Harry Potter and the Fifth Element

Chapter 62 - The Horrible Crosses

For almost sixty years Jerry McAllister, Hufflepuff Class of 1937, had been employed at Blackwalls in one capacity or another. He began as an intern, before even graduating Hogwarts. During the summer holidays before his seventh year, he had tended the Black family graveyard and helped manage the Château's house-elf breeding programme.

Thus, his Blackwalls career began concurrently with the proprietorship of an earlier Sirius Black - one who ruled the estate with an iron fist for over a quarter century, until his death in 1952.

Jerry soldiered on through the tumultuous but mercifully short regime of Arcturus Black, who had been rather barmy since a nasty Bludger strike to his head during a pickup Quidditch game in the 1930s. His harebrained schemes - from hiring hags to bring in the grape harvest, to trying to steal a march on the Muggles by putting a house-elf in orbit about the Earth in 1955 - produced what amounted to an intra-familial coup d'état.

Jerry had survived that, too - by backing the winning side, which meant Arcturus' son, Orion Black. Under Orion he was very well rewarded, receiving charge of all security arrangements for the Château and its environs. Short of estate manager, this responsibility was acknowledged as the most important posting at the estate.

Jerry worked hard and discharged his duties well. It was what Hufflepuffs do.

After Orion died of his stroke, things got dicier. Orion's bizarre will, combined with his sudden death, promised a long, uncertain interregnum. It took Jerry some time - almost a career-ending amount of time - to divine who would fill the power vacuum at the rudderless Black Estate. After some jockeying, the helm fell to Lucius Malfoy. Fortunately, Malfoy was temperamentally more of a caretaker, or at least did not fancy the role of a true proprietor. Slippery and arrogant though he was, even Lucius realized that was not his destiny.

In the end, the most Lucius would do was keep the seat of power warm for his son. Jerry had only met the son a handful of times - gaining just enough familiarity to despise him. The boy sorely lacked his father's savoir-faire, but possessed every bit of his arrogance. Jerry duly observed young Draco Malfoy's treatment of subordinates, and wanted no part of him.

The way things turned out, he never had to play that part. In that Jerry was lucky - but his luck was a residue of design.

Lucius Malfoy, it transpired, had sticky fingers. That surprised Jerry at first, as Malfoy's own gold was more than ample. Malfoy was more interested in untraceability than in the Galleons themselves. Responsible for security, Jerry knew where all Malfoy's bodies (figuratively and literally) were buried. He easily arranged Malfoy's covert access to the estate's substantial accounts.

Jerry made a point never to raise Lucius' finely honed suspicions by showing any interested in why he preferred to use Château funds - rather than the quite substantial Malfoy assets. The why was not important; not with Jerry keeping careful track of the who, the what, and the where.

After decades of serving Slytherin masters, Jerry had learnt always to look out for number one. He kept a top secret, and equally detailed, record of all Lucius Malfoy's defalcations: precisely numbers of Galleons, specific originating accounts, dates of payment, and if known, for what - or more frequently on whom - the money was spent.

His role as Lucius Malfoy's fixer won him a promotion, to majordomo of the entire estate - Jerry's lifelong goal.

His role as chronicler of Lucius Malfoy's peculations kept Jerry McAllister on top once the wheel turned, as he suspected it might. As Malfoy's fortunes went into irrevocable eclipse after the Ministry Incident, Jerry cooperated fully with the authorities. That helped. It mostly quashed their suppositions that he had colluded with Malfoy.

Jerry's meticulous records, added to other evidence the Ministry developed concerning high-level bribery, left the source of Malfoy's payoffs in little doubt. Quite a few heads rolled as a result. Others - up to and including the Minister himself - nearly did.

Far more unexpected, and far more useful to Jerry's career path, was the goblin investigation. Over the previous decade, Jerry constantly hypothecated about which claimant would ultimately succeed to the Blackwalls proprietorship. Getting that right was essential to any hope of continued job security. Historical portents were bleak. For more than two hundred years, the incumbent majordomo of Blackwalls had been sacked (or worse) during every change of proprietors.

In his wildest dreams, Jerry McAllister never considered the Boy Who Lived as a possible heir - not just that Harry Potter would win the prize, but that he was even in the scrum.

Something extraordinary had to happen for Jerry to break two centuries of adverse precedent. The goblin investigation offered precisely that.

The goblins were extremely interested in the same records. Jerry provided Bladvak and his Gringotts financial forensics group everything they asked for and more. "Loyalty to Blackwalls comes first," he told them.

Lucius Malfoy was an interloper. When Jerry deduced that the goblins sought to prosecute a legal claim against the Malfoys personally over Lucius' defalcations, he showed them more than just the money. He demonstrated how Malfoy had diverted other assets - house-elf labour, rare potions ingredients, and a variety of magical and Muggle supplies purchased in Château Blackwalls' name - to Wiltshire for what must have been a major construction project at Malfoy Manor.

Jerry thought that, by going the extra mile, he had earned the goblins' trust - as much as they could ever trust a wizard.

Jerry very much looked forward to being Harry Potter's majordomo. They had more in common; he found out, than just the Château - or even a shared and abiding aversion to all things Malfoy.

From the goblins he learnt that Harry Potter was planning something that would set all the bodies in the Black family cemetery a-spinning. Potter intended to bring a Muggle-born witch to Château Blackwalls, if not as a bride, at least as something similar. At the news that "Toujours Pur" was circling the drain, Jerry McAllister almost did a back flip - which, at his age, could have been disastrous.

Harry Potter was not the only one in love with a Muggle-born witch.

Her name was Emmeline Puckle, and Jerry McAllister kept her in an apartment in one of the leafier suburbs of Manchester, the nearest significant city to the Château. Muggle money was no problem, as Jerry had sold off plots from his family's old farm at Ellesmere Circle to Muggle developers for some time - and now some of them were offering to buy the remainder for some sort of shopping mall. Jerry never stole from Blackwalls.

He had been in love with Emmie, and she him, for forty years. Unfortunately, the Black family took "Toujours Pur" seriously; for appearances sake he had married another Hufflepuff pureblood - a girl two years behind him at Hogwarts. That family stayed with him in the majordomo's quarters on the Château's grounds. He gave them his devotion, steadily, for decades.

He gave Emmie his passion, his desires, and his love - again for decades. She loved him back and appreciated Jerry's situation. Thus, she consented to be his mistress.

The Château's resources provided most things. The estate grew its own herbs, generated its own fuel, brewed its own potions, and thanks to the resourcefulness of its house- and field-elves, was largely self sufficient in everything else. Still, the anticipated coming of Harry Potter gave Jerry an excuse to get away for a day's shopping.

He had decided that Harry's sleeping quarters - the Château's Proprietor's Suite - could do with a change of scenery. Slytherin was out, finally, and Gryffindor in. Jerry took a trip to Diagon Alley to purchase new furnishings in red and gold decor. He did this, and sent them on ahead with a trusted house-elf, Pommy. He would undertake a legitimate visit for non-magical supplies to the ever-more-numerous Muggle shops near the ancestral farm, and by good fortune meet his lover.

Pommy would wait for him at a pre-arranged location a short distance beyond the Château's gates, allowing Jerry several hours in which to entertain Emmie. The assignation complete, he and Pommy would "return" from their shopping trip.

Jerry was walking fast. He was a bit behind schedule. Somewhat against his better judgment, he had let slip to Emmie his hope that Potter, unlike the Blacks, might tolerate an openly Muggle-born witch in the Château's employ. If the Granger girl ever did become the Proprietress, who knows...? Happily ever after could be in the cards.

Their celebration had run on a little too long, and now he needed to get back to reality.

He needed to find a secure place, in this overwhelmingly Muggle area, from which to Apparate. Jerry spotted a suitably deserted spot behind an old cotton mill that the Muggles had slated for demolition. He was in luck. Never the best Apparator, he took a few seconds to prepare himself....

"Expelliarmus," sounded a familiar voice. Jerry's wand sailed directly into the hands of....

"Lucius," Jerry gasped.

"Ah, yes...," the silver-haired wizard drawled. "Jerry McAllister. I do trust you're doing well." He strode forward, his wand held in a menacing position.

"Umm ... quite well," Jerry responded fearfully. Nothing that Lucius Malfoy wanted could be good for him.

"I'm so sorry to bother you, really," Malfoy said; his voice plain that he was hardly sorry at all, "but there's a bit of a favour I need to ask of you...."

Lucius was invading his space, and Jerry was extremely nervous. The Dark wizard kept a viselike grip on Jerry's arm. "What is it Lucius...?"

"Not here," Malfoy hissed. "I've someone whom I'm sure you're just dying to meet." With that, Lucius Side-Along-Apparated them both away.

Jerry feared that he would arrive directly in the Dark Lord's presence. He was wrong, but not by much.

"If it isn't Jerry the Mac," a sinister voice cackled. "Why, I haven't seen you in ages ... not since I left home...."

Jerry broke out in a cold sweat. He fancied meeting few less than Lucius Malfoy, but Bella Black, now Lestrange, was one of them.

