The next few weeks were quiet. There were no trips to Hogsmeade, overheard conversations, intrusive Dementors, or inquisitive acquaintances. But Harry could not forget the way Peter had laid out his suspicions; with a great deal of regret, and the odd feeling that he was going without something as essential as his wand, Harry remained as distant from Ginny as he could be. If he had thought that this would cool his attraction toward her, he was dead wrong. If anything, it spurred him on, until spinning elaborate fantasies of what they could do together if people didn't think they were brother and sister became a part of his daily routine.

For her part, she didn't say anything, but folded in with the larger crowd with what looked like supreme ease. It took him a couple of weeks to realize that, with her social nature, she had been holding back in order to hang out with him. Whereas before, they had spent most of their days together before parting, however reluctantly, for different classes, now Harry was lucky if they sat together in class and had a meal together.

Harry was still scowling over having missed having lunch with Ginny when he slouched into Old Bones's class and took his seat. For once, he was early to class, only to find the Professor seated atop his flying carpet, meditating. The others arrived, peered up at him, then sat at their desks and took out their things.

Harry leaned forward and to the right. "What's up with him?" he whispered, gesturing toward Old Bones, who still hovered on his flying carpet and holding the meditative pose he'd had since they'd walked in.

"No clue," James whispered back. "He'll do this sometimes."

"Probably had a bad omen," snickered Peter.

"Looks like more than one," said Sirius.

The carpet rippled, but other than his wild hair bobbing up and down, Old Bones did not move.

"What do we do?" asked Harry.

"Study," the other three chorused.

Harry glanced again at Old Bones – who hovered there, fingertips touching thumb, forming a circle. With a shrug, he reached into his bag and pulled out one of Dorcas Meadowes's small books at random. Divination was, unfortunately, a bit of a chore. There were just too many forms of it, with too many different names. It was overly specialized, he thought, irritated anew that he'd have to manage to memorize a hundred different "-mancies" if he wanted a NEWT in it.

He opened to a page at random. "But do I really want a NEWT?" he muttered.

"Always," said James. "You always want the NEWT. Study like a good boy, Peverell."

"I'd rather a salamander," Sirius put in.

Contrary to what he'd just said to Harry, James did not pull out a Divination textbook, but a rather thick book called Tricky Transfigurations. Rather industriously, he set himself up with a quill and ink. Harry looked down at his own text. Other than a couple of murmurs from Sirius and Peter, the classroom settled into silence. Perhaps, if Old Bones's meditating form were not there, they would not be so keen on study. But there he remained, floating in front of them, position unchanged.

Harry glanced down at the words in the small appendix at the back of Dorcas Meadowes' book. The whole thing had been annotated, which had annoyed him at first. Now he found it rather easier to study with a handy reference. But soon, all the words began to swim together. Pressing his fingers against his eyes, underneath his glasses, he groaned. Perhaps he'd had something a bit off for lunch, for paired with the way his eyes were swimming, there was an odd sensation in his belly. It felt like anticipation, which was quite at odds with the headache growing steadily between his temples.

"All right, Peverell?" asked James.

Harry dropped his hands. Little lights dazzled his eyes. "'M fine," he grunted. Another glance at Old Bones told him the old man hadn't moved an inch… it was only the flying carpet that moved in tiny ripples.

Steadily, his headache increased in intensity, pace by pace with the rolling sensation in the pit of his belly.

With a deep breath, Harry forced himself to bend over his text. But the words were not so much swimming as they were swirling, forming bits of nonsense.

His scar twitched.

Harry rubbed at it – or where it ought to be. It was disguised for now, to prevent people questioning how he'd received such an injury. But he could feel it. He knew it was there. And right now, it was the source from which pain radiated. The pressure did not help; Harry pressed harder until his eyes watered.

"Peverell? Peverell!"

But before he could answer James, there was a great jerk in his stomach–

"It is done, then?"

The Death Eater before him bowed. "It was as you commanded, My Lord." There was a fervency in his tone that pleased him. "It was done at the Ministry. Let them chase their tails and gather up their suspicions."

"I am pleased with you."

The Death Eater bowed deeper. When he replied, his voice was thick. "Anything, my Lord. I will do anything."

"Killing the sacriphant is good enough – for now. He was only ever a false hope for them, but even false hope can be… dangerous."

"Your plan will not be thwarted, my Lord."

"Of course it will not. Now, come. Follow me."

"Anywhere, my Lord."

Water washed over him; Harry sat up, spluttering, swiping his face with his hand. Two concerned faces appeared in front of him. Their images doubled. For a long moment, Harry forgot about the time travel, forgot that he was now living in 1978 and had done for months, and felt another great jolt in his belly to see his father and Sirius Black. But then reason asserted itself.

Harry coughed.

"What was that?" Peter asked; he stood a little behind the other two, arms folded.

"I think it was a – a fit," said James. His hazel eyes were bright with concern. "Are you all right, Peverell? Let's get you to the hospital wing…"

"No," Harry asserted, forcing himself to sit up. "It was just"-a vision of Voldemort, something that happens at times–"a bit of a headache."

