Ode

ODE

Chapter one: World-losers and World-forsakers

We are the music makers,

And we are the dreamers of dreams,

Wandering by lone sea-breakers,

And sitting by desolate streams;

World-losers and World-forsakers,

On whom the pale moon gleams:

Yet we are the movers and shakers

Of the world for ever, it seems.

~ O'Shaughnessy

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It began with a journey eleven years ago, a passage into a world he never thought, never hoped could actually exist. Though, he had seen it before in dreams of flying motorcycles and blinding green light. He had been given brief glimpses by the robed figures who would walk up to him on abandoned sidewalks and crowded streets, hugging him tightly, shaking his hand, whispering thanks into his ear and then disappearing just as quickly before his aunt or uncle or cousin could be sure that they'd seen anything at all. This happened rather consistently throughout his youth, but he was never sure of it-- not really-- not until the letters came.

Eleven years ago, everything he thought he'd known about the world had changed forever with the soft, rhythmic flapping of tawny wings outside his tiny cupboard window, and it hasn't stopped changing since. There are constants, of course, people and places. Some things are too steady to be moved by even the strongest spells, but then, he knows that nothing is really as secure as he lets himself believe.

The world around him shifts and blurs, becoming indistinguishable from one moment to the next. Really, the only way for anyone to survive anymore is to adapt, to alter themselves in more or less predictable configurations. Life is made up these of patterns and cycles, and he knows them well.

It began eleven years ago, and this is how it ends.

~*~

Harry Potter stands awkwardly before the carved stone gargoyle that protects the entrance to the Headmaster's office. Albus Dumbledore has summoned him back to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry to discuss the mysterious disease recently contracted by his best friend, Hermione Granger, a condition they both suspect is the work of dark magic.

It's gotten bleaker there, far colder than Harry remembers it being back in his days as a student. The stone walls are now marred by tiny networks of hairline cracks and spotted with ever-deepening cavities, which no light is bold enough to penetrate. From these holes the outside winds pour in and swirl maliciously through the hallways, catching the lingering dust motes in wild updrafts and contributing to the overall chill of the torch-lit corridors, which is especially odd since its June and stifling.

At twenty-one years old, he feels more than a little ridiculous belting out the names of every sweet he can think of and is rather disheartened that after chocolate frogs, ice mice, pepper imps and every flavor beans, he finds himself unable to bring to mind any other candies, magical or muggle.

Was it really so long ago that he and his friends would pile into Honeydukes, or even Weasley Wizard Wheezes, filling their shopping baskets with practically anything containing the desired amount of sugar?

Thinking back, it seems like another world entirely-- just a memory of a dream, rippled, smeared and shrouded by a gentle obscurity that makes the hard edges seem softer and the pain seem less biting-- somehow. But, in his head, he can still picture it, the way they'd make that long drudging walk back to Gryffindor tower and collapse onto the overstuffed chairs by the fire. How they'd eat until they were at least slightly delirious, all the while exchanging famous witches and wizards cards and trading stories about classes and arguments over which Quidditch team was best in the league. The way someone, inevitably, would be challenged to a game of wizard's chess or exploding snap, and everyone would gather together cheering them on.

In the quiet of the empty hallway, he can imagine the rustling of parchment and the wet scratch of quills writing as fast as possible to get weekend homework done on time. He can remember hefting the considerable weight of his book bag over his shoulder at the end of the day to stumble half-sleeping back to his dorm and how his mouth was always made dry and strangely bitter by the sudden absence of something sweet against his tongue.

It is now three years since he's last been to Hogwarts, longer since he's seen his old house's common room. Do the students still do that? Are they even allowed visits to what's left of Hogsmeade anymore? he wonders, and he shoves his hands into his pockets, as if he'll find the answers there, and he gives the door frame one sharp kick, which earns him a menacing glare from its guardian.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Ron's dreaming, again. A part of him knows this and is at least thankful that he's asleep for it this time.

Walls close in on all sides of him. The living room shifts from square to round and back again. He shuts his eyes tighter, but he can still see everything-- and hear. The voices haven't stopped either.

"Are you sure about this?" his mother asks, but he never gets the chance to answer, and then he realizes he wasn't ever the one being questioned.

"I'm old enough to decide," Bill says stepping out of the fireplace flanked by solemn looking Goblins.

"We won't judge."

"It's not too dangerous." Charlie smiles, riding past the open window on an ice-blue dragon.

"You'll always have a home here."

"Yes thank you, Mother. I'm well aware." Percy tries to look dignified while he catches airplanes and kites made of folded parchment as they rain down around him.

"Oh, honestly!"

"But people need jokes-- the world is a funnier place than you realize." Fred and George laugh as they freeze down a wall with one of their wintry-wick cold burning candles.

"You can stay if you want . . ."

"I won't be far." Ginny turns from their mother, and she looks at him for a few moments with an unreadable expression before picking up her broom.

"You're not leaving too, are you?"

"No," Ron replies without moving, though still unsure whether a reply is actually necessary.

The scene fades away, and he finds himself still sitting, this time cradled in the topmost branches of a tall tree.

"We're worried about you," his father calls up to him.

"Oh."

"You're just not yourself anymore."

"I'm not?"

"You haven't been for years."

"Then who am I?"

There's a short pause.

"We don't know. . . we just don't know."

"Okay."

"Ron, are you still there?"

Ron hesitates for a moment. "I'm not sure . . ." he answers in a voice too soft to be heard by his father below. "I don't think so."

Cars, and brooms and owls fly in circles all around him. He tries to stand, but the branches buckle under his weight, and he stumbles, landing face-down in a puddle on the side of a busy street. People continue walking by without lowering their eyes to look at him. And his world dissolves into the grey of rainwater, and the black of asphalt and the voices. The voices never leave, and now they're amplified by his closeness to the ground.

"Listen, Wheezy!"

"You can't stay here, not any longer."

"You just don't fit."

"There's work you isn't doing."

"You're needed."

"There's nothing left for you here."

"Nothing!"

Nothing . . .

Strangely enough, it's the momentary silence that shocks him into waking. He wonders at first if the walls really are closing in before realizing that a strong wind has just caused the house to give a few jarring shakes. Whether it's sweat, or drool or tears he's been lying in, Ron decides that how he managed to get his pillow wet enough to be mistaken for a puddle is something he doesn't want to know. He sighs before flipping it over and is only slightly disappointed to find that the opposite side, while direr, is also almost hard enough it to pass for pavement.

Ron falls asleep again.

A part of him remains thankful he no longer sees the familiar scenes of his time at Hogwarts, and a part of is glad he no longer sees of all the futures that will never happen-- that can never happen now. This way at least a part of him will always know he's dreaming. A part of him will know it isn't real.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I walk through the east landing, portraits of my father's ancestors offering their empty accolades, and I can't help but wonder if they said the same things to him once. I suppose they must have.

Emulate the past, and build towards the future. Never be satisfied. Never settle. Never search for anything in the present, because as soon as you find it, it disappears. Time has a nasty habit of moving forward like that, and its currents will wash you away if you're not careful. The hours may seem long, but days pass quickly here. The weeks and months fly rapidly by me before I look back at the contracts and treaties documenting my ascension, the lasting evidence of who I am.

It has been four years since the conclusion of my schooling at Hogwarts, and following that I am loath to admit that my life had been rather sedentary until eight months ago when I was asked to take the mark.

Have I matured in the intervening years?

No.

Had you expected I'd say otherwise?

How presumptuous.

In truth I've only grown in height and breadth of shoulder. In a position such as mine cruelty serves well, however childish it may seem, as does the condescension inherent in the older generations.

They see me only as 'That Malfoy brat' or 'Lucius' boy,' and I let them. They think only to placate cosseted child, and I destroy them. This is my pattern, but most people don't pay attention to such things. Most people let themselves think that they will be the exception-- always.

I have learned that there are no exceptions.

I may remain the same as I've always been in attitude and demeanor, but I have learned. I have learned to be careful what promises I make, that there are loopholes in every deal and to know the answers before asking questions. I have learned when to speak, and when to stay quiet and that there are powers far beyond the hollowness of words. I have learned everything comes at a price, and blood makes fine capital if you're not squeamish about spending your own.

I have learned not to be squeamish.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The world is different now than it had been four years ago. They had frantically prepared for a war, but war never came, and, by the end Harry's sixth year of school, Voldemort, it seemed, had vanished entirely. The mysterious deaths and disappearances stopped altogether, even in the muggle world there had been nothing-- no traces of misused magic, no ominous artifacts, no attacks bearing the distinctive mark of his Death Eaters.

They had been cautious for a while, kept vigilant with cloaking charms and detection runes. Then, as intelligence failed to gather any new information, many went back to believing the threat was safely gone. This was wrong, of course. Harry had known it was, but he could offer no real proof against these claims as he had done once before. So it remained in the back of his mind, a constant, gnawing surety that Voldemort was alive, and not only that, he was getting stronger.

All this time the Order of the Phoenix remained firmly in place as the key source of resistance to the Dark Lord and his followers. Dumbledore had even set up a tentative alliance with the Ministry of Magic so they would no longer be working against each other. Upon leaving Hogwarts, Harry and many of his friends and year-mates had been inducted into the Order as official members and sent to work on their missions, duties which mostly involved guarding a secret room on the uppermost level of the ministry building.

The room, it was said, contained a type of magical weapon capable of mass destruction, a weapon, which had jokingly been dubbed 'Homer.' The new members were never told what it actually did. They only spent long, restless nights standing outside a weathered door with 'HOMER' carved shallowly into the gnarled wood, making sure that no one ever tried to get in.

If this weapon were truly so horrible, Harry couldn't understand why it wasn't dismantled to prevent it from being used by either side. He and Hermione had brought this up again and again at meetings, but their inquiries were instantly brushed away-- always being told that, to do such a thing would not be considered as an option.

Harry trusted Dumbledore when he reassured him that it would never be found, so he didn't argue any longer. He was sure there was some other purpose being kept secret, but Hermione remained adamant that Homer should be destroyed. Some senior members of The Order, especially Snape, delighted in letting her know that she was nothing more than a foolish child whenever she breached the subject of its disposal and that she, didn't have any idea what repercussions such an action would be. But, Harry knew his friend well, and although, she wouldn't fill him in on any of the precise details, he was sure that she had worked out exactly what the consequences would be, and still thought it was the only option left.

Looking back, he doesn't know why he ever doubted this.

