Disclaimer: I'm NOT J.K. Rowling. Nor do I own Harry Potter. But I do enjoy twisting them to my will. And many thanks to the incredible M, who makes my stories pretty!

Harry Potter and the Marauder's Vendetta

Chapter 10: Bound to the Rock

Hermione had walked into the Twin's Room to find Harry lying flat on his bed, writing in his journal. At first, she nearly squealed with happiness: Harry is actually using the present I gave him! And then she remembered his essays: the ones that looked as if they were written by a person with only the vaguest knowledge of the English language. She remembered the nights spent poring over his old Potions assignments, trying to fix grammar that looked like it had been translated from Troll. Oh God, she thought. He's using my present without supervision!

"Ummmm…Harry? What's that you're doing?" Hermione asked, trying to sound nonchalant and not the least bit worried. Harry jerked, looking surprised, before he sprouted a quick smile.

"Hi! Sorry, didn't hear you come in. I've been too wrapped up in this," he said, pointing to his journal. "This book really is amazing, all the history that my family has, and I never even knew about it! Like, for instance, this squire. He disappeared after the siege of Camelot, but people say he was one of the first men to rise to Arthur's Defense!" He looked thrilled. "He was there, with the Once and Future King. It's just so amazing, thinking how far back the story goes. And that one day, people might be reading about me, about us, about all of us! Well, the idea got me so excited, I decided to get a little of our story on paper. I just finished up with my first year. You want to see?"

Hermione moved across the room to sit on the edge of the bed and scan the drying page, her worst fears confirmed. It seemed fitting that he had just finished writing about their first year, because his writing seemed to be that of an 11 year old.

"What do you think?" asked Harry, his eyes beaming.

"Well, it's not bad, Harry. I'm not sure if I would readily call it good, though, but it's not bad." Harry's smile deflated, and Hermione felt a wash of guilt. "It just needs a little work, that's all!" she said, pleadingly.

"But it's my story!" said Harry, sounded wounded. "This is how it happened! If I add a bunch of flowery nonsense about it, it wouldn't be my story anymore."

"Oh, Harry," said Hermione, soothingly, "I'm not saying it needs to be florid, but like you said, people are going to be reading this story for years to come. You're such an important wizard; I wouldn't be surprised if the bookstores will start to sell hardcover copies of this in a few years! Are you sure that this is what you want people to read? Are you sure there weren't times when you wanted to say something else, but just didn't know quite how to say it?"

"A few times," said Harry, still looking a bit grumpy. "But I thought that would be, you know, a bit of the charm of the story. It would have my voice."

"It can still have your voice. Just make sure you have your voice saying what you want it to say."

Harry remained quiet for a moment, thinking this out, before sitting up and scooting close to Hermione. "Give me an example," he said, all his focus on her, an eager desire to learn in his eyes. Hermione knew the look as she'd seen it in her mirror almost every morning, but coming from Harry it seemed to mesmerize her.

Hermione edged a bit closer to Harry. She suddenly felt strangely flush, as if the room had a blazing fire in it. Attempting to ignore it, she returned her attention to the journal.

"Well, first of all, you should probably start a little earlier. You began this with Hagrid coming to pick you up. You don't even mention where you were when he found you…"

Harry looked away, across the room and Hermione knew he was remembering. His eyes went misty and as the memory floated back to him his face softened with a small smile. Hermione's heart gave a definite flutter as she took in his profile with that bemused little smile gracing his lips. "It was this miserable little shack on an island. I don't think I'll ever forget the way he just knocked the door down before shouldering his way through the opening, wielding that pink umbrella of his like...like a…a…Erm…"

Hermione cleared her throat and smiled to distract herself from Harry. "This is what I mean. You want to give the best description you can, not just one that fulfills the obligations, but one that really makes the person want to read on, to let their imagination take flight!"

Harry was smiling at her.

"What?"

"I just like the way you talk when you get intense about something. Like when you started Spew."

"It's S.P.E.W.! And honestly, I was under the impression you and Ron thought I was loony during that period of time."

"Oh, we did," said Harry. "But I still like your intensity. Now, what else would change?"

