Sins of the Father

Chapter Seven -- Flesh Wounds

***

"Sirius..." Harry reached out, his hand trembling, to touch his godfather's arm. It was cold as marble and slick with sweat. "What...what happened to him? Is he...?"

Harry felt the weight of a hand on his own shoulder, and turned his head just far enough to see that it was Dumbledore. His expression was solemn, his eyes on Sirius' face. "He is alive," Dumbledore said. "But he has been hurt very badly. I do not know all of what has happened to him, but I promise that I will tell you as much as I can as soon as we've tended to his injuries."

Gently but firmly, Dumbledore led Harry to a chair by the window as Madam Pomfrey bustled into the room. She jolted to a stop when she saw the ruined figure laid out on the hospital bed, eyes wide with recognition, but with a glance at the headmaster she shook it off and strode boldly forward,

Harry watched in silence as they worked, Dumbledore muttering spells and waving his wand over Sirius' torso while Madam Pomfrey cleaned and bandaged the wounds. The Dark Mark, carved so grotesquely into the flesh of Sirius' chest, was slowly hidden from view under layers of gauze and ointment. But it had long since been burned into Harry's vision, the afterimage lingering as if he'd looked for too long at a candle.

Harry stared at Sirius' face, still and waxen and painfully thin. It was as if he'd never left Azkaban. Harry did not look away when Dumbledore spoke.

"We've done all we can for him," he said quietly, slipping his wand back inside of his robes. "It will be some time before he awakens, and until then I can tell you very little of how he came to be here in this state.

"When Sirius left Lupin's home several weeks ago, it was to investigate a matter of some urgency near Little Hangleton. He traveled as a dog, and due to the delicate nature of his mission he has not been in contact with us since.

"An hour ago, he appeared quite suddenly on the floor of the Three Broomsticks, unconscious and gravely injured. Understandably, this caused something of a panic. Professors Fletcher, McGonagall, Figg and I were present at the time, and with the help of Madam Rosmerta were able to empty the tavern of its patrons with relative ease. However, Sirius was seen, and no doubt recognized, by several dozen witches and wizards. News of his appearance will already have been reported to the Ministry. But we shall address that complication later.

"The mutilations which you saw were made with a cursed blade, and will never completely heal. He will have that scar for the rest of his life." Here, the headmaster paused for long enough that Harry looked up at his face. For a fleeting moment, he looked very old and very tired, his features drawn and pinched with worry. As if it were his own son who was laid out before him.

But as soon as Harry noticed it the weariness was gone, hardened into a fearsome determination that was frightening to see. Pale blue eyes flashed like daggers beneath heavy, snow-white brows. The air crackled with energy as it does before a summer storm, and stirred the tiny hairs on the back of Harry's neck. It was clear, then, why Dumbledore was thought to be the most powerful wizard alive, and why even Voldemort feared him.

"We do not know who did this to him," said Dumbledore, "though I have my suspicions. Until Sirius awakens, that is all that I can tell you.

"In the meantime, I expect you'll wish to remain here. The hospital wing shall remain closed to visitors until arrangements can be made for a private room, so you will not be disturbed." He rummaged briefly in the pockets of his robes, then withdrew his hand and placed a small, blue stone in the middle of Harry's palm. "If there is any change in his condition, tap this with your wand."

Harry looked at the stone and swallowed hard. He couldn't think of anything to say.

There was a faint whisper of silk as Dumbledore straightened. A flick of his wand drew a heavy curtain around Sirius' bed. "And now, Harry, I must take my leave of you," he said. "Professor McGonagall is waiting for me in her office, and I suspect that an owl from Minister Fudge is already sitting on my desk."

When Dumbledore had gone, Harry pocketed the stone and returned his gaze to Sirius' face. The guilt that he felt, sitting there whole and healthy while his godfather cringed from the pain of breathing, was crushing in its intensity. It felt as if a weight had been lowered onto his chest, squeezing his lungs and his heart.

He should have been there. He should never have stayed at Hogwarts, never have squandered the afternoon with mock dueling in the Slytherin dungeons, never have been so far away from and so ignorant of what was happening in Hogsmeade. How could he have stood idly by, chatting over sausages with Malfoy, while Sirius lay bleeding on the floor of the Three Broomsticks? What if the Ministry had come for him? What if Dumbledore and the others had been somewhere else?

What if Sirius had died?

Harry had never lost anyone important to him. He didn't remember his parents, and Cedric's death had been tragic but distant. They had been little more than acquaintances, together as champions but not as friends. The loss was not what haunted Harry so much as the memory of his eyes, suddenly vacant and dark. The thought of seeing Sirius like that...

There was a knock at the door. A few seconds later, Madam Pomfrey's brisk footsteps echoed down the length of the hospital wing, her shadow darkening the curtain as she passed. The door creaked open. "I'm sorry," she said, "but unless it's an emergency there are to be no students in the hospital wing tonight."

"Please, we just want to know if Sirius Black is here. He's a friend of ours, and we want to know if he's all right!" It was Hermione. Her voice shook, as if she'd been crying.

"That hardly seems likely," sniffed Madam Pomfrey. "Now, if you'll kindly return to the Great Hall -"

"Don't tell me Harry's not in here!" There were sounds of a brief scuffle to get through the doorway, then, "Oi! Harry, it's us!"

Slowly, Harry rose from his chair and pulled back a corner of the curtain. Ron and Hermione were straining to see past Madam Pomfrey, who had lodged herself firmly in the door frame. When Ron caught sight of Harry's face, he redoubled his efforts to get through.

"Harry!" he called. "Tell her it's ok to let us in!"

Oh yeah, now he wants to make up, Harry thought, narrowing his eyes. Now that there's something exciting going on, suddenly we're pals again.

"Harry?" Hermione whimpered. "Please, we just want to see -"

"Dumbledore said no visitors," said Harry coldly. It's not like they even asked if I wanted to go to Hogsmeade with them. It's not like either one of them's said a word to me for days.

Ron stared at him open-mouthed, giving Madam Pomfrey time to elbow the both of them back into the hallway. "If you wish to speak to Mr. Potter, then send him an owl!" she snapped. "This is a hospital, not a social club."

"But --!"

"Good night, Mr. Weasley! Miss Granger!" And with that, she slammed the door.

Harry pulled the curtains closed again and took his seat beside the bed. The Halloween Feast was probably in full-swing by now, but he wasn't hungry. His anger at Ron and Hermione's audacity took a long time to fade, and until then his stomach churned with tension. Who did they think they were, acting as if nothing had happened? Snubbing him for weeks on end only to come crawling back when something juicy was going on -- they were probably down in the Great Hall already, gossiping about his family business over pudding.

Late into the night Harry sat without moving, holding one of Sirius' icy hands in his own, watching the ruined face for any sign of movement. But there was none. And as pools of moonlight swept slowly across the hospital floor, that face dissolved into dream.

***

Again, the cavernous room, the cold fireplace, the corners lost in shadow. But there was no chair, now. The skeletal figure stood in the center of the room, white arms and white hands held high above his head, a wand grasped between fingers like bleached bones. Around him stood a circle of his servants, black robes and featureless masks lit by the flickering crimson light of a hundred blood-red candles. They were still and silent, their breath shallow with anticipation. Wet, cruel eyes shone in the candlelight, and all were focused on what lay at the feet of their lord.

"Once, long ago, this thing before me was one of us," he said. His voice was high and cold. "But that has not been true for some time. However he may have struggled to keep that fact from us, we have long known of his betrayal. And now that he is no longer useful to us, his punishment may be carried out.

"Look well, my servants, my Death Eaters. This is what becomes of those who would betray me. This filth is the best that our enemies can offer. And see, now, how his defenses have crumbled; how his comrades have abandoned him." He smiled mirthlessly. "Soon, very soon, we will show them how helpless they are in the face of our wrath."

***

Harry woke with his head resting on his arms, which were crossed on top of the bedspread. His scar throbbed, and his face and the sleeves of his robe were damp. He rubbed angrily at his cheeks, glad that no one had been there to see him.

Except Sirius.

"Sirius?" Harry whispered, nudging a bare shoulder.

There was no response. Harry slumped in his seat, running his fingers through though his untidy hair.

Another dream. Like all the others it slipped from his memory as soon as he awoke, hard as he tried to grasp the details before they melted away. Soon all he was left with was a dull ache in his forehead, an echo of cold laughter, a flash of red eyes and sharp, white teeth.

Harry was still wearing his glasses, and he could feel the sore spots on his face where they had dug into his nose and forehead. He took them off and rubbed the sand from his eyes, yawning. It was still very early. The curtain around Sirius' bed made a box against the outside wall, and through the many-paned windows Harry could see the sky was still a deep, pre-dawn blue. A glance at his watch confirmed that it was barely past five-thirty.

Then he noticed the sound of hushed voices in the hall outside the hospital wing. A moment later, the door swung silently open and the shadows of two figures fell on the curtain.

"I left as soon as your owl arrived," said a voice that Harry recognized, with a start, as Remus Lupin's. "Has anything changed since then?"

"I'm afraid not," said the other figure. It was Dumbledore. "I had hoped to allow him to wake on his own, but given the circumstances we may not have that luxury."

The curtain was pulled aside and Harry hastily slipped his glasses back on, bringing the two visitors into sudden focus. Dumbledore looked, if possible, even more grave than he had the night before. Harry suspected that he hadn't slept at all since then. Wwhile Lupin appeared to have purchased a set of new robes and eaten on a more regular basis since Harry had last seen him, he was clearly exhausted. His face was ashen, and there were blue-black circles under his eyes.