"Wha ... What do you want?" Jerry opened, trying to be brave. "If you're going to kill me for protecting your family's interests after Lucius' arrest, then just be quick about it."

"Why, Jerry, I don't want to kill you," Bellatrix looked him over evilly, "and if I did.... Well, you know me. I would hardly be quick about it. All I have is a small request...."

"Don't ask me to compromise the Château," he faced the rogue Black family member down, exhibiting far more courage than he felt. "I won't throw away sixty years...."

"Oh, we wouldn't dream of asking you to do anything like that." Bella elongated several of her words in malign fashion. "All we want is a back door."

"A back door?" Jerry answered hesitantly, "to what?"

"Why, to the Château's security systems, of course," Lucius broke in to move things along. "You told me several times that you know every quirk of every ward on the property. Very boastful.... It would be simple for you to leave us a back door key. We have nothing in mind at present. We're not planning to bother precious Potter and his Mudblood maiden."

"Why would I betray them for you?" Jerry spat, more forcefully this time. "You lost. Just kill me and be done with it."

Bellatrix was getting impatient. Echoing their prisoner, she asked, "Why don't you just Imperius him and be done with it?"

"We've been over that," Lucius snapped at her. "The Dark Lord agrees. An Imperius would be detected, and all would fail. We have to be ... persuasive." He flashed his own evil smile at Jerry before turning back to Bellatrix Lestrange. "And Bella, I've heard you can be quite persuasive."

Malfoy retreated several steps as Bella slinked forward. "Speaking of Mudblood maidens, Jerry, we know all about yours...."

"No!" the prisoner gasped. "Don't do...."

"You don't, and we do." She languorously ran the tip of her wand across Jerry's chest. "You read the Prophet, I'm sure. Remember, not too long ago, the story about the Granger girl? For a little while, everyone thought she'd been murdered...."

"...I read about that, yes," Jerry admitted. He could felt trapped. He was a fool, an overambitious fool, for venturing into this. "They couldn't write about anything else for several days."

"Indeed," Bella replied in a low, nasty voice. "Do you recall the gory details about how she supposedly died...?"

Jerry knew what was coming. He had no escape.

"Umm ... yes...."

"Well, the Ministry hushed it up," Bella pushed. "Think of a death that's ten times worse. I know. I did it. And I could do it again ... with pleasure."

"Please ... for the love of Merlin ... don't...."

"In fact, I could be ten times worse than that," Bella hissed, dragging the now glowing tip of her wand lazily along the man's neck. "Hmmmm, let's see now.... I have to say, however messily that witch died, at least it happened quickly. She was Imperiused after all.... She wasn't forced...."

"I'll do ... whatever you want," Jerry gave in.

"You certainly will," Bella triumphantly smirked. "We know exactly who, and where, your little Emmie is. She's being watched. Even you must realise how we knew where to find you today. The slightest slip up and she'll wish she were dead - long before she dies...."

* * * *

The bright red wings of a phoenix flashed once more in the Headmaster's office. Fawkes, however, had not returned. The Sacrifice of the Phoenix was permanent. A phoenix is always a phoenix. But after its Sacrifice, its essence - its soul - inhabited and suffused through the being of another.

At that moment, this other was before Dumbledore.

"Very good, Miss Granger," he praised. "Both of them at once. Excellent progress I must say."

"You're just saying that to encourage me," Hermione grumbled, her voice tinged with sarcasm. "Compared to what Harry's been able to do.... Just a couple of arms is pathetic. Why is it so blasted hard? I've done everything you've suggested - read every book, practised every spell."

"Miss Granger," Headmaster Dumbledore cautioned gravely, "if you seek to compare your situation to Mister Potter's, then you cannot but be disappointed. His Animagus abilities are inherent and subject to his will. Your magical connexion with Fawkes is neither - it is the result, frankly, of my act of desperation. Fawkes' essence remains independent and not subject to your bidding."

"And Harry's is...?" Hermione questioned.

"Yes, Miss Granger," Dumbledore confirmed. "Harry's griffin form is ultimately amenable to his control - once he learns how. Yours is in the nature of a negotiation. Fawkes will always be Fawkes, even though he is part of you."

"If I can't control it, what good is it?" Hermione huffed in frustration.

"What good is a newborn baby?" the Headmaster answered rhetorically. "As your appendages currently illustrate, you and Fawkes' spirit are well on your way to a modus vivendi."

"Is that the best I can hope for?" Hermione asked, still frustrated and dissatisfied.

"You cannot dictate to a phoenix," Dumbledore confirmed. "If you practise with him, however.... If you cooperate - no collaborate - it is likely that he will consent to come when summoned. One day, that could quite conceivably save your life, as he has already."

A few more repetitions and the allotted time for this training session was at an end. As Hermione exited, she thanked the Headmaster for his help in arranging her Ministry session not long before.

"You are quite welcome, Miss Granger," he smiled at her. "I could hardly do less for you than for Mister Potter. I trust you found the Unspeakables' instruction satisfactory?"

"Indeed," Hermione assured him. "Absolutely no nonsense. Just the way I like it."

"Excellent," Dumbledore remarked as he showed her out. "Let me assure you, the sentiment is mutual. After your graduation, if you are by chance interested...."

"No, I don't think so," she demurred. "They'd make me keep too many secrets from Harry."

That drew the Headmaster's appraising look. "Very well, and speaking of whom...."

Dumbledore advised Hermione that it would be useful if over the next hour or so she not become involved in anything that she would be unable to interrupt.

"Should I just wait for Harry, then?" she cut to the chase.

"No, I think not," replied the Headmaster. "Best that you let him choose for himself is my inclination. You will be more appreciated that way. I know I would have been."

* * * *

Harry arrived shortly after Hermione left. He was rather anxious, since Dumbledore had insisted that this special "training session" take place as scheduled and had not bothered concealing his sense of urgency.

"Good evening, Mister Potter," the Headmaster intoned as the boy entered. A Pensieve, containing an already swirling memory, rested on Dumbledore's desk,. The Headmaster clutched a rather large old tome in his good arm. The book had dark cherry-red binding and Harry could see a gold Teutonic-style cross (although he would not have known to call it that at the time) embossed on its spine.

"Good evening, sir," Harry began formally. "I see you're quite ready to begin.... In fact, you seem so ready that you're frankly making me nervous."

"That is not intentional, I assure you," Dumbledore reassured, looking no less grave than before. "But neither are you incorrect. I expect that this to be your most important session with me yet, and perhaps ever. In a sense, events have occurred conspired to force my hand - because they require me to show it."

"Sorry, sir?" Harry stumbled. Once again, Dumbledore's indirect manner of speaking was getting the better of him.

"I should be sorry, for I am rambling," the Headmaster admitted. "I believe that Voldemort now knows that we know about his Horcruxes."

Harry gawked. "Are you certain?"

Dumbledore nodded. "I would be truly shocked if Tom were so remiss about something as important to him as his Horcruxes, and so dull as not to have appreciated so obvious a clue."

Harry's head was spinning. "That's too many so's and as's. What? Why?" he asked almost blindly. The Pensieve, the book Dumbledore was holding, and now this revelation - all presumably had something to do with Horcruxes.

"To obtain information, it is sometimes necessary to yield information," the Headmaster answered mysteriously.

"Obtain information?" Harry homed in on what seemed most important.

"Indeed," Dumbledore responded, a slight twinkle in his eye. "We now have what I believe are solid leads on the locations of two more of Voldemort's Horcruxes."

With this last unexpected disclosure, Harry sat down hard in the squashy chintz armchair that the Headmaster had pre-conjured for him. He took off his glasses and placed them on the chair's arm. He took a calming breath. Finally, Harry rubbed his eyes and cheeks vigorously. When finished, he looked up at the Headmaster. "Why don't you start this at the beginning and take it step by step?" he requested.

Dumbledore steepled his fingers in front of his face as he gave the request some thought. Nodding to himself, he intoned, "Very well.... To the Pensieve, then."

Over the next twenty minutes, Harry learnt what Tom Riddle had done after graduating Hogwarts with what were then (and were still, if one only considered N.E.W.T.s) the highest marks in the history of the school.

His career choice was surprisingly mundane - boring even. Rather than going into magic for himself, or taking a fast track Ministry position, or a similar job at a major private concern like Gringotts, Tom Riddle went to work for Borgin and Burkes as a buyer. Riddle was successful, primarily because he cultivated a certain natural charisma.

Tom's exploitation of the openings he made for himself was scary. Once again, the budding Dark wizard kept trophies - only now they were Founders' relics. Even worse, death was Riddle's constant companion. Sometimes of the owners of objects that Riddle coveted died, as did the unfortunate Hepzibah Smith, a woman whose body shape closely resembled Professor Slughorn's. The Headmaster's Pensieve memories left little doubt that Riddle had killed her to obtain two items: (1) Hufflepuff's cup, a delicate golden chalice with badger-motif handles; and (2) Slytherin's locket, the same object that another memory had shown as belonging to the even more unfortunate Merope Gaunt.

