The Dark and Winding Path by SSHENRY

Index

Chapter 1: THE MOUTH OF THE MATRIX
Chapter 2: THE FIRST TURNING
Chapter 3: THE SECOND TURNING
Chapter 4: THE LEO AND THE LION
Chapter 5: THE THIRD TURNING
Chapter 6: INTERLUDE
Chapter 7: THE FIRST BASTION
Chapter 8: CONFLAGRATION
Chapter 9: REPRIEVE
Chapter 10: A LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS
Chapter 11: INTERLUDE 2
Chapter 12: DISCOVERIES
Chapter 13: UNICURSAL: The Path Unfolds
Chapter 14: THE PORTAL
Chapter 15: THE TUNNEL
Chapter 16: THE SECOND BASTION; Requiem for Rowena
Chapter 17: THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM
Chapter 18: Approaching Center
Chapter 19: The Color of Christmas
Chapter 20: Skirting Center
Chapter 21: INTERLUDE 3
Chapter 22: Chapter 22
Chapter 23: RECOVERY
Chapter 24: Losing Luna
Chapter 25: Hide and Seek
Chapter 26: The Accidental Bastion
Chapter 27: To Your Health
Chapter 28: Thinking It Through
Chapter 29: Turning the Tables
Chapter 31: Hearts & Kisses
Chapter 32: Working the System

Chapter 1: THE MOUTH OF THE MATRIX

~*~

THE DARK AND WINDING PATH

CHAPTER ONE: The Mouth of the Matrix

Lupin had been right. The grove of trees on top of the hill overlooking Godric’s Hollow was the perfect place to Apparate. Harry had pictured it in his head a thousand times; Godric’s Hollow. He had seen it as a small, sleepy town along the lines of Ottery St. Catchpole, the town outside of which Ron and Ginny lived.

Harry’s hand went automatically to the leather pouch he wore on a cord around his neck as he gazed down on town which was the object of his quest. The softness of the supple leather was as soothing to the touch as thoughts of Ginny were to his troubled mind.

It was she that had given him the pouch after bill and Fleur’s wedding . . .

* * *

The wedding had been a phenomenal success by anyone’s standards and not even the scars marring Bill’s once-handsome features could have hidden the happiness bubbling just under the surface. Bill had bounced back remarkably well, his personality as vibrant as ever it had been. Fleur of course had been glowing, dazzling everyone with her wit and open devotion to her intended.

Harry had expected the atmosphere to be subdued, given the tragic events at Hogwarts not even two weeks previously, but everyone involved seemed to be working on some sort of mutual agreement; determined to put the events behind them and get on with living. In a way it was fitting. Bill had nearly died, it was only right that he and Fleur and those they had invited to share their special day should have a chance to celebrate the life that had been given back to him.

Ginny had pulled him aside just after the service; her hair shining red and gold — like living flames in the mid-July sunlight; her pale skin offset dramatically by the shimmering silvery material of her bridesmaid’s dress.

"Harry, I need to talk to you."

He’d been purposefully avoiding her ever since he arrived at the Weasley’s, just in time for the ceremony. He knew Ginny was bound to bring up their last conversation at Hogwarts where he’d told her they could no longer be involved, that it was too dangerous for them to be together. He owed her an explanation, he knew that, yet he wasn’t entirely certain he would be able to explain it in such a way that she would understand. She couldn’t come with him. He couldn’t let her. And besides, as long as he knew that she was here, alive and safe, he had a reason to finish this. He had a reason to finish this and make it back alive. Even if she had gone on with her life by the time he came back, she would still be there, a sort of living symbol of what it was he was fighting for. As for Ron and Hermione . . .

Dumbledore had counseled him to open himself up to his friends, not to isolate himself from those for whom he cared. But how could even Dumbledore have possibly understood?

As much as he appreciated Ron and Hermione’s offer to come with him on his quest for the remaining Horcruxes, Harry knew that he couldn’t let them. The litany that had been repeating itself over and over in his head ever since Dumbledore’s funeral was too insistent;

It was time to finish this and it was something he had to do alone.

At the site of Ginny, at the sound of her voice, Harry had felt his heart clench, steeling itself against his sudden and desperate desire to loose himself in her arms; steeling himself against whatever it was she was about to say, what it was she was going to ask him to do.

"Ginny, I wish it didn’t have to be this way, but I can’t -"

"I’m not asking you to," Ginny had said softly, cutting across his protests by placing a finger on his lips. "I know why you’ve been avoiding me, Harry, and I just wanted to tell you that I understand. I know what you have to do and I know why."

Her hand had gone to her throat then, to a white leather cord she was wearing around her neck and she had removed a white leather pouch from the bodice of her dress.

"All I’m asking, Harry, is that you take this with you." She’d slipped the pouch’s cord over Harry’s neck before he could protest.

Harry had fingered the supple leather, swallowing hard as he realized that the pouch was still warm from having been next to her skin. There were various runic symbols etched into the leather of the pouch. Some of them were shimmering slightly; almost as if . . .

"It’s enchanted," she’d said, smiling slightly. "Muggles won’t be able to see it, so you can keep your wand and anything else you don’t want seen, safe."

"You did this?"

"Well, no. Ron made the pouch itself. Nearly sewed his own fingers together, clumsy git. Hermione did the enchantments of course and I, well, there’s something from inside it from me— don’t open it now!" she’d said, her hand closing over his as it made to open the flap of the pouch. "Wait until you’re on the road. I don’t want you changing your mind about this and then blaming me for your lack of willpower."

They knew then. Harry glanced over his shoulder to where Ron and Hermione were standing. Ron’s arm was draped loosely around Hermione’s shoulders, her hand resting lightly on his chest. Did they know how natural they looked together? Had they come to terms yet with the feelings they had for each other? He didn’t think so, not yet. But they would. It was inevitable.

He met Ron’s eye and Ron gave him the shadow of a nod. Go if you must. We’ll be here if you need us.

Harry tried to smile. It was a relief really; they knew and understood. He had to do this alone.

"You’ll never be alone, Harry," Ginny whispered, and Harry felt his gaze snap back onto the slim girl standing beside him. Her eyes were dark . . .and inviting . . .he felt as if he were drowning. . .

"Not really. We’ll be with you no matter where you go, Harry, here . . ." she’d touched the pouch with a finger, then moved her hand until it was resting lightly on his chest, just over his heart. " . . .and here."

He’d kissed her then, there was nothing else for it; kissed her so deeply, so searingly that he knew he was branding her, the roaring beast inside of him marking her as his own for the whole world to see. Voldemort be damned!

Voldemort . . .he would find out about her. He would kill her. He would kill her and then Harry would truly be lost. He couldn’t bear it . . .he couldn’t stand it!

The beast inside him had shrieked in fury as Harry had wrenched himself away from the comfort of her arms. He’d fully expected Ginny to be visibly upset, crying even, but the hard, blazing look on her face said it all; he thought he’d been branding her, but she’d been branding him, claiming him as her own. He could feel the tear of his heart splitting clean in two as he dis-Apparated, leaving a part of himself inside of her forever.

* * *

He hadn’t gone far at first; only to the clearing behind the Burrow where he, Hermione and the Weasleys had played so many happy games of Quidditch. Here, two days ago in the gnarled roots of an ancient oak tree, Harry had stashed the things he’d be taking with him.

Two changes of clothes, a few toiletries and a light blanket took up half the space in the old leather knapsack he’d nicked from the back of Fred and George’s closet. To this he’d added his invisibility cloak, the fake Horcrux and note he’d taken from Dumbledore’s body that nightmarish night back in June as well as a thick roll of Muggle money he’d exchanged a number of Galleons for the last time he’d been at Gringotts.

While all of this had made for a nearly full pack, it hadn’t been an especially heavy one, so when Harry hefted the pack onto his shoulders, he’d been astounded at how heavy it suddenly seemed. A quick check had told him all he needed to know. Someone (and Harry had a shrewd idea who) had crammed every spare inch of his pack with sealed packages of Fred and George’s newest merchandise; mini-meals ("Just pull the tab and watch your appetite grow!"), along with several bottles of water and two large bars of chocolate.

Harry had grinned in spite of himself. He really did have the best friends in the world. It had taken him only a moment to remove his Firebolt from the lowest branches of the oak where he’d stashed it for safekeeping, but before he could make the next jump in his trip Hedwig had glided out of the trees to land on his shoulder with an admonitory hoot.

"I can’t take you, Hedwig — ow!" yelped Harry, for Hedwig had chosen that precise moment to squeeze Harry’s shoulder with her talons a bit harder than she normally would have done. "Hey, don’t take it wrong girl, but I’ll be Apparating," he said guiltily, stroking her silken feathers with his free hand.

Hedwig gazed at him with baleful amber eyes. She seemed to be reminding him; He was underage. He shouldn’t be Apparating yet. He needed her!

"No, really, I can’t take you with me, not this time."

Harry had sworn loudly as Hedwig nipped his ear with such fierceness that he was certain she’d drawn blood. He couldn’t take her, not without drawing undue attention to himself. It wasn’t fair, she’d always been there for him. Hedwig had been his only friend when he’d been stuck on Privet Drive. He’d stood quietly, thinking hard. He would need a way to communicate with the Order, with Lupin and the others. If he didn’t take Hedwig, how would he be able to get messages to the others . . .unless . . .

"Dobby?" No sooner had Harry said the name, than the elf was at his side with a sharp pop of displaced air.

"Harry Potter called Dobby?"

"Yeah, I did. Dobby, will that work anywhere?"

"Will what work sir?"

"Calling you, like I just did. Say I needed to get a message to someone, if I called Kreacher-"

"Harry Potter needs to be calling Dobby, sir, not nasty Kreacher!" Dobby had said emphatically, his lip curled in distaste.

"But you’re a free elf, Dobby, and I don’t want to infringe-"

"Harry Potter would not be infringing, sir. Dobby is a free elf. Dobby goes where he whishes. He does as he chooses. And he chooses to come when Harry Potter calls, sir."

Harry had given the elf a rather sheepish grin. "Yeah, well, I was kind of hoping you’d say that, Dobby."

Dobby had beamed, his great tennis-ball shaped eyes shining with happiness.

"Anything Harry Potter wishes Dobby to do sir, just say it and Dobby will see that it is done."

"See girl?" Harry had said, addressing Hedwig. "Dobby will be there if I need him.

Hedwig had ruffled her feathers, clicking her beak in the way that clearly meant that she was annoyed with him.

"Please, Hedwig. I need you to stay here. There’s something very important that I need you to do."

Hedwig had given a low, questioning hoot.

"I need you to stay with Ginny, Hedwig. I need you to stay with her in case-" he’d had to swallow hard. He’d almost said ‘in case anything happens to me’. "In case she needs to contact me. I need to know that she can get in touch with me if she needs to. Can you do that for me?"

Hedwig’s expression had seemed to soften at his words. She’d given him an affectionate nip before sticking out her leg.

"No, I don’t think she’ll need a note, Hedwig. If you just show up, she’ll understand."

Hedwig had looked at him for a long moment before taking off into the clear blue sky with only the slightest of pressures on his wrist.

* * *

Had his parents really lived here? Harry wondered as he looked down on the bustling town laid out below him. Somehow the terms ‘Godric’s Hollow’ and ‘bustling town’ had never made any sort of connection in his head. But he had to admit that far from being the sleepy burg he had imagined, Godric’s Hollow was, from the looks of it, a thriving community.

Cars and lorries of all sizes and colors were zipping along the main thoroughfare that wound through the center of the town, past the old stone church and it’s sprawling graveyard, for a good while paralleling a sparkling river. The road and river parted company when they reached a number of older, established houses on well-kept lots that in turn led into the commercial district. Here the late afternoon sunlight glinted off the glass display windows in the storefronts and prisimed into rainbows around the bubbling fountain in the center of the small park. The pavements were littered with afternoon shoppers, all of them intent on their errands. Even from this distance he could see women pushing prams in the park.

On the far side of the park the river joined the road again, slipping beneath a stone bridge that led to a long, low building which, if the bright playground equipment was any indication, was probably the local Primary school and beyond the school, a sprawl of newer, smaller homes.

Harry had been thinking that he would have to wait until dark to slip into town unnoticed, but from the looks of it he would be able to just stroll into town and no one would be the wiser. In Jeans and a T-shirt, with the leather knapsack over his shoulder, Harry knew that he looked enough like a Muggle that no one’s suspicions would be roused. Now, if he could only find a safe place to stash his broom . . .

Struck by a sudden, Hermione-like burst of inspiration, Harry pulled his wand out of the pouch around his neck and muttered a shrinking spell. Even if the Ministry of Magic detected the spell, according to Lupin there were other witches and wizards in the area. It was highly unlikely that they would be able to trace the spell to him. A moment later he was holding a toy broom the size of his wand. He tucked this into the pouch. Then, taking a deep breath he began picking his way down the hillside toward the broad carriageway leading into town.

* * *

Harry felt the powerful pull of normalcy creep over him as he walked the length of road between the old stone Church and the primary school. There were people everywhere; doing their shopping, carrying packages, pushing prams, chatting animatedly on street corners and under shop awnings; everyday people living everyday, ordinary lives.

He had lived here. He and his parents had lived here. He paused in the park to watch a young woman with long, curly blonde hair pluck her baby out of it’s pram and sit him on the edge of the fountain so he could dabble his fat toes in the cool water. The baby gurgled with happiness, splashing himself and his mother until both of them were laughing. Had his mother done that with him once upon a time?

Had Lily and James perhaps brought him here to this very park on a picnic, like that family he saw sitting on a blanket in the shade of some old and gnarled yew trees? He paused again to watch a pack of small boys in shorts and T-shirts blithely kicking a football back and forth on a smooth, grassy place, watched indulgently by parents lounging on park benches.

What would it have been like to have grown up here? What would it have been like to grow up here with his parents, to have a place like this to come back to on school vacations? He paused again, watching an old couple strolling slowly hand-in-hand on the park path that bordered the riverbank and was amazed to feel tears prickling at the backs of his eyelids. What would it have been like for his parents to grow old together, to grow old together here, where everything seemed so peaceful . . .so ordianary . . .so normal?

"Deceptive normalcy!" he hissed, blinking rapidly as he passed the old couple, crossed the bridge and pulled even with the primary school. Even here, things were not as they appeared. Right here in this very town his parents had been murdered just sixteen years ago. Now what? Somehow he didn’t think that what he was looking for would be on this side of the bridge.

He sat down on a swing and rummaged in his pocket until he found the piece of parchment Lupin had given him. He unfolded it slowly, squinting against the glare of the sun. There, in Lupin’s neat block letters was printed:

That was all fine and good, Harry thought grimly, refolding the parchment and making to tuck it back into his pocket, but how on earth was he supposed to find out where, exactly Holly Lane was located? Harry hesitated, considering, then stowed Lupin’s scrap of parchment in the pouch around his neck instead of his pocket. As he slipped it into the pouch Harry’s fingers brushed another piece of parchment; thick and long and flat.

He knew it was a letter, and he knew it was from Ginny, but he also knew that he had to wait to read it. He would wait until he was finished here, in Godric’s Hollow. He would wait until he had seen the place where his parents had lived; the place they had lived and where they had died and where they were buried. Only then would he allow himself to read Ginny’s letter.

Harry took a deep breath, taking comfort from the feel of the letter beneath his fingers. If he closed his eyes he could almost convince himself that he could detect a trace of the perfume she wore, that citrusy blend that she always wore.

How hard could it be? He secured the flap of the pouch and got up from the swing, turning back towards town. How hard could it be to find one street in a town no bigger than the average postage stamp? It wasn't as if he were pressed for time after all.

* * *

Holly Lane hadn’t been so very difficult to find after all. He’d thought of asking someone, say in the grocer’s or perhaps at the library, but he didn’t want to arouse suspicion. Seeing the library, however, had given him an idea.

The library was an older building made of stone with high, arching windows, it looked as if it might once have been a church. Indeed, it looked as if it were closely related to the old stone church that marked the edge of Godric’s Hollow. Inside though, it was definitely a library. The smell of dust and mildew hit him full in the face as he walked inside, giving him an almost nostalgic longing for the Hogwarts library, even for a glimpse of Madam Pince and her squeaking shoes. He found himself half expecting to see Hermione spread out at one of the long, low tables, her bushy brown hair crackling with the excitement of another assignment properly done.

Just as he’d hoped, directly inside the front doors, hung a handsome map of Godric’s Hollow, complete with street listings and topical references. Holly Lane would have taken him some time to find without the map. The second street on the same side of the carriageway as the church was Oak Drive. This led, in turn to Willow Way and there, branching off of Willow Way was Holly Lane. According to the map, it paralleled the river as it looped away from Godric’s Hollow’s town center, dead ending in the point of land where the river began to loop back toward town and just beyond which the park proper began. If he started back towards the church it would take him only minutes to get there from here.

Three quarters of an hour later Harry stopped at the branch of Willow Way and Holly Lane to take a long drink from his water bottle. The map, he decided, must have been an artistic rendering of the town. Either that or the residential section of Godric’s Hollow was a lot bigger than it appeared to be.

He supposed he was used to Little Whinging, where the houses were laid out in geometric grids, each house situated on the same size lot; each lot laid out in the same straight lines. He’d been walking briskly ages, and the roads had definitely not been straight. Oak Drive had wound up and down several hills before it had intersected with Willow Way, which had looped down into a rather steep valley before branching off into Holly Lane. At least he’d been right about Holly Lane bordering the river.

The houses on Holly Lane were even bigger, if possible, than the large stately homes he had seen on Oak Drive. These were huge old rambling stone affairs, each surrounded by acres of artistically landscaped lawns; lawns dotted with perfectly positioned groupings of trees or cunningly designed terraces.

It took him another twenty minutes to walk the length of Holly Lane. The even numbers were ranged along the right-hand side. The odd numbers bordered the river. There, at the end, between number nine and where number eleven should have stood was a thick boxwood hedge. Neatly trimmed on number nine’s side, the boxwood was absolutely wild on the side which should have belonged to number eleven. The tangle of vines, trees, weeds and overgrown shrubbery that had grown up over number eleven’s plot had even partially reclaimed the low stone wall which had once separated number eleven from Holly Lane.

There was a break in the wall about halfway down its length. It looked actually, as if there had once been a stone arch here. Beyond it the tangle of undergrowth looked a little thinner than it did anywhere else. This, Harry decided, must have been the drive — or perhaps it had been a walkway. Whichever it had been, it still seemed impossible that a mere sixteen years worth of neglect would yield such an unkempt appearance.

"Welcome home, Harry," he murmured out loud before stepping over the remains of the arch and into the shadows inhabiting number eleven Holly Lane.

* * *

Harry sat on a broad, flat stone beside the smoothly flowing river, watching the sky over the river as the broad band of blue turned briefly orange and pink and magenta before fading slowly to a deep, dusky violet.

It had crossed his mind to break out one of the mini-meals Ron had packed in his bag if for nothing else than to give himself something to do, but had decided against it. He wasn’t really that hungry anymore. Not after . . .Harry swallowed, hard. He’d spent the late hours of the afternoon exploring the grounds and poking through the remains that had once been number eleven, Holly Lane.

There hadn’t been much left of the main structure, merely a stone shell and the foundations on which it had been built. Most of the roof timbers and the supporting structures of the floors and ceilings had collapsed into a heap of rubble that partially filled the basement.

It had been a large house, though not as large as some of the more pretentious structures that lined Holly Lane. It had been composed of only two stories, and probably had looked more like a rambling cottage than a manor house. The way it had been laid out, it must have been spectacular views of the river. In fact, in spite of the undergrowth, he could still discern that there had been several wide terraces leading from the house itself down nearly to the water’s edge. There had also been the more intact remains of several low outbuildings and sheds. Harry had poked about in these for quite a while, uncovering a number of interesting items, though nothing of any particular importance.

It had been strange, poking around in the remains of a house that he knew he had once lived in. The tangle of roses outside the front door (the vines of which were now nearly smothering the front half of the house) gave him a real wrench. Had his mother planted those? How come no one had ever mentioned the fact that she liked roses? How come he’d never asked? He’d continued to scratch about, uncovering a teakettle, a bent candelabrum, and an old rusted cauldron, but nothing that rang a bell.

What was he looking for?

See what?

Just as the light had begun to fail he’d finally given up on the search (not wanting to risk lighting his wand in case he alarmed the neighbors) and had begun instead to look for a place in which he could stay the night. It had been in his reconnaissance of the largest of the outbuildings that he had discovered the thing that had stolen away his appetite.

On the south side of the largest shed was a gnarled old apple tree in which he had discovered the beginnings of a tree house. The platform had been secured in the crotch of the tree some six feet off the ground and hung from this was a rope ladder, which had been secured to the ground so that it wouldn’t swing precariously. It had been obvious, given the piles of lumber stacked on the platform, that this had not been intended to be a simple tree house, but a deluxe model. There had been a rough sketch drawn on one of the boards propped against the trunk. But it had been the words printed below the sketch that had taken his breath away: "Yes, Lily, I’ll make sure to install a hand rail!"

James Potter had been building this tree house. James had been building this from his son. He’d been building it for him! Harry had stood there, his fingers tracing the words for nearly ten minutes, not bothering to wipe away the tears that had begun to flow in earnest. Now, sitting on the riverbank, he felt a powerful sort of longing well up in his chest. This was the life that could have been his, would have been his —if it hadn’t been for Voldemort.

He was the one who had stolen this away. He was the one who had stolen so much away from so many people. Harry felt his fingers tighten painfully around the fake Horcrux he still carried in his pocket. The answer was here, he knew it was; in the note tucked so tightly into the locket; in the initials R.A.B. If whoever R.A.B. was had truly destroyed the locket Horcrux then there was one less Horcrux to worry about. He, Harry would be one step closer to his goal. Voldemort had to be stopped, and it was up to Harry to stop him.

He stood up abruptly, tossing his knapsack over his shoulder and heading back towards the house and the shelter of the apple tree. His time with Voldemort would come, he knew it would, but for tonight, just for tonight, he would pretend that he was small once again and that safety lay just a breath away, in the shelter of a parent’s arms. Tonight he would sleep in the tree house. He had a strange feeling that this was as close to home as he would ever get.

* * *

Harry sat with his chin on his knees, ignoring the tears trickling steadily down his cheeks, unable to tear his gaze away for the unpretentious headstone that bore his parents’ names as well as the date of their death:

Harry traced the dates with his finger. Had they been the same age then? He remembered seeing his father in the Snape’s memory. If his mother had been taking her O.W.L.’s at the same time he supposed it wasn’t impossible that they had been the same age. Why had he always thought that his Dad must be older?

With a jolt Harry realized that when his Mother and Father had only been five years older than Harry was right now when they’d died. They’d married young then, although from what he’d seen, that wasn’t completely unusual in the wizarding world.

Harry swallowed, hard. They’d been so young; young and in love and with their whole lives ahead of them. The words inscribed beneath the dates said it all:

He closed his eyes, letting the cool smoothness of the marble sooth him like a mother’s caress. Who had been responsible for the headstone, surely not Aunt Petunia? She would never have sprung for marble, not for the sister whom she had declared to be a freak. She would have slapped up a granite marker, that is if she’d bothered with a marker at all. No. This was the work of someone who actually cared about Lily and James Potter. Who then, Sirius? No, he would have been in Azkaban by the time Harry’s parents were buried; Lupin then.

Poor Lonely Lupin, howling at the moon in despair of the world that had robbed him of his two best friends in the same night. No wonder he’d gone prematurely gray. Harry shuddered to think what his life would have been like if he hadn’t had Ron and Hermione as friends, or what would happen if he lost them. They were always there for him; making him laugh, helping him out of tight spots. Shit, if he had given them half a chance they’d be here right now, rising their lives for him.

And that was exactly why he was here alone. No one else was going to die to keep him safe. No one; not Ron, not Hermione, and definitely not Ginny. He was stronger with them, he knew that, but they were safer without him, and he didn’t think he could bear it if anyone else he cared about died. They couldn’t die. They were the only things that were keeping him going now.

Harry’s hand went instinctively to the pouch at his neck at the memory of Ginny’s words. Had she understood then? Had she understood how much he needed them? How much he needed her?

And then he remembered the letter; Ginny’s letter. He removed the thick packet of parchment from the pouch, shook out the pages and began to read;

Harry wasn’t entirely certain as to what exactly it was he had been expecting the letter to say, but the letter had been exactly what he’d needed, and her parting shot — that bit about following him to hell if need be — Harry found himself chuckling aloud as he’d finished reading it. His laughter was strangely loud and out of place in the eerie silence of the shadowy cemetery. Trust Ginny to give him cause to laugh in a graveyard — in the very face of death as it were!

It wasn’t as if his parents would mind after all even if they could hear him, Harry thought musingly. And if Luna was right, if Nearly Headless Nick was right, his Mum and Dad, Dumbledore, Cedric, Sirius even, they weren’t gone, not really. There were there, all of them, waiting for him, waiting for him just beyond that thin black veil. His hand tightened on the letter; his letter; Ginny’s letter which he had refolded after he’d read it through the first time.

The thrill that shot through Harry at this realization nearly knocked him off his feet.

She loved him and he — "I can’t love anyone!" Harry said out loud in a small and miserable voice. If he admitted it, if he let himself love her, she’d be taken away from him; just like his parents and Sirius and Dumbledore.

The thought of Dumbledore, of the kindly face with its too-crooked nose and twinkling light blue eyes stopped Harry in his tracks. Dumbledore had said that it was love that would save him. That it was his, Harry’s capacity to care about others that would prove to be Voldemort’s undoing.

But what sort of love? Harry thought desperately. There were several different kinds, weren’t there? There was the kind he had felt for Dumbledore — as a Mentor, protector and respected friend. And Sirius, that love had been different even than that he had felt for Dumbledore; more like that of a big brother — almost a father figure. Was that enough to be getting on with? But hadn’t it been the thought of never seeing Ron and Hermione again that had saved him when he was in the grip of the red-eyed beast?

Harry shivered involuntarily at the thought of what his life would have been like without his two best friends. The three of them had been inseparable for the last six years. He’d given both of them the opportunity to distance themselves from him, but they hadn’t taken him up on his offer. They were in this now, nearly as deep as Harry himself. There wasn’t a soul at Hogwarts that didn’t know how he felt about Ron and Hermione. But as for Ginny . . .

He’d thought to give her the same chance he had given Ron and Hermione, but if her letter was to believed, ("I love you and I am NOT going to ‘make do’ with anyone else if something happens to you, so don’t get any weird ideas about making some sort of ‘noble sacrifice,’ because heaven help me because if I have to follow you to Hell itself and bring you back myself, then so be it. You’re mine now, Potter. Remember that") then she’d already made her decision to stand by him — beside him — no matter what.

That didn’t mean he would put consciously put her — or anyone else he cared about — in harm’s way, that’s why he was alone after all. But surely, if they knew what they were risking by caring about him, if they chose to care about him anyway, surely that meant that he was allowed to care about them as well?

Harry unfolded Ginny’s letter and read it through again.

"I love you too Gin," Harry whispered, hoping against hope that wherever she was right now, whatever she was doing, that somehow she would hear him and understand.

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Chapter 2: THE FIRST TURNING

-J. R. R. Tolkien

~*~

CHAPTER TWO: THE FIRST TURNING

Harry wasn’t entirely certain as to what he had expected to discover by coming to Godric’s Hollow, but by the end of his fourth day he was clear on one thing; until he knew what it was he was looking for here, he was wasting his time. Even the mirror couldn’t help him.

He’d found the mirror buried beneath a heap of pulpy wood and rotting fabric that had probably passed as a bed or possibly a sofa in it’s previous life. Its frame had long ago fallen off, but the reflective surface was still intact with only a thin spider-web of a crack marring its appearance. Of course he’d nearly dropped it in surprise when his dirt-smudged reflection had let out a congested, barking sort of cough.

"Took you long enough dearie," it wheezed, brushing dirt out its hair even as it tried to polish the inside of the reflective surface with its sleeve.

Harry had taken the hint and used an old T-shirt from his pack to clean off the worst of the accumulated muck and grime.

"Have you been here this whole time?" Harry asked, starring at his disheveled reflection in stunned disbelief.

It smirked at him, raising an eyebrow. "What do you think?"

"Err . . ."

"Stumped the boy hero, did I?" crowed the reflection, its smirk broadening. Harry stared at himself uneasily. There was something in the smirk that reminded him disturbingly of Draco Malfoy.

At the thought of the boy who had been Harry’s sworn enemy since their first train ride to Hogwarts, Harry felt the unmistakable heat of anger creeping up his neck. Malfoy . . . who had been responsible for cursing Katie with that damned necklace . . .who had nearly killed Ron by giving Slughorn the poisoned wine as a gift . . .Malfoy, who had been responsible for trying to kill Dumbledore and who, in the end, had succeeded, even if someone else had ended up doing it for him.

"Disturbed you did I?" said the mirror softly, reaching out one finger as if it could reach through the glass and touch Harry’s face.

Harry flinched reflexively and his reflection chuckled appreciatively.

"Fear and Anger." The mirror’s quiet tone was contemplative now, almost sad. "Not a good mix Mr. Potter, not good at all."

"What are you?" asked Harry before he could help himself. He knew what it was after all; a mirror. It was just a mirror, and a mirror couldn’t hurt him, could it?

"I’m you," said his reflection, shrugging delicately and sticking its hands in its pockets.

"I- I mean, when no one’s here. When there’s nothing to reflect, what are you then?"

"I just -am," said the mirror with a half smile. "I simply exist until it is time to reflect."

"Not doing a very good job of it, are you?" said Harry, looking critically at his reflection which was now slouched against the inside of the frame as if it had the weight of the world on it’s shoulders, its hands still jammed in its pockets. Harry himself was standing upright, his arms crossed against his chest, watching his reflection through narrowed eyes.

"My job is to reflect the truth, Mr. Potter, whether it can be seen on the outside or not."

"What do you mean?" asked Harry, his breath catching in his chest as the reflection’s eyes slowly took on a red glow, its pupils narrowing into snake-like slits. "Oh my god!"

"That is what I see in your mind. It is what you fear the most," said the mirror conversationally, shaking itself like a dog after a bath, its features once more reflecting those Harry was so familiar with. "You are afraid that he will use you; possess you, like he did at the Ministry-"

"That’s not-" began Harry, but stopped as his reflection raised a hand to stem his flow of words.

"Possess you, and then use you to hurt those you care most about," finished his reflection.

Harry, who had opened his mouth to protest, closed it again.

"How – How did you know?" he asked finally, eyeing the mirror suspiciously.

"I told you," said the mirror tiredly. "I reflect the truth. It doesn’t matter if you believe it’s the truth or not. I say what I see; whether it is a first gray hair or a love bite whose owner has tried to cover it with makeup, or the deep and abiding fear of hurting those you care about that you seem so intent on denying."

"I’m not denying-"

"Please, Potter. Why do you think you’re here alone?"

"I – well I-"

"Exactly."

"But it’s for their own good," Harry whispered.

"That’s what you keep telling yourself," snapped the mirror.

"Well, it’s true!" Harry insisted. "They are safer without me, and besides, I’m not going to be very good company until I’ve figured this damned thing out."

"You know, Potter," said the mirror quietly, regarding Harry with an expression very much like pity, "there was once a wise man who said; The glory of friendship is not in the outstretched hand, nor the kindly smile, nor the joy of companionship; it is in the spiritual inspiration that comes to one when he discovers that someone else believes in him and is willing to trust him."

"Ralph Waldo Emerson," said Harry automatically, then did a double take. "When did you ever read Emerson?"

"I didn’t," said the mirror, the smirk once more firmly in place, "you did."

* * *

Harry had thought that he’d have to leave the mirror when he moved on, but then had decided to ply it with the same charm he’d used on his broomstick and shrink it down to an easily manigable size. No point in leaving it around for the Muggles to find after all.

His reflection had muttered incessantly about "the indignity of it" until Harry had silenced it by wrapping it tightly in the dirty black T-shirt he’d used to wipe it clean and sticking it into the bottom of his pack.

He had, until his conversation with the mirror, been at a loss where to look next in his search for the remaining Horcrux’s. But in the end, it was something the mirror had said that had helped him make up his mind. It had gotten him thinking. . . remembering where he’d been when he’d read the words the mirror had quoted at him . . .realizing that there was someone he needed to talk to . . .something he had left undone.

Harry spent one last night in the tree house, taking comfort in the now-familiar night sounds around him; the babble of the river, the chirping of the crickets and voice-like rustlings of the wind in the trees; like a small child clutching a well-loved blanket or teddy-bear to it’s chest.

He was up before dawn, eating quickly; one of the mini-meals Ron had packed for him. A quick dip in the river; with the hot air trick of Hermione’s to dry him off, some clean clothes from his pack and he was ready to go.

With a final look around him, Harry took leave of number eleven Holly Drive. He’d be back. There was something here that he was supposed to find. He could feel it, like a splinter in his mind. But somehow, instinctively, he also knew that it was not yet time. His path would lead him back here, oh yes, he was almost as certain of that as he was of where he needed to go next – and it was the last place on earth that he wanted to go.

* * *

Privet Drive looked just the same as it ever did. The neat square houses squatted squarely on their neat, square lots, all of them looking rather out of place in the surrealist colors of an unusually vivid Thursday morning sunrise.

Harry, who had seen plenty of sunrises over Privet Drive, felt that he was well-qualified to judge. It wasn’t simply unusually vivid, but downright spectacular. So clear! The air seemed to have crystallized somehow, the colors refracted, purified, until each shade of pink and magenta; every orange and yellow stood out from the rest with startling clarity. He could feel the colors burning into his skin, searing into his bones until his very brain seemed to be on fire with the intensity of it. Had he ever seen anything properly before?

The color and splendid clarity of light acted on his soul much like Phoenix song, in that suddenly he felt lighter, braver, as if every fear had fallen away, leaving only the color and light and sound . . .

He could have sworn that he had heard the briefest snatch of Phoenix song, but it couldn’t be. . .not here . . .not on Privet Drive . . .

Harry swiveled about, squinting back over his shoulder, toward the west where the dark purple shadows of night were fast being overlaid with streaks of chartreuse and vermilion; nothing.

He turned slowly in a circle, breathing deeply, his eyes absorbing the light, ears listening hard for even the smallest scrap of music; but the silence was so deep he wondered for a moment if he was still asleep. Never, even in the earliest hours of the morning, had Privet Drive ever been as perfectly silent as it was at this moment.

"A tribute to the sunrise," Harry murmured, then winced. He had broken the spell. Whatever toehold magic had held over Privet Drive, however briefly, was gone. As if someone had flipped a switch, Harry was suddenly aware of the swishing of traffic on Magnolia Drive; of the underlying hum of the power wires and the incessant barking of a dog from somewhere in the vicinity of the play park. The vivid colors of sunrise were fading into an indistinct blue. Somewhere nearby a car door slammed and Harry came to himself with a start.

It wouldn’t do for him to be seen lurking around number four, especially by Uncle Vernon who (Harry glanced at his watch) would be leaving for work in a little less than an hour.

* * *

It wasn’t that Harry was afraid of Vernon Dursley. He hadn’t been truly afraid of his Uncle in years. But there was something he needed to know; something he should have asked a long time ago. He had to talk to his Aunt. He had to know the truth about some things and he had the distinct feeling that it was not something that she either would not, or could not bring herself to speak of them in front of her husband. So Harry would stay out of sight, lay low, until his Uncle had left for the day, Dudley too, come to think of it. Harry didn’t put it past that porky son-of-a bitch to call for his Daddy if he were to catch site of Harry after they thought he was gone for the summer.

A tabby cat had once perched on the very wall Harry was sitting on, though he couldn’t have known it. The cat had most definitely caught Vernon Dursley’s attention when he’d come home that fateful Tuesday sixteen years ago. Uncle Vernon, however, didn’t so much as blink at the tall, black-haired, bespectacled boy perched on it now; though the fact that the boy was hidden by an invisibility cloak probably had a lot to do with his inability to see him.

Harry had been sitting there, waiting, for the better part of an hour, and, in spite of the promising warmth of another perfect July day, was definitely beginning to feel the night chill of the stone even through the fabric of his jeans. It was a relief to finally see Uncle Vernon step across the threshold, looking every inch a businessman in his light-gray suit, and to see him climb purposefully into his light-gray sedan, take a moment to adjust the mirrors precisely, then rumble away toward the interchange into the city, leaving a light gray plume of exhaust in the air behind him.

Dudley emerged half an hour later, a knapsack slung over one shoulder. Aunt Petunia stood behind him in the shadow of the doorway, watching his progress down the garden walk.

"Be careful Diddy."

Harry, with a clear view of Dudley’s face, saw him wince at the endearment.

"See you tonight, mum."

"Will you be back for supper?"

"Don’t think so," grunted Dudley. "Supposed to be going to Gordon’s."

"You know, I really wish you’d let me have all the boys over for supper one night. It’s really not fair, you’re at one or another of their houses all the time."

"S’okay Mum, really." Dudley waved a ham-like hand over his head and took off at top speed.

He didn’t hear his mother’s heavy sigh, but Harry did. The look on Petunia Dursley’s face as she watched her son disappear around the corner of Privet Drive and Magnolia Crescent was one of mixed pride, concern and a sadness so deep it could almost be called despair.

While his aunt was sweeping off the front walk (an unalterable part of her morning routine) Harry slipped through the still open front door, removed his invisibility cloak, stuffed it in his knapsack, and helped himself to a cup of coffee.

He was halfway through the morning paper (which Uncle Vernon had left on the kitchen table) when his Aunt walked back into the kitchen, glanced once at Harry where he sat at the kitchen table, staring at her over the top of the Daily Mail. But instead of starting, or screaming, or even yelling at him to get out as he’d half expected, she walked directly to the kitchen sink where she proceeded to wash her hands thoroughly.

"I was wondering when you’d be back," she said calmly as she dried her hands on a kitchen towel.

Harry remained silent, waiting as his aunt finished drying her hands before pouring herself a cup of coffee and joining him at the table.

"Then you know why I’m here?"

His aunt shrugged delicately, raised the cup to her pursed lips and took a sip. "I knew that you would be wanting answers," she put the cup down with a clink of china, "answers that only I have, now that that old fool is dead. And, since you’re leaving for good this time, I don’t see the harm in answering them."

Harry twisted his hand in his lap, resisting the urge to reach across the table and toss the remains of her coffee in Aunt Petunia’s thin, horsy face. Instead he steeled himself and asked; "how did you know that he’s dead?"

Aunt Petunia raised her lightly penciled eyebrows. "I’m not completely stupid you know."

Swallowing an instinctive retort, Harry remained silent, fists clenched beneath the table, waiting for her to continue.

"He – he didn’t come this year," she said finally, in such a low voice that Harry could barely hear her.

"What do you mean he didn’t come?" said Harry sharply. "He’s come here before? Dumbledore I mean?"

"Every summer; well, ever since Dudley turned two."

"What for?" Harry blurted bluntly.

"To renew the spell," said Aunt Petunia with a slight grimace. "Every year, like clockwork he’d come to the house the day before your school ended."

"Was he renewing the protection charm?"

"Protection charm?" repeated Aunt Petunia, frowning slightly. "No, the memory charm."

"What memory charm?" asked Harry stupidly.

"The memory charm," repeated his Aunt in a matter-of-fact sort of voice. "The one he does every year on Dudley.

Dudley? Harry gaped openly at his Aunt, not even attempting to conceal the surprise in his face.

"Come again?" he managed finally.

"Do you think I did this for you?" spat his Aunt, her narrow face twisting with dislike. "Do you think I would have willingly put my own life – not to mention the lives of my son and husband – do you really think I would have put them at risk to take you in after what happened to James and Lily? After what happened to my parents?"

Her voice was quivering with fury and, for the first time in his life Harry saw in her face not merely dislike and annoyance with him, but a pure, unadulterated hatred that chilled him to the bone.

"I-"

"Everything’s about you, isn’t it?" said his aunt bitterly.

"What are you-"

"Just like your mother. She was only thinking of herself, of her reputation as an Auror. She didn’t think about the consequences, did she, when she and her idiot husband stood up to Him. She killed them Harry."

"She killed who?"

"Our parents." Aunt Petunia was staring at him, daring him to challenge her.

"Don’t be ridiculous! My Mum wouldn’t have killed her own parents," said Harry heatedly.

"As good as." Aunt Petunia shrugged. "If she hadn’t been what she was-"

"What, a witch?" asked Harry innocently and was rewarded by seeing his aunt flinch as if he’d threatened to hit her.

"A freak."

"Look, Aunt Petunia, I don’t see what my Mum being a witch has to do with your parents being killed."

"Don’t you?" replied his aunt acidly.

. . .born to those who have thrice defied the Dark Lord . . .

"You mean Voldemort killed your parents – my Mum’s parents - because of my Mum and Dad stood up to him?"

"He couldn’t get to them, could he? Too smart they were. He couldn’t get to them directly, but he had his ways, oh yes, he had his ways."

Harry stared at his aunt, unblinking, a whole army of emotions vying for prominence in his brain. It hadn’t been his mother Aunt Petunia had been remembering that night in the kitchen when Harry had told the Dursleys about the return of Lord Voldemort. She’d been remembering her parents.

"I’m the one who found them you know," said Aunt Petunia finally, her voice so low that Harry had to lean forward to hear her. "I was still living at home then. Vernon and I had been out . . ." her voice trailed off and Harry wasn’t surprised to see the lone tear trailing down his aunt’s cheek. She shuddered involuntarily and then said in a bitterly furious voice. "I swore right then and there that I would have nothing to do with the magical world ever again."

That explained a lot, thought Harry silently. Her refusal to answer questions, her aversion to any mention of magic, even the punishments that had been meted out every time he did something unexplainable by mistake. But one thing it didn’t explain . . .

"Aunt Petunia," said Harry quietly, "if you swore off of any contact with the magical world, why would you have agreed to take me in when my parents died?"

"I didn’t do it for you, if that’s what you were wondering," she said, chuckling humorlessly, "anymore than I did it for my freak sister."

"Then why . . .?"

"I did it for Dudley," said his aunt a last, a beatific smile gracing her face.

Harry blinked. Of all the answers he had imagined, his Aunt’s doing it for big, porky, self-absorbed Dudders was the thing he would have imagined her saying. He thought she’d say that she’d done it out of some warped sense of family pride, or . . .or . . .

