Harry Potter And The Fall Of Childhood

Chapter 24

The Knowing of It

"Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mass, the mere materials with which wisdom builds, till smoothed and squared and fitted to its place, does but encumber whom it seems to enrich. Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much; wisdom is humble that he knows no more." -- William Cowper

***

Harry woke in the grayish haze of pre-dawn to the promptings of an inner alarm he didn't recall setting. His sleep had been uneasy and fitful, and he lay still for a moment or two, sweeping the cobwebs of his dreams away and girding himself against the day, and the days, to come. He had somewhere to be, he realized, suddenly glad that his internal alarm had more sense than he did. He couldn't, after all, spend the day using Snape's wand, for many, many reasons.

Harry slipped out of bed, taking a moment to find his feet under the staggering weight of his exhaustion. As he turned to his trunk to gather his shower things, he caught a glimpse of Ron, sprawled out on his back, one long arm thrown over his partially open mouth, the other trailing over the edge of the bed. He looked very relaxed and peaceful, and Harry turned hastily away.

He showered and dressed and was on his way within fifteen minutes. The House Elves were invisibly afoot, for a warm fire was already crackling in the common room fireplace. Harry spent a moment warming his hands before it, then set out for the undoubtedly chilly reaches of the dungeons, once again concealed beneath his Invisibility Cloak.

It wasn't until he had actually descended from the Entrance Hall and was making his way along the dark, drafty passageway that Harry realized his early rising might be a disadvantage. He had no idea where Snape's rooms were, and he reckoned it wouldn't be the smartest thing to intrude on the professor in his own territory, anyway. He could only check Snape's classroom, office, and private workroom, and hope he wasn't the only one up early.

As it turned out, Snape wasn't so much up early as still up. Harry could tell the instant he spotted the professor hunched over a worktop in the private lab beside his office that the man hadn't moved for several hours, possibly the entire night. He was so absorbed in what he was doing, measuring fine grains of a whitish powder into the smallest cauldron Harry had ever seen, that he didn't even notice when Harry slipped in and removed his cloak. Harry spotted his own wand lying at the opposite end of the worktable, and was tempted simply to switch the wands and leave. But he suspected that Snape would find it unsettling, even insulting, to know that someone had moved so easily in his space. So, not wanting to disturb Snape's great concentration, Harry took a seat and watched.

Harry didn't like Potions, he would freely admit. He was also not particularly good at it, as Snape so often pointed out. Whether his dislike was caused by a lack of success or the other way around, Harry didn't know, but he had, ever since his first year, dreaded not only Potions classes, but the material itself. There was something in the play of one ingredient with another, in properties and amounts and preparation methods that had simply never clicked in his head the way some aspects of Charms and Transfiguration had. Learning them was a natural, organic process, not a struggle. But that morning, watching the focused, overwhelming calmness of Snape as he worked, listening to the barely audible bubbling of the finger-sized cauldron, Harry could almost understand why Snape loved it so much. It was explainable in a fundamental, if sometimes complex manner, in a way other branches of magic sometimes were not. Magic, after all, was magic, and though Transfiguration and Charms had rules and logic too, there was still something deeply and unchangeably other in the power to turn one object into another. With Potions, however, there was a certain amount of predictability, as long as you knew what you were doing, and every reaction and change had an explanation. Harry envied Snape that for a moment, the ability to start at the beginning of a complex problem like the reversal potion, and work his way through the snarl, leaving logic and order in his wake.

"You have uncharacteristically good timing," Snape said.

Harry jumped violently, suffering the professor's glare as he rattled the worktable slightly. Snape straightened slowly, grimacing a little and pressing a hand to the small of his back. The little cauldron, solid gold from what Harry could tell, had been moved off the flame and placed in a preservation bubble.

"You're done?" Harry asked, surprised again as Snape's words caught up to him. He had thought, what with there not being a recipe or anything, that it would be a long and difficult process.

"I believe so," Snape said, going to wash his hands. "The Pariteri were the key, as I suspected."

Harry noted for the first time the remains of the two fish in a clear container on the worktable. Little was left but their few, twig like bones, and Harry's stomach turned a little at the sight of a beaker of a whitish silver substance with unmistakable chunks of flesh floating in it. He didn't want to know just what part or parts had gone into the potion, and just how Snape had extracted them.

"That was pretty fast," Harry said, glancing again at the cauldron.

"Eleventh batch," Snape said, returning to the table. "Not my quickest, nor my slowest work." He smiled, and Harry suddenly realized that the professor had been almost humming as he moved around the workroom. He imagined that the triumph of besting a man like Alfonse Reynard was the Snape equivalent of catching the Snitch.

But that was a thought, and Harry frowned. "Professor," he began slowly, "if you can make the antidote to the potion when you didn't know how to make the potion, does that mean..."

Snape paused, sending Harry a sharp, almost surprised look. He reached over and handed Harry a small glass vial, his lips pursed tightly. Harry held the slender cylinder up to the light, squinting at the odd, not quite clear liquid within.

"It's not complete, of course," Snape said. "I do not have a lock of Miss Warbeck's hair, or fingernail, or whatever other signifier was used. But it was necessary, both to formulate the antidote and to test its function, to reconstruct the original potion."

Harry set the vial down hastily, suddenly very uneasy. "What are you going to do with it?" he asked, his voice a lot sharper than he had intended.

"Destroy it," Snape said, meeting his eyes squarely. He paused a moment then added almost reluctantly, "I shall, however, entrust my notes into the Headmaster's care. He may destroy them, he may not."

Harry glanced away, only a little satisfied. "But it's done?" he asked, gesturing at the cooling cauldron.

"Yes," Snape said. "It will take several more minutes to cool and then you may drink it."

"And you're sure it'll work?" Harry asked.

Snape scowled with the full force of many years of practice. "Of course I'm not sure," he snapped. "It reacted appropriately at each of six different stages, but there may be a confounding factor I am not aware of." He smiled unpleasantly. "I can, however, assure you that it will not be toxic."

"Great," Harry said dryly. "It won't kill me, but it might make me fall in love with everyone I see." He glanced at Snape, winced, swallowed hard, and looked hastily away. Perhaps breakfast wouldn't be the greatest idea, now. "What about the skeleton?" he asked hastily.

Snape glanced over Harry's right shoulder, and, turning, Harry beheld the skeleton, cleaned of clinging plant life and lake bottom muck, stretched out on a workspace along the far wall. It was even more disturbing in that sterile setting out of its very nature, like a gash in the unassailable calm and empiricism of the room.

"It is female, as I thought," Snape said, walking over and gazing down at it. "Date of death was March 20, 1988."

"You can tell that?" Harry asked.

"With appropriate spells, yes," Snape said. "Magiforensics is a surprisingly advanced science, considering the backwards state of some other fields of magical study. Time and cause of death can be ascertained for up to fifty years after death."

"What was the cause?" asked Harry.

