Disclaimer: Everything belongs to J.K. Rowling

Magicks of the Arcane

Chapter XXXIV

The castle empty, Harry sat watching on the edge of his chair as the last preparations for the Horcrux ritual were made. Moonlight shone through the tall windows, illuminating Albus' robes. He was moving between the pillars, placing the ingredients for the ritual: deformed crystals created by alchemical formulae; coins of various metals ranging from the base ones to alloys, from the noble to the precious; two vials of dragon blood—the eleventh use; a cluster of coriander; the pincer of an elder Acromantula; and a multitude more for which Harry had no name.

Every ingredient in place, Albus levitated a huge cauldron over the oval-shaped basin on the platform and tipped it. The moonbeams now fractured on the liquid rushing out of the cauldron, the magic broth soon smoothing into placid waves and then remaining still altogether.

Harry rose from his chair and walked up the steps of the platform. "What now?"

"Now comes the final ingredient."

"The locket."

Dozens of enchantments were wrought around a chest Albus pulled out of his robes. Similar enchantments enveloped the golden bowl beside the basin. Opening the chest Albus bade Harry to step away until the locket was in the bowl and Riddle's soul would stop trying to gain purchase on their minds.

"That will do," Albus said, after depositing the locket. "Now, everything is ready."

"Do I have to cast a spell?"

Albus waved him off. "If that were necessary, I would have given you instructions. No, just submerge your head in the basin and let your magic flow into the spell—do not worry, you will be able to breath."

Harry looked into the tub. The liquid showed a reflection of his face. "Into the spell?"

"It will begin the moment your head touches the potion."

Harry had never believed into putting his head in unknown substances, prior potion lessons playing a big part in that stance. Contrary to his relationship with Snape, however, he trusted Albus. He sighed, then sunk his head into the potion.

The moment he submerged himself a white glow rose up around him, traveling from the roots of his hair through the water, steadily expanding as if someone had poured a cup of milk into the middle of the basin. At the same time the spell demanded his magic. He gave it readily, heeding Albus' words. The potion lapped it up with fervor, took and then took even more, pulling it from every cell.

Just as he thought this couldn't continue any longer, everything began to spin. In the chaos his faith in Albus, first strong and sturdy as an oak, began to dwindle, resistive but dispersing nonetheless, as though a storm pelted the same oak with all its force, bending it to its will. He had a split second to chide himself for his doubt, then his thoughts cut off.

Coherence was lost. All that remained was the sensation of his body. He could feel the rest of it outside the liquid, knees aching on the cold floor of crystal, hands cramping around the edge of the tub. His head though seemed an entity separate from his body, a round object full of confusion that had taken on a life of its own.

Forces from a place far away tugged at him, and he was pulled through a vortex of color. His passage was followed by a ripping noise, and what little remained of him tore apart at the seams. There was an innate sense of wrongness to this way of traveling. Reality didn't allow for it, he knew. Then he suddenly stopped and, transported by Albus' devilry, arrived, the wrong feeling persisting but dulled in its intensity.

The image of fingers curling around him clarified in front of his eyes, and he perceived their smooth texture as they touched him, digging slightly into his sides. A disconcerting feeling if ever he knew one. The constant shaking, as though he were fruit juice in a cocktail mixer, fell into the same category of bewilderment. In a distant part of his mind, which now began to reassemble, he was reminded of a trip long ago made in a Ford Anglia rumbling through the forest.

He tried and failed in turning his head to get another perspective. All he could see was an old wall made of brick and some suits of armor that looked startlingly familiar. Each suit he went by turned the tentative assumption inside his mind into a tangible fear. The residue of confusion from his trip cleared quickly.

I'm in Hogwarts, he thought. Thinking it aloud made it all the more real though. He tried turning his head again, but the grip around him remained vise-like.

… I'm an object. A Horcrux?

Ginny had once carried the Diary wherever she went, and the implications of someone carrying him left Harry with a disturbing conclusion. In the instance of realization, the image of another student enslaved by Riddle's soul overrode every other thought.

I have to get away! He's in the castle! I've got to look for him! Now!

He was about to force himself out when a stray thought held him back. Three Horcruxes remained according to their count, and he was currently inside one of them. Of the last two the location was still unknown, and he could only uncover that information by waiting this out. Did he have that time? Did the person wearing him have that time?

His wearer striding through a door, Harry turned his attention back to his surroundings. From the corner of his eye he noticed a meadow in a portrait and something gray on top of it, before they had passed completely into another room.

