A/N: Here be tributes to three inspirational people (or four: the third is a pair) – kudos to whoever can find them!

A/N2: Once again, many thanks to Procyon, not only for the excellent beta, but also for bearing with me while I squished this chapter out of my brain and onto the screen.

Chapter 18: Paradise Lost

The problems presented by suddenly not hating Draco Malfoy were circumvented by the fact that the animosity most Gryffindors held for the Slytherins, Draco in particular, seemed to have found another target.

"That's fine with me," Hermione said stiffly, a week after the aborted DA meeting. "They'll just have to find someone else to lend them notes come exams." She heaved her Transfiguration book onto the library table with a heavy thud as if to emphasize her point.

Harry smiled slightly, though he said nothing. Thank you, which was what he felt, didn't feel right, and he couldn't muster enough emotion to deliver a scathing comment about lazy Gryffindors.

"Harry?" Hermione began hesitantly, and Harry knew, with a sinking heart that crumbled what warmth he had felt moments earlier, what was coming next. "How was Healing?"

"It was fine," Harry said flatly, using the same voice he'd used every Tuesday and Thursday and every time Hermione asked him that question. But this time he added: "I wish you wouldn't ask me."

"Well…" said Hermione, and Harry turned his head away: a useless gesture, for the snake continued to meet her eyes. "Why not?"

Harry shifted, crossing his arms over his chest, noting that the library's chairs were nearly as uncomfortable as those in Snape's dungeons. "I don't want to talk about it."

"But you should. After every lesson with Snape, you seem a bit… depressed."

"I only get depressed when you pepper me with questions."

He wondered momentarily if he'd gone too far again, but Hermione continued, unruffled, "You shouldn't hold it in, Harry. Once you talk about it, the load gets lighter, trust me. And if Snape is really being inappropriate to you, you must tell Dumbledore."

"Snape is being perfectly civil," Harry replied coldly, almost wishing that Hermione had stormed away in a huff, "and I don't know why you expect me to be sickeningly cheerful all the time."

"I'm not expecting you to be cheerful, I'm expecting you not to be depressed, so what exactly—"

"STOP asking me these questions!" He forced his voice down to a furious hiss when Hermione fell silent. They were in the library, after all. "You're not my caretaker. I don't want you to be my caretaker."

"I don't either," said Hermione in a small voice.

The madness of anger faded somewhat, and he could see clearly again. It seemed now that sight was a secondary sense, one that melted whenever he felt upset. He thought vaguely that he shouldn't have yelled at Hermione, but the guilt was too deadened to evoke an apology. "Anyway," he said, "tonight will be interesting. Dumbledore's invited me to an Order meeting after dinner."

"Oh," said Hermione. "Am I allowed to ask you questions?"

"Yes, but I might be allowed to answer them," Harry answered grimly. Last year, he would have been charged with nervous anticipation, but all he felt now was a vague, unremitting dread. It didn't help that this would be his first time meeting the rest of the Weasleys and Tonks and Mad-Eye and all the others as Harry… well, not quite Harry Snape, but not quite Harry Potter, either.

Harry ate little of the steak and kidney pie that evening, and was glad that Hermione didn't try to force him to eat more. In no time at all, he was in front of the ugly gargoyle, and the snake delighted in its haughtiness once again as it demanded entrance. But as Harry waited quietly for the spiraling stairs to bear him to the top, he felt layers of magic wash over his skin. I'm glad Dumbledore isn't relying solely on his statue to guard the entrance, he thought as he stepped off and faced the two slabs of oak before him.

The doors swung open at his touch, and all eyes turned to him.

"Welcome, Harry," Dumbledore said from where he sat. The headmaster smiled, and at his right Professor McGonagall nodded, but Harry found no comfort in either gesture.

There was a ring of chairs facing the center, and Harry noticed an empty seat to Dumbledore's left—right next to where Snape was sitting like a forbidding crag.

"Harry!" Remus Lupin exclaimed, leaning forward from his chair near the entrance of the office. "How are you? Everything fine?"

"Hello, Remus," Harry said, trying to summon a smile. "Everything's going quite well." He must've succeeded to some extent, because the werewolf returned the smile, looking particularly relieved.

"Your seat's over there," said Tonks, flicking her wand in Snape's direction. "I mean, about five steps ahead, slightly to the right—"

"He is capable of sight through his familiar," Snape sneered, "Nymphadora."

Tonks wrinkled her nose at Snape as Harry walked across the open space and seated himself carefully—at a neutral distance from his father, something he wondered if the Order members observed. As he glanced at Tonks, he stared at the unfamiliar face that suddenly appeared: a hooked nose that strongly resembled Snape's, dark eyebrows, a grim jaw—

It was his face, Harry realized.

"Tonks!" Snape barked.

Tonks smiled cheekily, and then the nose engorged, the brows drew closer together, wrinkles appeared, and from Snape's frowning face she called out, "Harry, d'you mind?"

Harry decided it was one of the most disturbing things he'd ever seen. "Er—not really."

From the other side of the room, Mrs. Weasley made an irritable sound. "Tonks!" she chided. "Do be sensible!" She seems nervous, Harry thought, and she kept glancing at him rather apologetically. "Are you all right, Harry dear?" Mrs. Weasley asked in a kindly tone, though she sounded somewhat hesitant. "Are you eating enough?"

"I'm fine, Mrs. Weasley," Harry replied politely, though the scrutiny made him feel uncomfortable.

"Don't coddle him, Molly," Snape said drlyly.

Maybe she's feeling guilty about Ron, Harry thought. Mrs. Weasley gave Snape a brief smile and remarked, "I expect I won't need to worry about that from you, Severus."

Before Snape could respond, Dumbledore cleared his throat, and all the conversations in the room hushed.

"Thank you," Dumbledore said. Fawkes flew from its perch and landed on the headmaster's desk. Dumbledore reached out a gnarled hand and stroked the fiery plumage. "Tonight, my fellow wizards and witches, we have a few matters to discuss. As we all know, the Minister gave us the choice of having Harry stand trial or letting him make up his own version of events in order to control the public's perception."

