Chapter Seventeen.

The days passed rather quickly after that November day, and Harry felt more relieved as the day of his appointment with the Legilimens approached. Since his revelation to Professor McGonagall, she had taken extensive yet unintrusive safety measures for Hermione, which allowed Harry just a bit more peace of mind. Not only that, but Harry and Ginny were speaking again, and Ginny and Hermione were getting increasingly close as the days went by. Harry still missed Ron, of course, and had informed about him often enough, but there wasn't anything Harry could do if Ron didn't want to speak to him. According to Ginny, though, Ron just wasn't 'playing with the full deck.'

'He'll come around', she'd promised him once as Harry came to visit Hermione at Hogwarts. 'Mum and dad will bring him round. They miss you too much to let Ron stand in the way of seeing you forever.'

It'd made Harry feel slightly better to know that the rest of the Weasleys, at least, had no qualms with him.

It was now Friday, November 20th. It had grown dark and cold outside, and the snow had been coming down steadily for days. Harry had just come off work, which had been rather quiet. Any time he saw Luna, she kept asking about any 'bad guys' he may have caught, but crime had gone down significantly since Voldemort had fallen. His Death Eaters, too, had been caught or had fled, and there weren't any significant bad guys to speak of these days. It seemed as if the whole world was relishing in peace. Well… there'd been one rather cranky wizard that had hexed a few Muggles after they'd bumped into him in the street, but he had long been caught and dealt with, and the Muggles had gotten their normal hands and feet back.

Really, Harry had mostly been inside the Ministry, reading up on cold cases and wizards that still hadn't been caught. Some had been gone so long that Harry figured they must be dead by now, but he needed to be aware regardless. That was his job, after all.

It was a little after seven in the evening when Harry apparated onto Hogwarts grounds and began to make his way to the castle. Snow gathered on his shoulders and head. He hadn't had time to change his clothes, and so he was still wearing his uniform: a black, comfortable pair of trousers with a black, short-sleeved dress shirt, a silver-buckled and buttoned black coat, and ankle-high leather boots. His wand sat comfortably in the curve of his lower back, tucked behind the belt the Ministry had given him. Despite his attire, however, Harry felt all but battle-ready. He knew what would happen and what he would see, and he dreaded it more with every step he took nearer to the castle.

Upon entering it, Harry found the halls quiet, while the Great Hall was buzzing with the sound of clanking metal and chattery students. He peered into the Hall to see if he could spot Hermione, but before he was able to locate her, he heard a gasp. He turned quickly and spotted two young Hufflepuff girls, staring at him with that look that told Harry he was in trouble.

'You're-'

'Harry Potter!'

'I know he is! But look at him… he's an-'

'Auror', the other whispered, and she cocked her head as if to observe Harry better.

Harry felt immediately uncomfortable. Sure, he'd gotten used to being stopped every now and then, especially by first-years who had heard ridiculously exaggerated stories of Harry's deeds, but he'd never quite gotten used to the looks on people's faces, or the fact that they often spoke about him as if he weren't there. Harry tried to avoid these moments as best he could, sneaking into Hogwarts after classes or when students were at dinner, but he couldn't possibly avoid everyone.

'Hi', Harry said, rather awkwardly.

The girls startled, as if they'd only just realised he was an actual human being, and as if they'd rehearsed it, their hands grasped for their bags and scrambled for something inside.

'Would you mind-'

'Signing an autograph, Harry?'

'For Veronica…'

'-Matilda.'

Harry swallowed and looked at the books and quills they held out for him, picked at random. He then wondered which professor would have to deal with Veronica and Matilda passing their books around class the next morning, giggling excitedly, and whether Professor McGonagall would reproach him for it. She'd asked him before to stay out of the spotlight so as not to disturb classes and meals, and Harry had promised her he'd try his best.

But here they were, Veronica and Matilda, their eyes wide like saucers, their hands trembling in excitement.

Harry nodded at last and signed his name quickly in the corners of their books.

The girls shrieked and Harry, desperate to get going, made use of their shared excitement to say goodbye and hurry upstairs.

When Harry entered the Headmistress' Office, Professor McGonagall sat at her desk, reading a small scroll of parchment that was as tall as Harry himself. When Harry closed the door, she put it down and smiled in her usual stern way.

'Welcome, Potter', she said, rising from her desk. 'Still haven't gotten used to the celebrity, I presume?'

Harry frowned, but before he could even think that asking it wouldn't be of use, McGonagall rose from her desk and gestured sideways.

'This is Mister Barnaby, Professor of Potions at Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.'

From the corner of Harry's eyes stepped a man. He was quite young… in his early forties, Harry suspected, with dark skin and black curls that were lightly streaked with grey. He wore a dark purple waistcoat with silver buttons over a black dress shirt, and a long, burgundy leather coat. With one hand, he held a long, black cane. The other was reached out to Harry.

