The Alchemist's Cell
by SJR0301
Chapter Twelve
The search for Davey Byrd's girlfriend was proving fruitless. Edgar wondered how a human being could simply go to ground, disappear in the modern, technologically controlled world with such ease. Every job applicant had to have an identity card. Every checking account owner had to have a provable address and no one could escape paying taxes. Yet the girl had disappeared, perhaps into the underground society, where names were false and no one asked questions and everyone paid cash. Fay had suggested that they give the pub murders a rest and chase down any possible leads left in their other case before they faded altogether. Edgar had gathered all the information on the third victim of what Fay had dubbed the Magic Murders. She thought it was hilarious. Edgar didn't tell her how apt he thought it might be.
According to the file, Janet Gordon had lived in the City of London and was twenty one years old. She had no criminal record, no history of drug abuse, and was unmarried, but had been dating the same fellow, a bank clerk, for three years. The autopsy was exactly the same as Nancy Bell's and Margaret Miller's in the most important aspect: there was no known cause of death. Like the other two girls, Janet Gordon had left home in the morning and had never returned. Like the others, she had been in perfect health and had simply dropped dead. The tox results were as negative as those for Nancy Bell, both tests. Bell's second toxin screening had come back negative again and Edgar was almost certain that the Superintendent was going to shut down his Task Force and close the investigation from the Met as being a false alarm. There was one intresting detail that piqued Edgar's interest. Like Margaret Miller, Janet Gordon had had very slight, very mild burns about the face. On the temples to be exact. But they seemed to be nothing more than sunburn or windburn.
They were about to take off to interview the victim's grandmother- her sole relative and the one who had raised her apparently, after the girl's parents had died--when the Superintendent called them in for a quick conference.
"Listen, you two," Superintendent Masters said. "We've had a tip on those gang war killings. Graves was supposed to check it out, but he's come down with the flu. He was barfing all morning apparently. Anyway, our informant is anonymous, of course, but he left a message for Graves to check out a tavern called The Hanged Man. And he says, don't come in suits or you'll be spotted for coppers immediately. It has some real rough trade, it seems."
Edgar took the address of the tavern and asked, "Did the snitch tell us who would be there or what they get up to?"
"No," Masters answered. "It may be nothing. The only info is the tavern is a hidey-hole for some of this Death Lord's followers. Go quiet, okay. I don't want to lose any officers. And check out a gun, each of you. These lots are some of the roughest we've seen in years."
They had stopped to change out of their business suits before heading for the tavern. Edgar reckoned they had plenty of time anyway. The real business at this kind of place probably didn't even start until near eleven at night. Edgar had opted for the most anonymous, innocuous clothing he could think of: well-worn jeans, topped with a dark T-shirt and an equally well-worn work shirt. He frankly gaped when he picked up Fay. She had put on leather trousers so tight they ought to be banned and topped them with a silk turtleneck and a matching leather jacket.
When he found his voice, he said, "My god, Fay, did you want to start a riot? All you need is a tattoo in the appropriate place and Vice'll be tossing you into the lock-up overnight."
Her blue eyes narrowed with amusement and she said, "How do you know I haven't got one anyway?"
He couldn't think of a thing to say to that, that wouldn't land him on his back in a gutter, so he said nothing. He was afraid the faint flush in his cheeks gave him away, though, so he made a production of opening the passenger door for her as if she were in evening dress and they were on their way to the opera.
The Hanged Man looked as villainous from the outside as its name. The tavern sign depicted a dead man hanging from a gallows with on oddly smiling face. The ancient leaded windows were dirty and dark and the interior was even darker. A few old men were seated at a table in the window drinking dark ale and grousing about their pension assistance. The bar area didn't look very clean, and Edgar resolved to drink as little as possible. That was going to be difficult judging from the kind of place it was. He and Fay took places at the bar. He ordered a shot of Glenfidditch and Fay ordered gin and soda.
"What a vile drink that is," he said. Her cat's eyes crinkled in amusement and her lip curled just a bit. The bartender listened to their talk and inspected them surreptitiously but asked no questions.
At the back of the room, a big, heavyset man was arguing over a hand of cards with a small weaselly fellow.
"I don't care for cheaters," the big man said.
The weaselly fellow smiled unctuously and said, "Cheating is the name of the game, you know."
The big man smiled. He had stained yellow teeth and exceptionally long canines. "I meant to say, I don't like it when others cheat me. What I do here is another story."
He dealt out a hand of cards and the weaselly fellow threw his down and spat. "Now that's what I call the open cheat," he said. "I think I'm missing old Black Jack Crowley already. He could cheat so smoothly ye'd never know it."
The big man responded coldly, "Black Jack thought he could cheat death himself. Well, he had an unpleasant surprise, now, didn't he?" He added, "I wouldn't complain, now. No, I wouldn't, if were you. You wouldn't want to join the old cheat, would you?"
"Ah, I'm not worrying," the weaselly fellow responded. "I've my uses, as his Lordship is aware."
Edgar tossed back his shot in one swallow. The drink was watered, but it stung his eyes anyway. He slid away from the bar, ignoring Fay's move to stop him, and ambled over to the card players in the corner.
"Is this an open game?" he asked.
The big man looked him up and down and said, "Might be. And then again, it might not be. How much can you put down?" He looked contemptuously at Edgar and said, "We don't play for shillings and ha'pence here."
Edgar met his glare and fished out a twenty-pound note. He mentally sighed at the thought that he wasn't likely to be given expenses for something like this. The big man picked up the note and examined it carefully before laying it back down and saying, "Pull up a chair."
The big man dealt a new hand. Edgar watched carefully, but he didn't spot any false moves. His cards weren't bad, a pair of jacks and a pair of fives. He wondered if the big man had given him a good hand deliberately to suck him in. He was sure of it, when after the first several wins for him, the cards began to turn. Within two more hands, he was in the hole by fifty pounds and not liking it a bit.
Fortunately for his pocket, but not in any other way, the game was interrupted. Two more men had drifted in and were sitting at the bar near Fay. The big man spotted them and began sweat nervously. One of the men was wearing a leather vest over a T-shirt and his big biceps rippled in the smoky light. The other was smaller, balding and wore a glove over one hand. The one with the biceps gave Fay the once over and moved his stool closer to her.
Fay gave him a look back and asked in a voice that was more throaty than usual, "What are you drinking, duckie?"
She had altered her voice to sound as if she were born in the East End and Edgar thought it was amazingly convincing. He missed the next deal of the cards altogether and the big dealer said quietly, "I wouldn't expect to go home with your girl tonight. That's a mean one, he is. You want to stay away from him."
Edgar looked back at the big man. It gave him the willies to think that the bullying dealer was afraid of that guy. Leather-vest had to be a real nasty. He thought, this was a good tip, for sure. First the mention of Crowley and now this.
"Who is he?" Edgar chanced asking.
"Ah, one of his Lordship's favorites," the weaselly fellow answered.
"A dangerous fellow then," Edgar answered. He could see them adding things up: Assuming that Edgar was one like them, on the fringes of it, a messenger boy, a small-time villain latching onto the main chance.
The small, balding man with the glove said to Leather-vest, "Not her. We don't want another one too close to the last."
Fay pouted and said, "Why not me? I'm very creative." Edgar could have throttled her.
The balding man said nervously, "You haven't got the talent we're looking for?"
"Oooh, but I'm very talented, duckie. Really. Especially if it pays well." Fay replied.
Leather-vest was definitely interested. "Just because she won't interest HIM, doesn't mean she doesn't interest me." He said to Baldy. "I like them thin and pretty," Leather-vest said. "You are, too," he said to Fay, and she, the idiot, thought Edgar, actually batted her lashes at him.
Baldy said sharply, "This isn't the time, Warren!"
Leather-vest, who it appeared, was called Warren, answered coldly, "Since when does a little rat like you tell me what to do?"
Baldy drew back and said, "Be careful!"
"But I'm tired of being careful," Leather-vest answered. He put a very large hand on Fay's arm and dragged her off her stool.
"Come on...duckie." Leather-vest made for the door and Fay was dragged along with him. Nobody moved. No one said a word. The big dealer was sweating profusely and Edgar stared at them.
"What is this place?" he asked.
The big dealer said, "This is the Hanged Man. You saw the sign. The Lord of Death owns this place. And he owns those fellows and pretty soon he'll own everyone of us in London." He added, "I wouldn't go after her, if I were you. Not if you want to live. He's one of his Lordship's favorites. A real killer. He likes killing."
