Chapter Text
Harry knew, logically, how his parents died.
He knew what’d led up to it, the switching of the Secret-Keepers, the betrayal of Peter Pettigrew– Wormtail. He knew what’d happened when Voldemort got to the house, too, thanks to the Dementors the year before. James Potter bravely tries to hold him off, while Lily Potter runs into the bedroom. Voldemort kills James Potter, and makes his way to Lily. Lily begs for Voldemort to kill her instead of Harry, and Voldemort kills her anyway.
He knew all of it. Leading up to it, the actual events, and the aftermath. He’d dreamed it, caught snatches of it in half-buried memories returned via Dementors. Even before he’d come to Hogwarts, he remembered two things; the light, and the laugh.
Harry had never actually known what’d killed his parents.
Now, staring down at the dead, enlarged spider, he did. Moody was still talking, but Harry wasn’t paying attention. No, Harry was looking at that spider, the green light still flashing behind his eyelids every time he blinked. He was wondering if it’d been painful, when Voldemort killed his mother, or it’d felt more like slipping away, falling asleep.
In his three years at Hogwarts, he’d heard vague mentions of the Unforgivables. He’d heard people whisper about the Avada Kedavra, the killing curse. And he hadn’t thought much about it. He knew that he’d lived when Voldemort had struck him with the curse, but he’d never really considered what’d he’d used to kill his parents.
Then, Moody pointed his wand at the spider, and he knew.
Had that been the last thing they’d seen? The green light, and then the cruel laughter? Was it their last memory, much as it’d been Harry’s first?
“ Harry,” Ron nudged him, shaking him out of the memories. “Class’ over.”
Harry blinked, looking around. The classroom was empty, and there was no sign of Moody. How long had he been looking at that spider?
Slowly, he stood up and followed Ron outside the classroom. His footsteps were halting, and he felt rather as though gravity wasn’t working. Or, he was merely some spectator, watching his body walk around without his permission. No matter what he did, he couldn’t drag his mind out of that night, thirteen years ago.
“Harry,” Once again, he was pulled from his thoughts, this time by Hermione. “Harry, are you alright? You’re looking quite pale.”
It was nice of her to not comment on the thousand-yard-stare he’d surely had, he thought. “Don’t worry, Hermione,” he said woodenly. “I’m fine.” Judging by the frown she wore, he hadn’t convinced her, but she turned her gaze back to the stairs they were walking down.
“Well, that set off the year with a bang,” Ron said, shaking his head disbelievingly. “I can’t believe he performed those curses in a classroom.”
Hermione scoffed, tossing her curly hair over her shoulder. “ I can’t believe Dumbledore gave him permission. He said it himself, this is sixth-year material! Not to mention, those curses are illegal for anyone who isn’t an Auror or in the middle of a war, and just because Moody was one of the best, he’s still retired.”
Humming, Harry looked away, focusing more on the spiralling stairs before him. “You heard him. Constant vigilance, and all that. He probably thinks he’s doing us a favour.”
Ron rolled his eyes, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, but, like– what does he think we’re gonna do with this? We’re fourteen! And I mean, besides you and Neville–”
“Ron!” Cutting him off, Hermione elbowed him nodding pointedly to his left, where Neville stood, unmoving.
“Oh!” Ron squeaked. “Hi, Neville!”
Neville didn’t respond.
Hesitantly, Hermione inched closer to him. “Neville, are you okay?” She asked, much like she’d done with Harry only moments before.
“Hm? Oh, yeah, don’t worry,” Neville shrugged, still staring into the distance.
The sound of footsteps behind them turned Harry’s head, and he blinked. Moody was heading down the stairs, right for them. The expression on his face was indecipherable, but both of his eyes were fixed on Neville. As he came closer, Harry shuffled out of the way, allowing him to stand beside him.
“It’s alright, Longbottom,” the teacher said gruffly. “Why don’t you come up to my office, I can get you a cup of tea.”
At that, Neville finally turned away from the window. His gaze darted up to meet Moody’s, but there was a wild kind of fear in his eyes that made Harry distinctly uncomfortable. Eventually, he nodded.