"And the lad chose to stand trial?" Mad-Eye Moody muttered gruffly. His good eye was directed at Dumbledore, but his magical one was focused on Harry.

"Yes, he did," Dumbledore said, nodding. "It was the lesser of two evils. Once again, Harry will need an entourage."

"That shouldn't be too hard," Tonks remarked, "unless You-Know-Who decides to attack in the middle of the trial."

"I wouldn't be surprised if he does," Mad-Eye Moody muttered. "Those Aurors nowadays… Can't tell the difference between a Death Eater and a hen, and the lot of them would run at the sight of a house-elf…"

Kingsley Shacklebolt looked somewhat embarrassed, and Tonks seemed torn between chagrin and an urge to nod her head in agreement.

A dark-haired witch, whom Harry remembered as having helped him escape the Weasleys two years ago, leaned forward with a smile and said, "Perhaps you'll give the new recruits a seminar, Alastor?"

Moody snorted, though he looked secretly pleased.

"Indeed, the likelihood of Voldemort attacking during the trial is worrisomely high," said Dumbledore. "Our spy has been exposed"—at this, Snape stiffened, but only a few glances turned towards him, none with any hint of accusation—"and Harry no longer suffers the problem of having Voldemort invade his mind."

"Thank Merlin," Mrs. Weasley muttered, and Remus's countenance seemed to lighten.

"But with our two most direct lines of information cut, we will need to be particularly alert. It is due to the efforts of one of our newest members, my old friend Caius Cinna, that we became aware of what seems to be the underlying motive behind the destruction of the Fountain of Magical—"

Suddenly the door opened. Harry didn't turn his head with the others—perhaps he was too used to blindness, or perhaps he heard the turning of the knob and knew from the lightness of steps who it was—but he caught the look of blank surprise and discomfiture on the headmaster's face, and that more than anything else sent a jolt of unease through his body.

"Caius," Dumbledore said slowly, standing up. "Why are you here?"

Harry turned his head, the snake turning its head with him. Caius Cinna was holding in one hand a black bag that was soaked at the bottom.

"You sent me to investigate the area in and around Corfe Castle, which I did," Cinna said in his unhurried, high-pitched voice. "There was nothing left to find there. I made sure of that. And I thought you would like my report."

Dumbledore frowned. "What do you mean?"

Cinna moved forward, and as the man approached, Harry felt Snape stiffen beside him—but there was suddenly a scent in the air, the smell of something sharp and metallic.

"Blood," the snake hissed as Cinna set the bundle on Dumbledore's desk with a muffled thud. Using his pinky, he pulled open the bundle, and the cloth fell away to reveal a human head.

Harry heard quite a few gasps and other noises of disgust or shock, but he was too struck by the strange familiarity of features to notice. He peered closer, feeling vaguely nauseated at the lifeless eyes and bloodless skin. It's Peter Pettigrew's head, Harry realized suddenly, and he sat back into his chair, not knowing what to think or feel.

"Please explain this, Cinna," Dumbledore said, his voice cold and carrying a swift undercurrent of anger.

"As per your instructions, I examined the area around Corfe Castle for signs of Voldemort's activity. There was little to find, until I noticed a most interesting rat—one with a silver hand. It turned out to be an Animagus of a most suspicious nature. As per your instructions, I neither tortured him nor killed him; merely, I probed his mind for what information he might have." Cinna smiled blandly. "It was a most fruitful search, Albus. But, seeing how this fellow had the potential to be quite troublesome, I decided to take him back here. Most unfortunately, when I released him from my hold, he teetered and fell off a parapet that was… quite high." Cinna shrugged, as though such deadly plummets were everyday occurrences. "Then, you know, I didn't quite feel like carrying back a dead body with me. I would have taken his interesting silver hand, but it melted away, so I was left with his head. He's got quite a lot of blood in him."

Quite a lot of blood indeed, thought Harry. The head was very distracting: its bulging eyes were fixed on a corner of the room, and the smears of blood through the tangled hair and across the chin and face seemed to make the head misshapen.

"Thank you, Caius," Dumbledore said softly. "Would you mind telling us what you learned?"

Cinna shrugged smoothly. "It was nothing we hadn't guessed. We were correct in surmising that the attack on the Fountain of Magical Brethren was merely a red herring to cover the kidnappings at the orphanage."

Red herring? thought Harry, and he remembered with dawning realization Hermione's discontent a few days ago over The Daily Prophet's report. She was right, he thought, feeling something other than the overwhelming nausea that might have been a surge of pride. It wasn't just an act to terrify the wizarding world—it was a ploy to cover something up, and Hermione saw through it.

"Did you manage to find out the purpose behind the kidnappings?"

"Apparently Voldemort kept it all very hush-hush, so I imagine only he himself knows for sure, though the rat-man thought it had to do with a very bloody ritual to amplify his master's power. Eleven magical orphans…" Cinna smiled. "What else would Voldemort have wanted them for?"

Dumbledore nodded once—tightly, in an action reminiscent of McGonagall, who sat looking more like a statue than a person. "Thank you, Cinna. You may leave. But come back later tonight. I think you and I need another talk."

Cinna's smile faded, and for a moment, the pale bloodless face seemed filled with a terrible but powerless hatred; but when Harry looked closer in surprise, the other man's countenance was once again teetering at the edge of a vague smile.

"Shall you want the head?" asked Cinna.

Dumbledore hesitated slightly. "No, take it, but don't worsen its condition."

"As you wish," Cinna murmured, tying the folds of black cloth back over the severed head with great precision, almost delicately. "Fare you well, Headmaster," he said, bowing courteously and leaving the room.

"That man, Albus—" said Mrs. Weasley in a strangled voice. "Where did you find that man, Albus?" She looked at the place where Pettigrew's head had been, the spot still stained with blood, and shuddered.

"He is a very old acquaintance," Dumbledore said. He took out his wand and pointed it at the stain on his table and muttered something But the tarnish remained. "Indeed, he is far older than I," the headmaster murmured, slowly putting his wand back into the folds of his robes. He frowned. "He goes too far, sometimes, and for that I apologize."

