Chapter Eight

The ecstatic, victorious, happy mood brought on by the first Quidditch win of the season lasted all through the weekend and into the Monday morning of the second week of November, right up until Hermione reported another Daily Prophet article slandering Dumbledore. This time, it was for the accident with Malfoy's broom.

"'Authorities question whether Albus Dumbledore is the right headmaster for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. They say he may not have the right frame of mind to lead the school in these trying times, and if these recent accidents are anything to judge by, this reporter can say with confidence that she agrees,'" read Hermione. Once she finished, she shoved the paper on the table in disgust.

"What are they playing at?" asked Ron, shaking his head. "Like It's Dumbledore's fault Malfoy's broom caught fire . . . No offense or anything, Harry . . ."

"None taken."

Hermione looked thoughtful. "I wonder who keeps telling them . . . It's got to be a student."

"I have a fair guess," said Harry bitterly, nodding his head towards a grinning Malfoy pointing proudly at his copy of the Daily Prophet.

"But why?" Ginny questioned, frowning at the Slytherin table.

Harry got a nagging suspicion in the back of his mind. Thinking on it, he said, "Hermione, can I see that?"

Hermione handed him the Daily Prophet. Harry thumbed through it until he got to the credentials section of the paper. He ran his finger down the list of editors and reporters, tapping his finger in revelation when he saw a certain Marcus Selwyn was the editor in chief. According to Sirius and Remus, the Order knew him to be a Death Eater and were actively trying to expose him to the Ministry.

"Voldemort's got one of his Death Munchers employed in the Daily Prophet," he announced, grimacing.

Hermione, Ron, and Ginny winced; it now made sense how there were so many articles insulting Dumbledore. But why? What was Voldemort trying to accomplish?

Harry's thoughts were interrupted by Katie's voice behind him.

"What's going on?" she asked, sliding in between Harry and Ginny.

"Oh, nothing, really. We're just trying to figure things out," said Harry, not really caring to explain everything to Katie. In truth, he barely had an idea what was going on himself.

"What things?"

"It's nothing, Bell. I was just talking about how the Death Eaters might be behind all the insulting articles in the Daily Prophet," said Harry, scooting over to make room for her.

"How do you know? And why are they doing that?"

Harry sighed. Why did she need to know everything he did? This was one of the things that put a strain on their relationship last year.

"C'mon, Ron," said Harry, "we'll be late for class." Class didn't start for another thirty minutes.

"Oh, right, there's that thing that Slughorn wanted us to do . . . Yeah, he'll be mad if we're late . . ."

As they left the Hall, Harry distinctly heard Ginny say to Katie, "Don't be hurt, Harry's silly like that. He just likes his privacy—he can be a real priss about it, too . . ."

Harry smiled despite himself at Ginny's comment. Priss, was he?

November snows yielded to December snowstorms, and Harry still could barely control . . . whatever it was he could do. Finally, after weeks of combing through dusty book after dusty book in the library, Harry found a reference to an Arcanmagus. He latched onto this term and found another book with a single paragraph on Arcanmagi.

Arcanmagi are warlocks who possess raw, undiluted Magick. This arcane Magick is moste often manifested through Wind, Fire, Water, or Earth . . . the Type of Magick our distant ancestors carried before the modernity of Spells was invented.

Harry's eyes continued to move down the page even after the paragraph on Arcanmagi ended, thirsting for more information. Finding none, Harry sighed deeply; he was sure this was what he was experiencing, yet, thanks to his rotten luck, all he had was one single paragraph on it.

Nevertheless, he walked over to where Hermione was sitting, heavy book held open gingerly in his hands. He sat the book on the table with a soft thump and said to Hermione, "I think I may have found something."

"That's brilliant, Harry. Let's see it, then," said Hermione, gently pushing her previous book away and pulling the new own in front of her.

"Just there," pointed Harry, finger on the section about Arcanmagi.

Hermione read through it quickly, her observant eyes taking in every detail—down to every comma, even. Still, it wasn't long before she said, "That's all there is?"

"Yeah," replied Harry, shrugging.

"Oh . . . "said Hermione, frowning. Then she brightened. "Well, it certainly sounds like it could be you—the 'undiluted' part especially could fit—you know, seeing as how it sort of comes out in—er—bursts. And the bit with the elements obviously fits . . . and now that we have a name, it will be easy to find more information," she continued optimistically.

