Initials of Fate

Chapter 2

Harry stared at the initials for a moment longer. But...but no, they couldn't possibly have been carved in by his father. Come on, he thought to himself, think rationally. Yeah, like you've been doing a lot of rational thinking lately, a second thought retorted.

He snapped his eyes closed tight and tried to calm himself down. Okay. Think what Hermione would say. Now honestly, there have got be a million and one people with the initials of J.P or S.B...right? I mean, it could be John Parker and Samuel Buckley for all we know, couldn't it?

But Harry could not just disregard the situation that easily. No sir. There's got to be a way to find out, he thought, maybe I could look up in the archives to see who slept here before me. Then he heard Hermione's voice in ringing tones enter his thoughts; but Harry, surely they wouldn't keep a record of who slept in each bed, just who slept in the dormitory in general.

Good old Hermione. Always the rational thinker. Always the one trampling on his little shreds of hope in life. She'd been the one that had tried to crack Harry once he'd got back at Hogwarts. She'd tried to tell him that Sirius was never coming back. She'd tried to tell him Sirius would have wanted him to get on with it and be happy. Hermione had definitely learnt her lesson that day.

Well Hermione wasn't going to annihilate his shred of hope this time. He knew deep down that she really meant no harm and just wanted him to be as happy as he could be in the present climate. But still, he had to find out what the letters meant and if they were initials, who the hell's they stood for.

He continued to stare aimlessly at the etched letters as he twiddled his wand in his hand again. They were sort of gleaming in the moonlight, weren't they? The moonlight. That got him thinking about Lupin. Harry wondered what he was doing at that very moment? He wonder- hang on, Remus could tell him which dorm and bed his father slept in! Remus could probably even tell him which day and why those initials had been carved into his bed! Remus could tell him everything!

Harry's spirits lifted and deflated in one single breath of air. But Remus was also the person Harry had sworn to never talk to again. Harry had told Lupin to his face that he hated him and never wanted to see again. He had held Remus responsible along with himself, for Sirius' death. If Remus had only stopped Sirius from coming to the Department of Mysteries...But that still brought it back to the fact that it had been all Harry's fault. If he hadn't gone to the Department in the first place...If he hadn't been such a fool to believe Voldemort's legilimency mind warping...

Harry decided he had been harsh on Lupin, though. He decided that he'd try to make peace with him in the morning. Though he wasn't sure how easy it would be. Lupin hadn't exactly taken all Harry's insults lying down. In fact, he had come barely inches from punching Harry. Both of them still remembered it vividly.

Harry had just arrived back at Grimmauld Place from the Dursley's. Possession of the Order's HQ had fallen into the custody of Remus as Sirius had clearly pointed out in his will. To deal with his grief, Lupin had been setting about fully redecorating the premises so that it didn't remind them one bit of Sirius. That was when Harry had got angry and had pointed out that Remus may as well have killed Sirius himself, after all he wasn't doing a very good job at preserving his memory.

Remus had been stunned by Harry's brashness, but they had soon got into a vicious argument of whose fault it was. Lupin had been disgusted in himself for even participating in such a juvenile activity. Both of them were hurting, he knew that. He didn't mean to take it out on Harry, it had just happened.

Of course, Harry didn't know this. He'd just seen the anger and grief in Lupin's eyes as he thrusted Harry up against the wall, holding him by the scruff of his robes and baring his teeth ferociously as he uttered obscenities.

In a way, this had fuelled and contributed to Harry's own anger. If Lupin - a man that Harry had looked up to and admired all his life, even more so than Sirius at times - could behave in such way, well then Harry could too.

But this didn't solve the curious question Harry was faced with now. Who had those initials belonged to, and if it had been his father and Sirius, then why had they carved them together on his bed?

Harry kept watching the etched letters as the moonlight danced over them, bringing them to life. Harry smiled to himself. It'd have to be his first real smile in months.

He'd just realised that the three of them were together again in a slightly eerie fashion. The moonlight and the initials of J.P and S.B dancing together mischievously in the night, unknown to anyone else.

Until Harry.

It took him a minute to realise that a cold, wetness was running down his cheek. He brushed it away hastily. He never cried. But the tears didn't stop coming and Harry soon realised he was sitting alone on his bed in despair, silently sobbing the night away. It seemed as if all the tears he'd ever needed to cry were now exploding from his eyes. It was worse than having a Dementor beside him. He thought back to his tortured days as a young child being bullied by Dudley, finding out his parents had died to save him, discovering that in essence, his father was his patronus, Cedric dying, seeing a shadowy echo of his mum and dad, being the Boy Who Lived - In Order To Kill Voldemort (and if he didn't, becoming The Boy Who Lived To Kill Thousands) and Sirius. Sirius dying. Once again, somebody dying to save him.

Harry hated the prophecy. He hated Trelawney for making it. He hated Dumbledore for telling him. The prophecy had ruined his life. The prophecy had taken away everyone he had ever loved. Not necessarily by death, but because of his anger and disregard as well. He hated the prophecy.

The tears kept cascading down his cheeks freely and he realised that the whole top half of him was nearly all soaked in huge salty puddles. Again, he hastily wiped his cheeks with his hands and sat there for a moment, still staring at the initials.

He bit his lip and decided to reach out and touch the grooves one last time before letting his silent agony lull him to sleep.

As he did so, something rather peculiar started to happen. Within inches of the initials, he found himself being sort of magnetically pulled towards them. His tear-drenched hand landed with a soft slapping noise on the wood.

Harry frowned. What was going on? Oh God, please don't let this be Voldemort-related, he found himself thinking.