Exile?

Mayhem at the Ministry

His heart pounded, as he realised that now he really was in the place deep inside the Ministry which had filled his mind for the last three months. On the other hand, it didn't seem quite real somehow – to be so familiar with a room he'd never entered before. Taking another deep breath, he made his way quickly and quietly to that room of mysterious glass globes, walking along the racks and shelves until he found the one he wanted. Not only him, either. So far he had avoided awakening that presence in his mind. Several parts of his plan hinged on this – a contact too early would be as disastrous as a contact too late.

He gazed at the small glass sphere lying on its shelf. It seemed odd that such a small globe had such a powerful attraction for him – for him, and for Voldemort. Was it Voldemort who had put this idea into his head, Harry wondered? Perhaps Voldemort had been watching all the time. through Harry's eyes, just waiting for Harry to pick up the globe, and then he would step in, taking it from him. Maybe – maybe not. He'd come this far. Now to do it. He took a deep, deep breath.

The globe was sitting innocuously among so many others just like it. He slowly reached out his hand – touched it, then grasped it. There was not a sound to be heard in the deeply buried rooms, so far underground. All was still and quiet. He lifted it from his rack. He debated whether to put it in a pocket or in his backpack: given the fragile nature of the glass, his backpack would be better. He wrapped it carefully in one of the teeshirts he'd used to stuff the bag.

Still not a sound, not a murmur. He traced his way back, more confident now. At the final door, he hesitated: had he really heard a noise outside? To be on the safe side, he opened the door, then stood behind it, waiting. Definitely a noise. Someone was coming through the door - slowly and cautiously ... of course! An Invisibility Cloak just like his! A member of the Order? Or a Death Eater? A Ministry guard? But whoever it was, his shoes were not as silent as Harry's. He could hear them moving further into the room, and took his chance to slip through the open door as quickly and as quietly as he could.

And now for the stairs. Going up all those flights of stairs would be harder work, but he had time enough. He looked at his watch: just before 2 a.m. He couldn't imagine there'd be many people around at this time of night. He took his time, pausing after each flight of stairs, and listening for anyone who might be about. Finally he emerged into the atrium, and stopped to take his breath. His legs, still unused to much exercise, were aching. The security wizard was still behind his desk, and now apparently sound asleep. That suited Harry. It was the statue in the centre he was now intent on. He walked up to it and circled it, looking at it carefully. His memory had not played him false. It was just as he remembered.

He climbed up onto the base, then slowly, carefully, up the statue of the wizard, until he was perched on its shoulder. He checked to make sure he was fully covered by the cloak. He wrapped an arm round the neck of the statue and held the glass globe and his wand in the other. Now for the difficult part.

He closed his eyes, trying again to reach that trancelike state he had entered before, but without falling asleep. He focussed his mind on the swirling glass globe with its faded label, bringing the label into sharp focus. Again and again he envisaged it, mentally rotating it to view it from one angle then another, drinking in its shape and texture. After a few minutes of this, he felt the faintest of stirrings in his mind, and now imagined that globe no longer on its shelf, but instead clutched in his hand. At that, something burst into his mind, sending him swaying, making his scar throb with pain. He was grateful for the arm wrapped round the statue's neck, else he would have fallen. He kept his eyes closed lest Voldemort should see where he really was. This is where he had to practice a deception: he imagined the complex pattern of tiling on the atrium floor, then superimposed images of shards of glass on it.

No! cried the voice in his mind.

Would the pattern of tiles be recognised? Would Voldemort have worked out where he was? The last moment before he broke the connection, he brought to mind the view of the atrium as he'd stopped out of the lift. Then he managed to snap his mind clear as he opened his eyes. Voldemort now knew where he was. But not quite. One thing he didn't know was exactly where Harry was sitting at that very moment.

Wrenching his mind clear had made him gasp with the effort, and with eyes now open again, he looked over to the desk, but the guard was still sitting there, snoozing. So much for security.

Would it work? Would Voldemort take the bait? The bait which he was holding in his hand? Something that Voldemort wanted so much? He could only wait to find out.