James pursed his lips. "I don't think that's wise," he said. "I think you ought to go to the hospital wing… Madam Pomfrey can fix you up with something."

"She doesn't need to waste a potion on me," said Harry. There was a puddle of water on the floor around him. With great dignity, he stood up and sluiced the water off himself and his robes. There was still a fading pain in his scar, but it was just that: fading. Gritting his teeth, he vanished the water from the floor as well. "I'm fine."

"Clearly," said James, voice dry as autumn leaves.

"Let him be, James," Sirius piped up. "If he doesn't want to go to the hospital wing, he doesn't want to go to the hospital wing."

James subsided.

Harry looked up at Old Bones. There he still sat, having not noticed at all what was going on in his classroom. It was unusual, wasn't it? But lucky for him, Harry, who had no doubt he would've been forced to go to the hospital wing were Old Bones fully in charge of his class at the moment.

But his momentary happiness did not last long. Slumping into his chair, he once more pressed his fingers to his scar, which pulsed as though to the beat of someone else's heart, for it was not synchronized with his own. It beat along to its own rhythm. Distubed, Harry let his hand fall. The others were looking at him and whispering amongst themselves; Harry ignored this, and tried to appear as nonchalant as he could. But inside, he wondered why. Why, even now, when Voldemort did not even know he existed, did he peer into his mind and experience things that he ought not to be able to do?

There's something funny about that Potter kid. It had been Mad-Eye Moody who had said that, after Harry had seen Arthur Weasley attacked while he guarded the Department of Mysteries. And even though those words had been spoken far in the future, they remained true here and now.

Whenever you go, there you are.

It was Dorcas Meadowes who had said that. At the moment, it had been comforting – Harry could not screw the past up so badly that he could write himself, Ginny, or Sirius out of existence – but now it seemed a weight upon his shoulders. For it was not just Harry himself, but it was the visions as well. The dream on Halloween… with Voldemort taking the blood from the basilisk… Harry had nearly convinced himself that it had been only a dream. But this? It hadn't been.

The restlessness this disturbance caused had him first on his feet when class was over, shoving everything into his bag, and throwing the strap over his shoulder. He didn't wait for any of them; he suddenly wanted out of that classroom as badly as he often had wanted to when it had been Sybill Trelawney as professor, not Old Bones. Was there an esoteric sort of 'mancy that Harry was unconsciously using? He did not much like being a weathervane for Voldemort's moods…

He bypassed dinner; instead, he took his dark mood out onto the grounds. Not even bothering to return to Gryffindor Tower, he used the Summoning Charm to bring his broomstick to him. "Accio!" he shouted into the growing darkness. "Accio, accio, accio!"

It was very early March and still cold in the Highlands; cold was in the wind and rising from the ground. But Harry pushed onward, pushed himself to perform tricks he had not done since he was playing Quidditch. He swerved in and out, pretending there was an ugly team playing against him. There was no Snitch to catch, but he pretended there was, pressing his broom forward as fast as it would go.

When, finally, the cold got to him, seeping into his robes and cooling his skin. It seemed to have frozen his scar, as well, which had finally stopped its pounding. Slowly, Harry drifted downward, grateful for his head to have cleared.

To his surprise, seated cross-legged next to his bag, illuminated in an orange sort of glow that revealed a warming charm, was Ginny. On her face was an expression of mild concern. Despite the wind, despite the cold, warmth filled him at the sight of her. His face felt oddly locked together, and yet it cracked enough to smile.

"Your dad said you fainted in class," she said, scrambling to her feet and dusting off her robes.

"I did, yeah," said Harry, still smiling.

Her lips quirked.

A bit of the odd, hollow feeling he'd been experiencing since Valentine's Day – an entire month – filled. He gestured her to the stands, wanting to keep her with him, even though the last thing he wanted to talk about with her was Voldemort inside his head. Their arms brushed as they walked; Harry could only marvel at the fact that the more he distanced himself from her and the salacious gossip he'd stumbled upon, the more he wanted to be near her.

Perhaps it was something he could contemplate later, when he was alone.

"You're all right, then?" she asked, once they were huddled next to each other on the bottom seat in the stands. The wind howled over him.

"How did you find me?" Harry asked, instead of answering her question.

"When Mary said she saw you heading out to the grounds, it wasn't hard to figure out," said Ginny. "Hagrid's still off with Newt Scamander, isn't he? I didn't think anything else would keep you out here so long."

His body curved toward hers outside his own volition. "Did they know you came out here?"

Her eyes shuttered and she leaned away from him. "No," she said, annoyed. "Though why that should – nevermind. I just came to check in on you. It's the sisterly thing to do."

It was Harry's turn to shift away from her. Even more than the brisk wind and ice in the air, it was this particular reminder – coming from Ginny – that in the eyes of 1978, they were brother and sister, that chilled him. And suddenly, it was not just what his parents and their friends would think. It was hard to forget the way Sirius had so resolutely wiped James's memory of Harry's confession. His hands twisted in his robes.