Edgar dropped his cards and ran out after them. The big man had one hand in Fay's champagne hair and another caressed her long neck. Baldy laid a hand on Leather-vest, but Leather-vest casually swatted Baldy aside as if he were an insect. Edgar moved as fast as he'd ever moved in his life.
He managed to land a blow to Leather-vest's neck while his back was turned. The blow would have have knocked another man out, but all it did was force Leather-vest to his knees. Fay was quick enough to jump away before Leather-vest had landed another blow, this one right in Edgar's solar plexus. Fay had drawn her gun, and Leather-vest was going for something in his belt when Baldy got in the way.
"Let them go!" Baldy hissed. "HE'LL punish you if you mess his plans up again!"
Fay took advantage of their distraction to haul Edgar back up and the two of them ran for it. A shoot out would not advance them in Masters' favor when they'd been instructed to play things safe and quiet.
Fay drove and Edgar sat back in the passenger seat cursing. She pulled up to Edgar's flat and he cursed again as she helped him up the stairs and opened the door. He collapsed on the sofa and sucked in air as she opened up his work shirt and lifted up his T-shirt.
"What the devil do you think you're doing," he shouted.
"Checking you for broken ribs, you idiot," she replied. "And I might ask the same of you. What possessed you to play a high stakes card game like that?"
"What possessed you to flirt with a villain like that? Talk about idiots. Are you out of your mind?" he shouted again.
"You wouldn't have gotten hit, if you hadn't interfered," she retorted.
"No," he said, "You would have had your neck broken. That's a stone cold killer, your friend Warren. And I don't think he was going to stop for a preliminary kiss."
The blue eyes widened hugely and she said, "You don't know that," but her tone was uncertain.
"Yes, I do," Edgar, answered. "The dealer told me. He had one hand in your hair like this, and the other on your neck, like that." He stared at her and shivered, "All it would have taken was a single twist and you'd have been dead."
"Oh," she said. He thought vaguely that he ought to take his hands off her before he got clawed to boot. The blue eyes were on his and they blinked once, slowly, before she leaned into him and kissed him. He discovered eventually that she did not have a tattoo.
~~***~~
Harry settled into the fall's routine. Classes, quidditch practice and Occlumency lessons. He had begun to enjoy the Defense Against the Dark Arts classes as either the Revitalizing Potion or simply the abundance of food helped him regain his normal energy and strength. They had learned more physical avoidance: somersaulting, how to roll out of a fall, how to jump from two feet or from one foot in various directions.
Malfoy kept up a running grumble of annoyance and contempt at this part of the class. But even he had to recognize Professor Ribisi's talent when they began work on defending against objects cursed to attack the unwary. On a rainy day early in November, the Professor strode into the classroom with his usual energy. He gave a wave of his wand and all the mats disappeared.
"Today, class," the Professor said, "we begin work at a more difficult level. You must not expect an opponent will only attack you with a wand. There are many other ways of attack, and the smart wizard must be constantly aware and wary if he wishes to survive." The Professor drew on dragonhide gloves and laid a black cloth bag on his desk. With a subtle motion of his wand, the black bag opened, turned upside down in the air, and out of it flew a small silver knife. The knife hovered in the air, and seemed to be waiting for instructions. The class gazed at the deadly thing in fascination.
Dramatically, the Professor said, "Ah, what is this? Is this a dagger I see before my eyes?" Malfoy snorted and rolled his eyes. The rest of the class waited with bated breath to see what the Professor would do. "Have I any volunteers," the Professor asked, "who would like to try to defend against this?" No one raised his hand.
"No?" the Professor said, "very wise, as this knife has been cursed with a most dark and evil curse. I have only to say your name, and it will seek you out and never stop until it stabs you."
Hermione raised her hand and asked, "How do you defend against it, then? And how do you know what curse it is that's on it?"
"Excellent question, Miss Granger. There are two methods of defense," the Professor answered. "If you can detect the curse it is under, you can do the counter-curse with your wand and it will fall to the floor, no more deadly than the knife you use for consuming your dinner. The other method, more sure and rapid, is to dodge its attack and destroy it.
"Now," the Professor said, "draw your wands and practice the counter-curse. Let's see if any of you are strong enough to do it. You will point your wand at the knife and say, Demundanis and the curse will be broken." He lined them up and one after the other, the students attempted to break the curse. When Malfoy did it, the knife wobbled a bit in the air, but didn't fall. The only other ones who were able to affect it at all were Hermione and Neville. The knife gave a skip in the air for Hermione and it wobbled and started to fall a bit before steadying for Neville.
When Harry's turn came, someone, it wasn't clear who, said his name, and the knife flew at him. He barely dodged out of the way and tried to say the counter-curse, but the knife flew at him again before he could raise his wand to point it at the knife. He rolled away in desperation and instead of the counter-curse, he used the fire spell from Alchemy class. Fire poured from his wand and engulfed the knife. He dodged away again, but held his kife on it and concentrated on increasing the fire's heat, a task they had spent weeks on. The knife paused in the air and he increased the heat again. The metal began to melt, and after a moment, it had begun to run in white-hot rivers onto the stone floor. In a moment, nothing was left but a fine layer of dust.
The others in the class were staring at him in horror. Someone cursed and another person whispered, "What if it was a person he did that to?"
There was another silence and the Professor said, "Where did you learn to do that?"
Harry shrugged and said, "I dunno." He did not want to give away the secret of their Alchemy lessons. He added, "You said to dodge it and destory it if you couldn't do the counter-curse. I guess whoever said my name must have had a clue how hard it is to dodge a curse attack like that, don't you think?"
Harry stared at Malfoy and Crabbe and Goyle in turn. He couldn't think who else in the class was related to a Death Eater or had enough hatred for him to want to harm him that badly. The three Slytherins, however, all appeared to be as shocked as the rest of the class.
The Professor said, "I'm sure it must have been an accident." The Professor's face was quite pale beneath his dark hair and black eyes were narrowed in thought. He continued dryly, "I guess the nickname The Boy Who Lived fits you far better than one would suppose." The Professor was so distracted by the incident that he quite forgot to give the class any homework.
Afterward, Ron remarked, "That was really quick thinking, Harry. And it looks like the Professor finally got a clue about some things."
"Did he?" Hermione asked. "And who did say Harry's name? You're lucky you're not the Boy Who Died." She shivered and said, "Sorry, Harry. That just..."
"It's okay, Hermione," Harry answered. He was feeling a bit shivery himself. "It's the absolute truth, isn't it?"
Occlumency lessons continued to be difficult for Harry. Not only was Professor Dumbledore incredibly more powerful than Snape had been, but there was the problem that Harry worried about harming the elderly wizard. He was equally concerned that Voldemort might learn things about the Order or the Ministry's plans for dealing with the Death Eaters through Harry him. He had begun to do far better in one respect though--when he lay down to sleep at night, he practiced closing his mind to his emotions and calming his thoughts. He had found that focusing on a single thing to the exclusion of all else allowed him to push away the rest. He had a feeling that Dumbledore would not be happy with the thought that seemed to come easiest to him and that contained the most power for wiping out all other thoughts--revenge.
He pictured Voldemort alive, stripped of his magic forever and forever as weak as all the victims who had been murdered by him. He pictured Voldemort dead, burned to ashes like the knife he had destroyed in Defense class. He pictured Voldemort having his soul sucked out by a hundred dementors to become the body strapped to the table and no longer human at all.
He pictured Bellatrix Lestrange flying through the veil as Sirius had. He pictured her being condemned to endure the Cruciatus Curse endlessly until she had no more wits left than Neville's parents. He pictured her being rejected by Voldemort and destroyed by the very one she worshipped. The images did not make him happy. In some fashion, the very fact that he could think them was frightening and told him more surely than any prophecy that he was capable of the murder the prophecy predicted he might one day do.
But they consumed his mind so thoroughly that he had stopped dreaming. He had not dreamed of the old man in the cellar in some weeks. And when he did dream, his dreams were odd, composed of flying sequences that always ended with him falling endlessly toward a fire burning below. He did not describe these dreams to Trelawny or Firenze as he had no trouble discerning that they were some expression of the bottomless pit of fear that had taken hold of him ever since Dumbledore had told him the contents of the prophecy. He now feared himself far more than even Voldemort.
On that Wednesday, Professor Dumbledore greeted him with his usual serenity, but Harry forestalled the beginning of the lesson with a question. "Professor," he asked, "Have you found out whether that dream I was having, the one about the old man, have you found out if there is someone like that?"
Dumbledore's face did not alter, but his blue eyes seemed to focus more intently than ever. "Have you been dreaming about him again?" the old man asked.
Harry shook his head. "I was just wondering, sir, well, if he was real, shouldn't someone try to help him?"
