Hogsmeade was cold and windy when Harry Apparated into the village. He shivered instantly; he had forgotten how much colder Hogwarts could get than London as the fall months faded into winter. He hustled off of the main street towards the Hog's Head, which was thankfully warm and cozy thanks to the fire blazing in the grate. Aberforth was behind the bar, serving a pair of sketchy-looking wizards who eyed Harry with suspicion.

"Morning, Aberforth," said Harry. "Got a minute to chat?" And they walked back into the storeroom together, where Harry noticed a new addition to the room: the Marauder's Map, magically pinned to the wall, its parchment dancing with ink as it tracked every inhabitant of the castle grounds.

"Ah yeah, I see you've noticed," Aberforth remarked, following Harry's eyeline. "Right useful that map is. I keep an eye on it every so often throughout the day."

"Anything interesting of note?" Harry asked.

"Not much," Aberforth grunted. "Though a few days ago there were a bunch of wizards gathered around my brother's tomb. Builders, I reckon. Might be repaired by now."

"Brilliant," said Harry. "I'm going to return the wand tonight then. Nobody has been sneaking around the tomb at night?"

"Not that I've seen," said Aberforth. "The occasional pair of teenagers sneaks down that way, though. Must be a nice quiet place to snog."

Harry laughed; he would consider that good news. Students wouldn't be sneaking down to that area if it was known to be patrolled by adults. Besides, it was far too cold to expect any student to venture by the lake after sunset. Harry was already regretting his choice of attire, wishing he'd packed a heavier coat…

He thanked Aberforth and left to walk up to the castle. As predicted, the grounds were largely empty; it was a school day after all, and any student who wasn't in class would likely be huddled around the fireplace in their common room. He entered the Entrance Hall and was surprised to see none other than Professor McGonagall hustling down the stone stairway towards him.

"Ah, Potter, what a pleasant surprise," she said airily, though she did not sound pleased at all. "If you seek an audience with me, I'm afraid you'll have to wait...much business to attend to today…"

"Erm...that's okay," said Harry, surprised, as she brushed past him to walk out towards the grounds. "Can I wait in your office, then?"

"Be my guest," she muttered. "Password is 'biscuits'."

Harry nodded and bounded up the steps towards her office. Truthfully, he was glad she would not be in her office; it saved him the immense discomfort of asking her to leave it. He had a number of questions to ask the various inhabitants of the office, and he didn't need another prying set of ears listening in on him. Then again, she would probably be filled in by the various portraits the moment she returned to her desk, so it probably didn't matter either way.

Harry spoke the password aloud to the gargoyle and stole up the spiral staircase. He didn't know why he was sneaking – he knew McGonagall wasn't around – perhaps a compulsive act, his body language betraying his guilt. But why should he be guilty? What he was doing wasn't wrong. He'd thought it through plenty of times, and he could see no reason why the Sword of Gryffindor must remain in the Headmaster's office. He opened the door and sealed himself inside the empty office.

He looked around. The many portraits on the wall were sleeping, but he knew they were only pretending – as was their custom whenever a visitor appeared in the office. "Hello, everyone," Harry announced, and they stirred to look down at him. "Erm...where's Professor Dumbledore?"

The portraits looked around towards Dumbledore's empty frame. "Off enjoying another engagement, it would seem," sighed Armando Dippet. "He's greatly popular in his other portraits, as you can imagine, and he visits them often to court other suitors."

"That will pass with time," scoffed Phineas Nigellus. "I was once called upon to my own household to speak to my descendants on many an occasion, but with time, things...cool." Harry sensed the sour look Phineas gave him at this; his portrait had once hung at Grimmauld Place, until it was unceremoniously shoved into Hermione's handbag while they traipsed about the countryside.

"Right, I'll see about replacing that portrait for you, sir," Harry said hastily. He had no idea what had become of Phineas' other portrait, but it was the least he could do after all his support the year before. Harry turned his back on all the portraits and looked up at a less populated corner of the office, where a small, dusty object sat upon a shelf. It looked slightly singed from the events of the Battle of Hogwarts half a year ago, but otherwise looked the same as Harry remembered it.

