Here Be Monsters II: Psalm of the Wolf

I grind my aching back against the wall and try not to weep.

Poppy shoved me out the door immediately after revealing the obscenity burned into Harry's back. Even now she is conducting a complete examination, ignoring his loud protests with her usual professional efficiency.

Murderer.

How has this happened? How could it have happened?

I let my fingers writhe together. Oh to have Wormtail's thick neck between my palms!

Sighing I reach for my unopened mail and leaf through it. One of the letters from Hogwarts is from McGonagall, the other from Flitwick. Flitwick? What could Flitwick want? The international letter appears to be a brief note from Hagrid at Beauxbatons. None of them excite my attention enough to read.

Harry's door finally opens and Poppy steps forth, her expression enough to kill a basilisk. What little hope I had remaining fades into darkness.

"Remus, please come downstairs for a moment," she says stiffly, scarcely casting me a glance. That is not good. That is not good at all.

We walk down to the Dursleys' neat-as-a-perfect-little-pin living room and she sits stiffly on the edge of the couch. I take the seat beside her.

"What kind of training have you been doing with Harry, Professor Lupin?" Her use of my formal title is a severe warning sign.

"I'm not sure I'm at liberty to say, Poppy." As trusted as Madam Pomfrey is, she is not a member of the Order.

"I suggest you make yourself at liberty, Remus," she answers, her tone like ice.

I stare at her in amazement. Her expression is sterner than I have ever seen.

"General training in DADA and Charms, mostly." I suppose that's true, and safe enough. "Also Harry has been practicing Occlumency."

"And what kind of physical training?"

"Physical?" I feel a headache gathering between my eyes. "Almost none. I think Tonks has been showing him some very basic maneuvers from first level auror training, but nothing strenuous."

"And Auror Tonks, do you think she would be inclined to be abusive in this training?" Poppy's voice cuts like a whip.

"Tonks?" I am utterly incredulous. "You know her, Poppy!"

"Answer me please."

"Tonks dotes on Harry, Poppy. And she doesn't have it in her to abuse anybody, you know that!" Tonks and I have our differences, but the clumsy young Auror truly does not have a cruel thread in her entire fabric. "Now, if you would..."

"The blisters," she says slowly, "show evidence of being administered by a heated piece of metal, most likely a branding iron."

I almost fall off the couch. "What?"

"In addition," she continues in a professional tone, "Mr. Potter has bruises on his wrists and ankles from the use of restraints and severe inflammation of his palate and throat indicating he has recently been gagged for an extended period. From the swelling in his vocal cords I would surmise he spent most of the time screaming."

My mind slows down. For a few seconds that stretch on for multiple eternities, I feel the world slowly spinning about me. A deep breath rattles into my dry mouth, then out. Finally another manages to fill my lungs. "What?"

"I believe I was quite clear, Remus. Harry has been quite severely tortured in the very recent past."

"How recent?"

"The blisters are extremely fresh. I would say within the last few hours."

"The last few... DOBBY!" My voice goes louder than I had intended. Dobby pops into being simultaneously with Petunia flying in from the kitchen, her face a mask of repugnance and annoyance.

"Yes, Professor Loopy?" Dobby asks eagerly, evidently not at all put out by the volume. Then again, he was probably used to much worse at Malfoy Manor.

"Has Harry been in the house all day?"

"Yes, Professor Loopy." Dobby nods briskly.

"You are sure?"

"Yes, Dobby is sure. Dobby is positive! Dobby would know if Harry Potter had left the house!" I have no doubt that is correct.

"Has anyone else been here today?" I look at both Dobby and Petunia.

"No, Professor Loopy. Harry Potter spoke to Master Albus on his teleofone, and then went to take his nap."

Teleofone? Oh, yes, Minerva mentioned the enchanted cell phones Albus and Harry have been using.

I look at Petunia, who glares back at me. With mounting irritation I ask, "Well?"

"I don't see what business..."

"Harry is hurt quite badly," I say softly, surprised at the control in my own voice, "and that is very much my business."

"WHAT!" That is Dobby. "Harry Potter was hurt while Dobby was on duty! OH BAD DOBBY. BAD, BAD, BAD, BAD, BAD!!!" The little elf's face crumples into a look of utter misery. Falling to his knees, he begins to bang his head against the floor.

"Dobby, quit it!" I yank him up, I confess none too gently. "We don't have time for that bloody nonsense right now!"

"Professor Loopy..."

"Dobby," I say hurriedly, "just get upstairs and don't let Harry out of your sight. Not for one moment; not for any reason!"