There was something in his movement, perhaps a slight flicker of gaze, or the merest twitch of hand or face, but Harry knew it was directed at Snape; and he knew, even as the snake turned its head at Harry's neck, that he would see his father sitting as tense as a cornered rat, his face even paler than Pettigrew's, his slender fingers clutching at the chair like claws.

Mad-Eye Moody struck the ground with his wooden leg. "I agree he's a rather odious character," he growled, "but he's got us information." He glared around the circlewith his real eye, though his magical eye was focused on the doors through which Cinna had just left.

"There is no doubt, now," said Dumbledore, turning so that his gaze could meet everyone else's, "that Voldemort is planning a ritual to increase his powers, most likely through the sacrifice of those eleven orphans. And we must not allow that to happen."

"Albus," said the dark-haired witch who had spoken earlier, "do we know exactly when, and what kind of—ritual You-Know-Who intends…?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "We know very little, and as for the kind of ritual…" He paused, then shook his head. "Voldemort knows more about the Dark Arts than anyone else alive—far more than I, certainly. It would be impossible to pinpoint the ritual he is planning based upon the little information that we have."

Mad-Eye Moody shot a look at Kingsley Shacklebolt. "How much can we rely on the Ministry?" he asked.

"Very little," Shacklebolt answered just as Tonks snorted and muttered, "Enough to bend a puffskein's tail."

"We must be extremely discreet," Dumbledore said gravely. "Fudge, though now forced to admit Voldemort's presence, is still quite terrified of our existence. I had hoped that the gravity of the situation would make him see sense, but all he sees is that we are a threat to his power."

Tonks muttered something extremely uncomplimentary under her breath, and Mrs. Weasley shot her a disapproving look, though there seemed to be no real sentiment behind it.

Dumbledore continued, "Considering the oncoming battle of Harry's credibility, our relations to the Ministry are very precarious. There must be no hint of what we are planning. Fudge will publicize our knowledge if he discovers it, and try to grasp what advantage that he might from it.

A few in the room shifted uncomfortably in the ensuing silence.

Then Dumbledore clasped his hands and once again smiled, his eyes twinkling reassuringly. But the lines about his mouth were grim. "Certainly not all is lost. We must keep our eyes and ears open, my fellow wizards and witches. The meeting is adjourned."

There were a few sighs around the room, and Harry supposed it wasn't at every meeting that a stranger, purportedly older than their venerable leader, stalked in with the severed head of an infamous traitor. He aimed his gaze at the bloody spot again while the others rose about him and muttered quiet conversations. All he could feel was a deadening nausea. He wondered if he should have felt something more—perhaps hatred, perhaps satisfaction, perhaps dark vindication; and he wondered what the others felt: Remus, who was more than ever alone; McGonagall, who had seen Pettigrew bumbling in her classroom as a tender child and then a nebulous youth; Snape, who had witnessed the dead man groveling and pleading, a whimpering creature in the dirt: at the heart of the matter, did he still deserve pity?

"Harry," said Remus, looking concerned. Hovering slightly behind him was Mrs. Weasley, and Harry had the brief bizarre notion that he was some kind of prophet that all the miserable came to for relief.

"Remus?" Harry responded. He stood. "Are you all right with… everything?"

Remus made a nervous half-laugh. "Imagine you asking me that—and I'm supposed to be the adult." He looked around. "It's still something of a shock I must say… you?"

"Same here," Harry said. "I don't know quite what to feel."

"No, one never does. I'm glad nobody gave you any trouble—" He stopped, and, almost as though against his will, glanced at Snape.

Harry felt his father stiffen at his side, saw it reflected on the slight tenseness that emerged in Remus's expression, and Harry let one corner of his lips curl into a humorless smile. But before he could say anything, Mrs. Weasley burst out, "Of course none of us did! We're all quite sensible." She paused. "Ginny told me about how Ron was behaving. And we heard it, too, Arthur and I, from the letters he sent us."

She was searching his face, looking for something—hurt? condemnation? Harry swallowed hard and nodded, not knowing what to say. Suddenly he wished fiercely that Snape wasn't here to find out yet another aspect of poor Harry Potter's misery. But he probably knows already, Harry thought unhappily. There's no place to hide.

"We want you to know that… we don't condone Ron's actions at all," Mrs. Weasley continued. Her eyes seemed to glisten. "But it isn't—him." She took a deep breath. "He was fine for the first few days after he returned from school, at the beginning of the holidays, but then he began to have nightmares about the night in the Department of Mysteries. And, after that, he began to change."

Understanding seeped in, bringing with it the leaden weight of realization. He remembered the brain and the welt-like scars it had left on Ron's arms, remembered Ron's blubbering as curses flew through the air… I took him there, Harry thought with a cold screaming in his head. He followed me. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Weasley," he said.

"Oh, don't be"—she wiped her eyes quickly—"we took him to St. Mungo's, and they can't find much wrong with him, but over the holidays, we'll go other places, there's bound to be someone who knows… There's the Oracle at Delphi, and the Fountain of Nostradamus, and Albus said he might try some Legilimency, if nothing else works—" She stopped and gave him a watery smile.

Harry returned the smile with effort. "He'll come around," he said, trying to sound optimistic and painfully aware that he was failing miserably.

"Weasley will not 'come around' so easily, as you say, Potter," said Snape suddenly. "Professor Dumbledore told me Weasley's diagnosis. Thought scars can run very deep."

There was a strange solemn note in Snape's voice, almost a note of grave consolation. Who does he think he's consoling? Harry wondered, inexplicably angry. Mrs. Weasley? Me? But then Dumbledore ambled over, and Harry forced a more amiable expression onto his face.

"Ah, my favorite people," Dumbledore beamed.

"You say that to everyone," Mrs. Weasley laughed, though her eyes were still a little red. She turned and glanced at the clock above the doorway. "It's getting late—I really must go back now." She looked at Harry and opened her arms hesitantly.

Harry stepped forward and steeled himself as Mrs. Weasley engulfed him in a hug. The world whirled slightly as the snake twisted itself to avoid making contact, and then it righted itself to Mrs. Weasley's rather teary face. "Take care, Harry," she said. She glanced at Snape and said, "Severus," before giving a hug to Remus with many admonitions to his unhealthily skinny frame.