Dumbledore considered Harry thoughtfully. He steepled his long fingers into a tall delta shape and aked, "Have you been dreaming at all lately?"
"No, sir," Harry replied. "Just normal stuff, you know. Nothing like the dreams last year, or the one's of the old man."
"Then this is working," Dumbledore said with satisfaction. Harry frowned at him.
"Do you think so? I dunno, Professor. I still can't block you out at all." He added, "You don't suppose that Voldemort just has other things to do? Like maybe he's too busy killing people or...or trying to recruit followers to be bothered with me for a bit?"
"That is a possiblity," Dubmleodre said. Harry had the feeling, though, that Dumbledore did not believe that.
"I mean," Harry clarified, "that Voldemort must realize by now that I'm not much of threat to him so long as I'm here at school. And he has to know that I'm nowhere near strong enough to fight him directly. He'd probably kill me in an instant if we did fight now, so I'm not much of a priority."
"Do not fool yourself into thinking Voldmeort will forget you, Harry." Dumbledore's face was grave and faintly worried. "You must not believe that you are secure by his indifference just because he has not made any active attempts against you lately. Voldemort does not like being thwarted, and you have now thwarted him more than any other person alive. Be assured, that you are in his thoughts, even if he is not in your dreams lately."
He was down again in an instant. He was locked in the smallest bedroom at Privet Drive. There were bars on the window and the cold bowl of soup shoved through the cat flap was all that he and Hedwig would get to stave off hunger till the next day or maybe the next after that. He was seven, and Dudley and his gang were making fun of him, funny Harry Potter with his too big clothes and his round broken glasses. It was Christmas, and there were heaps of packages under the tree, but none were for him. He was sitting in detention for Umbridge writing "I must not tell lies" over and over in his own blood and the cuts on his hand wasn't healing anymore. A furious rage possessed him. The squat, ugly witch was evil, tormenting him and enjoying it. He would never give in to her. Never.
He attacked back with a swelling tide of rage and the wall that protected the old man's mind was flattened. The wizard he faced was younger than him but possessed of the power of madness in addition to the dark arts he had mastered. Grindelwald's ice gray eyes held only one message--death. But before death would come the pain. Grindelwald struck with unmatchable speed and his right knee collapsed beneath him. He was down in a howling misery of pain and every bit of him was on fire. When the pain let up, he knew he had less than an instant before death struck. He attacked with all the strength and fury he possessed...
His head hurt worse than it ever had before. Harry tried to move, but the pain clamped down, vise-like pressure that would not let up. He cried out involuntarily, something like, please. Someone was holding a cup to his lips but he couldn't swallow. His nostrils were pinched shut and he choked down a liquid that burned down his throat, fiery and hot. The darkness receded and his pain was reduced to a continuous, sharp rhythm. Harry struggled to sit up and saw that Dumbledore was there.
The elderly wizard helped him up and guided him over to the chair by the desk. A trembling seized him. He closed his eyes and opened them again, stunned by the damage he saw. A small wooden table that had held one Dumbledore's whirring instruments was a twisted wreck and the shiny silver thing was in pieces. One of the leaded windows was missing a pane and all the rest had a web of cracks running through them.
Dumbledore moved heavily over to his own chair and sank into it. It came to Harry with some force that Dumbledore was old. Really old. And that these lessons were perhaps more difficult and draining for the headmaster than they were for him. The old man's blue eyes were full of fire and anger and for a moment Harry was terrified that Dumbledore was angry at him.
He stammered, "I'm sorry, Professor." The glimpse inside the old man's mind had brought home to him the devastating power of the art of Legilimency. The ability to invade a person's mind, to see into his most terrible memories and fears was a power no one should have or wield.
"You are sorry?" Dumbledore asked. "You have nothing to be sorry for!" he answered. "But why, why did you not tell me what Umbridge did?"
Harry stared at the headmaster in surprise. "I dunno," he said. "I guess I thought you had enough to worry about with the Order and Voldemort back and Fudge not believing you."
"You did not think that I would have permitted that, did you? You could not have..." Dumbledore looked at Harry and repeated, "You must have known I would never allow something like that."
Harry looked away. He didn't know what to say. He couldn't even quite remember now whether he had said nothing about Umbridge's punishments because of his resentment and pride or because deep down he had been afraid to find out that maybe everyone knew.
"Have you lost your trust in me that completely?" Harry stared back at Dumbledore. He felt horrible. He had upset the old wizard and given him more trouble again.
"No, sir," he answered. "I trust you more than anybody, I suppose." Harry looked back up at Dumbledore and said, "Could I ask you a question, sir?"
Dumbledore nodded. His face was calm again, but his blue eyes were not entirely serene.
"About, Grindelwald," Harry said, "What exactly did you do to him?"
Dumbledore seemed to go very still. After only a moment, though, he said, "One of my more unpleasant memories." He looked very thoughtfully at Harry and said, "If you are asking whether I actually killed him, the answer is no."
"But, you did defeat him, didn't you? So, erm, what did you do to him and what happened to him?" Harry asked.
"You could say what I did to him was far worse than actually killing him," Dumbledore said. He looked neither happy nor proud at the memory.
"What I did," Dumbleodre said, "was to attack his mind, using Legilimency. I opened up his mind and stripped away his memories of every dark spell he ever knew. I stripped away his memory of his own history, so that he was in not much better a state than Professor Lockhart was when his Memory Spell backfired. He was, of course, quite incapable of performing any serious magic or evil after that, but I have spent many hours thinking that what I did was even worse than if I had simply killed him." The old wizard looked profoundly tired and burdened and Harry thought, I would rather be dead, than not remember who I am, or what I am.
"Professor Dumbledore," Harry asked again, "If you can do that, why didn't you do that to Voldemort last summer? Wouldn't that defeat him just as it did Grindelwald?" Dumbleodre looked even wearier than he had before.
"I cannot do that to Voldemort, Harry, because Voldemort is as much a master of Legilimency and Occlumency as I am. And I was afraid, you see, that if I attempted that last summer while Voldemort was inside your mind, that you would have your mind stripped as well. I could not have done that to you," Dumbledore said. Harry looked away again. The thought of such a thing terrified him. Yet he couldn't help thinking, it would have ended things, wouldn't it?
"Professor," Harry said, "are there many wizards who can do Legilimency? And isn't it really, well...it seems like it's awful close to being a dark art to me."
"No," Dumbleodre replied, "Legilimency and Occlumency are talents that few wizards possess or ever master. And they are not dark arts, although they can be used for dark purposes."
"I don't understand," Harry said. Dumbledore looked at Harry again, and he seemed to Harry to be explaining this to himself as much as to Harry.
"Legilimency is an art that healers use to deal with wizards whose minds or emotions have been harmed in some way. A healer skilled in the art can reach into the suffering person's mind, and with a subtle change here or there, assist the person in recovering from Memory Spells, to overcome crippling fears, or to deal with extreme trauma that may have caused emotional harm." He added, "Voldemort perverted its use when he broke through Bertha Jorkins' mind to find the information that Barty Crouch had suppressed through his memory Spells. But in her case, the use of it destroyed her mind altogether. The mind is a very fragile thing in some people, Harry, and once the delicate balance is disturbed, it may never heal again."
"But, Voldemort wouldn't have gone through healer training, would he? Harry asked. "They wouldn't have let him in."
"I don't know who taught him the arts," Dumbledore answered. "I believe I know why he chose to learn them. Indeed, I fear it was my fault that he was inspired to," Dumbledore said.
"Yours?" Harry asked. "But, how?" Dumbledore sighed and it seemed to Harry that the elderly wizard's shoulders drooped and his eyes were bleak and distressed.
"You see, Harry," Dumbleodre explained, "Voldemort--Riddle, as he then was, left school before Grindelwald's power was broken. Evil calls to evil, and Riddle found his way to Grindelwald and was one of his acolytes, as he himself now has his followers. Some of what he learned of the dark arts, he learned from Grindelwald and he was there on the day that I defeated his master." Dumbledore looked out the window and eemed to ponder his next words. "I made the mistake, then, of letting Grindelwald's followers go. I ought to have gone after them as well, but the confrontation with him had drained me, and the others fled before I could deal with them, Voldemort among them. And Voldemort took Grindelwald with him as he took Bellatrix Lestrange with him this past summer."
"Then what happened to Grindelwald," Harry asked.
"No one ever knew for certain," Dumbledore replied. "I believe that Voldemort completed the job of destroying Grindelwald in order to learn the last lingering bits of knowledge of the dark arts that I had failed to strip from him. And then, I would guess, he killed his master, as he has killed everyone for whom he no longer has any use."