"Dobby is going!" The elf suits deed to word by vanishing. I turn my attention back to Pentunia.

"We have done nothing to the boy!" She screeches. "He has ..."

"His name is Harry," I say through gritted teeth. "Now, you can talk to me or you can talk to one of my associates. If you are lucky it will be Alastor, the gentleman with the rather excitable eye. If you are not it will be Professor Dumbledore."

Petunia blanches. "No one has been here today," she says softly, "No one!"

"Are you quite sure, Petunia? If we discover you are lying..."

"No one!" Her face is recovering its color although her eyes remain somewhat wild. "I'll take veritaserum if you like!"

"Veritaserum?" I ask in surprise. "How do you know about that?"

"The same way I knew about dementors," she replies, her tone cold with contempt. "I had a witch for a sister."

I take in a heavy breath and stare at her. "You might try to remember that Lily was your sister. And that Harry is your close relative."

Her eyes narrow and she straightens her back, becoming straight and rigid. "That old man had no right to bring the boy here!" Her tone is thick and hissing, laden with resentment and old hurt. Amazing how a muggle woman can sound so exactly like Severus. "This is my house. It was my life, my family! You had no right!"

"Have you no room for compassion, Mrs. Dursley?" Poppy's voice is low and surprisingly sad. For all her professional briskness, compassion is Poppy's most defining trait.

Sensitivity, however, is not high among Petunia's virtues. She only sneers at Poppy - another good Severus imitation - and says, "Just get the boy well and get him away from here. Keep him away from here." Whirling on her heel, she stalks back into the kitchen.

Poppy shakes her head and sighs softly. "I need to get back to Hogwarts and speak with Professor Snape. I will need his help with these samples, I am sure."

"Very well, Poppy. I will speak with Albus."

"Do that." She rises and makes for the door. "And, Remus?"

"Yes?"

Unexpectedly she gives the tiniest of smiles. "I did not really think it was you or Tonks. However, I have been wrong about people before."

I have an urge to ask her just when that was. Madam Pomfrey's powers of diagnosis are astounding. But perhaps they do not carry over into being a judge of character. In any case, she is gone before I can give voice to my question.

Breathe, Remus.

I do; a deep breath in and out. Slowly, I start to pace.

Breathe.

Another breath. Harry needs me. I must clear my head.

Breathe.

Collect your thoughts. You taught DADA at Hogwarts for Heavens sake!

Breathe.

Slowly, painfully, avenues of thought I haven't used since before Sirius' fall begin to open. It has been only a fortnight, but they feel as if they have been glued shut for a lifetime.

It has been a lifetime.

Breathe.

Logic. I used to pride myself on my reasoning ability. Even before Hogwarts, reasoning and puzzles were things at which I excelled.

Breathe.

Let the pain move aside for a moment. Let the anger fade. Harry needs you.

Breathe.

Sirius had the best arse though.

Laugh. Breathe.

The thing is, now that I think of it, he really did.

Breathe.

The pain fades. It is still there, aching inside me like a rot of the soul, but it is a dull, manageable pain. For the first time in nearly two weeks, my thoughts run in clear lines through a head that aches only a little.

Breathe.

Harry needs me. Be the DADA Professor again.

Breathe. Begin.

Harry bears the marks of recent torture. Yet two witnesses say he has not been out of the house nor has anyone else entered. Nor to my knowledge have the wards alerted Albus of problems.

I close my eyes and imagine a blank sheet of parchment such as that on which we inscribed the Marauder's Map. In my mind, I reach out and mark:

Possibility 1: Petunia and Dobby are mistaken. Unlikely, especially Dobby.

Possibility 2: Dobby and Petunia are lying: Impossible, especially Dobby.

Possibility 3: Dobby and Petunia have been obliviated: Possible, although memory charms are tricky on house-elves I am told.

However, none of these possibilities addresses the problem of the wards layered on the house. An intruder would have had to disable the wards without Albus or anyone else noticing, entered the house, disabled Dobby and Petunia, tortured Harry, then obliviated Dobby and Petunia with remarkable efficiency. And why torture Harry in the house anyway? Why not kill Harry, or take him to Voldemort?

There is also the problem that there is no evidence of the torture process in the house. I would have smelled seared flesh clear from the sidewalk outside. That I can guarantee.

Overall the idea that the wounds were inflicted by literal physical means seems far-fetched. Unfortunately, in the wizarding world there are many non-physical methods of inflicting physical harm.

