Chapter Three -- Readmission

A fake fortuneteller can be tolerated. But an authentic
soothsayer should be shot on sight. Cassandra did not get
half the kicking around she deserved.
	-- R.A. Heinlein

Harry landed inside one of the lower floors of the Astronomy tower. He slung his broom across his back, a rope securely tied to each end to hold it in place. He missed his father's map -- he probably could have made another one based on his memories, but he couldn't afford the time or the materials.

The tower was deserted. He hadn't expected anyone to be there, but he had worried. All he needed was for one person to notice him, and the Aurors would be on him in an instant. He had survived Azkaban before, during his daring rescue of Ginny Weasley, but he had no interest in visiting there again.

Harry opened the door into the hallways carefully. He looked down the hallway, but didn't see anything that would cause trouble. He didn't know if the paintings would be able to sense him past the Disillusionment Charm, but he hoped that even if they did, they would be too apathetic to call in reinforcements.

He walked along towards the stairs, keeping close to the wall. The paintings didn't seem to care if he was there, although he caught one or two of them looking at him as he passed.

Harry was almost to the stairs, when he heard a loud sound behind him. An almighty crash resounded through the hallway, followed by the sound of something metal bouncing, rattling as it went. He looked, and saw a suit of armor on the ground. Peeves floated above it, smiling broadly. He waved at Harry, then started flying down the hallway.

Steps on the stairs echoed from below. "Peeves!" Argus Filch's voice echoed from below. Harry looked back -- there was nowhere good to hide back there. He started to run up the stairs.

Up ahead, Harry heard voices. He froze against the wall, and listened. It sounded like Cornelius Fudge. "Mister Devlin, it was quite good of you to come. It's such a shame the rest of your family couldn't make it today."

"Yes," said another voice, one that sounded familiar, "Well, most of my family really doesn't care much for the wizarding world, I'm afraid. My mother's decision to marry a Squib caused some tension, as you might imagine."

Harry heard Filch still running up the stairs. There was no reason for him to continue past the floor Harry had come in on, but he didn't seem to be stopping. Harry risked a glance around the corner -- he saw Fudge, there, talking with a man who looked much like Lucius Malfoy, although he wore a Muggle tuxedo in place of wizard's robes, and his hair was black.

Fudge seemed to be sweating profusely. Neither of the two were looking towards the stairway, and there was an open door just across the hall from him, with a darkened room on the other side. Harry decided to risk it, and ran, trying to keep his weight on the balls of his feet to avoid the sound of footfalls.

He almost slid into the room, then pushed himself against the wall. Listening, he heard Fudge and Devlin still talking, although they seemed to be moving away. He listened for few moments longer, straining to make sure that there was no one else nearby. He heard the sound of something like cloth, waving in the wind, and soft footsteps.

Looking out the doorway, he saw Professor Snape marching past. Snape had his normal sour expression on his face. Harry knew he couldn't afford for Snape to find him; the last time they had seen each other, they had not been on good terms. He doubted very much that they would be any better off, now.

After the footsteps had finished echoing, Harry walked out the door and up the stairs. He had just reached the next landing when he heard another crash from above, and Filch's shout from below. Harry turned down the hallway, and stepped into the first open door. There was a dim light on, but no movement. He didn't think anyone was there.

He was wrong. The room was small, not much bigger than a broom closet. The light came from a small magical globe on the wall, which dimly lit the lone occupant, who lay under white sheets on a small cot.

Harry stood there, staring at the boy. He was thirteen, Harry realized, since he'd last seen him when he was just turning twelve. The last two years had not been kind to the boy. His face was drawn, his arms, which lay atop the sheet, almost skeletally thin. "Falco," Harry murmured under his breath, looking at the boy. "I'm sorry."

The boy had a scar on his forehead. Harry wondered for a moment if it was a sign of the magic that had protected him, but looking more closely, he could see it was only a sign of where his head had hit the metal caldron on its way down. Harry wondered what would happen if Falco woke up. Would he hate the scar, as Harry hated his, as a sign of the event that had stolen his chance at a normal life? Would he consider himself marked by Harry? Years from now, would there be Dark Arts books with the face of Falco Von Hoek printed on them, as there had been with Harry's?

Harry didn't know. He also didn't know how long he stood there before he heard the sound of footsteps outside. Sniffing, he smelled a scent, the scent of pungent incense. Harry looked out the door -- the goal of his visit tonight, Sybil Trelawney, was walking past.

Harry looked out into the corridor as she passed, and saw no one. He thanked his good fortune for having found her away from the rest of the guests. Quickly, he leapt up behind her, putting his wand to the side of her head. "Come with me, now," he commanded, pulling her back into Falco's room.

"Potter?" Trelawney's eyes widened, "What are you doing here? Don't hurt me, please, I'll call for the Aurors."

"I'm not here to hurt you," Harry replied, "I'm here to ask you a few questions about a prophecy. One that seems to include me. I also want to know anything you can tell me about a tower that uses Dark Magic, and which is located on an island north of Scotland."

To his great surprise, Trelawney smiled. "I knew you would come to me one day, asking for advice. I had not forseen it would be so soon, however. I can help you, Potter, but I do not think you will like what I have to say."

Harry didn't doubt it, as he never had liked what she had to say before, but he impatiently motioned for her to go on. Whatever was going to come, he needed to know more to face it.