Chapter Twenty-Four
THE GIRL IN THE PHOTOGRAPHS
In 1658, the Abacadians became the first group to use the scarring technique in the name of the Dark Arts. The creation of the scar, which was shaped like two entwined serpents, was only embedded into two of their destructive spells but quickly became the fear-inspiring symbol of their four-year reign. While several groups tried to duplicate their ways, the next successful Dark organization did not form until 1832 when those of the Serpent's Circle united under the command of the Dark Lord Salazyte. The Dark wizard Grindelwald combined their symbol, the skull, with the serpents of earlier in the late 1930s.
Still, it was only when You-Know-Who came to power that the Dark Scar became a prominent symbol of control. Its use dwindled as the Dark period progressed, but it is rumored that its absence in the late years of the reign was actually a period of modification to the Dark Scar.
Harry blinked, having read the passage at least a half a dozen times. It wasn't at all difficult, compared to some of the texts he had taken to deciphering, but it was making even less sense to him. It wasn't anything he hadn't seen before, so it probably wouldn't be of any use to him. He was down to the last scroll of his Defense Essay, but he hadn't found a single thing to add all afternoon, even after he'd approached Professor Lupin with his predicament.
The Defense professor had suggested Harry look into some of the magically preserved editions of the Daily Prophet published in the time period but had warned him that some of the articles, those that were personal accounts of the Dark Scar, could be pretty gruesome. Harry really hadn't taken the necessary heed of his warning; instead, he'd marched off determinedly behind Madam Pince and nearly lost his lunch with the very first article displayed.
It was an account of a woman subjected to the Death Eaters' curses during the raid that killed her husband. She had been hexed several times trying to protect her two small children after their father's demise. Voldemort had used her as a test subject for the new tracking system embedded within her scar, allowing his Death Eaters to take her into their possession. They had not killed her, but, in Harry's opinion, what they had been allowed to do was much, much worse.
His stomach had turned when he had realized what he was reading, and he'd literally been shaking as he walked from the archives of the library back to the table Ron and Hermione were occupying. Ron had had to lead him out of the library for a drink of water, and he had asked Harry repeatedly what had him so upset. Hermione had also been concerned, but she had known better than to badger Harry about something that was obviously so upsetting. He could practically still feel the gentle hand squeeze she had given him all those hours before.
The Seventh Son, a prominent Dark assembly at the turn of the century, chose its name out of loyalty to the founder of their former Hogwarts house. The faction actually began as a resistance movement to another Dark uprising, but after being captured and tortured, the group emerged and became more powerful than its parent. Surprisingly, after their revolt was halted, the component that was going to be used in their own version of the Dark Scar was adapted for more pleasant purposes. The Ministry of Magic now employs their discovery to detect the whereabouts of any Ministry employee in times of crisis.
"None of this has anything to do with the actual Dark Scar," grumbled Harry, tossing the book to the ground. He wasn't aware of the volume of his outburst until he realized that Hermione was looking up at him through concerned eyes. He shot her a lopsided grin, making a mental note to try and not be such a cause for concern the next day. It did seem that he'd done so often that afternoon.
They were sitting together in the prefect common room. Harry was sprawled out at one end of the couch, a stack of books sitting just within his reach. Hermione, who had finished both her essay and her homework in the library that afternoon, was sitting with her nose buried in her increasingly battered edition of Hogwarts, A History. Ron was presumably still in the library; he had a lot more work to do on his essay if he wished to receive an O.W.L. in Defense.
"How's your essay coming?" asked Hermione. She rested the thick book against the arm of the sofa, tucking her feet beneath her. When she looked down at Harry, he couldn't help but think that he liked looking at her from this angle. He could almost feel a guilty blush rising to his cheeks, yet he didn't have to will himself not to care. It had taken every bit of self-determination that he had to keep from staring at her all afternoon in the library, so he felt entitled to that moment.
She's your best friend, Harry. You aren't supposed to be looking at her like that. And you aren't supposed to be thinking about her like that, either.
That little voice had begun to chide him again, and it forced Harry's interest to a dull enthusiasm. "It's not."
"Take a break," suggested Hermione, much to his surprise. She reached down and tousled his hair slightly, pushing a stray strand away from his eyes. "When I told you and Ron today that you couldn't afford to slack off earlier, I was only directing my comment at the both of you because I didn't want him to feel as if I were harping at him."
"Don't worry," said Harry with a grin. He caught her hand, his nose crinkling as he forced himself into a sitting position, causing Crookshanks to jump distastefully from the couch. He would have much rather stayed as he had been, and he couldn't help but think of how nice a nap would be at that very moment. "He knew that it was for his benefit and his benefit alone."
"Did he?" Hermione blushed. "I should have-"
The door to the prefect common room burst open, and Harry didn't hear the rest of her statement. Ron hurtled through the door, his Gryffindor tie unknotted and his robes hanging off his left shoulder. Something gave a great screech, and Crookshanks, his bottlebrush tail straight up, clawed Harry's arm in his frantic rush to get to Hermione. He purred loudly, his squashed face looking angrily at Ron.
"I'm never going to get this done," he moaned. "It's just-"
"Ron Weasley, do not even tell me that you just kicked my cat," said Hermione, a scowl forming on her face.
"Oh, yeah, I did, didn't I?" said Ron absently. He flopped weakly into the chair adjacent to Hermione's position on the couch, and the pet in question continued to glare at Ron, whose facial expression changed, almost as suddenly as he had come in, from bewilderment to anger.
"It's Marks again," he grumbled.
At his friend's words, Harry snapped out of his slight daze. "What's he done now?" he asked, recalling a certain incident in one of the stairwells above all the others. He glanced at Hermione. She had stiffened and looked a little uncomfortable, and Harry found himself instinctively grabbing her hand. The gesture was lost on Ron. Usually he'd be sniggering and muttering things about his two best friends underneath his breath.
