A/N: This chapter is about pasta and deep intuitions. Lots of angst I'm afraid, but it's an important chapter plot-wise. Also, I realize I haven't replied to reviews to the last chapter – sorry! I had this rather sizable stack of deadlines that all came crashing on top of me in the last week or so, but I will start responding again now. Thank you for taking the time to read and to give your feedback, even if I didn't reply I promise I did read it and I'm baking you all virtual cookies.

Harry had a knack of perceiving good news from bad news before others.

After all, destinies and prophecies and Dark Lords had plagued him since the moment he'd been born. He had a second nature about these things. Particularly since the war ended, he'd realized he had become increasingly perceptive in distinguishing what kind of news people were about to tell him before he received it. He didn't consider it particularly useful since it didn't stop him from knowing the news anyway, merely precipitated and gave him the barest of warnings before it hit him.

So when the Hogwarts owl arrived while he was having his usual lunch date with Ron and Hermione on a Monday noontime, interrupting Ron's enthusiastic tale about his first day of professional Quidditch training and stealing his chocolate pudding away, Harry felt the first twinge in his gut that this wouldn't be good news.

He opened the letter whilst Ron tried to wrestle back his chocolate pudding.

Dear Harry—

Please come by Hogwarts to see me as soon as convenient for you. Bring Hermione and Ron if you wish.

Regards,

Minerva McGonagall

The sinking feeling only got worse as he quickly scanned over the piece of parchment. Grabbing his quill, he scribbled a hasty reply:

Will be there this evening. –Harry

He coaxed the owl away from Ron's chocolate pudding with difficulty and tied it back onto its leg. "Go on," he told the bird, who gave him a snooty look and an indignant hoot before taking off in a flurry of feathers, knocking over the pudding in the process.

Ron gave the pudding a disparaging look. "That bloody bird did that on purpose."

Hermione was giving him one of her X-Ray scans, scrutinizing his face like all his thoughts were written on it. He was convinced she really could read his mind sometimes. "Was that from Minerva?"

Like now. "Yeah," he mumbled, sticking a fork into his pasta and swirling it around without interest. "She wants us to go see her tonight."

Ron looked up. "I can't, mate, I've got training."

"Don't worry, I'll be there," Hermione said firmly. "Is this about…Snuffles?"

Harry raised an eyebrow. "That'd be a good choice for a code name if the whole world didn't know it by now. She didn't say, but I'd bet my model broomstick collection it's at least something to do with the Veil."

Hermione, to his irritation, was still studying him. "You think it's bad news?"

He shrugged, giving his pasta a violent jab with his fork. "I don't know."

She finally looked away, transferring her gaze to her own sandwich thoughtfully. "It's been a while since we visited her. About two weeks, I'd say. Would be about time to hear from her."

Harry didn't reply.

He had completely lost his appetite now; his stomach felt like it was twisted in some complex triple knot that could only be untangled with scissors. The tiny niggling feeling that he had been pushing aside for the past two weeks returned with a new force, taking over everything else and coming to the forefront of his mind so he could no longer ignore it. He knew the feeling well: it was fear.

He heard Hermione say his name, and glanced up from the mess he had made of his pasta to meet her eyes. Her brown eyes were clear and understanding. "We have to know," she told him gently.

He knew that she was, as usual, right.

He just wished that his gut feeling would, for once, be wrong.

###

At six o'clock that evening, Remus was cooking dinner for Andromeda and himself, having just put Teddy to bed. Tonks was predictably late. The task seemed almost mundane on a completely surreal level – he remembered doing the exact same thing over a month ago before he'd found out Sirius was alive. Now, it just seemed strange to keep on doing it like everything was normal.

He hadn't seen Sirius since Ron's impromptu celebration dinner, but within hours – no, seconds – of returning to the living, Sirius had managed to seep into every corner of Remus's mind, injecting himself into his thoughts just like before.

No, that's wrong. That would be implying he actually left it at some point.

Remus stirred the pot with more force than necessary, scowling over starchy steam water. First, he had found out he was a werewolf. Then against all odds he had managed to make three incredible friends at school. And then he had fallen in love with one of them, and cursed the heavens for creating a gay werewolf. And then he had found out that the man he had fallen in love with thought he was a liar and a traitor before he had gone to Azkaban. Then he had escaped from his cell and returned to Remus. And then he'd gone and gotten himself killed… and now, brought back to life.

If there is a God, he must be using my life as some sort of experiment. Or as an elaborate joke. That is the only explanation.

