CHAPTER TWO: Dying of the Light

Part 1

He was seeing through a filter that robbed the world of colour and sharpness. Among the blind, a one-eyed man was king. Among beast-eyed kin, he was blind.

Hot and cold. He was sweating, then shivering. He tossed and squirmed, something held him down. He couldn't move, something poked and prodded, perhaps making sure he was alive. It wouldn't be a great loss if he weren't. He had thought about it. For weeks. Months.

Then he snorted the dust and stopped thinking.

Nothing else made a man feel so alert, so aware. He could tell the wind shift when a door cracked open, every stone told a story when he walked upon them. In the ring, he gained a sixth, seventh, eleventh sense, seeing an opponent's every move before they intended it. He shattered bones with nary a touch, so perfect was his technique when the dust brought reality into an impossibly stark contrast. The crowd threw money at him. Money bought more dust, dust won him more money, and the circle was complete. Who would bother keeping track of time? He lived walking a tightrope above a bottomless void.

The crowd cheered. They hadn't seen his like since somesuch of yore! Here's gold, here's parthdust, now break another spine! One challenger was tougher than the last, but none matched him when he stood so tall. A vampire sniffed him out, a threat of spindly limbs and deathless strength. He slinked back into his lair chased by jeers.

He won, won, won, and kept winning. Challengers grew fewer. The crowd grew bored. On a cold day, he ran out of gold, and the world snapped. That was when the shivers began.

Someone in a moss-covered inn remembered him. The hag told the neighboring table how he had rescued twins, a boy and girl, from their father. The sorcerer was cross with their mother, who had hidden the children away from him, because he was violent and cruel. The patrons nodded in appreciation. Someone took pity and bought him a glass of distilled venom with a pinch of parthdust mixed in, but no one was mad enough to recommend him for a job. That night, he spent the last of his money to hire a room and sent his first letter in months. It returned unopened, with a terse note attached: You have to find your own way back. He had no presence of mind to even lament the rejection.

The innkeep was too terrified to move when he barged in, a mess of blood and stench, and barked a threat. Just as well. He wasn't keen on hurting anyone, but the dust was his salvation, and he needed more. The ill-gotten gains would see him through until he could follow the advice on the note. What else could he do? The only way forward was back, but he didn't want anyone he knew to see him like this. Not again.

By sheer will, he began to climb out of hell. Spots of clarity awoke in his mind, and with them came the memory of why he had left. All the strength and talent given to him was for naught. He resented his fate, and his maker, and himself. He spent so much time perfecting his resentment that when it came to risking his comfortable self-pity, one misstep sent him spiralling down. Every time, someone was there for him—until now. This time, they'd had enough.

Shivers, then sweat. The last year replayed itself over and over in his mind's eye—he could confront it, or let hell have him. Time was immaterial. His world was pain, and guilt was his hope. And then…

Clarity.

He had never been so exhausted, so weak, so trampled upon, but he could think without his brain hurting. Opening his eyes felt like lifting boulders. A breath of relief escaped him. He met the eyes staring at him from across the room.

"Hello, Remus."

~~oOo~~

They didn't let him rest. Throughout the two following days, a procession of strangers entered the room at odd hours. Sirius poked his head in a few times. Remus took advantage of the times in between visits to sleep through the ordeal. He refused any potion that would dull thought in trade for relief, and his caretakers didn't protest. Shivers still came periodically, and Remus would shake under the sheets, teeth clenched, cursing himself.

By the second evening, he felt steady enough on his feet take a bath. He emerged still weak, but awake. A change of clothes had been left out for him, along with his wand. The warm wood felt worryingly dormant in his hand, but the wand performed without fault when he Unlocked the window. He leaned over the sill, expecting to see London—instead he looked out at an expansive park.

There was a knock on the door.

"Enter," Remus said, though discreetly palming his wand.

"You look miles better." Sirius strode in, hands in pockets. His voice carried disappointment.

"What is this place?"

"You are being hosted by the illustrious Sturgis Podmore. Matter of fact, he's inviting you to dinner."

A pained thirst spasmed through Remus. The withdrawal was far from complete. He knew the symptom. He had made the mistake of tasting parthdust twenty years ago, and since then, it had been a constant yearning. One sniff was too much, and ten was not enough. He curled his fingers around the edge of the door—the wood cracked and split.

