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SIYE Time:2:15 on 29th March 2024
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Splinters
By GHL

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Category: Alternate Universe
Characters:Albus Dumbledore, Harry/Ginny, Hermione Granger, Nymphadora Tonks, Remus Lupin, Ron Weasley, Sirius Black
Genres: Drama, Romance
Warnings: Death, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Situations, Violence
Story is Complete
Rating: PG-13
Reviews: 280
Summary:

In the secret mists of time, a truth has been shattered. The path to victory has been cursed with despair... and nobody realizes it.

It is 1995 -- the summer of their discontent. Sequestered within the grimy walls of Grimmauld Place, Harry and Ginny begin having strange dreams of an era long past and events yet to come. Are the dreams somehow real? Is fate taunting them with tragic visions of doom, or are they being granted a precious chance to survive... and fall in love?

Note: this story presumes canon until Chapter 4 of OotP... beyond which things begin to go haywire.


Hitcount: Story Total: 84433; Chapter Total: 4285
Awards: View Trophy Room




Author's Notes:

There should be laughter after pain
There should be sunshine after rain
These things have always been the same
So why worry now?
- Mark Knopfler

So yes, dear readers, this chapter gets a bit dark... but have faith in your beloved protagonists to right the wrongs -- perhaps even before they actually happen.




Chapter 5. A Godson and a Princess (August 10-11, 1995)

Around sunrise, Harry resumed his semi-official breakfast role in the Grimmauld Place kitchen. He'd already set out a loaf of bread, and found eggs and rashers from the ice box but, unfortunately, he was missing one useful ingredient. Enthusiasm.

At least there was coffee. He swigged back a half cup, and quietly began the process of assembling a full spread for a household that was already started to take it for granted.

A few minutes later, the coffee began to kick in and his outlook began to improve. He told himself he'd enjoy the task; it wasn't difficult and he was quite good at it. And besides, there was a decent chance Molly would reward the effort with a pass on afternoon house-cleaning.

Making breakfast was also a good way to connect with people, which Harry appreciated after his annual isolation in Little Whinging. Late morning could get a bit wearisome with the entire cantankerous household down here competing for oxygen, but the casual early-bird coffee klatches with Ginny, Hermione and Professor Lupin were becoming a highlight for him.

Above all, Harry looked forward to time spent with Ginny, but he also valued the chance to talk to Lupin, and was getting to know a different side of Hermione, who seemed especially at ease in the small group, showing a warmth and wit that few in the household would have suspected.

Thoughts of the gathering were enough to bring a small smile to his face... but not quite a grin. He took another long pull of coffee, cracked some eggs into a pan whose rashers were beginning to sizzle, and gazed at the two chairs he and Ginny had occupied early yesterday morning.

The chairs were empty.

Harry sighed. He silently berated himself for weakness, but had to admit that he felt a bit off; stalled in some sort of discontent.

He knew the dreams were weighing on him. A while ago, he'd awoken to residual glow left from the riverside image of the Publican and Lanossëa, but that glow snuffed out as soon as he remembered the historical mess they'd soon be ensnared in.

They were like friends to him now; he hated to think that they'd be swept into tragic warfare, yet all that mattered less to him right now than those empty chairs – the girl who was not yet occupying one; not yet chatting with him; not yet lifting his spirits the way nobody else could.

Rationally, Harry knew he ought not weigh her down. He was self-reliant; his own best friend. From an early age, he'd known to never be a burden, and had gotten by without leaning on others, right?

Well, yes and no. Self-reliance had gotten Harry through plenty of danger and hardship before. He'd felt stretched, stricken and sometimes even afraid, but he'd kept his will and wits, and somehow always steered himself clear... until this summer.

Harry was just now learning that self-reliance is only as good as self-awareness... both of which had recently let him down.

The entire stretch since the Tri-Wizard Tournament had been a ghastly ordeal. Yet, through most of it, he'd been largely unaware just how truly awful things were; unaware he was fighting (and mostly losing to) his most insidious foe ever. The foe clouded his mind, strangled his will, and very nearly quenched any chance he had for surviving and prevailing in the battle with darkness.

His foe was despair.

Thinking back, it had been like endlessly circling Dementors, harrying him long before he'd stepped into that underpass, and persisting long after. His desperate gasp of defiance had expelled the real Dementors, but he'd been too weary and weak to beat back the despair. Its wreaking stench had soaked his very soul, following him even here.

By the time he'd arrived at Grimmauld Place, he'd been too fogged to sense the chasm spreading beneath him. He'd reached the very brink.

Then Ginny had 'happened'.

Life had resumed that night he'd lifted her from her bedroom floor. Every moment since then – every chat and laugh; every incidental touch of her hand, had brought healing...

Healing?

Harry stroked his chin.

Was he still healing? Was that why he instinctively still leaned on her? Like a trauma patient taking those first uncertain steps up from a hospital bed?

Was that okay?

Harry sighed. Coming to grips with a valid reason for missing her, he admitted that he did sincerely wish she was seated in that chair right now. Chatting and smiling. Drinking her tea. Glancing over in concern at the breakfast that was-

“Burning!” Harry yanked the pan from the stove. Grumbling, he scraped the charred mess onto an old plate, scowled angrily, and resolved to get his ruddy head together.

With fresh rashers and newly cracked eggs, Harry's breakfast efforts began anew... the same way Ginny had given his near-scorched life another run. Hopefully there'd still be time to still set it right.

Of course, resolving to not burn another pan of food was nothing compared to the greater matters he needed to 'set right'.

How should he prepare for the final showdown?
How much time did he have?
What will be lost? Who must die?

Harry knew none of that, but at least he had just processed a crucial first lesson – the lesson of 'never again'.

Never again anguish endlessly over the past, or there will be no future. Never again forsake the joys of the present, or there would be nothing to fight for.

Harry nodded, pleased with the wise-sounding thought. Pleased enough that he wanted to share it with someone – the one person he felt comfortable telling such things to. Now, if only she-

“Good morning, Harry.”

Harry's heart leapt... and fell. Trying to conceal his disappointment, he manufactured a smile. “G'morning Hermione.”

Hermione examined him carefully. “How are you this morning?”

Her tone had nothing to do with small talk. Harry looked away for a moment, weighing the relative merits of lying.

Lacking the energy to hold a smokescreen over a friend with x-ray vision, he opted for bluntness. “I'm actually feeling rather crappy, thank you. No, I do not feel like talking about it. And, to blatantly change the subject, how would you like your sodding eggs?”

Hermione shot him a look, then softened. Then she burst out laughing.

“What?!” Harry's left eyebrow shot up past his fringe.

“Harry Potter is back.” She wore a distinctly un-Hermione-like smirk. “You should have seen the odd duck we've been stuck with the last few days!”

"Oi!” Harry recoiled theatrically. “Since when does Ms. Granger wound with audacious wit! Bring back the cross old schoolmistress, or I'll bring back the odd duck.”

“Go ahead.” Her eyes twinkled. “He was actually sort of cute.”

“Ack!” This time Harry was jolted by duty. Darting back to the stove, he attacked the pan with a spatula. “Argh. As you distracted me, you're officially getting your eggs scrambled.”

“Suits me.” She gave him a tentative smile. “So... still feeling lousy?”

The corners of Harry's mouth curled a little. “I'm okay. I've had better mornings, but I'll be fine. Thank you for asking.”

“Would it help to know I've never see Ginny so enthused by 'work' as she's been with this project   of yours?”

Harry nodded, smiling.

“I'm sure she would love to be down here right now chatting with you about it.” Hermione took a seat. “If she wasn't sleeping in, that is.”

“Oh?” Harry paused for a moment. “Well, I think it's a good thing she's catching up on her rest.” He resumed his labours, hoping that his statement sounded more magnanimous than he felt.

“I agree.” Hermione poured some tea. “That's why I stopped her alarm this morning before it went off.”

“Huh?” Harry blinked. “You what?”

“I unset her alarm.” Hermione sounded slightly defiant. “Ginny's not really a morning person, Harry. The last few days, she's been adjusting her life to spend more time with you, working on your research. I told her last night I thought she ought to scale back some of those changes.”

“I beg your pardon?” Harry's eyebrow spiked.

“Don't be angry, Harry.” Hermione raised her hands defensively. “I'm not certain what you two are really up to, but I strongly suspect it's very important to both of you, and instinct tells me to support it...”

“Which is why you chose to interfere?”

“No, you thick oaf, listen to me!” Hermione's finger waggled. “You've got to be more subtle! For your own good! I've already told Ginny, and now I'm telling you – if you're truly committed to this project then the last thing you want are a bunch of hyperactive Weasleys blundering into it like a flock of well-intentioned wrecking balls!”

“Oh.” He turned away. Scooping eggs and sausage onto plates, he thought for a moment, then chuckled.

Hermione's eyes narrowed. “Did I say something to amuse you?”

“Flock of wrecking balls.” Harry grinned. “Normally I'd be a bit stiff-necked over this, but that's a brilliant image.”

“Not bad, yeah?” She smiled; her tension vanishing. “The one benefit from being mashed in here with these numpties is that they inspire me to new heights of acerbity.”

“Acerbity?” Harry winked as he served her plate. “I have no idea what that means, but I couldn't agree more.”

“Ah!” Lupin walked into the kitchen, smiling. “No better way to start the day than hearing a note of sunny consensus!”

“Erm...” Harry pursed his lips, turning to his former Professor. “Seeing as you're in such a fine mood, is it okay if we don't tell you what we just agreed about?”

Lupin raised an eyebrow then chuckled. “Suit yourself. So, have you made any progress up in the library?”

“A few more potentially relevant questions...” Harry sighed. “But in general, no, we're mostly still grasping at straws.”

“Well, I have no idea whether this has any bearing on your thesis at all, but...” Lupin paused to take a seat. “I ran across some trivia yesterday as I was thumbing my way through a new NEWT-level Defence Against Dark Arts text. It struck me as an interesting coincidence.”

“Oh? Do tell?” Harry brought him a cup of coffee.

“While reading a chapter on the origins of European dark magic, I learned that the first recorded use of the Imperius curse was by Roman wizards during the reign of Emperor Nero.”

“Nero?” Hermione stared. “He was emperor at the time of the Iceni revolt!”