In my mind's eye my hand places a large scribble atop the parchment, crumples it up, and throws it aside to reveal a blank piece of paper.

Breathe.

Atop this parchment of the mind, I write "Poison?" Unfortunately that runs up against the problem of my limited abilities with potions. I write "Consult Poppy/Severus."

In my mind's eye I turn the page and write "Legilmency?" This seems a very likely possibility. Some forms of mental attack can have physical manifestations. Indeed, there are dark tales of assassins specializing in such practices.

Breathe.

Against this is the fact that Voldemort would likely be leery of confronting the emotions raging within Harry right now. Also, Harry has been practicing his Occlumency, of that I am sure. An assault on a mind that is even partially occluded yields unmistakable signs, none of which Harry seems to exhibit.

Breathe.

A disease sending? Such a spell would have to be very powerful. It would almost certainly run afoul of the protections Albus talks of Harry having here - as indeed would an attack by Legilmency or an attempt to apparate Harry away for torture. Besides, Poppy would certainly have detected any such thing almost immediately.

Breathe.

What else? I mentally turn a page in my notebook and pause. What else? I have heard of this type of thing somewhere else, I am sure.

Breathe.

And then I remember. It was one of the long nights at Grimmauld Place when Sirius could not sleep for worry about Harry and cruel memories of imprisonment. We had been drinking, which was a mistake because Sirius never could handle his liquor. He tended to get depressed. And when a man who has been in Azkaban gets depressed, it isn't pretty.

I heard him die, Remus, I hear Sirius say, I heard him choking. I can see Sirius, his eyes haunted, his hair hanging before around his face in thick, moss-like tendrils. He wanted to die. He dreamed of hanging himself. And he made it happen. He made it happen without even having a rope.

It was one of the prisoners at Azkaban. One who made his inner thoughts manifest on his body. With, of course, the help of a unique breed of creatures.

Dementors.

I write the word on the page in my mind. People who are especially susceptible to dementors will often show physical manifestation. Their nightmares can wreak havoc on their own flesh.

Harry is especially susceptible to dementors. But none of those foul things have come near Privet drive.

Breathe.

There is another possibility. One that is more likely than any of the above. I don't like it though.

Breathe.

Because it means that Harry is going mad.

Breathe.

Time to talk to Harry.

The doorbell rings, and I let out a sigh of pure relief. Now I know what the muggles mean when they say "saved by the bell."

I open the door to reveal - nothing. A moment later, Nymphadora Tonks appears in the hall, stepping out from beneath an invisibility cloak. Her hair and coloring are subdued for once, as are the dark dress robes she is wearing. "Remus," she says surprised, "Why aren't you ready! We'll be late as it is!"

I had forgotten that Tonks would be meeting us here for the trip to the reading. I am profoundly grateful, however. "We have a very bad problem, Tonks."

"When don't we?" she asks lightly. But her smile collapses when she catches sight of the expression on my face.

With short, quick sentences I describe the situation with Harry and Poppy's findings. Tonks does not need her metamorphmagus abilities to change color as I speak. Her complexion shifts from pink to ghastly pale to fierce red to pale again with no need of magical aid.

"Remus, I..." she gulps, "This is horrible." For a moment, I think the young auror is going to burst into tears. Luckily she doesn't, or I would join her.

"Let's go talk to him," I say softly. "But for heaven's sake be careful what you insinuate! We don't need him to go all defensive on us!"

She nods her understanding. Taking a deep breath, I lead the way up the stairs.

"Dobby, leave!" Harry's voice suddenly echoes from one of the half open doors in the upper corridor.

"Dobby has said he will not take his eyes off Harry Potter," the house elf's voice answers evenly, "and Dobby will not."

Exchanging a questioning glance with Tonks, I hasten down the hallway to the door in question. The sight that greets me is almost enough to elicit a laugh. Harry is standing in the middle of a spotless bathroom, his fly partly undone. Dobby is standing placidly nearby, his arms folded, his gentle gaze firmly fixed on Harry with the intent of a hunter sighting his prey.

"Dobby," Harry protests angrily, "I have to use the bathroom!"

"Harry Potter can do that while Dobby is here," the elf replies calmly.

"Dobby, I'm telling you..."

"Gentlemen," I interrupt, a chuckle in my voice despite myself, "Is there something amiss here?"

"Dobby won't go away and let me use the bathroom!" Harry exclaims, his tone having a little of the petulance of an angry eight year old.

"Dobby is only..."

