Restitution

"Restitution"

by Paracelsus

Chapter 13: Seeing Patterns, Old and New

The grey light of morning was in the sky as Harry made his way back to the Rose Cottage. Since no one else was around, he could admit to himself that he was exhausted, weary to his very bones. He'd been twenty-four hours without sleep, nor was this the first all-nighter he'd done this week... The thought made him pause. A week. We've been in New Zealand for exactly one week. Is that all? Merlin's beard, it feels like months...

Certainly, there'd been months' worth of events packed into last night alone.

The Cottage's entrance parlor was deserted when he Apparated in. Harry looked for a moment at the stairs leading to the guests' rooms... then at the comfortably plush divan in the parlor. Mentally he reviewed his options. I could go straight to my room and fall into my bed, which even now is calling to me... No. If I do that, it'll be hours before I can share my news with the others.

Or I could wake them all up right now... No. The news isn't that urgent. Let them sleep a bit longer.

Or I could wait here in the parlor until they come down for breakfast... hmmm, nice sofa...

He broke off his reverie... there was a soft sound behind him. He quickly turned around. He was sure someone was with him in the parlor, he'd heard someone... but no. The parlor was still deserted. You're getting jumpy, Harry, he scolded himself. Lack of sleep will do that. Calm down... maybe a shower will help. Yeah.

Twenty minutes later, showered and in fresh clothes, Harry felt worlds better. He'd resolutely resisted the siren call of the bed in his room, and was now descending the stairs to the parlor. He'd planned to settle onto the divan, there to await his friends... but it was now occupied by an elderly witch and wizard, talking in low worried voices. Harry felt sure they were discussing last night's Death Eater attack.

He looked away before they could catch his eye and focused his attention on the sounds of people in the dining room. Breakfast, he decided. I can wait for the others in the dining room, and get some food into me. Yeah, breakfast, definitely a good idea.

Harry walked into the dining room - and froze at the door as the room fell instantly silent. The dining room was filled almost to capacity with the Cottage's guests, and every eye in the room was turned to Harry. The expressions ranged from hopeful to solemn, to worried, to scared.

Feeling enormously self-conscious at the attention, Harry tried to clear his suddenly dry throat. "Good morning," he managed to say to the room in general, in something approaching normal tones. He continued on his way to the corner table as usual. (The corner table was the only unoccupied table in the dining room. It might as well have had a banner draped over it: "Reserved for H. Potter and party." Why hadn't he noticed that before?)

"M-Mr. Potter?"

He turned to see one of the other guests, a young Japanese witch, shyly raising her hand as though she were in a classroom. "Mr. Potter? Can... can you tell us anything new about what happened last night...?"

For a fleeting instant, Harry was tempted to tell her that he'd been dismissed from the case, that any questions should be directed to the Ministry of Magic, sorry... But no, that would be cruel. She, with all the people in the room, was looking to him for reassurance. "I, uh, I don't know what you may've heard..." he began cautiously.

Another person spoke up... it was the turbaned man who'd played chess with Ron yesterday. "A fifth murder last night, in Christchurch again... and this time, Death Eaters are said to be involved. Can you say whether Death Eater activity has been confirmed? What steps are being taken by Magical Law Enforcement? And also, do you know how long Portkeys and the Beam will be out of service?"

The questions were rather blunter than he'd expected, but Harry saw no point in denying the truth. "Death Eaters are definitely involved, I'm afraid," he told the rapt room. "The Dark Mark above the victim's flat shows that. Mr. Otimi and his Enforcers already have a suspect in custody, and he was still being questioned when I left the Ministry last night." He sighed and ran a hand through his untidy hair. "As for the Portkeys and the Beam, I haven't been told anything about them... at a guess, I'd say they won't be down for more than a day or two. That's just my guess," he added hastily.

He stood at his table, took a quick sip of water, and continued more strongly, "The important thing, though, is not to panic. The Death Eaters can be beaten, they've been beaten in the past. And Rewa Otimi's a good man, and he's already on top of the situation. We can get through this crisis if we all keep our nerve... work together... and practice reasonable vigilance." No need to hammer them with "constant vigilance," he thought in amusement.

"B-But, suppose..." said another witch, "suppose we get attacked... if we're hit with the Killing Curse..."

"This new group of Death Eaters doesn't seem to be using the Killing Curse," said Harry. "Most other curses can be blocked using the Shield Charm. You remember that charm from your school days, right?... Protego? From Defense Against the Dark Arts classes...?"

She looked terrified, obviously not wanting to admit her ignorance in front of a crowd. Harry smiled encouragingly and left his table, walking to the center of the dining room. He motioned for her to join him. "Well, it was probably a few years ago, and nobody ever really pays attention in class anyway, do they? A quick refresher'll do us both good."

She approached him timidly, torn between embarrassment at having the room's attention and pleasure at having Harry Potter's attention. "Wand out," Harry told her as he drew out his own wand. He stood next to her, waited until she was ready, then in slow motion swept his wand in the classic Protego sequence. "Think of the wand's tip drawing the outline of a shield in front of you," he said, and nodded for her to try it on her own.

On his other side, the young Japanese witch had joined them, and was experimentally sweeping her own wand while intently watching Harry's every move...

