#creature!harry

He drained the rest of his tea, leaving only the dregs. He peered briefly into the bottom of the cup and hummed. Standing up, he brought the dishes to the sink. The tea leaves and crumbs he emptied into a little bin by the sink that would soon join the compost heap in the shed. Once had cleaned up after himself, he headed out to the garden to prepare for the coming storm.

He headed first for the treeline. The young cedar trees waved to him in greeting. Patting the trunk of the youngest among them, he conveyed his message. A wave of acknowledgement passed through him, along with a chill and a hint of a question. He shook his head and the branch overhead rustled. With one last pat, he walked towards the vegetable plot.

The carrots were coming along nicely, as were the potatoes. The lettuce still had a way to go yet and he sent a spark to help them along. The spinach beckoned him over and asked for more nitrogen. He went to fetch the fertiliser and sprinkled a spoonful of it into the soil. Its leaves brushed along his fingers in thanks.

The herb section reported nothing of note other than a potential aphid infestation in the verbena. He dealt with it quickly and looked over the affected plants. Some were drooping unhappily, prompting him to lean down. Taking a deep breath, he held it in his lungs for a good few seconds before letting it blow over the wilting leaves. He breathed the essence of life, warmth, vitality until the plants straightened, regaining their healthy glow. Leaving one last stroke along a firm stem, he ambled slowly to the border of his growing plots.

The storm was fast approaching and he needed to erect the barriers to shelter his fragile plants. First, he walked the whole border once, just taking measured breaths. The second walkaround, he murmured songs of safety and protection. The plants swayed, dancing to his tune. On the third round, he left an even trail of withered leaves in his wake, careful to lay an unbroken line along the whole of the border. These were the remains of the forebears of his young crop. Long dead, the last remaining wisps of energy they possessed would go into protecting their descendants.

This sort of magic was not something he would have thought possible. Not until he had been taught otherwise.

The ominous rumbling of thunder came just as he finished his ritual. Assured that his domain would be secure in the coming storm, he headed inside to seek his own shelter.

It was dark inside the cottage, sunlight blocked by dark thunderclouds. Feeling his way around carefully, he reached out a hand and brushed against silken soft petals. With some gentle coaxing, he tickled the bud open. A soft glow flickered in the darkness of the room. Slowly, the light from the lantern flower grew brighter in intensity. Its siblings began to wake as well, as dots of light sparked into existence. Across the room, the vines which lined the corners of the walls and the ceiling, started to light up. Eventually, the light was able to illuminate the whole cottage.

Outside, the first droplets of water had begun to fall, raining down sustenance upon the forest. He could feel his brethren rejoice, could taste the clear nectar of the skies with his roots.

Blinking, the feeling of soft, cool earth and strong winds retreated to the depths of his mind. He came back his plush sofa, the twinkling lantern flowers, the roof overhead keeping him dry.

He sighed. He was prone to losing himself in the absence of a grounding force. There was no distraction to be had, nothing he had to focus on. For lack of a better choice, he retrieved a book, something he had read before countless times. He tried to immerse himself in its pages, but he kept looking out the window, squinting for a shape in the distance.

It was perhaps hours later that he finally settled into the text, the heavy storm outside a distant cacophony.

A crackling whisper in the back of his mind had him looking up. There was a figure standing in the rain, looking up at the skies blankly.

The line of his shoulders tightened. With purposeful strides, he got to the door and swung it open. He watched the other from his position at the threshold. Slowly, their head turned to look at him. Woodenly, like they had forgotten how to move, they put one foot in front of the other, and again, until they were perched upon the doorstep.

“Harry…” Severus murmured.

He was utterly drenched. Rivulets of clear water ran down his face. Severus could not help but wonder if the water was not merely rain. Gently, he put a finger under the other’s chin and tilted it up. With great tenderness, he kissed the mixture of tears and water from closed eyes.

There was a little cupboard by the door that contained a change of clothing and a towel. After stripping Harry bare, Severus got out the towel and began to dry him. He stood passively, allowing Severus to manoeuvre him every which way. Once he was dry, Severus helped him put on a long tunic and guided him to the sofa.

When Severus tried to pull away, Harry dug his fingers in, refusing to let go. Jerking his head up, the other looked pleadingly at Severus, opening his mouth to protest. He was cut off by great, hacking coughs that wracked his whole body. The sound grated against Severus’ ears.

“Hush,” he said quietly, but firmly. With a stern look, he got Harry to relax against the cushions, which he did reluctantly. Severus was quick to retrieve the items he needed and return to Harry’s side.

Uncorking the bottle, Severus held it up to Harry’s lips. The other obediently opened his mouth to swallow every drop of the potion. He watched Harry lift a hand to massage his no doubt sore throat.