"You're right," said Harry, "it is the sisterly thing to do."

Her gaze flicked to his and then off to the rings standing across from them. She swallowed.

Harry looked away.

"What happened in Divination?" she asked abruptly. "James said he thought you ought to go to the hospital wing."

"Nothing happened," said Harry, shrugging even though she was still not looking at him. The warmth was receding; part of him wanted to grab onto it. "I just had a headache."

She stood in a jerky motion, with little of her usual grace. "Is that what you would tell Ron or Hermione?" she said.

Harry contemplated that for as long as he dared. "Yes." It wasn't even a lie. Forcing himself to his feet, he grabbed his broom, slung it over his shoulders. "I just needed fresh air," he said. "But now my toes are freezing off…"

The smile she gave him this time was reluctant. The question Are you sure? hovered in the air between them, nearly making the air shimmer with its intensity. There were a lot of things that was causing conflict within Harry: wanting to keep Ginny safe was not one of them. So he ducked his head, kept his distance, and pushed himself into a quick stride. But even though he wasn't in conflict over keeping her safe from questions, regret filled his every step.

HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP

"Peverell!"

James's shout startled Harry enough he dropped his buttered toast in his lap.

"What?" he said. His head was still throbbing from whatever vision he'd had in Divination the day before. Fresh pain waved over him. It did not help that Ginny sat across from him, expression stony. It was not fair that, even looking annoyed with him, she was very pretty.

"Look!" A copy of the Daily Prophet was thrust toward him. Harry blinked at it, forcing the moving pictures on the cover to come into focus. WIZARD FOUND DEAD AT MINISTRY marched across the top of the paper, the lettering large and somehow grim. It was bad news, but what had it to do with him? Harry peered closer at the picture of a thin-faced, nervous-looking man. His nose was a bulb on his face, and he scratched at it, absently, as Harry watched. Then, tilting his head, he looked closer. There was something familiar about him, wasn't there?

"It's him — the man from Hogsmeade, the ones the Dementors were after!"

Harry let out a huff of breath. That was it.

"He's dead?" Harry snatched the paper, pulling it closer. "He looks different, though!"

"There were Dementors in Hogsmeade?"

The odd note in Ginny's tone jerked Harry's attention toward her.

"Your brother didn't tell you?" James asked.

"No, he didn't," said Ginny.

They shared a long look. Harry kept his lips pressed tightly together. Then, with a flicker of her eyelid, and a lift of her lip that was more sneer than smile — he was in trouble, he knew it — she said: "Well, read it, would you?"

Neck warming, he ducked his head.

Per her unspoken instruction, he read out loud:

The Department of Pox and Plague, home to the study of grisly illness besetting the wizarding community in Britain, was home to an even grislier event: a murder. Wolfgang Alves, 48, was a long-time employee of the Department. He was found dead in an office by John Easton, 21, a squib, and part of the Magical Maintenance staff.

"He was dead as dead, not a scratch on 'im!" Easton related to us. "Had to be th' Killin' Curse, dinnit?"

Edgar Bones, 39, Deputy Head of said Department refused to comment, even innocent queries as to Alves's role in the Department in which he had worked since achieving his OWLs and leaving school for a career in the Ministry. This level of secrecy is usually reserved for the Department of Mysteries, but perhaps allowance can be made for what must be a true shock to the Department.

It was less of a shock to his family. His sister, Marla Alves-Daggett, 55, said she never thought he would last this long. "He was sickly… ever since we took a trip to Greece when he was seven, he was sickly. Got medusa pox, after falling into a pit full of 'em, he did, and barely survived. They bit him all up all over and left behind their disease. Healers had to work night and day, and the hospital soothsayer took one look at him and told Mum and Dad to say their goodbyes — from a distance, of course. Well, he rallied, obviously, but every time he got ill, I figured, 'this is it, Marla, he isn't going to make it through this one.' It's just ever so much a shock that my brother was murdered. Are you certain? His heart didn't just… fail?"

As shocking as it is for Marla, it is just as much of a shock to the rest of us. If one is not safe within the Ministry itself, what hope do the rest of us have? Very little, it would seem. (for more on INCREASED DARK MARK SIGHTINGS, see page 4).

Harry finished reading.

"But are we sure it was You-Know-Who?" asked Peter, scared and anxious. "Couldn't it have been, you know, what that sister said? His heart failed?"

"The Daily Prophet seems to think not," said Sirius. "I wonder what he did for Pox and Plague?"

"And why be so secretive?" Ginny put in.

Absently, Harry rubbed at his scar. There was an idea floating there, just beyond the bounds of his consciousness. Damn it, he this the man Voldemort had just ordered killed? If so, why? And why had the Ministry been chasing him down, using Dementors to ensure they got him back? Drumming his fingers on the table, he cudgeled his thoughts, trying to place the pieces of the puzzle together. But the one that wouldn't fit – the one that confused him – was that Edgar Bones had once been in the Order of the Phoenix, and surely–

"Awfully quiet over there, Peverell," said James.

