Sentinels' Walk

Sentinels' Walk

Chapter Two: Conversations

"There are chapters on loss, with ghosts that won't die/ There are chapters on love, where the ink's never dry."--Sting, "Book of My Life"

* * *

Just a couple of minutes, now, Harry thought as he glanced over at the clock on his bedside table. He had been doing this every few minutes for the past hour and a half, as it was far more entertaining watching the digits change than it was reading and taking notes for his Transfiguration essay. The tiny Portkey-Snitch was a comfortingly cool weight in his hand--though, much to his dismay, he had been unable to find a way to make it fly. That was probably for the best, though, as Dumbledore probably wouldn't have been too amused if it had flown out his window and gotten lost. Then again, he might have; it was hard to tell with the headmaster, sometimes.

Suddenly, he felt the by-now familiar--and highly disconcerting--jerking-forward sensation that he had come to associate with a Portkey activating, and the tiny confines of his bedroom melted away into a swirl of grey. An instant later, the world snapped into focus around him again, and he stumbled forward as he landed roughly on soft, uneven ground. He seemed to be standing on the side of a country road, with a gravel path heading back from the road and into a grove of trees that seemed far too well tended to be called a forest.

"Hello?" he called out cautiously, wondering if anyone was supposed to be meeting him. Harry hated traveling by Portkey, if he was honest with himself, and being dumped seemingly out in the middle of nowhere brought back memories that he wished he could bury forever.

No need to panic, he told himself. Dumbledore said the Order was watching this place, and he gave me the Portkey himself, so there's no way anyone could have tampered with it like...before.

The obvious way to go was down the path, so he started walking in that direction. As he entered the grove, he looked around with amazement. Just as with the Burrow, nobody could ever have mistaken this place for anything but a wizard's dwelling; unlike the Burrow, though, which fairly bustled with life and energy, everything around him seemed to radiate a soothing tranquility. Water fell softly into shallow pools set in carefully tended grottos, but it fell out of thin air, and as he paused a moment to watch, he noticed that the pools never filled. A gentle, sourceless white light filled the enchanted grove, and other tiny lights danced among the branches of the trees, which were hung with green draperies of moss that seemed beaded with droplets of purest crystal.

As Harry walked further along the path, he caught glimpses through the trees of a curious-looking house. It appeared to be square, and set near to the ground, with a low roof tiled in black slate and walls made of wood weathered to a silvery white. The soft light that filled the grove was stronger around the house, illuminating it as if the full moon was shining upon it, and it seemed by intervals both beautiful and alien. Drawing nearer, he realized that the middle of the house was cut out, forming a hollow square, and he wondered what might be in that protected center.

Fortunately, the door was normal enough, though he had to climb several steps to reach it; the house was raised slightly above ground level, with a walkway around the perimeter. He knocked twice, then settled back to wait and watch the sky and the trees around him. The last embers of sunset still lit the sky above the horizon, barely visible through the trees, and the stars and pale crescent moon were low in the indigo almost-night. It was, he thought, a peaceful darkness.

That peace was interrupted by the sound of the door sliding open, though, releasing a cheerful yellow beam of light onto the darkened porch. Startled, Harry turned to see the silhouette of a man standing in the doorway, and tried to think of something to say.

"Ah, you must be my new student," the man said cheerfully, stepping out onto the porch. "Albus said you would be coming here tonight, though he neglected to tell me your name."

The dim light revealed no more of the man's features than before, but Harry thought he could make out a smile playing on his lips. It took him a moment to process the last part of the sentence, and he flushed when he realized he must seem like an idiot, standing there and not saying anything.

"Oh! I'm Harry--Harry Potter," he stammered, inwardly wincing at how stupid he must sound. "Err--thank you for agreeing to teach me."

The man took a step back, and Harry saw his eyes widen slightly. "Well, this is indeed a surprise," he said, "though I suppose I should have expected something of the sort. Please, come in, Mr. Potter."

