Realizations

Chapter 16 - Dream Time

Saturday, July 15, 1995

Harry rubbed his eyes as he sat as his desk trying to finish the correspondence he'd started before dinner. His "sample" letter had been most helpful, although he tried to refrain from copying it word-for-word and sending it to everyone.

His trip back to the Leaky Cauldron from Janet's house had been largely uneventful, if you didn't count his being openly propositioned about a block away from his destination. Harry snickered a little as he finished up Hermione's letter, deciding he probably shouldn't share that bit of news. It would be difficult to explain why he'd been out in London after dark, and his friends probably wouldn't believe it, anyway.

Once Harry had gotten back to the Leaky Cauldron, he had quietly re-entered the pub through the London door. It had been left slightly ajar again, so he had gently pushed it open without disturbing the bells. Absently, he had noted that the dining room was empty. A glance at the clock confirmed that Tom had stopped serving dinner while he was gone. All the customers were in the bar area now.

Harry had headed for the kitchen, staying close to the wall as was his habit, but Tom had evidently been watching for him. The Gryffindor had intended to retrieve his apron and start tidying up for the night, but his boss intercepted him.

"Don't bother."

The innkeeper's voice had startled Harry, making him freeze in the act of reaching for the garment. The for a comic-horrible moment boy wondered if he was being sacked, but the other wizard didn't seem angry.

"There isn't a lot left to do," Tom had continued with a shrug. "You did a good job of keeping the floor swept and tables cleared this evening, and since you came down early, you've put in your required hours. Besides, there are about half a dozen people in the bar that saw you leave with the Wrights, and think you're gone for the night. It would seem odd if you popped up again."

"Oh. Sorry about that."

"There's no harm done. I should probably get back to the bar, but there are a few things I need to talk to you about. It's nothing horrible," Tom quickly assured, when Harry looked up sharply. "Would you mind terribly coming down a little early tomorrow morning?"

"Not at all," the younger wizard had said, and to his own surprise, he'd really meant it. He had a sneaking suspicion he knew what Tom wanted to discuss, and found he couldn't begrudge the man a few answers. The old innkeeper had been more than patient with him.

Putting down his quill, the boy stretched his fingers briefly before reaching for a biscuit. Tom had seemed to feel bad about sending Harry to his room, so he'd given him some ginger snaps, and some milk in a glass charmed to stay cold before chivvying him up the stairs.

Not really in the mood to do homework, Harry had decided to try and finish his letters, then maybe poke through the box from Mrs. Figg's house some more. Now he was beginning to wonder if he was going to be able to stay awake long enough to do either. It was embarrassingly early to be so tired--if he was at the Burrow he'd be teased unmercifully-- but in all fairness, it had been a rather busy day. It was probably safe to say that he'd exceeded the recommended daily allowance of shocks: Fawkes, Dumbledore's package, the box from Mrs. Figg's house, Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Reed, Mrs. Wright and her girls...not to mention all the unpacking and lifting and running and hauling he'd done. No wonder his body was craving sleep! He steretched, trying to muster some energy, but nothing seemed to be working. He had just about decided to give up and go to bed, when a familiar prickle on his forehead made him pause. Uh-oh!

Harry grimaced, and rubbed distractedly at his scar. On second thought, now wouldn't be the best time to drop off. It was probably just as well that Tom had sent him to his room as well. After the last couple of weeks he'd learned to recognize when his link with Voldemort was becoming active, and now was one of those times.

So far, Harry had been lucky. He knew from recent experience that his lightning-shaped scar was capable of inflicting blinding pain when the circumstances were right. Having experienced both, Harry would have difficulty deciding which was worse--scar pain, or having the Cruciatus Curse cast on him. Fortunately, he hadn't had to cope with either since the night of the Third Task. "Eavesdropping" on his arch enemy just made his scar burn annoyingly on his forehead. The intensity varied with Voldemort's mood, of course, but so far it hadn't been anything he couldn't handle. At best it was barely noticeable, at worst it was roughly comparable to a bad sinus or tension headache.