He cleared his throat, unsure of how to address it. "Erm…" he said. "Excuse me, Hat? Sorting Hat? Can you hear me?"

The Sorting Hat stirred, its folded eyes resting upon Harry's face. "Potter," it said enigmatically. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I just had a quick question for you," Harry muttered. "It's about John Dawlish. Do you remember Sorting him? About forty years ago?"

"Hmm, let me think," the Hat crooned. "Dawlish...yes, I remember. Good head on his shoulders. Uncommonly bright. Would have done well in Ravenclaw. But a Slytherin, no doubt about it."

"Erm...can I ask why?" Harry stammered. "What did you see in him that made that decision?"

"Well, as an heir of Salazar Slytherin himself, his heritage speaks for itself," the Hat said simply. "Great ambitions, I sensed in the boy. A desire to prove himself."

"Was it an easy decision?" Harry asked. "Or did you have to think about it?"

"Not terribly difficult," the Hat mused. "As I say, Ravenclaw was a possibility, but Slytherin was the clear choice in the end."

"Did he...did he ask to be put in Slytherin?" Harry asked. "Or was he unsure?"

"Very few students request a specific House," said the Hat. "Fewer still are sure of who they want to be at eleven years old. I would say that John Dawlish was no different. I sensed an ordinary boy with great potential, seeking guidance, and I provided it for him, as I do with all students."

"So you didn't sense any...evil in him?" Harry said lamely, at a loss for a better term. He heard the snickering of the portraits behind them, but he paid them no mind. Unfortunately, the Hat's reaction was no kinder.

"Evil? In a child?" the Hat scoffed. "At that age, few witches and wizards have the capacity for hate. That takes time and experience in the world. Even those whom I sense a troubled upbringing have the capacity to grow and learn for themselves, while others without a care in the world grow cynical and jaded with age."

"You sure put him in the right House to amplify that troubled upbringing, though," Harry said hotly. "Slytherin likes its orphans...much easier for them to latch onto the bad influences around them."

"I take no stock in the contemporary trends of the four Houses," the Hat snapped. "Tom Riddle may have corrupted the House of Slytherin with his arrival, but before him, it had a long and proud history that had nothing to do with race purity. I wonder if you would have judged Gryffindors more harshly four centuries ago, when it was full of goblin-haters who happily swapped tales of their brutal actions during the first rebellion?"

Harry scowled. "Fair enough," he said. "But you can tell when someone is prone to hate Muggles, or anything like that?"

"Such beliefs are rarely developed by that age," the Hat asserted. "I am not all-knowing, Potter. I merely assess their dispositions and determine which House will best suit their potential."

"Okay," Harry sighed, feeling as though he hadn't learned anything he didn't already know. "Thanks anyway."

He turned to his left, where he could see the Sword of Gryffindor sitting idly in its case. He approached it carefully, though again he did not know why – he wasn't expecting any kind of protective enchantments around it or anything. Sure enough, he was able to pull open the glass door with ease. After a moment's hesitation, he grabbed the hilt of the Sword and pulled.

Nothing happened. Harry frowned. He pulled again, but the Sword still would not budge. Harry looked up and down the blade, looking for any kind of obstructions, but it appeared to be resting idly against the back of the case. He pulled out his wand. "Specialis Revelio," he muttered, but nothing happened. As suspected, no protective enchantments were holding it in place. So why couldn't he move it? He gave it a few more fierce tugs, even bracing his leg against the wall for more force, to no avail. Frustrated and puzzled, he took a step back, considering the situation.

"Having trouble there, Potter?" the Sorting Hat asked him, in a knowing voice that annoyed Harry even more.

"Yeah," he huffed. "Why can't I pick it up? Has McGonagall done something to it?"

"Of course not," the Hat laughed. "No enchantments have been placed upon the Sword...besides those it already possessed, of course."

"But I'm a Gryffindor!" Harry protested. "I summoned it in my second year! I'm worthy to possess it!"

