DISCLAIMER: I don't own Harry Potter, or his universe, or his owl, or even his awesome wand polishing kit. That's all the property of J K Rowling.

SUMMARY: Sir Albus meets with the Minister, Hermione gets festive, and Harry and Ron frolic in the Forest.

Chapter Twenty-Six - Horace Heads The Hunt

"It remains a common belief within guild houses - and the historical records very much agree, I'd say - that the pantheons of old shared a symbiotic relationship with the most powerful sorcerers of antiquity. Muggles created the gods, of that we're sure, but wizards arguably gave them life. Before Ariston of Actium, the god Apollo was without a face. The great deity El was rumoured to duel with the ancient warlock Yaakov at Jabbok. These names attained their immortality through this... inter-planar association, as one might phrase it.

"So to study the Gellert Grindelwald's rise to power, to study this pernicious regime which can lay claim to the sacking of cities like Sumy, and Varna, and Baghdad and Delhi, and overlook the mountains worth of ritual imagery depicting the High Warlock as Death incarnate is a grave mistake to make."

~ Professor Elphias C. Doge on Trishula influences within contemporary Theurgy

"It's like a blimmin' monsoon out here! Thought we'd seen the last- oh!"

"Watch y'step, Norris! You'd reckon they would've booned off summat like this. Wild knows where my taxes go..."

For a Samhain night, there were indeed few boons to be found behind the Yorkish walls - magical or otherwise. The downpour had left Sablestaff Square all but submerged by nightfall; a heavy Drought Charm, magicked by the breath of the statues of Falconry House, afforded passersby the briefest refuge on their journeys homeward.

Unfortunately, such comfort was not extended to the occupants of said Chief House.

Albus suffered a twinge of irritation as he drew his eyes away from the street to the Longbottoms' front porch. A pulsating lattice of thick, luminous blue cords encased the bounds of the estate, punctuated by the screeches of the surveillance owls circling its steep, shingle roofs. It was an altogether unnecessary spectacle, and certainly not Barty's doing.

From the corner of his eye, Albus caught a viridian flicker from the far-right window. Seconds later, the narrow double doors before him parted ways with a yawn, unleashing an almighty din from the corridor beyond.

"- dare to make use of our fireplace - unannounced - after all we've been put through? The nerve!"

"I - well, I can only sympathise with your displeasure, Madam Long- "

"By trespassing? Is that what passes for sympathy these days, Minister? You are taking advantage- "

Having spent decades within the Wizengamot Chambers, Albus bore witness to some of the most infamous quarrels in British wizarding history. There was, therefore - especially given the severity of the situation - something to be said for the amusement he derived from watching Cornelius Fudge receive such a thorough dressing down courtesy of the Chief-witch of Elmet herself.

" - capitalising on our misfortune - "

"Which with all due respect is a matter of national security, dear Madam -"

"Ah, Wizard Fudge," said Albus warmly, inclining his head as he set his gaze upon the bony, vulture-hatted witch beside the Minister. "I promise to return him in due course, dear Madam."

Madam Longbottom huffed. "Please, Albus - don't hurry on my account."

Guiding the spluttering, violet-suited wizard with a gentle palm, Albus grimaced slightly as the doors slammed shut behind them.

"Now that really was poor form, Cornelius," he said with a sigh as the lattice expanded to accommodate them.

"Honestly! You're siding with her?" said Cornelius, spittle flying from his mouth as he levelled a finger at the doors. "She's being unreasonable - I'm here entirely for their best interests!"

Albus lowered his head. "You are here to save face, Cornelius. I understand your position and yes, I am assured that you're acting with the best of intentions- "

"I should hope so!" he said quickly, his lime-green bowler hat threatening to topple at his frenzied nods.

"- but you do so at the expense of Madam Longbottom and her grandson," finished Albus, a palm trained on one of the glowing ropes. "I'd think that such a sensitive situation would warrant some discretion -"

"Discretion, Albus?" Cornelius threw his head back with a sniff. "You can save that lecture for the papers. Old Cuffey's probably salivating at the scoop they landed five minutes before this happened... they aren't called the Prophet for nothing..."

"I'm hard pressed to disagree," said Albus, wry-mouthed as they watched a band of Patrollers cast Shield Charms before a mob of wizards armed with cameras. "Have you been briefed?"

Cornelius gave a weary shake of the head, lifting a jittery hand to remove his hat.

"I'm as worried as you should be, Albus. No spell damage to the premises... no holes in the enchantments. Nothing of note was stolen but- "

"The dear Madam's journal."

"Yes." Cornelius turned around to ogle the double doors. "We can only rejoice that no one was home, save the elves."

Albus nodded. How fortunate indeed.

"And Clipsy, the Head Elf?" he said, at which Cornelius shuddered.

"Albus - that is highly sensitive information!"

"And Director Crouch has requested my aid as a Warlock," said Albus, brow lifted. "I know that you wouldn't wish to hinder the investigation. This has the Albatross written all over it - if he bore malice towards Ignatius, Roger's legacy is no different."

Cornelius' mouth twisted shut as he leered at Albus.

"Cornelius, I ask only out of courtesy," said Albus, looking him in the eye. "I will be informed."

After a pregnant pause, the Minister relaxed his stare, and Albus' faith was redeemed. Cornelius was a stubborn wizard - a proud one, at that - but ultimately just... when steered so.

"The poor girl's gone round the bend," said Cornelius, shaking his head again. "But it's all we have at the moment. She was a little worse for wear when they found her... partially Obliviated, actually -"

"Obliviated?"

"Yes," replied Cornelius, his voice ragged. "The culprit didn't consider how different the mind of an elf is from that of a human's. The Healers aren't sure if they can do much about it, which is especially annoying as she's the sole witness."

Tact aside, Albus concurred.

"Is she coherent?" he asked.

"Barely," breathed Cornelius, nursing his brow. "Investigations pried as much as they could. She wouldn't stop harping on about Frank, Roger, the family... "besmirching the House" and all sorts."

Frank, now?

"Where is Neville?" asked Albus.

Cornelius frowned for a moment. "With Algernon, I was last told - staying at some Abbott woman's home. Heard of her?"

"We've met, in passing," said Albus, his gaze travelling down the street to the dimming torches around the Square. "She once tended to Elmwood Gardens under Augusta's employ, for the shortest time."

"Say no more," muttered Cornelius, casting a wary look at the drawn curtains on the top floor. "Well, the boy's in good hands, and we have our ears on the ground. The Keys are more than secure for the time being."

