Walking Dead

Walking Dead

There wasn't much to be said for lying wakeful in the dark, thinking how the night air was a little too warm, and the animals outside a little too loud.

It bothered Harry to think on it too long, but the emptiness of Ron's bed seemed almost like a living thing, reaching out to him from the darkness. Only Neville's faintly honking snores and the occasional rustle of bedclothes from Dean's and Seamus's respective beds made things seem at all normal.

He knew that Ron and Hermione were both safe and well under Madam Pomfrey's care, but a there was a guilty twitch in his heart that just wouldn't go away, as if somebody's rat familiar hadn't gotten in and was trying to nibble its way out.

It was his fault that Ron and Hermione were in the hospital in the first place, just as much as it was his fault that Sirius was dead. If he wanted to get downright broody about it, he supposed it was even his fault that his parents were dead. After all, had he not been born to them, Voldemort might not have sought them out...

Approaching the 72nd hour since Sirius's death, it seemed to Harry that he felt worse than ever. Now that his initial shock over his godfather's death had passed and he'd had some rest, all he could do was think about Sirius, his stomach twisting at turns with both guilt and sadness. If only he had listened to Hermione's advice, if only he'd remembered Snape was in the Order earlier, if only he had practiced his Occlumency harder - the list went on and on.

Heaving an exasperated sigh, Harry sat upright, leaning down to fetch his wand from the nightstand, then yanking the Marauder's Map out from under his pillow. For a moment, his heart twanged as he held the map in his hands. Two of the map's authors were dead: his father and his godfather. A third author had been the orchestrator of his father's demise and the man who had helped write Harry's own destiny as either a killer or a victim. Only Remus Lupin, the map's other writer, could be relied upon.

Having become adept at ignoring his thoughts over the past few days, Harry did so again and concentrated on his wand as he tapped the parchment in his lap with the tip of it.

"I solemnly swear I am up to no good," he murmured, the familiarity of the incantation soothing him a little.

Letters and pictograms began to bleed onto the page, and Harry watched them develop with a practiced eye. Though it seemed a lifetime since he'd last used the map, he relaxed into it easily. This was a normal thing, a comforting ritual left over from the days when Sirius was still alive.

He glanced out the window, checking for the time. After five years of Astronomy class Wednesdays at midnight, Harry had grown accustomed to judging the hour based on the moon's position. He suspected that it was between one and two o'clock in the morning, but despite the lateness of the hour, Dumbledore was awake in his office, apparently moving around the area of his desk. Even Filch was up and wandering around near the Owlery.

Both Snape and McGonagall were also wake and in the staff room, their stillness and proximity indicating a conversation. In a distant corner of the same room, the caretaker's cat, Mrs. Norris prowled. Harry watched the cat's footprints cross the room to rest near Snape, and then move away again.

A childish part of him felt a huge surge of relief. The adults were awake and alert; all was well. He was not the only one shaken into wakefulness by the events of the last three days - though Ron and Hermione's labels in the hospital beds reminded him that many people at Hogwarts were trying to recover from the battle at the Department of Mysteries and its aftermath.

A spot marked Draco Malfoy gave further evidence of this as he paced back and forth in the darkness of his dungeon dorm, perhaps pondering the fate of his father, who sat in Azkaban at this very moment.

He watched the map for several minutes, contented by its silent lullaby. Dumbledore appeared to go see Fawkes on his perch, then to retrieve a book from on of his many rows of bookshelves. Filch's footsteps wandered up and down the corridor to the Owlery, pausing every so often, probably to examine something. He was joined a few seconds later by the delicate prints of Mrs. Norris. Snape and McGonagall continue to sit in the staff room, and Harry (finally beginning to relax) wondered drowsily if they were talking about him.

His heart suddenly seemed to flutter in his chest and he sucked in an anxious breath. What if they were talking about him? What would they say? Would Snape own up to his responsibility in Sirius's death? Even though Dumbledore had tried to let Snape off the hook, Harry knew better. He knew Snape was partly to blame.

