Harry Potter And The Fall Of Childhood

Chapter 25:

Identity

"A discovery is said to be an accident meeting a prepared mind." -

Albert von Szent-Gyorgyi

***

April arrived on the slow creeping feet of Scottish spring, each day minutely warmer, each night incrementally shorter, each rainfall a little less fierce. The only thing that didn't creep was the encroaching flood of growing things, seemingly washed in on the gentler spring rains. The lawns deepened to a rich, velvet green sprinkled with mysterious mushrooms and shoots that Professor Sprout assiduously collected. Shrubs exploded into rainbow-hued bloom, and the singing rosebushes at the top of the rose garden caroled merrily at everyone who passed. The edge of the forest sprouted growing things of all kinds, like a great green beard drooping from its edge down the slope to the lake.

Harry spent the waning March and the first few days of April leading up to the spring holiday in a dull stupor of indifference. There wasn't all that much to be excited about anyway; the professors were assigning enough homework and revision to fill the entire week. Hermione and Ron, as well as the other Weasleys, were all staying at school, but even that failed to hold Harry's interest for more than a moment. When he was honest with himself, Harry had to admit that, really, things between them hadn't changed all that much. They all studied together, ate together, walked to class together, and if Ron and Hermione held hands most of the time, if Ron was unreasoningly cheerful in the face of the mounting revision, if Hermione was a bit more reserved, a bit less interested in scolding either of them or even chatting amiably about inane topics, Harry could ascribe all of this to the natural progression of things. But still, no matter what he told himself, his time spent with them was not as fun as it used to be, not as comfortable or relaxed. He made no effort to actively avoid them, but neither did his eyes search for Hermione's face as a matter of course every morning in the common room, no longer was her cheery "good morning" the first thing he could coherently respond to (the muffled grunts he and Ron habitually communicated in before their first cups of tea certainly didn't count).

The new concept of Spring holiday exams were actually a sort of relief. All the professors were structuring them as drills for the O.W.L.s, and Harry had to admit that Hermione was right: it was very good to get an idea of what they were coming up against. Fortunately, many of the professors weren't counting the results in their marks, not that anyone ever paid attention to those in the fifth or seventh years. McGonagall had put it quite ominously, telling them that if she did count the exam results against them they would all drop twenty percentage points, and the real value of the exams was the experience and revision opportunity.

"Gack," Ron said succinctly as they exited their last Transfiguration lesson, their exam scrolls piled on McGonagall's desk.

"Meep," Harry agreed, plodding along beside him.

Hermione, on Ron's other side, looked as if she couldn't decide whether to smile or not. "Well, I think that went well," she said as soon as they had made it into the corridor. "I mean, you can never quite tell with some of the essays, but I think I said enough about color illusions versus molecular restructuring. Oh, perhaps I should have put a bit more of the stuff from The Compendium of Transfiguration Tragedies, but there simply wasn't time."

"Murph," said Ron. He and Harry glanced at each other, recognizing their own weariness. Harry's brain felt like scrambled toad innards, and his quill hand ached dully. That certainly had been...meep.

Transfiguration was their last lesson, and exam, before the holiday. Dinner that night was a manic affair, the younger students bursting with excitement over the impending break in lessons, and the older riding a sort of giddily exhausted high at the conclusion of this round of torture.

Not nearly as many students went home during the spring holidays as over Christmas, but still a good-sized crowd milled about the entrance hall the next morning, waiting for the carriages to arrive. The school was by no means empty after their departure, but it certainly was quieter.

Harry sat alone in the common room that night, ostensibly working on his Potions revision, though really just idly doodling and staring into the fire. A few of the younger students were playing a spirited game of Gobstones behind him, but the room was otherwise deserted. He didn't know where Ron and Hermione had got off to, nor did he want to know what they were doing there. Harry was just beginning to nod off over his book, lulled by the patter of voices behind him and the warmth of the fire, when there came a sharp rapping at the window. Harry glanced up, then rose quickly before any of the younger students could do so. Hedwig was perched impatiently on the windowsill, and Harry suspected it would be a very bad idea for anyone else to get a look at the note she carried.

He let her in, and fed her a Fizzing Whizbee from his pocket. She sniffed at it, took a tentative nibble, and levitated a few inches off his arm, quivering madly and glaring in outrage.

"Sorry," Harry said, grinning. "Thought you might like that."

Hedwig clicked her beak at him, rolled her big amber eyes, and extended her leg. Harry thanked her and waved her back out the window before opening the small scrap of parchment. The note was very short, and the handwriting wonderfully familiar.

I'm here. Staying where we first met two years ago. Come tonight.

It was not signed, though Harry did not need it to be. He stared at it for a moment in surprise. Sirius had said he would be coming over the holiday, but that left quite a bit of latitude about just when that would be. Harry had half expected the note to be a delay or even cancellation. His heart gave a lurch of joy, and he knocked over his books in his haste to get upstairs.

The younger students paused, watching him with interest.

"Nothing, nothing," he said to Dennis Creevey, who was looking worriedly at him. "Just, uh, forgot something. Listen, I'll be gone for a while, so if you need something, go find Hermione or one of the other prefects."

He gathered his things and hurried upstairs. The sun had already set, and the last faint glow was rapidly fading from the west. Harry considered waiting until it was completely dark, but shrugged the idea off. It was all the same when you were invisible, after all.

He threw his cloak into his bag, started for the door, paused, then turned back. Returning to his bed, he emptied out the piles of parchment and quills and miscellaneous junk filling his bag, tucked the cloak back at the bottom, and slung the now feather light load over his shoulder. He jogged down the stairs, ducked out the portrait hole, and made for the kitchens.

Dobby was all too happy to supply him with enough food to bulge the seams of his bag, and didn't even ask why Harry wanted a second dinner, and enough to feed a Weasley family gathering. Harry donned his invisibility cloak in an alcove off the entrance hall, spent a good few minutes adjusting it over his enormous bag so it wouldn't ride up and show the back of his feet trotting merrily along by themselves, and set off.

It was quite difficult to remain invisible, juggle his bag, avoid being brained by a flailing limb, and get to the special knot on the trunk of the Whomping Willow all at once, but somehow Harry managed. He wormed his way through the roots, fumbled about a bit in the dark, then slipped into the passage. The rain of the week before lingered in the moist air and slightly mildewed walls, and Harry hurried along as best he could, stumbling occasionally over roots, and finally saying to hell with caution and sticking his lit wand out through the cloak. It took longer than he remembered to get to the shack, but then again the last time he'd done this he'd been pumped full of adrenaline at the sight of Ron, injured and in pain, being dragged away. But finally he arrived at the end of the tunnel, and peered cautiously out.

Snuffles was waiting for him in what remained of the living room, curled up before a silent, smokeless fire. He leapt to his paws as Harry entered, the beginnings of a low, threatening growl abruptly cut off as his nose came up and began twitching madly.

