Harry Potter And The Fall Of Childhood

Chapter 15: In The Spirit

Harry had once, in a rare contemplative moment, candidly admitted to himself how damned lucky he was that he had happened to end up in Ron Weasley's compartment on the Hogwarts express. He and Ron were everything school friends should be, equally fascinated by sports, bewildered by girls, and apt to run at the barest mention of homework. They got along beautifully most of the time, able to understand each other without too much excess babbling, and comfortable in nearly twenty-four hour companionship. It was Harry's belief that the many differences in their personalities were what made their friendship work so well. Ron tended to curse first, plan later, while Harry erred more on the side of caution. Ron was a volatile person in everything he did, his moods and preferences and opinions vacillating along the spectrum between extremes with an ease that left Harry a little dizzy sometimes. On the other hand, Harry thought of himself as a little more predictable and steady on, the sort of person who angered slowly and not often, but who also didn't laugh nearly as frequently or with such abandon as Ron.

And perhaps most important of all, Ron had a hard time constructing sentences that weren't all variously pitched grunts and mumbles before nine O'clock in the morning, while Harry was almost invariably up and dressed before seven.

Harry blamed the Dursleys for his habit. It had been drummed into him early that he had better be down in the kitchen making breakfast, preferably with breakfast already oozing grease on the table, by the time the rest of the family came down. It was the sort of habit he suspected would never entirely fade away, especially when he started with early morning Quidditch and more recently, running. He didn't have much trouble rousing himself, and wasn't prone to stumbling about or muzziness in the morning.

It was rather surprising, then, for Harry to open his eyes the morning after the ball and immediately have to shut them again against the blast of mid-morning sunlight. He let out an involuntary moan, curling on his side and burrowing under his pillow. The piercing rays (why the bloody blazes did it have to be sunny the one day he wanted to sleep in? This was ruddy Scotland, for God's sake), had smarted his eyes and set his head to pounding. And the general hubbub in the dorm room wasn't helping. He could hear Pig squawking, Dean and Seamus engaged in a pillow fight which seemed to involve various barnyard animal imitations, and Ron muttering frantically as he threw things into his trunk and raced about like a headless Skrewt.

"Shut up, alla ya!" Harry bellowed into his pillow, gratified when at least Ron ceased in his racket.

"You're up!" His friend said, distressingly loud as he leaned over Harry's bed. "Bloody hell mate, I thought you were going to sleep straight through until we left."

"Left?" Harry asked, still not rolling over.

"Home? Holidays? Ring any bells?" Ron asked, reaching for and beginning to tug on Harry's pillow. "Come on, get up. You won't want to miss lunch as well as breakfast."

Harry lifted his head just enough to give his friend one of his best, though admittedly unpracticed, withering looks. "Bugger. Off." He said succinctly, before very carefully setting his head back down. Even that small movement made his vision swim a little and the pounding behind his eyes escalate to a roar which almost drowned out the sounds of the world around him. But unfortunately, not quite.

"Oy, Harry!" Seamus called from across the room. "You look like shit. Why didn't you tell us you'd gotten some fire whiskey? I thought we were mates."

"He didn't have fire whiskey," Ron said, a note of concern creeping into his voice. "Harry, do you have a headache?"

"No," Harry replied, grimacing as Ron sighed in relief. "I have a head agony. A head torment. A head--"

"Do you need me to get Madam Pomfrey? Or Dumbledore?"

Harry peeked out of his nice dark haven again, seeing Ron poised between their beds, looking ready to run for help at the slightest provocation. "Not that sort of head agony," He said grumpily, slowly easing into a sitting position and looking around through slitted eyes. The room was a disaster area, with books and quills and old socks littering the floor and every available surface. Seemed Ron wasn't the only one who hadn't started packing for the holidays yet.

"You sick?" Neville asked, turning from his trunk and regarding Harry. "Seamus' right. You do look like, er, you don't feel too well."

"That's not what I said," Seamus muttered rebelliously.

"Don't know," Harry said, stretching experimentally. "Don't think so. The rest of me feels fine, it's just my head." He rubbed at his temples, frowning as that didn't really help. "Probably just allergies or something weird like that."

Dean and Seamus shrugged sympathetically and went back to packing. Ron looked dubious, but Harry just gave him a clueless look and he too gave it up. "Just be sure you see Madam Pomfrey if you don't get better," He said over his shoulder.

"You get more like your mother every day," Harry observed dryly.

Ron looked momentarily horrified, then grinned unrepentantly and ruffled Harry's hair, much to his annoyance. "Yes, dear," He said in an overly saccharine tone.

Harry sat in his bed for a few moments, waiting for the world to realign itself with up facing up and down facing down. He was rather comfortable where he was, and he really didn't have anywhere to go, so he didn't feel any great urge to get up. Aside from his homework and the lessons with Moody (he really needed to ask Moody when and where and all that) his vacation stretched ahead, blissfully uncluttered with classes and Quidditch. Harry sighed softly, pleased with this realization. He could just camp out in his bed for a bit longer, under the covers where it was nice and toasty and not let the unforgiving winter chills that seemed to emanate from the very castle walls have a crack at him.

Harry watched the bustle around him, smiling fondly as the other four boys dove under beds, dragging out piles of laundry and old assignments, tossing each other lost items and generally making the mess worse. Neville was looking particularly frantic, turning this way and that as he snatched things up, apparently determined not to forget anything that he would possibly need. Harry frowned a moment, confused by a niggling reminder, something he had been worried about...Oh, yes.

"Say, Neville," He called, leaning forward and wincing as his head protested. "Didn't see you at the ball last night."

"Hey, you're right," Dean agreed, turning to them. "Where were you, Neville? The right girl didn't say yes?" Dean looked sympathetic.

"Er, no." Neville shuffled a little embarrassedly, studying his shoes. "I didn't ask anybody. I, er, decided not to go."

"Why ever not?" Seamus asked, looking appalled. "Neville, it was a ball. A legitimate excuse to gawk at girls when they're all tarted up and to get close to them and do the dance of looooove."

Dean smacked him, rolling his eyes as Seamus demonstrated with a suggestive wiggle of his hips. "Don't mind him," He said to Neville. "He's slap-happy. Misses his mum, he does."

Neville smiled a little, but didn't laugh. Over Seamus' indignant protests that he did no such thing, he said quietly enough for only Harry to hear, "I stayed here. Figured I should, er, study."

Harry frowned, a bit confused. That seemed ridiculous, something not even Hermione would do. Neville had always put a significant amount of time into his work, but this was a little much.

But something told him not to ask in front of all the boys, that Neville would be embarrassed and wouldn't answer him with that trusting candor which they had shared a few times over the past couple months. Harry filed the incident away, resolving to ask Neville as soon as he got a chance, which probably wouldn't be until they all came back for the next term.

Neville turned back to his trunk, his head hunched low between his shoulder blades in an unconscious defensive stance that Harry knew he himself slipped into on occasion. The other boys did likewise, the general furor subsiding as one after another wished the room in general a happy Christmas and scrambled out to the common room or the entrance hall.

"Carriages should be here soon," Ron observed when he and Harry were the last two present. "I should go."

"Happy Christmas," Harry said, making the effort to smile at his friend.

"You too." Ron hesitated, looking suddenly nervous. "Er, are you sure you'll be--"

"Yes," Harry said, rolling his eyes. "I'll be just fine here. Snuffles should be around, remember?"

"Say hi to him for me," Ron said, looking relieved. "And, er, remember to eat."

"That's Hermione's line," Harry shot back. He was unprepared for Ron's self-conscious grin to fade and for a serious expression take its place. The redhead crossed to Harry's bed, sitting gingerly on the foot and leaning back against one of the posts.

"Er, Harry," He began, looking torn between embarrassment and determination, "I sort of wanted to talk to you about that. Your eating, I mean."

"Oh?" Harry asked, easing into a sitting position and leaning against his end of the bed. The pounding behind his eyes was slowly subsiding, and his vision was beginning to make sense again. "What's up?"

"You, uh, you've been looking better," Ron said, coughing nervously. "Especially last night. Dress robes show more than school ones, you know, and you really looked alright."

"Yeah," Harry agreed, frowning as he had an uncomfortable, tip of his tongue feeling, like he was forgetting something that he really should remember. He shrugged it off as Ron continued.

I just wanted to make sure, it's just going to be you up here this holiday and all--"

"I'll eat, don't worry," Harry assured, touched. It was a sort of violation of the boys coolness code to show this much concern and emotion, and Ron's genuine worry was something to marvel at. "I'll eat my vegetables and even some meat. I won't have lost a pound when you get back."

"Good," Ron said, standing decisively. "I was worried about you for a month or two there, but now I think you'll be alright."

"Thank you, Doctor Weasley."

"Oh, belt up," Ron retorted, then hesitated with what could have been embarrassment or nervousness. "Er, you didn't know this, but Hermione and I have been reporting to Madam Pomfrey. Just what you ate and how you were looking," He hurried to add, seeing Harry's irritated look. "She'll be really happy when I stop by there before I leave and tell her how well you're doing."

