Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter

Chapter 15: The Approaching Storm

Shutting the door of the Room of Requirement, Harry looked at his two best friends with trepidation. Ginny looked surprisingly regretful, perhaps rethinking her decisions to side with Hermione’s rash course of action. Though, personally, Harry felt that she needed to do something. He wouldn’t have been forced to think twice about the entire situation otherwise.

They had about thirty minutes before they needed to be off to class. Harry hoped they wouldn’t need all of it. He wasn’t sure how long it would take to explain about the changes he had undergone since the duel in the Chamber, but he wanted to get it done as soon as possible. Vivid images of his nightmare were flashing through his head; watching his fall from an eerie third-period view while still thinking the nightmare-Harry’s thoughts as if they were his own. He shuddered, and noticed that Ginny gave him a strange look. Hermione was still pacing.

She stopped when Ginny spoke. “What is it that you want to tell us, Harry?” she prompted. Her voice was not accusing, threatening or even demanding, but it was clear she wasn’t going to let him leave the room without first knowing what he’d been hiding from them.

He took a deep breath, turning to face both of them. “You both know what happened in the Chamber,” he began. They nodded. “Well, something else happened at the very end of Riddle’s duel with Daphne.” He paused, searching for a way to describe the event. It was difficult, and he had to rely on Daphne’s account, since he had been dazed from the torture he had suffered and the pain his body had been experiencing. “Well, when she used the Spirit Banishing Spell on my…body, something else happened.”

“Let’s make sure we have this straight,” Hermione suggested, sounding as if she simply wanted clarification. “The Spirit Banishing Spell ejected Riddle from you, did it not?”

Harry nodded, trying not to let his mind drift back to the still hazy memories. It was a lost cause. “Well, it’s more accurate to say it tore Riddle out of me. In the process, because Riddle had established links deep into both my mind and my magical core, disrupting all of that, it badly damaged my mind.” He laughed slightly, which earned him a concerned look from Ginny and an irritated noise from Hermione. He felt his face burning, and he struggled to regain his composure. His throat was suddenly dry, and he swallowed thickly.

Ginny gave him a worried look, and even Hermione’s icy expression thawed slightly. I’m not going to use my bad memories as a reason not to tell them what they need to know. If I don’t tell them now, I never will. Worse, I might lie to them, and only tell them part of the truth…I can’t do that.

He coughed slightly, and took another deep breath. “…anyway,” he began, more softly this time, “Riddle apparently reappeared in sprit-form over the two of us,” he said, indicating himself and Ginny. The young redhead didn’t flinch. “Daphne was exhausted, dazed. Riddle actually beat her, but as you know, Ginny here saved her life.” This time Ginny did react, turning bright red and looking at the floor. Hermione sat next to her and patted her on the shoulder.

“That’s when Dumbledore got there,” Harry continued. “Both he and Daphne had come to the same conclusion: Riddle was linked to the Diary. If it were to be destroyed, Riddle would cease to exist.”

“How’d he destroy it?” Hermione asked, never one to let an opportunity to learn about powerful magic slip by.

“By using the same sword that ended Salazar Slytherin’s life,” Harry replied. “He’s a descendent of Gryffindor…extremely distant, mind you, but he and his brother are the only known descendents of any of the founders. Well, most people don’t know that Tom Marvolo Riddle…Voldemort, is Slyrherin’s descendent.”

Ginny frowned. “Professor Dumbledore has a brother?”

Harry nodded. “His name’s Aberforth. He’s actually the bartender down at the Hog’s Head. He isn’t nearly as magically accomplished as his older brother, of course. Or, at least, he hasn’t used that power in the same way.” He smiled. “Daphne seems to like him.”

He cleared his throat, determined to finish this story. “So, anyway, he stabbed the sword through the diary. The weapon is imbued with the magic of its creator, and was thus able to not just physically destroy the Diary, but also to annihilate the…creature that was bound to it.”

Hermione looked like she was getting impatient, something that struck Harry as quite odd. “This is all very interesting, but it doesn’t sound like you’ve told us anything groundbreaking.”

“I’m sure he’s getting there,” Ginny growled at her. “Aren’t you?” she asked firmly, staring at him. He nodded.

“I am,” he said. Another deep breath and he began speaking. “When the Diary was destroyed, the magic that Riddle wielded wasn’t. Magic is like matter; it cannot be destroyed or created. It merely exists. As such, when the item that the magic was bound to was obliterated, it sought a place to go-”

“You,” Hermione said softly, “It used the connections that Riddle had forged with your magical core to channel all of that power into you.” She looked at him expectantly.

Slowly, he nodded. “It did.” He sighed deeply. This next part was the hardest to admit, but he pushed back his fears and continued. “It’s ironic, really,” he said, not sounding in the least bit amused. “The magic that I…absorbed from Riddle is probably what saved my sanity. My body and mind were broken, and should have been beyond repair. But my new power protected me, nourished me and aided my body in repairing most of the damage. When I was healthy enough to be conscious, I woke up. Had I woken sooner, the damage would have probably been permanent.”

He chanced a glance at his friends. Ginny was hunched over, small hands on her lap. Her freckled alabaster complexion was much paler than usual, and Harry thought he saw tears shining in her eyes. Hermione was completely silent, her mind trying to process everything she had heard. Harry also noted, with some misery, that her hands were clenched into tight fists, her knuckles white from a lack of blood flow.

“I didn’t realize what had happened, at first; no one did. Madam Pomfrey detected unusual amounts of stray magic, but I suppose she attested it to the injuries to my core. We didn’t realize what had happened until the first time I actually tried to perform magic.” He laughed slightly, sounding more pathetic than cheerful. “And, of course, being me, the first real test of my magic, outside of a couple of Lighting Charms, was a duel with Tonks.”