One thing Harry had noticed since he'd started paying attention, was the symptoms usually came on gradually, almost as if his link with Voldemort needed to "warm up" before it could function properly. Back when he'd been working nights, it hadn't been as much of an issue, but he was certainly grateful for the delay now. It allowed him time to tactfully disengage if he was speaking to someone, and get to some out-of-the-way place where he could ride out the worst of it, and jot down anything he managed to learn in relative privacy.

Speaking of which... Harry reached for his notebook, and wrote down the date, time, and what he could perceive of Voldemort's emotional state as he felt the link snap taut and begin to hum with energy. He had briefly considered writing directly on one of Dumbledore's charmed papers to save time, but quickly discarded the idea. His notes were usually too rambling and disjointed to be understood by anyone besides himself. He'd just waste a piece of the enchanted parchment, and end up recopying it anyway.

Pushing thoughts of parchment out of his head, the boy refocused on Voldemort. The dark wizard was practically licking his chops in anticipation as he spoke to someone. Harry was aware of the voices, but the words were still indistinct.

Voldemort pleased could be worse than Voldemort angry, so the boy stilled, closing his eyes and frowning in concentration as he tried desperately to "hear" or whatever it was he did. He could make out the words now, but they faded in and out. It was like listening to a radio station that wasn't tuned in properly.

"Time...Wormtail. Sev--sss...activ...portkey," Voldemort was saying. A second later, Harry made out part of Peter's stuttering affirmative. Ah. Snape must have finished his memory potion, then. No wonder Voldemort was so excited. If all went well, he'd soon have whatever information he'd been waiting for, Harry realized, feeling his pulse quicken slightly. He rested his elbows on the desk, and propped his head on clenched fists, willing himself to be able to hear.

"Shall I prepare the drawing room for Snape's arrival?"

Harry couldn't hold back a small gasp of shock. That was the clearest his connection had ever been. It was like Pettigrew was in the room with him. The teen sat still for a time, thinking...feeling.

Strangely he found himself recalling Hermione, and the way she coached Ron and himself when they were stuck on an assignment. Hermione sometimes just gave them the answers, but those treasured occasions were rare. It was far more common for her to ask a series of rapid-fire questions, designed to get their brains back on track. What's happening? he wondered frantically. What's different this time? Is it a fluke? Am I controlling it? Can I do it again?

Voldemort wasn't answering immediately, so Harry took advantage of the few seconds he had to assess himself. He was doing something, that much was clear. He had broken into a light sweat, and exhaustion was settling on him like a lead cape. Before, he'd been tired, and had been considering going to bed early. Now all he felt capable of managing was leaning forward and laying his head down on the desk. Getting up was not an option. His scar, which had only been slightly painful a few minutes ago was burning much more intensely. Come to think of it, Harry realized with the small part of his brain that was still capable of logic, it always seemed to hurt the most when the connection was clearest.

Was that a clue, then? It was so hard to think! Generally it only...it only hurt like that when Voldemort was in a screaming, frothing rage, or else nearby. Groggily, Harry tried to follow that line of reasoning, knowing instinctively that he was very close to a breakthrough.

Or a breakdown.

Harry snorted in spite of his discomfort, and forced himself back on track. In other words, it only hurt like this when the bond was functioning at maximum efficiency...

Max...? Wait. Yes! Harry's eyes flew open when he finally realized what he must be doing. Somehow, he had increased the flow of...what? Magic? Energy? Whatever. He was making the bond stronger, or else siphoning energy off Voldemort and drawing it down their link and into himself.

Abruptly, Harry recalled something Dumbledore had told him last term. He'd been in the headmaster's office after having the dream in Divination that had provided the fodder for Rita Skeeter's "Disturbed and Dangerous" article. He had asked Professor Dumbledore if he knew why his scar was hurting. Dumbledore's reply seemed to re-enforce his own suspicions.

* It is my belief that your scar hurts both when Lord Voldemort is near you, and when he is feeling a particularly strong surge of hatred.