And so it was that Ron, Hermione and Ginny entered the dining room fifteen minutes later to discover a practice session of the D.A. in progress. Tables had been moved to leave a large clear space in the center of the room. All the guests were standing, paying close attention (one with a camera was standing on a chair for a better view) as a line of half a dozen wizards and witches were drilled in the Protego charm. Harry walked down the line, approving or adjusting their wand postures as necessary, before stepping back and brandishing his own wand.

"Ready?" he asked, and proceeded to fire a simple Rictusempra spell at each of his students. He was going nowhere near his full speed, Hermione noted, and Rictusempra was an easy jinx to block, but still... all six of them successfully shielded themselves. They were smiling when they were done, and looked ready to face anything.

Harry went among them, quietly praising each one in turn. Then he cleared his throat loudly and immediately had everyone's undivided attention. "So," he said, "the point here is that we can resist. We can fight back when attacked. And that alone is most of the battle... I mean, if we don't resist, they win automatically, don't they? It's a lot better to avoid battle when you can... reasonable vigilance, as I said before... but you're not helpless victims. Remember that, okay?"

There was a buzz of approval, and someone started clapping his hands. Within seconds, the room was applauding Harry, who looked astonished. "Uh, thanks," he said, suddenly awkward. "That is... I mean..."

Hermione rescued him by coming up and taking his arm. "This way, Professor," she smiled as she led him back to the corner table. "Honestly, Harry, you missed your calling in life. Remus would be so proud."

"Yeah," said Ron, as they took their seats around the table. "And to think how we practically had to beg you to teach us in the D.A."

Harry smiled sheepishly. "They were upset about the murders. They wanted reassurance, and I started talking to them, and well..."

"And one thing led to another," finished Ginny with a grin. "And once again, our golden-voiced Boy had them eating out of the palm of his hand."

"It wasn't like that. It's just... I had a chance to help and I took it. It's not like I was channeling Lockhart or anything." Harry shook his head at the image. "But you remind me of something... hold on a sec..."

Some of the guests were leaving the dining room... among them, the thin turbaned man. Harry reached out and touched him on the arm as he passed their table. He paused as Harry addressed him. "Excuse me, I've a quick question. In your professional experience as a journalist..."

The turbaned man raised an eyebrow and smiled slightly. Harry continued, "Which would a typical editor prefer: to publish a story right away with only the facts now known - including what we talked about this morning - or to wait until it's all over and publish the full story, with all the details - including an interview?"

"Mmm, for an exclusive interview... I would think editors would be willing to hold the story for that long," the turbaned man replied.

"Exclusive... right. We understand one another, then?"

"It would seem so, yes. Thank you, sir." Reaching into his pocket, he brought out a business card and handed it to Harry. With a courteous nod, he took his leave.

"That was a reporter?" Ron asked incredulously. "No way... he's too nice... he plays chess too well!"

"If you'd heard him asking questions this morning, you wouldn't doubt it." Harry smiled sourly. "I hate interviews, but if that's the price I have to pay to keep him quiet for now..."

"He's a lot more polite that Rita Skeeter," said Hermione by way of encouragement. "Maybe it'll be all right."

"Maybe," agreed Harry doubtfully. He watched carefully, waiting until the man exited the room before turning back to his friends. "I have a lot of things to tell you..." he said in a lower voice.

"So do we," said Ginny. "Shall we go first, or...?"

"I'll start," said Harry, and told them of what had happened at Nana's flat, and at the Ministry. "Kupe's definitely a Death Eater," he finished. "The Dark Mark on his face would be enough to prove that... and I think they'll find that he bought the ingredients to the death potion too. And that means his brother Taine's almost certainly a Death Eater, too, since they were working together."

"But there's still more Death Eaters out there," reflected Ginny. "Kupe didn't kill Nana alone, you said."

"She said," Hermione amended with a shiver. "Harry, that's so bizarre. You were actually talking to Nana's spirit..."

"How's that so different from talking to Nearly Headless Nick?" In truth, Harry admitted to himself that there was a big difference between Nick and Nana... but he didn't say so aloud. Anything to keep Hermione from being freaked out...

"Our turn now," said Ron eagerly, and he told Harry about discovering Malfoy's name in the Sydney Beam records. "We phoned Hermione's folks in England last night," he concluded, "and told them to drive to the Burrow with the news. By now, Dad's told the Aurors, and probably the Order too... if there's anything to find on Lucius Malfoy, they'll find it."

"Lucius Malfoy? You're sure?" asked Harry.

"Well, no... all the Quaero spell found was the name 'Malfoy'. But who else? You've heard about Draco, locked away in Malfoy Manor... you don't really think it was Narcissa, do you?"

"I dunno," replied Harry thoughtfully. "But if it was Lucius, he must've been a busy little bee these last two years... I mean, he was one of Voldemort's top lieutenants. I'm surprised he'd've had time to come to New Zealand once, let alone... how many times was it?"

"Not sure... they wouldn't let me search the Beam records in any detail. Privacy, don't you know." Ron made a rude noise. "But from the number of glowing spots I saw... I'd reckon he went through the Sydney Point seven or eight times in the last couple of years."

"Which is it?" asked Hermione, suddenly intent. "Seven or eight?"

