Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/449560.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M, Multi
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Harry_Potter/Dementor(s)
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Fairy_Tale
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-07-02 Chapters: 5/? Words: 13592
****** Dementor's Kiss ******
by Abby_Ebon
Summary
     For Sabishii Kage Tenshi. Harry has had many dealings with the
     monsters that snarl and stir in the dark; even so, there is nothing
     he is more enthralled and terrified of then a Dementor. Having failed
     a Patronus; he has a choice. Join them, or die. SLASH!
Notes
     This features a Dementor/Harry pairings, and will have at least three
     lemons/sex/smut scenes; while I'm going to be changing a few things
     and answering a few questions (where do the immortal Dementor's come
     from? What are they? Other then being very tall, wraith like, blind,
     what do they look like under their cloaks?) in my own way; if your
     internal impression of Dementor's is marred by the movie and you are
     thus disgusted by the thought – well, go away and don't bother with
     reading any further then this. I have the same feeling anytime I
     think about what they did to werewolves….-snarls-
     I also happen to think that the Dementor's are best represented in
     the art of Harry Potter; hooded wraiths of which rumors are abound.
     Dedication; this is written for Sabishii Kage Tenshi who posted the
     review that met the review goal for "Reader Rewards" in the story
     "Dancing Within Mist"; I decided to take her up on the challenge she
     posted on her profile though she did offer a alternate story (Harry
     get's together with Sirius and Remus in the summer after fourth year
     when they check upon him without telling anyone else. They find him
     in a bar where they get drunk and the three wake up the next morning
     in a hotel all sore after having sex. -evil giggles-...) yet I found
     myself tangled up in thoughts of how to work out this challenge…. the
     rest of the challenge you may read for yourself in the author notes
     at the end of the chapter. I tend to think of them as something like
     spoilers.
See the end of the work for more notes
***** Trespass Of Memory *****
Harry felt breath stutter in surprise, he shivered. The bottoms of his toes
were numb with cold; he tightened his jaw so his teeth did not clatter
together.
When he exhaled; he hadn't been surprised to see white whiff out of his mouth.
The air he breathed in felt like something frozen (though he knew it was
supposed to be summer still). He knew he was dreaming, when he realized he was
alone. This, he knew with the tightening in his gut; was wrong.
His heart beat suddenly wild against his ribs, as if it longed to fly free.
He realized too late that he was trapped.
Harry saw –and understood, then - with his own eyes then what his body and his
instincts had been screaming at him. He knew why he wanted to run. Why there
was a shrill voice whispering in his mind. What he had taken to be only
darkness outside the gritty windows on the train was not what he had thought it
to be; nothing was as harmless as the shadows of trees that leaned closer to
the stalled train with the wind.
No, something more sinister by far was stirring outside. They moved like clouds
over the sky; taking their time about moving. It was all too clear they had
closed in on him; they had him encircled. He was being hunted.
'They can not get in.' Harry thought, though all the same; he took a step back
from the locked door that stood between him and what predators lurked in the
night. Tall wraith-like figures he would be a fool not to recognize.
For all that he was a wizard – to them, he was nothing more then prey.
Having moved slow and deliberately forward, it stood in plain view of the
window.
'Dementor….' Harry thought even as his fear choked him. He could not save
himself this time. Emptiness welled within him; he had never been so alone.
The black cloak figure, as if sensing (which it likely did) his despair
breathed against the glass. Harry was reminded of the one time he had ever been
to a zoo; the boa constrictor. It had hinted at the people, tapping on the
glass cage while they stood free - yet enchanted - upon the other side. His
whole life had been a mockery of that same glass cage. Now something wanted to
free him. Or kill him.
Harry trembled, not moving; the eerie feeling of being measured did not fade or
pass.
As the Dementor breathed; frost formed on the window. It cracked, leaving the
illusion of a spider web. Harry dared not even breathe, for fear of it
shattering. He felt a weight on his shoulder. He looked – he remembered even as
he turned his head that he was not supposed to look (though he did not know how
he knew even that) – the hand on his shoulder was bone thin, elegant and pale;
he heard rattling breath too close to his ear.
Frozen breath ruffled his hair. He was caught.
His dream mercifully – tortuously - shifted perspective.
O.o.O.o.O.o.O
He flew. It was as fast as he had ever gone. He clung to his broom (did it have
a life of its own; was he in control at all?) breathing in the though the
sleeve of his arm tucked against his nose and mouth. Even with his glasses, his
eyes stung with the wind and speed.
He was breathless. He was being reckless. He did not care.
Not about the magical world and its need for him (why was he so important,
after all? He'd done it once – what grown wizards and witches could not; he had
survived- and what was there not to live for? Hadn't he shown them that? Could
they not find the will to fight for themselves? Perhaps then, they were not
meant to survive – why had he never thought of that?) to save it; again.
Not about friends (a boy with flaming red hair; a buck toothed girl – was that
all he was worth?) or so-called family (a shrill and hasty aunt – an uncle who
did not throw his punches – a cousin who was still learning the meaning of
morals).
Not about school (wand waving, chopping caldron ingredients, be spelling and
whispering words that he thought secretly silly – could they not tell it was
the will and spirit that did the magic; not the wand waving and words? –
magical happenings he could not tell heads or tails of; diving the future from
tea leaves – and risking is health, over and over, for defense….).
Not about the future (would he grow up to be someone the wizards and witches
might respect?) which hung in front of him – uncertain threats (would he die if
Death Eater's fixed it in their minds that he needed to die?) – or, more real –
would he fail as a wizard? Would he take what he learned and tuck it aside for
a life among "normal" and certain things? Harry could not find the answer in
flight.
He did not care to know.
He ducked to the ground – going vertical for a heart jolting moment – he was
spinning in tight circles. Dizzy, delighted – he crowed with laughter when he
evened out (the toes of his bare feet brushed gently across the grass) then
flew higher. He was aware of the creeping cold first, though he thought nothing
of it. Perhaps it was a sudden wind chill. Or the air becoming thin the higher
he flew (he did not even know how far a broom could go up – could it penetrate
the atmosphere…would he want it to?) only that there were no clouds in the sky;
only streaks of blue summer sun.
Then he saw clouds, miles of them, unnoticeable from the ground – it went on
seemingly endless; hovering over the whole of the horizon as far as he could
see. Was it a barrier between breathable air and thinner colder air – or
something grander - between this world and another – perhaps the afterlife laid
beyond them? There was only one way to find out – to go through them. Harry
glanced below – he could see like a twisting silver ribbon the river, and the
dark forest stretched out over the land like a cancer. He should have been
terrified of falling. He was not. He knew (in the way that dreamers always
knew) that he could never fall.
He would only fly forever. At some point the past (distant – or yesterday, he
did not know, only knowing it was the past) he had gotten on a broom and
started flying and didn't stop. He remembered snatches of what he had done with
this new life of flying the sweet taste of apples plucked in the early morning.
His broom would hover above clouds while he slept safely.
Harry felt the dampness – the chill colder still – cling wetly through the
cloth to his skin. He flew higher. Harry realized he had never felt so alive.
He saw the haze of clouds above him glimmering with sunlight and knew he would
break the "surface"; he shut his eyes and held his breath. He did not know why.
When he felt the sun against his neck he opened his eyes; the glare off the
white clouds below – rolling endlessly as far as he could see, like snow - was
intense. Snow glare did not quite fit, but he could not think of any other word
for it.
He was not alone. He felt them, shadows creeping towards him where there
shouldn't be darkness among all the white rolling clouds below and the sun
glaring down from above. All the while he had been flying; he had not realized
until now – when he had paused – that he was being chased.
They glided slowly toward him like clouds for all they were capable of swifter
movements here then on the ground; they were in no rush – they had him
cornered. Surrounded, he knew now what he was all along; hunted. One in front –
one to each side – with them came the emptiness, the aloneness he had not felt
while flying – he was grateful for them (though they caused him to feel so
alone, they were with him) it was more then he could say for those he had
knowingly left behind to the mercy of the Dark Lord.
Unlike those he had left on the ground – he knew now that he could not escape
the magical creatures that had followed him aloft. Dementors. He should have
been more afraid. He was not. He was tired. Wary. He knew then – as they closed
ranks and pressed in close enough that Harry felt the flutter of their grey
cloaks against his thighs and flanks; he knew he would not run. Not any more.
There was relief in knowing that – a surety. Still, his heart beat was quick –
his muscles tensed – his adrenaline surging though him. It was not a hunt, he
realized as they flanked about him seeming almost to dance – to show off – this
was a chase.
Harry gasped for the meaning behind the thought – clutched at it – then it was
gone; as were his surrounds. His dream had changed.
O.o.O.o.O.o.O
Dementors encircled him – silvery light (his Patronus…?) was fading – his
friends had fallen when overwhelmed; Harry stood protectively over Sirius Black
– escapee of Azkaban, godfather – the closest person Harry had to family. His
breath was coming out –straining, white drifted from his lips like the soul the
Dementors sought to claim. It seemed to tremble within him – longing to leave –
there was no deferring it from his heart – from his mind – his soul was
everything. It was his very being.