"Hullo, Professor Lupin," said Harry.

Lupin smiled kindly. "I'm not your professor anymore, Harry. Just 'Remus' is fine." He offered something bundled in a napkin. "Dumbledore told me you've been here since last night, so I thought you might be hungry."

A quick check beneath the napkin revealed several pasties and an apple. Harry's stomach rumbled in response. "Thanks," he said gratefully, then turned to Dumbledore. "I'm sorry, I fell asleep....but I don't think anything's happened."

"It is quite all right," said Dumbledore. "However, now that I have convinced the Minister of Magic not to inundate the school with Dementors, it may be time for us to induce a change ourselves. There are many questions that need to be answered."

"Do you think it's wise to revive him forcefully?" said Lupin. His hand rested lightly Sirius' shoulder. "He's still so weak..."

"Perhaps not, but what choice do we have?" Dumbledore sighed. "It has been nearly two months since Professor Snape's last message."

"What does Snape have to do with it?" asked Harry, his mouth full of pasty. He swallowed, then, "You've already told me that he was spying for you, I just want to know how Sirius comes into it."

Dumbledore and Remus exchanged glances. "You may also remember," said Dumbledore, "that when you glimpsed Professor Snape in Hogsmeade some time ago, it had been several weeks since our last contact with him. The more effective his efforts to gain Voldemort's trust, the more deeply he was drawn into the circle of Death Eaters. We had devised a system by which he could send us messages without being detected, but it required a certain amount of privacy to use, and this was not always available."

"It was very clever, actually," said Remus softly. His eyes were on Harry, but his hand did not leave Sirius' shoulder. "Severus was enlisted to brew poisons, Veritaserum and other dark potions for the Death Eaters' use. His progress was tightly monitored, of course, and someone would have noticed if anything were amiss with the potions themselves. But no one paid any mind to the bottles he used to deliver them, or the beacon spells that had been woven into the glass.

"Most of these potions were distributed among the Death Eaters and stored in private homes. As soon as they left Voldemort's stronghold, we could track them to their ultimate destinations. Arthur Weasley and his team would conduct a 'random' search for illegal materials, knowing already what they would find, and then the bottles were sent to me for examination. My job was to decode encrypted messages from Severus, disguised as decorative designs."

"All right..." said Harry, wondering what any of this had to do with Sirius.

"But then the bottles stopped turning up," Remus continued. "Weeks went by without any sign, and eventually we decided that someone should be sent to find out what had happened. We had other sources who suggested Severus may have been discovered, and if this were true, we would need to get him out as quickly as possible."

"Sirius volunteered to investigate," said Dumbledore. "The last message had contained only two words: 'Riddle House.' Thus, we decided to begin our search in Little Hangleton, the village where Tom Riddle's childhood home still stands. The rest I have already explained."

Harry looked again at Sirius and frowned. "Volunteered? To look for Snape? But...I thought they hated each other..."

"These times are not for petty conflicts," said Dumbledore gravely. "All who oppose Voldemort are on the same side, regardless of their differences and disagreements. I am certain that Severus would have done the same for him, had their situations been reversed."

Harry was not so sure, but was not about to say as much out loud. Not when Dumbledore looked so fearsome.

"Now," said Dumbledore, raising his wand with a grim expression. "If you are ready, Lupin, I think it is time for Sirius to rejoin us." Remus nodded and moved to the head of the hospital bed, both hands flat against Sirius' shoulders. Dumbledore flicked his wand and spoke the incantation: "Ennervate!"

The effect was instantaneous, reminding Harry of a Muggle light switch. One moment, Sirius was still as death. The next, he was struggling to pull himself into a sitting position, his shoulders heaving against Remus's grip and his eyes darting wildly about the room.

"I'LL NEVER TELL YOU WHERE IT IS," he bellowed. "YOU'LL HAVE TO KILL ME FIRST! YOU'LL HAVE TO -"

"Sirius!" Remus hissed, teeth clenched as he tried to force the larger man down onto the mattress. "Padfoot, it's me! It's Remus!"

Sirius stopped struggling and stared at Remus, breathing hard as sweat poured down his face. His bandaged chest was now tinged with red. "Moony..?" He whispered, confused. He turned to Harry and Dumbledore, clearly seeing them for the first time. "Where...what happened? How did I get here?"

"You were left in the Three Broomsticks," said Dumbledore softly. "You had been injured and so we brought you here, to Hogwarts. As of this moment, that is all we are certain of."

"We'd hoped you might be able to tell us the rest," said Remus, relaxing but not removing his hold on Sirius.

Their eyes met, and they held each other's gaze for several seconds, as if having a private conversation by sight alone. Then Sirius looked away and began to speak in a quiet, flat tone. "I'd been in Little Hangleton for almost a week. Nosed about the Hanged Man mostly, listening for news. Locals talked of strangers coming to and from the grounds, but I'd expected that. Arthur's team went tearing through the place when they seized the Malfoy estate. Was crawling with Ministry wizards, Muggles were bound to notice.

"But...thought I should take a look. Make sure." He paused, and Remus squeezed his shoulder. "The house was empty, I searched the whole place but there was nothing, just footprints in the dust. So I went to leave. Saw a book on floor, picked it up. A portkey."

"Where did it take you?" Remus asked softly.

"I don't know. A room with candles, a fireplace....massive, nothing I'd seen before." Sirius swallowed, and Harry shivered at something half-remembered. "He was there. And Peter." The last word was spat out with a sneer of disgust. "They wanted to know where it was, but I wouldn't tell them. I wouldn't..." He was shaking, now, his fingers twisting in the hem of his sheets.

"What was it they wanted, Sirius?" asked Dumbledore.

"The wand," said Sirius. "They want the wand. They know we have it."

"What wand?" Harry blurted out the question before he could stop himself. Lupin and Sirius turned and stared at him, as if they'd forgotten he was there.

"We should tell him," Sirius rasped, looking to Dumbledore. "He's a part of all this. He deserves to know."

"Circumstances have changed somewhat in your absence," said Dumbledore mildly. "And there have been more than enough revelations for one evening. Harry, I believe Gryffindor has the Quidditch pitch booked this morning? I would hate to keep your teammates waiting."

"But-!"

"We'll work everything out," said Remus. "Don't worry."

But as Harry trudged down the corridors toward Gryffindor tower, with Quidditch practice now the least of his problems, worrying was about all that he could do.

***

Everyone was on time for practice, but none of them seemed particularly interested in Quidditch. Word of Sirius' dramatic appearance in Hogsmeade had spread with shocking efficiency, and Harry's teammates could talk of little else. Angelina and Alicia had actually been at the Three Broomsticks when it happened, and were eager to elaborate on their insider's perspective.

"Oh, it was horrible!" said Alicia with relish. "There was blood everywhere. I'd be surprised if he's still alive, after all that."

"Practically naked," Angelina added, "with great chunks taken out of him. He just appeared out of nowhere and BOOM!"

"Dropped like a stone!" Alicia smacked her fist into her palm. "Barely missed landing on Madam Rosmerta."

"Were you very frightened?" Emma Dobbs whispered tremulously.

"Well, a bit, yes," Angelina admitted. "But it was hard to be, seeing him like that. Just a pile of rags and blood on the floor..."

"Serves him right, after what he did," mumbled Geoffrey Stebbins.

"He deserves worse," said Hiro Watsuki. "All those Muggles, dead because of him."

The Weasleys stood by in silence, gripping their brooms in white-knuckled hands while Joshua Kettleburn wondered aloud if Sirius would be tortured before his execution. Ginny's eyes were wide and red with crying, and her freckles stood out in stark contrast to her pale face. The twins stared fixedly at the ground, brows furrowed and jaws set. So they knew, then.

Harry scowled. The others had no way of knowing Sirius was innocent, but this did little to curb his anger. He could feel their words picking away at his tolerance and his patience, bringing a disproportionate anger closer to the surface. "We've got our first match in two weeks," he barked, hefting his own broom. "Gossip isn't going to win us the cup, and neither are you if that's all you can think about."

Without waiting for anyone to answer, Harry divided them up into three teams and set them a each a handful of drills to run through. His own team consisted of Ginny, Fred and George, and for most of practice they maintained the illusion that their foremost concern was Bludger-strategy. When there was only a half-hour left, though, and the others were too busy with their own drills to notice, the four of them formed a tight knot near the bleachers and commenced a furious bout of whispering.

"So he's all right, yeah?" asked Fred. "He's still alive?"

Harry nodded. "But...how do you even know about him?"

"We're not completely dense," said George. "In a house like ours, it's hard to keep a secret..."

"...damn near impossible, really..." Fred added with a ghost of a grin.

"...So once we'd overheard enough of our Dad's early-morning chats with Lupin in the fireplace, it all kind of fell together."

"And what we couldn't figure out on our own, we forced GInny tell us at wandpoint."

"Sorry," said Ginny, ducking her head.

"Any way you could smuggle us into the hospital wing?" asked Fred. "We'd like to meet this escaped-criminal-turned-spy..."

"...He sounds like our sort of chap, you know?"

"But Ron told us the whole wing is locked down."

Harry shrugged, frowning. "Locked down to him anyway."

The Weasleys swapped glances. "Look, Harry," said George, suddenly quite serious. "You've got to start talking to Hermione and Ron again. They've been nutters since they found out what happened."

Harry snorted. "They're just miffed at being left out. They didn't seem to care I wasn't talking to them before."

GInny spoke so suddenly and so forcefully that Harry jumped. "You know, not everything people do is about you," she said. "The rest of us are worried about Sirius, too, and we want to know what's going on with him."