Hermione gasped, and her eyes narrowed. “Has Daphne lost her mind? You could have been killed! Tonks could have been killed.”

Harry swallowed hard. Ginny didn’t miss it. “And that’s what happened, wasn’t it. You must have overcharged your spells without meaning to, and injured both yourself and Tonks in the process.”

Harry nodded. “I was more shaken up than anything else, but she had to go to St. Mungo’s for a cracked skull. I hit her with…well, what should have been a Striking Curse.”

Both girls nodded. “What happened next?” Hermione asked.

Harry sighed. He was conflicted over how much he should tell them. He settled on telling them everything, no matter how embarrassing or frightening. It didn’t really make a difference, anyway. His friends weren’t going to abandon him for anything he’d done, and they’d find out somehow sooner or later and question if he really trusted them. He did, and they needed to know that. “Well, there was only one option, really. Bind my magic.”

Hermione frowned. “How could you do that? Did Dumbledore created some kind of small Wards?”

Harry shook his head. “Daphne managed to create barriers to keep most of my newly acquired magic in. I say most because I insisted that I gain at least some immediate benefits.” He took in another deep breath. “But I’d be lying to you if I said that was all. When Daphne first came to me about binding my magic, I reacted…violently.”

He paced in a circle, and then sighed. “I don’t know what made me do it, but I suppose I was just frightened by the prospect of being controlled again. I suppose it didn’t help that I was still hateful and distrustful of Daphne for what she did to me in the Chamber.”

Hermione and Ginny nodded in unison. He felt greatly relieved. Hermione opened her mouth to ask a question, probably related to how this led to Harry attempting to court allies at the age of thirteen, but he waved her off. “Please,” he said, trying not to sound like he was begging. She relented. He checked his watch. He had fifteen minutes. “It hasn’t worked like she hoped it would. Twice, my magic has broken free of its bounds. The first was the time that I was attacked by the Hippogriff. The second was when I summoned my first corporeal Patronus.” He shrugged. “I actually used the feeling that I felt when that magic was coursing through me as the memory for that Patronus. I’ve never felt anything like it.”

Hermione looked like she did in her first year at Hogwarts when in Potions. The only thing that was missing was the wildly waving hand held so high over her head that Harry feared she might dislocate her shoulder. “There’s more,” he told her, and she relented again. “Because of where I acquired the magic, it’s much more dangerous to both myself and others than if I had developed it naturally. It’s fully mature, while my natural magic isn’t. Worse, it also carries with it the…stain of its former master.” He paused, ignoring the flabbergasted look on Hermione’s face. “The form my Patronus took more or less confirmed what we’ve all feared; that is, Daphne, Dumbledore and I. It was an Adder, a magical, highly venomous snake that will be forever known as the species of all of Lord Voldemort’s familiars.”

Now he was very conflicted. Did he want to tell his friends about what he knew of the Prophecy? They answer was unclear. He knew it would benefit him to have others to consult, along with Luna, who seemed to either know what he knew or simply sense the destiny that lay before him. Let’s see what they have to say about what I’ve already told them.

Ginny blinked. “That’s all?” she asked, sounding a bit disappointed.

Harry glared at her. “You were expecting more?” he shot back. She flinched, and he felt a twinge of regret.

But Hermione was also looking at him with her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Yes, we were,” she said. “We were expecting a reason why you’ve decided to skip the rest of your childhood and rub shoulders with the pureblood hierarchy at the age of thirteen.”

Harry sighed. So much for keeping it a secret. “Alright, there is a reason for that…but this is even more sensitive than the other information. And this should answer your question. I’ve also got something to say on that note, something that will probably reassure you a bit.”

Hermione nodded. She wasn’t budging an inch. “Go on.”

“First, I found out something while I was recovering…something that shouldn’t have surprised me…really, it didn’t. It was more surprise that Daphne had hidden it from me than shock from the secret itself.”

He paused for a long moment. He knew that Daphne had given him her blessing to tell them whatever he wanted. But at the same time, he wasn’t sure he could do this.

For the first time, Hermione’s faced softened completely. “If you really don’t want to tell us now, that’s alright. We’ve got enough to think about already. We’ll give you time if you need it.” She managed not to add that class started in ten minutes.

Harry shook his head emphatically. “This is complicated,” he admitted. “I’m not sure I even understand all of it.”

“Just tell us what you can,” Ginny put in quickly, probably sounding a bit more excited then she meant to.

He sighed. “Basically, I overhead…” he paused again, debating on how to explain the Prophecy and its connotations. He thought it best that he started from the very beginning. “Fourteen years ago, at the height of the First War, a Prophecy was made. A Prophecy that would have a tremendous impact on the lives of a number of individuals…and the Wizarding world as a whole.”

Hermione gave him a look that seemed to say, ‘Keep going.’

“The contents of that Prophecy were overheard by an agent of Voldemort,” he continued, noting with a small amount of satisfaction that neither one of them reacted to the name. “And from that information, he made the decision to hunt down a child. A child that had actually not yet been born at the time the Prophecy was made.”

He looked at both of them. Hermione was frowning, as if trying to understand how what he was telling them related to the situation. Ginny simply looked back at him, urging him to continue. “That child was me,” he said. Hermione sucked in a breath and nodded in sudden understanding. Ginny looked confused, but didn’t say anything.

“So that was the reason that V-v-Voldermort went after your parents?” Hermione asked. “Because of this Prophecy. What did it say?”

Harry shrugged. “After Daphne told me the Prophecy, she consulted Dumbledore, and the three of us agreed that she should wall off the memory until I was both capable of handling the responsibility and protecting it myself. I don’t remember the exact text. What I do know is that it involves me and Voldemort, that it is the reason he tried to kill me, and that it is extremely important that it remain secret. Of course, I’ve drawn my own assumptions from that. I don’t know if I am the key to defeating him once and for all, or if I simply play a major role. But the connotations are obvious.”