"He's been quiet a lot lately," Ginny muttered, shooting him a look.

Just yesterday, Voldemort had been happy upon receiving tidings of this man's death, Harry was certain of it.

"I'm just trying to work out what he was doing for the Ministry," said Harry. "I hadn't even heard of the Department until – you know – Hogsmeade." Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Ginny flicking her hair over her shoulder. She was annoyed, all right.

"But what does it matter what he did?" James asked suddenly. "He died."

All of them shrugged. There was a layer of silence over the rest of the meal; it lay over Harry's companions like a troublesome cloud. He supposed that it disturbed them, to know that Voldemort could reach as far as the interior of the Ministry. Harry, who had not long before fought a battle with his Death Eaters in that exact location, could not find the news that a man had been murdered there overly surprising.

Throughout the rest of the day, Harry anticipated his meeting with Sirius and Ginny even more than he had before. He could tell Sirius about the vision he'd had…

But when he arrived at the Room of Requirement later that day, after his very last class, only Ginny was there, sitting cross-legged on a giant, tufted armchair, holding a book in her lap that was nearly as large as her. Harry checked himself just inside, allowing himself to take a breath; she'd just come from Care of Magical Creatures, and there was a streak of dirt crossing her cheek. Her eyes were half-closed – not due to sleepiness, but due to concentration – and her lips were moving soundlessly. Gaze caught, he tried, half-heartedly, to read what she was saying.

Finally, he cleared his throat. "Erm, hi," he said.

There was a reckoning coming; they hadn't had a private moment alone together since breakfast.

The book slammed shut with a finality that raised a cloud of dust from it.

"I–"

But before Harry could get out an apology – or an explanation, Sirius strode in, face like a thundercloud, and said, "Dumbledore's in a meeting, but he wants to talk to us," he said. "Let's go… the sooner that's over, the better."

Harry was completely diverted. "What's he want to meet with us for?"

"Am I going too?" Ginny asked coolly.

"Of course," Harry said firmly.

There was a softening around her eyes, and she was rather gentler with the giant book she was reading than she had been when she'd slammed it shut.

"Bit of light reading?" Harry teased, trying to smile.

"I, yeah, I was a bit curious about–"

"Please," Sirius broke in. "As I said, we'll get out of there quicker the sooner we go."

Harry saw his own exasperation reflected on Ginny's face. But rather than start an argument with Sirius, Harry shoved his hands in the pockets of his robes and followed Sirius out of the Room of Requirement. Sirius led the way. Harry walked close enough to Ginny that their arms brushed each other; he couldn't resist giving her little sidelong looks. They were fleeting ones; but she kept her gaze pointed straight ahead, her small nose pointed upward.

Sighing, Harry turned back to Sirius. Both of his companions, Harry realized, were annoyed for some reason or another. Sirius did not really want to meet with Dumbledore: Had he truly wanted to do so, the Room would have created a doorway to the Headmaster's office, wouldn't it? Sirius's negative feelings toward Dumbledore seemed to wax and wane. They'd been a united front of annoyance when Harry and Ginny had escaped to Godric's Hollow, and Harry had thought that represented a softening in Sirius's attitude toward Dumbledore. But it hadn't, not entirely.

Sirius snapped a curt word at the gargoyles guarding the entrance to Dumbledore's office. They sprang aside with a salute and a sidelong look of what Harry thought was sympathy, and the stairs were revealed.

Whoever it was Dumbledore was meeting, they were still there.

All three of them paused outside the door, where angry voices were heard.

"-thought the Auror Department was meant to protect the Ministry."

"As I already said, that's a job and a half," retorted Mad-Eye Moody. "We can't be everywhere. And I've told you before – we've traitors in the organization. That damned little sensory charm was just the first of it, I'm sure."

"We can't trust everyone," said Frank Longbottom. "And it's hardly fit you're blaming us."

"I will blame you," growled a new but slightly familiar voice. "Who was it who sent Dementors after him? Bloody Dementors, for fuck's sake–"

"Edgar–"

"Dementors! After a sacriphant!"

Beside him, Ginny startled.

"What?" Harry whispered.

"A sacriph–"

"Gentlemen," interrupted Dumbledore, "I fear our conversation has devolved into ever-widening circles. There is no easy answer to all of this; everything is complicated further by the fact the Ministry is riddled with… supporters of Lord Voldemort."

Something crashed to the floor; whatever it was was delicate, and it shattered.

"Damn it, Dumbledore," Edgar Bones said weakly. "My heart's beating that fast."

"At least whoever is doing all this hasn't leaked out it was a sacriphant who was killed," Moody said. There was the sound of wood slamming against the floor. "If we want the entire population to panic, that'll do it."