"If they care so much, then why doesn't Hermione just apologize?" Harry snapped, bristling.

"This is more important that your stupid argument with Hermione!" Ginny hissed with surprising ferocity. "I'll bet you don't even remember what it was about! And if what she told me is true, you were the one who started it in the first place!"

"You've been talking to Hermione?"

"Of course I have! We're all friends, aren't we?"

"HA! Some friends, sneaking off behind my back --"

"Would you listen to yourself! If you hadn't been 'sneaking off' to talk to Malfoy all the time, none of this would be happening! And now you're too busy acting like a stupid, self-pitying prat to even notice that everyone else is tired of fighting about it."

Harry gaped at her. He could feel his cheeks burning. "You promised to keep Malfoy a secret. How could you --"

"Oh, get over yourself, Harry!" Ginny sneered. "Everyone knows! Morag Macdougal's been spreading it all over school, which you might have noticed if your head wasn't so far up your own arse!"

At that, before Harry had time to come up with an appropriately venomous response, Fred swooped between them on his broom, his forearms crossed in an "x". "That's it," he said, "I'm calling time. Ginny, I don't know what crawled up your arse but it's enough already -- get your things and take a shower. Harry, I think it's about time you got some breakfast."

"But the equipment--!"

"We'll take care of it," said George.

The twins planted themselves between Harry and the rest of the pitch, and he could see there was little point in arguing with them. He sighed, glared at the back of Ginny's head, and flew away toward the broom shed.

The Slytherin team was walking out toward the pitch as Harry neared the entrance to the castle. Magnus Bayne tensed at the sight of Harry, no doubt remembering his brush with the Infligo curse. Malfoy trailed far behind the rest of his team, holding his Shooting Star with both hands as if afraid someone might take it from him. For the first time in months, Harry couldn't see any bruises.

The distance closed between them and Harry quickened his pace, wanting to get it over with. Malfoy caught his eye but Harry looked away quickly, thinking of Morag and what she would say, of the look on the twins' faces when he didn't deny Ginny's accusations, of all that had happened since Dumbledore had found him in the Slytherin dungeon yesterday.

They passed each other in silence.

***

Harry was in the Great Hall just long enough to grab a slice of toast and establish that Remus, Dumbledore and McGonagall were absent from breakfast. Ron and Hermione spotted him and tried to wave him over, but he ignored them with relish and stomped off with his toast.

Harry tore up staircases and down corridors until he reached the door of the hospital wing, which was closed and locked. Someone had created a small sign on which "Emergencies Only, Please," was written in neat, red block lettering. Harry could hear the buzz of voices inside. He knocked twice.

The conversation stopped, and after a moment the lettering on the tiny sign shimmered. When it came back into focus it read, "Still talking, Harry. Try again tonight, or send an owl."

Harry scowled. One artifact of the Muggle world that he especially hated was answering machines, and here he was, dealing with their magical equivalent. He pressed his ear to the door, straining to hear, but couldn't quite make out the words.

"Something I can help you with, Potter?"

Harry jumped and straightened. Professor Fletcher was ambling down the stone hallway, hands in his pockets and neck thrust forward, which gave him the air of a crouching bird. He regarded Harry with a bemused air. "I don't suppose you've tried knocking, eh?" He peered over Harry's shoulder, noted the sign, and chuckled. "Seems you have. Well, can't be helped then."

"You...you don't know anything about a wand, do you? A wand that Voldemort would want?" Harry asked, willing to gamble on Fletcher's flair for the inappropriate.

"A wand, eh?" Fletcher grew more serious at this. "I do, at that. Why, has Lupin lost track of it?"

Harry blinked. "Er...no, I don't think so...but Sirius..."

"Sirius knows better than to let anything slip about that wand, to Riddle or anyone else."

At this, the door to the hospital wing swung partway open, and McGonagall's head poked out into the corridor. "Mundungus, please stop dawdling in the hall. We've been waiting a quarter-hour for you already." She noticed Harry. "And you, Potter. I believe it's your turn to help Professor Grubblyplank with her creatures." She scowled at them both, and snapped the door shut.

"Ooooh, that woman wants me something fierce," Fletcher purred, grinning maniacally. "If you'll excuse me, Potter. My lady awaits!"

***

An hour or so later, Harry was reaching down into the Runespoor's tank with a stunned rat dangling from his fingers. The three-headed snake watched him with some interest, although the right head insisted that he was man-handling it. Harry supposed it might have a point. He wasn't paying much attention to the rat or its presentation, opting instead to stew over his argument with Ginny and idly wonder how he'd become so talented at pissing people off. With three of his mates now furious with him , and Draco Malfoy one of the few remaining options, Harry's social situation was in a sorry state.

"Is that all?" asked Harry wearily. Ron and Hermione had apparently come before him to do their cleaning detail, and so his only task had been the care and feeding of the Roonspore. However, its incredibly finicky eating habits had led to more than a half-hour of negotiation regarding the nature, preparation and placement of its meal. Harry wondered if it actually cared that much, or if it was just lonely.

"Yes, fine for now," said the left head as it edged its way toward the rat.

"Just tell her to keep the racket down, will you?" muttered the right head. "All that nonsense she's spouting day after day...it's enough to give anyone a headache."

"Yes..." murmured the middle head. "And, well...we've three-times the problem, haven't we?"

They must mean Professor Grubblyplank, thought Harry. Aloud, he said, "Anything else?"

"Voles," said the middle head dreamily. "It's been ages since we had a vole. They're lovely and sweet, you know."

"Voles. Of course." Harry secured the lid of the tank. "See you next week, then."

Not wanting to allow any room for further requests, and eager to get away from the creepy, chittering noises of unseen creatures, Harry checked that the rats' cage was secure and left as quickly as he could. He locked Grubblyplank's office behind him, then leaned against the door with a heavy sigh. A very long and lonely Sunday lay before him. It was now just barely lunchtime, and already he was left with nothing but Transfiguration homework to fill his afternoon.

He supposed he should at least check to see if it was safe to nick a sandwich from the Great Hall before retreating to his room. He pulled his wand from his back pocket and reached into his robes for the Marauder's Map, but his fingers closed on nothing but lint and a pair of knuts. Startled, Harry searched through all his pockets, but to no avail. The map was gone.

Harry ran through the past few days in his mind, trying to place where he had last seen it. The Quidditch pitch? The hospital wing? Then he remembered. The map was sitting, along with a handful of spare quills and a pack of exploding snap cards, on the mantle of Draco Malfoy's fireplace. He'd emptied his pockets when they decided to practice dueling, and Dumbledore's appearance had startled him so much that he'd forgotten to refill them.

Maybe he'll have sent it back to me, like the Firebolt, thought Harry as he climbed the stairs to Gryffindor Tower. It's not as if he'd just throw it away, not knowing what it was. Would he? Harry quickened his pace.

The Fat Lady peered at him inquisitively as he approached. "Your friends already left," she said. "They're in the Great Hall by now, no doubt."

"Slithy toves" muttered Harry, and she shrugged and swung aside.

There was an owl waiting for him in the common room. The room itself was mostly empty, as it was now the middle of lunch, and no one paid any mind when the owl fluttered over to him, landed on a globe of the moon, and stuck out its leg.

It wasn't an owl Harry recognized. Curious, he untied the note from its leg, patted its head in thanks, and carefully unrolled the parchment as the owl fluttered out a nearby window. It read: "My room. After dinner." There was no signature, but Harry recognized the handwriting as Malfoy's.

***

Sneaking into the Slytherin common room wasn't difficult, even without the map, as the password hadn't been changed. Harry maneuvered carefully around a cluster of gossiping fourth-years and tip-toed up the stairway to the boys' dormitories. Malfoy's door was locked. After a moment's consideration Harry bent down and squinted through the keyhole, which was shaped like a tiny snake's head baring its fangs. Malfoy was sitting cross-legged on his enormous wooden bed, staring intently at something he had spread out on the quilt in front of him.

Harry straightened, then opened his pen-knife and slid the blade along the side of the lock. It clicked, and the door swung open with a soft creak. Malfoy looked up at the sound, grey eyes wide and startled.

"'S just me," said Harry, pulling off his Invisibility Cloak and stuffing it into his pocket.

Malfoy relaxed visibly. He was almost looking himself again -- besides the absence of bruises, his skin had lost its papery, sallow cast, and there was a hint of the old arrogance in his expression. "Have you eaten? I didn't see you at dinner."

"Wasn't hungry" Harry lied. His stomach chose that moment to rumble loudly, but if Malfoy noticed he gave no sign. Harry pulled a chair over so that it faced Malfoy on the bed, and sat.

Malfoy watched him silently for several seconds then looked away, pushing his fringe back from his forehead in a transparent attempt at nonchalance. "What happened yesterday?" he asked. "Why did Dumbledore tell you to go to the hospital wing?"

"My godfather was there," said Harry slowly, unsure as to how much Malfoy already knew. "He'd been hurt."

"Your....godfather?"

"Yeah."

Malfoy looked down at whatever was in front of him, frowning. "Why here? Why not Hogsmeade?"

"He'd....been looking for Snape. Dumbledore wanted to talk to him."

Malfoy's head jerked up at this. "Professor Snape? Why, what's happened to him? Is he all right? Is he back?"

"Er...we don't know much, actually," said Harry, surprised by Malfoy's eagerness. He'd always known that Malfoy was Snape's favorite pupil, and that the fondness was mutual, but he'd had no idea that Malfoy cared so much.

