Avoiding Silviu for a month was far easier than expected, since the first thing Petri did upon returning to England was ban Harry from leaving the house.
"I am gone for one day and somehow there is already a disaster," the man had lamented, full of incredulity.
Knowing that he would have to sneak out on the twenty-ninth, Harry did his best to be on his model behaviour until then. He practised the imperius curse on Ulrich until Petri could no longer spur the inferius to attack. He animated rabbits and bats, and even learned to 'train' them to do tasks using the onerous method of changing their fate, which was more permanent than the imperius. Petri had been so impressed by his progress that he had even unearthed a dead muggle for him to work on, not that Harry was anywhere near able to make a true inferius on his own yet.
The Dark Lord had also clearly been busy. While Harry had experienced no more visions, an unprecedented mass Azkaban breakout had been reported in the Daily Prophet just a week after the Dark Lord's restoration. According to Minister Fudge, nobody knew how the prisoners had escaped, but security at the prison had been increased (real useful after the fact) and the aurors were on high-alert. There was no mention of 'He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named' being involved, not even a whiff of speculation.
Harry had spent the last few days of the month working out a plan for getting out from underneath Petri's nose. They usually woke around seven, at least a good hour or two before sunset. The twenty-ninth was a Wednesday, so it was likely that Petri would go to the shop.
It would be easy enough to get out of Petri's sight and then leave with the invisibility cloak, but he needed a way out the door without arousing Rosenkol's suspicion. Harry had tried to surreptitiously determine how the elf could pop up at the most unexpected times, as if he had been standing there all along, and had concluded that it was exactly what it looked like. The elf hid in plain sight—if he did not want to be noticed, he could sink below the awareness of wizards and not come back up until he spoke.
On the appointed day, Harry woke at six in the evening, full of nervous energy. Petri was still sound asleep, but it wasn't as if sneaking out early was an option. On the contrary, he needed to leave as close to sunset as possible so that by the time he was missed, it would be too late.
Under the guise of doing his Astronomy homework, Harry had calculated sunset times for the entire summer. Sunset today was going to be just before nine, and it took about fifteen minutes to walk to the Diagon Alley gateway, so he had determined that it would be best to set off at half past eight. To pass the time, he tried consulting his tarot cards again, focusing on the immediate past and future.
Death, six of wands, and the Dementor. If he continued as he was, he would lose something dear to him. This prognosis did not inspire confidence. Shuffling his deck, he laid out more cards underneath his future.
Three of stars, conflict, of a mental or metaphorical nature. A decision? Six of stars. Merlin, was he going to lose his mental stability? No; that couldn't be right. It had something to do with a decision, so he was going to lose some of his conviction about something. He sighed a breath he had not realised he was holding.
Frustrated by the increasingly vague results, Harry gathered up the cards and shoved them back into the deck. He busied himself making tea and toast and tried to scramble eggs without having them resemble rubbery blocks. As he hoped, this activity induced Rosenkol to show himself in order to help.
"Wizardling should be sleeping still," Rosenkol criticised with his usual blandness. Harry shrugged.
"Couldn't sleep," Harry said, which was true. He felt sick with trepidation, which was silly, since he had committed himself anyway and had a plan. "What is Rosenkol planning on doing tonight?" he asked. Before the elf could give him a suspicious look, he added, "There's a potion I wanted to brew, but it needs fresh fluxweed picked at the new moon. That's tonight, so I was wondering if you had time to go gather some for me."
It had taken hours of searching to come up with a task that was plausible and also sufficiently arduous that even Rosenkol would not be able to finish it with a snap of his fingers. Since Harry had realised from his astronomy calculations that the twenty-ninth was a new moon, and knew from Herbology that fluxweed had different properties depending on when it was picked, he had scoured his potions text for something that used it. Fortunately, the school text contained all OWL-level and below potions, and he managed to find a third year potion called obfuscation ointment that was supposed to hide skin defects.
"What is fluxweed be looking like and where is it growing?" Rosenkol asked.
Harry plated his eggs and toast and showed Rosenkol the entry in his herbology reference. Fluxweed was native to North America, which meant that it would probably be difficult to find—that, or Rosenkol would have to go all the way across the ocean, something which Harry was not sure was actually feasible.
Rosenkol made no comment about the task being unreasonable and simply nodded. "Rosenkol will gather it."
"You have to do it a bit after it gets dark, that would be the best," Harry said.
Harry ate his breakfast without tasting it, which was perhaps fortunate as he had forgotten salt and pepper. Afterwards, he pretended to study potions and even actually wrote a few things for his summer homework. Only when Petri finally rose and departed to the shop and Rosenkol disapparated away with a clear pop did Harry finally relax.
Then he sprang into action. He put on his outdoor cloak and shoes before grabbing his invisibility cloak out of his cauldron and throwing it over his shoulders. Paranoid, he checked in the bathroom mirror that he really was invisible before setting out.
It was raining, as usual, and he proudly cast his recently-acquired impervius charm on himself to repel the water.
