(A/N: summary: In chapter 20: Harry finally acquired the Confessions of a Dark Wizard: The Pravus Necklace book, and the secret behind his scar was revealed. Draco makes it a point to harass Neville before the upcoming duel.)
To say that Hermione was surprised by the revelations that Dumbledore revealed would be an understatement. She was positively shocked. And Ron's reaction was, if possible, more intense
"That Dark Mark?" Ron asked, half exclamation and half question. "But he couldn't of. You-Know-Who just went up to you and gave you the Dark Mark? That-"
"He didn't intend to," Harry said quietly, sitting on the overstuffed couch by the common room fire. It was late at night, and Ron had just returned from Dumbledore's office. Gates stood on the far side of the room, comfortably outside of earshot. Harry checked the room five times for signs of Rita Skeeter, and, fortunately, he found none. "Dumbledore implied that it was some sort of weird side effect of the Killing Curse."
"But it makes sense now that I think about it," Hermione added, wrapping her arms around herself as if warding off a chill. "When the curse failed, it transferred some of his power to you, right? It probably burned the Dark Mark, or the bare example of one, onto your skin as well."
"Blimey," breathed Ron. "So what does that mean? He can't-" He hesitated, as if searching for words. "-he can't just take over your body any time he wants, like Professor Whams said in class last week. Can he?"
Harry shook his head. "No, at least not without direct contact. I don't have the pure version of the Dark Mark, but a crude kind. And with Occlumency, I can resist most of the effects entirely."
"And what about Occlumency?" Hermione asked. "Is Snape still going to take you?"
Harry suddenly felt very uncomfortable. "I'm going to train with Dumbledore now," he said uneasily. "I want to break my Occlumensia Anomaly bond with Snape."
"And I don't blame you," Ron said heartily. "The sooner that greasy git gets out of your head the better."
"Well," said Hermione. "As long as you take your lessons with Dumbledore very seriously, you should be fine. I imagine it's easier to learn with a teacher you can cooperate with."
Harry let out a small sigh of relief. He had been worried that Hermione would disapprove of severing his sessions with Snape. He broke off a week of lessons with Snape before without experiencing any dreams, so hopefully that trend would continue.
"-as long as you don't have any more dreams," she added as if reading his thoughts. "The first time you have a dream, you should go straight to Dumbledore and ask him to reinstate your lessons with Snape."
"I'm going to have to agree with her mate," Ron said. "Having Snape in your head is bad, but You-Know-Who is worse."
"Alright," Harry agreed. "I'm going to give this a go, and if I get any more dreams, I'll talk to Dumbledore."
This solution seemed to satisfy everyone, and Harry found himself having nearly nightly Occlumency lessons with Dumbledore. While they proved to be much more productive and pleasant, Harry knew that his skills had declined since he had broken the Occlumensia Anomaly with Snape. He was adamant, however, in learning the skill himself, so that he would not have to rely on the Potions master.
The tome Snape gave him, The Pravus Necklace: Confessions of a Dark Wizard, proved to be one of the most explicit Harry had ever encountered. The writing on its pages was tiny, and Harry needed to squint just to make out the words. Additionally, most of the information Harry had already learned from Hermione. The book seemed to be more of an account of a bearer's experiences and feelings rather than a strict textbook of knowledge. Regardless, Harry found parts of it surprising.
For example, it detailed times when a newly created necklace would actually kill the bearer from injecting too much magical energy into him. Whoever the author of this book was, he seemed very keen on experimenting with Pravus necklace in all the forms possible. Most of his experiments, from what was implied, ended up with the death of the subject. Few people could actually wear the necklace without ill effect, and, unfortunately the page that elaborated on this concept was missing, undoubtedly torn from the spine.
Hermione helped him when she could, often sitting down with him and reading it out loud when Harry's eyes grew too tired. Indeed, she also asked to borrow it between classes, and many times Harry could see her carefully leafing through it at a study table, Norman Carwin watching and sometimes whispering from his little frame.
Snape's behavior, it was strange before, became positively bizarre. When Harry bent over his cauldron, he could sometimes see, from the corner of his eye, Snape stare at him for a few seconds before flicking his gaze towards Gates and then returning to whatever he was presently doing. Actually speaking to the Potions master was now impossible, as Snape practically ran out of the room when class was over, and disappeared down the mildewed corridor, leaving the students somewhat confused behind him. For most of them, however, that was all fine and good, as he did not have the chance to accidentally smash their vials, which had been taking a peculiar liking to as of late.
Gates, on the other hand, was an entirely different story. He eyed Harry with an expression of suspicious contempt. Ever since Snape whisked him off to Dumbledore's office, he had been lingering strangely close to Harry, as though trying to subliminally pry the information from his mind. It was not until the weekend when he directly approached him when they were both alone after a training session in the Room of Requirement.
"Potter," he said softly, walking in a slow, deliberate circle around Harry, reminiscent of a shark around its prey. "would you mind telling me what happened in Albus' little office the other day? I could not help but notice how secretive you and your…friends have become."
"Yes I would mind, actually," Harry said bluntly and eased out of Gates' psychological cage. "What we discussed in there is between me and Dumbledore. You can ask him about it, if you want." he added without looking back.
"Potter," Gates said sharply, and Harry turned suddenly, as though the Hit Wizard's voice carried some sort of undeniable command. In his hand, the ragged at the edges where it was torn, was a picture of his mom and dad cradling him in their arms. Both were smiling peaceably. No words needed to be spoken for the threat to be understood.
"You animal," Harry snarled, his eyes fixed on the picture but his mind very aware of the menacing look on Gates' face.
