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Echoes of Power, Part I: Anger | ||||||
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Category: Alternate Universe Characters:Draco Malfoy, Harry/Ginny, Hermione Granger, Luna Lovegood, Minerva McGonagall, Neville Longbottom, Remus Lupin, Ron Weasley, Severus Snape, Sirius Black Genres: Action/Adventure, Drama, Humor Warnings: Death, Sexual Situations, Violence Rating: R Reviews: 542 Summary: Harry mysteriously disappeared at the age of six, and then benefited from years of tutoring from an old family friend. With the return of Voldemort, it is finally time for a 15 year old, well-trained and somewhat cynical and sarcastic Harry to take up his place at Hogwarts. Life at Hogwarts, however, is not always what Harry anticipated. There, secrets are revealed, allies are discovered, and the journey to power begins. Completely AU. Hitcount: Story Total: 334507; Chapter Total: 11734 Author's Notes: See the end. |
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SPECIAL A/N: Due to the length of the chapter, I put a special marker of “=== ===” about half-way through. If you have a hard time reading all the way through a long chapter in one shot, take a break there and come back to the rest. All other A/N commentary is at the end, folks. Chapter 26: Acts Thurs, 22 Aug 1991 He must not disturb them, he told himself, ignoring the warble in his thoughts from pain as he moved. It had been so long since he had known what it was like to be pain-free that he just accepted it as part and parcel of life. Life was better than it had been years ago, but he knew there was little hope of release from the hand he had been given. Long years had driven that message in fully. Magic thrummed in his head as he surveyed the floor. It was time, no, it was almost time, yes, it was almost time. Time was hard to keep track of, but he knew it was important to do everything properly. Improper timing was bad, and bad meant punishment. Punishment was part of the Proper Order, for only punishment could make the bad good. That was the principle truth. Good was what he was supposed to do. Yes, yes, good. He must do good, for in doing good, he pleased them, and in their pleasure, he was able to do that which he enjoyed, that which gave him value in life. He knew it was nearly time, and he knew it would be good, he just needed to get this done in time for the time to be right. Holding out one hand, he swept it in an arc, slowly purging the floor of detritus that had invariably accumulated from the inhabitants of the rafters since the last time the time had been right. This was good, this was right, and the thrumming pleasure of the magic brought a faint smile to his lips. He was all but unaware of how the magic made him more alive than he had been seconds before, the little hope nestled deep inside reaffirmed. With the floor cleaned, he moved over to stand under the rack of a dozen miniature bins, floating near the ceiling, and carefully cancelled the Hover Charms holding it up. As it gently descended to his level, he inspected each bin to be sure the stone was fully polished. A burst of magic here or there, and each bin was immaculate, almost gleaming in the early morning light. With a short step back, hand held out in careful concentration, he forced water from the bucket into every other bin until it was so full that surface tension was the only thing preventing the surplus from running across the floor. He paused to enjoy the feeling of the magic as it lifted and channelled the water from the large bucket into the bins. The time was almost right, and this was good. This was proper. Wary of running out of time, to becoming the wrong time, he hurried to channel the pellets into those bins lacking water. Each bin rapidly filled with a small mound, the pellets arcing through the air as his magic commanded them to. Without thought for the pellets that stopped their dance as he turned away, he scurried to the only other furniture in the room, negligently looking back to snap his fingers once sharply. The hover charms reengaged, and the platform of bins drifted back near the elaborate perches at the ceiling. Before him stood a duo of glorious, alabaster unicorns, each half-reared in a unique pose as if preparing for battle, their posture and coats indistinguishable from reality. He knew visitors thought them merely incredible likenesses, but the truth was there for anyone that wanted to look closer — they were quite real, but Petrified. He knew because his magic told him so. He could feel the trapped life within each mount. When he was young, he had felt regret for the unicorns. Now, he understood what the unicorns never would, and this was just the way things were. Time itself was no barrier to the cruel reality of life. Those things that were meant to be free, would be free, and their freedom was precious. Their freedom must be protected, for above all, it was fleeting. For everything else, there was an order, a place to fit, a role to fulfil, and a life irrevocable. He wished he had a true role, a purpose, but knew that such was not for him. He had found no purpose. No purpose beyond the magic. Time was passing, and he became worried. It was almost the wrong time, but his task was not finished. Conjuring a cloth, he gently polished each horn jutting from the unicorns before wiping their coats down. He knew that the coats had to be kept in pristine condition, or else it would be bad. He shuddered to think of the last time he had been bad with the unicorns, so he kept his mind on the task under his hand, working out any dust or insects that sought to lay claim to the unicorns. Their exteriors were far too fragile in the suspended state, so it was a task of manual labour, one that he enjoyed regardless of what it was he really was engaged in. Abrasive magical cleaning day-in and day-out would mar the beauty, the terrible beauty of the mated pair. Just as he finished, it went from the right time to the wrong time, and a lone great eagle swept into the small room, searching for a place to land. With obvious reluctance, the massive bird eventually dropped onto one of the unicorn horns, shifting around in nervousness as it tried to settle from its flight. The bird’s distaste for the perch was etched in its half-parted beak, its half-opened wings, and its keening cry of anger. He hardly noticed. His vision was locked on the letter tied to the leg of the eagle, the one his magic remembered. The letter thrummed on its own, and it radiated a sense of power and command that he recognised immediately. Unable to stop himself, he shivered violently as he looked at the oddly unfamiliar writing scrawled on the outside. It was too late, it was the wrong time, wrong time, so very wrong time. He moaned in his fear, knowing that this was a portent of horrible things. Freedom was the little hope he longed for in the silence of his heart, but the best he could expect was to watch others enjoy it. Those that were meant to be free, were free, would be free, must be free, until there was no freedom. For everything else, everything without freedom, there was a role to fill. Hesitantly, he untied the letter from the eagle, which immediately launched itself off the unicorn and back into the sky, the wail of horror and keening fading with the bird as it bore angry witness to the clouds. He was left holding the letter, watching the bird fly into the heavens, and lamenting that his own role was so much lower than that of the great bird of prey stooped in servitude to carry messages. He longed sometimes to fly away with the birds, but those were bad thoughts, and the binding too strong. Unable to stop the shudders, he rapidly moved down from the Owlery into the manor proper. He ignored the view of the large and heavy iron gates and the highly-ordered grounds as he scurried down from the tower. He was in such a rush and shaking so badly by the time he reached the bottom of the stairs that he almost fell and broke his own neck. That would be escape, an almost freedom, yes, but it would leave his work undone, that would be bad. That would be bad, bad. Bad means punishment. He was conflicted for a moment, unsure whether he should admit the bad for the punishment, delaying the letter, because the delay in delivering the letter would be bad, worse bad, and the punishment much, much worse. He would be bad twice as much that way, rather than if he delivered the letter now and punished himself after. That was less bad, but bad needed punishment. With the decision made, he all but ran to the door of the study. He must not transport about the Manor, it was bad, bad because it made things happen that were not supposed to happen unless the wrong time was here. It was the wrong time, but not that wrong time. Wrong time, wrong time. Rapping sharply on the door, he pushed it open and kept his eyes on the floor, shuffling in as quickly as he could. He was bad. He had bad thoughts of almost freedom, but he had to deliver the letter. The letter had to be handed over. Yes, handed over. “Stop shaking!” The voice was laden with contempt and irritation, but he could not suppress the violent tremors in his extended hand. The letter was snatched from his hand, and he promptly picked up the cane by the desk and beat himself about the head with it. He had only landed two blows before the cane was forcibly removed from his hands and a boot launched him across the room. “Out!” The imperious order was clear, and nothing could be more important than being out of the room. Unbidden, the writing came to mind again. Lucius Malfoy Wayward Servant Malfoy Manor Fear was with him, killing his mind. Without thinking, his magic thrummed, and he transported himself to just outside the study door. Bad, bad, bad. Bad thoughts on freedom, bad shaking hand, bad for moving how he was not supposed to, he was bad, bad, bad. He was still beating himself about the head, making the bad good with the metal gewgaw in the shape of a serpent, when the voice came again. The previous imperiousness had been replaced with overtones of urgency. “Dobby!” oOo oOo oOo Tue, 24 Dec 1991 “Grand-ma?” “Yes, Harry?” Perenelle turned from watching the passers-by and regarded the young man by her side. Harry was looking around at all the people in Diagon Alley, secure in his disguise and charms, as were they all on this cold and windy day. For some reason, he seemed rather anxious today, but she thought it was likely just the Christmas season and perhaps, to a lesser extent, nervousness from all the people crowding the shopfronts. Even with the disguises and glamours, they rarely ventured into crowded places where other magical people congregated. “Why does Grand-dad Nicolas want to get these books so much?” Perenelle sighed. Harry had, naturally, brought up a point that she and Nicolas had been arguing over for some time. She felt that Harry had no need to learn the types of things Nicolas was planning to teach him, as she knew how dangerous such knowledge could be even to a trained mind, let alone a developing one. “They are very rare, Harry,” she said after a moment. “When he learned they would be available, he wanted to get them not only so that others would not, but also because he feels there are things he can teach you from them.” “But you don’t like them, do you?” His open green eyes made her sad, as she could clearly read their pain. He had learned to set it aside, but it was still there if you knew how to look for it. Regardless, it had been an interesting two years, and she would never think of giving up her time with her new yet motley family. Harry’s question went to the heart of the matter, but the implication was that he knew she had been arguing with her husband over the books. And this was despite the heavy warding they had done after magically expanding the above-garage flat that Remus had been living in, moving Remus into the house proper with David and Harry. Sighing, she wrapped one arm around Harry’s shoulders, pulling him into her side as she walked with him towards the windows of an apothecary next to the intersection of streets. “No, Harry, I don’t.” She pitched her voice low and trusted Harry to keep still so that her whispers would be sufficient. “These books . . . they are full of Dark things, and I wish they did not exist. But wishing does not change facts, and we must live in a world that is not what we wish it to be.” As they stopped and looked without seeing through the over-sized panes, she kept her eyes on the reflections of the people behind them as she expressed her concerns. “You must understand, Harry, that Dark magic is insidious for many reasons. One of the worst is that it’s addictive, and you won’t realise it until it’s too late.” She saw two shoppers collide briefly and tensed her arm around Harry’s shoulder. “Promise me, Harry, that you will not practice these things. Learn of them, research the tools and methods of your opponents, but do not directly use this knowledge yourself.” Harry was silent for a while, and she let him have the peace to think about what she had said. Nicolas had been working with Harry since finally taking him on as an official Student back in early April. The tutoring and studies that Remus and Nicolas had kept Harry engaged in prior to that status change were subject to far too much paperwork should they be discovered, so Nicolas had persuaded the family to enrol Harry as his War Mage Student. It was non-binding, with the majority of Students ultimately finding the role undesirable and withdrawing before the Apprentice stage was reached. Regardless, it had neatly outflanked the various restrictions the British Ministry insisted on imposing over any and all magic use throughout their isles. The family’s efforts to mask everything had made a haven of sorts, although it was incredibly brittle in many respects, but now they were free to be more indiscriminate when away from the Eagle’s Nest. “What if it’s the only way to win? Or save someone’s life?” Harry’s question jarred her back from her thoughts, and she implicitly understood what he was asking. If he knew how to do these things, and he could save someone — someone like his mother, real or adopted — why would he not use the skills that would save a life, a loved one? She turned to face Harry fully, resting her hands on his shoulders. It was always startling to realise that Harry was growing tall. Soon she would not be looking down at him but rather looking equally at him. “That’s why they are so insidious, Harry. You might be able to use them once and get away with it. But then next time, you will think you escaped the last time, so once more is acceptable. That voice telling you these things is the one that came into being on the first use, and it will grow stronger each time.” She made sure his eyes were on hers before she finished. “It would be a short time indeed before you became that which you hate, Harry.” She was pleased to see him nod his understanding, although she could tell it was not truly real to him. His lack of personal experience with addiction was what made Nicolas’ plan all the more dangerous in her mind. Were Harry older and more experienced in life overall, rather than having too much experience with narrow topics, she would be less concerned. In many aspects of living, however, Harry was an innocent who lacked the direct and hard-won knowledge of life’s painful lessons. On the other hand, in those experiences she never wanted anyone to go through, he had far too much knowledge and understanding. “Will you promise me to not directly use this knowledge, then, Harry?” She could tell he was reluctant, but she could also see the desire to please her and do as she asked coming to the fore. She knew that once he gave his word, she would fear things less, but she would still be worried for her adopted grandchild. His life was far too full of trouble to take risks such as these without caution. “My lady,” a warm voice said next to her, one arm firmly wrapping around her shoulders. She had known that voice now for well over six centuries and knew that she would be able to pick it out of a crowded room full of impersonators. She let her pleasure at his return grace her face as she pulled her arms from Harry and pulled her husband to her. Stepping back for a moment, she could tell that something was wrong. Remus stood with Harry, his hand loosely clasped upon Harry’s shoulder, as the two men regarded her solemnly. “What is wrong, husband?” Nicolas frowned slightly, and she knew it irritated him that he was never able to hide anything from her. During their courtship it drove him to great lengths to discover her secret, but only because he never believed her. Her answer had not changed through the many years, but it had become a bit of a game between them. “They are gone, sold already.” Nicolas had a grimace on his face, one that she thought was far more like a child’s pouting than a grown man’s ire. It never helped when she smiled at him in his moods, but she could not help seeing the handsome young man she had been courted by, no matter the years that may have elapsed since then. In her mind, he would always have that vibrant smile and the eyes that held secrets beyond imagining. Setting aside her thoughts, she contemplated the implications of her husband’s statement. That the books were still out there was unchanged from before, but the fact that they were now circulating in England after crossing over from Eastern Europe was disturbing. “And do you know to whom they were sold?” Nicolas shook his head, and she knew he was telling her that he had failed to learn by any means where and to whom they had been sold. That spoke of either memory charms or other powerful magic, for Nicolas, as a full War Mage, had rights and skills that others did not when it came to obtaining information. She decided that they would be discussing events that evening, for she would not let Nicolas keep whatever information he had gleaned to himself. With grace and practice honed through time, she put a pleasant smile on her face and turned back to Harry and Remus. She could discern the werewolf’s lingering tension from the recent full moon. “Well, since our reason for being here is lost, shall we do any shopping? Or would you rather just go home for tea?” She could see the hint of excitement in Harry’s face, as any opportunity to see more of the world he was a part of, yet apart from, always interested him. This caused Remus to smile in turn, and she knew he could read Harry as well as she could. They had all completed their Christmas shopping before Hogwarts released its students, deliberately avoiding the chance of Harry running into a crowd of other children. Now, however, she was willing to relax the rules slightly and let Harry explore, despite the many children present. With all other shopping done, the three adults could monitor both the area and Harry to be sure that nothing was risked. As she felt her smile transition from forced to natural, she swept her Nicolas along with her as their arms entwined. “I can see the answer, so I’ll just say this once. You must have one of us with you at all times, Harry, all right? Now, do lead us where you would like to go.” As she strolled along behind Harry and Remus, she enjoyed the brisk weather, although it was a tad more uncomfortable for her than for her boys. There was something fundamentally unfair about using Warming Charms when moving about outside in the winter season unless you were doing something that truly warranted it. Harry was making an obvious beeline for the Quidditch shop, talking in rapid-fire excitement as he gestured with his hands. Ever since she had let Remus talk her into getting a Nimbus for Harry in September, he had spent most of his free time pushing the boundaries on the wards they would temporarily erect at fields near their home for his ‘lessons’ — as if the boy needed anything as mundane as lessons that they could ever teach about flying. She turned and shared a smile with her Nicolas, as it was obvious that he was thinking the same thing she was. Their long time together made such things quite common. In truth, she was willing to let Harry wander a bit as they had also promised to keep Harry away from the house for at least two hours. That would give David plenty of time for wrapping presents. His work schedule during the holidays was difficult and tiring, but, since he had the next week off, she had been hard-pressed to