The air of the boy's Top Dorm was disquieted that night. There was an unfamiliar density that didn't belong there. More often than not this collection of five teenage, or soon-to-be-teenage, wizards would get very boisterous before bed, playing pranks or telling rude jokes or having violent wars using Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans as missiles, leaving the atmosphere light and warm with the residue of their merriment.

But not tonight. The dark gloom of the dormitory was cool, taut, as if in the anxious calm that follows a great storm as the destruction is assessed. Something was wrong, it was penetrating the motionless air and hanging like an anguished cloud, hovering over one bed in particular.

Though for once, it wasn't Harry that was suffering under the weight of hefty emotion.

It was Neville.

Harry was first alerted to it by Marici, who had crawled out in her mini-lioness form to claw pointedly at Harry's ear. She dug her paws in sharp enough to rouse him, but not quite deep enough to cause him pain. But he was still cross with her when he eventually stirred into a groggy state of waking.

"Wah? Chi ... wah you doing? Give it a rest!" Harry mumbled drunkenly. But his dæmon didn't, and Harry forced cogency into his foggy brain. "Stop that! I'm awake, alright. What's the problem?"

"I think there's something wrong with Neville," Marici whispered. "I think you should go and see him."

"Wrong? What do you mean wrong?"

"Just go!"

So urgent was Marici's plea that Harry didn't think to question any further. Grabbing his Gryffindor dressing gown from the bottom of his bed, he pulled it tight across his skinny frame. It was cold tonight, he might have even reached for his scarf, too, if he knew where the damned thing had gotten lost to.

But that was a mystery for another time. For now, he had to see what was wrong with Neville. Slipping out of the curtains of his four-poster, Harry padded through the dark to Neville's bed, which was the next one along. Neville was sat up against the headboard with his wand lit, the Lumos spell causing his silhouette to be clearly visible through the thin hangings of the bed. And he was shaking relentlessly, as if he were shivering from intense cold ... or maybe ...

"Crying," Seamus whispered as he joined Harry at the foot of the bed. "He's been like it for about an hour. Woke me up, too. I don't know what to do, Harry. I'm not good with stuff like this."

"Let me," Harry offered. "Stick around though, in case we need to get a teacher?"

"Course," Seamus nodded, loyally.

Harry moved slowly to the head of the bed, took a steadying breath and gently opened the curtains. Neville barely noticed the movement. He was ashen, sickly pale, and the reason for his hunched nature at the top of the bed soon became apparent. There was a pool of warm vomit right in the middle of the bedsheets. Harry retched at the stench.

"Shay? Do you know the incantation for that Instant Cleaning Charm?" Harry asked, quietly. "Neville's chucked up all over his quilt."

"No, sorry mate. I don't do much cleaning. I'm twelve, Harry!"

Harry quirked a grin at him in the dark. "Well, help me get this quilt off the bed. It stinks mind, so pinch your nose."

Dry heaving at the fragrant state of the sheets, Seamus held open the curtains while Harry folded the soiled quilt and dragged it away from the mattress, forcing it into the communal linen basket and choking on the last whiff of Neville's nausea. Then he reached into his bed and took his own quilt, which he carried over to Neville and tucked around his shoulders. He was freezing, and whatever else might have caused his shivery state, the Scottish night air certainly wasn't helping matters.

"T-thanks," Neville mumbled, smiling weakly up at Harry. He looked utterly helpless, and still had a trickle of vomit on his chin. Not knowing what else to do, Harry grabbed a clean sock from his drawer and offered it to him. Neville gladly accepted it, and started dabbing at his face with shaky fingers.

"That doesn't mean I've freed you now, Longbottom the House-Elf ... I want that sock back when it's clean!" Harry quirked, in attempt at gentle humour. Neville puffed out a hint of a laugh. "What happened, mate?"