"That's horrible," Harry said. "But, he deserved it, didn't he?" Dumbledore looked at Harry and once again he seemed to feel the old man searching his mind in a swift sifting moment, there and gone, in just an instant.
"Do you think anyone deserves that, ever? Enough questions," Dumbledore said after a pause. "It's quite late enough and you do have classes tomorrow." He added, "We'll continue on Saturday, then. And I trust you are practicing calming your mind before you sleep?" Harry nodded and turned to go.
"Professor," Harry said, and Dumbledore said, "Next time, Harry."
"But, Professor Dumbledore," Harry said, "Saturday is the quidditch game. How am I going to be fit to play after this? Please can't I skip just that one lesson?" Dumbledore shook his head and Harry said, "Please! I'll practice! I really will!"
"Very well," Dumbledore answered. Harry felt a huge swoop of relief.
"Thanks, Professor," he said and he smiled for the first time that night. Or perhaps it was for the first time that week. "And I'm really sorry about...erm...attacking you before," he added.
Dumbledore shook his head again as if he were baffled and said, "That's what you were supposed to do, Harry. To block me out. To attack me the same way. No apologies, please." He repeated, "Do not apologize to me. You have done nothing wrong. Nothing at all."
Despite his promise to practice calming his mind before sleeping, Harry had more trouble than usual that evening. He had scuffed his way back to the Gryffindor common room and had completely ignored Filch's threats of detention for being out after curfew and Peeves' chanted insults about Potty Potter and his loony friends barely registered at all.
Once he got back to the common room, Ron fairly seized him and brought out a series of parchments of quidditch plays for him look at. Harry looked at each one in turn and nodded politely as Ron explained the whole new set of tactics he wanted to work in the next evening for Saturday's game.
"Look, Harry," Ron said, "if you fly this pattern and the beaters go behind you that way, then the Slytherins will get so confused they'll leave things open for the Chasers to score."
Harry nodded again and said, "Okay, we can practice it tomorrow. But Ron, do you really think we should change our tactics two days before the game?"
"We already practiced extra tonight," Ron said. He looked searchingly at Harry and asked hesitantly, "You are going to be fit for this game, aren't you?"
"Why would you think I wouldn't be?" Harry asked. He was seriously annoyed, but he just managed to keep his voice level.
"Well," Ron said. He dragged the word out and didn't say anything further.
"Well?" Harry asked.
"Well...it's just that...you don't look so hot right now," Ron said. "You look, I dunno, pale...like you're sick or something."
"Yeah?" Harry said. "Well, you'd look pale, too, if you'd spent your evening having Dumbledore attack your mind over and over again, until it feels like you've had a spike stuck through it, wouldn't you?"
"Oh," Ron said. "It's really that bad?"
Harry didn't answer. He supposed he shouldn't complain when the Headmaster himself was spending all that time trying to help him. He just couldn't help feeling aggravated, though, that his friend thought it was some great privilege, and did not appear to recall that it was the Headmaster's desperate attempt to keep Harry from being possesssed again by Voldemort. And Harry wasn't all that certain it was working. He was really quite terrified it was not.
"So what about Saturday, then? How are you going to play," Ron asked, "if you're this way after lessons?"
"I got out of my lesson for Saturday," Harry answered. Something of his pleasure at being let out of the lessons, even for one day, showed through.
"That's good, Harry," Ron said.
But Hermione, who had been sitting to the side and listening said, "Are you sure that's a good idea?" Both Harry and Ron looked at her in outrage.
"Of course it's good," Ron said. "Harry'll be able to get some rest and we'll be sure to win if he's playing on form."
Harry nodded. "Yeah, and besides, Hermione," he added, "I've been having lessons twice a week from Dumbledore and I was only having them once a week with Snape."
"That only goes to show how important they are," Hermione answered. She hesitated before asking, "You are getting better at it, aren't you?"
Harry shrugged. "I suppose," he answered. But his insides squirmed with anxiety. He didn't feel as though he'd made any progess at all.
Harry dreamed of the old man again that night. He was stoking the great fire and had filled a chamber with some metal, mercury perhaps, or iron? The metal spilled over the sides, white-hot, and the old man caught it in another vessel of stone. He moved slowly, but surely. This was a task he had done many times before. So many times, that he could do it in his sleep...or under the Imperius curse. The watcher was happy, very happy. His wishes would be granted at last. And if he bided his time, every desire would be satisfied. Even the one for the other's death.
On the Friday night before the game against Slytherin, Harry sat in the common room and stared into the fire. Almost everyone else had gone upstairs to sleep, including Ron. There were only a few others left, but he paid them no mind. The fire reminded him of the old man in his dreams. He had dreamed again the previous night and he felt as he had at the beginning of the fall, almost afraid to sleep. He had tied to blot out everything, but he had been unable to stop the churning, obsessive thoughts about Grindelwald and Dumbledore and Voldemort.
The thought that he might some day end up in a battle with Voldemort again, not with wands, but with minds, was his latest terror. He had pictured it over and over, that brief moment when he had slipped past Dumbledore's defenses, and then the return attack that had so utterly debilitated him. No matter how hard he tried, even when he tried to focus on the thoughts that had worked so well before--revenge on Voldemort; revenge on Bellatrix Lestrange--nothing had worked. He needed sleep...he had to have rest before the game, and yet, rest eluded him.
A voice broke into his thoughts: "Are you going to stay up all night again?" It was Ginny.
Harry looked at her and said, "Again?"
"Well, It's not the first time you've stayed up half the night, is it?" she asked.
He shrugged. "What are you doing up, then?" he retorted.
"Same as you, I suppose," she answered, "worrying about the game."
"Why, are you worrying?" Harry asked. "You're quite good."
She blushed just a little and said, "I'm all right. But I dunno about the rest of the team." She looked at him thoughtfully and said, "But it's not the game you're worried about, is it? That's not why you're not sleeping, is it?"
"Oh?" Harry said. He was not about to admit that he was literally afraid to go to sleep to Ron's little sister. That would be too embarrassing.
"Having nightmares again, are you?" Ginny asked. Harry glared at her. He wasn't admitting any such thing and was going to be punching someone if they'd been telling all and sundry that he had been. "It's no fun," she said, "having Voldemort in your dreams."
Harry stared at her. He had never really thought much about how Ginny might have been affected by Voldemort much. She had made one remark to him last year about what it felt like to be possessed by Voldemort, but that was all. As if in answer to his unspoken question she said, "There are times, occasionally, when I dream about it still. He's not actually there, but I dream that he's coming. And sometimes I dream that I'm back there in the Chamber, and it's me letting out the snake. That one really gets to me," she said.
He said, "There's some things you don't forget, you know. No matter how much you'd like to. And some things," he added, "you'd have to be a monster like him, if you could."
She frowned at him and said slowly, "I hadn't thought of it that way exactly." She stared into the fire as he had done and said, "It helps, though, if someone's with you. That summer, after, I had a lot of trouble sleeping. I was afraid all the time that I'd go to sleep and he would wake up inside me and I wouldn't remember. Like I forgot what I did when he had me, you see." She paused and stared some more.
"Anyway, I acted up a lot that summer. Almost every bedtime, I tried to delay things. Then finally Mum caught on to my tricks and figured things out and she'd sit with me every night, like I was little again and hold my hand till I could sleep."
She looked back at Harry and said, "Every once in a while, even now, I like her to come in and hold my hand a little before I go to sleep. So, anyway, I'm pretty good at guessing when people are upset and sleeping badly. And I could tell, Harry, that you've been having a bad time again, the last few days. You've got that look. I see it in my mirror some days still."
"Does any one else know?" Harry asked.
"If you mean have I said anything to Hermione or Ron, no I haven't."
"Good," he said. "They spend enough time worrying about me as it is. And if you say anything, Ron's liable to think he ought to take me off the team for my own good or something."
"I'm not telling," she said. "It's probably the only nice thing in your life right now. I just think you ought to tell Dumbledore you're dreaming if you haven't."
"He knows," Harry said. She tipped her head to the side and looked as though she would say something, but seemed to change her mind. And what she did say startled him.
"I wanted to ask you something, anyway," she said. "For the game tomorrow, I had this idea, I think it'll take your mind off Voldemort for a bit."
"Yeah?" he said skeptically, "like what?"
"Get Malfoy," she said.
"What?" Harry asked.
"Get Malfoy," Ginny repeated. "I want to see him crawl on his belly after what he did last year to Fred and George and you. Provoking you like that, insulting my Mum and Dad. And he's still struts around here like he owns the place when his dad's been arrested and had to break out of prison," she said angrily.
