mutterings of a music history major (thescarletwoman) wrote in scarletdreams, @ 2008-04-07 13:18:00 |
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Entry tags: | 2008, harry potter, harry/sirius, rated: nc-17, sirius black |
[Fic] Sirius/Harry, Others -- Evidence of Things Not Seen; Part 1 (NC-17)
Title: Evidence of Things Not Seen
Author: thescarletwoman
Rating: NC-17
Pairing(s): Sirius/Harry; Past Sirius/Regulus and Harry/Ginny
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
Summary: It was a letter that started it all. Sometimes the things we most wish for come with a price. And it's the devil that lurks in the details.
Warnings: chan (implied and not), underage (both participants underage), slightly ambiguous consent, wanking, frottage
Word Count: ~17,500
Author's Notes: Written for xylodemon in the '08 hp_springsmut exchange. From a fic that started out very small... the plot ended up taking over completely and totally, though there's still a nice amount of smut in there as well. Thank you to my girls who not only betaed, but also held my hand through the writing of this. I couldn't have done it without you. Also thank you so much to the Springsmut Mods who were more than patient with me! Quotations throughout lovingly taken/adapted from: For Whom the Bell Tolls, Nine: The Musical and The Lord of the Rings.
"Harry... this is not my idea of a successful relationship."
"Hrm?"
"You promised! We'd spend the evening talking for a change. I don't think you've heard a single thing I've said all night!"
Harry rolled his eyes, turning another page of the book. Not once in the entire one-sided conversation had he lifted his gaze to look at Ginny. Not even now, as his irate wife hovered over him, did he do anything but devour the words on the page.
"That's not true, Ginny," Harry lied. "I've heard everything you've said. Everything." Under his breath he muttered the words he read, looking for one tiny piece of the puzzle that would unlock the mystery.
"What I miss most," Ginny said softly, watching her husband ignore her completely, "is honesty."
The only response she received was the scratch-scratch as his quill moved across the parchment, taking down a note written by Ederington in the 12th century. It may have been a long-shot but Harry was going to take anything he could get, no matter how improbable it may seem. When silence reigned in the room, Harry assumed Ginny was expecting some sort of a response. Right -- he was supposed to be talking to his wife, even if their 'chats' lately seemed to consist of Ginny telling Harry exactly how he had failed as a husband. Not exactly his idea of a good time.
At least books didn't talk back. Harry was beginning to see why Hermione had spent so much time reading.
"You are the most honest woman I've ever met."
"Thank you... I think." There was another long pause and Harry thought that maybe, just maybe, Ginny would cease badgering him for once. On second thought, Harry knew he didn't have that kind of luck. He survived Voldemort with little problem; marital problems, on the other hand... "How would you like a divorce?"
"What?" Harry asked absently, dipping his quill rhythmically in and out of the inkwell. No, what Ederington said didn't really apply. That was a metal arch with nothing hanging. He needed stone arches. And a Veil. Grumbling, Harry crossed out the reference.
"Because if you don't change and soon -- I'm going to leave you."
That, however, got through Harry's thick skull. He pushed his quill into the inkwell with so much force that the tip snapped off and the inkwell threatened to topple. He caught it before it spilled everywhere, ruining several priceless and irreplaceable tomes. Harry looked up at Ginny for the first time all night, noticing at long last that her face was scarlet. So maybe she was pissed and maybe he should have been paying more attention to their argument. In the other room, he could hear James' cooing as he played with the toy broom they had bought a few months ago. Harry visibly swallowed, rubbing his temples.
"Ginny... this is not a good moment in my life," Harry said softly, running his thumb over the broken quill tip and deciding that it was ruined beyond all repair for future use. Buggering hell. This was his last quill and now he'd have to waste time tomorrow in order to go out and buy more.
"Nor in mine!" Ginny replied, throwing her hands up in the air. "It's always about you, isn't it? The bloody Boy-Who-Lived. Like that gives you some sort of free pass to live in your own little world forgetting you have a family."
"As it happens, at this moment I have a lot on my mind, yeah? So lay off."
"I can imagine," Ginny replied icily. The temperature in the room dropped abruptly with her tone of voice and had Harry been paying attention, he would have been able to see his breath. Without another word, Ginny turned on her heel and stalked from the kitchen, slamming the door as she left. The sound was punctuated by James letting out a long, loud howl. Harry lifted his head at the noise, more concerned over his son's cries than the fact that his wife had left so abruptly. James' cried quieted, Ginny obviously taking care of him so he didn't have to. Harry still couldn't grasp what he had done to illicit such a reaction from Ginny. The thought wasn't enough to engage his mind or draw him away from his work. Chewing on his lower lip, he returned to his books. Even if he couldn't write notes, he could still continue his reading.