"Right," said Harry without conviction.

"Maybe Professor Binns will know something on Arcanmagi . . ." said Hermione pensively.

Harry gave a start. "Why didn't we just ask him before?"

Hermione frowned. "Well, you didn't want everyone knowing, right?" she said. "You would have had to explicitly list everything that's going on, and anyone could have overheard you. Besides, you know Professor Binns doesn't concentrate well—he might have moved on to a goblin lecture before he got to the point. This way, we'll only have to ask him about Arcanmagi and see what he knows."

"Oh, alright," said Harry. He got the feeling that Hermione had also wanted to stretch Harry's desire to be in the library for as long as she could. He didn't blame her; he and Ron really should visit the library more often.

"We still have morning break, so we should go now," said Hermione, putting the book with the passage on Arcanmagi in her bag and stacking the rest neatly on the end of the table.

The two friends walked quickly over to the History of Magic classroom, intent on talking with Professor Binns before fourth period started. Once there, Hermione had to say Binns's name three times before the ghost turned to look at them.

"Yes?" he said slowly, head turning lethargically to face Harry and Hermione.

"Professor, could we ask you about something we found in the library?" asked Hermione, quill and notepad poised to take notes.

"Certainly, Miss Ginger," said Binns droningly.

Hermione didn't bother correcting him. "Right, do you know anything about Arcanmagi, sir?"

Binns blinked three times, the only sign of surprise Harry had ever seen the ghost make.

"Arcanmagi?" he echoed, the barest hint of questioning in his voice.

"Yes, sir," answered Hermione, a slightly stunned look on her face. Binns's voice had never carried any emotion before—this was a first.

"I do not know much about them," said Binns in an airy voice. "Not many do. In my entire tenure at Hogwarts, only one student has had this gift—though some may say it is a curse—and that was only by the loosest of qualifications."

Hermione was scribbling furiously, likely jotting down every word.

"Arcanmagi are wizards with raw magical power, I believe," continued Binns. "They are extremely rare, even more so than Metamorphmagi. They are dangerous, students. Their magic is ancient, unpredictable, and in most cases, uncontrollable, even by themselves."

Harry got a sick feeling in his stomach, as though some dark, twisted beast had burrowed into his gut. Binns had just confirmed his worst fear; Harry was dangerous. He could hurt the people he loved, and he wouldn't even mean to. It made his heart thump with panic and his throat close up with anxiety. In reaction to his rampant, fearful emotions, the candles in the room flickered. This only served to make Harry feel worse.

Harry and Hermione left the classroom, each lost in their own thoughts. As they made their way to Transfiguration, Hermione reminded Harry that they didn't know he was and Arcanmagus. She told him that he hasn't done anything to hurt himself or others too terribly much. Harry paled at that, remembering the incident the day before Halloween when he had burned his palms with his fingernails, and the countless times before that when he had burned his hands arms. Hermione didn't know about these instances. Rather guiltily, Harry thought she should be informed; she should know that she shouldn't be around him. Everyone should know; Harry couldn't stand the thought of hurting Ron, or Katie, or—or Ginny.

Harry paid less attention that day in Transfiguration than normal; in fact, he couldn't have even told you what the lecture was about. His fear of himself gnawed its way into his heart, latching on and twisting it painfully. Harry couldn't shake the feeling that maybe he shouldn't be here, surrounded by people he could hurt, especially when his emotions were on a rampage of anxiety. He felt extremely guilty, and with every passing second, he wished he were hidden in a secluded cave somewhere, away from his friends and family, away from humanity, where the only person he could hurt was himself.

An irate voice broke through Harry's worrisome thoughts.

". . . Potter! Are you listening?" demanded McGonagall, strict eyes flashing.

"Sorry, Professor, I—uh—am now," said Harry, cheeks turning pink.

Professor McGonagall quirked a black eyebrow, clearly waiting for him to say something. Hermione smacked a hand to her forehead while Ron frantically mouthed something that Harry couldn't work out.

"Professor, did you ask me a question?" said Harry, shrugging his shoulders at Ron.

McGonagall sighed heavily. "Potter, I would think, given the state of the world right now, you would pay attention to lessons that may benefit you in the future."