"For Dudley?" murmured Harry incredulously.

"Agreeing to take you in was the only way I could ensure he had anything resembling a normal life."

Harry was feeling very slow and stupid as he tried to wrap his brain around what his Aunt was saying but it just didn’t make any sense. He would have thought that taking him in was the last thing Aunt Petunia would have wanted.

"I – I don’t understand."

"Why am I not surprised?" said his aunt waspishly. She sighed then, and rubbed her temples as if she were warding off a headache. "But it doesn’t matter now. He’s too old now for it to make a difference."

"Dudley’s too old for what to make a difference?"

"I knew it before he was born even. He talked to me, while I was still carrying him."

"Who talked to you?"

"Dudders of course."

"He talked to you, before he was born?"

"It was more like a voice in my head," said Aunt Petunia, shrugging. "All during the pregnancy, he’d tell me what he needed . . . what he wanted; food, exercise. And then, that whole first year he’d just sort of do things."

"What sort of things?" Harry managed. But he knew. Somehow, before his aunt said even one more word Harry knew what she was going to say.

"Strange things," whispered his aunt in a barely audible voice. She shivered again and then wrapped both hands around her coffee cup as if trying to warm herself. "He dropped a toy once. He was in his playpen and I was across the room. I was going to get it for him – it was his favorite, the rubber elephant, you know?"

Harry shook his head slowly, unwilling to speak unless he broke the spell that was keeping his aunt talking.

"Well, before I could finish what I was doing, it was soaring through the air right into his hands. That happened lots of times after that. Sometimes things that I knew were still in his toy box would suddenly just appear, right in his playpen. And then there was the baby food . . ."her voice trailed away, sounding horrified.

"I’d be feeding him a jar of green beans, or beets, lord how he hated beets!" she was smiling slightly now, but her lip was still curled as if even that happy memory could not erase what the horrors she was about to relate. "And I’d put the spoon in and it would have changed . . .into sweet potatoes or squash, once even into chocolate pudding. I thought the first time that I must be hallucinating, but I know I wasn’t, because there were still green beans on the spoon!"

Harry chanced a glance at his aunt. She looked pale, pinched, and absolutely horrified at the memories she was dredging up.

"But that wasn’t the worst of it," she said quietly, as if confessing some horrid and grievous sin. "The worst thing happened the July after Dudders turned one." His aunt took a deep, shuddering breath, and then began to talk very rapidly, as if saying it fast would somehow blunt the horror of it.

"We’d taken a beach house in Brighton; two weeks of holiday. Do you know how hard it is to get Vernon to take a break from those retched drills? Anyway, a week into our stay and Dudley was having problems sleeping. He missed his old bed I think, because one night I woke up to hear him screaming. Then the screaming cut off abruptly, like someone had flipped a switch. By the time I got into his room he was gone!"

"Gone?"

"Just -gone. He was barely walking and there was no way he could have gotten out of his crib. I thought – I thought someone must have taken him, but all the doors and windows were still locked."

"Let me guess," said Harry dryly. "He’d gone home?"

"He was sound asleep in his own bed," admitted Aunt Petunia shakily. "I called that mad Fig woman; she has a spare key in case of emergencies. She went in and sure enough, there he was, sleeping like a baby angel."

Harry wasn’t certain if he wanted to scream or laugh. Dudley, a wizard? But if what she was saying was true – and he didn’t see why it couldn’t be, his mother and Aunt Petunia had been sisters after all - why hadn’t Dudley gotten a letter from Hogwarts too? Unless . . .

"You made a deal with Dumbledore, didn’t you?" said Harry suddenly, not caring anymore if the subject were hurting his aunt’s feeling or not. "When he asked you to take me in?"

"He agreed to strike Dudley’s name off the list," said Aunt Petunia in a wavery voice. "And to wipe his memory so he wouldn’t remember anything about having any sort of unnatural talent."

"Didn’t work though, did it?" asked Harry, guessing the truth.

Aunt Petunia was shaking her head. "No. It kept, I don’t know, coming back to him I guess. So he, Dumbledore, began doing the charm every year, every summer. Of course it wasn’t fool proof. Just because Dudley could no longer remember anything about having unnatural talents didn’t mean that every now and then he wouldn’t do something by mistake."

And that, Harry realized, was why they had punished him so badly every time he had done magic. They wanted to reinforce in Dudley’s brain just how unnatural anything even remotely magical was. By making him, Harry into a scapegoat, a sort of model of everything they despised about magic they would deter Dudley from doing magic himself, however inadvertently.

And that, Harry thought triumphantly, was most likely what the Dementors had forced Dudley to remember – all the times he had acted unnaturally by doing the magic that his parents so despised. He would have thought that he was loosing his mind.

"And this year he didn’t come," said Aunt Petunia softly, taking a sip of the now stone-cold coffee and curling her lip in disgust. "And then I got a letter from that werewolf fellow-"

"Lupin?

Aunt Petunia pushed the cup away from her across the table while Harry wracked his brain trying to remember when he’d ever mentioned Lupin’s being a werewolf to his Aunt or Uncle.

"The letter came just a few days before you came home. Lupin. Yes. His first name was Richard or Regulus or-"

"Remus," Harry corrected.

"That’s it. Yes. He was a friend of your fathers," she said, nodding. "He didn’t know all that was involved. I don’t think he knew anything about Dudley, but he knew that Dumbledore had been in contact with me, that I had made an agreement with him to take you in. He thought I had a right to know."

"So – what’s going to happen now?" Harry wondered, staring at the rings on his aunt’s bony hands as if mesmerized. Lupin had written to his aunt? Why had he taken it on himself to act in Dumbledore’s behalf?

"You’re going to leave for one," said his aunt decidedly. "You’re going to leave this house, and you’ll never come back. Don’t you think I know what this means? Dumbledore is dead! Any protection he put on this place – on you – will be gone, or at the very least, weakened."

Harry opened his mouth to argue; didn’t she realize that the protection came from the blood bond that he shared with her? That Harry’s strongest protection was in his mother’s blood? He closed it again with a snap. It didn’t matter anyway. Not now. Not now that he knew that his aunt had taken him in not out of good will, or of love for her sister, but purely as a means of protection for her son.

Privet Drive was no longer his home. It never had been, not really, he understood that now.

"So, what’s going to happen to Dudley," Harry asked without thinking. "I mean, now that Dumbledore is no longer putting the memory charms on him?"

Aunt Petunia shrugged. "I’ve already talked to the school counselor. She’s arranged for therapy sessions, just in case he goes into remission."

"You make it sound like a disease," said Harry bitterly.

"Well it certainly isn’t normal!" retorted his aunt, turning on him with flashing eyes. "Besides, I don’t think he remembers any of it now. It’s been years since he’s done anything . . .well . . .unusual. I don’t think he remembers any of it now."

Harry, who was thinking of a certain alleyway between Magnolia Crescent and Wisteria Walk two summers ago, wasn’t so sure. There had definitely been something Dudley had been remembering . . .and he doubted very much if had anything to do with the damned boxing title.

"Aunt Petunia, if you want, I could ask someone to come and do the charms."

"No!" His aunt’s voice was furious. "No one else knows! If they knew – they might – they might change him . . .they might take him away!" She broke down entirely then, sobbing uncontrollably into the hem of the tablecloth. "He’s all I have left, Harry, don’t you see? I can’t loose him too!"

Harry watched her for a full minute before getting to his feet. There was no point in staying. His aunt had told him all she knew. He had always known that she didn’t love him, but somehow, deep down inside, he’d always hoped that in some small way she actually cared about him. Another dream shattered.

Sighing deeply, Harry stood up and carried his coffee cup to the sink. There was nothing left for him here. Everything he owned was either in his pack, or in his Hogwarts trunk under Ron’s bed. Memories were all that was left, and most of those he’d rather not keep.

He didn’t know why, but on his way out the door he leaned down and kissed his Aunt Petunia on her bony cheek.

"Thank you," he said softly, tasting tears made all the more bitter for his knowledge that not one of them was for him. She had saved his life. Grudgingly maybe, bitterly perhaps, even resentfully, but there it was.

As he stepped out onto Privet Drive, Harry felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He was free of Privet Drive forever! Free! God, he couldn’t imagine coming back here to live after leaving this place for good. Poor Sirius, what torture that must have been, to have to go back to Grimmauld Place after he thought he was free of it forever.

Harry tightened his fingers around the fake Horcrux. He didn’t need to open the locket to be reminded of what the note said; the one that had been signed with the initials R.A.B.

Yes! Why hadn’t he thought of it before? Grimmauld Place. It was the logical place to begin looking for the Horcrux that had cost Albus Dumbledore his life.

Back to index

Chapter 3: THE SECOND TURNING

-Jules Renard, Journal, December, 1900

~*~

CHAPTER THREE: THE SECOND TURNING

The battered black door closed behind Harry with an ominous thud, punctuating the absolute silence of number twelve Grimmauld Place with a disturbing finality.

Harry waited a full minute in the dark, taking deep, steadying breaths of the dank, musty air in order to calm his nerves; nerves which were strung so tight it was a wonder that his heart hadn’t leapt out of his chest in protest.

He didn’t want to be here.

The last time he had been here — well, the last time his head had been here — he’d been looking for Sirius. Sirius had been alive; upstairs in this very house, taking care of Buckbeak.

Harry had been looking for Sirius. He’d demanded an answer from Kreacher as to his master’s whereabouts and Kreacher had lied to him, leading him to believe that Sirius had gone to the Ministry of Magic. Thank heavens the little beast was at Hogwarts. If he hadn’t been, Harry wasn’t entirely certain that he would have been able to control his temper. He wasn’t here however, and for a brief moment Harry teetered between wondering which was worse, being here with Kreacher, or being here alone.

"Lumos," whispered Harry, drawing his wand. The wand tip ignited instantly, casting the contents of the downstairs hall into sharp relief. He was relieved to note that Mrs. Black’s Portrait was still covered by its heavy drapes; last thing he wanted was to wake that beastly woman up. Let her snooze on for another decade or two.

Harry stepped cautiously into the Parlor, holding his wand out in front of him like a light saber. "Come to the dark side, Luke," he muttered, then shivered. Here, in this place, the reality of Dark Magic was disturbingly real.

The parlor looked exactly as it had the last time Harry had seen it, albeit a bit dustier. The de-doxied drapes still hung limp and lifeless at the grime-streaked windows (the grime was on the outside, he could testify to that. Mrs. Weasley had subjected the windows like everything else to a thorough cleaning). The writing desk stood quiet and unmoving against the far wall. And there, there on the wall hung the Black Family Tree of which Sirius had been so disparaging.

Not trusting himself with the gas lamps, Harry walked closer to the tapestry, holding his wand before him so that it illuminated the tiny embroidered names and gold connecting threads. There, the burn hole where Sirius’s Mum had removed Sirius’s name and there, next in line;

Harry traced the stitching of the name with one finger; R.A.B. "I found you!" Harry whispered into the darkness. It looked as if young Regulus had not only gotten cold feet, but had decided to undermine his previous master in the only way he knew how.

But if Voldemort guarded the slivers of his soul so carefully, how had Regulus found out about the Horcrux in the first place? More to the point, what had he done with it after he had removed it from its hiding place? And even more specifically, had he gotten around to destroying it before Voldemort had destroyed him? (And Voldemort would have destroyed him, probably personally if he suspected that the turncoat had any information that could be used against him).

Oh yes, it looked as if the ‘right little hero’ as Sirius had so lovingly called him, had been more important in the scheme of things than his big brother could possibly have imagined.

"Come on buddy," Harry whispered, rubbing his finger over the raised embroidery. "Cough it up now. Tell me where you stashed it."

As if in response to his words there was a sudden rustling slithering sort of sound from behind the baseboards. Harry took a step backwards, lowering his wand till the light was pointed at age-warped gap between the baseboard and the floor. A brief impression of eyes on a low-slung body drove him back another step. The eyes blinked, and then were gone with another shivery, slithering sound that made the hair on the back of Harry’s neck stand up.

"What the hell?" He turned in a complete circle, his wand falling on the chair (still stained from the bag of bloody rats Sirius had dropped there) finally lighting on a thick book standing on an end table. There, winking up cheekily at him from the cover, was a handsome blonde wizard with a dazzling smile.

"Bingo!" Harry flipped open the ornately bound book, grinning at what Ron would think when he told him that there had actually been a time he’d been grateful to see Lockhart’s ingratiating grin.

"Boomslang, Bowtruckles, Bugbear, Bandimuns, ha!" He ran his finger over the corresponding passage, reading out loud as he went. "Greenish fungus with eyes. Ergh! No wonder it seemed low to the ground! An infestation of Bundimuns can destroy a house, as their secretions rot away the foundations. This same secretion, in diluted form, is used in some magical cleaning solutions. Weird!" Following the brief description was a series of steps one could take. It looked nearly as involved as some of the potions Harry had done for Slughorn the previous year.

"I don’t have time for this!" he groaned, reading the step that would take two whole days to complete. If he didn’t take care of it (and there was no doubt in his mind that the creature he had glimpsed was indeed a Bandimuns) then it would most likely leave Grimmauld Place in a shambles. But his first priority was the Horcrux. He had to find it. He had to find it and destroy it or verify that it had already been rendered harmless.

Suppose for a minute that he ignored the Bandimuns and went after the locket. Where should he start looking? Where would Regulus have stashed a piece of Lord Voldemort’s soul? As if in response to his question, the words Sirius had uttered in this very room, almost on this very spot seemed to reverberate inside of Harry’s head;

Of course! Regulus had been just nineteen years old when he’d died, barely two years out of Hogwarts, and his parents had not only known about his being a Death Eater, but had been supportive of his cause. He would have brought home, here to Grimmauld Place! Harry threw his head back and began to laugh, the sound reverberating through the empty rooms like a dozen Harry’s all laughing together.

"Watch out Mr. Mold!" Harry called, brandishing his wand at the floorboards where he had seen the Bandimuns. "It looks as if I’ll have time for you after all!"

* * *

Harry stood upright, wincing as his back protested its change of position. He’d been bent nearly double over this damn cauldron for most of the day. And he thought Snape’s potions had been fiddly! This one had took the cake.

He’d found all of the ingredients in a shallow cupboard carved into the side of the great stone fireplace in the basement kitchen, and had gone to work, silently blessing the Half Blood Prince for having at least taught him patience in Potion-making.

The potion was just the first step in ridding the house of the Bandimuns. It now had to be injected into the walls, using a clever little charm that Lockhart had conveniently included in the footnotes. As he made his way through the house lugging the cauldron from room to room, muttering the incantation under his breath and using his wand to inject the potion into the moldering walls, Harry wondered vaguely what witch or wizard’s memory had been wiped clear so that Lockhart could take credit for this useful little household charm.

That was it then. Now all he had to do was wait for 48 hours before reversing the charm so as to remove any residue. (According to the footnotes, any residue left inside the walls would reanimate within 24 hours). The protection ingredients included in the potion would continue to work for a whole year and the potion itself could be stored indefinitely, so Harry had made sure to pour the rest of the cauldron’s contents into a stoppered bottle. He was planning on using those 48 hours to begin searching for the locket, and he knew just where to start.

* * *

With a vague sense of uneasiness, Harry surveyed the nearly empty shelves of the glass fronted cabinets in the parlor. He remembered that long afternoon he and Hermione and the Weasleys had spent cleaning out these cupboards.

He’d nearly been bitten by those damned walking tweezers, and hadn’t there been a box of wartcap powder? Sirius’s hand had looked like a nasty brown glove after coming in contact with it. And a music box that played an odd, tinkling tune that had made them all sleepy and listless; except for Ginny, who had slammed the lid on the box so fast she’d nearly caught Ron’s fingers in it. But hadn’t there been a locket? Hadn’t there been a locket that no one could open?

What had happened to all the stuff they’d mucked out of these cabinets, anyway? He’d seen Fred and George nick some of the stuff; the wartcap powder for one, and a box of small, marble like spheres that Sirius had called "tremblors," as well as a small sack of what he now knew was the Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder that Death Eaters had used at Hogwarts with such effectiveness. But what on earth had happened to the locket?

"Please tell me it didn’t go in the rubbish sacks!" Harry murmured out loud.

It didn’t look promising. All that was left in the glass-fronted cupboards were a number of highly polished but rather plain looking stones in a shallow wooden bowl, a tarnished brass key ring bristling with an assortment of brass and silver keys in a variety of sizes, a number of empty crystal phials, a stack of saucer-sized wooden discs and a plain wooden box that was filled with what looked like porcupine quills.

"What the hell happened to the rest of the stuff?" It was true that a good bit had been thrown out, but those things that were not obviously cursed or related to dark magic had been put to one side. Harry had assumed that Sirius had put those items back into the cabinets, but perhaps he had stored it somewhere else.

Harry sighed, thinking of the three floors (not including the basement or attic) with all their cupboards, cabinets, wardrobes and odd niches, any of which could be housing the item he was looking for.

"Well, no time like the present," he told a fat black spider crouched on the wall just above his head. And who knew, perhaps he’d stumble across something else that could be of use to him in his search for the remaining Horcruxes; some sort of hint, or clue.

* * *

Harry awoke on his second morning in Grimmauld Place with the distinct impression that someone was watching him. He knew they were by the way all the hairs on the back of his neck and arms were standing on end. He simultaneously whipped out his wand and opened his eyes to find only the fat black spider (was it the same spider?) hanging on its thread just inches above his nose.

"What?" said Harry groggily. "You hungry or something? Go on, shoo, I’m not breakfast."

The spider retreated a ways up its thread, intent on avoiding the wand which Harry was now waving energetically above his head. He stifled a giggle at what Ron’s reaction would have been had he awoken to find such a healthy specimen hanging over his face.

"Probably would have woken up the whole dorm," Harry informed the spider, "before smashing you flat of course."

The spider retreated a few more inches.

Harry winced at the stiffness in his back. He’d spent the night — both nights - wrapped in his blanket on top of the trestle table in the kitchen — just in case (he couldn’t entirely rid his mind of that slithering, creeping piece of mold he’d spied in the parlor) — using his knapsack as a pillow.

The roaring fire he’d built in the fireplace before going to bed was now only a bed of glowing coals. How long had he slept this time? Last night he’d woken up every couple of hours, each time feeling as if he’d just closed his eyes. Harry glanced at his wristwatch, and somehow wasn’t surprised to find that it was only four in the morning. He had to wait until six that evening before he could perform the reverse charm that would remove all the Bandimunds’ residue.

"Damn!" His sense of time was all skewered in this place. He’d fallen asleep at various times during the day, feeling groggy and muddled when he woke up instead of refreshed. It was as if Grimmauld Place occupied its own place in space and time, thumbing its nose at traditional time keeping.

"No wonder Sirius was getting restless," Harry told the spider, which had now retreated to the relative safety of the kitchen light fixture, where it had a large, intricate web spread, awaiting unwary insects. "I would have gone nutters in no time cooped up in a place as fundamentally weird as this!"

He’d stayed up until nearly one in the morning in order to complete his search of the house. He had encountered some downright bizarre things — including a mantle clock whose hands ran backwards, a pair of fire tongs which, when he had knocked them over by mistake, tried to bite his ankles and had to be stunned, a large cardboard carton filled to the brim with something that looked like snow, smelled like toasted coconut, but tasted like cardboard, and, in the attic, two large, round-topped, intricately carved trunks that had proven to be locked tight.

Harry had gotten very excited when he found that the trunks were locked; certain at last that he had found the hiding place he’d been searching for, but was disappointed upon opening them to find them full of nothing but ancient robes, high-heeled slippers and hats of all shapes and sizes.

"To be perfectly honest, I don’t know where else to look!" Harry confessed as the Spider began wrapping a small flying bug that had blundered into its threads. The spider paused in its task, as if considering his words. A second later Harry was completely distracted from this oddity as a voice spoke from directly behind him.

"If I knew what it was you were looking for, perhaps I could help."

Gulping for breath, Harry spun on his heels, his wand already in his hand, to find Remus Lupin standing in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the door, his arms crossed and a look of mild curiosity on his face. He was struck at once by how much better Lupin was looking. While still haggard and gray, at least some of the worry lines around his eyes had smoothed out and he looked as if he’d put on at least ten pounds. It looked as if Tonks were taking very good care of him.

"What the hell are you doing here?" ejaculated Harry, stowing his wand back in the pouch.

Lupin raised an eyebrow. "And hello to you too," he said mildly.

"Sorry," said Harry hastily, "it’s just . . .you startled me!"

"That much," said Lupin coolly, "is obvious."

"Yeah, well . . ." Harry grinned sheepishly. "How did you know where I’d be?"

Lupin shrugged. "Wasn’t difficult actually. You asked me how to get to your parents’ house in Goddric’s Hollow. Then Arthur and Molly said that you just disappeared right after the wedding. Anyway, I figured once you’d seen where your parents lived you’d probably come here, and then, when I received your school letter-"

"You received my school letter?" interrupted Harry. "I thought owls could find anyone anywhere they happened to be?"

"In most cases, yes," explained Lupin patiently. "But there seems to be a shielding charm in effect around you, for no less than three school owls have been returned as ‘undeliverable’."

"A shielding charm?" Harry’s hand went automatically to the pouch around his neck. Hadn’t Ginny said that it was enchanted? Figures Hermione would include something like a shielding charm. He hesitated only momentarily before drawing it out and holding it up so that Lupin could see. "Do you think this could have something to do with it?"

Lupin took the pouch from Harry, turning it over in his hands and squinting at the runic symbols etched into the leather. "Where did you get this?"

"Ginny," said Harry simply, then added, "I keep stuff in it that I don’t want found. She gave it to me, Ginny I mean. Ron made it, and Ginny said that Hermione charmed it so that Muggles couldn’t see it. "

"She did more than that," said Lupin admiringly, tracing an odd looking symbol near the bottom left-hand corner. "See this sigil? That’s a shielding charm, and this one? That’s a tracking spell that has all three of their names worked into it."

"And that means what, exactly?" asked Harry, squinting at the tiny gold threads Lupin was pointing to.

"What it means is that as long as you have this pouch on your person only the three of them will know exactly where you are."

"But you found me."

"It’s not like the Fideleous Charm, Harry. You can still be found — if someone knows where to look. But it makes it damned near impossible to trace you using any form of magical tracking."

"But you said there was a tracking charm worked into it too."

"Yes, but it’s exclusive, see?" Lupin was pointing to a connecting line between two of the sigils. "It bypasses the shielding charm, but only for Ron, Hermione and Ginny, because this links their names to the tracking charm."

"Sneaky," smirked Harry, once again amazed at Hermione’s ability to complex spellwork.

"But brilliant," said Lupin, smiling. "She really is the smartest witch I have ever had the pleasure of meeting, well, except for one."

"Tonks," said Harry, nodding. He didn’t know if he’d consider Tonks to be smarter than Hermione, but she was an Auror after all, and what with Lupin’s fancying her, it was natural to think that . . .

"No, actually, I was talking about Lily."

Harry blinked. "My Mum?"

"Everyone thought your Lily should have been in Ravenclaw," said Lupin reminiscently. "Top of her class in everything. I think that was one reason James was so attracted to her. I mean, precious few people could show James up in anything. He was easily the best in our class at Transfiguration, well, he and Sirius, and he was pretty damned good in Herbology. But Lily consistently beat them both in Charms and Potions."

"What about Defense Against the Dark Arts?" Harry wondered.

"I’d call it a tie," said Lupin cheerfully. "Lily and James were always vying for top position in Defense classes. Some of the hexes they used on each other during practice. . .!" He chuckled at the memory. "There was one afternoon at the end of our sixth year when they both refused to back down during the practical, talk about disastrous!"

"What happened?"

"They hexed each other so bad that they ended up in the hospital wing. As an extra punishment Professor McGonagall made certain that Madam Pomfrey put them in beds right next to each other."

"My Mum must have hated that!" said Harry wincing as he remembered Snape’s memory and how Lily had seemed to absolutely detest James early on in their acquaintance.

"Especially since neither of them were allowed visitors for the duration of their confinement," Lupin added.

"How long were they in there?"

"Three days," said Lupin, smirking, "they went in yelling, and by the time Madam Pomfrey discharged them three days later they couldn’t keep their hands off of each other."

"You’re kidding!" said Harry incredulously. "You mean that’s all it took?"

"It appeared so," said Lupin comfortably. "Oddly enough, James would never go into detail about what exactly went on while they were in there, and I can’t say how unusual that was. Normally he would regal Sirius and Peter and me with stories of his assorted conquests."

"Assorted conquests?"

"Harry, your dad was young, good looking, rich, smart and an excellent Quidditch player. Trust me, he had girls throwing themselves at his head; him and Sirius both." Lupin looked sideways at Harry, then innocently added, "from what I’ve heard, you haven’t been exactly lacking for admirers yourself."

Harry smirked, remembering Romilda Vane’s thwarted attempts to trick him into taking her love potion.

"Yeah, I suppose, but with most of them it’s because I’m the bloody boy-who-lived, isn’t it?" He paused, then added, "except for Ginny of course."

"Of course." Lupin remained silent for several minutes as he busied himself in making a cup of tea for the both of them from a tin of ancient leaves tucked into the back of one of the cabinets. It wasn’t until he had seated himself across from Harry, his back to the fireplace that Lupin spoke again.

"Harry, I want to apologize to you for how I behaved after Sirius . . ." he cleared his throat. "This whole last year and then, with Dumbledore and . . .well . . .I couldn’t deal with it."

"Who could?" muttered Harry, staring intently into his own cup of tea, wondering idly what the tea leaves would show now if he were to turn over his cup.

Lupin’s head snapped up at Harry’s words, he looked angry; angrier than Harry had ever seen him. "The point is, Harry, I should have! I had no right wallowing in self pity when I needed most to be strong."

"Don’t give me that shit!" Harry snapped, forgetting entirely that he was dealing with an Adult; a man who he respected; a man who was old enough to be his father.

"You’re my responsibility now Harry and I-"

"I am not yours or anyone else’s’ responsibility," said Harry flatly, cutting across Lupin with a tone that seemed to stop the older man in his tracks. Lupin stared at him, but Harry was not about to be deterred. "All my life people have been taking responsibility for me. My parents, Sirius . . ." Harry swallowed the lump that was forming in his throat, " . . .Dumbledore."

"Harry, I know you’ve been hurt-"

"No Remus. I haven’t been hurt." Harry felt the change in his voice; the icy, steel-like quality that had crept into it’s timbre. "I haven’t been hurt because every single person who has stepped between me and Voldemort has been killed protecting me. That stops, now. Today. No one else is going to be hurt because of me Remus. I am going to take care of this once and for all."

"Harry-"

"No." Harry took the older man by the shoulders. "Don’t you see? It’s time for me to take responsibility for myself."

Lupin closed his eyes and took several deep shuddering breaths before speaking again. When he opened his eyes, Harry was more than a little startled to see that he was crying.

"Professor . . .what is it?"

Lupin gave a ragged laugh and wiped his eyes with the hem of his sleeve. "You just — you just remind me so much of your father Harry. When you talk like that, the look in your eye . . .that was just how he sounded whenever he talked about Voldemort . . .about fighting him. . ." his voice broke and he pulled Harry into a bone-cracking hug. "Harry, I don’t want to loose you too!"

Harry remained silent. What could he say? Lupin had lost as many people to Voldemort as Harry had; people he was close to; people he loved just as much as Harry loved Ron, Hermione and Ginny. Not for the first time Harry felt the stirrings of a hot, bubbling anger at the man (if he could still be called a man) who was responsible for causing this kind of pain and suffering.

* * *

"Like I was saying, Harry, it was most likely the shielding charm that kept the school owls from finding you."

It was two hours later and Harry and Lupin were both sopping up the remnants of a beef stew from the bottom of their bowls with large chunks of bread. Harry simply nodded, not bothering to speak. He hadn’t realized just how hungry he was until Lupin’s thrown together stew had begun to simmer in the great cauldron over the fire.

"Only those owls who have been put under the corresponding finding charm will be able to find you with any accuracy. That would explain why they ended up sending the letter to me."

"What letter?" said Harry thickly around the last bit of bread he had just stuffed into his mouth.

"Your school letter; haven’t you been listening to me?"

"Well yeah, but . . .hey, I thought they weren’t going to open Hogwarts this year?"

"It was a close thing, let me tell you!" said Lupin, rummaging in the pockets of his jacket and finally extracting a thick yellow envelope with a fat wax seal on the back.

Harry wiped his hands on his jeans before slitting open the seal with a fingernail and shaking out the creamy sheets of parchment. He felt a distinct pang as he remembered the first time he had received a letter. Hagrid had done copious amounts of magic in order to get it to him, finally breaking down the door to the hut-on-the-rock in order to hand it to him in person.

The unusual thickness of the letter proved to be not only the usual welcome-back note and book list, but a letter of the precautions being taken to ensure the safety of the students and staff of Hogwarts, as long as several permission forms to be signed by the parents of those students still under seventeen.

"The board of governors had a rough time of it; took them nearly a month to decide," said Lupin, nodding at the forms Harry was holding. "But they finally agreed to allow those who wish to return to do so, provided that those under age have the appropriate release and permission forms signed."

"Doesn’t matter," said Harry, shrugging as he tossed the letter and forms onto the table.

"Well no, of course it doesn’t, not now that you’re almost of age."

"No," interrupted Harry, tapping the slightly creased parchment pages with one finger. "It doesn’t matter because I won’t be going back, at least not until I’ve settled this business."

"But — you’ve got to finish you’re schooling!" stammered Lupin, spluttering over the last bit of bread he had nearly inhaled at Harry’s revelation.

"You sound like Ron’s mum! Honestly, Professor, what do you think I’ll learn this year that could be of any possible use to me in what I’m about to face?"

"Well, I . . ."

"Exactly. Dumbledore . . .he was working with me last year," said Harry carefully, weighing each word before he spoke. "He, Dumbledore, he wanted me to understand Voldemort so that I would have an idea of what I was up against. He showed me — memories; memories from people who knew Voldemort from before, when he was just Tom Riddle. Things about him that he thought I should know, that he thought might help."

"Is that what you’re looking for?" asked Lupin, watching Harry through narrowed eyes. "Memories?"

"You could say that," said Harry, smiling slightly. Then, without thinking added, "actually, I’m looking for objects; objects of power that may have been of particular significance to Voldemort, things he may have used to store . . ." Harry looked sideways at Lupin, who was staring intently into the fire, his forehead creased. "Memories," he finished lamely, standing up suddenly and taking his bowl to the sink to cover the sudden rush of color to his cheeks.

Damn but he was going to have to watch himself. He couldn’t be letting things slip. Dumbledore had told him to let Ron and Hermione in on the secret, but he hadn’t said anything at all about Lupin. Still, he owed Lupin something, didn’t he? Didn’t Lupin have a right to understand what it was Harry was trying to do? Or would Lupin try to take the responsibility for finding the Horcruxes on himself?

To his surprise, Lupin’s slightly horse voice began speaking in a dreamy, rhythmic chant, his eyes very nearly closed, as if he were repeating something he had learned by heart a long time ago.

The silence when Lupin finished speaking was deafening. Harry was so amazed that he couldn’t bring himself to speak.

"What?"said Lupin curiously, opening his eyes at last and noting Harry’s intense stare.

"That — that poem," said Harry gruffly, clearing his throat and starting again. "That poem. Where did you hear it?"

"It’s just a nursery rhyme," said Lupin, shrugging. "My sisters would sing it when they skipped rope."

"Who wrote it!" Harry insisted. He had Lupin by the shoulders now, his fingers gripping the older man so tight that he winced.

"Let go Harry, you’re hurting me. I have no idea who wrote it, weren’t you listening? It’s a nursery rhyme; something that’s been around forever. It doesn’t mean anything."

"Then why did you repeat it?" said Harry, rounding on Lupin as if he were under attack.

"I don’t know, probably what you said earlier, about objects of power."

"My god," whispered Harry, sitting down heavily on a nearby chair. "That’s it! The cup, the locket, something of Gryffindor’s, something of Ravenclaw’s, but not the snake; never the snake. It never was the snake! Couldn’t have been!"

"Harry, what are you on about?"

Lupin’s horse, gravelly voice seemed to be coming from a very long ways away. Harry blinked, shook his head. He had to focus. The song, it had named them. . .it had named all four of the objects. Harry looked about wildly, grabbed a sheet of parchment from a stack at the far end of the table and rummaged in the drawer beside the sink until he found a bedraggled looking quill and a bottle of ink.

"Harry?"

"Say it again," Harry demanded, loading up his quill and looking expectantly at Lupin. "The nursery rhyme, say it again."

* * *

"So you’re telling me that Voldemort has split his soul seven times?" asked Lupin, looking rather sick.

"Yeah," said Harry, grimacing. "That’s what Dumbledore thought, anyway."

Harry had ended up telling Lupin everything about the night that he and Dumbledore had gone looking for the locket, about the theories that Dumbledore had concerning the identity of the other Horcruxes.

"Horcruxes," said Lupin, shaking his head. "I think I heard something about them once, ages ago. But I never paid it any mind. I didn’t realize what they were."

"Who would?" said Harry, shrugging. "They’re not exactly something you’re going to find described in The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Six."

"So he can’t be destroyed until all seven pieces have been found?"

"Six pieces," corrected Harry. "According to Dumbledore, one of the pieces has to be in Voldemort himself."

"Makes sense," said Lupin. "That would also explain how he was able to survive after the curse he was aiming at you rebounded on himself. If it wasn’t his entire soul that was destroyed then he couldn’t actually die." Lupin paused, considering. "So you’re thinking that he used these four objects of power?"

"We know he had access to at least two of them," said Harry. "Those memories Dumbledore showed me? One of them was when he discovered that one woman, this little old witch named Hepzibah, that she had both Hufflepuff’s cup and Slytherin’s necklace. According to Dumbledore she died not more than a couple of weeks after Voldemort discovered she had them."’

"So there are six Horcuxes floating around."

"Four actually," said Harry. "Two have already been destroyed. Dumbledore destroyed one, the ring, a big signet ring that belonged to the Riddles. That’s how he hurt his hand. And then that diary, Tom Riddle’s diary that I destroyed in the Chamber of secrets? That was one of the Horcruxes, that’s how come he was sapping the life right out of Ginny, he was going to use her body to come back."

"And then the fake Horcrux you found in the cave," said Lupin thoughtfully. "Someone replaced the real Horcrux that Voldemort had hidden there with a fake one."

"Yeah, the fake locket had this in it." Harry withdrew the note and handed it to Lupin.

" R.A.B.? So you’re thinking it was Regulus?"

"Who else could it be?" said Harry, shrugging. "Who else with those initials would have been able to find out where he’d hidden it?"

"Talk about hiding your light under a bushel," said Lupin grimly. "I always considered Regulus a right little idiot."

"So did Sirius," said Harry, nodding.

"And you think he would have brought it here?"

"Where else?" said Harry, shrugging. "Sirius himself said that his dad had put all sorts of charms and stuff on this place. And then, we were going through the cupboards in the parlor when we found a locket — a big, heavy gold locket that wouldn’t open."

"You think that was it then?"

"I guess I’ll never know. It’s not here now, anyway."

"You’ve looked everywhere?"

"Feels like it. But from the looks of it, someone else has gone through this place with a fine tooth comb. Anything of any real value is gone."

"Mundungus," said Lupin, grimacing. "Filthy little thief. He was doing right well for himself for a while there."

"Was?"

"Didn’t you hear about that? He was killed just last week, the day after Bill and Fleur’s wedding; that raid on Diagon Alley. The Death Eaters killed four shop keepers and dozens of shoppers in cold blood."

"What raid on Diagon Alley?"

"You really have cut yourself off from the magical world, haven’t you?" said Lupin, suddenly serious. "It was an attempt to take Gringotts, at least that’s what the Ministry thinks."

"Did they-"

"Didn’t even come close," said Lupin, smiling coldly. "The goblins have their own methods of security; very effective, especially against wizards. No, they were rebuffed, that’s why the Death Eaters turned on the shops. They were furious that they’re plan didn’t work. They completely leveled half the shops in the street and burned the Leaky Cauldron to the ground."

"But why?"

"They’re Death Eaters Harry! Since when do they need a reason to cause as much mayhem and destruction as possible?"

"Yeah, I know, but — what about Fred and George?" asked Harry, suddenly feeling incredibly sick.

"They’re fine, they and Lee dis-Apparated just minutes before the Death Eaters got to their shop. They even managed to save everyone who happened to be shopping in their store as well as most of their merchandise."

"Figures," said Harry, snorting. "Glad they’re okay though."

"So’s Molly, trust me. She’s still berating them about taking the time to save their merchandise."

"Sounds like her." Harry paused, considering. "Who was killed? Anyone we know?"

"Tom, the bartender in the Leaky Cauldron. He died in the fire. And Madam Malkin’s assistant, the tall thin girl? Then there was Lawrence Weatherby, the Cauldron shop’s proprietor, and Madam Mince, the owner of Eylops."

"Damn. Anyone else? What about the shoppers?"

"You know Susan Bones?"

"Oh god, not Susan!"

"No, no, her family. Susan was in Fred and George’s, she got out okay, along with Neville, who was there for the day with his Grandmother. Susan’s family was killed outside of Madam Malkin’s and Neville’s grandmother nearly died herself trying to pull old Tom from the Leaky Cauldron."

"Poor Neville!" groaned Harry. "Is she okay, his grandmother I mean?"

"She was pretty badly burned but she’ll pull through."

"And Susan lost her whole family?"

"Mother, father and two younger sisters. They were twins, supposed to be starting at Hogwarts this year, they were being fit for their robes."

"What’s the Ministry done?"

"Publicly condemn the attacks."

"That’s it?"

"So far, yes."

"And people thought they’d be safer with Scrimgeour in office," murmured Harry.

"I don’t think there was anything the Ministry could have done. The attacks came with absolutely no warning. And speaking of safer," said Lupin, giving Harry a sideways look. "Molly is absolutely frantic to find you. There were rumors that you’d been seen in Diagon Alley just before the attacks."

"Load of rubbish."

"Yes, well, that doesn’t stop Molly from being frantic."

Harry stood staring at the fire for several minutes, thinking hard. Mundungus had died in the attack on Diagon Alley. Lupin had said he’d been doing fairly well for himself these last few months.

"So you think Dung cleaned us out?" Harry wondered. It wouldn’t surprise him. He’d seen Dung with the goblin wrought silver goblets that had been emblazoned with the black family crest. He’d felt like killing him right then and there. Perhaps it would have been better if he had. What if he’d had the Horcrux on him right then?

"Good silver’s gone," Lupin was saying, motioning towards the stainless steel flatware they’d been using for their impromptu supper. "And most of the knickknacks. He probably figured that with Sirius dead and Dumbledore — gone . . ."

"That no one would care? I have to find that locket, Remus! It’s important! If Dung did get a hold of it he could have sold it to anyone! I supposed he might have tried to sell it in that second hand shop, or maybe Brogin and Burke’s."

"You’d be dead in minutes if you showed up in Knockturn Alley Harry. Half the shopkeepers down that way are in league with Voldemort or supply his Death Eaters without asking too many questions. And, well, you can’t exactly go strolling into Diagon Alley at the moment asking if anyone’s seen a gold locket with Slytherin’s insignia on it. You’d probably end up in a cell in Azkaban, right next to Stan Shunpike!"

"They still haven’t let him out?"

"Haven’t even given the poor bloke a trial."

"That is so stupid! Stan’s no more a Death Eater than I am!" growled Harry.

"Yes, well, they have to appear to be doing something to protect us all now, don’t they?"

Harry opened his mouth to argue, then promptly closed it again. What was there to say? He’d come here looking for answers, and he’d gotten one all right. The locket had most likely been sold to some little country witch looking for a trinket to take home from her day’s shopping in Diagon Alley.

"God, Remus, what am I going to do?"

"About the locket? There’s probably nothing else you can do, well, short of hunting down whoever Dung sold it to. No, you’re best bet right now is probably to start reading up on the other two objects, what were they?" He picked up the piece of parchment Harry had scribbled the nursery rhyme down on. "Gryffindor’s mirror and Ravenclaw’s harp."

"Great," snarled Harry, kicking the large iron cauldron sitting stolidly on the hearth and receiving nothing more than a pain in his foot for his efforts. "Just great. Two mythical items that might not even exist for all we know. I don’t have a clue Remus, not a clue! What do they look like? Where would he have hidden them? I don’t even know where to start!"

"Then why not start with the one you do know about," said Lupin mildly, watching Harry nurse his injured foot with raised eyebrows.

"Which is that?"

"The cup."

"But I don’t know where he stashed it!"

"Think Harry, Slughorn said that Horcruxes were made by splitting one’s soul — and that it required a murder to activate it."

"Yeah."

"Well, we’ve agreed that he most likely killed his Father to turn the ring, his Uncle’s ring, into a Horcrux."

"Probably, yeah."

"Did Dumbledore tell you where it was hidden, how he found the ring, who had it?"

"No, I saw it in the Pensieve, and then I saw it in his office, and then it was gone."

"And most likely he turned the diary into a Horcrux when he killed Myrtle. Probably the first Muggle-born he’d killed. That would be a big step for him. And from what we can tell, he had given the diary to Malfoy for safekeeping, someone just like him who can’t abide Muggle-borns."

"It was Mr. Malfoy that slipped the diary into Ginny’s cauldron," said Harry, nodding. "After he and Mr. Weasley had the fight in Flourish and Blots."

"And the Locket, the fake Horcrux, the one that was supposed to have been Slytherin’s locket, for some reason Regulus was able to find out where it was. Is it possible that he had been told where the Horcrux was? I mean, he was a pureblood after all, from a family who staunchly supported a pureblood’s superiority. Perhaps there’s a trend here."

"You think that he only told one other person about each of the Horcruxes?" wondered Harry. "You know, that feels right somehow. That’s something he’d do, isn’t it? He’d try to cover all his bases, spread the Horcruxes out as far as possible; only tell one other person where it was. Someone would have to know after all. Someone besides himself would have to know where each of the pieces were in case he was incapacitated, like what happened when he tried to kill me and the spell rebounded."

"I think you might be on to something Harry," said Lupin, nodding in agreement. "And he chose the person to guard the Horcrux based on the object itself and how it tied Voldemort to that particular Death Eater."

