A/N: I know this chapter has been a long, long time coming. And I shan't keep you from it further with a long A/N pleading for forgiveness… except to say that I am truly sorry and that life, work, original projects and general need for a break got in the way.

In future, I am planning to update COH once per week, and aiming for Thursdays. I hope this schedule can continue and will keep interest in the story and regular updates for my readers. With that – to the tale!

PLEASE READ AND REVIEW

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DISCLAIMER: Any and all familiar characters and/or story lines are the property of Joanne Rowling.

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CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Georgios Aetós

One of the great windows was leaking. A tiny crack snaked its way through the highest corner – almost invisible in the darkness. It was enough. The world wept onto the perfect beach wood floor and Sirius stood in the puddle, arms crossed and eyes hooded, staring out over the angry sea.

'We don't have to go straight away, you know,' came Remus' quiet voice from across the room.

Sirius did not bother to turn. He knew what he would see.

'There's no point putting it off. Dumbledore's right; we're going to need somewhere, and the sooner the better. This place will lose all its usefulness if he keeps bringing half the Order round, and Emmeline's isn't practical anymore. It's clever, really. Merlin knows my father took enough measures to guard his privacy.' He scowled at the crack in the glass. 'Of course, we'll be removing dark magic for the better part of a decade, I expect.'

A heavy sigh echoed behind him, much closer. 'It doesn't have to be –'

'No, I'm all for it,' he went on. 'Absolutely. Least I can be doing something useful, seeing as how I can't make calls with you. Shut up all day renovating the house I spent sixteen years trying to escape. Should be a gas.'

Remus' hand brushed as if to close on his shoulder. Sirius dodged and turned for the kitchen, mumbling about tea.

'I should have trusted my judgment,' Remus muttered, trailing him from the room without invitation. 'This is precisely why I told Dumbledore not to ask you yet. I knew you weren't ready to –'

Sirius whirled from the cupboard and all but slammed the teacups down. One teetered a moment and fell, splitting cleanly in two. 'You've been speaking to Dumbledore about me?'

Remus mended the cup with a flick of his wand and a mildly reproachful look. 'Albus approached me, Padfoot. He asked me whether he ought to speak to you, and I advised against it. I felt, at the time, it was too soon in your recovery.'

'My recovery,' Sirius growled. 'You're not a Healer, Remus. And I have no use for one. Nor am I a child in need of minding. If Dumbledore has a favour to ask, he can bloody well ask me himself. And the two of you can stop gossiping about my fucking life behind my back like a pair of corner shop crones!'

'That's not how it was and you know it,' said Remus – his eyes uncharacteristically flashing in anger. 'We've been over and over this. You've barely been out a year, Sirius. It's going to take time to handle –'

'Don't you tell me what I can and can't handle!' Sirius snapped. 'I can deal with danger and misery just fine. I've been doing it my whole life, and better than you.'

Remus' jaw tightened, but he did not raise his voice to match the latter's ire. 'This is not a tit for tat. And I refuse to be baited into one. Albus meant no harm, and neither did I. Quite the contrary.'

The shrill whistle of the kettle sounded behind them. Sirius slashed his wand viciously to shut it up. 'When?' he demanded. 'When did the two of you –'

'A few weeks ago, at Hogwarts,' said Remus. He flicked his own wand to float the kettle over, where it began to fill the teacups. 'I had hoped we could discuss a move at Christmas. But between the situation at the last moon and everything else…'

Sirius grit his teeth against the well of fury still itching for escape. 'No point in delaying anyway, is there?' he said at last, shoving the milk towards Remus and digging out a sugar cube for his own. 'Not like being shut up here or getting shut up in London will make much difference.'

'You know that isn't true,' said Remus quietly. 'That's exactly my concern.'

'Stop with the concern,' Sirius pleaded again, though at a more reasonable volume. 'I've told you, I can handle it. We'll go tomorrow if you like.'

A clap of thunder rolled outside. Remus pointed his wand through the open doorway, lighting the fire in the marble hearth. It was odd, Sirius thought, just how quickly the seasons could change. They had had little occasion to rely on the fire for warmth since arriving at the cottage.

'I think it can wait a few weeks, at least,' Remus insisted.

'I told you, I –'

But Remus held up his hands in placation. 'Not because of you, Padfoot. Albus ought to be there, at least the first time. We don't know for sure what sort of magic might be set on the place, especially if the Ministry might have realised you've inherited it. Plus, he'll need to set the wards himself, if we're using it for the Order. And we can't drag him off from Hogwarts in the first week of term.'

Sirius sighed. He wished he'd gone for Firewhisky, rather than tea. As it was, he held the cup tight in his fingers. Remus must have charmed it – for the tea kept its warmth, even while it sat in his frigid hands ten long minutes.

'We went on holiday when I was six,' he said. 'One of my last memories.'

'Earliest,' Remus corrected automatically.

Sirius shot him a dark look. 'Last,' he repeated. 'Last of them, before I can remember realising, I was different. Before I can remember hating them.'

Remus opened his mouth to reply, but Sirius went on before he could.

'It was a little village – a magical village on an island in the Mediterranean. Back then, Greece still segregated. All magical villages were common, and hidden. Forbidden to Muggle intrusion. Probably why my father chose it. I didn't know any different then. I'd barely ever seen a Muggle before.'

A plate of biscuits nudged itself at his elbow. Sirius pushed it irritably back.

'We were on the beach when it happened. Me, Reg, our cousins. White sand like you wouldn't believe. My father made castles in it with us. He was younger; less dignified, away from London and the politics he loved so much.'

He paused again. Remus had banished the biscuits. He was studying him intently. 'When what happened?'

Sirius smiled bitterly at his own reflection – blurred upon the rain-flecked window above the basin. 'When Georgios Aetós came ashore.'

Remus furrowed his brow. 'I… I don't know who –'

'Of course you don't,' said Sirius, shrugging. 'Why would you? Nobody does. Not anymore. But it's all I could understand, of what he kept screaming over and over. I am Georgios Aetós - Georgios Aetós… Merlin knows what mercy he thought that would buy him. Merlin knows how he routed the wards to begin with – a little old man in a rickety sailing boat. They tortured him, but I don't think they worked it out. When it was over, they put his body back in the boat and pushed him out to sea.'

His companion's face had lost its confusion. Now, Remus looked vaguely ill. 'When you were six?'