"You do that," Harry muttered, a bit morosely. He'd gotten so accustomed to thinking of his eating problems only when somebody bugged him about them, usually Hermione. He hadn't recently, and never had, he realized, ever really considered it with all of his concentration as more than a nuisance and something for everybody else to worry about. He had been so sure that it had to be a curse back when he had collapsed, but now as Ron waved cheerily and left, promising to convey Harry's holiday wishes to Hermione, he wasn't so sure. Maybe Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey had been right, maybe it had just been Anorexia, or something else that had more to do with him than any curse or poison. Those strengthening potions did do miracles, after all, making him feel energized and ready for anything the day had to offer. And he could objectively study himself and say that the vitamin supplement potion had been working too. The odd, pale yellow cast to his skin had melted away, replaced with his normal winter color. He felt more healthy now than he had a few months ago.

Harry ran a hand down his own body, following the contour of chest, still too narrow for his liking, to ribs and stomach. He paused, tracing the line of his waist all the way around, and smiled in satisfaction. He really had gained weight, Ron was right.

Harry frowned as his headache seemed to intensify, moving back to settle in the back of his skull, right above his spine. He sighed, bending his neck this way and that and attacking the spot vigorously with his fingers. The pain eased quickly as he concentrated on it, and he spent a few minutes just relaxing after the onslaught.

He got up shortly thereafter, deciding there was no use in spending the entire day languishing in bed. His headache had eased to a bearable level, and he figured some fresh air and maybe some flying would take care of the rest. Maybe somebody, probably one of the twins, had slipped a little surprise into the punch, or Harry's specifically. He'd never had a hangover before, but this did sort of feel like he supposed one should.

Shrugging, he dressed and grabbed his Firebolt, then clattered out of the empty dorm and down the stairs.

***

Harry grinned as he ducked under his invisibility cloak and stepped out of the portrait hole. It really was much easier to sneak around when the vast majority of the students were home, and the common room and hallways were mostly deserted. But considering his errand, it was probably better to be careful.

Harry sighed contentedly as he made his way through the halls. It had been a lovely day, even with that morning headache. The carriages had already left by the time he made it down to the entrance hall, and he had the Quidditch pitch entirely to himself for a blissful few hours. He had completely abandoned himself to flying, turning loops and corkscrews, diving and rolling about the towers and battlements of Hogwarts with childlike abandonment. He had skipped lunch entirely, only making an appearance at dinner. As in years past, the four house tables had been abandoned in favor of a single one for the staff and few remaining students. Harry couldn't be sure, but he thought even more students had left than usual. He had spent an enjoyable meal chatting with Professor Flitwick, and surreptitiously feeding his pork chop to the Krup the professor was taking care of for a friend.

Moody had not been present at the dinner table, nor had Harry seen him at all the rest of the day. He figured, though, that it would be best to straighten out the details of these extra lessons early on, for he suspected that they would be a deal of work.

He frowned as he rounded the corner to the corridor where Moody's office and classroom were situated. He wasn't sure the professor would be in his office, and beyond that and his classroom, Harry hadn't the foggiest notion of where the professor could be. He once again cursed the loss of the Marauder's Map last year, though if anybody were to confiscate it he was glad it was Dumbledore. He figured the Headmaster could probably make good use out of it if anybody could, but it really was a shame to lose it. Bloody useful it was.

He was relieved then to have his gentle knock answered with Moody's brusque "Yes?"

Harry opened the door and stuck his head around it, knowing Moody would be able to see him, then entered as the professor beckoned.

"Good, Potter," The man greeted. "I was going to send you an owl, but this is much better. No, just leave it on, it's fine." He added, waving away Harry's fumblings with his cloak. "Fascinating things, invisibility cloaks."

"Useful, too," Harry agreed, taking the seat before Moody's desk. From the amused tilt to the professor's lips, Harry could tell that Moody knew or suspected the often elicit use he had put the cloak to.

"I'm sure," Moody agreed. "I imagine you've made good use of it. Now," He sat forward, his wand sliding back up his sleeve after performing a complicated silencing and securing charm on the room, "About these lessons. You will report to me tomorrow and every day after, except for Christmas Eve and day, at eight o'clock sharp. We will lunch together and continue working straight through until dinner."

"What will we be doing?" Harry asked, a little taken aback by the full days work Moody proposed. He'd imagined these lessons as just a few hours here and there over the next few weeks, not a full-time occupation.

"Oh, many things," Moody replied casually. "Just bring yourself, your wand, and a good attitude to the room at the end of the third floor corridor on the left. I hear you know precisely where I'm talking about? Yes, you would."

"Yes sir," Harry agreed, rising as Moody did so. "I'll be there tomorrow morning."

"Be sure of it," Moody agreed, then reached out a hand to stop Harry as he turned to leave. "And Potter? Be sure to get a good night's sleep tonight, and to eat a good breakfast. You'll need the energy."

On that slightly worrisome note, Harry left and headed back for the common room. The idea rankled with his usual impulses, but he figured he should probably get a start on his holiday assignments. With the rigorous schedule Moody had set he suspected he wouldn't have the time, nor the energy, to work well for most of the holiday.

Some holiday.

Harry pushed that thought away and hurried on through the darkened halls. He had no right to complain. Moody was, after all, taking time out of his own holidays to specially instruct him, and such instruction could only help him in the long run. He had just been looking forward to the solitude and quiet of the holidays, without any of his friends, and only a few other Gryffindors he barely knew for company. But that appeared to be out, and Harry resolved to make the best of it.

***

Harry ran lightly up the stairs and swung left into the third floor corridor. He smiled a little as he slowed and approached the door at the end. There would be no Fluffy this time, (Hagrid was batty, really, Fluffy?) and no trapdoor or man-eating plants or violent chess pieces or poisons. At the time, of course, he had been terrified, but now he could look back and feel a swell of pride in Ron, Hermione, and even himself for the brave Gryffindors they had been, and for the amazing work they had been able to do together. It was moments like those, with a Mountain Troll bearing down on them or Hermione lying still and silent in the hospital wing, that had bound them together so closely. It was the inviolate glue of reliance, of knowing that when push came to shove they would all be right there in the thick of it, each willing to--

The knife caught him on the left side, plunging with vicious force between his ribs and into his guts. Harry was flung back against the door he had just entered, his weight slamming it shut and plunging the room at the end of the third floor corridor into impenetrable darkness. He let out a startled, pained cry, his heart giving an almighty lurch and his mind reeling in agony. He scrabbled in his cloak pocket, touched smooth wood, lost it, then had it in his hand. He cast a sloppy shielding charm, one Hermione had insisted he learn for the tournament last year, then bent nearly double to protect his still screaming gut.

He tentatively probed the spot, expecting to feel it sticky with blood, or worse, to have to pull a knife out of himself. He wondered briefly, with the panicky fast thoughts of someone running on adrenaline where Moody was, if Harry's attacker had taken out the Auror as well. If so, Harry didn't see how he, a fifth year with a pretty average academic record, had any hope of defending himself.

But his robes were smooth and dry. There was no blood, no knife, nothing at all except the continued pulse of agony. Which meant--

"Finite Encantidum!" Harry cried, turning his wand on himself. It might not work, for any curse virulent enough to make him think he had been stabbed, to make him *feel* the blade cleaving his insides, would probably not respond to a simple cancellation spell. It smacked of dark magic, and in Harry's limited experience dark magic didn't always behave nicely and politely like a simple Lumos spell. But he slumped in relief as the pain left, leaving behind a dull pulsing ache which in comparison was quite bearable. He realized distantly that his hands were shaking, his vision blurring with little spots of gray.

His wand slid from loosened fingers, clattered to the floor. Harry bent to retrieve it, his momentary relief replaced with renewed fear. Whoever had attacked him was still out there and he was a sitting duck right here in front of the door, with only his wobbly shield for help.

Harry began to edge to his right, sticking close to the wall. As cover went, it was pretty useless, but Harry instinctively knew that he needed to stay close to it, but that safety also lay in movement. He had for a second considered bolting right back out the door he had entered through, running like hell until he found a professor. But he had just as quickly realized that whoever was in here with him could easily follow, and who knew what sort of damage he could do along the way to any other students about. Or he could disappear as suddenly as he had appeared, and then they'd never know who he was, or just as importantly, how he had gotten into the castle in the first place.

Harry let out a quiet breath as his right shoulder encountered a wall perpendicular to the one he was sliding along. With his back to the corner he felt more secure, though logically he knew this wasn't the smartest place to stay. He jumped nearly out of his skin as a flash of yellow light arrowed from the center of the room and struck where Harry assumed the door was. There was an unsettling fizzling sound, and then the curse, whatever it had been, spent itself against the door and disappeared.

Harry brought his wand up, firing off a leg locker curse, the first thing to come to mind, in the direction where he hoped his attacker stood. He waited a moment for any sound of alarm, perhaps a curse or a stumble, but there was nothing. Harry had just concluded that he had missed when he flung himself to the floor, gasping in fright as the corner where he had been sheltering erupted in a flare of malevolent purple light. He couldn't identify that curse either, which probably meant it was dark magic, or something really advanced and nasty.

Harry rolled to his left, back towards the door, supposing his attacker would expect him to keep going in the same direction, not double back. As he slunk along he silently cursed himself for not moving, for of course if he could track the path of a curse, so could his attacker. He gripped his wand tightly in one hand, keeping the other on the wall as he inched along and waited for something, anything, to tell him where his assailant was hiding. He couldn't cast another shielding charm on himself, for the only ones he knew were stationary, fixed on a location, not a person. That was more advanced magic, something most seventh years never even grasped. But he sure could use one now.