It made a twisted sort of sense, actually. In the past, Harry hadn't ever tried to reach out when the link became active. It was far more natural to fight and resist, and try to block or dislodge the intruder, especially when it felt like his head was going to split in two.

In the past, he'd had to wait until the dark wizard was expending enough energy to fully fuel the bond himself!

Speaking of whom...Lord Voldemort was finally responding to Peter's timid requests for instructions. Harry scribbled a few lines in his notepad, then turned his attention to what the dark wizard was saying.

"Severus is not coming here. We will be meeting him at an alternate location," Voldemort said dismissively. "Do try to relax, Wormtail. His portkey is not taking the most direct route to its destination. We have some time yet."

Harry gulped, and felt an unaccustomed twinge of sympathy for the snarky potions professor. For whatever reason, it was clear Snape wasn't fond of portkey travel. It was also clear that Voldemort knew this, and was prolonging the trip, just because he could.

Hold on. 'We have time? Try to relax??' Who is this and what's he done with Lord Voldemort? Harry was just thinking that his enemy's kindness towards Pettigrew seemed wildly out of character, when Voldemort spoke again.

"The memory potion won't be as effective if you're tense," he commented. There was a pause, during which Harry perceived that the dark lord bent until he was practically nose-to-nose with the shorter man, before growling warningly, "And you know how much I detest delays."

Ah. Well I guess that explains that, Harry thought fuzzily, grimacing as his scar gave a particularly nasty throb. His head felt impossibly heavy, and he found he could barely keep his eyes open. Surely it couldn't hurt to rest just for a second, he thought wearily, as he folded his arms on his desktop and laid his head on them. He'd rest his eyes just for a second, then see if he could figure out how he managed to hear so clearly...

"So what's this about Harry having a wicked right hook?" Arabella asked mischievously, as she and her guests slowly ate their Treacle Pudding.

Sirius and Remus exchanged an ironic look, and chuckled amongst themselves, before Sirius began telling the story of how Harry and Hermione and gone after Ron Weasley when Sirius had dragged him down the passageway under the Whomping Willow.

"I have to admit I was surprised he attacked me like that," Sirius said thoughtfully, then grimaced. "I, you might say, reacted poorly."

"That's a little harsh, isn't it Paddy? Just because you nearly hexed his nose off, then tried to strangle him..."

Black glared at Lupin, his eyes clearly stating 'see-if-I-ever-tell-you-anything-again.' "Look, I wasn't thinking clearly just then. Fortunately, Harry's friends, Ron and Hermione intervened before any real harm was done." Arabella sat dumbstruck, while the Marauder continued, telling of the tussle that followed.

"I had a few bad minutes when Harry was standing over me with his wand," Sirius admitted. "I honestly thought he was angry enough to kill me...or try to at any rate. Luckily, the professor here, didn't include the Killing Curse as part of his Third Year curriculum. And anyway, in the end he couldn't do it. About that time is when the calvery showed up," he grinned, indicating Lupin again.

Taking his cue, Remus picked up the tale.

By the time they finished Arabella's eyes were round, and her mouth was hanging slightly open. "He mastered the Patronus Charm at thirteen?" she asked weakly, "and it was the shape of his father's Animagus form?"

"Yes," Remus said speculatively, rubbing his chin. "He was an exceptional student, in my class at least. Snape usually had something uncomplimentary to say about him at staff meetings, but no one else ever seemed to have trouble with him."

Sirius snorted and rolled his eyes. "No surprises there, Moony," he said, referring to the potions professor.

Remus shrugged. "No, that wasn't unexpected," he agreed, "Harry being James' son and all, but sometimes..." he trailed off thoughtfully. "Sometimes he didn't make any sense."

"Harry or Severus?" Arabella grinned.

"Harry. I don't think even Albus understands Snape," Lupin said, rolling his eyes and returning her smile. "For example, Harry learned the Patronus Charm, very advanced magic, in his third year. He threw off the Imperius Curse in DADA class before Christmas, and again just two weeks ago. That's almost unheard of. All you have to do is talk to the kid for five minutes, and you know he's smart. I daresay he has above average if not exceptional magical talent, and he's the best damn flier I've ever seen."

