Misdirection and Other Magics

It is cold. Harry doesn't have time to wonder whether he is dying. His mind is out of his control and switches to other matters.

The exterior of Godric's Hollow: a victory in itself. Lights are on in the upstairs windows, this bodes well. The Man is killed easily, he is the one who opens the door. Upstairs, The Woman dies screaming, her baby is in his crib slowly sobbing. A wand is levelled at the child and magic begins to gather.

Harry arrives back to his consciousness on the ground in Little Whinging. A Dementor hovers above him; an endless cloaked head peers at him looking…confused. Well, as much as a Dementor can look confused. It is above him, yes, but not kissing him - just looking. It is still cold, and he can hear muffled screaming. For a second he assumes that he is still in his vision but the movement in the corner of his vision stops this assumption.

The movement, and the screams, are Dudley. Through the haze of the cold Harry remembers it now. They were arguing, - Dudley was threatening him or Harry was threatening Dudley when the Dementors arrived. Dementors, multiple. The second one is above Dudley, causing him to writhe and seize on the ground.

Harry does not like Dudley. He can find very little memories where his cousin was ever nice to him, but Harry does not think that Dudley deserves whatever it is that the Dementors are inflicting. While his Dementor is currently not doing anything, he does not expect this to last. So when he reaches for his wand and cannot find it in his pocket, he panics. Perhaps it is his closeness to death, or perhaps it is merely the effects of the Dementors, but he cannot find it in himself to pause and think rationally. He raises his hand and tries to cast a Patronus through his fingertips.

It works. A blindingly white stag bursts through his hand and charges at the Dementors, not just chasing them away, but tearing into them. The patronus pierces through the centre’s of the Dementors, dark scraps snagging on its antlers and then dissolving into nothing.

By the time Harry manages to stand, he has nothing but adrenaline to work with. It is this and this alone which helps him to lift a shaking Dudley to his feet and him home to Number 4 Privet Drive.

In another universe, one where he casts the patronus with a wand, letters come: one to tell Harry that he has been expelled and one to tell the Dursely’s to let him stay. But here Harry faces the Dursleys alone.

Uncle Vernon is screaming in Harry’s face while roughly shoving him against the wall. Harry’s nose is bleeding, and Dudley is on the sofa vomiting into a bucket as Aunt Petunia murmurs words of comfort.

“FIX. HIM. NOW.”

Harry doesn’t respond. The truth is that apart from chocolate, which he has already fed him, he doesn’t know how to help - not that Vernon would accept this answer if he gave it. Harry’s limbs feel like lead and there is a deep pain searing through his hand like he has held it through a flame. He lets himself go limp.

Vernon shakes him and repeats the demand.

As his vision fades in and out, Harry dully wonders whether he will be made to clean up his own blood tomorrow as part of his chores.

Harry dreams of a long corridor and a snake.The snake is over ten feet long and blends in easily with the dark floorboards. The corridor has low-lighting so he can only just make out when the snake moves its head and flicks out its tongue. He is watching this from above. A man is standing at the end of the corridor, guarding. The snake goes to strike. Harry is stuck watching the movement of the snake strike, repeating and rewinding over and over again. He knows, instinctively, that what he is seeing will happen.

***

In London, Remus wakes next to Sirius. They have been sleeping in the same bed most nights, sometimes for the comfort, sometimes for the company. They do not talk about the fact that they used to date, or the fact that Sirius had bought an engagement ring a year before he went to Azkaban. Most of all, they do not talk about the fact that, at some point during 1981, they each thought the other could be a traitor. No relationship can survive that, and if they talk about it will become real. But now they are content with sleeping next to each other, sitting next to each other in Order meetings,laughing like they are teenagers in school and not adults in war.

The rise of Voldemort has been frighteningly similar from last time and the worst part returning features are the 5am meetings. The one’s where Albus cannot wait for the end of the work day to summon the whole order, when something so terrible has happened that they all must be told while the sun is still hiding beyond the horizons. Today is one such meeting.

Tonks and Kingsley are in their Auror robes, Arthur in his ministry attire, and Remus has never felt so woefully unemployed. He works for the order, yes, but so does everyone else and they have lives outside of the order as well. He does not.

Everyone crowds into the dining room. It is a strange sight: Grimmauld Place is so obviously an old pureblood house, with its disused chandelier and ornately carved skirting board, that ,under any other circumstance, it would be comical to see so many defenders of the light under its roof. On a different day, Remus knows Sirius would have cracked a joke to that effect. But today Albus looks so grim that even Sirius holds his tongue. Next to Albus stands Mrs Figg. Upon seeing her, Remus’s heart drops. This has got something to do with Harry.

