Beyond Redemption

Build then the ship of death, for you must take

the longest journey, to oblivion.

And die the death, the long and painful death

that lies between the old self and the new

D. H. Lawrence, The Ship of Death

If there was a bone in his body that did not hurt up to the very point where it threatened to snap, Harry Potter could not account for it.

More so, he could barely account for anything, other than the lingering cold drips of sweat strolling aimlessly and in a purely chaotic dance onto his skin. He'd have much liked to move by now, but to claim that he could would have been a triumph per whole, as rarely did he find in himself the power to put order in the quickly incensed hurricane that idly bore the title of his head.

And his glasses were on, too.

It was that one thought that, through a snapped, somewhat furious gesture, caused him a first reaction. His fingers met the again rough frozen material of the little form, as he adjusted it properly. He truly loathed dozing with his glasses on - not only did it diminish whatever esteem people may have developed towards him, should they ever lay eyes on him in such occasions, but the sensation of the burdening weight was hardly pleasant as well. He had fallen in such a quick somnolence state once, when still under the obnoxious care of the Dursleys, and, to his great awe, upon awakening, he'd found Dursley very much focusing on his frame. The dart stuck between the fingers of which even a whale would have been particularly proud, had sprung with practiced precision, meeting a swift end in the painted targets on his glasses. It had taken him seconds to threaten Dudley with the worst hexing of his life - not that simply extending his wand would not have as fruitfully sufficed - and have him run off...and then hours to scrub the already much too polished back of uncle Vernon's car incessantly. Though even per whole, the short narrow smile painting uncle Vernon's lips in undisputed relief had been worth the entire effort - for all it was worth, the Dursleys held him very high in their list of perilous sentients. And, if not for a respect he was not so certain he desire on their behalf anyway, fright would be more than satisfactory.

In his slight whisper of curse to the much too persistent rays - choosing to focus on the very angle of his eyes from the infinity there laid... - there laid a short thread of laughter. It felt good to be there, to be able to stretch his arms, unbind his feet, to feel the soft pattern of the sheets pressed to his skin. It felt good to no longer have to worry - and then it struck him that, for all his initial numbness, he still did.

The entire surroundings returned to his jade visage in a blur. First the bed coverings, and their disturbing white, and the petals of silver encrypted with caution on the many structures adorning the chamber. Then the massive structures serving much rather as ornaments as well rather than truly functional utilities. Though impressive, through enough, and indulging in a sickening opulence by rare, precious materials, they could not be easily accessed - and as if not warning enough, the Black stem laid sternly planted upon each... He shrugged off the bothersome sensation of creeping inertia and came back upwards - true, he was sleepy, a tad, but his head felt much lighter, and he could at least account for his own thoughts, as so could not have been previously claimed, before sampling the wretched blue haze.

His glance fell again on the fading stem, its silver glinting back coldly, as a living reminder of the cursed lineage to have here once been instilled. Gods, did he want to leave. And still, something held him back.

It took forever for the rich, voluptuous cloth to tear. His fingers clutched to it with a passion his entire body had rarely felt, and that his mere mind could barely acknowledge, let alone recognize. They stripped the material of its silver glory in a matter of instants - and with each tear, came another, again with the one spontaneous din, again with the promise of oblivion.

The curtain fell, just as a slit on his hand, most likely consequence of the initial rupturing, engorged. For a moment, his view narrowed, as it fell on the spectacle offered by a large window, whose frame, much like everything in the cursed house, reminded him of undeserved money and rooted luxury. He could have as easily used a "Diffindo", and the curtain would have fallen to his feet, a sea of silver spawn in dense velvet. But he doubted that, then and there, it would have provided an as deep a carnal pleasure as having the material shred slowly by his hand. No, never like that.

It was gone, soon enough, in his arms; they wavered to hung to it with a desperation few could understand. Because unlike the tumult of colors dancing at the back of his mind, unlike the clatter already there deposited, these were alive. Dashing forward, the room's sudden focus grew wider still, as he approached it. A bit too high- true enough, but nothing - his hand took tight grasp of the lean wand, the wood flexing in a playful flicker - "Wingardium leviosa!"

The material flashed up, in a sequence that reminded him of a spider to have caught its prey in its treacherous net, and hurried, tendrils spread, to ensure its demise. Up, encircling, in a growing rhythm - faster, faster, faster, and-

He allowed himself the shadow of a smile. Silver on silver, one poison, one shelter. The Black stem, most likely to the cries of whatever pureblood undead inhabitants of the manor, laid covered by the silver streaks of a low-priced drape. His grimace broadened - then and there, he was all too wager to bet Mrs. Black would have willingly sold her soul for an opportunity to have set an irremovable charm on the antique curtain of this floor as well.

He sighed inwardly, as one thought occurred to him: Mrs. Weasley would not be pleased with the its elevation. To Salazar with it. He'd work to put another one up, just the same. As he opened the door, the slight creak creeping shortly, he only looked back once, casting the sheltered stem an uneasy glance.

Welcome to the Black manor, Harry Potter a squeaked voice sang in his mind, following its own hectic pattern. Welcome to hell.

"Hold him!"

"And shoot, and dodge, and-"

Two voices sprang up, dynamic as they stood little but pure replicas of one another. Their intensity grew, as did the muffled whispers. Harry, descending the staircase, shot the very much shut kitchen door - apparent source of the alarm- a questioning glance.

"Blimey, hold him! No, don't let him-"

"Uh-oh, is he heading for the-"

"Stop him!"

A large noise crippled a much too awkward silence, the acoustic equivalent of thousands of metal surfaces suffering an unwanted collision. Harry gritted his teeth, as he jumped a few stairs, tottered over other, and, finally, leaped to the very bottom. He bit his lower lip, in a tensed calm he was quick to impose. No other sound, however - gazing to a series of paintings, which laid covered by thick layers of darkened cloth. Pacing slowly, he made his way to the door, one hand leaning onto with powerfully, then-

"Mum is so going to kill us."

That assessment, as it came from the slightly preoccupied face of George Weasley had the gift of amusing Harry. The kitchen, per whole, laid a perfect mess. The table, most likely a prized Black possession that Sirius had been rendered unable to remove the year before, had been showered by flower. The few cupboards to have resisted the assault had, too, suffered a great redecoration. Already, Harry found the splattered eggs on one of them matched the drooling milk on another superbly. The chairs had been tilted over - one stood supported to the wall, four others ornamented the flooring, in little but a tower. And, everywhere, ending with the grand pile in the exact middle of the room, pans and pots, slammed to one another in a tumult.

"Oh, well, look on the bright side. At least there'll be no rematch." Said Fred Weasley, idly stuck between shelves, with a rusty pan serving as cap, and thriving his attention to a distant corner.

"Yes, well - oh, hullo, Harry, in mood for-Harry, look out!"

Too late.

Naturally, Harry's last thought before being hit straight on the newly cleansed lenses by an unrecognizable mess was a tight "why, oh why?!" He shrieked slightly, backed away, stumbled on various items randomly aimed as impediments to his every movement, and then-

There were so many angles in which his body could have "blessed" the flooring with a wide thud, and still he'd had to fall in that which sentenced his hips to the most painful twist...

With a hesitant hand, he dismissed most of the dough away from his glasses, sinking a finger full, and then cautiously sampling it.

"Not too bad, but you might want to work on your se-" another pancake, this time slightly baked, came ruffling over in his direction - he rolled to the side, came in a crouch, then up, little but edging a cupboard. " service..." he muttered. With a sardonic gaze, the true source of "peril" was identified; on the stove, steam rising with incredible haste, a pan kept flipping in the air, as dough poured itself from a bowl, only to be randomly thrown in the kitchen.

More so, such chaos had been waged, that most of the tools in the kitchen seemed in danger of catching life of their own and sentencing those less versed in the arts of cooking in an instant! Already, Harry could see the pile of pots and pans undergoing a light tremble, the rust peeling over in periodic shakes.

"Yes, I reckon so, but it's not our fault!" Again George, this time as he had brought up Fred's pan and kept redirecting the dough, as he had, so many years, bludgers at Quidditch. Only the last rarely came as rapidly and in such impressive numbers! Fred was already on his knees, digging between pots and mumbling incoherently about his wand.

