After the Storm.

It's dark.

It is as dark as a foggy recreation ground on a late evening in November. He can hear the creak of swings although he can not see them. Beneath his bare feet is dirty sand. It's a bloody big sand pit though. He can't see the end of it. He starts to walk. After a while the creak of swings is gone and he can hear a soft susurration. A vague feeling of dread has been growing stronger for some time. This is not . . .

This is?

What?

Harry stops walking. Snape has given him the Draught of Living Death. He knows that he's dreaming but it doesn't help. 'For in such sleep what dreams might come?' he asks himself wryly. Whatever this nightmare is there will be no getting out or waking up. Not until . . . Not unless . . . Harry realises that he is entirely dependant upon Snape's good will. For the son of James Potter there can be no such thing and he does not remember being so afraid. The susurration is louder and he can see . . . almost see . . . things moving fast at the edge of his vision. And he has no wand. He puts his hand to his neck and finds the cord that holds the 'Star of Grace' and then his questing fingers find cool stone. Around him a pentacle of blue fire flares. Something hooded like a Dementor is coming closer and Harry moves backwards away from it. The thing is stopped by the encircling fire but it's not a Dementor he decides: Dementors don't walk. Harry can see no part of the figure under the enveloping cloth but he is sure enough to ask 'Who are you?'

In his memory he is sitting on the terrace of Jane's cottage by the sea, Latin American music pounds out from the house and what had been a swaying to the music has becomes a whirling mad dance for Jane and Tonks down on the twilight lawn. As the music stops they come staggering up the steps together, supporting one another, laughing. 'Water', Tonks says, disappearing into the house.

Jane throws herself into a chair. 'Not joining in?' she asks Snape.

'With Maenads? Have you, perhaps, mistaken me for a Gryffindor?'

Jane pulls her feet up until her heels rest upon her seat, wraps her arms around her legs, tips back her head and laughs at the stars.

What he does not remember is that behind her someone, hands on the back of Jane's seat, is leaning forward to place a kiss upon her forehead, someone who is gazing at Jane with such affection that it is easy to guess who she is: Jane's mother, now dead for over a year. Is it Miranda who stands beyond the blue fire? Perhaps if he were to turn he would see his own parents, but behind him there is only blue fire and surrounding darkness.

'Miranda?' asks Harry.

The shrouded figure holds out one hand toward him.

He holds out his own hand and the figure takes it, steps into the pentacle and pulls back its hood.

'Hello, Harry.'

'Hello, Miranda. Where are we? What is this place?'

'What do you see?'

'Apart from the bloody great sandpit?' Harry looks around again. 'Darkness.'

'A sandpit? Really?'

It occurs to Harry that perhaps she is not seeing the same things as he is. 'A desert.'

Her brow furrows. 'What does desert mean to you Harry?

'Absence of life. Emptiness. Why? Do you see something different?

'Words, numbers, equations all written in water . . . beautiful things that disappear as soon as I look at them: all the things I never understood. The things I didn't do.' She sounds wistful. 'This is a place of regrets and lost things.'

'Hell?'

'Some might call it that.'

'But I'm not dead.'

'No.' She smiles encouragingly. 'Nor are you being punished. It's more of a place for letting go.'

'Isn't there supposed to be a tunnel with a great light at the end of it?' asks Harry, rather facetiously. 'What about meeting the people I love who've died?'

'Your circumstances are rather unusual and you are going straight back.'

He is not entirely sure if he is pleased to hear this, but he remains curious. 'So what are you doing here?' She doesn't reply, waits for him to work it out. 'The "Star of Grace"?'

'Magical objects tend to absorb something of the people and things around them and Miranda had the stone a long time.'

'You're not Miranda?'

'No more than a portrait is the person it represents. The question is why are you here and why do you see what you do?' Her head tilts to one side. 'What would you most regret?'

Harry knows the answer to this one. 'Letting my friends die . . . letting Voldemort win.'

The answer is a sigh of satisfaction.

He was suddenly awake, half lying with a tight feeling in his stomach, with Snape holding him and Snape's fingers pinning his nose. Clumsily, he attempted to knock the hand away.

'Potter, you do not want your stomach contents entering your nasal passages.'