"Dobby," I say quickly, cutting the elf off before he can reveal that he is acting on my instructions, "I appreciate your loyalty and so does Harry. But I think this is one thing he can do by himself."

"Well, if Professor Loopy thinks so."

"I do."

The elf pops out. I give Harry a slight bow and smile, closing the door as I back out. Tonks is holding her hand over her mouth, suppressing a burst of laughter. We walk back to Harry's room, where I sit in his chair while Tonks, mindless of her dress robes, arranges herself cross-legged on the floor.

Harry comes in momentarily, pulling off his shirt and dropping it unceremoniously on the floor. He freezes when he sees the two of us. "Uhm, I need to change," he says.

"Yes, Harry, but we need to talk about something first." I give him what I hope is a warm smile.

He frowns at me, and then flops almost defiantly onto his bed. "What is it?" His tone is sullen.

"It's about the blisters on your back." Poppy healed them, but you can still make them out, very faint under a layer of healing balm.

"It's just a sore!" Harry exclaims angrily, "Why doesn't anybody listen to me?"

"We are listening, Harry." I say softly. "We are just concerned when you hurt, that's all."

He nods sullenly, his eyes clouded.

"Have you been having any dreams lately, Harry?" He's been taking Dreamless Sleep potion, but that is only effective to a point.

He shrugs. "Not that I remember."

"What do you mean by that, Harry?" I probe gently.

He sighs in exasperation. "WHY DOES EVERYBODY KEEP BOTHERING ME ABOUT THIS KIND OF THING? HOW DO YOU FEEL, HARRY? ARE YOU DREAMING, HARRY? HOW ABOUT TELLING ME WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS GOING ON EVERY NOW AND THEN?" His face turns bright red and his fists clench as he bellows his anger.

Then Tonks reaches up slowly and takes his right hand in a gentle grip. She begins to slowly stroke the back of his hand with her fingers, saying nothing as she caresses the scars left by Umbridge's detentions. The anger seems to visibly ebb out of Harry. It is as if the loving attention to his abused skin robs his rage of its force.

"Harry," Tonks says softly, her tone coaxing, "This is very important. What do you mean?"

He sighs again, this time wearily. "Nothing much. I just remember feelings ... impressions. Not really dreams at all."

"And what were those impressions, Harry?" I ask.

"Pain," he says in a dull, distant voice, "Pain and hurt and..."

"And what, Harry?" Tonks asks.

"Shame," he says so softly it is almost another sigh.

"Well, Harry," I say as brightly as I can, "That may or may not mean anything. Let's get ready. We will talk to Professor Dumbledore at the reading."

"Fat lot he cares," Harry mumbles.

"That isn't true, Harry." I answer gently. "Albus and I don't always agree, but he does care very deeply about you."

"Well, he cares about keeping his weapon nice and sharp." Harry snorts and gives a sneer that disturbingly reminds me of his aunt, which means it also reminds me of Severus. "He kept me in the cupboard for ten years so I wouldn't rust."

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My vocal cords are frozen. How can I find words to help this wounded child understand, to help him accept, that growing up in the cupboard might very well have been the only way he could have grown up at all? Oh, I could use logic, and a powerful case could be made from the evidence of Harry's time at Hogwarts. After all, there he was in supposedly the safest place in Wizarding Britain, surrounded by ancient wards and spells, guarded by some of the most powerful wizards in the world - indeed ultimately under the watch of the most powerful wizard in the world.

And yet, still he has been menaced by Deatheaters, basilisks, dementors, and murderous schemers. How could a helpless infant have hoped to survive in such a dangerous world, filled with dark wizards dedicated to, no, obsessed with, killing him? It is a powerful case, indeed, but one that I think would not move the hurt and pain welling inside Harry right now.

Tonks once again comes to my rescue. "Harry," she says softly, still gently stroking his hand, "Dumbledore is very hard to understand. But if there is one thing I do understand about him, it is that he loves you. The entire Order loves you. Well..."

"Except Snape." Harry spits the Potion Master's name out with a tone of vicious hatred that I find truly frightening.

"Now isn't the time to get into a discussion of Severus," I interject. "Let's get changed and on our way. We are going to be very late as it is."

Graves, Garman, and Reed have many important clients. The wards on their offices are thus quite sophisticated and powerful. In addition, they have a flexible link to the floo network, one that can be connected or severed with relative speed and ease. In order to increase security for tonight's proceedings, they have severed the connection and provided portkeys active for only a brief window of time. We barely get changed in time to gather around the quill provided by Hermes. After a few seconds of disorientation, we find ourselves in the firm's lobby.