Shrugging--he was, though he was loath to admit it, finally getting used to this reaction to his name--Harry followed the man inside. The entryway seemed fairly plain, compared to the magic pervading the area around the house, though he did note that the room was well lit despite a total absence of lamps. Easy way to save on the electricity bill, he thought, grinning momentarily. The walls and floor were a rich, dark wood of some sort, and the only decoration was a large banner hung on one wall that depicted a long, slender dragon wound sinuously around what appeared to be a phoenix. There was something about the design that drew his gaze, and he paused to look more closely at it.

The banner appeared to be white silk, beautifully embroidered in threads of emerald, crimson and gold, and the dragon and phoenix were so lifelike that Harry almost thought he saw them move at one point. It was curious; at first glance, he thought them to be locked in combat, but as he drew closer he could see that he had been mistaken. The phoenix's wickedly sharp talons and beak were poised to guard the dragon's vulnerable underside against attack, and the dragon's head coiled watchfully above the phoenix's wings, which were outstretched in flight. It was not a peaceful depiction, but looking at it made him feel strangely safe.

"Excellent, Mr. Potter. It seems to have taken a liking to you."

The words startled Harry from his observation, and he turned quickly. "Sorry!" he blurted out. "I don't mean to be prying, it's just that--"

The man waved one hand dismissively. "No need to apologize," he said. "The sigil is meant to capture one's attention, among other things. That you reacted to it as you did says good things about you."

In the light, Harry could see his host, a middle-aged Asian man, clearly. With his graying hair and sun-darkened face, he would not have appeared out of place as a Hogwarts professor, though his casual Muggle clothes would certainly have stood out against the other teachers' robes. His black eyes sparkled cheerfully, but there was something about them that spoke of power as well.

Wait a second...Asian, has a daughter at Hogwarts a year older than me--oh, no. Harry groaned inwardly as he suddenly realized whose house he must be in, hoping that his displeasure didn't show on his face. Maybe I won't ever actually have to see her, he thought, though he knew it was unlikely.

"Since you look so confused, I'll assume Albus didn't tell you who would be teaching you," the man said, smiling slightly. "He always has had a taste for the mysterious. I'm Alexander Chang--I know we've never met before, but I understand you know my daughter."

Unfortunately, yes, Harry felt like saying. Right now, he would almost have preferred Snape's tender attentions.

"Err...yes, that's right, Mr. Chang," Harry said hesitantly. Any hope that this would be a fun summer seemed to be draining away with every passing sentence; whatever Mr. Chang had heard from Cho regarding Harry would almost certainly have been negative, he thought, and he wasn't looking forward to what the older man would think of his own memories of the past year.

Suddenly Mr. Chang laughed, shaking his head a bit. "No need to be so shy, Mr. Potter," he said, still chuckling. "Whatever is between you and my daughter is your own affair, not mine. From what I have seen, any hurt you may have caused her was done in ignorance, not malice."

"Err...thank you," Harry said, feeling a bit like a broken record. At least Mr. Chang didn't seem mad at him--which, he supposed, was more than he had hoped for a few seconds ago--though he had a suspicion he was coming across as a bit simpleminded.

This has got to be the weirdest conversation I've had in...well, since last night, at least, he decided. And definitely the most awkward.

Perhaps sensing Harry's discomfort, Mr. Chang turned away again, towards a doorway that led to the right. "Come this way," he called over his shoulder. "I certainly don't mean to keep you standing here all evening, and we can talk much more comfortably in the library."

Harry nodded mutely and followed him from the entryway, looking around as they walked along the hallway. The ubiquitous dark wood paneling was everywhere, it seemed, and beams of the same wood crisscrossed the low ceiling at regular intervals, forming an interesting contrast against its white plaster. Several soft-looking couches stood in the first room they passed, and tables laden with books and magazines--both wizarding and Muggle, he noted--filled much of the remaining space. The next, to Harry's surprise, held a very large, very modern-looking television along with more couches.

Just before the hallway turned a corner, Mr. Chang stopped in front of one door, so abruptly that Harry almost ran into him. Sliding it open, he leaned into the room--looking for something, Harry guessed.

"Sorry to disturb you, love," he said a moment later, to someone Harry couldn't see, "but I'm going to need this room for the next couple of hours. Hope you don't mind being kicked out."

