Catharsis

Two weeks later, Harry stumbled to breakfast and slumped in his seat.

"You've got to talk to him, Harry." Hermione was staring at him fixedly from across the table.

Harry looked up at her, exhaustion making him appear older than his sixteen years. "What am I going to say? Excuse me Professor but I"m having these dreams about Voldemort"" The entire Gryffindor table winced at Harry"s cavalier use of the name. Harry ignored them, wanting to finish this with Hermione so she would leave him alone. "I don"t know if they"re real or not."

"Yeah," Ron agreed, grabbing another piece of toast and slathering it with marmalade. "Maybe they"re just flashbacks or something."

"That"s precisely why you need to talk to him," Hermione insisted. "Because you don"t know. Remember the summer before our fourth year? You had dreams like this then, and they turned out to be True Dreams."

Harry could feel the headache building behind his eyes. He slid his glasses up and pressed with both thumbs at the notches on his brow ridge. "Hermione, if I have to sit through one more discussion of the Gate of Ivory and the Gate of Horn""

"Hermione," Ron came to Harry"s defense. "Just leave him alone. If Harry says he doesn"t need to talk to Dumbledore, then he doesn"t. Okay?" He grabbed another piece of toast and turned to Harry. "And if your scar isn"t hurting then it"s probably just a dream. Right, Harry?"

Harry sighed with exhausted frustration. "I don't know! And that"s the problem. I don"t know if I should bother him with something so trivial"" Harry fell silent, chewing his lip uncertainly. "All right," he said, finally. "Hermione, if I talk to him will you leave off?"

"Certainly," replied Hermione primly.

"But Harry," Ron began, and Harry waved him silent.

"It's okay, Ron," said Harry. "You know if I don't do this, she won't give me any peace at all." He smiled faintly.

Hermione looked satisfied. "Well, if that"s settled, then I should be going."

"You"re going to the library? On a Saturday?" Ron asked, not really surprised. After five years together, he knew her well enough to predict her behavior.

"No, actually I"m going for a walk," Hermione replied, going slightly pink.

"Really?" Ron looked surprised. "Oh. Well, I"ll go with you. I could use a walk."

"With Seamus," said Hermione, looking away.

"Oh," said Ron. He looked slightly put out. "Just Seamus?"

"Yes," replied Hermione. She stood awkwardly, not looking at him. "See you later, then."

"Yeah, all right," said Ron. His mouth was set in a thin line.

As Hermione left, Harry looked from one to the other and shook his head. "Some day, Ron, you"re going to have to talk to that girl."

"Hmph." Ron stood abruptly. "I"m going for a walk. Somewhere else." He strode off, his robes billowing behind him as he left the room.

Harry reached under his glasses to rub his eyes, and then let them settle back on his nose. I suppose I should get on with it, he thought, looking at the staff table.

As he approached, Dumbledore called out to him. "Harry! Just the person I needed to see."

Harry grinned wryly. Why am I not surprised? He thought. Professor Dumbledore seemed to know everything that went on at the school. Not quite everything, a small voice in his head reminded him. He didn't know about Quirrell, or Tom Riddle either. And he never noticed Draco Malfoy"s misdeeds. Harry shook off his doubts as Dumbledore continued, "Would you do me the honor of taking tea with me this afternoon? If you"re not too busy, that is."

Harry felt Professor Snape"s eyes boring into him. "No, I"m not busy," he replied. "Actually, I have something I wanted to talk to you about."

"Ah," Dumbledore beamed. "Well then, this works out nicely for both of us. I"ll see you at my office at, oh, say, four?"

"Thanks," said Harry. "That would be great." He waved at Hagrid, who waved back, and walked out of the dining hall and back to his dorm room.

"You must try one of these, Harry." Dumbledore offered him a plate of sugar-topped teacakes. "They"re really quite good."

"Thank you, Professor," Harry took one and passed the plate back to the headmaster.

Harry was taking tea with Dumbledore in his office, while the portraits of previous headmasters looked on benevolently. He wondered why he was there. It made him slightly nervous, as Dumbledore never did anything without a reason. He nibbled at the cake, worrying about the reason for this visit. The ticking of the clock punctuated his nervousness, lending it an edgy quality.

Dumbledore took a sip of tea and set his cup down, the porcelain chiming slightly as it touched the table. "I suppose you are wondering why I asked you here."

"Yes, sir," Harry agreed, setting his cake down on the blue-flowered china plate. He wasn't really hungry; in fact he felt somewhat queasy.

"Voldemort has been sighted," Dumbledore announced with no preamble. He leaned back, steepling his fingers in front of him.