Satisfied, Moody turned his magic eye onto the three of them. “Seems harsh, I know, demonstrating the spells,” he shook his head darkly. “But it’s better to know in the long run. Many didn’t, back in the war, and look where that got them…”
Both Harry and Neville flinched.
“You doing alright, Potter?” Moody said, and Harry felt frustration beginning to well up inside of him. Why did people keep asking that?
Steeling his gaze, Harry glared up at Moody. “Fine, professor.” He could hear the bitterness in his own voice, but he didn’t feel much inclined to stop it.
Moody nodded, and clasped a hand on Neville’s shoulder, half dragging him up the stairs. As the trio once again started to descend, Harry glanced back up at Moody and Neville, only to meet Neville’s eyes. There was something sad in them, something that Harry recognised in himself on the days where he missed his parents like an ache in his gut.
Then, Neville turned away, and Harry focused back on the stairs.
“-brilliant man, though,” Ron was saying, as Harry tuned in to the conversation he and Hermione were engaging in. “Definitely mad, though. Did you see the way that spider just– just dropped dead? You’d have to be mad to show that to a class of fourteen-year-olds.” Then, he caught sight of Harry’s blank expression and closed his mouth.
Harry didn’t go to the Great Hall. The memory of the spider, intermingling with the memories of his parent’s deaths was still too fresh, and he didn’t think he’d be able to eat anything anyway. So, he left Ron and Hermione at the doors as they exchanged concerned looks, and went back up to Gryffindor Tower.
Sitting on his bed, he grabbed a spare piece of parchment, and began writing without even thinking about it.
Sirius,
We had our first DADA class today. Moody is exactly like everyone said he was– terrifying, and a bit mad.
He’s making us learn about the Unforgivables. He demonstrated the killing curse in class on a spider. I remember Thanks to the Dementors last year, I got a few memories back of the night my parents died that night. I guess I never thought about what spell he used, but now I can’t stop thinking about it.
Hagrid said you were at the house first.
Were my parents
It looked like the spider’s death was painless. I hope that it was the same for mum and dad.
Was there anything that you saw at the house that
I could kind of remember that night before the Dementors, too. I mostly dreamt it, though, so for years I thought that it was my imagination. Before I found out about magic, I thought mum and dad died in a car crash, so I always wondered why I remembered green light and laughter. But with the Dementors, and now this, I’m really starting to think that I was actually remembering it the whole time.
I don’t know what to do about that.
Sorry, I don’t know what I’m telling you this. This will probably upset you just as much as me. I guess I just wanted to tell someone who might understand, maybe.
Sorry,
Harry
Harry stared down at the hastily scrawled letter, setting his quill to the side. God, what was he thinking, writing this down, planning to send it to Sirius? If Sirius didn’t already think that he was pathetic for complaining about the Dursleys’, he certainly would now. And it would almost definitely make him angry. Whenever Sirius brought up his parents in his past letters, it was always with a melancholic or bitter tone. Being wrongfully imprisoned in Azkaban probably meant that Sirius likely hadn’t accepted his parent’s deaths yet, especially if he spent most of his time as a dog.
Finally, the frustration caught up with him, and he threw the letter across the room with an angry yell. Why did Sirius have to be thrown in Azkaban? Why couldn’t he have been raised by someone who actually wanted to be there? If he couldn’t have his own parents, at least he could’ve had Sirius, and probably Professor Lupin, too! And Harry wouldn’t have to be worried about being secretive when sending letters to the one of the only adults that actually cared about him, or hesitate to send him a slightly-more-emotional letter, or worry about him being captured or found by the Aurors!
“You okay, Harry?”
Neville’s soft voice startled Harry out of his spiralling thoughts, and he jumped out of his bed to pick up the letter. If Neville even caught a glimpse of who he was writing to…
Sirius would be done for. And Harry would likely be done for right along with him, and thrown straight into Azkaban for helping a criminal escape and corresponding with him.
“Yep!” His voice was rather high-pitched, but at least he didn’t sound completely suspicious.
“Are you sure?” Neville asked, frowning in concern. Harry shied away from the worry in his eyes, his gaze falling upon the book Neville had clutched in his hands.