The others haven't realised this yet. Mrs Figg usually makes her reports in the middle of the day and on the occasion she attends a full meeting, she usually has a knack of blending into the background. While Remus technically shouldn’t know what her role is, he has helped her firecall Albus enough times to work out just who she is observing. She stands to the left of Albus, with her face tightly bound into a grimace.

“Good Morning,” Albus says softly, causing all of the nervous chatter to grind to a halt. “You are here because Dementors have been spotted in Privet Drive.”.

Remus immediately looks over to Mundungus Fletcher who at least has the decency to be standing at the back of the room looking sheepish. Everyone knows it was him who was on guard last night. By the way Mrs Figg is glaring at him from across the room, her hand tightening around her purse, Remus can guess that he was not there.

“Err Professor?” Tonks raises their hand. At 22 they are the youngest member of the Order and they haven’t quite got the hang of calling Albus by his first name. “Are the Dementors still there? I could probably go to Surrey on official Auror business if they’re still around affecting muggles.” Tonks’s leg is bouncing under the table and they are fidgeting with their wand. They may be young but Remus thinks it would be a fool who tries to underestimate them.

Albus shakes his head.

“I’ve just come back from Surrey and there seems to be no sign of them, but I still think it prudent to remove young Harry here as a safer location. Tonks, Alastor, Kingsley and Remus, I would ask that you facilitate his removal tonight. Tonks I would ask that you check whether there are any ongoing Auror investigations which need to be avoided in your flight path, Arthur I’d ask you keep an eye out for any strange muggle incidents - the Dementors may still re-emerge. The rest of you should stay alert, I do not need to tell you that an attack on Harry is a significant event. He is growing impatient and we do not want to be caught unaware.”

As the meeting disperses, Remus catches Sirius’s hand and gives it a squeeze. Remus thought Sirius would be happy at the idea of Harry coming to Grimmauld place, even in the circumstances, but there is a small, almost embarrassed frown etched across his face.

“You alright, Pads?” He murmurs, knowing the answer is no.

“I thought I’d be able to be useful. James was always good to me like that, kind. And yet I’m here, in the house I ran away from, unable to help my godson get to me.”

“I know.” he says, “I know”. Remus has had twelve years to grieve James and Lily and while the grief can never go away completely, he has had time to heal. Azkaban heals nothing. For Sirius, their deaths are still an open wound and whenever he talks about it the grief is infectious. Remus does not know how to talk to him when he is like this.

Evening comes around and Moody gives his usual speech. Remus thinks it is a marker of his age that he no longer think’s Moody’s requirements are ridiculous. The additional members flying ahead to give safety signals is a smart idea, he doesn’t particularly care whether it is paranoid. Before they left, he privately spoke to Albus to see if Sirius could be included as the safety signaller. He said it would be too dangerous.

Privet Drive is not what he expected. He has yet to take a shift guarding it so his only information to go on was the fact that Harry lived with Lily’s relatives. He had visited Lily over the summer once when they were 15. Cokeworth was an industrial town in the midlands. The terraced houses squeezed tightly against each other and the sky was somehow always grey. Little Whinging could not be more different: it is mostly made up of soft blue cul-de-sacs with perfectly maintained flowerbeds. Number 4 Privet Drive does not have a car in the driveway and all the lights are off.

Tonks looks at him.

“Albus sent a letter telling him to stay put,” he reassures them, “it looks like your letter has got the relatives to go out.”

Moody does some quick diagnostic spells to check for traps and after a gruff nod, Remus casts Alohomora.

The first sign that something was wrong greets them when Remus opens the door. On the floor sits two unopened letters: the one from Albus, and the forgery from Tonks. He grips his wand tighter.

“Don’t touch it.” Moody orders, “Look for Potter, but assume foul play until we’ve got him. - Don’t touch anything.”

Upstairs there are three bedrooms. The first two are normal: there is the master bedroom, and a bedroom of a young boy, clothes and toys broken and strewn across the room. The third bedroom has a cat flap in the door and bars on the windows. It is the smallest room by far and houses the least possessions, most of the clothes being of-casts of the occupant of the second bedroom. The intensity of the locks on the door reminds Remus of his childhood moons in the Shrieking Shack and he feels nauseous. He is nauseous because as he examines the few possessions in the room, he realises that this room is Harry’s. He knows what it is like to have family who fear you but he had never expected Harry to know that feeling too.

“He’s not downstairs.” Kingsley calls. Remus goes down to join him and clears his throat.

