Chapter Fourteen: The Fourth Horcrux

Harry was dreaming. He knew he was dreaming as certainly as he knew he was talking to the ghost of Neville Longbottom. The words were fuzzy and faint, and his face was barely discernible, as if Harry had left his glasses behind in his own dream. Things went out of focus and there was screaming, crying, yelling, and a very loud voice howling, above all the crying-it sounded like Draco Malfoy-sobbing hysterically, "I can't, I can't, I can't, I-"

The face of Rita Skeeter loomed before him. She leered. Harry could even discern real words, now. "The Longbottoms . . . terrible things, those murders," her voice echoed eerily. She continued talking, the echoes becoming confused, a cacophonous melody.

Harry's mouth opened and an incantation emerged. "Go back, Rita . . ." More words came out, but Harry was pulled away from them. It felt like lifting his face out of a pool of thick potion. Harry woke with a start, a cold, bony hand shaking his shoulder. He groped for his wand, muttering, "Whassat?

"Wake up. We are leaving." A pale face loomed, moving, over Harry's bed.

Harry groped about and found his glasses. The face of Snape suddenly materialized, superimposed over the fuzzy orb that had been speaking. "Why?" Harry asked. He could have hit himself for asking; Snape wouldn't answer with anything but derision.

"I trust you wish to evaluate the plan and make sure it is up to your standards, then, Potter? I believe I have found another Horcrux. I trust you find this important enough to leave your bed for." He went to the door and said, "Ten minutes. Bring your cloak." And he shut it behind him.

Ten minutes was downright generous, for Snape, Harry mused. He swung his legs over the edge of his bed and stood, stretching, reflecting on his dream. He couldn't resist a small laugh. Rita Skeeter; he hadn't thought about her in quite some time. What a ridiculous woman. They had once looked at her as a threat. Now she was just a joke, a joke with bad hair and terrible taste in handbags.

Harry put on a pair of pants and looked before him. A cracked, dusty mirror at the end of the room hung slightly off-center, and Harry approached it. He wiped away some of the grime and saw a fractured image of his father. His father, he amended, with Lily Evans' green eyes. He smiled at himself and tried to tame his hair one more futile time. "Absolutely dashing," he muttered, making a stab at Sirius' lightheartedness, attempting to speak to himself as James Potter. "Absolutely dashing lad, we have here, and no females who can swoon over him." He tried not to think about Ginny.

He put on his robes and made a final, halfhearted attempt at his hair, for reasons he really couldn't identify. It was determined to remain messy. No matter the configuration of messiness, but the nature of the hair itself would not budge from decidedly unkempt. His attempts only worsened it. If today was it-if today was the day his luck really ran out-well. It would be with bed head.

"Fine," he muttered to the mirror, in a decent mood despite the seriousness of the situation. At least they were moving toward it. He picked up his cloak and slung it over his shoulder, turning an entire stripe of his body invisible. When he shook out his robes, a piece of parchment fell free of them. It was blank, but something touched the back of Harry's memory. What had he left in the pocket of these robes? With a growing grin, Harry whispered, "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good," and tapped the parchment with his wand.

Ink began to blossom on the page. Harry beamed. The Marauder's Map, by some chance of his own forgetfulness, had come along. Some remnant of his father and Sirius were hiding in his pocket all along. "Mischief Managed," he said, before the parchment was full of map. He took out a quill and wet it in ink.

Harry Potter, requesting to speak with James-Harry crossed out the proper name, and replaced it with the nickname-Padfoot and Prongs.

A line of script materialized. Harry Potter? Are you related? a spiky, narrow cursive asked.

A loopier, looser, flatter writing answered before Harry could. I certainly hope so; wouldn't want the Map to fall into untrustworthy hands. How do you do, Harry? Are you my long-lost brother?

With a smile, he imagined this as a pen-pal letter. Why hadn't he done this before? Tiny ghosts of Sirius and his father were waiting for him in his pocket. No, Prongs. I'm your son.

The parchment was blank for a moment, and a furious scribble arose in four different scripts simultaneously. All faded, as if scratched out by a large hand, and the spiky script-Sirius, Harry thought, flushing in excitement and affection-wrote messily, WHAT?

He finally got to Lily Evans, Harry wrote back.

