This time: Hagrid has been inspected by Umbridge (on AO3). However, Harry's occlumency isn't going well, and Tom seeks Harry out in private for reasons Harry can't quite understand.

A/N: HJF, thank you again for telling me about typos, etc. :) This friendly author is still looking for a beta: are you volunteering? :D

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Chapter 13: One for sorrow: mass breakout

Several weeks passed without much fanfare. Harry avoided Occlumency lessons with Snape when he could, but was largely unsuccessful. One Monday evening, he managed to avoid him altogether—leading to a perfectly good Tuesday being spoiled by the sudden appearance of a large, black Crow on Harry's way to Hagrid's.

"Er." Harry said.

"Indeed." Snape snarled, looking straight at Hermione and Ron as he did so. "I trust the two of you can continue your dubious social call without Mister Potter. He has remedial potions to make up."

Hermione looked both shocked and displeased at this news. "You told us you went!" she exclaimed.

Harry shifted. "I went to the dungeons. Snape wasn't in, so I went to the, uh, library instead."

"Sadly, you must have passed by unnoticed. I suspect you were trying your best to remain unseen?"

Hermione nudged Harry sharply. "We'll see you in the common room after. Remember what Professor Dumbledore said—"

"That will be enough, Miss Granger." Snape interrupted. He latched onto Harry with one claw and steered him bodily into the dungeons without another word.

When they finally arrived at Snape's office, everything was set up just as before. Snape must have already deposited his memories in the Pensieve, for he only loomed over Harry for a moment before saying, "Prepare yourself." He looked positively vicious.

Then before Harry could do so much as breath, Snape had begun.

Aunt Petunia was holding Dudley's chubby hand, leading him cautiously through a park. "Stay away from those crows, Dudley-dearie! This early in the season, their tempers are nasty, nasty…"

"What can a crow do?" Dudley pouted. He was still too little to sneer properly.

"Why, I've seen them attack! Peck people's heads, they will—your father barely escaped when he was passing through. You wouldn't remember; you were just an iddy-biddy-baby." She looked fearfully at the crows.

"Dudley!" one of the kids called from the swings. "Come play!"

Harry looked at the boy hopefully, wanting to be invited too. But the other boy ignored him completely, instead saying, "Good afternoon Mrs. Dursley."

Dudley laughed sharply as the other boy ran off. He jerked his chin at Harry. "Why don't you go make friends with the crows? I bet they'd love to play a game of, of fly-and-peck with you!"

The memories were getting clearer and more detailed, even after weeks of lessons. He couldn't toss Snape out any more than he could stop remembering the color of summer when someone said 'July.'

"You. Aren't. Trying." Snape seethed.

Harry shifted uncomfortably. He wanted to say, One for sorrow, Two for joy, Three for a girl, Four for a boy, Five for silver, Six for gold, Seven for a secret, Never to be told, (*1) but knew from experience that Snape never reacted well to rhymes. Instead he thought it furiously, closed his eyes and made a show of breathing.

Then something strange happened. Snape sighed. He sat down heavily at the chair behind his desk instead of pacing, and he said to the polished wood, "If you're practicing deep-breathing, sit up straighter. Use your diaphragm, and hold your breath for five counts before letting it out slowly."

Harry stopped breathing immediately to gape at his professor.

"Well?" Snape demanded.

Harry tried, tentatively.

"Ridiculous." Snape said, standing up and walking over. "Whatever gave you the impression that squaring your shoulders is required? Remain relaxed." He gestured at the area just under his ribcage, Harry was delighted to see, and demonstrated. He looked a bit like a children's teacher for once, like that. "This muscle should move, not those." Then he roughly touched Harry's shoulders, one after the other.

Harry barely even flinched.

They continued like this for a few minutes before Harry reluctantly thought, This might not be so bad. He finally began to relax, the thoughts of the days (so many students, so much noise) eased away, and he leaned back into the straight-backed chair.

