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He had worn the locket for as long as he could remember. When he was little, the noise the chain-links made as they bumped their way through the loop of the pendant had delighted him. Yet it was the sensation of the locket warming up, seemingly responding to his very thoughts, that had him utterly transfixed. The locket had been there every time he had lain huddled in his cupboard, only able to tiredly trace the delicate carvings and the glittering stones. It had been there, a comforting presence, pulsating warmly against his body to soothe the jabs and churning of his stomach. So although it was heavy with the weight of solid gold and jewels, the locket always remained comfortably around his neck.
Harry enjoyed when the locket pressed against his bare skin and it warmed pleasantly against him, soothing him with slow and steady beats. It had been like that when he had found himself several feet above the ground, safe from Dudley and Piers, his heart soaring at the height he was at and the wind that blew against his face. The locket was a soft hum amongst the screams of children staring up at him in amazement. And it had practically sung when an endless flow of green-inked letters had spilt down the Dursley's chimney.
The heat the locket had recently absorbed from him was welcome against the chill in the air that was growing bolder and bolder as the sun dipped in the sky. It was nestled in his palm and Harry let his thumb run up and down the edges. He could feel the cold groove where he was certain it would open and reveal the glass windows it concealed - the interior that he had not yet managed to even glimpse after all these years.
Harry pushed his feet off from the ground again, harder than he intended as he raced backwards. The desire to simply fall forward when the swing arced back down was mounting. But the locket gave a twinge, and Harry instead bitterly thought of how he wasn't supposed to be here. They were meant to be studying together for their O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s. As he closed his eyes, he could imagine Hermione's pleased expression, and Ron's horrified face as he declared him a traitor. And Cedric. Cedric would be smiling.
The locket pulsed this time, but Harry elected to slide it back underneath his shirt. The locket did this a lot whenever he practised Quidditch, the heat emanating from it rivalling the fierce joy in him as the wind whipped through his hair and he urged his broomstick to go faster. The arcs of the swing were getting smaller and smaller, and Harry supposed he should start making his way back before he got in trouble.
There was a palpitation against his chest, and Harry's eyes snapped open. Another beat. Harry flattened his trainers against the grass.
"There he is," came an unpleasant voice.
His eyes shot towards Piers Polkiss, before scanning the rest of the boys and landing on Dudley. Harry's adam's apple was bobbing as he pushed himself up from the swing to meet them. A wave of heat washed over him, and his wand in his pocket seemed to warm up. There was a flicker in Dudley's eyes as they stood before each other, but then a nasty grin spread across his face.
"Cedric! Cedric!" Dudley said shrilly. "Don't die, Cedric! Please!" Harry's stomach lurched. Dudley raised his eyebrows, staring around at the other three boys before turning back to him. "Who's Cedric, your boyfriend?"
His gang were in hysterics at this, and Harry watched their faces contort. "Shut up, ickle Diddykins."
They laughed harder, and Dudley's face flushed.
There was a moment when Harry could smell Dudley's stale breath. Then two palms were on his chest and Harry was stumbling backwards, left hand flying behind him, the other reaching towards his pocket. Harry snarled, and something snapped in his mind. His fingers had finally curled around his wand, and he was lunging at Dudley, clawing at every inch of his exposed skin he could reach before bunching up his shirt. Harry relished the dilation of Dudley's eyes, and the hitch of his breath as he dug his wand into his neck. There was something creeping into his mind, guilt perhaps, but Harry pushed it aside. His shoulders were rising up and down as he forced his wand deeper into that thick neck.
Careful . . . a voice seemed to murmur somewhere in his mind.
With a jolt, Harry realised how hot his locket was, how white both his knuckles were, and how wide Dudley's eyes were. The heat between their bodies was stifling, and yet the summer eve's air chilled the back of his exposed neck. His grip on Dudley's damp shirt loosened a fraction.
"I know you can't," Dudley whispered, but his eyes were flickering again as Harry's eyes landed once more on him.
The three other boys had burst into laughter again, but Harry was quite aware of the circle that had formed around him. The locket vibrated.
"Wow, Big D, you're related to such a freak!"
It was just for a second that Harry's eyes had darted towards Piers; a beat later and the air had been pummelled out of Harry's lungs, and he was staggering forward. But Dudley wasn't done yet, and pain was shooting through his right wrist as it was forced backwards by pudgy hands. It burnt. It really burnt. Harry's fingers bit even deeper into his own palm, his wand still in his fist as he glared up at Dudley's scrunched face. Both their palms were horribly sweaty. And Harry felt the perspiration dripping down his own body, past the hot metal pulsating against his chest. His whole body was aflame, the heat almost palpable.
A sickening snap resounded through the air, followed swiftly by flesh meeting flesh. Harry's cheek swelled as another more skilled punch met its mark. Sharp kicks were landing on the back of both his knees. And blinded, Harry was falling, a steel-capped boot to his lower back accelerating his journey.