"H-had a nightmare," Neville replied in a hiccup. "About Mum and Dad ... and that Bella witch. I hear it, Harry, when I'm near a Dementor, but now that I know what she looks like, and what happened, my brain is making me see it, too."

"In your dreams?" Harry asked in pitiful concern.

Neville nodded. "It's horrible, Harry. I cant stop thinking about it. I ... I don't want to sleep, because I know I'll see it again."

Harry's heart bled a bit for his wounded friend. What must it be like, to know that your parents were tortured by a madwoman? To know that a once-best-friend might have just popped around for a biscuit and a cuppa, only to curse you so badly that your soul split from your shattered mind? It was a terrible, sobering thought.

"You have to try and sleep, mate," Harry cajoled. "You'll be in trouble if you don't."

"I'll be in trouble if I do!" Neville whined, hopelessly. "Help me, Harry."

Neville's plea was so earnest, but this was beyond Harry's skill. "Come on, let's take you to Madam Pomfrey, see if she can help."

"I ... I don't want to wake her," Neville mumbled.

"Tough," Harry rebuffed. "If you can't sleep, then none of the castle can sleep. Just blame me, say I'm attention-seeking again."

Neville grinned weakly once more, and it put a bit of colour back into his face. Harry fetched Neville's dressing gown and slippers, pulled on his trainers - as his own slippers were missing too - and then helped Neville down the stairs, through the silence of the Common Room, and along the equally sombre corridors towards the Hospital Wing.

What he hadn't expected was to find a light on and Madam Pomfrey attending to another student suffering from a restless night.

Harry blinked in surprise as he saw Ginevra Weasley, looking quite as pale as Neville, as Madam Pomfrey took her temperature. Her eyes, generally quite vibrant, were sunken into her sockets, which looked dark and stretched as if she'd lost a lot of weight in a very short space of time. Harry hadn't picked up on that this term, but she looked incredibly gaunt now that he was next to her to notice. But then, this was hardly surprising, as Harry barely noticed Ginevra Weasley at all.

"Potter? What's wrong with you this time?" Madam Pomfrey demanded as she marched up to them.

"It's not me, Matron," Harry volleyed back, slightly affronted. "It's Neville, here."

"Well, what's wrong with him?" Madam Pomfrey asked briskly, taking Neville's head and jutting it to from side to side in a very rough early assessment of his condition, one that made Neville too dizzy to reply for himself.

"He had a nightmare, said he's been having them a lot lately," Harry explained. "He was sick all over his bed, and now he says he wont go back to sleep again."

"Ah, I see," said Madam Pomfrey, her tone far gentler. "Come and take a seat, Mr Longbottom. I was just about to prescribe an unusual course of treatment for Miss Weasley, here. She, too, is having trouble sleeping ... and this remedy may be of use to you, too."

Harry looked down at Ginevra, who blushed in shame at having her problems laid open so blatantly to him. Harry didn't know the girl at all, but he couldn't help but feel sorry for her and the way she huddled into herself in her humiliation.

"Are you having nightmares as well?" Harry asked gently. Ginevra nodded, meekly. "About what?"

"It should be quite obvious," Madam Pomfrey cut in. "Possession by a Dark Lord does not go away so easily, Mr Potter. Several of the young witches here have come to me asking for sleep potions, to help with the trauma of spilling their personal secrets to that foul creature Gilderoy Lockhart.

But Miss Weasley's case is a little more extreme than most. Lockhart used his diary to possess her, to get to know her intimately, then convinced part of her mind that she was actually Hermione Granger ... before channelling her directly to You-Know-Who, just so he could use her to maintain his ruse and not let on that he'd lost control of your affable young friend, Mr Potter."

Harry felt a surge of pride for Hermione just then, that she was able to throw off the Dark intentions of a wizard as devious as Lockhart. There was something about hearing other people vaunting Hermione's talents that stirred the cosiest warmth in Harry's chest. He wished she could be here to hear it for herself ... he wished she could be here in general.