“Yes, exactly.” Harry frowned. “In fact, the Imperius curse crossed my mind just yesterday as a possible sabotage tool. A brilliant coincidence – thank you, Remus!”

“Ooh.” Hermione looked from Harry to Lupin and back again. “Do you think the Imperius curse might have played a role in Queen Boadicea's defeat?”

Harry shook his head thoughtfully. “Maybe not directly, but I'd been wondering if it could have contributed to the political instability that sparked the rebellion in the first place.”

“That was my thought, too.” Lupin nodded. “It occurred to me that those terrible misunderstandings bespoke a level of misgovernance that was rare in the early empire. So, perhaps they weren't accidental?”

“Hmmm...” Harry gazed off distantly for a long moment, neither nodding, nor shaking his head.

“The sections I read were mainly focused on the origins of the modern conflict between dark and light magic. The book claims that social pressures in the emerging empire may have played a key role.” Lupin stirred his coffee. “Do you you recall the basic motivations of light and dark magic?”

“Of course.” Hermione sat up straight, as if reciting. “Light magic is traditionally practised for the greater good of society, while dark magic often arises to intimidate or persecute those that wizards deem to be inferior or threatening, or both.”

“Precisely!” Lupin beamed at her. “So as the Romans grew their empire, their Muggle administration strategically granted their conquered subjects full imperial citizenship, with all its incumbent privileges. To the magical community, this meant that their small, insular population suddenly multiplied dramatically over the course of a few short generations. Some communities were easy to absorb – especially wizards in the Mediterranean region whose practices evolved from the same Greek traditions that the Romans espoused, but others were too different for the Roman magical elite to tolerate. When confronted by northerners like the Druids, the culture shock proved overwhelming.”

Harry and Hermione nodded in grim fascination.

Lupin's face darkened. “The most immediate consequence was the formation of dark cults sworn to protect the magical purity of their own core society. But there was a second, long-term effect that reminds me of the old adage – 'necessity is the mother of invention'.”

“New spells?” Harry inquired.

“Quite so.” Lupin nodded. “The paranoia and hatred festering in these cults spurred dark creativity. Many terrible new hexes and curses were devised between about 50 B.C.E and 150 A.D. I already mentioned the Imperius, but the Cruciatus curse also came from that era; probably a bit earlier during Caligula's reign.”

“Fascinating.” Harry frowned as he reached across to serve Lupin his breakfast. “Did the book provide any descriptions of these cults? Any names?”

Lupin shook his head. “No, sorry. I don't recall reading specific names, but, well...” He paused uneasily. “I suppose that may be something you can find out on your own.”

“Oh? How?” Harry's eyes widened.

Lupin opened his mouth to reply, then froze.

Through the kitchen door, they heard the approaching sounds of the two Weasley parents arguing as made their way downstairs to breakfast.

Hermione's hand fluttered, urging haste.

With a furtive final glance toward the doorway, Lupin leaned close to whisper. “Library upstairs. The upper shelf at the back has dozens of books on dark magic.”



With every hour that the currach traveled down river, Ginny felt the tugging sensation from brooch grow a bit weaker. Hidden within her Icenian shift, the Cupla's song did still convey the ache of parting, but she did her best to push it from her thoughts. Instead, she concentrated on the waters ahead, lest a submerged branch or rock once again jolt the queen from her dark brooding.

The departure from camp that morning had been wordless. Heanua had not spoken to anyone in days. The queen and the Publican felt no desire for further speech. And to Lanossëa, the previous night had conveyed, wordlessly, everything that could be said to the man she loved. The man she had left.

Embittered by fate, and stung by the teeth of a glacial north wind, Ginny cursed silently and soldiered on.

In the early afternoon of that cheerless day, they traversed a wide bend and entered a broad expanse of water that she assumed was the confluence of the Great Ouse and Little Ouse Rivers. From there, a left turn would follow the merged rivers north through wild, unfamiliar lands, eventually finding the sea. Instinctively Ginny steered right, toward Iceni settlements lying up the smaller river to the southeast.

“Stop girl!” The queen's fierce eyes flashed open. “Where do you think you're taking us?”

“Home, mother.” Ginny's reply was factual and undaunted. Out of the accursed wind, she added silently.

“Be not a fool!” The queen pointed imperiously toward the grey north horizon. “Did you not heed my words? I require wands for myself and your sister. A great wand maker dwells in the woods to the west of the river, about eight leagues down stream. Steer us there.”

“But those are Coritani lands, Mother,” Ginny protested. “They are no friends of ours!”

“True.” Boadicea's mouth formed a thin, hard line. “But they despise the Romans even more.”

Without further argument, Ginny turned them back into the wind. After the queen had once again pulled a heavy blanket around herself and huddled into the bottom of the currach, Ginny drew her shawl tight against the growing gale and scanned the broader, calmer waterway. In the weariness of someone who had slept little overnight, she let her mind drift... and opened her eyes to the greyish late-morning haze of Grimmauld place.



Eleven o'bloody clock?! “ Ginny shook the flimsy timepiece lurking guiltily on her night stand. “I needed to be up hours ago!”

She burst from bed, indiscriminately kicking clutter on the floor. “Less than two days to prepare for the Ministry, and I lie about all bleeding morning like some shiftless piker!”

Wrapped in her bathrobe, Ginny's thundercloud stormed its way into the corridor toward the stairway.

“Har!” Ron barked as she passed him. “The princess better hope there's a pea under her mattress, because there sure as hell won't be any breakfast left this late.”

“Naff off!” She barged past him, wasting barely a glance. For a moment, she considered simply heading straight up to third floor, but a jabbing hunger pang made it clear that she'd not concentrate well without at least an old crust to sustain her.

Hurrying into the kitchen, she did indeed find an old crust. He was sitting at the table, nursing something dark and sludgy.

“G'morning Princess.” Sirius gave her a wink.

“Call me that again and someone will be mopping blood off the ceiling,” Ginny snarled... then instantly regretting it. She turned to apologise, but instead laughed to see the rogue cowering halfway beneath the table.

“Sorry, sorry! Poor turn of phrase!” Sirius's wide-eyed, wobbly apology earned another laugh as he dared straighten up again. “Sorry, the word was stuck in my head from badgering my thick godson. Just finished giving him a right talking to – told him he needs to spend more time appreciating what's right and less time stewing over what's wrong. Told the dope that life will only give him one chance to find his true princess.”

“You believe that? Don't be ridic...” Ginny's protest stalled as she began to absorb Sirius's words.

Oblivious to the odd look crossing Ginny's face, Sirius burst up energetically. “Harry's gone to the library, but he set aside a full plate for you.” He whisked a loaded plate from the counter, placing a still-hot breakfast by her place at the table. He then proceeded to pour Ginny a glass of pumpkin juice and a cup of tea as she, dumbfoundedly, took the well-appointed seat.

She was just about to set her fork to the food, when she blinked. Staring right back at her were two sunny eggs and a healthy serving of fine rashers, all arranged about the plate like a cheery face. Breakfast with a smile! The improvised art may not have been the precise smile she had most hoped to share her meal with, but she was touched by the gesture.

Typical Harry!

For the remainder of breakfast, the actress within Ginny smiled and laughed at all of the best lines in Sirius's collection of 'silly Buckbeak' stories. Unfortunately, the amusing tales were completely lost on her... because she'd still not recovered from that offhand comment.

Something about a godson and his princess...



Yesterday's pile of assigned readings had been rearranged to make room for yet another volume – a dusty, cracked tome, adorned with strange runes. Innocuous books had been stacked around it to conceal its troubling title. 'A Historie of Magicke Moste Dark'.

With material like that, the day's studies were likely to be disturbing and interesting. Yet, by late morning, the books still lay unopened. For the time being, Harry was using his solitude for another purpose.

He was staring into the blankness of a large, flat sheet of parchment he had found inside the escritoire. Minutes had passed with almost no motion.

Finally, he dipped a quill into one of the wells and tapped away the excess ink. Beginning with slow deliberation, then growing confident, he ran the tip smoothly across the page, creating a dark satisfying stroke.

Other marks followed – smooth curves, neat cross-hatches, sharp angles and intriguing little flecks. Another world began to take shape in front of him.

After a while, Harry placed the quill in its holder and pushed back from the table. He rose from his seat and gazed at what lay before him. A curious frown alighted on his face, almost as if he was not quite certain where the picture had come from.

What lay before him had meticulous, elegant expression. The rendering was perfectly clear, even if only two people in the world would understand what it meant.

“Heavens Harry.” A gentle breath stirred across his cheek. “It's breathtaking! Look how you captured their faces in the moonlight!”

Harry hadn't heard Ginny's approach, yet for some reason he did not startle. Instead, he sighed, turning regretfully to his closest friend. “You weren't supposed to see this yet. I meant it for tomorrow but, well... sorry.”

Puzzled by both the statement and apology, Ginny angled her head; waiting for him to explain.

“I'm sorry Ginny.” Harry looked away. “First I was distracted, then busy, then imprisoned here in Grimmauld...” He paused a long moment, before exhaling. “So, this is the only gift I have for your birthday tomorrow.”

Ginny stared at him wide-eyed. And then suddenly she was no longer staring at him, because she had lunged forward to squeeze every ounce of air from Harry's chest, as only a Weasley can.

“Thank you thank you thank you.” Her whispers were ragged like a scratched phonograph.

“Yh... ...hm?”

Ginny pulled back to let him breathe. She sniffled a little, and dried a corner of her eye with her sleeve. “You know, with all this insanity, I don't think even Mum and Dad remembered my birthday, but I honestly don't care.” She grinned widely. “Because this is the best one ever!”

“Er, you mean tomorrow is... or will be...?” Harry scratched his head.

“No silly.” Ginny touched his cheek. “August eleventh is just another day – maybe a cake and silly song, and maybe not. But August tenth is the day when my best friend ever gave me the best gift ever.”

Harry responded with a goofy smile.

Ginny beamed at him, then angled back toward the escritoire, studying the sketch of the princess and the Publican embracing above the moonlit river. “I do have a question, though?”

Harry nodded.

“Where did you learn to draw like this?”

“Well, you see...” Harry pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I actually, uh, don't have any idea...”