"Oh." Harry"s mouth went dry. "Where?"

"In Bulgaria. Last week," Dumbledore spoke calmly. "One of our operatives there spotted him." He looked at Harry over his half-moon spectacles. "We suspect he has recruited a large number of followers. But it"s been impossible to verify."

"Oh." Harry twisted the napkin in his lap.

"Harry," Dumbledore leaned forward, speaking urgently. "I will not keep information from you. You need to know what is happening if you are to survive. And please understand that you are safer here than anywhere outside of your Aunt"s house."

Harry pulled a face. He hated living with his muggle relatives, the Dursleys. "I"d much rather be here than there," he agreed. "So, what can we expect?"

"Unfortunately, we don't know that yet," Dumbledore sighed. "It is unfortunate that Professor Snape is no longer in a position to gather that information."

Harry sat up straight. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, Harry," Dumbledore looked very serious, "That Professor Snape was discovered. That is why he has returned to Hogwarts. He is no longer safe outside these walls."

Harry felt a twinge of sympathy for the ex-Potions master. While he and Snape had expressed nothing but unmitigated loathing for one another, he could remember what it was like to be confined to the school. The year he had been barred from Hogsmeade, because it had been considered to unsafe for him to leave the school grounds, he was frustrated and rebellious.

"Is that why he"s teaching the Defense Against Dark Arts class now?"

Dumbledore chuckled. "Not exactly. Severus Snape has always been at the top of my list for that class."

Harry raised his eyebrows. "They why""

"Why has he never been selected for the job?" Dumbledore folded his hands. "Because I had no one of his caliber to replace him in Potions. In a way, Severus has been the victim of his own success." He sighed. "I can't tell you how pleased I was to finally, and in good conscience, be able to offer him the job he always wanted. Professor Umber is an excellent replacement."

Harry was stunned. It had never occurred to him that Snape was actually qualified for the job. "I see."

"So, Harry." Dumbledore spoke into the silence. "There was something you wished to discuss with me?"

"Oh," replied Harry, looking at his hands in his lap. "Yes. I guess so. That is, Hermione seemed to think I should tell you..."

"Please go on," Dumbledore smiled encouragingly.

"I've been dreaming," said Harry, faltering. "About... my parents. Cedric. Voldemort. And the dreams, they seem so... so real. Well sometimes, anyway," he amended. "And other times they're clearly just dreams. Hermione seems to think I could be having true dreams."

"Hmm," Dumbledore observed, nodding his head thoughtfully. "It is certainly possible. You have dreamed true in the past. And it is also true that dreams allow us to process our experiences, often more efficiently than our conscious minds ever could. Many things are revealed to us in dreams - true and untrue, actual and symbolic. Sometimes the hardest to comprehend are those things which are true in spirit even while they do not exist in the physical world."

"I don't know how to tell which are what," Harry complained, shifting uncomfortably. He vividly remembered Cornelius Fudge's reaction to Harry's pronouncement that Voldemort was alive again. "I don't want to be The Boy Who Cried Wolf."

"Yes," agreed Dumbledore. "It is one thing to have knowledge and quite another thing to know what to do with it." He hummed to himself. "Perhaps... yes, I think a dream journal might be in order." He opened a desk drawer and rummaged through several papers until he found a small leather-bound book, which he handed to Harry.

"This is a dream journal?" Harry looked at the book, which reminded him unnervingly of Tom Riddle's diary.

"Not specifically a dream journal, but it will do," said Dumbledore, rummaging through another drawer. "It has several special qualities. Once it is keyed to the owner, no one else can open it. It automatically records the date and time of the entry when it is made, as well as any significant astrological events at the time. You should keep it by your bed and record the dream immediately upon waking, so it will be fresh in your mind. Even the most vivid dreams fade remarkably quickly." He pulled out several bottles of ink before handing one to Harry.

"What does this do?" Harry examined the bottle carefully.

"Other than the colors, the ink is quite ordinary," Dumbledore smiled. "I believe this bottle is scarlet and gold." Harry grinned. "I think you will find," Dumbledore continued, "that recording your dreams makes everything much clearer. It becomes easier to distinguish the true dream from fantasy."

"Thank you, Professor," Harry set the ink on the book at the corner of the tea table, moving the teacup to make room. "I'll give it a try."

"And now, Harry, I think it"s time you were going." Dumbledore gestured to the clock, which clearly read 'Quidditch'. "Come and talk to me again in a week, and bring your dream journal."

"Yes sir," said Harry, surprised by the lateness of the hour. As he rose to leave, a thought suddenly struck him. "Professor, why is Draco Malfoy here this year, instead of at Durmstrang?"