'I don't know that the plan was to kill him,' Sirius mused, fidgeting with his saucer. 'Maybe. Or perhaps they would have wiped his memory, once they'd worked out whether the wards were flawed. But his heart couldn't take the strain.'

'And you were six,' Remus echoed angrily. 'Your parents tortured and killed a man in front of you –'

'Oh no,' Sirius cut in with a wry smile. 'No… they would never. My parents had a gift for keeping their hands clean. Things like that happened around them, never through. The villagers murdered Georgios Aetós. My parents just made us watch.'

'Made you –'

'He was a Muggle,' said Sirius. 'A muggle who dared to leave his place; breached Wizarding wards and sailed his tippy little boat into sacred waters. A muggle who deserved his punishment, because he had put our safety and our secrets at risk. It was hard to watch, my father acknowledged, but necessary. Wizards must come first. Our security, our power, must be the priority. Muggles were a risk to that. It's why the island was so careful to keep them separate, as we were born to be. Reg cried through the whole thing. Ironic, that.'

Remus clenched a hand over his forearm. Sirius drained the last of the tea, and shrugged away the grip as he stood.

'I'm sorry, Sirius.'

'Don't be,' he said shortly. 'My father was right. I learnt a valuable lesson in hatred that day.'

He carried the cups away by hand.

'So… October then. And you'd best tell Albus to bring dragonhide gloves.'

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This year already felt different, and not just because of the impending Triwizard Tournament. Everyone was a bit on edge. Even Peeves, who had celebrated the students' return with a series of very nasty water-filled balloons lobbed on top of their heads in the entrance hall. Harry supposed this uneasy atmosphere was a reaction to the World Cup events, though the Dark Mark's appearance seemed as much an item of scandal as fear in the gossip mill.

Harry had two eager Creevey brothers tailing him now, as Colin's little brother Dennis had joined him in Gryffindor at this year's Sorting. Three times in the first week of term, Harry resorted to his Invisibility Cloak just to be sure he wasn't followed into the loo.

Moody had made an appropriately sinister entrance halfway through Albus' opening remarks. Harry wondered what had kept him so long. As far as he'd heard it from the gossiping students on the train, the Ministry had sorted the situation at his home by midday. Everyone had been equally terrified and excited upon their new Defence professor's entry… and most seemed to have remained so after their introductory lessons. Harry's class would not meet with Moody until the end of the week, but he rolled his eyes over his pumpkin juice as Fred and George dropped tantalising hints for Ron. Having experienced a bit of a preview, Harry already had a fairly good idea what type of introduction Moody favoured.

Hermione and Ron had had another row – this one prompted by the inadvertent revelation by Nearly Headless Nick that the grand Welcoming Feast had been prepared by many house-elves. Harry pointed out, reasonably in his own opinion, that Hermione ought to have realised this by now, as she herself had met several of the castle elves while visiting with Harry over the summers. This helpfulness earned him little, apart from his own angry glare and an icy shoulder for the rest of the meal. He had refrained from joining the argument thereafter.

Now that Dumbledore had made the formal announcement at the Welcoming Feast, the Tournament quickly overshadowed the train chat of Dark Marks and Ministry disarray. In fact, it seemed to be all the students could talk about.

Every corridor Harry passed teemed with milling students pressing their luck to the last gong in order to confer on the tournament between lessons.

'I'm going for it, I am! Mum will go mad if she thinks I've chickened out –'

'What do you reckon? Fifty or so put in from Hogwarts, I'd wager –'

'– thousand galleons! Imagine the broomstick you could buy with that, Larson. We'd –'

'– heard Angelina's having a go. And then there's Flint… but he's a lump if ever there was one, isn't he?'

'Do you think I should brush up on my Transfiguration before Hallows Eve? Is the judge likely to talk to McGonagall, or –'

Even within Gryffindor Tower, there was hardly a moment's conversation on anything beyond the tourney. Harry found himself grinning and dreaming along with everyone else, even though he knew it was pointless. He was glad for the distraction – as he had spent his first lesson hours collecting pus, meeting Hagrid's new and terrifying creatures, and giving himself a migraine as he fought his way through Vector's revision exam.

'We're working on a few ideas,' George informed Harry, Ron and Hermione as he and Fred pulled armchairs alongside on their second evening. 'Get round this restriction… maybe an Aging Potion, if we can whip it together in time. You lot fancy a chance?'

'I'm not sure that will work,' Hermione said, frowning. 'Professor Dumbledore's bound to have thought of Aging Potion.'

'And anyway, Dumbledore knows you're not of age, doesn't he?' Ron put in. 'Won't he just tell the judge?'

'Would help if we knew who it was,' Fred agreed.

All eyes turned to Harry, who shrugged. 'I knew what he said last night, but he didn't tell me much else. I've no idea how the Champions are selected.'

'Come off it – you were here when the foreign heads dropped in, weren't you? You're telling us you never caught wind of the judge?' said George.

Harry gave a hollow laugh. 'I wasn't allowed anywhere near those meetings.'

The twins stared at him, crestfallen.

'Mate, we must discuss your eavesdropping skills,' Fred said seriously, shaking his head.

Conversation slowly drifted to Moody again – everyone's second favourite topic of late. Harry laughed dutifully as Ron recounted Moody's hex on Malfoy in the entrance hall that evening, which had seen the Slytherin suspended by his shorts from the chandelier for a good five minutes before Minerva chanced upon the scene to chivvy the students into dinner and rail at Moody. The hilarity was wearing off, just a bit, now he'd heard the re-telling at least six times.

Minerva had been even less amused, when Harry had lingered after dinner to speak to her in the antechamber about whether he would be allowed to visit Hogsmeade with the others this term and chanced to mention the incident.

'You have to admit, it was a little bit funny,' said Harry, grinning.

Minerva's nostrils flared. 'It was not amusing in the least, Mr Potter. It was inappropriate and potentially dangerous.'

'He was trying to curse me at the time,' he pointed out. 'While my back was turned.'

She sniffed, pushing her glasses straight on the bridge of her nose. 'Even so. We do not use such punishments on our students. Imagine if you had been the boy attacked by his professor. Would you feel safe in your school then?'

Harry snorted. He couldn't help it. 'So far, two of my professors have tried to kill me; one tried to Obliviate me; one has deliberately poisoned me and one has hexed me and invaded my mind. I'm still here.'

