The Sun Sets Twice Again

Harry attempted, rather valiantly for the first ten minutes, to ignore the itching that was just out of reach underneath his skin. It had set in as soon as he had gotten in the horse-less carriage and since then hadn't ceased. Jittery nerves, he told himself, or not enough sleep; he could be hallucinating it, or...well, he'd even admit to fear if he absolutely had to. It was something...and something that was vague; vague but persistent. Still, he managed to ignore it for a little over ten minutes before he started to get antsy. By that time he was studiously avoiding the increasingly concerned looks that Mrs. Moirae kept directing at him. He felt as if he should come with a warning: will act odd, have visions, be in pain for no seeable reason. Proceed with caution.

Artemis had continued to ignore him with a detached sort of interest, enough so that he knew she was paying attention but that she had no interest in doing anything about his behaviour. Artemis was a puzzle, there was no doubt in that, but she didn't seem to need to be figured out. She was just odd, not dangerous, he thought. It was possible he was just edgy and suspicious of everyone new, of course. After all, last time he wasn't suspicious bad things had happened, but he didn't want to think about that. Still, Dumbledore must trust them--and surely he was more concerned with security as well, after the situation with Barty Crouch Jr.--if he sent them to pick up Harry. He was just over-reacting; after all, not staring certainly wasn't an odd behaviour. At least, it shouldn't be.

By the time they were five minutes from the castle, when it was already large and looming in the rapidly closing distance, he was burning again, as if he were wasting away in painless fire, in its stifling heat, making it hard to breathe. He didn't dare gasp to pull much needed oxygen in his lungs, though, because he knew he couldn't afford another little show of fear. If he did Mrs. Moirae was certain to say something, maybe even ask Artemis about why they'd been hiding away in a dark corner of the Leaky Cauldron, and then they'd know.

He couldn't--there was no way--he just wasn't--he couldn't answer their questions right now, or deal with their concerned looks, or hear them try to explain to him that Cedric Diggory's death wasn't his fault and Voldemort's resurrection wasn't either. He just *couldn't*. Not if he wanted to keep sane. They didn't know, they couldn't understand, they hadn't seen; not like he had. He knew it wasn't his fault, that he couldn't have done anything differently, that surviving was the best thing he could have done in that particular situation. He didn't feel guilty for that. No, for that he just felt sad and angry, mostly angry but without the enthusiasm to fuel action. He didn't feel guilty that he had survived where Cedric hadn't, not since the weeks right after the TriWizard Tournament. He felt guilty because now that he had survived there was still nothing he could do but wait, and read, and worry. It was causing more of a toll on him than he would have liked to admit.

But he couldn't explain to them-- even if he somehow managed to explain it clearly instead of just making vague statements-- what his feelings were. Really, they'd just continue with the concerned looks and then probably make a condescending but well-meant gesture or two. 'You're just a child, Harry, you shouldn't be concerned with this. You should be worrying about Quidditch, and potions class, and girls! Yes, you should just be fifteen, growing up will come soon enough.' He could just see it, and if he insisted on what he was thinking they'd be frustrated and probably angry, because indeed what does a child know? What did he know? He didn't know anything. Except he did. He knew that it didn't matter he was only fifteen; Voldemort hadn't any qualms about attacking a baby, or an eleven-year old, or tying a fourteen-year old to a tombstone and using an Unforgivable on him. He knew it didn't matter that they were just trying to protect him; they'd failed before, over and over, sometimes through his actions, sometimes just by misplaced judgement, and they'd fail again. He needed to be able to protect himself. He knew it didn't matter what he *should* be worrying about, because the pain in his scar was getting worse by the day and that last vision, which had led to something he wasn't informed of yet, was the most vivid he had ever had. He wasn't a child and he'd never really had a childhood; and he wasn't normal, and he hadn't a choice about that. But he couldn't explain that to them, they so wanted to give him a choice, or an illusion of one. The only one who never really BS-ed about that was Snape. Even Dumbledore did what he could to pretend that Harry wasn't walking around with a permanently attached target on his back--or his forehead, it really was his forehead, for that matter. He knew that eventually his luck was going to run out, and then he either would have the skill and the knowledge needed to survive, or he'd fail. Now, if only he knew what the hell he *was* going to say, since he couldn't say what he was thinking.