“So let me get this straight,” Ginny began, sounding a bit peeved. “You decided to befriend and take Blaise into your trust, began acting about twice your age, and made me and Hermione wonder if you were losing it because of a Prophecy made fourteen years ago that you don’t even know the contents of? That’s it?”

Harry nodded. “You’ll probably be pleased to hear that Daphne and I have decided to let things happen as they will and to simply leave the ally-gathering for later.”

“And Blaise?” Hermione asked, sounding quite irritated. “What about him?”

Harry took a deep breath, meeting her gaze. He saw a great deal of concern, confusion, and anxiousness in her brown eyes. “I still consider him a friend, though I am going to have to rethink how much I trust him. He’s assured me that he’ll keep what I told him secret, but I’m going be his friend because I like him as a person, not because he has connections. That was stupid and misguided to begin with.”

“Took you long enough,” Hermione growled under her breath.

“I’m sorry for hiding this from you. But I hope you know understand what’s at stake. Both of you could be killed because of what you know.”

“We don’t care,” Ginny said firmly. She got up, ran over to him, and hugged him firmly around the waist. He returned the embrace with fervor. Hermione approached and wrapped her arms around both of them. Still, it wasn’t surprising when she abruptly let go and gasped in alarm.

“We were supposed to be in class five minutes ago!”

Peter Pettigrew sat on the stone ledge, invisible all but the most discerning eye, his magical signature and presence hidden from even the razor-sharp sense of Albus Dumbledore, his former Headmaster.

He was in the Owlery, where he often spent his early mornings. He hoped he wouldn’t be interrupted this time by some student desperate to mail something home. When that happened, he was immediately forced to transform back into a rat, and retreat to the safety of his cage on the nightstand beside Ron Weasley’s bed. Of course, he’d also have to be careful to avoid that blasted Kneazle mix, Crookshanks he thought Ron had called him, that seemed to be able to sense that he was no ordinary rat.

And then there was the matter of Sirius. Sirius, who was probably hiding in several different locations in the Forbidden Forest, using the centaur leader’s life debt to him to his greatest advantage, was less of a threat. He was fuzzy on the details, but it sounded like Sirius had attempted to abduct Harry using the tunnel that went from a cave near the edge of the lake into the lower dungeons. He’d been stopped by Snape. Peter had chucked (or rather, since he was a rat, squeaked) at the mention of that. As he expected, rather than giving him away, it simply made Ron praise him as a “bloody brilliant animal.” Peter didn’t particularly care for being called an animal, but he took compliments where he could find them.

There was a small burst of blinding light as the sun peaked over the distant hills and began its slow, steady trek across the sky. Peter felt the urge to clap his hands with glee. He loved the sunrise. Perhaps it was because it reminded him of his father. Henry Pettigrew, a hard-working, stubborn Muggle, always got up at sunrise to feed the chickens and tend to the garden and small farm that supplied the Pettigrews with both food and income. His son would often be awoken by the sound of the creaking old gate that Henry never saw fit to either ask his wife to cast a Lubrication Charm upon or simply grease the hinges himself. Perhaps he felt it would be a break in his normal routine.

His mother had loved his father dearly, enough that she had distanced herself from the rest of her family when she fell in love with a Muggle. The Gatlands had been, in Peter’s opinion, a family obsessed with heritage for no reason. They had countless Squibs in the family, many had married Muggleborns or Halfbloods, and they had no fortune or inheritance to speak of. But Patricia Gatland had dared to cross the line, no matter how meaningless it was. However, her family had faded away, becoming entirely irrelevant, never gaining the slightest sliver of the respectability they felt they were entitled to.

It had all changed when his father had died. It had been a senseless death, a Muggle death. A simple car accident had claimed Henry Pettigrew’s life. He had not been drinking. He had not been speeding. The other driver, who survived, had been driving a bit too fast, but it had been a mere quirk of cruel fate that had put Peter’s father in the wrong place at the wrong time.

They had not had insurance of any kind, and they had just been getting along, requiring financial aid from Hogwarts to help fund Peter’s education, at the time of the tragedy. They had not had the money to pay for a Muggle or Wizarding funeral, and Henry’s parents had long since died. Henry had been buried in one of the field, a nondescript marker indicating his final resting place. They had been forced to abandon the farm, forced to rely on only his mother’s mediocre magical ability and her work at a Muggle tailor shop in the nearby town.

This event had been a turning point in Peter’s life. For desperate, lonely, seeking comfort from those he considered his friends, he had gone to them. They had ignored him.

Well, perhaps that wasn’t exactly the way to put it. Sirius had ignored him, offering a few unhelpful and dishonest condolences. James had seemed exceedingly uncomfortable, and taken to avoiding him as he moped. Remus…well, Remus had been the only one to say a consoling words to him. Still, he had remained distant. It had been at that time that Peter had begun to realize that none of them truly were his friends — that they saw him as a tag-along, a nuisance. Oh, he continued to play the role perfectly, but inside he fumed. He graduated and joined the Order of the Phoenix. Still, he remained in the shadows, taken for granted.

Then, about a year and a half before the war came to a stunning end, he had been approached by an agent of the Dark Lord. An agent that offered riches and power beyond his wildest dreams, an opportunity to strike back at his turncoat friends, true acceptance into an order of strength…if he would agree to spy on the Order of the Phoenix, and receive the Dark Mark.

Peter hadn’t even hesitated. And for the next year or so, he had been the perfect spy, gathering information and secrets and giving them to the Death Eaters, allowing them to spring ambushes, break through wards, attack when the Order was elsewhere occupied. He was trained in the Dark Arts, tutored mostly by Amycus and Alecto Carrow. He had become truly powerful, ready to serve his master in battle. But such was not his task. The Dark Lord had held him back, just as the Order had, but the difference was that the Dark Lord assured him that he would play a crucial role in the months to come. He had been content with that.

