Extrapolation

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EXTRAPOLATION
Chapter Two: Every Shape and Shade

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Professor Dumbledore did not like Professor Grimm. It wasn't easy to spot, because Dumbledore was nothing if not diplomatic. But Harry had been raised by the Dursleys, and was therefore well-versed in the subtlest of body language, picking the knack up in a form of self-defence, so he wasn't oblivious like the other students. And Legilimency helped for those finer emotions that might slip past otherwise unnoticed. But he didn't need Legilimency to notice the barely perceptible hardening of Dumbledore's eyes and the underlying cool in his voice when he spoke to the sinister, somewhat oily professor.

The Understanding the Dark Arts professor was a dark wizard. He couldn't be anything but that, the way he pushed the class to learn every bit of dark magic he could fit in the curriculum. From the name of the class, you mightn't guess that the entire curriculum was geared toward cramming every loathsome curse and dark spell in existence into the students' repertoire of spells. The name was very innocent, hinting that the students were learning just how dangerous dark magic could be. Probably the professor found that very amusing, he thought sourly.

It was wrong. He looked forward to every class with a sickly fascinated anticipation, curious to see how the professor might further corrupt his students this lesson. Because even if they, innocent despite the war with Grindelwald, didn't realise what the class was doing to them, Harry did. All too well. And he could still recall the conversation he had shared with the headmaster, years in the future, about the dangers of such magic.

It had been a frustrating time for him. Even then, he had been poring through endless tomes, intent on discovering the key to Voldemort's demise. And in his search, he'd come across many spells, labelled "dark," that seemed promising...except for the fact that the headmaster had extracted the promise from Harry not to attempt any dark spells he might come across in his research. In exchange, he was allowed to peruse the Restricted Section to his heart's content.

"But why is it so bad to cast dark magic?" he blurted to the headmaster one day in his office, finally asking the question that had been bothering him for weeks. "There are plenty of ways to use it to do good, just like you can do bad things with normal magic. Like get rid of Voldemort. I've found so many spells that just might..." he broke off in frustration. "It looks like it's all we've got. So how can it be wrong?"

Dumbledore was silent for a long time. When he spoke, it was carefully. "Practising the Dark Arts isn't exactly like casting a normal spell. There have been many arguments over the years over whether or not magic is 'alive.' If it is, then dark magic can certainly be classified as aggressive."

That gave Harry pause. "Aggressive? How can magic be _aggressive_?"

"Dark magic pushes at light magic. You've learnt about magical theory in Charms, that magic is always in you, infused in your body. There is a Muggle saying, "you are what you eat." It is much the same with magic. The spells you cast determine what magic you have in you and can draw from. The dark spells you cast slowly replace your normal magic, like a weed will choke a garden because it is more aggressive and more hungry to live. It happens subtly, so subtly that you hardly ever realise what has happened before you are too far gone to save yourself." He paused and considered Harry. "Better to never start using dark magic at all."

"Fine. Great. I'll keep that mind, what with my having such broad options for defeating Voldemort," Harry said with faint sarcasm. "But what is it about dark magic that makes it evil? I don't understand. There are plenty of curses and hexes that aren't in the Restricted Section, so I guess they must be all right, except that they hurt people. How do I know if any of them are Dark Arts?"

"To best protect yourself from unknowingly casting a dark spell, you must understand that something is not proclaimed evil simply because it causes pain."

Harry shook his head, perplexed. "But--"

"I see you are confused." The headmaster smiled apologetically. "I grow cryptic in my old age, forgive me, please. Madame Pomfrey gave you a potion during your second year, Skele-Gro. Did it hurt you?"

"Well, yes." And how! His arm twinged slightly, as though remembering the tingling pain.

"Is it, then, evil?"

"Er, no. I don't think so." Harry stopped and frowned thoughtfully. "All right. So magic can't be classified by its potential to hurt."

Dumbledore nodded. "There is some black magic that causes no pain at all. Love spells, illusion charms, even truth spells. Why are these spells dark?"

"Why are they dangerous?" Harry paraphrased, chewing his lip.

"Not 'dangerous,'" corrected Dumbledore. "No, I said 'dark,' not 'dangerous.' Some healing spells are very dangerous, but they are not evil."

"But..." Harry fidgeted, trying not to look utterly lost. "Imperius. It doesn't cause pain, it might be helpful, it _is_ dangerous, and it is an evil spell. How _do_ we decide whether a spell is bad or not?"

"To classify a spell, you must look not at its effects on the target, but at how it affects the caster. How it affects your magical core."

"We're back to magical cores again?" Harry wondered if, perhaps, it was not too late to gracefully back out of the conversation and return to bed. The serious look on Dumbledore's face answered his wistful question.

"I see that Professor Flitwick is in need of revising his syllabus slightly," Dumbledore muttered lowly to himself. Then he resumed his focus on Harry, employing the hated method of answering a question with another question. "How do you feel when you cast...say, a levitation charm?"

