Harry Potter And The Fall Of Childhood

Chapter 29

Sospes

"We are our own dragons as well as heroes. We must rescue ourselves from

ourselves." -Tom Robbins

***

Harry woke knowing several things. First, to judge by the feel of his body and the continued quiet of deep night, he hadn't slept long. He cracked open his eyes, squinting against the dim light of a single lamp at the head of the bed. The meager illumination drew strange, misshapen shadows on the insides of the closed curtains around his Hospital Wing bed, and Harry had a blurry moment of confusion as he sorted what was real and what was not. The second thing only impinged on his consciousness as he realized that two people were sitting by his bed, and that they were each holding one of his hands. Something felt very, very wrong. He was tired, of course, but he felt as if he were tuned just a little bit off from the world, as if he were receiving only some of the signals. His body was an almost complete blank, except for a barely noticeable ache in his arm, and the way he kept having to squint without his glasses.

"He's waking up," Sirius said, leaning forward so his face was visible in the light. "Harry, how are you feeling?"

"Weird," Harry croaked, then swallowed. "What...something's wrong. Hermione? Neville? Professor Dumbledore?"

"I'm just fine," Dumbledore said from Harry's other side. "Nothing Madam Pomfrey couldn't patch. I've seen first years do worse tripping over each other. And as for your friends--"he leaned back and parted the curtains enough for Harry to peer out. Harry did, squinting through the dimness. It was indeed still full night, he saw through the window at the end of the ward. But most of his attention was focused on the bed beside his, where Hermione lay, curled on her side facing away from him, her breathing visible and steady. One hand was tucked up by her cheek, and Harry caught a glimpse of the thick swaddling bandages about her wrist. Beyond her, in the next bed, Neville sprawled on his back, snoring softly through his open mouth. "They'll be just fine with a little rest," Dumbledore said, letting the curtain fall closed. "As, my boy, will you."

"Okay," Harry said slowly. Madam Pomfrey had already said that when they'd all come trooping down to the hospital wing. She'd clucked over his arm, then sent him to sleep after applying several charms and salves. He'd wanted to stay awake, to talk to Dumbledore and Sirius and Lupin, but the Headmaster had told him to rest, that they could all sit down and have a good natter when everyone, including him, had gotten some sleep. Looking at Dumbledore's face now, Harry was pretty sure he hadn't slept a wink yet. The lines around his eyes looked, if possible, more deeply etched than just after he'd been flung across the room by Voldemort's spells. "What's wrong?" Harry asked, feeling a resigned sort of dread.

"I have created a space of null magic around you," Dumbledore said, shifting a bit closer in his chair. "That is probably what woke you and why you are feeling 'weird,' as you say. Madam Pomfrey's sleeping draught would have lost most of its effectiveness without magical properties."

"No magic?" Harry repeated, blinking. "You can do that?"

"It is something of an effort, but yes," Dumbledore said, gesturing to a barely visible line that glowed where the curtains met the floor. "Within this circle, magical activity is suppressed. Or as much of it as I can suppress without physically endangering you. As for why..." He released Harry's hand and reached for something on the bedside table. It was a stack of photographs, Harry saw as Dumbledore handed them over.

Harry started to sit up, then paused, the feeling of unease worsening. His body had felt numb before, sort of absent, but what little he was experiencing now was all wrong, off-balance. He felt like there should be more of him than there was. And there was a Muggle-style tube in his arm, he realized for the first time. He'd never had one before, but he'd seen them on television. Several bags of various colored fluids were suspended over the head of the bed, and Harry looked hastily away, a little nauseous. He glanced down at the photographs to distract himself, then frowned in utter confusion as he shuffled through them.

The shots were many and varied, some familiar, most not. The only thing they all had in common was Harry himself, sitting in the Gryffindor common room, flying, walking down the street in Hogsmeade, play wrestling with the twins, at last year's Yule Ball, after he'd come out of the lake in the second task. They were supposed to be wizarding photos, he was sure, but with very little magic to animate them the people pictured moved only minutely, and that with great effort. He'd seen a few of the photos before in various Daily Prophet articles, or in Colin's extensive collection. But they weren't exactly the photographs he remembered. The Harry in each one was not the Harry he saw in the mirror every day. He was a thin creature, almost skeletal, his robes baggy to the point of ridiculousness, his mouth and eyes sunken, his cheekbones sharp blades. He looked as if he'd been to hell and back.

"I don't understand," Harry said, looking up at Dumbledore. The Harry in the last photograph, a snap of a moment he didn't even recall out by the lake on a sunny day, lay still, barely breathing, his body a ruin, his skin stretched so tightly over his bones that Harry could swear he saw the whitish hue of them through it.

"They were what Pettigrew dropped," Sirius said, his hand tightening on Harry's.

"So?" Harry said, glancing from one to the other.

"So," Dumbledore said, "it seems you were right after all. There was a spell on you that was causing your illness."

Harry frowned, not feeling nearly as righteously justified as he would have expected. "Through the photographs?" he asked, then blinked in bewilderment when Dumbledore nodded. "But that's impossible. You said so."

"I did," Dumbledore said. "And I was wrong. This is the second supposedly impossible thing Voldemort has done in the past year. He also successfully attacked your home in Little Whinging, which he should not have been able to do. Perhaps I should have been more cautious, knowing that, but--"

"There's no way you could have known," Sirius said. "Not with that illusion going."

"As to that," Dumbledore said, returning his attention to Harry. "I don't want this to be too much of a shock, but there is no real way to prepare you. You are somewhat...diminished, Harry."

"Diminished?" Harry repeated. He shifted under the blankets, moving his good arm underneath to check for himself. The jolt of utter, shocked terror that struck him when he ran a hand down his own side and felt the blades of his ribs beneath his skin was sudden and intense. He threw the covers back, attempting to sit up, staring down at himself in utter disbelief. "Oh," he said softly, inadequately, the single syllable completely unequal to what he was feeling. It was the body of a stranger in this bed, a bony construct beneath the billowy hospital gown. Even his hands were different, the wrists angular and protruding, the skin underlain with veins that showed up an unhealthy blue. He was...diminished.

"Lie back," Sirius said, reaching for the covers. "You're supposed to be resting."

Harry let himself be resettled, unable to speak as Sirius fussed with the blankets and smoothed his hair. Dumbledore waited, still and silent, his profile craggy and almost hawklike in the dimness.

Finally, when he felt he could speak without utterly losing it, Harry said, "Tell me everything."

Dumbledore moved then, if only to sigh. "There is not much to tell," he said. "Some of these photographs are from The Daily Prophet. Others, I am not positive but fairly certain, were taken by young Mr. Creevey. His home was robbed over the summer, as I recall. A seemingly random event, but it stuck in my mind because of Mr. Creevey's unique household between the Muggle and magical worlds. It struck me as peculiar. It seems, with these photographs as a starting point, Voldemort influenced both your mind and body to make you ill."

"How?" Harry asked. "You said that was impossible."

"It is," Dumbledore said. "It violates several of the fundamental limitations that bind magic. Voldemort, or any other wizard for that matter, should not have been able to accomplish such a thing simply with photographs. I thought perhaps his connection to you could account for it, but it alone cannot. I doubt he would be able to influence any wizard he liked, but he should not have been able to influence any wizard, including you. We do not yet know how he did this thing, and it is most disturbing to consider what this ability could mean."

"And there was an illusion?" Harry asked.