"Nothing like that," said Ron quickly. He, too, had glanced at Hermione. Anger flashed in the redhead's eyes as he reached into his bag and produced several ink-splattered scrolls. "This is my Defense essay-or at least it was. "Git just happened to trip and knock over my inkwell."
"Oh Ron," said Hermione sadly. She had taken the soggy parchment from him and laid it out flat on the side table.
"Your whole essay?" Harry wanted to know. Ron nodded dully, obviously having reverted back to his earlier stupor. Crookshanks seemed to understand that Ron wasn't his usual self, dropping his angry glare. The cat settled down in between Harry and Hermione for a nap. Ron continued to stare blankly, and Harry was silent, but Hermione had begun to mutter things under her breath.
"Was a lot of what you'd actually written already dry?" asked Hermione. When Ron nodded, she removed her wand from the folds of her robe. "Aufero macula!"
At once, the glistening ink ran backwards to the center of the parchment, forming a perfect pool on each scroll. Then, it shot upwards in a perfect jet of ink, disappearing at the end of Hermione's wand. Ron grinned, and Harry applauded.
"Tricks for Tricky, Icky Situations, chapter eleven," said Hermione, handing Ron back his essay. It had a colored tinge to it, but his words were visible now. "Honestly, you'd think they'd put that kind of charm in the Standard Book of Spells (Grade One)!"
Ron grinned, standing up and throwing his bag over his shoulder. He bent down and did something he usually didn't, giving Hermione a quick peck on the cheek. "I should have known you'd be able to fix it. Thanks!"
He was gone, presumably heading in the direction of the library to continue his study. Harry and Hermione turned to each other at the same time; both were wearing equally amused expressions. Harry raised an eyebrow, and Hermione burst out laughing.
"Ron's great," giggled Hermione. Harry had to agree; his best friend's antics had provided a much-needed distraction from his own essay. He relaxed into the sofa, but he found that the lighthearted feeling had already gone.
"I can't believe Marks," grumbled Harry. Without realizing he was doing so, he draped an arm across Hermione's shoulder, and it surprised him when she rested her head against his shoulder. "I don't think I even knew who he was until last month. Sure, I'd played in a few Quidditch games against him, but that doesn't mean I knew him."
"But before you knew what was happening, he was standing with his cronies in our compartment, hurling both insults and curses in our direction?" finished Hermione. She tilted her head back, and Harry looked down at her. She was smiling a little bit, almost as if she knew she'd said exactly what he had been thinking.
"Right," said Harry. "I think his only purpose in life is to try to mess up mine."
"Too true," agreed Hermione. Her nose crinkled up. "What he did to Ron's essay was completely uncalled for."
"What he did to you was completely uncalled for," said Harry. The statement came out much more hoarsely than he meant for it to. "I know he's mad at me for blasting his little brother into a wall, but he should be taking it out on me, not Ron. Besides-it's not like the kid didn't deserve it."
"Oh no, he did," said Hermione. "Deserve it, I mean."
She didn't say anything else, but she also did not pull back from Harry. When someone climbed through the portrait hole a few seconds later, his arm was still around her, her head on his shoulder. Katie Bell, Harry's former Gryffindor teammate and the current Head Girl, stopped when she saw them.
"O-oh, I'm sorry," Katie stammered. Harry and Hermione pulled apart at once. Harry could not bring himself to meet Katie's eye, but he did catch Hermione's. She looked almost... guilty. "I didn't mean to interrupt anything; it's just that I left a stack of photos on the desk here, and I wanted to show Alicia and Angelina."
"Wizard photos? Of you and Tyler?" Hermione said pleasantly. She continued when Katie nodded. The older girl was still eyeing Harry and Hermione with an unmistakable questioning in her eyes. "He was in here over an hour ago. He said that they were his."
Katie groaned. Tyler Etherington was the Head Boy, Katie's boyfriend, and known throughout Gryffindor for being a bit absentminded. "Well then," she said, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, "I imagine I should go and try to track him down. He probably thought that they were his. I'll see the two of you later!"
"'Bye, Katie!" said Hermione. Harry gave the Head Girl a good-natured wave as she disappeared back through the portrait hole. As soon as she was gone, Hermione turned to Harry. "Harry, those pictures that you were sent-what did you do with them?"
"I shoved them in a desk drawer," said Harry. "Why? Do you want to see them?"
Hermione nodded. "If it wouldn't be too much trouble," she said. Harry was on his feet in an instant.
"Give me five minutes," said Harry with a grin. He was standing over her, about to lean down because she always saw him off with a kiss on the cheek. He found himself straightening rather awkwardly. After what had happened in his and Ron's dormitory that morning, he didn't quite trust himself not to toe the lines of friendship even farther.
* * *
Ten minutes later, Harry found himself squeezed rather awkwardly into an armchair in the Gryffindor common room with Hermione. They'd abandoned the prefect common room when Tyler and Katie had appeared, hand in hand, looking as if they were ready to jump each other. As it was at almost any given moment, the common room was packed with students. Many of the fifth years were still in the library, but the rest of the Gryffindors had assembled either in the overstuffed armchairs, at the tables, or on the floor in front of the fire. Harry and Hermione had managed to grab the last of the chairs; squashed together between the massive arms, she was more or less sitting on his lap.
"This one seems normal enough," declared Hermione, handing Harry the picture of him as a baby. She had been hunched over it, examining every square inch of it. Another picture fell into his hand; this one was of him at the Dursleys. "And I can't find anything odd or peculiar about this one either. It's the other two-the ones with Ron and I-that just don't seem quite right. They just have this quality about them, this quality of..."
