February 5, 2004
Harry is searching for a way to contact Sirius
Thank you to my betas Charlotte and QueenC!
Written for the weekly drabble challenges on Canis_Major.
Main Entry: ma-nes
Function: noun plural
Date: 14th century
1 often capitalized : the deified spirits of the ancient Roman dead honored
with grave-side sacrifices
2 : the venerated or appeased spirit of a dead person
Word count: 531
Trying To Talk To You
The only sound that could be heard in the smallest bedroom in number four Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, was the shallow breathing of the lone denizen of the room. The whole house was quiet on this Thursday night, clearly empty, for not even the noises of the TV or snoring from one of the other rooms could be heard.
This was quite a fortuity, as there was an act being played out in the only occupied room that would surely have horrified the rest of the residents of the house. The curtains were tightly drawn over the diminutive window, thereby preventing even the slightest sliver of light from the early dusk outside to invade the self-conjured enclosure and diving the whole room into absolute darkness. Darkness that was only battled against by the feeble light of two candles. They faced each other on a small, wooden table and in the dim light they presented, one could barely differentiate between their blue and purple colour.
The whole room was affected by this diffused light and the walls were marred with long shadows and dark corners. However, all of this didn't interrupted the young man sitting at the low table in front of him. He was entirely focused on the two glowing wicks of the candles and the photograph and mirror shards that lay between the only sources of light.
In front of his vision strands of smoke wavered in and out of existence and the scent of frankincense and patchouli filled the air. Nevertheless, all of this seemed totally lost on the youth, so captivated was he in looking at the photograph that he didn't even notice the almost blinding lightness of the candles at the edge of his vision.
Main Entry: be-dev-il
Function: transitive verb
1 : to possess with or as if with a devil
2 : to cause distress : TROUBLE
3 : to change for the worse : SPOIL
4 : to confuse utterly : BEWILDER
I got the information on this ritual from the following website (http://www.silver-branch.org/ssbwrit.h
Talking To You
These days there is almost nothing I wouldn't do to find a bit of solace in your arms. You know how much I miss you, right? You must know. Every day I do the same thing. The thing that only a few weeks ago I would have thought absolutely ridiculous. Trying to reach you were you are now. Wanting to let you know how I feel about you. What I would do if you were still with me. What I wished to happen in the future.
A future that now won't happen. But still I can't stop trying, trying to talk to you. Any way that I can image. I tried talking to Nearly Headless Nick but he couldn't tell me how I could contact you, I tried the mirror, but it didn't work and I smashed it. I regret that now, but I still have the shards and they are part of the little altar I prepare for you.
I know, it sounds somewhat freaky but what if it works? What if my love for you is strong enough to reach you even where you are now? My mum's love managed to keep me from getting killed. Do we really know what else magic can do? Have we exhausted all possibilities? Perhaps there are ways to contact the dead that nobody has thought of yet, or tried yet. What if I managed to do that? A way, perhaps not for you to come back, but for us to communicate?
And so I try again: In total darkness I take the blue and purple candle - symbolizing peace and spirituality - the mirror shards and a photo from my album and spiral in clockwise towards the altar. I place everything on it and light the candles.
"I appeal to you, Gwynn ap Nudd, Lord of the Wild Hunt, Gatherer of Souls, Son of Night, King of the Underworld. I welcome you here in my modest home. I beseech you to help me in my journey to your realm. To give me the chance to find the one I seek."
I end my introductory speech and continue to stare into the flames. After a while, I see your photo-self winking at me, and it gives me a stab to my heart to know that I won't ever see that expression again. I don't know if this will really work or if my hopes are just wrongly placed. But I have to try again and again. I have to see if I can get your photo to do more than just wink, like every other wizarding photo can.
Perhaps, this will give me the chance to talk to you a last time, to hear your voice a last time. Perhaps...
I have already almost lost hope and still I try again every evening. I know today will probably end the same way it always does. With you winking and the light going out. And isn't that terribly ironic? The candles just go out when I finally have to acknowledge that nothing will be happening that evening. Just like your life was snuffed out in front of my eyes and I knew I won't ever be seeing you again.
I am still staring into the flames and am basically only waiting for the candles to die down. Just like you died-
I can't finish my thought. There, in front of my eyes, the photo-you is slowly forming the word 'Harry'. I am quite sure I only imagined it... but a few seconds later, I hear my name... in a rusty voice, distorted but still identifiable as the one that I am missing the most. "Harry..."