Harry strained all his senses, listening for the slightest sound, even wrinkling his nose in an attempt to sniff out any activity. For a moment he swore he could almost *taste* magic on the air, a spicy tang which curled his tongue and warmed his chest. But that was silly, you couldn't taste magic, he was just psyching himself out in this silent, sightless world. Besides, if his attacker were casting any spells, he would most certainly know, as they would have either struck him already or impacted the walls in a visible or audible display as they expended their energy. But there was nothing, and Harry once again considered running as he reached the door. He crouched a moment, then rose slowly to his feet, wand stretched out before him in one hand, the other hovering uncertainly over the door handle.

He had no chance to run, no time to duck as he had before. The spell came almost literally out of nowhere, catching Harry full in the face. The last thing he saw was an over bright flare of crimson light, and his last frantic realization was that somehow, his attacker had managed to creep up to within a yard of him without his even noticing. Then the red gave way to black, and the silence engulfed him completely.

***

Harry came around slowly, painfully. He lay a moment, completely disoriented, a little baffled by the fact that his four-poster had apparently turned into stone, and wasn't nearly as comfortable that way. He was twisted a little awkwardly on his side, and something was poking painfully into his back. He pawed irritably at whatever it was, his hand closing around something slender and wooden...

Harry shot up, wand clutched before him as he looked frantically around for a target, an Expelliarmus ready on his lips.

"No need for that," A familiar voice said, sounding slightly amused. Harry snapped around, wand pointed unerringly between Professor Moody's eyes. He blinked a moment, eyes flicking in confusion from the professor, who didn't look in the slightest hurt, then around the well-lit room, its contours unmistakably proclaiming it the same one he had just done battle in.

"What?" He asked, a little stupidly, his wand drooping in his hand.

"Easy, Mr. Potter," Moody said, straightening from his relaxed slouch on the edge of a table, "There's no need to worry. Everything is fine."

"But there was somebody--I thought you were--"

"I'm perfectly alright," Moody said. "Except for a bit singed. That leg locker of yours came pretty close."

"You--" Harry gawped a moment longer, then made a conscious effort to close his mouth and organize his thoughts. "You attacked me?"

"Of course," Moody replied. "I always say the most effective way to learn is hands-on."

"But that first curse," Harry protested, one hand going to touch the still tender area. "That was dark magic, wasn't it?"

Moody sighed, appearing sad for a moment. "It was," He agreed. "A quite virulent curse, appropriately called the Coltellus Curse." Off of Harry's blank look, he explained. "It fools the nerves into thinking you have been stabbed. Quite painful."

"Yes," Harry agreed, tenderly touching his stomach. "If it's just an illusion, why does it still hurt?"

"You've been put under the Cruciatus Curse, yes?" Moody asked, then continued as Harry grimaced and nodded. "I'm sure you felt sore all over afterwards. It's the same concept here. Nerves were stimulated by the curse to produce pain, and they continue to fire after the fact because of the complete overload of stimulation." He smiled grimly as Harry slowly pulled himself up to his feet, bending a little at the waist and gently massaging his side. "The body also tenses under the assault of severe pain." Moody continued, "Prolonged and complete muscle tension has painful after effects, as well."

"Definitely," Harry agreed, straightening and regarding Moody again. "So, that was part of my lesson?"

"Precisely," Moody agreed, then beckoned Harry over to a seat. "As I said, hands-on experience is usually most effective. You did well."

"You stupefied me," Harry retorted, frowning at himself.

"I would be very surprised if you had been able to evade me much longer," Moody responded, leaning forward. "Do not make the mistake, Potter, of thinking there is nothing to learn in failure. Or in assigning the term failure indiscriminately, as well."

"I suppose," Harry said dubiously. "I did learn never to walk into a room without my wand out *ever* again."

"Most assuredly," Moody agreed. "Especially when all the lights are off. It was a good move to stick to the walls, and to double back on yourself. But it was sheer luck and quick reflexes that saved you from my third curse. You should have changed position the second you fired off that leg locker. Or better yet, you should have recognized the trap I had set for you. You don't really think I would be foolish enough to send a curse at the spot you used to occupy? Any lunkhead would have had the brains to move. I was drawing you out, wanting you to respond so I could pinpoint your location.

"I realized that right after the fact," Harry said, sighing. "I guess I was too surprised to think."

"Hmm," Moody said noncommittally, "That's part of what we'll be working on the rest of the holidays." He paused a moment, studying Harry thoughtfully. "What was your first mistake, Potter?"

"Er, not having my wand out fast enough?" Harry guessed.

"No," Moody said, leaning forward. "That was assuredly an error on your part, but the situation could still have been salvaged. When was the moment that you made a choice which ensured you would be taken down?"

Harry paused, coming up with and discarding several possible answers. "I don't know," He said finally. "When I sent a curse at you, maybe?"

"No," Moody said, frowning. "When you didn't immediately leave the room and get help. Instead you chose to stay, in a darkened room, with an opponent you'd never seen, let alone whose strengths and strategies you knew. An opponent, let me remind you, who was waiting for you, already well-entrenched in the room, probably familiar with it even in the dark. And an opponent, you must have thought, who had somehow bested myself."

"But I couldn't!" Harry exclaimed. "You could have followed me out and gotten away before I could get back with anyone. Or even hurt someone else along the way."

"Not likely," Moody snapped. "There are barely a dozen students in the castle at the moment, and I can tell you unequivocally that almost all of them are still asleep in their beds. This is their holiday, after all. And even if there was one up, the odds of me running across him or her are ridiculous. I have a straight route down this corridor, and then either all the way up to the astronomy tower where I could escape by broom, or straight down and out a side entrance in the Arithmancy corridor. The odds of finding anyone in either location at this time of the morning are slim at best."

"But I couldn't let you get away," Harry protested again, recognizing the logic in Moody's explanation.

"Why not?" Moody asked, then continued as he saw Harry's shocked expression. "It's a matter of priority, Potter. You walked into an obviously dangerous situation, indeed a situation where you had almost no chance of prevailing. If I had been a real threat to you, you would be dead right now. Would you rather that, than I go free? Retreat is not the coward's way out, Potter, not always. It is a viable, logical option, one to be considered with the same weight and importance as staying to fight. And in the situation you just entered, retreat would have been your best option."

"Oh," Harry said, frowning in thought. "That makes sense, I suppose. But, really, was I supposed to think all that through? I barely had time to remind myself to keep moving, let alone argue with myself."

"No," Moody allowed. "Not yet, anyway. In fact, Potter, that situation was set up for you to fail it. I was expecting you to do exactly as you did. A boy of your age would have a hard time understanding the value of a calculated retreat. You did better than many of your peers would, I think, but there is still much room for improvement."

"How *did* you get me?" Harry asked suddenly. "You couldn't have known for sure that I'd move back to the door. And how'd you get so close? It looked like the curse came only a yard or two away?"

"It did," Moody agreed. "And actually, I *could* be sure that you had moved back to the door. I saw you do it."

"But it was dark. Unless your magical eye sees in the dark..." Harry trailed off, thinking that if it did, that really wasn't fair.

"I cast a charm on my eyes," Moody explained. "The Muggles would call it infrared. It makes me see things based on their heat output. With that charm, you glowed as brightly as one of those Christmas trees in the great hall. I saw you move, saw you standing at the door." He gave Harry a disapproving look. "You could have run, even then, which would have been lucky for you. But you hesitated."

"Is there a way to shield against that charm?" Harry asked, curiously. He'd never heard of anything like it before.

"Yes," Moody agreed. "Though it's remarkably uncomfortable. You have to cast a freezing charm on yourself, let your temperature drop below safe human levels. A trained Auror could do it. That's another thing we'll be working on, your awareness. When I'm done with you, you'll be able to know when a spell is being cast in your vicinity, whether or not it is visible. Given we were in the dark, and that I apparently cast the spell on myself, it wouldn't be a great intuitive leap to figure out what I was doing and take steps."

"But I *did* know!" Harry exclaimed, surprised. "I thought I was just imagining things, you know, working myself up. But I felt, tasted sort of, magic while I was moving towards the door."

"Really?" Moody sat forward, expression intense. "What did it feel like?"

Harry opened his mouth to reply, shut it, then opened it again. "I don't know," He said finally. "Like an awareness. It tasted...it made me feel sort of tingly..."

"Hmph," Moody said, sitting back and crossing his arms. Harry flushed, thinking the professor didn't believe him, thought he was just claiming to have felt something.

"It felt like it wasn't a taste," He said after a pause, fumbling for words.

"It wasn't," Moody replied. "What you are describing is sometimes called Magithesia. It is the phenomenon where a wizard experiences the awareness of the presence of magic, but it manifests itself as a function of one of the five senses. Do you know why that is?"

"Maybe--maybe because we can't figure out how else to think about it?" Harry hazarded. "I mean, when I was trying to describe it, I didn't have any words that fit."

"Precisely," Moody agreed, looking pleased. Harry relaxed, smiling back as Moody continued. "Different magic's manifest themselves in different ways for different wizards. An old Auror colleague of mine swears he hears music sometimes, but I've always thought he was a bit off. Personally, I think I can see little sparkles with my magical eye. It is all a matter of the wizard, and how attentive they are to their senses. Not all wizards and witches can interpret this sort of input, not all even experience it. It is a matter of being attuned to the world around you, and of listening to your own responses to it."

"Can you actually tell the difference between spells with this?" Harry asked, intrigued.