Grass prickled against his face, and Harry cried out, not for his throbbing, useless wrist, but because of the rustle of his wand rolling away. The locket was pulsating violently, but Harry barely noticed it. Blood dripped freely down his stinging, grazed left arm. Ignoring this, he patted the grass desperately. Accio wand, accio wand, accio wand, accio wand, accio wand.
Harry, a voice called, pushing through his chant. Harry.
The throbbing of his broken wrist was becoming more and more difficult to block out. Another cry tore from his lips as a boot stomped down on his left hand, and kick after kick was rained down on him.
The locket burnt more fiercely, trapped between his body and the ground. It gave a lurch, and that voice, clearer than he had ever heard it before, rang in his head.
Harry, you need to open my locket. Get me out from under your chest.
His locket? Was he delirious? His eyes watered, and Harry tried to move his cracked lips. A particularly vicious kick to his back had him dry-heaving. The locket followed his chest's movements, and Harry was glad that it was there. But he worried that it would get scratched against the little rocks that were jutting into his bare skin. He really was delirious. For after all, through all the escapades they had been through together, Harry had not failed to notice that the locket bore no signs of wear at all. He was quite certain that it was far older than his battered glasses, and yet there were no scratches, no dents, no missing stones, no weakening of the chain links. Nothing at all. He had inspected it hundreds of times, turning its burnished oval body in his hands over and over again, trying to figure out the correct pressure to apply so it would open. But despite his gentle prying at the edges, his polite whispers and querying, and later, the numerous incantations he had researched, the locket had stayed firmly closed. This frustrated Harry to no end; the locket was a constant presence in his life and he hadn't even yet been able to take a look at what was inside of it.
Focus now. And turn over onto your left side.
His head was swimming, blood pounding in his ears, yet he could still hear that insistent, ever more urgent voice telling him to turn over. He couldn't. He didn't have the energy. They wouldn't stop kicking him. Each wave of pain was accompanied by the tiny little rocks pressing into him. They were laughing, jeering at him. He couldn't make out the words. No, he didn't think he could manage it. Unless . . .
The locket burnt white hot, and heat surged through his body. Scrunching up his eyes, Harry dug his left elbow into the dirt. Hoping they wouldn't kick it, he applied as much pressure on it as he could muster. Painstakingly, Harry's torso lifted an inch. He wanted to sigh in relief, but it was barely a grunt that left his mouth. The locket shot out from under him, narrowly escaping his face collapsing back into the dirt.
Excellent work. Now see the jewels, they form a snake. Concentrate. Speak to it. Command it to open.
The locket was there in front of him. It was vibrating, its gold body surrounded by a ring of grass blades whipping back and forth in a frenzy.
Harry's lips fell open. But as he tried to concentrate, another voice echoed in his head. It was the advice that Ron - Ron- had mentioned his dad had told him once: Never trust anything that can think for itself if you can't see where it keeps its brain. One of his cheek muscles twitched, and Harry's lips pressed together again. The air seemed to tremor.
Harry. This is not the time for that. I want to help you. I will help you. You know the language, Harry. Say it. Say it.
His whole body was searing with pain, and Harry wondered if this was what Cedric had gone through hardly a month ago. Cedric . . . in early hours of the morning, images had crept into Harry's mind . . . streams of yellow intermingling with red, gold sparks lighting up the dark sky, grey eyes bulging and glistening with tears. They played over and over again in his mind.
A boot was grinding his left hand into the ground, making his fingers spasm with each malicious twist. He would be able to see Cedric again if he didn't do anything. Harry pressed his face further into the cool soil. "I think I'm about to die," he whispered through his cracked lips. The locket scalded him, and he was sure it was melding against his skin, that they'd never be separated again; but that didn't matter anymore.
Say it, Harry. Say it and you'll be able to see me. Isn't that what you've always wanted?
His eyelids were far too heavy . . .
Harry!
His eyes snapped open. Past the glittering green stones, he could see that steel-capped boot drawing back. His body feebly shrunk inwards. It can't be worse than a bludger, he told himself as he waited for the boot to sink into his bruised body. It was agony to be so useless. So helpless. Yet the blow never landed, Polkiss' boot hovering just an inch from his face. In fact, the barrage of kicks had completely stopped. With the absence of his flesh being pounded to a pulp, the heavy breathing of the four boys standing over him suddenly sounded strangely more like shuddering to him.
Harry's breath was ragged as he tried to lift his head again. His whole body was radiating so much heat. It was unbearable. He was sure he could see the heat rippling in the air. He wanted to tear off his own skin. Claw it off. Finish himself off before Dudley could. But when a guttural sound ripped through the air, it was as if his blood was freezing in his veins. It was unearthly. Terrifying. Nothing like the friendly curiosity and encouragement of the boa-constrictor he had set free all those years ago. And Harry realised with a stab of fear that it had come from his own mouth.