"An animal?" asked Gates mockingly. "Well, definitely a step up from a monster, I must say. I suggest you tell me what happened in the headmaster's office, and quickly, because this photo will be burning very, very slowly, and I will not hesitate to burn the whole damned thing."
Almost like it obeying a wordless order, a small, curling flame flared around the top corner, dancing along the top edge of the picture. His parents, still smiling and lightly kissing the baby in their arms, were oblivious to the flame. In a painstakingly slow fashion, the fire made its way downward, working its way to James' hair.
Harry instinctively opened his mouth, his mind racing for some lie or deception to tell Gates.
"And don't forget," said the Hit Wizard with a broader grin. "I will know when you're lying.
Legilimency."
Harry silently cursed himself. Of all the times he could have used Pseudo-Snape, this was definitely one of the biggest. There was no possible way he could successfully lie to the Hit Wizard. No chance at all.
Lily was the first to look up and see the flame. Her expression turned into one of abject fear and she tugged on James's shirt and pointed upwards. His face paled and he wrapped the baby Harry with his arms, then led took them into a corner, looking frantically around for a nonexistent exit. It was all soundless and terrifying, the silence highlighting the complete horror of it all.
If they could speak, Harry was sure that he would hear: Lily, take Harry and go! It's him! Go! Run!
And then, maybe, following the exclamation, there would be a high pitched cackle of laughter, and green light, and then nothing.
"Dumbledore-" Harry wildly began. "Dumbledore was telling me about some Order business. About some Death Eater movements."
Gates' face glowed from the small amount of light the flames produced, every shadow on his face distinct and sharp. "You're lying," he sneered, and then, as if in response to his words, the flames spurted with life.
"Put it out!" Harry almost shouted. "Put it out now!" He advanced upon Gates determinedly, and he was pleased to see a slightly surprised look enter Gates' eyes.
"Put it out?" he said softly, slowly turning his head towards the photo. "So be it."
With an abrupt burst of inferno, his parents' mouths widened in a scream and the entire picture disintegrated into ashes, the fire flaring up and dying in less and an instant, leaving nothing more than a pile of grayish dust in Gates' gloved hand, a bit of it trickling onto the floor. Swiftly, he drew another photo out of his pocket, holding it in the air where the last one was only moments before.
Something in Harry's chest died and then hardened. Slowly, he stepped backwards out of the Room of Requirement, fumbling with the door briefly, hardly aware of where he was going. "You bastard," he said so quietly that it actually increased its strength. From somewhere, lightning cracked, though there was no storm nor cloud to produce it, and the room's enchantments seemed to warp the walls from a surge.
Gates' eyes turned to slits, advancing upon him as they left the room. "You be very careful in how you address me, Potter. Let's try this again." He extended two fingers to touch the edge of the photo.
"Dumbledore said-" began Harry angrily, trying his best to make his words more deceptive with Occlumency. It was nearly impossible with his now-rampant emotions. From inside the room a bookshelf burst in shreds, but Gates barely acknowledged it. "He said-"
"Dumbledore said nothing," said a sleek voice behind him. Harry whirled and saw Phineas Nigellus in the portrait of Barnabas the Barmey, a rather hard expression on his face. He had been waiting out there ever since they entered the room for the training session. "He said nothing of relevance to you, Alex. If he wished you to know, he would have told you." Harry doubted that he was ever more glad to see Phineas' conceited face in his entire life.
Gates stealthily slid the small photo into the folds of his robe and faced Phineas. The former Slytherin headmaster had apparently not noticed this sly movement, because he went on as if nothing happened. "And should you continue this little interrogation at a later time, Dumbledore will know. He is quite skilled at Legilimency, as you may know, or at least skilled enough to evade your slower Occlumency reflexes, Alex. Now that he knows what to look for in that brain of yours, he will find out whether you've been questioning Po- Mr. Potter behind his back."
"And perhaps you could be so kind to satiate my curiosity," Gates replied coolly.
"No, I'm not," Phineas said, smoothing his silk gloves.
Gates glared down at Harry as though he had half a mind to ignore Phineas' warning and grill him anyway, but he hesitated and marched off a good distance, a clear sign that he was done. Trying to hide his relief, Harry strode down the hall, suddenly glad of Phineas' presence.
Though he got away from Gates unscathed, Harry should have known that fate would have something worse in store for him later on, and, sure enough, the time came when Neville had to go down to the great hall for the first duel of the Dueling Club on November first. During Defense Against the Dark Arts, Neville slowly got to his feet, and, after handing a pass to Professor Whams, left the room as if he was heading to his own funeral, eyes slightly downcast. It was very unlike the other Neville that Harry had gotten to know over the past few months. Ever since dinner last night, Neville had been looking peaky.
Harry exchanged an unsettled look with Hermione, and then raised his hand. Professor Whams gave him a surprised expression, then called on him.
"Yes, Mr. Peter?"
Harry overlooked Whams' error in regards to his name. "Err, professor, I'm feeling rather sick. Can I go down to the infirmary?"
Whams blinked at him with wildly magnified eyes. "Well, I suppose so."
Harry passed Percy, who wore a quizzical expression, and then left, breaking into a stealthy sprint down the hall when he closed the door. He wanted to be there for Neville during the duel, and did not want to miss a single minute. Despite Neville's newfound ability, Harry knew that the Gryffindor would need all the support he could get when he faced Malfoy, who, if his suspicions were correct, was being given Death Eater training.
Gates stalked behind him as Harry went down the steps to the main floor, now beginning to slow down as he came closer to the great hall. He was vaguely aware of Gates' hissing commands, but he ignored them.