At other times, death visited someone who crossed Riddle/Voldemort in some way. In this category fell one of his employers, Rindelaub Borgin, who made the mistake of confronting the maturing Dark wizard. He accused Riddle of appropriating to himself opportunities that belonged to the partnership as his employer. A short while later, he died after a short illness - one entirely consistent with iocane poisoning.

After exhausting the memories, the Headmaster and his quasi-apprentice discussed what they had experienced. "As you saw for yourself, Mister Potter, Tom Riddle coveted Founders' Relics. After Smith died, both of these objects disappeared. Hufflepuff's cup has not been seen since. I would have said the same thing about the locket...."

"...Except that I saw that locket, or one very much like it, at Grimmauld place last year," Harry interrupted. "We considered it more accursed rubbish left over by the Black family. It might even still be there...."

"Regrettably, it is not," Dumbledore contradicted him.

"How would you know?" Harry asked archly.

Dumbledore squinted his eyes shut, as if banishing a painful thought. "Because I checked Grimmauld thoroughly for Horcruxes just the other day. I remembered that locket as well...."

"When did you see it?" Harry asked. Dumbledore had most assuredly not been at Grimmauld Place on any day that Molly Weasley had dragooned Harry and his friends into the cleaning squad.

"Molly kept track of such things," the Headmaster explained. "She trusted neither Mundungus nor the house-elf Kreacher with several of what we all considered to be Black family artifacts. She showed a number of items to me before consigning them to the basement rubbish bins. One was a locket that I now agree bears remarkable resemblance to what we saw in the memory we just experienced."

"And it's not around anymore?" Harry asked glumly, already knowing the answer.

"I personally inspected every sack of rubbish remaining in the basement of Number Twelve," Dumbledore told Harry, who could barely fathom the Chief Warlock as a ragpicker - especially with his bad hand. Seeing Harry's expression, the Headmaster hastened to add, "I view it as something of a penance for not taking such matters more seriously when some good might have come of it."

"So it's gone, then?" Harry sullenly summarised.

"It is certainly no longer at Grimmauld Place," Dumbledore confirmed. "If either of the chief suspects, Kreacher or Mundungus, were responsible, then the trail is quite cold. The elf is confirmed dead, and Mundungus almost certainly met a similar fate the night you were taken. As to anyone else ... we have no idea...."

Harry scowled. "Another bloody waste of time."

"True, but not completely," Dumbledore responded with a shoulder shrug. "My recent visit to Grimmauld also allowed me to retrieve this...."

With that, the Headmaster flipped open the heavy, deep red volume that he set on the desk between them. Harry could see the title clearly now: The Crosses of Horror - from Salvation to Damnation.

"Is that ... about Horcruxes?" Harry asked, a grimace crossing his face.

"Yes," the Headmaster affirmed. "Whilst at Grimmauld, I recalled that Miss Granger had once come across a disturbingly Dark book about Necromancy. Given the Blacks' reputation, I thought it entirely possible that their library might also contain something about our current conundrum. Although I had to overcome some rather unusual wards to confirm my suspicions, I was indeed correct."

Harry sounded uncertain. "You didn't leave...?"

"I restored the wards, of course," Dumbledore clarified.

"If it's from the Black library, then, I guess that means ... I own that book," Harry pointed out.

"That is correct, Mister Potter," Dumbledore responded directly. "However, given the subject matter, I am not at all certain that your claiming it would be advisable."

His answer was obviously baited, but Harry took the bait anyway. "What's the problem?" he inquired.

"What this extremely Dark magic offers is quite alluring," the Headmaster began, fixing Harry with a most serious gaze. "Tom Riddle certainly fell under its sway. Consider, for example, whether you would be tempted to use the occasion of the death of an enemy ... say one of your kidnappers ... to confer immunity from death upon yourself, or perhaps Miss Granger...."

Harry gulped. Dumbledore had a point. He had long since accepted the likelihood of his own life being forfeit. Hermione, was another matter altogether. His reluctance to expose her to such risks had caused Harry to do - or contemplate doing - things that were very foolish indeed.

Thinking of her reminded Harry of something else. "Speaking of Hermione," Harry requested, "if this magic is as complex as I'm afraid it is, I'd really rather that she be here."

"That can be arranged," the Headmaster nodded. His Patronus was soon streaking away with the summons.

With Hermione's arrival, both Harry and Dumbledore were ready for their first real lesson about Horcruxes. The Horrible Cross, or crux horribilis, originated in Central Europe during late Roman times as a particularly violent response of pagan mages to early Christian proselytising. In response to the Christians' claim of eternal life through the death of Jesus, the pagans developed more practical means of using death to defeat death.

Like so much Dark magic, the Horrible Crosses utilised Necromancy. Back in the early days, such deaths were often convenient. Indeed, the victims were frequently the same Christian missionaries competing for converts with the far older pagan progenitors of this magic.

The first known casualty was a woman known only as Afra who met her fate near Augsburg in what is now the southern German state of Bavaria. That particular episode ended in magical failure because her several killers all sought to use the same death to achieve their own immortality.

They thus discovered a fundamental limitation to this magic. To this day, a Horcrux can only benefit one person.

The Horrible Crosses proved about as effective in forestalling Christianity's advance as anything else the pagans devised, which is to say not particularly. Their use did not remain confined to Central Germany for very long, however.

The Saxons brought the secrets of the Horrible Crosses with them when they invaded Britain in the Sixth Century. The pagans in Britain soon found themselves in the same adversarial relationship with Christian missionaries that plagued their continental forbearers. Soon the Dark magic, now known as Horrecruxis, or some variant, found employment across Britain. Some early wizards attempted to synthesise it with traditional Celtic pentacles - to little apparent effect.

Crosses they remained.

By the time of the Norman Conquest, Horcrux magic had largely taken its current form.

"I had not intended for either of you to learn of this very Dark Magic," Dumbledore concluded his history lesson, "except that events have intervened. We have recently ascertained the approximate locations of what I believe are two of Tom's Horcruxes."

Both of the students knew what that meant. It might be possible to destroy a considerable portion of Voldemort's hard won immortality in short order.

"That's wonderful news!" Hermione exclaimed. "How did you find this out?"

"It was, I believe, necessary to give information to obtain information," Dumbledore replied oracularly.

For the second time the Headmaster used virtually the same opaque phraseology. "What's that supposed to mean?" Harry asked more suspiciously.

"It means that, unfortunately, the casting of the delicate tracking spells necessary to obtain the locations of Tom's other Horcruxes unavoidably tipped him off that we - or specifically I - was aware of his resort to this type of magic," Dumbledore explained.

"How did that happen?" Hermione followed up, her face screwed up fretfully. Notwithstanding the Headmaster's presence, she reached out and took Harry's hand.

"Among other things, this book," Dumbledore gestured to the tome in front of him, "explains various spells and objects that are capable of determining the locations of Horcruxes. But those spells are personal to the Horcrux's creator. I was, however, able to devise a derivative spell...."

"Derivative? In what sense?" Hermione broke in.

"Because Tom Riddle, and not I, created those Horcruxes, I could not cast any spell or enchant any object that would detect them directly," Dumbledore told them in ever more self-satisfied tones. "I was, however, able to invent some magic that did the next best thing ... that is, it could detect any Locating spell being used to detect the Horcruxes. Further stretching the boundaries of this type of magic, I was able to attach it to a Tracking Charm of my own...."

"What did that end up doing?" Hermione asked, now extremely intrigued by the complex magic.

"As I previously explained to Mister Potter," Dumbledore said, nodding in Hermione's direction, "I had located a Horcrux near Little Hangleton - this ring...."

Dumbledore slipped a scorched looking gold object from the ring finger of his damaged hand and placed it on the desk. Its cracked stone was visible to his audience. "This ring was hidden in a container beneath some underbrush near the former residence of some of Tom's less than lovely relatives. It was also surrounded by powerful Concealment spells that I assume were originally cast by the man himself."

"I had to defeat those Concealment spells in order to obtain the ring," the Headmaster continued. "At the time I restored them. Thereafter, I studied the Horcrux concept more thoroughly. With the knowledge contained in this book, I recently returned and took down the Concealment spells entirely. Without a clear background I could not have cast my rather fragile derivative magic over the area."

"Why?" Harry interjected. "You already had that Horcrux."

"I suspected that, at some point, with the battle now joined, Tom would prudently undertake to confirm the status of his Horcruxes. Either he would use Locating spells himself, or more likely, he would enchant objects with such spells and entrust the mission to a trusted servant. I only knew where this one was, so I cast my derivative magic in that vicinity, taking care to make it undetectable. The delicacy of the magic made it imperative to eliminate magical interference by permanently removing Tom's Concealment spells."

Hermione anticipated where this explanation was headed. "So the information you opted to exchange, so you could trace the use of Voldemort's Locating spell, whatever that was, was the fact that you had discovered this Horcrux."

Harry turned away from the Headmaster, and openly gawked at Hermione.

She squeezed his hand and started to reply, but Dumbledore was quicker.

"Very good Miss Granger," he retook control of the narrative. "Were this not so sensitive, I would award you points. I doubt anyone else in Britain is capable of defeating Tom's magic - at least this aspect - as completely as I could. It worked. His servant did indeed seek to locate the Horcrux. He ... or should I say 'she,' since I believe Bellatrix Lestrange performed the search ... presumably reported the absence of Tom's Concealment spells to her master. Since Tom knows me all too well, my intervention and recovery of this ring is undoubtedly suspected."