"So he chose Malfoy to guard the diary because Malfoy hated Muggle-borns as much as Voldemort himself, and the diary had been created with the intent of ridding Hogwarts of Muggle-borns. And then he made Regulus the guardian for the Locket because his family were big supporters of the Purebloods right to rule. But what about the others?"

"Well, maybe we’re asking the wrong questions," said Lupin, frowning slightly. "Perhaps we should be asking who his most loyal Death Eaters are? Those closest to him? Would they be the logical choices to guard the pieces of his soul?"

"Yeah, but Regulus is already dead, and the locket is gone, lost. Malfoy is in prison and the Diary has been destroyed."

"What about Barty Crouch?" asked Lupin. "I mean, he was definitely a faithful Death Eater."

"Yeah, but his father had him locked up. Voldemort didn’t even know he was alive until he got a hold of Berth Jorkins," Harry pointed out.

"Okay then, what about Avery, or Nott maybe?"

"They were groveling!" sneered Harry, his lip curled. "When Voldemort confronted his Death Eaters in the graveyard, they were groveling at his feet."

"You’re right, someone who had been close enough to him to be entrusted with a bit of his soul wouldn’t grovel. Well, who else was close to him?"

"What about Wormtail?" suggested Harry.

"Peter? Oh please!"

"No, Remus, listen, he was the only one to go looking for Voldemort, don’t you see? Voldemort himself said that he rewards those who are faithful to him."

"But with something that important? You don’t know Peter like I do, Harry, he’s a self-absorbed, conniving little-"

"Voldemort trusted him with his life," Harry pointed out grimly. "Not that he had much of a choice, mind you, but still, he brought him back from Death’s door, he nursed that foul slimy thing from a bottle Remus, I’ll never forget the sight of it’s arms wrapped around Pettigrew’s neck." Harry shuddered uncontrollably.

"All right. You could be right. We know for certain that two have been destroyed and one has been taken from its hiding place, and I’ll concede that Peter may be guarding the fourth, whichever one that might be. But that still leaves three more."

"The cup," said Harry firmly, still staring into the fire. "Wormtail’s guarding the cup."

"How can you possibly know that?"

"Healing powers," said Harry, a grin slowly spreading across his face. "Hufflepuff’s cup was supposed to possess all sorts of powers. I bet healing is just one of the things it does."

"But why would you think that Peter would be guarding the cup particularly?"

"It just feels right. Besides, I saw the cup, in the Pensieve," said Harry, "it was just a small golden goblet with two finely wrought handles and a badger engraved on it. But it contains powers, Hepzibah said that herself, and the poem, that nursery rhyme says that it contains the fountain of youth. But who’s to say that it always looks like a cup?"

"You mean it could look like something else?"

"Well, in the Grail legends the writers would describe it, but sometimes it was a cup or a goblet, sometimes it was a bowl, and sometimes, sometimes it was a cauldron!"

"And that is supposed to mean what exactly?"

"Well, the night Voldemort came back, Peter was using the biggest damned cauldron I’ve ever seen, it was big enough for a grown man to sit in. He put that deformed proto-person thing in it, and Voldemort came out."

"Healing powers," whispered Lupin, his eyes getting big. "It would make sense!"

"He told the Death Eaters that it was a charm," said Harry excitedly. "Peter recited a little incantation; bone of the father, flesh of the servant, blood of the enemy, but what if the real magic was in the cauldron itself, especially if it already contained a bit of his soul?"

Lupin remained silent for several moments, digesting this latest bit.

"Damn. I think — no, Harry, I think you just might be right. He would have had to use one of the Horcruxes in order to come back. Until he could get his hands on one of them he was powerless, just a weak proto-human. So he had to come back, back to where he knew one of the Horcruxes was hidden."

"The Riddle House," said Harry. Then stopped short. He hadn’t realized he was going to say that until he had actually said it. He hadn’t even been aware that he was even considering the Riddle House as one of the places where a Horcrux could be hidden.

"But if he’s used it, then why would he put someone to guarding it?" Lupin wondered.

"Unless he made it back into a Horcrux," said Harry "Dumbledore says that he doesn’t think Voldemort can feel when one of the Horcruxes has been destroyed. But Voldemort knew he’d used that particular Horcrux, so he’s remade it, which means he’s killed someone else. Or maybe he just used Bertha Jorkins, or the old man, Frank."

"Either way, he probably would have left it where he had hidden it initially. I mean, it stayed hidden and undetected for thirteen years after all, and most likely whoever he had initially set to guarding it was killed, or sent to Azkaban," Lupin pointed out.

"Which means that the cup would need a new guardian." Harry stopped short, remembering, remembering what he’d seen, how Voldemort had told Wormtail that he would be as useful as Bertha Jorkins, that his part would come at the very end, that it would be a task many of his followers would have given their right hands to perform.

Harry had been given plenty of opportunities to think over Voldemort’s words since that horrid night in the graveyard, and he’s always assumed that Voldemort had been referring to Wormtail’s cutting off his own hand to activate the potion. But what if that had only been a part of it? What if he had been referring to something else altogether?

"Well," said Harry, shrugging slightly. "At least I have an idea of where I need to go next."

"We’ll start first thing in the morning-" began Lupin, but Harry cut him off.

"We won’t be doing anything, Remus. I’ve told you before, no one else is going to be put in danger because of me."

"Harry, you can’t just walk up to the Riddle House and ring the doorbell!"

"Why not?"

"Because, you have to take precautions. This could be exactly what Voldemort is expecting!"

"I very much doubt if Voldemort is anywhere near any of his stored souls," said Harry acidly. "He wouldn’t want to take that sort of chance, would he?"

"Probably not."

"Then it’s most likely just Peter," said Harry, a cold smile sliding slowly into place across his face. "And I don’t think that he will be a problem."

"But what if it’s booby trapped, cursed or something, like this last one."

"I’ll deal with that when I come to it," said Harry, still smiling.

"When we come to it, Harry, you’re not going by yourself!"

"Watch me!"

"You can’t stop me coming."

"Can’t I?" said Harry coolly, raising his wand. "This is my fight now, Remus. I’m going alone, that’s all there is to it, and if you show up I just might jinx you myself, if Peter and his silver hand doesn’t get to you first!"

"Harry-"

"Besides that, I need you to take a message to Ginny for me."

"A message?"

"Yeah, a letter. She gave me a note you see, just before I left. I haven’t had a chance to reply yet."

"I’m not a messenger boy, Harry, send it with an owl, why don’t you?"

"Because I also want to make certain that she’s all right," said Harry slowly. He’d been avoiding Lupin’s gaze ever since he started talking about Ginny, but now he finally made eye contact. "I love her Remus, I’ve just figured that out for myself, it’s what I have to tell her, and if I’ve figured it out, chances are Voldemort himself has figured it out, and he already used her once . . ."

"Harry . . ."

"I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to her. I can’t stay and protect her myself. Not only would it be too dangerous, but I have to do this, I have to trace these Horcruxes. But I’d feel a whole lot better about what I have to do if I know that she’s got someone looking out for her."

"She’s fairly capable of looking out for herself," said Lupin dryly.

"Damn it, Remus! I’m scared for her! I don’t want to loose her!" his breath caught on a hitch, then he added, "I don’t want to loose you! Please, for my sake — for my sanity, please take care of Ginny."

Lupin stared at him for a full minute before finally inclining his head. "I’ll do it Harry. It’s against my better judgement, but I’ll do it — on one condition."

"What’s that?"

"We take you down to the Ministry tomorrow and get your Apparition test taken care of. Can’t have you arrested for Apparating without a license when there’s so many other laws you’re intent on breaking."

"But I can’t take the test until I turn seventeen," Harry pointed out, a frown creasing his forehead.

"Check your calendar mate, tomorrow’s the 31st unless I’m sorely mistaken, so Happy Birthday, and may you live long enough to see another year."

"Amen," said Harry fervently. "Amen and Amen."

Back to index

Chapter 4: THE LEO AND THE LION

-Albert Einstein

Now, with Dumbledore gone and Harry (whom many had for over a year regarded to be "the chosen one" and whom they now saw as the natural successor to Dumbledore’s position as ‘the greatest wizard of the age’) refusing to support the Ministry’s actions, many witches and wizards seemed to be loosing confidence in the Ministry altogether.

"Harry, I know this is going to be difficult to understand," said Mr. Weasley calmly, "but the Order owes much of what it knows about You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters, how they’re organized, who reports to whom, to Severus Snape. Many of the most successful raids I conducted were carried out using information that he had passed to the Order."

Harry fought down the familiar boiling sensation is his stomach at the thought of Draco’s pale, pointed face so twisted with hatred as he’d held his wand pointed at the Headmaster. But it hadn’t been Draco who had killed Dumbledore, had it? It had been Snape after all. Snape had killed Dumbledore and here these two were defending him!

"That was something altogether different," said Harry casting a warning look at Lupin who had opened his mouth as if about to say something. "What he was doing was doing when he hurt his hand, that was not something that could have done by any other member of the Order."

He knew what he was fighting for. But did Mr. Weasley? Did Lupin? Did any of the rest of them truly understand what was at stake here?

Mr. Weasley choked back a snort of amusement, but Harry went on as if there had been no interruption. "No, really, haven’t you ever heard Professor McGonagall talk about him and his shooting stars? Brilliant! You can’t tell them from the real thing. Put him together with Fred and George and their fireworks, and I bet you’d get something pretty impressive. Look," he said exasperated as Lupin and Mr. Weasley shared another skeptical look. "Find out about the other members. Really! Find out their strengths and weaknesses. I’m certain there’s a lot of talent when you put it all together. It would give you- give you something — something to work with, anyway . . ." Harry’s voice died away as the full import of what he had just said came him.

Well, wouldn’t the members of the Order be safer all together if they just went home and kept their heads down? Said a small, truthful voice in the back of his voice, sounding very much like Hermione when she was in a logical frame of mind.

But I’m the only one who can finish this! The prophecy says so! Harry thought desperately.

And what happens if you get yourself killed before you can finish this? said another voice, Ginny’s voice, and this one was harder to argue with, for it spoke to Harry where he was most vulnerable. If you rush into this without backup, without support, you may very well end up joining your parents in that graveyard and leaving the rest of us to get on as best we can. Can you imagine a world where Voldemort runs unchecked?

Harry grimaced. He could imagine it. He could envision it altogether too vividly.

Back to index

Chapter 5: THE THIRD TURNING

"Hatred ever kills, love never dies such is the vast difference between the two. What is obtained by love is retained for all time. What is obtained by hatred proves a burden in reality for it increases hatred."
Mohandas Gandhi

CHAPTER FIVE: THE THIRD TURNING

The scent of newly mown grass and lavender hung heavy on the late summer afternoon air. The sun was shining warmly, dappling the grass and sheep, casting weirdly writhing shadows as it filtered through the leaves of the large, gnarled Yew tree just beyond the stone wall bordering the Little Hangleton churchyard. The only sound to be heard was the droning of bees, the occasional bleat of a startled sheep, and the soft sighs of the wind rustling through the lacy leaves of the Yew.

The rustling sound of the wind increased slightly, then died away, leaving behind a shadow beneath the Yew tree, this one much more solid than those cast by the shifting leaves and, oddly enough, carrying a battered leather knapsack over its shoulder.

A teenage boy stepped out from the shadows of the tree. He was dark haired and pale, a stranger to these parts, having only been here once before in his life, and that not being under the best of circumstances.

"It looks a lot more cheerful in daylight!" muttered Harry, looking about him with wary interest.

Indeed, the scene was idyllic. The rolling hillsides, the bleating sheep, the picturesque stone church with it’s overgrown gravestones, the sleepy little town nestled between two larger hills, the large, handsome manner house standing a ways apart as if looking down on the less-worthy dwellings.

It was hard to believe that it had been in this very graveyard that Cedric had been killed; that he, Harry had been tied just here as Wormtail had performed the Dark Magic that had given Lord Voldemort back his body. Harry traced the words TOM RIDDLE etched in the headstone. The marble was smooth and cool to the touch.

Had it been a dream then? He glanced to his left and saw another tombstone, this one cracked clean in half and another, a marble angel whose wingtip had had been shattered. No, it hadn’t been a dream. He remembered when that had happened; he’d dived behind it to avoid the Death Eaters Stunning spells.

"Sorry mate," said Harry, patting the angel’s arm. "Reparo," he muttered, pointing his wand at the angel’s wingtip. Shards of marble flew together from a spray some twenty feet wide, leaving the wing whole and gleaming once again. He waved his wand then at the smaller cracked headstone, leaving it unblemished.

Harry wasn’t entirely certain why he was bothering to fix the stones, but it felt right somehow. These had been people once, people who had loved and been loved after all. Harry saw the white tomb beside the lake in his mind’s eye, the two simple headstones in the Godric’s Hollow graveyard and blinked back the tears that were prickling behind his eyelids. And Sirius . . .Sirius had never even gotten a grave!

Harry smiled grimly, took a deep breath and walked steadily between the plots, heading for the aloof-looking manner house on the opposite side of the cemetery, pausing only briefly to slip under his invisibility cloak as he approached the road that wound past the church. Lupin’s admonitions to be certain to wear it were still ringing in his ears.

Both Lupin and Mr. Weasley had tried to talk him out of this last stop but how could he make them understand? There was something here that he needed to find, some information just waiting for him; information that he needed to know.

He’d wanted to give in to them, oh yes. He was tired of this ceaseless searching. Mr. Weasley’s pleas for him to come to the Burrow, his telling Harry about how Mrs. Weasley had been frantic every since he’d disappeared at the wedding (coupled with Harry’s own growing desire to see Ginny, to make certain that she was safe, to hold her once more in his arms) nearly made him give in. But in the end he had insisted, and so here he was.

Harry had protested at Lupin’s insistence that he at least wear the cloak. After all, Voldemort couldn’t possibly be using the house any more, the Ministry was certain to be keeping an eye on it.

"Which is all the more reason you should wear it!" Lupin had insisted. "Do you really think that if an Auror sees you he’ll just step aside and let you walk right in?"

"Are they guarding the house then?" Harry had asked.

"Well, not exactly guarding, now, but according to Tonks they do intermittent checks, just to make certain he hasn’t come back. You want to find what you’re looking for, make certain you’re not seen, and keep an eye out for Aurors, remember, they’re great at disguises."

It was good advice, Harry conceded, for on the way up to the house he did indeed encounter two Aurors. One was disguised to appear to Muggles as an innocent cow grazing by the side of the lane. The second was using a glamour (rather sloppily applied) to make him appear as a sapling with its branches hanging over the garden wall of the big house. It was the way the roots ended in sturdy leather boots that gave the whole thing away.

Harry circumvented them both, cambering over the wall near an old stone cottage at the back of the property. A tarnished brass plaque mounted beneath an even more tarnished brass bell read: FRANK M. BRYCE, GARDENER.

"The Gardener’s cottage," whispered Harry.

Odd snatches of a dream almost forgotten, a dark, disturbing dream about an old man and a snake, were coming back to him now. Harry let himself in the kitchen door, following the same path Frank had taken three summers ago, straining his ears for the slightest whisper of sound.

He crept silently up the broad staircase, his wand in front of him, it’s beam dialed down to the very faintest of lights, following the footprints etched in the decades deep layer of dust, noting with some trepidation the undulating track that could only have been made by Nagini'’s muscular body.

Harry stopped dead halfway up the stairs, his heart beating a mile a minute. He hadn’t thought of the night when Mr. Weasley had been attacked in weeks, months even. Why now? Was it because Nagini had been here? But why hadn’t he felt anything in the graveyard? She’d been there too, he could remember how she’d circled the grave, waiting for her chance to feast . . .on him.

Harry lifted his wand a bit higher, his every nerve vibrating in expectation. Could she still be here? A sudden skittering noise nearly startled Harry into crying out. He turned sharply, just in time to see a bald rat tail disappearing into a crack in the wall.

"Get a grip, Potter," muttered Harry beneath his breath. He turned on the stairs, retreating to the ground floor. He’d begin by searching the house. He knew what he was looking for; the cup, he’d seen it in Dumbledore’s Pensieve. He’d look for the cup and also look for any signs that people had been here in the recent past. Kill two birds with one stone. "Or two rats," he murmured, shuddering as another, smaller rodent, a mouse, scuttled across his shoe and beneath a low bench in the hall.

There was something to be said for Muggles, thought Harry as he entered a large, gloomy parlor, empty except for several large pieces of furniture draped beneath dusty shroud-like sheets. At least they didn’t jinx every other object in their house.

The Riddle House was much larger than it appeared at first glance. With extensive cellars (one containing nothing but dusty bottles of vintage wine), at least a dozen bedrooms as well as warren-like servant’s quarters, it took three entire days for Harry to admit that except for the occasional rat or mouse (all right then, lots of mice) that he’d seen scuttling into the baseboards; the bats hanging limply upside down from the rafters in the attic (their frail bodies wrapped in their own leather wings) and the sleekly plump mother cat curled up in a corner of the Master Bedroom with a nest of kittens, the Riddle House was completely devoid of life.

He hadn’t found anyone hiding beneath the beds or lurking in the dark, cobwebby corners of the closets. He hadn’t seen any sign of Hufflepuff’s cup, but he had found a room at the top of the house; a room in which a large, rather moldy looking armchair was drawn up before a low stone fireplace. On the mantelpiece in this room was ranged a number of baby bottles; some with curdled milk crusting their edges, some gleamingly empty. In this room, lying in a discarded heap behind the door, was a long, paper-thin snakeskin, its diamond pattern just barely discernable in the glom of the dust-caked windows.

This was it then, thought Harry, nudging the snakeskin with the toe of his trainer. With the exception of this room, which had been where Pettigrew had tended to his master, there was nothing in the house to indicate that anyone else had been near the house in decades.

Harry sat down on the raised stone hearth. He’d come here looking for what, Hufflepuff’s cup? He hadn’t seen a trace of it, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t here, hidden. Harry remembered with a shudder, the concealed entrance to the underground lake and the way it had required its tribute of blood. If something like that had been done here, to conceal the cup, he could walk right by it and never know it was there!

But he hadn’t come looking for the cup. Not really, he’d come looking for . . . .a gleam of silver beneath a low table caught his eye. He’d gotten so used to the scuttling of the rats and mice that he hadn’t stopped to wonder if . . .

"Hello Scabbers," said Harry to the plump gray rat crouched beneath the ragged tablecloth. Except for the silver sheen of its right front paw, it looked identical to the rat Harry had once known as Ron’s pet.

The rat gave a terrified squeak and bolted for a crack in the baseboards but was thwarted by Harry’s summoning charm which sent him soaring into Harry’s hand.

"The way I see it, Peter, you have two choices," said Harry coolly, holding the flailing rodent up by the tail until he was looking it in its beady eye.

"I can use the same charm Sirius and Lupin used on you to turn you back," the rat writhed, shrieking in Harry’s grip, tiny teeth barred. "Or you can change back yourself and we can talk like civilized people."

The rat stopped flailing, gave Harry a look of utmost loathing and, with a sharp pop, turned into a rather nervous looking wizard who was clutching a wand in a hand which looked as if it had been fashioned from molten steel.

"You are — alone?" squeaked the wizard, his small black eyes darting frantically around the room.

"Well, unless you’re counting the cow in the lane or that footed sapling hanging over your garden wall, yes."

Pettigrew snorted in derision. "They couldn’t be more obvious. They only disguise themselves at all because of the Muggles. They don’t really believe there’s anyone here. I’ve heard them talking. But still, I’m not about to take chances. Why do you think I’m disguised as a rat?"

"Because it suits your personality?" said Harry coldly.

Pettigrew blinked rapidly.

"Or maybe because you enjoy running around with filth," Harry added, not bothering to disguise the hatred in his voice.

For an instant, something very like anger flickered in Pettigrew’s beady eyes, a feral sort of intelligence that brought Harry up short. For all his seeming stupidity, Peter Pettigrew was a Death Eater. He had shown himself to be merciless, first in betraying one of his best friends and his friend’s family to the Dark Lord, then in killing twelve innocent people and pinning the blame on his other best friend just to save his own skin.

He had also proven himself clever by managing to avoid detection for twelve years and then, once his disguise had been ripped from him, once more managing to remain at large for another three.

"Didn’t expect to find you here," Harry lied. He’d considered the possibilities, of course he had, but it was true, he hadn’t actually expected Pettigrew to be here, not really. You wouldn’t think that he would have had the nerve to come back here, after everything that had happened, even disguised as a rat!

"Is that why you cornered me then?" rasped Pettigrew, running a nervous tongue over his chapped lips. "Why you threatened me with curses, because you didn’t expect me to be here?"

"Oh shut up, would you?" said Harry easily. "Didn’t you notice that it took me a bit to figure out it was you? Bit stupid of me. I saw your paw — I mean, your hand. That’s what gave it away."

"If you weren’t looking for me, then why are you here? Why have you been turning the house upside down? What are you looking for?"

"Clues," said Harry enigmatically. "What are you doing here, anyway?" Harry wondered out loud, trying to look as if it had only just occurred to him to wonder this.

For the briefest of moments Pettigrew looked sulky. "I’m on assignment," he said crossly, "the Dark Lord had decided that it is of the utmost importance to maintain a presence here, given the history of the location."

"Really?" said Harry, looking around at the dusty hangings and molding furniture with mock interest. "A presence to impress who, the spiders?"

"I am not foolish enough to question the Dark Lord," said Pettigrew glowering at Harry. "He commands, I obey, that is all."

"But he must have given you a reason," Harry insisted, fingering his own wand casually. He saw Pettigrew’s eyes dart from the wand to his face and back again.

"I wouldn’t tell you if I knew," spat Pettigrew, barring his teeth in a very rat-like manner. But he didn’t stop there; he went on, the words spilling out of him with enough gall to eat through stomach lining. "First he assigns me to assist Severus! Assist Severus! Me! As if I were some common manservant."

"He wanted Snape watched of course," said Harry, nodding.

"Of course," snarled Pettigrew. "Didn’t trust him, did he? Thought he might be corrupted, didn’t he, having been with Dumbledore for so long?"

"And now?"

"He takes off with his new favorite and leaves me here. Tells me I have to stay. You’d think," muttered Pettigrew, more to himself than to Harry. "You’d think that after all I’d done for him, seeing as that it was me who found him, me who brought him back . . .and now here you come, giving me a hard time. Can’t leave a fellow alone, can you? Any of you!"

Harry felt his stomach drop unpleasantly; another dead end. Pettigrew knew nothing. He’d proved himself useful to the Dark Lord, which was probably why he was still alive, but other than that . . .

Where had he heard those words . . .Sirius . . .Sirius had been talking about his brother being killed . . .No. Pettigrew would still have to be useful for Voldemort to keep him around, so either he was a very clever actor or he was unaware of the service he was providing. While Harry suspected the latter, he couldn’t be absolutely certain. Pettigrew had proven himself to be a convincing actor. He had the rat routine down pat, anyway.

"Talk about getting into your role!" Harry muttered, grinning at his own feeble joke as he turned to Pettigrew. There was only one way that he could be entirely certain.

"Look," said Harry loudly, stowing his wand back into his pocket and turning away from Pettigrew. "I’m not in the mood to fight, all right? I’ll just get on with what I was doing then." He took a few steps away from Pettigrew. He’d been hoping that, due to Pettigrew’s owing Harry his life, that he would take this lack of aggression as a show of trust and respect it, but he’d been mistaken.

A sudden sharp intake of breath (Harry could very nearly feel the wand being raised behind his back) announced Pettigrew’s intention to curse him. Harry grabbed for his wand, only to realize with horror that it had fallen out of his pocket and onto the floor.

"Stupe-" began Pettigrew.

Levicorpus! thought Harry desperately and, to his great astonishment, Pettigrew was hoisted unceremoniously into the air, his shabby robes falling over his head, his wand clattering across the floor to land at Harry’s feet.

"You gormless worm!" snarled Harry, too astonished with his sudden demonstration of wandless magic to be too creative in his name calling. He stepped on Pettigrew’s wand, feeling it snap beneath his foot.

"Did you really think I’d have taken the chance of turning my back on you? After all you’ve done?"

"My wand!" screeched Wormtail, his eyes on the shattered bit of wood beneath Harry’s heel.

Harry, who on hearing Pettigrew’s lament had been forcibly reminded of Ron’s first reaction at seeing the Unicorn hair poking out of his own broken wand, had to fight back the sudden urge to laugh hysterically. God, he wished Ron were here to see this idiot who was now revolving slowly in mid-air, suspended by his heel!

"Put me down!" snarled Pettigrew, flailing in vain to get loose.

"In your dreams!" Harry laughed mirthlessly. "Look at you Peter, all trussed up like a pig in the slaughtering pen." He observed Pettigrew critically for nearly a minute before adding quietly, "I could kill you, you know."

Pettigrew’s small, beady eyes grew wide and he suddenly stopped moving, holding still, very still, like a rat who has been cornered.

"I should kill you," Harry added thoughtfully. He leaned almost casually against a wall, arms folded, resisting the urge to smirk at the mingled look of discomfort and terror on Pettigrew’s face.

"But to kill you I’d need my wand, wouldn’t I?" Harry added, almost as an afterthought. He glanced at his wand where it lay a good few feet away. This had better work or he would be feeling incredibly stupid.

Harry waved a hand lazily toward his wand. Accio wand! he thought fiercely, remembering the night when the Dementers had attacked him and his cousin in Little Whinging. He’d needed light to find his wand. He’d said the spell and his wand had lit, even though Harry hadn’t been touching it; if it had worked once, and then again, just now with the Levicorpus spell . . .

Without so much as a hesitation Harry’s wand flew neatly into his outstretched hand.

"You — you can do wandless magic?" said Pettigrew hoarsely, looking stunned.

"I’ve come a long way from the scared little boy I was that night in the graveyard, Peter," said Harry quietly, turning his wand over and over in his hand but not once taking his eyes off of the man suspended in mid-air above him.

"I — I could help you-" began Peter, but stopped, gulping as Harry laid the tip of his wand between Pettigrew’s eyes.

"Why would I want the help of a nasty coward and traitor, like yourself?" asked Harry reasonably.

"I — I could tell you things-" squeaked Pettigrew.

"Peter, come on!" interrupted Harry scathingly. Even if you told me everything you know right here and now, I’d still have to kill you! I mean, what’s to keep you from running back to your master? You did it once before."

"I know — I know where-"

"Yeah, I’m sure there’s lots you know," spat Harry, his dislike for the whimpering, cowardly little man growing by the minute. "You knew where my Dad and Mum were too! You were their Secret Keeper, and you betrayed them to Voldemort!"

Pettigrew cringed, his already scarlet face turning a deep plum at the sound of his master’s name.

"And then you went and pinned the blame on Sirius! You pretended to be my best mate’s pet rat for twelve years. When you were finally found out you went skulking back to your old master, using god only knows what kind of unnatural magic to bring him back. Milking snakes, Peter? Letting that foul, repulsive travesty of a child wrap its arms around your neck?"

Pettigrew shuddered uncontrollably.

"But you didn’t stop there, Peter, did you?"

Pettigrew’s eyes snapped back onto Harry’s now. He was terrified, shaking like a leaf.

"Oh no," continued Harry, tracking his wand tip over Pettigrew’s cheek, letting it trail down the older man’s neck and chest until the tip was pointing directly at Pettigrew’s chest.

"It wasn’t enough, was it? You killed Cedric! Don’t shake your head, Peter, I was there! I heard you! I saw you! He told you to kill the spare, and that is exactly what you did! And then — then, you did the spell that brought him back. You cut off your own hand to give him back his body."

He could kill him. He should! Look at what this cowardly little man was responsible for! Harry felt the hatred boiling up inside of him, a fierce, cleansing anger. Let him have a taste of his own medicine! Something of what he was feeling must have shown in Harry’s eyes, for Peter finally got up the courage to speak.

"He-he made me!" choked the little man, finally finding his voice.

"Liar," said Harry softly, looking into Pettigrew’s eyes. "There was no one standing over you Peter. No one forced you to pick up that dagger."

Harry leaned forward, putting his lips very close to Pettigrew’s ear. "No one forced you to draw my blood Peter. You chose your own path that night."

The urge to kill this sorry excuse for a human was increasing by the minute. It wouldn’t be hard. He wouldn’t even have to use an unforgivable curse. Sectumsempra would be enough; let him bleed to death, right here and now.

With some effort Harry forced himself to take a step back from the pitiful little man who had once been his Father’s best friend. "And now I chose mine," said Harry. "Unlike you, Peter, I take responsibility for my own actions." He gave his wand a wave and Wormtail fell to the floor in a heap, gasping for breath.

"There really is no need to kill you Peter, is there?" said Harry, unable to keep the sneer out of his voice.

"What — what do you mean?" wheezed Wormtail, looking up at Harry through his small, watering eyes.

"You’re holed up in this god-forsaken place . . .all alone . . .deserted by your master."

"I am here on his orders!" squawked Pettigrew. "I am his most loyal servant!" he muttered distractedly, now clutching his silver hand to his chest. "He paid me back, didn’t he?" wheezed Wormtail, holding up the shimmering hand with a look of wonder on his face.

"Oh please," said Harry in a disgusted tone. "All that hand means, Peter, is that he owns you."

Pettigrew stared at Harry uncomprehendingly.

"Yes, Peter. Voldemort giveth, and Voldemort taketh away. Do you think he really cares about you?" sneered Harry, looking the balding little man up and down. "You did him a favor. That’s all. He’ll ask something else of you one day. He’ll need a stooge, someone who will blindly obey him, someone to distract the Ministry while he and his more useful Death Eaters slip by. You’ll die in the process Peter, but that’s only to be expected, isn’t it? I mean, you’re not much use for anything else."

Peter was now looking from his Hand to Harry and back again, as if unable to believe what Harry was saying.

"Go turn yourself into a rat Peter. Go join your mates in the sewers, why don’t you? That’s where you belong after all."

Harry turned his back on the little man, but not before he heard him whisper, "I don’t know if it’s of any use. Maybe you’ll be able to understand it, but check out the gardener’s cottage."

Harry looked over his shoulder, uncertain if he’d heard properly, but only caught a glimpse of a long, piebald tale slipping beneath the floorboard. Pettigrew was gone.

* * *

Harry had been hoping for the small golden cup - the one he’d seen in the Pensieve - to be sitting prominently in the center of the kitchen table, perhaps with a nice little spotlight pinpointing its exact location.

What he found was a small, cramped, one room cottage littered with days, weeks, perhaps even years worth of detritus. In one corner, unwashed dishes filled the sink; crisp packets and butter beer bottles mingling with cardboard food boxes from Muggle food shops. Odd pieces of clothing lay tangled up with the blankets of the narrow, unmade bed pushed against one wall. Haphazardly stacked piles of Daily Prophets vied with burnt out candle stubs, crumpled up pieces of parchment, stacks of dusty spell books and a rusting pewter cauldron for space on the rickety table in the center of the room.

Harry doubted very much if Frank Bryce had left the cottage in this condition. In fact, it was a sure bet that he hadn’t left the newspapers or the spell books, and definitely not the cauldron. It looked as if Harry had finally found the rat’s bolt hole.

Harry shuddered as he realized just how foolish he had been to sleep unguarded in enemy territory, for the tumbledown outbuilding he’d spent his nights in was abutted to the wall of the gardener’s cottage. Had he been sleeping just feet from Peter these last three nights? If Pettigrew knew he’d been staying there, why hadn’t he killed Harry in his sleep? It wouldn’t have been difficult, Harry hadn’t even bothered to lock the shed door.

It didn’t take long to sift through the layers of rubbish. Harry was thumbing through the spell books, silently cursing Wormtail for another dead end when several yellowing pieces of parchment fluttered from between the pages of a book on candle magic.

Harry scooped them up off of the floor, his heart pounding faster as he realized that the pages had been torn from another book, a very old book, to judge from the antiquated spelling and elegant flourishes to the letters. He puzzled over it for several minutes before carefully tucking it in his pack. It was going to take some time to decipher this lot, and he could think of only one place where he would be able to that in relative peace and safety.

* * *

It was amazing, thought Harry as he let himself into number twelve Grimmauld Place, as to just how much difference getting rid of the Bandimuns had made on the atmosphere of the whole house. Not only was the overpowering smell of mold completely gone, but even the windows seemed to be letting in more light. It was as if some sort of curtain or veil that had been cloaking number twelve had finally been stripped away letting the sunlight in for the first time in decades; centuries even.

Harry lit the fire in the kitchen fireplace with a wave of his wand before taking a mini-meal out of his knapsack. There was a bottle too. He pulled it out, frowning at the label. A merlot? The bottle was old and dusty, probably one of the ones from the Riddle’s wine cellar. Funny though, he couldn’t remember putting any of the bottles in his sack.

Harry sat staring at the label for several minutes before pulling the cork. He waved his wand over the bottle and muttered "Specialis Revelio!" Nothing happened. Which only meant, Harry thought darkly, that no potion or part of a potion had been added to the wine. It could still be poisoned.

"And who, exactly, would have poisoned a bottle of wine that’s been in the Riddle’s wince cellar for the last fifty years?" Harry wondered out loud. "God, I’m starting to sound like Mad Eye! Look at me, next thing you know I’ll be turning people into Ferrets!" With a snort of amusement, Harry conjured a glass out of thin air and poured himself a generous serving. Who knows, depending on what showed up for supper, he just might need a stiff drink.

Harry tossed the mini-meal cube from hand to hand for a moment before finally pulling the tab, grinning as the small cube unfolded itself into a tray of fried chicken, mashed potatoes and applesauce. That was one thing about the mini-meals, they weren’t labeled, you never knew what you were going to get. If nothing else it made for interesting meals, especially when you opened chicken teriyaki for breakfast or kippers and eggs for supper.

He hadn’t realized just how hungry he was until the scent of the chicken met his nose and he began taking great bites of his supper. The pages would wait. Now ever Hermione could expect him to translate this lot properly on an empty stomach.

* * *

Two hours later Harry leaned back in the rickety chair, an amazed smile on his face, re-reading the words he had just written and wondering what Hermione would think if she could see this information on the castle that quite obviously had never been included in Hogwarts; a History;

"Wow!" breathed Harry, reading the translation through for the third time. "No wonder Voldemort wanted them all for himself!"

Items that powerful would make the perfect choice for Horcruxes, and Voldemort’s own desire to keep the bits of his soul safe, combined with the natural powers of the individual objects, would make it extremely difficult for anyone to find the objects at all, let alone bring all four objects together again which, of course, also served Voldemort’s purposes perfectly. He, after all, had not been collecting the items for their power to heal the world, but for the other powers they possessed which were spectacular in and of themselves.

What exactly did he know about the four remaining Horcruxes? Harry pulled out another piece of parchment, loaded up and his quill, took another sip of wine (he was on his third glass now, and felt — instead of groggy and sleepy as he’d been half expecting — incredibly aware and alert) and began to write.

• Slughorn’s memory; Riddle thought seven would be the most powerful number of Horcruxes.

Or perhaps, just perhaps there was more to Voldemort’s desire to return to Hogwarts than just the ancient magic purported to be accessible there. Perhaps there was something at Hogwarts that he wanted, something that was of great personal value to him but which he had been unable to remove while he was a student . . . .or something that had come to Hogwarts after he had left the school?

Harry poured the remainder of the wine into his glass and took a sip as he contemplated the facts.

Voldemort had applied for a teaching post just after Dumbledore had been appointed Headmaster; when had that been? Was there something significant about the timing? Also, Snape had come to teach at Hogwarts just after Harry’s parents had died. He had claimed that he was devastated by their death. Dumbledore had believed him and had given him a job and his protection.

It was obvious, after the events in June that Snape had been working as a double agent the entire time he’d been working at Hogwarts. What if it hadn’t only been information he’d been collecting? What if he’d been looking for something — else? But if Snape hadn’t found what he’d been looking for in sixteen years, what made Harry think that if he could somehow sneak back into Hogwarts that he’d be able to find the item he was looking for, provided he even knew exactly what it was he was looking for.

It could take decades to search every corner of Hogwarts — the unknowable room alone, the one where Malfoy had hidden the vanishing cabinet and Harry the Potions book belonging to the Half Blood Prince; that room alone could take years all by itself! God, the very thought of searching Hogwarts made him feel incredibly sleepy.

Harry looked down at his list, taped his quill against the parchment, ink droplets splattered in a spray pattern across the surface of his list; a few landing on the tabletop where a dried blot of scarlet ink stood testament to the last letter that had been written here. He could feel his eyes unfocusing. He could see again the words he had written. In fact, he had been sitting just here, hadn’t he?

Harry shook his head, attempting to clear it. He couldn’t be thinking about Ginny, not now, there was so much to do! He looked back at his list, trying to concentrate on the points he had already made, but other thoughts, thoughts about Ginny, kept intruding, coupled with a warm, fuzzy feeling that seemed to be creeping into his extremeties.

Had Lupin given Ginny the letter? Had she read it yet? What would she think? Would she understand?

It had taken him hours to write the letter. He’d been up until nearly dawn the night before Lupin had taken him in for his Apparition test, and it hadn’t been until just before they’d left for the Ministry that Harry had hastily rewritten the ending. He went over it now in his head as he finished his wine gazing into the crackling flames, feeling his body getting heavier . . .and heavier . . .

* * *

Harry awoke with a start what must have been hours later (judging from the stone cold fireplace and remnants of congealed mashed potato), his face glued to the crumbling pages he had brought with him from the gardener’s cottage, every muscle in his body screaming out in agony from having been in one position for so long.

He stumped around the kitchen for several minutes, trying to force some life back into his tingling limbs and aching joints; some semblance of comprehension back into his sleep-fogged brain, but it was rough going.

For one thing, his watch hands were both pointing to twelve, which meant — seeing as that it wasn’t night time - that either his watch was malfunctioning, or he had been asleep for at least eighteen hours.

Was it possible to sleep for eighteen hours in one stretch? God, he must have been more tired that he’d thought! Or perhaps the run-in with Wormtail had really drained him, physically as well as emotionally.

Harry wolfed down another mini-meal and set to work on the list he’d made the previous evening. The connections were much easier to make in the light of day with a solid night’s sleep (all right, two nights worth of sleep) under his belt.

It was obvious; at least one of the missing Horcruxes had been hidden in Hogwarts. That was the only possible reason Voldemort had been so keen to be hired on as a teacher, and a sure reason he had installed Snape there with what had appeared (at least to Dumbledore) to be an impeccable cover story. In fact —

Harry found himself standing by the fireplace, grinning madly as he remembered a long ago day, when a much younger version of himself had slipped through the forbidden third floor corridor door with Ron and Hermione to find a snoring Fluffy and an abandoned harp.

A harp!

The harp?

Harry began pacing up and down before the fire, considering. Was it possible that the harp Quirrell had used to play Fluffy to sleep had been one of the Horcruxes? But how would Quirrell have come by it? Had Voldemort found it when he was in school? Had he hidden it, and then guided Quirrell to it? But why would he have left it unguarded for so very long?

But he hadn’t left it unguarded, had he? He’d sent Snape to guard it! Was that one of the reasons Snape had been sent to Hogwarts? Was he supposed to have been guarding one of the Horcruxes?

But Voldemort had thought Snape had left him forever, hadn’t he? He thought that Snape had deserted him, so he had Quirrell steal it right out from under Snape’s greasy hooked nose. If Voldemort thought that Snape had betrayed him, he wouldn’t have let him in on the plan to steal the Sorcerer’s Stone, either. And Snape, still acting under Voldemort’s original orders to collect information about Dumbledore, to guard the Horcrux, not realizing who it was Quirrell was working for, would have taken the theft as a personal insult. No wonder he’d tried to stop him!

Harry shivered slightly as he remembered Snape’s threatening words to Quirrell there in the Forbidden Forest; "You don’t want me as your enemy, Quirrell."

"As usual, Potter, you have put your keen and penetrating mind to the problem and have come to the wrong conclusion."

Harry stopped dead, entire families of centipedes suddenly erupting up the length of his spine at hearing the words Sirius had used on Snape in the Shrieking Shack over three years ago thrown back at him in the oily tones of the very person who had been occupying his thoughts.

He turned abruptly, wand in hand, to find himself looking at an empty kitchen.

"Show yourself!" Harry hissed, his eyes darting from table to counter, from stove to chair to door. The hairs on his neck began to prickle, on instinct he shouted "Protego!"

The curse he’d felt rather than heard, ricocheted off Harry’s shield, shooting back towards a section of the wall which suddenly shivered — and shifted sideways. A moment a section of the wall had detached itself from the rest of the wall and was striding toward him (striding?).

"Stupefy!" shouted Harry, but the wizard disillusioned to look like a wall blocked the curse and kept coming. Now he was part of the stove . . . the table . . . a chair . . . the mantelpiece. Harry, his eyes narrowed in concentration, kept the shivering shimmer that betrayed the wizard’s location in sight.

"Impedimenta! Expelliarmus! Patrificus Totalus!" Curse after curse after spell rebounded off the continually shifting shimmer which Harry was intent on keeping as far away from himself as possible.

He was beginning to wonder if it was possible that he was still dreaming. After all, the wizard, if it was indeed a wizard, had yet to speak a single word not even to retaliate with a single curse or hex. Perhaps the voice he’d heard as he stood before the fire had been nothing but his own imagination. God, he was going to feel so stupid if he turned out to be hurling hexes at a figment of his own imagination!

"What the hell do you want from me!" Harry yelled finally, and was rewarded this time with a dry chuckle.

He knew that laugh! The anger welling up in him was terrible in its intensity. There was a red haze clouding his vision now, obscuring the shimmering, obscuring everything but the need to lash out — to hurt Snape as badly as Snape had hurt him. Only once before had he felt anger this all consuming, and that had been as he’d pursued Bellatrix Lestrange up the highly polished halls of the Ministry after she sent Sirius reeling through the Death Arch.

"It is you!" spat Harry, lunging toward the last place he had seen the betraying shimmer. He stopped suddenly, grasping his throat and gagging slightly as his tongue stuck fast to the roof of his mouth; he’d been hit with the Langlock curse.

"Incarcerous!" said the voice coolly, almost casually, and before Harry could move to defend himself he found himself shoved roughly into a chair by unseen hands even as thick rough ropes sprung up out of thin air and bound him binding him to his seat.

"Your thoughts betray you, Potter," said Snape softly, his face materializing out of thin air just inches in front of Harry’s nose. "I have always said it would be your downfall."