"You were worthy to possess it," the Hat corrected. "You summoned it in a time of need. Perhaps the Sword senses that your intentions are different this time."

"This is a time of need!" Harry said hotly. "I need to give the Sword to Garunk the Great. I promised him!"

This caused a great uproar among the collected portraits. "Give it to a goblin?" sneered Phineas. "Are you quite mad?!"

"The goblins have been attempting to steal that Sword for centuries!" chimed in Armando Dippet. "And you intend to hand it over willingly?"

"It was a gesture of goodwill!" Harry defended himself. "Garunk promised to speak to the Confederation about my Gringotts break-in if I gave him the Sword."

"You intended to barter it?!" Phineas demanded haughtily. "Like a common antique? That is a historical school artifact, you silly boy!"

"What is all the commotion in here?" came a sharp voice. Minerva McGonagall had walked back through the door into her office. "Potter, what's got you so flustered?"

"Nothing, Professor," Harry grumbled. "Just...a disagreement, is all." McGonagall glanced from him, to the many portraits looking down upon them, to the still-open glass case in the corner, and seemed to decide she wasn't interested in whatever was going on.

"I've too much on my plate today to know what you could possibly be arguing with the other Headmasters about!" she huffed, and sat behind her desk. "Now, I only have a few minutes to spare, Potter, so make this quick if you can."

"Right," said Harry, though in truth he had very little to say to her. "Erm…I guess I just wanted to check up on the scepter," he offered weakly. "See if you have learned anything new." He paused awkwardly, wracking his brain for more to say, but nothing came to mind.

McGonagall raised an eyebrow at him. "I think an owl would have sufficed, Potter," she said curtly. "Then I could have taken all of ten seconds to reply that no, I have not."

"Yeah, right," Harry murmured, scratching his head. "Just thought I'd ask in question, you know...while I had other business to attend to at the castle."

"Well, your presence is never unwelcome," McGonagall sighed, "but things are a bit hectic here at the moment. New students are arriving almost daily as families come out of hiding from the war, and accommodating their academic needs has been...challenging, to say the least."

"I can imagine," said Harry.

"Though I have to wonder why the scepter is still of such great interest to the Auror Office?" McGonagall asked. "While I would appreciate its return, it is far from the top of my priority list."

"It's...complicated," Harry said lamely. "Probably nothing. And it's not Auror business – just unresolved issues from last year, that's all."

"Nothing to worry about, I hope?" said McGonagall.

"No," Harry said. "Just a curiosity."

"Good," said McGonagall. "Now, I've got much to do this afternoon, Potter, so if there will not be anything else..."

"No ma'am," Harry said quickly, standing from his seat. "Sorry to bother you, Professor." Red in the face, he hurried from the office, feeling that the entire ordeal had been something of a disaster. Harry strolled back down the steps into the Entrance Hall, deep in thought. It was still light out; he wanted to wait until the sun set to walk out to Dumbledore's tomb. He paused at the entrance to the Great Hall and peered inside. A few students milled about the House tables, but it was about as empty as he could hope for. He strolled inside and turned around, craning his neck to look at the empty bracket above the door frame.

Harry didn't know what he hoped to accomplish by standing here, staring at the blank stretch of stone wall. Perhaps he thought he'd be struck by sudden inspiration, as though the ghost of the scepter would speak to him somehow, divulge its secrets. He was beginning to think he should just give up the chase, that whatever this scepter business was, it wasn't his problem after all. Just like Hermione said: a problem invented in his mind that he should just let go of.

He was about to leave the castle when a voice behind him said, "Well if it isn't the great Harry Potter!" Harry groaned, expecting to greet a student who had recognized him from behind. Instead, he turned and found himself face to face with a ghost: Nearly-Headless Nick.

"Nick!" Harry said; he impulsively extended his hand before realizing it was pointless. "How are you?"

"Much better now that the castle's back in one piece," Nick smiled. "Well, give or take a few pieces." He indicated the bracket above the door.

"Yeah," Harry muttered. "Dunno if that piece will be making it back home. Been a helluva job trying to track it down."

