Harry Potter And The Fall Of Childhood

CHAPTER NOTE: There are passages in this chapter drawn both from canon (Chamber of Secrets, Prisoner of Azkaban, and Goblet of Fire respectively) and from earlier in Fall of Childhood itself. All quoted material is italicized.

Chapter 22

Commoneo

And when the stream

Which overflowed the soul was passed away,

A consciousness remained that it had left

Deposited upon the silent shore

Of memory images and precious thoughts

That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed.

--William Wordsworth, The Prelude, Book VII

***

February 14, 1988

The spider had been very busy, Harry thought. It had spun a thick mat of sticky web, clinging tenaciously to the acute angle formed by the wall and the sloped ceiling of the cupboard under the stairs. Harry had spotted it the night before, making its laborious way up the wall, not seeming daunted by a vertical climb about equivalent to Mt. Everest in the spider world. Now, only twenty-four hours later, it was quite comfortably installed.

He sort of envied the spider its web. It looked so nice, hanging lazily in the open air. In comparison, Harry's bare little cot seemed even harder and drabber. It was getting too small as well, Harry noted ruefully. It was meant for a very small child, a toddler perhaps, and even Harry's slight seven-and-a-half-year-old frame was becoming a bit too much for it. He wasn't about to complain to the Dursleys, though.

"Bet you're tired," Harry said, tucking his hands behind his head and regarding the spider. The light of the bare bulb hurt his eyes a little as he squinted up, and Harry lifted a hand to shade them. That was another thing he definitely wasn't going to complain about. It really wasn't too bad, he told himself philosophically. If he sat in the first few rows of the classroom he could see the blackboard decently enough. Things only got blurry when they were too far away. He could get around just fine, recognize faces, read his spelling book. If he told the Dursleys, he'd only get a lecture about the expense of glasses and just how much he could expect to take from the Dursleys funds when he, Harry, didn't contribute. Privately, Harry thought doing the dishes, the laundry, cleaning, and taking care of some of the yard work was contributing plenty--especially in comparison to Dudley, whose purpose in life, Harry had decided, was to single-handedly support the British chocolate industry.

Harry rolled onto his side and pulled his knees up to his chest. It was silly to be thinking about the Dursleys tonight, of all nights. Harry smiled, letting himself luxuriate in the blissful silence of the rest of the house. No Dudley jumping on the stairs, raining plaster and helpless spiders onto Harry. No Aunt Petunia, shrieking for him to do some chore or other. No Uncle Vernon bellowing and blaming him for the clogged garbage disposal, the dead lawn mower, the state of the drill market, the weather, and, when he had really gotten going, Mad Cow Disease and the state of the economy. No, tonight Harry had the house entirely to himself, and even though Uncle Vernon had set the bolt on the outside of his cupboard with a decisive thunk before he and Aunt Petunia left (first to drop Dudley at a friend's for the night, and then off for their romantic Valentine's dinner), Harry was still in remarkably good spirits. True, he couldn't leave his cupboard and really enjoy the empty house, but just the silence was treat enough. The Dursleys didn't trust him not to do something "noticeable" if they were to send him to stay with Mrs. Figg for the night, and Harry was really quite content to spend an evening alone in his cupboard. He just hoped he didn't develop a sudden, violent need to visit the loo anytime soon.

Harry went suddenly, perfectly still. There was a pressure in the air, something enormous and heavy. Harry felt like he was inside a great, inflated balloon, and someone was pressing inexorably in from the outside. The house was still and silent, just as it should have been, but Harry didn't notice. He knew with an unquestioning, absolute surety, that he was no longer alone in the house.

He sat up very slowly, though even that was an effort. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry spotted his spider friend still happily suspended in its web. It must be just him then, feeling this oppressive heaviness. Harry swung his legs over the side of his cot, though he really didn't know what he was planning to do. He was locked in, and even if he weren't, he wasn't exactly equipped to defend himself against burglars, or anybody else, for that matter. He should just stay put, be silent and still and hope whoever it was didn't notice the little door tucked away under the stairs.

Then the looming weight vanished from Harry's shoulders. He couldn't suppress a sudden yawn, and his ears popped explosively as if he had just come down from a great height. It hurt a little, and Harry let out a tiny, muffled squeak, the kind he had learned to make way back before he could even remember, the kind the Dursleys would never hear.

But this time someone did hear him. There were sudden, rapid footsteps out in the hall, seeming to come from nowhere, as if the person had just appeared out of thin air. Harry went cold with fright, his eyes finding the substantial crack under the cupboard door. The glare of his single light bulb would be painfully visible out in the dark hallway. Indeed, the footsteps seemed to be coming straight for the door. Harry was utterly still as they stopped and the bolt was slid back. There was nowhere to run, anyway, he thought frantically, not even any furniture to hide behind except his tiny cot.

The cupboard door swung open, and Harry finally moved, scrambling back across his cot to press himself ineffectually into the corner. The hall lights were still off, but the intruder's silhouette was clearly visible against the glow of the streetlamps through the front windows. Harry raised his eyes, determined at least to meet his fate head on.

He blinked, stared.

"Hello," the woman said softly. "It's alright, I'm not going to hurt you."

She was kneeling in the doorway in order to peer in, so her face was almost exactly at Harry's eye level. She had very nice eyes, Harry thought, a very pale blue like a washed out summer sky. The light from above reflected lowly on her hair, a soft, graying red mass tucked up on top of her head. She was smiling at him, he saw, and even though it wasn't one of those full-face, shining grins Harry had only seen on a few people, it was still warm and kind.

"Who are you?" Harry asked, tentatively uncurling from his corner. "How did you get in? The doors are locked."

"They're more than locked," she said, scooting just a little closer so she knelt right inside the cupboard door. "And it took some doing, believe me. You are very well guarded here, Harry. It's a good thing I know how Dumbledore thinks, or else I'd be in a Ministry interrogation room right now."

"You know my name," Harry said, a little wonderingly. Few people bothered to ask, and even fewer used it--Harry sometimes thought Uncle Vernon thought he was called "dratted boy".

"Of course," the woman said. "I know quite a lot about you."

"Like what?" Harry asked, intrigued. Not many people, including himself, knew much at all about him.

"That's not important right now," the woman said, shifting closer again. "What is important is that something happened a few days ago, something bad." She gazed at Harry intently for a moment, and the lines of worry and strain around her eyes relaxed. "Look at you," she said softly, almost wonderingly. She reached out and traced the line of his cheek with the gentlest touch Harry could ever remember feeling. "You're so small," she murmured.

"I'm going to grow," Harry told her, straightening his shoulders. "I'm the shortest in the class right now, but I'm going to grow, I promise."