Unable to speak, Harry glared at the man he had last seen dashing from the Hogwarts grounds, Dumbledore’s blood fresh upon his hands.

"You blame me for Dumbledore’s death, yes?" Snape’s eyes were dark tunnels, absorbing Harry’s pain with a sort of demented glee. "Ah yes, and for the death of your sainted parents and your darling godfather."

Harry continued to glare. What was the counter curse for Langlock, anyway?

"It’s Langlibra," said Snape, sounding amused. "For all the good it will do you without your wand."

Langlibra! thought Harry furiously, and was rewarded by his tongue springing free. "Blame you?" spat Harry, feeling himself go very cold as Snape’s cold black eyes bored into him, eyebrows arched as he realized what Harry had done. "Blame you? Of course I blame you! You killed him! I saw you! I heard you! I was there, Snape! I watched you do it!"

"Once again, Potter, you demonstrate your uncanny ability to jump to unjustified conclusions."

"Unjustified!" roared Harry, straining at his ropes. "You used the killing curse! Dumbledore trusted you! To the last he trusted you, and you betrayed him! He begged you for help and you killed him!"

A spasm momentarily twisted Snape’s features, but an instant later his familiar sneer was firmly in place.

"You have no idea what you saw." Snape’s voice was low and dangerous and Harry was suddenly very much aware of the fact that he was bound tightly to his chair, unable to move, at the mercy of a Death Eater who had already proved himself capable of killing in cold blood.

Snape reached a yellow nailed hand into his robes and Harry cringed, expecting at the very least to find himself on the receiving end of the older man’s wand. Instead, Snape pulled out a folded newspaper which he slammed upon the table in front of Harry.

"Once again, Potter, I’ve saved your worthless neck. Not that I expect thanks." He took a step towards the kitchen door, but turned at the last minute, eyeing Harry with something very like amusement in his eyes. "Oh yes. I recommend that unless you wish to find yourself in the company of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named that you leave immediately. He has been dying to know the location of the Headquarters of the Order, and it is my happy lot to be able to tell him that the Fideleous Charm has finally worn off. It was an exceptionally powerful charm, to have lasted this long beyond the caster’s death but, he was a powerful wizard." With that, Snape turned, and swept out of the room, leaving a swirl of dust motes dancing in the lone ray of sunshine that was shining through the now nearly transparent basement window above the sink.

Back to index

Chapter 6: INTERLUDE

"WHERE IS HARRY POTTER?"

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Chapter 7: THE FIRST BASTION

~Douglas Adams

CHAPTER SEVEN: THE FIRST BASTION

Harry felt the ground solidify beneath his feet even as the constricting bands around his chest (a now familiar, though still unpleasant side-affect of Apparating) eased, allowing him to take in great gulps of air, which promptly sent him into spasms of coughing as the acrid smoke filled his lungs.

He took a step forward, eyes streaming, and stumbled over an unexpected obstacle; Mrs. Weasley’s clock, or what remained of it, lay face up in a pile of rubble, it’s nine hands now all melted together, fused to the clock’s face in a formless lump of molten metal.

Harry starred, uncomprehendingly, at the clock, unable to tear his eyes away. It was true then. He’d freed himself from the ropes that had bound him barely minutes after Snape had left, then had stuffed his notes and the newspaper Snape had left on the table into his knapsack before slipping out of the house under the cover of his invisibility cloak.

He’d had a rather bad moment when he’d turned to make certain that Grimmauld Place was still there, only to find that it wasn’t. He’d tried saying Dumbledore’s note over in his mind – nothing. He’d looked again at where the house should be, Snape’s final words ringing in his ears:

But if Dumbledore’s Fideleous charm had worn off, shouldn’t he be able to see the house now? Shouldn’t it be clearly visible, just like every other house in the square? Unless. . . an entire family of centipedes made their way slowly up his spine as more of what Snape had said filtered into his adrenaline drenched brain;

Still covered in the cloak, Harry had waited, perched on the roof of a house across the square, to see what would happen. He hadn’t had long to wait. Barely five minutes after he had scrambled to the top of the roof, Death Eaters began Apparating into the afternoon shadows which were beginning to lengthen and stretch across the pavements of Grimmauld Place.

At least two dozen of them had converged on the decrepit patch of grass in the center of the square. They looked like creatures from some sort of surrealistic nightmare; completely out of place here, on a Muggle street, with dark green bulging bin bags providing an odd contrast to the pale cloaked and hooded figures, each sightless hood facing in the direction where number twelve should have been; and then one Death Eater had stepped out from the others, his wand held high as he spoke his rasping incantation into the sultry summer afternoon. Harry felt his heart and stomach trade places; he recognized that voice! He had heard it just minutes ago in the kitchen of number twelve.

Harry had stared; dumbstruck as, seemingly out of nowhere, number twelve Grimmauld Place inflated itself between numbers eleven and thirteen. As one the crowd of Death Eaters swarmed over the house, reducing it to a pile of smoldering rubble and leaving the sparkling image of the Dark Mark hanging like a demented firework over their handiwork. The Death Eaters hadn’t been gone more than ten minutes before the first of the Muggle policemen arrived on the scene.

"Hell of a business!" grumbled one blue-coated officer who was standing on the lawn of the house on whose roof Harry was perched. "As if we didn’t have enough to do on a Monday!"

It was only then that Harry had bothered to fish the paper Snape had given him out of his knapsack. He’d left the Riddle House on a Thursday morning, so that meant he hadn’t slept just eighteen hours, but more like . . .four days? It wasn’t possible! One glance at the paper had caused his stomach to take an icy plunge, for the date read Sunday, September 1st. He’d been asleep not for just four days, but for nearly four weeks!

"Impossible!" Harry had gasped, but then his eye had fallen on the headline and his stomach had dropped clear into the soles of his feet, lodging there with a leaden weight that threatened to drag him to a messy fall off the steep sloped roof.

"HEAD OF MAGICAL LAW ENFORCEMENT’S HOME DESTROYED IN LATEST DEATH EATER ATTACK!"

It had happened when? Harry scanned the story, desperate for reassurance that everything was all right, that no one had been hurt that Mr. And Mrs. Weasley and Ron and . . . "Ginny!" Harry moaned, loud enough that the policeman below squinted up at the roof as if expecting to see some sort of exotic bird perched on the ridgepole.

Who wrote this? thought Harry, suppressing a snort as he flipped back to the front page. "Ah, Rita! I should have known!" he muttered, wondering what Hermione would think of Rita’s latest scoop. Granted, she seemed to have toned down her style a bit (probably afraid that Hermione would rat her out if she got too carried away). Trust Rita to announce his interest in Ginny to the world. So much for keeping it a secret! Even if they both denied their being involved, no one would believe it, especially not if the prophet said it was true!

Harry had wasted no time in Apparating directly to the Burrow. It was worse, far worse than he could have imagined. Far worse than the picture that had been plastered across the front of the Prophet. It was, in fact, a scene of total devastation.

"Harry! Oh, Harry!" Before Harry could get a bead on who was calling him, Mrs. Weasley had thrown herself into his arms. She was trembling from head to toe, covered in soot and clutching the blue velvet hat the twins had given her the previous Christmas, but which was now charred around the edges, several of its embroidered stars hanging by mere threads.

"Thank god!" said another voice, Mr. Weasley’s from just behind him. Harry detached himself gently from Mrs. Weasley’s grip to find himself being drawn into a bone-shaking hug from Ron’s father. "We were beginning to get worried," he said gruffly, taking a step back and ruffling Harry’s hair. "I mean, when no one could find you . . ."

"Is Ginny all right?" asked Harry anxiously. "And what about Ron and Hermione? Was anyone hurt? The Prophet said everyone got out okay, but-"

"They’re fine, Harry, just fine," said Mr. Weasley gruffly.

"A few bumps and scratches from having to leave so fast," said Mrs. Weasley, sniffing loudly, "but nothing that couldn’t be repaired."

"They were worried about you, of course. When we heard about Grimmauld Place, well, everyone thought the worst!"

"You heard about that?" asked Harry, frowning slightly. "How did you know? I mean, it just happened!"

"We’ve known about it for at least two weeks now," said Mr. Weasley with a grim smile. "Scared us to no end, what with thinking you might be inside and us not being able to even find the place."

Harry stared, something wasn’t adding up.

"Mr. Weasley, I just came from Grimmauld Place."

"Yes, yes, we thought you might have still been in there."

"When it was destroyed you mean?"

"Destroyed? No, when it disappeared."

"I-" Harry paused, trying to make sense of everything that he’d just heard. Obviously Mr. Weasley was talking about something else entirely. "Mr. Weasley, what are you talking about?"

"Well, two weeks ago, when Remus finally told us that you’d been thinking about going to the Riddle House, we decided to send someone over to Grimmauld Place, just in case you turned up. You know, to keep an eye on you," said Mr. Weasley with an apologetic smile. "Moody volunteered of course, and Bill went along, and Tonks, but the house was gone."

"Gone?"

"Yes, gone. We tried everything, but it was as if the house had just – disappeared – been erased, if you will."

With me inside, thought Harry, grimacing. Yes, no wonder they’d been concerned.

"Well, I was inside," said Harry slowly. He wasn’t entirely certain as to how much of this he should divulge, right here and now, but he decided on a modicum of the truth. "I drank a bottle of wine that I’d brought with me from the Riddle’s wine cellar – I swear, it hadn’t been opened!" he said, seeing Mr. Weasley open his mouth at this. "But I fell asleep. When I fell asleep it was around six in the evening. When I woke up, my watch said that it was noon. At first I thought I’d just had a good rest, you know, like about eighteen hours worth? But then I found this," he pulled the paper out of his knapsack, "and I realized that I’d been asleep for nearly four weeks!"

"You’re joking!" said Mr. Weasley, even as Mrs. Weasley gasped, grabbing Harry by the arm, as if trying to convince herself that he really was alive and well. "You slept? The entire time?"

"Well, yeah, and other than being a little stiff, I really wasn’t any the worse for wear," said Harry, shrugging slightly. "But when I saw this," he said, tapping the newspaper with his forefinger, "I decided I should come here as fast as I could. Well, no sooner had I left Grimmauld Place then a bunch of Death Eaters swept down and leveled the place."

"Leveled . . .!" said Mr. Weasley, staring at Harry as if he’d gone mad. "But . . .Harry. . . are you sure? When did this happen?"

"Just now," said Harry, looking at his watch, "not more than a quarter of an hour ago."

"Oh Harry!" cried Mrs. Weasley, hugging him again so tightly that his glasses were knocked askew. "Oh my dear boy, you’re all right? You’re okay?"

"Is the whole place destroyed?" asked Mr. Weasley, looking dumbstruck.

"Completely," said Harry heavily. "But you lot got out okay," he said, looking dismally around at the debris strewn lawn. "Where’s Ron and Ginny?" asked Harry worriedly, "and Hermione was here took right? You said they’re okay?"

Harry knew he was sounding a bit frantic, but when he’d heard about the Burrow, the first thing he’d thought of was Ron, Hermione and Ginny, lying still, side-by-side on a debris strew lawn; the light gone out of their faces, leaving them vacant-eyed, just as Cedric had been when his body had landed next to Harry in the Graveyard of Little Hangleton.

The pain that had pierced him when he’d thought of never seeing them again had been so intense he’d thought for a moment that he’d die of it. The thought that he might never hear Hermione’s no-nonsense voice explaining what he’d done wrong on an essay, that he might never again see Ron’s quirky grin as he recounted something of which he was ashamed; that he might never again know the feeling of Ginny’s slim body in his arms scared him so badly that it had taken him a full ten minutes to pull himself together. Even then, when he’d arrived at the Burrow he’d been shaking so badly he was surprised that he’d been able to concentrate enough to Apparate at all.

"We sent them directly to Hogwarts," said another voice, a woman’s. Harry turned just in time to be clapped on the back by Tonks, whose Bubble-gum pink hair was smudged and smeared with soot and ash. "Scrimgeour thought it would be best. They’d just be targets here."

"Then Hogwarts did reopen?" asked Harry incredulously. Somehow, he’d been half expecting Scrimgeour to follow through on his inferred threat of no Auror presence at the school. "I thought Scrimgeour was threatening to refuse an Auror presence?"

"Well, he didn’t have much of a choice," said Mr. Weasley, chuckling darkly.

"Yeah, half of the Aurors threatened to up and quit if he didn’t send a delegation to Hogwarts," said Tonks, smiling grimly. "And he can’t afford to loose any of us at the moment," she added smugly.

"Nymbphadora," said Mr. Weasley briskly. "Harry’s just come from Grimmauld Place."

"Yeah, we thought you might have gotten caught in there," said Tonks, nodding sagely. "When we couldn’t get in, we were wondering if perhaps whoever was inside couldn’t get out."

"You won’t have to wonder any more Tonks," said Harry heavily. "It’s destroyed."

Tonks stared blankly at Harry. "Harry, are you certain?"

"Well, seeing as that I barely made it out before the roof came down," said Harry, exaggerating slightly, "yeah, I am."

"But I didn’t – we would have heard!" stammered Tonks, looking stunned.

"It just happened," said Harry patiently. "Where’s Lupin, anyway?" asked Harry, looking around at the pile of Rubble that had once been a happy and cheerful home."

"Hasn’t got back yet," said Tonks, recovering herself with a quick shake of the hand and running her hand once more through her short, spiky hair. "He took Ron, Ginny and Hermione up to the school. He’s supposed to be staying until they’re all settled in and have arranged for their stuff to be replaced. The Order’s paying for everything," she told Harry, seeing the look of concern on his face. They both knew how poor the Weasley’s were, or had been until lately. "It’s coming out of Sirius’ money, the bit you signed over."

"So they’re at Hogwarts? Ron, Hermione and - and Ginny?" Harry asked Tonks anxiously.

"And its safe do you think?"

"Hogwarts has been given every protection available," said another, deeper voice. From out of the shadows stepped a tall, dark wizard with a shiny bald head and one gold earring dangling from his ear. "Students are, of course restricted to the castle and its immediate grounds. Mr. Potter, if I may, that would be the safest place for you at the moment."

"I-" Harry opened his mouth to argue, but at a warning glance from Mr. Weasley, he closed it again. Why bother arguing? He had been planning on going to Hogwarts anyway, not as a student, but to look for the Harp. He might as well go and talk to McGonagall now. "You heard about Grimmauld Place?" he asked Kingsley curiously.

"That’s why I’m here," said Kingsley, looking around from Mr. and Mrs. Weasley to Tonks. "The Ministry was called in immediately of course, because of the Dark Mark. When we heard that the mark had been found over the place . . ." he spread his hands wide and gave a slight shrug. "I’m afraid that we were prepared for the worst. But once again, Mr. Potter, you seem to have given the Death Eaters the slip."

"Yeah," said Harry, anxious to change the subject. "Er, Mrs. Weasley? My trunk was in Ron’s room, under the bed."

"Yes, well, I’m afraid that both of you will be in the same boat," said Mrs. Weasley distractedly, fishing a small, charred wooden box out from a pile of what looked like kindling but which, on closer inspection, appeared to have been a wardrobe.

"Arthur!" she breathed, dropping the charred hat and prying open the box with her blackened fingernails. "I think its okay!" She wrenched the box open and withdrew a golden necklace consisting of eight small gold discs, ranged four to each side of an ninth, larger disc. This disc was thicker than the others and appeared at a closer glance to be a locket.

"Isn’t it beautiful?" sighed Mrs. Weasley, holding the necklace up to the fading light.

Without thinking, Harry snatched the locket out of Mrs. Weasley’s hand, feeling his fingers tingle as he touched the largest of the discs, on the cover of which was engraved an ornate number eight. Harry squinted at the locket, if his eyes weren’t deceiving him, the original engraving had once been an "S", that part was etched more deeply than the rest, which had turned the "S" into an ornate vine pattern that twisted across the surface of the locket.

"Where did you get this!" asked Harry, his hands trembling as he tugged at the clasp holding the locket closed only to find it sealed shut.

Fred and George gave it to me," said Mrs. Weasley, sounding rather put out and reaching out a hand to take the locket back from Harry.

"Harry, what is it?" asked Tonks, grabbing him by the elbow as Harry swayed on the spot, his hand tightly clutching the necklace. He reached into his jeans pocket, his fingers closing around the fake Horcrux with the note to Voldemort tucked inside it, the object Dumbledore had given his life to find, and held the lockets in either hand, staring at them dumbly, unable to do so much as move a muscle for the shock.

It had to be it! It had to be! Fred and George, of course! They’d bought all sorts of rubbish from Dung. Dung had nicked all sorts of stuff from Grimmauld Place, Harry had caught him hawking some of it in Diagon Alley. It made perfect sense. He’d nicked the locket, Fred and George had bought it from him, converting it into a necklace for the mother.

Harry might have stood there indefinitely, gaping at the treasure in his hand like a fish out of water if Lupin hadn’t chosen that precise moment to Apparate with a discreet pop of displaced air. The older man took one look at Harry, at the two lockets clutched in his hands, and steered him to an overturned cauldron, forcing him to sit.

"Is that the locket?" asked Lupin, his voice so low that the others, who were standing only a few feet away couldn’t hear him.

"It has to be!" said Harry. His voice sounded oddly breathless, as if he’d just run uphill for a very long distance. "There’s no mistaking it, Remus! This is the same locket I saw in the Pensieve. Whoever had it added the rest of the pattern, see?" said Harry, pointing. "It used to be an "S", I bet my life on it! It looks exactly like that one we found in the cabinets in Grimmauld Place, the locket that wouldn’t open, remember?"

"We’re going to have to tell them," said Lupin, glancing up at the Weasleys, who were now talking animatedly to Kingsley.

"No! We can’t tell anyone!" Harry hissed, shaking his head vehemently. Dumbledore had been very explicit; only Ron and Hermione were to know about the Horcruxes although; he was going to have to tell Ginny, he realized that it was inevitable that Ginny be told. Dumbledore would have understood. Ginny could be trusted. It was bad enough that Lupin knew, but he couldn’t take chances, not with anyone else, not with so much at stake.

"We can’t just take it from her, Harry," Lupin insisted, fingering the locket’s thick chain, "it was a gift! She has no idea what it used to be."

"Do you think it’s been destroyed then?" asked Harry hopefully, his fingers once again attempting to open the clasp, which remained firmly closed.

"We should show it to Mad-Eye," said Lupin thoughtfully. "He’d know how to tell if it was destroyed, and if it hasn’t been, he’ll know what to do."

"No," said Harry firmly, shaking his head. "Not Mad-Eye."

"He’s the best at this sort of thing, Harry, he’d know-"

"I can’t ask Mad-Eye!" Harry said, loudly enough that the rest of the group had stopped talking and were now looking at him curiously. Dumbledore hadn’t said anything to Moody about the locket. There was only one other person Harry could think of that might be able to tell him something about how to tell if a Horcrux had been destroyed, and that was the man who’s memory had begun this entire nightmare.

Now he had another reason to go to Hogwarts; he needed to speak to Professor Slughorn.

* * *

Mrs. Weasley had been shocked to find out that the centerpiece of her necklace had been nicked from Grimmauld Place, most likely by Mungdungus and all but insisted on Harry’s taking the necklace back.

"Only the locket," said Harry, his voice rather shaky. "In fact," quickly he removed the note from the fake Horcrux, then touched his wand tip to the fake Horcrux. A moment later the fake Horcrux and Slytherin’s locket had changed places. "There, good as new," he murmured apologetically.

"Actually," Lupin took the locket from Harry, murmured a couple words, and an ornate pattern of vines appeared on the surface of the fake Horcrux.

Mrs. Weasley held the necklace up to the light, turning it back and forth. "I really can’t tell the difference. Are you sure you don’t want to keep the whole thing? They’re both yours after all."

"No, really, just the locket," said Harry with an attempt at a smile. It had been a wrench giving the fake Horcrux to Mrs. Weasley, it had been the last thing Dumbledore had touched after all, the very thing that Dumbledore had risked his life to find.

No. He had risked his life for the Horcrux, Harry told himself, tightening his fist around the solid weight of Slytherin’s locket. This was the Horcrux. The other didn’t matter. It was just a thing. Let Mrs. Weasley have it. After everything she’d done for him . . .

Harry sighed, looking around him, seeing with fresh eyes; Mrs. Weasley’s eyes, the devastation that being associated with him had cost. This had been her home. Her home and her family were her life. Let her have her bauble. She deserved something pretty; especially now.

* * *

"I’m afraid Mr. Potter, what with the new security measures put in place by the ministry, that unless you are a student or a member of the staff you can not be allowed to remain at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

Harry stared at the thin-lipped woman before him, unwilling to believe what he had just heard. He hadn’t expected it to be difficult. He had planned to simply announce his intentions to Professor McGonagall, talk to Professor Slughorn, find the Harp, and be off, well, maybe a quick detour to see Ron and Hermione and, if he could catch Ginny on her own, so much the better. He had never even considered the possibility that she, as a member of the Order of the Phoenix, wouldn’t see fit to allow this.

"Professor-"

"And, since you have made it perfectly clear that you are not interested in returning to the school as a student," continued McGonagall as if he had not spoken, "and seeing as that you are not a fully qualified wizard, and thus unable to be offered a post as an instructor at Hogwarts-"

"Professor, I just need a few days to search for-"

"Mr. Potter," said Professor McGonagall sharply. "You must understand my position. As Headmistress of this school, the safety and well-being of the students constitutes my highest priority. Any sort of disruption – and I believe that your presence in this school would qualify as a disruption – would effectively hamper my abilities to properly govern this student body."

Harry, who had opened his mouth to argue, promptly closed it again. She had that look in her eye, that hard, determined look that said nothing, absolutely nothing, was going to change her mind. Harry had seen it often enough to know that it was pointless to argue.

Here she was talking about security measures and the well being of the students. Didn’t she understand how important this was? He’d explained as much as he could to her. He’d told her that he was searching for a piece to the puzzle that would allow him to defeat Voldemort. He had expected that she would be more than willing to help.

Well, he’d just have to find another way to get into Hogwarts. There were ways. He’d gotten out of Hogwarts often enough, there had to be ways to get in, the tunnel through Honeydukes for one and-

"Be advised, Mr. Potter. I have enlisted the help of Remus Lupin in securing every secret entrance in and out of this castle. He assures me that no stone – or tunnel for that matter – has been left out of the equation."

It was Harry’s turn to grace McGonagall with a shrewd look.

"Have you been studying Legilimency, Professor?"

"I don’t need to read you mind to know what you’re thinking, Potter." The corner of her lip twitched slightly in what Harry was certain was a barely suppressed smile. "Six years of looking out for you and Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley teaches one to expect certain – alternatives."

Harry sat very still; waiting. He had the distinct feeling that Professor McGonagall had something else to say.

"Now, Potter, if you were to request my permission to return to Hogwarts as a student . . .well, as Headmistress, I can assure you that certain arrangements could be made; arrangements that would allow you to not only continue your studies in preparation for the N.E.W.T. exams in June, but would grant you ample opportunity to pursue the several goals that you have outlined in our meeting tonight."

Harry stared. Come back to Hogwarts as a student? What he wouldn’t give to be able to be just another student at Hogwarts for the next ten months! He’d like nothing better. And, if he could continue his search . . .he knew the Harp had to be here, and possibly the mirror as well. He had to find them, and being a student would put him in a perfect position to talk to Slughorn on a regular basis, perhaps enlist his help in determining the status of the one Horcrux he had managed to find (quite by accident mind you, but there you were).

To be able to not only continue his search for the other Horcruxes but to be here, at Hogwarts with Ron, Hermione . . .and Ginny . . . . But there were things that needed to be considered, the safety of the students for one. If Voldemort was looking for him, if he was determined to kill Harry (a fact that the attacks on Privet Drive, the Burrow and Grimmauld Place certainly seemed to support) , his coming back to Hogwarts officially, as a student, would put everyone in the castle at risk.

McGonagall stood up finally, walked around the large, highly polished desk and came to stand by Harry’s chair. "Those are my terms as Headmistress, but Harry, as a member of the Order, I have other priorities. I want this finished. Do you understand? I want this finished – I want him destroyed! I believe what the prophecy says; about you being the only one who has the power to destroy him; and you will destroy him, I have no doubt about that Harry. Nothing could give me more satisfaction than to see an end to this entire business," she said heavily, placing a cool, dry hand on Harry’s shoulder. "Nothing except seeing you manage to do it – and seeing you live to tell about it."

Harry couldn’t bring himself to look at her. The odd prickling sensation behind his eyelids was threatening to overwhelm him again, as it had so very often in these last few weeks.

"As I’m certain you already know, the Ministry of Magic has graciously agreed to an increased Auror presence at Hogwarts," said McGonagall, her voice more businesslike now. "They will not only be patrolling the halls and grounds, but have been a tremendous help in reinforcing the protections that Dumbledore had placed on this school."

Harry looked up at her curiously, thinking of Grimmauld Place and how the Fideleous charm had worn off, "But I thought, that when a wizard died, his powers died too; that any spells he was working were no longer effective?"

"For regular spells, that is certainly the case," said McGonagall gravely. "As you experienced yourself, when the Full Body Bind was lifted at Dumbledore’s death, but there are other spells; older magic . . ." her voice trailed away. "I won’t hide it from you, Harry, Professor Dumbledore was a very powerful wizard. He was gifted in all branches of magic. He was, however, particularly adept at the very ancient – and much neglected arts of Blood and Binding Magic."

"Blood and Binding Magic?" said Harry, frowning slightly. "But I thought that Blood Magic-"

"Is very often used in the Dark Arts, yes," said McGonagall, nodding. "As you witnessed during the ritual which brought He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named back to his body. But like all magic, it has positive uses too, such as the spell used on you as an infant, the one that used the sacrifice of your mother’s life and the binding of her to you through your Aunt’s blood. It was very ancient magic that Dumbledore invoked to place that protection on you, Harry, and spells of that sort are not dependent on the caster still being alive to be effective."

"So you’re saying that he placed some sort of spells on the school – using this old magic – and that the spells he put down are still effective?"

"More effective actually," said McGonagall, giving Harry a small, sad smile. "He had bound himself to this school you see; he bound himself using blood magic and the effectiveness of the spells relied on his body being buried here on the grounds, It was partly this fact – as explained in his personal papers – which was one of the reasons that the school board agreed to allow Dumbledore to be buried here."

McGonagall gestured out of a window, and Harry realized with a wrench, that from his vantage point he could just make out the marble crypt that marked Dumbledore’s final resting place and suddenly, the true power of the words he had once heard Dumbledore used; words he had used himself, just weeks ago when he’d been talking to Scrimgeour.

And now he really never would be gone. It was like Hagrid had said; you couldn’t imagine Hogwarts without Dumbledore. Hogwarts had been such a big part of Dumbledore’s life that it had seemed to define him and now – now Dumbledore would be a part of Hogwarts – forever.

It was as if the great weight Harry had been carrying inside of him since Dumbledore’s funeral had finally lifted off his heart. He knew, without knowing how he knew it, that even though the phoenix had gone; even though Fawkes had left Hogwarts for good, even though Dumbledore had left the world of the living, he hadn’t left Hogwarts, not really. He never would. He had woven himself into the very fabric of the school’s existence.

He was a part of it now; a part of the powerful magic that lay at the very heart of the school.

Harry found himself smiling. Yes. He would stay at Hogwarts. There were things he needed to do here; people he needed to talk to; things he needed to find. He hadn’t planned on returning as a student.

He had thought to do this alone; that he needed to do this alone. But he’d had time to think this summer, and, somewhere along the line, he had realized that even if he was the only one that had the power to conquer the Dark Lord, his power came, as Dumbledore had said himself, from the power to love, how could he feel that love – truly feel the power of the emotion that had saved him at the Ministry of Magic – if he cut himself off from the very source of that emotion; if he cut himself off from his friends?

Harry looked up at McGonagall then, the words from Ginny’s letter still ringing in his ears. "Sure Professor, I’d really appreciate being able to come back to Hogwarts as a student," he paused, looking away before glancing back at her cornerwise, "that is, if you’ll accept me."

"That, said McGonagall, gracing him with a rare and radiant smile, "would be my pleasure."

Back to index

Chapter 8: CONFLAGRATION

Because of a great love, one is courageous.
Lao Tzu

CHAPTER EIGHT: CONFLAGRATION

"You will of course be continuing the N.E.W.T. courses that you began last year," said McGonagall, holding open the door so Harry could precede her out of her office and down the spiral staircase. "Am I right to assume that your personal effects were lost in the attack on the Burrow?"

"Yeah, but the Order doesn’t need to worry about me," said Harry quickly, "I can pay to replace my own stuff."

"Are you sure? Your Firebolt alone-"

"My Firebolt was with me," said Harry, grinning slightly as he pulled the small, wand-sized broomstick out of the pouch he still wore around hi neck. He tapped it with his wand and it sprang back to its normal size.

"Well, that’s a relief," said Professor McGonagall, smiling slightly. "It seems that the odds of Gryffindor winning the cup for the fifth year running are looking better every moment."

"You mean, I can still play?"

"Well, I am assuming that you still want to play?"

"Of course!" said Harry instantly.

"Mr. Ronald Weasley has called tryouts for tomorrow night I believe," said McGonagall briskly. "And it is a fairly safe assumption that he will want you back as Seeker."

"You’ve made Ron captain," said Harry slowly. It wasn’t a question. Of course she would have made Ron captain. He was the next logical choice. Harry had told them he wasn’t coming back. Even so . . .he knew Ron would make an excellent captain, but that didn’t stop his stomach from producing a dull, sinking sensation as the reality of it hit home.

"Yes, Mr. Potter. When it was thought that you would not be returning, we offered the position to Mr. Weasley."

"Yeah," said Harry, tying hard not to show how much this had stung. "Yeah, I guess . . .I mean, that’s great! Ron will make an excellent captain." It was true too. Ron had an excellent grasp of strategy and could quote you every statistic for every major game for the last two hundred years.

"Look at it this way, Potter," said McGonagall, sounding rather apologetic. "That’s one less thing that will be standing in the way of you finding what it is you came looking for."

Harry, however, had stopped listening; what he had been looking since the moment he had entered Hogwarts’ gates had just walked around the corridor’s corner, her arms full of books, her long red hair shining like a beacon in the late afternoon sunlight streaming in through the high, arched windows that ran along the passageway.

Ginny saw him, and froze; a series of expressions crossing her face in such rapid expression that Harry had barely registered them before the surprised delight in her eyes had hardened slightly into a frosty challenge; he could almost hear her voice taunting him; ignore me if you dare, Potter.

Real or imagined, her response tickled him and Harry didn’t think twice about laughing delightedly as he opened his arms to the girl standing still as a statue before him. The books spilled from Ginny’s arms, forgotten as she threw herself into Harry’s embrace.

Every concern; loosing his position as captain, searching for the last of the three Horcruxes, every worry; about how he’d get through the next week of classes without his books, about what was yet to come in his fight against the Dark Lord, everything that had happened in the last six weeks; it all disappeared in Ginny’s kiss. Nothing mattered anymore; not here; not now; not even the sound of McGonagall’s hearty sniff made the slightest impact on a kiss that had transported him to heaven.

* * *

"Well, now that you’re back we can get to work!" Hermione said happily as she dished large helpings of roast chicken and boiled potatoes onto everyone’s plates.

When Harry had walked into the Great Hall (Ginny’s hand held firmly in his) the silence that had fallen across the hundreds of students ranged along the four long house tables had been so sudden and so complete, that for the briefest of moments Harry had wondered if he’d inadvertently cast a silencing charm. The roar of sound that followed rivaled that of a crowd celebrating a Quidditch victory -instant uproar.

The welcome he’d received from the Gryffindor table was hardly less subdued. All through the meal there had been shouts and yells directed at him, a seemingly endless parade of girls telling them how glad they were he was back, and Romilda Vane had actually kissed him! (Albeit on the cheek, but only because Harry had turned his head when he’d seen her coming at him). He’d fended off the Creevey’s enthusiastic questions, with promises to fill them in later, as he had to Neville, Dean and Seamus (who, Harry was glad to see, had braved his mother’s protests to come back for his last year). Lavender Brown, who was looking rather lonely without her constant companion, Parvati Patil and who was casting despairing glances at Ron and Hermione who were wedged in tightly on the same bench with Neville, Harry and Ginny, had merely given him a small smile and a nod.

"To work on what?" Ron asked thickly, through a mouthful of chicken.

Ron had greeted Harry with a hug so tight that Harry was certain his Ribs had cracked under the strain.

"On the clues of course," said Hermione brightly. She cast a glance at the chattering crowd around them before pulling out her wand and casting the Muffliato spell on those closest to them.

"Hermione," said Harry in a voice of mock astonishment.

Poor Neville was shaking his head as if trying to dislodge a fly, and Lavender, who had been listening closely to everything Ron and Hermione said to each other, as she became distracted by Dean, who was drawing caricatures of everyone around him on a paper napkin.

"I thought you didn’t approve of the Prince’s spells?"

"Well, that one does have its advantages," said Hermione brightly.

Hermione’s squeal of "Harry!" as he’d approached the Gryffindor table, had been the first coherent thing Harry had heard in the din of noise his entrance had produced.

Something about her had appeared different, even from across the room when he’d first caught sight of her and Ron sitting together partway down the Gryffindor table. But it wasn’t until she pulled back from an enthusiastic hug that he realized what had changed.

For once it seemed she had made an attempt to tame her hair, for it had been bundled into a heavy braid that hung past her shoulders, but from which little curls and tendrils had escaped and which she was continually tucking behind her ears. Every now and then, Ron would reach up a hand and pull a curl out from behind her ear, but far from seeming annoyed, Hermione would simply smile sideways at Ron and tuck the wayward curl behind her ear again.

"Now look, Harry, I think we have a good chance of finding out who he is!" whispered Hermione, pouring pumpkin juice into Harry’s goblet and spilling half of it in her excitement.

"Find out who who is, Hermione?" said Ginny as she siphoned off the puddle pumpkin juice with a wave of her wand.

"R.A. B. of course!" said Hermione in a stage whisper.

Harry opened his mouth to tell her that he already knew who R.A.B. was, but she was off again, talking so fast that he didn’t have the opportunity to get a word in edgewise.

"I know we tried to track him down last year, but really, now that we’re back at school, finding R.A. B. should be a snap. The library’s bound to have something, if we split up and keep focused, we should have him nailed within a few days-"

"Hermione," said Ron, casting Harry an apologetic look, "I think Harry’s trying to tell you some-"

"And then of course I’ve uncovered an entire section on Genealogy, I’m sure we can pinpoint him in no time – if we can just figure out what family he’s in."

"Hermione-" began Harry, laying down his knife and fork, but she went on, waving him into silence as she dismissed his protest.

"Honestly, Harry, this is really important. And you know what McGonagall’s always saying, ninety eight percent of all important discoveries is research-"

"Hermione," said Ginny firmly, "what Harry was trying to say is that he already knows who R.A.B. is."

"What?" said Ron and Hermione together.

"How did you find out?" Harry said in a low tone, looking at Ginny cornerwise as Ron and Hermione began shooting a barrage of questions at him.

Ginny, however, merely gave him an arch look and began taking dainty bites from her roast chicken.

Even with the Muffliato, Harry didn’t think it prudent to go into much detail in the Great Hall. There were just too many ears, he couldn’t take the chance. So as soon as Ron, Hermione and Ginny had finished eating, they made their way out to the grounds. They settled beneath their favorite beech tree as Harry proceeded to fill them in on everything that had happened since he’d last seen them at Bill and Fleur’s wedding.

"You mean you found it?" breathed Hermione, her eyes huge. "You actually found a – a," She glanced sideways at Ginny as she said it, obviously uncertain as to whether or not she should say anything else while Ginny was listening.

The previous year Harry had made a point of not telling Ginny too much, not because he thought he couldn’t trust her, but because he didn’t want her put in danger from having too much information. Too late for that now, he thought, holding out a hand so that Ginny could twine her fingers with his.

"A Horcrux, yeah. Look, Hermione, I’m not keeping secrets from Ginny any more," said Harry firmly. "What she doesn’t know already she’ll know soon enough. She’s a part of this too, has been since she got handed Riddle’s diary."

Hermione, Harry noticed, looked relieved, but Ginny . . .as the words left his mouth he felt her fingers tighten around his and, looking at her, he was brought up short by the expression on her face; Ginny was positively beaming. Did being included mean that much to her?

"But you found one?" said Ron, oblivious to Hermione’s concern or Ginny’s proud glow. "You found a Horcrux?"

"Yeah, I did," said Harry, nodding.

"Which one?"

"The locket," said Harry. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the heavy gold necklace and handing it out to Ron.

"But-" Ron weighed the locket in his hands. "How did you know?"

"How did I know?"

"That this was it, that it wasn’t another fake."

"It’s the same as the locket I saw in the Pensieve," said Harry, shrugging "But that’s not all, I can feel it too."

"Feel it?" said Ron, who was now trying to pry open the locket with his fingernails.

"Yeah, it tingles when I hold it, can’t you feel it?"

Ron scrunched up his face, holding the locket in his cupped palms. "No," he said finally, frowning slightly. "I mean, it’s pretty heavy for something this size, and it’s cool to the touch, but-" he gave Harry an apologetic look and shrugged.

"Let me see," said Hermione impatiently, taking the Horcrux from Harry and holding it out in her own hands. She held it for a full minute, shifting it from one hand to the other before saying, "I don’t feel any tingling Harry. Did you use a spell or something? I mean, to find out that it was a Horcrux?"

"No," said Harry, as Hermione passed the locket to Ginny. "As soon as I saw it – I just knew."

Ginny, who had taken the locket almost reluctantly, was holding it now in one palm, her eyes closed.

"You say mum had it?" asked Ron, a frown still creasing his forehead. "My mum has been wearing a – a piece of You-Know-Who’s soul around her neck?"

"For pity’s sake, Ron, can’t you say the name?" said Hermione exasperatedly. "And we don’t know that the Horcrux is still active, Ron. Sirius’s brother could have figured a way to destroy it."

"Why is it still here then?" asked Ron reasonably. "I mean, Harry said that Dumbledore had Riddle’s ring, that it was a Horcrux, that was how Dumbledore hurt his hand, getting that ring and then it disappeared."

"I didn’t say it disappeared," Harry corrected him. "I just said that it was no longer on the table where he’d been keeping it when I left the his office that time."

"Ron?" came Hermione’s voice, but Ron ignored her, turning to Harry again.

"But it had been damaged, right? Didn’t you say that when you saw the ring after Dumbledore got it that it looked different?"

"Harry?" Hermione sounded tense, but Harry – concentrating on Ron’s question, didn’t register the worried tone of her voice.

"Yeah, yeah I did! In the Pensieve it was whole, but when I saw it, first on Dumbledore’s hand and then on that table in his office, it was cracked right down the middle.

"So it was damaged when Dumbledore destroyed the bit of soul that was inside of it," said Ron slowly.

"Seems that way, yeah."

"Harry!" Hermione was shaking him by the arm now, her voice high and tight with fear. "Harry, Harry look! What’s wrong with her?"

Harry spun on the spot to see Ginny, still standing exactly where she had been, the Horcrux held tight in her hand, her eyes still closed, except now she was shaking from head to foot as if caught in a high wind.

"Ginny? Ginny!" He was beside her in a heartbeat, holding her by the shoulders. "Ginny! What’s wrong? Open your eyes, look at me!"

"Harry!" Ron’s voice was scared, he’d been trying to pry open the hand that Ginny had clenched around the Horcrux, but it he hadn’t been able to move so much as a finger. "Harry, I can’t get her to let go!" Ron’s face was deathly pale.

"Move!" Hermione had her wand out and was pointing it now at Ginny.

"Hermione, no!" yelled Harry, reaching out an arm to stop Hermione."

"I’m not going to hurt her," said Hermione, her voice shaking but determined. "Finito!" she cried. Nothing happened. She tried again. "Expelliarmus!".

Ginny’s eyes snapped open. But it wasn’t Ginny looking out. What was looking out had blood-red eyes, it’s pupils vertically slit and the voice, when it spoke, was high pitched and cold, cold enough to chill the blood in their veins. All three of them took an involuntary step backwards.

"You can not stop me!" hissed the voice, its eyes locking onto Harry’s. "I will kill them all, Harry Potter. I will kill everyone you care about. I won’t stop until you are alone and then – ah yes, then we will see just how strong you are."

"Let her go!" the words were out of Harry’s mouth before he could stop himself. Damn, damn and damn! This is exactly what he’d been afraid of, he should never have come back. He knew something like this would happen, he just knew it!

The voice spoke again, this time sounding amused. "I think not, Harry Potter. She proved useful once before . . .an easy victim . . .very easy to control. Don’t you think she will make a much better vessel than a simple locket?"

"No!" the voice that tore out of Ginny’s throat was her own, a scream of absolute horror.

Harry started forward, but was restrained by Ron and Hermione who were each holding an arm. Ginny began to writhe and squirm as if trying to get out of her own skin.

"Hush, little Ginevra. We are old acquaintances, you and I," soothed the voice in a sing-song tone.

"You. Don’t. Own. Me." Ginny’s own voice came out in a harsh staccato, her eyes were rolling in her head now, her whole body spasming.

The laugh that issued from her lips was high, mirthless, and cold. "Ah, but I do, little one! I gave you what you wanted; I gave you a friend."

"No!"

"Oh yes – yes I did! And the payment, I never received my payment. Your body I took, it was so easy. You put up no fight. But I never received my final payment. I never received your heart. So close, just minutes later it would have been finished, but it seems we were – interrupted." The inhuman eyes locked once more on Harry’s. "It is time now I think, to finish this."

"Yes." It was Ginny’s voice that spoke. She had suddenly gone very still. She blinked, and her eyes were her own again, Ginny’s eyes, warm and brown. Her gaze met Harry’s and she smiled, and it was as if the sun were rising instead of setting. "You’re right Tom," she said in a conversational tone. Still looking directly into Harry’s eyes, as she triggered the locket’s closing mechanism. "It is definitely time to finish this."

With a shriek of triumph, the locket, which had refused all of Harry’s attempts to open it, sprang apart on Ginny’s palm. From the inside erupted a dazzling green serpent, made entirely out of light, which instantly coiled itself around Ginny, encompassing her from head to toe in a cocoon of neon-green scales. The serpent’s form pulsed once – twice – then twitched and began falling away, scale by scale, like leaves from a tree in an autumn wind.