"Hullo," Harry greeted, dropping the cloak. "I brought dinner."

Sirius transformed in mid step, and caught Harry up in a tight hug. "I can't decide which I'm happier to see," his godfather said, grinning as he pulled back, "you, or a plate of hot food."

"Nice to know where your priorities lie," Harry sniffed, taking the hint and delving into his bag. But he was happy to see that Sirius had once again filled out the gaunt hollows in his face, and that his hair and beard, if slightly overgrown, were neatly trimmed and clean. "You look better," Harry said, unwrapping a parcel of still warm potatoes.

"Haven't been traveling as much," Sirius said through a mouthful of chicken. "Been able to stay in one place for more than a night at a time."

"Oh?" Harry looked up with what he hoped was subtle interest.

Apparently not. "Isn't much more traveling for me to do right now," Sirius said with an amused look. "I have to admit, my value as an envoy was limited to begin with. Half the people I was supposed to contact tried to kill me on sight."

"But you're done with that now?" Harry asked eagerly.

"Well, I am," Sirius said, waving a hand. "That's why I was doing it in the first place--we simply didn't have anyone else who could disguise themselves so easily and had no, well, life commitments." He cast an apologetic look at Harry.

"But now there are other people to do that sort of thing?" Harry asked, ducking his head a little.

"Oh yes," said Sirius. "I still travel, mind, carrying messages that wouldn't be safe any other way. Dumbledore's taking no chances on anything."

"What else are you doing?" Harry asked casually.

Sirius made a slight face. "Not much," he said. "Or at least, not the way you're thinking. I've been helping out with plans, strategy, that sort of thing." He sighed and drew a draught of pumpkin juice. "That never was my strong suit."

"I suppose it is safer for you," Harry said thoughtfully.

"Oh, bollocks that." Sirius waved a dismissive hand. "I didn't escape Azkaban and live in a forest for a year to be safe, did I? And it's not like my life was a gilded cage before that, either. I think you of all people, Harry, can understand that some of us..." he hesitated, grinned, and shrugged. "Some of us don't have to look for trouble, because trouble's always looking for us."

"I suppose," Harry said, unable to suppress his answering grin.

"Now," Sirius said briskly, reaching for a potato and biting into it whole, "enough subtle probing about what's going on outside. How have you been? You haven't written in ages."

"I didn't want to get you in trouble," Harry said. He hesitated, clasping his hands in his lap and picking a little at his robes. Sirius's magical fire did supply some much-needed warmth, but the floor they were seated on still held a deep chill.

"Something wrong?" Sirius paused, the half-eaten potato midway to his mouth.

"Er." Harry shifted awkwardly and tugged absently at his hair. He had planned all along to tell Sirius about everything, about Commoneo and Hermione and Dumbledore, about strange magical visitors in his cupboard, memories within memories forgotten. But now, sitting across from his godfather with his school bag spilling a feast between them, he didn't know where to start.

"What's going on?" Sirius asked, setting down the potato. "Did something happen?"

"Yes," Harry said. "I, that is, I saw something by accident, then found some things out, and it turns out Dumbledore's been erasing my memory for years now and I just don't--"

"Wait, wait." Sirius lifted both hands in a silencing gesture. "Dumbledore did what?"

Harry sighed. "He erased my memory," he said. "Three times. At the end of my second and third years, and in my fourth. One of them I can sort of understand, maybe a little, because I accidentally saw stuff in his Pensieve, because I fell in it you know, and it was really personal and about other people and stuff. But the other two, I just don't understand why he would do something like that."

Sirius stared, blinked, then wiped a hand across his face. "Why don't you start at the beginning?" he said. "How did you find this out? And what exactly did he erase?"

Harry did. He told Sirius about that quiet night at the dawning of the New Year, just a few days after Sirius' own departure. He talked about Krum, and the cave, and Celestina, about Hermione's request to learn the charm, and his own unintentional discovery. Sirius sat through it all, leaning his elbows on his knees and watching Harry with suddenly sober eyes.

"Ah," he said when Harry finally ran down. "I see."

A horrible suspicion bloomed in Harry, something too awful to even be considered. But consider it he did in light of everything he had just told Sirius, and all it had taught him about people and the world he lived in. "You didn't...you didn't know about this, did you, Sirius?" he asked. "Dumbledore didn't tell you about it, did he?"

"No," Sirius said hastily. "Dumbledore does give me the courtesy and the honor of treating me as your guardian in more than just name. He sometimes sends me word about you, things you might not think to tell me yourself. But he never told me about any of this." He hesitated, glancing away. "I admit, I had an idea that there were things he wasn't telling me, but, well, it's Dumbledore, and..." he shrugged, appearing very guilty.

"Yeah," said Harry morosely. "It's Dumbledore."

Sirius considered him a moment through narrowed eyes. "I'm sorry too," he said slowly, "that I can't be quite as angry as I think you'd like."

"I'm sorry?" Harry said, jerking his head up. "You're not mad about it?"

"Oh I'm mad," Sirius said, waving a hand. "And I'll be having words with him, you can have no doubt. But, well, Harry, you said it yourself. He said it. He had his reasons. And as much as I can't stand what he did, as much as it drives me wild to know he's hurt you..." he shrugged again, looking uncomfortable. "So I'm angry, yes, but I don't think I can be quite as furious as you'd like."

Harry covered his face with his hands and breathed out in a long, slow hiss. Sirius had hit it just right, as Harry was beginning to learn he could once in a while. Harry had wanted him to be angry, to be furious, to go storming up to the castle and demand answers with all the righteousness of authority and adulthood. It would make it easier on Harry if Sirius were simply outraged, allow Harry to feel the same. It would be so much easier if he could simply be angry.

Through his fingers, Harry watched his godfather push the food away, lean over, and squint back at him between the second knuckles on his pinky and ring finger. "Are you doing alright, then?" he asked gently.

"Yeah," Harry said, letting his hands drop. "I wasn't sure for a little while but, yeah, I'll be okay. It was just Dumbledore and Hermione and Celestina and everything."

Sirius straightened. "Now that I will be furious about. Where does that twittering cow get off feeding you a love potion?"

Harry felt a smile break out. "I asked," he said, "but I didn't put it quite like that."

"Just call 'em as I see 'em," Sirius said, scowling ferociously. "The nerve of the little tart. I oughta show up outside her bedroom window one night, all long-haired and wild, and scare some answers out of her."

"Don't," Harry said, caught between laughter and horror.

"Got you to smile, didn't I?" Sirius said, sitting back in a most satisfied manner.