"But your Tracking spell worked, then," Hermione prompted.

"It did indeed," Dumbledore confirmed, although without the twinkle in his eye that ordinarily accompanied such news. "I learnt two valuable things. First, it revealed what type of Locating spell Tom was using. That was important, since several options were available. In this particular instance, Tom seems to have inactivated his Horcruxes, presumably so they are harder to detect. Second, I was able to trace Tom's servant's mission - not precisely, but well enough to determine where his agent used the Locating spell after leaving Little Hangleton...."

"So you know where Voldemort thinks his other Horcruxes are?" Harry broke in, quite excited by this news.

Dumbledore sighed. "I wish it were that simple. Because I knew only of a single Horcrux's location, I was at the mercy of whatever order Tom's agent chose to survey them. Unfortunately, my luck was not the best...."

Almost involuntarily, Harry thought of Ron hoarding Felix Felicis Potion for use in his declaration for Cho. A scowl marred his face.

Hermione noticed. "What's wrong, Harry?" she asked.

"I was hoping for better news about the Horcruxes," Harry recovered deftly.

"Lamentably, for all my planning, I only determined the whereabouts of one additional Horcrux in this fashion," the Headmaster admitted, his voice pained.

"Where?" Harry asked.

"I thought you said you'd found two," Hermione commented at almost the same instant.

"Patience, please," Dumbledore responded with raised hands, "and I shall explain everything. First things first. The Tracking Charm placed upon Tom's agent revealed only one additional use of Locating magic. Thus, I believe that one of Tom's Horcruxes is located somewhere within the environs of a town called Glastonbury in Somerset. I have set the Order searching for it - discreetly, of course - since we accomplished the detection slightly more than a fortnight ago. So far, I am sad to say, the search has been fruitless. There are quite a few ancient magical sites in that area that we have to check thoroughly."

"Given the history of Horcruxes, that would seem like an ironic location," Hermione commented. "That's supposedly where Christianity came to Britain and the first church was founded."

"Magical pagan sites are equally plentiful in the vicinity," the Headmaster countered. "We continue to search, but the presence of so many Muggles requires us to move slowly to avoid Muggle Vicinage Violations."

"What about the second Horcrux?" Harry pressed, quite disappointed with the results of Dumbledore's idea of an information exchange.

"Ah, yes ... the second Horcrux," Dumbledore answered with a wistful air. "Once I had isolated the type of magic Tom was using, I took the reasonable precaution of updating Hogwarts' own wards. Tom had, after all, spent a great deal of...."

"You mean there's a Horcrux at Hogwarts?" Harry almost shouted. "And you haven't told anyone?"

"I plead guilty to that, but the timing was most unfortunate," the Headmaster admitted. "I was away supervising the first few days of the Glastonbury search, and immediately upon my return, I had negotiations with Minister Scrimgeour. As a result, I was dilatory in adding Tom's Locating spell to the roster of magic that the wards detect."

"I thought Filch was responsible for enforcing the no magic in the hallways rule," Harry observed.

Hermione clucked, "Harry, this is hardly the time...."

"Mister Filch is in charge of detecting routine magic," Dumbledore pointed out. "But he is a Squib, and more advanced magicks are more effectively exposed by modifying the wards. I was correct in that assessment - too correct, I fear. The wards had been less than fully calibrated, not even twelve hours had elapsed, when they detected the same spell that Tom's agent used both at Little Hangleton and at Glastonbury."

"So what's the problem?" Harry persisted.

"The calibration was not complete; thus all we know is that the telltale spell was cast somewhere inside the Castle's walls," Dumbledore unhappily revealed.

"So you haven't found out very much about that one either," Hermione summed up everyone's disappointment.

"I wish it were not so, but you are correct," the Headmaster admitted. "All the wards could to tell us at the time was that the spell was cast somewhere on the inside."

"Inside of what?" Hermione asked pointedly.

"Inside of the wards," Dumbledore specified.

"The wards," Hermione repeated, "so even what you just said is overoptimistic. Since the wards cover the grounds as well, we don't even know if this Horcrux is within the Castle itself."

The Headmaster gave a wry smile at his cleverest student, "Again, you are exactly correct."

"Can we check for magical activity from the Horcrux itself?" Hermione asked, trying to salvage something. "I know that both Harry's and Ginny's Horcruxes manifested their presence in various magical ways."

"A capital idea," Dumbledore replied wearily, "but that has not and probably will not work. Another aspect of Tom's Locating spell is to place the Horcrux itself into stasis. We ... I have utilised various forms of detection magic of my own. Whilst I unearthed quite a few hidden magical objects, particularly in the Room of Requirement, I have been quite unable to detect Tom's inactive Horcrux."

Harry listened to the exchange between Hermione and the Headmaster with steadily increasing frustration. Finally, after Dumbledore's latest admission of futility, he could no longer suffer in silence. Slamming his free hand (the one not holding Hermione's) forcefully into the arm of the Headmaster's conjured chair, he exclaimed....

"Dammit, it's Malfoy!" he interrupted angrily. "It has to be! He's the bloody junior Death Eater in the Castle. He's the one...."

"Harry, you don't know that!" Hermione responded almost as forcefully. "If anyone in the Castle has reason to lay low and not make waves, it's he. His father's a fugitive right now. He's only here on sufferance...."

"No, Hermione. You're right about most things, but you're wrong on that," Harry maintained stoutly. "I know what you don't. He's.... he's...."

Oops.

Harry's voice trailed off. Then, he seemed to look deep inside, centred himself, , and confessed the guilty secret he had been keeping from his fiancée for weeks.

"He's been meeting secretly with Caractacus Burke. Burke is Malfoy's contact with Voldemort and the Death Eaters. I know because I overheard them plotting during the last Hogsmeade weekend. I followed them...."

Hermione reacted exactly as Harry feared. "You went out stalking people you thought were Death Eaters? Who were you with?"

"Umm ... nobody," he admitted. "I was with George in his shop's back garden practising with the reverse water balloons. I-I ... wasn't very good and I put a hole in the wall with one...."

"Reverse water balloons?" Dumbledore commented, intrigued.

Hermione was not about to be sidetracked, even by the Headmaster. "An alkahest," she commented dismissively. "Go on, Harry...."

To get it over with, Harry did. "George spotted Malfoy with Burke - I didn't know who he was. They were walking away and didn't see me.... So I followed...."

"Were they actually as evil as you thought, you could have been ambushed and either kidnapped again or killed," Hermione remonstrated hotly. "What were you thinking? Nothing could be worth that risk.... Not with those Horcruxes still out there...."

"Relax Hermione, nothing happened," Harry protested. "They never saw me."

"But they could have," Hermione screeched. "And if you'd been taken because of a silly little frolic and detour, imagine how I would have felt!"

The Headmaster broke his silence again, finally coming to Harry's rescue - more or less. "Miss Granger, please. You do have a point, but you are overreacting. Nothing happened, and in my opinion, Mister Potter here is more than a match for either Mister Malfoy or Caractacus Burke in a duel."

"But what if they'd been acting as bait?" Hermione vehemently responded.

"A remote possibility," Dumbledore answered. "Those two may be many things, perhaps even Death Eaters, but neither is the type who would agree to serve as bait. Now, if Peter were involved, I might view it differently...."

Emboldened, Harry joined in. "Hermione, you have to let me take a chance now and then. You know - you've said it yourself. I'm best when I improvise."

Hermione bit back a rather caustic comment.

The Headmaster intervened. "Mister Potter, as to the substance of Miss Granger's complaint, I am constrained to agree. Whilst your improvisations have at times been brilliant, at other times they have been quite costly - not in the least, to those about whom you care the most. The Order, and others, try very hard to maintain your safety. Please, try to refrain from any more foolish ventures...."

"I didn't do anything foolish!" Harry furiously stood his ground. "It was unplanned, sure, but not stupid. I used my Invisibility Cloak and some Extendable Ears. I was never closer than maybe ten metres from them."

With grimace, a sigh, and a slump of her shoulders, Hermione finally gave in. "Okay, Harry. I guess I'll have to let you be you. So what did discover during your stint as an impromptu spy?"

"Malfoy has something set up, I don't know what," Harry answered - implicitly accepting Hermione's concession. "I'm one hundred percent sure that Voldemort gave him some sort of job. From the context, I think he was about to meet Voldemort right then. Burke Side-Alonged him somewhere."

"Do you have anything more specific?" Dumbledore asked. "What did Tom want Mister Malfoy to do?"

"No clue," Harry had to concede. "There was something in Burke's shop, but it's been successfully moved somewhere else. Malfoy was trying to get Burke's help in fixing something, that's all I could hear. He might try to bring something he shouldn't into Hogwarts. He said something about Filch."

"That would be Mister Filch," Dumbledore corrected. "He is Hogwarts staff. I...."

"You've known this for weeks, and haven't told anyone?" Hermione bore in upon Harry.