"Well, whose - Stupefy! - is it?!" Harry argued, again forced to throw himself to the floor - and what a crucial ache that spoon on which he fell provided!- and issue spells in several directions, from which more pancakes, in several stages of cooking, did not hesitate to appear. Crawling on all fours, not as great a humiliation if considered the alternative, his next sequence of conjure left him as the top in the pan pile...He found himself, however, overwhelmed by the pancakes... and the sudden jolt beneath his ribs did not help, as-

"HIS!" shouted Fred, as both he and George Apparated atop the table, only to be ambushed severely by a new badge of pancakes. Idly, and as he pushed a few more through a Protego off, Harry wondered just how much dough they had put together-

And he was forced to renounce that deep reflection, as a new din awoke him from his reverie. Flesh spiked uncomfortably, as, from underneath, a sudden pressure made him coil unpleasantly, only to make room for the emerging mass...Black, white, dough, and- cobalt?!

As the figure drew out, small hands lingering softly, Harry only had time to groan, before again covering as full target. "Sirius..."

And indeed, the small figure pushed up, a light smash of tin and metal echoing narrowly, as pots and pans fell in a wave of silver flickers. His round face lightened through a brief smile, as, in his hand, fingers clutched tightly, a sphere rolled rapidly.

"Hullo, Harry" he uttered, with a polite nod that caused Harry to wince in his place. Sirius had never...the sort of relationship in which he and Sirius had indulged had always presumed a greater degree of intimacy than for such samples of courtesy to be compulsory. To now see them issued with the highest amount of reluctance brought upon greater implications than he cared to consider. Not that the current conditions were favorable to such ample pondering either, he observed, casting the pools of dough a sarcastic glance. Sirius found fit to continue:

"Isn't it a fine da-"

People, it would seem, never quite got to finish what they meant to say in the given circumstances. Another pancake flashed by, and Harry could only throttle Sirius off his feet, plummeting him back on to the pile - the child, laughing incessantly, took this lightly, as he arched forward, aiming to grasp a pancake and shove it all into his much too small mouth. Harry, however, had other endeavors in mind. Still a bit puzzled by the entire situation, he decided to take first step and, shouting to George, paced towards the troublesome pan. "Cover my b- " dough rolled onto his face, and he blessed his instincts for having previously removed his glasses " -ack."

"Sure thing, Harry - say, wouldn't you want us to do easier things first?" the last replied soberly, as his wand slashed through an arch, pinning forward, and a few "Diffindo!"s came to receive the sanction of life.

"You know" Fred muttered unconvinced, having retaken possession of the pan from his twin and still ready to counter the blows for as much as his physical restraints permitted it " take down the ministry? " a pancake rushed, almost molding on Sirius's nose "Or destroy Voldemort?!"

"Clean up?" Harry countered, as he darted again in motion. A set of three pancakes flew by him, but George's levitation charms had them leave him in an instant. Harry mouthed a thanks, then continued to pace, leaping near the table, then under it - his skin inflamed painfully, as it constantly stroked the rough flooring. It was cold, as well. As if the discomfort needed much encouragement, anyhow...the stove rose forwards, just beyond the table cloth. Privately, Harry made a note not to deal with a pan to soon and then, in an abrupt jolt, crawled from underneath the table, escaping its borders, and meeting those of the stoves.

As he came back to his feet, he could hear Fred, back, mumbling something about eyes, then Sirius laughing - again, that vivid mirth he knew to associate with him alone - and another pancake fleeting back. He dodged, for a moment, then, stepping back, casting the circle, by his wand, with a self-impregnated grace. He could take no more - his head had grown in an immense ache that stripped his thoughts of even the smallest shadow of ration...he could feel his every limb in a diluted form of agony, let alone the sheer fury rising in his every cell...did they think he was in the mood for petty games?!

"Enough!" he roared, as more pancakes flew through " ENOUGH! Finite Incantatem!"

A short jet of light, jade sparkled imbued to it in rich detail. The pan, from spasms of convulsive motion, fell in cherished inertia with a swift thud, as Harry inhaled, in periodic pants.

For a moment that lingered through the very essence of time, Harry joined it in a tranquility he could only hope to forever embrace. Perhaps what made it even more sickeningly tempting was the mere fact that a part of him, albeit more rational, still found it very much possible for the peace to be at any moment broken.

As another few more seconds met their merry death, Harry lowered his arm, not in the least surprised to find Fred and George equally tensed, eyeing the pan and then Harry in awe. How ironic, he could tell, that even such a short display of magic would return to their minds a deeper menace all had laid careful to ignore. And more so, he could barely say how.

Fred was first to react, naturally. Covering a smile by a brief cough, he scrutinized the entire area thoroughly.

"Well...the lion's back, one can say!"

"And growling atop his lungs!"

They both met in quick laughter, much too sharp to be either pleasant or veritable. In truth, he acknowledged all too well they hardly if at all found the laughter resulted by the little pun, but it was one way to clear out the unavoidable tension - so laugh they did, and quite passionately.

"So what happened?" Harry inquired, a small flicker of amusement in his voice, as he deemed another mean of approaching the situation.

"Uch, well, long story made short..." It was George who answered, as Fred, bending at what seemed to Harry an almost impossible angle for his ribs to comply, picked up Sirius. Their wands still suspended to some corner or the other, the twins engaged in bringing the chair back up from where they had united in a bundle, on the floor. Clearly, their lack of enthusiasm in requesting Harry to account for that by a mere twitch of his wand spoke highly of just their impressions on the event they had, more or less willingly, witnessed.

"Have a seat" came Fred's hoarse voice, as he drew closer the pots and pans, beseeching his wand in futile efforts.

"And a pancake!" George invited, after a quick reverence his brother rewarded by a pat on the back and a beckoning to do just that when Ron was around. Which brought Harry to the next, instinctive question: where was Ron? Hadn't Lupin said he had arrive at Grimmauld as well?

"Again: what happened?" the chair he'd been passed was quite uncomfortable - much like everything by origin to the house and that Sirius had deemed to let roam freely. And roam was the perfect wording, indeed: As he shifted to seek a much better position, he was hardly surprised to feel his seat doing as well.

Fred and George leaped to their places, their prolonged shadows falling onto him as if thin veils. Sirius, still very much thrilled yet slightly touched crimson on the cheeks, breathed deeply in and out, showing the activity had requested a bit too much of his reserves. He laid silent, however, for which Harry laid greatly indebted.

"Hmm...well, we were aiming for breakfast -"

"-so Fred here enchanted the pan for pancakes, an exquisite charm, need I say" George uttered with a complimentary nod to his sibling. The other reflected it loyally, before continuing on the same casual tone"

"-many thanks-"

"-but then we started playing with the ball-"

"-innocently playing, mind you!-" Fred marked, bringing his palms outwards, in a defensive gesture.

"-well, yes, innocently, up to when someone got hold of it-"

A moment of silence instilled, as all eyes laid on Sirius. The latter conveniently chose to succumb more so to his said fatigue, by lowering his glance and firmly keeping it fixed upon the table's darkened pattern. On his lips, however, played a triumphant smile.

"And decided to move the target on the pan." Fred shoved Sirius slowly - the small boy, shooting him a most displeased stare, muttered beneath his breath in a manner Harry found most familiar, then slowly retook his position as keen observer.

"And that, mate, is what happened." Fred finished, laying back, chair tilted slightly so to support to the wall, as it wielder cradled his feet casually. George, a tad more concerned over the entire disaster waged, rose to his feet and remarked, absently:

"We should get things clean, or Mad-Eye'll have our skin." The comment had the rare gift of waking Harry from his silent reverie.

"Mad-Eye - I mean - professor Moody's here?"

"Yes, yes." One of the twins, he could not quite catch who, as their backs laid open view to him since they were busily dismembering the pile of pots, in rapid search of ...something. "He's with Dumbledore" . Harry's heart took an expectedly rapid rhythm. Dumbledore...if anyone held answers enough, it was Dumbledore. Yes...Lupin had not been able of providing him enough information as to elucidate the entire event, but Dumbledore, given his current knowledge of what appeared to be any issue on whatever grade of familiarity in regard to his life, would be a different matter entirely.

Albus Dumbledore had managed, throughout time, to surprise. In more ways than one, not all of which too pleasant. In his mind, the little encounter between Voldemort and Grindewald's victor spawned with painful clarity. As did his own failure, as he had unwillingly succumbed to the Dark Lord's will. As he shot the twins a cautious gaze, he could not help but wonder just what Dumbledore would think of his passing beyond the veil...