~*~

Ten months ago it had been Hermione's turn for sentry duty, but she had been feeling strangely ill, so Harry offered to go in her place. He had worked in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement with the other Aurors all that Friday, mostly just theoretical research, as there had been no real dark magic activity for years. If there was still going to be a war, Harry was confident in the new arsenal of hexes and potions constantly being developed by the Ministry.

He was sitting at his desk waiting out the last few minutes of a day he had spent looking into the recent malfunctioning of various magical appliances, when a head popped into his cubicle. It was a woman he was sure he'd never seen before in his life, with dark brown hair, grey eyes and a rather sharp nose. "We're all going out for drinks tonight, Harry," she said in a familiar voice. "If you want to come, Tom's having a special on pints at The Leaky Cauldron, not that he ever makes you pay."

"No thanks, Tonks," Harry replied, wondering if it would be in poor taste to say that he preferred her usual nose to this pointed new one. "Hermione asked me to pay a little visit on Homer tonight. She isn't feeling quite up to it herself."

Nymphadora Tonks nodded as her features rearranged themselves. She winced more than usual upon returning to her normal appearance complete with the strikingly purple spiked hair that Harry had long ago become accustomed to. She smiled at him before turning away and bounding over to her current partner Neville Longbottom. "Neville, you're still coming aren't you?" she asked, slapping him on the back.

As if on cue, Neville promptly dropped the grindylow tank he'd been carrying. Tonks hit the floor as well, trying desperately to detach the wayward creature from its firm position on Neville's leg, but she kept slipping on the water and couldn't seem to get a decent grip. Harry knew better than to get himself involved. He had been acquainted with both parties long enough to be sure that it could only end in disaster. She grabbed onto the nearest surface for leverage and continued to pull at one of the grindylow's disproportionately strong legs, while trying her best to avoid its teeth. Turning too quickly, she slipped backwards, causing Neville to fall on top of her and bring down with him what turned out to be Alastor Moody's desk.

Even the grindylow, it seemed, was smart enough to decide it would be safer not caught between them, and clambered gracelessly back into its enclosure. Neville reached down, helping Tonks to stand, and they both surveyed the wreckage of the office with matching looks of amused satisfaction.

Harry propped his feet up on his own desk, and leaning back in his chair, let out a relaxed sigh. He almost toppled over himself when Kingsley Shacklebot slid silently up behind him and started whispering in his ear. "Those two could be the best on the force if either could keep their hands from going slippery." Harry nodded, chuckling softly while looking over at Tonks and Neville as they took turns trying out different repairing spells on all the vases, picture frames and assorted knick-knacks that had broken in their recent smash up. "So," he said, raising his voice so that it was clearly audible to everyone in the office. "I hear you're going to be seeing our old friend tonight?"

"Yeah, looks that way," Harry answered, matching his tone. "Hermione's been a bit under the weather for a while now, so I'm off to see him instead."

"Tell her to take a vacation, Harry, and make sure she actually does. Spending that much time with those house elves is bound to make anyone sick . . . or crazy."

It was true, since her school days, Hermione Granger had always worked herself to the point of exhaustion. Her new Welfare of Sentient Magical Creatures Initiative was very important to her, and with all the extra research she had been doing for The Order, she was most certainly long overdue for some time off. Harry nodded again. "I will."

"Well," he said looking over the department one last time. "See you Monday then."

"Alright, goodnight, Kingsley."

~*~

Waiting somewhat impatiently, Harry said his goodbyes as everyone gradually filed out of their offices and onto the elevator. When they had all left, he headed down a long corridor stopping at what looked very much like a dead end. Making sure no one else was around, he tapped the wall twice with his wand to check that it was still hollow. Then, whispering the password, 'incandescent' he walked straight through. On the other side was a rickety set of wooden stairs badly in need of repair. Taking a deep breath of the stale, musty air, he started to climb.

He had already gotten up three flights when he first heard the faint sound of footsteps above him. It wasn't completely unprecedented for anyone else to be on this stairway, though most ministry workers we're in favor of using the elevator to get from floor to floor. The majority of people aware of their existence were members of The Order, who already knew from experience about these overnight stakeouts, but to be safe, Harry cast a disillusioning charm on himself. Constant vigilance, he thought, making his way to a thin platform between flights.

"What?" He heard a slightly shaky voice coming from somewhere over his head. "Who's there?" The voice was followed by the footsteps starting up again, coming faster and louder than before. "Just you wait till Fudge finds out," it said haughtily. "No one's allowed here without proper authorization."

For a few moments, the whole staircase seemed to shake-- swinging jerkily from left to right. Then in a swirl of black robes and white-blonde hair, Draco Malfoy whipped around the corner, his wand drawn and pointing erratically from one empty patch of air to the next.

Malfoy, as it turned out, had also gotten a job at the ministry, or rather his father had gotten him a job, one which seemed to involve doing absolutely nothing, yet getting more paid more galleons than any other wizard could expect to see in a lifetime. How Lucius Malfoy had once again managed to convince the authorities that he was an unfortunate victim of the Dark Lord's Imperius Curse was anyone's guess, but he had done it. He had evaded the law for the second time, so he and his horribly spoiled son, Draco, had been allowed to remain living in their mansion with all their expensive things and all the extra money Lucius was being paid to compensate for his emotional suffering.

Malfoy gazed suspiciously at the space Harry was currently occupying, causing him to instinctively press his back against the wall, hoping to make himself less conspicuous and then instantly wish he hadn't, as the shifting of his weight caused the floor to let out a shrill creak. Malfoy blinked hard. "Potter?" He smirked and casting a finite spell, which caused Harry to fully reappear. He blinked again-- twice, and then used his wand to jab Harry in the chest as if making sure he was real.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't Potty Potter himself, I figured it would be you. This place must remind you of the Weasley's bin or perhaps those dirty muggles you used to live with. Didn't they keep you under the stairs?"

What amazed Harry the most about Malfoy was that in the ten years he had known him, he didn't appear to have grown up at all. He still acted like a bratty four year old with a particularly bad tooth ache. At first, it had been slightly amusing. Now it was almost sad, only almost because he still managed to make quite a nuisance of himself.

"So, Potter, what are you doing here? I'm sure our honorable Minister won't be very pleased when he finds out that his favorite little Auror has been snooping around where he isn't supposed to be."

Harry rolled his eyes. Something about being around Malfoy made him desperately want to revert back to his eleven year old state. "Sod off."

Malfoy gave a nonchalant shrug. "No, don't think I will. It would be such a shame to see you get suspended from your duties. Then Longbottom would have to take over for you, can you imagine? I hear he and that dirty halfblood of his make quite a team, don't they? Something about completely bungling a mission to retrieve a misbehaving toaster-- honestly is that all you Aurors do these days? Shouldn't kitchenware be left to the Muggle Artifacts department?"

"Shut up."

Malfoy's thin lips twitched slightly upwards. "Oh, that's right they've been disposed of."

Harry narrowed his eyes, and turning away from Malfoy, he let his wand fall inconspicuously from his sleeve holster to his hand.

"Good to be rid of the lot of them, wouldn't you say? All muggle-lovers and halfbloods, unnecessary expenditure we said it was. . ." Harry cautiously looked back to Malfoy who was sneering unattractively. "But then, you're a halfblood too, aren't you? What with your mother being a filthy mudblood and all."

Harry, with considerable effort, suppressed the urge to punch the Malfoy square in his pointy, turned-up nose, and whispering the password again, let himself fall back-first through the wall. He didn't pause to treasure the disbelieving look on Malfoy's face as he disappeared from sight, and finding that he was once again in the main Ministry building, he tore through the maze of darkened hallways back to the elevator. Pushing the button to go from the third floor to the ninth, he waited anxiously as it made the less than smooth journey upwards.

When he was as far as the elevator would take him, he steeped back through the wall sprinting up the final two flights of stairs and across the attic hallway to the door labeled HOMER. His heart was pounding out of his chest, and his breathing was coming in erratic gasps so loud that he wasn't able to hear anything else. That had been far too close.

With blood still rushing to his head, Harry tried taking inventory of his surroundings to make sure nothing was amiss. The single ironwork lantern remained in place at the far end of the hall, spreading its vine-like shadows across the wall and floors, giving the light an unhealthy yellow sheen. The door was where it had always been, which was a comfort, because things did seem to move about from time to time in the ministry building, as they had at Hogwarts. He was just about to take a seat and allow his body to relax, when the sudden sound of quick footsteps and heavy panting behind him made his back go rigid.

"Tried to lose me there, did you, Potter?" Malfoy's shrill voice echoed in his head, causing a slight pressure to begin building behind his eyes, and for a moment, making his rapidly beating heart stop completely. Harry instinctively turned to face him, and Malfoy took a few steps forward looking very pink and disheveled from his recent exertion, but keeping his tone unexpectedly steady. Drawing even he gave Harry's chest another sharp jab with his wand. "You'll have to try harder than that."

Malfoy was fast on his feet-- Harry should have counted on it. If only he had been that fast on a broom he might have gotten one of the professional seeker positions he tried for, and then Harry wouldn't be in this situation at all. Nevertheless, he had underestimated Malfoy, and in doing so, he put one of The Order's most vital secrets in danger of being discovered by the son of a Death Eater. Hell, by now Malfoy had probably gone and gotten the Dark Mark himself.

Harry knew he had to get out of this-- to somehow play it off like it wasn't anything important, but of his many talents, outright deception had never been considered chief among them. He let out what he hoped sounded like a bored sigh. "Go away, Malfoy."

Malfoy smiled, tilting his head in the direction of the door. "So, this is your big secret then?" He gave the frame an authoritative kick. "Rather pathetic, I must say, but then I hardly expected you and your little friends to be hiding anything very impressive." He raked a pale hand through his even paler hair and sneered back at Harry. "So, what is it?"

Harry wished he could say something along the lines of, only the most powerful magical weapon ever built, just to shut Malfoy up. Instead, he glared at him and leaned back into the wall. "Like I would ever tell you!"

Malfoy smirked, and then an unusually perceptive look came over his pointed features, his eyes narrowed to slits, and stepping an inch closer, Malfoy's face was suddenly cast in shadow-- in Harry's shadow. "You don't even know, do you, Potter?" he said flatly. "They don't even think you're important enough to tell." Malfoy grinned again this time flashing his teeth-- knife-bright in the darkness of the hallway. Harry found it did nothing to improve his appearance. "I bet there's not even anything in there." He spat, demeanor shifting again. "I bet it's just an empty closet they have you guarding, and you're too bloody stupid to know the difference."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Is not."