Harry's ears got pink as he started answering. "I didn't think that ... that there was ... umm ... anything ... umm ... all that important in what I'd learnt...."

He knew exactly what her response would be to that.

So did she.

"So you risked your life for nothing?" Hermione huffed, quite affronted.

"Well, you never know what you're going to find out unless you try," Harry replied logically. "And whilst I hoped to learn more, what I found out convinces me that Malfoy's acting as Voldemort's agent at Hogwarts - and if somebody's planning to do anything with that Horcrux Voldemort has stashed somewhere at Hogwarts, it's him."

But for the Headmaster Hermione would have prolonged the discussion. "Mister Potter, you may well be right. In any event, I believe it time for me to have a chat with Mister Malfoy. Let me handle this, please. Any threat to the well-being of this school is my responsibility."

The Headmaster stared at Harry with his piercing blue eyes until, grudgingly, Harry nodded his assent.

"Now, as I am sure the two of you already understand, our most immediate problem with Tom's Horcruxes is not knowing how many of them are out there."

Both teens nodded.

"A way exists, I believe, to acquire this crucial bit of information," the Headmaster continued earnestly. "I have not been able to accomplish it. I believe, however, that you may have more luck, Mister Potter...."

Harry gasped audibly and involuntarily shook his head. "Me? How can you think I'd be more able than you?"

Dumbledore had a ready answer to that question. "That is precisely what I wish to tell you. I know who taught Tom Riddle about Horcruxes. There is one more memory I need to share with you this evening."

With that, the Headmaster led them once again to his Pensieve, and soon all three of them were watching a fifty-year-old conversation between Tom Riddle and Horace Slughorn.

At least it seemed like a conversation.

The memory played only in disjointed fits and starts, some of which almost left the onlookers nauseous. At first, they saw the pair together with a number of other students. Then, after a vertiginous instant, the two were alone. They heard a disembodied warning from Slughorn. A rather hazy conversation between Tom and the professor followed, during which the nascent Voldemort inquired about Horcruxes. Another lurch occurred almost immediately, and what looked like a blast of steam obscured everything. When that cleared, the scene was grainy and prismatic - like a damaged old celluloid motion picture, Hermione thought. In a very short segment, Slughorn came into view, denied knowledge of Horcruxes and ordered Riddle from his office.

Neither Harry nor Hermione could remember Horace Slughorn showing that much anger about anything - ever.

"What was that?" Hermione asked as soon as it was over.

"That is, I believe, how a fabricated memory appears when rather ineptly prepared," Dumbledore responded morosely. "Horace knows a great deal of magic, but Memory Charms and Obliviation were never amongst his better skills. I recently confronted him about the matters you and I discussed some weeks ago, and this is the result."

"Why would he try to Memory Charm himself?" Harry asked pointedly.

"What did you discuss?" Hermione chimed in.

The Headmaster turned to Hermione, "I believe - although some of this is little better than speculation - that Horace is deeply ashamed about his inadvertent role in assisting Tom Riddle in his transformation into Lord Voldemort. Horace was Head of Slytherin House, and he thought of Tom as his prize catch. However that prize turned into a monster, causing the deaths of many people, including at least one person Horace thought of even more highly than Mister Riddle...."

"My mother," Harry sulked. Hermione slipped her hand around his.

"Unfortunately, yes," Dumbledore confirmed. "Horace resigned his position shortly thereafter and retired from public life. I suspect that her death shook him more profoundly than anything else Tom ever did. Which brings me full circle.... For that reason, I believe you, Harry, are best equipped to obtain from Horace the critical information about the number of Tom's Horcruxes. That would, of course, necessarily involve an admission on his part that he in fact assisted Tom."

"You think he'll tell me because I'm Lily's son?" Harry asked skeptically.

"You may also need to tell him certain matters pertaining to Tom's ultimate defeat," Dumbledore added obliquely, in deference to the audience that hung on the walls. "Not the whys and wherefores, but the simple fact. You can say, truthfully, that I told you. I know Horace fears that the Death Eaters mean to kill him. Thus he has reason for wanting you to succeed."

Hermione had been watching the Headmaster suspiciously throughout this part of the conversation. Now she intervened. "There's more to it than that, isn't there?" she put the question directly.

Dumbledore paused, sighed, and continued. "True enough," he admitted. "Mister Potter is well positioned in many ways. I have already told him that the Basilisk venom crystals may serve as a significant incentive."

"You want Harry to bribe him for the information," she said. It was a statement, not a question.

"Perhaps," the aged wizard conceded. "The venom is only one of several possible incentives. If Mister Potter - and you, for that matter - were to agree to participate in the Slug Club more frequently, that also might help. Both of you are the type of rising stars that Horace lives to cultivate."

"Harry, what do you think?" Hermione asked.

"I can't stand being fawned over the way he does," Harry growled.

Both Hermione and the Headmaster looked at him with frowns on their faces.

"I'll think about it," Harry allowed - very reluctantly.

"Very well," Dumbledore pronounced, looking resigned. "As you know, your week of detention with Professor Slughorn starts tomorrow. That is no coincidence, as you no doubt now appreciate. Since Minerva determined that your role in the recent Gryffindor Quidditch spectacle required punishment...."

The colour Harry's face turned upon mention of that episode gave the Headmaster pause. "Yes, I know about that," he reiterated. "And be that as it may, I strongly suggested that the resultant detention be served with Horace. The immediate future provides you with plenty of opportunity to succeed where I have failed."

Dumbledore bore unpleasant tidings of another sort for Hermione. The Muggle Serious Fraud Office insisted that she testify before their inquiry into her father's illicit activities. She was not a target, but the bureaucratically thorough Muggles felt the need to ask her what she knew of her father's associates. Hence, the formal witness summons.

Hermione thought that New Scotland Yard must be grasping at straws, given how little she knew. Dumbledore concurred, but in the end, he could do little. It was a high-profile matter, so the Muggles insisted - and under the brand new Criminal Procedure & Investigation Act, they could compel her attendance.

However, given Hermione's studies, the Headmaster managed to postpone the event so that it would happen over the upcoming Christmas holidays.

They all agreed that Harry should stay well away from the inquiry. He was already uncomfortably within the attention of quite a few Muggles in connexion with his earlier kidnapping and escape.

Beyond Dumbledore asking a couple more questions about the Twins' reverse water balloons (they could generate excellent quicksand), nothing more of a substantive nature took place. Soon the joint "special training" session ended.

"What do you really think?" Hermione asked him as they headed back to Gryffindor Tower.

"That you shouldn't have gone off on me so hard about trailing Malfoy," he told her bluntly. "Even Dumbledore's concerned enough to do something. Besides there's more. I'm sure Malfoy meant you when he wondered why Voldemort was interested in a ... umm ... you know, Mudblood...."

"Well aside from my topping his O.W.L. marks and my involvement with you, I can't imagine why the great and powerful Dark Lord would care about me in the slightest," she sniffed, picking up her pace.

Harry followed close behind. "Hermione, be serious, because this is. Threats to you, real or not, are exactly what held me back long after I should have sorted out my feelings about you...."

Hermione stopped abruptly. Harry almost ran into her and ended up swinging her around with both arms as he managed to keep both of them from falling.

"You don't think I realise this is serious?" she asked rhetorically. "Why do you think I was shocked that you'd run off like that, chasing after would-be Death Eaters all by your lonesome. What if you'd made a dog's lunch of things...?"

"But I didn't."

"But you could have," Hermione retorted. "Remember, I've already thought that I felt you die - not once, but twice. I was fully ready to die myself after that last time. You wonder why I'm concerned that you might be taken from me again? And now it's not even possible for you to finish Voldemort because of these damned Horcruxes...."

"Hermione?" Harry spoke her name to get her attention.

Then he kissed her - hard.

By the time they came up for air, they were both ready to apologise. Hermione even suspended her "love means never having to say you're sorry" rule for the occasion.

That accomplished, they walked more slowly, arm in arm. Hermione was unconcerned about the time. She wore her Prefect badge, and Harry had the Headmaster's safe conduct in his back pocket.

"Are you going to do it, then?" she asked. "Bribe Slughorn, I mean?"

Harry nodded his head slowly. "Don't see what choice I have. It's a bloody race, now that Voldemort knows that Dumbledore knows.... I hope I don't have to out and out bribe him, though. But we have to know what we're dealing with, don't you think?"

Hermione shook her head. "Merlin knows I hate the idea. My father took bribes. The very thought disgusts me. But, Harry, I agree, and I'll do whatever you want. If you need to promise that I'll attend his little parties, I'll go. Actually, the last one wasn't all that bad - once we got away from our host, that is."

They walked on in silence a little while longer.

"What about this Glasto-whatever?" Harry asked after turning another corner.

"Harry, I hope you're not thinking of sneaking off without security again," Hermione cautioned. "Otherwise, I don't think we can do the slightest thing about it. If we went there, we'd have such a big retinue that it would inevitably attract Voldemort's attention. Wherever the Horcrux is, he'd move it."

"I didn't mean it that way," Harry replied. "I just don't know why Voldemort ... well, why he'd pick a Muggle place at all."