"If you don't mind, Severus, Remus," said Dumbledore, "I'd like to have a few words in private with Harry."

Good of him to ask them and not me, Harry thought dryly as the werewolf and the Potions Master left obediently, though Snape a bit more huffily than Remus.

They were alone now in the empty room. Dumbledore waved his wand and all the chairs except for the one Harry was sitting in disappeared with a soft pop. It was very late, Harry realized, looking at the inky darkness outside the veined window behind Dumbledore's desk.

"Well, Harry," said Dumbledore, and he sounded more than slightly weary. "How are you?"

"Fine," Harry replied. He hesitated before saying, "You seem rather tired, sir."

"I'm old," Dumbledore said, smiling as he seated himself. "And tired, yes. How have things been?"

Harry shrugged his shoulders. "Fine," he said again. He felt caught between conflicting desires of honesty and falsity, of compassion and coldness, of fear and sanctuary.

"I trust that your scar has remained dormant?" Dumbledore asked, peering at Harry gravely from over his half-moon spectacles.

Harry nodded. "I've felt nothing," he answered quietly, feeling somewhat better at not having to fake his honesty.

Dumbledore smiled slightly, and relaxed. "Good, good, one less thing on our minds…" He leaned back, and Harry wondered who 'our' was. "You won't be needing to take Occlumency lessons with your father, then."

My father, thought Harry. Why not 'Professor Snape?' "No, I won't," Harry agreed.

"Has he been treating you well?"

"Very well," Harry replied automatically. He kept his gaze fixed on the violently purple sleeve of the headmaster's robe.

"Have patience, Harry," Dumbledore said gently. "Your father has been… terribly hurt, and sometimes it is so much easier to hate than to risk the hurt from love. Have patience. Your father loves you."

"Yes," Harry whispered, feeling weighted down and chained by a terrible irony he could not yet fully understand.

Dumbledore's hands unclasped and Harry heard the old man sigh. "Is there anything you want to ask me, Harry? It's a rather unfair situation for me to be the only one to ask the questions…"

Harry thought, sluggishly, for his mind was still barely thawing, whether from the lock of dread or from the heavy mantle of sleepiness he couldn't tell. "What can I tell… my friends?" Even now it was rather strange to think of Draco Malfoy as his friend. He added, "I am friends with—different people."

"Such as Draco Malfoy?"

Harry nodded, giving up before he began to wonder how Dumbledore knew.

"I will let you exercise your discretion, Harry," said Dumbledore. "The secrets of others are not ours to tell. But you know that already, don't you?" Harry thought that Dumbledore might be offering a wan smile, but his gaze was fixed on the old headmaster's weathered hands.

Dumbledore sighed. "It's late, Harry, and you have classes tomorrow."

Harry stood. He tried to turn his gaze to meet Dumbledore's eyes, but he couldn't quite; he settled instead on the black night of window above the headmaster's head.

"If you ever want to speak to me, my door will be open," Dumbledore said.

Harry nodded. It was their usual parting, and for a moment it seemed absurdly desperate for the other man to continuously issue that assurance. But Harry turned after another moment and left.

He felt tired, the same weariness he felt after every lesson in Healing with his father. Snape. He picked up his pace.

"What is on your mind, arglwydd?" the snake hissed quietly.

"Nothing." There was no sound save the soft breath of their movement. The torches burned silently, casting their glow on the polished breastplates of the shields of armor; and Harry found himself glancing at them, then quickly looking away when the snake dutifully followed his movement. I look like the man who sired me, he thought and kept his gaze straight ahead.

He reached the portrait door and whispered the password. Harry slipped in before the Fat Lady could swing open fully, and he paused at the sound of voices.

"…different now, it's all changed. The boy of the Prophecy could very well have been you."

Harry froze.

"But Gran…"

"Don't tell me you're willing to have let your father go mad in vain, and your poor mother!" There was a pause, a rustling sound. "Last year, things may have been different. But the Potter boy has given up his heritage and taken up with that rotten Slytherin—Snape, was it? A Death Eater if I ever saw one."

"You haven't actually met him, Gran—"

"Nonsense. Griselda told me, and she's seen the Ministry records."

"But Dumbledore wouldn't let a Death Eater teach us unless he was sure about our safety, would he? And there were other parts of the Prophecy that Dumbledore told you, parts about being marked as an equal…"

"Don't try to worm your way out of it! Why are you refusing to bring honor back to the Longbottom name? You are the last of the line. It is your task. I'll talk to Albus, I'm sure he'll see sense. You—"

She stopped. Harry stepped forward, and Neville scrambled out of the way. His face was bloodless even under the reddish glow of the fire, and he looked rather ridiculous in his pajamas.

"Good evening, Mrs. Longbottom," Harry said, moving forward until the head in the fireplace had to crane its neck to meet his face.

"Eavesdropping, Potter?" Mrs. Longbottom barked. She added, when Harry made no reply, "Perhaps I should call you Snape. You don't deserve to dirty the name of your father and mother."

Harry could feel the snake at his neck hiss menacingly, and Mrs. Longbottom blanched. "Leave," she shouted, jerking her head in the direction of the portrait. "Neville! Neville, come, drive this traitor out."

"Let me bite her eyes out," the snake hissed, but Harry gripped its neck as it prepared itself to strike.

Harry kept his gaze fixed on the woman's face. She stared back defiantly. "I want you to know," Harry said quietly, after the silence had become unbearable, "that you are welcomed to condemn your only grandson to a life of misery. But I will never forgive you if he chooses such a path upon your machinations. Take heed." He smiled, and knew it was a ghastly sort of grin, a twist of a sneer and a leer. "A Snape's promise is colder than a Potter's."

He turned without another word and walked the long way to the stairs. The world faded to darkness as he ascended them, moving like a wraith in the darkness as he performed the movements without thought, without consciousness.

At last, when he was lying in his bed, the snake coiled silently on his chest, his vision once again the endless expanse of white mist, he heard Neville creeping up the stairs and burrowing into his own bed. Harry waited, waited quietly, his eyes wide open, his breathing as still as an unused grate.