Ron looked at her in surprise. "What difference does it make?"

"If it was seven, it can't be Lucius," Hermione explained, as though the point were obvious. She returned to her breakfast, secretly pleased that she'd puzzled Ron. Harry watched her with a half-smile for a moment, then coughed politely.

"I haven't told you the most important bit," he said. "After Tucker sacked me, I Apparated down to Christchurch again. I had a look around James Craddock's home, including all his records. And it looks like Sigurdson had contacted Craddock at about the same time he was in touch with Lacroix."

"There was a link between all of them, then!" exclaimed Ginny. "What did Sigurdson want from Craddock?"

"Information about an environmental protest Craddock led, twenty-some-odd years ago," Harry answered. "Protesting, get this, a proposed exploratory mining operation. Anyone care to hazard a guess what they were looking to mine?"

"Greenstone," guessed Hermione. "Although if it was a Muggle mining firm, they wouldn't know about pounamu... they'd just want it as a semi-precious mineral."

"But this all happened, what, twenty years ago? More? Harry... why would anybody be worried about that now?" Ron wondered. "And what would make it worth all these murders?"

"Well, we know Sigurdson was reviewing old permit applications when he was killed," said Harry. "He must've come across this one and recognized the implications. But it was exploratory... no fixed site, so the paperwork wouldn't have said where they were planning to dig for greenstone. That's why Sigurdson contacted Craddock, to see if he had any more information about the site. And he contacted Lacroix to see if she could find the likely site through research."

Ron nodded thoughtfully. "He must've located it, or been close to locating it," he mused, "or else there'd've been no point to killing him. And Craddock and Lacroix must've been killed just in case they'd figured anything out, or in case Sigurdson shared his discovery with them... just in case." Ron's face twisted in disgust. "Sounds exactly like Death Eaters, doesn't it? Killing people 'just in case'."

"If Sigurdson was that close," said Hermione, "maybe he wrote something in his files. I haven't finished reviewing my stack of them yet, Harry... I'm sorry..." She cast a quick baleful look at Ginny.

"But that raises a point," objected Ginny, ignoring Hermione. "How would our Death Eaters know that Sigurdson was looking for the pounamu source? Or did he know they were looking...?"

"I don't think he knew about the Death Eaters," said Harry. "But remember I said that he regularly reported to the Ministry of Magic, as well as his own superiors at Crown Minerals?"

"Our mole again," said Ron flatly.

"Or moles... could there be more than one?" asked Ginny.

"It only takes one," Hermione reminded her. "And we've no evidence for more. Occam's Razor."

"At this point, I don't much care if the entire Ministry is working for Death Eaters," said Harry irritably. "They can all rot as far as I'm concerned."

"Right. That's why you went to Craddock's place last night after they sacked you," Ron smirked. Harry glowered at him, and he cheerfully tossed a muffin at Harry. Harry caught it easily, and his glower dissolved into a reluctant smile.

"So what are our plans for today?" Hermione asked, pouring herself more coffee.

"Sleep," said Harry immediately. "Sorry, mates, but if I don't visit the insides of my eyelids for the next few hours, I'm gonna collapse."

"Good plan," nodded Hermione approvingly. "Myself, I thought I'd head..."

"'...out with Ginny to see the sights'," Ginny broke in, "'seeing as I've spent almost my entire time in New Zealand either here or at school.' That is what you were about to say, isn't it, Hermione?"

Hermione opened her mouth to object, but Ginny wouldn't let her get in a word. "Chattel Lane up in Auckland will be fun... they've got some shops there that make Diagon Alley look quaint! And Hermione and I agreed that if I went with her to a bookstore, she'd come with me to a boutique."

"We did not..." began Hermione hotly, then turned and fixed her glare on Ron, who was now openly laughing. "Shut it, Ron! I don't want to hear anything out of you!" Ginny was laughing now too, and after a minute Hermione couldn't help chuckling. "All right, fine, Ginny... whatever you say. But in that case, I need to shower and change clothes."

"Sure," agreed Ginny happily, and the two witches left the table.

Ron continued eating his breakfast as Harry slowly buttered the muffin he'd caught. "Tucker actually sacked you, then?" asked Ron slowly. "After going out of her way to get you here...?"

"She only asked Madam Bones for general help... not specifically for me," Harry said. "I may have been more than she wanted, really." Even assuming she's 'only' acting out of political motives, he added silently.

Ron nodded, then asked diffidently, "Harry... what was Hermione talking about with Malfoy? I mean, what difference does it make whether Lucius has been here seven times or eight?"

"Not whether he's been here... whether he's been through the Sydney Point." Harry smiled, waited just long enough, and explained, "A round trip between Britain and here means two Beam records at Sydney. An odd number of Beam records would mean Lucius never returned to Britain..."

"And we know Lucius did return to Britain, 'cause he was at the Dolmen and he's in Azkaban right now," finished Ron, disgusted with himself at not having seen it. "So seven Beam records would mean... the Malfoy who came to New Zealand must've been Narcissa."

Harry sipped his pumpkin juice thoughtfully. "Which would really surprise me... she went out of her way to insulate herself from her husband's activities. Lucius would be more plausible, even though he was so busy over the last two years... organizing the Death Eater training camps, financing Voldemort..." He stopped short.