Harry tried not to look as embarrassed as he felt. "Sorry," he muttered, his mind still on Arcanmagi and all their danger. He was certain that he was an Arcanmagus—it fit. More than that, Harry had felt the truth click into place the moment he saw the word.

However, now that he knew what he was, Harry wished he didn't. He wasn't scared of many things, but someone hurting his friends and family was something that had always sparked intense fear in him. Now, though, unlike every prior instance, it wasn't an outside threat that was endangering them. It was Harry himself.

A week passed, and Harry withdrew into himself. He stayed away from his dormitory as much as he could, going to bed around midnight every night. He got up early—around six in the morning—and would spend a couple hours outside, under a tree with his Invisibility Cloak on. He found every excuse to be late to class, to leave early, or to skip it entirely. He had taken to getting his food from the house-elves in the kitchen and eating in the Room of Requirement. Dark circles became a constant shadow on his face, and fear of himself became a constant companion—his only one, most of the time, due to his efforts.

It took Hermione threatening to owl Sirius for Harry to even talk to his friends. He knew he was being ridiculous, but he just couldn't bear to think of accidentally hurting someone.

"Harry, you can't do this to yourself," said Ginny as they sat down in armchairs in the Room of Requirement. "Hermione told us about the Arcanmagi, and we understand that it must be hard—"

"Gin, please . . . don't," interrupted Harry. "It's not just a bit hard—it's the hardest thing I've ever had to do, and I mean that. I really, really do."

"Then let us help you," said Hermione.

"Don't be so dramatic," Ginny muttered so softly Harry could have imagined it.

"But the more you're near me—"

"—the more we can help," Ron cut in firmly.

"No, you don't get it—" Harry's sentence was cut off as a strong jet of water shot into his face, lifting his glasses off his head.

Ginny had her wand brandished towards him, eyes alight. "Harry, you forget something vital," she said coolly. "This is a magic school, with students and teachers who can perform magic. Even if you were to accidentally start a fire, there will always be someone to put it out—including you, by the way. You can perform the Aquamenti charm, can't you?"

Harry was speechless for a second, unable to answer Ginny's question. Water dripped from his hair and clothes to the floor, where a decent puddle was already forming.

"Right," continued Hermione, "and do you honestly think that if a desk were to miraculously catch fire, the professor wouldn't put it out?"

"Er . . . "

"Of course they would, Harry," she answered for him. "So you need to stop skipping class."

"But, guys, I can barely control it. It might be too late to cast a spell—"

"Then why the hell are you spending all you time thinking of ways to isolate yourself instead of working to fix the problem?" demanded Ron, red eyebrows raised.

Harry opened his mouth and then immediately closed it, having no answer to give his friend.

"Harry," began Ginny gently. "You need to stop worrying over what might happen so you can focus on preventing it from happening entirely."

Harry was silent for a long while, his stubborn mind slowly coming to the conclusion that maybe his friends were right. Finally, he slowly said, "Alright. Maybe I was a tad bit . . . a tad bit ridiculous."

They all shared amused looks.

"A tad?" questioned Ginny, cocking an eyebrow.

"Fine. Entirely. I was being entirely ridiculous."

"Would you look at that? I think that's the first time you've admitted something to us," said Ron, grinning. "It wasn't too hard, was it?"

In response, Harry pushed hot air out of his body and into Ron's face. It was difficult to do it on command like that, but it was only a small patch of air, so Harry managed it after only a couple seconds.

Ron grimaced as a blast of hot air hit his face and pushed his hair back into a mess.

"Harry!" he groaned, smoothing back his hair.

"Just practicing like you said, Ron," said Harry, smirking as the meaning of his friends' words really sunk in. Things weren't all bad.

Ron chucked a throw pillow at Harry, a look of annoyance on his face.

Harry made sure to get up early on December 16th. He was showered, dressed, and in the common room by 7:15 A.M. He wore freshly laundered robes (courtesy of his favorite house-elf, Dobby) and a dashing smile; his messy hair, though, stayed in its ruffled state despite Harry's best efforts. A wrapped purple box was in one hand and flowers were in the other. It was in this celebratory state that Katie found him.

"Happy Birthday!" exclaimed Harry as his girlfriend came into the common room.

Katie opened her mouth in surprise, sharing a glance with her blonde friend.

"How are you, Bell? Feel any older?" said Harry, smiling at his girlfriend.

"Harry? Wow, this is—wow . . . how long have you been waiting there?" stammered Katie, giving Harry a tight hug.