'What,' Harry wondered the thought impetuously, 'would the Dementors want with
me?'
He wondered if he was any different from anyone else – he had to be, right? –
he had fainted fallen off his broom overwhelmed with what sorts of feelings and
memories they could stir within him.
There was a reason his greatest fear was a Dementor rather then the Dark Lord.
He felt no desperate longing for Voldemort; he did not fear to loose his sense
of self while facing a man of flesh and blood – he feared and longed for, if
his contact with a Dementor was prolonged – would he not go willingly into a
kiss? If it meant the twisting horror within and the relief of a twisted memory
of reliving his parents deaths over, over, and over again…hearing them, would
it not be worth becoming soulless if he knew he would never forget them?
Some people, Harry knew, are only happy while miserable – in despair – Harry
had not thought he was one of those; he knew differently now.
He knew it when he did not fight – did not so much as resist the press of cloth
and solid strength when the light faded utterly. Harry was alone in the dark.
No, he knew as he stared sightlessly upward not knowing where night began and
the hood of the Dementor ended. Did it hover over him? Were the lights he saw
stars? Or something else…souls consumed – forever entombed within a being that
was immortal? Did those souls mean something to the Dementor – or were they
merely food – was it all a witch or wizard was to them? Living, they would be
an emotional feast – did dying with a kiss change that alien perspective?
Harry had no way of knowing. He did not think he would ever truly know. Not
even in a dream. He felt the cold breath touch his face like a caress. He
shivered, gasping in the faint scent – musky spice –when he felt the weight
straddling his waist shift. Another cool breath brew over him; protective and
calming, he was beyond the agony of having a body – beyond the turmoil of his
emotions which stormed about his mind – there was only the desire to hear his
parents – to wonder if the touch he felt was theirs or his mind playing tricks
in deluding him. Even that did not matter – only the weight that rested against
him mattered.
He wondered if it usually took so long for a Dementor to take a soul.
There was movement then, as the magical creature leaned in impossibly closer –
Harry could not help himself as he tensed – cool lips, firm and smooth, moved
against his with words he heard within his mind – felt echo in his very bones –
heard with his soul. He could not say what those words were aloud – but he
heard them. They meant something to him; more then anything else he had given
his whole life. He grasped that he should say something back – he opened his
mouth, mind, and soul to speak…the contact was subtle and tremulous – this was
his once-in-a-life-time chance.
Then he woke up.
***** Betrayal Of The Body *****
Chapter Notes
     You know, I'm trying to decide which is more disturbing to someone
     who is not familiar to my methods; that I've realized that this is my
     first non-crossover Harry Potter story. As in, first ever; or that my
     second fully Harry Potter story might very well feature (animagus)
     Harry!Chihuahua, and result with a threesome slash with Draco and
     Blaise…
     I don't think just anyone else could claim such a thing; or would
     want to. Or add it to the fact that I'm in the midst of writing a
     time-travel story in which there are older!Harry and younger!Harry
     who might do naughty things to each other, the result of Sabishii
     Kage Tenshi 's former request…-coughs- now, however, I am oddly
     inordinately pleased with this reasoning and credit to my own…oddity.
     I'm in a peculiar mood, obviously. Ah, well, the better to write
     with!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Harry breathed in quick, a reflex to waking. Even in the summer heat, he was
chilled; his skin slick with sweat that clung to his bed sheets. He could not
catch his breath. His chest heaved, panting – his gaze avoiding the shadows of
the darkened room. He was tired, but he knew he would not be able to go back to
sleep.
Harry sat up with a sigh, rubbing at his face and hair, both felt oily. Between
his fingers, he looked toward the window, there was nothing out there, only wet
asphalt and street lamps kept the dark at bay. He felt his disappointment
keenly, the longing that stirred in his lower belly seemed to tighten,
unresolved. It didn't matter what he, shoulders achingly stiff, refused to
acknowledge. Harry felt ridicules for the sense of unease – as if he were
watched, though surely there no one was about outside on a night as this; it
had only been a strange and disorienting dream.
Reluctantly, he turned his face away from the window, standing shakily from the
rumpled bed, he felt as if something watched his back even as he padded quietly
into the bathroom. It was dark outside and surely the Dursley's still slept and
would not wake so early easily. Still, he flinched only a little as the metal
screeched in protest as Harry turned the shower knobs. Cold water washed over
him, he remembered the dream, dwelling on it, and shivered, though it had
nothing to do with the water.
As the water warmed, he stood beneath it, head bowed. If he closed his eyes, he
remembered the realities that his dreams mirrored. His first encounter with a
Dementor on the Hogwarts train his Third Year; the flight with them that had
almost ended with his falling to his death (yet in the dream he had known, with
them, that he would never fall), and then, saving Sirius – saving himself from
their grips. Reality was a cruel thing, his dreams had been kinder. Still,
figments of the dreams haunted him; he could still feel the words the Dementor
had spoken against his own lips.
Harry sighed softly, steam rising from his lips. Even if Professor Lupin hadn't
known that his greatest fear –greatest desire - was a Dementor (as the Boggart
had proven, though Harry had only gotten a glimpse, he knew) within his own
mind there was certainly no doubts. You could, Harry knew, fear what you longed
for.
Harry didn't have a death wish. Not really, he didn't think. It was a something
else wish; a desire that had crept under his skin and pulled relentlessly in
his blood. He might as well say he had no fears. He did fear though, he only
desired that pulse of fear that quickened his heart and blood and gave him
focus and strength. Adrenaline junkie, he'd heard the phrase before. He didn't
know wholly what it meant, but he guessed it could rightly put to his trait.
As the shower water steamed warm about him, he missed the bite of the cold. He
pretended to himself that it was only that the warm water made him sleepy, but
that was not the real reason. Truth tugged low in his belly, the cold reminded
him of his dreams, and Dementors cold touch. He did not know their touch – not
really – and certainly not like that, as his dreams had shown. Cold was only
how they made him feel. There was something freeing in that cold, something of
truth to the reality of the world that heat could not give him.
Suds ran down his shoulders, and he held the slick bar of soap in his hand as
he looked down at his body, a red flush creeping up his pale cheeks. Harry did
not honestly know what to do with himself. Dudley spoke crudely - when away
from Vernon and Petunia, of girls, and things boys were supposed to do to them.
He made it sound disgusting and wrong. In his own way, Dudley knew more about
what was happening then Harry did, not for the last time, Harry felt resentment
at that surety of knowledge that Dudley held with such ease. It was something
that Harry lacked, that Hogwarts – full of wizards and witches, would not speak
of openly. Perhaps you were just supposed to know by instinct.
Awkwardly and feeling a jolt at his own boldness, fingers skimmed down his
belly and thighs, daring and teasing the wanting of his own body but not yet
touching where he yearned to. His belly was firm and flat, yet within it
fluttered with the soft scratch of his nails and calloused fingers. Harry
thought of hands then, elegant and pale, thin and long fingered; skeletal and
smooth. They would be cool to the touch, colder then the heat of water and
Harry's own hands. It felt wrong, like a betrayal, to touch himself where those
hands ought to.
Harry opened his eyes, not knowing when he had closed them, dragging in the
breath he needed. His chest felt tight, as if he could not get enough air. His
legs trembled and Harry leaned against the shower wall, trembling and waiting
and wanting and not sure what he needed and yearned for. The tile was cold at
his back and buttocks and Harry opened his mouth, groaning as he could no
longer resist touching the length of his groin. The skin was strangely smooth
and silky; for all that the curl of black hair surrounded. There was hair too,
on his navel, he remembered running a finger down it as he teased to fluttering
in his belly.
A giggle crept up his throat, at the thought of an arrow, naturally made by his
own body which betrayed its needs so easily, as the narrowing fine line of hair
smoothed down his navel to groin. Touching himself soothed that creeping
hysteria, his thoughts had felt widely scattered, leaping like stones in a
still lake of want and need and desire. Now desire narrowed his focus, gave it
an edge of promise that he had lacked. Until then he had not known what he was
doing, not really, now his hand and fingers and skin moved with a purpose, a
fulfillment, and dragged Harry along for the ride and its end.
It was strange, that Harry did not know what he wanted, but his body did and
was using him to achieve his physical needs. He felt captive – caged – in his
own limbs, and he whimpered softly, breathing out. He moved swifter, for he
liked the thought of being held and used and ….
Harry's hips jerked helplessly, and he liked that too.
Cool tile soothed his burning skin. And even when he knew what it was he leaned
against, his mind played tricks, that smooth coldness was sharply not tile, but
skin that burned cold, matching and soothing the burning heat that was
consuming Harry. Echoing and matching him stroke for stoke, urging him onward.
"Ours."
A possessive promise whispered within his mind while he had slept and dreamed –
helpless, a word murmured against his lips like a kiss. It made him cry out
raggedly as his body jerked and twitched, finding the release and fullness as
it peaked and dragged Harry down with it. Harry blinked wetness from his eyes,
as the warm shower water lulled his body to boneless ease.