"What is it, mate?"

"Financing Voldemort..." Harry whispered. "Can't be... I'd've seen it... it must be in Hermione's stack! C'mon!" And without waiting for Ron to reply, he leaped up from the table and ran out of the dining room. He took the stairs two at a time, barreled down the hallway to Hermione's room, and burst through the door without knocking.

He had a vague impression of someone saying "Eeeep!" and of a bathroom door quickly being shut, but he couldn't spare the attention... instead, he was pawing through Sigurdson's files, thankful that Hermione had methodically marked each file as she'd reviewed it. He collected the unread files and started for the door.

"Harry?" came Hermione's voice from the bathroom... a little higher pitched than usual.

"Er, sorry Hermione," Harry said, remembering too late that Hermione had gone to her room to shower. He glanced at the bathroom door - and a sudden image came into his mind, of the 'Holyhead Harpies' poster in his bedroom at home. For a moment, all thoughts on the case were completely erased...

He caught himself just as he was wishing he had Moody's magical eye, and sternly berated himself for being distracted. The files, pinhead, you came here for the files, he reminded himself, and shook his head to clear it. "Come to my room when you've dressed," he called through the bathroom door. "I've just had a brain wave..."

"If only," came the sarcastic reply.

Harry rushed out of the room, closing the door behind him, and nearly collided with Ron. "Tell Ginny to come to my room when she's dressed," Harry said. "Uh, you might want to knock on her door first..." Ron raised his eyebrows inquiringly, but Harry was already running down the corridor again.

Once back in his own room, he sat on the bed and started rapidly flipping through the pages of the files... for the moment, not focusing on any information on the permit applications other than the applicants' names. Ron and Ginny came into the room after a couple of minutes, followed by a high-colored Hermione. "This had better be good, Potter," she began.

"Gotcha!" interrupted Harry, extracting a bit of paper from a file. He looked up at his friends. "Tonks brought me some Auror files last month, at the meeting of the Order," he reminded them. "One of them was on Lucius Malfoy, on how he'd been supporting Voldemort financially by selling off Malfoy family assets. Including a mining company."

"The Malfoys own a mining company?" asked Hermione, her pique temporarily forgotten.

"They did," said Harry, and pointed to words on the paper in his hand. "Serpentard Mining, Ltd. Which in 1978 applied for a permit to begin exploratory mining for, uh... 'nephritic deposits.'" He looked up at Hermione. "'Nephritic'?"

"Remember what the Headmaster told us? 'Nephrite' is the scientific name for greenstone." Hermione sat on the bed alongside Harry. "We should have remembered that these were official documents, couched in geologists' terms... your search for 'greenstone' or 'pounamu' wouldn't have found anything."

"Yeah - dammit. That'll teach me not to assume too much," Harry said, grimacing ruefully. "Idiot."

"So then... what does this tell us?" Ginny took the paper from Harry's hand and looked it over. "It tells us that Lucius Malfoy's company was searching for greenstone while Voldemort was still in power the first time! And I think we can assume (sorry, Harry) that Malfoy still has the records of that search... but it's like Charlie said last night. They couldn't have found the pure pounamu, or they'd have used it."

"Lucius Malfoy didn't keep those records," Harry pointed out. "Serpentard Mining did. And Malfoy sold Serpentard to raise money during Voldemort's second try for power. Serpentard's new owners - whoever they are - must have discovered the old records, decided to try to find the source of pounamu... and brought Malfoy along. To oversee the search as Voldemort's lieutenant, I'd bet."

"Then Serpentard's new owners... are the Death Eaters in New Zealand, here, now," Ron summed up.

"Among them, at least," Harry agreed.

"So a quick phone call to Hermione's parents again...?" Ron turned questioningly to Hermione. She shook her head.

"E-mail would be better... we don't have to worry about time zones then. Ginny and I can find an Internet café when we're out today. Mmm, I do have to point out that my parents have other things to do besides carry messages for us to the Burrow." She shook her head again as Ron started to speak. "I know, I know, this is really important... I'm just saying this should be the last time we ask."

"With luck, this'll be the last time we'll need to ask," said Harry, yawning widely. A team of Aurors checking Serpentard's corporate records, he thought, and we'll crack this case open. That for you, Cassiopeia Tucker!

"Oh, sorry, Harry, we're keeping you up," Ron apologized. "If there's nothing else... come on, everyone, let the man get some sleep." He and Ginny made for the door.

"I'll be along in a moment," Hermione called after them, and turned back to Harry. "So," she said in an accusatory voice, "have we forgotten how to knock? Or do you routinely come barging into ladies' boudoirs without so much as a by-your-leave?"

"Oops. Yes, well... Hermione, I am sorry about that," said Harry contritely.

"Just because we've been friends for years doesn't mean you can simply waltz in unannounced..."

"I wasn't waltzing... I came to retrieve some important documents. It was urgent... otherwise, yeah, you know I'd've knocked first." He saw that she appeared somewhat mollified, and added, "If it's any consolation, I was totally concentrated on those files. I wasn't sneaking looks at you..."

"You didn't even try to look?!" she demanded, unaccountably put out again.