From her face, Harry could not decide whether Minerva intended to take points for impertinence or embrace him. In the end, she opted for a rather stammered word of comfort, a brush of his cheek, and an admonishment to get a good night's sleep before her lesson in the morning.

In actuality, Harry did think it odd that Mr Malfoy hadn't come storming through the Hogwarts doors in the hour after Moody's punishment.

'Course he didn't,' said Ron, closing his eyes in reverent reflection and digging shamelessly through Fred's school bag searching for sweets. 'Because Moody's a legend. Malfoy's dad was right in with You-Know-Who, wasn't he? Bet he's afraid Moody would hang him from the chandelier if he slagged off.'

'I wouldn't if I were you,' said George, nodding at the orange sweet his brother was now unwrapping. 'We haven't worked out all the wrinkles with that one yet.'

Ron paused at once, glared at the twins, and began slowly re-twisting the wrappings, looking sullen.

'So… what of it then?' asked Fred, turning to Harry and ignoring Ron's mutterings. 'You fancy a go or what?'

Harry opened his mouth, fully intending to laugh and decline. He knew Dumbledore would have made the tournament fool-proof; knew there wasn't a chance some aging potion would be able to hoodwink the judge. And yet….

In his mind, he suddenly saw Cho's face. As she'd been at the Quidditch World Cup – cheeks pink with faint blush and eyes sparkling. He imagined what it would feel like, impressing her. Watching her watch him, as he shone in glory and triumph, school champion…

You're mental, said a voice in his head. You'll never be able to do it. Even if you tricked the judge; the others will all be of age…

But he grinned despite himself, shrugging a bit. 'Go on then.'

Ron whooped, punching the air. Hermione flipped a page in the new defence book she was perusing with a snort. 'You're idiots – all of you.'

'Mind who you're disparaging,' said George, pulling an advanced potions text from his bag with a flourish. 'Or I shan't get you a present with my winnings.'

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'He should be in Azkaban!' Draco whinged, red-faced and almost tearful as he paced the office furiously.

Severus sighed, rubbing at his temples. He had already had a nasty shouting match with Moody in Albus' office for an hour this evening while the boy waited below. Irritated as he was with the entire affair, his desire to hex was quickly becoming dwarfed by his longing for a headache draught and solitude.

'Draco –'

'Corporal punishment isn't allowed. Everyone knows that!' He rubbed ruefully at his bum.

'Regrettably true,' Severus drawled. 'Do you require a bruise balm?'

Draco's face reddened further. 'When my father finds out…'

'He will do nothing, I assure you. Alastor Moody is not a fight your father wishes to undertake.'

'He beat me!'

'He deposited you rather harder than necessary on the ground. He did not take a rod to your back,' Severus clarified. 'I do not condone his methods, but you can be sure the headmaster will deal with Moody. It is for me to deal with you.'

Draco stopped his pacing, looking horrified. 'Deal with me? ME?!'

'You will modify your tone immediately, Draco, or I will take far more points than Moody has already. As it is, you shall be completing a week's detention with me.'

'A week?' Draco repeated indignantly, though at a more reasonable level. 'You've got to be kidding me. It was Potter. And I didn't even get him before that madman jumped me.'

'And I have given you repeated warnings against this exact sort of behaviour,' Severus snapped. 'A lesson you seem determined to ignore. Once again, you attack him in front of half the school and a professor. And you do so when his back is turned. Only fools and cowards act in such a manner, Draco. If you believe Dumbledore will allow such actions to go unpunished…'

'I've been punished already,' he complained.

'And if you had not, it would have been a fortnight's detentions,' said the Potions Master. 'As for your father, I will be writing to him tonight.'

Draco threw himself into the chair. 'It's absolute rubbish.'

Severus stepped back behind his own desk, sweeping his long robes straight as he sat. He pulled a pile of syllabi closer. 'You will have plenty of opportunity to contemplate the indignities of your lot tomorrow evening at eight o'clock. In the meantime, I suggest you spend the rest of the evening preparing for your lessons tomorrow, if you are finished moping in my office.'

He picked up a quill and bent pointedly over the parchment. Draco did not move. Severus ignored him, scratching notes into the margins of his OWL lesson plan.

It was several moments before the boy spoke again. 'Why are you being like this?'

He was not whinging now, precisely. Instead, Severus could hear hurt in the tone. He did not look up. 'Why am I doing my job as your professor and head of house?'

'I've known you since way before Hogwarts,' the boy pointed out. 'You used to come round the Manor, when I was little. You're friends with my parents.'

'I recall.'

He could feel the boy's scowl. 'You were never nice,' Draco said. 'But you were always… decent enough, to me. You used to tell me about Hogwarts, don't you remember? You even gave me my first potions set – my ninth birthday. Do you remember?'

'Vividly,' said Severus shortly. 'Instructional only. Ingredients that could make nothing more dangerous than stew. Yet I also recall that someone stole bicorn horn from their father's stores and set his bedding on fire. I was not invited to the next celebration.'

Draco nearly laughed. 'I got in a load of trouble for that one,' he admitted.

Silence fell again. The professor continued making notes, head firmly down. 'Does this reminiscence have a point, Draco?'

The boy huffed. 'Yeah, it does! Why are you being such a…'

He trailed off. Severus did pause this time, point of the quill digging a tiny hole into the paper as he pressed it down with white knuckles. He raised his head at last, and watched the fear flicker in Draco's eyes.

'Do finish that thought,' he invited in a dangerous hiss.

Draco swallowed audibly. 'I – that's not what… you know what I mean, sir. I wasn't –'

'Indeed, I do know precisely what you intended, Mr Malfoy,' he growled.

Draco pinked, and ducked his own head. 'I hate it when you do that,' he mumbled. 'It's not fair. I didn't say it.'

'Using one's advantages is not unfair, it is practical. Might I suggest that next summer, rather than skipping about in idleness or setting your bed to flame, you take some time to study the art of Occlumency. Your mother is gifted in the mind magics. You may find you have a talent for it.' He banished the ink blot seeping from the abused quill with an irritated flick of his fingers and dipped the nib in the pot again. 'Why are you still here?'

Draco sighed. 'Why are you… different?' he asked at last. 'You never used to be like this. You never used to care what I got up to with Potter. You never used to be so… hard. Not to me.'

Severus stuck the quill in the ink pot and charmed the parchment dry. He gave Draco a long look. 'I am the same as I have always been, Draco. But you are not.'

