Dream

April continued to push Harry to his limits. Even his triumphant euphoria over Malfoy's incarceration couldn't lift him out of the fatigue caused by the incessant long days and late nights, and so it was a very sleepy Harry who shuffled down to a late breakfast one Sunday, blinking over a rasher of bacon and wondering what that awful screeching noise was.

"Ow!" he exclaimed, snatching his hand back after a barn owl that appeared out of nowhere pecked it. "Ruddy bird. What'd you do that for?"

"It's been in front of you for at least a minute, Harry," explained Neville.

Oh. That explained the screeching. Harry took the envelope from the owl's leg and tossed it a small sausage. Noting the Ministry seal, he tucked the envelope in his pocket, assuming it was something else on which Sanjay wanted to stamp his name. Next to him Hermione harrumphed into her cereal, but he ignored her. The one upside of constant weariness was that he'd become particularly good at ignoring things.

After breakfast he read the letter alone as he trudged up the Grand Staircase. It might take away from the ambience of the castle, but sometimes he thought it wouldn't hurt Hogwarts to install a few lifts. Not that he'd ever mention that idea aloud—some of the older portraits might have fallen apart, overcome with blasphemy.

As he expected, the busy Ministry once again wanted to use the name of Potter to push through new legislation. And—this was interesting—Sanjay wanted to meet this time, would in fact be waiting for Harry in Professor McGonagall's office at half past noon that day. He shrugged to himself as he continued walking, wondering how thin McGonagall's lips had been pressed at that request.

And so after lunch Harry found the impeccably dressed young politician waiting in McGonagall's office.

"Harry! How are you?" Sanjay exclaimed, shaking Harry's hand with vigor.

"Fine."

"Splendid, absolutely splendid. Term's coming to an end, isn't it? That works wonderfully; perhaps we can get you in another press conference. They like a face to go with the name, you know, and a handsome young one at that doesn't hurt. Now then, let's get down to business, shall we?"

Harry leaned against a chair. As always, Sanjay talked a mile a minute, and trying to keep up made Harry's head spin.

Sanjay set his briefcase on McGonagall's desk. "I'm sure you heard about the bit of violent behavior recently." He clicked his tongue without waiting for a confirmation. In fact, between Mad-Eye and Tonks, Harry knew quite a lot about it, far more than Sanjay. He amused himself imagining the look on Sanjay's dark face if he knew the extent of Harry's involvement. "Nasty business, Harry, nasty business. When we begin fighting amongst ourselves is when the enemy emerges victorious. Remember that. The Minister grows concerned that certain unsavory characters in our society may try to take advantage of the present unrest—"

"It's a bit more than unrest, don't you think?" Harry interrupted. "People have been missing and dying for two years."

Sanjay didn't miss a beat. "You're absolutely right, Harry. Wrong choice of word on my part. As I was saying, the Minister believes some people will attempt to exploit the current situation to their advantage, which of course is undesirable and will only hurt our cause by diverting resources. To that end, we wish to create a sort of registration, if you will, enabling us to keep closer tabs on those most likely to cause trouble. Known criminals, those with—"

"Known criminals?" Harry repeated with a fair amount of derision. "If there are known criminals, why don't you arrest them?"

"Arrest them?" Sanjay said with his own share of derision. "No, Harry, 'known criminals' is simply a phrase those in law enforcement use to refer to someone with a record, particularly repeat offenders. Petty thieves and the like. This is not Fudge's reign any longer. Minister Scrimgeour is dedicated to impartiality, as you saw in your own trial, or, I'm sure, heard about with regards to your classmate, Draco Malfoy."

Again Harry knew far more of which Sanjay spoke than Sanjay himself. Recalling that former Ministry darling Umbridge as well as Malfoy sat in Azkaban at that moment, he admitted that thus far Scrimgeour had proved himself to be a far more proactive and strict leader than the ineffective Fudge.

"That being said, the Minister had a long career in the DMLE before taking office, and he knows that in times like these, those who have broken the law in the past or skirted alongside it may well become tempted to do it again. Magical Law Enforcement patrols report that looting and burglary are on the rise, occasionally leading to minor assaults. Focusing on the bigger picture, that is to say, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, does not mean we can afford to let smaller matters slide. Do you understand, Harry?"