"The killing curse, I believe," Snape said. "It leaves relatively little trace, but with a twenty-six-year-old individual as we have here, with no signs of blunt trauma or severe injury, it is the only explanation. She didn't drown," he added, off Harry's look. "Drowning results in burst capillaries as the oxygen supply is depleted, and the swelling of all bodily tissues."

"But there aren't any bodily tissues to check, are there?" Harry asked.

Snape beckoned him closer. "That is the only unusual circumstance I could find," he said as Harry approached. Personally, Harry thought the entire thing was an unusual circumstance, but he wasn't surprised he and Snape defined unusual differently. "See here," Snape said, drawing Harry's attention to the center of the remains, where the cavity that had once been stomach and intestines and liver gaped between the blades of hips and the fan of ribs. Leaning closer, Harry saw patches and blobs of pinkish red...something clinging to the spine, the pelvic bone, and the insides of the lowest ribs and hips.

"What--" he began, then stopped, as the persistent, faintly putrid smell intensified. "Oh. But, I don't understand. Why didn't the fish eat that, too? It...she...was down there for years."

"But they did," Snape said. "Several times, I imagine." He leaned across Harry and retrieved a tiny glass tube, barely the size of a thimble. "You will recognize this, I imagine," he said, handing it to Harry. "I found crystallized deposits of it in the thoracic cavity, as well as high levels in the remaining flesh in liquid form."

Harry lifted the vial and tilted it, studying the few drops of a pearly, silvery substance that seemed to fluoresce as he watched it. "That's not--" he began, horrified.

"Unicorn blood," Snape confirmed, retrieving the vial. "Interestingly, there are no traces of it anywhere else in the body aside from the lower thoracic and pelvic regions. There must have been some powerful isolation charms used to achieve that--normally, ingested unicorn blood affects all cells of the body within days."

"What does it do?" Harry asked. He had wondered back in his first year, after the terror of that night in the forest had lessened, but Hagrid had made only the vaguest noises about the consequences of taking unicorn blood.

Snape seemed to draw into himself. "It sustains life," he said, gesturing to the patches of flesh. "It can even regenerate tissue, to a certain extent. But there is...a price."

"What?"

"It is slightly different for every recorded case," Snape said. "It usually affects the mind most strongly, but not always. There are legends of men and women living extraordinarily long lives with the aid of unicorn blood, and still others were killed prematurely. There is record of a terminally ill woman whose husband fed her unicorn blood without her knowledge. It worked so well on her: her cancer grew and flourished so rapidly, it consumed her alive within days. The husband, who had slain the unicorn, was driven mad. In another case it dismantled the individual's capacity to touch magic. It turned him into a Squib, and he, as well, lost his mind."

"So...it's fatal?" Harry asked, confused. "I thought it was supposed to grant immortality."

"A myth," Snape said. "It has enormous regenerative and recuperative properties, as well as preservative, but it will not grant a human being eternal life. Our bodies and minds are not constructed to support such a thing, with or without unicorn blood. What we call immortality is a misnomer--even Nicholas Flamel would have died eventually, even with his Elixir." He paused, and, smiling grimly, added, "It really is quite ingenious, however. Ingestion of unicorn blood is not fatal, though the side effects can be. It often times leaves a person with the short end of a resilient body and extended lifespan."

"What's the bad side of not being able to die very easily?" Harry asked.

"Not being able to die very easily," Snape returned dryly. "Those people who I said were driven insane--they all attempted suicide in one form or another. Several times, in most cases, until they found a method foolproof enough and devastating enough to work Others, it is said, lived unnaturally long, yet the very act of taking unicorn blood destroyed their desire or ability to enjoy, or even weather, such a prolonged existence. The vengeful magic of the blood is an individual thing, striking at the heart of each witch or wizard who attempts to harness it for their own use"

Harry shuddered. "Do you think she, you know?" he asked, glancing at the skeleton.

"Possibly," Snape said slowly, "though I do not believe so. As I said, the unicorn blood invades every cell of the body. It enhances regeneration and extends life, and, as I said before, it sometimes dismantles a wizard's connection to magic, cell by cell. But the main force behind the psychological effects occurs in the brain. Here I can find no evidence that the blood reached the brain at all." He paused, scowling. "If we knew who she was and why she used unicorn blood, and, more importantly, how she managed to contain its spread, we would be much the wiser about its functions. No one, to my knowledge, has ever restrained its progress before."

"But, wouldn't that not be the greatest thing to know?" Harry asked thoughtfully. "I mean, if just anyone knew how to contain the side effects..."

"Mmm," Snape said. "Possibly. I do believe there are many things that the world at large has no business knowing. The problem, of course, arises from just what those things are, and who is to decide."

"I suppose," Harry said slowly. "You said if we knew who she was--I thought you could tell?"

"No," Snape said, scowling down at the remains. "There is a process known as ID proofing. For Muggles, this means removing the hands, and usually the feet, from a body. For wizards it is slightly more complicated, as we have more resources than simple fingerprints. But in this particular case someone made quite an effort to block any magical means of ascertaining identity."

"So there's no way to tell?" Harry asked, disappointed.

"Not for me," Snape said. "I am not, after all, an expert in these matters. I know a wizard who is, however."

"Who?" Harry asked.

"A Ministry official, unfortunately," Snape said. "Why he chose to work in such a setting confounds me daily. He is wasting his talents on those--"

"Can we do that?" Harry asked, cutting off the beginnings of what looked like a spectacular tirade. "Is it a good idea to send this to the Ministry?"

"It is not," Snape said. "But Croaker will not object to a little investigative work on the side, I imagine. And he's an Unspeakable. No one questions what an Unspeakable does."

"If you say so," Harry said doubtfully. He stood a moment longer, studying the skeleton. "We need to know who she is," he said musingly, almost to himself. "She died at a funny time."

"Ah," said Snape. "You noticed that."

"Yeah," Harry said. "Lots of strange things happening around then."

Snape studied him for a moment, one eyebrow arched as if waiting for elaboration. Harry shifted uncomfortably, cleared his throat, and glanced back to the worktable. "So, d'you think the potion is cool, now?"

"Probably," Snape said, apparently accepting the rebuff on face value as he returned to the center of the room. He tinkered with the cauldron a moment, testing the temperature of the outside then transferring the contents into a goblet which he presented to Harry. "There you are, Potter," he said dryly. "Drink up."

Harry examined the whitish liquid, not unlike the color of the Pariteri, with some trepidation. He'd almost forgotten the whole point of the exercise, what with the other revelations made since the confrontation with Viktor. But now, holding the solution in his hand, he was suddenly and deeply unsure.

"What if it doesn't work?" he asked, looking up at Snape.

The man opened his mouth, then snapped it shut on whatever caustic remark had been about to emerge. He eyed Harry a moment, then sighed. "Drink it, Potter," he said finally. "It might not make things easier, or better, but at least you'll have your own mind again."

Harry nodded, took a deep breath, and downed the potion in three large gulps. It didn't taste like much of anything at all, just smooth and a little milky. For several seconds nothing happened, and a strange sort of relief swept Harry. Maybe it had worked just fine, this was Snape after all, and maybe it really wouldn't make much of a difference. Or maybe Krum had been lying, maybe he hadn't been living his life not himself for three months.