Inside he encountered clutter from all epochs of human history. There were hills made of old desks and chairs, and they loomed over a maze created from trunks, dressers, and wardrobes. It felt like a graveyard full of burial mounds, Harry the final offering toward the fallen. Every ferryman needed a bribe, especially the one to the afterlife.

The person carrying him stopped. Harry was turned around and was sat down on something oval.

Unable to move an inch he was greeted by an aristocratic face that was pale but held enough color to still count as living. Neatly combed hair framed the intelligent, dark eyes staring at Harry. He recoiled mentally at the first glimpse of this bringer of offerings.

Riddle had carried him around like a newborn infant, and now his eyes locked in on Harry with an otherworldly intensity.

"It would've been quite the spectacle," Riddle said, "had he made me into a teacher." His lips pulled into a grin and he patted Harry in a gentle manner. The grin grew more disturbing.

Then Riddle began layering spells around him, and every instinct screamed at Harry. This is the past, he thought. Just the past and not the present. Whatever he's doing there, you're fine. Albus will take care of that. Yes, nothing Riddle does here can hurt you. Nothing, not even that spell, or that one. Not one single—

The mantra persisted until Riddle had finished up and left the room. Once he was gone Harry tried to wrap his head around the situation. The Horcrux was inside Hogwarts, and he had watched Riddle place it.

The pragmatic side of him sighed in relief. The urgency to find whoever wore the Horcrux was gone. This thought was overshadowed by something else though, and a strange kind of awe settled in his bones, sending shivers racing circles on his spine. He had just seen into the past, and Divination of all things had enabled it.

Giving up on the futile endeavor of understanding he concentrated on the tugging sensation under his navel. It had begun bugging him since Riddle had left and was becoming stronger. He focused on it, and the ritual initiated the process on its own.

The journey to the next Horcrux brought a similar sense of wrongness, but this time Harry wasn't moved around at least. He stood on a shelf and was overlooking piles of Galleons. Portraits veiled in damask lined the walls; a few chests, unopened, were strewn across the place.

A Gringotts vault, then. One of the richer ones, as his inheritance wasn't even a tenth of what was stored inside this place. He had a big, round stomach and one skinny leg to go with his belly. Was he trophy? A cup of some sort? Hearing a clicking noise he turned his attention to the complex door mechanism that had just been activated.

Next to the entrance of the vault a small door slid open by a few inches. From outside came a lot of noise: spellfire and explosions, fragments of conversation and the shattering roar of a dragon.

A Goblin slunk into the vault in a careful and deliberate manner. The way of movement seemed alien to the armor-packed creature. He looked around undecided, then moved up to a shelf and snapped his gnarly fingers. Harry felt dozens of spells being lifted off himself. The Goblin hesitate once more. Through the small door boomed the noise of fighting. It propelled him into motion and, the wrinkles in his face lined with steel and determination, he took Harry from the shelf.

The Goblin left, and Harry was turned in his hands and stared at his armor-clad chest. Not in a thousand years would Riddle trust a Goblin with his Horcrux. To keep it save without knowing of its existence, yes. To handle it? Riddle was far too paranoid for that. He wouldn't let a Goblin even close to his immortality.

The tugging sensation grew stronger again. It hurled Harry's soul through the vortex of time and space before he could witness what happened outside the vault.

The second he left the spiral of colors, however, he knew something was wrong. Not wrong in the sense of 'I shouldn't be an inanimate object' but on a more abhorrent level. He was slithering through a dark room, his scales touching the cold floor.

"Our lord's been absent of late, hasn't he?" he heard a voice, quite young.

"You have a death wish, man?" The second voice was seasoned, rougher around the edges.

"I just—"

They hadn't noticed Harry as he slithered under a desk. There he curled up through no command of his own and began listening to the ongoing discussion. Just about to familiarize himself with the feeling of being a snake, Harry suddenly felt a tremor of magic run through him.

The snake did something. The fucking snake did something! That's not go—

A second tremor followed. Then another presence entered the snake, almost crushing him to pieces as the space to share inside the snake shrunk rapidly. Miles apart, yet so close, Riddle's soul strained beside his own.

The new entity let loose a silent scream of outrage. Riddle had noticed him. His soul advanced from every direction, and the space to flee to grew less. Harry was herded against a mental wall, like sheep to the slaughter. Then Riddle pushed violently, throwing Harry away and into blackness.

Still in the body of his experimental Horcrux, Lord Voldemort didn't hesitate to leave the vessel of his soul jar and return to his body. He awoke slumped over his table, scrolls of research around his unmoving frame. His eyes opened, first slowly, then increasing in speed until they were almost bulging.