But Neville said nothing, and the sun had warmed the sky with pink before Harry's eyes closed in sleep.

qpqpqp

"What does this do, Professor?" Dean Thomas asked in awe.

Caius Cinna gave his monkey-like smile. "Y drych gwir. All objects shown in it revert to their true forms."

"And this?" Dean asked, holding up a small white pebble.

"A warestone. You can channel a bit of your power through it, or detect those in its presence."

"That's amazing, Professor…"

Harry saw Draco roll his eyes, and Harry suppressed a smirk. Class had ended, a few minutes earlier than usual, and the other students were drifting about, investigating Cinna's large collection of artifacts.

"And this professor?"

A few students gathered around what Seamus Finnigan was holding in his hand. Hermione frowned as she took it in her hand and turned it about.

"The sign of water," said Cinna, "to lead to the ancients…"

Draco got out of his chair at last, and then paused. Harry stood, pulling his bag up to shoulder, and joined the Slytherin as they headed past the other students to the doorway.

"You aren't waiting for Granger?" Draco muttered.

Harry glanced back, and the snake turned its gaze to where Hermione was inspecting a small circular thing in her hand.

"No," said Harry, feeling a tug of a fond smile at his lips. "We'll meet her in the library, I suppose." At least we can avoid the other students, Harry thought as they began to move down the corridor.

But moments later he heard footsteps at the doorway, shuffling like that of a quick struggle, then voices, Hermione's—

"Ron! Stay back inside. Don't be an idiot—!"

Harry turned around.

Ron had stalked out of the classroom, and for a moment he was the only person standing there, facing Harry with a smirk on his face and the light sharply illuminating one side of the face.

"Malfoy, and Potter," he sneered.

Draco crossed his arms and looked down at the redhead with an expression of supreme disdain. "What do you want, Weasley?" he asked coldly, but Ron ignored him.

"Catch this, Potter," he called and tossed something through the air.

"Don't!" Draco shouted, but Harry reached his hand up and caught it. It was surprisingly heavy for something that was smaller than his palm. The snake bent its head to look at it, but as it did so, Harry hissed through his teeth. "It's so cold," he muttered, bending down and setting it hastily on the ground.

When he got up, the corridor in front of him was jammed with students—Gryffindors, Slytherins, wide-eyed, whispering and muttering with glances alternating between him and the strange thing on the ground.

Hermione shoved her way to the front of the crowd. "This is ridiculous, Ron, just let them alone!" she snapped, then stopped in front of the thing on the ground. She stood still in a moment of hesitation before she bent down and touched it gently with a finger—but quickly withdrew her hand with a little cry.

"Is it cold, Granger?" Ron demanded. He stepped forward and smiled. "Do you know what it is, Potter?"

Harry narrowed his eyes and kept his face a mask.

"A knut, is it? The last in your coffers?" Draco drawled, looking down. "Or not, it isn't." He looked up and smirked. "I knew there'd be a day when you'd start to make counterfeit money, but I didn't expect you'd be so bad at it."

Harry poked Draco in the ribs, but strangely, Ron ignored the Slytherin, instead bending down and picking up the coin-shaped object. "It's the sign of iron," he said, his voice carrying through the entire hall. "It turns cold at the touch of things Dark, and stays cold unless touched by a thing of Light." He turned to Hermione with an odd expression on his face, but Hermione frowned sharply and strode to Harry's side, opposite to Draco. She said fiercely,

"Harry's scar came from Voldemort—of course it'd turn cold! If Voldemort tried killing you with the Killing Curse and left a scar on your forehead, I bet the sign would turn cold when you touched it, too."

"Stop saying that!" Seamus Finnigan shouted.

Hermione fixed the sandy-haired boy with a steely glare, and Draco opened his mouth to make a mocking comment, but Ron cut in,

"It doesn't matter. Potter's gone dark, that much is clear." Ron took another step forward, but stopped when Hermione stepped in front of him.

"Ronald Weasley, don't make me dock points from Gryffindor," she said in a deadly voice.

A murmur ran through the crowd: a few of the Slytherins smirked, and many of the Gryffindors began to look doubtful. Draco seemed rather impressed. It was ironic, almost absurd, thought Harry, that it would be hatred of him that would, at long last, bring the two most opposing houses together. He scanned the crowd. Neville was absent. Harry wondered what Cinna was doing.

"So you're defending this Death Eater and his Death-Eater friend," Ron snarled. Harry tensed. There was a dangerously mad glint in the redhead's eyes.

"He's not a Death Eater, Ron!" Hermione insisted angrily. "What's wrong with you? Did you eat something strange over the summer? Were you—did you—are you still frazzled from what happened at the end of last year? He's your best friend, Ron, you're the thing he missed most—"

"He's not Harry!" Ron roared and charged like a bull, pushing Hermione aside and launching a punch at Harry's face. Harry stepped aside easily, and Ron staggered past him. "He's—not—Harry!" he yelled, frothing at the mouth as he turned around.

"Don't move, Weasley!" Draco shouted, his voice rather shrill as he edged in front of Harry and pointed his wand at Ron's head, holding it with both hands as though he were holding a Muggle gun.

Harry stepped aside and put a hand gently on the Slytherin's wand. "Draco," he said, feeling a strange sadness and an aching gratitude all at once, "please, no—"

Then, from the end of the corridor, there came the sound of footsteps and chattering voices. The other students had been dismissed, Harry realized with dread. The crowd would only become larger, and the chorus of excited whispers would only become louder. What bloodthirsty beings children are, Harry thought.

"Stand aside, Slytherin," Ron spat, breathing heavily.

"Two points from Gryffindor!" Hermione said.

"Hermione!" Seamus snapped. "Get off your pedestal—Ron's right, Potter has turned Dark."

"I've never heard such— Ron!"

Ron had lunged once more. Harry pushed Draco aside, hearing the cries as the Slytherin stumbled into the crowd, and stepped aside. Ron whirled around again and flung something viciously at Harry's face, but Harry, keenly aware of the object whistling through the air, didn't even have to duck: the object bounced off the wall with a loud clang and clattered over the ground, turning a few circles before falling onto its side. Then, for the third time, roaring like a beast, Ron charged, his fists flailing; Harry stepped aside once more, and Ron ran into the crowd.