"Sirius…"

"I am not interested in apologies," Sirius cut him off. "I've heard it all before."

"Thank you. That's all I wanted to say."

Not even a quake of the lips, or a blink. Nothing to show that he was forgiven, after all. He would call it a betrayal, except it was nothing more or less than he deserved. He had been asked to do one job, a task he was uniquely suited to, but he fell prey to his own vices.

Remus followed Sirius out of the room and through the mansion, of the like that put the House of Black to shame. It was grand in every dimension, rich, but not opulent. Remus didn't know what to make of it. Sturgis had always seemed rather pragmatic, not taken by luxuries.

Up an unknown number of floors, they exited an elevator into a cozy parlor. A table was set for two, and Sturgis Podmore stood at the gallery overlooking a glass-walled solarium. It was a mesmerizing sight, a riot of light and colour. The purples and blues of glowing flowers, the greens and yellows of a fountain that spat jets of water near up to the ceiling, the pale white of glowbeetles.

Something huge disturbed the small jungle down below. A pair of jaws as large as a thunderbird snapped around a group of beetles perched on a palm leaf.

"That's just my occamy," Sturgis said, dismissing the creature with a gesture. "I'm having it trained as a guardian. Take a seat."

"Sirius, what is—"

Sirius was gone.

"Please. You must be famished."

It would be a lie to say Remus didn't enjoy the steak, so rare that it was damn near raw. Like most werewolves, he abhorred overcooked meat. Days of sickness kindled a hunger that only subsided once they were done with dessert.

"It seems you're on a good track to recovery, if your appetite is any indication."

"I don't want to seem ungrateful, but what am I doing here?"

"Right to business. Just as well." Sturgis leaned back, hands resting on his stomach. "Sirius, unfortunately, could not delay his return any further. Don't take this for a slight. He checked in on you several times a day. As to why you're here and not in England… Sirius wishes me to tell you, in no uncertain terms, that you won't find a warm welcome back home."

Remus stilled. This went quite a bit further than a falling out between friends.

"Oh, you're not barred from the country, nothing so final," Sturgis hurried to explain. "But… Sirius no longer trusts you to be part of his schemes—at least until it's assured that you've got a grip on yourself again."

A bright blue eye the size of a saucer peeked over the railing. Sturgis tapped his plate and a fresh steaming steak appeared. He speared the meat on a fork and tossed it over the gallery. The occamy raced after it, quicker than even Remus' eyes could follow.

"However," Sturgis continued, "we have agreed that there is a venture in which you could be useful, if that's your wish. You're quite welcome to stay here, otherwise."

"Here being where, precisely?"

"You'll forgive me if I don't divulge the secret. It's been a lot of effort and gold to put it all together, and I'd like to keep it peaceful. Don't take this for an insult. I didn't tell Sirius either."

He almost said yes without thinking—of course he wanted to do something. He'd be bored out of his mind lounging in a palace. Sirius didn't trust him—bah, he hardly trusted himself. It would be a long journey, but he had to make it. But he paused before answering. He went after Greyback alone. It would've been one thing if he'd made a mess of it, or if Greyback had beaten him. He veered off course well before he ever caught up to his target.

"Best intentions…" he said, turning away from Sturgis, now tempted to accept the invitation to stay. Sirius would likely never trust him again, but was it a crime to hang up the cloak, put away the wand, and rest? He had sacrificed enough. Only guilt would nag him to act, and guilt he could smother.

"I think I understand your apprehension," Sturgis said. "You wouldn't be going by yourself. I have secured an appropriate companion for you. Frankly, he's going anyway. This job isn't optional."

"What's the job?" No harm in asking, was there?

"I consider Voldemort to be chiefly other people's problem, but I'm not entirely divorced from this war. The Dark Lord's influence reaches even into my domains, so I'll do my part." Sturgis stood and returned to the gallery, his back to Remus. "I am constructing a weapon that should make victory much less costly for all of us. It is nearly complete, but requires a power source—it is useless without it."

"What kind of weapon?"

Sturgis turned and they shared a look. "I'm afraid that this, too, is a secret known to select few: only myself and Sirius have the full picture, though I expect he will inform Harry. This is not something we can allow to be leaked to Voldemort, by any means. I apologise for my bluntness, but while you are trusted to participate, this task, should you choose to accept it, will also be your rehabilitation."

