Sorcery

Well, if it's so deep you don't think you can speak about it,
Don't ever think that you can't change the past and the future.
You might not, not think so now,
But just you wait and see--someone will come to help you.

– Kate Bush, “Love and Anger”

Sirius’s angel wings twitch in agitation as he watches Harry climb the stairs. There’s blood all over him and his expression is hard.

Sirius takes a deep breath. “Are you alright?”

Harry doesn’t look at Sirius as he passes him on the landing. He ignores the question. “It’s done,” he says instead.

* * *

There was a stinging clash of swords. Sparks flew in front of Harry’s face; but in the red haze he knew only to kill.

He and Voldemort flew back. Voldemort smirked at him from the distance and whispered, “Let this be your end.”

Harry slowly walked forward. The broken glass crunched under his boots and the tip of his sword dragged against the littered floor.

They were in a half-destroyed building in Hogsmeade. The town was long dead, but the sun still shone through the shattered windows. Lord Voldemort was in his ultimate form: smooth brown skin, red eyes and dark hair down to his shoulders. He appeared the human form of darkness, the personification of triumphant evil.

Voldemort floated into the air and pressed his palms together, summoning magic. Its dark curls swirled around him before it shot at Harry. Harry raised his sword and pushed a silent Protego into it; the dark magic was split in half and slid off to the sides, leaving Harry unharmed and two of the building’s walls scorched.

Harry was still walking forward.

Voldemort lowered his head and glared. Just as Harry’s scar burst into pain, Harry grabbed Voldemort around the neck with one hand and squeezed. Harry gritted his teeth and Voldemort hissed loudly in a snake-like snarl. There was summoned wandless magic swirling around them, ruffling their robes and hair. Harry summoned Lightness and pushed it into the hand curled around his enemy’s neck.

He brought up his other arm and shoved his sword through Voldemort’s stomach.

* * *

Sirius watches as Harry sits back from leaning over the toilet bowl. He is deathly pale.

Sirius pulls out a tissue and crouches. He tenderly wipes liquid from Harry’s chin.

Harry looks up at him with red-rimmed eyes. “I don’t feel very well,” he mumbles.

“Ha!” Sirius laughs. “You know, I can hardly tell.”

“I think... I’ll go back to bed; must be... hnnn… flu.”

Sirius places a mothering hand on Harry’s forehead. “I think that’s a good idea; you’re burning up!”

“Really?” mumbles Harry, shakily standing up. “I feel so cold...”

But in the coming days, Harry does not get any better. His fever increases and he is bed-ridden, moaning and tossing among the sheets in a half-awake state.

It’s when the magic in the house starts shifting with the pulse of wandless magic, that Sirius realises that this is no flu.

It’s a curse.

* * *

There was no screaming. There was merely a gasp as Voldemort’s skin turned pale and he slowly sunk to the floor.

Harry removed his sword and stared down at his slain enemy.

Voldemort looked up at Harry with red eyes and laughed. It was a low, raspy, old-man laugh that was pathetic and resigned.

“You know,” Voldemort gasped, “I always believed, that if I was ever to have a son... he would be just like you.”

Harry raised the sword and pressed the sharp end against Voldemort’s throat.

Voldemort only laughed more at this malevolent gesture. “He would be just as strong, just as wise...”

“I am not your son,” said Harry.

“Oh but you are, Harry... you are... as you will soon see...”

* * *

All the windows in the house have shattered. On Monday, Mrs Black’s most loved vase implodes. Tuesday, dogs gather outside the house and bark for hours. Wednesday, all the books in the library are flying around the room as if caught in a hurricane. Thursday, every wooden table shatters into a million splinters and the walls bleed blood. Today is Friday and all the portraits have fled their frames. There is a storm outside and the underground floor is completely flooded.

Sirius stands outside Harry’s bedroom door, shivering. He rubs his palms against his upper arms and prepares himself for the worst.

Sirius walks into the room.

Harry is crawling on the ceiling.

White sheets are floating and undulating around the room. Harry is naked except for a pair of white pyjama trousers. He looks at Sirius upside-down from where he’s crouched on the ceiling. His eyes are bright green and scared.

Sirius stands on the bed and lifts his arms up, beckoning to Harry. “Come down Harry; it’s okay, I won’t hurt you.”

Harry slowly floats down from the ceiling. “I know, Sirius,” he whispers.