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And so began what would soon become a nightly occurrence. The trio, joined by Draco Malfoy, would meet in an empty room of the Weasley house, and talk for hours. They would try to get everything they could remember written down, asking each other how they remembered the same instance. For example, Harry was fuzzy about how he got from his parent's home to the Dursley's, other than knowing that Hagrid had taken him. So it added so much more to their story to discover that according to Ron, from Mr. Weasley, Hagrid had nearly dropped him when a strong gust of wind almost blew Sirius's motorbike out from under the large man. Harry soon realized that being a member of his adventures frequently meant that long periods of time were spent unconscious, petrified, or otherwise unable to recall the specifics required for a good, complete story. So, whenever they had to know what happened while one person was out of it, they would turn to another, who would gladly fill in the blanks.

Surprisingly, one of the biggest helps in this endeavor turned out to be Draco, who relished in giving detailed accounts of Slytherin victories. This nearly caused Harry to revolt against Hermione's resolve for fact checking, particularly after Draco's enthusiastic retelling of Harry's broken nose on their train ride to school the year before.

"We're not putting that in there!" shouted Harry, trying to close his book as Draco smirked behind him. Hermione, however, stood her ground.

"Then are we going to put in how much you two teased me over Lockhart? How about when Ron was under the effects of love potion? What else should we leave out?" She asked, her voice clipped.

"Yes, Potter. What other things should we gloss over? Are we going to neglect that little part of our history where you cursed my chest in two with that Sectumsempra spell? Because I think that I've been very forgiving about that incident thus far. Shouldn't we put it in there to keep things…fair?"

Harry grumbled that he supposed so, but was continually forced to edit his descriptions of Gryffindor failures in order to make them stronger.

"We have to be fair," chided Hermione. Otherwise, we're no better than our enemies." Harry shrugged, and crossed out another few lines.

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Later that night, after Draco had retired to his new room on the second floor, Harry, Ron, and Hermione were finishing up their latest entry, Harry and Ron's defeat of the troll on Halloween in their first year, and the subsequent start of their friendship with Hermione.

"What do you think would've happened if Quirrell had never let the troll in?" said Hermione, stretching her legs out until the tips of her shoes met the edge of the hearthstone. "I mean, you both said you were feeling guilty about how you'd treated me, but would we still have been friends if things had gone differently? I mean, what if it was Pavarti or Lavender in that bathroom? Or what if it had gone into a broom closet instead?"

Harry and Ron looked at each other. Ron shrugged.

"No idea, really. You got to wonder…you think things like this, all this trouble…you think there's anything more to it?"

"You mean like fate or destiny?" asked Harry.

"I mean, things happened at Hogwarts that have shaped the rest of our lives. Take the troll, for instance. If we hadn't rescued Hermione, she might never have become our friend. And then you would've died, Harry. Either on your broom in front of everybody, or down in the dungeon, trying to save the Sorcerer's Stone. Because I don't think you could've gotten past the fire without her help. It all seems like there is…I don't know, more to it."

"But is that evidence that we three were fated to be together? Or just that we were incredibly lucky and in the right place at the right time?" said Hermione.

The trio sat in silence, unable to answer.

"I guess all we can say is that it happened that way," said Harry. "And whether its fate or destiny or just dumb blind luck, I'm happy it happened the way it did."

"Yeah, or else you would've been history by now!" grinned Ron.

"And you would probably have flunked out, ages ago," Hermione chuckled.

But they both knew deep inside, that Harry's meaning went farther than that, and they both felt the same way.

Ron got up from the sofa, yawning, and heading for the stairs. "I reckon you two know enough of the story to finish up without me."

The other two bade him goodnight, and then returned to the journal. Harry was sitting in an armchair before the dying fire in the living room. Hermione, feeling restless, stood up and looked over his shoulder. Harry turned looked over his shoulder, shifting in the chair, to face her.

"Where do we draw the line?" he asked.

"What do you mean?"

"There are only so many pages we can write. How much should we put in this? How much is important? There are a few stories that I wouldn't mind telling, but they really don't have anything to do with…well, with anything else. They're just stories. And I can't think of a reason why we should keep them around."

Hermione stood very still. Harry could tell that she wasn't thinking of an answer. He could tell the moment that he started talking that she had an answer in mind, and was just thinking of how to phrase it best. After a minute of silence, Hermione knelt down, put the book in her lap, and took out her wand. With the wand, she began tracing a line on a blank sheet of paper.