Protest leapt to his lips, but Remus swallowed the words. "You're not making it easy to trust you, Sturgis."

Sturgis leaned against the railing and crossed his legs at the ankle. "I'll make it even harder before this conversation is over."

"It wouldn't be like you otherwise," Remus said and hung his lead for a moment. "All right. Give me the details."

"Sirius has agreed to entrust oversight of this enterprise to me. You would go east—far east. The power source I need is a flooheart."

"A flooheart," Remus repeated. "You never see those outside—"

"Vampire country. Yes." Sturgis shrugged.

"Well, it's been done before…"

"You'll have the entire trip there to figure it out. I'm certain two experienced Hit-wizards can outsmart the undead."

Remus already found himself digging through his memory for relevant trivia. "Don't keep me in suspense, Sturgis. Who will I be travelling with?"

"Before I tell you, I want you to know that his cooperation is assured beyond all doubt." Sturgis rolled up a sleeve, pointing to a net of thin scars pressed into his skin. "He made me a promise, and he's not looking to die soon."

"Merlin's sagging balls, you're working up to it like to fucking a gorgon."

Remus turned slowly to look at the new arrival. His to-be companion leaned against the doorway, arms crossed.

Across the room, Sturgis sighed and ran a hand down his face. "I wanted to break it gently."

"He's one of Greyback's. They like it rough."

"Say that again when you're in arm's reach," Remus said, rising from his seat. All else aside, he felt fit enough to snap the Death Eater in two.

Sturgis dropped the pretense. "You can learn to get along, or I can find someone else to do the job. It will cost me time, however, and spending time twice makes me unpleasant."

Mulciber glared. "What, you're gonna put me in detention? Don't twist yourself, Sturgis, I'll do my part."

Sturgis gave Remus a pointed look.

"If that's what it takes, I'll make it work."

"Good." Sturgis relaxed his pose. "You leave tomorrow."

~~oOo~~

What to do indeed.

The House of Black had been Harry's first thought when he apparated away from the ambush, but the House of Black was no longer a refuge for him. The door refused to budge. More irritated than surprised, he rattled the doorknob. Nothing. Grimmauld Place Twelve loomed dispassionate, entirely disinterested in Harry's circumstances. Behind him, Blaise Zabini stifled a snort.

In hindsight, he overreacted.

Once he extracted Zabini from the fence and repaired the man-sized hole, he Stunned his prisoner and paused to think. He couldn't return to his flat—hell, he should stay away from the area. Wonder if Aurors got there in time, or had the Death Eaters escaped? No, no, a matter for another time.

A glance at his watch. It hadn't even been five minutes. Think, think!

Harry's eyes widened as an idea dawned on him. He grabbed a handful of Zabini's collar and dragged him along, unconscious, in a series of lightning-quick apparitions, barely blinking into existence in one place before twisting into the next leap. He stood—Zabini lay sprawled—in the small cove from which new students took the boat ride to Hogwarts. The boats were here, pulled up onto a pebble-strewn beach.

Harry snapped his fingers and Zabini jolted awake. He fell to all fours, heaving, then vomited profusely.

"That's mildly disgusting," Harry said, gently banishing one of the boats out onto the lake. "Get in."

"Fuck you," Zabini barked and spat out another mouthful.

"Wingardium Leviosa," Harry intoned, colouring the spell with a vicious edge. Zabini was yanked into the air with the acceleration of a racing broom and then crashed into the boat from twenty feet. Harry climbed in, tapped the wood, and the boat shot smoothly across still, dark water. Zabini remained where he'd landed, silent, though his expression spoke of pain.

Harry dipped his fingers into the water. His thoughts raced a mile a minute, but he observed Zabini with sharp attention. They were near the middle of the lake when Harry felt a tell-tale swirl pulling his hand. He tapped the lip of the boat and, once stopped, stood up and hoisted Zabini up to his knees, then threw him overboard. Ten seconds, a whispered command in Parseltongue, and Harry jumped in as well.

~~oOo~~

While Blaise Zabini clawed for consciousness—through his own effort this time—Harry set the scene. He dimmed the torches to bathe the Chamber of Secrets in near-impenetrable darkness. A tripod brazier at the edge of the pond cast light barely a few feet around. Harry put a chair for himself opposite Zabini's and waited.

