Monday morning, an enormous great grey swooped low over Harry's porridge and dropped a lumpy little package onto the table with a thud. The cloth-wrapped parcel was square, about the size of his hand; Harry supposed it must be Vince's mirror. He shoved it into his pocket for later inspection, only to be greeted with yet another delivery, this one book-shaped and wrapped in the familiar brown paper from Petri's shop.
Harry snatched up the attached note, keeping a suspicious eye trained on the package as he read it.
Dear Harry,
The book you requested is enclosed. Be sure to write in it as soon as you can. It appears to be enchanted to return to the last person who used it, if left untouched for too long.
Harry muttered some unflattering things under his breath. So that was how Penelope had got Bridging the Veil back from Ginny. He hadn't planned on actually using the book, but now it seemed like he would have no choice. It would probably be fine, right? He already knew how he was going to die, and Petri had even used it on his behalf once already.
He returned his attention to the letter, hoping that Petri had an answer for his patronus troubles.
I have never heard of a patronus attacking its caster. Perhaps you simply require more practice, as it is a very difficult charm. Recall also that many wizards are unable to cast the charm at all. The most common reason for this failure is arrogance, as the charm requires a sincere plea for a protector, an acknowledgement of the caster's weakness. There is another possible reason, though I hesitate to lend credence to it. It is said that the form of the patronus is drawn from the caster's soul. Make of that what you will.
Harry bit his lip as a pit formed in his stomach. Could it be that because he'd made a horcrux, his soul was too distorted to form a patronus? But Petri also had a horcrux, and he could cast the charm just fine. Maybe there was something extra botched-up about Harry's. How could he possibly know? Even if he did remember exactly what he'd done, he probably still wouldn't be able to explain the metaphysical consequences.
Was there some way to check up on his own soul? If there was, Dumbledore probably knew, but Harry really did not want to put himself in a position where Dumbledore might find out about his horcrux, so he couldn't risk asking about it. His other options were also dismal. Petri certainly wouldn't tell him; he doubted there would be books about soul-related magic in the library; and the Dark Lord… well, the Dark Lord was actually looking like his best chance, which was not a good sign.
Maybe he could at least ask Dumbledore about his patronus. Like Petri had said, it was a difficult charm and plenty of adults couldn't cast it. Surely Dumbledore wouldn't connect Harry's struggle with it to the possibility that his soul was damaged. He didn't know when he'd next talk to the headmaster, however, so finally he revised his first course of action to asking Professor Flitwick. If Petri hadn't heard of a backfiring patronus before, Harry had doubts that Flitwick would be of any more help, but it didn't hurt to try.
"The patronus charm? You're the best at charms in your year, no doubt about it, but even then it's a bit more advanced than I'd recommend," Professor Flitwick told him as soon as he brought it up at office hours.
"I know, but with the dementors around the castle, I'd feel safer if I had some way of protecting myself from them. We get pretty close to the edge of the grounds at broom racing club. Are there ways besides the patronus?" Harry asked.
"There are several, but unfortunately, all of them are rather advanced magic," Professor Flitwick said, eyes crinkling apologetically. "Arguably, the most reliable method is to make yourself uninteresting to them by hiding away your memories, but that requires mastery of a rather obscure branch of mental magic that we don't teach here at Hogwarts. Some mind-altering potions can also have a similar effect, and I believe that some human transfigurations will also insulate you from the worst of the dementors' aura, but of course that's all NEWT material. As far as charms go, the patronus charm is the only effective one that I am aware of."
"Have you ever heard of the patronus charm backfiring?" Harry asked.
Professor Flitwick frowned. "It shouldn't be possible for it to backfire if cast correctly. It could go wrong, of course, with poor concentration."
"Go wrong? How?"
Flitwick shrugged. "The usual ways conjurations go wrong. Something else comes out the end of your wand."
"It's a conjuration?" Harry asked, surprised. "I suppose that makes sense. An immaterial conjuration?"
"That's right." A nod of approval.
Feeling that he had skirted around the problem enough, Harry asked, "Can it go wrong by attacking the caster?"
Professor Flitwick hesitated. "I don't believe so," he finally said, but then narrowed his eyes shrewdly. "Mr Potter, are you saying that you believe you've produced such a result?"
"I suppose I could show you," Harry said, and Professor Flitwick gestured for him to go ahead. He took a deep breath and focused on soaring. "Expecto patronum!"
A ribbon of mist streamed from his wand and twisted back through the air. Harry managed to mostly avoid it, but he felt an odd frisson as it grazed his cheek.
"Fascinating," cried Professor Flitwick, before he coughed. "Pardon me. I don't mean to make light of your difficulties, but I daresay you've created a new spell behaviour."
"I—what?" Harry repeated incredulously. "It's not good spell behaviour, though. That's like saying blowing up your feather with the levitation charm is a new spell behaviour."
Professor Flitwick gave a squeaky laugh. "Oh no, Mr Potter, you see, the mist you conjured with the charm appears correct to me. It simply isn't acting as the incorporeal patronus normally should. Do you know if contact with the mist has any adverse effects?"
Harry scratched his head. "It sort of feels like a cheering charm, but really strong. It knocked me out for a moment the first time this happened. Do you think it would work on dementors, then, if I just sort of stood in it?"
"Likely not, unfortunately. It might even be counterproductive. The patronus charm is a bit of a double-edged sword. You see, it shields you from the dementors' aura, but it also acts like a beacon for them, distracting them from you so that you can escape. Thus it is most effective at some distance from you—too close, and you draw dementors straight to you rather than keeping them away," Professor Flitwick explained.
Harry winced. So even if he learned to keep his composure in the backwash of his charm, there still wouldn't be any point.
"Any idea what I might be doing wrong?" Harry asked.
"Would you mind telling me about the memory you're using?" said Professor Flitwick, so Harry told him about his memory of flying, and an edited version of his memory of success. Flitwick nodded. "I don't know if it'll help with your interesting spell behaviour, but it is normally easier to control the movement of a corporeal patronus, and to achieve that I'd advise using a memory that's more connected to other people. The sort of happiness that is best for the charm is happiness associated with security, perhaps a memory of being protected or rescued."
"Oh," Harry said. It was obvious in retrospect, but it hadn't occurred to him that there were different sorts of happiness. "Why don't the books say that?"
Professor Flitwick chuckled. "It's no hard-and-fast rule, simply something I've concluded after my own experience with the charm."
Harry smiled and thanked him, racking his brains for something to use as he departed Professor Flitwick's office. Security. His smile dimmed. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt secure. So the patronus charm was probably not going to work. Harry was going to need to try a different route, if he didn't want to trust the fate of his soul to his meagre occlumency.
The fate of his soul. For a wild moment, he wondered if he was even in danger from the dementors at all. They couldn't kill him if he was fated to die at the Dark Lord's hand, could they?
He groaned. Technically, though, he wouldn't die from the dementor's kiss. Did one's fate rest with the soul, or something else? Maybe it was time to pay Professor Trelawney another visit. He could ask her opinion on the psychography book, too.
Harry waited until the last lessons of the day were definitely over before making the long trek up the North Tower. Fortunately, Professor Trelawney was in, reclining in an armchair and gazing into a crystal ball. She didn't look up as he entered, and Harry stood awkwardly next to the trap door, one hand still holding it open. Perhaps it was a bad time?
"Next time, my dear, ask the cards if I'm free," Professor Trelawney said.
Harry jumped, confused for a moment, before he flushed. "Right, sorry. Are you busy right now, then?"