In one motion he jerked up and swiped the parchment to the ground, scattering it on the floor of his personal chamber.

It was a short, spontaneous burst of rage—something he allowed himself only rarely and in extreme situations. His anger was supposed to be cold, calculated, long-reaching. He paced in his chamber, carelessly treading the strewn parchment, his thoughts awhirl. That had been Potter. It had to be him. No one else had even a small connection to either him or Nagini.

The locks on the door sprang open within a thought, and he marched through the sparsely lit corridors toward the throne room. He had made the boy a Horcrux, then. It had always been a possibility—though admittedly a remote one. The magic Potter's mudblood mother had conjured that night was ancient… it would not have surprised him had it still forged a connection between them without the boy being a Horcrux. But the last experience settled it. A connection between them was possible, but a connection between Potter and Nagini?

He passed a group of his followers, barely glancing at their scrambled bowing and scraping. How had Potter possessed Nagini over this distance? To establish such a connection was beyond the boy… beyond any wizard, even Dumbledore. At least without—

Voldemort paused. Wormtail, who had followed unassumingly and in silence, jerked back in terror.

"Tell me," Voldemort said, turning slightly. "What have you learned of Divination at Hogwarts?"

"I… It is a… a wooly subject, my lord."

"It is, it is…" said Voldemort as he resumed his walk, now at a brisker pace. Divination required a medium. Whether it were soggy tea leaves, a tailored orb, or something else… and a spell with the kind of power needed to possess a Horcrux miles away needed a medium of equal if not greater strength.

Another Horcrux. His Horcrux. But how could that be? No one knew of this magic, and those he had trusted with his soul jars had been left in the dark as to the secrets involved. The Potter boy couldn't have used himself either, as he had been the caster. He was, after all, the one who had invaded Nagini.

The double winged, black doors to the throne room flew open before him. He strode into a large hall supported by dark pillars. On a dais of black alabaster stood a throne of white marble. There he took his seat. Had Dumbledore stumbled upon one of his Horcruxes, discerning the nature of the object he was dealing with? There was but one way to check reliably.

"Wormtail," Voldemort said. The pudgy, little rat ascended the dais and extended his arm, already knowing his role perfectly. It was his good arm that Wormtail offered.

Voldemort pressed the tip of his wand into the dark mark. It pulsed twice—once for each member of the Inner Circle he had just called.

He didn't have to wait long. In the same minute that his call had gone out two magical signatures approach at rapid speed. They arrived at the manor, seconds later bursting through the doors, their faces drawn in pain as his call had been more violent than usual.

He eyed his richest, then his most fanatic follower. Lucius' wealth and upbringing showed through in every action. Behind the gray eyes, however, Voldemort easily saw the greed, the lust, the fair bit of gluttony. Sins that could be taken advantage off, could be twisted to serve a purpose. Also sins that made it necessary to constantly supervise, since the moment Lucius found a better option than him would be the moment Lucius left the cause. He had no illusions about the loyalty the Malfoy family showed him.

In comparison he could always count on Bellatrix to serve him to the bitter end—also serving him in ways he did not command. On good days her disheveled, black hair was looking like the bristles of a steel broom, although with her, barbed wire would be more accurate. She had a prickly nature.

"My lord…" Lucius ventured hesitantly. "What is it that you command?"

Ah, Lucius… Almost the only Death Eater daring enough to speak when not spoken to, which was refreshing if insolent.

"I came to some troubling information, Lucius. Tell me, how is the item I entrusted you with these many years ago?"

Lucius fidgeted and with each nervous jolt, Voldemort's suspicion grew from an assumption to a confirmation. "Lucius… I so dislike repeating myself. Where. Is. The. Book?" Each word drawn but suffused with power, and Lucius flinched at every miniscule pause.

"I… I am inconsolable, my lord. It was destroyed by Harry Potter."

Potter? The name revolved in his mind, bringing to life an onslaught of anger, a bright red storm he barely managed to suppress. "How?"

And Lucius told him of trying to revive his lord through the arcane diary, of cleansing Hogwarts of mudbloods, of ousting the great Dumbledore. Through it all he appeared devout to the cause, tried to extoll his virtues, his beliefs, his unending loyalty to him. And Voldemort listened, his head tilted slightly forward in contemplation. Lucius was an accomplished Occlumens, and while those defenses could be broken if necessary, it wasn't needed. The facts the man told him were correct, but the false undercurrent of devotion? Lucius had forgotten whom he served.