"Ah, there you are!" Hermes himself is waiting for us, clad thankfully in much more subdued attire than was the case this morning, although he still moves in a small cloud of lilac scent. He comes forward smiling, but pauses in mid-stride and shoots a look of concern at Harry.

I follow his gaze and see with alarm that Harry has gone very pale and appears to be weaving slightly. Portkey travel is not anywhere near as nauseating as floo transport, but it can be unsettling, and Harry is already suffering from the nauseating effects of Poppy's medications. "Hermes, I believe we have need of a loo, please."

"Of course," Hermes exclaims, fluttering like a great black butterfly, "Right behind you, young man! First door to the right!"

Harry doesn't stand on ceremony, but immediately dashes for the indicated doorway. The sound of soft retching can be heard immediately through the door that he leaves half-open.

"Oh, dear," I hear Hermes exclaim, "Professor Dumbledore, it does seem that Mr. Potter took his journey poorly."

I turn back toward Hermes to see Albus advancing across the lobby from a set of sliding double doors set in the opposite wall. Through them I see a large room where the Weasley's seem to be gathered. Molly makes to follow Dumbledore, but Arthur catches her arm and holds her back.

"Remus," Albus says evenly, "We were beginning to be concerned." His eyes are tired - tired and worried. Even worse is the smell that is coming off of him. Under the smell of dust and velvet and lemon drops is the sour smell of an old man's fear. Albus Dumbledore is afraid, and that is enough to make any sane person's bowels turn to water.

"Albus, I'm afraid we need to have a word immediately. I'm sorry, Hermes," I make a gesture of apology to the solicitor, "But it really is absolutely necessary."

"We are here to serve," Hermes says calmly. "Would you care to use one of the smaller meeting rooms?"

"If it is convenient," I answer.

Hermes beckons us to follow him. I quickly tell Tonks to wait for Harry then walk with Albus and the solicitor down a short hallway into an elegant room with an ornate fireplace and a highly polished oak table. I note that none of the paintings in the lobby, hallway, or room are of the wizarding kind. I suppose it would be difficult to conduct confidential and delicate business with portraits listening in.

Hermes backs out of the room, closing the door behind him. Albus goes and takes a chair in front of the empty hearth, while I sit across from him.

"Well, Remus, what is the emergency of the hour?" Albus' eyes twinkle slightly, but only slightly. It seems to me his voice sounds slightly apprehensive. And the smell of fear definitely grows sharper.

"It's Harry."

"That is not surprising," Albus answers lightly. However, despite his tone, the twinkling in his eyes dies immediately.

Taking a deep breath, I relate what I saw, Poppy's findings, and my own reasoning.

Once, when I was a child, my father took me to a very boring banquet. I spent the entire evening watching an ice sculpture in the middle of the table melt. It seems to me now that Albus collapses just as that sculpted wizard did long ago, but in an instant rather than over the space of long hours. He seems to draw into himself, loosing the ability to sustain his own weight, slumping and melting all at once. His eyes ... his eyes are like raw wounds. And the sour smell suddenly turns bitter. The smell of fear giving way to something I thought I would never sense from the headmaster - despair.

When he speaks his voice is flat and rough, filled with naked pain. And the words he speaks are those that I had dreaded to say to myself standing in the living room of Privet Drive, the words that I had prayed I would not hear. "Stigmata Arcanum."

I groan, rubbing my temples. "Do you really think so, Albus?"

"I think there is no real doubt."

Stigmata Arcanum is a condition little spoken of among wizards, for it is considered shameful in the extreme. Sometimes when a wizard is under extreme mental duress, is indeed in the grips of intense mental illness, he needs no dementors to wreak manifestations on his own body. The appearance of the stigmata once labeled a wizard as pariah. Now most wizards view them as a sure sign of insanity.

"Is there any hope for Harry then, do you think?" I hear my own voice nearly cracking.

To my surprise Albus straightens and seems to gain strength. The bitter odor recedes. There is even a hint of a twinkle returning to his eyes. "Remus, I'm surprised at you! You of all people should know better than to credit every tale you hear about arcane conditions!"

"Then the stigmata are not a sign of insanity?" I ask with relief.

"Far from it. They are much more common than is usually supposed. They are even known to occur among muggles."

"Yes, but I thought those cases were of religious significance."

"That is a controversial subject. In any case, as I said the stigmata are much more common that most people think. You don't hear much about them because families keep them hidden out of shame and fear and ignorance. Most people who suffer from them, I am given to understand, are indeed desperately ill, but far from insane. If Harry has indeed been poisoned, as you believe, that condition would lower his defenses and make the manifestation of the stigmata even more likely."