He heard the front door open and paused, frowning, eyes immediately going to his watch. It was just 6.05pm. Surely, it can't be…?

Tonks's voice drifted down the hall. "Remus?"

Hastily, Remus wiped his hands on his jeans and lowered the heat on the stove, walking out into the hallway to meet her. "You're home for dinner," he said, unable to keep the shock from his voice.

She smiled hesitantly. "Yes. Aren't you happy?"

He couldn't quite pinpoint his emotions. Happy was definitely there, but it wasn't alone. He could feel Bitterness coming to join it, along with Pain and… something else he couldn't put a name on at the moment.

But the question was meant to be simple. So he smiled in return and reached forward to embrace her. "Of course."

He felt her arms around him for a brief moment before she untangled herself and headed for the kitchen. "Something smells good," she called over her shoulder.

"It's spaghetti bolognaise," he said, following her. "I don't know if we have enough—I only made it for two, I didn't expect you to be back so soon…"

"Mum's not joining us," Tonks said, peering into the pot over the stove. "I told her I wanted a date night."

He blinked. "You did?"

"Yep."

To give himself time to process this, Remus went back to his cooking, straining the spaghetti over the sink and leaning back to avoid a face full of steam. He didn't say anything.

Tonks, however, was unusually vocal. "I thought it was time that we talked," she said. He heard the determined edge to her voice and knew that he wouldn't be able to avoid it.

The unnamable feeling in his gut grew, as if expanding by osmosis, and he realized with a sinking heart what the feeling was: Resentment. Layers and layers of resentment fought to take precedent on the surface of his brain; of Tonks's constant absence from taking care of Teddy. Of accusing him of cheating. Of putting work before family. But at the moment, he mostly resented her for waltzing into the house for dinner like she did it every day, like he should be falling over his hands and knees in gratefulness. Like she belonged here.

The rational side of his brain responded with a clear: she does. She lives here, too.

He thought about what she had said: I thought it was time that we talked. She had thrown a challenge at him, waiting to see if he would take it. It was like a stone thrown on the middle of a bridge, its weight heavy, blocking the way of all communication. He would have to either walk around it or pick it up.

He scooped sauce over a plate of pasta and handed it over to Tonks. He knew what the right response was.

"Yes," he replied, portioning over his own plate of spaghetti. "Let's talk."

He sat down at the table opposite her and swirled the pasta around his fork, knowing that it was going to be tasteless if he put it in his mouth. There was a sinking feeling in his gut that told him this evening wouldn't end well.

"I wanted to say…" Her voice drifted as she struggled to find the words. Or perhaps the courage. "I wanted to apologize," she said finally. "For what I said the other night. It wasn't fair. That… you didn't deserve that accusation."

Slightly surprised, Remus looked up from his meal to stare at her. She was staring at her own plate of spaghetti like it was the oracle. "It hurt," he told her honestly.

She nodded. "I know. I wanted it to, at the time. You've never been home so late since we got married… but I guess I shouldn't really judge on that."

He felt a wave of sympathy towards her, washing away a little of the resentment. "It's okay."

But she was shaking her head now, looking determined. "No, it's not."

She said it with such conviction that instead of responding, he simply waited to see what she wanted to say next.

She chose her next words carefully. "It's… it hasn't been right for a while. Our marriage. Hasn't it?"

Finally. The elephant in the room was being confronted. Remus didn't know whether to feel relief or dread. Nor did he know how he wanted this to end. So he settled for tacit agreement.

"We've been a little disconnected lately," he said cautiously.

Tonks snorted loudly at that, dropping her forkful of spaghetti with a clang. "A little disconnected! Oh please, Remus. You and I both know it's been far longer than lately and far more than a little."

And the resentment was back with renewed vigour. Remus's fingers clenched around his own fork as he snapped back, "Perhaps it wouldn't have been so long if I'd actually seen you for more than ten minutes a day for the past few months."

Her eyes flashed with anger. "I was working. I have a job."

That stung. His grip on the fork tightened, knuckles paling. The accusation slipped out before he managed to register his thoughts. "Were you actually working, though?"

Tonks's eyes narrowed. She pushed back from the table and stood up, hair frizzing, morphing into a sharp red, but her voice was deadly calm. "What are you saying, Remus?"

He wanted to take it back, wanted to rewind time, remembering how he felt when she threw the accusation at him just a few nights ago. But he couldn't, because somewhere in his mind he could hear a small portion of his brain whispering: it's true it's true it's true.