There was a sharp click as Malfoy tapped the tip his wand to the doorknob, wordlessly casting an unlocking charm. "Why don't you look then, if you're so sure?"

"No thanks, Malfoy," Harry ground out through clenched teeth.

"Fine by me, Potter," he drawled in a voice that reminded Harry of high-backed armchairs, and sharpening daggers and every oily potion Snape ever forced him to brew. It made him want to retch and shiver at the same time. "Don't look, but there's nothing there, you'll understand someday. Someday you'll see I'm right." Then Malfoy turned smoothly on his heel and began to swagger away.

Harry didn't hesitate for a moment before drawing his wand and shouting, "Obliviate!" He twirled it easily between his fingers and laughed hard as the well aimed memory charm hit Malfoy's retreating figure in the back of its head and sent him sprawling face-forward down the stairs.

~*~

The door was mocking him. Harry was sure of it. He had only been sitting in front of it for two hours, but he was positive they had been the longest two hours of his life. He thought something so important would have been guarded by more than a simple locking charm that Malfoy, who was largely considered to be utter crap at charms, could easily reverse.

Maybe this was just a decoy-- maybe there really wasn't anything in there. No! Harry repeated to himself. That would mean Malfoy was right, and when had Malfoy ever been right about anything? But still the door was right there-- unlocked. It certainly couldn't hurt to look. Of course it could hurt to look. This is a magical weapon. Looking at it might kill you. Maybe that's the reason no one ever checks on it. Maybe Malfoy knows, and that's why he told you to see for yourself. It probably has basilisk eyes in it or something equally fatal. Wouldn't he laugh then, if you actually fell for it? This was true, Harry thought to himself, but it did little to quell his curiosity.

Burying his hands in deep his pockets he tried to resist the urge to do something immensely foolish, but once again his mind interrupted, Malfoy unlocked the door so easily. Anyone could have done that. What if it's gone? If no one looks how will you ever know? This, he thought, was exactly why Hermione should have been here instead of him. She would have no desire to look behind the door, and even if she did, she'd probably figure out a spell to check without putting herself in any immediate danger. But Hermione wasn't there, neither was Tonks, or Kingsley, or Dumbledore or even Snape, who Harry wouldn't mind getting blown up in the line of duty. It was only Harry, and right then, Harry's instincts were telling him that he needed to look, just to make sure. Knowing he wouldn't be able to resist for the rest of the night, he swallowed hard. Drawing his wand, he hopped to his feet, and in one fluid motion, he pulled the door outwards while crouching safely behind it . . . nothing. He straightened himself and peered around its splintered edge . . .

The inside of the room was dimly lit by charmed orbs that hovered precariously above the wood paneled floorboards, occasionally knocking gently into the walls, which were bare save for an empty frame hanging close to the ground. It had a low ceiling so that standing upright would have been impossible for someone of Harry's height, and every corner seemed was draped thickly in diaphanous curtains woven of cobwebs, and dust. It was also completely empty.

"Damn."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When did this start?

Well, there are obvious answers, of course. The most apparent of the lot would be when my father died. After that, there seemed only one path left to follow. If you're a humanist, you could say that it began when I made the decision to torture muggles, but some choices are more innate reactions than anything else, and as I've said, it was the natural progression-- the only path left to follow. Really, if you want to get to the root of the matter, you could say it started with my birth twenty-one years ago.

You could say it began when my parents first showed me what was hidden beneath the floor of the drawing room, when I met a strange boy in a robe shop, when I finished school and started at the ministry or when I went back to the ministry after a three month hiatus with a fair bit less of my own blood, two fewer teeth and a good deal more to revulsion towards whatever muggle-lover stuck me behind that wretched desk in the first place.

If you think I'm being self important, which I suppose I am, you could say it started when the Dark Lord came to power the first time, when he drank from a unicorn to make himself seemingly immortal or even when he was resurrected fully with a new flesh and blood and bone and with new purpose.

Most people don't like to think that. Most people also like to delude themselves, but there is some truth of it left, even now. Take out your crystals and your calibrators, and you'll see why. Once it could all be traced to a Surrey suburb, then to Hogwarts, then somewhere near Diagon alley, and now everything's gone back to the Weasel hole, or whatever they're in the habit of calling it these days.

All roads lead to Rome, and here, in our world, all ley lines lead to Potter.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

In the last few months Harry's world changed beyond all previous recognition. Whatever was behind that door Voldemort had somehow stolen it and had begun using it for his own purposes. Everyone knew it was only a mater of time before his domination was complete.

First magical barriers were set up to prevent the mobility of those allied against him. Even muggles were able to sense the restraints, though none could properly explain how. They only knew that some streams couldn't be crossed, and it wasn't ever a matter of what would happen if it was attempted, because they couldn't attempt it any more than they could attempt walking to the sun. Somehow they knew this. They also knew it hadn't always been that way, but there was nothing to be done, and instinctively, they could tell this was not one of those things that could be explained away.

Witches and wizards were more acutely aware of their clearly defined boundaries, but try as they might, they could never break free of them. The webs of spells and enchantments the Dark Lord had woven were just too strong, and their own powers were beginning to weaken, though none would openly admit it.

Magic was draining from most enchanted objects. Sneakscopes could no longer be coaxed to twirl, rememberalls wouldn't light, previously animated chess pieces stopped moving excitedly across their boards, racing brooms were useless for anything other than cleaning the floor, though Harry could never bring himself to sweep the front steps of his London flat with his firebolt, no matter how dirty they became. Even his once magnificent invisibility cloak had become nothing more than a glimmering fashion accessory-- one which he quickly found did not suit him at all.

The Ministry of Magic had dissolved rather quickly after all of the high powered officials mysteriously disappeared and the Ministry building became inaccessible. A new government had been set up in its place. Voldemort's minions, the Death Eaters, were given titles and vast expanses of land-- little kingdoms, which they were free to control however they saw fit. They were also the only ones able to move freely between the established borders.

Most used this newfound sovereignty mainly to wage private wars on each other over personal vendettas or just to procure more land and influence. Their Dark Lord saw no problems with this-- encouraged it even, offering favor to those who were most victorious. It became a way to weed out the weak from among his ranks, and he especially advocated the practice of enslaving Muggles under the Imperius curse to fight in their armies.

As a final show of victory, Voldemort had left Hogwarts in place as the foremost school of witchcraft and wizardry in all of Europe and allowed safe passage to it, proclaiming that there was none better to train his future servants than his old adversary Albus Dumbledore. He was right. For a while the school had been a stronghold for all those who dared oppose him, but then the entire first class out since the changes had taken place went directly into his service, all save one. After that, they no longer saw any hope left in resisting him.

Most of the witches and wizards remaining at Hogwarts had journeyed home, promising to report back if anything changed. Harry had already been staying at the Burrow with Hermione and the all of the Weasleys, except Bill who was with Fleur and the Delacour family in France, not that it was any safer there.

Despite their virtual imprisonment things had passed normally enough until Hermione became sick. She had been getting progressively weaker for months before, but no one thought more of it than stress and homesickness.

Harry reflected that he should have known better than to trust her whenever she told him she was fine, but in times like these everyone needed something to believe in, and accepting the reality of the matter may have proven too much-- even for him. She probably knew that as well. Nevertheless, he had written Dumbledore as a precautionary measure, and the headmaster replied, requesting his immediate presence at Hogwarts. So, Harry, frightened and restless, traveled there as fast as he could.

~*~

It is there he finds himself now, standing outside Dumbledore's office, waiting to be let in. Again he pounds unsuccessfully on the door, and again he turns away to avoid the stone figure's reproving stare. Out of the corner of his eye he catches something shockingly yellow sitting in the shadows propped up by the wall. The small object contrasts dramatically against the gloomy dimness of the hallway. He bends down to pick it up, smiling as he instantly recognizes what it is as well as its purpose. The cellophane wrapper crinkles as he shoves it into his pocket. Then Harry turns swiftly back to the gargoyle.

"Lemon drop."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The kitchen smells of onions again, Ron thinks-- sweet onions and sour milk. It would have made his nose run and his eyes water if he hadn't been so used to it by now, but that's what so many years spent holed up in the same place without expectations of change can do to a person.

It's four o'clock in the morning, but this is the time he usually gathers his breakfast, so he can be out of the way before anyone else wakes up. He sits alone at the long table, the wooden surface uncomfortably rough beneath his propped elbows, as he looks away from the open window and pokes his wand at the half-cooked potato on the plate in front of him, trying futilely to cast a heating spell.

He hasn't bothered to turn on any lights, partly so he'll be able to tell if he's successful in producing any faint sparks and partly because he doesn't mind the dark so much anymore, or what thrives in it. Lately, he's been feeling like he can see with greatest clarity at night, away from the distractions daylight inevitably brings. He whispers his charm and gives the potato another prod, this time puncturing the coarse, papery skin, but nothing happens to warm it.

Once again, Ron's eyes shift out of focus, and he finds his gaze drawn inexplicably to the moon-lit window on the far wall. Once again, he tries to clear his head of so many unwanted thoughts but is unsuccessful at that, too, and once again he finds his ears straining to listen for something that he knows isn't really there.

Whatever he had been expecting or wishing to hear, it's not the creaking of the stairs above him or the sharp clicking sounds of doors being shut behind soft pattering footsteps. He doesn't move. Any motion would be heard. Houses such as his, so old and seeped in magic, begin to come alive eventually, taking on personalities reflective of their owners, and why should a house belonging to the Weasleys be anything but loud?

Right now, the Burrow is in pain. It groans with every footfall and hisses at the metallic grinding of hangers being pulled along the rusting cloak racks. The entire foundation shuddered weeks ago when Fred blew a hole in the floor, and every morning, they find a few more tiles chipped from the shudders, flecks of bright red lying still in the dead grass.

A thin shadow passes the kitchen entrance, and Ron squints to make out the darkened figure in front of him. "Ginny?"

"OH!" His sister jumps back clearly startled. "Ron . . ."

He hadn't intended to speak, but then, he had expected it be Fred of George up to get an early start on their mischief, or at least Charlie going out to work in the garden. He certainly hadn't thought it would be her. "What are you doing up?"

"Just need to get a drink," she answers, hurriedly entering the kitchen and fumbling through the side cupboard. The moon beams trickling in through the window illuminate her face, and Ron is surprised at how flushed it's become. He's also stunned to see her fully dressed at this hour, as she's usually the last of them to get up. Ginny shuffles over to the sink filling her glass with water. "I-I didn't expect you would be here."