He looked at his watch – 2:30 in the morning now. If Voldemort had worked out where he was, how long would it take to send a posse of Death Eaters? Ten minutes? Fifteen? At least. And what if they didn't come? What would he do then? Well, he could always get out the way he'd come in. At least, he hoped so. He'd gone down in the lift that time with Mr Weasley, but had never come back. 2:39. He'd have time enough to replace the globe if no one did come. He couldn't imagine the Ministry beginning to stir until at least six o'clock. Or he could take it away with him. 2:46. He shifted his position slightly to make himself more comfortable. From where he was, he could see the lift and the fireplaces. If they used the lift, he'd hear them. He'd hear them if they Apparated in. The only part of the Atrium he couldn't see was the back stairs, the ones he'd used, but he didn't think it likely they'd use those. 2:58. Still nothing. He refused to look at his watch any further.

But as he looked round the dark, silent atrium, something caught his eye - a figure emerging stealthily from one of the fireplaces. His heart began to pound: the figure was wearing a mask! Then another from another fireplace, but whoever it was stumbled as he came out of the fireplace. His wand slipped from his hand as he fell, and clattered over the hard marble floor, the sound echoing and re-echoing around the silent hallway. The guard jerked awake, and the first figure turned, his wand raised. The guard yelped at the sight of it, and ducked behind the desk. The Death Eater fired a Stunner, which hit the desk and bounced off in a shower of red sparks. The Death Eater cursed, and tried again, but the guard was nowhere to be seen now. His companion retrieved his wand and got to his feet. They both scanned the atrium again, obviously looking for some sign of Harry.

“Where is the boy?” one of them muttered in a tone of frustration.

Harry recognised the voice with a thrill of excitement: this was Lucius Malfoy! Carefully he aimed his own wand, and sent a Stunner downwards. The figure crumpled to the ground. The second Death Eater gazed wildly around, saw no one, then dived for cover.

But lights were coming on all around the atrium now: obviously the guard had been able to sound an alarm. As if in response, more Death Eaters began emerging from the fireplace, and spreading out. Now he had to close his eyes again, and think hard.

'IF YOU WANT IT, YOU HAVE TO COME AND GET IT.'

Harry broadcast the message from his mind as loudly as he could. The pain in his scar, now always present, began intensifying.

'COME AND GET IT, OR IT GETS SMASHED.'

With an effort, Harry pulled his mind clear. Below him, oblivious of his presence, Death Eaters were now battling with Ministry guards. He could hear shouts: “Find the boy! WE MUST FIND THE BOY!”

Had Voldemort got the message? Much more of this, and he'd find his mind wrenched from his own control. He could feel the urge to close his eyes, just for a moment, and he knew what that meant: Voldemort was trying to make the connection again, but on his own terms. Instead, he watched as spells ripped across the atrium, as figures cursed and battled in the dim light. There was certainly enough going on to keep him wide awake.

He was holding the globe between finger and thumb. Now was the time to do it. He held it out – from here, it would drop a good dozen feet onto the marble floor. There was no way it would survive that.

But as he held the small glass sphere at arm's length, he heard a woman's shrill voice screaming: “Accio prophecy! Accio prophecy!”

He tried to tighten his grip, tried to hold on to it, but it flew from his fingers, flew towards a Death Eater with an outstretched hand. He'd failed! All this, and he'd failed. He heard, as if from miles away, a triumphant yell, as the hand reached out. But in her haste to catch the globe, she had dropped her guard. A spell hit her, and the globe went spinning from the tips of her fingers, to fall hard on the marble floor, shattering into fragments. Harry heard the woman's scream - whether from the pain of the spell, or at having dropped the globe, he couldn't tell. But the scream and the yells and the sounds of battle drowned out the words coming from a wraithlike figure swirling up from the shards.

It seemed now that the Aurors were getting the upper hand; several masked figures lay prone and supine on the ground. From her kneeling position, Harry heard the woman sob: “Master! Master! It has broken! I have failed you!”

Even as she spoke, a deep gonglike sound filled the atrium, so loud and so commanding that the battle broke off, as heads turned to see what could have made such a ominous noise. Everyone stared as a figure appeared at one end of the atrium, one horribly familiar to Harry. A tall, thin, spectral figure, clad in black robes from head to foot. A red-eyed figure, with a wand dangling from long, white fingers. The figure of Lord Voldemort.