Lips sagging, Harry caught the sound of a small click, though it was quickly drowned out by blood-curling screams. He winced, and the orange intensity of the evening sky seemed to dim for him in sympathy. But as he blinked away the sweat and tears, Harry realised, with another stab of fear, that it wasn't a natural occurrence at all . . . and he wasn't hallucinating.
He didn't know how, or when exactly it had occurred, but every inch of him was now surrounded by a thick, black cloud of smoke. He could feel it churning around him, swirling like a bird drawing tighter and tighter circles around its prey. And suddenly Harry was reminded of all the times he had silently watched Aunt Petunia make bright pink cotton floss for Dudley, and Dudley only. The smoke hissed angrily, and a noise gurgled out of his own mouth. Maybe it was of hilarity, or perhaps it was hysteria. But whatever feeling had been flowing through his body, it evaporated when he saw what the smoke was doing.
It was solidifying.
Petrified, Harry's neck ached as the thickening smoke rose, forming itself into a tall column. It pulsated again and again. With each pounding, tendrils were separating themselves. Half of him wanting to sob, the other to laugh, Harry thought that those newly-formed, writhing tendrils were the horrifying smoke cousin of Devil's Snare. Accio wand, he screamed over and over in his mind. He wanted to light a fire, light one fast, even if whatever monstrous thing that was hovering above him wouldn't be so easy to vanquish. It now looked roughly like a pentacle to Harry, but the points began elongating. He couldn't look away as the smoke extended itself, the snake-like strands refining themselves. Limbs - Harry realised belatedly when a tall, mist-like figure was standing in front of him.
Harry's left hand clawed the ground, all the pain of dragging himself across the dirt would be less terrifying than what was inches from him. It didn't seem to have noticed him yet. Either it was faceless, or he was staring at the back of its head. Drawing a ragged breath, Harry slowly wriggled his hips, willing them to move forward. But as his knees responded and he moved less than a fraction, he wondered what use was it to agonisingly worm his way towards the figure? Face landing back in the grass, Harry was sure his heart was going to give out. Had Dudley and his friends already ran off? Would they call for help? Or was he to face this thing by himself? What would it do to him?
All thoughts were driven from his throbbing head as he felt his lips moving against his own volition. A voice unlike his own was forcing its way past his lips once more.
"The Spirit of The Millennium Riddle is free once more. You four will be the first to witness its power."
Harry barely registered the horror surging through him, or the screams piercing his ears. Everything had faded into nothing when a set of eyes bore into him. They were handsome, the colour of freshly spilt blood. He could see the cruelty in them. They were all he could see. Red. Nothing but red. He was falling, falling, into them, drowning in a sea of blood.
When Aunt Petunia's eyes landed on the glinting green stones for the first time, his hand flew to the locket. Warmth pulsed from where it lay on his body, but it was too late; his small hand had not been able to hide the locket from her greedy eyes.
She demanded he hand it over.
He froze, unable to work his way past his rapidly beating heart and the rising heat in his face. But then warmth spread through his body, as if his mum had just made him a cup of hot chocolate and he had taken the first sip. And Harry found the courage. He shook his head.
Aunt Petunia held out her bony, sharp-nailed hand. "Come on, then," she said, "give it here."
He stared up at her and into her pale eyes, his hand dropping from the locket and balling into a fist.
"Give it here, Harry." Her face loomed into view, and a heavy hand was on his shoulder. "This is for safe-keeping, Harry. I only want to have a look. "
He didn't believe her one bit. But mechanically, his arms reached behind his neck. As he trembled, fumbling for the clasp, he was puzzled to discover that his fingers could not grasp the chain, that it kept sliding away from him like water. After several tries, and increasing confusion, warmth emanated from the locket. Relief surged through Harry, and he lowered his arms.
"It won't come off," he said, jutting his chin out.
"Harry." Aunt Petunia shook his shoulders.
"I told you, it won't come off. It's stuck."
Tutting, Aunt Petunia roughly spun him around and grabbed the clasp. When Harry's head was yanked backwards by the chain and the locket jammed into his neck, he cried out.
"Be quiet!" she snapped as she examined the clasp. "What is wrong with this?"
He stood there motionless, something bubbling within him as he listened to the metallic click of the clasp against his aunt's nails. As her movements grew increasingly harsh, he heard himself scream, "Stop it! You'll break it!"
Surprisingly, Aunt Petunia let go of the chain. A sigh escaped his lips, only for him to cry out again as her fist closed around the locket. Without knowing what he was doing, he grabbed onto her wrist with both hands, trying to pry her fingers off. Perhaps he had dug his fingers into her too deeply, for she shrieked, and Harry found himself on the ground. He was winded, but the locket was intact, safe and sound against his shirt.
"Fine." He flinched as she moved her hand, but she merely rubbed her other hand. With one last glare at him as he stood up, she stormed off to the kitchen.
