Mrs. Weasley gathered the three and sat them around the kitchen table, busying herself with making tea and setting out a plate of sandwiches she must have thrown together earlier. None of them said much. Harry couldn't seem to get any words past the lump in his throat, and Ron and Hermione kept shooting him worried looks, opening their mouths, and then closing them. Harry fingered his mug of tea, tracing a jagged line of cracks that had been mended more than once. They almost formed a pattern, he realized, his fingers going over and over the raised marks that shone a kind of shimmery dark blue on the pale blue cup. It almost looked like – he splayed his hand flat on the table, looking away. It almost looked like a lightning bolt.

"All right then." Mrs. Weasley let out a sigh and sat down between Ron and Harry, patting Harry's arm and shooting him a smile. "That was rather unexpected, but, then again, you've been surprising us for years, haven't you been, dear?"

"Mrs. Weasley." Hermione seemed to take her courage in hand. "Can I ask you, why would you put that label on the clock? That one particularly?"

Lips pursed, Mrs. Weasley poured herself a mug of tea and added four cubes of sugar. "I'll speak frankly, children. Ron?" she added. "You'll not repeat this to your brothers and sisters, do you hear?"

"Yes, mum," Ron answered automatically. "Wait –" he frowned, "not anyone? I mean, I wouldn't tell Ginny, but the others are all older and –"

"I mean what I say Ronald. Keep this to yourself, or among Hermione and Harry only."

Harry had never heard Mrs. Weasley sound so stern and controlled. Her tone certainly made Ron nod and gulp and lean a little farther away from his mother.

"Now then, let's speak the truth. We all know that Voldemort is not dead. He managed to keep some sort of wraith-like existence after that horrible night when you were baby, Harry. You met him, didn't you? At Hogwarts. When he went after that ridiculous stone that Dumbledore insisted on keeping there." She didn't wait for Harry to agree. "You managed to send him running with little help from Albus or Minerva or anyone else. But," she held up one finger, "let's not pretend to each other that he's dead. He'll be back. That ruckus last night shows us that his followers believe it, too. And they would know, wouldn't they?"

Hermione found her voice. "Please, how would they know?"

Mrs. Weasley tapped her left forearm. "The Morsmordre isn't just a dark cloud that hangs in the sky, my dears. Voldemort needed a way to call his followers to himself, to send messages that couldn't be intercepted by the ministry or lost by a confused owl." She glanced over to Errol's perch. The bird was dangling upside down by one knotted claw, gently swinging back and forth on every loud, gurgling exhale as it slept. "His closest followers were marked, right here, with that same image – the skull and the serpent. It was permanently etched into their skin with ink and magic and linked just as permanently to him."

"Like the Protean Charm?"

"The what?" Ron shot a frown at Hermione.

"I've read about it," she continued. "It's an upper level spell that charms a particular object within a group of objects to a thaumaturgic reaction that is instantly felt on all of the objects in the set."

"Oh." Ron nodded. A second later his face screwed up in confusion. "What?"

Mrs. Weasley chuckled. "Don't worry about it. It's not magic you'll be doing for some time. But, yes, Hermione, very similar." She shook her head, her expression grim. "Voldemort was right good at spell creation but he was even better at taking a harmless spell, like the Protean Charm, and turning it into something much darker and deadlier."

Harry leaned forward. "So, Death Eaters all have some sort of … magical tattoo? That sounds like a simple way of figuring out who's who, doesn't it? I mean, the ministry would just have to make every wizard stand there in their vests and the guilty parties would be obvious." There had to be a catch – that was entirely too easy. "Sirius doesn't have anything like that on his arm. Why was he sent to Azkaban?"

Mrs. Weasley was already shaking her head. "Not every one of the Dark Lord's followers were marked. He had his share of spies and agents, wizards and witches who were never suspected, never slipped one toe out of line. Some had hidden away within the ministry, the Wizengamot, Hogwarts and the other wizarding schools, various organizations and houses. Voldemort wasn't stupid enough to risk a slip of a sleeve would reveal one of his spies while they lived their lives." Her eyes blazed. "We'd be fools to think they'd all been caught. Obviously, we made mistakes, sent innocent men to prison, so missing some of his worst agents makes sense."