The serpent was shrieking now, attempting to coil itself tighter, but an instant later, Ginny had brushed away the clinging scales like an annoying flock of midges.

"Miiiine!" the high, cold voice was not coming from Ginny now, but from the scales which were now rising, coiling up and up into the branches of the beech tree. They were reforming themselves now, even as they watched the scales were reforming themselves into a snake; a snake which was rearing it’s ugly, red-eyed head back, preparing to strike.

"We shall see." Ginny’s voice was calm, completely unconcerned as she stood there, arms spread wide in welcome as the snake dropped from the tree, like a lightning bolt, straight towards Ginny’s chest.

Harry wrenched himself free of Ron and Hermione’s grip, but it was too late, the snake had pierced her; filled her with it’s golden green glow and sizzling anger and, for a second, Ginny was gone, obscured from view by a flaring flash of golden green light.

"Nooooooo!" The one word seemed to reverberate around the lake and an instant later, the light was gone, shooting up out of Ginny’s head, up into the branches of the Beech, which erupted into a torch of golden-green flames.

"Ginny!" Harry caught her as the light left her and she collapsed. He pulled her backwards, Ron and Hermione beside him, until they were well away from the blazing tree.

"Is she, Harry, is she okay?" asked Ron, his face pale, eyes glittering strangely in the light of the burning tree.

"Ginny, can you hear me?" Harry sat awkwardly on the grass, pulling Ginny’s limp form onto his lap. "Ginny, wake up. Please be all right – please!"

The tears were pouring down his face now, unchecked. First his parents, then Cedric, then Sirius and Dumbledore, and now . . .his heart clenched. He couldn’t take any more of this, he couldn’t bear it!

"Harry?" Her voice was barely more than a whisper and shouldn’t have been audible at all, what with the fierce crackling of the unnatural flames above them.

"Thank god!" he buried his face in her hair, his tears dampening her face and neck. "Ginny! Oh god, I thought I’d lost you!"

"No such luck," said Ginny dryly, reaching up to wipe a tear from Harry’s eye.

"But what stopped him – he said he was going to collect-"

"His final payment," said Ginny, smiling slightly as she looked up into Harry’s face. "We’d made a deal you see, although I didn’t realize at the time what it meant," the smile turned into a grimace. "I thought it was a joke – I didn’t know . . ." she closed her eyes and for a moment Harry thought she had passed out again.

"Ginny?"

"I didn’t know what he meant until just now," she said softly, her eyes still closed. "When he said that he would be my friend. He said he’d take care of everything . . .the teasing about my robes, about not having any friends of my own . . .he told me he understood, that he’d felt exactly the same way when he’d been at Hogwarts. He said – he said if I’d be his friend, that he would take care of everything, and that he’d send me the bill later."

"She’s okay?" Ron’s voice was rough with concern as he fell to his knees on Ginny’s other side, looking shocked and relieved. "Ginny, he’s gone? What stopped him?"

"He said he’d come for your heart." Hermione’s voice was tight with concern as she stood over Harry’s shoulder, observing Ginny with a worried look.

"There’s just one problem with that," said Ginny, grinning slightly as she pulled herself into a sitting position on Harry’s lap. She wrapped her arms tightly around Harry’s chest and buried her face in the fabric of his shirt. He voice when she spoke was muffled, but still audible. "I can’t pay him with something that is no longer mine to give."

Back to index

Chapter 9: REPRIEVE

"Do not be misled by the fact that you are at liberty and relatively free; that for the moment you are not under lock and key: you have simply been granted a reprieve."

~Ryszard Kapuscinski

CHAPTER NINE: REPREIVE

Harry had insisted that only Tonks and Kingsley of all the Aurors clamoring for explanations, be present when he, Hermione, Ron and Ginny explained to McGonagall what had happened under the beech tree.

"I don’t care what you tell them," said Harry, holding out the warped and twisted locket that Ginny had still had clutched in her hands when they’d brought her back up to the castle. "But you can’t tell them about it’s being a Horcrux. We can’t risk news of this getting back to Voldemort."

Tonks looked at it carefully, seeming almost amused at the way it appeared to have melted, comparing it to a painting she had once seen in a Muggle art museum. "It was a painting by a surrealist painter, only in his picture it was a pocket watch and it was draped over a tree."

"I’ve see that," said Hermione at once, "Salvadore Dali, he did some fascinating work."

"Yes, well, if I show them this, Harry, they’re bound to ask questions-" interrupted Kingsley, his low, soothing voice now tinged with exasperation.

"I’m showing this to the two of you," said Harry flatly, taking the twisted locket from Tonks "but only because you need to know what really happened here. They can’t know. Don’t ask me to explain. You don’t need to know any more about this than I’ve told you."

"Tell them it was an attack," said McGonagall briskly. "Tell them Voldemort made an attempt to possess Ginny directly, after what happened at the Ministry last year, they shouldn’t have a hard time believing you."

"You’ll loose students, Minerva," said Tonks, running her fingers through her short, spiky hair in frustration. "If parents think that a student was attacked directly on school grounds-"

"That’s what happened to the tree," said McGonagall quickly, standing up from her desk and striding across to the window from which the unnatural flames could still be seen. "The school’s defenses detected the attack and thwarted it. Yes, that is exactly what happened."

"It might work . . ." said Kingsley thoughtfully. "Yes, Nymphadora, come, we’ll tell them that the tree was one of the posted guardians."

Tonks and Kingsley left, leaving Ron, Hermione, Harry and Ginny alone with Professor McGonagall.

"I am assuming that this locket is no longer an active Horcrux," said McGonagall, gesturing to the twisted locket in Harry’s hand.

"That’s probably a safe bet," said Harry with a twisted half smile.

"And it appears that the question of whether You-Know-Who can use Miss Weasley as a subject again is answered as well."

"Damned straight," said Ginny flatly. "Sorry, Professor," she added, casting an apologetic look at Professor McGonagall, "But he won’t find me as easy to use as he did the last time."

"That much," said McGonagall dryly, "is obvious."

* * *

The four of them watched from the windows of the Gryffindor common room in stunned amazement as the tree flared and writhed, its branches flailing against a fire that continued to burn but somehow did not seem to consume.

Aurors ringed the tree now; all of them standing with their wands out, pointing at the blazing tree. Not one of them seemed to have a clue as to what to do next. They had tried pouring jets of water on the flames, but the water had acted as gasoline would have, causing the tree to explode in jets of fire that reached out for the school; fingers of golden-green death grasping blindly in the cool evening breeze coming in off the lake.

The common room was packed; everyone was vying for a glimpse of the ever-burning tree; speculations flying like the sparks flying from the tree’s branches. Only Ron’s broad shoulders and Hermione’s sharp tongue kept the four of them from being chivvied away from their window.

"I guess that will teach us to handle a Horcrux so — casually," said Hermione finally, sounding abashed.

Harry, who was standing in front of the window, his arms wrapped around Ginny from behind felt his stomach cramp guiltily at Hermione’s words. He could have lost her. He could have lost Ginny. God, he’d been so stupid! Reflexively, his grip on Ginny tightened. In response, she leaned her head back against him, the hair on the top of her head just tickling his chin, making him smile.

"We’re really lucky that no one was hurt," added Hermione anxiously. "But I mean, there’s no way we could have known it was going to react like that."

"I knew," said Harry quietly.

The silence went on for at least ten seconds before Ron broke it.

"Come off of it, Harry, there’s no way you could have known how it was going to react!"

"Didn’t I?" Harry’s voice sounded suddenly very cold and hard to his own ears. "I knew that Dumbledore had injured his hand going after the ring. I saw what he had to go through to get that fake locket. I knew."

"Harry," said Hermione tentatively after another few seconds of silence. "You can’t go blaming yourself for the way the Horcrux reacted."

"No," said Harry flatly, resting his chin on the top of Ginny’s head. "Voldemort is to blame for how it reacted. You’re right Hermione, I can’t blame myself for that. But I can and will blame myself for not taking it more seriously. I should have taken precautions. I should have put it in a safe place as soon as I got here instead of carrying it around."

Harry felt a shudder wrack his body. He’d carried that damned thing next to his heart for days! Mrs. Weasley — the closest thing to a mother he’d ever known — had been wearing it around her neck for months! It had sat for years on a shelf in the parlor cupboard at Grimmauld Place. So why had it chosen tonight — of all nights — to open? Why had it responded to Ginny’s touch when none of the rest of them had had any luck with it? And how on earth had Ginny been able to drive that presence out of her?

That is what the prophecy had said. Dumbledore had said that Harry’s key to defeating Voldemort lay in his ability to love. It had been his love for Ron, Hermione and Sirius that had driven Voldemort out of his body there on the floor of the Atrium. And what was it Ginny had said?

It looked as if love had saved her as well; her love for Harry.

The chill that went through his body at this thought was so delicious that for a moment Harry felt absolutely terrified.

It had been one thing to read the words she had written in her letter. Ginny had always been good with words, both written and spoken. A letter was safe. There was always the outside chance that she hadn’t meant it the way it sounded, or not meant it in the way he’d interpreted it. But to actually see the depth of his own feelings reflected in someone else’s actions; it took his breath away.

What could he possibly say to something like that? Where was a bloke supposed to start? Somehow ‘I love you too, Gin,’ just didn’t seen to cover it.

* * *

It wasn’t until nearly dawn that the fire was finally spent. The last tendrils of smoke curled up into the mists rising up off the lake, leaving in their wake a blackened, twisted shell where a proud and towering beech tree had once stood.

Harry watched as the now exhausted looking Aurors sheathed their wands and began to disperse. It was over. Voldemort was gone. The Horcrux had been destroyed. Harry took a deep, shuddering breath and shifted slightly in the armchair that someone (he thought it had probably been Hermione) had pushed him into round about midnight when she and Ron had finally left for their own beds. Harry found that he was suddenly feeling incredibly tired.

In his arms Ginny stirred slightly. She had fallen asleep cradled against his chest and he hadn’t had the heart to wake her up so that she could sleep in her own bed. As for himself, he hadn’t slept. He hadn’t dared to sleep; not until he was sure that it was over.

He looked down at the figure in his arms and somehow wasn’t surprised to see that her eyes were open.

"Hey," he said, leaning down and placing a gentle kiss on her forehead. "Sleeping beauty wakes I see."

"How long have I been asleep?" she wondered, shifting in his arms so that she was sitting up straighter and casting a surreptitious glance out the window at the now dead tree.

"About four hours," said Harry, glancing at his watch. "You fell asleep around two."

"You held me the whole time?"

Harry nodded.

"You didn’t have to," said Ginny, smiling at him.

"I wanted to."

"Did you sleep at all?"

Harry shook his head. "No." He hadn’t slept; how could he have, with those living flames out there burning so greedily, so hungrily . . .flames that were aware. . . .watching him . . . .waiting . . . .

"Well, at least it’s over," said Ginny quietly, sliding off of Harry’s lap and turning to the window.

"It will never be over." Harry wasn’t aware that he had spoken out loud until he suddenly found Ginny’s furious face just inches from his. He pulled back instinctively (he’d seen that look before, and it was usually followed closely by one of Ginny’s trademark Bat Bogey hexes) but was brought up short by the back of the chair in which he was still sitting.

"This bit is over." Her voice was hard and the first rays of the early morning sun glinted dangerously in her large, dark eyes and turned her hair into living fire. "As for the rest . . ." she kissed him; a soft, lingering kiss that left him strangely breathless and ended all too soon. "We’ll just have to deal with it when it comes."

* * *

The new books and equipment Harry had ordered by owl post arrived with Sunday’s mail. The four large boxes and a smaller, much grubbier one were waiting in his dormitory when he got back from the Gryffindor team’s first Quidditch practice just before lunch.

The smaller box did not contain any of the items Harry had ordered to replace those that he’d lost in the attack on the Burrow. It was from Mrs. Weasley. Inside of it were a few of his things that she had been able to salvage from the rubble, including; his sneak-o-scope, which was looking rather tarnished around the edges now, but still seemed to have enough life left in it to stand up smartly on its point; his omnioculars, which didn’t appear to have been damaged in the least; a small model of a dragon, which seemed a bit singed in the wings, but stalked about happily on Harry’s bedside table when he set it down and finally, wrapped in a square of leather, several shards of what appeared to be a broken mirror.

Mirror. Harry’s heart suddenly doubled its rhythm. Gryffindor’s mirror?

No, no. That would be to easy. This was Sirius’s mirror, the one Sirius had given Harry the last time Harry had seen him . . . .the one he’d given him so that they could keep in touch . . . .the one Harry had never used. What on earth had prompted Mrs. Weasley to send him the pieces of a broken mirror? He thought she would have chucked it; after all, there was no way she could possibly have known what the mirror had been. Unless it had been Mr. Weasley who had realized that it was more than just a broken mirror . . . .

Harry gingerly picked up the pieces and placed them so that they once more made up a whole mirror. "Reparo," he murmured, pointing his wand at the shards. They seemed to shiver, but nothing happened. Harry looked down at his wand, then back to the mirror’s pieces.

"It had been charmed somehow," Harry muttered, scowling at the broken glass. "If they could see each other in it — talk to each other through it."

"What are you on about?" Ron’s voice from behind him nearly made him jump out of his skin. Still damp from his bath, Ron was toweling his hair dry with one hand, the other was rummaging in his new trunk for clothes.

"Just trying to fix something," said Harry, turning back to the mirror.

"Try Reparo?"

"Yeah. Not working."

"Not working?"

"Not on this," said Harry, his scowl darkening. "It was charmed or something. It was Sirius’s he — he gave it to me before . . . ." Harry had to pause to swallow the egg-sized lump that had suddenly formed in the back of his throat. "The Christmas before he died."

"What did it do?" asked Ron curiously, picking up one of the slivers.

"He — he said that he and my dad had used it, well, from what he told me I guess there were two of them. Sirius had one and my dad had one. Anyway, they used them to talk to each other when they were in detentions. He wanted me to keep it so we — so we could keep in touch. He didn’t want Snape giving me a hard time without him knowing about it."

"A two way mirror?" said Ron, his eyes lighting up. "Wicked! But . . ." his voice trailed away.

Harry looked up to find Ron scowling, his gaze on the shards, and he knew before Ron spoke what it was he was going to ask.

"Look, mate, if you had this mirror all along, why didn’t you use it instead of Umbridge’s fire to make sure he was all right?" blurted Ron, his ears went red and he stopped abruptly.

"It would have saved us all a lot of grief," said Harry grimly. "Just one problem with that, I didn’t know what it was. He gave it to me all wrapped up. He didn’t tell me what it was exactly, only that I could use it to get in touch with him if Snape was giving me too hard of a time and I didn’t unwrap it because I didn’t want him and Snape getting into it again. I didn’t want Sirius getting in trouble because of me. I — I found it when I was packing up my trunk after everything had happened."

Ron rubbed absently at the scars that were still clearly visible up and down his arms. The shiny tendril-like scars encircled his chest as well and, while they were much better than they had been, Madam Pomfrey didn’t think that the scars would ever disappear entirely.

"You mean, if you’d used this," he nudged one of the glass slivers with a finger, "instead of Umbridge’s fire . . .?"

"I would have known Sirius was really okay and that would have been the end of it," said Harry flatly.

"And everything that happened at the Ministry . . ."

"Would never have happened, yeah," said Harry heavily.

Their eyes met and Harry watched Ron’s face go through a wide range of emotions, settling, finally, on something that looked suspiciously like pity.

"You never knew," said Ron finally, he looked as if he’d like to be sick. "You never opened it until it was too late so you never knew." He shook his head slowly. "God, Harry, how can you stand it?"

Harry didn’t answer, but prodded the pieces closer together with his wand. What was he supposed to say? How did you tell your best friend about the nights when you woke up twisted in your sheets, soaked in sweat because you’d had to relive everything that happened that night at the Ministry and had to realize once again that all of it had been your own fault because you’d been too thick to put two and two together? Over and over again the faces of the people that had died because he’d been too slow or too stupid went through his head. Over and over he would think of what he might have happened if he’d done things differently . . . .

Harry shook his head as if trying to dislodge a fly. "Would it have mattered?" he wondered, and it wasn’t until he saw Ron’s face that he realized he’d spoken out loud.

"Would what have mattered?"

Harry sank onto the edge of his bed, turning his wand over and over in his hands. "If I’d done things differently," he said, shrugging. "I mean, what if I hadn’t helped Cedric? He would have been finished when Krum used the Cruciatus curse on him. He never would have gone with me to the graveyard. He’d be alive right now."

"Harry-"

"And if I’d let Lupin and Sirius kill Peter back in the shrieking shack, he would never have run off and found Voldemort," Harry ignored Ron’s shudder, "and chances are Voldemort would still be looking for a way to get himself a body."

"But those — you did what you did at the time Harry," said Ron, rubbing furiously at his forehead as if he were battling a headache. "You can’t change it now."

"But if I’d just done something different then . . . ."

"What matters is that you do the right thing at the time," said Ron slowly. You saved my dad. You saved Ginny. Do the right thing now, and the rest will sort itself out."

Harry raised his head to give Ron a sharp look. "You channeling Dumbledore now?"

"As if!" said Ron with a snort. "Why?"

"That just — sounds like the kind of thing he would have said."

"Good advice then," said Ron, his face clearing abruptly. "Come on Harry, let’s go get some lunch, my stomach is killing me!"

* * *

Professor McGonagall looked up when Harry knocked on the half-open door of the Headmistresses office.

"You wanted to see me, Professor?" asked Harry stiffly. The stiffness didn’t have anything to do with Professor McGonagall. It had to do with the room. He couldn’t bring himself to think of it as McGonagall’s room. It was Dumbledore’s room; Dumbledore’s office; it always had been; it always would be.

He wasn’t entirely certain as to why she’d asked to see him, but the little second-year girl that had brought Harry the scroll in Professor McGonagall’s left-slanting script at lunch had seemed rather over-awed (though whether this had been because she was acting as a messenger for the Headmistress or because she was delivering the letter to Harry, Harry wasn’t sure).

"No need to look so worried Potter, come in and close the door, have a seat."

Harry stepped through the door, closing it quietly behind him and took the seat Professor McGonagall had indicated with her wand.

The early afternoon sunlight was streaming through the many mullioned windows of the tower room, painting the thick, blood red carpet beneath McGonagall’s desk with diamond patterns of light and shadow. Behind the desk, the sun glinted off the case in which Gryffindor’s sword resided (a sword that Harry remembered thrusting double-handed into the open craw of a snarling Basilisk). The egg-sized rubies blazed scarlet in the sun; as scarlet as the blood that had gushed from the beast’s head, soaking the twelve-year-old Harry from head to foot. Above it, on a shelf of its own, sat the Hogwarts Sorting Hat looking, if possible, even more frayed and patched at this close of proximity than it did from a distance.

Other than the new carpet and the picture of the tall wizard in ornately embroidered midnight-blue robes that hung behind the Headmistresses desk, the only changes in the office were the things that weren’t there; Fawkes and his golden perch for one, the spindly tables and their burdens of silvery machinery for another.

"He’s not moving," said Harry finally, nodding at the picture behind the desk.

"Yes. He’s been like that since we hung him. I thought that perhaps the charm hadn’t been performed properly, but Filius assures me that everything is functioning properly it just . . ." she waved her hand at the painting and sighed, "chooses not to move."

"Could it be because things happened so . . . .quickly?" Harry wondered out loud.

"No. The portraits are commissioned when the witch or wizard takes the post of Headmaster or Headmistress. Then the memories and such are updated regularly-"

"Updated?" said Harry quickly. "You mean, like a computer file?"

"Computer file?" McGonagall scowled at him for a moment. "Yes," she said slowly, "I suppose it is rather like a computer file. But this is much more accurate of course, the Immemorium spell is performed-"

"The spell that allows for the detaching of memories?" Harry wondered, "Like when they’re being used in a Pensieve?"

"Exactly, yes," said McGonagall, nodding. "Except a complete record is made — all of the subjects thoughts to date, and the latest — well, I suppose you could call it a file — takes the place of the last update."

"So he’s complete then," said Harry, eyeing the sleeping Dumbledore curiously. "Well, right up until his last . . .er . . .upload?"

"Which according to his journals was the night before you went off together — wherever it was you went," said McGonagall with a small shrug. Her mouth tightened into a thinner line as she watched Harry, who was, in turn, watching the unmoving portrait. "But it’s not him, Harry. It is simply a recording."

"They seem alive enough," said Harry, gesturing to the other portraits of previous Headmasters and Headmistresses who graced the walls of the office.

"That, would be because we develop personalities of our own," came Phineas Nigellus’s oily voice from his heavy-framed portrait. The shrewd-eyed wizard was leaning against his canvas’s frame, picking at his nails with a small, but lethal-looking dagger.

McGonagall put a hand to her eyes. "Thank you, Phineas."

"It’s not like a photograph though," said Phineas Nigellus thoughtfully. "A photograph is a picture of you — as you are, or were rather — at that particular moment in time. It retains your personality, your traits, but it is not you. It can not grow and learn. We on the other hand-"

"Thank you, Phineas," said McGonagall firmly.

Phineas Nigellus made a sort of half-shrugging, half-dismissive gesture and went back to his nails.

"Don’t mind him," said the red-nosed wizard who had resided behind the desk when Dumbledore had been Headmaster. "He’s a bit put out because he is restricted to this one portrait now."

"Yes," said Professor McGonagall heavily. "His other was in Grimmauld Place. The destruction of Phineas’s other portrait was quite a . . .. Loss." she glanced at Harry and he could have sworn that there was a ghost of a smile playing at the corners of her lips.

"I can imagine," said Harry dryly.

"Quite. Now, Potter, as to why I asked you here," she paused, observing him over the tops of her square spectacles. "There are several concerns. Three actually. The first being a confession. You see, I’m afraid that I wasn’t entirely honest with you at our first interview."

Harry remained silent, waiting for her to continue.

"I said then that you were not old enough and that you did not have the proper qualifications to be a teacher at Hogwarts."

She paused again, removed her spectacles and wiped them with a tartan handkerchief. She replaced her glasses and sat forward in her chair, placing both hands on the desk in front of her, one on top of the other.

"And while what I said was, in fact inarguable - being as that it’s school policy - I am afraid that what I am going to ask you could be taken as being diametrically opposed to that statement."

Harry blinked. Where the hell was Hermione when he needed her?

"Professor," said Harry slowly, his brain still trying to sort out the implications of what she’d just said. "Are you asking me to — teach?"

"Not in so many words, no," said McGonagall, looking tense.

She could say that again, thought Harry frowning slightly. "Professor, if you want me to teach — I’m assuming you need a Defense teacher?"

McGonagall nodded once.

"Then why didn’t you just ask-"

"I can’t ask a student to teach, Potter," said McGonagall, her teeth clenched. "The Board of Governors would never allow it."

"Then why-"

"Because, Potter, we are currently without a resident Defense teacher. No one is willing to take the risk. And so, I have formulated a plan. The schedule which I submitted to the Board lists each of the instructors as taking a turn teaching the Defense classes, rotating through if you will, each of them has been instructed to use items from their own specialties that could be used for defense against a Dark attack."

"Sounds good to me," said Harry, frowning slightly. "Dead usefully actually. I mean, there’s lots of things — charms, transfiguration work, that could be used-"

"But when it comes down to actual defense," said McGonagall, cutting across him and continuing to speak as if he hadn’t said anything. "We have no one who is — adept, shall we say — at putting it all together."

"And that has what to do with me, exactly?"

"Well, several of your instructors — most of them actually — all mentioned the fact that not one of the students who was in your army-"

"Dumbledore’s Army," Harry corrected her.

McGonagall gave him a nod. "Yes, of course, Dumbledore’s Army, or the D.A. as it was called; not one of them failed to receive an O.W.L. in Defense Against the Dark Arts that year."

"Really?" said Harry, his interest piqued. "Everyone?"

"Yes Potter, everyone," said McGonagall, and Harry was amazed to see that she was actually smiling at him.

Harry didn’t even bother to fight the sudden rush of fierce pride he felt at these words. It had worked! They’d remembered! "Cool!" he said, then, with a sideways look at McGonagall, said quickly, "I mean, that’s great, Professor."

"It has been suggested that we use the first method, that of the rotating instructors, to teach those in fourth year and below, but to turn over the O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. level classes to someone more — qualified to teach at those levels."

"But you said I wasn’t qualified," said Harry without thinking.

"And as far as the Board of Governors is concerned you’re not," she said briskly. "And officially, the classes would still be listed as being under a rotating schedule. But Harry," she removed her glasses and rubbed wearily at her eyes. "You know the kind of danger that’s waiting out there. You know what can happen to people who encounter things for which they are not prepared." She sighed heavily. "I need you, Harry. The students need you. Hogwarts needs you."

Harry sat very still for a full minute, watching the fire devour its log. "And I’ll still be able to search out what I came for?" he said finally.

"Of course. In fact, as a — well, I guess you could call it a Professor’s Assistant, you would have the full privileges of a Prefect . . ." she raised an eyebrow at him, and Harry couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face. Prefects were answerable to no one but the Professors of course, and the Head Boy and Girl; in this case Ron and Hermione.

"Sweet," he murmured, then arranged his features immediately into an expression of polite gratitude. "I mean, thank you, Professor, I would be glad to help."

"Yes," said McGonagall, observing him with a sort of detached amusement. "I thought you might. Well, that’s settled then. Now, I’ve taken the liberty of assigning your classes to Friday afternoons," she said, tapping her wand on a schedule that was tacked to the wall behind her desk. "All houses together of course. Fifth years just after lunch, sixth years at two and seventh years at four." She rummaged briefly in one of her desk drawers and finally produced three rolls of parchment. "Your class rolls. Make certain you take attendance; record all tardies and absences, the roll should be turned in to me after your final class." She paused, looking at Harry over the tops of her glasses. "You can assign someone to keep take the roll for you if you like," she said, smiling slightly at the look of shock on Harry’s face as he scanned the lists of students.

"Er . . .Professor?" said Harry, looking up from a brief count of the fifth years who totaled fifty-three just by themselves. "Where is there going to be enough room for classes of this size?"

"The Great Hall of course," said McGonagall matter-of-factly. "I will take care of the arrangements after lunch each Friday. Are there any books you will need? Materials?"

"Yes," said Harry slowly. "I’ll make a list, shall I?"

"An excellent idea," said McGonagall crisply. "And perhaps a sketch of how you’d like the room set up."

"Er . . .right," said Harry. It felt odd to be talking to Professor McGonagall like this, as if they were — equals. "Ah, Professor, you said there was something else?"

"What?"

"The third thing you wanted to see me about?"

"Oh yes, of course," Professor McGonagall stood abruptly and walked around the end of the desk. She opened a closet door and rummaged around for a minute before emerging with a large cardboard box in her hands. She placed the carton on her desk and stood for what seemed like a very long time, looking down at it, one hand resting on the edge of the box.

"Albus Dumbledore’s last Will and Testament was read just after you disappeared this summer," said Professor McGonagall slowly. "The contents of this box contain the items that he wished you to have. There was also the matter of a goat . . ." Harry looked up to find McGonagall shaking her head, a rather bemused look on her face. "But I’m not entirely certain why the beast was even mentioned in connection to you. Still, I thought it best to leave the creature in Hagrid’s care."

"Of course," said Harry automatically. "Er . . .Professor, did you say a goat?"

"Yes. It belonged to his brother you see."

"Then why didn’t he leave it to Aberforth?"

"Because Aberforth has disappeared," said McGonagall with a confused shrug. Nothing to do with the Death Eaters as far as I know, but the last anyone saw him was at the funeral." She paused to scowl at the box. "That will be all, Potter."

* * *

"Blimey, she’s made you a teacher?" said Ron, stopping dead so that Hermione, who’d been watching Hedwig’s progress as she swooped along beside them, walked right into his back with a small "oof" of displaced air.

Harry had proposed a walk around the lake as the perfect cover to be able to tell the other three of what had happened in McGonagall’s office. It was a perfect afternoon. The sun was warm, but there was a cool breeze blowing in off the lake. They’d been wandering along the shore (in the opposite direction of the blackened beech tree) for half an hour, accompanied by Crookshanks (who was poking his head into every available hole and bush) and Hedwig (who had not let Harry out of her sight ever since he had returned) while Harry had told them about McGonagall’s request.

"Oh don’t come across as all surprised, Ron," said Ginny dismisively, holding out an arm to Hedwig. The owl came to her at once, giving a soft hoot as she landed gently on Ginny's outstretched arm. "You said yourself that Harry was the best Defense teacher you’ve ever had."

"Well yeah, but I didn’t mean it."

Harry raised an eyebrow.

"I mean, well, it as a joke," stammered Ron uncomfortably.

"You think Harry teaching defense would be a joke?" said Ginny, throwing a calculatedly evil look over her shoulder at her older brother who’s ears were quickly turning a vivid red.

"Come on, Gin, you’re twisting my words, I didn’t mean-"

"Lay off him, you two," said Hermione unexpectedly.

"What did I say?" said Harry innocently.

"You’re egging her on," said Hermione, gesturing to Ginny who was walking beside her and on whose shoulder Hedwig was now happily perched.

"She likes you," said Harry over his shoulder to Ginny, reaching back a hand to stroke Hedwig’s satiny feathers.

"Of course I do," said Hermione.

Harry stopped walking and it was Ginny’s turn to walk into him.

"Of course you do what?" asked Harry, tentatively, uncertain as to whether or not he had heard her properly, or if it had meant what he thought. It sounded as if Hermione had thought he’d been talking to Ron.

"Like him," said Hermione matter-of-factly. "And it’s not fair for the two of you to be goading him into losing his temper."

"Hermione?" said Ron questioningly. "Er . . .what are you talking about?"

"I told Harry that he’s egging Ginny on, encouraging her to tease you, and I don’t think it’s fair, not when they know how little it takes to set you off."

Normally this statement would have been enough to set Ron off all by itself, but for some reason he seemed to be, for once, speechless. Hermione, who seemed to be the only one who didn’t find this exchange in the least bit odd, went on. "And then Harry told you that I like you," she said, turning to Ron, who blinked, "and I said that of course I do. I mean, we’ve been friends for over six years and-"

"That’s all I am to you then," said Ron abruptly in a strangled sort of voice. "You’re friend?"

"I-" Hermione paused, looking from one astonished face to the next. "Well of course you’re my friend, Ron. You and Harry are the best friends I have."

"Fine then," said Ron, and all the warmth seemed to suddenly have gone out of his tone. He turned abruptly and had taken all of two steps back towards the castle when Hermione caught hold of his arm.

"Ron, please, don’t go. What’s the matter? What did I say?"

"You know what you said."

"But what — why are angry? Ron, I don’t understand!" When he didn’t respond, she reached a hand up to his cheek, cupping it in the palm of her hand. "Ron, say something! You’re scaring me!"

Ron stood still quite still and slowly, ever so slowly, turned his head so that he was looking down at her and for a moment Harry didn’t recognize him. The look on his face wasn’t one he’d ever seen before. It was colder; sharper; older than any look Harry had ever seen him give before. It changed everything about Ron, turning him in an instant from the fun-loving, easy-going Ron Harry had known for the last six years into a shrewd, calculating, dangerous man.

The look on Ron’s face chilled Harry to the bone. Harry opened his mouth to intervene. He had to say something — anything, but Ginny’s grip on his arm tightened suddenly; warningly and he shut it again quickly, looking from Ron to Hermione, seeing them as if for the first time.

Hermione was standing, one hand on Ron’s arm, her face turned up to his, her eyes imploring. When Ron’s expression changed Harry could hear her sharp intake of breath; see the way her eyes widened slightly. Hermione released his arm, the hand on his face withdrew of its own accord and she would have taken a step backwards except that Ron, moving with a speed Harry had only seen on the Quidditch field, was now holding both of Hermione’s wrists in his much larger hands, effectively pinning her in place.

"What do you want me to say?" he asked, and his tone was ice. "Do you want me to say that we’ll be best friends forever, no matter what?"

"I-" Hermione’s voice was suddenly very small and uncertain.

"That I’ll always be here for you no matter how many McClaggen’s you date, or however many Krum’s you snog in the rose bushes?"

"I never-" The color rushed back into Hermione’s face and she made a wild attempt to twist out of Ron’s grip, but he was having none of it.

"I’m sick and tired of trying to figure out what it is you want from me, Hermione," snarled Ron, his lip curling. "What is it you want, just a friend you can talk to? Someone whose essays you can correct? Someone you can flirt with? Tell me, Hermione," he said, tightening his grip, "What. Do.You. Want?"

Hermione had stopped struggling. She had gone quite still and Harry could see the tears glistening in her eyes. But instead of pulling back or twisting out of his grip, Hermione took a tentative half-step towards him.

"I — I want," she paused and took a deep, shuddering breath then raised her face so that she was looking Ron directly in the eye. "I want what I’ve always wanted," she said finally, her voice was tinged with tears and when she spoke again, two of them spilled out of her eyes and made their way down the curves of her cheeks. "I want you, Ron."

Ron’s iciness melted entirely in the heartbeat between her words and his kiss. And Harry might have stood there indefinitely; staring stupidly as his two best friends snogged each other senseless if it hadn’t been for Ginny’s persistent tugging on his arm.

* * *

They’d been walking in silence for a good five minutes before Harry finally spoke.

"Well," he managed finally, giving Ginny a small, sideways smile, "that settles that."

Ginny stopped dead (dislodging Hedwig, who swooped away to land on the branch of a nearby tree) and turned to stare at him. "It doesn’t bother you then?" she asked finally. "Seeing them together I mean?"

Harry shrugged and looked away. He’d thought it would, and he’d been dreading it even though he’d known deep down that they would end up together. It was inevitable. He’d worried about what might happen to him — to their friendship - if Ron and Hermione became an item. He’d worried about what might happen if they got together and then had a falling out. But after what he’d witnessed this afternoon . . .somehow he didn’t think that this was anything like Hermione and McClaggen, or Ron and Lavender. This went way deeper. As for their friendship . . .

"Come off it, Harry," said Ginny, she was standing in front of him now, looking up at him with an expression of concern creasing her forehead. "You just watched your two best friends snogging each other’s faces off. You can’t tell me that doesn’t bother you."

"Actually, I’m surprised that it’s taken Ron this long to get around to it," said Harry finally, looking away from Ginny, who was watching him through narrowed eyes. "I mean, I’ve known they fancied each other since fourth year."

"But they’re you’re two best friends," Ginny insisted, "don’t tell me that you’re not worried about how this will change the friendship you three share."

Harry stared off across the lake for a full minute before answering. "I thought it would bother me," he said finally, then turned to look down at the slim figure beside him. "And yes, I was worried about what it would do to our friendship but after seeing them . . ." he gestured back towards the place where they’d left Ron and Hermione. "After hearing them . . ." he paused, suddenly uncertain as to how to explain to her what he’d felt. "This is right for them, Gin, can you understand that?"

Ginny nodded.

"Even if this new relationship between them does, out of necessity, exclude me from some of it’s . . .er . . .finer aspects, (Ginny snorted) it’s not as if I’ve been left alone," he added softly, pulling Ginny toward him until their bodies were just touching. "I have you." He tangled his fingers in her hair, marveling as always at the silken softness of it, of the way it glinted, like living flames in the afternoon sun as it spilled across his hand.

Ginny closed her eyes, her face turned up to him, her body vibrating as he traced the contours of her face with his free hand.

"And there’s nothing better I can think of than being left alone with my other best friend, the one who also happens to be the woman I love."

Ginny’s eyes snapped open, locking onto his with an intensity that nearly bowled him over. "I was wondering when you’d get up the nerve to say it," said Ginny in a light tone that belied the fiery fierceness in her gaze. "I mean, a letter’s nice and all," she added, her voice huskier now, "but there’s nothing like hearing it in person."

"Nothing?" murmured Harry, his eyes mesmerized by the light in her eyes and the dancing flames in the hair beneath his fingers.

"Nothing," breathed Ginny and the word ended on a sigh as Harry’s lips moved over hers.

In that moment there was nothing, nothing but the two of them and for the moment it was just enough.

Back to index

Chapter 10: A LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS

Love is friendship set on fire.
Jeremy Taylor

CHAPTER TEN: A LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS

Harry stood with his back against the stone wall of the Great Hall, waiting. The first of the students for his first Defense class should be arriving at any moment and he wasn’t ready. Well, all right, he had his lessons planned out for the entire semester, thanks to Hermione, but he couldn’t quite get over his nerves.

This wasn’t the D.A. These weren’t just people who admired him, who believed him. The people about to walk through that door would be representatives of every opinion – good and bad – that had been expressed regarding Harry and his notoriety.

Ron had been telling him all week to get a grip, that he didn’t have to answer to the students after all, seeing that he was only, officially at least, a teacher’s assistant, but somehow that hadn’t helped, not like Hermione’s rosters, anyway. Thanks to her he might die of nerves, but at least he’d die organized.

Hermione had been quite insistent that he plan his entire semester’s lesson plans out all at once and had even helped him set up a roster that used a tricky little charm to automatically sign in the students as they arrived and tabulate the rosters at the end of the day so he could send them in to McGonagall.

"Wow, Hermione!" Harry had said wonderingly as she’d shown him everything he could do by just touching his wand to the various squares at the bottom of the rosters and the different options he could select by touching one of the tabs at the top. He was amazed that she could come up with something this complex, especially with everything else she had to do. "How on earth did you come up with the idea for just touching the squares?"

"I based it on Windows," Hermione had said matter-of-factly.

"The computer system?"

"The software, yes, I suppose it was a bit of piracy, but then, I don’t need an Intel chip to get this to run now, do I?"

"Windows?" said Ron, looking over Harry’s shoulder at the multi-colored squares and tabs. He looked up, squinting, at the large, mullioned library windows before adding. "They don’t look like any windows I’ve ever seen."

"Windows is a computer program," explained Hermione. It came out in 1995, but my parents didn’t bother upgrading our computer until just this last year, and since you need an Intel 80386 running in protected mode in order for it to run . . ." she shrugged.

"What’s an Intel?" Ron asked Harry, who shrugged.

"Dunno, something the newer computers run on I guess. Dudley just got a brand new computer this last summer, it’s supposed to have all the latest and greatest updates. All sorts of games and stuff too, but I don’t know how it runs exactly."

"But you’ve seen how Windows works?" asked Hermione.

"Well yeah, it’s sort of standard now on most computers," said Harry, shrugging. "Everything tabbed and all. Supposed to make it easier I guess."

"Why do they call it windows," asked Ron, scowling at the parchment, "when it’s written on a piece of parchment."

"They call the computer program Windows," said Harry. "Hermione’s just copied it to use for my rosters."

"Suffice it to say," said Hermione implacably, "that by setting up the charms so that they are nested, Harry can keep all of his rosters, notes and assignments for any one class all on the same sheet of parchment."

"Wicked!" said Ron appreciatively as he poked at Harry’s roster with his wand. Minutes later, however, Hermione had to chastise him for having mixed up the colored blocks and had rolled up the rosters and given them to Harry for safekeeping.

Harry unrolled the fifth year roster now, scanning the list of students that McGonagall had given him. Fifty three? How on earth was he supposed to teach fifty three students all at the same time? Trying to ignore the butterflies that were now swarming in his stomach, Harry tapped the ‘notes’ tab and began scribbling items that he wanted to make sure he covered by the end of the lesson.

"Ahem." Harry looked up ten minutes later to find Professor McGonagall standing beside him, a questioning look on her face. "Ready Potter?"

"Yeah, uh-" His mouth went dry as he looked beyond Professor McGonagall and saw the large group of students that had assembled silently while he’d been preoccupied with his notes. "Er . . . as ready as I’ll ever be I guess."

"Very good," said McGonagall, giving him a small, reassuring smile. "Shall we begin?"

* * *

It went much better than Harry could have expected. Professor McGonagall stood up at the beginning of each class and explained that due to the nature of the spellwork involved and the tight schedules of the assorted Professors responsible for the classes, that the staff had decided that O.W.L. level and higher would be taught some practical defensive work by an exceptionally qualified student and then she had introduced Harry.

The response had varied. Some students (Harry had a sneaking suspicion that they were Slytherins) had been downright hostile, booing and hissing like angry snakes. McGonagall had silenced them with a look, informing each group that Harry had full authority to dock or award points as would a regular instructor, and then dropping her surprise bombshell and announcing that there would be an Auror present during each class to ensure that things did not get out of hand.

"She should have you teaching this!" Harry had muttered to Tonks, who had been assigned to the fifth year time slot just after lunch.

"Conflict of interest," Tonks had replied with an apologetic grin, "We’re just to post ourselves in the Hall, keep you lot from getting out of line. But I don’t mind, I’ve heard a lot about your teaching abilities, got me interested. I’ll be curious to see you in action, so to speak."

Just great thought Harry sourly as he set Luna to pairing up the fifth years so that they could practice some of the more basic defensive spells. That was all he needed, to make a fool of himself in front of Ministry of Magic Aurors. Chances were they could do most of these spells with their eyes closed.

As far as Harry was concerned, the student assistants were a godsend. In a stroke of brilliance Professor McGonagall had assigned each of his classes a student assistant – who just happened to also have been a member of the old D.A. - to help Harry with keeping up with the sheer number of students he’d be teaching. Unsurprisingly, both Luna and Neville had volunteered for the job, as had Hermione; Luna working with Harry during the fifth years’ class, Neville with the sixth years and Hermione with the seventh.

Almost like old times, Harry thought as he watched Luna dreamily instructing a rather worried looking fifth year Hufflepuff girl in the best technique for casting a disarming spell. Neville, whose spellwork seemed to have improved beyond all recognition over the previous year, actually held up his own end of an impromptu duel that Harry had demonstrated to the excited sixth years, never getting past Harry’s defenses, but never getting hit by the various spells Harry had shot at him in rapid succession.

And Hermione, Hermione was the best, hitting Zachariah Smith with a brilliant babbling hex during their duel after he’d boasted about the impenetrability of his shield charms. The stupid git had gone around for the rest of the day talking non-stop about anything that came into his head.

By the time the last of the seventh years had filed out of the great hall, Harry had to admit that it hadn’t been as bad as he’d thought. Different than the D.A., yes, but satisfying nonetheless.