Because if Lucius was gluttony and greed and lust, then Voldemort was just one of the deadly sins: Wrath. And his came in different shapes. For now he had to deal with the situation, had to punish Lucius lightly. The true punishment would come later, once he had enough time to devise an appropriate way for the man to redeem himself.

"Lucius," Voldemort said, conjuring a fistful of pebbles which he left floating in the air.

"My lord, please…"

With a wave of his hand he pried Lucius' jaws open, then levitated the pebbles into his mouth. "Chew, my friend. Chew. And do not stop until I say so." He turned to Bellatrix. "Bella, I do hope you have better news. How is the cup I gave you?"

"Still whole, still where I left it, my lord!" Bellatrix bowed, shooting insane grins at Malfoy, who was chewing with a tortured grimace and an ugly, crunching sound. "I visited the vault last week… it was still there."

"Good. That is good indeed. It seems not all of my followers are incompetent."

As Bellatrix preened under his compliment, he told her to visit the vault again just to make sure. Then, rising from his throne, he said, "Lucius… I will know if you stop," and vanished.

On his return, the throne room was shaking in concert with his fury. There had been no locket in the cave of his childhood—stolen by someone he had thought dead. There had been no ring in the house of his muggle father's birth, all protections disabled. And there was no way to check on the diadem, as for now, at least, Hogwarts wasn't accessible to him. He had to assume, however, that the diadem was lost as well. Lord Voldemort did not indulge in false fantasies.

A shiver scraped down his spine. Displeasure? Anxiety? With the secret of his Horcruxes known, the sanctity of his survival was in danger. Their strength had lain in being unknown—magic so dark no soul had ever heard of them. No whole soul anyway.

Voldemort shook his head minutely. He had to search for new means of immortality. There might even be an idea already, a thought he had played with for some time now… He left the hall in a hurried pace, steering directly toward his chamber, where new research would wait on him.

Back in the throne room Lucius was still chewing, blood trailing down his lips and bulging cheeks. Lord Voldemort had never told him to stop. He wished to stop, God, how he wished to stop… but he would know if he did.

The moment Riddle had delivered that last push Harry was thrown through an ocean of pain, until something sharp hooked itself into his navel. Or where he thought his navel was. The hook in his gut pulled at him, dredging him onward. Uncomfortable, but not unfamiliar. Albus' magical signature was rather distinct, after all.

Then he returned. The transition from the basin back to flesh, blood and bones wasn't seamless. With a bang he hurtled away from the platform, sailing toward the wall across the classroom.

Albus cushioned the wall with a spell and nothing broke as Harry bounced off it and onto the ground. Harry's glasses landed next to him and he reached for them and put them on.

The room was awash in color. The circles flashed violently, the magic seeking to escape. There was a high-pitched screech, sizzling, the sound of crumbling stone as the pillars collapsed in on themselves. Black vapors rose from the golden bowl, gathering in thick clouds overhead, the locket hovering inside dark clouds.

Harry scrambled aside as a vial of dragon blood exploded next to him, marking the ground crimson. His breath still went heavy from the experiences during the ritual, and he struggled to control it while Albus jabbed, flicked, and arced his wand like a gladiator.

Magic, milky and translucent, gathered before the black mist, coalescing into a shield and wrapping itself around the vapors. The blackness strained against the prison but soon the spell had absorbed all of the maleficent energy, stopping the ground from trembling, silencing the squeals of a tortured man. The locket fell back into the golden bowl with a clang.

Albus turned, pocketing his wand. "What happened? Your connection suddenly thinned out."

"I know what some of them are," Harry said, rolling on his back and staring at the ceiling. His chest went up and down. "There's one at Hogwarts. No clue where though. And one's with the Goblins. A cup, I think."

"If Tom made seven, there is one missing."

"His snake," Harry said. "He knows."

The response was sharp. "What?"

"He was possessing his snake and threw me out. Realized I was inside her."

Albus ceased moving and Harry didn't talk, one minute of silence going by, then two.

"Our hunt for his Horcruxes has become known then," Albus said. "That is bad news. You said one is here in Hogwarts?"

"Yes. In a room. Didn't see which though. It's huge and cluttered. There was so much stuff lying around, heaps of desks and chairs."

"In the castle…"

The room reassembled itself as Albus began pacing, hands folded behind his back. Pillars sunk back into the ground and cracks in the floor sealed themselves when he passed. A tall window to the side opened, and the stench of burned flesh was sucked away from the outside.

"We will have to search for it," Albus said.

"For the others, too."