Despite himself, he was early. It was only quarter past eight when he left the graveyard. His heart was pounding, and he took a few moments to breathe deeply, moving down Knockturn Alley at a leisurely pace. He was worried the rain would delineate his body, but visibility was so poor anyhow that he probably could have gone without the invisibility cloak entirely.
At the Diagon Alley gateway, it suddenly occurred to him that the Dark Lord had not specified which side of the brick wall he was supposed to wait on. Since he figured the area behind the Leaky Cauldron with its rubbish bins was more secluded, he decided to take shelter there and reap the added benefit of not being wet, though he was plagued by the worry that he might miss whatever cue he was supposed to be waiting for if he were on the wrong side.
At five minutes until sundown by his calculations, though with the heavy cloud cover it was already very dark, he stripped off his invisibility cloak, dried it with the hot-air charm, and shoved it into his pocket. He waited, heart thudding in his throat, his wand out and lit.
"Put out your wand, kid," somebody whispered from right behind him, and Harry whirled around to see a thin man with scraggly red hair and a smarmy face.
"Nox," Harry said, and then a little snidely, "How do you do?" He recognised this man as the Death Eater whom the Dark Lord had tortured on the eve of the first meeting, so he was sure he had the right person.
"Come on," said the man, not bothering to introduce himself properly. He put his hand on Harry's shoulder and steered him into the Leaky Cauldron. They passed through without acknowledging the barkeep, entering the muggle world. The man led Harry past a muggle bookshop, ducked under an awning, and held out his arm.
"We're apparating," he said. Harry took the proffered limb, careful not to get near where the Dark Lord's mark would be. The wizard turned on his heel and they were pulled through a constricting tube. Harry stumbled as they landed, feeling like his organs had been rearranged.
They had appeared on a dirt path somewhere, still outside but thankfully dry. It was bright, though the sun had set—millions of stars twinkled above with a fidelity that Harry had only seen before atop the Hogwarts astronomy tower. He gazed up the path, finding nothing but an empty field. Before his mind could catch up with his thudding heart and suddenly dry mouth, his escort grunted and tugged him along at a brisk walk.
Harry could not hold back a gasp as the air suddenly rippled and warped. The ground beneath his feet morphed seamlessly into neat white stone, which cut a line through an endless, elaborate topiary garden and led up to a forbiddingly grand mansion whose steep gables seemed to cast shadows against the very sky.
Just as Harry was gearing up for the long trek to reach the front door, the Death Eater grabbed his hand again and apparated once more. Unprepared, Harry stumbled as they landed and had to clutch the man's arm with both hands to keep upright.
This time they seemed to have appeared inside the house, in a lavish drawing room about the size of the whole Ravenclaw common room. It was full of elaborate rugs, gilded tapestries, and stiff-looking furniture. The Dark Lord was standing at the end of a long settee, flanked by Lucius Malfoy and a gaunt, pockmarked man.
"Avery, Harry, right on time," the Dark Lord greeted with a thin smile. Harry's scar immediately began to hurt, though not so terribly as the last time the Dark Lord came into proximity.
"My Lord," said Avery, bowing with a slight tremble as he tore his arm out of Harry's grip. Harry bowed awkwardly too, feeling exposed. The other two presumed Death Eaters were both staring at him with too much curiosity.
"Avery, you may go. Lucius, Rookwood, this is Harry, our guest today, whom you will be escorting. We will need to make some preparations first, however. Imperio!"
Harry was blindsided by the imperius curse, which the Dark Lord had somehow cast in the very instant that his wand had materialised in his hand. He felt boneless and utterly relaxed, but the characteristic haze only threatened to overtake his mind for an instant before receding, leaving him aware. Practice really had helped. He was familiar with exactly how much he could submit to conserve mental energy without losing the ability to disobey.
"Come here, Harry," the Dark Lord commanded, and Harry stepped forward voluntarily.
"Just so you know, sir," he said, emboldened by the imperius-induced sense of safety, "in case it's a problem—I can resist the imperius curse."
"Ah, 'just Harry,' always full of surprises," the Dark Lord murmured. "It is no matter. I simply need an expedient way to command you from a distance."
Also an expedient way to keep him calm, Harry thought. Without the pleasant influence of the curse, he imagined he would be feeling rather indignant at the moment at being assaulted by an Unforgivable without so much as a by-your-leave.
"Look into my eyes, and let me in again, just like… before," the Dark Lord said. Harry met the red-eyed gaze and his head was suddenly on fire, like something long and wriggling was trying to burrow into his eye-sockets. He felt it coiling around his body, constricting him.
Come in, come in, let it be over, let me out, he thought, taking gasping breaths. The possession took hold, and the pain disappeared underneath the soothing embrace of the imperius.
"The potion now, Rookwood," said the Dark Lord, from his own body. Rookwood produced a vial of some utterly foul-smelling green sludge. He took a sharp breath, lifted it to his lips, and tipped it back, dropping the vial as soon he had drunk it all. The effect was immediate—his skin began to bubble, warping and distorting his features, and his bones creaked and cracked as he seemed to shrink. His hair greyed and his skin darkened and wrinkled. When it was done, he was somebody else entirely, an elderly wizard with a lazy eye.