Harry brought his hand to his face, to see, and eyed the clear whiteness.
Curious, his tongue lapped at a drop, and he did not know what to think of his
taste. It lingered like a spice on his tongue, it was not a bad taste, but not
really good either, but it was there and real in a way that was reassuring even
as Harry felt he wasn't really where he was. He was even more tired then he
thought he was when waking and getting into the shower. The water had been
meant to wake him, not lull him to sleep.
Yet it was warm and soothing though a longing for cold stirred within him,
aching. Perhaps it was only wishing for winter, when he'd be within Hogwarts;
but that was wishful thinking and did not seem to settle quite right for why he
longed for cold. Winter had little to do with it, for all that Harry liked the
season for its cold.
In the end, his disturbed thoughts and reasons gave him reason to get up and
wash off; to get out of the warm water - that longing eagerness for the
soothing cold, and the wrongness he felt with the warmth. It would not go away,
and Harry half wished that it never would, while he puzzled at it all the same.
Harry dressed, because he was awake now and had gone to sleep lazing in the
summer sun of his window; he glanced to the time as he got to the foot of the
stairs, checking absentmindedly at his wand in his a baggy back pocket. Glowing
numbers and hands lighted in the dark.
It was late, but not as late as he had thought; Harry listened for his
relatives then, familiar as he was to their sleeping sounds, it was not hard to
hear them. The wheezing whine of Petunia, the threatening snore of Vernon – but
there was no overly heavy breathing of Dudley. Which meant his cousin was still
out with his gang, it did not surprise Harry, Dudley had the keys to the house
and permission to come and go as he pleased. They let him go around too wild,
Harry thought but did not say. It would only underline their point, he
suspected, that Dudley was their son and favored, while Harry was some sort of
modern charity case of a whipping boy.
Harry walked without really knowing where he was going, but after the heat of
his shower it was nice to feel the chill night air on his smoldering skin.
"Hey, look Big D – it's the freak!" Harry glanced upward from the fringe of his
bangs, green eyes narrowed. Dudley was looking at him wide eyed as if asking
himself how Harry had been so stupid as to walk about like he was, but it was
Piers who had spoken with a sneer.
"Yea..." Dudley muttered with a shrug, he wasn't quite looking at Harry, but
away as if uninterested.
"What are you doing out so late creepy-freak?" Gordon asked with raised
eyebrows.
"Taking a walk. What does it look like?" Harry stated plainly, not masking the
obviousness he found in his own words.
"Looks like your fishing for trouble." Malcolm stated, looking Harry over from
top to bottom.
"What if I am?" Harry touched the wand in his back pocket with his finger tips.
Dudley caught the movement and flinched, but he had hanged back from his gang,
letting them surround Harry, their focus on him rather then Dudley. They didn't
seem to know what to do with Harry, who didn't agree or disagree, they baited
him, waiting for him to take it personal so they'd have an excuse to stop
circling like sharks and sniffing the water for blood, they'd bleed him with
words if they could – and then it'd be a feeding frenzy.
"Where you going so late? Are you a druggy like the rumors say? He a druggy,
Dud? All baggy clothes and black hair and bright eyes and dark sleepless
circles. Bet you're a druggy." Piers taunted, lip curling in disgust. Malcolm
looked over at Dudley questioning, asking without speaking if Piers rambling
had any truth to it.
"What's it to you?" Harry asked him in turn, thinking it strange that Piers was
so hooked on thinking of drugs and the worst of Harry. He doesn't care, really,
what Dudley has told them about Harry.
"We protect our neighborhood, freak, from the likes of druggies." Malcolm
states, and Harry knows better then to ask if he's serious because he looks
like he thinks it's the truth. Harry glances to Dudley, who still won't look at
him. Dudley is afraid of his wand, but knows Harry can't use magic outside
school without getting into trouble.
"Nah. He's a wimp, doesn't do drugs, he has nightmares though. I hear him, his
room is right next to mine." Dudley muses, taunting, and Harry frowns at him.
Feeling a cold sinking in his gut, he's had dreams – nightmares – about what
happened in the graveyard with Cedric, but the other boys snicker as if it's
something small and stupid. Dudley straightens up, knowing he's got something
he can use against Harry, that'll hurt him -without the other boys thinking
he's a coward.
"What do you mean, Big D?" Harry asks mockingly, Gordon rolls his eyes as if he
sees that all Harry's got is bravo – and maybe he's right to think so.
"Like 'don't kill Cedric!' Who's Cedric? You're …boyfriend?" Dudley sneers,
having had enough of being afraid and thinking he's safe because he's
surrounded by his gang and Harry isn't, after all, supposed to use magic. Harry
feels the cold dread shiver up his spine, and he tenses up, surprised. His
nails bite into his palms as his hands form fists. The cold dulls the pain in
his chest that wants to eat into his heart; it lulls the grip in his gut.
"No. Cedric is dead." Harry answers softly, vaguely, as if it doesn't really
matter. He doesn't feel as if he's really standing here, as if he isn't real –
or this isn't.
"Freak…." Dudley hisses, he is looking him in the eye, and doesn't like what he
sees, takes a step back. All Harry can feel is the cold. The night seems
suddenly darker.
"Hey! What happened to all the street lights?" Piers says aloud- taking a step
back from Harry, closer to Malcolm – his eyes scanning the streets and the lack
of city light, and Harry realizes it isn't just in his head – it really is
colder, and darker. Harry breaths, and white mist seeps into the cool air.
There is a flutter in his gut, and it isn't pain.
"Come on. I don't like this. Let's get out of here." Gordon tells them, taking
a step closer to the nearer still lighted house. All the street lights are out,
and they stand in the middle of the eerie island of dark. Malcolm raises an
eyebrow at Gordon, chill and mocking. He's just as afraid as his friend, but he
won't show it.
"Afraid of the dark now too..?" He asks, it's got bite in it but Gordon doesn't
take offence, he just keeps walking toward the light, slow, as if aware he's
being hunted. Harry isn't paying any of the gang any mind, he's looking around
in the dark, searching – as if he's one predator sniffing out another.
"Maybe it's catching." Piers mutters to him, soft and uneasily. He follows
where Gordon leads, and Dudley, Harry's aware, is still standing as if frozen –
eyes and focus on Harry, as if afraid of what Harry will find in the dark. Of
what Harry might draw out. Faced with this, he isn't as afraid of the magic he
knows Harry has, he's afraid of what the darkness is hiding. Harry feel a cold
– freeing – lurch in his stomach, and knows.
Knows he's right. He isn't afraid, but he doesn't want to have to deal with
what might happen to Dudley and the others, so he looks Dudley in the eye.
"Run." Harry orders, soft and sure and cold calm washes over his skin, goose
bumps rising up his arm hair like hackles. Dudley gives one sucking breath in
fright. He runs then, and the others follow without questioning him. Harry
feels a cold hand touch the bare chilled skin on his shoulder; he looks
absentmindedly down at the hand. Smooth and elegant, long fingered and pale
white like bones. Harry can't help looking over his shoulder.
Just like in his dreams, the black rag cloth billows about like wings, it
absentmindedly covers a wiry willow-tall body, wraith like, Harry feels the
Dementor inhale deeply, and wonders what he scents and senses of Harry and the
others. Does he smell the human scent of Dudley and the gangs fear? The water
and shampoo Harry's hair is still damp with? Does it scent Harry…? His breath
with the taste of his own cum on his lips and tongue…? Or does it taste Harry's
soul?
Harry shivers, trembling as those long fingers trail up his neck, scratching
possessively at his cheek. Something like eyes glitters in the fall of the dark
hood. Harry feels wetness on his face, and knows he bleeds. It leans in closer,
the black cloth draping over Harry like little wings enfolding him.
A tongue snatches up the dripping blood. Harry gasps softly, and the Dementor
moves in closer, pressing Harry fully to its chest and body. Harry can feel
everything that's hidden under the thin black cloth barrier at his back. He
wonders why the Dementor dresses at all, in so thin black cloth so thread torn
(not rotten after all, but unkempt and uncared for) it'd fall apart with ease.
But it feels nice, like silk or something smooth that slides easily against
sensitive skin.
Harry can't look away from what's under the hood, silver flickers, like the
whites of eyes. The darkness seems to give them more distance then what's
really there, Harry realizes, as lips press to the corner of his mouth, they
are smooth and cold and Harry can't help but jerk in surprise. He doesn't jerk
away, though, but closer, a tongue teases into his mouth running over the heat
at the roof of his mouth, taunting his teeth to tingling and itching and
soothing him with ease, and Harry closes his eyes.
Harry wonders if he's about to lose his soul. Then he doesn't think he cares.
"Ours. You are ours." It's a hiss of a voice, and it isn't English at all – its
snake speech, Harry opens his eyes, surprised, wondering how something that's
got its tongue down his throat can speak at all. Harry looks to his other side,
feeling as if there is something hovering near him, watching. It's another
Dementor, slimmer and shorter, and Harry knows it's the one that spoke.