"Fine. Normal." At the headmaster's expectant look, Harry expanded. "Happy, I suppose. Happy knowing I can do something like that. Cast a spell, I mean. I mean...well, it's not even that. I guess it doesn't make me feel anything, really. If I'm miserable when I cast a spell, I'm still going to feel miserable. Unless I just cast a Cheering Charm, I suppose..."

The headmaster forestalled his rambling with a raised hand. Harry snapped his mouth shut. "Very well." Then Dumbledore said something that Harry never in his wildest imaginings thought he would hear the headmaster say. "Cast a black spell."

Harry gaped at his mentor for a full ten seconds. He blinked twice and followed orders, casting the mildest curse he could remember that was classified as "dark" in one of his books. He concentrated on how it made him feel, and since he was looking, he was able to detect it. With a surprised gape, he looked up at Dumbledore.

"It was so small, but--it made me feel good. Not happy, it was something different than that. It was almost--" He hesitated. "I'm not sure how to describe it."

"Do you have any ideas now, Harry?"

"Does it..." He stopped, marshalling his thoughts. "So we call it dark magic because it makes us feel good? No, wait, that's not all of it. Because it changes how you feel? Normal spells don't do that, I guess, so it's pretty manipulative. Because it makes you want to cast it more? Because it feels better than casting normal spells?"

"You are beginning to comprehend, I believe, but the matter is not so simple. You are right that at the heart, it is because of how it manipulates your emotions and makes you that much more likely to cast one again. The pull of evil magic is different for each wizard, of course, because no wizard's magical core is the same. Some wizards feel a very strong attraction to it." Noticing Harry's sudden stillness, the headmaster hastened to add, "This has nothing to do with the moral fibre of the wizard. Imagine that a person's potential is a magnet, if that will make it easier. The more powerful the magnet, the greater it will attract things--especially dark magic."

"So...um," Harry said, looking both hopeful and vaguely disquieted, "you, too?"

Professor Dumbledore nodded, and Harry felt something inside of him relax. The headmaster was the greatest advocate of light magic possibly ever. "This is why I do not condone the use of dark magic, for any purposes." There was the tiniest hint of disapproval in the old wizard's voice. "Laws are written to uphold peace, but why the Ministry legalised the use of black magic for Aurors, I will never understand. The cost of defeating our enemy may be one too heavy to be borne."

"But if that's true, why aren't there more evil wizards? There must be many people, including, I guess, plenty of Aurors, who use black magic often, so why aren't they all running around trying to take over the world?" Harry asked, trying very hard to keep his sarcasm at a minimum.

"What it finally comes down to, Harry, is the person. Is the pull strong enough? Are the spells cast frequently enough? Is the person weak enough or tired enough or angry enough? Dark magic doesn't make you evil. It can't. It doesn't rob you of your free will, but it can weaken it. And who can say what a person is capable of if his inhibitions are close to nothing? If he will do anything to feel that thrill?"

What does he mean, "who can say?" Just look at what Voldemort's doing right now! That's what happens. But Harry kept silent. He watched Fawkes preen and tried to handle a sudden flood of doubts and fears. What about him? He was a Gryffindor, yes, but he knew enough of defeat to know that that didn't make him infallible. What if he became like Voldemort some day? He could not imagine a worse fate. What a life that would be, to hate and never be satisfied with anything less than absolute victory and absolute power and control.

"Voldemort will try to trap you," warned Dumbledore, guessing at his thoughts. "To use your hatred and force you to use dark spells against him, the more powerful the better. It would please him to see you give in to it. Never let yourself do that." Dumbledore took both of Harry's hands in his, and locked gazes with the him. His eyes didn't so much as twinkle behind his half-moon spectacles, dark and heavy instead with earnest concern. "The moment you give in, you give in to him. You will lose. All of us will lose."

"I'll...I'll do my best," Harry said with a feeble smile.

"That is all I would ever wish to ask for. Here, take a candy." The headmaster pressed a sherbet lemon into Harry's hand.

Harry studied it curiously for a moment before curling a fist around it, thinking about how surreal a world it was where old men handed out candy to cover the bitter aftertaste left by talks of power, hatred, and evil. But then he realised that perhaps there just wasn't comfort to be had for certain things and this was all the headmaster could give him. It wasn't enough, maybe, but they would get by somehow.

"Thanks," he said softly.

"Welcome, students! Welcome," said Professor Grimm, startling Harry out of his reminiscing. "Today we shall be looking at spells you have only heard about in Defence. Your Defence professor no doubt wishes only to protect you from the evils of these spells. My duty, alas, is to help you understand this magic so you can better protect yourselves."

Alas indeed, Harry thought. Noting the intrigued expressions on the faces of his classmates, he felt like sighing in anger or perhaps resignation. Professor Grimm was increasing his hold over his students more with each passing week. Feeding the hunger, courting them all. Harry had a good idea what spells Grimm was speaking of, and an icy sliver of dread slithered down his spine. He couldn't cast these spells. Couldn't. The last time....

"Today, we shall be learning about the Unforgivable Curses." Harry closed his eyes in a shuddering despair. "Can anyone tell me what these spells do? I will give a small hint. There are three of them." The professor winked and Harry's stomach turned.