"Yes," Dumbledore said. "I performed the Vestigium Incantatum spell on you while you slept. You will recall it from when I attempted to ascertain what had been done to Miss Granger several weeks ago. I found an Abscondo cast on your person, Harry, several months old, designed to hide your continued weight loss. It was cast by yourself."

"Me?" Harry repeated, blinking. "I didn't..." but then he remembered it, the fit of his dress robes and a quick thought to avoid trouble. It was the strangest sensation remembering it, like there was a fracture in his mind. He knew he had done it, even recalled doing so once Dumbledore had reminded him, but that knowledge was somehow completely unconnected to any other thought. The idea of the charm continuing, or of the need to remove it, had never occurred to him, and even as he struggled, knowing the thoughts should be connected, Harry was baffled to feel them slip away from each other like opposing magnets. "The Yule Ball," Harry said slowly. "I did it at the Yule Ball."

"Ah," Dumbledore said. "That does explain it. You were influenced by another power that evening. The potion in your drink weakened your perceptions and your thinking. I believe Voldemort, sensing this, took advantage of the moment to influence your mind directly, to make you forget you had cast the spell. Or at least to not allow the idea of removing it to occur to you."

"He...felt me?" Harry asked. "And he could do that to me from so far away? Just control me like that?" He crossed his arms over his chest, feeling his skin crawl all over.

"Don't alarm yourself overly much," Dumbledore said. "Voldemort is much older and more experienced than yourself, Harry. It follows that he would be much more adept at using and manipulating the connection between you." He gestured at Harry's scar. "And believe me, influencing you in such a way would have been a great effort for him, and it was only possible because you were already so weakened that evening. As you normally are, he could not have affected you in such a way."

"But he can do it again," Harry said, his alarm not abating. "He could make me do anything if he tried hard enough."

"No," Dumbledore said firmly. "No, he cannot. He cannot reach you here in this null magic space. And as soon as my brother responds to my owl and I have a few questions answered, he will not be able to influence you at all."

"Are you sure?" Harry asked. He sounded almost pleading to his own ears.

"As certain as I can be," Dumbledore said gently. "And Harry, I do apologize for not foreseeing this eventuality. I find myself continually saying that to you this year. Perhaps that should tell me something." He paused a moment, his look becoming even more grave, before he visibly pulled himself back to the moment. "Now, Sirius, if you wouldn't mind giving Harry and me a few moments? There are several things I think we need to discuss."

Sirius looked like he did, in fact, mind, but he restrained himself to a pat on Harry's shoulder as he rose and stepped away from the bed. Harry watched him walk away through the parted curtains, saw him transform as he stepped over the null-magic line and leap lightly up to circle at the foot of the next bed over, where Professor Lupin lay sleeping. Then the curtains swung back into place, and Harry was alone with the Headmaster.

"Well," Dumbledore said. "I think you will be pleased to know that, in light of recent events, it has become possible for me to offer you many of the answers I could not before."

"Oh," said Harry dumbly. "Er." There were a great number of questions he should be asking, he knew, but now that the moment had arrived he could not for the life of him think of any of them.

Dumbledore seemed to understand this, for he sat forward, clasping his hands together at the edge of Harry's bed. "There is no need to mince words," he said. "I erased your memory because it would have been dangerous for you to know when you were younger that you had the potential for great and powerful magic."

"I have what?" Harry said.

"Dear, dear," Dumbledore said, frowning deeply. "How do I--yes, yes, that will suffice to start with. Do you remember the lesson I gave your Defense Against the Dark Arts class about magic and where it comes from?"

"Yes," Harry said slowly.

"Well," Dumbledore said, "I told you that as a wizarding child grows, his access and control over the flow of magic through him increases. What I was attempting to do in the memories I erased was ascertain to just what extent this process was occurring in you. I found, however, partly to my chagrin and partly to my relief, that even after the exercise of greatly powerful magic like your Patronus in your third year, you were little more, though certainly nothing less, than an average wizarding boy."

"I thought you said--" Harry began.

"I did," Dumbledore assured. "I knew, Harry, knew from the moment of your birth that you had the potential for great things. I was not concerned for some time, thinking you were simply too young, that your magic was not yet changing. Your schoolwork was nothing spectacular in most subjects, and I was not overly troubled. I thought your displays of magic, coming as they did in times of great emergency, were previews of what could come. I was right about that, at least."

"What were you wrong about?" Harry asked, intrigued almost despite himself.

"I realized early this year that there was something amiss with you," Dumbledore said. "You had definitely entered your teenage years to judge by your interest in the young ladies of Hogwarts," his eyes twinkled and Harry felt a faint blush color his cheeks, "and but your magic showed little signs of developing beyond that of your peers. And yet I knew it had the potential to. So there must have been something preventing it."

"Oh," Harry said slowly, the pieces beginning to come together. "That's why you sent the Dementors."

Dumbledore started, his eyes narrowing. "I would be inclined to think your intuition was particularly active tonight," he said, "except then again I am inclined to think that little piece of knowledge did not come to you through intuition at all."

"Er, no," Harry said, squirming a little. "I, uh, overheard you talking to Professor Lupin about it. Sorry," he added, a little guiltily.

"No, no," Dumbledore said. "That's quite alright. Only to be expected, really," he added dryly.

"You sent them to see if I could chase them off," Harry said, not sure he at all liked the idea.

"Partly," Dumbledore said. "I didn't send them, in so many words, at all. They were passing close by Hogsmeade, and in all likelihood would have diverted into the town or towards the school without my intervention. But when I did intervene, I could be certain of when and where they would come. I assure you, there was almost no danger to you or your fellow students. There were scores of trained wizards waiting to come to your assistance should you have had trouble."

"Okay," Harry said slowly. "But I didn't need their help."

"No you did not," Dumbledore agreed. "I had hoped that an emergency situation would spark your instincts as it had in the past, and it did. But unfortunately it did not act as a catalyst. You were not growing appreciably stronger after the attack. It was then that I was certain that something was wrong."

"What?" Harry asked, somewhat alarmed.

"The best answer I could find dates back to Halloween of 1981," Dumbledore said. "You will recall that I told you how the Avada Kedavra curse might have unforeseen consequences on one who survived it. I could not be certain, of course, for there is no recorded precedent, but it does make a great deal of sense. The curse kills by suddenly and violently separating a person from himself. It cuts the connections among the body, mind, magic, and what can best be called the soul. It in effect dissects a person on a metaphysical level, and without these connections, the person simply cannot survive."

"Okay," Harry said, nodding. He remembered Professor Binns explaining something similar to him many months before.

"When you were struck with Voldemort's Avada Kedavra, the process began in you. Your developing connection to your magic, in particular, was damaged before you repelled the curse."

"Damaged?" Harry repeated, hearing a faint squeak in his voice.

"Do not fret," Dumbledore said, patting Harry's arm with infinite gentleness. "I suspect that problem is entirely sorted, now."

Harry glanced down at his arm. The reminder set it throbbing again, and he winced a little. "What do you mean?" he asked.

"Perhaps damaged is not the best word I could choose," Dumbledore said. "Let us say traumatized instead. We know, after all, that you were capable of powerful magic after that night."

"That's right," Harry said. "How does that work?"

"You don't remember that night," Dumbledore said, almost but not quite a question.

"Not really," Harry said. "I hear it sometimes, with Dementors you know. But I don't...I can't recall exactly how it happened."

"That could be called a mercy," Dumbledore said, taking Harry's hand in his. "You were just a baby, and you were desperately afraid and in a great deal of pain. Even were you a much older child, I would be surprised if you recalled it at all clearly. The mind does not let us clearly remember the things that would hurt us. We are often our own protectors, without knowing it."