"You don't want to get me expelled or banned again, do you?" Harry asked in alarm. But already he could feel the idea working in his mind, a new obsession, a new palliative to ease his fear and purge the poisonous hate that troubled him.
"I thought you'd be up for it," Ginny said with disappointment. Harry stared back into the fire. The flames leapt white-hot and high, as if in reponse to his thoughts.
"Yeah, I am," he said abruptly. She looked at him in satisfaction and her eyes gleamed with mischief.
"I knew I could count on you," She said. "I couldn't ask Ron, you know. He's too proud of being a prefect and Captain for me to suggest this to him. And Hermione'll tell him right away and lecture me."
"Then we won't tell them," Harry said and he could feel the grin of mischief working its way to his face.
"I didn't believe it," a voice said, "but they were right, weren't they?" Harry and Ginny looked up. Dean Thomas was standing there with Seamus and looking both hurt and angry.
"Who was right about what?" Ginny asked coolly.
"You and him," Dean said. "You figure that Cho still likes him, so you want to get back at her for dating Michael by going with Harry. And he can get back at Cho for dumping him, too." Harry gawked at Dean.
"What are you talking about?"
"Do you deny it?" Dean asked. "It's true isn't it?" he said to Ginny.
She looked at him angrily and said, "Why should I deny it? You already believe it. You're willing to listen to, whoever, anybody, and not even stick up for me?" Harry was still gawping at them. Ginny's ears were red and he could see a Weasley tantrum coming on. He opened his mouth to say of course it wasn't true, but Ginny had gotten going.
"I see," she said, "You do believe it. And you know what? It's true," she said, "we are going out. Right, Harry?" She didn't wait for an answer. She leaned over and kissed him quickly and stormed off up the stairs to the girls' dormitories. Harry was left staring after her.
"I can't believe it!" Dean said. "I always thought you were all right. I always thought you were my friend," he shouted.
"I am," Harry said, but Dean wasn't listening. He turned his back on Harry and strode up the boys' stairs leaving Harry and Seamus staring after him and then at each other.
"Are you, Harry," Seamus asked.
"Am I what?" he asked back.
"Dating her?" Seamus asked. Harry tried to think what to say. He was quite sure Ginny had said that in a fit of pique and that she had no interest in dating him anymore. On the other hand, he wasn't that stupid about girls...well, maybe he was, he thought, but he knew his Weasleys even if he didn't get girls and he could figure out that denying it now was going to set him up for one major Weasley tantrum directed at him. He had waited too long to deny it.
"You are," Seamus said. Harry shrugged.
"She'll hex me now if I deny it," he answered. "Honestly," he said, "what is it about me, that I get into trouble just by sitting in front of the fire and having a chat with my best friend's sister?" But Seamus wasn't listening. He had already followed Dean up the stairs.
Harry sat in the common room staring into the embers of the fire. The sun was rising and he was tired beyond reason. He had prowled the common room all night, thinking and thinking until he felt that if only he had his own Pensieve he might be able to find the peace he needed to sleep.
Harry dragged himself upstairs and lay on his bed trying fruitlessly to clear his mind before he slept. He knew if he did not, he would dream and wake even more tired than before. In the end, he set his mind on one thing: Get Malfoy. Harry imagined tricking Malfoy into ploughing himself and watching the Slytherin squirm on his belly as he rose with the Snitch in his hand. He imagined Malfoy sandwiched in between the Gryffindor beaters, who looked peculiarly like fire-breathing dragons whose breath was singeing Malfoy's sleek blond hair into burned charcoal.
The dragons metamorphosed into two giant snakes rearing up to attack, their triangular heads weaving back and forth and readying for the death stroke that would kill them both. He wandered down to lunch feeling tired and ready to fight with anyone who crossed his path. Dean turned his back on Harry as he passed.
Harry opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by Ron. "What's this about you dating Ginny?"
Harry took Ron by the arm and led him over to the other end of the table. He sat down, grabbed a couple of sandwiches and poured out a cup of coffee before answering.
"Well, it's like this," Harry said, eyeing Ron and trying to tell from how red his ears were whether his friend was angry or not.
"Dean saw Harry and Ginny talking last night and jumped to the wrong conclusion and Ginny got mad and told him she was dating Harry and Harry couldn't deny it or he would make Ginny look like a fool." Hermione said all of it in one breath and very fast.
"That doesn't actually answer my question, Hermione." Ron stared at Harry and Harry shrugged.
"Well?" Ron asked.
Harry didn't get an opportunity to answer. Ginny strolled over and sat down next to Harry. She twined her fingers in his and asked, "So did you sleep at all?"
Ron stared from her to Harry and said, "I guess you are."
Harry opened his mouth and closed it again feeling like a very stupid fish. Ron gave a sharp nod of his head and added, "Well, good. It's about time Ginny got some sense about these things."
Ginny and Harry both stared speechlessly at Ron, who proceeded to lecture them on quidditch tactics for the afternoon's game with sublime indifference to their reactions. Hermione had turned scarlet and had buried her head in her arms.
Harry finally managed to get a word out, "Are you all right, Hermione?" She lifted her head up and howled aloud with laughter.
Ginny threw down her napkin and said, "What's so funny about me and Harry dating?"
Hermione shook her head and said, "The look on both your faces! And Ron, lecturing you on quidditch!"
"What's wrong with me talking about the game?" Ron asked. "It's only this afternoon and we need to be ready."
"Only you could think quidditch was more important than a major emotional crisis, Ron," Hermione answered.
"What emotional crisis?" Harry asked, and Ginny echoed him,
"There's no crisis, Hermione. I've gone off Dean because he doesn't trust me, that's all and I've picked Harry instead because he listens to me."
"You make it sound like you pick your boyfriends the same way you'd pick a new cauldron or a broom," Ron said. "Like what's the newest and best model available."
This time, it was Hermione and Ginny who glared at Ron. "Boys!" they said together. Harry and Ron said at the same time, "Girls!" and Hermione started to laugh again.
Harry had managed to swallow down a sandwich just as Draco Malfoy strolled up.
"So Potter," he drawled, "I hear you've dumped Cho Chang for Ginny Weasley. I guess you've gotten a taste for pigpens and Muggle lovers. Maybe because you're Mum was a Mudblood?" Draco smiled as he observed Ron going bright red and Harry could feel the heat rush to his own cheeks as well.
Beside him, Ginny had gone very still, but Hermione said coolly, "Don't give him the satisfaction of provoking a fight. He just wants a rise out of you so he can get you banned from the game again. Because he knows he can't win if Harry plays as Seeker."
Malfoy turned on her and his pale face was even paler than usual. He said, "Oh, really? I'm just doing Potter a favor. After all, the Weasleys are so poor, it's obvious they just want to marry off their only daughter into money, isn't it?" He added unforgiveably, "I suppose they figure The Dark Lord will kill him off quite soon, so they'd better get a hold of him before he dies so they can inherit his vault of gold."
Harry stood up. He was vaguely aware that people were staring at him, but he didn't care. The blood was pounding in his head, and it took an enormous effort for him to answer calmly. "You surprise me, Draco," he said as softly and as cuttingly as Professor Snape might have. "After all, I'd think someone who was as obsessed with pure-bloods as you are would be impressed since the Weasleys' blood is as pure as yours. You're even related somehow, aren't you? Or perhaps you're just jealous? I mean, Ginny is smart and pretty and she's a good quidditch player, and you're stuck with--Pansy?" He added into the silence, "And I wouldn't be too sure about Voldemort killing me off. Maybe I'd like to have a go at my parents' murderer again. Maybe he should be afraid of me. Maybe you should tell him that yourself, or does he think you're not quite big enough to be a Death Eater like your Dad?"
Harry didn't wait for an answer. He spun about sharply and strode quickly out to the Hall toward the quidditch changing rooms. The others followed right behind him. Ginny ran to catch up to him and and said, "You didn't have to do that!" Her face was still quite white and the dusting of freckles across her nose stood out. "I'm sorry," she said, "really, I am!"
Harry stopped dead and said, "What for? It's Malfoy who should be sorry, saying those things." A faint grin found its way to his lips. "Get Malfoy," he said. "That is one of the more brilliant ideas I've heard in a very long time."
He stared at her and saw the color come back into her face. Then she flushed pink and he said, "Let's do it, shall we?" The mischievous gleam that sparkled in her eyes outdid Fred and George's for sheer pleasure and anticipation.
Hermione and Ron caught up and Hermione said, "Don't get into trouble, Harry! I don't know what you're thinking, but don't do it!"