"Going somewhere?" Gates said in a louder voice.
Harry could no longer feign deafness. "Yeah, actually. I'm going to see a duel." He severely doubted that the Hit Wizard would have a problem with watching Neville and Malfoy exchange curses.
They came to a heavy, half-opened door that lead into the great hall, and Harry peered through to see Dumbledore, alone, sitting at the staff table, his eyes fixed on Neville and Malfoy, who were standing, facing each other, on a raised platform underneath the transparent blue dome that was used when Gates dueled Snape. Madam Pomfrey, undoubtedly there to treat injuries, stood nearby, tutting silently.
Even at this distance, it was apparent that Neville was perspiring heavily. Malfoy wore and expression of cool arrogance, his wand lazily at his side, his face developing into a sneer. Harry moved forward, pushing the door a little wider. Since he was supposed to be in class, he did not want Dumbledore to see him.
"A Malfoy," Gates muttered under his breath. "Longbottom is finished."
Dumbledore said something to the two duelers, and Malfoy and Neville bowed to each other, drawing their wands with the customary slowness. Squinting, Harry could see Neville's wand vibrating, as though the hand that held it was shaking.
"May your wand betray you," Malfoy drawled loudly, speaking the traditional challenge.
"And may yours as well," Neville said in reply, though his voice was considerably less composed. Malfoy smirked.
For a single moment, everything in the hall was absolutely still. The shimmering blue dome shield looked like a thin layer of gel, distorting the images within with its shapeless wandering blobs. Gates' breathing hitched, and Dumbledore sat motionless in his chair at the table. A bird cawed from somewhere outside, the ceiling somehow transferring the sound indoors with its enchantment. Even Neville grew still with the almost regal stillness, and, abruptly, it all shattered.
"Stupefy!" Neville shouted, firing off the first curse before Malfoy. Harry was glad to see that his reactions, at least, were up to par.
Malfoy neatly sidestepped and brought his wand down vertically in a violent, jerking motion. "Fumo!" he roared back, and a deafening sound like a muggle shotgun blast exploded in the hall, actually causing Harry to cover his ears.
Neville stumbled away as though struck, clutching his stomach with one hand as he coughed up thick plumes of smoke. "Impedimenta!" he coughed, the words coming out distorted from his mouth.
"Protego!" Malfoy countered, Neville's spell deflected easily off the shield.
"Finite Incantatem!" Neville said, pointing to himself, then added, in a quieter voice, "Tarantallegra!"
Malfoy, who barely heard the spell being uttered, was not able to move out of the way in time to avoid the oncoming jinx, and was hit squarely in the thigh with the light. His legs danced uncontrollably, sending his aim askew. "Petrificus Totalus!" he shouted, but the curse went awry and shot up to the ceiling. A look of rage crossed his face.
"Stupefy!" Neville said gleefully, taking his chance. Malfoy had just enough time to use 'Locomotor Mortis' and leap out of the way before the curse whizzed past.
Malfoy snarled, "You fat little- Infligo!"
The curse, while weaker than it would be if used by a full wizard, knocked Neville down, taking the wind out of him. As long, croaking sound came out of him as airs rushed into his lungs, and he clumsily tried to get back to his feet.
Draco jerked his wand horizontally, shouting, "Everbero!"
Neville was sent reeling back down onto the ground again, as though Malfoy had punched him across the face. In fact, a large, oblong bruise formed on his cheek, and Malfoy smirked gloatingly.
Neville was not through. "Stupefy!" he said, mustering all the force that he could.
Malfoy did not expect it, and the curse shot across his shoulder, singing his robes and making him grimace in pain. He held his afflicted left arm at his side, as though it had become numb or invalid from the partial encounter with the stunning spell. Harry gave Neville a silent applause.
"Everbero! Everbero!" Neville bellowed in quick succession, with more strength. Harry did not remember ever teaching Neville those curses, and was pleased to realize that the Gryffindor had been working on his own.
"Petri-" Malfoy began, but was cut off as the two curses hit him, knocking him across the head as though it was slugging him. A little blood formed at the corner of his mouth, and he spat bitterly onto the ground. "You'll pay for that one, Longbottom. A-" He paused suddenly, as though in hesitation.
For a brief fleeting instant, he looked ready to shout the Killing Curse, his face contorted into an expression of fury, his hand clenched tightly around his wand. His slick blonde hair was disheveled from where Neville's latest curse had struck him, and a flush was rising into his cheeks. Harry was not sure, nor could he ever be, but he thought that if Dumbledore was not in the room at that moment, or if he was an ounce angrier than he was already, he would have spat the Killing Curse without so much as a hiccup.
Instead, Malfoy shouted, "A- Accio Robes!"
Neville was dragged irresistibly towards him, his robes flared out around him, waving his arms wildly in the air as he tried to find something to hold onto. Then, retrieving his bearings, he shouted, "Morsus!" Malfoy nearly dropped the wand when Neville's stinging hex connected with his hand, breaking his summoning charm and effectively releasing the Gryffindor's robes.
"Fumo!" Malfoy countered in a half-snarl.
Neville's reaction was immediate. "Protego!" he retorted, and managed to block the majority of the curse. A small bit of light broke through the defending shield and dived into Neville's stomach, sending him into another set of coughing fits.
"Fumo!" Malfoy repeated, a broad grin on his face. Another violent explosion accompanied the curse.
This time Neville could not even erect a makeshift defense. Feebly he held up his arms, as if trying to ward off the blow, but the curse easily smashed into his chest. Hard. Neville keeled over backwards, heaving and gasping as he tried to force the smoke out of his suffocating lungs.