But then there was something tugging inside him, something growing taught and frayed and thin. Harry's eyes began to water and his breath came quickly. The floor seemed to be dropping away from beneath his feet, and for one painfully clear moment Harry knew that this was what it was like to go suddenly and violently insane.

But then it was over, leaving him panting and shivering a little, leaning against the lab table with one of Snape's surprisingly gentle hands on his elbow. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut, and Harry really didn't want to open them. He felt raw all over, like a wound after the scab has been prematurely ripped away. He wondered if the world would look different now.

It didn't really, he discovered, gathering his courage and opening his eyes. The room was still obsessively neat and clean, the skeleton still gleamed dully in the corner, and Snape still loomed, smelling faintly of Pariter innards and appearing almost worried.

"How do you feel?" he asked, seeing Harry looking at him.

"Okay, I think," Harry said slowly. "I feel...not so different."

Snape frowned. "Are you sure?" he asked. "What did you experience just now?"

"It felt like something was pulled away," Harry said slowly, considering. "It sort of hurt, but not too much."

"What do you think of Miss Warbeck now?" Snape asked.

Harry hesitated, not yet sure if he was ready to attempt that hurdle. But with the capricious ease of association, she slipped into his thoughts, brought by Snape's words alone. Harry considered her, almost retreating away as he saw that here, at least, there was a difference. But it was too late, and the flood of recollections, of fears and questions had begun, and at that point Harry didn't think it was worth fighting anymore. It was clear now that it was true, not that he had really doubted it anyway. He had known it was true from the moment Krum told him, before that too, really. His spine crawled as his mind cast outward finding shades of her everywhere in his memory, whispering through almost everything he had done, said, thought, dreamed, for the past months. Things that had felt so good, even natural, before were suddenly repulsive and frightening. Harry shuddered all over as he recalled his near trance-like state as they had danced together, the physical ache of their parting, and the way he had so casually dismissed one of the most frightening realizations of his life.

"Addicted," he said softly, opening his eyes. "God, I knew that, and I didn't care."

"It worked," Snape said. It wasn't a question.

"Oh, yeah," Harry said, feeling a flush creep up his neck as he suddenly recalled the article in the Prophet. "I just can't believe...it's not like I didn't see there was something wrong. There were all sorts of strange things. It's just that I didn't care about any of them."

"That is the terrible power of mind control," Snape said softly. "Not to blind the victim, for often times that would defeat the purpose, but to alter the entire course of their thinking, to color it all in a certain way so that even when you know something is amiss, you are immediately convinced that it is no worry." He released Harry's elbow and his other hand came up, rubbing absently at his forearm. Harry watched, a sort of morbid curiosity growing in him.

"Is that what it was like?" he asked, gesturing hesitantly down at Snape's arm. "With him?"

Snape glanced down and jerked his hand away as if he had not noticed his own actions. "No," he said gruffly. "It was not. There is a whole different dimension of horror in choosing your own degradation, with or without full knowledge of the consequences."

"Oh," Harry said, shifting away a little. "I well, that is. It worked, then."

"Are you angry?" Snape asked with a sort of clinical curiosity.

Harry considered. "Yes," he said slowly. "Very. This is...I'm tired of people doing this to me."

"I imagine," Snape said dryly.

"Right," Harry said, straightening up. "I should..." he gestured vaguely up towards the entrance hall. "Breakfast, you know." He paused, frowning at Snape. "Will you be alright? With no sleep, I mean?"

"It certainly isn't the first time," Snape said, turning away hastily and busying himself cleaning up his workspace.

"Yeah," said Harry. "I'll just...go then." He started to do so, feeling a strange disconnect between mind and body. His feet were carrying him normally enough across the room, towards the door, yet all his concentration was occupied with the fruitless task of trying to separate his "real" thoughts from the potion induced ones. That was the trouble though--they were the same thing, just wound and twisted and bent back on themselves in a tangle of obsession and need that turned his stomach, now.

"Potter," Snape called.

Harry turned back, almost expecting comfort, or a wry, Snapely observation. The man had been strangely kind to him over the past few days, in a sarcastic, distasteful sort of way.

"Your wand," Snape said, gesturing to where it lay at the end of the table. "And mine, for that matter."

"Oh." Harry hurried back and exchanged the wands, immeasurably glad to feel the familiar warmth again. He could use Snape's wand, he knew, and probably many other peoples' as well. But none of them had that innate, intuitive tingle of his own, and there was a gentle comfort in that. "Thanks," he said a bit awkwardly to Snape's back. "For the potion and all. And you'll, er, you'll tell me about the skeleton?"

Snape turned and regarded him through narrowed-eyes. "Your curiosity is showing, Potter," he said dryly.

Harry shifted uneasily. 'I'd just like to know," he said. "I think I should."

Snape sighed, shrugged, and turned away. "Alright," he said to his ingredients. "Now go away."

Harry obeyed, closing the workroom door behind him with a certain amount of relief. He had upset Snape, he was pretty sure, with that question about Voldemort and the Dark Mark, and no one wanted to be in Snape's line of fire when he was truly disturbed. He was thankful, of course, for the potion, and even the fishing, but Snape wasn't the sort who dealt well with gratitude. He did things because they needed to be done, and for him gratitude was almost an insult.

Harry sighed and started on his way up to the entrance hall. He was still a bit early, but he might as well go into breakfast and wait for what would probably be one of the most uncomfortable conversations of his life. For Hermione would not have forgotten, he was sure, about their agreement to tell Ron everything. Ordinarily Harry would have been all for it. It had been strange having adventures without Ron in the thick of it right beside him, being sarcastic, worried, and afraid with him. But there was a second, quieter revolution of hindsight happening in Harry's mind, beyond the potion and Celestina. Something had passed through overnight, had touched his recollections with the bite of clarity, had mixed up his memories and then reassembled them into a picture that, now that he had caught a glimpse of it, was so obvious it was astounding that he hadn't realized it. But then again, Harry thought a little cynically as he entered the Great Hall, he was just beginning to understand the massive powers of self-misunderstanding available to him, so it wasn't all that surprising after all.

The Great Hall was sparsely populated, and not even Professor Dumbledore had arrived yet. Harry settled at the Gryffindor table and poured himself some tea. He sipped it slowly, letting his eyes fall half shut as people trickled in and the buzz of conversation grew to a dull roar. He was, he realized, still staggeringly exhausted. It would take a long time to feel rested again, he suspected.

The great rustle of the owls roused him from his stupor, and Harry sat up reflexively. He wasn't really expecting anything, but any wizard with an ounce of sense sat up and looked sharp when there was a hoard of owls about. They were, after all, beaked, talloned, and remarkably snotty. It wasn't until he had sat up completely that he saw Ron and Hermione seated across from him, both sets of eyes fixed on him.

"Oh, hullo," Harry said, starting a little. "I didn't see you come in."