I smile in relief. "Then we need not worry about putting Harry in St. Mungo's yet."

"Oh, Harry will need skilled help, of that I have no doubt." Albus' voice is suddenly leaden. "But St. Mungo's is the last place he needs to be right now."

"I thought you had great respect for the Healers there." I am surprised at Dumbledore's hesitation.

"Well, there is some question about Deatheater influence among the psychiatrists."

"I did not realize that." I am in fact stunned to hear it.

"It is far from proven, but you see the danger." Albus grimaces.

"I do indeed."

Dumbledore spreads his hands and smiles sadly. "I have made some inquiries about acquiring other help for Harry. But in the meantime it is very important he stay away from St. Mungo's. And it is also very important the Ministry hear nothing of this. I unfortunately have some disturbing news of my own. Do you remember about the Thrall Decrees from your History of Magic lessons?"

"Yes," I say slowly, confused. The smell of fear coming from Albus has suddenly become much stronger again. "They were decrees from the Danish period. Someone involved in a prophecy could be named a Thrall, or slave, of prophecy. That person then forfeited all rights. In effect they became a weapon or tool under the law rather than a person."

"Very good. I'm glad someone managed to stay awake during Professor Binns' lectures."

I shrug. "It wasn't because of the subject. That was when Sirius and James used to do their plotting. What do the thrall decrees have to do with anything?"

"I have strong reason to believe the Ministry intends to invoke these decrees with regard to Harry."

It's a good thing the table is well-lacquered. Otherwise my fingernails would leave deep scratches in the surface.

"How...?" My question ends in a strangled and incoherent grunt.

"I talked with Amelia Bones today. It seems that Percy Weasley has requisitioned some old law books from her office - the only books in the Ministry complex dealing with the thrall decrees."

"Bastard."

"Oh, his parentage is not in doubt," Albus smiles coldly, "Nor do I suspect the idea originates with him. I think it likely comes from his predecessor as Senior Secretary."

"Dolores Umbridge."

"Precisely. She and Fudge have both been in St. Mungo's the last few days. I am sure she probably took advantage of her proximity to press the idea on him."

I issue a low growl. "That explains this." I produce the letter from Percy and toss it to Albus. He reads it in silence, his face a stony mask.

I rub my temples again. "How would the Ministry even know about the prophecy, Albus?"

"They don't know about its contents, but its existence is recorded in the catalogs of the Unspeakables. It did sit on the shelf in the Department of Mysteries for more than sixteen years, after all. I'm sure that when they interrogated the captured Deatheaters they were told that Voldemort desired to obtain a prophecy from the Department of Mysteries. A quick look through the catalog would reveal which one it must have been."

"So they just put two and two together and deduced that whatever is going on with Voldemort and Harry must relate to that prophecy," I say.

"Precisely." Albus sighs. "Not a very good legal case for invoking the decrees, but enough perhaps for them to have Harry seized, particularly if they cast it as 'security precautions.'"

"As they tried to do yesterday," I observe.

"Precisely." Albus leans forward and fixes me with his powerful gaze. "And if they learn about the Stigmata Arcanum, public opinion will support them seizing Harry as insane. Once he is in their hands, they can invoke the decrees all the more easily."

"After all," I say bitterly, "What better story than that poor Harry has been driven insane by the power of the prophecy?"

"What indeed?" Albus slumps again.

Breathe. Never mind that your lungs are cold as an ice storm. Breathe.

"I have arranged," Albus says slowly, "To send Harry out of Britain, if necessary. The Countess Elizaveta has said she will give him shelter at Durmstrang."

Breathe. "Grindelwald's daughter? Albus, are you sure?!"

"I am not sure of anything, Remus. I only do what must be done, as I have done so often before." He looks old, and tired, and defeated.

"I understand, Albus."

He lifts his head and looks at me, his eyes piercing and unusually shadowed. "How is he, Remus? How is Harry?"

"You have spoken with him, Albus." I shift uncomfortably in the chair, trying vainly to evade his gaze.

I hear a rattling noise. I look up and see that Albus has dropped what appear to be a string of beads onto the table. "These," he says, "are linked to the wards at Privet Drive. There are wards to tell me if Harry is ill, wards to tell me if he is in pain. There are wards for depression. I have had Minerva add wards for suicidal emotions. And do you know what they tell me about Harry?"

I stare at him silently.