"Yeah, I guess so. When you say registration, what do you mean?"

"Merely a list, of sorts, of those that we need to keep an eye on, as I said. Known criminals, those with dealings in the dark arts, family members of acknowledged Death—"

"No," Harry said firmly. Faces—Sirius, Andromeda, Eric—flashed in front of him. "No one simply because they're related to a Death Eater. You can't judge someone just by who they're related to. That's not fair or right."

Sanjay nodded. "Very well."

"And nothing about blood either," added Harry, realizing how easily this proposition could take a bad turn. "Muggleborn, half-blood, pureblood—none of that matters, either. Got it?"

Sanjay raised a hand. "You have my word, Harry. You feel strongly about this, don't you?"

Lifting his head, Harry looked him straight on. "Yes, I do."

"That's good. Strong opinions are indicative of a strong character. And as it so happens, it was never on anyone's agenda to bring blood status into this." He clapped his hands briskly. "So! We're in agreement, then?"

Harry stood, looking at the bookcase behind McGonagall's desk without seeing it. On the one hand, the Ministry ought to focus its attention on Voldemort. But on the other, what started as small matters here and there could turn into a very large problem very quickly, and Voldemort could turn the ensuing Ministry distraction to his advantage. Harry ran his fingers through his hair. He wasn't cut out for politics.

"Sure," he finally said, ignoring the churn of uncertainty in his belly. He'd agreed to this harsher course months ago. "What do I need to do?"

Sanjay flourished a scroll of parchment and a quill out of his briefcase so quickly he might as well have conjured them. "Just sign there at the bottom, as you did last time, and hopefully you'll hear of our success shortly." Harry scrawled his name, and Sanjay whipped them away, offering his hand in place. "A pleasure as always, Harry. Good day to you."

"Yeah, you, too."

Left alone in McGonagall's office, Harry sat down for a moment. Despite his misgivings, he wasn't doing so badly on his own. He was helping the Ministry against a common enemy, he'd found someone to help him become stronger, and even his marks were higher. Not terrible for a sixteenyear-old orphan with terrible eyesight and knobby knees.

Harry hurried through the tunnel that ran from the Whomping Willow to the Shrieking Shack. Hewas going to be late, and Burke tolerated tardiness as much as any Hogwarts teacher. That is tosay, not at all.

"I'm sorry!" he burst out the instant he entered the room. "I was—" He stopped. Why was he late?He had no idea what he'd been doing before he was in the tunnel.

"Never mind," said Burke brusquely. "Let us begin."

They were using wands now, and again Harry didn't remember when that happened, but hesupposed he was so tired lately he had simply forgotten.

Their duel was nothing short of vicious. Harry was half convinced that Burke was truly trying to killhim, as time after time he only just missed a thrust or slash that would have split him wide open.And then came a spell Harry didn't miss, leaving him bleeding from hip to neck, and half becamefull.

Though wounded, he didn't hurt, and he began to hurl spells back at Burke with increasing anger.

What was the man playing at? Fueled by fury, he drove the older man back across the room,wounding him unrepentantly. Both were limping and dripping blood by the time Harry disarmedhim, leaving Burke defenseless on the floor, back against the wall.

"What are you going to do now, Harry?" he asked. "Kill me?"

Of course not, Harry began to say, but he stopped himself. The voice was not the graveled growl towhich he'd grown accustomed. It was, however, an equally familiar voice, an unhurried sibilanthiss.

"You can't kill me, Harry."

Harry blinked, shaking his head. Burke was gone; in his place was a tall skeleton of a man. TomRiddle. Lord Voldemort.

If he was worried about being helpless at the end of Harry's wand, it didn't show. "You know mysecret. I can't be killed."

So he knew Harry was on to the Horcruxes. So be it. "Yes, you can." He gripped his wand tighter,straightening his aim. "In the end, you'll be just as mortal as anyone else."

Voldemort smiled, cold and arrogant. He tilted his head. "But can you kill me? I think not, Harry.You can't kill anyone, can you?"

"Of course not."

Harry spun around. Peter Pettigrew stood behind an armchair as if he'd been there all along. Hisattention on his master, he bowed his head obsequiously. "The Potter boy had the chance to killme three years ago. Padfoot was willing, and Moony, too."