Besides, it wasn't as if he came across a clue with every turn of a page. It was well into the wee hours of the morning by the time Harry reached the point of exhaustion. He knew without going upstairs that the door would be shut to him. Looked like it would be yet another night on the couch for him.
Hopefully Ginny had been kind enough to leave a pillow and blanket for him.
She had, Harry noted with a smile. However, the smile faded when Harry saw the scrap of paper resting on top of the thread-bare blanket.
Fuck you and enjoy the couch. Again.
Harry crumpled the note in his fist and hurled it across the room, the ball of paper flying wide of the rubbish bin. What did he ever do to her?
~*~
Within the week, Ginny had moved back to the Burrow, and she took James with her. Harry would have been lying if he said he didn't care and didn't feel anything when she finally walked out of the house. Why couldn't she understand that this was his work and that it was important? When the war had broken out in earnest, Harry had become so distracted that he hadn't been able to think of anything outside of the hunting down of the Horcruxes.
That... and staying alive.
He'd never been given the time to properly grieve anyone's deaths. Not Professor Dumbledore's... and not Sirius'. He knew Sirius' death had played heavily on his mind during his sixth year -- but then Dumbledore began those damned lessons and everything after that seemed like one gigantic blur.
When the war had finally ended, his relationship with Ginny had started in earnest simply because it was what everyone expected. Harry and Ginny... the modern-day Arthur and Guinevere who had managed to survive their trials and tribulations so of course they would marry and be the perfect, harmonious family. Ginny had pushed and in the end, Harry didn't have the heart to say no. Wartime turned to peacetime and as was the tradition following any great war: destruction and death were replaced by matrimony and birth. Hermione and Ron had settled down, so why shouldn't he and Ginny?
Harry knew back then -- knew those three years ago that it was a bad idea from the beginning. He was too damaged to be anything remotely resembling a decent husband. Still, Harry did 'the right thing' and tied the knot. And within the year, Ginny had damn near broken his hand to deliver James. He loved their son deeply and he was far from a regret. But as the years passed, Harry realised one horrifying truth. While he may have loved Ginny, he wasn't in love with her. Yet Harry continued to do what was right. Continued in what he knew to be a charade of a marriage because it was easy.
All that changed last Halloween.
All of it changed when the letter appeared.
Laying in bed, Harry looked over at the empty space that would never again be occupied by Ginny. While he knew he had been a far from perfect husband, the house still seemed strangely empty without her. Pushing his thoughts from Ginny, Harry reached for the crumpled letter on his bedside table. It was torn and smudged in many places from being read half a million times. It was nearly illegible by now, but Harry knew the words so well he didn't need to see them on the page.
All he needed to see were the closing two words: Love, Sirius. Two words that had, at long last, managed to rekindle the heart Harry had thought was long-dead.
At some point, sleep finally overtook him, Sirius' letter clenched in his fist next to his heart.
~*~
"Harry!"
"I'm coming, I'm coming!"
Harry vaults down the stairs, narrowly missing stubbing his toe on the toy broom and barely avoids careening head-first into the banister. He skids to a stop at the bottom, wincing at the look Ginny is giving him. Harry holds up his hands, trying to fend off any first strike ideas Ginny may have.
"You do realise what day it is, right?"
Harry bites back the comment that taking James trick-or-treating is a wonderful way to celebrate the anniversary of his parent's deaths. But to snap at her would instigate yet another 'conversation' and frankly, Harry is tired of having them with his wife. In the end, she will reason that she is right and he is wrong and the sooner he comes to that realisation, the better off things will be. Harry has learned quickly: it is better to nod and smile than it is to argue with Ginny.
Tonight is no exception.
She thrusts James into his arms who promptly reaches out a chubby fist to grab at Harry's glasses. He bounces James on his hip, arching his head back and away from the flexing fingers. Harry has to admit Ginny's choice of costume fits the two-year-old to a tee. Gold lamé body with enchanted wings that really move, James is the epitome of an overly-large, puffy snitch. Combined with Harry's old Quidditch robes (which surprisingly still fit him, though he has a feeling that has more to do with some fast work on Ginny's part as opposed to him retaining the same svelte figure) they look quite the pair. Given the squeal of delight coming from Ginny, Harry knows it meets with his wife's approval.
"So you'll take him around and watch that he doesn't get too tired out..." Ginny drones on and Harry zones out, nodding and grunting where he feels it is appropriate. By the time Ginny has finished giving them instructions, they will been lucky if they are able to hit any houses whatsoever tonight.
"Ginny... I know," Harry says with a roll of his eyes. "I think I can take care of my own so--"
"I'm not saying you can't, Harry," Ginny replies, taking James from Harry's arms and cutting off the rest of Harry's statement. A handkerchief appears out of nowhere, wiping his runny nose. "I'm just saying that he hasn't been feeling well and..."