"Possibly," Moody replied. "Obviously, it's not a foolproof method." He hesitated then added with a rueful smile, "And it's not always easy to tell what comes from where in our minds. Perhaps our senses are acute enough to pick up on the exact nature of the magic, perhaps we are simply responding to logic on a different level. It would take you too long to observe the magic I performed, realize it must have been done on myself, catalogue and discard all the possibilities, then choose a course and react. Often times our instincts are just as valid as ten minutes contemplation, and much more time-efficient."

"So you're saying this is part of instinct?" Harry asked.

"In a way," Moody agreed. "I know another Auror who has an uncanny knack for knowing who is coming up behind him. Perhaps he is good with sound cues, perhaps he is tuned into the particular magical...flavors if you will...of people around him. Either way it works, and very well. Observation, Potter. Watch and listen and feel...and taste I suppose."

"Is that what you mean by constant vigilance?" Harry asked, a little wonderingly. He'd always thought of Moody as paranoid, even if rightly so, and a little unhinged. But this explanation made sense to him in his gut, which he supposed was even further proof that it was true. He remembered the way he almost always knew when certain people like Snape or Malfoy were staring at him, how Mr. Olivander always managed to find just the right wand for the right wizard, the right blending of magic's to make it work.

"Yes," Moody said, one of the first genuine smiles Harry had ever seen from him splitting his scarred mouth. "Precisely. If you're not paying attention, even the most clamorous warnings will not penetrate. Listen, Potter. Watch."

"Will this help me with the sort of thing we just did?" Asked Harry.

"Very much," Moody agreed. "I was not expecting you to already have experienced Magithesia, though Albus did think you would. So now we can do some exercises to hone your skills, and teach you what to feel for. Go take a break, Potter, and be sure to get something to eat. You'll be using up all the energy you have, today."

***

"Hello, dear," The fat lady greeted cheerfully as Harry came up the hallway towards her.

"Shh!" He hissed, lifting a finger to cover his lips. "Quiet!"

"Why?" She asked, thankfully in a whisper.

"Has anybody else gone in the past half hour?" Harry asked, sidling up cautiously to the portrait hole.

"Nobody," She said, looking oddly at him. "Is something wrong, dear?"

"No, not really," He said, relaxing only a little bit. "Just a bit on edge. Been a stressful week."

She clucked sympathetically. "I've always said some of these term exams are a bit too intense. Some of you poor lambs get so up tight. Why, I remember one girl, she just started screaming, right in the common room, just stood up and screamed her poor little heart out, then sat down, calm as you please, and went back to studying. Why, when I--"

"Flutterbudget," Harry hissed, still worried as the fat lady's voice began to rise.

She huffed, a little irritated at being interrupted, then swung open. Harry caught the edge of the portrait before it could open all the way, silencing the fat lady with a hand over her canvas mouth as he peeked cautiously through the gap.

Everything *looked* clear, but after the week he'd had, Harry was not about to rely too much on that alone.

He slipped his wand out of his sleeve where he had taken to carrying it and cautiously opened the door a bit further. The fat lady was making indignant muffled noises under his hand, and Harry spared a moment to wonder if she would ever let him through, right password or not, again. Then he scolded himself for getting distracted, distantly amused to realize that his inner voice sounded quite a bit like Moody's gruff tones.

He took one more cautious look around the concealing portrait, then wand held high he leapt into the common room.

The seventh year girl who had stayed over the holidays, Mary something or other, jumped in surprise from her seat by the fire and dropped her book with a clatter. Harry spared her only the briefest of glances to ensure that her wand was not already lifting in his direction. Moody had already drafted several of the professors to help out, and Harry wouldn't put it past him to get to one of the students. But she seemed genuinely startled, and so Harry let her be, turning a full circle and surveying the common room through narrowed eyes.

"Er, Harry?" She said carefully. "Are you alright?"

"So far," He replied, still scanning intently. He tried with all his might to listen to himself as Moody had been exhorting him to for the past week. He waited for a flicker of something, anything unusual from any of his senses, perhaps a warning crackle in the air or the acrid scent of a loosed curse. But there was nothing.

Harry couldn't decide whether that meant there truly was no threat or that he simply wasn't detecting it. Either possibility was equally likely at this point.

"Uh, can I help you find something?" Mary asked, stepping from behind her chair and moving towards him.

Harry shot her a nervous look, not sure whether she was a real threat or just a distraction, then backed a few steps away, putting his back against the wall next to the portrait hole.

"You seen anybody in here that shouldn't be?" He asked, still glancing around in what he knew would appear a highly paranoid manner. "Like, say, Professor Moody?" He took the chance to watch her closely as he said that, but there wasn't a flicker of understanding. Indeed she just looked even more confused.

"Er, no," She said, appearing a bit cautious now. "It's just been me all evening. Is everything alright?"

"Maybe," Harry replied, looking at her again. He decided, with a decisive spurt that could either be correctly interpreted instinct or just plain exhaustion that she was trustworthy. "Look, could you do me a favor? You're in here most days, right?" She nodded, still a bit hesitant. "Well, if you ever see Professor Moody in here, could you tell me? And tell me if he's talking to anybody, or if he approaches you, okay?"

"Sure, I suppose," She said, cocking her head to one side. "Are you sure--"

"Thanks," Harry said, scuttling sideways until the wall gave way and he could turn up the boys stairs. "I appreciate it."

He hurried up before she could reply, relieved at getting through that particular gauntlet unscathed. He paused nervously at his dormitory door, then lifted his wand and cast a transparency charm on it. Everything looked alright here, too. The five beds and trunks sat in their same orderly semi-circle. Harry could see the scatter across his own bed, a few books, some old parchment, his pajamas.

He cracked this door much as he had the portrait as the spell faded, returning it to it's usual well-worn wood. One more look around, and a check over his shoulder for good measure, and he sprang into the room.

No attack came, no shouted curse or even a physical assault. Harry stood poised on the balls of his feet for a long moment, then slumped in relief. He crossed to his bed and swept the clutter onto the floor without a care for what went rolling away under Ron's bed. He flopped down, sighing with relief as his tense muscles began to unknot.

It had been a hellish week. That initial surprise attack in the third floor corridor had been barely the tip of the iceberg. Harry had lost count of the number of ambushes which had been set up for him, the number of times his heart had leapt in shock and fright as Moody, Flitwick, McGonagall, even Dumbledore once, sprang at him from shadowed alcoves or darkened stairwells. Dumbledore had been particularly difficult, for the ancient wizard had somehow made himself invisible and stalked Harry for nearly fifteen minutes through the halls. Harry had felt somehow uneasy, but had been unable to pinpoint the source of the feeling, so had been taken completely by surprise when the Headmaster attacked. He had been taken down with just two curses that time, without even a chance to fire back.

Moody had been waiting for him behind the portrait of the fat lady just last night, though that time Harry had done a little better. He had actually disarmed Moody, something he had never managed before, but had made the mistake of letting his guard down in his pleased surprise. Moody had simply taken two steps forward, then swung his wooden leg around and swept Harry's feet out from under him. Next thing he knew there was a heavy wooden foot digging painfully into his solar plexus, and Moody was clutching both their wands.

And after every attack there was the endless exposition, the dissection of tactics and possibility, of decision and above all, intuition and instinct. Moody would criticize his movements brutally, usually following that up with some ounce of praise for something Harry had done right. Perhaps it was Harry's imagination, but he liked to think that the things he was doing right were slowly beginning to increase in number.

But then it was always back out, Moody telling him where to walk, usually a several mile-long circuit of the entire castle. It did have the advantage of helping Harry learn more about Hogwarts, but that was mostly negated by the constant tension he was in as he moved along, waiting for the next attack from any of his professors, or even one of the bloody suits of armor. He wouldn't put Moody past it.

But today was December 23, and Harry had a blissful two days stretching out before him, attack free. He could sleep in, actually walk into a room without drawing his wand, and he could stop straining frantically to listen to instincts he was beginning to suspect he didn't have. Moody said he was just fooling himself, thinking too hard and mistaking plain old blind guessing for instinct, that he wasn't listening hard enough and in the right way, but Harry was doubtful. He had only that definite surge, back in the first attack when he had known without knowing that Moody was casting a spell to assure him that maybe, someday, he could learn to use this tool.

Harry groaned, flopping limply over onto his side, limbs spread lazily about him as he stretched aching muscles and then relaxed. This definitely hadn't been what he had planned for his vacation, but he had to admit that he was learning a thing or two or ten. Admittedly, he was a long way from besting Moody, let alone Dumbledore, but he could feel a measurable increase in his confidence, a knowledge that going into almost any situation, he would be able to acquit himself with some measure of good sense and skill. If nothing else he had picked up a veritable cornucopia of painful and nasty curses and hexes over the past few days, most of which he knew rather intimately.

Harry sighed again and slowly stood. No sense in falling asleep in his clothes. He'd freeze in the frosty early morning temperatures. The first snow of the winter had fallen, a bit late as it was, just a few days before. What it lacked in punctuality it made up for in ferocity, and the castle and grounds were heaped with mounds of glittering white crystals, which danced and scattered before the strong northern winds.

Harry changed as quickly as his protesting muscles would allow, then slipped into bed with a relieved sigh. He allowed himself a few more minutes of relaxation, then leaned over the side of the bed and retrieved his Potions book and the beginnings of his holiday essay. He didn't intend to spend Christmas day doing homework, so he was going to get as much done as possible tonight and tomorrow while he had the chance.

