Chapter 34

April 27 – April 30

-Harry-

The weekend had passed by more quickly and comfortably than Harry had feared it would. In Defense on Friday, Harry had behaved himself, anxious to hear back from Severus, hardly able to keep his hand from inching toward his pack where he'd stored the homework Severus had returned at the beginning of class. Severus had managed a perfectly menacing scowl when he slapped the scroll into Harry's hand and Harry had yanked his hand away, stuffing the homework into his bag without looking at it.

He read the letter on Friday in his free period after lunch. He didn't even notice the "E" scrawled on the top of the homework assignment.

He reread it before bed, after he, Ron, Hermione and Ginny came in from spending time outside. It was late April and warmer than usual for northern Scotland this time of the year, warm enough that the courtyard had been filled with students until nearly curfew. They'd sat together on one of the stone walls, legs over the side and facing the lake, Harry nestled comfortably between Ginny and Hermione, bouncing his heels against the stones below him. The sun set as they talked quietly, and the stars came out in the clear Spring sky. Ursa Major was visible already—the Big Dipper. He'd had to learn the stars in Astronomy—Dubhe, Merak, Phecda, Megrez, Alioth, Mizar, Alcor, and Alkaid. Ron tried to name them first and said "Alkatraz" instead of "Alkaid" and Hermione cuffed him on the side of the head. They didn't talk about horcruxes—he'd asked Ron and Hermione to keep it to themselves and he didn't plan on telling Ginny—but they did talk about the summer and Bill's upcoming wedding and the awful dress robes Ginny had had to try on over half term break. Hermione had her nose in a Muggle book called "Off the Beaten Path—England, Scotland and Wales" and was marking pages with little squares of parchment. He leaned over to see the page she was reading.

"What's the Forest of Dean?" he'd asked.

On Saturday afternoon, after Quidditch practice and lunch, he read Severus' letter again.

"You must utilize your best resources, Harry."

"You seek direction and you lack confidence."

"Doubt me if you must. Doubt the headmaster. Never doubt yourself."

"In the end, you can only answer to one man: yourself."

He turned the phrases over in his head, testing each of them, learning their feel, feeling their weight.

If he was really going to do this, he would need as much foolish Gryffindor bravery as he could muster, along with a side helping of luck.

He just hoped the Headmaster was able to find one of the horcruxes and take Harry along with him when he did. Maybe then he'd understand what he was up against. Maybe then he'd have both confidence and hope.

On Sunday, after a night of fitful slumber and disturbing dreams, Harry escaped outside to be by himself, kicking rocks in the path as he walked slowly down to the lake, his shoulders hunched against the afternoon wind. He sat beside the lake in silent thought for a long time, legs drawn up to his chest as he often sat when lost in thought. He unrolled and rerolled a piece of parchment, then idly picked up a pebble and tossed it out into the water. Liking the feeling, he felt around for another rock, picked it up, examined it briefly, then flung it out side-armed and watched the splash as it hit the surface. Another brief search, another smallish rock, another splash. And so it continued. The searches grew more frantic, the rocks larger, the splashes further out and closer together until it seemed almost as if the heavens were shedding tears of stones while the boy on the shore resolutely did not cry.

/

27 April, 1997

Sunday

Dear Severus:

I've tried really hard to have a normal weekend. I got all of my homework done by Saturday (OK, I admit it—that's not exactly normal), spent time with my friends and had Quidditch practice on Saturday. I managed not to break any bones or fall off my broom during practice, but Ron had a run-in with one of the goal posts and was talking like a girl for a while. He was better by last evening, so he and I went for a run on the grounds this morning after breakfast. It was kind of weird—more or less by unspoken agreement we decided to try to get into shape and work up our endurance a bit more. We probably shouldn't have gone out so soon after breakfast, though. Ron ended up with a cramp in his calf before we even made it to the castle gates and writhed around on the ground trying to work it out (kind of like he did when he hit that goal post). But after he worked it out he got back up and we ran the carriage path next to the walls and it hurt but it was a good hurt.

Hermione asked for my journal—the one we worked on over half term break. She wants to memorize all the ingredients for the potions and start stocking up. She's also started a list of useful books to have around at all times. I have a feeling that "Hogwarts, a History" might show up on that list. I actually read it last summer—finally since she's been on me about it for years—while I was still at the Dursleys. I can't believe I avoided it for as long as I did. It was really interesting, except for all the boring parts. She's been reading travel books lately. She had one on Great Britain yesterday and one on Australia today. I'm wondering about that. I hope she doesn't think there's a horcrux in Australia. How does a wizard get to a country that far away anyway? Can you apparate across the ocean?