The boy sneered, a touch of haughtiness returning. 'You don't like who I am now – is that what you're saying?'

'No, it is not,' said Severus simply. 'But you are not nine years old anymore, Draco. And it is time to put away the petty feuds and thoughtless antics of a child. You are a skilled student and a clever wizard. You can be more than you are. And I wish for you to see it.'

Draco stuck his chin up proudly. 'I will be great,' he vowed. 'You'll see…'

'Perhaps I shall,' said Severus, pulling the NEWT lesson plan from the pile and retrieving his quill again. 'In the meantime – leave off your nonsense with Potter before one of us ends up answering to the headmaster for your foolishness. And get out of my office.'

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Lilac petals in her hair, borne there on a wind of her own creation. She laughed as she ran barefoot through the garden, chasing him with dancer's step. Her magic beautiful and light. Powerful. Gentle. A delicate dichotomy. Delicate as she was.

How had it come to this?

All that had been beautiful turned ugly; all right been made wrong; all life and loveliness arrested in death upon the floor.

'You did this!' Aberforth half-sobbed, half-snarled.

All was ashes. Ashes and empty doors. And there was naught to rise from within.

Pain ripped through him, so violent – too much, too crushing to bear. And then it was as if it came full circle. It left him almost numb. Perhaps this was what it was; to be ruined. He had never before known something so vast, it defied all understanding. He could not comprehend. He could not begin. Perhaps this was what it was; to have no knowledge, no wisdom. This was falling into the sea.

This was ignorance.

'YOU did this.'

His brother did not raise his head from where it bowed over her chest, her golden curls slashed with auburn where their hair entwined – the living and the dead; fury and emptiness. Albus did not approach. He would not have, even if he could. He dared not.

It was hard to find words, here in the sea, where he drowned alone in his pool of wax and blood. They came with great effort and no comprehension.

'I loved her,' he whispered. 'I would never – I didn't mean for… I loved her.'

'You killed her,' his brother spat. 'You've destroyed her, with your greed and your incredible stupidity. That is what your love has brought this family. Nothing but a curse.'

'Please… Aberforth, please –'

'I want none of it,' he snarled. 'None! And I promise you this, Albus. I will never forgive you your love.'

'You've never been much for popping round for a chat,' said Aberforth, banging two plates of roast down on the table between them. 'Are you ill?'

The pub was empty; the upstairs rooms vacant of all living souls. Softly crackling logs and the distant bleat of a goat in the paddock provided the only background noise. This, normally, would not have worried him. Tonight, Albus found the quiet almost oppressive.

But he smiled gently as he took his fork and knife. 'Not to my knowledge.'

Aberforth grunted and took a long swig from his ale. A bit of the foam caught in his ample moustache, and he brushed it away with a callused hand. 'You'll be wanting something then?'

The headmaster shot him a withering look. 'Must I have some ulterior motive? Could I not simply have desired to see my brother before the bustle of this new year dispels all notion of leisure time?'

Aberforth harrumphed again, and speared a potato. 'Simple my foot. You've never been so mundane.'

'Your constant tendency to predict the worst of me will never cease to amaze, nor sadden.'

The barman scowled. 'Don't play the martyr to me, Albus.'

A grimace of pain marred his face before Albus could smooth it away. It was, as ever, not lost on his infinitely observant brother.

He put his ale down with a bit more force then necessary, his gaze narrowing. 'What is it? What's happened?'

Albus forced a tight smile. 'Nothing. Nothing as yet, at any rate. I cannot deny that I fear for the future. There is unrest stirring, Aberforth. Surely you have heard the whispers.'

Aberforth grunted, waving a careless hand about the deserted pub. 'I'm in the business of whispers and silence, Albus. Nobody pays much mind to the barman, do they? But they all talk in his presence.' He leant closer despite their solitude, pressing the tines of his fork into the wood unconsciously. 'They're afraid, Albus. They know what approaches. They can feel him gathering strength. And they fear their reception will not be warm.'

The headmaster nodded gravely. 'That is what I understand as well.'

The barman pushed himself upright again with a derisive sniff. 'Of course. My intelligence is hardly necessary. I'd forgot you feed one from your table like a loveable stray.'

'Aberforth –'

'Don't. I do not grant second chances so easily as you.'

Albus sighed. 'I well remember.'

A pregnant silence fell. Both turned to their dinner, though neither felt much interest in food. Albus picked the fat meticulously from the edges of his portion. Up at the castle, the last wave of students in the Great Hall had surely finished their dinner. He wondered if Harry had been among them. He had not seen him since the start of term feast three nights before.

'They've not found the missing witch then?' Aberforth offered into the quiet. 'That Jorkins woman?'

'Nor will they. She is dead.'

Aberforth grunted. He did not ask how Albus knew. He poured himself another ale and refilled Albus' mead, eyeing him closely. 'This is not like you, brother,' he said as he banished the flagon back to the bar. 'Haven't you been banging on that Voldemort would be back since the night the Potter boy triumphed?'

'You know why,' said Albus softly. 'Already he has made attempts to rise again.'

'Aye,' Aberforth agreed. 'And each thwarted by the kid.'

'For now,' said Albus carefully. 'A fortuitous combination of uncanny bravery and sheer luck.'

'Well, you've never been obtuse, Albus. I've heard from a few of the old crowd already – they say Lupin's been making the rounds. Seems we'll be as prepared as we might.'

The headmaster inclined his head. His brother's gaze narrowed.

'Yet you're sat here, as uneasy as ever I've known you. Why?'

Albus hesitated. Aberforth's brow furrowed in the silence. 'It's the boy,' he answered for him. 'It's Harry Potter.'

'It is many things,' Albus hedged. 'But… yes. It is Harry, in part.'

'You manage a whole school of kids, Albus,' the barman pointed out. 'I realise he's a bit of a handful, but surely you can keep a watch on him right enough. He's hardly left your side these three years.'

Albus' lips quirked in spite of himself. 'In this, I fear, you overestimate me.'

Shrewd eyes, twins yet so different to his own, stared him down. 'Do I?' Aberforth challenged. 'You think me blind, Albus? That I cannot see how you are with him?'

'Whatever my feelings on the matter, Harry must be prepared,' said Albus. 'But he is too young, Abe. It's too soon to place the burden upon him. He is not ready. And yet every day I can feel it – I am running out of time.'