Sirius gently takes Harry by his waist and pulls them both down so they are sitting on the bed: Sirius’s back against the pillows and Harry’s back against Sirius’s chest. Harry sits between Sirius’s thighs and Sirius holds him firmly, stroking Harry’s stomach. He buries his face in Harry’s hair and breaths in, and then feels guilty for the stab of love to his heart.

“I’m so sorry, Sirius,” says Harry quietly.

“Don’t be,” says Sirius. “We’ll fight this.”

Harry turns his head and looks at Sirius. His lips are red and trembling in front of Sirius’s and Sirius wants desperately to kiss him; but he holds back, is always holding back with Harry these days.

Suddenly, one of the undulating sheets splits several times in front of them. Harry gasps and they watch as the white ribbons slither over the bed like snakes, teasingly slow.

Harry tenses. One of the ribbons slides over Harry’s foot and curves around his ankle. The others follow suit, sliding and curving over his ankles and calves, slowing moving towards his thighs.

Harry whimpers and Sirius holds him tight. He presses a palm to Harry’s chest and Harry’s breathing is shallow and fast. Even though the attack seems almost harmless and soft, Harry cries, “It hurts!”

“Breathe, Harry. Fight it... fight it!”

“I’m trying!”

This only spurs the curse on. The ribbons come faster and tighten around his legs and now his hips - fight, you have to fight!

“Sirius,” gasps Harry breathlessly, “I’m dying – “

Sirius closes his eyes in pain. “You’re not dying.”

“Sirius I – “ Harry swallows. “I hope you know, I love you.”

Suddenly all the sheets, including the ribbons around Harry’s legs, explode into flame. Harry yelps and pulls his legs up – the fire isn’t hot, though, just dazzling, licking the air and walls.

* * *

Voldemort sighed and closed his eyes. It was a sigh that was heavy yet calm. It was a sigh that meant he had breathed his last breath.

Harry repressed the memory of what happened next – but he could barely repress the violation he felt as he was taken over.

* * *

“I don’t understand why Harry vouches for you – you’re absolutely useless!”

Hermione looks at Sirius as if he had just slapped her.

“Oi!” shouts Ron, grabbing Sirius by the collar. “Don’t talk to her like that!”

“She’s been in here for days, and she hasn’t found a thing!”

“Oh yeah, and what have you done? You’re supposed to be Harry’s – “

Hermione stands up. “Both of you, stop!”

They’re in the library. Hermione has been studiously researching day and night, hoping to find a cure to Harry’s illness. She’s found plenty of information on magical viruses, possessions, curses... it’s all very fascinating, thinks Sirius sarcastically, but none of it explains anything.

Hermione tugs on her blouse and glares at Sirius. “I know you’re worried about Harry – we all are – but that’s no reason to go shouting at each other. If we want to help Harry, we have to keep our heads.” She turns to Ron. “And that goes for you, too.”

“What?” explodes Ron, voice still raised. “I was defending you – “

“I can look after myself!” Hermione snaps, hypocritically.

Sirius scowls. “Shut up, both of you.” He sits down on the reading couch and rubs a hand over his face. His feelings turn back to gut-retching worry.

Hermione and Ron have gone back to reading. After a moment, Sirius coughs to get their attention. They look up at him tiredly.

Sirius’s wings twitch in fearful hesitance. “I think it’s time I went back.”

Ron looks incredulous and Hermione is tearful, shaking her head. “No way,” says Ron, “that’s stupid – “

“You promised,” Hermione interrupts, “you promised that would be our last resort.”

Sirius shakes his head sadly, avoiding her eyes. “Harry is so bad and it’s only been a week. What’s he going to be like in another week?” For some reason, he can’t look at Hermione’s tears, so he says it to Ron, instead. “We’ve run out of options.”

Ron, lips tensed into a frown, nods slowly.

Sirius nods back. “You know what to do – if I start to fade, pull me back.”

“But it’s so risky!” Hermione protests. “What if you don’t come back? What will we do then? What will Harry do?” She stands up and looks at Sirius pleadingly. “If you go and don’t return, he’ll give up!”

But Sirius is already lying himself down on the couch and Ron sits cross-legged on the floor next to him.

In the next moment, Sirius is walking into the light.

The scent hits him first, before the splash of colours. There are flowers everywhere. Sirius walks through the garden looking around.

“Jasmine is nice,” says a contemplative voice to Sirius’s left, “but gardenia is definitely my favourite. The scent is so overwhelming and warm, yet addictive, like the wool blanket our grandmother used to tuck us in with. Remember?”