"Thanks," Harry said, as a swell of gratitude and affection surged up in him. He had to admit that in the beginning he had been quite a bit fonder of the idea of Sirius than of the man himself. He'd seemed part of a fairytale, not unlike Hagrid when he'd come for Harry that wild, stormy night on the small island. But Harry had liked Hagrid immediately, had almost known he was coming all along in a quiet, unarticulated way. Sirius had burst into his life on a tide of pain and outrage and new discoveries, and it struck Harry as a little funny that he had actually been frightened of the man only after he discovered the truth. A dark, mysterious, long lost godfather who would take him away from the Dursleys forever was wonderful, but also scary.

But now, nearly two years later, after letters and visits and fire calls, Harry could honestly say that he liked Sirius as a friend, a godfather. He was fun and surprising, and if he still unnerved Harry a bit sometimes with his sudden silences or strange, unprovoked spurts of emotion, Harry couldn't begrudge him that. He didn't want to think what spending a good chunk of your life in Azkaban could do to a person.

"Last time we were in here, I wanted to kill you," Harry said contemplatively, propping his chin on his drawn up knees. "I was so angry."

Sirius, who had turned back to pick at the chicken once more, paused in mid movement. "And now?" he asked, not looking at Harry.

Harry frowned. "What d'you mean?" he asked, oddly unsettled by the complete lack of levity in his godfather's voice.

Sirius hunched a little. "Nothing," he said, stuffing a drumstick into his mouth and gnawing fiercely. "Sorry."

"No," Harry said. "It wasn't nothing. What would make you say something like that? Of course I don't want to kill you now. I didn't really then, either. I couldn't do it, remember?"

"I remember," Sirius said, washing the chicken down with half the pitcher of pumpkin juice. He sighed and finally turned to face Harry fully. "You did scare me for a minute there, though." He mirrored Harry's pose, chin tucked in clasped hands resting on bent knees.

"I scared myself a little, too," Harry said. "I didn't know I could feel like that before. But you didn't make it any better. Talking about murdering Pettigrew and revenge and things."

Sirius ducked his head a little. "I, uh, I hadn't thought out just what would happen much," he said, seemingly a little embarrassed. "It seems stupid now, but all I thought about was how to get you all into the shack, and how to keep you there. It never occurred to me to worry about how I was going to convince you of things. Never even occurred to me that I'd need to. Then again, not much of anything logical was occurring to me about then."

"You were a little...wild," Harry said. "Until Professor Lupin came, and for a while after, I didn't have any trouble believing you were insane."

"You talk as if I wasn't," Sirius said with a short, bitter laugh.

"What do you mean?" Harry said, confused. "You were telling the truth the whole time."

"Didn't mean I was in my right mind," Sirius said, laughing again. "I just told you I hadn't thought about anything practical. I just...existed. Flying away on Buckbeak was like waking from a twelve-year nightmare. Until then...well, let's just say sometimes I wasn't sure what reality really meant anymore."

"Well, Azkaban," Harry said. "I mean, you were there for a long, long time." He winced, sure Sirius didn't need to be reminded of that.

"Oh, I was crazy before I even got there," Sirius said. "You heard the story, I'm sure. How I laughed all the way? It's true. I did. James and Lily fresh in their graves, a dozen Muggles and a wizard dead. Peter a traitor. The war ended overnight. Me, going to prison. Oh, I laughed alright."

Harry shivered. He experienced a strange sort of layered vision for a moment, wavering in the oddly steady firelight. There was Sirius sitting across from him, dour and far away. There was Sirius, hair hanging to his elbows, eyes sunken and mad, having planned only for the killing of his old friend and nothing beyond. There was Sirius in the photos, laughing and smiling and a bit mad in an entirely different way. And laughing Sirius, the Sirius who frightened a whole generation of wizarding children, going quietly to prison because there was nothing else to do. And the Sirius he was coming to know, protective and awkward by turns, not sure of much and unwilling to let many people know it, sometimes his old, carefree self, sometimes silent and brooding and frightening, sometimes something entirely new.

Harry breathed deeply, clasped his knees tighter. "You know," he said a bit shakily into the silence, "you're a lot like Snape sometimes."

Sirius's head snapped up with an audible crack in his neck. "What?" he said, outraged. "How could you--what would make you--I never--"

"It's just," Harry said, cutting off his outraged sputterings, "that I'm never really sure who I'm talking to. Snape's been...well. I told you he took me fishing and made the potion for me. And he's helped me out before that, told me things when Dumbledore wasn't around. But then he's still awful in class, and when he looks at me I can tell he still can't stand me."

Sirius rumbled unhappily. "Great, greasy git," he said.

"Yeah," said Harry. "Only..." he trailed off, suddenly aware that he was treading on possibly dangerous ground. Just how much of Snape's past did Sirius know?

"It doesn't make sense to me, either," Sirius said, answering the question before it could be asked. "He was always a sniveling prat in school, sort of like what you've said the Malfoy boy is. And from the little I've seen of him in the past two years he's grown into an adult, sniveling prat." His hands clenched spasmodically on his own knees. "He was ready to see me and Moony Kissed just like that."

"I remember," Harry said, shivering. He had never hated Snape more than that night, never used magic with quite so much rage as when he had disarmed his professor. It occurred to him then, though he knew he could not speak the thought aloud, that Sirius and Snape were similar in another way. They were both still stuck in a younger mindset when it came to each other, and other things too. Sirius, locked away for so long, had had little chance to outgrow his childish grudges. Snape, for his own reasons, had had the opportunity, but had refused it. Harry knew he had very little moral ground to stand on when it came to these matters, that his own disgust for Malfoy was equally as pointless, but he also found himself wondering more and more as the school year dragged on, just what place childish grudges of any sort had in his life now. Malfoy's petty sneers and taunts, while still infuriating, were slowly becoming a little comical as well. Harry felt as if he were outdistancing Malfoy in some race, and looking back at his rival from a new vantage cast things in an entirely different light.

"I don't know," Harry sighed. "I just wish Snape would make up his blasted mind about me, one way or another. Did you know," he hesitated a moment, unsure, "before everything happened, did you know he was...a spy?"

"Yes," Sirius said, glowering fiercely. "And I didn't believe it for quite a while. But Dumbledore trusted him, to a certain extent, so who was I to question that?...much."

"What changed your mind?" Harry asked.

Sirius paused uncertainly, then shrugged. "He was the one who told us that James and Lily were being hunted. I mean, we were all being hunted, but Snape was the one who told us your parents would be, well, next. And it didn't change my mind entirely," he added hastily. "I still wonder sometimes."

"So he has gone back to them," Harry said. He'd thought so, but it was nice to get confirmation. "And he reports back to Dumbledore about what Voldemort is doing?"

"Supposedly," Sirius said.

"I suppose you don't have to be a nice person to do the right thing," Harry said musingly. "Or even a good person."

"The reverse holds true as well," Sirius said with a bitter twist of the mouth. Harry had little doubt to whom the silent rebuke was directed.