The Dark Lord nodded once in apparent approval.
"Lucius, go and clear the way," he said. Malfoy bowed, then walked up to the grand fireplace at the other end of the room and tapped his cane against a statue of a peacock, which opened its tail and expelled a puff of floo powder. Harry thought the mechanism seemed familiar.
"Ministry of Magic," Malfoy said clearly, and disappeared in a whoosh of green flame.
That was right, they had the same thing on the floos at the Ministry.
Harry saw an image in his mind's eye, black metal pickets, stone stairs down—a public toilet? He turned on his heel and apparated.
Apparating on one's own, he discovered, was significantly preferable to side-along apparition. There was still the constriction, the lack of air, but he was prepared and felt like he had squirmed his own way through the tube rather than been shoved. He emerged in a grimy alley at the edge of a crowded street, thankfully still in one piece. So much for being too young to apparate.
Rookwood appeared at his side a moment later and reached into his pocket, producing a golden coin that was shinier and smaller than a galleon. He handed it to Harry.
"Here, you'll need this to get in," he said, his voice high and creaky. They entered the crowd obliquely, pressing through a surge of bodies and umbrellas until they stood at the entry to the gentlemen's toilets. Rookwood descended and Harry followed, perplexed but still only partly in control of his body.
Downstairs it still looked like a regular public toilet. Rookwood went up to one of the stalls and inserted a token into a tiny slot on the side. The door opened, and he stepped inside and shut it after him. Harry entered the next stall. He heard a flushing sound from his left, then nothing.
Lord Voldemort seemed to know what to do, because Harry found himself stepping up into the toilet. Though he appeared to be standing ankle-deep in a bowl of water, his feet were not at all wet.
He took out his wand and tapped himself sharply over the head. Something cold and slimy seemed to dribble down the back of his neck, and he squirmed. When he glanced down at himself again, he saw nothing at all—he was invisible!
Harry felt himself reaching out, trying to grasp the chain for the flush. It took a few tries to do it without being able to see his own hand, but then he pulled, and the water rose up and swirled him round and round, spitting him out of… a fireplace. Why hadn't they just taken the floo in the first place?
Disorientated, he took a moment to shake himself off before he looked around. He was in the atrium of the Ministry of Magic, only it was dark and deserted, illuminated only by glowing golden runes that writhed fluidly overhead. The only sound was that of rushing water. Harry glanced to the fountain to see Rookwood standing off to the side, staring nervously at the unlit grates.
"I'm here," he called to the man. Rookwood jumped, before turning in his approximate direction and gesturing.
"This way," he said, unnecessarily; Harry's body was already walking towards the golden vestibule where the knew the lift to the other levels was located. Though he was invisible, his footsteps echoed loudly against the polished floor, marking his presence.
There was a wizard sitting at the security desk, but he only stared blankly at Rookwood as they passed. Under the imperius curse, or confounded, it seemed. Was this what the Dark Lord had meant when he had asked Lucius to "clear the way?"
They entered the cage of the lift, and Rookwood punched the button for the ninth floor without even looking. The lift began to descend noisily as soon as the grille clanked shut. It was excruciatingly slow. Harry didn't remember it being so dreadful of a ride last time, but perhaps the newness of it all and the fact that the lift had stopped at practically every floor had helped. Now he was ever so impatient and bored.
He narrowed his eyes, realising that he couldn't feel the imperius curse any more, at all. That wasn't right. He sought out the enticing glow of surrender, of giving up the self, and suddenly it was there again, the force of it driving him to distraction.
When he blinked again, the lift had stopped, and a cool, female voice announced, "Department of Mysteries."
The grille slammed open, sending a gust of wind down the corridor and rattling the torches. Rookwood stepped out and led the way down the hall, towards a black door that flickered in and out of sight under the unsteady illumination. When they were nearly there, a shadow on the wall shuddered, and then Lucius Malfoy came into view, along with an unfamiliar wizard with a square face and thick blond hair.
"I found one of Dumbledore's stooges," Malfoy said, indicating the other wizard, who stood there passively. Harry guessed he had been put under the imperius curse. "Any trouble on your end?" Malfoy asked Rookwood, who shook his head. He glanced around. "Where is…"
"Disillusioned," said Rookwood, nodding to his right, though Harry was really a few paces behind him.
"Lead the way," Harry said coldly, feeling an uncharacteristic smirk touch his face.
Rookwood paled and hunched slightly more than before, scurrying forward. The black door opened on its own. They stepped through it into a large, circular room full of other, identical doors and lit by blue torches. Malfoy did not follow them, instead disillusioning himself again. Rookwood shut the door and the whole room clicked and gave an ominous hum. Undaunted, he raised his wand and incanted, "Cirumrota cameram temporis."
