Prongs Rides Again

XI.

"Come on, Sirius, when's this thing supposed to take?"

"Hold your horses, it'll come back to me in a second, I swear--"

"My poor frail frame can't take much more of this posing, Padfoot. Why don't you just--"

poof!

"Ow! Cripes, that's bright!"

"Er, let's try that again, this time with me in it!"

"What, why do you want to ruin it?"

"You'll pay for that."

"Come on, it's starting up again!"

poof!

* * *

The evening of September third was much the same as the previous two nights at school. After dinner, the Gryffindor boys trooped up to the tower to grudgingly begin the evening's work. Harry and Ron parted company with Hermione in the common room, and climbed the winding staircase to their dormitories.

"Gah! Glad it's the weekend -- I could do with a breather to make my head stop spinning. What's Hermione on about, with Arithmancy being so great?"

Harry gave a noncommittal shrug. "You know what she's like," he answered vaguely.

Ron muttered something under his breath about Hermione always being a nutter about school, and how he'd never be able to make head or tail of the way she was. Harry smiled a little, and then blindly pushed open the door into their room.

Neville and Dean were in there already, but they looked as though they were about to leave. They both said a pleasant hullo to Ron and Harry, and then Neville turned back to Dean, pleading. "I've got to have this Muggle Studies essay done by Monday, and I still don't understand it!"

"Well, you get Quidditch, don't you?" Dean asked.

"Pretty much," Neville muttered. They began to make their way out the door.

"Well, football isn't too different... I mean, apart from the no flying and such..." Harry heard Dean say as they wound their way downstairs and out of range. His attention turned back to its real focus a moment later, though -- what had been on his mind for most of the five weeks following his birthday. He walked over to the desk near his bed, bent over, and pulled open one of the drawers. Ron must have realized from Harry's closed expression that right now it would be best to leave him be, for Harry was alone in the room. Relieved, he pulled a thin, flat object from the drawer and sat down on his bed, examining it.

The picture frame was simple, and not terribly well-made. He imagined Sirius and Professor Lupin were a little tight on funds -- but the frame wasn't really the point. Harry focused his attention on the photograph.

Three men were posing in front of a bare face of peeling wallpaper. They were laughingly shuffling about, their arms hung about each other's shoulders. One was Sirius. He kept darting in and out of the picture, occasionally returning wearing a tea cozy or some other absurdity on his head. Another was Professor Lupin. For the past few days he'd been looking increasingly wary, but trying to enjoy himself. Today he had a drawn, weary expression on his face. Harry glanced out the window -- the moon was just beginning to wane.

The third man stood on the right. He was thinner than the other two, even more so than Sirius. He laughed and joked with the other two, but his eyes were burning behind the glasses --- with what, Harry could only guess.

It was definitely the man he'd seen when he'd gone to try and talk with Sirius over the summer. The surreal, awful feeling surrounding the encounter hadn't left Harry. It's me, he'd said. Your father.

(James isn't here. Harry, isn't he with you?)

Harry closed his eyes. "It can't possibly be true," he whispered. "People don't just come strolling back from the dead after fourteen years." Maybe I should ask Dumbledore. Maybe someone is trying to hurt me with this. Maybe it's Voldemort, trying to make me lose my head so I'm easier to get.

But why would an instrument of the Dark Lord arrive in a package of presents clearly originating from his godfather? It just didn't make any sense, all of it. And if my dad really was alive, why wouldn't I be the first to know? Why wouldn't Dumbledore or Sirius come dashing in and tell me I'm not really an orphan anymore? No, he decided, it's not true. You shouldn't even bother with it anymore. I'll bet this is another old picture, and... and they just looked older because they're tired, and they've been working hard. Fighting Voldemort. My mum is (was) probably taking the picture, that's why they're all being so ridiculous.

He looked back down at the picture, to justify his rationale, and jumped, with a gasp.

The third person had broken away from the group, and was larger, like he'd come closer. He was peering up through the photograph, trying to catch Harry's attention. Harry dropped the photo, and scooted back a little over his sheets. The man raised his right hand and pressed it against the surface of the picture, as though it was a glass window. His eyes burned right into Harry's, and he understood the expression now. I miss you.

Harry's chest heaved for a few seconds, and then the boy grabbed the photo and stuffed it back in the drawer. He sat, knees hugged tight against his chest, and tried to make his breath slow down. His face was hot and wet, and he realized he must be crying. Angry with himself, he fiercely rubbed away the tears and rolled off the bed. He left the room and the picture behind, to try and distract himself with his friends.

* * *

"Remus, I don't know what you're on about, but I swear, with all your brains and all your experience, you're still a raving lunatic."

Remus frowned at Sirius, and tried again. "I know it's been hard, and I know you're frustrated, but I think this might be a way. We've only got until Halloween, you know. Then we've got to use whatever we've got, no matter how... cockeyed and impossible it might be."

Sirius snorted. "Well, you've got a pretty good one here. A fine candidate for defeating the most evil wizard on the face of the earth!"

Remus turned desperately to James. "Look, you see what I'm saying, don't you? Does it make any sense?"

