HP: Monochrome

Emerald eyes snapped open.

The first thing Harry noticed was the cold sweat drenching his body. Then it was how his heart palpitated like an overworked engine. Next was how stiff his body was, stunned in fear. Fear of—

He frowned. Fear of what?

He didn't remember, almost as if it was unimportant.

Feeling no real desire to move, Harry remained in his resting state for a while, curious at the strangeness of the ambience. The entire place felt… cloudy, for a lack of better words. His fingers could feel a soft, silky texture not unlike warm covers.

Oh.

He was in bed. Sleeping.

In this cloudy place.

Heh. Sleeping among the clouds. That'd be something.

"I see you're awake!"

The voice was unfamiliar. Harry pushed himself up. Or at least tried to.

That's odd.

His body felt fresh. Supple. Healthy. It was almost like—

"Don't overexert yourself!" A shadowy figure congealed from the mist, slowly forming into a slender, feminine shape. As it came closer, Harry was finally able to recognize it to be a woman. A woman he didn't know.

What is happening—

He closed his eyes, wondering if this was all some kind of strange dream. His head felt like it was about to split in half, and the strange unfamiliar voices didn't help any. Taking a deep breath, he carefully opened his eyes a second time.

Nope. The strange woman was still there. Same dream.

"This must be confusing for you," the woman chuckled, before pointing at herself. "I'm a healer, and you're currently undergoing treatment."

Treatment? What for? Everything was so— so blurry. And it hurt to remember. But still, strange images flickered across his mind. Light, strange screeches, running, doxies— hundreds of— a wraith trying to MURDER HIM—

Harry jerked up with a start, his heart beating like it was going to explode out of his chest. The room had now come into better focus. Whitewashed walls, plain bed and curtains, and the faint, familiar smell of medicine—

"Is this—" he croaked. "Am I in a hospital?"

"Yes and no," the woman replied, softly smiling. Now closer, Harry could recognize more facial features— the blonde-haired woman had angelic face, with a slightly upturned nose and thin lips. "You're in Grimmauld Place. Your godfather decided you required private treatment, so he set up a similar environment at home." She pointed towards the curtains. "I can call him if you'd like. He's downstairs."

"I— Sirius—" Harry was finding it difficult to comprehend her words. He faintly remembered seeing Sirius's face after the doxy attack, but everything was so fuzzy. Why was it so hard to focus? "Who— who are you?"

The woman smiled. She seemed to do that a lot. "My name is Andromeda Tonks. I am a practicing professional at St. Mungo's, and your healer for the past two days. Oh, and I'm also Sirius's cousin."

"My—" Harry tried to voice a coherent thought. Difficult, since his mind was literally all over the place. "Where's Sirius?"

The woman— Andro something? —frowned a little. "He's downstairs. Are you having trouble remembering things, Harry?"

"It's a little difficult to— to focus. Did I get hit in the head?"

"You don't remember?" The alarmed tone in the woman's voice was apparent, even to him. "Tell me Harry, what is the last thing you can recall?"

Harry put his palm to his forehead. "There was this wraith. And doxies. Hundreds of doxies. I lost my— my—" His eyes lit up. "My WAND! What happened to my wand?"

The woman didn't react to his outburst at all. "Your wand is downstairs. Would you like me to fetch it for you?"

"Ye— please!"

With a silent flick of her wand— a summoning charm, based on the wand movement —his own wand came flying through the curtains. With the unerring skill of a seeker, Harry caught it in midair, feeling an arctic coldness surge through him upon being reunited. It was quite a contrast to his old holly and phoenix feather wand, but the feeling was definitely still there.

"I thought I'd lost it," he mumbled, clutching the magical apparatus tightly. "The explosion—"

"Harry!"

He looked up and found Sirius standing at the door. The man looked like he could do with a few days of proper sleep, if his unkempt and gaunt appearance was any indication. He wondered if that was because of him. That reminded him of the fight with the doxies and the resulting—

Explosion. The resulting explosion. Not to mention, extensive damage to the house.

Great. Not even a day, and I've already started causing problems for him.

"Sirius I'm—"

"Harry—"

"—sorry!"

"—I'm sorry!"

Both of them stared at each other with utter incomprehension.