Blaise moaned and opened his eyes. He blinked rapidly, almost burned his hand in the brazier, sat up straighter. A hand absently patted his robes. Harry pulled back his coat and slowly, deliberately, tossed Zabini's wand and bone-white mask on the floor between them. Zabini slumped his shoulders in defeat. Harry said nothing. He knew where he wanted to steer the conversation. There was no rush.

"What is this place?"

Harry tilted his head.

Zabini closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then another, grimacing as his body woke up and remembered what he'd been subjected to in the last hour. "I suppose you want to know how we found you."

"Found me?" Harry raised an eyebrow. "Did it look like I was hiding?" Before Zabini had a chance to speak, Harry continued. "I know how you found me. You were at the Cauldron for drinks and you heard a drunk wizard bragging that he was hosting Harry Potter. How close am I?"

Now, Zabini had nothing to say. Harry gave a fleeting cold smile. "I'll take that as a 'yes'."

The only sound came from the quiet crackling of the brazier. Harry saw a flicker of desperation in Zabini's eyes and pounced. "Why, Blaise? Why this?" He pointed at the mask. "You have the Mark, I checked. What possible benefit is there to going with Voldemort?"

"It's not that simple."

"We've got time."

Zabini pressed his lips into a thin line. Harry almost felt like he was seeing emotions on his face—he hadn't studied Legilimency, but his connection to Voldemort doubtlessly lended him the Dark Lord's natural talents. Zabini was fighting the human instinct to unburden oneself of secrets. Perhap he had orders to keep his mouth shut. Perhaps he was just scared. Both, most likely.

Harry sighed. "All right." He stood and gave his chair a tap with his wand, transfiguring it into a table. Blaise's wand and mask floated up onto it. As he worked, he whispered a command in Parseltongue: come to me.

A blob of water separated from the pond. Harry suspended it above the table, and then plucked a spoonful from the sphere, which he transfigured into a white mouse, the kind commonly used in McGonagall's classes. The rodent sniffed curiously around Harry's palm.

"Promissus dolor."

Blaise jumped in his chair as if poked as the spell took hold. Harry plunged the mouse into the sphere of water and smiled grimly, seeing the immediate effect.

The mouse swam around, disoriented by the lack of feedback from the world and the non-standard body of water. Harry drew a circle in the air with his finger and the water-blob began rotating, faster and faster, the mouse with it.

Blaise fell from his chair, dizzy from the ride and choking. The mouse drowned quickly and with its death, the spell broke. Blaise went into a coughing fit, but there was no water for him to expel. Harry didn't let him rest.

Slaves to his command, the snakes had arrived. A living, moving, wriggling carpet slithered out of the pond, encircling Harry and Blaise. Two separated from the others and climbed the table. One was a small garden snake, the other a large viper. Harry recast his spell, this time linking Blaise with the viper, and commanded it to swallow the other snake whole.

Zabini's eyes and mouth opened wide—it was almost funny. His expression spoke volumes. Pain, disgust, fear, sheer mad panic…

Harry drew a finger down the viper's back, splitting it open. Zabini writhed in agony. He finally found his voice again and the screams boomed through the Chamber like the sounds of hell.

The garden snake, still alive inside the dead viper, curled into a spiral on the table. For the third time, Harry linked Zabini with an animal.

"Avada Kedavra."

Zabini wailed like a wounded banshee, but it soon quieted down to small gasps and the thousand-yard stare of a man who had just seen the abyss stare back.

"Please…" Blaise whispered. "Stop. Please."

"Are you ready to talk, then? Unless you'd rather I keep killing snakes."

"No." Blaise was on all fours, shaking. "I'll do whatever you want. Just… don't do it again."

Harry sent the snakes away, turned the table back into a chair, and helped Zabini up onto his own.

"Are you—are you going to kill me?" Blaise asked.

"Only if you give me a reason to," Harry said. "You remember Malfoy? I killed his mother in front of him. I can do the same for you."

Blaise snapped up—his eyes were pure, undiluted fear.

"So that's what this is about," Harry said. "Your mother."

Blaise slumped forward, hiding his face in his hands. "I can't. He'll kill me. He'll kill us both. I can't tell you."