The plan was shaky at best. Remus had been scouring the mildewed library at Glastonbury for weeks, Apparating there early in the morning and only returning well into the night. He would come home with armloads of books, excitedly asking James and Sirius what they thought of his latest scrap of information. He seemed truly intent on finding a precedent for their situation -- "After all, Voldemort isn't the only one in history who's sacrificed his humanity. There must be somebody before us who figured out a way to get rid of him." He had brought back some truly interesting stories, but this one seemed the most fantastic of all. James was having a hard time reconciling the idea that it might actually have happened.

Remus had discovered an old Irish tale about a Dark wizard named Balor, and his monstrous followers, known as Formorii. He, like Voldemort, had undergone many destructive and dangerous transformations in order to gain power and immortality. For one of them, he acquired a "poisonous eye, which was instant death for whomever it rested upon." None of his opponents, who called themselves the Tuatha de Danaan, could have stood a chance. ("Great," Sirius had commented, "Ocular Avada Kedavra. Wouldn't Mad-Eye Moody love that.")

However, a young de Danaan wizard called Lleu devised a plan. He convinced others to invest a certain power in him, a spell only described as the Solaris Charm. He then blindfolded himself -- or closed his eyes, or even temporarily blinded himself ("Accounts differ," Remus had said apologetically) -- and approached Balor. Balor's eye couldn't affect someone who couldn't see, and so Lleu was able to perform his spell, which the books described as "a powerful light emanating from Lleu's person, and rendering Balor's sight useless." While Balor was blinded, Lleu's best friend, Lamfadha, took the butt of a spear and shoved it into Balor's socket. That forced the poisonous eye backward, turning the effect on Balor himself and on the Formorii.

"And did Lleu get his sight back?" James asked.

Remus nodded. "But that's not what I'm driving at. The de Danaan turned Balor's strength against himself. Think how many things we could turn against Voldemort!"

"When I know that he'd probably make full use of them before we had a chance to, it makes me feel a good deal better," Sirius said acidly.

James felt helpless as he watched Remus wilt a little in the face of Sirius's logic. "Look Remus, it's... it's a fine idea. But I can't begin to tell you what we'd be able to turn against Voldemort himself, not to mention how we might do it."

Remus wasn't accepting defeat, however. "I'm going back through the archives tomorrow, to see if I can put together a full catalogue of Voldemort's powers. He's got to have something we can use against him."

"What if there isn't? If we're on the wrong track, we've only got a few weeks before he strikes."

Remus stood up and looked Sirius straight in the eye. "I'm the only one of us who's able to go out and look for clues. You," he said, nodding at James, "are a secret, and you," he turned back to Sirius, "will have the dementors on you in a second if you set foot in public. I may be a werewolf, but they can't legally keep me out of the libraries."

He shook his head quickly. "And anyway, we're not alone on this. Arthur Weasley and his son Bill are acting as contacts for the Ministry and Gringotts both -- we've got their resources on tap. Snape is giving us valuable information from the other side. And we've always got Dumbledore." He turned his clear gray eyes on his two friends. "I'm confident we can do this," he said quietly. "We just need to keep on thinking."

* * *

Severus Snape was versed enough in his art to know that combining two volatile solutions will often result in an explosion. Nonetheless, he had to find a way to make the younger Malfoy let something slip. Severus knew Lucius was feeding the boy information: he had a feeling Malfoy would use his son as bait to get Harry to Voldemort. For there was no one else to be trusted with the job inside Hogwarts. Draco was still young and impressionable, and besides, his rivalry with Harry was fabled in the halls of the school. He'd take any opportunity to kick Potter, and the harder the blow, the better.

"Partner up," he said silkily one afternoon after a lesson on Eloquence Elixirs. Very deliberately, he added, "Potter, you go with Malfoy. Perhaps enough time together and you'll learn some civility." Draco smirked, but didn't catch the double jibe, assuming it was aimed solely at the Gryffindor. Severus bent his head and pretended to be grading the Sixth Years' exams on Surface Stripping Solutions. He cringed as he listened to Longbottom whine through yet another lab, trying to solicit Granger's help, per usual. Parkinson and Nott were obviously too busy making eyes at each other to be mixing potions. Crabbe and Goyle were muttering to each other, a clear signal that they were both lost without Malfoy.

Malfoy and Potter were, so far, surprisingly silent. Or rather, Malfoy ordered Potter to powder the campion stems or stir the base brew, and Potter ground his teeth and endured. Severus kept his ears open for a break in the monologue. He was rewarded ten minutes before the end of the lesson.

"Tisk, tisk, Potter, you're mangling those badger claws."

Silence from the Gryffindor.

Severus chanced a glance up. Malfoy was smirking at Potter: his eyes were narrowed, with a malicious glint in them. "Speaking of badgers, been getting ready for your Quidditch match next week? But I guess Hufflepuff will be a pushover as usual -- what have you got to worry about?"

Potter's jaw tightened. He finished with the badger claws and added them to the potion. He reached for their supply of jellied salmon eggs.

Draco lowered his voice. "Oh that's right, new Seeker this year. It's the Mudblood, Finch-Fletchley, isn't it?"

Potter closed his eyes.

