True Colours (WIP)

[viridian]

Here's what I have so far:

True Colours
When your nightmares have become a refuge, it’s pretty much a given that your life officially sucks.

That thought struck my funny bone a good one, and I almost laughed. Fortunately, I was asleep, so I didn’t have to worry about a broken rib popping a hole in my lung. Even so, I tried to smother my amusement. If the part-time tenant in my head thought I was healthy enough to laugh, he’d probably assume I was healthy enough for some more of his brand of entertainment.
So I kept my thoughts as quiet as possible as I watched Voldemort summon his Death Eaters to a room that could only be described as a throne room. His was the only chair - elaborately carved arms, a straight back, and a seat that I fervently hoped gave him piles. Lounging on it in an elaborately embroidered red silk robe, looking like a cross between a snake and an overly sinister lounge singer was the Dark Lord himself.

Of course, I was seeing this from his point of view, but I’d been in that room often enough to have memorized all the gory details. Like how truly irritating his voice could be.

“Do you have any results to report, Rudolphus?” he asked in a deceptively mild tone.

“Y-yes, milord!” one of the dark-robed sycophants stammered as he stumbled forward. Why the hell do they want to follow someone they are so obviously terrified of? Some obscure masochism? “We’ve found a ritual that we think will work,” he continued, but then paused. “But there are some… requirements.”

“What are these requirements?” Voldemort asked in a chilling voice.

“The ritual will transfer all of the boy’s magic to you, my lord,” Rudolphus (Lestrange?) continued, “but it requires the willing assistance of a witch to perform the ritual.”

“Bella should be more than qualified to perform any ritual,” Voldemort said. “So why do you hesitate? What are you not telling me, Rudolphus?”

Rudolphus took his life into his own hands by hesitating again. “Milord, it is a Tantric ritual… it requires that the witch be… untouched. Her defloration is a key component of the rite.”

At this, several of the other Death Eaters shifted uncomfortably, some even turning to look at the one who just spoke. From what little I knew, that meant this was a severely dark ritual. It would also probably kill at least one of the participants. Three guesses who was at the top of that list.

“Is that so?” Voldemort asked. “Are you sure this will do what I require?”
Rudolphus nodded a little more enthusiastically. “All of the sacrifice’s magic will be transferred to the witch, and through her, to you as you… complete the rite.”

I didn’t need to feel the pleased anticipation building up in Voldemort’s mind to understand what that meant. Immediately after I was captured, one of his little helpers took exception to my instep intercepting his crotch. As I’d halfway been hoping, the wanker pulled out his wand and cast the killing curse. Five feet away, nothing between us, and me half-conscious – I didn’t have a chance.

Except that my head exploded with agony as the curse rebounded and snuffed out the Death Eater’s life.

I don’t know if it was my mother’s leftover magic, that effing Prophecy, or what – but I didn’t die. Of course, Voldemort found this all intensely interesting. If I really did hold the secret to resisting the Killing Curse, that was one more way he could stop death from taking him. It wasn’t like he was under any pressure, not with Dumbledore dead and the Ministry as ineffective as ever – just better at faking it.

So I was chained up, tortured periodically, but not permitted to die until he found some way to get whatever I had. And now it looked like he had the means at last. Bloody wonderful.

“Parkinson,” Voldemort said as a wide grin spread across his inhuman features, “you have a daughter, yes?”

Another black-robed wizard threw Rudolphus a venomous glare and stepped forward. “Yes, milord,” he said, raising his chin slightly.

“And she is… loyal… to our cause, correct?” the Dark Lord asked.

“Yes, milord,” Parkinson answered.

“Bring her here, immediately,” Voldemort demanded. “You will be honoured for your sacrifice to the cause,” he promised with his next breath.

Parkinson started to speak, swallowed, and then cleared his throat. “Ah, milord, there may be a problem with that…”

“How so?” Voldemort asked in a dangerous tone. He did not like being told “no”… I could feel his irritation through the link.

“Milord, Pansy was… quite taken… with the Malfoy boy since before they attended Hogwarts. Our families have entered into a betrothal contract and…”

“I said,” Voldemort interrupted him, “you would be honoured for her sacrifice. I will ‘speak’ to Lucius if he has any… objections,” he promised with an evil leer. I could bloody feel the expression on his face, and it would make me want for a shower… if I wasn’t already utterly filthy.