Aberforth lowered his ale, very slowly. 'You don't have to put it on him at all,' he said quietly. 'He's a boy. This isn't his war.'

'No,' Albus agreed. 'It is a war we must all face. But Harry will have a central role to play. You know that. Voldemort will never stop coming for him, and –'

'And I'm not saying you keep that from him,' Aberforth argued. 'Hell – he probably knows that much already. The boy's no fool. But you need not lay the whole of it on his scrawny shoulders, Albus. He doesn't deserve it.'

'This is not about deserving,' said Albus. 'It is about what is right. It's about doing what must be done to save the world.'

'It always is with you, isn't it?' his brother shot back, his tone suddenly much sharper. 'The Greater Good.'

Albus was prepared for the blow, but it did not make the fielding any easier. He closed his eyes rather than stare into the accusation.

'Someone must consider the Greater Good, Aberforth. Someone always must.'

'Well thank Merlin for you then!' spat Aberforth venomously. 'Of course, it's only you who determines what that Greater Good is – isn't it, my dear brother? And it's not you who'll have to bear the burden of it.'

Albus opened his eyes. His voice shook with a pain he did not bother to veil.

'And don't you think I would take the burden from him if I could, Aberforth? Don't you know that I would spare him this – ALL of this – if I could?'

Aberforth slammed the table with a heavy palm. 'And you can – damn it, Albus! There is a difference between can't and won't. So many years… so many deaths and so much destruction, yet still you fail to grasp it. He's your responsibility, Albus. Not just his life and his well-being, but his happiness.'

Albus tore his gaze away. The blue eyes of judgment still pierced. 'His happiness is all I want,' he whispered. 'But what I want is inconsequential. Even if I wished to keep Harry in the dark, his destiny is tied to this war. I have no more right to keep it from him than I do to lay claim to the moon. I could no more keep it from him than I could take his magic. It is a part of his very essence. And the choices, what few there are, are rightly his to make.'

'And yet you make them for him,' Aberforth accused. 'You speak in riddles of destiny and free will when we both know it is neither. You'll throw him into the centre of this mess, with the bits and scraps you wish him to know… Don't play with me, Albus. I may not have your gift with tongues, but I know yours right enough.'

'I will do what I can, as always I have tried to do when it comes to Harry,' said Albus. 'A teacher does not send his student to face danger without instruction –'

'And a father does not send his child to danger at all!' Aberforth retorted.

'Sometimes, he must,' said Albus gently. 'And Harry is not my son.'

Aberforth glared back a challenge. 'Is that so? So what is the boy to you, Albus? A pupil? Another weapon of the 'Greater Good'? Or do you even know.'

Albus smiled sadly. 'We have neither of us been blessed with children by blood. But I hardly think I could love a child of my blood more fervently.'

'A child you would see destroyed, for the Greater Good.'

A flare of anger heated across his chest. Or perhaps it was fear. The air about their table chilled. 'Never,' Albus hissed. 'Never. If you could think that of me, Aberforth, then you understand me not at all.'

Another long silence fell. Aberforth did not challenge the sentiment outright, but his calculating scrutiny did not fade. The roast grew cool on their untouched plates. Neither bothered with a heating charm.

It is difficult, isn't it, my friend…

At last, Albus could stand the weight of the silence no longer. He picked at a runner bean, though the thought of eating it filled him with the taste of bile. 'Striking the balance is… difficult,' he admitted at last. 'So difficult, Aberforth. I must teach him what he needs to know, yet I cannot bring myself to steal his childhood. I must prepare him for the inevitable, yet to see him in pain cuts at my own heart. I must find a way to win this war, and yet I cannot ignore that our best chance lies with a boy barely past fourteen. He needs time.'

Aberforth's stern expression did not relax. But his tone softened, ever so slightly. 'There's time enough yet, Albus. Even if you go through with this madness. Mutterings are just mutterings. Could be ten years yet before Voldemort rises.'

It callouses your precious soul…

'It will not,' said Albus with grim certainty. 'Before he is grown, Voldemort will return.'

'And you can be so sure how?' his brother demanded.

'I am sure,' said Albus.

Aberforth stared a long moment. A hopeful fly hovered over his roast. The barman swatted a hand through the air, both stunning the fly from its flight and banishing the uneaten food.

'This isn't about the Greater Good,' he realised. 'It's about The Greater Good.' He laughed humourlessly, and the air chilled again with a newer, wilder wrath. 'I should have known.'

The headmaster sighed. 'It isn't that simple. And it hardly changes the truth of things.'

'You've spent too much time with him,' he warned in a low growl. 'You've let him in… You, who should know better than any after all these years.'

'I have spent only as much time as needed. And I have never lost control.'

Aberforth gave another hollow laugh. 'How would you know? You think you're so clever, but you never could control him. Never, Albus. Never where it mattered. He toys with you like a puppet on a string.'

The sacrifices you have to make…

'It's different now,' Albus insisted. 'I'm not a boy any longer, Abe. And –'

'I've told you. Over and over again I've told you. But you ignore the obvious – head in the sand, as only you can manage.'

'Aberforth –'

'His plots and his schemes; his warped, demented sense of reality. How can you not see it?' he shouted. 'He's in your head, Albus!'

'Yes, he is,' Albus agreed in a whisper. 'But that does not mean that he is wrong.'

For a moment, he though perhaps Aberforth might curse him. The candles flickered about the pub, shadows looming and leering on the walls. When the barman slammed his first to the table, three bottles smashed on their shelves thirty feet away.

'Merlin, Albus! Nearly a century on, and you're still blind as ever when it comes to him. You refuse to see sense! You refuse to see the truth!'

Your precious soul…

'That is precisely his complaint as well. The two of you –'

Aberforth snarled. 'If you go there, I will throw you from this pub.'

The headmaster raised his hands, palms up. 'Comparing you was not my intention, Aberforth. I only meant to say – you are both wrong. All I can see is truth, in this. All I can feel is the weight of it crushing down. You cannot imagine –'

'I cannot imagine it, Albus? The weight of dangerous truths?'

'You cannot imagine this,' said Albus firmly. 'You cannot imagine what it is like – to watch a child laugh, and learn, and grow; to stare into his eyes and see a future hoped for; to know that you shall be the one to lift the veil and reveal the darkness and ruin behind it; to usurp that future utterly. You cannot know.'

