BS"D

Not mine.

Wow, I got this finished quicker than I expected to. I just came out of finals- twelve of them, in case you were wondering-and I graduated on Wednesday. So the fact that I can think at all astounds me.

Chapter 10

Further Confrontations

After a few seconds of open mouthed silence the meeting wound down. The order members packed up, muttering goodnights, and slipped off. McGonagall accompanied the boys back to Hogwarts, flooing through the kitchen fire. She escorted them all the way back to the portrait hole, leaving them with nothing more than a clipped, "Goodnight".

The Common room was empty, but a light was still on in the Seventh Year Boy's dorm. Harry pushed the door open, surprised to see that Ron was still up. The red haired boy was sitting in his four-poster in his pajamas, paging disinterestedly through a magazine. He started when he heard the door open.

"Where have you been?" he asked, his voice betraying his interest. Harry shrugged.

"Detention," he lied, "McGonagall just let us off." He toed off his shoes and fell into bed, utterly spent.

"Blimey," Ron said, checking his watch. "She doesn't usually keep people this late." He looked over at Neville, who shrugged uncomfortably, not meeting his eyes. Ron shrugged as well. He reached under his bed as Harry and Neville settled down to sleep. He tugged the diary out from underneath his mattress. His previous notes bled into visibility as he paged through it to a clean sheet. He grabbed a quill from his bedside table, furtively setting down his latest entry- "weren't studying in common room tonight- came in late too. Said they had detention?"

A new feature seemed to have developed in the spell work of the diary. The pages now answered his questions and offered helpful suggestions. It had disturbed him at first, but now, curiously it didn't bother him in the slightest. In a way, it was like talking to Ginny when they were younger, forever trying to deduce what their parents and older siblings were keeping from them. This time, the diary wrote back in elegant handwriting "Perhaps they were lying? Where else could they have been, if not the library?"

Well, that was certainly something to consider.

-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-0-o-

Harry slept badly that night. His mind was swirling with fresh images of meeting so many people who he had watched die, his nightmares of the tragedies. He kept waking in a cold sweat, the images of his father collapsing in a blaze of murderous green light, his mother's final pleas, Sirius falling through a tattered veil, Remus lying peacefully beside his wife below a bewitched ceiling which he could no longer see, and Dumbledore blasted into the sky above the astronomy tower all a whirling confusion in his minds eye. Often the dreams blurred together, so that each victim shared in the other's death, faces and fates blending seamlessly into each other.

And each time, no matter how hard he tried, how loud he shouted, or how fast he ran, he failed to save them at the last minute. New faces appeared- Ron's red hair matted and darkened with blood; Fred's laughing face frozen forever, his eyes blank; Hermione's shrieks as she was tortured; Ginny lying at the foot of the statue of Slytherin, her skin cold and pale, a black diary bleeding ink beside her as Riddle laughed.

The last time he woke, it was to a gray-lit dorm room. he rolled out of bed, unwilling to even try going back to sleep, and stumbled off to the bathroom. He revived a bit in the shower, and then trudged back into the dorm to dress. The other boys were still sleeping peacefully by the time he was finished tying his shoes. He checked his watch. It was a quarter to six. So breakfast had already started, then. He grabbed his school bag and set off for the Great Hall.

The four tables were sprinkled here and there with early-risers, some taking the time to study, while others simply concentrated dully on their breakfast of eggs and sausages. He sat down at the Gryffindor table, and was halfway through with his food when he noticed someone standing in front of him. He glanced up, surprised to see Hermione standing in front of him, a book nestled in her crossed arms as she waited for him to notice her. He swallowed.

"Can I help you?" he asked. She shifted uncomfortably.

"I just thought I should introduce myself- it's a bit overdue. I mean," she added, sounding a bit flustered, "It's been some three weeks since you enrolled, and as I am Head-Girl-"

"Nice to meet you," he interrupted, thrusting out a hand to her. "I'm Harry. Potter." She shook it, and then sat down on the bench facing him.

"Hermione Granger." She frowned curiously. "Are you related to Healer Potter, by any chance?"

"I might be," he said, his stomach clenching in panic. "I wouldn't really know though. I never knew much about my family." Still groggy from his troubled night, Harry didn't trust himself to say anything more. His nightmares kept intruding, visions of his friend's dead body draped across the Malfoy's drawing room floor. Stop that, he told himself harshly, keeping his eyes fixed on his eggs, We escaped, didn't we?- She didn't die. This Hermione was now shifting in her seat, and a glance up at her face told him that she had more to say. He waited for her to speak with some foreboding.