I should hope so, Minister.

By irony or miracle, Hogsmeade was spared the rain.

Weather, of course, was the least of Harry's concerns. Woden's frigid, suffocating presence during the Samhain offerings likewise did little to dampen his motivations - if anything, it bolstered them. He grew restless mere heartbeats after setting foot on the Castle grounds that evening, his eyes set firmly on the setting sun even as he helped to cast the necessary Charms for the second-years' bonfire camp.

Camp. The constant utterance of the word taunted him as much as it threatened his plans. No one, to his knowledge, had scarcely entertained camping out on the lawns until that morning. Then again, he wasn't exactly up to date with Hogwarts' current affairs.

"Harry? Come on, eat."

The formidable fragrance of smoked salmon flushed itself down his nostrils; for a fleeting moment, Harry savoured it, opening his eyes to greet Tracey Davis with a grateful smile.

"I haven't eaten all day," he said, accepting the toasted sandwich with a soft nod. "Cheers."

Tracey beamed at him. "No worries," she replied, skipping over to the other side of the flaming pumpkin where Pansy and Daphne sat waiting with bated breath. Despite his focus on the task at hand, he found his ears straining to decode the feverish whispering that ensued. The roaring fire among other disturbances rendered it a futile pursuit.

"You sure you want to eat that, idiot? What if it's laced with a Love Potion or something?"

Harry snorted, opting to take a generous bite.

I wish. Tracey's smart, but that's N.E.W.T-level stuff. That and her aunt would crucify her.

"Professor Johnson? She likes you," purred Holly. "What if she's in on it?"

Where do you get off with these ideas?

Holly giggled.

"Think fast, Jelly-Legs," someone rasped behind his ear. Harry instantly spun around, only for his cheek to come into contact with a frigid glass bottle.

Swearing as the sting began to recede, Harry narrowed his eyes at the cackling Susan Bones standing above him.

"Potty mouth! Love it," she said with a tight-lipped smile, hiking her robes as she took a seat beside him. Her arm was outstretched. "Here's the Butterbeer I owe you."

"Pleasure," muttered Harry, ignoring Susan's tut as he wrenched the bottle from her grasp. "Enjoying yourself?"

"A little," she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "You're not."

"Why'd you say that?"

She fixed him with a pointed stare. "Because you haven't left this spot for two hours."

"I'm content," he said, taking a sip of the Butterbeer. The sweet, viscous, and faintly heady liquid served to soothe his nerves for the meantime.

"You're moping, as usual," said Susan, jutting out her lower lip. "Is it because of Granger?"

"Sorry?"

Harry thought it best to feign ignorance, as was routine for the past couple of weeks. Of all the mishaps that arose since his entry into Hogwarts, that his entirely private falling-out with Hermione was the most controversial of the lot was a Higher Mystery in itself.

"You heard me," she said flatly. "You're too young to tie yourself down anyway, don't you think?"

Harry shook his head. "You knob."

Susan laughed, and Harry couldn't help but join her. He had only the vaguest idea of what a marriage should entail, but he was fairly confident that the concept of 'forever' factored into it somehow.

Given his track record with Hermione so far, an eternity did not bode well.

"Speaking of lovers," he said, chancing a deeper swig, "where's Smith?"

Susan gave him a funny look. "Don't whisper, Potter - I can hardly hear you."

"Say what, now?"

Susan aimed a finger at his nose. "Dead serious. Last thing I want is you of all people giving him ideas."

Harry barked a laugh. "Smith? He can't stand me."

"Oh yeah," said Susan, tapping her own bottle against her shin. "He's a little scared of you, too. Well, maybe a lot scared, now that I come to think of it... "

Still.

"You expected more of him?"

No, but...

To the present day, Harry was granted several opportunities to prove not his innocence, but his worth at the very least. He made use of every one - they generally fell on deaf ears. But did his partnership with Susan count for nothing? With Cedric, even? They were stars among their housemates, so he imagined that their testimonies would carry some clout.

"You've told them I'm not evil, right?" said Harry, setting the Butterbeer down to attend to the sandwich in his lap. "It's hard to make friends when you're always Cursing them from behind."

He glanced at Susan to flash a smile, but was surprised to find her features absent of mirth. She scowled, burrowing her face into her knees as she cradled her legs. The nearby chatter and crackling of the bonfire only served to magnify the silence between them.

Then, after a good minute, Susan coughed.

"Ss'umful," she mumbled.

Feeling an unexpected rush of relief, Harry smiled. "That isn't a word, Susan."

He received a jab to the ribs for his trouble.

"I said it's not my fault," said Susan through gritted teeth as she resurfaced. "Zach just doesn't like you. But I'm... it wasn't clever of me, Cursing you last year. Maybe a bit rich- "

"Yeah, just a little bit- "

"Oh shut up, Pothead."

Harry puffed a laugh, downing a gulpful of Butterbeeer in triumph as he cherished the moment as a breakthrough of sorts. For Susan Bones to even allude to her shortcomings meant that he truly had one less problem to deal with.

"Speaking of which," murmured Hollygalleon as Ron caught Harry's eye from a few yards away. He was entangled in what appeared to be intense negotiations with Dean and Terry Boot, periodically throwing an exasperated glance at Harry. "I think that's your cue."

He can handle it. They probably want to score fireworks off his brothers, or something.

"... or something?"

Don't care - I'm staying put. No one needs to know that we're leaving, let alone where.

At one point, Dean followed Ron's line of sight; following a brief look of shock, his shoulders sagged as he trudged towards Harry and Susan.

"Here comes Taverner," said Susan, blooming a fresh grin. "What did you do?"

"Why would you assume that- ? Oh, for Christ's sake..." Rising to his feet in resignation, Harry regarded the advancing trio with a breezy nod.

"Heading off, Harry?" said Dean, an eyebrow raised as he crossed his arms. "Where's the fire?"

"Over there," he replied, chuckling under his breath as he pointed to the flaming pumpkin. Susan laughed too, all but declaring the joke a failure.

"Big mistake, going over there," said Terry. "Haven't even thought of the stakes, I'd bet."

He wouldn't tell them...

"Are you sure, idiot?"

Harry felt a blow to the gut as he turned to Ron, who was fidgeting on the spot and looking everywhere but forward.

His blood began to boil.

"Ron!" he growled through gritted teeth. "You didn't- "

" 'Course not!" replied Ron hastily, crossing his palms. Terry shot him a bemused look.