"Oh, sure, right when I was getting settled in. That's definitely not fair." The voice was instantly recognizable, and Harry sighed softly as his hopes of avoiding Cho were dashed.

She sounded a lot happier just then than she used to, though, some rebellious part of his mind interjected. It was true; underneath the teasing put-upon tone, Cho's voice seemed to have regained some essential quality it had been missing whenever Harry had talked with her over the past year.

That is so utterly irrelevant, he told himself irritably. After their last conversation, he had no desire to talk with her again any time soon; while he supposed he was pleased that she sounded like she was doing better, it was a very abstract, secondhand sort of pleasure.

The shuffling sound of parchment sheets being gathered together interrupted his thoughts, and a moment later Cho stepped past her father and out into the hallway. Dressed in jeans and a casual pale blue pullover, with her hair loosely pulled back, even Harry had to admit that she was quite pretty. Something seemed a bit off to him, though. No butterflies, he realized a few seconds later, fighting to keep himself from laughing. There wasn't even a hint of the fluttery feeling in his stomach he had seemingly always felt before simply from looking at her, and he wished it good riddance.

Cho seemed just as happy to ignore him, and as she turned the corner without a backward glance, Harry let out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. That wasn't so bad, he thought, relieved, and followed Mr. Chang into the room, every wall of which was lined with bookshelves from floor to ceiling. It looked larger than he would have expected, given the shape of the house, but he supposed it was magically enlarged like the tent he had stayed in at the Quidditch World Cup.

Several overstuffed chairs lay around a table in the middle of the room, and Mr. Chang walked over and sat down in one, motioning for Harry to join him as he shut the door with a wave of his wand. "Now," he began, once they were both seated, "the first thing to address, I suppose, is your previous training. I understand you have had some, but you did not advance very far, correct?"

"That's...basically right," Harry said a bit hesitantly, nodding. He wasn't exactly eager to share details of the "lessons" Snape had given him, though he supposed it was better to get it over with sooner rather than later.

"I can push someone out of my mind sometimes," he continued, when it became clear that Mr. Chang was waiting for him to elaborate, "and once or twice I've been able to follow them back into their own mind, but only when I was really angry.

"That's not too good, is it?" he finished, flushing slightly. When he said it aloud, it really did seem like a fairly pitiful amount of progress for almost a year of practice. Granted, it had been practice with Snape, but he doubted Mr. Chang would think that a valid excuse.

To his surprise, though, the older man simply nodded. "Not a bad start," he said, sounding thoughtful. "Strong emotion can be a powerful aid to one's impulses, but you will learn that you cannot rely on it for everything."

Harry leaned forward in his chair, propping his elbows on the table. "But, sir," he said, feeling a bit confused, "isn't that what Legilimency and Occlumency are all about? Emotions, I mean. Every time Snape--my teacher--used Legilimens, it brought up memories about hate, or shame, or some other emotion, and that's how I saw his mind, too."

"Indeed, that is precisely how Legilimency works, though it is possible to use a more specific focus for the thoughts one wishes to see than an emotion. In Occlumency as well, emotions play a crucial role in active defenses, by disrupting the hostile Legilimencer's probing." Some of Harry's confusion must have shown on his face, as Mr. Chang continued to explain.

"When I say active defenses, Mr. Potter, I mean the kinds of things you do when someone is actually seeking to examine your memories--your instinctive desire to push them out, away from you, for example. We will discuss this in depth, later, but for now the important thing to keep in mind is that you must be conscious and self-aware for these techniques to work

"On the other hand, passive defenses have no such restrictions, but they do take a certain amount of preparation to establish and will do nothing but shield your mind. Reversing a probe, as you yourself implied, takes active effort."

Harry bit his lower lip. "So, if I wanted to protect myself from dreams, I'd have to use these passive defenses?" he asked. It made sense, sort of, given what Snape and Dumbledore had said about clearing his mind of emotions. If there weren't any emotions in his mind, then there wouldn't be anything for a Legilimencer to look for, assuming that was how it worked.