"But I want to remember," Harry protested. "I had a problem my third year with Dementors sort of because I wanted them to show it to me."

"Do you really?" Dumbledore asked gently. "Do you really wish to know, or do you simply think you must, for your parents' sake?"

Harry looked away. "I don't know," he said after a moment.

"Do not think on it now," Dumbledore said, squeezing his hand reassuringly. "The only reason I mentioned it was to explain that your young mind reacted very strongly to the pain of the curse, and to the flood of magic that passed through you as you repelled it. It was the most awful night of your young life, and it is no surprise that your defenses worked to ensure that it would never happen again."

"You mean I was doing it?" Harry asked, dumbfounded. "I was stopping my magic from developing?"

"I think so, yes," Dumbledore said. "The possibility of very real damage from the curse itself cannot be ignored, but I do believe, in your need to protect yourself, you constructed very early and very powerful blocks to keep that sort of magic from passing through you again."

"But how can I undo something I didn't know I did?" Harry asked.

"You don't have to," Dumbledore said, gesturing again to Harry's arm. "I believe what you experienced tonight has effectively removed any impediment to your further development. Phoenixes are great healers, as you know, and you had the very essence of one, the magic embodied in Fawkes' feather, surging through you when you blocked Mr. Longbottom's curse. Any residual damage would have been repaired as it happened."

"How can you be sure it worked?" Harry asked. "How can you be sure it wasn't just a state of emergency and now I'm back to...normal again?"

"Because," Dumbledore said a little wryly, "if you weren't perfectly open to the magic, if you weren't capable to the fullest extent of your abilities to absorbing and then releasing it, I am quite sure the top of your head would have separated from the rest of your body. Most wizards, experiencing what you did, would be reduced to a charred skeleton right now." He glanced back at the closed curtains. "Remus' hands sustained some nasty burns," he observed. "No, I am quite sure all your blocks have been permanently eliminated. They would have to be, for the exact same reasons they were erected in the first place--to keep you from being hurt by very powerful magic."

Harry felt his eyes widen. "Oh," he said, his throat clicking as he gulped. "Er, yes, I imagine it worked, then."

"Your arm may have suffered for it, though," Dumbledore said. "Madam Pomfrey said it will heal, but it will be somewhat uncomfortable for a while. Especially with no temporary recourse to magical pain-relief."

"Speaking of magic," Harry said, fumbling for a change of topic. The current one was beginning to make him very uncomfortable, and he would like to be able to think it all through before talking about it with Dumbledore any further. "What was the spell Neville cast on me?" he asked.

"Eximo animus," Dumbledore said. "It means, literally, remove the soul or life force. It is the wizarding equivalent of the Dementor's Kiss."

A cold shiver gripped Harry's spine. "Like Avada Kedavra, sort of," he said. "Only it leaves your body...alive. Sort of. Right?"

"Yes," Dumbledore said. "That is the intent."

"God," said Harry. "Reynard must have hated me very much to want someone to do that to me because I almost killed Voldemort."

"Ah," Dumbledore said. "You have come to your own conclusions on Mr. Longbottom, then."

"It made him," Harry said, nodding. "The Manifestation. Reynard did something to him when he was a baby so, however many years later, Voldemort could get his revenge." He paused, frowning. "Seems a bit complicated, though," he said. "Why wouldn't Voldemort want to kill me himself?"

"Ah," Dumbledore said, a slow smile curving his lips. "That is the question. What reason would Voldemort have for not wanting to try to kill you himself, yet again?"

Harry thought about it a moment, then blinked as the answer came. He felt his lips curving up in a smile to answer Dumbledore's. "He was afraid," he said slowly, almost unbelievingly. "Reynard was afraid, and Voldemort agreed with him. Even after the tournament last year, after he thought about it and realized there was another way open to him, he was afraid of trying to cast Avada Kedavra on me again."

"Yes," Dumbledore said. "I imagine young Mr. Crouch told him of what he and Reynard had done. And you yourself found references to it in the papers taken from the Crouch Estate. I imagine, upon reflection, Voldemort realized it would be in his best interests not to risk himself with you again."

"He's afraid of me," Harry said.

"That makes two wizards he fears," Dumbledore said quietly.

Harry blinked, taking a quick breath. "Oh," he said, overwhelmed.

"I think perhaps it will serve you well to remember it," Dumbledore advised.

"Yes sir," Harry said, nodding. Dumbledore was right--knowing of Voldemort's fear made a great swell of something almost triumphant rise up inside Harry.

"Now," Dumbledore said, patting Harry's hand one last time and withdrawing. "There is not much more I can tell you."

Harry bit his lip, casting his mind back over the conversation for questions he knew would be there. "How did you know?" he asked suddenly. "How did you know I could be...powerful?"

"I can answer you, but I imagine you will not find it satisfactory," Dumbledore said. "I have a certain talent, though some might call it a curse. I often know things without recourse to facts or logic. Not always things that have yet to happen, but simply things as they are. This is how I knew to advise Professor Binns that Godric Gryffindor should be your O.W.L. project this year, even though I did not at the time know why."

"My O.W.L.," Harry moaned.

Dumbledore chuckled. "I'm sure your friends will bring you your books tomorrow," he said, not very comfortingly. "Miss Granger will be quite cross with you for not attending to it earlier, in spite of the fact that you have been rather occupied of late."

"She will," Harry said, then started in alarm. "Hermione. Professor, she--you saw her--what happened to her? And she was acting strange earlier, too. She cast Imperius on me. She won't get in trouble, will she?"

"No," Dumbledore assured. "I am certain no one present tonight will want to see Miss Granger punished for what she did not do voluntarily. The same goes for Mr. Longbottom. I performed an examination on both of them as soon as they were asleep. You'll recall that I could not find any signs of tampering on Miss Granger when I examined her earlier this year. This is not surprising, if we remember that the Manifestation was designed by Alfonse Reynard. He was truly one of the greatest minds of this century, of the past several centuries. He was more than capable of designing his procedure so it would not leave any traces."

"So it was the Manifestation?" Harry asked. "I thought maybe, but I wasn't sure."

"It seems likely," Dumbledore said. "I plan to question Miss Granger extensively in the morning as to what she recalls."

"Who could have done that?" Harry asked. "Who would have wanted her to kill?"

"To kill to protect you," Dumbledore said.

Harry winced a little, nodding.

"I do not know," Dumbledore admitted. "But I intend to find out."

"Will they be alright, do you think?" Harry asked, glancing reflexively at the closed curtains. "Both of them, I mean?"

"I hope so," Dumbledore said. "They are young and resilient, as are you. I think they will recover from the shock, though it may greatly help them to know that you are not angry with them."

"Of course not," Harry said hastily.

"There is also a certain amount of comfort available to young Mr. Longbottom," Dumbledore added thoughtfully. "Eximo Animus. A powerful curse, and a very rare one. Did you not wonder, Harry, why it is not one of the Unforgivables?"

"Now that you mention it," Harry said.

"It is because of its rarity, and because it requires such particular circumstances. Magic has a certain perverse logic to it, as I'm sure you've realized by now. I know you were quite frustrated with the vagaries of the Commoneo charm, for example."

"Yes," said Harry, frowning at the memory.

"There is a similar restraint on Eximo Animus," Dumbledore said. "I find it difficult to discern whether it is a mercy or a greater horror. The curse, you see, can only be performed by one wizard on another when there is a bond of true respect and friendship between them."