“Hmm... This might be useful.” Hermione traced her finger carefully along a page in one of the older, more decrepit volumes she had removed from the top shelf.

Harry and Ginny put down their own books to listen.

“Let's see now...” She squinted a moment. “This will only be a rough translation because I'm not very good with German.”

Ginny rolled her eyes. Harry smirked.

“Okay, here's the general gist.” Hermione cleared her throat. “'We know from comparing the charters of other distinguished societies, that they share not only the ideals, but most likely the same origins as our own Gesellschaft für Magische Säuberung...'” She paused for a moment to think. “Er, I believe that translates as 'Society for Magical Cleansing'.”

Ginny and Harry nodded.

Hermione's finger traced along the passage as she continued. “'Other societies most closely mirroring our noble objectives include the English 'Order of Death Eaters', the Italian 'Federazione della Purezza', and 'La Flamme Purificatrice' from France. Our scholars have concluded that each of these organizations likely descends from 'The Glorious Order of Letum', a courageous defender of civilized Magical Society, founded more than one thousand six hundred years ago.'

Hermione paused to glance at the volume's cover. “This book was published in 1645, so this 'Order of Letum' must have originated in Roman times. Does that help you at all?”

“Blimey!” Harry looked at Hermione for an inscrutable moment, then fell silent, gazing into the distance.

Ginny studied Harry for a moment, then turned to Hermione. “So Death Eaters were around in the seventeenth century, and had their origins a lot earlier?”

“It would appear that way.” Hermione nodded.

“Interesting.” Ginny drew a breath through her teeth. “Some filth is ancient filth, yeah? I always thought they were just cronies groveling to Tom Riddle.”

Hermione looked at her curiously. “You use that name for... you know... ?”

“A name is just a name.” Ginny shook her head dismissively. “Dumbledore is forever badgering the Order to get over their silly phobia.”

“Yes, that's true.” Pursing her lips, Hermione gazed at the window. “Speaking of Professor Dumbledore, I'm sure that he or Professor Lupin would know far more than I about how the Death Eaters evolved, but my own guess is that they swelled and dwindled through the years. If Professor Lupin is correct that Dark Magic is strongest when the insular elite feels most threatened, then perhaps the current crop of Death Eaters emerged from the same mid-century tensions that Grindelwald thrived in. Regardless, I suspect they now bear far more allegiance to, er... Riddle, than to any ancient tradition. Harry, what do you think? You've met more of them than we have.”

“Huh? Oh, right.” Harry pulled himself back from deeper ponderings. Frowning, he took a moment to silently replay the conversation. “Uh yeah, I think it's safe to say that most modern Death Eaters are spineless stooges. As far whether Voldemort co-opted an existing group, or merely recycled the name, I don't think it matters much. What most interests me is how much Snake-face knows about the ancient origins.”

“Ancient origins?” Hermione stared at him, beginning to fit tricky puzzle pieces together. “You're curious what Voldemort might know of the Order of Letum? And you also believe the cult may have played some role in the Iceni Rebellion?”

Ginny gave Harry an uncomfortable glance, but Harry nodded, conveying that he would answer.

“Yes, and perhaps.” Harry turned back to Hermione. “I think it's probable the cult was at least peripheral to the rebellion. I'm hazy on the details but I also believe that, around the time of the Rebellion, something else happened. Something with major bearing on Voldemort's future success. Or his failure.”

“Something?” Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Could you be more specific? Any hints or details that might help us narrow down what to search for?”

“Not yet. I think we'll have wait a bit longer to see...”

Harry caught himself, realising it would sound stupid to suggest 'waiting to see'  something that had taken place many centuries ago.

“No, Hermione,” Ginny broke in. “It's difficult to explain, but Harry and I just need more time to think about this.”

Hermione's narrow eyes darted between Ginny and Harry, then she shook her head. “Have you any idea how frustrating the two of you are?”

“Yes, I suppose so.” Harry grinned sheepishly.

“Uh huh.” Ginny offered a small contrite smile. “Sorry.”



If circumspection is a sin, then Harry and Ginny had to do penance.

After supper, Hermione browbeat them into joining in a gobstones tournament that the twins were organising for that evening. It would be 'good cover', Hermione had argued. It should help convince the others that Ginny and Harry were their regular 'normal' selves, and not up to something intensely secretive that others might otherwise feel compelled to poke their noses into.

Hermione's missive was not greeted with enthusiasm. There were still lots of books be to scoured, and they were running out of time to research before the Ministry appointment, but they reluctantly agreed.

As the tournament unfolded, Ginny nonetheless proved to all that she was a tough competitor in the somewhat revolting game. By the time she faced off against Fred in the tourney final, she had not been gobbed a single time.

Harry on the other hand, had required three trips to the loo to wash off the foul liquid, and had been the second player eliminated. While others continued to cheer and jeer for the finalists late into the evening, he found himself sitting quietly in the corner, gazing into the fire... feeling anxious, though he wasn't sure why.

Occasionally, Hermione took her eyes off the inane competition to steal furtive glances at her friend, wondering what exactly Harry was thinking about, sitting quietly by the fire. She also pondered whether his 'thinking' was somehow aimed at resolving how an ancient mystery could relate to Voldemort's supposed advantages for some future conflict?

Over the course of the next while, Hermione noticed Harry silently tuning out the chaotic room; gradually slipping into something like an open-eyed trance. And that was then it suddenly occurred to Hermione...

Dreams!

Hermione recalled how Harry had experienced terrible, disturbing nightmares in the past – some of which would seem eerily similar or relevant to frightening real events that he couldn't have possibly experienced or even known about.

Was Harry having strange dreams again?

Hermione frowned thoughtfully.

The one thing that the 'dream' hypothesis did not explain was why Ginny seemed to be so intimately involved in all of his mysterious deliberations. That part did not make sense...



Ginny, meanwhile, was not dreaming. She was seriously wrapped up in her assigned chore of acting unseriously. She had never been a huge fan of gobstones, but things were definitely going her way this evening. Half an hour into a fiercely fought final, Fred was playing with his usual intensity, but she still had the upper hand. If she could just hold him off a while longer, she could probab...

A shiver ran through her. Subconsciously, she slid a hand into her pocket, touched the brooch, and felt a deep, bracing chill.

Ginny glanced quickly about the assembled faces, all bantering, grinning and laughing... except for Hermione. The older girl was frowning and stealing a glance to the far corner of the room, by the fire... toward Harry.

Ginny herself twisted around for a moment to catch a quick glimpse of her best friend. Muscles in Harry's face were tense... and was that a sheen of perspiration on his...?

Splattt!!

“My point!” Fred's fist pumped jubilantly. Ron and George hooted loudly, sniggering at the gob running down their sister's cheek.

Antsy in a way that had nothing to do with the match, Ginny turned back to the gobstones circle. Dabbing the slime from her face with an old kerchief, her mind raced. Then she raised her hand. “Time out, please.”

“Ho ho!” George grinned. “L'il Gin-Gin's feeling the heat!”

“Time out approved.” Fred leaned back, looking quite pleased. “But everyone keep an eye out that she doesn't try to slip old 'Sulphur Spray ' back onto her pile. That stone's illegal.”

Ginny, however, went nowhere near her pile. Instead she shuffled over several paces on knees, angled her head towards Hermione to audibly whisper, “Can you go get some tea on, luv?”

In the buzz that followed, however, nobody but Hermione heard her faint coda. “Take Harry. I'll be quick.”

“Ginny's already ordering tea!” Ron smirked. “She thinks she'll take you down fast, Fred!”

“You bet!” Ginny replied with a wide counterfeit grin... then she proceeded to calculate the least suspicious way to lose quickly.



“Okay Harry.” Hermione brooked no dispute as she handed him a steaming cup. “No more evasion. No excuses. What's the matter?”

“I, uh, don't feel very well.” Harry raised the cup to his lips, absently forgetting to add milk or even blow on it. “Oi!”

“Well thank you for enlightening me.” Hermione rolled her eyes, pouring him a glass of cold water for his burnt mouth. “Care to elaborate a bit?”

“I... uh...” Harry fidgeted, drinking the water.

“Were you having a bad dream?” Hermione's pitch rose slightly.

Harry stared at her for a long moment, then shook his head. “Not yet.” He took another drink of water, then cautiously re-attempted the tea.

“Not yet??” Hermione blinked at the odd but earnest answer. “Are you, uhhh, planning to?”

“Planning to have a bad dream?” The corners of Harry's mouth twitched slightly before seriousness reasserted itself. “No Hermione, I'm not planning any of this. But sometimes dreams come... and sometimes I can sort of sense when they're likely to hit.”

“What sort of dream...?” Hermione began asking, before hesitating over how to phrase a rather strange question.

“I don't know – I haven't had it yet.” Harry shrugged in a matter-of-fact manner.

“Harry!” Ginny whipped into the kitchen, closing the door. “Are you okay?” Unconsciously taking his hand, she slid into the seat next to him, studying his face.

Harry's gaze flickered from the pretty hand grasping his own, across to several sacrificial gobstone smears trailing down the girl's jumper, to the wide-eyed look of concern etched in her face.

He smiled... for the moment grateful to just live for the moment.

It took several seconds for the warmth of Harry's smile to register with Ginny, but then it did and, hesitantly, a small smile of her own formed to acknowledge a moment of special friendship... then the worry reasserted. She squeezed his hand. “Are you okay, Harry?”

“Right now, I'm more than okay.” Harry looked weary but content. “I'm sitting here with two wonderful friends. No lame jokes or tiresome horseplay. No more bleeding gobstones...”

Hermione laughed. Ginny's eyes darted down to the sticky accretions on her jumper and she groaned, reaching for a napkin.

“Anyway,” Harry continued, “I'm okay for now. I may be run through the ringer a bit tonight, but these are only dreams, right?”

Ginny and Hermione both regarded him skeptically.

“I'll be fine.” His tone was sincere. “If you're up early tomorrow morning, then let's maybe talk it over. With luck, hopefully we'll learn something.”

“I don't know, Harry.” Ginny chewed her lip. “I feel like I should stay with you tonight. I think it could help to...”

“No.” Hermione waved dismissively. “You've made fine progress today to throw jackels off the scent, but there's no way we can discretely arrange for you two to spend another night together, and... well I can't think of anything else we could try, other than maybe asking Sirius for some Dreamless Sleep potion.”