Skeletal fingers tighten about his neck possessively, and Harry knows he should
be dead, or something, his soul devoured – but he isn't and he doesn't know
why. He wants to know why.
"How…?" Harry asks, and gets the feeling he's being regarded with amusement;
it's annoying and could turn to anger and fury…but, all his emotions are riled
up in him, and he knows if he focuses he'll feel the storm of them under the
surface of the frozen calm that lulls him; he is distant from them…secure. He
likes that, controlling the feelings rather then being nothing but their
puppet. He's been a puppet too long. They are giving him this control, Harry
realizes as a thin arm wraps itself securely about Harry's middle.
"You call to us to sooth you; like calls to like. Do not fear, we can not kill
you; we can not die so you can not die. You will sustain us- our hunger will be
sated by you alone, always. We have been searching for you,Basiatio. We will
not let you be alone. You are ours." Cool smooth skin of a jaw rubbed against
his cheek smearing his blood between them. Harry did not know what the word
'basiatio' meant, but it felt important enough that he wished he understood or
they would explain – but he did not ask, for he had other questions.
"What are you?" Harry asks shakily, he is afraid – and it burns – but their icy
essence sooths away the sting.
"We are Dementor. Wraith. Fairy. Sluagh Sídhe." Whispers the one that has
entangled itself with him, it licks at his ear playfully. The words roll about
his head, and Harry knows what it means because the knowledge comes from the
words and not from his own knowing. Still, he is calm and bathed in the icy
bone-deep control they give him.
"You…you're names?" Harry asks of these two, feeling partly foolish – would
something as old as these two, that have an aura of age a coldness the seeps
under skin and soothes his fevered emotions…would it have a name he'd recognize
as such – let alone pronounce? Harry does not know, yet he still asks.
"Traditio Corporis," murmurs the Dementor entangled around him, it seems
intimate and Harry finds himself flushing stubbornly glancing to the other
Dementor pointedly – neither seems to pay mind to his look, "and Pervasor
Memoria. He played within your memories and dream fantasy while you slept a
little while ago. It was necessary to find and influence you so you would know
we mean you no harm; say you forgive him, he fears your rejection." Harry knew
he should be furious and frightened, yet they had not hid their names or the
truth of their intentions, their mere presence brought the icy calm of peace
over him. Harry wondered if this was what it felt like to die.
All the while, Harry had looked at Pervasor Memoria, who seemed now to flinch
from him – not stepping backward, but flinging himself away as if Harry's gaze
burnt, seeming to see some judgment in Harry's eyes that Harry had not meant to
show. Traditio Corporis moved away, as if sensing that one rejection was like
another blow to all.
Harry took several swift steps toward Pervasor Memoria, clutching at the
elegant pale hand that hung within the folds of threadbare black cloth. He
peered into the darkness of the hood, and though he saw only darkness and
brilliant specks of light, like stars shining above, and felt as if that night
sky was the distance Harry had to bridge, he spoke, keeping physical contact so
not to burn with his emotions. He could think clearly only with them near, and
he did not want to lose them to some imagined slight on his part to their
natures.
"I forgive you." Harry told the Dementor sincerely, and felt the brush of a
cold burning mind caress where no hand could reach inside. The black hood
bowed, as if thankful, though he did not speak.
"Come then, Basiatio," Traditio Corporis spoke, touching playfully at Harry's
arm a too intimate gesture that Harry could not begrudge, "let us fly."
Chapter End Notes
     Fire And Ice
     Robert Frost
     Some say the world will end in fire,
     Some say in ice.
     From what I've tasted of desire
     I hold with those who favor fire.
     But if it had to perish twice,
     I think I know enough of hate
     To say that for destruction ice
     Is also great
     And would suffice.
     O.o.O.o.O.o.O
     Translations (Latin);
     Traditio Corporis – betrayal body
     Pervasor Memoria – invader memory
     Basiatio - the act of kissing, giving a kiss, being kissed, a kiss.
***** Gliding On Thin Air *****
Chapter Notes
     This story is written for the idea of Sabishii Kage Tenshi who posted
     the review that met the review goal for "Reader Rewards" in the story
     "Dancing Within Mist". It should be noted that one alternate story I
     mentioned in chapter one has been posted, too; "Better Then
     Bedfellows" (Harry Potter/Remus/Sirius); but that is there, not here.
     This is strictly Dementor's Trad (Traditio Corporis) /Harry and Perv
     (Pervasor Memoria)/Harry; yes, I'm going to start calling them that.
     Why?
     It amuses me, and as I named them, I can "nickname" them whatever I
     please.
Cold seeped into his limbs, until he felt heavy and numbly comfortable in the
embrace Traditio Corporis had enveloped around him. Calm and sated and a little
sleepily, Harry watched the stars and sky as they passed beneath them. It felt
as if the sky opened up the stars, like a blooming flower, and anywhere Harry
saw he thought he could move toward to explore.
Harry couldn't help the laughter that bubbled up and spilled from his lips, it
was childish, but he was flying – he was free. It felt wonderful; all around
him was the night sky, stretching out endlessly. His arms wrapped around the
thin shoulders of Traditio Corporis, whose body moved beneath him, with a sort
of comfortable familiarity of the natural movement. As if flying for the
Dementor was like running for any other land-bound creature.
That thought led to a spiraling decent that was becoming wickedly familiar, if
this was how a Dementor ran, then Harry was effectively 'riding' him; crudely
put, that was how his dorm-mates had once described sex with a girl atop them.
"Where…?" Harry asked to distract himself; his voice rough from the silence and
cold, time had passed and the rosy fingers of dawn were brushing the mist of
night away. In the half light, Harry imagined how they must look, a boy with
black hair and modern clothes, tucked in the shrouded arms of something out of
a nightmare; while to and fro like a scouting predator darted Pervasor Memoria.
"Castra Aestiva, little Basiatio." A quick tongue licked at his throat, as if
Traditio Corporis couldn't help himself, Harry's breath caught and something
within him below his navel quickened, he couldn't help but whine. He squirmed
in unmoving arms; the look to those arms was spider thin with a glazed
transparency like glass. They didn't look as if they could hold a boy of
fourteen, but frailty was undermined by such strength that made Harry to look
down from them to the ground below.
Harry wasn't afraid of falling – he didn't know that he ever would be, but he
wanted down for entirely different reasons. He ran a finger down the smooth
cold skin, and when he breathed out shakily, his breath was a cloud of white.
Traditio Corporis seemed to shudder, and then clutched at him all the tighter,
as if he were something precious and frail.
Pervasor Memoria chuckled, sending a shivering chill down Harry's ear, when he
spoke to explain, the boy teen couldn't help but think of other things that
mouth could be doing to him – if the mere voice had this much power over him.
"Bellow, little kiss;Azkaban, summer station of our people." An island of
barren rock and cold cruel sea waves crashing upon the cliffs, perched at the
highest and plainest point was the tower prison, like a giant three-sided
obelisk.
Harry couldn't help looking at it, thinking of Sirius, of only a year free of
this place that had swallowed thirteen – Harry's whole life. A song, eerie and
haunting, rose up from the gloom and mist below; and like a flock of birds,
more Dementors then Harry could count spiraled upward and around them, a
thousand gem-bright eyes peeking at him from underneath hooded shawls.
Traditio Corporis, with a warbling cry of greeting that sounded at once
triumphant and war-like, dove head-first toward the top of the Azkaban tower.
Harry looked quickly toward where Pervasor Memoria had been – but wasn't now –
they followed, seeming to chase Traditio Corporis down, and down, spiraling and
diving and it was like a dance between prey and predator and Harry was
breathless when abruptly and safely Traditio Corporis alighted to land,
spinning Harry about to witness the rest of the Dementors swirling and circling
like black mist, all of them shrieking out – Harry panted, watching them wide
eyed like a flock of birds.
"Welcome home, our Basiatio." Traditio Corporis breathed against his lips,
solid weight behind him, protective and soothingly cold;Harry was breathless
and panting with almost panic and grinning, teeth glinting; there was something
in him that found this dizzying rush all in good fun, had recognized it from
the start even as the rest of Harry had been sickened with hot dread.
Harry trembled, and Traditio Corporis inhaled, scenting him. As quickly as the
Dementors had come – as active as they had been, they seemed to have scattered,
and all was still below save the ever cashing waves.
Harry's breath caught in his throat, and he closed his eyes as chill fingers
warmed by playing against his skin. Trailing from his forehead down his cheeks
to tangle in his hair and rub soothingly at the nap of his neck, running along
his spine, and fingers tucking into loose jeans, possessively spreading over
his ass, cradling it then needing cat-like into the flesh. Harry trembled and
shuddered and tried his best to just breathe.
"Ours." Traditio Corporis purred, as slender fingers probed and stretched.