"Oh, not that long," said Harry dismissively. "Here." He handed Katie her present, excited for her reaction.

Katie shot him a happy look and sat down in one of the armchairs. Harry resisted the urge to laugh as she opened her gift; a second-hand (or, quite possibly, third-hand) pair of Quidditch gloves.

"Oh, Harry! These are wonderful . . . er, how did you know I needed them?" asked Katie, an exaggerated smile on her lips. She picked a piece of brown fuzz off the gloves.

Harry couldn't take it any longer; he burst into uncontrollable laughter. Katie's look of utter confusion sent him spiraling into more laughter, until he reached into his robes' pocket and pulled out her real gift.

"Here you go," he said, smirking. "I was only joking about the gloves—I found them in the bottom of a bin in the locker rooms."

Katie immediately dropped the box with the old, disgusting gloves in it, a look of disgust on her face. "Harry, you realize how long those could have been in the locker rooms?"

"Of course I do; that's why I used them," he answered. "Here—this is your actual gift." He handed her a smaller box, still chuckling slightly.

"Oh, Harry," she whispered as she opened the box, eyes wide as she glanced up at him. "It's beautiful."

Inside the velvet-lined box was a golden necklace with white gems embedded into the chain. Katie pulled Harry down to her face by his collar to kiss him.

Harry broke off from the kiss after a few seconds and said, "Press that large gem—yeah, right there."

As Katie pressed the large white gem in the middle of the necklace, it lifted off her palm and into the air. It spun quickly for five seconds before a bracelet of the same design as the necklace floated back to her hand.

"Harry, you really shouldn't have," Katie said, admiring the bracelet.

"Yes, I should've," said Harry. In all honesty, he felt guilty about always keeping secrets from her, and then getting mad when she asked him about them, so he felt he should really go all out for her birthday. Besides, however much Harry didn't want to think about it, Voldemort was back, war was brewing, and he knew he should take advantage of every opportunity he got to celebrate.

"It's really beautiful, Harry," said Katie, kissing him again. While their heads were still bowed together, she added, "Thank you very much, I love it."

"You're welcome very much," replied Harry, smiling as their lips met again.

A wolf-whistle sounded behind Harry. Turning, he saw Ron grinning like a madman.

"Damn, and I thought my card was going to be good enough," said Ron, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "Here ya go, Katie." He handed her a card. "Happy Birthday," he added belatedly.

"Thank you, too, Ron," said Katie, reading the card. "You spelled 'spectacular' wrong, though," she added, looking as though she were holding back a smile.

"I did? Spell-Checking Quill must've gone wonky, then . . . "

"And what about 'Quidditch?' How did you manage to mess that one up?" said Harry, reading over Katie's shoulder.

"Shove off, Harry, we can't all have gotten her magical gold necklaces."

Harry smirked at his friend, happy to be in the moment.

Harry stopped Katie from entering the Great Hall by grabbing her hand.

"Where do you think you're going?" he said, lifting his eyebrows.

"Dinner?"

"No, that's where I'm taking you."

"What-?"

Harry shushed her and led her to the portrait of fruit near the Hufflepuff common room.

"Harry? What are you doing?"

"Shhh, you'll see," replied Harry, tickling the pear on the painting. The pear let out a shrill giggle and turned into a doorknob. Harry twisted the green doorknob and opened the door to the kitchens.

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!"

Katie jumped as fifty house-elves all started dancing around her merrily.

"I is being Habby, Miss Katie, and Habby is leading you to you's dinner," said a small, wrinkled house-elf.

Katie followed Habby, mouth agape and staring at Harry with surprise. In the corner of the kitchen was a small table with a red tablecloth, two candles, and two plates with steak and baked potatoes on them.

"Harry, this is amazing! Did you do all this?" said Katie, beaming at Harry.

"I had a lot of help from my friends," answered Harry, grinning at the small horde of house-elves. They all started jumping up and down excitedly after Harry had called them his friends.

"Harry Potter is being in the kitchen at last! And Harry Potter's girlfriend is being with him!" exclaimed an excited Dobby, running over to Harry and Katie. "Dobby, Habby, and Fubby has been being busy with the preparations!"

"Thank you, Dobby, Habby, and Fubby. I appreciate it," said Harry, smiling at the three house-elves who had set up the table. Enthusiastic little buggers, he thought with something akin to affection.

