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Chapter 21 - Family
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The balls Harry had been juggling in the air began to crash down to the floor. One by one, precious orb by precious orb, each and every ball was being sundered. No sooner had he plugged the dyke with one finger than a new spout of water burst forth from somewhere else. And all around, in every direction, those he loved, those who loved him were dying.

“I DIDN’T WANT THIS BLOODY WAR!”

Harry flung his cup of tea against the stone wall and it smashed to pieces, shards tinkling to the ground, and drips of brown liquid streaking the wall. Sirius drew his wand cleaned the mess, reassembled the cup and levitated it back down on the table in front of Harry.

“Well, that’s too damn bad now, isn’t it?” Sirius poured more tea into Harry’s cup. “A little sugar?” he asked. Harry clenched both his fists and looked up at his uncle.

“Yes, please,” he said through gritted teeth. Sirius dropped a teaspoonful into Harry’s cup and the spoon began to stir by itself as he sat back down across from Harry.

“We’ve been over this a thousand times, Harry. There’s nothing you could have done.”

“You sat right there last summer, Sirius, and told me, warned me not to listen to him.” Harry donned his best Sirius-like voice. “‘The time will come when he asks you to do something you know in your heart is wrong. When he does, talk to me.’ Well, I didn’t talk to you first, did I? And now Molly Weasley’s dead, the Ministry despises me, Lucius Malfoy’s Death Eaters have Gabriella, and Voldemort is out there looking for my son so he can… Merlin only knows what. NOTHING I COULD HAVE DONE?” Harry’s fist wrapped around his cup and he began to lift it once again.

“Ah, ah, ah!” chimed Sirius, waving his finger back and forth, and then tapping it to the table. Harry put the cup down. “You know it was your father that was always the calming influence on me.” He began to smile. “Once Peter…” He paused as his eyes grew distant. “Never mind.” Sirius took a sip of tea.

“I can’t just sit here and do nothing,” said a very frustrated Harry.

“That’s exactly the attitude that nearly cost me my life,” Sirius answered. “A little thought, a little patience. Cho and Anthony and Jamie will be safe here. No one knows there here and if they did they still wouldn’t know how to get in. I think you’ll make an excellent Secret Keeper, and the spell you cast on the castle to make it unplottable… Well, you didn’t learn that at Hogwarts.”

“I don’t know,” said Harry, pondering the flashes of skill that had penetrated his being since the Joining. “It just came to me.”

“As for Gabriella,” said Sirius, “the entire Order is out looking for her, Harry. Until they get a lead, there’s nothing you can do.”

“I can talk to Draco.”

“After what he’s done? He can cool his arse for a few more days.” Harry slouched back in his chair.

What had Draco done? Had he planned the whole thing? Was he somehow behind Gabriella’s capture? Did he intend for Harry to be ambushed at the Ministry? It was Draco, after all that had suggested the cloak be used as a Horcrux, but to what end?

“Two steps ahead,” Harry whispered.

“What’s that?” Sirius asked.

“I’ve only been thinking two steps ahead,” Harry answered. “You were right; I need to be thinking four more. Only, I can’t.” Harry’s fingers began to tap against the table top. “But I know someone who can.” Sirius leaned forward.

“Harry, you can’t go there today… not today. Besides, you won’t be able to get within miles of the Burrow. The Ministry will have the place surrounded. Maybe after the holiday, when they go back to Hogwarts—”

“I can’t wait!” Harry snapped. “You know what they’re doing to her right now, don’t you? You know!” Harry’s hand slammed the table and he stood. “When the three of us are together… I don’t know, the fog clears.”

“You can’t Apparate in, and they’ll have every entrance guarded,” Sirius asserted.

Harry closed his eyes and concentrated. He hadn’t tried his skills as a Metamorphmagus since summer and he’d only done Ron twice. Catching the right shade of red was particularly difficult. Carefully, he focussed on his best friend. It lasted some five minutes – black to red, a stretch of a few inches, a bit deeper voice, and a strong need for more socks. Looking at a redheaded Harry in clothes a full size too small for him, Sirius had to smile.

“I don’t suppose you’re going dressed like that.”

“Guess I forgot,” Harry answered sheepishly.

“Yeah… you can’t even think one step ahead,” said Sirius rolling his eyes. “Maybe you’re right after all. Grab one of the black robes out of my closet and be off with yeh.” Harry nodded and turned toward Sirius’ room.

“And, Harry, if you get a wild hair to put your neck in another noose, let me know before they tighten the knot, okay.” Harry nodded again.

“Promise?” asked Sirius.

“Promise,” Harry answered. Once again he turned toward the corridor only this time he stopped himself and turned back toward Sirius. “Christmas,” he said looking at the decorations Sirius had strung, as best he could, about the walls. “It’s a time to be with family. Cho should be with her brother at St. Mungo’s. I should be here with you.”

“And little Jamie?” Sirius asked.

“Life is never what we plan, is it Sirius?”

“No, Harry. No, it’s not.” Sirius rose from his chair and walked over to Harry putting his arms about his godson. He sighed and looked into Harry’s freckled face. “I think maybe, with a little thought, you might make your family’s Christmas a bit brighter.” He ruffled Harry’s red hair. “Say, ‘Hi,’ to your brother for me.”

For a moment Harry didn’t understand, but then he whispered, “Bloody hell.” He ran down the corridor his pants three inches too short. Sirius chuckled, poured himself another cup of tea and wandered down the corridor to find Cho, Anthony and Jamie.

Pulling off his over-tight shirt in Sirius’ room, a cold shiver passed through Harry. It took him a minute to realize that it was a ghost, one of the many that haunted the castle. It was a young man, dressed in a tunic.

“I don’t recall… wait… a disguise. You’re the Potter boy aren’t you?” Harry glared at the ghost.

“I’m no boy,” said Harry, his eyes filled with fire. The ghost chuckled soft and whispery.

“Child, I have walked these grounds for over three thousand years, this castle for the last five hundred. To my eyes, to Helen’s you are all children.” He moved closer, reaching out his hand to Harry’s shoulder. “Is it true what she says?” His hand touched Harry’s bare shoulder. It was ice, but substantial, rough and calloused, and Harry instinctively jerked away.

“Ho, Ho!” cried the ghost. “Helena was right! You walk the precipice then?”

“Precipice?” asked Harry, slipping on Sirius' robe.