Harry kept his hands tightly at his sides, determined not to let his agitation show. In the two months he'd been a Hufflepuff student at Hogwarts, he had played his part to near perfection. His greatest mistake had simply been volunteering knowledge on a complicated defence spell in Dumbledore's class, being slightly out of sorts that day. He would not let some simple--he winced to even think of the Unforgivables as simple--fear jeopardise everything.

No-one raised his hand. Not disappointed in the least, in fact, seeming to relish the power of holding knowledge the students didn't possess, Professor Grimm launched into the full gory history of the Killing Curse, the Imperius Curse, and the Cruciatus Curse. Harry listened to the lecture, his face carefully blank with anger he did not dare show. He was so concentrated on showing no emotion that he did not hear the professor speak to him.

"Mr Williams?"

Harry shook his head, trying to catch up with reality. "Yes, professor?"

"Ever the inattentive pupil!" said the professor jovially, his hard eyes belying his kindly voice. "I asked if you would care to try casting the Imperius Curse for the class."

Harry's smile froze on his face. Of all the times to be chosen as a volunteer...! Haltingly, he spoke. "I--that is--I didn't hear what the incantation is, professor. Sorry, sir."

The man chuckled good-naturedly, so full of false cheer that Harry coolly indulged himself in imagining what the man would sound like bound in an interrogation room, acid dripping into an open wound as a questioning Auror forced a confession, word by dragged-out word in the absence of a ready supply of Veritaserum, even applying a low-power Cruciatus if physical torture wasn't sufficient. In the future, moral scruples had been an early casualty of war. Then he felt a wave of self-revulsion so strong his stomach clenched. It was starting already. He could not think without darkness creeping into his thoughts.

"Fittingly enough, the incantation is 'Imperio,' Harry." Harry nodded (painfully) with scholarly (false) interest and the professor demonstrated wand movements that ironically, Harry tried to forget every day and relived every night. "Try it on this rat. Don't be worried if you can't get the spell right the first time. It takes practise."

He looked at the rodent helplessly, unable to come up with a protest. It did look a good deal like Wormtail.... He bit back a flash of anger provoked by memories of the traitor and all he had done. Harnessing the emotion, he was able to perform the curse without trembling. He instructed the rodent to dance, forcing back a memory of the false Moody doing something similar to the spider that day so long ago. Harry shuddered at the tingly bliss that coursed through him, a response he could not help but enjoy no matter how much he feared and loathed it. He watched the dancing rat bleakly, making a half-hearted attempt at Occlumency. It helped, sometimes.

"Wh--Why, well done, Mr Williams. Well done." The professor was suitably startled, but looked at Harry with a new glint that he didn't like. "Ten points to Hufflepuff."

After shaking his head almost imperceptibly with wonder, the professor instructed the rest of the class to practise Imperius. In retrospect, Harry supposed he would have been able to survive the class relatively unscathed, if trembly for a few hours afterward, had they only been required to learn that one spell, but his ill luck held. They were forced to learn all three for, the professor claimed, their own defence. The only small blessing was that he had not been asked to demonstrate the other two, though the professor had looked tempted to call upon him to do just that. Even so, he cast both of the other Unforgivables correctly on his first try, just so he wouldn't have to do so again, secrecy be damned.

It was an eternity later that he finally left the classroom now full of dead and twitching and vacant-eyed, slack-jawed rats; he kept his bearing straight until he reached the nearest toilet. He barely made it to the first stall before his threw up everything that was in him. When he was finished, he felt hollow and empty, like he'd just come out of a fight with dementors.

Trembling, he cleaned himself up. No need to be ashamed, he told himself, trying unsuccessfully to reassure himself. His shaking hands paused a moment where his scar should have been and he met his grey eyes in mirror for a moment before sweeping his gaze downward, not liking what he saw there. Echoes of emotions from times long past. Fear. Hatred. Pain and loss. They weren't people. This time, they weren't people. He looked back at his reflection, and his eyes seemed unnaturally shadowed and cold in their slate grey, coolly disbelieving. At least when they were green, they held the illusion of life. Green was the colour of life. And Avada Kedavra. Death. That too.

He fled the bathroom and its too honest mirrors and was halfway to the Gryffindor common room before he realised his mistake. The class had left him very rattled. He only hoped that Dumbledore found out about Grimm teaching the Unforgivables and put a stop to the lessons, even if it was too late for him. Dippet, of course, was useless. He didn't even need the diary-Riddle's impression of the current headmaster to realise that.

Finally alone, sitting on his bed, Harry rubbed his temples. He could feel a headache brewing behind his eyes. This was one detail that Dumbledore had not mentioned, that one day so long ago. The headaches that affected particularly powerful wizards who did seldom used dark magic. It would worsen with every hour he restrained himself from casting a dark spell. He was familiar enough with the process. Please let it be over soon, he pled silently to the nearest wall. The pain, the memories, the faintly throbbing hunger that stirred at the slightest negative emotion. The wall just stared sullenly back, as bereft of solutions as him.

