled deeply - much too so, for he had to grip to the sheets to maintain his upwards position so not to fall back. He opened his eyes again, and no sign of his moment of hesitation lingered, other than the light tremble in his thoughts. He remained slightly up, supported onto his elbows. Another view of the quarter provided him with an ample description of the furniture. Antique, true, but also graved accordingly to a most high level of social demands - soon enough, as a short smell of black orchid he had his entire life associated with one person alone reached him, he admitted to his location. The Black residence...

He couldn't call it Grimmauld place any longer - he could not even think of it that way. When saying so, he had implied a certain degree of warmth that he had managed to overcome. Now, that glimpse of emotion was gone, suffocated from within. And he could not afford the risk the recall it imposed. Not any longer.

He tried, instead, to focus on the memories. Tried, and failed miserably, for all seemed cornered by a darkened veil of misery he could not break, a veil of- he let the thought flow. A veil, like the veil that writhed once, and took off-

A long screech ended his contemplation. With a shrug, he fell back on the pillows, all too eager to meet his visitor. But no matter the preparation, he was certainly not in favor of he who did make a painfully flamboyant appearance.

Darkened shreds of hair hung over a much too pale face, who in turn reigned over a figure endeavored in a sheer black. His heart clutched in a sudden wince. Professor Snape was never a sight for sore eyes...He slid in, all too aware of the effect his attitude held on his subject, by the weary smile on his face.

"The grand Potter graces us with his presence?"

Harry's frown deepened, not as much due to the comment - hardly at the potions master's usual standards as far as sarcasm was concerned- but because of what the latter had deemed to carry. A vial in his left hand, to which he clung securely. From it, an energetic cobalt flashed a living menace. In another, a small plateau, from which a rich greenish smolder raised, dissolving in the air.

Snape's eyes locked on his own, and for a moment, Harry though he could see in them all the hatred he knew all too well had been earned by his father, impregnated to content at seeing him in such a lessening stance. A heartbeat - and it was no longer. Pursing his lips, he brought himself standing up straight, for all the drowsiness such gesture provoked. His reflections lost themselves a tad, as he fought back the nausea instilling rapidly in his very bone.

He only looked up once he felt, cold, malicious, Snape's hand cornered on his shoulder. The last, for all his evident contempt, had again succumbed to deep composure.

"Now, now, Potter, do be still. We don't want to disappoint Dumbledore, now do we?" he inquired, bitterly, as he set the vial from the plateau to his commode. Harry refused to look to it - already the unpleasant stench of algae had poisoned his nostrils, and he felt that another sense drowning in its occurrence would sicken him to no redemption.

" And to all extents, it is by his orders that I am here today - it would seem our esteemed headmaster believes you in need of an antidote to the Befuddlement Potion."

The last notion, more than vaguely familiar, brought a short protest birthing on Harry's lips. Snape stopped it by a quick shiver of his already too broad feigned sweet smile.

" Rest as you are, Potter, I shall not bother you with such impossible demands as recalling a brew we only spent two months studying..." Harry felt like throwing it onto his face and enjoying the perfect little view of Snape's hair cleansing, for a change. Why had he come, anyhow?! Couldn't he have given the potion for someone else to hand it to him, like Lupin, or-

His heart dropped low, as he swallowed in. A sudden lump had inflated his throat, one which he could not find in himself to overcome. Where were they? Where was everyone? Why was he there, and -

"Professor McGonagall also sends these." The plateau landed in front of him, with little elegance. Soon enough, Harry could see just why - his head of House's famed cookies shone a brilliant...fluorescent? Their smell left evident place for improvement as well. He did not know nor care as to what the ingredient had been, but it most certainly reminded him of Fluffy on one of his worst days... "Personally, Potter, I wouldn't touch any of it. Merlin knows what Moody's poured to test them..." Snappe added scornfully, with another disgusted glance to the dripping mass.

For the first time, Harry felt forced to agree. The little appeal they might have had, given his quite morbid view on the current ever-puzzling situation, had managed to dissipate as if triggered. Granted, the little puddles of cream erupting from beneath their sweet container did nothing to diminish his discomfort either.