"Not rightness?" suggested Harry helpfully when she trailed off. Hermione glared at him. He plucked the other two photos from her hand, holding them up to the light as she had, but at that moment, the floating candle decided to rocket off to the other side of the room.
Withdrawing his wand, Harry summoned the candle. It hovered for a good minute as Harry examined the photos. He still couldn't find anything unusual about them. He finally had to shuffle them around in his hand; he couldn't help but worry that the photo version of him would fail to keep Hermione from falling.
"So," said Harry, after the long pause. He handed Hermione back the photo. "What's wrong with them? They look like normal-well, wizarding normal-photographs to me."
Hermione stared at him blankly for a second, rearranging the pictures in her hand. The picture he didn't like was on top once more. "Remember what Katie said about her photographs? She said that Tyler probably thought that they were his."
"What does that have to do with anything?" asked Harry quizzically.
"Well this pictures are of us, aren't they?" said Hermione. Now, Harry was just looking at her as if she were crazy. "I mean, there I am, stumbling in the middle of Diagon Alley. You and Ron are there, ready to keep me from falling. Pictures of us."
"Pictures of us," said Harry. He said it slowly, letting the words roll off his tongue. He repeated it once, twice, three times before it finally clicked. "You never fell down in Diagon Alley!"
"No, I never did," said Hermione dryly, "and there was no lying in the grass beneath the tree that I know of. I do remember the wind tousling my hair when the three of us were sitting on the back step, but it's not the same, is it?"
"It's not the same," confirmed Harry. "So what are you saying? Are those pictures just well-done fakes?"
"What's that you have there-pictures? Pictures! Let me have a look?"
Harry and Hermione both turned at the sound of a squeaky voice behind them. Colin Creevey gave a little excited clap and made a second squeaky exclamation when he realized that he had their attention.
"Er-hi Colin," said Harry. His greeting came out a little more irritably than he'd meant to make it, and Hermione elbowed him. He caught her eye, immediately cottoning on. If anyone would be able to tell them what was wrong with the photos, it was Colin.
"Oh, this is exciting!" said Colin, practically snatching the four photographs from Hermione's hand when she held them up. He muttered his way past the first two breathlessly, but he became subdued when he reached the third. "Oh, you weren't looking at photos at all, were you? You're just practicing your concealment charms. I should have-"
"Concealment charms!" said Hermione. She looked as if she could have thrown her arms around the younger boy at that moment. Colin gave her a strange look.
"Well, that's what you were practicing, wasn't it?" said Colin. He gave the photos one last critical look before thrusting them forward into Hermione's hand. "You've done well; they're much harder to cast than to remove."
"Oh," managed Hermione. Harry was still staring between Colin and the photos in wonderment.
"Here," said Colin, obviously dismissing her astonishment. Judging by his tone, he was back to being his overexcited self. He handed them an even thinner stack of photos. "I just came over to give you these. They're from that party after the Quidditch game. I made three copies so that you could each have one."
"Wow, thanks Colin," said Harry, taking the pictures from him. It had actually turned out quite well. Ron and Harry both looked exhausted but happy, hair damp from their post-game showers. Hermione was sandwiched between the two boys, but she had a huge grin on her face. She was half on Harry's lap and half off, his arm draped casually across her shoulders. Ron was practically on top of the arm of the sofa, teetering in Hermione's direction. They were laughing and talking and smiling, and their close friendship looked like the most natural thing in the world.
"You like it?" said Colin squeakily. His hand flew to his mouth. "Oops, I mean, you're welcome."
The eager fourth year disappeared from site, retreating in the direction of the boys' dormitories. He had an almost stupid grin on his face, which made Hermione and Harry share a look. The two friends burst out laughing.
"That really is a great picture," said Hermione softly. She set it down on the arm of the chair, turning back to the photographs-the concealed photographs-that Harry had been sent. "I think that... well... terminus occulto!"
Light burst from the tip of Hermione's wand, striking the two photos in question. Slowly, the surface ink began to swirl together in great sweeps of brilliant color. It came together and then separated; the dirty brown of the Diagon Alley street faded relocated to where Harry's cloak had once been, and the pale yellow of a passing woman's blonde hair found its way to where Hermione had once stood. In the second photo, one of the boys had disappeared entirely, and the other had replaced by...
"Professor Lupin!" breathed Harry and Hermione at the same time. They shared an equally amazed look, for there was no mistaking the boy with long, light brown hair. He was laughing and joking with what looked to be the back of a younger Sirius's head and had his hand on the shoulder of a girl with blonde hair in the first photograph. The same girl, a few years older, was sitting with her back against the tree, trying to keep the wind from messing up her hair in the second. She was laughing, but the young Remus Lupin, whose head was leaning against her stomach, was scowling at whoever was taking the picture.
"It's the same girl, Harry," said Hermione quietly. "It's the same girl that was with him in Sirius's photo album."
"I know," said Harry. He continued absently, without thinking. "Clara."
"What?" Hermione was looking at him quizzically. "How do you know her name? Did Sirius tell you?"
"No," said Harry, feeling every bit as perplexed as she sounded. He didn't know what had prompted him to give the girl that name. He didn't know her, and he couldn't ever remember being told about her, either. A few moments of tense silence passed before it dawned on him. "Snape."
Now Hermione was looking at him as if he'd really lost it. "Harry," she said, patting his hand gently, "if you'd like to explain what our dear, lovely Potions master has to do with this, I'm all for it."
"That day..." said Harry, trailing off. He wasn't even sure of his train of thought. "It was that day that we practiced dueling with the Slytherin sixth years. Something had gone wrong in Transfigurations, so McGonagall had asked Lupin to watch over their class."
"We didn't have Potions that day, Harry," reminded Hermione gently. "What are you remembering?"