“The knife-edge between this plane and the next, life and… death. Some part of you has died, the rest has cheated death. The part of you that has died lingers with its living self; it has no choice. But it yearns to return to the golden light… to find its way home. Can you not feel it?”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Harry dismissively. He turned and found nearly a dozen ghosts gathering a round staring at him. They all were smiling as if looking at a new born baby in a bassinet.

“What are you staring at?!” Harry snapped.

“Perhaps once in an age, does one such as yourself appear.”

“So?”

The gathering ghosts laughed. Then, they began to hum; it was a slow soft buzzing that built itself into a chant. Each recited a different language, but in Harry’s mind they sang in unison with a common tongue that, somehow, he knew they had hummed for centuries.

The golden light shall always call
its wayward children home.
Yet those who ill chose found the fall,
remain adrift, alone.
Till comes the day a new sun born,
when dragon wakes the world
and all the darkness deep be torn,
and coming light unfurled.
We wait the day the dragon comes
One blind who regains sight
We wait the day the dragon comes
To guide us to the light.

“My child, those you see around you have been trapped in this plane of existence for centuries, regretting each moment the decision they made on the day of their death, each searching for the blind dragon that would lead us from our folly. Only now are we sure. Only now do we have hope. Through you, when the new sun is born, we have the chance to answer the question again… to pass into the next plane, to die utterly.”

“I haven’t time for this nonsense,” said Harry, pulling his wand.

“Over the last hundred years, ghosts have gathered to this spot never truly understanding why, never knowing what called them. The answer has now been revealed – they have waited for you – the blind dragon that sees again.”

“You’re crazy and I have to go.” Harry raised his wand preparing to Disapparate.

“You mustn’t put yourself at risk!” said the ghost with concern. “If the rest of you were to die, there would be no hope for those here.”

“Not to worry. I have no intention of dying.” Indeed, he focused his mind on much happier thoughts. There was a snap – Harry had Disapparated.

When he reappeared, the air was just as moist but far more frigid. The sun was still high in the sky, casting a myriad of shadows through the leafless trees above. There was a thin dusting of snow on the ground and all about him the trees rose like skyscrapers, reaching for the heavens. He loved this countryside, he always had and having his eyesight back made it just that much more beautiful. For a moment he just looked about taking in the scenery, wishing that he could just… he reached down and made a small snowball in the palms of his hands. Smiling down at the white orb, he heard a distant snap in the trees to his left. An Apparation? A stick? He dropped the snowball and pulled his wand.

He squinted, but saw nothing. Then, he closed his eyes and reached further. Even with his mind’s eye, searching for an aura of life ahead, he could not distinguish anything through the brightness of the living trees. Shrugging, he slipped his wand away and made for the road that led to the Borough. He walked for about ten minutes when he found the road. He cast a quick spell, cleaning the snow and debris from the bottom of his robes. He could see up ahead three, no four wizards certainly part of the Ministry, guarding the roads leading to the Borough, protecting the Weasley family from interruption on what must surely be a sad Christmas holiday. Once more, he concentrated on his metamorphosis, making sure that every feature was the image of his best friend, Ron Weasley.

As he moved forward, he noticed that the wizards were wearing black, not the normal Ministerial purple that Mr. Weasley’s guards would normally wear. Probably in honour of Mrs. Weasley’s death, Harry thought. Believing it would look awkward for Ron to try to sneak by, Harry decided it best to simply walk forward with his head up as if he had nothing to hide.

“There,” one of the guards ahead cried out, pointing at Harry. “Right there!” Two others turned toward Harry.

“It’s one of the Weasley boys!” one shouted. Harry smiled to himself. His disguise was working.

“Take him down,” another barked out with a gruff, commanding voice.

“Immobulus!” cried the guard nearest the Ronald Weasley look-alike. Harry didn’t understand. Why were they attacking him? He had no time to draw his wand. Instead he held out his hand, hoping that if he focused hard enough…

“Áreddotu!” he commanded and the beam reflected back to the sender, freezing him where he stood. The quiet afternoon air suddenly filled with a blaze of beams from the remaining three wizards, all attacking Harry. But before even the second spell, a stunner, flew threw the air, Harry had his wand at the ready and began to deflect them as best he could. The reflected beams crashed into trees, cracking some in two and starting fires in others. Soon the nearby forest was ablaze and a black billowing smoke rose to the dusty blue sky above.

Off to Harry’s left, another wizard in black robes appeared as Harry continued to press forward. A beam of blue light flew towards Harry who directed it skyward with a shield charm; it exploded into a canopy of blue sparkles like a Filibuster Firework. All of Harry’s spells to this point were defensive, and then he came to the wizard that was prone on the ground, the one that cast the first spell. Dangling down around his neck was a mask – the mask of a Death Eater. Death Eater? Harry looked ahead at one of the other attackers. He too had his mask down about his neck. Evidently, they’d removed them to take in the sun’s warmth on the cold, winter day.

Something was wrong, terribly wrong. Had Voldemort’s men, or Malfoy’s, taken the Borough as they had done the year before? Last year the Weasley home had been vacant, but this year… this year… his friends… his family! Harry began to attack.

He felled two almost at once with a stunning spell. Diving down low to avoid another stunner from the front, a slashing hex sliced across his left shoulder leaving a nasty gash; he screamed in pain as the wizard to his left laughed. It was the last sound he made. Harry spun and took that wizard down, leaving only the two in front of him. Pulling from the lessons he’d learned from Greg Goyle, Harry sent a broad, powerful stunner toward the pair. It blasted both backward to the ground. Harry pressed forward along the muddy roadway, wand held firmly in front. One wizard stayed down, while the other rose unsteadily to his feet.

“Incarcerous!” shouted Harry. Ropes wrapped about the prone wizard, but the other deflected the spell.

“You’re too young to be the older boy,” the wizard in front asserted breathlessly, his wand held at the ready. “The one that plays with dragons.” He Disapparated and re-apparated to Harry’s right, near the trees, casting a stunner that flew wide.

“You’re too skilled with a wand to be the young one,” the wizard argued wisely. Again he Disapparated and re-apparated this time back towards the road. “Incendio!” he called. Had Harry not been a member of the Votary, trained to withstand fire, he’d have most certainly been incinerated. Instead, the flames wrapped about his body like loving snakes. Harry simply pointed his wand forward, toward his adversary, and the flames flew back toward him, encircling him like snapping piranha. He began to scream and Disapparated once more.

There was a SNAP to Harry’s left; this time Harry was ready, sending a particularly strong stunning spell in the direction of… purple robes. The wizard flew backward and crumpled to the ground.