He dozed off while Snape was referring to a book, strangely silent as he looked through The magic of the mind. Harry wondered what took Snape so long to consider different methods.

The silence continued until it snapped. He did not know where he was.

Elation welled up inside of him, speeding his heart and coursing through him like wildfire. He began to laugh with the joy of it—hard and loud, the sound of it waking the magic in him.

He walked the paths of twilight, a pale shadow against the wood. And he opened his arms wide to the figures that made their way toward him.

He laughed, laughed.

Soon. It would be soon.

The sound of that laughter filled Harry's ears. He wanted it to stop, it was so loud, so raucous. And then he knew—

"Potter!" Snape was shaking him so hard that he banged his head into the chair. "Desist immediately-" and it registered in him, too. They'd both heard that laugh before, so high and cold.

Harry lurched forward, squirming out of Snape's grasp and crashing to the floor. He felt ill, and his scar burned with such an intensity. He wondered who had been laughing, but then, looking at Snape's face, he somehow knew it had been him. He had been laughing. Harry was dizzy and thought desperately of glass-coffins and thorn brambles set around an impenetrable castle. I can make a fortress of my mind, make a Hogwarts to keep Voldemort out….

The Crow was staring at him beadily. It cocked its head, resolving again into Professor Snape.

"Something's happened." He muttered, wishing for the breath that had come so easily before. "Something happened to make him so…so happy."

Snape stared at him, wordless. "Get a hold of yourself, Potter. This must stop; you must keep the Dark Lord out. You are an utter fool. Do you relish this insight into the Dark Lord's mind? Do you think it makes you special?"

"No—" Harry gagged, and fell silent, trying to get a hold of his body.

Harry looked back at the stone floor. He didn't know what to say, would never know what to say. He closed his eyes, breathed with his shoulders and his diaphragm (whatever that was) both, letting the breath out in a hiss.

"Clear your mind." Snape insisted, as though it was the simplest thing in the world. "You must not let him in. It is not for you to…" Snape trailed off.

"I'm not you." Harry said, anger flashing briefly in the well of panic. "Sing a song of black birds, put them in a pie. And when the pie was opened, they began to sing(*2)—seven for a secret, a secret, secret thing." The words of the rhymes blurred, and he said them again. Once more, and he could stop shaking. Three times would do it.

When he looked up, Snape was staring at him blankly. He did not look pleased. Nor did he protest when Harry let himself out of the office.

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Tom Riddle went to bed with a strange smile on his lips, and when he woke, he was confident that today would be a fine day indeed. He barely said a word to his year mates, and walked in comfortable silence, thinking of how things had panned out in the weeks after The Beast had come.

They made their way to the Great Hall for breakfast, and on the way there, they caught snatches of a very interesting conversation between their head of house and Lockhart.

"Shut it!" Harper hissed. "The Superintendent might be there too."

As far as Umbridge was concerned, the Slytherins watched the High Inquisitor's ascent with varying degrees of approval. They were clearly enjoying the parole she put two of their instructors on, and took every opportunity to make suggestions that favored their agendas.

They didn't even need to strain their ears, Snape was speaking so loudly. He had drawn himself up, holding a Daily Prophet in one clenched hand.

"Just what you were waiting for, I'm sure. Lockhart. Our local celebrity will surely make quick work of these Azkaban escapees. Weren't you just saying how unlucky it had been that you weren't there when the prisoners broke out?" Snape jeered.

There was a hush, and then whispers as the students took in this news. Some Slytherisn laughed and snickered, or just watched attentively according to their natures. Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle laughed, while Pansy and her lot shrieked unpleasant giggles. Most of the Slytherins were split between smiling and watching out of the corners of their eyes, though, as if they hadn't yet decided the best reaction.

"Deal with a mass breakout from Azkaban? Him?" Blaise snorted. He seemed unperturbed, unaffected by the news. Like several of the Slytherins in Harry's year, they seemed to have been expecting this. No doubt he had been informed by Malfoy, or perhaps his mother.