"Ah, dreams...a curious question. Yes, I believe Albus mentioned something of the sort." Mr. Chang appeared puzzled for a moment, then shrugged. "Dream sendings are not part of Legilimency, but Occlumency does provide a defense against them, if that is truly what you want," he said, still sounding as if he didn't quite see the point of Harry's question.

"Sir?" Harry asked, wondering why people could possibly not want to protect themselves against the sorts of things that he had seen. Were the kinds of dreams he had been having really that strange, even in the wizarding world?

Abruptly, Mr. Chang shook his head, as if to throw off something confining. "My apologies, Mr. Potter. It's just that dream visions are traditionally considered to be beneficial--a gift, rather than a curse, if you will," he said. "I assume by your question that yours are not, so, yes, I can show you how to block them. It will not be easy, though, as I doubt very much that you have any experience in the kind of mental discipline necessary to do so."

Something of the irritation Harry felt at the last sentence must have shown on his face, as Mr. Chang laughed. "That was not intended as criticism," he said mildly, holding up a hand to forestall any comments. "In these times, virtually no one outside of a monastery would have that experience. I simply want to ensure that you are aware of the difficulties."

Mollified, Harry nodded. "I still want to learn--no," he corrected himself, "I need to learn to stop them." He was unable to repress a shudder at the memories of his dreams over the past year, and he was sure that Mr. Chang had noticed as well, but thankfully chose to say nothing.

"Very well, then. This is something you can and must practice on your own, so we won't spend much time on it while you are over here," Mr. Chang said. "Also, you shouldn't get discouraged at any lack of progress. Some orders of Buddhist monks spend their entire lives perfecting the ability to clear the mind of all thoughts and emotions--don't expect to master it like a new charm or potion."

The last part was said lightly, but Harry could tell that his teacher was being entirely serious about the difficulty. He said not to get discouraged, he thought, but how can I not, after hearing something like that? I need to figure this out now, not in a hundred years. Being told that he had no real chance of withstanding Voldemort's attacks any time soon was more than a little...well, discouraging, to say the least.

Mr. Chang apparently failed to notice Harry's preoccupation, as he cheerfully continued to speak. "Let's save the specific instructions for right before you leave, so you'll remember them better when you get back home. For now, we'll go over active defenses, since you say you have some experience with that."

Harry nodded dully, though unlike dream defenses, he didn't really see the point of active defenses. It wasn't like he was likely to run into Voldemort while shopping in Diagon Alley, after all--and, if he was honest with himself, he was a little afraid of what Mr. Chang might choose to search for. The memories of Snape's greasy fingers digging through his mind, looking for the worst things he could find, were still too fresh for him to really trust anyone.

"Ready?" Mr. Chang asked. "Then let's begin."

Without any further warning, a hammer seemed to smash painlessly into Harry's mind, scattering his thoughts in sharp-edged fragments. One after another whirled by, as if they were being chosen and discarded by some unseen force.

A sheet of creamy parchment, with elegant words written in emerald ink: "Dear Mr. Potter, We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry..."

Dumbledore's voice, still somehow audible over the riotous cheers coming from the Gryffindor House table: "Third--to Mr. Harry Potter, for pure nerve and outstanding courage..."

A rush of feeling, a glowing silver stag forming out of the mists, and black-robed Dementors scattering in every direction...

Wind whistling past him as he dove towards the green field below, a tiny flicker of gold just beyond the tips of his outstretched fingers...

Throwing snowballs at Ron, who was blissfully unaware of Hermione sneaking up behind him with a double handful of snow ready to dump down the back of his shirt...

Abruptly, the flow of images stopped, and Harry found himself once more sitting at a table in the Chang house's library. Across from him, Mr. Chang looked puzzled, and Harry flushed as he realized he hadn't done a thing to try to stop the flow of memories. "I'm sorry," he said sheepishly, "I wasn't expecting that at all...they were happy thoughts, and--"

"And you wanted to see more of them, right?" There was no condemnation in Mr. Chang's voice, but neither was there any hint of the lighter tone he had been using earlier. "I thought to start you off with something familiar, but perhaps I was in error. Very well, let's try something else."

The hammer blow came again, but this time Harry was almost ready for it. Once more his thoughts fractured and he was swept away by a flood of memories.