"Look mate," said Dean, inching forward to lay a hand on Harry's shoulder, "I get it, yeah? But is it really worth going over there?"

Harry closed his eyes, gathering every last drop of restraint that he could muster to stop himself from wringing Dean's arm. Holly tutted, nipping at his thigh.

"Oh please. Keep your cool and you won't get hurt."

Harry ignored her.

"Really? What is it that you get?" he spat, baring his teeth. "The lack of privacy? Trust?" He sneered at Ron. "Hope?"

Ron groaned. "You mong! I didn't even- "

"Whoa - leave it, man!" Dean's hand flew from Harry's shoulder to placate Ron. "And it's not even that deep, Harry. I mean, sure, you fancy her and that but- "

"What?"

"You're off to the other party, innit?" said Dean, tapping his nose. "We know about Hermione, mate."

Terry sported an upturned smile. "We all know."

Harry scoffed. "You mean like how you 'knew' that goblins hatch their young underground in Culture last week? Get stuffed, Boot- "

"Oi!" Harry stood stunned; Ron's scream perforated his pall of rage. The ambient conversation was cut short, and Harry could feel the weight of the camp's gazes shift their way.

"Would yooo-ou mind ss-simmering down a tad?" came the slurring drawl of Nearly-Headless Nick, whose flailing legs seemed to be having trouble staying afloat. "I'm trrrr-ying to enjoy the brass band."

Susan murmured something inaudible to Terry as Ron, pink-cheeked, dug his heels into the mud.

"Sink or Spill, anyone?" called Dean, who deflated with relief as the scattered onlookers gravitated towards the fire. He gave Harry a sombre look before trotting off to join them.

"We off, then?" said Ron archly.

Harry's gaze fell to the floor. "Yeah, sure. Um, sorry- "

"Forget it," replied Ron, jabbing the side of his arm. "Snidgets over sparrows, my brother always says."

"What?"

Ron grinned. "We've got bigger things to worry about. Like 'hope', and that."

Harry sniffed a laugh, eyes wandering upward in search of the waxing moon. Grateful though he was that Ron was so forgiving, he chastised himself for yielding to his emotions with such ease. They would do him little good tonight.

"And that indeed," he mumbled as they began to climb the lawns, idly aware of Susan's laughter behind them.

"Underground? Are you dizzy, Boot? And they call Hufflepuffs dim..."

"So Sir Nick was drunk back there," said Ron, his voice muffled by the density of the surrounding foliage. "Don't find that odd at all, no?"

"Not really - it's the one night he can be," replied Harry. "I swear you get better marks than me in Theurgy, as well."

"Doesn't take much, does it?"

Harry sniggered despite himself; he was in dire need of a ritualistic adept, and Ron was the fairest fit. Actually performing the oblation, however, would remain a peripheral matter until they could manage to locate the house in which his father imprisoned the poltergeist, Peeves.

That their departure point was a sprawling maze of untamed shrubs further hampered their prospects.

"Hagrid hasn't let the field go at all, has he?" muttered Ron, wrinkling his nose as a grey, furry, swollen-looking insect hovered past them. "Bloody Glumbumbles everywhere..."

"I'd reckon he's twice as cut as Sir Nick, right now," said Harry, fishing out the Grimoire and a quill from his satchel. "I'll just be a minute or two."

Hello, Dad. It's Samhain night, and I'm in front of the East Field. What's next?

.

..

...

..

.

We accepted you, and only you, as a pupil and custodian. The Grimoire was satisfied in your fulfillment of the former. But as of Samhain most hallowed, does the book still lie in the hands of Harry James?

As such, we ask that you prove yourself just once more by applying the lessons you've learned.

"Prove myself? Are you- ?" Harry grit his teeth.

After everything I've already done?

Holly brushed his side with a tepid breeze. "Harry..."

"Everything okay, mate?" said Ron, clearing his throat in a dreadful attempt to mask an anxious lilt.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine," said Harry, ignoring his aching fingers as he throttled the quill between them. "Just give us a bit..."

What now?

.

You say that you're a Potter? You say that you're my son?

"How dare he? Doesn't he know who you're doing this for?"

Yes.

.

..

...

Show me.

I hate this... but I have to do it, don't I?

"I'm sorry, idiot."

Somehow, he knew, even before his father had asked. Perhaps that was the true magic of the book - meanings meant for him alone? In any case, only one symbol could suffice - only one medium.

Only a mark which a Potter could bear.

Lump in throat and lead in stomach, Harry let out a ragged sigh.

"Ron? Can you hold the book for me?"

Ron gaped at him. "M-me? You sure?"

Harry tried to smile. "Just don't peek. Hold it up facing me, all right?"

Shrugging a little, Ron curled his long, shaky fingertips around the Grimoire's cover, presenting the parchment to Harry with a gulp.

"Like this?"

Harry nodded his assent, drawing Hollygalleon from his robes. He adjusted his grip, welcoming the warmth and the rush of resolve that it granted him.

"Dad was right - I've only got two hands, so a 'Lumos' won't do. Stellulae creo... locomotor."

Circling the lime-green beads of light over their surroundings, Harry's eyes roamed the naked earth until he spotted his treasure: a smooth, flat pebble that would fit snugly within his palm. Kneeling down to retrieve it, he gave Ron a grim smile as he turned the pebble over.

Ron chuffed. "I could do with learning that one."

"It's supposed to be easier," said Harry, examining the pebble's surface. "With Lighting Staves, anyway - it was designed for them."

A gallery of thoughts scrubbed their way through his consciousness as he fought to find his tongue. As he drew his next breath, the image of the Crucible shrouded in steam flooded his senses:

"All comes from earth,
And earth will claim all.
Fortune is futile
For all heed Death's call!"

Harry tapped the pebble just twice, assured that he was wise enough for the spell to heed him so. He was a Potter, and as his ancestor George Philip once attested, "Potters worked materials."

He wasn't disappointed. As he gave Holly a flourish, the wayward beads of light hovered to his open palm, revealing the face of a flawless Lead Coin, complete with a relief of the Potters' crest: a pickaxe and a wand, crossed and aflame above a steaming cauldron.

It should have sufficed; after all, the Headmaster himself couldn't cast the spell. The crested trinket was a cantrip of heritage - Harry had only stumbled upon it by way of obsession. Of Fortune, even. But for the Grimoire, he could feel that it wasn't enough.

Hollygalleon was shivering.

"I don't want to do this, Harry."

But I have to. Trust me, and I'll trust you.

Stowing away the Coin for the time being, Harry lifted his empty palm to the light, steeling himself for the imminent discomfort.