“Er, that’s not the problem milord,” Parkinson said nervously, “it’s just that kids these days… well, I’m fairly certain she… doesn’t qualify for the honour of participating in this ritual… milord.”
The feedback I felt through the link was only a fraction of the agony Parkinson felt under the Cruciatus curse, but that was still a bloody long thirty seconds.

When Voldemort released his follower, he raised his voice again. “This is the price of failure! Know it well!” He glared around the room, reminding me of Dudley when he was short a birthday present. “Bulstrode!”

“Yes milord,” a large broad-shouldered man answered.

“I don’t suppose I have to ask if your daughter still qualifies for the ritual?”

The man’s jaw tightened slightly. “She does,” he agreed. He looked vaguely familiar, but it wasn’t until I began speculating about a daughter that I finally placed his name. No, Millicent Bulstrode was no beauty queen, not by a long-shot.

Voldemort had his willing participant.

Bollocks.


OoOoO

In stark contrast to my dream awareness, actually waking up in my body was a more… intermittent process. Hermione Granger, a friend of mine from my prior life, once said that going into shock is the body’s way of coping with large amounts of pain, protecting the mind. The Cruciatus curse, of course, neatly circumvents that, which just goes to show how Dark Wizards are entirely too clever for everyone else’s good. As it was, those natural defences made me feel like my senses were all wrapped in gauze – unless I had visitors to entertain.

And I did not misspeak when I said prior life. Not to say that I was deceased, though more and more often that thought held a promise of relief for me. But things are much different when you are a prisoner, and not just a victim of circumstance, which was my usual standard. Not much to do when you are chained to the wall of a dungeon with nothing more than a ragged pair of trousers – other than think. And wait. And wait.

At some point, I stopped waiting for the Order to save me, and began waiting to die.

After all, the vaunted Order of the Phoenix was incompetent enough to let me be captured in the first place. Maybe that was a bit harsh… but it was also regrettably true. For people that spent a good bit of time skulking around under invisibility cloaks, you’d think they’d be on the lookout for someone else using that trick. Instead, everyone was caught flat-footed when I was about to board the Hogwarts Express at the end of my sixth year. Something unseen lurched against me, a half-seen arm wrapped around my waist, and I felt the peculiar hooking sensation behind my navel that I’ve come to associate with portkey travel. I don’t even remember arriving, so they must have been waiting to stun me… and I woke up in chains, to Voldemort’s gloating face and horrid halitosis.

No, I knew I wasn’t going to leave this cesspit alive, and now, through my connection to that malevolent wanker, I had a pretty good idea how it would end. And it didn’t sound pretty.
I suppose I should be glad I wasn’t going to die a virgin, but I didn’t feel the slightest bit grateful about that.

As consciousness slowly returned, I found myself back in my cell, listening to the sound of a key turning in the lock. As worn out as my body was, my thoughts seemed to race. Usually when the Death Eaters dragged me out to see their master, they had ‘a little fun’ with me first – which usually left me semi-conscious at best. But the few times they’d been in a hurry, I was able to observe that I was kept in a hidden room in the basement of what appeared to be a slightly run down manor house. On one occasion I saw a coat of arms that I’m fairly certain belong to the Malfoys. Well, whoever legally owned the place before, Voldemort was the master of the house now. Not bad for an orphaned half-blood, just like me. I grimaced at the self-pitying thought and tried to sit up a little straighter.

The first night in my new home, the idiots decided to leave me hanging by chains around my wrists. Not only did it hurt like hell, but the angle made it difficult for me to breathe. Fortunately, Voldemort was more than slightly interested in how I’d survived the killing curse again. By morning it was getting harder and harder to inhale and Lucius Malfoy looked like he was about to explode when he saw me. I’m not ashamed to admit I enjoyed watching one of my playmates on the receiving end of a Crucio! for once. Now, I at least had enough slack to sit on the cold stone floor, albeit with my arms held out to each side.

I pulled in my legs and braced myself. I had no idea how long it had been since that conversation between Voldemort and his followers… and to be truthful, I was starting to really lose track of time altogether. I could guess I’d been held for at least two or three months, but it could have been longer. If they were really ready to start the ritual, the remainder of my life would be measured in hours, if not minutes. This might be my last chance to… well… try anything. No matter how impossible. Of course, I was starving, tired, and my body was one big aching cramp.