"It's your fault they died!" Harry yelled. He almost spun around but thought better of it, steppingback until he could see both his enemies. He looked from one to the other. "You betrayed them,and he killed them."

"And here you have us both at your mercy," sneered Voldemort. "The two people you holdresponsible for the mess that is your life. Yet there you stand, still unable to kill."

"Yes, I can!" Harry snarled, hating the petulance of his voice in this very serious and importantmoment. "I have to."

"You certainly do."

Voldemort was standing now, a wand that came out of nowhere directed at Harry's heart.Wormtail held a wand as well, this pointed at the head of Tonks, who was standing in front of him,the chair having disappeared. She was uncharacteristically helpless, frightened, silent, speakingonly with her eyes. Gray as a cloudy sky, they begged.

"Which is it, Harry? The girl or the enemy?"

Time was of the essence, but Harry was slow as he moved his gaze back and forth. He could killVoldemort, he could end this now, but if he did, Wormtail would kill Tonks. If he killed Wormtail,Voldemort would kill him. The girl or the enemy, the other enemy or himself. The girl or the—

A sharp cry punctured his debate. Tonks was on her knees now, a thin line of red disfiguring the throat Harry had pressed his lips to many times. It was shallow, but the warning was clear. Andthen, as he watched, she cried out again, holding one hand over the spread of dark crimson acrossher abdomen. Wormtail didn't move a muscle, yet the longer Harry looked on, the more injuriesshe received until finally she lay on the floor, crying and pleading for him to help her.

"Stop it!" he shouted, spinning around to face Voldemort again, his decision made.

But Voldemort wasn't there—or was he? Harry stared into a mirror. His eyes narrowed and turnedred, the fingers holding his wand lengthened, and his scar—his scar spoke to him.

"You know the truth, Harry. You've known it since we spoke in the Chamber of Secrets."

'There are strange likenesses between us, after all. Even you must have noticed.'

"You've known it since I used you in the graveyard."

'Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken.'

"You've known it since we shared our mind and body."

'You are a fool, Harry Potter, and you will lose everything.'

His scar seared, flashing red, and the voice wasn't merely in his head any longer. "You don't loveme!" he burst out, pivoting again and advancing on the wounded Auror. "You never loved me, youplayed me, I was a moment's amusement and you threw me away like a child who outgrew hertoys!"

"Harry, I—"

"Shut up," he spat. His scar throbbed with every word but anger flowed through his veins in placeof blood, and he felt powerful, confident, immortal. "You don't love me, and you don't want me.And I don't need you."

"Harry, please!"

She raised one hand as if to shield herself from the oncoming storm, and he laughed, a maniacalsound he'd only ever heard from the mouth of another. He took aim.

Harry jerked awake as the green light flashed in his eyes, just as it used to during those long-ago dreams of his parents' deaths.

"Harry!" One of the red curtains surrounding his bed was jerked aside, and Neville's pudgy face peered in, concerned. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," Harry lied. His head—and scar—throbbed like something was attempting to escape his skull, and he felt ill, sweaty and clammy at the same time. "Must have had a dream or something. Sorry for waking you."

"No, I was up to get a drink of water and heard you yell something. Is it you know, him?"

"No." This, unlike earlier, was the truth. Not only had Voldemort not attempted to utilize their connection since the disastrous occasion last June, the dream simply didn't have the same quality as previous visions. "Just a dream. You can go back to bed."

Neville hesitated. It annoyed Harry slightly, but he couldn't fault him. Harry's oft-disturbing dreams were common knowledge amongst all four of his dormmates. "Do you need anything? I have the new Marvin Miggs comic if you can't sleep."

"I'll be fine. I'm going to the loo. Thanks, Nev."

Harry waited until Neville returned to his own four-poster before slipping on trainers and grabbing his invisibility cloak from his trunk at the foot of his bed. He had somewhere to go, but it wasn't the loo.

His heart still raced, the dream as fresh and clear as if it had been a film. Despite its inconsistencies, it felt real. The worst thing was that he recognized what his dream-self felt. Was it merely a dream, or something worse, something deeper, a manifestation of what was hidden inside him? Too often he'd felt almost consumed by anger that was foreign yet strong.