Once more, Ginny's words are fading into the background as Harry tunes out her nagging. Harry frowns, a slight movement at the front window drawing his attention. He leaves Ginny and James, heading into the living room, his frown growing more and more pronounced. The drapery is still moving, though there's no logical reason for it to be doing so. He slides the sofa out of the way and the drapes abruptly cease their movement as Harry spies a piece of parchment on the floor. He picks it up and slides the sofa back into position as Ginny and the Snitch join him in the front room.
"You walked away from me," Ginny begins, interrupted by Harry raising his hand to silence her.
"You have cleaned lately, haven't you?" he asks.
"Of course I have. What do you think I do all day long while you're off at the Ministry? Sit and twiddle my thumbs while I wait for you to come home like the good little house wife? I'll have you know that I do plenty around the house including cleaning and taking care of your son and cooking your dinner."
Harry rolls his eyes at her theatrics. "No...I mean, this was behind the sofa." He holds up the letter and Ginny shakes her head as if to say she has no idea what it is or where it came from. Curiosity gets the better of Harry and he opens the folded parchment. A hand shoots out to steady himself against the sofa, his eyes focusing not on the words but on the familiar slant of the letters.
"It's... this is Sirius' handwriting," he says softly, unable to believe his eyes.
"Surely it's a joke of some sort," Ginny says with a wave of her hand, trying to dismiss the letter and the situation.
"A joke?" he rages. "Are you trying to tell me that you planted this here as a joke to taunt me on the night my parents died?"
Ginny shakes her head, her fists clenching in anger. "No... I didn't mean that at all." She swallows hard, backing away from Harry with James in her arms. "You know... we'll answer the door for a bit while you calm down." Ginny turns and flees from the room and Harry's anger, leaving him alone with the letter and his thoughts.
It is several minutes before Harry can even dare to glance at the piece of parchment. He's afraid that if he looks at it, the moment he begins to read the paper will disappear like the stain of breath upon a mirror. At the front door, he can hear Ginny greeting trick-or-treaters and his son's cooing laughter. Everyone is jovial tonight except for him.
"It's not fair," Harry mutters under his breath, running his finger along the jagged edge of the letter. He's still debating if he should open it once more or throw it away and pretend it never existed. The what-if game starts to play in his head, followed quickly by the thought that the parchment could disappear anyway and he'll regret for the rest of his life never reading it.
Just as he regrets smashing the mirror.
Hands shaking, Harry finally unfolds the parchment.
Harry,
It is possible. Never give up hope.
If anyone can, it's you.
I'll be waiting.
Love,
Sirius
~*~
Harry awoke with the letter still clenched in his fist and an empty space beside him in bed. It had been six months since he had found the letter that fateful Halloween night, and he was no closer to figuring out the secret of the Veil than he had been as a young and stupid sixth year. Harry was beginning to believe that Sirius had misplaced his belief in Harry's abilities. It was nearly six years since Sirius had been killed by drapery and never in all that time had Harry come anywhere close to discovering a way to bring someone back from the great beyond.
Frankly, the note and the responsibility would have been better served if placed in Hermione's hands. Occasionally the thought came that he should confide in his best female mate and make her do the work just as he had all through school. But as soon as he'd work up the courage to talk to her about Sirius and the Veil, Harry would manage to talk himself out of the idea. She and Ron had a new family to contend with and it wasn't fair to drag her away to pore through piles of old books.
Besides, Harry wasn't sure how torked Ron was with him given the fact that he had broken his little sister's heart. They hadn't spoken since Ginny moved out and that was one conversation Harry had every intention of putting off as long as humanly possible.
Staying in bed was not an option, as much as Harry wished to throw the covers over his head and pretend the outside world didn't exist. Grumbling groggily, Harry dragged himself out of bed and started his morning rituals. The good thing about routine was that it didn't vary and he didn't have to think about what he was doing. Shower, shave, dress and get to the Ministry before nine a.m. Simple enough.
Days turned to weeks and weeks turned to months as time continued its terrible march forward. Spring turned to summer and it wasn't long before the summer air began to have a hint of the crisp fall chill. On the days that Harry didn't have James, he was occupied by hours spent at the Ministry and his nights were spent pouring over dusty old tomes. It was a dull routine, but at least it made the time fly by. September arrived in the blink of an eye, and along with it came the realisation that he hadn't learned a damn thing. In the past eleven months, Harry had devoured nearly every book in the library at Grimmauld Place (as well as whatever tomes from the Ministry he could get his grubby paws on) and while he may have gained a fair amount of knowledge in areas of magic that would have made Hermione proud, he had yet to discover anything that could have been of use.