Evans! You old dog! Sirius wrote.

The loopy Potter script looked slightly mussed with haste and discomposure. You're the dog in this outfit, Pads. There was a pause. Besides, who can resist my suavity, my charm, my-

Messy hair and blind eyes and gangly arms-

MY CHARM, Pads. MY CHARM.

Harry laughed, a slow ache in his abdomen receding. Loneliness, he realized. He hadn't even known it was there until he found some small element of camaraderie.

A straight-backed, curling script entered the conversation. Perhaps she finds stalking attractive, it suggested.

Moony? Harry wrote.

None other, the invisible hand inked delicately, the end of it's cursive "r" curling with what Harry suspected was satisfaction.

Harry was struck with sudden inspiration.

Tell me about Severus Snape, he wrote. Anything I can go to get to him. Anything I should know. It was a long shot, Harry knew, but he was grasping at straws, and after all the time he had been with Snape he was still no closer to trusting or not trusting him.

Snivellus, a new hand wrote, in awkward and sloppy capitals, is a unique form of a magical beast that holds most of its power in it's gargantuan nose.

Indeed, James agreed. Mammoth nose-

Nose that deserves it's own small country-

But what about HIM? Harry scribbled, interrupting, so intent on the paper that he didn't even hear the door open.

"Enjoying yourself, Potter," an icy voice asked from the door.

Harry stuffed the parchment in his pocket, hoping Snape hadn't seen it. "I'm ready," he stuttered quickly. "Where-"

"Take care of that map," he said. "We will need it later. Not today."

"Map?" Harry said. As he said it, he knew how transparent the lie was. Snape did not look convinced, and Harry glared stubbornly and stuck to it. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You are wasting my time with lies. I trust you are prepared."

"Yeah," he said, stuffing his wand into his jeans pocket. "What's the plan?"

"We have come by a stroke of luck in this, Potter. My research leads me to believe that the Dark Lord put this horcrux deep in the site of an extremely magical battle. Rowanhenge, you might recall from your history lessons."

Harry didn't, but he thought it best to nod along.

"The place has been unearthed by Muggles as an archeological site. Since the Dark Lord does not follow Muggle news, he has not learned of it-but there is a golden quill in a Muggle museum."

"A-what?"

"Ravenclaw's quill," Snape said.

"Hold on, you've-you've found it? You've done it all without me?"

Snape gave him a cool, appraising look. "I did not want you in my way."

Harry anger mounted. "In your way? I've fought Voldemort loads of times, and-"

"You will not say his name," Snape snarled, "And I have fought the Dark Lord every time I have been in his presence-every time he has called for me since his return-every time I have been forced into the company of Bellatrix Lestrange, who even now, even after I have murdered Albus Dumbledore, even now distrusts me-I have fought the Dark Lord daily since Dumbledore's death, and you-" here he thrust a finger at Harry, inches from his nose, "You assume you could do it better than I?"

Harry's hands were fists at his sides, and it took all his will not to push the finger away from his face. He drew himself up to his full height-almost as tall as Snape, he realized-and spat, "No, I don't think I could do it better, but I think I could help."

"That is the wish of a child."

Harry exploded. "This is my life! This is everything! This is what I've been training for, this is what I've been working toward since I was eleven years old! Ever since they told me what really happened to my mom and dad!" He was white-knuckled. "Dumbledore trusted me."

"Dumbledore," Snape said coolly, "Is dead."

Harry shook with fury. "So is everyone else I've ever looked up to, and-almost all of them-are your fault-"

Snape stared him down, his expression unfathomable, his face blank and lip curling upward in a sneer. Harry willed himself not to back down. He was no longer eleven; the days when this man, this black and hateful spectre could scare him were past. I'll kill him if he gives me a reason. I'll do it, Harry thought, and he was sure this intent was writ so clearly on his face that Snape would not even have to perform Legillimency to find it. It would be so easy. Let him see how easy it would be.

Snape broke the silence. "Either come with me or do not. It makes no difference to me. I could accomplish this on my own. Make your decision." He stepped back and seemed to compose himself for a moment. "Well?"

Harry took a few deep breaths, tucking away his anger as best he could. He relaxed each finger in each of his fists one by one. "What's the plan, then?"