She finally looked at him, her magnified gaze sharp. "Close the door and have a seat, dear. I've already made some time for today."
Harry picked his way carefully past the disorganised furniture and settled down on a pouffe across from the professor. There were already two cups of tea set out on the small table. He reached hesitantly for the cup in front of him and Professor Trelawney didn't say anything, so he figured it really was his.
"So, I see that you have questions for me, my dear. Ask away," Professor Trelawney said, sipping at her own tea.
"It's about fate. Do you know if someone's fate is tied to their soul or their body?" Harry asked.
Professor Trelawney gave him a considering look. "Both," she said. "More accurately, there are three parts to fate: past, present, and future. Your past lies in your memories, for they record who you have been until now. Your present is in your soul, which drives your conscious experience. Your future belongs to your body, and its inevitable decay."
Harry sat stunned for a moment as his mind reorganised everything he'd vaguely understood before. "So all future divination, that's all things that are going to happen to my body, specifically?"
Professor Trelawney swept a handful of ragged curls and clinking beads behind her ear, peering at him carefully. "My dear, to any other student I would say that the distinction is irrelevant in any practical sense. But I sense weight behind your question, so I have a question for you in turn. How do you know if a body is yours?"
Harry swallowed down an indignant reaction and forced himself to consider the question seriously, since Professor Trelawney was doing him the same courtesy. His body was his because it was the one he was using, right? But no—when the Dark Lord had used his body, that hadn't made it the Dark Lord's body.
"It's the body that my soul likes the most?" Harry tried.
Professor Trelawney snorted, covering her mouth with a gnarled, bejewelled hand. "Pardon me. You are absolutely correct, my dear. It seems that you've answered your own question, then, don't you think?"
Harry nodded, sighing internally at the confirmation that he wasn't safe from the dementor's kiss after all. The prophecy had definitely been talking about the body that he had right now (not that he'd ever had any other one), and his soul being eaten wouldn't make it any less his body.
"Well? Your next question?" Professor Trelawney prompted, and Harry had to think a moment to remember that he had, indeed, had another question.
"Can you tell me about psychography?"
"A dangerous and foolish technique," Professor Trelawney snapped immediately, eyes narrowing. "Necromancy is not something to dabble in lightly, especially not for one so young."
"I already know my fate," Harry protested, but Professor Trelawney's teacup met her saucer with a loud clink as she leaned forward gravely.
"You can never know your fate," she whispered, her eyes flashing. "No matter what you've seen, it can always get worse. Never forget. Until the moment you die, there are infinite paths before you, however narrow those infinities may seem."
Harry winced. He supposed he couldn't argue with that. Now that she'd brought it up, he could think of a dozen ways for his fate to become more explicitly gruesome.
"But what if I've got to do the psychography? Is there a safe way?" he pressed.
Professor Trelawney's face twisted into a disapproving moue, but she still answered: "There is no safe way, but at the very least, do not read your own writing. Ask somebody else, preferably somebody skilled in grammatology, to read it for you and give you general advice only. Do you know who the last student to ask me about psychography was?"
A pit of certainty formed in Harry's stomach. His mouth went dry. "Percy Weasley."
Professor Trelawney nodded once. "I warned him. I told him the same thing I have told you. Perhaps I should have done more to dissuade him. Tell me, my dear, why do you feel that you must turn to necromancy? Are you perhaps hoping to understand what happened to that poor boy? If so, retracing his path is a foolish way of going about it."
"Well, Professor, do you know anything about what he saw? Did he talk to you about it?" Harry asked.
"He did not, but I should think it clear enough why a diviner would take his own life," she said. Harry sat up straight.
"What? Why?"
"He discovered that the world would be better without him in it," Professor Trelawney said. "It's true of most diviners, you understand. The deeper you entrench yourself in arcane knowledge, the more weight your words carry, and the more woe you are destined to sow. Some people simply can't live with themselves, once they realise the price."
Harry wanted to protest that that was ridiculous. How could more knowledge possibly be unequivocally bad? Then he suddenly realised something. The prophecy.
"You—you're the one who made the prophecy about me and the Dark Lord," he blurted. He regretted the words as soon as he realised they'd come out of his mouth, out of nowhere.
Professor Trelawney blinked at him owlishly. Harry stared back at her, uncertain what to say, or if he should apologise for the random outburst.
"Don't be absurd," she finally said, affecting a strangely light tone. She even chuckled, and fanned at herself with her hand. "I certainly wouldn't presume to predict anything about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."
Flummoxed by this response, Harry doubled down. "I saw you—well, a recording of you—come out of an orb that was filed at the Department of Mysteries."
The harmless, avuncular smile slid from Professor Trelawney's face like water, and Harry's heart jumped into his throat.
"I see," she said stonily. "Well then, I'm terribly sorry, my dear. You haven't repeated it to anybody, have you?"
Harry shook his head. "Of course not."
"Good. Make certain you never do. Again, my apologies and condolences," she said, as if he were about to drop dead in the next few minutes. Harry rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably.
"It's all right. Oh, wait, there was one line that I—mmph."
Professor Trelawney had launched herself across the table and shoved her bony hand against his mouth.
"Anybody includes me," she said, only releasing him once he'd managed to attempt a nod.
"Sorry, Professor. I didn't realise you… don't know it?"
"Prophets do not remember their own prophecies. It's better for everyone that way. You understand, right, dear?" she said, staring at him meaningfully as she sat back down. Harry nodded.
"Yes, sorry. That does make sense." He decided to change the subject back. "So… if I did psychography, could you help me read it?"
Professor Trelawney huffed. "You are persistent, aren't you, Mr Potter? Very well. Better I do it than allow you to doom some other poor soul. Go get the psychic parchment from back there, won't you?" She gestured to the chest of drawers next to the china cabinet with the spare tea sets.
"I've got this psychography book," Harry said, carefully disgorging Bridging the Veil from his pocket without touching it. He wasn't sure why he bothered, seeing as he had held it before to no ill effect, and was also imminently about to write in it.
"That is not psychic parchment," Professor Trelawney hissed, recoiling from the table. "It's human parchment."
Harry choked. "What?"
"Where did you get that?"
"It's a long story. But Percy had it at one point," Harry said. "What do you mean, 'human parchment'? Like parchment made of human skin?"
"Yes, exactly that," Professor Trelawney muttered. "Far more effective than regular psychic parchment, but its creation is considered dark magic. It was banned ages ago, so surviving specimens are rare. Surely you can see the miasma of death dripping from the pages?"
Harry squinted, and even tried taking off his glasses and wiping off nonexistent dust, to no avail.
"With your inner eye, dear."
Harry was still uncertain how the inner eye corresponded to literally seeing anything, so he tried closing his regular eyes and focusing his attention towards where he knew the book lay. A few awkward moments later, he had to admit that he couldn't feel or see anything, before he tricked himself into thinking that the cartoonish black cloud buzzing around in his mind's eye was more than imaginary.
"My dear, have you seen death before?" Professor Trelawney asked.
Harry opened his eyes. "Like seen somebody die? Yes."
"Well then. Perhaps it has made you insensitive to such comparatively meagre manifestations. No matter. Do you have a quill?"
"Wait, Dumbledore had this for a while. How come he didn't notice it was made of human skin?" Harry demanded.
Trelawney scoffed. "Dumbledore? He wouldn't understand even if a grinning skeleton limped out of a coffin right in front of him and offered him a wager! He's a great wizard, no doubt, but blind to the danger of death."
