Fic: If We Are Ghosts... [Genfic]
This is a pinch hit I wrote for fourth_rose's wonderful springtime_gen exchange. I rejiggered this a little since this was first posted. I envisioned this fic as a ghost story because I've always loved Grimmauld Place's wonderfully creepy vibe, and have a times when I think too much about Sirus, pictured him turning into Jack Nicholson as he was in The Shining, holed up in that horrible house with no one but talking portraits to keep him company.
Title: If we are ghosts
Rating: PG
Character(s): Harry, Sirius
Summary: It's only a dream. It means nothing. A post-war genfic about Harry, his demons and Sirius Black
Author's notes: Written for parallactic who requested a fic centered on Harry and Sirius' godfather/godson relationship, no matter how dysfuntional. Thank you, monifieth, for the speedy beta.
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
~Edgar Allen Poe
If we are ghosts
The mirror gleams. Harry runs his fingers across the glass. There are no cracks or splinters. Nothing to say that it was once broken, cast away by a grieving teen with the bitter taste of rage in his mouth.
Harry licks his lips and lets his eyes dart around the dusty room before returning them to stare into the glass. "Sirius," he whispers.
The glass shimmers, and then… nothing.
Downstairs the front door bangs open and heavy footfalls sound across the threshold.
"Sirius," he says louder, backing nervously into the corner. "Are you there? Answer me, please."
The glass shimmers again, but this time a man's face appears. He smiles rakishly at Harry.
"Sirius," Harry cries, his heart pounding. He can't stop the grin lighting his face. "It's really you."
"Harry," Sirius' eyes twinkle, "look at you. You've grown up."
"Yes, I have." A bang sounds from outside and green light begins to leak through the drawn curtains. "Look, Sirius, I don't have a lot of time. I need your help."
"I bet you can't keep the girls away from you," Sirius smirks. "Got a girlfriend yet, or are you still playing the field?"
"No. Sort of. I don't know." Harry frowns. Why isn't he listening to him?
"Just like James. He used to…"
"Sirius!" Harry shouts. "Listen to me."
"It's awfully lonely here, Harry."
"What?" Harry's voice cracks.
"Cooped up. All alone. No one visits me, Harry." His mouth turns downward. "They won't even let me see James and Lily."
Harry gapes. "I-" Someone is approaching the bedroom door. "Look, I don't have time for this." He grasps for his wand, coming up with nothing but dust and air.
"Time?" Sirius roars. "I have nothing but time, no thanks to you. But you wouldn't understand that, leaving me here all alone. I need you, Harry."
"No. No." Harry shakes his head. The doorknob twists open and he stands, waiting for the inevitable as the mirror crashes to the floor. Tiny shards of glass skitter across the dingy carpet just as a flash of green light pierces the darkness.
~ * ~
"Harry."
A cool hand touches his forehead, threading fingers through his hair.
"Harry, wake up."
Harry opens his eyes and sees a silhouette with bushy hair. "Hermione," he says. "What-"
"I think you were having a bad dream." Her hand leaves his face and she turns to speak to blurry shape hovering behind her. "He's fine. Just get him a glass of water."
"All right," he hears Ron say. "Do you think-"
"Ron." Hermione's voice drops an octave.
"Fine."
Harry finally sits up and grabs his glasses off the coffee table. "Sorry," he mumbles, turning red now that he can see that Hermione is wearing only a t-shirt and a pair of knickers. "I'll be off your sofa in the morning."
"No worries, mate," Ron says, handing him a glass of water. "You can stay here as long as you'd like."
Harry can't help noticing the look Hermione gives Ron as he places the water glass on table untouched. "No," he says, feigning a smile. "You both have put up with me long enough. I'm moving into out tomorrow. It's about time I found my own place to live."
Hermione nods. She touches his forehead again, running her fingers along the area where his scar used to be. "You're not having phantom pain there, are you?"
"No," he lies.
"Good."
"It's probably just stress," he adds.
~ * ~
The war ended two years ago and Harry still hasn't recovered from its horror. Sure, he looks the same, minus the lightening bolt scar, of course, but even he will concede that he's not quite the same person as he was before.
It's almost as some indelible part of him died on that battlefield along with Voldemort. Some intangible essence that made him Harry Potter. He hasn't ridden a broomstick in months (the last time he did, he panicked, and was stuck hovering in the air, unable to find his way down) and the Wizarding world no longer seems brilliant and, well, magical.
And that isn't the worst of it. The healers at St. Mungo's tell him he has a personality disorder, but Harry prefers to think he has demons. It sounds more heroic somehow. It's all a well-kept secret. No one wants to hear that the Boy Who Lived is really the Boy Who Went Mental. It's bad P.R.
Still, Harry has enough self-awareness to know something needs to change. Life is passing him by, as Hermione likes to say. What good is making the Wizarding World safe for peace and prosperity, if he can't enjoy a little of that himself. So what if Auror training didn't work out when the Chief Auror quietly asked him to leave (after he nearly crucioed a fellow student) or that Ginny is off in America finding herself. He still has a fortune sitting in Gringotts and a large house at his disposal. Isn't it a bit pathetic that he's still sleeping on Ron's couch?
Tomorrow, he thinks, as sinks back down into the sofa cushions and shuts his eyes. Tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow he'll finally have a home of his own. Tomorrow will be great.
~ * ~
"Are you sure we can get in?" Ron whispers from a few steps behind.
Harry looks back at Ron irritably, "Why wouldn't we? It's my house, isn't it? And why exactly are we whispering?"
Ron shrugs, and then grins. "Stealth."
"Ah," says Harry, shaking his head, glad that he let Ron convince him to come along. The truth is he wasn't looking forward to coming here. In fact, he would have be happy never to step foot in Grimmauld Place again, but Hermione thought the missing locket might still be inside, and he knew he didn't have a choice. "Well, we better get in before someone sees us," he says, turning back to the shabby front door and tapping it once with his wand.
Harry holds his breath. A moment passes before the door finally groans open.
Both boys exhale. "Okay, that was easy," Harry says, as they step inside. The gas lamps flicker for a moment, before lighting and casting the entrance hall in an unhealthy yellow.
The front door snaps shut and Ron jumps, grasping Harry's arm. "Sorry," he says.
Harry rolls his eyes until they fall upon the curtains hiding the portrait of Sirius' demented mother, and something cold inside him twists.
"All right, Harry?"
Harry tears his eyes away. "Yeah, I hate this place. That's all."
An animal scuttles across the floor. "I can't say I blame you," Ron replies.
~ * ~
"Careful," Hermione scolds, throwing Ron another one of her looks, as he levitates an old bureau past the row of house-elf heads lining the staircase.