"It was after dinner," said Harry, ignoring what she had said without meaning to. "Don't you remember?"
"Yes," said Hermione at last. "Ron was practically badgering you about your duel with Marks, and-"
"-And Snape was badgering Lupin about it," said Harry. "Lupin told him to stop living in the past, to stop comparing me to my father, and Snape retorted that he didn't have the right to offer such advice. They were talking about a girl, and when Snape called her Clara, Lupin expelled him from his classroom."
"Clara," said Hermione. She'd picked up the photos yet again, studying the blonde girl intently. Finally, she caught Harry's eye. "I think it's time we learned a little more about her."
* * *
"Add an infusion of what to a powdered root of what?" muttered Ron. He and Harry were sitting in the library two afternoons later; Ron was working on his Potions homework and Harry was pouring through another stack of books in a frantic attempt to find another half scroll of information for his Defense essay, which was due in just two days. "Creates a cooling muddle to sooth sunburn? Can't you just charm that away?"
"You can cast a charm to screen the skin, but it won't relieve the pain." Hermione was struggling under the weight of a thick text. "Snape really does have a twisted idea of a crossword puzzle, doesn't he?"
"What's that?" asked Harry, instinctively reaching out to steady his inkwell as Hermione dropped the book on the library table with a loud thud. A drop splashed onto his hand, and he hastily wiped it off on his robes.
"A complete listing of Hogwarts alumni from 1845 to 1985," said Hermione. Harry and Ron both shot her an inquisitive glance; they had told Ron about the photographs as soon as he had returned from the library on Monday night. "It has everything from their place of birth to what they did after graduation. You would not believe the story I came up with to convince Madam Pince that I needed this book."
"Don't look now," whispered Ron, gesturing in the direction of the librarian, "but judging by the expression on her face, neither did she."
"Funny," said Hermione, stopping long enough to glare at him as she flipped through the pages. "Anyway, I'm positive that Clara Lewick is our girl-she was a Gryffindor, started here the year after Harry's parents, Head Girl, and grew up in Essendon, which is also where Lupin was raised."
"C. L.!" exclaimed Ron in a loud whisper, which caused Madam Pince to shoot him a death glare. Hermione looked at him strangely, but Harry understood the reference. C. L. was the second set of initials carved into the tree in Professor Sprout's private garden.
"So where is she now?" Harry wanted to know. He couldn't see the tiny text of the book from where he was sitting. "We spent most of last night pouring over all of those photos in Sirius's album again, and she and Professor Lupin looked just as in love as my parents did. What'd she do after graduation?"
"Harry-she never graduated," said Hermione in a small voice. "She died in March of her seventh year."
"I don't want him to know the constant fear, the lasting pain, the unending uncertainty. Let him grow up, Sirius. Let him make his own choices then, but lead him away from this. Promise me he won't grow up in the middle of this as we did."
Lily.
"One day, you, too, will see these halls as I remember them. You'll do a lot of living in your years, Harry, but never so much as within these walls."
Lupin.
"I'll tell you what, Remus, you come back to me when you stop mourning for her, and you tell me to stop living in the past..."
Snape.
"Of course," said Harry weakly. The three friends shared almost weary looks. They had even more questions and even fewer answers.
* * *
As Thursday night slowly became Friday morning, the frantic scratching of quills on parchment only intensified. The fire crackled and hissed as it died, but, other than that, only the occasional whisper or muttering could be heard. It seemed as all but one of the fifth year Gryffindors had made the decision to procrastinate on the Defense essay that was due the next day. Harry had to stifle a yawn as he reached for the last book on the Dark Scar that the library had possessed. Ron, who was sitting next to him, yawned wearily as he set aside his fourteenth scroll and plucked a fresh one from his bag.
"Nearly caught up to you, mate," said Ron sleepily, gesturing in Harry's general direction. "'S almost sad. What have you been doing for the last ten or so hours?"
"Trying to find relevant information that I haven't already mentioned," grumbled Harry. His statement was meant with a thud from across the room. It seemed as if Seamus had given up on his essay, falling asleep right on top of it. "If I don't find something in the next ten minutes, I'm giving up."
"Hermione wouldn't like that," teased Ron. He dipped his own quill in the inkwell. "I gave up on the relevant stuff ages ago. I've decided that if it's good enough to be in any one of these books, it's good enough to be in my paper."
"That's the spirit, Weasley," said Harry, sinking back into his reading. It took him fifteen minutes to scan through the first four chapters, all of which seemed to be saying the same thing over and over again. He threw the book down in distaste. That was it. "I give up. I'm going to bed."
"You do that," said Ron, who looked as if he were copying verbatim from the text in front of him. From across the room, one of the candles was blown out. Neville, an ear-to-ear grin on his face, scooped up his books and started making his way toward the boys' staircase. "Don't worry about it too much. Your essay's what? Eight inches too short? I somehow don't see that as a major problem."
"Nah, it's not," agreed Harry, straightening his things into a neat pile. He eyed the stack of books critically, not really wanting to lug them all up to his room just to bring them back down the next morning. "I think I'm just going to leave these here tonight."
Harry's eyes followed Neville up the stairs as he swung his bag onto his shoulder. He was about to wish Ron good-luck when the door to the girls' dormitory opened up. A nightgown-clad figure was hurrying down the staircase. Without really bothering to look, Harry's logical side reasoned that Hermione, unable to sleep, had probably come down to check the progress of her procrastinating classmates.
But the girl on the stairs wasn't Hermione, as Hermione most definitely did not have a mane of fiery red hair. Ginny Weasley, wrapped tightly in a secondhand blue terry robe, took the last few steps so quickly that she nearly tripped. She made a beeline for the table that Harry and Ron had chosen to occupy.
"Oh good," she said breathlessly. "You're both still up."