“No Hermione.” Harry shook his head. “The dream has to happen; I'm certain of it. I doubt it'll be pleasant, but I think we'd be far worse off if I tried to avoid it.”

“Very well then.” Hermione frowned. “Ginny, I think we'll just have to trust Harry to get himself through tonight, and we'll be there for him in the morning. Is that okay?”

Ginny pursed her lips silently for a long time, but did not quite disagree.

“A special pleasure to see you again, my dear Publican.” The heavy, balding Roman clapped Harry on the shoulder, oozing a too-wide smile. “Such a fine fortune that, by merest chance, I should be called here to Camboricum on the very same day that you should choose to visit. May I offer you more wine?”

“No thank you, esteemed Procurator.” Harry stepped toward the doorway. “I must not take any more of your valued time. As long as you can assure me that a messenger has been sent to the Proconsul notifying him of this breach of treaty, I shall leave you to your important responsibilities, and return myself to my own.”

“Treaty?” A flicker of vexation crossed the Procurator's face, replaced immediately by his unnervingly effusive grin. “I'm not aware of any treaty with the Iceni, per se, but do rest assured that your message has already been sent. I am most confident that we will be quickly able to resolve this foolish little squabble to your most exacting satisfaction!”

“Now, I bid you, stay!” The man pushed a goblet toward Harry's hand, splashing rich, dark wine. “Tell me some stories of our lands to the east. A merry folk, these barbarous Iceni?”

“They are sober, just and wise.” Harry sidestepped the goblet, moving closer to the door. “Now, if you may excuse my departure, I have need of...”

“You have no needs that I cannot meet, my cherished Peuerellius.” The Procurator clasped Harry's hand. “In fact, for your sole comfort, I have obtained a ravishing young maiden of the Cantii. You must come meet her!” The man's fleshy lips gleamed luridly in the torch light. “You shall swoon under her pleasures! Her skin is white like the virgin Appenine snows of winter; her eyes are the brightest of sapphires, her...”

“No!” Harry tore his hand away. “My sincerest regrets, your honour, but I have urgent responsibilities in the name of Rome and Britannia.”

Harry swept through the door and out into the dusky night... but a final surreptitious glance back through the closing door revealed the Procurator scurrying toward a rear chamber of his quarters.

Anxiety suddenly spiking, Harry disillusioned himself. He turned from the pelagus platea running through the center of town, and instead made for the muddy paths skirting the aft edges of the many military dwellings and pens.

The Publican's quarters in Camboricum were located on the north outskirts of the military district. He spent little time there, preferring to dwell along the Roman roads and the open countryside on the eastern frontier, mostly leaving his official residence in the hands of two trusted servants of Catuvellauni heritage. In his brief conversations with the pair early this afternoon, he had been informed that, several times earlier that day, Roman soldiers had tarried nearby, observing the building... and one had stopped in late afternoon to politely inquire if the master of the residence was expected home soon.

None of that boded well.

Drawing level with an alley with a view to the platea, Harry heard and then briefly saw, two horsemen race past.

That also did not bode well... yet he continued stealthily on his way.

By the northern fringe of the district, the buildings along the platea were quite sparse. Approaching within two hundred feet of his residence, he was able, even by the low light, to see clear across to his property. No lamps were lit within his quarters; nobody appeared to be on the grounds, but... there!   On the street nearby, he spied a slight movement in the darkness.

Edging cautiously closer, he was able to distinguish the shape of a single horse, tied to a post in deep shadow, its breath rising in ghostly puffs through the cold night air. Squinting, he detected a second shape as well – a tall man clad all in black, apparently watching the building, waiting, perfectly motionless.

Unease, even some undefined fear, prickled Harry's skin. Instinct urged him to turn away, but he somehow felt a need, a compulsion, to learn who the dark horseman might be. After all, surely the true reason for this dream was to learn deep secrets hidden far back in time...

Harry's left foot raised and moved toward the mysterious figure, landing silently on the soft ground. His right foot did the same. Step after cautious step, Harry moved toward the man. Approaching close enough to pause and observe more closely, Harry slowed... but could not stop!

Straining to halt his traitorous legs, Harry wrestled hard against his straining foot, forced it to the ground... and snapped a brittle twig!

The tall horseman whipped toward Harry, gazing across in the darkness. He threw back his black hood and stepped out of the shadow. Ice flooded Harry's every vein as the man smiled.

Calm, vaguely amused, the rider's face...

Could not possibly be...!

Had to be...?

... the spitting image of Harry Potter!

The cold dark eyes pierced effortlessly through Harry's disillusionment spell.

“You should not try to hide from us father.” The cold face exuded eerie charm.

Harry was just scrabbling for his wand when he was hit in the back with a stunner. Barely clinging to consciousness, he glimpsed a second face hovering above him, waving a wand to cancel Harry's disillusionment charm. The Latin incantation, “Invenias qui honorem,” echoed hollow in Harry's mind as everything faded.



Harry was numb. Detached. He tried instinctively to touch his face... but discovered that he could find neither a face, nor a hand to touch it with.

Opening non-existent eyes, he gazed around... someplace dim. It was not as dark as the cold Camboricum night. There were torches flickering from oddly carved brackets set about stone walls. A glimmer of twilight was beginning to show in tall Gothic windows.

It took several minutes, but Harry recognized this place... sort of.

In this dream, Harry seemed to floating, disembodied, about a room that resembled the Great Hall at Hogwarts. However, the Hogwarts had never sported gleaming, pitch-black mahogany furniture trimmed in green velvet. It also did not have...

Bloody hell!!

Harry's non-corporeal stomach wrenched as though stricken with a dagger.

Skulls!

The brackets holding the flickering torches were not odd carvings. On closer inspection, each was made from the leering remains of a human head.

Then the distant pulses began.

Th-th-th-th-thud... Th-th-th-th-Thud... Th-th-th-th-THUD... Th-th-th-th-THUD!

The noise steadily grew – a heartbeat drawing inexorably closer and closer... until the sound resolved itself into a procession. Scores on scores of black-cloaked, hooded children and youth marched into the Hall in totalitarian unison, arrayed from smallest to tallest.

The procession fanned out across the Hall into a broad, multi-tiered semi-circle – smaller children forming the inner ring and taller youth spanning the periphery.

Everyone came to a halt. The last students to enter reached their appointed positions, and the entire assembly went stone silent; rigid...

Moments stretching into minutes. Nothing happened. No move nor rustle; not a single cough, murmur or giggle.

Harry was horrified. Disembodied, he had an impotent urge to yell or shout; anything to fill the ghastly vacuum. He wanted to shout, 'Hey! You're children! Move! Run! Laugh and shout! Do something!!'

But he too remained frozen. All was transfixed until...

SSWISSSSSSH!!

The right arm of every child and youth thrust out. Hundreds of black wands extended, like spines of an inverted sea urchin, pointing to the center of the semicircle.

“Good morning children!”

The thin, reedy voice chilled Harry in vapours of despair. Amidst the horrifying children, he had not noticed the emergence of a massive black throne at the far end of the Hall, on the raised dais where the staff table should have been. He had not observed a vile figure seated high above his subjects, in repugnant ostentation.

GOOD MORNING OUR LORD SAVIOUR AND PROTECTOR OF THE PURE, ” sang the haunting sound of every child's voice raised in flawless, inhuman unanimity.

“On this fine morning, after your night of diligent labours, after your year of dedication, I have gathered you all, my dear students of The Lord Voldemort School of Magical Purity, to induct our esteemed Graduate Class of 1998 in the manner of our forefathers.”

OH THANK YOU, OUR LORD SAVIOUR AND PROTECTOR OF THE PURE!

“Yes, children, you are wise to thank me. Yet I also bestow a token of my own gratitude, to each of you, as fellow protectors of the pure.”

BY YOUR GRACE, LORD SAVIOUR AND PROTECTOR OF THE PURE!

“Indeed children, I see you have all drawn your wands.”

FOR SO WE MAY DO YOUR BIDDING, OUR BENEVOLENT LORD SAVIOUR AND PROTECTOR OF THE PURE!

“Ah, very good.” The repugnant voice was greased with saccharine self-satisfaction. “Then on this fine morning we together shall sanctify our hallowed walls with one more torch, to forever burn that which was once impure.”

The entire assembly fell into deep, expectant silence, before Voldemort once again raised his voice.

“Prefects! Bring forth the impure!”

For the barest moment, Harry glimpsed four stern young men and women. Dressed in black and green silk, they were entering the Hall through a high archway, solemnly levitating the prostrate body of an old woman, clothed only in a ragged white sheet...

With neither wand nor body, unable to even contemplate the obscene atrocity to come, Harry knew only one possible recourse.

“STOP!!!”

The horrific scene extinguished.

Gasping, Harry glanced frantically about his Grimmauld Place bedroom. In near darkness, his anguished eyes somehow found the frightened but resolute face of Ginny Weasley.

He stared blankly, half-paralysed, until the love and concern in her eyes tore away the remnants of his dream wall, and he collapsed into her arms, sobbing.

“It's okay Harry.” Her grip tightened gently around him. “The dream is done. You're safe. You're with me.”

“I don't exist, Ginny,” Harry mumbled disconsolately. “I've never existed. I can't save anyone. I'm powerless, because now I'll never even be born...”

“You're right here in my arms.” Ginny tenderly stroked the back of his neck. “You exist, Harry James Potter. You're as good and as strong as ever. The dreams are over, and you're right here, holding me.”

“Bloody hell??” A disheveled masculine form surged from the other bed. “What do you effing think you're doing in my bloody room?!”

Two large feet thumped hard on the wooden floor and the tall frame of Ron Weasley loomed over them, shaking a dangerously sparking wand. “Ginny, you've got two stinking seconds to get your wretched litt...”

“Stupefy!”

Ron crumpled to the floor revealing, to Harry's and Ginny's bewildered eyes, the unusually sober face of Sirius Black.

Sirius's gaze darted from Harry and Ginny locked in their embrace on the bed... to Ron twitching on the floor... and finally over his shoulder to Hermione who had followed him into the room and was standing several paces back wearing a shocked expression.

Sirius exhaled deeply. “Okay kids.” He put away his wand and scratched his head. “Raise your hand, whoever who wants to explain to me what the hell is going on.”