Harry felt the voices rising about him, trapping him just as solidly as the wall of bodies. Far away, across the sea of inquisitive heads, Cinna stood in the doorway, his figure haloed by the afternoon sun. He's waiting, thought Harry. Watching. He looked down and settled his gaze on Ron's face. The senseless grimace of anger and hate and madness was still there, but streaking over down the twisted face were two shiny trails of tears, glistening like rivulets of blood over a massive face of stone.

Ron lunged again. "Harry!" someone shouted—Hermione, perhaps, or Draco—but the next moment was lost in pain as he stumbled backwards, his world careening as his vision dimmed to white.

"Arglwydd," the snake hissed anxiously.

Harry straightened and touched his nose. He heard—or felt, or sensed with a sorrowful calm—the next blow coming, and he stepped aside to avoid it, at the same time examining his finger. He was bleeding.

"Fifteen points from Gryffindor!" Draco yelled as Hermione tried unsuccessfully to grab Ron, shouting, almost pleading, as she did so— "Stop it, Ron, stop it, please!"

The crowd stirred. "What is going on here?" Professor McGonagall demanded, pushing through the crowd, her brows drawn sharply in a frown. She stepped into the clearing and moved her stony gaze from Harry to Ron to Hermione and back again. "Potter?" she said. "Weasley? Granger? Malfoy?"

Hermione straightened. "Ron… attacked Harry," she said heavily. The silence was complete.

"I see," said McGonagall grimly, but under the flatness of her tone Harry could hear a note of grief, as though she were seeing for the first time the tombstone of a loved one. But then she looked up, and Harry knew that she had met Caius Cinna's gaze. "Twenty points from Gryffindor for fighting in the corridors," she said crisply. "Both of you, Potter and Weasley, will be having detention. Weasley, come with me to see Professor Dumbledore, and Potter, you had better go to the hospital wing."

"Yes, ma'am," said Harry.

She left, Ron following her with his head down. In moments, the crowd deteriorated, falling apart and washing away with disinterest. The chatting began again, and Harry could almost believe that nothing had happened.

Hermione bent and picked up the object Ron had thrown. Harry peered at it: it was a circle of dark-coloured metal divided into quarters. "The sign of iron," Hermione muttered. "Go on, Harry. I'd better return it to Professor Cinna."

"What possessed you to let him smash your nose like that?" Draco asked, frowning. "It's bleeding quite a bit."

Harry shrugged. "I guess I didn't want to run."

"Aren't you going to the Hospital Wing? Ugh, your blood is going to get onto your robes if you don't do something."

"D'you have a—handkerchief?"

Draco thrust something into Harry's hand, and Harry mopped at the blood that was flowing from his hose. The snake lifted its head and flicked its tongue over Harry's nose.

Hermione returned, hoisting her satchel over her shoulders as she hurried towards them. "You should've gone without me," she said. "Your nose looks rather bad." She started for the hospital wing. "Harry?"

Harry moved in the opposite direction. "This way."

"Where are we heading?" Hermione asked, breaking occasionally into a trot to keep up with Harry's pace. "Draco, where's he heading?"

"I wouldn't know," Draco answered negligently.

Hermione made a frustrated noise. "Harry! You have to go to the hospital wing, your nose—"

Harry took out his wand and stopped. The only people in the hall were far away at either end. "Conviso," he said, pointing his wand at the nose.

"Harry! You've just had a few lessons! You should—"

"It's not broken, I think," Harry muttered. "I'm fine, don't worry. Medicor." He felt a stirring in his nose, and he scrunched up his face. The pain disappeared; there was only a faint itching left.

"Harry?"

He sneezed. "I'm perfectly fine," he said, touching his nose. "Come on, let's go."

He continued until they were in an empty corridor. It was, he realized, the same corridor he had been in when he had summoned the snake, where he had seen Hermione, for the first time, since he had emerged from the world of paintings.

"So, why are we here?" Draco said, glancing around.

"To get away from the other people," Harry said. He made his way down the corridor. He could hear footsteps from far away, but they seemed to be part of another world. He paused. "Is it just me, or…"

"What?" Hermione said, but Draco moved ahead and peered at the doorknob. He glanced at Harry hesitantly, then held it, turned, and pushed.

"It is!" Draco exclaimed. "But I thought the entrance was around the dungeons!"

"What are you talking about?" Hermione asked. She peered inside, taking in the simple bed, the desk, the barred window, and the portrait that mirrored the living world. "It must lead to a different part of the castle, judging from the window," she said, walking to the window and looking out. "Somewhere around North Tower, I would expect. Have you been in here, Harry?"

Harry didn't reply. He was distracted by the painting that hung on the side of the corridor opposite to the door.

"That's the scraping tree," Harry hissed disbelievingly.

"It is," the snake replied. "Strange that everything should occur in one place, isn't it?"

Harry nodded, then wrenched his gaze from the sight of the stout trunk that was twisted at its head into many branches, all trembling nakedly like bare arms in the wind.

"I don't think I'd have stumbled here accidentally and stayed," Hermione mused, peering at the portrait. "It's too much like a cell… Isn't that picture a portrait of this room?"

"Yes," said Harry, and he shut the door as he entered the room.

"It's a nice room to cool down in," Draco said, sitting in the chair and assuming a negligent pose with his head resting on his hand. "Especially after dealing with Weasley. Didn't you have the feeling that there was something very wrong with him…?"

"There is," said Harry solemnly. He made his way to the bed and sat on it, resting the back of his head against the wall. The room began to blur, and he let his vision fade to white. "It was the brain, Hermione. Thought scars."

Draco sounded confused. "What?"

"An injury Ron suffered at the end of last year in the Department of Mysteries," Hermione explained quickly. "Who told you that, Harry?"

"Mrs. Weasley, last night." He paused, hoping that he would not be asked to elaborate. But Draco said a moment later in an inquisitive tone,

"When did you meet Mrs. Weasley?"