"Yes, it is good there is some discretion," said Dumbledore. "But speaking of which, I am afraid we are no longer alone. Sol Black is here with his wards."

There was cursing from inside the office. Then, after a moment of silence, the latch on the door clicked and it swung open. Sirius strode in like he was meant to be there; Harry was more hesitant, uncomfortable under the gaze of Moody, Frank Longbottom, and Edgar Bones. All were standing; there was a tea cup broken on the floor; it was that that had shattered upon Voldemort's name being spoken aloud. Dumbledore gave a wave of his wand, and the broken china whirled up into the air like a porcelain volcano and reformed itself.

"Good as new," announced Dumbledore.

"Professor," said Edgar Bones, shocked. "I had hoped for privacy!"

"I trust these three," said Dumbledore, after a pause. "I trust them not to share this. However, we might table the discussion for the moment."

Sirius snorted, which did not go unnoticed by Moody, Longbottom, and Bones.

Harry budged up against one of the low counters that circled the room, upon which sat many of Dumbledore's magical instruments. Fawkes was on his perch, looking rather droopy; it might be coming close to one of his burning days. Ginny noticed, too, and strode over to offer him the tips of her fingers, which he nipped at rather despondently. Meanwhile, the three men were murmuring their goodbyes to Dumbledore.

A word floated to the forefront of his mind. Sacriphant. His scar twitched; grimacing, Harry rubbed at it.

Sharp-eyed Ginny said, "What's wrong, Harry?"

"Nothing," he said.

Her lips pressed together.

But he couldn't – wouldn't – mention the vision he'd had of that man, and Voldemort's triumphant carol: The sacriphant is dead. But he would not soon forget the leap of happiness that had followed. It had not belonged to him; certainly, it had not.

"What is a sacriphant?" asked Harry, out loud, to no one in particular. The other three men were gone now; they'd whirled into the flames and disappeared.

Sirius looked over at him. "It's someone who helps out if there's an outbreak." He shook his head. "And that's why I've come to request to take them out of school once the pox starts gaining ground. I had no idea, last time, that someone killed him."

Harry did not find this explanation very helpful, and therefore ignored the last bit of what Sirius said. "But why are they so important?"

Ginny eyed him. "I was just reading about it," she said. "Their blood is used for the potions that help people with the pox. They had to have been exposed to — or, well, attacked by, the type of creature that caused the illness in the first place."

"-and that article mentioned that, didn't it?" Harry asked. "His sister said he got attacked somewhere, didn't she?" He ordered his thoughts. "In Greece, wasn't it? The healers didn't think he'd survive. So they use his blood?"

"Well, yeah, but first he had to have been given the pox," said Ginny.

"What?" said Harry. "They give him the pox? They give it to him?"

"Well, rumor is it won't be that bad because he has some protection gained because of the attack," said Ginny. "But it's still pretty bad. And that's when they – er – bleed him for the potions that help the rest of the community."

Harry gaped at her. "What a terrible job."

This surprised a chuckle out of her. "Most people wouldn't do it for any amount of money," Ginny informed him. "But they do get compensated handsomely."

"I don't care how much—"

"Millions of galleons," said Ginny. "I might consider it."

Harry's eyes widened, imagining an entire mountain range of galleons piled in the largest vault Gringott's had to offer.

"Unfortunately, they can't spend much of it because they've got to keep it secret that they're the sacriphant," said Sirius, rather severely. "Not many people would do it."

"I can see why not," Harry muttered.

Dumbledore took that moment to intrude into their conversation. "And what do you two wish to do?" he asked cordially.

"Huh?" said Harry.

At the same time, Ginny said, "What?"

"Your guardian has a thought to pull you from the school–"

"No," said Harry.

"Harry," said Sirius, exasperated. "We–"

"I said no," said Harry. "No, I don't want to leave the school. What about all those reasons we came here in the first place?" Anger was rising swiftly in him. "Where would we even go? Back to the cave?"

Sirius frowned at him. "I've gathered rather a lot of money in the last few months," he said stiffly. "Listen, Harry, we don't want to be here–"

"Yes, I do," said Harry.

"You don't."

Incredulous, Harry stared at him. "Yes. I do."

"It's safe here," said Ginny.

"And it'll be safe wherever we go," insisted Sirius. "There'll be less of a chance of you two getting the pox."

"Did you get the pox?" Ginny asked, folding her arms. "You want us to leave, but you haven't exactly shared why you think we need to do so. You lived through this. Did you get the pox? Did it run through Hogwarts?"

Sirius pressed his lips together.

"And do you have a house?" Harry asked. "Where would we go?"

"I'm working on that," Sirius snapped.

But Ginny wasn't done with him. "You won't even tell us what you remember?" she asked, incredulous.

As though to remind her of his presence, Dumbledore moved, clasping his hands in front of him.

"It isn't that," muttered Sirius, scratching at his arms. "It's not that—"

"Did you get the pox while you were here?" demanded Ginny.

"Well?" Harry asked, when Sirius didn't reply. "Did you?"