I didn’t say it was a good chance.

With a loud click, the latch dropped and the door opened, revealing a singularly unattractive witch, one I’d seen a few times at Hogwarts.

OoOoO

“Potter,” she said in a tense whisper.

“What do you want, Bulstrode?” I asked in what I hoped was a suitably weary tone.
Her dark eyes narrowed slightly, but her expression didn’t change much. Lank black hair was pulled back in a harsh twist, emphasizing her far-too-prominent jawbone. Add a few wrinkles and a tray of severed fingers and she’d fit right in with the other hags at Knockturn Alley. “I don’t fancy being used in some perverted ritual,” she said in a low voice, “so I’m here to make sure it doesn’t happen.”

My first reaction was vague nausea as I recalled the exact requirements of the aforementioned ritual. She couldn’t mean… no. Then I scowled at her as I wondered if Voldemort had staged that whole vision. “So,” I sneered as I deliberately crossed my legs, “come down to shag the prisoner to violate that pesky virginity clause?” Did Voldemort really think I was stupid enough to fall for this garbage?

Her wand appeared in her hand with greater speed than I’d have credited to the bulky girl. Or perhaps I was worse off than I thought. How long had I been down here, anyway? My wandering attention snapped back to reality as a beam of purple light stabbed out and the manacle around my left wrist sprung open. Instantly, my left shoulder cramped up as the arm dropped, mere “pins and needles” doesn’t even begin to describe the sensation. My right shoulder joined it a couple of seconds later.

“Don’t flatter yourself, you stupid wanker!” Millicent growled, stabbing her wand forward. I was roughly jerked to my feet, letting my hips join in on the chorus of cramping. She threw a folded up cloak at me, which I barely managed to catch. The old Seeker reflexes appeared to be absent without leave today. “I’m getting you out of here, so shut your mouth and put that on. Or are you looking forward to his little entertainment?”

For once, reason won out over any inclination to open my mouth. The cloth felt strange across my shoulders and bare back. Millicent reached out and jerked the hood over my head, being careful not to touch me. Of course, as filthy as I was, that’s almost understandable. It was also rational enough that I began to wonder if this might actually be on the up and up. I quickly smothered that spark of hope. It had no business existing, not in Voldemort’s dungeons.

“Now follow me,” Millicent growled in a low voice, pulling up her own hood. “Keep your face down and covered and don’t say a word. Follow me like your life depends on it. We’ve only got once chance at this, and I paid dearly for that. Muck it up and I’ll kill you myself.” Her voice lost some of its coldness and I didn’t doubt for a moment that she meant every word.

Bulstrode led me out of there, the first time I’d ever left that cell under my own power. My legs were not really up to this, but it wasn’t like I had any choice. Cruel game or not, I still might be presented with an opportunity of some sort. If I did, I wasn’t going to waste it – not if I wanted to get back to Ginny.

Thinking about one of my favourite redheads at least distracted me from the pains shooting up my disused appendages. Temporary break-up or not, I still missed her quite badly. At least they hadn’t gotten her too – that would have been far, far worse.

Shuddering at the thought, I almost ran into Bulstrode’s back as she used some complicated wand work on what looked like the servant’s exit. My heart sped up a little more. This was getting pretty elaborate for a charade. I found my fingers itching for my wand, but I had no idea where it was at the moment.

Finally, the door opened with an audible click, and a draft of freezing cold air washed across my bare feet, making me shiver. Was it winter already?

Bulstrode pushed the door open and led me out into a shadowy courtyard, poorly lit by a crescent moon. My eyes tried to adjust to the light, but I couldn’t recall the last time I’d eaten a carrot. Looking back as we picked our way through the shadows, I saw a large stone manor house, dominated by a huge central tower that extended several stories above the rest of the building. Only the topmost row of the tower windows was lit.

When I turned back around, I saw Bulstrode staring up at the tower with an odd expression.
Then she shook her head and roughly gestured for me to follow her.

We’d gone maybe half a dozen steps before the sounds started. There were shouts, as well as some muffled explosions. Bright lights of various colours flashed from that top row of tower windows – enough to tell me there was a full scale duel happening up there. It ended with a loud bang that left my ears ringing as the top of the tower disappeared in a multicoloured fireball. I stumbled and would have fallen if Bulstrode hadn’t turned and grabbed my arm with surprising strength.