Almost complete silence fell as Voldemort surveyed the scene. It seemed that Aurors and Death Eaters alike were too shocked by the sudden appearance to do anything but gape. Voldemort stood a few steps forward.

“Did I hear you say you had failed, Bellatrix?” a voice, a thin, high, cold voice, hissed through the silence.

The atrium was now completely still apart from the sobbing figure on the ground.

“I was hit by a spell, Master,” she wailed. “The prophecy - it slipped from my grasp. It has ... broken.”

“So!” Voldemort turned and looked up, and Harry found he was staring into those red slits of eyes. “Harry Potter!”

And Harry remembered that Invisibility Cloaks didn't always make you invisible: Dumbledore had seen through one; so too had that eye of Moody's. And it was obvious that Voldemort could also see through one.

“Potter?”

“Where?”

“Harry Potter?”

“I can't see him.”

“It's .. it's You Know Who!”

The whispers began echoing round the room, but even as they did so, Voldemort began raising his wand.

“I wouldn't do that if I were you, Tom.”

Another voice now. A voice Harry recognised - that of Dumbledore.

The silence fell again. Another figure strode forward. Dumbledore, dressed in swirling bright robes. He stopped in the middle of the atrium, while the whispers broke out anew. Harry could see Dumbledore standing, apparently relaxed, looking at Voldemort, who stared back, hate and fear on his face.

“Come to rescue the boy?” Voldemort sneered.

“Among other things, Tom. But I must say you have made rather a botch of things so far. Your Death Eaters captured. The prophecy broken. And now – revealing yourself in the Ministry like this. I would have expected better things from you, Tom.”

Voldemort's face twisted in rage. He and Dumbledore raised their wands at the same moment.

What happened next happened so fast that Harry could make neither head nor tail of it. Wands flashed, spells flew, sound and light filled the great space. There were yelps from the Aurors and Death Eaters as they dived for cover. Harry could see Dumbledore apparently blocking spell after spell, then raising his own wand in return, until there was a final brilliant flash of white light, fading to red. Harry looked again: Dumbledore was still there, looking grimmer than Harry had ever seen him, but the figure of Voldemort had gone from the scene.

Suddenly the hall filled with movement again. Aurors began hustling away captured Death Eaters. The fight had gone out of Voldemort's supporters with his disappearance.

Dumbledore turned and looked up to the statue.

“Come down, Harry.”

Harry gulped. The command was not issued with the authority of a headmaster, but with the undeniable authority of the most powerful wizard alive. He slipped the cloak from his shoulders and began to descend. The voices rose to a crescendo again.

“Dumbledore! What is the meaning of this?”

Fudge looked more absurd than usual in pyjamas and dressing gown.

“Ah, Cornelius, good of you to drop in,” said Dumbledore in the lightest of tones.

“What is ... what is the meaning of this?” repeated Fudge, his tone rising higher and higher, his face becoming redder and redder.

“The meaning of this, Cornelius? Why, I would think it obvious – even to you. Lord Voldemort has returned – as you must have seen yourself - and here are his Death Eaters,” waving his hand around at the figures now being restrained.

Fudge, wordless, stared around at the scene in the atrium, his mouth opening and closing silently.

Dumbledore turned. “Harry. Here, if you please.”

Harry climbed down from the statue, took off his cloak, and stepped forward to the sound of a yelp from Fudge. “Potter!”

It was a heaven sent opportunity to turn away from the hard eyes of his headmaster.

“Yes, Minister. Harry Potter at your service.” He gave a mock bow. “Have you an Auror or two to spare to take me back to Azkaban?”

The hall fell silent again.

“I don't know what you mean,” spluttered Fudge, looking both furious and embarrassed at the same time. But even as he spoke, one or two Aurors had stepped forward. Furious, Fudge waved them back.

“No, Minister?” Harry went on. “After all, you sent me there before. Back in August. Nasty place, Azkaban. And I have broken the conditions of my release ...”

But whatever else Harry was going to say was cut off by Dumbledore.