Of course there were leads. Of course there were passages that at first, second and fourth glances looked like they could have been of use. But as Harry dissected these theories, he always arrived at the same conclusion: it wouldn't work. The continual build-up of false hope was beginning to take its toll on him and Harry began to have doubts. Maybe he had been insane to throw away a perfectly good marriage all because of a letter that may or may not have come from Sirius. But then he remembered the letter: I'll be waiting. How could he let Sirius down as so many others had?
There was no way to go back now -- all Harry could do was move forward.
At least he had his job at the Ministry to keep him occupied during the day and his training as an Auror was going along swimmingly. There was no time to let his mind wander, to wonder what he had overlooked in his research. Harry knew he had to have missed something along the way. It meant only one thing -- he needed to start over from the very beginning.
Fuck.
~*~
Without Kreacher around, Number Twelve had fallen into even greater decay. The entire house smelled of dust and mould and the sour stench of droppings belonging to some unnamed being. Harry wasn't sure he wanted to know what was inhabiting the house when he wasn't there. The sooner he grabbed what he needed and could get out of this hell-hole, the better.
With a muttered Lumos, his wand cast enough light to see by as Harry picked his way through the abandoned dwelling. He supposed he could have fixed the place up to be half-way presentable, but there was a part of him that wanted nothing to do with the place. It had been a second prison for Sirius and he remembered how miserable his godfather had been that whole year before his 'death'. The house could and should burn to the ground for all Harry cared.
It had far too many memories. But the house also had far too many resources that couldn't be destroyed -- not yet, anyway.
Harry climbed the stairs, his mind far from Number 12. He relied on muscle memory to avoid the seven creaky treads; he didn't want to awaken Mrs Black if he could help it. On the second floor, he moved carefully, toe-testing each floorboard to make sure it wouldn't make a noise and (more importantly) would hold his weight. After what seemed like an eternity, Harry finally made it into the Black family library. This room had managed to escape the disrepair the rest of the house had fallen into as it was the one room that Harry used most often. There were times when it was far easier to read here as opposed to schlepping forty books back to his home only to return them the next week because they were useless. Harry may have hated spending time at Number Twelve but he was also a practical man. Why move books when he didn't have to? With a wave of his hand, the candles and lamps sprung to life, bathing the room in a soft, flickering glow. Harry replaced his wand in his back pocket (both buttocks were still in perfect condition, thank you very much) and ran his hands along the cracked leather spines. He'd been through these books so many times but there had to be something he had missed. Some tiny fact he had overlooked.
But where to start?
Wizarding Executions of the Middle Ages. It was as good a place as any to begin, Harry supposed. He pulled the book from the shelf and curled up on the ratty sofa, summoning a blanket to keep himself warm. There was no sense in starting a fire -- once the sun went down, no amount of heat (either artificial or real) would keep him warm in this place. Burrowing into the blankets and bringing one of the lamps closer, Harry settled down to read.
"Harry! Up here!"
Harry glances up to see Sirius' beaming face at the top of the stairs. It's Christmas at Number Twelve and the usually depressing house has an air of cheerfulness about it. Whatever is lending itself to Sirius' improved mood can stay even after the holidays as far as Harry is concerned. It's so rare to see a smile on Sirius' face and Harry thinks he looks ten years younger.
"What am I looking at? Besides the fact that you're attempting to pass for Saint Nick and failing miserably," Harry shouts back in response. A red hat is jauntily perched on Sirius' head and while he has stuffed a pillow under his shirt to fake a pot belly, the horrible faux beard ruins all illusion of Santa.
"Look at Mum's portrait."
Harry glances to his right and bursts out laughing. Tiny twinkling lights adorn her frame with silver and gold garland hanging over the covering. Even from beneath the curtain, Harry can hear her muttering death threats and any other number of insults. Still laughing, Harry takes the stairs two at a time to join Sirius.
"I think you had too much fun with that," Harry says, chuckling.
"Deserves it, the miserable old broad. At least I can make myself somewhat useful and decorate the place. First thing I've done around here that doesn't have a whit to do with cleaning," Sirius mutters and the smile fades from his face ever so slightly.
Harry slips an arm around his godfather's waist, giving him a brief squeeze. "Well, I think the house looks bloody fantastic."
Sirius returns the hug, his hand lingering on Harry's shoulder a bit longer than absolutely necessary. Harry doesn't notice, he's too busy staring at the sprig of mistletoe that's above their heads. Briefly, he thinks of Luna and Nargles and if they really do live in mistletoe. Pushing those thoughts aside, Harry is drawn to how close he's standing to Sirius. His feet are frozen in place and after Sirius attempts to move a leg he too is stuck to the floorboards.
"Did you?" Sirius asks, lifting an eyebrow.