Arretez! Stoppez vous! That's the end of the chapter!

What follows below is an old unimproved version that I simply can't get rid of. I've tried! Please skip along to chapter 6.







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Chapter 5. A Godson and a Princess (August 10-11, 1995)

Once again, Harry found himself alone in the Grimmauld Place kitchen shortly after sunrise. Unlike the past several days, however, he was neither looking nor feeling particularly dynamic. He still went about the motions of breakfast preparation, thus ensuring that a household that had quickly begun to take his services for granted would still awaken today to a hearty meal. However, they might have to do without any cheerful whistling or self-effacing smiles... because Harry was lacking a certain spark.

Harry wasn't regretting his commitment to breakfast. Since voluntarily assuming morning meal responsibilities, he had grown very fond of the lively exchanges that only seemed possible while the Grimmauld's most garrulous (and least cerebral) occupants were all still asleep. With most of the day monopolized by talk of house cleaning (Molly's favourite topic), Quidditch, pranks and embarrassing bodily functions (the twins), or how bloody useless everything and everyone else was (Ron), Harry found the early morning hour to be an interesting and refreshing change of pace.

Harry had been most pleasantly surprised by Hermione's company. Her subtle warmth and wit seemed to peak during their little morning discourses, before dropping beneath the austere shell she wore when things got stressful or chaotic. Harry also enjoyed Remus Lupin's friendly demeanour, extensive knowledge and gentle wisdom.

Yes, these little breakfast table perks were reliable and would be coming soon enough, and that was enough to bring a small smile to Harry's face.

But not a grin.

After cracking some eggs into a heated pan in which rashers were just beginning to softly sizzle, Harry took a long pull on the cup of thick, dark coffee that was sustaining him. He gazed at the two chairs he and Ginny had occupied early yesterday morning, and sighed at the sight of how empty they seemed.

Harry silently berated himself for being weak, but the fact of the matter was that his emotions were a muddled mess. With last night's dreams still fresh in his mind, he had awoken to a surge of vicarious hope for the Publican and Lanossa who somehow seemed to have begun to recognize their feelings for each other. Unfortunately, there was also a sinking regret for the same two characters, whom fate seemed bound to pull apart. There were other, intangible pressures squeezing him in various ways but, above all, he found himself wrestling with a nagging uncertainty about how he was supposed to feel about... how he ought to act around... the girl who was on his mind more than anyone else these days.

As a natural loner, Harry tried not to depend on others, yet he could no longer deny that he was starting to rely on Ginny in ways that he had never before expected of any friend.

Friendship had rarely been a source of unconditional comfort to Harry in the past, but spending time with her during the past few days had transformed him. Her spirit had gotten him back on his feet and helped him conquer his harrowing depression.

More than anything, this new beginning with Ginny was a chance to say 'never again'. Never again squander an entire month anguishing over a horrific past, or his future would be no better. Never again overlook the happiness ready to be discovered in the present.

Ginny's company was so fun and exciting that he'd barely had time to contemplate the feelings that he held for his new best friend, but now the quiet of the early morning kitchen was setting his mind loose to wander.

Harry somehow understood that the sensations Ginny inspired in his chest were unlike anything he'd ever experienced. There was none of the queasy skittishness he vaguely recalled having once felt around Cho Chang. Instead, it all seemed so simple and natural...

Indeed it probably was simple and natural, except when he let himself think about things. Once he started doing that, everything began to look much more ponderously complicated...

In any normal world, there was nothing healthier and more satisfying than enjoying the company of someone who also enjoys your company, right? But the world of Harry Potter was not normal. However much he loved to talk to Ginny Weasley; no matter how he wished he was sitting across from her at this very moment, listening to her calm assurances, Harry could not shake the guilty concern that his friendship might be the worst thing to ever happen to her.

What if it was his fault she had become ensnared in his dreams?

Dreams... Harry's thoughts all seemed to begin and end with them.

Harry Potter was no stranger to dreams. He regarded them both fascination and trepidation. Last year, they had afforded him some unexpected glimpses into Voldemort's machinations. During the nadir of his recent depression, Harry had decided that a careful reading of those dreams might have prevented the horrific tragedy in Little Hangleton. He had now finally resolved not to torment himself any further over past failures, but he wasn't above using them as motivation. Never again would he overlook any potential insight presented in his dreams.

But what did it mean for someone to be sharing those dreams?

Harry was baffled. How should he react to Ginny's no-nonsense embrace of this affliction? Some of these visions had been heinous and demoralizing; how could she still pledge to stand by him in a struggle that could cost them both their lives?!

Harry could accept that she wanted to help. He had been grateful for those other people who courageously stood with him in the past, but nobody had ever come to him under conditions so vague, bewildering and utterly perilous as this!

And yet Harry knew that he couldn't turn Ginny away. On top of that, although he couldn't possibly expect anything beyond what she had already offered freely and determinedly, he knew he wanted something more.

He simply wished she was here; wished she were speaking to him in that lively, melodious voice of hers...

Harry closed his eyes, exhaling slowly and deeply for a moment. He straightened himself, began to tend the eggs, and tried not to spend every minute hoping that he'd hear her voice...

“Good morning, Harry.”

The not-quite-melodious female voice that jolted him out of his thoughts was, once again... only Hermione.

“G'morning!” Harry manufactured a smile that, although undoubtedly not glowing, might hopefully conceal his disappointment.

Hermione examined him carefully. “How are you this morning?”

Harry could tell by her tone that the question had nothing to do with small talk. He stared at her for a moment, weighing the relative merits of lying. Deciding that he didn't have the energy to hold a smokescreen over a friend with x-ray vision, he opted to be blunt. “I'm actually feeling rather crappy, thank you. No, I do not feel like talking about it. And, to blatantly change the subject, how would you like your sodding eggs?”

Hermione fixed him with a glare, but it softened. A moment later, she was laughing.

“What?!” Harry's left eyebrow shot up past his fringe.

“Harry Potter is back.” She wore a distinctly un-Hermione-like smirk. “You should have seen the odd duck we've been stuck with the last few days!”

Harry couldn't help chuckling at her audacity. “Since when does Hermione Granger wound people with insufferable wit?” He sighed tragically. “If you don't bring the old schoolmistress back, then I'll bring back the odd duck.”

“Go ahead.” Hermione's eyes twinkled. “He was actually sort of cute.”

“Ack! Schoolmistress Granger would never have said anything like that!” Harry gazed in mock-horror for a moment, then suddenly recalled his duties, darting back to the stove. He huffed and began to attack the pan with a spatula. “Okay then, because you distracted me, you're officially getting your eggs scrambled.”

“Whatever.” Hermione shrugged. “So then. Still feeling lousy?” She gave him a tentative smile.

The corners of Harry's mouth curled a bit. “I'm okay. I've had better mornings, but I'll be okay, Thank you for asking.”

“Would it help to know that I'm certain Ginny would like to be down here with you.”

Harry paused for a moment in his cooking, then shrugged. “She has the right to sleep in from time to time.” Harry resumed his labours, hoping that his statement sounded more magnanimous than he felt.

“I agree,” Hermione responded, “which is why I stopped her alarm this morning before it went off.”

“Huh?” Harry muttered, turning to his friend with a quizzical expression.

“Ginny's not really a morning person, Harry,” Hermione explained. “The last few days, she's been adjusting a lot of her ways in order to can spend more time with you, working on... this research of yours. I told her last night that I felt she ought to scale back some of those changes.”

“I beg your pardon?” Harry inquired somewhat darkly.

“Don't be angry, Harry,” Hermione responded quickly. “I'm not quite certain what you two are up to, but I strongly suspect that it's very important to both of you, and my instincts are somehow telling me to support it...”

“Which is why you find it necessary to interfere?” Harry surmised with a raised eyebrow.

“No, you thick oaf, listen to me!” Hermione instructed, brandishing an irritable finger at him. “I've already told Ginny, and now I'm telling you — please try to be more subtle! For your own good! If you're truly committed to this... project... then the last thing you want are a bunch of hyperactive Weasleys blundering into it like a battalion of well-intentioned wrecking balls!”

“Oh,” Harry replied contritely. Silently scooping eggs and bacon onto plates, he thought it over for a few moments, then chuckled.

Yes...? ” Hermione inquired suspiciously.

“Great metaphor,” he answered, turning toward her with a grin. “Normally I'd be a lot more stiff-necked over this, but you made me laugh.”

Hermione tittered slightly. “Not bad, yeah?” she responded with a genuine smile. “If there's one benefit from being mashed in here with all these numpties, it's that they inspire me to new heights of acerbity.”

“I have no idea what 'acerbity' means,” Harry admitted with a wink as he served her plate, “but I couldn't agree more!”

“Ah!” Lupin proclaimed as he walked into the kitchen. “No better way to start the day than with a note of sunny consensus!”

“Erm,” Harry replied, turning quickly toward his former Professor. “Seeing as you're in such a good mood, is it okay if we don't tell you what we were just agreeing about?”

Lupin raised an eyebrow then chuckled. “Suit yourself,” he answered. “So, have you made any progress up in the library?”

“A few more potentially relevant questions,” Harry responded, “but in general, no, we don't have much more insight than we did before.”

“Well, I have no idea whether this has any bearing on your thesis at all,” Lupin mused, “but I ran across a bit of trivia yesterday as I was thumbing my way through a new NEWT-level Defence Against Dark Arts text. It struck me as an interesting little coincidence...”

“What was it?” Harry asked with interest.

“While reading about the origins of European dark magic, I learned that the first recorded description of the Imperius curse was by Roman wizards during the reign of Emperor Nero.”

“Nero?” Hermione exclaimed. “He was emperor at the time of the Iceni revolt!”

“Yes, exactly,” Harry agreed. “In fact, the Imperius curse crossed my mind just yesterday as a possible sabotage tool. That really is a brilliant little coincidence — thank you, Remus!”

“Do you think the Imperius curse might have played a role in Queen Boadicea's defeat, Harry?” Hermione asked.

Harry shook his head thoughtfully. “Maybe not directly, but I wouldn't be surprised if it may have somehow contributed to the political instability that led to the rebellion in the first place.”