"Try to curb your enthusiasm," grumbled Ron. "It's not like either of us want to be doing this. We'd both rather be upstairs in our own dormitory, asleep, so if you've come down to-"
"Shut up, Ron," snapped Ginny, interrupting her older brother. She folded her arms across her chest. "It's Hermione-do you honestly think I'd come down in the middle of the night just to rag on you?"
Harry hadn't heard anything past his other best friend's name. "Hermione? What's going on? Is she okay?"
"She's having another nightmare," said Ginny softly. "She keeps muttering things in her sleep, and she won't wake up. I don't know what to do."
"Another?" said Ron dully.
Ginny nodded hesitantly. "I don't know why-" she stopped. "I just thought that you would want to know."
"She won't wake up?" repeated Harry. Again, Ginny nodded. She looked up but would not meet his eye.
"I-I just thought that one of you might know what to do," stammered Ginny. Harry and Ron shared a look. If Ginny had been so worried that she came for one of them, something obviously wasn't right. The boys were on their feet half a second after the words were out of her mouth. "I tried shaking her shoulder, but she whimpered for me to stop."
Sharing another look and ignoring those of their year mates, Harry and Ron darted up the girls' staircase behind Ginny. Harry been in the girls' dormitories on more occasions than he probably should have, so he knew which room Ginny shared with Hermione and the other girls. The youngest Weasley had fallen in step behind Harry, walking along side her older brother. She kept muttering something about a spell and summertime that Harry did not understand.
Hermione's eyes were shut more tightly than sleep required, her hand clutching at her sheets so tightly that her knuckles had begun to turn white. She was trembling beneath a stack of bedcovers much too thick for the spring weather.
"She was screaming earlier," managed Ginny, who sounded every bit as fearful as Harry felt. "That's what woke me up... oh, what was that spell?"
"Don't hurt me... don't hurt me..." whimpered the sleeping Hermione, and Harry felt his stomach muscles tighten, and he stepped toward her. However, something caught his shoulder, and he felt Ron holding him back. The redheaded boy was fumbling around in his pocket for his wand.
"Suscitatio!" ordered Ron. He bit his lip, and Harry could tell that his friend's hand was trembling. He didn't recognize the spell, and he couldn't imagine where Ron had learned it, but he did know that Hermione stopped muttering. Her eyes flew open, but it took her a few seconds to work her way into a sitting position.
"Th-th-thought I was going to-" stammered Hermione. Deathly pale and still shaking, she burst into tears. Ginny looked bewildered, but there was something about her stance that told Harry that this was not the first time she had witnessed such a scene. He was the first one to make a move toward Hermione, followed closely by Ron, who had to first put his wand away.
"Shh," muttered Harry, hugging her protectively, the folds of his robes stifling her sobs. Ron crossed around to the other side of the four-poster, sitting down on the other edge of her bed and patting her back.
"Hermione?" Ginny asked in a small voice as her friend's tears began to subside. "Are you okay?"
Hermione pulled back from Harry without leaving his protective embrace. She opened her mouth but seemed unable to formulate a response. She broke down again; this time, a few words permeated her sobs.
"Sorry..." she managed. "Didn't mean to wake you all... the Forbidden Forest... couldn't... I couldn't... fine now... go back to sleep. Please just go back to sleep."
Despite her words, Hermione only seemed to hold more tightly to Harry. Ron, on the other hand, had scooted off the edge of the bed, and he was now standing behind Ginny, in the middle of several deep breaths.
"Come on," said Ron, and Harry saw that he had a hand on Ginny's shoulder. "Let's go back down to the common room."
A second later, Ron had more or less hauled Ginny from her own room. The single beam of moonlight shining in through the window cast eerie shadows around the rooms, and Harry found himself releasing Hermione for long enough to grab his own wand and cast the lumos spell. For several long minutes, he sat there with her in her arms, just letting her cry. Knowing for certain what her nightmare had been about, Harry didn't know what else he could do.
"Shh," Harry found himself muttering again, kissing the top of her head rather absently. "You're not in the forest. You're in the castle, and nothing's going to happen to you here. It's not-"
Harry did not finish his statement. He had been about to tell her that it wasn't real but had thought better of it. His heart sank. For Hermione, it had been real, and it still was. He shifted slightly, praying that she would not push him away. Much to Harry's relief, she did not; instead, she leaned her head against his shoulder. It felt right, and he cleared his throat.
"Still want me to leave?" whispered Harry. His hand left her back, his fingers lacing through hers. Hermione shook her head. "Can you talk about it... or do you just want to sit here for a bit?"
Hermione didn't say anything, but Harry somehow heard her loud and clear. He knew she would talk in her own time. Sure enough, a few minutes of comfortable silence passed before Hermione took a shaky breath. She pulled away from Harry and leaned back against a stack of pillows. She looked so scared, so upset, that Harry couldn't look his best friend in the face. He found himself very interested in the framed photo sitting on her bedside table. It was her copy of the one Colin had given them just a few days before.
Hermione took another shaky breath. "It's been a long time since I let the nightmares effect me," she said softly. Harry felt his heart go out to her. It had been two months, and she seemed to have recovered tremendously, but he'd known, deep down, that it would be a lot longer before she was truly all right. "I've almost always been able to tell myself that I was dreaming, that it would be over soon enough. Tonight, though, I was there again. The last two months hadn't happened. It was cold, the snow was swirling everywhere, it was just me and him. He hurt me, and he kept hurting me, and no one-"
"If it hurts too much," said Harry, a gentle offer that she did not accept.
"I was no longer standing outside my memories," said Hermione unsteadily. "It was happening all over again. I couldn't breathe as I entered the common room, and the smoke made my eyes start to burn. Someone seized my arm, a heavy hand clamped over my mouth, and I felt something go in my face when he punched me. I know it sounds crazy, Harry, but it wasn't a dream.