Malfoy smirked, advancing upon the struggling Gryffindor, wand held up as though he was a God distributing a divine retribution. "Everbero!"
When the curse hit his face, Neville did a little flip like a fish on land, his mouth wide, the smoke still pouring out of his mouth.
"Not tough now, are you?" Malfoy sneered. "Caries!"
At first, Harry thought that a cloud of smoke erupted from the end of his wand, but, when he squinted, he saw that it almost glittered in the light, as if there were tiny crystals in the black mass. Additionally, a low buzzing noise grew as the mass increased, and soon, it was swirling around Neville, enveloping him like a thick blanket, the fallen Gryffindor just barely visible between the little gaps in the cloud. Then, with horrific realization, Harry saw that they were thousands of flies, swarming around Neville as if he was a rotting carcass of some long dead animal. Neville weakly swiped at them with his hand, his wand now forgotten.
"Finite!" Malfoy spat. The cloud of flies disintegrated into nothingness, and Neville was left squirming on the ground. "You don't even deserve to be called a pure blood. Go crawl around with the-" His eyes flickered momentarily towards Dumbledore, and he did not finish his sentence, though it could not be clearer as to what he was going to say.
Instead, Malfoy twirled his wand and a familiar flash of light fell down onto Neville's legs. Draco strolled up, snatched Neville's wand from his hands, and then swaggered off the platform. It took a moment for Harry to realize what the Slytherin had done. Neville tried multiple times to get to his feet, but found that his legs were rubbery and elastic, almost like they were jelly. Slowly, it dawned on Harry why the flash of light had been so familiar. He had seen it once before. Lockhart had once used it to 'cure' his broken bones after a Quidditch match. Unless Harry was greatly mistaken, Malfoy had removed every bone in Neville's legs.
As Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey tended to Neville, Malfoy caught sight of Harry and arrogantly sauntered over, a new bounce in his step. He twirled Neville's wand absently in his left hand.
"I believe this belongs to one of yours," Malfoy drawled when he came closer, and he roughly thrust the wand into Harry's chest. "I expected him to have at least put up a fight, seeing as he was supposed to be part of that little club called Dumbledore's Army or something like that. Pity. Almost makes me feel like I wasted my time." He gave a long, fake sigh and continued. "Nothing I can do about it now, I suppose."
"You spiked his food, didn't you?" Harry accused softly.
Malfoy's sneer faltered, and then returned with a greater intensity. "I'd like to see you prove it, considering only house-elves have access to the meals." He smirked and brushed past Harry and Gates and made his way down the corridor. "I'll see you later, Potter."
"You can count on it," Harry called out to his retreating back. He then turned, hoping to meet with Neville in the infirmary.
***
It may have been the day's stress, or it may have simply been built-up aggravation, but when midnight rolled around and he was sleeping soundly in his bed, a vision came to him. Not a vision in the prophetic sense, but in the surreal sense of his connection with Voldemort.
"I will not have another failure," said Harry in a high pitched voice. He looked over a small gathering of groveling Death Eaters, their foreheads pressed deeply into the ground. "Have I recruited a bunch of fools?"
"But sire," said one. "You chose when to strike. You chose-"
This was the wrong response. "Crucio!"
A single bowed form twisted and writhed in pain. Harry watched absently as he continued. "I executed what I ordered you to set up, and you failed with your end of the task. Must I deal with ever last detail in every plan because I have fools like you who can barely control their own bodies? I don't want to hear your sniveling excuses anymore, Rookwood. I assigned you this elementary task of killing the boy, and what have you to show for it?" He jerked his wand upwards and the writhing figure stopped. "ANSWER ME!"
"Nothing, milord," Rookwood managed as he returned to his knees.
"It seems you've underestimated your enemy," continued Harry. "I will not permit another mistake. Fail this time, and there will be dire repercussions. Lucius?"
"Yes, master?"
"There are no problems with the commands, correct?"
"None, Lord," he said in a partially masculine and partially fervent voice.
"But Alexander Gates…" murmured another masked man.
"Alexander Gates is no threat to me," spat Harry instantly. Anger flared up in his chest. He suddenly felt disgusted to be in the presence of such morons! "Can I not concern myself with undermining the Ministry and preparing the Genocide without having to worry about whether my Death Eaters can carry out my other, trivial tasks? I-"
Every molecule of his being suddenly became alert. He felt the presence of another. "Potter," he hissed softly. "The boy is here. He's here!"
Suddenly images filled his head. Voldemort was prying through his mind, searching for something. Then, as quickly as it began, it stopped.
Harry shot awake, his scar searing, the permeating coolness of the room doing little to ease the fire that burned on his forehead. Sucking in a deep breath, he looked around, drawing the curtains back to get a better view of his surroundings. Silence. No one moved. He had not screamed like he had usually done during nightmares. He breathed a sigh of relief. The last thing he wanted was to cause a scene in the middle of the night in the boy's dormitories. He needed to Dumbledore, and fast. He wished had not broken off his lessons from Snape. He had never had any dreams before, and he felt stupid for thinking that that would remain the same under Dumbledore.
Stealthily, he crawled out of bed and headed for the door. Fleetingly, he considered going to Hermione, but then he remembered the time, and that he had agreed to go straight to Dumbledore when he had a dream.
"Did you have a nightmare?" asked a voice from the bed next to him. Ron.
Harry mentally kicked himself. He should have known from the complete absence of snoring that Ron was awake. "Was I talking?"