Curiosity piqued, Harry got out of bed as quietly as possible, laying the map on his pillow while he snuck his Invisibility Cloak out of his trunk. If he was careful, he might be able to sneak in and listen to what McGonagall and Snape were saying. If they were gone or entrance was impossible, there would be no loss, but if he was able to overhear, he might learn something...or at least find out if they really were talking about him.

He swung his father's Invisibility Cloak over himself, trying not to listen to his inner Hermione counsel against the idea, and then tugged his map and wand underneath the material with him. At last, he set off.

With the help of his lit wand and map, he was able to walk to the staffroom without meeting anyone along the way. This wasn't difficult, though, as most of the castle's residents were in bed.

Slowing his pace a little as he approached the staffroom, Harry double-checked that Professors Snape and McGonagall were still there. They were, looking scarcely to have moved.

Creeping ahead at a snail's pace, Harry kept his eyes on the goal: the staffroom door.

As he grew closer, his eyes widened. Could his luck really be this good?

The door to the staff room was open about six inches, probably due to the exit of Mrs. Norris about 15 minutes prior. Snape and McGonagall either hadn't noticed or weren't concerned. Given the late hour and Snape's suspicious nature -

Suspicious? That's a laugh coming from you, sneaking around to see if people are talking about you.

- it seemed likely that both instructors were just too tired to notice that the door was ajar.

He could hear their voices even at about a yard away from the entrance, the high ceiling and walls of stone boosting the acoustics. This did not keep Harry from wishing that he had one of Fred and George's Extendable Ears handy, though. This was one conversation he didn't want to miss a single word of.

"...ago did you tell Albus?" he heard Professor McGonagall saying as he pressed his ear to the gap.

"Two days ago," Snape said. "On Friday."

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Harry chanced pushing the door open an inch more so that he could look in.

Each professor was sitting in an overstuffed chair at an angle to the fireplace. Professor McGonagall was frowning, and there was still something frail about her, as though she continued to struggle with the four stunning bolts to her chest.

"You told him on Friday?" she repeated. "When did you find out?"

"On Wednesday. I met briefly with Lucius Malfoy."

"Should you have told him sooner?"

Harry watched Snape shake his head, black locks fluttering about like grubby starlings.

"The threat is large, but not immediate, Professor. I think it may be one of the last things the Dark Lord does to complete his army."

"Albus didn't seem worried about it?" McGonagall pressed on, still frowning.

There was a pause as Snape considered.

"No," he replied at length. "It wasn't worry. He was - concerned, I think; but it didn't seem to surprise him at all."

"I should think not," Professor McGonagall said. "We all ought to have suspected he'd try it once Professor Quirrell brought that book back with him."

It was Harry's turn to frown.

Try what? What kind of book did Quirrell bring back to Hogwarts after his travels? What was Voldemort's plan? He wanted to groan in frustration, but willed himself to keep silent. He might be able to find out the answers yet.

"Yes, I know," Snape agreed. "After realizing that the Dark Lord was occupying Quirrell, we should've taken a closer look at all of his possessions and correspondence."

"Professor Quirrell was cleverer than that, Severus. So many of his things were charmed or cursed. We couldn't be expected to salvage it all."

Snape harrumphed.

"And thusly The Book of Crimson Ceremony ends up on the shelves in the Restricted Section of the library. Right within the reach of any number of miscreant students. Brilliant."

"It's a very rare book, Severus. It's an honor for us to have it here. And it's harmless to anyone who doesn't know what it does."

"Yes, but..."

"We thought it would be rather like the purloined letter:" she overrode him, "if it's in the library, what student would suspect how powerful it can be?"

If Snape had an answer for this, he didn't voice it. Harry saw him set his jaw and clasp his hands together in his lap. Choking back a snort of laughter, he realized it would be a long time before he got rid of the image of Snape looking like a scolded child.

A maddening span of silence began to spread out as both professors stared into the fireplace, the bricks around the outside of it scarred green with old Floo Powder.

Harry shifted his weight impatiently. Now he knew what book Quirrell had brought, but what did it do? What was Voldemort planning?