'Albus, listen to yourself,' Aberforth hissed. 'Let the boy alone. Let him laugh and learn and grow. Let him be – and keep your war from his doorstep. Leave the monster in his tower, and your dark thoughts with him.'

He sighed. 'For now, perhaps I might. But what of tomorrow, Abe? What of monsters who roam free? I can wield magic that would make this world tremble to her foundations. But her foundations, I cannot change. And never have I been able to outrun fate.'

Your precious soul…

Albus pushed himself off the table, shaping his hat with a sigh.

'I know what I must do. I have always known. But it does not change that I can hardly breathe for the pain of it.'

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Professor Babbling came as something of a surprise. Harry had only ever seen her at mealtimes in the past, and never when term was not in session. She was a young, tall witch, with a thick mane of curly auburn hair that seemed to be constantly at war with her fastenings. She had a slender figure, to his recollection.

At their first lesson, however, an enormous belly preceded her into the classroom, stretching the front of her indigo robes. Hermione's eyes widened at the sight, and Harry found his own gaze drawn inexorably to it. Many of their classmates exchanged titters and raised brows.

'Yes, yes,' the professor acknowledged, setting the stack of books she had levitated in onto a corner of her desk and waving a hand in acknowledgment of the instant whispering. 'As many of you have clearly deduced – my teaching duties will be rather interrupted at some point this term.'

Hermione smiled beside him. Harry, for his part, still could not break his stare.

'But as enticing as I'm sure that prospect sounds, let me assure you of two points straight away,' she went on with a crooked smile. 'For one – despite appearances, I am well-assured by the Healers that our interruption ought not to arrive before the Hallowe'en feast. And secondly, when she arrives, I have already made arrangements with the headmaster to ensure your education remains uninterrupted during my leave of absence.'

Several shoulders slumped. The professor's grin widened.

'Now then,' she went on, adjusting a falling pin from her hair, 'Are there any other queries before we begin?'

'So… what did you think?' Hermione asked an hour later – rather breathlessly, as the two of them were speed-walking towards the greenhouses with less than three minutes to the start of Herbology.

'Babbling seems good,' Harry answered lamely.

In truth, he'd found Ancient Runes boring. He had discovered, to his pleasant surprise, that he was prepared enough from his summer work with the headmaster to keep up with the rest of the class. Less pleasant was the realisation that most of Babbling's lecture involved pure runic translation, reminding him more of French vocabulary quizzes from his Muggle primary school than the 'code-breaking' he'd come to imagine every time he sat down with The Tales of Beedle the Bard.

'It's just… less interesting when it's done in a bubble,' he tried to explain when Hermione pressed the point. 'With Albus, he had me working on an actual translation. I thought it would be more like that.'

'It will,' she promised as they heaved open the castle door. 'She introduces a series of runes first, then moves on to translation after a fortnight or so incorporating them – like modules, almost. At the end of term, we're supposed to start learning how inscription works! We won't actually attempt it until at least OWL, of course –'

'Hold up a mo,' said Harry, bending down to lace his shoe and attempting to ignore Hermione's impatient toe-tapping. 'What do you mean, how to inscribe? You carve the rune, no? Why should that warrant three years of study'

'Honestly, Harry. Didn't you even both to read the syllabus?'

He grinned and straightened. 'Not really. It was sort of a last-minute addition to my timetable.'

She gave an exasperated sigh. 'Well, it's not that simple. But come on – we'll be late for Sprout.'

It was a long few days in the lead-up to their first Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson of the year. The excited chatter continued well into the week, and most of the fourth-year students shovelled down hurried luncheons to arrive twenty minutes early and squabble over the prime seats.

Everyone but Harry took out The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection. Seeing his empty desk, Hermione nudged him with her elbow.

'I doubt it. He's not much for textbooks,' said Harry, though he reached into his bag all the same for fear Hermione's anxiety may give her a heart attack if he did not.

Moody, of course, arrived precisely at the gong.

'Go on and put those away,' he growled, closing the door sharply behind him and clunking over to his desk. 'You won't need them in here. And I don't want distractions today.'

He dug in a deep inner pocket of his long robe, withdrew a tightly furled scroll, stretched it out before him on the desk and began to take the register. Harry marvelled that he could even make out the names – for from his seat in the first row, he could see that the professor had littered the parchment with copious, cramped notes: at the top, between student names, and along the margins, with squiggly lines connecting the memo to the student. Some names he had circled; others he'd underlined; and two or three had little stars inked beside. Harry could not work out what these strange emphases might mean – though whether because the list did not seem to be in its usual alphabetical order or because Moody had placed some sort of charm on the parchment to divert prying eyes, he was not sure. He would have put his galleons on the latter.

The professor's magical eye flicked student to student as each answered his call. The normal continued down the register. Never did the professor pause or enquire, even at Harry's name. When it finished its duty, the scroll vanished with a small pop and no discernible spell. Moody splayed his fingers on the desk and leant over, fixing them all with both eyes now.

'I've read the notes of your previous teachers,' he informed them. 'Most piss-poor, as I'm sure I don't need to tell you. Professor Lupin seemed to be the only one with half a brain in his head for defensive magic. He's done a decent job bringing you up to passable snuff where dark creatures are concerned. I, however, will be focusing on what wizards can do to each other. If you'd like to start with a practical demonstration, Ms Brown, continue to distract others while I'm talking!'

Lavender jumped, blushing furiously as the entire class turned to her. She tucked some paper away sheepishly with a muttered apology.

'Dark magic,' Moody went on without acknowledgement. 'Curses, hexes, even seemingly benign spellwork that can be turned to evil. I've got a year ahead to teach you a lifetime's worth on how to save your own skin – and I will not tolerate diversion.'

'What – only a year?' Ron blurted out. He flushed at once as Moody's eyes flicked to him. 'Sorry, sir.'

'Questions are permissible,' said Moody. 'Though I do prefer they come after I've finished. Yes, Mr Weasley. I've agreed to one year, and one alone. A favour to Dumbledore. I prefer my quiet retirement. Perhaps I might even live it out before the next war rises. You on the other hand –' he gestured one of his own at the room – 'Will not.'

The tension ratcheted up among the students. Several exchanged nervous glances with their neighbours. Neville made an odd sound in his throat, and Parvati Patil squealed.