The walls shuddered. Then they began to spin around rapidly. Harry felt dizzy and had to shut his eyes. When he opened them again, the room had stopped spinning. Rookwood pulled open the door right behind them, but it no longer led out into the dark corridor they had just come from. Instead, brilliant, sparkling light poured out, and when Harry's eyes adjusted to the glowing ambiance he was greeted by the sight of hundreds of gleaming clock faces in all sizes, from minuscule watches to grandfather clocks to a gigantic round slab that took up its own wall and looked like it belonged on a bell tower. They ticked in perfect synchrony, filling the space with their relentless tempo.
At the back of the room was a huge glass bell jar that appeared to house a dazzling tempest. Rookwood led him through the narrow gaps between the timepiece-laden desks and shelves and right past the shining jar, where Harry could now make out a hummingbird which, as it fluttered about, helpless against the raging wind, seemed to shrink and regress until it became enclosed in a tiny, brilliantly vibrant egg.
He would have missed the dark, nondescript door behind it had Rookwood not opened it up and beckoned for him to follow. The candlelit room beyond was cavernous and, with the door clicking shut behind them, eerily silent. Their syncopated footfalls echoed erratically off hundreds of dusty, evenly spaced shelves. It reminded Harry of a church or a library, only instead of books, each shelf held countless little glass orbs glowing white with varying intensity.
"It's more recent. It'll be towards the end," Rookwood whispered, gesturing to the right. Harry spotted silver numbers etched onto each shelf. Fifty-four was the nearest one, and they were going in the ascending direction.
The farther they walked, the brighter the orbs seemed to be. Or rather, Harry noticed that some orbs were dark, like broken light bulbs, while others were full of milky luminescence, and there were more of the latter sort on the higher-numbered shelves.
They stopped at row ninety-five and Rookwood peered at some of the tiny, yellowed labels that were stuck to the shelf below each orb.
"Damn," he muttered under his breath, "No dates, typical."
"Hello?" came a voice from nearby, and Harry froze, even though he was invisible. Rookwood tensed visibly, wand jumping to his hand, but then he lowered his arm and put it away.
"Hello," he called back. The sound of footsteps reached their ears, growing louder and louder, and then a young woman came out from behind the next shelf.
"Oh, hello Broderick," she said. "I didn't expect you here so late."
"I could say the same thing. What are you still doing here?" Rookwood asked. The woman flushed.
"Fell asleep doing the recounting. I better finish up…" She glanced morosely down the seemingly endless hall, and then over to a roll of parchment in her hand.
"Why don't you go on home?" Rookwood suggested. "I can finish the last rows."
"Oh I couldn't possibly ask you to waste your valuable time on this," The woman laughed, waving her arm dismissively. "This dusty nonsense."
"It's important work," Rookwood said impassively, "I'd be happy to do it."
After some more polite refusal, countered by Rookwood's relentless cajoling, the woman caved and handed him the parchment. When her retreating form finally disappeared from view, Rookwood stepped back and began studying the scroll, waving his wand over it.
"What is it?" Harry asked. Rookwood jumped.
"It's the count roster, with how many active prophecies are left in each row," he explained. "I think I can maybe get it to show the labels… yes, there."
"Active prophecies?" Harry asked. "How can they go inactive?" He assumed that was what had happened to the darkened orbs. Could it be that some prophecies did not have to come to pass after all?
"When everybody who's heard them is dead, or when all the subjects are dead, they go out," Rookwood muttered, unfurling the bottom of the scroll, which seemed to go on forever.
Harry felt a chill at the implications. If he and the Dark Lord listened to this prophecy, there would be no escaping it, except perhaps by some stupid solution like suicide which was no solution at all. Then again, Dumbledore, who was old but probably not going to keel over any time soon, was the original recipient, so for all intents and purposes the prophecy was already and would remain active.
"Row ninety-seven, I think," said Rookwood at length. The parchment had pooled at his feet in a generous pile. With a wave of his wand, he left it spinning in the air to roll itself back up. They moved down two more rows, and Rookwood tapped the shelf three times with his wand. "Aparecium Dark Lord," he said. There was a small spark just a little ways down the row. He hurried towards it.
Harry saw it instantly as he scanned the shelf, his eyes almost drawn in. One of the labels was glowing a tiny bit from the middle. It read:
SPT to APWBD
Dark Lord
and (?) Harry Potter
Take it. The compulsion was so strong that Harry's hand had shot out before he was even aware of moving. His invisible fingers closed around the dusty orb on the shelf above, and it vanished from sight. He could feel its grimy surface against his palm, where it pulsated with warmth like a living creature. Was that it? Were they done? He supposed all that was left was to get out of the Ministry.
Had taking the orb set off any alarms?
Rookwood was already walking back towards the entrance to the prophecy hall, and Harry hurried after him, orb firmly in hand. They retraced their steps, encountering no resistance. Malfoy was still standing outside with the imperiused wizard. He informed them that he had seen an Unspeakable witch hurry past perhaps ten minutes ago, but that nobody else had come into the corridor.