He drew in air and fed on the comfort having his lungs, though unable to complete the cycle, comply even for that small a task. Ignoring Snape, his reflections spawn strong roots in his subconscious. Why-what...where was Lupin? He knew a great many other who he would have normally summoned, but for now, that sole inquiry seemed to occupy his sphere of thought steadily. Where was Lupin? Normally, he would have argued for Dumbledore's absence. But there was a bitter taste lingering in his mouth, thrice astringent by the recent events he could not refuse to take into account. Also, for all his apparent lethargy, Remus Lupin could provide answers to many questions regarding the past, his father, and...and Sirius...

A low pulse on his forehead reminded him the true meaning of agony - he crept a hand over, fingers attaching as if a spider's web, beseeching slowly. Beneath them, the scar evoked the pain commonly caused by that which it represented.

"Drink up, Potter, or Moody will soon enough charge me with your murder." Snape's words had the rare gift of broking his reverie, letting him grasp the few shreds of reality along with the feeble vial. "And for all it's worth, if I am to be sentenced, I'd rather be guilty."

Harry's tongue little but ached to inquire whether he would pleasure in being the culprit and sentenced accordingly as much as it had years ago, when found a Death Eater, but was kept from doing so by the more than unpleasant waves of the antidote to the Befuddlement potions, bluish strings as acid as Snape's look. He would normally have spat up half of it, or at least complained - but to do so under Snape's careful supervision would have been to admit to weakness. And even now, Harry felt, holding even just a bit of poise in front of Hogwarts' most loathed - save, perhaps, for Peeves- inhabitant was an objective with compulsory achievement.

His hand wavered as he shoved the vial back on the stand. Snape appeared much too gratified, even though Harry could still feel his every nerve twinning, begging for the utter release of unconsciousness.

When he spoke, his voice was as perilous as a knife covered in velvet - for only one moment's inattention to cause the true nature behind the smooth edge to revive.

"What happened?"

"What do you mean, Potter?" Snape's voice trailed off, descended shortly, even as he had risen abruptly, little but tearing the end of his robes in the smeared process.

"I mean", he argued, losing any of the timidity commonly generated when in his potions master's class - mayhap, the latter's impotence in preparing any lethal brews and serving them to him immediately aided as well - and instead gaining in the acidity of his tone. "what exactly did I do?"

Snape's eyes spoke of imminent disaster, of power unleashed, tangled to fury oppressed at the very last moment, just as he opened his mouth in a cruel grimace.

"You don't remember anything, do you, Potter?" In that very moment, Harry blessed the absence of his wand deeply struck in his grasp. Otherwise, a <> as evidently accurate as the one he had conjured during his last less fortunate encounter would have erased Snape's sardonic smirk in infinite haste. His view narrowed, sharply, as he rubbed the soft surface of the sheets, clenching his fingers in it violently once he could bare no more. Was Snape truly as great a git as he seemed? Wasn't it quite evident he recalled nothing? The void in his head stormed through his entire senses, ravaged through and left him blank. Was that not enough? Did he have to admit it as well?! Did he have to lower his head and plain submit to the other's cruel jokes at being able to save the world but not figure things out? What was Snape palying at, and-

"It's all too clear that you do not." Snape offered, launching chaos through even the last of Harry's streams of composure. Even sans eyeing them, he could feel the knuckles of his clutched finger whiten due to the force pressed upon them.

Snape's darkened orbs danced as if lit coals had succumbed to them. There was a malicious smile playing on his lips, tempering their curves, and even as he uttered words meant to content Harry, the last could only feel revulsion towards both him and his elucidations.

"Two months ago " he forced the words, bitterly, tapping the interior of his left hand with his wand, spawning a most hazardous noise " you ceased reporting at the adequate times. A proper report showed that you had fled the Dursley's house, and- " Snape stopped his irritating beat of the wand, most likely at the sight of recognition haunting his student's eyes. Indeed, he remembered something of the sort...