"We're not thinking of anything but winning the game, Hermione," Ginny answered. "I think that ought to humiliate him enough, don't you?"
"I don't," said Ron. Harry had never seen his friend look quite that way. Even in their fourth year when Ron and he had stopped speaking to each other he'd never seen his friend look so purely cold and angry.
"Ron, no!" Hermione said.
"He's not getting away with that," Ron said furiously. "As if...as if we would ever stoop so low!" Harry understood that it was the remark about the gold that had upset Ron the most. He knew that Ron was sensitive about his family's relative poverty compared to many others and especially compared to Harry.
"Don't be a perfect idiot," he said, "You know perfectly well I'd give you all the gold in my vault if you'd take it. Gold is nothing," he said fiercely. "Friendship is everything."
Ron stared at him and for a moment Harry thought he had said the wrong thing altogether. Then he saw something ease in his friend's face and Ron replied, "I know that. It's just...easy to forget it when you're the one who's not got the gold to give."
"I know it's easy to forget. Especially," he said, remembering the summer's struggles, "When you don't know where your next meal is coming from. But I'd rather starve and have my friends with me than have everything in the world and be alone."
"That's why we love you, Harry," Ron said. He clapped Harry on the shoulder and added as they entered the changing rooms, "Just play your best and make that snake eat dust."
Ron turned back toward Hermione and said, "And Hermione, keep your wand out and be watchful. I wouldn't put it past him to set up an attack on Harry after that." Hermione whipped her wand out and nodded. Her eyes were sparkling as if she would cry, and she kissed Ron and Harry each on the cheek and gave Ginny a great big hug.
The sweeping rush of air as Harry kicked off on his Firebolt to circle the quidditch pitch was purely exhilirating. He hovered high over the pitch trying to keep an eye out for the Snitch and an eye on Ginny as well. He had an inkling that Malfoy might go after her instead of himself, as the blond Slytherin might think she was the easier target.
Ginny, however, was flying as if nothing at all had happened. Within the first two minutes of the game, she had scored twice. The Gryffindors watching roared and Harry noticed with amusement that Luna Lovegood was wearing her roaring lion's head hat again. Harry ducked a bludger and zoomed abruptly down toward a Slytherin Chaser making the Chaser fumble the quaffle right into Ginny's waiting hands. He grinned happily as she beat Crabbe and Goyle to the goal and sank a third one.
"Can't keep your eye off her, can you?" Malfoy sneered. "I hope you're getting something back for your pains, Potter!"
Harry ignored him and did an abrupt about face to soar upwards in the other direction and to confuse his opponent. As difficult as it was, and as furious as he was with Malfoy, he had just enough sense left to know that Malfoy was trying the same tactics on him as he had with Ron last year. Trying to unnerve him so he would miss his chance when it came.
The Slytherins had possession of the ball and the new beater Detrick had tried to knock the Chaser off his broom, but had only succeeded in nearly hitting Harry instead. Harry ducked and rolled over. He came up just in time to hear the roar of the crowd.
"AND RON WEASELY, GRIFFINDOR'S NEW CAPTAIN AND HERO OF LAST YEAR'S CHAMPIONSHIP MATCH HAS BLOCKED THE SLYTHERIN GOAL. GREAT JOB, RON." The new announcer wasn't half as much fun to listen to as Fred and George's friend Lee Jordan, who had graduated last year and was now working for the twins as a salesman and distributor for their joke shop.
Harry flew past Ginny and gave her a slight nod. It was time to put their plan into action. Harry swept the quidditch pitch one more time looking for the Snitch, just in case. Malfoy was also circling fruitlessly, and that was all to the good. Harry dove at a screamingly fast pace straight toward the ground hoping he could pull off a Wronski feint and wishing he were as good as Viktor Krum at this. Malfoy bought into the dive and dove after him. Harry had to keep his speed just so--not too fast, not too slow--so Malfoy could almost catch up to him. He pulled up just in time. He had come so close to ploughing himself that his broom's twigs actually touched the dirt of the pitch. Malfoy had timed it just a second too late, and he slammed into the ground, his broom bumping and causing great clouds of dust to puff up.
"AND THE CROWD'S GOING WILD! POTTER'S MANAGED THE FIRST REAL SUCCESSFUL WRONSKI FEINT IN HOGWARTS QUIDDITCH HISTORY! TOUGH LUCK DRACO. THE SLYTHERIN'S SEEKER HAS PLOUGHED HIMSELF. BUT HE'S TOUGH. HE'S GOT BACK ON HIS BROOM AND HE'S GOING STRAIGHT BACK UP! WHOA, FOLKS, YOU'VE NEVER SEEN A GAME LIKE THIS. MALFOY'S FLYING STRAIGHT AT POTTER AS IF HE'LL ATTACK HIM. POTTER DODGES OUT OF THE WAY WITH A SLOTH GRIP ROLL. MADAME HOOCH IS BLOWING HER WHISTLE FOR A FOUL! SEEKERS DO NOT ATTACK OTHER SEEKERS. BUT LOOK SLYTHERIN'S IN POSSESSION AND YES, THEY'VE SCORED. THEY'VE GOTTEN THEIR FIRST SCORE IN PAST WEASLEY. AND I DON'T BELIEVE THIS! MALFOY'S GOING AFTER POTTER AGAIN. IT LOOKS LIKE HE'S GOT HIS WAND OUT! POTTER DIVES AGAIN, BUT MALFOY ISN'T FOLLOWING. HE'S BEING BLOCKED BY GINNY WEASLEY. THAT GIRL IS ONE FINE CHASER WITCHES AND WIZARDS. MALFOY IS TURNING HIS WAND ON WEASLEY, AND WHAT'S THIS, SHE'S GOT HER WAND OUT, TOO! MALFOY SENDS A SPELL AT HER. HE MISSES! SHE'S RETURNED THE FAVOR...AND WAIT, POTTER'S GOT THE SNITCH! THE GAME IS OVER. GRYFFINDOR WINS! ONE HUNDRED EIGHTY TO TEN."
Harry flew back up to where Ginny was still facing off with Malfoy. Malfoy, however, had given up. He was flying straight down for the ground, one arm covering his face and screaming, in fury or in fear. Harry wasn't sure.
"Are you all right? What'd you do to him?" he asked Ginny. He ought to have expected it, he had expected it, but he was still shocked that Malfoy had actually drawn his wand and attacked with it in the middle of the game.
"I got him," she crowed. "I got Malfoy!" Fortunately, the crowd was making so much noise that no one could hear her. Harry and Ginny flew down side by side.
"I got Malfoy! I got Malfoy! I got Malfoy!" Ginny chanted. Ginny shut up abruptly. Madame Hooch, Professor Snape and Professor McGonagall were waiting for them as they landed. Malfoy was nowhere to be seen. Harry arranged his face in a picture of calm and hoped Ginny would be cool enough to keep her temper and not blurt eveything out.
"I think they should be expelled, both of them," Professor Snape said. Ginny opened her mouth to protest, but Harry poked her with his elbow to shut her up. Let the teachers sort it out, he thought.
"But it was Malfoy who drew his wand on Potter and went after him," Professor McGonagall retorted.
"Potter planned it," Snape said.
"I don't see how you can say that pulling off a Wronski feint was improper," McGonagall answered again. "Attacking Potter and pulling a wand on him was, and that's what Malfoy did," she added.
"I have witnesses that say there was an altercation between these three at lunch today," Snape said. "Potter and Weasley left the hall in a snit. This bit of theater is their payback. Isn't it, Potter?"
Harry stared at Snape feeling his anger rise. But that wouldn't do. He imagined his mind was a wall of stone and said calmly, "It's quite true we had an argument at lunch today. It's not at all unusual for Draco and I to exchange words."
"So you admit it?" Snape said.
"I didn't say Ginny and I did anything wrong. If you have witnesses that we had an argument at lunch, it's true. Everyone knows we don't get along. And he went out of his way to say a few things to Ginny and me and Ron that were even nastier than usual. But," Harry said coolly, "as Professor McGonagall said, there's nothing wrong with me trying a Wronski feint. And it's hardly our fault that Malfoy lost his temper and went after me and then Ginny with his wand because I pulled it off, is it?"
"You told him to eat dirt and enjoy living in a pigpen when you did it," Snape said.
Harry simply raised his eyebrows. "Did he tell you what he'd said to me and to Ginny? I bet he didn't, did he? Or maybe he was relying on your dislike for me, Professor Snape, to keep you from questioning him too closely?"
"You arrogant...!"
"Severus," Professor McGonagall said, "I'm afraid Potter may have a point there."