"No," Sirius finally admitted, after a very long pause. "I did not. However—"

"Then I prefer to stay," said Harry.

"As do I," said Ginny.

Sirius glared at them. "I think," he said, "you're making an unwise decision."

"But it's our decision to make," said Harry.

"Now I have some small warning, there are certain precautions that I and the other professors can take," offered Dumbledore, who had been silent this entire while. "And before you object, Mr. Black, and worry that I will change your future, it is, I think, what I would have done in the first place, given that the sacriphant has been killed and there is less protection for those stricken by the pox."

Sirius slumped into a chair as though defeated. For an instant, his hand hovered over his head, as though he were about to offer himself the comfort of a self-administered pat on the head. Instead, he made a fist. "Fine," he said, finally. "I don't like this. But fine."

HPHPHPHPHPHPHP

Harry was careful around Sirius over the next few days, knowing Sirius was frustrated by their not doing as he requested. So when Sirius asked him a favor, Harry was inclined to agree.

"But why?" Harry asked. Sirius had just asked him to retrieve his father's mirror.

"You're far less likely than I am to be caught," said Sirius. "You have the cloak and you have reason to be in Gryffindor Tower – you live there."

"I know that," said Harry, with his own sarcasm. "But – what d'you even need it for?"

"I wanted to analyze it; the one I made for us doesn't have the proper Protean Charm on it," said Sirius, waving his hand. "It has to be James's… he did it properly."

Harry heaved a sigh. He did not particularly want to infiltrate the room in which his father and godfather slept. "Are you certain you haven't booby-trapped it with hexes?" Harry asked.

Surprise suffused Sirius's face. "Oh," he said, "good point."

Fred and George had done something similar to their dormitory room in Gryffindor Tower. Ron had learned that the wrong way one Easter when he was trying to sneak candy from his brothers; he'd come back down to the common room with walrus tusks in place of teeth. Hermione had had to overcome her laughter before she'd set him to rights.

Spirits lifted, he grinned at Sirius.

"I can let you know what you need to know," said Sirius after a long moment. "We couldn't get too creative, not with Wormtail there – he wouldn't have known how to avoid all the traps."

"You're sure I won't get caught?" Harry asked.

Sirius clapped him on the back. "C'mon, Harry," he said. ""I have a funnily accurate memory of today, as it happens. I'd received a letter from my grandmother – she must've sent it right after she heard about the pox outbreak – asking if I still wanted to bed down with the animals and risk getting their illnesses. I was brooding. James and Lily were patrolling, and Remus was helping Wormtail in the library. Now is the time to go."

Half an hour later, ears ringing with instruction, he peered out of his own small room in Gryffindor Tower. His cloak was draped over him, he was entirely invisible, and the only person in the common room was the younger Sirius, a purring Nimue in his lap, who was staring moodily into the fire and ignoring everything going on around him. His older version had painted an eerily accurate picture of his younger self; Harry could not help but wonder what it was in that letter that had disturbed Sirius enough to react like this, when normally he took his parents's and family's pureblood airs as a matter of course and didn't let it touch him. Not like this, at least.

Harry wondered if it was because it was his grandmother. In his mind's eye, a vision of Euphemia appeared. Harry had never known her, of course, and still did not know her well now. But he'd heard of her enough now to wonder how he would feel if he'd ever received a letter like that from her.

With a pang of real regret, he thought of the pox, and what was to happen to both Fleamont and Euphemia in such a short amount of time.

Leaving young Sirius to brood, Harry walked out of his room and toward the stairs as silently as he could. Once there, he sped upward, no longer worried of what noise he might be making. Gryffindor Tower was blessedly empty of students. Taking the stairs two at a time, then three, he was on the top floor in no time at all, only slightly winded.

The door to the seventh year boys dorm was firmly shut. With another quick look behind him, just to be sure his father wasn't early from his patrol, and feeling a jolt of trepidation, Harry tapped his wand against the door knob. It glowed blue for a moment, then the door itself pushed open and Harry slid into the room. His cloak caught on the uneven wood; with a muffled oath and then – casting Muffliato just in case – he gently loosened it and looked around.

The room was dark and cool and rather tidier than Harry remembered his own dormitory room being; there were few posters on the wall, unlike how Seamus and Dean had taken up most of the wall space with their competing Quidditch and soccer posters. He grinned when he saw, over one of the beds, a trio of Muggle posters with scantily clad women standing next to motorcycles. It had to be Sirius's bed. More curious by the moment, Harry looked around, drinking in the sight of his dad's room he shared with his best mates.

They were uncommonly tidy; but for one of the beds, which was unmade and sheets twisted up, trunk open and stuff spilling from it. Harry sniffed. It even smelled a lot better: the air was spiced with cedar and he thought mint – a far cry from the aroma of dirty socks that Harry had grown accustomed to in his own dorm.

One bed was even completely hidden from view; the bed hangings were pulled rather tightly shut.