Ron shrugs. "Oh."

"I had a bad dream," she adds between sips. "I couldn't sleep anymore."

"Okay." Ron hears the glass shatter against the ground.

"Damn!" Ginny stomps her foot, causing the floorboards to let out a piteous whimper. "Lumos!" she exclaims, flicking her wand, but the tip doesn't light. "Lumos! Lumos! LUMOS!"

Getting up, he follows her trying to pick some of the clear shards up off the floor. Under her breath Ginny mutters a few more expletives and some nasty hexes for good measure.

"Going out to the gardens?" he asks conversationally.

"What?!"

Ron wonders briefly when his sister had become so edgy, but decides to leave it, as he's in no position to pass judgment. He points to her feet. "You're wearing boots."

"Oh, yeah," she says, looking down at her thick, leather boots as if she's never seen them before, "later."

"Okay."

Beside him she takes a deep, rattling breath, "Harry's gone now, did you know?"

Ron isn't sure how to respond to this or why she's telling him. "He'll come back," he replies thinking of the first time Harry went away. "He always does."

She narrows her eyes to looks at him quizzically, or perhaps just strains to see better in the unlit room. "Of course he'll come back," she says, picking up a large piece of glass. "He's only meeting with Dumbledore."

"Went to Hogwarts then?" Ron stops bending uncomfortably and sits on the floor. He thinks back to school. Harry had always been the headmaster's favorite, and he did a poor job of hiding it, if he was even trying too. The-boy-who-lived, youngest Quidditch player in over a century, parselmouth, special Patronus lessons with Lupin, Triwizard champion, leader of the DA, Quidditch captain, head boy. Whatever rules there were about fairness, whatever standard probabilities, whatever laws of magic, or of nature-- Harry could break them without a thought. He was always the exception. If Ron had ever told anyone that he was jealous of Harry being taught Occlumency by Snape they wouldn't have believed him, or if he had let anyone know that he secretly celebrated upon hearing Harry couldn't go through with them, that even the-boy-who-lived's much touted Gryffindor perseverance failed him in the end. By that time, of course, even Ron couldn't believe many of the things he found himself thinking. He shrugs again, and notices that Ginny has given up trying to clean the floor and sat down at his left. "Well that's Harry for you," he says, "always the hero."

"Yes that's Harry," she echoes, and even though, she's right next to him her voice sounds like it's coming from very far away, as if through a tunnel. "But the world doesn't need that now. His bravery, his impetuousness, his bloody thick-headed confidence, soon those things won't be enough to keep him alive anymore." She brushes a few wisps of hair away from her face and sighs. "If anything, they'll get him killed faster."

"I guess." Looking down at his sister's hands, Ron notices that the nails are jagged, bitten down to the quick. To him, at least, Harry has always been equal parts child-like naivety, and a vehement refusal to see things as they really are. In a way, Ginny's the same, just as innocent and just as stubborn. He hopes whatever she feels is only good-natured concern. Her and Bill have always been the kindest of his siblings, so he can at least wish for that. She has never been one for good timing, but this has to be the worst possible moment for her to rekindle a schoolgirl infatuation with his former best friend.

"Sometimes," she says with a yawn, "I don't understand anything. I feel like we're all going to have to depend on him to get us out of this. These things always come down to Harry."

"I know," Ron says, and he does, no matter how many people they start out with everything gets thinned down and whittled away, until all that's left is Harry-- always. He was jealous of that once. Perhaps it's finally Ginny's turn to be resentful.

"But I don't trust it anymore," she whispers, "and I want to so badly, but I just can't force myself to let go, to have it all out of my hands."

He wonders if she realizes that none of it was ever in her hands to begin with, that she really doesn't have any control left to give up. He looks through the window over her shoulder. "Yeah, I know what you mean, but he always makes it through anyway, doesn't he?"

Something snaps, and he feels it fizzling in the air between them. Ginny straightens suddenly, and after long months spent drenched in his own apathy, he finds himself taken-aback by this sudden display of silent outrage. "I thought you would be different, Ron," she hisses, and, despite the darkness, Ron makes no mistake that he's being glared at. "I can't tell Mum, or any of the others. The twins have been absolutely wretched lately. I told them to stop, but you know how they never listen to me, and everyone else is too busy with whatever they think is important, but this is important too!" Her eyes open a bit wider, pupils dilated completely eclipsing all traces of color, and her mouth forms a thin line. "I thought you would understand!"

Ron doesn't speak or move. He knows that if he does the house will scream.

"I'm not a little girl anymore!" Ginny whispers furiously.

She always has been treated as the baby of the family and left out of games between him and his brothers. He realizes that all her life she's never quite known where to fit exactly, especially when she first got to Hogwarts, and he realizes that if it hadn't been for Harry, he might not have known either, but that doesn't matter to him now. Harry's off doing whatever it is Harry does, and he's content to sit back and let the pieces fall into place.

"This isn't about all those bedtime stories they fed us." She waves a hand spotted with blood, and glimmering with tiny specks of broken glass. "All the fairy tales of the baby even the Dark Lord couldn't kill, they said he would save us, and everything would be put right with the world, so we all go on thinking, 'Maybe.' I mean, after all, we have magic and so many things could be possible that we haven't even dreamt of yet." She pauses briefly to catch her breath. "But that's ridiculous, isn't it? I mean, he's just a person, really, as human as the rest of us." She fixes Ron in an appraising stare, but he doesn't back down. "Even more than the rest of us, but no one realizes it and neither does he. This isn't going to have a happy ending, Ron, because this is real!"

Ron blinks. "Why are you telling me?"

"Because," she sighs, looking down at the floor. "I don't believe in Harry Potter."

"Well he exists," Run says bluntly. "I mean he does live here. You see him practically every day."

"That's not what I mean, and you know it!"

"You don't believe in Harry?"

"I don't believe in the boy who lived. It's all nonsense"

"Okay."

"Merlin!" she exclaims looking at him strangely. "Do you even care about this? About anything?"

Ron doesn't care about too much particularly, but he has been getting claustrophobic lately. He knows that if magic keeps acting strangely the whole burrow will probably fall down around his ears because of all the spells used just to hold up the walls. He'd been taking rather extreme measures lately to avoid contact with the rest of his family, hoping things would be less crowded in his head if he could fool himself into thinking they were less crowded in his house, but he certainly hadn't been expecting Ginny to feel the same way.

Her eyes search to meet his but he avoids them-- it's easier to do in the dark. "It's like I want to just step out the door," she whispers in a voice as coarse as tree bark, a voice he never thought he would hear coming from his little sister. "It's like want to start walking and not come back. Not ever. And sometimes think it's all in my head, you know? I feel so helpless here!"

Ron hunches his shoulders dejectedly and stares at the shattered glass on the floor reflecting the moonlight like hundreds of tiny stars. Maybe divination and astrology would make more sense looking down at the sky instead of up. Maybe then things would be easier to read then, but prophesies aren't really necessary. Most futures are simple enough to see in the present if you look at it the right way. "We are helpless here, Ginny. We're just fooling ourselves thinking we're not."

She holds her wand up pointing to it with her free hand. "Don't you see what's happening?!"

It's like he's been hit by an invisible fist. He does see what's happening, he's been seeing it for a long time before now, but he was sure no one else had noticed. He feels his stomach churn and his blood rising to his face. He feels his skin prickling in the cool air, turning to gooseflesh, and he notices his hairs standing on end. Something breaks inside him, shattering whatever fragile control he had left. "Yes!" he shouts, dizzy with the wild sensation of a newfound anger that he's spent years keeping hidden. "Yes, alright. I know! What exactly do you want me to do about it?!"

The sun must be rising, Ron thinks. Now he can at least make out the color of her hair as it swirls in a wild cloud circling her darkened features. She looks up at him with a grimace that's almost feral, and he thinks it must mirror the expression on his own face. "Nothing," she hisses getting roughly to her feet. "Just nothing."

As she stomps away, he hears her heavy boots slapping hard against the stairs, leaving the windows to rattle in their frames.

Getting up himself, he walks back to the table, hands trembling as he picks up his own wand-- willow, fourteen inches, unicorn tail hair. He studies it carefully and runs his shaking fingers down its length. Once it had warmed like a living thing under his touch, but now it's as cold as the air around him-- as dead as a fallen branch and just as useful. He pushes it away and slams his fist into the table causing more clattering from the windows.

He wonders if the house is shivering, if it's afraid.

It should be.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The Office is much the same as Harry remembers, a large circular room walls packed tightly with portraits of previous headmasters and headmistresses. He wonders if the cluttered wall will be able to accommodate just one more painting. How soon it'll need to? And if one day it will crumble under the weight of all those who had gone before?

They peek despondently at Harry, the painted men and women dressed in their finest robes. They stand backed by shelves of books, cauldrons, astrolabes and all other symbols of scholarly pursuit, but their poses are no longer as proud as they once were, and after giving their quick cursory glances, they turn their eyes away from him and back to their painted worlds. A few leave the canvasses altogether. He recognizes Dippet turning restlessly in his sleep, obviously in the throes of a nightmare, while Derwent and Everard huddle shoulder to shoulder in a simple, wooden frame whispering inaudibly between themselves.

It's much warmer in the office than it had been out in the corridors. The room has a thick musty quality that wasn't present in the cool air beyond the spiral staircase, and certainly wasn't present when he was here last, but many things were different then. He remembers it being brighter, but that could be a side effect of the striking darkness of everything else. A small circular window above the headmaster's desk tells him it's not yet morning. The sky remains pitch black, just as it had been for most of his journey. With the world changing as it is, why should this not seem dark too?

Dumbledore sits calmly behind his desk looking every second his one hundred and sixty two years, shadows wrap themselves about his thin shoulders like a multi-layered cloak. As Harry approaches, he furrows his brow, his clouded eyes peering out uncertainly from behind half-moon spectacles, accentuating the creases and wrinkles lining his pale face. "Mr. Potter, is that you?"

This is the first time Harry has ever seen his former headmaster in such a state, and he finds himself shaken by it. This is Hogwarts after all-- the safest place in the wizarding world. "Yes," he answers, keeping his voice deceivingly calm, but Dumbledore doesn't seem to pay him any attention. He instead turns to Fawkes, his phoenix, on the golden perch beside him. They confer briefly, and it's not until Fawkes lets out a clear melodic 'Whoop' that the headmaster turns back to Harry.