"But that makes no sense," Harry said. "Why would a friend want to suck out another wizard's soul?"

"That perhaps is the mercy of it," Dumbledore said. "A friend would not. There is, as I'm sure you can imagine, no case of voluntary use of the curse recorded in the past five-hundred years. The very fact of a wizard wishing to do such a thing to another wizard would prevent him from doing so."

"Voluntary," Harry repeated.

"Yes," Dumbledore said. "And therein lies the horror."

"Neville should know," Harry said. "Maybe it will help."

"Let us hope," Dumbledore said.

"You'll tell me if Hermione knows anything?" Harry asked. "And you'll let me help find out who did this to her?"

"Yes," Dumbledore said. "Yes, I think that will be in order."

"Okay," Harry said, subsiding back against his pillows under a sudden wave of weariness. He sheltered a yawn behind his hand, blinking tiredly at the Headmaster.

"I'll let you rest," Dumbledore said, smiling kindly down at him. "Try not to worry, Harry. My brother should answer my owl in the morning, and we can soon restore magic to you and begin your healing."

"I'm sorry," Harry mumbled, already starting to slip away. "About the illusion."

"Shush," Dumbledore murmured. "It is I who am sorry. So very sorry."

Harry was dimly aware of a single bony finger tracing his cheek with aching tenderness, then of the shifting of robes, the swish of curtains. There was the distant hiss of a whispered conversation, then Sirius was back with him, Harry's hand held safely in his. Harry slept, his exhaustion overruling the thoughts churning in his head, washing away the awareness of his distorted body, soothing the strange ache where magic should be. He slept long and deep, and his dreams were strangely gentle, as if Dumbledore's touch had reached down into his very soul.

***

"Ignorant, slime-sucking son-of-a-skrewt!"

Harry jerked awake, wincing as the tube tugged in his arm, reminding him where he was, and why. The curtains were still drawn around his bed, but he could see the brightness of full morning through them. He turned his head on the pillow, tracking the sound that had woken him. Sirius was gone from his side, he noted with a small pang. It wouldn't be safe, though, and he knew that. But had that been Hermione shouting just now?

Harry reached out to the curtains, careful to keep his fingers within the area delineated by the still faintly glowing line of the null-magic space. He tugged ineffectually at the curtains, unable to open them more than a few inches from his position flat on his back. But he didn't need to, for there was a sudden rush of footsteps and the curtains were snatched apart, to reveal Ron's tense, worried face.

"Hi," Harry said, blinking in the flood of bright sunlight. He had slept very late.

"You feeling alright?" Ron asked, leaning forward, but keeping his body outside the curtains.

"Yeah," Harry said, doing a quick evaluation. He was dizzy and still tired, and his arm throbbed dully, but all things considered, he felt okay.

"Good," Ron said, nodding. "You better be glad you're stuck in that no-magic thing. Because it gives me the heebie-jeebies, so I don't have to make up my mind yet whether I'm going to hug you or sock you."

"Ron," Hermione said from her bed. "It's not very nice to sock people while they're lying in the hospital."

"Reckon not," Ron conceded grudgingly. "But on the other hand, it's not like he'd have to go far if I broke something."

Harry rolled his eyes and began laboriously pulling himself into a sitting position. Ron watched him for a moment, then apparently decided that heebie-jeebies or not, Harry was doing a pathetic job, for he stepped quickly over the line on the floor and helped Harry the rest of the way up. His hands were gentle and caring as he plumped pillows behind Harry, but he kept staring down at the sheets instead of into Harry's face.

"Ron?" Harry asked softly.

"I hate it when you go on adventures without me," Ron said, quietly but fiercely.

"Oh," said Harry. Though he understood what Ron meant, he couldn't quite manage to feel bad about it. He would much rather have Ron safe at Hogwarts.

"Are you hungry, Harry?" Hermione asked from behind Ron. "Madam Pomfrey left you a breakfast tray, and the warming charms should still be good."

"Er, I reckon," Harry said, swallowing the reflexive no. This was going to be very strange, he realized as Hermione fetched the tray and passed it over to Ron, who settled it on Harry's lap. He could eat food now, without worrying about it making him sick. He'd felt bad for so long, it seemed that being healthy was wrong somehow. Harry reached for his fork, studiously avoiding a good look down at his own body. He had a feeling he wouldn't be looking in any mirrors for a while.

"Dumbledore told us all about it," Ron said as he hopped uneasily from one foot to the other. "This morning, while you were still asleep. He told us about the pictures."

"I'm glad," Harry said, reaching for the pumpkin juice. It certainly saved him having to do it. "Are you alright?" he asked Hermione suddenly.

She nodded. "Oh, yes. I'm just fine. Madam Pomfrey says I can go whenever I want. We were just waiting for you to wake up. Professor McGonagall let Ron out of class this morning because he made an absolute nuisance out of himself." She hesitated a moment, closely studying her fingernails. "Professor Dumbledore told me what was wrong with me. Why I acted the way I did." She lifted her head, her chin squaring determinedly. "I'm sorry, Harry. I hope you know I never would have done any of that if I'd been in my right mind."

"Of course I know that," Harry said hastily. "Don't be daft. And don't feel guilty, either," he added firmly.

"No, no," Hermione said, shaking her head. "I had no control over things. Feeling guilty would make little sense." She sounded very much as if she were reciting words from a script, and Harry had the feeling the person she was trying to convince the most was herself.

"That's right," he said, unsure what else he could say. "Er, and how's Neville?"

Ron and Hermione turned in unison, and Harry followed their gazes to the bed past Hermione's, where Neville lay with his back to them.

"He's awake," Hermione said quietly. "He hasn't said a word though, not since Professor Dumbledore left. We found out some things this morning, Harry, and well...Neville's a bit upset."

"What things?" Harry asked worriedly.

"Well," Hermione began hesitantly. "Professor Dumbledore had a lot of questions for both of us, and he did some more tests. He explained to us what the Manifestation is and what it does. He said it must have happened to Neville the night his parents were attacked, and we're fairly certain it was put on me early this past summer. That's what I was dreaming about, we think--when they put it on."

"Yeah," said Harry, nodding. He'd figured most of that out himself the night before, in those few dreadful moments of insight as Hermione and Neville squared off with wands upraised.

"Well, he did a lot of tests this morning," Hermione said. "And it seems, well, it makes a sort of sense I suppose. But it seems that the Manifestation is lifted after the command is obeyed. Oh Ron, stop that--I can't concentrate."

Ron, who had been jumping lightly from one side of the null-magic line to the other with a look of disturbed fascination on his face, came to an abrupt halt and flushed guiltily. Hermione gave him a look of fond exasperation, emphasis on the fond, and Harry coughed lightly.

"How can you be sure?" he asked Hermione.

"Well we can't be for certain," she said, returning her gaze to him. "But the side-effects seem to have vanished."

"What side-effects?" Harry asked, confused.

"My problems studying," Hermione said. "Remember how I told you I was having trouble? It was because of the presence of the spell in my mind."

"I thought that was because of the memory charms," Harry said.

"No, no," Hermione said, waving a hand. "It didn't affect my intelligence directly. It just made it a little harder for me to learn new things the way I used to, to organize thoughts and create new synaptic pathways. Professor Dumbledore's brother sent him several cognitive assessment tests to try on us, and even though there isn't a recent comparison for me, I can feel the difference."

"And Neville?" Harry asked.

Hermione nodded. "Him, too." She lowered her voice even more. "I mean, like I said, it didn't really affect intelligence. He's not smarter now. He'll just have an easier time...thinking."