“That was what I was wondering,” Lupin affirmed. “It occurred to me that those terrible misunderstandings bespoke a level of misgovernance that was rare in the early empire. But what if they weren't purely accidental?”

“Hmmm...” Harry mused, gazing off distantly for a long moment, neither nodding, nor shaking his head.

“The chapter I read was mainly focused on the origins of the modern conflict between dark and light magic. The book claims that social pressures in the emerging empire may have played a key role,” Lupin continued. “Do you you recall the basic motivations of light and dark magic?”

Hermione nodded. “Light magic is traditionally practised for the greater good of society, while dark magic often arises in order to intimidate or persecute people that wizards deem to be inferior or threatening, or both.”

“Precisely!” Lupin agreed. “So as the Romans grew their empire, the Muggle administration strategically opted to grant their conquered subjects full imperial citizenship, with all its incumbent privileges. To the magical community, this meant that their small, insular society suddenly multiplied dramatically in population over the course of a few short generations. Some communities were easy to absorb — especially wizards in the Mediterranean region whose practices employed the same Greek traditions that the Romans descended from, but others were too different for the Roman magical elite to tolerate. When confronted by northerners like the Druids, the culture shock proved overwhelming.”

Harry and Hermione both nodded in grim fascination.

“The most immediate consequence,” Lupin resumed, “was the formation of dark cults sworn to protect the magical purity of their own little society. But there was a second, long-term effect that reminds me of the old adage — 'necessity is the mother of invention '.”

“New spells?” Harry inquired.

“Quite so!” Lupin agreed. “The paranoia and hatred festering in these cults toward the barbarians reached a level that spurred great creativity. Many terrible new hexes and curses were devised between about 50 B.C.E and 150 A.D. I already mentioned the Imperius, but the Cruciatus curse also came from that era; probably a bit earlier during Caligula's reign.”

“Fascinating,” Harry muttered; frowning as he reached across to serve Lupin his breakfast. “Did the book provide any descriptions of these cults? Any names?”

Lupin shook his head. “No, sorry, I don't recall reading any specifics like that, but, well...” he mused, then paused for a long moment before adding uneasily, “that's probably something you can find out for yourself.”

“Oh? How?” Harry asked eagerly.

Lupin opened his mouth to speak, then froze.

Through the kitchen door, they heard the approaching sounds of Molly arguing with Arthur about something as the two Weasley parents made their way downstairs to breakfast.

Reflexively, Hermione gestured to Lupin, urging him to answer quickly.

With a furtive final glance toward the doorway, Lupin leaned in close to Harry and Hermione. “Library upstairs,” he whispered. “The upper shelf at the back has dozens of books on dark magic!”


With every hour that the currach traveled down river, the tugging sensation from brooch hidden within Ginny's shift grew a bit weaker... but the ache that she had felt upon parting was still clear within its subtle song. For now, however, she resolved to push the faint beckoning call out of her thoughts. Instead, she fixed her eyes singularly upon the river ahead, lest a submerged branch or rock once again jolt the queen from her dark thoughts.

The departure from camp that morning had been wordless. Heanua had not spoken to anyone in days. The queen and the Publican felt no desire for further speech. And to Lanossa, the previous night had conveyed, wordlessly, everything that could be said... upon parting from the man she loved.

Stung by the teeth of a glacial north wind, Ginny cursed silently, and propelled them steadily downstream.

In the early afternoon of that cheerless day, after traversing a wide bend, the river opened up into a broad expanse that she assumed was the confluence of the Great and Little Ouse Rivers. From here, the merged rivers would meander their way to the sea, whereas Iceni settlements lay up the smaller river to the southeast. Instinctively Ginny steered right, toward their homeland.

“Stop girl!” the queen shouted, stirring suddenly from her shrouded reverie. “Where do you think you're taking us?”

“Home, mother,” Ginny replied factually. And out of the accursed wind, she added silently.

“Be not a fool!” Boadicea excoriated. “Did you not hear me say that I had need of wands for myself and your sister. A great wand seller dwells in the woods to the west of the river, about eight leagues down stream. Steer us there,” she commanded.

“But those are Coritani lands, Mother,” Ginny protested. “They are no friends of ours!”

“True,” her mother muttered grimly. “But they despise the Romans even more.”

Without further argument, Ginny turned them back onto a downstream course. After the queen had once again pulled a heavy blanket around herself and huddled into the bottom of the currach, Ginny drew her shawl tight against the growing gale and scanned the broader, calmer waterway. In the weariness of someone who had slept little overnight, she let her mind drift... and opened her eyes to the greyish mid-morning haze of Grimmauld place.


Eleven o'bloody clock?! “ Ginny raged, shaking the flimsy timepiece that had been lurking guilty on her night stand. “I needed to be up hours ago!” she seethed, bursting from bed and indiscriminately kicking objects that cluttered the floor nearby. “Less than two days to prepare for the Ministry, and I lay about all bleeding morning like some shiftless piker!”

Wrapped in her bathrobe, Ginny's thundercloud stormed its way into the corridor and onto the stairway.

“Har!” Ron barked as she passed him. “The princess better hope there's a pea under her mattress, because there sure as hell won't be any breakfast left this late.”

“Naff off!” she declared succinctly, not wasting the barest glance at him. For a moment, she considered simply heading straight up to third floor, but a sharp hunger pang jabbed her midsection, making it obvious that concentration would be futile without at least an old crust to sustain her.

Steering herself into the kitchen, she did indeed find an old crust. He was sitting at the table, nursing something dark and sludgy.

“G'morning Princess,” Sirius proclaimed with a wink.

“Next person to call me that is going to be mopping blood off the ceiling,” Ginny snarled... but she instantly regretting it. With a look of contrition, she turned to apologise, but instead burst out laughing at the sight of the rogue cowering, halfway beneath the table.

“Sorry, sorry — the word was stuck in my head!” Sirius pleaded from his comically timourous crouch. “Just finished badgering my thick godson — gave him a right talking to! Told him he needs to spend more time embracing what's right and less time fixing what's wrong. Reminded the dope that life will only give him this one chance to find his true princess.”

“You believe that? Don't be ridic...” Ginny's protest faltered as her foggy brain began trying to parse Sirius's words.

Oblivious to the strange look crossing Ginny's face, her companion burst up energetically. “Harry's gone to the library, but he set aside a full plate for you,” Sirius announced, whisking the last hot breakfast from the stove to her place at the table. He poured her a glass of pumpkin juice and a cup of tea as Ginny, dumbfoundedly, took the well-appointed seat.

Ginny gazed at her food and blinked. Staring right back at her were two sunny eggs and a healthy serving of fine rashers, all artfully arranged about the plate to depict a cheery face. Breakfast with a smile!

The smile on her plate may not have been the precise smile she had most hoped to share breakfast with, but she appreciated the gesture. Typically thoughtfully Harry!

For the remainder of breakfast, the actress within Ginny smiled and laughed at all of the best lines in Sirius's collection of 'silly Buckbeak' stories. Unfortunately, the amusing tales were completely lost on her... because her mind had still not recovered from that offhand comment.

Something about a godson and his princess...

The stack of books from yesterday had been pushed to the side. A new tome, dusty and cracked, and decorated with mysterious old runes, had been added to the pile, but it lay unopened. Several other innocuous books had been stacked around it to largely conceal the title ('A Historie of Magicke Moste Dark ') from prying eyes, until Harry was ready to start reading it.

Harry was not currently reading. At the moment, all of his attention was absorbed by a large, blank sheet of fine papyrus that he had found inside the escritoire. Minutes went by as he stared, unmoving, into the creamy blankness. Finally, with deliberation — slowly but with surprising confidence — he dipped a quill into one of the wells, tapped the excess ink back into the reservoir and ran the tip smoothly across the page, creating a dark satisfying line.

Other marks followed — smooth curves, neat cross-hatches, sharp angles and intriguing little flecks — as another world began to take shape in front of him.

After an indeterminate time, Harry placed the quill in its holder, pushed back from the escritoire, rose from his seat and stared at what lay before him. A curious frown alighted on his face, almost as if he was not quite certain what he was looking at.

Yet what lay before him had meticulous, elegant expression. The rendering was perfectly clear, even if only two people in the world would understand what it meant...

A gentle breath stirred across Harry's cheek. “Heavens Harry,” Ginny exclaimed softly from her silent stance behind him. “This is breathtaking! Look how you captured their faces in the moonlight!”

In his trancelike focus, Harry hadn't even heard her enter the room... yet he did not startle. “You weren't supposed to see this yet,” he said simply, and turned to face his closest friend.

Ginny angled her head; a puzzled expression on her face as she waited for an explanation.

“I'm sorry Ginny,” Harry told her, looking awkwardly away. “First I was distracted, then busy, then imprisoned here in Grimmauld...” He paused a long moment, before exhaling. “So, this is the only gift I have for your birthday tomorrow...”

Ginny stared at him wide-eyed. And then suddenly she was no longer staring at him, because she had lunged forward and was squeezing every ounce of air from Harry's chest, as only a Weasley can.

“Thank you thank you thank you...” she whispered, her voice ragged like a scratched phonograph.

“Yh... ...hm,” Harry replied wheezily.

Ginny sniffled a little, pulled back and dried her eye with a corner of her sleeve. “You know, with all this insanity, I don't think even Mum and Dad remembered my birthday, but I honestly don't care,” she declared with a grin. “Because this is the best one ever!”

“Er, you mean tomorrow is... or will be...?” Harry stammered.

“No silly,” Ginny chided. “August eleventh is just another day — maybe a cake and silly song, and maybe not. But August tenth is the day when my best friend ever gave me the best present ever.”

Harry responded with a goofy smile.

Ginny returned the grin, then angled back toward the escritoire, studying the sketch of the princess and the Publican embracing above the moonlit river. “I have just one question, though?” she queried.

Harry nodded.

“Where did you learn to draw like this?”

“Well, you see,” Harry began, pursing his lips thoughtfully, “I, uh, don't have any idea...”

“Hmm... This might be useful,” Hermione suggested as she traced her finger carefully along a page in one of the older, more decrepit volumes she had removed from the top shelf.

Harry and Ginny put down their own books to listen.

“Let's see now. This is only a rough translation because I'm not very good with German...” she advised.

Ginny turned to Harry and rolled her eyes. He smirked and winked.