“Oh, no,” Harry whispered and he ran toward the fallen wizard from the Ministry. He looked down to see the wizard, a man Harry recognized from the Hogwarts Express earlier in the year – the same wizard Harry had felled during the Dementor attack.

“Oh, no.”

Almost immediately, the air filled with the crackling of popcorn. Harry ignored the sound to see if the man before him needed assistance, but before he could even place a hand on the wizard’s chest the air crackled and everything went black.

As he began to regain consciousness, he noticed he was being jerkily jangled about like so much loose change in someone’s pocket. He was being carried; they were running. They were arguing in hushed whispers.

“I’m not the one who just blasted the Minister’s son!”

“It was an accident! I thought—”

“You thought wrong! The boy sends out a distress flare and you go in wands blazing.”

“Would you two just stop arguing?” It was a female voice. “Get the boy inside; I need to get the others to see if there are more of Malfoy’s men than those Ron took down. Incredible! He takes out five Death Eaters and our own man shoots him in the back.”

“I said it was—” There was a pop and she was gone. Harry, still looking like Ron Weasley, began to stir. His head was pounding, his left shoulder aching.

“Hey, I… I—”

“Stay still, Ron; there’s a good lad.”

“Yes, son, best not to speak.”

Harry opened his eyes. They had just passed the wooden fence that skirted the front of the Weasley home. Harry had never seen it in such good repair. They headed up the front steps, when another wizard in purple robes opened the front door. Behind him was Hermione Granger. For an instant, Harry met eye to eye with her, and in that instant he revealed one of those eyes as a flash of green. She gasped, covering her mouth.

“What’s going on?” asked the wizard.

“It’s the youngest Weasley boy,” replied one of the men carrying Harry. “He was ambushed just down the road. He took down a few Death Eaters with him by the looks of things.”

“Ron?” questioned the wizard at the door. “I just saw him not twenty minutes ago… upstairs in his room reading a—”

“Erm, he left for a walk,” interrupted Hermione. “All the stress… he needed to get away.”

“He should know better. Wait until his father finds out.” Harry noticed Hermione quietly slip away.

“He was hit with a neuropathy jinx,” said the wizard that had struck Harry from behind. “Best that we get the cobwebs cleared before he—”

“How can you be so sure? That’s a very complex spell. Besides yourself, only a very few—”

“Look, I know okay!” the wizard snapped irritably.

“Yeah, you know all right,” muttered the other.

“Let’s just get him inside, okay?”

As they moved him into the house, the sound of wand fire could be heard off into the distance. Evidently, Harry had stumbled across only one group of what was to be a combined attack. Once inside, Harry was taken to a small room just off the kitchen. His legs began to tingle. He didn’t remember this room being here before. It was a small medical suite used for treating minor injuries. He was placed on a tall, hard bed and the wizard that had greeted them at the door began to examine him.

“That’s a nasty gash.” He bathed it in blue light, and then reached into one of the cabinets. “Here, drink this.” He handed Harry a potion and, though his hand was shaking badly, Harry drank it down. The tingling in his legs stopped as did the pounding in his head. “It’s good they got you here while you could still drink. Potions always treat neuropathy better than spells.” Harry began to sit up, but the wizard pushed him back down.

“Best if you rest a bit, Ron. I’ll go get your father.” Harry dropped his head back down as the wizard left the room. Half a heartbeat later, Hermione slipped in quietly and walked over to his side.

“Harry?” she asked uncertainly. He smiled, shakily.

“Not quite how I planned it,” he said using his own voice.

“Your eyes… one’s turning green again.” She touched the side of his face which was still grimy from falling face first into the mud.

“I needed to see you guys,” said Harry, rising to a seated position. “I couldn’t wait and I thought—” The door opened and in walked Ron.

“What in Merlin’s— whoa!” Ron yelped, seeing his own likeness. Slowly, he closed the door behind him, and then stepped over for a closer look. “Harry?”

“Who’s that?” exclaimed Harry, grasping Hermione by the hand. “What have you been doing behind my back, Hermione?”

“I… I didn’t know, love,” said Hermione, clinging to Harry’s arm.

“You can’t be serious,” said Ron. The two just stared at him blankly. “I mean… I’m Ron, right?”

Harry and Hermione began to laugh and Harry transformed back into himself – Sirius’ robes growing large for his smaller frame.

“You!” Ron snorted, poking Harry in the shoulder. “I should—”

“We’ve got to get him upstairs,” interrupted Hermione. “Quick, swap clothes.”

“But—”

“Just do it!”

The two swapped clothes, Ron’s jeans dropping down about Harry’s waste. Hermione ruffled Ron’s hair and wiped some mud from one of Harry’s boots onto his face.

“Pretend you don’t remember a thing,” said Hermione.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” complained Ron.

“Perfect,” asserted Hermione. She spun toward Harry. “Now… erm, do you think you could become Percy? He didn’t want to be here for Christmas.”

“I… I don’t think so,” stammered Harry nervously. “I can’t really copy someone I haven’t… someone I don’t know well. Not exactly.”

“Here then,” she grabbed a large blue towel and put it about his head and shoulders. “Just pick some other face then… well, other than yours, and let’s get you upstairs. Ron, I’ll be back in just a minute.”

The commotion outside the house had drawn all those inside to the front door. Even Ginny was plastered against one of the front windows wondering what was going on. Quickly, Hermione and Harry made their way up the stairs to where Ron’s room was. She sat Harry down on the bed.

“There,” she said, “no one ever bothers to look up here. Only Mrs. We—” She stopped herself. “Hey, are you… alright?” The expression Harry gave her was the one she’d expected. He was not alright; he was in pain and not from any physical injury. “Look, just rest a bit and I’ll get Ron up here as soon as I can.” She started for the door, then stopped. “Are you hungry?” Harry shook his head, no, and Hermione nodded that she understood. “It won’t be too long,” she said softly and left the room, closing the door behind her.

Harry let out a long slow sigh as he looked about the room. It hadn’t changed much from the first day he came to visit the Borough. He remembered arguing with Ron about Quidditch. Somehow, life seemed simpler then, but really it wasn’t. Life had never been simple for Harry, nor had it ever been simple for those near him. He stood and walked over to a photograph that hung on the wall near a Cannons poster. In the frame, the family was trying to stand for the photographer, but Fred and George had smoke billowing out of their ears. Mrs. Weasley was furious and kept trying to smack them to stop. She missed every time. Harry smiled as a tear ran down the right side of his face. He wiped it away with his hand and noticed the scar on his right forearm – the mark of the dragon. Staring at the mark, he turned his back to the wall and slid down to the floor.

