To a World Gone Astray

To a World Gone Astray

Chapter 6

Rituals and Revenge

*****

Hey there lord it's me
I wondered if you're free
Or not asleep
This just won't keep
It seem I just don't see

The next couple of weeks flew by. Quidditch season had started, and Harry found his free-time sucked up by the long and exhilarating training sessions on the Quidditch pitch. Between sports and homework, he barely had time to worry about Sirius Black or Voldemort.

He wished he could muster the same enthusiasm for his classes. After "The Flobberworm Incident", as it so quickly became known around school, Hagrid managed to set new records in amount of time spent on Safety Procedures. Professor Trelawney, meanwhile, had attained God-like status in the eyes of Lavender and Parvati by successfully predicting that the sun would rise on the equinox (they conveniently overlooked the fact that she guessed the time wrong). Worst of all, however, was Professor Snape's class; after the Boggart incident, Harry found himself wishing that he would give up teaching altogether and become a professional drag queen.

Defence Against the Dark Arts was the one bright spot amidst his lessons. After Boggarts, they moved on to Doxies, Augureys, and Red Caps. During a lesson in the latter, Harry found himself engrossed in the moving pictures of his textbook.

"Look at that," he told Ron, pointing out a particularly nasty picture of a Red Cap being 'born'. "Do they always look so hideous?"

"Worse," replied Ron, obviously enthralled by the gratuitous display of blood and guts.

"The blood seems almost lumpy, like it's trying hard to stick together. Look how it rises out of the mud...it's like a swamp monster."

Hermione had leaned over from her desk now, and peered over Harry's shoulder. "Blood is thicker than water," she said, sounding quite like the walking encyclopaedia she was. "Something to do with viscosity. The blood sticks together tighter than the rain can wash away."

"Whatever, Hermione," Ron said. "We can figure this out without your tutorials."

With a swish of her bushy hair, Hermione returned back to her own work.

Harry turned the page, expecting to see more pictures of Red Caps. Instead, a lone photograph caught his eye.

A man knelt upon the pockmarked battleground, beside a deep depression in the earth. In one hand, he held an obsidian dagger; in the other, a silver chalice. He set the chalice on the ground, and appeared to mutter something - a prayer? An incantation? His words were lost in the silence of the image.

As Harry and Ron looked on, he drew the dagger across his palm, slashing it deeply. Harry tried to recoil, but the images on the photograph held him. The blood ran down the man's hand in rivulets, falling into the cup.

Clutching his mangled hand until the bleeding ceased, the man leaned over the chalice and spoke a few more words. He then grasped it with his good hand, and then - carefully, steadily - poured it out in the shape of an arrow upon the ground. Harry thought he saw a quick flash - though it may have just been his imagination - and then the picture went still.

Ron was about to turn the page, but something about the man's expression caught Harry's eye. The sombreness, the intensity - whatever it was, Harry suddenly felt like this picture was important. He called Professor Lupin over.

"Professor - what's this picture doing here? Nothing in the text mentions it - it's all still about Red Caps. But I don't see the little buggers anywhere here."

Lupin looked dismayed. He glanced at the picture, which, responding to the fresh pair of eyes, had started moving again. When he spoke, his words sounded measured, calculated carefully.

"It's an old ritual Harry - blood magic. Probably even older than the magic we practice. It's based on a very difference source of power than we draw on."

"Yes, but what does it do?" Harry asked, begging for more information.

Lupin sighed. "The procedure depicted in the photograph allows the blood relative of a murdered person to take revenge on the murderer. It's very complicated - not something you should concern yourself with. It works in only a very specific set of circumstances, and can backfire horribly. People have ended up dead - or worse - from attempting it."

Harry barely heard the rest of Lupin's remarks. The same words rushed by his ears over and over again. "Blood relative ... murdered person ... revenge." And then another word, tumbling through his consciousness. "Voldemort ...Voldemort ...Voldemort." The wizard who had killed his parents. No matter what he studied, no matter what he thought of, it all came back to Voldemort.

Class ended soon after. Harry walked out in a sense of giddy anticipation. He needed to find out more about this ritual.

Perhaps Hermione would know. She certainly seemed to know everything else. Maybe she'd be willing to go visit the library with him. He turned around to ask her....

...but found himself talking to empty air. She had vanished.

*****

Why all the things we asked
Or prayed would come to pass
Have gone unheard
Like silent words
That slip into the past

Harry didn't see Hermione again until he walked into the Common Room after dinner. There she was, buried under a pile of books, quite oblivious to the outside world. Harry wondered briefly whether he should disturb her but decided this was just too important to him to wait.

"Hermione?" he asked, tentatively. "You busy?"

She poked her head out from behind the stack of books. Dark circles ringed her eyes. "Does it look like I'm busy?" she snapped.

A guilty twinge ran through Harry, but he couldn't back off now. "Would you mind helping me look up the ritual we read about in Professor Lupin's class?"

Hermione paused for a long while. When she finally answered, Harry sensed a note of pleading in her voice. "I can't, Harry. I've got all this work to do. Besides, you heard what Lupin said. It's dangerous; it can backfire horribly. You've got enough to worry about without concerning yourself with arcane ceremonies."

"Hermione ..." Harry began. Couldn't she spare just a couple minutes to help him?

Hermione buried her head beneath her books and didn't respond.

Harry tried hard not to let his disappointment show. He wandered upstairs to his dorm room and flopped himself down on the bed.

"Rough day, Harry?" Ron asked. Harry hadn't seen him in the room; he'd been hoping for some time alone with his thoughts. He sighed, mentally. With Ron, one never had time for thinking.