"So?" Sirius prompted, making impatient 'and-your-point-would-be' gestures.

"So how come Flitwick mentioned that he initially had trouble with the Summoning Charm when we were talking about the First Task yesterday? Compared to the others, that's kid stuff. Harry should have been able to do that without breaking a sweat."

"He was having a hard time then," Sirius said, removing a cat from his lap while recalling Harry's letter that detailed his actions during the First Task. He was afraid of being toasted alive by an overgrown lizard, and Ron was still being a git."

"Okay, that might be a bad example," Remus conceded. "But that isn't an isolated incident. Harry's school record is full of inconsistencies like that. Sometimes things stop him dead in his tracks, like he has a mental block or something. The thing is, a lot of them are relatively simple--things I would think he could do even if he was distracted, or his heart wasn't in it."

"That's a tough call to make, Remus," Sirius challenged, unconvinced. "Everyone has their strengths and weaknesses. Harry may just have trouble with a few things you find easy."

"Maybe," the werewolf said, not sounding completely convinced. "But I'd still like to have a little chat with him when we get him back."

"I think we'll all be queuing up for that privilege," Black said grimly, looking none too pleased. He dislodged another cat. "Arabella, can't you do something with these blasted felines?"

"Mrs. Figg's lips twitched in amusement. "I'm afraid not, Sirius. They like you, for some unknown reason."

The ex-convict growled in a very dog-like fashion before abruptly transforming, and scattering about a half dozen cats by barking loudly.

Remus and Belle stared for a few seconds, each not believing that Black had just done what he did, then Remus broke into peals of helpless laughter while Arabella blustered indignantly. Padfoot, the bearlike black dog, now sat on the couch where Sirius had been, his tongue lolling out in a canine grin.

"Sirius, really!" Mrs. Figg scolded, peeking into the kitchen, where most of the cats had fled. "Did you have to terrorize the poor things?" Expecting Sirius to have changed back to his human form, she was slightly surprised when she turned and found Black still in his dog form. "Sirius?" she questioned hesitantly. The dog's entire stance had changed. His mouth was closed, his ears were pricked up, and his posture tense and alert.

Remus, likewise, noticed Padfoot's sudden change in demeanor. Sobering, he put a hand on the large dog's shoulder. "Paddy?" he queried, unconsciously sniffing the air. Padfoot's scent was clearest, of course. Moony could almost taste his sudden agitation. Beyond that, he wasn't sure what the problem was. The predominant smells in Mrs. Figg's house were cabbage and cats.

Without warning, Padfoot suddenly jumped off the couch and bounded towards the front door. Arabella and Lupin watched as he sniffed the doorknob, then dropped his head to the floor, and sniffed his way from the entryway, to the kitchen, and back to the living room. Stopping a moment he transformed back. "Harry was here...recently," he snapped curtly, before transforming back, and bounding down the hall.

Remus and Arabella glanced at each other in consternation. "When, Sirius?" Mrs. Figg demanded as Black traced Harry's path back up the hall from the bathroom to the kitchen, and back into the living room. The Animagus ignored her, intent upon his task. He stopped in front of a small table, and pawed at something beneath it. He growled in frustration, then stopped short and shook his head. Shifting easily back into his human form, he groped under the table and retrieved the note Harry had left for Arabella.

"Here," he said, thrusting the envelope into her hands. "The cats must have knocked it off."

Arabella spared a quick glance at the front of the envelope before ripping it open and removing the note. Remus and Sirius moved so that they could read over her shoulders.

Dear Mrs. Figg,

I don't suppose you were expecting to hear from me. Sorry to have missed you. I popped 'round unannounced when I found out my relatives put their house up for sale.

You're probably wondering what I was doing in here, you being away and all. I can't exactly explain it. The door seemed to know me, and let me in, if that makes any sense.

This sounds really stupid, but the main reason I'm writing, is there's a box in your living room with my name on it, that...well, it wants to come with me. I tried to refuse, but it just won't take no for an answer. I won't open it for a while just in case I made a mistake. If there's a problem, please owl me, and I'll see about getting it back to you.