Ron makes a face. "What's her problem, anyway," he whispers to Harry, momentarily taking his eyes off the bureau and banging it against the wall.
"Ron, honestly. Look what you just did." Hermione points to sizable gash left in the plaster.
"Hermione, it's not a big deal," Harry says, full of good humor. He really did make the right decision moving here. "I'm going to gut the entire house. I even hired an architect to draw up some plans."
"An architect?" says George, ducking as the bureau sales over his head and speeds across the second floor landing.
"I didn't know you were that posh, Harry," adds Fred, appearing behind George. "Could you send him to our place when you're finished with him? I don't know if you noticed, but it could use some help."
"It's a her, actually," Harry replies, grinning as he follows them up the stairs, "and I think your place is beyond help at this point."
Fred and George both make a face. "True." They both grin. "But you could send her over anyway."
"Oi, Harry," Ron calls from up the stairs, "which bedroom am I moving this into?"
Harry shivers involuntarily, before turning away from the staircase leading up to Sirius' parents' rooms. "Our old room. The one we shared fifth year."
"Harry?"
Hermione's voice calls from another bedroom down the hall and Harry sighs unhappily. "Yes, Hermione," he calls.
Hermione gives him an exasperated look. "Don't treat me like I'm your mother," she scolds.
"Then stop acting like one!" he replies hotly.
Hermione gives him another look and then sighs. "All right. Point taken. So," she points to a small painting hanging above the desk, "have you noticed anything odd about the portraits?"
Harry follows her gaze to a portrait of a young boy, dressed in blue silk robes. The only unusual thing he can see is that the boy's back is turned. "So?" he says, shrugging, "Sirius' mother screams when someone walks in the front door."
"Does she?"
"Of course, she does. She makes a bloody racket if someone raises their voice."
"Then how come she hasn't made a sound since we got here? Between the twins and Ron banging up your furniture, you'd think she might have thrown a 'Mudblood' or 'scourge of the earth' in our direction."
~ * ~
Hermione pulls on the cord, throwing open the heavy black curtain.
"Blimey," says Ron.
Harry blinks, suddenly feeling cold and unsettled. "She's gone."
"That's good, right?" Ron asks.
"I don't know," Hermione replies, looking at Harry.
~ * ~
That night he dreams about Sirius again, and just like the night before Harry finds the mirror in an empty room, speaks to it, and Sirius appears in its reflection. However this time, Sirius no longer looks tired and used up, rather he looks young and handsome like he did when Harry saw him in Snape's penseive.
"Tell me more about my mum and dad," Harry asks. They have been talking for what seems like hours.
"Your father," Sirius starts what has become Harry's favorite story, "was absolutely besotted with your mother. Of course, she wanted nothing to do with him." Sirius grins and winks knowingly at Harry. Harry smiles back at him, feeling younger too.
"But then you know how the story ends, don't you, Harry." Sirius' grin falters.
"Yes, they fall in love and get married."
A faint red light begins to glow behind Sirius's head. "No, Harry," he says, his voice grave.
"Yes, that's exactly what happened," Harry insists.
The light suddenly grows brighter. "My cousin is coming. I have to go now."
"No! Sirius, wait!" The mirror falls to pieces in his hands. "Sirius!"
~ * ~
It's just a dream he tells himself. It means nothing.
"I'm fine," he tells Hermione, when she and Ron stop over the next morning -- Ron on his way to Auror training and Hermione to he new job she has landed, working for the Undersecretary of Magical/Non-magical Relations.
"This place gives me the creeps," Ron replies, casting a weary eye at a spider walking slowly up the wall.
"Nonsense," Hermione tells Ron, despite not looking entirely convinced herself. "You lived here for an entire summer and survived."
Harry tries to ignore the fact that Bellatrix Lestrange is standing behind them, smirking in the shadows.
"Harry?" Hermione frowns. "Are you all right?"
Harry blinks and Bellatrix is gone. Only the spider is there, making her lonely journey across the faded wallpaper. "Yes," he says quickly. "I- I had a dream about Sirius last night."
"You did?" Hermione raises her eyebrows. "How did that go?" she asks, and Harry scowls at her because she sounds exactly like one of his therapists.
"It was just a dream, Hermione."
Still, Hermione presses, "It's just that I can't remember the last time you mentioned his name. I think this may be a breakthrough."
"Hermione," Ron suddenly hisses. "Can't you see he doesn't want to talk about it."
"I know, but…"
"Thanks for stopping by," Harry interrupts, looking meaningfully at Hermione. "I'm fine," he adds when she still looks unconvinced.
"All right." Hermione kisses him lightly on the cheek. "Don't forget the architect is coming tomorrow morning."
"I know," he says softly, still staring at the wall.
~ * ~
Evelyn Reese-Jones, thrice cited for her work in Modern Wizarding Design for her singularly British take on the modern European aesthetic, bends closer to the wall and wrinkles her nose. "And this." She gestures toward the scorched plaster still pocked with charred bits of fabric. "What exactly is going on here?"
Ron snorts and Harry can't help snickering himself. "Er… It used to be a piece of tapestry."
She raises a well-plucked eyebrow. "Tapestry? It was burned?"
"Yeah," he replies, shrugging. "Paybacks are hell,"
"Harry. The tapestry was enchanted," Hermione explains, rather unnecessarily Harry thought. "It couldn't be removed without… blasting holes in it."
That only makes Harry and Ron laugh harder, and it's only after he wipes his eyes that he notices Ron and Hermione exchanging glances. "Sorry," he mutters, pushing his glasses back on. "Is there anything else?"
Evelyn sighs, and scrawls a few more notes on her parchment scroll. "There are still dark artifacts in the house. I'll have to hire a consultant to remove them, and I'll need an exterminator to get rid of the rest of the doxies. That alone could cost several thousand Galleons."
"Fine. Do it. I want this whole house gutted. I don't want to see anything left when you're done."
"Harry, are you sure?" Hermione asks.
"Yes," he hisses. God, they've talked about this a million times over. It's his fucking house.
"But…"
"Sirius would have wanted it this way," he replies, remembering their conversation last night. "Really, is there anything else?" he asks, suddenly itchy for everyone to leave.
"I still need to get into the bedroom on the top floor to…"
"No."
"Mr. Potter, how am I…"
"The room is off limits. No, wait. I've changed my mind. Tear it off."
Evelyn looks confused. "Tear…"
"Yeah, the whole floor. Demolish it. I don't need it. There are enough bedrooms in this house, don't you think?"
Evelyn opens her mouth and shuts it again before settling on regarding Harry with that look that he has been getting all too often lately. The one that says, "The rumors are true. Harry Potter has gone round the bend."