"Mmm-hmm," Harry mumbled, face buried in his pillow.

"It wasn't Lupin's class, was it? There's so much to memorize about Red Caps - battlefields and lifecycles and counterspells. I wish we could just look at the pictures all day long. Say, that was some picture we saw in the textbook. That guy with all the blood? Remember it?"

Harry certainly did. The images nagged at his brain like the strings of a marionette. "Do you think I could use that ritual against Voldemort?" he asked Ron. "Get him back for what he did my parents."

Harry lifted his head and glanced over at Ron, waiting for a response. Ron appeared confused; this must not have been the direction he expected the conversation to take.

"Harry - you can't still be thinking about You-Know-Who. He's not even alive - he needs someone else's body to manage his mischief. The wizarding world hasn't lived in fear of him since Halloween twelve years ago."

"The night he killed my parents."

"Just think happy thoughts, Harry. Like the Hogsmeade trip in two weeks."

Was fun and games all Ron could ever think of? "I'm not going, remember? No parents to sign the form..."

"Oh, right." Ron looked abashed. "Well, I'm sure there're plenty of other things to amuse us in the meantime. Maybe we would explore the dungeons ... I bet there are passageways out of Hogwarts that nobody's ever heard of. Or even spy on the couples snogging in the Astronomy Tower. There's got to be plenty of ways to have a fun-filled You-Know-Who-free afternoon."

Harry felt flustered; he couldn't quite explain his thoughts. He just knew they were there, and somehow significant. "I don't think Voldemort will ever really be gone. It feels like he follows me, like he'll always be with me, no matter where I go." How could he tell Ron about the mirror, and the dream, and the Dementor? Harry wasn't sure he understood it all himself - he'd never be able to put it all into words.

"It's all just your imagination. You-Know-Who could never get into Hogwarts. Remember what Hermione said about the wards protecting this place? Even at the height of his power, You-Know-Who never dared to attack Hogwarts."

"I just get the feeling...I don't know, like he's not trying to seize power by force this time. Like he wants to do it more indirectly. I can't really explain it ..."

"Don't worry about it. You-Know-Who's not going to show up in the middle of the night. Neville's snoring alone should be enough to keep him away." Ron chuckled slightly at this. "Now, up for a game of wizard chess? Perhaps you'll have better luck this time than the last ... er," he paused, counting on his fingers, "twenty two games."

"Not tonight," Harry answered. He really didn't feel like playing games - or any sort of interaction, for that matter.

"Suit yourself," Ron said, and headed downstairs to find someone else to play with.

Harry curled up in bed, wanting nothing more than to forget all he'd learned today, but finding it distressingly difficult to do so.

*****

'Cause Lord they're not schemes
Can't you tell dreams
Why do you let them slip by
Never even tried

He wasn't sure whether he slept or not. He tried to force himself asleep, to banish the thoughts from his mind, but his efforts merely made them ever more vivid. He watched the rest of the boys filter back to their beds, all the while pretending to be asleep. One by one their breathing slowed, until he alone was left wide awake in the darkened room.

Sometime after midnight, Harry decided that he wasn't going to accomplish anything lying awake in bed. The ritual was gnawing at him; he kept going over possibilities in his head, ways he could get back at Voldemort. If his friends wouldn't help him research it, he'd have to find out about it himself.

He crept out of bed, and quietly grabbed his invisibility cloak. Careful not to wake his dorm-mates, he headed downstairs and out the portrait.

This late, the Hogwarts corridors were mostly deserted. He made sure he didn't make too much noise, but he doubted that he would meet anyone. They were all snug in their beds, dreaming pleasant dreams. Harry wished he could join them, safe in their slumber. He wished he could be free of nightmares, free of memories, free of the past. But perhaps now, by sneaking out and breaking a zillion rules, he'd be able to free himself.

He snuck down hallways and staircases, heading for the library. He couldn't help but be reminded of the first time he'd used the cloak, that Christmas night nearly two years ago. The circumstances had been much the same then; he'd crept out of bed to look for something in the Restricted Section of the library.

He'd found the Mirror of Erised then. Harry remembered its clear glass pane, showing his family, all his relatives going back and back and back. That was his heart's desire, his deepest longing. To have his parents back, someone who would be there when the darkness seemed foreboding and oppressive, someone who knew that things would be okay.

He couldn't bring them back. He knew that now.

But perhaps he could avenge their deaths. Perhaps he could make up for the twelve years of time that had been stolen from them, the two lives that had been lost forever.

Perhaps.

He reached the library door and tugged it open. The tall stacks stood alone in the middle of the library, sentinels guarding the lore of the ages. Somewhere, buried deep in a forbidden book, lay the secrets that would allow Harry to pay back Voldemort once and for all.

Wrapping the invisibility cloak tight around him, he shuffled through the library. Nothing lay within the stacks here. He was sure of it. Information as old - and as risky, according to Lupin - as this would not be available for students' perusal. Hand trembling in anticipation, he grasped the door that divided the permissible from the forbidden, and entered the Restricted Section.

He plunged into darkness. There was no light here - why should there be, when any legitimate visitor would have his own means of illumination?

Luckily, he did too. He pulled out his wand, and, looking around to make sure he wouldn't be discovered, whispered a quiet "Lumos". A soft glow spilled around him, casting long shadows on the wooden floorboards.

Where to start? There must be thousands of books here; he didn't even know what this ritual was called.

He thumbed his way through the 'B's, looking for "Blood". Blood leaches, blood mist, bloodsucking lawyers. Nothing about rituals. Harry sighed in disappointment. Could it be filed under something else?