"Wait!" Sirius was the first between them to recover. "What the hell are you sorry for?"

"I caused so many problems in your home," Harry solemnly began, mentally steeling himself. "I know you told me you wanted me to stay with you, but after all this, I understand if—"

"Let me stop you right there," his godfather interrupted him. "It wasn't your fault. You weren't supposed to be attacked. At all. The fact that you were in danger at all is a fault that lies with me and me alone!"

"But Sirius—"

"Ahem!" Andromeda cleared her throat, reminding everyone of her presence.

"Um, right," Sirius looked at her, his expression a bit sheepish. "I'll leave you to your patient, cousin." He glanced towards Harry again, an earnest smile on his face. "If you need anything kiddo, just call for me okay? I'll be downstairs."

He owlishly blinked, but nodded.

"So," The woman drawled as Sirius deserted the room, "what's all this about a wraith?"

Harry swallowed.

The world is grayscale. Except for the wraith.

It is bathed in red. Anger, resentment, hate— he recognizes it all. How? It doesn't matter. There is this strange creature standing next to him. It reminds him of something— of someone— but who—

"You shall not harm Harry Potter—"

He recognizes the words. Every individual fragment's contribution. But the collective meaning? The sentiments that lay within? Like grains of sand through his fingers. So why— why— WHY—

He tilts his head. The creature remains defiant. It stands in front of him, finger raised. He feels hungry now? No, the hunger is from this strange creature. This defiant, little… thing. It wants to protect. It wants—

Maybe he should help it. Pour a little coldness, a little death into it. Show it the truth of all truths. Give its life some meaning. Allow it to revel in the deep, dark softness of the blackest night.

"Harry… Potter…"

There it is again. Odd voices. They resonate with something inside him. Funny, he didn't think there was anything there. He now realizes the words are spoken by someone else, not this creature. Yet, he cannot remember who. Or what. Or WHY—

A familiar coldness engulfs him. The stillness of death. The prelude to the dirge. It was comforting. Pure. No questions. No worries about right versus wrong. No quibbles about motivations and goals.

There is no room for doubt.

Just pure, cold, serene death.

The creature still stands. Defiant. Weak.

He snorts. A quick flick of his tail, and the creature drops. Grunting, he moves around, staring at the wraith. The spirit exudes emotions. Pesky little things. Hate, envy, anger, jealousy, arrogance, resentment… So much to devour. The creatures around it resonate with her energy.

A good meal, all in all.

He snorts again.

And the dam breaks. The wraith screeches, and the doxies attack. He barks out a laugh. More of him comes out of the cloak. His jaws are bone. His flesh is dark. Horns sprout from his head. His deathly green eyes glare. Malevolent primordial energy flows from him, snarling at the world.

So much life.

So much emotion.

So much magic.

So much to… kill.

The doxies rise against him. Useless. A petty tide trying to swallow the moon. They shoot at him like spears. They tear and bite. They claw at him with their tails and nails. They leap and howl and snarl in vicious hunger.

He kills them with all the effort of wiping sweat off his brow.

A quick slash of his paw. Reality screams as the world twists around him. The air brims with malevolent energy once more. Everything he touches is obliterated. Everything.

The wraith screams again. This time, it is fear. He laughs. Fear is good. Fear is acceptance.

Yes, he will make her fear come true.

Obsidian claws glint in the darkness. He draws closer.

The wraith is desperate. She screeches. She wails. She pulls at curtains, demolishes the building. Its eyes are wide and terrified. Not unexpected. It is about to die, after all.

He bares his fangs. Power rushes through him. A void of blackness spreads around him. It enters into the wraith, binding her, gnawing into her, devouring her from the inside as she screams and screams and screams….

…

…

Fire spread across his chest.

Harry tried to pry open his eyes and take a breath, but it only prompted another burst of agony, radiating from his core. He held off taking the next breath for as long as possible, until he couldn't put it off anymore. And again, it burned.

He repeated the cycle several times, his entire reality consumed by the simple struggle to breathe and endure the pain. He was on the losing side of things, but though the pain didn't quite lessen, it did, eventually, become more bearable.

"Good," whispered a raspy, feminine voice. "Very good."

