The weeks following the Holiday Serenade were tumultuous for Harry.
Sally-Anne Perks officially became his girlfriend. The day after the ball she came to find Harry and delivered the goodnight kiss that they had neglected the night before. After the initial surprise wore off Harry decided he rather liked having a girlfriend, though at first he couldn't see what was so hard about it. Sally helped him with his History of Magic essays and accompanied him, Ron and Hermione to the rebuilt Three Broomsticks on Hogsmeade weekends. Sometimes she talked about problems in her life and gossiped about their other friends. She plotted with him about how to repair the breach between Ron and Hermione. Sometimes she liked to kiss him, which Harry didn't mind either. All in all, it was a fairly matched relationship, and highly beneficial to Harry in the aspect of the social hierarchy, according to Ron.
"A smart, beautiful girl, and she's even a Hufflepuff," Ron said in wonder. "The whole school's talking about you two and everyone's opinion of you has skyrocketed. Sally's the best thing that could ever happen to you after that- that thing that- happened last year." Ron still couldn't find an appropriate phrase to use in reference to the death of Hufflepuff prefect Cedric Diggory, Harry's opponent in the Triwizard Tournament.
Personally Harry didn't like Ron's portrayal of the good timing of Sally- Anne's interest in him. It made Harry sound sleazy, as if he had planned it. But he knew he hadn't- it really was just good timing. It wasn't his fault if his seeing Sally-Anne Perks inflated other people's opinion of him.
But then Harry began to resent the closeness that Sally wanted between them. It wasn't anything about Sally herself, but because his nightmares worsened in frequency and intensity, and it was getting increasingly hard to conceal his exhaustion and agony from Sally during the day. But there was nothing he could do to curtail the horrible nightmares that plagued him nightly. He was right behind Voldemort, watching as every murder was committed, forced to watch the evil wizard's wand perpetrate indescribable acts.
His only salvation was his Pensieve. The only way he could stop the images from staying in his brain when awake was by transferring them to his Pensieve. But when the memory was gone the pain remained. The bloody, gory horrors, the mutilations, the deaths burned in his mind- literally. Every flick of Voldemort's wand transmitted unspeakable pain to Harry's scar. Throughout the day, though the memories of his nightmares had left his mind, the lightning-bolt scar would recurrently sear with an excruciating magic fire. Harry had to work desperately not to faint in class. His schoolwork suffered from his constant headaches, and also from his falling asleep. When there was a lull in the migraines, Harry inevitably dozed off. Harry guessed that though he could tolerate sunlight, Voldemort probably loathed it, because he was quiescent during daylight hours. That was the only time that Harry could sleep without dreaming, although he was often wakened by the pain in his forehead.
In his dreams Harry knew for a fact that he was not really with Voldemort, that the rough swish of the Death Eaters' black cloaks around him and the jarring, bloodcurdling screams of their victims were just electrical impulses in his brain, that the whole scene was being carried out miles and miles away without his physical presence. He knew all of those facts- but he could not convince himself. It was all too real. The magic between himself and Voldemort was so complete that the sensations of Voldemort were felt by Harry in his nightmares as if he were actually there. That was the best and worst aspect of the magical world: that everything, visions, smells, sounds, feelings, could be surreal- and yet so vivid that it seemed real. The Pensieve, the organizer of one's memories, was a device that represented the upside of that double-edged concept. Harry's nightmares clearly represented the downside.
The old magic contained in Harry's lightning bolt scar was so potent that it could countermand other kinds of magic that Harry tried to cast on himself. The dreams magically binding Harry to Voldemort's side had reached a peak intensity that could not be suppressed by the potion for dreamless sleep that had worked before. Harry felt that Voldemort was closer now, closer and angrier and crazier than ever, and he could not sleep for fear of that feeling.
One night at the beginning of January he had a dream that was much more peaceful than his regular visions, but still disturbing. He dreamt that he floated in the air above hundreds of long sleek creatures that glided along a cold stone floor, shimmering silver in the pale moonlight shining through an open window. They filled up the wide corridor but the flow seemed endless, like a silvery river. The air was full of their soft hiss, gentle and non-threatening; but meaningless as an infant's cheerful cooing. Then Harry fell through the air, slowly, and landed on the soft surging bodies, and was borne away on the coldblooded current down the dark hallways, on a journey that he vaguely knew but could not recognize in the dark. And then the floor stopped existing and he fell again, but he was plummeting through a black void with the silver river flowing all round him; a boy lost in a waterfall cascading into darkness.
Wednesday, a few days later, they were eating breakfast in the Great Hall before classes when the doors suddenly slammed shut on their own, and green goo began to ooze down the walls from the ceiling. Then the blood-red outline of a snake materialized on the floor down the centre of the Great Hall and began to writhe. Several people fainted. Dumbledore blasted the doors open and the students and staff all ran out, terrified. Their meals were delivered directly to their common rooms for the rest of the day, while Dumbledore and the other Phoenixes endeavoured to understood how the Death Eaters had accomplished this prank.
Two nights after that incident, Harry dreamed he was with the Death Eaters in a Muggle neighbourhood at midnight. The Death Eaters dragged Muggles from their beds and floated them round in the air, playing with them, throwing them around as children toss a ball to each other. Most of the Muggles were badly injured in the "game," and one elderly man broke his neck falling off his own chimney. In his dream Harry saw the man falling, ran to catch him like a Golden Snitch in Quidditch- but he was too late, and the old Muggle hit the ground with a crunch. The man's blood was everywhere.
Harry woke up shaking uncontrollably. He ran from the room and was sick in the toilet down the hall. When he stopped he found Ron standing in the doorway, fear evident on his face.
"Your dreams are getting worse now, aren't they?" he whispered. Harry nodded. Ron said slowly, "Sometimes you scream in your sleep. You don't know you do it, but I always get jolted awake and reach for my wand. You scream like you're getting attacked. But it's not real, Harry, it's just in your dreams," he said. "They're only nightmares."
"They're too real," Harry said hoarsely, stumbling to the sink to rinse his mouth. He avoided looking in the mirror, fearing his reflection. When he finished he leaned on the sink and stared hard at Ron. "Promise you won't tell," he said.
"You need help," Ron protested.
"I don't want anyone to know," Harry said fiercely. Ron didn't understand, Harry thought. No one would understand. His pain was his own. The last time his prescient dreams had been made public, he had been labelled a lunatic and shunned by the magical world at large. No, he would endure this quietly.
Ron and Hermione were at a loss. Though they were not speaking to each other, Harry had wangled a promise from each not to divulge his secret nightmares; but they were separately desperate to tell Hagrid, Dumbledore, Professor Figg, anyone, because Harry had never looked so bad before. He was like a walking corpse, pale from fright and trauma, and increasingly more emaciated. Harry wasn't eating much anymore, Ron and Hermione had both noticed. Harry couldn't eat. The pain in his head blocked all thought and all sensations. He couldn't bring himself to eat anything.
Harry's appearance and misery were difficult to mask. He fell behind in assignments and consequently failed several tests and major projects. Professor Figg looked bewildered as she handed back his research project on the function of Shield Charms in duels.
"Potter, your paper was. well, convoluted and straggling, to put it bluntly. You rambled on for seventeen feet of parchment without making one proper point. Your research was incomplete and inaccurate." She looked exasperated. "Frankly, it's quite mediocre- not what I expected from you at all."