"You looked like you were either thinking real hard or about to pass out in the kippers," Ron said. Harry frowned. There was something wrong with Ron, something a little shrill about his cheerful tone, something a bit too self-conscious in the way he pushed the milk towards Harry. Glancing at Hermione, he saw that she would not meet his eyes for more than a moment.

Harry opened his mouth; to say what, he didn't know, but something certainly needed to be said. But the point was moot, for just then there was a deafening honk above his head, and the biggest international delivery goose Harry had ever seen dropped a ribbon-tied parchment on his head. A moment later, as Harry was reaching for it, another, much grubbier, letter landed in his lap. A very tired looking tawny looked longingly down at the table, but ignored Harry's beckon and turned back towards the ceiling.

Harry weighed the letters one in each hand. It wasn't hard to guess their origin--no one besides Celestina would be sending him perfumed scrolls tied with sparkly silver ribbon, and he recognized Sirius' much missed scrawl sealing the other missive. Harry glanced from one to the other, considering. Finally, he decided that he didn't want Celestina to ruin the letter from Sirius, so he opened hers first.

Dearest Harry,

I'm so very excited. I'm finishing up my final touring engagements this week with a stop in New York, and then I'm on my way back to England. The tour has been a smashing success, and though several very generous offers have been made, I simply don't think I can stay longer. This is very exhausting business, as I'm sure you can imagine, and I do miss you terribly, Harry.

I'll arrive back in London Thursday evening, and then I imagine I'll sleep for a day. Time changes always leave me so muddled and tipsy. But I do very badly wish to see you, Harry, so please send word if you can meet me this weekend. You can reply directly to my London house, care of my Housekeeper, Mrs. Potscour, and save one of those darling geese from the long flight back. I simply don't know how they do it--just a Portkey leaves me ragged.

Do please say we can see each other this weekend, Harry, or very soon. I simply must be close to you again.

Yours,

Celestina

Harry scowled, sighed, and crumpled the letter. He felt oddly numb, only vaguely disgusted by the memory of what her words had once stirred in him. Glancing up at the Head Table, he briefly made eye contact with Professor Dumbledore, who tilted a bushy eyebrow at the fistful of parchment. Harry nodded and looked away. They would have to set something up, he knew. The Headmaster wanted to be present for the meeting--the confrontation--and Harry had to admit that the idea did make him feel a bit better about the whole thing.

Sighing again, Harry resolutely turned to Sirius' letter. He desperately needed some good news, though at this point another disappointment wouldn't be entirely unexpected.

Harry,

Sorry it's been so long. I've been pretty busy recently what with one thing and another. But I hope you'll be happy to hear that I'll be seeing you shortly. I should be arriving at Hogwarts sometime towards the end of your spring holidays, and staying for at least a week. Dumbledore says I may even get to see you play a little Quidditch.

Snuffles

Harry felt very strange for a moment until he suddenly realized that the odd sensation was actually a smile. He'd had precious little word from his Godfather since the abortive Christmas visit, and the thought of a whole, luxurious week in his company was a salve to Harry's weary mind.

Glancing up, he once again found Ron and Hermione watching him. He lifted an eyebrow and they exchanged a look.

"I think we should talk," Hermione said into the rapidly developing silence.

"We have class--" Harry began.

"No." Hermione said firmly. "Now."

Ron blinked. "Hermione Granger, skiving off class?" he said, faking shock and dismay. "Why, next she'll be smoking felicitum out behind the greenhouses."

Hermione glared, but the corner of her mouth twitched a little. "We can go to Myrtle's bathroom," she said, glancing briefly at Harry. "Are you done?"

"I'm not," Ron protested. Hermione glared some more, and he hastily reached for a napkin and began piling toast and bacon into it. Harry watched, feeling the echo of something hollow inside him as he thought that, usually, Ron would be chafing a lot more under Hermione's authority. But not today.

They left together, and no one seemed to notice their early departure. They saw no one (aside from a few still sleepy portraits) on the way to Myrtle's, and it seemed that none of them was particularly in the mood to chat.

"Well," Hermione said as they settled in on the floor. "What were those letters, Harry?"

Harry shrugged. "Sirius is coming soon," he said. He might get to see the Hufflepuff match."

"Excellent," Ron said. "We haven't seen him in ages, have we Hermione?"

"Not since last year," Hermione said faintly. Harry tracked her gaze downward to where Ron's hand had slid casually to cover hers. Looking back up, he met her eyes and lifted an eyebrow. "Harry," she began tentatively.

"Oh, relax," Ron said. "He already knows, don't you Harry? He saw us last night."

"Sure," said Harry, feeling the final shred of hope (it was a misunderstanding, he'd mis-seen and misinterpreted) slide away. "I saw."

"Right then," said Ron with forced bravado. "That's that, then. I don't know why you insisted on coming down here, Hermione."

"It's important," Hermione said a little sharply. "All the books say that transitioning into--that having a--that couples sometimes have the hardest time with their friends, and there are three of us, and I just didn't want..."

A bubble of laughter rose in Harry's chest, nearly choking him. She'd researched this, actually gone and read up. He found himself wondering what Madame Pince thought of her recent reading selections.

"It's fine," he said quickly. "I'm not...I don't know...uncomfortable or anything."

"Well, not now," Hermione said, "but you might be, later. And Ron and I don't want to exclude you or anything, Harry, we really don't."

"Oh, I know," Harry said numbly. "Don't worry about it. If I feel excluded, I'll tell you."

"Right then," Ron said. He was looking increasingly uncomfortable, and his ears were edging from pink into red. Harry suddenly recalled that this was Ron's first romantic...anything. He felt a pang, a different sort of pang, thinking how he had always assumed, when he'd thought about it at all, that he and Ron would be able to help each other with this, to talk it to death the way everybody made fun of girls for doing. He had a feeling they wouldn't be sharing all the gory details of this one, and if Ron wanted to, Harry wasn't sure what he would do.

Hermione was staring at him, he realized, with one eyebrow arched a little and an expectant look on her face. Harry frowned back, then realized what she was getting at. A surge of irritation, almost anger, bloomed in his chest, and he looked away. He'd expected her to insist on their prior agreement, but that didn't mean he was happy with it.

"Harry," she began, then held up a hand as Harry moved to speak. "No, hold on, let me. Last night--Harry, please don't be angry, but last night I told Ron about...things. Celestina and...Viktor."

Harry blinked. "You did? Without me?"

Hermione sighed and shifted uneasily. "Well, we'd planned to tell him anyway, and I figured it would just be easier...and we didn't know when you'd be back from wherever you were and, well, it just seemed the right time."

Harry wondered if the right time had come before or after they'd decided to start dating. "Well," he said. "It certainly saves me a lot of explaining, doesn't it?"

Hermione bit her lip. "You're not mad?"

Harry paused, truly considering it. "No," he said finally. He glanced at Ron. "What about you?"

