Just a Little Bent

Chapter One

It had all been going so well, or as well as something can go with just about a million other ways it could go wrong:

Harry had been disturbed from his uneasy sleep into a vision of Voldemort torturing his godfather, Sirius Black, as he watched the convulsing man with perverse curiosity. The pale, snake-like man held Sirius under the Cruciatus Curse for what felt like an eternity until he finally released him, only to hiss out, "you will get me that prophecy!"

Sirius, ever so reckless with himself, shook his black curls out of his face and glared up at Voldemort as he spit out, "over my dead body!"

Harry woke to the sound of his own screaming, Ron leaning over him with terror in his blue eyes as he continued to shake the black-haired boy by his shoulders; Ron had not seemed to notice how Harry had quit his screaming, nor the warm, shaky hands that came to rest up on his own shoulders.

"Wake up, Harry! Come on, mate, you have to wake up! Harr—"

"Ron."

"-y, I swear, I'll never forgive you for this. Wak—"

Harry tightened his grip on Ron as he paid close attention to the glazed look in his eyes, the way his freckles stood stark against his pallid complexion, and his overall dishevelled appearance.

"Ron." The sharp tone seemed to do it, Harry thought, as Ron automatically clamped his jaw shut. "I'm awake, okay? It's okay."

". . .Harry?" Ron gave Harry a slow blink, then another, before grappling him into a bruising hug. Harry allowed it for a few seconds, knowing his red-headed friend needed the assurance that he was okay, before he slipped out of the hold.

"Come on, Padfoot is in trouble, we need to get going," Harry told Ron, barely giving him a second glance as he shimmied out of his sleepwear into his only pair of clean robes left—an unfortunate reality of Fridays. "Contact Hermione. Tell her to meet us at the gates in five minutes."

"Got it, mate." Ron was already by his own bed, changed and digging through robe pockets for his protean-charmed galleon.

The only sounds that filled the dorm were that of rustling robes and muttered curses, along with breathing, of course.

"I'm coming with you."

Harry's head snapped up and saw 3 pairs of eyes staring at him, neither of which were Ron's. It was only then that he took notice of the illuminated dorm and their three other dormmates awake and watching him and Ron.

It took Harry a moment to recognise the voice as belonging to Neville Longbottom, his eyes dark with determination, his posture tense as he stared Harry down.

"I don't think that's—" Harry started, further denial ready on his lips.

Neville interrupted him, taking a step forward with his wand in his hand. "I'm not taking no for an answer, I am going with you, Harry. You've helped me, let me help you."

"Look, mate, we gotta go. Hermione's ready and has already left the tower." Ron placed his hand on Harry's shoulder, complete trust and faith in Harry's decision splayed across his face.

Harry let out a resigned sigh, aware of how much time they were wasting. "Fine, come on. Hurry. We'll meet you at the gates. Don't get caught."

He wasn't worried about Dean and Seamus ratting them out; while the two other boys may not hold him in their highest regards, they certainly held a grudging respect for him and that was enough.

So, that was how they ended up at the Department of Mysteries, along with two other unexpected guests: Ginny and Luna.

Ginny, who wouldn't let Hermione go without her, and Luna, who gave them the idea of using the Thestrals.

Now, as I was saying. . .It was all going so well, until they were caught in the Hall of Prophecies, until the Order arrived, until Sirius was shot with the Killing Curse and fell backwards into the Veil.

Harry felt as though someone had dumped a bucket of ice cold water all over him, then doused him with flames, goosebumps rising all over his skin as he watched his only connection to his parents, to leaving the Dursleys', fall out of his grasp.

He remembered screaming, lunging toward the Veil, when strong arms wrapped around him in an attempt to stop him. Remus, Harry's mind supplied, was talking to him, but he couldn't stop, couldn't listen, couldn't get the image of Sirius out of his head.

Sirius couldn't be dead.

He just couldn't be.

Over the sound of his ragged, tortured screams, Harry heard Bellatrix's unhinged cackling, yelling, "Dead! The blood traitor is dead! Ha!"

Slowly, his vision returned to him—though he had no conscious thought of losing it—and, just behind Bellatrix's prancing form, Harry saw something that shocked him more than it really should have, stealing the breath from his lungs.

With maroon robes, a long, greying beard, usually light blue ocean eyes hidden behind moon-shaped spectacles, and wand drawn at the spot where Sirius had stood was Albus Dumbledore. Now, enveloped in shadows, the older wizard gave a terrifying visage with a darkness in his piercing gaze as it met Harry's.

The sight solidified all doubts Harry ever had about the man, his mind screaming "Evil bastard! FUCK him!" even as it suddenly calmed. Harry's traitorous mind supplied him with the urge to struggle harder, the adrenaline to fight Remus' arms holding him tight, and succeed though he did, his feet pounding hard against the stone floor, his legs led him in the direction of Bellatrix's retreating form.

Stupid Imperius Curse, Harry swore, a scowl twisting his features. He already could feel the curse slipping from his mind as he metaphorically tossed the slimy magic off of him, giving him back his free will, though he kept running to keep up appearances.

Thank Merlin for small blessing, Harry thought, absently giving his thanks to Barty Crouch Jr. and for the fact that he and Bellatrix were alone in the antechambers.