“Harry!”

Harry could tell his headmaster was furious. “Yes, sir?”

“Enough!”

But Harry could hear the murmuring around him.

“Azkaban?”

“Potter?”

“What's he talking about?”

The buzz grew louder as Fudge became redder and redder. Dumbledore turned from Harry to face the Minister.

“You will have to excuse us for the moment, Cornelius,” said Dumbledore curtly. “Harry and I have some business to attend to. I can spare you some time to discuss these events later this morning.” Ignoring Fudge's splutterings of outrage, Dumbledore turned back to Harry. “Come with me now.”

“To Hogwarts?”

“Yes, Harry.”

“No!”

For the first time ever, Harry saw his Headmaster disconcerted. He wasn't going back to Hogwarts! But where? He had a sudden idea.

“To .. to Padfoot's kennel!”

Dumbledore's icy blue eyes bored into Harry's. He gulped.

“Very well then.” He turned back to Fudge. “I shall return presently, Cornelius.”

“But ... I say, look here, Dumbledore ... and you too, Potter ...”

“Come here and take my arm, Harry,” said Dumbledore, ignoring Fudge.

Harry stepped forward very reluctantly, but did as he was told. The atrium dissolved in a swirl of colour, and Harry felt himself swept off his feet, landing with a gasp in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place. He let go of Dumbledore's arm, and staggered forward, grasping a chair to keep himself from falling. From up the stairs, he heard footsteps running along the hall. Sirius appeared in the doorway.

“Albus! Harry!”

“Later, Sirius. For now, Harry and I must talk. Could you ensure that we are not disturbed?”

Sirius looked hard at Harry, and Harry gave a small nod. Reluctantly, Sirius backed out, and Dumbledore pushed the door to with a swish of his wand. Then suddenly he sat down, and looked very tired.

“I'm sorry, Harry.”

Harry blinked. Of all the things he might have expected to hear from Dumbledore, this was the least likely. He was lost for words.

Dumbledore looked up from the table and surveyed Harry. “What have we done to you?”

Dumbledore wasn't angry with him. Part of him wanted Dumbledore to be angry with him. One of the reasons why he'd done what he had done that night was to revenge himself on Dumbledore as well as Fudge. So much for Dumbledore not coming to help him. So much for all of Dumbledore's plans. So much for all of Dumbledore's manipulations. If he were honest with himself, Harry knew that he'd broken into the Ministry as much to hurt Dumbledore as hurt Fudge.

But all he could come out with was: “Er ... well, Professor, I don't think you've done anything.”

“Oh, yes, I have, Harry. A very great deal. Now, I have a story to tell to you, and,” he smiled sadly again, “I know you have stories to tell me. But, before we get round to that, I would like to ask one favour from you.”

Harry nodded. “Sure.”

“That you would be so kind as to wait just for a short time until I come back. You see, the night's events leave me with some tidying up to do.” Harry gave a small smile at this. “I must attend to this, but after that, we can talk. So – will you wait for me here until I come back?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.” There were voices from outside the kitchen. “Sirius is, no doubt, keeping people at bay. I will talk to them first, then to Cornelius. After that, I shall return here. Is that all right?”

Harry couldn't bear the way Dumbledore was almost asking permission from him. “Of course.”

“If you'll excuse me then ...”

He got up and left the kitchen. Harry stood, looking around at the familiar room, wondering what he should do next, with an obscure feeling of guilt in his chest. But it wasn't long before Sirius returned.

“Are you all right?” was the first thing Sirius asked.

Harry nodded. “I'm fine. Honestly.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah, really.”

Sirius stared at Harry, then shook his head.

“My word, you've stirred things up. Everyone's running round in circles out there.” Harry did his best to smile. “Is there anything you need?”

“Well, actually ...”

“Yes?”

“I'm starving.”

Suddenly Sirius smiled for the first time that evening – or morning. “Right. Not sure whether it's a late supper or an early breakfast.”

“Nothing fancy. Just sandwiches or whatever.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“There's some ham in the larder.” Sirius brought out the ham, a loaf, and some butter. “Mustard?”

“Please.”