"Well," he said softly, "I still can't stand Snape most of the time, no matter what mood he's in. No matter what I might think about him when he helps me, he's still a great git." He smiled a little shyly up at Sirius. "But I like you just fine, no matter what mood you're in."

Sirius grinned. "Even when I'm in what Moony calls one of my 'morose little snits'?"

"Sure," Harry said. "Even then."

They spent the rest of the visit chatting on more mundane matters. Sirius swore he would stay long enough to see the Quidditch match with Hufflepuff the weekend after the end of the holidays. Harry had his private doubts, but he kept them just that.

It was late when Harry returned to the common room, and he didn't get a chance to tell Ron and Hermione that Sirius had arrived until breakfast the next morning. They insisted on accompanying him on his next visit, and the holiday progressed quite pleasantly with one thing and another. Sirius had a great deal of fun playing concerned adult to Ron and Hermione's new status, much to their blushing chagrin. Perhaps because of this, and perhaps sensing Harry's desire to spend some time with his godfather alone, they did not always accompany Harry on his treks beneath the Whomping Willow. Harry spent several pleasant evenings curled up on the floor before Sirius's magical fire, working his way doggedly through his homework and chatting happily with Sirius. Sirius, too, seemed to be enjoying himself, though Harry highly doubted he spent every moment of that week shut up in the Shrieking Shack. The prospect of running about on the grounds and in the forbidden forest in his Animagus form was doubtless too much for him. Harry would have preferred Sirius stayed out of sight in any form, but it wasn't up to him.

The holidays drew to a close, and the other students arrived back to school. Harry wasn't able to make it out to see Sirius that night, what with the crowds of students swarming everywhere, many of whom required prefectly intervention of one sort or another. He was half expecting to find the shack empty when he made it back out, the evening of the first day of classes. Sirius had said a week, originally, and promises of Quidditch watching or not, Harry had a feeling his new evening companionship was at an end.

But to his delight, his suspicions were unfounded. Sirius greeted him in the living room with a cheerful inquiry about classes, and participated merrily in Harry's halfhearted griping about McGonagall's fanatical obsession with the O.W.L.s.

That week, too, passed rapidly. Harry couldn't see his godfather nearly as often, with classes all day and Quidditch practice in the evening. From what he'd heard, mostly from Fred, George, and their friend Lee, the Hufflepuff team wouldn't give them a whole lot of trouble. Especially, Harry noted with a swell of acid in his throat, without their captain and star Seeker.

Snape was as nasty as ever in Potions, and Harry glared resentfully over his cavity filling solution after one of the professor's more inspired floods of vitriol. He simply couldn't understand the hateful man, and the sort of objective reserve he could sometimes achieve when Snape was far away rapidly vanished. He didn't much care anymore whether the man was a hero, or brave, or just doing the right thing for his own reasons--he was vile and one of the worst teachers ever.

The Saturday of the match dawned overcast, but calm. Harry didn't say much to the team over breakfast, and they, too, were oddly subdued. The school at large was excited enough about the prospect of Quidditch, but the Hufflepuff table was a study in contradiction. Their new Seeker, a small, energetic third year girl by the name of Sasha, sat quietly at the end of the bench, casting furtive, nervous glances Harry's way. Half the table was chatting excitedly, the other half muttering gloomily and glaring into their porridge.

The game itself was painful on several levels. The Hufflepuff Chasers, a ragtag group of mixed years, talent, and experience, had trouble even communicating with each other to pass the Quaffle. Their Beaters were enthusiastic, but their aim left something to be desired, and Fred and George outclassed them easily. Angelina, Katie, and Alicia didn't have to work particularly hard to get the Quaffle up to their end, and though their Keeper was doing a fair job, quite a few shots slipped through. After forty-five minutes the score stood at one hundred twenty to zero, and the crowd was growing less and less enthusiastic with each goal. Even the Gryffindor section was letting out sympathetic groans whenever one of the Hufflepuff Chasers fumbled the Quaffle, or a Beater missed a swing.

Harry spotted Snuffles in the very top row of stands, his massive black bulk visible next to Hagrid's equally noticeable size. From the brief glimpse he got as he swooped over, it appeared Hagrid was plying his companion with thick, juicy steak bones, and commenting amiably on the match. Snuffles accepted the attentions, Harry saw, with the regal serenity of a king.

Sasha spent half her time actually looking for the Snitch, squinting around very earnestly but not, to Harry's eye, in a particularly systematic or effective way. She spent the other half of the game trailing Harry, smiling shyly whenever their eyes met, and apparently hoping to have him do the work of spotting the elusive golden ball for her. By the time the score had racked up to one hundred forty to zero, Harry, too, was getting a bit uncomfortable. The whole game seemed to be slowing down, as the Hufflepuff players lost momentum and spirit, and the Gryffindors seemed unwilling to pound them when they were down. Angelina and Alicia were passing the Quaffle almost lazily back and forth as they practically drifted up the pitch when Harry finally saw the Snitch flitting about on the same plane he was, but at the opposite end of the pitch. He glanced back at Sasha to see if she had noticed, met her eyes fixed on him, looked back at the Snitch, and took off. Not particularly subtle, but he figured he owed her at least a fighting chance. He could hear her streaking after him, and it wasn't until he noticed that she wasn't falling behind as rapidly as she should be that Harry realized he wasn't going at the Firebolt's full speed. He took his eyes off the Snitch for half a second to glance back and saw her dogging him determinedly, her face screwed up in a doomed sort of resolution, biting her lip until it bled. Harry turned back to the rapidly approaching Snitch, but caught movement out of the corner of his eye. The Hufflepuff Beaters were flanking him from several meters off, and where were the Bludgers? Harry homed in on the Snitch for a second longer, then looked back up to check. Ah, yes, he had time to think, there they were.

The first Bludger caught him in the thigh, rocking him off course and sending him into a difficult to control corkscrew. The second followed and smashed into the side of Harry's face. His jaw made an unsettling popping sound, and pain flared along the entire side of his head.

By the time he'd righted himself, the game was over. Sasha flew above him, holding the Snitch aloft and appearing utterly astounded. It took Lee, and the crowd, a good few moments to catch up with what had happened, but when they did the Hufflepuff stands exploded in shrieks and howls. They, too, appeared en masse to be utterly, if pleasantly, gobsmacked.

Harry landed, avoiding the eyes of his teammates as best he could. His mouth was beginning to go numb, and it was a nice excuse not to have to say anything. He ducked through the crowd, intent on the changing rooms.

"Mr. Potter!" Madam Pomfrey appeared out of nowhere before him. "Mr. Potter, come up to the infirmary at once and let me look at that jaw. You'll be lucky if it hasn't shattered the bone. Oh, this game is so barbaric."

Harry attempted a smile and nearly passed out. Yes, perhaps the infirmary was in order. It would allow him to bypass the gauntlet of his teammates in the changing rooms, as well.