The increasingly persistent feeling of being consumed by uncontrollable energy wasn't doing much for his state of mind. He supposed he should be happy that he felt any sort of energy; for it was the first time in over two months that he could honestly say he did. First there had been recuperating from the events of the tournament, then they're been the Leaving Feast-- which was a little slice of hell in and of itself-- then, returning to the Dursleys. They'd had a malicious glint to their eyes and an edge to their mannerisms when he had first returned, undoubtedly holding a grudge over the ton-tongue toffee incident, but it had faded away when they realized that not only was he doing exactly what they told him to do and not arguing but he wasn't even being defiant about it.

They didn't know why, of course, because even if Dumbledore had thought to inform them they would have ignored the owl and the letter, but it was easy to see something was different, wrong in fact. Harry was almost pleasant for the first few days, completely unresisting for the first time since they had known him, doing everything automatically and without hesitation. What they weren't aware of was he didn't have the energy, nor the inclination, to do anything but comply. The Dursleys just weren't worth it to him, anymore. Ironically, this detachment, this complete lack of concern and resentment, had an effect that he had been wishing for for years. They were so startled and confused by his change in attitude that they gave him his stuff and locked him away where they didn't have to deal with him, and he didn't have to deal with them. Occasionally they called him down to do chores, which he did without complaint, or eat, which he didn't actually do, but mostly they let him be-- even Dudley. On reflection, they probably thought he'd either lost his mind completely or was planning unspeakably horrible things to do to them when the time was right.

This idea distracted him for a moment before he was brought back to reality by the ever increasing and utterly compulsive need to do *something* to alleviate the tension. Harry wasn't a particularly still person by nature-- though circumstances had made him so-- and after the inaction of the summer he had suddenly realized he really needed to have anything to solidly act on, he needed to have a purpose that he could actually do now. Ever the rash Gryffindor, he thought to himself, smiling inwardly. Still, right now it would feel better to be recklessly aggressive than patiently passive, ignoring the consequences. After all, it didn't matter if he sought out trouble; it found him anyway. Usually at the end of the year so he could spend nine months worrying about it. Well, trouble of the Voldemort kind anyway; other sorts of trouble were attracted to him all the time, not just at a set rate. That was proven by the amount of time he had spent in the hospital wing in the last four years alone. Not to mention those times he'd managed to scrape away without any serious injuries. He didn't really want to think about that though, he realized, now that he thought of it.

He forced his foot to stop tapping and his fingers to stop digging into the flesh of his thighs and relaxed, best he could, into a slouched, unconcerned position. He thought he had done exceedingly well, given how incapable he'd always been at truly hiding his emotions; after all, his disdain for the Dursleys was clear in all the years he had lived with them--save this summer. Even Mrs. Moirae stopped looking at him as if he were a snake about to uncoil and spring forward, sinking his fangs into an unwillingly victim in a sudden fit of desperation. He concluded, not wrongly, that she believed he really was more relaxed from her own relaxation. He thought it was most likely because people believe what they want to believe, given the slightest encouragement to do so. He grinned self-depreciably; damn, he was getting cynical. It took him a moment to interpret the suddenly sharp gaze Artemis directed towards him, and he realized that the grin had reached his features. He shrugged, brushed the look off with a casual comment about being happy to be going back to Hogwarts, and continued to grin. She nodded quietly, gave him a final look over, and went back to staring at the countryside.

Some quiet, recently closed off corner of his mind was reciting the definition of self-destructive behaviour--as per those Muggle psychology books--in an obsessive sort of litany. He had found it progressively easier to ignore that particular voice. Actually, he was finding everything easier to ignore: sleep, the Dursleys, pain, the nightmares-- especially since that last vision. He wondered briefly if this was an effect of his newly found sense of purpose--he felt for the perhaps the first time that this was indeed *his* purpose and not just his role--and focus, or if this...detachment was a sign of impending insanity and maybe apocalypse. Not getting too full a sense of self there; not at all, Harry, he thought dryly. Another part of him demanded to know when sarcasm had become part of his functioning thoughts. He answered it, ignoring the fact that he was have a conversation, even if silently, with himself: probably around the time I realized that I had no chance in hell, earth, or Hogwarts of surviving my education. But what an education it was, and he had friends of the sort that, while still in the confines of the cupboard under the stairs and the Dursleys in general, he had barely wished to hope for. He had a godfather and a mentor and he had the truth about his parents, if not about himself. He had things he couldn't even imagine back then. Most of him felt they were was worth it.