"And you'll stay in there for a week if I ever hear you asking about them again!" Uncle Vernon's voice, his anger evident even through the cupboard door, as Harry huddled on his cot in the darkness...

Dudley, surrounded by half-opened gifts, as Harry watched silently from one corner of the room...

"You might even have a scar now, if you're lucky...That's what you want, isn't it?" The orange and shadow of firelight flickering across Ron's face, obscuring the expression on it as Harry's words rang in the silence of the Gryffindor common room...

No! It didn't end there...we made up, eventually! With an almost audible snap, Harry wrenched his mind away from the trail of memories, finding himself once more back in the library.

"Not bad at all," Mr. Chang commented, before Harry could say anything. "Certainly good enough against anyone not well-practiced with the Legilimens spell. Your previous instructor seems to have done well in teaching you to defend against those seeking your less pleasant memories."

"Yeah," Harry said, a bit bitterly. "I got lots of practice with that last year. Does it really matter if I can't stop someone from seeing my good memories, if I can stop them from seeing the bad ones?"

Mr. Chang frowned, so Harry assumed he had said something wrong, but he wasn't sure what it was. Death Eaters weren't going to care that he loved to play Quidditch--something that had been splashed all over the pages of the Daily Prophet in the past, anyway. It only made sense that they would want to find his hidden weaknesses, not his strengths, most of which had already been publicly dissected in excruciating detail during things like the Triwizard Championship.

Much to Harry's surprise, Mr. Chang didn't offer any sort of reason why he might be wrong, but simply said, "I want you to think of what you saw during my first probe, and then reconsider your statement."

Obligingly, Harry leaned back in his chair and ran through the memories he had seen. "Well, there was getting my Hogwarts letter, and Gryffindor winning the House Cup--I can't see how Voldemort could use either of those. Then...well, I guess he might not send Dementors after me, if he knows I can produce a Patronus. Quidditch...everyone knows about that anyway, and--oh." He broke off as he realized what should have been obvious.

"Ron and Hermione, and the rest of the Weasleys, and everyone else I care about, right?" Not waiting for an answer, he kept talking, knowing he was right. "If Voldemort can see into my best memories, he'll know who he has to ki--to hurt, in order to hurt me the most." He couldn't bring himself to say "kill," not when he was talking about the friends who had come to mean more to him than anyone else in the world.

"Yes," Mr. Chang said, nodding heavily. "You are correct, Mr. Potter. Even if you are strong, a dark wizard will only seek someone weak to use against you. What better way to hurt people than through their loved ones, after all?" His voice trailed off, as if he were speaking more to himself than to Harry, and suddenly he looked very tired.

"It's your wife, isn't it?" Harry blurted out before he could stop himself, remembering the television and Muggle books and magazines he had seen. "She's a Muggle, and you're worried about what might happen to her if you join the Order." Fighting the urge to bury his head in his hands as he felt his cheeks flush a burning crimson from embarrassment, Harry gazed steadily across the table at Mr. Chang, whose expression shifted rapidly from shock, to anger, and finally settled on resignation.

"Again, quite correct," he sighed. "Very perceptive, though I imagine you would have found that out sooner or later. Secrets are difficult to keep when Legilimency is involved.

"Now, I think we should start on passive defenses. The process of controlling your emotions and thoughts is a difficult one, so I want to make sure you understand the basics before you leave tonight." His voice had firmed up again, and his face was as expressionless as it had been when they started.

Harry wanted to say something, but he figured he had lodged his foot firmly enough in his mouth already in the past few minutes--and he had no idea what he could possibly say, in any event. Instead, he simply listened as best as he could, wishing he were old enough to be allowed to do more to help the Order. It didn't seem right that people like Mr. Chang, or the Weasleys or any of the rest, should have to worry about what would be, in the end, Harry's fight alone.