Lockhart began to speak, words bubbling up airily, "Azkaban? You don't say. Why I just—"

"I'm sure you'll be eager to tell us all about it over breakfast," Snape folded his paper in half, and walked purposefully ahead of the other professor.

As the Slytherins settled into their seats at the table, Tom noted the grim atmosphere that had enveloped the Hall.

After heaping his plate, Blaise Zabini spoke again, "Or maybe they don't like the threat of Azkaban criminals being made light of. That's what you're thinking, isn't it?"

Tom returned the look, keeping his expression blank. "Mass breakout to Sirius Black. Black." Only now did he let his disdain show, in artful and subtle intonation. "As though he could be a leader of witches and wizards."

"Have you heard about what Black did? He gave the Dark Lord the Potters. He killed all those Muggles," one of Tom's year-mates explained.

"That's just the story the informed let get passed around by the masses." Tom took a small bowl of salad, and carefully added toast and eggs to his plate. "What has he done since breaking out two years ago? Slashed a portrait? Frightened a Weasley out of sleep? Only the fact that he was able to break out himself lends him credit. But that's only if he broke out at all… He, and the others, might have been let out." Tom pierced a bit of salad with his fork, twisting it elegantly.

Tom gazed out over the Great Hall, watching for a certain Gryffindor's reaction to the news. As though sensing Tom's attention, Harry made his move. Harry might have said something to Neville, whom he'd been sitting by, or he might have said something to the table at large. Either way, Tom watched him leave his spot, and make his way to the doors.

Meanwhile, Snape still seemed to be attacking the other professor, goading, mocking or simply talking down to the professor, Tom couldn't quite make out.

"What's he playing at?" Tom mused. "Whose man is he, exactly?"

Across from Tom, Draco Malfoy stiffened. "Shut it, you half-blood. You don't know even half of what's going on right under your nose, much less what's going on outside." Draco looked puffed up, proud, perhaps of his knowledge or his family's position among the Death Eaters.

Tom decided that he didn't particularly like this position he held among the Slytherins. Unknown and nameless, and with only a "forgettable" past to go on, influence, prestige or standing were simply out of reach. He set his silverware down, his dark eyes shining with displeasure. If any of them recognized the look as a dangerous one, they didn't remark on it. "The meal is a bit dull today," Tom yawned, and stood up to find Harry. Dozens of eyes followed him leave.

Harry, as it turned out, had gotten caught up talking with a portrait. "So, even though the rest of the school is sort of memory-modified, you aren't. But you've got to have memories...the portraits guard the passwords and things. And could recognize Sirius Black...so why weren't you affected? Do your memories work differently?"

Tom snorted. "Give him time to respond, Harry."

Harry whirled around. "Oh, it's you."

"Magical portraits, you know, are really quite fascinating. The skill in which they are rendered—their ability to interact with other portraits or the living—is determined by the power of the witch or wizard who sat the painting. The less powerful witch or wizard are reflections of how the artist saw them—two dimensional figures who merely imitate their living models. They can't have an in-depth conversation. The portraits in the Headmaster's office, on the other hand, could impart memories, knowledge and interact with their living counterparts." Tom stopped to stand next to Harry, watching out of the corner of his eye to see if Harry was duly impressed with his knowledge.

"Hm. Don't be a show off, Tom. I'm sure this portrait could have told me that..." Tom looked affronted. Harry started to laugh, and then to sing, "Tom, Tom, the piper's son(*3)...learned to talk when he was young, and all the things that he could say, are magic tales from far away,"

Tom gazed back at Harry, unperturbed. "Harry, Harry, quite contrary...how does your knowledge grow?"

Grinning now, Harry nodded. "With my head in a book, and...wand in hand...er...I'm not good at making poetry up." He admitted. "Better at remembering it."

"And spell books all in a row." Tom finished, unable to stop himself. "I was going to the grounds. It's a bit…stuffy here."

Harry nodded, and without further comment, they left together.