Harry closed his mouth, swallowed, opened his mouth and closed it again. "No matter what I say at this point... I'm dead, aren't I?" he finally asked feebly.

Hermione harrumphed. "I believe we may take that as given." She paused, then smiled archly and squeezed his arm. "Execution is deferred, however, until you've had your sleep. Good night, Harry - or rather, good morning. I'll see you when I get back." She rose and exited the room, adding sweetly over her shoulder, "And don't forget - I can waltz into your room, too."

She met up with Ginny in the parlor, in deep discussion with the landlord of the Rose Cottage. "Please believe me, Miss Weasley, I do not know how the word of your arrival was spread. I told no one... truly, I would not capitalize on your stay here..."

"And yet the word got out," said Ginny. "We thought it was odd that the inn should be so full, in the middle of the week..."

"I've done my best to minimize any inconvenience to you," insisted Mr. Li. "All the new guests were strictly forbidden to disturb Mr. Potter or any of your party. You've had your own table for breakfasts... this morning's incident was regrettable, I do apologize for it..."

Ginny glanced around the parlor. A few of the other guests were sitting there, somberly talking amongst themselves in low, anxious voices. She looked back to Mr. Li and softened her tone. "Well, it was probably inevitable, what with the Death Eater attack last night. No harm, no foul, Mr. Li... don't worry about it any more. But..." She pointed over her head in the general direction of the upstairs rooms. "Harry was up all night and he needs his sleep, so..."

"I'll instruct the maid to leave his room until he's slept," Mr. Li promised. "And the Silencing Charms on all our rooms are renewed regularly." With a little bow he retreated to his office behind the front desk.

It's a little scary how much Ginny resembles her mother sometimes. Hermione knew better than to express that opinion aloud. If there was one thing Ginny hated, it was being compared to her mother.

Ginny looked up as Hermione approached. "You know, I forgot about the Ministry asking us to curtail travel. Maybe we shouldn't go to Chattel Lane after all. It seems a bit... frivolous, under the circumstances."

"We can walk to Wellington... or take a bus, perhaps. We still need to find that Internet café." Hermione headed for the Rose Cottage's entrance. "And you were right, Ginny... a change of scenery will do me good."

Ginny followed her. "So what did you need to talk to Harry about?" she asked, a bit too casually.

"Um... nothing, really. I simply reminded him about common courtesy, that's all. Nothing important." And Hermione walked on in pink-cheeked silence, while Ginny engaged in quiet speculation.

*

He stood with his back to a natural wall of solid rock. Before him was a vast featureless plane, filled with grey mists. They were no longer the formless mists he'd seen before... there were patches of thicker fog within the thin mists, condensing to form shapes that almost resembled people. He found them disquieting, though he couldn't say why.

There were voices in the mists, he was certain. Whispering voices, too many to distinguish individuals, too quiet to distinguish words - but they were growing louder by the moment. And as they grew louder, he could tell that each voice was emanating from one of the quasi-human patches of fog. He found the voices even more disquieting than the patches.

He made no attempt to approach the mists. He didn't have to. The patches of fog came towards him, and now he could hear the voices quite plainly. They were addressing him, all vying for his attention, demanding, insistent, relentless... The patches of fog were on all sides now, freezing cold, crowding closer. And the voices grew still louder, until he was driven half-mad with distraction, until he was forced to plug his ears with his fingers, until he turned away from the ceaseless clamor and ran.

And ran. And ran and ran and...

Harry woke up struggling for breath... his muscles twitching and his body covered in sweat. He lay for a moment in his bed, reliving the nightmare, before he groaned and sat up. He fumbled for his glasses, put them on, and glanced at the alarm clock... it was early afternoon. I'm more exhausted now than I was when I went to sleep, he thought helplessly. He held a hand out before him and watched it tremble uncontrollably.

I thought I washed it all off. I was sure I did. Madame Dauxerre's Similarity Spell powder had worked exactly as he'd expected: it had let his hands share the sensitivity of Margaret's hands, allowing Nana's spirit to talk to him. But the Spell was supposed to stop working once the powder was removed...

He went to the bathroom sink and turned on the tap. He soaped his hands and plunged them under the running water, scrubbing thoroughly at every crevice, under the nails, everywhere. For good measure, he found his wand and performed the Scourgify charm on his hands, wincing slightly as the spell abraded his skin.

With his hands pink and tender from the scrubbing, Harry went back into his bedroom and stood before the dresser. Tentatively he flexed his fingers, trying to determine if they were still magically sensitized...

Harry glanced up into the dresser mirror and gasped - there was someone behind him! Auror reflexes took over - he whirled into a defensive crouch, wand out and ready... and faced an empty room. "Who's there?!" he demanded.

It was the wrong question to ask... since it was also an invitation.

A chill began to spread through Harry's limbs. Faintly, his ears began to pick up the sounds of sibilant whispers... pervasive whispers that came from everywhere and nowhere, from the very air of the room... intermingled whispers of many voices, too soft to make out words or individuals, but a constant hiss, a neverending distraction. It was his dream all over again, but he was awake now. And the whispers were growing ever louder...

He screwed his eyes shut and beat his temples with his fists. "Stop it!" he exploded in desperation. "Nana, make them stop! I can't help Margaret if I can't hear myself think!!"