"Going to be a rough season for them, I'd say," Malfoy drawled on. "What, with losing the Seeker and Captain, they haven't got much of a chance against the Gryffindor power house, do they."

"Drop it, Malfoy," Potter said quietly, a tight quality to his voice Severus had never heard before.

Draco seemed maliciously amused. "Ah yes, the still-fresh wounds of the Third Task. Very touching, to see you so concerned about Diggory--"

"I said drop it." The classroom went suddenly still. All eyes surreptitiously turned toward the ill-matched pair. Draco had a poisonous tone as he pushed further.

"Have I said something amiss?" he murmured sarcastically.

"You know damn well what you've just said."

Draco affected offense. "It's a free country, isn't it?"

Potter was silent.

"Still love-sick and jealous, Potter?" he hissed. "Never get the chance to be alone with Chang now, will you--"

Severus raised his head. Potter had abandoned all pretense of concentration, and was glaring daggers at Draco. "Shut it Malfoy, I'm warning you." Severus had never heard his voice so dangerous. He took that opportunity to sweep up from his desk and hover behind their table.

"Finished, boys?" he interrupted smoothly. The two enemies fell silent. Severus leaned forward and stirred the elixir a little. "Too chunky," he pronounced. "Better luck next time." He moved on, pretending to examine Nott and Parkinson's mixture. But his ears were sharp: as he leaned closer to the cauldron, seemingly absorbed in the Eloquence Elixir, Draco spoke one last time.

"It's Samhain Tuesday next. You know -- Halloween, the night the spirits walk. I'm sure if there's any unfinished business between you and Diggory you'll be able to sort it out with him then."

* * *

Remus checked his watch. "Should be coming through right now," he murmured to himself. A few moments later, there was a soft pop! and then someone knocked on his front door. Sirius was standing by, and opened the door. A tall, lithe redhead sporting a ponytail and an earring slipped inside. He shot Sirius and Remus a grin and offered his hand.

"Mr. Black! Professor Lupin! Glad to finally and formally meet you!"

Remus gave a slight smile as he accepted the handshake. "Please, just Remus is fine."

Sirius affected an air. "I don't know, I sort of like being called ‘Mr. Black.' Makes me sound respectable."

From behind, James snorted as he entered the room. "You've never been respectable, Padfoot. You might as well stop trying." He saw the newcomer and introduced himself. "And you must be--"

"Bill Weasley, at your service," he finished roguishly. The next instant, however, he was sober. "Dumbledore's told me everything. I've brought the device."

Sirius nodded. "Excellent. Let's see it."

Remus gestured toward the kitchen table. "Shall we sit down?"

The four men took their seats. Bill reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small silver box encrusted with bulky jewels. He began to set it on the table, then stopped himself midway. He glanced at Remus. "It won't... hurt or anything if I set it here, will it?"

Remus was frowning slightly, and biting his lip. The silver would leave traces on the table for hours, but he didn't want to say anything. James read his expression and interjected, "I'll hold it." Remus shot him a quick, grateful expression, and they continued.

Bill swung the top open: it was slightly stiff, and the hinge creaked. He dipped his fingers into a dark velvet lining, and lifted out a necklace. It was a chain of fine gold filigree from which hung a pendant of a green, spotted mineral. "Black Sea green amber," Bill explained. "Nothing beats it for a honing medium. This is called a namyasto: Slavic wizards have been using it for centuries. It came via post this morning. I don't know how to work it, but my contact who does will be here on Monday."

James squinted at it. "How does it work? What's the principle?"

Bill furrowed his brow. "I'm not terribly clear on the exact method, but I know it involves ley lines. This pendant --" he gestured with the necklace -- "sends out a very specific signal; I think it comes from the vibrations in the fabric of the amber itself. It's got a brother apparatus made of the same stone; it operates on the exact same wavelength, and therefore only tracks its twin. The tracking devise will zero in on its identical signal, and show the location with regards to the pendant's local ley lines. It's extremely sensitive -- it operates on a distance of up to five hundred miles, and it'll give a location to within a couple centimeters."

Remus frowned. "Is there any chance of interference? Can someone mess with the wavelength?"

Bill shook his head. "It would be more difficult than any one wizard could manage. Nobody can change ley lines: they're a natural force. It would be like trying to change the ocean.

"As for interference, I see where you're going. There's not much to worry about there too. See, ley maps look like a grid, and they operate by showing distortions where magic is strongest. In Giza, for instance, most of the town shows up as straightforward squares, with minute wobbles here and there. But the pyramids and the Sphinx throw everything out of whack: they appear as huge, greatly condensed bulges. Things get hairier in those spots, but the namyasto will still work. One of these found Matteo Bartolomei in the Galilee, and considering the magic in that area, that's no small thing. The only places in Britain I imagine would give us any trouble at all are Stonehenge and Hogwarts, and I doubt Voldemort will be waiting there. Too obvious."