-- -- -- -- --

Hermione had always liked to believe that you could find any answer in a book, and therefore, by extension, in a library, which contained multitudes of them. Harry had lived long enough to know better. The key to solving your problems wasn't having countless resources. At a certain point, it was more disadvantageous to have so many. The key, Harry had learned, was knowing where to look. And, he brooded, he was certainly making no headway in the library.

The first weeks of school had been as frenzied and busy as he remembered them being during his days at Hogwarts. Thrust back into a place so full of memories without any chance to properly steel himself, Harry had spent those early days stuck in his past, remembering times not so long ago. Not easier times, but happier times. Yes, certainly happier. Hogwarts was so many things to him, many firsts: first home, first family, first refuge. Last refuge.

Repeating his seventh year had been unexpectedly taxing thus far. Harry wanted to be as attractive a prospective Grindelwald recruit as possible, so he needed to be a bit showy with his magic. But neither could he appear too skilled and certainly not too knowledgeable: that would raise many questions and more suspicions. He was supposed to be powerful but clueless. Naive. The trick was finding a balance and holding steadfastly to it. He was careful never to get a new spell right on his first go, but he made a show of learning it quickly.

So far, it felt like performing for an audience of empty seats. For all his efforts, no-one was snapping at the bait. Two months into the school year, he was exactly where he had started: completely and utterly without contacts to Grindelwald's Hogwarts circles. Worse, he couldn't even poke around for information without appearing at odds with his meticulously constructed Hufflepuff good-boy persona.

Harry sighed and opened another book, one on translation charms, to look up a few facts for his Charms essay. One thing an Auror wouldn't expect to have to do on a mission was homework, he thought wryly, and yet here he was.

"Williams, isn't it?"

Startled enough to nearly upset his ink bottle, Harry jumped in his chair. He inwardly railed at himself, suppressing the urge to draw his wand and meet the unexpected threat. His months at Hogwarts were making him lax, although he honestly hadn't expected to be confronted in the library, of all places.

He didn't even have to use his improving Sense to ascertain the identity of the student addressing him. He had heard that voice in nightmares; real ones as well as the nightly tortures that visited his dreams almost without fail. Tom Marvolo Riddle.

"That would be me," he said with as much friendliness as he could muster. He looked up into green eyes not as bright as his own. They were greyer, but they held the same shadowed look his own did, brought about by the heavy burden of knowledge and responsibility at a young age. Colder, too. Sharper with an ambition Harry didn't possess himself. Similar, but different enough that he could breathe an inner sigh of relief. He was no Riddle yet. "I am afraid you have the advantage."

"Tom Riddle. Slytherin." The mention of his house, added as a condescending afterthought, suggested that Riddle gave Hufflepuffs little credit for intelligence. He observed Harry with the detached interest of a farmer measuring a cow he might like to purchase. "I never had the opportunity to greet you properly. It is my duty as Head Boy to greet new students and make them feel welcome. I apologise for not introducing myself earlier."

Harry suspected he would never have been "introduced" at all were it not for that display in Understanding the Dark Arts. He certainly didn't enjoy being in the same room as a future enemy, but oddly, other than that, he felt no anger. No hate. Perhaps Riddle's mistake in underestimating any potential friends or enemies alleviated his fears somewhat, for that was an error Lord Voldemort would never make. He supposed that given time, this younger Voldemort would earn his loathing.

"Don't apologise," Harry said, feeling an urge to say something rather awkward to the student like 'So...in thirty years, you will be more feared than Grindelwald. I myself will not have been born. Could you explain your current ambitions so I can understand the future you and work at not making the same mistakes? By the way, I'll defeat you several times over the years, each time temporarily, and I would like to kill you very, very much. Any insights into how you might be offed permanently?'

"Pleased to meet you," he said instead, shaking the Slytherin's hand without recoiling. It was cool and dry, like touching a snake. A sign of practising dark magic? No, he was starting to see hidden meanings in everything. As Perseus put it, 'looking for the body where there is none.' "Is there anything else you need?"

Instantly, he reprimanded himself. He was finally seeing some progress, establishing his first contact, and here he was, letting himself be rattled and forget the very reason he came to Hogwarts in the first place: to infiltrate Grindelwald's ranks--something that would not be accomplished by pushing away the most talented student of the dark arts at the school and almost certainly an associate of Grindelwald's. Fortunately, Riddle chose to ignore his borderline rude question.

"I wished only to tell you about a study group I've founded. We review spells that have been introduced in earlier years and study the ones that haven't. Perhaps you've thought of joining such a club?"

The offer of membership was so smoothly delivered that Harry had to give Riddle credit, much as one would commend a cat for its stealth. Or a Slytherin for his cunning. He had little doubt that this "study group" was only true to its name superficially. It was a nice, innocent euphemism. But like almost everything Harry was used to, you only needed to scratch at the thin layer of gilt to find a whole lot of ugliness underneath.

"A study group, you say?" said Harry, not feigning his interest as he weighed the advantages and disadvantages of joining. Too early to play hard to get, he decided.