"Shame," tutted Nick. "This Hall isn't quite the same without the Scepter of Bravery watching over us."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "Did you say...the Scepter of Bravery?" he asked. "So you know what it is?"

"Oh, only the stories passed between students," Nick sighed. "I've heard many theories over the centuries, mostly from the non-Gryffindor students, believe it or not."

"You think it is connected to Gryffindor, then?" Harry asked.

"Many seemed to believe so," Nick shrugged. "The rumors have waned as time has passed, but students have been gossiping about the scepter since I first haunted these halls in 1492."

"So the scepter was here even before you?" Harry asked, excited. "It must have belonged to one of the Founders then, surely!"

"That was the prevailing sentiment early on," Nick agreed. "Though as time passed and the gossip passed down generations, students seemed to know less and less about its true origins."

"Makes sense," Harry muttered. "Like a five hundred-year old game of telephone."

"Game of what now?" Nick asked, confused.

"Never mind. But you called it the Scepter of Bravery. Why?"

"That's what it was known as back in the day," Nick shrugged. "A few students asked me about it over the years, and I told them what I knew, which wasn't much. Fewer and fewer have asked as time goes on, but I still hear it whispered about from time to time."

"But you don't know what it is, what it does?" Harry asked.

"No idea," said Nick. "I've never seen it do anything out of the ordinary. All it's done is sit in that bracket up there. Well, aside from the last time it went missing."

Harry froze. "It's gone missing before?"

"Yes, just once," said Nick. "For maybe a month or two, then it showed back up in its place. No idea what happened to it...and I always wondered how they got it down; I'd witnessed several students attempt to summon it by magic, but it would not budge—"

"Nick," said Harry, heart beating now, "when did it go missing? What year?"

"Oh, the years all bleed together for me by now," Nick sighed. "Let's see...well as a matter of fact, I believe it was the same year the Chamber of Secrets was opened the first time! Yes, I remember now, I was going to ask somebody about the missing scepter, but then all those terrible things began happening, and it must have slipped my mind—Harry?"

But Harry was already gone, running from the Great Hall. He turned right, heading not out onto the grounds but down a side corridor. He nearly bowled over two second-year girls rounding a corner, but he did not stop to apologize. He skidded into the library, walking between shelves, looking for someone. He found her, just as he suspected he would, studying fervently under an open window near the back of the room…

"Hermione!" he exclaimed, a little too loudly; a group of nearby students shushed him, and Madam Pince glared reprovingly at him from her desk. Hermione looked up, startled, as Harry took the seat opposite her.

"Harry?" she said, setting her book down. "You look awful...what's happened…?"

"The scepter, Hermione," he said in a hushed tone, still out of breath. "I've just learned...it was stolen once before! When the Chamber of Secrets was first opened! Nearly-Headless Nick told me!"

"Huh," Hermione frowned. "That is odd…"

"Don't you get it?" Harry demanded, frustrated that she hadn't already arrived at the same conclusion as him. "Don't you realize what he did?"

"You don't think," Hermione said slowly, trying to piece it together herself, "that Voldemort had anything to do with—"

"Don't you remember what Dumbledore told me in my sixth year?" said Harry. "Voldemort would have sought one item connected to each Founder. He got the cup from Hufflepuff, the diadem from Ravenclaw, the locket from Slytherin—"

"But he never got the Sword, Harry!" Hermione protested. "We know this—"

"But maybe he got something else!" Harry insisted. "Maybe the scepter was connected to Gryffindor, or at least he assumed it did. It was nicknamed the Scepter of Bravery, for god's sake!"

"You don't seriously think the scepter is a Horcrux?" said Hermione, aghast. "Harry, you have to kill someone in order to split your soul. Voldemort didn't kill anyone until after he left school, remember?"

"That's not true," Harry corrected her. "Moaning Myrtle died when the Chamber was last opened, remember?"