Harry sighs impatiently. 'We're wizards, aren't we? We can make an entire room appear and disappear on a whim. So you can fucking tear off the top floor of this house."
Evelyn noticeably flinches. "Of course, Mr. Potter. You'll be hearing from me in a few days."
"I'll walk you out." Hermione says, taking her arm and giving Ron a lingering, I-need-to-speak-to-you-now glance
Ron looks at Harry sympathetically. "It will be some change, won't it?" he says.
Harry nods.
~ * ~
They decide to split up to save time. Ron will search for the locket in the kitchen and first floor, while Harry investigates the upper floors. However, it doesn't take long for Harry to realize that they are on a fool's mission. Most of the bedrooms are stripped bare except for their decaying furniture. Not even an errant booby trap remains in Fred and George's former room, and Harry shuts the door, feeling angry and inexplicably lost.
The room he shared with Ron is no different. Only two bare mattresses, an empty wardrobe and Phineus Nigellus' portrait remain. Phineus stretches lazily in his frame as he watches Harry search the room. Neither chooses to speak to the other.
That leaves only one more room to search: the bedroom that once belonged to Sirius' parents. Harry hesitates for a moment as he stares up at the closed doorway sitting at the top of the stairs, a sudden, sharp feeling of unease twisting around inside him. The smell of rot that seems to permeate every room of Grimmauld Place isn't helping, except that he is almost certain that the smell is even stronger here than it is elsewhere.
It's probably something Buckbeak left behind, he reminds himself, imagining rotting Hippogriff feces or the remains of half-eaten rats. Why wouldn't the bedroom smell considering a large animal was once cooped up inside? Still, he has to force his feet to move forward even after reminding himself that the room can't contain anything worse than what he's already seen outside Hagrid's cabin.
" Alohomora," he whispers, and the door pops open.
~ * ~
A week passes by and then another. Ron and Hermione visit daily, Remus and Tonks stop over twice, and Evelyn Reese-Jones has demolished his kitchen, making way for a suite of expensive appliances that he'll probably never use.
Harry reckons that his friends think he's lonely. He'll admit that he doesn't get out much, but there is simply too much to do. He has big plans for Grimmauld Place. He wants white walls and blond hardwood floors, leather coaches and perhaps even a sophisticated piece of modern art to hang over the fireplace, just like he saw in that Muggle architecture magazine Hermione leant him. Clean, white and blood free.
No dark artefacts. No creepy Black heirlooms. No Blacks, period.
Except for Sirius, of course.
And it's Sirius who gives him his best idea, yet.
"A wrecking party?" Harry sinks cross-legged to the floor with the mirror his hands.
"Sure." Sirius grins. "Invite all your friends. We'll order the finest whisky and hand out sledgehammers at the door. I wanted to do have one before, but Dumbledore wouldn't let me. Told me it 'wouldn't be prudent at this particular time.'"
Harry is affronted on Sirius' behalf. "It's your house," he cries.
Sirius snorts. "Tell that to my family." Sirius' face darkens. "Funny, how the Blacks won't let go."
"What do you mean?"
"Don't you get it, Harry?"
"Get what? What are you talking about?"
"I have to go, Harry."
"Wait…"
~ * ~
Hermione shakes her head. "No. I think it's a really bad idea."
"Come on, Hermione," cries Ron. "A party might be fun."
"Stop encouraging him," she hisses at Ron, her voice dangerously low.
"It's my house," Harry shouts, suddenly furious. "I can do whatever the fuck I want!"
Ron ignores him. "At least I don't treat him like a child," he tells Hermione, glaring at her.
"Will you two stop it?" Harry glares at them both. "I'm going to have the party anyway." He opens a cupboard door and pulls down a bottle of Firewhisky he found in one of the bedrooms yesterday. "Sirius said I should do it and I'm going to do it," he says firmly while pouring himself a generous glass.
"Sirius?" Hermione asks. "Wait. You just said Sirius told you to throw a party?"
Harry looks over the top of his glass and sees the two of them gaping at him. "No." He swallows the whisky down and quickly refills his glass, spilling whisky all over the counter. "I didn't mean I talked to him. I- I had a dream. That's all."
Ron frowns. "How long has this been going on, mate?"
"Look, it was just a dream. I won't throw the party. You're right. It's a bad idea."
"Harry, are you all right? You don't look so good," Hermione asks.
Harry smiles wanly. "I'm fine."
~ * ~
"What?" Sirius roars.
Harry swallows. "Hermione thought it was a bad idea, and… and Ron, too. They said…"
"I don't care what they said. Look, Harry. I'm only doing this for your own good. You need to tear down these walls. Destroy everything. It's the only way."
"But…"
Sirius' mouth twists angrily. "You owe this to me."
Searing pain shoots through Harry's forehead. "I know, Sirius… but…"
"We haven't got much time."
"I know," Harry says weakly. He can hear voices shouting outside. Green light seeps under the door and between the curtains. "I'll do it."
"You promise?" Sirius demands. His face flickers in the mirror and begins to fade.
"Sirius! Don't go, please." His forehead throbs as the mirror falls to the floor. "Sirius," he whimpers. The curtains fall open as a soft titter of laughter fills the room. The last thing he sees is the Dark Mark lighting the sky before everything falls to black.
~ * ~
Headlights from a traveling car rake the bedroom walls, and then it's dark again. Harry blinks, and slowly sits up. It's nearly morning. Outside a dog is barking and he can hear the clang of dishes as his neighbor in the house next door prepares breakfast.
He kicks at his tangled sheets and sighs. He stopped telling himself that the dreams mean nothing after he encountered a young man in the third floor loo who looked remarkably like Sirius, except for his sad eyes and Marked forearm.
"Stop it," he says suddenly, his voice jarring in the silence. "You hear me. Stop it."
The laughter starts again, and Harry's head whirls around. He grasps his wand off the nightstand and slowly rises from his bed, pointing it blindly around the room.
"Idiot," he distinctly hears.
"I'm not mad. You hear me? I'm not."
"The first sign of madness, talking to your own head," the voice drawls.
Harry quickly turns around and sees Phineus Nigellus lounging boredly in his picture frame.
"What?" Harry asks weakly, dropping his wand. He rubs his forehead. The pain he was feeling before is gone. "I- I don't know what's happening to me," he admits.
Phineus shrugs. "You were dreaming, apparently, about that flea-bitten nephew of mine, judging by the fervor in which you were shouting his name."
Harry's mouth is suddenly dry. "A dream. So it was a dream."
Phineus raises an eyebrow. "Wasn't it?"