"The two of them, dad and Lupin have been at it for hours now. Left us more or less politely to tend for breakfast and cleaning..." George managed to scrap up a response, still very much engaged in throwing several pots aside, while Fred, muttering hopelessly, mirrored him. Sirius, however, stayed at his place, eyeing them impishly. Harry took that moment, as he could see but not be seen, to evaluate him slowly. It was funny how calling him Sirius, even inwardly, came so hard, now. He could look at that face, measure those features, analyze every gesture, and find so much of Sirius in them that it scared him. Because that was not Sirius. Not his Sirius, anyhow. He wondered where that sudden twinge of possession had burst from, if he was so determined in his belief of Sirius truly having met his demise. Perhaps, a part of him still felt that he would walk to the department of ministry one day, remove the veil and find Sirius, the true Sirius, behind it, flashing him his habitual negligent smile. Sirius, that would tell him this had all been a joke, and that everything would be alright soon enough, only if-

"Gah! It's not here!" Fred threw, along with another pot that met the wall noisily, before cracking into thousands of small pieces. Harry, a flicker of interest birthing in his eyes, glanced to them longly.

"What've you been looking for?"

"Our...ummm... ball..." Harry's features contortioned in a puzzled frown.

"What's so special in a ball? Come on, let it be, let's start cleaning."

Both turned to regard him with faces replicating sheer indignation. Or fright, Harry could not quite tell, but it was an expression in whose forming the twins were highly versed, even though rarely did they cast it so ...sincerely. It was the same utilized when faced by their mother with incriminating proof as to them having caused another prank, and they plotted sweet explanation.

"Well, you see, it was sort of...Moody's..." Harry blinked in disbelief. Alastor Moody's...ball? To the twins? And he'd let them have it? But surely, Moody did not play with a ball, he much rather tortured people with it!

"I'm certain he shan't muse over its loss, you two..." he remarked, a tad acidly, only to be confronted to Fred's solemn reply:

"Uch, no, he'll very much miss it...he...left it for cleaning and we..."

"Borrowed it?" George offered, having another spoon smash to the floor, only to then have a pot walk off on them, quite startled in concern to what she named a perfect violation against all inanimate magical objects. "Kindly" asking her to seek Percy for reference on such articles - on a more delicate note, Harry questioned the relationship cast between the Weasleys and their second former Head Boy, now that Dumbledore's assessments of the past two years had been confirmed, and in a less subtle manner, at that. It had taken him little to acknowledge that the strike against the ministry's influence had been indubitably of great consequences - with what eyes does one look upon a faction that has, for own welfare, chosen to gamble that of the entire populace?

Shaking his head, he resumed in a pure silence, alone broken, at times, by more plates meeting their sad end at the hands of the two Weasleys, in their mad search.

At some point, however, Sirius, very much at the cringe of losing his hardly gathered composure and breaking into laughter, leaned forward, onto the table, to him, whispering for his ears alone.

"Don't tell them..." he murmured, hands cupped tightly. "I have it..."

Harry's smile reappeared, as a thin line, at first, then in its full shallow glory.

"Oh, you do?" he responded, calmly, though in the same low fashion, as if to assure the child it was a secret he was bond to keep.

"Yes." Sirius nodded, energetically "it's a real bouncing one!"

His fingers met Sirius's, just for a moment, and through one glance, he spoke a thousands pleas, all aimed for the same. In full comprehension, the boy's small, cold fingers spread from underneath his, then from their clutch entirely.

With the small sphere in his hands, Harry inhaled slightly, then opened to peak...only to jolt backwards a bit, barely oppressing either a choke, laughter or cry. In his hands, Mad-Eye Moody's magical Eye glittered faintly.

"So...Harry..."

"So...Fred..."

A moment of silence. Incessant. Malicious.

Until it was interrupted by a quiet roll, and then a low thud, as George's palm slammed over Mad-Eye's glinting magical orb. "Sirius, I told you not to play with that..." he muttered, fairly unconvinced himself. They all stood at the table now, some more casually leaning onto it than others. Sirius had mounted it entirely, at a certain point, indulging in sweet inertia. He kept saying he was a plate, and that, therefore, his place was on the table. Naturally, this more or less normal tendency was soon disrupted as the twins started poking his clothing with forks, claiming it was food.

Cleaning had not been as tedious an endeavor as it had initially threatened - it turned out Fred and George were much more versed in hiding and repairing items out of fear of their mother than to first meet the eye. Moody's "ball" had been rendered inoffensive in a glass of water, for further decontamination. Granted, either one of the twins or Sirius still picked on it on occasion. Harry himself resumed in keeping as far from it as possible. He could have sworn he had seen it trying to advance towards him, at a point...

"Umm...Lupin told me Ron was around." Harry offered, sounding a bit more detached than would have been advisable.

"Mhmm.....Yes, his royal highness graced us with his presence."

"Listening to mum, doing homework, actually trying his best..."

The twins cast each other a look of feigned disappointment. Harry, however, didn't go as far as presuming it was entirely pretended either. To an extent, the two Weasleys had always wished for someone to understand their ways and motivations better. Having Ron turn out just like the rest most certainly did not come as an encouragement, even though Harry was quite certain the youngest of the Weasley males would never grow into Hermione's equivalent in what studies were concerned.

"I swear, at this rate, not even we shall be able to save him from the peril of Head Boyship..."

"Imagine that, another disgrace to the reputation we have so hard tried to establish!" Fred uttered, as he produced a plate, sliding the few remains of a pancake onto it. George, holding a bit more reluctance against consuming anything that had little but done the same to him moments before, found fir to continue the conversation:

"Yes, ickle Ronnikins has grown a bit too Percy-like for our tastes..."

In his own place, Harry dismissed Fred's silent invitation at a bit of pancake, as the last little but squirmed in the end of a fork.

"How is Percy, anyhow?" He regretted the words just as they fled his lips, in one menacing whisper. Percy's was still a delicate subject and, since the twins had not brought it up, it was evident he should not either. George, however, seemed quite eager to provide a prompt response, as he, too, again renounced a piece of pancake, despite of Fred's assurances they would both regret their choice. Idly, Harry began to wonder whether shattering the pancakes in small, barely visible fragments would bestow anything in addition to a cruel form of personal satisfaction.

"Oh, he's...alright...still won't talk to mum and dad, though, he...he seems to think Fudge was right all along. I don't know, Harry. Percy's always been like his. A bit too - Sirius, bloody hell, don't bite that!" They both shot a scolding glance to where Sirius was slowly petting and maintaining dangerously close to his open mouth the frail form of Moody's cleansed eye. At this, the youngest at the table saw proper to lower his gaze yet again, slide the orb back in the glass, and mumble incoherently about George's vision and its ability to see past even Snape's underwear. Harry swallowed in, fairly disturbed by the image produced at the very thought. A sick mind, that one, but the mere mentioning of Snape and the sheer contempt brought upon a new perspective: how much did Sirius remember? And when would everything be cleared out?

Quietly, he assessed to leave all that to further contemplation, and instead redirect towards a more common subject.

"So, where is Ron now?"

"Oh " Fred finally deemed to look up from the disgusting mass another pancake had formed onto his plate- " he, mum, Ginny and Hermione're probably invading every book store in Diagon Alley!" Harry took a good moment to stare in sheer awe at how someone, anyone, could actually eat continuously without stopping to take a breath of air. Then again, he'd not found answer to his dilemma on how someone could eat those per whole, so he quickly gave up on even trying.

"D-Diagon Alley?"

"Yes, yes, don't worry, though, they said they'll get your books as well." This time George who, much like himself, refused to look to his brother any longer. Harry, however, had other things on mind. Why was everyone hurrying to acquire the school items, when, all in all, it was hardly-

"My books?"

"Yes, Harry, you know... those big shiny things originally used for mental torture?"

"But, why are they- " he frowned. That hardly made any sense. There were thousands of times to get his things, should he ever need them, not to mention how his return to Hogwarts was probably a great deal of time away. At this, his scowl deepened. Unless... "wait...what day is it?"

"Hmmm....if I am not mistaken...and, unfortunately, my organism is still stuck to predicting scholar affairs...the obnoxious feeling in my stomach kindly points to it being two days before the wonderful term start." George found fit to interrupt his sibling through a rather obscene remark regarding the pancakes and their part in the latter symptom. The result of it all, however, was quite simple - another pancake made a miraculous apparition, causing Harry to question both Fred's sanity and the source of the cursed sweet treats.