“What good have I been?” he asked defiantly. “A magnet for death everywhere I go. Why me, Soseh?” He dropped his hands to the floor and wrapped his fingers around a pile of dirty clothes laying there. He looked over toward the open window. The sound of wandfire had silenced. Whatever threat there was had been defeated. Harry continued to whisper to the mother of his girlfriend, trying to find the meaning of it all. The back of his head banged against the wall with a thud.

“They’ve all died because of me, and now your daughter’s in Malfoy’s hands. If she’s even still alive.” He looked around the room, his eyes misting over. Near Ron’s bed was a picture of Ron and Hermione glaring at each other and then suddenly breaking out in laughter followed by a kiss and an embrace. “Why am I here?” Harry muttered, his heart beginning to beat faster. He was putting them in danger once again. It was all a mistake, every bit of it – a grand, cosmic error in the machinery. He had to leave.

Harry stood to his feet and tried to Disapparate. Vision... Pathway… He couldn’t create the pathway. Something was blocking him. “Of course it’s blocked,” he muttered to himself. “I’ll need to leave the—” The door opened and in came Ron and Hermione. Ron had a bottle in his hand filled with some sort of potion.

“Hey, mate,” he said, holding up the bottle.

“Hey. Erm, I’m… I’m sorry,” said Harry. “This was a mistake. I need to go.” Hermione looked at Ron, and he at her. Then Ron looked back to Harry.

“Not so fast,” he said. “They wanted me to drink this, but I expect it’s best if you—”

“I’m fine,” Harry cut in sharply. “I just need to—”

“You’re a bloody crank is what you are. Well… at least that’s normal.” Harry glared back at Ron.

“Go on, Harry,” encouraged Hermione. “Drink the potion; your brain’s been addled and the neuropathy hex requires two doses.” Ron held it up again and this time Harry took it.

“This is stupid,” Harry said, shaking his head and offering the bottle back, “I shouldn’t have come here. You… you need to be with your family.” Harry’s voice was shaky and he could not hold Ron’s gaze. “I need to go.” Ron did not take the bottle in return.

“Look, Harry,” he said, “just drink the gunk.”

“If you have to go,” added Hermione, “it’ll help you keep your wits along the way.”

Harry held up the bottle containing a brown, burping liquid.

“Did they have to make it look so vile?” he asked with a squeamish face.

“Go on,” said Hermione. “It’s the only way I could get them to let him come up to his room. I have to show them he’s drunk it down, or they’ll be up here snooping around.”

“Fine. I drink this… I go… you have a Happy Christmas… or at least… ah, crap.” Harry gulped the thick liquid in one swig, then handed the bottle back to Hermione. “There you go,” he said. “Tell them Ron finished his medicine and is feeling f—” The room turned a bit and Harry reached out, taking Ron by the arm.

“What is it, mate?” Ron asked with a bit of slyness in his eyes.

Harry tried to speak. In fact, he was speaking; only the words he was saying didn’t make any sense. Even Harry knew he was speaking gibberish. He pointed to the bed, but it was too late. He collapsed to the floor. Ron took one side and Hermione the other and they lifted Harry onto Ron’s bed. Everything was growing foggier and foggier – the sounds in the room more distant. Before everything faded to nothingness he heard Ron say…

“Blimey, it’s Christmas, Harry. It’s a time to be with family. Don’t you get it? You’re right where you need to be.”

________________________________________
Harry Potter and the Birth of a New Sun

Chapter 22 – Friendship
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It was a deep, restful sleep, the kind of sleep that takes the mind to happier places and more pleasant times. Cool placid waters, barefoot walks and simple gazing at the stars, stars with no gleaming red Mars to disrupt their harmony and no comet Ebyrth to mark the return of war. It was well into the morning after Christmas day when Harry began to stir, ever so slightly, from this place of deep and forgotten memories. His mind was just beginning to process the voices about him, those of friends and family.

“Vampires?”

“Dozens. And so many Dementors they blocked out the bloody sky.”

“No,” Ginny gasped.

“I’m telling you,” answered Fred, “he was right in the thick of it.” Someone seated on the end of the bed shifted their weight and it let out a small squeak.

“Shhhh. You’ll wake him.” That was Hermione.

“The whole lot of them,” continued Fred, “was marching up the mountain like a great swarm of black locusts. We were outnumbered ten to one… easy!” Ginny gasped again. “The werewolves were the primary line of defence. We attacked first, of course.”

“That’s only because you stink so bad,” said George. “No one in their right mind would be caught on the same battlefield. The odour… it’s overwhelming.”

“Not the dragons?” queried Hermione.

“Yeah, well,” said Fred, falling a bit off the tracks of his story, “I don’t really remember much after the change. Except one thing… he saved my life.” Harry felt a hand on his arm. “That I know as sure as I’m sitting here.”

“Is it true what they say about… You-Know-Who.”

“If what Harry says is true,” said Charlie, “yes, Ginny. Voldemort’s alive.” Harry could feel the entire room squirm upon hearing the name. “Some of us…” There was a slap.

“Hey! That hurt,” said George. Charlie continued.

“Some of us climbed Singehorn’s mountain by foot. I met quite a few wizards, holding sentry at a number of outposts on the way up. To a wizard, they all talked about a blonde beast, controlling the dark forces at the base of the mountain.”

“Blonde?”

“Lucius Malfoy.” Almost everyone in the room hissed… or growled.

“After the battle, they also spoke of how the Primate met him face-to-face and sent him running.”

“What’s a Primate?”

“Harry is, sis. They’re calling him the Primate of the Votary of the Dragon. Some say, he was leading the battle for the dragons. Don’t ask me much more, because I’m still trying to figure it out. All I know is that afterward he began to heal folks like little brother here and it nearly cost him his life.”

“I… I should have been there.” It was Ron. He was seated somewhere in the far corner, somehow distant from the others. His voice was sullen and quite.

“Ron,” chided Hermione, “you were in hospital.”

“You don’t think he’d have tried to sneak out if the tables had been turned?”

“You were unconscious for three days!”

“I should have been there.”

“No,” muttered Harry, his mind clearing ever so slightly. “No, Ron…” Harry tried to sit up.

“Easy, Harry,” said Hermione, touching his shoulder softly, “the sleeping draught isn’t supposed to wear off for another hour or two.” Harry struggled to bring his head up and looked over at Ron who was slumped in the corner on the floor.