I sit frozen in my position long after the candles have gone out.
Main Entry: kick-shaw
Etymology: by folk etymology from French quelque chose something
1 : a fancy dish : DELICACY
2 : TRINKET, GEWGAW
Dreaming of You
The boy was dreaming. He was tossing and turning and his agitated head movements indicated he was having an upsetting dream. The slowly fading smell of incense and candles lingered in the air and were probably connected to this special boy's dreams.
If one could take a look into his head and disturbing dreams, one could see something that looked like a giant photograph in his mind's eye. This photo was of a black-haired youth, just like the photo the boy had used not long before. However, now the person wasn't smiling or waving. Instead he was looking rather sombrely at the boy and only mouthed 'Harry, Harry' over and over again, barely a moment between each repetition.
With one rather intense movement of the boy the scene changed slightly: The photograph was smaller and was slowly being surrounded by flickering flames and small shards of glass. The flames were reflected on the fragments of the former mirror and both were strangely drawn towards the centre, towards the photograph.
When they all met, the flames started to slowly enclose both the paper and the glass, melting them together and moulding them into ever new shapes. After several minutes, which could have been moments or even hours the flames withdrew to the very top of the little amulet they had created.
Now, if one could look closer at the figurine, one could see that the glass had been modelled into the form of a transparent, almost white dog that had the face from the photograph in place of its own face. The flames were barely touching the tips of its ears, giving it an eerie red glow.
The figure was mouthing something; something that became clearer and clearer when the intensity became higher until in the end it was echoing in the empty darkness, causing it to amplify a hundred times, only to explode into a million tiny pieces, waking the boy up with a start.
He lay there for several seconds, sweat slowly forming on his forehead and rolling down his temple and into his likewise sweaty hair. When his heart rate had calmed down a bit, he turned to his side, quietly murmuring to himself 'I will come for you. I will come for you', not noticing the small scratches covering his face and the single driblet of blood trickling onto his pillow.
Main Entry: fo-men-ta-tion
Date: 14th century
1 a : the application of hot moist substances to the body to ease pain
b : the material so applied
2 : the act of fomenting : INSTIGATION
Thinking of You
Harry swore under his breath. He had no idea how his dream could have caused injuries in real life. But here he was sitting in the bathroom, tending to the small cuts he had on his face and arms. The only conclusion he had come to when he had woken up with them this morning was a freak conclusion. The little shards of glass he dreamt about last night caused his injuries. After all, who had ever heard of a dream transcending into reality?
Even such a weird dream like the one he had had. He had recognised the form of the little statue as one of the Cwn Annwn, hounds of the underworld. During his studies about rituals to contact Sirius, he had come across them and the white, red-eared dogs were unmistakable.
His mind wandered back to this strange dream, trying to decipher what it meant. Perhaps Sirius' face as the face of the dog meant to indicate that Sirius was unrecoverably lost? But what about the strange message? 'I will come for you.' He couldn't make any sense of that. Did it mean that Sirius would contact him, not the other way around? Or was it something darker, like the Cwn Annwn visiting him but that would mean he was going to die. Not a very reassuring thought.
He didn't want to die, but at the same time, he also had to keep trying to reach Sirius. He didn't really know what was spurring him on so much, but he just couldn't stop. He had a feeling that somewhere he would still be able to reach his godfather and he couldn't shake that feeling, no matter how much he tried.
His godfather, the man who was like family to him, more than his 'real' family had ever been. So many times did he wish that he could be back with him over Christmas or last summer, when they finally had had a chance to get to know each other better?
But thoughts about Sirius didn't only bring wishes of a family to him; there was also a certain part of his anatomy that found the thought of his black-haired and attractive godfather very interesting. He was slowly starting to accept that he couldn't really deny this and probably couldn't also deny the possibility that he liked guys as well as girls.
Whenever he thought about it without a haze of lust to distract him, the thought still made him quite queasy. But lust was definitely what he was feeling at the moment. Without his consent, his cock had sprung up and had decided that he didn't want to be ignored anymore. Harry made sure that the bathroom door was looked before he got rid of his shorts and sat down.