persuade both him and Harry to actually go to bed last night. Both had been too busy trying to repair an old O-gauge train set that David had dragged out of the storage cupboard. The tracks were running all around the modest Christmas tree that Remus had procured, and it became a challenge to work out exactly what incline the engine could ascend while pulling a set of cargo cars loaded with sweets. Her reminiscing came to a stop as she realised that Harry and Remus had stopped talking animatedly, and Remus was leaning down, partially in front of Harry, the two talking quietly but urgently as they walked somewhat slower. Remus stood abruptly and motioned for she and her husband to close the distance and join them. “Nicolas,” Remus said quietly, “you’ve been working with Harry on his vision problems. Harry’s telling me that he’s having a hard time seeing the man in front of us, the one with the odd headpiece.” “Oh?” Nicolas disengaged from her arm and traded places with Remus. She took Remus’ graciously extended elbow but stayed close to her husband to hear what was being said. “Harry, what type of problem is it?” From talking to Nicolas, she knew that Harry’s vision problems were nothing of the sort, but rather were an over-sensitization to strong magic. Nicolas was convinced that there was more to it than that, which had been one of the many points in the argument to keep Harry out of Hogwarts, but they had not yet come to a true understanding of the intermittent phenomenon. “He keeps disappearing, like he’s walking through muddy water.” She could see Harry’s hands move to his face and knew he was probably rubbing at his eyes again. David had been most concerned that Harry might need glasses, but Nicolas had shown the fear invalid with a few simple tests. “How would you say he appears muddy? Like he’s brown? Or something else?” “No, darker than that.” Harry walked a little faster to get closer to the man, who was still in front of them by several yards. With pressure upon his arm, Perenelle urged Remus to keep up with Nicolas and Harry. “You know how at dusk, when a bird flies by, and you can see it for a few moments, and then you can’t? He keeps coming and going like that.” Everything stopped, however, as Harry clapped both hands to his forehead and fell limply to the ground. oOo oOo oOo Thu, 14 Sep 1995 Harry sat up abruptly, rubbing at his forehead, which throbbed in time to his pulse. A lingering echo of pain long past followed the vestiges of dreams into the darkness, but the blankets he was half entombed in kept him from leaping out of the bed as his reflexes demanded. Instead, he found himself half leaning over the edge of the bed, the railing on the side the only thing that kept him from landing nose-first on the ground. With a deep breath, Harry heaved himself back into the sheets and lay supine upon the bed as he let his consciousness reacclimatise to the quiet of the room and the dead of the night. With a reluctant glance at his watch, he realised it was half-past the witching hour, and the drug-induced haze imparted by healing potions was quite finished. There would be no return to sleep anytime soon, not with the lingering fringes of pain and memories better lost in time than burning in hollow laughter. Resigned to the inevitable outcome, Harry disengaged himself from the mummifying grasp of the blankets and slid onto the floor. Healer Worthy had told him he would be relatively normal “tomorrow morning,” and it was certainly that now. She had warned him of several treatments that would conclude late the previous evening, so as far as he was concerned, he was free to depart, given that he was awake and the Sleeping Draught was no longer actively suppressing his faculties. While the hospital wing pyjamas were as uncomfortable as his memory reminded him, it was a dawning sensation that he had indeed worn them during his sojourn to the Shrieking Shack yet had failed to notice them. Now, with the various potions’ potency faded to almost nothing, Harry was acutely aware that the pyjama material was irritating his nerve endings. Idly, he wondered if that was a calculated effect, but regardless it was readily corrected. A short but quiet search to locate his former clothing turned up the items, although they were in somewhat worse condition than he could recall seeing them in last — they were but remnants and tatters, with the edges burned on the remainder. One sigh of reluctance later, Harry had Transfigured his pyjamas into the thick and soft variant he had worn during his prior unintentional visit. It was a further drain on his core, which he knew would still be low for at least most of the day to come, but it was worth it just for the comfort. Gathering up the tatters of his prior clothes, Harry wrapped the bundle around his broom and quietly pushed open the door into the main infirmary. Immediately he saw a bright flash of magic, and he was almost positive he heard a faint bell sounding somewhere. Looking carefully about, he saw Ginny and Neville still in their beds, fast asleep, but otherwise there was nothing even remotely out of place. The entire wing was quite dim, and he hurried for the doors. On his second step, he heard a harshly whispered “Stop!” from behind him. Harry turned in place to see Healer Worthy bustling toward him, her wand prominently displayed. “And just where do you think you’re going, Mr Potter?” “To my own bed?” Harry thought that answer was at least reasonably safe, even if it was somewhat less than accurate. “Do you have my permission to leave?” Harry had to admire how the woman’s tenacity regarding his health kept her so engaged, but at the same time he wished he had thought to check for traps before leaving the room. He was now certain that she had placed some type of trigger alarm on the door, not trusting him to stay in his bed even under the influence of potions. That required a mental note to increase the personal paranoia level when inadvertently staying in the infirmary in the future. “Well, you did tell me that the last treatment I’d need was before bedtime last night and that I’d be mostly normal the next morning. You do know it’s the next morning presently, right?” Healer Worthy’s expression was enough to cause Harry to take one step back, subconsciously preparing to defend himself. He had the distinct impression that no one had ever used her own words against her before in such a literal fashion. There was always hope that Cyril had beat him to it so she would feel less compelled to beat him back into need of potions. “Yes,” she finally ground out, as though the admission cost her part of her soul. “I suppose I did. And do you think you’re well enough to be up and about?” Harry shrugged briefly. “All things considered, the trolls aren’t complaining much.” “Trolls, Mr Potter?” “I’ve never seen my own insides, right? So how do I know there aren’t a bunch of little trolls running around in there, making it all work, and faking symptoms? Maybe it’s all just a big conspiracy from Healers?” Harry gave her his best grin, though he hoped it was less like the one Neville was so worried about. “Oh, I’ve seen blood and bits and pieces, but that doesn’t rule out my troll conspiracy theory.” “I see.” Healer Worthy gave him a level look before the corner of her mouth twitched slightly. “And they just happen to have a good drum set in there, then?” “Sure. It’s a bit monotonous, I’d think, but it’s probably just a cadence beat to let the others keep track of time.” “Somehow, Mr Potter, I don’t have a hard time imagining that you are made up of little trolls.” She let out a long sigh before glancing at her own watch. “And what assurances do I have that you’ll actually go to bed? You seem to have a record of being . . . somewhat delusory in your actions.” “Oh, that hurts,” Harry murmured. “Delusory? I’d much rather think I’m being roguish.” “It happens to be a perfectly cromulent characterisation, and you know it. Now answer the question, or else I’m going to fetch another Sleeping Draught and let your kidneys remind you tomorrow not to be pretentious with your Healer.” Harry immediately held up his hands, knowing full well the ache that over-dosing some medications could cause. “Right, then. I propose to fly myself back to my rooms, change into some respectable clothes, write a lengthy message for Cyril, and then sleep. Of course, should I happen to find Cyril awake and alone, I’ll substitute a discussion for the message.” He watched as she tapped her wand tip slowly into her left hand, somehow knowing he had won this particular skirmish even if she was putting on a show about it. He suspected the crackdown was more a lingering desire to make it clear he was to follow medical instructions, despite his own notions or prior history with the matter. “Very well, Mr Potter. I’ll release you. I expect you to check in with Madam Pomfrey both tomorrow evening and anytime the day after. No dodging this, all right?” Harry agreed with a nod rather than risking more banter. It was always possible she might change her mind. With her sharp nod in return, he watched her stalk back towards Madam Pomfrey’s office before he turned to leave. He stopped, however, when he saw Ginny’s eyes reflecting the light. It was apparent that she had been awake for at least some of the exchange with Healer Worthy, but he was uncertain whether he was ready to have the conversation he needed to with her. It was something better handled with more time lapsed since events transpired, given that neither one of them would benefit from the buffer of fading memories if it was dealt with now. At the same time, he felt somewhat obligated to at least see if she wanted to talk, given how she had risked her life — even if it had merely been unwittingly. “All right, there, Ginny?” he asked quietly as he stopped by her bed. She no longer had bandages covering her that he could see, but her pale skin left her looking somewhat worse than she likely felt. Her eyes were watching him, and her facial expression was preternaturally calm. “You don’t really let yourself think about it, do you?” Her voice conveyed the same eerily placid demeanour she was projecting, even though her voice was barely louder than a whisper. “Ah, think about what?” Her question was so vague and poorly framed for context that she may as well have been asking about the weather on the moon. “Your life. What you’ve seen, what you’ve done, what’s been done to you.” For this, Harry had no answer. He knew it was a topic he was completely unwilling to discuss with her, especially considering the complete lack of security around them. “You don’t really expect me to answer that, do you?” He recognised that his tone was cooler than he had intended, but she had asked a rather personal question. “No, not really.” She paused and continued to stare at him for a moment. “I don’t think you have an answer, actually.” For some reason, Harry found her comment irritating. Not only had she asked him what could only be considered a deeply personal question, but she had openly doubted he had the presence of mind to be introspective when needed. Her entire reaction to his polite query was nothing short of inexplicable. “I see. When you spend a day in my shoes, we can talk about it. Did you think about your actions at breakfast?” Her hidden reservoir of acceptance and peace was starting to really grate on his nerves as she continued to regard him without any obvious reaction. “Sort of.” He watched her shrug absently and stare blankly at one of the torches on the wall. “At the time, it was obvious you were in pain. I wanted to remove the thing from your hand, since it had to be the source of the problem.” “Right. So with your advanced wisdom, did you stop and think what that might do to you?” She looked at him again but still failed to react. “Let me make it clearer. You risked your life for something you knew nothing about.” “I think you’re exaggerating, Harry.” She looked sheepish for only the faintest of heartbeats. “All right, I did get hurt, as did others, but none of it was from the orb. It was all from you, or so I was told.” Harry found himself sitting in the chair, unable to grasp the idea that she had no appreciation for how dangerous her acts were, regardless of the source of danger. “You don’t know, do you?” he finally asked. “Know what?” It was her blithe indifference and casual demeanour that finally drove the reality home. She truly had no idea what she had briefly come into contact with, and now he could either tell her or let her continue in her ignorance. “That orb wasn’t from your mum, you know that much, right?” “Of course. Mum might be right hacked off, but she wouldn’t deliberately hurt you like that — well, not without a lot of cause.” “Then let me educate you. That orb was from my dear old friend Tom Riddle. Of course, you know him better as Lord Voldemort.” As her eyes slowly opened wider, it became clear that her initial reaction was disbelief, yet it moved quickly to a very disturbed acceptance. “H-how do you know it was h-him?” For some perverse reason, Harry was happy her serenity was well and truly shattered. “Oh, he told me, of course. It was a little toy he came up with so we could have a quick chat.” Harry shrugged absently at her look of creeping horror. “He’s not my favourite correspondent, you might say.” “W-what did he want?” Harry decided that he would simply ignore the question and instead bring up the conversation he wanted to have with her rather than the one she was having with him. “I’m inclined to release you from your pledge to me and tell you to train on your own. I could probably provide some books you could read.” “What?! Why?” Her harsh whisper was so loud that Harry promptly cast a sound muffling spell around them to prevent waking Neville or drawing the ire of a resident Healer. That done, he turned back to Ginny, only to see that her complexion was apparently battling between pale and flushed in anger, but he was not particularly interested in her thinking on the topic. “You want me to spell it out? I always knew that coming here would be telling Riddle where to find me, and it traps me here. Anyone that I’m too friendly with will be of great interest to him, and if I train you, I’ll be spending the most time here with you out of everyone. What do you think that’s likely to make him do?” Ginny opted to remain quiet, but he knew she understood from the downcast expression she wore. “That’s right. And if you get killed from hanging around me, what do you think your mum would have to say about it? I’m already on her bad side just for you getting dinged up a bit. What do you think that would do to her, after how she lost her brothers years ago?” It took him a minute to realise what he was seeing, but it finally registered that Ginny was scared. She seemed to react slightly when he mentioned her mother’s lost brothers, but there was obviously something more going on. What, exactly, she was afraid of was unclear, but he understood that she was. “Harry, what if I don’t care?” “It’s not about you, Ginny. It’s about what’s right and that, according to the law, you’re not allowed to make that decision for yourself.” “But I need to know what you know! And I can’t ask my parents!” Based on how flushed her skin was becoming, he felt that her fear was giving way to her growing anger, “Why, Ginny? You wouldn’t tell me before. If you want me to consider continuing this, give me a reason.” Harry was apparently privileged to see Ginny Weasley run through a gamut of emotions as she looked away and reverted back to her almost tangible fear. Whatever lay at the root of her problems, he knew, was not something simple or mundane. Since he had never bothered to keep track of the Weasleys’ history before, he had a complete lack of knowledge of what drove her. Harry was willing to give her some time to decide, but without an explanation, he was no longer going to be involved with her training directly. It was safer for her and probably safer for him as well. While he waited, Harry began a series of relaxation exercises meant to calm a turbulent mind, wrapped up with breathing rhythm and reflection. His focus was lost when Ginny finally interrupted him. “Harry, how . . . how secure is it to talk here?” Harry shrugged. “It’s not. I’ve got some minor protections up, but I’d avoid any hard details for now.” Ginny nodded slowly, and if anything, she hunched lower in her bed as she almost comically pulled the blankets firmly around her, leaving only her face and hair exposed. “You know I have six brothers, right?” “Yes.” “I want you to put yourself in my shoes for a minute.” Her voice dropped to a faint whisper, and Harry leaned forward, placing his head near the side of the bed to hear her clearly. “You’re given an . . . an offer. You can agree to do something you don’t want to, to go along with . . . be something you’re not, and you have . . . promises, backed by vows, that you’ll be . . . treated . . . well . . . even though you’re a bit sceptical about it. But if you refuse . . . if you refuse, one of your b-brothers will be required to take your place, and you know that he will d-d-die, s-slowly and p-painfully.” It was clear that Ginny had never talked about this and that she was fighting to keep her emotions in check. “Or that if you t-talk about it, to anyone, the same end comes — one of them d-dies . . . slowly and painfully. And there’s n-nothing that can be done to prevent it. What would you do?” Harry had a very hard time believing that such a situation could exist, particularly the nothing-can-be done part. He was a firm believer that one always had options, and when all else failed, careful application of violence could remove most barriers to life’s little challenges. And yet, there was something faintly ironic in what she was describing. In many ways, Riddle’s offer had the same overtones — he could almost hear Riddle speaking again in the back of his head, a soft voice of sweet reason, ‘do this with me, and things will get better, but otherwise, who knows what will happen, Harry, maybe they will get worse.’ Regardless, Ginny was not at the mercy of Riddle, and Harry hoped to keep it that way. Her problems, therefore, had to stem from some other factor. “Frankly? I’d kill anyone that tried that with me, or anyone that supported them.” He had hoped for a bit of a smile in return, but she merely shook her head. “You might be able to do that, Harry, but I can’t. But if you had to . . . g-go along with . . . it, wouldn’t you want to know how to . . . protect yourself?” “It can’t be that simple, Ginny. Your parents would get involved, they would get the Aurors involved, and would track down whoever was taken. It’s very, very hard to kidnap anyone magical.” Ginny laughed bitterly, which surprised Harry. “That’s just it, Harry. It wouldn’t be kidnapping, and it would all be by the Ministry’s own rules.” Harry shook his head. “That’s not poss–” Harry’s own voice trailed off as he thought about it further. It actually might be possible, he supposed, given all of the other random things he had found possible through the hodgepodge of esoteric rules that made up most wizarding societies. “Okay, maybe it is possible, but I’m having a hard time accepting that it’s the entirety of your problem. Not by a long shot, I’d say.” Ginny shook her head slightly, the red hair billowing up behind her head. “I never said it was all, Harry, but I don’t think I can tell you any more, not right now.” Her pointed look around the room made it clear that even if he badgered her, she would refuse since he had previously admitted to the lack of security. “I see. And because of this, you think I should train you?” Ginny said nothing for a while, and they eventually locked gazes when Ginny turned to look at him rather than the ceiling. “Why is it, Harry, that you are allowed to learn these things and no one else is? Why do you get the special treatment? Anyone else who did even a fraction of what you’ve done since arriving here would have been thrown out ages ago.” Harry had to pause at that question. He made it a habit to keep some things secret, just for the sake of the practice, but there were other things which were dangerous to tell. He had told Ginny and her friends some minor bits and pieces around a Pensieve, but this was more than that and would invariably be told to others. That could only further alienate him from making genuine friends and allies at the school, although he was beginning to suspect that trying to make friends was pointless and unnecessarily risky. “Once upon a time, there was this really annoying Seer that made a true prophecy. You could say that dealing with Riddle is my job, thanks to that Seer.” “Your job?” “Fate’s not in my good graces. Or maybe I’m not in hers. Whichever.” “So you do what you do, learn what you can, just so you can make Fate happy? And that makes you like this?” Harry shrugged briefly. “Not much I can do about it. Riddle believes in what the Seer said, so I don’t have the luxury of ignoring it.” He sighed deeply and began idly playing with the seams on his Transfigured pyjamas. “Honestly, I kind of hate it. I wish I could be like Neville, you know? One more kid in a crowd of kids, not this focal point for life’s pent-up frustrations.” Ginny was silent again for a few moments before she went back to ceiling-gazing. “Really, Harry, you may hate it, but can you honestly say you’d trust anyone else with this ‘job’?” Harry snorted by reflex. “That’s a pointless question, Ginny. I can name a dozen people who, if you asked them that, especially in reference to taking down Riddle, they would all answer ‘no’ with the firm belief that they, and they alone, were the best man or woman for the job. So how am I somehow better than those others? Or the ones you don’t ask?” “Harry,” Ginny sighed, “those others might think that way, but they aren’t the ones with the job, are they?” “Oh, right, and that makes me more qualified. Thanks for that, now I can be happy with my lot in life.” Harry laughed harshly, his mind dredging up memories that he preferred to keep buried in vaults. “I’ll just pick some flowers now and give them to passers-by, shall I?” “Grow up, Harry,” Ginny said with some heat. “You’ve been here barely two weeks. You’ve removed the major dangers from Hogwarts, bypassed the Minister for Magic, and thwarted the man’s chosen representative. All while casually breaking most of the rules of magic that Hermione likes to talk about. If you don’t think that’s a sign that you’re more capable than anyone else here, even the Headmaster, then you’re mental.” He wanted to shake her, to tell her that those things were not his acts alone, that he had a large supporting group that prepared him to deal with those issues. He never came to Hogwarts blind. He knew who would be a problem before ever getting on the train. At the same time, he could see it from her point of view. He had done those things, and his support network was unknown. For all intents and purposes, it made Harry appear as though he was a formidable opponent, but the reality was that he was merely the front man for a potent mix of hacked-off minds. “So because you see it that way, even though I don’t, you want me to teach you?” Ginny nodded briefly, the motion screwing her hair up into a strange shape on the pillow. “If not you, Harry, then whom?” Harry said nothing and only sat there contemplating the situation. Ginny had, at best, given him a tiny hint about what her problems were. Despite the surreal idea of it, he knew that it was probably true on some level, or, at least, she assumed it was true, though she may have lacked the resources to verify it as Truth and been left with only pieces of truth. It was something he would need to discuss with Edgar, at any rate, when he next crossed paths with the vampire. “I’ll think about it.” Ginny looked hopeful at that, so Harry shook his head. “I’m not saying whether I’ll continue training you or not. After yesterday’s fiasco, I can’t do anything today anyway, so I’ll think about it. You’ll also need to tell me more, but not right now. You can keep up with the conditioning and drills without me, though, and we’ll talk again before tonight, right?” Ginny gave him a half-hearted smile. “Right.” Harry rose, but Ginny caught his arm before he could turn away. “Harry, I haven’t said it before, but thanks. Thanks for helping me.” “I hope it does help, Ginny. You should get some sleep, though.” With a short wave of his hand in farewell, Harry dropped the privacy charms and left the infirmary. Though he had told Healer Worthy he was headed back to his bed, Harry had no intention of doing so immediately. At a minimum, he would just toss and turn for hours, achieving nothing, and he had quite a few other things he really should think about in the solitude of the evening hours. Securing time during the day for careful analysis was well nigh impossible. At the same time, he had a craving for some food, so a detour to the kitchen was in order. With Healer Worthy’s consent to return to his room, Harry felt safe in openly travelling the corridors — after all, he was only on his way back and had managed to get lost, should someone stop him and ask his business. Sometimes it was convenient being perceived as new to a location. His side-trip yielded a rather large and excellent bit of flummery in an oversized napkin. With that tucked under his arm, a jug of pumpkin juice in one hand, and the tattered remnants of his clothing in the other, he guided his broom to the top of the Astronomy Tower. Only after he had settled himself on the edge of the parapet did he consider himself lucky that no late-night tryst had been in progress during his arrival. The sweet but spice-free confection was a sharp contrast to the flavourful but barely sweetened juice as he considered the situation. Riddle knew where he was, but that fact had been inevitable ever since agreeing to come to Hogwarts. Dumbledore’s condition was not generally known, which probably kept Riddle from coming to collect Harry forthwith — which meant that on some level, getting Dumbledore healthy was a paramount concern. Since arriving, Harry had managed to secure the antipathy of most of the school, which was beneficial in some ways but definitely not part of the plan they had all formulated before he left. Regardless of any plan they may or may not have had, however, Riddle’s contact yesterday was nothing short of baffling. It went without question that Riddle was a master of magic; that he could use magic in ways that Harry could not even conceive of. When Remus and Riddle had their tête-à-tête in the graveyard of Little Hangleton, it had been a demonstration of Riddle’s profound classical understanding and repertoire of magic used in a direct manner against Remus’ solid new theoretical knowledge and diabolical instincts. Remus had been on the losing end of the battle, and Riddle had left before the situation could get any worse. The worst damage to his reborn body had been mostly pride and a few broken bones. Remus had been not so lucky, and it had been far too close for Harry’s comfort. He was unwilling to accept the loss of anyone else, and he wanted justice, if not outright revenge, for those who had made his life what it was. Yet justice was a fleeting concept, like a fluid that never stayed still or held one shape for more than the time it took to blink. Riddle’s overtures of peace and confession of repentance were a conundrum he was hard-pressed to claim understanding of, let alone acceptance of the words themselves. The idea of Riddle being truthful was, at best, amusing, but Harry knew the believable lie always interwove the lie with parts of truth. As Edgar had pointed out frequently, the word believable was spelled to demonstrate it. The vampire’s constant motto crept into his mind, ‘facts are irrelevant, only perception matters.’ To explore the veracity of Riddle’s claims was an exercise in futility, which Harry understood quite well in principle. Therefore, the facts truly were irrelevant. The perception that was left, however, was not easily classified — Harry’s perception of guile and misdirection was at cross-purposes to Riddle’s newfound attitude of sorrow and his promises of binding vows to stop. The claims to being nearly immortal were easy enough to believe, given the Horcrux problem, yet if Harry helped the man complete his quest for immortality in exchange for a cessation of killing, what would he truly be agreeing to? That was the question for which he could find no answer. Would he be making Riddle immortal or be walking into a trap? Or both? Would Riddle go to Azkaban forever or only for a few decades? If you were immortal, time held little meaning. For that matter, Harry had no idea precisely how Riddle had discovered his relatives or what had happened when Harry was living with the Dursleys. Harry knew that such details were of little import now, not when compared to the bigger picture in play. It still was one question among many stemming from the things that Riddle either revealed outright or hinted at in their dialogue. To what level could this “new” Riddle be believed? That was the question he needed to consider above all others. If Riddle did repent and go to his chastisement, he would turn over the Death Eaters whole-sale, and between their acts, history, and Riddle’s potential testimony, that would be enough to radically clean up the magical society in England. The ramifications of that fallout alone would send shock waves through the entire system, possibly even to the Muggles, as the bribery and corruption would be revealed for what it was rather than masquerading under dubious titles and charitable contributions. While such idle speculations might be pleasant to consider, Harry could not shake the feeling that Riddle’s words were honeyed venom, and should he fail to agree with Riddle, everything would become so much worse. If Harry refused, the implications were that all of the deaths and tortures and crimes to come would be blood that rested to some degree on his hands and his hands alone. The price of saying a most emphatic no might be higher than he could stomach as time, and the war to come, marched ever on. Given how his mind already punished him on a nightly basis for his acts in the past, he could only guess at how much worse it could be when the body count rose daily. Though he had come close to losing Remus before, if it happened for real as a consequence of his rejection to Riddle, he was unsure that he would be able to survive his own mind’s retribution. This was a classical damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-do-not situation, and he could find no solution. He knew he would spend hours with Remus, Edgar, and the others in the days to come, exploring meanings and implications, and they always argued well. Ultimately, however, it was Harry that Riddle wanted, and it was Harry that would have to say yea or nay — not the people that gave him advice, not the people that offered him support. It would always be he alone in the end, and it would be Harry more than any other that lived with the consequences of that decision. The easy grace and soothing tones that Riddle had used left Harry curious about his foe’s childhood. He had seen bits and pieces in Dumbledore’s memories, but those were fragments and only hints of what the boy had been. His knowledge even at the age of sixteen had been nothing short of phenomenal, and his knowledge of magic, Harry suspected, exceeded what Harry knew at the same age. While he thought Hermione’s zeal and quest for knowledge might mirror that of an imaginary younger Riddle, the idea was disconcerting to contemplate for long. Riddle was a loner in many respects and was social only when it served his purposes. He was reputed to be in the library constantly, always studying something, if not making connections to people of status. Hermione was also always in the library studying, but she came to Harry with friendly language and happy tones on a quest to further that knowledge. Yet there was no denying that Harry had status, whether good or bad. What was more, Hermione seemed to hide her relationship with Ginny’s brother for no apparent reason that Harry could discern. Riddle had been capable of astounding feats of magic, and Harry had observed Hermione doing some things he was unsure he could have done without studying for a bit. Harry had a far richer knowledge of the new and improved theory of magic, one he knew surpassed either Hermione’s or Riddle’s at this age, but at the same time, his dedicated training had been funnelled along narrow channels, whereas both Hermione and Riddle were focused on learning everything. It was also unclear whether the Riddle of today knew the theory of magic as Harry did, or if that expected advantage was only extant in his mind. Regardless, he had given Hermione enough hints about how magic really worked that it was only a matter of time before the girl would know what he knew. Given her probable higher innate intelligence and ambition, he was almost certain that twenty years down the line Hermione would be better at all aspects of magic than he was, though she might not be as good of a duellist. Harry’s introspection was cut short when he heard mewling and shuffling feet from the stairwell behind him. Harry knew that he would be unable to truly justify coming out here on the way back to his room, but he hoped he could talk his way out of any immediate consequence. Two cats shot across the roof of the Astronomy Tower towards him, each glowing rather vibrantly to his vision. Harry was amused to see them stop near his feet, their eyes reflecting the moonlight back at him. “Who’s there, then?” called a rough female voice. He looked up to see an older woman coming out of the stairwell, and he immediately knew, based on her magic levels, that she was no more than a Squib — that, or she was magically drained to beyond exhaustion. “Mr Tibbles? Mr Paws? Who have you caught?” One of the cats ran back to the woman, who steadily walked toward Harry, her right hand deep in a hand-bag slung over her shoulder, the left one snapping fingers lightly. As she drew close enough for Harry to see her face clearly, she stopped abruptly and placed her left hand on her throat. “Harry Potter!” she cried softly. Harry felt that the woman was a negligible threat, and her recognition of him was unsurprising given recent events and history in general. The only odd behaviour was her right hand firmly ensconced in the hand-bag, but there were any number of plausible reasons for that. He decided on playing it easy for the time being. “Yes?” She continued to look at him, what little colour he could see in the weak light rapidly fading to near-ghost quality. With a visible shake, she seemed to come back to her senses somewhat. “I’m sorry, Harry,” she said quietly. “I knew you were here, at Hogwarts, but didn’t expect to see you tonight.” She spoke with a familiarity that surprised him, for he had no recollection of this woman. Her tone was far from that of the usual adult assuming the liberty to use his first name. It bespoke of personal experience and intimate knowledge. “Do I know you?” “Oh! You wouldn’t remember!” She looked flustered for a moment before one of her cats — whether it was Mr Tibbles or Mr Paws was unclear to him — began purring and rubbing twixt her legs in a sinuous motion, half-snake, half-smoke. “I was a last-resort minder for you, when those . . . those relatives of yours needed someone in a pinch.” Harry could tell she was incredibly uncomfortable after revealing such information, but it made little impression on his part. There were no memories of this woman or her cats clamouring for his attention — but then, he usually only remembered events before the age of seven in fragments and unsettling dreams. He had spent years learning to accept the reality of life, and even though he would always be influenced by those events, he had learned the hardest lesson in the end. “It wasn’t your fault. You needn’t feel bad about it.” She seemed to sag in relief at his words, but he was unsure as to why. “That’s very kind of you, Harry. I’m Arabella Figg,” she said while she extended one hand, “and I’m sorry for you, anyway.” Harry shook her hand calmly, but her behaviour was something he found increasingly odd. “Why should you feel any responsibility for it?” “Well, Albus did ask me to move to Little Whinging so I could keep an eye out for you,” she said as though it was knowledge he would have possessed long since. Harry’s insides felt like ice, and he was amazed that he was standing so still. When his confusion registered on her, she visibly deflated. “I told him I was going on holiday, but he didn’t think anyone would need to fill in.” “I see,” he finally ground out, though the enunciation was off since his lips were not fully compliant. “No, Professor Dumbledore and I still are catching up, you see.” Harry thought that was a safe statement and probably would be for as long as they were both among the living. “But I’m sure he’ll be more than delighted to tell me the details, Ms Figg.” He had demanded to know about Riddle, but the riddle was on him, for he should have demanded to know about himself first, apparently. “Oh, it’s Mrs Figg, Harry, and I’m sure he’ll tell you anything you want to ask him.” She clucked her tongue briefly. “He was ever so devastated when he found out what happened. Why, just between you and me, Minerva said that it took a physical toll on him. I saw it, too. He moved rather stiffly for a while after we all thought you lost. I was a wreck myself for months.” Harry found himself nodding along, not fully paying attention to what she was saying yet still keeping a record of her words in the back of his brain for later consideration. Dumbledore had set her to monitor him, yet either she was incompetent or Dumbledore had overlooked whatever she was telling him. Harry was puzzled as to what the game was here: was it one of Dumbledore having an agenda, as Remus feared, or was it simply more of the same wilful ignorance that let the Slytherin students abuse whom they pleased in the pious hope that they might choose to reform? Neither path was encouraging, though it was conceivable that there were other explanations as well. Yet, here was one of the people directly involved, and she must know more of the matter than she had revealed thus far. “Surely,” Harry faux-coughed briefly to try to get his voice into a more normal tone, “surely, Mrs Figg, it wasn’t that much of a surprise? After all, if you were watching out for me, then you must have told him that things weren’t well?” She stooped to scoop up her cat, which Harry ignored, focusing more on her frown and the set of her eyes. There were clues here if he could find them. “Oh, I told him, all right, I told him those people were horrid to talk to. I never saw them do anything, no, but I told him they were rude and didn’t seem to care for you.” He was surprised at the vehemence she expressed. “By the time you were, oh, maybe four or so, I stopped saying much about it. I wasn’t allowed to see you often, and you always seemed well enough from a distance. My comments didn’t seem to change a thing, and it just made me ever so upset.” She paused to scratch under the cat’s chin and around the scent glands on its face. “Albus would stop by from time to time, just to chat or check up on you himself, but he never indicated there was anything wrong at the Dursleys’. I think that’s why it hit him so hard, Harry, since he was there and never saw it coming.” Harry made a non-committal humming sound as he considered her words. The headmaster had checked up on him at some level yet found nothing wrong, nothing out of place with the living arrangements, with the food arrangements, with anything. Just another normal Muggle family, perhaps, to the man’s investigative efforts, regardless of where the truth might lie. “Well, Harry, it’s nice to see you again,” Mrs Figg continued on, oblivious to the struggle Harry found within himself. “But it is after hours, and you’re supposed to be with Madam Pomfrey, aren’t you?” Harry shook himself slightly to get his mind back on task. “I was released,” he offered quietly. “I stopped up here on my way back to enjoy the night air.” “Oh.” Mrs Figg placed her cat back on the ground and finally took her right hand out of her bag, empty. “I’ll let it go this time, Harry, but you need to go to your room now. It’s after curfew.” Harry said nothing and only picked up his materials as he nodded his acceptance. True, he had escaped any consequences for being out of bounds after hours, but he had also been given another issue to puzzle over. Riddle and Dumbledore, two different problems with two different sets of actions behind them painting two very different, yet somehow similar, pictures. “Ever since I got here,” Mrs Figg commented as she joined him in