Malfoy stared at his clasped hands. "They don't...they don't think he's dead. Do they?"

"I don't know," said Harry quietly. "I don't think anyone does."

Malfoy covered his eyes with his palm, and for a terrifying moment Harry thought he was going to start crying. But it passed and Malfoy looked up with a dry face, all business once again.

"You didn't tell me that Remus Lupin was your godfather," he said.

It was the absolute last thing Harry had expected, and he hadn't the faintest idea what to say in response. "Wait, what?" he stammered. "How..?"

In reply, Malfoy held up parchment he'd been studying. It was the Marauder's Map, and it was alive with tiny dots and labels. Harry goggled at it openly. "How did you get that to work?"

"I persuaded it."

"Persuaded it? How?

"I wrote on it with my quill, and the mapmakers answered. Cheeky bastards, but not unreasonable."

Harry frowned. "I can't believe they'd be willing to chat with a Malfoy, no offense."

"None taken," said Malfoy with a small shrug. "And it's not as if I was about to tell the map who I was. Magical objects of this sort can be incredibly dangerous, as your Weasley girlfriend discovered."

"She's not my girlfriend," Harry muttered automatically.

"Of course not. Anyway, I just told it what was going on -- that Sirius Black had turned up in Hogsmeade, and that he was likely to be executed -- and the map was VERY interested in that."

"How do you know --?"

"Everyone knows, Potter, even social outcasts such as myself." Malfoy chuckled mirthlessly at this. "In any case, I explained the whole episode with your parents, and how Black practically killed them, and the map was quiet for a while. And then it insisted that I must have the story wrong, and that Black was nearby so I should just go and ask him myself. Then the map itself appeared, offering countless new insights into your ability wreak havoc, and there he was. In the hospital wing, with Dumbledore and your godfather, the werewolf."

Harry scowled at this. "His name's Lupin,"

"Whatever. He's a werewolf, and at the moment he's consorting with your parents' murderer. I don't see how you can just sit here so calmly, knowing where Black is and what he did."

"I know exactly what he did," said Harry. "Just as I know exactly what Peter Pettigrew did."

Malfoy blinked. "Pettigrew? The wizard Black killed?"

"Pettigrew, my parent's secret-keeper, the man who handed them over to Voldemort," said Harry, quietly relishing this moment of superior knowledge. "Didn't your dad tell you anything? He must have known, he was right in Voldemort's inner circle. He was there when Pettigrew helped return Voldemort to his old body."

Malfoy's Adam's apple bobbed. "My father...told me as much as he could..."

"So just enough for you to torture me with, but not enough so that you actually had any idea what was going on."

"My father knew what was best for me," said Malfoy quietly.

"Like training you to be in Voldemort's Youth Corps was best for you?"

"He wanted to be on the winning side, the one that would survive the war. He was trying to protect me from Dumbledore's foolishness, from the idiocy of standing against the Dark Lord."

Harry rose from his chair, his face hot with anger. "My parents died standing against him."

"And mine died supporting him," said Malfoy coldly. "We'll see whose sacrifice was in vain."

"You sound like you still think Voldemort will win!"

Malfoy looked directly into Harry's eyes, his pale brows arched. "Won't he?"

"NO!"

"Why not?" asked Malfoy softly. "Because you'll stop him? You may be able to handle Infligo, but you know you're no match for him. He'll crush you, just like he crushed your parents."

"Don't talk about them that way!" Harry snarled. "They did what they had to, they did what was right! And I'm not going to stand here and listen to you say otherwise." He folded the map roughly, not bothering to wipe it first. "I thought you'd changed. I thought you'd come around, that you knew what your father did was wrong and that you wanted to be different. That you wanted to be your own person, make your own choices."

Malfoy slid off the bed and stood, his fists clenched. "And what if I chose to follow the Dark Lord?"

There seemed little point in mincing words. "Then we'd be enemies again, wouldn't we?" said Harry.

The two boys stared at each other for a long time, each weighing these words, neither wanting to be the first to look away. It was Harry who finally broke the connection. Without another word he pulled the Invisibility Cloak over his head, jerked open the door and was gone.

Fuming with resentment and aching for someone to talk to, Harry stalked off toward the hospital wing. He wanted reassurance, to be reminded of why the decisions he had made were the right ones, that he was doing what his parents would have wanted. Surely Sirius could do that, would have the right words to soothe his troubled thoughts. And Remus, too. Remus always seemed to know just what to say, how to remind him of what was important.

But when he reached the hospital wing his father's friends were no longer there, and Madam Pomfrey was too busy with an emergency de-scaling of a first year to answer any of his questions. Defeated, Harry sulked back to Gryffindor Tower.

Several conversations came to an abrupt halt as climbed through the portrait hole. Ginny, Ron and Hermione were sitting near the fireplace and diligently ignored him as he crossed the common room. A group of fourth-year girls whispered eagerly to each other as he passed, the names "Bayne" and "Malfoy" just discernible. Harry wondered if it was Morag who told them.

Neville Longbottom scurried up to him as he approached the stairs to the boys' dormitory, round face creased with worry. "You all right, Harry?" he asked with quiet urgency. "I've been hearing some strange stories about you."

"I'm fine," said Harry. "I'm just going to bed."

"But it's only just nine o' clock!"

"Goodnight," said Harry.

He climbed up to his room and into his four-poster, closing the velvet curtains, then pulled the Marauder's Map from his pocket and unfolded it, smoothing it flat against his quilt. He wiped it clean with his wand, then took a quill and ink from his bag, dipped the nib into the bottle, and sat with it poised above the ragged parchment. Harry wanted to be able to talk with his father, even if it was only a shadow of him, craving the certainty that he felt only his parents could offer. But the questions that churned inside him would make no sense to a 16-year-old James Potter, and he couldn't think of anything else to say.

He fell asleep with the album from Hagrid lying on his lap, open to a large photograph of his parents at Brighton Beach. They were dressed in Muggle summer clothes, and his mother was very pregnant. She held an enormous cloud of cotton candy on a stick, and his father laughed as she tried to get it into her mouth without using her fingers. The date that was written beneath it was 6 July, 1980. Twenty-five days before he was born. Sixteen months before Voldemort killed them both.

***

So close, so close...and yet, it was too early to strike. Her purpose was to investigate, to sniff and taste and touch the boundaries of their fortress, too see how closely she could approach without arousing suspicion.

Soon she would cross the wall of spells. Soon she would taste their sweet, young flesh.

Soon, soon, soon...

***

Arabella Figg was in an especially venomous mood when Harry arrived for his lesson on Monday morning. He reached her office a few minutes after six, still rubbing sand from his eyes, and had barely gotten through the door when Figg hurled a Fireball Curse directly at his head. He managed to erect a shield charm in time, but it collapsed as soon as the curse hit, and he could feel the heat of it singing his hair. Harry dropped to his knees, one hand on the narrow red carpet that ran the length of the magically enlarged room.

"Contego!" he bellowed, and a magical dome shimmered into existence around him just as Figg unleashed her second attack. There was no time to move away from the door. Curse after curse rebounded off of Harry's charm, weakening it with every blow.

A half-dozen Stupefys later, Figg paused and lowered her wand. "Are you just going to sit there?" she asked calmly, as if they were discussing a homework assignment. "I was hoping for a bit more activity and a bit less cowardice in today's session.'"

"You want me to attack you?" said Harry incredulously.

"You will address me as 'Professor,' or I will take points from your house," said Figg. "And yes, of course I do. Any Death Eater worth their salt could dismantle a shield charm in a matter of minutes. Defensive charms are useful only for fending off a sudden attack, not withstanding a prolonged assault." She flicked her wand and muttered something under her breath. Harry's dome flickered dangerously. "I want to have a sense of how far your offensive skills have progressed. Attack me as best you can so that I may evaluate your technique."

"But, Professor-"

"Stupefy!"

Harry rolled to one side and sprung into a low crouch, his wand cutting through the air. "Expelliarmus!"

The tip of Figg's wand twitched, and the hex washed over her like water. Her next curse was aimed at Harry's feet and he pulled a shield charm up from the floor before launching a body-bind hex across the room. She deflected the spell, beginning one of her own with the follow-through.

"Prosterno!" she hissed, and before he could erect a shield it hit him square in the chest, knocking the air from his lungs.

"Stupefy!" he gasped, but again she shrugged it off, reflecting it back in his direction such that he was forced to dive wildly out of its path. It was followed by an Incendio that blasted a hole in the wall beside his shoulder.

Desperate and furious, he reached deep into the unsavory pockets of his arsenal, and pulled out the spell he was most likely to regret. "Infligo!" he spat, the word stinging his lips as it passed them.

Figg's eyes narrowed, her thin, dark brows deeply furrowed as she waved his curse aside. She did not attack him again. Instead, she lowered her wand and spoke, her voice quiet and dangerous. "Where did you learn that curse, Mr. Potter?"

"From a book," he lied.

"No book outside the Restricted Section will teach you how to perform Infligo," she said. "Either you have forged a pass to gain access to those shelves, or the spell was taught to you by another student."

"We didn't forge anything," Harry snapped. "He already had one from Snape, and-" Harry caught himself, but not in time. Figg's eyes became dark slits, glittering with animosity.

"So it's him again, is it?" she said, her voice silky and dangerous. "I knew you were something of a fool, Mr. Potter, but I'm astounded that your judgment could prove so desperately lacking."

"It's my business who I practice with, Professor."