“Move, damn you!” she sobbed.

It took a moment for it to hit me. This was for real. I was escaping.

While most of my mind tried to wrap itself around that thoroughly foreign concept, a small corner was curious about the girl’s reactions. I had a sinking suspicion I didn’t really want to know right now.

We’d gone maybe a hundred steps when I started hoping we were near the edge of the wards, and that Bulstrode’s plan included a port-key as well. My physical reserves were flagging and I wasn’t sure how much farther I could walk without a break.

As if in answer to that thought, a detestably familiar voice broke in.

“Not another step, both of you,” came the smug voice of Lucius Malfoy.

I looked in the direction the sound was coming from. Lucius was standing off to the side of the path, all but invisible in a black hooded cloak.

I suppose being an escaped convict persuaded him to stop dressing like a French pornographer.

Bulstrode was caught looking the other direction, her wand pointed away. Lucius had her dead to rights and we all knew it. His wand was pointed right at her face, and it didn’t waver an inch as he spoke again. “What are you doing with our Lord’s prisoner?” he asked in a conversational tone. “I don’t think you’ll enjoy watching your father pay for your indiscretion,” he sneered.

“My father is dead!” Millicent shrilled. “He died killing your Dark Lord!”

“That’s impossible!” Malfoy snapped. I reluctantly agreed with him, considering the knick-knacks Albus had told me about last year, but I don’t think he necessarily enjoyed that big explosion either.

“My father challenged that half-blooded pervert, wearing robes lined with twenty vials of erumpent fluid,” Millicent said proudly, and for a moment she looked utterly intimidating. “I am carrying out his final command, and you are not going to stop me, Lucius.”

I almost felt sorry for the ponce as his mouth dropped open. I don’t think anyone has ever talked to him that way before. For a brief instant I wanted to kiss my rescuer, but then sanity reasserted itself.

And Lucius’ ego recovered. Something that massive had to be pretty resilient.

“If that’s the case,” Lucius drawled in that superior manner Draco tried ever so hard to imitate, “then it’s best that I don’t leave any witnesses. Avada Kedavra!”

I was unarmed, wand-less, and damn near incapacitated. Not that there was much that could stop a killing curse anyway. So I did the first thing that came to mind. I lurched forward as soon as his wand began to move, trying to shove Millicent out of the way.

Of course, it might have been easier for me to arm wrestle Hagrid. And just as effective too.

I stumbled, off balance as he finished the hateful incantation, so I did the only thing I could think of.

I reached out with my left hand and grabbed the curse.

Have I ever mentioned how over-rated those Seeker reflexes are?

The world dissolved in a blaze of agony as I dipped my hand into molten lava.


OoOoO


When I regained consciousness I immediately became aware of a couple of things. First of all, most of my pain was gone. The worst injuries were little more than dull aches now. Someone had been raiding the pharmaceutical potions.

The second, an older woman’s voice humming badly out of tune, told me where I was. “Hello, Madam Pomfrey,” I tried to murmur as I opened my eyes. What came out was more of a dry croak, but she apparently was rather adept at translating sick-speak.

“There we go, Mr. Potter,” she said smoothly as she helped me sit up, running a damp cloth across my eyes to remove some really impressive crusts. How long had I been out, anyway?

No sooner was I inclined than she spun around with an entire rack of potions for me to take. “I need you to take all of these, from left to right, now that you are awake. You were quite a mess when you were brought here, Mr. Potter, so you need to take everything.”

I didn’t even protest the first vial of nauseating sludge she poured down my throat. Something was bothering me about what she said. After I swallowed the first one, I tried to fend her off for a moment. “Bulstrode?” I managed to choke out as she went for the kill with the second vial.

Madam Pomfrey paused for a moment, as I swallowed and struggled not to retch. The only thing that tasted worse than one potion was two potions back to back. “Miss Bulstrode is in custody at the moment,” she finally said. I didn’t have to look up at her face to tell she was scowling.

After the third potion I managed to choke out “saved my life” before the pain relievers made conscious thought an impossibly arduous task.


OoOoO


The next time I woke up, I was a little more coherent. This was good, because I had some guests. Ron and Hermione were sitting next to my bed, reading their transfiguration textbooks. I guess school had started already – with me captured, there wasn’t much point in going Horcrux hunting, I supposed. Ginny must have been in class or something.