Harry shakes his head. "I was going to ask you the same thing--"
His words are cut off as Sirius lowers his head and captures Harry's lips with his own. The mistletoe's spell is broken after that first tentative kiss, but neither move from their spot or are aware that the spell required a simple kiss. This is far from anything that could be considered a 'kiss'; this is snogging. At some point, Harry's arms snake around Sirius' neck to keep him from pulling away prematurely. The thought that this is his godfather doesn't enter his mind -- all that matters is that their lips don't separate. Sirius works a leg between Harry's thighs, his hands running down his godson's back to cup his arse and rock him closer. Harry moans into the kiss, grabbing at any bit of Sirius he can reach, his hips rubbing against the other man's. Harry can feel Sirius' cock pressing against his groin and he realises he's standing on the upstairs landing, snogging his godfather.
This is entirely different than kissing Cho. That had been wet and uncomfortable. This... while Sirius' tongue is plundering his mouth, is far from 'wet'. While he may have fancied Cho, this was something he had fantasized about in the deepest, darkest corners of his mind.
God, he never wanted the kiss to end. Harry's fingers gently massaged Sirius' scalp, hips slowly rocking against the other man's; his awkward movements made smoother, guided by Sirius' hands.
They were in plain sight... where anyone could find them.
Then he realises, as Sirius' tongue slides between his lips -- that he doesn't give a damn. This is precisely where he wants to be. His hips rock against Sirius', their erections rubbing against each other separated only by the cloth of their trousers. Harry wants that touch of intimacy (though he isn't sure where that thought comes from), but he doesn't want to break the sanctity of the moment. Sirius hasn't touched his cock and yet he feels his arousal uncoiling hot and heavy from his belly. He's so close to coming, his body is vibrating like a string so finely tuned to each of Sirius' ministrations.
And Sirius knows exactly how to pluck him to make a perfect symphony of sound.
Harry is aware of their age difference, that this is his godfather he's rutting against but Harry isn't about to stop this. He's been in love (or in lust... hard to tell the difference in the teenage mind) with Sirius for a year. He isn't about to stop this now. His only regret is that Sirius isn't touching him, isn't teaching him...
Harry comes in his trousers like the teenage boy that he is; his cries are swallowed by Sirius' mouth still sealed over his own. Slowly they disentangle from each other, Harry's face is flushed from the exertion and the tell-tale dark stain on his trousers. Sirius doesn't seem to notice any of it, but rather runs a hand through Harry's hair with a small smile, his fingertips brushing over Harry's lips.
"Apparently it just needed a kiss to break the spell," Sirius says, attempting to adopt a nonchalant tone.
Harry finds he's unable to speak and the most he can manage is a weak nod.
"Should... get you cleaned up, eh?"
"I can --"
"I said we should get you cleaned up," Sirius says once more, interrupting Harry's protestations.
With a feral smile that promises much more than this all too brief fumbling in the hallway, Sirius beckons Harry to follow. Harry has no idea that a similar smile is on his own face. And after he is stripped bare and bundled into the shower with Sirius closing the door behind them both, Harry finally feels as if he has found someone he can belong to.
And he thinks Sirius has found the same in him.
Harry opened his eyes and came to two realisations nearly simultaneously: number one, he was cold and number two, he had no idea where he was. He rolled over on the dusty, moth-eaten sofa, and had a rude awakening as he fell from the couch to the dirty floor, half landing on the book he had been reading. The concussion from hitting the floor jarred his sleepy mind from its dream, the pain in his side fully awakening Harry. He was safe, was in the library at Number Twelve and had at some point fallen asleep while reading. His stomach growled in protest, demanding immediate attention. Harry had no idea what time it was or how long he had been asleep, though given the fact that the only light in the room was from the lamps it had to have been late. Even some of the candles had burned out or were nearly extinguished, the flames struggling to stay lit with the last bit of wick. All he knew was that he was hungry and he needed to get out of Grimmauld Place as soon as humanly possible.
His dream haunted him and Harry could still feel the press of Sirius' hand against his hip, the weight of the other man's body on his back. Harry had tried to love Ginny, he really did. But it was impossible to give one's heart away when it already belonged to someone else. The various women in his life were the experiments -- the attempts to convince himself he wasn't in love with Sirius. Fat lot of good it did in the end.
Harry retrieved the book he had let fall to the floor at some point during his slumber. He ended the charm on the lights, pulling the door shut behind himself.
He was kidding himself if he believed he could do this.
And yet there was a larger part of him that wanted this so badly he would do whatever it took and would read as many books as he had to -- even if it meant he would spend the next twenty years of his life looking in the haystack to find one solitary needle.
~*~
"Ow! What the fucking fuck?"
Holding his throbbing toe, Harry leaned against the wall trying to soothe the pain. What the hell was a book doing on the floor, under the drapes and sitting where someone could run into it like he just did? Harry winced, his big toe crying out in agony. Of all the things to have on the floor, it had to be a book three inches thick, didn't it? It had to be something large and massive that, when run into, was going to ensure that he'd shatter the bones in his toes? Gingerly putting weight on his injured foot (he didn't break anything, did he?), Harry retrieved the book from the floor. Ancient Practices of Execution and the Modern Reversals. This... was not a book he had read before.