***

"Interesting game," Sirius said. There was a knowing glint in his eye.

Harry shrugged. "I suppose," he said noncommittally.

"How's your face?" Sirius asked, reaching out to trace the somewhat swollen line of Harry's cheek. "And your leg?"

"Just bruises," Harry said, waving an airy hand. His jaw still ached, but Madam Pomfrey had been pleasantly surprised to discover that it wasn't, in fact, broken.

"Only a little skewed," she'd said, clucking disapprovingly as she poked him with her wand.

For the first time in his life, Harry had hung around the infirmary as long as reasonably possible, astounding Madam Pomfrey with his easy acquiescence to her urgings of some quiet rest. He'd feigned sleep until he guessed the rest of the school would be at dinner, then slipped out as quietly as he could. The common room and dormitory had both been deserted, and it had been a simple matter to retrieve his invisibility cloak and head down to meet Sirius.

"Those were some nasty Bludgers," Sirius observed.

Harry shrugged again. "Bludgers usually are," he said.

Sirius considered him a moment, head cocked to one side. He looked as if he were about to say something, then thought better of it. "It was nice to see you fly again," he said. "And on the Firebolt."

"It's still the best broom there is," Harry said.

"Yes, well, when it's not, that just means it's time for a new one, now doesn't it?" Sirius asked, grinning.

"I don't know," Harry said. "I've grown rather attached to it. It's helped me out of a few tight spots, and it's, well, a really fantastic broom."

"I've got to have a go on it one of these days," Sirius said a bit longingly.

Harry paused, jolted by the idea, by the reminder that Sirius wasn't nearly as free as they both liked to pretend, that they couldn't just walk out to the Quidditch pitch together and have a nice game of one-on-one. It was a sobering thought, and Harry dropped his eyes.

"Er, Harry," Sirius said hesitantly into the silence.

Harry looked up. "Yeah?" he asked, though he suspected he knew what was coming.

"I, er. Well I got word today. I'm sorry, Harry, but it seems it's time I got moving again."

Harry sighed and nodded. If he didn't miss his guess, it was about time Sirius got on the move a few days ago, and his godfather's kept promise to watch the game was a balm to soothe the sting of impending separation. "Got word?" he asked. "From whom? About what? Has Snape found out something?"

Sirius' lip curled. "Snape hasn't been finding out much of anything lately," he said. "He hasn't been called very often at all. He says it's because Voldemort doesn't want his absence from Hogwarts noticed, but..." Sirius trailed off, frowning.

"So what'd you hear?" Harry pressed.

Sirius sighed. "Not much," he said. "And nothing definite. All we know is that...something is happening." At Harry's inquiring look, he shrugged. "We don't even know what. We know where Voldemort is most of the time, you see. He's been staying in his grandparents' house, Muggles you know, outside a place called Little Hangleton. And it seems like he's getting ready for something. More and more people are showing up there, and a good lot of them are staying."

"They're gathering," Harry said. "Getting ready."

"Yes," Sirius said.

"So what are you going to do?" Harry asked a bit worriedly. "You're not going to go try and spy on them, are you?"

"No, no," Sirius said dismissively. "I've just got to go collect a few people of our own, all quiet-like you know. We can't just send this in a mass owl. We can't let him know we know something's going on. Dumbledore wants us to start gathering, too."

"Here?" Harry asked, a bit hopefully.

"Possibly," Sirius said, shrugging." Actually, if it were up to me, I'd use the Shrieking Shack. Fix it up a bit from the inside, ward it a little, and it'd be as safe as anywhere. Close to Hogwarts, with easy access..." he trailed off, nodding to himself. "Got to mention that to Dumbledore soon."

"Speaking of Dumbledore," Harry said, "Did you talk to him about...you know?"

"Ah, yes," Sirius said, pursing his lips.

"Well?" Harry asked. "What'd he say?"

"Not much," Sirius said. "Same as he told you, pretty much. It was necessary, and we'd both find out why eventually."

"Oh," Harry said, disappointed. "I was hoping he'd explain it to you."

Sirius smiled a little sadly. "I imagine that's why he didn't," he said mildly. "He knew I wouldn't be able to help telling you."

"I suppose," Harry said doubtfully.

"Look." Sirius hunkered down a bit so his eyes were on a level with Harry's. "I know you're frustrated, and hurt, and confused, and I know you don't quite know what to do with yourself right now, who to trust. But if I've learned anything in the past fifteen years, and to listen to some people that's not very much at all, it's that you can trust Albus Dumbledore. No matter what happens, what he does. He's the backbone of this war, Harry, and he knows things few men could comprehend. And he's a good man."

"I know," Harry said. "I guess I'll just have to wait."

"Like us all," Sirius said, straightening up. "Look, maybe I'll see you again this summer, if not sooner."

"Say," Harry said, struck with a thought. "What about that? I can't go back to Privet Drive, can I? And where have the Dursleys been all year? Why can't I just stay with you this summer instead?"

Sirius lifted a forestalling hand. "I'm not quite sure where they are," he said. "But I know Dumbledore took care of things. And Harry, as flattering as it is to know you'd rather stay with me than them, I'm afraid it's not possible. You must return to their company every summer. I'm sorry, but it's necessary."

Harry sighed. "Was worth a try."

Sirius studied him a moment, a frown line deepening between his eyes. "You really don't like them, do you?" he asked softly. "I mean, you really can't stand them?"

"I hate them," Harry said explosively, surprised that Sirius didn't already know this. He belatedly remembered Sirius' stilted, halting offer of a home as they'd made their way out of this very shack two years before, his implicit assumption that Harry was happier with his relatives. Harry supposed it was possible that Sirius just didn't know what sort of people the Dursleys were. "They hate magic and everything about it."

Sirius was staring at him, his face twisted up in pain. "I'm sorry to hear that," he said softly. "I didn't...I didn't realize." He cleared his throat, scrubbing a hand across his face.

"Do you think you could try and get me--" Harry began.

"No," Sirius said heavily. "No, I couldn't. I'm very sorry, Harry, but there's nothing I can do about it. You must return to them this summer." His shoulders stiffened, and he stood up straight. "But I will see you this summer," he promised firmly. "No matter what. And Harry?"

"Yeah?"

Sirius fumbled with his words a moment, obviously not sure just what to say. "They don't...that is...you only hate them because they don't like magic, right? They treat you decently?"

"I..." Harry blinked, having no idea what to say to that. They'd locked him in a cupboard, made him do chores, called him ugly names. But really, when he thought about it, he supposed it could have been a lot worse. "Sure," he said, shrugging vaguely at Sirius.

His godfather frowned at him, but said no more on the subject. "I really should go," he said. For the first time, Harry noted the cloak and small traveling pack set out near the hearth. Sirius embraced him tightly, ruffling his hair. "Good game," he said, stepping back.