"There isn't a lot of adventure in being a dentist," she began. "My parents take me on trips because they need to do something that isn't in any way associated with their jobs. That's why we go to France; it's why we go skiing. It's why we went to Australia a few years ago, when I was about ten. We spent a few days in Sydney, but my parents wanted me to see the Outback. So we went to Ayer's Rock. I know it had a much more interesting name in the native language, something…Uluru. Yes."

"That's a mouthful," said Harry. Hermione smiled and continued.

"When we got there, we spent the next few days looking around at the cave dwellings, the paintings drawn there centuries ago by the Aborigines. It was all fascinating; but on the last day we were there, we met an old man. His skin was like leather that had been left out in the sun; his eyes were deep. He had a voice, like nothing I'd ever heard before. It was like he was singing every word he said, and his conversation was poetry. I remember him like it was yesterday, with a beaten and weathered cowboy hat over his flyaway hair, sitting on an old wooden stool. He was a storyteller, and that was his name, as far as anyone knew: people had always just called him Storyteller. He made his living telling the stories of his people. He said he would sell his memories like firewood, to set the minds of his listeners ablaze."

Harry was now sitting in rapt attention. Hermione was tracing her wand in little figure-eights across the page, occasionally eliciting a stream of green and golden sparks. When she began again, her voice had taken on the singing rhythm of the storyteller, and Harry was amazed at how melodious it was.

"I am planted at Uluru," she chanted. "I am as much of the rock as the rock is itself. But I shall die, while the land lives on. I should have slipped a noose 'round the neck of time, and stayed young always. But now, I sit on a stool, remembering. My face has grown a hundred wrinkles, and each wrinkle holds a thousand tales: My walkabout of the ancient lands, to find the secrets of the Dreamtime, when the world itself was called into being. I have seen the Rainbow Serpent, spilling forth the rain of ages from his gaping mouth, and letting our world drink again."

Hermione had begun tracing her wand faster and faster, allowing the sparks to stream out of the wand in a continuous multicolored band of light, looking to Harry like a serpent, wrapped around itself, writhing into the shape of symbolic infinity. Hermione smiled again at Harry, allowing her hypnotic voice to change into her regular, sweet tones.

"I asked him for a story," she said. "He stared into my eyes, delving deep inside me, searching for something."

The figure eight she had been drawing suddenly formed dark pools of black in the center of each O.

"I see you are a lady who desires knowledge," she said, taking on the deep tones again. "You have a future of boundless wisdom, and countless tales of adventure. I shall give you a story of my walkabout, as I followed in the paths of my ancestors. On a certain trail, far to the north of these grounds I call home, I came across the barren soil. I asked the earth why it would not allow its dirt to live, and it told me of the Rainbow Serpent, the great lord who will give us rain. He had been traveling this path that I was on, and stopped here to feed. But the animals were greedy, and chased the serpent to the boundaries of their land. The great lord allowed this to happen, for he wished to test the generosity of those whom he served. The fire burned deep within, for he knew the creatures of the earth did not respect him; they did not respect each other, and instead fought each other for the water that He gave freely, as a gift. This angered the Serpent, and his anger flowed into the land, burning it, making the plants shrivel, the water to escape into the air. The animals were all left to starve for their disrespect. And from that day forward, the earth has not allowed that stretch of land to grow, to show proper mourning and penitence to the Great Serpent."

Harry sat spellbound. The serpent in his book was gliding up and down the page, occasionally letting out sparks. Hermione waved her wand over the snake in the book, and it evaporated.

"I was spellbound by his story, and made him tell me more. I learned so much that day, and was fascinated by the idea of a giant snake that gave the rain, and could cause an entire forest to lie down and die. But then as we left in the evening, just as the sun was setting, I heard my Dad tell my Mum that the area the old man was talking about in his first story was actually a huge uranium deposit, and the radiation had killed any living things around there."

Harry sighed. Of course. The scientific answer would be much simpler than the mythical story. He felt drained; even though he knew the story wasn't true, it was the story that captured his imagination, not the cold, hard facts.

"And that's why I think it's important to record as much as we can. There is so much we can know about our world, but if we can't tell stories, and hear about the little things, whether they are true or not, then its just facts with no room for imagination." She closed the book, and handed it back to Harry.

"If we run out of pages," she whispered, "We'll find more." Harry nodded getting out of the chair to face her.

"You are amazing, Hermione." Hermione blushed.

"It's just a little thing I do."