“You’re wrong,” Harry said, his thoughts still fuzzy and his ability to pull a coherent sentence together somewhat impaired. “It… it wasn’t just Fred, or Remus. You were there. You… you were all there… right… right here.” Harry patted his chest and fell back onto the bed. “Whoa, that is a bit potent, isn’t it? George, you could put it… put it in a nougat. Erm... Nighttime Nibbles. What do you think?” Everyone in the room began to laugh, but the joviality was silenced instantly when Mr. Weasley suddenly appeared at the doorway.

He was wearing black robes, wrinkled and somewhat stained as if he’d left them on for days and hadn’t bothered with a spell to clean them. His face was tired, thin and pale, and his eyes were distant. Harry suspected that they still, however, bore the same expression of heartfelt anger as when Harry had last seen Mr. Weasley over the body of his wife. The fire in them was penetrating.

“IS THIS THE RESPECT YOU SHOW YOUR DEAD MOTHER?" he cried. He looked at Charlie, seated on the floor by Harry’s bed; the eldest Weasley in the room.

“We could use with a bit more laughter ‘bout here,” said Charlie softly. “Don’t you thing dad?”

“I want him out of here today,” he said shortly, thrusting a sharp finger at Harry. “Today! Do you hear me?” Everyone in the room moved uncomfortably, everyone but Charlie, who rose to meet his father.

“His name is Harry, Dad,” he said. “You remember Harry don't you? He saved you from being crushed by a giant last year. He’s that wizard that may just have saved every one of us yesterday by breaking up a Death Eater plot to kill us all right outside our front porch.” Mr. Weasley let out a short, snorting laugh.

“Is that what you think?” he said incredulously, his eyes narrowing on Charlie and then to the others in the room. “Saved us? Is that what you all think? Haven’t you figured it out by now? The boy carries Death Eaters in his back pocket; when he pulls off his trainers Dementors come pouring out. They’re with him wherever he goes. Why do you think Death Eaters were on our doorstep in the first place?”

“Dad, how can you say that!” exclaimed Hermione; it was the first time Harry had ever heard her refer to Mr. Weasley in that way. Now she rose to her feet to defend Harry. “He only ever—”

“Stop it!” demanded Harry weakly, looking at the others. “All of you, just…” He was struggling to fight the potion still coursing through his veins. Even though he was waking, there were still a few cobwebs in his head and he was still having trouble trying to find the right words. “Your father’s right. As ever… erm, as long as I’m here, I danger you. I shouldn't...” Harry fought to sit up, grimacing at the ache that lingered where his shoulder had been slashed. Ginny had to help him. The room was so crowded that he had to put his hand on Charlie’s hip to push him aside, giving Harry a clear look at Mr. Weasley. Try as he might, he was having tremendous difficulty focusing on the man he so much respected.

“I… I’m sorry, sir,” Harry said humbly. “I just needed to see…” He looked over at Ron who was still seated against the wall. Their eyes met and Harry could tell that his best friend was very upset, but he had no way of telling why. Harry pulled in a breath.

“No. I should never have come. I'll… I go now.” Putting his hand on Ginny’s shoulder, he tried to stand, but his knees wouldn’t hold and he crumpled to the ground, banging his head against the rail that ran across the side of Ron’s bed. A cut opened on Harry’s forehead where his scar had once been and a small trickle of blood weaved its way down, not unlike the shape of a lightning bolt. With George’s help, Ron lifted him back into bed.

“He needs to rest,” he said.

“He needs to go.”

Ginny, the youngest of them all, yet perhaps the most brave, stepped over to her father and gently took his hand in her own, holding it up to her chest as she looked into her father’s eyes. When Mr. Weasley looked down into his daughter’s eyes, he found tears there. She sniffed, searching for the right words.

“If Mum were alive today… where do you think she would be right now? Dad, you know what she’d say?” Mr. Weasley’s jaw clenched as Ginny handed him a small crumpled piece of parchment. For nearly a year, Harry’s carried this note with him wherever he’s gone.” She looked back at Harry. “Sorry Harry; Gab told us and we saw it on the nightstand with your things.” She turned back to her father. “Read it dad. Read what Mum says.”

Mr. Weasley opened the worn paper and when he first caught sight of the script, his wife’s handwriting, he pulled in a great gasp of air to keep from crying.

“Please dad, read it,” whispered Ginny, supporting her father by the elbow. Slowly, struggling through nearly every word, Mr. Weasley read the note.

“My dear Harry,

“Would that I could reset the hands of time and set the world right, but alas my magic is no match for the fate that stands before each of us. It is clear to all that the path you’ve been forced to travel has been cruel and unkind. And still, with all the adversities you have faced, with all the battles you have fought, you have found time to smile, to care, to love. Could there be someone else in all the world with more loyalty, with more bravery, with more compassion?

“We are all forever in your debt. You faced death but did not strike, and in so doing brought light to darkness, life to death. It is by your example we still have hope that, one day, we will win this war against hatred.

“With all the love a mother can give her children, ~M~.”

Mr. Weasley’s eyes began to mist and he pulled his daughter close to him, clinging to her as if she might slip away and never return. It lasted a beat, perhaps two, and then, suddenly, the mist in his eyes was gone; he became rigid and let go his daughter.

“All of you,” he said sharply, “get out. I want to speak with…” He swallowed. “…with Harry alone.” There was a bit of complaining, but most took the mention of Harry’s name as a good sign. “Go on. Out… now.” His voice was stern and they knew he meant it. One by one they all began to leave. Hermione, the last out the door kissed Harry on the cheek and then did the same to Mr. Weasley.

“I love you both,” she said before she left. Mr. Weasley gave her a slight nod and then closed the door as she departed with the wave of his hand.

He stood there for some moments, silent, stoic, unwilling or unable to speak. Harry tried to find the strength to stay awake, but the warmth of the room and the faint sound of birds chirping in the distance were lulling him to sleep once more. Finally, Mr. Weasley walked over, handed the note back to Harry, and sat on the chair next to Ron’s bed. He had to sit on its edge since it was covered in layer upon layer of Ron’s dirty clothes. He leaned forward toward Harry, his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped tightly together.

“You…” he began, “you think you killed Molly.” It was not a question, but rather a statement, Harry felt the need to respond anyway.

“It’s all me,” answered Harry dully, trying desperately to focus his thoughts. “My faults.”

“Shhh,” hushed Mr. Weasley. “Rest, Harry. Just rest.” He put his head in his hands, looking down at his feet. “I wanted to speak with you months ago; do you remember? I asked to meet with you on the Hogwarts Express. I knew then… or thought I knew, but I let the day-to-day business get in the way. Minister of Magic… what a joke. Days turned to weeks, weeks to months, and before I blinked Voldemort had been reborn and my wife was dead.