Harry's breath stuttered and started, as he tried to find a balance between
breathing and holding his breath to feel everything all the more. Harry's eyes
dropped to the crashing waves below, and he thought of the fall, and closed his
eyes tight.
"Yes!" He pleaded, agreed, begged. It was dragged out of him, willing and
unwilling, Harry crashed and Traditio Corporis caught him, hugged him against a
slender shrouded body that was strangely warmer then his own.
Pervasor Memoria knelt between his legs, licking pearly white cum from his
white fingers. Harry just watched, as it slowly seeped into his brain that they
had just done that upon the heights of Azkaban prison; and he hadn't even
noticed his jeans being yanked half-way to his knees. Pervasor Memoria smiled
at him, pleased, and Harry felt his cheeks burning.
"Trad…" Harry said softly, beginning the name and stuttering as Traditio
Corporis chill fingers soothed his burning cheeks.
"Yes, call me that, it pleases me - you burn so beautifully, Basiatio." Trad
murmured teasingly, cool breath soothing his overly warm ears.
"Take him below." Traditio Corporis tells Pervasor Memoria, who stands from his
crouch and enfolds Harry in his wing-like shroud. Harry has the feeling of
sinking, or missing a step without seeing, but its similar to flying and
different to falling. Harry knows he's going to land – but he can't see where
until Pervasor Memoria settles his cloak around him.
Harry opens his eyes and sees all around him a place that he doesn't think was
ever meant to be clean. Filthy wizards and witches, with tattered clothing and
dirty faces and sleepless shadows under their eyes see him, and do nothing –say
nothing. They wait and watch, as if that is all they are meant to do.
This is wrong, Harry thinks and tenses within Pervasor Memoria's arms.
"We can do nothing for them; they are not ours." The Dementor states, as if
having reached into his mind and seen the thought lucking there.
"I can." Harry says softly, hands clenched at his sides as righteous anger
burns steadily within him. At his side, his companion seems to sway – Harry
opens his mouth, but never speaks as he is interrupted.
"Pervert!" The warning is screamed by a woman with wild black hair, pale skin
beneath the dirt, and dark eyes, mad, as if she had seen what lurked in the
abyss that the night only held at bay.
"You," a thin and trembling finger prods toward the unmoving Pervasor Memoria,
"you get away from him!" Dark eyes focus on Harry's bright green, and then
narrow; the face is familiar to him, gaunt thought it is - hauntingly so. Her
eyes flick then to his scar.
"Your mother's eyes, his cursing scar, your father's face –Harry Potter?" She
frowns, and it's like a pout.
"I was supposed to kill you." She sounds almost ridiculously disappointed that
she evidently failed. Harry takes a step back, sure that she is mad. As if to
reassure that point, she hisses between her teeth at Pervasor Memoria; a
warning, her slender hands curve into claws, as if she could tear through the
bars and shred the Dementor to pieces just by will alone.
"Boy, I warn you by maiden name, Bellatrix Black – you stand at the side of
Dementors!" Harry feels cold, but inside he is burning.
"I know." He spits the angry words, and feels the part of the betrayer, even as
Pervasor Memoria's cool fingers stretch over his neck, as if easing away
swelling or fever. Harry holds that hand there, comforted by it.
"A snake speaker…" Bella is wide eyed, watching him as she sits on the floor.
"What do you intend to do with us, my lord reborn?" Harry can't look at her,
can only wonder if she's right – if he is turning into another dark lord simply
because Dementors sooth him. It doesn't seem fair.
"Go away." Harry says, and all the cell doors in Azkaban open as if they'd been
awaiting his command. Azkaban is as magical as Hogwarts, perhaps more so – and
he wonders why that is, but the magic calls to Harry, as welcoming and
exuberant as if expecting him. It isn't dark, or wrong, or right, or evil, or
good – it's magic, and magic is pure like blood. It ties to everything, and
everything ties to it. It's the source, and the means.
Harry knows that the doors were magically shut and cursed and locked; yet they
stand open, and Harry doesn't want to undo it so he walks away. Bella uses the
bars to stand, and smiles after him, the smile isn't cruel or mad, but
strangely kind. Her nails, bitten and dirty, tap against the bar as she thinks;
I won't forget this, little lord. Her fingers find a rhythm as she goes, and
she hums.
She takes halting steps forward at first, as it all might be a dream, a trick –
but it isn't – no one is screaming anymore. Bella wanders through the halls of
Azkaban, taking her time as she sorts the mad from the insane; the useless and
the useful and finds her cousin gone, and takes them all out; the Dementors
await them outside the walls of Azkaban, some while and whimper that they'll
have to run now, the Dementor's will chase them – stop them – but no, they are
tormenters turned saviors all. They fly with Dementors and fear nothing.
Later, she'll kneel at the feet of another lord, and tell him why the
Dementor's won't heed his call.
"Bella," he'll say in surprise, but pleased in ways only she can hear, "how is
it you've escaped?" His red eyes rest not on her, but rover over all those that
she thought useful enough and sane enough to meet his needs.
"Not escaped, my lord; freed. The Lord of Azkaban is a snake-speaker, and more,
my lord you and he are tied by the scar you gave him." Bella runs a finger down
her own brow, and it is almost mocking, but her smile makes her meaning clear.
Tom Riddle, who calls himself the Dark Lord Voldemort, settles back in a
dinning chair half rotted beneath him like it's a throne. His eyes closed, it's
as if he's asleep as he thinks and dreams of all the things that will be.
"What do you suggest?" Her lord asks of her alone, as she knew he would.
"As a babe you meant to use the killing curse upon him and he lives. You are
whole in body, but your soul is split asunder and you're immortal until the two
are joined again or both are lost to this world. You have taken his blood
unwillingly given; he has refused to be your servant. He and you were made to
be great – I do not see why you can not be great together rather then great
opposing forces." Bella has more at the tip of her tongue she could say, but
does not – and her lord knows that.
"You think I should offer my hand in alliance." He rubs his thumb over his
fingers, it is hand he did not have a year past; and would not have now, if not
for the blood of the boy they speak of.
"Some things, my lord, are meant to be." She smiles as she says it, to take the
sting away. He stirs then, making the effort to appear strong and healthy as he
sits up straight and then stands to address her formally.
"Go to your cousin, my dear Bella, and tell him what you have told me – and
that I seek a conversation with an old teacher of mine." At the end of his
words, she stands and then bows.
"Yes, my lord." She knows this was the right choice, though her lord was still
unsure.
She had dreamed of screams, did Bellatrix Black.
Usually they were screams familiar to her, for she had been the black hearted
source of them, they were lovely screams; long and agonized and pitching into a
frenzy that danced the fringes of madness and looked into the depths of dark
and did not once look away. The screams and cries and keening were like
unceasing music, lulling away with tide and crashing upon her unending come the
full moon.
When she was awake, and the Dementor's full of wrath were near; the screams she
heard were her own. Her screams became weeping and all the while, she
remembered; she remembered when she was awake, and remembered when she dreamed,
and all around her hovering carrion birds were her memories. They were
inescapable and painful and greedy.
Bella did not think herself a good person, no; but she was a better one then
this. She knew it when she saw him, with hunter green eyes and sun kissed skin,
the black of his hair undecipherable from his shadows. This is who would make
the dreams of the past go away.
Now the dreams of screaming are gone, and in its place, she dreams of him and a
reign between lord-kings that will go on for eternity and bring forth a golden
age for her people, pure-blood wizard and witch alike.
She'll smile now in her sleep.
When she wakes, she knocks on the door to12Grimmauld Place, and when Sirius
Black answers the door, she only speaks five little words ("Your Godson is in
Azkaban." )-before he can think to slam the door in her face; and when she sees
the dawning fear for Harry, a building terror; she Apparated away with a rather
cruel laugh.
It only served Sirius right, for stealing her boyfriend in a once-upon-a-time
that he probably doesn't remember (she hardly does); pay back is a bitch named
Bellatrix Black.
***** Among The Shadowed Throng *****
Chapter Notes
     Trad (Traditio Corporis)/Harry/Perv (Pervasor Memoria)! this is male/
     male, man/male!magical creature, SLASH story.
     Notes; I'd just like to point out, sometime far after the fact, that
     the reason I'm using Latin is that it's tied directly to the origin
     of the word Dementor, that is "Demens"/(dementis ) insane, mad, out
     of one's mind, foolish.
     Also Demens/Demons isn't too much of a stretch here.
     Oh, and for those who are wondering who the hell I was referring to
     in: "It only served Sirius right, for stealing her boyfriend once-
     upon-a-time that he probably doesn't remember; pay back is a bitch
     named Bellatrix Black."
     I'll straight out tell, else no one might see it: Severus Snape/
     Bellatrix Black
     Implying Severus Snape/ Sirius Black (because, damn, they hate each
     other enough to have more of a history) and Bella was calling Perv
     (Pervasor Memoria) a pervert – to warn Harry away from him. It
     doesn't work (obviously) and this chapter has more to do with what's
     going on after Bella leaves Sirius hanging.