"Thanks," Harry said, squeezing Sirius' forearms. "Be safe, okay?"

"You too," Sirius said firmly. "Be safe."

"I will," Harry promised, wondering as the words crossed his lips if the flurry of trouble and danger that converged on him periodically would take heed to a promise like that, no matter how much he'd like to keep it.

Sirius smiled, waved one more time, and disapparated.

Harry stood a moment in the suddenly silent house, waiting for what he did not know. There was no sign that Sirius had ever been there, as it must be, he supposed. Then again, he thought, turning back for the tunnel, at least some of these deep claw gouges in the walls and floor and the little remaining furniture had to have come from Padfoot. Harry could just imagine Padfoot and Moony together, one massive and black, the other slightly shorter, silvery gray, lower to the ground. They must have wrestled here, played and cavorted and left signs of their presence in the very being of the house.

Harry tossed the invisibility cloak over his head and ducked into the tunnel before he could get any mushier. The trek back, with the prospect of all of Gryffindor waiting for him and no Sirius at his back, felt simultaneously endless and too short. When he finally emerged into the shadows between the twisted roots of the willow, evening had washed across the grounds. Colorhad been leeched from the landscape, replaced by grays and blacks. The sky was yet a bit too bright to see the first stars, but too dark to give any really clear illumination.

Harry crouched there in the roots of the willow for a moment, squinting around and getting his bearings. It was a good thing, too, for had he stood up immediately, cloak or not, the sound of his passage out of the willow would have given away his presence to anyone within fifty meters.

"It's too bad, really," Draco Malfoy sneered. "Potter doesn't even know what he's missing with you."

He was standing just out of range of the willow's madly thrashing branches, though still concealed by the tree's shadow and mass to an outside observer. His blond hair looked gray in the twilight, and the white crescent that was the half of his face turned towards Harry was all that could really be seen of him.

"Shut your mouth," hissed a female voice.

Harry, who had been expecting Crabbe and Goyle, jumped violently. He knew that voice, knew it very well. The tall shadow beside Malfoy turned, apparently glaring at him. Harry couldn't see in the rapidly fading light, but he had no doubt that the hair cascading down her back was red.

"Are you attempting to tell me what to do?" Malfoy snarled, shifting awkwardly to gaze up at Ginny. "May I remind you, Weasley, that while your Muggle-loving parents wait for their hovel to fall down around their ears, my father is taking tea with the Minister of Magic and ordering a new wing to be constructed at Malfoy Manor?"

"Oh, bugger off," Ginny snapped, turning away.

"Perhaps you can have the Dark Lord possess you again, and Potter can save you," Malfoy called to her retreating back. "Maybe he'll even notice you."

Ginny whirled back around. Harry could not see her expression, but the tone of her voice and the infuriated thrust of her shoulders told him plenty. "And maybe," she retorted, "you can have your daddy buy you some new friends, ones with two brain cells between them." She tilted her head a little and laughed. "Then again, perhaps he's already tried, and Crabbe and Goyle were the only ones he could find stupid enough to want to be your friends, no matter how much money your daddy paid them."

The white moon of Malfoy's face flushed dark. "Muggle loving cow!" he yelled, reaching for his wand.

Harry, who had drawn his wand at first sight of Malfoy, was faster. Poking the end out through the cloak he mouthed a silent, "Expelliarmus!" But instead of calling Malfoy's wand to himself, he added an extra little push, snatching it from between Malfoy's fingers and spinning it off at an angle into the darkening grounds. Malfoy swore, and Ginny, who had just finished drawing her own wand, laughed.

"You know," she said, "a Muggle torch would really help you find that. Or even a candle."

Malfoy snarled, but apparently considered it the best part of wise to make a hasty retreat, blundering off in pursuit of his errant wand. Ginny stood still a moment, listening to his retreating footsteps and curses, and Harry wished very much that he could see her expression.

Then she straightened and glanced around suspiciously, head cocked.

"It was me," Harry called softly, groping around in the dark for the knot on the trunk of the willow and making his way out of the suddenly docile branches. Ginny jumped, looking around wildly, and it took Harry a moment to remember that he was wearing the cloak. He pulled it off hastily and stuffed it in his pocket.

"Oh, Harry." Ginny pressed a hand over her heart. "Where did you come from?"

"Was just out for a walk," Harry said, lighting his wand. By its light, he couldn't miss the flush rapidly spreading up her neck. "Are you all right? Did Malfoy do anything to you?"

She blinked back at him through the sudden light. "No," she said hastily. "Just the usual, you know. He just saw me out here and had to have some fun."

"I didn't know he bothered you," Harry said, frowning. "I thought it was just Ron and Hermione and me."

Ginny shrugged. "Apparently he's decided to share the wealth this year," she said dryly.

"Yeah," said Harry, unsettled. "Why now, though?"

Ginny shrugged, looking away. "Dunno," she said. "Come on, let's get back up to the castle before it's full dark."

She started off at a brisk trot, and Harry had little choice but to fall in step. "So what does Malfoy bother you about?" he persisted as they made their way up towards the lawn.

"The usual," Ginny said, shrugging casually. "My hair, my parents, my last name, my house. Today he had some choice words about Quidditch, of course."

"Oh." Harry fell silent, tilting his wand away from himself to cast his face in shadow.

"Nasty things, Bludgers," Ginny commented.

"Yeah," Harry said. "Sometimes I wish they were foam-covered, you know?"

"I can imagine," Ginny said. "Keepers don't get targeted too often, so I've only been grazed now and then. Are you all right?"

"Oh, sure," Harry said. "Madam Pomfrey can fix anything, you know. And nothing was even broken."

"That's good," Ginny said. "And you've been hit by Bludgers before, of course. It must be worse, knowing before they hit you how much it's going to hurt."

"I reckon," Harry said cautiously. "But, you know, usually when a Bludger hits me I don't have time to think much of anything beforehand."

Ginny stopped at the border between the path and the lawn. The castle sparkled above her as she turned to face Harry. Over her shoulder he could pick out Gryffindor Tower, the common room and dormitory windows blazing with light. They weren't having a party in there, he was sure.

"What--" he began.

"It wasn't blatantly obvious or anything," Ginny said, cutting him off. "I guess maybe I was just at the right angle. I doubt many people caught on at the time, though some probably have since the match."

"I don't--"

"You threw the game," she said softly. "You let those Bludgers hit you."

"You're mad," Harry exclaimed. "Why would I want--if I'd wanted to throw the game I can tell you I wouldn't have chosen to do it by getting plastered by two Bludgers."

"Oh, I don't think you really planned to," Ginny said. "But don't try and tell me you couldn't have avoided those Bludgers if you'd really wanted to. The first one, at the very least, you could have looped easily. And even if the second one still got you, you were miles ahead of Sasha and you still would have gotten the Snitch. It's not like you could have planned that."