Harry smiled. "I could listen to you for a lifetime."

He didn't know why, but Hermione seemed flustered by this. The book slipped in her hand, and she and Harry both reached for it at the same time, their heads close behind. With a loud CLUNK their heads collided, and Harry saw a bevy of brilliant stars explode before his eyes. When his vision cleared, a moment later, Hermione was holding her head, laughing until she was nearly gasping with exertion. Harry grinned and reached out to cup her cheek with his palm.

"You OK?" Hermione felt her breath catch in her chest. She reached up and placed her hand over his, relishing, if for the moment, the feel of his rough palm against her cheek.

"Yup, OK."

They both stood for a moment, barely daring to breathe, while their brains fired conflicting orders of retreat and victory. Hermione, with a small and self-deprecating sigh, finally stood.

"Goodnight, Harry."

Harry sat where he was, watching her ascend the stairs. She had been gone for a full minute before he could muster enough breath to whisper:

"Goodnight."

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Harry was awakened the next morning by Hedwig's impatient rapping on the window. He sighed and blinked blearily at his watch. It was almost noon. Got to stop staying up so late writing, he thought, while stumbling over the dirty clothes on the floor to get to the window. Harry saw a letter from Hogwarts clamped in Hedwig's beak, though not the usual thick envelope he expected at this time of year. It was, of course, from Professor McGonagall, but this was not the regular letter welcoming him back to another school year. This one was short and direct.

Be in my office at 1PM today, with Mr. Malfoy.

-M. McGonagall

Harry jumped out of bed and quickly began searching for fresh clothes. He had a feeling that since Draco's presence was requested as well, this little meeting was about the ex-Death Eater more than anything else. And that made Harry nervous. It was becoming clear, from his help with the Ravenclaw Horcrux, that Malfoy could be helpful; it was also becoming clear that he was a bit more than just helpful. In the past few weeks, Harry had realized that a rushed but so far solid friendship had developed between his little trio and Draco, one that they never would have expected to even be plausible at the end of last year. And now, Harry thought, here I am, ready to defend Draco to Dumbledore's most trusted friend and second in command. He sighed. Draco's would not be an easy case to make.

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The Flue Network had opened the Headmistress's Fireplace for travel, but the time limit was very short. These days, no one wanted anyone to have easy access in or out of Hogwarts. It was rumored that McGonagall was searching for an appropriate magical creature to guard the castle, but was having difficulty finding one that would be both effective in frightening off Death Eaters, but not dangerous to students. But that creature, whatever it might have been, would not be the only change under the new Headmistress.

Harry was shocked to see the transformation of Dumbledore's office that had occurred. He should have realized McGonagoll wouldn't have kept all of Dumbledore's old things, but Harry hadn't thought about this aspect of Dumbledore's no longer being Headmaster. Gone were all of the whirring, smoking, whistling contraptions that Dumbledore had kept as mementos. Only a few of the more practical and useful pieces remained, including a large stone table with his pensieve resting on top of it, and a few of Dumbledore's old contraptions, which were whirring silently in the corner, next to pages of hand-written notes. But the rest of the office had been given a much more Celtic overtone, with an impressive carpet bearing a Celtic Cross covering the stone floors. The portraits of the former headmasters and headmistresses were pretending to snooze in their frames, except for a few that were shooting glances toward a large, roughly hewn stone statue. The statue was of a man with wild hair and eyes, holding a huge broadsword in one hand, and clutching his side with the other. Harry saw that the hand was holding a massive wound. The man in the statue was also lashed to a giant stone behind him. Harry assumed someone had tied him there to torture him. Then why would they give him a sword? He wondered.

Professor McGonagall was standing behind her desk as Harry and Draco entered, and he saw her lips thin as Draco stepped out of the fire. Apparently, she had not yet fully forgiven him for his role in the Death Eater's attack last year either. Harry got the same feeling in his stomach that he had when he'd stood before the Wizengamot, the feeling that he was about to face a firing squad with a shield made of wet paper. He had never been good at convincing Professor McGonagall of anything, especially of anything this big. He looked around for any kind of support, and his eyes fell upon the portrait of Dumbledore. He was not pretending to sleep, but following him and Draco with a warm smile on his face and his normal twinkle in his eyes. When Harry met those blue eyes, Dumbledore winked. Draco looked up at the picture apprehensively but the portrait just smiled at the young Slytherin.