“New book?” Harry gestured to it. Neville levelled him with a glare that said I know what you’re doing, but thankfully, he accepted the abrupt subject change.
“Yeah, Moody gave it to me. I was a little terrified when he pulled me into his office, but he just gave me the book, and talked about Professor Sprout telling him that I have a hand in Herbology,” there was a tiny sliver of pride buried under the nervous rambling, one that Harry had only rarely heard. “It’s quite interesting so far, actually.”
Harry simply nodded, staying silent. With great effort, he dragged himself back to his bed, where he sat, looking out the window. Behind him, he could hear Neville rummaging around in his trunk, and then sitting on his own bed. Harry was grateful that Neville didn’t try to make any awkward small talk, or ask Harry if he was okay again. He’d had enough of that for the day.
After several long minutes spent in silence, Neville cleared his throat. Automatically, Harry turned to face him, half ready to tell him that he just wanted to spend some time alone, when he saw the look on his face.
Neville wore an expression that held a mixture of nervousness and something like grief. It was an expression Harry hadn’t seen from him before, but one that shut down his thoughts of telling Neville to leave him alone.
“My parents…” He began, and cleared his throat again. He didn’t meet Harry’s eyes. “My parents, at the end of the war, they were… Have you heard of Bellatrix Lestrange?” Harry shook his head. “Oh. Well, she was a Death Eater. After– well. After You-Know-Who died, she and two others hunted down my parents. Tortured them for information on You-Know-Who’s whereabouts.”
Harry was speechless. He’d known that Neville lived with his grandmother, but he’d never tried to pry into the surrounding circumstances.
“They didn’t say anything. They never said anything, and she tortured them for so long that they don’t even know who I am. I’ll visit them in St. Mungo’s, a-and they don’t even know I’m there,” he paused for a few moments, still not looking at Harry. “She used the Cruciatus Curse to do it.”
Oh. Now he understood.
“Neville…” Harry hesitated. When anyone offered him pity, he’d just feel worse. Neville would probably feel the same. “I remember the night my parents died.” He said instead of something stupid, like I’m sorry, or that’s awful.
Neville’s gaze whipped up to meet his own for the first time since he’d opened up about his parents. His eyes were wide, but he understood what Harry was doing.
“I remembered it before I came to Hogwarts, even. The Dementors’, last year, they brought more of it back, but even before then, I still… I still remembered the green light.
And the laughing,” he laughed bitterly. “My dad tried to hold Voldemort off, to give me and my mum a chance to run. When Voldemort killed him, he followed us. My mother asked him to kill her instead of me. He, um. When he killed her, he laughed. And I’m pretty sure that that’s the first thing I remember.” He felt rather numb as he finished, but still met Neville’s eyes.
“Thank you for telling me,” Neville said after a long silence.
“Thank you too. Is Bellatrix Lestrange dead?”
“No. Azkaban.”
“Ah. She deserves it.”
Neville nodded, an uncharacteristic anger colouring his features. “She deserves worse.”
“Maybe,” Harry hummed, looking down at the letter to Sirius still in his hand. He thought about the utter despair in Sirius’ eyes, the way his hands shook, and his anger at Wormtail erupted out of him in violent outbursts. He thought about the confession Sirius had made in one of his letters, that he couldn’t remember a single happy experience without being reminded of it first. “Dementors… I wouldn’t wish them on almost anyone. But people like her, like Voldemort… I think they deserve not being able to feel anything good. Karma, maybe.”
“Yeah,” Neville frowned down at his hands. “Last year, just having them outside the school grounds was bad enough. Maybe full exposure is what they deserve. Let her feel the same amount of fear my parents felt when she was torturing them.”
A small part of Harry wanted to object, wanted to protest that no one deserved to face the Dementors, but, well, it was small. The rest of Harry remembered the aching loneliness of his childhood, longing for someone to fill the role his parents left vacant. He remembered looking at other children, looking at Dudley, and seeing how much their parents cared about them, and thinking I’ll never have that.
Yes, maybe they deserved it after all.