"But that was the basilisk—"

"Which he controlled, Hermione! What if he took down the scepter, used it to make the Horcrux when the snake killed her, then put it back where it came from? Nobody would have suspected a thing—"

"Harry," said Hermione, exasperated, "Dumbledore's seat faced that scepter every single day in the Great Hall. Don't you think he would have been the first to suspect it, if it truly was turned into a Horcrux?"

"Dumbledore was the first to admit there were many secrets in the castle he didn't know about," said Harry. "He didn't even know about the Room of Requirement, and he used it once by complete accident! That's the brilliance of it, Hermione: he hid it in plain sight, where nobody would suspect a Horcrux to be hiding! Then, after the Battle, there were loads of Voldemort sympathizers about who could've scooped it up—"

"But they would've had to know about the Horcruxes!" Hermione protested. "Voldemort didn't even tell his most trusted servants about them! You, me and Ron are probably the only people alive who knew…"

"That's the part I'm still working out," Harry muttered. "But it explains something else, Hermione. At the World Cup...d'you remember what Ginny said? The bloke who attacked her was trying to give it to her!"

"So what?" said Hermione. "If it was a Horcrux, and the person who stole it knew that, why would they knowingly give it away?"

"Wouldn't be the first time someone gave Ginny a Horcrux, would it?" said Harry. "Lucius Malfoy gave her the diary in her first year."

"But Malfoy didn't know it was a Horcrux!" said Hermione.

"Maybe this bloke doesn't either!" said Harry. "All he knows is that someone gave her an object cursed by Voldemort, and it possessed her. Maybe he thought it could happen again! He thought he could give it to Ginny to bring Voldemort back...or at least, back enough to tell him how to resurrect him again…"

Harry looked at Hermione expectantly. He couldn't believe she hadn't put this together herself! It was the smoking gun, clear as day, evidence of his deepest fears. But to his amazement, Hermione still looked skeptical.

"It's all very interesting, Harry, I won't lie," she said. "But it still doesn't quite add up. I still think Dumbledore would have known if Tom Riddle had made a Horcrux so young. You said yourself, he looked disfigured once he started splitting his soul later in life. And if he was going to start turning House relics into Horcruxes, why start with Gryffindor's...if it's even Gryffindor's to begin with?"

"Look, we can figure all that out later, once we find Dawlish," said Harry. "He can explain everything to us then—"

"No, not Dawlish again!" Hermione groaned.

"He was a Gaunt, Hermione, haven't you been paying attention to the Prophet?" Harry bellowed, provoking another chorus of shushes from the library around him. "He was Voldemort's step-nephew, or whatever! And he was interested in the Dark Arts from a young age—"

"So Rita Skeeter says!" Hermione countered. "I don't know when you started taking stock in her reporting, Harry, but it hasn't exactly been water-proof in the past!"

"She's the only person who seems to agree with me that he's dangerous!" Harry protested.

"Because it's controversial, Harry, and controversy sells copies!" Hermione sighed. "And aren't you the one that put her on to Dawlish in the first place? She's just echoing what you already suspect!"

"Because I'm right about him, and you know it!"

"That's quite enough!" a voice hissed in Harry's ear, and a sharp hand wrenched Harry out of his seat. Madam Pince had marched over to him, looking apoplectic. "Your presence at Hogwarts is tolerated, Potter, but not if you continue to disrupt our students whom are studying!"

"I'm going, I'm going," Harry scowled, pulling his arm free. "We'll discuss this later," he told Hermione, and stalked out of the library. He felt so sure about his theory that he had half a mind to march back up to McGonagall's office and grab the Sword of Gryffindor again. Surely it would respond now that he had a legitimate, selfless reason for it. But he didn't want to face the scorn of the headmasters' portraits again, nor the embarrassment if it did not indeed respond to his touch. Besides, it wouldn't do him much good now, as he still had no idea where the scepter actually was.

Harry exited the castle and began to walk down towards Hogsmeade. The sun was getting low in the sky, and he planned to while away the time at the Hog's Head until he was ready to visit Dumbledore's tomb. But then he decided to veer left, marching down the grass towards Hagrid's hut. He'd been at Hogwarts the last time the Chamber was opened; maybe he'd know something. But when he arrived, there was no smoke coming out of the chimney, and the hut was dark. Harry knocked hard, but there was no response. Hagrid was not here.