leaving the tower, “my poor cats have been all over the place. It’s making me batty, I think. If they aren’t chasing that poor Mrs Norris, I can never find them until they’ve cornered some poor animal. Once they even scared a first-year.” Harry ignored her absent tsk’ing as they descended back into the cold corridors in the castle. “Good night, Harry,” she called out as she moved off, chasing after her cats, which had shot around the corner. Harry was disturbed by the information he had received from such an unwitting source. On the one hand, she had no reason to be deceitful or guileful. On the other, there was a set of implications from her casual commentary that left him with a new headache to add on to all the old ones. When he entered his suite of rooms, he noticed immediately that Cyril’s door was shut. The fire was gone, and the common area was cool. Everything was in deep shadow, the only source of light one faintly burning torch by the door itself. With the realisation that there would be no talking to Cyril tonight, Harry sighed. His fate was clear, and that was an attempt to re-visit Morpheus, even though he knew it would be nearly futile. Locating a bit of parchment and a quill in his room, he left a note for Cyril prominently placed on the small table by the fire, between the winged-back chairs. Cyril — Please wake me if I’m not up before you leave. I need to discuss yesterday’s events with you. — HJP Harry neglected to bring up the lights in his own room or to study the mirror that Cyril wanted him to contemplate. After the dreams and conversations already experienced during the evening, there could be nothing gained by examination of a reflection that had nothing apposite to tell him. Ginny’s question swirled in and out of his thoughts about Dumbledore, Remus, Riddle, and Nicolas. You don’t really let yourself think about it, do you? Of course he thought about it, although he preferred to delay the thinking as much as possible. Thinking never changed the outcome of the past; rather, it only helped you try to avoid the same mistake again. Usually, he found that the mistakes made were glaring and needed little reflection to identify. Deep contemplation, which was what she was probably asking after, was something he wanted nothing to do with. As far as he was concerned, he was miles away from the same place the other students were in, let alone the staff. They were not locked in a battle of life-and-death, or if they were, the scale was so small compared to the one he was forced into as to be almost meaningless. There was no benefit to thinking about his past, other than accepting a date with a riddle that — until recently, apparently — wanted him dead in as abrupt a manner as possible. Thinking had failed to save anyone Harry cared for, and it was unlikely to save him should he face off with Riddle tomorrow. He had to train harder, that was clear. The orb that Riddle had created was magic beyond anything he had previously considered. In fact, the mere notion that the orb worked over the time and distance involved was nothing short of fear-inducing. Time and space were critical components in magic, and Harry would have sworn — prior to the previous morning — that such a feat was impossible if the creator were more than a hundred feet from the creation. That Riddle had casually violated a fundamental premise of the new theory of magic that Remus had developed was more than enough to induce new dimensions of paranoia. Or else Riddle had easy and untraceable access to Hogwarts, which was just as strong a motivator for a healthy paranoia. Perhaps he could discuss it with the headmaster in the more sane morning hours, assuming that the man had recovered and that Dumbledore had some open and frank answers for the questions surrounding what Mrs Figg had told him. The idea that a man so generally revered had mis-stepped profoundly with the Slytherin students was hard enough to accept. The further unsupported implication that the man had known of Harry’s early childhood and done nothing about it was beyond the pale. Should that situation be true, Harry was uncertain he could function in any type of working relationship to the headmaster. You don’t really let yourself think about it, do you? Harry had to admit that he really did try to avoid thinking about it as much as he could. He avoided talking about it, thinking about it, or letting any emotions about it creep into his consciousness. What happened on any given yesterday was only interesting in whether he was still functioning and on track today. The only person he was willing to explore it with was Remus, and it had always been only Remus. While Remus was ready to listen and offer support as needed, their different perspectives on life made it hard to reach any semblance of balance. It was far easier to ignore it, than to contemplate it, than to reflect about it. The grey light of the false dawn was illumining his window by the time the door opened and Cyril looked in. Harry sat up, saying nothing, his body telling him nothing so much as the fact that he was drained. Physically, emotionally, and magically, he was drained, his brain was tired, and the circular thoughts had led him nowhere except to a level of irritation with the girl in the hospital wing who had inadvertently denied him any semblance of Morpheus’ embrace. Cyril backed out of the room, and Harry followed him. While Harry sank into a chair silently, he watched Cyril reignite the fire and light all the torches up to a faint level of brightness, the amalgamated torchlight never overpowering the now roaring fire. “I heard from Remus yester eve, Harry.” Cyril’s voice was soft, muted as the waxing morning light. “Before we discuss that, which I assume is what you wish to talk to me about, I need to explain what happened while you were . . . occupied.” Harry nodded along as Cyril spoke, both in agreement to what he personally wanted to talk about and to what Cyril wanted to talk about. Given that Umbridge had called in the Aurors, he was sure some trumped-up accusation would be levelled along with some new Ministry-backed action aimed to thwart Harry or his objectives in some manner. “I suppose we can skip the lack of logic and arrive at the end. You are not allowed to have personal correspondence that does not go through me.” Cyril shook his head slightly, and Harry could tell it was disgust at the ‘security’ measure that was to be implemented. “You are subject to random searches by me or the Headmaster to be sure you are carrying nothing Dark. You are, again, banned from extracurricular student activities, including clubs and the like, but now for the entire time you are here. And finally, you are hereby warned that any further damage to the school or injury to other students may result in your immediate expulsion.” Harry found himself laughing slightly at Cyril’s expression. “That’s all Umbridge asked for?” “No,” Cyril replied immediately. “She wanted you in Azkaban, but I need not get into jurisdictions with you. Then she wanted you expelled but lacked any evidence for yesterday being an act of your design. Sadly, she did succeed in having Fudge recalled from his holiday. Believe me, Harry,” Cyril said with obvious displeasure, “she very much wanted your skin for a rug in her office, and I think Fudge would be happy to give it to her could he but find a pretext.” “They can stand in queue, then,” Harry offered with a faint smirk. “So the Aurors have all left?” “Partially. Hogwarts Staff have been notified that the Ministry may conduct random Auror sweeps to ensure ‘the safety of the student body.’ I am unclear why Fudge is so against you, Harry.” Cyril paused to give Harry a very clear invitation to explain the irritation. “Honestly, Cyril, I couldn’t tell you. I know I’ve been a public sore spot for him since getting here and everything that happened with those purebloods.” Harry shrugged. “We know he takes money from an interesting subset of purebloods, we know he supports their agendas, what we don’t know is why. But if I had to guess, that’s the source of the problem.” Cyril shook his head briefly. “So Albus said as well, and I will tell you what I told him. There must be more to it than that.” “Well, they certainly can’t pin some of the slow legal reforms on us, assuming they’ve even noticed. If Fudge knew even half of what I’ve really been doing these past few years, I’d be in Azkaban, my limited Mage status be damned.” “Perhaps, Harry, perhaps,” Cyril replied, but the disquiet of his manner left Harry confused as to what his Mentor might be worried about. “I am concerned at your lack of concern for this situation, among others.” “What? You want me to be worked up over what Fudge wants?” Harry laughed bitterly. “I’m not about to worry about that fool. I’ve much more serious things to worry about if the mood strikes me.” “So you worry about our Riddle, but not much else?” Cyril seemed intent on extracting some particular thought from Harry. “Did you follow the implied repercussions of my answer? Riddle is part of it, but not all.” “I understood it quite well, Harry,” Cyril said, and he could almost feel the irritation from his Mentor. “What you seem to fail to comprehend is the point I’m making. I’m aware that you fancy yourself very familiar with legal theory, so I ask you this: do you recall reading about Dahlia, Ltd. v. Yvonne, a case from earlier this century? It was widely referred to as the ‘Act of God’ defence.” Harry had to pause and peruse his memories to be sure, but with a common label such as that, he was nearly certain he had never read about the precedent. “No,” he said slowly, “I don’t think I have.” “Very well, let me give you my recollection of the events as they were reported.” Cyril moved to stand in front of the fire, his right hand covering his eyes. Harry was familiar with this mannerism, since he had seen Cyril do the same when reminiscing with Dumbledore from time to time. “Madam Yvonne was sued over her product, buns I think, and lost the case because the buns were made with an acid. Undeterred, however, she appealed the ruling to the Court of Appeals. Losing there, she eventually reached the House of Lords for final determination. The barrister representing the Madam, a Mr David I believe, stood up to the Lords and postulated that his client was not liable for damages accrued during the appeals process because they had, in fact, appealed to the highest court in the land.” When Cyril looked at Harry to see if he was listening, Harry knew his own confusion was apparent. “Err, he argued that she wasn’t financially responsible for their appeals because they appealed the decision? That’s . . . barmy.” “Indeed, Harry,” Cyril said with a faint smile. “The argument was that since the facts were capable of being disputed and that appeals were filed and accepted, surely there was no way for the client to anticipate losing all of her legal battles. An ‘Act of God’ is generally defined as something which no reasonable man could have expected. Ultimately, or so the claim was postulated, if the facts had to be appealed to the House of Lords, then surely the majority vote for the Lords’ decision or interpretation of the law was on par with a random event, in that no one could accurately predict a judgment from such a diverse group.” Harry scratched absently at his ear for a moment. “Okay, that’s stupid, but I get it. Barrister David was suggesting that since the outcome was random, it was on par to an Act of God, and thus by legal codex, they were not responsible for damages, is that it? You can’t be liable for that which no reasonable man can foresee?” “Very good,” Cyril said as he returned to his seat. “That is exactly the argument. Would you care to speculate on how the Lords viewed this rather new and exciting theory for defence?” Harry had to stop and think about it, as he knew that sometimes the House of Lords would go out of its way to make a point, and sometimes — no matter how illogical — they were bound by precedent and poorly-structured laws to make strange judgments. It was the chief drawback to a common law system, in that insane results might be enforced far beyond the context they were first considered in during centuries prior. “I would believe them to be rather unfavourable to it, but the argument is based on late Parliamentary law, so it’s hard to say.” “From what I read about it, Harry, the Lords accused the barrister of being ill, or perhaps mentally deficient, but commanded him to come back another day and try again. His theory was rather quickly defenestrated.” Cyril stopped talking, but Harry knew from the body language that the point was not made yet. “And?” “And it was a novel attempt to get around the reality of the situation, but ultimately doomed to failure. Mr David bypassed the context of the original complaint and focused only on the facts and legal technicalities, which were patently absurd when considered as a whole.” Cyril still had that expectant look on his face, and Harry felt that he was missing the point somehow. Harry decided to approach the problem cautiously, hoping to prise some clue for the direction of his Mentor’s thinking out of the man. “That’s similar to Edgar’s complaint, that facts tend to be irrelevant, and only perception matters.” “So I have heard,” Cyril said quietly. “The problem as I see it, Harry, lies in your Weltanschauung. You treat the world outside of your direct actions as Mr David proposed — that is, if you are not personally controlling something, it’s an Act of God. I’m telling you that’s just as silly as you found Mr David’s argument, and you need to stop doing it. As Einstein once said, ‘we cannot solve our problems with the same thinking we used when we created them.’ You must change your thinking, Harry, before everything is too far out of control, for you have made far too many problems lately.” The point was indirect, for the most part, but the point was made. Harry understood precisely what his Mentor was telling him, and to a certain extent, he even had to agree. The group at home had come up with a plan to rapidly neutralise Hogwarts, while fixing many of the little problems they had studied. His number one priority in coming to Hogwarts was to force Dumbledore to meet their demands and to obtain access to the man’s knowledge. His second priority was neutralising all threats, with the end objective to have Snape evicted from the castle. Those two plans had worked, more or less, although the repercussions were still rolling. The first piece that had failed was winning the favour of the student body, which he had come close to achieving with the elimination of critical problem cases and neutering Snape, but those efforts were for naught thanks to the ambush outside of the headmaster’s office. The second failure has been a second casualty of the first, for he found it nearly impossible to begin securing the connections he needed to make with strategic people. Further unexpected complications came in the form of the multiple Horcrux issue, the DADA hag, the full prophecy details, and the communiqué from Riddle. “Right, right, I get it. Goes back to the mirror and all. I’ll do what I can.” “No, Harry,” Cyril sharply retorted, “you will do more than that. Every time you have been presented with an opportunity for new thinking, you have shunned it. Take Miss Granger, for example. She has a most sharp mind, and you avoid her rather than take advantage of the opportunity.” Harry shuddered at the idea of spending long periods of time with Hermione. The amount of explaining he would have to do was enough to make the idea sickening. Cyril would not care about such a reaction, but Harry had valid reasons for discouraging the idea as well. “I’m having second thoughts about Ginny, and you want me to add to it? You know how closely Riddle is going to monitor whom I associate with. Look at what happened yesterday. You want me to volunteer them without telling them the price?” Cyril leaned over the table and met Harry’s eyes from a very short distance. “Yes. You need these people. You need people you trust, who can guard your back, who can help you when you’re stuck. No person is an island, Harry, you know this.” “You want me to use them, then? And I can’t even tell them all of the reasons why. I don’t like it, let alone the risk it places them in.” “Harry,” Cyril said quite shortly, “how do you make an omelette?” “No!” Harry stood up and glared back as his Mentor, surprised at the anger in his own voice. “I’m not following Dumbledore’s school of thought!” Cyril made a broad, sweeping gesture at the space about them. “And yet, you chose to come here to learn Dumbledore’s school of thought.” “Not like that!” Harry had to consciously try not to shout. “I’m not using people for my own secret games!” “But you are,” Cyril insisted. “Every moment you are here with no one really knowing why, you place them at considerable risk. Every game you play with Edgar in the Wizengamot is the same ‘using people’ that you seem to disagree with. So what is the principle involved? What are you really objecting to?” “I’m objecting to manipulating innocents!” Harry knew where his moral line was drawn and failed to see why Cyril was yanking his chain. “People in the Wizengamot know what they’re in for. They decided to be there. The Death Eaters and their sympathisers also know what they signed up for and the risks they took. The students that are still here are for the most part naïve and unaware!” “And you feel that it is appropriate to hide a bomb amongst them?” Cyril’s voice was full of contempt, which made Harry even angrier. “No!” Harry had to stop and think, so he held up his hands. “Just stop for a moment!” Cyril stood facing Harry, his Mentor’s face full of irritation and something that was hard to place, but it seemed like disgust. Taking a deep breath, Harry tried again. “I’m not a bomb. That analogy doesn’t work. This place is heavily protected, and we’ve removed the direct threats inside the walls.” Cyril sat down calmly, his face relaxing into a more neutral expression. “Very good, Harry. We have established that the use of innocents is not appropriate. We have established that many chose their sides or careers with their eyes open and know the risks they are taking. That does not translate to everyone, but then you don’t generally consider the ‘little people’ in your plans. That, too, must change. For now, however, where exactly is the line drawn? Did you tell Miss Weasley the full stakes, or not?” Harry shook his head. “No, I didn’t. That and the realisation I had about her exposure to danger are giving me second thoughts.” Cyril appeared nothing so much as sad as Harry regarded him. “It’s far too late for that, Harry. By now, he will know whom you sit with in classes, whom you talk to, and probably that you have been training her. He will likely know everything that has happened since you got on the train at Kings Cross. Best you keep training her so she can defend herself, because I can assure you, she is on his list.” Harry sat back down and put his head in his hands. “You’re sure? And what of the others?” Cyril’s voice was soft, a sharp contrast to the argument they had been having moments before. “Almost certainly, Harry, anyone friendly to you is on the list. I would encourage you to take advantage of what you have and plan accordingly, or else you won’t have the option later. I will state again, you should use the gifts of Miss Granger while you can.” “I don’t trust her. I’ve also realised that she’s similar to Riddle in several ways.” “Lad,” Cyril said quietly, “we all have similarities to that jackal. Only you can decide to trust her, so put some time in and find out the truth.” Reluctantly, Harry nodded. As he looked back at his Mentor, he registered fully the fact that Cyril was so calm. “You’re proving a point, aren’t you?” “Slowly, perhaps. Go off to breakfast and class, Harry. Remember, accept nothing from an owl. In fact, if one approaches you, Transfigure it into something creative and give it to Umbridge, why don’t you?” “Breakfast won’t even start to be served for another twenty minutes, Cyril. And we haven’t talked about yesterday, either.” “You are not ready to talk about yesterday, Harry, despite your desire to. But you do need to get dressed, gather your supplies, and think of what things Umbridge might like to receive, don’t you?” Harry watched as his Mentor nodded briefly before disappearing through their portrait-door, ideas for what might terrify Umbridge the most already floating through his head. He still had to make use of her Vampire fears, but that needed more time to set up than he had at the moment. === === With a sigh, Harry went through his morning ritual of showering, basic hygiene, gathering supplies, and mentally preparing for a day in crowds — or at least, crowds to him. Arguing with Cyril was difficult because Harry felt he typically came out on the losing side in the end. By the time he arrived at the Great Hall, the doors were open, and it was still several minutes before the elves would begin serving breakfast, leaving the Great Hall deserted. Cyril’s casual encouragement to reward Umbridge was amusing, but not particularly surprising. He had discovered that his Mentor had a mind that veered toward revenge in as many ways as possible when outright dismemberment was not an option. There had been many references to the woman harassing his Mentor over Harry since he had arrived, and Cyril’s encouragement must be a sign that he was tired of it. The problem, as Harry saw it, was that doing something just to Umbridge would invariably point the finger of suspicion at him in some manner. If he did something to all of the staff, however, then it would be more likely deflected onto the Weasley twins. With that thought in mind, Harry left his bag near his usual seat at the Gryffindor table and studied the place where the staff habitually sat. Unlike the bench seats the students enjoyed, the staff had the perk of individual seats, with rather plush-looking cushions and carved armrests. Furthermore, they had rather more elaborate utensils and plates, not to mention glasses. The simplest path would be to do a delayed Transfiguration on each cushion, but he was still less than fully recovered from the previous day’s events. It would have to be something small in each case, and then he would need a trigger. To be properly attributed to the twins, that implied tying the trigger to them in some manner. Of course, the secondary way to look at it was to have each cushion charmed to affect the user in some manner, assuming firm contact was made between the cushion and the staff member. Hagrid was easy. Harry just set the target to have all the hair on his body grow approximately five feet longer. Flitwick was set to float to within an armspan of the ceiling, while McGonagall got the first Transfiguration — a lioness. Not small, but not hard either, given her natural talents. He knew her Animagus form and thought she might enjoy a bit of romping as a rather larger feline. As Harry walked along behind the chairs, he randomly began applying different bits of magic, such as Madam Hooch getting a model Firebolt broom that would attempt to curl her hair continuously, and Madam Pomfrey’s cushion turning into a wood plaque proclaiming ‘Voted Best Bedside Manner.’ Trelawney’s cushion was set to change into an ostrich egg, while Umbridge’s was set to become a hedgehog. Satisfied that the magic was all set, Harry went back to his seat and thought about how to trigger the effects. All he needed to do was cast the trigger charm anywhere in the room, and they would activate. He would have to keep his eyes open for the right moment, safely transferring the blame to the twins while obtaining the maximum results for staff affected. Pulling out his David Weber book, Harry opted to spend the rest of his time waiting for breakfast reading. Bahzell was a bit dense at times, but his heart was in the right place. By the time the Neville arrived, who was the first person to sit near him, Harry had given up trying to read and was surreptitiously studying the glances sent his way from those already in the Great Hall by looking above the open pages. Neville dropped down into a seat across from Harry with a pleasant nod, and Harry was happy to see that his friend showed no lingering effects from the previous day’s fun. “Released from jail, then?” he asked with his usual sarcasm. Neville smiled and shrugged, reaching for the pot of tea. “Yeah. Ginny’s off collecting her brothers, though she said something about re-education. You look a bit better.” Harry rolled his shoulders, increasingly uncomfortable with all of the stares that were being directed at both Neville and him. Cyril’s comments about Riddle knowing whom Harry was friendly with surfaced briefly before Harry crushed them down. “Wouldn’t be hard, from what I heard,” Harry replied. “Thanks for trying to help, but I’m not sure that I would recommend doing it again.” Neville frowned a bit before taking a stack of fried eggs, bacon, and fry-soaked soda bread onto his plate. “My choice, isn’t it?” “Sure,” Harry replied. “It’s your choice to step in front of a train, too, and I can’t recommend that for you, either.” “Oh?” Neville looked up and watched Harry for a moment. “So there are people you would recommend that for?” “Neville,” Harry said with his feral smile, “there are people in this world I would tie to the tracks and then drive the locomotive. Surely that’s pretty obvious by now, isn’t it?” Neville flushed slightly but said nothing in response. Harry felt bad for making Neville embarrassed, if that was what his friend was experiencing, but he wanted to start redressing Cyril’s comments about keeping his friends ignorant. “Neville, I’m not trying to make fun of you. Look, you know being around me is dangerous, right?” Neville looked at Harry for a moment before nodding slowly. “Then you can understand that I’m trying to give you fair warning. Being around me can get you hurt for reasons you might not even know.” Neville methodically cut up some of his eggs, smearing the residue with the soda bread, which Harry took to be a way to have time for concentration. Harry had a bit of toast and bacon left from his own breakfast, but he was no longer particularly hungry. He was willing to wait his friend out. “Harry,” Neville said after a few bites, “getting out of bed can get you hurt, too. You’re not trying to get us hurt, are you?” Harry shook his head, watching as Neville took another bite of his breakfast. When he had finished chewing, Neville spoke again. “Then it’s not your fault, is it?” Harry shook his head again but held up one hand to forestall Neville from continuing. “No, it’s not my fault, as I’m not going to attack you — well, not unless you warrant it. But the point is, these people don’t care. They aren’t going to use a Tickling Hex on you. They’re going straight for Crucio or worse. You can choose to be around me, sure, but do you understand what it is that you’re choosing? Will you be able to defend yourself? From what I’ve seen of most students here, no student is capable of duelling with the people that are after me.” Neville nodded in turn as he continued to work his way through his breakfast. It was several moments before he spoke again. “If you’re worried about that, Harry, then maybe you should train people how to duel.” Harry laughed shortly. “Been talking to Ginny, much?” Neville shook his head. “Not on this. It’s kind of obvious, isn’t it?” Harry said nothing, but he started pushing the remainder of his breakfast around the plate. Cyril and Neville were in agreement on this, and Ginny for all intents and purposes had been nothing less than shouting it at him. Neville he could trust, but the question was whether his new friend had a fighting instinct. Basic duelling was something anyone could learn, but it was insufficient for the situations Harry found himself in. If you were not born with the spark, from what he could tell, you would never have more than an infinitesimal chance in a fight to the death with someone that did. As he contemplated Neville’s words, Hermione and the Weasley troupe arrived, Ginny giving him a weak smile that he could tell was quite forced. Her worries over their midnight conversation were probably eating at her, and after Cyril’s chat, he was reluctantly forced to agree with his Mentor. For Ginny, at least, it was too late to turn back now. As she sat next to him and dropped her bag to the floor, Harry whispered quietly to her. “I talked it over with Cyril. You and I will keep training, assuming you’re willing to risk your life over it.” When Ginny looked up at him, her smile was no longer obviously forced, but neither was it warm and happy. It was the smile of someone who had obtained what they wanted but doubted whether they really wanted it after all, so they were trying to be polite to mask their ambiguous mental state. “How are you, Harry?” Hermione’s chipper voice at that hour was out of place with Harry’s own feelings on the matter, but he smiled faintly anyway. “Just peachy, Hermione.” “Well, at least you’re out of the hospital wing, right?” George asked brightly. “That’s always a good thing,” Ginny observed. “We’re used to being in there from time to time after a hard Quidditch game or the random practice where someone,” she glared at her brothers, “gets a bit carried away.” “Now, Gin-Gin,” Fred offered cautiously, “it was only that one time, and Oliver set us on the straight and narrow, didn’t he?” George was visibly wincing, which made Harry curious, but Ron’s smirk was enough to make it clear that the twins had been given a physical lecture rather than a verbal one. “How long did it take for Pomfrey to get those splinters out, George?” Ron asked in an overly casual voice. Harry was surprised that he was participating in the conversation, but it was a small step, and life was usually made up of them. “Speaking of which,” Fred said as though Ron had never said anything, “I’ve something for you, Harry.” The redhead stuck out a tri-folded piece of parchment, sealed with wax, which had obviously been carried by an owl. It had no aura, so there was no danger from the note. As Harry plucked it out of Fred’s outstretched hand, he noticed the elegant handwriting on one side. Mr Harry Potter Gryffindor Temporarily Hogwarts Harry flipped the sealed parchment over in his hands a few times, ignoring the wax imprinting across the folded flap. It was as non-magical as anything he had ever seen in the magical world, so there was no real danger in opening it. Most of the silent faces around him told him that they were curious, but after the prior morning’s events, they would be just as happy if he never opened it near them. When Ginny nudged his side with an expectant look at the parchment, he felt that he might as well get it over with. Breaking the wax with one finger, he carefully unfolded the parchment so that no one else could read it and saw a rather short note in the middle of the page. Mr Potter — I love my daughter but find that at times she fails to understand who taught whom. Surely you don’t think that I need your cooperation to deliver my message, now do you? I do so hope you enjoy your weekend. I shall very much enjoy mine. Cordially, Molly P. Weasley The Burrow Quickly refolding it, he kept it firmly held in one hand. Ginny was all but pouting at him, whereas Fred and George looked . . . decidedly nervous. “Err, that was quick?” Fred asked hopefully. “Of course it was. She was just telling me to enjoy my time here, boys. She’s obviously concerned over how you’ve been treating me.” Harry enjoyed the looks of disbelief spreading over the Weasleys. “Oh, and she said she was looking forward to the weekend at home. Probably all the peace and quiet with you lot stuck here.” As they continued to gape at him, Harry just smiled blandly and poured himself another cup of tea. He was curious how long it would take for the challenge to come out. “You’re having us on!” Fred said after a long moment of silence. “Prove it!” Harry smirked and threw the letter on the table. When Ginny scooped it up faster than anyone could blink, Harry started laughing softly. She went beet-red as she read it and then threw it on the table. “I can’t believe her!” George picked it up and read it to everyone quietly, making Hermione laugh softly as she pointed to all of them. “None of you even know your own mum. This is priceless!” George sullenly looked back at Harry. “I don’t agree with your interpretation. Sounds like she’s going to deliver her response this weekend.” He pushed the parchment back towards Harry but sighed deeply. “But I have to admit, it does kind of sound like what you said.” Fred stood up, clearly irritated. “That’s not right–“ All conversations in the Great Hall came to an abrupt halt as Harry activated the magic on the Staff chairs. Umbridge was screeching, while Hooch was batting the broomstick away from her face. Hagrid was laughing outright, while Flitwick immediately modified the charm and began flittering about the hall. It took almost two heartbeats before McGonagall let out a loud roar and leapt over the head table. She stalked straight up to Fred, who was standing with a deep red flush on his face, and she pushed him onto the ground. With one paw on his chest, she growled briefly before returning to her human form as Harry cast the second trigger, cancelling all of the spells. Flitwick easily caught himself, which saved Harry from having to catch him, and the small man settled back onto his seat, clapping excitedly. McGonagall glared at both twins, ignoring the shouts of outrage from some of her staff, as she pointed out the doors to the Great Hall. “Fred! George! My office, now!” When Ginny hissed in his ear, he was unsurprised. “That was your doing!” Harry gave her the blandest smile he could before he gathered his stuff and headed off to class. Umbridge was still shouting incoherently, while Madam Pomfrey was apparently threatening to Stun her if she refused to sit still for an examination. When Harry arrived in the corridor to the Charms and Transfiguration classrooms, he found McGonagall standing by her room. As soon as their eyes met, she pointed imperiously to the floor directly in front of her. As he walked to her, he put on his imperturbable mask. “Yes, Professor?” He deliberately avoided any attempt at overt innocence, adopting instead a casual, every-day tone. “Mr Potter, drop the façade. You and I both know you did that this morning, but more the pity for you, so do the Weasley boys. Would you care to explain why you did this? That woman was hard enough to deal with yesterday.” Harry shrugged lightly. “I do understand the position you’re in, Professor, but please understand mine as well. I did exactly what my Mentor asked me to do this morning — well, except for setting up the twins for it.” “And if I were to ask Cyril if he told you to do exactly that, would he agree?” Harry gave her a wan smile. “Well, to Umbridge, yeah. The rest of it was all misdirection.” Her stern gaze was rather impressive but less so than her niece’s honed version of the McGonagall stare. “You and your Mentor are making my job most difficult, Mr Potter.” She gave a long sigh, then smiled wanly at him. “I suppose I should expect no less considering that Remus and Sirius are involved in this somehow. I’m asking you, however, to please desist for a while. The Weasleys get into enough trouble on their own. They need no assistance from you.” Harry smiled back at her. “No problem. And for the record, feel free to expel me if you feel like it. It wouldn’t be any bother.” “Would you leave if I did?” He was uncertain, but it sounded faintly as though the professor had hope in her voice. “Eventually.” Harry adopted his most innocent look, knowing how absurd it would be. “It’s more fun to play like Peeves, though.” “Please, no,” she said quickly. “He’s been almost uncontrollable these past few years. I think the Weasleys have inspired him, assuming they haven’t been supplying him.” Harry laughed at the idea, amused to think of the twins sneaking out to give Peeves new ammunition for a campaign of pranks and mock terror. “No worries, Professor,” Harry said after a moment, “I have it on good authority that Peeves is now afraid to stick around, lest Myrtle catch him.” “Is that why he’s been so scarce?” McGonagall’s smile became slightly wider. “I shall have to find Myrtle and thank her.” “Oh, I wouldn’t recommend that, Professor. She might get upset if she thinks you’re trying to get her out of the way.” McGonagall looked him over closely, though Harry was unsure what she was looking for exactly. “Very well, Mr Potter. For your actions this morning, I sentence you to the fate the twins dole out for you. Please try to refrain from further disrupting things, though, would you?” After Harry nodded, while not actually agreeing to anything, she walked into her classroom, and Harry had to chuckle as he walked into Flitwick’s room and thought of the twins with their ‘we’ll get you yet’ efforts. While in many respects, it was only a matter of time before they learned how to catch him unawares, he was looking forward to any attempts on their part to escalate the campaign. It was surprising how their efforts so far had been rather simple, yet he could see there was a distinct elevation of seriousness from one attempt to the next, which implied that things should get interesting in another two or three tries. He would need to find some way to deflect as many of their forthcoming efforts as possible on Umbridge, however. By the time the lunch hour had arrived, Harry would have been happy to be almost anyone else. The twins had gone out of their way to threaten him with all kinds of dire consequences during the shuffle between Charms and Transfiguration, and each professor had forced him to sit at the very front of the class, where they could ‘keep an eye on him’ as it were. No one had been allowed to sit with him, which bothered him not at all, but the continuous feeling of eyes focused on the back of his head kept his paranoia stoked. Harry deliberately waited behind while everyone else filed out for the Great Hall and lunch, looking toward Professor McGonagall as the room emptied. As the last student left, she regarded him coolly. “Yes, Mr Potter?” “How’s the headmaster?” he asked quietly. “I need to chat with him.” “He is awake again,” she said slowly. “But Poppy is not happy with his lack of progress. Yesterday was apparently a very great strain on his body, and the burns he suffered were extensive on his extremities.” “Burns?” “No t from you, Mr Potter. We’re actually not sure where they came from.” There was an almost audible click in his subconscious as Harry began to see the connections. “Right, that makes it more urgent. If you’ll excuse me, I’m skiving off lunch to have that chat.” McGonagall waved him off, though he barely paid attention. Harry was determined to track down Dumbledore and discuss several things. The infirmary was quiet, though his entrance brought Madam Pomfrey out of her office. She frowned at him briefly before he simply pointed to the room the headmaster was in, noting in passing that the room he had been in was now gone. With a curt wave, she went back into her office, which he took to be tacit permission to talk to the man. As he pushed open the door, Harry saw Dumbledore look up from the Daily Prophet to regard him with a very faint twinkle in his eyes, his right hand wrapped in light gauze. Each finger was wrapped individually, though the very tips were exposed and the palm was fully covered, with the wrap extending past the wrist from what he could tell. “Ah, Harry, I see you’re still making friends here at Hogwarts.” Dumbledore turned the paper around so that Harry could read the screaming banner on the front page. Potter Attacks All Residents at Hogwarts! Blames others for maiming hundreds! “Since when was something quickly healed considered maiming? And are there even hundreds here to maim?” Harry asked bitterly. “Maybe if I started attacking the pets all over the place?” “Now, Harry,” Dumbledore said with a faint smile, “that’s rather low, even for you.” Harry shrugged and dropped into the chair by the foot of the bed Dumbledore was sitting up in. “How are you feeling today, sir?” Harry thought a polite opening was the safe way to start the imminent conversation. “I’ll be fine, or so I’m told,” Dumbledore said calmly. “Sadly, all this time stuck in here gives me nothing to do but think. I’d much rather be up and about.” “Ah,” Harry said with his wolfish smile, “thinking. That’s rather convenient, actually. I was wondering, sir, if you could tell me why you never pulled me out of the Dursleys’, since you checked up on me there?” Harry could have sworn that Dumbledore blinked, but it was far too fast to be sure. “You’ve met Arabella, then?” “Dodging the topic