"Oh good, it is you," he says, regaining some faint traces of his usual conviction. "I was afraid the letter I sent might have been intercepted. There have, after all, been so many incidents. . ." He blinks hard, slowly rubbing his temples. "I fear they're simply toying with us now."

Harry has never seen this side of Dumbledore. He seems so different from the man he remembers from school, the man who lead their world through two wars, and remained unafraid in the face of another. He isn't hopeless-- never hopeless, but resigned-- yes, that's the right word for it.

If there had been any incidents news had never reached Harry at the Burrow, but then, they had heard so little of outside events that this was hardly surprising.

Dumbledore looks speculatively at Harry, as if sizing him up, and, when he is adequately satisfied, speaks again. "Sit, Mr. Potter. I have some questions I should like to ask you." The note of authority has returned to his voice, and Harry finds it infinitely comforting that there is finally someone he can trust without worrying, someone who knows what's right, and what's necessary and understands the difference between the two. Harry sits in the cushioned chair directly in front of the cluttered desk. "Very good," Dumbledore says, giving a nod of approval. "Tell me, Harry, when you were on security detail, were you ever able to work out what it was you were guarding?"

"No," Harry answers truthfully, though he doesn't at all like the direction this conversation seems to be headed. "I think Hermione may have, but she never told me."

"Ahhh yes, I expected Ms. Granger would understand." He hesitates, eyeing Harry with a considerable amount of curiosity. "And how did you know it was gone?"

"Someone told me." He leaves it at that, desperately hoping Dumbledore won't inquire as to who told him and in what circumstances. He continues, only slightly flustered. "They n-never said that Homer was gone exactly-- only that the room was empty."

If he notices Harry's blush or rushed speech, Dumbledore shows no sign of it. He instead seems slightly withdrawn. "I see," he replies vaguely. "It is good that you trusted them then."

Harry wonders if it's possible that Dumbledore could know Malfoy told him to look behind the door, but he seems lost again in the world of his own thoughts, and hardy paying any attention to Harry as he sits somewhat uncomfortably in front of the desk waiting. Finally, Dumbledore draws his gaze even with Harry's and begins. "There is something you must understand." Dumbledore clears his throat and his focus sharpens. The fog lying over his eyes departs, leaving them clear, but they don't sparkle as they once did. Harry wonders how long it's been since they have. How anything could shine here now?

The portraits sigh without making any noise, and a pretty brown-haired woman he doesn't recognize dabs her cheeks with a dull yellow handkerchief. He shuts his eyes against the onslaught of silent stares and disconnected worry, and for an instant, all the frames seem to become gravestones. How can Dumbledore make it here-- shut away in this cemetery where the dead mourn the living? Harry finally realizes why the headmaster seems so distracted, and turning to face the older man, he gives up any lingering hopes of good news coming.

"Knowledge is power," Dumbledore says, running a careful hand through his beard. "But at times it can be a double edged sword. Some things once done cannot be undone, no matter how much we may wish it so, and once something is learned, it can never truly be forgotten." His tone becomes less lecturing and somewhat apologetic. "I regret to say that I am partly responsible for what is happening . . ."

"What?"

"You called it Homer I believe?" Harry nods his head in silent agreement, knowing that he won't be able to find the words needed to give a proper answer, and already feeling the air thicken in his lungs. "Its true name is the Hyper Organic Magical Energy Regulator. I was on the team which designed and built it, many years ago." His voice wavers slightly, but he continues oblivious to the faint tears collecting in the corners of his eyes. "Sometimes, I wonder if we were really any better than Tom Riddle and his followers-- Oh, we thought we were on the side of good, but we craved power and glory just as much as he ever did, perhaps more. So we convinced ourselves that we were doing the right thing at the time, that it was only self defense. We never gave thought to what could occur if it fell into the wrong hands, and it was only after the construction was completed that we realized what would happen should it ever be destroyed."

Harry doesn't know what exactly to make of all of this. He always wondered if Dumbledore overestimated him just a bit, but he certainly didn't want to admit his confusion. After a brief, tentative pause he voices the question that had been bothering him all these months. "What does Homer do?"

Dumbledore rubs his hands along his forearms, and again, Harry notices that his eyes have become steely and cold. "That's the thing," he says softly. "You see, it does nothing, and it does everything. It processes magic-- makes it possible, every spell, every charm, every curse and hex is synchronized by it. It could control all the magic in the world, but only if it were used as such, which, I fear, is what may be happening now."

"Voldemort has it." It's not a question, not anymore, it's something Harry had known for a very long time but is finally able to put into words.

"Yes, he used his blood to tie the machine to himself. He is now the only one who will ever have complete power over it." Dumbledore locks eyes with him in a manner that can almost be described as challenging, and Harry does his best not to look away, all the while wondering how far into his mind this old seemingly frail man will be able to see. "Life, Mr. Potter, mortal life, is a precarious thing, very, very fragile. But to give that up . . . you remember what I told you, about some fates being worse than death?"

Harry says nothing, but thinks back to the time so many years ago when he first saw Voldemort hunched over the body of a dead unicorn, drinking its blood. Malfoy was with him then, but ran away as soon as he had the chance, and Harry called him a coward for it, but if he were honest with himself, he knows that he would have ran too, if only he weren't too terrified to move. He remembers the first time he saw a dementor and later when he learned what it meant to be kissed by one, and he shudders at the thought. In his mind he sees the destruction caused by the unforgivable curses-- men under Imperius forced to murder their own families, damage done by the Cruciatus-- Neville's parents who refused to give in to the darkness, whose minds broke before their bodies. The killing curse, which while perfectly, serenely painless, is by far the most hurtful, especially to its survivors-- Sirius, Cedric, his parents . . . Harry's fingers absently brush the scar on his forehead. Oh yes, he thinks, there are fates worse than death. Sometimes just living can be one of them.'

Fawkes rustles his feathers and lets out a shrill whistle, pulling Harry from his thoughts and back to the present. Dumbledore gives him a deeply concerned look and continues. "We were wrong, you see," he says gazing off somewhere beyond Harry's shoulder. "We had thought-- hoped that he would only want domination, to rule all the world-- we believed he would be satisfied with just that . . ."

Harry has a vague idea of what Dumbledore could be referring to, but is too scared to voice it, as if that will be what finally makes it real "He's not?"

"No"

Harry blinks hard, preparing himself for what soon will come. "Then what?"

Dumbledore gives him a knowing look, "Destruction." He shakes his head remorsefully. "The complete eradication of all living things."

"And he's using Homer to do it?"

"Yes."

Harry fells his heart beating faster, and he struggles to keep himself in control. "Then it's useless!" he sputters, choking on the words as they leave his mouth. "How can we beat an immortal who controls all magic? It's impossible!" He pants faintly, face draining of color, as he silently wills his body to maintain some semblance of control.

"No, Harry," Dumbledore replies immediately. "There is still a way, one which he never would have planed for." For a moment his pale eyes light with a blinding intensity, then instantly burn out, and he appears in that fading moment older than Harry has ever before seen him. He looks at him sadly and gives a watery smile. "It has been his downfall before." A knotted finger points, indicating Harry's scar. "The inability to comprehend a true sacrifice." Harry looks down into his lap and notices that his hands are shaking violently. He tries to ignore them and returns his attention to Dumbledore's drying voice. "Some things are still left unguarded." He says softly. "Even now, there is a chance that he may be defeated . . . The magic he controls is powerful, but, you see, that is all that keeps him alive."

Harry swallows hard and struggles to find his tongue, which seems to have permanently attached itself to the roof of his mouth. "But that would mean . . ."

Dumbledore's eyes stay fixed on his. "Yes, Mr. Potter," he confirms with a nod, "the end of all magic in the world."

Harry gulps again, forcing down the bile that rises in his throat "W-well I guess we don't have a choice, do we?"

He needs to be told that this is the right thing to do. If this will be his task, as he suspects it must, he at least needs to know that it is the only option, but things are never so easy, and he knows that as well. Dumbledore will not give him the freedom inherent in a predetermined destiny. It would be far too simple for him to act blindly on the instructions of others, and, though Dumbledore has always tried to be wise and fair, he would never be that generous or that deceiving. He would never remove the right-- the burden of decision. Harry knows this, he has for a very long time, but he still hopes for some reassurance, some narrowing of options, anything, but he is not disappointed or surprised by what, predictably, comes next. "There is always a choice, Mr. Potter, to deny that would be to deny your free will-- that which life is made of, but this choice, I'm afraid, is not mine to make."

"Then who?" He knows the answer already. Why else would he have been brought here? Again he needs to hear it from Dumbledore. He needs him again, just to make it real.

The old man nods feebly, understanding that this is not a simple question, but an appeal for reassurance. Harry wonders if he has caught a hint of the old familiar twinkle behind his spectacles, as his fingers trace the smooth curves of the pensieve on his desk. His lips curl upwards slightly, but the smile is weak. It doesn't reach his eyes, and the instant Harry blinks, all traces are gone completely. "You, Mr. Potter, are the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord." As if the words have indeed made it true, Harry is suddenly hit by the terrible weight of his newest responsibility. He shakes his head slowly as the realization dawns then more franticly. He fumbles, his hands unable to get a steady grip on anything and rises clumsily from his chair.

"No..." He makes wild sweeping motions with both arms, gesticulating the seriousness of the situation, and he repeats what has quickly become his mantra. "No . . . no, no, no, no, no . . ."

Dumbledore's voice is perfectly calm as he gazes at Harry with something akin to disappointment. "I have never known you to back down from a challenge."

But the headmaster isn't upset, not really, not at him. The sadness in his eyes goes far deeper than that, strong enough that it has taken on an almost tangible quality. Harry imagines he can feel it swirling through the warm air of the office, and trace its patterns as it floats amidst the dust motes in the fading light. Still, he tries to resist or to at least explain, but, once again, words fail him. "That--" he stutters awkwardly. "That was different . . . all those times, I was doing the right thing then . . . I at least thought . . . I was at least trying . . . I could feel it!"

"Sometimes," the headmaster answers just above a whisper. "There is little difference between right and wrong. Sometimes, I wonder if there's any way to tell." Harry, still slightly dazed, again shakes his head back and forth, but Dumbledore continues. "I only wish we could have understood earlier. I fear the window of opportunity may be diminishing."