Five minutes later, a large plate of ham sandwiches stood in front of them, and they tucked in. Harry was indeed starving, and felt a little lightheaded. He had had no sleep that night. The adrenaline had long since worn off, and it was late now. Despite the food, he also felt more than a little sick. Had he done something incredibly foolish? Had he ruined months of carefully laid plans? He had seen the prophecy smash on the floor. Had he destroyed what was in there for ever? Was there any other record of the prophecy? He had no idea.

He looked at his watch. 4 a.m. Was that all? When would Dumbledore be back?

“If I'd known what it was you were up to ...” began Sirius ominously.

“You'd have tried to stop me, and I'd have run away again.”

“You are a determined blighter, aren't you?”

“Something needed to be done.”

“And done with a bang, by the sound of things.”

“Is Dumbledore very angry?”

Sirius hesitated. “Angry's the wrong word. Upset – that's certainly true. He had a very grim look on his face as he set off to see Cornelius.”

“It was Fudge I was after as much as anyone.”

“I can appreciate that. By the way, I got a message from Tonks. She wasn't able to come over since they need every Auror they've got at the moment – but apparently one of the Death Eaters they captured was Peter Pettigrew.”

“What?” cried Harry, suddenly galvanised.

“They've got the rat in custody. He was Stunned, and so couldn't transform. Kingsley recognised him, and was able to put a spell on him so he wouldn't be able to when he comes round. He's warned some of the others.”

“But that means ...”

“Exactly. The Prophet's going to have a lot to write about in the next few days, isn't it?”

“Does this mean Fudge will have to go?”

“No doubt about it. You see, the editor of the Prophet is going to be struggling today. Yesterday, someone leaked the contents of the dossier of your trial to him – and he decided to go ahead and publish it all in a separate supplement ... as well, of course, as splashing it all over the front page.”

“What?”

“Exactly. He's had to hide things from the Ministry snoopers, but the presses are now rolling. And you can expect a new lunchtime edition too, what with tonight's goings on.”

Had he endangered everyone needlessly? No. He'd brought Voldemort to the Ministry for all to see. There could be no better proof of his story.

“If they've published the dossier,” said Harry slowly, “then it won't be only Fudge who'll be in trouble.”

“Indeed. The whole Auror office will be in for a complete shake up. They must have connived with Fudge. And then there's the question of where those two Dementors came from. No one can deny that now.”

“And Percy Weasley. I hope they get him too,” said Harry savagely. He still hadn't forgotten Percy standing in front of him, calmly sending him away to Azkaban. Of all the things that had happened to him over the past few months, that was one of the most hurtful.

“I think that young man is going to find his Ministry career very short. Indeed, I wouldn't be surprised if many of them found their way to Azkaban.”

“No,” said Harry explosively.

“What do you mean?”

“Azkaban. It's an abomination! It should be closed down!”

“I think the loyalty of the Dementors is in doubt anyway.”

“Prison is one thing – but Azkaban – it's inhuman. You must know that!”

“I think whoever's the new Minister will have a lot of things on his or her hands. And that could well be one of them.”

“Who's it likely to be?”

“Before all this, I would have thought Rufus Scrimgeour - he's head of the Aurors. But this is going to leave him very tainted, at the best. My vote would be for Madam Bones.”

Harry remembered her from the trial. She was the only one who seemed prepared to give him a sympathetic hearing. “Why didn't she intervene after the trial?”

“Couldn't. It wasn't her department. She might have wanted to, but Fudge kept her out of the loop. How do you think that dossier got to the Prophet?”

“From her?”

Sirius shook his head. “No, not from her. She's too upright to leak like that. But in a case like this – she might not have objected too much if someone else did the leaking.”

“Right.”

This was all becoming a bit too much for Harry. He realised he was feeling very tired now, and his eyelids were drooping. Sirius obviously sensed this, and fell silent. But it seemed that hardly a moment had gone by when the door opened again.

“Albus!”

“Is all well, Sirius?”

“So far.”

Dumbledore gave a small smile, and then said, “I have had a very tiresome meeting with Cornelius. But enough of that – more later. For the moment, I have a few jobs for you, if you would be so kind.”

“Of course.”