"Diffindo," he said stiffly, seething as his palm was sliced open.

"Shit, Harry!" squeaked Ron, ashen-faced as he fumbled the Grimoire. "What in Woden... "

"Yeah, blame him," Harry ground out, reaching for the Lead Coin with his wounded hand and giving it a firm squeeze. "Though I might've overdone it..."

His wand hand shuddered.

"I'msorryI'msorryI'msorry"

I said that I overdid it, Holly.

"W... why did you make me do that? I'm supposed to stop you from getting hurt, idiot!"

Harry bit down on his lip, dipping into his robes once more in search of a handkerchief. He wrapped the cloth tightly around the weeping cut, cursing the oft-vaunted genius of James Potter as he did so.

Sorry, Holly, but you did great all the same. Thank you.

"F-frigeo..." Fingers slackening as the handkerchief's temperature fell, Harry laid the sniffling Hollygalleon to rest at his thigh. He held the Coin in his wand hand, lips scrunched as he gazed upon his father's scrawl.

"There," he grunted, kneading the bloodied crest into the Grimoire's parchment with a spiteful thrust. "Happy?"

So much for 'I always remember after the first'...

Not a moment after Harry retracted the Coin, a hissing whistle escaped from the page, where a clean, sepia-coloured scorch mark stained its bottom half.

Ron's lip curled.

"That wasn't- "

"No, not Dark," said Harry quickly, eyes trained on the page. "Just blood."

He pored over the tome, holding a breath for what was surely an aeon, but the Grimoire's ink delivered as promised.

Thank you, son.
(and my deepest apology as your father, should it mean anything to you)

HARRY JAMES
LAST OF POTTER AND PIPEREL
HEIR TO THE SHROUD OF FORTUNE

seek first the Whomping Willow and cool its temper at the strangled knot - beneath the root lies the path ahead

As was the case regarding much of Hogwarts' happenings, Hermione found herself absorbing the festival's sights and smells with tart delight. Tart especially, as many a Muggle child would delight at the prospect of playing with ghosts, feasting on dragon meat, and fencing with heatless sparklers. Not for the first time (as she watched a first-year latched onto the Bloody Baron's trailing chains squeal with glee), Hermione wondered if the magical world was some cruel simulation - a mirror-image of humanity's collective imagination broadcast in three-dimensional technicolor.

Clearwater, however, would have admonished her for wasting her brainpower on such a sour sentiment: doubly so in the absence of lessons. Upon hearing about Parvati's invitation, the Ravenclaw Prefect was eager to encourage Hermione's attendance.

"See? She's a pure-blood, and she wants you there," she said as they left the Library the previous night. "And that girl Fay, was it? Sounds like you two get on all right, so they can't all be rotten, eh... Mm! Which reminds me - I've been cordially invited to the Astronomy Tower... "

That optimism, while just persuasive enough to drag Hermione out of the Castle, fell painfully short of keeping her spirits afloat as the evening trudged along.

"... and the dread cleric stalked ever closer to the bonfire," droned Clearwater as the huddled group of second-year witches (sans Hermione, of course) gawked at her with rapt attention, "but as the elflings tried to scream, they discovered to their dismay that no sound would come..."

A trembling hand seized Hermione by the forearm.

"Get off, Lisa."

Lisa whimpered as she relaxed her grasp. " 'S-scary."

Suppressing a snort, Hermione met Parvati's eyes, lit by fire and mirth from the other end of the circle. She felt a playful tug at the corners of her mouth and, though it was partially at Lisa's expense, Hermione was overcome by a shower of warm tingles at her sides.

She giggled, as did everyone else, but loudly cleared her throat as an encroaching current of jeers threatened to disrupt the mood. Though they were led by Dean and Seamus, among others, Hermione counted more than one green scarf among the newcomers.

With Greengrass, at that.

Dean arched an eyebrow. "Is this everyone?"

Clearwater eyed Hermione for a moment before looking over her shoulder.

"Depends," she said, hands on knees as she rose to her feet. "Do you have any snacks to share?"

Dean cast his eyes to the side. "Well, er - we're not here to join in, see."

"Good," said Parvati, arms crossed. "You weren't invited, so jog on- "

"York's locked down!" shouted Greengrass. She wasn't smiling. "It's all over the Wireless!"

Terry Boot nodded. "The whole of Elmet, actually. They've Jinxed off all the Apparition points again - the Chief-witch's house was burgled."

"That's Neville's Nan, innit?" asked Fay amid a round of frenzied whispers. "And he's down there and all..."

"The Chief-witch?" Clearwater tucked her chin. "That's magically impossible!"

"Not now, it ain't," said Seamus, shrugging. "That Worm-tail wizard's doing numbers out there."

"You said it was burgled," said Parvati, wearing a deep frown. "I mean, yeah, that's not good, but no one's hurt, are they?"

Terry tilted his head. "Well... I guess not, but- "

"This is bad news," said Clearwater, turning to Parvati. "Each Chief House guards the Keys to one of the Grand Oak's Boughs - like the Bough of Elmet. The Keys are the longest-standing defences the country has against invaders and the like. Most of the enchantments we have in place now were built on top of them. It's some of the most powerful magic out there, and someone outside of the Chief House's line shouldn't be able to break in. It doesn't work like that."

"Why not?"

All eyes fell upon Hermione's hardened stare. She knew the answer, vaguely, and she hadn't cared for it before.

"It was over a millennium ago, when Christianity first flourished," said Clearwater, her eyes straying toward the fire. "The Church condemned witch-hunts more than once, but the fact that they had to should tell you enough. So, as they did all over the world for several different reasons, the wizards decided to jump ship. The most able witchfolk at the time just about had the resources to protect everyone between them, so they did, and made a pact in blood to protect those under them as long as their lines would last. That's why you can't break in - you have to be of the Chief House's blood. So for someone to... it was a massive cock-up the last time they had to refine the Keys."

Hermione heard a couple of scattered coughs further down from Dean, where a head of white-blond hair dipped in and out of view.

"Maybe it is the Trishula, then," whispered Lisa, quivering against Hermione. "The war really isn't over..."

As if on cue, the Castle bells rang in the distance.

"PUPILS ARE TO RETURN TO THEIR DORMITORIES IMMEDIATELY," thundered a voice that, if a tad unsteady, was unmistakably Professor McGonagall's very own. "THE GROUNDS AND HOGSMEADE VILLAGE ARE OUT OF BOUNDS AS OF THIS NOTICE. RETURN TO YOUR DORMITORIES AT ONCE."