He knocked on the door as quickly and loudly as he dared. Yes, it was the middle of the night, but at this moment he didn't care. It took over a minute for the door to open, but finally it did, wandlight illuminating her sleepy, confused face.

"Harry?" Tonks mumbled, blinking at him before focusing on his face. "What's wrong?"

"Please don't send me away."

"I would never—" she began before thinking better of it. "Come in."

She had clearly been asleep. If the darkened room wasn't enough evidence, the rumpled bed, tousled hair, and oversized t-shirt she wore that he could see after she shot a jet of flame at the fireplace were.

"I'm sorry to wake you, but I had to come," he said.

She frowned, but he didn't sense any disapproval. "You look terrible," was all she said. "Sit."

She joined him on the sofa in front of the fire, conjuring a glass of water and giving him a pointed look until he drank it all. Then she brushed his fringe out of the way and held her palm to his forehead, her skin as warm as ever.

Or perhaps it was him this time. "You're burning up. Are you poorly?"

"No." She waited, fidgeting with the edge of her shirt, until he said, feeling rather stupid at the words emerging, "I had a dream."

"Bad one, I assume."

"Yeah. Suppose you're going to take the piss now?"

"Well do you want me to give you a glass of warm milk, tuck you up, and check under your bed for monsters? Then no, I'm not. I've had my share of unsettling dreams, Harry. Nothing to be ashamed of. Do you want to talk about it?"

He shook his head slowly, not ready to put it into words. After refilling his water Tonks began to read a magazine that had been draped over the back of the sofa, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts. Now that he was here, calmer and somewhat relaxed, he felt foolish, and slightly angry to boot. Why was it that she could dump him, yet he still came running to her? Why did this connection still exist? How pathetic was he, letting an ex-girlfriend have such a hold over him that she invaded his dreams?

With his conflicted state surging to the forefront once again, Harry glanced at her magazine to distract himself. "Thinking of buying a new broom?"

"Yeah. I've had my Comet since my Quidditch days, and it's time to retire it. Plus I had Dad sell my car, so I've a bit of extra money."

"You sold your car? Why? You love it."

"Yeah, I do, but it's kind of pointless for a witch to own a car, isn't it? I mean, unless you have small children, it's only for fun. And, well, my therapist suggested it." She cleared her throat, shifting and folding one leg under the other. "You see, my grandparents set up a small fund for each of us when we were born. It's supposed to be used for, um, what's the word? Some Muggles go when they finish school?"

"University?" he suggested.

She snapped her fingers. "That's it. It's supposed to help with university. But as I didn't go, it just sat there until I decided to buy a car one day, right after Nick and I broke up. Seemed like a good idea at the time, which was about as much thought as I put into anything those days. Mum and Dad were not happy. Anyway, my therapist said I was holding onto the past, or some shit like that. Also, it was kindly suggested to me by the DMLE that I not drive for a bit after Easter."

Her dry tone brought a grin to his face. "Yeah? How optional was that suggestion?"

"Nearly as optional as the extra duties I've volunteered for over the years. Now I have some gold, so I figured why not a new broomstick?"

Harry leaned closer to glance at Which Broomstick?, trying to ignore it when their arms brushed.

"What do you plan on buying? Your own Firebolt?"

She groaned. "I wish," she said with longing. "I can't quite bring myself to spend that much in one place again. No, I've been thinking about the Comet 290, as I quite liked my 260, or perhaps the new Nimbus."

"I used to have a Nimbus 2000. It has great balance, and the new model is supposed to second only to the Firebolt in speed." He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. "I know how you like to go fast."

"I do," she admitted, returning his smile.

They talked about broomsticks for a few minutes, debating the merits of each make, and Harry pondered how easily they fell back into banter, lacking only the flirtatious overtures that marked their earlier relationship.

"I heard you were supposed to give me a message from Burke," Tonks said nonchalantly during a lull in the conversation, flipping the page.

Caught off guard, Harry coughed. "Yeah, er, I meant to, but we haven't seen each other much lately."

"No, we haven't," she mused, continuing to read her magazine.