He moved on to 'F', looking for "Family". Glancing in muted interest at some of the titles on the shelf, he could help but chuckle softly. "Spells to Bind Your Marriage Together"? "Take a Wand To Your Unruly Brats"? "Love Potions for the Charismatically Challenged"? It seemed like wizards throughout the ages had dealt with the same problems Muggles had.

Still, there was nothing about rituals or revenge. Plenty about murdered relatives, but most of those were handbooks on making the bodies disappear. That wasn't exactly what Harry had in mind.

Off in the corner, a floorboard creaked. Harry jumped slightly, and almost extinguished his wand. But it was only a rat, which scurried by his feet in a flurry of activity.

He returned to his search, methodically going down the row of books. He knew he couldn't afford to linger on each book, but some looked awfully interesting. "Death Omens: What to Do When You Know the Worst Is Coming", for one. He'd seen that book on sale at Flourish and Blotts, but hadn't had time to read through it. Now, however, he had all night; surely there'd be time to have a quick glance and still find the ritual he was looking for.

Quickly, surreptitiously, he pulled it off the shelf and illuminated the page with his wand. He found it engrossing; everything from the tea leaves that he had hated so much in Trelawney's class, to the muted cry of an Augurey and the ominous future they foretold.

So engrossing, in fact, that he barely noticed the squeak of the floorboards behind him, or the hood of his invisibility cloak being pulled down. He jumped, however, as soon as he heard the voice behind him.

"Mr. Potter," said Snape sharply. "I see you've taken it upon yourself to do some extra reading. In the Restricted Section, no less. I'm sure Professor Dumbledore will be most interested in your research."

*****

Is it you don't hear
There's far too many tears
Or can't you feel
Are we unreal
To one who knows no peers

Harry trudged upstairs, following close behind Snape. He was in trouble, and he knew it. Out of bed after dark, lurking around in the Restricted Section, reading books he had no business reading. Harry mentally tallied up all the offences he had committed, and wondered briefly whether Gryffindor's points would still be above zero.

Worse yet, he dreaded the reaction of his friends. He could just picture their reactions tomorrow - Hermione's smug "I told you so", the look of silent disappointment on Ron's face, Hagrid's condescending "Cheer up 'arry. I got meself expelled, an' look how I terned ou'". He dreaded walking into the Common Room tomorrow and facing his housemates.

And there was Malfoy, too. He'd never let Harry hear the end of this. "Wow Potter, I didn't know they let houses finish the year with negative points." "Congratulations Potter, you've set the record for longest continuous streak of detentions." "Oh Potter, you better run; it's a Death Omen!" His laughter, remembered from the past and imagined for the future, melded together in Harry's mind, until it became the maniacal cackle echoing through twelve years of dreams.

They were almost at Dumbledore's office now, and none too soon. Snape's silence was driving Harry mad; his own thoughts were far worse than any punishment Dumbledore could deliver.

They paused in front of the stone gargoyle guarding Dumbledore's office. Snape hesitated for a second, seemingly lost in thought. Then, he spoke.

"Bananarama," he said, and the wall opened.

They ascended a narrow winding staircase, leading up to Dumbledore's office. Harry had been here once before, but somehow it seemed more foreboding this time. Maybe it was because now he was in trouble. That always had a way of sucking the life out of the atmosphere.

They reached the landing that led into Dumbledore's office but - to Harry's surprise - continued climbing upwards. As if to answer Harry's questions, Snape spoke. "You didn't expect Dumbledore to be in his office at this late hour? He will be most displeased at being awakened for this."

Harry gulped inwardly. It wasn't Snape's tone that got to him - it was the thought of disappointing Dumbledore. The Headmaster had been his protector since he had arrived at Hogwarts - he'd placed a lot of trust in Harry. And Harry had screwed it up.

They reached another landing now, and Snape opened a plain wooden door into a simple, sparsely adorned room. "Wait here," he said, "I will wake the Headmaster." He walked off down a short corridor, presumably heading for Dumbledore's bedroom.

Harry glanced around the room, taking in his surroundings. A couch stood in the centre, beckoning Harry to sit down. He did so - it was the middle of the night, he was tired - and sank down into the couch's warm, soft folds. He leaned back, only to find...leopard print underwear? "Do I want to know?" he said aloud, speaking to the empty air.

"No, you really don't," replied the couch.

Harry was about to strike up a conversation with this latest piece of intelligent furniture, but Snape chose that moment to return with Dumbledore. "This miscreant," Snape said, glancing harshly at Harry, "was found out of bed at night in the Restricted Section. Surely you can't mean to let him off! Think of the chaos that would result!"

"Mister Potter will be punished appropriately. Severus, I must ask you to leave us. I wish to have a few words alone with him."

"It will set a bad example..."

"Severus -"

Dumbledore's warning tone was enough to make anyone back down. "As you wish," Snape replied as he headed off with a flourish of his robes.

Dumbledore came over to the couch where Harry was sitting and took a seat on one of the arms. "Ouch!" said the couch.

"You're made of stronger stuff than that," said Dumbledore. "Quiet, please - I must gather my thoughts."

A heavy silence followed. Harry could almost sense the disapproval in Dumbledore's eyes. When he finally spoke, Harry jumped.

"Your actions tonight are serious indeed. Obviously, we cannot allow students to run around at night as they please. The fact that you were caught in the Restricted Section, reading a forbidden tome, makes this even more disturbing. Would you like to say anything in your defence?"