All too suddenly, uncle Vernon's words sprang in his mind, reflecting sharply: "To death with you, boy, though not even it would have you!" . He screeched, inwardly - his scar again pulsed menacingly. He had heeded that request...

Snape continued, again in lack of amusement. " -and there were certain signals pointing to your objective - the Department of Mysteries. Don't widen those eyes so much, Potter. They might stay like that, and then we'll have a particularly hard time in class to distinguish you from Longbottom's toad. Then again, do excuse me - the toad would most likely compose a better potion." He flashed a smile, much too evidently sweetly so to truly be so, but much rather sheltering sarcasm "For your information, the ministry - in spite of all other palpable flaws" his jaw tightened, most likely in recall of own interference with them, or due to the past events " they hold a perfect account of those who come in and out. Your traces were very well discerned. Leading to a certain room. Near a certain veil. Do you get a certain idea, Potter?"

Between all the "certain"s, Harry could barely hear himself think. He found what Snape was saying much too similar to a story - he could almost touch it, distant, somewhere, lost in space, yet somehow real. It frightened him, much too so, for he could not even question it -the increasing lump in his throat, the dryness in his mouth, the weariness in his line of contemplation...all led to veritable impediments in casting assessments he felt insecure in taking per whole.

Moments after - how many ,Harry could not estimate - Snape did bother to voice the following.

"They found you, yesterday. Near the veil." Harry frowned, in a constant scowl he could not seem capable of dissolving. That meant he hadn't...well...naturally, he hadn't...Harry shrugged, covering a swift shiver which rendered him motionless between the sheets. Even in the lowest shadow of a nightmare, he had not pondered having actually...but surprising, the possibility, right before Snape's last comment, had seemed quite accurate. He had believed he had actually crossed the veil. Even as he contemplated the option currently, he felt in reason enough to break in laughter. Bitter, yet mirth still. No one could go beyond the veil. Not to return from it.

As if acknowledging his inquiry, Snape did nothing but strengthen the rigid tone he had previously adopted.

"No, Potter. Don't go that far." Harry blinked in pure astonishment. What was he pointing to?

For a moment that would linger in the eternity of his memory to even adulthood, professor Severus Snape no longer feigned irony. His voice did not ring false, his frame did not hesitate between morbid distaste and hatred. Instead, there was in him a sudden understanding that dreaded Harry - because it was so veritable, he could not deny it.

A heartbeat - and the impression was no longer. Alone, impregnated stuck the memory of that one image...

"You did cross, Potter. No one knows how, so do not bother asking." He snapped, acidly, just as Harry had meant to interrupt in full interrogation. Having elevated just a bit in his place, Harry fell back, again rejoicing in the cold of the sheets that flexed onto his boiling flesh.

"And I returned..." he said so much rather like a statement he did not desire to be spawn to verity. He coiled in his place - another shiver shook him, and subsequent, the urge to laugh at his infantile reaction. But the laugh died before even leaving his lips. There was something in this that would not permit him true joy.

Snape only nodded compliantly. His glance stopped onto the plateau of former cakes. With a rapid <>, the last were disposed of, and much to Harry's glee. He doubted even Hedwig would have neared them in their current "After Moody" state.

A slight screech followed, again warning to the door's sudden motion. Harry did not regard it, still focused on the resilient silence to follow.

"No one returns from beyond the veil, professor." He bit hard on his lower lip, subjugating a sudden loud shout, though emphasizing too greatly each word.

"Oh, but you did, Potter..." Snape sneered, head turned towards the door, quite dissatisfied with the outcome, and staring sadistically to the door. "You did...and brought company, as well..."

Harry again found himself easy prey to confusion - until he too glanced to the door and to the reluctant intruders, met the long stares of professor Moody, Remus Lupin...and a much too young boy, of darkened shreds stripping his face with a born elegance, cornering eyes as pure as touches of cobalt, one arm wrapped tightly onto Lupin's and the other...the other toying with the shallow form of a mirror, whose replica found itself heavy shelter on Harry's night stand...