And just like that, the voices fell silent.

Harry cautiously opened his eyes. The voices remained silent... if anything, the empty air of the room seemed to be apologetic. "Sorry... didn't mean to shout at you," he mumbled, a bit embarrassed to be speaking to the air. Even in the wizarding world, hearing voices was rarely a good sign... and replying to them wasn't any better.

He was spared the need to say more by a knock on the door. He took a moment to compose himself before he opened it... to see the Cottage's chambermaid, round-eyed and breathless. "Excuse me, sir," she said rapidly as soon as the door was open, "but there's someone in the parlor to see you." Without waiting for him to reply, she rushed off.

A bemused glance in the mirror confirmed that Harry looked no more frightening than normal. Well, maybe the bags under the eyes... and the hair, but that's always a mess. He closed the door behind him as he proceeded down the corridor and to the parlor stairs.

Te Matorohanga was waiting for him in the parlor. He'd dispensed with his intricately feathered cloak today, and was wearing a plain travel cloak of brown wool. "Mr. Potter," he greeted Harry formally. "I trust I am not intruding...?"

"No, of course not. I was hoping you brought some news, in fact."

"There's nothing of significance to report, alas. I spoke with Rewa this morning... he assures me that all steps are being taken, and that it's simply a matter of time... but since last night, nothing new has developed." The Headmaster gave a slight smile of encouragement. "I know that Margaret is suffering... I've come to offer my condolences, if I may. And perhaps ask when she would wish to return to Te Whare Wananga?"

Harry blinked. "Come to offer your condolences?" he repeated stupidly.

"For Mahina's death. Surely, Margaret will not have taken it well..."

"No, no. I mean... you've come here?" Harry was beginning to grow alarmed. This couldn't mean what he thought it must mean... Please, God, no... let me be wrong...

The Headmaster looked puzzled. "She's no longer in custody at the Ministry... and she wasn't at home when I visited this morning. Her friends said she'd left with someone using a Portkey. Their description didn't match Charlie Weasley - we were all pleasantly surprised to meet him, by the way - so I had assumed she would be here with you..." His voice faltered as he saw Harry's face grow pale. "Is she not here, then?"

Harry couldn't reply - no words would emerge, his throat had tightened so. He no longer saw the Headmaster, or the parlor around him - only a red haze of rage. His fists were clenched, his blood was pounding, his breathing ragged. A sense of frustration, and failure, and raw fury flooded through him, such as he'd not felt in years... he knew he had to get outside before he caused something to blow up...

The doors flew open as he walked toward them, nearly breaking off their hinges with the force of their swing. Heedless, he marched outside, out of the inn, away from spectators, away from anyone else who might be hurt because he was close by...

At some point - he didn't know when - he became aware of his surrounding again. He'd ended up in the Rose Cottage's gardens. The rose bushes had lost their flowers for the winter, were nothing but bare canes of thorn, and they matched his mood perfectly. He was on his knees beside a small decorative pool, leaning his head against a tree and gasping for air. He caught a deep breath, trying to calm the guilt and anguish inside him...

And let it out in an inarticulate scream, a wordless cry flung to the skies at the top of his lungs. He pounded the tree with his fist, and felt a knuckle break... and pounded again, and then again, welcoming the tears now, welcoming the pain, knowing he deserved it...

He drew back his fist to strike the tree again and felt a hand grab his wrist. Enraged, he whirled on his knees to see Te Matorohanga standing behind him, restraining him. The old man had a surprisingly strong grip... Harry tried once to jerk his arm away, but the Headmaster held fast. After another attempt to free himself, Harry stopped struggling and glared at the Headmaster, resentful and sullen.

"This doesn't help," said Te Matorohanga after a moment, and released Harry's wrist. Harry yanked his arm back and continued to glare. Te Matorohanga returned his gaze unblinkingly.

When Harry spoke, it was in a low, murderous voice - completely unlike his scream of rage a moment earlier, but no less angry. "They've taken her. Don't you get it? The Death Eaters have taken Margaret. That's why they sent up the Dark Mark after killing Nana... hell, that's why they killed Nana! To get Margaret out of Whare Wananga. They couldn't get to her there... so they made sure she'd come out."

He paused, remembering more details, and continued, "Why else would Kupe return to the scene of the crime? Stupid, on the face of it... look how he was caught... but not if Margaret was his target. He knew she'd be there. He probably had a Portkey ready to go." Distantly, he noticed his hand oozing blood.

"But why...?"

Harry gave a short, bitter laugh, more like a bark. "Not for anything she's done. They took her to hurt me. My fault." He squeezed his eyes closed for a second. "The Dark Mark was for my benefit - getting majorly in my face. Guaranteeing I'd show up at Nana's flat... with Margaret."

"And I am the one who insisted that Margaret accompany you," said Te Matorohanga. There was a note of bitterness in his voice, but in his current mood Harry wasn't impressed.

"Yeah, well... she would've had to show up eventually, either there or at her own flat. Your insistence made no difference." Harry licked the blood from his knuckles as he brooded.

The Headmaster watched him curiously. "Are you so anxious to hoard the blame for yourself?" he asked quietly.