Harry settled in, propped on his elbows and the thick red covers lying heavily over his back and shoulders, with his book open as a writing surface as much a reference. He set to work with a will, quill scratching away as he pondered just how incredibly boring Mandrake root was.

***

His waking was a slow process, more of a drift towards consciousness with one sense after another informing him first that he was very warm, next that he was almost sinfully comfortable, and then that somebody was snoring very loudly.

Harry blinked open his eyes, pawing at them as his vision swam. He really really didn't want to move. His covers were tucked up beneath his chin and his head was scrunched up against his pillow just the way he liked it. He felt completely limp, his muscles like wet noodles.

But there was still that snoring. Harry himself obviously couldn't be making it, and the rest of his dorm mates were home for the holidays.

Harry sat up, indulging in a monumental stretch before he glanced about. The other four beds in the room all had open curtains, and were empty as they should be. But that loud, wheezing snore continued. Harry straightened, intending to get out of bed to better track down the noise, when a surprised and delighted grin spread across his face.

The snorer was sprawled out across the foot of Harry's bed, taking up nearly as much room as Harry himself did. His massive head was burrowed into a fold of the blankets, and his snores ruffled his own floppy ears, which twitched in irritation.

Harry just watched him for a moment, feeling a relief from worries he hadn't really been conscious of. Sirius was here, Sirius was safe. He hadn't been caught as he journeyed to Hogwarts, hadn't been held up by some urgent business for Dumbledore. Harry hadn't admitted it before, but he had been afraid that he would be spending Christmas alone, no matter what Sirius promised. It was very selfish of him, but sometimes he just wanted his Godfather near, regardless of duty or Voldemort or 'old crowds.'

Harry reached out and smoothed a hand over Padfoot's shoulder and ribs. His fur was luxuriously thick, and he exuded a slightly damp smell which put Harry in mind of sweet smelling loam and warm animal burrows. A soft smile played about his mouth as he momentarily ignored his irritation with Sirius, his many questions and that sinking feeling that he probably wouldn't be getting any answers.

Padfoot sighed gently under Harry's touch, his front paws uncurling from his chest and stretching out as he wriggled in pleasure. Harry's smile widened even though it was a bit strange to know that he was petting his godfather. He had always liked dogs, most animals really, but had never been allowed to have a pet as a child. He had never even bothered to ask, knowing he would be punished just for suggesting it.

Padfoot's warm brown eyes blinked open as he woke, gazing sleepily up at Harry and then squinching shut as he yawned enormously.

"Hey," Harry greeted softly, his hand freezing in slight embarrassment on Padfoot's shoulder. He snatched it back the instant he felt the dog shifting as if to rise, and then he found himself staring into Sirius' human face as he sat up and leaned against one of the posts at the end of the bed.

"Hey yourself," His godfather greeted, indulging in a bone-popping stretch. "How are you doing?"

"Fine," Harry said automatically. It was the wrote answer, the one he always gave to any inquiry about his well-being. Sirius cast him a slight frown, as if he knew that very well.

Harry studied his Godfather as the man occupied himself in examining the room. His hair was still long, falling past his shoulders. But it was neatly combed and clean, as were the robes he wore. Sirius looked a bit travel worn around the edges, but at the same time healthy and well put together.

Harry found it almost impossible to believe that Sirius had anything to do with that Dementor attack, or even with the idea behind it. His godfather's eyes were warm and interested as he gazed back at Harry. But the force of righteous outrage and anger he had painstakingly built up over the past week, feeding it with the chill of Dementors and the betrayal he felt as he heard Remus and Dumbledore talking, was bulstered as he watched Sirius watch him. Was that the same mouth, now curved in a friendly smile, which had discussed an attack on him? His anger had been momentarily deterred by the pleasure of seeing Sirius, but now Harry strengthened his resolve. He would get answers out of Sirius, one way or another.

"Of all the animals I could be," Sirius said with a grin, "I'm really glad it was a dog. Dogs can sleep comfortably anywhere, anytime."

"You look like you needed a good kip," Harry observed, studying the slight lines of fatigue around Sirius' mouth and the way he continually surrendered to yawns.

"Got in around two last night," He explained, surprising Harry by scooting up the bed to lean against the head board beside him. "Budge over, will you?"

They settled in, Harry a little unsure about what he was supposed to do or say. Every time he'd seen Sirius before, even when he'd visited a few months prior, their time together had been limited. There was always a class to run off to, or their fire call got interrupted. Now with Sirius right next to him, kicking off his travel-stained boots and draping the top blanket over his legs, Harry wasn't sure where to begin.

"Ah, ah, ah," Sirius chided, watching Harry's eyes curiously follow the small pack he tossed over the edge of the bed. "None of that. Little Harry's who peek at their Christmas presents don't get any presents at all."

"Not little," Harry protested, throwing an elbow into Sirius' ribs much as he would with Ron. "I'm just ... a little ... behind in the growth department."

"And what about the rest?" Sirius asked, his twinkling eyes suddenly serious. "You gained any weight?"

"Sure," Harry said, pulling down the covers to show his flat, yet not underdone, belly.

"That's great," Sirius exclaimed, looking immensely relieved. "I've been worrying about you, you know."

"It's mutual," Harry retorted. "You're the one out there with Dementors and Aurors and who knows what all. I'm at one of the safest places in the world."

"Safe from outside things, maybe," Sirius agreed, his eyes intent on Harry's face. "But not safe from everything. And I'm really glad to see you looking better. Ron and Hermione did their jobs, then?"

"Sure," Harry agreed, squinting a little as a headache began to build at the back of his skull. He rubbed absently at the place, stretching his neck and rolling it in efforts to relieve the growing pressure.

"That's what friends are for," Sirius quipped. His tone was light, but his eyes had unfocussed, acquired that far off look that even with their short acquaintance Harry knew very well.

"They're good ones," He said hastily, then fumbled for a different subject. "How long can you stay?" He asked.

"Maybe a week," Sirius said, stretching again. "Even I, the great and infamous Sirius Black, do require some down time here and there."

"I have the next two days off," Harry said, brightening. "Will you be staying up here, then? There are a few other Gryffindors about."

"Yes," Sirius said. "You'll have to bring me meals, if it's not too much trouble." He paused a little, frowning. "Off from what?"

"Moody's training," Harry said, rolling his eyes expressively.

"What is he having you do?" Sirius asked with sudden interest.

"Getting myself knocked around, basically," Harry replied. "He sets up ambushes and surprise attacks, then tells me to go for a walk around the castle. Then he tells me everything I did wrong."

"Sounds...nerve-racking," Sirius observed, wincing in sympathy.

"Is. I'm sort of nervous I'll end up like Moody himself, the way I've been pulling my wand on everybody."

"Must be better than just studying from a book, though," Sirius consoled. "And I do agree with the idea, hands-on almost always is more effective." He paused a moment, his lips tightening as he thought of something which obviously distressed him. "I suspect you'll be getting an awful lot of hands-on experience, both intentional and not."

"Er, Sirius?" Harry said hesitantly, straightening up and turning to fully face his Godfather. He had to ask now, before Sirius' good humor and open affection made him change his mind. "I need to talk to you about something."

"What's wrong?" Sirius asked, frowning in concern. "This sounds serious."

"It sort of is," Harry admitted. "I just--will you just be honest with me, please?"

Sirius looked shocked for a moment, then placed a hand on Harry's shoulder. "Of course," He said quietly, and Harry knew he meant it. One reason why he liked Sirius so much was that Sirius listened to you when you were talking. He wasn't like a lot of other adults Harry knew, who could easily promise to be honest and then turn around and lie through their teeth to you. Sirius heard the masked desperation in his voice, and the fierce look in his eyes assured Harry that he was ready for anything, whether it be a request for help with homework, or an invitation for some dangerous adventure. "Anything, anytime," He added, just as quietly. "You know that."

"Yeah," Harry agreed, nodding. "It's just...well...in my letter, I told you about how we were attacked by Dementors on the way back from Hogsmeade, right?"

Sirius looked momentarily taken aback, then nodded encouragingly. "I remember. And I got hold of a 'Prophet' that week too. They really don't report much at all with any relation to the truth, do they? Is that what you wanted to talk about?" He sounded a little strained, as if he deeply wished Harry's question was just about the wizarding press, even some philosophical quandary about the nature of truth.

"No," Harry said firmly. "That's not it. "Where did those Dementors come from? Why were they there?"

"Oh," Sirius said, letting out a breath which sounded to Harry almost like relief. "Excellent questions. Albus and the rest have been pondering them, too. We actually don't know where they come from. Azkaban," A hooded shudder contorted his features, then was gone, "Is still teeming with the things. And that's the only place in Western Europe where you can find them. There are some Dementors who come out of the ancient magical forests in the former Eastern bloc countries, but we would have noticed a substantial group like that on the move." He hesitated looking unsure for a moment. "They just sort of appeared. It's eerie."

"And what were they doing there?" Harry asked, "I mean, they couldn't have been sent to attack the castle. That would be silly. They'd be driven back. All it took was one Patronus."

"All it took was one of your patroni," Sirius muttered, looking morose.

"Beg pardon?" Harry asked, confused.