I guess I’d finally managed to top a summer with the Dursleys when it comes to downright awfulness.

“Hey…” I managed to croak out. Hermione’s book went flying out of her lap, which shocked me. She never mistreated books. She looked like she was about to hug the stuffing out of me before she remembered my injuries. Madam Pomfrey withstanding, I had no mad desire for a punctured lung.

She settled for squeezing the crap out of my hand. My right hand. I turned and frowned at my left hand, which was still swathed in bandages. I vaguely recalled it hurting before I passed out… at Voldemort’s…

I suppose my shudder must have been rather visible, because Hermione immediately yelped and called for Madam Pomfrey. I didn’t really want a Calming Draught, but I wasn’t in any position to resist.

After the matron was done dosing me for the moment, Hermione sat back down, refusing to let go of my hand. Ron frowned a little, and I hoped he didn’t stick his foot in his mouth again. It seemed like they’d finally stopped fighting after Dumbledore’s funeral, but they’d had plenty of unsupervised time to screw things up again.

Maybe that wasn’t particularly fair, but I felt I was entitled to some snarkiness after the summer from hell.

“Okay, Hermione, I’m glad to see you two as well. I thought my luck had finally run out. How did I end up here?”

“Well, as far as we can tell, Millicent Bulstrode and you appeared just outside the gates to Hogsmeade a little over a week ago,” she said slowly. “The Ministry had Aurors on patrol, but she dragged the two of you across the threshold before they could say anything and began shooting sparks into the air. Headmistress McGonagall and Hagrid were the first on the scene and brought you here, over the Ministry’s objections.”

I shuddered. I did not want to wake up to Scrimgeour’s smiling face any time soon. “Where’s Bulstrode?” I asked after a moment.

Hermione frowned. “I think the Ministry took her into custody. She wasn’t registered as a student this term, and they had some questions.” She lowered her voice. “The Order had you on the books as a student, hoping you’d be found.”

I coughed lightly and sat up a little straighter. “Has she been charged with anything?” I asked.

Hermione looked even more curious. “I don’t know,” she admitted.

“Find out,” I whispered. “Please.”

“Harry,” Ron hissed, lowering his voice as well, “She’s one of them.”

I sighed. “She broke me out of Voldemort’s dungeons,” I replied. “And her dad turned himself into one great sodding bomb and blew up Voldemort and most of his inner circle,” I continued, speaking quietly, but with as much precision as I could muster. “If it wasn’t for them, I’d likely be dead right now.”

Ron’s eyes widened and Hermione bit her lip. “I’ll see what I can find out,” she whispered just before Madam Pomfrey returned and shooed them both away.


OoOoO


It was nearly a week before Madam Pomfrey pronounced me fit to escape her clutches. Not that it stopped her from loading me down with nutrient potions and pain relievers. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I’d grown accustomed to very short rations since I was little.

With the bandages removed from my left hand, I discovered that the palm now had a raised, angry-looking scar to go along with the ones on my forehead and chest.

I was far hungrier for information than food. My friends hadn’t been allowed to see me after they verified I was alive, and Madam Pomfrey dosed me with something nasty-tasting every time I pressed her for answers.

Finally, Ron and Hermione were allowed to escort me back to Gryffindor Tower. I was almost bursting with questions, but Hermione gave me a look that made me keep them to myself until we were behind closed doors. Ron looked like a man walking to his own execution and I began to get a very bad feeling.

Say what you like about him, but it’s rather comforting to have a friend who can’t keep anything from you. It’s much less stressful in the long run.

I was not, however, prepared for the bloody cheering that broke out when I entered the common room. The whole house turned out, some of them coming down the stairs once they saw the cause of the riot. The berks were acting like I’d won the house cup for them single-handedly.

I imagine I cringed back from that wall of sound, and Ron began proving he was Molly Weasley’s son and shouted everyone down while Hermione hustled me past the throng. Miraculously, the crowd parted before her and it took me a moment to recall the Head Girl badge she’d been sporting when they rescued me from the hospital wing.

I tried to slow down when I saw Ginny, but Hermione’s grip was implacable. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised at this point by how weak I still was, but it was a bit of a let down nonetheless. The youngest Weasley was cheering along with the others, but for some reason didn’t make eye contact with me.