"And you think it's one of his spies, someone who was never caught and has managed to get close to Harry that's causing your clock to react that way?" Hermione's hands twisted nervously.

"Possibly. In fact," Ron's mom continued, "I'd bet if I'd changed that clock when you first went to Hogwarts, when Professor Quirrell was first taken over by He-Who-Should-Not-Be-Named, it would have looked the same."

"Not to mention whenever Harry was around Scabbers." Ron's expression was stormy, his usually bland features dropping into a harsh, resolved mask. "We've got to be dead careful at Hogwarts, then. That's where he's likely to turn up."

"He or she," Hermione warned. "Remember what you just said about your mother, Ronald."

Harry nodded, but something about that assumption sounded … off. Not quite right. He turned back to Mrs. Weasley. "But surely looking for the tattoo would be a good first step to identifying Death Eaters?"

"Quirrell didn't have one," Ron's mother reminded him. "Not to mention that you've heard how some of his followers claimed they'd been subject to the Imperius Curse?" She grimaced and lifted her hands from the table. "Same thing. Those brands could have been created while the wizard or witch was unable to stop themselves. Also, you want to be careful lumping people together like that – some young people might have taken the Dark Mark under duress – family obligation or," her expression clouded, "idiotic juvenile thinking that they later came to regret very, very much."

"Sounds like you knew someone like that, mum."

Ron's mother sighed. "More than one, Ronald. More than one. When Voldemort first began gathering followers, quite a few people you'd think would know better listened and liked what they heard. He spoke about wizard freedom, how stifling it had been to the magical community to have to keep everything we do – everything we are – a secret from muggles. How our society had been kept in the dark too long. He gained followers who, later, resisted him with everything they had."

"Anyway," she continued, "getting back to the point. Those marks went dormant when Harry here," her smile was kind, "survived Voldemort's killing curse and reflected it back at him. Each one faded until it was barely visible. Since Voldemort's return, since your first year at Hogwarts," she pointed to Harry, "the marks have filled in again. Getting darker, standing out against the skin. Sometimes, they even heat up – gently, for now – but it is a direct indication of Voldemort's returning strength. At least, that's what Dumbledore thinks. And I agree."

Harry filtered out Hermione's and Ron's immediate questions, watching Mrs. Weasley's expression and parsing the words she'd used. Gooseflesh erupted all over Harry's skin as his mind gathered up clues and hints and evidence and slotted it all quickly into place. She knew someone with a Dark Mark. And so did Dumbledore. There was someone close to both of them who had been a member of Voldemort's inner circle. Maybe more than one. Unless …

"Does the ministry keep track of the marks on the prisoners? The ones in Azkaban?" Harry shot Hermione an apologetic glance for interrupting.

Mrs. Weasley tilted her head. "That's a good question – I don't know."

Tangled emotions burst through Harry's control. Anger. Frustration. Certainty. Slapping both hands on the table, Harry demanded, "Who is it?" he demanded.

The other three jumped at the loud bang. "Harry, what –"

Mrs. Weasley took in a slow breath, placing her hands in her lap under the table. She turned to face him, nodding once as if convincing herself of something. "There are things I cannot tell you, Harry. Things that are not my secrets to tell. I hope you can underst-"

"It's Snape, isn't it?" Harry wished his voice wouldn't waver like that when he was angry. That his anger could burn tall and righteous instead of turning him into a mass of nerves and quivering muscles. "I knew it. I've heard the rumors. Hagrid told me – before I ever got to Hogwarts – that all Slytherins were evil. And it's not like he exactly hides his hatred for me and for everything involving my parents." He slid his chair back from the table, trying to straighten his back, to get a hold of himself. He peered into Ron's mother's eyes. "What did he do? What did he do to my parents?" He swallowed hard. "I know he hated them. 'You're just like your father,'" Harry sneered in a passable echo of Snape's voice. "If he's said it once he's said it a hundred times. Please. Please tell me."