"I'm sure you are," the woman said, smiling more broadly. Her hand still hovered over Harry's cheek, and the smile faded as she lifted it and carefully traced his scar. Harry sat very still, a little unnerved. Practically nobody ever touched him anywhere, let alone his scar. "You're special," the woman said, leaning close to him. "Very special and very precious. This thing that has happened, it was to be expected, but it is no good. I've come to make sure you're safe, Harry."

"Safe from what?" Harry asked, lowering his voice to match her.

"A lot of things. Bad people who would hurt you. Good people who would lay the world on your shoulders." She smiled ironically. "From yourself too, I suppose. You're going to be a Gryffindor, I can already tell. Gryffindors, they're so busy saving others, they forget to save themselves."

"I'm going to be a what?" Harry asked, growing more and more confused.

"Never mind." The woman sat back on her heels and reached into the sleeve of what, Harry suddenly realized, was a very strange looking blue garment, sort of like a dress but not quite. She withdrew a shiny stick of wood, long and smooth. She studied it for a moment as if composing herself, then looked back up at Harry. "Now then," she said, reaching for Harry's chin. "This will only take a moment, then you'll be safe from all of this. Cohibeo!"

Harry flinched back, but it was too late. The woman lifted the stick and brandished it inches from his eyes. There was a dazzling flash of light and Harry felt suddenly as if a massive wet blanket had been pulled over him. He reeled a little, and warm arms slipped around him, gently lowering him to the cot.

"Hush, it's alright," the woman was murmuring, gently smoothing his hair. "You're okay. This had to have worked. Alfonse has never been wrong yet."

Harry lay, panting a little as the world slowly stopped spinning. He felt very strange, smaller somehow, almost deadened. Inside his head there was an echoing silence he had never heard before. Harry decided that he both liked it and was frightened by it.

"There now, open your eyes," the woman coaxed. Harry did so cautiously, then blinked in growing alarm.

"I can't see," he said, trying to sit up. "Everything's all blurry."

"Here now." The woman pressed something into his hand, then took it away again and slid the pair of glasses onto his face herself when it appeared he was having trouble. The world sharpened immediately into focus, and Harry stared in bewilderment up at his strange guest.

"What'd you do that for?" he asked, a little indignantly.

"I'm sorry," she said, sounding sincere. "I didn't want to frighten you. Are you feeling alright? No headache?"

"No," Harry said, reaching up and feeling the glasses. They were round, with thick frames. "But what about my eyes?"

"You can see with the glasses, right?" the woman asked solicitously.

"Yes," Harry said. "But I used to be able to see without them."

"I'm sorry about that, too," the woman said, "but it was the only way I could think of. You'll have to wear the glasses from now on. And Harry, this is very important, you mustn't lose them. They'll grow as you grow, so you won't need to replace them. And they shouldn't break for a long while. When they do, just try to repair them best you can and keep wearing them. It's very important."

"I don't understand--" Harry began.

"Tell your relatives you got them from the Health Department," the woman continued. "You must remember that, Harry. It's one of the few things you will remember." She scowled around the cupboard. "I doubt they'll take much notice, anyway," she added darkly.

"You're not from the Health Department," Harry said.

"No," the woman said, laughing a little. "I'm not. I'm just a friend who wants to see you safe." She glanced around the cupboard again. "I'm sorry I can't help you more," she continued. "I can make you safe for later, but I can't help you have a better life now. God knows, if I could, I'd take you with me." She sighed and clasped her hands tightly together.

"Really?" Harry asked, astounded. No one had ever said they'd like to have him before.

"I can't," she said gently. "That's no life for you. You're better off here, in the long run." She gazed at Harry for a moment more, and he remained silent, somehow sensing that she needed this time very badly. "I can't stay," she said finally. "I've been here too long, already. I wouldn't put it past him to have thought of the loophole I used and be on his way right now."

"Who?"

"Alright," the woman said, ignoring Harry's question. "I must be off. But before I go, I need to tell you something." She took his chin in her hand again, and Harry's eyes widened in slight alarm. But the funny stick stayed safely down by her side. "Someone will come for you," she said gently. "Someday, not too long off, really, someone will come and find you and take you away, I promise. There are people out there who love you and miss you, and who can't wait to see you again, and they'll be ready when it's time." She smiled, and Harry saw the sparkle of tears in her eyes. "You have a wonderful life ahead of you," she said softly. "Don't forget that, either. No matter what your relatives tell you, you're special and wonderful, and people love you. Will you remember?"

"Sure," Harry said, thinking that there was no way he could ever forget any of this encounter.

"Alright," the woman said again. "I'm sorry to do this again, but I really must, just in case you do happen to remember more than you should." She lifted the stick again, touched it fleetingly to each of his hands, then pressed it gently to his lips. "Nequeo dico," she whispered.

She gazed at Harry for a moment more, following the lines of his face with reverent fingers barely touching his skin. "Goodbye," she said finally. Then, "Obliviate!"

***

June, 1993

Dumbledore reached across to Professor McGonagall's desk, picked up the blood-stained silver sword, and handed it to Harry. Dully, Harry turned it over, the rubies blazing in the firelight. And then he saw the name engraved just below the hilt.

Godric Gryffindor

"Only a true Gryffindor could have pulled that out of the hat, Harry," said Dumbledore simply.

For a minute, neither of them spoke. Harry traced the two words again and again, the cold knot of dread that had been clutching for months finally releasing.

"This is a curious thing," Dumbledore said, taking the sword from him and examining it again. "It has been hidden away for a very long time."

"In the hat," Harry said, glancing over at the unassuming black lump of cloth on the desk. "Who do you suppose put it there?"

"Why, Gryffindor himself, I would imagine," Dumbledore said. "His powerful sword has been part of the many legends surrounding him and the rest of the founders for years. It is not known whether he himself forged it, or whether he got it from someone else." He smiled gently at Harry. "If you wish to find strange similarities, Harry, perhaps you would be better suited comparing yourself to the founder of your house. He, too, led an unusual, sometimes dangerous life."

"Really?" said Harry, curious.

"Yes," Dumbledore said. "I must find an opportunity for you to examine his history more closely, someday. It is important, I think." He frowned distantly for a moment longer, as if studying something only he could see.

"What about the sword, though?" Harry asked.

"It disappeared at the time of his death," Dumbledore explained, his gaze returning to Harry. "Some claim it was destroyed at Gryffindor's death because the two were magically linked. Others said it was stolen or hidden away." He smiled whimsically. "You've upset the theories of quite a number of historical scholars today, my boy."

"Oh," said Harry, for he could think of little else to say.

Dumbledore seemed to understand this, and winked conspiratorially. "Of course," he added dryly, "you've done that before." His gaze returned to the sword, and he lifted it, watching the firelight catch in the rubies. "According to legend, Gryffindor used to be able to pull this sword out of thin air," he said. "And tonight, you pulled it out of our very own Sorting Hat. Very interesting. Harry, I would like to try a bit of an experiment, if you don't mind."