"Are you, Minerva?" Snape replied. "Well, I am afraid that you, like every one else here, are so enchanted with Potter that you forget to see him for what he is."
"Professors!" Madame Hooch interrupted. "I believe that as flying instructor and Quidditch ref it is my opinion that matters here. And I say Malfoy is to blame as he pulled his wand first and he attacked with his wand first." Harry was ready to breathe a huge sigh of relief, but Madame Hooch's next words made the sigh stop short in his chest somewhere."Miss Weasley is also at fault for even having a wand on her in a game."
"Then you should blame me," Harry said as calmly as he could although he could feel the wall starting to crumble. "I suggested she should carry her wand after our argument at lunch. It's not the first time Malfoy's done something like that to throw my game off. If you remember, he and Crabbe and Goyle pretended to be dementors three years ago to try to get me to fall off my broom in a game."
"That's true," Professor McGonagall said. "However, I do not expect my Gryffindor's to be using a hex like that one on anybody. And I must say I am disappointed in you Miss Weasley. I shall write home to your mother and you shall serve a detention along with Mr. Malfoy. I believe that's only fair." McGonagall turned her beady eyes on Snape and said, "Will that satisfy you, Severus?"
"And Potter?" Snape asked. "Does he get off free when he probably planned the whole thing?"
"You can give me detention, too, then," Harry said. "It's not the first time I've had a detention. And I've had my share that I didn't deserve either." He added grimly, his calm having crumbled quite altogether, "At least I can make sure that Malfoy doesn't try to go after Ginny again." He could have sworn that both McGonagall and Snape were about to laugh at that.
"From the looks of it," McGonagall said, "Miss Weasley is very well able to look after herself. However, if it satisfies Professor Snape, then you shall all serve detention this Wednesday night at eight o'clock." Harry's first thought was relief. He would have to miss another Occlumency lesson. Then he realized he really did not want Dumbledore to be annoyed with him.
"Erm, Professor McGonagall," Harry said, "Wednesday night isn't such a good night." He didn't know if Madame Hooch knew about his lessons with Dumbledore. He didn't even know if Snape knew about his lessons with Dumbledore.
"Now you are presuming to tell your head of House on what night you're willing to do your detention?" Snape's tone was incredulous. Harry wondered if it was an act.
"Really, Potter," Professor McGonagall said. "Be at my office on Wednesday evening, or I shall be forced to agree with Professor Snape on something and that would undoubtedly ruin our very amicable professional relationship!"
Snape smiled and bowed ever so slightly. "Very good, Minerva. If they have to miss a quidditch practice in addition to serving detention, I'm sure it will hardly do any harm."
Harry swallowed and thought miserably he was about to be in the worst trouble ever. Dumbledore would probably see right into his mind how he had planned the whole thing with Ginny. He tried to imagine what Dumbledore would actually do, but he couldn't think of anything that was worse than the Headmaster simply knowing.
As they walked back to the Hall for dinner, Ginny said furiously, "Why'd you volunteer for detention, anyway? You think I can't take care of myself?" Harry looked at Ginny in alarm. It looked like he was in for a major Weasley tantrum after all.
"Of course not. But you don't know Malfoy as well as I do. He's really, really sneaky and evil. I like to have help myself when he's up to his tricks. And besides, I got rid of Professor Snape that way. He would have managed to land me in detention somehow anyway, and it would be worse than any detention McGonagall will give."
Ginny looked somewhat mollified. The sparkle came back to her eye and she said, "We got him good, didn't we?"
For that one moment, Harry didn't care about detention or Occlumency lessons or how horrible he was going to feel when Dumbleodre knew. He grinned back at her and said with satisfaction,"Yeah, we did get Malfoy! He did crawl in the dust, didn't he?" He thought of something else.
"What did you do to him anyway?"
"Bat bogey hex," she said casually.
"Really?" Harry said. " I wish I'd seen his face."
"No, you don't," Ginny answered. "You're too soft-hearted. You might actually have felt sorry for him."
"Me? Feel sorry for Malfoy? Are you crazy?" Harry tried to imagine a situation where he'd feel sorry for his nemesis and failed.
On Sunday he wasn't feeling so content. He got a message from Dumbledore that was quite short and to the point. It read simply: As you have missed Saturday's lesson and have detention on Wednesday evening, be at my office on Tuesday and Thursday evening at eight o'clock this week for your lessons. Great, he thought miserably. Not only did he have detention, he had two lessons on school nights and would miss both quidditch practices this week. Now he'd have Ron to contend with as well.
He spent Sunday struggling to catch up on his homework and enduring Ron's bitter comments about stupid gits who volunteered for detentions. But Hermione's assessment was the worst because he knew it was true.
"Oh, Harry," she said, "This is just what Dumbledore wants you to learn to avoid in Occlumency. You've got to stop losing your temper and doing rash things that land you in trouble."
He knew she was right, but he said, "I didn't lose my temper."
"No?" she said with disbelief. "You let his stupid insults get to you and you and Ginny deliberately set him up. You must have known that you'd be in trouble."
Ron looked at him and at Hermione and said, "I changed my mind. Harry, as Captain of the Quidditch team, I am officially excusing you from this week's practices on account of your awesome use of the Wronski feint and your great capture of the Snitch!"
"Talk about stupid gits," Hermione said. "You are a right pair of idiots! Do you really think humiliating Malfoy, a puling little school boy, is going to help Harry survive next time Voldemort attacks him?"
Ron paled and said, "That was really low, Hermione."
Harry said nothing and they both looked at him to see his reaction. The anxiety was back in their faces and he couldn't think of a thing to say that would alleviate it. What came out was mostly defiant and annoyed, though it was laced with the desperation that surfaced from his gut at odd times when he lowered his guard.
"What exactly makes you think I'm going to survive next time, now that he's got his full powers back?" He knew, of course, that putting unbearable thoughts into words gave them a meaning and a life of their own. So he said carelessly, as if the very foolishness of it could take the sting of despair away, "So I might as well enjoy what changce I've got for fun. And I can tell you, I'm glad I did it. He had it coming! Even Ginny's bat bogey hex."
He got up and went upstairs to try to sleep, even though he knew he'd be in trouble with Snape again for the state of his latest essay. It was not one of his better efforts that were certain.
On Monday morning, Harry woke up feeling miserable and for the first time in weeks, his bones were aching again. He had failed to find the place of calm that had been a sanctuary for his mind over the past several weeks. Instead, he had once again lay awake stewing endlessly over everything. The prophecy that doomed him seemed to hang over his life, a poisonous vapor that was choking the life out of him bit by bit. It set him trembling every time he recalled the words, "either shall die at the hand of the other." They echoed, die, die, die.
In the end he thought, Trelawny was right. He was going to die young. And he didn't know which he loathed more--the thought of being killed or being the killer. He knew one thing, he did not think he could live with himself, knowing that he had become the thing he despised--a murderer.
Two cups of coffee woke him up but left him with a jangling sensation and an increased burden of anxiety. He slogged off to Potions thinking he ought to just skive off classes for the day and hide under his bedcovers. Except that no Gryffindor would ever be caught dead hiding under his bedcovers. So he marched on to class, handed his essay forward when instructed to, and forced himself to concentrate on the exact order of the tasks and ingredients that made up their potion that day. He was just about halfway through making his potion when Snape's remark cut into his concentration making him spill too much of the powdered unicron horn into his cauldron and effectively ruining his assignment that day.
"You call this an essay, Potter?" Snape said. "I can't imagine how you managed to pass you OWL with a high enough grade to move into NEWT level Potions." Snape then took the essay, tore it in half, and in half again and dumped the paper right into Harry's already ruined potion.
"That will be a zero for the essay. I told you last time that I would not give any more second chances. And I think a zero for today's work as well."
Malfoy, whose face was back to normal due to Madam Pomfrey's excellent healing abilities, snickered loudly. Something about the sound of that snicker and the pleasure Snape seemed to be getting from humiliating him broke through Harry's normal control in the class.
"I guess I got such a good grade on my Potions OWL, Professor Snape, because I didn't have to see your face or hear you talk while I was taking it. Maybe I'd be getting good grades in this class all the time if a decent teacher taught it, instead of a nasty, poisonous snake of a git like you." Harry could feel the ripple of astonishment that passed through the class. He could almost see through Snape's eyes, the simmering hatred for him spilling over.
"That is the last time you will attend any class of mine, Potter. And if I have anything to do with it, it is the last time you will attend any class at Hogwarts. No student will ever talk to a teacher here like that. I will see you expelled this time, if I have to take the matter to the Board of Governors or the Ministry myself."