This wasn't a book he had even seen before.
Harry glanced at the drapes in the front room that were waving gently as if from some unseen breeze. The same drapery that had delivered the letter from Sirius. A cold chill ran down Harry's spine and he fought the urge to fling the book away.
"Whoever is doing this... can knock it off. It's not funny. At all," he added, glancing around as if expecting to see Ron peeking out from behind the sofa. He wasn't surprised when he didn't get a response. "Stop fucking with me! I mean it!"
The drapes ceased their fluttering and hung still. Harry wasn't sure if he breathed for several minutes, his eyes glued to the drapes and the book clutched to his chest. This was what happened in those Muggle horror films. The heroine discovered something strange and unexplainable in the house and before she knew it, she had read the book and had gotten sucked into it with no way of escape. Then the hero would come along, try to help and would meet his demise in some horrible and bloody end. And of course, the heroine would get killed -- and by her best friend no less.
Either that or the man in the hockey mask jumped out with a bloody knife and the heroine stupidly ran upstairs where there was no exit.
Then again, Harry rather resented the implication of being called the 'heroine', but the rest fit. Well... save the man in the mask, though given his past, Harry wasn't about to rule out that possibility either.
Still, curiosity won out over fear of being sucked into some alternate dimension. Fixing himself a cup of tea, he sat at the kitchen table and began to page through the book. After several hours, the tea was ice cold and Harry had yet to move any muscles outside of those needed to turn the page. He kept re-reading one passage over and over again. After nearly a year of searching... he had found his solution.
The Veil-
A stone archway featuring a near translucent gossamer cloth strung beneath it. First used in the Middle Ages, it is the most effective death penalty known to Wizard-kind. There is no escape and no way one may trick the executioner into thinking one is deceased. (SEE: Living Death, Draught of)
The Veil is a punishment saved for specific cases where the crime committed is too horrible and the guilt of the defendant is absolute.
Over the years, there have been six hundred and thirteen recorded uses of execution through use of the Veil. The Veil renders the victim in a state of dreamless, ageless sleep. They do not age nor do they continue on into the afterlife once they pass through the arch way. Of these six hundred and thirteen deaths, only fifty of these executions have been of innocent persons, the last having occurred in 1923. (SEE: Townsen, Geoffrey)
While Wizard-kind does not like to admit mistakes, there is a procedure for removing those wrongfully imprisoned from beyond the Veil. The year following an execution, the Wizengamot always performed the retrieval rite. If the victim was innocent, he would be returned to the land of the living.
Those who were guilty of their crimes would remain in this suspended state for the rest of eternity.
The rite will only work upon the stroke of midnight, Halloween night, when the lines between the living and the dead are the thinnest.
Following the last execution in 1923, the use of the Veil was outlawed by the Wizengamot. An additional decree was passed, expunging all mention of the Veil and its victims from any written literature, in order to prevent others from resurrecting this form of execution. It was determined that removing a person entirely from this plane of existence was inhuman, and so the Wizengamot went back to the Dementor's Kiss.
Printed here in it's entirety is the Rite of Retrieval.
Oddly, the line separating the Veil entry from the one that followed (whatever the hell the Verklens execution was) did not appear to be solid. Removing his glasses to get close enough to the page, Harry buried his nose in the gutter of the book, eyelashes brushing against the page. Even this close, he could only make out several of the words.
Those -- back -- Veil -- restore -- Christmas -- innocent.
As if Harry knew what that was supposed to mean. He wasn't a cryptologist.
Harry was too focused on the fact that he had solved the mystery of the Veil and a tiny bit of fine print seemed inconsequential.
Halloween. A month away.
Harry wasn't sure if he could wait that long.
~*~
The easy part was getting to the Veil -- the hard part was going to be getting this ritual to work properly.
Harry only had one shot of doing this correctly. If he fouled it up, there was the distinct possibility he could keep Sirius beyond the Veil for the rest of eternity. At the very least, it would be another year before he could attempt the rite. The optimum case, of course, would be that Sirius would rematerialise before his very eyes and they would walk out of the Ministry and into the sunset.
Or... something like that, at least.
Then again, the book only stated that the Wizengamot performed the rite the year following the execution. This was six... seven years after Sirius had fallen through the Veil. What if there was a time element involved that wasn't explained? What if... it was too late?