"I'm sorry, Professor," Harry mumbled, rubbing his eyes, and repeated what had become a standard and now meaningless answer to any enquiries about his condition. "I haven't been sleeping well."
Arabella Figg frowned deeply as she looked at him, but it was concern, and not anger, that furrowed her brow.
Later she went to the Headmaster's office to discuss Harry's declining test scores, but when she arrived she found several teachers already there, for the same reason.
"Headmaster, he used to be second in his class, after Hermione Granger," little Professor Flitwick said. "But he's failed three tests this month! I don't know what to do!"
"He looks so pale and tired all the time," Professor Sprout added. "He's nearly sleepwalking. He nearly sliced off his own finger with his pruning shears."
"He's doing worse than usual in History of Magic," Professor Binns said. "He doesn't even try to pretend to be awake during my lessons anymore."
"Look at this paper he handed in last week, Albus," Professor Figg said, waving Harry's research essay at Dumbledore. "It's terrible! It looks like he wrote it half-asleep."
"We're worried about 'im, Professor," Rubeus Hagrid said anxiously. "Have yeh seen 'im lately? Poor 'Arry looks like a ghost! And he won't say what's goin' on!"
"His marks have been plunging steadily since the beginning of the term," Professor McGonagall said as she thrust Harry's grades at Dumbledore. "Honestly, I don't know where his head's gone."
The Headmaster took the grades from Professor McGonagall and peered at them. "Thirty-two percent in Transfiguration?"
"He turned my desk into a polar bear," said Professor McGonagall. "When I tried to ask him what he was doing he said he hadn't been sleeping well, and yawned in my face. Albus- the O.W.L.'s are coming up in June. If this continues, he'll fail himself out of Hogwarts."
"What do you think I can do about it?" Dumbledore said mildly.
"We want yeh to fix 'im!" Hagrid said. "He'll talk to you."
So on Sunday evening, Harry was summoned to Dumbledore's office.
"Harry, it has been brought to my attention that you are not well," Dumbledore began as Harry sat slumped in a high-backed armchair before the big desk. Dumbledore paused to look Harry over carefully. With the increased Death Eater activity inside and outside the school, he had been neglecting the supervision of Harry Potter, the Order of the Phoenix's barometer to Voldemort's feelings. Harry did look especially pale, Dumbledore reflected; his skin had an almost translucent sheen to it. His green eyes were downcast behind the thick round glasses and the jet-black hair did not appear to have been combed in several days. But most important was a detail the teachers had not noticed: Harry's lightning bolt scar, normally faded pink, was livid red, darkened crimson with pounding blood. Harry kept reaching up unconsciously to touch it.
"You remember that I asked you to come tell me about anything unusual you might see or feel," Dumbledore continued, and paused again. "Is there anything wrong, Harry?"
"I haven't been sleeping well," Harry said mechanically.
Dumbledore looked at him, but Harry refused to meet the intense blue gaze. "Anything else?"
"Sally-Anne Perks broke up with me today," Harry said softly, staring at his white hands. They had only been together a month, but Sally-Anne already knew him enough to know that she would have to be specially gentle.
"I'm sorry Harry, it's nothing against you. You're a wonderful person and I really do like you, but it feels like you're far away from me. We'll still be good friends."
Dumbledore surveyed Harry. "Miss Perks would not cause you to be fall ill like this, Harry. What is affecting you so badly that you would accidentally almost amputate your own fingers in Herbology, or absentmindedly Transfigure a desk into a rampaging polar bear, or let Professor Snape believe that he won at last?"
Harry finally looked up. Dumbledore smiled. "You did not complete the seventh-year-level potion that Professor Snape assigned yesterday, despite the fact that Professor Figg tells me she taught it to you this past summer and you know exactly how to brew it. Professor Snape was positively jubilant this morning at breakfast. What is wrong, Harry?"
"I've been having nightmares," Harry blurted out. He couldn't contain himself any longer. He almost did want everyone to know, to hear his excuse for his poor performance in school. He couldn't bear the thought of Snape believing he had bested Harry Potter. "Muggles and wizards being murdered by Voldemort and the Death Eaters. I see it like I'm there with him, and then I read about the deaths in the Daily Prophet the next morning. The dreams won't stop, not even with magic, and they're getting worse and worse. I didn't tell you before because I didn't think there was anything that anyone could do to stop-" He halted and stared at his hands again. They were shaking.
The Headmaster smiled sadly at him. "Harry, no one can help you if they don't know there's a problem."
"That's not what I meant," Harry said. "I meant there's nothing you can do to stop the murders. I see them as they're happening. By the time I wake up they're over, and the press is already there taking pictures for the newspaper."
"I see," said Dumbledore. "If we can end the murders first, the dreams won't be happening. But what about stopping the dreams themselves?"
"I don't know what to do about the dreams," Harry said dully. "There's no magic to stop nightmares like these. I tried brewing a Draught of the Living Death, I tried casting a Stupefying Spell on myself- nothing works. I'm always sleepy, but if I do fall asleep, I know I'll see Voldemort killing people.
"I'm sorry about not paying attention in class and falling asleep, but during the day is the only time I can sleep without dreaming. Voldemort never acts during the day. I think he hates daylight. He probably takes that time to think about what he'll do after nightfall. And- about what he'll do to me."
"To you?"
"When he gets to me." Harry's hand moved to his scar again. "My scar keeps burning like it does when Voldemort is close or angry. I can't concentrate on lessons."
"Do you record your nightmares, Harry?" Dumbledore asked gently. "In your Pensieve?" Harry nodded. "May I see?"
"You want me to get it?" said Harry, starting to stand up.
"That won't be necessary," said Dumbledore, flicking his wand. "Accio!" The door flew open and after a moment, Harry's Pensieve, Summoned from Gryffindor Tower, soared through the air and landed on the desk.
They both gazed into the shifting silver liquid. Dumbledore smiled grimly. "Perhaps I should have gotten you a deeper one. You've nearly filled this one up."
After a few seconds the surface cleared and they watched Harry walking down an empty grey street at night. "This is from two weeks ago," Harry said. Dumbledore leaned forward and somersaulted into the Pensieve. Harry stared down at Dumbledore, who swiftly followed dream-Harry down the street, purple robes billowing out behind him.
Harry was stumbling along the sidewalk, dragged unwillingly forward by his restlessly marching feet. He turned in at a squeaky-hinged gate, which Dumbledore recognized as the entrance to the home of Zelda Nettles, a spinster Ministry witch who had been found dead in her Topsham home two weeks before. Dumbledore had known her since childhood.
The front door was wide open. Harry went in, Dumbledore close behind.
Harry padded upstairs. The house was dark but light spilled under the door to one bedroom. Harry went towards it- but stopped short at a strident scream from the closed door. The scream of pain and terror, the witch's last futile plea for aid, made Dumbledore shiver.
Then as Harry and Dumbledore stood frozen in the hall, an imperious voice from behind the door shouted, "Avada Kedavra!" There was a burst of green light under the door and the scream ceased abruptly. Harry gasped and staggered backwards, bracing himself on the banister with one hand, while the other flew to his forehead. Before his fingers reached his hairline, Dumbledore caught sight of the lightning bolt scar- now violently black. Harry fell to the floor. Dumbledore almost reached out to catch him, before he remembered that neither of them was really here.
The house was silent. Then the door opened and a tall black-cloaked wizard towered in the doorway. Harry and Dumbledore both cried out, and Harry clasped both hands to his scar. Lord Voldemort walked right past them, deaf and blind to their presence.