Each tale had a time specifically designated to its telling, so that each emotion evoked would be increased by a thousand. Those of love would be voiced in a fury of epithets in a warm afternoon, as the sun would shine in its generous warmth, and the odds of a fortunate outcome would seem not sublime, but most valid. The stories of horror would be whispered between gasps as soon as dusk will have fallen, so for the light breeze of a treacherous wind to bring fears untold new roots in each heart.

But for all its rigid tentacles and dire consequences, when did one tell a tale of the dead?

Harry found himself as if prey to an overwhelming trance, to which he had much too willingly succumbed. He could feel his body, as if distant, no longer his. He could sense the limbs, clashing inert to the sheets, but he could not perceive the last's coldness. He could account for each of his thoughts, vivid, tangled, but could not truly comprehend their meaning. He was as if a doll - one that a cruel ate had crafted, and whose strings had been too rapidly cut off.

"Harry..."

Again his name. He loathed it. It was the name chanted by his mother, as she had preferred a cripple demise so to warrant his own existence. The name mocked by each inhabitant of the wizardry world, believing him a jest who craved so badly for attention, that he would provoke illicit harm upon himself and other. The name nearly syllabled by Cedric Diggory, as he too had paid his price and embraced death, leaving him alone to stand to a destiny far crueler than perish, the name cast of damnation to-

"Harry." In a firmer imitation of the previous attempt, Remus Lupin's voice hit him softly. He still laid by the door, in a considerably worse shape - as impossible as it may have seemed- than when he had last laid eyes upon him. But he smiled, indubitably, and so did Snape, in his bitter fashion. Alone, the child tied to Lupin's foot favored a tense silence.

Harry measured him again, in a pure scrutiny. With each passing instant, he clutched for more air, hung on tighter to the sheet, struggled to maintain his balance. A somewhat tall frame for a child. Then it struck him that, for all it was worth, he was quite ignorant of the child's true age. Ignoring such aspect, he relied on his initial assessment - something deeper than mere acknowledgment told him it was correct. Raven locks fell onto his forehead and neck, stopping a bit above the shoulder blade. Slowly, he wondered how such detail had not escaped him. The face was pale, as was the entire constitution - he attributed that to a lack of affinity or time spent in the open, and was again surprised as to how accurate he could feel that last observation as well. The features spoke, indeed, of a growing beauty: fleshy lips, curved almost naturally in a playful grin, and eyes that could enthrall by nothing more than the touch of the sapphire.

Harry did not focus on how long the entire analysis took him - just as neither did he Lupin and Snape's protests, pleading, in different manners, for his attention. For a moment that gathered more strength than that utilized in his entire lifetime, he felt he could remain silent no longer. He wanted to shout atop his lungs, to cry, to laugh, to burst into tears, but to do something, anything!

And still, he didn't. He was never offered the chance to. For, through a lingering whisper that brought in the youngest of their rank's eyes a flicker of recognition, he escaped the chains of doubt:

"Si-Sirius?"

Did anyone ever wonder why people never looked one in the eye when sensing the other's dread? Why the flesh was pinned through chills of the unknown, guarded by certain fear, even when the root of mirth should, in truth, have been seeded? Why words would come so hard in the mind, fade in the storm of thoughts carried by emotions, dissipate onto his throat, as they attempted to pass the ever-increasing number of lumps there planted, only to die before knowing the sweet ecstasy of the lips and full liberation of perceiving the material realm?

No, people never did. They simply chose to present themselves impenetrable by all sensations, to leave it all behind, to forget the pain. While it too was not their tool, nor ally, but best teacher. No, they never chsoe to ponder such aspects.

Paradoxically, he did. Then and there, he realized that, when drowning in those profound cobalt eyes, he found no way out. That, when noting that cripple smirk, instead of being overwhelmed by its gentle shadow, he succumbed to an aloofness he had never before known. That even though that should have been one of the few veritably blissful moments of his life, he was more frightened than even when having looked that last time in the shallow eyes of Cedric Diggory's corpse.

Horror, for being unable to accept that which a merciful fate had offered, under the constant threat of it turning to the dusty remains of a dream as it meets the dawns, just as soon as he would reach out to embrace it.