“He’s not upstairs,” as Remus says this he is standing in the hallway and he hears a shuffling, like someone tossing in their sleep. “Homenum Revelio” he casts.

There is someone in the cupboard under the stairs.

***

Harry is burning and Harry is cold at the same time.He is dreaming of his magic. No, not dreaming. Remembering.

His earliest memory, at four years old. He has done very little accidental magic yet so while he was still shunned by the Dursleys, he has been brought on holiday with them. It is a seaside resort with many entertainers and food included. Dudley is sulking because he wasn’t picked for the audience participation and Harry stands a little apart from the rest of the children as he watches the Magician pack up his things. The clowns who are currently performing were definitely scarier than the Magician but it was the Magician who caused his Aunt to splutter and his Uncle to turn a nice shade of beetroot red. Harry isn’t sure why.

He watches as the Magician packs away his handkerchiefs, his rings, even his cards from the inseam of his long velvet jacket. The Magician sees Harry staring and beckons him over.

“Are you interested in magic then?”

Harry nods cautiously which causes the Magician to laugh.

“Well then, Let me teach you a trick - see the real skill of it is never in the technical details - magic tricks are all made by misdirection.”

Harry blinks, eagerly trying to pay attention but not quite following.

“Right. You’re a kid.” He says. “Well misdirection is sort of like lying but better. It’s all about directing people what people are looking at so you can do stuff without them seeing. For example - “ He flourishes a deck of cards into his right hand. “If I say I’m going to do a card trick and shuffle the cards fancily in this hand, that means you’ll be looking at the cards I’m shuffling which frees up my other hand to plant the other card in your pocket -” He pulls the King of Hearts out of Harry’s coat pocket. Harry giggles. “See. You were paying too much attention to my explanation. I bet you didn’t see that.”

Harry thinks he gets it. He goes to give the card back to the Magician who, seeing this, shakes his head.

“You keep it, I’ve got plenty. - And besides, it was in your pocket after all.”

At first misdirection works well for Harry. He deliberately does middling schoolwork so the teachers don;t look too closely at him and so his Aunt and Uncle don't wonder how the pens and pencils needed to complete his homework magically manage to appear in his cupboard.

He starts an argument with Dudley and gets a day without food for his trouble. Harry reckons that this is probably better than the punishment for magicing himself onto the roof of his primary school. And magic is the right word for it, he is certain, perhaps all these strange happenings are just moments of unconscious sleight of hand. Maybe it’s possible to misdirect yourself.

But misdirection cannot work for everything. Aunt Petunia shaves his entire head and it grows back overnight in protest, Dudley’s old uniform shrinks in the wash. These are all things that no amount of misdirection will hide. There is definitely no misdirection which will hide the spewing of Hogwarts letters from his letterbox. This is magic. No tricks, just magic. Plain and simple.

Harry is aware that his body is being lifted. Maybe he is flying. Maybe he is back at Hogwarts playing Quidditch. His memories sharpen at the thought.

First year. First day. On the boats approaching the castle: the lights from their lanterns shimmering off the lake like shoals of silver fish. The air is so full of magic that it is practically sparking. He does not remember the pressure in his chest so much as he knows it should have been there. He should have been able to feel how the magic sings to each of the Hogwarts stones.

Harry's hand is still burning, and he is still cold, and he is unconscious but not tired. His memories warp and adjust with this new knowledge of an additional sense. Magic has a physical presence. Magic is living.

***

Severus is brewing the potion to kill. This is the kinder option. The Dark Lord has been having the Death Eaters practise their Crucio on a minor Order informant, one who slipped the Order no more than three classified documents . For this act, the informant has been writhing in extreme pain every hour of every day for the past ten days. Severus plans to put the man out of his misery: there is nothing they can do for him now. He tries not to think about the fact he is the reason the informant is being tortured. The Dark Lord wanted to know what ministry files the Order had used, so Severus told him the least useful ones. He would not have trusted him otherwise, and the Order have saved a muggle hospital from attack thanks to the information Severus has learnt after this. If he thinks too much about his actions as a double agent he will start blaming himself and this will not help anyone. A good spy is not a moralising one. He sneers as he thinks of the meeting called this morning: for the other’s this may be the worst news they have received but for Severus a few Dementors floating around the golden boy’s home is nothing but a small blip on his radar.

It is strange brewing in Grimmauld Place. The Blacks were never well known for their potions but like all rich pureblood families they housed a large elaborate potions lab in their basement. It’s a display of wealth first and a potion lab second, with strange contraptions secured to the walls that even Severus cannot find a use for. Still, he will admit that it is better than his personal potions lab, and it is certainly better than brewing potions in Hogwarts.