And then, after James and Lily Potter had gone into hiding, Peter had waited, biding his time. He knew that Sirius would fear that he was an obvious target; it wasn’t as though he wasn’t. And so, when Sirius had brought the issue up, he had been there, ready to take on the mantle. The only obstacle, Daphne Dressler, had removed herself from the picture by her heinous actions the night of her husband’s death.

Peter had waited again. And then, on Halloween Night, a traditional holiday of Darkness, the time when the wild and primal magic wielded by the Dark families was at its greatest strength, the Dark Lord himself had arrived. His destiny had accompanied him.

But it had all gone wrong. His Master had failed in his task, defeated by the very infant he sought to eliminate. He, Lucius, and Bellatrix had fled from the burning cottage, knowing deep within their hearts that it was over; that they had been defeated.

And so Pettigrew, knowing that his treachery would be blatantly obvious to Sirius or Daphne, had tried to flee.

And now, twelve years later, he sat on the cold, stone ledge of the Owlery Window, watching the sun rise. It had cleared the hills now, and the sky was bathed in fiery orange light.

Pettigrew sighed. He had grown tired of hiding, desired to return to some level of respectability. But that was the trouble with being dead.

Besides, he knew that he had a duty here. Somehow, he knew that his master would rise again, and soon. He knew that he had no choice but to aid him in any way possible. But he could not do it alone. He needed to find others, to rally them to a cause thought dead by so many. But he could not for the life of him figure out a way to accomplish this. None of his comrades who had slipped seamlessly back into their lives of wealth and respectability would be willing, though they would no doubt flock the risen Dark Lord when he returned, begging forgiveness.

He needed help; not merely to help restore his Lord, but to discover a way to mollify him. Though he might be blameless for the events at Godric’s Hollow, the Dark Lord would not be so forgiving, even of imagined sins. He needed a gift, a treasure of great worth to present to his Lord as an apology.

Potter.

Of course, Peter realized. Should he successfully abduct and hide the boy, perhaps blaming the entire thing on Black in the process, Voldemort would accept him back with open arms, so much as such a thing was possible. But, again, he needed help. He was not in a position to take the boy, and he had no safe place to hide or to restrain him. The boy was powerful for his age, and his power could only grow.

He needed allies. What I need, Peter thought, is Amycus and Alecto. But where to find them? And how to contact them? Or to make them believe that it‘s actually me. And how to decide when they should come.

These were questions that Peter knew he needed to answer. But for the first time in years, he felt a glimmer of hope. He had a plan.

And for the first time in his life, somehow he knew he was guaranteed of success. The Dark Lord would rise again.

And Peter Pettigrew would at last have revenge over those that had betrayed him.

She couldn’t believe how cruel she had been. Not only that, she still couldn’t believe she’d managed to convince herself that what she was doing was necessary. She had been angry with Harry for what she had interpreted as a betrayal of trust. But that was her selfishness talking. Harry had been thinking nothing of the sort. Rather, he’d been trying to help her, seeking advice from a boy that might know a great deal more about magic than they did.

She just didn’t like Blaise Zabini. He struck her as overly-cunning, manipulative… oily. He had somehow gotten into Harry’s good graces, and that shocked her considering how distrustful she’d expected him to be following his ordeal with Riddle. All this talk of ‘pureblooded allies’ and ‘leaderships roles’ had baffled her, and the fervor with which Harry pursued these aims was stranger still.

But she had stuck with it, keeping her doubts to herself, trying to allow Harry the benefit of the doubt. She was confident she knew more about Harry than he himself knew. Both of them had seen each other at their best and at their worst, had been tested to their limits, and had faced certain death. They had been far closer than best friends, and had an implicit trust in each other, knowledge that one would always protect the other, be it from enemies or from themselves. And, Merlin knew, Harry and Hermione both occasionally needed such protection. Hermione’s overzealous nature, her unquenchable curiosity and desire to learn, her compassionate nature: Her unshakable belief in fairness and equality for all, and her inherent trust in authority tended to get the better of her at times.

As for Harry, he struggled with overconfidence, misplaced delusions of grandeur, and a belief in his own maturity. The latter was especially problematic. It wasn’t merely that Harry thought like an adult, it was that he thought he thought like an adult. The truth was that he thought like Daphne. The difference between the rational thought processes and beliefs of a typical adult wizard and those of the misguided and fanatical Grey Maiden were tremendous. Like Harry, Hermione believed, Daphne looked at the world in a way she thought was completely rational and well-reasoned, when in reality it was none of those things.

And Harry wasn’t much better. Her worries and concerns had continued to mount with each time Harry had come close to death and plowed on as if nothing had happened, driving towards some grandiose plan that Hermione and Ginny secretly agreed was absolutely ludicrous. The idea that a thirteen-year old wizard, no matter how famous, could have not only the desire and willingness, but the ability to rub shoulders with some of the most powerful and dangerous magical persons in the wizarding world was insane and unsupportable.

Really, Hermione thought, there are two people to blame for this mess Harry got himself into: Daphne…and Blaise.

She honestly believed that if Zabini hadn’t rendezvoused with Harry during the summer, then butted his head into their train car on the Hogwarts Express, that they would all be the better for it. Harry had been given false hope, something Hermione thought showed that even Blaise, (who pretended to be humble and unassuming even though he radiated arrogance in his speech and posture,) could be as naïve and misguided as Harry had been. Just because he grew up a pureblood didn’t make him an expert.

Her quill broke with a snap and ink peppered the page of the essay she had been writing for Herbology. She groaned softly, trying not to draw attention to herself, and then carefully cast a Cleaning Charm, trying to focus as hard as she could on the unwanted ink blots, lest she lose thirty minutes of hard work. She managed it, though she had to retrace a few letters here and there. She cast the same charm on her hands, set the broken quill aside, and pulled out a new one. She stared out the window at the gloomy skies as she dipped the tip of the quill in ink and began thinking about what she was going to write.