The flicker of triumph in the Slytherin's eyes confirmed his suspicions. Grimm had set Riddle on Harry, sensing a gullible student who would be easily fooled to join his shadier wizard brethren. Good to see some of his plans coming together at last. But it wouldn't be very advantageous to let Riddle think him so easily won. Harry wanted to generate interest; he would not advance or learn anything as a clueless minion.

"Is there much study in defensive magic?" he asked, making a quick decision that he hoped he would not regret.

"Defence spells? Like shields?" Tom Riddle seemed to really look at Harry this time. "You have some skill in that area?"

"Yes," answered Harry innocently. Honestly, too. In fact, to say he had "some skill" in defence shields was like saying Voldemort was "a trifle dangerous," or Dumbledore, "slightly batty."

"We might find the time, if you come to a meeting. There is one on Tuesday night, at ten o'clock here in the library."

Relaxing slightly, Harry decided to try one more thing. Concentrating on his magical aura, he puffed it up a bit, just enough that a person not skilled in Sensing would be able to detect a whisper of his magic. The small trick made Riddle take a half step forward in surprise. Harry feigned confusion, catching his last chance to meet his enemy's eyes. They were sharpened with interest and something deeper. He flailed a moment trying to figure it out before he realised what it was and abruptly broke eye contact. That hunger for power. For one terrifying second he had seen Lord Voldemort staring back at him.

"I'll see if I can make it," said Harry, shakily banishing the image.

Tom Riddle nodded with satisfaction and walked away, calling out over his shoulder, "Be there."

Though the command was nearly a threat, Harry barely took notice. He stared into nothing, trying not to remember a set of red eyes and the smell of death and the cold, clammy taste of pain and fear and the sound of hopeless misery.

-- -- -- -- --

Small flecks of white floated and swirled outside the window, falling gently on the already thick carpet of snow. In the stillness of his room, Harry imagined that he could hear the flakes land with the quiet padding of cat feet on the ground. He would have liked to watch them longer, but cold was leaking through the warming charm in his room. He wasn't sure why; there were no drafts he could find. Perhaps it was some little aspect of the house's personality, to drive loners to the main room, which had a giant fireplace.

But years of fighting had made him a stubborn person. He reinforced the charm, and forced his eyes from the swirling mass outside. Instead, he focused inward, remembering another time and another place. The snow had fallen the same, but there had been more warmth and far less loneliness.

"No two snowflakes are the same, you know."

Ron rolled his eyes, tracing the path of one such speck down the window with his wand. Harry smiled, half at Hermione's need to have a relevant piece of information for everything, and half at Ron's exasperation. Hermione did not understand that some things didn't need an explanation to be enjoyed.

"Wizards do know about more than just magic, Hermione," muttered Ron.

That bought a decent moment of silence as they just sat by the window, so close their noses almost pressed against the glass. Harry sat contently, enjoying the odd sensation of feeling coldness on the front side of his body and a pleasant heat on his back, which was warmed by the fireplace.

"I can't believe Dumbledore let us do this," he said, recalling with a wince the many restrictions placed on his two friends and him throughout the year.

"Neither can I." Hermione sounded both scandalised and grateful. "My parents don't have the same kind of protection a wizarding family might. I know that Voldemort's been quiet this year, but still--"

"Yeah, but who'd think Dumbledore daft enough to send us somewhere like this, eh? Reckon it's the last place You Know Who would look."

Hermione nudged Ron. "Are you saying that this idea is stupid?"

"Er--" Wisely, Ron said nothing to incriminate himself.

"That's what I thought," said Hermione smugly. "Besides, it will be good for you to see how a Muggle family celebrates Christmas. You might learn something."

"I doubt learning something is what Ron had in mind when he decided to come," Harry pointed out, finally discomfited enough to turn around so he could warm up his face and stomach and give his roasting back a well deserved break.

"There, see? Harry understands. Don't you, mate? Holiday is for relaxing and having fun. Not, like some people think," his pointed look making perfectly clear just who 'some people' were; that is, Hermione, "time to add a few extra rolls of parchment to boring old history essays."

"I have to admit, it's nice to have something to take our minds off Voldemort," Harry said.

Ron and Hermione exchanged glances, well aware that "our minds" really meant "my mind." Harry ignored the looks, watching the flames crackle and flare. The room was so cosy and full of holiday cheer that if he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend that he was with his own parents, magically alive again, in Godric's Hollow celebrating Christmas Eve. But it was getting harder to imagine with each passing year, having no memories of what a real Christmas with real family was like to compare his fantasies to. He didn't even really miss his parents. He never truly knew them. It was the concept of having parents that he missed.

"I wonder if there's some spell that could make the flakes look bigger. Y'know, to let you see their shapes," Ron said suddenly. "Make sure that Miss Know-It-All Hermione isn't having us on."

Harry did not need to turn around to know that Hermione had a wide smile on her face. "As it happens, yes, actually. There is. It's called a magnifying charm, Ron. A variation of it anyway, meant to be used on glass. I think I know the incantation, but I may have the pronunciation a bit wrong," she said modestly, fooling neither of her best friends.