"Don't know what he's so upset about," Ron said, casting a baffled look over at Neville. "You'd think he'd be excited."

"We've tried talking to him," Hermione said, biting her lip. "But he just pretends to be sleeping."

Harry glanced from her to the lump of Neville beneath the covers. "Did Professor Dumbledore tell you about Eximo Animus?" he asked.

Hermione nodded. "That seemed to help a little. I don't think Neville ever really thought of himself as your friend before. Not with the actual word, I mean."

"Yeah," Harry said, realizing only then that they were speaking in low whispers. He glanced over at Neville again, then made up his mind. "Neville?" he called in his normal voice.

There was a long pause, and Harry was just deciding that Neville was going to ignore him when the other boy rolled over and peered across the beds.

"What?" Neville asked peevishly.

"Come over here," Harry said, beckoning to him. "If you can get out of bed I mean. Come over here and help us."

Neville blinked. This obviously hadn't been what he was expecting. "Help you what?" he asked, almost suspiciously.

"Help us figure out who could have put the Manifestation on Hermione," Harry said. "You're one of the two people we know of who has had it, so we need your help."

Neville stared at him, and Harry could see it all there in that moment, could understand it all. Neville's world had just been turned upside-down. He was a new person inside his own head, and everything he'd thought he'd known about his parents and what happened to them had just changed. Yes, Harry understood all of that very well--he'd lived through it when he was eleven, after all.

Neville sat up slowly, then swung his legs over the side of his bed. He looked alright, Harry observed as he crossed to sit uneasily on the edge of Hermione's bed. Tired and scared and heartsick, but alright.

"So," Harry said, glancing around at the three of them. "What do we know?"

Hermione nodded eagerly, the light of purpose smoothing some of the lines from between her eyes. "You're right, Harry, we need to think this through."

"Well," Ron said, clenching his fists. "We know Krum had something to do with it."

"Right," said Harry. "Do you think it happened in Bulgaria?"

"Maybe," Hermione said, biting her lip. "But Viktor stayed in England after the tournament until we left a few weeks into July. So maybe..." she shrugged.

"Alright," Harry said. "That doesn't help much. What else?"

"Whoever it was wanted to protect you," Neville said abruptly.

"Yeah," said Harry. "And they don't have a problem with killing people over it." Out of the corner of his eye he saw Hermione pale, and he gave himself an internal smack. "Anything else?"

"Well," Hermione said, her voice slightly quavery, "we know it's someone who's not close to you."

Harry frowned. "We do?"

"Well, yes," Hermione said. "The Imperius Curse. It's not what you'd call public knowledge, but quite a number of people here at Hogwarts have witnessed that you can fight it off. And I'm sure they weren't quiet about it."

"Oh," Harry said. "I hadn't thought of that."

"Would Krum have known?" Ron asked. "He was here then."

Hermione bit her lip and shook her head. "I think not," she said. "But even if he did, the point still holds--he didn't tell whoever did it, and whoever did it didn't know to ask."

"What about your trigger?" Harry asked suddenly. "I mean, with Neville, Voldemort had to do that thing with his hands."

"It had to be You-Know-Who," Neville said.

Harry frowned. "It did?"

"Oh," Hermione said, her eyes widening. "Malfoy. I'd forgotten that."

"Yeah," Neville said, nodding.

"What?" Harry and Ron asked in unison.

"Don't you remember?" Hermione said excitedly. "In Hogsmeade, last fall. Malfoy made those gestures at Neville and said the thing about being mortal enemies."

"But it didn't work," Harry finished, nodding. "Voldemort wasn't expecting it to, though," he continued, his excitement growing. "I dreamed about it. They were just testing."

"Okay," Hermione said. "So it had to be You-Know-Who. And I think it was the same for me. I only thought I had to kill Neville when You-Know-Who made the gestures. Sorry," she added to Neville.

"So whoever put it on you had to know what Neville's trigger was," Harry said. "That makes sense--you were like...insurance. Like a counter."

Hermione nodded. "I think I had it twice," she said slowly. "Once to protect you, but first to try and stop you or follow you if I thought you were going to do something foolish. I think that was the trigger. As soon as I thought yesterday afternoon that maybe you were planning something, I suddenly knew I had to stop you. But it wasn't a normal way of thinking."

"So we're looking for someone who knew Reynard or found out what he did," Harry said.

"Uh, guys?" Ron said, waving a hand in the air. "Can we go back to Malfoy knowing about this last fall?"

There was a sudden silence. "Oh," Hermione said. "Do you really think--"

"Yes," Harry said. "I really do. Don't forget Neville." The four of them exchanged grim looks, and Neville crossed his arms defensively over his chest. He'd been told of Malfoy's role in his capture, then. "Just one more thing we owe him for," Harry said coldly.

They sat in silence for a few moments, looking expectantly at each other.

"Well," Hermione said finally, visibly pulling herself back to the original topic. "That's not enough to find someone with. It could be anybody."

"Anybody who had access to the Reynard Manifestation, you mean," Harry said. "That can't be a lot of people."

Hermione frowned. "Death Eaters. Maybe some people from our side after the first war. Someone who survived it and could remember it in more than bits and pieces. Someone who knew Reynard personally or had access to his notes. We don't know if there's still a copy of the procedure out there somewhere."

"Yeah," Harry said, sighing. "That doesn't help, either. Sorry, Hermione."

"It's alright," Hermione said, chewing almost convulsively at her lip. "I wasn't expecting...I knew this was impossible." Ron stepped close and slid an arm around her shoulders. Hermione leaned into him with a grateful sigh, resting her cheek on his chest for a moment.

"We'll find them," Ron said, reaching up and stroking her hair. "We're good at this, remember?"

"Yeah," Hermione said, tilting her head back and gazing up at him. "It's a little scary, though."

"Yeah," Ron said, swallowing. "I slept through the whole thing, and I'm still terrified." They stood looking at each other for a moment, and Harry felt like an intruder, and worse a completely unnoticed one. He was pretty sure Hermione had forgotten there was anyone else in the room. He was pretty sure Hermione never would have admitted to being frightened if she hadn't. "We'll figure it out," Ron repeated. "And you're safe now. Nothing will happen to you."

Hermione nodded, leaning into him for one more moment before stepping back. She took a deep breath, pushing her hair self-consciously off her face and flushing a little as she saw both Harry and Neville watching them. "Er," she said. "We're not going to get anywhere with this for now." Her lips curved into a small, effortful smile. "And we have more important things to do."

"We do?" Neville said, blinking in confusion as Ron moaned.

"We do," Hermione said, regaining some of her customary crispness. "Harry, I had Ron bring your books down when he brought mine. The O.W.L. exams are less than a month away, and I, for one, plan to be ready for them."

Harry would have liked to protest, and he had no doubt Neville and Ron felt similarly, but none of them really seemed up to it. And, well, the exams were in less than a month, and Harry was beginning to develop a queasy feeling in his stomach whenever he thought about them for too long.

Neville, Ron, and Hermione settled on Hermione's bed, leaving Harry alone in his null-magic bubble. He tried halfheartedly to get out of the whole thing by claiming he couldn't do any practical work, but all that netted him were his History of Magic and Herbology textbooks and a raised eyebrow from Hermione. The morning was surprisingly comfortable, considering all that had come before. Perhaps, Harry thought as he watched Hermione coaching Ron and Neville through a series of complicated Transfigurations, it was surprisingly nice because of what had come before. They were all tired, all still coming down off the tail-end of fear and violence. The quiet morning in the warm hospital wing, the windows flung open to let in the soft spring breeze, even the revision was downright soothing.