He resisted the urge to sigh and continued to wait. Finally, after what felt like an hour, it became obvious they were finished and getting ready to leave. He turned to go, as well, but was halted by the sound of Professor McGonagall shifting in her seat to look back at Snape.

"Do you know who he plans to resurrect?"

Snape slowly turned to face her, seeming to measure his words before speaking.

"He always told us that we would serve him even beyond the grave - as long as we remained loyal. At the very least, I expect he'll bring Wilkes and Evan...ah, Rosier, rather...back from the dead as a gift for dying faithfully in his service."

Harry blinked, unable to process all the information he was receiving. At first, all he could do was think about the small things: he remembered Sirius mentioning Wilkes and Rosier as friends of Snape's from school. Rosier (as he learned from Dumbledore's Pensieve) was the one who had taken away the better part of Alastor Moody's nose while resisting arrest. But why had Snape called him by his first name, then hastily switched to 'Rosier'?

Then, as if struck by a bolt of lightning, he felt the hairs on his neck stand up and his skin tingle.

Bring them back from the dead? Bring them back...

He blundered backwards a few steps, forgetting the need to be silent, but it didn't matter; there was a way to bring Sirius back!

Though Snape and McGonagall were still speaking, Harry wasn't listening anymore. Couldn't listen anymore. He turned and ran back toward Gryffindor Tower, hardly even glancing at his map. He could feel a huge, foolish grin on his face as he went, his heart thundering with joy, but he didn't care.

Everyone knew he was good at Defense Against the Dark Arts. If any student could read the book and perform the Crimson Ceremony, he was the one.

Once he reached his room, he stowed his map and Cloak back in his trunk, dropped his wand onto his nightstand and nearly threw himself onto his bed in happiness.

This time, it was easy to drop off to sleep. He knew he'd see Sirius again soon, and he'd start tomorrow night by trying to find The Book of Crimson Ceremony in the Restricted Section.

***********

Minerva McGonagall opened her mouth to ask Severus a question, closed it, then opened it again.

"Do you know who he plans to resurrect?" she asked, after turning back to face the Potions Master.

He hesitated, shifting to look at her again, as well. He looked exhausted, she thought. There were heavy dark slashes of fatigue under his eyes, making them seem even blacker than usual against the whiteness of his skin. Instead of their normal glitter of intelligence, his eyes seemed dull and lifeless, like coal.

"He always told us that we would serve him even beyond the grave - as long as we remained loyal. At the very least, I expect he'll bring Wilkes and Evan...ah, Rosier, rather...back from the dead as a gift for dying faithfully in his service," Snape told her, face unreadable.

"I imagine you'll be expected to participate?" she said, eyebrow raised.

The elegant line of his brows drew together at this and he began to reply, but stopped short, snapping his head around to glare at the door. It was still ajar, Minerva noted, from when she'd swung it open to let Mrs. Norris out. She sighed in exasperation with herself for forgetting, and raised her wand to close it, but paused when she saw Severus raise his hand.

"Did you hear that?" he asked her softly.

She shook her head. She'd heard nothing, but she deferred to him. Not only was he 40 years younger than she was and likely to have better hearing, but he had spent his entire life learning to sense danger and pursuit. Whether it was to escape the notice of an abusive father, torturous schoolmates, Aurors, or the detection of Voldemort himself, Severus Snape still lived and breathed by virtue of having an almost sixth sense for threats; if he thought he'd heard something, he probably had.

With a surprising speed and deftness, he raised his ebony wand and motioned the door open all the way. Nothing was there but the empty corridor.

Frowning, he shook his head.

"Whatever it was is gone," he said, facing her.

Minerva hesitated, a sinking feeling weighing down her midsection.

"What was it? Mrs. Norris again?"

"I don't think so, no." He halted here, head cocked to the left in thought, then shook it a second later. "One of the ghosts, I think," he told her. "I'm just on edge, I suppose."