now, are we?” Dumbledore sighed and looked at the paper he was holding briefly before he set it aside. “No, Harry. Tell me, how do you feel about the use of Legilimency?” “Ah, twenty questions, my favourite.” Harry failed to even try to keep the sarcasm from his voice. “If I have any reason to doubt someone’s veracity, I’m using it.” “And that is where we shall disagree, Harry. I will use it if I must, but I prefer only to do so when it’s essential to know the truth and when there is a strong reason to believe I am being misled. What truth did I have, Harry? When I heard Arabella’s complaint, I could see you were not dressed as well as your cousin, but beyond that?” Dumbledore took his glasses off and rubbed at his eyes for a moment. “I did speak to your aunt, Harry, and she gave me no reason to suspect anything untoward was going on. There were no external signs that I could see, short of demanding to examine the house in person or using Legilimency against a woman that held no love of me.” Harry said nothing, but he could feel flashes of anger in the back of his brain. “So you took her word for it and looked no further?” “Three times, Harry, I checked up on you specifically, though I was in the area a few times other than that. There was nothing to make me think I should force the issue.” “And you never even thought to just ask me directly?” Harry surprised himself with the bitterness in his voice. He knew it was in the past, just as knew it was not his own fault for what happened, but that did not mean it did not still bother him. “That would have been most unwise.” Dumbledore held his hand up to forestall Harry’s rebuttal, so Harry let him finish. “Harry, if there were nothing actually wrong transpiring, and I asked that question of you, what do you think would have happened? Allow me to sketch the sequence for you. You would have told your aunt and uncle, and then there would have been an investigation, with the name Harry Potter splashed all over official records, and ultimately the Ministry would have found where you were staying. Do you think that would have been a good thing? Do you think you would have been left there and not carted off to a group they approved of, such as the Crouch family? Or, even more risky, the Malfoys perhaps? We did talk about this before, if you care to recall.” Harry could feel his resentment stirring, but he understood the logic of the argument. The only compromise would have been to use Legilimency on an unsuspecting child, which the headmaster had already made clear would only be done if there were powerful reasons for it. “Is this the same argument for why you never used Legilimency on the Slytherin trouble-makers?” Dumbledore sighed again but shook his head. “No, Harry. As we have discussed, I trusted Severus to do what was right, though it seems he was not following my stated desires for those students.” Harry harrumphed loudly, disgruntled with the weak answers. He could understand the man’s point of view about the Dursleys, to a very limited extent, but hindsight was ever twenty-twenty. Trusting to judgment or criticism of others from such a perspective was risky, at best, and downright foolhardy for people who were not even aware of the situation when it occurred. And yet, he could find no acceptance of the answer regarding the Slytherin students Harry had eradicated from Hogwarts, one way or another. “All right, Headmaster. I don’t like it, but I’ll bring it up again later.” “Harry,” Dumbledore said quietly, “as I said before, and I shall say many times again, I am sorry for my mistakes. I am but human.” Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It was no use, and indeed served no purpose, to yell or scream at the man. He lived according to his own morals and rules, and his judgment was not for Harry to decide. While forgiveness was hard to grant, Harry knew that someday, he might actually do so. Someday in the vague future. “Moving on, sir,” Harry said quietly, still with his eyes closed, “does your magic work yet?” “Changing topics indeed, Harry.” He heard the man rustle in the blankets for a moment, before he heard a faint whistling of something moving rapidly through the air as he heard a soft cry of, “Lumos!” When he opened his eyes again, he saw the headmaster frowning at his wand, with the expected result — there was no light coming from the wand tip. “It would appear, Harry, that it still does not work.” “Have you talked to anyone about the message I received yesterday?” “I see you are indeed a fan of twenty questions. Yes, I received a version of it from Cyril this morning, as relayed through Remus.” Harry got up and paced slightly, wanting to approach the problem from a standpoint that would make sense. His intuition was telling him something, but he could find no reason to logically prove it. “Are you further aware that your aura bleeds off the bed and down through the floor?” Dumbledore looked faintly surprised at that news. “No.” “Would you try the Lumos spell again, sir?” Dumbledore nodded, flicking the wand rapidly, the soft whistle filling the room. Harry ignored the verbal incantation and focused on how the headmaster’s aura flared slightly, bleeding again into the floor with a touch more brightness than was there before he tried. “I’ll tell you what I think. That orb cannot work over such distances, nor was Riddle in the castle, so the power had to come from somewhere close. Normally, I would say it was impossible beyond some hundred feet or so, but I’m unclear exactly how far this room is from the Great Hall, where I was sitting. You, sir, were the power source for the orb.” Harry paused as Dumbledore regarded him thoughtfully. “The burns you suffered were caused by the distance and the power levels necessary to supply the orb, and the forced drain of your magic likely gave you the seizures.” Dumbledore began nodding slowly, though it was clear he was not fully accepting the explanation. “Moreover, when I was brought up here, your burns should have stopped as the distance was less, but your seizures would have continued since it was a foreign control. I’ll have to ask if that’s the case . . .” Harry trailed off as he considered the implications. There was surely more factors involved, for how Riddle knew that someone would be able to act as a power source here in the castle — that was one question that had no direct answer. “I think there is more to it than this, but what I believe is that your magic is being siphoned off to feed Voldemort. Since he’s too far away, it’s being drained directly into the flux lines.” Harry considered the idea of how Riddle knew about anyone being able to power the orb further, for there was really only one explanation, one that matched up with Cyril’s stated beliefs. “Someone here told him of our return, and when he discovered the Gaunt house damage, he knew. The orb was a test, or maybe . . . maybe it was meant to do something beyond us chatting. Maybe he thought I was the one who had been affected by the magic at the Gaunt house?” Harry saw that things were only murkier the more he looked at them. There was a new question as to whether Riddle sent any of the letters Harry had destroyed, or if he only sent the orb — in which case, he must have been informed of the Weasley matriarch’s attempts to communicate as well as the outcome. The timing was too much of a coincidence. He could not accept that it was only random chance that the orb had arrived on the one day he had accepted mail delivery. The idea that Riddle might also know a Horcrux was missing was interesting as well — he would likely suspect it had taken control of someone, which made the orb even more interesting as a puzzle. At some key point, all of the webs should untangle, if Harry could only discern what the key point was. Harry looked back at the headmaster and saw the same introspection on the man’s face. “Somehow, what happened to you at the Gaunt house affected your magic, such that you are now his toy, as it were.” Dumbledore continued to look pensive as Harry moved about the room, looking for new angles on the ideas he had sketched. Surely there was more behind it all. If Riddle knew that they had destroyed a Horcrux, surely there would have been a more violent reaction. But then, the man had sounded almost genuine during some of his comments, which left Harry puzzled about what exactly Riddle was after. Regardless of the stated intent, Harry had no faith that Riddle was telling the truth about anything, for it would be impossible to sift the words for the rare nugget of truth about something. “I will grant the possibility, Harry,” Dumbledore said into the silence. “And yet, if this is true, why did Crowley not find it, as you said he would? How would we break the bond if it exists?” Harry stopped pacing and considered the questions fully. “No idea, really. I would have said this was impossible, frankly, so I don’t know if Crowley would have looked for it, let alone known how to look for it. As for fixing it, we can try a couple of things, and then I can call in the cavalry again.” “What experiments do you propose?” Harry help up two fingers. “First, we can see if it’s attached to your conduits, as if it’s based on your magical signature. I can alter your signature temporarily, though you may find it uncomfortable. Second, I can disrupt your magic entirely and see if that cancels the spell — but that’s going to hurt. The controlling spell may require feeding off your magic to work at all, so if you remove the source, it might wither and die.” Dumbledore nodded faintly at the suggestions, but his eyes were no longer even faintly twinkling. “Perhaps you should ask Poppy to join us, then, Harry.” Harry nodded briefly before he went to fetch Madam Pomfrey. She was sitting at a large desk in her office, a lunch tray spread out as she was pouring over an old tome. Harry rapped the doorframe smartly. Madam Pomfrey looked up sharply. “Yes, Mr Potter?” “The headmaster would like you to join us for a moment, Madam.” She rose quickly, a concerned look on her face. “Is he all right? In pain? Breathing difficulties?” Harry shook his head quickly. “No, he’s fine, but we would like to try something, and he asked for your counsel first.” Madam Pomfrey huffed slightly as she strode past Harry and led him back into the small room. “What crazy idea do you have now, Headmaster?” Her voice was laced with exasperation, much to Harry’s amusement. Dumbledore smiled benignly and gestured towards Harry with his bandaged hand. “Not I, Poppy, but Harry here. He thinks he might be able to determine what’s wrong, but he’s concerned about the discomfort it might cause.” Madam Pomfrey shot Harry a withering look. “Him? Concerned? Surely you’ve mistaken him for someone else, or else he’s an imposter.” Harry winced at the statement, but Dumbledore just twinkled lightly at the matron. It was true he was unconcerned for the discomfort, for he had warned the man it would be uncomfortable. If the headmaster wanted to try it, it was his choice. Harry certainly was not going to force the tests on him. “Very well, what do you propose, Mr Potter?” Harry tried to give her a polite smile instead of the smile that Neville feared, but he was unsure exactly how well it worked. “I’m going to apply some aura magic to him, Madam. It might be a tad uncomfortable but not too bad.” “Not too bad by whose definition of ‘bad’, Mr Potter? Yours?” Harry kept his smile in place and merely shrugged. “May I?” “Please, Harry, at your convenience,” Dumbledore said before Madam Pomfrey could say anything more. Harry stepped directly to the side of the headmaster and focused on his magic. Gathering it to his hands, he took a firm grip on the headmaster’s bandaged one, and Harry slowly pushed his aura out. Almost immediately, he could see his aura flare, overpower Dumbledore’s, and then bleed off into the floor just as Dumbledore’s own magic did. He stopped pushing and stepped back, breaking the contact. Dumbledore was regarding him with intent eyes, a hint of wonder on his face. “What was that?” “Ah, I forced my magic to change yours a bit. Sorry, it didn’t work. It just bled off like your own magic does. Did that bother you at all?” Dumbledore was turning his hand over repeatedly, flexing the individually wrapped fingers. “Fascinating. It was like a low-power Scouring Charm, I should think.” The headmaster looked up at Harry and nodded. “The second test you said was likely to be painful, correct?” Harry nodded, but this time he kept one eye on Madam Pomfrey. “Painful, how?” Her sharp question was fully expected. “I don’t know. I’ve done this once before, and it . . . made the recipient experience some level of pain. I don’t know how much, and he was not as, err, well, old as the headmaster is.” Harry looked around for a moment, noticing the portrait that had been moved into the room. “I should also warn you, this will severely disrupt any magic around you, Headmaster. Once I do this, I’ll have to manually drag it out of here to dispose of it. It’s technically a security breach, but not much of one, since aside from punching holes in wards, it also makes magic very, very unstable around it.” Dumbledore looked at Madam Pomfrey, the question evident in his eyes. She was frowning at Harry, but she clearly relented when she proceeded to float all the potions and instruments out of the room. “All right, Mr Potter, what do you need to do?” Her tone was still sharp, but he was almost certain he heard a hint of curiosity in it. “You’ll need to lift the headmaster up, Madam, while I rearrange his blanket. He needs to be on top of it, and then have it loosely wrapped around him.” Harry waited while she lifted the headmaster up with a silent charm, and Harry rearranged the blanket to be short-sheeted. With the extra laying off the side, Harry nodded to the matron, who promptly lowered the headmaster back on top of the bed. Harry threw the excess material over the top of the headmaster, being sure it covered up to his neck but had space to cover his face as well. “Professor, I’m going to cover your face and then Transfigure this blanket into, uh, something else. I’m going to leave this on top of you for a few minutes, either until it looks like it won’t work, or your aura stops flaring. You need to stay under it unless Madam Pomfrey tells me to stop.” Harry waited until he had a sign of acceptance and then covered the man’s head. Drawing a deep breath, Harry concentrated on what he was about to do. His own core was still relatively low in charge, so he was unsure he would be able to do much more than this today if it failed — or worked. “No one try to use any magic once I do this, right?” With a glance at Madam Pomfrey, who gave him a curt nod, Harry touched his wand directly to the blanket and Transfigured it into a fine cotton mesh with tiny inset metallic crystals at the cross points. Harry quickly lifted his wand and stuffed it back in the holster. It would be dangerous to leave it in contact with the materials he had just created. With a scream of flame and rage, Fawkes appeared in the infirmary, crying out a song of terrible loss. Almost concurrently, the headmaster let out a moan, and Harry saw the aura that stretched to the floor falter. Behind him, he heard a soft crump-crump-crump as the magic walls collapsed back down to the bricks from which they were assembled. A few items were shifting around in the nearby space of the infirmary as the magic holding things in place suddenly ceased working properly, and the painting by the headmaster crashed to the floor. “Fawkes! Wait! We’re trying to heal him!” The phoenix dove rapidly for the bed, and Harry dropped to the floor to get out of the way. “Don’t uncover him!” he shouted. When there was no immediate reaction aside from a quiet crooning, Harry looked up to see the phoenix settled on the top of the headboard, feet shifting and his crest raised. “It’s doing something good,” Harry said quickly before Madam Pomfrey could move closer. “Give it a moment.” The headmaster thrashed weakly, still firmly covered, and his moan turned into a weak cry of pain. The aura was no longer touching the floor, though tendrils were reaching out in random directions. Harry climbed back to his feet, gestured at the sudden mess around them and gave a faint shrug to the matron. “Sorry about that, but I do think it’s working,” he offered to her, as she winced and shifted from foot to foot, clearly ready to intercede to the headmaster’s benefit. Fawkes looked no happier than she did. As Harry saw his watch tick off nearly one full minute, the aura flare was almost invisible, merely glowing faintly above the mesh material. The headmaster was no longer thrashing or crying but had gone back to moaning. “One more minute,” he suggested to the mediwitch. She looked uncertain but nodded her acceptance anyway. As the second minute elapsed, the aura flare had changed not at all from the end of the first minute. With a sigh, Harry flipped the mesh off the headmaster, ignoring the discomfort in his fingers, and then scooped the man up in his arms. “Throw that on the floor, would you?” he asked quietly. When Madam Pomfrey grabbed the mesh, she retracted her hand immediately with a sharp cry of surprise. She frowned at Harry before she took a firm grip, squinting slightly, and removed the mesh from the bed, leaving it in a heap upon the floor. As soon as the bed was clear, Harry gratefully set the headmaster back down. Harry thought the man certainly did not look as heavy as the load had felt, but those wizard robes were quite adept at hiding bulk. The headmaster was still moaning slightly, obviously in discomfort, so Harry moved back to the side and let Madam Pomfrey look at him. Fawkes was singing a song of pleasure, which was a marked contrast to the first song he cried out upon arrival. “Can I use magic?” the matron asked urgently. “Wait a moment,” Harry replied, gathering up the mesh material into a thick bundle. As soon as he made firm skin contact with it, he felt as though he was being covered in mild electric shocks. The more he gathered, the stronger the shocks became, until it was all he could do to hold the fabric up. With a grunt for the pain, he dropped it back onto the floor. Irritated for not thinking clearly, Harry carefully stepped around the mesh and stripped a blanket off a different bed. With as little contact to the mesh as he could sustain, he bundled it in the blanket to avoid the direct skin contact. Trying to ignore the faint discomfort and hair-raising feelings the mesh induced, he carried the wrapped bundle over the tops of the blocks that had collapsed and dropped it by the main doors to the infirmary, ignoring the clatter of objects falling to the floor as he approached. Sighing at the relief from dropping it, he turned back to Madam Pomfrey. “Try now.” She flicked her wand in a few rapid strokes and then smiled at him faintly. “It works.” Harry nodded and came back over to where the headmaster lay, dropping back into the chair he had occupied earlier and happy to be free of the unpleasant sensations. It took several minutes by Harry’s watch before the headmaster finally opened his eyes. His twinkle was weak, but present, while the man reached up his hand and stroked Fawkes feathers gently. “Hello, Fawkes,” the headmaster said quietly. A moment later, Dumbledore slowly sat up in bed and cautiously reached out to the wand on the table. “Shall I?” Madam Pomfrey bit her lip, but she nodded acquiescence anyway. Harry merely shrugged. “Lumos!” The wand lit up, but it was very weak. “Nox!” Madam Pomfrey reached one hand out and smiled faintly. “Your magic is drained severely, Headmaster. You should rest now.” Dumbledore offered them all a wan smile as he lay back in the bed. “You were right, Harry. That certainly did hurt.” “Err, good to know, I suppose. I’m not sure if that’s a permanent fix or not, but I guess time will tell.” Harry looked at the phoenix that was regarding him solemnly. “I’m going to take this stuff out and dispose of it, far from the castle. Then I’m off to my home, but I’ll be back as usual.” Harry paused as he walked back toward the mess he had left by the infirmary doors. “I’ll look in on you tomorrow, sir.” “Thank you, Harry,” he heard faintly as he gathered up the mesh. Harry looked back to see Madam Pomfrey fluttering about the headmaster, and then he turned his gaze to the bundled mesh at his feet. He knew there was no way he could get it out of the castle through