"Nor do I," Hermione agreed. "All I know is that there's all this blather about the Holy Grail supposedly having been there...."

"What's that?" Harry asked. His relatives, whilst churchgoers, had never instructed Harry in much beyond the crucifixion and the resurrection.

Hermione knew little more. Religion was something that, on principle, she refused to have anything to do with. "Something with supposedly miraculous powers from Christ's last meal," she told him. "I saw a movie about that once ... it was some kind of cup - but I wouldn't put any stock in that, since the movie was a farce. They also launched a cow over a castle wall...."

"Riddle stole Hufflepuff's cup," Harry reminded her.

"The cup's real. The grail's something make believe," Hermione responded. "And we've no reason to think it's there, as opposed to anywhere else in Britain."

"Any reason we should look for ourselves?" Harry asked thoughtfully.

Hermione thought about the idea. "I can't see any benefit in involving ourselves with that," she opined. "Neither the Order nor Dumbledore has asked us to do anything, so I say let's let the Order handle that. After all, we'll have the principal residence of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black to put up with...."

Harry was set to agree with her and be done with it. Then she added, "but I am interested in going somewhere else."

"Where?"

"I want to go back to Grimmauld Place," she revealed.

"But Dumbledore said the locket's gone," Harry pointed out.

"But the books aren't," Hermione pointed out. "I want to find the book that I read part of - the one with the Necro spell that resurrected Voldemort. Molly was most upset when she saw me reading it, and she made Sirius move it some place where I couldn't go. But you're the master of the house now.... I want to find that book, and I want to explore the library generally to look for anything else that could help us. That's where Dumbledore got the book about Horcruxes, after all."

"I don't like that idea," Harry held back. "Talk about me doing something foolish.... Security's been breached. That's why the Order moved out. Who knows what we'd find?"

Hermione had a ready response. "I know, and how's that any different from the reason you went spying on Malfoy? Except with Grimmauld, we can take enough people with us to make sure there are no Death Eaters lurking about."

"Umm ... I just question whether it's safe, Hermione," Harry persisted. "How about if I go, get the library open, and we have a bunch of house-elves or goblins or somebody bring the lot of it to Blackwalls."

"I don't know, Harry. Some of that stuff's supposed to be really Dark," Hermione fretted. "I don't think I'd want everything close by. How about a compromise? I'll use whatever security the Order wants. Just that one book. I won't turn this into a full-blown expedition. One book, and that one spell...."

Harry gave in to her. "All right, you can bring it up with the Order. If they approve, I'm all right with it, too."

* * * *

Quite a commotion - albeit almost entirely quiet - was occurring behind the Hogwarts greenhouses. Trees waved back and forth. Vines curled and uncurled in rhythm. Despite the late November chill, grass, brambles and other underbrush grew wildly, and then with a "pop" retreated to their previous dormancy.

Professor Sprout watched the entire spectacle, the culmination of her contribution of a free period a week for several weeks.

"Very good, Neville," she praised the boy as he inverted the staff he was using and pounded the ground twice with its finial.

The firefly-green light emitted by the finial ceased flashing and faded to a solid low glow.

Instantly everything stopped.

Breathing heavily and quite evidently exhausted, Neville pounded the staff on the ground again, this time giving it a quarter turn. The light vanished. All the writhing plants quickly retreated to normal.

The somewhat pudgy Herbology professor clapped her hands together. "Excellent, Neville, you're really getting the hang of it now. Same time next week?"

"Definitely," was the round-faced boy's one-word reply. He was puffing hard and leaning heavily on the staff, catching his breath after a vigourous magical workout.

"Will you be here over the holiday?" Professor Sprout inquired.

"Afraid not," Neville told her as his wind came back. "Harry's invited me to spend the holiday at Blackwalls."

"Too bad," the professor went on. "I was hoping for a chance to try you out with the Whomping Willow. You're starting to get comfortable with that thing."

Professor Sprout stayed to open the greenhouses for the second year class she would shortly be teaching. As Neville trudged towards the Castle, he Transfigured the Staff of Asclepius into a long-handled hoe. If anyone asked, he had merely been working on his Herbology special project. He looked the part, too, sweaty and rather ripe.

'Some special project,' he thought. Ever since Sirius Black had bequeathed him this very powerful artefact, Neville had known that his magical quality it would accentuate would have something to do with plants. Almost immediately, he had approached his favourite professor.

The first time he had managed to activate the Staff, Neville had fainted. Its magic was powerful, and he was quite unused to it. His magic badly drained, Neville remained unconscious for almost two hours. Luckily, Professor Sprout had kept his secret. Otherwise, he feared that Professor McGonagall confiscate the Staff from him as too dangerous.

Neville's reasoning was different. Instead of danger, he thought it meant that he needed to work even harder.

Finding sufficient time had been difficult whilst he had been seeing Ginny....

That did it.

Thinking of her made Neville's entire body sag involuntarily. Boring, she had called him. He could live with that. What he could not stomach was Ginny's accusation that he paid insufficient attention to her. On that score, he had done everything possible. He almost worshipped that girl, then and still. Neville had tried his best to do - and even to be - everything she had wanted.

He even let her convince him deliberately to provoke Harry Potter. Neville counted himself fortunate to avoid injury.

Neville could not, however, escape the consequences of a Death Eater attack on the only home he knew. They had made a shambles of Gran's old castle. Physically, Gran emerged unharmed. However, Neville wondered if she would ever recover her prior self-confidence - the outlook that had made her the rock of his existence since the loss of his parents all those years ago.

When Gran needed him, he had to be there. For some reason, he had never successfully conveyed the magnitude of that need to Ginny. Neville's failure meant that she never forgave him for spending the night of the Masked Ball with Gran rather than her. Merlin knows he would infinitely rather have been with Ginny than where he ended up - trying to make sense out of the smoking ruin that had been his home.

The boy shook his head vigorously - as if that would banish this memory from his brain. He would have to get over her, just as before Ginny he had forced himself to abandon his feelings for Hermione.

Nevertheless, Neville was secretly delighted when Ginny, contrary to her prior practice, had not moved on to another boyfriend within days of their break-up. Aside from an obnoxious stray rumour or two about Malfoy - in which he put absolutely no stock - she seemed to be taking a breather, just like him.

'Just like me?' Neville thought to himself. 'Rubbish. She's taking a breather. My situation? Nobody's interested in me like that, anyway. Who am I kidding...?'

After the break up, Neville had met religiously with Professor Sprout, exploring and expanding his magic through the Staff. Harry and Hermione would be so surprised. Next time.... Next time he would bring more to the table than the ability to poke somebody in the eye or feel accurately for a pulse.

Somehow, Neville knew that there would be a next time.

He therefore accepted Harry's invitation to Blackwalls. There, on that vast estate away from prying eyes, he would show them what he could induce plants to do with the Staff's assistance. There, he would also practise some of the more impressive spellwork that Professor Sprout had described, but that would be too noticeable to attempt on the Castle's grounds.

* * * *

For once, something turned out not as difficult as Harry had feared.

Over the first three nights of his detentions with Professor Slughorn, Harry essentially danced around the looming Horcrux issue whilst once again making the Professor's acquaintance. That, in and of itself, was easy, as Professor Slughorn was in an avuncular mood. He had Harry right where he thought he wanted him - as his quasi-captive audience.

Professor Slughorn did not realise that the reverse was also true.

The detentions were hardly oppressive. Professor Slughorn's assigned tasks were quite different from Professor Snape's preferred punishments of: (1) scouring baked-on glop from cauldrons (did so many truly disastrous Potions accidents actually happen, or did Snape create those messes deliberately?) without magic, or (2) preparing noxious potions ingredients. Instead of such dangerous drudgery, Slughorn had Harry help him take a comprehensive inventory of his stocks of Potions ingredients. All the while, he gave Harry pointers about the uses of each of the ingredients.

Harry could hardly complain. Had the professor not been so inclined, Harry would never have learnt about Farmer's reducer.

The first three days' objective was that Slughorn appreciate exactly how often and how elaborately Voldemort had targeted Harry since he had been at Hogwarts. On Monday, Harry described Voldemort's first incarnation as part of the late Professor Quirrell, but more importantly detailed his encounter with the Horcrux shade of Tom Riddle in the Chamber of Secrets. Slughorn kept uncharacteristically quiet during the latter part of that tale.

He skipped Third Year entirely, and on Tuesday explained to Slughorn in excruciating detail the real events of the much-misconstrued end of the Triwizard Tournament - including his witness to Voldemort's return to corporeal form. Harry worked in some details about his mother's sacrifice and the botched Killing Curse that originally had disintegrated the Dark Wizard. It was prelude to some feigned speculation about how Voldemort had survived and ultimately regained a quasi-human form.

On Wednesday, Harry skipped Fifth Year as well, since its culminating events had been heavily, and accurately, publicised and needed no retelling. Instead, he brought up the attempt upon Hermione's life through broom sabotage, and he gave Slughorn the inside scoop - more even than he had told Rita Skeeter - about his kidnapping by and escape from the Death Eaters. Harry had just finished explaining how his explosive power had resulted in the destruction of not only his years-old link to Voldemort, but also of his Parseltongue abilities....