He felt desperate for evidence otherwise. He needed her to convince him that it wasn't. And so what came out of his mouth was, "You know what I'm saying."

Her gaze burned holes into his skin.

The atmosphere in the room had dropped to frosty levels below zero. They faced off across the kitchen table, dinner forgotten.

Just as Remus could feel his will failing, Tonks turned away, her back to him.

When she spoke, her voice was like shattered glass. "This isn't working anymore."

And there it was. Those words that he had been expecting for months now, finally dropping on him like a bomb. He had thought the emotional impact would be stronger, but at the moment, all he could feel was relief that it had finally, finally been laid on the table.

"No," he said, voice hollow.

She twisted around to look back at him and he saw that her eyes were glistening, a tear rolling down her cheek. His stomach twisted and churned at her expression, and he stood, half reaching out for her, but she took a step back, shaking her head. He watched her defenses spring up around her, setting up an invisible wall between them that he knew he could no longer knock down. There was a moment of uncertain silence as they both froze in position – him with one arm reached out, her with her arms crossed and leaning away – before Tonks let out a loud sob and ran from the room. Remus heard the front door slam.

He sat down again, stunned.

It had happened so quickly that it was over in a matter of seconds. Guilt gripped at him, that this was his fault, his failure at making the marriage work, his inability to connect with another person. His denial in believing that he loved her enough to have it all work out. Then the remorse came flooding in, and he buried his head in his hands at the kitchen table.

My marriage is over.

Truth is often hard, like concrete, gray and solid, inviting to be stepped on. His fingers curled at strands of his hair. The knowledge that yet another part of his life had been unsuccessful pierced through him like a knife. It was a pain that he couldn't possibly begin to describe.

But all through his turmoil of emotions, he couldn't get rid of the one unshakeable fact in his mind that even through the sharp words they had flung at each other like bullets, when he had accused her of having an affair, Tonks hadn't denied it.

And that hurt as much as the knowledge of his failure.

###

"This isn't good news."

Minerva hadn't bothered with a greeting, looking up the moment Harry and Hermione had walked into her office and gesturing for them to sit impatiently. There was a tower of books teetering on the edge of her desk and a small pile of newspaper cuttings next to it. She studied her two former students' expressions carefully and repeated, "This isn't good news."

Harry exchanged a look of resignation with Hermione. "I expected as much," he said warily.

Minerva paused, considering how to take the conversation next. She said slowly, "Technically speaking, this isn't really bad news, either."

Both Harry and Hermione's confused expressions stared back at her.

The Headmistress sighed. "To say I have either will mean I have to be certain. And that's the problem with this situation here: it's very difficult to be certain of anything. All the information I have gathered about the Veil is murky at best. No two books say the same thing. The theories about wizards returning from the Veil are numerous and far more widespread than I expected."

Harry sneaked a glance at Hermione: she looked devastated. He bit back a sigh. Even after all these years, Hermione still expected a bit of studious research and books to solve every problem.

"I have, however, one theory that stands out from the rest that I am more inclined to believe." Minerva hesitated, her fingers floating towards the pile of newspapers on her desk. "If I am correct, then we will have to act immediately. There cannot be any time to lose."

Harry felt like he was standing on the edge of the world, waiting to be pushed over. "Please just bloody say it," he blurted.

Hermione shot him a look.

Minerva, however, nodded. She flipped over the first newspaper cutting, and Harry blinked in surprise when he recognized the pale face and blond hair silently glowering at him immediately. Lucius Malfoy.

The headline below the photo read: MALFOY MANOR OFF THE MARKET.

He waited for an explanation.

"Lucius Malfoy," Minerva said, slipping into her familiar, detached Professor-mode of simply imparting knowledge and no more. "Part of Voldemort's inner circle. Died at the end of the war alongside Voldemort, together with Narcissa. Draco Malfoy put his family estate up for sale not long afterwards." She pointed a finger at the date of the clipping: March 29th, 1998. "It has never been bought because of the Death Eater links associated with the house, no wizard has wanted to go near the place. Three months ago it was suddenly taken off the market with no explanation, and what's more Draco Malfoy himself has vanished without a trace."

Minerva set the cutting aside and turned over the next cutting on the pile: A GRAVE SMASHING. "Antonin Dolohov," she said grimly. "Death Eater. Killed in the Final Battle. Says here that on April 10th, his headstone has been smashed—blown to smithereens—and his grave overturned."