He adds a few sprigs of dandelion root and stirs the potion counter-clockwise. Allowing his mind to still, he adds in the foxglove petals before reducing the heat. This is the freeing thing about brewing: he does not need to occlude. Potions eliminates all other distractions by necessity, one wrong stir or a moment too long on high heat can render the whole brew useless. When he is brewing he does not think of the Dark Lord, nor does he think of Albus. He simply is.

A sharp, fast knock sounds at the door to the potions lab. He ignores it. He knows how Black knocks and while he has promised Albus that he will work with the man, it does not mean that he has to like him, or even pay attention to him. It certainly doesn’t mean he will stop brewing for him. Severus ignores the noises coming from the floor above and goes to add the sprinkling of dew. Another knock sounds, causing him to spill more dew than needed into the potion. It bubbles into a deep plum colour: he will need to begin it again. He does not recognise this knock, it is timid but still determined to get his attention.

He opens the door scowling.

“Miss Granger. Would you care to explain why it is that you, in all your infinite wisdom, have decided to disturb me when I am brewing highly volatile potion?”

Even before he finishes his scolding, he realises that something is wrong. He can hear it clearer now his door is open. The Advance Guard are back and they are panicking amongst themselves, the shrill and overlapping voices of the Weasley’s and Black joining the fray.

“It’s Harry, Professor. He’s hurt.”

With a swish of his black robes, he stalks upstairs.

The entrance corridor is so crowded that there is a moment where he is stuck, standing on the stairs. A gaggle of ginger heads blocks his view and it is a marker of their distress that when he clears his throat they part for him without comment.

Despite the panic shown amongst the others, Severus is half expecting the crowd to reveal Potter with a slightly broken leg, or even just a bloody nose. This is not what happens. Potter is unconscious, shivering, and sweating in Lupin’s arms. Severus changes his demeanour immediately. He moves forward, past Lupin and Potter, and clears the kitchen table with a muttered spell. A bedroom would be better for Potter’s comfort, yes, but at this point in time he has no idea how levitating him upstairs would affect the boy.

Lupin sets Potter on the table and Severus begins casting diagnostic spells when his arm jerks with a flash of pain. The Dark Lord is calling and Severus chooses to ignore it. He re-casts the diagnostic charm. Grimmauld Place Kitchen also doubles as your basic medical potions storage, and Severus finds the bottles of Pepper Up easily.

“Pepper Up Potion?” snarls Black. “I know you hated James but I thought you’d do the - “

“Unless you have completed a Potions and Healing double Mastery since escaping prison I suggest you keep your mouth shut. I do know how to treat Magical Exhaustion.”

“Magical Exhaustion?” His face drops in confusion.

“Severe Magical Exhaustion. In fact, I’d rather like to know in what circumstances the boy was found.”

“Yeah, well we’d like to know that too but they won’t say. So don’t go on at Sirius.” says the second youngest Weasley, who has emerged from the corridor to defend Black. The pain coming from Severus’s Dark Mark intensifies and he has an absurd desire to take points for this outburst.

He turns to Lupin

“I’d like an answer to my question,” He repeats. There is silence. The Weasley’s have stopped their panic chatter and are now listening intently. The silence continues.

“We agreed that we’d only give that information to Albus.” Moody says, his voice is low and conspiratorial - although this is the usual tone his voice tends to take. Except, unusually, the other’s who were sent to collect Potter do not object to this. Tonks shuffles nervously where they stand.

Severus nods. The pain in his forearm is not going away. He knows, instinctively, that the Dark Lord is beyond angry.

“Do you need to leave Severus?” Lupin says, nodding to his tensed arm. Severus likes to think that he hates Black and Lupin equally but he cannot deny that the werewolf is observant.

He shakes his head.

“Potter will need to be assessed every hour throughout the night and any doses of Pepper Up need to be appropriately adjusted. Poppy is celebrating her anniversary with Pomona in Australia and will not be able to return for at least a few days. I will not go.”

And just like that his fate is sealed. No one else in Grimmauld Place seems to understand the gravity of the situation, they are all too busy worrying after Potter, but Severus knows. Not responding to the call immediately causes great displeasure in the Dark Lord, though he could get away with an hour or so given the right excuse. But to ignore the call for a whole night? The same night that Harry Potter gets removed from his relatives address? Well Severus knows what will happen then.

If Potter survives the night then he will have made the right decision in staying, and while a good spy is not a moralising one, Severus has come to the horrifying, dreadful conclusion that he will not be useful as a spy for much longer at all.