'Mister Potter', he said, smiling warmly. His voice was deep, but pleasant. It reminded Harry of treetops as they swayed and groaned in the wind. 'It's a pleasure to meet you.'

Harry shook himself from his daydream and nodded quickly, shaking the wizard's hand. 'You're American', he stated, feeling immediately foolish for stating the obvious.

The man smiled. 'Guilty as charged. My name is Marcus Barnaby.'

'Harry', Harry said.

'Mister Barnaby has kindly agreed to aid us in our endeavour', McGonagall said.

'You came here all the way from America?', Harry asked, stunned.

'I did', Barnaby agreed, smiling. 'Please, don't feel sorry. I had business in London, regardless.'

Harry nodded.

'Mr Barnaby has outstanding experience with Legilimency, and I assure you, Potter, that if anyone can successfully navigate the depths of your mind, it is he.'

'Oh, thank you, Minerva', Barnaby said. 'I'm not sure if I deserve the praise-' He walked over to the desk, and Harry noticed a limp in his right leg for which Barnaby leaned heavily on his cane. '- but I'll do my best.'

'I have no doubt', McGonagall said.

'Mr Barnaby-', Harry started.

'Marcus', the wizard said kindly. 'Please.'

'Marcus', Harry agreed. 'How come you know Legilimency… being a-'

'A mere Potions Professor', Marcus laughed, and Harry opened his mouth to correct him. 'Don't fret, Harry. It's good to ask for credentials, especially for something so… particular.'

Marcus took off his coat and hung it over the desk, then began to roll up his sleeves. 'I had to learn', he said, matter-of-factly.

Harry frowned.

'Mr Barnaby has had some experiences of his own that… inspired him', McGonagall explained carefully, and Harry noticed that she was almost hesitant to broach the subject.

'There's no need for sugar coating, Minerva', Marcus smiled. 'My life has been what it has been.'

He turned to Harry, then, resting on the edge of McGonagall's desk. If Professor McGonagall did indeed glare at this inappropriate gesture, neither Marcus or Harry saw it.

'I have had an experience with fate myself, Harry.'

'You have?', Harry asked, surprised.

Marcus nodded. 'Nothing that was disclaimed to me through Factum Ventura… but I was read a prophecy, of sorts… when I was nineteen.' Marcus' eyes became more solemn, though he still smiled warmly. 'A witch at a fair… — bless me, I should have known better — she read the future and told me that someone would murder my sister. I didn't believe her, of course. My sister was older than me, by nine years, and heavily involved in Wizarding Politics. She was well known in the community. I figured any fool could have mentioned her name.'

'What happened to her… your sister?', Harry asked, breathlessly.

Marcus sighed. 'She died.'

Harry clenched his jaw and felt slightly nauseous.

'We were out one night, returning late from a friend's wedding… and we were attacked. I tried to defend her, of course, but I was drunk, and young… and no match for him.' Marcus' fingers lifted instinctively to his right arm, and Harry saw a thick scar, covering half the width of his arm and reaching from under his sleeve until the tips of his fingers. 'I was unconscious, and when I awoke… she was gone.' Marcus was silent for a moment, his thoughts lost elsewhere.

Harry swallowed. 'I'm sorry.'

Marcus seemed suddenly to snap from his thoughts and smiled cheerfully, rising from the desk. 'Don't be sorry, Harry. It's not your fault.'

'Besides', Marcus said, taking his cane and limping towards Harry until he stood right before him. Harry noticed that his eyes were a strange colour brown that looked, in the glow of the Office's lanterns, almost golden. 'I wasn't prepared. But you will be.'

He gestured with his hand, and a chair that stood by the desk scooted across the floor, stopping right next to Harry.

Harry sat down in it gingerly.

'Ready?'

McGonagall cleared her throat. 'Mr Barnaby, should I-'

'Oh no, Minerva. Stay, please. At least, if Harry's alright with that.'

McGonagall regarded Harry with great uncertainty.

'Stay, Professor', Harry said, feeling in need of a familiar face, and McGonagall's eyes shifted. 'By all means.'

McGonagall retreated to the corner of the Office, her lips pursed tightly together.

'Ready?', Marcus repeated.

Harry swallowed hard, breathed deeply, and nodded.

'Good, look at me', Manus whispered. Harry wrapped his fingers tightly around the armchairs and looked up.

'Legilimens!'