Though she could not see them, she knew that Harry and Ginny were both attending Quidditch practice in the miserable November weather. It seemed to Hermione that the weather became even worse on days that they spent out on the Pitch, honing their skills like the rest of the Slytherin team.

Normally, she would be there, cheering her friends on, but for some reason, today she didn’t feel like it. It wasn’t as though she needed to finish this essay now; it was due in three days, and incorporated material they hadn’t even covered yet. Still, for the first time she could remember, she found herself envious of flying…and of Ginny.

It was…strange, and even somewhat troubling that she was jealous of the attention Harry gave her. She wasn’t sure, but she guessed that Harry was starting to have...feelings for the redhead, if his unusual awkwardness around her was any indication. He also seemed to look to her more for approval, although Hermione wasn’t sure if she was making that up or if it was actually true. She found it difficult to think rationally when emotions clouded her mind.

She had an idea of where the jealousy came from. Her idea had mostly come out of the realization that she’d never felt jealous when Harry was interacting with Tonks, yet she did when he spent time with Ginny. Mostly, these occasions came when he flew with her or occasionally gave her some tutoring on Spellwork, on the rare occasions that she requested it. She’d tried to be more independent, do more of her own work, and Hermione could only applaud that.

No, perhaps it was from her unreasonable and childish ideas that the two were inseparable. She was especially troubled when she somehow felt superior to Ginny because the younger girl hadn’t been there when Harry and Hermione were going through the hardships they endured during their First Year, hadn’t charged with Harry across a field of deadly plants, fought a life or death battle with life-sized chess pieces, run from their lives from malevolent flying keys, faced down the Dark Lord himself in the chamber where the stone was kept. Hermione often felt the urge to laugh at herself. To be perfectly honest, as much credit as Harry gave her, she had been the one that had to be rescued from death by Harry’s decapitation of the black king. She had been paralyzed with fear on several occasions, not the least of which was when Harry had screamed at her to run for help as he dodged the blows from the troll, and she had just stood there, motionless, watching as the creature nearly extinguished his young life. Merlin, I poisoned him! she told herself, laughing in a self-deprecating fashion at her justifications for disliking Ginny Weasley.

And it wasn’t as if Ginny couldn’t have taken her place in all of those events. She was a Slytherin, albeit in a different way than Harry was, but she wasn’t a coward. Hermione knew she still had quite a ways to go before her personality became what it would be. Only of Harry could she say that one of them had matured far beyond a boy or girl of that age.

Of course, that didn’t mean he was criminally, painfully stupid at times.

She shook her head, double-checking her information on the Wailing Willowgrass. It was, as always, almost a word-by-word translation of the textbook. Ginny can’t do that, she whined mentally in an intentionally petulant tone. She almost giggled at how stupid she sounded. The thought of me being as stuck-up and arrogant as Pansy Parkinson is just frightening.

Then, of course, there was the matter of what her disturbingly heartless actions had prompted Harry to reveal. And while some of it came as no surprise, most was absolutely shocking.

The idea that Harry possessed as much raw power as Professor Dumbledore, a comparison that even though Harry had never made directly, still sounded quite reasonable, was absolutely incredible. She knew her friend was special, had known from the moment he’d met her in that rickety boat of the shores of the Hogwarts Lake, but this was something else entirely. She wasn’t as well versed in magical history as Harry was, but she knew enough. She knew enough to realize that a recurring theme was that all wizards, pureblood or not, were drawn towards powerful magic. That it was untrue to say that most wizards and witches possessing that much power had become leaders of thousands, on occasion, millions, before the Great Divide of 1947, when most of the countries possessing large wizarding populations had adopted a posture of isolationism, rarely cooperating or interacting within each other. Hermione found it quite ironic that the fracturing of relations had come in the same year that the United Nations had been formed.

Rather, it was accurate to say that all witches and wizards of tremendous power had become leaders with statures that matched their abilities. Voldemort, Dumbledore…and Harry…

She had never seen Daphne Dressler in combat before, though a small part her greatly desired to observe the abilities, instincts, and knowledge that had earned Daphne a reputation as one of the most fearsome and feared duelists in a century. But now she knew that if Harry was able to harness his power, he could swat his guardian aside like an annoying insect. It was almost wrong for a boy his age; and that’s what he still was, a boy. Of course, as Harry admitted, he couldn’t access most of his power, much less control it. But Hermione had seen enough to know that Daphne’s wishful thinking, that she could control his power until he mastered how to use it, was the stuff of dreams. One day Harry would show what he could do, probably without even meaning to.

And that, Hermione knew, was when all of his grandiose ambitions would have a chance of being achieved. Purebloods were quick to side with a new force, especially if that force wasn’t staunchly opposed to the Light. And Harry wasn’t. At an earlier time, the idea that Harry might rationally weigh his options and willingly choose to become a Dark Wizard might have frightened her. She knew better now. Dark Wizards and Witches merely had a different belief system, believed in different kinds of magic, believed in freedom. If their magic didn’t have the capacity to be so deadly, Hermione might have bought into their arguments. While most of them were bigots and looked down upon Muggleborns with disdain, it wasn’t a prerequisite.

It was probably better not to even think about that. Harry probably hadn’t even thought about it yet, though once his power was public knowledge, he’d be under tremendous pressure to choose. And either way, one side would be very unhappy with him.

Hermione normally didn’t think that far in the future. It was pointless, because most predictions of what tomorrow would bring were usually wrong.

Again, she shook her head to clear it, and dipped the tip of her quill in ink. She began writing, trying to push her concerns out of her head. She gave it up as a lost cause just as quickly.