Harry sinks back into his chair, once more attempting to regain his composure. After a few moments, his first coherent thought is that Dumbledore still hasn't mentioned Hermione or her illness. "I thought we were here to talk about Hermione . . . about what's happening to her . . . "

"We are, of course." Dumbledore bobs his head in agreement. "May I inquire after the state of Ms. Granger's health?"

"She's sick," Harry stammers inelegantly, taking a deep breath, before voicing what he has long feared to be the truth. "She could be dying."

"Yes," Dumbledore sighs as he makes a few hand gestures to Fawkes. Instantly, Harry finds the phoenix perched on his arm. "You'll take Fawkes with you, Harry, when you leave."

His mind races and he remembers what the tears of a phoenix can do. If Hermione could be cured, then all this magical weapon business wouldn't seem so daunting. "Tears will he--"

Dumbledore looks weary, but shakes his head abruptly. "I'm afraid not. What's causing this is attacking her slowly-- in stages, if you will. It is at work in her body, even now, and cannot be stopped so easily . . . Fawkes may offer some relief, give her more time than she would have had before, but until Voldemort is stopped, I fear the condition of your friends will worsen."

"Friends, what do you mean?" But Harry knows exactly what he means The Burrow had not been so far removed from the rest of the world that rumors of the strange sicknesses hadn't reached them there.

Dumbledore removes his spectacles and rubs his eyes for a bit. He seems to shrink into his chair momentarily before drawing himself up again. "What Voldemort is doing affects the blood," he says. "In this case the muggle blood in certain witches and wizards."

"So he's killing muggleborns?"

"First." Dumbledore gives him a meaningful glance. "He's attacking them first, but you must understand that no one is safe. He is not fully alive, he gave that up long ago and now he seeks to exterminate everything that is. You must stop him, Harry. I believe you're the only one who can."

At this Harry asks the first thing that comes to his mind, and poses a question that, in eleven years, has not yet been fully answered. "Why me?"

What Harry expected-- hoped for-- was something about cryptic prophesies, or hidden strengths. He, at the very least, wanted to know that there was something, some special power he could call on, something present and tangible and real to make everyone think he could be capable of this, but all Dumbledore says is, "Blood." Harry gives an uncertain look and the headmaster presses on, his voice paper thin. "He is bound to the regulator by blood, Harry, blood which was once part of you and in many ways remains so. All you need to do is shut it down."

"How?"

"You have friends who will help you," he says. "You will never be truly alone."

Harry notices that Dumbledore has sidestepped him, once again, and not yet given an actual answer to his question. "But I can't even get near him."

"Then," Dumbledore says with a tone of controlled gravity, "you must find someone who can."

"What?!" Harry replies more sharply than he intended. "A Death Eater? You can't be serious--"

"Oh, but I'm afraid so Potter." The rich, silky voice that interrupts him is certainly not Dumbledore's, and from what Harry gathers the speaker is feeling rather amused at the whole situation. He pivots to face the intruder. From his portrait, a smug looking Phineas Nigellus waves his arm languidly in the direction of the current headmaster. "Pity your little hero had to be a Gryffindor, Albus. This really is a job for a Slytherin."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

On the outer edges of the Weasley family property there was once a small wood with a thin rocky brook running through the center. When he was younger, Ron and his brothers would sometimes go there to play. They didn't have money enough to buy the most expensive toys, but that never seemed to matter then. It wasn't until he started primary school that he first noticed how many things he had gone so long without.

In the beginning, he was jealous of his classmates. He had been especially uncomfortable when a girl in his year asked him how many famous witches and wizards cards he had. At first he didn't even understand what she was talking about, but then she showed him a pack of Chocolate frogs and gave him a card featuring a brightly dressed Mirabella Plunkett, which she proudly proclaimed she already had five of.

He was ashamed to admit that his mother never bought them sweets, though she was a good cook so it hadn't really seemed important before, nevertheless, from that day forward, Ron vowed that he would collect every single famous witches and wizards card-- all five-hundred of them, and for a very long time, he used whatever spare pocket change he had to buy Chocolate frogs. He would often go out of the house and sit where he sits now to eat them alone-- in his forest where his brothers couldn't see and his parents couldn't force him to share.

There were real frogs too then. Sometimes the croaking would be so loud that it could be head all the way back at the house, and he would often spend hot summer nights, when the cooling charms weren't strong enough to reach his room, listening to their discordant symphonies, head pressed awkwardly against the thin screen of his upstairs window.

The place brought back memories-- catching newts and salamanders, climbing every tree. When the winter frosts came his mother would make them stay inside, but that didn't really matter. They could have just as much fun playing with their grandfather's old chess set. It was different now. What they had called The Forest when they were younger is nothing more than a small grove of sickly looking trees. Everything was bigger before, or maybe it just seemed that way because he was so much smaller.

He still went there through his years at Hogwarts, whenever he felt like he was being suffocated-- swallowed up in the frenetic bustle of his household-- a tiny space filled with far too many big people. It was a place to go whenever he needed to get away from them. He would go there when he was alone too, when all his siblings had gone away, leaving only him. They're back now, of course, but that doesn't really make a difference.

He loved it there once, and for a long time, it was beautiful-- constant. He didn't think it could ever be altered. Now, with the boundaries closing in on him, it has almost become his entire universe, and he's finding it increasingly ugly and unrecognizable. The stream has long ago run dry, nothing but a barren strip of mud caked onto a few pointed rocks, and the trees are rotting and will soon be dead. He hates it, that's what he tells himself over and over again, but lately he can be found taking the familiar trip more and more often.

He sits there now, thinking-- wondering how many of the thoughts that pass through his mind are truly his own. He watches the sun beating down on the stones and listens to the rustlings of a few old leaves swirling in the wind, and he suddenly knows that somehow he has to get out, that if he if he stays trapped like this much longer he'll lose himself entirely.

~*~

It was the May of his fifth year of school when Ron was first attacked, but with the other scars and bruises that needed healing, he faded into the background, once again. Harry wept for his godfather and for his burdens, as Hermione squared her shoulders and set out in search of the knowledge that would help to save the world. With war imminent, she would be prepared to meet it when it came. All the while Ron stayed in his hospital bed as the others waited impatiently for him to recover. When all his bones and scratches were mended, they had assumed he was better, and for a short time, he let himself believe they were right.

Harry was brave and Hermione was brilliant and he was poor and jealous and short-tempered. He didn't need anything else to make him weaker. But some injuries leave marks that no one can see. His assailant never truly left him. It lived inside him, fighting for control, and while he was blissfully ignoring it, it was conquering more and more territory, turning his mind against him, one thought, one memory at a time. And then there was Harry, Harry who was always so completely wrapped up in himself, Harry who was always pulled aside and taught things that normal wizards couldn't manage or just didn't need-- runic protection, advanced curses, Occlumency. After all, he thought bitterly, who but the boy who lived would ever have to face a mind to mind attack?

Too late to win himself back, Ron decided it would be best to cut ties as soon as he could. It was the holidays of his final year at school when he began to distance himself from them-- his friends. The process was particularly easy because everyone was so involved with war preparations and the upcoming exams that they hardly noticed him at all, and that was just what he wanted. He would not be a liability.

So after leaving Hogwarts, Harry went to be an Auror, to save any who needed him, and Hermione went to make her way in the world protecting those who would never think to ask for help, and Ron stayed behind. This was his lot, and he had accepted it. He made a clean break from them and was satisfied with that, but then, years later, they came back with Hermione sick, and the angry voices in his head were beginning to grow louder.

The situation with Hermione had been difficult to say the least. If Harry was one who lived when he shouldn't have, then she was one of many, who never should have been born at all. Now something, it seemed, was working to rectify that mistake. Ron had kept away from her adequately since her arrival, and this was especially easy since she was rarely feeling well enough to get out of bed.

Harry had taken his avoidance as just another indication of his selfishness and a problem with death, and Harry screamed at him through angry tears saying, he knew nothing about what it is to really lose someone close to him. It was all Ron could do to force back laughter and not tell Harry how painfully overplayed his suffering hero routine actually was-- besides he was very much in the process of losing someone close to him-- as close as possible actually. So he sighed and shrugged and rolled his eyes sometimes. That was how he got by-- isolating himself from his friends, avoiding his family and hardly ever speaking in full sentences. He was fine with it, until Ginny had to storm in, with her big boots and even bigger mouth. In ten minutes she ruined everything he took four years building.

Now, just Hermione is nearby is unsettling. Even before the incident at the old ministry building, he hadn't fully worked out his feelings towards her. He thought he loved her once, and when they had stood together being attacked, he was almost sure of it, but they were just kids then, and so much had changed since.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Harry is enraged and feeling quite violated to learn that his entire conversation was being eavesdropped on. Dumbledore remains composed and he levels a stern glare at the portrait. "Stay out of this please, Phineas."

"Oh yes Headmaster," Phineas snaps back, "because I wouldn't know anything at all about Death Eaters, though I do hang in a large number of their homes."

Harry's thoughts have long since turned from spying Slytherin portraits to the reality of the matter at hand. He is expected to perform this impossible mission, and not only that, he will apparently have to enlist an enemy for aid, which, as a whole, seems highly unlikely, and he can't help but feel that this matter should at least be explained to him a bit before the two headmasters allow their fight to escalate any further. Steeling himself, he steps between them immediately causing the room to go quiet. "What Death Eater would actually agree to this?"

The question was directed at Dumbledore, but it's Phineas, who answers and subsequently begins to tick names off his fingers with an air of formality. "Well there's Goyle, of course, not too bright. You could trick him into joining you fairly easily, probably wouldn't be too much help, though."

"A Slytherin," Dumbledore says stiffly.

"Yes, a Slytherin," the portrait snarls back, "Boot of course is smarter, but he'd be a tough sell. He's convinced that since he helped with the intelligence to steal that infernal machine Voldemort will grant him extra privileges-- Ravenclaw I believe, and of course, Cornfoot, another Ravenclaw and Fawcett-- that one can't be trusted though. Stebbins, he was a Hufflepuff, if you remember. Abercrombie was a Gryffindor-- just finished here actually, went straight to the Dark Lord afterwards that one did. Hopper, Sloper, and Frobisher were also Gryffindors, and if you wanted to, you could always call in a favor from your good friend Pett--"

"Yes, Phineas," Dumbledore retorts smartly, stopping him in his tracks. "You have proved your point, now kindly be quiet so that I can discuss these matters with Mr. Potter." He shoots the portrait an indignant look and returns his attention to Harry. "As I was trying to say, you needn't take a Death Eater along with you, you'll just require one to give you permission to move past Voldemort's barriers."