"Come along," he called over his shoulder. "We have time to exterminate a few more Ministry flunkies tonight."
Four masked, hooded Death Eaters walked out of the room and filed downstairs after their master. Harry remained at the top of the stairs, staring after them under his hands. When the front door slammed his trance broke and he turned slowly to look through the open doorway of Zelda Nettles' bedroom. Dumbledore looked in as well, though he knew what was there. It had already been described to him in detail by Mundungus Fletcher, whom he had sent to investigate the murder.
"She was lying on her side, facing the door. The sheets were rumpled- she'd been surprised in bed. She was tortured before she died. There was blood everywhere. She was lying in a pool of it, her eyes wide open in shock. She must have been terrified. Her wand was on the carpet by her hand- she might have been holding it when she died, but it was snapped in half. The Muggle neighbours called the police a little after midnight to report a loud scream from Zelda Nettles' house. We had to Obliviate all their memories, but only one could tell us that he had seen a group of people in black cloaks leaving the house and vanishing off the front porch."
Dumbledore had seen enough. He crouched and then jumped up, and did a backwards somersault, hitting the floor of his office with a thud. Harry Potter stood looking at him.
"Now you've seen it," he said quietly, and sat down in the high-backed armchair. "After killing that witch they Apparated to two more wizards' houses and killed them too, and I followed and saw those with my own eyes. It happens every night. Even if I'd told you about the killings right after I dreamed them, you couldn't have stopped them happening. And I can never see the faces of the Death Eaters, only Voldemort's. The rest always wear masks. I don't know who they are."
Dumbledore sat down heavily in his own chair. "Harry... I don't know what to tell you. These are important dreams, even if you don't think so. Now I know exactly how Zelda Nettles died. I know that your nightmares seem real because they are actually happening at the same time as you dream them. But staying awake to avoid them won't help you. Harry, look at me." Harry looked up from his trembling hands. "You need sleep. You look like a ghost. Your schoolwork and your relationships suffer.
"Harry, I am going to give you a respite from school. For the next two nights you will stay awake to retake tests and complete all outstanding assignments. Tomorrow morning, when you think that Voldemort is at rest, you will go to sleep, and sleep through the day.
"While you are sleeping or working I will take your Pensieve, if I may, and with the help of a few Aurors I will try to sift through your dreams and decipher Voldemort's activities. When your furlough is finished we will hopefully have gleaned important clues to his whereabouts and plans, and you will be well rested to try returning to your regular classes."
Harry looked uncertain. "Will that work?"
Dumbledore shrugged and smiled mildly. "I've never known anyone with this problem. But this is worth a try."
Harry was placed in the library with a pile of textbooks and a list of all the assignments he had to redo. He was determined not to let down Dumbledore. He willingly lent the Phoenixes his Pensieve with all his memories because it could hold the key to the mystery of Lord Voldemort's hiding place and of how the Death Eaters could enter the school.
Harry had some trouble explaining the plan to Ron and Hermione that night. Ron was skeptical. "Your dreams come from your own mind, not from outside," he said. "Does Dumbledore expect you to have the answer imprinted in your brain?"
"Ron, you're the one who's been living in the magical world your whole life," Harry said impatiently. "Why are you the only one who doesn't believe that what I dream is actually happening?"
"I don't pretend to understand how you could have instantaneous visions," Hermione said. "To me it seems too much like Divination, like seeing things in ox skulls and tea leaves, which you know I don't believe in. But I suppose the reason Ron won't believe it either is because it shows a magical link between you and Voldemort that we don't want to think is there. The thought that you can see in your mind what he's doing... It really is a frightening prospect, Harry."
Harry knew what she and Ron were scared of. "It doesn't mean that we're anything alike. It just means that there's a strong magic spell between Voldemort and I."
"That's frightening enough," Ron said.
He and Hermione glanced at each other for a fraction of a second and then looked away immediately. Harry sighed. It had been like this since the Holiday Serenade, just like it had been after the Yule Ball last year. It was as if they had an unspoken agreement to be perfectly civil but eerily formal to each other, and to never look at each other directly. Harry knew that Ron was dying to be able to talk to Hermione like normal, but Hermione refused to even speak to Harry about Ron. "That rude brute? Can't we talk about something else?" she'd answer flatly when Harry brought up Ron.
To Harry's knowledge, Ron and Hermione did not even confer about him. He was surprised and slightly hurt. In the past whenever he had had strange dreams or scar-aches, his two best friends had found comfort in discussing their concerns for him with each other. Now Ron looked like he was full to bursting all the time, and Hermione had developed a twitch in her left eye from bottling everything up inside.
Harry spent the night rewriting assignments that he had neglected or erred in. Professor Figg brewed a complex experimental potion that worked like Muggle caffeine and kept him wide awake all night. Harry was relieved not to have to dream about Voldemort. The school was dead quiet, and with no distractions Harry worked like a wizard possessed. He finished his work shortly after dawn and delivered everything to his teachers. Professor Snape alone was horribly disappointed to find Harry's overdue work on his desk, including a perfect Delusory Dram, the advanced potion that Harry alone in the class had been expected to figure out, but that he had failed because of his scar pains.
He slept all the next day, waking occasionally from intense pain in his scar; but they vanished as quickly as they came, and he fell asleep again after each episode.
In light of Harry's absence, or perhaps as a direct effect of it, Ron and Hermione recovered their vocal cords.
In Herbology Professor Sprout announced, "Today we'll be feeding the Man- Eating Fangworts. It will be a little break from regular lessons. I was going to teach an important class today, but-" Her eyes flickered to Harry's empty place. "-I want complete attendance for that lesson, because it may be material covered on the O.W.L.'s in June."
She showed them how to toss bits of raw red meat underhand into the slavering red gullets of the Man-Eating Fangwort plants, which would reportedly snap up fingers if one wasn't careful to stand quite far back. At first the students were worried about angering the Fangworts, which looked like overgrown Venus Flytraps, if they missed, but after a while the Fangworts began to amuse them by quickly stretching out their stems to snatch the meat from midair. Soon there was meat flying in all directions as the students teased the Fangworts, playing catch with them like dogs.
As Ron stood grimacing and wiping his hands on his robes, Hermione approached cautiously. She stood next to him, and threw red meat into a fangwort's waiting maw in silence for a while; but then she couldn't contain herself and blurted out, "Ron, I'm really worried about Harry."
"So am I," said Ron. "But I thought you weren't speaking to me."
"I can't stand it any longer. I wish I had been able to talk to you before. We could have agreed that it would have been better to tell Dumbledore about Harry's nightmares."
"It's worked out now, hasn't it?" Ron was curt. He was still angry and confused by her weeks of snubbing him for no apparent reason.
Hermione sighed. "Ron, I'm sorry about slighting you since the ball. Truly I am. But at the time I didn't think of it as- as defending me." They were both pink now- they didn't usually discuss the problems between them openly like this. Lavender Brown saw them standing together, looking awkward, and started to come near, looking questioningly at Hermione- do you want me to save you? Hermione shook her head quickly and Lavender retreated with a shrug.
"I guess it might have been a little embarrassing for you," Ron murmured grudgingly. He believed his actions against Malfoy to have been quite honourable and nearing gallantry, but clearly Hermione hadn't thought of the fight like that. He smiled ruefully. "Maybe I should stop trying to help you. I'm still serving detentions from when I took the blame for turning Malfoy into a football. But that time, you were, er, defending me."