Dumbledore smiled serenely. "Why don't you ask him yourself, Harry?"

"Hm," Harry ducked his head, not quite ready to agree. "Just curious. It"s probably not important."

"Of course," Dumbledore agreed pleasantly. "I"m sure it"s not."

Two weeks later, Harry had finally settled into his new schedule. He was at that lovely point when the novelty hadn't worn off and the homework wasn't overwhelming yet. He was surprised to be mostly enjoying himself, and was looking forward to the start of Quidditch season. The first game of the year was to be Slytherin and Gryffindor.

Harry frowned, realizing that would mean playing against Malfoy again. During their fifth year, Gryffindor had won every game, stomping all over the Slytherin team, whose new seeker hadn't been nearly as skilled as Malfoy. Harry had to admit that Malfoy, for all his horrid arrogant superiority, was a good Quidditch player. He found himself oddly looking forward to playing against the Slytherin seeker.

"We"ll still wipe the field with them," said Ron, enthusiastically.

"Shh," hissed Harry. "Keep it down!"

Professor Umber glanced at Ron. Surprisingly, this time she did not deduct points, but continued her instruction without comment. "The wormroot must be thoroughly dry for maximum effectiveness. It must be reduced to a fine powder in order for it to disperse properly into the potion. Your wormroot must be kept dry until the very moment it is added to the potion."

In some ways, nothing had changed. Malfoy was still Professor Snape"s pet, the Boy Who Could Do No Wrong. Harry, to no one"s surprise, seemed to occupy a permanent place on Snape"s Lower-Than-Dirt list. Some day, Harry thought, idly twirling his vial of powdered wormroot, he"d really like to know why.

On the other hand, everything had changed. Harry glanced over to the front-row desk where Malfoy sat alone, preparing his ingredients. It had been three weeks, and in stark contrast to his former hostile behavior, he hadn't spoken two words to the Gryffindors. It was strange, and Harry was surprised at how uncomfortable he was with the change.

A bare remnant of his previous following remained with him. Flint, Goyle and Crabbe had stayed at Durmstrang. Pansy Parkinson, on the other hand, had remained at Hogwarts last year, and was back this year. Hermione had told him privately that the girl"s parents couldn't afford to send her abroad for school, which she resented bitterly. Certainly there was no denying the Slytherin ranks were substantially thinned by the events following their fourth year.

"He"s been really quiet," Hermione whispered to Ron, pointing with her chin to Malfoy"s solitary figure. Seamus stood next to her, stirring their potion.

"Maybe he"s depressed," Ron suggested, gleefully slopping a cup of slimemold into his cauldron.

"What does he have to be depressed about," grumbled Harry.

"Well if my father was a Death Eater I know I"d want to kill myself," said Ron.

"Yeah, but that"s you, isn't it," Harry observed, opening the vial and carefully measuring wormroot into the mortar. He picked up his pestle and started grinding it to powder, wondering how fine was fine enough. After a few minutes, he glanced at Malfoy again. He actually did look depressed, Harry thought. Maybe Ron was right.

Finally, Potions was done for the day. Ron and Hermione packed their things hurriedly into their bags. Harry, slowly gathered his things, still watching Malfoy, before making an impulsive decision. He would try talking to him, he decided. Why not? Things were so odd right now, how much odder would it be, to attempt a civil conversation with Malfoy? Ron and Hermione looked at him expectantly.

"You go ahead," he said quietly. "I"ll be along." They looked at him questioningly. "Just give me five minutes, okay?" Ron shrugged and he and Hermione left.

Harry waited for Draco to pass him, before following him out of the classroom. Once clear of the door, he gingerly reached out and tugged on the other boy"s sleeve. Draco turned his head, startled to see Harry there.

"Malfoy. Can we talk?" said Harry.

Draco frowned. "What do you want, Potter?"

"Just to talk. It"ll only take a minute."

"What"s this about?"

Harry sighed. "Can we go somewhere quieter? I don't really want to do this in the hall."

Draco frowned again, but nodded. "This way," he inclined his head toward a passage leading deeper into the dungeon.

Harry nodded nervously and they walked silently down the corridor. Malfoy paused before a wooden door. He pushed at it tentatively, and the door swung open. Looking around, he stepped in to what appeared to be an empty classroom, Harry following. Malfoy pushed the door closed before turning to Harry, crossing his arms. "So what"s this about?" he asked coolly.

"Um," Harry wasn't sure how to start. "Well, I was just wondering if"well" are you okay?" He ended on a concerned note, his head tilted, his hair falling into his eyes.