He took his cock into his hand, concentrating on finishing quickly as he knew that his cousin would wake up soon. A few quick strokes and thoughts about Sirius in several lewd positions had him thrusting his hips quickly. He came a few moments later and after a moment to gather his breath, he cleaned up and left the room, as if he hadn't just fantasised about his dead godfather while jerking off.
Main Entry: con-cu-pis-cence
Etymology: Middle English, from Middle French, from Late Latin concupiscentia, from Latin
concupiscent-, concupiscens, present participle of concupiscere to desire ardently, from com- +
cupere to desire
Date: 14th century
: strong desire; especially : sexual desire
Waiting for Him
Sometimes he thought he could feel him; feel him coming closer or even make out a shadow. See an outline of his lean, somewhat small body. He could almost imagine the way he would look at him, the way he would smile, the way he would spread out his arms, embrace him. How he would feel in his arms, head tucked under his chin and black locks tickling his lips.
But it never stopped with those innocent touches. It always became something more, something more intense, something that burned him from the inside out nd wasn't that incredible ironic?
Soon, his head wouldn't be tucked under his chin anymore, but it would lift and soft lips would press against his, and a lithe tongue would prod his mouth, making him open it, giving up any dominance he never had.
It wouldn'€™t stop there. Long fingers would open the buttons of his shirt, pushing it of his shoulders, leaving him there, shivering in the cool mist they were standing in.
The fingers would ghost across his chest, knowing what to do, pinching his nipples, scratching across his abdomen, opening the buttons of his trousers and getting rid of the piece of clothing.
A shy smile on his face, he would kneel down and divest him of his last piece of clothing. Then he could feel again, the warmth of the breath, the wetness of the tongue, the agility of the fingers and finally... finally the hotness of the mouth. One suck, then two, then three, almost enough to bring him to orgasm, but not quite.
But he never got that far. Always when he neared the end, the mouth would disappear, the head would be under his chin again, he would feel the arms around him one last time and then he would be gone.
And he would feel sick, ashamed. How could he think something like that? How could he let him do that? How could he enjoy it? How could he always let him go?
How could a ghost still feel desire?
Main Entry: snaz-zy
Etymology: origin unknown
Date: circa 1932
: conspicuously or flashily attractive : FANCY
Not Giving Up On You
Harry was glad that his protection at the Dursleys didn't require him to stay at the house the whole day. Therefore it wasn't a problem for him to visit the local antiques shop and search for an utensil he needed for one of his rituals. The rituals had almost become a habit to him and he still wasn't prepared to give up on the idea of getting in contact with Sirius, even though until now all his efforts had been futile.
The book he had been learning about connections to the dead from mentioned a different possible method to what he had used until now and while it had frightened him somewhat at first, his recent dreams and desperation for talking to Sirius again, made him re-consider it.
However, for the completion of the ritual he would need another implement, something that was harder to get than a few candles and a photo of Sirius.
He just hoped that the small antiques shop in Little Whinging had something that could be used, because he would have to wait until he could get to London otherwise, and would cause too many questions at Hogwarts or the Burrow.
He entered the small shop that proclaimed 'Antique Collectibles' in faded gold letters on the window planes and the bell that rang above his head brought the shop keeper towards him right away.
Before he could even be greeted with as much as a 'Good afternoon' he saw what he had come for. Not giving the shop keeper a second glance, he moved to the display cabinet and studied the instrument that would be exquisite for his purpose.
From what he had read, this would be the perfect artefact for the ritual, he had in mind. Lying on a dusty black velvet material was an ornate, silver letter opener. The handle portrayed a cauldron of some kind with a body seeming to float above it.
At first sight, Harry decided that this was what he was looking for. The only problem would be to make sure that the letter opener was sharp enough to not only do its usual work, but to also cut skin.
Main Entry: MaĂˇchiĂˇaĂˇvelĂˇlian
Pronunciation: "ma-kE-&-'ve-lE-&n, -'vel-y&n
Etymology: Niccolo Machiavelli
1 : of or relating to Machiavelli or Machiavellianism
2 : suggesting the principles of conduct laid down by Machiavelli; specifically : marked by
cunning, duplicity, or bad faith
The Ritual of K'janka, or the Ritual of the Speaking Dead as it is also called, was created by druids before the time of the Roman invasion. The exact words of the spell have been lost, but enough could be reinstated to be able to perform the ritual. It is believed to have been used by many druids to contact the dead and thereby ensuring that knowledge that was believed to be lost could be regained.