Ron sighed and drew his knees up. His legs were so long he could rest his chin on his knees only by stretching up a little. "I thought there was something," he said. "With both of you. You were acting weird for a while, Harry, and Hermione was a bit strange for the past week. But I never even thought, I mean, how could I?"

"We didn't not tell you to keep you out," Hermione said earnestly. Harry had the feeling that this was a conversation that had taken place already. "Honestly, Ron, we didn't. But Harry didn't know what was going on, or what to do, and then I figured it would just be simpler to wait until after we'd talked to Viktor because, well..." she trailed off indecisively.

"You thought I'd turn him into a newt and step on him?" Ron suggested. He appeared to relish the idea.

"Something like that, yes," Hermione said.

Ron glanced between them. "I wish you'd told me," he said. "I would have been mad, really mad. I'm mad now. Both of you--memory charms aren't something to mess around with. My mum used to tell Fred and George these stories when they'd play tricks, about part of a ward at St. Mungos they use just for people with memory charms, kids who were messing around and accidentally forgot who they were." He paused and shivered a little.

Harry winced. That really wasn't something he'd particularly wanted to know, and to judge by the look on Hermione's face, she hadn't either.

"What about your charms, Harry?" she asked hastily. "What happened? And where were you yesterday? And did you get the potion reversed?"

"It's reversed," Harry said. "I had to go get ingredients for the potion. It was...an interesting day. There was this skeleton and, well, it's not important. But the potion is off now."

"What was it like?" Ron asked. Hermione made a face and poked him.

Harry shrugged. "It was a love potion," he said. "Or an obsession potion, I guess. I just...thought about her all the time, and I kept not noticing things I should have noticed, and being with her felt way too good."

Ron frowned, opened his mouth, then shut it. He glanced from Hermione to their interlocked hands, a crease forming between his eyes.

"Yeah, it's like that," Harry said. "Except worse because it wasn't real, and the fact that it was so much like it should be is what makes the whole thing so awful."

"I just don't understand, I reckon," Ron said. "I mean, how could you not tell the difference between real and not?"

Harry paused, and briefly caught Hermione's eyes. She smiled a little indulgently at Ron, and Harry realized that she, too, was feeling very old and mature right now.

"It's not like that, exactly," Hermione said. "People have a hard time telling the difference between what's real and what's not even without potions." She frowned a little. "That's probably because they're looking for the difference in the first place, and that's really not how things work."

Ron blinked, then shrugged. "Whatever you say," he said.

"Anyway," Hermione said hastily, "what else, Harry? What did you remember?"

Harry shrugged uncomfortably. "I'd rather not, if you don't mind," he said. "It's...very strange and I still don't know what I think."

"We can help you," Ron said, leaning forward. "We always do, don't we?" He looked so eager, so worried, that for a moment Harry was truly tempted to share this with them, to lay some of it on their shoulders, let them muddle through it and talk it out. But even thinking about it felt like poking a new and purpling bruise, and he had a strong desire to keep this to himself, at least for now. It felt private in a way that excluded them, especially now that they were a new kind of 'them.'

"Really," Harry said. "It's not that I don't think you can help, it's just I'd rather not talk about it now."

"Alright," Hermione said slowly, unhappily. "As long as you know you can whenever you need to."

"I know," Harry said. "Thanks."

Another silence slid over them, but this one was just a little more comfortable. Harry studied his trainers (he really needed a new pair) and picked idly at the hem of his robes.

"We should go to class," Hermione said.

Harry and Ron sighed identical divination sighs, then exchanged a little grin. Hermione rolled her eyes, but made a visible effort to restrain the comments Harry could almost see hovering at the tip of her tongue. She pushed herself to her feet, and Harry and Ron followed. There was a funny little moment when Ron and Hermione's hands were still clasped as they stood facing Harry, before they drew apart with a mutually awkward little jerk. "Well," Hermione said quickly, "I'm glad we've gotten all that straightened out."

"Yeah," said Harry, reaching for his bag. "Come on Ron, maybe we can get lost on the way. Shouldn't be too hard."

They split up at the top of the stairs, Hermione having only a short trot to reach Arithmancy, while Harry and Ron had a long trek ahead of them. They walked in silence for a while, and Harry could feel Ron stealing glances at him every few seconds.

"What?" he asked, finally catching Ron at it.

Ron sighed and shifted his bag uneasily. "Nothing," he said.

Harry waited, unconcerned with the denial. Ron wasn't one to hold things in for long, and often times just Harry's presence was enough to get whatever it was out in the open. It was something he used to be happy about, knowing what kind of honesty Ron could give him, but he'd learned in his fourth year and later that sometimes it wasn't the greatest thing.

"A lot happened that I didn't know about," Ron burst out after only a few more paces. "I mean, I suspected something, but it was completely stupid. I thought you had a crush on Hermione--"

"I didn't," Harry cut in.

"I know." Ron waved a dismissive hand. "You're her friend. It was just I knew there was something." He stopped and caught Harry by the arm, swinging him around to stand face to face. "Look," he said quietly, "I know there are things you don't tell me. You just said so back there." He gestured back towards the bathroom. "And I'm sure there are other things. And that used to really piss me off, thinking you didn't trust me, or thought I wasn't smart enough or something." He shook Harry lightly when he saw an interruption coming. "No, don't. I've got to say this. It's just, this year, when you don't tell me things, it still makes me mad, but I'm sort of relieved, too, and that...what kind of friend does that make me, Harry? Because I think maybe you knew that a little, and that's why you guys didn't tell me what was going on. I still want to know, but then I really don't, too, and..." He released Harry and stepped back, shoving his hands into his robe pockets.

"Ron," Harry said, at a loss. It had never occurred to him, though it seemed so obvious, that Ron would start experiencing some of the same confusions Harry himself had been grappling with. He hadn't thought that Ron, too, would be frightened and confused by the graying of the world around them, by the way boundaries blurred and disappeared, by the way a thing previously so simple and straightforward, a friendship deep and unshakeable, could be so complex and contradictory. He'd been right, back in the bathroom, he and Hermione both, when they'd shared that little look. Harry knew they'd both been feeling older in that moment, superior in their knowledge of the world. They'd both learned over the past year, the past weeks even, that the precisely mapped topography of their lives and relationships weren't set in stone, that sometimes no line at all existed, no point at which they could say that a friendship had changed, that something else had emerged or submerged, that things would never be the same again. There was no same, and never had been, and realizing the mutability of everything around them was like walking on shifting sand, slippery and hard and scary.

"I've started separating you in my head," Ron was saying. "You, Harry, my friend from first year, who didn't know about chocolate frog cards, or, well, chocolate frogs. Then there's Harry the other one who's sometimes my friend, but I don't always want him to be, who keeps secrets and knows things and is...and is going to do things that I don't even want to think about. And I just, it's all stupid because you're just you, and I don't know how to be your friend if I keep thinking like this."

"I do it too, sometimes," Harry said softly. "Split me up. I'm sure it's not healthy, or something but sometimes I think what normal Harry would think, or what the other Harry would do." He shrugged helplessly, not sure how to explain that, recently, making even those distinctions had become harder and harder.