"Eventually. Tom will fortify his protections, so we have to concentrate on what we can accomplish right now."

"How do we find it?"

"Through looking for it, how else?" The smear of dragon blood near Harry dissolved, leaving nothing but clean fundament behind. "Beside our search, readying you for battle has become the most pressing matter. Tom knows our intentions. Now more than ever do we have to account for his sudden moves. We will stay here where we can combine both, the search and the training."

"Fun."

"Prepare yourself, Harry. These will be trying weeks."

Silver magic streaked toward him, sizzling as it cut the air. The light gnawed at his shield and Harry angled it to the side. The spell shot with incredible velocity and the loud sound of rushing water into the depths of the Black Lake. There it was, there, just below the surface of his consciousness: the red, the bloodlust, the haze. Only below though, never above. This still wasn't a fight for his life.

Yet even dulled he sensed its presence, felt his veins pump it through his body with every motion, felt the vibration of the drum heads as the song of violence in his head continued. It enticed to more, but as long as neither wished to kill the other, there would always be that filter between him and the pure, unchanged thrill of battle.

He enjoyed it. Oh, how he enjoyed it. If only they could accelerate, could fight more, harder. Then he might hear it in full, the song of power, the song that teased him with single notes, a short beat, before descending again underneath the layer, the filter of peaceful circumstance.

But every time Harry contemplated accelerating, he remembered, if barely, who he was fighting, and in that short moment of clarity noticed how outclassed he was already. In the classroom and with his usual style, Albus Dumbledore was grace incarnate. On the battlefield, drums and horns of his own thrusting him forward toward appreciated violence, he was a natural disaster to everyone on the opposite side. A flood against which the strongest rock would fail to stand, a tempest that threw around every ship on the sea, an eruption of magic that could blacken the sky and coat the earth with fire for years to come, if he was so inclined.

No, every time Harry, urged on by the savage music of war, tried to fight harder, tried to bring their training to the next level, Albus reminded him of who exactly he was. There was so much power, so much everything…

Still they fought, day after day, week after week. Yet still the chasm between them seemed not to shrink as though Albus had yet to reveal what he truly could do. But that, as Albus told him repeatedly, was just his imagination. He was learning. He was growing. And as the weeks would pass, Albus told him, so would the gap shrink. Harry's shields, a point Albus belabored constantly, were becoming noticeably stronger already.

But shields were only one part of it. Without the spell from the Grimoire, Harry would've lost these battles far earlier than he actually did. Albus had helped tremendously in enabling Harry to cast the spell without much motion, and then even holding the concept of the spell in mind while casting other magic. It was hard, keeping two concepts at the same time in your mind, but in that, too, Albus was a slave driver.

"I will not allow you to play with this kind of magic," he had said, "if you cannot control it in its entirety."

Harry had relented. Now, while other students spent time at home with their family, he spent all his time with Albus, splitting it in learning how to use the time spell, dueling Albus, and searching for the Horcrux at Hogwarts. Time passed, faster than usual it seemed, but that was to be expected when the schedule was packed to the brim.

He moved. Time stilled. Another light strobe past.

Albus right behind him, Harry stepped out of the fireplace at headquarters. The meeting room was teeming with familiar faces: at the long table in the middle, stacked with maps and reports, biscuits and bread rolls, he found John Abbott talking with Bill; three chairs to their right, Aberforth was smoking pipe with Charlie; and at the far end of the table Kingsley looked on stoically as Tonks morphed her limbs from paws into webbed hands. In a shadowy corner, near a door leading to a broom cupboard, Remus and Sirius exchanged hushed whispers.

Tonight, information would be gathered in a pile and spread to the trusted members of the Order. Moody checked everyone before entering the Order, true, but the risk of a leak was still too high to invite people they didn't trust implicitly. Fleur served as a good example for that. A week after the crisis with her father she had begun working in the hospital wing under Lydia Abbott, who regarded her with far more warmth than Moody and some others did. Though for some it seemed to be a matter of Britain vs. France, rather than the Order vs. Riddle.

That notwithstanding, however, the camp was split on what to think of her. They all knew her father was a Death Eater, just not which. Some had it in them to pity her, able to imagine what it must feel like to learn your family committed atrocities in the name of blood. Others were not as forgiving, but while they grumbled among each other, they kept their peace when it came to actually accusing her. In a sense, she had found shelter under the invisible parasol Harry had erected when he slugged Moody, positioning himself clearly on the issue (unrefined as the method had been). A parasol then enlarged by Albus, who himself spoke out for her during a later meeting, and also a parasol under constant upkeep by Sirius, who had needed all of two minutes to comprehend the situation before throwing in with his godson.