"Well, Professor," said Ginny with a smirk, slipping her hand into his as he left the Great Hall – the huge double doors closing behind him so that the room could be set back to rights in time for supper. For once the Entrance Hall was completely deserted. "How did it go?"

"Not bad actually," Harry admitted. "Not like the D.A. of course. Not as much . . ." he paused, at a loss for words.

"Camaraderie?" suggested Ginny.

"Yeah, that’s it! There may not have been as much Camaraderie. I mean, everyone in the D.A. was united against Umbridge and all, but it was still pretty interesting. Most everyone seems keen to learn and I think that at least for now they find it interesting enough – unusual enough – to pay attention."

"Neville did good," commented Ginny, pulling Harry down to sit beside her on the bottom step of the marble staircase. "That was an excellent demonstration you two pulled off for our class! I never knew he could move that fast!"

"Neither did I," said Harry, grinning. "He says it’s his new wand, but I think there’s more to it than that."

"Could be because he’s getting shagged regularly now," said Ginny unexpectedly.

It was a full minute before Harry realized that he was staring at Ginny as if she’d just sprouted an extra arm from the top of her head. She merely looked back at him, eyebrows raised questioningly.

"Something wrong, Harry?"

"Say that again?" said Harry slowly. "The bit about Neville."

"I said that the improvement in his spellwork could very possibly have something to do with the fact that he now has a steady girlfriend."

"That’s not what you said," Harry knew that his tone sounded accusing, but he couldn’t help it. She had to be joking! "You said he was getting shagged regularly!"

"Well, that too I suppose."

"You suppose?"

"Well, according to Luna, it’s been a regular occurrence ever since this summer. She spent some time at his house this summer, or so she told me, and, well, according to her they really hit it off."

"I . . .Neville wouldn’t . . .Luna? . . . you’re winding me up!"

"Of course Neville would! He’s a bloke, isn’t he? Wouldn’t you, if you had the chance?"

"Wouldn’t I what?" gasped Harry, his cheeks now so hot that he was certain he would have been able to fry an egg on them.

"Like to get shagged?"

"I-"

"Careful how you answer that, Potter," Ginny said warningly, and dropped Harry a broad wink as a knot of Ravenclaws made their way past them to stand grumbling outside of the still-closed doors to the Great Hall.

"Well, of course I would," muttered Harry, his face now flaming. "Just not with Luna!"

"What about Luna?" said Neville’s voice from behind them.

Harry didn’t know just how hot a human could get without spontaneously combusting, but he was more than a little certain that he was fast approaching the flashpoint.

"I was just telling Harry about how you and Luna are now an item," said Ginny matter-of-factly. "I don’t think he believed me."

"Oh, yeah," said Neville, his round face went a delicate shade of pink, but other than that there was no drastic change. He sat down on the other side of Harry and shot Ginny a broad grin over the top of Harry’s head. "I find it kind of hard to believe myself."

"So – ah – you two are . . .er . . .going out?" Harry managed. His cheeks were still flaming, but he felt better. If Neville could talk about it so calmly, it couldn’t be anything too drastic.

"Sure. Weird isn’t it?" said Neville, beaming at the pair of them. "Who would have thought?"

Harry was spared having to continue the conversation as the doors to the Great Hall chose that precise moment to open with a sigh, eliciting applause from the Ravenclaws. He filed in behind Neville and Ginny, still shaking his head over Ginny’s news. Neville and Luna? He knew that they had both been devoted to the D.A.; that he’d seen Luna helping Neville into his seat at Dumbledore’s funeral, but he’d thought it had just been a friend thing. Somehow he just couldn’t see the two of them . . .he sighed heavily.

"Problems, Harry?" asked Ron, sliding onto the bench across from Harry, beaming as he helped himself to a huge helping of Sheppard’s pie.

"No – I just – did you know about Neville and Luna?" blurted Harry.

Ron grinned. "Hell yeah, they got caught on the train – an empty compartment. McGonagall has them doing detentions – separate detentions – every Saturday until Christmas."

"They got caught?" Harry glanced down to the other end of the table where Neville, Dean and Seamus had their heads together.

"Yeah. Had to be a first year that found them, yeah? Anyone else would have simply closed the door and let them get on with it. But no, she couldn’t even have told one of the prefects, she had to go running to that witch that pushes the trolley." Ron shook his head over the follies of first years while Harry contemplated the structure of his Shepard’s pie trying to wrap his brain around the idea of Neville and Luna alone together in an empty train compartment . . .it wasn’t working.

"Excellent lesson Harry, don’t you think?" said Hermione as she slid onto the seat next to Ron. "Harry, are you okay? You look ill."

"He just found out about Neville and Luna," said Ginny with a snicker.

"Really?" said Hermione, giving Harry a quizzical look. "But that’s right, you didn’t come on the train! That was a bit of a scandal. They didn’t even remember to lock the door, can you imagine?"

"I’d rather not," said Harry with a grimace that elicited laughs all around.

All through supper Harry found himself casting surreptitious glances at Ginny. She’s mentioned the fact of Neville and Luna’s shagging so casually. Had she ever . . .? Did he really want to ask that question? He remembered when he’d lifted that tapestry to find Ginny and Dean snogging so enthusiastically; how the beast inside him had roared to life, and he wondered how he would have felt if they had been doing more than kissing.

"Something on your mind, Harry?" Ginny wondered as they made their way out of the Great Hall and mounted the marble staircase. "You haven’t said much of anything since you found out about Neville."

"Well, you have to admit, that is rather a disturbing piece of information," said Harry.

"Why?"

Harry turned to look at her. "Well, I mean, it sort of seems like it’s rather personal. You know, a private subject."

"Normally I’d agree with you, but you have to admit, being found on the train . . ." she shrugged, grinning broadly. "I must admit though, Neville took it far better than I would have expected. He didn’t even try to deny it. According to Ron – yeah, it was Ron who went with him and Luna to McGonagall’s office– the joys of being Head Boy, you know! Anyway, according to Ron he took full responsibility for not having locked the door, saying that he should have remembered that there were ‘impressionable children on board’ – those were his exact words! I think the main reason neither of them was suspended, or expelled even, was because of Neville’s coming right out and admitting everything without so much as a blush! From what Ron said, McGonagall was momentarily speechless."

"Now there’s a first," said Harry, chuckling.

"Yeah. She recovered enough to give them detentions, but left it at that. She didn’t even deduct points."

They’d reached the top of the marble staircase and Harry paused, leaning on the railing to look down at the milling throng in the Entrance Hall; so many couples! Had there always been this many students paired up at Hogwarts? Or was he just becoming more aware of it? His eye fell on Ron and Hermione as they exited the Great Hall. Ron’s arm was draped loosely around Hermione’s waist, a smile on his face as he bent his head to hear whatever it was Hermione was saying.

"God they look good together," he murmured. He wasn’t aware that he had spoken out loud until he felt Ginny’s arm slip around his waist.

"There’s some who would say the same about us," she murmured, eyes sparkling in the late afternoon sunlight that was slanting in through the Entrance Hall windows, and there was nothing for it but to kiss her.

"God I love you, Ginny," he murmured into her hair.

"Say it again," said Ginny, her eyes closed, an uplifted expression on her face.

"I love you."

She opened her eyes. "I don’t think I could ever get tired of hearing you say that," said Ginny seriously.

"Shall I say it again?" said Harry brightly. He reached out a hand and ran it through Ginny’s long, shining hair. It was, he thought, almost the exact same shade as the light spilling through the windows. He lifted his hand, admiring the way it glowed so richly vibrant in the light and he suddenly found himself wondering what that gorgeous riot of hair would look like spread out across the white linen of his four-poster’s pillow.

"Are you in love with me or my hair?" said Ginny teasingly, extracting her hair and deftly winding it into a less-tempting braid that she secured with a rubber band fished out of her bag.

"I love you," said Harry quietly, "and everything about you, including your hair."

His cheeks suddenly felt rather warm again. Where on earth had that come from?

He glanced at Ginny only to find her regarding him with open amazement. "Harry James Potter, was that a compliment?"

Harry shrugged. What could he say? He had no idea why he’d just said that. He’d been thinking it – and it had just sort of slipped out.

"That was beautiful!" said Ginny, her voice sounded strange, almost as if she were fighting tears, but when Harry looked into her eyes he saw no tears, just an added shimmer.

"Sorry," said Harry, grinning sheepishly.

"Don’t apologize," said Ginny, she kissed him lightly on the cheek. "You can compliment me any time you want." She turned as if to lead the way back up to Gryffindor Tower, but she hadn’t gone more than two steps before Harry had wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her back against his body hard enough so that there was no way she could miss his growing interest. He felt rather than heard her quick intake of breath as their bodies made contact.

"Do you want to know what I was thinking?" murmured Harry, his lips brushing the column of her neck. "Do you want to know why I was so enraptured with your hair just now?"

Harry heard the words coming out of his own mouth – thoughts that had been running through his brain like molten lava spilling over onto his tongue without so much as a by-your-leave from his senses. But he couldn’t stop himself. He didn’t want to stop himself, the look on Ginny’s face, the way she bit her lip as he as his lips hesitated at the sensitive juncture of neck and shoulder, was worth every word.

Ginny murmured something incoherent as Harry tightened his grip on her waist, pinning her tightly against him.

"I was imagining what your hair would look like spread out across my pillow," he murmured, his lips just brushing her ear.

Ginny let out a little moan of longing that broke off abruptly as an all-too familiar, and not-at-all welcome voice intruded.

"Now, now, can’t have my two favorite pupils getting in trouble for public displays of excessive affection now, can I?"

Slughorn’s jovial voice grated on Harry’s ears and made his clenched teeth ache.

"Of course it’s all a load of rubbish. We teachers can’t be everywhere after all. And I must say, I can’t blame you," he chuckled dryly and dropped Harry a broad wink. "Now, my dear boy," he placed a plump hand on Harry shoulder and Harry resisted the urge to shrug it off. "I believe that you placed a request to speak with me in private?"

Harry stared at Slughorn, trying to remember. So much had happened this week. Yes. Yes, he had. The evening he’d arrived he’d put in with a request to talk to Slughorn. He’d been meaning to ask him about the Horcruxes, if there was a safe way to deactivate them, but then the whole incident with Ginny and the locket – he’d forgotten all about talking to Slughorn. Still . . .it couldn’t hurt. There were still three others to find after all.

"Yeah – I did Professor."

"Well I’m free now my boy, so why don’t you toddle up to my office, there’s a good chap. Care to accompany us, Miss Weasley?"

"Another time, Professor," said Ginny brightly. "See you in a bit, Harry!" She shot him a wicked grin over her shoulder and ran off up the staircase, leaving Harry to follow Slughorn’s rotund figure down the hall to his office on the second floor.

It was time then. Harry felt oddly deflated (and not for the obvious reasons). It was as if he’d been living in a dream this last week; a beautiful, hazy sort of dream, with the search for the Horcruxes just a foggy sort of idea floating around in the back of his head; little bits of free-floating anxiety, no more important than the twenty page research paper professor Sprout had assigned them on exotic healing herbs, and which was due in December. Suddenly all the pieces free-floating bits had coalesced into a solid mass that fell like a brick into the pit of his stomach. The spell had been broken. It was time to get on with what he had come here to do.

"Well, Harry," chortled Slughorn genially as he showed Harry into his office. "It’s good to see you back my boy. You had us worried there!" Slughorn pointed his wand at the fireplace, which erupted obediently in a rush of merrily crackling flames. He gave his wand another flick, and two cut-crystal glasses filled themselves with a thick amber liquid that Harry recognized as oak-matured mead.

"And yes, I’ve tested all of the liquids in my stock," said Slughorn, taking his own glass and clapping Harry on the shoulder. "Drink up my boy. To your health."

Harry took a deep swallow of the mead, remembering the first time he had tasted it. That had also been in Slughorn’s presence, but Dumbledore had been there, and they had been trying to convince Horace Slughorn to come back to Hogwarts as a teacher. Harry blinked rapidly. He would not cry in front of Horace Slughorn. He would not!

They sat in silence for a few minutes, sipping at their drinks. Finally, Harry decided to break the silence.

"I was wondering where you’d gone, Professor. I haven’t seen you all week." It was true, too. All week the seventh year N.E.W.T. Potions class had been taught by a wispy little witch who barely said two words all during class, but would respond to most questions that were asked her by pointing her wand at the board, on which would then appear her answer.

"Yes. Amanda Drooble is quite a dear. Her father invented the blowing gum they sell at the candy shops. She was quite brilliant at Potions, but I must say, she was never one for conversation."

"Yeah, I sort of figured that bit out," said Harry dryly. For a while he’d been afraid that he’d risked his foray into the Room of Requirement the previous Saturday for nothing. For so far the bubble gum queen (as Ron had so aptly named her) had given them nothing more taxing than a babbling beverage to brew.

He hadn’t told anyone, not even Ron, Hermione or Ginny that he had rescued the Half-Blood-Prince’s old potions textbook from its fate amongst the piles of treasures and heaps of rubbish that had been hidden away over the millennia. He’d simply replaced his new copy of his Advanced Potions book with the Prince’s, feeling a twinge at the thought that it had been handled by Snape, scribbled in by Snape. Still, he had to admit that the Prince had been brilliant at potions. If he simply kept to the potions and ignored any of the potentially dangerous spells that had been written in the margins, he should be safe enough.

Come to think of it, the spells in the margins, while dangerous and deadly in their own right, could possibly be useful. He had determined to write all of the extra spells down and practice them on pumpkins or something that couldn’t be killed if a spell turned out to be hazardous. The memory the slashes appearing on Draco, of Draco’s bloody body, of the blossoms of blood in the water on the bathroom’s floor, swam to the surface of Harry’s mind. He could have killed him.

But Draco had lowered his wand. There at the end, on the top of the Astronomy tower, Draco had lowered his wand. Harry felt a piercing pang. Why couldn’t the Order have held the Death Eaters off for just a moment longer? Dumbledore had convinced him. It would all have been over in minutes. It took Harry a moment to realize that Slughorn was speaking again.

"Unfortunately I had to go attend to leave on personal business; most unfortunate. But here we are, right as rain and all together again. Now, my dear boy, I know that you have other things on your mind – more enjoyable things than exchanging pleasantries with an old man into the wee hours." He dropped Harry another cheeky wink. "So tell me, what did you need to speak to me about?"

"I wanted to know about Horcruxes, sir-" began Harry, but was interrupted by Slughorn who had leapt to his feet, upsetting his tumbler and sending the contents of a sweets box skittering into every corner of the room.

"I am not going to have this conversation again! I will not tell you anything about Horcruxes young man, so I think it is time that you left!"

"Would you please shut up and listen, Professor?" said Harry, slamming his glass of mead down on the table so hard that it shattered, the golden liquid puddling amongst the shards of glass like honey escaped from a bee hive.

"I beg your pardon?" said Slughorn, looking scandalized.

"If you would do me the courtesy of listening instead of jumping to conclusions, you’d know that I’m not asking you how to make a Horcrux. That is something I already know too much about," said Harry bitterly. "I need you to tell me how to recognize one once I find it, and how to destroy it once it’s been found."

"My dear boy, surely you don’t need to be worrying your head over things of this nature! I can guarantee you, there will be no questions about Horcruxes on your N.E.W.T. exams!"

"I don’t give a damn about the N.E.W.T. exams," said Harry bluntly, earning him another scandalized look. "I need to know what it is I’m looking for."

"Looking for, but Harry, surely you don’t-"

"Haven’t you figured it out yet, Professor?" said Harry, not caring if he was upsetting Slughorn. Let him squirm. He needed the information. He could have used the information long before now. "Lord Voldemort – the boy you knew as Tom Riddle – has split his soul, that’s what enabled him to come back after everyone thought he was dead after he tried killing me as a baby. And he didn’t just split it once, he’s split it multiple times."

"Seven," said Slughorn in a barely audible voice. "He said – he said seven . . ."

"Yes, that’s what Dumbledore thought too," said Harry, nodding.

"Harry, you can’t be sure that he made them," said Slughorn, shaking his head in denial. "Just because he knew about them doesn’t mean-"

"That wasn’t a natural fire that burned the beech tree, Professor."

Slughorn stopped, letting out a woof of air as if he’d been punched in the stomach.

"Ginny accidentally activated a Horcrux that I had found. Voldemort tried to possess her, well, the bit of him that was in the Horcrux did. He tried to come back through her! But she destroyed it. There are others though."

"How do you know?" said Slughorn, his face had gone a pasty white, he looked as if he were going to be ill.

"I destroyed one myself, Professor, quite by accident during my second year. And Professor Dumbledore – how do you think he injured his hand? He hurt it destroying another one of them. What do you think we were looking for when we left the school grounds the night Dumbledore died?"

"You mean – there are - more?"

"Six total. The seventh bit being in Lord Voldemort himself. Three now are destroyed, including one that was inside of Slytherin’s locket," said Harry, removing the warped and twisted locket from his pocket and holding out for Slughorn to see. "It is a safe bet that the three remaining Horcruxes made use of the other objects of power."

"The objects of power are just legends," said Slughorn, waving a dismissive hand.

"I saw them, professor! Two of them at least; the locket and Hufflepuff’s cup. What’s to say that Ravenclaw’s harp and Gryffindor’s mirror aren’t also actual objects?"

Slughorn sat very still, looking as if he’d just been told that someone had died.

"Dumbledore believed they existed Professor, and so do I."

"But-" Slughorn paused, looking up at Harry with stricken eyes. "What can I possible do?"

"Teach me!" said Harry fiercely. "Teach me what to look for, Professor. Show me how to recognize them, how to destroy them without risking people’s lives!"

"But I don’t know-"

"But you can find out!" Harry insisted. "Surely someone with your sort of contacts . . . Professor," said Harry, lowering his voice and taking both of Slughorn’s doughy hands in his own. "This may just be the last chance we have destroy Lord Voldemort, to keep him from ever coming back. It’s up to me to destroy him, Professor, but I don’t have a chance in hell if he keeps coming back. I have to destroy the Horcruxes first."

"All right boy, all right," said Slughorn, seeming to wilt as he spoke. He suddenly looked very old and very, very tired. "I’ll see what I can do."

* * *

"Are you sure about this Harry?" Hermione stood very still in the center of the Headmistress’s deserted office, wringing her hands and looking extremely nervous.

"I told you, McGonagall said we can help ourselves. She’s given me –given us, permission to go through all of Dumbledore’s books. Look, see? She even gave me a list of titles!"

"But – Harry, this is the Headmistress’s office! I can’t just-" she looked around and waved her hands at the bookshelves crammed with leather-bound books and scrolls of parchment "-make myself at home!"

"Why not?" said Harry, sitting down cross-legged in front of one of the bookshelves and pulling out several promising-looking volumes.

"Its just not – right!" Hermione insisted.

"Look, Hermione, I’m not completely stupid you know. Do you really think I’d risk detention – or expulsion – to come search through the Headmistress’s personal library? Okay, scratch that," said Harry, noting Hermione’s raised eyebrow. "Try this, how do you think I knew that these particular books were here?" he said, waving the scrap of parchment at her.

"Lucky guess?" she said dryly. "Or Dumbledore could have told you!" she added accusingly.

"Well, he didn’t," Harry said firmly, "and you’ll just have to take my word on that one, Hermione. Just like you’ll have to believe me when I tell you I have permission to be here!"

Harry sighed. McGonagall had given him permission. She’d called him into her office the morning after his little chat with Slughorn.

"Professor Slughorn informs me that you are looking for information on Horcruxes," she’d said in a stern voice.

"On how to recognize and destroy them, yes."

"Of course. I didn’t think . . . .well, he also informed me of where he believes that you can find the information you are searching for."

Harry had felt himself tense. He didn’t want to leave Hogwarts; not yet. But if the information was in some remote location, he wouldn’t have much of a choice. Screwing up all his available courage and willing his voice to remain steady he’d asked, "and where would that be?"

McGonagall had waved a hand around the room, at the dozens of bookcases, each crammed to overflowing with books and scrolls of every shape and size. "Here."

Harry had stared at her, not entirely certain he had heard her correctly. "You mean . . ."

"He wouldn’t allow books on the subject into the Hogwarts library of course, not even into the restricted section, but according to Horace, Albus had collected a goodly number of texts on the subject, which he claims are located among Albus’s private collection. According to Professor Slughorn, Dumbledore was quite obsessed by the subject."

"P – Professor Dumbledore?" Harry had hated the way his voice had come out sounding strangled.

"Oh, I don’t think it was out of personal interest," said McGonagall with a tight smile. "Horace thinks that Professor Dumbledore suspected that You-Know-Who had been dabbling with the idea and that he wanted to be prepared."

"Yeah, I suppose," Harry had paused, considering before asking, "Professor, when I talked to Professor Slughorn, why didn’t he tell me about this himself? Surely it didn’t take him this long to remember where the information might be!"

"Ah yes, of course," McGonagall had said, smiling slightly. "I do believe that Horace wishes to distance himself as much as possible from any perceived threat to the Dark Lord – just in case it doesn’t work."

Harry had felt his lip curling. "Self-preservation," he’d said, unable to keep the sneer out of his voice. What was it Phineas had said? About Slytherins knowing when to save their own skins?

"Yes," said McGonagall, nodding as she noted the look on Harry’s face. "It does take a certain – personality – to be a Slytherin. Anyway, Albus left me his entire collection and, well, I haven’t even begun to scratch the surface, but you are more than welcome to come in and look through them any time you’d like – provided of course that it is before curfew."

"What, here?" said Harry, startled.

"Of course here," said McGonagall. Her eyebrows had contracted into a hawk-like line. "We can’t have books of this nature wandering the corridors. Surely you can understand this."

"Well, yeah, but-"

"You may of course make notes to take with you - provided that you use the proper concealment charms, but the books themselves need to remain here."

Harry had looked around him, stunned at the sheer number of texts. It wasn’t as bad as the library of course, Dumbledore’s office wasn’t that large, but there was still a tremendous amount of information, and he was willing to bet that Dumbledore hadn’t been nearly as meticulous about organization of his own private collection as Madam Pince was in regards to the school volumes.

"If you think that Mr. or Miss Weasley or Miss Granger could be of assistance in your search, Potter, by all means bring them along. I’ll make certain that I give you notice if I change the password."

And so, here he was, with an extremely uptight Hermione standing stock still in the middle of the room, afraid to so much as breath for fear of disturbing something.

At that precise moment the door behind them opened and Professor McGonagall walked briskly into the room.

Hermione, who had been reaching out a hand to a nearby bookshelf, sprang back into the center of the room, looking about wildly as if she were going to bolt.

McGonagall, however, didn’t so much as blink, she merely smiled and said, "Mr. Potter, Miss Granger, finding everything then, are you?" before walking over to her desk, picking up a large stack of parchment sheets and walking out again.

"Now will you believe me?" asked Harry exasperatedly.

Hermione gave him a reluctant smile and said, "I suppose we’d better get to work then."

* * *

It really was amazing, thought Harry as he thumbed through the titles on the stack in front of him, just how many books on Dark and Deep Magic Dumbledore seemed to have accumulated over the decades he’d served as Headmaster.

There were dozens of them, many in languages Harry had never heard of, several in French, half a dozen in German and at least a dozen Runic scripts (most on rolls of crumbling parchment) that had Hermione exclaiming.

Soon she had a large stack of books through which she was thumbing, her dict-o-quill (this year’s birthday present from Harry) scribbling frantically as she flipped through pages so fast it was rather alarming.

"Oh look, Harry! Disarming the Dark Arts! It’s the French translation! That went out of print three hundred years ago! And Undoing the Danger –oh my! The Journal of Forthright Alabaster? It can’t be! There’s never been any solid evidence that the man actually existed, let alone that he’d written a journal, and look at this . . .!"

But Harry wasn’t listening. He had just pulled a thick, stubby black-bound book out from between two slimmer volumes. Stunned, Harry stared at the gilt-edged tome in his hands, his heart thumping madly; Thicker Than Water; Blood Magic Through the Millennia.

Professor Dumbledore was a very powerful wizard. He was gifted in all branches of magic. He was, however, particularly adept at the very ancient – and much neglected arts of Blood and Binding Magic.

McGonagall’s words were still clear in his mind, but Harry hadn’t realized until just this moment that it mean he’d had actually books on the subject! Books he could read. Books he could learn from! He wasn’t worried about the Horcruxes, not now that he had Hermione working on the problem. But Magic so powerful that its protection lingered on, even after the wizard who had conjured it was dead? That could very well be worth knowing!

Harry glanced at Hermione, but she was oblivious to everything except the text in her hands, so he didn’t hesitate, but slipped the volume into his bag. McGonagall had said not to take anything relating to the Horcruxes out of her office, she’d said nothing about books on other subjects, so technically he was doing nothing wrong.

Then why are you hiding it from Hermione? said a small, truthful voice in the back of Harry’s head.

Yeah. That was it. He was taking it anyway though, there was no way he could possibly pass up a chance like this! Hell, he might not even be able to find it again if he tried!

A moment later he was helping Hermione sort through her stack, adding notes to the pile she had already taken, and doing his best to pretend that he found them as interesting as she did.

* * *

"Harry, have you heard a word I’ve said?" Hermione’s voice was sharp and peevish, which was understandable, seeing as that it was two in the morning and the middle of the school week.

Harry, who had been staring into the fire of the deserted common room, his chin propped in his hand while Hermione read excerpts from her notes, looked up at the sound of her voice.

"Ronald, you were supposed to be helping me!" snapped Hermione, rounding on Ron, who was stretched out in an armchair, his feet propped up on a footstool. Ron grunted and turned over.

"Oh, honestly!" Hermione stuffed the sheaf of notes she’d been reading from back into her bag. "Look, Harry, if you’re not interested in this, just say so!" She paused for a heartbeat then added, "did you hear me, Harry?"

"I heard you, Hermione," said Harry quietly, picking up a sheet of parchment that had escaped Hermione’s wrath and handing it out to her. "But lets call it a night, okay?"

"Harry, this is important! We need to know-"

"And you need some rest," said Harry firmly. He stood and, taking Hermione by the shoulders, handed her the bag and steered her towards the stairway leading up to the girl’s dorm. "And I don’t want to see you down here before lunch, all right?" he added, shaking his finger under her nose.

"But-" Hermione looked over her shoulder, her foot on the bottom step of the spiral staircase. "What about Ron?" she asked, her expression softening as she gestured back towards the figure snoring by the fire.

"Easy enough, Mobilicorpus," muttered Harry. He pointed his wand at Ron, who rose gently a few inches off his chair. "I’ll just take him upstairs – float him right into his bed . . .unless you’d rather I floated him to yours?" Harry asked innocently.

Hermione went scarlet. "Don’t be ridiculous, Harry. Lavender would have a fit! Besides, There’s probably some sort of spell that would kick him right out a window or something. Remember what happened when he tried to come up in fifth year?"

Harry snickered. The spiral staircase to the girls’ dorm was charmed to turn into a steep stone ramp if a boy tried to climb it. Ron had tried to get up to Hermione’s dormitory, and had ended up in a heap at the bottom of the ramp.

"Goodnight, Hermione," said Harry.

He floated Ron’s prone figure up the staircase and into its bed, chuckling to himself as Ron clutched his pillow to him with a sleepy moan of "oh god, Hermione!"

"That’s right Ron, you tell her," he murmured, pulling a blanket over Ron.

"Feels soooo good, hmmmm."

"More than I needed to know mate," said Harry with a grin, and tugged Ron’s hangings closed.

He’d never seen Ron as happy as he was this year. No, not so much happy as – contented. Yes, that was it. It was as if the moment he and Hermione had sorted things out, something inside of him had clicked. While still the same irrepressible Ron, he had changed; the biggest change being that he hadn’t picked a fight with anyone in the last three weeks, not even with Hermione, which had to be a record.

Still mulling over Ron’s changed behavior; Harry changed out of his robes, slipped off his shoes and socks and had just un-tucked his shirt when a noise from behind his bed hangings brought him up short. Harry’s wand was in his hand before he had placed the sound. It had been the rasping sound of fabric on fabric, as if someone were shifting positions as they lay in bed – his bed.

"Who’s there!" Harry hissed, poking at the curtain with the tip of his wand. Nobody answered. His heart beating madly, he took a handful of the curtain and yanked it open, prepared to curse whoever it was into oblivion, only to be brought up short by the sight of a slim form sitting cross-legged on his bed, his comforter thrown over her shoulder, her riot of red hair spilling down across the light green material of her thin cotton shift.

"Jesus, Potter, do you always curse a girl when you find her in your bed?" said Ginny in an amused voice.

"I – Ginny? What the hell are you doing up here?" said Harry, too startled to remember to keep his voice down.

"Shut up!" hissed Ginny, she reached out, grabbed him by the shirt and hauled him onto the bed whipping the curtains shut just as Neville’s sleepy voice could be heard from across the room calling, "Harry, you all right?"

"Fine Neville . . .er . . .stubbed my toe is all," said Harry lamely.

Neville muttered something incoherent and must have fallen back asleep, for a minute later his snores were reverberating through the dormitory at their full and considerable volume.

Ginny snatched Harry’s wand out of his hand and waved it at the hangings. They glowed blue for a moment, then returned to normal.

"What was that?" whispered Harry.

"An imperturbable Charm. You can talk normally now."

"Why didn’t you use your own wand?"

Ginny motioned to her own wand, which was floating about two feet above her head, its tip glowing softly, giving her just enough light to read the thick, leather-bound book she had propped open on her knees.

"Gin . . .er . . .it’s good to see you and all," murmured Harry, "but what are you doing here? How did you get in without anyone seeing you?"

"I used a disillusionment charm," said Ginny breezily. "Walked in on Dean while he was changing," she grinned wickedly. "Quite the educational experience. Anyway, I wanted to show you this," she indicated the volume on her lap. "And I didn’t feel like doing it in front of Ron and Hermione."

"But – why?" asked Harry, perplexed. "Is it for a class or something?"

For answer, Ginny lifted the book so that Harry could read the title that had been etched into the leather cover. The spidery, silvery letters appeared to undulate gently in the glow of Ginny’s wand light.

"What is it?" asked Harry curiously, one finger tracing the shimmering script.

"It’s a book on binding magic," said Ginny. Her eyes glittered strangely in the wand light.

"Binding magic?" said Harry, and felt his heart skip a beat.

"Where did you get it?" asked Harry slowly. He had a sneaking suspicion that he knew exactly where she’d found it.

Ginny gave him a mischievous smile. "The same place you got this," she said simply, pulling Thicker Than Water from beneath his pillow.

Both Ron and Ginny had been popping into McGonagall’s office as often as their class schedules would allow to help Harry and Hermione with their note taking, it hadn’t occurred to him that either of them would consider doing what he had done himself, and liberate a book that had nothing to do with the subject at hand. Not that he should have been surprised, Ginny was a sister to Fred and George after all.

"You nicked one of McGonagall’s books?" said Harry, raising an eyebrow at her.

Ginny snorted. "Liberated more like. I’m not going to keep it, but ever since McGonagall mentioned the Blood and Binding Magic I’ve been keeping an eye out. I mean, he had to have learned it somewhere, yeah?"

"Who must have learned it somewhere?" said Harry, frowning slightly as Ginny turned a page.

"Dumbledore of course," said Ginny, shrugging. "It could be really important for you to know these kind of spells. Look at this, Harry, it covers everything! I mean, there’s the standard stuff, like the Lost and Found charm; that’s the one that binds small objects to the one casting the spell. Mum’s been after Dad to learn that one for years! He’s always loosing stuff. But then there’s stuff like the Unbreakable Vow."

"The Unbreakable . . ."

"Vow, yeah. If you don’t live up to your end of the bargain you die."

"Die?"

"Yeah, really old magic; powerful stuff. They used to use a variation of it in wizarding weddings. It’s not used much anymore. But then there’s stuff I’ve never heard of! There’s one here, it bind’s a copy of a person’s soul to the world – I think this is how ghosts are made! But then, look here," she turned the book around so Harry could read the page she was pointing to.

"Do you think that’s what she was talking about?"

"What who was talking about?"

"McGonagall, when she told you about Dumbledore’s protection charms? I mean, it makes sense. See?" she pointed to a section in the directions that discussed full potency of the charm being effected by the body of the castor being buried within the bounds of the location in question. "In order for it to be cast at all, the castor has to spill their own blood – not to death, but in ‘willing sacrifice’ and then it’s worked into the charm, see? Doesn’t that sound like what she was talking about?"

Harry felt everything inside of him go very still. "Ginny, I never told anyone what McGonagall told me, about the Blood and Binding Magic," said Harry slowly.

Ginny froze. She stared at Harry for a full minute before finally speaking.

"What?"

"I told you lot all about McGonagall asking me to teach, but I never said anything about the Blood and Binding Magic."

"Harry-" she held out a hand to him, to draw him to her, but he grabbed her by the wrist, keeping her at arms’ length.

"How did you know?" his voice sounded detached, distant, even a touch cold.

Harry wasn’t entirely certain as to how he had expected her to respond, but Ginny suddenly kneeling up on the bed (her book sliding unceremoniously off her lap) and wrenching her hand out of his grip was definitely not in the top ten. A moment later she had him by the front and her slim fingers were deftly unbuttoning his shirt.

"Ginny . . .what . . .?"

But before he could finish his sentence, before he could even register the icy heat of her fingers on his skin, she’d drawn back. The leather pouch which she had given him at the wedding, the one he still wore – more out of habit than anything – clutched firmly in her hand.

She held it up, turned it over and let the assorted objects inside spill out onto the bed. When it was empty she began loosening the stitches along one seam, until finally, from a fold of the material, she withdrew a small metal disc about half the size of a Knut.

"Cordless extendables," she said, handing it out to Harry with a mischievous grin. "Works like a transmitter, see?" She lifted the hair from her neck to show Harry two identical discs, which hung on a pair of matching gold hoops in her ears. "I just rub this one, like so," she squeezed the disc on her right ear, "And I hear everything that is said within a fifty foot radius of the one you’re holding."

Harry stared at the disc, amazed.

"A cordless-"

"Extendable," said Ginny, nodding.

"Something Fred and George came up with, yeah?"

"Well . . .in a way."

Harry looked up, suddenly suspicious. "What do you mean, in a way?"

"Well . . ." Ginny paused and Harry was rather amused to find that she was blushing.

"All right then, I’ll tell you, but don’t tell anyone else, all right?"

Harry nodded.

"Well, not to put too fine a point on it, they were working on the idea and, well, I sort of – stole their notes."

"You stole-"

"Their notes, yeah." Ginny gave Harry a half smile and shrugged. "I couldn’t let them get finished Harry, I . . ." Ginny paused, looking extremely uncomfortable. "I – I found out that the Order had commissioned Fred and George to come up with something to help keep track of you, you know, listen in on what you were doing and make sure that you didn’t do anything stupid."

"They what!?" said Harry, staring at her in horror. "They wouldn’t!" he spluttered. "Not your Mum and Dad . . .or Bill . . .and Lupin . . .he wouldn’t, would he?"

His insides were crawling unpleasantly. Who in their right minds would do something like that? Have him tracked, tagged, like one of those wild animals on the nature shows that would be treated by Veterinarians, tagged, and then let loose. They had the illusion of freedom, but everything they did was sent back to a bank of computers in the Vet’s lab. And let the animal step one toe out of line or show one abnormal symptom, and bang, they’d find themselves back on the Vet’s table faster than you could say ‘Wild Kingdom."

"Please tell me you’re joking!" said Harry, his voice strangled.

"I don’t know who asked them to do it, Harry," said Ginny tiredly. "All I know is that it was someone in the Order, they wouldn’t tell me who. I’ll tell you one thing though, Fred and George didn’t like the idea much, they kept putting it off, saying that they couldn’t get it right."

"Well, before the raid on Diagon Alley, Mum and Ron and I were visiting their shop. I was rummaging around in the back room and saw all these notes laid out. I asked George what it was about – and he told me everything, but swore me to secrecy. He said he didn’t like it, but that it was almost done, that there were just a couple of bugs to get worked out. Anyway, then he left the room and . . .well . . ." she shrugged. "When he came back, the notes were gone. They never did get around to trying again, you disappeared not long after."

"Then they know it was you that stole them," said Harry, scowling. "I mean, Gin, it’s pretty obvious."

"I don’t think either of them were too fussed actually," said Ginny with a grimace. "Anyway, I brought the notes home and worked them out myself."

"Bugs and all?"

"Yeah, simple really, once you know what you’re doing." Ginny grinned mischievously.

"Brilliant is what it is Gin," said Harry admiringly. He reached out a hand to touch the ring in her ear. "So you could hear me, the whole time?"

She nodded, her eyes were large and luminous, but there was a slightly anxious expression on her face. "You’re not upset, are you? I mean, I know it was an invasion of privacy, but Harry . . .I couldn’t just let you go," she whispered, her voice sounding anguished. "Not without making sure that I’d know if something – happened to you."

Harry closed his eyes. Ron, Hermione and Ginny; they had accepted his leaving without question, understanding that he needed to be by himself for a while. But they hadn’t given up on him. Hermione had put the tracking charm on the pouch and Ginny had secreted the cordless extendable in it so that they would know instantly if he were in trouble. Why didn’t that bother him?

The knowledge that they had cared enough about him to go to those sort of lengths filled him with a warm, golden sort of glow. Unlike the news of the Order wanting the same ability to keep him safe, to keep him from doing anything stupid as if he were a six year old and not to be trusted out on his own. That left him with a stomach full of roiling anger.

"I – I don’t mind you lot knowing," he said, nodding at the disc. "It, well . . ." he paused, at a loss for words, "it makes me feel like all the time I was out there I wasn’t really alone, you know?" he said slowly.

"Whereas you’d like to tell the Order to bugger off and mind their own business," said Ginny, nodding her head sagely. "Exactly. The tracking charm on the bag, it only-"

"Worked for you, Hermione and Ron. Yeah, Lupin told me when he saw it," said Harry with a smile.

"But this," Ginny reached up to touch the disc in her ear. "Nobody knows what it is. I didn’t even tell Ron and Hermione."

"Why?" said Harry without thinking and, to his astonishment, Ginny went scarlet.

"I-" she swayed slightly where she knelt and put out a hand, resting it on Harry’s now bare chest to steady herself. "I guess it sounds selfish, but I wanted to know something about you no one else did," she said, her voice was barely louder than a whisper.

Harry sucked in a breath. Her touch was like fire . . .like ice . . .the place where her hand rested burned with a tingling heat that was rapidly spreading through his veins like some sort of magical enervating elixir. He inhaled and the flowery scent of her hair filled his head, making it nearly impossible to think clearly. He was suddenly very much aware of the fact that they were kneeling just inches away from each other, so close that he could feel the heat of her body radiating against his skin.

A moment later she was in his arms. Had he kissed her, or had she kissed him? Did it matter? His shirt was gone and the feel of her hands against the bare skin of his back was mesmerizing. The way he could feel every curve and contour of her through the thin fabric of her shift, seemed to be breaking through some sort of barrier that had until now kept him in check, even with Ginny.

He intensified the kiss, his tongue probing deeper; demanding more, and more, but she matched him with her own demands, and then the barrier inside him snapped, and he gave himself up to the kiss completely, pouring into her everything he had . . .everything he was . . .

Their clothes were gone . . .where had they gone? When had they gone? He found that he didn’t care; the feel of her skin beneath his hands . . .the feel of her skin against his had ignited a fire inside of him that burned with an all-consuming heat. She was all he could think of . . .all that he wanted . . .all that he was.

Harry! The voice, Ginny’s voice, sighed through his mind like a summer wind through the trees and in that moment her body went fluid, molding itself to his so perfectly that he couldn’t tell where his body ended and hers began, and then he found that it didn’t matter. He didn’t have a body of his own any more. It was their body, his, and Ginny’s.

And there was a moment, one precious, perfect moment when he could feel her heart beating inside of his, feel her thoughts twining around his and for that single moment . . .a moment that contained an eternity . . .he was no longer simply holding Ginny Weasley, he was Ginny Weasley. He was the two of them together. And then the world folded in on itself and disappeared in a burst of white-hot light.

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Chapter 11: INTERLUDE 2

CHAPTER ELEVEN: INTERLUDE 2

Ginny Weasley lay quite still, listening to Harry’s rhythmic breathing. With her head pillowed against his chest she could even hear the liquid beat of his heart. There had been a moment – just – just before, when she could have sworn that she’d felt their hearts beating inside of each other and it had been that sudden realization, that he was inside of her – truly inside of not just her body, but her heart, that had sent her over the edge.

She could feel a tear slipping out of the corner of her eye, but didn’t dare move to wipe it away. She didn’t want to wake him. She didn’t want to see those clear green eyes boring into hers, making her very soul catch its breath. Because she knew that when they did she’d see the question there – the question that he had every right to ask, and for which she truly didn’t have an answer, at least not one that made any logical sense.

The tear ran off the tip of her nose and dropped silently onto Harry’s chest, shimmering briefly as it quivered on a hair at Ginny’s eye level before sliding down it and out of site.

As if in response to the tear, Harry’s arms tightened around her protectively and even now, satiated as she was, Ginny could feel the heat stirring inside of her at the feel of his hands against her skin.

She hadn’t come to Harry’s bed tonight with the purpose of getting him to make love to her. She’d only meant to show him the book on binding magic and then she’d planned to leave.

Liar, said a small, truthful voice in the back of her head. You were hoping that he would do exactly that.

Well, all right then. She’d been hoping for exactly that ever since he’d returned to Hogwarts. She’d been wanting that ever since he’d returned to Hogwarts. Several times she’d thought that now, finally, he’d gotten up the nerve, that now was the moment, but he always backed off. It was a good thing he’d waited though, for if he’d worked up the nerve even a week ago she would never have been able to perform the spell whose magic she could feel stirring in her veins even now.

It hadn’t been until tonight that he’d broken through whatever barrier it was that had held his passion in check. And when the dam inside him had finally burst, she’d nearly been swept away by the tide of emotion, the surge of power that he’d poured into her in that kiss. In fact, she’d been so overwhelmed by it that she’d barely had time to murmur the last words of the spell it had taken her the better part of a week to prepare, before he’d slipped inside of her.

But would it work, truly? The tingling burn that the book said she’d feel just under her skin if the spell worked properly, that was definitely there. But would it be as effective? Would it work when he needed it most?