Hermione smiled too. "Now we're even."
Seeing them smiling at each other, Sally-Anne Perks judged it safe to approach. She sidled over warily and said, "Would either of you know where Harry is today?"
"Library," Ron said. Sally looked puzzled, so he explained, "Dumbledore let him take today off to catch up on homework and tests that he failed. He- hadn't been sleeping well." The phrase, the understated and overused automatic response of Harry's, caused Ron and Hermione to exchange glances, but now they did not feel compelled to look away quickly.
Sally still looked concerned. "I thought he looked a little paler this month. It wasn't me, was it? Not that I broke up with him because he didn't look well. I did it because he seemed detached all the time."
"Harry has a lot of problems in his life," Hermione said. "But he'll be back tomorrow for the big lesson." Then she shrieked in surprise. They had been standing still too long, and a Fangwort had leaned over and was pulling Hermione's hair in its sharp little fangs. Ron freed her, shouting, "That's why it's called 'Man-Eating!' "
While Harry slept the blissful sleep of the blank-minded and Hermione and Ron let bygones be bygones, Albus Dumbledore closeted himself in his office with Phoenixes Perdita Clemens, Mundungus Fletcher, Quentin Trimble, and Harry's Pensieve. All day they wandered through Harry's gruesome nightmares and strove to decipher Voldemort's actions. But they made little headway. Voldemort's movements were arbitrary and unplanned. It was his spontaneity that made him so elusive. Some nights he ventured from his hiding place and went on a killing spree, and some nights he stayed in concealment. In some dreams he did not even appear at all, such as in the dream with the snakes; but as Harry believed that dream to have been a regular random firing-off of the synapses in his brain, he did not think it worth revealing to the Order of the Phoenix, whose time was precious.
And as the research wore on, Albus's worries increased. He knew that Voldemort's yearn to kill Harry was growing by the day. In September he had been relieved to get Harry back to Hogwarts and under his close watch. In October the Azkaban jailbreak had been discovered, and still he had believed that he could keep Harry safe. But then those pranks had happened. The Dark Mark had glittered poison-green in the sky- the calling- card of the Death Eaters. No student would ever dare to use that incantation, not even the worst Slytherins.
And later Maldora Lestrange had broken onto school property. How had she done it? Bella Figg refused outright to ask her. Seeing her estranged daughter after the theft of the Feather-Light broomstick had rapidly unravelled ten years of emotional repairs. Albus would not order Bella to speak to Maldora Lestrange; it was not necessary because he believed that he could discover the Death Eaters' secret entryway on his own. The Order of the Phoenix had investigated every possible angle and Bella and Fletch had scoured the school on Christmas- to no avail. The solution still escaped them. Meanwhile Voldemort continued killing Ministry witches and wizards almost every night, and the Order of the Phoenix was powerless to stop him because they had no idea what he was going to do next.
The best clue that Harry's Pensieve afforded them was that Voldemort seemed to be minimizing his own role in the killing excursions. In the recent dreams, the voice that cried out the Killing Curse was more and more likely to belong to a Death Eater instead of Lord Voldemort himself. Though the amount of killings did not lessen, the participation of Voldemort was apparently waning.
At first Perdita and Trimble were inclined to think that perhaps killing did not appeal to Voldemort anymore. "Perhaps he wearying of the exertion of murdering," Trimble suggested dryly.
"It's possible," said Perdita. "He's only human, isn't he?"
"No, he is anything but human," said Albus. "Technically yes, he is living in a human body, so he is human in that sense; all the immortality potions he took long ago have warped his soul so badly that he is most definitely not human."
"Does that mean he can't have emotions like remorse or guilt?" Perdita asked.
"No one knows," said Albus. "At least, we've never had the occasion to find out whether he felt remorse for the murders, if that's what you mean. But it is highly unlikely that Voldemort would wish he could get out of the killing business. He enjoys it. He always has. He relishes killing others, because it is a sign to them that they are mortal- and he is not."
"What's a lot more likely," Fletch said, "is that the first times, he was setting an example for the Death Eaters, training them, you know? And now that they get it, he can back out gradually until they feel secure enough to go out on their own, without him to lead them."
"You're saying they're afraid of going out alone?" Trimble said. "Maybe they're afraid of getting caught and not being able to escape."
"No, I've got it," said Perdita excitedly. "It's that Voldemort's still aiming to keep everything under wraps. They want to remain anonymous and they want him to protect them. Something's missing from Voldemort's plan, something crucial that delays his re-emergence. He's not quite ready yet to take over the world, so the Death Eaters don't think it's safe to reveal their identities. Once he gains control, though, they'll certainly show themselves, because then they'll be at the top of the pecking order, so to speak."
"Now there is an intriguing theory," mused Albus. "You mean that the Death Eaters who go out night after night with Voldemort, killing Muggles and Ministry wizards, are in reality well-known or well-respected witches and wizards, and would prefer to keep their social status until they think it safe to reveal their allegiance to Voldemort."
"Yet for some reason Voldemort is retreating from his loyal servants," said Trimble. "Why?
"Here's what I think," he went on. "He trained them to be more autonomous because he's going to devote his time and energy to something else- probably the missing link to his plan that Perdita mentioned."
"Potter," said all four at the same time.
"That Voldemort! Dogged little bugger, isn't he?" said Fletch. "Fifteen years, and he still hasn't given up on killing the boy."
"Potter was the reason for his original downfall," said Trimble. "If I knew the boy better I could theorize about how it's going to be done. But the only time I saw him was when he chanced into the Leaky Cauldron with that giant fellow, Hagrid, a few years ago."
"The ones who know him best are Sirius Black and Bella Figg, his godparents," said Albus.
Perdita jumped. "Dios mio! Sirius I knew about, but Bella's the godmother? That would explain why she's so fierce about Harry." She looked a little sad. They all knew she was thinking of her still-born child.
"Since Sirius is hiding out in Hogsmeade at the moment, perhaps we'd better consult Bella," Albus said.
Bella was both helpful and completely unhelpful. She would not hypothesize on the manner of Harry Potter's murder by Voldemort; but when the various dreams viewed in the Pensieve were described to her, as well as Albus' conversation with Harry himself, her insight provided a wholly different angle on Voldemort's plot.
"He only comes out at night," she said immediately after Dumbledore finished explaining. "That's the most significant thing I've heard in your whole research summary. He never comes out during the day, only at night, between the hours of 11 p.m. and 3 a.m. if Potter's sleeping habits give any clue."
"Harry said it was because Voldemort hated daylight," said Albus.
"Why? It doesn't hurt him. Maybe he does hate it, but it's unreasonable to think that he ventures out in that small four-hour window of time for the sole reason of despising sunlight. He's not a vampire, and even if he was, the time between sunset and sunrise is much longer than those few hours."
Her ice-blue eyes sparkled in her excitement. "It's a clue to his hiding place, Albus. He really cannot come out earlier than eleven at night or later than three in the morning. Something blocks him during the day. Perdita's right, he does want to stay concealed until he has a chance to kill Potter. That's why he doesn't come out during the day: because someone would see him and know that the rumours, denied by the Ministry, were true. And he doesn't want that- yet.
"What we need to watch out for is random uses of the Killing Curse. If someone sees Voldemort before they are meant to, Voldemort will kill them on the spot, as fast as he can, for no more reason than they have witnessed something they weren't supposed to. So we'll have to keep a lookout for what seems like a casual use of the Killing Curse. But we'll have to look all over- Voldemort could be anywhere."