She set down her quill and sighed. She shouldn’t have been surprised that Harry would play a crucial role in the final destruction of Voldemort, but hearing him speak the words was still chilling. They didn’t even know the details, nor did they know when Voldemort would rise again.

Most believed that Voldemort had been destroyed forever on Halloween, 1981, his taint cleansed from their world. They were wrong, all of them. As long as he existed, as it was quite clear he did, if not yet in corporeal form, he was a threat. And until he could be found and eliminated, one had to assume that he was just waiting, regaining strength. The destruction of the Philosopher’s Stone, and his defeat at the hands of tremendously powerful magical forces had driven him back to square one, had undone all he’d accomplished in the past ten years. Harry believed this, and for once, Hermione had every bit as much conviction.

But all talk of Prophecies, destinies, and power aside; she needed to apologize to him. She wondered if Ginny already had. She expected so. Ginny had been, at first, a fully willing participant in her refusal to speak to Harry, but she had become steadily more reluctant and regretful. It was a good thing that Harry had broken first, because Ginny had been on the verge of giving it up. And that would have accomplished absolutely nothing, but to drive a wedge between Harry and Hermione.

She rubbed her temples tiredly. All of this thinking and soul-searching was beginning to give her a headache. She was also hungry, not only for nourishment, but for human interaction.

She packed up her things, loading them into her bag, and slung it over her shoulder. As she left the library, she noticed Luna Lovegood sitting innocently, reading the Quibbler…right-side-up for a change. As she left, she sighed. The awed way with which Harry regarded the enigmatic girl was something she wondered if she’d ever understand.

Somewhere below him, Daphne was in the stands, cheering enthusiastically for him. The sole exception to parents being banned from school grounds was that they were allowed to support their children in Quidditch or other types of competitions. Daphne, of course, had taken full advantage of that. Harry had been very glad to see her, to be perfectly honest. His misgivings hadn’t faded completely, but he still gave her an enthusiastic hug and whispered that he’d missed her. She did likewise.

They’d taken a long walk around the lake, talking about a number of things, discussing what she’d heard was going on in the wizarding world, and her continued quest to become a Trainer for the Aurors. Scrimgeour didn’t like her, because she so freely used Dark Magic, and she knew that. Still, she hoped what she could bring to the table and teach the Ministry’s best might overcome that. Alastor Moody, her mentor, had used Unforgivables more than once, albeit not with the lack of concern that Daphne did, and still been given a position, though he was now retired. Harry personally felt that Daphne needed something else in her life besides him, something else she could focus on.

He dove into the rain, wind whipping about him, thunder cracking in the distance, so loud that it could be heard over the screaming crowd. For once, Harry wasn’t under a tremendous amount of pressure. The Serpent Chasers were playing well, overcoming mediocre defense by Tracey Davis, who still seemed to be learning the tricks and trades of her position. But with an 80 point lead and a panicked Ravenclaw team trying desperately to get back into the game, Harry merely needed to keep an eye on Cho as he searched. He doubted she would have any more luck than he did finding the Snitch in this weather. He hadn’t even seen it since Madam Hooch had released it at the beginning of the match.

The crowd roared and booed as Pucey executed a questionable maneuver that resulted in him nearly colliding head on with one of the Raven Chasers. Most of the noise was outrage over the Serpent’s actions, while the rest was Slytherins upset that they hadn’t gotten the call. While Snape might have given it to them, Harry wasn’t surprised or upset. Pucey, like Flint before him, always tried to bend the rules. Harry looped around the pitch, sparing a glance at the teacher’s box, where Daphne and Remus were sitting. Daphne looked like she was enjoying herself, taunting Flitwick, her former Head of House, as if she was a teenage schoolgirl again. She wore a Slytherin scarf and green robes in support of him. It was, to Harry’s eyes, one of the most beautiful things he’d ever seen. He so rarely saw Daphne truly enjoy herself…at least when she wasn’t laughing at something unfortunate, albeit harmless, that had happened to him. Remus, sitting next to her, seemed to waiting for Harry to do something, indicating he was cheering his student, not the Serpent team as a whole. He was actively following the game.

Again Harry scanned the field, and again he saw no sign of the Snitch. He had completely tuned out Lee Jordan’s horrifically biased commentary in order to maintain his focus, and he glanced down to follow the current play, making sure that Cho was still in his line of sight. He watched the Ravens execute a flawless scoring drive, dodging several Bludgers, including one from Grunitch that nearly took Roger Davies’ head off, passing the Quaffle back and forth and diving around the defense that Malfoy and Pucey tried to mount (Montague was on the other side of the field, trying to draw the attention of the Raven Beaters.) Davies shot was perfect, curving just enough so that the trajectory was difficult to pick up while at the same time it would go straight through the right hoop. Davis had no chance, and Ravenclaw had cut the lead to 60.

Harry sighed. This had been a recurring problem for the last two years: the Serpents tended to become complacent after they built up a big lead, allowing the other team to get back into the game. Sometimes, they would respond with a run of their own; other times, they would fall behind and put the pressure on their Seeker to bail them out. Harry had seen this progression of events too many times.

He dove towards the rain-soaked pitch, partially out of boredom and partially to throw off Cho. He’d made the mistake of overusing the Wronski Feint and its variants, but as good as Harry was at executing them (something which was extraordinary for a player his age,) the other Seekers were beginning to catch on. However, in the rain, Cho couldn’t be sure if he’d seen the Snitch or not, and followed him down, exercising due caution. She knew as well as he did that with his superior broom and handling, if he had seen the Snitch, it was far too late for her to do anything. He pulled up, racing along the slick grass, actually sending up a spray of water as his boots dragged across the soggy field. He gained altitude again, avoiding a half-hearted attempt by one of the Raven Beaters, Bradley, to bring him down. Only the Weasleys were good enough to even have a chance at knocking Harry down.