Harry blinked, unsure if he would understand such a strange phenomenon either. "Right," he muttered, taking out a quill. "So I just write in it?"
Professor Trelawney snatched up the book and flipped through it before Harry could warn her. She nodded to herself. "Have you read the instructions?"
"There are instructions?" Harry blurted. She gave him an unimpressed look and passed the book back across the table. Harry picked it up and flipped past the title page.
'A Brief History of Psychography,' read the heading. Right. It was an actual book, which he supposed made more sense than if it were just a random sheaf of human parchment bound together. After the brief history section, there were, indeed, instructions.
1. Sit or recline comfortably in a quiet location.
2. Open this book to a fresh page and set the tip of your quill to the parchment.
3. Clear your mind of all things but the focus of your divination.
4. Close your eyes and breathe deeply. As you inhale, invite the spirits of the dead into your body. As you exhale, channel their will through your soul.
"How am I supposed to 'invite the spirits of the dead'?" Harry asked.
"Just focus on breathing, dear, and keep an open inner eye. The parchment will do the rest," Professor Trelawney assured him.
Harry took a deep breath, flipped to the end of the book for a blank page, and poised his quill as if to write. He concentrated on Percy.
"Close your eyes," Professor Trelawney reminded him.
The next thing he knew, she was trying to pry the book out of his hands, with little success—his silver hand was clamped around it like a vice. As he came to, he yelped and let go, shoving the errant hand in his pocket.
"Goodness," Professor Trelawney murmured, smoothing out a crease in the page. She studied it with a frown. "Would I be correct in saying that your birthday's in midwinter, my dear? December or January?"
"Er, no. It's in July," he said.
She glanced up sharply. "Really?" she said. "You don't strike me as a summer child at all."
Child of summer—Harry remembered suddenly the divining that Petri had done for him. He had the urge to snatch the book back out of Trelawney's hands, but managed to restrain himself by actively leaning away. He could look at it later. He felt immediately foolish at the thought. Of course he shouldn't look at it at all.
"What do you mean?" Harry asked.
"Dark hair, slight stature, tragedy in your past, tragedy in your future, lonely, and touched by death—hallmarks of the heart of winter. Poor Percival Weasley, on the other hand, was a summer child indeed. Bright, tall, a carefree and loving childhood, the expectation of a brilliant future—all the right signs, but no amount of good auspices can save someone who wilfully dives into death's grasp."
"If that's how it works, why would anybody have kids in winter?" Harry asked, a little offended that a professor had basically called him short and sad.
Professor Trelawney snorted. "If everybody were sensible like that, my dear, we'd be out of business. Now, there's quite a bit more here than I expected. My word, this is unpleasantly direct. Mr Weasley's passing appears to have had a significant impact on your fate. Were you close?"
"No, not really," Harry said, a little concerned now. "What do you mean a significant impact?"
"Do not ask me for details, my dear. I have agreed to read for you precisely to shield you from them," Professor Trelawney admonished.
"Right," Harry muttered. "Actually, I'm not sure I understand, Professor. If you read it, won't it still come true?"
"Oh, certainly, but it is far less likely to come true in the worst possible way," Professor Trelawney said. "You must understand, my dear, that few are wise or patient enough to stand back and allow a terrible fate to befall them. You might think yourself one of them, but when the time comes, who can say whether you will falter? Better not give yourself the opportunity, I say."
Harry nodded pensively, shoving down the burning urge to know. Professor Trelawney was right. He knew that reacting against divination was almost always a very bad idea, and he really wasn't sure whether he would be able to stop himself, if it turned out he had divined something explicitly awful.
"All right, Professor. But when you said that his fate impacted mine, you don't mean that it actually changed my fate?" he asked.
"Of course not. There's no changing someone's fate," Professor Trelawney said sternly.
Harry frowned. But necromancy could change fates. It was dark magic, of course, changing people's memories and souls, but it was possible. His frown deepened. If fate was past, present, and future, and you changed the past and present… a chill crawled down his spine. Maybe Professor Trelawney was right. Maybe you couldn't change someone's fate. But you could change who someone was, and then they would have someone else's fate, wouldn't they?
It wasn't something he could ask without looking suspicious, so Harry turned his thoughts back to Percy. "I read in a book that killing yourself can make it impossible for some things you saw to happen. Like if you were supposed to kill someone else, but you died beforehand."
Professor Trelawney snorted. "Hardly. That very premise is dreadfully flawed. It's an impossible situation, my dear. You cannot have divined that you would kill someone if, in fact, it never happens."
Harry could have hit himself. "Oh. So in a situation like that, that means you misinterpreted the cards, or words, or whatever?"
Professor Trelawney nodded curtly. "Just so. You should take care with what sources you consult, dear. Some half-wit diviners mistake their own ineptitude for some fundamental flaw in divination. Although, perhaps you misinterpreted the text. It's impossible for a diviner to see themselves do some explicit task and then avoid doing it, but it's true that when a diviner dies, some threads of fate die with them. Things that they alone saw and never shared with another soul. But it's quite rare for any of these things to involve important events, you understand. If poor Percival saw anything of note, anything that he might have gone to such tragic lengths to prevent, it's highly unlikely that nobody else has seen those same things, unfortunately."
Harry frowned. "Professor, have you seen any bad things coming soon, then?"
"My dear, I only see bad things," Professor Trelawney said. "But yes, the portents have been very troubling lately. They speak of great change on the horizon, a dangerous shift in forces." She sighed and rubbed her temples. "In truth, it is serious enough that I've tried to warn the headmaster, but he'll hear nothing of it. Of course he won't. If there were anything he could do to prevent what is coming, then we would not know of its coming at all."
"So is there never anything we can do about what we see?" Harry asked. "It's all… predetermined?"
"No, no, far from it, my dear," Professor Trelawney assured him. "You must understand that there is always far more of what we don't see than what we do see. Focusing on what cannot be changed is a snare that sometimes catches even the most experienced diviners, but in truth it is in the unknown spaces in between the known that we can do good to counteract the bad. It isn't easy, certainly. If you want to understand how to use divination to guide your actions, I would recommend an excellent book by Cassandra Vablatsky. A Primer to Contingent Reading, it's called."
"Oh. I've heard of it. Thanks, Professor," said Harry, recalling the title. It was one of the books Penelope had checked out, the one she had picked to read herself. Perhaps she'd found something to jog her memory?
"Very good, dear." Professor Trelawney returned Bridging the Veil to Harry, though not before tearing out the page on which he'd written and reminding him sternly not to write in it again without her. Harry promised and thanked her again, before heading straight for the common room, hoping that Penelope was at her carrel.
She was there, but when he brought up the book, she sucked in a breath through her teeth and shook her head.
"Sorry, Harry, I haven't looked at it yet. I really haven't had any time." She gestured to her desk, which was covered in scrolls and library books. "Babbling just unloaded a whole new alphabet on us, and I'm up to my neck in Arithmancy with representation theory. I swear, I've been looking at the same problem for a week straight and I have no idea how to even start. There's a reason I decided not to try cramming NEWT Divination into my schedule. But here, you can read the book if you've got the time."
She grabbed A Primer to Contingent Reading from the shelf above her desk and pressed it into his arms.
"This is NEWT Divination?" Harry asked, eyeing the heavy volume with trepidation. Penelope shrugged.
"We didn't cover anything about contingent reading in OWLs, so it's got to be, right? Sorry." She bit her lip. "I shouldn't expect you to just be able to pick that up. The arithmancy did say that I was supposed to read it. I'll try to make some time." She moved to take it back, but Harry shook his head.