Privately, Minerva thought this was something of an understatement. With Lucius Malfoy now in Azkaban (along with most of the other known Death Eaters), Severus's position was more precarious than ever. In order to continue spying for the Order, he had to find a new contact to replace Malfoy. If she understood the situation correctly, this left him with three choices: Peter Pettigrew, whom he loathed from his school days, Bellatrix Lestrange, who doubtlessly frowned down upon him as a traitor for not admitting his loyalty to Voldemort and serving time in Azkaban, and Voldemort himself - probably the last person Severus wanted as an informant for news to bring back to the Order. She decided it was prudent to steer the subject back to the matter at hand.

"Does...Riddle have the other two items he needs for the Ceremony?"

"Not yet. He has his own copy of the book and he's made the White Chrism, but he still needs to fetch the Obsidian Goblet." Severus regarded the palms of his hands, maybe marking each of the scars Minerva knew were there; permanent reminders of his lifelong dedication to the Dark Arts. When he spoke again, it was so sudden that it startled her from her chair. "He knows where the Goblet is, though," the Potions Master continued. "He was going to send Bellatrix and Rodolphus to bring it back. What his plans for it are now that Rodolphus is back in prison, I don't know."

"He won't place too high a priority on it for now, I wouldn't think," Minerva said. "He still has living servants to free and living people to recruit before he gets 'round to bringing back the dead ones."

Neither of them said anything for a few seconds, and that spun out into another lengthy silence. Settling back in her chair, staring at the fire, Minerva felt her eyes begin to relax closed. Straightening, she decided it was time for bed. It was past two o'clock and she was still not entirely well. However, she had one more question for Severus before she departed for the remainder of the night. The Dark Arts were his real specialty after all, and the question continued to nag at her.

"I know the book is harmless if the reader is unaware of its purpose - but do you know what it does to someone who knows what it's for?"

His eyes flickered to her.

"I don't know. There are varying accounts on the subject. I've read some scholars who say that a reader may become the Walking Dead if he wants to raise a loved one but can't bear to complete the Ceremony. An eyewitness stated that he watched a friend read the book, then break a window immediately after finishing it. His friend used the shards of glass to punch out his own eyes, then gouge out his throat." He smiled a little at the appalled look on her face. "But then there are some scholars who theorize the book is of no danger at all without the White Chrism and the Obsidian Goblet." He shrugged as if to indicate that any or all of those things might be true.

With a sigh, Minerva stood and pulled her robes more tightly around herself as she prepared to depart.

"I'll talk with Albus about taking it off the shelves once the students leave for the summer...though I can't imagine why he'd allow it in the library at all if it was actually dangerous on its own."

Severus watched her a moment, his face (which should have looked so young at his age) looking old.

"Not even the Headmaster knows everything, Professor," he said, measuring her.

She held his gaze a moment, and then nodded. This was the most chilling thing he'd said all evening, in her opinion. Albus Dumbledore was a human being, and an old one, at that. Though he was exceptionally powerful, he could still make mistakes. She shivered.

"I'll talk with him," she repeated. "Good night, Severus."

He nodded once, then looked back into the fire as she left.

***********

When Harry awoke a few hours later, he experienced only a few seconds of disorientation before the joy he'd felt the night before came rushing back into him. He was going to see Sirius again! Surely the ceremony would be difficult and might take some time to prepare, but that was all right. He at least had a chance.

Pulling on his clothes a few minutes later, he had another burst of excitement. Ron and Hermione would be out of the hospital soon. He'd probably see them at breakfast, in fact. Finally things were beginning to return to normal.

Smiling, he headed to breakfast later than the rest of his dormmates. Because of his late night, he was running behind, not that it was anything to worry about. It gave him some more time to collect himself.

A few seconds later, he surprised himself by whistling as he walked. A thought occurred to him and he stopped whistling and smiling with the abruptness of a light being snapped off. People would be sure to notice his improved mood - The Headmaster. Ron and Hermione. Ginny and Neville. And, most importantly, Snape and McGonagall. What if one of the two associated his good mood with their conversation from the night before, somehow? Snape, in particular, was very good at sensing Harry's presence, even beneath his Invisibility Cloak.

Summoning all of his resolve, he strove to remember how wretched he'd felt the day before.

Sirius is dead and he isn't coming back, he told himself. You'll never see him again, ever.