Yours Sincerely,

Harry Potter

The trio was still for some moments before Sirius finally spoke. "You cast recognition charms on the box and the door?"

Arabella nodded. "Yes. He wouldn't remember. He wasn't even eighteen months old when I placed them. Can you tell how long it's been?"

"Couple of weeks, give or take a day or two," Sirius replied with a shrug. He raked his fingers through his hair, then opened the door. Changing back into Padfoot, he followed Harry's scent to the street where it vanished.

While he was outside, Remus surreptitiously retrieved the forgotten envelope, and sniffed it. It smelled largely of cats, of course, and Padfoot, and Sirius, and Arabella since they had most recently touched it...but under everything else was the faint, tantalizing scent that Snuffles had identified as Harry's. Remus sniffed again, frowning. Harry's scent was not exactly as he remembered it, but that was to be expected. He knew from his own time at Hogwarts that peoples' scents changed subtly as they grew and matured. Now that he knew what he was looking for, and had an approximate idea where the boy had been, he could make out faint traces of Harry's scent in Arabella's house as well, and...

Remus froze. Was that Harry he had picked up at the Leaky Cauldron? He sniffed the envelope again, considering carefully. It was close. Damn close. But when would Harry have had a chance to visit the wizard pub? If his relatives were as magic-phobic as the others said, they probably wouldn't go near the place.

"What is it Remus," Mrs. Figg asked, watching him closely.

Remus turned to face her, still clearly trying to work something out. "You know that scent I picked up at the Leaky Cauldron?"

"Yes?"

"I think it was Harry."

"What about Harry?" Remus jumped at the sound of Sirius' voice. He'd been so intent on the envelope, he hadn't noticed when Black had re-entered, and closed the door behind him.

"I caught a scent I couldn't place immediately at the Leaky Cauldron when we picked up the food." Remus indicated the envelope. "I'm not 100% certain, but I think it might have been Harry."

"I suppose its too much to hope that you could determine the scent's age?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Well, we'll just let Padfoot have a go," Sirius stated, striding purposefully towards the fireplace.

"Wait, Sirius. Harry could have visited the Leaky Cauldron on his way out of town for all we know, and his name wasn't on the guest register. I looked," Arabella said, catching his arm.

"What did you learn outside?" Remus asked, neatly diverting his friend's attention.

Black frowned, glancing toward the door. "I followed the path he took down to the street, then his trail just vanishes. The route he took over here from Privet Drive was spotty, and hard to follow. The scent kept dropping out and re-appearing. How's the weather been?"

"The estate agent I spoke with mentioned that Little Whinging has gotten a lot of rain recently," Arabella supplied, surprised at the sudden shift in topic. "Evidently it interfered with her showings."

Padfoot and Moony both nodded sagely. That explained quite a bit. "Rainy weather can louse up a trail," Remus supplied kindly when Belle looked confused. "If Harry surprised by a sudden cloudburst, or hurrying for whatever reason, he could have splashed through a few puddles on his way over."

"I don't like the way his scent just stops there at the street, though," Sirius said, looking perturbed. "I should have been able to pick up traces of his scent even if he got into a car."

"That's a stretch, isn't it Paddy? Under normal circumstances, yes, but with the rain?"

"I said I should have been able to pick up traces. I didn't necessarily say I could have followed it," Sirius snapped, pacing in front of the fireplace. "It's like he vanished, or disapparated!" He stopped with a suspicious look on his face. "He can't disapparate yet, can he?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"Wait, I've got it!" Arabella exclaimed. "We were just talking about it at Hogwarts. The Knight Bus! Maybe he was coming by to say goodbye. Maybe he took the Knight Bus to Diagon Alley for a last look 'round!"

"Or maybe he didn't go with his relatives," Black said grimly. "But if that's true why hasn't he contacted anyone?" He shook his head impatiently. "It doesn't make sense!"