"Yes. Of course." Harry frowns and slowly sinks down on the bed. "I keep seeing things. People. People who should be dead."
"I'm dead." Phineus shrugs.
"Yes, but… That's different."
Phineus looks at his nails. "It seems to me you should heed the advice of that bushy-haired friend of yours and 'get out more.'"
Harry nods. "Can I ask you a question?
"Of course."
"Why did Sirius' mother leave her portrait?"
"There's no reason for her to stay, is there?" Phineus' mouth turns downward. "Both of her sons are dead. The Noble House of Black is gone."
"Where did she go?"
Phineus shrugs again. "I can't answer that."
"Thank you," Harry says after a moment, feeling infinitely better. Suddenly famished, he slides off the bed and pads down to the kitchen. Maybe he will go to Diagon Alley today and get ice cream at Fortescue's. He hasn't been there in ages.
~ * ~
"Lumos," he whispers, pushing open the bedroom door. The room has a distinctly fetid air, and he quickly rethinks his theory about Hippogriff shite. It smells like death. There is no other way to describe it, and he tightens his grip on his wand before taking another step forward, tripping over something lying on the floor.
"Lumos Maximus!" he cries. The room floods with light, and Harry's mouth drops open. It's not like any of the other rooms at all. There is rubbish everywhere, mixed with piles of clothes and books and scattered pieces of broken crockery. The bed shoved into the corner even looks like it has been slept in.
A fly buzzes near the shuttered windows, hopping against the glass. "Is anyone here?" he calls before chiding himself. No one could live up here with this smell, not even Mundungus. Besides, there is a thick layer of dust covering everything. It's obvious no ones been up here since… since…
"Cut it out," he tells himself, suddenly feeling nauseous. It's not like he shouldn't have been prepared to find Sirius' things. He just assumed the Order would have cleaned up a little before they moved out.
He lets out a shaky breath and turns over an empty bottle of Old Ogden's with his foot. "God Sirius, how could you live like this?" he asks out loud, more to break up the crushing silence then anything else.
The room doesn't answer, of course, and Harry swallows, kicking the bottle across the floor where it clangs against the baseboard. Guilt washes over him. Why didn't he know it was this bad? Was he that naïve? Was he that selfish?
He has the sudden urge to flee. It's obvious he doesn't belong here, and the smell is making him dizzy. He turns and stumbles toward the door, too late seeing the stack of books in his path as he trips to the floor with his wand skittering out of his hand and rolling under the bed. The Lumos spell flickers for a moment and then goes out, blanketing him in darkness save for the tiny daggers of light bleeding in through the shuttered curtains, but even they aren't bright enough for him to see more than a few inches in front of his face.
"Ron!" he cries, swallowing down the panic that is threatening to bubble forth. No one answers. "Okay, Harry? You just need to get your wand," he tells himself after taking a deep breath. "It's under the bed. Just grab it. Just-" Except he can't move. His body seems rooted to the floor. "Fuck, move!" he yells, and finally he's going, crawling on all fours until he reaches the bed.
The stink is making his head throb, and he has to stop to catch his breath, swaying, as the dizziness gets worse. "Ron," he cries again, resting his head on his hands. "RON!" No one answers, and he tries to remind himself that he has got out of tougher scrapes than these. "Just reach under the bed," he tells himself, groping blindly as he brushes over something smooth and glasslike, and finally wrapping his fingers around the base of his wand.
"Lumos," he whispers, and his eyes widen, seeing something glint in the wand light. It's a reflection. He grabs it and quickly scrambles to his knees, staring at it. It's a mirror. A tiny square mirror, just like the one… He swallows again, remembering the mirror he found in his trunk. The glass shimmers, and his mouth drops open.
"Sirius."
~ * ~
He brushes past Mrs. Black's covered portrait and takes the stairs leading down to the kitchen at a fast clip before stopping suddenly in his tracks. Firelight is bleeding through the bottom of the closed kitchen door even though he was sure he set the wards last night before he went to bed.
"Hello?" he calls, slowly pushing open the door. A fire roars in the hearth and lighted torches line the walls. A shadow bustles near the old dresser, pulling cutlery and dishes from its drawers. "What's going on here?" he asks, standing in the doorway. The chrome stove and refrigerator that were just installed yesterday have disappeared, along with the slate countertops and maple cabinets.
A figure frying rashers of bacon on the old cast iron stove turns and smiles at Harry. "It's about time you got up."
Harry gapes. "Sirius."
"The one and only." He leans forward and whispers, "I told my mum she could stay if she keeps quiet."
Harry looks back at the shadowy figure by the dresser. She smirks at Harry and resumes preparing breakfast. "Don't forget to wake your brother," she calls.
Sirius rolls his eyes and then grins. "Come, sit down." He cocks his head at the kitchen table. "We have loads to talk about."
Harry grins back. "Okay."
~ * ~
The Healer pulls the door to the locked ward shut.
Hermione worries her lip. "Why won't he wake up?" Ron squeezes her shoulder and she begins to sob. "Sorry," she manages, between shuddering gasps. "I haven't slept in three days."
The Healer looks at them sympathetically. "Why don't you tell me exactly what happened," she says gently.
"We found him in his bed. We thought he was asleep but…" Hermione wrings the handkerchief in her hands. "We tried everything. Charms, spells… potions. I- I even looked through some of the old books on Dark Magic at Grimmauld Place."
"That house once belonged to the Blacks, correct?" The Healers prompts, and Hermione couldn't help noticing that she looked concerned by that detail.
Ron nods. "Harry moved in there a month ago. He said he was having dreams."
"That's not all," Hermione interrupts. "This happened once before, during the war."
"There was a locket that Harry and I were trying to find in… in Grimmauld Place," Ron explains. "We needed to find it so that we could destroy You Know Who, and we split up. I searched to kitchen and Harry went upstairs to look in the bedrooms and…"
Ron swallows and looks helplessly at Hermione. "Ron found him in the master bedroom," she explains, "clutching a mirror. He wouldn't wake up then either."
The Healer frowns. "But he did. He defeated You Know Who."
"But he was never the same after he woke up. He always seemed lost, like he wanted to be elsewhere," Hermione says, swallowing back another sob. "Not with us."
"Haunted," Ron adds, and Hermione glares at him.
"Harry is not haunted. He's sick or been cursed," Hermione replies firmly. "You have to do something. We need him." Fresh tears spill down her face as she looks through the tiny window that over looks Harry's bed.
The Healer purses her lips as she scribbles on her parchment clipboard. "Unfortunately most, if not all, practitioners of Dark Magic were killed during the war or are in Azkaban and will be of no help to us."