"It was cold," said Hermione, and Harry's eyes darted down to the covers she had drawn so tightly around her. "My head ached where he had kicked me, and the stabs of pain in my side where threatening to make me pass out again. I couldn't see. I tried to open my eyes again and again, and my surroundings only became more and more blurred. He left, he came back, he was so rough with me. There was more pain; I think he was trying to rip me apart..."
She trailed off, her mouth snapping shut. Her hand was shaking in his, so Harry let go of it and touched her face gently, brushing her hair away. Her eyes were filled with tears, but Harry knew she would not let them fall.
"Don't," Harry found himself whispering. He knew what those last statements had referred to. He could deal with the details of her abduction, but the beginning of her description of being raped had already made him feel as if his insides had been ripped from his body. He knew he was being selfish; he knew he should allow her to talk.
But she meant so much to him, and Harry wasn't sure he could live with the exact details of her pain.
"He didn't come this time," said Hermione softly. "Malfoy didn't come for me this time. He didn't help me to the Life Circle. He didn't wish me good luck. I had a few sketchy memories of you and Ron and my parents and everyone that ever meant something to me, and then the pain got to be too much. I think... I think I was supposed to die out there."
"It's what he wanted," said Harry. He closed his eyes for the briefest moment. "You lived because you're stronger than he was. You lived because you're a good person. You lived because... because that was what was supposed to happen. You weren't meant to die, violated and alone, in a freezing forest."
"Do you think I could... have a hug?" said Hermione. Her request came several moments after Harry's declaration of what was and wasn't meant to be, and Harry embraced her tightly without hesitation.
"Thank you," Hermione muttered. "I'm sorry-I just need to know that I wasn't really still out there, imagining this."
"And you're not," said Harry, suddenly feeling fiercely protective of her. "You're here, and as long as you are, I'm not going to let anything happen to you."
"You've said that before," said Hermione. "Thank you so much, Harry."
"Anytime," said Harry, and he meant it. He scooted to the edge of the bed. "Do you think you're okay to be alone, now? I can stay."
"I'm sure my roommates are nearly finished with their essays," said Hermione. "You can't exactly hang around if they're here."
"No," said Harry, standing up. "Speaking of essays..."
Hermione gasped. "Don't tell me you're not finished yet," she scolded.
Harry grinned sheepishly. "That's my Hermione," he said affectionately. Half a second later, realizing just what he had said, he began to blush furiously.
"Just try and get it done," said Hermione. Either she hadn't noticed or was pretending not to have noticed because she did not look the least bit phased. Harry let out an inaudible sigh, and he reached down to grab his wand, which was still shooting a thin beam of light.
It illuminated her face for the briefest moment, and that's when Harry saw it. Her jaw line was bruised and beginning to swell ever so slightly, and four purple marks that looked overwhelmingly like fingerprints dotted the skin of her upper arm.
* * *
Ron was waiting for Harry in the common room, lounging in one of the oversized chairs. He had his arm draped around his little sister, and the two of them were talking, looking closer than they had in months. The last roll of parchment on which he'd written his essay was spread out on the table where the two boys had been working, the ink still glistening. Neville and Dean were nowhere in sight, and Seamus was snoring loudly. Parvati and Lavender were halfheartedly scratching their quills against parchment, and Sally-Ann looked to be fast asleep in one of the armchairs.
"Everything okay?" asked Ron, obviously concerned. He shot a look in the direction of the girls' staircase. Harry nodded.
"She'll be okay," said Harry. He glanced from Ginny to Lavender and Parvati to Sally-Ann. Ron seemed to get the message, and he didn't press for any more information. "Thanks for getting me, Ginny."
"No problem," said Ginny, shrugging away from her older brother. She gave both boys a slight smile, hugging Ron tightly. "I'll talk to you in the morning, okay?"
Ginny shook Sally-Ann out of her slumber, and the two girls clambered up the staircase and disappeared into the dormitories. As Harry watched them retreat, he couldn't help but think of everything she had been hiding for the last year. At least she and Ron seemed to be getting along again; they had been in a bit of a disagreement ever since the night she had blown up at Harry in the common room.
There was a loud yawn from the other side of the room.
"I give up," said Lavender. Parvati nodded in agreement, and the two girls gathered their stuff. Lavender shot Ron a disdainful look. "Are we allowed to go back to our dorm room now?"
Ron shrugged. "Fine by me," he said, and both girls glared at him as they, too, disappeared into the girls' dormitories. Harry snorted.
"What was that about?" asked Harry, flopping onto the sofa next to him. Seamus let out a snore that was as loud as any chainsaw, and he knew that he wouldn't hear a word of what he was about to say.
"Hermione looked like she was in shock," said Ron. He shrugged. "I figured that if any person could talk her through it, that person was you. Since you're both my friends, I decided to spare you the commentary of Hermione's roommates. I kept them from going into their own room, so, needless to say, they weren't all too pleased with me. How is she?"
It was Harry's turn to shrug. "She's fine," he said halfheartedly. Ron was eyeing him with concern, so he added quickly. "I just hate seeing her so upset, that's all."
"That bad, huh?"
"Yes." Harry looked down, twiddling his thumbs. "What was that spell you used on her?"
The tip of Ron's ears took on a pinkish tone. "Oh, that. It forces a person to wake up from a dream."
"And can I ask why you know it?" Harry raised an eyebrow.
"Ginny," said Ron simply. "Summer after our second year, after the whole mess with the Chamber of Secrets. She was so shaken up that Mum and I took turns sleeping in her room with her for at least a month after term ended, and I calmed her down after a lot of nightmares. Gin's a heavy sleeper; you wouldn't be able to wake her up from a dream without a charm."