Malfoy left the other wizard in the corridor, sending him towards the black door to the Department of Mysteries, before they took the lift together and flooed out of the atrium individually.
The Dark Lord was where they had left him, lounging on the settee with his eyes closed and fingers steepled under his chin. His eyes snapped open as they arrived, and Harry stumbled as he felt the possession end, his whole body suddenly resynchronising with his mind in a jarring shift of perception. The disillusionment seemed to have ended as well, as he found that he could now see his nose, the edges of his spectacles, and some stray locks of hair.
"Lucius, you are dismissed," the Dark Lord said, as if Malfoy were an errant schoolboy. Unfazed, Malfoy bowed and backed out of the room, finding the exit perfectly without looking. Rookwood shifted nervously.
The Dark Lord held out one pale, spidery hand in expectation, and Harry stepped forward and deposited the prophecy orb there.
What now? They had had a deal, and Harry hoped the Dark Lord was not about to renege.
"Rookwood," said the Dark Lord. "I shall need your help with this."
"Yes, My Lord, of course," said Rookwood, approaching the Dark Lord and kneeling. Harry hung back, looking on cautiously.
There was a long silence, and then the Dark Lord said, with clear impatience, "Well? How does one listen to the contents?"
"I… My Lord, I'm sorry, but I do not know," Rookwood said, and began to tremble.
"You do not know? Did you not used to work for the Department of Mysteries?" the Dark Lord asked, abandoning his seat to circle around behind the kneeling man.
"Yes, My Lord, but…"
"And did you not spend some of your time there studying prophecies?"
"I did, My Lord, but only the inactive ones," Rookwood blurted hastily. When the Dark Lord did not immediately interrupt him, he continued, "We never—nobody ever listened to the active ones. It was too dangerous. The orbs were made so that we could hear the contents after they went out and not before."
"Crucio," said the Dark Lord conversationally, his wand suddenly in his hand, and Rookwood screamed, though the sound soon tapered off into a low whine and he held himself stiff as a board, obviously putting all his effort into not thrashing. Harry was impressed. He counted the seconds before the Dark Lord stopped the curse, heart thudding in his chest as it continued on and on.
Twelve seconds. Harry had never endured it for more than five, and even that was five too many. This was far beyond warning, even beyond punishment, well into the realm of wanton cruelty. He knew, he could feel the echo of how the Dark Lord enjoyed, indeed, was exhilarated by, the sight of somebody helpless under his wand, suffering for want of his mercy.
Rookwood was shaking and gasping on the floor, his forehead pressed to the carpet as if he hoped to sink into it. The Dark Lord finished his circuit and stopped in front of him, looking thoughtful.
"I do not blame you for your ignorance, Rookwood," he said gently, with clear relish at the way Rookwood shuddered convulsively at the sound of his own name. "In the future, you will advise me of the limitations of your knowledge earlier. You understand… it would be most unfortunate if some oversight led to a setback at a critical juncture."
"Yes, yes, Master, I understand," Rookwood gasped out in a hoarse voice.
"Stand up, Rookwood," said the Dark Lord, and Rookwood surged to his feet, swaying slightly and still trembling. "You have done well in navigating the Ministry and securing the prophecy for me. I do not discount your efforts."
"Yes, Master," Rookwood mumbled, staring at the floor.
"Very well… you may go."
Rookwood bowed low and hurried out of the room with far less grace than Malfoy had, bumping against the doorframe with a loud crack before he managed to exit, easing the door closed after him. Just before he disappeared out of sight, Harry glimpsed his face bubbling and warping again, returning to its original appearance.
When the door clicked shut, the Dark Lord burst into mirthless laughter, holding up the prophecy orb.
"Funny, is it not?" he said, though he still did not sound amused at all. "The prophecy is literally in my hands, and yet, as out of reach as ever."
The Dark Lord turned his head. Harry tensed. The sudden end of the imperius curse came like a punch to the gut, and he had to inhale sharply to avoid vomiting. His heart twisted and leapt up into his throat—his whole body throbbed with newly unleashed horror.
"Come here, Harry," said the Dark Lord. Harry stumbled over, swallowing repeatedly in an attempt to calm his churning stomach. "Kneel."
He knelt. The carpet was rich and soft.
"No, stand up," the Dark Lord said almost immediately, and Harry's head whipped up in outrage even as he stood again. What was this about? He wasn't some dog to be told to sit, stand, and roll over.
Though reason managed to stay his tongue, with great difficulty, the Dark Lord had obviously read his indignation from his face or even his mind.
"No need to be upset, Harry. Obedience is a virtue that I value, and you are very obedient," he said. "I wonder who taught you?"
Not who, but what, Harry thought. The pain of the cruciatus curse was too steep a price to be paid for anything, let alone pride and obstinacy.
"No matter. You have done as I asked, and it seems your original wish will be granted. Both of us will remain ignorant of the prophecy," said the Dark Lord.
Afraid or not, Harry had to ask.
"If you find out how to listen to it, will you tell me?"