"That...can't...be."

The twins gazed to each other, before mirroring in shifting uncomfortably in their place. It was evident, then and there, that the duo had been calmly warned by their mother not to address or inquire on the subject of Harry's disappearance. And, true, he could almost see Mrs. Weasley, red hair lighting the threat already visible in her eyes, issuing the last advice with not the smallest sign of willigness to accept any reasoning for going against it. Both looked down and, for a moment, Harry feared they would rest in silence for all it was worth. George, again - Fred seemed very much decided to indulge in his eating - responded, lightly:

"Ummm....it is. I suppose you wouldn't know, however. You were...quite...gone, for a while, Harry." His hand raised to play with a shred of short reddish hair." Too much so, if I dare say myself, and - Sirius, I mean it, leave that alone!" he snapped, as he again gazed to find the last engaged in suspicious patting of Moody's possession. Naturally, it all turned to an innocent expression on the boy's behalf, as he threw it back in its glass, pinning it by a look of contempt, as if challenging anyone to say he actually found the eye interesting. Harry didn't miss him following the orb by the corner of his eyes, however, and he doubted George did, either.

"Two months...plain..." his hands came together, fingers playing with each other under a warm touch "lost..."

"Mate, what happened to you was hardly normal..." George leaned forward, slowly bending his shoulder in an affectionate, but much too burdening pat, that warned him of what may have just earned the two their rightful positions as Beaters "I suspect Dumbledore'll be wanting to talk to you about that."

"And your O.W.L.s..." Fred added, finally raising his gaze from his plate, only to plummet it back, soon after. That brought him back to a most interesting topic which had the unusual gift of making him lose any sort of appetite for the following month, even more than the picture of the pancakes.

"My...O.W.Ls?"

"Mhhhmmmm...your...results."

Again that dreadfully dramatic pause of quiet. Harry did believe that, in those few instants, he could little but hear everyone's heartbeats.

"Oh, I'd...completely forgotten about those." He stated, finally, again forced to stand for Fred and George's compassionate glances. The first was quick to comment, before being idly pushed back to tend for his eating:

"Who can blame you?" Harry closed his eyes for a moment, gradually acknowledging the passed out information. He rushed to ask, quite interested:

"Did- did Ron get his?"

"Yes, he did." Fred announced, rapidly " And before you ask, we were fairly disappointed with him - only three As! Imagine that! Completely ruins the newly installed record! He did get an O at Charms, however." It seemed that certain part had managed to lift their spirits.

"Meh...we managed that as well, you know...but we didn't go as badly in Potions. He- Sirius, that's it, another shot at it and I'll hex your fingers off " It didn't take looking for Harry to realize that the remark had something to do with Moody's eye again. He questioned, softly:

"Potions?"

"One of the As." Fred and George shared a submissive look. True enough, the both were quite versed in the subject, as it was often required in their many experiments. Harry had found himself pondering why Fred and George had ever renounced a more solid career. Their skills most certainly would have permitted them a good range of professions, and a valid affinity towards them. But it was hardly in their natures to consider the safety of their futures, when constant entertainment seemed a much more pleasant priority! Candidly, Harry tended to agree. " Mum was quite disappointed. He got Es in DADA, and...ummmm...another O."

"That's wonderful! What in?"

"Well...Divination." He frowned, slowly, digesting the new piece of data. Trelawney had never been a capable teacher, for all her success in what that one prophecy was regarded, and to have achieved such an astonishing score underlined the fact that Ron's potential, even if unfocused, was not something to be derided.

"Yes, everyone was a bit taken aback." Said Fred, obviously having realized the thoughts occurring to the Gryffindor's famed Seeker.

"Well, where are my results?"

"Like I said, Dumbledore'll be informing you on those." George mentioned, accompanying his words by a dismissive gesture, as if highly encouraging Harry not to think about it any longer. " The owl carrying the message returned to Hogwarts once you ...once you were not there to take the letter..."

Harry sighed inwardly, at the thought of George again indulge in that short look down, and flush to crimson, then stuttering visibly. Truly, it was not like- well, it was hardly as if- it was of the past! How far were they willing to go with it? Would they avoid the subject forever? Wasn't Sirius evidence enough that what had happened was real and needed discussion?! Harry simply shook his head, darkened locks narrowing his face in a silky wave. Absently -and very much to uncle Vernon's delight, were he there to witness!- he noted he very much needed a haircut. As a full minute dawned, he woke from his reverie, placidly:

"I...see... "

"One thing left for us to do now...wait." Fred little but chanted, throwing his plate aside.

"And wait." His sibling echoed, catching the porcelain just before it could hit the flooring in a fury of clatter.

"And again wait."

Harry himself nodded, again caught in one of his dilemmas. Would Dumbledore share his true views on the entire matter? If he chose not to, it would certainly not be the first time. The events of the previous year had his flesh spike in an unusually cold tremor. He had lost Sirius then, and-

He sighed, this time loudly. No. Sirius, for all it was worth, was very much there. And still, doubt cornered his soul, much like the shadow did the feeble twilight, through its suffocating presence. No, he shook his head. Sirius was there.

As if to strengthen that assessment, he gazed to where the small boy laid, hands cupped onto the table. He was smiling, though his mouth was closed with untainted innocence. It took Harry a bit before noticing just what it was that appeared awkward to the entire picture: firstly, he was much too still. And, secondly, there was a sudden perfectly spherical "lump" onto his left cheek, as if the young one was not chewing, but instead...guarding...

Slowly, bringing a hand over the table to raise his chin, and with it, his entire face, Harry questioned, puzzled?

"Ummm....Sirius...what's that in your mouth?" The boy simply beamed in reply, as if very proud of his deed.

"At this point, I desperately hope it's a pancake."

That was the somewhat muffled voice of Fred, as the last reluctantly picked the empty glass, with only a few drippings of water, where Moody's eye had lain for cleansing.

"Oh, Harry!

It took Harry a good pace back, blinking softly, before acknowledging the far too numerous arms grabbing most disturbing parts of him. But, soon enough, the pleasant warmth, and smell of either cinnamon or orchid saturated his senses and he found himself struggling to breath between curls of light or tainted cupper.

"Umm - hullo, Mrs. Weasley...Hermione...Ginny..." he managed to utter on a strangled voice, as he found breathing an ever increasing burden. " Er - I think I might need air to-"

He muttered a thanks, as Mrs. Weasley was first to let go from the ferocious hug, followed shortly by Ginny. Hermione was still clung to him, when he gently pushed her aside. "Nice to feel -er..." surprising how coherent speech tended to grow so hard when ambushed by the loving glances of three sympathetic women. "...welcome..." he added, shortly after.

It didn't take long to spot Ron, either, even though in motion, as the last quickly ascended to the first floor, carrying a good deal of wrappings and packages. The twins had fallen in a suspiciously convenient silence, as their mother, frowning as much as her kind face would permit it, scrutinized them and the kitchen gravely. Harry flashed a thin smile, as his gaze met that of the eldest member of the Order. To his displeasure, he could tell she had lost even more weight than when they had last spoken - which, given the rate by which the plump figure of Mrs. Weasley had diminished to a mere shadow of her former self, was ill omen indeed. But hers was a very pleased look, even as she could tell all too well the twins had been up to something in her absence. He could also discern the soft smile of relief on Ginny's behalf - no shouts so far, convenient for the beginning of a day.

"How could you do that to us, Harry? How could you plain-" voiced Mrs. Weasley passionately, finally breaking the silence.

"Mum, I doubt Harry needs more reproaches for the day - " came the swift intervention of one of the twins, which one, Harry didn't take the time to check. Mrs. Weasley seemed to consider that, for she retook her sentence calmly: " Yes, I suppose you have, haven't you, Harry dear?" She hardly gave him a chance at responding, as she continued. "But, at any rate, how could you leave like that?"

"It's hardly as if the Dursleys even knew I was gone before the Order was there, threatening to burn their door..." he mumbled, quickly, before the woman's face turned into the mirror of sheer indignation.