Bill looked around the table. "Voldemort won't take you somewhere convenient and easy, like the Cliffs of Dover or Diagon Alley: it's likely you'll find yourself in a place like the Outer Hebrides, or Cornwall. As soon as your signal changes, we'll be running a search on you, narrowing down your location. Once we find you we'll contact Dumbledore, the Aurors, and my father, to let them know where you are. After that, we'll Apparate to within a mile of your location. If you're in trouble, we'll get backup." He leaned forward, a touch of curiosity in his face. "What is your strategy, anyway? It would be best if we know what to expect."

Remus glanced at Sirius, who in turn looked at James, who had suddenly become lost staring at the space immediately in front of him. Remus cleared his throat. "We're going to exploit Voldemort's strength. We're going to take his greatest power and reflect it, and turn it against him."

"And which one would that be?" Bill asked, stunned.

Sirius sighed. "We don't know yet. The more we investigate, the worse they get."

"Now come on, Sirius, we've got the one big one: he's not human anymore."

Sirius merely shook his head and looked away.

"Why is it you guys are beholden to face him on Halloween?" Bill inquired. "I mean, you don't seem that hopeful, if you'll pardon my saying."

"Why?" James repeated, his eyes coming back into focus. "Because Snape told Voldemort Harry would be vulnerable on Halloween. Because that's the date Voldemort has been using to plan with for killing my son. And because if we don't resist at all, then I will have lived for nothing." He turned his gaze on Bill: it was calm, but serious, and very intense. "We can't not," he said quietly. "We do it because we must."

Bill Weasley did not look away: instead, he nodded. Then, "Who will wear the namyasto?"

James started to speak, but Sirius interrupted him. "I will," he said quickly. James and Remus were a bit taken aback. Sirius eyed them fiercely. "I've spent the whole time being a pundit and shooting down ideas. I might as well make use of myself."

"Sirius--" Remus began, half a protest and half a placation.

Sirius held up a hand. "No, I don't want to hear it Moony. Please, just let me wear it. I want to."

Bill left ten minutes later, with a solemn shake of the hand to each, and the words, "Tu ne cede malis sed contra audentior ito." He then flashed a quick smile, and Apparated away.

The three men stood staring at the spot where he had been for a few moments. Then Sirius cleared his throat and asked, "My Latin's a little rusty. What was that he just said to us?"

"‘Yield not to misfortunes,'" Remus translated, "‘but advance all the more boldly against them.'"

There was another pause among them. James blurted, "I wish Lily were here."

Sirius and Remus exchanged awkward glances. "We all do," Remus said quietly.

"He's fifteen now," James continued, only half speaking to them. "I hope I get to see him soon. Before Halloween. Just in case--" He stopped, and began examining the silver box, which he still held.

Sirius, Remus, and James caught each other's eye; a mutual resolution passed among them. They returned to their work with a quiet, desperate fervor.

* * *

No one at the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff Quidditch match knew quite how to behave. It was the first game in more than a year, yet the events that had passed in between...

It opened with a long moment of silence, lead by Professors Sprout and Dumbledore. When Harry lifted his heavy head, he saw Justin Finch-Fletchley hanging in midair just across the midfield line. He had a haunted look about him as well: replacing him must be hard; most of the Hufflepuffs had hero-worshipped Cedric, the first one to bring glory to their house in centuries. Hovering a few yards behind, his head still bowed, was Ernie MacMillian, one of the new Beaters. Harry heard his voice behind his ear, a memory from this season last year: "Only a week away? I wonder if Cedric knows? Think I'll go and tell him..." They had all been examining the announcement concerning the Welcoming Feast.

How do I have the right to compete against these people? Harry thought wretchedly. How can either one of us win without hurting the other? Whose idea was this anyway...? He half-heard Madame Hooch's whistle, and he clumsily tipped his broom upwards and shot out of the path of the Chasers. Once above the fray, he drifted back and forth, feeling like a snorkeler observing a frenzied coral reef. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Justin fly by. Harry turned to watch him. Justin had a scared, determined expression on his face, scouring the field for the Snitch like his life depended on it. He sped straight past Harry, as though forcing himself not to look at him.

Harry felt he could barely concentrate. His train of thought ran wild, any little things triggering a memory. Too many old conversations kept speeding through his head: "Going to be a rough season for them, I'd say. What, with losing the Seeker and Captain..."

"I know I owe you one for telling me about the dragons."

"I'm not armed. There's not a thing I can do to hurt you."

"Well... I s'pose we'd better go on..."

A particularly loud exclamation from the crowd jolted Harry out of his thoughts for an instant. It seemed Ernie MacMillian had accidentally let a Bludger go past, knocking both Katie Bell and Hufflepuff Chaser Anwar Kassatly off their brooms. Harry cursed himself, and tried to make himself pay attention to the game. That could have been you; keep an eye on the Bludgers! What would Wood say if I let myself get knocked out by one of those?

"That's twice you've saved my neck in here."

please oh please let me stop thinking about him

"Harry... you'll be all right... hold on..."

Mum and the face that was supposed to be there--

stop it! concentrate! look for gold!

Harry had no idea how much time had passed since the start of the game: he glanced towards the scoreboard; Gryffindor was ahead, 30 to 10. His mind traveled back to the World Cup final, when Viktor Krum caught the Snitch yet lost the game. Maybe I could let it be like that, he thought fleetingly. Then we'd both win, in a way.