"Not when your dueling partner is engaging you in unsupervised lessons in the Dark Arts," Figg snapped. "That curse which you so casually performed is illegal, as I'm certain Mr. Malfoy is aware, and is to be used only in the most desperate of circumstances. As your dear godfather recently learned, the tools of Death Eaters are best left unmolested by those who cannot handle the consequences involved."

"What are you talking about?"

"Five points from Gryffindor. And you know perfectly well what I'm talking about, Mr. Potter. If not for Black's staggering ineptitude and chronically bad judgment he would not be hidden away in the astronomy tower with his chest carved up like a Christmas goose, and Snape would not be galavanting about the countryside with a gang of Death Eaters."

"What tools do you think Sirius was using?" Harry demanded. "All he did was try and look for Snape!"

"Five more points. And how do you think he accomplished that? Spying is an unsavory business, Mr. Potter, and your godfather lacks the necessary judgment and restraint to properly accomplish it. No doubt he gambled away our secrets for the merest hint of Snape's location."

"He didn't tell them where the wand is, if that's what you mean."

Figg's eyes snapped open. "What..." She paused and took a deep breath, pushing back her salted auburn hair. When she spoke again it was with labored calm. "What do you know about that? What have they told you?"

"That it's important," said Harry. "And that Voldemort wants it."

Figg looked away. "Riddle desires anything that will grant him further power," she murmured. With a distracted air she returned her office to its usual state, cramped and dense with bookcases, wizard photos of assorted cats blinking from gilt frames. She pulled out her bottomless carpet bag and began rummaging through it.

Harry stood watching her for several minutes, feeling incredibly awkward. Finally he cleared his throat. "Er...Professor?"

"You may go, Mr. Potter," said Figg, removing several skulls from the bag and placing them on her desk. "Read the first four chapters of Dueling for the Desperate by Gilbert Cunningham. Madam Pince should have a copy reserved."

"But, the wand -"

"I will see you next week," she said, placing two bottles of milky liquid and a small mirror beside the skulls. "Now, if you don't mind I have other matters to attend to."

***

There was a sign at the base of the stairway to the Astronomy Tower that night, hovering at eye-level above the first step. "Absolutely No Students Allowed Until Further Notice," it read, followed by details of various relocated lessons. Harry pulled his Invisibility Cloak more tightly around his shoulders and slipped by, carefully avoiding the edges of the sign.

The stone walls amplified the scratch of his shoes and the rustling of his clothes as Harry ascended, hard as he tried to keep quiet. But his worries of being overheard by Filch lessened considerably as he neared the top of the tower. Men's voices echoed down from the observatory, and when Harry reached it he saw that the door was slightly ajar. He pressed his eye to the gap, careful not to push it farther open.

The observatory was a small, circular room with a domed ceiling that glittered with constellations, tiny glass stars connected by silver wires enchanted to mirror the sky outside. A large, wooden bed had been added to the usual assortment of velvet ottomans, and beside it stood Sirius and Remus. They were arguing, Remus in his usual tatty brown robes and Sirius in a long, purple nightshirt.

"Until Snape returns with more evidence, there's nothing we can do," Remus was saying.

Sirius crossed his arms, scowling. "I don't understand why we can't tell Harry about this!"

"Dumbledore says he's too young to be involved," said Remus. "And he's worried that one of the students is passing information to the outside. Perhaps even one of Harry's friends."

"That's preposterous! What friend of Harry's would do something like that?"

"You, of all people, should understand how dangerous that kind of assumption can be."

Sirius paced across the room, passing in and out of Harry's narrow line of sight. "This is all Figg's doing. She doesn't trust anyone, the suspicious old bat. Ever since they dumped me in Hogsmeade she's been watching every goddamn move I make."

"She's only doing what she thinks she has to," said Remus mildly.

"What's what supposed to mean?" Sirius barked.

"You haven't acted the part of an innocent man," said Remus, softly at first but with a heat that built as he spoke. "Every decision you've made since James and Lily died has made you look every bit the murderer they think you are. Running off after Peter without the slightest explanation to Hagrid. Confronting him in a street full of Muggles, knowing full well that he was a desperate animagus willing to kill his own best friends to get what he wanted. Not even bothering to explain to us, not even trying to let the old crowd know the truth of who the secret keeper had actually been. You lied to Dumbledore with your silence..." Sirius had stopped pacing, and Remus held his gaze with startling ferocity. "You lied to me, Sirius. Do you have the slightest idea what that was like? To think that I had so completely misjudged you, that you were capable of such horrors."

"Get off your high horse, Moony!" Sirius shouted. "You'd suspected me for months!"

"Just as you suspected me! And then, only because I was a 'Dark Creature.'" Remus shuddered but did not look away. "I wasn't the one who kept slinking off without explaining where I'd gone. I wasn't the one who pushed so hard to be the secret keeper, who could talk of nothing else, who seemed so eager to be the one responsible."

"I wanted to protect them!" Sirius roared, inches from Remus's face.

"So did we all! But we knew the cost of trust. We weren't as blind to your charms as James, not even me. When they found out that not even I knew where you went when you disappeared..."

"I was visiting my family in Azkaban," said Sirius gruffly. "You know that!"

"I know that now, but how was I to know then?"

"But..." Sirius lowered his eyes, sitting heavily on the bed and resting his forehead on his palms. "But it wasn't me, Remus. You know that it wasn't. How long until she believes it, too? How long until she's through with punishing me? I spent twelve years in Azkaban. I lost James and Lily. I missed watching Harry grow up." He looked up, again, and there were tears on his face. "Isn't that punishment enough?"

"Oh, Padfoot..." Remus sat next to him and wrapped his arms around the other man's shoulders. "You're right. It's been enough."

"I'm so tired," Sirius whispered, leaning against Remus's chest. "I just want it to be over. I've never wanted to see Snape so badly in my life."

"Desperate times," Remus murmured, resting his chin on top of Sirius' head.

"At least you're here with me," said Sirius. His hands wandered, slipping into folds of brown robes.

Remus chuckled softly. "You should really be getting some sleep."

"We can sleep when we're dead," Sirius rumbled. He pulled back, raising his head, and cupped Remus's jaw in his hand. They kissed, pink tongues meeting an instant before their lips, their hands twined in each other's hair.

Beyond the doorway something fluttered in Harry's stomach, his heart deafening in his own ears, his pants suddenly much too small. He had no idea what to think, certain only that he was not supposed to be seeing this, and that it was long past time for him to go.

Harry's dreams were not of Voldemort that night, nor anything so obviously sinister. Instead, he dreamed of soft lips and warm skin, eager fingers and delicate tongues, a chaos of imagined trysts with vague, half-formed lovers. He woke before dawn, the sheets tangled around his legs, his heart pounding. When he slumped against his pillows a short while later, damp and sticky and out of breath, his face burned with shame for what he'd done. And for what his mind had dwelled on as he'd done it.

***

Despite an unusually long turn in the dormitory showers, Harry was at breakfast very early. His only company at the table was the N.E.W.T.s study group, half of which was made up of members of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. They were all bent over enormous textbooks, bits of toast and bacon sticking out of their mouths as they scribbled notes on parchment. Harry found himself wondering if Hermione had drawn up a revision schedule for the O.W.L.s she would be taking, before he remembered that he wasn't supposed to care anymore.

Harry had shaken off this moment of weakness and returned dutifully to his oatmeal when one of the school owls dropped a small note into his lap. It was from Remus, informing him of Sirius' temporary lodging in the Astronomy Tower, and asking Harry to come and meet them there during lunch. As Harry read it, he could feel his face grow hot.

"Oi, Harry!" He looked up as Seamus, Dean and Neville trotted up behind him. Seamus was brandishing a copy of the Daily Prophet, which he tossed down onto the table. "You see this morning's paper?" he asked, face glowing with excitement. "They say Black is staying at-"

He was cut short by a gasp from Alicia Spinnet. "Goodness, is that a Howler?" she said incredulously. Harry, along with the rest of the seventh years, followed her gaze up to the staff table. He nearly choked on his oatmeal. Dumbledore held a red envelope in both hands, studying it with a bemused expression. The other professors had backed away somewhat, all except Fletcher looking as if they were contemplating flight.

"He'd better open it," muttered Angelina Johnson. "That one looks like a Deluxe. It'll fry his whole beard off when it blows."

Dumbledore seemed inclined to agree with her, and they watched as he carefully slit open the red paper.

There was an explosion of sound that far outstripped any howler Harry had every witness. He felt as if he'd been punched in the face, and even with his fingers jammed in his ears he felt he might go deaf.

"HOW YOU CAN CALL YOURSELF HEADMASTER WHEN YOU SO CLEARLY DON'T CARE ABOUT THE WELL BEING OF OUR CHILDREN IS BEYOND ME! I HAVE WRITTEN THE SCHOOL GOVERNORS AND DEMANDED YOUR IMMEDIATE DISMISSAL. THIS IS A DISGRACE! NEVER IN A HUNDRED YEARS WOULD I HAVE THOUGHT YOU'D STOOP SO LOW! AFTER ALL THE MINISTRY WENT THROUGH TO KEEP HOGWARTS SAFE, THAT YOU WOULD THANK THEM BY HARBORING A DANGEROUS CRIMINAL IS UNBELIEVABLE!"

Oh, no, Harry thought. It's got out.

"I DEMAND THAT YOU RELEASE SIRIUS BLACK INTO MINISTRY CUSTODY IMMEDIATELY! IF YOU REFUSE, I WILL COME TO COLLECT SEAMUS IN PERSON NEXT WEEK, AND I'LL MAKE SURE TO GIVE YOU A GOOD WALLOP WHILE I'M AT IT!"