“I wanted to warn you then, that day on the train, that he might not be dead, that he might have used a Horcrux. But I couldn’t mention such a thing in front of the others. Maybe… maybe if I had… maybe we would have talked; you could have confided in me; we could have worked together. I never dreamed… the cloak.

“It was me, Harry. My fault on so many levels.” Mr. Weasley’s hands began to tremble slightly. He looked as if he might be sick and Harry, once again, tried to sit up, but Mr. Weasley moved forward, setting his knees to the ground and taking Harry by the hand, once again hushing him. His hands were icy and the trembling grew steadily worse.

“We were on the third floor together, making preparations. It was to be a grand celebration. I was focused on its representation for the defeat of Voldemort – the Dark Lord’s last remains on display for all to see. What a grand day for the Ministry, for me; only in my heart I knew better. Molly was more excited about what a grand day it would be for you, Harry. All she could talk about was how proud she was, how you’d be the youngest in history to receive the Order of Merlin, and how you so deserved it for all you had tried to do to ensure Muggle safety, especially during Anaxarete’s bombings last year. It was Harry this and Harry that. I see now… my ego…

“Shacklebolt was with us. He was supposed to take the cloak up for display. Molly and I were going to go home, eat and get some much needed rest before the following day’s festivities. But I grew a bit miffed that my wife spoke more about you than her own husband. It seems so… so petty now.” He chuckled – a short, sad laugh. “Why wouldn’t she go on about one of her own children? Why wouldn’t she boast in front of Shacklebolt how wonderful you were? Any mother would, and you were as dear a son as any roaming these halls with red hair.

“No, Harry.” Mr. Weasley shuddered. “I killed Molly. In my… in my desire for a moment’s respite from my own stupidity, I asked her to take the cloak up for display. I- I sent her to her death.” He grabbed the edge of the sheet on Harry’s bed and began to weep quietly into the linen. Finally, he looked back at Harry whose eyes were open, but distant.

“I’m so sorry, son. Piling sin upon sin, I had the audacity to blame you… you who would have sooner died trying to save her. I saw the remembrance photographs; my security staff replayed the entire scene in my office. I must have watched them continuously for days and days. How could a boy kill my Molly?” Mr. Weasley brought himself up to one knee. “But it was no boy, was it Harry? We both know that.” He took in a deep breath and then put his hand on Harry’s head.

“Forgive me? Please?”

Harry shook his head. “My fault,” he whispered, a tear running down the side of his face. Mr. Weasley wiped it away and smiled.

“Harry, you’ve never done anything that wouldn’t make your parents proud. Molly’s with them now, and they’re all looking down on you and smiling. We’re all smiling because were so proud of all you’ve accomplished.” Mr. Weasley stood to his feet, his smile broadened. “Except for that time you and Ron stole my car.” He stepped toward the door.

“Get some sleep, son. When you wake, there are gifts to open.” He pulled the door open and a mass of red hair, Weasley child after Weasley child, tumbled into Harry’s room, spilling out onto the floor. Mr. Weasley gave a particularly hard kick into George’s side. “All of you! Get out and let him rest!” Once again he shooed them all away and just before he shut the door one last time he looked back at Harry – who was asleep.

When the potion had finally lost its effects, Harry woke and found that at least physical weariness of war had left his shoulders and his legs. The gash that had torn his shoulder was all but gone; only a thin white line remained. He was suddenly concerned what Gabriella might say if she saw it, and his mind turned in an instant.

“Gabriella!” He sat bolt upright and turned only to find Hermione and Ron slumped in the chair behind him. They were both asleep. It was still light outside, but the trees were casting long shadows on the lawn in front and soon the sun would be gone. He’d lost another day. He began, as quietly as he could, to dress himself. An old set of clothes had been set out for him; he recognized them as something Ron had worn last year. Too small for Ron now, they fit Harry fine.

He reached for the sweater and his hand hesitated. It was a crimson sweater, knitted by hand with a large H on the front. It wasn’t old – it was new, knitted most certainly by Mrs. Weasley. Slowly, Harry picked it up and held it in his hands. He paused for a moment, said a silent, Thank You, and slipped on the sweater. For the first time in days, he felt warm.

He was ready to leave when he realized he didn’t have his wand. He began to look for it and finally noticed it on the table by his bed – just next to Ron. He didn’t want to utter the spell to summon it, but he’d have to lean over the two of them to retrieve it.

Carefully, he stepped over and reached for his wand, trying hard not to brush up against Ron who was snoring slightly. His fingers were almost there when—

“Where are you going?” Ron asked as he grabbed Harry’s outstretched arm by the wrist. Harry extended, the wand snapped into his hand, and he then pulled free from Ron’s grasp, slipping the wand into his back pocket.

“To find some pants that fit me,” he replied. Hermione began to stir.

“Is he… is he awake?” she asked Ron blearily.

“Yeah, he’s awake,” Ron answered, stretching his legs forward. “And he’s trying to slink off. Told you he’d try.” Soon, all three of them were on their feet. Only, Hermione made a point of standing in front of the door, blocking Harry’s path.

“I’m not slinking. I have to go.”

“You heard Dad,” said Ron, extending his arm and pointing to some unknown spot below the floor. Harry wondered if Mr. Weasley was actually there. “He forgives you.”

“Well he shouldn’t!” Harry snapped, and then his posture slumped, regretting his tone. “He shouldn’t.” The scene began to play in Harry’s mind once again, much like the movies of Sirius’ death had haunted Harry over a year ago. He sighed. “Like I said, I have to go.” He moved to the door, but Hermione wouldn’t budge.

“Go where?” she asked.

“I have to help her. I have to get her back.”

“You don’t even know where she is.”

“I don’t care! I have to look.”

“Why in the bloody hell did you come here then?” asked Ron sharply. “Is Dad right? Did you just blunder by, bringing the Death Eaters with you?”

“No!”

“Then why? To rant on about how you shouldn’t be here? To bawl like a bloody baby?” Ron moved closer. “To cry so Dad would feel sorry for your pitiful—” Harry drew his wand; Ron paused. “To hex me?” he said more softly, with the slightest hint of a smile.

“I came here to see YOU, damn it!” Harry yelled. “And a lot of good it’s doing!” He slipped his wand away. “What a waste of time.”

“You’re right,” answered Hermione smartly. “Gabriella could be dying and you’re fiddling around trying to figure out what to do, wasting time, when you already know what you need to do.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“Hermione and I talked about it while you were sleeping,” said Ron. “You’ve got to go see him.”