"Both of us."

"What?"

"We'll take it at the same time. It's still a Hogwarts victory..."

Harry's vision began swimming. Something shining was flitting about ten feet in front of him.

"Stop being noble. Just take it, then we can get out of here."

The roar of the crowd flooded his ears again. He looked up to see Justin Finch-Fletchley barreling toward him. The Snitch shot upward, and then began flying towards Harry. Harry put out his hand in a desperate attempt to wave it away, to send towards Justin. "Go on!" he yelled at the small winged ball.

"You may go if you wish..."

"Just take the cup!"

Harry's arm swatted downward again. Something solid hit his palm. Harry watched Justin's face fall, and the other Seeker swerved away, towards the ground. "No!" he tried to call. "I didn't mean to!"

"He didn't realize what had happened... But they won fair and square... even Wood admits it."

Harry's shoulders slumped in defeat as Fred and George flew up on either side of him and congratulated him. He did not reply: he only shook his head and allowed them to escort him to the ground. The crowds were cheering; everything should feel normal about this; yet all that was in Harry was a leaden sense of regret and despair.

Time stopped existing: everything blurred together. When Harry landed, his legs buckled, and he fell to his knees. Justin was the nearest: he rushed over to help Harry up. Harry shook his head and thrust the Snitch towards him.

"Just take it..."

Justin looked from the Snitch to Harry, and then sighed. "Just forget it," he said. "C'mon, stand up, Harry."

"You're on. Come here."

"I'm sorry," he rasped to Justin. "It should have been you."

XII.

Snape kept his head bowed, unsure exactly why he wasn't shaking. From the shadows he heard the rustling of someone leaning back in a throne-like seat. "The incentive is very simple," a cold, amused voice hissed through the darkness. "Either Potter dies or you do, Severus. I don't believe knowing much more than that is necessary." When Snape didn't answer, Voldemort laughed, a black, humorless sound. "Very good, then. I have yet one more job -- or hurdle -- for you. A most invaluable service you will perform for me, Severus. Give it to him, Wormtail."

The diminutive, rodent-like man shuffled forward and roughly thrust a small round object into Snape's field of vision. Without raising his eyes, Snape took the object. It was ring-shaped, and the texture seem to indicate it was made of wood. He brought the ring closer, to examine it. A thin bluish plasma was undulating within the rim. He gave a sharp intake of breath.

"Very good, Severus," Voldemort chuckled dryly. "Yes indeed, you hold in your hand an Aperio talisman. There aren't very many of them left in the world. Luckily a Scandinavian contact procured this most excellent specimen for me. Wormtail," he said abruptly, "are you aware of this ring's capabilities?"

"N-no, my Lord," he answered, his voice quavering.

Snape could feel Voldemort's gaze descend back on him. "Do enlighten our friend, Severus."

"It is a forerunner of the Portkey; it rips through temporal space and creates a shortcut to any place in the world," Snape answered coolly, secretly marveling at his self-control. "At an appointed time, the æther inside will expand, and the ring will grow until it is large enough for a person to pass through. On the other side lies a new location." He repressed a shudder: he had been toying with the idea of just keeping the ring safe in his pocket, well away from Potter. But the thought of being Splinched in so primitive and irreversible a way quailed him.

Snape could feel Voldemort's smile cut through the air. "I see you realize how well you have bound yourself to us. Ah, self-preservation: there is the sole incentive you need in this situation, Severus." A heavy pause hung in the air. "Look at me, Severus." Snape slowly obeyed. The Dark Lord's red serpentine eyes were glowing, narrowed, through the dimness. "Just make sure Potter has it and knows how to use it before midnight come Tuesday. If my Halloween is spoiled, then you and only you will answer to me for it." The eyes receded; he must have leaned back into his chair. "Dismissed," he said sibilantly.

Snape bowed. "My Lord," he said, feeling the words rumble distastefully at the bottom of his ribcage. The sunless room disappeared as he Apparated away: Snape found himself near the gates of Hogwarts. He squinted against the setting sun, towards the Quidditch pitch: the games was still going on. He was safe. He hurried through the gates after giving the password, and retreated, crow-like, across the grounds, up the front stairs, and safely into his dungeons.

* * *

That had been three hours ago. Now he was bent over his desk, rolling the ring between his thumb and index finger. I must rob him of his battle plan, he told himself. Anything to aid Potter, Black, and the werewolf. He allowed a small, ironic smile to visit his lips at the statement. He then quickly returned to the subject at hand.

His brain was a complete blank for an instant: he could not force anything across the desperate void he felt. He was never without a plan, and he always knew how to get the information he needed. The information... Malfoy.

Already with a clear idea of his strategy, he swept out of his office and toward the Slytherin common room. He found it mostly empty: Malfoy was nowhere in sight. One thin, dark-haired boy with thin, hunched shoulders was bent over some homework at one of the tables. Snape recognized him: Malcolm Baddock, second year. Very resentful boy; very talented at Charms and Transfiguration. "You there," he said smoothly. Baddock whipped around and looked up. He stood instantly.

"Yes, Professor?" he asked quietly.