Ron shrugged. "A little. Not enough for anyone else to notice, though."
"Except for those of us who do not sleep," said Gates softly from a shaded corner. He stepped out of it, the few rays of moonlight from the windows falling upon the right side of his face. "Return to your bed, Weasley. Potter and I must discuss some things."
Before Ron could respond Gates swept over and opened the dormitory door. His meaning was clear. He and Harry were to speak alone.
Blood rushed into Ron's ears. "He's my friend, Gates, and if you think you're just going to push him around like this, you've got another thing coming."
Utterly forgotten, Harry watched as Gates took two long steps towards Ron, almost as if he was going to strike him. "You're on unstable ground already, Ronald Weasley," he said quietly. "Do you know who you keep in your head? Even before the debacle in the Room of Requirement, I saw glimpses of his presence, though I dared not believe it." He held up one hand, which almost trembled with meaning. "You will stay very far away from me for now on, do you understand? And Potter. You're more of a danger to him than you could even know. I don't care what Whams says-" He visibly winced and hesitated. "I have made myself clear. Now return to your bed."
Ron opened his mouth as though to issue a retort, but his words died on his tongue.
Harry followed Gates down the circular stairway, hoping that this encounter would be kept brief so that he could go off to Dumbledore's office and reinstate the Occlumency lessons. When Voldemort realized Harry's presence, there was a small, prickling sensation in the back of his mind, as though the Dark Lord was ransacking his memories and knowledge. Harry shuddered when he realized what Voldemort could have discovered. The Prophecy, for example.
"You had a dream," Gates hissed as he whirled around to face Harry. His eyes were bright and his face glowing with the dull light from the dying embers in common room fire. He was inexplicably excited. "You remember the favor I asked of you. What was this dream?"
Harry's initial reaction was to ignore him, but he found that his mouth had suddenly opened on its own accord. Before he could stop himself, he was explaining, in explicit detail, the dream and its contents, leaving nothing out. He even mentioned the slow, steady breaths from the prostrate Death Eaters. Apparently, his tongue obeyed the favor he agreed to, even when his mind did not.
When Harry finished, Gates stood silently, digesting the information. "There was no clue as to where the Dark Lord is hiding? No inference as to their location?"
"No," Harry answered instantly and irresistibly. He was getting tired of this conversation and wanted to talk to Dumbledore.
"Return to your quarters," muttered Gates.
Harry tried to ease his way past him. "Err, actually, I need to see Dumbledore."
"What?" said Gates sharply.
"Dumbledore. I need to see him."
Gates' lip curled, as though he was having trouble deciding something. "Go then."
Gates did not need to tell him twice. Harry stepped through the portrait hole (the fat lady chastising him as he turned the corner) and traipsed down the steps, not looking back. Where did Dumbledore sleep at night? Harry had no idea, and hoped that the headmaster stayed in his office during the nights.
His scar still prickled from the nightmare. What had Voldemort discovered, and what was he planning?
When he approached the gargoyle, he said, "Skiving Snackboxes." However, the statue did not move, and he stared at it for a minute, panic began to set in.
"Perhaps Albus changed his password," Gates said absently from behind him.
"Skiving Snackboxes," he repeated. Nothing. The gargoyle did not move.
"Ah, Harry, Alex," said a light voice. It was Dumbledore, sounding rather lively considering it was later than midnight. "What brings you to my office at such a late hour? Skiving Snackboxes. I'm afraid it will not respond to the password when I am not in my office."
"So," Dumbledore continued as they climbed the circular stairs to his office. "I take it you had a dream?"
"Yeah," Harry said quietly.
Gates, when seeing the lowered doorway, paused halfway. The headmaster bowed his back slightly and went through, Harry following right behind him. The dull snoozing of numerous portraits greeted them, some of them stirring from sleep when Dumbledore entered and waving at him cheerfully. The headmaster nodded at each of them in turn.
Dumbledore went behind his desk and sat down in his chair. "What did you see in this dream?" Slanted light spilled through the high glass windows, highlighting the texture of the lacquered desk. It somehow made the headmaster look intimidating.
Harry told Dumbledore, in perfect detail, everything that he could remember, pausing occasionally to catch the headmaster's expression, which stayed locked in a comfortable look of thought. Perhaps Dumbledore was expecting this and had already braced himself for the inevitable, but Harry somehow doubted it. Though the headmaster liked to keep an image of unshakable strength, Harry knew that it was merely a façade. Voldemort's return was taking a toll on the old wizard. His hands were a little thinner than they were before, and his voice hesitated a little more than what was normal. These small changes alarmed Harry more than if Dumbledore had simply broken down and surrendered.
"I see," said Dumbledore, still retaining the look of imperturbable power. "Tom is becoming anxious."
"Anxious? He was furious."
Dumbledore laughed softly, and reached into his drawer for a lemon drop. "No, I've seen Tom when he is furious. You would know it. That was anxiety. Why else would he have Rookwood doing his work?"
"What do you mean?" Harry asked.
"Tom is afraid to confront you," Dumbledore said. "He's afraid because he fears that if he confronts you, he might lose, so he's sending his Death Eaters to do it for him."
"But he did confront me," Harry said quickly. "He jinxed my wand. My wand almost exploded in my hand in Transfiguration. How could Rookwood be trying to kill me when Voldemort's face is showing up in the Nemesis mirror."
Dumbledore sighed. "I do not know. Perhaps Rookwood is merely setting up the opportunity for Tom to strike, and his role is limited. Alas, the wards that defend Hogwarts only detect the intrusions of wizards with wands or any other magical artifacts, as well as prevent apparating. Not even my power is enough to place several defensive wards around this school and all of its grounds."