"It's all right. I can try looking at it," he said.
"Did you already finish the other one?" Penelope asked. Harry nodded.
"I even asked Professor Trelawney about it, and she basically told me it was wrong," he said, sighing. "Although, even if what's in there isn't true, that doesn't mean Percy didn't believe it."
Maybe Percy had died for nothing. Harry pressed his lips together. He couldn't possibly tell Ginny that, could he, that Percy had made a mistake? But would lying about it be any better?
Well, he didn't know the truth for sure yet; there was still work to do. He would read Penelope's book and take a look through Bridging the Veil as well. It was probably safe now that his own page had been removed, though he wasn't sure how he was going to determine which entries had been made by Percy. His original perusal had shown him that previous users of the book had not bothered using the blank pages in order.
"They can't all be wrong. He had all three of those books," Penelope said. "I asked Madam Pince. He had those ones checked out, and I went and I checked them out after… you know. The thing is, I can't find any of my notes. It's weird. I must have taken notes if I read them, so maybe I didn't get around to actually reading them?"
She sounded sceptical about the possibility. Harry frowned, glancing at her desk, which was covered with parchment rolls and books.
"Maybe they just got lost?"
Penelope followed his gaze and sighed. "Yeah, probably. That sucks." She winced and tapped the parchment she had been writing on. "I've really got to finish this translation. It's due tomorrow. Let me know if you find anything. Sorry."
Harry nodded and left her in peace, making his way upstairs to stash the book for later. He couldn't exactly blame Penelope for not having time to read it; between his own extracurriculars and homework, Harry was finding himself strapped for free time as well. Still, he couldn't just drop the matter. They were close. He could feel it. The answer might literally be at his fingertips—he just had to find what Percy had written.
"You actually got it," Ginny said flatly when he presented her with the book later that day. They were down in the kitchens again, enjoying a late-night snack. It wasn't quite curfew yet, but Harry was cognisant of the time like a little itch on the back of his neck.
"Told you I would," said Harry. "I need your help figuring out which pages are Percy's. You know his handwriting, right?"
Ginny shrugged. "Maybe. I could see if I can match it to something. I probably have some old essays that he helped me with."
Harry was leery of handing the book over, but he supposed Ginny knew the dangers. "Be careful," he said. "Don't write in it."
She rolled her eyes. "I'm not daft."
"No, I mean, it might try to make you write in it, so you have to pay attention. Maybe don't keep any quills nearby. You should be careful about reading the predictions in there too," Harry cautioned.
"How am I supposed to check the handwriting if I don't read it? And what, is reading it going to make it come true?" Ginny asked.
Harry took a moment to think. "I suppose not," he finally said. They were Percy's fateful words, and Percy was already dead. "Never mind. I'll keep reading the other books he had checked out, see if I can figure out what he was trying to do."
"I thought you already figured it out? He was trying to prevent something bad from happening."
Harry bit his lip. "Well, yes. But I'm not sure why he thought it would work."
"It better have at least worked," Ginny muttered darkly. "I suppose we'll know it did, if nobody else dies horribly this year."
"Young master and miss, it is being nearly time for bed," said Nelly as she took away the empty biscuit plate between them.
"Thanks Nelly," Harry said, getting to his feet. He turned back to Ginny. "Don't panic if the book vanishes after a few days. Apparently it's spelled to go back to the last user, so it'll come back to me. That's how Penelope got it back the first time."
Ginny grimaced. "Great."
They walked upstairs together, splitting to go in opposite directions at the seventh floor landing. Harry sighed. He hadn't even started the essay for Lockhart that was due tomorrow. Granted, it was just a few questions on all the accolades Lockhart had got for his defeat of the Bandon Banshee, so he didn't expect it to be difficult, but it was still standing between him and his bed.
The thought of Lockhart reminded him that he had his interview for Witch Weekly coming up. He groaned. Part of him was horrified and didn't want to think about it, while another part of him was strangely nervous and wanted to prepare, as if for an exam.
In the end, he shoved it into the back of his mind up until the day of the interview, whereupon he spent the whole morning dreading what was to come. He was so distracted that he botched his formula in Transfiguration and turned his porcupine into a pine cone instead of pin cushion. By the time he realised he was not casting the same spell as everybody else, it was too late, and Professor McGonagall had assigned him extra homework.
His last lesson of the day was, of course, Defence. Harry hung back reluctantly after the lesson while Lockhart rearranged his complete works on his desk so that they stood up in a row, smiling covers on full display.
"Just one moment, Harry. We'll need to stop by my office," Lockhart said, sweeping over to the door and gesturing for Harry to precede him with a flourish. He was dressed a tad more flamboyantly than usual, Harry thought, in a navy blue pinstriped cloak over fitted robes. On his perfectly coiffed hair sat a matching cavalier hat adorned with a peacock feather.
They did not actually go inside his office. Instead, Lockhart stopped in front of the large mirror that had been installed on the door and began casting spells at his face. Harry didn't see anything actually change, but the mirror giggled in delight.
"Ready, Harry?" Lockhart asked after several minutes of primping, turning and flashing a wide smile. Harry glanced to the door behind him in some confusion.
"We aren't having the interview here?"
"Oh no, with all the protections, it would've been far too much trouble to get my contact up into the castle unnoticed. We'll be meeting her halfway," Lockhart explained.
"Outside the school?" Harry asked as they descended the grand stair. "Is that allowed?"
"Not outside the grounds, just outside the castle. And 'allowed' is an interesting word, Harry. One must ask, allowed by whom? With what authority? Let's just say that what the powers that be don't know won't hurt them," Lockhart whispered, though not particularly quietly.
At this point, Harry had the brief thought that Professor Lockhart might be leading him into the forest to murder him, but decided that if it came down to it, he could take the man. The chance that the Dark Lord was actively focusing on Lockhart at this very moment was small, and Harry was pretty sure that if he cast the imperius curse now, he would be able to overcome the Dark Lord's passive control.
He was careful to stand completely behind Lockhart, so that the professor would have to turn all the way around to get a good shot at him. But he needn't have worried—it soon became clear that Professor Lockhart was actually taking him towards what used to be Hagrid's hut. He was gesticulating wildly and rambling on about his own experience with being featured in Witch Weekly, none of which appeared particularly relevant to Harry, seeing as it largely involved hairstyle and fashion choices.
Harry patted at his own flyaway hair self-consciously. He'd never really paid much attention to it, except to note that no amount of combing or wetting kept it down.
"My hair won't be a problem, will it?" he asked. He was probably going to get laughed at for showing up in the magazine at all; he didn't want to give people even more ammunition.
Lockhart paused and glanced back. "I wouldn't worry. It gives you a roguish look, and the ladies love that! Though of course, you'd look quite fetching with a tamer style too, to bring out your academic side."
"I don't think my hair can get tame," Harry muttered.
"Nonsense!" Lockhart cried, gesturing wildly, "A generous dollop of Sleakeazy's and you'll be all set. It was invented by a Potter, you know."
Harry had no idea what Sleakeazy's was supposed to be, but Lockhart's comment brought light to something Harry hadn't even known he hadn't known. There were other Potters—probably not any who were alive, but ancestors, at least. It was obvious, in retrospect, that that had to be true, but it had seemed irrelevant before. He had never considered that his family might be well-known.