Harry trudged back up the hill, passing by the greenhouses as he went. He saw Professor Sprout tending to a row of Venemous Tentacula plants through the nearest doorway. "Evening, Professor," he announced himself. "Where's Hagrid?"

"Hello, Harry dear," Sprout greeted him. "'Fraid he's off on assignment. The Ministry has asked him to help transport the giants back to greater Europe. They're looking for a new home for them there."

"When will he be back?" asked Harry.

"Could be months," Sprout shrugged. "Professor Grubbly-Plank has been filling in for him." Harry frowned; he knew it could indeed be many months before Hagrid's return. It had taken him that long just to get Grawp back to Britain; he could only imagine how much more difficult it was to shepherd several dozen fully-grown giants.

Harry didn't much feel like walking all the way to Hogsmeade and back anymore, so instead he walked down towards the lake and sat underneath his favorite tree by the bank. He watched from afar as students trickled back up towards the castle, some from the Quidditch pitch, some from the opposite shores of the lake. His mind continued to race with possibilities. How could Dawlish have found out about the Horcruxes? Perhaps one of the Death Eaters had let it slip to him? But no, Voldemort would never entrust a lesser servant like Yaxley or Dolohov with that information… Maybe Dawlish had simply stumbled upon the information in the library and put two and two together himself? But no, Dumbledore had removed all books about Horcruxes from the library, long before he or Voldemort studied there. Hermione was right...there were holes in this story still. But he intended to fill them in.

Harry watched as the sun set over the lake, the giant squid splashing happily along the golden-yellow surface. The temperature began to drop uncomfortably low, and Harry sat shivering for as long as he dared, waiting for the light level to dim and his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Finally, when he could no longer bear the wind chill, he stood and began walking towards Dumbledore's tomb. Even from a distance he could see that it had been repaired. The white marble encasing Dumbledore's body had been replaced, and it shone magnificently in the moonlight, freshly polished, bearing no signs that Voldemort had ever been here. He stood uncertainly before it, unable to shake the feeling that he was violating Dumbledore's privacy. But no, he'd received permission from his portrait last year, and he was not taking anything for his own. He was returning the wand to its rightful owner.

Harry pulled out the Elder Wand and pointed it at the tomb. He was unsure exactly how to open it without breaking it as Voldemort had, but he felt the warmth of the wand in his fingertips, as if it was telling him it knew what to do. "Alohamora," Harry said instinctively. There was suddenly a loud creaking and grinding noise as the marble tomb began to open into its component pieces, rising into the air. Once the stone slabs had been levitated out of the way, Harry could see him: Dumbledore, wrapped in a clean sheet, resting peacefully atop a stone table.

Harry approached the table. Dumbledore looked peaceful in death, his body magically preserved, eyes closed in eternal slumber. Harry felt a pang of grief as he had missed talking with Dumbledore, even if their relationship had never progressed beyond the student-teacher relationship. He lamented that they would never come to know each other as adults, perhaps even as peers. Harry knew that a wealth of wizarding knowledge had been lost with Dumbledore – but also many terrible secrets that were best left undisturbed. One of them was the Elder Wand in his hand, and once he was rid of it, Dumbledore would know peace at last.

With his free hand, Harry extracted his holly wand from his robes and pointed it at the marble slabs in the air, joining the Elder Wand in keeping them suspended. Then he dropped his main wand hand, moving towards the table to place the wand back between Dumbledore's fingers. He could still feel the warmth of the wand in his hand – there was a beautiful harmony between wand and wizard, and it would be a shame to let it go to waste. But he knew this was the right decision. Dumbledore would have wanted it this way.

Then, it happened so fast that Harry barely had time to react. A shuffling in the grass behind him caused him to go on full alert, freezing in his tracks. His ears searched the night air, trying to discern movement through the whistling wind. Suddenly, three booming voices echoed out at once, piercing the silence:

"Stupefy!"