Harry rakes a hand through his already disheveled hair and takes a deep breath. "Great," he says, sighing heavily. "That'll be simple."

Dumbledore nods in understanding, but looks hopeful nonetheless. "As Phineas was saying Crabbe or Goyle should be easy enough to fool."

"Excuse me." Once again Phineas interrupts this time with a rather poorly placed facade of politeness, a pretense which Dumbledore returns, "Yes?"

Phineas, looking very pleased with himself, smiles scathingly at both men in the room. "Vincent Crabbe," he says, giving an overly theatrical wave of his arm, "is not a Death Eater."

By now Harry has had about enough. Dumbledore might be old and failing. He may feel guilty about the whole situation, and of course, he's tired, but Harry's tired too. While the headmaster stays safely behind the walls of his collapsing fortress, he's been out in the world. He's the one watching over his best friend-- perhaps the only true friend he has left, as she slowly fades away, and he's sick of it.

This school had been his first real home. It was a sign of hope to witches and wizards for over a thousand years, but after coming here for answers, all he has been given are more questions and more responsibilities and one last desperate mission to rescue a world beyond saving. What he wants now is the truth. Dumbledore cares for him. He always had, even now when asking Harry to do this, his face floods with worry. No mater how dangerous and impossible, he still wants to protect him, and Harry can't even bring himself to face the regret in the old man's eyes. Nigellus at least has the decency not to look overly concerned-- job for a Slytherin indeed.

Harry stands again and walks to where his picture hangs on the barley controlled chaos of the office wall. He looks at Phineas for a few seconds, while the painted man pretends to not see him standing there. Harry balls his hands into fists and clears his throat loudly. "Well," he says, glaring at the portrait. "Who do you recommend then?"

The incisive look Phineus gives him is greatly disconcerting, and while Harry that knows witches and wizards can't truly read minds, he begins to wonder if it's possible that enchanted portraits can. "Why, Potter, you honestly want my opinion?" Harry shrugs but doesn't meet his eyes. "Well, well, well . . . this is interesting . . ."

Dumbledore is also on his feet and places a reassuring hand on Harry's shoulder, "Harry you don't need to humor him--"

The portrait turns his gaze to the headmaster. "Doesn't he, Albus?" Phineas asks condescendingly. "And I suppose you know how to get to Voldemort's current hiding place?" He pauses, giving a derisive snicker. "It seems your little Harry needs a lot more than just a passport . . . what he needs is a guide."

Harry turns to Dumbledore beseechingly, but he only looks out sadly through his half-moon spectacles and gives a despondent sigh. Harry watches curiously as Phineas shifts his attention back to him and leans against his frame. "As I was saying, Potter. You'll need someone who will be beyond suspicion of treason, therefore, Gryffindors are out, as are all of the spies with close associations to the old Order." Phineas pauses and his flat, scrutinizing eyes trail over Harry, who suppresses a shiver as he feels his knees begin to give. "This really is quite a sticky spot you've gotten yourself into."

Dumbledore, having returned to his desk, begins to rummage through some hastily stacked parchments. He doesn't look at Harry as he speaks. "There are other ways," he says, roughly pushing aside glimmering, golden desk ornaments that are all so strange and magnificent it's obvious they must once have had some magical properties, back before all the business with Homer started.

Harry remembers his fifth year when he was portkeyed back to the office from the ministry. He tried to break them then. He tried to break everything in sight, and in the end it was only him that didn't fit back together. Now a glass model of the night sky lies cracked on the floor. The stars inside have gone still and are slowly blinking out. "Repairo!" Harry casts the charm too softly for Dumbledore to hear, but it doesn't seem to work. "Repairo--"

"Stop it!" Phineas hisses, causing Harry's shoulders to jerk forwards. "Don't be an idiot, Potter. Don't waste yourself!"

"I'm not," Harry snaps back.

"You're too young to know what you're doing."

"I'll be fine."

"Really Potter?" Phineas cocks his head slightly in an attempt to look smug. "Because just moments ago you seemed near hysterics."

Dumbledore clears his throat loudly, causing them both to go silent. "We're currently looking into certain locating charms and tracking devices," he says, glancing down at a crumpled piece of parchment. "It is quite possible that you will be able to find Voldemort's position unassisted, and use muggle technology to reach it, leaving your path untraceable to him and his Death Eaters."

Harry turns his head back in the direction of Phineas's portrait, "But you don't know where . . ."

"Not yet, Harry," Dumbledore replies. "But we are making progress."

"But time's running out, you told me, yourself . . . " Harry says, and Hermione keeps getting worse. She might not have much longer. Though he leaves these last words unspoken, the silent reverberations of their meaning hang heavily in the air between them.

"I see." Dumbledore gazes up from behind his scrolls, and Harry understands that he truly can see it-- better than anyone else perhaps. In all his years he had to see the suffering of so many-- teachers, students, friends. It's then Harry realizes that Dumbledore is the only one who can rightfully ask another to embark on such a mission, because he too understands the burdens of assumption and the pain of loss. He's done this before himself. "Harry, you must understand--"

"I," Phineas exclaims at full volume, shattering the fragile harmony only just achieved between them, "suggest Malfoy." He finishes by sending them both the same unpleasant smirk.

"WHAT?!" Harry yells stunned.

Dumbledore doesn't seem at all amused. "Phineas, surely not!"

"You asked who I would recommend, and that's my answer." Nigellus remains nonplused. "Draco Malfoy, my Great-great-great-grandson. Your Potter would do well to keep himself under control."

Harry swallows and tries not to focus on the anger that's causing pain to build behind his ears. Malfoy, it seems, is still able to completely ruin any situation. Apparently, over the past few months, his powers have increased so much that now he can do it from the other side of the country. Harry clears his mind and adopts a calmer, less frantic tone "No," he says shakily, but with a hint of finality. "No way am I working with that git . . . on anything." The portrait gives the distinct impression that it knows far more than it's telling, and Harry wonders if this could be true.

When Phineas whispers next, his voice is so soft and sharp that Harry, just two feet away, can barely make out his words, and Dumbledore, still at his desk, doesn't even notice him speaking. "Fine by me, Potter," he says. "Don't take my advice." Harry winces at the invisible fingertips trailing down his spine. He wonders if he only imagined the portrait winking at him and sincerely hopes that to be the case. "Malfoy really is your best option. You'll understand someday. Someday you'll see he's right for it." His volume drops another two notches. "He has proven helpful to you in the past--"

"No!" Harry's reaction is instantaneous, and he immediately regrets being so loud.

"What? Harry?!" Dumbledore drops the oddment he was inspecting and is suddenly on his feet.

Phineas Nigellus taps his frame ceremoniously. "Very well, Albus . . . Potter." He nods to each of then in turn. "I'll leave you both to it then." He coughs mockingly, saying 'Good luck' in a manner which indicates he means the exact opposite before disappearing from view.

Harry rubs his temples in an attempt to suppress the dizzy headache slowly escalating beyond his control. "This is hopeless." He sighs again dropping back into his chair.

"No, Harry." Dumbledore gives a firm shake of his head, and instantly he looks much younger. "No. Where there's life, there's hope. You must never forget that."

Harry nods dumbly. "I-I'd better go," he mutters. "I need to get back to everyone before they start worrying."

"Yes, Harry," Dumbledore answers, seemingly in full agreement with him. "Do take care of yourself. I'll be in contact soon."

"Yeah, okay." He rises from the chair, hesitantly making his way towards the door.

"Don't give up," Dumbledore says, looking defiantly optimistic. "You still have a chance, and, knowing you, I'd say it's a rather good one."

Harry tries his hardest to infuse more sincerity into his voice, but the attempt is an utter failure. "Thanks . . . I'll do my best."

Dumbledore nods confidently, but as Harry leaves, he imagines seeing him fall heavily back into the chair behind his desk. "I'm sure you will, Mr. Potter." The thin voice echoes hollowly against the walls of the unlit stairwell. "I'm sure you will..."

~*~

There are patterns everywhere, and you can see them if you look hard enough. It was one of the first things Harry learned in Auror training-- that everything-- even magic, followed very strict rules and that people had patterns too. From petty criminals to Dark Lords, everyone had an outline to follow. All you had to do was know how to recognize it.

For Dumbledore it wasn't filled with any of the standard pretenses or predictable methodologies that always made things so much easer to decipher. It was a dance really and a deception, absolutely brilliant in its simplicity. The way he acted, the way he lead, everything done according to his exact blueprints, but Harry understood it now-- the interplay of power and frailty that could exist in a single movement, a diminishing body coupled with a spirit that refused to retreat into the darkness along with everything else. It was how he had never made Harry feel completely used, because he always offered a choice, and the way he managed to fight against the impossible, finding hope amidst the ruins of things he once loved. Harry can only wish that when the time comes he might be able to do the same, though, truthfully, the prospect of that seems rather bleak.

Dumbledore's not manipulating him, Harry thinks firmly to himself, wishing he believed it was the truth. Dumbledore's not manipulating him, but if he wanted to, he's the only one who could.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The hallways are dim as always and made seemingly endless by the transversing and parallel passageways. I find myself at a nexus where seven corridors intersect, knowing that all but two lead to dead ends. Even I could get lost here, if I were careless, but I know better than to be careless, especially now.

The mansion was built this way on purpose. Everything about my family is deliberate. It was intended as a labyrinth, modeled after the Egyptian tombs with the intent to foil our enemies, should they somehow penetrate the outer wards. Now I am thankful for its design, as the wards no longer hold any power.

Yes I have many enemies. I, lately, seem to be in the habit of collecting them.

And yes, I have been defeated before, more times and by more means than I'd like to admit, but resilience comes in many forms as well. There is power in fear and not just the fear of others. Those unafraid of death are usually the first to meet it. Fear is an instinct developed to preserve life. Selfish perhaps, but I have never claimed to be otherwise. I work to stay alive, and so I have. There is no shame in surrender or retreat, so long as you win and the end, and so I shall.

Am I afraid of what we'll be doing in two weeks?

Not yet, something of this sort has never been attempted through such means before. The muggles should be scared, or so I'm lead to believe. I've never much understood their contraptions. I've never needed to, and it will be ensured that I never will soon enough.

They say know your enemies. And it's funny that now my closest adversaries are my allies.

All the same, I know them well.