They made it to Hagrid's hut without incident. From the front, it looked almost the same as it had the one time he, Neville, and Hermione had come to practise their growing charms, but the aesthetic was completely different. Now the dirt and cobwebs made it look dingy instead of rustic, and the darkened windows gaped as forbiddingly as the tangle of forest looming just beyond the fence.
Lockhart knocked gingerly on the door. He seemed to wince reflexively with every rap of his knuckles, though they barely made contact with the rough wood. A shadow moved in the window, and then there was the rattling of a deadbolt. The door swung wide open to reveal a witch nearly as brightly clad as Lockhart. She clashed terribly with him in her flowing magenta robes, her pale face and even paler hair reminding Harry uncannily of one of Sanguini's dolls.
"You're late, Gilderoy," she said, inspecting her claw-like, fuchsia nails.
"I'm never late, Rita dear," Lockhart said with an exaggerated wink. "Don't complain. I've brought you our rising star."
He grabbed Harry's shoulders and shuffled him forward, and Harry tried his best not to flush as he met Rita's piercing gaze.
"Harry Potter." She rolled the syllables across her tongue, as if trying to taste them. "Lovely to finally meet you in person. Rita Skeeter, at your service."
She held out her right hand, deliberately, Harry thought, and he decided it was probably all right to use his silver one, to avoid being awkward. It wasn't as if he hadn't shaken people's hand with it multiple times already. Despite his attempts to reassure himself, a sting of guilt still lanced through him.
"Nice to meet you. Thanks for, er, coming all the way here," Harry said. 'And possibly trespassing,' he thought to himself.
Rita grinned sharply. "Thank you, Harry, dear, for agreeing to talk. Now, let's get comfortable. Have a seat, both of you. Don't worry, Gilderoy, I've dusted everything off."
Harry levered himself up onto one of the roughly-hewn chairs around the table, whose edge came almost up to Harry's chin. Lockhart remained standing, making a show of looking around.
"Where's that colleague of yours, Bozo, was it?"
"You'll have to do without him today. It was hard enough getting just little old me past the security around here," Rita said, waving her hand. "Dementors, you know."
"I was hoping for a full front cover feature," Lockhart sighed, striking a demonstrative pose.
"Don't worry. We'll take a memory snap for the photo. Harry, you won't mind if I use a Quick-Quotes Quill, will you? That way I can talk to you without stopping to make notes," said Rita, extracting a large, acid-green quill from an equally green, scaly handbag at her side. She put the quill to her lips, sucking on the tip, before flattening out a roll of parchment and poising the quill as if to write. When she let go, it hovered in place. "Testing, testing. My name is Rita Skeeter, journalist."
The quill flew across the page: 'Intrepid investigative journalist Rita Skeeter, forty-one, whose ferocious quill has illuminated numerous sordid secrets—'
"Lovely," Rita concluded, stopping the quill with a tap and ripping off the top of the parchment with a sweep of her talons. "So, Harry, could you tell me a bit about yourself? How do you like Hogwarts? What's your favourite school subject?"
Harry opened his mouth to respond, but paused when he saw that the Quick-Quotes Quill was already writing: 'A small, dark-haired boy, delicate features marred by a hideous lightning-bolt scar, sits in a clunky chair that completely dwarfs him. Shy and misty-eyed, he—'
"Ignore the quill, dear," said Rita, and Harry reluctantly tore his eyes away from the lurid purple prose spilling onto the page at speed. He wondered desperately how it worked.
"Right. Hogwarts is nice. I've made some friends here," he stammered, feeling himself flushing. He took a deep breath. "My favourite subject is charms."
Lockhart gasped and put a hand to his chest. "Not defence?"
Harry coughed. He wasn't sure he could bring himself to lie and say that he enjoyed Lockhart's travesty of a lesson plan. Thinking quickly, he said, "Sorry, sir, but my uncle's an enchanter, so I've got a soft spot for charms. And charms are very useful for defence, too."
"Of course! I remember your uncle," Lockhart said, and Harry froze, his heart suddenly pounding in his chest. "Met him at a book signing. Nice chap."
Harry relaxed minutely when he realised that Lockhart was just spouting nonsense. Petri hadn't even been in the same building during Lockhart's book signing.
Rita was nodding. "I can already see that you're living up to your house's studious reputation. Just lovely. Have your studies been impacted by recent tragic events? How are you adjusting to your new disability?"
"Er…"
"Are you still able to keep up with schoolwork? Have your teachers been supportive?"
"It's been fine," Harry said, trying to stopper the flow of questions. "I'm learning to cast with my left hand."
Rita raised a pencilled eyebrow. "Are you? That's lovely. Readers love a tough survivor. Of course, that's not surprising coming from the Boy-Who-Lived. Do you think the trauma in your past has prepared you to face hardships better than your fellow students?"
"I'm not sure about that," Harry muttered, but Rita was already forging ahead.
"You were at Hogwarts during the conflagration last spring, as well as the structural collapse in the fall that severely injured a student, right? Have any of these events made you feel unsafe at Hogwarts?"
"Well, that was me, so a bit, I suppose," Harry muttered.
Rita blinked, looking genuinely taken aback. "Sorry? Do you mean to say that you were the student injured in the collapse?"
Harry nodded. A shark-like grin of delight spread across Rita's face. "Quite a coincidence. Do you believe it was a deliberate attack?"
"Well, yes," said Harry.
"And was the perpetrator caught and punished?" asked Rita.
Harry shook his head.
"My word! It seems the staff have been derelict in their duties. Gilderoy, what do you have to say to that?" She glanced sharply over to Lockhart, and Harry let out a small sigh of relief at the pause in questioning.
"It was a heinous piece of dark magic for sure," Lockhart invented, "Certainly nothing a student could have managed. I don't want to point any fingers, but some of my colleagues have rather chequered pasts, quite unlike my own illustrious record. Albus won't hear a word against his favourites, naturally, so my hands have been tied."
Rita waved her hand encouragingly. "Tell me more."
Lockhart feigned reluctance for a few moments before he said, "As you might know, Severus Snape is a Death Eater…"
Snape was what? Harry's head whipped up incredulously, but Lockhart didn't pay him any mind. Was it true? He cursed Lockhart for being such an untrustworthy source. He couldn't outright believe what the man said, but this wasn't a claim that he could just discount as a wild fabrication either, not when Professor Snape's own weird behaviour might be explained by it.
Then again, Professor Snape was the one who had made the potion for his hand. Why would he have helped save Harry if he wanted him dead? Perhaps he was in on the Dark Lord's true plan? Or perhaps he hadn't saved Harry at all—what if his hand could have been healed, but Snape had purposely failed? Harry's stomach dropped.
"…Then there's Filius Flitwick—I've got nothing against the chap, but rumour has it that he's part-goblin. He certainly looks it."
"Nasty," said Rita, pulling a face. "Dumbledore's got a track record of employing dangerous non-humans. I've been saying for years that he's not fit to be in charge of our children's safety. And now a student's died under his watch, and none of the investigation details have been released. Harry, how do you feel about that? Were you close to the victim?"
They were talking about Percy now? Harry scrambled for something to say. "We weren't close, but I did know him." He looked down at his feet and caught a glimpse of the Quick-Quotes Quill out of the corner of his eye—it had populated at least two feet of scroll with dense prose by now.
"Do you believe it was a suicide as Dumbledore has been telling everyone, or do you think there could have been foul play involved?" Rita asked.
Harry tensed, wondering if he ought to say anything. But this was a chance to help Percy's family, wasn't it?
"Both," he said.
Rita raised her eyebrows. "Both?"