Lisa squeaked.

A tide of groans and curses flooded the lawns as the revellers sluggishly made to douse their fires. The widespread panic that Hermione expected never surfaced, indicating that the news had yet to spread - or that most of the Upper School was too drunk to care.

But Clearwater wasn't.

"Hermione?" She was rooted to the spot, brow marred with concern. "Where are your other friends?"

"S'a bit top-heavy, wouldn't you say?"

Were it uttered by anyone else, Harry would have deemed it the understatement of the year. He nursed little doubt, of course, that Ron Weasley would surpass himself before the winter's end.

So Harry laughed a little, in spite of all his misgivings - and the dull throbbing from his wounded palm - as they stood before the monstrous frame of the Whomping Willow, so aptly named.

"My Uncle Gideon tried to climb it once," said Ron, head bobbing in tandem with the Willow's naked branches. "Took Dumbledore and all the Heads an hour to pull him off."

"Off... ?" Harry studied the Willow's sinewy appendages for a while before glancing at Ron's own gormless stare. "Pull him off?"

Ron shrugged, mouth still open. "That's what he said. Give us the plan, then."

"I like him," purred Hollygalleon.

Well he did name you. Talking again, are we?

"It's been ten minutes, idiot," replied the wand, brushing against his side. "I didn't know you cared so much..."

"Just to let you know there's three of us here," said Ron, grinning as Harry's eyes whipped toward him. "You look like a bloody troll when you talk to that thing."

Harry rolled his eyes as he drew his wand.

"We need to find the 'strangled knot', first," he said, sweeping Holly high above their heads. "Stellulae creo, locomotor!"

A swarm of colourless beads, far less vibrant than before, erupted from Holly's tip, orbiting the trunk of the Whomping Willow as they formed a cloudy halo.

"Just enough to see," said Harry, tapping the wand at his thigh. "Not enough to get caught. What d'you reckon?"

Ron exhaled sharply. "I reckon you want me to find it."

"Well someone needs to distract it, right?" said Harry, grimacing at the whipping motions of its knobbly, finger-like twigs. "Or slow it down, even... How's your Freezing Charm?"

Ron scoffed. "Assuming I have one. We haven't covered it yet."

"What? But Susan- " Harry stopped himself as Ron gave him a sidelong glance. "Oh, whatever! She's not even that clever..."

"All right, Professor," puffed Ron, holding up his hands. "So you think you can do it, then?"

Harry swallowed. "Might as well try... Immobulus!"

A wispy web of blue threads wove itself between the Willow's beefy arms, contracting with a screech as Harry tugged at the reins.

Ron whooped, but mere seconds and a titanic groan later, the tree lurched forward in protest. The upper boughs twitched and quaked as they strained to fizzle the spell, which gradually began to snap and fritter to nothing.

Undeterred, Harry's head was pounding with blood as the Willow seemed to swell from the roots upward, sprouting clones from the soil as a torrent of leaves promised to drown them-

But the branches are barren...

"Harry!"

He cancelled the Charm, and watched the shivering Willow shrink to its former size. Its magic roused his Wandsong something potent, apparently - his spells wouldn't hold for long if he valued his faculties.

Panting, he turned to Ron, who sucked his teeth in frustration.

"Well that's just- " Ron yelped in surprise, leaping aside as one of the sturdier branches pelted the ground with a clamorous thud. "Shit on a Dungbomb! You've only gone and riled it!"

Harry held his tongue, springing away as the Willow aimed another tendril at his feet... which indicated that it probably was more than a little miffed.

"In for a penny," he muttered, digging his heels into the soil. There was no going back now.

Silent and still as
My old pet rock,
Twitches and fidgets will
Keep your arms locked!

"Immobulus!"

Rounding the shape of the wand motions as far as his confidence in the Charm would permit, Harry looked on with crossed fingers. The Willow's boughs were seized upward with a mournful creak, tense yet bound in the misty veil of dense blue spell-light.

"Ron, quick!" he yelled, gripping Hollygalleon with renewed vigour. "Look for- !"

But Ron was already on task, scouring the tree's trunk and roots for any sign of the fabled knot.

"I - I think I can see one," he shouted back, "but... yeah, there's another! And another one, and... "

A tired growl escaped Harry's throat, his sights wandering towards Ron even as his wand hand wobbled under the strain.

"Just choose one!" he barked, returning his attention to the Willow's writhing form.

"Stay with us this time, won't you?"

Me? You're part of the problem!

He regretted the thought immediately, and not just because the Charm dissipated a moment later.

Hollygalleon, suddenly damp and heavy in his palm, trembled at the handle.

"H-h-harry..."

Fledgling thoughts of consolation and apology were quashed by panic. His vision smeared as a branch caught him underarm, launching him into the air-

"RON -"

"Found it! I think..."

The breeze settled, and the rustling ceased. Heartbeat racing, Harry slid down the dormant, crooked bough to the safety of the soil beneath, which he embraced dearly upon collision.

"Er... are you all right, mate?"

Harry raised his head, still prone. "Just having a moment with Mother Earth."

Ron belched out a laugh, and he soon joined in, hoping that it would put an end to Holly's sobs.

As midnight drew near, the Castle fixtures trembled to the beat of a hundred drums. True to Samhain form, McGonagall's instructions did little to dampen the School's festive spirit.

Hermione, ever the notable exception, felt the knots in her stomach tighten while Clearwater's vice-like hold throttled her wrist. As they climbed the Grand Staircase, she had to take three steps for each of the older witch's strides just to keep herself upright - it was a miracle that she hadn't tripped.

"Um... Clearwater?" she said, her eyes trained on Gryffindor Tower's staircase as it swerved into place ahead. "Would you mind letting go, at all?"

Clearwater briefly followed Hermione's line of sight, but spun on her heels when a bridge to the fifth floor materialised beside them.

Hermione ground her teeth as she was tugged along. "You did that on purpose, didn't you?"

"What - bewitch the stairs?" Clearwater glanced back, giving her a weak chortle. "Don't be silly, poppet."

The drumming grew louder as they crossed the bridge; in a stark contrast to the relatively clear pathways of the Staircase Tower, the Ravenclaw wing of the fifth floor corridors was congested to the point of near-suffocation.

"Every bloody year," groused Clearwater over the din. Hermione tried to breathe a reply as they squeezed past a group of rowdy Upper Schoolers, but the potent stench of sweat and (bizarrely enough) spilled varnish caught her unawares. Clearwater suddenly steered them into a narrow, dimly-lit annex ending in a parchment-littered oak door, which she vigorously pelted until its hinges gave way.