The lie that he had to stay after hours was also easy. It was simple to say that he had a case he was working on and had wanted to stay later into the evening to finish it. The other Aurors were used to him remaining behind, often until the wee hours of the morning. Harry liked the silence and the stillness of the Ministry during the early hours of the day. Even if he wasn't doing things for the Aurors, the quiet afforded him time to think in a place other than his home and now, after Ginny had moved out, Harry relished the time away from the empty house. With Halloween rolling around, he realised how much he missed sharing the holiday with James.
Aunt Petunia (in one of her rare fits of maternal kindness, usually when Vernon wasn't present) had taught him that a watched pot never boiled. In Harry's case -- a watched clock didn't move towards midnight any faster just because Harry willed the time to go by quickly. Funny, he was known as the saviour of the Wizarding World and yet couldn't find the patience to sit still for five hours. His eyes darted back and forth between the clock and the old tome he had stashed under his desk in preparation for this evening. He had read the passages on the Veil so many times it felt as if the very words were imprinted on his eyelids and he could recite them from memory without the book. Still, he was going to use it. This was one instance where there couldn't be any mistakes -- if he fucked up in any respect, Harry might never be able to bring Sirius back.
Hell, he didn't even know if this was going to work in the first place. He was resting all his hope on a book that had mysteriously appeared in his living room. He had to be out of his fucking mind.
The clock drew nearer to eleven and Harry decided he couldn't take the waiting any more. Might as well begin the trip down to the Department of Mysteries. He'd kill himself if he ended up waylaid by some other hard working employee and missed this opportunity to bring Sirius back. He moved stealthily through the corridors, ducking into shadowy alcoves if he heard approaching footsteps. For eleven o'clock at night, there were more people bustling around than there had any right to be. Suddenly the very real thought occurred of what would happen if he was interrupted in the middle of the ceremony. The book didn't mention what would happen if that occurred. The book didn't mention a lot of things. Swallowing hard and clutching the book closer to his chest, Harry slipped into an empty lift and awaited the long descent to Level Nine... the Department of Mysteries.
In all the time he'd worked at the Ministry and his time spent researching ways to retrieve his godfather from beyond the Veil, Harry had yet to set foot in the Death Chamber since Sirius' untimely demise. Now stepping into the stone chamber, the heels of his dragon hide boots echoing the hammering of his heart in his chest, Harry was overwhelmed by the resurgence of emotions. He could hear the screams, the curses and hexes as they were flung about -- his not-quite-prepared DA fighting fully-grown Death Eaters. They were insane. It was a wonder more of them weren't killed.
Slowly, Harry approached the dais where the Veil hung, softly fluttering as if moved by some unseen wind. Harry placed his hand on the stone archway, feeling cold radiate down his arm and inward as if about to brush his soul. He pulled his hand back like it had been burned and stood for what seemed like ages staring at the gauzy material. He could still hear the whispers from beyond the Veil, layers upon layers of voices crying out to be heard. No matter how hard Harry listened, he couldn't hear Sirius' baritone timbre intermixed with the others. Was he even there?
The minutes marched on, small eternities passing with every click of the second hand. Though he had the rite memorised, Harry still read through it one more time, saying the words silently in his head. What if muttering them would negate this? There were so many variables -- so many things that could go wrong and Harry had no way of knowing how to compensate for any of it.
It was all one giant guess.
Five minutes became ten became twenty... and soon midnight was only a few moments away. Rather than excitement, all Harry could feel were nerves as a thousand butterflies took up residence in the pit of his stomach. He never should have decided to do this by himself. Rare spells were Hermione's department, not his. He only survived the war due to many cases of sheer dumb luck, not any real knowledge of magic. Hell, it had been an Expelliarmus that had defeated Voldemort. The first spell one learns in dueling. That did not make him qualified at all to bring Sirius back from beyond the Veil.
His heart felt like it was beating a thousand beats a second. He couldn't breathe -- couldn't even think.
From a clock somewhere within the Ministry, Harry heard the bells beginning to chime.
Do not ask for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee.
Feeling as if he were in a dream, Harry began to read from the book. He didn't dare look up from the words on the page for fear of breaking his rhythm... for fear of being like Orpheus who turned too soon to see Eurydice slipping back into the water because he didn't trust that she was following him.
"Anar kaluva tielyanna. I karir quettar ómainen. Aurë entuluva!"
Harry finished weaving the spell just as the final chime rang out. He looked up at the Veil expectantly, waiting to see Sirius tumble from the other side, grinning and telling Harry how he knew Harry'd be successful.
Nothing.
Not even the gentle, rhythmic motion of the Veil had changed one bit since he entered. Surely something was supposed to happen. A flash of light, a puff of smoke -- fireworks even. It's what the Muggle movies always did when the hero brought the heroine (he needed to stop using this hero/heroine reference) back from the dead. At least here he was thinking of himself in the hero role...
As far as Harry was concerned this was rather anti-climactic.
Hell, forget the dancing lights and the smoke and the trumpets blaring -- he would have settled for Sirius' warm body rematerialising.