"And which one is Dad's?" Harry muttered. He left the door open a sliver, needing the light from the corridor, and set about to snoop. He'd already eliminated Sirius's bed. And he recognized Remus's cardigan hanging over the lamp next to the untidy bed… that left Peter and James. He chose to look at the one on the left, the one with the bed left open. There was nothing on it or next to it that was identifying, so with another quick glance around to make sure he was still alone, his breath coming quickly again and making the air under the cloak slightly suffocating, he gingerly lifted the lid of the trunk.

Robes and a wand holster comprised the first layer; without taking the robes out and holding them up, how was he meant to know if they were Peter's or James's? He sat back on his heels, and dug further. There, under another set of neatly folded robes, was a set of underpants with a–

Harry stifled a laugh. He shut the trunk. He could not see James Potter wearing underpants with a beaming Merlin centered right over the crotch; this had to be Peter's. Although if it was his father's, Harry had just learned something about him that he had not needed to know. No, it's Peter's, Harry assured himself, after laughing again. In fact, when he shut the trunk, he saw the name 'Wormtail' etched into the lid. Smile fading, Harry rubbed his temple, where a sharp little stab of pain had just distracted him. But it disappeared as soon as it came, and he shoved himself to his feet and crossed the room.

It was the furthest bed from the door; once behind it, Harry relaxed. With the bed hangings so tightly shut as they were, even if someone came in, Harry would have time to figure out how to extract himself without getting caught. Even with the invisibility cloak on, he'd felt vulnerable, as though the proximity to the other invisibility cloak might negate the effects of both. But he was safely hidden, and was far more confident as he lifted the lid of his father's trunk.

So confident was he, in fact, that it took him a moment to realize the bed beside him was moving. But he was lifting a heavy copy of Tricky Transfigurations when he heard a subtle sound and saw the bed itself push subtly against the wall and pull back. Blinking, Harry stared at it, uncomprehending. "Trick of light," Harry muttered.

James clearly prioritized books over clothes: half his trunk was books, only a few of which Harry recognized, and most of which had to do somehow with Transfiguration. Here, too, were underpants, but they were uniform in color, and had no magically significant wizards decorating the crotch. Underneath these, to Harry's relief, was the smooth, cool glass of a mirror. He pulled them out.

And the bed moved again. This time it wasn't just a shift – the bed knocked against the stone wall behind it.

And then, without any warning, without any sign of what was going to happen, the bed hangings crashed down, knocking Harry over. There, instead of an empty bed, was an extremely occupied bed.

"James!" cried Lily.

Mortification held Harry frozen in shock, eyes bulging.

James – Lily – his parents – his mum and dad were not out patrolling; it was clear, now, that this was just an excuse they had offered to Sirius in order to gain some alone time together. His cheeks stung with embarrassment. It was James who was causing the bed to rock: his chest gleamed with sweat, and he didn't hesitate in his swift movements.

"The – hangings–" Lily gasped out.

"In a minute," James swore, brushing her red hair out of her face.

Lily laughed. "I thought you swore you were going to last more than a minute."

James groaned. "Not with you squeezing me like that–"

Harry jerked out of his frozen moment of pure agony, scrambling away from the bed, from where his teenaged parents were having sex with one another with a great deal of abandon. There had been a silencing charm around the hangings; that had disappeared when their festivities grew so intense that the hangings had crashed down.

On me! Harry thought, kicking them off him. If his parents looked his way, it wouldn't matter that he was wearing the cloak, they'd see the hangings moving of their own accord. Frantic now, both to escape his predicament, and to escape the happy groans. Eyes squeezed shut, Harry barely managed to keep hold of the mirrors in his hand, while he tried to escape this room of horrors as silently as possible.

And why did Sirius think they were patrolling! was Harry's panicked thought. It was an obvious ruse!

But in his hurry to flee, blinded of his own volition, his shoulder clipped the cracked open door, and it nearly shut before Harry grabbed at it so hard it banged off his forehead.

"Lily… Lily, hurry, I'm about to–"

Harry screamed silently in his head, trying to block out the words. His brain shut down. If he had thought knowing his father had a penchant for wearing Merlin-themed underwear was too much information, this had that beat by a landslide; this, knowing what they were doing, this was an avalanche… a nightmare.

Harry made it out of the room and could not even bring himself to stand; he slid down the stairs on his butt, his only thought was to escape, to flee, to get away from there. It was not until he got to the next landing that he was able to pull himself to his feet. He stood there, the hand not holding those stupid fucking mirrors was clenched tight on the railing.

He waited too long.

"-absolutely sure?"

Footsteps were now pounding down the stairs – coming from behind him.

"I don't know. I thought I closed it, right after I did the charm…"

"But James… we were distracted…"

His parents spilled out onto the landing, half-dressed. Well, his mother was mostly dressed, wearing a long shirt of James's that went down mid-thigh. His father must have lent it to her, for he only wore trousers.

Harry grimaced. Turning away, he tucked himself into the corner, pressing his head against the wall.