Harry took a moment compose his response, then said, "He had this divination artefact. I think he might have killed himself to stop what he saw from happening."
"What makes you say that? You said you weren't close, didn't you?" said Rita.
"I know his sister," Harry said vaguely.
"Tell me more about this artefact. It tells the future, you said? Where does a Hogwarts student get his hands on such a powerful object?"
Harry explained that Ginny had found it and given it to Percy, not knowing what it was. He didn't mention Lucius Malfoy, as he could not think of any concrete evidence implicating him. A satisfied smile flickered across Rita's face as he described how they'd recovered the artefact from Penelope, though he took care not to mention her name.
"Certainly doesn't sound like something a student should be handling, does it?" Rita glanced to Lockhart, who shook his head emphatically.
"Tragic, just tragic," he sighed. "If I had known…"
"I'm sure it wasn't your fault, Gilderoy," said Rita, lowering her voice. "The safety and comfort of the students in their daily lives ought to be the responsibility of their heads of house. Harry, do you think this tragedy could've been prevented, had the head of Gryffindor been less negligent in her duties? And what of the head of Ravenclaw? Would you agree that it shouldn't have fallen to a younger student like you to report on the health of your peers?"
Harry mumbled something noncommittal, but Rita seemed to take it as agreement.
"And the headmaster, of course, has final responsibility for the quality of staff he hires and the rules he puts into place, don't you think?"
"Absolutely," Lockhart said.
"Professor Dumbledore couldn't have done anything about it," Harry objected, frowning. This was the second time Rita had brought up Dumbledore, and he was beginning to think that she had an agenda.
"What's your relationship with the headmaster?" Rita asked him, pivoting suddenly.
Harry's frown deepened. "I'm not sure what you mean. He's the headmaster. I go to the school."
He did sort of know what Rita was trying to get at, but Harry hardly thought he had a true personal relationship with Dumbledore—he was more like a subject of interest, or an associate in the business of discovering what the Dark Lord was up to.
"Is that all?" Rita pressed. "He hasn't paid you any special attention? You're the Boy-Who-Lived, after all."
Harry was suddenly cognisant of the fact that Lockhart could know about his meetings with Professor Dumbledore, and therefore anybody else might know as well. Not wanting to be caught in an obvious lie, Harry said, "Well, he was a friend of my parents, so he's told me some stories about them over tea. That's all."
"Do you remember your parents?" Rita asked.
"No," Harry said, wondering why that was relevant.
"How do you think they would feel about the dangers you've faced at school? Do you think they would be worried?"
"I don't know. Probably?" Harry mumbled.
"What about your guardians? Your uncle, was it?"
Harry shrugged. He supposed Petri really had been worried about him after Halloween. It was a strange thought. To his relief, Rita seemed abruptly to tire of this line of questioning and turned to grill Lockhart instead.
Predictably, Lockhart began spouting complete lies about giving Harry extra tutoring and accommodating him in duelling club—as if he even spent any of that time conscious. The image of Snape instantly felling Lockhart each time was less funny, however, now that there was a possibility that Snape might be working for the Dark Lord.
Then again, what was the problem? Lockhart was technically working for the Dark Lord too. And for that matter, so was Harry. A better question to ask was who wasn't working for the Dark Lord in some capacity or other. Harry sighed, gaze wandering over to the Quick-Quotes Quill, which was dutifully recording the scene.
"…Gilderoy flashes his award-winning smile, dashing enough to make any young witch swoon, and this reporter is no exception. The dingy atmosphere only enhances his stunning features…"
Scratch that. There wasn't a single word of what Lockhart had said in the past five minutes, just paragraphs upon paragraphs detailing his appearance. Harry choked on a surprised giggle, glancing up at Rita's face. Her eyes were fixed on Lockhart and she nodded every so often, a placid smirk on her lips.
Did the quill write down what Rita was thinking? But how did that work?
Perhaps sensing his gaze, Rita looked down herself and quickly snatched the quill away, letting the parchment spring up into a loose roll.
"Well, you've given me quite a bit to work with today. I think it's about time I take my leave, before I overstay my welcome," she said. "Gilderoy, would you be a dear and escort me to the gates? Harry, it was lovely to meet you. I hope you'll be open to further contact in the future. I also write for the Daily Prophet, you know. Plenty of opportunities for publicity there."
Harry slid from his seat, nodding awkwardly as Lockhart threaded his arm around Rita's elbow.
"Back to the castle with you, Harry, my boy," said Lockhart with a jaunty wave as they marched out of the hut.
Harry made directly for the library. Lockhart had mentioned Snape being a Death Eater as if it were common knowledge, so there would have to be some record about it somewhere.
As he entered the library from the lower entrance, Harry spotted Hermione in the corner, bent over a hefty tome. Perfect. He headed straight for her table.
"Hey, Hermione. What are you reading?"
She wrinkled her nose at the interruption, though her expression smoothed when she glanced up. "Oh. Hi Harry. I'm reading about the goblin tenets of ownership and the major cultural misunderstandings leading up to each rebellion. Did you know that Urgot Lashnail is still alive?"
Harry blinked, rummaging through the dark recesses of his mind to bring up all the useless facts he'd memorised for History of Magic. "That's Urg the Unclean?" If he recalled correctly, Urg the Unclean was the one who had started the rebellion of seventeen fifty-two, after getting dunked in a pond by wizards when he trespassed on their land while covered in muck that had allegedly contained a fortune's worth of gold dust.
Hermione nodded.
"So he'd be what, like two hundred forty?" Harry asked. "Goblins can live to a thousand, right?"
"They can, but it's really rare, because of all the fighting they do," said Hermione. "I sort of assumed he'd been executed at the end of the rebellion, but no, it says here that Minister Gore agreed to extend section thirty-nine of the sixteen twelve treaty, allowing goblins to employ wizards to retrieve objects, instead of requiring them to be independent contractors. None of that's in our history text, is it? All it says is that Hephaestus Gore put down the rebellion."
"Yeah," Harry agreed, figuring that Hermione know would know best what was or wasn't in their textbooks.
"But Harry, don't you realise what this means? Urg the Unclean is still alive, and he remembers what actually happened. So why aren't we reading first-hand accounts? I looked all over, and there aren't any."
Harry shrugged. "Maybe he didn't feel like writing things down. Or maybe he wrote things down for goblins but we don't know about them since goblins aren't allowed in wizarding areas. Did we have an essay for History?"
"Oh, no. I'm just doing some research for fun," said Hermione. Harry glanced over to the book, which featured ant-sized print and was thicker than his arm.
"Right. Since you read a lot about history, I was wondering, do you know if there's somewhere I can get the names of all the Death Eaters? The known ones, I mean."
Hermione scrunched up her face. "Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts definitely mentions You-Know-Who's most notorious followers, but I don't remember there being a comprehensive list…. Oh! Can't you just check one of the wanted posters from the Azkaban breakout?"
"But was that all of them?" Harry pressed. "What about Death Eaters who didn't go to prison?"
"If we know about them, that means they got caught, right?" said Hermione.
Harry bit his lip. "Is it actually illegal to just be a Death Eater? It can't be, right?"
"Hm good point," Hermione murmured, brows knitting together. She suddenly sprang up like her chair was on fire and ran for the stacks.
Harry sat down next to her vacated seat and propped his head on his elbow to wait. He thought he should feel a little bad about sending Hermione to do the hard work for him, but she had volunteered, after all, and rather enthusiastically at that.