Mrs. Figg's living room was silent for a time, as its occupants tried to figure out what to do. Finally Remus spoke up. "Look, we don't have enough solid evidence to prove our case either way. Albus is handling the Australia scenario. Let's contact Arthur in the morning, and work the other possibility." He shrugged. "If we're right, we'll already be working on it. If we're wrong, it won't hurt anything. We can start at King's Cross. See if we can trace his movements. Check the destination logs on the Knight Bus. I mean, he's Harry Potter for crying out loud! Someone should have noticed him!"

Arabella Figg nodded her assent, then walked toward the door. "That sounds feasible, Remus. Meanwhile, I should go put those charms Albus wanted on the Dursley's old home. Wouldn't want the old place to sell, now would we?"

Harry hadn't really intended to nod off. He'd just wanted to lay his head down and close his eyes for a moment. Maintaining the bond was harder than he thought, and his scar was protesting his efforts by burning hatefully.

Actually, when he'd laid his head on his arms, the pressure against his brow had helped somewhat. Harry had considered trying to sooth the mark by holding his charmed glass of milk against it, but he wasn't sure he could keep a firm grip on the container.

It was an odd feeling, really. Harry had thought that falling asleep would disrupt his snooping on Wormtail and Voldemort, but that didn't turn out to be the case. The voices he'd been listening to faded into silence, but now his unconscious mind was providing images.

The same feeling of traveling he had experienced in other dreams was back. Before, he had dreamed he was riding on an enormous eagle owl, but this time he soared through the sky toward the now familiar ivy-covered house on the hill on the back of a rather enlarged version of Fawkes the Phoenix. That's where Voldemort is! Harry suddenly realized, as they circled the house. That must be his headquarters!

Yes, fledgling, that is the Serpent's Lair. We shall not be staying long, a voice that could only belong to the scarlet and gold firebird stated.

Before Harry could gather his wits to respond, Fawkes dove gracefully toward the house. Ghost-like, they slipped through a wall, and observed, hovering near the ceiling, while Voldemort and Wormtail prepared to leave. The other wizards weren't doing anything out of the ordinary, so Harry glanced around, looking for some clue as to his location. He stopped only when his quarry portkeyed away with a faint pop.

Blinking, Harry stared at the place where the pair had been. Hey! he thought irrationally. Come back! How am I supposed to spy on you if you leave like this! Grinding his insubstantial teeth in frustration, Harry shifted on Fawkes' back, while the phoenix drifted down towards the floor. This had never happened before. Very strange. Well, I guess I could poke around a bit, since I'm here...

You could, fledgling, but to what purpose? Observing the dark one is far more important at this juncture, do you not agree?

"Well, yeah, but I don't know where he's gone," Harry said shrugging helplessly. "Usually the dream takes me to where he is, and I stay there until something happens to wake me up."

I will be assisting you with the second part of your journey, fledgling, Fawkes informed the stunned wizard on his back, flapping his mighty wings, and exiting the way he'd come in.

Harry found he could do little besides cling to the firebird's back, as Fawkes wheeled and headed roughly southeast. "Erm, excuse me, but where are we going?" he finally ventured, noticing that the countryside was flashing by entirely too quickly for him to follow.

I am taking you to your next transportation source, Fawkes replied, sounding amused. And here it is.

Frowning, Harry peered down and saw what appeared to be a visible wind current, or jet stream. He didn't like the look of it. Not at all. Swallowing nervously, he ventured, "Fawkes, what exactly is that thing?"

He felt, rather than heard the phoenix' compassionate sigh. It is a portkey trail, fledgling. It will take you to your final destination.

Harry felt himself pale. "Portkey?" he croaked, unconsciously tightening his grip on the firebird.

I am sorry, but this is where we must part, fledgling.

"Wait!" Harry said, eyeing the shimmering trail beneath him mistrustfully. "There must be another way!" he shouted frantically. "Please, Fawkes! No!"

Until next time, Harry Potter, the phoenix said sadly, before disappearing in a burst of flame.

Too terrified to even shout, Harry found himself free falling as the last remains of Fawkes' conflagration spent themselves in mid air. Wake up! he ordered himself, as the portkey trail rushed up to meet him. WAKE UP!