Harry pressed his lips together, looking away. He hadn't planned it, not at all. In fact, it hadn't really been a conscious decision. It'd just seemed the right thing to do in that split second, with Hufflepuff down so far and the crowd watching miserably below.

"You, er, you're very observant," he said finally. "I suppose the rest of the team knows? How mad are they?"

"Fred and George knew right away," she said. "They were pretty close to you. They told Angelina and Katie and Alicia, but they would probably have figured it out on their own." She paused, cocking her head to the side. "Some of the Hufflepuffs probably figured it out, too. Sasha might not have because she was so excited, but I wouldn't be surprised if she twigs to it when she really thinks about it."

Harry sighed. "I didn't really mean to," he said miserably.

"They might be upset," Ginny continued thoughtfully. "The Hufflepuffs, I mean." Her eyes narrowed on Harry. "They're 'observant' too, Harry, and they, like most people, don't like pity."

Harry dropped his eyes. "I didn't mean it like that," he said. "Is the team ready to revolt?"

"No," Ginny said gently. "They...we...are all very proud to be Gryffindors tonight."

Harry looked up, startled. "But you said--"

Ginny shrugged. "You're the Captain," she said. "And, well. They needed it. Sasha, she was crying she was so happy. They can't always go in expecting to lose, you know?"

"You don't think it'll upset her when...if...she figures it out?" Harry asked worriedly. "Maybe I should apologize."

Ginny gaped, then burst out laughing. "Only you, Harry Potter, would think of apologizing to a girl for making her dream come true."

"But you said--"

"Oh, forget about that," Ginny said, looking away and flushing again. "I didn't mean--I didn't mean anything by it." She took a breath, composed herself, and returned her gaze to Harry. "Don't apologize to Sasha. You did it because you wanted them to feel good, not embarrassed. It was...you did good. And I don't think anyone, least of all the team, can be upset with you over that."

"Wood would be livid," Harry said.

Ginny started walking again. "Wood would know that since we lost by only ten points we're still easily in the running for the cup, depending on by how much Ravenclaw beats Hufflepuff. We could still win it, if Cho catches the Snitch too soon."

Harry stared at her back a moment, gobsmacked, then jogged to catch up. "Really? I hadn't even thought about that."

"Then again," Ginny said, "the Hufflepuffs are sort of re-energized. They might give Ravenclaw a good run for it. Who knows."

"Their Keeper really is quite good," Harry said. "If he'd only look as far to the right as he does to the left."

"Too bad about their Chasers, though," Ginny sighed. "It was mostly bad planning, from what I can tell, and bad luck. They're all different ages, and they keep having to replace them one at a time as they leave school. They just don't work well together."

They chatted about Quidditch for a while, discussing strengths and weaknesses of combining various Chaser flying styles and personalities. On this subject Ginny was animated and talkative, a direct contrast to the quiet, tight-lipped girl Harry had first met, and the tense, unhappy one he had caught glimpses of this year. Glancing sideways at her as they entered the castle, Harry observed that she bore little physical resemblance to the tiny, clumsy girl he had first met. She was tall, having gained several inches on him over the course of this year alone, to judge by the several inches of ankle and calf visible below the hem of her robes. She had let her hair grow long, though it was currently all twisted up on her head the way she wore it for Quidditch. The lengthening days and brighter sun of the spring had scattered a liberal handful of freckles across her nose and cheeks, and lightened her hair from its usual darker red to the more Weasley-typical orangeish. Harry found it difficult to adjust to these changes. To him, Ginny was still a small, dying girl, left in a pitiful heap at the feet of Salazar Slytherin, her life ebbing away with each more difficult breath. He wondered when the change had happened, how he had missed it.

It wasn't until they'd reached the Fat Lady's corridor that his other worries came flooding back to him. "Er, Ginny?" he said, stopping uncertainly before the portrait. "The rest of the house..."

"I doubt they know," Ginny said. "It would have been hard to tell from the stands, I think."

Harry still hesitated, wincing at the mental image of several hundred accusing faces. "Oh come on," Ginny said, pushing playfully at him. "I can tell you at least the fifth and seventh years won't be bothering you. They're all studying, and everyone in your class is slogging through that giant History of Magic thing you have to write for your O.W.L."

Harry froze, his eyes going wide with alarm. "The--oh bloody hell!"

"That is incorrect," the Fat Lady said, glowering disapprovingly. "Password?"

"I...I forgot," Harry stammered.

"Well, you can't get in then," the Fat Lady said irritably. "How many times do I--"

"No, the essay. The, the novel!" Harry spluttered. "I did some reading back in the fall, but it completely slipped my mind. I haven't even started it. I haven't even got all that many notes."

Ginny winced sympathetically. "If it makes you feel any better, Fred and George didn't start theirs until the day before. They were really upset they had different assignments. It meant they couldn't split the work like they usually do."

"I am so dead," Harry moaned, clutching at his hair.

Ginny patted his arm reassuringly. "You have almost two months," she said. "And it is long, but if you start now, you shouldn't have too much trouble."

"I'm going to the library tomorrow," Harry said with determination. "And I'm not coming out all day."

"That's the spirit," Ginny said. "Flimsy whimsy."

"Finally," The Fat Lady muttered, creaking open.

They climbed through, and to Harry's great relief, no one pointed or glared. The rest of the team were scattered about the room engaged in various pursuits, but they all made a point of catching his eye and smiling at him. Ginny had been right; most of the fifth and seventh years had staked out study spots and were hunched diligently, or resentfully as the case might be, over their parchments. Ron and Hermione appeared to be working on the History of Magic O.W.L., which, Harry heard as he passed, Hermione was vigorously refusing to help Ron with.

"It's your O.W.L.," she snapped. "It's supposed to measure your knowledge, not mine."

"But you know more than I do," Ron wailed.

Harry decided it would be the wiser thing to avoid them for the rest of the evening. "So," he said, glancing back at Ginny, "care for a game of chess?"

"If you feel like being miserably defeated," Ginny said cheerfully. "I learned from Ron, you know."

Harry groaned. "Why not," he said. "Maybe you can give me some tips for beating him."

***

Harry straightened up slowly, trying to align his neck and spine one careful vertebra at a time. His shoulders twinged and a series of disturbing crackling sounds issued from his neck as he slowly raised his head. Finally upright, he squinted into the slants of early afternoon sunlight which had first disturbed him from his hunched concentration. He blinked in surprise, glancing around, and stretched hugely, reaching his fingers as far as they would go, and provoking a few more crackles from his back and shoulders.