"Sure," Harry said. "What should I do?"

"Just stay there," Dumbledore said, rising and crossing to the other side of the room. He set the sword on a low shelf and returned to Harry. "Do you think you could make it come to you?" he asked.

"Summon it?" Harry said, frowning. "I don't see how."

"Why not?" the Headmaster asked. "You already pulled it out of its hiding place. Logically, moving it across the room would be much easier."

"I suppose," Harry said doubtfully. He reached for his wand, though what he was planning on doing, he didn't know. They didn't learn to summon things for another few years.

"Not your wand," Dumbledore said, catching Harry's wrist. "Just you."

"But how can I summon it without my wand?" Harry asked.

"The same way you summoned Fawkes," Dumbledore said. The phoenix, who had settled himself on the mantle, rustled his feathers.

"I...summoned him?" Harry repeated, startled. "I thought he came because I'm loyal to you."

"He did," Dumbledore said. "But how do you suppose he knew that? Or where you were, and what you needed, for that matter? No, Harry, you called him, even if you didn't know it." He patted Harry on the shoulder. "It seems you have a knack for doing what's needed when it needs to be done," he said. "What I'd like to know is if you can do it when it's not a matter of life or death."

"Okay," Harry said, turning back to the sword. "What should I do?"

"Close your eyes," Dumbledore said. "If you just look at how far away it is, it'll never work. Think about how you felt when you first found it. Were you afraid? Worried?"

"Yeah," Harry said, frowning in concentration.

"Think about that," Dumbledore said. "Remember how you felt, make yourself feel that way again. You needed help, Harry, so you called help to you. Try and do it again."

Harry tried, he really did. He sent his mind back to those frantic moments, a monster of a man stalking him, and a real live nightmare monster ready to pounce. He thought of Ginny, slowly fading away, and remembered how his heart had nearly beat out of his chest. He concentrated so hard, he no longer felt the warmth of McGonagall's fire on his back, but only the cold stones of the chamber floor beneath him. He could smell the dank rottenness of the place again, hear the way the slightest noise echoed.

A touch on the shoulder roused Harry from his intense concentration. "I think," Dumbledore said, "that will do."

Harry blinked, looking around the room to reorient himself to warmth and safety. He looked down at his hands, and was greatly surprised to find them as empty as they'd been when he'd begun Dumbledore's little experiment. The sword lay unmoved across the room.

"Sorry," Harry said, flushing a little. It was mortifying to disappoint the Headmaster.

"Do not worry," Dumbledore said, patting his shoulder again. "It was only an experiment, nothing of great importance."

"Alright," Harry said, a bit dubiously. He had the idea that it was just the opposite.

Dumbledore seemed to read that thought, for his gaze was piercing as he examined Harry. He seemed to be debating something for a long moment, his mouth set in an unhappy line.

"Oh dear," he murmured. He looked from Harry's confused face to Fawkes, still perched contentedly on the mantle, to the sword across the room. "Well, there's nothing for it," he said finally, decisively. He turned back to Harry and smiled a little sadly. "I must apologize, Harry," he said, "for the great trespass I am about to commit upon you."

"I'm sorry?" said Harry.

"Everything is alright," Dumbledore said gently. "I am only a foolish old man who seems to be losing his patience in his old age." He withdrew his wand, and Harry got a sudden, chill tingle. "Things must happen in their own time," Dumbledore said, though Harry got the impression he was speaking more to himself than anything. "I mustn't rush, that would be the worst thing I could do to you."

"What--" Harry began.

"It will be alright," Dumbledore said, lifting his wand. "When you remember, for I'm sure you will someday, I will be able to explain. Obliviate!"

Harry blinked. He felt a little fuzzy, suddenly. It must be the exhaustion, he thought. Every muscle and bone in his body felt like lead weights, the exertions of the day finally catching up with him.

Then Dumbledore pulled open one of the drawers in Professor McGonagall's desk and took out a quill and a bottle of ink.

What you need, Harry, is some food and sleep. I suggest you go down to the feast, while I write to Azkaban -- we need our gamekeeper back. And I must draft an advertisement for the Daily Prophet, too," he added thoughtfully. "We'll be needing a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher... Dear me, we do seem to run through them, don't we?"

***

June, 1994

"You think the dead we loved ever truly leave us? You think that we don't recall them more clearly than ever in times of great trouble? Your father is alive in you, Harry, and shows himself most plainly when you have need of him. How else could you produce that particular Patronus? Prongs rode again last night."

It took a moment for Harry to realize what Dumbledore had said.

Last night Sirius told me all about how they became Animagi," said Dumbledore, smiling. "An extraordinary achievement -- not least, keeping it quiet from me. And then I remembered the most unusual form your Patronus took, when it charged Mr. Malfoy down at your Quidditch match against Ravenclaw. You know, Harry, in a way, you did see your father last night.... You found him inside yourself."

"There're a lot of people in me, aren't there?" Harry said thoughtfully. "My mum and dad. Voldemort. It makes me wonder a little..." he trailed off, not sure how to articulate the uneasiness the idea stirred in him.

"You wonder about yourself," Dumbledore said, seating himself behind Professor Lupin's desk.

"Yes," Harry said, taking a seat upon the Headmaster's silent invitation. "I wonder if...who am I in all that? I look like my dad and I have my mum's eyes and I speak Parseltongue like Voldemort, and lots of other things. I keep wondering what's just...me."

"Oh, I don't think you have anything to fear," Dumbledore said kindly. "You will get quite tired of hearing this as well, I think, but you are growing up, Harry. This is a time when you are discovering yourself, learning who you are, who you will be. But I have told you before--it is our choices that make us who we are, and you alone have made the choices you've made. Not your parents, not Voldemort."

"Okay," Harry said, nodding. "It was just, out at the lake, seeing him...when I realized it had to have been me, I couldn't believe it. But it all happened so fast, I didn't have time to worry about how I could possibly summon a Patronus like that."

"About that," Dumbledore said, sitting forward suddenly. "Do you think you could do it again, perhaps?"

Harry frowned. "Well, I did it once," he said a bit doubtfully. "But, I mean, I couldn't do it at the same time. And the me who couldn't do it and the me who could, there's only three hours difference between the two. I don't understand how I did it, or why then and not before, or at the exact same time but not--" he waved a hand, foiled by the lack of a tense to explain what he meant.

"Time travel is quite a snarl, isn't it?" Dumbledore said. "The magic involved is immensely powerful and complicated. There are only a very few Time Turners in the world, and their range is severely limited. In fact, the capability to make them is rather beyond our current means, it seems. Many otherwise brilliant and accomplished witches and wizards have attempted to construct one. They have all failed, with various amounts of property damage and general mayhem. One has not been successfully made in many centuries. Michael Krieger constructed the last one, as I recall. The one you and Miss Granger utilized last night, if I'm not mistaken." He smiled a little wistfully. "I had aspirations to make one myself, many years ago. But it was one of many projects which I simply never had the time to pursue."