"It's all right," Harry heard it whisper as they passed.

Professor McGonagall directed them to their seats, and each of them sat in the high, straight backed chairs, shifting uneasily. Harry saw real fear on Draco's face as he faced down the most fervent supporter of Albus Dumbledore. But Professor McGonagall's face was set, her emotions unreadable.

"Thank you both for coming on such short notice," she began. "I felt we have a few issues that need to be resolved before the beginning of the next term. First, I need to make sure my facts are correct, Mr. Malfoy." Draco flinched visibly in his seat.

"Is it true that you were the one who orchestrated the bringing of a cursed necklace into Hogsmeade last year?"

Draco's eyes shifted uneasily. "Yes," he muttered.

"And is it also true that that you attempted to poison Albus Dumbledore, and succeeded in poisoning Ronald Weasley?"

Draco had sunk lower in his seat. "Yes," he said, almost a whisper.

"Is it true, really true, that you conceived a plot to allow entrance into the castle to a group of Death Eaters, and that you were under orders to kill the Headmaster of this school?"

He couldn't even answer; instead giving the slightest of nods. Harry was sure if the ground had decided to swallow him up at that moment, Draco would have happily dropped into the abyss.

"One last question, Mr. Malfoy," said Professor McGonagall icily. "Is it true that after all of these misdeeds, you wish to return?"

The question seemed to stir the last of Draco's ebbing courage; he shifted higher in his seat and managed to raise his head, though Harry noticed he didn't meet the Headmistress' eyes.

"I do, yes."

Professor McGonagall gave a sharp nod of her head. Harry was amazed that she could play her cards this close to her chest.

"Why do you want to come back? You worked very hard and nearly succeeded in destroying this castle and all it stands for only a few months ago. Why are you set on returning?"

Harry didn't know what to expect. He had been wondering the same thing. What had caused Draco Malfoy to suddenly make such an erratic turn towards contrition?

Draco looked up, directly into the Headmistress's eyes. "It's the only home I have left," he said.

Professor McGonagall stared so long into Draco's eyes that Harry thought she might be using Occlumency. But after a moment, Draco's eyes dropped again. He had lost the staring contest.

"In all my years," McGonagall began, "I have never heard of such a request. You have done more to break the spirit of this castle than almost anyone else in the history of Hogwarts. You conspired to take over this school, you attempted to kill three times, and nearly succeeded twice, and you did it all while wearing the mask of a student. Professor Dumbledore loved his students more than his own life, and you threw his trust away as though it meant nothing. And now, after all of this, you expect me to allow you to return?"

"No," said Draco, "I really don't expect you to let me come back. But if it were possible, I would want to come back, I would do anything to make up for the things I've done."

McGonagall sighed. "It…It is possible for you to return, Mr. Malfoy. After consulting with many people, including former headmasters," she nodded toward the painting on the wall, "I have decided that you may return, but on a provisional basis."

Draco looked stunned, and Harry assumed he looked the same way. She was letting him back in?

"Provisional?" Draco croaked.

"Yes. You are to report to the Head of your House every morning, and you must allow him to Occlumense you in order to see that you have been doing nothing to put your enemies, your professors, or your school in danger. Can you accept that?"

Draco nodded without hesitation.

"Secondly, I need you to take up the responsibility you have been avoiding since Fifth Year, when Professor Dumbledore made you a Prefect. From what I heard, you have merely used the position as leverage to gain more power, to bully younger students, and other Houses. You must now use your position as a tool for keeping the peace. If I hear one report of you breaking the rules, or abusing your authority, I'll boot you out of this castle myself. Do you understand?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said.

"And lastly, if you are to remain here, you will have to become useful to us as well. I have reinstated Professor Lupin as the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, and I hear he is planning on reinstating Dumbledore's Army as a defense training group. I want you to join, Draco. And I want you to bring Slytherins with you."

"WHAT!" said Harry, shooting to his feet. The DA was his, his and Hermione's, and Ron's. What right did McGonagoll have to say who could join?