“Okay,” Hermione continued. “The general gist goes like this, 'We know from comparing the charters of other distinguished societies, that they share not only the ideals, but most likely the same origins as our own Gesellschaft fr Magische Suberung...'”

Hermione paused for a moment to think. “Er, I believe that translates as 'Society for Magical Cleansing',“ she explained, before continuing. “'Other societies most closely mirroring our noble objectives include the English 'Order of Death Eaters', the Italian 'Federazione della Purezza', and 'La Flamme Purificatrice' from France. Our scholars have concluded that each of these organizations likely descends from 'The Glorious Order of Letum', a courageous defender of civilized Magical Society, founded more than one thousand six hundred years ago.'”

Hermione paused to glance at the volume's cover. “This book was published in 1645, so this 'Order of Letum' must have originated in Roman times. Does that help you at all?”

“Blimey!” Harry muttered. He looked at Hermione for a moment with an inscrutable expression on his face, then fell silent, gazing off into the distance.

Ginny watched Harry perplexedly for a moment, then refocused, turning to Hermione. “So Death Eaters were around in the seventeenth century, and had their origins a lot earlier?” she asked.

“It would appear that way,” Hermione agreed.

“Interesting,” Ginny replied. “I always thought they were just cronies who followed Tom Riddle.”

Hermione looked at her curiously. “You use that name for... you know... ?”

“A name is just a name,” Ginny replied in a matter-of-fact way. “Dumbledore is constantly badgering the Order to get over their silly phobia.”

Hermione nodded. “Yes, I suppose you're right,” she agreed. “Now speaking of Professor Dumbledore, I'm sure that he or Professor Lupin would know the answer to your question, but I can only guess. If Professor Lupin is correct that Dark Magic is strongest when the insular elite feels most threatened, I'm guessing that, as an organization, Death Eaters grew and dwindled many times over the centuries. If so, the current crop probably bears far more allegiance to, er... Riddle, than to any ancient tradition. I'd bet that if any living Death Eaters existed before Riddle came along, he probably just co-opted them. If the group was already extinct, then he likely just borrowed the name to lend credibility to his movement. You've met more of them than we have, Harry. What do you think?”

With some effort, Harry summoned his focus from distant ponderings, and processed the various open questions. “Yeah, I think it's safe to say that the Death Eaters are mostly just spineless stooges,” he agreed. “As far whether the modern Death Eaters were co-opted by Voldemort, or if he merely recycled the name, I don't think it matters much. What I'm most interested in is how much Snake-face knows about the organization's heritage.”

Hermione stared at him analytically for a long moment. “The organization's heritage, in terms of a possible involvement in the Iceni Rebellion? Involvement by the Order of Letum, you mean?” she inquired.

Harry and Ginny exchanged glances. Harry nodded to her, silently conveying that he felt it was safe and appropriate to answer.

“Perhaps,” Harry answered, turning back to Hermione. “Or maybe it's something peripheral to the rebellion itself. I'm really hazy on the details, but I'm convinced that something happened around that time that could have some important bearing on Voldemort's future success.”

“Are there any other details you can provide that might narrow that 'something' down, Harry?” Hermione prodded.

“No, we might have to wait until it actually hap...”

Harry paused, suddenly recognizing just how stupid his statement was going to sound, considering that any relevant Roman-era event obviously had actually occurred – many centuries ago.”

“No, Hermione,” Ginny broke in, “it's difficult to explain, but Harry and I are just going to need more time to think about this.”

Hermione gave her two friends a hard look that darted from one of the other several times before she gave up and huffed. “Do you have any idea how frustrating the two of you are?” she scolded.

“Yes, I think so,” Harry answered with a grin.

“Uh huh and, er... sorry,” Ginny added with a small contrite smile.

Of course Harry and Ginny had to do penance for their circumspection. In order to maintain 'appearances', Hermione browbeat them into participating in a gobstones tournament that the twins had decreed for that evening.

As the evening unfolded, Ginny proved to all that she was a tough competitor in the somewhat revolting game. By the time she faced off against Fred in the tourney final, she had not been gobbed upon a single time.

Harry on the other hand, had required three trips to the loo to wash off the foul liquid, and had been the second player eliminated. While others continued to cheer and jeer for the finalists late into the evening, Harry found himself sitting quietly in the corner, gazing into the fire... feeling vaguely anxious, though he didn't quite understand why.

As often as not, Hermione took her eyes off the inane competition to steal furtive glances at her friend, wondering what exactly Harry was thinking about in his quiet fireside solitude. She also continued to ponder whether (or how) such 'thinking' could truly resolve an ancient mystery regarding one of Voldemort's supposed... advantages?

Over the course of twenty minutes, Hermione watched Harry silently tune out the chaotic room, gradually slipping into something like an open-eyed trance. And that was then it suddenly occurred to Hermione...

Dreams!

Hermione recalled how Harry had experienced terrible, disturbing nightmares in the past — some of which would later be shown to bear eerie similarities to frightening real events had had occurred elsewhere in places and times he could not possibly have known about.

Was Harry having strange dreams again?

Hermione frowned thoughtfully. The one thing that the 'dream' hypothesis did not explain was why Ginny seemed to be so intimately involved in all of his mysterious deliberations. That part did not make any sense...

Ginny, meanwhile, was not dreaming. She was taking fairly seriously the assigned chore of acting unseriously. Although she was not a huge fan of gobstones, the game was definitely going her way this evening. Half an hour into a fiercely fought final, Fred was playing with his usual intensity, but Ginny still had the upper hand. If she could just hold him off a while longer, she could probably...

A tiny sudden shiver ran down her neck. Subconsciously, she slid a hand into her pocket, touched the brooch... and felt a deep chill of trepidation.

Ginny looked quickly about the circle, at the various faces, all grinning and laughing... except for Hermione. The older girl was frowning and stealing a glance to the far corner of the room, by the fire... toward Harry.

Ginny herself twisted around for a moment to catch a quick glimpse of her best friend. Muscles in Harry's face were tense... and was that a drop of perspiration on his...?

Splattt!!

“My point!” Fred crowed jubilantly. Ron and George cheered lustily for their brother and snickered at the gob running down their sister's cheek.

Undefined trepidation sinking into her, Ginny turned back to face the gobstones circle, reflexively dabbing the slime from her face with an old kerchief as her mind raced.

“Time out, please,” Ginny called.

“Ho ho!” George chortled. “L'il Gin-Gin's feeling the heat!”

“Time out approved,” Fred agreed, “but everyone keep an eye out so she doesn't try to slip old 'Sulphur Spray ' onto her pile. That stone's illegal!”

Ginny, however, went nowhere near her pile. Instead she shuffled back several paces on knees, angling her head towards Hermione. “Can you go get some tea on, 'Mione?” she whispered, loud enough for the others to hear, before adding in the faintest murmur, “Take Harry. I'll follow soon.”

“Ginny's already ordering tea!” Ron laughed. “She thinks she's going to take you down fast, Fred!”

“You bet!” Ginny replied with a wide counterfeit grin... then she began to carefully calculate the best way to lose as quickly as possible, without raising suspicion.

“Okay Harry,” Hermione admonished sternly as she handed him a steaming cup. “No more evasion and pretense — what's the matter?”

“I don't feel very well,” Harry muttered, absently-minded drinking his tea without adding milk or even blowing on it. “Oi!” he cried, nearly spilling the hot liquid.

“Well thank you for the enlightening detail!” Hermione exclaimed sarcastically as she handed her friend a glass of cold water to soothe his burnt mouth. “Any chance you could elaborate a bit?”

“I... uh...” Harry waffled uncertainly.

“Were you having a bad dream?” Hermione inquired, her voice rising slightly.

Harry stared at her for a long moment. “Not yet,” he replied finally, then took a long drink of water, before re-attempting the tea.

“Not yet...??” Hermione parsed perplexedly. “Are you, uhhh, planning to?”

“Planning to have a bad dream?” Harry responded. The corners of his mouth twitched slightly before seriousness reasserted itself. “No Hermione, I'm not planning any of this. But sometimes dreams come... and sometimes I can sort of sense when they're likely to hit.”

“What sort of dream...?” Hermione began asking, before hesitating over how to phrase a rather strange question.

“I don't know — I haven't had it yet,” Harry answered in a matter-of-fact manner.

“Harry!” Ginny exclaimed under her breath as she stole her way into the kitchen. “Are you okay?” she breathed, taking a seat and unthinkingly grabbing his hand.

Harry's gaze flickered from the pretty little hand grasping his own, across to several sacrificial gobs trailing down the girl's jumper, to the wide-eyed look of concern etched into her face.

He smiled... for the moment grateful to just live for the moment...

It took several seconds for the warmth of Harry's smile to register with Ginny, but then it did and, hesitantly, a small smile of her own flickered to acknowledge her special friend... but then the worry returned. “Are you okay, Harry?” she asked again.

“Right now, I'm more than okay,” Harry responded. “I'm sitting here with two wonderful friends,” he beamed. “No lame jokes or tiresome horseplay. No more bleeding gobstones...”

Hermione laughed. Ginny's eyes darted down to the sticky accretions on her jumper and she groaned, reaching for a napkin.

“Anyway,” Harry continued, “I'm okay for now. I may be run through the ringer a bit tonight, but these are only dreams, right?”

Ginny and Hermione both regarded him skeptically.

“I'll be fine,” he assured them. “If you're up early tomorrow morning, then maybe we can talk it over. With luck, perhaps can learn something.”

Ginny chewed her lip tensely. “I don't know, Harry,” she said. “I feel like I should stay with you tonight. I think it could help to...”

“No,” Hermione declared, cutting softly but definitively across the younger girl. “You've made fine progress today to throw the plonkers off the scent, but there's no way we can discretely arrange for you two to spend another night together, and... well I can't think of anything else we could do, other than maybe asking Sirius for some Dreamless Sleep potion...”

Harry shook his head. “I really can't explain why,” he said, “but I'm certain that the dream has to happen. I doubt it'll be pleasant, but I think we'd be worse off if I tried to avoid it.”

Hermione nodded stoically. “So, Ginny, I think we'll just have to trust Harry to get himself through tonight, and we'll be there for him in the morning. Is that okay?”