"Get me Malfoy," Snape ordered. "Keep his cronies away, and for God's sake keep this room empty."

Baddock eyed him distrustfully, but simply and quietly replied, "Yes, Professor." He gathered up his parchment and book, and hurried toward the boys' dormitories. Snape surveyed the room, looking for the most private yet imposing spot for them to converse. In the end, he decided on the table Baddock had just relinquished. He settled into the leather-bound chair, and waited.

Malfoy came, alone, a few minutes later. Snape noted Baddock to himself: fearless, to dare rouse and disturb Draco. Malfoy recognized him, smirked, and swaggered over to the table. Snape indicated with his eyes for him to take the seat across from him. When Draco had gotten comfortable, Snape rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward. He spoke in a low, soothing voice, allowing an urgent edge to slip in as well.

"Now Draco, I'm sure you've realized that your father and I have been in very close contact these past few months. But what am I thinking?" He smiled silkily. "Of course. I was fortunate enough to visit your family at the manor this summer." Draco nodded, looking slightly bored. "Your father has informed me that he trusts you a great deal, Draco. Now, I need you to help us both. You are, of course, aware of what will happen this Halloween?"

The boy smiled, a cold, delighted glint in his eye. "Of course," he answered. "The Dark Lord is planning a strike against Potter--" He stopped suddenly. He narrowed his eyes. "I don't think I should be telling you this," he said suspiciously. "If you're really on our side, why wouldn't you know about all this already?"

"Don't be silly, boy -- you know where my loyalties lie. That Dessication Mixture would never have come from a man with weak allegiances." Secretly Snape was pleased that the boy was displaying some sense. He was prepared, however. "I simply need some corroboration of facts. Of course I know. Here..." He reached within his voluminous robes, and withdrew the Aperio talisman. Draco's eyes widened. "Ah, I see you know your Dark objects as well as could be expected," Snape smiled. "I hardly need imply that this is meant for Potter." He met Draco's eyes, and did not look away. "Now do you trust me?" Malfoy nodded. "Good," Snape purred, preparing to lay thick the flattery.

"What I need to be sure of are Voldemort's plans for the other side of the Aperio door. Your father is very close to the Dark Lord, and will be aware of all his plans. Tell me, what do you know about Potter's fate?"

Draco's eyes darted about, and then he leaned forward, and his voice dropped to a conspiratorial softness. "Well, Father hasn't told me a lot. Most of it I've figured out from listening to him talk. It sounds like -- Voldemort has to kill Potter to achieve top power. He said something about how that would catalyze Potter's blood within him. And he mentioned the Cineris Suspiro Curse." The slightest of apologetic expressions entered Draco's eyes. "But that's all I really know."

Snape froze. That? But of course... if what Lupin says is true, it only makes sense. Well. At least he had a name for it now. But he forced himself to nod approvingly, and say, "Very well, Draco, I thank you. You've just helped me a great deal."

Unbidden, Draco pushed away from the table and stood up. "Professor," he asked, a note of genuine curiosity in his voice, "what exactly is this curse?"

Snape narrowed his eyes ever so slightly. "I believe you will find the answer much more satisfying if you discover for yourself." Yes, and perhaps you'll have the humanity to be horrified by it and forget this "junior Death Eater" nonsense. He leaned closer, a strange smile playing about his lips. "Ah, Mr. Malfoy -- wouldn't knowing the method of Potter's death make the event so much more sweet?"

A conflict of emotions flashed across Draco's face. Dutifully he answered, "I take your point, Professor." He adopted an ingratiating tone. "May I go to the library, then?"

Snape withdrew a piece of parchment and signed it. "Most likely it will be described in the Restricted Section," he said, handing the scrap to Malfoy. "Thank you again, Draco. You've been most invaluable." Draco smiled again, if a little uneasily, and departed.

The professor slumped back in his chair. Cineris Suspiro! It was so ancient and obscure it would be a wonder if Malfoy came across any mention of it. But then again, Lupin had said Voldemort's spell to return to his body was quite old itself. Cineris Suspiro... Snape bowed his head, and then sprang up. He needed to speak to Dumbledore immediately about this.

* * *

"ER Harry? You all right?"

Harry rolled over on his bed and sighed. "Please, Ron. Just leave me alone."

The boy on the other side of the drawn curtains paused for an instant, and then slowly the sound of his footsteps left the dormitory, cut off completely by the careful but firm shutting of the door. Harry lay in the loneliness and silence, thinking nothing, for an instant. What a hard day, he finally found himself saying.

-- be a rough season --

No! Harry snarled in his head. You are not going to think about that!

Ah yes, the still-fresh wounds of--

Shut it, you!

"It's a free country, isn't it?"

Harry burrowed himself forcefully in his blankets. Damn that Malfoy! How is it he always gets under my skin?? Why do I let him get my goat like that...?

"Better luck next time."

-- Samhain Tuesday next -- unfinished business --

A strangled cry welled up in Harry's throat. He fought to suppress it, but he had fallen victim to the trap, and was helpless before the memories his brain chose to conjure up.

-- haven't got much of a chance against --

-- for telling me about the dragons --

Cedric... he moaned.

"I'm sorry. It should have been you."