But a flash of light ripped through the air, so intensely white and painful that Harry's eyes scrunched up. It was as if an earthquake had struck, frenetic energy coursing through the room. Harry tried to stagger onto a wall, but his hands were heavy, his feet glued to the vibrating floor. Everything around him was white hot; the air so thick he could barely breathe in. Red light was burning at the back of his eyelids.
As heat flowed through him, Harry dared to open his eyes. Abruptly, the room stilled, and it was as if he had completely imagined the whole thing. But green eyes widened when they focussed on what was before him. Aunt Petunia's face was staring blankly up at him, cupped in his hands; his middle fingers were pressed harshly into her temples.
Harry's hands flinched for a second, but then they returned to their position firmly against Aunt Petunia's face. It was as if his exertion of will was but a child's finger lightly poking a bowl of jelly. A bubble of spit from Aunt Petunia's mouth burst, and panicking, Harry tried to push his hands outwards again. They didn't even budge. His breath was shortening as he applied pressure to his feet, but found that they were cemented to the ground. He couldn't even turn his head. He stood there, grasping a face of swelling, clammy skin, his body heavy as a statue. Yet his brain was screaming in protest, and Harry willed his body to move. Startled, Harry felt his thumbs dig into her jawbone, and bile was rising in his throat as Aunt Petunia's eyes rolled into the back of her head, revealing a sickly white. Harry was sure that his hands were the only thing holding her up, and the desire to remove his hands and get far away from her, or keep them there to help support her, was warring in his head. But he didn't have a choice anyway. There was dark smoke, no, magic, circling around her like a cloud of angry bees.
Harry screamed, but nothing left his mouth. His mouth, too, wouldn't even move as he commanded, and he felt his lips twisting against his will, that horrible hissing noise once again resounding from his own body. Try as he might he could not loosen his grip on her face, or twitch a single limb of his body. But the pace of his heart picked up two-fold while he watched, frozen, as the magic rushed into her ear before disappearing completely. Her head seemed to bulge, an over-ripe tomato about to burst, and finally Harry's hands were moving away from her face. His relief was but for a moment. Slack-jawed, Petunia Dursley smashed into the floor.
Harry's heart jolted upwards, and so did his body. Adrenaline and fear were interwoven as he tried to struggle against the magic. It was all in vain. His body was floating seamlessly from the room, floating somewhere else, but not before he saw an over-sized pair of steel-capped boots adorning the feet of what was left of Aunt Petunia.
He was at the zoo. He wasn't meant to be here, but his aunt and uncle hadn't been able to find anyone to babysit him. They always fussed over Dudley, but the way they acted on his birthdays was on an entirely different level. Harry knew they thought his very presence was staining Dudley's seventh birthday celebrations, and so he had trailed behind their party as they headed into the Reptile House.
Dudley and Piers had declared a tank containing a boa-constrictor from Brazil to be "horrifyingly boring" after they had knocked several times against the glass and received no response. Harry waited until they were occupied with some chameleons before approaching the snake. Its body was a light brown with darker brown and black patches.
"Sorry about my cousin," he told the boa-constrictor as he watched it draped over some rocks, unmoving although its scales were glistening. "It must be terrible having to do this every day. Having a bunch of grown-ups stand over you and wait for you to do something. And when you don't, they tell you that you're not trying hard enough to remember . . ." Harry's throat tightened, and he gazed at its scales.
The snake, which he had thought was content lying still in the sunlight, gave a small nod of its head.
Harry's breath quickened. "Can you hear me?" he asked, his eyes widening.
It gave another nod.
"Wow!" Harry leaned closer to the glass. "I've never talked to a snake before."
It was uncoiling, the black and brown scales fluid as it slithered upwards, and Harry was staring directly into its eyes. "I have never talked to a human before," the snake replied.
Harry was fascinated by the dark eyes that were fixed on him. Thinking he should say something else, Harry asked, "Was it better in Brazil?"
"I have always been here."
"Oh, I see." Harry's face fell. "I think I get it, because they took me from my real home. Made me live with them." Harry jerked his head over to the Dursleys, a glum expression crossing his face.
The snake pushed its head once against the glass. "You're not stopped by this. You should bite them and leave." It bared its needle-sharp fangs.
"I can't do that!" Harry objected. "Besides, they'd make me come back."
"The small one would be easy to swallow. But the meat would not be pleasant to digest." It flitted its tongue and swayed its body dramatically. Harry laughed.
His joy was short-lived as he felt a fist sinking into his stomach, and he landed on the concrete floor. Blood was flowing like a river from his grazed arm; and somehow the boa-constrictor was smoothly slithering its way over the handrails towards him. The air was rent with screams.
"Brazil, here I come . . . Thanks, amigo."