His body was obviously intent on ignoring any such suggestion, and slept on back at the Leaky Cauldron, because sooner than he would have liked, he dropped feet first into the magic below him. At first he thought he might fall completely through it, and continue on towards the ground, but the second he touched it, he was caught by the current and swept away in a rush of color and sound. As he was dragged helplessly forward toward Who-Knows-Where, Harry clenched his teeth determinedly to stop himself from screaming or perhaps throwing up. He wasn't usually prone to motion sickness, but this rough, tumbling, head-over-heels ride was enough to test the strongest stomach. It was even worse than traveling by Floo Powder.

Dimly, he became aware that he was not alone. Occasionally, when he was facing in the right direction, and his eyes were open and not watering too badly, he could make out a figure several meters ahead of him. He was too far away to make out the identity of his mysterious companion, but judging by the billowing robes the figure was wearing, Harry was prepared to bet he was trailing after Professor Snape.

Okay, this is officially a nightmare, Harry thought, as he flailed around trying to right himself, and keep his mind off his very queasy stomach. He already knew Snape was portkeying by some roundabout route to some unknown destination. It was just Sod's Law that he, Harry, would be "invited" along for the ride.

The trip continued on in a similar fashion for several minutes, before ending with shocking suddenness. One minute, Harry was engulfed in the flowing, buffeting, maelstrom that was the portkey's wake, and the next...nothing. Harry spun around a few more times before finally coming to a stop, and cautiously opening his eyes.

With a start he realized he was floating a few meters above the ground in inky darkness. The stars and moon above his head provided a little light, but where ever he was, it was remote. The only sign of human habitation was a small, run-down cottage with a light in the window. Hopefully, that was where the party was.

Right, then, Harry thought, gathering his nerve, and preparing to walk over to the cottage. Let's see what Lord Voldemort is up to, shall we?

It took a few seconds for him to realize he was getting exactly nowhere. Evidently, when one happens to be floating, walking ceases to be an effective method of locomotion.

Harry raised an eyebrow at this new development, then shook his head impatiently. He didn't have time for this! Snape and Voldemort were probably already interrogating Pettigrew. He raised his hand, intending to rake it through his hair, but stopped, distracted, when he noticed the rather, erm, transparent condition of the limb. This had never happened before! Well, he didn't think it had at any rate.

Harry frowned as he peered through the back of his hand. He'd had the sensation of flying and traveling to Voldemort's location in the past, but this time was different. For one thing, he felt awake. It was like being in two places at once. He was aware of his current surroundings of course, but at the same time, he was cognizant of his body which was still sleeping back in London.

Harry rubbed his temples, pleased that he could still do so, and decided this was beyond weird.

It was possible, of course, that he was only dreaming, and consequently dealing with details conjured by his own twisted imagination. Relieved that there seemed to be a rational explanation, Harry latched onto that thought. He was dreaming. It was obvious, really. He'd only just seen Fawkes, and Fawkes had presented him with a portkey as well, come to think of it. As for the trail, someone--Hermione? Mr. Weasley perhaps?--had once told him about the mechanics of portkeys. The wind and flashing colors one experienced while in transit were just an effect of being pulled forward at great speed by the magical device.

The only thing the teen couldn't dismiss out of hand was the eerie feeling of being somehow away from his body. After studying the sensation for a few seconds, Harry reckoned that this was probably similar to what muggle astronauts experienced when they went on space walks. He was floating, apparently weightless, and there seemed to be something, rather like a safety line, anchoring him to his physical form.

Twisting around to look over his shoulder, Harry could just barely make out a faint, silvery link that seemed to originate in the small of his back, and extend a ways behind him before vanishing into the night.

Was this mysterious tether what was keeping him from moving? Harry wasn't sure, but he didn't think so. Actually, he couldn't shake the infuriating feeling that this was something he should recognize. Something important he should know. Was it something he'd read? Something that was mentioned in class?