-- shouldn't have --!

-- do you understand, Harry?

No! he cried to his mother. Why am I in Hell?! What is it I've done?

-- we're locked in against --

Oh God no not that not him please don't do that to me

-- I have spent more than my fair share of time --

"I have no need to tell Professor Dumbledore about my nightmares."

-- a vast looming blackness, and lying before it is Cedric Diggory --

Harry squeezed his eyes shut. "Expecto Patronum," he desperately whispered between his teeth, feeling himself begin to shake.

My Patronus --

-- if you were really my dad, Prongs could keep Moony away --

(Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs, Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief Makers)

The faintest of impressions flitted through Harry's memory. Up, down, up, down, shriek, giggle, coo, laugh. "My little Marauder. Maybe one day you'll be a Chaser like your dear old dad."

"And oh! Hufflepuff Beater MacMillian misses the Bludger, sending Chasers Kassatly and Bell spinning--"

A woman's voice: "--for Beater."

That same voice: "James isn't here."

No please not that one again...

You've got to stop this, a new voice suddenly said, breaking through the turbulence of emotions. It was the same voice that fought the Imperius Curse, that had told Harry he was not going to die crouched behind a tombstone that night, that he would die upright (like his father)...

Harry forced himself upright, and sat still on his bed, for what seemed a long time. He was sweating: I need a drink of water, he thought distractedly. Shakily he swung his body to the side, ready to vacate the bed, when an impulse came over him. He stood up and slowly moved toward his desk. He opened a drawer, and withdrew a bound, red leather photo album.

Looking through Hagrid's gift always calmed him down. He sat down at his desk and began leafing haphazardly through the pages. He began to relax as he studied the pictures of his parents. They looked so happy, so young. He thought back to Sirius: how haggard he looked now. He imagined he might be getting better with Professor Lupin, though, now that he wasn't living on the run, exposed to the elements and never sure of his next meal. Harry wondered vaguely what had become of Buckbeak.

He stopped at one page with a graduation picture: a jubilant, carefree photo. He smiled as Sirius, Professor Lupin, and his dad began to can-can, all in their formal robes. Wormtail was a little removed to the side, watching and giggling helplessly. The dance soon got out of control, however, and Sirius toppled the group as he overbalances. Harry laughed aloud, as the Marauders collected themselves and beamed appreciatively at him. Professor Lupin said something to his dad, who looked thoughtful at the comment. He broke away from the group and pressed his face up against the surface, studying Harry's face. All breath left Harry: he stared, wide-eyed, as James Potter peered up through the past and at him.

"People don't just come strolling back from the dead after fourteen years," he remembered himself saying. Harry furrowed his brow. It can't be true.

(but what if--?)

"It can't be true," he said aloud, but his voice quavered.

Maybe I should ask Dumbledore.

(why? you've got all you need, all your proof is in--)

Almost as though in a trance, Harry opened another drawer, and slid a large, flat from it. He began shaking again as he moved the birthday picture closer to the graduation photo. Slowly he set the frame down over the page (taking care to cover up Wormtail): they were now side by side.

He looked from one, to the other, and back to the first. "It can't be," he said aloud again, but this time it came more forcedly, and with more of a quaver.

Listen to me you know what you see listen to me Harry Potter listen--

Harry closed his eyes, as though waiting for a blow.

It's the same man, he finished.

"Oh God," he said, and pressed his hand against his mouth.

* * *

Ron furrowed his brow, his eye set past Hermione and on the stairwell leading to their room. "He's been up there an awfully long time," he said with concern.

Hermione looked up from her History of Magic essay. "D'you suppose he's all right?"

Ron shook his head slowly, not removing his gaze from the door. "He's been off all year. Ever since... well, you know... And he won't tell me anything!" he burst out indignantly. "His best friend and he can't even confide in me..."

"Honestly, Ron," Hermione murmured as she turned back to her parchment.

He looked at her sharply. "What? I think I've got a right to know why my friend is so depressed! I don't like it, just sitting here while he fritters away in his bed. It's dead worrisome, it is."

She met his eye. "Don't you think I've been worried too? Nobody's ever seen him like this. He doesn't even enjoy Quidditch anymore! And he can't have heard anything about You-Know-Who, or he would have told us. It has to be something else."

"Oh yeah? Like what?"

Hermione bit her lower lip. "Cedric, probably. I think he still feels terrible about the Third Task. And people haven't forgotten what happened: they're still avoiding him in the halls. It can't be very pleasant, now can it?"

"Yeah, but--" Ron sputtered, "but he's got us!"

"I think he ought to go to Professor McGonagall, or Dumbledore perhaps. It's obviously really serious. Something ought to be done."

"Once again: like what? You can't force Harry to do something like that, and every time we ask him what's wrong he won't answer. How d'you help somebody like that?"

Hermione looked pensive. "At the library in my town, there are all sorts of books about psychology and helping people through problems. I'm sure wizards have the same type of thing. And surely Hogwarts has a few books that aren't about magic..."

Ron looked slightly mutinous at the mention of books as a solution. "When in doubt, go to the library," he muttered.

Hermione looked up. "What was that?"