"It's just..." Harry began. He wasn't sure whether he could explain. He wasn't sure if he even understood his actions, besides the vague feeling that somehow he had to know more. He took a deep breath and rushed into his excuse. "It's just - in Professor Lupin's class today, he mentioned a ritual. Something that might bring my parents back, or..."

"Magic can't bring back the dead," interrupted Dumbledore, a hint of a smile upon his face. "For that you need miracles."

"Maybe not bring them back. I think he said something about revisiting punishment on their killer. I feel like I owe them something - like I should at least pay back their killer. It's like somehow I know that this ritual is important, that it can help me."

Dumbledore seemed lost in thought for a long while, pondering this. When he finally spoke, his eyes seemed to soften a bit. "The past has its own inertia. Oftentimes the events of years past come back to haunt us. Why, I myself spent years convincing people that my mother was not a goat." His eyes seemed to twinkle a little bit at that.

Dumbledore paused a moment, chuckling softly. Then he grew deadly serious. "But we can't let the past make our decisions for us. We can learn from it, use it to understand the present - but we can't become a slave to it. That pathway leads nowhere."

"What if I'm going nowhere anyway? What if I'm doomed to move through life like a puppet, never really making my own choices."

"You aren't, Harry. If you were, you wouldn't be in my office right now. You make your own choices - always have, always will. That's what it means for you to be you."

Harry sat for a while, pondering this. Just as his mood was about to lighten, though, Dumbledore had to drop another bombshell. "There is, of course, the matter of your punishment. Clearly, we can't have students running around after lights-out. Fifty points will be taken from Gryffindor. And - you will serve detention two weeks hence, keeping the Talking Statues company."

Harry groaned. "The Talking Statues? What are they?"

"Filch will fill you in on any details you need to know. Report to his office after breakfast on the Saturday before Halloween."

Harry sighed heavily. He didn't particularly relish the thought of facing his housemates after they found out he'd lost fifty points for Gryffindor.

Still, strangely, he felt better after his talk with Dumbledore. Despite the detention, despite the lost points, he felt as if a load had been taken off his mind. He trudged back to Gryffindor Tower, eager for the sleep that awaited him.

*****

You say we must pay dues
But still I am confused
I need to walk
And with you talk
Instead of to statues

None of his housemates mentioned Gryffindor's sudden loss of fifty points to Harry, nor did they ask him what he had done. Their silent stares of disapproval were enough. It wasn't that they were mean; they still treated Harry as well as ever. But it seemed like a wall had grown up around him, like he was no longer part of the House.

It didn't help that relations between Ron and Hermione were deteriorating. They had gotten into a fight over pets the day before Harry's discovery of the ritual, and things had only gotten worse since then. Now, they were barely on speaking terms. When they weren't bickering, they refused to acknowledge each other's presence. The whole business was beginning to grate on Harry's nerves.

So he ate breakfast the morning of his detention in silence. In a way, this was better: at least he didn't have to explain why he wouldn't be available for the rest of the day, or listen to their sympathies. But it also seemed to make it even more shameful that nobody knew about it.

After breakfast, Harry trudged down to Filch's office. While he couldn't exactly dawdle - Filch was very harsh on tardiness - he certainly was in no hurry to get there. He arrived right on time and knocked on the door.

"What is it now?" Filched answered.

Harry started and spoke tentatively. "It's ... it's Harry Potter, sir. I'm here to serve my detention."

Through the heavy oaken door, Harry could just barely hear Filch mutter, "Great. Another babysitting job. Does Dumbledore think I'm his personal day care centre?"

The door opened, and Harry jumped. Filch's ugly face was right in front of him. "Come with me, and do exactly as you're told. I expect students to be able to follow directions."

"Yessir," Harry replied.

He followed Filch through twisting passageways and slanted staircases, venturing into a part of the castle where he'd never been before. On the way, Filch explained the details of Harry's detention.

"You'll be keeping the Talking Statues company. The Talking Statues are granite figures of ordinary people who lived ordinary lives, yet have an extraordinary capacity for telling extraordinary tales about themselves. Once in a while, they get lonely, and someone needs to sit with them and listen to their stories. Very high maintenance. Luckily, we have rule-breaking students like you for that job."

Harry breathed a sigh of relief. "That doesn't sound very difficult," he ventured.

"You haven't met 'em yet," muttered Filch.

They had reached a massive granite door now, guarded by a pair of stone sentinels on each side. Filch reached out and tickled one of the sentinels, right under the chin. Amazingly, it seemed to giggle, and the door swung open.

They entered in to a magnificent marble hall, adorned by long rows of granite figurines. Some were full length, rising from the floor like pillars of the community. Others stood upon pedestals, propped up so their feet wouldn't touch the floor.

"Enjoy," Filch said. He left, leaving Harry alone in the room.

Harry looked around, taking in the endless rows of figures. They all seemed silent enough, just ordinary stone. Harry wandered over to the nearest one, a fat, slouching man leaning on the armrest of what appeared to be a throne. He touched the smooth granite of the arm gently, afraid of what might happen.

Suddenly, the cold, hard granite seemed agitated and alert. The man seemed to sit up straighter in his chair and take in this new visitor with stony, unblinking eyes.

"Who do we have here?" it said, a hard edge to its voice.

"My name's Harry," Harry ventured. "I'm supposed to keep you company today."

"Ah, we have visitors," said the statue, softening a little. "We don't get very many of them around here. My name's Nero. Have a seat," it said, gesturing to an empty spot on the throne. "I have so much to tell you."