"I don't understand," Harry said, frowning. "If they're so rare, and dangerous I'd bet, why did Hermione get one? She's only thirteen, after all, even if she is Hermione."

Dumbledore's smile faltered a little. "It is astute of you to realize that Miss Granger's possession of such an object is unusual," he said. Harry groaned silently. He had had enough conversations with the Headmaster to recognize the opening moves of an evasive pattern. "The truth is," Dumbledore continued, startling Harry, "that Miss Granger's course selections, and the way her schedule was arranged, were a lucky coincidence. We would normally not allow a student, even one as bright as Miss Granger, to attempt a course load such as that, not only because we would not give them a Time Turner, but also because of the sheer amount of work involved."

"Hermione was awfully busy," Harry said.

"Yes," Dumbledore agreed. "In her case, I allowed her to attempt the schedule both in order to teach her to better respect her own limitations, and as a means of putting the Time Turner within your reach."

"So...you knew then?" Harry asked, astounded. "Way back in September, you knew all this would happen?"

"Oh, certainly not," Dumbledore said. "I had only an inkling, shall we say, that you would be needing a Time Turner this year. I am accustomed, Harry, to listening very closely to the promptings of the pieces of myself which know things before the rest do. It is a skill you yourself will develop over time, I imagine."

"So you gave Hermione the Time Turner because you had a feeling I'd need it?" Harry asked, slightly awed. "That's, that's..."

"Oh, I've heard it all," Dumbledore said, waving a dismissive hand. "Professor McGonagall had quite a lot to say to me on the subject."

Harry grimaced. He could only imagine the rule bound McGonagall's reaction to such a breech.

"But let us forget about the Time Turner for a moment," Dumbledore continued, "and return to you, my boy. The Patronus you conjured last night was very great and very powerful."

"Yes," Harry said. His body tingled with the memory of how it had felt to cast a spell like that. "I still don't understand how I did it, though. Why couldn't I do it the first time around?"

"Because you were going to the second time," Dumbledore said, and smiled at Harry's wince. "Do not attempt to untangle the intricacies that inevitably accompany time travel," he said. "All it will gain for you is a headache." Harry nodded ruefully. "In any case," Dumbledore went on, "Harry, I would like you to attempt your Patronus again for me, please."

"Now?" Harry asked.

"Yes," Dumbledore said.

"But there's no Dementor," Harry said, glancing about the room as if he expected one to appear.

"Do you really need one?" Dumbledore asked. "You practiced against a Boggart only so you could grow accustomed, or accustomed as it is possible to grow, to the effects the Dementors have on you."

"Oh, well, I hadn't thought about it like that," Harry said. He rose and withdrew his wand.

"Just into the wall will be fine," Dumbledore said.

Harry nodded, squared his shoulders, and took a deep breath. He reached for his happy memory, the Quidditch Cup again, and focused. The familiar feeling began to grow, and, just when he felt it crest, Harry lifted his wand. "Expecto Patronum!"

He opened his eyes, surprised to find he had closed them. The stag emerged from his wand just as it should, rushing at the wall as if to impale it on its antlers. The creature paused, wheeled around, and regarded Harry as if to say, "well, what do you want?" before beginning to fade away.

"Hmm," Dumbledore said.

Harry frowned at the last wisps of silver light. "That's funny," he said slowly. "It's not half as strong as the one I did last night. That one hurt my eyes. This one was...pale."

"Hmm," Dumbledore said again.

"How could I do it?" Harry asked, turning to face the Headmaster. "How could I do it then and not now? How could I do it at all?"

"Because you needed to," Dumbledore said, rising. He leaned both hands on Professor Lupin's desk for a long moment, studying the grain of the wood through narrowed eyes. At last he let out a slow breath. "Too soon," Harry heard him mutter. "Still too soon."

"Pardon?" Harry asked. He took a step closer to the Headmaster. Something was tickling at him, murmuring quietly but insistently that there was something important here. He had done an extraordinary thing the night before, he knew, and as heartwarming as Dumbledore's talk of his father had been, Harry wasn't so sure. If his father was really in him, somehow became his Patronus, it should always happen, not just once, shouldn't it?

"Nothing," Dumbledore said, raising his head and regarding Harry. He frowned at whatever he saw in Harry's face, and he seemed suddenly and profoundly regretful.

"And again," he said softly. "Oh how I wish..." he trailed off, shaking his head.

"Professor?" Harry took another step, a little worried now. He had never seen the Headmaster behaving like this before, and it frightened him a little. Dumbledore looked decades older than he had just two minutes before, and he was looking at Harry with such a compassionate, sorrowful gaze that Harry felt unbidden, unexplainable tears pricking at his eyes.

"I'm alright, Harry," Dumbledore said. "Only thinking out loud a bit." He came around the desk to stand before Harry, who had the sudden, disconcerting feeling that the balance of power in the room had shifted. Having the Headmaster standing like that, hands clasped almost penitently, unnerved him. Dumbledore gazed at him measuringly for a long few seconds, then nodded resignedly.

"If it must be," he said. "Again, Harry, I do hope when you recall this, you will allow me to explain."

Harry frowned, confused. Dumbledore had said that as if he had done so before, but Harry couldn't remember the Headmaster ever saying something like that to him. He opened his mouth to ask, but the words never came. The Headmaster's wand was out and lifting before Harry even registered it.

"Obliviate!"

Harry blinked, then smiled at the Headmaster. The idea of his father living on somehow, somewhere inside was a wonderful thought, and it made him feel lighter on his feet than he had all day.

And Dumbledore left the office, leaving Harry to his very confused thoughts.

***

April, 1995

"You are no son of mine!" bellowed Mr. Crouch, his eyes bulging suddenly. "I have no son!"

The wispy witch beside him gave a great gasp and slumped in her seat. She had fainted. Crouch appeared not to have noticed.

"Take them away!" Crouch roared at the dementors, spit flying from his mouth. "Take them away, and may they rot there!"

"Father! Father, I wasn't involved! No! No! Father, please!"

Harry shivered, enormously glad as the scene melted away around him. Crouch's' cries, both the vengeful and the desperate, still rang in his ears, and it took him a moment to notice that the world had once again reformed itself around him. This time he had little chance to take stock of his surroundings, for he seemed to be moving. Or rather, he realized, the world had not entirely stopped moving around him. He was floating, almost gliding, down an oddly familiar stone corridor. The effect was strange, as if the corridor were flowing by him, for Harry himself was not physically walking.