Which was all well and good, but still meant she'd never attend a meeting like this. One of Moody's conditions, but one Harry could understand. He wasn't even sure if Fleur wanted to be part of this in the first place, or if her staying at headquarters was a reaction to having lost the foundation of her life.

Whatever the case, Harry felt at once sad not to see her face, yet also relieved. All the information about her had been coming from Sirius and Remus. Harry wasn't sure how things stood between them now, and he didn't know if he wanted to find out. It was damn cowardly of him, but at the moment he was strained to the breaking point already. He didn't know if he'd have the strength to talk with her about future fights against her father. Not that the issue left him any peace at night.

Albus clapping his shoulder broke him out of his thoughts. He assembled the faculties of his mind to talk with his mentor but Albus was already walking off toward Aberforth. Harry managed a nod at John before Sirius, who had crossed the room in long strides, grabbed him in a fierce hug.

Remus leaned smiling against the table. "How have you been, Harry?"

Harry let go of Sirius and had his arms around Remus in one step. The hug was shorter, but no less affectionate. Surprise flickered shortly in Remus' expression but soon changed to fondness.

Hugging, Harry found, was a respectable way of avoiding questions like 'How have you been?' Those were always so depressing to answer.

"Haven't seen you around in a while," Harry told him instead. "What've you been up to?"

"I'm tempted to say classified, but you'll hear it in a few minutes anyway."

"Remus is becoming secretive as of late," Sirius said, using Remus' shoulder as a support for his arm. "Maybe he's got a girlfriend?"

"Even if that were true, I wouldn't tell you. You ruined enough of my dates at Hogwarts."

"You're such a stick in the mud."

"But you'd tell me, right?" asked Harry, batting his eyes at Remus.

The stern look Remus favored him with wasn't too convincing. "You take too much after Sirius."

"He can't take too much after me. No one can take too much after me."

Harry laughed, though part of it was to cover the uneasiness settling in his stomach. Sirius was right in that Harry couldn't take after him. They hadn't spent nearly enough time together for that to ever become a problem.

Remus and Sirius continued their debate, and Harry moved toward the one person he hadn't spoken to in months. Seeing his approach, Mrs. Weasley wiped her hands on her apron and came over to him.

"Harry, dear, it's good to see you again."

"Hello, Mrs. Weasley," he said, letting her pull him into a hug.

It didn't hurt, didn't squeeze the life out of him, and that alone was reason for worry. Her arms had lost a lot of strength. She was thinner now. He saw no rings beneath her eyes, but that might be due to magic. Small residue of a spell lingered in the area.

"It's been so long," she whispered, holding him at arm's-length, inspecting him. "You've grown. And you need a shave, dear."

He smiled uneasily as she continued to mutter observations about his hair, his clothes, his apparent eating habits. It was a ritual of sort, something that seemed to ground her. Part of him wanted to offer his condolences for Mr. Weasley, but another part—the much larger one—found that to be a horrible idea. Mrs. Weasley was holding on, but he didn't doubt that the name of her late husband would provoke a response he didn't want to face.

You're useless at emotions, Potter. Fucking useless.

He said nothing and let her carry the conversation.

"Ron wrote that you're talking again," said Mrs. Weasley, wiping imaginary dust off his shoulders. Her tired smile became a bit wider, a bit lighter, as she spoke.

"We've talked, yeah. Last year wasn't my best."

"Pssht, I heard it wasn't just your fault, my dear." She laughed at his rising eyebrows, and straightened his robe. "Fred and George kept me updated. And it doesn't really matter now, does it? You made up again. That's what counts in the end."

Harry nodded, though he didn't know whether he'd call it making up. There was still a fair bit of tension between him and Ron, but that was better than silence. Tension could be talked about; silence was just nothing.

A shrill sound, a whistle, and clattering interrupted them. Mrs. Weasley located the noise over at the stove. "The tea is ready," she said, finishing her cleaning process. "You should visit us sometimes, if you have the time, that is. I know Albus keeps you dreadfully busy."

"I will."

She shot him a last smile, then bustled over to the stove. There was a bit of a stoop to her walk, an invisible hand that tried to press her down. And still she walked almost upright, straining against the weight. As if the unfairness of the world, the loss of her husband, couldn't keep her down. And Harry knew in that moment that as long as her children were still there she wouldn't allow herself to fall into despair.

"Biscuit?"