Harry stole a glance at Ron. From the remorseful expression on his face, Harry guessed that the question had been meant to break the silence, and his friend had probably not expected an answer. He rotated back to his original position to watch Hermione, who tapped the window with her wand and spoke a phrase.

The snowflakes were suddenly as large as his fist and moved at a fraction of their previous speed. He reached out to touch the glass, amazed and knowing he shouldn't really be. This was Hermione, after all. If there was a spell out there to make a good thing better, she invariably knew it.

Ron sniggered, breaking the appreciative silence. "Hah! Look at that one! It looks like Snape's nose! Ugly thing..."

Harry leaned forward. "Where?"

"There, don't you see?" He pointed. "The left one."

"It does not," said Hermione primly. "Does Snape's nose have six points?"

"If as many people as wanted to took a swing at him, I reckon it might," said Ron, not the least put off. "What do you say, Harry?"

"Well..." He considered a moment. "Not quite. Although maybe if you had six of them arranged in that shape..."

"Urgh. Let's leave it at that. Even one Snape nose is one too many," said Ron disgustedly.

"What about that one?" Harry pointed to one odd, half melted shape.

"My dear boy! Oh, my poor boy," Ron gasped, clutching his chest. "The grim! It is the grim!"

Harry screeched in mock terror, but his laughter made it more of a warbled squawk that made Ron double over in hysterics. "What does it mean, professor? Could it mean..."

"Yes. Alas! The grim brings death! Horrible black death. Painful death. Tragic death--Oh, my dear boy," Ron wailed theatrically after recovering himself, "I fear you shall not live out the year!"

"You really shouldn't make fun of teachers," interrupted Hermione, but she didn't sound very disapproving, and she was even smiling a little.

"What! You're defending that old bat?" Ron rolled his eyes. "I knew it. The girl is nutters..."

"I am not defending her, it's just--ooh! Never mind, Ronald Weasley! Respect is something you'll never understand and consequently, never have."

"This from the girl who yelled at poor, kindly Professor Sprout?" teased Harry. "What was that about, anyway? Didn't she assign a long enough Herbology midterm?"

Cheeks reddening from something other than the fire's heat, Hermione glared at him. "Oh, you! Stay out of this if you think you know what's good for you!"

"What? You mean I get to decide what's good for me, this once?" said Harry, unable to keep from sounding as sour as he felt.

Once more, his friends shared looks over his head. "It could be worse, Harry," Hermione said finally.

"Really," he said sarcastically. "How?"

"Well, look at it this way....Ron could be the one deciding," Hermione said, covering her mouth in an unsuccessful bid to smother a laugh.

He managed to keep a straight face until an ill-timed glance at Ron's outraged face broke him. He burst into laughter, feeling his moodier emotions slipping away. What mattered now was what he had in front of him. His friends. This house. The snow. Christmas.

He couldn't recall having a better Christmas. It was a strange phenomenon: every Christmas outshone the last. Hogwarts and its beautiful decorations and food simply couldn't compete with holidays in a real house where there weren't great empty spaces and the place actually felt full. It couldn't be better than spending the holidays at Hermione's home with people who cared about him.

"Harry?"

"Hmm?" he said, watching another "snowball" crawl through the air on its slow descent to the ground.

"What are you thinking? You look so strange."

"I'm just glad to be here."

"Me too," Hermione said with a happy sigh, casting a fond look at a large portrait of her mum, dad, and herself smiling in front of an elegant Christmas tree alight with candles. "It's a lovely Christmas."

"Yeah," Ron affirmed. "And the company's not half bad once Hermione's had a mead or two."

Hermione whacked him on the arm again. "I have one glass of wine with dinner. A small one. Dad doesn't let me have more than that."

"A pity," Ron sighed, moving aside out of immediate reach of Hermione's sharp elbows.

Holding back a traitorous laugh that would likely bring the considerable wrath of Hermione down upon him, Harry closed his eyes and savoured the moment, committing it to memory so that he could look back to this day should he ever need to remember what friendship was. Because this was friendship, all of it. The warmth of the fire and its pleasant crackle; the giant-sized blizzard outside; and the blissful, complete feeling of companionship.

"Harry?"

The call brought him back to lonely, cold reality. Opening his eyes only deepened the disappointment. He looked blearily up at Perseus Hudson, who frowned at him with concern. From the man's slightly winded breathing, Harry guessed that he had called his name several times and had run to his room, worried by the lack of answer.

"I'm sorry," Harry croaked, sorry to have caused a fuss. He cleared his throat, trying for a brisker tone. "I didn't hear you call. I was...thinking."

"No harm done," said the older man, his tart voice suggesting that a repeat incident would be unwise. "Happy Christmas, by the way."

"Oh?" Harry glanced at the grandfather clock on the far side of his room, surprised. "Oh, it is. I hadn't realised the hour. Sorry."

"You shouldn't apologise so much."

"Sor--" Harry smiled faintly and caught himself. He could tell that Perseus was trying to cheer him up, and he did appreciate the effort. "Happy Christmas to you, too."