"You is most welcome!" squeaked Fubby, a house-elf with brown pigtails.

"Shhh! We is best be going, now, elves. They is wanting to be alone to eat!" said Habby, pointing her finger commandingly at the house-elves. Harry waved at them as they went back to work in the kitchen, noting with amusement how many of them sneaked peeks at Harry and Katie.

"Harry, this is brilliant! I never knew Hogwarts had house-elves," said Katie, seemingly unable to stop smiling.

"Yeah, well, they're great." A joyous squeak came from behind a shelf near them, telling Harry a house-elf was spying on them. He didn't mind. "I wanted to make your birthday special, since it's your last one at Hogwarts."

"Oh, Harry, it is special. Really, really special," said Katie, tears swimming in her eyes. "I love it," she finished in a whisper.

"Don't cry, Bell," said Harry. "You deserve it."

"We all deserve it, Harry. I want to take advantage of every celebration," she whispered, nodding her head. "Thank you for understanding that."

Harry smiled at her; he did understand. He understood that everyone should take every opportunity to have fun while they could. Before . . . Harry refused to finish that train of thought, instead digging into his steak and talking with his girlfriend while they ate.

"Harry, I have to say, I'm impressed," said Katie. "I never thought romance was your thing."

Harry shrugged. "Growing up with Sirius and all his dates taught me something," he replied.

"I never pegged your godfather as the romantic type, either," said Katie, smiling.

"He's not really. I forgot to mention all his dates fail," Harry said, grinning at memories of pranking Sirius's dates until they ran away. He decided not to tell that to Katie.

After dinner, Harry took Katie up to the Astronomy tower, using the Marauder's Map to check for prefects and teachers on the way. They sat in the tower, their legs dangling off the ledge, the moonlight shining on their pale faces.

"Thank you, Harry," said Katie after a short stretch of silence. "Thank you for everything."

"You're welcome, Bell," said Harry, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

They sat like that for a long time, simply wrapped in each other's arms, not worried, for once, about what the future held. Harry thought it felt nice, being with Katie, but not the nice he would expect from his girlfriend. He sensed the kind of comfort he felt around Ron or Hermione. He didn't exactly know what to think of that, only that it was a soothing feeling.

And, for right then, that was enough for Harry.

"Harry, you haven't seen my flexible garden shears, have you?" asked Neville as he ruffled through his trunk. "I don't know where I've put them."

Harry looked up from his own packing, eyes quickly scanning the dormitory for Neville's lost garden shears. Shrugging, he said, "No, I haven't. Just try Summoning them."

"Oh, good idea," said Neville, nodding his head. "Accio shears!"

The red garden shears came zooming out from under a nightstand and bonked Neville on the head, making Ron laugh from where he was packing his trunk.

"Ouch," muttered Neville, rubbing his head and stowing his garden shears in his trunk. Fortunately, the blunt side of the shears had hit him, so he was only sporting a bruise and not a cut.

"Neville, mate," said Ron, shaking his head, "you're going to end up in St. Mungo's for accidentally casting the Tickling Charm wrong one day."

Neville shot Ron a disgruntled look as he closed his trunk lid.

They were packing their things for the winter holidays. Harry was excited to go home, but he wasn't looking forward to fighting with Sirius. Hopefully, that could be avoided. He wouldn't say this aloud, but he wanted to talk with his godfather, to be comforted by him. And he wished he had told Sirius about this fire thing, but every time he considered it, Harry thought about the prophecy. For reasons he couldn't entirely articulate in his mind, Harry didn't want the prophecy to be true. It wasn't fear of Voldemort, that he knew for sure. Perhaps it was fear of letting people down, or having so many people look to him for answers that he couldn't give. Or, thought Harry, perhaps it's because prophecies are ridiculous, this one included.

Guilt also plagued Harry's mind whenever he thought of telling Sirius. Guilt that he hadn't told him earlier. Every time he envisioned himself telling Sirius, his insides bunched with anticipation. Yeah, so, I've just been having some problems with my magic—fire explodes out of me at times when my emotions are running wild. Oh, and I've been keeping it from you for about four months now. Anyway, in other news, Katie and I are back together . . . Harry was sure that wouldn't go over too well.

That night, Harry slept fitfully, his dreams stalked by a hurt Sirius who kept whispering, "Why didn't you tell me? Harry, I thought you loved me!"