She’d found the spell in the book of binding magic she’d liberated from McGonagall’s office. It was, according to the text, one of the most powerful Binding spells known to wizarding kind. Voluntarily performed by the witch about to give up her virginity, the First Blood Bond provided the wizard who took her virginity with the most powerful protection available, short of doing what his mother had done and giving her very life to protect him. But would the First Blood Bond work if she hadn’t technically been a virgin?

Ginny smiled wryly against Harry’s chest. It would have to be enough. Surely the magic could tell the difference between the first time she’d given herself voluntarily to someone and being forced into a deal with that abomination that had used her when she’d been too young to even understand what was happening.

Was it possible to be raped by a ghost?

* * *

His voice, Tom’s voice, had been like silk, wrapping itself around her mind.

"I promise it won’t hurt. Don’t cry little one, it will all be over soon."

But it hadn’t. Tom had kept her awake, aware as he made her descend that last time into the Chamber. That, in and of itself, had been horrible enough, she hadn’t been able to actually remember being down there before. It had been dark and dank and cold; a chill that worked itself into her very bones; the slithering sounds of the Basilisk inside of the statue making her skin crawl.

If that had been all – oh god, if that had been all – perhaps it wouldn’t have been so very bad. But it hadn’t been all. Slowly, oh so slowly, Tom Riddle had risen up out of the diary that she’d been clutching like a talisman to her chest. He rose up out of it and had actually reached out and touched her – his hands ghostly cold, but terrifyingly solid for all of that. But it hadn’t stopped there.

Still awake, still aware, she had watched in horror, unable to do so much as lift a finger while he’d forced himself on her, touching her in ways that made her want to be sick, taking over not only her body but pouring himself into her mind; dark thoughts and images that would haunt her for the rest of her life.

And then, when it was all over, when Madam Pomfrey had examined her and put her to bed with a large dose of chocolate and a murmur of comforting words, Ginny had listened to the low voices beyond the curtain; listened to Madam Pomfrey talking to her parents, describing the blood that she’d found on their daughter’s clothes, telling her parents that it appeared as if their daughter had been sexually assaulted and did they want to look into the matter any further?

But Dumbledore had arrived then, his voice low and soothing. He’d spoken briefly to her parents and Madam Pomfrey before coming in to talk to Ginny.

"Ginevra, can you tell me who did this to you?" he’d asked, his face creased by concern.

She’d explained about Tom coming out of the diary, about his hands feeling so solid . . .she had tried to explain what had happened afterwards, but had been a point when she was unable to go on, shaking her head, the tears pouring down her face.

Dumbledore had understood even her silence, she could see it in his eyes, in the way his expression remained serious, even grave. He had not tried to get her to stop crying. He had simply sat beside her, holding her hand, stoking it gently with his own gnarled one until her tears had come to a snuffling halt.

"Ginevra, I wish that none of this happened," he said finally, his voice low and soothing. "I wish that you could have been spared this . . ." his voice had broken and Ginny had looked up, amazed to find that his light blue eyes were filled with tears. "But believe me when I say that it will all work out in the end . . .there may even prove to be a reason that this happened. All that matters is that you remember one thing; it wasn’t real.

Ginny had opened her mouth to protest that it had certainly felt real enough, but Dumbledore had raised his voice slightly, holding up his hand to stem her flow of words.

"In all the ways that truly matter, it was not real, don’t ever question that."

And she hadn’t. She’d clung to Dumbledore’s words for the last five years. Every time that the nightmares would resurface, she’d play his words over and over again in her head;

* * *

Ginny shuddered involuntarily and suddenly found herself looking into Harry’s vividly green eyes.

Oh god, he was going to ask her, she just knew it. There was no way he could have missed the fact that she was not a virgin. He’d want to know – he’d ask her who had been the first. What could she possibly say to a question like that?

"Hey," Harry whispered, reaching down a finger to wipe away the second tear that was following the first down it’s lonely track. "Are you all right? I – I didn’t hurt you, did I?"

Ginny shook her head, and suddenly found herself crying in earnest. "No, it has nothing to do with that," she said, shaking her head with a smile. "It’s just – oh god, I love you so much, Harry!"

"And I love you," said Harry, smiling down at her. He ran a hand down the length of her body, making her shiver deliciously. "So much," he added, and there was no question in those gorgeous eyes, no accusation, only love; unconditional love and then he was kissing her again, his fingers tangling in her hair. He broke the kiss, raising his head slightly so he could see her face. "Should I show you how much?" he murmured with a grin.

"Oh god yes!" she moaned, drawing his head down to her kiss.

And he did.

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Chapter 12: DISCOVERIES

CHAPTER TWELVE: DISCOVERIES

"Harry!"

Harry heard the voice on the very edge of his consciousness. The rest of him was too comfortable to bother with it. God, why did he feel so good?

Harry felt a smile lift the corners of his mouth as he remembered everything that had happened last night. Just thinking about it was causing stirrings that had absolutely nothing to do with the way his hangings were rustling right now.

"Hmm." Harry sighed and drew Ginny more tightly into the protective circle of his arm, luxuriating in the feel of her skin against his; the silken feel of her hair where it lay, fanned out across his chest.

"Psst! Harry!" The voice again – and it wasn’t Ginny’s.

Harry’s eyes snapped open and he winced as full daylight slammed into his eyes, sending a bolt of pain straight into his brain. From the quality of the light it had to be close to noon.

Harry shaded his eyes, squinting up for the source of the voice. The curtains were being held back by a pair of hands. Above the hands Harry could just make out Neville’s round, anxious face peering in at him anxiously.

"Jesus, Neville!" yelled Harry, yanking the spread up over his and Ginny’s entwined forms. "What the bloody hell are you doing here? What time is it? What happened to the Imperturbable charm?"

"They wear off if you don’t renew them, but Harry, come on! I’ll explain everything later, just get her out of here, hide her, something! I heard them downstairs, someone in Ginny’s dorm reported her missing, McGonagall’s on her way up!"

"McGonagall?" said Harry, stunned.

"Bloody Hell!" exclaimed Ginny, who appeared to have woken up. She sat up abruptly and began poking around in the tangled bedclothes. "Where’s my wand? Harry, can you find a wand? Doesn’t matter which just hand it to me!"

"Morning Neville!" she said brightly as Harry joined her in sifting through the sheets.

"Afternoon actually," said Neville with a lopsided smile.

"Gin, I can’t seem to find-"

"For heaven’s sake, Neville, can I see your wand?"

"Downstairs in my bag," said Neville apologetically.

"Oh never mind," snapped Ginny exasperatedly before closing her eyes, balling her fists as she scowled in concentration and, with a puff of displaced air, turned into a sleek calico cat with golden eyes.

"Bloody hell!" yelled Harry and Neville together.

The cat winked at them, leapt lightly off of Harry’s bed and settled herself onto Neville’s just as the door burst open and Ron came striding purposefully into the room followed by a slightly flustered looking Hermione and Professor McGonagall looking very tall and stern.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Potter, having a bit of a lie-in I see," said Professor McGonagall dryly.

"I . . .er . . .overslept," said Harry lamely.

"And he’s alone, Professor, just like I told you he would be," said Ron with a self-satisfied nod. "She must have been making things up."

"Who’s making things up?" said Harry and Neville in unison.

"We’ve looked everywhere else, Mr. Weasley," said McGonagall firmly. "And the Fat Lady says that she hasn’t seen her come out yet today. And I must admit," she said, advancing into the room, "that after finding that both Mr. Potter and Miss Weasley had missed both their morning classes and the fact that neither one of them has yet been seen leaving Gryffindor tower is rather suspicious and tends to lend credibility to her story."

"Who’s story?" asked Neville.

"But Harry’s here!" said Ron triumphantly, ignoring Neville. "So everything’s all right, yeah?"

"And Ginny’s just walked off the face of the planet then, has she?" asked Hermione acidly.

Ron’s ears went pink, but he answered her stoutly. "Look, Hermione, just because Ginny didn’t come back to her dormitory last night doesn’t mean she necessarily spent it up here!"

"I never said she did!" snapped Hermione. "Jessica Hamilton, the sixth year prefect, she reported Ginny as missing this morning at breakfast. And then after two of her teachers reported her as missing classes I had to report her to the Headmistress! What else could I do?"

Ron opened his mouth, probably to tell Hermione exactly what else she could have done, but Professor McGonagall chose just that moment to speak up.

"You did exactly the right thing, Miss Granger. The safety of our students is of utmost importance, and that means checking in at the appropriate times and alerting the proper authorities if alternative arrangements prove to be necessary. What I would like to know is why you did not report Mr. potter as missing after he’d missed his morning classes Mr. Weasley?"

"Well, I wasn’t too worried, was I?" said Ron, shrugging. "I knew Harry’d been up late. I figured he’d decided to skive off classes, you know, have a bit of a lie in."

"As admirable as your loyalty to your friends is," said Professor McGonagall in a sharp, brisk tone. "Exceptions are not to be made for those closest to you. A rule is a rule, and I expect all rules put into place by this institution to be honored regardless of who it is that is breaking them. Do I make myself understood? Mr. Weasley?"

Ron muttered something indistinct.

"If I catch you at it again, Mr. Weasley, you will loose your badge. Is that understood? As for you!" she said, rounding on Harry. "I want you out of bed this instant. This is a school we’re running Mr. Potter, not a private hotel! You’ve missed all your morning classes and will be lucky if you are not late to your afternoon sessions as well."

"I . . .er . . .Professor . . .you might want to . . ."

"Out of bed Mr. Potter, now please," snapped Professor McGonagall.

From behind him, Harry could hear Neville sniggering.

"Professor, I really don’t think you want me to-"

"It doesn’t matter what you think of the matter, Mr. Potter. I want you out of your bed, now."

Harry cast a sideways look at the cat, who lay purring smugly on the end of Neville’s bed, her eyes slitted as she kneaded Neville’s comforter. Harry shrugged and swung his legs out of bed, going from a sitting to a standing position in one fluid movement.

Hermione dropped her wand.

"Bloody hell, Harry, when’d you start sleeping starkers?" yelled Ron, snatching a sheet and tossing it to Harry.

Several items, including Harry’s wand, fell out of the sheet and clattered, or fluttered to the floor and, to Harry’s horror, McGonagall managed out to catch to one of them before he could.

"And when, may I ask," said Professor McGonagall in a rather peevish tone, "did you begin collecting ladies undergarments?" She raised her wand – on the end of which had been impaled a pair of Ginny’s white lace knickers.

Ron stared at the incriminating piece of fabric for a full ten seconds before he spoke. "You’d be surprised at the sorts of things Fred and George’s fake wands turn into," he said in a rather strained voice.

"I’ve got two rubber chickens now," volunteered Neville brightly, "as well as a tin parrot, a pirate flag and a honking daffodil that plays ‘God Save the Queen.’"

"One they gave me just turns into a pair of briefs with fat black Quaffles all over it," said Ron glumly.

From the corner of his eye Harry saw Hermione quickly scoop something up and pocket it as McGonagall looked from Ron to Neville to Harry and back again before sighing deeply.

"Fine then. Detention Potter, for missing two classes with no excuse. Eight O’clock. Saturday night. My office." She turned on her heel, marched to the door then paused, looking around at them with her hand on the doorknob. "If any of you hears from Miss Weasley, please let me know immediately." And with that she was gone.

The door had barely clicked shut behind her when Harry found himself pinned to the wall, Ron’s arm at his throat, his other hand brandishing Ginny’s knickers in his fist.

"What have you been doing with my sister!" Ron growled, his face was scarlet, his expression furious.

"What are you doing?!" shouted Neville springing forward, but Ron shook him off.

"Seeing as that I just saved his arse, he’s going to answer a question for me. Are you shagging my sister?" spat Ron, his face was now an alarmingly dark red and was even more disturbing being seen from just a few inches away.

"Let him go Ron!" cried Hermione, tugging ineffectually at Ron’s arm. "He can’t tell you anything if he can’t breath!"

The pressure of Ron’s arm eased up slightly and Harry spluttered incoherently for a moment, sucking great gulps of air into his lungs. He was about to answer when, with a soft pop, Ginny appeared perched on the end of Neville’s bed where the cat had been a moment before, her hair tumbling over her shoulders in a cascade of brilliant fire. She was wearing nothing but a smile.

"Of course he is," said Ginny sweetly."

For the second time Hermione dropped her wand, but somehow Harry didn’t think it had anything to do with what Ginny had said.

An odd mixed of emotions seemed to be vying for possession of Ron’s features. He settled at last on a combination of shock and anger.

"I answered your question you great prat," said Ginny contemptuously. "Yes, your little sister is shagging your best mate. Happy now? Tell me something Ron, what did you think we were going to do, hold hands for a whole year?"

Ron opened his mouth, but the only thing that came out was a thin sort of squeak. "Ginny?"

"No, I’m the bloody Queen Mother."

"I – you’re-" spluttered Ron.

"What, not of age?" said Ginny, standing up and stretching her back with a wince. "If I remember correctly Lavender was only what, sixteen? And I don’t recall that stopping you, you hypocritical eel."

From behind him Harry could hear Neville’s muffled laugh.

"I didn’t . . .we never . . .Ginny you – you’re-"

"What?" said Ginny challengingly. "I’m what Ron? What exactly am I?" she was standing toe to toe with him now, her eyes snapping furiously. "What’s the matter Ron, cat got your tounge?"

"Jesus Ginny, you-you’re-"

"Beautiful," breathed Harry, grinning broadly. Even stark naked and furious she was absolutely gorgeous.

"Naked?" suggested Neville.

Harry handed her the robe from the back of his chair and she slipped into it with a grateful smile.

"You’re an Animagus," said Hermione in an awed voice. "That’s really difficult magic Ginny, how long have you been able to turn?"

"Sirius taught me," said Ginny, shrugging. "The summer before my fourth year. He said he thought I had a natural ability, but he-" she glanced sideways at Harry, then added, "he wasn’t able to finish our lessons and I didn’t dare try it on my own until just this past summer.

"I-" Ron swallowed, looked from Ginny to Harry and then sank onto Neville’s bed with a groan, his head in his hands. "Harry, mate, I’m sorry," he said in a muffled sort of voice. "I know that you – that you wouldn’t hurt her, I saw those knickers and I sort of . . ."

"Lost it," said Harry, rubbing ruefully at his throat. "Yeah, I noticed. Look, Ron, if it’s any consolation, I love her."

"I think everyone knows that," said Neville unexpectedly with a twisted half smile.

"You two are so stupid!" said Hermione suddenly. "Here is you’re sister suddenly revealing the fact that she’s an Animagus and all you can think about-"

"She’s my sister, Hermione," said Ron, looking up at last. "No matter what kinds of magic she can do, she’s still my sister and I worry about her, you know?"

Hermione nodded - a softened expression on her face.

"I’ll tell you what else I am," said Ginny quietly, putting a hand on Ron’s shoulder. He looked up, his eyes oddly bright. "I’m not only your sister, I’m in love with your best mate and I’m probably in a hell of a lot of trouble for being out of my dorm last night without McGonagall knowing what exactly it was that I was doing."

"I get it," said Ron, grinning up at her. "I won’t be reporting you – at least not yet."

"Ah, blackmail," said Ginny, grinning back at him. "About time you had something on me I suppose."

"But Ginny," said Hermione quite suddenly. "You’ve told McGonagall, right?"

"Are you kidding?" said Ginny, staring at the older girl incredulously.

"Not about this," said Hermione, waving at Harry dismisively. "I mean, about being an Animagus."

"Why would she want to that?" asked Ron bluntly.

"She has to!" Hermione insisted. "It’s the law! She has to register herself with the Ministry of Magic!"

"I’m not registering with that lot," said Ginny, her lip curling.

"You know they’re still holding Stan Shunpike?" volunteered Neville. "There’s a petition out now though, asking the Scrimgeour to at least give him a trial. Gran signed it just before we came back to school."

"Well, that’s a start," said Harry frowning. "But Ginny’s right Hermione, she can’t register with the Ministry."

"Of course she can," said Hermione dismisively. "Professor McGonagall will know how to do it and-"

"Are you listening to me, Hermione?" said Harry and something in her voice got through to her and Hermione stopped talking abruptly. "If she registers now she risks the chance of the other side finding out about it. You said yourself back in third year that the records of those who register are open to public inquiry."

"Well . . .yes, but-"

"Ginny is already enough of a target, Hermione," said Harry quietly. "Anyone associated with me is a target, but the last thing we need if for someone like Snape to find out about Ginny being an Animagus."

"I – I don’t understand," said Hermione in a small voice.

"Look, Hermione," said Ginny, putting her hand on the older girl’s shoulder. "Being able to transform is a tactical advantage, right?"

"Well yes, of course, but the Order would never ask you to spy for them or anything."

"The other side doesn’t know that," put in Neville. "Harry’s right, they would target her just so that the Order couldn’t use her."

They all looked at each other for a full minute before the bell signaling the end of lunch broke the silence.

"Well, that settles that," said Ron grimly. "Ginny’s being an Animagus stays inside of this room. I’d suggest that both of you both report to your next classes before you get in any more trouble. Ginny, I’m going to have to tell McGonagall that we found you."

"I’ll tell her," said Hermione briskly. "It will sound better coming from me. If you tell her she’ll assume you’re covering up for Harry. Come on, Ginny," she said, tugging on Ginny’s arm. "Everyone’s going to be up in a minute. You don’t want to be seen. And here, your wand." Hermione reached into her pocket and pulled out Ginny’s wand, which Harry realized must have been what Hermione had picked up off the floor. "You’ll be needing this."

Ginny twisted her arm out of Hermione’s grip, snagged Harry by the neck and kissed him deeply. "See you later Potter," she said, smiling into his eyes. "Provided McGonagall doesn’t give me the death sentence."

* * *

"So, what’s the damage?" Harry asked as he slid onto the bench beside Ginny at Supper five hours later.

Ginny was thumbing through a copy of One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi, scowling at it as if it had personally insulted her.

"A week’s worth of detentions," she said darkly. "Out in the greenhouses with Madam Sprout. She’s supposed to have gotten a large shipment of Levitation Leeks and needs someone to help her milk them."

"Good thing its Sprout," said Ron, flopping down on the bench across from them and lobbing a roll at Ginny, who ducked.

"Why good?" asked Harry.

"Because, she goes to bed at what, eight O’clock?" said Ron, looking to Neville for confirmation.

"Nine most nights," said Neville, shaking his head.

"See? So at the worst she’ll be putting in about three hours a night. You’re supposed to report at six, yeah?"

"Still three hours wasted," grumbled Ginny.

"Er . . .Ginny," Hermione was staring at the book in Ginny’s hands, a small frown creasing her forehead. "Aren’t Levitation Leeks the ones that look like . . ."

"Yes," said Ginny quickly, her scowl deepening and a slight flush creeping up her neck. "And if that’s not bad enough you have to . . .er . . .stroke them to get them to release their milk."

On the other side of Ginny, Neville made a choking sound.

Harry snatched the book from Ginny and began flipping through the pages.

"You don’t think she knows?" said Hermione in a low voice.

"She suspects," said Ginny shrugging. "why else would she have assigned me to help Sprout with a plant that not only looks like . . ." she cleared her throat and shot Harry a sideways glance. "But one that, well, you know, even it’s scent acts as an aphrodesiac."

"Aphro – what?" said Ron blankly.

"Aphrodisiac," said Hermione, sounding as usual as if she had swallowed the textbook. "A very powerful but naturally occurring producer of endorphins, particularly those that stimulate reproductive urges."

"Try that again," said Ron slowly, putting down his fork. "Only in English this time."

"The Levitation Leek gives off a scent that tricks the body into wanting sex," said Hermione, her face now a brilliant pink. "It is very powerful. Prolonged exposure keeps the person handling it in a continued state of sexual arousal."

"Bloody hell!" exclaimed Ron. "And Sprout’s going to have her working with these things for a week? That would be like-"

"Torture," said Ginny, nodding grimly. "Which makes me think McGonagall knows."

"But then, why did Harry get off so light? I mean, he just got the one detention."

"And twenty points from Gryffindor," Harry reminded him, looking up from the book "she told me after Transfiguration."

"Yeah, well, it still wasn’t so bad, considering."

"Harry only missed two classes," said Ginny resignedly, switching her fork to her left hand. "I on the other hand not only missed two classes, but was out all night." She sighed deeply, dropping her right hand into her lap, then added in a petulant, little girl voice. "I’ve been a very bad girl and will have to mend my ways."

Harry, who was the only one aware of where, exactly Ginny’s right hand had come to rest was relieved of the necessity of maintaining a straight face as Ron, Hermione and Neville all laughed loudly.

"Walk me down to the greenhouses?" Ginny murmured in his ear as the others resumed their suppers. "I’m supposed to report to Sprout by six."

Harry, who had lost all interest in his supper agreed readily and ten minutes later she was finishing what she’d started at supper behind greenhouse three.

"Damn, Ginny, that was bloody brilliant!" moaned Harry when she finally came up for air.

"You liked it then?" she asked demurely, standing and straightening her robes.

He kissed her for answer, holding her hands above her head by the wrists, effectively pinning her in place against the greenhouse wall with his lower body as he kissed her deeply, feeling her arch against him, trying to get even closer. He could taste himself on her lips and he marveled at the things those lips – that tongue – had been doing to him just moments before.

"I’ll take that as a yes," said Ginny, her voice now husky with desire as Harry nuzzled the side of her neck.

"I suppose I should be insanely jealous," Harry murmured into her hair.

"Jealous? Of what?"

"Of the lucky guy you perfected that technique on," said Harry, grinning down at her.

"Then you’ll have to be jealous of yourself Mr. Wizard," said Ginny. Her voice was teasing, but the look on her face was deadly seriously. "That was what would have to be called a maiden voyage."

Harry glanced reluctantly at the watch on his wrist. "I’d suggest returning the favor," he murmured, kissing the tip of her nose. "But it’s seven minutes until six and we’re both in enough trouble as it is."

"Save it," said Ginny, grinning wickedly. "I’m going to need it after tonight."

"I’ll be here when you get out – I’ll bring the invisibility cloak."

"How will you know when I’m done?"

"Neville said nine," said Harry, releasing her reluctantly.

"Tell you what," said Ginny in a brisk, business-like tone. "Do you still have the cordless extendable?"

Harry pulled out the pouch and shook out the small disc. "What are you going to do?"

But Ginny already had her wand out and was muttering under her breath, poking at it with her wand tip.

"There," she said finally. "It should work both ways now. I just opened the incantation."

"So I can hear you now? Just like you can hear me?"

Ginny nodded, touching the hoop in her hear and grinned at him cheekily. "Exactly."

"Cool!" Harry held the extendable up to his ear, grinning broadly. "Hey, Gin, isn’t it going to be sort of weird, holding my hand up to my ear all the time?"

Ginny looked at him thoughtfully before removing the small hoop from her left ear. With a deft twist she removed the disc already on it, held Harry’s disc up to the pointed end, muttered a few words and slid the disc smoothly onto the hoop.

"Now then, Mr. Potter," she said in a perfect imitation of Professor McGonagall’s brogue. "Have you ever considered taking your turning your cool factor up a notch by adding an earring to your already considerable attractions?"

* * *

Two minutes later Harry was studying his reflection in a small mirror Ginny had produced from her schoolbag. It reflected a small gold hoop with an even smaller disc attached to it and it looked, at least in his opinion, not half bad.

"What do you think?" he asked, turning to Ginny. "How does it look?"

"Sexy as hell," growled Ginny low in her throat as she looked him up and down. "Dashing and dangerous at the same time, I knew you could carry it off!"

"You know," said Harry, poking at his earlobe with a finger, "I was afraid it was going to hurt. Muggles use needles, you know."

"Needles?" said Ginny incredulously. "Muggles actually poke holes in their ears with a needle?" she shivered slightly.

"Well, they can’t just say the spell like you did," said Harry shrugging. "But I think I prefer it this way."

"Now, Harry, if you want to hear me, just rub the disc like this," she demonstrated on her own, "on the side with the raised pattern on it. To turn it off, do the same thing on the smooth side."

Harry rubbed the disc.

"So you’ll let me know when you’re done?" he said, grinning as he heard his own voice coming back to him in a whisper from the disc on his ear.

"You’d better believe I will," said Ginny, kissing him fiercely. "After three hours in the company of Levitating Leeks?" she said loftily, "If you’re not here, I’ll come hunt you down myself!"

* * *

"I still think you should have picked a lightning bolt," said Neville, grinning at Harry over the top of his Transfiguration essay. "You know; lightning bolt scar, lightning bolt earring, make it a matched set."

"He looks like a poofter," grumbled Ron, scribbling the last few lines of his own essay and tossing it aside with a sigh of relief. "Bloody stupid assignment. How on earth is she going to read through three rolls of parchment for each of us?"

Hermione, who had of course finished the essay the day before, looked up from her Rune translation and gave Harry an appraising look. "I stand by what I’ve been saying for the last week," she said finally. She dropped Harry a surreptitious wink behind Ron’s back and said, "you look good enough to eat, Harry."

"That’s not what you said before!" said Ron, whipping his head around so fast that he appeared to have cricked his neck.

"Well something along those lines," said Hermione, shrugging.

"First time you saw it you said he looked dashing, not good enough to eat."

"Did I?" said Hermione innocently, turning a page in her Rune dictionary.

"Dashing, delicious, they both start with a ‘D’," said Neville from behind the pages of Advanced Transfiguration.

Harry groaned and put his head down on his arms, lightly smudging the last two lines of his essay.

"You’d think that after a whole week they’d have found something else to talk about" came Ginny’s barely audible voice from the disc in his ear. Harry grinned into his arms, imagining her milking the Levitating Leeks – she’d explained the process to him in detail over the weekend, and Harry personally thought that half of the discomfort probably came from the process of getting the milk, not just the scent or pheromones or whatever that they exuded.

He’d had his own detention in McGonagall’s office on Saturday night, reading through over a hundred first years’ essays on the theory behind turning beetles into buttons and correcting them for content. He’d found it deadly dull, and had emerged after four hours with a splitting headache, which was probably due to the background of bagpipe music she’d had playing in the background more than a result of reading through the essays.

Sunday Ron had called for an all-day Quidditch practice. Harry thought this had been going a bit far, seeing as that they weren’t due to play their first game until the second weekend in November, but Harry bit his kept his silence, looking forward to supper and a few hours in Ginny’s company. Harry had talked Dobby into packing him a picnic lunch and they’d wandered off into the grounds, making sure to be back before Ginny’s ten O’clock curfew.

It was now Wednesday evening, the fifth and final night Ginny would be required to spend in the company of Professor Sprout and the Levitating Leeks. The Cordless Extendables were all fine and good, but he was looking forward to being able to spend time with Ginny in the evenings again.

He could ignore the snide comments by the other blokes about his earring when he had Ginny to take his mind off of things, and the girls with their lingering glances, would think twice about approaching him overtly as Romilda Vane had just last night. They didn’t do more than look when he was with Ginny. Harry groaned again as he remembered the previous evening.

* * *

"You and Ginny broken up then?" Romilda had asked, eyeing his earring with an approving glance.

"You wish" had come Ginny’s voice in his ear. Harry had repressed a snort with some difficulty.

"Why, you interested?" Ron had said maddeningly before Harry could answer.

"I’m always interested," Romilda had said saucily, tossing her head and batting her eyes at Harry. "And I haven’t seen her around lately, so I figured maybe . . .she’d paused, her eyes raking him from head to toe, "maybe you’re back on the market."

"Like a piece of meat," came Ginny’s voice, sounding disgusted.

"You figured wrong," said Harry told Romilda shortly, unable to keep the grin off his face.

"Then why haven’t I seen her around in the evenings?" Romilda had asked boldly.

"She’s in detention," Harry had said with a warning glance at Ron who threw up his hands in defense, a look of high amusement plastered across his thickly freckled face.

"Oh, pity." Romilda had stalked off grumpily, leaving Harry to growl at Ron who was now laughing fit to burst.

"Back on the market!" Ron had chortled, wiping the mirth from his eyes. "Oh god, I should get you a price tag, Harry, hang it from your ear."

Harry’d had to threaten him with telling Romilda that it had been he, Ron, who had eaten the love-potion filled chocolate cauldrons she’d given Harry the previous year before. That had shut Ron up for a while, but it hadn’t lasted, and he was still chuckling every time he looked in Harry’s direction so Harry had finally given up and gone down to the greenhouse an hour early.

* * *

"So why did you choose a disc?"

Neville’s voice brought him back to the present with a snap. Harry raised his head from his arms to find Neville watching him with interest.

Of all the seventh-year Gryffindor boys, Neville alone had come out as saying he actually liked the new addition to Harry’s wardrobe though he admitted he’d never dare try it himself. "My grandmother would kill me!" he’d said rather wistfully when he’d first seen it.

Ron, on the other hand, had hooted with hysterical laughter, saying that all Harry needed now was an eye patch and he could pass himself off as a pirate, which was better than the comments being made by Dean, mostly behind Harry’s back and of quite a derogatory nature. Seamus had shrugged the whole thing off, saying he thought it looked ridiculous, but that he had observed that the girls all seemed to like it, which is why he assumed Harry had done it and commended him on his foresight.

Harry opened his mouth to answer, but Hermione beat him to it. "He picked the disc because it matches the ones Ginny wears of course," she’d said airily.

Ron turned his head back to Harry, observing him critically this time. "She does have hoops like that, doesn’t she? In fact," he reached out and touched the disc with a forefinger, "I think she used to have a bracelet that matched them, just a bunch of discs on a chain, but they looked a little like this one."

"That’s right, she did," said Hermione, standing up and coming around Harry to take a closer look at the disc. "And I haven’t seen her wear it – well – since this summer I guess," she added slowly. "Hold on, those are runic symbols!" said Hermione, her eyes going wide. She scurried back to her seat and began flipping through the pages. "Look Harry, see? The runes on your disc, it says, ah, ‘heart’ and ‘blood.’ But the order, it’s inverted, so it’s possessive, the translation would be ‘heart’s blood.’ What do you think it could mean? Harry?"

But Harry wasn’t listening. His brain had frozen on the words "heart’s blood." He’d heard those words before – seen those words before, but where? And why would they be written on the disc Ginny had originally put in his pouch?

"Harry, where are you going?" Hermione’s voice cut through the turmoil of thoughts in Harry’s head; thoughts that were leading his feet upstairs, to his trunk, to the two books that were kept at the very bottom, wrapped in old towels and hidden beneath a layer of rubbish that no one in their right minds would bother sifting through.

"Give me a minute," he called over his shoulder, and mere moments later he found himself flipping through the pages of Thicker Than Water looking for something . . .yes!

Much has been written of the Life Bond, that ancient magic which bonds one wizard to another when one wizard saves another’s life. It is understood that in situations of this sort, the one rescued owes to their rescuer a life debt. It has been said that the Life Bond is magic at its deepest and most mysterious level and yet there is one level of magic that goes beyond the Life Bond and that is the Soul’s Blood Bond.

Like the Killing Curse, the Soul’s Home, the Matriarchal Charm and the First Blood Bond, the Soul’s Blood Bond is impenetrable magic (meaning that its origins are shrouded in mystery and that once incurred there can be no reversing the effects). With the exception of the Soul’s Home, the Soul’s Blood Bond is the only spell which can be strengthened over time. Unlike the Soul’s Home, it does not require the death of the witch or wizard to increase the spell’s power.

Harry frowned at this, trying to recall what Ginny had been reading to him the night he had found her in his bed. It had been something about the Soul’s Home, he remembered that, but what had she said?

. . . .In order for it to be cast at all, the castor has to spill their own blood – not to death, but in ‘willing sacrifice’ and then it’s worked into the charm . . . .

That didn’t sound like it required the death of the witch or wizard – but this was talking about a death being needed to strengthen the spell. Harry shivered as the realization of the depth of magic he was dealing with here finally began to sink in.

Was it possible that Professor Dumbledore had died on purpose? Was it possible that he had been sealing the Soul’s Home charm, or perhaps strengthening it for the protection of his students – for Harry’s protection? But that would mean that Snape . . .

Harry shook his head, unwilling to even consider the fact that Snape was anything other than a cold-blooded killer. But if he was . . .why didn’t he kill me at Grimmauld Place when he had the chance? Harry wondered and suddenly he felt sick and shivery. No, he’d been there, he’d seen it with his own eyes; Dumbledore had begged Snape to help him . . .no, he’d merely said "Severus, Please . . ." and then Snape had killed him, just like that. What was it that Dumbledore had been asking Snape to do? And what was the name of a powerful bonding charm doing engraved on the disc that Ginny had given him? Scowling slightly, Harry turned back to the book.

Like the Life Bond, the Soul’s Blood Bond does not require any incantations or potions to be activated. It is one of those few pieces of magic which is triggered entirely by the actions of the witch or wizard; in this case by one witch or wizard not only risking their own life to save the life of another, but shedding their own blood in the process.

Unlike the Life Bond, in which the life debt owed by the one rescued may be repaid by saving the life of the rescuer, the Soul’s Blood Bond can not be repealed or repaid. It can, however, be strengthened.

If the one whose life was saved initially in turn sheds their blood in saving their rescuer’s life, a rare event called Doubling occurs. In these rare instances of Doubling, the bond between the rescuer and the rescue does not simply even out (as is the case in a standard Life Bond) but doubles, strengthening the original bond in ways that stretch the boundaries of magical comprehension.

For example, nearly every instance of Soul Bonding known to wizarding kind has occurred between those who have doubled the Soul’s Blood Bond, although there is some controversy over whether the Doubling was the catalyst for the Soul Bonding or whether the original bonding was induced because of the instinctive soul attraction between the two individuals.

Harry closed the book, his hands shaking slightly. Did this mean what he thought it meant that he and Ginny shared a bond? Was what they had; was what he felt for her simply due to the fact that he had risked his own life to save hers once upon a time?

"No," Harry whispered, staring at the gilt-edged book in his lap. "There’s more to it than that."

"More to what?" Ginny’s voice in his ear made him jump, he’d completely forgotten about the disc – about the fact that she could hear him. For a full minute he sat, contemplating what to say. She’d obviously stumbled across the description of the Soul’s Blood Bond a while back, recognized it for what it was and had engraved it on his disc to identify the disc her corresponding disc as the one that connected her to himself.

"I – I was just reading about the Soul’s Blood Bond," Harry said, his voice was shaking slightly. "Hermione read the inscription off of my disc."

"Yes, I heard her," said Ginny softly. She gave a deep sigh that sounded almost sad. "I was wondering when you’d make the connection."

"Doesn’t it bother you?" Harry burst out, unable to contain himself. "Doesn’t it bother you to think that everything we have-" he paused, his voice catching in his throat, "that everything we feel for each other might be because of – because of some stupid spell?"

"It’s no because of the spell," said Ginny firmly. "I You had read about it, weren’t you, and you were thinking about what we have when you said that ‘there’s more to it than that,’ weren’t you?"

Harry nodded his head, remembered that she couldn’t see him and then said, gruffly, "yes."

Harry remained silent for a moment, trying to understand what she was trying to say.

"Ginny, I don’t understand . . ."

"Did you read the last part," asked Ginny calmly. "The part about possibility of the original bonding being due to the two Souls’ natural attraction to each other?"

"Yeah."

It did feel right, much more right than the thought of it being an activated piece of ancient magic drawing them together in spite of themselves.

"You saying that you think we would have ended up together anyway, even without the bond?" Harry asked quietly.

"I don’t think we would have, Harry, I know we would have."

She was right, Harry thought, smiling to himself as he put away Thicker Than Water and headed back to the common room. They would have ended up together; there was no getting around it. She’d said it all in the letter she’d put in his pouch. He belonged to her now. Harry glanced at his watch and grinned broadly as he saw that it was almost nine O’clock. Time to go meet his fate.

* * *

Ron breezed into the library just as the last of the afternoon light faded from the high mullioned windows and flopped into the empty chair beside Hermione.

"Hey, you lot, you do realize that we’re going to be late for the Halloween Feast if we don’t get a move on? Ten minutes guys!"

"Really Ron, the Halloween Feast?" said Harry in mock surprise, not looking up from the notes he’d been reading. "You mean the same event you reminded us about an hour ago?"

"And at lunch after McGonagall announced that afternoon classes were canceled," put in Hermione from behind a large sheaf of parchment.

"And after Charms," interjected Harry.

"No, that was during Charms," corrected Hermione. "Remember? I was trying to practice that Haze charm on him, the one that makes your mind go all fuzzy."

"Yeah, it’s supposed to leave you open to suggestion," said Harry, sniggering

A pair of arms wrapped themselves around his neck from behind. "Let me guess," said Ginny, her breath tickling Harry’s ear. "Hermione tried to suggest that he stop thinking about the Feast and he went right on talking about what he was looking forward to eating."

"Cor, Gin, how’d you guess?" said Ron, sounding amazed.

"You’re my brother, Ron," said Ginny, and Harry could feel her smile against his cheek. "As long as I’ve known you there’s nothing that can come between you and your food."

"Except his fingers," muttered Harry.

"Hey, that was an accident!" said Ron indignantly.

Harry raised an eyebrow.

"How the bloody hell was I supposed to know that those weren’t regular Every Flavor Beans?" growled Ron. "Some best mate you are, Harry, giving me Fred and George’s Jumping Beans!"

"You bit your fingers?" chortled Ginny gleefully. "Really?"

Ron held up the bandaged fingers of his right hand and Ginny went into gales of laughter, finally collapsing into the chair beside Harry.

"You gave them to him Harry? Oh god, I can’t wait to tell Fred and George that they worked!"

"I’m surprised they haven’t gotten in trouble for those Jumping Beans!" said Hermione with a disapproving sniff. "Someone could get seriously hurt!"

"Oh come off it, Hermione," said Ginny, wiping at her eyes with the hem of her sleeve. "How many people do you think would try to catch the things in their mouths and end up biting their own fingers instead?"

"Well . . ." Hermione took Ron’s bandaged fingers in her hand and gently kissed the tips. "They should just be more careful is all."

"God," said Ginny, rolling her eyes at Harry. "I do believe I’ve just lost my appetite."

"Damn, I almost forgot about the feast!" cried Ron, grabbing Hermione’s hand and tugging her out of her chair.

"Ron, I have to pick these up," protested Hermione, gesturing to the table strewn with parchment."

"You two go on," said Ginny brightly. "Harry and I can clean this up. You want them in your trunk, Hermione?"

"Yes please, if you don’t mind. Are you sure, Ginny? They were all ordered and everything."

"I think between Harry and I we can manage," said Ginny with a dismissive gesture. "Go on, Hermione, before he busts a gasket or something."

"You sure, Ginny?" said Hermione anxiously.

"Go on," said Ginny with a grin.

Harry watched them go; Ron rearing at the bit.

"Honestly," said Ginny, waving her wand across the table in a broad, sweeping gesture. The various pieces of parchment flew together in neat stacks, the leather bands Hermione had used to secure them, knotted themselves tightly. "You’d think he hadn’t eaten in years or something."

"Excellent!" said Harry appreciatively. "Was that a Packing charm? Tonks used that once on my trunk."

"A variation of," said Ginny. She waved her wand again. "Evanesco Relegatio– Hermione’s trunk."

The stacks of parchment vanished, leaving the table as clean as it had been when Harry and Hermione had sat down at it just after lunch.

"Er . . .Ginny? Wasn’t that a vanishing spell?"

"And a banishment charm. They’re now in Hermione’s trunk."

"But couldn’t you have used just the banishment charm?"

"Sure, if you don’t mind detailed notes dealing with advanced Dark Magic soaring through the halls," said Ginny brightly.

"But won’t they still be invisible?"

"What? Oh yeah, Revelare! There, now they’re visible again, thanks!"

Harry shook his head. Sometimes Ginny’s aptitude with spellwork was spooky; especially when she made them look so easy! Her Bat Bogey hex was magnificent. Harry had seen it several times, and it never failed to impress him, and then on the train, when had it been, the beginning of his fifth year? She’d cleaned up all the Stinksap with just a wave of her wand. It took most people several tries to clean up a mess of that size, and Ron had problems with even small messes.

"What?" said Ginny, catching his look.

"How do you do it?" said Harry wonderingly.

"Do what?"

"Spells like that – from a distance? It’s supposed to be lots harder. And that thing you did with the parchment . . .I mean, even Tonks has problems with that one. She bundled everything into my trunk every which way. But you," he waved a hand at the nearly bare table, "everything nice and neat and presto, back to where it was, ordered and everything."

Ginny shrugged. "Dunno," she said lightly, turning away from him under the pretense of picking up the quill Hermione had left on the table. "I’ve never really had to think about it." Her voice was quite steady, but Harry noticed that the hand she reached out for the quill was trembling slightly.

"Ginny," said Harry sternly, taking her by the shoulders and turning her to face him. "This is me you’re talking to."

"Harry, I-"

"Mr. Potter, I will ask you once to release that young lady before I report you to your head of house!"

Madam Pince’s sharp voice made them both jump guiltily. Harry released Ginny at once. He turned to find Madam Pince standing over them, her hands on her hips, glaring at them as if she had just caught them desecrating her precious books.

"I should report you anyway . . .a clear breach of regulations . . .excessive public show of affection!"

"Er . . .sorry!" said Harry, standing quickly and picking up his own bag clutching it against his chest almost defensively.. He’d never forgotten the two of them being chased out of the library while being beat around the head by his own things and didn’t care to repeat the performance.

"Excessive public show of affection?" said Ginny, gaping at Madam Pince in disbelief. "He was barely touching me!"

"I will tolerate no funny business within these hallowed halls!" screeched the librarian, rounding on Ginny with her teeth barred. "You are here to study, Miss, not to spoon!"

Spoon? Harry stared at the librarian, transfixed. She seemed completely deranged. Her gray hair was coming out of its usual prim knot, several strands hanging limply against the wrinkled skin of her neck.

He took a step backwards and stumbled over his chair. Ginny caught him by the arm, which seemed to infuriate Madam Pince even further, she raised her wand and they ran for it, arms over their heads to ward off the sudden shower of spoons that came raining down from overhead.

* * *

The Great Hall had, as usual, been decorated magnificently for the Halloween feast. Hagrid had outdone himself with the pumpkins. Several of the largest had been carved into Jack-O-Lanterns so large that a first year could easily walk through the gaping mouths without having to duck. Clouds of live bats swooped among the rafters never once running into any of the hundreds of floating candles or gently bobbing pumpkins that someone had magicked into mid-air.