What if Sirius was guilty? What if you did it wrong?
Harry remained on his knees in the stone chamber until three in the morning when exhaustion overtook him and his knees finally began to protest staying in one position on the hard floor for so long. By the time he returned home and finally put himself to bed it was well after four a.m. and Harry knew he'd have to be back at the office in a matter of hours. Maybe he could call in sick and spend the whole of the day in his bed.
Halloween was fast becoming Harry's most hated holiday.
~*~
By the time Harry awoke the next morning, he felt as if he'd been repeatedly beaten with a Beater's bat, or maybe even the bludger itself. He felt bruised and broken and wanted nothing more than to ignore his responsibilities for a day. Around six in the morning he had scribbled a hastily written note to Auror Robards, calling in sick. He knew there'd be no way he could give his all on the job today and on the rare chance they'd go out on assignment, Harry didn't want to be held responsible for making a mistake due to exhaustion and his current mental state. He had enough deaths on his hands as it was.
At some point in the late morning, Harry pulled himself out of bed and made his way downstairs to make a cup of coffee. While his first choice would have been tea, he needed the immediate caffeine jolt to wake him up. Then, once awake, he'd try to figure out what the hell went wrong last night. Harry shuffled downstairs, eyes barely open as he blindly made his way towards the kitchen.
Kerwhump.
Harry tripped over something hard and rather large on the floor. He lost his balance and went flying, crashing headfirst into the coffee table. He wasn't sure which hurt more, his bruised body or his head. He knew the path had been clear the night before when he had dragged his weary body upstairs and into bed. Now there was something there. In front of his drapes. Warily, Harry opened an eye to look at the body that lay face down on the floor. He was sick of mysterious objects being spit out of his drapes.
"My living room is not the fucking portal to another dimension!" Harry said from the floor, rubbing his stubbed toe.
"Ergh," a voice said, "No... but your drapes are."
It was when he looked closely at the now speaking mass on the floor that Harry realised who was laying there.
Sirius. I did it. He's... he's back.
No longer caring about his injured body, Harry scrambled to his knees and rushed forward as fast as he was able to, launching himself at Sirius. He wrapped his arms around the other man's neck, wondering if the vision sitting in his living room was real or nothing more than a figment of his imagination. Sirius felt solid enough, but it was entirely possible this was his mind playing tricks on him. He was too busy touching every bit of Sirius that he could, wanting to make sure that he was really here and not some perverse fantasy.
"Mind getting your mitts off me?"
Harry blinked. Surely Sirius was joking. Surely this was just an act and he was happy to see him. Harry didn't let go of Sirius and soon found the other man growling low under his breath. Eyes wide, Harry released him and moved across the room.
"I thought... I thought you'd be happy to see me," Harry said softly, slowly crawling away from the Animagus.
"I walked into the wrong house and must have passed out on the floor. As it's your home, I'm sorry." Sirius rubbed the back of his head and winced. "I also have a monster headache. Do you have any aspirin?"
"An aspirin?" How the hell did Sirius know what an aspirin was?
Remus could have given him one a long time ago. Harry's inner voice reasoned.
But why is he acting like a bloody Muggle?
"You know, something for the head. As mine feels like it's about ready to explode," Sirius answered, interrupting Harry's inner monologue.
Harry's heart was caught somewhere between his throat and his stomach and he was afraid Sirius could see it hammering in his chest. His hands felt clammy and he was wondering if this was what a heart attack felt like. His Sirius was back and was acting like the biggest git in the world. This wasn't how things were supposed to turn out. He stared at Sirius and was unable to tear his gaze away from the man.
"Why're you looking at me like that?"
"Don't... don't you know who I am?"
Sirius shook his head. "Kid, I don't even know my own name right now, so knowing yours is rather beyond the realm of possibilities right now."
"Your... your name is Sirius. I'm Harry. And why the hell are you acting like this?"
You're my godfather. And I've been in love with you since I was fourteen.
"Acting like what?" Sirius asked.
"The joke was funny for a couple of minutes, Sirius," Harry said, attempting to laugh and lighten the situation. He had been known for his pranks and surely this was a very elaborate one.
"Sirius is a damn funny name. You got that aspirin?"
"Yeah... I'll get it."
Harry could use a couple pills himself and maybe a good stiff drink. Just because it was mid-morning here didn't mean he couldn't indulge. It was noon somewhere after all. Harry quickly excused himself and took the stairs two at a time up to the bathroom. Sirius was back, but he had no memories. He didn't know his own name, or who Harry was... what there had been between them...
Not a damn thing.
Sitting down on the toilet, Harry put his head in his hands.
Sirius was back, yet had no memory. On top of that, he seemed to not even remember that he was a Wizard! Somehow, Harry had fucked this one up royally.
To Part II