Author's Notes: Thank you to my Beta's Marley, Amber and Catherine. Chapter dedication goes to Marley, who, even though I didn't know her, was eager and quick to Beta this fic. Thanks heaps guys!

Warnings: past-Harry Sirius, Harry/Draco, Harry/MOC, Pansy/female!Blaise, Seamus/Justin, Harry/Hermione/Ron implied, Moon/Nott implied, (eventual) Harry/Justin, OotP spoilers, fantasy, action, adventure, cross-generation, underage sex, violence, language, romance, angst

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Lyrics and quotes belong to their respective owners.

Paper Flowers

Part 1 - Blood Magic

Chapter One – Write Me a River

By dented-sky


In my field of paper flowers
And candy clouds of lullaby
I lie inside myself for hours
    - Imaginary (Evanescence)

Your presence still lingers here
And it won’t leave me alone
These wounds won’t seem to heal
    - My Immortal (Evanescence)

What do I do when lightening strikes me
And I wake to find that you’re not there
What do I got to do to be heard
It’s a sad, sad situation and it’s getting more and more absurd
    - Sorry Seems to be the Hardest Word (Elton John)

Lying on his stomach, on a bed too small for him that squeaked when he moved and which grazed his skin when he turned under the scratchy sheets, lay a skinny teenaged boy.

He had jet-black hair and brilliant dark green eyes, slightly obscured by the large glasses that were currently trying to slip down his nose due to his sweat from the summer heat. His pillow was propped under his chest and he was currently riffling through a stack of letters that were thrown haphazardly on his bed. Every now and again he would check his watch.

It was 11:32 p.m. and he would be sixteen in less than half an hour. To pass the time he was going through his friends’ letters that had been sent during the holidays. Boredom had taken him down this route, as he had not gotten any letters for quite a while.

Other than letters from his usual friends, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, Hagrid and the usual letter from the Order of the Phoenix, he had also been corresponding with Cho Chang, a pretty Ravenclaw girl and his ex-girlfriend. He found it was easy to confide in her about a secret he had never told anyone before, and she always seemed to have positive advice to give. He lifted the letter and read.


It must have been hard to hide it like that; I myself have never been in that situation.

I understand if you are still mourning, but I don’t think even Sirius would want to see you so sad. Harry, please, seek some help. Talk to an adult. There are charms and things -

Harry refolded the letter. In the past, whenever he had wanted to talk to an adult, he would have talked to Sirius. Harry clenched his jaw, feeling the familiar prickling behind his eyes.

He did not want to forget either; he had heard it all. Potions, spells, enchantments; they all offered to take his memories, and therefore - his pain away. He shook head. No; Sirius had gone. They were not going to take his memories away too. He picked up another letter, this one older and from Hermione.


How are you feeling? I can imagine you’re sick of that question now.

I’m currently flying on the plane to -

Harry skipped down. It was just describing her holiday and he had read it before.

I was reading up on Wizarding therapy, Harry. There are spells and potions, of course, but there are also rituals, superstitions and other such nonsense. I don’t believe in it myself, but I thought the practice of it could be therapeutic psychologically.

There is the Ancient Art of one thousand paper flowers. It is similar to the Japanese idea of one thousand paper cranes, do you know it? Only the outcome is different. What you do is write letters to the loved one who died, and fold each one into an origami flower. Once you reach one thousand letters or rather, paper flowers, you perform a ritual with fire where the smoke carries the paper flowers to the Heavens where your loved one can read them.

It’s supposed to be magic but most Wizards don’t believe in it.

Harry could imagine her scowling at the thought of it, and felt a pang of loneliness, and wondered again why she had not written in over a week. He stopped reading and put the letter down. It was true; most Wizards and Witches did not believe in magic where they could not see the outcome. It was like flipping a coin and not bothering to see which side it landed on. Harry had noticed that when Wizards performed a spell, they always watched it end, to see if it was strong or weak, or on target. Even if the spell was cast in nonchalance, the caster always watched the spell from the corner of their eye, even for a split second.

Harry checked his watch again. Only ten minutes had past.

Leaning over the bed, Harry stretched out and pulled up the loose floorboard. Underneath was his usual food offerings, school things and more letters, but there also sat a grey-wood chest. He picked the chest up and placed it on the bed in front of him. It was plain and quite ugly, in Harry’s opinion; grey like dead wood and storm clouds, but it was given as an early birthday present from Hagrid, and he loved it all the same. Opening the lid, he peered inside.

Within the chest were several small origami flowers, some parchment, small silver scissors, ink and quill. Harry pulled out everything, save the flowers. Shutting the lid, he leant the parchment on the chest, dipped the quill in the ink and thought about what he was going to write. After a short moment he scribbled:


I miss you, and I’m so bored. I miss being in your arms, and I miss holding you late at night, and most of all I miss talking to you and laughing, because I haven’t had either of those things for a while. My friends have stopped writing to me, and my subscription to the Daily Prophet is late.

I still remember what you taste like.


He picked up the small scissors and cut away the message from the rest of the parchment. Then he proceeded to fold the paper into a small paper flower.