"I do love you!" exclaimed Harry, sitting up in bed. Sunlight streamed in through the dormitory windows, their harsh beams stinging Harry's eyes. Sweat rolled down his face; it was sweltering hot around Harry. Taking in calming breaths, Harry worked to control his magic, demanding that it calm down.

"Aw, I knew you loved me, Harry," said Ron, blowing Harry a kiss.

"Shut your trap, Ron, it was a bloody dream," muttered Harry, fanning himself with his hand to cool off.

"Well, wake up, Dreamy, or you'll be late for breakfast."

Harry groaned, ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair, and got up to go shower. The cold water cooled him off and Harry dressed in Muggle clothes, which was his preferred attire. Wizarding robes were much too stuffy and impractical, in his opinion.

Breakfast was a tired affair; Harry was exhausted from his near sleepless night and no amount of black coffee fixed that little problem, unfortunately. He sat with Ron, Hermione, and Katie; Ginny was a few seats down, saying good-bye to her boyfriend, Dean Thomas.

Just as Harry was finishing his second cup of coffee, and Ron was starting on his third helping of hash browns, a loud yell from down the table interrupted their breakfast.

"Dean! I can bloody grab the toast myself!" exclaimed Ginny. "You always do this, act like I'm helpless. I'm not, okay?"

"I was just handing you some toast, Ginny, don't be so—"

"Finish that sentence, Dean, I dare you."

"—dramatic," finished Dean challengingly.

Ron chortled next to Harry.

"Damn, Dean's got balls," he said. Hermione shot him a condescending look.

"Dean, this isn't working for me," said Ginny. "I'm sick of you treating me like I'm some fragile flower. Did you go to the Ministry last year to face Voldemort?" Several people, including Dean, winced at the name. "You can't even listen to his name!" continued Ginny, sniffing her nose indignantly.

Dean, the poor fellow, looked completely flabbergasted as Ginny huffed her way over to where Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Katie were sitting.

"I don't want to talk about it," said Ginny as she sat down.

"Talk about what?" said Harry, pretending to have no idea what just happened.

Ginny shot him a grateful glance as she grabbed a piece of toast for herself.

After breakfast, everyone made their way down to Hogsmeade station, bundled in mittens and scarves to ward off the cold snow. The train arrived in a puff of loud steam and all the students made their way onto the train. Harry noticed several Aurors stationed at the front of the train, and he peered his head to see if Sirius was among their ranks. He didn't see his godfather, though, so he continued to the back with his friends.

Luna and Neville were already talking amiably in the compartment when Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and Katie arrived. Harry smiled at Luna in greeting before sitting next to Neville.

Everyone took their seats, and moments later, the train chugged into motion, on its way to London.

Harry listened to everyone talk for a bit before his eyes drooped closed, his head leaning against the cold glass of the train window. His exhausted mind slipped into a light sleep.

Harry dreamt of ice-skating along a frozen pond. The pond was, of course, purple, as ponds were, and he was holding hands with Ginny. Quite suddenly, Katie came tumbling into them, pulling Harry away from Ginny and sending them both crashing to the ice. Katie and Harry, their bums hurting a lot, both felt better from the fall when they held hands. They stood up and started to ice-skate around the frozen purple pond, holding hands, but after a moment Harry came to a skidding stop. All this was pointless, he realized, because the whole reason he had come to pond was to have a snowball fight with Voldemort . . .

"Harry!"

Harry was abruptly yanked from his dreams as Hermione shook his arm roughly.

"Get up, we've arrived at the platform—something's wrong, though . . ." she said, kneeling in front of him, looking out the window.

The others were craning their necks to see out the window as well. Harry, still half-asleep, shifted in his seat to see what was going on. It wasn't long before he spotted the problem.

Platform Nine and Three-Quarters was completely devoid of people. Usually, parents are crowding the train to see their children, but now . . . nothing. Not one single parent.

The hair on the back of Harry's neck stood up, and he found himself preparing to fight with magic. Surprisingly, though, he didn't grab his wand or think of what spell to use. No, Harry—almost unconsciously—poised his fire magic, grabbing onto it with metaphorical fingers and holding it at the ready. Shaking himself, he took hold of his wand and prepared to cast a spell.