"Nothing." His tone is bitter. "They tell me little bits and pieces of fact. But they tell me absolutely nothing about Harry. And a five minute phone conversation doesn't tell me much more. Please, how is he?"

Breathe. "He is tired, and sick, and poisoned. He is depressed and worried and I think, most of all, angry."

"Angry at me?" His tone is even, but his eyes remain tragic. I catch a hint of bitter despair once again.

"Among others, yes." I take a deep breath. "He is bitter. Bitter over Sirius, bitter over fate, bitter over his life. And who, in truth, can blame him?"

Albus buries his face in his hands. There is definitely once again the odor of despair. For a long moment, we sit in utter silence. Then he speaks, not raising his head. "What could I have done, Remus? I had to keep him safe. Despite our best efforts, our most powerful spells, both the Potters and the Longbottoms fell. Only the Dursleys, odious as they are, offered him the protection he needed."

"Yes, Albus," I answer, "But at what cost?"

"That is a question I ask myself more often than you can have guessed." Albus replies, looking up.

"I know you say he must spend a minimum amount of time at the Dursleys' for the protections to hold," I venture, "But does it have to be now? Couldn't we take him out of there and let him come back another time?"

"I'm afraid not," Albus says. "The magic is both powerful but also curiously

fragile. It must be reinforced regularly. It is true," his voice takes on a grim tone, "That if the protections would be much stronger and more flexible if the Dursleys had a more positive attitude toward Harry."

"If they loved him, you mean."

"Yes." The set of Albus' mouth is stern. "As it is the foundation of the protections is so shaky that they have almost fallen of their own on several occasions."

"Is that why you never intervened at Privet Drive to try and make things better for Harry?"

"Yes." Albus' shoulders heave and fall as if he is suppressing tears. "For the protections to function the Dursleys must willingly accept Harry. I feared if I pressured them they would withdraw their assent, or else become so resentful that the protections would fail in any case."

"But you did ask us to threaten them this summer." I observe.

"Yes. It was a grave risk, as is withdrawing Harry so early. He really should remain for at least thirty days. But as you say, that would be buying safety at a terrible cost."

"Merlin. Why couldn't Lily have had a sibling that loved her?" I groan.

"That is another question I have asked myself more often than you can know." Albus pauses. "I have decided to allow Ron and Hermione to come to Harry at Privet Drive tomorrow."

I smile. "That will be very good. I was afraid Harry would go..." I catch myself before I say "go mad." Considering the situation, it would not be appropriate.

"I have also decided to have Alastor assist with the guard duty." Albus continues.

I nod in assent and understanding. Moody may once have been a great Auror, but now he is crippled and he did not acquit himself well at the Ministry, getting knocked out with the first stunner. This way we can keep him off the front line while allowing him to save face.

"Albus," I say slowly, "I do not want to leave Harry, but if you need me in Diagon Alley..."

"No!" Albus barks the negative so suddenly and decisively I almost jump. He smiles slightly, and some of his old twinkle returns. "I think you are needed where you are."

"If you are sure, Albus."

"I am. Now, let us join the others. We will speak again after the reading. Oh," he stops and fixes me with a grave look, "I don't think now is the time to talk to Molly about the stigmata."

"No, Albus, I don't think that would be a good idea, either."

We find Hermes waiting for us in the main lobby, along with two other men in sober robes. The elder of them comes forward and greets Albus with a tight smile. "Albus, it's so good to see you again. I wish it was under better circumstances."

"Yes, Hermes, so do I. Remus," Albus half turns to me, "This is my old friend, Hermes Reed."

By that I take it I am in the presence of Hermes Reed the First. He greatly resembles one of the owls his firm employs. He is gray, gaunt, and grave, with a long, sad face carved in deep lines. He takes my hand firmly.

"I am pleased to meet you, Professor Lupin," he intones. "I believe you know my grandson. May I present my son, Hermes Reed, Jr.?"

This Hermes is shorter than the other two, with a balding head and a bull neck. He also takes my hand and gives it three swift pumps.

"Well," the eldest solicitor says, looking at his grandson, "Are we ready, Mr. Reed?"

"I believe we are. What do you say, Mr. Reed?" He smiles at his father.

"I am ready if you are, Mr. Reed." The bullish man gives a small grin to his own father.

I realize that we have been privileged to witness one of those little ceremonies that are the foundation of family life. I also realize that, against all odds, these three varied individuals really are quite fond of one-another. After my dreary conversation with Albus, this heart-warming display is most welcome.