* * *

Oh, this is useless, Harry thought morosely, opening his eyes and standing up. It had been three days since his first lesson with Mr. Chang, and he still had yet even to come close to emptying his mind of all emotions, let alone all thoughts. The process had sounded so simple, at first--just breathing deeply, and counting the breaths--that he had thought Mr. Chang was putting him on about how hard it would be. When it came time for him actually to practice on his own, though, he began to think that it was hopeless and he would never become a true Occlumencer. He just had too many thoughts in his head, it seemed, and they chose the most inconvenient times possible to make themselves known.

The absolute worst had been the previous night when, bored from counting breaths for what felt like an hour, he had caught himself thinking about not thinking. Only a keen sense of self-preservation--it was after midnight, and he really didn't want to wake Uncle Vernon--had kept him from screaming or repeatedly banging his head on the wall in frustration. When he had mentioned this to Mr. Chang during their next session together, though, the older man had simply laughed and told him to keep trying.

Harry wasn't sure any amount of practice would really help, but even not thinking about anything was far preferable to reading for his Transfiguration essay. Who would have thought something like the Animagus transformation could possibly be so...boring? It was painful to admit, especially since his father had not only understood the process but actually done it when he was younger than Harry was now, but he had to fight to keep himself from falling asleep whenever he read either of the books on the subject that he had bought. It didn't help that they seemed to be written half in complicated-looking Arithmantic equations, and he had several pages of questions that he needed to ask Hermione the next time he talked with her.

"I mean, what is this supposed to mean?" he asked Hedwig, who, sitting in her cage, made an unsurprisingly apathetic audience. "'For forms less massive than the caster, the following equation should be used to determine the amount of energy necessary for countering the inherent entropy resulting from temporary cross-planar mass displacement'," he quoted from a random page in Animagus Made Easy, which was, if possible, even less interesting than the first book he had tried.

"I wish Sirius was here to help me with this," he muttered almost unconsciously, then frowned when he realized what he had said.. It was not a new thought, but it seemed somehow petty to wish that Sirius could come back just to help him with his homework.

Enough, he told himself firmly. He had plenty of things he needed to do without adding moping about his godfather to the list. It was about time to try to get some sleep, anyway, since Aunt Petunia wanted him up early tomorrow for some reason--a surprise, she had said, which left him torn between curiosity and worry. "Surprises" in the past, while quite surprising, had not been especially pleasant for Harry.

Guess I'll find out in the morning, he thought, feeling remarkably resigned to his fate, whatever it might be, as he changed out of his clothes and made himself ready for bed.

* * *

Apparently "early," in Aunt Petunia's terms, meant "a time even Oliver Wood wouldn't schedule Quidditch practice for." Harry hadn't checked his clock when she woke him up, but it was definitely before sunrise. Learning more than that would have required his brain actually to be working, which was definitely a lost cause at the moment. Curiously, she hadn't said anything much to him, just told him to get dressed and come downstairs.

"Aunt Petunia?" Harry asked, yawning widely, as he stumbled into the dining room. "Where are you?" She was probably in the kitchen, he decided, but he couldn't quite summon up the energy to go in there yet.

I really hope she hasn't gotten me up so early just to have me make Dudley a special breakfast or something, he thought morosely. It was a likely possibility, though, based on his past experiences with "surprises."

To his surprise, though, he heard her voice come from the sitting room. "Come in here, Harry, and sit down," she called, making him wonder what was going on. It was seeming less likely that he would have to fix breakfast for Dudley, though, which was a definite bonus to the situation.

Harry's curiosity only increased when he walked into the sitting room and saw his aunt sitting at one end of the long couch, with a light breakfast spread on the table before her. She was holding a small envelope, it looked like, and when she looked up and saw him, she motioned for him to sit down next to her. Somewhat hesitantly, he did so, and as he drew closer to her, he could see that her expression was an odd mixture of reluctance and anticipation. He sat down, then simply looked at her, unsure of what to say.

"I suppose the first thing I should say is 'Happy Birthday'," she said quietly, after clearing her throat.

Harry blinked, surprised, and then mentally counted the days. Nope, still one day away, he confirmed, feeling obscurely embarrassed for his aunt. It was overshadowed by the astonishment he felt, though; even if she had gotten the date slightly wrong, it was still the first time in fifteen years of living with the Dursleys that any of them had bothered to remember that he actually had a birthday at all.