"That's not true! That poor, poor woman went through a terrible fright!" Yes, Harry could simply picture a terrified aunt Petunia - of Mad-Eye hexing her tulip garden to oblivion, most likely! He decided to tend to the situation with a bit more diplomacy, and therefore only mentioned, cautiously:

"I'm sure she simply couldn't live without me..." Mrs. Weasley seemed more than unwilling to accept the remark; in fact, as an adequate response, she avoided looking at him, as if having not heard a word. Harry's eyes rolled faster than it took a very animated Ginny to indulge in a fury of gesticulations:

"So, Harry...what happened? What did you do? How did you come back? How did he" at this, she turned quickly to smile to a still oblivious Sirius "come back? Do tell!"

If looks could cast Adevra Kadevra-s, Harry held no reluctance in believing that Mrs. Weasley would have earned herself an Azkaban of her own. Ginny, apparently acknowledging her inquiries only as she was done uttering them, turned an intense crimson, as she muttered an apology.

"Actually, Ginny, I've not the faintest clue." Hermione threw him a long, questioning look. "No, honestly, I don't. " He lowered his voice, following Sirius' lead by glancing to the floor on occasion. "I...it would seem I...I tried to go beyond the veil."

"Not a "tried to go" there, Harry!" this time it was one of the twins, Fred, who had risen from his seat and now calmly gazed to him, probably feeling that, with Harry's acceptance of the conversation, and Mrs. Weasley there, all their questions would be answered. Well, he was bond to be disappointed...

"More of a "went". " Challenged George, the last preferring the comfort of his seat, and stretching lazily onto it as if to prove just that.

"And returned." Harry's eyes widened in a mixture of awe, mirth and...regret. There was an awkward sensation building in his throat, settling as if an impediment to breathing itself. Ron, a brief grimace lighting his features, now stood supported onto the door frame. They came into almost a hug, then ceased just before it could be deciphered as such - a short on the back replaced the last action. Harry's insides revolted gracelessly. Boys weren't supposed to embrace. That was why Ron had broken it. Yes, yes, that was why. That alone...it had to be.

And, much too abruptly, a new vision dawned on him. Ron, now sans his bothersome presence, succeeding in growing Hogwarts' new celebrity. Ron, the new Quidditch sensation. Ron, the best student. Ron, the true Gryffindor surprise. A storm plunged within him, one fed constantly by suspicion. No, Ron wouldn't be content with his return. Ron would much rather have it he were alone, and no longer in his shadow. Ron-

- his best friend, who had stood aside him for so long. Ron, who would never dare as much as spawn that in a nightmare.

Harry simply shrugged, as maddening thoughts dissipated.

"So it would seem." He replied, with a blatant formality that pointed to his sincere ignorance. "I - I'm waiting on Dumbledore to give me further -er..- " he sought Sirius's glance and, seeing it still lowered, continued absently "explanations."

Another sickening moment of silence followed - and in it, Harry could recognize all too well the signs of sheer mortification. In their inertia, so many to whom a soul should have warmed the flesh shell laid as if alone marble carvings. Harry's fingers clenched into tight knuckled fists. What was it to them? Why did they care?! They hadn't gone through it all. Naturally, they hadn't. It was all for Harry to endure, both treacherous reprimand and redemption. And they probably thought not only that he deserved everything, but that he had sought it just as well, and that-

"Oh- he'll be telling you about the OWLs too, won't he?" Hermione's question draped his reflections into a quickly intensifying chaos. He hung, however, to the last contemplation, blinked off a bit of surprise, then fought back the urge to laugh at the triviality of her inquiry, given the circumstances. Then again, that should hardly had astonished him - most likely, even when facing the gates of either heaven or hell, Hermione would ask what score she needed in order to proceed.

"Yes, I suspect so. I-er- how did you do?" he demanded, politely, quite certain she had quickly filled a new score in "Hogwarts: A history" as to what high percentages were concerned. And, through the wide smile that shook her face, he realized he had been quite right:

"Oh, you know...Not too great..."

"All across Os or Es except for Potions, Ancient Rune Study and...DADA..." mumbled Ron, passing a weak hand through the latent flames serving as his hair in a fashion that reminded Harry unpleasantly of how he now knew his father would scuffle his already rumbled locks.

"Heh, I wouldn't be too down in your place either." Harry argued, watching Sirius repeat the gesture in awe. Somehow, however, it never quite seemed to deny him that natural elegance by which Sirius Black had most likely won himself a name throughout his life. It was still somewhat unnecessary and disturbing, in his humble view. He said nothing, however, and resumed in carrying a new battle, against the inner urge of jumping at Ron's throat and beating out the latter's last shred of modesty. The twins, up to now worryingly silent, gave him a look of feigned disappointment, which only helped Ron's blush deepen.

"Yeah, I - I did pretty well." Molly Weasley, nevertheless, could not hold a small sneer, leaving no place for one to wonder on her distress on his son's career. Evidently, after his last success in becoming prefect, and the quite satisfactory border of his marks, her hopes in his regard had risen considerably - all to the point where an A to Potions had shattered her every illusion. And there was also that disturbing O at Divination, of all subjects...

Ron's gaze met the flooring again, and with that instilled for a new, flourishing reign, the undisputed stillness.

Everyone seemed absently preoccupied. The twins had launched in a battle with their spoons, but renounced it quickly enough, under Mrs. Weasley's scolding glare. The last, one arm around her daughter's shoulder, patted Ginny on her hair.

Hermione had pursed her lips in a thin line, though why, he could not quite tell. It took him a bit to realize she was glaring directly to the feeble frame of Sirius, as the last, having quietly spat the intact eye, was currently admiring the end of his much too long robes. And, somehow, that irked him beyond control.

Harry barely had time to linger the thought, before it burst onto his lips, poisoning his tongue, and causing regret to be birthed even as he spoke it. And he could see it, in her eyes, could discern the dread. Could spot the light tremble of her lips, the pallor of her face, and still he did not stop up to when that ravaging wave of hatred was his to hold alone no longer:

"What is it, Hermione? You wishing he was dead and no longer "living through us"?!"

If there was still even the frailest line of blood bestowing life onto her feeble body, now suspended slowly onto the wall, Hermione's pallor most certainly drained it. It was truly surprising how fast she had gone, from one expression to the other, under the careful sign of sheer dread. Her lips had curved, at first, in a full gasp, then contortioned vaguely to waver on all words until, finally, she most likely acknowledged her incompetence in uttering but a single word. Her hands had tied into full, forceful fists, and she slammed her fingers occasionally on her palm, feeding off as much despair as she could through that one wretched gesture. Harry blinked off any urge to move to comfort, any sudden impulse to tear her down. Instead he flashed her a sneer, that cruel grimace he had so many times seen in Malfoy, yet never believed any other capable of replicating to full depth. It was his to master then and there, however, as he vaguely recalled a light murmur, then a determined whisper - Hermione's assessment, it would seem still valid. They had played a game once, in their first year: she, Ron and himself. He had laughed all too well, back then, and found it terribly entertaining. Funny, as he thought of it then, he could not help but think of it as anything but amusing. And they had asked all the questions their then innocent minds could fancy, and received answers. Some more forced than others.

So it was, that his mind deemed him a proper memento, of this same girl, back then much closer to the boundaries of childhood, having shook her head lightly and responded vaguely to Ron's question concerning her worst fear. And with lowered eyes, and a cautious tone, she had managed a reply, even if covered soon by her futile attempt of laughing at her own claimed idiocy. She had said, then, that what she feared most was of ever being hated - for what she was. She had brought both hands up, as she had laid there, in their common room, in front of the fire, and clasped them slowly, finding in such a preoccupation and reason enough not to look to them directly. She had continued, naturally, even though much colder - all efforts to ridicule had been abandoned. And she had said that, while she could stand being loathed for what she would say, for what she would do or for how she would behave, she could never bring it to herself to overcome abhorrence towards all that she represented.

In a light comparison, Harry could see it was precisely what he had aimed to do - and, more or less fortunately, succeeded. He had questioned not as much her manner of approach, as her motivation. And that, as to what Hermione was regarded, was ill omen indeed.

"How can you say that?" she managed to utter, her eyes voicing a deep reprimand her mouth could not be urged to conceive. And still he held no mercy for her evident indignation, just as he did none for the pain to have birthed it, and that grew in cruel layers through broken cries that would not be spoken.

He looked back from her face, moved his focus to the flooring. And found himself scolding his weakness, compelling himself to confront her and her wretched ways, and have her, for once pay. Because he was tired - tired of being the single judged, and of having always to respond to accusations by sheer guilt. He was tired of the sufferance implied, and of having everyone else simple bystanders, shadowing his agony yet in truth feeling none of it.