"Nothing," Sirius said, waving a hand dismissively. "You're right, of course. There'd be no point in sending them to attack the castle. And we don't even know if You Know Who sent them in the first place."

Harry drew his knees to his chest, hugging them tightly. That internal struggle was still raging, but it was quieter now. His anger at a man who he had relied on so deeply was tempered by the arm Sirius had casually thrown over his shoulders. Suddenly the idea of confronting him, of accusing him of something was unthinkable. Harry felt with a sudden certainty that he shouldn't ask, that he shouldn't accuse Sirius of complicity in this, that that would open a conversational pathway he really didn't want to go down. But at the same time he couldn't stand this not knowing, and the very idea that Sirius might have had something to do with the attack, no matter if it were after the fact, still rankled deeply. But he still had a need to know, and there were other ways, easier ways.

"What if they weren't sent to the castle?" He asked, making eye contact with his godfather. "What if they were being sent somewhere else, and they, er, were rerouted?"

"What do you mean?" Sirius asked, a flash of nervousness only bolstering Harry's conviction.

"What if it wasn't Voldemort at all who got them here? What if it was somebody...on our side?" He asked, not shifting his eyes down.

Sirius sat a long moment, his face shuddered after one brief flash of what Harry knew unequivocally was fear. Any anger he had been harboring at Sirius melted away at that, for he hated needling the man, hated doing anything that would hurt Sirius.

"I think," Sirius said slowly, "That you know something you're not supposed to know, and that you're not asking me what you really want to ask."

Harry suddenly found it hard to hold Sirius' gaze. As his eyes slid away they caught Sirius' right hand, the first two fingers playing with his left sleeve. As Harry watched just the tip of something shiny and wooden slipped out, danced between Sirius' fingers. The fingers clutched for a moment, tightened as if to withdraw the wand, and then relaxed.

"Maybe," Harry said, unnerved by a gesture which for some strange reason made him think of Gildaroy Lockhart's contorted face as he clutched Ron's wand. "I just--You said you'd be honest--"

"I did," Sirius replied, clasping both hands before him until his knuckles whitened. "And I will be." He took a deep slow breath, unclasped his hands and took Harry by both shoulders. "Trust Dumbledore," He said quietly. "If everyone else turns on you, if I can't be there for you for some reason, trust Dumbledore. No matter what, he is doing his best to keep you safe."

Harry wondered how diverting a group of Dementors to attack him was keeping him safe, but kept it to himself.

"I may not always agree with his...methods," Sirius continued, his hands flexing, "But just know that come hell or high water, Dumbledore will be right there with you. And so will I."

Harry was silent for a long moment, digesting what Sirius had said, and more what he had not said. He had all but confirmed what Harry already knew, that Dumbledore had played apart in that Dementor attack. And perhaps equally important, he had implied that he himself knew of it and didn't object enough to challenge Dumbledore .That alone was what decided Harry. If Sirius said it was safe, then it would be.

"Okay," He said. "If that's what you say, I'll stick with it."

"Good," Sirius said, relaxing a little. "Just...don't tell Dumbledore you know something. It'll complicate things, I think."

"Okay," Harry said, his relief tempered with some reservations. But above all, he was glad that particular conversation was over. It hadn't quite been what he was hoping for, but now that it was over he had to admit he did feel a little better. Maybe in this case not knowing was best.

***

"Good lord, she won't be able to take off," Sirius exclaimed, surveying Hedwig as she stood festooned with packages on Harry's bed. The owl shot Sirius a trenchant look clearly saying, "Shows what you know," and lifted her wings.

"Hold on," Harry said quickly, diving back into his trunk and drawing out another bundle, oddly shaped and very soft. "This one is for the Headmaster."

"What do you get the wizard who doesn't want much?" Sirius asked curiously.

"Socks," Harry replied airily, then burst out laughing at Sirius' incredulous expression. "No, really. I got him purple socks with silver Hippogriffs dancing on them."

"Socks?" Sirius asked dubiously. "Don't you think that's a little...odd?"

"No," Harry said, working hard to control his grin. "I have a funny feeling it's just what he'll want. I figure everybody always gets him books, you know?"

Sirius looked suddenly guilty. "Oh dear," He muttered.

"Oh," And Harry frowned at his owl. "Do you think you could manage one more? I don't even really know where she is, just that she's in Britain somewhere."

Hedwig hooted and shifted a bit awkwardly, offering her less burdened foot.

"You're the best," Harry said, pulling out his last package.

"That looks expensive," Sirius said. "Who's it for?"

Harry opened his mouth to explain that the beautifully store-wrapped package, with the elegant glass stopper peeking out the top was for Padma. But then he paused, running a fingertip over the intricately blown glass and remembering the spirit in which he had bought it. He had been thinking of Padma then, of her as a girl, not just a Ravenclaw or a friend or more. He swore he could smell the sweetly overpowering perfume, and it began to rekindle that blasted headache.

"It's for Celestina Warbeck," He said to both Hedwig and Sirius. The change was a surprise to him, but it felt right. And at least the headache was retreating before it could really get started.

"That sounds familiar," Sirius said, frowning.

"Er, she's sort of famous," Harry said, ducking his head. "A singer."

"Ooooo," Sirius exclaimed. "The girly music." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "I think Moony has a few of her records."

Harry grinned, then turned back to Hedwig. "Right then, you got that all? The perfume for Celestina, socks for Dumbledore, the Sten-o-parch for Hermione, and the big package for the Weasleys. Be careful with that, there's some breakable stuff in there for Mrs. Weasley."

Hedwig gave an acknowledging hoot and then launched herself off the bed, wings beating powerfully to get herself airborne under the load as she soared out one of the tower windows.

"Never sent out so many presents before," Harry commented. "And I didn't even give her Hagrid's or yours."

"As long as it's not a milk bone, I'm happy," Sirius replied, flopping back on Harry's bed.

Harry joined him, feeling much less self-conscious lying beside Sirius than he had that morning. It had been one of the best days Harry could ever remember. They'd lounged around for hours, just talking about silly, unimportant things. Harry had eventually gone down to the kitchens and had only to ask for food for one. Knowing the elves, that was enough for three, so it would do just fine.

They'd played endless games of exploding snap and chess. They were equally matched in their incompetence with chess, and the game had been a drunken stagger towards disaster until all the pieces rebelled and refused to move another square. Sirius had insisted that Harry at least try to do some homework, and even that had been fun with his Godfather hanging over his shoulder commenting not only on the material but on the professors who had assigned it.

Now, as the sun set in a too bright explosion of sparkling snow, Harry sighed in contentment and stretched mightily.

"I'll have to be Padfoot when I'm asleep," Sirius commented, hands clasped behind his head. "Safer."

"But he snores," Harry mock complained.

"Hmm, You should hear my human snores."

"Well, I suppose Padfoot makes a great foot warmer."

"Disrespectful lout," Sirius said lazily, not bothering to even glare at him. "God, I needed this," He added after a moment.

"Me too," Harry agreed. "The rest of my vacation is turning out to be not much of one at all."

"Sorry about that," Sirius sighed. "I wish you could just relax and get up to no good like everybody else who stays here does."

"Not your fault," Harry answered, surprised as he felt Sirius stiffen beside him. "What?"

"Nothing," His godfather said, rolling to face him.

"Okay," Harry said dubiously.

"You up for a little shadow dancing?" Sirius asked, perking up. He looked astounded as Harry stared back uncomprehendingly. "Shadow dancing? You know, you get your wands and--oh for goodness sakes!" His hand went to his sleeve again, emerging with a short, somewhat stubby wand. "Look, this is one of the things every wizarding boy does. Get your wand."

An hour later Harry tossed his wand onto the night table and yawned. Sirius was still at work, his wand pointed upwards at Harry's canopy as he projected different colored shapes and images which flitted about under his direction. At the moment a blazing red dog was chasing down a little green blob which looked suspiciously like a rat. Sirius was incredibly adept at the game, while Harry, never having done anything like it, had a hard time getting his shapes and people to do what he asked.

"I'm really sleepy," He said, a little dismayed. "It's only nine."

"You'll get no argument here," Sirius said, grinning as the dog took a spectacular leap and practically mauled the little green blob. "I only got half a night's sleep last night. Besides, it's Christmas Eve. The earlier we go to bed, the earlier we get presents."

"But you just got here this morning," Harry protested, not wanting to waste a moment of his Godfather's company.

"And I'll be here tomorrow, and the day after that and the one after that," Sirius assured warmly, plunging the bed into darkness as he extinguished his dog in mid victory dance.

"Promise?" Harry asked, suddenly feeling very young and small.

"Definitely," Sirius averred. "I'm not going anywhere for a while."

Privately, Harry thought that the problem wasn't so much that Sirius wasn't staying very long but that he was going at all, leaving the safe castle for the dangers of the world outside.

But he pushed those thoughts away as he bid Sirius a good night (he felt a little strange talking to Padfoot as if he were a human) and headed off for the loo to change. Tomorrow was Christmas, one of his favorite times at Hogwarts and he could spend it with one of his favorite people. Not even the extravagantly festive holiday dinner could compare to the pleasure of sharing a mountain of elf-acquired treats with Sirius as they traded 'there's a wand in your pocket' jokes and generally behaved like children.

Nothing at all, not Moody and his rigorous training, not Dumbledore with his implacably kind smile, not bloody Voldemort could ruin this for him.