But he also felt deeply sorry, not just for Ginevra, but for all the other girls tainted by Lockhart and Voldemort. He wondered how many there were, wondered who else might be suffering in silence tonight, and deeply hoped that Hermione wasn't one of them. That possibility would have been potent enough to stir Harry to brave all the Dementors of Azkaban, just to find Lockhart and wring his scrawny little neck for his crimes.

And Harry also felt deeply ashamed of himself. All these girls had suffered under the influence of these evil forces, and he'd never even considered them before. Was he simply that self-centred? He thought of Hermione and how she might still be suffering, as Ginevra was, and he felt a sham of a friend, a sham of a person, just then for not caring more.

And that led him to think of Sally-Anne, getting targeted and Petrified, lucky to have survived with just that, all because some outside evil wanted to hurt him, to stop him fulfilling some prophecy. It didn't seem right, it wasn't right, or fair, that she should have suffered so! She was too nice and good for that.

Because Harry had deeply warmed up to Sally-Anne over the last few days, since the word got out about the Halloween Ball. The news that Harry Potter was taking Sally-Anne Perks, on a date, to the dance caused a stir in more than one quarter of the castle. Harry tracked the origin of the story back to Draco Malfoy, who had started it to cause Harry a bit of grief and just happened to be right about it, which was something of a miracle in and of itself, and was certainly a first in history of their enmity.

But Sally-Anne had been awfully good about it, Harry thought. She didn't milk it, didn't bask in the attention ... which was considerable ... at all. She merely confirmed that it was true when asked, then walked away with her head held in demure dignity, while further questions rained down on her, particular in spiky reference to the absent Hermione. She ignored all of them, embellished nothing, and Harry found his respect for her shot through the roof as he saw it happen, which was often from hidden spots in corridors and classrooms, as he tried to avoid the same interrogations himself.

Suddenly, going to the Ball with her wasn't something to be nervous about anymore ... it was something to excite and look forward to.

He pushed those fluttery musings aside though and concentrated on the task at hand. Madam Pomfrey had helped Neville down onto the bench next to Ginevra. They exchanged grim smiles as they awaited their fate, expecting some foul-tasting potion or complicated spell to be coming their way.

But neither did. Instead, Madam Pomfrey reached into the deep pocket of her smock and handed over two black velvet bags, the contents of which clinked dully as Neville and Ginevra each took one of the bags.

"These are Memory Crystals," Madam Pomfrey announced. "Made of pink quartz with a layering of citrine. The quartz is a powerful stone to record and store information, while the vibrations of citrine can penetrate the human brain and promote a clear state of mind. Also in the bag are three runestones ... Hagalaz, Wunjo, and Gebo. When charged, these create a spell that will encourage restful sleep, by drawing negative energy from your mind and storing it in the crystals."

"So it's a bit like magical reiki, then?" Harry mused.

Madam Pomfrey turned to him in impressed surprise. "Mr Potter ... I had no idea you were so versed in cerebral energetic healing practices!"

Harry coloured shyly. "I have a friend who is well versed in it."

"And do you know much about it yourself?" Madam Pomfrey went on. "Could you teach Mr Longbottom the technique, or show him how to charge the runestones, perhaps?"

"Oh yeah, I can do that," Harry replied, off-handedly. "My mother taught me how to do it ages ago. It's easy ... you just hold the Spell Stones in your hand for three minutes, while concentrating as hard as you can on your intent. If you do it right, the Stones take on that energy and the spell is cast."

"Very good. It is a shame I do not have the power to hand out House points," Madam Pomfrey smiled, warmly. "For that would certainly have earned some. I hope you are also noting this down, Miss Weasley."

"Yes, Matron," Ginevra mumbled down below.

Harry frowned a moment then. "Madam Pomfrey ... do you think there is anything that could have triggered these nightmares tonight? I mean, it seems a bit odd that both Ginny and Nev have had bad dreams at the same time, and both are dealing with things relating to Voldemort."