"I can't say," Harry said, painfully aware that it was half a lie. "Dumbledore asked me not to." I'll fill Hermione in later, he thought. But Draco… He felt a splinter of guilt. There was no question that Draco still loved his father, and there was no telling what the son would do to win the father's love—or what any lonely soul might do to be wanted, to bridge the solitude. But that was the heart of the matter. He pitied Draco; he felt compassion; no matter how Draco might protest such sentiments, they were there. Perhaps it was due to his own loneliness, or perhaps it was simply being himself—being still in part the boy who had chosen to be a Gryffindor—that he wanted to be the bridge over troubled waters.

"Ooh," Draco drawled, though Harry thought he sounded disappointed. "Such secrecy."

"Well, Professor Dumbledore has his reasons," Hermione said stoutly. "But is there any way they can… help Ron?—that you can tell us, that is."

Harry shrugged. "Mrs. Weasley said they were planning to take Ron to see certain people over the hols, like the Oracle of Delphi and some Fountain or another, but St. Mungo's was unable to do anything." He shook his head. "It's really too bad. First Percy then Ron."

Draco gave a hollow little laugh. "Isn't it a bit strange that other people are probably holding such conversations about us? I know my mum surely is, probably with dear Aunt Bella."

"Yes," said Hermione. "My parents, too. I don't think they really want me to come here, especially after second year. If they knew about last year, I'd be stuck in some boarding school for aspiring dentists."

Harry shifted uncomfortably. "I doubt Sirius would be happy with… everything," he said. "Remus doesn't seem to mind, and in his will Sirius didn't exactly command me to murder Snape, but…" He chuckled grimly. "He'd be glad, I expect, that Snape hates me."

"He doesn't," said Draco immediately. "Snape, that is." He continued, when Harry made no reply, "When you disappeared for a month to Merlin-knows-where, Snape was angrier than I'd ever seen him. Even Slytherin lost points. On certain days, the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs got net negative points. For someone who's supposed to hate you more than anything else, he seemed pretty broken up when you were gone."

"It could be that he just felt responsible," said Harry, sounding faintly distressed, "or that Dumbledore made him feel guilty—or that he's too damned stubborn to let me die so easily—"

"In any case he doesn't hate you," said Draco. "Why else would he be so happy now that you're back?"

"He's not happy," Harry said tightly.

"Yes he is—happy, as in, cheerful, disgustingly chirpy, although he's pretty desperate not to show it. I think he's rather fond of you, if he doesn't—you know—actually love you like a son—"

"Stop!" Harry cried and suddenly clenched his hands into fists. Draco stopped abruptly. "Just—" Harry let his hands fall limply by his sides, but his shoulders were still tense. "Please don't talk about him."

"I thought you—"

"Don't!"

Silence fell, like the aftermath of thunder.

"You know," said Hermione in an artificially conversational tone, "I wonder how Quidditch is going this year. Ginny's quite a good Seeker, isn't she?"

"Yes—yes, Ginny," Harry said quickly. "She's quite good, or she was quite good last year, I remember. Has Slytherin beaten Gryffindor lately?"

"We haven't had a game this year yet," Draco said icily. "And that was a very clumsy attempt to change the topic."

"It's not an attempt," Harry snapped. "We're talking about Quidditch now. Hermione, have the Chudley Cannons won any games yet?"

"Um…" Hermione looked from one to the other with a hesitant expression on her face. "Have they, Malfoy? I mean, Draco. I'm not too sure, but they've had a very long history of losses, haven't they? That's what it said in Quidditch Through the Ages."

The conversation went on haltingly. Draco did most of the talking as he filled Harry in on all the Quidditch events that had happened over the last two months. He sounded sullen for the most part, and Harry wished he might take back his words, or somehow ease the stiffness between them. But how could he? It would mean talking about—everything, and that he couldn't do. He couldn't.

"We really should go over the Mandrake Restorative Draught," said Hermione, right after Draco had finished narrating the game between the Falmouth Falcons and the Holyhead Harpies. "It's quite a complicated potion, and we're beginning it tomorrow."

Excellent, Harry thought bleakly as he let Hermione's chattering filter through his head. There'll be more chances for me to mess up then. His mind went again to Draco's words, and a deep unyielding dread swept through his body like an ominous wind.

qpqpqp

"Your technique needs improvement when you perform the Excosso," Snape said.

Harry bowed his head. Snape picked up another sleeping puffskein and pointed his wand at a delicate arm. "Concutere ossis," Snape said, twisting his wand in a jagged motion. Harry heard a slight crunch, that of bones shattering into tiny fragments, and then Snape set the animal, still unconscious, onto the metallic table.

The room was silent, unnaturally silent. Usually the puffskeins rustled about, chirping and muttering, or squealing in chorus as the latest victim thrashed in pain; but Snape had decided to use an anesthetic potion this time. He had given no explanation. Harry wondered if he ought to be grateful.

He put his wand at the puffskein's arm and made a slight cut. He murmured, "Excosso." A whitish steam began to rise from the wound, and Harry waved the wand slightly to keep it moving, forming faint patterns in the air. "Finite Incantatem," he said when nothing seemed to be rising from the limp flesh, and the steam melted from the air, forming swirls of grounded bone on the blood-splotched surface.

Harry traced his wand along the boneless segment. Grow, he willed it. "Medicor," he whispered, and felt the magic from each end of bone reaching out for each other, like the hands of two blind men stranded in a desert. "Grow," he muttered, stroking the segment with his wand.

Moments later, he sighed and withdrew his wand. Snape reached out a hand and picked up the sleeping puffskein, inspecting it in his hand.

"It's healed," observed the snake with disappointment. "And that one looked particularly juicy."

Harry tapped its head sharply.

"He has no problem with me eating them when they're dead," the snake muttered. "Why do you, arglwydd?"

Harry made no answer, keeping himself as stony and still as a granite sentinel.

"Ennervate," Snape said, tapping his wand on the puffskein's head. It awoke, blinking blearily before wriggling about in the Potions Master's hand. "It doesn't seem to have a limp," said Snape, letting the puffskein scramble from hand to hand. He reached out a long index finger and traced a line down the animal's belly; it scrunched up and made a curious giggling noise. "Anyway," said Snape, letting the puffskein drop into the bin of other puffskeins. "I believe you are quite done, Potter. You may let your greedy pet gorge itself."