He didn't jolt, but it unnerved him that he hadn't sensed the person approach. It was the familiarity of this place and the people that made him this careless. He turned to Bill, who was waving a platter with biscuits in his face. Harry took one, savoring the jam on top of it.

"Mum's happy, you know, to have seen you." Bill put the platter back on the table. "You really should come—visit, I mean."

"As soon as Albus lets me go."

Bill looked over to Albus, who sat next to his brother. Aberforth didn't look too happy. Overhead, a clock showed that the meeting would start soon. They were only waiting on one person now.

"How is it, training with Dumbledore?"

"Exhausting," was the first word that shot out of Harry's mouth. "That," Harry continued more subdued, "and maddening."

"How so?"

"You ever tried solving a scheme too complex for you? Too difficult?"

"Ah."

"We duel every day. Haven't won once so far… Doesn't matter what I do."

"He's over a century older than you. I'm not surprised. And those rune schemes too difficult to solve… Well," Bill said, "I did solve them eventually. Took some time, but I did it."

"Here's to hoping it'll work out then." Harry reached for another biscuit. He wondered though whether he had the time to go the conventional way.

"You'll manage. Listen"—Bill leaned in closer—"I need to talk to you."

Harry looked at Bill's serious face, then shrugged and went over to a corner some distance away from the others.

"This is as private as it'll get today," Harry said.

Bill lowered his voice. "I know about Fleur."

"What about her?"

"You're better than that."

Harry looked at him. "What will you do? Tell the Order? Moody? It's not her fault."

"I know that. Bloody hell, don't I know it. But I don't feel it, and that's the problem. He is her father…"

"And she's no more responsible for what he did than Ron is for Wormtail, or Sirius for his parents," Harry said. "Listen, Bill. I can't imagine what you're going through—frankly, I don't want to—but I ask that you give her a chance. That you don't sell her out. I don't want Moody to learn of this."

"Would that be so bad?"

"Have you seen him lately?"

Bill was silent. Eventually his shoulders sagged. "I'll keep my distance. If I meet her father though…"

"You do what you have to. Thanks, Bill."

The meeting began a minute later when the door opened and Snape entered in a black cloak, white mask dangling from his belt. Another reason only trusted members could participate. The name of their spy couldn't get out under any circumstances. Since Emin Acar had taken over as a potion professor, Snape had been active in Riddle's circle all the time.

Harry took a seat at the corner of the table. Everyone quieted down and Sirius rose, offering a general overview of the situation. The frequency of attacks had gone down in the last weeks, he told them. There were some still, but only to create a general sense of unrest. None of that, he emphasized, meant however that the amount of Riddle's supporters wasn't rising in the meantime.

A sobering announcement, quick and painful. Remus came next. He spoke of the werewolves in the countries surrounding Britain. "It can't be a coincidence that so many vanished." He would rub his wrist while talking, shaking his head even as he gave a rough estimate of how many had disappeared.

"Three packs?" Tonks almost lost balance on her chair. It had tipped dangerously as she scraped back, but Kingsley's arm was there to steady it. "That's…"

None of them verbalized it further, but they could all agree on her point. For most people, one werewolf alone was a tremendous problem—during the full moon, of course. Harry was glad that he had ripped that facility in New Castle to shreds.

Others reported, but the information stayed mostly the same: Riddle had gained new allies in the giants; the Dementors obeyed his command; Acromantulas remained open to debate, but no one held their breath for them. In turn, the Order had acquired a few new members too. Some worked at the Ministry, some didn't work at all. It was a patchwork army, but Harry didn't complain. It was more than he could have hoped for on his own.

"His forces are stronger than ever. Why isn't he attacking?" Aberforth asked, leaning forward and staring at his brother. His eyes glinted, as though he knew that Albus had something to do with it.

Some musing followed until Sirius ended it. "We have no time for random guessing." He turned to Snape. "If you will?"

Snape didn't look once at Sirius as he spoke. "As you have heard, His army has grown steadily in these last weeks. I am now fully engaged as a potioneer in his service. Before, he also used me for research. A few weeks ago—I do not know what prompted him to act this way—he punished Lucius severely. Afterward he barricaded himself in his chamber."

"He's playing shut-in?" Harry exchanged a glance with Albus.

Snape nodded surly. "He gives short commands, shows himself now and then. For the most part though, he remains in his chamber. He seems pre-occupied, erratic. It appears that he is working on something."

"You know what that is, Snape?" said Moody.