"Nothing!" he replied innocently. "Just... thought you'd better go soon, since it's almost curfew."

Hermione stood, and gathered up her homework. "I think I will," she said. "I'll see you at ten then, alright?"

"‘Kay," he answered. He was soon alone with his Arithmancy homework -- which he only too late realized was the reason he'd asked Hermione to be with him in the first place.

* * *

As it was nine-thirty on a Sunday night, the corridors of Hogwarts were fairly deserted. Hermione knew the route to the library so well she could have done it with her eyes closed: therefore, she paid little attention to her surroundings, concentrating instead on figuring out where to find the proper volumes.

The pair of hands shot of out a dark corner and jerked her into a side room before she even realized it. She tried shrieking, but one palm was pressed firmly against her throat; the other arm was clenched tightly about her waist. "Don't move, don't scream, just listen to me!" came a harsh, urgent whisper above her ear. "This is important, and it's all true. I don't mean to hurt you, but this is the only way you'll listen. Do you promise you won't struggle?"

Hermione was so shocked she nodded. The voice began flooding her ear with words. "You've to tell Potter he's in great danger -- the worst fate in the world. On Halloween Voldemort is going to get him away from Hogwarts and... and do something, terrible to him. You've got to keep him away from Snape. Snape is a Death Eater: he's helping Voldemort get to Potter from the inside. Don't trust him at any cost!"

She could barely understand what he meant. "Wh... what are you telling me?" she rasped, her eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets with fear.

"He's going to give Potter a ring, only it's not a ring, it's a kind of Portkey -- an Aperio talisman. And it's going to take Potter somewhere at midnight and Voldemort will be waiting with an audience to kill him properly this time."

"K-kill him?" she repeated shakily.

"Well, he's not asking him over for a friendly game of Quidditch, now is he?" the voice snarled.

Hermione's mind was racing. One part of her refused to believe this was happening, and the other was wondering if she could trust this strange informer. "What is You-Know-Who going to... going to do?" she asked, terrified of the answer.

He told her. She gasped, and her knees buckled. "You see?" he hissed. "You see what I mean? You've got to keep him safe!"

"What to do you want me to do?" she whispered.

"Do something about the ring! Go to Dumbledore! Lock Potter in his room! I don't know -- you're supposed to be the genius, Granger."

Hermione suddenly recognized her assailant. She wriggled and wrenched herself out of his grasp. In the half light streaming in through the thin slit of the door shone a head of pale hair and two hard gray eyes. "Now, get away from me, Mudblood," said Draco uncomfortably; "I've touched you enough to last me my whole life."

* * *

Ron heard footsteps as he packed up his homework. He turned around, and was surprised and glad to see Harry. "There you are!" he exclaimed. "What took you so long?"

Harry had a strange and agitated expression on his face. He was carrying the Invisibility Cloak. "I have to go see Dumbledore," he said vaguely, as though he couldn't quite believe it himself.

"Dumbledore?" Ron repeated incredulously. "Why?"

"It's important," Harry answered, and moved past him towards the exit.

"Hold up! I'm coming too!" Harry stopped, and turned to look at his friend. Ron had a look of unwavering determination in his stance. "You've been so weird all year so far; and if you're going to go talk to the Headmaster about it, as I suspect you are, then I want to know. I think I deserve to know what's been eating my best friend like one of Snape's corrosives."

Harry stared at him for a moment, and then smiled slightly and said, "All right." He turned to leave again. Ron became confused, and jogged up behind him.

"Whoa, wait, wait a minute -- if it's so important, shouldn't we get Hermione as well?"

Now that the redhead was closer, he could see evidence of great strain in his friend. Harry frowned, and looked longingly towards the portrait hole. "Do you know where she is?"

"Not really... she went off to the library but that was forty minutes ago."

Harry stood, agonized, for a moment. "I can't wait any longer. I'm sorry, but I just can't take any more time. I have to know."

"What? Know what?"

But Harry was already crawling through the portrait hole.

* * *

Harry didn't speak the whole trip up to Dumbledore's office, save to shush Ron when he tried to ask questions. When they reached the gargoyle, they took off the cloak, and Harry said clearly, "Billiwigs." The gargoyle sprang aside for them, revealing the escalator-like stairway.

"How'd you know that?" Ron asked as they rode up.

"Dumbledore told me at the beginning of the year," Harry replied. "He said if I ever needed to see him..." He ended with a shrug. But something underneath was coiled and tense -- not casual at all. When they reached the top, they could hear muffled sobbing on the other side of the door. Ron was hesitant to knock, but Harry nudged past him and did it.

The door opened of its own accord, and Ron and Harry stepped inside. They were met with a strange scene indeed: Snape was standing by the window, watching as Hermione cried hard into Dumbledore's robes. The Headmaster was comforting her gently, but looked up when the two boys entered. Before anyone could take charge of the situation, Harry stepped forward and spoke.

"Professor, I need to ask you something," he said in a strange, strong voice. "Something... really really important."

Dumbledore gently released Hermione, and sat her down in a large, cushioned chair. All eyes were on Harry. "Ah yes," Dumbledore replied. "Yes. We were wondering when you might be ready."