With what's coming, I supposed this attempt to unburden myself would be somewhat cathartic. I'm not sure what I should have expected, but there are some memories I could do without dredging up. For all my talk of life's natural progression there are some parts of myself that don't quite fit and remain too disquieting to be discarded entirely.

Am I the culmination of my father's works or the last, enduring testament to his failure? You could say either. Both would be right, really. Though, I would like to believe that I am the product of my own choices, not that I've made many, but neither has anyone else of my age.

Even Potter's only given just enough rope to hang himself.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The sun beats down hard on his back, as Harry drudgingly climbs the loose-set stone pathway to the Burrow's front entrance and steps inside. His lungs burn as if he ran all the way from Hogwarts, rather than taken a muggle bus. Instantly, Fawkes leaps off his shoulder, flying hurriedly down the hall and up the stairs, leaving thin a trail of fiery residue floating in his wake. Harry closes his eyes and leans back against the door suddenly very dizzy. Minutes pass before the world stops spinning and he lets himself open them again.

Harry almost jumps back through the door in shock when he sees Hermione standing in front of him eyes widened in concern. She reaches up and straightens the collar of his shirt in a motherly fashion. "You okay, Harry?"

"Fine . . . tired . . . headache." She winces slightly at this, but his eyes move away from her face when he notices the phoenix now sitting on her shoulder with a few tears welled up in the corners of its eyes. He gives a weak smile. "So, I see you've met Fawkes."

Her clear laughter chimes through the hallways as she pulls him into a surprisingly strong hug. "Oh, Harry, he's amazing."

Harry stiffens at her touch and feels his stomach clenching as he pulls away. "It isn't . . . He won't . . . You're still--"

She nods abruptly, cutting him off. "I know." He finds himself reassured by her steady gaze, infinitely relived that he didn't have to finish that last sentence and embarrassed that, in all of this, she should have to be the strong one. Her tone changes from wistful to businesslike, and he lets himself be at ease with this because it is at least something familiar to him. This is her pattern, one that he has traced the meanings of for years, as it gradually became entwined with his own. "I expect it will have to be destroyed for that."

"Yes." Harry gives a weary sigh, and Hermione nods again. She knows why it was him Dumbledore called for, and he suspects that she can also tell he's not prepared to talk about it.

She turns towards the window and swiftly changes the subject. "Have you seen Ron yet?"

"No," he replies sharply. Harry hasn't been able to work out what went on between Hermione and Ron. From what he could tell, Ron had turned into a selfish prick, and Hermione, for some reason, decided that his conduct was perfectly justifiable. He'd hardly been to see her at all since she came back to the Burrow, and he'd been acting like he wanted nothing to do with either of them for years before that.

She only rolls her eyes at his display of curtness, and firmly grabbing his hand, she leads Harry towards the door. "Come on, let's go find him."

He gives another exasperated sigh, but follows in silence.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It is the crackling of dried grass underfoot that first alerts Ron to a nearby presence, and finally pulls him away from his muddled thoughts. He turns to see Hermione holding what appears to be Dumbledore's old phoenix. He wonders briefly if he could be hallucinating but then sees Harry glowering darkly at him and decides that it must be real. Harry winkles his nose a bit before spitting out his name with a hint of disgust. "Ron."

"So, you're back," Ron replies somewhat less than cordially.

"Yeah. Back." Harry finally breaks eye contact and seems intent on staring off at the trees and ignoring him for the duration of the visit.

He stands up and makes a point to turn his back to Harry.

Hermione walks over to him and carefully studies his face fore a few moments before speaking. He wonders if she could understand something of his recent behavior, or if, maybe, she isn't able to recognize him anymore, but her expression doesn't change enough to give any indication of her true feelings. "Harry brought Fawkes," she says, smiling brightly. "Isn't he wonderful?"

Ron, unsure whether she's referring Harry or the phoenix, decides that, I think he's a bloody pretentious prat would be a reply well suited for them both. That was the thing about Harry and phoenixes-- both had this great reputation for strength and invulnerability, but when it came down to it, it was just that neither knew how to die properly, and both cried, but as Ron reasoned, that was probably out of self-pity more than anything else.

From his new position behind Hermione, Harry shoots him a warning look, and Ron returns it with a suitably blank stare and mumbles something in agreement.

Inside his head swims with voices. They give tender suggestions and harshly bellowed orders. All seem to be telling him to get away or to make his friends leave. He knows that he should believe them, that there's no possible way things can end well from here, but then there's another voice, though it is softer and not quite as self-assured as the others. I can give them this, it says. I should, while I'm still able to. Something inside him had broken that morning, leaving him feeling frazzled and raw around the edges, otherwise he would never let himself be so foolish. He knows he's making a mistake, but he listens all the same.

It is then that Fawkes decides to leave Hermione's arm in favor of the ground, where he busies himself overturning stones with his beak in search of grubs. She sways slightly before latching her arms around his neck. "Ron," she addresses him in a deceptively professional tone. "You'll need to hold me up for a bit."

"O-okay." He shifts his weight awkwardly and attempts unsuccessfully to get a better grip on her waist. "Maybe we should sit down."

"All right."

He lowers her as gently as he can manage, which is entirely ineffective, and they both fall to the ground in a tangled heap.

She smiles thinly and picks a few leaves out of her hair. "Uh- thanks."

They sit together, though neither says anything. Ron looks at the rotting trees for what seems like hours before venturing a quick look back at Harry, who hasn't moved at all. Then he glances at Hermione slowly running her fingers through the grass. She speaks without looking up. "I've never been here before, you know?"

"Oh," he answers blankly, not quite knowing what else to say.

"Whenever I came to your house, you never showed me this place."

"Well it hardly seemed important," he replies. "It's nothing really. We used to play here as kids, is all, there was actually water in the stream then." She looks up, and Ron thinks that she must be absorbing her surroundings, as if she intends to draw them from memory.

"Yes," she says with an unusually detached expression, "I can imagine that. I like it now though."

"Yeah?" Ron asks uncertainly.

She places her hand lightly on his leg and smiles. "Of course."

Fawkes meanders back towards them and settles himself comfortably in Hermione's lap. Harry follows, standing awkwardly to the side until she motions for him to sit down, which he does, all the while making sure not to look in Ron's direction.

Ron clears his throat. "So-er, Harry, how was the trip then?" he asks nervously. "Is Snape still an enormous git?" Harry gives him a curious look, and Ron finds himself wincing slightly, almost expecting Harry to give a lecture on how their old potions professor is, Truly a great man and should be hailed as a hero by all who but look upon his horrible scowling face.

"Well of course he is." Harry chuckles softly, and smirks in amusement. "He's still Snape, isn't he?"

With the tension that has been building for so long finally broken, Ron feels himself relaxing for what seems to be the first time in years, and flops lazily back into the grass, listening as Harry tells Hermione some of the latest rumors he overheard about Professor Trelawney punishing some poor forth years for replacing all her scrying water with goblin vodka. The prank had apparently led to a few students getting drunk on the fumes alone, not that it had any effect on their divination talents. Ron finds himself laughing loudly at this, and he begins to let himself question things-- maybe not so much changed as he'd thought before. He hopes it's true, but it doesn't matter-- not really, because for now, time's stilled, and Ron has long ago stopped thinking about the future.

Harry's smiling at him, even though they're not really friends anymore, and Hermione's smiling at him, even though she has every reason not to smile at all, and for that afternoon, at least, they can be eleven again, and for those few precious hours the rest of the world can wait.

Harry's the first to leave. He does so muttering something about needing to write Dumbledore. Hermione leans her head on Ron's shoulder, and they sit together silently. The sun has already gone down behind the trees, but the sky is still deceptively illuminated and woven through with pale streaks of pink and orange. The moon is out already, and it seems to grow progressively brighter as the surrounding light dims.

She moves her hand away from its position on his leg and stares up into his eyes like no one has done for a very long time. "I have to go in now," she tells him, and he looks at her face, pale and painted with the shadows of dead tree branches, then his gaze moves hurriedly away to the to the phoenix that has once again positioned itself on her shoulder.

"Okay."

"Come see me later," she says, not orders like she used to, and Ron nods dumbly, suddenly feeling very hollow, but Hermione only smiles brightly and kisses him on the forehead before getting unsteadily to her feet. "I'll wait for you," she whispers, but he stays silent, and he doesn't turn to watch her walking away.

~*~

It's funny how fast he forgets things now. The conversation from minutes earlier fades into a distant, fuzzy memory and his mind quickly pushes it to one of the darker corners that he seldom examines.

The stars have begun to appear overhead, and Ron lies back in the rough grass, watching the muggle airplanes flying by above him-- just moving lights against the darkness. He remembers that used to be able to fly too once, not long ago, and hopes he'll be able to fly again, to soar away and make a new start, to rise above this miserable place with its crying walls and onion smells and dreams that break like glass-- to become something other than a Weasley.

Lightning bugs come out, zipping erratically around the dried reed stalks and dead leaves, barely upsetting the thickening stillness of the air, and in the dark, he can let himself think that the trees are still strong and imagine that he hears the stream burbling over the rocks nearby.

Lying so close to the ground, he can easily make believe that he's small, and the world is still big and incredible and magical-- that there are millions of possibilities, all just for him. Soon his father or one of his brothers will come out to fetch him in for the night and he'll have to stand and walk back with all the weight he carries on his shoulders. He knows that then he'll be able to feel just how much things really have changed, but for now, he can rest on the ground, in the grass, by his forest and he can pretend.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Fred and George are downstairs, and for the first time in ages, Harry has the room to himself. He doesn't bother trying to sleep, not yet. There's no comfort to be found in the impenetrable darkness of his dreams. Looking out the window, he sees Hermione walking down the stone path towards the front entrance, face lit by the soft, orange glow of the phoenix perched on her shoulder. For a moment, he wonders how she can manage to hold Fawkes up before realizing it must be the other way around.

A searing heat rises in his chest at the thought of Snape patronizing her months ago and at Dumbledore, who has already admitted to being partly at fault and at himself for trusting so blindly, but the rage fades quickly, reshaping itself to purposeful resolve-- a warm tingle that makes him think of butterbeer and flickering torchlight. There's no need for silent anger anymore. The choices have already been made and the responsibility accepted. All that's left now is to wait and to find hope where he can.

Harry doesn't think any of the others understand it, not really. He presses his head to the wire screen of the window and looks out on the pale moon and the darkening sky before finding it uncomfortable and turning away. Not since living under the stairs in the Dursley's cupboard, has he ever felt so small.

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