The game continued to drag on as both teams exchanged several goals. Fifteen minutes later, the Slytherin lead was 50, and the game was going on two hours. Harry’s teeth were chattering loudly, and his body was numb from exposure. He couldn’t feel his hands, and occasionally had to glance down to make sure they were still tightly wrapped around his broom. He was about to cast a Warming Charm when he finally caught a flash of gold. He checked Cho’s position, and realized she hadn’t seen it. Knowing that he didn’t have the option of drifting over and therefore not attracting Cho’s attention, he flattened his body against the shaft of his broom and launched himself through the air, trying to follow the upward flight of the Snitch. Cho saw him and raced after him, trying to gain altitude. Harry was far above the pitch now, at least 100 meters in the air. A flash of lightning broke his concentration, and he cursed in frustration. The Snitch was gone.

Harry shivered from the cold, his teeth rattling. Abruptly, he had a vision of Daphne’s face, contorted with rage and malevolence, and his body flooded with adrenaline. Dementors.

He dove, no longer caring about the outcome of the match. Cho appeared to be frozen in mid-air, staring at the swarm of black-robed figures that were closing on the opposing Seekers. Harry closed his eyes, and tried desperately to fight off the mental attacks of the Guards of Azkaban. Then, with a sudden inspiration, he stopped his fall, took his right hand off his broom, and snapped his wrist, sending his wand into his frozen fingers. He raised it towards the sky, and then hesitated. Daphne’s words of warning rang in his ears, overwhelming the screams of his mother and Voldemort’s malevolent laugher as he cast a Slicing Curse at Hermione’s limp form. “No one can know…”

He knew that it wasn’t an option, and he began descending again. He needed to get to the ground. His vision was darkening; a fall from this height might be more than embarrassing; it could be fatal. The Dementors seemed to follow him as a group, descending down on the Pitch at the same rate that he did. Harry suddenly noticed a lone figure standing in the middle of the pitch, his wand arm raised, a furious expression on his face. It was Dumbledore.

Harry couldn’t hear the words, but the largest Patronus he’d ever seen exploded from the tip of his Headmaster’s wand. The silver Phoenix launched itself upward, flying right through Harry as it did. He felt a tingling sensation as he flew into it, and his fear began to fade. The second it had passed him, it returned. Her heard Daphne cast the curse, heard his screams of agony. He felt ill and weak; his vision became blurry and slowly began to darken. He managed to slow himself before making a bad landing, stumbling off his broom and falling to his hands and knees in the mud and grass. He felt Daphne’s presence and felt a hand grab him by the shoulder, gently pulling him to his feet. The rushing sound in his ears finally faded. He felt the urge to melt in his guardian’s arms, but resisted it. She whispered something, and he shook his head weakly, indicating that he didn’t understand. “You made the right choice,” she said softly, and Harry nodded in agreement. Exhaustion overtook him, and his knees buckled. Daphne held him upright. “Let’s go; Dumbledore is suspending the match. You aren’t in any condition to fly, anyway. Nor, I suspect, is that Chang girl. She’s badly shaken up.”

Harry glanced up for a moment. Daphne was right, of course. Cho was on the opposite side of the pitch, several of her female teammates at her side. She was pale and though it was difficult to differentiate between the two in the rain, Harry thought she was crying. Davies was already arguing with Madam Hooch to suspend the game, and Pucey was on his way over.

The entire stadium groaned with it was announced that the game would be postponed and completed the next weekend, with the score remaining the same. Daphne began to lead Harry off the Pitch, hands on his shoulders. It looked like Ginny and Hermione were trying to fight their way through the crowd and get over to him. The rest of the Slytherin team was maintaining a respectful distance, though Malfoy was hardly maintaining a respectful attitude. His comment that Harry could, “be spooked by a house-elf” was silencing by a withering glare from Daphne, carrying with it the implied threat of physical agony if he didn’t shut it. Draco was no fool, and complied.

So Harry had taken a different approach. He’d let her come to him. He had begun to notice the looks that Luna had mentioned, simple curious glances that might be innocuous to most, but the fact that the Greengrass Heiress was devoting an unusual amount of attention to him was significant in itself. She and Harry had not spoken since her ‘test’ on the very first day of school. It seemed that the only person she ever spoke to was Theodore Nott, and occasionally Blaise.

Of course, it quickly became evident that Daphne Greengrass wasn’t going to make the first move. It would be a sign of weakness to come to him when he was the social inferior. Harry was a half-blood, she was a pureblood; it was as simple as that. It did not imply that she was unusually prejudiced; she had been taught to behave in a certain way from the age she was old enough to understand such things.

In the end, he’d found her when he least expected to. He’d simply been on his way back from Ancient Runes when he found her sitting silently on a stone bench that jutted out from the walls near a closed window. She appeared to be deep in thought, but her posture was completely upright. He approached slowly. “Greengrass,” he said.

If he surprised her, she didn’t show it. She didn’t jump or snap her head towards him. She merely turned around, shifting on the ledge, and met his eyes. “Yes, Potter?” she asked. Her voice was bland, disinterested, but polite. As usual, one couldn’t tell if she was irritated, pleased or angry. She wore her long, blond hair over her shoulders, and her robes were spotless, a rarity in the dusty corridors of the castle. Her features were sharp and defined, but not exactly delicate. Refined, Harry thought, was the best way to describe her.

“I’ve noticed the unusual amount of attention you’ve been giving me, and wonder if you might want to talk,” Harry replied, trying to keep his voice as even as the girl. He wasn’t sure he succeeded.

Again, Daphne didn’t show the slightest sign of surprise. Either she’d expected this, or she was simply covering up her real reaction. She smiled slightly, though it was more of a smirk. “Is giving you an innocent glance once in a while really an unusual amount of attention?” she asked off-handedly, a bit of rare amusement in her voice. “I would think that your fame would afford you a great deal more than that from others.”