"Harry –"

"Mate, calm down –"

"No." Harry barely glanced at his friends. "This is between me and your mum, Ron. Stay out of it. Please." The air around him thickened, as if a hot and humid cloud had descended over him. The plates and cups on the table vibrated.

On another day, Hermione's quick gasp might have had Harry rushing to apologize. Not today. Not now. Ron's mother hadn't looked away, she hadn't said a word. Her eyes were dry, her hands limp as she stared back.

"Listen to me, Harry James Potter," she finally began. His full name knocked Harry back from the edge of an outburst, the air around him loosening, tea things calming. "Listen to what I'm saying. Listen and think, can you do that? Can I trust you to do that?"

"I –" Harry nodded sharply, licking dry lips. "I think so."

"Now that's an honest answer." Mrs. Weasley smiled. "Good. Now. I'll say this once," she gathered up Ron and Hermione with Harry with a quick glance, "and you'd best not repeat it, even among yourselves. We're safe here, at the Burrow, you think. Safe with no one but family, no one who could possibly repeat our words where Voldemort's spies could hear them. But I'll tell you this," she leaned close, one finger in the air, "others have felt safe. Others have warded their homes with charms and promises and vows, they've kept hidden behind walls of magic and stone, they've trusted few with their secrets – and they've died." She let that word echo throughout the small kitchen until it sank in. "Just like my brothers. Just like your parents, Harry."

She tilted her head as if she expected a response.

"Yes, ma'am," Harry breathed. Ron and Hermione stammered their own agreement.

"Good." Mrs. Weasley sat back in her chair and folded her hands on the table. "Now, there is a story to tell, a story about a young man who had a terrible upbringing, who lost all those closest to him for one reason or another, and who allowed himself to become bitter and angry because of it." She tilted her head towards Harry. "For some, it should be a cautionary tale, I think."

Harry's stomach gurgled warningly. He nodded.

"Anger can lead us astray in many ways. It can't be helped, sometimes," Mrs. Weasley smiled grimly, "especially when we're the age when our emotions are rather closer to the surface. Emotions are a part of us, after all – anger, love, desperation, sadness – we've got the whole lot to deal with and, at your age, well, it seems more daunting than we can rightly handle. And this man, he took all of those emotions and gathered them up inside. Locked them up tight." Ron's mother grimaced. "And that's not healthy. They fester there, inside," she tapped her chest, "curdle like old milk. And what's inside taints what's outside, you know."

Harry exchanged glances with Ron and Hermione. He recognized the man she was talking about, of course. He'd guessed who it was from the beginning. But Mrs. Weasley's words, her steady gaze, sent a sharp stab of guilt through Harry's anger. Harry's thoughts turned inward, examining the well of rage and pain deep within his own soul. Like black, oily water, swirling and boiling sometimes, it made him lash out at friends, at teachers. It made him take risks no one else would, no one who had a brain in their heads, anyway. It burned, swept up through his fingers and into his head like scalding steam that wouldn't let him get his thoughts in order. Mrs. Weasley's kind eyes forced Harry to realize that even though she'd been talking about some other young man – Snape, it had to be Snape – it could easily be Harry.

Mrs. Weasley spoke sharply. "Well, as I said, this young man made bad decisions. Followed the wrong crowd. And was in far too deep when he came to his senses and wanted out. I will tell you one last thing about this man." She nodded. "When he reached the darkest place, the very bottom, he did what others, many, many others refused to do. Even though it cost him, cost him dearly, and continues to bring pain and hardship every day of his life. When his reason, his well-trained mind fought its way through his anger and pain and the charms and hexes he'd been subjected to and the oaths he'd taken, he saw what he'd become. And," her voice softened to a whisper, "and what he might yet become. He faced a choice – he could go on, embrace the Dark – that, after all, was what everyone expected, what he'd expected to do with his life. Or, he could turn away. Turn to the Light. For a wizard pledged to darkness, you don't know how difficult that choice can be."