Moody nodded seriously. 'You lot were raised in times of peace. You've led lives marred only by trivial political tiffs and childhood rivalries. Some of you have been marked by the evil that came before –' Harry felt his magical eye on him, and saw it flicker too, briefly, to Neville – 'But none of you know what war is like. I have lived it. And I am here to prepare you should it return. Constant vigilance!'

He barked the last, and several of the rapt students jumped.

'Wait – sir?' Seamus Finnegan spoke up bravely. 'Can't you tell us?'

Several members of the class leant forward, in eager, naïve interest. Harry felt tendrils of dread awake in his gut.

Moody eyed Seamus a long moment before he spoke, and walked around his desk so there was nothing between the class and his broad, disfigured body. His walking stick and false leg thunked dully in sync until he paused, glaring about the room.

'You want to know what war is like?' he asked back in a low grumble.

Seamus seemed suddenly less certain. But under the scrutiny of Moody's gaze, he nodded.

Moody gestured to them all. 'Look about you. Look to your classmates – your peers. Go on then!'

They followed the gruff order, puzzled. Ron gave Harry a shifty side glance, and Hermione was biting her lip, as though any moment they might all be assigned detention for this curiosity.

'All young,' Moody said. 'And you know 'em all, I reckon. You know which one snores at night; who took the longest to stop crying for mum and dad when they first got to school; who still does. You know which is rubbish at Charms and which your head of house favours. You could probably tell me half their birthdays. You've spent holidays at someone's home. You've helped another through an illness. Maybe you've got pissed with two or three and had rows with five or six. Might be you've gone a bit randy with someone.'

Several people shifted, obviously uncomfortable. A few went beetroot and several others gave nervous titters. Most, however, looked merely confused.

Moody was silent several long moments again, until the buzzing subsided. He nodded gravely at them.

'All young,' he repeated, shaking his head. 'All young, and all stupid. But you won't be when you leave this classroom. Now – look good and hard again at the others in this room.'

They did, without hesitation this time, though not without a more few diverted glances.

'Imagine You-Know-Who is powerful now, as he was in the days of old,' Moody instructed them. His voice seemed to have fallen to barely more than a whisper, and the candles in the room dimmed. Still, his words echoed clearly in their ears.

He pointed dramatically at the class.

'An entire generation,' he said, eyes sweeping the room. 'Fresh out of Hogwarts, invigorated with Magical skill and Dumbledore's vision. Or you would be – if you were about three years further on.'

They all leant forward, both anticipating and dreading the lecture.

'One in four of you is a traitor. One in three will lose family to the dark side. One in two will join him. One in two of those will do it on purpose. People you grew up with, lived with, loved, will be torn away. Your best friends will turn into people you can't recognise. Your trust will be betrayed. Your dreams will vanish, until you cannot even remember what it was to think of the future at all.'

Moody sighed. He dropped his arms, clucked back behind his desk, and placed a cage of scurrying spiders on the wood in front of him.

'But more importantly, in a year or two… half of you will be dead.'

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Harry had been thinking of Moody's lecture all day.

It wasn't only the curses that Moody had shown them after his ominous introduction, though he could not shake Avada Kedavra from his mind either. When he closed his eyes, he still saw that flash of green; still felt the palpable, soft rushing of Death fill his ears. Memory layered on memory – for had he not dreamt of that moment for a decade – the curse that had spared him, and cut short his parents' lives as easily as it had dropped that spider? Had he not watched Voldemort use it since, huddled away in an Albanian forest? No blocking it. No counter-curse. Except, of course, what his mother had done for him. At terrible cost.

But worse was what Moody had said. To think on it chilled him to the marrow.

Was that what it had been like for his parents, when they'd left Hogwarts in the middle of a war?

He'd never really thought of it before. Not like that, anyway. He knew that they'd been young when they'd had him. He knew they were barely twenty-one when they died.

I've already lived two-thirds of their lives, he thought to himself with a sickening lurch.

He'd seen the memories in the Pensieve with Albus and Minerva – snapshots of their short lives. The memories they'd given him were the happy ones; full of love and laughter and joy. But, always, there had been undercurrents he could never truly appreciate; shadows that now felt so much deadlier.

Was this what it had been like then? More than half their classmates – dead. A generation destroyed.

He thought of Sirius and Remus. He thought of how they never seemed to have other friends. He thought of the haunted look in Sirius' eyes – the one he'd always attributed to Azkaban – and wondered if that was truly what stole his light. He remembered Remus' explanation, when Harry had questioned why he'd never come to see him at the Dursleys; how he'd fled the country when the war had ended.

He thought of those who had survived, but did not live. He thought of Frank and Alice Longbottom.

'You alright, Harry?'

He turned his head on the pillow. Neville was sitting up on his own four poster a few beds along, a large book in his hands, his face very pale and his eyes rather red. Harry thought at first he might be catching up on some work. Then he realised the book was a photo album.

Harry cleared his throat, which felt suddenly a bit obstructed, and shoved himself more upright against the headboard.

'I – yeah. Yeah, fine. Just a bit of a headache.'

Neville nodded sympathetically. 'Me too,' he said softly.

Harry cleared his throat again. The obstruction seemed determined not to move. He looked up to the ceiling, breathing deep through his nose and trying to force himself calm.

'He's, er – he's pretty good, don't you think, Moody? Intense, but…'

'Yeah. Seems like he'll be good,' Neville replied quickly.

He ducked his head to his photographs again. Harry swiped the letter from Sirius he'd received that morning off his bedside table and began re-reading it, just to distract his mind. He'd almost lulled himself into sleep by the time Ron came bursting into the room – startling Harry so badly he nearly fell off the bed. Neville did.

'Sorry, sorry!' Ron shouted in the direction of his muffled squeal. 'Harry, mate, I thought you were just collecting your books and coming back down? Hermione's going spare – she sent me up to check you hadn't fallen into your trunk or something. And it's nearly time for dinner.'

Harry scrubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. 'You two go on. I might skip dinner tonight.'

Ron looked askance. 'What, are you ill?'

'Just not hungry,' Harry said, shrugging. 'Didn't get much sleep last night. I might turn in early.'

Ron frowned dubiously at him, but shook his head. 'Suit yourself. But don't be shocked if Hermione comes up here herself next. Neville – coming?'

'Yeah – be down in a minute,' Neville called, head half-buried in his trunk. 'Can't find my fresh socks…'

Ron rolled his eyes and left, giving Harry one last look of concern before swinging the door. Neville emerged with his face flushed, a pair of lumpy socks in hand.