As the last echos of the tirade faded away, there was a long and pregnant silence. And then, as one, the students in the Great Hall burst into a frenzy of conversation.

"Was that your Mum?" Dean asked incredulously, uncovering his own ears.

Seamus, to his credit, looked mortified. "Must've been in the evening edition," he muttered, sinking down onto the bench next to Harry and covering his head with the paper.

"Black is here?" shrieked Lavender Brown.

"I knew it!" crowed Angelina. "That's five Galleons Fred owes me!"

"Does this mean the Dementors are coming back?" Neville whispered, his round face white as paper.

Up at the staff table, Dumbledore watched serenely as the Howler burst into flame and reduced itself to an innocuous pile of ash. He conjured a small dustpan and brush, directed them to tidy up the mess, then rose from his chair as they vanished once again. He waited until the last voices had quieted before he spoke.

"Clearly," he said, "we are long overdue for an explanation of current affairs here at Hogwarts. However, now is not the time. There will be a school meeting tonight, at which point we will answer as many of your questions as we can. Please assemble here after your last lesson. I would ask the prefects to inform those who are not present." He smiled, then, and Harry could feel some of the tension drain from room. "Until then, I ask that you take whatever you may hear with a generously proportioned grain of salt."

As Dumbledore returned to his seat, the occupants of the Great Hall carried on with what was left of breakfast, trading rumors and speculation at a dizzying pace. Seamus muttered something about the library and bolted off, abandoning his paper on the table. Harry was far more interested in the professors. Figg, Fletcher and McGonagall had formed a tight knot around Dumbledore, and Figg looked absolutely livid. She, too, had a copy of the Daily Prophet, and shook it dramatically to emphasize whatever point she was making. Harry suspected it was something to do with Sirius, but was too far away to hear, and eventually he gave up trying to read their lips and picked up Seamus' paper.

Sirius' face took up most of the front page, sallow skin and sunken eyes beneath a curtain of matted, black hair. They had used the old prison photo, the same one that had been broadcast on Muggle television and printed on countless "wanted" posters two years ago. The headline read, "Hogwarts Host to Mad Murderer." Beneath it, in comparably modest lettering, "Has Dumbledore Gone Dotty?"

Harry couldn't bring himself to read the article; he already knew what it would say.

***

Defense Against the Dark Arts was a blur of ignoring and being ignored. All the talk before class was of Sirius Black and whether or not he'd murdered anyone else, mixed with speculation as to how many Dementors Fudge would send to finish him off. Figg did not mention Sirius, though she seemed to be in an especially vindictive mood. Harry numbly copied down notes on emergency Cushioning Charms, forcing himself not to cringe when she used Malfoy to demonstrated how an improperly cast charm could result in injury. Even harder was resisting the urge to leap across the room and punch Morag in the nose when she laughed uproariously at Malfoy's torment.

Harry's mood lightened somewhat when he entered the Charms classroom. Sensing a need for levity, Professor Flitwick had shuffled the lesson plan such that they would be creating wizarding portraits instead of waterproof fires. The desks had been replaced with easels, and there were stacks of canvases, brushes and pots of paint in the front of the room. Harry's spirits wilted, however, when Flitwick instructed the class to form pairs. He watched hopelessly as Hermione and Ron retreated to one corner of the room, and Seamus and Dean to another.

Neville tapped him on the shoulder. "You can paint me, Harry!" he said, and Harry followed him gratefully to the supply table.

Harry had never been much of an artist, but he enjoyed the attempt all the same. It took him a while to get the hang of mixing colors, so Neville's face ended up a bit too orange, but Harry managed to capture something of his apple cheeks and mouse-brown hair.

When there was a half-hour left of the period, Flitwick showed them how to cast a simple Animation Charm, which magically bound the paintings to their models. The pumpkin-faced Neville immediately fled from the canvas, but Neville's lollipop-headed Harry only scowled from behind his misshapen glasses, green eyes blinking somberly. As Dean was quite good at painting, everyone flocked to his easel at the end of the lesson to admire his portrait of Seamus. It grinned broadly at them all, clearly enjoying the attention.

"Are all animated magical objects made this way?" Hermione asked, paying no mind to Harry though he was only a yard or so away.

"Chocolate Frog cards, newspaper photographs and the like are all created with similar methods, yes," Flitwick cheerfully explained as he Summoned the discarded supplies back to his desk. "The wizarding portraits you're accustomed to seeing here at Hogwarts are far more sophisticated, of course, and have to be woven into the school's own magical fields to be able to interact with each other as they do. You'll notice that the Fat Lady can visit other paintings within Hogwarts, but not, for example, in Hogsmeade."

"I'd always thought that was just a distance thing," said Ron, stuffing books into his rucksack.

"Distance counts for very little in these matters," squeaked Flitwick. "There is an ancient tradition of using wizarding portraits for communication and the gathering of information. There are certain paintings within the walls of Hogwarts that are still connected to the old networks, though of course such things are very tightly regulated."

Hermione was still asking questions when Harry packed up his things and left the classroom. Awkward or no, it was time to return to the Astronomy Tower.

***

"Fudge is absolutely livid," Sirius said some time later with a wry smile. He sounded pleased with the idea. "He'll demand my immediate execution, of course, probably at the hands the Dementors. Looks very bad, you know, having an escaped convict capering about Hogwarts. Dreadfully embarrassing I'm sure."

"I suspect his office is flooded with owls, thanks to this," Remus sighed, dropping a tattered copy of the Daily Prophet onto the bed where Sirius still lay. "I suppose we should be thankful that Rita Skeeter wasn't involved, but it's small comfort."

Sirius picked it up, frowning. "They could've at least sent over a photographer. This doesn't look a thing like me anymore."

"Padfoot, please take this seriously."

"I'm complete serious," said Sirius with mock-indignation. "Without an accurate photo for reference, how are concerned citizens going to spot me when I come to carry off their children?"

"How do you suppose they found out you're staying here?" Harry asked suddenly. Their banter made him nervous -- after last night, it all sounded incredibly flirty.

"After showing up half-dead on the floor of the Three Broomsticks, I'd be surprised if anyone in the wizarding world didn't know I'd been in Hogsmeade," said Sirius. "After that, it was just a matter of time before someone put the pieces together."

"Do you think someone told them?" Harry pressed, thinking of Malfoy and the map.

"Hard to tell," said Sirius. He yawned hugely and leaned back against the headboard. "Christ, I'm bloody tired."

"I expect most of your classmates know, Harry?" asked Remus, absently patting Sirius on the shoulder.

Harry nodded. "Dumbledore had a Howler this morning. If they didn't known before that, they do now. He's called a meeting tonight in the Great Hall."

"That's interesting," said Sirius, looking thoughtful as he scratched the stubble on his chin. "I wonder why he let it through?"

"What do you mean?" Harry asked.

"Professors are sent Howlers quite often," said Remus. "Particularly just after exam results are returned. While it's difficult to put them off altogether, there are ways of diverting them until they can be opened in private. And as for Dumbledore specifically....well, I suspect the only reason he opens them at all is due to a sense of obligation."

"Or a desire for entertainment," Sirius added, grinning again.

"Either way," Remus continued, "he must have something in mind."

They talked for a while longer, mostly about the upcoming Quidditch match against Slytherin, until it was time for Harry to leave for his next lesson. He waved goodbye to Sirius, but was surprised to find that Remus was going with him.

"There are matters elsewhere that need my attention," he said. "Also, I'd like a quick word with you, Harry, if you don't mind."

"Er...all right..." said Harry uncertainly as they started down the stairs. They walked though the corridors in companionable silence. It wasn't until they had left the castle and set out across the grounds that Remus spoke again, his voice light but pointed.

"It's been suggested to me that you aren't getting on very well with Ron and Hermione," he said.

Harry shrugged in what he hoped was a nonchalant manner. "They're just being idiots. 'Snot a bit deal or anything."

"Really? How long has this been going on?"

"Dunno. A while."

Remus considered this. "And have you tried to patch things up?"

"No," said Harry flatly. "If they want to apologize, fine. Otherwise they can go hang for all I care."

The silence this time was not a comfortable one. Harry stared resolutely at his trainers in the dry grass, but he could feel Remus's eyes on him.

"When I was only a few years older than you," said Remus quietly, "I lost all of my closest friends in one night. Thirty years as a werewolf, and I have never come so close to ending my own life as I did when they told me Sirius had killed Peter. The fact that your parents and I were on poor terms with each other, then, made it all the worse. It was thirteen years before Sirius came back to me, and now we grieve together.

"You don't know how lucky you are, Harry. The horrors of war set us against each other; death and tragedy forced us apart. And now here you are, squandering the very thing I mourned for so many years." He stopped walking, and Harry looked up. He expected to see anger on Remus' face, but there was only weariness and regret. "I don't know what happened between you and your friends, and it's not my business to ask. But don't waste these years, Harry. Don't push your friends aside so casually. You never know when the choice will be taken away from you."

Unable to think of anything to say, Harry watched dumbly as Remus turned and continued on across the grounds.

***

Harry didn't speak to Hermione and Ron during the next two periods, but he didn't avoid them either. None of them protested when Professor Sprout assigned them to extract stinksap from the same mimbulus mimbletonia, nor did they rush to opposite ends of the room when they entered the Transfiguration classroom. And when they all filed into the Great Hall for the assembly Harry sat with only Dean and Seamus between himself and Ron. Ginny, buried amongst the other fourth year girls, watched him warily.