Harry groaned inwardly. He’d made his first mistake barely fifteen seconds into this conversation. He’d made the assumption that not only was she looking at him for a purpose, but that he knew that purpose. Daphne was a master at this, the art of deflecting any questions she didn’t want to answer while getting what she wanted to know from another. Many pureblood could speak for hours without learning a single bit of important information. “Perhaps that may be true,” Harry admitted. “But you are hardly a normal admirer.”

Daphne gave him a look that might have been pity, and he winced. “Flattery is hardly necessary, Potter,” she said, settling back into a slightly amused expression. “Perhaps you should stop trying to play games you aren’t equipped to play and simply ask what you are so desperate to ask?” she suggested off-handedly. Harry had to fight to keep himself from blushing. She was embarrassing him.

I’m sure that’s exactly what you want, Harry grumbled to himself. “What do you want?” he finally asked, trying to sound more curious than irritated. Again, he wasn’t completely able to keep his tone level.

“What makes you think I want anything?” she asked innocently. “After all, a few looks in your direction is nothing unusual. You may be the Boy-Who-Lived, but that means little to me. You are little more than a social inferior, Potter, and you’d best get used to that. Perhaps I was wrong in my original judgment of you.”

Harry was shocked, not by her bluntness, even though it was unusual, or her harsh assessment of him. He was shocked by the fact that she’d said something he knew was untrue. Still, even with this break, he needed to be careful here. He was in no position to sound arrogant or pompous. “Am I really?” he asked. “I would think that your family might have a bit more gratitude towards me.” He didn’t like taking undue credit, but few knew what had really happened in Godric’s Hollow.

Daphne raised her eyebrows. “You actually remember…not that I’m impressed,” she added. “I’m merely surprised. Yes, Potter, my family owes a debt of gratitude to you, and your defeat of the Dark Lord. I’m sure that you remember what I said about our involvement, about how he murdered my mother and sister for refusing to take the Mark.”

Harry nodded. He did remember the story, one that was all too common. Voldemort was ruthless, punishing his followers for disobedience, disloyalty, and incompetence, as well as those that refused to serve him. Harry didn’t know much about Daphne’s father, and figured he make it a point to learn as much as he could.

“While it wouldn’t be accurate to say that my family owes a debt to you,” Greengrass continued, “my father is still grateful that your defeat of the Dark Lord happened when it did. The Dark Lord did not simply send his Death Eaters to attack my family; we had already split up and intended to flee to the continent. His followers abducted my mother and my sister, and sent my father a pensive memory of their executions. As you might expect, though we are sworn to the Dark, we have no love lost for the Dark Lord.”

Harry nodded. “And what, exactly, does this have to do with me?” he asked, trying to sound curious, not confused.

“For now, it means little,” Daphne admitted. “However, in the future, that may change. The Dark Lord will rise again, and soon,” she said, concealing her true emotion about this possibility. “The signs are everywhere; former Death Eaters that had abandoned their Lord and melted back into everyday society are meeting more often. Suspected Death Eaters have been gathering at remote places in the countryside. At the Halloween Ritual, the magic turned the color of blood.”

The last was a reference that Harry couldn’t place, and it showed. Daphne didn’t sigh or show any impatience, probably resigning herself to the fact that Harry simply didn’t know as much as she did, or as much of the details. “I expect you don’t understand the significance of my last statement, as your guardian did not see fit to educate you properly in the traditions of either the Light or Dark. While the solstices and equinoxes are important to both groups, the day of Halloween holds a special significance to Dark Families, more so than those sworn to the Light. Rituals are traditionally held, rituals which are used to predict the fortunes of the family over the next year. They also can be used to predict catastrophes or unbalancing events to come.”

Harry nodded, indicating he understood. “A series of complicated and intricate Rune Circles are used to create a beam of magic, which is expanded into a haze. The hue of the magic can be used to measure the status of the imbalance of Dark and Light, and also to determine the likelihood of conflict in the near future. Blood indicates that a conflict is inevitable, and will begin within the next two years. As you can imagine, the pureblood world, Light and Dark, were quite shocked by the results. While the scale of magic has tipped towards the Light for centuries, the imbalance has become greater since the First War. But beginning five years ago, the imbalance has begun to wane. The Darkness is growing stronger.”

She regarded him for a long moment. “One of the strangest things I’ve ever witnessed occurred last year. The imbalance shifted dramatically towards the Light. I believe you know why.”

He nodded. “Voldemort’s defeat in 1991.”

She nodded in reply. “Yes.” She paused again, as if trying to find the proper words to explain something. “Such a shift has been seen only twice this century, and they were easily predictable. I’m sure you, even without the knowledge of the results, can tell me what events the Rituals preceded. Or, in one case, coincided with.”

“Halloween 1981, and the defeat of Grindelwald in 1945.”

Daphne nodded. “The point is, Potter, that signs abound that the Darkness is rising, returning to full strength. A storm approaches, a terrible, powerful storm that I suspect you will be in the middle of. And for that reason, my father has asked me to tell you this. When the time comes, if we judge you as worthy then as we believe you will be, we will stand beside you. Do not think of this as the formation of an alliance,” she cautioned, “merely a spark from which one can be formed.”

Harry nodded. He understood the difference now, and knew that while Daphne’s family was taking a step towards allying with him, it was more an expression of interest than anything permanent.

“I hope that you will consider what I have told you. I will continue to observe you, Potter, as that has been what I’ve been asked to do. I will judge you based on who you are, not what you wish to be.”

She rose and departed. Harry immediately set off for the library. He had some research to do. He might have laughed at the irony if the situation wasn’t so serious. Daphne had been right when she told him he needed to just let things happen as they would. His time would come. And with the help of his guardian and his friends, he would be ready for it.