Sally-Anne Perks officially became his girlfriend. The day after the ball she came to find Harry and delivered the goodnight kiss that they had neglected the night before. After the initial surprise wore off Harry decided he rather liked having a girlfriend, though at first he couldn't see what was so hard about it. Sally helped him with his History of Magic essays and accompanied him, Ron and Hermione to the rebuilt Three Broomsticks on Hogsmeade weekends. Sometimes she talked about problems in her life and gossiped about their other friends. She plotted with him about how to repair the breach between Ron and Hermione. Sometimes she liked to kiss him, which Harry didn't mind either. All in all, it was a fairly matched relationship, and highly beneficial to Harry in the aspect of the social hierarchy, according to Ron.
"A smart, beautiful girl, and she's even a Hufflepuff," Ron said in wonder. "The whole school's talking about you two and everyone's opinion of you has skyrocketed. Sally's the best thing that could ever happen to you after that- that thing that- happened last year." Ron still couldn't find an appropriate phrase to use in reference to the death of Hufflepuff prefect Cedric Diggory, Harry's opponent in the Triwizard Tournament.
Personally Harry didn't like Ron's portrayal of the good timing of Sally- Anne's interest in him. It made Harry sound sleazy, as if he had planned it. But he knew he hadn't- it really was just good timing. It wasn't his fault if his seeing Sally-Anne Perks inflated other people's opinion of him.
But then Harry began to resent the closeness that Sally wanted between them. It wasn't anything about Sally herself, but because his nightmares worsened in frequency and intensity, and it was getting increasingly hard to conceal his exhaustion and agony from Sally during the day. But there was nothing he could do to curtail the horrible nightmares that plagued him nightly. He was right behind Voldemort, watching as every murder was committed, forced to watch the evil wizard's wand perpetrate indescribable acts.
His only salvation was his Pensieve. The only way he could stop the images from staying in his brain when awake was by transferring them to his Pensieve. But when the memory was gone the pain remained. The bloody, gory horrors, the mutilations, the deaths burned in his mind- literally. Every flick of Voldemort's wand transmitted unspeakable pain to Harry's scar. Throughout the day, though the memories of his nightmares had left his mind, the lightning-bolt scar would recurrently sear with an excruciating magic fire. Harry had to work desperately not to faint in class. His schoolwork suffered from his constant headaches, and also from his falling asleep. When there was a lull in the migraines, Harry inevitably dozed off. Harry guessed that though he could tolerate sunlight, Voldemort probably loathed it, because he was quiescent during daylight hours. That was the only time that Harry could sleep without dreaming, although he was often wakened by the pain in his forehead.
In his dreams Harry knew for a fact that he was not really with Voldemort, that the rough swish of the Death Eaters' black cloaks around him and the jarring, bloodcurdling screams of their victims were just electrical impulses in his brain, that the whole scene was being carried out miles and miles away without his physical presence. He knew all of those facts- but he could not convince himself. It was all too real. The magic between himself and Voldemort was so complete that the sensations of Voldemort were felt by Harry in his nightmares as if he were actually there. That was the best and worst aspect of the magical world: that everything, visions, smells, sounds, feelings, could be surreal- and yet so vivid that it seemed real. The Pensieve, the organizer of one's memories, was a device that represented the upside of that double-edged concept. Harry's nightmares clearly represented the downside.
The old magic contained in Harry's lightning bolt scar was so potent that it could countermand other kinds of magic that Harry tried to cast on himself. The dreams magically binding Harry to Voldemort's side had reached a peak intensity that could not be suppressed by the potion for dreamless sleep that had worked before. Harry felt that Voldemort was closer now, closer and angrier and crazier than ever, and he could not sleep for fear of that feeling.
One night at the beginning of January he had a dream that was much more peaceful than his regular visions, but still disturbing. He dreamt that he floated in the air above hundreds of long sleek creatures that glided along a cold stone floor, shimmering silver in the pale moonlight shining through an open window. They filled up the wide corridor but the flow seemed endless, like a silvery river. The air was full of their soft hiss, gentle and non-threatening; but meaningless as an infant's cheerful cooing. Then Harry fell through the air, slowly, and landed on the soft surging bodies, and was borne away on the coldblooded current down the dark hallways, on a journey that he vaguely knew but could not recognize in the dark. And then the floor stopped existing and he fell again, but he was plummeting through a black void with the silver river flowing all round him; a boy lost in a waterfall cascading into darkness.
Wednesday, a few days later, they were eating breakfast in the Great Hall before classes when the doors suddenly slammed shut on their own, and green goo began to ooze down the walls from the ceiling. Then the blood-red outline of a snake materialized on the floor down the centre of the Great Hall and began to writhe. Several people fainted. Dumbledore blasted the doors open and the students and staff all ran out, terrified. Their meals were delivered directly to their common rooms for the rest of the day, while Dumbledore and the other Phoenixes endeavoured to understood how the Death Eaters had accomplished this prank.
Two nights after that incident, Harry dreamed he was with the Death Eaters in a Muggle neighbourhood at midnight. The Death Eaters dragged Muggles from their beds and floated them round in the air, playing with them, throwing them around as children toss a ball to each other. Most of the Muggles were badly injured in the "game," and one elderly man broke his neck falling off his own chimney. In his dream Harry saw the man falling, ran to catch him like a Golden Snitch in Quidditch- but he was too late, and the old Muggle hit the ground with a crunch. The man's blood was everywhere.
Harry woke up shaking uncontrollably. He ran from the room and was sick in the toilet down the hall. When he stopped he found Ron standing in the doorway, fear evident on his face.
"Your dreams are getting worse now, aren't they?" he whispered. Harry nodded. Ron said slowly, "Sometimes you scream in your sleep. You don't know you do it, but I always get jolted awake and reach for my wand. You scream like you're getting attacked. But it's not real, Harry, it's just in your dreams," he said. "They're only nightmares."
"They're too real," Harry said hoarsely, stumbling to the sink to rinse his mouth. He avoided looking in the mirror, fearing his reflection. When he finished he leaned on the sink and stared hard at Ron. "Promise you won't tell," he said.
"You need help," Ron protested.
"I don't want anyone to know," Harry said fiercely. Ron didn't understand, Harry thought. No one would understand. His pain was his own. The last time his prescient dreams had been made public, he had been labelled a lunatic and shunned by the magical world at large. No, he would endure this quietly.
Ron and Hermione were at a loss. Though they were not speaking to each other, Harry had wangled a promise from each not to divulge his secret nightmares; but they were separately desperate to tell Hagrid, Dumbledore, Professor Figg, anyone, because Harry had never looked so bad before. He was like a walking corpse, pale from fright and trauma, and increasingly more emaciated. Harry wasn't eating much anymore, Ron and Hermione had both noticed. Harry couldn't eat. The pain in his head blocked all thought and all sensations. He couldn't bring himself to eat anything.
Harry's appearance and misery were difficult to mask. He fell behind in assignments and consequently failed several tests and major projects. Professor Figg looked bewildered as she handed back his research project on the function of Shield Charms in duels.
"Potter, your paper was. well, convoluted and straggling, to put it bluntly. You rambled on for seventeen feet of parchment without making one proper point. Your research was incomplete and inaccurate." She looked exasperated. "Frankly, it's quite mediocre- not what I expected from you at all."
"I'm sorry, Professor," Harry mumbled, rubbing his eyes, and repeated what had become a standard and now meaningless answer to any enquiries about his condition. "I haven't been sleeping well."