Harry smiled just as a flash of light tore through the room. While his eyes could not bear the brightness, Harry immediately clawed his hands against the shaking concrete. He knew what was going on, and refused ever again to feel so removed from his own body.
Stop, stop, stop, he thought fiercely as his eyes scrunched up. He could feel the heat of whatever this magic was, the magic that was intent on tearing through his memories. But behind his shut eyes, he could see past both the white and red this time, and the concrete wasn't reverberating so furiously anymore.
Harry forced his eyes open and they instantly landed on the prone form a few feet away from him. Dudley was whimpering on the floor, his hands trembling over his head. There was a thick stream of black smoke twisting around him like rope. The top of the smoke reared, and a head was forming. Baring a set of sharp fangs, its intent was clear.
Harry wrenched his lips apart. He couldn't let it happen again. "Don't!" he shouted. He wanted to collapse in relief as he heard his own voice ring out. But he pushed himself to continue, to break through the haze of magic. "I don't care what he's done. He doesn't deserve this!"
The smoke paused above Dudley, its blackness flickering until patches of light brown were visible.
"Don't."
The smoke convulsed, the blackness bleeding out of it. It coagulated, the blackness seeping, oozing. A shimmer, and the boa-constrictor appeared once more, landing on the floor with a thud. Heart pounding, Harry's eyes followed its slithering body out the door, trying to ignore the flashes of red burning behind his eyelids. He couldn't focus on them or he'd be lost.
Standing up on shaky legs, he rushed over to Dudley, gently touching his shoulders. But Harry was recoiling, as if he had been bitten, when baleful eyes met his own. Eyes that normally weren't the colour of coal. He was flat on his back, thrashing weakly as thick fingers wrapped around his neck. His own fingers were scrabbling against the concrete. Gasping for air and not drawing in enough, Harry felt his body going limp under the suffocating weight. His head lolled to the side, and gratefully, he let his eyelids fall shut. A wry thought of dying for real this time crossed his mind before he was free-falling into the darkness without hesitation.
Hands combed through his hair and Harry sighed as he snuggled deeper into the warm lap. He could hear the rustle of leaves, and a soft melody, the rhythm matching the slow stroking of his hair. The sun was warm against his back and the lap he was resting on rocked gently back and forth. Harry wanted to stay here forever. A laugh boomed through the air, and Harry started but did not open his eyes. There was a heavy thud of a body right next to him and a much larger hand rested on the small of his back, rubbing up and down. He burrowed his head again, and a yawn escaped his lips. There was a shushing sound, and the peace returned, occasionally accompanied by soft voices, and laughter that sounded oddly muffled.
Something white hot heated the air and it made up for both of the hands that disappeared from him. He didn't have time to whine, or to even open his eyes because his breath had left him, his face smooshing into the picnic rug. Heart racing, Harry tried to move. There was a much larger body on top of him, its hands urgently pressing him down. The gentle hands from before. Harry did as they asked and didn't struggle. He didn't even dare to breathe. Long silky hair was brushing against his cheeks. There was a shout, and Harry still did not open his eyes.
"Take him and go!"
The crushing pressure left, and he was being pulled to his feet.
"Wha-" Harry rasped, and with that his lungs seized up; it felt like one them was desperately trying to escape his throat. He had to turn back and help his dad.
A wand tip pressed against his neck, and Harry tried to thrash around in the bed - the bed - he was currently lying in. Another hand, steady and firm, was on his forehead. A clear voice reached his ears.
"Anapneo."
Immediately, his throat stopped convulsing, and Harry sucked in the air around him greedily. A cool goblet was pressed onto his lips, and as the liquid was pouring down his throat, his eyes cracked open. He was in an infirmary. His parents were long gone and nowhere to be seen. When the healer moved away, his head slumped back. He felt as drained as the goblet of potion he had just consumed.
"Is that better?" the blurry figure of the healer asked.
He tried to sit up, but his limbs were too heavy. He fell back exhausted. "Thank you."
Vanishing the goblet, she offered him a smile. "Don't push yourself. You've been through quite an ordeal."
"Whe-"
"You are on the ground floor of St. Mungo's Hospital." Gently, she placed his glasses on him. "There, now you don't have to strain your eyes. You were admitted last night, and have been here for the past nineteen hours."
"But what happened?" Harry asked, panic resurging in him as those red eyes came rushing back into his mind.
"It's alright, Harry. Just take a nice deep breath. The muggles that accosted you are being questioned by the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol," she informed him, a frown marring her face. She continued sternly, "You need to concentrate on recovering, Harry. We've healed all the injuries you received - a broken wrist, internal bleeding, head wounds, and surface cuts and bruises. There shouldn't be any residual effects, but you will need plenty of bed rest. I've been informed that once we release you, you will be staying with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley."
"The Weasleys?" Harry asked faintly.
"Yes," she said smiling, "they've been beside themselves with worry. The youngest Mr. Weasley, his siblings, and a Ms. Granger are waiting outside. Would you like to see them?"