Slowly, he could feel the rest of his body. He was lying on something cool and contoured. Not exactly comfortable, but far from torment. He tightly clenched his hand into a fist, but something was wrong with it. They barely moved, as though someone had replaced his flesh and bones with lead weights. His body was heavy and inert, and his tendons and muscles were too weak to break the inertia.

The soft silk sheets beneath him were one of the few silver linings.

"Excellent," rasped the voice. It was strangely familiar, though he still couldn't put a finger on it. "I know it's difficult, but try to open your eyes, Harry."

The sound of his name felt like a trigger. He tried to open his eyes once more, and bright light inundated his view this time, the burning sensation now no longer limited to his center. After blinking several times, he managed to open them without hurting his head.

Then, the memories came back.

"And— Madam Tonks,," he croaked.

"Just call me Andi," the voice replied. Turning his head, he looked up further and found himself staring at Andromeda Tonks, his healer and tutor over the past few days.

"I told you, it'll hurt for the first few times," Andromeda— or Andi, as she preferred —spoke up. "But it was a major success."

Harry weakly smiled. A day after he'd woken up from his healing coma, she had allowed him to start using his magic step by step, starting with a simple lighting spell. From what he understood, his body had undergone a major upheaval because an enormous amount of magic flowed through it. She'd said it was akin to the human body getting struck by lightning— the real thing, not the Fulminis spell.

Unfortunately, she had no idea how such a thing had come to pass. And she was also certain that the accident had thrown his ability to wield magic into jeopardy, and he'd have to remind his body about how it used to be.

Whatever that meant.

That was why she, with help from Sirius, would sit down and watch him cast one spell after the next. The magical influx had thrown his half-admirable skills with transfiguration to Dreadful levels. The pin he'd tried transfiguring into a pillow had expanded in size and started shooting out feathers like projectiles before exploding. Then, he'd successfully converted a goblet into a mouse, only for the mouse to squeak loudly before exploding.

Andi had asked him whether he had any aspiration to become a Dark Lord, since he'd clearly be good at it. At the time, he wasn't able to tell whether she was joking, too focused on the puddle of gore in front of him.

At least his performance with Charms had been mostly unaffected, which was probably a good thing. But Defense Against the Dark Arts was another beast entirely. A wholly surprising one.

Especially since he accidentally killed a transfigured pig with a stunner.

A stunner.

Andi had not been thrilled.

Like, he knew that his wand was supposedly great at the Dark Arts, but that was that and this was this.

And then Sirius stepped in. His godfather had handed him an Auror manual, filled with recipes for offensive spellcasting and made him perform each and every one of them. It had been surprisingly easy, albeit more than a little draining. Both Sirius and Andi had kept pushing him until he'd dropped to his knees, ready to keel over and pass out from magical exhaustion.

That was how every night had ended for the past couple of days.

"I—" he coughed, "I had another dream."

Andi frowned, gazing at him with concern. "The doxies?"

He slowly nodded.

"Harry, you've been through a traumatic incident. It's only natural that you—"

"You don't understand!" he hissed, raising his voice a bit. "This was— this was different. I was killing them. The doxies, they were dying, and I was— I was— and that wraith—"

His temples burned. Hissing in pain, Harry slumped back into his pillow. "Merlin, it fucking hurts."

"Do you remember what happened?" Andi asked kindly.

He morosely shook his head. "Nothing. Only that I was killing them, and—" he paused, meeting her gaze. He'd grown pretty comfortable around the healer over the past week. For someone that had a stern exterior, she had been present every time he needed her, and was always there when he woke up. And most importantly, she never judged him.

It made him feel… normal.

"The wraith, she was screaming. And I— I felt good. Powerful, even. I was— I was winning, and the doxies were nothing before me. I moved, and they just," he swallowed, "... died. And then I woke up."

The wraith. It always came down to the wraith. He'd talked to them about the entity before, and Sirius had roamed the entire townhouse— no minor feat —like a man possessed, meticulously searching for the elusive spirit. Three days of active searching, to no avail. Still, his godfather had hired someone to perform an exorcism, just to be sure. Even the demented house elf Kreacher confirmed that there were no wraiths in the house.

Whether the wraith was still around or not, it had at least been driven away. Hopefully.