the corridors, for he would surely cause irreparable damage to far too much of the castle. While that might please Umbridge as an excuse to kick him out, he rather wanted to avoid the chastisement his Mentor would level at him, never mind another run-in with McGonagall. Cyril was downright fond of Hogwarts and always disapproved of idle damage to the building. With a sigh, Harry approached the window opposite the matron’s office and looked out at the grounds beside the main entrance to the castle. Unlocking the window and pushing it open, he looked about to be sure no one was on the grounds. It was still the lunch hour, so hopefully he could get away with his plan. This time, he picked up the bundled corner of the mesh and dragged it back toward the window, and by keeping it at arm’s length the level of discomfort was quite tolerable. Harry carefully stayed far away from the headmaster before he dumped the entire mess out the window. Closing it firmly behind him, he hurried out of the infirmary with a fast wave to the resident patient and Healer, heading for the exit. Harry rushed past the Great Hall, where he could hear everyone eating, and tried to think small thoughts, hoping that no one would notice and follow him. As he made it out the doors of the entrance hall, he rounded the stairs and ran to the mesh, which had fallen out of the wrapping blanket somewhat when it hit the ground. He paused to carefully extract the blanket from the mesh and drag it far enough away that he felt it safe to use magic on it. Using a Permanent Camouflage Charm, he converted the blanket to look like standard-issue Muggle military green camouflage. He knew his core was reaching precariously low levels, but he hoped that he would need to use little or no magic for the rest of the day. Dragging the wrapping back, he slowly shuffled the mesh into the blanket, wrapping it up firmly again. Picking up just a small corner, Harry pulled the bundle along the ground and did his best to ignore the vaguely unpleasant sensations in his fingers. Harry dropped the corner when he realized that dragging the bundle would leave a trail, let alone make him uncomfortable for the hike he was about to engage in. about, Harry spotted a stout branch that was long enough for his purposes. carrying the branch back to his package, he tied the blanket-wrapped mesh to the end of the stick like an over-sized knapsack, and then he slung the stick over his shoulder. he might now resemble someone aimlessly following train tracks, his personal discomfort was no more than the moderate pressure the bundle and stick imparted upon his shoulder.As he walked toward the Hogwarts gates, he did his best to avoid thinking about what he was carrying and the risk it presented to his person. Instead, he tried to think about what he had just done and whether it would be a permanent solution or not. The fact that the magic disruptor mechanism had worked at all was perplexing. When he finally walked what he estimated to be at least two miles away from both Hogsmeade and Hogwarts, Harry dragged the mesh into the bushes at the base of a giant spruce. There was no easy way to bury it, so he would have to just let it slowly decompose in the wilderness, though the metallic crystals would be there for years to come. The lack of any trails that he had seen since departing the main path left him comfortable with his decision to just leave it for now. Later, he could always come back and put the effort into a more secure burial, but he was far too tired to deal with it at that moment. His task finished, Harry walked back towards Hogwarts for several minutes before he stopped to glance around. Seeing no one and no magical auras, Harry clapped his hand to his watch and activated the Portkey home. Harry felt a mixture of relief and frustration when he arrived and found that the house was empty. A note from Remus stated that they were all doing damage control, which he assumed to be referring to Riddle’s little bombshell, while David was working late at the shop. Hedwig was off somewhere, but he knew she was safe whatever she was doing. On the one hand, Harry very much wanted someone, anyone, whom he could talk with openly, without all of the indirection and innuendo. At the same time, he also was happy not to have to talk about anything, given how his day had gone so far. He was tired physically, mentally, and magically, and today was not helping him boost his reserves at all. It also held little hope for his physical recovery, given the lack of rest he had managed. After making himself a large lunch, Harry lounged about, researching some of the classical theory of Dark magic that allowed control over others. Nothing he read was particularly useful when considered in the context of Dumbledore’s problem, and he eventually fell asleep in the living room on the sofa. He was unable to remember his dreams on waking, but they were faintly unpleasant, as though he should be afraid of something he could no longer remember. Stretching, he saw that it was nearly six in the evening and that his nap had lasted nearly two hours. He felt better for it, though his stomach was telling him it wanted more sustenance. Harry thought about going back early to check in on the headmaster and then tackle some of the homework he had been putting off. It was far from challenging, merely tedious work of little interest. On his way to the kitchen, Harry recalled the conversation with Ginny from the infirmary and left a short note asking Edgar to look into the scenarios that might result in the strange situation she had hinted at. While he was certain there were more details to be learned, he needed an independent analysis of whatever picture she soon would be painting. After wolfing down a pair of sandwiches and a tall glass of water, Harry left the house and walked to the exit point. “One moment, Mr Potter,” Floppy’s voice called out as he exited the wards. Harry, for once, felt refreshed enough to not lash out at the Hat or its insistent demands for his attention. Harry slumped to the ground, laying about in the grass, and stared at the sky. “How now, Floppy?” “Your Mentor gave you some sound advice earlier, Mr Potter. Your own actions today have shown that it was quite true, as well. Have you considered it further?” Floppy’s tone was surprisingly detached compared to how much invective the Hat could normally impose. “Not really, I suppose.” Harry paused to scratch absently at one leg. “Cyril told me a lot of things, but I’m not sure he understands how much he’s asking of me or of them.” “And yet, you have been almost desperate to talk about these things. Cyril refused you, the headmaster was unable to continue the conversation, and no one was here just now.” Harry thought there was a faintly smug tone creeping into Floppy’s voice. “At the same time, two minds have repeatedly inquired to know more, to understand, and you rebuff them.” “Oh, that’s subtle, Floppy. Very subtle. You want me to chat with you again, do you? Who’s the other one?” Harry quickly tried to think of everything that had happened today. “Oh, Ginny I suppose, or perhaps Hermione if I were listening to Cyril.” “I’m not here to be subtle, Mr Potter. A talking hat isn’t exactly what most people think of when they contemplate that word, now is it?” Harry’s refreshed feeling was fading, replaced by a growing irritation. “Most people don’t expect talking hats, full stop, let alone sarcastic ones.” “What, precisely, are you afraid of?” “What? What the hell are you on about, Floppy?” “It’s simple, Mr Potter.” Floppy now sounded blatantly smug. “You’re afraid. Of what? Talking to someone? Making a closer friend that you intend to? Having someone else to care about?” Harry sat up, fighting the urge to chuck the Hat off. He already knew that was a futile gesture after the events in the Gryffindor common room, but it would still be somewhat satisfying. “Oh, sure, colour me chicken.” Harry’s voice could have cut stone, but he had no need to coddle the damned Hat. “I should have put you in Hufflepuff, Mr Potter. Your loyalty to those you love is numbing in its scope, but you are far too Slytherin in how you try to make friends.” “What d’you mean, try?! What’s Neville, then, chopped liver?” “Hardly. Mr Longbottom is safe to you. He is no threat and will never be a threat to your plans, your dominance, and your cultivated disregard for others.” “Oh? And who, pray tell, is not safe?” “The headmaster is not safe. He challenges your dominance. Miss Weasley is not safe to you, as she challenges your plans, your aggressiveness. And Miss Granger is not safe to you, for she challenges your self-perceived superiority in magic.” “Oh, so I should just go suck up to everyone else? Hand out the secrets we’re keeping and trust them to do the right thing?” Harry snorted in derision. “Right, Floppy, that’s just pure genius!” “Mr Potter, must you dive straight into absurdity every time I try to talk with you?” “If you’d stop bringing up absurd topics, it might help!” Harry felt real venom creeping into his voice. Floppy injected some commentary on a near-daily basis, trying to get Harry to open up or reconsider something long since decided. The Hat had no comprehension of the pressure of life since it was immune to the real world. “You clamour and cry out for someone to speak to, and when I offer, you run away. When I point out others that you could speak with, you stick your fingers in your ears and drum your heels on the ground. When I point this out to you, you tell me I am being absurd. Which of us is being absurd here, Mr Potter?” “Oh, right, it’s my problem, always,” Harry shot back. “When I point out your lack of understanding of the real world, you casually dismiss it. When I point out that in real life you’ve not the time for analysing everything, you tell me I’m acting too rashly. If you want me to talk to you, maybe you should try talking to me and not lecturing!” “Very well. Will you then speak to Miss Granger, Harry?” The Hat’s abrupt change in pace and tone left Harry stuck with one fist in the air, his mouth open and ready to argue on. For the first time, Floppy used his name, and that fact did not pass by unnoticed. He took a few deep breaths to calm down somewhat, before forcing a more civil tone himself. “I’m undecided, I think. I don’t like how she reminds me of Riddle.” “Understandably, perhaps, but what of Cyril’s thoughts? What of your own parallels?” Harry sighed and lay back down in the grass. “I don’t know, Floppy. Obviously, I know me, and you know me, I guess. I’m not another Riddle in the making, but how do I become certain about her?” “Other than talking to her?” Floppy sounded, surprisingly, like Remus, Harry realised. The Hat had shifted cadence, tone, and vocabulary. That was . . . worrisome. “Perhaps, Harry, you should ask her friends some questions?” Harry knew that was common sense, but the problem was that he was unsure who exactly Hermione’s friends were. He knew she dated Ron, however she might try to hide it, but Ron would be a very unwilling subject for interrogation. Ginny was friends with her, as was Neville, but that did not equate to being best friends. All things considered, Ginny was the first target for any line of inquiry, since she was a friend and also female. It was unlikely that Hermione would closely confide in any male, given how she was handling her relationship with Ron. “Ginny, I should think,” Harry said after a while. “She’s female, so Hermione would be more likely to confide in her. She’s also known her for years.” “A good starting point, perhaps,” Floppy calmly returned. “And what of Mr Riddle’s offer of yesterday, then?” “Floppy, this is the most civil conversation we’ve had in days. Let’s not push it too hard, eh?” “All right, Harry. I’ll ask again tomorrow.” “Okay.” Harry took a deep breath. “And thanks, Floppy.” “You’re welcome, Harry.” With a deep breath, Harry jumped to his feet and stretched briefly. Activating the Portkey back to the gates of Hogwarts, Harry strode inside, determined to talk to Ginny. First, he would consult the Map, as that would be the fastest way to find her — assuming she was not in detention again. Keeping Cyril’s words in mind, Harry tried to nod politely at the people he passed on his way back to his suite, but that seemed to be somewhat less than successful. Most people became rather nervous and backed away as he passed, no matter what type of smile he tried to use. With a sigh, Harry found another source of disappointment when he realised that Ginny was in the Gryffindor common room. That meant he had to get past the Fat Lady, who was likely to still be quite irritated with him. Harry had no intention of apologising to her, however, given that he was only forcing her to do her job. As he stood in front of her, the Fat Lady regarded him with a smug smile. Harry gave the password in as civil and polite a manner as he could. “Patronus.” “Nope, not opening.” The Fat Lady’s smile became an outright smirk. “Didn’t I just give you the password?” “That’s the old password, Mr Potter.” Harry drummed his fingers on the picture frame, earning him a glower from the subject of the painting. “You admit to knowing me and knowing I’m supposed to have access to this room, yet you are denying me that access?” “No password, no access. Those are the rules.” If anything, Harry thought she was asking for him to test how flammable old castle paintings were. “Look, are you going to open or not?” Harry knew he could go back to his suite and check the Map, thus learning the password, but he felt there was a principle at stake here. If she thought refusing him admittance would stop him, then every painting would believe that saying ‘no’ was a worthwhile exercise. The Fat Lady huffed and walked smartly out of her frame. Harry glared at her as she gave him a smug smile before stepping out, and he could hear mocking laughter echoing from a portrait several yards down the corridor. Shrugging, Harry placed the tip of his wand between the seam of the portrait and the wall, laying it length-wise against the stone. Why anyone thought a portrait was a particularly safe door was beyond him, but that was the nature of trusting randomly. One mild Banishing Charm later, the portrait was wide open, and there was a faint screech coming from down the corridor. “Weasley.” Harry’s voice cut across the common room, whose inhabitants were staring at him as he stood in the doorway. He held Ginny’s eyes with his own and nodded fractionally into the hallway. “Let’s go.” Ginny hesitated for just a moment before she handed her books to Dean, who was sitting next to her. As she strode towards where he stood, he could see the whispers starting, though he was unable to make out any words. As Ginny passed him, Harry roughly shut the portrait-door and ignored the Fat Lady, who was muttering vile commentary while setting to rights her now-dishevelled abode. “You really have a way with people, don’t you?” Ginny asked as they began walking down the corridor. “Paintings aren’t people.” Harry grabbed her elbow and steered her into a random classroom they were passing. “Not being alive doesn’t equal not having feelings, Harry,” Ginny said rather sharply. “And would you care to explain what we’re doing?” Harry ignored her, sealing the door and casting Imperturbable Charms about the room. As he continued to pace and cast charms, he could see that Ginny was getting anxious. While Harry thought it would be amusing to hold her here until she cracked and started spilling whatever was on her mind, there were few hours before curfew, and he needed answers. “Twenty questions, Ginny. I’m asking, and you’re answering to the best of your ability. No artful indirections or the like. If it helps, I’m invoking your fealty pledge.” When Ginny sat abruptly, Harry knew his point was made. “What about?” Ginny’s voice sounded faintly sick, as though she were resigned to whatever was coming. “Granger.” Ginny’s head whipped up, and she openly stared at him. “First, why is she so determined to learn everything?” Ginny said nothing, which frustrated him. She was blinking owlishly, and he was unable to tell if she had suddenly gone mute or was actually thinking about what he had asked. Unable to stop the thoughts in his head, he paced the edges of the room, trying to resist the urge to shake the redhead sitting calmly in the chair. “I don’t know.” Ginny’s voice made him freeze to hear everything she said. He kept his eyes on her face, studying her body language as she looked off towards a corner of the ceiling. “Truly, she’s always been a bit . . . err, over the top, like she is around you. It’s not anything to do with you, or at least, I don’t think so.” Ginny seemed uncomfortable for some reason, something that was definitely different from her first reaction when he began sealing the room. Harry could almost feel time slipping away, and he wanted, no, needed to understand. “Elaborate. She’s always been like this?” Ginny shrugged eloquently. “I think so. She’s always been so driven in classes, at least, and she spends loads of time in the library.” Harry found no comfort in this information. It confirmed that Hermione was driven to knowledge and was not on some personal agenda because she saw Harry invoke some random thing that she found particularly alluring, like a bird with a shiny bit of tinsel. Somehow, the idea that Hermione would ever be in the ‘ooh, shiny’ mode was disquieting, though finding out she was spending all her time in the library was unsettling for different reasons. “What does she read about in the library?” Ginny looked surprised at the question, as though Harry were suddenly asking inane questions. “What doesn’t she? Half the time, she’s researching everything around what we’re doing in class that week. The other half, it’s totally random — some topic that caught her eye, some puzzle, or just trying to read every single book in there.” Ginny mock-shuddered for a moment. “A couple of years ago she took up the cause of house-elf treatment. Be very happy that you weren’t around then.” So she was working her way through the library. Priority was given for school-related topics, but idle time was dedicated to reading the rest. Harry wondered for a moment if she had found how to get past the Restricted Section alarms but discarded the question almost immediately. If he found it easier to get permission officially than to deal with them, then surely Hermione would as well. Given her intellect and evident camaraderie with the students and staff, it would be trivial for her to secure access as she desired. “What was so bad about her cause?” Ginny gave him a slight frown, but he was unsure why. “Look, I’ll agree some house-elves are treated hideously, but most aren’t. Still, her idea to reform the world in her own mindset wasn’t popular with us or the elves.” Hermione wanted to reform the world, and she had some idea of moral superiority in the case of the elves. From the hints Ginny was dropping, it sounded like her ideals were being forced upon the elves as well as the humans. Harry could almost feel a tic by his eye start up. “All right, family then. What do you know of her family?” Ginny gave him a long look, one that invited all kinds of explanations, which Harry ignored. “Only child, parents both dentists. She loves them, but they seem to have quite a distant relationship.” Harry stopped in mid-pace, his blood pounding in his ears. Harry swung around and moved a chair to directly face Ginny, sitting as close as he could without actually being on top of her. The unspoken cues she could provide would centre on her facial expressions, and he wanted to be sure he could see everything clearly. “Distant how?” Ginny looked a little unnerved to have Harry’s gaze locked on her so blatantly, but he was not about to let her evade his questions now. With a fast hand-rolling gestured, he all but demanded she explain immediately. “It’s weird. She goes on holiday with her family for a couple of weeks most summers, but the rest of the time, she’s staying with us at The Burrow. She stays here for her hols most times, with us, or the other times she goes with us to The Burrow.” Ginny leaned back slightly, and Harry shifted to compensate for her movement. He needed to see her eyes, to tell whether she was being candid or not. He would avoid using Legilimency unless it was essential, but he needed to know, and the fealty oath really had no compulsion for this kind of questioning in