"Oh, do stop." He snapped, his comment meeting a few gasps of what he laid certain was the shallow frame of Virginia Weasley and her tiresome mother. "With the entire dueling club. <> ! " he mimicked her to complete perfection, even up to a maximized dismissing gesture in which she commonly indulged whilst trying to make a point.

"Harry, you know I never m-meant it-" He turned to find her a shivering mass, auburn locks bathing her weak silhouette as if the silky curtain spread into his bedchamber - and much like with the last, he felt an ardent desire to rip it apart until all there would be left would be the cries and the din of the shattered essence. He offered her, instead, the shadow of a smile, as he bent forward slightly, enclosing the distance.

"Admit it... you wanted him dead."

She glared back, even if for the slight moment before the connection broke, and she found herself gazing in frozen ponds of poisonous clarity.

"I-of course I did not!" she shouted, and Harry could almost hear the words scar her throat, as she fought desperately to birth them.

"Oh...?" He did not know what to tell her - more so, he did not care. There were just so many things that needed be said - that should have been said a longtime ago. And that may have just made a difference - a short glimpse of Sirius encouraged as much - in that which was to come. In a universe where alone he and all that which he had sought to deny existed, Hermione laid an open realm ready to explore. No other motivation - but that she was there. And that to one point, she had, too, he noted, attempted to somehow diminish his glee. It was all a distant root of the past, all something he would have normally failed to take into consideration. But he had recently realized, that his was not the place to forgive. And never to forget.

A fierce pain pulsed vividly, stripping his mind, as it once had his forehead - the scar had grown into his tormentor.

With an enclosed slash of his tongue, narrowing slowly onto his teeth, he paused, for a moment.

A malicious world, with him alone as target, where they toyed and jested and believed he would not care. Or rather, that he did, but that he would never find it within him to react, and-

It took him a long moment to remember to breath. He inhaled, deeply, then gazed in his surroundings, again met the cold flooring, and on it the darkened followers of each silhouette...All the shadows united in a perfect glory, of dusk glinting through fiendish ways he could not decipher...and then he could sense the cold, one he could recognize too clearly...the shadows...everywhere...he turned to look to Ron, but he was not there. Again, nothing but his shadow, creeping on him, reigning his figure, the dark...willing to grip him...

He did the same to them all, and none complied. All shadows, not real, thoughts swirling in his mind...and Hermione, dreading Sirius, and- Hermione! He twisted to face her, and found she, unlike the rest was there. A mere statue of fear, as she laid with shallow eyes, looking at him, and somehow beyond. But there, there! He clutched to her as much as he could, faced her to his fear - though finding her body inexplicably cold. From a distant corner of his mind, he could hear the whispers forming, and all under a complete reign of agony...

"You wanted him dead" It was all he could bring himself to say, though he realized, again tool ate, that it was hardly what he desired to voice either. He closed his eyes, in a futile effort to overcome the sudden stab, the burden to his breathing - but unlike the light, the murmurs did not leave him...

How far will you go...?

As far as he takes me...

Groaning, he hung to the one thing material. Hermione, as she panted whilst she shook her forcefully.

"Didn't you, Hermione?" came his bitter inquiry, a short sparkle of cruel jade mocking her pain, as his fingers clawed into the back of her arms. "Didn't you?" he tried to drag a much air in his lungs as he could, but found it was an almost impossible task. The scar was hurting, and though he had long opened his eyes, he could only see the darkness...

What if he does not want to come?

But we do... Take us...Don't go...

No...what was that? The voice...he must not let them, must not- Hermione. Must focus on Hermione. Hermione was there, alive, Hermione was- he hated Hermione. She didn't know, didn't know about the voices, didn't know about what they had done to Sirius, she wanted him dead, she-

Again the dusk shifted in...

Aren't you afraid?

So many are afraid...But we don't let them pass. Should we let you?

Why should we, he-

- the pain gathered in an immense wave that overwhelmed him. He did not know whether he ravaged her, or bid her aid, could not tell why it was the dusk would not go, or why his scar - his scar-

"I ne - never wa-wan-wanted that! N-never!" it was hard for her to utter anything coherently, as tears cascaded in a painful ambush over her pale face. "Never, d-do you hea-hear me?!" she would have driven him in a tight embrace, was there force enough in her limbs to be directed into as much. But all she could do, all she could begin to think of doing, was, it would seem, to raise her deep, brown eyes, and meet his own in a flicker of warmth that died in bitter acknowledgment.

Harry felt each shred of strength leave him. Suddenly, mere contemplation proved a much too great a task. He could perceive a slight echo of voices, as he again saw light. His knees bolted painfully onto the floor. He could not feel the collapse, up to when the cold hit him heartily. Hermione still kept him up - for as much as she could. In a corner, Ginny was little but crying herself, whilst the twins attempted to carry him up.

He knew he was going to faint. He could sense it, and that weak part of him revolted at the mere thought of again growing into the darkness. He did not wish it. Could not stand it. But at least the pain was no longer. His hand was pressed too tightly. It took forever for his eyes to slowly roll to his right, sighting a much too pale Ron, who helped Fred in pushing him up.

"Oh..." that teary voice rang much too familiar. "Harry's just - just tired...everything will be alright...Harry's just tired, aren't you dearie? Just tired...just...tired..." Mrs. Weasley was weeping, and it took George's swift embrace to support her as well. Harry himself could only nod, even as he felt each bone scavenge through him, even as the darkness again took control.

A low shook of his head, and a whispered "I'm sorry..." Hermione too shook her head in acknowledgment, and smiled. Another tear flickered, even as she so curved her lips. And then Sirius' mignong presence, regarding him strangely...almost as if he alone was there, trembling frenetically, murmuring lightly, his expression that of pure dread, yet left unnoticed...and it was then that Harry realized his nightmare was nothing in comparison to that of the child...

But there was nothing he could do. Not now, as he was again overcome by pain and fatigue, and his eyes closed, challenging a sleep of no dreams.

"I...I don't know what came over me, Hermione."

"T-that's alright, Harry. It's- it's probably like Mrs. Weasley said...you were just tired..."

Harry held great doubts he had ever come spent a more lengthened lunch. True, there were the ones with aunt Marge - but at least during those the fury by far overwhelmed his senses, and there was no guilt to be seeded in his feeble mind. None, at least, that he would deem to acknowledge. It was another issue entirely, when he was forced to share a meal, pinned to his bed by an excruciating headache that would for no reason cease pulsing venomously onto his temples. And when those he was to face laid comfortably coiled, to some degree or the other, onto either his bed - at this, as if to point to a vivid reminder of his position, Ron took a big bite of his toast, shredding most of it on his sheet- or the nearest armchair. It was the latter's occupant, however, who more caused his evident discomfort, even though Hermione, a soft smile playing on her lips, seemed more than ardent to leave behind the events of that morning. As such example, she had failed to bring the subject up even once, and when everything somehow led to it, she would simply change the subject with an eternal grimace.

To Harry it had grown little but sickening - especially since at no time would she find fit to look him in the eye, and would instead indulge in stolen glimpses with her fellow prefect.

"Yeah...tired...ummm..." murmured Ron, taking another bite of an enormous sandwich that Harry had conveniently forgotten to mention had been earlier added to the plateau by the twins, when they had delivered lunch. Naturally, that they had chosen to flee with their jaws threatening vaguely to explode at keeping back all the laughter, had aided Harry in the making of his decision. That specific appetizer was not to be touched. He glanced to where what had appeared as a slice of salad squirmed in Ron's mouth, as the last smiled, shrugging and mouthing, between chews - for a moment, Harry could swear the salad had little but tried to creep into Ron's nose...- whether anything was wrong.

The silence was officially maintained with proper reason up to when the last sandwich had made its fluffy escape, again "fighting" viciously in Ron's mouth. Harry himself easily parted with the remains - his hunger, as expected, had been a mere façade, and not one in which he had been too eager to indulge either. But when faced to a new, startling moment of pause, he found he had been much better off eating.

"So..."