Arabella Figg frowned deeply as she looked at him, but it was concern, and not anger, that furrowed her brow.
Later she went to the Headmaster's office to discuss Harry's declining test scores, but when she arrived she found several teachers already there, for the same reason.
"Headmaster, he used to be second in his class, after Hermione Granger," little Professor Flitwick said. "But he's failed three tests this month! I don't know what to do!"
"He looks so pale and tired all the time," Professor Sprout added. "He's nearly sleepwalking. He nearly sliced off his own finger with his pruning shears."
"He's doing worse than usual in History of Magic," Professor Binns said. "He doesn't even try to pretend to be awake during my lessons anymore."
"Look at this paper he handed in last week, Albus," Professor Figg said, waving Harry's research essay at Dumbledore. "It's terrible! It looks like he wrote it half-asleep."
"We're worried about 'im, Professor," Rubeus Hagrid said anxiously. "Have yeh seen 'im lately? Poor 'Arry looks like a ghost! And he won't say what's goin' on!"
"His marks have been plunging steadily since the beginning of the term," Professor McGonagall said as she thrust Harry's grades at Dumbledore. "Honestly, I don't know where his head's gone."
The Headmaster took the grades from Professor McGonagall and peered at them. "Thirty-two percent in Transfiguration?"
"He turned my desk into a polar bear," said Professor McGonagall. "When I tried to ask him what he was doing he said he hadn't been sleeping well, and yawned in my face. Albus- the O.W.L.'s are coming up in June. If this continues, he'll fail himself out of Hogwarts."
"What do you think I can do about it?" Dumbledore said mildly.
"We want yeh to fix 'im!" Hagrid said. "He'll talk to you."
So on Sunday evening, Harry was summoned to Dumbledore's office.
"Harry, it has been brought to my attention that you are not well," Dumbledore began as Harry sat slumped in a high-backed armchair before the big desk. Dumbledore paused to look Harry over carefully. With the increased Death Eater activity inside and outside the school, he had been neglecting the supervision of Harry Potter, the Order of the Phoenix's barometer to Voldemort's feelings. Harry did look especially pale, Dumbledore reflected; his skin had an almost translucent sheen to it. His green eyes were downcast behind the thick round glasses and the jet-black hair did not appear to have been combed in several days. But most important was a detail the teachers had not noticed: Harry's lightning bolt scar, normally faded pink, was livid red, darkened crimson with pounding blood. Harry kept reaching up unconsciously to touch it.
"You remember that I asked you to come tell me about anything unusual you might see or feel," Dumbledore continued, and paused again. "Is there anything wrong, Harry?"
"I haven't been sleeping well," Harry said mechanically.
Dumbledore looked at him, but Harry refused to meet the intense blue gaze. "Anything else?"
"Sally-Anne Perks broke up with me today," Harry said softly, staring at his white hands. They had only been together a month, but Sally-Anne already knew him enough to know that she would have to be specially gentle.
"I'm sorry Harry, it's nothing against you. You're a wonderful person and I really do like you, but it feels like you're far away from me. We'll still be good friends."
Dumbledore surveyed Harry. "Miss Perks would not cause you to be fall ill like this, Harry. What is affecting you so badly that you would accidentally almost amputate your own fingers in Herbology, or absentmindedly Transfigure a desk into a rampaging polar bear, or let Professor Snape believe that he won at last?"
Harry finally looked up. Dumbledore smiled. "You did not complete the seventh-year-level potion that Professor Snape assigned yesterday, despite the fact that Professor Figg tells me she taught it to you this past summer and you know exactly how to brew it. Professor Snape was positively jubilant this morning at breakfast. What is wrong, Harry?"
"I've been having nightmares," Harry blurted out. He couldn't contain himself any longer. He almost did want everyone to know, to hear his excuse for his poor performance in school. He couldn't bear the thought of Snape believing he had bested Harry Potter. "Muggles and wizards being murdered by Voldemort and the Death Eaters. I see it like I'm there with him, and then I read about the deaths in the Daily Prophet the next morning. The dreams won't stop, not even with magic, and they're getting worse and worse. I didn't tell you before because I didn't think there was anything that anyone could do to stop-" He halted and stared at his hands again. They were shaking.
The Headmaster smiled sadly at him. "Harry, no one can help you if they don't know there's a problem."
"That's not what I meant," Harry said. "I meant there's nothing you can do to stop the murders. I see them as they're happening. By the time I wake up they're over, and the press is already there taking pictures for the newspaper."
"I see," said Dumbledore. "If we can end the murders first, the dreams won't be happening. But what about stopping the dreams themselves?"
"I don't know what to do about the dreams," Harry said dully. "There's no magic to stop nightmares like these. I tried brewing a Draught of the Living Death, I tried casting a Stupefying Spell on myself- nothing works. I'm always sleepy, but if I do fall asleep, I know I'll see Voldemort killing people.
"I'm sorry about not paying attention in class and falling asleep, but during the day is the only time I can sleep without dreaming. Voldemort never acts during the day. I think he hates daylight. He probably takes that time to think about what he'll do after nightfall. And- about what he'll do to me."
"To you?"
"When he gets to me." Harry's hand moved to his scar again. "My scar keeps burning like it does when Voldemort is close or angry. I can't concentrate on lessons."
"Do you record your nightmares, Harry?" Dumbledore asked gently. "In your Pensieve?" Harry nodded. "May I see?"
"You want me to get it?" said Harry, starting to stand up.
"That won't be necessary," said Dumbledore, flicking his wand. "Accio!" The door flew open and after a moment, Harry's Pensieve, Summoned from Gryffindor Tower, soared through the air and landed on the desk.
They both gazed into the shifting silver liquid. Dumbledore smiled grimly. "Perhaps I should have gotten you a deeper one. You've nearly filled this one up."
After a few seconds the surface cleared and they watched Harry walking down an empty grey street at night. "This is from two weeks ago," Harry said. Dumbledore leaned forward and somersaulted into the Pensieve. Harry stared down at Dumbledore, who swiftly followed dream-Harry down the street, purple robes billowing out behind him.
Harry was stumbling along the sidewalk, dragged unwillingly forward by his restlessly marching feet. He turned in at a squeaky-hinged gate, which Dumbledore recognized as the entrance to the home of Zelda Nettles, a spinster Ministry witch who had been found dead in her Topsham home two weeks before. Dumbledore had known her since childhood.
The front door was wide open. Harry went in, Dumbledore close behind.
Harry padded upstairs. The house was dark but light spilled under the door to one bedroom. Harry went towards it- but stopped short at a strident scream from the closed door. The scream of pain and terror, the witch's last futile plea for aid, made Dumbledore shiver.
Then as Harry and Dumbledore stood frozen in the hall, an imperious voice from behind the door shouted, "Avada Kedavra!" There was a burst of green light under the door and the scream ceased abruptly. Harry gasped and staggered backwards, bracing himself on the banister with one hand, while the other flew to his forehead. Before his fingers reached his hairline, Dumbledore caught sight of the lightning bolt scar- now violently black. Harry fell to the floor. Dumbledore almost reached out to catch him, before he remembered that neither of them was really here.
The house was silent. Then the door opened and a tall black-cloaked wizard towered in the doorway. Harry and Dumbledore both cried out, and Harry clasped both hands to his scar. Lord Voldemort walked right past them, deaf and blind to their presence.