"So you mean that Death Eaters can come onto Hogwarts grounds whenever they want to?"
"No, not at all," continued Dumbledore. "It's not that simple. Centaurs, for the most part, guard the Forbidden Forest. The gates are enchanted to be impassable and unbreakable. Gargoyles line the rest of the walls. And the secret passages are diligently monitored by Mr. Filch. Unfortunately, it seems, the Centaurs had a lapse, and a single person managed to sneak through."
Harry watched Dumbledore uneasily. "Voldemort?"
"Possibly, and from the fact that you saw his face in the Nemesis mirror, almost certainly," said Dumbledore carefully. "But this school can hardly be broken into at whim."
"Do you think Voldemort discovered anything?" asked Harry. "In the dream I felt him entering my mind, like he was reversing the process and trying to possess me."
"From the fact that you experienced no elation or glee after your dream, I would say no, he discovered nothing of consequence," said Dumbledore at length. "Though we might not be so fortunate next time."
"Occlumency," Harry said with meaning.
Dumbledore nodded. "Do you understand the need Harry? Do you agree?"
"Yes I do," said Harry quickly. "That's the reason why I came here."
"Very well then," said Dumbledore. "I will speak to Professor Snape and-"
"No, sir," Harry interrupted. "I will. I'll take care of it." He was becoming tired of people acting on his behalf, and, he knew, he would never hear the end of it from the Potions master if the headmaster had spoken for him.
Dumbledore surveyed him from behind his half moon glasses. "I think that is a wise decision, Harry," When Harry stood up to leave, he added, "And when you speak with him, tell him that he is to teach you the Dark Mark."
"Teach me?" Harry repeated, puzzled. "What do you mean?"
"Professor Snape will know," said Dumbledore. "And he will comply."
***
Harry was beginning to regret agreeing to talk to Snape when, at the end of Potions class, he had to practically chase after the Potions master when he sped down the hall after dismissal. His black robes, spread out like wings, flared dramatically out behind him, and Harry could not help but think of how easy it would be for Snape to simply wear a sash.
"Professor-" called Harry, barely able to keep up with Snape's impossible pace.
The Potions master froze in mid-stride, slowly turning around on his heel to face Harry with a carefully blank face. "What is it?"
For most people, such a response would be considered curt or even rude. But for Snape, that was positively civil. "I think we need to restart the Occlumency lessons."
"Need extra help for your Potions work, Potter?" Snape said with a hint of a snarl. "If you think that I will allow you to use the Occlumensia Anomaly in the classroom to earn higher grades, then you are sadly mistaken."
"I had another dream, sir," said Harry, holding back a biting retort.
Snape's face visibly changed. Now, it became calculating. "A dream? Damn you, Potter," he said softly, his voice strangely absent of its usual viciousness. "Are you incapable of learning Occlumency under Dumbledore?"
"Not enough to fight off Volde- You-Know-Who," Harry said. Using 'Voldemort' would only antagonize Snape further, which is something he did not want to do.
"Will you put forth every effort to learn Occlumency?" asked Snape. "Or will you not take it seriously?"
Harry was beginning to feel irritated from Snape's snide insinuations. "I'll practice, if that's what you mean, sir."
Snape sighed. "So be it. I expect you to show up for every last one of your detentions at the exact time. Not one minute late or early. I will not tolerate foolishness this time around."
Just as Snape turned to leave, Harry added, "And Professor Dumbledore told me to ask you to teach me the Dark Mark."
Snape whirled back towards Harry so quickly that the wind from the Potion master's cloak slapped into his face. "Teach you the Dark Mark?" he said sharply.
"Err, yeah."
"The headmaster must think very highly of you, Potter," said Snape, surveying him critically. "Few would dare to mettle in that sort of magic. I trust you don't have the faintest clue as to what 'teaching you the Dark Mark' means?"
"As we've never learned it in Defense Against the Dark Arts," Harry countered. "I don't see how I could."
"Only a Potter would never work outside of the classroom," said Snape disdainfully. "It means, Potter, that you are going to reverse the effects of the Dark Mark and actually see into the heads of other Death Eaters. A tricky practice that requires much work before it can be mastered."
Something inside Harry burned at Snape's subtle implication that he was, somehow, a Death Eater. "I'm not a Death Eater, sir."
Snape raised an eyebrow. "Are you not? Tell me, what do you think a Death Eater is?"
"A willing follower of Voldemort," Harry said easily. "It has nothing to do with a Mark."
Snape blinked. Once. Twice. "I had no idea a Potter could make such distinctions," he said condescendingly. "Pity it doesn't reflect in your Potions work. You have a remaining detention to serve with Professor Whams, so you will report to him for your next detention. Afterwards, you shall come to me. If you have any more dreams, you are to tell the headmaster the instant you can. And, as my stores of glass jars and flasks are nowhere near completely cleaned yet, I am obliged to extend your detentions until the New Year. Remember: not a minute late."
"Right," Harry said, as Snape obviously expected some sort of response.
"And Potter," continued the Potions master. "Have you told the headmaster about your…memory problem?"
Harry became instantly wary. He knew exactly what Snape was referring to: the incident where Gates burned the wedding photograph. "No," he said quietly.
Snape just looked at him. "I suggest strongly that you do so. And soon."
With those last words, Snape whirled away once more, striding down the corridor without looking back.
***
Harry was disappointed (and slightly alarmed) to easily defeat his Ravenclaw opponent in the Dueling Club match. His additional training with Gates had given him an extra edge, and even Dumbledore seemed impressed with the strength of his curses. Hermione's duel with Dean was better, from what she told him, as he was a member of the D.A. and therefore more practiced in offensive spells.