***
Later that night, Harry was sitting in the common room, staring blankly into the roaring fire. He felt much better after the conversation with Neville, but not enough to do something as mundane as do on his Potion’s homework. His mind was on the letter to Sirius, the one he was still turning over in his hands. Should he send it after all? Talking to Neville had felt like lifting a great weight off of his chest for the first time in his entire life. And telling Sirius, who’d been there, who’d sworn to take care of Harry in his parent’s stead, would likely feel even better. Neville understood, especially after the class with Moody, but Sirius was his Godfather.
The sound of the portrait door swinging open caught his attention, and he turned to see Ron and Hermione walking into the common room.
“Hey, Harry,” Hermione shot him a small smile as she sat down beside him. Thankfully, she didn’t say anything, only leaned against Harry and looked into the fire with him.
“What’ve you got there?” Ron asked as he sat down, gesturing to the letter in his hands.
He held it up, eyeing the scratched out sentences he’d been too cowardly to finish. “A letter to Sirius. About today.” It was all he could bring himself to say, but Hermione caught on instantly.
“You should send it,” she nudged him gently. “He’d love to hear from you, no matter the subject. And really, he’d be the best person to talk to about this.”
Harry grimaced. “I just don’t– He’s already worried enough about getting found, I don’t want to add more to it.”
“Mate,” Ron scoffed. “He’s literally your godfather, he’s gonna worry about you either way.”
It was a fair enough point, he supposed. In almost every letter he’d sent, Sirius was worried about something, be it the Dursleys’, the Voldemort-related dreams he was having, the events at the Quiddich World Cup, the Triwizard Tournament, or simply Harry’s wellbeing. Maybe he would send it.
In the end, every time Harry had meant to send it, he’d been swept up in some Weasley twins’ scheme, or distracted by Ron, or forgotten entirely. By the time October rolled around, and he still hadn’t sent it, he was too caught up in the Triwizard Tournament.
It wasn’t until his name came out of the stupid flaming cup, and he’d been thoroughly interrogated, that he sent the letter, along with a new one, detailing how he now was the fourth champion in the extremely dangerous, life-threatening tournament.
He almost hadn’t sent it along, but Hermione pushed when she realised he’d never sent it to begin with.
And, well. Better Sirius have one massive heart attack over the two letters, than two heart attacks a month apart.
***
Sirius Black was not, in fact, having a heart attack. No, he was reacting to the sudden onslaught of information in a very calm and collected manner.
(Sirius Black was freaking the fuck out.)
Both of the letters Harry had sent were concerning in their own right. First, that Harry’s first memory was that of Lord Voldemort killing his parents, and that Dumbledore was allowing Mad-Eye Moody to cast Unforgivables in a classroom full of fourteen-year-olds. Second, that Harry was now unwillingly entered into a magically binding contract with an ancient magical artefact, which would force him to compete in the bloody Triwizard Tournament.
Fuck.
Well, if Sirius wasn’t already returning to England because of Harry’s Voldemort-dream, he certainly would be now. Not that there would be much he could even do; it seemed reasonable that they wouldn’t let a convicted mass-murderer in to watch the tasks. Or into the school. Or even into Hogsmeade.
Last year was lucky. Lucky that he’d never been caught, that the Dementors never caught on, that Remus hadn’t told Dumbledore that he was an Animagus. Too much depended on his secrecy now, that he didn’t dare let luck play a part in it. He was practically Harry’s only lifeline, he couldn’t afford to get thrown back into Azkaban.
Hang on, Sirius straightened, nearly hitting his head on the roof of the cave he’d been camped out in.
Harry had mentioned, at the beginning of the summer, that he’d wanted to stay in touch with Remus, but felt too awkward to reach out first. Remus, who wasn’t a convicted mass-murderer. Remus, who– while he was a known werewolf– wasn’t a target for Aurors. If Remus showed up at Hogwarts, no one would think twice. Sure, after Snape had outed him as a werewolf, he’d resigned, but everyone had loved him. Harry had practically sung his praises as a teacher, and according to him, most of the school didn’t give a shit.
This would work. Sirius would continue to Hogsmeade, close if Harry needed him, and Remus would be able to write openly, without questioning, show up at Hogwarts if needed, and they could help Harry.
With a tentative grin on his face, Sirius grabbed a notebook he’d stolen from a Muggle store, and began writing a letter to Remus.