He changed his mind when she returned hugging a single enormous tome to her chest. She had to bend forward to set it on the table, and still it made a heavy thunk as she pulled her arms out from underneath it. Harry peered at the title: Procedures of the Wizengamot, by Legatus Crouch.
"Don't worry," Hermione said when she caught his expression, "I've already read it. I just need to check something."
She flipped rapidly through the nearly translucent pages as Harry sat in dumbfounded silence. When could she have possibly found the time for that much extracurricular studying?
"Look, here it is," she whispered, tugging Harry's sleeve. "I think you're right, that not all the Death Eaters went to prison. This is a case where the accused claimed to have been under the imperius curse. That's a mind-control curse, I think. Horrible stuff. It says here that you can still be prosecuted for certain crimes, like murder, even if you were under the imperius, but the accused was determined not to have been involved in any such crimes, and thus exonerated."
Harry scanned the page while Hermione whispered the details in his ear. His jaw dropped when he spotted the name of the accused: Lucius Malfoy. He knew for a fact that Malfoy was an actual Death Eater. He might well have been under the imperius curse—Harry was more and more certain that his hypothesis about the Dark Lord putting everybody under it was correct—but Malfoy had definitely followed the Dark Lord out of his own free will.
"…So you're right that there must be more known Death Eaters than just the ones who escaped from Azkaban," Hermione was saying. "Why do you need a full list, anyway?"
Harry bit his lip. "I heard someone was a Death Eater, someone who definitely wasn't in prison, and I wanted to check if it was true."
"What's their name?" Hermione asked.
Harry winced. "It's Professor Snape."
"What?" Hermione demanded. "That can't be true. They wouldn't let him teach if it was. Who told you that?"
"Professor Lockhart," Harry said. Hermione frowned, sitting back down slowly.
"Well, if it really is true, it has to be a matter of public record," she muttered after a while.
"Would there be a case like that one?" Harry asked, gesturing to the law book.
"Probably, but I don't know where you could find it. Penelope might know," Hermione said.
"Penelope?" Harry repeated in surprise.
"She's the one who showed me this book. I think she wants to go into law after Hogwarts," Hermione explained.
"Oh. And you're interested in law, too?" Harry asked.
Hermione glanced away. "You can't tell anyone, but I might have accidentally started a black market."
Harry's jaw dropped. "You what?"
A flustered Hermione related how Professor McGonagall had caught her peddling muggle planners and pens and marched her straight to the headmaster for a stern talking-to. Apparently, using wizarding currency to purchase muggle-made items, or abetting such an act, was strictly illegal. Wizards were only allowed to obtain muggle artefacts as gifts, or by paying for them with muggle money that they had earned from muggles. The penalty for adults was a hefty fine, but Hermione had got off with just a warning.
"But now other people are doing it too," she muttered, burying her face in her hands. "I tried to explain that it's illegal, that I was wrong for doing it, but nobody will listen to me, and when I told Professor McGonagall they just denied everything and I had no proof."
Somewhat amused, Harry asked, "Why is it illegal, anyway?"
Hermione gestured to the book she had originally been reading. "It's all got to do with how goblins define wealth. When you exchange a galleon for something, something magical apparently happens to the galleon, though I'm not sure I fully understand what. But it only works if you're paying for something made with magic, or for someone to do something with magic."
This was the first time Harry had heard any of this. He rummaged around in his pockets and produced a sickle, eyeing it sceptically.
"It's goblin magic. I don't think wizards really know much about it," Hermione said, shrugging. She pursed her lips. "Oh no, I know what you're thinking. You can't just go ask Professor Flitwick just because he's part-goblin."
Harry went to ask Professor Flitwick the next chance he got.
"Sir, can you do any goblin magic?" was what he asked. A strange look came over the professor's lined face.
"Fortunately not, or I wouldn't be sitting here in front of you," was his answer.
Harry blinked. "I don't understand, sir."
Professor Flitwick sighed, pressing his fingertips together. "Are you familiar with the Code of Wand Use?"
"You mean the wand ban on non-humans?" said Harry. "I thought part-humans don't count."
"Yes, that's Clause Three of the Code. Do you know what distinguishes non-humans from part-humans under that clause?" Professor Flitwick asked.
Harry shook his head. The thought occurred to him now that vampires were generally considered part-human when it came to other laws that Ness liked to complain about, but non-human under the wand ban.
Professor Flitwick leaned forward in his seat. "There is a fundamental difference in the type of magic used by humans and non-humans. The magic used by non-humans is instinctive, rather than a learned skill. This distinction leads to the so-called 'two instincts' rule. Anyone who demonstrates instinctive abilities in at least two magical competencies is subject to Clause Three of the Code, unless they can prove pure-blood wizard heritage."
Harry frowned. "But sir, if they're pure-blood, how could they have those abilities in the first place?"
"Blood gifts are also a type of instinctive ability," Professor Flitwick explained. "Of course, it's extremely unlikely that someone would have more than one blood gift, so it's normally a non-issue."
"Why is there a wand ban, anyway?" Harry muttered. "It's stupid."
Professor Flitwick sighed. "The justification for Clause Three is that instinctive magic reacts unpredictably and uncontrollably when mixed with wand magic. Thus, it's for the public good that non-humans are not allowed wands."
Harry screwed up his face, swallowing back a choice swear. That was the dumbest thing he'd ever heard.
Professor Flitwick flashed him a sympathetic smile. "But we've digressed. You're interested in goblin magic? I may still be of some help."
"Yes, sir," Harry said quickly. "I read that something magical happens with galleons when people spend them, but the book didn't really explain it. Do you know how that works, sir?"
Flitwick's eyes lit up. "Ah, yes, as it happens, I do. Are you aware of the goblin definition of rightful ownership?"
"I think so," said Harry. "The owner is the same as the creator, right? Even if something gets sold, it's just being borrowed, and the buyer has to give it back later."
"Very good," said Professor Flitwick.
Another thought occurred to Harry. "But sir, what if the creator is dead? Then who owns the thing? I remember there's no inheritance."
Professor Flitwick nodded. "Plenty of things are owned by no one. It's only when somebody puts their own magic into improving something that they can call it theirs. Now, who do you imagine owns the galleons in your vault?"
Harry sat up straight in shock. "Goblins make galleons, so they're the owners! But sir, how does that even work? We're still using them as money."
"And the goblins are quite happy for you to do so, as long as they eventually circulate back to Gringotts. The strength of goblin magic grows with the amount of treasure they own and guard. And what makes something treasure?"
Professor Flitwick gave him an expectant look, and Harry realised belatedly that the question was not rhetorical. "It's worth a lot?"
"And why would something be worth a lot?" Professor Flitwick pressed.
"If it's useful," said Harry, but then remembered that gold and jewels weren't necessarily useful in their own right. People wanted them because they were worth a lot—wasn't that circular? Then it hit him. "If people want it. Something's treasure if a lot of people want it?"
"Good, and not only want it, but prove that they want it by giving up something else, by trading. When someone trades something of theirs for a galleon, the galleon grows stronger for the goblin who made it, provided he can get it back one day," Professor Flitwick explained.
Harry frowned. "What if someone steals it? Does that make it worthless?"
Professor Flitwick's eyes stopped smiling with his face. "No, on the contrary. The greater the risk taken by the thief, for example, if the thing was well-guarded or the penalty for being caught very severe, the stronger the treasure."
"So does that mean they want people to steal things?"
"Certainly not," said Professor Flitwick, disapproval creasing his brow. "Once something's stolen, it's difficult to get back. Goblins are very hard on thievery."