He was sick. Probably not for the first time. In the glass bowl into which he had just vomited he saw some sort of sluggish movement and was promptly sick again. He leant back and Snape supported him and wiped his face. He closed his eyes and went to sleep.

'Wake up Potter!' Snape was forcing him to drink something disgusting. It tasted like that last time he was sick and it tasted still worse when it came back up. He went back to sleep as soon as he was able.

Aching all over he woke up. Snape was unwrapping a bandage, heavy with some thick liquid, from Harry's bitten leg. But for a sheet, he was entirely naked. Quite quickly Harry decided that he preferred Miranda's desert.

He is standing barefoot on sand, blue fire around him, a cool wind blowing in his face.

'Back again Harry?' Her smile is mischievous. 'Well, what do you want?'

'What did you mean that my circumstances are rather unusual?' he demands.

'Ah. You wanted to see your parents?' Harry nods. 'Look up.' Harry looks up and takes a sharp breath of surprise and wonder. 'What do you see?'

'Millions of stars, the branches of an enormous tree. It's beautiful.'

'What you are seeing has been called Yggdrasil, the world tree, the tree of knowledge and the tree of life. It doesn't really look like that: it doesn't "look" like anything at all, but you are trying to comprehend something immense with a mind that is only human. You could also see it as a net or a web of souls.' She is standing behind him with her hands on his shoulders. 'Listen.'

Harry can hear/not hear/remember something extraordinary and lovely but refuses to be distracted. 'So why can't I see my parents?'

'It's hard to explain but everyone who will ever be in heaven, for lack of a better word, is already there. You are already with your parents . . .'

This makes no sense to Harry and he has spotted a flaw. 'But if everyone who will be there is there, what about if I have children?

'If you have children they are there and they always will have been there. I'm sorry; I can't explain it any better. Can you explain quantum physics to a three year old? And it's nothing like that simple. The language, the concepts are simply lacking. You cannot see your parents because life is for exploration and change and it is fragile. Having survived Avada Kedavra the usual rules don't always apply to you. If you were to get too close to them, and thus to something I'll call your true self, you would simply get sucked in. Harry Potter would die.'

'How can you be so sure?'

'In order to truly live it is necessary for us to forget things. I however . . .'

Enthralled by the splendour of the sky, Harry watches as the web billows and twists like Aurora Borealis until another question occurs to him. He turns to face her. 'Miranda, are you real?'

'What do you mean by real?'

'Real, or just in my head?'

She is laughing and she looks so much like Jane. 'Who are you asking?' She reaches out to touch his face with gentle fingers. 'Harry, what is love? Real or just in your head?'

He awoke and scrabbled for his glasses on the table beside the bed which he discovered had been brought into the library. Snape, looking deeply unhappy, was tending an unknown potion in the fireplace.

'What's that for?' asked Harry warily. There could be no question of who it was for.

'A potion to re-grow nerves.'

Harry had had 'Skelegro' to re-grow the bones in his arm after a Quiddich accident and the process had been painful. He could not feel his arm or either of his legs. Not good, thought Harry. 'This is going to hurt, right?'

Snape said nothing.

'Worse than Skelegro?'

'Yes.' His face was expressionless.

Quite a lot worse then thought Harry. 'Could you knock me out somehow, maybe cast stupefy?' he asked.

'Not if this potion is to work correctly.

Harry realised that Snape was speaking the truth and that he would simply have to accept it. He took a deep breath. 'If I make a noise, would you cast a silencing charm?'

'Not if, when,' said the Potions Master indifferently, 'but it is unlikely that you will remain conscious for long.'

Again he wanted to be sick. Snape ladled some of the potion into a goblet and came to place it on the small table beside the bed. He pulled Harry up and slipped an arm around his shoulders. As he held the potion to Harry's mouth there was nothing at all in his black eyes. With difficulty Harry choked down the contents of the goblet. His glasses were removed and he was allowed to lie down. He waited while pins and needles became cramp that became unspeakable agony. Knowing that the pain would not stop until the process was finished, somehow made it seem worse than Cruciatus. He was screaming and the pain was still getting worse. Harry desperately wanted to be somewhere, anywhere else. Frantically he tried to climb off the bed but Snape forced him back down.