The hall immediately quieted when Dumbledore entered, his progress to the center of the staff table accompanied only by a few, hurried whispers from overexcited first years. And those, too, died away when he took his place and motioned for the other professors to sit.

"I am certain you all have heard of this morning's outburst, by now," he said. "Just as I'm equally certain that many of you have formed your own opinions as to what ought to be done, should the accusations of Daily Prophet and certain concerned parents prove true."

A wave of murmuring swept across the assembly, and Dumbledore patiently waited for it to pass before he continued.

"I do not believe that the truth, however frightening, should be the sole province of adults. And so I will tell you that one of those accusations is completely factual. Sirius Black, the man who escaped from Azkaban Prison two years ago, is currently within the walls of this school." Another wave passed through the hall, this one far more powerful than the first. Several voices cried out in alarm, and still others in anger. It was nearly a minute before Dumbledore spoke again. "However, much of what has been said in regard to Mr. Black bears little, if any, resemblance to the truth. I could explain at length how and why this is so, but there is one among you who is far more qualified to do so than I."

At that, Dumbledore leveled his cool, blue gaze at Harry. "Mr. Potter?" he said smoothly, his eyes crinkled at the corners. "Would you mind, terribly?"

Harry quailed as every head in the room whipped around towards him. Ron gaped at him from farther down the bench, his expression a mix of envy and pity. Ginny, who had stopped pretending to be interested her friends, leaned across the table. "Go on!" she whispered. "You've already done it for me. Once more can't hurt, can it?"

Feeling that it could probably hurt a great deal, Harry nevertheless rose from the bench. He took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders and walked slowly toward the front of the hall, which now looked very far away. As he passed the twins, they nodded their encouragement. "We promise not to heckle you," said Fred soberly.

"Much," added George.

Dumbledore smiled at him as he approached. "I'm sorry I didn't mention this earlier," said the Headmaster in an undertone, "but I suspect you might have taken refuge elsewhere if I did."

"Probably," Harry croaked. He turned to the sea of expectant faces, glowing faintly in the candlelight. "What should I say?"

"Whatever you think they ought to know," said Dumbledore, and with a slight bow he returned to his chair, leaving Harry to stand on his own. He shoved his hands into his pockets to keep them from shaking and forced himself to breath normally. He had dueled with Voldemort in a graveyard while surrounded by Death Eaters. He could handle public speaking.

"Well," he began. His own voice sounded pathetically tiny in such a large space. "Well you see, it...it's like this. Sirius Black...well, he's my godfather. He was really good friends with my mum and dad, and when they died everyone thought it was his fault. They said he'd murdered a man named Peter Pettigrew, and blown up a whole street full of Muggles, and they sent him to Azkaban without a trial for most of my life.

"But...but the truth is, he's never murdered anyone."

Those words -- that brief but all-important statement of Sirius' innocence -- were like the crest of a hill. Once reached, it was suddenly quite easy to continue on. At first, he wasn't certain how much he should say, but sidelong glances at Dumbledore were answered by encouraging little smiles, and soon the story of what had happened came out on its own. Harry spoke for what felt like hours, his audience still and silent aside from occasional noises of surprise or disbelief. When he finished his throat was dry and raw, and he ached to return to his seat, but as soon as the echos of his last words had faded a dozen hands shot into the air.

"How did he get out of Azkaban?"

"How does a secret keeper work?"

"Are you sure he's not a Death Eater?"

"Have you tried telling Minister Fudge?"

Every question answered led to two more. By the time they were addressed to his classmates' satisfaction it was nearly eight o' clock, and Harry felt ready to collapse on the spot. He almost wept with relief when Dumbledore appeared at his side, thanked him for his time and sent him back to his seat.

"I expect that many of you will have owls you'll want to send, given what Harry has told you," said Dumbledore. "All I ask is that you consider your words carefully, and be prepared for how your loved ones may respond. The truth is often not as welcome as one might expect.

"But that is enough talk for one night, and your meal is long overdue."

Dinner appeared on their empty plates, but it went largely unnoticed. Everyone was watching Harry. Many whom he passed on his way back to his table had a few words to offer, some more encouraging than others, but most just stared at him with thoughtful expressions, clearly weighing what he had said against what they had long been told.

"That was bloody brilliant," said Ron as soon as he sat down.

Harry blinked. "Er...thanks."

"It was very brave of you," said Hermione, "going up in front of everyone like that. I would've died of fright."

"It wasn't so bad," said Harry. He turned away, rubbing the back of his neck. "Look, Hermione, I'm-"

"It's all right," said Hermione quickly. "And...well, me too."

"And I don't care if you're friends with Malfoy or Ginny or whoever," said Ron earnestly. "I'm sure you've got your reasons."

"Thanks a load, Ron," Ginny muttered.

***

The days before the first Quidditch match of the season seemed to end as soon as they'd started, with every free moment crammed full of activity. As Harry would be taking his O.W.L.s at the end of term, he was assigned ever-increasing amounts of homework to help him prepare, and within days of making up with Hermione he was asking her to help him draw up a schedule to keep track. Quidditch practice was held nearly every night, often lasting until Madam Hooch chucked them all off the pitch. Every mealtime and most evenings were marked by a new round of questions regarding Sirius, as students from all four houses tracked him down to settle some point or another. And after weeks of not speaking to each other, Harry, Ron and Hermione had a lot to catch up on.

"So d'you reckon Fudge will actually try anything?" Ron asked one evening, after several hours of hushed conversation on the topic of Sirius.

"He might," said Hermione, sounding worried. "I've looked it up, and while normally Hogwarts is self-governed by its professors there are certain offenses which merit Ministry involvement. Harboring wanted murderers is definitely one of them."

"Do you think he'll send the Dementors again?" asked Harry, trying to keep his apprehension from showing.

"Not if Dumbledore's anything to say about it!" said Ron.

"Don't worry, Harry, I'm certain that Dumbledore won't hand Sirius over to the Ministry," Hermione soothed. "I'm just not entirely sure how he'll get out if it, yet."

Another frequent topic was the matter of the wand. Harry shared as much information as he had managed to glean so far, but not even Hermione could make much of it. She checked several enormous books out of the library on the topic of famous wands, but none were of much help.

"Well, there are hundreds of wands known for their connections with the Dark Arts," she said, flipping through the pages of Whose Wand? as they sat in their customary spot near the common room fireplace. "But most of them are unexceptional, by themselves. Like You-Know-Who's wand -- it's incredibly famous, because of what it's done, but it was made by Ollivander just as all of ours were. There are a few custom wands here that sound sinister -- varnished in unicorn blood, containing a human heartstring, made of Muggle bones instead of wood..." She shuddered. "They're listed here as being in specially licensed private collections, but I suppose that nearly any of them could be the wand You-Know-Who is looking for."

Ron turned to Harry. "D'you know where it is?" he asked eagerly. "Maybe we could help guard it!"

"I'm not even sure it's in the school," said Harry. "Maybe Dumbledore thinks that would be too obvious after he hid the Philosopher's Stone here?"

"If they know You-Know-Who is looking for it," said Ron, "and it's this horribly evil thing to begin with, why don't they just snap it in half and be done with it?"

Hermione chewed her lip thoughtfully. "It's not that simple, Ron. There can be consequences for destroying a darkly magical artifact. I once read an account of a woman in Surrey -- she tried to remove an enchanted mirror from her bedroom and ended up trapped inside it for seven years when it accidentally broke. And even normal wands regularly misbehave when snapped in half."

"Well, yeah, but only if you use them, right?" said Ron. "Mine only stuffed me full of slugs when I tried to hex Malfoy."

Hermione shook her head and smiled. "You were lucky, then. Hagrid once told me that his wand turned Professor Dippet's nose into a strawberry when he was expelled."

"I tried asking Sirius and Remus about all this," said Harry, "but they won't tell me anything. They said the fewer the people that know, the better."

"Well, they're probably right, Harry," said Hermione softly. "They tortured Sirius to try and get him to tell. Maybe it's for the best if we stay out of it."

Ron scowled. "That's not like you, Hermione. You've always loved helping us figure this stuff out. You spent half our first year trying to figure out who Nicholas Flamel was!"

"Yes, but we aren't first years anymore," said Hermione. "And we had no idea how much danger we were in, back then. After what happened last June..." She trailed off, not looking at Harry. "Dumbledore knows that You-Know-Who is after the wand, and he knows much better than any of us what needs to be done about it. We should pay attention to what's going on, obviously, but otherwise I think we should stay out of their way."

"Voldemort isn't going to leave us alone just because we're young and stupid," said Harry, annoyed when they jumped at the name. "If the adults won't tell us what's going on, then we need to find out on our own. We didn't know that Lupin was a werewolf, or that Tom Riddle was actually Voldemort, or that Mr. Crouch had a Death Eater son with the same name, and all those things nearly got us killed. I don't want to end up tied to another gravestone because we didn't find out about this stupid wand!" By then he was nearly shouting, and several of the other Gryffindors had turned to see what the fuss was about.

"I just..." Hermione wiped angrily at her eyes. Looking terrified but resolute, Ron put an arm somewhat awkwardly around her shoulders and gave them a quick squeeze. "I just don't want to lose you. Either of you. Cedric was one thing, but..." She shuddered. "Oh, I don't even want to think about it!"

Harry realized, then, that he was far angrier than he wanted to be. Though he knew that Hermione was only worried about her friends, that she was right that they should be careful, and that it wasn't fair to shout at her, he found that his fists were clenched and his jaw set in a furious scowl. He felt as if his reason were being muffled under a heavy blanket, shoved aside by the now-familiar rush of merciless rage that boiled in his stomach and set his heart pounding. It didn't even feel like it belonged to him. He took a deep, slow breath.

