Harry Potter and the Vitrum Immortalitatis

Chapter One

Long into the night at Number 4 Privet Drive, Harry Potter cleaned. When there was nothing left to clean, he did it all over again. The kitchen, the living room, even the cupboards were cleaner than they had ever been. The only area of the house he had not touched was Dudley's room, and that had been expressly forbidden. He cleaned to avoid sleep, and he avoided sleep to avoid the dreams; dreams of Sirius falling forever in a dark place. The image was engraved in his subconscious, his godfather falling in that graceful arc and never finding the ground.

Harry focused on the perfect straight lines of the white tile only a foot from his nose and pushed the dream away. He shook his head and continued scrubbing at the clean floor. The grout looked almost new by now. Grief: top-of-the-line mildew remover. The lines between the tiles criss-crossed and turned around each other, twirling and spinning and for the first time in three days, Harry Potter slept.

*****

It was a terrible day for Quidditch. Dark clouds gathered like a ceiling over the pitch and grounds, turning day into dusk. A high wind ruffled Harry's hair and pulled at his red uniform. He looked around at the other players, then blinked in confusion. A few he recognized, but most had blurred faces. No matter how he squinted, he could not make out their features.

The spectators were completely silent, as though they were watching an execution. Harry looked down in time to see Ron block the center hoop and send the Quaffle to one of Gryffindor's faceless Chasers. As the ball passed him, Harry saw that it was no longer the familiar red ball, but a human head. Cedric's eyes caught his for a brief moment before a silver and green flash snatched up the blond-haired ball.

Harry had to end the game. He flew higher, searching below him for the minute flutterings of the Snitch. He ducked a Bludger that had glasses and messy black hair like his own and dove for the tiny golden ball. He leveled out ten feet from the ground and pushed the Firebolt to its full speed. The Snitch held position only inches from his fingertips. It flicked to the right, slowing just enough to be caught. Cheering erupted in the stands as his fingers closed around the ball.

Harry grinned and raised his closed fist. The crowd gasped. Every person pointed at him, each with a look of horror. His brow knit with confusion, Harry slowly lowered his hand. Rather than trapping the tiny metal ball, his fingers were tangled in shaggy black hair. His godfather's eyes rested on his.

"Why didn't you listen?" Sirius croaked.

Startled, Harry dropped the severed head. Still pointing, the crowd began to chant.

"Why? Why? Why?"

Harry spluttered, trying to explain himself, but was unable to find the words.

"Why? Why? Why?"

Madam Hooch raised her arms and the crowd quieted.

"A penalty to the dead," she said. "Kill him."

Harry's breath was knocked out of him by a red-haired Bludger. He fell from his broom and the ball followed him to the ground. It continued to bash his ribs. Again the crowd began to chant.

"Wake up! Wake up!"

*****

"Wake up, you stupid boy!" Aunt Petunia snapped, prodding Harry with her foot.

Harry groaned and pushed himself up from the floor, his arms aching dully.

"I don't know what you think you're doing," she huffed. "Sleeping on the kitchen floor when we've provided you with a perfectly good bed! Now I want you to..."

She glanced around as if looking for some chore for him to do, but the kitchen was spotless.

"Just go to your room," she said shortly.

Harry trudged up the steps, glaring at the blue carpet, then shut himself in the cluttered dimness of his bedroom. This room was safe, like a cave or a bubble. It was disconnected from the rest of the world, secret.

Unopened letters from his friends littered the floor. His trunk remained closed, as if unpacking it would signify an acceptance of the events of the past year. He flopped onto his unmade bed and stared through the ceiling. He ignored the dead mouse that Hedwig offered him and ran his fingers through his hair. It was nearly as greasy as Snape's now, for he had not cared enough to wash it in some time.

Harry watched the sun trace its slow course across the ceiling, thinking of nothing and making no response to his owl's attempts to get him to open his mail. Sometimes he dozed, but was careful not to fall into sleep. He avoided specific thought altogether. In this state of catatonia the day passed quickly. The Durselys went about their daily lives, unaffected by his absence. He supposed no one else would suffer from his withdrawal either. He was only a tool after all. Dumbledore would pick him up when it was time for him to be used, and could find him in this house, his utility drawer. Until then, it was safest for all if he did nothing.

Toward evening a shouting started outside, like a rough chant. It was soon followed by a high whistling throughout the house. Perhaps it was the fire alarm. The whistle died slowly, its tone getting lower and lower until it faded into nothing.

The door to his room burst open, allowing the invasion of the hall light. Uncle Vernon was silhouetted in the doorway, his shoulders set stiffly.

"Tell them to go away!" he demanded.

"Who?" Harry asked, returning his gaze to the ceiling.

"More of your kind, obviously! Skulking about in the street, dressed like freaks!"

His uncle strode into the room and pulled him up by his shirtfront. He continued ranting as he dragged Harry through the hall and down the stairs.

"Why we put up with this, I don't know. Now get out there and send them away. We don't need any more of your kind around here!"

He pushed Harry out the front door and slammed it behind him. Harry heard the deadbolt slide into place. He pushed his glasses up on his nose. Just as Uncle Vernon had said in his rant, there were indeed robed figures in the streets, familiar sets of robes and masks. They chanted uneven, indistinguishable words as they moved down Privet Drive at a zombie-like pace. The tight cluster of Death Eaters drew nearer his house, hexing any Muggles that came into sight.

Harry flattened himself against the front door. He was too exposed here, but their attention would be drawn even sooner if he ran. The Death Eaters paused in front of Number Four's driveway. The leader looked from Number Three to Number Five and back again. Harry closed his eyes. He hadn't even had a chance to grab his wand before Uncle Vernon had shoved him out the door. He caught himself wishing he had made a break for the back of the house while the Dark wizards were farther down the road. There were tall bushes, a bench... In short, it was much more defensible back there.

A little surprised that he had yet to be cursed, Harry slowly opened one eye. He was in the back yard.

"Potter!" rasped a gruff voice from the hydrangea bush. "Can't go poppin' around in a battle!"

"Wha–"

Harry was yanked into the bush by his collar. He felt the cold trickling of a Disillusionment Charm spread from the top of his head. His invisible protector, who sounded uncannily like Alastor Moody, spoke up again.

"Should've gone out the window, that's what you should've done."

"But–"

Moody shushed him. All was quiet again. After a brief moment a smattering of cracks sounded across Privet Drive, like the sound of fireworks on a clear night.

"There's a charm on your house similar to the one that keeps the Muggles from seeing the Leaky Cauldron. You'd best get back inside. I'll tell Dumbledore and he'll see about getting you moved."

"I–" Harry began defiantly.

"Go, Potter!" Moody growled. "I'll cover you."

Harry sighed in frustration and slumped back into the house, somehow disappointed that the danger had passed. He lay on his bed, exactly as before, and tried to stay awake. For the second night in a row, he failed.