Among scholars the spell has a very ambiguous reputation. While some academics (mainly from the Machiavellian school of thought) have praised it for the possibility to learn about our ancestors as well as the world they lived in and thereby allowing our world to privilege from that knowledge. On the other hand, others scholars have condemned the ritual as Dark Magic and warn people who think about practising this ritual of the uncertain origins, as well as the general precariousness in dealing with the dead.
This hasn't stopped the ritual to be invoked several times over the millennia. There have been rumours that various high and well-known leaders of wizarding society counted on this ritual to allow them to learn from the mistakes made in the past. One of the better known was Frayard Arlingford, the Chief of the Wizard's Council, who consulted several of the former leaders of varying societies. He was undecided about Muggle's request of wizards to help them fight the Norman Invasion in 1066 and on Arlingford's own showing; the advice of former leaders had been very valuable guidance.
For the ritual to be successfully initiated, several arrangements have to be made:
First of all, you have to be clear about what you want to achieve. If you are trying this with only a vague sense of what you want to happen, you may very well be overwhelmed with what you discover. One of the risks of this ritual is that you try to penetrate into the conscious of people who are not distinguishable for the human mind. Therefore try to formulate a question or strong purpose right from the beginning. Ideally, you know who you want to contact.
You need to formulate a procedure that is very individual. To understand what is needed as a basis for this ritual as well as the components that can be altered, please refer to Common Magical Rituals And How To Work Them. While this may seem very simplistic, the power and insight needed for this ritual is what makes it very challenging.
You should also be sure that you want to invest that much into this ritual. It is by no means safe and in the past there have been several cases of practitioners who got lost in the world of the dead and could not be raised from the trance they had entered, until they finally died of neglect or old age.
If you are aware of all these risks, the last and most important thing you need is some of your own blood. This should be taken by cutting yourself with a dagger. It is substantial that the blood is willingly given and that the caster is of pure intent to practise this ritual.
Harry read the entry for a last time and then got the dagger ready. He slowly entered a trance by staring at two candle flames and repeated his chosen incantation over and over again...
Main Entry: raz-zle-daz-zle
Etymology: reduplication of dazzle
1 : a state of confusion or hilarity
2 : a complex maneuver (as in sports) designed to confuse an opponent
3 : a confusing or colorful often gaudy action or display
- razzle-dazzle adjective
A light mist surrounded him. It swirled and twisted around him, an invisible wind pulling at his shirt and hair, obscuring his view.
What he could see, was frightening. Black forms, almost like shadows were waving from one place to another. Constantly moving, giving the impression of an anthill in full work mode. This impression was only destroyed by the livelessness of the shadows. They weren't moving themselves, but were blown around by the never changing wind.
Harry slowly became worried. How was he going to find Sirius in this chaos? But then he remembered what he had read: he only had to concentrate on what he wanted to archive, whom he wanted to meet and everything else would fade to the background, allowed him to see the one he really sought.
So he started to clear his mind, let nothing confuse him, just concentrating on Sirius. Sirius' face, his hair, the way he smiled, how he shifted into Padfoot, his graceful walk...
Without moving any muscles, he suddenly felt himself being moved forward, through the mist, to a destination he couldn't see. The mist divided in front of him, the shadows passing him on his sides, never once coming close.
He didn't know how long he was pushed like that; Minutes, hours or days. The only thing he felt were the wind on his clothes, the movement of himself and the happiness thinking about Sirius.
Suddenly he stood still. He could feel the quiet noise in his ears and it dazed him more than a thunderstorm right next to him could have but then he didn't even notice that anymore.
Because there, from an especially dense swirl of mist, came a shadow, striding in his usual confident pace, face obscured by long strands of hair and his face slowly becoming clearer and clearer - Sirius.
Main Entry: alĂˇterĂˇcaĂˇtion
Date: 14th century
: a noisy heated angry dispute; also : noisy controversy
Harry's breath hitched. There he was who he had been searching for for weeks now. Finally, in front of him.
He could feel a smile stretching across his lips and he wanted to run towards the arriving figure, but his legs didn'€™t move.