"I...I'm sorry, Hermione," he said shakily, running a hand through his fringe. "I don't know what's up with me, lately."

"It's all right," said Hermione, taking one last irritated swipe at her cheeks. "We're all upset. It's only natural that we'll lose our tempers from time to time."

"Yeah, I guess you're right," said Harry. He watched as his friends disentangled themselves, pulled out their essays for Professor Sinistra and organized their notes. Part of him wanted to tell them what was happening, about his attack on Magnus Bayne, his sudden and disproportionate bursts of fury and what he remembered of his dreams. None of it felt "only natural" -- in fact, it was quite the opposite, but he couldn't think of what to say, or how to explain it without seeming like a lunatic. In the end, they finished their homework and went up their dormitories without Harry having mentioned it at all.

***

The morning of the season's first Quidditch match was unseasonably cold, with heavy blue-gray clouds that threatened rain. Too anxious to even attempt breakfast, Harry went straight to the Astronomy Tower for a quick visit with his godfather. Remus was already there, and he and Sirius were sharing a teatray of toast and boiled eggs. They both wished him luck, and Sirius showed him his pair of Omnioculars. "So I'll be able to watch the game from up here," he explained, grinning.

Remus, holding a much shabbier pair of ordinary binoculars, asked several questions about the new team roster, and smiled broadly when told of Ginny's new position as reserve Seeker. "Not that I expect she'll have a chance to play," he said. Thinking of the various attempts on his life in matches past, Harry hoped rather fervently that he was right.

The stands were only just starting to fill when Harry arrived at the pitch, and several of his teammates were in the locker room, changing into their uniforms and discussing the weather in such a way that he suspected the topic had changed when he walked in. None of them but the Weasleys had said more than two words to Harry about his explanation of Sirius' plight, but as those words had all been friendly he was willing to let it be. They would ask their questions when they were ready to.

"So whaddya reckon?" asked Fred, pulling on his arm-guards. "If it rains, visibility will be pretty poor. Normally we'd go after the Seeker on a day like this, but given that it's you and that he's a useless prat I was thinking we might concentrate on their Chasers instead."

"I can handle Malfoy," said Harry grimly. He took off his glasses and tapped them with his wand with a quiet "Impervius." They had the same broom, and Harry knew he had the advantage in terms of ability. As long as there weren't any misguided house elves, rogue Dementors or Voldemort-possessed professors, Gryffindor would win.

When the last of his team had geared up, Harry called them together into a circle for one last pep talk. "While Flint was captain of the Slytherin team he chose his players for brute strength and dirty tactics, not strategy. Bayne is different. He's smart, and we're going to have to assume his team is as well. They'll be sneaky, they'll be ruthless, and they'll get away with as much as we let them. Hooch is fair, but not even she can catch everything, so watch yourselves and don't give them an opening. Bayne will knock your skull in if he thinks no one's looking."

"Gosh, you're in a sunny mood today," said Fred.

"Careful, Potter," said George. "You wouldn't want us to think this'll be too easy,"

As Harry led them out onto the pitch, Simon and Geoffry trailing nervously behind their older teammates, it started to rain. Fat drops slid smoothly off of Harry's charmed glasses as they passed the Gryffindor bleachers, and he could just make out his reserve players silhouetted against the steely sky. Ginny, Hiro, Joshua and Emma were sitting in the first row, all crowded under an enormous umbrella and waving cheerfully at their teammates. Harry knew that Ron and Hermione were probably sitting just behind them, but he couldn't make them out from the ground.

The Slytherin team approached from their own lockers, green and silver robes dark with moisture around the shoulders. They looked grim but confident, all but Malfoy gripping Nimbus 2001s in their gloved hands. Harry wondered briefly what it was like for him, watching the housemates that so detested him ride brooms that his father had bought before remembering that he wasn't supposed to care.

"...Gryffindor has quite the lineup this year," Lee Jordan was saying, his voice magically amplified. "I hear tell that Simon Branford, replacement for Chaser Katie Bell, made something of a name for himself in the regional youth leagues near Oxford..."

The teams had gathered in the center of the pitch, each player facing their counterpart with Madam Hooch standing in between the two lines. Malfoy would not look at Harry, his grey eyes fixed unwaveringly on the handle of his broom.

"Mount your brooms," barked Madam Hooch.

Harry was dimly aware of Lee's commentary, which had moved onto a scathing evaluation of Bayne's choice in players. Malfoy had finally met his eyes, but neither of them spoke.

"Ready?" asked Hooch, holding out the Quaffle.

"Bayne's been making me practice every day," said Malfoy suddenly, just loud enough for Harry to hear. "I'm going to win, this time. I'm going to beat you."

Harry didn't answer.

"Kick off!" Hooch barked, and with a blast of her whistle the balls were released.

"Gryffindor in possession!" Lee continued. "Branford's got the Quaffle...pass to Spinnet, and an over-the-shoulder to Johnson...Johnson's in the scoring circle...blast! Intercepted by Baddock and now a pass to Pritchard!"

It was raining much harder, now. Normally, Harry would circle high above the pitch, but with his visibility so limited he was forced to dive in among the other players, swooping in and out of knots of Chasers and dodging the odd Bludger as he searched for a flicker of gold.

"Interception by Johnson...pass to Spinnet, and back to Johnson agian...Watch out for that Bludger, Angelina!"

Harry pushed his sodden hair out of his eyes, squinting through dense curtains of raindrops. Malfoy was twenty or so yards to his right, staying close but clearly abandoning his usual tactic of waiting for Harry to find the Snitch for him. He looked very small and pale, as if the wind might blow him away.

"Johnson...back to Spinnet...Branford...he's rounding on the goals....GRYFFINDOR SCORES!"

Lightning cut across the darkening sky, and Gryffindor's cheers were drowned out by a clap of thunder. Harry barely missed being hit in the arm by a Bludger, its smooth black outline almost impossible to see against the clouds. A glance at the scoreboard, now barely visible, told him Gryffindor was ahead by only one goal. If Malfoy caught the Snitch now, they would lose.

"BAYNE, YOU BASTARD, YOU DID THAT ON PURPOSE! Sorry, Professor, but he did! A free shot for Gryffindor, Johnson makes it, and the score is eighty all."

A flash of gold, up and to his left. Harry flattened himself to his broom and took off after it, the rain streaming down his face in little rivers, his robes soaked through to his skin. Malfoy was close behind but not close enough. He was going to make it. He stretched out his arm, his fingers splayed wide.

"POTTER!"

There was a note of panic in Malfoy's voice that made him stop. The other boy was hovering ten feet below him, looking down at the ground. The Snitch disappeared into the gloom, uncaught, but Harry no longer cared. He had followed Malfoy's gaze, and seen what had made him shout. Surrounding the pitch, too low and close to the bleachers to have been noticed by the crowd, were dozens of robed figures. Another flash of lightning threw them into stark contrast, illuminating their smooth, white masks.

Without thinking, Harry tapped his own throat with his wand. "Sonorus," he hissed. Then, in a voice ten times more powerful than normal, he shouted as loud as he could. "THERE ARE DEATH EATERS ON THE PITCH!"

The stadium erupted into chaos. Screams of panic could be heard above the storm as students tried to push their way out of the bleachers. The professors had their wands out in an instant, fighting to regain control of the crowd, shouting instructions at each other and their charge, but the mob of Death Eaters was thick and menacing, shooting jets of red light at anyone who tried to descend the stairs.

Wand out and mind made up, Harry was about to throw himself into the fray when another voice cut through the din, far louder and more menacing than Harry's had been. It was a voice that Harry remembered, from the graveyard and from his dreams, and his scar burned as if a brand had been pressed against it.

"I have a gift for you, Albus Dumbledore," it said, high and cold and full of malice.

Something large and black was levitated from the sea of masks, gliding out over the pitch and high above where Harry and Malfoy hovered. At that distance it was clearly a body, limp and bent at odd angles as it hung in midair. Amid the steady beat of rain something warm hit Harry's cheek, and when he wiped it off his hand came away red. It was all he could do to stay on his broom.

"I believe this belongs to you," said the voice. And with that, the body fell.

Harry dove after it, locking his legs around his broom and reaching out for the fluttering robes with both arms. He was dimly aware of Malfoy following suit, but he didn't look up, his field of vision narrowed to the figure and his own hands. Finally his fingers touched the heavy, wet fabric, and he caught hold of an arm at the same time that Malfoy grabbed the other. There was a sudden jerk as the body's full weight pulled against their arms, and Harry felt his shoulder pop out of its socket. The pain was so intense that he nearly blacked out, and it took a moment to comprehend that the scream of agony that sounded so distant was, in fact, his own. His last shreds of consciousness were consumed by one thought: Hold on.

They hit the ground hard. Harry was thrown off his broom and landed facedown in the mud. With his good arm he managed to push himself onto his back, coughing and spluttering, his scar and shoulder throbbing and his glasses dangling from one ear. Absurdly, this last bit seemed a great bother, and he clumsily pushed them back on again as the world spun around him. There was a moan to his right, and he turned his head toward the sound. Malfoy had pulled himself into a sitting position and was cradling his right arm. And on the ground between them, his eyes closed and his face still as death, was Severus Snape.

Harry looked straight up again, black spots dancing in front of his eyes. There was something in the sky above him, green and glittering. A skull, with a snake curling though one empty eye-socket and out of its grinning mouth.

After that, he slid gratefully into oblivion.

***