At that moment, the professor did something quite unexpected.

Professor Slughorn permitted Harry to leave early - indeed insisted upon it - cutting short the detention so Harry would not miss Gryffindor Quidditch practice.

The professor's abrupt actions made it plain enough that prompting him to volunteer anything would not work. Harry would have to use more direct methods. One thing he refused was mind-altering magic. First, it was unethical. Second, he did not really know how. Nor could it be guarantee that anything Slughorn might say under a Confundus Jinx would be accurate.

Hermione reinforced Harry's decision. She could (or chose to) provide no assurances that any means of attacking Slughorn's mind would be fruitful. Her disapproval of the very notion was so intense that she might not have told him if information so obtained was accurate - even if it were. Attacking a professor mentally was only a small cut above doing the same thing to one's own parents.

A frontal assault it would have to be.

Harry commenced said assault shortly after the two began the inventory of a secondary supply cabinet that Slughorn mostly used for his own stores. They were on the second shelf when the professor provided Harry with an opening.

"...So I've only got a half litre of patchouli oil?" Slughorn repeated what he thought Harry had told him.

"That's right."

"I think Trelawney's been into my stock again, for those incense candles she uses in her N.E.W.T.-level courses," Slughorn complained.

"I wouldn't know," Harry said evenly, as he put the kiln-fired container back on the shelf. His arm brushed against a much smaller jar, causing it to wobble slightly.

"Watch that one, Harry," the older man advised, pointing to the jar before it stopped moving. "That's quite dangerous, as you know."

"Basilisk venom," Harry eyeballed the label on the magically sealed container. "I assume you've put a serious Unbreakability Charm on it."

"Of course," Slughorn tutted. "I may be many things, but I'm not a fool. How much is there? Plenty, I hope - it's difficult to replace."

"There's no scale on the bottle," Harry said as he held it up to the light and estimated. "Looks like more than an ounce ... maybe a jigger."

"Good, that's plenty for anything I could possibly want to brew," Slughorn told the boy.

"Professor, are the properties of crystallised venom any different from the liquid form?" Harry asked - innocently enough.

As expected, that question brought Slughorn up short. "I'm really not sure. I've never had any of the crystallised variety to experiment with in my entire career. I saw it demonstrated once ... many more years ago than I care to count. The crystalline form did penetrate certain protective spells more efficiently - I believe that's because it's birefringent. The lattices are anisotropic and de-polarise the magic .... But there's none of that here, so it's all academic, as they say."

Professor Slughorn chuckled a little nervously.

Harry was content to let that explanation sail right over his head, because his objective was different.

"It's not academic, actually," Harry stated slowly and deliberately. "I came into a few grams of it recently. Remember that Basilisk I killed in the Chamber of Secrets? Well, the carcass stayed undisturbed for quite awhile afterwards - long enough for the venom in the one fang that missed me to crystallise."

"Impressive, my dear boy," Slughorn reacted cautiously. Too many of Harry's stories - especially from his second year, had hit close to home. "Worth far more than its weight in gold that is. Any plans for it?"

"That's why I was asking you, actually," Harry went on. "I was hoping you might know how brittle the crystals were. I'm thinking of repointing a sword, or perhaps an arrow, with them."

"I've absolutely no idea, Harry," Slughorn admitted. "You've finally stumped me. It's probably too rare to have been tested for anything like that. Besides, why on Earth would you want to repoint swords? It seems like such a waste."

Harry pounced on the open-ended question. "I'm afraid that, for whatever reason, I've been tasked with having to kill Lord Voldemort," Harry revealed. "I don't know why it's me, but Dumbledore says I am. I believe him...."

Professor Slughorn was shocked. All of a sudden, the blather in the Prophet about Harry being "The Chosen One" was truer than he could possibly have imagined. This young man needed to learn so much.... A little advice could hardly hurt - and Slughorn lived to advise young men like Harry Potter.

"I'm not at all sure that you can kill him that way," Slughorn advised.

"Oh, it's not for him - not directly, anyway," Harry answered, homing in. "Voldemort made something ... Dumbledore called it a Horcrux ... whilst he was still at Hogwarts. I destroyed it with venom from that Basilisk's other fang. Hermione and I figure it had to be Voldemort's first effort, so doing in his later ones will likely be harder. I have some idea where two others might be. With the crystallised venom being stronger, I'm looking towards it as a method for destroying those...."

There. He'd put the H-word on the table. Now Harry would have to see how the old man would react.

Slughorn did not disappoint. His eyes looked like they might pop out of their sockets. His hands started shaking. For the first time in Harry's presence the older man seemed at a loss for words.

"Why.... Why you...?"

Harry felt an almost palpable flash of relief. Slughorn had not chosen to exercise the option represented by the false memory. The professor had not ordered him from the dungeon.

Harry circled back to an earlier subject, a very painful topic he had only touched on before, but one he knew to be Horace Slughorn's weak spot. He summoned all of his strength as an Occlumens to keep an unemotional, even resigned, air to his voice.

"Good question. Like I said, I'm not at all sure why I'm the one," Harry answered the stricken man's question carefully. "I think ... I'm almost sure enough to say, 'I know,' ... that it has to do with Mum. I don't know how much Dumbledore told you, but Mum died for me. She refused back away when Voldemort tried to kill me.... I know because I hear her screams from back then whenever a Dementor gets too close.... Voldemort killed her, but when he tried to kill me, her Blood Magic made his curse backfire.... And that's how I became the Boy Who Lived. At least Dumbledore thinks so, and I'm pretty convinced he's right."

It had the ring of truth. Most of what Harry said even was true.

Slughorn knew it.

"Why...? Why ... me?" he asked hesitantly, as if he already knew, and feared, the answer.

"Because somebody had to show Voldemort how to make a Horcrux, or several, when he was only Tom Riddle at Hogwarts," Harry put it forthrightly. "The Headmaster thinks it's you - that it's why you quit teaching when you did, and why you were so afraid for your safety that you finally decided to come back. Hermione and I have been through the entire Hogwarts staff roster for Riddle's last couple of years, and you're the logical candidate...."

"I ... I don't want anything to do with this...," Slughorn stammered. "I'm afraid you'll have...."

"I don't want anything to do with trying to kill Voldemort when he can't be killed," Harry cut him off. "But I've no choice, and I need to know what I'm up against. Look, I can make this worth your while. Do you want money? I doubt it. Do you want protection? I can get you a goblin guard if need be...."

"I don't want your money," Slughorn spoke with finality. "Dumbledore already offered that, and other inducements, too. Then he tried tricking me, but all he got was a fake. Look ... all I've ever wanted is to grease the wheels of Hogwarts' talented tenth .... Those who I think have something to contribute to our society. You-Know-Who was my worst mistake...."

"I suppose my mum wasn't far behind," Harry returned the discussion to his own turf. At least he had diverted Slughorn before the old man told him to leave.

"Oh Merlin.... Your mother taught me something that it took me all too long to learn," Slughorn replied sadly. "She taught me that a Muggle-born can do anything a pure-blood can do if given the chance. Unfortunately, You-Know-Who never learnt that...."

"No, he didn't," Harry responded rather fiercely. "And that made me what I am today - an orphan somehow tasked with putting paid to that bloody bastard. And I'm not stupid. I know I've no chance unless I can find out what I'm up against ... how many of those bloody Horcruxes there are out there...."

"Lily Evans should never have given my successor the time of day," Slughorn commented, himself changing the subject. "Snape associated with the Death Eaters.... He brought Lily to their attention - not intentionally, but he did. Snape didn't kill her, but he made her a target...."

Harry knew that what Slughorn was saying was untrue. His mum had become Voldemort's target for an entirely different reason. But if Slughorn knew nothing of the prophecy, as seemed the case, Harry was not inclined to clue him in.

"Well, Snape's turned traitor a second time," Harry hissed through clenched teeth. "I won't bother with him, unless I have to, and I really don't feel like duelling him if I can avoid it. But I can't avoid Voldemort. He's after me, and for some reason, I have to face him. I can't run away, and I won't.... But if by some miracle I really could finish him, then everyone would be better off - especially you, because you could finally stop feeling guilty over everything that Voldemort's done."

"I need your help," Harry pleaded. "I need to know what you told Voldemort about Horcruxes."

"I ... I can't help you," Slughorn choked out, his white mustache drooping. "It's ... it's gone...."

"What's gone?" Harry asked. "We can get it back, from anywhere."

"I'm sorry, but the memory of whatever I told You-Know-Who is gone," Slughorn shakily confessed. "For all his tricks, Dumbledore didn't find what he wanted to know. I had to give all that up to survive ... shortly after You-Know-Who left Hogwarts."

"Had to give up what?" Harry asked again, still puzzled. But his stomach was queasy. This turn of events was not what he had expected.

"All memory of what I presumably told You-Know-Who about Horcruxes," Slughorn recounted, speaking very softly as tears began forming in his eyes. "He would have killed me then, but since I had helped him, and he thought I might be 'useful' - I'm not sure how - he contented himself with having me thoroughly Obliviated."