Ginny pursed her lips silently for a long time, but did not quite disagree.

“Sure a special pleasure to see you again, my dear Publican,” the heavy, balding Roman declared jovially. “Such a fine fortune that, by merest chance, I should be called here to Camboricum on the very same day that you should choose to visit,” he oozed with a too-wide smile. “May I offer you more wine?”

“No thank you, esteemed Procurator,” Harry replied in clipped tones. “I must not take any more of your valued time. As long as you can assure me that a messenger has been sent to the Proconsul notifying him of this breach of treaty, I shall leave you to your important responsibilities, and return myself to my own.”

“Treaty?” the Procurator replied. A flicker of vexation was immediately replaced by his unnervingly effusive grin. “I'm not aware of any treaty with the Iceni, per se, but do rest assured that your message has already been sent. I am most confident that we will be quickly able to resolve this foolish little squabble to your most exacting satisfaction!”

The man filled Harry's goblet to the brim from a flagon of rich, dark wine. “Now, I bid you, stay and tell me some stories of our lands to the east. A merry folk, these barbarous Iceni?”

“They are sober, wise and just,” Harry opined neutrally as he rose and began to make his way to the door. “Now, if you may excuse my departure, I have need of...”

“You have no needs that I cannot meet, my cherished Peuerellius,” the Procurator interjected, capturing his hand. “In fact, for your sole comfort, I have obtained a ravishing young maiden of the Cantii. You must come meet her!” he urged, his fleshy lips gleaming luridly in the candle light. “You shall swoon under her pleasures! Her skin is white like the virgin Appenine snows of winter; her eyes are the brightest of sapphires, her...”

“No!” Harry shouted, tearing his hand away. “My sincerest regrets, your honour, but I have urgent responsibilities in the name of Rome and Britannia!”

Harry swept through the door and out into the dusky night... but not before casting a surreptitious glance back through the closing door, catching sight of the Procurator scurrying toward a rear chamber of his quarters.

His anxiety suddenly spiking, Harry quickly disillusioned himself, and turned from the pelagus platea running through the center of town, opting instead for the muddy paths skirting the aft edges of the numerous military dwellings and enclosures.

The Publican's quarters in Camboricum were located on the north outskirts of the military district. He spent little time there, preferring to dwell along the Roman roads and the open countryside on the eastern frontier, mostly leaving his official residence in the hands of two trusted servants of Catuvellauni heritage. In his brief conversations with the pair early this afternoon, he had been informed that, several times earlier that day, Roman soldiers had tarried nearby, observing the building... and one had stopped in late afternoon to politely inquire when the master of the residence was expected home.

None of that boded well.

As Harry drew level with an alley with a view to the platea, he heard and then briefly saw, two horsemen racing past.

That also did not bode well... yet he continued stealthily on his way.

By the northern fringe of the district, the buildings along the platea were quite sparse. Approaching within two hundred feet of his residence, he was able, even by the low light, to see clear across to his property. No lamps were lit within his quarters; nobody appeared to be on the grounds in front, but... there! On the street nearby, he spied a slight movement in the darkness.

Edging cautiously closer, he was able to distinguish the shape of a single horse, tied to a post in deep shadow, its breath rising in small clouds through the cold night air. Squinting, he descried a second shape as well — a tall man clad all in black, apparently watching the building, waiting, perfectly motionless.

Unease, even some undefined fear, prickled Harry's skin. Basic instinct told him to turn away, but he somehow felt a need... a compulsion to learn who the dark horseman might be. After all, surely the true reason for this dream was to learn deep secrets hidden far back in time...

Harry's left foot raised and moved toward the mysterious figure, landing silently on the soft ground. His right foot did the same. Step after cautious step, Harry moved toward the man. Approaching close enough to pause and observe more closely, Harry found... that he could not stop! Straining to halt his traitorous legs, Harry wrestled hard against his straining foot, forced it to the ground... and snapped a brittle twig!

The tall horseman immediately turned toward Harry, gazing across in the darkness. He threw back his black hood and stepped out of the shadow.

Ice flooded Harry's every vein as the man smiled toward him — calm, vaguely amused. The rider's face...

Could not possibly be...!

Had to be...?

... the spitting image of Harry Potter!

A pair of cold dark eyes seemed to pierce effortlessly through Harry's disillusionment spell.

“You should not try to hide from us father,” the smiling face admonished with eerie charm.

Harry was just scrabbling for his wand when he was hit in the back with a stunner. As he struggled valiantly to cling to consciousness, Harry glimpsed a second face hovering above him, waving a wand in his approximate direction to cancel the disillusionment charm. The Latin incantation, “Invenias qui honorem,” echoed hollowly through Harry's troubled soul as his mind was set adrift.


Harry felt completely numb and detached. Experimentally, he tried reaching out with his hand to touch his face... but discovered that he could find neither a face, nor a hand to touch it with...

He opened his non-existent eyes to gaze around someplace... dim. The place was not quite as dark as the cold Camboricum night, however. There were torches flickering from ornately carved brackets set about stone walls. A glimmer of twilight was beginning to show in tall Gothic windows.

It took several minutes, but Harry recognized this place... sort of. In this dream, Harry seemed to floating, disembodied, about a room that resembled the Great Hall at Hogwarts.

However, the Great Hall had never sported gleaming, pitch-black finished mahogany furniture trimmed in green velvet. It also did not have...

Bloody hell!!

Harry's non-corporeal stomach wrenched as if a dagger had been thrust into it.

Skulls!

The brackets holding the flickering torches were not ornate carvings at all — on closer inspection, each bracket was made from the wide-eyed remains of a human head.

Harry's elevated nerves spiked further as he heard noises in the distance.

Th-th-th-th-thud... Th-th-th-th-Thud... Th-th-th-th-THUD... Th-th-th-th-THUD!

The noise steadily grew, as if one's own heartbeat was drawing inexorably drawing closer... until suddenly the noise resolved itself into a procession — dozens upon dozens of children and youth, all clad in pitch black cloaks and hoods, marching into the Hall, arranged in perfect order from smallest to tallest, stepping in totalitarian unison. The procession fanned out across the Hall, shaping a broad, multi-tiered semi-circle — smaller children forming the inner ring and taller youth spanning the periphery.

The procession came to a halt. The last students to enter reached their appointed positions, and the entire assembly fell utterly silent and still...

For moments stretching into minutes, nothing happened. Nobody moved or rustled; not a single cough, whimper or giggle.

The uncanny sight horrified Harry. Impotent in his disembodied state, he longed nothing more than to rage at them. You're children! Move! Fidget! Laugh and shout! Do something!!

But he too remained frozen, transfixed by the unearthly...

SSWISSSSSSH!!

In quintessential instantaneous coordination, the right arm of every child and youth thrust forward, brandishing identical black wands, each pointing directly into the center of the semicircle.

“Good morning children!”

The thin, reedy voice saturated Harry in a chilling vapour of despair. So spellbound had he been by the horrifying children that Harry had not noticed the emergence of a massive black throne at the far end of the Hall, on the raised dais where the staff table should have been... He had not observed the vile figure seated high above his subjects, in repugnant ostentation.

GOOD MORNING OUR LORD SAVIOUR AND PROTECTOR OF THE PURE! ” sang out the haunting sound of every child's voice raised in flawless, inhuman unanimity.

“On this fine morning, after your night of diligent labours, after your year of dedication, I have gathered you all, my dear students of The Lord Voldemort School of Magical Purity, to induct our esteemed Graduate Class of 1998 in the manner of our forefathers.”

OH THANK YOU, OUR LORD SAVIOUR AND PROTECTOR OF THE PURE!

“Yes, children, you are wise to thank me! Yet I also bestow a token of my own gratitude, to each of you, as fellow protectors of the pure.”

BY YOUR GRACE, LORD SAVIOUR AND PROTECTOR OF THE PURE!

“Indeed children, I see you have all drawn your wands!”

FOR SO WE MAY DO YOUR BIDDING, OUR BENEVOLENT LORD SAVIOUR AND PROTECTOR OF THE PURE!

“Ah, very good,” droned the saccharine tones of distilled iniquity. “Then on this fine morning we together shall sanctify our hallowed walls with one more torch, to forever burn that which was once impure.”

The entire assembly fell into deep, expectant silence, before Voldemort once again raised his voice.

“Prefects! Bring forth the impure!”

For the barest moment, Harry glimpsed four stern young men and women. Dressed in black and green silk, they were entering the Hall through a high archway, solemnly levitating the prostrate body of an old woman, clothed only in a ragged white sheet...

Without wand or body, unable to even contemplate what obscene atrocity might come next, Harry knew only one possible recourse.

“STOP!!!” he bellowed.

The horrific scene extinguished.

Gasping, Harry glanced frantically about his dimly lit Grimmauld Place bedroom. His wide, anguished eyes settled upon the frightened but resolute face of Ginny Weasley.

He stared blankly for a moment, before registering the love and concern in her eyes. The remnants of his dream wall shattered, and he collapsed into her arms, sobbing.

“It's okay Harry,” she whispered as her grip tightened gently around him. “The dream is done. You're safe. You're with me.”

“I don't exist, Ginny,” Harry mumbled disconsolately. “I've never existed. I can't save anyone. I'm powerless, because now I'll never even be born...”

“You're right here in my arms,” Ginny persisted, tenderly stroking the back of his neck. “You exist, Harry James Potter! You are as good and as strong as ever. The dreams are over, and you're right here, holding me...”

“Bloody hell?!” erupted a hoarse masculine voice from the other side of the room. “What do you effing think you're doing in my bloody room?!!”

Two large feet thumped hard on the wooden floor and suddenly the tall frame of Ron Weasley loomed over them, shaking a dangerously sparking wand. “Ginny, you've got two stinking seconds to get your wretched litt...”

“Stupefy!”

Ron crumpled to the floor, revealing to Harry's and Ginny's bewildered eyes the unexpectedly sober face of Sirius Black.

Sirius's gaze darted from Harry and Ginny locked in their embrace on the bed... to Ron twitching on the floor... and finally over his shoulder to Hermione who had followed him into the room and was standing several paces back with a shocked expression on her face.

Sirius exhaled deeply. “Okay kids,” he said slowly. “Raise your hand, whoever who wants to explain to me what the hell is going on.”

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