And the sinking feeling was back, dread starting to creep through Harry's veins. He realized that his hand ached and he looked down to see Hermione's fingers clenched around his hand in an iron grip.

The list went on, Harry only vaguely registering the names Macnair, Rosier, Yaxley and Wilkes, accompanied with newspaper articles that all seemed to point to one horrifying truth.

Minerva turned over the last newspaper clipping, and Harry closed his eyes as the article that Ron had showed him the night of Sirius's return in the kitchen flashed before him. Back then, it had simply seemed like an insignificant passing, a minor incident, a wild guess. Just one of those things that scared you but you didn't take seriously because you didn't think it could possibly have any deeper implications.

How could he have been so blind?

The ugly face at the center of the picture sneered at him mockingly, and the headline was as clear and bold as before.

FENRIR GREYBACK – NOT SO DEAD?

Hermione let out a sharp gasp. "You think someone's bringing all the dead Death Eaters back to life?"

Minerva gathered all the clippings back into one pile, her Professor mask slipping, and Harry caught a glimpse of the anxiety flash behind her eyes. "Separately, these clippings do not amount to much evidence. But taken together, over the last four months or so, it seems clear to me that there is a pattern. I think someone, perhaps more than one person, is attempting to raise the dead of the Dark Lord, yes—but as I said before, I cannot possibly be certain."

Harry stared blankly at the table. There had to be something, something that he could use to—

"Sirius isn't a Death Eater," he said suddenly. "Whoever it is – if this is the case – wouldn't – couldn't – be stupid enough to bring back the best friend of James and Lily Potter if they're looking to gather an army for another war."

Minerva acknowledged his argument with a nod. "Yes. Like I said, I cannot possibly be sure, Harry. But this is the only link I can seem to find for an explanation. I am inclined to think that Sirius's case was an accident."

He stared. "An accident?"

"He may have found a way to slip through the cracks without them realizing. This is not a fully formed theory, Harry. But it seems to be the most likely explanation to me at the moment. I have gone through a mountain of research and wizarding theories, and they all seem to point me back to this. More than one book has suggested that it is more than possible for a very powerful wizard, using dark magic, to reach through the defences of the Veil and pull souls back from the dead."

The former Headmistress stopped speaking then, and Harry realized dully that she was actually bracing herself to say her next few words.

"The only way," Minerva said slowly, "that I have found to be able to fix this is a formation of very complex magic that requires the power of a group of five wizards, which I will explain in more detail if you are both willing to accept this theory. But the essential part of it is that every dead soul taken from behind the Veil must be returned."

The unsaid implications of her words weighed heavily in the silence following her statement: including Sirius.

Harry could feel Hermione looking at him anxiously, but he couldn't seem to draw his gaze away from his hands on his lap. The silence stretched uncomfortably.

Finally, Minerva placed the newspaper clippings between the pages of a heavy book and slid the tall tower across the table towards Hermione. "I don't want you to take my word for it, Potter, Granger," she said firmly, and Harry dimly registered the use of his last name. "Look through these. They're classified out of the Ministry library, but I will take care of that. Take your time. Be thorough, though I know you will, Hermione. If you can come up with a plausible alternative theory, I will gladly hear it."

When Harry remained motionless, Hermione accepted the books, shrinking them down and slipping them into her purse.

"One more thing," Minerva said. "May I suggest speaking to your godfather again, Harry, and get him to tell you what happened on the night he returned?" She waited, the silence weighing heavily on his shoulders, until he finally looked up. Her gaze pinned him to his seat. "What really happened."

She thinks he's hiding something, too.

When Minerva finally nodded at them in a clear gesture of dismissal, Hermione stood. Like a dream, Harry heard her thanking Minerva, and then he was being dragged out of the Headmistresses' office and down the hill towards the Hogwarts gates. He felt Hermione's arm come around his shoulder and the familiar sucking sensation of Side-Along Apparition. And then he was back in the living room of Grimmauld Place, still staring dumbly at his hands, and Sirius was beside him, looking worried, saying words he couldn't register. He tuned both his godfather and Hermione out and climbed upstairs to his room.

Please let this be a dream.

###

In his own home, Remus was still sitting in a darkened kitchen. He hadn't moved since Tonks left, the same thought circling around his head like a shark circling its prey.

Please let this be a dream.

###

That night, neither man slept.

Well, that happened fast. Poor Harry and Remus! I'm sorry there was no Remus/Sirius action here, but there will be the next chapter! Please review. :)