Hermione was right, it was therapeutic. It felt good to just write messages to Sirius, even if he could not get a reply. The idea that Sirius would one day read his letters, sitting up in Heaven, drinking tea with his parents, made him feel that he was not so alone after all. Maybe Sirius will read them aloud so his parents can hear them too.

Checking his watch again, Harry gasped. Only five more minutes until he was sixteen.

A small owl swooped in through the open window and set itself on his desk. Harry got up and put a knut in the owl’s little pouch, then pulled the Daily Prophet from the owl’s leg. It immediately flew back out the window.

Harry absently flicked through the paper, and then frowned.

Deaths, he read, Killing… Raped… Blood…

He continued to flick through, glancing random words and pictures.

Destroyed… Fallen… Casualties…

Flicking through once more, he felt his anger silently start to rise.

Fires… Smoke… Burned…

He started to pace the room.

Death Eaters… Abduction… Ritual… Sightings…

He stopped and took a deep breath. But his anger would still not subside.

The Daily Prophet was full of bad news.

Really bad news.

Harry started pacing again, flicking through the newspaper, but slower now so he caught snatches of sentences rather than just words.

Hogsmeade wards taken down by a silent attack…

Harry frowned harder and paced the room more furiously. His anger continued to rise at an alarming rate; starting from his stomach, moving upwards until his cheeks reddened from the heat of it.

Half of Diagon Alley burnt… Death Toll…

How could they let this happen? Where was the Order? Where was the Ministry of Magic?

He got his answer when he turned the page: Ministry Siege... Taken and dumped… Relocation…

Harry wanted to yell. His eyes widened and sparked like green flame with hate and anger. Why wasn’t anyone doing anything? Why were they losing a War only just beginning? Harry felt helpless. He was stuck in his cousin’s small spare bedroom, unable to go out there into the World, his World, to help. To fight.

Harry was barely conscious of the cramping in his knuckles from clenching his fists too hard. He growled insanely under his breath. He wished he could kick something hard but he knew it would wake up his relatives and then there would be Hell to pay.

Then he turned the page and froze. As quickly as it came, his anger abated and thick, cold fear took over him as his face turned a deathly shade of pale.

Harry stood frozen on the spot, staring at the page with wide, frightened eyes as his World spun around him and out of control. He felt light headed and detached, as if he was just a spirit sitting in the body of a stranger. He only just caught on that he was trembling.

The page had an article which told of a recent group kidnapping. But that was not what scared Harry.

On the bottom half of the page was a list. It was of all the Wizards and Witches that were currently missing and assumed abducted. Next to the each name was their age and Town of Residency. Harry realized, while staring fixated at the list, that they were all less than twenty years of age.

No. Please, no.

Boot, Terry. 16. Aylesbury.

He scanned down.

Chang, Cho. 17. Brighton.

Jaw clenched, his eyes flickered down to another name.

Finnigan, Seamus. 16. Limerick.

Harry’s hands were trembling violently as he scanned down once more.

Goldstein, Anthony. 15. Edinburgh.

Then Harry saw the next name down. He yelled out loud, dropping the newspaper as if it had just burnt his hands.

Granger, Hermione.

No, please God. Not Hermione. Harry collapsed onto the floor. It couldn’t be real, could it?

But then it was. They were Harry’s friends and they had been kidnapped, possibly by Death Eater forcing them to join their ranks. Or maybe they had been abducted for torture for the Death Eater’s sadistic pleasure. Maybe they rape them; tie them to the bed naked. Maybe they condemn them to slavery, backs whipped to shreds by leather whips.

What if Hermione was in danger? What if she was currently being tortured and screaming? What if she needed his help and he was just stuck here, sitting uselessly on the floor?

Harry started to panic. His breath quickened and he ran a nervous and sweaty hand through his already damp hair.

Hermione… kidnapped by Death Eaters.

He barely registered that he had been sixteen for well over half an hour, or that there was a loud banging noise coming from downstairs.

I’ll kill them.


I’ll rip them apart.


If they lay a single finger on her…


…I’ll squeeze the blood out of their veins with my bare hands.


And get a hammer, and bang…




Harry blinked, then shot up and grabbed his wand. He inched towards his door like he had around this time last year, and slowly opened it. (Uncle Vernon had gotten rid of all the locks because he was scared Lupin and the others would hurt him if he didn’t.)

The hall was dark as he stepped out of the room. He inched down the stairs, and then realized someone was banging on the front door.


Harry turned the downstairs hall light on, blinking in the sudden light. Looking around, he stopped and jumped slightly. Dudley was huddled in the kitchen doorway.

“Dudley!” Harry hissed in an angry whisper, “What the hell are you doing there sitting in the bloody dark?”


“Shhh!” the larger boy hissed back, “I’m spying! It could be that other gang from down town.”

Harry rolled his eyes and whispered loudly, “Well go outside and tell them to bugger off!”


“No way!” whispered Dudley as Harry tried to peer through the tainted glass door, only to see a completely dark night, “You want me to die out there?”

Harry thought it better not to answer that question. Impatient, he strode towards the door, wand raised.

He threw it open and froze when he saw who his visitor was.

Leaning against the door frame, hair slightly tousled, cold grey eyes sparkling and a smirk plastered over his pale, pasty face, was Draco Malfoy.


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