But Hermione said nothing, letting the silence stretch on.

"Was there anything else you wanted?" She certainly looked it. Hermione opened her mouth, hesitated, then closed it again, looking defeated.

"No, I suppose not," she said, much to Harry's relief. "If there's anything you need…"She hefted her book off the table, then stood. "just ask one of the Hufflepuffs."

"I'll do that," Harry said, trying not to seem too pleased that she was going. He watched her head back to the Hufflepuff table, feeling torn; on the one hand, he'dve loved to just sit and talk to her, but his worry at the possibility of her figuring out who he was and where he came from overrode that longing. In a way, he supposed, it was how he had been treating everyone in this strange new world. He wanted nothing more than to forget everything, hand the whole mission to someone else- be able to talk to everyone he had watched die through the years: his father, Remus, Sirius, Ron, Dumbledore... but the words of that memory kept intruding- a knife through his conscious: He was a horcrux. And not just in his home world either. He had been feeling pains in his scar again, occasionally experiencing flashes of Voldemort's emotions, something he made sure to keep hidden from Neville. He couldn't be certain why he was connected with this world's Voldemort. Perhaps the two worlds were not as distinct as he had thought, or perhaps his own connection to Voldemort was just that powerful-and needed an outlet. Harry imagined it was something like a television aerial; the connection had needed to pick something to connect to and had chosen the closest frequency, as it were. The Dumbledore in that memory had described the horcrux as parasitic. It would only grow stronger- unless he destroyed it. Knowing he had to die…He couldn't attach himself to any of the people here. It just couldn't happen.

He was startled from his thoughts when Hermione turned back, marching back to his table with a determined air that he usually associated with her efforts toward SPEW. She squared her shoulders, and drew herself up.

"What's your friend's name?" She asked forcefully, not allowing herself to lose heart again.

"What? Oh, Neville." He shook his head, trying to pull himself back to the present. "Neville Longbottom." Hermione nodded. "Why?"

"I keep seeing you two in the library- even when the other Gryffindors aren't there." She said. "I help Madame Pince reshelf books sometimes and your names keep coming up." Harry's heart sank. Which books?

"Oh?" he said, noncommittally, trying to keep the panic down. Even if she did know the book titles, he told himself, she could never figure out what they were using the books for, right? But no. Hermione's face was settling into the familiar determined look he had been exasperated by for so many years. She leaned forward and lowered her voice conspiratorially.

"Does Professor Dumbledore know what you're up to? Does he know you're trying to kill" she mouthed the last words: "You-Know-Who?"

"As a matter of fact, he does." Harry said shortly, angry with himself for being so careless. If Hermione had discovered what he and Neville were doing, who else could have found out when he, Harry, wasn't paying attention?

"Good." She said decidedly, straightening up. "Then the Order can take care of it." Harry frowned.

"What?" he bit out.

"Well, if we're going to win the war, then it's the Order who are going to do it, aren't they?" She said, as though it were obvious. "They're Dumbledore's army. It's not going to be a couple of seventeen year olds."

o-o0o-000-o0o-o

"Ron," Ginny said, slamming her hand down on the now blank page of the diary Ron had been scribbling in, "I need to talk to you."

An inexplicable surge of annoyance welled up in the red-head's mind at the sight of her hand on the diary, but he tried to push it aside. "What, Ginny?" he said, a bit too forcefully, despite his efforts. Ginny withdrew her hand and sat down in front of him at the table, frowning.

"I'm worried about you, Ron." She said. "You've hardly spoken to me in the last week and a half."

"I've been busy," he said defensively.

"I know," she said, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes, "And if it was just that…"She trailed off, trying to think of how to best phrase her thoughts. "It's just…Ron, I…don't like that you're using that diary so much." Ron scowled. An unfamiliar feeling of anger erupted in his mind: What was it any of her business? Since when was she allowed to tell him what to do, or monitor his life? "I wouldn't say anything, but Colin doesn't like it either." So Colin was in on it too? "He…He and I really think that it's…we just have a very bad feeling about it." Ginny looked up at him, searching his face.

"Well, I don't think so," Ron said brusquely. He didn't know where the anger was coming from, but it obliterated all other thought.

"Are you mad at me?" Ginny asked, genuinely shocked, sounding hurt. She and Ron had been extremely close since her first year; they almost never fought.

"I just don't see why you seem to think you can tell me what to do all the time," he hissed.