He waited. And waited some more. "That's it?"

"What is?"

"You're not going to bug me until I tell you when I saw Burke, or lecture me about knowing what I'm getting myself into?"

"No. Why, do you want that?"

Harry scoffed, brushing his fringe out of his eyes. "Not at all. It's only what I would expect from you."

She laughed, managing to roll her eyes at the same time. "Thanks for the compliment. No, no, it's fine. It's true, I expect. I've recently discovered I have—" she stressed the words with some degree of resignation, "Control issues. I've no right poking my nose in your business, so in the interest of friendship," again, stressing the word with a hint of resignation, "all I'll say is I hope you're being careful."

Harry made a noise in his throat and gazed at his fingers, one nail still torn from the last Quidditch practice, wondering how to tackle this new, introspective Tonks. Unfortunately that led to him thinking of actually tackling Tonks and other, more enjoyable activities that could lead to, not helped in the least by the pseudo-romantic fireside setting or her shorts that did nothing to cover the legs that went up to here. Rather panicked by the line his thoughts were taking, he went back to the topic. "She thinks you have control issues? I never, ever would have guessed that."

She glanced at him sharply with eyes too dark to make out the color, narrowing her brow before a grin tugged at one corner of her mouth. "Oh, is that so?"

"She must be a top-notch therapist to figure out that one." He continued recklessly, knowing he was risking treading in dangerous territory but enjoying the teasing too much to care. "I hope they're paying her extra to dive into your mind. It's a scary place."

To his relief, her exaggerated gasp of outrage was laced with amusement. "Me? What about you, you filthy hypocrite?"

"I imagine some of your thoughts would break a pensieve in half."

"Oi, watch it, Potter," she warned, eyes sparkling. "I can still kick your arse, Oh Chosen One."

"Hey, don't call me that."

"That's my line, innit?"

She pounced without warning, whacking him with a small pillow, which he grabbed, trying to yank it out of her grasp. She held fast, and both toppled backward with shouts of laughter, the Metamorphmagus landing squarely on top of Harry.

After a few nervous chuckles, they gazed at each other in silence. He could feel her heart thudding against his chest. Whatever yearnings he'd had to kiss her before their relationship paled in comparison to this moment. She was so very close, close enough that when a lock of aqua hair slipped out, it tickled his cheek. He tucked it behind her ear, green eyes never leaving those of what he now decided were a very dark midnight blue, and let his fingers linger on her cheek.

Emotions traveled across her face as quickly as if she were morphing, but Harry never strayed from the singular gaze of longing.

"Harry" Tonks whispered.

Whatever she intended to say after that was lost as he blinked and the spell was broken. They sat up, she tugging her knees to her chest and he placing his palms flat on his thighs. The snap of the flames provided the only sound for some time.

"I was in the Shrieking Shack," he began abruptly.

He spoke mechanically, her gaze never wavering from him even as she pivoted to face him, sitting cross-legged. He told her not because he necessarily wanted to, nor because it was itching to get off his chest, but because he knew, from that moment, that their story wasn't over, and she would always be the person to whom he turned.

"It was just a dream, you know that," she told him gently when he finished.

"I know, but my dreams—you don't understand, they're never just dreams. And he was there"

"Okay. You're the only one who can tell for sure. Do you believe it was Voldemort manipulating you?"

Harry frowned at the fire. "No," he admitted.

"Then it really was just a dream. Dreams never make sense. I once dreamt I woke up one morning with no fingers. Just palms."

He had to crack a smile at that. "Yeah?"

"Don't knock it. It was terrifying in its own way. And as for the rest," she went on in a brisk tone.

"Firstly, we both know you aren't going to kill me. You've had plenty of opportunities. And secondly, if it came down to me or him—"

"I would never," he assured her.

"—I should bloody well hope you'd let me die," she finished. They stared at each other with consternation. "Harry, it's Voldemort. You get the chance, you off him, no matter what."

"And just leave you to die? That sounds like a piece of cake."

"If you're looking for something easy, you ought to get out of the business of war. Besides—" Her voice took on a chipper note. "In a likelihood, if that situation came up, I'd probably be dead already. So there you go, no worries."

"No worries," he deadpanned, raising his eyebrows.