"Maybe you should have been the one Hermione went to from the beginning," said Harry. He stopped fiddling, a frown on his face. "Wait, if it was summertime, how did you do magic without getting into trouble?"
"Well, you got a warning from the Ministry when Dobby did some, didn't you?" said Ron. "They can only detect the use of magic in an area, not who's doing the magic. It's easy to get around it if your parents are wizards, but Mum always enforced it with that exception-how do you think Fred and George managed to create so many things during the summer?"
"Oh, okay," said Harry, feeling stupid. He did his best to shrug it off; he was too distracted with his worries about Hermione to really be paying attention. "You and Ginny on good terms?"
"She's still not acting totally like herself," said Ron, "but she promised that we could talk about it soon."
Harry nodded, taking his statement to mean that the two of them were at least getting along better than they had been. He ran his fingers absently across the fabric of the couch before sighing.
"You're worried about Hermione," said Ron knowingly. He kicked his feet up on the table in front of them, crossing his ankles and putting his hands behind his head. "So? Aren't you going to tell me what that was all about?"
"She had a nightmare that made it feel like it was all happening again," said Harry. Choosing his words carefully, he told Ron almost exactly what Hermione had told him-he didn't have it in him to tell his friend about those few statements that had made him so sick. "The thing is, she kept insisting that it wasn't like a dream. She said she felt cold, and she had about ten more blankets on her than anyone would need at this time of year. She remembered having her jaw broken, and there was bruising on her face. She talked about him grabbing her arm, and she had marks a little below her shoulder."
"That's not-er, good," said Ron when Harry finished. There was a moment of silence. "I don't know what to tell you."
"I guess... I guess I'll just get back to work on my essay," said Harry.
"Worry about Hermione in the morning?" questioned Ron, a bit of a smirk on his face. "Or maybe tonight..."
"You seemed pretty concerned about her, Weasley," replied Harry.
"I think you missed the undertone of that one, Potter," said Ron. He stood up just as Harry did, clapping him heartily on the back. "Never mind. I'm glad you were able to be there for her."
"Me too."
"Don't tell me you're actually going to work on that essay," said Ron, standing in front of the couch as Harry crossed back over to his neat stack of books.
"I'm not going to be able to sleep," said Harry honestly, not caring what Ron might decide to make of that. "I might as well. Besides, that's what I told her I was going to do."
"Uh-huh," said Ron, sniggering. He picked something up from next to him on the couch and threw it to Harry. Harry caught it easily. "I found that with my stuff. I think you checked it out. Might help you."
"The Dark Arts Under You-Know-Who?" asked Harry. He turned it over in his hands. "By Igor Karkaroff? What is this, some kind a joke?"
"Nah," said Ron, shaking his head. He was already heading for the boys' dormitories. "An agreement with the Ministry, you'll see, if you read the very first page. It sounds as if writing it was part of his ticket out of Azkaban. Night, Harry."
And Ron was gone, leaving Harry with a thin, leather-bound book in his hands as the fire died completely. More out of habit than need for heat, Harry pulled out his wand.
"Incendio," muttered Harry. A fire began to crackle merrily; the fireplace no longer looked so dead. Satisfied, he plopped back down to read the book. It wouldn't have been the first time that he and Ron had gotten things mixed up.
The creation of the Dark Scar has almost nothing to do with incantations, spells, or charms of any sort, which is probably the biggest misconception of its use. All Death Eaters are given the power to create it when they wear the Dark Mark. Once bestowed with the Mark, it is simply a matter of intention and purpose when a Death Eater wishes to inflict the Dark Scar on a victim.
Even those who dispense it know neither its use nor its purpose. Only a select few of You-Know-Who's advisors were trusted with such information, partially because the Dark Scar's purpose was changed on a regular basis. It would be required of Death Eaters to have the magic in their Dark Marks modified in order to cast it with new effects.
You-Know-Who was particularly found of the tracking system developed in the second year of his reign. He could locate anyone who wore the symbol, something that he found particularly amusing. It allowed him to torment someone for several days, weeks, or months before killing him or her.
In his final year, several modifications took place on the Dark Scar. It is said that the new developments, a Death Eater would have the ability to touch his Dark Mark at any time and be transported to the location of any single person bearing a Dark Scar of his or her own hand.
Needless to say, use of any such modification would have allowed You-Know-Who a considerable number of prisoners.
The passage on the Dark Scar was barely five paragraphs long, but for some reason, each one spoke volumes to Harry. They told him some things he didn't know, some things he did, and contradicted many of his other sources. He quickly inked his quill, entitling his last section. "A Death Eater's Memories of the Dark Scar." It sounded a bit corny, but it was late, and Harry wasn't up to much thinking.
He knew what he wanted to say, but it wasn't what his quill ended up recording. For a good ten minutes, Harry scratched away at the parchment, not completely aware of what was being written. He swore mildly when he realized what he'd been scribbling down.
The more I find out about this stupid Dark Scar, the more I wonder if the one that just happens to be on my best friend's chest has anything to do with the fact that some bloody bastard had the urge to drag her into the forest, rape her, and try to kill her. So what do I make of all that?
Harry found himself "accidentally" smearing the ink on his essay before realizing it would just be easier to cut the end of the scroll off. He'd done his best with the assignment, and he was having more and more of a feeling that it had been more a test of character than researching and writing ability. It seemed as if everyone had topics that they were deeply connected to, and it seemed as if their ability to distance themselves enough to complete the assignment was being evaluated.
And so Harry scribbled that last remark, placed his books on the corners of the scroll so it would dry without rolling up, and headed up the staircase in the direction of his and Ron's room.
* * *
"Mr. Potter, would you please end your stupor, lift your head from the desk, and explain to the class the process of Anilendons?"