He sighed. Maybe one day, if he had the chance and the inclination, he'd wonder on this startlingly lack of self-preservation. Right now, he could easily count it as noble and stupidly brave, the marks of the Gryffindor. Always willing to risk oneself for others. Except, of course; this wasn't a risk, it was a death warrant. He thought again on whether death would be peaceful. He had no reason to believe it wouldn't be; he didn't believe in a hell that wasn't already on earth. Then, without much of a warning, his thoughts shifted to wizardry religion. He'd never noticed any before, except for experiencing a slight puzzlement when Draco had referred to him as St. Potter and used the exclamation God. He felt a surge of laughter bubble within him as he pictured Draco as a Catholic choir boy, a devil in angel's clothing and features. Oh, that's an image! He snickered.

"You seem to be in better spirits?" Artemis noted with a smirk. "Any reason why?"

He was about to respond by describing what he had been thinking when another reply came to him. "Oh, just plotting the horrible and painful deaths of my enemies." He grinned.

Mrs. Moirae threw him a shrewd look, then softened her expression after a moment, realizing he was kidding. Artemis just grinned back at him.

"Really now?" She raised a single eyebrow, a contemplative look on her face. For a second Harry felt a pang of striking recognition, having seen the look before, more than once, on someone else.

He ignored it, keeping the smile on his face, and nodded. "Mmhmm."

"Come up with anything interesting?"

"Maybe."

"Good. Mustn't be cliché in our homicidal imagery." She giggled. It was a child-like, sweet sound that really didn't fit the wicked look on her face.

"'Course not." He grinned back at her again.

Any reply she might have had was cut off as the carriage stopped suddenly in front of the entrance to Hogwarts. Harry sat there for a moment, staring quietly at the castle that had been his home for most of the last four years, and frowned, before shaking his head to clear it. Mrs. Moirae was ushering him out of the carriage and onto the ground, giving him a small smile.

"Come on, dear, Professor Dumbledore said he wants to see you as soon as you've arrived. Don't worry about your things, the house elfs will take care of them."

Harry smiled at the comment, imagining the look on Hermione's face if anyone was silly enough to say that in front of her. Then he nodded and followed Mrs. Moirae-- Professor Moirae he corrected himself-- she was the new DADA professor apparently, which really only half explained why Artemis was here as well but Harry figured someone would explain eventually if he actually needed to know, or he could ask Artemis himself. They reached the gargoyle in front of Dumbledore's office quickly and when Professor Moirae said 'jumping chocolate frogs' the stone guard moved to the side, allowing them up the staircase and to the office itself.

He had barely walked into the room when Mrs. Moirae disappeared into a backroom somewhere and emerged, a few minutes later, with Headmaster Dumbledore. Harry had the sinking suspicion that they had spent those few minutes discussing his behaviour on the trip. It wasn't like he needed a baby-sitter...but it was nice that they cared; yes, something like that. He should be happy someone cared enough about him to check up on him. The same person that sent you back to the Dursleys *again*, eh? People who only keep you alive to save their own skin. Kind of akin to throwing you to wolves; very dumb wolves. He ignored the thought as Mrs. Moirae gave him one more smile and went back down the stairs, closing the door behind her.

He turned his attention back the Headmaster, who was now sitting at his desk with tea and two cups. "Tea?"

Harry shook his head. "No, thanks." He actually rather wished he had an empty stomach now; even the little bit he had eaten at the Leaky Cauldron seemed like entirely too much. He pushed the nausea down and smiled at the concerned look in Professor Dumbledore's periwinkle blue eyes. Periwinkle blue was an odd colour, especially for eyes, he thought. Then again, his own eyes were the shade of sparkling emerald, or so he was told. They just looked green to him. Dumbledore didn't pour any tea.

"How have you been, Harry?"