Madam Pomfrey and Neville winced as Harry said the name, whereas Ginevra let out a shrill squeak and looked positively faint.

"What?" Harry asked, as three dagger-laden looks hit into him. "What did I do?"

"You said his name ... his actual name!" Neville hissed. "You shouldn't do that, Harry."

"Pfft," Harry scoffed. "I'm not afraid of saying a name. Hermione always says that to not say it makes you more afraid of it, which is true, and I don't want to be any more afraid than I already am."

"It is not simply that for why we do not speak his name," Madam Pomfrey replied, holding her chest and rasping slightly. "The very title is a curse, Mr Potter."

"What? I don't understand."

"That moniker was adopted by You-Know-Who to strike fear into people, but also to physically hurt them as well," Madam Pomfrey went on. "The very word is an incantation of sorts, drawing on the fear of those who hear it, and causing physical pain to their bodies. The construction of the very syllables themselves creates an audible sound wave frequency that assaults the cells of the human body. It's fairly low-level, but creates discomfit acute enough to make anyone avoid saying it. Which is the main reason we do. It was one of You-Know-Who's more brilliant bits of sonic magic."

"Then he has others?" Harry gasped in horror.

"He does," Madam Pomfrey nodded. "He was known to have enchanted his voice to command obedience, or to disrupt bodily functions, or to overpower brainwave activity. All through the magical manipulation of sound."

"Wow, I ... I didn't know that," Harry muttered, guiltily. "Sorry, I didn't mean to hurt anybody ... I thought I was just being brave by saying the name."

"And it is admirable that you have that sort of courage," Madam Pomfrey consoled. "But, perhaps next time, you might want to consider the effect your words and actions have on others. Some people have an immunity to the magic, but many do not. You should be mindful of your audience, Mr Potter."

"I will, I promise," Harry swore. "Sorry."

"No lasting harm done," Madam Pomfrey announced briskly. "Curiously, it is through sonic magic that these crystals and runestones work. There are energetic frequencies all around us, all the time. Almost all can penetrate the body and the brain, and most can be manipulated if you know how to tune into the frequency."

"And the Stones do that, as soon as they are charged with your personal energy, don't they?" Harry asked, eager to wash his guilt away by showing off his skill with the Runes.

"They do indeed," Madam Pomfrey nodded. "What we need to do is power-up the Stones, to block out the negative frequencies that Mr Longbottom and Miss Weasley are suffering under by surrounding them with a field of positive energy. I prescribe a session of deep meditation before bed for each of you. Concentrate on your worries in your waking mind, where you can exert more control over them, then channel them into the crystals before attempting to sleep, simply by holding them tight during the process."

"Oh, is that what you do before you go to bed, Harry!" Neville exclaimed. "I just thought you were being a haughty statue while I threw Fizzing Whizbees at you!"

Harry narrowed his eyes at Neville, as Ginevra giggled on the bench next to him.

"Pre-sleep meditation is an excellent way to clear the mind at the end of your day," Madam Pomfrey went on, frowning slightly at Neville's tale of adolescent antics. "You should encourage more to follow in your example, Mr Potter."

Harry snorted out a laugh. "My dorm-mates are so empty-headed that I think meditation would be an exercise in abject stupidity, Matron!"

"Oi! I'm one of your dorm-mates!" Neville piped up, mock scandalised.

"I rest my case!" Harry nodded, piously. Neville just made a face at him.

"Right, well, I think I have done all I can for you, barring administering a Dreamless Sleep Potion ... which I will only do as a last resort," Madam Pomfrey frowned. "So, if there's nothing else, I suggest you try and get some rest in what remains of the night."

"Why wouldn't you administer the Potion?" Harry asked. "Seems an easier solution to me."

"Because, Mr Potter, even though our bodies need sleep to rest, our minds need dreams to stay healthy," the Matron explained. "We need to reach REM sleep every night and if we do not, after a while ... a rather short while ... we would all go mad."