"So you think this is Dark Magic?" Hermione asks.
"Possibly, old families like the Blacks don't die so easily, or willingly." She looks through the window where a wistful smile has played across Harry's face. "Or it may be that he is quite right where he is."
~fin
Title: If we are ghosts
Rating: PG
Character(s): Harry, Sirius
Summary: It's only a dream. It means nothing. A post-war genfic about Harry, his demons and Sirius Black
Author's notes: Written for parallactic who requested a fic centered on Harry and Sirius' godfather/godson relationship, no matter how dysfuntional. Thank you, monifieth, for the speedy beta.
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
~Edgar Allen Poe
If we are ghosts
The mirror gleams. Harry runs his fingers across the glass. There are no cracks or splinters. Nothing to say that it was once broken, cast away by a grieving teen with the bitter taste of rage in his mouth.
Harry licks his lips and lets his eyes dart around the dusty room before returning them to stare into the glass. "Sirius," he whispers.
The glass shimmers, and then… nothing.
Downstairs the front door bangs open and heavy footfalls sound across the threshold.
"Sirius," he says louder, backing nervously into the corner. "Are you there? Answer me, please."
The glass shimmers again, but this time a man's face appears. He smiles rakishly at Harry.
"Sirius," Harry cries, his heart pounding. He can't stop the grin lighting his face. "It's really you."
"Harry," Sirius' eyes twinkle, "look at you. You've grown up."
"Yes, I have." A bang sounds from outside and green light begins to leak through the drawn curtains. "Look, Sirius, I don't have a lot of time. I need your help."
"I bet you can't keep the girls away from you," Sirius smirks. "Got a girlfriend yet, or are you still playing the field?"
"No. Sort of. I don't know." Harry frowns. Why isn't he listening to him?
"Just like James. He used to…"
"Sirius!" Harry shouts. "Listen to me."
"It's awfully lonely here, Harry."
"What?" Harry's voice cracks.
"Cooped up. All alone. No one visits me, Harry." His mouth turns downward. "They won't even let me see James and Lily."
Harry gapes. "I-" Someone is approaching the bedroom door. "Look, I don't have time for this." He grasps for his wand, coming up with nothing but dust and air.
"Time?" Sirius roars. "I have nothing but time, no thanks to you. But you wouldn't understand that, leaving me here all alone. I need you, Harry."
"No. No." Harry shakes his head. The doorknob twists open and he stands, waiting for the inevitable as the mirror crashes to the floor. Tiny shards of glass skitter across the dingy carpet just as a flash of green light pierces the darkness.
~ * ~
"Harry."
A cool hand touches his forehead, threading fingers through his hair.
"Harry, wake up."
Harry opens his eyes and sees a silhouette with bushy hair. "Hermione," he says. "What-"
"I think you were having a bad dream." Her hand leaves his face and she turns to speak to blurry shape hovering behind her. "He's fine. Just get him a glass of water."
"All right," he hears Ron say. "Do you think-"
"Ron." Hermione's voice drops an octave.
"Fine."
Harry finally sits up and grabs his glasses off the coffee table. "Sorry," he mumbles, turning red now that he can see that Hermione is wearing only a t-shirt and a pair of knickers. "I'll be off your sofa in the morning."
"No worries, mate," Ron says, handing him a glass of water. "You can stay here as long as you'd like."
Harry can't help noticing the look Hermione gives Ron as he places the water glass on table untouched. "No," he says, feigning a smile. "You both have put up with me long enough. I'm moving into out tomorrow. It's about time I found my own place to live."
Hermione nods. She touches his forehead again, running her fingers along the area where his scar used to be. "You're not having phantom pain there, are you?"
"No," he lies.
"Good."
"It's probably just stress," he adds.
~ * ~
The war ended two years ago and Harry still hasn't recovered from its horror. Sure, he looks the same, minus the lightening bolt scar, of course, but even he will concede that he's not quite the same person as he was before.
It's almost as some indelible part of him died on that battlefield along with Voldemort. Some intangible essence that made him Harry Potter. He hasn't ridden a broomstick in months (the last time he did, he panicked, and was stuck hovering in the air, unable to find his way down) and the Wizarding world no longer seems brilliant and, well, magical.
And that isn't the worst of it. The healers at St. Mungo's tell him he has a personality disorder, but Harry prefers to think he has demons. It sounds more heroic somehow. It's all a well-kept secret. No one wants to hear that the Boy Who Lived is really the Boy Who Went Mental. It's bad P.R.
Still, Harry has enough self-awareness to know something needs to change. Life is passing him by, as Hermione likes to say. What good is making the Wizarding World safe for peace and prosperity, if he can't enjoy a little of that himself. So what if Auror training didn't work out when the Chief Auror quietly asked him to leave (after he nearly crucioed a fellow student) or that Ginny is off in America finding herself. He still has a fortune sitting in Gringotts and a large house at his disposal. Isn't it a bit pathetic that he's still sleeping on Ron's couch?
Tomorrow, he thinks, as sinks back down into the sofa cushions and shuts his eyes. Tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow he'll finally have a home of his own. Tomorrow will be great.
~ * ~
"Are you sure we can get in?" Ron whispers from a few steps behind.
Harry looks back at Ron irritably, "Why wouldn't we? It's my house, isn't it? And why exactly are we whispering?"
Ron shrugs, and then grins. "Stealth."
"Ah," says Harry, shaking his head, glad that he let Ron convince him to come along. The truth is he wasn't looking forward to coming here. In fact, he would have be happy never to step foot in Grimmauld Place again, but Hermione thought the missing locket might still be inside, and he knew he didn't have a choice. "Well, we better get in before someone sees us," he says, turning back to the shabby front door and tapping it once with his wand.
Harry holds his breath. A moment passes before the door finally groans open.
Both boys exhale. "Okay, that was easy," Harry says, as they step inside. The gas lamps flicker for a moment, before lighting and casting the entrance hall in an unhealthy yellow.
The front door snaps shut and Ron jumps, grasping Harry's arm. "Sorry," he says.
Harry rolls his eyes until they fall upon the curtains hiding the portrait of Sirius' demented mother, and something cold inside him twists.
"All right, Harry?"
Harry tears his eyes away. "Yeah, I hate this place. That's all."
An animal scuttles across the floor. "I can't say I blame you," Ron replies.
~ * ~
"Careful," Hermione scolds, throwing Ron another one of her looks, as he levitates an old bureau past the row of house-elf heads lining the staircase.
Ron makes a face. "What's her problem, anyway," he whispers to Harry, momentarily taking his eyes off the bureau and banging it against the wall.
"Ron, honestly. Look what you just did." Hermione points to sizable gash left in the plaster.