"I am not a greedy pet," the snake said indignantly, though it turned eagerly towards the pile of dead puffskeins. "May I, arglwydd?"

"Go on," Harry said, pulling the snake off and dumping it unceremoniously next to the pile of carcasses. The snake coiled itself and stared up, and Harry found himself seeing his own face: set and expressionless, the green eyes half-lidded and soulless.

"Arglwydd," the snake said slowly, "I do not understand, but if you truly do not wish me to eat these dead things, then I shall not."

"I never said anything of the kind," Harry said shortly. "Eat however many you want. Go on. Eat them."

The snake bent its head slowly and picked through the pile carefully, finally finding a very scrawny puffskein. Then it opened its mouth and slowly engulfed the shattered carcass.

"Not much of an appetite today," said Snape.

Harry made no reply. He was facing somewhere else, somewhere that was neither the snake nor Snape, but the snake was still staring intently at his face. Harry wished it didn't. He didn't want to see anything—not his face, not Snape's. He wanted to see nothing at all.

He wondered why Snape wasn't moving around and leaving him alone.

"Well, Potter," said Snape after a long silence, "I heard from your Head of House about that incident involving Weasley."

The snake began to crawl towards him, moving sluggishly up his arm and towards his neck. "Yes, sir," he said quietly.

Snape crossed his arms. "Professor Dumbledore, having your best interests at heart, has decided that it would be better if you were to be removed from such a threat."

A threat, thought Harry. He could feel the snake slithering up about his shoulders like the clammy touch of hands. "Yes, sir."

"He has decided, therefore, that it would be best if you room elsewhere, and not in close proximity with someone who has such violent tendencies."

Harry licked his lips. He felt cold, as if he were lying naked in the numbing snow. "Yes, sir?"

"He has decided to offer you a place in the dungeons—in fact, one that is… very close to my own quarters," Snape said at last.

The snake found its way to Harry's throat, and suddenly it felt like a noose around his neck. He swayed. He had withdrawn his mind from the snake's eyes as it had crawled up his arm, and now the utter whiteness seemed to surround him like a suffocating shroud.

"I—couldn't possibly accept—"

"Still hold loyal sentiments to your House?" said Snape coolly, but not unkindly. "Have no fear, Potter. You shall remain a Gryffindor."

Harry shook his head, his mouth dry. "No, no—it's just—" He stopped, and the snake shifted restlessly around his neck.

"If it's not clear enough that your House allegations are the same," Snape drawled, "I'm sure the headmaster will find it no difficulty to announce it publicly."

Harry shook his head again, his hands clenching the sharp edge of the metal table. "It's not that, sir, it's—it's not that at all—"

"Then why, Potter? Why?"

Harry could feel his armpits dampen and his breaths quicken with the thudding of his heart.

"Speak up! Don't make me take points from Gryffindor."

"It's because I can't—"

He stopped.

"Can't?" Snape demanded, beginning to pace. "And why is that, Potter? Too close to the slimy Slytherins for comfort? Too far away from the legions of fans gone astray? Uncomfortable in the 'enemy's' territory? Too—"

"Because I don't want to be near you," said Harry at last. The silence fell, impregnable. Deafening. "I don't want to be near you," he repeated hoarsely, each word falling like the crunch of an ice pick.

"And pray," said Snape slowly, stretching the words out like a body on a machine of torture, "why?"

"WHY DO YOU WANT TO KNOW?" Harry demanded, suddenly angry, suddenly shouting with greater volume than he had since his uncle had carved scars deep into his flesh. "Why do you care? Isn't it enough that I don't want you near me? That I just might"—he spat the next word out, feeling spittle land on his chin—"hate you?"

The silence fell again like a heavy blade. Harry slowly wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "Ah," Snape said laboriously, sounding as though he had just been struck. "I see. I'm glad that you have decided, Potter, to make your sentiments clear. And I shall do the same." He took a deep, shuddering breath. "Get out."

Harry stayed still.

"GET OUT!" Snape screamed, and Harry turned and ran, half expecting a jar of cockroaches to hurtle through the air and shatter above his head. But as he stumbled out of the hospital wing, heart slamming against his ribs and breath coming in shuddering gasps, he was followed only by silence.

"Arglwydd!" the snake hissed angrily once they were several corridors away and Harry had narrowly avoided smashing into a shield of armor more than once. "What did you mean by that? Why did you refuse him—your father, after all this time?"

Harry stopped and grabbed handfuls of his hair and clenched it in fists, bowing his head and lurching into the wall. The snake turned itshead and flicked at Harry's face. "Why, arglwydd?" It sounded befuddled, confused, angry. "Why?"

Harry made an unintelligible noise and stumbled forward, staggering headlong into a suit of armor. It crashed to the floor, the cacophony of metal tumbling over stone clanking and echoing down the entire corridor—

"Answer me—why?" The snake hissed even more furiously, digging its tail between Harry's shoulder blades. "Why?" it demanded. "Why?—speak, you human! Speak!"

Harry grabbed the snake from his neck and flung it away. "BECAUSE WHENEVER I'M NEAR HIM I HEAR HIM SAYING NO!" he screamed. "I hear him saying that he's ashamed of me, that he hates me, that I'm not worth shit in his eyes!" He pounded his fists into his legs and struck out, smashing his fists into the unforgiving walls. "It fucking HURTS me, don't you see? IT—FUCKING—HURTS!" His voice was almost gone, and he buried his face in one hand, crying openly now. "I can't take it anymore," he sobbed. "I can't, I can't, I can't. I can't."

The corridor echoed with silence, echoing like a vast expanse of arctic tundra. But as Harry fought to control his sobs, he heard, at the end of the corridor, the sound of footsteps—footsteps that he knew better than any other: quiet footsteps that now crept to the darkness of the dungeons. When they became too indistinct to hear, Harry sprawled onto the ground, pushing his ear against the floor, and listened with a trembling body as the sounds faded, faded, faded to nothing.