"Really? I never knew that dreams were that important," Harry mused.

"They are vital to human cognitive processes," Madam Pomfrey went on. "They stimulate higher brain functions, creativity, abstract thinking ... the very essence of our consciousness. Without lucid dreaming, we would simply be empty vessels, essentially soulless beings whose sole purpose was to eat and procreate, like the most basic protozoa of our planet."

Harry froze at the words, rendered inert by the suggestion. Marici knew it too, clinging so tight that it was almost painful under Harry's night robe. Deny dreams ... make humans into empty vessels ... into slaves, to do with what they would. Was that the ultimate plan of Voldemort and Hermione's Magisterium? Take away human consciousness, by taking away the ability to dream ... or the very energy that powered them?

Dust ... and Magic ... those energies existed even in non-magical people. Harry saw that now. He had lots of it, it helped him cast spells and brew potions and fly broomsticks. But architects and engineers had it, too ... and artists and musicians, poets and craftsmen and masters of trade, philosophers and mystics, prophets and sages ... all powered by the ability to think in abstract ways, to break established moulds and drive humanity on to newer and higher levels. All without knowing that this power lived deep inside them all along, helping them to achieve these lofty goals.

And Voldemort wanted to take all that away ... the Magisterium did, too. An anger rose in Harry so fierce that it throbbed in his chest. He wanted to cry out with it, to rile and fight, bite and tear at the very notion. But there it was, plain in front of his eyes and going nowhere. And, which froze his heart in an instant, they knew how to do it! They had practised it on poor Hermione's parents back in her world ... Voldemort's Magic, used to power Dust, to separate human from dæmon ... this callous, invisible, perfect new form of Intercision.

All Harry needed to know was how they were going to adapt that here, for this world. How was Voldemort going to take control of all the magic in existence ... and deny it to everyone he didn't want to have it? There would be a plan, oh there would definitely be a plan, one that was probably already in motion ... and it wasn't inconceivable that Harry, himself, might be part of it ... Hermione, too, tainted by association to him ... as Voldemort unleashed his ultimate vengeance weapon against them.

Harry shuddered in his night robe as the horror washed over him. The thought ran amok through his mind as he helped Neville back to their dorm and into bed. Harry lent him his quilt for the night, knowing he was far too awake to get back to sleep, showed him his technique for charging the runic spell, then watched over him from his own bed as Neville drifted into an uneasy sleep.

But Harry knew he would have no such luck. Rising from bed and curling up on the windowsill, he petted Marici's head awhile, where she poked out from his pocket, and gazed out over the silent Hogwarts grounds. Dappled by silver moonlight, the scene was stunning, with the vastness of the Forbidden Forest competing with the foreboding depths of the shimmering Great Late in a battle for his attention. They were both beautiful, in their own ways, and Harry wondered then if he'd always be able to appreciate them, or if he'd ever lose Marici ... and that any idea of beauty in his world would go with her.

Harry lamented the situation of Hermione's parents keenly just then. Alive, but not really so ... needing to eat and sleep and be bathed, but waking for little else besides. What sort of an existence was that? Harry was sure he wouldn't want anything of the sort. Not being able to think and feel and dream. What was the point if you couldn't do any of that?

But how vicious a scheme was it to take all that away? Harry knew Voldemort was callous and evil, of course he did, but the nature of it hadn't seemed quite so visceral before. Harry knew his world history, he was a good student. In the ten years he'd lived in Annwn he'd studied all the time. He didn't have much else to do. So he knew about fascist dictators and repressive regimes, and he bundled Voldemort in with criminals of that ilk. But it was all far away ... it had happened to someone else ... it didn't resonate with him at all, really.

But now it had come alive in his mind. He'd never felt the evil quite so close, or so personally, before. He could dream, he had a corporeal dæmon now ... and there were forces at work that wanted to take away both. Forces that had him in their crosshairs. The danger suddenly felt very real ... and Harry clung on to Marici as the fear of it surged through him in gut-churning waves.