"I promised, did I not? Lord Voldemort keeps his promises. If I find out, you will be the first to know. Indeed, I daresay I could not stop you from seeing it through my eyes."
Harry looked away guiltily, wondering how the Dark Lord had known, and whether he would be punished for his reticence.
"Our connection is unique and very useful," the Dark Lord said. "There are places where it would be very… inconvenient for me to go. You will serve as my eyes and ears there."
Hogwarts, Harry thought.
"It is also a liability, however, and you will not breathe a word of its existence to anyone," the Dark Lord hissed.
Well, it was too late for that. Harry swallowed. "The vampire, the chairman of the company, he can read my mind and he knows," he said.
"Silviu Vlaicu," said the Dark Lord, narrowing his eyes. Harry's scar pulsed with sudden pain. "Look at me."
Harry met the Dark Lord's gaze, immediately feeling an intrusion, like something was swimming about in his head. His scar no longer hurt but a dull ache began to build behind his eyes, and strange, disconnected thoughts and images came to him like successive epiphanies about things he already knew.
Silviu, barging into the house after Harry's first vision. The company meeting. Silviu talking about goblins. Talking about the Dark Lord, in respectful terms, thankfully.
"You will see to it that he forgets," the Dark Lord said.
"How?" Harry asked.
"Consider it a test," was the response. "Perhaps it would be beneficial for you to learn occlumency so that you will not be vulnerable to such attacks in the future."
"Is there a book about it?" Harry asked.
"No. Occlumency is not something that one learns from a book. I will arrange for a teacher… I would not be suitable, as I doubt you will ever be capable of occluding against me. Nor should you try," the Dark Lord told him.
At this, Harry naturally felt like it was something he must try after all. The Dark Lord was wrong about him. He was rarely obedient where it counted. But he was getting ahead of himself—he did not yet even have the most basic idea of how occlumency worked.
If the Dark Lord got any wind of these insubordinate thoughts, he made no indication of it.
"Very well… that is all for tonight. You may go now."
The Dark Lord made a casual gesture towards the fireplace, so Harry figured that meant he could use the floo. He nodded, murmured, "Thank you sir, and, er, good night," and scurried over to inspect the peacock statue. Unsure of how it worked, he braced himself for embarrassment and tapped his wand against it, but fortunately, that was the correct action and its tail bloomed, sending the fire flaring green.
"Sixty-six Knockturn Alley!" Harry said, and was sucked away.
Ignoring the judgmental stares and low hooting of the public owls, he dusted off some soot before tugging his invisibility cloak out of his pocket and draping it over himself. Judging by the damp air and the rhythmic patter against the roof, it was still raining heavily, so he cast the impervius charm again.
He ventured outside through the smallest crack in the door, but his caution was unnecessary. There was no one in sight. And why would there be? Nobody in their right mind ought to be out and about in a graveyard during a thunderstorm.
Harry crept over to plot D-12 and slid open the coffin door as slowly and smoothly as he could, half expecting Petri to be staring up at him icily or Rosenkol to appear inches from his face. But when he'd worked the gap wide enough to fit through, it was clear that the coffin house was as dark as the graveyard. Nobody was home.
Abandoning stealth, he dropped down onto the staircase and shoved the lid closed. Mindful of erasing evidence of his having gone out, he removed his dripping garments—the impervius charm did not stop water from accumulating on top of flat surfaces—and blasted them with the hot-air charm on the top step. Then he hung his regular cloak back up and hid his invisibility cloak under the bed again.
The Dark Lord's invisibility spell—disillusionment, Harry thought it was, had been convenient, but he thought he preferred his cloak. Not being able to see his own body had been less than ideal. Still, it would not hurt to learn a charm like that for when he was without the cloak.
Before that, he reminded himself, he had an assignment from the Dark Lord. There had been no date specified by which Silviu was supposed to forget about Harry's visions, but he supposed that only meant he should complete his task as soon as possible.
Other people knew too—the whole rest of the company board and Petri. Harry was sure he had no hope of memory charming Petri, but since he was reasonably sure that the Dark Lord had not found out about him knowing, he could just let that small matter lie. Who was Petri going to tell, anyway? Nobody even knew who Harry was.
The changing of fate would work on Silviu, Shy, and Ness. He felt a little bad for deciding to use it after having assured his new friends that nothing of the sort would befall them, but it was just one little memory, and it wouldn't hurt them.
All this assumed that removing one memory only would not be that difficult, which Harry wasn't sure about. So far he had only changed the fates of reanimated animals, and at a very high level. He was sure, however, that Petri would be glad to teach him and would easily condone his practising on their neighbours. After all, he thought them sub-human.
The human board members would be trickier. Harry would have to use the memory charm, which he didn't even know how to cast, and wasn't sure he could learn. Based on the research he had done in the library about the charm, it was very difficult to get right and was not even taught at Hogwarts. The last thing he wanted was to permanently mess people up.