"Come along," he called over his shoulder. "We have time to exterminate a few more Ministry flunkies tonight."
Four masked, hooded Death Eaters walked out of the room and filed downstairs after their master. Harry remained at the top of the stairs, staring after them under his hands. When the front door slammed his trance broke and he turned slowly to look through the open doorway of Zelda Nettles' bedroom. Dumbledore looked in as well, though he knew what was there. It had already been described to him in detail by Mundungus Fletcher, whom he had sent to investigate the murder.
"She was lying on her side, facing the door. The sheets were rumpled- she'd been surprised in bed. She was tortured before she died. There was blood everywhere. She was lying in a pool of it, her eyes wide open in shock. She must have been terrified. Her wand was on the carpet by her hand- she might have been holding it when she died, but it was snapped in half. The Muggle neighbours called the police a little after midnight to report a loud scream from Zelda Nettles' house. We had to Obliviate all their memories, but only one could tell us that he had seen a group of people in black cloaks leaving the house and vanishing off the front porch."
Dumbledore had seen enough. He crouched and then jumped up, and did a backwards somersault, hitting the floor of his office with a thud. Harry Potter stood looking at him.
"Now you've seen it," he said quietly, and sat down in the high-backed armchair. "After killing that witch they Apparated to two more wizards' houses and killed them too, and I followed and saw those with my own eyes. It happens every night. Even if I'd told you about the killings right after I dreamed them, you couldn't have stopped them happening. And I can never see the faces of the Death Eaters, only Voldemort's. The rest always wear masks. I don't know who they are."
Dumbledore sat down heavily in his own chair. "Harry... I don't know what to tell you. These are important dreams, even if you don't think so. Now I know exactly how Zelda Nettles died. I know that your nightmares seem real because they are actually happening at the same time as you dream them. But staying awake to avoid them won't help you. Harry, look at me." Harry looked up from his trembling hands. "You need sleep. You look like a ghost. Your schoolwork and your relationships suffer.
"Harry, I am going to give you a respite from school. For the next two nights you will stay awake to retake tests and complete all outstanding assignments. Tomorrow morning, when you think that Voldemort is at rest, you will go to sleep, and sleep through the day.
"While you are sleeping or working I will take your Pensieve, if I may, and with the help of a few Aurors I will try to sift through your dreams and decipher Voldemort's activities. When your furlough is finished we will hopefully have gleaned important clues to his whereabouts and plans, and you will be well rested to try returning to your regular classes."
Harry looked uncertain. "Will that work?"
Dumbledore shrugged and smiled mildly. "I've never known anyone with this problem. But this is worth a try."
Harry was placed in the library with a pile of textbooks and a list of all the assignments he had to redo. He was determined not to let down Dumbledore. He willingly lent the Phoenixes his Pensieve with all his memories because it could hold the key to the mystery of Lord Voldemort's hiding place and of how the Death Eaters could enter the school.
Harry had some trouble explaining the plan to Ron and Hermione that night. Ron was skeptical. "Your dreams come from your own mind, not from outside," he said. "Does Dumbledore expect you to have the answer imprinted in your brain?"
"Ron, you're the one who's been living in the magical world your whole life," Harry said impatiently. "Why are you the only one who doesn't believe that what I dream is actually happening?"
"I don't pretend to understand how you could have instantaneous visions," Hermione said. "To me it seems too much like Divination, like seeing things in ox skulls and tea leaves, which you know I don't believe in. But I suppose the reason Ron won't believe it either is because it shows a magical link between you and Voldemort that we don't want to think is there. The thought that you can see in your mind what he's doing... It really is a frightening prospect, Harry."
Harry knew what she and Ron were scared of. "It doesn't mean that we're anything alike. It just means that there's a strong magic spell between Voldemort and I."
"That's frightening enough," Ron said.
He and Hermione glanced at each other for a fraction of a second and then looked away immediately. Harry sighed. It had been like this since the Holiday Serenade, just like it had been after the Yule Ball last year. It was as if they had an unspoken agreement to be perfectly civil but eerily formal to each other, and to never look at each other directly. Harry knew that Ron was dying to be able to talk to Hermione like normal, but Hermione refused to even speak to Harry about Ron. "That rude brute? Can't we talk about something else?" she'd answer flatly when Harry brought up Ron.
To Harry's knowledge, Ron and Hermione did not even confer about him. He was surprised and slightly hurt. In the past whenever he had had strange dreams or scar-aches, his two best friends had found comfort in discussing their concerns for him with each other. Now Ron looked like he was full to bursting all the time, and Hermione had developed a twitch in her left eye from bottling everything up inside.
Harry spent the night rewriting assignments that he had neglected or erred in. Professor Figg brewed a complex experimental potion that worked like Muggle caffeine and kept him wide awake all night. Harry was relieved not to have to dream about Voldemort. The school was dead quiet, and with no distractions Harry worked like a wizard possessed. He finished his work shortly after dawn and delivered everything to his teachers. Professor Snape alone was horribly disappointed to find Harry's overdue work on his desk, including a perfect Delusory Dram, the advanced potion that Harry alone in the class had been expected to figure out, but that he had failed because of his scar pains.
He slept all the next day, waking occasionally from intense pain in his scar; but they vanished as quickly as they came, and he fell asleep again after each episode.
In light of Harry's absence, or perhaps as a direct effect of it, Ron and Hermione recovered their vocal cords.
In Herbology Professor Sprout announced, "Today we'll be feeding the Man- Eating Fangworts. It will be a little break from regular lessons. I was going to teach an important class today, but-" Her eyes flickered to Harry's empty place. "-I want complete attendance for that lesson, because it may be material covered on the O.W.L.'s in June."
She showed them how to toss bits of raw red meat underhand into the slavering red gullets of the Man-Eating Fangwort plants, which would reportedly snap up fingers if one wasn't careful to stand quite far back. At first the students were worried about angering the Fangworts, which looked like overgrown Venus Flytraps, if they missed, but after a while the Fangworts began to amuse them by quickly stretching out their stems to snatch the meat from midair. Soon there was meat flying in all directions as the students teased the Fangworts, playing catch with them like dogs.
As Ron stood grimacing and wiping his hands on his robes, Hermione approached cautiously. She stood next to him, and threw red meat into a fangwort's waiting maw in silence for a while; but then she couldn't contain herself and blurted out, "Ron, I'm really worried about Harry."
"So am I," said Ron. "But I thought you weren't speaking to me."
"I can't stand it any longer. I wish I had been able to talk to you before. We could have agreed that it would have been better to tell Dumbledore about Harry's nightmares."
"It's worked out now, hasn't it?" Ron was curt. He was still angry and confused by her weeks of snubbing him for no apparent reason.
Hermione sighed. "Ron, I'm sorry about slighting you since the ball. Truly I am. But at the time I didn't think of it as- as defending me." They were both pink now- they didn't usually discuss the problems between them openly like this. Lavender Brown saw them standing together, looking awkward, and started to come near, looking questioningly at Hermione- do you want me to save you? Hermione shook her head quickly and Lavender retreated with a shrug.
"I guess it might have been a little embarrassing for you," Ron murmured grudgingly. He believed his actions against Malfoy to have been quite honourable and nearing gallantry, but clearly Hermione hadn't thought of the fight like that. He smiled ruefully. "Maybe I should stop trying to help you. I'm still serving detentions from when I took the blame for turning Malfoy into a football. But that time, you were, er, defending me."
Hermione smiled too. "Now we're even."