“Who?” asked Harry.

“You know.”

“Draco? Hah! That rat can—”

“You’re as stubborn as he is,” said Hermione.

“And it’ll get Gabriella killed,” added Ron. “Then you will have something to blame yourself for.”

“But your dad… true or not, your dad thinks he had a hand in your mum’s death.”

“No… no he doesn’t.” Ron picked up the picture of his family and looked at the moving people. “He was angry. He just needed someone to blame, anybody to blame, but he couldn’t get his hands on the one wizard he knew was guilty. So he lashed out at you, at James, at Draco. When they were well enough to walk, he had them both imprisoned on Fengsle Isle east of Shetland.”

“James? But James had nothing to do—”

“If you sat and watched as he cast the spell that killed my mother over and over again, you’d change your thinking about him. I don’t care how rational you are. It’ll take every ounce of control not to blast him to bits when I see him again.”

“But—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Hermione interrupted. “Ron’s dad sent word after talking to you. James is to be released and you’re to meet with Draco today.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small white envelope. “I wish you could stay, but I know you won’t. If you have to go, you need to make your first stop here.” She handed Harry the envelope. “It’s a Portkey, the key inside that is.” Harry opened the envelope and saw a small gold key, and then looked up at his two friends, standing arm-in-arm. They were both smiling, but their eyes were sad.

“Tell him… tell him Blaise is better,” said Ron. “They’ve lifted the imperious curse. Everyone at Hogwarts has been screened, even the professors. And Harry, let us know what you find out. We’ll do whatever we can to help.”

“I know you will. I know you will.” Harry chuckled to himself. “That’s what worries me.” Just before he took the key, he stopped and looked back at them. “Thanks,” he said and added, “Merry Christmas,” and then grabbed the key.

There was a whoosh and a moment later he found himself in front of a large stone wall on what appeared to be a small rocky island. The sky was blue, but the wind was bitterly cold and blew through the knit of his sweater. All around were splotches of snow, worn down by the wind. The waves were rough and crashed into the rocky coastline sending large plumes of sea spray high into the air. Further up the surf’s spray froze, making the upper shoreline sparkle like so many diamonds.

“Hello!” Harry tried to yell above the wind, his arms folded about him. There was no answer. A particularly large wave crashed behind him and he pulled his wand to cast a shielding charm, but nothing happened and the frigid mist sprayed him, dampening his clothes so that the wind was just that much more chilling.

“Is an-n-nybody here?” he cried out, teeth chattering. Still nothing. He was about to grab the key again, to return to the Borough when the ground began to rumble. He was looking at the wall, expecting some passage to open up before him, but nothing appeared. He stepped back to get a better look when he slipped on an ice covered rock; someone grabbed his arm.

“Sir?”

Harry spun, saw dark robes, and “Stupefy!” he cried, but again there was no magic… nothing, not even a sparkle from his wand. Before him was a man in dark blue robes, wearing a thin smile.

“A bit jumpy are we?” he asked. “I can understand. You are Mr. Harry Potter I presume?”

Harry just gawked. Looking past the wizard before him was the ocean, well, not the ocean. It, or a good portion of it, had disappeared. It was as if Moses had split the Red Sea; a great hole at the seashore plunged down below the waters. Stairs had appeared at the rocky edge and disappeared into the sea below. It looked as if great glass walls were holding the water back and Harry saw any number of sea creatures looking back at him, some he’d never seen before.

“Harry Potter?”

“What? Erm… er, yes.”

“Very good. Please follow me.” The wizard turned and began his way down the steps; Harry followed, looking up, as he went down, at the ocean above him, wondering if at any minute the sea would fall back on top of him. Deeper and deeper they climbed, lower and lower. Soon the light of the sun was nothing but a dark green glow. Some minutes later, they came to a great iron door, baring the passage through the face of a rock wall. Water dripped into small pools, echoing eerily in this make-shift cavern. Neither said a word until the wizard pulled a large iron key and turned it into the lock. Click-click-clank! The door creaked open.

“Best to step briskly, sir,” said the wizard. They’d been walking so slowly, Harry, teeth still chattering, was confused and then he heard the crashing sea. He looked back and could see the froth and waves curling into the canyon through which they’d just travelled.

“Please, sir.”

Harry didn’t need to be told twice. Quickly, he darted in through the door; the wizard followed behind him, closed the door and turned a large handle sealing it tight. A moment later, Harry heard the sea crash against the door and it groaned miserably. He felt certain it would breech, but the wizard in blue robes was as calm as ever.

“I take it, sir, that this is your first visit with us?” The wizard placed his keys over a large hook on the wall.

The place was dark, damp and had an odour of sour seaweed. The small entryway they were in was tight, confining, and the lighting was dim at best. A large rat scurried across the floor, reminding Harry of Scabbers.

“Allow me to introduce myself. My name, sir, is Winston, Keeper of the Keys at Fengsle Isle. Welcome to our humble abode.” He held out his hand and Harry took it in his own. The middle-aged man seemed quite affable, but reminded Harry a bit of his Uncle Vernon. He wondered what was truly behind the Cheshire smile. Winston went over to a rough hewn table and lifted a set of papers.

“Let me see… yes, here they are. The Minister has authorized you to see Master Malfoy.”

“Master?”

“Sir, certainly you are aware that the Malfoy name is one of the most distinguished in all Britain. It matters not what sort of nastiness the young lad found himself in at the Ministry. He is still a Malfoy. One must always show a modicum of respect. Besides, as I understand it, you are here to set things straight.”

“Right,” Harry said sceptically.

“He’s just down this way.”

They left the antechamber and started through another door that opened out onto a long corridor. Cells lined the path that was just wide enough to keep Harry and Winston out of arm’s reach. In nearly every cell they passed there was a prisoner. Some yelled out slurs, others curses; some cried for food or water, while most simply screamed schizophrenic gibberish. There were dozens in this miserable place, but Winston ignored them all, while whistling a happy tune.

“Are you the only one here?” Harry asked, wondering how only one could manage so many. His question was answered almost immediately when a torch appeared near the end of the long corridor some fifty yards away.

“No, Mr. Potter. My wife is here with me,” said Winston. “That’s her now. Ah, and that must be the Chang boy with her.”

“James?”

“Yes… yes, he’s being released today… poor lad.”

“What do you mean, ‘poor’?”

“Well, he killed the Minister’s wife, didn’t he? He’s been here for his own protection. Once he’s out, I don’t hold much hope that he’ll…” Winston leaned in, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Well, some people can be vicious, can’t they Mr. Potter?”