"Hermione, it's not a big deal," Harry says, full of good humor. He really did make the right decision moving here. "I'm going to gut the entire house. I even hired an architect to draw up some plans."
"An architect?" says George, ducking as the bureau sales over his head and speeds across the second floor landing.
"I didn't know you were that posh, Harry," adds Fred, appearing behind George. "Could you send him to our place when you're finished with him? I don't know if you noticed, but it could use some help."
"It's a her, actually," Harry replies, grinning as he follows them up the stairs, "and I think your place is beyond help at this point."
Fred and George both make a face. "True." They both grin. "But you could send her over anyway."
"Oi, Harry," Ron calls from up the stairs, "which bedroom am I moving this into?"
Harry shivers involuntarily, before turning away from the staircase leading up to Sirius' parents' rooms. "Our old room. The one we shared fifth year."
"Harry?"
Hermione's voice calls from another bedroom down the hall and Harry sighs unhappily. "Yes, Hermione," he calls.
Hermione gives him an exasperated look. "Don't treat me like I'm your mother," she scolds.
"Then stop acting like one!" he replies hotly.
Hermione gives him another look and then sighs. "All right. Point taken. So," she points to a small painting hanging above the desk, "have you noticed anything odd about the portraits?"
Harry follows her gaze to a portrait of a young boy, dressed in blue silk robes. The only unusual thing he can see is that the boy's back is turned. "So?" he says, shrugging, "Sirius' mother screams when someone walks in the front door."
"Does she?"
"Of course, she does. She makes a bloody racket if someone raises their voice."
"Then how come she hasn't made a sound since we got here? Between the twins and Ron banging up your furniture, you'd think she might have thrown a 'Mudblood' or 'scourge of the earth' in our direction."
~ * ~
Hermione pulls on the cord, throwing open the heavy black curtain.
"Blimey," says Ron.
Harry blinks, suddenly feeling cold and unsettled. "She's gone."
"That's good, right?" Ron asks.
"I don't know," Hermione replies, looking at Harry.
~ * ~
That night he dreams about Sirius again, and just like the night before Harry finds the mirror in an empty room, speaks to it, and Sirius appears in its reflection. However this time, Sirius no longer looks tired and used up, rather he looks young and handsome like he did when Harry saw him in Snape's penseive.
"Tell me more about my mum and dad," Harry asks. They have been talking for what seems like hours.
"Your father," Sirius starts what has become Harry's favorite story, "was absolutely besotted with your mother. Of course, she wanted nothing to do with him." Sirius grins and winks knowingly at Harry. Harry smiles back at him, feeling younger too.
"But then you know how the story ends, don't you, Harry." Sirius' grin falters.
"Yes, they fall in love and get married."
A faint red light begins to glow behind Sirius's head. "No, Harry," he says, his voice grave.
"Yes, that's exactly what happened," Harry insists.
The light suddenly grows brighter. "My cousin is coming. I have to go now."
"No! Sirius, wait!" The mirror falls to pieces in his hands. "Sirius!"
~ * ~
It's just a dream he tells himself. It means nothing.
"I'm fine," he tells Hermione, when she and Ron stop over the next morning -- Ron on his way to Auror training and Hermione to he new job she has landed, working for the Undersecretary of Magical/Non-magical Relations.
"This place gives me the creeps," Ron replies, casting a weary eye at a spider walking slowly up the wall.
"Nonsense," Hermione tells Ron, despite not looking entirely convinced herself. "You lived here for an entire summer and survived."
Harry tries to ignore the fact that Bellatrix Lestrange is standing behind them, smirking in the shadows.
"Harry?" Hermione frowns. "Are you all right?"
Harry blinks and Bellatrix is gone. Only the spider is there, making her lonely journey across the faded wallpaper. "Yes," he says quickly. "I- I had a dream about Sirius last night."
"You did?" Hermione raises her eyebrows. "How did that go?" she asks, and Harry scowls at her because she sounds exactly like one of his therapists.
"It was just a dream, Hermione."
Still, Hermione presses, "It's just that I can't remember the last time you mentioned his name. I think this may be a breakthrough."
"Hermione," Ron suddenly hisses. "Can't you see he doesn't want to talk about it."
"I know, but…"
"Thanks for stopping by," Harry interrupts, looking meaningfully at Hermione. "I'm fine," he adds when she still looks unconvinced.
"All right." Hermione kisses him lightly on the cheek. "Don't forget the architect is coming tomorrow morning."
"I know," he says softly, still staring at the wall.
~ * ~
Evelyn Reese-Jones, thrice cited for her work in Modern Wizarding Design for her singularly British take on the modern European aesthetic, bends closer to the wall and wrinkles her nose. "And this." She gestures toward the scorched plaster still pocked with charred bits of fabric. "What exactly is going on here?"
Ron snorts and Harry can't help snickering himself. "Er… It used to be a piece of tapestry."
She raises a well-plucked eyebrow. "Tapestry? It was burned?"
"Yeah," he replies, shrugging. "Paybacks are hell,"
"Harry. The tapestry was enchanted," Hermione explains, rather unnecessarily Harry thought. "It couldn't be removed without… blasting holes in it."
That only makes Harry and Ron laugh harder, and it's only after he wipes his eyes that he notices Ron and Hermione exchanging glances. "Sorry," he mutters, pushing his glasses back on. "Is there anything else?"
Evelyn sighs, and scrawls a few more notes on her parchment scroll. "There are still dark artifacts in the house. I'll have to hire a consultant to remove them, and I'll need an exterminator to get rid of the rest of the doxies. That alone could cost several thousand Galleons."
"Fine. Do it. I want this whole house gutted. I don't want to see anything left when you're done."
"Harry, are you sure?" Hermione asks.
"Yes," he hisses. God, they've talked about this a million times over. It's his fucking house.
"But…"
"Sirius would have wanted it this way," he replies, remembering their conversation last night. "Really, is there anything else?" he asks, suddenly itchy for everyone to leave.
"I still need to get into the bedroom on the top floor to…"
"No."
"Mr. Potter, how am I…"
"The room is off limits. No, wait. I've changed my mind. Tear it off."
Evelyn looks confused. "Tear…"
"Yeah, the whole floor. Demolish it. I don't need it. There are enough bedrooms in this house, don't you think?"
Evelyn opens her mouth and shuts it again before settling on regarding Harry with that look that he has been getting all too often lately. The one that says, "The rumors are true. Harry Potter has gone round the bend."
Harry sighs impatiently. 'We're wizards, aren't we? We can make an entire room appear and disappear on a whim. So you can fucking tear off the top floor of this house."