He knew the silence would follow, even as the words left his lips, dying off in an insecurity he did not care to describe. Hermione span deeper in the lecture of an issue of the Daily Prophet he had only then bothered to notice. Nearside it, a few parchments were evidence enough that she still held quite close to her priorities. Information, as one would best put it, was what served to Hermione as one, sole secure weapon. Harry himself would deem to contest that entire credo, as too recent enough he had been proven ample arguments against it...Ron, on the other hand, was very much endeavoring in contemplating the sheets. If not for the same monotonous view being provided to him as well, Harry could have sworn, by the intensity of his focus, that there was, encrypted on the soft velvet, the key to the mysteries of the entire world.

"Dumbledore probably left." He ventured, minutes after. He was surprised to see Ron actually look up, bearing an expression of sheer bewilderment - as if through this entire time Harry had insisted on the silence, and had now chosen to finally utter word.

"Yes, he did - he had a lot of things to tend for, and..." he stopped here, again lowering his eyes and playing rigidly with the curves of the sheet "and with you being slightly..."

"-unavailable...-" it was Hermione who, no longer feigning complete interest to the paper in her hands, added on a soft tonality.

"Yes, well...He talked to mum a bit, then..." he drew in forcefully, gathering the very laces of the cover, as if clinging to them for support. Obviously, what he was to say did not come to his liking. Or Harry. Mayhap neither..."left...but he'll see us at Hogwarts."

Ah yes. Now Harry could most definitely understand. Dumbledore, left, again! Like last time, only- only he'll be damned before he'll let that pass a second time-

"Yes, he will, and-" Hermione voiced, supportingly, only causing his anger to rise further. Were they as mad as Dumbledore? Could they truly not see what the headmaster was doing? Isolating them! Keeping back!

"To hell he will!" he growled, leaning forward, and eyeing his nearest target, Ron, directly. The last's eyes met in a cruel reflection to Harry's, who kept the glance up, challenged him to lower his own and therefore admit. " He's doing it again!"

"Doing what a-" The youngest of the Weasley males murmured, though the question died slowly from his mouth. In a fury of motion, Harry pushed him back, rolled swiftly and came in an upwards position, only succumbing to the quick numbness of his entire day of sleep as he attempted to raise. He was stopped from doing so by both the last impediment and Hermione's hand, which came idly onto his shoulder.

"He's keeping me out!" he said, looking up, trying to shove her away and get up - though in a much gentler manner. " What will it take for-"

"I'm sure Dumbledore doesn't - didn't -" Hermione's voice came with just the lightest touch of scold.

"Must anyone else die before he realizes we can bloody handle it?!"

"Harry-" In his vicinity, Ron was bending helplessly towards Hermione's armchair, in an evident attempt to move as little as possible in the process. His fellow prefect had abandoned her position and spread at his feet, onto the flooring, endeavoring in pinning him in his place. Harry himself felt at loss. Why was Dumbledore doing any of this? Why didn't he trust them? Hadn't Sirius' death proven anything at all? And where was Sirius? Why didn't Sirius remember? Why was he six, of all bloody ages? And what in Salazar's name were those voices, and- his scar kept pulsing madly. Slowly, his hand came warm to remove the rebel shreds if hair off his forehead, having them fall in just as useless strands atop his ears.

"It's not like we haven't before! This is just-just-" he whispered, patting his eyes by the back of his hand, sighing deeply and very much trying to think...As if there were not enough problems per whole. Lupin had said Dumbledore would help. Why didn't he?! Dumbledore should have been there! Dumbledore...and then it hit him ,that maybe it was true. That maybe, what Dumbledore himself had admitted the year before was just another verity he was forced to endure. That maybe, just maybe, Dumbledore himself was pray to error. And that, for once, he may not hold the answers.

"Ummm....he left your O.W.L results..."

A hard scroll, tied in a scarlet ribbon landed heavily onto his lap. Ron smiled widely, obviously very much pleased with his aim.

"Yes, let's look over those!" Hermione, having long let go, retook hold of her armchair, spreading calmly onto it. There was a cold composure in her every gesture that succeeded in giving Harry an idea of just how much this farce of perfection cost his friends. Sadly, eyes still lowered to face the flooring, he managed to come up with a delayed reply:

"Yes...of course...let's...look over those..."

His hands unlocked the ribbon with more fervor than he would have cared for - the parchment, a formidably thin sheet, sparkled a faint golden inking that untied, at first, in a beautifully sketched representation of the Hogwarts crest, then in a presentation of the appreciation, importance and official traits of the O.W.L examinations, and then...

"So...what did you get...?" It was Ron's bright voice that woke him from his reverie, even as acknowledgment dawned on him fully. He did not look up, but he was willing to wager his entire hold of Galleons that Hermione was eyeing him just as eagerly.

"Well...an E in Transfiguration...Charms too...and...oh...Potions as well..." he answered, as he read on. He only held a soft moment to ponder the last mark - that which damned him. Professor McGonnagall had been more than clear that Snape, in all his famed "benevolence" received only those of Outstanding grades in his N.E.W.T level class. And, for all his undying "love" for him, Potions still represented a subject in which he was forced to progress for his Auror training. Hermione felt forced to add, on a voice that spoke of regret:

"Uch - that's alright Harry, nobody got better, and-" Harry looked up, slightly cocking an eyebrow:

"What did you get?"

She seemed to look down, momentarily. " Erm..." Ron relieved her of an answer as, equally flushed crimson, he spoke up:

"Quite. What else?"

"A solid O in Care of Magical Creatures..." No surprise there - for all his more or less healthy affinity towards more eccentric species, Hagrid was amore than capable teacher, and he doubted any of his class had gotten lower than an E. Well, save for Malfoy. The last would have been very much capable of intentionally faltering his examination, if only to prove that he had done his duty as a pureblood pest and not properly attended classes thought by those below him by social and - in his view - heredity standards.

"Bet Hagrid'll love to hear that!"

Harry nodded as Ron and Hermione shared a laugh at their shared comment, before continuing "A...errm...P in...Divination..."

"Well, who would get any higher with that old bat-" Hermione said, flicking a lock of her rich hair behind an ear. Ron, however, seemed slightly disturbed. And, indeed, Harry could tell just why, with his O, and - but, wait a minute! Hadn't - hadn't Ron told him he had seen the very reflection of his examiner and made a complete fool out of himself? How could he have-

"Err...not helping, Hermione..." Harry measured Ron through an inquisitive glance, just as the last closed his mouth in a thin, embarrassed smile. He decided to ask about that and a few more other things later.

"And an A in Astronomy, and..."

"W-what is it, Harry?" He nearly choked when uttering the reply to Ron, even though he had half expected the result...

"An O! An O in Defense Against Dark Arts!"

Ron patted him on the shoulder encouragingly, smiling wider still, as Hermione simply nodded, adding on her favored all-knowing tone:

"Yes, I knew that, still it's splendid! It was even in the Daily Prophet - this year, the tasks were more than severe, and marked very rigidly, and-"

" Are you saying that just because it was between your two Es?" Ron's question earned him a look of sheer indignation.

"No, they truly- well, Harry is the second of our year!"

Harry's heart came to a full stop, as his face mirrored the Black stem - partly covered by the drape, he noted vaguely - in an untainted pallor. A sudden dread overwhelmed him, burdening each of his breaths, as thoughts began to swim in his mind, attacking it mercilessly. No, anything but- though that would mean- he would be saved, it might not be him- but was that what he wanted? Did he not want to be the one? No, he did not, he- he had to, he had to be the one! He had fought too much, lost too much for it all to have been just-

"Who's...who's the other one...?" he barely inquired, finding a Hermione somewhat startled by the evident despair written in his eyes.

"Well, Harry, it's..."

His hands too hold of her arms in a tight clutch, as he mouthed, each word little but carved through his throat:

"It's Neville, isn't it?"

"Yes..." He let go. Just as the world, in his eyes, did to him. No...at one point...at one point he had held a possibility...that...that maybe he was not the one to which the prophecy referred. That maybe this burden could be another's. That maybe he could be...whole again. Normal. Just...just Harry. The recall of the first time in which those two words had been spoken drew in a bitter wave. Just Harry. But he was not allowed to be just that - would never be...

"That's terribly nice for him, since he did quite badly at the rest..." he could hear Hermione continue, just as reality drifted further away. Then Dumbledore had told him that Voldemort had chosen him. That he was the one. That Neville -that Neville held no part there. And now...and now Neville, the one whom every student aside for the Gryffindors of his year, mocked, the one who was little but a squib...Now that Neville had proven such an exceptional talent at the exact Art in which he and the Dark Lord excelled...all this was...