Sirius followed Dumbledore out of the kitchen, leaving Harry to doze a little longer. But he was soon aware that Dumbledore had returned.

“It has been a long night for us all,” Dumbledore observed. He sat down and gave a twirl of his wand. A tray appeared with two cups of steaming, fragrant tea. “I'm not sure if this will be to your taste. It is, however, very refreshing, and one of my smaller indulgences.”

Harry thought that an astringent tasting cup of tea was hardly an indulgence, but Dumbledore was right: it did waken him, and he began to feel a little more alert.

After a minute or two's silence, Dumbledore looked across the table. Harry could see that Dumbledore, despite the tea, looked tired, and he also seemed to have aged over the last few months.

Dumbledore sighed. “I'm sure you have a very great deal to tell me, Harry, and a great deal to take me to task for. I'm sure you'll give me all the details in good time, but first – first, there is something I must tell you, something I have been putting off for years, and something I should have told you of much sooner.”

The old wizard paused, then: “You were, no doubt, aware of the names on the label of the prophecy that you took?” Harry nodded. “It was I who heard the prophecy, as you will no doubt have realised. I heard it from Sybil Trelawney, a good number of years ago. I was not sure then how seriously to take it. I am not a great believer in prophecies – or, at least, in their more obvious interpretations. And prophecies have a way of fulfilling themselves simply by their existence. If a prophecy says such and such, then people will behave in a certain way as a result of hearing the prophecy, and so it has been in this case.”

Dumbledore paused for a moment, and sipped his tea.

“I knew I would have to tell you the contents sooner or later. The question was – when? A small child is not equipped to understand fully the implications of a prophecy such as this. So, on your arrival at Hogwarts, I thought it best to give you time to grow and develop, and acquire the necessary maturity. It can wait, I thought. There is time yet. It is, after all, a very great burden to bear. Much better to leave it for a while, I thought to myself. How wrong I was.

“You have, I am afraid, had to grow up very fast. You have done things which a much older wizard would have failed to do. And I should have realised this. But I did not want to increase the burden upon you.”

Harry listened to this dully, wondering when Dumbledore was going to get to the point. Whatever it was, it wouldn't be good news. But after what had happened to him, could things get any worse?

“I overlooked something else too. After the events of last summer, I assumed that any danger to you would come from Voldemort and his Death Eaters. I was wrong. And you have paid more dearly for my mistake than I could possibly have imagined.”

Now Harry was paying more attention.

“Cornelius Fudge came to power not long after Voldemort vanished, apparently vanquished by one Harry Potter. There was a good deal of rebuilding to be done, a good number of bridges to be rebuilt. The wizarding community needed a period of stability, and Cornelius provided that. He was, in those terms, a very successful Minister, believe it or not.

“But then we had the events of last summer. Suddenly, Cornelius saw all he had worked for so hard being thrown once more into turmoil. And all on the word of a young boy. This is not to disparage you, Harry, but you can imagine how hard it would have been for Cornelius to accept any evidence on the subject, no matter how firm. And you also had my support. This made things even more difficult for him. Was I somehow in league with you? Was there some elaborate conspiracy on my behalf?

“Cornelius had two choices: to go along with us, or to carry on as he always had done. The temptation was too much for him. He had to deny the return of Voldemort, and to do so, he had to discredit both of us.” Dumbledore shrugged. “I am old enough to look after myself. You, on the other hand, were not. And I underestimated the lengths Fudge was prepared to go in his attempts to discredit us.”

Harry gave a small, bitter, laugh.

“You suffered, Harry, because of the blind vanity of a foolish man, and the blindness of another old man. That second old man was me. Had I known what Fudge was capable of, things might have been very different. But I failed you. And no apologies are adequate to excuse what you have been through these past few months.”

“I don't want apologies,” said Harry thickly.

“I know. What use is an apology for something such as this? After all that has had happened to you? None at all. No apology is going to stop you remembering the torments of the past few months. But I am being diverted from my story. You know, Harry, you have not yet asked what the contents of the prophecy were.”

“Don't tell me – something about me and Voldemort?”