He couldn't allow this, couldn't let it happen. And a part of his fraught mind whispered to him that it didn't have to ... that he had the power to somehow prevent it. But what was this power, and how did he unlock it? Then he remembered, with a shudder of shock, that he didn't unlock it at all.

Hermione did.

That's why Voldemort was targeting her. That's why he'd sent Quirrell and Lockhart after her. And who would he send next? For there would definitely be a next, he wasn't done with this by far, Hermione had been right about that, as usual. Voldemort couldn't let this go, couldn't afford to ... Harry and Hermione were simply that big a threat to him.

But what were a couple of kids supposed to do against a powerful, adult sorcerer with the power of an organisation like the Magisterium behind him? Harry shivered in fear as he considered that. Oh, where was Hermione! She gave Harry such courage, he shamelessly relied on her for her strength and steely resolve, robbing it from her to boost up his own. He realised just how much now, when she wasn't around to reinforce his heart. But she was miles away ... worlds away, even ... when she should be here, when Harry needed her the most.

He looked out across the grounds again, wondering where his best friend might be, looked up at the burning stars and wondered if she could see them too. He fondly remembered their night under the Aurora, just him and her and the dancing colours, as if there were nobody else in the world besides them. Harry had been happiest like that, he thought. No cares, no worries, just him and his closest friend, his closest person, to enjoy the beauty of the night together. He wished she could be here so they could enjoy this one, too.

But someone else had beaten them to it ... or, more accurately, something else had.

For Harry saw movement down below, or maybe Marici spotted it first, for the motions were distinctly animalistic in nature. Harry trained his eye hard, watching the hulking figure of something cross the moonlit lawns right beneath Gryffindor tower. Harry drew in a shocked breath, for the creature was broad and walking upright, even though it resembled a ...

"Wolf!" Marici hushed. "Harry! I'm sure that's the thing I saw in Trollesund! The thing that attacked the Grangers!"

"But what's it doing?" Harry whispered back, as a thrill of icy terror tickled across his neck. "It looks like it's talking to something."

"I think the more pressing question is what's it doing here?" Marici replied, lowly. "But you're right, it is conversing with another animal. Something small ... I can barely see it."

"It's too small to be a cat or a dog," Harry agreed. "Maybe a vole? Or a squirrel or ..."

"A rat!" Harry and Marici chorused together.

"We must have missed one when we were collecting food for Manasa," Harry quirked. "But why would ... whatever that is ... be talking to a rat?"

"I don't know, Harry. But look ... they're gone!"

Harry scanned the lawn, straining his eyes against the night and the patch of shadow that the creature had stepped into, but mysteriously never emerged from.

"Where did it go?" Harry fumed. "Those are open grasslands down there! There's no cover to hide in. So where are they?"

"I don't know, Harry ... I really don't know ..."

Harry frowned as he stared around at the empty grounds, and after a few minutes he started to wonder if he'd actually seen the creature at all. It was late and dark after all ... it might just have all been shadows and tricks of the moonlight.

Annoyed and confused, Harry slid off the windowsill and made it over to his bed. He curled under his ragged bedsheet, bemoaned his chivalry in donating his quilt to Neville, then tried to order the odd events of the night in his mind. He even considered taking out his own runestones to hep with process, but he was too disquieted for that. He must have imagined the whole episode, he decided eventually. The dæmon-assaulting beast couldn't have been here ... and talking to a rat! What was Harry thinking! He was going crazy in his teenage years.

He chuckled to himself and reached for the hangings on his four-poster, and just happened to glance over to Ron Weasley, who snorted out a snore at just that exact moment. And Harry's heart stopped between beats.

For his eyes fell on the new pet cage that Ron had acquired, the gate of which was flung wide open on the bedside table next to him ... and Scabbers the Rat was nowhere to be seen.