Harry relaxed and sat back, hands in his lap, one leg crossed over the other. "I see. Yes, Voldemort does have a way with truth. Extracting it—whether you tell willingly or not." At his gesture, the brazier's fire was snuffed out and the torches flared to life again. The Chamber could never be described at 'brightly lit', but the oppressive darkness was gone, the dimensions of the room now clearly visible. Blaise, as if sensing something had changed, looked up. Even in his tortured state, he was capable of awe.

"You asked before what this place was." Harry spread his arms in a welcoming gesture. "Behold... the Chamber of Secrets."

"What… This is where you brought me?" Blaise seemed to grow, gathering himself to give a look of defiance. "And you use it as your torture room?"

"This isn't the time for House pride. There's one person who has more of a right to be here than me, and you're not him."

"You are beneath this place, Potter," Blaise spat.

Harry felt exasperation building. "Have you forgotten the last five minutes?"

"I love my mother," said Blaise. "But that's far from the only reason I took the Dark Mark."

Three more dead animals later, Blaise appeared well and truly broken. Harry crouched over him. "You seem to think you have a choice here. Well then, here's your choice: you turn spy for me, or you can depart this world for you next great adventure. Keep in mind that the second option has your mother living out her days in Azkaban."

"If I say nothing to you, you'll kill me. If I do, the Dark Lord will," said Blaise, staring aimlessly into space. "So end it."

"There are ways to keep secrets," Harry said. "Even from Voldemort."

"No, there aren't. Not from him."

Harry stood up. "We are in the Chamber of Secrets, Zabini. This seems a bit elaborate for a snake pit, doesn't it? There's old magic here, knowledge that Salazar Slytherin poured into these stones, knowledge that makes Voldemort so adept at finding liars. But there's magic even the Dark Lord can't overcome. Secrets shared within these walls remain secret, and neither Legilimency not Veritaserum nor anything else can draw them out."

After a long silence, Blaise met Harry's eyes. "How do I know you're telling the truth?"

"I guess you'll just have to trust me," Harry said. "What will it be: me, or Voldemort?"

Harry grew impatient. Seconds stretched unbearably, and he was about to go and leave Zabini to stew for a few days with only snakes for company, when he spoke again.

"Fine. You win. But I want something too."

~~oOo~~

"Ever been at Brody's?"

Blaise nodded.

"Meet me there tomorrow. Eight o'clock. If you try to ambush me again, I'll do to your mother what I did to you." With this last threat, Harry disapparated from the Shrieking Shack. Minutes later, he was in London, dialing six-two-four-four-two at the visitors' entrance to the Ministry. The crowd was thinning out as the evening drew near, but it was still busy enough that Harry noticed people stepping out of his way.

Oh dear. Have I become intimidating?

Dumbledore would be disappointed.

He made his way through the Atrium unobstructed, hiding a smile when a witch and wizard vacated the lift he stepped into, leaving him to ride down alone. He summoned as neutral an expression as he could manage at the moment and strode into the Auror department.

He cut across the room straight to Kingsley's office, drawing the eyes of rookies and veterans alike. He wasn't officially affiliated with the Silver Order, so he wasn't banned from the Ministry like Sirius, but more than a few of the looks suggested he should get the hell out.

The Head Auror's door opened before Harry even approached it.

"Mr. Potter," Kingsley's deep voice boomed from inside. "I was just about to send you an owl."

The door closed behind Harry when he was across the threshold.

"Were you really?"

Kingsley raised an eyebrow. "Was I really what?"

"About to owl me."

"No. I did that hours ago. The letter was returned unopened. Apparently the owl couldn't find you. I was told it circled Hogwarts for a while and eventually gave up."

The words and telling look were a clear signal. Kingsley didn't know everything, but he knew enough to guess where Harry might have been. Perhaps even why he was there.

"How many Death Eaters attacked you?"

Oh, he knows.

"No pretending, then."

"Not with you," Kingsley said. "I find playing games with you and Sirius to be a waste of time. I know I can't force you to do things the right way. I'll settle for being in the loop, as much as you're willing to include me."

"You almost sound like Dumbledore."

"How many Death Eater, Harry?"

Harry leaned against the wall. "How many did you bring in?"

"Three. No notable names. I doubt you know them."