The dark haired man bending over the bush straightens and gives Sirius a knowing smirk. “Of course, you always were a pessimist. You only felt the suffocation in Nanna’s hugs; you never felt the love in her embrace.”

Sirius does not return his half-smile. “Hello, Regulus. I need a favour.”

“Hmm...” Regulus starts to stroll back down the pebbled footpath. “And here’s me hoping you had missed me. Brothers are always taken for granted.”

Sirius can’t help it: he rolls his eyes.

“I have a lovely bush of black roses, you know, the kind Mother used to grow? I remember them being so useful for love potions. They were good for hate potions, too,” Regulus adds with a low laugh. His wings spread out in a stretch before folding back against his back. The smile he gives Sirius is rueful. “Now, what was that favour?”

Sirius walks in step with his brother down the path. The sun is white-bright in his eyes. “Have you been watching Harry?”

“No,” Regulus scoffs, “you’re his guardian angel, not me.”

Sirius stares. “You haven’t?”

It is Regulus’s turn to roll his eyes. “That’s what I said.” They walk together for a moment. Sirius knows he is wasting what little time he has in this place, but Regulus’s expression has turned thoughtful and Sirius knows not to disturb him.

They turn a corner, past a wall covered in ivy. From there the two angels step into a small courtyard in the middle of which is a large marble birdbath.

The brothers stand on either side, leaning over slightly to watch the cool surface of the water. Regulus dips his index finger in and circles, making small ripples. On the surface an image slowly appears.

It’s of Harry, seeming peaceful in sleep. Problem is, he’s not in bed, he’s floating. Around him shattered glass and wood from what used to be furniture is spinning around him as if Harry is in the eye of a tornado.

“Hmm,” says Regulus eventually, “looks tricky.”

The bush to their left starts to rustle and Sirius snaps his head around, uneasy. “Reg – I don’t have a lot of time – “

“I’ve seen this before,” Regulus interrupts. “It was a long time ago, but I recognise it.”

Sirius stares at him in hope and Regulus continues to explain in a very serious tone. “Now you have to listen to me very carefully, Sirius, and you must do everything I say without protest, alright?”

Sirius nods.

“Be with him as much as you can; comfort him. And tell him to accept the curse.”

Sirius gasps. “Pardon?”

“If he keeps fighting, he’ll die.” Regulus braces himself on the birdbath and leans forward. “You have to tell him to stop fighting and to let the curse take over.”

Sirius shakes his head in disbelief. “No...”

“You said you wouldn’t protest!”

“Even if I tell him to let go he won’t listen to me!”

“Of course he will!” Regulus walks around the bath and grabs Sirius by the arm. Regulus’s next whisper is harsh in Sirius’s ear. “You Gryffindors are always so oblivious to love, but he loves you Sirius, he loves you to death.”

Regulus pulls back and glares into his brother’s face. Then his eyes soften. “And I know,” Regulus continues to whisper, “you love him too.”

“Regulus...”

“Don’t deny it!” Regulus snaps. “I know you think it’s wrong because he’s your godson – “

Sirius rubs his eyes and grits his teeth. “Reg – “

“ – you’re such a pain in the backside - !”

“The Shadows are coming,” says Sirius as he starts to fade away.

Regulus’s gestures seem contradictory, then: he abruptly stands back, knowing that if he is touching Sirius, Sirius could take his soul back to the living world; yet at the same time, he reaches with both hands to his fading brother.

“Sirius,” Regulus cries, “if there is one thing you must remember from your journey, remember this word: sorcery.”

Sirius wakes back to life with a loud gasp.

What he notices first is that the library has turned into some kind of rain forest. It’s not like one of Firenze’s designs, all light and peaceful; his one is dark, gloomy and full of shadows.

Focusing, Sirius realises it’s still the library, but now the book shelves are made out of moss, the tables and chairs have turned into large toadstools and the couch he is sitting on has kept its shape but is now made of a strange mix of sticky spider web and dead leaves.

“Ew,” says Sirius, untangling himself and standing up. He looks at Ron who is also standing and staring at Sirius in anticipation. “What’s going on?”

Ron glances to the side where Hermione is sitting on a toadstool comforting Crookshanks. “Harry got worse ever since you... you know, left us.”

“Did you find anything?” asks Hermione, her voice raised to reach him across the ‘room’.

Sirius feels a small explosion of triumph and happiness in his chest. “Look up ‘sorcery’.”

“But...” Hermione looks at him in confusion. “I read something about that; it’s just a legend that has nothing to do with curses or hexes.” But even as she says this, she stands up and goes to one of the piles of books, picking up a hard cover volume.