This afternoon I managed to get out of the castle by myself while Ron and Hermione were in the library (probably checking out "Hogwarts, a History"—again). I sat by the lake for a long time, re-reading your letter and thinking. I might have tossed a few rocks in the lake too. Like maybe a hundred. OK, I didn't just toss them in. I started with just tossing, but the more I thought about things, the harder I threw. And the rocks got bigger too—from those little flat ones lying close to the lakeshore that we all like to skip to the fist sized ones that you have to pry out of the ground. It felt good doing that too—digging the rocks out of the ground with my fingers and rocking them back and forth to loosen them. I was so angry, Severus, and I knew I shouldn't be, but it kept getting worse and worse until I was hurling the rocks at imaginary horcruxes and at Death Eaters and at Voldemort and at Dumbledore. Damn it! I could have hurled rocks at him, Severus, and hurt him and it's so wrong! I wanted to destroy something. It would have felt better to pry the rocks out of a wall one by one—with my hands, not my wand—and hurl them out in the water so that in the end there'd have been a pile of rubble where the wall used to be but the rocks themselves would be scattered around the bottom of the lake, still being rocks, but not serving a real purpose anymore. Not a part of anything important. Rocks don't care how you use them, you know. A rock doesn't care if it's part of a castle wall or the cornerstone of St. Mungo's Hospital or that center piece on an archway that keeps the whole thing from falling down on our head. A rock would be perfectly content to sit in a fish aquarium its whole life, or on the moon, or be ground down into little pieces and used to pave a village road, or be carved into one of those giant heads out on that Pacific island somewhere.

Sometimes being a rock doesn't sound bad at all. All those rocks I threw in the lake today—they'll eventually end up somewhere else, won't they? Maybe in a million years they'll be on top of a mountain or on a cliff wall in a desert but in the meantime they'll just sit at the bottom of the lake and cool off and collect some moss and algae and enjoy some new scenery and not worry about…things.

If I picked up a rock and carved my initials on it and then gave it to Hedwig and told her to fly off with it and drop it into a lake in Scotland, finding that rock again would still probably be easier than finding the horcruxes.

I felt better somehow, though, when I came back in. My arm hurt, and I pulled off part of a fingernail prying out a really big rock there at the end, but it didn't feel like hippogriffs were wrestling in my stomach anymore and most of all I wasn't angry. I think I worked it out with the rocks. I held that last one for a long time before I came in—just looking at it, feeling its weight in my hand. And then I dropped it on the ground. I guess I didn't need to throw any more rocks.

I ran into Hagrid on the way back up to the castle and we talked about the owls. He figures they'll be nesting soon and told me to go up to the owlery and see if they're up to anything. That made me think too. All that's going on now and owls keep on pairing up and making nests and laying eggs like they don't have a care in the world and couldn't care less who controlls the Ministry of Magic or who's Headmaster and I bet they'd be just as likely to puke up a dead mouse on Voldemort's head as anyone else's.

Guess they really don't.

A rock, an owl or Harry Potter? I guess it's saying something that given those choices, I'd still rather be me.

Regards,

Harry

/

Harry smiled as he finished the letter. He'd managed to work a lot out over the weekend, even though working it out had mainly involved throwing rocks into the lake. He examined the nail of his right index finger. He hadn't bothered to go to Madam Pomfrey to have her heal it when he came back in the castle several hours ago. Instead, he'd wrapped a piece of an old sock around it and it had eventually stopped bleeding. He'd then holed up in his dorm room to write his letter, unwrapping it so that he could hold he quill properly.

Now the finger was throbbing painfully and he could see that there was still dirt under the broken bits of the nail, which was torn vertically nearly from top to bottom. Damn. This was going to be painful, even without the dressing down he was about to get from Poppy for waiting so long to see her.

An idea came to him. Hermione! She seemed keen on practicing those potions and spells he'd learned with Severus over Easter break. He looked down at his letter, said the spell to conceal the contents, then rolled it up and tucked it away with his Defense textbook. Moments later, he was running down the stairs looking for Hermione. He never once thought it was a bad idea.

-Severus-

On Sunday afternoon, Severus stood next to Albus in the Headmaster's quarters. Side by side they looked through one of the majestic windows lining the curved walls of the circular room above the office, watching as the distant figure of Harry Potter threw stones into the lake.

"He is angry," commented Albus, the words almost an apology.

"He is working it out," responded Severus quietly.