"What in the Wild- oh!"

Professor Flitwick, bleary-eyed and clad in a fluffy, blue-striped night-robe, almost squeaked when he met Clearwater's looming gaze.

"Good evening, Miss Clearwater. Surely I didn't assign you any rounds this weekend...?"

Clearwater shook her head. "No, sir," she replied, nudging Hermione forward, "but I think Hermione might want to tell you where Potter and Weasley are - wouldn't you, Hermione?"

Hermione rounded on Clearwater, lips writhen. "I told you already that I don't know. I haven't seen them since this morning!"

And it was true; she'd been carted off to the girls' dormitory mere moments after the completion of the Samhain offerings. If Ron and Harry had indeed conspired to abscond, they had ample time alone (or away from her, at the very least) in which to do so.

Her tongue soured at the thought.

"I'm afraid I don't quite understand, Miss Clearwater," said Flitwick, gently closing the door behind him. "Professor McGonagall made the call over- " he peered down at his watch, "- an hour ago, it seems. If they haven't returned to Gryffindor Tower, then shouldn't you have informed their Head of House?"

"She's in the village, Professor," said Clearwater with an exasperated sigh. "Rounding up the last of the stragglers with Mr Pringle as usual? None of the on-duty Prefects have seen them either."

Flitwick nodded slowly. "And Mr Watts?"

"Hasn't marked them in," she said, running a hand through her hair. "He didn't seem overly concerned, to be honest - said he'd give them detention next week."

"Serves them right," muttered Hermione. Had they invited her, she might have been a tad more sympathetic.

Or in trouble, like they will be.

"Well, I..." Flitwick stifled a yawn with a raised fist. "Pardon me... Why the need for such alarm, Miss Clearwater?"

"Sir Nicholas saw them leave the lawns, Professor," said Clearwater, wringing her hands now. "Though he was... well, out of sorts..."

"And where were they headed?"

"The East Field," said Clearwater with a wince, "leading up to the- "

"Whomping Willow," mumbled Flitwick. "Not to mention..."

Clearwater swallowed. "The Forest, yes."

The racket of the hall party behind them only amplified the pause, and the implications in kind. The night was surreal enough to paint. Children danced unperturbed as sirens flared in the capital, and Hermione found herself unfit to pass judgement. She was hardly much different.

"You think he's looking for you. What - because of your blood?"

"He might be. Weren't you the first to say it?"

The Union's Keys were under threat, and Harry had somehow known in advance. He warned her; she ridiculed him in return. Where she failed to listen, Ron took heed, and she was wholly complicit.

"When did you last ask Ron about all of this, Harry?"

"Ron? Never. You said we shouldn't- "

Hermione felt her breathing shallow, as if burdened by the weight of her conscience. Had she chosen her words - had she listened to Harry over her own preoccupations - tonight may have never happened.

Heaven knows what they're facing now...

She hadn't driven him to act the fool, but by Jove if they would've trodden this far.

Harry crouched before the Willow's darkest secret - a hidden cavity adorned with roots and thorns - for he could go no further.

Nerves charged with anticipation, he possessed energy in spades. His curiosity, likewise, was a beast newly caged. For while Harry truly wished to proceed, he simply couldn't, and neither could Ron.

"The air," said Ron, his outstretched palm suddenly halting in its tracks. "It's like it's solid or something..."

"No." Harry looked over at Ron, whose eyebrows were pinched in confusion.

"So you can push through it now?" he asked.

Harry shook his head quickly. "No, not in the slightest."

"So what, then?"

He wanted to feel it, just once more. It would mean yielding to the Wandsong again and, subsequently, subjecting himself to Holly's anguish, but by the nature of their task, both were inevitable.

Harry braced himself for the deluge as he plucked out the proverbial cork.

Sorry, Holly - was his first impulsive thought. It was met with abject silence. Frowning, he grazed his left hand over the wand's barked handle.

It's me, Hollygalleon. You're not crying any more?

The handle flinched a moment later. "N- ... maybe." Harry's shoulders sagged with mingled relief and regret.

I'm so, so sorry... But you know I didn't mean it.

"P-positively vindictive! You're an idiot and a bully." The barb was tinged with a playful scorch at his side. Harry chuckled.

Ron quietly cleared his throat, though Harry distinctly heard the words "three of us" sandwiched between his coughs.

"You're pardoned," said Harry, resuming his study of the tunnel. That Hollygalleon forgave him with such haste was quite the surprise, but he supposed that further enquiries were best handled at a later date. Drawing his eyes shut, Harry probed the air again with the tip of his index finger, and gasped when it was swept to the side.

"What is it?" he heard Ron say.

Harry shrugged, opening his eyes as he turned around.

"I don't think it's a barrier," he said, haltingly. "Not a Charm or enchantment like I first thought, anyway. Maybe a Jinx... maybe..."

Ron lowered his chin. "What makes you say that?"

"It... well, it behaves like one, I guess?" said Harry, frowning. "It pushed back, sort of."

Holly chortled hoarsely. "You honestly think your Dad's a Dark wizard, idiot?"

He created a Hex before he left Hogwarts. You've got to wonder... and your mood swing is making me uncomfortable, by the way.

"I'm... a wand, Harry." said Holly. "A wand. Not an owl, not an elf, not a... witch... Neither Quaffle nor a Bludger or a Sni-"

You've made your point.

Harry slid a hand against the ground this time, forcefully, in an effort to gauge any difference in the spell's behaviour.

It was kicked aside.

Clutching his hand, stunned, Harry ogled the unassuming pit.

"Who's down there?" he shouted. "Who are you?"

A derisive cackle was his only response, but Harry had his answer. Wandsong be damned, no mere spell had a mind of its own.

Ron shuffled closer. "What did you hear? Is it a Jinx?"

"Better," said Harry, beaming. "You're Peeves, aren't you?"

The cackles intensified, finally culminating in a piercing squeak. If the guffaw beside Harry was any indication, Ron heard them too.

Clenching his jaw, Harry tried his best to ignore the poltergeist as he flipped the Grimoire open.

I found the Willow. It's fast asleep. Peeves won't let me past.

.

..

...

You spotted him! Was it the Wandsong?
BEHOLD, BRITANNIA: THE FRUIT OF MY LOINS!

.

..

I thought Mum was the one who wrote like that?

.

..

Good work. You'll want to sing the hymn now.