***

The transition was different this time. Harry at first thought it was just a normal nightmare, admittedly a bit strange, but his subconscious often came up with bizarre and unexpected things.

His dream self was standing on a darkened path, one of those mosaic-tile affairs which usually wound their way through elegant gardens. It was dark, obviously night, and there was a gibbous moon. It was actually pleasant for a few moments, even though Harry vaguely noted that he'd never seen this place before. The night was redolent with crickets, heavy with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and other familiar plants.

Then the screaming started.

Harry spun, for the first time noting the house at his back. It was a massive structure, all turrets and balconies. There were no lights on inside, at least no stationary ones. Several figures flickered in and out as they flitted by windows, their lighted wands held out before them and momentarily illuminating their hooded and masked forms

Fear coursed through Harry as a second scream rent the air, high-pitched, obviously made by a child in the extremity of fright. He tried to run, but he felt like he was on one of those treadmills, where you ran and ran until your heart almost burst, but got nowhere. He waited, still fitfully trying to reach them, knowing full well that even if he could he would be no use. He wasn't quite here, not really, not in any way that could help that little child and whoever else was in the house. All he could do was wait and listen and watch, remember the people he already knew were going to die and honor their memories with all his strength.

The Death Eaters emerged from the house in trickles, usually in pairs or trios. The first few were unaccompanied, but then a larger group emerged with two tall figures held in their midst. As more and more came out, wands still lit, Harry could make out a man and a woman, both in pajamas and looking terrified as they craned their necks about in search of something.

Those somethings emerged a few minutes later, one floating limply before a Death Eater and the other two walking on their own power. Harry guessed that the floater was the youngest, maybe five or so, and had probably been the one to scream. The other two, both boys, were older, one almost Hogwarts age, and another quite a bit older, maybe twenty. They were also in pajamas, and neither had a wand.

The first pain came then, coming into the full bloom of agony across Harry's forehead with a suddenness that made him dizzy. He knew this pain, the deep, relentless agony which was not hot, not cold, just there and unforgiving.

Voldemort apparated in on the path maybe twenty feet away from Harry, facing away as he surveyed the spectacle before the house. Now that he really didn't want to, Harry found himself skittering towards the house like a fish on a hook. A hook which was solidly planted in the center of his forehead.

He came to a halt only when he was even with Voldemort, perhaps five feet to his left. The pain was nearly explosive now, and Harry wondered hopelessly just how much his body, or whatever he was now, could take.

But then from somewhere, a hidden reserve he had never been aware of, strength and purpose flowed into him. He focused on Dumbledore's face, remembered his instructions. He had to look around, to gather as much information as possible, to remember faces and names and actions.

He started with the Death Eaters, though they were no help. All he could be sure of was that Pettigrew was not among them, as he didn't spot any with the tell-tale silver hand. Beyond that their blank masks and draped robes gave away nothing.

The family then, grouped together in the center of a circle of Death Eaters. The man and woman were huddled over their two youngest children, while the oldest boy had his back to them, looking around defiantly. Harry didn't know them, had not even the faintest spark of recognition.

When the torturing began, at some signal Harry had not seen, he was only able to watch for a few moments. They took the children first, racking the youngest with curse after curse, forcing the parents to step away and watch. The young boy was next, and with him they were even more violent. For the first time the masked circle showed real anger, not just calculated cruelty. Harry repeatedly heard the word "Squib" hissed in furious, disgusted voices as they tore him apart with wand, and then with their bare hands.

Through all this Voldemort watched silent and unmoving, standing like a nightmare statue just outside the circle of light. He never twitched at the screams, as the parents and the eldest boy pleaded and threatened. He only seemed to notice when the Death Eaters were done with the eldest boy as well. He stepped forward, studying the three bodies lying on the ground, two mangled nearly beyond recognition with the most violent of curses

"This," He said quietly, his voice causing all other sounds, even the desperate sobs of the parents, to fall silent, "Is the punishment meted out to those who break one of the fundamental laws of wizarding folk. You," And he jabbed a long bony finger at the woman, her dark blonde hair stuck to her tear-streaked cheeks, "You who were born the highest of the high, heiress to one of the greatest and most noble of pureblood names. You married a Muggle, filth, polluting your line and destroying your family's honor. This," And he swept a contemptuous hand at the three bodies, "Is your punishment."

He stepped back then, and the Death Eaters continued. The man, obviously a Muggle, was torn straight in half as his legs were hit with a leaden curse and his head with a levitation charm. For him, at least, it was fast, if not easy.

Voldemort moved forward again, and for the first time Harry wondered why he wasn't participating in the torture. It seemed sort of strange that all he did was watch.

"You can be glad," He said to the woman, "That you can be redeemed by serving me ultimately. Your death serves as a warning for others, so in a way your pathetic existence is not an entire waste." He stepped fully into the light then, watching in satisfaction as the woman's eyes grew round and even more terrified. "Do you know my name, Muggle lover? I am Lord Voldemort, I have returned, and you have the honor of being the first to fall in the great purge."

Silently, unseen, Harry was drawn with him into the light, and for the first time he saw Voldemort's face. The same red eyes, slitted, reptilian nose. The same mouth, more a gash then anything. But there was something odd about him, something dark across his cheeks and over the bridge of his nose. As if catching Harry's thought Voldemort threw back his hood and tilted his head. The light hit him full on across the face and Harry saw what he knew must be runes, tattooed in black and purple ink across the things face, curling down his chin and neck and disappearing into the collar of his robes. Harry did his best to memorize the unfamiliar shapes, though he had only a moment to do so as Voldemort stepped back, apparently satisfied with the woman's hysterical, gut-wrenching sobs and incoherent animal-like noises.

It was worse after that, as the circle of Death Eaters converged on the shaking woman. They took long moments pleasuring in her screams, in the incoherent mumblings which could have been pleas for mercy, or prayers for death to take her. Voldemort retreated back into the shadows, watching impassively once more as the Death Eaters took the woman apart, piece by piece, laughing and snarling like wild beasts as they did so.

By the time it was all over and the dark mark had been fired into the sky, Harry knew that it was possible to cry and be sick at the same time.

The Death Eaters apparated out one at a time, a few staying to chat over the gruesome tableau of splattered blood and blank, staring eyes. Harry waited, the part of himself which watched these dreams, the part which was really the core of who he was as a wizard and a person, shaking and sick, for the first time ever considering a simple Avada Kedavra a mercy.

It was only when Voldemort himself left, apparating out to some hidden lair to plan further horrors that Harry was released. He didn't really want to wake up, didn't want to have to look into his own haunted eyes in the mirror, see the blood flowing beneath his skin and know that the blood of five innocents had been spilled that night. He wanted the surcease of blackness.

But it was not to be. He woke with a desperate denial on his lips, the world swimming back into reality around him. The bed which had been so comfortable and warm was now sweaty and mangled, sheets shredded between his fists and blankets tangled hopelessly around his legs.

"Are you awake?" A haggard voice asked, close to Harry's ear. All he could do was nod, and even that was an effort. He feared that if he opened his mouth he would throw up until his stomach and guts came out, too.

"Let's get you to bathroom," The voice, Sirius he knew, said, beginning to peel back the blankets. "You don't look so good, and you're bleeding a little."

Harry let himself be half dragged to the loo, peripherally aware of the silent darkness which only descended in the small hours of the morning. He purposely closed his eyes as he passed the mirror. He fell to his knees before the toilet, a familiar position for him in recent months, and was sick until he tasted blood.

"Can you stand?" Sirius asked from behind him, his hands nearly crushing Harry's shoulders.

"Yeah," Harry rasped, his voice a broken jagged thing, as if, he realized, he had been screaming for a long time. He probably had been, and the silencing charms Sirius had put up around the room to keep anyone from hearing their voices and getting curious would have allowed the rest of the tower to sleep right through it.

'They have no idea,' He thought, and for some reason that upset him even more. They *shouldn't* know, he wouldn't want them to. But the thought of Mary, that nice seventh year girl asleep peacefully in her bed made him furious with jealousy.

"Where's your invisibility cloak?" Sirius asked after he had healed the fingernail gashes in Harry's palms and Harry had rinsed out his mouth.

"What? Why?" He asked, still feeling disconnected.

"We need to get you to Dumbledore," Sirius explained. "He needs to know what you saw."

"In my trunk...somewhere," Harry said, slumping against the wall. "I can--"

"Just wait here," Sirius said, ducking out the door before Harry could reply. It occurred to him belatedly that Sirius really shouldn't be walking around Gryffindor as a human, no matter what time of night it was.

Sirius returned a moment later, his presence announced only by the door opening and the empty hall beyond. Harry found himself bundled up in the cloak, clasped close to Sirius' side as his godfather guided him down the stairs, out the portrait hole, and through the dark and silent halls. He registered their approach to the gargoyle, absently noted the password (Starburst this time) and rode the moving staircase up with his Godfather.

"Won't we wake him?" He finally asked as Sirius knocked hard on the office door.

"We're telling him now," Sirius said implacably. Harry glanced up at him, surprised by the ghostly white skin and the marks where Sirius had nearly chewed through his lip. For the first time, he really saw the face of Sirius Black's fear, and a wave of guilt swept him as he realized that fear was for him. How long, he wondered, had he thrashed and screamed in that bed? Sirius had probably tried to wake him for long moments, been unable to, and then been torn between the need to go get help, the fear of capture, and unwillingness to leave Harry alone.