"Does it help?" Ron asked, almost pleadingly.

Harry shrugged again. "I don't know." He studied his feet for a long moment, then lifted his head. "So you finally got up the courage to tell Hermione, then?"

Ron blinked, then started walking again. "Actually, she said it first," he said.

Harry almost stumbled as he fell in step. "She did?" he asked.

"Yeah." Ron threw him a conspiratorial smile. "She just, you know, came up to me and said it. All Hermione-like."

"Good luck with the whole dating thing," Harry said a bit hoarsely. "It's, uh, interesting sometimes."

"Yeah," Ron said a little dreamily.

"We didn't tell you just to not tell you," Harry said. "We were both...well. I didn't know what to think when I saw it, and I can't imagine how Hermione felt afterward." Which was a lie, but he had no desire to get in to that particular subject.

"Forget it," Ron said. "I'll get over it. And slow down, would you? We'll have twenty whole minutes of Divination to sit through if you keep at that pace."

***

Harry glanced back over his shoulder one last time as he rounded the corner and the Quidditch pitch was blocked from view. He could still hear the echoing rumble of the crowds settling themselves in the stands, Ron and Hermione among them. Truth be told, he wasn't all that upset about missing the Hufflepuff/Ravenclaw match. He'd discovered over the past year that he wasn't a very good Quidditch spectator. He was simply too invested in actually playing the game to be able to sit passively in the stands with much aplomb. Or decorum, when it came right down to it.

The front of the castle came into view and the noise of the crowd faded to nothing as Harry headed purposefully across the front lawn and started around the lake. It was a cool, blustery day, and he left shiny wet footprints behind him in the grass dampened by a formless, misting rain. He had quite a trek before him, and for a moment Harry considered Impervio-ing his robes, or perhaps transfiguring himself a hat of some sort. But no, he decided, he'd rather be damp by the time he arrived. He'd rather not make the effort, any effort, to look or feel nice for the upcoming meeting.

Harry glanced behind himself again, though this time he wasn't watching the Quidditch pitch. Somewhere, beside him or before him or behind him, or for all he knew far ahead awaiting him, was Professor Dumbledore, invisible and undetectable. His presence was comforting, of course, but Harry was still unnerved by his inability to even hear a whisper of the professor's robes as they walked.

"In case you need me," Dumbledore had said a few nights before when they discussed this outing. "For it is wise in these matters, I'm sure you realize, not to venture alone lest one forget one has ventured at all." Harry had worked very hard to suppress the snappy comment hovering at the tip of his tongue at that. He was glad to have Dumbledore along, of course, but that didn't mean he wasn't still angry.

Past the lake, then, and on along the road to the front gates. He could see the winged boar sentries in the distance, and it occurred to him suddenly that they probably served a purpose beyond simple decoration. Hermione was telling them often enough that you could not Apparate on Hogwarts grounds, and Harry knew there were numerous other spells on Hogwarts, ancient and powerful and protective. Now that he really considered the matter he imagined that at least some of those enchantments required a physical anchor, or at least a boundary to delineate them. A high, rough stone wall extended far into the distance on either side of the boars and the gate, and Harry wondered for the first time just how large the Hogwarts grounds were. Surely that wall didn't cut right through the forest.

The gates were ajar, Harry saw as he approached, just as Dumbledore had promised, and just as Harry had told Celestina they would be. She had sounded a bit apprehensive about meeting on Hogwarts grounds in her acknowledgement, but Harry had purposely put off setting up this meeting until she would have little time to answer and change the plans.

She hadn't arrived yet, and Harry settled uneasily against the closed side of the gate so he could watch the road from Hogsmeade through the small gap.

It had been a tense, dragging week, and Harry didn't particularly relish the opportunity to stand still and do nothing but think. Ron and Hermione were discovering life as a couple, and Harry suspected the only reason they spent any time with him at all was because of that business about not leaving anyone out. Ron was walking around with a big goofy grin and vacant eyes, and he had developed the unsettling habit of bursting out in spontaneous fiery blushes accompanied by fits of giggles. Hermione was less visibly altered, though she did make a point of sitting next to Ron at meals, where normally Harry would sit between them. She seemed not to mind the way Ron stared at her while she was studying in the evenings, and she smiled indulgently at Ron's flushes and stammerings when they came back from "alone time." All in all, Harry had grown to appreciate the insane amounts of revision they were doing, and considering that he had been somewhat behind because of his preoccupation with, well, everything, his new found dedication could only serve him well.

The pop of Apparation sounded like a gunshot in the silence of the deserted gate. Harry jumped violently, bumping his head against the gate with a painful thump. Stars burst between his ears, and dimly he saw Celestina gaze worriedly around before spotting the source of the sound and taking a few running steps to push open the gate and reach him.

"I'm fine," Harry said before she could even ask. "Just a bump. You, er, you startled me a little." He probed gingerly at the spot and suppressed a wince.

"Oh." Celestina hovered anxiously before him, her hands fluttering vaguely about his face and head. "I'm so very sorry. Are you sure--I could do a charm--"

"No!" Harry said, perhaps a bit too loudly. "I'm really alright."

Celestina bit her lip, but nodded. "Well, if you're sure."

They stared at each other for a moment, suddenly without a path in the conversation as they had bypassed greetings altogether. Harry found it easy to look at her, and that in and of itself made it difficult. She looked fresh and sweet in her soft green robes and traveling cloak, with her hair pulled up on top of her head. She was really quite beautiful in a complicated, detailed way, and Harry found himself hating her with each breath she took.

"So," he said, shoving his hands into his pockets. "It's nice to see you again."

Celestina smiled widely and took a half step closer. Harry glanced from her position to the closest winged boar. As close as he could guess she had just crossed the invisible line drawn between the winged sentries. He himself, as Dumbledore had insisted, had never stepped past the gates.

"How have you been?" Celestina asked. "Letters simply can't express all of a person's feelings. Oh, Harry, It's been so long." She flung herself at him and Harry took a quick, calculated step back before catching her. She stumbled a bit with him and he was able to stretch it out into two or three more steps, guiding her away from the gate and into the grass at the side of the road. "There, now," he said, patting her back and wrapping one arm around her waist. "It's, er, it's all over now. You're back and we're, er, we're--mmm!"

He had thought she was crying for a moment, but as her lips closed over his he realized that her desperate clutch at him had very little to do with tears. She gripped him fiercely at shoulder and waist, and her mouth was insistent over his. Harry kissed back as best he could manage, hoping she didn't notice his utter lack of enthusiasm. That sort of thing was quite a bit harder to fake than he ever would have guessed.

They came up for air and Celestina leaned her cheek on his shoulder, gazing up at him sideways through her lashes. She sighed prettily and her breath tickled his neck and ear. Harry did not have to fake a shiver, though its origin was quite different than she might assume.

"I brought picnic things," he said hastily. "We can sit here and have tea and biscuits, if you want."