"Of all the people..." he whispered, belatedly.

"Harry, one would think you would be even slightly happy for him..." Hermione argued, visibly and unpleasantly surprised by his discomfort.

No, they wouldn't be aware of any of it. They hadn't listened to the prophecy, hadn't heard about - all because Dumbledore hadn't wanted them to - and Dumbledore was not even there, not even as he wanted to talk to him about Sirius - Sirius who was a six-year-old, and the veil...and the voices...

"I am...I...I suppose this is all just...exceeding expectations..."

He only nodded, again absently, again caught in another wave of thought that drained him to no extents.

There was something vaguely alluring in the way each whisper died in the night as a soft echo...

And in how it touched her ears, how its meaning was easily deciphered, yet never received proper acknowledgment by her weary mind.

In truth, this all had succeeded in sickening her - and in far lesser time than she had wagered. Up to then, all discussions had not passed the borders of flowery formality. An entire speech of wishes of health, and then prayers towards Khay'zer. As if the Darken God would bother with their idiotic requests and cries of appreciation... in fact, she did not hesitate in voicing her opinion, at one point - a murmured sample of her indignation, yet sufficient to attract a look of scolding disapproval from her right. And indeed, as her jaded eyes met perfect reflection in those of her sire, she could tell all too well what was the conveyed message: "House Dias cannot afford any sudden intervention."

Were such not be considered a clear sign of mockery, she would have most likely burst into that thin laughter familiar to their kin. And she would have laughed, laughed of the stern view in these times of the new, laughed of her sire's fright for any faults in this infantile game of status, laughed of it all as she did of the entire new concept presented, of the Darken One's prophet.

And indeed she had, of the last, but only in the privacy warranted by her time of meditation. After so many years, they still believed...still craved for the promise of a new era, when their ilk would finally come to light. And they were so ardent in their trust, that they never once doubted that what had for centuries been to them denied - the touch of light, lethal if direct to their mere skin- would suddenly be in their grasp. And that this one who claimed himself Dark Lord, the same who they all accepted as messenger of Khay'zer the Destroyer, this one had given them his word...the word of a human...disgusting.

But still, accepted by so many!

The entire situation went beyond the borders of ridicule to those of tragedy, once the circle of Keepers, even the mighty Chas-Quel Doma had been summoned to discuss his rise and their position.

Oh, such an intriguing evening indeed.

A pity, however, that the elite had not so far adjoined; so far, the assembly threatened to provide monotony a new, more throbbing meaning. She opened her mouth to issue as much when the look of reprimand had been cast - then closed it, pursing her lips, accepting the lesson even as the rigid line curved, making her sire's smile.

The Chas-Quel Doma were there - not visible, not now. Even though the council had been united for time enough, even though the woods were filled by forsaken murmurs. They were there, with each pale brush of wind, with each stroke of light. There, and watching.

With an idle sigh, she pushed her cloak down further, positioned the hood, so that not even the most curious of glances would be give satisfaction. Too late, she noted that so had, before her, many others that formed the circle. As if having waited for her exact attention, the voices grew to a tone almost perceivable even by the crude human hearing.

The last notion caused her grimace to deepen. Humans...such deplorable creatures, in more ways than she cared to demonstrate. Their ilk was by far dissimilar by manner, by tradition...to their often stated fortune, the ever benevolent Khay'zer had been generous enough as to also offer to them a difference in appearance.

They were by far more graceful, more agile - their each limb was much more thin and held bones more evidently underlined, their eyes were a sublime emerald little but crystal...their skin bore the faint grayish of years sans the proper touch of light, and their noses, as had been pointed by a human, were flattened on the lower part, as if...broken.

Truthfully, she could barely understand how humans, with their pale skin, and much too fleshy members, and disgusting tenderness could call them a matter of the grotesque. By Khay'zer's name, they did not even bear markings!

Her eyes came as lit slits, falling swiftly on her revealed right hand. From the wrist, and where she knew would come upper still, to the very shoulder, a line of silver was spawn - the same enchanted metal which, as she had come of age, had been poured in carvings on her arm that had been sculptured in the form of the stigma of her House. And indeed, though time had passed from the event, she could still feel on her tongue, the sweet taste of own blood, as she had bitten her lips and consumed her own pain in that one gesture that had held her from materializing her agony in a long cry.

Such ancient times, and all not forgotten. A part of her lusted for them to be forever lost in oblivion - her one moment of weakness, when she had not been able to fully appreciate the pain...and that served as yet another border which humans would never overcome. Their aversion towards pain. They did not understand, as their chaste, that through pain they gained purification, forgiveness. That in doing so, they met the desire of the great Khay'zer, that the ache was, in truth, their redeemer...

Would not, and could not. And then again, why would they? The mighty Khay'zer had already chosen their role - they would furnish that which her kin needed for survival...and she and a selected few for more than just that. From memories, from the non-physical pain, they could gather the means for their magic. Not each of her race, no, only the chosen, as she. And though their power was not the same as a wizard's, theirs was still the glory, for they were disciples of the Forbidden Arts, the ones of War, as the humans in knowledge would call them.

Ah yes...the Keepers of the Arts were indeed cherished. Which was why they were the soles permitted to attend and present the cases and situations to the Chas-Quel Doma, the sacred committee...and why she was there, as representative of her House, to bring them to light - to show to them why their Prophet, this Dark Lord, would again meet his demise.

And as fate was most kind, her chance came soon enough, for one of them - of House Lashiesh, lest she was mistaken- spoke of the exact nonsense she wished to be abandoned:

"- in consequence, you must understand, the Dark Lord-"

"Shall be our downfall."

It was hardly problematic, to see the result of her words, even as they left her lips, and died in the dense night. Some turned, some twitched, again followed the murmurs...and her sire, frozen in place, only lowered his head, in clear sign of acceptance of what would come.

Even though she could not see his lips move, nor hear him speak the words, she knew what he was surely uttering. Nih'tala - "As the Gods will it".

"Who speaks?" again Wenah Lashiesh, as his jaded glance came to measure each of those present. "House Dias holds no Keeper. Master Rohkan " a low shift of her instructor's hood, as he nodded in acknowledgment, even when Wenah's words were currently uttered. He knew all too well what House Lashiesh would say, as did she. Rhokan was far too old to practice the Arts - with that had also come the loss of status as representative

"Master Rohkan" he continued "is no longer of Age. House Dias holds no Keeper, disciple."

"Disciple no longer." It was time for her to speak, time to no longer keep the quiet. "I hold the khaj." Her hand raised, again the right, fingers all stretched, almost touching the light. And on them, the claws of an animal, struck to the ends, held through by a whitish membrane...alone, she would know the pain of it, as it struck onto her pores, spiked the flesh, tore through, made to reach the bone and grow one with her hand...only at this test, she was no longer a novice. Now, she had learned to control the twinge, to appreciate it in its full might. She would do so further, up to when the membrane would attach to her hand, taking the color of her skin and making it seem as if the claws were extensions. It had done so for the elders, it would do for her.

The khaj served for many purposes - a weapon, at first. The sole of a Keeper, when there were no memories from which to extract the force needed to comply their magic. And secondly, it came as sign of recognition. The Slayers had the Kiss in which to indulge - only the Keepers held the khaj. Such had always been the ways of the Old.

She let it be admired, for a moment, let each of those of the circle be recalled of the moment when, countless centuries before, they too had owned the khaj and its trial.

"Ah yes...the khaj." There was a thread of contempt in Wenah's words, one she chose to ignore. A pity for House Lashiesh and their wretched grudges... she fancied a smile, only to show her calm was untainted. Yes, Wenah would always remember - as would she. For it was to her Making that the memories and force of Wenah's sires was used, when they brought to their end by Rohkan. While none of their kind was permitted to touch one who had grown no longer of Age, that did not mean Wenah could not stab as he wished the remnants of the House...

"Let us hear, then, that which you have to say against our Dark Lord, our Prophet! Prove your heresy, Keeper Anu' Mah, House Dias."

Her grimace crisped, yet her chin rose, as she stepped forward. Trust an old fool like Wenah to account each argument as heresy. Then again, nothing she had not expected...such were the old ways of her kind, the ways of the Dementors.

Nearside, Rohkan's displeasure on the exchange was marked through a snapped glare he shot her, almost accusing. Again, she only smiled.

At least the reign of tedium had ended.