"Good morning, gentlemen," Dumbledore said, opening the door and looking not the least surprised to see them there. He was in a set of fabulously lime green silk pajamas, with a violently clashing orange robe. He looked indomitably cheerful, though Harry caught the Headmaster surveying him with worry and concern as Sirius settled him solicitously in a chair before the Headmaster's desk.

"Harry had a dream tonight," His godfather began, skipping the amenities entirely.

"Are you alright?" Dumbledore asked him, surprising Harry by crouching before him and taking his icy, shaking hands and pressing them warmly.

"I--er--um."

"He was sick," Sirius said, then paused and swallowed hard. "And he screamed. A lot."

Dumbledore pressed a hot cup of tea into Harry's hands, then steadied it on the way to his lips. "There now," He crooned, as if to a small child. "Drink that. It will make you feel better."

It did. The warm liquid seemed to revitalize Harry, forcing him to reconnect with Dumbledore's office, with a place where nobody was screaming. For a moment as he glanced around, feeling like he was coming out of a daze, he really believed that *this* was the dream. This place where people were kind, where they cared for him and made him feel safe had to be the dream, while the world where they maimed and tortured and killed must be reality. It was too stark, too dirty to be anything else.

"Can you tell us now?" Dumbledore asked gently, calling Harry back to the present.

"Yes," Harry said, smiling faintly as he realized there hadn't been just tea in that mug. It made him deeply sad to realize that he was familiar with this now, with the sort of pain which could only flood out in an unstoppable torrent, not in an orderly, logical, humane trickle. He knew this pain all too well, knew the numbed relief when the burden was momentarily lifted from his shoulders in the retelling, and he wanted that desperately, hysterically. As he spoke, his voice sometimes monotonously steady, sometimes climbing the scale in tones of desperation and fright, he realized in a calm, quiet part of himself that this wouldn't be the last time either. This dream was just the beginning, a baptism in blood and rage.

"These runes," Dumbledore said after Harry had finished. "Do you think you could draw them for me?"

"Some, yes," Harry said, accepting the parchment Dumbledore offered. "Don't know how accurate they'll be, though."

"Whatever you can reproduce will be of great usefulness," Dumbledore assured him, refilling Harry's cup with the feaux tea.

Harry hunched over the parchment for long moments, carefully sketching and then resketching all he could remember, faintly tracing the outline of Voldemort's face behind them. He realized distantly that his hand had stopped shaking.

"Hmm," Dumbledore said as Harry presented him with the parchment. "They extended down into his robes you say?"

"Yes," Harry confirmed. "Obviously, these are just on his face."

"Intriguing," Dumbledore said, his expression contemplative. "Yes, that would make a sort of sense. His father was a Muggle, after all."

"What about Harry?" Sirius asked abruptly. Glancing at him, Harry saw that his godfather looked as if he couldn't decide whether to be sick or fly into a towering rage.

"What about him?" Dumbledore asked mildly, still studying the runes.

"Well he--we can't just--how will he--"

"I think," Dumbledore said gently, placing the parchment down carefully on his desk, "That the best restorative for young Harry will be a dreamless sleep potion and a happy, stress free Christmas morning with his godfather.

"But--" Sirius began.

"It's Christmas," Harry cut in, his voice far away. "I forgot."

"By two hours, yes," Dumbledore confirmed. "Santa is well on his way, born on flapping owl wings."

"Lovely present," Sirius muttered morosely, his eyes trained steadily on his godson.

"I have some dreamless sleep potion on hand, actually," Dumbledore said, beginning to rummage through his desk. "I keep myself well-stocked with at least a vile of most of the handy brews. You never know when you'll--ah yes. The whole vial should do it, Sirius."

"Who was it?" Harry asked suddenly, leaning forward in his great need to know. "Who was that family?"

A look of deep, inconsolable loss crossed Dumbledore's face. "From what you described of the house and grounds, and yes it would make sense considering the nature of the family (their second child had no magic, you see) I can be rather sure. The Mccarriks," He said quietly. "Pulchrina Carline married a Muggle banker, Albert Mccarrik. She was...a close friend of my family." He paused, an ironic twist to his lips. "She was the black sheep in her family. She, the oldest daughter marrying a Muggle, while her younger sister became Mrs. Malfoy."

Any reply Harry or Sirius could have made was precluded by an imperious rapping at one of the high arched windows. Dumbledore excused himself, rising and opening it to what looked to Harry like a raven, it's black plumage making it blend almost seamlessly into the night. The bird proffered its leg, giving Dumbledore just enough time to remove a tightly rolled scroll before taking off into the night. Glancing around, Harry could see why. Fawkes had risen above his perch, flapping his wings in agitation and making a low, furious sound that wasn't at all musical.

He glanced back at Dumbledore as the old wizard broke the seal on the scroll, first spending an inordinately long time staring at the wax imprint. Harry couldn't see what it was, but he had a strange sinking feeling in his chest.

Dumbledore read the letter in silence, silhouetted tall against the dark window. His expression as he turned to them was a bizarre mixture of understanding and uncertainty, the look sitting oddly on his craggy features.

"Harry," He said thoughtfully. "Perhaps you should read this."

Harry took the proffered scroll, aware of Sirius moving to look over his shoulder.

"Dumbledore,

"I wished to inform you, as a courtesy of course, that my silence has been broken. The great purge of mudbloods and Muggle lovers has begun, with a family I believe you know very well. My condolences on your loss.

"Two against one really isn't fair, is it? It's a good thing the universe agrees with me. As soon as the boy manifests you'll be dead, and the playing field will be quite a bit more even. Not entirely, of course. Knowledge is power after all, and neither you nor the child know of what I speak.

"My best wishes for your holiday,

Lord Voldemort"

Sirius swore with a startling fluency, snatching the letter from Harry's hands as if it would somehow Avada Kedavra him right on the spot.

"Manifests," Harry whispered, his vision full of cramped, spidery handwriting. "Oh God, he knows about it."

"Apparently, yes," Dumbledore said, his lips set grimly.

"What if I kill you?" Harry shouted, springing to his feet. "He says when I manifest you'll die. What if he makes me, oh God I couldn't--"

"He can't touch you," Sirius said, his hands desperate on Harry's back. "I won't let him. And you can fight the Imperius Curse. You can fight anything."

"Sirius is right," Dumbledore said, approaching Harry and extending his hands. "Fearing yourself is one of the most dangerous things you can do. And I am certain that I have nothing to fear from you, my child."

"But what if I--"

"Don't," Dumbledore said gently. "We don't even know what the Reynard Manifestation does, let alone if Voldemort is referring to it." He smiled sadly. "To borrow a phrase from our indomitable Gamekeeper, what will come will come and we'll meet it when it does. There's no sense counting your crimes before you even have the slightest possibility of committing them, Harry."

"I know," Harry said, slumping. "I just...Reynard. I forgot about him and now I have this horrible feeling." He gazed up at Dumbledore, afraid and lost. "You couldn't die, could you?"

A deeply compassionate look crossed Dumbledore's face and he unexpectedly drew Harry close, clasping him to his pajama clad chest. Harry was tense for a moment, then burrowed into the startlingly green fabric, unnameably calmed by the steady beat of Dumbledore's heart.

"Sorry," He said, drawing slowly away. "I know it's silly of me to draw conclusions like that. But..."

"I know," Dumbledore replied kindly. "And as much as I hate to say it, we have nothing to go on for now. All we know about Reynard and his work was what you found. And we have no way of telling what Voldemort meant by that cryptic reference." A pained expression flickered in his eyes. "Or at least not a way that isn't incredibly dangerous." He sighed deeply and smoothed Harry's hair. "Go back to bed, Harry. Leave the worrying to me." His look told Harry that the headmaster knew full well that was impossible.

"Come on," Sirius said, urging Harry towards the door and reaching for the cloak.

"Sirius? Harry?" Dumbledore called. They turned at the door, seeing him at his desk, letter in hand. "Happy Christmas," Dumbledore said, smiling warmly at them.

They returned the sentiment and made their way silently back to the tower.

"He's right you know," Sirius said abruptly as soon as they were safely back in Harry's dorm room. "It's pointless to jump to any conclusions about this manifestation business."

"I know," Harry sighed, throwing himself onto the bed. "Just...you didn't read Crouch's journal. He was triumphant, almost. He said that his lord's greatest enemy would die. At the time I thought that was me." He laughed bitterly. "Snape was right to say that was stupid. He meant Dumbledore, obviously. And I--I'm going to manifest something..."

"Stop that," Sirius said sharply, sitting down beside him and digging out the vial. Harry was silent, watching as his Godfather twisted the little glass container between his fingers, a pained expression on his face. "I never," Sirius said slowly, as if dragging the words out of himself, "I never realized. I mean, I got your letters about your dreams. But I never realized--" He abruptly bent and seized Harry, holding him not like Dumbledore had, in a warm comforting embrace, but as if he would like to never let go, to place his own body between Harry and the world and keep him safe and still forever.

"I'm okay," Harry whispered into his shoulder. "Really."

"You will be," Sirius said stoutly, pulling back and looking slightly embarrassed. "Here, drink this. When you wake up you'll have a whole stack of presents to open."

"Thanks," Harry said softly, taking the vial and downing the contents in one gulp. The last thing he saw was Sirius, still perched on the edge of his bed, looking like he planned to sit vigil the rest of the night, dreamless sleep or not.

***