Yes, that was the word. Afraid. And the fear ate him from inside with anger.

For a moment that echoed the anxiety gathered through the total of Harry's existence, the boy's lips arched in a timid smile. Lupin's hand reached to the last's darkened hair, setting it in a chaotic disorder through a warm pat. He, too, bore a grimace that could not be broken even by Snape's jaded glance, as he crossed his hands slowly onto his chest, supervising the entire ensemble with caution. Inwardly, Harry winced. No one would ever look at him with as much love as the little pale frame was by Lupin. And, distantly, somewhat bitter, perhaps, a cold voice warranted that neither would he so desire.

"Is that him?" he decreed, casually, incapable of recognizing the very struggle of emotions deep beneath that thin lair of composure. Lupin raised his head, opening his mouth to open, then indulging in confident silence, as the boy stepped forward, declaring with the might assessed by his supposed young age.

"I'm Sirius - Sirius Black. H-hullo." He glanced back to Lupin, as if seeking approval for his words and further instructions - only to find himself confronted to an eager portrayal, Lupin's slow, wordless mouthing of a certain advice, causing him to return to Harry, adding, with a sheepish smile " I'm glad you're feeling better."

Harry was at a loss for words. He knew, even as the words and gestures' true meaning hit him blatantly, that he had grown considerable paler; his eyes drew in, thoughts favored a short pause, as he inhaled with avidity. The boy had little but chanted words he had previously heard. Besides, the mere concept was impossible - Sirius was a grown man. Sirius would remember him, Sirius would mean the words, Sirius would care! There was only one true verdict. That was not Sirius. The reflection flew in the specter of his mind periodically, but with strengthening intensity.

Not Sirius. Not Sirius. Not Sirius. Not Sirius. Not Si-

Only as the sheet tore noisily, did he sense his fingers, still clutched to the material, the force he applied, then the restraints broken under the might of his physical desire. He opened his eyes. Remus Lupin laid supported to the door frame, a distressed flicker shifting his eyes. The boy had backed off; his face was the expression of pure terror. Snape was regarding him quite amused. And between the three, he did not even know which to chose as more worthy of his present hatred.

"GET OUT!" he roared, and before he even began acknowledging his actions, his hands clasped on the wand painfully "GET OUT! ALL OF YOU!"

"Harry, listen-" Lupin, looking fairly disoriented.

"GET OUT! TAKE THAT JEST" he took the time to point the boy by a graceful arch and then flash of his wand " WITH YOU AND GET OUT!"

"Harry, you mustn't react like this, and-" Harry only scowled back, in pure loath. Let them insist, he would as well. Did they think he was toying, as they did with his mind in bringing this impostor?! No one passed beyond the veil, where they incompetent fools as well as cruel?! But he'd show them, by all the Gods, he would, even if it - his wand came plunging from one to the other, in a pure threat that merely asked of them to choose whom would be first target. The word Crucio, for all its apparent futility, given his lack of training in its domain - as that degrading Bellatrix woman had so eagerly remarked - grew as strong and most hilarious perspective in his opinion.

"Potter, I do believe you've long outdone your limits!" Snape hissed back, a menacing look dancing on his face.

"GET OUT!" he roared again, the words little but tearing his throat from the inside.

And that's when he felt it.

He barely had time to let go of the wand, the latter falling onto the torn sheets in defying inertia. His cry reflected his dread, even as it scratched through the channel of his lungs, tangled to the very air he attempted ineffectively to breath in, poisoning it. The pain was so accurate, so alive, that he could almost feel it as if a shadow of himself - no, his true self. Another Harry, seeking to take control, reigning by him through agony, cutting bone, flesh, nerve, emotion - the true Harry, the one he could feel even as he closed his eyes, and ran his hands over his forehead, and-

He was walking off, into the darkness, always into the mist, sans reason, nor goal, but simply by knowing that, doing so, he gained a gratification few could hope to equal. Voices had crept, but he no longer cared. They were with him constantly, always in his company, they hung to him as a dying man does the last flash of life. And somehow, he could tell that was just what they were doing.