Glancing to his right, Harry felt somewhat relieved to find Dumbledore there, though it took him a moment to adjust to the sight of a noticeably younger Dumbledore, much less silvered, and with a greatly shortened beard. He was striding along with great purpose through what Harry suddenly recognized as the halls of Hogwarts. But the Headmaster's (was he the Headmaster in this memory? Harry didn't think so), shoulders were slumped, his head bent. The brief glimpse Harry got of his face as they turned a corner revealed an agonized expression, grief-stricken and regretful. He was moving almost resignedly, as if he had a horrible duty to carry out which he was determined to do as well as he could.

Harry followed along like a dog on a leash as Dumbledore maneuvered through hallways and up staircases Harry had never seen before. Finally, they arrived at an out of the way corridor with a single door at the end. Dumbledore strode up to it, paused for the briefest of moments, then knocked.

The door was flung open as if someone had been waiting right on the other side. A woman stood framed in the opening, backlit by a healthily roaring fire and the steady glow of magical torches.

"Filia," Dumbledore said, reaching for her.

She gave a choked, animal sound and flung herself at him. Harry caught a glimpse of the beginnings of tears on her cheeks before she pressed her dark head to Dumbledore's chest.

"There is no sense in making you wait further," Dumbledore said, stroking her hair with the greatest of tenderness. "But, please, Filia, do let us step inside."

"Of course." She straightened, wiping her cheeks hastily. "I've--I've brewed tea." Her voice quavered on the words, and she spun away, almost running into the room beyond the door as if to escape from beneath Dumbledore's compassionate eye.

Harry moved with Dumbledore through the door into a comfortably furnished sitting room. Through a gap in the red velvet curtains, he caught a glimpse of a clear, night-time sky. Filia was busying herself at a small table by the fire, pouring tea with noticeably trembling hands. Dumbledore watched her gravely for a moment, then crossed to stand beside her. He took the teapot from her hands, finished pouring, then pressed a cup into her hands and urged her into the nearest armchair. He himself pushed a stack of books off the ottoman and settled on it.

"Filia," he said again.

She looked up at him for the first time, quickly, nervously. It seemed as if seeing him pained her, for she flinched away as if physically struck.

"They're gone," she said hollowly.

"Yes," Dumbledore said simply. "I went to check the house myself. Mundungus Fletcher was the one who owled me--he said he saw a group of people leaving the house, and he recognized a few faces he knows I have my eye on."

"How--" the word choked off, but Dumbledore understood.

"It was Avada Kedavra," he said, taking Filia's precariously tipping teacup from her and setting it aside. He clasped her convulsively clenching hands in his. "Andrew was in the nursery. He must have been trying to protect the baby."

Filia keened, a nearly sub vocal sound that set Harry's teeth on edge. She bent at the waist, clutching her stomach and continuing to make that awful, desolate sound. Harry was very glad he could not see her face in that moment--hearing her world fall apart was enough, he did not want to see it.

Dumbledore bent over her, murmuring quiet, unintelligible things. Harry watched, transfixed, as a single tear tracked its way from one brilliant blue eye and splashed into Filia's brown hair. The two moved closer, huddling together as Filia's quiet cry slowly turned into great, body-wracking sobs. They held each other desperately, painfully, and Harry looked away.

The storm passed slowly, Filia's sobs easing, subsiding into quiet, anguished crying. At last, that too was exhausted, and she lay limply against Dumbledore's chest.

"We have done this too often," he said finally. "First your mother, then your sister. Filia, there is little comfort I can offer you, no words I can say that you will want to hear for a very long time." He sighed, and reached into his robes. "I did bring you something, however," he continued, showing his open palm to her. Leaning over, Harry saw that it was a ring, a wedding band from the look of it.

Filia sat up, not bothering to even try and wipe her face. She took a long, shuddering breath, gazing down at the ring.

"I took it from Andrew before the Aurors came," Dumbledore said. "Otherwise, it would have been held up for months, and I wanted you to have it now."

She took a long time to answer, to even move, but Dumbledore did not seem to mind holding the ring out for her. Finally, she reached for it, and Harry saw the flash of its twin on her own finger. Filia fingered the band, leaning close to read an inscription inside before slipping the too-large circle onto her thumb.

"He was the last, you know," she said, her voice a broken croak. "The last McKinnon. We were going, going to make a new generation, continue the family name. He had no siblings, and his father was an only child, too."

"I know," Dumbledore said soothingly.

"They're all gone now," Filia continued. "All the McKinnons."

"You're still here," Dumbledore said.

Filia sobbed once, quietly. "I'll keep it, the name," she said. "I've only been a McKinnon for two years, but I loved it and I don't want to--I want to rememb--" she broke off, seemingly unable to say any more.

Dumbledore nodded. "That is a good idea, I think," he said, pressing the hand that bore two rings. "You will remember your husband and daughter however you see fit."

A sudden thought seemed to strike Filia, and she straightened a little. "Aurors, you said. Do they have any ideas about who--we have no enemies. I don't understand, was it a robbery?"

Dumbledore shook his head sadly. "They will look, of course," he said. "And I suspect if there is a name put to it at all, it will be called a robbery."

"But you don't think they will find anything," Filia said, studying him.

Dumbledore hesitated, then shook his head. "I am afraid not," he said. "And I am also afraid that this tragedy is somehow connected to some of the other odd occurrences in past years." He sighed, and seemed to age suddenly. "It has been only fourteen years since Grindelwald darkened our world," he said, almost to himself. "I would not have thought that so soon..."

Filia started. "You don't think--there can't be another dark wizard, can there? Not in Britain. We would have heard--there would have been signs, warnings..." she trailed off, her eyes widening. "Oh, Candida. You don't think--and mother, mother was sick for years."

"No, no," Dumbledore said hastily. "Your mother's illness was a tragedy, without doubt, but a random one." He hesitated, frowning.

"And Candida?" Filia asked. "You don't think..."

"As for your sister, it is impossible to say. It has been long enough to begin to," he breathed out, running an uncharacteristically trembling hand through his beard, "begin to lose hope," he concluded.

Filia winced, nodding. "But you think it's related? What happened to her and...tonight?"

"I do not wish to say," Dumbledore said. "There is something happening, I have no doubt of that. But what...or whom...I cannot say."

Filia nodded, studying her hands. "Do you suppose they were after me?" she asked suddenly. "It was only chance that I wasn't there tonight, and no one knew I was coming to take tea with you until your owl this morning. There would be no reason for someone to want to target Andrew--he was a cloak maker, for God's sake." She looked up at Dumbledore, her face suddenly very hard. "Did you know?" she demanded, her voice rising. "Did you know, the way you sometimes know things you shouldn't? Is that why you asked me to tea?"

Dumbledore was silent for just a moment too long. "Yes, and no," he said softly. "I had an idea there was something ominous hanging about today, but I did not know what. I honestly thought asking you to tea was a spontaneous occurrence." His shoulders sagged. "I am sorry," he continued, "that I did not save them."