There was a bright flash and a feeling of rushing water, and Harry's mind was immediately out of his control. It turned and twisted from one place to another. At first, Harry saw only milliseconds of vague memories, bright colours, and undiscernible faces. Nevertheless, his mind eventually slowed down. The thoughts became fathomable. He saw his own hands, playing with small toy cars in a space that looked eerily like the cupboard in Privet Drive 4. He heard Marcus mutter something, and then he was sitting in a boat, gliding over a dark and still lake towards Hogwarts with dozens of other boats lighting the way before him. Another flash, and he saw his Patronus dashing across the lake in the Dark Forest. His brain felt like it spun, and then there was Ron, complaining loudly about the weekend's homework as the two of them ate cherry tarts, still warm from Hogwarts' kitchens. The Weasley home appeared; then Hogsmeade; Snape; Hagrid's hut, and then Hagrid's hut as it burned; Ron using the Sword of Gryffindor to destroy a horcrux; Ron yelling at him and Hermione; Hermione's face as she listened to the radio intently; Hogwarts, blown to pieces; Tonks and Remus, lying on the stone floor of the Great Hall; the fury in Voldemort's eyes as Harry battled him, and then the shock. Harry didn't like the turn his mind was taking, but he had no choice but to go there. He was now at Fred's funeral, and watched George cry.

'Nearly there, Harry', Marcus whispered. His voice sounded like it came from behind a thick wall.

Harry clenched his jaws together tightly.

He saw Hermione's face and his heart skipped a beat, but she was dressed up beautifully, and Harry understood that this was still Fred's funeral. He saw her walk away, then, over the hills near the Burrow, and he smelled spearmint disappearing on the wind. Another flash, and he found himself in Eeylops Owl Emporium, watching a tawny owl looking curiously back at him.

'No, Harry, let me in. Don't resist.'

Harry groaned and forced himself to stop focusing on his happy memories. Another flash, and there he was, in the Training Hall, looking at an eerily quiet pool of black water beneath his feet.

'Perfect', he heard Marcus say.

Harry disappeared into the pool and felt again that suffocating sensation crash over him. He gasped for breath. The faces of the people he loved and lost flashed again through his mind, and every fibre of his being wanted to open his eyes and walk away, but Harry forced himself to continue. He had to do this.

And then, all too suddenly, there she was. A hand, wrapped around her throat. Her face, contorted, and blood running from a cut in her brow. Harry thought he'd break his jaws.

'You're doing beautiful, Harry. Look closely. What do you see?'

Harry forced himself to watch. Hermione's eyes, big and dark, stared back at him in fear, but there was also… was it frustration? Anger? Then the hand threw her, and Hermione screamed, crashing into a pillar.

'AH-', Harry exclaimed, and suddenly he found himself in a tent, spinning Hermione under his arm as she laughed. That night had been the first time he'd seen her laugh in weeks.

'Harry, I must ask you to stop resisting', Marcus said, firmly but not unkindly.

'I can't-', Harry breathed. 'Her face-'

'Do not focus on her face. Look at the hand. What can you tell me about the hand?'

Harry allowed himself to be forced back to where he was, and tried hard to ignore Hermione's eyes. 'It's… it's pale', Harry exclaimed, feeling utterly useless.

'It's pale. Wonderful. What else?'

'A black sleeve… torn at the edges, and… and there's a ring.'

'A ring! What kind of ring?'

'It's thick and silver, and… and it has a black stone in it.'

'Onyx, perhaps?'

'Maybe- ARGH!' Hermione had screamed again, and Harry watched her fall. He flinched, and there she was again, reading intently in front of the fireplace in Godric's Hollow, the flames glowing warmly on her lips.

'Harry, you're doing marvellous. Keep focusing. What else is there about the hand? Or the surroundings? What pillar is it that she was thrown into?'

Harry felt that he was sweating, and he was breathing hard. He dug his nails into the wooden arms of the chair and looked.

'I think', Harry began, looking closely. 'I think it's a woman's hand.'

Marcus 'hmm'-ed.

'The pillar…', Harry focused hard on the area above Hermione's body. 'It's grey. Stone. The wall behind it is black… I think it's wallpaper.'

'And the floor?'

Harry looked at the area by Hermione's feet. 'Stone, too, but there's… something – a table, perhaps?'

'You're inside, then?'

Hermione appeared in his sight, and Harry flinched. 'Yes.'

'Good. Now, what-'

Without warning, he met Hermione's eyes: pleading, tearful, and dying. Harry felt like the floor went out from under him, and he instantly opened his eyes, breathing hard but unable to catch air.

He felt sweat staining his forehead and sticking to his hair, and his heart beat three times as fast as was healthy. Harry looked feverishly around the room, but there was no Hermione. There were only Professor McGonagall, sitting in a chair and watching Harry with a regretful face, and Marcus Barnaby, standing before him with questioning eyes and a lowered wand.

'I can't', Harry breathed, unclenching his fingers.

Barnaby closed his mouth and nodded slowly.

'I think this is enough for now.'