"Yes," Harry said and nodded quickly, "yes, please."
"It's alright, dear. You're safe here. Healer Amrissi is a few beds over, so you can relax. I will be right back. Don't over-exert yourself while I'm gone, Harry."
Harry nodded again, and was sure his smile looked strained to her. But the healer returned it with one of her own before leaving the ward. His expression dropped as soon as the sound of her footsteps faded.
What had happened? Was Dudley alright? How had he ended up here? Did the Ministry know?
"Oh, Harry! Oh, Harry!"
Two people made their way over to him, and Harry was forced out of his reverie.
"We've been so worried! We never should have let you go back there, but we thought you needed space." Hermione's eyes were shining with tears as she lightly squeezed his hand. Harry caught Ron throwing a warning look at Hermione as she took the seat beside his bed.
When Ron met his eyes, he grinned at him apologetically and took the other seat. "Yeah, well anyway, it's good to see you not looking like some sort of mutated eggplant that I tried to transfigure."
"Ron!" Harry felt himself grinning, and catching sight of it, Hermione smiled weakly. "Oh, Harry. Ron sent me an owl as soon as his dad found out you'd been sent to St. Mungo's." Her voice dropped to a whisper as she continued on. "We weren't sure that you were alive, and hearing that one of them had died . . ."
"What?!" Harry shot up from the bed, wincing in the process.
Ron shot a glare at Hermione. "Don't go thinking this is your fault!"
"I . . . But what do you mean 'died'? Who's dead? What's going on? What happened?" Heat was creeping into his neck, and Harry realised with a sharp pang that the locket was absent from his neck. "Where's my locket?"
"Hey, relax, Harry! Just breathe," Ron said, alarm spreading across his freckled face. "It's there on your bedside table."
Harry turned to his right, and there it was lying innocently in front of some flowers and boxes of sweets. His mind was racing once more. What had happened? What was the Ministry investigating then? What had they found out? Head zooming back to Ron and Hermione, he stared at them beseechingly.
"Harry," Hermione began, wringing her hands. "Nothing has been disclosed yet, and you have to know that none of this is your fault." She paused and Harry's fingers twitched. "But we do know that Piers Polkiss died from a brain tumor before you were found."
"But how did that hap-"
"It wasn't magic," Ron interjected. "It's not your fault, Harry."
Hermione nodded earnestly. "We're not sure what happened, but from what Fred and George have managed to overhear with their Extendable Ears, we think that your wand and The Trace on you all came back clean. You didn't use any magic."
Harry swallowed, staring down at his sheets. What did this mean?
"Professor Dumbledore has been called in to try sort out this mess," Hermione continued, her voice less uptight. Harry's heart skipped a beat.
"Yeah, don't worry, Harry. Dumbledore'll get you out of this!" said Ron, nodding fervently. "Dad's mentioned heaps of times that he's allowed to use magic in front of muggles if it's an emergency."
"Yes, and there's also The Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery," Hermione added, searching his face. "They won't convict you if magic was performed in a life-threatening situation, even if you had used accidental magic, which you didn't. You're not getting expelled. We have O.W.L.s to take."
Ron laughed at this, Hermione too, and Harry made himself respond with his own hoarse chuckle. That at once proved to be a bad choice when he was met with another bout of painful coughs.
"I think that's enough for today," Harry's healer said as she rushed to his bed. Another goblet was pushed to his lips. Harry gulped. It was clear water this time. "You can come back and visit him tomorrow. He needs rest now."
Pale-faced, Ron and Hermione both nodded.
"G'night Harry. We'll be here tomorrow. The others are anxious to see you too. Especially my mum." Ron told him, rolling his eyes. Harry grinned.
"Goodbye, Harry," Hermione whispered and gave his hand one last squeeze. "Don't be so hard on yourself."
Harry felt himself nodding, and watched as the two of them left. He hated being so clueless, so helpless. He needed to go with them and find out what was going on. He wanted to see Ginny, and Fred and George. They were a few feet away from him, just standing there, waiting outside. He wanted to see them. He wanted to go with them. They'd all be talking non-stop, trying to eavesdrop and figure out what was going on. Except his head was aching, and he wanted to shut his eyes. But he couldn't. He was scared of what he might see if he did. Harry sank back into his bed. His whole body ached.
"Now Harry, let me just take off your glasses. There we go. And now this is a potion that will let you sleep without having to dream." Harry's body deflated at that, and there was a hand against his neck, a goblet pressing against his lips.
"What's your name?" Harry murmured against the goblet.
"You can call me Gwen," she said with a smile.
The potion went down easily, and his mind drifted peacefully into nothingness.