Opening the door of 12Grimmauld Place, expecting someone of the Order and
getting Bella, was bad enough. Her morning news?
"Your Godson is in Azkaban."
Were possibly the worst words Sirius Black had ever heard since escaping
Azkaban himself; the fact that they were delivered by his insane cousin, her
lips stretching her face painfully like a skeleton's grin made it all the more
bitter.
He hadn't known, hadn't even expected it.
Dumbledore was supposed to be keeping Harry safe. Said, trust me Sirius, and
the blood ties will keep him safe and secret, so long as he lives with them,
they are family, blood, and blood does not care if you are magical or muggle,
it's the gift of live, of love, and magic.
Dumbledore was obviously very wrong; Sirius knelt on the stone floor of his
fire place and made a fire call to the Headmaster of Hogwarts.
"Sirius? Whatever are you doing?" Sirius is supposed to be in hiding at
Grimmauld Place, and to fire call Dumbledore in such a way is very…public.
"I just had a visit from Bella, she says my Godson is in Azkaban. Explain,
Dumbledore – now!" The Headmaster may be powerful, respected, even admired. But
Sirius Black is dangerous and Dumbledore knows it, a man who has spent thirteen
years locked away for a crime he didn't commit – in a jail that is the most
hated and feared in all the world - has learned all manner of dangerous things
to survive.
"I didn't know, Sirius. I swear I didn't. Let me see what I can do about this.
It is probably a lie." It's the wrong thing to say to a Black.
"Bella is many things Dumbledore, powerful, insane, pure-blood, my cousin – an
all around maker of wrong choices in her life, but the one thing she isn't? She
isn't a liar. She was warning me. She felt she had good reason to: and wants me
to do something about it. Something I've likely done, or will do, as it plays
into her manipulation. So do something about it, Dumbledore – and I will do
likewise." Sirius knows he's lost his temper; he screams and roars and whispers
his words. Likewise ends the fire call, he closes his eyes – he is the eldest,
the Lord and Master of his line, it is high time he acted like it. He has been
acting like a fugitive, like how he's been treated for the past thirteen years.
He is no fugitive, he committed no crime, and he calls. It isn't a yell, but a
word. A test, a surety.
"Kreacher." His House Elf answers, faithful and grudging. In those beady black
eyes he is not a worthy Lord and Master of the Black bloodline, and it pains
Sirius to admit it – but Kreacher has been right, he hasn't acted like anything
but a stray mutt.
Times change, people change, things change. It is time Sirius act as he was
born to be: pure blood, an Heir. He must, if he is to save the one child of a
man he changed for: Harry James Potter. James had been like a brother, Sirius
said, and meant it – James had been the son of Charles Potter and Dorea Black:
so a Black by another name, a brother, and a pure blood too. Being a pure blood
isn't bad, it's what you do with that name, that power of legacy and generation
that makes you good or bad. Sirius had run from it, rather then find out who he
was, for good or ill.
"Am I not the Lord and Master of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black?"
Kreacher's eyes widen, realizing the ancient acknowledgement between House Elf
and the Lord and Master of a pure blood line. Sirius Black was the only living
male Heir who carried the Black name. The only Black at all who carried the
Black name, for his cousin Bella and her sisters had all married.
"You are." He says, not grudging or hateful or hurtful, but true and hopeful.
"Follow me." Sirius asks, and turned to the entrance hall, which he's been
avoiding whenever he can. He doesn't turn around to check if Kreacher follows,
but when he stands in front of his mother's covered portrait, the House Elf
stands there.
"Uncover her." Sirius orders and Kreacher respectfully does so. Sirius braces
himself, for insults, for what he must do.
"Filth, blood-traitor, bane of my blood!" Walburga Black, his mother, wails.
"Mother." Sirius greets her, though she lives no longer, a part of her is in
this portrait. Through this portrait the next Lord and Master of the Noble and
Most Ancient House of Black must be acknowledged. It's a test. A test that
Sirius Black can not afford to fail: atest he's dreaded all his life.
"You dare, you dare! You who ran away from your own blood claim me for your
mother?" A curious hiss, hateful and hurtful. She is listening, at least – but
that isn't fair, she always listened – she just did not heed him.
"I'm not running now, mother. I'm here. I'm the only Black left – either male
or female, who can claim the name." It means something to her, and the same to
him: even if he would pretend otherwise. It is name-right, blood-right.
"Why did you run from me – from us – you left me all alone, Sirius." There had
been a time in his mother's life when 12Grimmauld Place was full of family, a
promise of greatness she had seen snatched from her with the death of his
brother.
"I know, and I am sorry mother, so sorry. I'm alone now too, all alone in this
old manor. It's empty of us, forgetting us, we're dying out." The pure bloods
and what it meant to the history of all wizard and witch, their society. The
Blacks, royal and always pure. Pure of what, it's asked, by wizards and witches
born of muggle blood, all unknowing. Pure lines of direct decent from the
Sídhe, where their magic was born of: those born of the muggle blood, the mud
blood, called because they did not know, it was as clear as mud, from where
their magic was came from.
Not from the earth, or blood, but from the shining light and deepest shadows of
the hidden Sídhe:and by their dying out, their decline it was feared that the
Sídhetoo died, alone. Alone was the fear of all wizard and witches of the pure
blood lines which had been abandoned by theSídhe.
"We have been dying out for a very long time. There are too few of us. Why did
the Sídhe leave us? They loved us once, as I loved you." Walburga Black was not
mentally instable, because of inbreeding. It was because of the Sídhe blood,
which made humans quick to love or hate in equal measures, unable to tell where
one emotion began and another ended, if they were in a rage.
Sirius had seen those rages all his life, had lived through them. Had them
himself, the fleeting emotions that could make him reckless and wild. Perhaps
it had been for their own good (as they might have seen, and feared) that the
Sídhehad gone away where wizards and witches could not follow.
"Love can not be taken away, mother – you taught me this." It was a truth no
pure-blood would deny; they married and mated only for love. It was why witches
and wizards married as they willed, and the family would not stop them. It was
not why Sirius had run away, for love, so his family had not understood, and
what is not understood by the family is feared – is a traitor to the blood, so
called.
"So you do remember, that what else do you remember?" Walburga was calm now,
soothed by the words her son uttered. He was not mad. She understood him, and
perhaps it had been she who was hasty.
"That I was Heir, that I am the last named Black, I will be Lord and Master of
the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black." She smiled, pleased that he claimed
again to be of her blood, that he was not running away like a traitor to the
blood of Sídhe.
"So you are." Walburga Black, the Lady and Matron of the Noble and Most Ancient
House of Black acknowledged her last living son with a smile.
To her son she bowed, and the portrait stood empty, his mother at peace.
When Sirius Black looked, Kreacher was bowing as well. Not all that was Sídhe
had left the wizards and witches, the House Elves remained, though few
remembered why or where they had came from. Some would even have them freed. It
was not out of duty that they served, but family and love.
"I must deal with the Ministry of Magic now." Sirius Black mused, Dumbledore
had urged him to wait to clear his name, in hopes of still trapping Wormtail
and the Dark Lord, but he would not be slow to act. Not now when Harry was in
danger, in Azkaban.
"Lord Black, perhaps first we should meet with the Dark Lord and retrieve his
servant, so as not to go before the Ministry of Magic without evidence of your
innocence." Kreacher spoke, softly but insistently.
"Then by all means, Kreacher – take me to the Dark Lord." Sirius Black nodded
permission, and Kreacher took them from 12Grimmauld Place.
O.o.O.o.O.o.O
Dumbledore would be lying if he claimed not to be alarmed by Sirius's fire
call. So he made a fire call of his own, to one Minister of Magic - Cornelius
Fudge.
"Not now – Dumbledore – not now!" Cornelius snarled into the fire, his manner
disturbed, agitated and very clearly nervous. Albus didn't speak of it, because
it would be rude to presume to know how much the Minister of Magic knew – or
did not.
"Minister, I have received disturbing news this morning." Dumbledore continued
on, outwardly unperturbed at his unwelcoming reception.
"Yes, yes, it's all true – though you must not breath a word of it, understand?
– but the Dementors, they've flown away all the prisoners free. We've managed
to capture a few, and when questioned as to why and how – they say, they say
that the Dementors have a Lord of Azkaban and this Lord freed them!" Dumbledore
only breathed for a minute, in and out, so as not to show how very disturbed he
was at this news.
"Is that so?" He murmured, wonderingly. The Dementors were Sídhe, Dumbledore
knew, andSídhe were the origin, the parents of pure blood wizards and witches –
that they claimed now a Lord of Azkaban; it could only be a Sídhe.
But which, and why now? And what had Harry Potter to do with it at all?
"That's news to you? Wait – what were you fire calling me about then?"
Cornelius Fudge demanded of him.
"Harry Potter has gone missing, and I have a source saying he is in Azkaban."