Evelyn noticeably flinches. "Of course, Mr. Potter. You'll be hearing from me in a few days."
"I'll walk you out." Hermione says, taking her arm and giving Ron a lingering, I-need-to-speak-to-you-now glance
Ron looks at Harry sympathetically. "It will be some change, won't it?" he says.
Harry nods.
~ * ~
They decide to split up to save time. Ron will search for the locket in the kitchen and first floor, while Harry investigates the upper floors. However, it doesn't take long for Harry to realize that they are on a fool's mission. Most of the bedrooms are stripped bare except for their decaying furniture. Not even an errant booby trap remains in Fred and George's former room, and Harry shuts the door, feeling angry and inexplicably lost.
The room he shared with Ron is no different. Only two bare mattresses, an empty wardrobe and Phineus Nigellus' portrait remain. Phineus stretches lazily in his frame as he watches Harry search the room. Neither chooses to speak to the other.
That leaves only one more room to search: the bedroom that once belonged to Sirius' parents. Harry hesitates for a moment as he stares up at the closed doorway sitting at the top of the stairs, a sudden, sharp feeling of unease twisting around inside him. The smell of rot that seems to permeate every room of Grimmauld Place isn't helping, except that he is almost certain that the smell is even stronger here than it is elsewhere.
It's probably something Buckbeak left behind, he reminds himself, imagining rotting Hippogriff feces or the remains of half-eaten rats. Why wouldn't the bedroom smell considering a large animal was once cooped up inside? Still, he has to force his feet to move forward even after reminding himself that the room can't contain anything worse than what he's already seen outside Hagrid's cabin.
" Alohomora," he whispers, and the door pops open.
~ * ~
A week passes by and then another. Ron and Hermione visit daily, Remus and Tonks stop over twice, and Evelyn Reese-Jones has demolished his kitchen, making way for a suite of expensive appliances that he'll probably never use.
Harry reckons that his friends think he's lonely. He'll admit that he doesn't get out much, but there is simply too much to do. He has big plans for Grimmauld Place. He wants white walls and blond hardwood floors, leather coaches and perhaps even a sophisticated piece of modern art to hang over the fireplace, just like he saw in that Muggle architecture magazine Hermione leant him. Clean, white and blood free.
No dark artefacts. No creepy Black heirlooms. No Blacks, period.
Except for Sirius, of course.
And it's Sirius who gives him his best idea, yet.
"A wrecking party?" Harry sinks cross-legged to the floor with the mirror his hands.
"Sure." Sirius grins. "Invite all your friends. We'll order the finest whisky and hand out sledgehammers at the door. I wanted to do have one before, but Dumbledore wouldn't let me. Told me it 'wouldn't be prudent at this particular time.'"
Harry is affronted on Sirius' behalf. "It's your house," he cries.
Sirius snorts. "Tell that to my family." Sirius' face darkens. "Funny, how the Blacks won't let go."
"What do you mean?"
"Don't you get it, Harry?"
"Get what? What are you talking about?"
"I have to go, Harry."
"Wait…"
~ * ~
Hermione shakes her head. "No. I think it's a really bad idea."
"Come on, Hermione," cries Ron. "A party might be fun."
"Stop encouraging him," she hisses at Ron, her voice dangerously low.
"It's my house," Harry shouts, suddenly furious. "I can do whatever the fuck I want!"
Ron ignores him. "At least I don't treat him like a child," he tells Hermione, glaring at her.
"Will you two stop it?" Harry glares at them both. "I'm going to have the party anyway." He opens a cupboard door and pulls down a bottle of Firewhisky he found in one of the bedrooms yesterday. "Sirius said I should do it and I'm going to do it," he says firmly while pouring himself a generous glass.
"Sirius?" Hermione asks. "Wait. You just said Sirius told you to throw a party?"
Harry looks over the top of his glass and sees the two of them gaping at him. "No." He swallows the whisky down and quickly refills his glass, spilling whisky all over the counter. "I didn't mean I talked to him. I- I had a dream. That's all."
Ron frowns. "How long has this been going on, mate?"
"Look, it was just a dream. I won't throw the party. You're right. It's a bad idea."
"Harry, are you all right? You don't look so good," Hermione asks.
Harry smiles wanly. "I'm fine."
~ * ~
"What?" Sirius roars.
Harry swallows. "Hermione thought it was a bad idea, and… and Ron, too. They said…"
"I don't care what they said. Look, Harry. I'm only doing this for your own good. You need to tear down these walls. Destroy everything. It's the only way."
"But…"
Sirius' mouth twists angrily. "You owe this to me."
Searing pain shoots through Harry's forehead. "I know, Sirius… but…"
"We haven't got much time."
"I know," Harry says weakly. He can hear voices shouting outside. Green light seeps under the door and between the curtains. "I'll do it."
"You promise?" Sirius demands. His face flickers in the mirror and begins to fade.
"Sirius! Don't go, please." His forehead throbs as the mirror falls to the floor. "Sirius," he whimpers. The curtains fall open as a soft titter of laughter fills the room. The last thing he sees is the Dark Mark lighting the sky before everything falls to black.
~ * ~
Headlights from a traveling car rake the bedroom walls, and then it's dark again. Harry blinks, and slowly sits up. It's nearly morning. Outside a dog is barking and he can hear the clang of dishes as his neighbor in the house next door prepares breakfast.
He kicks at his tangled sheets and sighs. He stopped telling himself that the dreams mean nothing after he encountered a young man in the third floor loo who looked remarkably like Sirius, except for his sad eyes and Marked forearm.
"Stop it," he says suddenly, his voice jarring in the silence. "You hear me. Stop it."
The laughter starts again, and Harry's head whirls around. He grasps his wand off the nightstand and slowly rises from his bed, pointing it blindly around the room.
"Idiot," he distinctly hears.
"I'm not mad. You hear me? I'm not."
"The first sign of madness, talking to your own head," the voice drawls.
Harry quickly turns around and sees Phineus Nigellus lounging boredly in his picture frame.
"What?" Harry asks weakly, dropping his wand. He rubs his forehead. The pain he was feeling before is gone. "I- I don't know what's happening to me," he admits.
Phineus shrugs. "You were dreaming, apparently, about that flea-bitten nephew of mine, judging by the fervor in which you were shouting his name."
Harry's mouth is suddenly dry. "A dream. So it was a dream."
Phineus raises an eyebrow. "Wasn't it?"
"Yes. Of course." Harry frowns and slowly sinks down on the bed. "I keep seeing things. People. People who should be dead."
"I'm dead." Phineus shrugs.
"Yes, but… That's different."