"How far will you go?" came a question that died as soon as it left lips he could not perceive.

He stumbled over something, could not tell what. There was always the dusk, and then the voices, there to his summon. But he could tell his whispered reply:

"As far as he will take me."

"Severus, take the child down, if you will."

Remus Lupin's moderate say, as it poured over his senses as a bewitching balm, awoke him into reality. He blinked off the awkward sensation of alienation, though it still pursued him menacingly, even as he could tell that underneath laid not the feeble haze of decryption, but the shattered sight of the sheets. He tried to shake off the nauseating sensation, but could only feel cold the like of which would have made a Dementor quite proud.

What had that been? Where had he been? His scar still ached, though its greatness had lessened. Bringing both hands up, he laid them onto his temples, massaging them slowly. Only as a discouraging smell hit him, did he bother to look up. Snape was holding the antidote to the Befuddlement potion beneath his face, in a n evident motion for him to drink up. He did, hesitantly, though much rather motivated by the simple crave for Snape to leave off and take Sirius with him!

He caught himself in pure awe. Sirius. It was Sirius, wasn't it? He glanced to those full cobalt eyes, to the love they sheltered, and he felt he could not, on that assessment, waver. The vision - or memory - or...What had just occurred had shaken him beyond restraints. But left one belief all too valid. That was Sirius. And Snape was taking him away.

He opened his mouth to protest, to stop Snape - but Lupin, as he sat calmly onto the opposite corner of the bed, stopped him by a short shake of his head. Already, Harry could tell how he had flushed a stone pallor. The potion must truly have been holding an effect.

"Is everything alright?!" came the hoarse inquiry of two voices, united, as the door slammed aside, revealing the rather massive frame of his former professor, Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody. The last's wand laid already peaking the air, a deep scowl threatening his features. Behind him, the chaotically arranged greenish spikes of Nymphadora Tonks flashed through, then her face as a whole. Wryly, Harry could tell Grimmauld most certainly delighted in inhabitants.

"Careful where you stick that wand, Mad -Eye" she remarked dryly " wouldn't want any buttocks lose around..." Mad-Eye turned to fix her a long stern glare.

"It's quite alright, truly. Harry- " Lupin, gazing to them contemplatively and in clear dilemma, trailed off. "Severus was just taking away Sirius" the emphasis on that last word was all too secure, even as he amended calmly.

"Yes, well-" Mad-Eye had time enough to mutter, just before Tonks dragged him off in a frenzy of dynamic gestures and remarks. Clearly, Mad-Eye was hardly convinced...

"Come on, Mad-Eye...they don't need us."

Snape followed, soon enough, in his habitual ethereal manner, his ominous air lingering as a burden. The last to leave was Sirius - the boy -no, Sirius. It was Sirius. He knew it. And still, the boy fled, albeit, casting them two an insecure glance Again, Remus Lupin nodded and soon enough, the door clicked back as it was shut discreetly.

A moment of silence followed - infinite, ill-omened. And then another. Somewhere, beyond the little cell of his thoughts, Mad-Eye Moody still argued on the affair of buttocks. Harry shook his head, only to find his scar quite the unpleasant memento. It still ached unfashionably, taking him aback. By now he would have thought he had learned this pain and could tolerate it fairly.

Remus Lupin was first to break the tranquility. It did not surprise Harry - he himself had nothing left to say. There was no way by which to explain the pain that dripped in his soul, draining it foully. And that was the sole thing he had, momentarily, to share.

"Harry, I'm sure you have questions..." he uttered, his view lowering in a phantom of guilt. "and I may just hold some of the answers."

Harry doubted the pure silver of the Black lineage's stem had ever met such vivid reflection as in those moments, when it shone with brilliance over the plated shreds of Remus Lupin. Snowed in, far too early, were most of his locks, not grayish, as common in the process of aging - most discouraging and fastened by the "disease" his former Defense Against Dark Arts professor unwillingly favored -, but a definite white.