Perseus smiled back, but seemed to be waiting for something, but Harry couldn't puzzle out what it possibly could be, so he just waited, sure that Perseus would let him know after too long a silence. That was something Harry really liked about him: he wasn't afraid to let you know when you did something wrong.

"No doubt you miss your relatives," Perseus said finally, as if the awkward silence had been little more than a brief pause in the conversation. "If you'd like to contact Albus, I am sure he would let you send your holiday greetings."

Oh. Perseus wondered why he had so little holiday cheer. And he didn't really feel like explaining how, after losing so much, he had little love for Christmas. "He didn't tell you? My family is dead."

"Oh." The older man shifted, looking uncomfortable with his social blunder, but sympathetic. "Not even an aunt or uncle or cousin...a lady friend, perhaps?"

"No," said Harry, just refraining from adding 'My aunt and uncle actually hated me, and I ended up killing them.' That would really go over well. Then he thought hesitantly about Remus and Sirius and his panic button.

"How about a friend?"

Damn the man, if nothing else he was persistent. "I don't know..."

"If you're thinking that talking to your friends on Christmas will trouble them, you must not think very highly of them."

Harry reached into his pocket, running one finger over the panic device. "I think they're a bunch of fools, choosing me for a friend," he said softly, without any real rancour, "but other than that...they are very important to me."

"Then it's settled," Perseus said firmly, grabbing Harry by the sleeve and dragging him all the way to the big fireplace on the first floor of the house. He took out a handful of what looked like red and green Floo powder and threw it in the tall fire. "Albus Dumbledore, Christmas two-thousand and three."

A familiar bearded head materialised in the flames. One hand appeared to adjust a pair of half-moon spectacles. "Perseus! It is a pleasure to see you after so long a time...but no, forgive an old man his forgetfulness! It can't have been very long for you. Happy Christmas, and how is your charge?"

"His charge is right here," Harry said. "And can speak for himself, on occasion."

"Ah, but Harry, the question calls for another's judgement. What you consider to be 'well' for yourself is often very different from what the rest of us perceive it to be. And I think, likely accurately, that you would answer 'fine' if young Perseus here had a wand at your throat."

Perseus looked taken aback to have been referred to as "young" Perseus, and he smiled slightly before flicking a glance at Harry. "He is brooding some, Albus, so I thought I would see if any of his friends would be available for conversation? Even just to exchange holiday greetings?"

Harry, while not particularly pleased with be talked about as though he were still a student at Hogwarts (which, as it happened, he was in a manner of speaking, but that didn't fully count), didn't voice any complaint, instead waiting impassively for the headmaster's answer, trying not to look as though a negative response would bother him at all.

"Why, yes. I think I might transfer this over to Grimmauld Place." Dumbledore vanished with a parting smile. The fire crackled more enthusiastically and abruptly changed colour a few times before another head popped into the flames.

"Harry?" Sirius called uncertainly. Upon spotting him, his face broke into a grin. "You actually floo'd us? Remus," he said to someone out of view, "my two galleons, please."

"You two bet on whether or not I would try to talk to you?" Harry said incredulously.

"Just a small one," Sirius said with a disarming grin. He shook his head. "Look at you...you look so different. Disguised, obviously, but there's still quite a bit of you in there. Uncanny, really."

"I'm afraid you're wrong about my calling you," Harry said. "I didn't try to reach you. It was Perseus here who did it. He's...um, well, he's the man I stay with. Posing as my uncle."

"Your honesty is appreciated, Harry," a voice called out. "Sirius, my money, thank you. And it is polite to share, so if you would please...?" Remus's head replaced Sirius's in the fire. He studied Harry thoughtfully. "You look gaunt." He turned to Perseus. "Make sure he eats enough. He won't, left to his own devices."

"If you lot are quite finished taking turns at playing 'mother,'" Harry sighed.

"Happy Christmas, Harry," Remus said gently.

Sirius's voice jumped out of the fire, "And as to that last bit, someone has to!"

"Happy Christmas, Remus," Harry answered with a nod. "And even you, Sirius. Happy Christmas."

"And to you. You especially. Move over, now, Remus. As you put it, you need to share." Sirius reappeared. "Merlin, I never thought I'd be asking you this again, but how is school?"

"And your marks?" called out Remus.

"And if you say 'fine,' I'll throttle you once you're home again," Sirius said with a frown. "We know that, well, he's there."

"School is difficult," Harry admitted quietly, carefully ignoring the last comment. "Going to classes, now, like I did before, but the faces are all different."

"And your ghosts? Have you been seeing them?"

"Oh, enough about the bloody ghosts, Remus. Harry doesn't want to talk about them now. It's Christmas!"

Grateful for an excuse not to talk about his ghosts, Harry answered the previous question. "Marks are fi--good. Especially Charms. I'm flaunting my defence charm skills."

Looking worried, Perseus entered the conversation. "Defence charms? Like shields?"

"They are a specialty of Harry's," Sirius said proudly. "Best shield wizard in centuries."

"Did this Riddle seem very interested in them?" Perseus demanded.