"Still," Harry crossed his arms. "I'd like to speak to them. They might know something."

"We both know they don't," Kingsley said, his tone harsher this time. "Whoever was there who knew anything is in your extra-legal custody."

Weighing his options, Harry relented. He couldn't follow Blaise all the time. Perhaps he could spin this into cooperation. "I have Blaise Zabini."

Kingsley rubbed his eyes. "Merlin's staff, Voldemort knows no boundaries. Hasn't he learned from Draco Malfoy?"

Harry stifled a snort. "Funny. That's what I told Blaise."

"You think it's a laughing matter?" Kingsley sat up straight and the room seemed to darken around him. "I don't make light of turning kids into killers. I can't decide if you should be in Azkaban or not."

There was a spot of mud on his shoes. Harry looked at it intently. Kingsley really was like Dumbledore. Few people could make him feel scolded these days. "I received a pardon," he said—Kingsley knew that, he had been there—all the same, Harry felt the urge to justify himself.

"What do you want, Harry? You're here for something."

"A small favour."

"I'll decide if it's small."

"I need a pass to Azkaban. Just for a day."

There was a knock on the door. Without waiting for an invitation, someone poked their head in, but Kingsley slapped a palm on his desk and the door snapped shut, hitting the person outside in the face, if the loud yelp was any indication. Kingsley summoned a piece of parchment and scribbled a note.

"Just like that?"

"I'm surprised you're asking for permission at all. With that Cloak of yours…" Kingsley dripped some wax onto the note, stamped the Head Auror's seal and paused, quill hovering above the parchment. "Who do you want to see?"

"Keira Zabini, the Warden, and whichever Auror there is in charge of the Death Eater cell block." Seeing Kingsley's questioning expression, Harry added, "Something's brewing, and it has to do with Aurora Fawley."

"As I recall, you turned Aurora Fawley's brain into scrambled eggs, which is why the Wizengamot even heard the petition for her release."

"I've got a hunch."

Kingsley stopped him just as he turned to leave. "I don't expect anything from you. Sirius all but considers me an enemy… But ultimately, we have the same goal."

"No. Not really. Thanks for this," Harry held up Kingsley's note, "but there are more than two sides in this fight."

He had barely taken a few steps outside Kingsley's office when someone blocked his way.

"Afternoon, Potter."

"Auror Savage. Have you thwarted the nundu smugglers?"

Savage shrugged. "It was just a baby nundu. Not stopping you for that, though. You've been wanting to speak to the boss…"

Harry tensed up. "Sirius is back?"

"Indeed. Just left with new orders myself. Before you race off—he's not in a great mood."

"I don't care."

He hammered on the door relentlessly for a good minute before it finally opened. Sirius somehow looked angry and bored at the same time.

"Savage told me you might show up. Apparently you've been wanting to speak to me."

Harry pushed past Sirius and stared him down. He would not be dismissed like a child this time.

"I don't demand to know all of your secrets, Sirius, but this is about me, it's my bloody life on the line." Harry unclasped the Cloak from his shoulders and went into the living room. Even though it was the height of summer, the roaring fireplace was warding off the perpetual chill that pervaded the House of Black. Sirius followed him into the room.

"It's been a long day—"

"It's about to get longer," Harry barked and pinned his godfather with an uncompromising stare. "Sit. Down."

"All right," Sirius muttered, and sat. "What is it?"

Eyes closed, Harry breathed in and out, slowly. "You'll indulge me if I get long-winded. I've done my waiting."

To Harry's irritation, Sirius didn't press him to get started, or shift restlessly. They sat across from each other, by all indication perfectly content to be silent together. Harry pondered how to skin this beast.

"When Dumbledore taught me, he said that no single approach to magic is universal," he began, himself not yet sure where he was going with this train of thought. "He said that individual interpretation is the heart of wisdom. You have to find your own path in the labyrinth. Yeah, a labyrinth—a puzzle. Dumbledore likes puzzles."

"I can already tell this is going to be great." Sirius held out an open palm in the general direction of the kitchen. Two butterbeers came flying through the hall. Sirius popped a cap on one and tossed the other to Harry.