No. A horrible idea suddenly occurred to him. If he was changing Silviu's fate anyway, couldn't he simply make it so that Silviu thought he needed to obliviate Annette and Mr Moribund about the visions? That must be what Petri had meant, that altering memories was more powerful than it seemed. The reminder of an idea, of having to do something—that, too, was a sort of memory.
Harry shook his head. It seemed wrong, like overstepping another boundary even beyond the first sort of memory changing. Removing a memory to protect some information was one thing. Adding one, on the other hand, was something more nefarious.
And anyway, it wasn't like he knew how to do either thing yet. It might be out of his reach.
Harry was disturbed from his plotting by a sharp popping sound. It was Rosenkol, funeral shroud in some disarray but with a triumphant gleam in his eye as he clutched an armful of yellow flowers with spiky leaves.
"Wow, that's brilliant Rosenkol, thanks," Harry said, searching the elf's face for any sign of disapproval, any hint that his absence had been discovered. Nothing. Relaxing, he retrieved his herbology reference and laid out the fluxweed to dry per its storage instructions. He set aside only a few fresh stalks for the potion that he was going to brew, the obfuscation ointment.
It was a third-year potion. Harry wondered what made it harder than first- or second-year potions. He knew that some potions required specific charms to be cast during the brewing process, but this did not appear to be one of them, and the instructions were not overly complex.
Harry hauled his cauldron out from under his bed, surreptitiously wrapping the philosopher's stone book in his invisibility cloak as he scooped it out. It occurred to him suddenly that Petri did not seem to have any potion-making equipment, like a hot plate. Nor did they have a stove or fireplace.
"Hey, Rosenkol," he called softly. The elf appeared at the corner of his eye and he jumped a little despite himself. "Is there somewhere I could make a fire, to make this potion?"
His mind jumped to the public floo, but that seemed like a sort of disastrous idea—what if somebody came through the fireplace while he was brewing?
Rosenkol shook his head, tugging at his ears. "It is not being wise to make a fire here. Best if Wizardling waits for Master to return."
Harry, who had only wanted to make the potion for appearances anyway, and so that Rosenkol's ingredient gathering efforts would not have been in vain, agreed easily.
Petri returned early in the morning. He eyed the cauldron on the table sceptically when Harry asked him about where to brew a potion.
"Why bother brewing when you can pay a small sum for a better product?" he asked, which was definitely an odd sentiment coming from Petri. Harry gathered that the man must be pants at potions. "Surely they did not give you practical homework for the summer?"
"No, it's not homework," Harry said.
"What is it then?" Petri asked.
"Obfuscation ointment," Harry said. Petri blinked.
"Is the effect different from a concealment charm?" he asked.
Flummoxed, Harry opened his potions text to the appropriate page and read the description aloud. "The obfuscation ointment conceals imperfections in the skin for up to twelve hours."
He flushed when Petri raised an eyebrow at him. "There are some cosmetic charms that do the same thing," said the man. "Surely it is not worth going to the extra effort just to make the effect immune to a finite?"
Harry could not exactly disagree. He shrugged awkwardly. "It's not important anyway. Actually, now that you're back, I wanted to learn how to change fates on people. Vampires."
Petri blinked at him. "What brought this on?" he asked. Harry wished he had had the forethought to be subtler.
"I had another vision about the Dark Lord," he lied. "Nothing important, but I was thinking, if I don't want him to know about the visions, it's bad that Silviu knows, right?"
"So you want to remove his memory of a fact? That might be difficult as it has been so long since he learned it. You have no idea what other related memories might have already formed in the meantime," Petri said.
"But it's possible?" Harry asked.
Petri nodded. "Certainly possible. Let me eat something, and we can get started," he said.
His definition of 'eat something' was to down a potion while Rosenkol looked on in disapproval, so Harry did not bother to sit down. Petri tossed the vial into Rosenkol's waiting palm and they descended into the depths of the trunk.
"Changing a sentient creature's fate will be rather different from what you've already tried with your own animations," Petri told Harry as he began to withdraw materials from various cabinets and lay them on the work table. The pensieve came out, along with a thick stack of notes on parchment and an entire rack of vials full of blood. "Since you are only able to target memories rather than the will itself, the technique is more precise, but less accurate. Do you understand the difference?"
"No. I thought those are the same thing," Harry said.
"Precision is about how narrow the spell is. In this case, you target specific memories, and not general types of behaviour. Accuracy is how likely the spell is to be correct, to do what you wish it to do. It is difficult to hit exactly the right memory, though normally, the error is not too significant as long as you know what you're doing," Petri explained. "Changing even one memory will generally force others to change in order to maintain consistency."
"So is the incantation different? And what am I supposed to cast the spells on?" Harry asked, it only now occurring to him that all his previous attempts at fate changing had involved animated corpses in the same room as him.
"You will cast on the memory itself, in the pensieve," Petri said, gesturing to the basin. "The spell is the same. Once you have altered the memory to your satisfaction, you will need to replace the original memory by visiting the victim in a dream. Naturally, that means they must be unconscious, and in order to make the dream visit you will need the remains of some dead person who has some relation to them."