"Well, get up," Andi sighed. "I'll get your breakfast ready. Do you need any help?"

Harry couldn't prevent the rosy blush from crawling up his neck as he vehemently shook his head. Sirius's cousin or not, Andi was a true professional, which meant she wasn't averse to literally helping him with anything— even his sanitary… issues.

"If you're sure," the woman replied, getting off his bed. Straightening out her attire, she walked out the door, leaving the room all to himself.

And what a room it was.

Located on the third floor of the large townhouse, the room was one of the few that overlooked the adjacent street. It included a European king-sized bed facing the windows, with thick white curtains draped around them and covered with red-and gold sheets. A door leading to the hallway stood to the left, with a study desk and chair to the right. There was also a large walk-in wardrobe just past the door leading to the in-suite bathroom.

His new room. His sanctuary. His to use. His to decorate as he wished.

Unfortunately, having lived in a cupboard for the majority of his life and then shared a dormitory with four others, the room was precisely the sort of extravagance he wasn't entirely comfortable with. For one, it was easily thrice the size of Dudley's room back in Privet Drive. That, coupled with the fact that it was entirely for him alone made it feel even larger. The darkness in the limited space of the cupboard had been comforting, but at night, this vast expanse of blackness made shivers crawl up his spine.

He hadn't really tried explaining it to Sirius. Nor was he going to. The man had already given so much, and he didn't want his godfather to think he was the ungrateful sort.

Sirius had brought in some hired help early on, renovating the entire house while he was comatose and healing at St. Mungo's. Now that the rooms were all cleaned up and fitted with all kinds of nice furniture, he finally had a much better idea of just how large his new residence was.

Compared to the Dursley home, Black Manor was a brooding chateau.

And no, he wasn't exaggerating.

Built at some point in the early eighteenth century, only with more gargoyles and gothic features than the Notre-Dame itself, it was an expansive, brooding structure with very little light coming in. He'd know. His own room was one of the few that actually allowed direct sunlight to filter in.

From what he had heard, Andi had a husband and a daughter who was an Auror. Her husband was involved in the trade of magical spices, and often stayed out of Britain, with the majority of his businesses happening in the continent. Their daughter Nymphadora— Harry had not chuckled at the name— lived in her private apartment, away from her overbearing mother. Andi's words, not his.

Naturally, Sirius had invited her to live at Grimmauld Place. She'd leave at odd hours and at times, would stay out for the entire night when her shift demanded it, but that notwithstanding, she had taken a room down by the end of the hall, and Sirius decided to stay in his old room on the second floor, just next to the dojo. It surprised him initially, but if you had as many rooms as this house did, he guessed it made sense to have one be a dojo.

Sure, he'd roll with it.

All in all, it was almost like being at Hogwarts during Christmas. Only less expansive, less bright, and… well, more lonely.

He'd thought about getting Ron to come live with him. Maybe he could ask Hermione to spend her summer with him this year? The Weasleys had invited him and Hermione to join them for the Quidditch World Cup at the end of last year, so maybe he could invite them this time around?

He'd thought about raising the issue with Sirius, but thinking about it and doing it were completely different things. For one, he may have been the man's godson, but that didn't mean he was entirely comfortable demanding things from his godfather just yet. To demand something like an extended sleepover would be taxing on the man's benevolence.

Come to think of it, having people over probably wasn't a good idea anyways. The house practically had Slytherin written all over it, from snake-themed door knobs to green-and-silver decorations. A lot of it had faded with the renovations, but the signs were still there, and still unmissable.

At least it didn't look like a house of dark wizards anymore.

Four years had passed since the Hat had sorted him, and for better or worse, he'd grown from the starry-eyed kid that clung to Ron Weasley and refused Draco Malfoy just because Ron didn't like him. Truth be told, he had never interacted with the other Houses. In fact, apart from Malfoy and his cohorts, he didn't even know any other Slytherins to cast them under one stereotype. Andromeda had been a Slytherin, and she was easily the sweetest person he knew— this was from being in her presence for a week at best.

So, no. He didn't subscribe to the 'Slytherins are evil' dogma that Ron professed. But that didn't mean he was about to get up and bear-hug Draco Malfoy either.

Better be… Gryffindor, he chuckled to himself.