There was murmuring in his ears, and Harry felt his face grimace. It was too loud. It wasn't meant to be like this. He wanted to sleep. Furrowing deeper into the thick, fluffy blankets, Harry tried not to think. But the murmuring persisted. It sounded almost like hissing. Hissing. Eyes flying open, Harry found he was in a room, its walls made up of dark grey bricks. He clearly wasn't in St. Mungo's anymore, but he was still in a bed. And there was a figure standing at the foot of it. A tall figure with jet black hair, deathly pale skin and red eyes.
Harry scrambled up, his back meeting the headboard. "But the potion!"
"Did not work simply because this is not a dream." The voice was soft and lulling. "I hadn't expected you to awaken. Rest now, Harry. We will speak later when you have recovered your strength."
"Rest?" Harry repeated, bristling as he ripped off the blankets confining him. "You want me to rest? After everything you've just done? Where have you taken me? What did you do to them?"
He flung his feet over the side of the bed, and rushed to the motionless figure. The man, or whatever it was, was wearing thick black robes . . . robes that looked like nothing he had ever seen before. They were embellished with what looked like real silver. So strange. Ancient, even. But they were black, black like the cloud of smoke he could recall with terrifying detail. Harry grabbed onto the front of the robes, half expecting his fingers to run right through them. And they were nose to nose, green eyes boring into red.
"Who or what are you?" Harry spat out, conscious of how amused the red eyes looked. But he pushed his mounting trepidation aside and glared harder.
"I am the Spirit of The Millennium Riddle."
Harry refused to let his grip loosen. "Alright, 'spirit', what did you do to my cousin and his friends?" He bundled the robes harder.
"Not enough to make up for your suffering at their hands," was the soft reply.
Harry's blood boiled, and he wanted to wrap his fingers around the pale neck for everything that had happened, and so that he could also get some sort of normal reaction out of it. No. He needed to get away - get away from those red eyes before he lost himself again. He needed air.
"Harry, I wouldn't."
Harry marched towards the door and flung it open. A strangled cry tore from his mouth, and he was clinging to the doorframe. He had turned his head to the right and the world had started to spin. There was no floor to continue forward, and the room, endless feet beneath him, looked like it had been turned sideways. By all means, he should be falling. There were other doorways that looked as upturned and sideways as Harry felt. And there were staircases sticking out from all different directions that made no sense at all, that shouldn't be physically possible. And somehow, a couple of staircases had stairs sticking out on either side of them! There even looked like there was some sort of pot plant resting perpendicular to one of the walls, when it should be lying smashed on the ground below.
"What magic is this?" Harry whispered as he stared down at the floor at the very bottom of the room, certain it would be the right place to try and gain a sense of his bearings. But if he followed the numerous dark grey staircases leading from the ground . . . It certainly didn't feel parallel to the doorway he was looking out of. The more Harry focussed on the floor, the more he felt like he was standing sideways. But he was sure he was standing upwards.
Harry gave a start as something snaked around him. Hands. They were hands, and they were wrapping around his waist. "It's quite alright, Harry. You won't fall."
The spirit was right, Harry realised. There was no gravity exerting its pull. Yet he still didn't unclench his fists from the doorframe.
"What is this?" he asked, voice faint. A chin rested on his rigid shoulder, and Harry's eyes slid towards the spirit's.
"My mind," the spirit murmured, "or perhaps my soul."
"What do you mean by that?" Harry asked, utterly bewildered.
"Come, this is too disconcerting for you at the time being."
Fingers, long and smooth, were curling around his own, the hand emanating a familiar warmth against his. Harry allowed himself to be pulled back into the room. The door closed, and Harry let out a breath as the world righted itself once more.
"Until quite recently," the spirit said, "this entire landscape did not exist."
"Recently?" Harry's voice came out far too feebly for his liking. He cleared his throat. "You mean after you attacked my cousin?"
The red eyes darkened. "The times he has hurt you is countless. He who has not a breath of magic in his body, and not worthy of even being related to you. Despite this, you insist on coming to his defence!"
"You wanted to kill him!" Harry said, stunned he even had to point this out. "And you murdered Piers Polkiss."
The spirit's face was smooth. "Harry, you would not be alive if I had not intervened."
"Yeah?" Harry's chin jutted out. "Well Piers wouldn't be dead then."
"Your life instead of that filth's?" the spirit asked savagely, a leer marring its handsome face. "Absolutely not, Harry."
"You don't seem to understand at all that what you've done is wrong!" Harry made to clench his fists, but was startled to realise one of his hands was still in the spirit's.
"Permanently removing one of the many dangers in your life was not wrong." The spirit squeezed his hand.
Laughter bubbled out of Harry and he stared up at the calm face. "You are completely out of touch with reality if you think I'm going to let this continue, spirit."
"Harry," the spirit said evenly, "if you inform the Ministry of the precise details of what happened, they will snap your wand in half. You will be all the more vulnerable once you're exiled, and forced to live among the magicless."
"No," Harry said immediately. "No, they won't. They'll take your locket away, your Millennium Riddle". The image of a seven year old Dudley whimpering on the ground made Harry offer the spirit a twisted smile.