Harry led the way, choosing the path around the Black Lake that had been so welcomingly empty at the announcement of the Tri-Wizard Tournament. They walked slowly, wrapped up in the news of the mass breakout from Azkaban.

"So." Harry said. "If we walk around the lake, someone will spot us, and then Umbridge will make walking outside during breakfast against the rules. Let's sit."

Tom sat next to Harry, there, by the Black Lake. Harry had chosen the most enclosed spot, a little cubby between two large trees overlooking the shore. Tom watched Harry carefully, as one might consider making their next move in a game. He moved his hand over Harry's, hesitating for a moment before letting his hand rest on top of Harry's.

Harry shifted, trying to remove his hand, but only succeeded in shifting their position. Now, Tom held Harry's hand in his. Sharp green eyes bored into him, every bit as demanding as Dumbledore's.

Curious, Tom brushed the surface of Harry's thoughts, only to get a nauseating sense of vertigo, and a pain that radiated from his very core. He mentally reached away from Harry, choosing instead to focus on the physical sensation of skin on skin.

Harry caught Tom's gaze challengingly. "Holding hands, dating. Snogging. Those things other people do. I had to reject loads of girls, you know. They asked me to the Yule Ball last year…. I wasn't sure they actually liked me, or just wanted to go with me because… well, you know. Famous. A champion." Harry ran a hand through his messy hair, and finally pulled his hand away. He set it back down on the ground. "A compromise." He explained, allowing his and Tom's pinky fingers to touch.

Tom felt a strange sense of everything doubling—his feelings, curious and cautious, and what might have been Harry's. What Harry was feeling was much stronger than his own curiosity. Harry felt something like a thrill. Tom guessed that Harry found Tom's presence to be dangerous, unknown, and thus extremely interesting, and more than a little attractive.

There was the feeling of something electric—or magical in some way. It was like the background hum of machinery, or the sounds of crickets or other insects crying in the night. Something in Tom made Harry's magic tingle and react, like a memory just on the edge of his mind. A sort of magic. Harry felt such a rush of confusion, attraction and that thrill so that Tom nearly thought the emotions to be his own.

For now, it was just enough to sit next to each other. To sit before the lake, and think.

"They keep saying something's wrong with you," Tom said reflectively, barely aware of Harry's annoyed glare and tense shoulders—really, Harry was insulted too easily, "and I have to wonder…what does that mean for me? For my particular case..."

"What?" Harry blinked, startled. He had obviously expected Tom to say something about his craziness, or go on about how to get better.

Tom took a breath, staring into the lake. Harry would open up to him, if he just shared something personal. Harry would trust him.

"I'm not going to sugar coat what everyone is saying about you, Potter. You've heard it. Nor am I going to try and spin things to tell you 'it's your new way of expressing yourself' or not to worry or some such rot. You're different from other people. That's done with, changed forever, maybe. So what. You're still the best in the Defense class, they say. You're still a fair hand at dueling. But if something's wrong with you, famous Harry Potter, what are they saying about me?"

"I don't really care what they say." Harry shrugged. "And I don't know what they say about you... most people seem to forget about you, or write you off as a quiet younger student. Part of the memory charm, I thought."

"Yes. It all comes back to memory..." Tom was quiet for a long moment, as though deciding whether or not to continue. "I have gaps in my memories... what should be rightfully mine... and what must have happened before I came to school here. "

"What? What do you mean what 'must' have happened? Voldemort sending you on a mission? What is your mission, anyway?"

Tom ignored that. "I can't remember everything." Tom said simply. "I remember my...childhood. I remember my past. But how did I get here, what happened that night?" He turned to look at Harry.

"That night." Harry echoed.

"What exactly do you recall?" Tom pressed. "I can't remember...more than hazy pieces."

Harry pulled back in on himself, much as Tom expected. This proved it, in Tom's eyes- whatever had happened was important. Death. Rebirth. Creation. Escape...

"You escaped." Tom said slowly. "I know that much."

Harry shrugged, and when Tom caught his gaze again, it wasn't exactly Legilimency, but something told him Harry was thinking of a subject (any subject) to make Tom stop talking.