Professor McGonagall's voice cut at Harry like a knife, effectively pulling him out of his daze. He was having trouble paying trouble to the lesson. He'd had so little sleep the night before, between his essay and Hermione and his worries about both, that his head had dropped to the desk ten minutes after he had sat down. Having only heard part of her question, Harry opened his mouth to ask her to repeat it, but all that came out was a yawn.
However, instead of lashing out at him, McGonagall only looked amused. She crossed to the front of the room, her arms crossed over her chest, wand still in hand.
"Is there a one of you that wasn't up until the wee hours of the morning, finishing your essays for Defense?" McGonagall inquired, a smile almost playing at the corners of her mouth. "Miss Granger-I remember you saying on Tuesday that yours was completed. Would you please explain to the class the process of Anilendons?"
Hermione was gazing off into space, in the general direction of Neville and Dean, both of whom were resting peacefully. McGonagall's face looked rather concerned when she did not promptly respond, and Harry had to give her leg a squeeze underneath the table to get her to snap out of it.
"Anilendons," said Hermione, without a bit of her usual enthusiasm, "is the process of using incantations to give an animal intelligence and personality. The animal, using one's pet, can have the same feelings and thoughts as an Animagus in animal form, but they will obviously not have the ability to become human. One must have a license before attempting an Anilendons transformation."
"Excellent," said McGonagall, though she looked visibly concerned when Hermione glanced away again. She proceeded to award five points to Gryffindor for the correct response, but Hermione didn't even seem to notice. His hand still on her leg, Harry touched his friend's hand gently, and she finally turned her head and gave him the smallest smile.
McGonagall launched into a long lecture about famous Anilendons transformations. Harry only caught about the first five minutes of her breakdown of its history, during which she told that former Hogwarts professors had done three of the most well done transformations. She was working her way backwards and was nearing the eighteenth century when a faint knock came at the door. Professor Snape strode in.
"Minerva," said Snape crisply, handing her two large volumes stamped with the Hogwarts library seal. "Irma asked me to bring you these books. She said you had requested them for a lesson this afternoon."
"Oh, yes," said McGonagall, taking the two books from him. Harry recognized one of them; they had done Transfigurations out of it for a week during his third year. McGonagall had third year Ravenclaws that afternoon, so it made sense. "Thank you, Severus."
"My pleasure," said Snape, a hint of sourness in his voice. Harry assumed that the Potions master wasn't pleased about having to run errands for the school librarian. He looked as if he had something else to say, but he was interrupted.
"Lavender..."
Harry, along with the rest of his classmates, turned around to see Seamus sprawled across his desk, looking not much different than he had the night before. Ron began sniggering, Dean smirked, and Neville smiled. It wasn't the first time their Irish mate had taken to muttering her name in his sleep. He had liked her since going to the Yule Ball with her the year before. McGonagall raised an eyebrow, unsure of what to make of the dozing student. In the end it was Snape who took action.
"FINNIGAN!" barked Snape. Seamus came to at once, looking around wild-eyed, choking out Lavender's name one last name. Snape scowled, and Lavender turned bright red as the majority of the class began to laugh.
That did it for Harry. He, too, joined in the chuckling. For some reason, Lavender decided to look in his direction, and she looked simply furious.
"Don't you laugh too!" snapped Lavender, glaring at him. "You're the one that was up in our room last night with Hermione and took forever to leave!"
The room fell silent, and Harry wanted to die right there. He was vaguely aware that a distinct blush was rising to his cheeks, and Hermione had averted her eyes. It wasn't so much what they all thought but what McGonagall and Snape had heard. He wasn't supposed to be in the girls' dormitory, and he'd been in there once before, so it most certainly did not look good for him-or Hermione.
"Potter," said McGonagall in an oddly calm sort of voice. Harry squirmed in his seat, afraid of her tone. She turned to Hermione. "Miss Granger, is what Miss Brown said true?"
Hermione looked about ready to burst into tears, and she nodded ever so slightly. Harry bit his lip. He knew that, even if she had lied, Parvati would have been there to back Lavender up. Their Head of House made a sort of clucking noise, looking from Harry to Hermione and back again.
"Well," said McGonagall, sounding a bit ruffled, "I doubt you need me to tell you that your entering of the girls' dormitories is strictly forbidden, Potter. I'm ashamed of you both. I hoped that, as prefects, you would have stronger morals than such-"
"Minerva," said Snape, cutting in, his voice taking on its usual cool tone. "If I may suggest punishments? Fifteen points from Gryffindor, for Finnegan's decision not to pay attention, five from Brown for speaking out of turn, and a detention with me tonight for Potter."
McGonagall nodded. "It does seem reasonable to me, Severus," she said. Her gaze settled on Hermione. "Miss Granger, you may also serve a detention for your serious lack of judgment. Allowing Mr. Potter up to your room?" she shook her head. "See me after class."
Snape smirked in satisfaction, and Harry continued to silently voice his wish for death. He didn't think it could be any worse than serving detention that night in the dungeons with the Potions master. Besides the fact that he would be given a chore of utmost difficulty, Harry could already hear Snape's likely taunts. He swallowed hard.
"See me after dinner, Potter," said Snape as he exited. "I'll be in my office."
The door closed quickly behind him, and his billowing robes were nearly caught within the frame. Harry sunk down in the sink, unable to meet any of his classmates' eyes. He did, however, glance over at Hermione. He knew that she was blaming herself, so he quickly inked his quill and scribbled a note in the margin of his Transfigurations text.
It's not your fault. I'd have been there for you if I had to serve ten detentions with Snape and knew about them beforehand. I meant what I said last night.
Harry slid the books silently in her direction, pulling out a fresh roll of parchment, deciding it would be best if he paid attention to McGonagall's lecture.
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