News of Harry's arrival seemed to ripple throughout the room, for all around him statues were beginning to come to life. Their whispers moved like a wave down the rows; each statue would immediately tell its neighbours about the unexpected company. Harry could just make out some of their whispers above the din:

"Oh boy, a boy! I'm so excited!"

"Fresh meat! Fresh meat! Flesh meat!"

"An audience! To the stage!"

"Target practice. Muah."

Harry gulped - perhaps was Filch was right, and this would a tougher job than he bargained for. He didn't have much time to ponder that, though, for the fat man was demanding his attention. "Ignore them. I grabbed you first!" Sure enough, the man's granite arm was now locked around his hand. There was no escape.

Harry spent the next two hours listening to every tale the fat man - he called himself Nero - had to offer. Most were horrendously boring; Harry had no desire to listen to how he had once been an emperor and had orphan servants at his beck and call all day. Nor did he wish to hear about the man's extensive wardrobe, or how once a tailor had managed to trick him into running around naked. The thought very nearly made Harry sick, and it was all he could do to keep from visibly shuddering.

Taking advantage of a break in the emperor's story, Harry excused himself and attempted to check out some of the other statues. "Come back," cried the emperor, "you haven't heard about my grandson's marriage to a chicken!"

"Some other time," Harry called. Hopefully never.

He sat down next to a statue of a teenage girl. "About time," she said. "I thought that Nero would never give you up." She giggled slightly, a nervous, girlish giggle. "It's my turn now. So, you like doing a magic?"

Harry nodded solemnly.

"Me too. I was quite a witch in my days. Why, this one time, at wand camp..."

Harry got up and left immediately.

His eyes rested on a pair of statues sitting on pedestals nearby. One was a duck, the other a wolf; quite a change from the humans that littered the hall. He walked over to them.

The duck seemed to bounce up and down a little. "Mello!" it cried. "I'm Quackadilly; this is my wife, Little Miss Pusskins." It indicated the wolf with a smile. Strange name for a wolf.

Pusskins seemed to think so too. "I am not a Pusskins! I much prefer 'Filches-Lover-Chan'."

Harry raised an eyebrow at this. Quackadilly, however, went on, unfazed.

"Hush, Little Miss Pusskins. You are if I say so. Don't make me eat you." Quackadilly opened her bill, showing long rows of razor sharp teeth.

Pusskins hopped off her pedestal and hid behind Harry. "M-m-my," she stammered, "what big t-t-teeth you have."

"All the better to eat you with!" said Quackadilly, and the two began a whirlwind chase around Harry.

"Stop!" cried Harry. Their antics were making him quite dizzy, and even though this was supposed to be a punishment, he was sure this was not part of the job description. "Get back on your pedestals."

Grudgingly, they gave up on Duck-Duck-Wolf and hopped back up. "She started it," Quackadilly muttered.

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

Harry groaned.

"Did not times a million!" whined Pusskins.

"Did too times infinity!"

Out of nowhere, Pusskins produced a sawed-off shotgun. In one fluid motion, she cocked it and peppered Quackadilly's head with lead. Most of the pellets scattered harmlessly off the granite, and Quackadilly seemed no worse for the wear (though a little miffed), but Harry decided it was time to move on to safer statues.

He walked tentatively over to an old, wizened man in the corner. "Hello," he said, introducing himself to the statue. "You haven't been running around naked, have you? No stories from wand camp? No concealed weapons?"

"Alas, no," the man replied and fell silent. Taken aback by the 'alas', Harry worried whether he was any better off here. But everyone here was a little nutty, and he had to spend his detention talking to something. Might as well be this taciturn old man.

They sat for a while, the statue's gaze upon Quackadilly and Pusskins, who had resumed their feuding. Finally, suddenly, he spoke. "I used to have kids like them. A wife and kids. Friends. People around me."

"And what happened?" Harry asked, not sure if he wanted to know the answer.

"I killed them." He said it so calmly, so simply, that Harry felt as if a stone dagger had been plunged into his own heart. What kind of a man was he talking to?

The statue must have sensed some of Harry's uneasiness, for it continued on. "Not with my own hands, of course. Nor with guns -" he glanced over at Pusskins, who was now brandishing an Uzi. "I killed them with neglect.

"I thought my job and my ambitions were more important. People were just incidentals, something to be used to finish the task at hand. They didn't matter in the grand scheme of things.

"I was wrong. When my family died, I would have done anything - anything - to bring them back. I was a different person. But that just made things worse, because now I was neglecting my friends. They tried to reach out to me, tried to help - but I pushed them away. One by one, they left, giving up on me.

"And so here I am - a heart of stone." Harry was sure that if the statue could have wept, it would have. But no tears came; it was just a lifeless hunk of rock.

The door to the cavern opened. Filch was back; Harry's detention was over. None too soon, either - Pusskins had gotten hold of a bazooka, and was now gleefully blowing things up. Harry got up and walked out of the chamber, the old man's words tugging at his soul.

*****

'Cause Lord they're not schemes
Can't you tell dreams
Why do you let them slip by
Never even tried

"Where've you been all day?" Ron asked as soon as Harry returned to the Common Room.

"I had detention," Harry replied, not wanting to discuss the subject further. Ron had other ideas, however, and refused to let it drop.

"And you didn't tell us? Geez Harry, we coulda gotten you out of it. I've been worrying all day about where you were, and it was all just a bloody detention? Why didn't you mention something over breakfast?"

"I didn't want to bother you," Harry mumbled. "Sorry."

"What'd you do anyway," Ron asked, a conspiratorial look upon his face, "shave Filch's pussy?"

"Ron!" came Hermione's indignant squeak from behind an enormous stack of books. "Don't be so crude."