Phineus looks at his nails. "It seems to me you should heed the advice of that bushy-haired friend of yours and 'get out more.'"
Harry nods. "Can I ask you a question?
"Of course."
"Why did Sirius' mother leave her portrait?"
"There's no reason for her to stay, is there?" Phineus' mouth turns downward. "Both of her sons are dead. The Noble House of Black is gone."
"Where did she go?"
Phineus shrugs again. "I can't answer that."
"Thank you," Harry says after a moment, feeling infinitely better. Suddenly famished, he slides off the bed and pads down to the kitchen. Maybe he will go to Diagon Alley today and get ice cream at Fortescue's. He hasn't been there in ages.
~ * ~
"Lumos," he whispers, pushing open the bedroom door. The room has a distinctly fetid air, and he quickly rethinks his theory about Hippogriff shite. It smells like death. There is no other way to describe it, and he tightens his grip on his wand before taking another step forward, tripping over something lying on the floor.
"Lumos Maximus!" he cries. The room floods with light, and Harry's mouth drops open. It's not like any of the other rooms at all. There is rubbish everywhere, mixed with piles of clothes and books and scattered pieces of broken crockery. The bed shoved into the corner even looks like it has been slept in.
A fly buzzes near the shuttered windows, hopping against the glass. "Is anyone here?" he calls before chiding himself. No one could live up here with this smell, not even Mundungus. Besides, there is a thick layer of dust covering everything. It's obvious no ones been up here since… since…
"Cut it out," he tells himself, suddenly feeling nauseous. It's not like he shouldn't have been prepared to find Sirius' things. He just assumed the Order would have cleaned up a little before they moved out.
He lets out a shaky breath and turns over an empty bottle of Old Ogden's with his foot. "God Sirius, how could you live like this?" he asks out loud, more to break up the crushing silence then anything else.
The room doesn't answer, of course, and Harry swallows, kicking the bottle across the floor where it clangs against the baseboard. Guilt washes over him. Why didn't he know it was this bad? Was he that naïve? Was he that selfish?
He has the sudden urge to flee. It's obvious he doesn't belong here, and the smell is making him dizzy. He turns and stumbles toward the door, too late seeing the stack of books in his path as he trips to the floor with his wand skittering out of his hand and rolling under the bed. The Lumos spell flickers for a moment and then goes out, blanketing him in darkness save for the tiny daggers of light bleeding in through the shuttered curtains, but even they aren't bright enough for him to see more than a few inches in front of his face.
"Ron!" he cries, swallowing down the panic that is threatening to bubble forth. No one answers. "Okay, Harry? You just need to get your wand," he tells himself after taking a deep breath. "It's under the bed. Just grab it. Just-" Except he can't move. His body seems rooted to the floor. "Fuck, move!" he yells, and finally he's going, crawling on all fours until he reaches the bed.
The stink is making his head throb, and he has to stop to catch his breath, swaying, as the dizziness gets worse. "Ron," he cries again, resting his head on his hands. "RON!" No one answers, and he tries to remind himself that he has got out of tougher scrapes than these. "Just reach under the bed," he tells himself, groping blindly as he brushes over something smooth and glasslike, and finally wrapping his fingers around the base of his wand.
"Lumos," he whispers, and his eyes widen, seeing something glint in the wand light. It's a reflection. He grabs it and quickly scrambles to his knees, staring at it. It's a mirror. A tiny square mirror, just like the one… He swallows again, remembering the mirror he found in his trunk. The glass shimmers, and his mouth drops open.
"Sirius."
~ * ~
He brushes past Mrs. Black's covered portrait and takes the stairs leading down to the kitchen at a fast clip before stopping suddenly in his tracks. Firelight is bleeding through the bottom of the closed kitchen door even though he was sure he set the wards last night before he went to bed.
"Hello?" he calls, slowly pushing open the door. A fire roars in the hearth and lighted torches line the walls. A shadow bustles near the old dresser, pulling cutlery and dishes from its drawers. "What's going on here?" he asks, standing in the doorway. The chrome stove and refrigerator that were just installed yesterday have disappeared, along with the slate countertops and maple cabinets.
A figure frying rashers of bacon on the old cast iron stove turns and smiles at Harry. "It's about time you got up."
Harry gapes. "Sirius."
"The one and only." He leans forward and whispers, "I told my mum she could stay if she keeps quiet."
Harry looks back at the shadowy figure by the dresser. She smirks at Harry and resumes preparing breakfast. "Don't forget to wake your brother," she calls.
Sirius rolls his eyes and then grins. "Come, sit down." He cocks his head at the kitchen table. "We have loads to talk about."
Harry grins back. "Okay."
~ * ~
The Healer pulls the door to the locked ward shut.
Hermione worries her lip. "Why won't he wake up?" Ron squeezes her shoulder and she begins to sob. "Sorry," she manages, between shuddering gasps. "I haven't slept in three days."
The Healer looks at them sympathetically. "Why don't you tell me exactly what happened," she says gently.
"We found him in his bed. We thought he was asleep but…" Hermione wrings the handkerchief in her hands. "We tried everything. Charms, spells… potions. I- I even looked through some of the old books on Dark Magic at Grimmauld Place."
"That house once belonged to the Blacks, correct?" The Healers prompts, and Hermione couldn't help noticing that she looked concerned by that detail.
Ron nods. "Harry moved in there a month ago. He said he was having dreams."
"That's not all," Hermione interrupts. "This happened once before, during the war."
"There was a locket that Harry and I were trying to find in… in Grimmauld Place," Ron explains. "We needed to find it so that we could destroy You Know Who, and we split up. I searched to kitchen and Harry went upstairs to look in the bedrooms and…"
Ron swallows and looks helplessly at Hermione. "Ron found him in the master bedroom," she explains, "clutching a mirror. He wouldn't wake up then either."
The Healer frowns. "But he did. He defeated You Know Who."
"But he was never the same after he woke up. He always seemed lost, like he wanted to be elsewhere," Hermione says, swallowing back another sob. "Not with us."
"Haunted," Ron adds, and Hermione glares at him.
"Harry is not haunted. He's sick or been cursed," Hermione replies firmly. "You have to do something. We need him." Fresh tears spill down her face as she looks through the tiny window that over looks Harry's bed.
The Healer purses her lips as she scribbles on her parchment clipboard. "Unfortunately most, if not all, practitioners of Dark Magic were killed during the war or are in Azkaban and will be of no help to us."
"So you think this is Dark Magic?" Hermione asks.
"Possibly, old families like the Blacks don't die so easily, or willingly." She looks through the window where a wistful smile has played across Harry's face. "Or it may be that he is quite right where he is."
~fin