"I'm putting the blame squarely where it belongs. Margaret was their target because she knew me." Harry looked up at the Headmaster and continued, speaking faster now, "You think this hasn't happened before? It's been happening for years! Can you imagine my enemies attacking an eleven-year-old girl? They did! She was kidnapped, possessed, and nearly killed by a basilisk... just because she knew me!"

He bit off the flow of words, overwhelmed by the memories of all who had been hurt over the years, simply because they'd been too close to The Boy Who Lived... Cedric, Luna, Neville... Sirius, Pat, Lavender...

Ron and Hermione. Hell, they might as well have had bull's-eyes painted on their backs.

So many hurt... so many killed... and now it's happening again. I came here to save Margaret and instead I've put her in danger. He made an abortive attempt to slam his fist into the tree again, but checked himself. He sucked on the open wounds for a moment.

"I'm sorry," the Headmaster sympathized. "It's been a terrible burden you've borne. And none have offered to share that burden with you." He spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, with no hint of mockery, yet Harry couldn't help feeling that his friends were being criticized.

"It's not that they wouldn't," he said. "But I love them too much to let them be hurt. It's enough that I have to be." He looked out on the water in the pool and saw it ripple slightly in the breeze. "I won't have anything happen to them. I won't. They're too precious to me." He picked up a small pebble and flipped it into the water. "And I'm expendable," he added, watching the ripples spread.

"You are what?"

Startled by the outraged tone, Harry turned his head to regard the Headmaster - and immediately forgot what he'd been saying. If there was such a thing as black fire, it was flashing from Te Matorohanga's eyes. He seemed impossibly tall now, taller than the tree... and surrounding him, making him seem even larger, was an ebon aura that clothed him in power and authority. The aged school headmaster was gone. In his place, imposing and formidable, stood the master tohunga of the Ngati Kahungunu.

When he spoke again, his voice was low and forceful... with an elemental quality like distant thunder. "Who has told you this lie?" he demanded.

In the face of the tohunga's rebuke, Harry lost his own anger. His tongue felt thick in his mouth, but he wanted to explain... explain about the prophecy of his birth, that only he might be able to defeat the Dark Lord... explain how he'd been, in a way, the Order's secret weapon against Voldemort, and had to be protected until he was ready... that it wasn't a lie, but simply a fact of his existence... but the words wouldn't come out.

A moment later, the words were unnecessary. The tohunga stepped up to Harry where he knelt and clamped one hand on his head. Harry felt pressure on his scar, and an unusual sensation there - not the pain that had been so frequent throughout his life, but almost as though the scar were dissolving...

And he remembered being in Dumbledore's office, being told the details of the prophecy, and how Dumbledore had tried to arrange for him to be raised in safety until it could be fulfilled...

And he remembered growing up with the Dursleys, where at times he'd thought his name was "Boy", and where the words worthless and freak were doled out more reliably than food...

And he remembered the days after Cedric's death, and after Mr. Weasley's attack, and after Sirius's death, and so many other times, when he'd felt tainted, contaminated, unfit to be around decent people...

And he gulped air as the tohunga released him. Te Matorohanga took a step backward and regarded Harry sternly. "Is this why you were so interested in speaking to the spirits of the dead?" he asked. "Why you plied me with all those questions in my office? They know you're interested now, Harry Potter... why else do they pursue you?"

Harry felt tears sting his eyes. "I'm sorry, I didn't know... I just..." He groped for words, trying to make the tohunga understand. "So many of those I loved are dead... you can't blame me for wanting to talk to them again. I just didn't realize it would be so... so..." Harry shivered.

"Talking to the dead is fairly overwhelming... if only because they outnumber us." Te Matorohanga gave a fleeting smile and added, "But I trust Nana." He sobered and continued, "But joining them is another matter altogether. You should not be so eager to die, Harry Potter."

"I'm not!" Harry replied automatically with his stock phrase: "I'm not going to die. I've got too many reasons not to die."

Te Matorohanga smiled grimly. "And when those reasons are dispatched? When you've fulfilled all your obligations and commitments, what then?" He waited for Harry to answer. Harry's silence was answer enough. "Why, you can die with a clean conscience then. I wonder, will you make it look like an accident?"

Harry dropped his gaze... he could no longer meet the tohunga's eyes. After a moment, he spoke very softly. "I'm so tired," he said as though it explained everything, which in a sense it did. "I've died once... I'm not afraid to die again. Death is the next..."

"'...the next great adventure.' Yes, I've heard the phrase." Te Matorohanga crouched down to bring his head to Harry's level. "Look at me, brother," he commanded.

Reluctantly, Harry raised his eyes to meet those of the other. "Death is the next great adventure," said the tohunga gently. "But we must never forget that Life is the current great adventure. We must experience it in all its fullness... its sorrows and burdens, yes, but also its triumphs and glory."

His dark eyes took Harry's measure. "Some of your loved ones have died... we grieve. And some of your loved ones still live... we should rejoice. You love them too much to let them be hurt, you said?" He waited a beat, then went on, "Don't hurt them, then, by leaving them prematurely."

He stood and finished, "And it would hurt them. For though you may not believe it, brother... you'll find that you are loved, too."