"Cat, Hermione. Get your mind out of the gutter."

"I'm never letting you come near Crookshanks again." As if on cue, Hermione's ferocious ginger cat crawled into her lap and snuggled up against her.

"As if I'd want to. That tiger would likely bite my hand off."

"Good. Maybe he could take off your mouth too," Hermione sniped. Pointedly ignoring Ron's attempt at a come-back, she buried her head in her books again and didn't look up.

"Mental, that one. Absolutely mental," Ron said, dropping his voice so Hermione couldn't hear.

"You've said that already. Many times."

"Well, it bears repeating. Anyway, what'd you do to get yourself in so much trouble? I noticed we suddenly dropped by 50 points a couple weeks ago. Was it really that bad?"

"Yes. I don't want to talk about it."

"Aww, come on Harry, I tell you about all the nasty stuff I do."

"Sometimes I wished you didn't," Harry muttered.

Ron pretended not to hear that. He continued to nag Harry.

"Alright, I'll tell," Harry said. "I put a shrinking charm in Professor Snape's underwear."

"Really?" Ron's eyes widened in surprise. He seemed to hold Harry in even higher esteem now.

"No. But it almost got you to stop pestering me."

Ron looked crestfallen. "Aww, Harry. I tell you everything. Why can't you share just this one naughty deed?"

Harry sighed. "Fine. If you must know, I went to the library to research the ritual Lupin told us about. After dark. In the Restricted Section. Professor Snape caught me."

Ron let out a deep breath of appreciation. Hermione, however, held another opinion. She peeked out from behind her books, and cast Harry a disapproving look. "You heard what Professor Lupin said. That's a dangerous ritual. You could end up dead - or worse!"

Ron cut in before Harry could reply. "Thank you very much, Miss Student Handbook. If Harry had wanted your permission, he would have asked."

"I don't recall him telling you either," she shot back. "The rules are there for a reason. Nobody wants to see him get hurt."

"Harry's quite capable of taking care of himself. He's defeated You-Know-Who three times already. A little ritual isn't going to kill him."

Harry really didn't like where this conversation was going. Aside from the fact that they'd entirely forgotten his presence, they were now touching on subjects that he'd rather not touch. He moved as if to speak. Unfortunately, Hermione pre-empted him.

"There are fates worse than death. We really don't know what this ritual does. It could be anything - maybe he needs to sell his soul or something! He might end up trading everything away before he even knows it."

Ron dismissed her argument. "Oh, stop your worrying. Nothing bad's going to happen."

"Nobody thought anything bad was going to happen to Harry's parents, and look what..."

Harry couldn't take it anymore. He got up, mid-sentence, and headed up the stairs to his dorm room. Ron and Hermione could bicker amongst themselves, for all he cared. He just didn't want to hear it.

*****

'Cause you take all the fame
Who'll accept the blame
For all the hurt
Down here on earth
Unnecessary pain

Alone in his room, Harry lay down on his bed, willing himself to sleep. It was still early, but he wanted the day to end. He wanted tomorrow to come and wash away everything that had happened today, everything he'd heard, everything he'd done, everything he'd fought over.

Fat chance.

All he could do was lie still and dream. Except the dreams didn't come. Instead, he lay awake, tossing and turning, fighting the memories of the day just past and the day long ago.

The more he fought, the more they imprinted themselves on his mind.

Finally giving up, he got out of bed and walked over to the bathroom. Maybe some cool water on his face would help. He stood in front of the sink, gazing at the mirror.

He blinked. Had something changed? Would this be a repeat of his experiences in the back room of Borgin and Burkes? Were any objects in the wizarding world not alive?

He stared at his reflection again, looking for differences. Did his scar suddenly seem darker? No, that was just the light. After a long while, he managed to convince himself that there was nothing to worry about.

But something was different.

The reflection wasn't moving, or talking, or doing anything unnerving like that. All the facial features were the same - it was his reflection. And yet it wasn't.

"Who are you?" he snapped at his reflection. "What do you want?"

The reflection just stood there silently.

"Are you the person everybody sees? The person everybody thinks is me?" Suddenly realizing the absurdity of the conversation - Harry Potter, talking to his reflection - he stopped. But the thoughts wouldn't go away; they just echoed in his mind.

Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. The one who defeated Lord Voldemort and brought the wizarding world out of its dark ages. The child who everybody expected great things from, the teenager who everybody sheltered and idolized and looked up to.

If they could only see past the glass, past the brittle, breakable exterior. Maybe then they'd be able to see him for what he really was, and not what they wanted to see.

They'd see an orphan, lost, scared, and alone. They'd see a boy who broke rules and got detentions and snapped at his friends. They'd see - Harry didn't know what they'd see.

Far cry from the hero that everybody thought he was. 'Excuse me Dark Lord, mind waiting a moment while I pass out?' Somehow, Harry doubted that was a line that would strike fear into his enemies.

But still, they had their expectations. And expectations had a way of becoming all that people saw, unless they were so thoroughly shaken that nobody knew what to believe. Was that what was going to happen? All the usual assumptions, destroyed?

Normally he'd be able to talk about his fears with Ron or Hermione. But they seemed so wrapped up in their own squabble to talk to him. Everyone, it seemed, had their own problems, and so Harry would need to face his own himself.

And so he looked his reflection straight in the eye, and began getting ready for bed.

*****

Can we be tired of you
Is that something we're allowed to do
For even the blind change their views
And it's time we tried something new

His eyes flickered open. It was morning; the soft October light filtered in through the window. No dreams, mercifully. Just calm, restful sleep.