"Should you go to him?" asked Albus a moment later.

Silence for a long moment, then "Perhaps. But you know I cannot."

From this distance they could not see the way Harry's hands gripped the stones or the expression on his face nor could they hear the sound of the gulping breaths he took as he sought to hold back the tears.

"Why handle his anger with rocks thrown in the lake?" asked Albus.

"Better in the lake than at us," answered Severus.

"At me, you mean," corrected Dumbledore. He looked over at his friend briefly, significantly. Severus held his gaze then nodded, not denying.

"At you, then."

The men regarded each other another long moment then, on unspoken cue, turned away and looked out the window, foreheads nearly touching the panes, gripping the well-worn stones of the castle wall—Severus with his right hand, Albus with his undamaged left—as they leaned in to watch the storm play out from the Headmaster's impenetrable island in the sky.

I have my books
And my poetry to protect me;
I am shielded in my armor,
Hiding in my room, safe within my womb.
I touch no one and no one touches me.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

And a rock feels no pain;
And an island never cries.

/

30 April, 1997

Wednesday

Dear Harry:

I saw you and Mr. Weasley running again yesterday morning. While I am certainly in favor of physical activity to increase stamina and improve one's health, I hope you have seen—or are starting to see—the mental benefits to such a regime. Running is a solitary activity, even when done in the company of others; yes, even when your best friend runs beside you. It is your body moving, your heart pumping, your feet pounding the ground. The aches are your aches, the sweat your sweat, the determination to keep moving when your body is telling you enough already solely your own. You will, if you persevere, achieve a clarity of mind while running in your human form similar to the freedom you feel when cantering as Lightfoot. When you have a problem to solve, or when emotions are rolling about with those hippogriffs in your gut, threatening to rise and choke you, take to the road and run.

I am happy you found a way this weekend to deal with the emotions brought on by the memory you obtained from Professor Slughorn. I understand, better than you can know, the need to unburden oneself by physical means. Throwing rocks into the water, imagining them as missiles directed at real or emotional targets, is in my opinion a healthy way to deal with anger.

Have you ever taken time to contemplate the power of rocks? What is Hogwarts Castle if not a pile of rocks well organized? A construction of the mightiest of witches and wizards, a monument to time and magic, a sanctuary, a home. But in the end, and in the beginning, it is granite and limestone and slate.

Rocks construct but by the same token, rocks destroy. They are destructive as intentional weapons used in ancient wars, thrown from a catapult, bound to the shaft of an arrow or the head of a club. And they are destructive by force of nature alone—spewed from volcanoes, released down mountainsides in form of avalanches.

Earthquake, volcano and avalanche aside, nothing represents the power of stone more than a pebble in one's shoe. Consider that, Harry, and test it if you must.

On to another matter. Miss Granger's reading aside, do not begin to think that you must search the world over for these relics. The Dark Lord was not exactly a world traveler, Harry, though he could indeed have hidden items in the continent and was thought to have been in Albania before he returned to corporeal form. The Headmaster is, of course, concentrating on items and places of significance to the Dark Lord, and all kidding aside, I do not believe he had dealings down under. I do not expect you to have to leave Great Britain if you go with the Headmaster on a quest before the end of the year—and allow me to say that I am not altogether on board with such a venture, as much as I believe it necessary. Perhaps Miss Granger is simply interested in our old penal colony or plans to go on holiday with her family this summer.

In answer to your question regarding intercontinental travel for wizards, we can, of course, use Muggle methods of transportation, though portkeys are the preferred magical means as the travel can be accommodated in a single trip. As the magic involved in porkeys opens and then closes a portal in real world space, portkeying across the room is hardly less time-consuming than portkeying across the world. This magic, however, is both terribly complex and dangerous in the creation and as such international portkeys are heavily controlled by relevant Ministry departments. While apparition involves a similar portal-based magic, only the most accomplished and brave witches and wizards will attempt international apparition. This, too, is heavily regulated due to the statutes of secrecy and the very real danger that you might apparate into the middle of an ocean or into the lion pit at a Muggle zoo.

If, in the course of your life, you have need of visiting France, may I recommend the Eurotunnel?

And one more thing, young man. How is that finger of yours doing? I had a report from Minerva that you were pulled into the infirmary by your ear by one Miss Hermione Granger. Apparently, you attempted to coerce her into practicing her fledgling healing skills on you so as not to have to deal with the wrath of Madam Pomfrey. Don't try denying this, Harry. I have a report in front of me and on Sunday evening was floo-called and asked to provide a keratin re-grower as Poppy had to remove a student's fingernail. Not knowing who the student in question was, I assumed it was a rash Gryffindor and suggested that she remove all of the nails before regrowing the one so that all ten would match and be of equal length.