The main issue Harry had with his duel, however, was Mr. Alverton's presence throughout the entire match. Harry saw him, or, more accurately, his wide waist, in a near corner of the great hall, subtly nodding in his direction. The Ministry official's endless string of advice and reminiscing was starting to become tiring. Of course, Harry fully understood Mr. Alverton's need to recruit more Aurors, and that he would zealously court any potential new candidates, but his behavior was bordering on excessive. From what other students told him, Mr. Alverton presented a stern front whenever they spoke to him, and that his open amiability was evidently limited to Harry.
When the day came for the Quidditch match against Slytherin, emotions in the school were running high. Slytherin, bitter over the fact that, despite Malfoy's victory, their duelers were mostly overwhelmingly defeated by Harry's D.A. club, thirsted for vengeance, and planned on putting up a ferocious fight on the Quidditch field. Malfoy was brimming with taunts and insults, evidently trying to shake Ron's confidence. For some reason, however, the redhead's temper had miraculously remained in check, and the few fights that had occurred happened mainly between lone Gryffindors and Slytherins.
In private, however, Ron would constantly bombard Harry with questions about the upcoming match. "We're going to destroy Slytherin, right Harry? There's no way they can win, right?"
Harry, quite taken aback by his questions, usually gave a determinedly positive response, and Ron would leave looking slightly satisfied. Harry suspected that the Slytherin taunts, while not making react overtly, was subtly feeding his anxiety, resurrecting his dormant self-doubt. Ron's ability, while considerably better than last year, was never good under pressure, and Harry could only hope that he would not cave.
The day of the match was exceptionally windy and cold, with, being the classic fall day, a biting chill on the teeth of each gust of air. This would make controlling their brooms difficult, even for exceptional broomsticks like the Firebolt. The wind kept pushing Harry's glasses up and down the bridge of his nose, sometimes making them crooked or sending them sliding down his face. He was forced to use a binding charm to lock them in place. He could see Gates standing in front of the nearby stands, carefully watching the proceedings.
The Gryffindor team met the Slytherins in the middle of the field, Madam Hooch standing between them. Alicia and the Slytherin captain shook hands, and then cautiously backed away from each other, each one expecting the other to start throwing curses.
The howling wind drowned out most of Madam Hooch's words, but Harry could still hear her say, "-and no funny business with the Quaffle-"
The loudspeaker was completely inaudible, and even the crowd's exuberant cries were reduced to a low din from the roaring wind. Faintly, Harry could see Hermione cheering for him in the stands, wrapped up in a red and gold Gryffindor scarf, her cheeks tinged pink from the cold, holding her hands up high. He looked behind him, towards the goal posts, to see Ron, eyes fixed forward, determination on his face. Harry, who was still concerned over Ron's apparent anxiety, breathed a sigh of relief.
"-clean game, you hear?" Madam Hooch finished, and looked pointedly at both captains.
Finally, she bent down, unlocked the chest, and the Bludgers, Quaffle, and Snitch show out, disappearing into the swirling wind. The Chasers and Beaters took off after them, leaving Harry and Malfoy to chase after the Snitch.
"Well, Potty, you ready to lose?" Malfoy sneered.
Harry kicked off the ground and soared high into the air until he had a good view of the pitch and the players. The occasional black and red blurs of the Bludgers and Quaffle told him that the game was in full throttle, and that the wind, while still hampering the game, did not have too much of an effect on the Chasers and Beaters. It was devastating, however, on the Seekers, because, neither he nor Malfoy could hold their brooms still in the air long enough to catch sight of the Snitch, which remained as elusive as ever.
Descending slightly, Harry squinted to get a better view. He saw a flash of red pass through a Gryffindor hoop, and he vaguely registered Slytherin going up ten points. He hoped that Ron was holding up, but, at this point, there was nothing he could do about it. The announcer's voice was so distorted from the wind that Harry could not make out the score, and he severely doubted that the spectators could, either.
Gryffindor came back a few minutes later and made two consecutive goals, making Harry feel a little lighter at heart. Still, there was no sign of the Snitch, and he was beginning to worry. Looking around, he saw Malfoy winding around the opposite end of the field, searching with equal intensity. Harry decided to rise a bit higher into the air.
Another ten minutes passed and Harry remained luckless. The wind was tossing his broom around like a toy, and, even with the Firebolt's balancing charm, Harry was hard pressed to keep his broomstick parallel to the ground. Eventually, he was forced to waste precious minutes adjusting himself in his seat to counteract the effect of the wind. It helped a little, but not enough.
"Hey Potter," Malfoy shouted over the dull blaring of air. "The score is seventy to thirty, Slytherin! Looks like Gryffindor is getting destroyed! That's what you get for making Weasley a Keeper, I suppose!"
"We'll see, Malfoy," retorted Harry without looking at him. "You better tell your team to score another hundred and ten points, because there's no way you're going to catch the Snitch."
Suddenly, Harry felt something hard smack into his shoulder, and the force of it nearly caused him to fall off his broom. The Firebolt veered off to the left, following the wind current, and for a moment had no control over his broomstick. Regaining his balanced, he seized the tip of his broom and jerked his it back and recovered, curving once more into the middle of the field. Malfoy was smirking from where Harry had hovered only a moment ago.
"Oops," drawled Malfoy, his voice being carried by the wind. "This weather, it's bizarre, you know? Blew me right into you."