"See? No one's here," said Lily. There was warm amusement in her tone, and her hair was rather disheveled.

James was more uncertain. Twice, he peered at the corner in which Harry hid. His hair was even messier than Lily's, but there was a sharpness in the hazel eyes.

Please, Harry prayed. Please, please, please.

"C'mon, James," pleaded Lily, running her hand down James's back. "Let's go back to bed…"

James sighed while Harry struggled to keep his groan internal.

"We've still got time," she pointed out, tone growing even warmer.

"Yeah?" said James.

Harry bit down on his lip, hard. Please, make it stop, said Harry.

"You know, I can always go again," said Lily, now tugging on James's hand. "Let's go… you just forgot to close your trunk. We'll fix up the hangings again. Come on."

It was the final order that did it. His parents, flushed with romance, finally left him alone on the landing; they clattered back up the stairs. The echoes of their laughter drifted toward him until there was the slamming shut of a door above him, and they were returned to their revelry.

Glum and embarrassed, Harry trudged down the winding stairs. He was still dully angry with Sirius the elder and his naivete and the chain of events that led to Harry witnessing far more of his parents than he ought to have had to.

Finally reaching the common room, he slouched off to the corridor that led to his tiny room. Once at the door, he tugged off the invisibility cloak and sagged against his door, barely resisting the urge to slam his forehead against the wood in the hopes it would dislodge the memory of the last hour from his brain. Damn it, Sirius, he thought again.

The door to Ginny's room opened without warning. "Harry?"

And then there was Ginny, standing just feet away. There was a tentative smile on her face that slowly melted away the longer he remained silent.

A tangled mess of bed hangings rose in his mind; he squeezed his eyes shut, willing it away.

"What's wrong?" Ginny asked, sharply.

"Nothing," he managed.

There was a silent, angry pause.

Harry shook his head.

"There's clearly something wrong," said Ginny, voice cold. He didn't even have to open his eyes to see her: her cheeks would be flushed, her long hair flicked over her shoulder, and her arms – her arms would be folded; her eyes would be narrowed on him, glittering. His heart gave a great thud in his chest.

"It's nothing," he said.

"Or maybe it's more Dementors," she said, voice even colder.

"It wasn't–"

"Maybe you'll let me know," she told him, sarcasm biting out at him. "Someday. If you feel like it, or maybe your dad will tell me–"

Harry's eyes flew open. "No," he said, firmly. She looked exactly as he'd pictured; her color was high. There was a part of him – a large part – that wanted to wrap his arms around her, kiss her lips until they were not so tight with anger, to pull her into his room and tangle his body with hers. Unfortunately, none of that was realistic, not with the way anger was freezing on her features. "No, he won't."

"Harry," she bit out. "In case you didn't notice, this is my life too–"

"It wasn't–"

"-and shit that happens to you affects me. And–"

"I know," said Harry.

"I don't think you do," she said. "You and – and Sol are in your own little club, and I'm not to be consulted with anything. No, you just go off and leave me behind – you do that all the time now. And now this!"

Harry stared at her, embarrassment pulled to the surface of his body. But his tongue was tied; he couldn't tell her why he was spending less time with her; how could he? It wasn't for any reason she thought of, it had nothing to do with anything regarding physical danger or time travel. It was for the sole reason that Harry was falling for her – probably had already fallen, and fallen hard – but could do nothing about it. He couldn't be like his parents, holding hands in public, doing… everything else in private. Even if Ginny felt the same way as he did… it wouldn't, couldn't, be the same.

"And you won't even admit it!" she said, pure outrage.

"Nothing happened," Harry lied.

Her face crumpled, for a moment, before it hardened again. Pointing her finger at him, nostrils flared, face as red as the setting sun, she said, "Don't bother talking to me if you're just going to lie."

Then, she whirled away from him, went into her room, and slammed the door shut.

Almost all of this was Sirius's fault, and so, later, when Harry met him out on the grounds, where he was gathering up flowers in a bouquet, and delivered the mirror he'd stolen from his father's trunk, he was fairly boiling with anger. The flowers in Sirius's hands – obviously to give to Marlene McKinnon – made him even angrier.

"Thanks," said Sirius, oblivious, after Harry shoved it into his hands.

"No problem," said Harry, with extreme sarcasm.

Sirius arched a brow, which annoyed Harry even further.

"They weren't patrolling," Harry bit out. "They lied to you so they could have some privacy. They were up in your dorm. They were using the bed." It was much easier to admit this to Sirius than it would have been to Ginny. "Damn it, Sirius. You were naive. They were – they were in bed together."

Sirius's look of shock was the endcap of a very long, very horrible day. And Harry spun on his heel and left him there, gaping after him.

HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP

Author's Note: Hey, Gin, my favorite void, I know you're gonna be mad, but just be patient for the next chapter! I swear it's the darkest before dawn!

If you're reading this, I hope you're enjoying… it would make my day if you spared a few lines of encouragement/venting. Hope you're having a good weekend.