"When in our lives are we ever going to need to know how to transfigure a French horn into a shoe horn?" Ron asked with some exasperation.

"Probably never," Hermione said. "It's the principle we're supposed to be grasping."

"When in life are we ever going to need a shoe horn at all?" Ron persisted.

Harry leaned back into his pillows, feeling a smile curving his lips as he switched his gaze from the book open before him to his friends. Even the occasional, furtive looks they all kept shooting him weren't enough to dampen the air of quiet contentment he was building around himself. He looked pretty scary, he knew--it had scared him, too. It was still scaring him. But he was going to get better now, and he wouldn't look scary forever, and Professor Dumbledore's brother would know a way to keep Voldemort from ever doing something like that again. Harry carefully didn't think about just how much he was dreading having to rejoin the rest of the school, hear the shocked gasps, feel the fascinated, repulsed stares.

Madam Pomfrey bustled in just before lunch, and spent a good fifteen minutes fussing unhappily with the tube in Harry's arm.

"Barbaric thing," Harry heard her muttering as she switched out one of the fluid-filled bags. "Simply barbaric."

Hermione and Ron decided to attend afternoon classes. Or rather, Hermione decided, and Ron went along to avoid trouble.

"We've got to go back sometime," Hermione said, packing her bag with resolute hands. "Better to be out there where we might have a tiny bit of control over the rumors."

"Good point," Harry conceded. He watched them getting ready to leave, his good mood dissipating a little. Hermione was acting not as if she was perfectly fine, but as if she would very much like to pretend she was. She had said she was scared, he thought with a stab of pain. She probably wouldn't be able to stop until they knew just what was happening. Until they knew who had done this awful thing to her in Harry's name. God. She'd apologized to him, and he'd told her it wasn't necessary. He wondered if trying to apologize to her would make it any better. He thought not.

"Say," Harry said, the thought suddenly occurring to him. "What was wrong this morning? When I woke up you were sort of upset."

"Oh, that." Hermione's lips thinned into a furious line. "I was reading The Prophet, is all."

"What now?" Harry asked, with some dread.

If possible, Hermione's look grew even more forbidding. "Fudge," she said, clipping the name off sharply. "A few details from the Ministry investigation of the house were published. They found a few bodies, you see. Pretty scorched, but with the Dark Mark. Fudge is quoted as saying that this marks the end of the Death Eater uprising. He claimed the Ministry was responsible for the fire and that they had wiped out the problem."

Harry sighed. "Well," he said slowly. "Think about it this way. We know it's not true, and the Death Eaters won't stay quiet forever. So eventually everyone else will know it isn't true, too."

"You'll forgive me for not being very comforted by that," Hermione said dryly. Harry could easily forgive that. He wished he could tell her there was nothing she had done that needed his forgiveness, and he wished she would believe him.

Hermione and Ron left, hand in hand. They hadn't been more than a few centimeters from each other all morning. Harry imagined it made Hermione feel somehow safer to sit so close to Ron, Ron who hadn't been there, Ron who hadn't seen her perform Unforgivables and who hadn't been part of the whole mess since Christmas.

Silence descended in their wake as Madam Pomfrey withdrew to her office. Neville remained, sitting cross-legged on Hermione's bed, appearing deep in concentration over his books. He'd hardly been what Harry would call talkative that morning, and the silence was a bit uneasy between them.

"M'sorry," Harry said into the stillness.

Neville looked up, startled. "What?"

"I'm sorry," Harry repeated, slower this time. "For..." he floundered, unable to find a tactful way of explaining that he was sorry that Neville and his parents had been attacked because Harry had defeated Voldemort.

Neville stared at him a moment, his expression very grave. "I'm sure you are," he said finally. "But I'd rather you didn't tell me, if you don't mind."

"Er, okay," Harry said, taken aback. "If that's what you want."

"It's just," Neville said, picking at his quill. "It's just, you're sorry because of me and Hermione, and me and Hermione are sorry because we did those awful things--"

"Which weren't your fault," Harry cut in.

"No, I reckon not," Neville said. "But, I mean, we're all sorry. And there's no point in any of it because none of us deserved any of this, did we?"

"Well, I reckon not," Harry said.

"Okay then," Neville said, shrugging. "So we're all sorry, and saying it isn't going to make it better. Nothing is. So why say it?"

"Uh, that does make sense," Harry said, unsettled. "I'm sorry for, you know, apologizing."

For a second he was sure that had been a horrible mistake, for Neville's face remained impenetrably blank. Harry was just beginning to open his mouth, to try and apologize for that without really apologizing at all, when a tiny, surprised little smile appeared on Neville's lips.

"Yeah," Neville said. "Apology accepted."

"Okay," Harry said, relieved, and turned back to his book.

***

Dumbledore arrived around dinnertime, a pleased look on his face and an impressive stack of parchment in his hand.

"Your brother?" Harry asked.

"Indeed," Dumbledore said, settling himself at Harry's bedside. "I would prefer that he be here to assist me with these procedures, but he is quite unable to extricate himself at the moment. But you and I can muddle through, I'm sure."

"I thought he did things with psychology," Harry said, frowning. "What's he know about curse blocking?"

"A great deal," Dumbledore said. "The two subjects aren't unrelated, you realize."

"I didn't," Harry said. "What are you going to do?"

"It's quite complicated and boring," Dumbledore said, waving the parchments. "And you're quite lucky in that you get to sleep through most of it. But basically I'll be bolstering your natural defenses and training them to respond to unwanted magical influence from Voldemort, by way of the connection between you. You must understand that everything I do is with the end of helping you do the work for yourself, without even realizing it. After I restore magic to you I will be giving you lessons in defensive techniques for several months to ensure that you have everything you will need to prevent anything of this sort," he cast a quick look down Harry's body, "from ever happening again."

"So I'll be staying here this summer?" Harry asked hopefully.

"I'm afraid not," Dumbledore said. "You will be returning to your relatives, though not on Privet Drive, of course. We have supplied them with a small cottage for their, and your, use. It will be perfectly safe, I'm sure, first because no one but myself knows where you will be, and second because I believe Voldemort will find himself quite incapacitated for some time to come."

"Oh," Harry said dejectedly.

"I would much like to have you here, Harry, I hope you know," Dumbledore said. "But I'm afraid there will be no one in the castle but the elves for substantial parts of the summer. And despite the attack on your home, I still believe you can find safety with your relatives."

"Why's that?" Harry asked, frowning.

"It is your blood tie to your aunt, and to a lesser degree your cousin," Dumbledore explained. "Those ties are the basis of the spells that protect you there. Blood is one of the most powerful cornerstones for a network of spells, and though it is greatly troubling that Voldemort was able to breech that network, or send his servants to do so, I am certain that he will not be physically or magically able enough to be a threat to you this summer." He paused, his eyes twinkling. "And I think you shall not find this summer nearly as much a trial as previous ones. The cottage where you will be staying has a fireplace which I can provisionally connect to a few secure locations. To the Weasleys' home, for example."

"My aunt and uncle will love that," Harry said with some relish.

"I have no doubt," Dumbledore said, his lips twitching. "Now, I'm sure you are eager to have magic returned to you. Shall we get started?"

Harry did, indeed, have to sleep through most of the procedure. He even missed the lifting of the null-magic space. All he knew when he woke was that he felt wonderfully whole again, and that the headache that had been hovering about his temples for the past day was blessedly gone. Dumbledore was at his side again, waiting patiently for him to awaken.