His heart leapt as each stroke of ink warped and spilled across the right-hand page, forming a new sequence of words and sigils before arranging themselves along an inward-facing spiral pattern.

"Well, Harry?" The smile in Ron's prompt was audible. "What's it say?"

In truth, Harry's guess was as good as Ron's. The hymn, similar to most Theurgical documents, was clearly inscribed in notation of some sort, but betrayed nothing else at first glance. He could tell neither pitch nor rhythm, and the petition resembled none of the (admittedly few) written scripts that he knew on-hand.

"Remember your conjugation tables, Mr Potter," whispered Ron in a disturbingly faithful imitation of Mr Deek's waspish timbre. "When in doubt: O - S - T, I - you - she -"

"That doesn't even apply here," Harry hissed back, though for all he knew, it very well could have. At the utmost least, he possessed the vocal chords necessary to pronounce the characters; unless, if by some merciless twist of events, his father was the sort of hybrid abomination that Professor Grubbly-Plank often referenced in Vitalemy. What if he couldn't sing it at all?

"No, I think you can," said Hollygalleon.

What?

Holly sighed. "You have to, though - he hasn't given you any more clues, has he?"

Harry groaned, knowing that nothing concerning James Potter was ever so simple. After all, he had been forced to draw blood twice in order to reach this point.

Blood.

"This isn't the ritual," said Harry aloud, laughing at Ron's fish-like stare. "It isn't! It's just the end! We've been doing it the whole time, don't you see?"

Samhain officially began at sunset, and in that time, Harry offered a bloodied crest to his late father, and grappled with the wild magic of Hogwarts' phantom forest. It felt right to claim that he had satisfied a sacrifice and trial before his ancestors.

He was already the rightful master of Peeves: he just had to invoke him.

With an almost prescient gall, Harry swept the page with his injured palm, and felt his heart somersault as the melody trumpeted itself through his lungs:

"Peeves, Peeves
Come out of your hole!
It's time to raise Hell
And fulfil your role!

"Don't give a heed
Not a care, not a toss!
Vespee Rex,
The Evening Wasp!"

Ron sniggered behind him.

"What?" said Harry, arching an eyebrow.

"Eh? Oh, nothing," said Ron with a wobbly smile. "Just thought it was out of the blue... you know, like..."

Harry made a face. "All right, mate."

He supposed that the song was rather tacky, but even though he didn't exactly carry the finest tune, he wouldn't have expected Ron to poke fun on such an occasion. Either way, he was obliged to press ahead.

"Peeves, Peeves
Come out of-

YOU CALL FOR MY SON

WHO ARE YOU

Harry felt his spine rattle at the demand, swivelling around in a vain attempt to place its resounding, monotonous tremor.

"M-me? Who are you?" he said, far louder than he felt bold. "You're not... Peeves' dad?"

"Er - who you on about?" asked Ron, who shuddered. "Woden. When did it get so cold?"

The harsh, booming laugh which followed vowed to raze the soil where they stood.

YOU DARE TO SPEAK THE NAMES OF THE HOST

AND ON THE MOST HALLOWED OF NIGHTS

WIZARDS YOU MUST BE

"At least we're brave enough to show ourselves," said Harry, tightening his grip on Holly to stop his hand from trembling. "Why don't you do the same?"

The pointed silence lingered enough for Harry to wonder just how delirious he was, until Ron snagged his arm.

"What is going on right now?" he said, worry etched into his brow. "This is starting to get a lot less fun, you know..."

Harry simply shook his head, training his sights on the maw below the Willow. He swallowed a liberal gulp of air, the Lead Coin as his focus as he poised his lips:

"Peeves- "

A deafening croak was unleashed from the pit, issuing thick fingers of sulphurous mist from its mouth. They pooled at the Willow's roots, forming a moat which belched a pungent gale of decay. Harry wanted to heave, but a rising silver shock of what looked like hair gave his senses pause. Droplets of the mist rolled down the slopes of sunken cheeks and past a long, matted rope of a beard, enveloping the apparition's skeletal figure in a vaporous charcoal cloak. Nostrils framed by a slender, crooked bridge flared as if to savour the surrounding stench.

His eyes, beyond all else, stirred Harry to the core. The left was scarred shut, its lids bloated and dark, while the right gleamed a vivid blue - sharp and unblinking.

Dumbledore.

Was it, though? Unless the Headmaster was recently assaulted by a manticore after being starved for a month, Harry felt compelled to exercise some doubt.

"Professor," whispered Harry, feeling winded. "You... you're not..."

"Professor 'who'?" said Ron, groaning under his breath. "There's no one there!"

Contrary to Ron's assertion, the wizened stranger glided towards them, his bright blue eye boring into Harry's all the while.

"He calls for me, yet cannot see me," he said, glancing downward as if to ponder himself, "and still I have taken human form. Why do you see me, wizard?"

"It's here for you, Ron," said Harry, lowering his wand hand. "It says you called it here."

"Well I say you're off your nut," replied Ron, though a warning glance from Harry made him wince.

"I was the one singing," said Harry, turning back to the stranger with a frown. "What do you want with him?"

"I have no use for children," he said with a sigh. "I shall not repeat myself. He called my name, I am made man. He cannot see me, yet you do. So I shall ask three questions of you, wizard foal. Why can you see me? Why do you sing the hymn of my son's bondage? Who are you?"

"Don't answer him!" hissed Holly. "He feels... wrong, this one."

As if I need you to tell me that.

The old man's eye narrowed. "You deign to commune with your instrument in place of a god?"

Harry bristled as the air was stripped of the last of its warmth.

He can hear us...

"Tell your imaginary friend to sod off, please," said Ron, clutching his robes as he stepped in front of Harry. "I'm freezing my bits off, here!"

"You wizards forget your place." Before Harry could so much as blink, the stranger's nose was a hair's breadth away from his own. "One would surely think to show some respect when it is my Shroud which you covet so."

"Your- ?" Catching a hold of his breath when the old man sported a distinctly un-Dumbledorean sneer, Harry nodded to himself.

"Well done, Ron," he said, smiling through a nasal exhale. "As if you didn't just summon the Grim Reaper!"

Ron's cheeks were drained of colour, lips trembling.

"Y-you're... why do you look so disappointed?"

"Because you did it," said Harry, balling his fists as he was struck with a pang of dejection. "All you had to do was say his name. You can't even hear him- "

"No."