This succeeded in sending a jolt of panic through him. What if the ceremony didn't work? What if he really did never see Sirius again?

All his remaining cheer fell away with an almost audible thump. But at least now, there were no more worries about anyone noticing his improved mood. Still, this raised an important point. Did he want Ron and Hermione to notice his good humor so that he could tell them what he'd learned? As good at Defense Against the Dark Arts as he was, it wouldn't hurt to have help, but he was almost certain they'd both say 'no' and advise him to leave it alone. However, even if they refused, they couldn't stop him from actually doing it though, could they? And there was always the slim chance that one or both of them might agree to help him do it...

Feeling a little better now that he had a plan, Harry entered the Great Hall, glancing up at the staff tables out of the corner of his eye, but did not linger on them long enough to really take stock. He shifted his eyes to the Gryffindor table and found Ron and Hermione almost immediately. The heads of hair on both of them were a blatant give-away. They were chatting with one another and both appeared to be back to normal, which elevated his cheer again. It seemed odd and distant that only a couple of days ago, he'd been afraid they might die.

Hermione noticed him first and waved at him. He responded with (what he hoped was) a half-hearted wave and went to join them.

"Harry! We were wondering how long it would take you to get down here!" Ron said as he sat down.

Shrugging, Harry tried to feign disinterest in the mountains of food in front of him, determined to behave as he had the previous three days. He just hoped his stomach wasn't rumbling too loudly.

"I've been really tired," he told them. "I didn't get to sleep until late." He said this last in a careful staccato, trying to signal them that they needed to talk...soon.

Ron nodded in immediate understanding and went back to his eggs. Hermione, however, raised her eyebrows interrogatively toward the exit.

Should we go now?

Harry shook his head, then inclined his chin in Snape's direction.

Not right now. I don't want Snape to notice.

Hermione nodded, but shifted slightly in her seat, looking almost at war with herself over something. A look of mingled excitement and irritation passed over her face, and Harry realized that, whatever inner struggle she'd been having, curiosity had won out over good sense. She turned and craned her neck to look up at the staff table.

Managing to bite back several sharp, unfriendly words, Harry looked sideways to meet Ron's eyes - which he miraculously managed to roll back into his head as he chewed. The effect was comic and slightly distasteful, and made Harry grin.

"Professor Snape isn't even looking, Harry," Hermione reported. "He's just poking at some fruit...oh!"

She whipped her head back to face her two friends, dark eyes wide. "He just looked over!"

Battling a nervous roll in his stomach, Harry realized that he wasn't hungry anymore.

"Great, Hermione. Thanks so much!"

Her cheeks colored faintly and she jabbed her porridge. "Sorry, Harry. I was just wondering if we'd be able to leave without being noticed."

"Not now," he muttered with a scowl. "Now Snape'll be watching us twice as much."

"Maybe you could go out first," Ron suggested, pushing away his empty plate. "That way it'll look like you've gone off to have some time to yourself. Hermione and I can stay here a few more minutes, then go out and join you."

Harry glanced over at Hermione to see what she thought. Their eyes met and she gave a short nod. He stood.

"All right. Meet me by the lake, across from where the dementors...from where Sirius," he gave up at that point and gave an irritated wave of his hand. "You'll find me," he finished, feeling a bit lame.

***********

Twenty minutes later found the three of them curled up on the lawn at the edge of the lake. The day was as nice as the previous one, sunny with fine weather. Across the water stood the spot where Harry and Sirius had nearly died at the hands of dementors, which felt like a memory from a hundred years before.

"What is it, Harry?" Hermione asked, unable to contain herself. Her stay in the hospital had made her bored and restless, a fact which Harry hoped would work to his advantage.

"Is it something about Snape?" This was from Ron who sounded eager, but a little scared.

Dragging his eyes away from the place on the other side of the lake, Harry took a deep breath and gathered his thoughts. Then he began to speak, telling them everything he'd seen and heard the night before.

Half-expecting the two of them (or at least Hermione) to interrupt with questions or comments, Harry braced himself, but no interruptions came. Perhaps they were as caught up in what Snape and McGonagall had said as he'd been.