"Sit down, Mr. Potter. I know it is hard to imagine Draco joining your defense group, but it is a necessary step towards bringing about House unity. Slytherin House has never gone so far as it has now to alienate itself from the rest of Hogwarts. They need a leader, Mr. Potter. Someone they have trusted; someone who will bring them back into the spirit of brotherhood that once permeated these halls. Slytherin House needs Draco Malfoy. And this school needs Slytherin House. We can't be a stable pedestal of knowledge if one of our legs is missing. Do you accept these conditions?" Harry glanced desperately to Dumbledore's portrait; unable to comprehend having Slytherin's trained in Defensive and Offensive spell work. Dumbledore's portrait simply smiled serenely and nodded his head. Harry knew this was a losing battle, and if Dumbledore was okay with it, then maybe, just maybe, everything would work out.

Draco lifted his head. "I do, Professor. Thank you." McGonagoll looked to Harry but all he could give her was a muted nod. Appreciating Draco for his help with the horcruxes and the book, enjoying his surprisingly funny and witty company was one thing; allowing him to join one of Harry's most beloved activities at Hogwarts, training him in DADA work…training other Slytherins, that was a whole other issue. One that Harry apparently needed to work through. If only Hermione were here. She'd know just what to say.

"Don't thank me," said McGonagall brusquely focusing back on Draco. "I never would have let you in, personally, but Dumbledore argued strongly for your return." She glanced up at Dumbledore's twinkling eyes in his portrait. "Even after he's gone, he still cares for the students above all else, and that apparently includes you, Draco." She leaned over the desk, so that her piercing eyes were only inches away from Malfoy's face.

"I am placing an extraordinary amount of trust in you. Do. Not. Disappoint. Me."

Draco gulped, and nodded again, hurriedly.

"Very well, then. You may go." Draco stood. Harry stood as well; sure she was finished with both of them.

"Just a moment, Mr. Potter," said McGonagall, holding up her hand. She waited for Draco to Flue back to the Burrow, and then turned her attention to Harry.

"Don't think that the spirit of brotherhood is the only reason I want him in Dumbledore's Army," she said in a terse voice. "I know that Dumbledore left a legacy of trust, and would wish that I trusted all his students as much as he did, but if wishes were dragons, we'd all be on fire." Harry looked at her quizzically.

"I want you to keep an eye on Mr. Malfoy. Make sure he stays out of trouble. And if he starts any, feel free to remind him of his promise." There was a dark fire in her eyes as she said this and Harry knew he never wanted to be on the receiving end of any such reminders from McGonagoll.

Harry swallowed and nodded. "I never would have expected this change in him, Professor, but it seems to be genuine."

McGonagall sighed. "He's been through a lot this past summer, just like you have. Only what he's been through has weakened his resolve, while your experiences have only strengthened yours. But I want to be as careful as possible. We shall not be fooled again." Harry nodded, a moment of camaraderie blossoming between he and his Head of House.

"Will that be all, Professor?"

"Just one more thing, Harry," Professor McGonagall stood and faced the statue that had taken up residence in her office.

"Do you know the legend of Cuchulainn, Harry?"

Harry looked puzzled. "No, Professor."

"He was an Irish hero, still revered as one of the greatest fighters in Ireland. It is said that when he was whipped into a frenzy, there was not a power on Earth that could stop him. And he had only one weakness, that he could not eat the meat of a dog. Unfortunately, as part of the same weakness, he could never refuse a meal. And so, one of his enemies offered him a meal of dog meat, and Cuchulainn knew his fate on the battlefield was sealed. But even though he knew he was doomed, the warrior fought on, past the point of endurance, even when he had been fatally wounded. Cuchulainn lashed himself to a rock, so that he might die standing up fighting his enemies, and so that he would die looking those enemies in the eye. He fought to the last, even when all hope seemed gone. That's why I keep his statue in my office now."

Harry looked at the statue. He's not being tortured, thought Harry. He did it to himself.

"We are on the battlefield, Harry. The war is in these halls. It's the war not only between good and evil, but between fidelity and infidelity; this battle will not only be going on in our own school, but in our own hearts. We are strapped to the rock, all of us. And I plan to go down fighting." She paused a moment, staring at the fierce face of the Irish warrior. When her eyes focused on his, there was a fire in them that stoked the one in Harry's own heart. "Will you stand and fight Harry? Will you stand with me and fight?"

Harry looked again at the statue, and Dumbledore's words floated back to him. "The choice is between what is right and what is easy," he thought. I'm going to do what is right, even if it means I have to lash myself to a rock in order to keep fighting.

Harry nodded resolutely.

"I will."