Abruptly he is standing watching as the Potions Master lowers his unconscious self down onto the pillows. Breathing heavily, Snape checks Harry's pulse and then pulls back his eyelids and examines his pupils. For a long time Snape remains staring down at Harry. Finally he takes a deep breath and pulls his wand from his sleeve. A muttered word sends colours coruscating over Harry's body. Some sort of diagnostic process decides Harry. Apparently satisfied, Snape puts the wand away.

When he leaves the room, Harry follows him, passing easily through the closed door.

In the kitchen there is a meeting of the Order of the Phoenix. While Snape is making his report, the muttering gets louder. 'You're enjoying this you bastard!' accuses Bill Weasley, quietly irate.

'You think so?' Snape fixes him with a murderous glare. 'While I may torture adolescents in my professional capacity, if I considered this an engaging pastime do you honestly believe that I would be here?' Harry has seen Snape angry before but there is something new about this. 'Mr. Weasley, you are a "Curse Breaker". Describe your equipment.'

There is a sudden and prolonged silence.

'Well?'

'Dragon-hide gloves,' whispers Bill Weasley in realisation, suddenly looking ghastly. 'He wasn't wearing . . .'

'And if Mr. Potter had been wearing Dragon-hide gloves when he entered the house?'

'It was so bloody obvious I didn't think to mention it!'

'If Mr. Potter had been wearing Dragon- hide gloves when he entered the house he might not have been bitten?'

'Yes.'

'Then the fault is mine,' says Dumbledore softly.

'And now, if you will excuse me, I have things to do.' Snape swings round and sweeps from the room. Dumbledore follows and catches him in the hallway.

'Severus?'

'Did you assume that because of the Prophecy he was safe from other things?' Snape's voice is shaking with anger as he rounds on the Headmaster. 'He's not and I have just had to feed nerve regeneration potion to a child. It is perhaps fortunate that it is unlikely ever to occur to him to blame you.' Snape stalks into the library, slamming the door behind him.

As members of the Order of the Phoenix troop into the hallway of the house, something resembling the ghost of its guardian rises from the floor. 'Mr. Potter, iss there ssomething that I can I do for you?'

Harry gazes at the Snake which is coldly beautiful in the half dark, at its long flickering tongue. Perhaps there is something. 'Could you . . . persuade Mrs. Black to stop screaming?'

'Of coursse.' The snake doesn't seem to do anything but there is a scraping sound and a crash as the portrait of Mrs. Black hits the floor. Mrs. Black remains silent.

'And the elf heads?' asks Harry.

The elf heads that are mounted on the wall simply disappear.

'Thank you.'

'Iss that all?' The enormous snake is swaying like smoke as people walk through it to surround the fallen portrait.

'Yes,' says Harry. 'That really helps. Thank you.'

He blinked. His arm and both legs were still tingling slightly with pins and needles but the relief from the pain that he had experienced was extraordinary. He took a deep breath, rolled onto his elbow and put on his glasses to find Snape sitting with his head on a desk, plainly asleep. 'Professor?' There was no response.

Harry was thirsty. He got to his feet, only slightly unsteadily. Tea. He was sure that there had been a time that he wasn't addicted to tea. Quietly he crept out of the room.

When he came back Snape was still asleep. 'Professor Snape?' Black eyes snapped open.

'I've made you some tea.'

Snape eyed the tea. 'What's in it? Scower's Magical Mess Remover?

'I'd never call you that sir.'

'What?' Feeling suddenly dizzy, Harry put the tea down on the desk while Snape worked it out. 'Are you feeling alright Potter?'

'Strange dreams.' He was beginning to shiver. 'I . . .'

'Potter, if you injure the areas of your body that are recovering the damage is likely to be permanent.' Snape was beside him, his arm under Harry's shoulders, propelling him across the floor.

'I didn't know that. Is the treatment finished then?'

'Yes.'

Almost faint with relief, Harry was tipped into bed and the covers pulled over him. Then Snape brought him his tea and helped him to sit up, but as the cup was brought to his mouth the shaking became worse and he began to panic. Snape had fed Harry a number of unpleasant potions and he had swallowed them all without demur. Why then could he not drink a cup of tea that he had made himself? It made no sense at all but his throat felt blocked. He pushed the cup away sharply, spilling some of the contents.

