This story is the product of my own mind (muddled though it may be). The characters are, sadly, not mine. They belong to J. K. Rowling. I just play with them, and bend them to my will occasionally. Occasionally they see fit to take over the story, and then I am at the mercy of their will. Some chapters will be short, while others will be shorter. I am not particularly fond of short chapter, so I will try to post two chapters when they are short.

This story is completely AU, and there will be quite a bit of out of character-ness. OotP has no bearing on this story, and there are no spoilers for it with the sole exception that there may be mention of Occlumency. Although there is an element of slash, slash is not central to the story.

Pairings/Ships: Remus and Sirius. Harry will not be paired with anyone. I am sorry to disappoint, but it just doesn’t fit with this tale.

Summary: Harry has withdrawn into himself. While virtually invisible to almost everyone, he has taken to educating himself beyond the coursework offered by Hogwarts, however there are a couple at the school who feel his withdrawal is a harbinger of trouble yet to come for the young wizard. Who will come to his rescue?

Alone No More

By Mikee

“Never” is a Long Time, Longer Even Than “Always” Mikee

Chapter 1 Observation and Questions

If one were to look up at almost any given moment, between dawn and dusk on this day, at the tower - the tallest one on the castle of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry - one would likely see what appeared to be a rather small statue placed in a sitting position in the western-most window.

Were one to take it a few steps further, and venture forth into that tower, one would find that first, it is the astronomy tower, and as such, is seldom used during daylight hours. Second, one would find that what had appeared to be, from ground-level, a statue of a seated person, was in reality a boy.

Not just a boy, but a very small boy, not a very young boy - but a small boy. This small boy was about the size of rather small ten-year-old. In truth, the boy was a fifteen-year-old wizard. A very strong wizard at that, magically speaking.

While the body looked several years younger than his actual age, his eyes were another story. His eyes, dull green, once innocent, had beheld horrors no teenager should ever know. His eyes, hollow windows to a soul tormented by grief and longing, looked to be nearly as old as those of the ancient wizard who was presently the headmaster. This child … this puzzle in human form is most widely known within the Wizarding World, as ‘The-Boy-Who-Lived,’ and more to the point, Harry Potter.

He is also known as the ‘bane of existence,’ ‘insufferable brat,’ ‘arrogant prat,’ and a host of other less-than-genteel epithets, by the not-so-general public. And until recently, those were just a few of the names by which he was know to one particular wizard at this school.

Harry Potter sat in the Astronomy Tower thinking. He had been watching the Potions Master oversee the first year students’ flying lesson as the flying teacher, Madam Hooch, was away for the day on family business.

Harry’s thoughts weighed heavily on the soon-to-be sixteen-year-old. The school year would end soon. Next year would be his sixth at Hogwarts. He would be leaving for the summer holidays in a little more than a month, and he didn’t know where he would stay.

The Dursleys, his less than congenial relations, with whom he’d been forced to exist since shortly after his first birthday, had made it abundantly clear when he left for his fifth year, that he was not to return to them this summer. They announced for all the neighborhood to hear that Harry was “excess baggage,” and, as such, was not to ever show his face on Privet Drive again.

Then to add insult to injury, they continued their announcement by proclaiming loudly, again for all and sundry to hear, that not only was he not loved at that house, he was never loved to begin with … anywhere, and never would be. After all, who in his or her right mind would love a “freak” such as him.?

So it was that Harry found himself again in the drafty Astronomy Tower thinking, brooding, if you will.

Harry’s POV

What love is … what does it feel like? How does one know when one loves, is loved, or is in love.? I know what lust feels like because I have lusted. I know what want feels like because I have wanted.

But what does love feel like. How can one who has never known love know what it is? How would one recognize it? Lust and want didn’t have to be taught or learned they were just … there, but love … I think that has to be taught. At least to me it has to be taught. I know from whom I’d like to learn, but is that lust speaking?

I’ve been taught well about loathing, hate, pain, and fear. I’ve been taught long, hard lessons about these, and learned them well. Were there a degree for them, or perhaps a certificate, I imagine I would be considered a master … ha! Master Potter, master of dark emotions.

I watch young families in Hogsmeade and wonder what it is like to be someone’s cherished child, what it’s like to be held close to a loving parent’s chest. How comforting is it to be soothed by softly spoken words while embraced tenderly in warm, loving arms?

I watch young lovers, both straight and gay, and wonder what it’s like to be loved like that. What would it feel like to have a warm body hold me close, feel another’s heartbeat thrum against my chest in answer to my own heartbeat, feel soft moist lips pressed against mine?

In my dreams they come to me, the three people I want to hold me and love me. The three people I can never hold. In my dreams, all is warm and well. In my dreams I’m safe and secure, protected and cherished.

It’s after the dreams that the pain starts again. And after each dream the pain is more intense than before. My chest aches, my throat is tight, and my eyes burn with unshed tears. After the dreams, I’m left feeling more alone than before. And it hurts.

Two of the three will never say those words that I need to hear. At least not in this lifetime. They can’t. Voldemort saw to that. I hear the words whispered in my memory, but they are ghosts of whispers long dead.

The third of the three will never say those words I need to hear. I’m sure of it. At least never in my lifetime. I know I’m being selfish and whining, but I need to hear them. I’ve never heard them spoken to me. Oh, yeah, Mrs. Weasley’s said them, but it’s not the same. Ron and Hermione have said them, once upon a time, but they said them almost as if playing. As if there was no real meaning or power to them.

My godfather and his lover have said the words to me, but I wonder if they said them out of a sense of duty. Perhaps it is a requirement of their title in relation to me that they felt they must say them. Their voices sounded as if there was emotion behind the words, but is that wishful thinking on my part? I’ve never belonged to someone, anyone, and had those words spoken to me.

At night I wrap myself up tightly in my blankets pretending they are loving arms embracing me, holding me snugly, keeping me safe. It doesn’t work. I never feel safe … not awake, and not in my sleep. But I wrap myself in the phantom arms anyway. Maybe someday they will become real.

TBC