Harry bit back a retort. "For me, magic is like an infinite series of doors. You come upon a door, you have to find a key." He steeled his voice. That was it. "You go through the door, and there's another—you need a different key. Sometimes you'll get lucky and a key you've collected before opens another door, sometimes you don't even need the key, you can just pick the lock. That's magic. The point is, you're never done. There's always a next door."

Sirius seemed amused, of all the things to be. Harry's throat felt very dry right then. He downed half of the bottle in one go. It was all he could do not to start a duel in the living room, to wipe that patronising smile from Sirius' face. He grit his teeth.

"I think that people are a lot like that, too," Harry said, holding his bottle in a white-knuckle grip while his right hand itched for his wand. "But there's a difference. No matter how many magic doors you've opened, you are finite. There's a last door. People have an end. Voldemort has a last door. I thought I was getting close to it when Dumbledore told me about the prophecy, but I was a fool. Because Dumbledore likes puzzles. Because everyone keeps secrets, don't we?"

Sirius's smile faded, and Harry pounced.

"I'm the one carrying that fucking scar. Not Dumbledore. Not you. This secret isn't yours to hoard. I want to know." Harry rose from his armchair and for the first time, he towered over Sirius. "What is a horcrux?"

Silence fell between them. Harry grew more impatient with every second.

"Sturgis told me you two talked."

Harry shook his head. "No. We're not going to do that. You'll tell it plainly, or I will burn your house down and find Dumbledore if I have to."

"There isn't a plain way to tell it."

Harry went for his wand and Fiendfyre exploded in the room. There was an immediate resistance. Harry fought it for a moment, long enough to communicate his resolve, then ended the spell. When the fire cleared, Sirius was on his feet, wand arm down by his side.

"All right," Sirius said, raising a hand in defence. "You deserve to know. Let's sit."

"What is a horcrux?"

"Dark magic. Very old, forgotten, until it was rediscovered by Grindelwald."

"What's so special about it?"

"Immortality."

Something broke in the air and Harry's momentum evaporated. He swallowed. "I can see why it drew Voldemort's interest."

Sirius summoned a box from elsewhere in the house. One by one, he produced notes, objects, magical artefacts as he navigated Dumbledore's research.

Horcrux—a piece of one's soul, shorn off by Dark magic and the power of an unspeakable act. The piece to be placed in a container, the container to be protected. While the horcrux survives, its maker can't die.

"And Dumbledore thinks Voldemort made six of them?"

"Yes. Six horcruxes, a soul split seven ways."

"Seven. Of course," Harry said, rifling through the mess of the box's contents, now strewn across the coffee table. "So until all six are destroyed, I can't kill him."

"Ordinarily, yes." Sirius reached into the box again and handed Harry a familiar book. Or rather, a big hole with a bit of a book left around it.

"Basilisk venom really does a number on paper." He tried to pry it open, but the whole thing was firmly stuck together. "So, this was a piece of Voldemort's soul… That leaves five."

"The venom is apparently one of the few substances destructive enough to destroy a horcrux—or, more precisely, its container," Sirius said.

Harry tossed the old diary onto the pile. "I suppose you could make a horcrux out of anything, right? A book. A coin. Hell, make it out of a rock and toss it into the ocean."

"Voldemort doesn't think like that. That's Dumbledore's theory."

"We're relying on Voldemort's ego to theorise a strategy for defeating him?" Harry asked, somewhat incredulous.

"Dumbledore said he wasn't done looking. It's why he left. There were pieces of the puzzle missing."

Harry sat back, digesting what he'd just heard. Was there a treasure hunt in his future? If Voldemort had five horcruxes left, where could they be? How were they protected? The diary had been given to the Malfoys. Were the others guarded by Death Eaters as well? He looked up. Sirius was staring at him with apprehension. "There's more?"

"A horcrux doesn't have to be placed in an object. As far as I—as far as Dumbledore knows, Grindelwald… reinterpreted the creation formula. An object can be imbued with enchantments that make the container near indestructible, but it's far from a perfect defence. Grindelwald came up with the idea of a living horcrux."

"Living," Harry said flatly. "Like what. A fern?"

"Like an animal," Sirius corrected. "Or a person."

While Sirius talked, an annoying little sound had been steadily growing at the back of Harry's mind. He realised it wasn't a sound at all, but rather some nagging thought that hadn't yet fully formed, as if Harry were standing with his back to a wall, and someone was chipping away at the brick from the other side. As the wall weakened, a quiet dread rose behind it. The non-sound of deafening silence. Someone screaming with no mouth.