“Not too difficult to guess. Voldemort himself was very anxious to get his hands on the prophecy. Very anxious indeed. He will be very displeased that it has been smashed. But it was I who heard the prophecy, as you probably guessed from the label, and it contains something I should have told you a long time ago. As I have said, I procrastinated for year after year. I know I should have told you after the rebirth of Lord Voldemort, but you had so many other issues to deal with then, without this as well. As you do now. All the same, I have delayed too long, and now I must tell you.

“I told you I was the one who heard the prophecy, and I do not set great store by prophecies. But for what it's worth, this is what it says.

“The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches ... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies ... and the Dark Lord will mark him is his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not ... and either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives ... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies ...”

The room was very quiet after Dumbledore had finished speaking. Harry did his best to digest what he had just learned, but his mind, fuzzy with the lack of sleep and the reaction from the night's events, somehow could not grasp exactly what the prophecy meant.

Then, eventually: “You mean – I've got to kill him, or he kills me?”

“Something very much like that. But not necessarily. Always be very careful when trying to work out exactly what it is a prophecy has to say. The words can seem very obvious, yet be very misleading.”

Harry tried another tack. “Does the prophecy really mean me? It doesn't name me.”

“Surprisingly, there are two boys who might appear to fit the description in the prophecy. You are one – and the other is Neville Longbottom.”

“Neville?” cried Harry in surprise.

“Indeed,” said Dumbledore, nodding. “But there is something else. 'The Dark Lord shall mark him as his equal.' You were marked, Harry, the night he tried to kill you. And it is a mark with some very peculiar properties. For one, I believe Voldemort transferred some of his powers to you that night. That is why you can speak Parseltongue.”

“I'd often wondered about that. So I'm not a descendant of Salazar Slytherin?”

“No, Harry, you are not. But Lord Voldemort is.”

“And – would that explain why I've been having these visions?”

“Visions?” said Dumbledore curiously, and Harry realised he had not yet told Dumbledore about them.

“I'd better make it part of the longer story.”

Dumbledore looked at him for a few moments, then nodded. “Very well. But if there has been a connection between you and Voldemort, it is probably through that scar – which, I might say, you have succeeded in concealing really rather well.”

“I thought it'd be a good idea,” muttered Harry.

“A very good idea, since it is one of your unique features. But still. I know you have a story to tell me, but first, I think you need some rest. Sirius has a bed here for you.” Dumbledore paused, then asked quietly: “Do you want to come to Hogwarts in the morning?”

Harry twisted up his face. “Not really.”

Dumbledore nodded. “We can, of course, talk here. That is no problem. But can I ask – your reluctance to come to Hogwarts ... how long is it likely to last?”

“I can't face it – Hogwarts, that is. Not yet,” mumbled Harry.

“Dear me. You take on Lord Voldemort and the Minister of Magic together, but cannot face a school full of children?”

Harry had to smile. “Yeah. Sounds stupid, doesn't it?”

“Yes – and no. I think what you cannot face up to is the fuss your friends will make when you come back. For months now you have been alone, reliant on your own devices – very ably too, might I say - and trusting no one.

“You know, Harry, you were in more danger tonight than you could have imagined. For what has motivated you since your release is hatred – hatred for Fudge, and the Ministry, and me -” Dumbledore held up a hand “- I know that full well, and can appreciate that. But Lord Voldemort thrives on hate. It is love he cannot understand. And most of the love and happiness has been taken from you. You were in a far weaker position than you might have imagined.

“And your friends do love you. It is that which you cannot face at the moment. Your friend Ron has had a hard time of it. Not only has he missed you, but he has been subject to some very nasty persecution for trying to tell the truth. Nothing on the scale you have suffered, but if he had simply been prepared to go along with the official line, he would have been spared it. But he did not. He was brave enough to persevere even in the face of very considerable pressure. Pressure that extended to his family, as well.

“Perhaps it might be better if you were to meet your friends on neutral ground. I could certainly arrange for them to visit you here so you can take up where you left off. And then, in time, perhaps it might not seem so difficult.”

Harry did not want to argue further. He was too tired. “Can I think about it in the morning?”

“Of course! I will fetch Sirius now and we will get you to bed.”