"I don't-"

"Listen," He interrupted, pointing at her to prove his point, "I'll do what I want. I don't need you to act like Mum all the time." Ginny was shaking her head, but Ron paid no heed. "If you want to go through life only thinking about stupid school gossip, fine. But don't try to stop me when I'm finally doing something important!" Ginny found her voice- and temper- at last.

"Doing something important?" She repeated, her voice rising uncontrollably, angry tears in her eyes. "All you do is stare at that stupid book all day!"

"Know what? I don't need this." Ron snatched up the diary and his quill. "Maybe you'd understand if you didn't act so stupid all the time." He said scathingly and stormed out the portrait hole down to breakfast, missing the hurt, confused and angry look that followed him out.

"I'm just trying to help you, you bastard." Ginny hissed, wiping her eyes angrily on her sleeve as the Fat Lady slammed shut.

o-o0o-000-o0o-o

James ran his fingers through his hair, as if trying to rake through the confused thoughts within his mind. He was sitting behind a pile of work that needed to be done, too distracted to do anything more than stare into his empty mug of tea. The previous night's meeting kept circling through his head, the same words over and over. "James, he looks just like you…" How could he have missed that? How could Dumbledore, Poppy, McGonagall missed the eerie resemblance between himself and the Potter boy? Could it be that they simply weren't looking for it?

And his son's- his son's-involvement in the battlefields of his own world: Dumbledore wanted me to take care of the horcruxes myself… What on earth would prompt Dumbledore to lay such and impossible task-"The Voldemort in my world could survive the killing curse"- on the shoulders of a child? A seventeen-year-old boy with no auror training? No defense? How could his own counterpart self have allowed such a thing? I'm going to keep fighting him… There are things worth dying for. He raked his fingers through his hair again, too wrapped up in his thoughts to hear the roar of the flames as someone stepped through the floo.

"Stop that," Sirius said, startling him. "Do you want to be bald, as well as gray?"

"Sirius," James said, distracted. He shook his head, trying to clear it. "What are you doing here?" Sirius pulled out the chair beside James', dropping into it and propping his feet up on the desk.

"My best mate just found out he was a father last night." He said carelessly. "I came to offer my congratulations." His searching gaze belied his casual tone.

"I'm fine, Sirius," James said firmly.

"And that's why you're pulling out your hair?" Sirius retorted, his concern now coloring his tone.

"It's a lot to take in," James admitted. "But you didn't have to come all the way down here. Aren't you missing work?"

"It's my week off- and I didn't come 'all the way down here'. I apparated to Ab's pub, then came through the floo. Wizard, remember?" He said, pointing at himself. His voice was back to the light tone he always used when dealing with stressful situations.

James closed his eyes, and ran his hand through his hair again, "I just don't know what to do. Suddenly I have a son- one who comes from another…world, supposedly. And on top of that, he's trying to get himself killed."

"Hmm," Sirius agreed.

"Why would the other me just let him go off on his own?" Sirius frowned.

"Didn't you hear him? He said his parents had been killed when he was young."

"He did?" Sirius nodded, watching James concernedly. "Oh." That stopped James in his tracks for a few seconds. Then his mind switched back on. "Why would Dumbledore let him go off on his own? Or any of the Order? Okay, we know that I had…died, but what about Mad-Eye? Frank? You and Remus?"

"Hold it, mate." Sirius held up a hand. "We need to keep in mind that these are completely different people we're talking about here. It wasn't me and Remus, or Frank, or Alastor. It wasn't us. It was people who look a whole lot like us and share our names."

"I wasn't suggesting-"

"I know, but it helps to think of them as completely different people. We aren't responsible for their mistakes." He said, "So you don't have to feel guilty over endangering his life."

"I wasn't feeling-"James began defensively.

"Just saying." Sirius said, raising both hands in a pacifying gesture, his voice back to weather-discussing quality. "Personally, I think that Neville kid was right. There's no point in berating the boy for something that happened last year."

"Yeah, but what about their plans to battle Voldemort by themselves?" James said immediately.

"That's where Dumbledore comes in," Sirius shrugged. "Now come on." He said, standing up. "It's Saturday. There's no point in worrying about it all now. Dumbledore said he's going to bring the boys back to the meeting on Sunday. Let's go down and see if Aberforth wants to give us lunch. I'll even ask him to wash the cups for us, if you want." He added generously.

"I suppose you're right." James sighed.

"Of course I am." Sirius said, pretending to be haughty. "Now let's go get sloshed."

o-o0o-000-o0o-o