"I don't pity you." Tom glowered. "So stop trying to make me shut up. We need to solve this, Mister Potter, or it'll ruin us both."

"Do you suppose Snape knows something?" Harry asked doggedly.

Tom frowned, tempted to pull his hand away, and supposed this change of subject would have to do. "Yes. He suspects, at least...he's most antagonizing towards Lockhart."

"Snape was a Death Eater... but I didn't see him there, in the graveyard... I think..." Harry shivered. "And he's teaching me occlumency." Harry snorted. "More like attacking me with legilimency- I'm not actually learning anything."

"Are you insinuating that Snape is a Death Eater spy? That Dumbledore thinks Snape is his man, and not the Dark Lord's. But is actually playing for the other side?"

Harry nodded grimly. "I heard him and Karkaroff talking about the mark."

"I do wonder about that man... which he thinks he's fooling... Being a double spy... it would be dangerous, that's for certain."

Harry shrugged. "I'm not convinced he's on anyone's side. I just know he's not trying to kill me yet."

"He could be a triple-agent..." Tom mused, thinking about exactly what one would have to say to fool both parties.

Harry groaned. "This is getting complicated."

Tom watched as the Giant Squid's tentacle poked through the surface, lazily swiping at something. "Snape suspects Lockhart, do you think? Or do you think he's trying to detract attention from his own doings? Or is he drawing attention to Lockhart for the sake of the light...or...he could simply detest the pompous man."

Harry snorted. "He has weird teeth." He gestured vaguely, making squiggly motions with his fingers. "Really. He said he had won the best smile for Witch Weekly."

Tom looked unimpressed. That subject was exhausted. "With the Death Eaters returned..." Tom looked up at the sky. "What sort of mischief do you think Voldemort will get up to?"

"You're more likely to know that. Have you told Dumbledore?"

"And play right into that man's hand? I won't be anyone's pawn."

"It's called being helpful. Not being a pawn."

"Besides. What would I tell him? That Voldemort is scheming to..get you? He already knows that, and Voldemort hasn't told me any details. I might have liked him better if he had."

"So. No guesses about what he wants with those moldy old Death Eaters?"

"None at all...aside from rebuilding his following, of course, but anyone could tell you that."

Harry sighed moodily. "No one ever tells me anything."

Tom laughed, and they sat in comfortable silence for the remainder of breakfast. When it was time to leave, Harry tilted towards Tom and craftily raised one arm, swinging it behind the other boy. Tom leaned back into the arm, but then, quick and sure as expected of a seeker, Harry's hand crept into Tom's bag, plucking out something shining and glittering.

"Ha!" Harry crowed. "Bout time you gave this back." Harry's hand closed around his mirror, and he sprang to his feet. "I need to talk with Sirius and Lupin, you know." He gave a cocky smile and jogged towards the castle.

Tom titled his head, and filed the information away. Sirius Black and former Professor Remus Lupin. He languidly rose to his feet, his eyes sparkling with amusement. Broke out of Azkaban to Black… "Harry, Harry, quite contrary…(*4)"

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(*1) 'One for sorrow.' Technically, this originally applied to magpies, but has been applied to crows as well.

(*2) 'Four and Twenty Black Birds.' The actual poem is:
Sing a song of sixpence, / A pocket full of rye. / Four and twenty blackbirds, / Baked in a pie.
When the pie was opened, / The birds began to sing; / Wasn't that a dainty dish, / To set before the king?

(*3) 'Tom, Tom, the Piper's Son,' which I first heard after reading Eldritcher (which you should read).
Actual song: Tom, Tom, the Piper's Son. He learned to pipe when he was young, and all the tune that he could play, was 'over the hill and far away.

(*4) 'Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary.'
Mary, Mary, quite contrary, / How does your garden grow? / With silver bells, and cockle shells, /And pretty maids all in a row.

All of these are English rhymes.

tbc…

Thoughts?