Harry glanced around the deserted dorm room. Everyone had already gone down to breakfast. His stomach told him to join them, but something deeper inside objected. He wanted nothing more than to be alone and unnoticed at the moment.

Eventually, his stomach won out, and he got dressed and headed down to breakfast. Not having anywhere else to sit, he took his place between Ron and Hermione. Strangely, they seemed perfectly cordial.

"Morning Harry," Ron said. "You went to bed early last night. Sleep well?"

Harry just grunted acknowledgement.

"Harry, what's wrong?" asked Hermione. "You left abruptly last night - is something bugging you?"

And this was why he wanted to stay alone in his room. "No. Don't worry about it," Harry said.

"Harry, we're concerned -" began Hermione.

Harry cut her off. "Look, I don't need your sympathy. If I needed a therapist, I'd go see Madame Pomfrey. Or maybe not."

"Harry, it's because we care about you," she pleaded, Ron nodding in agreement. "It feels like you're shutting yourself off from us. Why?"

"Can we please talk about something else?" Harry asked. He didn't need to burden them with his demons - why couldn't they just leave it at that? Why did they have to constantly badger him?

"Harry -" Hermione began. She was interrupted by Ron.

"Do you want us to bring back anything from Hogsmeade?"

Oh, right. Today was the Hogsmeade trip. With everything else on his mind, Harry had almost forgotten. Still, it seemed safer than detentions and Dementors and demerits.

"Nah, I'm okay. Have fun." Harry did his best to keep his bitterness from creeping into his voice, but wasn't so sure how successful he was.

Hermione must have picked up on the hurt in his voice. "We'll bring you lots of sweets back from Honeydukes," she volunteered.

"Yeah, loads," Ron added.

Hadn't he just told them he didn't want pity? "Don't worry about me," said Harry, doing his best to deflect their concern. "I'll see you at the feast. Have a good time."

"Are you sure?" Hermione asked.

"Of course," Harry replied, putting a smile on his face. "I'll be fine." He got up and walked with them to the Entrance Hall, where they'd be departing to Hogsmeade from. He watched them file out the doors, doing his best to keep the envy out of his gaze, and then walked back up to Gryffindor Tower.

*****

So I pled my case
I'll now pull my escape
Didn't mean to doubt
What it's all about
Seems I forgot my place

Fortunately, the rest of Harry's day went much better. He'd talked to Professor Lupin - at least he had some pleasant company to pass the day with. Then, Ron and Hermione had returned from Honeydukes with fistfuls of sweets, which they were all too happy to share with Harry. After gorging themselves on enough sugar to turn an Oompa-Loompa into a candy-cane, they headed downstairs to the Halloween feast. There they were treated to a splendid display of decorations, great food, and some marvelous ghostly entertainment. By the time they were ready to head back to their dormitories, Harry doubted that anything could ruin the night.

Until they reached the portrait.

The crowd stopped suddenly, sending a ripple effect through the Gryffindors gathered in the hallway. All around him, Harry could hear hushed, worried whispers. The corridor was jammed packed; even standing on tiptoes, Harry couldn't see the source of all the commotion.

Over the murmurs, Harry heard Percy's pompous voice. "Let me through, please. What's the hold-up here?"

Ron grabbed onto him and Hermione and pulled the two of them along in Percy's wake. "We'll be able to see better up front," he whispered. The tower had suddenly gone quiet. Harry strained to get into a position where he could see what was going on.

"Somebody get Professor Dumbledore. Quick," came Percy's strained voice.

Just like that, Dumbledore was there, and the crowd parted effortlessly to let him past. In the gap formed by his passage, Harry caught a glimpse of the portrait.

It had been slashed. Mutilated. The tattered canvas lay in strips, dangling grotesquely from the frame. Some pieces lay scattered about, reminding Harry of a dismembered corpse.

"Oh my!" Hermione's shocked voice echoed Harry's feelings. He felt her trembling hand on his arm.

Through the buzzing in his ears, Harry could hear Dumbledore's commanding voice barking orders, followed by McGonagall and Snape rushing off. But his eyes remained glued to the ripped painting.

Shreds of canvas hang limply, reminding Harry of a slimy decaying hand - a hand he'd seen before. He shuddered slightly, remembering the Dementor on the train. Why did everything suddenly have to take on a sinister significance? It's just a painting, he reminded himself.

"Harry, are you okay?" Hermione asked. She tugged on his sleeve, forcing his gaze away from the painting. Her eyes locked onto his.

"It's just -" Harry began. "It's just horrible. The poor Fat Lady. I hope she's okay."

"Dumbledore's having the staff search the castle for her," Ron said. "He's got everything under control."

Peeves's taunting voice cut through the din of the assembled Gryffindors. "Oh, yes, Professorhead. He got very angry when she wouldn't let her in, you see. Nasty temper he's got, that Sirius Black."

His last two words reverberated inside Harry's skull, echoing from ear to ear. "Sirius Black." Voldemort's henchman. The one who had killed thirteen Muggles with one curse.

Harry looked again at the mangled painting. He could almost see the hand stretching out from it, groping, grasping, begging, imploring. A red line stretched across the canvas - no, a gash, running down the length. Blood seeped out until the whole thing was drenched and dripping. It beckoned to Harry, inviting, welcoming him.

"What's wrong, Harry? You look as pale as ghost," said Hermione.

"It's time to go," Ron added, pulling him away from the portrait. "Dumbledore just told us to sleep in the Great Hall tonight. Percy'll kill us if we stay behind."