Filia's anger melted away. "Don't," she said, touching Dumbledore's arm. "I don't blame you...not you. Never you." Dumbledore nodded, though Harry didn't think he felt entirely better. "But you really think there's something, or someone, stirring?" Filia asked. "A dark wizard?"

"Forget about that," Dumbledore said quickly. "I am only a paranoid old man. What I see, it seems, few others do."

"That has never stopped you before," Filia said a little dryly.

Dumbledore smiled, though it was a ghost of his usual beaming expression. "I suppose not," he said. "But let us not dwell on such things. Come, my dear, you are exhausted. Let me find you some Dreamless Sleep Potion so you may rest comfortably tonight."

Filia's face crumpled again, and she nodded. Dumbledore squeezed her hands, then rose. The swirl of his robes as he did so seemed to transmute into the room itself, causing everything to spin and swirl around Harry, fading just as all the other scenes had.

He was not entirely surprised to find himself once again in the strange courtroom, seated up on the highest bench with Dumbledore. Moody and Crouch were there as well, and Harry was sure that he had once again returned to the era of the other memories, after the fall of Voldemort when the Death Eaters were being rounded up. There was only one prisoner chair this time, Harry saw.

He turned towards the door, awaiting the entrance of the accused. His eye was caught by somebody in the first row of benches, sitting on the aisle directly in front of Dumbledore. It was Filia McKinnon, he saw, much more composed than he had seen her two minutes, twenty years, before.

The door opened and Harry turned with the rest of the crowd to watch as a pair of Dementors escorted a thin, elderly man to the chair. Harry squinted a moment, then placed the face. He had been tried before, with Crouch's son and the other two, for the Longbottom attack. Harry frowned, confused. He had already been sentenced, so why was he back here. Was he intending to offer up information as Karkaroff had?

"This is ridiculous," Harry heard Moody mutter to Dumbledore.

"Agreed," the Headmaster responded quietly.

"The man doesn't know when to stop," Moody continued, jerking his chin towards Crouch. "He's not going to be Minister, that's clear now. Not after the business with his brat, and too many other things." Moody scowled darkly over at the thin man as the Dementors left the courtroom. "As loathsome as that creature is, I would hate to see him sacrificed in a fruitless attempt to regain the public's trust."

"Alfonse Reynard," Crouch barked, cutting into the subdued exchange, "you have been brought from Azkaban to face additional charges. It has been discovered that you were party to the abduction of one Candida Accultus on June 30, 1957, when you yourself disappeared and were presumed dead." Crouch glanced down at a stack of papers before him and Harry heard Moody chuckle a little.

"That's really bothering him," the Auror muttered. "Death certificate filed after five years and everything. Bugger of a thing to get a man declared alive again after twenty years. Lots of paperwork."

"Mmm," Dumbledore said, though his attention was still focused entirely on the prisoner. He was studying the man very closely, Harry saw.

"And what became of Miss Accultus?" Crouch continued.

"I don't know," Reynard said. His voice was rusty and unused sounding, and he did not look directly at anyone as he spoke.

"Explain," Crouch snapped. "The two of you left the Beauxbatons' reunion you were attending together, and neither of you were ever seen again. Until we found you working for he who must not be named, that is. What became of Miss Accultus?"

"Don't know," Reynard repeated. "Haven't seen her in twenty years. Could be dead. Could be in Antarctica."

Crouch leaned forward. "Was she a Death Eater?" he demanded. There was a manic gleam in his eyes that Harry found a little disturbing.

"Oh, Lord," Moody muttered. "He thinks he's on the scent of something."

"Why are you protecting her?" Crouch continued, his voice rising. "Where is she hiding?"

Dumbledore stirred, frowning at Crouch. Indeed, most people in the room seemed slightly unnerved by the man's persistence. Harry could see restlessness, some irritation reflected in the faces of the crowd.

Reynard stared stonily back at Crouch, unmoving.

"You won't speak?" Crouch demanded. "I warn you, the consequences may be dire if you don't give us what we want."

"What you want," Moody grumbled. "The rest of us know this is useless. Man was an experimenter, not muscle. Spent twenty years locked away in a laboratory, coming up with Merlin knows what for You-Know-Who. Poor girl was probably his initiation or some such. Nice girl, too, from the records," he added thoughtfully. "Though Merlin also knows that doesn't mean so very much in the end."

"Bartemius," Dumbledore said, his voice at a normal level, "I think perhaps we have wandered off the subject. There are important things to be learned here. We need to know what sorts of work this man did for Voldemort, and more importantly, who has copies of his recipes and who knows his spells."

Crouch whipped around, his fierce staring match with Reynard broken. "Are you saying apprehending a possible Death Eater isn't important?" he demanded stridently. "She could be anywhere, doing anything. She could--"

"Bartemius--"

But Crouch wasn't listening. He spun back to face Reynard, scowling fiercely. "If you won't speak," he said icily, "it is no matter. We shall find Miss Accultus either way. You, however, are of no more use to us. I hereby sentence you to the Dementor's Kiss, to be administered at noon, tomorrow, at Azkaban prison."

There were a few surprised gasps in the crowd, and some people even raised their voices in objection. It seemed, Harry realized, that as willing as they were to see a man locked away for life, some people still did not approve of having his soul torn away from him.

"I would remind the members of the jury," Crouch bellowed over the growing noise, "that this man not only invented numerous torturous spells and potions for You-Know-Who, but he also took part in the brutal attack on Frank and Roberta Longbottom, not three months ago."

"Oh," Moody said, "and the plot thickens."

"This can't be allowed," Dumbledore said. "His research must be discovered, his recipes and notes found and destroyed. They could be enormously dangerous in the wrong hands."

"Too late," Moody growled, jerking a thumb towards the jury. Not all members had raised their hands in assent with Crouch's verdict as they had in the previous trials, but there was a clear majority. The crowd rumbled, unsettled, some obviously pleased, some worried.

"Don't worry," Moody said, leaning close to Dumbledore again. "He's miscalculated. Move like that, having someone Kissed. Hasn't been done in years. There'll be too much furor, there's no way he can be Minister now."

"Small price to pay for losing that," Dumbledore said, jerking his chin towards Reynard, who was being lifted out of the chair by two Dementors. Looking at his face, Harry found it hard to believe that the man had just been sentenced to a fate worse than death. He looked calm, almost relieved.

The Dementors started walking him up the aisle, back to the door. But suddenly, the previously taciturn man stopped, refused to take another step. The Dementors tugged at his arms, but he stood unmoving, staring fixedly at Filia. She gazed back, her face a mask of disgust.

"Your sister was alive and well when I saw her last," he said to her.