The Minister of Magic made a sound, much like a whimper, a moan, of panic and
pain. Albus Dumbledore feared it might all be too much for Cornelius Fudge, who
had likely thought the job of Minister of Magic would be a easy and cushy
place, after the fall of the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters.
Power corrupts, Dumbledore knew, and more – that the highest in power were
often the first to fall – if a new power were to challenge and change.
"They mustn'tknow Dumbledore – they must not!" Dumbledore nodded, in agreement
– though it pained him. The Order of the Phoenix could be called upon at any
time, they were ready and willing wizards and witches, but Dumbledore did not
truly know, if they served him or Harry Potter more.
"The Minister of Magic no longer can claim control of Azkaban." Dumbledore
spoke aloud, and cut off the fire call before Cornelius Fudge could ask his
advice or help. He had plan and plots of his own to make, and in Sirius Black's
fire call was a message for him, or else Bellatrix Lestrange née Black would
not have left her Dark Lord's side.
It was done with the permission of Tom Riddle, if not order.
There was but one way to be sure.
"Severus Snape." Albus Dumbledore fire-called, and Severus looked tired – a
late night – and ruffled, but there and in once peace.
"Headmaster?" This wasn't their usual meeting time, and the boy (man) frowned
at him, suspicious. Spies did always fear that they were being spied upon: such
were their poor lot in this life.
"Ah, there you are, I feared for you after this morning's messages, yet none
from you – did Tom set a meeting we did not know of last night? Sirius got a
message from Bella, your – or my - Godson is in Azkaban –obviously meaning
Harry Potter, but I do not know what to make of it. Has Tom claimed Azkaban,
perhaps keeping Harry there? Or a Sídhereturned, unknown and unnamed?You know
the Black's best, my boy, what do you make of it all?" Albus shook his head,
his thoughts all muddled together.
"Slow down sir, please. Yes, there was a meeting unplanned, unpredicted, as
obviously you know, and Sirius Black can guess – Bella returned. With new
recruits and Death Eaters both - we celebrated it; they didn't escape because
of some plan of Voldemort's but were released by this Lord of Azkaban." Severus
Snape moves stiffly, as one does when fallen asleep out of bed and
uncomfortably.
"So that much is true then." Dumbledore muses on it, that a Sídhereturns to
claim a place of power known to wizards and witches. It is a dream to some, a
nightmare to others.
"More so, the Dementor's willingly flew them to us, untouched, unKissed, and
spoke of a Lord of Azkaban returned to rise and claim a Sídheplace of power.
He's Harry Potter, Bella says. It's like she's worried about him. She was
singing of all the Lord-Kings three. Obviously the Lord of Azkaban, and the
Dark Lord – but the third…?" Severus shakes his head, baffled.
"Why did you not tell me at once?" Dumbledore asks, and Severus aches an
eyebrow.
"I suspect it was planned this way by Voldemort, I did not return until now,
and yourfire calls have kept my news waiting." Droll and arrogant, but loyal
and with a tongue that told the truth no matter how much it cut, Severus could
be trusted that far – even Tom knew that, and valued Severus for it. It was not
that the Dark Lord Voldemort did not know Severus was a traitor, it was that
Tom knew how much Severus could be counted on to be a spy – and Albus knew the
same.
It was in Severus's nature to survive, and no pure blood would turn aside
Severus Snape for his Sídhenature: not and double cross their own.
"What's more,he wants a meeting Dumbledore – Tom does." This made Severus Snape
curious, intrigued, and such as the Professor of Potions loved a puzzle.
"The Forbidden Forest then?" It was neutral ground, had by magic both 'light'
and 'dark'. Both Sídhe (the light) and Sluagh Sídhe(the dark) had claimed that
land, loved it, and danced upon it, then abandoned it with their children, the
wizards and witches.
"Of course..." Severus agrees, absently but with a nod. He will never forget,
nor forgive. He has loved, and lost. Dumbledore wonders, sometimes, what would
become of Severus Snape if both Bella and Sirius had loved him back, Bella had
loved Severus first, and when he all unknowing had chased Sirius, abandoned him
for Rodolphus Lestrange – who had loved her until Azkaban had done its work.
Once rejected by Sirius and James, Severus had joined to Bella's side, for a
time - but if both had seen would it be too much, or just enough? Severus was
torn and broken hearted, and Albus Dumbledore – having felt just the same, once
and long ago - hated now to see it.
It is Severus that ends the fire call, and shakes Dumbledore into action.
He has a meeting with Tom Riddle tonight.
***** Whisper Of Ancient Blood *****
"Sirius Black, what are you doing, are you mad?" Bella, of all people, asks
this of her cousin when he appears. She's seen him first, but she isn't alone
and the Dark Lord Voldemort looks up, studying him as well. Silently Sirius is
surrounded by Death Eaters, the Dark Lord's inner circle.
"I announce Sirius Black, the Lord and Master of the Noble and Most Ancient
House of Black." Kreacher calls even more attention to them, proudly as any
pure blood born into arrogance.
"Welcome." Bella can not tell if the Dark Lord is serious or not. Bella does
know that Kreacher is serious, very much so, so bows her head in
acknowledgement of her cousins newly won (and it would be a battle, with
Walburga Black to face for the blood right) rank in their family. Her cheeks
are flushed, if the Dark Lord is being serious, that is one thing – if he is
not, that is another, and he will pay. He loyalty first has always been to her
family, and it's survival, no matter the pure-blood name.
"Why come here?" LuciusMalfoy, the husband of Bella's younger and favorite
sister,Narcissa asks.
"Lord Black desires a boon, his cousins by blood right – the Ladies Bellatrix
Lestrange andNarcissa Malfoy stand at your side, and yet he stands accused of a
crime he did not commit. Yet it was committed by your servant Peter Pettigrew.
Right this wrong against the name of the Noble and Most Ancient House of
Black." This Kreacher demands, as if he is wizard and no mere House Elf. In the
old days, this was done Bella remembers – very formally, the Lord Black would
never speak save though his blood family and House Elves.
Bella straightens and looks the Dark Lord in the eye; for LuciusMalfoy's own
eyes are wide. Between Malfoy and Black, Bella knows which family is the more
powerful pure blood line, and if Lord Black demands must be met – or the
family, Bella, Narcissa, and Andromeda threewould take their children Cissa's
boy Draco, and Dromeda's girl Tonks – would go as the Lord Black willed.
"It will be done, only tell me how." Tom nods as if agreement had always been
on his mind, and he had been waiting, bidding his time to agree.
"Your servant Peter Pettigrew." At these words Kreacher's grin is almost evil.
"My lord, please no – mercy!" Wails the most pathetic wizard Bella has ever set
eyes upon, appealing to the Dark Lord only now as he hunches huddling at the
feet of the Dark Lord.
"As you wish…" The Dark Lord makes a gesture, and the red mark about Peter
Pettigrew wrist fades to black, fades from sight. He is unclaimed – a Death
Eater no more, and no Death Eater will fight to keep him.
"Lord Black." Bella calls her cousin – weak and wimpy Sirius Black no more,
formally and respectfully. It is a loneliness digging into her, to be the
eldest of her sisters, to have only part of her family, and so scattered that
their very names are not the same.
"A boon for me?" Kreacher glances to his Lord and Master, as if reading his
mind. He might, who knows what unspoken powers the House Elves possess?
"Speak it." Kreacher asks, bobbing his head in a nod.
"There are no Lestrange's to whom I am married kin, and I was born Black – may
I be named Bellatrix Black again, as is my birth and blood right?" Bella had
never been disowned by the Black family, as Sirius was – but always Sirius was
Heir – and only Sirius could be Lord, the last to have the name of Noble and
Most Ancient House of Black.
"It is no boon to claim your name, a name that was always yours and will always
be." Lord Sirius Black says, and Bellatrix Lestrange bows her head but when she
meets his eyes, she knows her name is Bella Black.
"My thanks for reminding me." Bella agrees, and Sirius smiles. As if that is
his sign for Kreacher, they are gone as quick as they came – and so too is
Peter Pettigrew.
It is later when Severus Snape arrives, with news that Albus Dumbledore would
meet the Dark Lord Voldemort in the Forbidden Forest.
With new eyes, Bella Black looks over Severus Snape, and smiles her own smile.
He was hers first, a boyfriend she courted, and then lost because he chased and
caught the attention of the Black Heir - but he will be hers again. She thinks
Lord Black might even approve. Or share.
O.o.O.o.O.o.O
If there is one meeting that Cornelius Fudge will never forget - it is meeting
Lord Sirius Black for the first time. He was in his office, doing paper work
(there is a surprising amount of paperwork in being Minister of Magic, which
really Fudge prefers to other –more important – duties: which in all honesty,
he usually lets Dumbledore take care of for him) when he appeared, by House Elf
– and with Peter Pettigrew at his feet. That man, lumpy and unkempt quickly
crawls to Cornelius Fudge – who lets out a yelp of surprise.
"Help me, oh please, help me!" Rat-like, the man screeches. There are Aurors at
his door, wands drawn and alarmed – in their ranks are also members of
Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix, Fudge knows.