"Whoa," Ron said with a low whistle as Harry finished. "And You-Know-Who wants that book?"

Startled, Harry started to answer, but stopped with a frown. This was a question that hadn't occurred to him. He'd been so interested in what The Book of Crimson Ceremony did that he never paused to wonder whether or not Voldemort was actually after it.

"I don't know for sure, but the way they were talking, it sounded like Voldemort could bring people back whenever he was ready to, so I guess he must have it." Hermione looked rather put off by this faulty train of logic and he floundered. "Eh...or maybe he doesn't," he added hastily.

A severe, straight line now creased between Hermione's eyebrows, making her look very serious indeed.

"Necromancy is a very obscure branch of magic," she told them. "It's very old, too...and it's considered incredibly Dark Magic."

"No wonder Snape seemed to know about it," Ron said, exchanging a look with Harry, who nodded in agreement.

Hermione gave them both an exasperated huff.

"But Snape is the one who wanted it off the shelves," she pointed out. "Where it's not a danger to anyone."

Ron shrugged. "Maybe he wants it off the shelves so he can get it easier and bring it to You-Know-Who."

With an arched eyebrow, Hermione stared Ron down.

"Do you really think a former Death Eater and Head of House couldn't sneak a book out of the Restricted Section of the library without getting caught, Ronald?"

Ron opened his mouth to shoot back an indignant reply, but seemed to think better of the notion.

For his part, Harry thought that Ron had made some decent points, but felt that the two of them, so caught up in their bickering over Snape, were missing the point.

"Don't you two see what I'm getting at?" he asked, more shortly than he'd intended. "We could get that book out ourselves and use it to bring Sirius back!"

Whatever he'd been doing to prepare himself their disapproval, it wasn't adequate. He'd been expecting their shock, but there was an intertwined sympathy and aversion on their faces that made him feel angry and confused at the same time.

"Harry," Hermione began, voice soft and hesitant, "are you really sure that's a good idea? I mean...well, Sirius is dead."

"I know Sirius is dead," Harry said, his stomach a hard ball, his voice tight and brittle. "And it's easy for the two of you to try and tell me to just forget about it because you both have parents and nice homes where people love you." His voice trailed off and he made the other two jump by gasping in a huge rush of air, his tone rising to a shout. "Well, I don't have that and it isn't fair! Do you understand me? It isn't fair!"

Ron raised both hands as if to ward Harry's temper off and shook his head.

"We know it isn't fair, and I know we're both sorry about it, mate, but that book is bad. We have to leave it alone."

Harry gave his anger a brutal squash and tried another tack.

"But then we'd have the book so Voldemort can't get it," he said quickly, struggling to say something that would make them stop looking at him like he was deformed infant and get them back onto his side. If they wanted him to play the good guy, the hero, then fine. He would play it from that angle. Anything to get them to listen and agree.

"What if there's more than one copy of the book?" Hermione countered. "Then it wouldn't matter if we had it because he could just get one of his own."

"It's Dark Magic, Harry," Ron added, looking almost fearful of the thought. "Once you do it, you don't turn back."

Stunned, unable to believe that it was really turning out this way, Harry stood up and glared down at them both.

"It can't be Dark Magic if we do it for a good reason!" he shouted. "You have to help me!"

"Sometimes people do bad things for the best of reasons," Hermione said, "but it doesn't right the bad things they do or the people they hurt."

Desperate, Harry's eye darted back and forth between his two friends.

"But we haven't even looked at it, yet," he protested, his voice sounding cracked and defeated, even to his own ears. "Maybe the ritual isn't even that bad..."

"It's Dark Magic," Ron repeated, more firmly this time. Having been born and raised in the Wizarding World, he was more sensitive to the idea of dark creatures and magic than were Harry and Hermione and was obviously not keen to get involved with it. "Even if the ritual isn't bad, it's still a Dark path. My Dad knows people from the Ministry who got so caught up in their jobs repossessing Dark artifacts that they ended up going mad and turning Dark, themselves."