He'd been in the library since just after breakfast, and though he was exhausted and his eyes stung tiredly, he was surprised so much time had passed. Glancing down at his table, he grimaced. Maybe not so surprised, after all. There had to be at least twenty books stacked around him, half of them left open to a marked page to which he had intended to return. At his elbow sat a stack of notes nearly an inch thick, and before him were the beginnings of an idea of how he was going to organize the thing. Hermione always did outlines for every essay she wrote, and she kept telling Harry and Ron to try it, but until now Harry had never bothered. But with the sheer size of the history project he figured he could use all the preparation he could handle.

Sighing, Harry considered the books, the notes, the outline. His eyes were tired, his fingers spattered with ink, and his head spinning with facts. Harry bit his lip, not liking the idea of breaking a promise he had made to himself, but really, he'd done quite a lot today, more than he'd ever expected to. He grimaced a little, wondering if always studying with Ron right there to distract and talk to had been the wisest thing for the past five years. It seemed that on his own he could get quite a lot done when he was sufficiently motivated.

Mind made up, Harry began to gather his notes and put them into some sort of comprehensible order. He tackled the books next, sorting through them and deciding which ones he would check out, and copying down the names and authors of the rest for possible future reference. Gryffindor had been quite an accomplished man, contributing to fields as disparate as Transfiguration, Arithmancy, and horticulture. Although, to listen to Hermione, Arithmancy was "the underpinning of the very existence of magic, and the process and logic of its function." Harry made a mental note to ask her about the Arithmancy of turnips and beets. Harry's collection of books ranged these topics and further, as well as several histories of Hogwarts, of course.

At the bottom of one of the piles Harry found a large book, very wide and tall and made of thick, fine grade parchment. Harry frowned, hefting it closer, for he didn't remember referring to it during the course of his reading. A Compendium of Rare Etchings and Portraits was stenciled into the soft blue cover, and it was coded with the little red X that meant it could not be removed from the library. Madam Pince had suggested it to him when he'd first arrived and asked for her guidance, not sure where to start. Now that he thought about it, Harry realized, he hadn't come across any pictures of Gryffindor in any of the other books, not even a pencil sketch. Interested, he opened the book and began to page through.

The etchings, paintings, and charcoal drawings were copies, of course, but Harry still caught his breath at their vivid depictions. Sleepy witches and wizards yawned, stretched, and blinked up at him as their pages were laid open for the first time in what Harry suspected was quite a while. He didn't recognize some of them, either by sight or name, though others were familiar from his History of Magic notes. Harry nearly flipped past a colored pencil sketch of a tall, gangling red haired boy before he saw the caption and nearly choked.

Albus Dumbledore on school holiday. December 20, 1864. Sketch by Aberforth Dumbledore.

Harry stared at the boy, cataloging the familiar height as one of the only things he could recognize. Everything else from the color of the hair to the bare chin was just...weird. But then the boy glanced up from the book he had been studying, and Harry was pierced by a very familiar set of blue eyes. Young Dumbledore studied him a moment, one reddish eyebrow rising in inquiry. Then a slow, warm smile split his face, and he waved as if he knew Harry. Harry, feeling foolish, made a little wave back. Dumbledore flashed him one more grin, then returned to his book.

Harry turned the page, smiling a little bemusedly. Dumbledore's nose hadn't been nearly as crooked then. Harry wondered how he'd broken it in his long life.

He kept flipping pages, making up his mind to show this to Ron and Hermione the next time they were all in here. They would enjoy a different view of their Headmaster, who was a great deal older than Harry could ever have guessed. He knew wizards tended to live longer lives than Muggles, of course, but Dumbledore must be--

Harry froze, the edge of the page he was about to turn crinkling in his suddenly tight grip. He stared down at the etching, his breath suddenly coming in quick, startled gasps. The man, who unlike many of the other subjects seemed to have been awake when his page was turned, gazed fixedly back at Harry. Slowly, he pointed downward, towards the caption. Harry looked, looked again, and then raised his eyes to stare at the man once more. They regarded each other for a long moment as a small tidal wave of shock swamped Harry's mind. A flood of images followed it, that same face leaning close to his, a kind smile, and the solution to an impossible break-in. The man dipped his head to him slowly, respectfully, as if to a friend not seen in many years. He looked back up at Harry and mouthed a single word. Harry didn't need to squint to make it out.

"Go."

Harry nodded. Hands shaking, he slowly, carefully, closed the book. He clutched the edges of the cover for a moment, trying to compose himself. The urge to go dashing off right this second was strong, almost overwhelmingly so, but Harry schooled himself with the sharp reminder that nothing seemed to have changed in five years, so it was unlikely to in another twenty minutes. And he needed to find out one more thing first.

Rising, Harry strode purposefully, stopping only when he reached the divide between the Charms and Transfiguration sections. He bit his lip, considering. Either seemed equally likely. Harry considered asking Madam Pince, or simply going to the common room and checking with Hermione. He had only seen the spell performed once, after all, and that had been two years ago in the middle of a very tense situation. He couldn't even remember the incantation. But no. Both Madam Pince and Hermione would undoubtedly demand explanations, and Harry didn't feel like taking the time to give them. Not that they would believe him if he did tell them.

Making up his mind, Harry turned into the Charms section.

It took nearly half an hour to find what he sought, and as he crouched on the floor of the last aisle in the Charms section, the book open on the floor before him, Harry wondered if he wasn't in a bit over his head. This looked pretty complicated, rather more than simply waving his wand and saying the right words. But he memorized the pertinent details anyway. It wasn't as if he could really practice, but it might come in handy. Replacing the book, Harry rose and headed out of the library. It wasn't until he was three corridors away that he realized he'd left his bag and books at the table. But he had his wand, and anything else, including his history O.W.L., could just wait.

Gripped by sudden impatience, Harry broke into a jog. Logic or not, he felt urgency building in him. He didn't know how he had managed to stay so calmly in the library for so long. Up a conveniently docile set of moving steps, down two corridors, up another flight, past a phalanx of armor, and up again. By the time he made it to the stone gargoyle, Harry was panting.

"Jelly slugs," he gasped to it, plunging into the staircase as soon as the gargoyle had moved enough. He couldn't wait for the stairs to carry him, so he ran up, getting a bit dizzy as he followed the spiral. He skidded to a stop just before careening into the office door, and knocked resoundingly.

The door opened almost at once, and Dumbledore peered down at him, frowning worriedly. "Harry, come in. Goodness, child, are you all right?"

Harry stepped past him, glancing frantically around the office.

"Do sit down," Dumbledore said. "You look as if you could use a lemon drop or two. And perhaps some tea."

"I was just in the library," Harry said, not looking at the Headmaster. "Researching for my history O.W.L. I saw this picture...it's funny, if I had seen it back in the fall, it would have meant nothing to me. But now..."

"What do you mean?" Dumbledore asked, placing a hand on his shoulder. "What did you see?"

Harry stepped away from him and crossed the room to stand before Fawkes' perch.

"You can transform now," he said. "I know who you are."