Filia blinked, startled. She opened her mouth, then shut it.

Reynard turned away, seemingly unconcerned with the effect of his words. Yet Harry was struck by the look on his face as he did so. Throughout the entire trial he had been a stone wall, unreadable, aloof, neither afraid nor defiant. Harry had disliked him on sight, mistrusted the coldness of his eyes, the calculating gleam to them. Yet then, as he spoke to Filia, the first true emotion had shown through, an almost reluctant softening of the harsh lines of his thin, haggard face.

Then he was gone, the door slamming shut behind him and his grizzly escort. The courtroom emptied rapidly, beginning with Crouch, who practically bolted from the high bench.

"Makes you wonder," Moody said to Dumbledore as the crowd dispersed. "He was one of the Dark Lord's earliest supporters, that one. Had probably known him for years before he went public. And all that time doing nothing but inventing. Makes you wonder if someone else had offered him the time and resources to pursue all the experiments he wanted, if he'd be so loyal to them, too."

"There is that," Dumbledore said, sighing. "Tom Riddle was a very clever man. He knew the workings of the human heart better than many. Alfonse Reynard has done brilliant work, brilliant but terrible. If he had been encouraged more in school, perhaps found a mentor who could steer him away from some of his more gruesome interests, he could have done astounding things for the wizarding world."

"There are the Longbottoms, though," Moody said. "The man may not have cared much about Muggles and Muggleborns while the Dark Lord was alive and he could stay happily in his laboratory, but he certainly didn't shrink from the more hands-on methods of his colleagues when the time came."

"Yes," Dumbledore said, "and that is curious, I think." He glanced at Moody. "I met him, you see, before he disappeared. He seemed a decent enough fellow, if a bit too driven to his work."

"All moot now, anyway," Moody said, rising. "He'll be gone tomorrow, and all he could have told us with him. I must be off, though. Bloody boring departmental meeting. Good day, Albus."

"And you, Alastor," Dumbledore returned.

The Auror stumped out, leaving the room empty aside from the unseen Harry, Dumbledore, and Filia, who had remained in her seat.

"Did you hear?" Filia asked, gazing up at Dumbledore. "Did you hear what he said to me?"

"I did," Dumbledore said, descending from the highest bench to sit beside her.

"Did you believe him?"

Dumbledore pondered, then nodded. "I did," he said. "But Filia, he also said it had been twenty years since he saw her."

"I know." Filia let out her breath. "Idiot Crouch. He should have been given Veritaserum in private, all his findings traced. You could have asked him then, what happened to her."

"It's too late now," Dumbledore said.

"Yes." Filia sighed and rose. "And that's that, then. Travers came in months ago--he admitted to killing Andrew and the baby. And now Reynard is going to be Kissed....it's all really...over."

"More or less," Dumbledore said, rising as well. "Not quite as finished as you, or the rest of wizarding society might wish, I fear, but for now, yes."

She hugged Dumbledore, then reached for her purse. "I must be off, though. There's a gathering of Merpeople in the Mediterranean I want to observe."

Dumbledore bid her goodbye and watched her as she departed.

"Well," he said, "this has certainly been a surprising afternoon."

Harry frowned, confused. He had heard the man speak, yet his lips had not moved. Harry glanced around and started violently. There was an Albus Dumbledore, still seated on the lowest bench, gazing thoughtfully at his hands, and an Albus Dumbledore behind Harry, looking directly at him.

"Professor," Harry gasped, "I know I shouldn't've - I didn't mean - the cabinet door was sort of open and -"

"That's quite alright," Dumbledore said. He regarded Harry for a moment, then continued, "You have seen some very interesting things today. Some which I think you needed to see to better understand what is happening, what will happen in the future. Other things, other things are very private, even secret."

"I know," said Harry, thinking of Filia's grief. "I'm very sorry."

"That's alright," Dumbledore said gently. "You have never been in a Pensieve before--you had no control over where it took you." He frowned abstractedly. "Interesting selection, though," he added, almost to himself.

"I won't tell anybody," Harry assured. "I mean, I don't know what's secret and what's not, but I won't tell."

"Oh, I believe you," the Headmaster said. "I know you would never knowingly betray me. But I think you can understand that sometimes the best of intentions don't mean much." He glanced towards the door through which Filia had exited. "And a secret, known to only two or three people in the entire world is a secret that must never, ever be revealed, for it could endanger many, many lives."

"I understand," Harry said.

"I'm sure you do," Dumbledore said, nodding. "However, I'm afraid I must take a few precautionary measures. It makes me greatly uncomfortable to do so, but the risks of leaving things be are too great." He sighed and withdrew his wand. He touched the wand to his temple and murmured a charm as he drew it away. A long, silvery strand came with it, and Dumbledore lifted it into the air, murmuring another charm. The scene dissolved as the rest had, and Harry expected to find himself back in the Headmaster's office. To his surprise, however, and no small confusion, he once again found himself seated up on the highest bench, though this time there was a Dumbledore on either side of him. The scene was very familiar, as well--six Dementors were in the process of dragging four captives out of the room. The thin, wasted frame of Crouch's wife lay slumped over the bench, and the screams of her son echoed about the room.

"Why are we back here?" Harry asked the "real" Dumbledore.

"Because," the Headmaster said, "it is necessary that I do something once again which I find difficult, even abhorrent. Something I had hoped not to have to do ever again now that you are growing up."

"What?" Harry asked, perplexed.

"Obliviate!"

Harry winced, almost wishing to cover his ears and block out Crouch's desperate pleas.

"I think, Harry, it is time to return to my office," said a quiet voice in Harry's ear.

***

October, 1995

He frowned at the last paper, which seemed even more cryptic than the other three. It was not in Crouch's now familiar squashed handwriting, but in a taller script, looking inexplicably older. It was labeled simply "Reynard Manifestation" and contained not instructions, but a sort of record of progress. The dates started in 1979 with a simple "My Lord's approval" and went all the way through to December of 1981 with a chilling, "Attempt successful. Subject acquired and given treatment." Between these two was a long column of dates and brief entries detailing what looked to Harry's inexperienced eyes like some sort of experiment. He really didn't want to think about what Reynard was experimenting on, especially when he spotted "May 5, 1980: Latest test subject disposed of after treatment caused irreversible brain malfunction and inability to comprehend spoken or written language."

Harry restacked and refolded the papers before carefully replacing them in the diary. He refilled the box with all the parchments and books, leaving only the two books in foreign languages and the diary. He would go to Dumbledore tomorrow, ask him what the two books were and show him the diary and parchments. He had a funny feeling about this Reynard and his 'manifestation.'

It took Harry a long time to fall asleep, as his mind was full of progressively more gruesome and horrific scenarios to further roil his now constantly unsettled stomach.