Though he could feel his throat clicking with emotion, Harry ignored it. He'd tried so hard to tell himself that this would happen, that the two of them wouldn't see it his way and would try and talk him out of it, but he hadn't really believed it would happen. They were his friends. They'd always tried to help him before in the darkest and most difficult of times, and he'd expected this time to be no different. But maybe this was what growing up was all about : learning to do the hard things alone.

"Fine," he said, trying to sound beaten. "Forget I said anything about it. I'm going back inside."

He turned and left the two of them sitting in the sunshine, but Hermione apparently wasn't done with him yet. He heard the crackle of her footsteps over the grass as she jogged up beside him. Ron joined them a second later.

"Promise me that you won't read that book, Harry. If Professor Snape thinks it's dangerous, it probably is. It might...hurt you."

Harry looked into her eyes, his gaze level. They squared off in silence.

"All right," he replied at last, his voice soft. "I promise."

He turned then and walked away, and this time they didn't follow him. It was probably a good thing, though, as he felt he could use the time alone to ponder over why that single 'I promise' had been the easiest lie he'd ever told.

***********

All by himself, the day passed with an oppressive slowness, but Harry supposed that was good. He needed to come up with some sort of strategy to get his hands on the book without arousing the suspicions of Snape and McGonagall, or Ron and Hermione. He thought it would be a simple enough matter of just waiting until Ron fell asleep, then using his Invisibility Cloak and the Marauder's Map to sneak inside the library and into the Restricted Section.

The problem, though, would be removing The Book of Crimson Ceremony. He knew that Madam Pince had spells on all the books to prevent them from being stolen, though he recalled Hermione being able to check out the Restricted book called Moste Potente Potions for several weeks with only a note from Lockhart.

This gave him an idea, though, and he quickly scrawled out a slip giving him permission to sign out The Book of Crimson Ceremony, then wrote 'Severus Snape' at the bottom of it. Using Snape in such a fashion gave him a nasty thrill of pleasure. He only wished he could get the greasy git in trouble for it.

Sniffing a humorless laugh, Harry thrust the note into his front pocket, then stalked off down the aisles, trying to find a good Forgery Charm, which he'd just learned about from Ron. A friend of Mr. Weasley's at the Ministry of Magic had apparently caught a master forger only a few weeks ago.

After shuffling through about a half a dozen books of Charms spells, Harry ran across one with a cover of midnight blue imitation dragon skin, which also smelled vaguely of reptile dung. Wrinkling his nose, he brought back to his table anyway, and was glad he did once he found what he was looking for.

He glanced over his shoulder to see if Madam Pince was looking, but she was far too engrossed in her own work to pay him any mind. Feeling anxious anyway, Harry pulled the note out of his pocket and flattened on the table, then retrieved his wand. Closing his eyes, Harry pictured Snape's handwriting as it appeared on the chalkboard during Potions lessons, then reached out toward the page.

"Obfuscare signatus," he whispered, tapping his wand on the sheet of parchment.

He opened his eyes eagerly, but was disappointed to see that nothing had changed. His shoulders sagged as he pocketed his wand. If only Hermione was around to help...

Against his will, he drew in a sharp breath. Before his very eyes, his handwriting on the parchment seemed to first melt, then elongate into the elegant, but spiky letters of Severus Snape.

Immensely proud of himself, he wished he could share this victory with Ron and Hermione, but knew it wasn't possible. It was only a couple of days until the end of the term and he had a lot of studying to do if he wanted to be able to perform the Crimson Ceremony when he came back in the autumn, and it was imperative that he didn't breathe a word of this to his friends.

Staring out the window at the blue sky, he wondered if the permission slip would work merely by being in his possession, or if it needed to be given to Madam Pince. Though he couldn't say why, he suspected that it didn't matter whether or not Madam Pince saw the note. He felt sure that, as long as the library itself believed that he had Snape's permission, he'd be allowed to take the book with him when he left. He'd find out soon enough though, he supposed. It was probably best not to worry about it. If all else failed, he could just sit and read it under his Invisibility Cloak.