"I've been okay. I mean, I've had a little trouble sleeping here and there, a few nightmares you know, but they went away mostly. It hasn't been the best summer and I really wish I'd been able to go to The Burrow." He trailed off before hastily adding, "though I understand why I couldn't, but otherwise, the summer was fine; the Dursleys were even...all right." Harry wondered vaguely when he had become able to lie with a straight face, and why he felt the need to, and whether or not Dumbledore actually believed him.

Dumbledore nodded thoughtfully and Harry forced himself not to sigh in relief.

"That's good to know, then. We were somewhat worried about you, after the events of the tournament. Harry, you know that if you're having any problems, you're always welcome here."

Harry nodded; he did know this, but he had no intention of bothering the Headmaster with his problems when he could help it. He had every intention of helping it, as well. He started to reply that he did know, thank you, but closed his mouth as he thought over the words. Finally he said, "We, sir?"

Dumbledore smiled then. "Oh, yes. Remus Lupin is staying on campus for a time. He brought Snuffles along, as well. They're currently away, but they should return within the next day or so."

Harry grinned automatically. Professor Lupin and Sirius on campus! Where he could see them regularly! Where they're-- at risk, ugh. He frowned.

"But sir, is that safe? I mean--"

Professor Dumbledore put up a hand, silencing him gently. "This is perhaps the safest place for them to be, now that Fudge has revealed himself to be a threat. They will not be the only familiar faces to come through Hogwarts in the next year. So far the Death Eaters have bided their time, looking for direction, but it will not always be so. Soon, I fear, they will not only have a purpose but a plan. I have taken measures to make certain this school and all its students are protected."

He nodded solemnly at the old man's words, remembering how he'd overheard Dumbledore speaking to Lupin and Sirius about bringing together the 'old gang'. He almost asked about who they were and what they would be doing to protect the school, but decided against it for the moment. He could question Sirius later, with less chance of revealing how worried he actually was. After all, Sirius just didn't have the all-seeing, all-knowing act down to an art, so that you could never be sure what he did actually know and when he was just trying to get more information. He was jolted out of his thoughts when Fawkes, whom was perched in the side of the room, cawed solemnly as if to match him.

"Professor Dumbledore, about my dream? Your letter said something has happened?"

The Headmaster nodded, his features blank, and for once his eyes seemed to shine instead of twinkle. He's trying to decide how to explain it, Harry decided, and sat back, waiting for Dumbledore to speak. It wasn't often that the professor needed to consider his words in front of Harry, and he knew how aggravating it was to be interrupted when you were trying to focus on your thoughts, so he just stayed quiet. Finally the silence was broken by an explanation.

"Your dream--vision, as it is-- was correct. Voldemort did perform a spell on himself, and it did work. It did not do what he intended it to do, but in the final result it worked exactly as it was meant to."

"So, he's sixteen? Voldemort is a teenager?"

The words were spoken before he had a chance to think about them. The shock was evident in his voice, he was sure. Of course, he had seen it happen, seen the physical change and the mental one before he was expelled from the dream, but he hadn't actually *believed* it. This wasn't just some Youth Potion, or even a time one--were there even time potions?--this was...different. He had felt it at the edge of the vision, inside the mind of Lord Voldemort-- somewhere he never wanted to be again-- but he had convinced himself that he had imagined it. That the changes hadn't occurred, even that this was just a dream and not a vision and the pain in his scar had nothing to do with the images.

After all, Lord Voldemort as a sixteen year old... he remembered the diary. Tom Riddle had seemed almost, almost human, he'd felt pity for him; he'd trusted him, but that boy was just as insane as his older self and just as deadly. That boy had very nearly killed Ginny Weasley, a friend of his. That boy was obsessed with him, and thought they actually had something in common. They didn't, or hadn't. When he was twelve and Tom Riddle was just a 40-year old memory, they had shared nothing but past circumstances, because the present and the future, all jumbled into one, stated so very clearly that they had made, and would make, very different choices. He was still Lord Voldemort even if he looked like Tom Riddle.

"Yes, or rather, Voldemort is no longer with us in the most understandable of circumstances. He does not exist as he did three days ago, not just in body but in mind."

Harry frowned, chewing on his bottom lip. His hand was half-way to his scar when he realized that he was reaching up to rub at it, and he ran his fingers through his hair instead before placing his hand back in his lap.