Sirius and Ron come over. They see that the book isn’t all that old; modern even, perhaps four decades old with little pictures of a nymph, unicorn and pixies. The title read: ‘Myths and Legends of the Wizarding World’.

Hermione checks the index, then flicks to a chapter titled ‘The Five Sorcerers of the Magical Realm’.

Hermione looks up at Sirius. “Is this what you wanted?”

Sirius nods. “I... think so. Please, read aloud.”

Hermione turns back to the page as Sirius and Ron sit down on nearby toadstools. Hermione reads.

“’Legend has it, that at the beginning of the age of Wizardry, there were three great wizards and two witches whom held extraordinary power.

“‘They called themselves sorcerers and sorceresses. They aged very slowly and could control and wield great and powerful magic. Some people believed they were gods that founded the race of wizards.

“‘It is believed that sorcerers and sorceresses still exist today. They are not born, nor can sorcerers beget other sorcerers – legend tells of a transfer of magic from a dieing sorcerer to an able wizard.

“‘Professor Lyra de Lioncourt, explorer of spirit possession and exorcism, explained the phenomenon as similar to that of vampirism. “Vampires are all connected to one another by one blood-thirsty spirit, who once possessed the ‘Mother’ of all vampires long ago. Sorcerers are a similar case: long ago powerful spirits possessed three wizards and two witches. The spirit passes from host to host by means of death. The spirit cannot live within a dead host, nor can it live without a host at all. Therefore, it attaches itself to the nearest healthy witch or wizard after the previous host expires.”

“‘Not much else is known about sorcerers. The last recorded sorcerer was August Malfoy of French descent, whom kept himself locked away in his library under heavy wards, frightened someone would murder him for his powers. He died in 1513. No one knows whom accepted his powers, although there was a rumour that his nephew Fastion Malfoy had become very ill less than a day after August Malfoy’s death. August wrote in his diary, as translated from French: “Accepting the curse forfeits pain and gains great courage. A long protest seeks many poor days.”’...”

Hermione finishes reading and looks at Sirius.

“That’s it?” asks Sirius.

“That’s it,” Hermione shrugs.

“So,” begins Ron, confused, “what does that have to do with Harry’s curse?”

But neither Hermione nor Sirius get to answer; there’s a scream from the direction of Harry’s room.

Sirius stands immediately and takes a step forward. He looks around and realises that the house has change so much that doors to other rooms are indiscernible. There are just trees, vines and shadows.

He lifts a hand, palm up. A small beam of light appears in the middle of his palm. He whispers to it, “Show me Harry.”

The slither of magic light lengthens rapidly, shooting across the room and further away. Sirius starts to follow it, Hermione and Ron following after some hesitation.

They weave through more dense forest. They hear running water, hooting of owls and in the distance, the howl of a wolf. Grimmauld Place is no longer recognisable.

They finally reach what appears to be Harry’s room. All the furniture is destroyed, including the bed; all that is in the room is a large black cocoon attached to the ceiling. It undulates and shudders as if it is breathing, and from it long black tendrils curl down the walls to the floor, like charred roots of a tree. The line of light from Sirius’s palm curves up into the chrysalis.

“Oh Harry...” Sirius half-moans. Then he squares his shoulders and turns to Ron and Hermione. “I’m going in.”

Ron opens his mouth to protest, but Hermione puts a hand on his shoulder and Sirius turns away, flapping his great white wings to fly toward the ceiling.

Sirius crawls into the cocoon head first. It’s sticky and smells of acid and hate, all dark and suffocating. He swims on through the black mush, kicking his legs and moving his arms as best as he can, thinking only Harry, I’m coming for you, I’m on my way.

He breaks the surface and swims to the edge. Standing on hard ground he finds himself in a twisted corridor filled with many decorative doors, each as individual as the last. The greatest and most beautiful door of all is at the far end. Sirius makes his way over to it and warily pulls it open.

He closes the heavy door behind him and finds himself in a large room. The walls are lined with large glass cylinders full of liquid. Within these glass cases are dead people floating. Sirius recognises some of them: Cedric Diggory, Bertha Jorkins, Bartemius Crouch... even Voldemort and... Sirius swallows... himself.

At the end of the room there are steps rising up to an altar. Sirius almost cries out in surprise – there’s a man standing, staring at him.

The man is dressed in elaborate, gothic robes, his expression is a little curious. He slowly moves forward, down the steps towards Sirius, and Sirius is able to get a closer look.