Harry sounded almost like he was in physical pain. "You mean, you let him do that to you?"

Slughorn nodded slowly. "I had no choice. It was be Obliviated or die. He and I, we're both Slytherins. I made the best deal I could. So the memories are gone..., not just those with You-Know-Who, but all the underlying learning about those horrible spells that I'd acquired during my studies...."

"How?" Harry blurted, thoroughly shaken at the turn of events.

"I'll never forget what happened," a defeated-looking Slughorn croaked out dejectedly. "They left that much ... to keep me terrified, I suppose. It was Walpurgis Night in 1949 - Thirty April - when I first received the ultimatum from You-Know-Who. Ironic, really, since Saint Walpurga was a Horcrux victim...."

He sighed, as his voice trailed off. "I guess they missed that one," he remarked.

"Missed what?" Harry honed in.

"Missed that bit of Horcrux-related trivia," Slughorn sighed. "They didn't miss much, though...."

"I don't think I follow," Harry persisted.

"Either I had to give up all my memories of Horcrux-related magic above a very rudimentary level, and swear an Unbreakable Vow of secrecy, or I would be killed," a now thoroughly deflated Slughorn continued. "I swore never to breathe a word to anyone about the magic I'd learnt. Not long after that, I met Roland Lestrange in Hogsmeade...."

"Who was he?" Harry wanted to know. The last name was familiar, but not the given one.

"He was an original Death Eater," Slughorn responded, looking pained. "His son, Rodolphus married Bella Black. He - the father - was a skilled Obliviator, amongst his other talents. He was even a Slug Club member along with You-Know-Who whilst at Hogwarts."

"Lestrange was nothing if not thorough. In addition to removing all my recollection of teaching anything about Horcruxes to You-Know-Who, he eliminated everything that I had told him in the first place. I suppose that didn't include Saint Walpurga, which is why that stray bit of knowledge escaped destruction. On the type of thing you're seeking...."

"Oh, I ...."

Slughorn continued without pausing for Harry to explain himself.

"... That is, the optimal number of Horcruxes that could be made - he wiped it all out...." Slughorn declared with finality.

Shaking his head, Professor Slughorn slowly waddled to a low cupboard against the wall of the Potions Dungeon. He pulled out a phial of clear liquid.

"After he thought he was done, Lestrange dosed me with this and, I presume, asked me quite a few things about Horcruxes," he told Harry, gesturing to the phial. "Under Veritaserum I, of course, had to answer all his questions truthfully. It was like a search and destroy mission - only for my knowledge. By the time he was finished, I was quite the blank slate again. Back then, Death Eaters weren't even generally known ... I guess I was one of the first loose ends they cleaned up. Because of the secrecy, when Lestrange was done, for good measure, I had to take the Vow never to reveal what had happened, or even that I'd met him."

"How can you tell me, then?" Harry asked. "I thought that breaking such a vow was fatal."

Slughorn shook his head slowly. "It would be, except that Roland died - killed by Dorcas Meadowes in a duel, I was told. When he died, the Vow expired with him. After that, for several months I was terrified that You-Know-Who would come for me - since he was never one to leave much to chance. It was my luck that he didn't get around to it in time."

"What happened?" Harry wanted to know.

"You did," Slughorn said, smiling ruefully. "You killed him, or so we thought. That gave me a long respite, for which I am grateful, but ever since he returned, You-Know-Who's been after me. I didn't fancy living out my life as a piece of household furniture, so after considerable soul searching, I accepted Dumbledore's invitation to return."

Slughorn's explanation seemed to make sense, except for one thing. "If you were Obliviated, what were those memories you gave Dumbledore?" Harry asked.

"Oh those," Slughorn answered, looking embarrassed. "Just my rather pathetic efforts at mental camouflage. I've tried to patch over some of the worst gaps by creating made-up memories, but memory modification was never my strong suit."

Harry cocked his head and pointed to the Veritaserum in Slughorn's left hand. "Not that I think you're lying, but can I test you? Maybe what I need to know, Lestrange didn't find."

"You're welcome to try, Harry," Slughorn agreed fatalistically as he unstoppered the phial. "I want you to believe me, since I doubt Dumbledore ever will. Are you familiar with how to verify that I am under the influence?"

Harry's voice grew harsh. "You did it to me not very long ago, remember? Back when I was accused of drugging Hermione. So yes, I know quite well how to go about it. What I don't know is how the test itself works."

"I take three drops - four if you wish," Hogwarts' resident Potions master instructed. "Wait three minutes, point your wand at me, and incant, 'Comprobo.' If it works, your wandtip will glow green. If I'm not entirely under the influence, it'll glow yellow. If there were no potion at all; say that this contains only distilled water, then your tip would glow red."

"All right. Now I remember ... this was mentioned in a Wizengamot trial transcript I once read," Harry remembered. When Hermione had testified, she had submitted to the same test.

Slughorn self-administered the Veritaserum, and Harry performed the confirmatory spell. The professor was well under the potion's influence when Harry began asking questions. Even though he was tempted to ask any number of other questions, such as about his mum, Harry confined himself to the task at hand. After Slughorn answered several preliminary questions accurately, Harry turned to the critical matters Dumbledore had wanted him to find out.

"What is the maximum number of Horcruxes that a wizard can make before there's too little soul left to support life and magic?"

"I have no idea," Slughorn said in the flat, unmodulated voice that typified Veritaserum possession. "More than one, I suppose."

"What number did you tell Tom Riddle that he should not exceed?"

"I have no recollection whatever."

"Did you discuss numbers of Horcruxes with Tom Riddle?"

"I can't remember at all."

"Did you tell Tom Riddle that there was a maximum number of Horcruxes that he could not exceed without imperilling himself?"

"I can't recall."

These questions went on for several minutes, as Harry tried out different permutations. Nothing escaped from Slughorn's lacuna of induced ignorance.

Soon the detention was almost over. Harry scowled as he concluded that he had no choice but to admit defeat. Notwithstanding everything Dumbledore had done to recruit Professor Slughorn, his memory of the critical events concerning Tom Riddle was totally nonexistent.

Downcast, Harry excused himself and trudged to the door.

He was just about to exit when Slughorn called after him.

"What is it, now?" Harry replied wearily. In his own way, he detested failure as much as Hermione did, and he had come up very short on one of the most important assignments of his life.

"All I want from you is to become a member of the Slug Club," Slughorn said as he beckoned Harry through a door at the back of the classroom that led into his private inner office.

Harry followed. "Why should I do that?" He asked.

"Because if you survive, you'll certainly be in a position to help others, and others may be in a position to help you," Slughorn answered, whilst crossing the light, airy, and large office.

It was a far cry from Snape's gloomy cavern. Harry had never seen a nicer staff office, save the Headmaster's. It was furnished with the overstuffed, Edwardian era furniture that the old man favoured. Various photos - all of Slughorn with various people - lined the walls.

"Umm ... nice office," Harry made small talk as he waited for whatever was to happen.

"The best staff office in the Castle ... used to be Professor Merrythought's," Slughorn answered drearily whilst crossing the room. "Another of Dumbledore's attempted bribes...."

Slughorn stopped and gazed thoughtfully at the wall behind his desk.

Harry started getting a bit antsy. His experiences with professors acting strangely had not been good.

"Have a seat," Slughorn beckoned to Harry. He passed behind a desk awash in loose pieces of parchment, and began rummaging through the shelf at which he had been staring.

"What are you doing now?" Harry asked testily as he remained standing. He did not want to be kept late - especially by the dry hole that Slughorn had turned out to be.

"You were honest. It's a beneficial trait," Slughorn hinted. "Unlike Dumbledore, you never sought to deceive me about what you were after and why. Trickery is not always preferable, whatever he may think."

Horace Slughorn levitated a stack of papers and pulled a three-ring notebook from beneath. From between its battered black covers peeked age-yellowed parchments.

"I found this afterwards. Neither Dumbledore, nor Lestrange - nor you for that matter - asked all of the right questions," the professor commented as he held out the notebook to Harry. "Nobody asked about source materials, and I've made it a point not to look inside this since I took the Vow with Lestrange back in '49."

"What is it?" Harry asked hopefully as he took the notebook from the professor's pudgy hands.

"The notebook you are holding contains the notes from my apprenticeship with Herr Broh over sixty years ago," Slughorn answered precisely. "I wouldn't show them to Dumbledore, but I'll give them to you. Whatever I once knew about Horcruxes, I learnt at Lisen Broh's knee. The answers to the questions you asked must be in there. If not, then I never knew those answers and could not have been the source of You-Know-Who's information."

"Thank you, sir," Harry said, stunned by the abrupt turn of fortune.

"You're welcome," Slughorn replied. "Look for my invitation to the Slug Club's Christmas party, won't you. Oh yes, and tomorrow's detention is cancelled."

Harry left, and Slughorn slumped into his swivelling desk chair. He wheeled around and stared at one of his office's many pictures - all memorialising past Slug Clubs. "Lily Evans," he addressed it. "I'll do what I can to help your son. I owe you that much."

55

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch51 Padfoot's legacy.doc 2/26/2009