The Seventh Year boy’s room was at the top of the stairs and she steered me towards a still-made bed. Parked next to that bed was a very familiar trunk.

“It’s still packed from… from the Express,” Hermione said in a very small voice as I stared at my trunk.

I sat on my bed.

The room was deathly quiet until Ron opened the door.

I looked at him. He was looking at Hermione. She was looking at him. It wasn’t like they were ignoring me so much as trying to get the other one to speak first.

I sighed. Something was definitely wrong. Only now I had a sneaking suspicion I knew what it was. “So…” I said after a moment, making them both jump. “When did you two finally start dating?”

Hermione’s eyes bulged and Ron’s face went red. Okay, so maybe that wasn’t it.

“Harry, I…” Hermione began, but the look on her face made me cut her off.

“Well I hoped you two would finally get down to it without me here as a distraction,” I said breezily. Then I frowned. “Have you two been fighting the whole time I was gone?”

“Er, no,” Ron said quickly, looking down.

“Things were very… tense, after you were captured,” Hermione said evasively.

“Tense,” I repeated. “I imagine the Order of the Cock-Up held quite a few meetings,” I said with a little more bitterness than I intended.

Ron grumbled but Hermione shushed him with a look. Maybe I wasn’t as wrong as I thought, if she had him that well trained. “Between Dumbledore’s death and your… disappearance… many of them have been… well, demoralized.”

“Dung left the country,” Ron spat in disgust. “But my family has spared everyone they could to look for you.”

“Spare?” I asked. “Ron, what happened? Is Bill okay? I thought he was going to recover-“

“Bill’s fine,” Hermione reassured me. “He and Fleur were married months ago, but they insisted on a small ceremony, all things considered. It’s Ginny.”

I froze in place as my blood was suddenly transfigured into ice. That look she gave me earlier – or rather didn’t give me – seemed rather ominous. “Oh?” I said in a horribly fake voice. “She seems all right. What happened?”

Ron’s face assumed the consistency of granite, so I braced myself. This was not going to be good.

“I know you two broke up,” Hermione began delicately, “but that’s not the whole story, is it?”

I shook my head. “It wouldn’t be safe for her, us dating that is, not while Voldemort is after me, not to mention that bloody prophecy. If everyone knew we’d called it quits, she’d be safer, at least for a while.”

Hermione nodded once, like I’d just confirmed on of her pet theories. More alarmingly, Ron began to look ill. “What happened to Ginny?” I asked, my voice beginning to get louder as a sense of dread set in.

Hermione looked off into the corner as she spoke. “She was frantic after you were captured. Inconsolable, really. When Alastor Moody suggested that you were dead, she nearly attacked him. Near the end of the summer, she seemed to have given up hope. Most of the Order thought Moody was right, if you were gone that long…”

“Someone tried to use the Killing Curse on me and it backfired,” I said tonelessly, my stomach churning. “Voldemort kept me alive because he wanted to know how it happened.”

The bushy-haired girl just nodded, I suppose I’d confirmed one of her bloody theories. That wasn’t particularly fair of me, but at the moment I didn’t care.

“Mum and Dad were really worried,” Ron added, his voice a little hoarse. “When she stopped eating, well…”

“After talking to a healer at St. Mungos,” Hermione continued, “it was decided that if they used a Pensieve to temporarily remove her memories of you and your relationship, it would give her a chance to recover her emotional equilibrium.”

I blinked. That was a novel solution for dealing with grief if I ever heard one, but par for the course in the Wizarding World I suppose. “So what’s the problem?” I asked, dreading the answer, “I’m back now, so she can put them back in and it won’t cause a problem, right?” I don’t think my voice was entirely even. It was a little disturbing to think she’d been that upset about me. I knew she was putting up a bit of a front at Dumbledore’s funeral, but I didn’t think she’d be that distraught. Of course, I was getting thoroughly wound up over the whole thing too. One of my only comforts in the dungeon was the knowledge that she was safe… only now I knew she was suffering as well. I’d do anything to make this up to her.

My errant thoughts on how to do that were quickly brought back to earth. Hermione, biting her lip, managed to say “We can’t.”

I closed my eyes for a moment. Deep breaths, Potter. “Why not?”