"Exactly. And as for stressing out about killing someone—the moment you stop worrying about it is probably the moment you should. Got it?" Tonks picked at her fingernails, giving him a side-eyed glance. "Do you want to tell me what's really bothering you about that dream?"

There were times when the fact that she knew him so well wasn't so great. He struggled to put his churning emotions into words, speaking slowly. "When I have these dreams, or when I get angry or lose my temper, I feel like I'm someone else. Last year I had the same feelings and I thought it was because Voldemort was in my head. I know he's not now, but sometimes I think I don't know, after all we've gone through together, I have part of him inside me. Like I'm becoming him."

"Oh, Harry." Two words, simple enough, but heavy and loaded. She shuffled closer, kneeling awkwardly on the cushioned sofa, and took his head in her hands, pulling it up until they made eye contact. "Listen to me. Despite everything, I know you, and you are so good, it hurts. You've been through so much, and all you do is take a stronger stance against evil. You're nothing like him, and you never will be."

"How do you know?" he protested in spite of the warmth spreading through him. "How do you know that when this is all over, we'll be any better than those we fought against? What is the cost going to be?"

She sucked in a sharp breath, looking distinctly unsettled before giving her head a little shake.

"Because like I said, I know you. You're amazing, and no one who holds this much light in his eyes could ever be anything else."

Hesitantly, as if debating with herself, Tonks leaned forward, very lightly and briefly pressing her lips to his temple, brushing across his scar. He closed his eyes.

Nothing more needed to be said—nothing more could be said after that—and all Harry knew was that one moment he was staring into the fire and the next his eyes fluttered open to reveal dying embers. The windows (fake, for her quarters were on the interior of the castle, but they were charmed to show the conditions outdoors, much like the ceiling of the Great Hall) were dark, so it was still night. The next second he realized that Tonks leaned against him, her head pillowed on his shoulder while his head rested on top of hers.

"Dora?" he whispered, gently nudging her. As much as he wanted to stay, wanted to pretend they were back as they, he still wasn't completely sure she—actually, either of them were ready for that yet, no matter what promise the last few hours held. All that had been said when she broke up with him remained unresolved.

"You can stay if you want, but I'm going to bed," she mumbled in a drowsy voice.

"No, I need to go back. Want me to tuck you up, check for monsters?"

A soft chuckle reached his ears. "Monsters have nothing on me." She lifted her head, yawning. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Thank you for listening to me."

"No problem." She bit her lip, rolling it between her teeth. "Harry, why did you come to me?"

Because I dreamed about you? Because I'm still all in? Because you don't mind if I wake you? Nothing seemed appropriate to both convey what he wanted without breaching the shaky bit of trust they'd restored. "Because you're the person" and he trailed off, not sure how to finish his sentence. Yet as he left it, it seemed like that was the sentence in its entirety.

Tonks nodded, swallowing. "I'm glad, you know, that we can still talk."

"Me, too. Good night, Dora."

"Good night, Harry. No more dreams."

She shuffled for her bed while he headed for the door. Oh, sod it all. With his hand on the knob, he turned, clearing his throat. One leg under a thick blanket, she paused, giving him her attention. "I think we both know there's still something between us. If we have feelings for each other, why aren't we together?"

She immediately opened her mouth to respond, but naught came out. The longer nothing was said, the more it grew apparent there was no answer to that question.

Harry went down to breakfast the next day in a particularly good mood, the dream pushed to the back of his mind. That's all it was, after all—only a dream. The weather was picturesque, his Quidditch team had never looked better as the final approached, term was crawling to an end, he was progressing on all fronts, and Tonks still cared for him. Malfoy was in jail, and Harry nursed cautious hopes that he might end this school year without another attempt on his life. Two was a bit much as it was.

Over their bacon and eggs, Harry and Ron began teasing Neville about working with Susan in the last DA meeting.

"And she's smart, Susan is," said Harry. "I've never seen her have that much trouble with a spell."

"Did you show her how to work a wand, Nev?" Ron asked with the innocent expression of a tender first-year.

Seamus snorted eggs across the table, and amidst the withering glare with which Lavender was leveling Ron, Neville blanched. "It's not—we aren't—I would never—"

"Never say never," Dean advised. "You don't know what you're turning down."