"Is that what you want?" it asked softly.
The smile slid right off, heat suffusing his face. He thought back to all the times the locket had been there for him, radiating heat and beating in time with his heart until it was steady once more. As a smile played on the spirit's lips, he said hurriedly, "It doesn't matter. The Ministry's gotten involved, and there's no way they won't find out it was me."
"Magic is ever-changing, Harry." The spirit's eyes burnt brightly. "I assure you, the people you call 'Ministry Officials' will not be able to identify my magic, or find any evidence whatsoever. I would not be so careless as to put you in the way of harm."
"Oh really?" Harry said mockingly. "What about all the other times I've been beaten up? I've worn you for years. Where were you then? Why didn't you say anything? I've been trying to open you for as long as I can remember!"
Harry yanked his hand back and the spirit grimaced.
"I told you Harry, until recently, this room, this entire landscape, did not exist. I had no form. I was less than a dribble of black smoke trapped in the locket you wear around your neck. For the most part, I have been flitting in and out of consciousness, unable to fully grasp any concept of time or space." Lips curved into a smile. "My moments of greatest clarity occurred when you were experiencing powerful emotions."
Harry's hand moved to his chest, but brushed against nothing. Shocked, Harry remembered he hadn't yet put the locket back on.
The spirit's smile widened. Warmth was flowing through Harry as both his hands were taken into the spirit's. "Now that I have a form, I will assist you in every way that I can." A thumb ran down Harry's hand. "I could help you with your magic. Those who have a deep understanding of it, who know how to properly wield it, can accomplish great deeds, Harry."
Harry swallowed. His red eyes seemed so earnest. "But how can I even trust you? You possessed me not a day ago!"
"No," the spirit corrected, "I used my magic to bring you into a dimension where I would be able to wield my own magic. Your memories helped anchor me, and that filth's death helped me regain this form."
Harry didn't have the knowledge to respond to that. He wasn't even sure if it made sense. As his mind buzzed and he wished he owned a pensieve, the spirit's red eyes stared at him expectantly. Harry latched onto the questions he should have asked already. "But what are you? And why are you in a locket? Did someone put you there?"
The spirit frowned at that, hands tightening around his own. "I confess I don't have the answer to any of those questions." Harry froze as his right hand was gently brought upward by the spirit's, and he softly planted a kiss on it. "Help me find out, Harry."
Heat, far too much heat, was emanating from him, from the both of them.
"I . . ."
The spirit's eyes, they were soft with the openness he always craved. Harry stared, mesmerised. But a sharp pain was shooting through his stomach, and the soft look in the spirit's eyes disappeared, turning to something darker. Harry doubled over. It was as if there was a hand squeezing his insides. He fell forward, expecting to crash into the dark stone, but he was caught by the spirit's warm arms. While steady hands pressed against his stomach he was clutching, Harry realised that it was concern. Concern was what he had seen in the spirit's eyes.
A cry echoed in the room. His or the spirit's he wasn't sure, for a prickling sensation was spreading through his body and he couldn't think straight. He looked down to find that the outline of his own body was wavering. There was a great pull, and he was being torn from the spirit's arms. He was rising upwards, helpless to stop it.
The last thing he saw was the worry in the spirit's eyes. Harry's heart quickened.
He was in the infirmary once more. His body was just as it had been before he had fallen asleep: sedate but aching. Out of the corner of his eyes he could see a mass of long white hair. An intake of breath, and Harry was carefully turning his head against his pillow. He was met with what he was sure was the blurry outline of his headmaster sitting at his bedside.
"Harry, dear boy. I am pleased to see you awake, perhaps not well, but alive. Would you like your glasses?"
His face felt frozen, but Harry made his lips move and was glad to do so. "Yes, please."
Professor Dumbledore's blue eyes came into focus. "I have come to inform you that you will not be expelled from Hogwarts, an issue which I am sure is at the forefront of your mind. The matter of Dudley Dursley and his accomplices is more complicated. We have much to discuss. Would you like to open one of these sweet boxes you've been sent?"
Harry nodded mutely.
As Dumbledore turned to his bedside, Harry spied the locket. It gleamed gold, and the glistening green jewels seemed to wink at him.
His heart was in his throat. He had no idea what he was going to say.
There was a tear and a rustle, and Dumbledore was offering a box of chocoballs to him. Mechanically, Harry took one, the chocolate already melting underneath his fingers where he held it. A warmth spread through him as he took his first bite. And Harry was thinking of his mother's tight arms encircling him, trying to shield him from view.
Swallowing thickly, Harry opened his mouth. "Professor, I have to tell you what happened."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. He leaned forward, smiling encouragingly.
"Go on, then."
He had no idea how this was going to turn out, but he had to give his thoughts voice. This was what had to be done. Harry's lips parted.