It wasn't a harsh rebuttal, but Harry's tongue was frozen nonetheless. He slowly tilted his head back towards Woden, still not quite prepared to accept that he presently stared Death in the face.

"It is you who does not hear," said the haggard god, his forehead oddly etched with fissures of concern. "You who would sing a Song of the Wild's own so as to flaunt your godless Sorcery. You who would utter hollow prayer in half-breaths whilst your soul rains profanity upon your very patrons. You who would demand unwavering allegiance of your companions, only to curse the destiny given you by Fortune... how dare you?"

"He knows all that, but he doesn't know your name?" whispered Holly.

Woden bared a rotting row of teeth. "I will know, and you, wizard foal, shall tell me."

All but his radiant eye dissolved into the shadows as the remnants of Harry's Conjured disc - and the light with it - were smothered wholesale. A disembodied shriek escaped the clearing, prickling Harry's ears which were taunted further by the biting cold. He vaguely registered a wince from Ron as a slurry of ragged moans echoed their lament in turn.

They drugged him with worry - with panic, and regret.

"Wakey wakey, idiot!" blared Hollygalleon, scorching him with the strongest spark it could muster. "Sing the bloody song, already!"

His lips wrestled with icy winds as he fought to find his voice:

"P-p- ... Peeves! Peeves!
Come out of y-your hole- "

Woden's gelid laughter swiftly cut him off. "How you bow to the whims of such a petty tool! Did the Wild not hear her weep at your hand just this night, wizard?"

"Ron!" cried Harry, grasping at the formless void about him. "Ron, you've got to get out of here! Ron?"

Seconds passed with no discernible response, save for a string of muffled sobs amid the chorus of wails.

"You cannot reach him?" Woden laughed again. "And you prospect to summon the issue of the heavens! You are a fool of a whelp."

Whelp.

He had been here before - cold, blinded, and sore. At his initiation, Yaxley had addressed him as such.

Whelp.

Their chants chimed through his ears as clearly as the present. Hollygalleon burned with furious alarm, both then and now.

He did not, however, remember the grazing of clammy fingers and the tingle of frigid breath over his chest.

"You have roused them," said Woden, his tone now soft as silk. "My children - they would devour you."

There was light. The Whomping Willow was no more, replaced by the towering Hex-Zappers of the Crimson Studio.

Harry looked down; a long, black adder wove a web of scales around his feet, fangs aimed and eyes feral-

"Sing the song, Harry!"

"She calls your name," said Woden, chuckling as the adder suddenly jerked backward. "I must hear it aloud for myself. Share it with me, wizard."

The clammy fingers returned, tensing as they clasped Harry's jaw. A fit of coughs was followed by deafening screams; Harry was back in the Dungeons, and Neville was choking to death. Professor Snape clambered toward him, but the blond boy's face was already turning a dull shade of blue.

"Harry, get moving!" roared Hollygalleon, and a surge of heat coursed through his veins. "Just do it - I'll hold them off- "

With phantom hands, Harry seized his conscious and grounded it, gathering his wits and purpose as he searched for his breath:

"Peeves, Peeves
Come out of your hole!
It's time to raise Hell
And fulfil your role!"

Harry was doused in a soft orange haze as Charing Cross retired below. He could see Doge's reflection in the window, grinning madly as he gleefully confessed to Obliviating his friends-

"SING!"

"D-d-don't give a heed
Not a c... not a care. Not a toss!
Vespee Rex, The Evening Wasp!"

"Cease this nonsense, wizard foal," hissed Woden, and the fingers clamped down on his jaw. "Tell me your name and your soul shall stay yours."

"LIAR!" bellowed Hollygalleon, and a brilliant golden flame consumed the scene. "He is mine as I am his!"

He could see, now: the ring of flame from Holly's mouth assured that. Ron was crouched before him, babbling and shivering as he gripped his cloak. Woden still loomed above them.

A row of gangly, spectral figures wearing tattered dark cloaks hovered at his sides.

"Your magic perplexes them," he said with a ghost of a smile. "But it is feeble enough."

A pair of the hooded figures lunged toward him. One was faster; skeletal hands ripped at its weathered hood, and it took all of Harry's mettle not to wail in terror...

He felt small. A rumbling sound permeated the floor. A strap of fabric dug into his shoulder as he forced himself forward.

No.

His parents looked back at him. James and Lily. They sat at the front of the car, driving, and they were looking back at him...

This isn't fair.

"HARRY!" A fiery palm beat at his breast, sating his thirst for warmth. He growled.

"You rule above chaos
Over anguish and rue.
But a Son of the Potters
Has mastered you too!"

Woden howled as if he were struck, and Harry's view of the road, the car, and his parents succumbed to darkness.

He struggled to breathe.

"A Son of the Old Wizard Potter, then..."

Woden's bright blue eye pierced through the inky void. A sluggish, damp vapour carrying a strong musk trickled down Harry's windpipe.

"Keep my feckless son, should you dare. I would hope that you prove worthy of my Shroud, for your sake..."

"Expecto Patronum!"

Spots of white and dashes of silver danced before Harry's eyes, a gust of fresh air filling his lungs. A stunning silver goldfish circled his head as the clearing came back to view.

"Lads! I've found them, Filius! Right under the Willow - by Jove's light."

Staggering away from the Whomping Willow's pit, Harry faced what he could only describe as a balloon in a tweed waistcoat, barely secured by a series of golden buttons which threatened to poke his eyes lest he stare too hard.

"Professor... Slughorn."

Slughorn frowned down at him, his silver, walrus-like moustache fanning outward with a heavy sniff.

"Mr Potter, Mr Weasley." Giant gooseberry-coloured eyes wafted towards Ron's stirring form. "Are you quite all right, Mr Weasley?"

Ron choked a sob, not daring to lift his head. "D-dem... d-d- ... "

Slughorn descended with speed belying his immense frame, deftly cradling Ron's shoulders as he raised him to his feet.

"Let's get you boys up to the Castle," he said, glancing at Harry as he patted Ron's back. "Filius!"

As the glare of wandlight broke through the nearby thickets, Harry's heart plummeted. He had failed in every conceivable sense: the Shroud was still buried; Ron was hurt - he thought; and they were caught red-handed.

He damned his father, the Grimoire - Woden himself. And that was when he heard it.

"Curse you, Petty Potty! I WANT MY DADDY!"

As the old gentleman who used to wander into my old shop would say for no apparent reason, "Well, there you have it."

Author's note: Can't believe I'm actually done with this one... sorry that it took so long! As always, I can't thank you enough for reading to this point. Onto the next one :D