Professor Dumbledore continued to speak. "Early this afternoon he arrived here, alone, and explained what he knew of what had happened. Professor Snape administered veritaserum to him soon afterwards."

Harry had a sudden, sharp urge to stand up and scream 'You let him here? Are you completely mad!' but he restrained himself because of his respect for Dumbledore. Instead, he continued chewing on his lip until he noticed that he could taste blood; it was metallic and grating, and he hated it but he couldn't think of a good way to spit it out so he didn't. He did stop chewing, however.

"In all respects Lord Voldemort does not exist and in his place is a fifteen year old Tom Riddle. He remembers nothing after mid-August, just before his fifth year attending Hogwarts, and has yet to discover the location of the Chamber of Secrets, amoung other things. He has agreed to stay here, as well as help us, for the time being. When we spoke at dinner, he was developing a plan to make certain Lucius Malfoy and Peter Pettrigrew are caught while performing the Imperius Curse. It requires your cooperation, but we can discuss that in the morning." He paused finally, slowly breathing in and out, and watched Harry as if looking for a reaction. Harry didn't give him one, except for a slight shake of his head in utter disbelief. "For now, I am certain you're still rather in shock about all this, and have a lot you want to think about. I assure you, Harry, I do not believe that Tom is a threat to you or anyone else currently. I wouldn't allow him to stay if I thought he was. Right now, he is just a confused teenage boy. If he does become dangerous I will remove him, of course. Still, I ask you not seek him out in private company for the time being. Just because he doesn't remember you does not mean he will not be interested in what you did. After all, you did manage something he has been interested in for years, even at his current age of fifteen."

"I did?"

"Yes, Harry, you did. You defied death."

Oh, yes, he was the Boy-Who-Lived; of course that was it. That's why everyone was interested in him; right, because he lived. Still, that focus was better than his friends and housemates, and Tom Riddle--oh god--especially *him*, being interested in more recent events and scars. Let them stare at his forehead, if they wanted, as long as they didn't ask about his arm.

Harry nodded numbly.

"Your things are up in the Gryffindor Tower. I've asked Dobby to start a fire in the common room as well. The password is phoenix fire. You should rest. I'll see you before breakfast, if you have any questions by then."

He nodded again and stood automatically. "Yes, sir." Then started for the door. "Goodnight, sir."

"Goodnight, Harry."

He opened the door to the office and started down the stairs, nearly surprised he didn't trip a few times on his way down, and then exited into the empty corridor. He started towards the Gryffindor Tower out of habit, taking note of what stair cases had moved and which ones hadn't, and almost got his foot stuck in a trick step when he wasn't paying attention. The rest of the walk up the floors were less harrowing and he arrived in front of the Fat Lady's portrait to find her happily chatting with a small, white dressed girl whom he thought usually resided in a portrait on the fifth floor.

She smiled at him bemusedly. "Why, dear, you're back early. Do you have the password?"

"Phoenix fire," he replied and was happy when she moved out of the way so he could climb in the portrait hole without further conversation. "Thanks," he said, and then he was in the Gryffindor Common Room and the Fat Lady's portrait had swung shut once again.

He plopped down in a large red armchair, curling his feet underneath him as he practically sunk into the plush cushions, and stared at the fire that had been started. He wondered where Dobby was now. Probably in the kitchens with the other house-elfs, as that seemed to be where they gathered. He watched the orange-red flames flicker, casting interesting shadows on the walls and floor, but he didn't move to make the room any lighter. The warm semi-darkness was sort of nice, he decided; cozy. A refuge from the insanity that was his day. He almost always felt safe in Gryffindor Tower. It felt like coming home. Except, his home was now invaded by Tom-Fucking-Riddle; mustn't forget that little detail. He sighed, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands, and sat back a little. There was no way he was even remotely relaxing until he saw Riddle for himself, he knew, and in that thought he made the decision to search him out-- tonight, right now-- despite Dumbledore's request. He had to: he had to see him; had to talk to him; had to know for himself. As soon as possible.

He briefly considered taking his invisibility cloak, but there was too much of a chance that Riddle would see it and know what it was. Harry untangled himself from the comfort of the chair and stood, walking back towards the portrait hole. Then he went in search of Tom Riddle, a careful goodbye said to Fat Lady as he left.