A person.

The wall fell and the epiphany busted through. Harry felt like screaming now. He let out a breath, mouth hanging open. An eternity passed, and only then he spoke.

"Me. I'm a horcrux." His eyes darted towards the kitchen. He needed a knife. Maybe he could cut the fucking thing from his forehead. "What happened when Voldemort tried to kill me?"

"Dumbledore said—"

"Yes, Dumbledore said," Harry snapped. "I know Dumbledore said it, you're just the messenger. Dumbledore said what?"

"Lily invoked powerful magic with her death. When Voldemort tried to kill you, your mother's protection and the Killing Curse negated each other and the curse was reversed. But Voldemort couldn't die, so a piece of his soul latched onto the only living thing it found."

"Which was me," Harry said, feeling empty as the sense of it dawned on him. "I have to die before Voldemort can be killed."

"You're not dying," Sirius said. "Grindelwald invented something else. A device that traps souls. Soulcatcher. Merlin, what a stupid name…"

Harry blinked. "What?"

"Grindelwald—"

"No, I got that part."

"This... thing, this soulcatcher, works like a horcrux container, I guess, I'm not exactly fluent in the details. Yes, you'd have to die before Voldemort could. But there's another way. We can use the soulcatcher to trap Voldemort's soul—he'll be as good as dead. Sturgis is building it. Remus is helping him. And Harry—you're not alone."

They settled in with Ogden's this time instead of beer. Harry couldn't tell if his hand shaking was because of alcohol. He half-listened as Sirius wound the tale of the curious locket he'd found among his late brother's possessions. Voldemort must have given it to Regulus Black for safekeeping, like Malfoy had been charged with guarding the diary. The locket was a patient predator, but Sirius gave his damnedest to keep his own mind and drained the locket instead.

"You absorbed it?"

"Best I can tell. S'what Dumbledore thinks."

"Bloody Dumbledore…" Harry muttered, nursing his fourth glass. Kreacher popped in with a crack to deliver Sirius a new bottle of Firewhiskey and vanished again. "Where's it now?"

"I had to leave it behind in Mulciber Manor. I reckon it was destroyed when you burned the Bone Mound with Fiendfyre."

Harry remembered something. The day of the battle at Nurmengard, something had provoked Voldemort, something he'd found. Harry didn't understand it then.

steps, slow, measured, boots on porous stone—a cell, a cot inside, a pot and—brick chipped away, cracked, hidden in dark, but not from his eyes—fingers scrape at the mortar, it breaks—

The locket.

"No. He found it." The memory sobered him up. "You hid it behind a broken brick in your cell. He found the locket, but the horcrux was gone. Grindelwald taught him about horcruxes. He went to Nurmengard to kill him, so Grindelwald couldn't spill the secret."

In the corner of his vision Harry noticed Sirius looking at him wide-eyed, with equal parts fear and fascination, but his thoughts were galloping elsewhere.

images, memories fly past his vision, blurry, can't make them out, but he knows what he's looking for now—house, old—street, ugly building, children—hate them—it tastes of salt—

"He hid horcruxes in places of power… He sent Death Eaters to check on them." Harry blinked and snapped out of the trance. "He wanted the remaining horcruxes brought to him. He sent Mulciber for one of them."

Sirius' eyes glinted knowingly, and Harry knew he remembered too.

"Mulciber came out of that ruin with a metal case," Sirius said. "I gave it to Dumbledore."

Excitement rose in Harry, overpowering everything else. "Did you ever find out what was in it?"

"No. But it gives us something to start with. We can't rely on Dumbledore." Sirius stood, though swaying slightly. "We hightailed it out of there right quick. We might have missed something."

"Do you even know where to go? We were following a compass when we got there."

Sirius smiled. "Now that you mention it…" He raised his wand. With a poof, something materialised above his open palm. He held it up in front of his face. A fake coin on a chain—the receptacle they'd used to track down Peter Pettigrew.

"Will it even still work?" Harry asked, regarding the coin sceptically. "Since Pettigrew's dead, I mean."

"But we don't need it for that. We just need it to remember where it led us."

Sirius held the receptacle out for him. Harry grasped the chain and apparated.