Harry blinked a few times to clear his head. It was nothing but a slashed portrait, a line of red paint on one of the strips. But the vision...it had seemed so real. Just like all the rest.

Feeling a sudden panic, Harry turned around and began walking away from the portrait. He needed to get away - away from Sirius Black and whatever evil was loose in Gryffindor Tower today. "Let's go," he said to Ron and Hermione.

They joined him on the silent walk down to the Great Hall. They were joined soon after by the rest of Hogwarts, and settled down in the purple sleeping bags Dumbledore had conjured up for them. "Better than leopard print," Harry muttered.

"What was that?" Ron inquired.

"Oh, nothing," Harry said. There were some things he'd rather not explain.

All around him, the air was filled with excited speculation about how Black had gotten into the castle. Everybody had their own pet theories, from "Maybe he turns into a pumpkin at midnight" to "He dressed in drag and did the hula." Hermione did her best to shoot down the more extravagant claims, but Harry still heard enough tall tales to fill a large book of fiction. People didn't give up until Percy called "Lights out!" and even then, Harry could hear the occasional comment.

But when the noise died down, Harry couldn't help but wonder - how did Black get into the castle? Hogwarts is protected by all sorts of wards - surely he couldn't have magicked his way in? And it wasn't like he could waltz up to the front door and say "Hi, I'd like to assassinate Harry Potter, could you please let me in?" Even without the Dementors, there were still the lake, the cliffs, and numerous locked doors between Hogwarts and the outside world.

Reluctantly, Harry found himself thinking back to his encounter with Voldemort in the backroom of Borgin and Burkes. "This time around, it could be someone else. It could be your teachers. It could be your friends. Hell, Harry, it could even be you." The words felt like icy fog - hard to see through, but cut like razors.

Could Voldemort have another one of his henchmen at Hogwarts? Harry doubted it - Dumbledore trusted all the Professors, and the students didn't really have the power to let strangers in.

But Black had gotten in somehow, unless Peeves was lying. Peeves? No - he was mischievous, but not malicious. He wouldn't lie about something as important as this.

What if it wasn't a person? An animal, a vegetable, a mineral? An idea? Now he was really going bonkers - thinking that animals could let in convicted mass murderers. And as dangerous as ideas may be, they couldn't open gates and break down barriers.

By his side, he heard Hermione's soft breathing. She had the right idea - go to sleep and forget about it all. Except that Harry's sleep hardly let him forget. He wished that he could enjoy the peace that she seemed to be enjoying.

He sighed. Ah well, at least he was safe from Voldemort in here. The Dark Lord may have dozens of minions to do his bidding, but surely he couldn't show up in person. Surely he didn't even have a person to show up in, ever since Quirrell's death. Harry rolled over and buried himself deep in his sleeping bag.

*****

But if you find the time
Please change the story line
Or give a call
Explain it all
I'll even leave the dime

"Harry. Wake up," came a voice, cutting through the darkness.

Harry's body jerked. He didn't remember falling asleep, but insomnia usually didn't make his body ache so much. "Ron? Is that you?" he asked quietly.

"No, Harry, Ron is asleep. And will remain so until I desire otherwise."

Suddenly awake, Harry looked around the assembled bodies. His eyes came to rest on a young man sitting on the floor a few feet away from him. Tom Riddle. Just as he had appeared in the mirror.

"Yes, it is I," Riddle said. "Your worst nightmare. Or is that too clichéd for the situation?"

"Riddle. How are you here? You don't have a body!"

"I don't? Such a shame then. I was hoping it would hurt when I -" he suddenly brought his fist down, hard, on Harry's hand. The pain was exquisite; Harry felt like screaming, but only a strangled cry escaped. He sat bolt upright, nursing his crushed hand.

"Is there a reason you're here?" Harry asked, glaring daggers at Tom. "Or do you just like to inflict pain for the hell of it?"

"The latter," Riddle said. "Though while I'm stopping by, I figured I ought to remind you of something."

"Great. My own personal Remembrall. What'll you be next, a Dark Minion in a Box?"

Riddle's eyes glowed red, and Harry wondered briefly if he'd pushed it too far. Stupid, stupid move. He should know better than to mock Evil Dark Overlords. To their face, at least.

"Very well. It's too bad, though. I would have thought your parents would mean something to you."

Harry froze. "My parents? What about them? What do they have to do with anything?"

"Oh, it's nothing. Just that you seem to have forgotten them lately. Too busy sneaking around looking up evil things and getting caught, I guess. I'm sure they'd be happy that you've moved on, though."

"I have not forgotten them!" exclaimed Harry.

"I'm sure they don't mind. They're dead, after all. Come to think of it - oh, that's right, they died to protect you. If it weren't for you, they'd still be alive. Why, most people I know would consider that a life-debt."

"I didn't kill my parents. You did," Harry said through gritted teeth.

"There's no need to attribute blame. It's completely counterproductive. But still, I'd at least have thought you'd want to avenge their deaths. Bring their killer to justice and such nonsense. It just seems so horribly ungrateful to sit here while their murderer runs free."

"You're saying you want me to kill you? Right here, right now?" Harry's breath caught in his throat. Was it possible?

Riddle laughed. "You couldn't kill me if you tried. I have ways of living on - sometimes in the most unlikely of places. But you are, of course welcome to try." He shot Harry a mocking sneer.

Harry paused. It must be a trick - Riddle wanted him to attack. Something bad would happen to him, as soon as he made a move. He was sure of it.

"As I suspected. No backbone whatsoever. Your parents would be proud."

Harry was just about to protest when Riddle vanished, leaving nothing but empty air and sleeping bodies.