Snape put the tea down and, his expression entirely unreadable, settled Harry onto his pillows. 'Strange dreams?'

'Dreams and . . . an out of body experience I think. Did you tear a strip off Bill Weasley and Professor Dumbledore over Dragon-hide gloves?'

There was a long pause and then 'Would you happen to know anything about Mrs Black's portrait and disappearing elf heads?'

'The snake, the house guardian . . . I spoke to it.'

'Did you, indeed? Harry closed his eyes. 'Well, sleep well Mr. Potter.'

He didn't fight it.

Daylight.

'Are you awake, Harry?'

Harry put on his glasses to find Remus Lupin leaning over him.

'Hello Professor.'

'Remus, Harry. I'm not your professor now.' Lupin looked exhausted and dreadfully pale.

Harry sat up. 'Are you ok Remus?'

Lupin smiled. 'Just a bit tired. I've been busy doing something for Professor Dumbledore. So, who's Jane?'

Shit! thought Harry. 'Family I was staying with,' he muttered.

'Is she pretty?'

Harry shrugged. 'She's really nice but I'm not supposed to talk about them. I must have been dreaming. What did I say?'

'Nothing much. Harry, how are you feeling?'

'Thirsty and I could do with a bath. What's happened to Snape?'

'Getting some sleep I hope. He's been behaving rather strangely lately, even for him.' Again Lupin smiled but it didn't seem to reach his eyes. 'Come on, let's get you upstairs.'

Lupin followed Harry up the stairs to the bathroom and started to run a bath. 'I can manage,' said Harry.

'Ok, Harry.' Lupin straightened. 'You're back in your old room. When you've finished your bath, go and get into bed. I'll bring you up some lunch.'

'Professor . . . Remus, perhaps you should try to get some sleep.'

'Thank you Harry but really I'm fine.' Lupin shambled off and Harry took his bath.

In the room, which he had shared with Ron, he found his things. He was sitting on the bed when Hedwig's feathery head was unexpectedly thrust into his face. He had never been head butted by his owl before, not like that, but apparently being a cat had rubbed off. Harry wondered how many of her other feline habits would persist. He stroked her and her response was a curious noise suggestive of a purr. Lupin came in with a tray with milk and sandwiches for two and Harry wolfed down half the sandwiches while Lupin was on his first one.

'Er . . . sorry.'

'It's good to see you eating Harry. We've all been very worried about you.' This time the smile made it to his eyes. 'Here, have another.'

Harry took another sandwich and ate it slowly. 'Remus, about Sirius . . .'

'Sirius.' Lupin's voice was fond. 'Because of you Sirius was not kissed by a Dementor, but instead died without pain, surrounded by his friends, fighting for something he believed in and to protect the people he loved. And he won.' He sighed. 'However much I shall miss him, there was always something of Peter Pan about Sirius Black and now he'll never have to grow up.'

'Peter Pan?'

'You know? Neverland,' he mused. 'How does it go? "Second star on the right and straight on until morning." He's with James and Lily now.' Lupin stood up. 'But I'm still here. I'm not your parents or your godfather but I'm still here Harry. If there's anything that you need . . . Anything at all, you will tell me?' He was holding himself very stiffly, just as Tonks had done when talking about Sirius. Harry remembered what it felt like to be held, and although he shied away from the idea of hugging his former Professor, he remembered Miranda's desert and he wondered how often people got close to the werewolf.

'Remus?' Harry got out of bed and laid one hand on Lupin's arm. There was something like shock in the man's eyes. 'Remus, thank you.' Remus stood frozen and Harry, overcome with embarrassment, was about to drop his arm when Lupin's strong hands were laid upon his shoulders.

'Harry.' There was warmth now as well as weariness in Lupin's eyes. Apparently he had done the right thing after all. 'Get some sleep. The Weasleys will be here this evening and you'll need your strength.' He let go. 'Back into bed now!' As Harry obeyed, Lupin closed the shutters, folding the room into darkness, and picked up the tray. 'Sleep well, Harry.' As he left the room there was no trace of his earlier shambling gait.