“Yes,” replied Harry, looking around at the squalid conditions of the prison. “Yes they can.”

Finally, they were close enough that Harry could see James’ face. When James saw that it was Harry, there was a wrathful reaction.

“You!” he hissed with a high cold voice. He raised his hand to strike Harry when the woman who was evidently Winston’s wife grabbed him by the arm. “I hate you… I h-…” James’ posture drooped; his eyes squinted in the darkness. “Harry?” he said with a child’s voice. “Harry, is it really you?” This time he reached out to put his arms around Harry, but again the woman stayed his hand.

“Let him go!” Harry snapped, and she did so with a nod of her head. James rushed Harry and held him tight. The second year was trembling with fright.

“What’s happening to me?” James whispered. “I wanted to die, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t stop it. And then… and then… They say I killed… I killed…”

“It’s okay James,” Harry answered, holding him in his arms. “It’s okay.” He turned to Winston. “Hasn’t he gotten any help?”

“They come from St. Mungo’s every day, sir. He’s to head back there now. Perhaps, when the new school year starts Dumbledore will take him back.”

“Sooner than that,” answered Harry quickly, more to assure James than anything else. “He will; I’m certain of it.”

“Yes,” said Winston’s wife, “I’ve heard he’s that way.” The manner with which she spoke had a disparaging tone, and the hair on the back of Harry’s neck began to prickle. He was about to say what exactly he thought of her opinion when Winston interrupted.

“Dear, please take the boy to the front. They’ll be sending for him shortly.”

“Of course,” she replied, and she reached for James, but James didn’t want to let go of Harry. Slowly, Harry pulled his hands away.

“You’ll be fine, James.” He looked into the boy’s eyes, his son’s uncle. “I’ll be over to see you just as soon as I can. First, we need to get you out of here. Go, on. Let her take you to get help.” After a moment, James nodded his head and walked past Harry and Winston to the front of the prison. What was most noticeable was that the howls and jeers that had accompanied Harry on his entrance did not accompany James on his exit. If anything the prisoners made every attempt not to be noticed. All that is but one near the end.

“I’m with you, my Lord,” he cried out madly. “We will be victorious!”

Harry watched until the pair disappeared.

“Shall we?” Winston asked. “Master Malfoy is just a little further.”

The two continued on. In this part of the corridor, all the cells were empty and the rooms thirsted for more light. Harry was about to use his second vision, when, finally, they came to a loan cell lit by a handful of candles. The door was mostly solid except for a small window, no bigger than a man’s hand, protected with three narrow iron bars. Winston pulled out his keys and slid them in the lock, turning it with a loud clank that rattled down the empty corridor.

“Yes, nothing but the best for our Lord Malfoy,” said Winston, pulling the door ajar.

As the door opened, a tremendous stench rolled out and it took Harry a few moments to gather himself before he stepped inside. There was a plate of food at the door that looked as if it had not been touched. A rat was nibbling at its contents and Harry kicked the pest away. It squealed, landing into a scattering of dead rats, all in various stages of decomposition. Harry gasped just as another rat came to take its place. He was about to smash that one with his boot, when he saw Draco curled up on a pile of filthy straw, his clothes in rags and his appearance gaunt and muddy. Even with all the noise, it took Draco a moment to realize that someone had entered his cell.

When at last he noticed he had visitors, Harry thought for a moment there was a glimmer of happiness, but it faded instantly and the dull, sallow look appeared. Harry remembered it from last year when Draco was nearly destroyed by drugs, but there were no drugs this year. The face before him, barely able to lift itself from the fouled bedding of straw, was pure misery.

“The best?” Harry yelled, turning toward Winston. He reached for his wand, but stopped remembering that magic would not work here. “Leave us!”

“As you wish, Mr. Potter,” said Winston with a bow. “I will be just down the corridor, attending to other prisoners if you need anything. Simply call my name when he’s decided to agree to the exchange, or if perhaps,” Winston licked his lips, “you need assistance persuading him.”

“GO!” Harry snapped. Again Winston bowed and shut the two in the cell. Harry heard the door lock with a clank and he turned back to Draco, dropping to one knee. The smell was worse here, much worse.

“Draco,” whispered Harry, “what in Merlin’s name have they done to you?”

“Harry?” Draco whispered back. He looked up and blinked. Slowly he lifted toward a seated position, eye to eye with Harry. He was as pale as Harry had ever seen him, and about his eyes there was something… in the darkness Harry could not tell. “Harry… my old friend.”

“Draco, why are you letting them do this to you? Why not just do the exchange?” Draco swayed and Harry held him up by the shoulders.

“Knowledge is power, Harry,” he said slowly, glancing toward the closed cell door. “I taught you that, remember?” Rolling his eyes, Harry nodded.

“I’ve… I’ve a little secret,” Draco continued, “and I need you to help me keep it, see?” He put his hands up between Harry’s supportive arms and on top of Harry’s shoulders.

“I think I know,” said Harry. “But Draco, why not—”

“Do you?” Draco asked. “Do you really?”

In a flash, Draco’s hands were around Harry’s throat. Harry moved to pull them off, but they were locked like a vice, slowly clamping down.

“I tried to teach you, Harry,” said Draco, lifting the much heavier Gryffindor from his knees and onto his feet. “But you wouldn’t listen. Ignorance… ignorance spells destruction. It’s time you learned your lesson.”

They struggled, Draco clearly in control. Harry gasped for air and then he saw them in the flash of candlelight. The blonde’s eyes… the pupils were slit. And then, when Draco smiled, Harry shuddered. A pearled, ivory tooth protruded from each corner of the Slytherin’s mouth, the fangs of a vampire.

“You’ll make a much better snack than a rat.”

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Harry Potter and the Birth of a New Sun

Chapter 23 – Reunion
~~~***~~~
Author’s Note: After writing this chapter, I’ve changed the rating for this story to ‘M’. Mature themes and more explicit language. Proceed appropriately and feel free to tell me if you’d rather it be toned down.
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In the darkness, the blood to his brain cut off by the steel grip of Draco Malfoy, Harry’s sight began to fail, tunnelling in at the pale face of anger before him. He could hear only the squealing of rats, fighting over the pickings of their dead cousins, the raspy puffs of Draco’s breath, and the ever quieting thud-thump of his own heart.

“I’ve wanted this in so many ways, Harry,” hissed Draco through his gritted teeth, fully exposing his two bloodsucking fangs and sending a splattering of saliva across Harry’s face. “So many ways.”