Malfoy snorted. "Of course. I"m fine. I had a great year at Durmstrang. I traveled to China with my parents " which stands out as one of the better summers of my life, incidentally " and then I had to come back here. Imagine my excitement."

"Oh," Harry felt rather stupid. "I just" well, you"ve been awfully, um, quiet."

"I am capable of being silent when the situation calls for it, Potter," replied Malfoy scathingly. "But thanks for your concern. Noble Gryffindor!" He snorted again.

"Well terrific!" said Harry, annoyed. "I"m glad you"re fine. No problem. Excuse me for caring."

"Certainly," Malfoy replied smoothly, an enigmatic smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Since you ask so nicely."

They stood silently a moment, Harry staring at the floor. "So are you playing Quidditch this year?" he blurted out before he could stop himself.

Draco tilted his head, considering his opponent. "Yes, as a matter of fact I am. Not nervous about that, are you?"

Harry looked up at him, locking eyes with the Slytherin. "Not a chance."

Draco Malfoy was furious. Somewhere beyond the reach of his conscious mind, he realized this was just as well, as it kept the fear at bay. His father"s owl had reached him at dinner, and he was glad he had brought the message back to his dorm room to read it in private. Had he known the contents of the letter he would have chucked it in the lake, but then " he paused in his pacing " that would not have been wise.

He clenched his hands around the wadded-up parchment, his thoughts returning to father. How could he? How dare he! He had no right! Draco stopped pacing his dorm room just long enough to take a deep breath. He wanted to shriek and tear the hangings from his bed. He wanted to pummel his pillow into a scattering of feathers. However " he took another deep breath " being a Malfoy was all about self-control. Especially when others were trying to control you, he reminded himself, jaw tightly clenched with rage. This is what winning is all about - self-control. If he wanted to win this dispute, he would have to find some.

He was, in fact, a master of restraint, having learned the hard lesson of self-discipline from the time he was a small boy. His father had no tolerance for disobedience, and Draco soon learned to control his rebellious instincts and channel them into more appropriate, more devious, behaviors. He permitted himself a small smile. Yes, he thought, it was time for one of those behaviors.

Abruptly, Malfoy spun on one foot and stalked out of the Slytherin common room and into the Hogwarts hallways.

Ten minutes later, he was quietly easing open a hall door. Silently he stepped into the room, and stopped for a moment, straining to hear if the barely-audible click of the door latch had aroused anyone"s interest. The last thing he wanted now was to run into Filch " he had already spent time in detention this week and didn't really feel like repeating the experience just yet.

His whispering steps took him away from the door and toward the grand piano in the centre of the room. It was a beautiful old instrument, donated to the school by some long-forgotten patron. Who ever it was they must have had impeccable taste, Malfoy thought. He always felt a sense of satisfaction when he looked at this instrument. He knew he played well, and it pleased him to think that he had something he could do that Harry Potter could not. Draco couldn't see his archrival playing any instrument " well maybe trombone or something. He snorted at the image. He was glad his father had arranged for his tutor to come to Hogwarts, so he didn't have to leave the school for his lessons.

His father. The rage that he had felt ebbing earlier, flooded back full-strength. His hands shook as the lifted the cover from the piano keyboard and he barely restrained himself from slamming the cover back in place. No, the thought filtered through his anger, self-control is the key to winning. Remember that. He took a deep breath and stretched his trembling fingers, willing them to relax. Then he sat at the piano and, with a calmness that belied his fury, he began to play.

The piece started out slow, a few arpeggios in C, followed by a melodic shift that took him into darker territory. Draco closed his eyes and let his fingers caress the keys in familiar patterns. As the minor theme built, his strokes grew more decisive " bold statements that sounded to him something like "no, I won't let you do this," and "I will be in charge of my own life." Decisive chords rushed around him, building and sweeping, like a violent storm that clears away dead leaves, even as the accompanying downpour makes you shiver with cold and fear. Draco wasn't shivering. His head was down, eyes closed as his white-blond hair fell across his face. Pounding minor chords repeated their statement and found their definitive resolution. Draco bared his teeth in a feral grin. He wasn't going to allow his father to direct his life anymore. He would find a way around it. There had to be a way, and he would find it. He was a Malfoy, and no one would control him.

He stood and stretched, hands behind his neck, staring out the window at the wind-blown sky. He would find freedom, or die trying.

Notes:

1. The Gate of Ivory and the Gate of Horn derives from Greek mythology. The Gate of Ivory is the source of false dreams - the kind most of us have most of the time. True dreams come through the Gate of Horn and can be prophetic or something like remote viewing.

2. The piano piece Draco is playing in the last scene is the Nocturne in C# minor Opus 27 no. 1 by Chopin.