Harry could feel the rage possess him. It seemed as if the connection between thinking and doing was broken. Of their own accord, his hands found the bubbling cauldron and flung its boiling contents at Snape's feet and he laughed when Snape jumped back to keep from being scalded. He laughed again and said, "Go right ahead and expel me. What difference does it make? Do you really think anything I learn in this class will be of any use the next time Voldemort shows up?"
Snape hissed at him, "Do not say his name in my class!"
"Why not?" Harry asked. "Are you afraid he'll hear it? Do you think just saying his name will call him here? Let him come then. And let's see how every one here behaves in his presence. Maybe we'll know then who's with him and who's against him. Maybe we'll know whose side you're really on." He glared at every one in turn and said with a smile, "Voldemort. Voldemort. Voldemort. Voldemort." Every one was staring at him utterly aghast. Even Snape.
"You see," Harry said smiling triumphantly. "It's just a word. If you say it enough, it just sounds like a load of nonsense."
"You will come with me to the Headmaster's office, Potter. The rest of you will continue with your work." Snape surveyed the class with his most evil look and added, "Unless any of you wish to join him? No?" Snape pulled out his wand and directed Harry to precede him. Harry went out and he was laughing. The whole thing seemed immensely funny to him. Just wonderful. He felt...wonderful.
Snape marched him at wandpoint all the way to Dumbledore's office. But Harry didn't care. He felt happy. Ecstatic even. The Headmaster's voice said calmly, "Enter," and the sight of him sitting there serenely behind his desk brought with it a feeling of loathing that exceeded anything he had felt for Snape. A tiny piece of his mind registered with horror that the snake was rising up in him, and the snake wanted very badly to bite. Things had not been going well for the snake. People and events contrived to frustrate him, but perhaps now he had new meat to bite.
"This time he has crossed the line altogether," Snape said. Dumbledore looked briefly at Harry and the urge to strike intensified as the Headmaster's bright blue gaze met his.
"Well?" Dumbledore asked.
"I want him expelled," Snape said. "He threw a boiling cauldron full of half-made potion at me and nearly burned me. And he stated in front of the whole class that he doesn't care if he's kicked out of my class or even if he's expelled from the school." The bright blue gaze returned to him, and the eyes searched his.
"Is that so?"
"Certainly," Harry answered. "I don't see the point of being here any more. Unless it's to find out who is a friend and who is an enemy. Now, Professor Snape, here, is a case in point," he continued. The Potions Master stepped back. His black eyes were actually fearful, which was just so delightful.
"Is he really a friend of the Dark Lord? Do you think he's really loyal? I don't know, you see, and I'd really like to know." It was really very entertaining to watch the two of them pretend to be cool when he was quite sure they were frightened. Snape was frightened, that was certain. He could read it right from the man's eyes, from his smell. The smell of fear. The air tasted of fear. The other was cool. Too cool. Infuriatingly unafraid, the blue eyes met his.
"Severus," the old man said, "I must ask you to leave."
"But..." The Potions Master started to protest. To push for expulsion? or..what?
The old man said, "I don't want to see you harmed, Severus." That settled things. The old man would hardly protect the snivelling teacher if he were not sure of his loyalty. Or would he? Was the fool that noble, that he would protect even the ones who would betray him in the end? For what? The hope that his nobility would convert them to his side? The two men, teacher and Headmaster were occupied with each other. Now was the time.
"You are an old fool. A sentimental old fool, if you think he is loyal to you. He serves only his Master, because he knows what his Master will do if he fails. Don't you, Severus?" The two of them stared at him and he laughed as he struck at the old man's mind, ripping aside the curtain that protected it, reaching deep inside to try to strip it bare, as the old man had stripped bare old Grindelwald. But Grindelwald had been a weak and ignorant fool. He was not. He would succeed where Grindelwald had failed. He saw for a moment the old man's thoughts laid bare. Fear for the poor stupid boy whose shell he now possessed. Uncertainty how to attack back without harming the boy. He laughed again. That would be the old man's greatest weakness then, affection for the boy. He had permitted himself to grow fond of his tool, his surrogate. He would pay the price.
The return attack came swiftly, far more forcefully than he had anticipated. The old man had such power. He had never realized how much power. He screamed in pain as the old man ripped back through his own wall. He was down on his knees. He was Tom, the teenage boy newly graduated from Hogwarts. He had given his Muggle father one last chance to redeem himself. To redeem all Muggles. "I have no son," the man said coldly. His father said coldly. Let him pay the price. All of them would pay the price. He screamed again, and his head was a vise of pain. The woman was in his way. "Step aside, you silly girl," he said to her. He was in a hurry to kill. This one of all, he must kill. He could taste the need for it as he rejected her pleas, "Not Harry! Please, take me! Not Harry!" The woman annoyed him and he disposed of her in a second. Triumphantly he struck at the babe in the crib. It would be over. He said the words and the green light issued from his wand as it had every other time. The green light struck the babe and reflected back. He was being torn from his body. His mind was a howl of denial and rage and pain and terror.
The other mind watching from its tiny corner had seen its opportunity. He was down on the floor screaming. "Noooo." The scream in his mind seemed to go on forever. Harry couldn't tell whose scream it was, his or the other's. He screamed again and with every bit of him that he had, he struck at the other one, the one who had sheltered in his mind. The one who ate at him, who sucked the life from him. He must be rid of him. If it killed him, he would drive the other out. He screamed finally one more time in triumph, "Yes!" as he felt the other leave, and pitched forward on his face snapping his glasses clean in two. But who cared about that? You didn't need to see in the dark. You didn't need sight if you were dead, did you? He surrendered to the darkness and hoped it was the end.
He was floating somewhere. Below him, a tall boy lay still on the bed in the infirmary. Two men hovered by the bedside. Dumbledore and Snape. And the body had jet black hair--his own.
"Is he dead?" Snape asked.
"No. But I fear he has retreated very far. It may be some time before he wakes again," Dumbledore replied.
"He attacked you. He's dangerous. To you. To the other students," Snape said.
Dumbleodre sighed. His old face seemed to have gained new lines in a few short hours. "Not exactly correct, Severus," the old wizard said calmly. "To be precise, Voldemort attacked me."
"I see," Snape said, "then the Occlumency lessons with you are not succeeding either. But you were able to counter-attack and throw him out."
"Yes, and no," Dumbledore replied. "I did successfully counter-attack, but it was Harry who threw him out, not I."
The Potions Master stared at the Headmaster in shock. "Potter? He is strong enough to do that?"
"Yes," Dumbledore said. "You see, the Occlumency lessons are succeeding. It grows more and more difficult for me to gain any entry to his mind and he evicts me more and more quickly."
"Then why was You-Know-Who able to possess him and attack you, if that is what occurred?"
"Ah, well, that will likely still happen from time to time. Voldemort, as you know, is enormously powerful. And this time, Harry's defenses were very impaired. He's rather ill, if I'm not mistaken."
Snape frowned and said sharply, "Ill? What do you mean, he's ill?"
"Madam Pomfrey will confirm it, but I believe he's got a rather nasty case of dragonpox fever. The fever will have affected his behavior and his whole system is weakened from it." Dumbledore answered.
"He's sixteen," Snape said testily. "Dragonpox is a child's sickness."
"In most wizard families, yes," Dumbledore said. "But Harry spent his childhood in a Muggle home. He had his share of the usual Muggle childhood sicknesses, but he was never exposed to dragonpox when he was young. And the older one is, the harder it hits."
"Well, that does not excuse his impossible behavior on Saturday at the quidditch match and in my classroom today," Snape snapped.
"I think it does," Dumbledore replied firmly. "Undoubtedly, he was already affected by the earliest symptoms of the disease even on Saturday, and certainly he was earlier in your classroom. It is very likely," Dumbledore added thoughtfully, "that the fever was the cause of his initial disruption, and that Voldemort was able to seize his mind because all of his defenses went down as his fever rose."
"He...Potter, said HIS name," Snape said, "Aloud. Several times. Like it was a dare. You could almost say he invited the Dark Lord in."
"Now that is interesting," Dumbledore answered. "I must think about that."
Another voice joined in. "Potter again? Now what's he been up to?" Madam Pomfrey checked the body's pulse, his pulse, felt his forehead for fever, and waved her wand over his chest and about his head. "Dragonpox," she said. "He'll have to be quarantined. This is one of the worst cases I've ever seen. I don't like the feel of his pulse or the sound of his breathing at all." She continued to wave her wand over him and left briefly only to return with a vial of liquid. She poured the liquid down his throat and he felt himself falling back into his body. The liquid was cool and soothing, but his body and mind felt like they were on fire. Then everything went cool and dark again and he slept.