"Yes, actually." Harry frowned, wondering how Perseus had guessed. "And he has been testing me quite a bit during our 'study' sessions. I've worked up to the third layer of shielding, but I told him I can go beyond sometimes if pressed."

"To fourth layer?"

"Harry is very skilled at the shield charm," Remus affirmed.

"How far can you go?" Perseus asked, sounding intrigued despite his horrified expression.

"I have reached the seventh, once." Harry remembered the circumstances and felt as though every source of heat in the room had been abruptly extinguished. His breath hitched in his throat as the memory began to draw him in and reality started blinking in and out to the sounds of screaming and explosions.

"Harry? Harry! Bugger all, you had to ask..." Sirius began to speak soothingly to Harry. "Harry, it's over. You're here, you're safe. Remus and I are right here, and your friend Perseus, too. Remember where you are? Far away, in the past.... That's all over. Finished. No one can hurt you here."

Looking uncertain, Perseus drew his wand. "A quick stunning sp--"

"No!" Remus said quickly. "Far too dangerous. Drawing a wand on Harry and hexing him while he's like this...he would likely hurt you. And feel horrible about it for days."

The Auror frowned. "Would it help if I shook him?"

"Not yet. Don't touch him yet--Sirius, please move out of the way, you know that I handle this better than you." Remus replaced Sirius again in the fire. "He will react violently if you touch him now, while he's so out of it. We need to talk to him first."

"Should I...?"

"Let me," Remus said, gazing at Harry, who stood motionless except for the occasional violent shudder that wracked through him. When he spoke, his voice was less gentle, with a hint of command in it. "Wake up, Potter!"

A flicker of awareness surfaced in his eyes, almost lost in the tide of emotions.

Remus nodded to Perseus. "It's probably safe to touch him now."

The old Auror gripped Harry's shoulder and gave it a rough shake. Harry blinked slowly, and visibly drew himself back into reality. He shook his head, a light, embarrassed flush replacing the pale and haunted look on his face.

"I'm sorry, I don't know why..." He looked at Remus helplessly.

"You might visit a psychowizard, Harry."

"I second that," Sirius called from somewhere out of view; Perseus nodded his agreement.

"Oh, for the love of...I don't need a psychowizard."

"No, I suppose zoning out when certain words trigger memories is perfectly normal," Remus said dryly.

"Happy, happy Christmas," Harry sighed.

"Cheer up, Harry." Sirius pushed Remus out of the way and thrust his face into the fireplace. "It could be worse. You could be St. Mungo's material."

"Why is it that the only thing people can say to cheer me up is 'it could be worse'? That's almost more depressing."

Sirius nodded gravely; then, he gasped as if struck with a sudden thought. "Maybe...maybe, you could use your panic button, then, and let your godfather and honourary godfather visit. Keep you from moping around in self-pity."

Harry couldn't help laughing. It chased away the last traces of dark and cold from his mind. "You never give up."

"I await the day when pig-headed stubbornness gives way to wisdom. Hopefully, that will be sometime this century."

"I'll do what I can to help that along," Perseus said, shaking his head with a smile at Harry.

Harry regarded him with an amused smile. "You can certainly try." He turned to Sirius, and the smile slipped away as his gaze lingered on the face-shaped flames. "I shouldn't keep you."

"On the contrary, I doubt you could get rid of us if you tried," Remus said.

"You know what I mean," he said severely, but the smile returned.

Sirius grinned back. "Fine, I can tell when I'm not wanted!" He nodded once at Perseus. "Pleasure to meet you. If you ever manage to get that panic button away from him, do him a favour and press it."

"Sirius!"

"Remus will be delighted to come. And maybe we'll find a way for me to tag along as well."

"Better to use it and not need it than to put yourself at risk, Harry," Remus said, replacing Sirius in the fire. "Please, take care. You are living in dangerous times."

Harry laughed again. "When am I not? Don't worry, Remus. I've grown up with this; I can handle it."

"Don't let anything happen to him," Remus said softly to Perseus. "He means more to us than he thinks."

Harry looked down, and when he looked back up at the fire, it was empty. He felt a warm glow in his chest that filled the usual aching emptiness. Perseus put his hands on his shoulders and squeezed.

"Those are two good friends you have, lad."

"Yes."

"Well, it's long past time for you to be in bed!"

Harry glanced at the tall clock next to the fireplace. One o'clock. He suddenly felt the hours he'd been awake and yawned. "You're probably right."

Perseus chuckled, and Harry raised an eyebrow at him.

"Oh, nothing. It's just--anyone who heard you say that would know you were no teenager."

"How so?"

"You should have argued, even if you were exhausted enough to fall on your face."

Rolling his eyes, Harry arranged his features into a sullen expression and made his voice petulant. "That's not true..."

"Ah, an uncannily accurate impersonation." He chuckled again. "Off to bed, now."

"A good Christmas to you, sir," Harry called behind him as he left the warm room.

"That's 'Uncle Perseus' to you, impertinent boy!"

That night, for the first time since he had arrived, his sleep was undisturbed by nightmares.

-- -- -- -- --

Revised: 14 November 2004