Despair fought with Harry's anger. He wasn't perfect, he knew that better than any of his friends or schoolmates, better than those who looked to him for all the answers. He'd made bad choices. He'd been petty and vindictive and proud, him, Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived. He'd been happy to see his cousin Dudley behind the glass at the zoo, furiously ecstatic when he blew up his aunt at the Weasley dinner table. A dark satisfaction grew within him whenever Draco was injured or put in his place. His hands closed into fists, tight and painful. Quirrell had died at Harry's touch. Died.

He tried to shake off the rising sense of his own guilt. Tried to remind himself that, if anyone had the right to judge Snape, it was Harry. But his roiling emotions wouldn't let him lock down that certainty as he had a few minutes ago.

Hermione's voice cut through the swamp of Harry's thinking.

"You're asking us not to judge someone by the Dark Mark. Telling us that it's not as easy as pointing out a magical tattoo to find his true allies." Hermione studied Mrs. Weasley closely. "But, according to your clock, there's someone close to Harry who we shouldn't trust. How do we tell the difference?"

"Let me ask you three." Mrs. Weasley matched Hermione's intensity. "Let's say you suspect someone is connected to the Dark Lord. You see something that doesn't make sense. You have stumbled across vital information that could help people defeat him, or, at least, keep some safe. Maybe it's small things, maybe you've been in the right place at the right time and it's quite a big thing, like the entrance to a secret chamber at Hogwarts. What do you do?"

Ron made a face. "Well, what we normally do is send Hermione off to the library until it's time for Harry to jump in and do something about it."

His mom's face revealed just how utterly ridiculous she found her son's statement. "No, Ronald. You do what that young man I was talking about did. You ask for help. You go to someone who has the wisdom to recognize true facts from suppositions. Someone who has the background knowledge to interpret what you've seen. And who has the power to do something about it. You ask for help."

Before Harry could insist that they'd tried that, Mrs. Weasley continued. " And that's why I'm telling you all this story. Because, instead of rushing on and getting in deeper and making more mistakes, I want you to do what that young man did during the last war. What you three did today. Ask for help. Come to me or your father," she turned to Ron, "or Professor Dumbledore or Professor McGonagall. And, if they don't listen, you make them listen. Calmly, with well-reasoned arguments." She pointed; her eyes narrow. "You come to me, or you go to any of your teachers. And I promise I will listen, they will listen."

"Any of our teachers?" Harry repeated. He thought he knew what she was telling them. Dumbledore. McGonagall. Snape. "How can you trust –"

"You don't know the whole story, Harry," Mrs. Weasley stated softly. "And I can't tell it. I can't, do you understand?"

Her emphasis on that word fought through Harry's lingering despair, his slow-burning anger. Something kept her from telling him, some spell or charm or wizard's oath. He pressed his lips together.

"I know people have shut you out before. Brushed aside your worries." Her smile flashed, lightening her whole aura. "Responded badly. Well, since the World Cup, everything has changed. Everything. We can't hide behind complacency any more. Pretend evil has gone for good. I believe you'll find that the adults in your lives will be taking any threat a lot more seriously. So –" hands flat on the table, Mrs. Weasley pushed herself to her feet. "Do I have your promises, then? To ask for help – to expect help?"

"Yes, ma'am," they all repeated.

She shooed them off, bewitching the tea things over to the counter as Ron and Hermione trooped back up the stairs, Harry following.

"Harry."

He turned, his thoughts hot and jumbled.

Mrs. Weasley glanced over Harry's shoulder, making sure the others were out of ear-shot. "This man I've spoken of. He's made more than his share of bad decisions. He's hurt people, yes, people that I've dearly loved. He's hurt you." Her eyes were wet. "But, listen to me, now," she laid her hand against Harry's cheek, her voice trembling, "there's such a thing as redemption. As repentance. If there was no forgiveness in the world, we'd all be in a sad state, wouldn't we?"

Harry nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat.

"Good." She pulled him into a hug. "Go on, then. And, Harry?" She pointed towards the mantle, where Harry's clock hand had swept to the left, joining a few others. "You remember that."

Harry's hand on the Weasley's clock pointed to 'home.'