Harry nodded quickly. He certainly wasn't planning to rob the bank anytime soon. "Right. Thanks for explaining, sir."
"Of course. You're always welcome to come to me with any questions you have," Professor Flitwick said, jovial again.
A clear solution to Hermione's black market problem began to form in Harry's mind as he left Professor Flitwick's office and headed for dinner. If all that was needed for something to be owned was magic added, then Hermione could take her muggle things, give them some basic enchantments, and render them legal to sell. He would have to tell her the next time he saw her.
He glanced over to the Gryffindor table as he entered the Great Hall, but he didn't see her bushy hair anywhere. She was probably still in the library. He supposed he could find her after Transfiguration next week, if they didn't run into each other over the weekend.
It was always something of a pain to get a hold of his friends in different houses. Harry suddenly remembered Vince's alleged two-way mirror present, still tucked away in his pocket. Something like that would be useful to have for everybody. Then again, it would be inconvenient to have a pile of different mirrors, one for each friend. Could the same mirror be used for multiple people?
Before going to bed, Harry took the opportunity to ask Vince, once he'd ascertained that the magic on the mirror looked the same as on Draco's, and probably wasn't something malicious. Vince answered almost immediately. Harry wondered if he had been waiting for him to call. He felt a little guilty for forgetting about it for so many days.
"I don't think so," said Vince, when Harry asked about multiple mirrors. "They come in pairs. Three would be a mess, 'cause how would you know which side to show? Unless you're using the third one to spy on the other two."
Alarmed, Harry gave his mirror a sidelong glance. "Can you tell if that's happening?"
Vince shrugged.
"Note to self, don't discuss anything important over a mirror," Harry said dryly. "Muggles have got telephones, though. Couldn't it work like that?"
"Like what?" said Vince.
"It's like the tacky-tone from Martin Miggs. I'm pretty sure that's actually supposed to be a telephone," Harry muttered.
"Tacky-tones aren't real, though," Vince said, completely missing the point.
"Never mind," said Harry. "You want to hear what Snape had to say about parrying?"
Vince leaned forward eagerly, his face taking up the whole mirror, as Harry related what had happened in duelling club, though he kept the legilimency bit to himself.
"I'm learning to cast without words," said Vince, when Harry mentioned the silencing charm.
Harry gaped. "And it's working?"
Vince nodded. "It's easier than incantations, I think. More natural. Father says I've got to do magic like breathing, instead of like talking."
Harry found this analogy dubious. "But you can't stop breathing, and sometimes you do it accidentally. How's that good?"
Vince shrugged. "It makes sense, though. We're wizards. Why should we ever stop doing magic, and act like we're muggles?"
Reluctantly, Harry closed his mouth as he couldn't think of a good response. What was stopping him from using magic for literally everything? Lack of knowledge and skill. Surely he could not claim that being ignorant and unskilled was better than the converse. If he were capable of such magic, then there would be no reason not to use it.
"I suppose," he mumbled. "Can you show me some nonverbal magic?"
Vince grinned and stood up, backing away from the mirror as he extracted his wand. He brandished it off to the side and a searing bolt of bright blue shot out the end. Harry winced, cracking his watering eyes open suspiciously. He recognised that spell.
"Is that—never mind. That's brilliant," he said. So what if Vince was practising the Enemy's Curse? Harry hardly had room to talk. In fact, he had the strong urge to immediately spring off his bed and try nonverbally casting it too.
"I've been learning a lot," Vince said, approaching his desk again and taking a seat. He looked pleased with himself.
"That's great," Harry said, and meant it. He felt a fleeting stab of envy—if he were at home, Petri could teach him whatever he wanted and he wouldn't have to do pointless busywork—except it was a foolish thought, because Petri could hardly teach him potions, for instance. As uncomfortable as Professor Snape made him now, Harry didn't hate the subject itself.
"Hey," he began, "This is random, but do you know if it's true that Professor Snape used to be a Death Eater?"
Vince peered at him with an awkward expression frozen on his face.
"Never mind," Harry said hastily, choking out a laugh.
"Well, it is true," Vince whispered, leaning close. "It's not really a secret. He was a double agent. Nobody knows whose side he was actually on. He hasn't tried to poison you, has he?"
Harry laughed again, even though he could tell that Vince wasn't joking. "If Snape were interested in poisoning me, I think I'd already be dead. Or worse."
Vince contemplated this assertion gravely, his eyes darkening. "I don't want you to get hurt anymore. You've got to get strong, so people will be too scared to go after you."
Harry thought about getting strong enough to give the Dark Lord pause. He was at least half a century too late for that.
"I wish," he muttered. Then he leaned back and gestured to himself. "It's going to be ages before that happens. Look at me—I'm Harry Potter, second-year at Hogwarts. Fear me."
Vince's lip twitched, but he shook his head. "You are scary, though. I think it's because you don't get scared. That's scary."
"What?" Harry breathed out. "Of course I get scared. I get scared a lot."
Vince shook his head again. "You don't, though. When things are bad for you, horrible, even, you don't run away or cry like a baby, you just keep going, like everything's fine. I—I tried to hurt you, and you didn't hate me forever. You just…" He gestured helplessly between them, eyes wide and earnest.
"It wasn't your fault, though," Harry protested, but even as he said it, he knew that he had skirted the point. For example, every awful thing that Lord Voldemort had ever done had been squarely his fault, and Harry still didn't hate him, not really. Didn't that make him weak? "I don't get it. How does forgiving people make me scary?"
Vince frowned. After a moment, he said, "It's like nothing can touch you. People can hurt you on the outside, but they can't ever get inside to you, so it doesn't matter what they do."
Harry gave him a dubious look. "I dunno, getting hurt on the outside is pretty rubbish. I rather prefer having all my limbs, if it's all the same." He glanced to his silver hand and amended, "Most of my limbs. Whatever."
They both snickered.
Vince yawned. "Sorry, I better go to bed," he said. "Got to get up at six."
Harry made a face. "That early?"
"Yeah. Father's taking me on a trip to visit some… people," said Vince. It was clear he wasn't being completely forthcoming, but Harry figured it was none of his business.
"Oh, sounds exciting. Good night then," he said.
"Good night."
Harry set the mirror and his glasses on his bedside table and drew his hand back through the hangings, slumping into his bed with a muffled thump. Vince somehow thought him unflappable. He tried to square it with his own image of himself. Had he always been like this?
No, he knew with sudden surety. He used to get angry and hold on to that hot anger until it formed a molten core, and he would press and press until it erupted in an uncontrollable burst to rain on anybody nearby. How many hundreds of times had Uncle Vernon shoved him into his cupboard for mouthing off, even though he had known better? He knew anger, heady and searing.
Harry tried to imagine Uncle Vernon's purple face, Dudley sniggering in the background. It was hard, like reaching for the fragments of a dream that he had retold in the waking world, so that he couldn't know what was his imagination from before and what was his imagination here and now. Giving up, he pictured Lord Voldemort instead, monstrously pale and tall, an embodied spectre of death.
'When the time comes that you tire of this life…'
A high, cold laugh. A screaming woman.
'Please—not Harry!'
'Avada Kedavra!' Sickly green light, the rushing of air through a deep tunnel.
Harry shut his eyes tight, holding his breath in a bid to summon rage and compact it into hatred. A rippling chord of tension rang through his whole body. He choked suddenly, finding himself gasping for air, brow damp with condensation. Shaking, he curled up on his side. He only felt cold.