Then at last, he could see that lovely face again, devour those lips with his eyes, wish for those eyes to look at him with the same longing and think how lovely his nose looked when he got wind of a special scent.
Only he didn't look that way. His face was contorted in a scowl and he looked as if he would love to bend Harry over his knee and spank him. Harry's face fell and he didn't even think of the innuendo in those thoughts.
He could only see the anger in those eyes, the disappointment in his features and the apprehension in his posture. Then he was standing before Harry.
It wasn't at all like he had imagined it; no tears of happiness, no hugs full of love and no confession of long suppressed feelings.
Harry wanted to turn away and run, go back to this lovely place in his mind where everything was all right, where Sirius wasn't angry with him, where they could both live happily ever after. But he still couldn't move, couldn't look down, could only wait for Sirius to do something, to say something, to make everything better.
Then he did and it was even worse than he had thought.
He hadn't heard a sound, but he could feel his cheek stinging where Sirius'€™ hand had hit him and his eyes became even wider. Sirius looked livid, his chest heaving, his eyes sparkling and what would he have given to see that under different circumstances. But here he was, having risked everything, worked day in and out to find a way to contact his godfather and the only thanks, the only answer he got was a slap in the face, literally.
Harry started to say something, asking what he had done, when Sirius shouted: "Harry, do you know how stupid you are to come here? Do you know what could happen to you? You have been killed in a million different ways, just getting this fa..."
Harry couldn't stand it any longer. "Sirius, I know that but it didn't happen, I'm fine and I can finally see you again. Do you know how much I missed you? How lonely it has been without you?" A lonely tear dripped down his cheek. "I just wanted to talk to you one more time."
A sob escaped his throat and suddenly he was enveloped in warm arms, pressed against a solid chest and finally free to let go of his feelings, of his grief, because he finally was back with whom he belonged.
Main Entry: na-ive-té
Etymology: French naivité, from Old French, inborn character, from naif
1 : a naive remark or action
2 : the quality or state of being naive
After a long moment Sirius drew back from the embrace and looked at Harry intensly. "Harry, you must know that what you did was stupid. Communicating with the dead always has its price."
Harry tried to hug his godfather again, but could not let go of Sirius' eyes. The blue was burning into him and kept him from looking away. He tried to look away, but when he could pull his gaze from the eyes, it only landed on his mouth and suddenly all thoughts fled his mind.
This mouth was the one he had dreamt about; the one he wanted to kiss and have him kiss.
The lips he was gazing at started to move and Harry tried to get himself out of his daydreaming to hear what his beloved godfather had to tell him.
"Listen to me, Harry. I know it must be hard for you. I wish that I could make it better. That you could stay here, or I could come back with you," Harry looked back up at Sirius' eyes, staring at him in all earnest, more earnest than he had ever seen them before. "But that isn't how life and death works. Once you're dead you can't come back. You only stay alive in the memories and thoughts of those who loved you," Sirius closed his eyes once and swallowed deeply. "And that is the way that I'll always be with you. You don't have to take such risks to try and talk to me,"€ť Sirius paused a moment. Because I'm right there," He tapped Harry's chest with his finger. "And I know you'll never forget me."
He crushed Harry in a hug and Harry hugged him back as hard as he could, afraid of letting go, but at the same time understanding that he had to. He mumbled into the strong chest in front of him. "So, you're not angry with me? It was my fault that you had to come to the Ministry and ..."
Sirius softly pushed him away and laid a finger over Harry's mouth. "No, I didn't have to come and it's not your fault. It was my decision and everybody in the Order knows that the highest price we have to pay is death. But it's not your fault, or anybody else's. Not even Bellatrix is directly guilty of my death. It was an accident while duelling."
Harry slowly shook his head, not ready to accept the last part yet, but Sirius nodded at him and only drew him back into an embrace. Eventually, he let his arms sink and a few moments later Harry did the same. He seemed to be steeling himself for the inevitable good-bye.
Sirius slipped his hand over Harry's tear-strained face and gave him a small kiss. "It isn't your time yet, Harry. You have a lot to live for before you get here and you should enjoy it and be happy. Can you do that for me?"
Harry nodded, tears still hindering his sight. Then he turned around and was moved away again. He turned around to catch one last sight of Sirius. Harry saw him slowly fading into a shadow again, one hand risen in a silent goodbye.
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