"You may experience some pain," he explained, as Harry stretched his whole body, basking in the magic almost as if it were sunlight. "If and when Voldemort attempts to influence you in such a way again, there may be some discomfort. This is normal, and it shouldn't distress you overly much. Tell me immediately, and we can make sure you are unaffected."

"I don't feel much different," Harry said thoughtfully.

"Not yet," Dumbledore said. "But you will, in time. I also think that you will find these sorts of sensations are not the kinds of things that lend themselves easily to words."

"Okay," Harry said. "If you say so. Thank you, Professor," .

"Of course, my boy," Dumbledore said. "Oh, and I have sent your godfather on a brief errand for me. He should return within the week. I'm sure if he were here we could not drag him from your side."

"Okay," Harry said, yawning again. He was still rather sleepy from the purely nonmagical sedative he'd been given.

He spent most of the evening dutifully revising. Now that she could use magic again, Madam Pomfrey had plied him with an endless stream of nutritional and medicinal potions, and he could swear he already felt heavier. She wanted to keep him for at least another few nights, and Harry didn't particularly feel like protesting. The longer he was here, the less like a freak he would appear to the rest of the school.

He dropped off into a light doze over his Charms notes just after sunset. This, too, was normal, Madam Pomfrey had assured. He would be sleepy for at least another day as a result of all the potions. He dreamt of quiet, unthreatening things, and came back to consciousness slowly, in no hurry to open his eyes.

Someone was holding his hand again. Harry puzzled over this a moment, sure Dumbledore wouldn't have come back. Ron or Hermione perhaps? He could hear Neville snoring from two beds over, and it would have been quite a surprise to discover it was him, anyway. Finally, spurred by his curiosity, Harry opened his eyes and rolled his head on the pillow.

"Hi," Ginny said softly. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," Harry said, smiling blearily at her.

"You sure?" Ginny asked worriedly. "Hermione said your arm was hurt badly. And your, uh, your weight..."

Harry withdrew his arm from under the covers. It was still tightly bandaged, but he waved it demonstrably at Ginny to show that it still worked. As for the other, there wasn't a lot he could say to reassure her except the truth. "I'm going to get better now."

She nodded, seemingly satisfied. Harry was relieved, but a bit confused. He was really freaking people out, he knew, with the drastic change in appearance. He could understand that--he'd felt it himself--and he also knew from his own thoughts that the idea of Voldemort making him sick for months and months was a deeply disturbing idea.

"We've got something in common now, you know," Ginny said, breaking into his thoughts. "We've both had him inside us, making us do things we didn't want to."

"Oh," Harry said. "I hadn't thought of that." He hesitated a moment, then asked, "do you...I mean, it's been three years since the diary and all. Do you feel...better now? Safer?"

Ginny considered, then nodded. "Yes," she said slowly. "I do. It took a long time, but I'm not quite as scared anymore. And, well. I'll never be the same. I'll never be the girl I was before it happened. And maybe I'll never stop being afraid, just a little. But it does get better."

"Good," Harry said, feeling his shoulders unknot. "That's all I wanted to know."

Ginny nodded as if she understood, and Harry thought maybe she really did. "I came down here to talk to you," she said. "Well, and to get out of the common room. Ron and Hermione are nice, but I just wanted to strangle them tonight. They won't let go of each other, you know?"

"Hermione's had a scare," Harry said a little defensively. "Can you blame her for wanting a little comfort?"

"No, of course not," Ginny said quickly. "It just made me wonder who was comforting you."

"I'm fine," Harry said, picking at the blanket with his free hand.

"Sure," Ginny said. "Just thought I'd check, anyway."

"Well, thanks," Harry said, glancing quickly at her, and then away. "I appreciate it."

There was a moment's awkward silence, and Ginny stirred in the chair, her fingers toying restlessly with Harry's. "It's been a pretty horrible year," she said finally.

"Yeah," Harry agreed. "No argument there."

"I meant for me, too," Ginny said. "I mean, I know yours was just awful, but so was mine."

"Why?" Harry asked.

She shrugged. "I had a lot on my mind," she said. "I was changing a lot, and I just realized that I didn't...well. I realized that I didn't much like myself. I'm tired of being that girl, you know?"

"Uh," said Harry, who didn't know much about being a girl of any sort.

"Anyway," said Ginny, straightening up in her chair. "I spent most of this year completely miserable, and I'm tired of that, too. I'm tired of a lot of things. I don't want to be little Ginny Weasley anymore. I want to be someone better. Someone happier."

"Well, good for you," Harry said carefully.

"Thanks." She paused a moment, then squeezed his hand. "Part of it is that I don't want to not say things anymore. I spent a lot of time afraid to say things to people, including you. Especially you. And you were so nice this year, asking me if there was anything wrong, offering to help. That was really sweet of you. The thing is, though, that you can help now."

"I can?" Harry asked.

"Yes," Ginny said, nodding. "And I think, I hope, that it can help you, too."

"What?" Harry asked.

Ginny took a breath, let it out. "I like you," she said plainly. "I like you a lot. I always have, in one way or another. I'm sure you know that, but that doesn't mean I can't say it, too."

"Oh," said Harry, flushing darkly. "Um, yeah. I, uh, knew that."

"Good," Ginny said. "And I know maybe you don't feel exactly like I do. But I think maybe you could, if you gave it a chance. So I'd like us to. Give it a chance." She paused a moment, and Harry lay, speechless. "I'd like to be able to comfort you when you need it," she finished finally.

"That, that's really nice of you," Harry said softly. He looked at her, down at their clasped hands. He had no idea what to say, he had been utterly unprepared for this. All he could think was that it felt nice to hold hands with somebody, to feel the warmth, the connection to another human being who cared. That was what Hermione and Ron were doing, he knew. Making each other feel safe because there was an each other. "I," he said slowly. "I don't really know...I think maybe we..." he sighed and looked up at her again. "Okay," he said. He wasn't sure what he meant until the words were out, but then he saw the smile spreading across Ginny's face and that was good, that was nice, too.

"Okay," Ginny repeated, the familiar blush finally spreading up her cheeks. "You really mean it?"

"Yeah," Harry said. "I mean, I don't really know what to say or think, but yeah. We can try. I'd like that."

"Good," Ginny said, squeezing his hand. "I'm so glad." They stared at each other a moment, neither having anything more to say. They laughed a little nervously at the same time, then grinned with mutual amusement at their unease. "I should get back," Ginny said. "Curfew is soon." She hesitated, then did that straightening thing again, like she was bracing herself up from the inside. "I'll come back tomorrow. Maybe we can play chess or something. And after you get out of here we can do...things. Like, like going flying together and sitting by the lake when it's sunny and things like that?"

She made it into a question, and Harry nodded quickly. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, that sounds good."

"Okay," Ginny said, and hitched her body forward as if to stand up. Then she paused, shrugged as if to say, 'what the hell,' and leaned over to press her mouth quickly to Harry's. She was straightening up before he had a chance to respond, and her hand was slipping from his. "Good night," she said, and fled through the curtains.