Seeing them smiling at each other, Sally-Anne Perks judged it safe to approach. She sidled over warily and said, "Would either of you know where Harry is today?"
"Library," Ron said. Sally looked puzzled, so he explained, "Dumbledore let him take today off to catch up on homework and tests that he failed. He- hadn't been sleeping well." The phrase, the understated and overused automatic response of Harry's, caused Ron and Hermione to exchange glances, but now they did not feel compelled to look away quickly.
Sally still looked concerned. "I thought he looked a little paler this month. It wasn't me, was it? Not that I broke up with him because he didn't look well. I did it because he seemed detached all the time."
"Harry has a lot of problems in his life," Hermione said. "But he'll be back tomorrow for the big lesson." Then she shrieked in surprise. They had been standing still too long, and a Fangwort had leaned over and was pulling Hermione's hair in its sharp little fangs. Ron freed her, shouting, "That's why it's called 'Man-Eating!' "
While Harry slept the blissful sleep of the blank-minded and Hermione and Ron let bygones be bygones, Albus Dumbledore closeted himself in his office with Phoenixes Perdita Clemens, Mundungus Fletcher, Quentin Trimble, and Harry's Pensieve. All day they wandered through Harry's gruesome nightmares and strove to decipher Voldemort's actions. But they made little headway. Voldemort's movements were arbitrary and unplanned. It was his spontaneity that made him so elusive. Some nights he ventured from his hiding place and went on a killing spree, and some nights he stayed in concealment. In some dreams he did not even appear at all, such as in the dream with the snakes; but as Harry believed that dream to have been a regular random firing-off of the synapses in his brain, he did not think it worth revealing to the Order of the Phoenix, whose time was precious.
And as the research wore on, Albus's worries increased. He knew that Voldemort's yearn to kill Harry was growing by the day. In September he had been relieved to get Harry back to Hogwarts and under his close watch. In October the Azkaban jailbreak had been discovered, and still he had believed that he could keep Harry safe. But then those pranks had happened. The Dark Mark had glittered poison-green in the sky- the calling- card of the Death Eaters. No student would ever dare to use that incantation, not even the worst Slytherins.
And later Maldora Lestrange had broken onto school property. How had she done it? Bella Figg refused outright to ask her. Seeing her estranged daughter after the theft of the Feather-Light broomstick had rapidly unravelled ten years of emotional repairs. Albus would not order Bella to speak to Maldora Lestrange; it was not necessary because he believed that he could discover the Death Eaters' secret entryway on his own. The Order of the Phoenix had investigated every possible angle and Bella and Fletch had scoured the school on Christmas- to no avail. The solution still escaped them. Meanwhile Voldemort continued killing Ministry witches and wizards almost every night, and the Order of the Phoenix was powerless to stop him because they had no idea what he was going to do next.
The best clue that Harry's Pensieve afforded them was that Voldemort seemed to be minimizing his own role in the killing excursions. In the recent dreams, the voice that cried out the Killing Curse was more and more likely to belong to a Death Eater instead of Lord Voldemort himself. Though the amount of killings did not lessen, the participation of Voldemort was apparently waning.
At first Perdita and Trimble were inclined to think that perhaps killing did not appeal to Voldemort anymore. "Perhaps he wearying of the exertion of murdering," Trimble suggested dryly.
"It's possible," said Perdita. "He's only human, isn't he?"
"No, he is anything but human," said Albus. "Technically yes, he is living in a human body, so he is human in that sense; all the immortality potions he took long ago have warped his soul so badly that he is most definitely not human."
"Does that mean he can't have emotions like remorse or guilt?" Perdita asked.
"No one knows," said Albus. "At least, we've never had the occasion to find out whether he felt remorse for the murders, if that's what you mean. But it is highly unlikely that Voldemort would wish he could get out of the killing business. He enjoys it. He always has. He relishes killing others, because it is a sign to them that they are mortal- and he is not."
"What's a lot more likely," Fletch said, "is that the first times, he was setting an example for the Death Eaters, training them, you know? And now that they get it, he can back out gradually until they feel secure enough to go out on their own, without him to lead them."
"You're saying they're afraid of going out alone?" Trimble said. "Maybe they're afraid of getting caught and not being able to escape."
"No, I've got it," said Perdita excitedly. "It's that Voldemort's still aiming to keep everything under wraps. They want to remain anonymous and they want him to protect them. Something's missing from Voldemort's plan, something crucial that delays his re-emergence. He's not quite ready yet to take over the world, so the Death Eaters don't think it's safe to reveal their identities. Once he gains control, though, they'll certainly show themselves, because then they'll be at the top of the pecking order, so to speak."
"Now there is an intriguing theory," mused Albus. "You mean that the Death Eaters who go out night after night with Voldemort, killing Muggles and Ministry wizards, are in reality well-known or well-respected witches and wizards, and would prefer to keep their social status until they think it safe to reveal their allegiance to Voldemort."
"Yet for some reason Voldemort is retreating from his loyal servants," said Trimble. "Why?
"Here's what I think," he went on. "He trained them to be more autonomous because he's going to devote his time and energy to something else- probably the missing link to his plan that Perdita mentioned."
"Potter," said all four at the same time.
"That Voldemort! Dogged little bugger, isn't he?" said Fletch. "Fifteen years, and he still hasn't given up on killing the boy."
"Potter was the reason for his original downfall," said Trimble. "If I knew the boy better I could theorize about how it's going to be done. But the only time I saw him was when he chanced into the Leaky Cauldron with that giant fellow, Hagrid, a few years ago."
"The ones who know him best are Sirius Black and Bella Figg, his godparents," said Albus.
Perdita jumped. "Dios mio! Sirius I knew about, but Bella's the godmother? That would explain why she's so fierce about Harry." She looked a little sad. They all knew she was thinking of her still-born child.
"Since Sirius is hiding out in Hogsmeade at the moment, perhaps we'd better consult Bella," Albus said.
Bella was both helpful and completely unhelpful. She would not hypothesize on the manner of Harry Potter's murder by Voldemort; but when the various dreams viewed in the Pensieve were described to her, as well as Albus' conversation with Harry himself, her insight provided a wholly different angle on Voldemort's plot.
"He only comes out at night," she said immediately after Dumbledore finished explaining. "That's the most significant thing I've heard in your whole research summary. He never comes out during the day, only at night, between the hours of 11 p.m. and 3 a.m. if Potter's sleeping habits give any clue."
"Harry said it was because Voldemort hated daylight," said Albus.
"Why? It doesn't hurt him. Maybe he does hate it, but it's unreasonable to think that he ventures out in that small four-hour window of time for the sole reason of despising sunlight. He's not a vampire, and even if he was, the time between sunset and sunrise is much longer than those few hours."
Her ice-blue eyes sparkled in her excitement. "It's a clue to his hiding place, Albus. He really cannot come out earlier than eleven at night or later than three in the morning. Something blocks him during the day. Perdita's right, he does want to stay concealed until he has a chance to kill Potter. That's why he doesn't come out during the day: because someone would see him and know that the rumours, denied by the Ministry, were true. And he doesn't want that- yet.
"What we need to watch out for is random uses of the Killing Curse. If someone sees Voldemort before they are meant to, Voldemort will kill them on the spot, as fast as he can, for no more reason than they have witnessed something they weren't supposed to. So we'll have to keep a lookout for what seems like a casual use of the Killing Curse. But we'll have to look all over- Voldemort could be anywhere."