'You sure you don't want anything to eat, Harry?' he asked as he pulled them on.

Harry shook his head. 'Not really.'

Neville grimaced. 'You know, Professor McGonagall will probably be up if you don't come down. We're not supposed to miss out a meal unless we're in hospital wing. And she's bound to notice – especially as it's you…'

Harry groaned. 'I hadn't thought.'

He hauled himself off the bed and toed on his trainers with great reluctance. Neville gave him a soft pat on the shoulder.

'I'm sorry,' he offered. And, somehow, Harry knew he wasn't referencing pulling Harry down to dinner.

Harry gave him a wan smile. 'Yeah. So am I.'

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Review Responses, Chapter 31

Estel Ashlee Snape: Thank you for reading and for reviewing again! I'm glad you've been liking the story. And yes, the extra training will definitely be put to use as the school term continues. Enjoy Chapter 32!

Rose098: Thank you so much for reading and reviewing! I'm always thrilled when someone discovers this series, and especially happy to hear that you've not only found it but have been enjoying the journey! Dumbledore and Minerva are among my favourite characters too, and I'm very glad that you've like them in this series. I'm also glad you've found it different and fun to read. I hope you'll continue to enjoy the story as it moves forward, and particularly the new chapter!

Steefje1007: Thanks so much for reading and for reviewing! I'm very glad to hear you've found the series and are liking it thus far. As to canon compliance – yes, it will definitely deviate more as the story progresses, though it's definitely about adding depth to some of what we already know as well, and in particular exploring our multiple POVs and their developing characters. I often think of the plot of COH as a 'vector' – that is to say, Part I adheres closer to canon than Part II, Part II closer than Part III, etc. The basic idea is that the characters should feel true, but the one inciting incident (Harry being taken from the Dursleys and essentially raised at the castle by the headmaster) has increasingly marked ripple effects on the story, the characters and their relationships with both Harry and each other, and – ultimately – the future. I'm glad you're enjoying our story so far, and I very much hope you'll like the continuation!

Guest: Thank you for reading and for the review! I hope you like the continuation.

Anyeshabaner: Thank you for reading and reviewing! Glad you're still enjoying the book, and I hope you'll like this next chapter!

Lost: Thank you so much for continuing to read and review! Very glad you've been enjoying the story, and I hope you'll like the continuation!

Element's Sole Protector: Wow – thank you so much for your wonderful and comprehensive review! It was so appreciated, and I cannot tell you how much it means that you took the time to communicate your thoughts and reactions. I'll do my best to reply without spoiling.

I'm very glad that you've found Child of Hogwarts and that you've joined us on this (very long) journey! I'm happy to hear you enjoy Albus in this story and the bond with Harry – which is definitely the focus of CoH, and ultimately the reason I began this process. I still get a bit warm when writing Albus' thoughts of Harry as 'his child'; and even though the moments (from him, though not always by others) may be rarely admitted aloud, it is certainly how he feels and I'm glad you've found the characterisations and evolutions of that relationship organic.

Also glad to hear you're liking Minerva as well! You may have seen me comment on this before in review responses, but for a long time I found her the hardest character to write in POV (and still do, at times). I think this is because I'd call her a very well-developed secondary character in canon, but we don't get a ton of her backstory and her direct interactions with Harry are rather limited (though always memorable) in the original books. Getting in her head I found a more difficult exercise than most of the others, but I love her utterly. And I'm happy you're enjoying her relationship with Albus in this universe, though of course it's not precisely canon. I know pairing her and Albus has been controversial with some readers… but I'm glad others are liking it.

Ah, Gellert Grindelwald. He's ironically one of the easiest for me to write, though we haven't (yet) been directly inside his head save one brief glimpse in Part II. Such a fun foil to explore for Albus, and a definite key player in CoH moving forward. Poor Bill… his journey is not going to be an easy ride, balancing two pillars of wizarding power. As to the flashbacks (another aspect I expect is controversial amongst CoH readers), it's great to hear you're enjoying them. They will continue for much of this story – particularly with regard to Albus. As to whether Harry shall ever meet Grindelwald… It's certainly high on his list of intentions. And though Albus would baulk at the very suggestion, Grindelwald has managed to get much of what he wants, thus far. We shall see…

Incidentally, while I do not have a particular favourite chapter, Gellert's scenes with Albus are some of my favourite work, and the scene in which Gellert is first introduced at the end of 'The Forest Hides Many Secrets' remains possibly my favourite passage of all. I love the idea of Grindelwald – not his philosophies, but rather the idea that he represents a threat that Albus truly fears, in a way that he doesn't fear Voldemort. Tom Riddle commits atrocities that devastate Albus, and he stands firmly opposed to him, of course. But Grindelwald is wholly more terrifying for Albus, because Grindelwald raises doubt in himself and a reminder of his own weaknesses – a far more ominous prospect. I think Albus knows Voldemort is perhaps a greater threat to Harry in the abstract, at least physically… but he does not fear that he will make a fatal mistake with Voldemort the way he always inherently fears he will misstep with Grindelwald.

The 'ship' conversation is always tricky – but yes, I firmly stand by my position that CoH is not a ship-centric fanfic and will never become one. As Harry and the other students grow older, romantic interests and perhaps relationships will come – and go – as they often do in adolescence. But they'll never be the central tenet of any book in the CoH series, rest assured. I'm sure as they do arise, everyone will have differing opinions on the appropriateness of the matches, lol.

Oh, I love that you've picked up on Harry's subtle personality developments since his life with Albus! It is absolutely true. And I love Hermione – she'll definitely continue to have great friendship moments with Harry as the series goes on; I agree that often we tend to see this more with Ron in canon.

As to the current events. Severus Snape… the ever-divisive figure. We'll continue to explore his character as this story moves forward, and it will (I hope) be interesting to see how the many machinations he must balance begin to affect and strain him. As to Bill – I make no promises on his fate, but he will play a crucial and more prominent role as the series deepens. Crouch Jnr – yes, he's Harry's kidnapper from Part II! As for whether we have Moody-Crouch occurring in this story… I shall remain close-lipped for the moment. Gellert's schemes are far, far more complex than we are currently privy to, but we will see them revealed in time. Karkaroff we have much more to learn about as well – and he will cut a more sinister figure in this series than he seems to in canon. Glad you caught the FB shout-out!

Thank you again for the awesome review, and I hope you enjoy the story as we continue!