Aurors cautiously stepped out of the train cart, wands pointed and sharp eyes searching. Harry, along with the rest of the students, watched with bated breath as they spread out in the platform.

Horrified gasps filled the air around Harry, sharp intakes of breath that conveyed absolute terror. Harry felt his heart skip several beats, as though someone had chucked it down the stairs and it was bouncing on each step. His eyes stared out the window, but only took in a single hooded figure.

Into the platform strutted Lord Voldemort, pale skin almost completely covered by long black robes and red eyes glinting with unconcealable malice.

Immediately, ten or so bright streaks of light zoomed towards Voldemort simultaneously. Smirking evilly, Voldemort brandished his wand in an elegant, crude flurry and a shimmering red shield erupted around him. The Aurors' spells bounced off the shield with a boing! and raced back to the original casters. Only half managed to dodge their own spells, the other half falling to the ground.

Hermione shrieked a strangled scream as Voldemort shot five spells in succession, each finding their mark in an Auror. Despite everything, Harry couldn't help but feel overwhelming gratitude that his godfather hadn't been stationed with the Aurors, else he would've been lying dead on the ground with the rest of them.

There were whooshing noises, and black-robes figures Portkeyed into the platform.

"Death Eaters," Harry whispered, although he doubted any of his friends needed an explanation. He stood panickily, not knowing what to do.

"Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit . . ." panted Ron.

A maniacal cackle filled the platform, reaching Harry's ears even through the glass, and a distinctly feminine masked figure lifted her wand to the sky.

"MOSMODRE!" Bellatrix Lestrange cast, a mad edge to her voice. Sickly, pale green mist took the shape of a skull eating a snake.

Voldemort lifted his face to the Dark Mark, his own cruel signal of death and pain, its grotesque light illuminating his face, a wicked smile on his lips.

"You have nothing to fear, children. We are not here to kill you all—only one in particular. As long as you do not bar our way, we will not harm you," said Voldemort, his voice loud due to a Sonorus charm. "I have no wish to spill magical blood."

Harry gulped, his heart twisting nervously. His eyes met his friends'.

"Don't do anything stupid-" he began.

"IMMOBULUS!"

Power drummed in Harry's ears as Voldemort's spell hit the train. He could feel the exertion in the spell, the magic, as it struck every student, teacher, and Auror on the train. His words to his friends were cut off as he froze up. He couldn't move a muscle; he was stuck in his standing position, mouth still open mid-speech, heart still pumping in a frozen cage. Hastily, he felt around for his fire magic. He could still use that, he would have to.

Voldemort told his followers to wait there and attack any Aurors that showed up in the platform. With the cold appearance of an assassin, he made his way onto the train.

Harry wished he could scream, or fight, or run, or something. But all he could do was wait, prepare his fire magic to bombarde Voldemort, and wait some more.

Seconds that felt like eternities passed, and finally, Voldemort appeared outside the compartment. Instead of opening the door like a normal person, the lunatic Vanished the glass with a flick of his wand.

Bastard! Harry screamed in his mind. He pulled on his magic, demanding that a flame appear. He was met with sparks, and Voldemort made his way into the compartment proper.

"Harry Potter. So helpless, so vulnerable," said Voldemort musingly, his voice cold and high. "It's a shame this was the only time I could get to you . . . Oh well, this will have to be done in the presence of children."

Damn you, magic, Harry thought, trying desperately to summon even the tiniest of flames. When that didn't work, he tried to heat the air to a painful point. However, it wasn't long before Voldemort cast a cooling charm.

"How are you doing that?" he questioned. "When Yaxley reported your miraculous barrage of fire, I immediately assumed it had been accidental magic. Yet you still seem to have an affinity for heat . . . it's very curious . . ." Voldemort smirked. "I can, however, live with the dissatisfaction of not knowing."

Harry was pouring everything into his magic, commanding it to work, shaping it using his will alone. He had struck up a chant in his mind: work, work, work, push, push, push, work, work, work . . . everything in his mind slowed to a speed where Harry could take in every detail and study it . . . work . . . Voldemort's lips moved, forming a word . . . push . . . push . . . push . . .

Note: Not sorry for the cliffhanger. Also, thanks to all who reviewed! I've responded to them all. And thank you to everyone who favorited/followed this story. I might not update for a while, but maybe if this fic got a lot of attention, I would be inclined to write faster . . . *laughs evilly*