"So I need something from Silviu, ideally?" Harry asked, fairly certain that vampires counted as dead for this purpose.
"Yes, for the final step. For now, you can start by creating the memories you want to use," Petri said, flipping through the stack of notes. Upon closer examination, they consisted of cramped blocks of text wedged between swathes of enchanter's shorthand.
"What's that?" Harry asked.
"Manual for the pensieve," Petri said, carelessly shoving unwanted pages aside, some fluttering to the floor. "It's enchanted to correct memories so that they are as close to reality as possible. Trying to alter them while those enchantments are active is incredibly difficult, almost futile. But it's possible to temporarily deactivate the function, if I can just find where it is… ach ja, Quatsch!"
Cursing, he tossed the entire stack aside and rummaged around in another cupboard, producing more parchments. "This is it," he muttered, turning back and twirling his wand in a circle at the pensieve. All the shorthand symbols on the outside of the bowl glowed silver. Still consulting the notes, he began to do a complex series of wand movements, causing some of the markings to go dim, and then tapped the side of the pensieve repeatedly, apparently waiting for something. At length, he removed his wand and nodded to Harry.
"So do I start with my own memory?" Harry asked.
"That should work for your intention, yes?" said Petri. "You do not have his memory, after all, so yours is the closest thing."
"How did you get his memory when you did this last time?" Harry asked, brow furrowing. He remembered doing reconstruction, which he was sure also required some part of the deceased's body.
"I took his blood while he was stupefied," Petri said casually, as if stealing somebody's blood to use it for dark magic were an everyday matter. "Unfortunately, I used it all."
"Does it have to be blood, for the dream?" Harry asked, wondering how in the world he was supposed to get his hands on that now. "What about hair or something?"
Petri grimaced. "Blood is the best option available. Normally, bone is the most accurate, but obviously not obtainable in this case. Then flesh and blood, and finally nails and hair. The last are very difficult to work with."
"I can't just walk up to him and stun him," Harry pointed out. Petri gave him a confused look.
"You have practically free access to his blood," he said.
"What?" said Harry, who was sure he had no such thing.
"Ask to drink it. I'm sure he'll be elated," Petri said.
Harry made a face. "But it'll be in my stomach then. And I thought it's bad for me to drink it?" he demanded.
"You have, apparently, tasted it at least once. More makes no difference," Petri told him, rolling his eyes. "And don't be dense. Ask him to put it in a container and drink from that—there will inevitably be residue. That will be enough."
Harry nodded, feeling foolish. There was no way he was going to drink blood directly from Silviu's vein anyway. That sounded incredibly disgusting and awkward.
"Does that mean I can leave the house?" Harry asked hopefully.
Petri gave him a critical look and then deadpanned, "On your birthday. Perhaps feeling older will make you less prone to trouble."
"Thanks," said Harry flatly. What a brilliant birthday present—being allowed to leave his own house. Actually, it probably was the best birthday present he had ever received, which was depressing. To think he had only had to state his intention to go drink some vampire blood to merit it!
Thoughts of his birthday reminded him that Neville's birthday was, naturally, also imminent. Perhaps he could send him some accessories for his remembrall. Petri had things like a wristband with a tiny glass display that would change colours in tune with a remembrall in one's pocket, or a tuner which made it possible to customise the smoke's colour scheme entirely.
Petri left Harry alone to do his memory modification before he could bring it up. For now, Harry focused on the admittedly blurry memory of the night of his first vision, when Silviu had barged into the house, and pulled a silvery thread out of his temple, which he let fall into the pensieve. Uncertainly, he tapped the edge of the basin to play the memory on the surface.
It was wavy and disjointed, more like a reconstruction than the usual crisp product of the pensieve. Harry supposed that was the effect of the enchantments Petri had disabled.
What should he change the memory to? He supposed he couldn't just remove Silviu entirely—no doubt the vampire remembered coming to the house.
"Did you have a nightmare?" Memory-Silviu asked in a tiny voice.
Yes, that could work, Harry thought, if he made Silviu just think it had only been a dream. But how could he possibly explain why Silviu had taken the contents of a nightmare seriously enough to call a meeting over it?
Of course—Harry had other evidence that the Dark Lord would return, the same evidence that he had presented to a sceptical Ness at the meeting, namely that he had personally handed him the philosopher's stone.
"Erudito," Harry cast at the pensieve, imagining the part he would change.
When he played the memory again, a weird fog rolled in during Harry and Silviu's exchange, with Harry's voice echoing discordantly in the background, saying, "Yeah, just a nightmare…"
Harry winced. Of course, he had only been thinking about himself and what he would say, and had completely neglected all the surroundings. He now suspected that editing the memory to an acceptable level of quality was going to take a rather long time, which explained why Petri had left.
With a sigh, Harry tried erudito again for a split second, taking care to imagine things in as much detail as possible. He was rewarded with a literal beat of reasonable fidelity, before mist was everywhere again.
He stifled a groan. The Dark Lord had better appreciate his efforts.