Harry lay back on the pillows, blinking into the darkness. It took a few moments for the fact that he was now dating Ginny Weasley to really penetrate, but when it did he sat up with a jerk. He'd never considered it before tonight. He'd known she had a crush on him, but that had been more about her embarrassment, and his, too. He'd never seriously considered her like that. And yet it was warming to think of her up in Gryffindor Tower, to remember the weight of her hand in his. He tried to imagine kissing her, really kissing her, maybe putting his hands in her hair or touching her face. He recalled the electric surge of Celestina's body pressed to his as she slid into his lap, and then he superimposed Ginny in her place. That was...that was weird. Not bad. Just...weird. He was dating Ginny Weasley. Ginny Weasley had asked him out and hadn't blushed until afterwards. Ron was going to flip his gourd. And Hermione was going to, well, Harry didn't know what Hermione was going to do, but it wasn't like she couldn't understand. Holding Ginny's hand had been good. Knowing she cared and maybe understood was better.

Harry layed back down, drawing the covers up to his chin. He was dating Ginny Weasley. It occurred to him suddenly that Ginny was the third girl he'd gone out with. Harry grinned a little, feeling quite worldly and experienced as he compared himself to the Harry of a year ago. Three girlfriends. And yeah, one of them had drugged him and yeah he hated her guts, but still. Three girlfriends.

He slipped into a light doze, consciousness hovering between full waking and sleeping. Neville's snores lent the hospital wing the same homey quality as their dorm room, and he was still so tired. He was vaguely aware of Madam Pomfrey making her final checks, of her gentle hand on his forehead as she smoothed back his hair, then the swish of the curtains as they closed behind her. He rolled onto his side, curled up and hugged the pillow, sliding deeper into sleep.

He woke slowly, the awareness of something wrong stirring him bit by bit. He lay still, thinking for a moment that the null-magic space had been restored for some reason, but no. He could definitely feel magic. It was much easier to recognize now that he knew what the lack of it felt like. Harry cracked his eyes open, and went cold and rigid all over. Someone was standing at his bedside behind him, someone who cast a very tall, very thin shadow on the curtains opposite. Harry had a moment of irrational terror, thinking that it was Voldemort, that he would roll over and meet those glowing red eyes. He couldn't remember if his wand was on top of or inside the nightstand, and how was he going to get to it before--

"Potter," came a sharp whisper.

Harry let out an explosive breath and sat up. "Professor Snape," he said, squinting into the darkness. "You won't believe how glad I am it's you."

"You're right," Snape said, taking the chair by the bed. "I don't believe it." There was a rustle of fabric, then the flare of light at the tip of Snape's wand. Harry squinted against it, then watched with some amusement as Snape examined him from head to foot. "Quite a mess you've made of yourself, Potter," he said after a moment.

"Yeah," Harry said. "Nothing new there."

"Indeed."

"Did you just come down here to stare at me?" Harry asked. "Because if you really want I'm sure we can get Colin in here to take a picture of me in my decrepit state."

"I think," Snape said coolly, "that we've all had quite enough of Mr. Creevey's photographic endeavors."

"True," Harry said. "So what do you want?"

"You're finally learning to get to the point," Snape said with what could have been approval from anyone else. "I had a letter today, Potter, from my friend Croaker."

"The one in the Ministry?" Harry asked.

"Yes. It seems he has ascertained the owner of the bones you hooked."

"Oh?" Harry asked curiously. He was quite interested in knowing about the literal skeletons in the Malfoy lake.

"Yes," Snape said, then paused.

"Well?" Harry asked finally. "Who was it?"

Snape coughed once, almost uneasily. "Narcissa Malfoy," he said.

Harry squinted hard at him. "You're kidding. But she's still alive. I saw her not a year ago at the Quidditch World Cup. It was definitely her. I mean I'd never seen her before, but she looked like Draco. Or him her. Whatever."

"Ah," said Snape. "But I think you know that there are many ways to make one wizard appear as another."

"But why?" Harry asked, baffled. "And how? It couldn't be Polyjuice without her alive to supply hairs."

"It could, actually," Snape said. "There is a method of preserving and regenerating a sample of tissue or hair. Not indefinitely, but for a quite respectable length of time. Several decades, if done right."

"Okay," Harry said, growing slightly nauseous. "But why? And do you think Draco knows?"

"There is no way to be sure, of course," Snape said. "But I do have a plausible theory. I doubt you know this, Potter, but divorce is a practice highly frowned upon by wizards, particularly purebloods. But many have, of course, desired a separation, and several ingenious methods of obtaining one without alerting anybody have cropped up. Some are simply more violent than others."

"So Lucius killed her and had someone else pretend to be her?" Harry asked.

"Or several somebodies," Snape said. "There was a man, a Bickford who lived at the turn of the century. It was discovered after his death that his 'wife' was not his wife but his mistress, and that she was the fourth such woman. They found the bodies of the original wife, and the first three mistresses, beneath the house."

Harry gulped. "That's disgusting," he said.

"But almost impossible to prove," Snape said.

"Almost," Harry agreed.

"Yes," Snape said. "One could, with quite a lot of preparation and effort, unmask such a deception."

"Something like that," Harry said slowly, thoughtfully. "If people found out about something like that, Lucius would be shunned, right?"

"Possibly," Snape said. "In public, certainly, though in private it might be a different matter." He paused a moment then snorted. "You're thinking of exposing and discrediting him," he said a little disbelievingly. "Potter, I'm pleasantly surprised at you."

"Well, it would be a lot harder for him to influence the Ministry if he were in disgrace, wouldn't it?" Harry asked.

"Possibly," Snape agreed. "But like I said, it would take a great deal of preparation, and at this time, a great deal of luck. And I, for one, am not willing to trust to luck."

Harry frowned. Luck, he had found, rather liked him. "So we're not going to do anything?"

"You are not going to do anything," Snape said. "I am going to keep my eyes and ears open for any future opportunity to use this information to our advantage, without putting valuable resources at risk."

Harry nodded reluctantly. Those 'valuable resources' were quite probably Snape himself, and Harry could understand his reluctance. "It's good to know, though," he said. "Just in case. For when we need it, and can use it."

"Indeed," Snape said. "And as for your earlier question, it is impossible to be sure what young Mr. Malfoy knows or does not know of his mother's death."

Harry considered this, feeling his lip curl. "Well if he does, then he's even more of a monster than I thought. And if he doesn't, he'll find out eventually."

Snape made a soft, almost surprised sound. "I would not think a schoolboy rivalry would merit such venom from you, Potter," he said.

"Yeah, well, it's not about the stupid rivalry anymore," Harry said. "It's about him helping them take Neville."

"Ah," said Snape. "Be that as it may, I would strongly suggest that you not attempt to use this information against young Malfoy. You would no doubt ruin any chance we have of affecting his father."

"I know, I know," Harry said impatiently. "I'm not completely stupid."

"Hmm," Snape said noncommittally.

"Was there anything else in the letter?" Harry asked.

"Nothing that concerns you," Snape said, rising. "Now, I'm desperately afraid I must be going. Longbottom's snores are much like the experience of having sharpened nails driven into ones ear canals."

"I think it's rather comforting," Harry said, just to be difficult.

"You would," Snape said, and slipped away, as silently as he had come.

Harry watched the curtains swinging closed, and wondered if he'd be getting anymore surprise visitors that night. He hoped not; there were only so many surprises he could take.

He rolled back over, drawing his knees up and settling back down to sleep. He felt a twinge of guilt when he realized that he was quite a bit more preoccupied with the notion of dating Ginny Weasley than with the demise of Narcissa Malfoy. But thinking of Draco's mother made him think of Draco, and thinking of Draco made a reddish haze fall before his eyes. No, Harry decided. Hating Malfoy gave him the right not to care that his mother was dead. It was a good thing to know. Something for a rainy day. And there would be a rainy day in need of it, he had no doubt.