Ron sniggered, now deliberately turning away from Lavender's piercing gaze. "Yeah, mate, it's like—OI!" He rounded on Dean. "What the bloody hell are you talking about? You dated my little sister!"

Harry waited for Ginny to throw an acidic remark at Ron, as she normally did whenever he acted big-brotherly protective about her, but instead she picked at the crust of her toast, looking as if she didn't particularly care.

Harry leaned toward her, speaking in a low voice under cover of the owls that had flooded the Great Hall in the morning mail delivery. "Alright, Ginny?"

Her brown eyes flicked toward Dean before she shrugged, giving Harry a wan smile. "Sure."

He offered a smile in return but was rather grateful when the graceful figure of Hedwig soared at him, her white feathers unmistakable among all the darker colors. He didn't know what to say to Ginny.

Removing the letter from her leg, he allowed Hedwig her selection of his breakfast while he stroked her head. After a bite of bacon and some pumpkin juice, she nipped Harry affectionately on his hand before flying off. He glanced at his letter, recognizing the sharp script of Remus Lupin.

Interesting, he mused, wondering what his former professor—

"Holy cricket!" Hermione spat, hidden as usual behind the Daily Prophet. She lowered the paper and stared over it at Harry.

"What? What, Hermione? What's happened?"

"It's the Ministry. I hope you—no, wait, let's go. You don't want to read this here."

Without waiting for a response, she left with the paper, forcing Harry to follow, torn between irritation and curiosity tinged with anxiety. He didn't have to look to know that Ron did the same. As they left, their classmates gathered around Katie Bell, who also took the paper.

They were at the Grand Staircase when Hermione stopped, thrusting the paper at him. "Go on, it's easier if you read it yourself. I truly hope you didn't mean this."

He began to read the front-page article as quickly as he could. Yes, the Wizengamot had met to discuss Sanjay's legislation, and yes, Harry's name was mentioned. So what? He read on, and when the reporter finally summed up the sum total of the new law, his stomach dropped.

All creatures categorized within the Being Division, to include humans, and of the age ofmajority will now be required to carry identification papers. Failure to provide paperswhen asked or any forgery or false information will result in a fine and prison time asdetermined by a committee. Identification will include name, age, affiliations, wand description, and identifying characteristics such as lycanthropy or Animagus form.Registration of the latter categories will be made available to the public through theDepartment for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Persons to be ofsuspect loyalty, such as past Death Eater ties, a known criminal history, or werewolves,will be summoned before a Ministry tribunal.

Harry couldn't read any longer. He felt sick. He handed the paper to Ron, pointing out the summarizing paragraph, and gave Hermione a beseeching glance. "This wasn't what I was told, Hermione. You know I'd never support something like this. You know that."

"Of course I do." She bit her lip. "This is really bad, Harry. The Ministry is trying to turn us into some sort of police state, and your name is all over it."

"Blimey, mate," said Ron. "What do you suppose this tribunal is for?"

Remus' letter in his pocket suddenly weighed a ton. "I don't know. I can't imagine I want to know."

Harry sat on a step, running his hands through his hair. "I've got to stop this. If they used my name to pass it, I can use it to take it back, right?"

Hermione and Ron exchanged a glance, and he knew without asking that neither had a good answer.

"Potter!"

A thoroughly furious Eric Rosier stormed out of the Great Hall, Daphne Greengrass on his heels. Harry stood, suddenly very aware of how much larger Eric was than himself.

"You—you—" Eric seethed through clenched teeth before rearing back and punching Harry in the eye. He reeled, only Ron keeping him from stumbling backward, but did nothing to protect himself. At that moment, glasses broken and pain searing through his nose, Harry felt he deserved it. "You—

" the young werewolf spat again before turning and storming in the direction of the Slytherin dungeons.

Daphne stepped up and quite calmly slapped Harry across the formerly unharmed cheek. "You're an asshole," she said before spinning to follow her friend.

Harry sank back down to the stone steps. Wordlessly Hermione repaired his glasses, but he didn't care. Fury at the Wizengamot, Scrimgeour, Sanjay Bansal, the Ministry as a whole, and at himself surged through him. What had he done?