The room into which the Reeds lead us is furnished with heavy leather furniture. Harry is sitting on a couch flanked by Ginny Weasley on his left and Hermione Granger on his right. Ron lounges in a large chair on Hermione's other side, looking half-worried and half-resentful. Tonks is in the matching chair on the outer side of Ginny Weasley, wearing an oddly similar expression. Molly and Arthur are seated on a matching couch across from the youths. Albus and I take chairs to either side of them.

The Reeds proceed to a large desk stacked with papers. Hermes the Third sits directly behind the desk, his father and grandfather on either hand.

"Unless there is an objection," Hermes says in his pleasant tenor, "I will dispense with the legal boilerplate and proceed directly to the messages and bequests."

There is only silence. Hermes quite correctly takes this as consent. Picking up a piece of parchment, he begins to read:

I, SIRIUS ORION BLACK, in accordance with the laws and regulations of the Ministry for Magic of Great Britain, and within the metes and bounds thereof, do hereby ordain the following last will and testament.

To REMUS LUPIN, know that I have loved you as much as any friend could love another. That our time together was cut so cruelly short I will regret for all eternity, as I know you will as well. Although it is little enough, I leave you the sum of one hundred thousand galleons, with the hope that it will ease your path of the unjust pain you have suffered. More importantly I leave you the most precious thing in my possession, the guardianship of HARRY JAMES POTTER, my godson, who has been the only bright thing in a very dark life these past many years. I also leave you the property known as Number Seven Dawnhope Gardens, in the City of Dublin. This property was acquired by my mother as an investment a few weeks before her death and to my knowledge has never been touched or sullied by the family Black. Although I have never visited the house, I am told that it is very pleasant and that, like 12 Grimmauld Place, it is unplottable. It is my dear wish that you may one day make a home for Harry and yourself there, far from the foul memories you both carry. I go to my grave with the hope that the two people I love most in the world may find joy and peace in each other.

To ARTHUR AND MOLLY WEASLEY, I leave my gratitude for the love you have shown my darling Harry. You and your family have provided him with the support and safety he has needed so badly through so many dangers and so much pain. I name you the guardians of HARRY JAMES POTTER in the event that REMUS LUPIN should for any reason be unable to fulfill his duties. I also leave you and your family the sum of fifty thousand galleons in a small effort at expressing my gratitude.

To RONALD WEASLEY and HERMIONE GRANGER I leave my respect and profound gratitude for the love and friendship they have given my Harry. To each of you I leave the sum of ten thousand galleons, to be used for your own personal needs and pleasures.

To NYMPHADORA TONKS I want to say that you have been the only one of my relatives to have earned my love and regard these many years. To you I leave the sum of twenty-five thousand galleons.

Finally, to HARRY JAMES POTTER, I leave you with the profoundest love I can give. No father could have treasured a child as much as I have treasured you. I joyfully wait the long distant day when you may join me again, in a place where I may finally show your parents what a wonderful son they have. In the meantime I give you the remainder of my worldly goods, possessions, and property, detailed in full in the appendices to this document. This consists in general of the property known as Twelve Grimmauld Place, otherwise known as the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black; the contents of Gringotts Vaults 324, 891, and 783; and various properties, both corporate and real, both Wizarding and Muggle, located throughout Great Britain and Europe. It is my wish that you make Twelve Grimmauld Place fully your own. Let all reminders of my foul family be erased, let the Most Noble House of Potter be created on the ashes of the Black legacy. Should you find it too painful to continue possession of the House, I understand. I only ask that you allow our mutual friends to make use of the property as long as they require, and that you then have the House completely demolished and the lot sold with proceeds donated to an appropriate charity of your choosing. Just make sure the donation is in your name, not that of my family.

I also direct that ALBUS DUMBLEDORE examine all contents of Gringotts Vault 783 prior to HARRY JAMES POTTER taking possession. ALBUS DUMBLEDORE is to use what means he finds best to render the contents of said vault safe for my godson or any other innocent. In the event that any item cannot be rendered safe, I direct ALBUS DUMBLEDORE to destroy the item if practicable, or to remove it to some undisclosed location for safekeeping if not.

I have enclosed personal letters for all of you. I hope that these better convey the messages I wish you to understand.

SIRIUS ORION BLACK

Hermes' voice fades with a little cough. I am blinking back tears. Across from me Harry is staring hard at the floor. Hermione and Ginny have each grabbed one of his hands. As I watch Ron rises and places a hand on his shoulder.

There is complete silence. Sirius would have liked that.

He always did like to get the last word.