“It was a child today,” Harry said abruptly. His voice still held a hint of hoarseness, a testament to how utterly wrecked it had been before the potion.

Severus put a finger on Harry’s lips. They were dry and brittle, like the bark of a fallen tree. A single touch and they could crack and splinter. He got out the other potion he had brought with him and took a small dollop of it. Using his finger, he carefully spread the balm over every inch of Harry’s dry lips. Once he was satisfied with that, he sat down next to the other, tucking him into his side and throwing a knitted quilt over them both. He remained silent, letting Harry say his piece.

“His name was Colin. Colin Creevey. He loved drawing portraits of people, landscapes, animals, anything he thought looked cool,” Harry continued, staring idly down at the repetitive patterns of knitted wool.

Severus found his hand migrating up to Harry’s head of still slightly damp hair. He ran his fingers through it soothingly.

“I woke up this morning, before the sun even rose. I couldn’t fall back asleep. My mind was full of thoughts of a rushing river, wet mud, panicked cries. I couldn’t ignore the Call.”

Harry shivered violently, though not from the cold.

“I walked out of the cottage. I walked out the forest and followed the dirt path. A tickle started in my throat when I passed by the village. I turned into it. The farmers, those who had risen with the call of their crows, stared at me as I walked past. They shut their windows and barred their doors. My feet brought me to the other side of the village. By then, I was coughing and coughing.”

Both his hands had reached up to touch his throat, as if remembering the discomfort.

“The road led to the mountains. I trekked up the paths. They were steep and the soil was loose. I could feel water rushing in through my lungs, filling my lungs. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak, yet all I wanted to do was scream.”

Harry’s breaths came ragged now, with agitation. Severus turned to pull him closer, tugging his face to rest in the crook of his shoulders, gathering his trembling body within the circle of his arms. He ignored the immediately chill the action brought him, used to it by now.

“Colin and his family had stayed out last night to watch the stars. It had been his idea, to draw the scene of a night sky to hang up over his brother’s bed. He woke up early, urged by his full bladder. The trail was dark, he picked a random direction. He walked towards the river. The glimmering light of the water captured his attention. He wanted to paint the reflection of the sunrise upon the river’s choppy surface. He walked closer still to the river’s edge. He didn’t pay attention to the wet mud beneath his feet. One misstep, a tiny slip, and he was sucked into the rapid current. His tiny, tiny lungs filled so quickly with water. I could taste the algae on the back of my tongue, feel the panic and fear. I started wailing. My cries were so loud they woke the rest of his family. They had to hike down the trail. That’s where I was, at the lake where the river fed into. There was a still body floating near the edge of the lake. Its heart had long stopped beating.”

Nothing was said for a few moments as Harry tried to collect himself.

“I stayed at the spot, screaming and screaming and screaming. His mother had been louder than even me at one point. Colin’ soul still clung to his decaying body. I couldn’t stop. I continued to moan and wail and shriek. His father shouted at me, but I didn’t stop. It took hours upon hours. His body was retrieved and brought back to the village and still I followed after, screaming. I didn’t stop until his soul had been driven away into the Ether. It was a close thing. He had almost been able to resist me, but I couldn’t let him be corrupted. When he finally slipped past the Veil, I fell silent. The villagers were looking at me with fear, they flinched back when I so much as glanced in their direction. No one spoke until I left the gates.”

It never failed to irk Severus, how the humans treated Harry. They didn’t understand. They only saw how a banshee appeared when a death occurred and thought that it was the cause. They never realised that a banshee’s cries were the only thing stopping souls from being corrupted in the mortal plane.

Still, Harry did his best for them. Screaming himself hoarse, until he coughed up blood and tore his vocal cords. Coming back from a Call devastated by an unavoidable death. Sometimes, even injured by the viciousness of mourning humans.

It was those times that Severus most wished to rain the wrath of his forest on the idiotic mortals. It was only Harry’s pleading that stayed his hand.

It was utterly ironic how the humans practically worshipped Severus when if it were not for Harry, he would never bother to extend any aid to them when they came calling. It was just so characteristic of the selfish creatures, to come begging to them for help when they needed it, only to spur and shun them once they had what they had asked for.

Severus would like to see how the dunderheads dealt with an inferi the next time someone died without the cry of a banshee to guide their soul into the Ether.

Harry would never let that happen, however. He cared too much for those puny humans.

When he came back from a Call, inevitably, Severus would need to pour healing potions down his wrecked throat. Harry was a fool, but he was Severus’ fool. He was also remarkably stubborn, though he would call it ‘resilient’.

The death of this Creevey boy would weigh on Harry, but he would get up tomorrow with a smile on his face and face the future. And when the next Call came, he would answer it with the same determination he always did.