***

Harry woke very early the next morning. The tower was utterly silent beneath him, not even a House Elf pattering around the common room. The moon still hung well above the horizon, and Harry guessed it was not yet four in the morning. He lay a moment, trying to figure out what had roused him.

Then he was up and moving, stumbling across the room as his too long pajamas tangled about his ankles. He made it to the bathroom barely in time, and fell to his knees, vomiting repeatedly until his stomach clenched around nothing. Harry slumped back onto the floor, utterly drained by the suddenness and violence of the attack. From his position he had an odd angle view of the mirror. He could see himself lying crumpled, exhausted, his face frighteningly pale and his hands visibly trembling.

"That's it," Harry said aloud. His voice echoed a little in the bathroom, but he took no notice. The sight of himself like that, wretched and pathetic, was the final straw. This had happened before, once last week, again a few weeks before. Harry thought of all the missed meals, the times he'd had to gulp down his rising bile as he forced himself to eat just enough so no one would notice. No, it was time--past time--something was done about this.

Harry pulled himself slowly, painfully to his feet, clutching the edge of the sink until everything stopped swirling so alarmingly. He would wait a few hours, he decided, then go to the Headmaster before breakfast. He should probably go to Pomfrey, he knew, but he had to talk to Dumbledore about Crouch's journal, anyway. Besides, the mediwitch sort of scared him, and he'd rather not face her alone, especially so early in the morning.

Harry passed the next few hours in his bed, sleeplessly. He whiled away the time watching the moon set and trying not to worry about all the things that could be wrong with him. Now that he had finally made up his mind about things the gravity of the situation was clear to him, and he laid a cautious hand over his stomach, stroking it almost placatingly.

Harry rose as the very first hints of light glimmered in the east. He dressed hastily and gathered his things, including the journal and papers. He wasn't sure just how long the discussion with Dumbledore would take, but he wanted to be prepared in case he needed to head straight to breakfast. Or the hospital wing.

Harry stole downstairs, pleased to see that no early risers were already down in the common room. The corridors were similarly deserted, and Harry was somewhat cheered to find that "Skittles!" still granted him entrance to the Headmaster's office. He rode the stairs up and knocked briskly at the office door.

Only then did it occur to him that Dumbledore himself might not be up yet, or at least not in his office. But even as the thought formed the door swung open. Harry stepped through, a greeting on his lips.

"Good morning, Headmaster--" he stopped short, blinking. "You're not Dumbledore."

The strange man seated behind the Headmaster's desk smiled amusedly. "No, I am not," he said. "But you are most certainly Harry Potter."

"Er, yes," said Harry. "Where's the Headmaster?"

"Away, I'm afraid," the stranger said. "Did you come to speak to him? I imagine it's rather important to drag you out of bed so early."

"I'd really rather speak to the Headmaster about that, if you don't mind," Harry said, unnerved. The man was sitting in the Headmaster's chair as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He had a nice enough face, and he was smiling with seemingly genuine warmth, but Harry was still thrown by his mere presence. "And who are you?"

"A friend of Albus'," the man said, standing. "But please, let's not talk about me. Tell me, Harry, how do you find your classes?"

"They're fine," Harry said, dumbfounded.

"No trouble?" the man inquired. "I only ask because sometimes certain areas of magic can give a student trouble. Some have difficulty with Transfiguration, others with Potions. How about you?"

"I do alright," Harry said, "even if I'm not the greatest student. Does Dumbledore know you're here?"

"Hmm," the stranger said, breezing easily past the question. "I'm glad to finally be able to speak to you--I've been trying for a while now but it's never quite worked out."

"Speak to me?" Harry repeated.

"Yes," the stranger said. He wore his reddish hair rather long, and he kept pushing it away from his face as they spoke. He had brown eyes, rather nice eyes, Harry thought. The man reminded him a little of Dumbledore, the way he seemed to be laughing a little inside all the time.

"What about?" Harry asked.

"Well, your school work, for one thing," the man said. "Tell me, do you have trouble with spells? You know the incantation, the procedure, yet they simply don't work?"

"Sometimes," Harry admitted.

"Hmm," the man said again. "Oh dear, dear. It seems I must, then. Now, Harry my boy, please don't be frightened."

"Frightened of wha--"

"Petrificus Totalus," the man said. Harry didn't even see his wand, for before he could look his eyes were frozen, gazing steadily at a picture of a snoozing witch dressed in full sixteenth-century wizarding finery. Harry felt himself begin to topple, could not move to stop it. Then the man was beside him, strong arms wrapping about Harry's shoulders. "Easy now," he said, lowering Harry into a chair. "Try to relax. I'm not going to hurt you. I just need to have a look..." he trailed off, leaning in close to study Harry's face. He gazed into his eyes (Harry tried to glare, though he knew it wouldn't work), and spent long moments probing and clucking over his scar. "Very interesting," he said.

Harry thought of all the things he wanted to say, starting with how rude it was to body bind hapless students and ending with a few nasty hexes he'd picked up from Moody's first few DADA lessons, but his tongue was frozen in his mouth, useless.

The man moved on from his scar and began running both hands through Harry's hair. He pressed his palms to Harry's temples, his long fingers curling around to cup the back of Harry's head. He closed his eyes and pursed his lips, apparently in deep concentration. Harry sat still--what choice did he have?--for what felt like an eternity. He didn't sense anything odd for quite a while, just the pressure of the man's hold. But then a strange, barely noticeable prickling began behind his eyes, then spread throughout his entire head. He felt as if there were strings attached all over inside him and someone was delicately plucking at them, pulling them just enough to register. It was odd, sort of ticklish, not entirely pleasant nor unpleasant.

"Damn!" the man burst out suddenly. Harry would have jumped if he could. "Someone's been meddling in there, on top of the original problem," the man said, removing his hands. He sat back on his heels, chewing his lip. "Seems Albus' way will have to do," he said finally. "Dementors. Hmph." He rose and dusted off his robes. Harry thought for a moment that the man would walk out and leave him frozen there for anyone to find, but the stranger only paced to the window and back once. "Well," he said finally, turning to Harry. "I am sorry about all this, though you won't remember. I told you I wouldn't hurt you, and I won't. But I'm afraid you really mustn't remember this, not quite yet." He smiled reassuringly. "You and I will be meeting later, though, never fear. We'll be seeing quite a lot of each other, I think."

Harry didn't find that particularly reassuring, but this time he didn't bother to try and say so.

"So," the man said. "Let's see. Albus gave you some work to do, I believe. That's probably why you're up here. So what you're going to do is go back to your dorm and go about your morning routine as usual. You can try to see the Headmaster again later at your convenience."

Harry wanted to say that he would do no such thing, but the man's steady gaze was oddly compelling. It was almost like being under Imperius, except for some reason not quite so scary.

"That should do it," the man said. "Finite Incantatem, and Obliviate!"