Harry did not respond. His eyes were locked on a spot on the field where he saw a fleeting glimmer of gold. Trying to appear casual, he drifted over, and, once more, he saw gold flash, no more than a foot over the ground.
Without warning, a silent alarm went off in his head, and apprehension crept up his spine. Something dangerous was emanating from the ground, or maybe the stands. Harry tried to pinpoint it. He tried peering through the air, but the jostling wind prevented him from focusing. It almost felt like it was radiating from Hogwarts, under the stone eves of the battlements. It was bewildering and confusing, and the sense of danger darted erratically from source to source, as a filled balloon does when released. His mind turned sluggish, like he was mentally and physically exhausted, and he found that he had to focus more to simply remain situated on his broom.
Just as quickly as it started, however, it ended, and Harry heard a whoop of elation over the wind. Malfoy had seen the Snitch!
Abandoning caution, Harry went into a dive and sped downwards, straining his hand out in front of him to catch the small golden ball that hovered tauntingly over the grass. His brain screamed that pulling out of this dive in time would be impossible, and, for the first time, Harry was unsure of himself. There was no possible way he could catch the Snitch without smashing into the ground.
Rationale hijacked his pride, and, throwing all thoughts of catching the Snitch away, he tried to slow his descent and form a gentle curve, but found that the Firebolt was unresponsive. He pulled harder, and then yanked at it. His arms felt weak from some sort of foreign weakness. The old exhaustion crept over him. He yanked yet again. Nothing.
The wind, announcer, and crowd all seemed to fall silent, and the roaring in his ears fell, as if he had suddenly gone deaf. All that he could see was the vibrant gold Snitch, the polished Ash tip of his broomstick, and his extended right arm. He tried pulling up again, weakly from his tired arms, but his broom ignored his command, and continued on its course straight towards the ground.
A lone, distant voice shattered the bizarre silence. "Suicidal!" someone shouted. It was Malfoy.
Everything sped up at once. His Firebolt was hurtling towards the ground at frightening speed, and, out of options, Harry gripped the handle and braced himself for impact.
The brief, spike of pain lasted for less than a second, and then tapered down to a dull throbbing that reached all the way from his skull to his ankle. His hip ached from where he slammed it into the earth. A taste of copper flooded his mouth, and he tried to spit it out, but to no avail. Vaguely, he realized that he had bit down on his tongue. Hard.
Harry reached over for his broom, but found that it was not there. Opening his eyes, he found that everything was colored in dull shades, as though the color was sucked out of the sky, the grass. Screams and shouts approached him, as well as frantic commands. He felt himself being lifted up, and saw, through a dim haze, that it was Dumbledore.
"Headmaster?" he said, or thought he said. He was so tired that he could not tell the difference. He wanted nothing more than to drift off to sleep.
In a painfully slow fashion, he turned his head to see Mr. Alverton inspecting the place where he crashed, where there was nothing more than upturned soil. There was no sign of his broom. The Ministry official stared at him, as though in horror.
"Harry!" he heard voices shout. Ron and Hermione. They were both being forced away, Professors McGonagall and Snape holding them back.
"THE DARK LORD WAS HERE!" bellowed an all-too familiar voice. Gates was holding a drawn wand, revolving slowly in a circle, as though expecting an attack from any direction. "GET THEM INSIDE! THE DARK-"
"What are you shouting about Alex?" Mr. Alverton demanded, advancing upon Gates with a commanding air. "You-Know-Who did not-"
"I SAW HIM!" Gates roared, rounding on the Ministry official. "GET AURORS HERE! CALL THE MINISTRY!"
The madness in Gates' voice pried into Harry's brain, making him groan aloud. Dumbledore protectively drew him closer. The tension and emotion in the air was palpable.
Dumbledore's voice, sounding weak and fleeting against the wind, said, "Alex, Voldemort was not here-"
"I SAW HIM ON THIS MAP!" shouted Gates, drawing the Marauder's Map. He waved it violently in the air. "THIS MAP SHOWS EVERYONE PERSON ON THESE GROUNDS! I WAS WATCHING! HE WAS HERE!"
Gates looked ready to explode. Students and adults alike began to back away from him, until only Dumbledore stood before him, still cradling Harry in his arms. Energy radiated from the Hit Wizard's body, distorting the air around him with its charge. Mr. Alverton drew his wand.
Dumbledore watched him, his expression stony. "He cannot apparate onto school grounds-"
"HE WAS HERE!" roared Gates. "EVERYONE INSIDE! GIVE ME THE BOY!" He strode up to Harry meaningfully. Gates' voice sounded far away. Sleep tried to overcome him, but Harry resisted. The natural fear that stabbed at him was vague and indistinct.
Dumbledore stepped in Gates' path. "Did you see Voldemort? Physically," he said calmly. "Breath, Alex."
Gates dropped his voice to a whisper. "No, but he was on the map," he hissed. "I saw him on the map."
And then, before Harry could listen any further, he fell unconscious, his exhaustion putting out his thoughts.
(A/N: I don't know about you, but I really enjoyed writing the Neville/Draco duel. The almost-U.C. pretty much shows Malfoy's mindset at this point and his potential for cruelty. Some of you may hate me for picking on poor Neville all the time, but alas, he is an easy target.
Next chapter will be out on 3/19.
FAQ: How many character deaths will be there by the end of this fic? One and a half.
Next chapter: Hogwarts receives some visitors in the wake of the Quidditch disaster. Accusations fly. Harry has a rather confusing detention with Whams. Harry and Gates receive a rather unexpected visitor during one of their training sessions, and Dumbledore has some news that may spell relief for Harry over the holidays.