This man looks like Harry.

Only it’s not Harry – this Harry looks older, perhaps late-twenties, with messy black hair long to his shoulders and his eyes sharp, but not cruel. His slow gait is not Harry’s, either, and when he parts his lips to speak his voice isn’t Harry’s, but a deep, old, wise voice.

“Hello, dear Angel of Light.”

Sirius swallows and lifts his chin, summoning courage. “You’re the curse,” he says. “You look like Harry.”

The curse nods once, still half-gliding down the steps. “I have taken this form in order to encourage Harry to accept me.”

Sirius glances around the room once more. “I don’t think your choice of décor is particularly encouraging, do you?”

The curse’s smile is wry and brief. “I did not choose these surroundings. We are both currently in Harry’s mind; Harry’s imagination made this room.”

“What are you?” Sirius demands. The curse stops walking after stepping off the bottom step.

“I have been called many things,” it says mildly. “Curse, virus, gift, demon, angel. But simply put, I am magic.”

“Magic?”

“I am a form of magic that has evolved and gained intelligence and feeling. I am... a being. Long ago there were five wells of great magic. Wizards and witches spoke to us and over time we gained souls and ectoplasmic bodies. We then took host bodies in order to evolve further – and we have ever since.”

“Harry doesn’t want you here,” Sirius tells it. “Please leave and find another host.”

But the curse is sadly shaking its head. “That’s impossible. To survive I must take a host, and can only change hosts when the body dies and the soul leaves. I have already dug my roots in Harry’s soul – if I force myself to leave now, I will die. I like Harry,” it adds quickly, “I like his mind so full of stories. His soul is good and filled with love. But, like any living being, I put my own survival before Harry’s. I am sorry.”

“Please,” begs Sirius. There’s a prickling behind his eyes. “What can I do?”

“Find Harry for me,” it says. “He has locked himself away in a place I am unable to reach. You must convince him to accept me. I promise you, that when he does, he will feel no pain, but only pleasure and a power so great. I do not wish to take over his body; I wish only to lie here in his mind and read the stories of his life. He will have free reign over me and my powers. He need not sacrifice anything.”

Sirius does not trust this curse, or whatever it is. But Regulus had told Sirius to help Harry accept the curse, and so he nods and says, “Where is he?”

It turns and walks over to a small door Sirius had not noticed before. Sirius follows and pulls it open. He has to squat in order to go through.

The next thing Sirius finds is that he is crawling out of a fireplace and into what appears to be a neat, Muggle’s lounge room. Sirius does not recognise it, but he recognises the people in the still photographs on the mantle. It’s Petunia Evans and her family.

He hears a muffled sniffle and a thump. Sirius quickly crosses the room and into the small corridor.

There’s music, also muffled, drifting down from the second floor of the house. The female voice sings, It lay buried here. It lay deep inside me. It's so deep I don't think that I can speak about it... In the kitchen there is a floating pink heart. It’s beating slowly. But Sirius’s attention is on the little cupboard under the stairs.

Sirius opens the door and sees Harry huddled in the dark, his arms over his head and his face buried between his knees. “Don’t...” he moans. “I reject you.”

“Harry,” Sirius whispers and Harry’s head snaps up, wide green eyes fixed on Sirius’s.

“Sirius,” he gasps, and launches himself out of the cupboard and into Sirius’s arms.

They close their eyes and hold each other tight, Sirius face buried in Harry’s hair. “Are you real?” asks Harry.

“Yes, Harry, I’m real.”

Harry leans away slightly to stare into Sirius’s face. He leans forward...

“Wait,” says Sirius quickly, pulling away. “I need you to do me a favour, Harry.” He is suddenly wracked with guilt – he had told Harry to fight and now he has to tell Harry to do the opposite. “I need to you to accept the curse.”

Harry’s lips part in surprise and his eyes are glistening with tears. “What?” he whispers.

“Please, Harry,” Sirius whispers back, “you’ll die otherwise.”

“I am not Voldemort’s son.”

“No, Harry, you’re James’s son.”

Harry nods slowly, then bravely leans forward again, pressing lips so soft to Sirius’s. Sirius holds him tighter and deepens the kiss, feeling a gush of love so strong that his heart almost stops.

Neither of them notice the change in their surroundings. However, they are spinning away from the little Muggle house and back to Grimmauld Place. The noble house is also righting itself, all the furniture and windows mending, the corridors untwisting.

They don’t notice, not for some time.

End

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