But neither Harry nor Ginny, who were both quite out of breath by the time they reached the Great Hall, took note of the decorations. Both of them were still dodging the odd spoon that leapt out at them from the shadows and a rather largish silver serving spoon gave Harry a nasty clunk on the top of his head before he was able to immobilize it and throw it aside. It sailed right through Nearly Headless Nick, who gave Harry a long-suffering look before swooping down to take his place at the end of the Gryffindor table.

"Spoons!" spluttered Harry, collapsing onto the bench beside Hermione. "She chased us with spoons!"

Ginny, who was giggling uncontrollably slid in beside him.

"Who chased you with spoons?" said Ron thickly around a mouthful of chicken.

"Madam Pince," said Harry, grinning broadly at Ginny whose giggles had turned into full-fledged whoops of laughter as she removed a small silver teaspoon that had become tangled in her long mane of hair. She placed it on the table where it flopped about feebly, gave a final shiver, and lay quite still.

"That would explain this then," said Hermione, reaching to the back of Harry’s collar and removing a very solid looking silver ladle that had lodged itself in the back of his robes. "Seeing as it is highly doubtful that you would have put this there yourself."

"Real spoons?" said Ron, looking from the ladle in Hermione’s hand to the now lifeless teaspoon in front of Ginny, to Harry, who was rubbing the top of his head and wincing.

"Why spoons?" said Hermione, examining the one she held with mild interest.

"Be-because" spluttered Ginny, who was laughing so hard now that tears were running down her face. "Because she thought we were spooning!"

Ron, who had just taken a drink of pumpkin juice promptly sprayed it across the table, earning him a disgusted look from Lavender Brown who was sitting across from them beside Dean. Dean solicitously cleared her plate with a flick of his wand and she began serving herself fresh helpings of food.

"Oh get a grip, Ron," said Hermione, as Neville, who was sitting on Ron’s other side, thumped him hard on the back. "I’m sure they weren’t doing anything wrong, not in the library."

Harry, who could remember several rather interesting occasions during the last couple of weeks when he and Ginny had been alone in the deserted stacks, avoided making eye contact with Ginny for fear of setting her off again.

"We’d just finished cleaning up," said Harry, pointedly spearing a baked potato and putting it on his plate. "I asked Ginny a question – had my hand on her shoulder, nothing more – and Madam Pince just-"

"Exploded," said Ginny, who was now taking deep breaths in a desperate attempt to bring her giggles under control. "She – oh god, she said-" Ginny snorted with laughter and mopped ineffectually at her streaming eyes.

"She said we were showing ‘excessive public display of affection,’" Harry finished with a shrug.

"She’s mad!" said Ron, staring at them both over the top of his goblet.

"Yeah, well, I sort of figured that," said Harry dryly.

"No funny business within these hallowed halls!" crowed Ginny in a perfect imitation of Madam Pince’s infuriated tones, and then slumped against Harry, once again overcome by the giggles.

"She said that?" asked Hermione turning to Harry, her eyebrows raised. "She actually called the library ‘these hallowed halls’?"

"Barking," said Ron, shaking his head.

"I can only assume she meant the library," said Harry, helping himself to a steak and a large helping of peas.

"Here, Harry," said Ginny, reaching down to one of the outer pockets of her own bag and pulling out a rather dented table spoon that had wedged itself into the pocket, handle first, "Do you need a spoon for your peas?"

From the other side of Ron, Neville snorted so loudly that across from them, Lavender jumped.

"Luna keeps saying Madam Pince has got Gondrallies in the brain," he said grinning

broadly at them behind Ron’s back.

"Gondrallies Neville?" said Hermione skeptically. "You don’t seriously believe-"

"Of course I don’t, but you know Luna," he gave a smart salute with a potato filled- fork to the girl sitting across from him at the Hufflepuff table.

Luna smiled back serenely, raised her glass in response, and promptly turned it over, pouring its contents deftly onto Susan Bones’ plate. Susan shrieked and fell off her bench, pumpkin juice dripping down the front of her robes.

"A libation to the god of foreplay," said Luna in a dreamy voice that carried across the hall.

Neville turned bright pink and hid his head behind a special Halloween edition of The Daily Prophet.

"Speaking of mad," murmured Ginny in Harry’s ear. Harry, who had just taken a largish bite of steak, choked and was thumped on the back in turn by Hermione.

For all Ginny’s hilarity, however, it hadn’t escaped Harry’s notice that she had barely touched her food. She’d pushed her chicken and vegetables around on her plate, but hadn’t really eaten much of anything. Instead, once their laughter over the spoons had died out, she’d spent most of the evening staring with morbid fascination at the jack-o-lantern hanging almost directly over their heads; by some trick of the light its eyes, which were cut in a diamond shape, were glowing red instead of gold.

Come to think of it, she’d been quieter than usual for the last few weeks. She still smiled and joked and joined in with the conversations, but her usual joviality had been rather subdued, almost as if . . .as if she had something on her mind . . .something that was bothering her.

"What up, Gin?" Harry wondered as McGonagall waved her wand, causing all of the house tables to fly up against the walls, clearing the floor for dancing as the musical group she’d booked for that evening’s entertainment took their places on the golden-draped stage.

"I’m fine!" she said, hitching an unconvincing smile onto her face.

"Don’t give me that, there’s something bothering you. You’ve been staring at that pumpkin all evening."

"Maybe I find him attractive," said Ginny, her eyebrows raised and a touch of her usual humor in her voice. "You have to admit, he does have a rather alluring smile."

"Yeah, and I’m attracted to Moaning Myrtle," retorted Harry. "Come on Gin, let’s skive off the dancing. Take a walk with me?" he suggested, nodding his head towards the double doors that led to the Entrance Hall. They slipped out unnoticed in the general uproar caused by the first number, barely avoiding Filch who was stalking back and forth across the back of the Great Hall as if on guard duty.

"I never can tell," murmured Ginny as the crossed the Entrance Hall and let themselves out of the great oak doors, "if he’s just putting on an act, or if he really hates the students."

"Hates them," said Harry promptly. "Didn’t Ron ever tell you about Filch being a squib?"

Ginny stared at him. "Really? I mean, I’ve never seen him do magic really. I guess I just thought he was a lousy wizard. If he really is a Squib, well, that would explain a lot."

"Especially his not wanting to see magic in the halls," said Harry, nodding.

Ginny didn’t answer. They’d reached the edge of the lake which was now a deep liquid black, its mirror-smooth surface reflected the scattering of stars above them and she was staring into its depths as if transfixed.

"Look, Gin," said Harry, wrapping his arm around her waist and drawing her tight against his side, "something’s bothering you."

Ginny shivered, wrapped both her arms around him and buried her face in his robes.

"Oh god, Harry, I’m so scared," she whispered, so low that he had to bend his head to catch her words.

Scared? Did she think something bad was going to happen or (Harry felt his heart trade places with his stomach) was it because of – of what they’d been doing? He thought she’d wanted what they had as much as he did. She had certainly seemed willing enough but maybe she was having second thoughts . . .

"Ginny," Harry swallowed, wet his lips and tried again. "Look, Gin, if you’re not ready for this-"

Ginny’s head snapped back, her eyes flashing. "What the bloody hell are you talking about, Potter?"

Harry stared at her, bemused. "I – you said that you’re scared and, well, you’ve been so quiet lately, I thought you were talking, you know, about us . . .and, well, if we’re going too fast . . . ." his voice trailed off and he found himself staring down at the darkly glistening rocks that bordered the lake here.

A moment later Ginny had his face bracketed in her hands and had turned it to hers.

"Harry James Potter, get that idea out of your head right now!" she said severely. "I’ve never been more ready for anything in my life!"

"Yeah?" said Harry. His heart was back in its proper location.

"Of course ‘yeah’ you great prat!" she said with a smile and then kissed him.

"God, Gin, you sure know how to warm a bloke up," said Harry breathlessly a few minutes later. "But you still haven’t explained why you’re scared."

Ginny turned her head away to look out over the lake.

"Ginny?"

Ginny took a deep breath. "I love you Harry, you know that, right?"

Harry nodded.

"Its just – I don’t want to have any secrets from you Harry, you mean too much to me, and I’m going to tell you this, even if-" she paused, her voice catching in her throat. "Even if it means that . . .Harry, I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t . . .if you couldn’t bring yourself to – to want me – after I tell you . . ."

"Ginny," Harry had her by the shoulders now, concern etching a furrow in his forehead. She was shaking, and it wasn’t from the cold. "Ginny, look at me." He put a finger under her chin, raising her head until she was looking at him. "I love you Ginny Weasley, now and always. Nothing is going to change that! I don’t care if you were to tell me right now that you’d been raped by Voldemort himself, I’d still love you!"

To Harry’s complete and utter astonishment, Ginny burst into tears, throwing herself into his arms and sobbing uncontrollably into the front of his robes. After several minutes, during which Harry held her, thoroughly nonplussed, Ginny’s sobs eventually died away, but she still clung to him as if he were a lifeline.

"I – I always feel weird, you know, on Halloween," whispered Ginny finally, her voice barely audible for being muffled against his chest. "That was the first time – the first time that Tom . . .that he took me over."

Confused, Harry continued rubbing her shoulders. Why was she bringing up the Chamber of Secrets now?

"Well, it was the first time I realized that something was wrong anyway. He must have taken me over when I killed the roosters too, but I didn’t think it was too weird, I mean, one minute I was visiting with Hagrid, the next I was back up at the castle a half hour later with feathers all over my robes. I just thought – I thought I must be tired, you know."

Ginny reached into her pocket, pulled out a tissue and blew her nose.

"But that Halloween I was up in my dormitory, getting ready to go down to the Halloween Feast and then it was midnight! Six hours just – gone! Well, that’s when things really started getting weird. It took me the longest time to stop trusting that diary," Ginny whispered. "I didn’t want to think that Tom would do something like – Harry, he was the only real friend I’d ever had!"

"Friend?" said Harry, intrigued in spite of himself, "Ginny, he tried to kill you," and me.

"I didn’t know that then," said Ginny, shaking her head. "I didn’t understand. The only think I understood was that he was kind to me – yes he was!" she insisted, seeing the look on Harry’s face. "At least at first he was. He listened Harry. No one else had time for me. Ron would brush me off and Fred and George, if it isn’t wizzing or banging they loose interest in it in minutes. Well . . ." she shrugged against him and gave him a wry smile. "I was lonely, and he was my friend. Or at least he made me think he was; which to an eleven-year-old-girl amounted to the same thing."

Harry felt a sudden twinge of guilt. Why hadn’t they paid more attention to Ginny that year? True there had been a lot going on, but it wouldn’t have been, not if they taken the time to include her, make her feel wanted – loved. If they had, perhaps none of the events second year would have happened.

Ginny sighed deeply. "It wasn’t until Christmas that I realized that the things he was saying in the diary – that they must have something to do with my big chunks of missing time. That the ideas that had begun to rattle around in my head – the ones that worried me so – that they were really his. Then, when you found it," she shuddered again. "When I saw you had it – I freaked out - I realized by then that I’d been influenced by some sort of Dark Magic, but I was afraid that you’d find out somehow, that I’d be punished, maybe kicked out of school. I had to get the diary back."

Harry shivered slightly, remembering his ransacked belongings. They’d all been repaired easily enough, but for Ginny to actually do something like that, perhaps the diary – or Tom through the diary – had already been influencing her, even before she got her hands on it again.

"I kept missing chunks of time," said Ginny quietly, her voice shaking. "And then, at the end, I knew! He took me over, and I stayed awake and aware. I watched him walk me down to the Chamber, god it was cold in there." She shivered involuntarily.

Harry pulled her closer, trying to share his body heat. She was shaking like a leaf. She was also crying again, the tears silently spilling down her cheeks.

"And then – then he came right out of the diary-"

"His memory," said Harry automatically.

"No," whispered Ginny in a shaking voice, "he was real, Harry. He-he touched me."

"He didn’t have a body," said Harry, frowning. That was right, he remembered it clearly the apparition of Tom Riddle had been fuzzy around the edges; but solid enough to pick up his wand. Voldemort – or the part of Voldemort that had been inside of that diary had been sapping Ginny’s strength, her very substance, using her to become more powerful, more solid. Had he been solid enough to . . . Harry shivered involuntarily. "He touched you?" He looked down, but Ginny had her face buried in his robes again and suddenly it clicked; everything she’d been saying tonight;

"He did more than touch you Ginny, didn’t he," said Harry quietly.

He’d realized the first time they made love that Ginny wasn’t a virgin, or at least not technically a virgin. It had crossed his mind to wonder who had been the first . . .Michael . . .Dean . . . whoever it was, he envied them. Oh god how he envied them. He had only himself to blame for not getting his act together sooner, he knew that, so whenever it would cross his mind to wonder, he’d tell himself sternly that it didn’t matter; not really. She was with him now, that’s all that mattered. But this . . .! Voldemort . . .

Harry swallowed hard. It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t something she’d had any control over. Voldemort used her . . .used her like he’d used so many others and it was only because of Hermione’s discovery about the Basilisk traveling through pipes that Harry had thought to look in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom; that he had found the faucet that really wasn’t a faucet at all; that he had found the Chamber and pure dumb luck that had enabled him to find Ginny at all, not to mention some marvelous maneuvering by Fawks that had allowed him to rescue her.

"Harry?" Ginny’s smooth, cool hand was on his face, wiping away a lone tear that he hadn’t realized was making it’s way down his cheek. "I wanted you to know . . ." she paused and drew in a great, shuddering breath. "I knew the first time we made love that you’d realize that I wasn’t . . .well, I didn’t want you always wondering who it was, getting jealous and all of that. I’ve never . . ." she hesitated, biting her lip, "I’ve never made love to anyone else Harry, ever. You were the first."

Ginny’s eyes in the moonlight were large and luminous and Harry felt his heart ache as he thought of everything she’d gone through . . .because of him . . .because of Voldemort . . .it took him a moment to realize that Ginny was talking again.

"Did you read the book?"

"Book?"

"Yes, the one on Binding Charms?"

"Er . . .yeah, actually, I did," said Harry, surprised by this turn in the conversation.

"Do you remember reading about the First Blood Bond?"

"Yes, but Gin what-"

She held a finger up to his lips, silencing him. "Did you read the bit on how to recognize if the spell has been performed correctly?"

Harry nodded. Of course he remembered. There had been several Binding Charms listed that had also been listed in the book on Blood Magic seeing as that they were binding charms that relied on the blood of the participants in order to be effective. The First Blood Bond was one of these. A translation of an ancient Latin text had been included in The Ties That Bind, and Harry remembered wrinkling his nose in distaste at the archaic speech in which the spell had originally been written.

"It was said of old that the blood of the virgin womb has the power to protect from mortal harm he who is first to spill in it his seed." The text had gone on to explain that when first discovered, this ‘natural protection’ combined with the complex charm known as The First Blood Bond, had the effect of protecting the male against the worst effects of most harmful and mortal curses.

It appeared that one of the main affects of the charm was to cause the woman to act as a sort of lightening rod; absorbing most of the spell into herself, thus leaving the man free to continue whatever it was that he was doing.

It had been dreadfully misused in ancient times with power-hungry men forcing themselves on young women, performing the complicated charm that bound the woman to him, making her a sort of human shield. This abuse was one reason that this particular bit of knowledge had been restricted for centuries. The text went on to say that while the protection extracted by force was powerful, that the same protection willingly given, was counted to be " . . .equal even to that of the Matriarchal Charm in which the mother willingly exchanges her life for the life of her child."

Harry’s forehead furrowed slightly as he tried to remember the end of the chapter in which the signs of a properly cast First Blood Bond could be recognized.

"First there’s the tingling under the skin, but that’s when the spell if first performed. Later it can be verified by-ow!" He pulled his hand out of hers, staring uncomprehendingly at the drop of blood welling up out of his thumb. "Ginny, what . . .?"

"Oh stop being such a baby," she said with the ghost of a smile as she pocketed the pin she’d used and then showed him her own thumb on which a drop of her own blood was gleaming. "You didn’t hear me yelling."

"Well you were expecting it," said Harry defensively. "I wasn’t."

"I bet you weren’t expecting this either," said Ginny softly, and pressed their thumbs together, holding her wand over their hands she murmured "Revelare."

It was as if a many-peatled flower made entirely of bright white light had suddenly unfolded from the spot where their thumbs touched, wrapping around their joined hands to form a net of pure light. And then, from the heart of the flower there rose a single, blood red flame that burned clear and steady above their joined hands.

"Finito," murmured Ginny, and the light died away, leaving them standing in what now seemed to be quite dim starlight. "I was right," she said seriously, staring at where the flame had been just a moment ago. "It worked!"

"Ginny, I-" Harry stared at her, at a loss for words. What had she done? Did she realize what she had done? It was a gift beyond anything Harry had ever received before – unless you counted his mother’s sacrifice; priceless; a gift that could be given once, to one person, and never again. Could Ginny know what it meant, binding herself to him in such a way? Did she understand that this was something that couldn’t be reversed? Did she really love him that much?

"I understand perfectly," whispered Ginny softly. She was standing very close to him now, her body just touching his. "Besides, you already bound yourself to me by saving my life."

"I-"

"It’s your turn to be rescued, Mr. Wizard," Ginny interrupted, smiling again and this time her smile was radiant, lighting her up from the inside. "Let me repay my debt."

"Ginny-"

"No, Harry," said Ginny softly, placing a finger on his lips. "I told you, you’re mine now, and I refuse to give you up without a fight. If that means fighting beside you – or giving you a slight advantage by taking the brunt of a curse meant for you, then so be it."

Harry closed his eyes feeling awed and honored and very slightly sick. He’d promised himself that no one else would get hurt and now Ginny had gone and done this.

"You could be killed, Gin! If I don’t doge it, if someone gets past my guard . . ."

"Then don’t let them," Ginny advised. "Look, Harry, I wasn’t going to tell you at all, but it was the only way to prove to you – and myself - that Dumbledore was right."

"Dumbledore?" said Harry blankly.

"Yeah, right after – after what happened in the Chamber - he told me that regardless of how realistic it felt when Tom took me over, that in all the ways that matter, it wasn’t real. You don’t know how much that meant to me . . . there were times . . .sometimes I still have dreams about it, you know, but then I would remember what Dumbledore had said, and it made me feel better – hopeful." Ginny shivered slightly. "And now I know he was right – and you know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that there has never been anyone else – not really. This is my gift to you Harry. Now I belong to you as much as you belong to me."

"We belong to each other," Harry whispered. He took Ginny in his arms then and, holding her tightly, feeling the solid realness of her body against his, he felt a surge of emotion so deep, so powerful, that he felt his grip on her tighten reflexively, as if he were afraid that he was going to be washed away. Harry felt a shudder pass through his body, as if the surge of emotion had been transmuted into physical form.

What is it? Harry wondered silently, his eyes closed and his face pressed against the chill silkiness of Ginny’s hair. He wanted her – god yes, there was hardly a moment when he didn’t want her, but this – this went way beyond mere passion and was as far removed from simple lust as it was possible to get. It felt so big – so all-encompassing; so complete that took his breath away.

Harry, I – I think its love, Ginny’s voice was breathless, awed and filled with a wonder that was so strong, Harry felt that he could almost taste it. What else can it be but the physical manifestation of unconditional love?

It was a full minute before Harry realized that Ginny had responded to his silent question, and more than that, she had replied not in words that he could hear, for she had not spoken aloud, but somehow, incredibly, he had heard her response in his mind; felt it in his heart, felt it as even now he could feel the wonder flowing through her as she became aware of what had happened and for tonight, here, and now, it was enough.

Back to index

Chapter 13: UNICURSAL: The Path Unfolds

"We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us."

~E.M. Forester

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: UNICURSAL: The Path Unfolds

Harry lay very still, letting the layers of sensation settle into his awareness. The smoothness of the sheets, cool against his bare skin; the silken texture of Ginny’s hair where it lay fanned out across his chest; the hypnotizing sensation of her fingers as they traced lazy circles on his stomach.

It was times like this, with Ginny in his arms and the scent of their love making in the air that he could forget about everything that waited for him. He could forget about Voldemort and the attacks he had instigated on Halloween. He could forget about the increasing frequency of the Dementor attacks in the last few weeks. He could forget about what he was up against.

Ginny’s fingers stopped in mid-circle. Harry could feel her smile against his chest.

"You were thinking something," she said softly, her breath was warm against his chest. "Something about us."

It wasn’t the first time she’d picked up on his thoughts, nor he on hers for that matter. And it didn’t seem to be anything either of them could consciously control. The first time it had happened had been on Halloween, just two weeks ago when they’d been out by the lake . . .or had it?

Thinking back he could have sworn that the first time they’d made love that he’d felt Ginny’s voice inside of his head, calling out his name. It was odd though, because no matter how hard he tried to hear her — no matter how hard he tried to project his own thoughts so that she could hear him, it was only times like this; times when they were together, both of them feeling completely relaxed and contented that one or the other would hear the other’s voice in their minds, or sometimes just receive the impression that the other was thinking something that related to both of them.

"I was wishing that I could stay here — with you — just like this — forever," Harry murmured into her hair.

"Why not?" said Ginny, a mischievous note in her voice.

"You really want McGonagall in here again looking for you?" asked Harry only half joking.

"Of course not. Why do you think I wait until after Jessica goes to sleep to sneak up here?" said Ginny, raising herself on an elbow so that she could look down at him.

"You know, if anyone catches you sneaking up here you could be in big trouble — not that I want you to stop of course," said Harry quickly as Ginny raised an eyebrow at him.

"And that is why I come up as a cat," said Ginny leaning down and kissing him lightly. "I’ve been up here, what, five times in the two weeks since Halloween?"

"Tonight makes six," said Harry promptly.

"Well, there you go. I’ve come up here six times — each time as a cat. No one is going to question a cat going up the boys’ staircase." She reached a hand out and smoothed back his unruly hair, letting her finger linger lightly on his lightning bolt scar. "And since I make a point of being back in my bed before Jessica’s alarm goes off at six . . ." she grinned down at him and shrugged. "But I don’t think you were thinking about staying right here in this bed forever; not really."

"Wasn’t I?" said Harry, not looking at her directly, but past her, at the patterns embroidered into the bed’s hangings.

"You were thinking about us, Mr. Wizard," said Ginny, her voice suddenly serious.

"About us?"

"About us staying together . . ." Ginny hesitated only a moment before she added, " . . .forever."

Harry closed his eyes. He could see it in his mind. He’d seen it in his mind a hundred times; a house; a rambling stone cottage by a river; a stone wall that enclosed not a tangled mess of trees and vines, but a neat garden; the two of them sitting in chairs on a sunlit patio and, in a gnarled apple tree, a finished tree house and the sounds of children’s laughter.

It was beautiful; too beautiful to be real; too beautiful to belong in a life as twisted as his was fated to be. For in his mind’s eye, the idyllic scene inevitably dissolved into a twisted, smoking heap of rubble, a tangled mess of trees and vines; Ginny’s lifeless body draped over a crib that would remain empty forever. In the garden there would always be a half-finished tree house and, hanging over the wreck, the glittering green Dark Mark signaling the end of the dream.

Harry wasn’t aware of the fact that he was crying until he felt Ginny’s lips on his face, kissing away his tears. When he opened his eyes he realized that she’d shifted her position and was now straddling him; leaning over him, her riot of flaming hair enclosing them like a living curtain, her eyes glittering strangely in the scarlet tinted light of her tented hair.

"It doesn’t have to end that way," she whispered, trailing her kisses down his cheeks . . .his neck . . .his chest. "And I know that it can’t be now." She crossed her arms against his chest, leaning down so that she could look him in the eye. "Not only are we both still in school but you, Mr. Wizard, have a job to do." She smiled down at him lazily, seductively. "I was talking about after."

"I’d like nothing more," said Harry seriously. "But you might not want me — after."

"Why in Merlin’s name would you say that?" said Ginny a frown knitting her forehead.

"Well, Dumbledore, he said once that committing Murder rips the soul apart — that’s what enables a witch or wizard to make a Horcrux; tearing their soul apart by committing a murder. Anyway, Dumbledore said that a person can never be completely whole after they’ve done something like that. So if I kill Voldemort . . ." Harry paused, swallowed. "If I kill Voldemort I’ll be a murderer. I won’t be the same person that I was — before."

"I love you, Harry," said Ginny softly. "I love you now. I’ll love you after you’ve sent that son-of a-bitch to hell where he belongs. Nothing can change that Harry, nothing! Besides that, it won’t matter," she said matter-of-factly, shifting her weight against him.

She grinned down at him mischievously as she felt his response to her proximity.

"Of course it will matter," said Harry gruffly.

"No, it won’t," said Ginny confidently. "There’s too much good in you, Harry. Too much good to be ruined by something as necessary as killing a monster like him."

Harry stared at her, wishing with all his heart that he could be as confident about that as she was.

"I’m right and you know I am," said Ginny quietly. It was she who was crying now. Two silent tears had welled up out of her eyes and were tracing their way down the smooth curve of her cheek. "I’m not going to loose you, Harry. I won’t let you go! Murderer or not, I belong to you — and you to me. Can’t you get that through your head?"

Harry shifted his own weight, reaching up to bring her down to his kiss and felt her breath catch in her chest, felt her body melt against his as he ran his fingers along the smooth skin of her back. A moment later he had reversed their positions and was looking down at her; her vivid hair spread across his pillow — just as he’d seen it in his daydreams

"I’ll make you a deal," said Harry, breaking the kiss and wiping Ginny’s tears away with his fingertips. "When this is all sorted out; when Voldemort is dead and it’s all over, if — after everything — you still want me, we’ll have that house by the river Ginny, I swear we will."

"And the tree house?"

"I’ll finish it," said Harry. "I swear to you, I’ll finish it." He weren’t talking about the tree house any more. Or maybe he was. Did it really matter? Weren’t they the same thing? He would finish this. He would finish this. He would come back to her. And, if she would still have him he would rebuild the house on Holly Lane; finish the tree house in the apple tree; pick up the pieces of the dream that had shattered when Voldemort had walked into James and Lily Potter’s home sixteen years ago.

And if she no longer wanted him? If she found that she couldn’t bear the person he had become? Well, he would go back to Goddric’s Hollow alone and he would sit by the river and dream of what might have been. It felt right somehow, even to think about it. Without Ginny, without the love he felt for her, his life would be an empty shell. Even the love he felt for Ron and Hermione — for Sirius, for Dumbledore and Lupin, it couldn’t make up for what he’d found in her arms.

And as he lost himself in Ginny, in the feel of her skin warmth of her heart, he knew that it would all be over soon. One way or another, when it was all finished he would come back to Goddric’s Hollow. With her — to pick up the pieces of the dream, or without her, to where it had all began sixteen years ago and where it would end once and for all.

* * *

"Oh my god!" Hermione’s horrified voice drifted over the top of her morning edition of The Daily Prophet.

Harry, who had just slid onto the bench across from Hermione, feeling exhausted and yet strangely euphoric from his night’s exertions, felt his heart sink. He had thought that it couldn’t get any worse than the eight simultaneous attacks that had occurred on Halloween night (that must have been occurring even as he and Ginny had been down by the lake) but he’d been wrong.

The coordinated attacks had resulted in sixteen deaths, a number that (when Harry had read the Headline of the next morning’s Daily Prophet) had struck a resonant —if rather frightening — chord in his mind. Was it simply a coincidence that on the sixteenth anniversary of the night Voldemort had made his first attempt on Harry’s life sixteen people had been killed?

Hermione kept insisting that it was merely a fluke; that Halloween was a significant time of the year for any witch or wizard and of particular interest to those who practiced the Dark Arts, but somehow Harry didn’t think that this was the case and every time he saw caught sight of Terry Boot, Stuart Ackerly or the Creevey brothers (all of whose parents had been among those killed) Harry’s insides roiled with guilt. And it hadn’t gotten any better.

The week after Halloween there had been two more Werewolf attacks — one on a small boy in Hogsmeade which had occurred in broad daylight (effectively canceling any chance that McGonagall would ever allow any of the Hogwarts students back into Hogsmeade) and the Prophet had reported six more Dementor attacks making it one of the worst weeks in Harry’s life.

He’d started dreading mornings, wondering what would have happened now; who else had been killed, and so now, two Saturdays after the Halloween attacks, Hermione’s words sent a wave of panic crashing over him. Harry would have bolted from the table then and there if it hadn’t been for Ginny’s small, warm hand slipping into his at that precise moment.

Harry shot her a grateful glance, wondering as he did so, how it was that she managed to look so fresh and alert when she’d spent the better part of the night in his bed; doing anything but sleeping.

"What’s happened now?" said Ron around a mouthful of scrambled eggs.

"It — it’s awful!" said Hermione, sounding sick.

"What?" said Dean, leaning across Ron to peer at Hermione’s newspaper. "More werewolves?"

"Who else has been killed?" asked Neville fearfully, his fork falling from his suddenly slack hand.

"No, no, it’s not that!" Hermione spread the newspaper out on the table in front of her, pointing to a long article on the second page. "The mists — they’re dispersing!"

Everyone stared at her.

"Hermione," said Ron slowly, "what are you talking about?"

"Remember all that cold mists that we’ve had all this last year?" said Hermione looking around at them all with wide, frightened eyes.

"Yeah, they ruined my birthday party over the summer," said Dean ruefully. "Mum had everything planned out, we were going to have the whole thing outside, sort of a picnic, but then it got all cold and misty — miserable stuff."

"Exactly," said Hermione. "Uncharacteristic mists in the middle of summer; unusually cold winters; lots of cold, miserable weather all around."

"Yeah, Dumbledore said those mists meant that the Dementors were breeding," said Harry quietly.

"But if the mists are dispersing, that’s good then," said Ron, waving a forkful of egg towards the paper. "Means they’re no longer breeding, right?"

"What it means is that the gestation period is over," said Hermione in a significant tone.

Harry looked around at the others. Ron and Dean were staring at Hermione with rather blank expressions while Neville looked rather green.

"But juvenile Dementors . . ." Neville’s voice trailed away. He cast Hermione a stricken look, gulped, then said, "they get really, really hungry."

"They’re insatiable," said Hermione in a hushed voice.

Harry felt as if a fist were squeezing his heart. "Does this mean there will be more Dementor attacks?" he asked shakily.

"Not yet," said Hermione with a grimace. "Or no more than we’ve had so far, at least not the kind where people’s souls are in danger."

"But I thought — if that’s what they feed on . . ." Dean looked from Hermione to Neville and back again, a confused expression on his face.

"Adult Dementors will suck the soul out of someone if they have the chance," said Hermione heavily. "But juvenile Dementors simply suck all the hope and happiness out of everything."

"I thought that’s what regular Dementors did?" said Ginny, frowning slightly.

"Adult Dementors suck the hope and happiness out of people," explained Hermione patiently. "Juvenile Dementors suck the hope and happiness out of everything."

"What, like rocks and stuff?" said Ron with a small disbelieving laugh.

"Not just rocks, Ron, everything!" said Hermione, her voice now sounding slightly frustrated. "Rocks, earth, air, plants, animals — everything!"

"How can you suck the happiness out of a rock?" said Ron, who was now scowling at his cold eggs.

"The last record of juvenile Dementors on the loose saw extremes in weather unlike anything ever recorded before," said Hermione, her voice now shaking slightly. "Unexplainable storms, floods . . ."

"The ground looses hope and nothing can grow," said Neville in a slightly dazed voice. "Droughts, plagues . . .most of the plants that are now considered to be rare were very nearly lost the last time there were juvenile Dementors on the loose.

"And wars," said Hermione, her voice barely audible. "They love wars — all Dementors do, but the young Dementors are particularly good at causing the sorts of arguments and misunderstandings that have resulted in some of the worst wars in history. And that’s not the worst of it," said Hermione gravely. She was pushing the last bits of her breakfast around her plate with a fork.

"What can be worse than a pack of Dementors swarming around starting wars and sucking out hope and happiness and people’s souls?" wondered Dean, who seemed to have lost interest in his own food.

"A pack of Juvenile Dementors that grow up to be adult Dementors with the same appetites as their parents," said Hermione.

"Damn," said Ron, very quietly.

Harry felt Ginny press against his side. She was shivering. He wrapped his arm around her, drawing her closer.

"Is there any way to stop them?" Ginny whispered. "Is there any way to kill a Dementor?" Her voice sounded very small and young and Harry found his arm tightening around her protectively.

Hermione made a helpless gesture with her fork and Harry heard himself answering without being aware that he had planned on doing so.

"I’ve never heard of a Dementor being destroyed," he said quietly. "They can be driven off; kept at bay; but I don’t think that Dementors are alive; not like we think of things being alive."

"But what’s to keep them from just continuing to multiply?" said Dean, sounding angry. "I mean, without Ministry control, what’s to keep them from just — oh, I don’t know — taking over the planet or something?"

"They were never under Ministry control," said Hermione grimly. "Not really. I mean, how do you control something like a Dementor? I think there’s more to it than that. I think that all this fear is encouraging them to — oh, I don’t know - take a more active role I guess."

"That doesn’t make any sense Hermione," said Ron who was still scowling. "Dementors feed on hope and happiness — they drain people of all their good feelings, but why are they breeding now?"

"Because they can?" said Hermione tartly. "Perhaps there was some sort of restraint put in place on their breeding capabilities while they were working for the Ministry."

"Maybe happiness isn’t the only thing they find appetizing," said Harry quietly. Everyone turned to look at him. "Think about it. They feed on hope and happiness, yes, but perhaps they also draw energy - not nourishment, but energy — from fear. That would explain why they’re suddenly so very active."

"So the more fear they generate by floating around and terrorizing people, the more energy there is available to them," said Hermione, nodding now. "Perhaps it takes a certain fear threshold for them to become active enough to be able to breed."

"And Voldemort is certainly providing that," said Harry darkly, ignoring the various shudders and squeaks that greeted his use of the name.

"So if we can get rid of You-Know-Who then maybe the fear level would drop below whatever threshold it is that’s encouraging them to breed?" said Dean slowly.

Ron and Hermione both shot Harry significant looks and Ginny’s grip on his hand tightened perceptibly.

"Yeah," said Harry, fighting to speak normally around the egg-sized lump that had suddenly formed in the back of his throat. "I think that just about sums it up, Dean."

Dean’s succinct assessment of the situation might as well have been a jabbing finger of accusation as far as Harry was concerned. It didn’t matter what he did, for the next few days he kept hearing Dean’s words in his head:

Dean was right; more right than he could possibly know, for getting rid of Voldemort was not only the solution to the problem with the Dementors but was, Harry knew, inevitably wrapped up with his own future. Just because he was safely ensconced at Hogwarts didn’t mean that the problems had gone away. They were there, waiting for him. Voldemort was waiting for him; biding his time; waiting for the perfect moment to strike. He knew, deep down, that it was time to get on with his search. If only he knew where to start looking!

* * *

"Harry, mate, what’s this?"

Ron’s muffled voice was coming from somewhere under Harry’s bed.

"What are you doing under there?" asked Harry, lifting the edge of his comforter and peering beneath his bed. Ron’s large, lanky frame could just be made out in the gloom. He was poking about in the assorted items Harry had stashed beneath his bed as if searching for something.

"Looking for . . .something . . ." muttered Ron, emerging a moment later with lint all over the front of his robes and a large cardboard carton in his hands.

"You find it then?" said Harry, glancing at the box.

"No. I — I was looking for the present I bought Hermione for Christmas," Ron said, his voice so low that Harry could barely hear him and his ears a brilliant pink. "I thought I might have dropped it, you know." He shrugged helplessly.

"Ron," said Harry slowly, a grin creeping onto his face. "It’s only the middle of November and you’ve already got Hermione a Christmas present?"

"It’s not much," said Ron, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "I — I ordered it just after Halloween by owl post."

"It looks a good size to me," said Harry, gesturing to the box in Ron’s hands.

"This isn’t it — I, this was wedged under your bed — up at the top behind the post. I thought you might have forgotten about — whatever it is. See? It’s covered in dust."

Harry stared at the box. "I don’t remember . . ." he said slowly then hesitated. He did remember. "Damn, that’s the box of stuff Dumbledore left for me! I — I forgot all about it!"

Professor McGonagall had given him that box in her office. She’d said that it contained the items that Professor Dumbledore had left for Harry in his will. He had accepted the box but had stowed it under his bed not wanting to think about Dumbledore right then and there. Well, it had worked. He hadn’t thought about the box at all since he’d received it.

"Dumbledore left you something?" said Ron sounding amazed.

"In his will; Professor McGonagall told me ages ago, but I — I didn’t want to think about it right then and then I — I forgot!"

"Blimey, Harry! It could be anything!" said Ron, his eyes glowing with curiosity. "You going to open it?"

"I — I suppose so," said Harry reluctantly. He didn’t want to admit it to Ron but he was afraid, desperately afraid of what he would find in that box; of the memories that would be dredged up when he saw whatever was inside of it."

"Harry, if you’d rather open it alone I — well, I’d understand," said Ron awkwardly, his ears now a brilliant scarlet. "I mean, if you’d rather I left-"

"No, stay!" said Harry a bit more forcefully than was necessary. "Please?" he amended. "I mean, if you don’t mind. I . . ." he gave Ron a sheepish sort of grin, "I would like to see what’s in it, but like you said, it could be anything."

"Wish Hermione was here," said Ron, brushing off his robes and plopping himself on the end of Harry’s bed.

"I just bet you do," said Harry with a smirk. Ron went scarlet. "But she’s in Runes, Ron, you know. Then we’ve got Charms and then lunch. If we don’t open it now we might not get a chance to until after supper." Harry tugged at the lid, quite as anxious as Ron now to see what was inside. The lid, however, wasn’t cooperating.

"Did McGonagall charm it shut?" Ron wondered, squinting at the lid.

"Must have," said Harry, shrugging and taking out his wand. "Alohamora," he said firmly, pointing his wand at the box. Nothing happened.

"Now what?" said Ron, his eyes fixed on the carton.

"Dunno," said Harry, poking at the lid with his wand.

"A password maybe?" came Ginny’s voice in his ear.

"Makes sense, said Harry, nodding. "The last password to Dumbledore’s office," he muttered and waved his wand over the lid’s box. "Sugar Quill."

"Harry, who were you talking to. . .awesome!" breathed Ron as Harry removed a layer of foam padding, revealing the contents underneath.

In a shallow wooden box, three of Dumbledore’s silvery machines sat, docile and uncharacteristically quiet; their highly polished sliver surfaces gleaming brightly in the sunlight streaming through the dorm windows.

"But — what are they?" Ron said wonderingly, reaching out a finger to touch one of the machines. It gave a squeaking purr and shivered slightly in its box. Ron withdrew his finger quickly. "What do they do?"

"No idea," said Harry, removing one of the machines from its niche. Beneath it lay a small scrap of parchment. On it, written in the slanted, loopy handwriting that Harry knew so well were a series of detailed instructions.

"It doesn’t say what they are, or what they’re for, just how to work them," said Harry, frowning at the directions.

"You gonna try them now?" asked Ron, looking excited.

"Better not, not just yet, anyway," said Harry, glancing at his wristwatch. "We should wait until we have more time — and a place where we can try them out without anyone walking in."

"Yeah, I guess you’re right." Ron sighed and poked at the wrappings. "What else is in there?"

Harry removed the tray, which held the three small machines and laid it carefully aside. Beneath it, and appearing to take up the remainder of the box, were four wooden boxes each about a foot square.

"What’s in them then?" asked Ron, reaching in to remove a box, which proved unsuccessful as the boxes were packed in so tightly that there wasn’t enough space between them to give his fingers leverage.

"Ron," said Harry, laughing as Ron sucked on his still-sore fingertips. "It’s a cardboard carton, there’s easier ways to get them out" He tapped his wand on the side of the box. "Evolvere" as if it were the skin of a fruit, the sides of the cardboard carton peeled themselves down, laying flat to expose the four boxes packed inside; or five rather, for when the cardboard had peeled away, the four smaller boxes was another, larger box on which the four smaller boxes were resting.

"Wish I could remember spells like that," said Ron, scowling slightly and picking up the box closest to him. "Here, Harry, open this one first."

The box Ron handed him was very heavy and covered with intricate carvings. Harry let his fingers trace the carvings feeling as he did so an odd, tingling sensation, not entirely unlike that which he had felt when he had been handling the Horcrux. But there was no foreboding in the feeling, simply an aura of possibility, a distinct impression of great age and an undercurrent of raw power.

"It looks really old," said Ron, his voice seemed to be coming from the far end of a tunnel.

"It is old," said Harry softly. He opened his eyes, this time looking more closely at the lid. There, engraved in the very center was something that looked very much like-

"Is that a phoenix?" said Ron, squinting at the figure beneath Harry’s hand.

Harry didn’t answer, but merely lifted the lid of the box, expecting something relatively impressive, given the weight of the box. Instead he found half a dozen long scarlet and gold feathers. Fawkes.

"Phoenix feathers?" said Ron incredulously, lifting one of the feathers from the box and holding it up to the light. He peered into the box, his forehead furrowed. "Is that it then?"

"Looks like it," said Harry. He removed the rest of the feathers and felt around the bottom of the box. There was nothing else there.

"Why is it so heavy then, if all that’s in it were feathers?" wondered Ron, scowling at the feathers in Harry’s hand.

"It must be the box," mussed Harry out loud. He handed the feathers to Ron and picked up the box. "Damn!"

"What?"

"Feel it, the box," said Harry, handing the box to Ron, who laid the feathers on the bed.

"No way!" said Ron, looking startled. "It’s tons lighter now! There’s no way that the phoenix feathers could possibly weigh that much!"

Harry picked up the feathers, placed them in the box and Ron staggered under the suddenly increased weight. Harry took the box from Ron, weighing it carefully before he put it on his bed.

"How can two items that separately weigh so little weigh so much together?" he wondered.

"Ask Hermione," said Ron with a grimace. "She knows everything, Hermione does."

Harry shot Ron a sharp look. His tone had seemed a little resentful.

"You all right mate?" he asked carefully. He had sworn when Ron and Hermione got together that he wouldn’t interfere, but he and Ron were still friends, he couldn’t let something like that pass.

"What? Oh yeah," said Ron with a shrug. "I’m fine."

"I meant — between you and Hermione," said Harry carefully, shifting his gaze from Ron back to the box on the bed. Ron remained silent for a full minute before answering.

"I love her, Harry, you know that, right?"