Your Defense work lately has been quite well done and thought out, Harry. Perhaps you would be willing to duel with me in class next week?

Regards,

Severus

/

Severus completed his letter, wiped his quill, capped the ink and checked the clock. 6 p.m. Another glance at another clock. Harry was in the Great Hall. Dinner time. Severus hurriedly washed his hands and made his way up the stairs, trailing a group of third-year Slytherins chattering about the upcoming Hogsmeade weekend and reminding him that he had reluctantly agreed to serve as one of the faculty chaperones on Saturday.

Dinner was the standard fare but he ate very little. He spent too much time watching Draco Malfoy to concentrate much on eating. Draco was unusually quiet at the table, toying with his food and hardly looking up as the Slytherins around him erupted in laughter when a whole bench full of Ravenclaw second-years toppled backwards when they all scrambled to avoid a spilled pitcher of pumpkin juice.

He studied Harry as well. Seated near the head table today with his friends around him, Harry seemed to have recovered somewhat from his weekend. His finger was still bandaged but he seemed to be having a pleasant conversation with Miss Weasley who was sitting directly across the table from him. His body language was so obvious that Severus wondered if there was a subtle bone in this boy's body. Not with a 16-year old's hormones, he decided. He smirked and turned back to his food, idly spearing a potato with his fork.

Next to him, Minerva gave a little "oh" of surprise as pudding popped onto the table in the form of thick slices of layer cake awash in buttercream icing. More "ohs" and even a few "ahs" sounded from the faculty around him; this offering was a truly adult treat, accustomed as they were to treacle tart and trifle. It was an unusual dessert, indeed, to be served at Hogwarts and this one, in particular, seemed to have been made with particular attention to detail. It was a delicacy Severus enjoyed enormously, though he was accustomed to having it only at weddings, and he tried to avoid those whenever possible. He'd found that he was occasionally invited to the nuptial celebrations of colleagues and former students, and that their goal seemed to focus more on getting him on the dance floor than to get on with getting married.

"New bakery elves in the kitchen, Albus?" The tone of Horace Slughorn's voice approached adulation as he forked into the cake.

Albus smiled and looked down appreciatively at his own serving. He stuck a finger in between two of the five layers and popped a healthy amount of buttercream icing into his mouth. "No indeed, Horace. I requested this recipe of them myself. I felt we needed a pick-me-up."

"The students too, Albus?" asked Severus as he looked up and noticed that slices of the cake had appeared on all four house tables.

"The students in particular," answered the Headmaster, nodding toward the end of the Gryffindor table.

Severus looked over at the Gryffindors. Everyone seemed to have gotten down to the business of eating the cake. The Weasley boy, sitting on Harry's left, was already covered in icing. There was a dollop on his nose and smudges on his cheeks and chin and a bit in his hair above his ear. Beside him, Harry was doing a much better job of eating his cake rather than wearing it, though as Severus watched, he abandoned his fork, dipped the unbandaged index finger of his left hand into the thick icing on top and moved it toward his mouth.

A hand came out from across the table and caught his wrist.

Severus watched as Harry's arm froze in place and his eyes moved to look across the table at Ginny Weasley. He could only see the girl's back, but he could see Harry's face. Harry's eyes softened to match his smile and he let his hand be pulled over to the girl. His finger came back a moment later, clean. Score one for Ginny Weasley, thought Severus. Ron Weasley's mouth had dropped open into a wide O of shock, Dean Thomas' face looked murderous and Harry, Harry looked like he'd been carrying a stone around in his shoe for a year and had just taken it out. This, Severus decided, as he lifted his fork to his mouth, this was the picture of hope.

I am a Rock

By Paul Simon 1965

A winter's day
In a deep and dark December;
I am alone,
Gazing from my window to the streets below
On a freshly fallen silent shroud of snow.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

I've built walls,
A fortress deep and mighty,
That none may penetrate.
I have no need of friendship; friendship causes pain.
It's laughter and it's loving I disdain.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

Don't talk of love,
But I've heard the words before;
It's sleeping in my memory.
I won't disturb the slumber of feelings that have died.
If I never loved I never would have cried.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

I have my books
And my poetry to protect me;
I am shielded in my armor,
Hiding in my room, safe within my womb.
I touch no one and no one touches me.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

And a rock feels no pain;
And an island never cries.