it. “So she tells you she loves them, but she doesn’t spend much time with them?” “Yeah,” Ginny said, and it was clear she was uncomfortable with the close proximity Harry was keeping. “I see her writing to other people, like a friend she made during the Triwizard Tournament, but I never see her writing to her parents. It’s strange to me, since I write home about every other week, but she seems okay with it.” Harry slumped back and closed his eyes. Now that he had the initial answer, which he felt was Ginny’s best effort at complete honesty, he needed to think. Maintaining that study of her face when she was not giving him the information he needed would be uselessly distracting. It was the angle of her head, the look to the side, and the tightening of the eyes that told him she found it more than strange. It was the set of her hands, clasped but without tension, that told him she accepted it as genuine and just an oddity about her friend. This facet of Hermione’s personality was . . . disconcerting at the least. “Non sequitur. Why does she hide her relationship with your brother?” Ginny was again giving him one of those long looks, but this time he was unable to identify what it was she was saying. He needed to spend more time with Tonks, looking over memories like this, getting input into what he was failing to understand. Either Tonks was incredibly simplistic, which was more than possible, or she had never taught him how to read entire volumes of body language. “I don’t know that she does,” Ginny finally offered. “It might be that they both want to, or maybe just Ron does and she’s going along with it. Perhaps only she wants to keep it quiet, but it’s also just as likely that they aren’t trying to hide anything at all. I’ve tried to ask about it, and all she’ll do is confirm they’re together.” “Why would he want to keep it secret?” Ginny raised one hand and made a see-sawing gesture. “Hard to say, exactly. I think, though, that it’s because he’s afraid of our brothers’ reactions.” “Why?” “Harry, Ron’s never had anything that’s just his, you know? Whatever it is, it’s always been something he had to share. Fred and George are pretty ruthless when they find a weakness, and that’s Ron’s big one. He wants stuff to be his, you know?” “That’s stupid. He’s not going to share his girlfriend.” “No, but that doesn’t mean Fred and George won’t give him hell anyway. Or tell really embarrassing stories about him.” Ginny smiled sadly for a moment. “I love my brothers, really I do, but sometimes, Fred and George go beyond the pale and actually hurt. They don’t mean to, but they don’t always know when to stop.” Harry said nothing to that, instead contemplating the ideas she expressed. Ron had jealousy issues, which was understandable to a very small extent. Beyond that, it seemed an issue of maturity. Perhaps her brother lacked the life experiences to see beyond the emptiness of possessive urges. “And if Hermione is part of the hiding effort? What would be her motivation?” “Don’t know,” Ginny said after a moment. “It could be like her parents; she doesn’t talk about personal things. Or it could be that she doesn’t want to give up the appearance of propriety, since she’s determined to get Head Girl.” That struck another chord with Harry, though he was not about to tell Ginny that. The parallels between Hermione and Riddle were adding up far faster than he wanted to think about. “Your brother seems to be angry a lot. Why?” Ginny rolled her shoulders and made a vague hand motion at the ceiling. “Pick any random reason because it has been or will be true sooner or later. Part of the redhead problem, you know, that volatile temper.” Harry waved the answer off, as he knew that was a futile line of questioning. He knew why Ron was hacked off at him, but that did not translate as to why her brother might be irritable with others. The real concern was that Ron’s temper was not a barrier to Hermione, which meant either she could handle it or there could be something more serious going on. While Hermione had never given him the impression of using people, these little parallels were hitting all the right paranoia notes in his mind. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have asked. What does Hermione do for fun?” Ginny laughed lightly, breaking the tension that had been building up. “The library? Hello?” Harry scowled at her, annoyed with the laughter. “You’re telling me she doesn’t do anything else? School work, library, sleep, eat, the broom cupboard on the seventh floor every other day at half nine, and that’s it?” Ginny went very, very still. She had a look in her eyes that was all fire and sparkles, and Harry suddenly was curious what she was planning for a broom cupboard. “That sounds about right,” she said warmly, her mind clearly elsewhere. “So, to sum up, she has a vision for the world and isn’t shy about pushing it, she’s a loner if not with Ron, is driven to succeed at all costs, wants to know everything about magic, and hides her personal life.” Ginny was frowning at him, but she nodded her head slowly. “Not the words I would have used, but mostly, yeah.” Harry stood up and rapidly cancelled all the charms he had placed on the room. “Know where Ron is right now?” “Playing chess with Seamus.” Ginny was looking at him again in a way that was alien based on his experiences with Tonks. Noting to make time with Tonks as soon as possible, Harry motioned for her to follow him back into the corridor. “Would you please bring him here?” “Why? You’re not going to interrogate him, are you? I can tell you it wouldn’t work unless you hexed him and then gave him Veritaserum. He doesn’t like you.” Harry looked away from her for a moment. It was hard to be serious when she had a smirk on her face that was so twisted. “No, nothing of the sort. I’m going to, err, suggest we go get Hermione out of the library and have some fun.” “You’re not coming with me?” Ginny had adopted an artful look of innocence, eyelashes batting furiously. “Do you really want a lecture from the Fat Lady?” Ginny’s innocence shattered into mirth as she smiled widely. “Not another one, thanks though. Back in a few. I’ll cook up some pretext to get Ron moving.” Harry watched Ginny as she jogged off toward the Gryffindor common room and wondered what the hell he was going to do with her. To follow Cyril’s directives, he should continue to train her and suggest that she consider expanding the group he trained. He would never teach others even half of what he had agreed to teach her, but perhaps by holding multiple sessions he could divide the trusted from the non-trusted. At the same time, he could be employing some of the new-think Cyril had been demanding. “ . . . was winning the game, Ginny!” Ron’s dulcet tones were audible long before they came around the corner. Harry thought the boy was almost whinging. “Ron, you’ve never lost to anyone in Gryffindor. One more routing of your opponent wouldn’t change anything.” Ginny’s tone was nothing so much as just plain tired. “Still, he could’ve —” Ron’s voice cut short as soon as he saw Harry standing there. Rather than saying anything, the tall redhead looked past Harry as though he were not standing there. “C’mon, Ginny, let’s go.” Ron strode past quickly, which caused Harry to smirk at Ginny once her brother was a few steps past. Falling into step with Ginny, he casually asked, “Where are you two off to?” Ginny went back to her innocent look, and Harry was hard pressed not to laugh. “Oh, just the library. We’re going to go check on Hermione.” “Ah, just the girl I was looking for. I heard she’s quite the expert on house-elves.” Harry saw Ron hunch his shoulders at that statement but followed along as they all walked — or in Ron’s case, nearly stomped — down to the library. Ginny was doing her best not to laugh as Harry told her a story about a three-year-old he had watched in a shop one day stomping around because his mum was ignoring him. If anything, Ron’s footsteps became even louder until they reached the doors to the library. When Harry and Ginny finally reached the table Hermione was sitting at, Neville waved silently from a nearby table where he was packing up his materials. Harry nodded as Ginny waved back, but Harry kept his attention on Hermione, who was whispering with Ron. It was clear that she was refusing whatever Ron was asking, but Harry started skimming the titles of the books she had open. They all concerned magic theory, non-verbal magic, and the memoirs of famous magicians. Harry looked around briefly, saw that Madam Pince was otherwise engaged, and then pulled his wand out as unobtrusively as he could. With a few flicks, all the books were closed, in a neat stack, and Hermione’s materials were neatly placed in her bag, which was now resting in Harry’s left hand. As she and Ron both turned to glare at him, which Harry thought was about as effectual as glaring at a boulder, Harry gestured curtly toward the doors. “Let’s go, Hermione,” he hissed. Harry took the lead and briskly walked out of the library, heading straight for the doors outside. Ginny caught up to him, and he could hear her chuckling as they walked. By the time they were near the front doors, Ginny’s voice caught him off guard. “Harry, why don’t you ever get lost in the castle?” Harry managed to avoid showing his surprise, but it was a close thing. “I don’t sleep much, so it gives me time to roam around.” Ginny stayed quiet for a moment as they exited the front doors, but then she made it clear that the topic was not closed. “And that’s why you took three short-cuts, two of which were secret passages, one of which I’ve never seen, to get here?” Harry knew that there were a few ways out of the situation, but the most fun was also the most obscure. Putting on his best smile, the one that Neville told him was just plain wrong, Harry turned to Ginny. “Yep.” Ginny missed a step and almost stumbled before he caught her shoulder, and she gave him a weak glare. Apparently she gave up, since she smiled at him again. “Right. I don’t believe you.” Harry shrugged as they came to a stop near the Quidditch pitch. Hermione was huffing and a bit red-faced as she came to a rest near them, while Ron was just glaring at Harry silently. It was obvious the redhead had no problem keeping up, whereas Hermione was in horrible physical condition. “Right, here’s the deal. Hermione, you study too much. Snog Ron, fly a few laps, do something not involving books and deep thought.” Harry pulled out his wand again, working an elaborate charm upon the bag in his possession. With a short pause for thought, he then opened it and applied the charm again upon all of the items he could see in the bag. Feeling a bit tired, Harry turned a wan smile on the girl. “In exchange for you spending at least one hour every night doing something fun,” Harry said lightly, “I’ll help you with your magic skills.” Harry could tell Hermione was interested in the offer, but he was far from finished with her. “However, I need a third party to make sure you’re keeping to the rules. So now, every night at eight sharp, all your items here,” Harry shook the bag lightly and then tossed it to a surprised Ginny, who fumbled it before sinking to the ground with a sharp grunt as the bag landed on top of her, “will transport themselves to Ginny. She’ll keep them safe while you’re off necking or something, right?” Harry would almost swear that Ron was fighting a smile, but Hermione looked furious. Harry ignored her, though, and turned to Ginny. “Coming? Let’s leave the love birds out here, shall we?” Harry saluted the two standing there with very different expressions as he headed back for the castle. “As you don’t have your brooms, enjoy the stars, yeah?” Harry called back over his shoulder loudly. He could hear rushing feet behind him, and a quick glance told him that Ginny was coming after him. He was unable to see her expression clearly in the faint light, but he knew he was going to get an earful as soon as they were away from her brother. As expected, while they were waiting for the first staircase to align usefully, Ginny lit into him with a harsh whisper. “What the hell was that about, Potter?” Harry shrugged. “She needs to loosen up, and your brother didn’t seem to mind in the end.” Ginny grabbed his arm and pulled him around to face her directly. “What aren’t you telling me?” Harry glanced around, and seeing that only the portraits were nearby — portraits he had no trust in — he leaned over by her ear and quietly told her, “Your friend Hermione is doing exactly what Tom Riddle did before he became Voldemort. Your answers earlier were very similar to what Riddle was like, and if forcing her to snog with Ron stops the trend, then I’d consider it ire well earned.” When he stood up straight again, he could see the alternately flushed and pale sections on her face. “That’s barmy!” Ginny hissed. “She’d never do that!” “You’d be surprised how many people thought that Riddle, the wonderful Head Boy, could never do what he did, either. The library here is a beautiful thing, but it also has lots of books on Dark magic. You may not know this, but it’s very, very addictive magic — and no matter how much you think you might know better, once you start using it, it’s only a matter of time. Your friend is smart, sure, but she’s not any smarter than Riddle was.” Harry ignored her as he headed back to his suite, determined to get some of his dubious homework out of the way. He had a weekend coming up, and he needed to clear his schedule so he could talk with his friends and mentors. As he cleared the staircase and turned back, he saw Ginny watching him from the base of the staircase, clutching Hermione’s bag to her chest as she slowly shook her head back and forth in denial. Harry resumed his solitary trek back to his studies, but he knew that he would pay the price for his actions tonight. While it was possible Hermione was not, after all, headed down the same path Riddle was, Harry was not like the headmaster — he would not leave such things to chance. If there was any way he could prevent it, then he would, and the consequences would not matter in the end. While he was reluctant to teach her directly, it would provide an opportune time to assess her intentions and her skills. If she had been dabbling in Dark magic, Harry would soon know, and then a discussion with Cyril would decide the next steps. For her sake, Harry hoped she had not gone that far into the Restricted Section of the library. As he entered the suite he shared with Cyril, Harry saw a note sitting on the table between the chairs near the fireplace. Picking it up, he immediately recognised the handwriting of his Mentor. Harry — Vencil has asked me to report to him directly. He is less than pleased with the latest developments. Reflect on what we talked about this morning, and see what you can learn about Miss Granger. If I am not back by morning, keep to your schedule as per normal. C.F. Harry shrugged absently, tossing the note into the fire. It was only a matter of time, but he suspected that Vencil would be handing down new directives to Cyril, which would in turn mean new directives for Harry. It was something to think about, at least, as he settled down to his homework. The mirror by his bed stood tall and proud, mocking in a way, as Harry caught his reflection in it. The differences between Riddle and Hermione were there, if he could work them out, but the similarities were far too close to be ignored. And yet, if he was absolutely honest with himself, Floppy had it right. The similarities between Riddle and himself were much, much closer. oOo oOo oOo A/N: Again, real life is complex, so no assurances on timing of chapters these days. Hopefully the embiggened word count will offset some of the ire over the latency since my last update. I will be out of the country during part of December and perhaps November, and hope to get some solid writing time in then. I seem to do best when travelling for a week here and there, though I prefer to be at home these days. One interesting question was raised in a review: Why didn’t Harry (in Echoes) learn to use an English broadsword? It’s a good question, but not for the immediate reasons that lie behind it. A bit of history: there is no such thing as a broadsword — not for the English or anyone else. The term was improperly translated a couple hundred years ago, and it’s stuck ever since. The closest intelligible root is for those swords with a broad blade, meaning broad or broader than your hand, not today’s generic and very imprecise usage for a “long and broad” bladed weapon. It was a term (broad bladed sword) that was supposedly applied early on to weapons for cavalry, for weapons used against cavalry (i.e., cut the horse’s legs off), and even for those big heavy things silly English knights would pound on each other with. There were, of course, many other weapons around the world that fell into this category as well. I’m sure some quality time with Google would reveal this, and much more, to the interested reader. Understanding the intent behind the question, however, let me re-ask it and then answer it. Why does Harry learn Japanese martial arts, as opposed to French, Spanish, Italian, or some other? And why is the sword not a rapier or a sabre or …? The initial answer is quite simple: as the author, I am writing what I personally know well. I spent something around eight years of my life training very intense martial arts (many hours per day every day of the week) as an adult, and I learned aikijujitsu with bukiwaza (weapons techniques, including kenjitsu) among other things. While I have fought those who studied classical fencing (rapier and sabre) in mock combat as curiosity bouts to see who would win, I know too little of those other styles to write with any semblance of authority or correctness on the topic. For that reason, I cannot seriously consider using it in any story I write. The more important reason, to the characters of the story, however, is that the martial arts outside of Chinese or Japanese and their derivatives do not generally include heavy overall physical conditioning and unarmed combat skills, though this statement is based solely on my exposure and reading about them. The caveat, of course, is unless you are training as a general soldier — in which case an overall minimum physical conditioning is imparted at the beginning of your adjustment. Other styles of martial arts tend to be, from what I understand of them, a more targeted conditioning, as required by the skills being learned. As discussed in an earlier chapter with the therapy session, the goal was first and foremost overall physical conditioning, with a dash of the rest. That David, Harry’s adoptive father, found someone who would teach him more than was needed is indicative of something. Feel free to think about it if you like. Moving on, the cited legal case of Dahlia, Ltd v. Yvonne can be found in “Uncommon Law” by A.P. Herbert, Case No. 49. This is a consolidated reprint of prior publications on cases such as these, but it is paramount to read the illuminating introductions to the text in order to properly understand the context of the cases within. Regardless, it is still a novel legal defence theory. If you’re familiar with what I’m referring to obliquely, please don’t spoil it for the others should they be motivated to find out for themselves. I’ll post more commentary on the case in a future chapter A/N. For those interested, I have some other one-shots and very short fics that will be coming out soon, a result of a non-compliant muse. If you want to be notified, do the favourite-author flag, rather than favourite-story. I’m not sure the notifications always work, but it might help. Unrelated, I am sad to say that Robert Jordan passed away recently if you were not aware of it. This event is quite depressing, and not just for the Wheel of Time series. Jordan had a way of writing and thinking that was far above the norm, and all of the unwritten tomes from worlds not yet created that could have come . . . shall never be. Thanks, as always, to my genius betas who have valiantly strived to make this story better, despite my crafty attempts to make it incomprehensible. Immeasurable thanks to cwarbeck and Chreechree. Thanks also to Reg and Lathac for Brit-picking, Sovran for a pre-publish sanity check, and Sherylyn for her polishing touches before the final posting. |
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