Heaving a heavy sigh, Harry finally decided to worry about it later. Maybe, if he remembered when he woke up, he could look it up. Right now he had more pressing problems--like trying to figure out how he was supposed to move now that he was transparent, floating, and on some kind of weird magical leash.

Raking his hand through his messy black hair, the boy considered his predicament. If walking didn't work, perhaps...swimming? Jumping? Crawling? Harry tried them all with no success, and felt his frustration mount. The cottage seemed to mock him with its proximity. If this was occurring under normal circumstances, and he had both feet firmly on the ground, he could have crossed the short distance in seconds.

"Oh, for crying out loud!" he finally exploded. "I just want to go over there!"

So he did.

Blinking in surprise, and feeling a little disoriented, Harry found he had moved. Boy had he moved!

He was now hovering beside the cottage window, with his face very close to the panes. Distractedly, he wondered if this was what apparating felt like. One arm, with which he had been pointing at his desired destination, was now shoved through the glass. Whoa! Harry thought, bending his arm so that his hand was visible, and wriggling his fingers. He was pleased to note that there wasn't any visible damage to the window, or his skin. In fact, it reminded him of pushing through the enchanted barrier at Platform 9¾.

Only this time he was transparent and the wall was solid.

At least he could see inside now. Voldemort was sitting in an armchair, and Snape was kneeling at his feet. It took a second for the boy to spot Pettigrew. He was huddled in a corner off to the side. Trying not to be noticed, Harry thought, correctly interpreting Peter's behavior. Fleetingly, he wondered if he had ever looked that frightened and pathetic when he'd still lived with the Dursleys. At least that bad, probably worse, he decided, wrinkling his nose.

Huffing impatiently, Harry jerked his mind away from Privet Drive, and refocused on his potions professor. Snape's voice was an indistinct murmur, as was Voldemort's. His scar was still burning fiercely, but the link didn't seem to be active at the moment. Naturally. Harry grumbled sulkily, rolling his eyes. The one time he wanted the blasted thing to work...

He'd just have to get closer, then. All he had to do was figure out how he'd done it just now.

Actually, Harry realized with a start, he hadn't done anything. He'd been trying to figure out how to move...nothing he'd tried had worked...he'd been hovering like an overgrown helium balloon...until...until...

Until I lost my temper. Harry raised an eyebrow, reconsidering. No, until I concentrated on the cottage and wished to be there. Was that all there was to it? Surely not. It seemed too simple.

Well, he'd never know unless he tried. Shrugging, Harry focused on the wall, and hesitantly concentrated on moving forward. Obligingly, he began to drift through the wall, but at an annoyingly slow rate of speed. Bloody hell! Harry thought, as he watched Snape summon and transfigure some pieces of firewood. He'd seen quicker garden slugs. Come on! he thought more insistently. Faster!

Surprisingly, it worked. The minute his head was through the wall, Harry could hear their conversation once more. "Drink this," Snape said, addressing a clearly reluctant Peter Pettigrew, his words abrupt and terse. Harry rolled his eyes again. Nice, he thought with a sarcastic snort. Obviously the Hogwarts Potions Master didn't believe in wasting time with pleasantries or reassurances.

Actually, Harry realized, he wasn't really at the best vantage point. Before, when he'd had dreams, or visions, or whatever featuring Voldemort, he'd just had to take what he got. In one such dream, he'd never even seen the dark wizard at all, only heard him as he spoke. Now, he seemed to be able to move around, however haphazardly. It was weird, though. He seemed to have to be angry to move with any speed. Surely that wasn't right!

Deciding to try again, he focused on where he wanted to be, and set off. This time things went more smoothly. Instead of creeping slowly forward, or materializing with jarring suddenness at some distant location, he was drifting along at approximately his normal walking pace, in a manner reminiscent of Sir Nicholas de Minsy-Porpington, and the other ghosts at Hogwarts. So he didn't necessarily have to be angry then, just...confident. The thought to move had to be a self-assured order, not a hesitant plea.

Interesting, Harry thought, filing that bit of information away for future reference as he glided over to where he could see better, and settled in to observe.

* Quote from Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire by J.K. Rowling