"No. He asked for no help, neither from me nor the others of his inner circle. And the last Death Eater who got a glimpse of his design died quite horribly." Snape hesitated, a faraway look on his face. "When he calls us… gives us commands before he vanishes again… his smile is crueler than usual."

Harry arched an eyebrow, and he wasn't the only one. Hesitation, the words themselves even, were strange for Snape. "How do you mean?"

Snape seemed to rid himself of something, then shook his head. "Whatever he plans can't be good. And I fear he is nearing his goal."

There was a short silence after Snape's report. Then came the outburst. Voices rose, as did emotions. Everyone had something to say, until Sirius pointed his wand at the ceiling and let loose a spell that struck like thunder in their ears.

"Calm down," he said sharply. "We will devise the appropriate strategies later—this was just to keep everyone informed." He turned to Snape. "Thank you. Please continue gathering information. It's invaluable."

Snape looked sour. "Of course." The added 'you dimwit' was easy to see on his face. Still, Harry found that Snape had lost a lot of his sting. He mostly looked tired and weary now, not at all like the menace of Harry's Hogwarts years. "Until he makes his plans known, however," Snape said, "there seems to be no way to learn of them."

After a word from Sirius the meeting ended at last, and while a few still grouped together to talk and chat, most went on their way.

Harry leaned toward Albus. "Riddle's acting suspicious."

"A rather obvious statement if you allow me to say so."

"You're allowed. Do you think it has something to do with us?"

"We have to keep vigilant," Albus told him, then said no more. This wasn't the place for it.

A favor owed was a favor to be repaid; and good deeds, it turned out, had a way to come around. Still Harry found himself in a surreal situation, called in by the Satyr to a tribunal of portraits. All inhabitants of Hogwarts, ghosts and portraits alike, had been tasked with the search for the place Harry had seen in the ritual. The description he gave had been lacking of course and as imprecise as could be in a castle of this size, but it seemed, against all odds, as though the portraits had found something.

The Satyr, for whom Harry had conjured a sun whenever he passed, had thrown himself into the search, more so than any other portrait even.

"We have found the culprit," the Satyr said, hairy chest puffed out. "It can only be him, lad."

Harry stood before a door-sized portrait in which dozens of people were crowding around a wooden chair. There sat Sir Cadogan, bound by chains, a white piece of cloth in his mouth against which he strained and moaned.

"On the seventh floor he was," said a woman in a Victorian dress, fanning her face.

"Gray armor on a meadow!" shouted the farmer next to the Satyr. "It must be him!"

"Who else could it be? He has not turned himself in!"

"But there are dozen knights in the castle!" said one skeptic.

"So what? Just this one near a row of armors…"

Harry looked at the red-faced Sir Cadogan. "Can you ungag him?"

"Certainly, good sir," said an elderly man, bowing. "Though I doubt he will profess much beyond his innocence, which is, of course, in question." He ungagged the knight, who began to take in deep gulps of air.

"Have you gone mad?" Cadogan asked at last, glaring at the people around him. "What wickedness took hold of you this eventide?"

"You are the wicked one, traitor!" shouted another knight. "How dare you not turn yourself in, keep yourself mummed when the safety of the school is at stake!"

"Safety of the school…?"

"Aye," a bearded pirate said, glaring through his remaining, beady eye, "the safety of the school, scum. You know what Albus wanted. Gray on green in a corridor with armor. Savvy?"

"Sav—I know nothing of the sort!"

"You—"

"Silence! I need not render an account for the likes of you!" If anything, Cadogan's facial color grew puce. "I am a knight of the Order of Merlin. How dare you accuse me of such wickedness!"

The tribunal, as far as Harry could see it, would go on in this vein for quite some time. Whether something came of it or not was immaterial to him, however. Important was just one information. He leaned over to the Satyr, who had begun relaxing in an adjacent portrait, lying on a divan and feeding himself some grapes.

"Where's Cadogan's portrait?"

"Seventh Floor, lad," the Satyr said. "Rather large. Can't miss it."

"Seventh Floor…"

The gears in Harry's mind ground to a halt, then resumed their work faster than before. Could it, for once, really be that easy?

"Thanks," Harry said.

"Leokas they call me."

"Yes, thanks Leokas. I have to go now, so…"

"Never mind me, lad. Just don't forget that I need my sun now and then."

"Sure."

Harry turned and stalked down the corridor, leaving the congregation of portrait inhabitants alone. Labor and hardship he had expected in his search for the Horcrux, but if his assumption turned out to be true, then he had been kissed by Lady Luck for the first time in weeks. About time that something went his way.

AN: Cheers. Thanks go out to DLP.