“Someone attacked The Burrow right before start of term,” Ron said in a sick voice. “Everyone got out, but we didn’t have time to grab anything. Dumbledore’s Pensieve was locked in my parents’ closet, but they burned the whole house down.”

I sagged forward, letting my elbows rest on my knees and I cradled my forehead in my hands. “And so all her memories of me are gone?” I asked after a moment. “And there’s no way to restore them?”

“No, there isn’t Harry,” Hermione answered. “She knows in a general sense that you two dated, because she has memories of other people talking about it, but all the ones with any emotional substance to them were removed.” She paused. “That was what the healer suggested was the best way to let her recover.”

“She was right back to normal,” Ron said after a moment. “Started eating again and everything. If someone mentioned you, she’d look concerned, but… not heartbroken. Not…”

“I suppose that was for the best,” I said, forcing the words past a throat that wanted to close. “Everyone thought I was dead, right?” Both of them flinched and a small, dark corner of my soul derived some satisfaction from that. “So no happy reunion then,” I continued, “that explains why she wasn’t at the Hospital Wing. I’m your friend, not hers.”

They said some other things, but I didn’t hear them as I lay back on my bed and turned toward the wall. After a while the unheard voices disappeared.

Any tears that were shed were between me and the wall, and shall remain that way.

[mr sinister]

So the question that needs to be asked, are you going to do anymore? I love your Harry Potter POV.

[viridian]

I'm going to. Just need to keep rotating the pieces until they start falling into place. I may play with some plot-bunnies that have been pestering me but don't merit an entire story.

[mr sinister]

Awesome.

Nice to know its not completed, there's so much you can do with this

[runsamok]

*Helps Viridian carry some of the bigger pieces*

"I think we need a crane over here.... "

[unknown134]

*laughs at the crane comment*

To me, Matt's earlier post made it seem more like he was trying to play a game of tetris with this plot bunny...


Quizer

[viridian]

That's actually a pretty fair summation of what seems to go on in my head sometimes. And why movement on the progress bars can be so streaky.

[unknown134]

Well, the only thing I would find complain-worthy is a 'game over'... so things are probably going to be all right.


Quizer

[Brad]

Well, I've tried a couple of times to lodge a comment to the most recent entry on your blog, Part 8 of True Colours, but it doesn't seem to be working; the entry just displays again telling me "No comments yet. Be the first." :(

So I'll post my comment here, this seems to be the next best place? Please excuse the NoFP fanboy pieces in this True Colours forum. :D

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This being the exact one-year anniversary of the last update to NoFP (according to fanfiction.net anyway) I came by to see what was happening and saw this entry, which prompted me to re-read part 7 of True Colours before this new excerpt.

These last two chapters barely mention Millicent, but they are still excellent reading. Like I said in my original comment to Part 7 your application of a pensieve for Ginny's treatment was innovative and also thought inducing. I found myself nodding agreement with Harry in this chapter when I read this:

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
... had turned her into someone else, someone I didn't really know. They'd as good as killed her ....
<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

I quite agree; we *are* our memories. The cavalier wiping of memories in Rowling's canon has always annoyed me - I guess it was supposed to, be part of the whole muggle-superiority thing.

In any case, I'm greatly pleased that you continued exploring the ramifications of Ginny's missing memories in this instalment, definitely good stuff. Although Harry is exaggerating a lot - Ginny's personality wasn't wiped, just the part of it that was focussed on him, her crush/boyfriend. Still, since that was the face that he'd see, it stands to reason that he'd notice a bigger change in Ginny than others (I'd imagine she'd seem much closer to the 'old' Ginny to her parents and friends?).

The anti-canon!Ginny part of me wants to point out that her almost sole purpose in the canon was her role as Harry's love interest, though, so maybe Harry had the right of it after all; without Harry is there anything left to canon!Ginny?

Harry's reaction to alien wands was the other event of note in this chapter; I'm not *quite* sure I know what's happening there. Something akin to the body rejecting anything foreign? Children who have been battered curling up with their teddy bear and resisting anything from the outside? I think I get it.

Well, it was good to read this new chapter! Given the nature of my visit I hope you won't mind my mentioning that it was equal (well, okay, sorry, even better) good news to read that NoFP isn't cancelled. It's too good a story to stop, you know, it's a superb piece of work. I do hope you manage one day to kick it rolling again. Cheers.