"Err...thank you, Aunt Petunia," he said a bit hesitantly. "But--"

"I know it's not your real birthday today," she interrupted. "We're going up to visit Marge for the weekend tomorrow, though, and since you're not coming with us I wanted to give this to you before we left." She held out the envelope in her hand, and Harry, now in a state of total shock, took it dumbly.

"Well, don't just sit there like a lump," she snapped at him, as the envelope lay in his hand, a bit heavier than it looked. "Open it already! Believe me, I don't like being up this early either, but I didn't think your uncle would understand."

Same old Aunt Petunia, Harry thought, and it was enough to bring him back to his senses. He unsealed the envelope and, looking inside, saw what looked like two photographs and a necklace. Now curious, he shook the contents into his hand and, setting aside the necklace, flipped over the photos.

The first one showed a family standing in front of a merrily crackling fireplace, with a Christmas tree covered in twinkling lights partly visible off to the side. The man and woman in the back each had their arms draped around the two girls in the front, who didn't seem too much younger than Harry. Then, as he looked closer, he saw the younger girl twist in her father's arms and grin up at him, mouthing silent words.

"Aunt Petunia!" Harry exclaimed, dropping the picture in surprise. "This is a--"

"Magical photograph?" his aunt finished. "How very observant of you. Clearly, that school of yours is teaching you well." The sarcasm in her voice was biting, but Harry barely noticed it as he snatched up the photo again.

Now, as he looked closer, he could see small details that had escaped him a moment ago. The older girl, with her pale blue eyes and brown hair, was clearly his aunt--and as he looked at the younger one, who had again turned to smile at the camera, he saw the same bright green eyes that looked back at him from the mirror every morning.

"Mother..." he whispered, not even realizing he had spoken aloud until an uncomfortable cough from his aunt broke the silence.

"Yes, well," she said, fidgeting a bit and clearly as uncomfortable with the situation as Harry himself was, "that one is the last I have. I burned all the rest after--well, never mind that. Just...be careful with it."

Mutely, Harry nodded. After what? he desperately wanted to ask, but he didn't dare, not while his aunt was in such a strange mood. Setting aside the photograph with care, he picked up the second one. Clearly not magical, it showed the same two girls, but several years younger, sitting on a park bench. They each had one arm around the shoulders of the other as they held identical, enormous ice cream sundaes in their other hands, grinning widely at whoever was taking the picture.

The two of them looked so happy that, for a moment, Harry smiled too, before wondering again what had happened to drive them so far apart. It couldn't have been just his mother's going to Hogwarts, which was what he had always thought up until now; the other picture gave the lie to that idea. Whatever it was, it didn't look like he would ever know. He was sure his aunt would never tell him, and anyone else who might have been able to was dead now.

Feeling strangely hesitant, he set down the second picture and picked up the necklace. The slender silver chain slipped through his fingers until he felt something more solid catch between them, and he opened his hand to reveal a small, perfectly formed flower frozen in a drop of crystal. A lily, he realized with a lump in his throat, though it seemed far too tiny to be real.

"Our parents gave that to her the day she left to go to school," his aunt said, smiling bitterly. "I'm not sure she ever took it off. That man who came a few days ago--Dumbledore--he brought it to me the day after you showed up on our doorstep, and I knew she was really dead, then."

There was anger in his aunt's voice, but underneath, Harry could hear something else--sorrow, perhaps, or pain. He could feel his own eyes start to tear up, and he knew he had to get away before he started to cry in front of her. Somehow, he felt that would shatter whatever delicate, half-formed relationship with his aunt that the morning had established, and he realized with some surprise that he didn't want that.

As if sensing what he could not say, his aunt stood up abruptly and walked over to the door into the kitchen. "Go take those things up to your room before your uncle wakes up," she called over her shoulder. "Then get down here and help me fix breakfast. That should be a good enough excuse for why you're up so early."

So I will be making breakfast after all, Harry thought with a brief stab of amusement as he hurried up the stairs to his room. I guess I can't complain, though. In the past fifteen minutes, he had learned more about his mother than he had in sixteen years, and cooking breakfast seemed like a small price to pay.