Celestina straightened, a pleased smile forming on her lips. "Why, Harry, that's such a lovely, romantic idea. I spotted a charming little place just on the other side of the gate--"

"Oh, here is fine," Harry said, glancing down at the grass at their feet.

A slight crease appeared between Celestina's brows. "Oh, it's nice, of course," she said vaguely. "But perhaps we could get some better...sun on the other side of the gates."

"You don't have to worry," Harry said, swinging his bag off his shoulder and bending over it to conceal his face. This was the most essential lie he needed to tell to get what he wanted, and he couldn't risk her seeing falsehood in his face. "You won't set off intruder wards or anything. No one will know you're here and interrupt us. And I'd rather not leave the grounds. It's safer, for both of us."

He didn't risk another look up at her until he had enlarged a blanket and spread it out on the grass, but she made no further protests, and settled with uncharacteristic silence across from him as he enlarged the tea things. She did not speak, in fact, until the kettle was whistling merrily between them, heated over Harry's wand, and he had begun to pour their cups.

"It was difficult to get reliable news in America," she said, pressing his fingers as she accepted her cup. "Only The Prophet, and we both know how useless that is. Has something happened to make you more cautious?"

Harry considered her over his own cup, weighing and measuring carefully. His first instinct upon learning what she had done was to assume that she was a servant of Voldemort sent to bewitch him. But then again she had had multiple opportunities not only to hurt or kill him, but to deliver him to Voldemort, and if the attack on Privet Drive was any indication, Voldemort did want him. She could, of course, be playing a part in some larger plan, but the shape of it utterly eluded Harry, and on calmer reflection he had to admit that there was a possibility she wasn't affiliated with Voldemort at all. Either way, he didn't know what she knew and didn't know, and what it would be disastrous to let slip to her. He sipped his tea slowly to gain another moment.

"Not much has happened," he said, cradling his cup between his hands. "But that doesn't mean it won't."

Celestina nodded, a sober expression sitting strangely on her face as she drank her tea. "It is worrying," she said slowly. She reached for a biscuit, but her hand hung suspended in mid air for a long moment, as if she had forgotten the purpose of the gesture before completing it. Harry leaned closer, studying her carefully. The usually animated lines of her face had slid from the eager, attentive look he had so liked to be directed at him before, to a calm blankness. She gazed back at him, her eyes untroubled and dull. It was time.

"Right." Harry said, sitting back. "So, were you the one who gave me an obsession potion at the Yule ball?"

She blinked, and there was the faintest shadow of alarm in her eyes, but she answered simply and immediately. "Yes."

Harry nodded. Dumbledore had told him to start with obvious, broad questions first, after he was sure the Veritaserum layered thinly at the bottom of her cup had taken effect.

"Isn't it illegal?" Harry had asked him a bit worriedly a few days before. "I mean, you did it to Crouch, but we don't need any more trouble from the Ministry, do we?"

"Not to worry," Dumbledore had said, smiling a little grimly. "I highly doubt Miss Warbeck will run to the Ministry with what we do." He had leaned forward and squeezed Harry's shoulder. "Your discomfort with the idea, and with Veritaserum itself, shows a maturity of understanding I am glad, but not surprised, to find in you. Truth is a creature of a thousand shades, and much danger lies in taking any of its many visages to be the absolute, the final. The horror of it is not the knowing it, not the possession of it, but what we are willing to do to get it, and how we treat it once we have it. It is these things, Harry, that separate wizards and wizards turned monsters."

So Harry had agreed, with not too much reluctance. He didn't have a problem giving Veritaserum to Celestina--he badly wanted to know the truth of their relationship, of her actions. His problem lay more with Veritaserum itself, with the idea he was beginning to have that it, like a Pensieve or his own memories, was a function of the human mind itself, and thus limited by it. It would not give him some unvarnished, simply factual account, but one as Celestina saw it, and one as Celestina knew it. He needed to be careful, he knew, in what he asked and what he thought of her answers.

"Where did you get the potion?" he asked next.

"It was owled to me," Celestina said promptly. Her hands now lay limply in her lap, fingers splayed idly across her knees.

"Who owled it to you?" Harry asked.

"She did."

"Who is she?"

"The one who told me what to do with it."

"And what did she tell you to do with it?" Harry pursued with a sinking feeling. Either Celestina had received extensive training in how to manipulate her answers under a truth potion, or she did not know the identity of this 'she' and thus could not reveal it.

"To give it to you. To make you love me. To give you the cloak. To get our picture in the newspaper."

"You work for this woman?" Harry clarified.

"I help her," Celestina said.

"Who else helps her?"

"Viktor Krum."

"Who else?"

"I don't know."

"But there are other people?"

"Yes."

"What does she want?"

"To keep you safe."

Harry paused, then scowled. "Funny way of going about it," he said. Celestina merely stared vacantly at him. "Why did our picture need to be in the newspaper?" he asked then, changing tacks.

"So everybody would know," Celestina said.

"Know what?"

"That you love me."

"Why was that important?"

Celestina paused, and a small frown appeared between her eyes. "I think so that he would know I was with you. For a message."

Harry blinked, confused. "So Voldemort would know?" he asked.

"Yes."

Harry sat back, pondering. Questions buzzed haphazardly about in his brain, but they were all too nebulous, too formless to get any response from her. He needed to ask something specific, something revealing. "Do you support Voldemort?" he asked, at a loss.

"No."

Harry chewed his lip uneasily. He almost wished it wasn't true--that she was somehow allied with the Death Eaters. It would have been easier to hate her then. As it was he found himself more confused than anything else.

"What sort of message to Voldemort was the picture supposed to be?" he asked.

"Protection. She wanted him to know she was out there still."

"Do you know the name of this she?" Harry asked.

"No."

"Does she support Voldemort?"

"No."

"Can you tell me about her?" Harry asked.

"Yes."

Harry waited, then sighed and rubbed his temples. "What is she like?" he rephrased.

Celestina paused again, her expression flickering the tiniest bit. "She said something," she began thoughtfully. "She told me what to say if you asked about her. She said I had to remember, no matter what. She said to say...Effugio."

Harry's mouth had barely opened to ask what that meant when she vanished, not with the seamless pop of Apparation, but with a sort of blurring about the edges as if she was going somewhere very quickly while sitting still. Harry sat, dumbfounded for a moment, before cursing violently and turning to scan the area. But it was fruitless, as he already knew it would be. She was nowhere around their little picnic spot, nor on the road to Hogsmeade when he rose to check.

"Well," said Dumbledore's voice at his shoulder, "that was most unfortunate. Ingenious as well, I must say."

"How'd she do that?" Harry asked, jumping slightly as the Headmaster's physical presence followed the sound of his voice, casting a sudden shadow over Harry as he stood in the road.

"A Portkey," Dumbledore said. "A Portkey set to a particular word. Normally she would not have been able to spontaneously say the word under the influence of Veritaserum unless it was in the answer to a question."

"But it wasn't," Harry protested.