With a sigh of contentment, he sat back in his chair. Now, his only remaining fear was that Snape or one of the other instructors had decided to go in and take the book down at some point during the day. The idea almost obsessed him, in fact, and he spent most of the day in the library, pretending to read a mountain of books that didn't really interest him, making sure that no one out of the ordinary came in to take it away.

Around three o'clock in the afternoon, Madam Pince asked him why he wasn't outside with his friends. He told her that the warm temperature had made him feel ill and he wanted to be in the library where it was dark and cooler. He then realized with some rue that lying was getting easier and easier for him today.

He stayed the rest of the day, until dinner, which he opted to skip...but out of sight of Madam Pince. She was already leery of his endless presence in the library and might say something to the Headmaster or Professor McGonagall if he stayed on through dinner too.

He waited what he thought was long enough to imply that he'd eaten with everyone else, then returned.

Madam Pince frowned slightly as he walked back in, her face skeptical. He knew she was suspicious because he usually tried to avoid the library, but she asked him no questions and made no remark. Instead, she went back to her endless cataloguing and repairing, and Harry relaxed and went back to looking at books he didn't like, waiting. When eight o'clock came, Harry forced himself to get up so that Madam Pince could close the library.

He walked through the Fat Lady's portrait and began to hurry. He wanted to avoid talking to his Housemates, who were all chatting in the common room with typical end-of-year merriment.

Ron and Hermione saw him walk through and tried to get his attention by waving at him. He made a point of ignoring them, and they let him be, both seeming to realize that he was still mad at them.

When he got upstairs, Harry climbed straight into bed and closed his eyes. After a time, he dozed off, wondering when the others would finally get tired and come up to bed. It seemed ages before they came up and turned in, but since he'd napped, it was easy for Harry to outwait them, shamming sleep as they first talked, then began to drift off. What he was about to do was one of the most important things he might ever do. He had to be patient and not make any mistakes, especially the mistake of being caught.

He waited until he was sure everyone else was asleep, which was difficult. Ron seemed to be under instructions from Hermione to stay awake and keep an eye on Harry, making sure that he didn't get up to take The Book of Crimson Ceremony out of the library. After about an hour, Ron seemed to believe that Harry actually was asleep and drifted off, himself. Harry forced himself to wait another half an hour beyond that, which was fortunate, because Neville decided that this was as good a time as any to wank off. Luckily, the act of wanking and the subsequent deep breathing of sleep didn't take him too long.

Annoyed, Harry waited yet another thirty minutes before finally getting up to retrieve his things from his trunk. His heart hammering, he kept expecting Ron to sit up and ask him what he was doing, but nothing happened. The room was as still as a shroud. Satisfied, Harry left.

Picking a path toward the library was more difficult than he'd anticipated, as the map showed that both Snape and Filch were patrolling the area very carefully...even though it was past midnight. Harry ended up waiting for the two men to get to the far end of their rounds before sneaking inside.

Feeling giddy, Harry waited yet again as Snape and Filch moved toward the far ends of their watches, then made his way past the ropes and into the Restricted Section.

The books here were arranged by title, and so he began his search, hunting through the 'B' titles as carefully as his thumping pulse would allow.

He felt a bitter wash of panic as his eyes suddenly began reading 'C' titles, but he forced himself to exhale and inhale through 10 slow counts before going back and starting again. This time, he struck gold about six shelves in.

A small book with an ugly, bunched-up hide of red, leathery material glowered out at him from the company of its neighbors. The Book of Crimson Ceremony was written on its spine, awkwardly hand-lettered, as if by an apoplectic kindergartener.

He reached his fingers out toward it, then hesitated. Even several inches from the skin of the book, his hand felt as though he'd just slipped it into frozen pond scum. Disturbed, he pulled away from the unpleasant little book, deliberating over his options.

If both Hermione and Professor Snape thought it could be dangerous (even deadly), then perhaps this really wasn't such a good idea. Nothing was worth that. Not even bringing Sirius back.

He stood, motionless and mute, thinking.

After a long struggle with himself, which he knew he was bound to lose, Harry pulled the book down off the shelf and began to read.