* * *

Fragments of memories spinning by his mind's eye:

Sitting in a cold classroom, trying to write down the professor's words when he heard his name called. "Potter! What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel..."

At the Quidditch World Cup, spotting Cho on his way back from getting water and spilling half of the bucket down the front of his pants...

Snap! That memory linked to another one, of standing across from her in a hallway arguing furiously with her, and the anger associated with that memory was more than enough to overwhelm the embarrassment that had characterized the first two. With a feeling of triumph, he watched the now-familiar walls of the Chang library melt back into focus around him.

"Very good, Mr. Potter," Mr. Chang said, leaning back in his chair. "You have progressed quite rapidly, you know. The fact that you can overcome my probes so quickly says a great deal about your strength of will."

That sounded a lot like what Moody--well, the fake Moody, at any rate--had said when Harry had been able to throw off the Imperious curse, making him wonder if the two spells were related somehow. That in turn reminded him of one of the questions he had been wondering about for the past few days.

"What exactly is a natural Legilimencer?" he asked curiously. "Professor Dumbledore said you could explain it to me better than he could--since you are one and all. Is it just that you can use Legilimens without a wand?"

Mr. Chang nodded. "A good question," he said, leaning forward again and steepling his hands before him on the table. "At the most basic level, yes, you are correct. The Legilimens spell was developed to mimic the ability of some wizards to read the thoughts of others, and those few who could do it without a spell eventually came to be referred to as natural Legilimencers.

"The spell is not perfect, however, though the imperfection lies in the means rather than the end. With a spell or without one, there is no real difference in the capability for reading another's memories, but the true power of someone well trained in Legilimency comes from the variety of ways to attain that result. Tell me, how is your practice at clearing your mind coming along?"

Surprised at the abrupt change in subject, Harry blinked, lost for a moment. "Err...not too good, really," he confessed. "I just can't seem to concentrate for long enough to get anywhere."

Mr. Chang made a noncommittal noise, and then smiled slightly. "Well, then, I think a demonstration is in order," he said. "Hopefully, that will answer your question and give you a bit of an incentive to practice, too."

"Okay," Harry said, shrugging. He felt like telling Mr. Chang that he hardly needed any more incentives to learn to keep Voldemort out of his mind, but he decided that that would be not only rude, but fairly pointless as well. If Mr. Chang thought that Harry needed a demonstration, then it wasn't exactly like Harry was in much of a position to tell him not to do it.

After a minute passed and Mr. Chang did nothing but sit, hands folded in front of him, staring down at the table, Harry started to wonder when the demonstration would be starting. It was almost time for him to be going back home, where hopefully he would be able to stay awake long enough to wait up for the birthday owls from his friends. That thought brought him back to his aunt's behavior from the morning, over which he had been puzzling the whole day. It seemed so unlike what he knew of her, but there had been no mistaking the emotions in her voice, and the gifts...

Automatically, his hand went to his throat; he knew it might seem a bit strange, if anyone saw him wearing a girl's necklace, but he had already decided that he didn't care what anyone thought about it. The people whose opinions did matter to him would understand, he was sure. He knew his aunt had seen him wearing it, by the way her eyes had widened for a moment when he had come back down that morning to help cook, but she had said nothing--something for which Harry was quite grateful to her.

Shaking his head, he looked across the table at Mr. Chang. "I should be getting back, now," he said, after a glance down at his watch. "Maybe you should save this demonstration for tomorrow, if it takes a long time to work."

"Perhaps, Mr. Potter," Mr. Chang said, smiling slightly as he stood up and walked over to the library door. "Yes, you may go now. Don't forget to practice your breathing."

"Yes, Mr. Chang," Harry said obediently, as he did every night. As teachers went, Mr. Chang was one of the better ones he had had, but he did have a tendency to repeat himself more than Harry felt was really necessary. He did practice; it just didn't seem to do much good--though perhaps he was better at it than he knew, if Mr. Chang's demonstration hadn't worked for some reason.

"Oh, and Harry?" Mr. Chang's voice came from the hallway, just as Harry was reaching into his pocket for the Portkey. "Happy birthday."