The curtains become ropes that bind the wreck of a man before he can flee or
flatter. Fudge is almost relieved enough to be thankful.
"This is Peter Pettigrew, alive, and a traitor undeserving of the Order of
Merlin too hastily given him by the Ministry of Magic. With his lips he shall
tell no lies. My master's name is cleared from the crime of murdering his best
friend James Potter and his wife Lily Potter, or any attempt on the life of
Harry Potter." This the House Elf says, so simply, he does not care that a
foundation of lies have become unstable and with the evening and morning
papers, will topple down with the weight of truth. Over a decade buried, coming
now to light.
"And your master, he is?" Cornelius Fudge is standing, so his voice does not
shake as his knees do. At this the House Elf smiles, most unpleasantly – as if
he had been hoping for just such a question.
"Sirius Black, the Lord and Master of the Noble and Most Ancient House of
Black." With that the House Elf bows, though the man does nothing, shrouded in
power so thick it's like a robe to carry: a wizard or witch does not like to
look directly toward someone who wields so much power as this.
"Very good, Kreacher." Lord Sirius Black smiles, recklessly, and his words are
a purr rumbling out of him, like thunder from a sudden storm.
And just like that, they are gone.
Cornelius Fudge isn't at all reassured he's seen the last of Lord Sirius Black.
O.o.O.o.O.o.O
While Albus Dumbledore walks into the Forbidden Forest, Tom Riddle, the Dark
Lord Voldemort, already waits for him there.
"I must know if you've planned this – a visit from Lord Black, on the same day
Harry Potter rides aback of Dementors to claim Azkaban for his own. Quite
ingenious, and suspicious, you must surely admit, for it all to happen this
very day." Tom speaks, as one equal to another, and Dumbledore knows there will
be no fighting between them, not here. Here is a place lost to both wizards and
witches of Sídhe and Sluagh Sídhe bloodlines, it is a pure blood place, it is
sacred – and lost to them.
"I have played no part in these happenings; do you claim them at your own
workings?" Dumbledore sits across from Tom, one on a rotted tree and one on a
broken rock. Neither have their followers in sight, and neither sides expects
to see their counter-parts. This is a pact, but neither is a stupid man.
"You know it is not in me, those great spanning plans. It's brilliant, and I
admire the effect – is all our world not scurrying to adjust? To change, we
must relay on sturdy foundations – the foundations wizards and witches were
bred for, by pure blood of Sídhe and Sluagh Sídhe. Our ways are not mortal."
Dumbledore sighs, and with his breath a Tom looks up, meets his eyes.
"They are now. You do not look well." Dumbledore tsks, and Tom laughs.
"And you? You are old, Albus Dumbledore. I'm not so bad, for one who's beaten
Death." Tom had not thought Albus would care one way or another for his health.
"You'll not hold Death off for long. I wonder which of us will die first, the
old man, or the man who had died and come back." Dumbledore does not think Tom
came back whole – how can he, with his soul split and torn? It hurts him, to
see the ruin of a student and wizard who could have been great and tossed
greatness away for immortality, a impossible dream – not for the likes of they.
"I'd rather not linger on it, if it's all the same to you Albus. Think on this,
the boy – the Lord Black, all on the same day, ancient powers coming back – our
ancient family magic's – could it be them, the Sídhe?" Tom breaths that word,
that name of their ancient race, breaths it as if its living, out there beyond
the likes of their senses. Perhaps it is.
"Undoubtedly it is. Are not the Dementors of the Sluagh Sídhe?" Old lore that
is, half believed, half thought merely myth. But with magic, what is myth is
not always wrong.
"So says the old lore, the oldest. We know this, the question is – what will we
do about this knowledge?" Dumbledore wishes everything were so simple, that
they could sit and talk about it like this. For the world (muggle or magical)
at large to think of this would be beyond their grasp, and that is wrong (for
the magical world)– that is mortal, for two sides to be always opposites and
fighting to the death rather then agree to disagree and speak together, it is
very mortal. Albus had often thought that the Sídhe and Sluagh Sídhehad
foreseen this andfled from them rather then to let this mortal feeling of
fighting and slaying an enemy infect them.
It had probably broken their hearts, to leave their very children – but which
was worse? To flee family or mortality?
"Do? What can we do? Bella's suggested I set aside old grievances with the boy,
make peace." Tom looked to the stars, and Albus wondered what he saw among
them. What great and terrible things stars, to remind them of mortality and
immortality.
"Can you, dare you?" Albus murmured, looking to Tom quite seriously. Tom felt
that gaze, heavy and mortal – weighing him, judging him. He met it, and
challenged it.
"Dare I not?" It was almost a whisper, and Albus would not have heard if the
Forbidden Forest held a wind within it. It did not, all was silence and
waiting. They had thought the Forbidden Forest dying; perhaps it did not die,
but was abiding its time, waiting, as all immortal things wait to act.
"If the Dementors have chosen their Lord of Azkaban, the Sluagh Sídhe –a Lord
among us, that is three – the Lord Black, myself – I would be fool to challenge
either of them, why not stand beside them? If it can be in the old way, like it
was between Sídhe and Sluagh Sídhe – but between us, wizards and witches – is
not a worthy thing? A great thing worth living to see…?" Tom asked it almost
gently, for he did not like reminding Albus of mortality, as if it proved the
old man right and Tom himself was not meant for immortality.
"Indeed." Albus only agreed, thoughtfully. He had not seen Tom without his hate
and fear of his own (mortal) blood for so long he had forgotten what he was
like without it. What promise he had had for greatness, destined for something
– Albus had always thought so, but he had been wrong before – and right as
well.
"So the Lord of Azkaban stands between the Sluagh Sídhe and we; the Lord Black
for the Sídhe – and you Tom, Dark Lord that you are – where do you fit in with
these three Lords-Kings?" Albus curled his fist under his chin and waited for
Tom to say it, as only he could acknowledge what Albus Dumbeldore saw so
clearly.
"Can you not guess? I'm the Dark Lord, the Lord of we, wizards and witches."
Tom closed his eyes, painfully.
"And you have made a right mess of things." Dumbledore agreed, and Tom opened
his eyes, fixed them upon his once teacher and mentor, and demanded an answer
that Albus Dumbledore had not thought to live to hear.
"Can we fix things?" Thoughtfully, Albus Dumbedore nodded his head.
"We will need to put your soul back together, but your mind is in the right
place." Tom was grateful enough to hear it, but things are far easier to say
then to do. Yet things never said - rarely get done.
O.o.O.o.O.o.O
Sirius Black Innocent! (front page)
by Larry Ballad
Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge announced today that Peter Pettigrew, long
thought a dead hero, was apprehended today on murder charges. Veritaserum was
given in a private case, revealing that Sirius Black was innocent in the murder
of James Potter and Lily Potter. By his words admittance Pettigrew gave them up
to the Dark Lord, and further Peter Pettigrew bears the Death Eaters mark
leaving no mistaken identity almost thirteen years later. The Order of Merlin
that was thought posthumously given has been gifted to Sirius Black. Who was
unavailable for comment, also unavailable for comment was Harry Potter – but
his friend Ron Weasley made this statement: "We knew he was innocent!"
Dumbledore announces DADA Professor (pg. 10)
by Rita Skeeter
Disproving rumors of the Jinxed DADA position, in light of the numerous
accidents that have befallen previous professors Headmaster Albus Dumbledore
came forward with news that position was filled and would not be left to last
minute staffing this year. "We are proud to have Professor Marvolo on staff
this year, and look forward to many more years of his teaching here."
Dumbledore said, after having announced a mixed meeting of Hogwarts professors,
students, and families – those in this meeting included, former DADA Professor
Remus Lupin (the werewolf!) as well as Molly and Arthur Weasley – their
daughter Ginny, 'Mad-Eye' Moody, and Professor McGonagall. Sirius Black was
also rumored to have attended, and while reactions to Professor Marvolo were
mixed – Albus Dumbledore assures everyone that: "He'll settle right in."
O.o.O.o.O.o.O
End Notes
     Sabishii Kage Tenshi's Challenge;
     It has to be Harry centered and rated Mature, because I want at least
     three lemons.
     The story has to start the summer after Harry's fourth year and if
     you decide he needs to be betrayed for this to work for you it has to
     be by almost everyone, except Sirius, Remus, every Weasley except
     Ginny, Molly and Arthur and everyone else in the order except Severus
     Snape, Mad-Eye Moody, Prof. McGonnagall and Albus Dumbledore.
     It has to be slash and there may be some humor if you want, but it
     will not be a humor-based story. It has to be a serious story!
     Near the end or the middle of the story I want Harry to stay with the
     Dementors and I now I'll tell you what may be quite weird; I want
     Harry to hook up with one or more Dementors. That will be the pairing
     of the story. (There has to be lemons of Harry and at least one
     Dementor too!) You can decide the title yourself.
     If you decide that you want to give this a try, contact Sabishii Kage
     Tenshi.
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