He lightly pressed his hand to Harry's injured hand... when he drew it away, Harry's hurts were healed. Te Matorohanga gathered his woolen cloak around him. "Think about what I've said, my friend," he told Harry, and Disapparated with barely a sound.

Harry sat motionless for several minutes, not seeing anything. His soul felt completely drained and emptied... he felt oddly at peace, a sense of catharsis settling over him. His mind was on pause, with no real thoughts forming in it.

Eventually he turned and looked at the reflecting pool again. He could see the pool's bottom, some rocks and silt, a small fish swimming about... He flipped another pebble into the water and abstractedly watched the ripples distort the images. Gradually his mind began to work again, but randomly at first.

I don't really want to die, was his first thought. Been there, done that.

Yeah, but I'd accept death if it came. Nana saw that, back when she first met me.

"I trust Nana"? What did he mean by that?

Margaret said the same thing.

Margaret. She's still alive, I'm sure of it. If I was uneasy when Nana was murdered, I'd be just as uneasy if Margaret was murdered.

I don't want her hurt.

So they kidnapped her and kept her alive. Why? Just to torque me?

These Death Eaters are pragmatic. They held off on killing me because their plans were more urgent. So they kidnapped Margaret for a reason. For her healing powers? Is one of them hurt?

I don't want any of my friends hurt. I love them. There, I said it.

They love me. God knows why, but they do. Wow.

Harry flipped another pebble into the pool and watched the ripples spread, distorting his view of the bottom of the pool. The water settled and was clear again. He watched the fish dart away, trying to avoid being hit by pebbles.

I'm loved. I can love back. I knew that, I guess, but I never knew that. Don't laugh, I know what I mean.

I should probably mention this to someone while I have the chance. Never mind the mickey I'm likely to take, this is too important.

More important than life and death? Maybe so.

Evidently I'm a closet romantic. He snorted at the thought.

Death Eaters aren't romantic. They're pragmatic. And ruthless. Before I arrived they killed three people, just to hide the fact that they're searching for pounamu.

But wait, there were four murders. Roark Haldane. Otimi assumed Margaret killed him for revenge... and that turned out to be wrong... but then why was he killed? He was no geologist... he was only interested in his dragons. I'll bet he never left Awamotu.

Charlie left Awamotu. The Headmaster invited him to dinner last night.

Dinner on the same night Nana was murdered. When they arranged to kidnap Margaret.

The Headmaster said he was pleasantly surprised to see Charlie?

He flipped a final pebble and waited for the ripples to spread and clear. But this time, instead of the bottom of the pool, Harry saw images of light and dark... the reflections of the trees and landscape on the other side of the pool, he realized. The pool's surface, rather than its bottom.

His stream of consciousness had time for one last (seemingly random) thought:

Charlie said Awamotu is on the South Island.

And like the patterns on the pool's surface, the patterns of his mind suddenly rippled, reformed, and fell neatly back into place - into a new pattern, detailed and complete. Harry held his breath while he inspected his discovery, looking for flaws. When he found none, he let out his breath and stood up.

New eyes... see new patterns. Thank you again, Nana.

His legs felt too shaky to run, but he forced himself into a trot as he returned to the Rose Cottage. He stumbled up the stairs and headed for Ron's room. Pounding on the door produced no answer there... nor at Ginny's door, nor at Hermione's. Hell of a time to be out shopping!

Harry headed down the stairs, intending to leave messages for his friends at the front desk... and spotted Ron Apparating into the parlor. He couldn't help breaking into a delighted smile. "Ron!" He pounded his friend playfully on the back.

Ron looked startled at Harry's enthusiasm. "Uh, hey Harry..."

"Do you know where Hermione and Ginny went?" Harry went on excitedly.

"Well, uh, I think they were going to find that Internet café, but that was some hours ago..."

"See if you can find them." Harry snatched up quill and parchment from the front desk and began frantically scribbling.

"And if I can't?"

The words "Then we'll leave without them and hope they catch up" had barely formed in Harry's mind before he swept them away in disgust. Contrary to popular opinion, I do learn. "We'll wait for them as long as we can," he told Ron.

Yes, you do, responded That Voice in the back of his mind. She sounded pleased for once.

Ron started questioning the desk clerk about where Hermione and Ginny might have gone. Harry finished his note to them, hoping he wouldn't have to use it, then tried to think of the next step. If he was right, they'd need... "Warm clothes," he said aloud. "Warm, dark clothes. And boots."

"Warm clothes are no problem. Boots we can Transfigure if we have to." Hermione had just walked into the parlor, with Ginny right behind her. "Hi, guys. We sent the e-mail to my parents, but this is definitely the last time we can impose... Harry? What is it?"

"Something's up, I can tell," said Ginny, rubbing her hands together in anticipation.

They were both taken by surprise when Harry wrapped an arm around each of them and hugged them warmly. "What brought this on?" Hermione asked in astonishment.

"Nothing," said Harry. "We were waiting for you to get back, that's all." He released them and addressed all three of them. "Change into something warm and durable. We'll meet back here on the double."

Hermione looked at him questioningly.

"I'll tell you when we get there," Harry answered her unspoken question, and couldn't suppress a triumphant grin. "We're paying Charlie a visit."