"Harry" Lupin started, hand molded onto the sheet, fingers flexing onto it calmly "that is Sirius. As remarkable as it may sound." He added, noting Harry's quick urge to protest. He looked down, for a moment, did so with a vague frown forming on his concerned face. For a moment, Harry could tell just how much this all waged on professor Lupin's shoulders, how close to the edge this man truly was. And for that same moment, Harry found he had reason enough to fear.

"You returned through the veil, days ago. And he was with you, conscious, to our surprise..." At that, his eyes flickered back. " I know it's him, Harry, I've seen many pictures of him as a child - not that the resemblance would not speak for itself, and- good Merlin, Harry, he even had his wand!" he remarked exasperated. And the mirror, Harry felt like totaling, as the other's face sank in a full reflection of fatigue. There seemed to be many people Lupin had had and would still have to convince of the verity of his words. And sadly, he himself was one of them. The thought lingered through his mind, echoing with care. Pain was such a treacherous tool, stabbing even its wielder. He wondered whether Lupin only now, as he laid it upon others, felt its true cut. Because, to an extent, the werewolf was responsible as well. They all were. Only they never admitted to it - he was sole who would be considered culprit, laughed at by the entire wizardry world, he was the one whose friends would be taken away, and he was -

"He wouldn't let anyone approach you...kept threatening us with his wand...most likely the best <> Mad-Eye's been forced to fend off..." but it was all unimportant when confronted to the true demand.

Lupin shifted in his place. "We don't know just what happened, Harry. No one does. From what I could estimate and he would tell, he lays at the fragile age of six."

Inhaling deeply, his hand again came to pat the sheet, meeting the cold, retracting one of Harry. "What surprises, however is that, to an extent, he knew me. A remarkable process, since Sirius and I befriended during Hogwarts." Harry's eyes narrowed in a deep scowl.

So Sirius remembered Lupin?! And not him, of course! Typical...was it Lupin that had gone after him - somehow, that event had been gradually accepted with greater ease - beyond the veil? Was it Lupin that had brought him back?! Not, it had been he, Harry, to have done so, and his sole reward was being planted in this idiotic bed, awakening to find Snape so very conveniently just then entering, and -

"He recalls you as well, Harry. Or rather...I don't know." He shook his head. " It's not as much that he remembers persons, or events...as he does feelings." He looked back up, his eyes glinting a faint silver, spawning quickly in a pool of predatory gray. "When he met Severus - he winced and backed away. He wouldn't say why, he simply did while claiming he was a bad, bad man...I think..."

A moment of tensed silence interrupted the light murmur. Harry threw aside the sheet, bent forward, wiped his glasses. And when the silence would not fade, he slaughtered with a sneer, and then laughed, all too bent not to let it engulf him. He felt already doubt's claws sprung in his flesh, felt them and would have rather he could tear them off and obliterate them.

"Yes, professor...?"

"I think death may have gripped him as a whole, Harry - and that what you took back were the remnants of his specter of thought." He shook his head, yet again, and his eyes mourned a loss Harry could not understand. Sirius was alive, thought, wasn't he?!

"Time or Dumbledore will tell, Harry. For now, you need your rest." He declared, rising confidently, letting his shadow merge with that of the surroundings. And indeed, as if triggered, Harry could feel his mind waver, his thoughts lost in dismay. Falling back onto the bed, he murmured incoherently, silently cursing Snape for whatever sleeping potion he must have slipped in.

"Will Ron be-"

"Ron's already here, Harry." Lupin managed to whisper, before wrapping his fingers tight on the rowan wand - a short flick of it, and the sheets again came to cover, their cold presence spiking Harry's skin, but still not enough so to raise him from his somnolence. "He, Fred and George have been attending to Sirius."

Moments later, he could feel the door close, rather than hear it. A soft frozen breeze accompanied it, having him coil slowly under the sheets, feeding on their provided warmth. His eyes closed slowly, sleep reigned in its true might, as he was slowly drawn into its treacherous net of oblivion.

Sirius was back, and he had attempted to defend him even when just returned from the veil. Sirius was back, and he could his voice haunting the back of his mind, his laughter, probably at something the twins had said to amuse him. Sirius was back, and, somehow, he still could not believe it.