"Ah, but it was," Dumbledore corrected. "You asked her to tell you about this mysterious 'she'." And Miss Warbeck, in relating something she had said, was truthfully answering the question. A clever plan of escape, should she ever be caught, I must admit. I attempted to block her escape, once I realized what was happening, and Hogwarts' own magic was quite willing to aid me, but I was simply too little, too late."

Harry suppressed a nearly irresistible urge to stamp his foot. "So now she's gone, and we have no idea what was really going on," he said, glaring at the gates in his frustration.

"Perhaps," Dumbledore said slowly. "She did reveal a substantial amount before her escape. We do know that she is not a Death Eater, though that is an entirely different matter from actively opposing Voldemort."

"I should have asked that," Harry said irritably. "I should have asked a lot of things. Like why she wanted me safe. To kill Voldemort? Because she likes me? Because I'm the Boy Who Lived?"

"Yes," said Dumbledore thoughtfully. "The ends are not always revealing of the motive, are they? It is perfectly possible, of course, that she wishes you safety now, only to do you great harm later, as we learned last year."

"I'm just not too crazy about the idea of someone out there willing to give me illegal potions to keep me safe," Harry said, waving his wand absently at the picnic set-up. He shot a trenchant look over his shoulder at the Headmaster. "Mind control is a funny way to think of protecting someone." His resentment had been there, boiling just beneath the surface of his dealings with the Headmaster all week. Dumbledore's ready suggestion of Veritaserum had rankled more on Harry's own account than Celestina's. It made Harry unreasoningly angry to realize that knowing what the Headmaster was willing to do to keep him safe, the lengths to which he would go, was actually a sort of comfort. But as the Headmaster himself had pointed out, he had already learned that safety was not always a kindness, and that someone's seeming care with him might have nothing to do with him at all.

"I think," Dumbledore said gently, and Harry felt not for the first time that those blue eyes could see right through him and read the ebb and flow of his thoughts, "that you underestimate your own importance simply as yourself. Your parents were willing to do anything it took to keep you safe, and that because you were simply who you are--their child. I would like to think that you know me well enough, that you trust in me enough to believe that my efforts to keep you safe are not simply motivated by my need to rid the world of Tom Riddle."

Harry looked away, his eyes stinging. He had always liked Dumbledore, from the first time he saw him, and later with the Headmaster's continued kindnesses to him. He supposed it said a lot about him, about the way he thought about people, that it had never occurred to him that the feeling might be mutual.

"Still," he said, clearing his throat. "I don't like this. Having someone out there, who knows where, who knows why."

"Nor do I," Dumbledore said, beginning to walk back the way they had come. "But it does not surprise me. People, as I think you are beginning to understand Harry, are not so easily divided in two simple categories. There are those out there, I have no doubt, who hate yourself and Voldemort with equal intensity for their own reasons, who wish you both ill. There are also those, and this I know for sure, who wish to help you, but who are themselves a danger to you because they have crossed a line in the sand somewhere, that place where ends no longer justify means."

"Have you crossed that line?" Harry asked boldly.

"No," Dumbledore said, without a hesitation. "I do not believe I have. I can, of course, be wrong, but that is something we will learn only in time."

"Yeah," said Harry, falling into step, "time."

They were silent as they made their way back along the path and around the lake. Harry studied his feet as they went, scuffing his toes with every other step, intent on the little puffs of dust he raised. He knew he looked thoroughly unpleasant, probably downright snarly, but he couldn't be bothered to care. Everything about this day, the past week, the hellish weekend, the months before, weighed in his mind, clogging the function of his thoughts like sediment in the works of some great machine. Hermione and Ron, the nameless dead woman at the bottom of the lake, Dumbledore's betrayal--which might not be one, Celestina's--which definitely was, tangles of motive, shades of intent, that line Dumbledore had spoken of, a place where justification was no longer enough. Harry could honestly say that he didn't like many people in the world right then. He was feeling some decidedly hermitlike urges, in fact, by the time they reached the slope of the front lawn.

"Ah. It seems we have not missed the entirety of the game," Dumbledore said, cocking his head to the distant roar of the crowd.

"Go on," said Harry. "I think I'll just head back to the tower."

Dumbledore considered him a moment, then nodded. "Of course, dear boy. Whatever you think is best."

Harry would have liked to say something else, to soothe the awkwardness he still felt, even if he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to. But, gazing up into the Headmaster's ancient, knowing eyes, he could think of nothing, and he imagined Dumbledore knew already. Because he did trust Dumbledore, deeply and incontrovertibly, and as angry as he was, as hurt as he was, as much as he longed to know the secrets the Headmaster held, he believed the Headmaster. That line had not been crossed this time. It was necessary, therefore it had been done. There was a comfort in that, that at least somebody had the vision, the strength to do what was needed, no matter how he felt about it.

Harry trekked up the lawn and into the castle. The common room was of course deserted, and Harry settled in a chair beside the fire, idly flipping through his Divination book. O.W.L.s were rapidly approaching, and Trelawney's maunderings about how the gift could only be inherited, not taught aside, it would probably be a good idea for him to at least memorize the astrological signs.

The rest of the house tumbled through the portrait an hour later on a gust of cool, rain-scented air apparently carried with them all the way through the castle. Harry gathered distractedly from their chatter that Ravenclaw had won by a surprisingly slim margin. He waved off Ron and Hermione's attempts to talk to him, unwilling to describe the abortive revelations of the day.

He slipped away without much difficulty, wending his way through the groups of students pursuing their usual Saturday afternoon leisures. The dorm was blessedly empty, and Harry settled into the enclosure of his bed with a relieved sigh. He lay with his hands clasped behind his neck, gazing up at the ceiling.

Dumbledore had made a choice fourteen years before, then again in his second year, and again and again and again. He had chosen between Harry's freedom and his safety, between Harry himself and the necessity of destroying Voldemort permanently. Harry let himself ponder that for a moment, the idea that he and he alone could kill Voldemort. It was not as shocking as he might have expected.

Dumbledore had made those choices, and Harry was glad, because he himself wasn't sure if he could have chosen at all. But Celestina lurked, a complication, a puzzle, willing to do something manipulative and terrible to keep him safe, to hurt him to protect him. He wondered what difference there was between what she had done and what Dumbledore had done, not for the first time. He wondered if Dumbledore was right, if all he could do to know, to forgive, was to wait, to discover whether the ends did, after all, justify the means. He wondered if, in their attempts to keep him safe, Dumbledore and Sirius and Celestina and this mysterious 'she' would in fact rip him apart, like a plaything in a great, cosmic game of tug-of-war.

He'd learned things this day and this week, pieces of things and things in their entirety, and he'd learned what knowing things could mean. Everything had been spun violently on the axis of his understanding, and it had yet to settle into a new angle that he could readily understand. He wondered if it ever would.

For a moment Harry wished that he didn't know any of it. There was a longing in him to be down in the common room right now, fresh from the Quidditch pitch, thinking only of the O.W.L.s and Exploding Snap. And there was a deeper ache, a twisted little pocket of need for his cupboard, his quiet, dark little world of ignorance. He wished he could forget it all.