Thank you for the reviews, especially on the last chapter! Many were detailed and thoughtful. Review responses will be up in my LJ later this afternoon.
I can safely say now that this book will be longer than Saving Connor, since the chapters don't want to contract in length, and now there are more of them.
Chapter Ten: Fugitivus AnimusHarry turned as he heard footsteps coming up the hall. He knew who it would be. It was about time for the Halloween Feast to let out, and this loo was on the route to Gryffindor Tower.
Percy Weasley rounded the corner first. He stuttered to a stop at seeing Harry there, and stared at him. Harry stared back, and ducked his head. He could have ducked into the loo and hidden, he supposed, but that would have been worse. Everyone would suspect him anyway, given that they thought he was Dark, and he had associated with Luna in the last few days. At least standing in the open would look less suspicious than trying to run.
Harry wondered if he should be disgusted with himself, that his mind was working like a Slytherin's even under the shock, trying to calculate damage to himself and what would happen next. At least he could be partially rational, he supposed. That was a gift. If it were Connor lying on the floor, he didn't think he could have been rational in the slightest.
That means that you are intelligent, not disgusting, said Sylarana. Although I think you might have tried to distance yourself from standing exactly at the scene.
As he looked up and met Percy's widening eyes, Harry was inclined to agree.
The Gryffindor prefect shook his head, then turned and shouted to the younger students spilling along the corridor behind him. "Stay back! We've got an injured student here, and signs of Dark magic!" He drew his wand.
Harry was grateful for Percy's words, especially since he had assumed Luna was injured and not dead, but he knew they wouldn't work. It was a group of Gryffindors that Percy was leading, not a group of Hufflepuffs. One head, then two, popped around the corner, and then someone gasped, and Harry heard the burgeoning whisper of the message being passed back.
He knew what would happen next. He watched in detachment as Percy knelt beside Luna and cast a simple Life-Sensing Charm on her. He closed his eyes and sighed in the next moment. "She's Petrified," he said. "Not dead. Finite Incantatem!"
Luna lay there, unaffected by the spell. Harry nodded. The fading traces of Dark magic in the air argued that this was nothing as ordinary as a Body-Bind, nothing that could be undone with a simple sweep of a wand. Still, he should have tried himself. He should have thought of that.
Do you always blame yourself this much, or is this a special occasion? Sylarana demanded.
You've only lived with me for four months, Harry told her, as he waited for the inevitable confrontation. You haven't seen me in all my moods.
I've seen enough. Harry—
He didn't get to find out what she would have said, since Connor and Ron, followed by the Weasley twins, came around the corner just then. Connor halted and stared at the water and the bloody writing.
Then his eyes came back to Harry's face, and Harry let out a slow breath. If he had thought Connor was wounded earlier today, when Harry had chosen to show his Slytherin colors, then he had had no conception of pain. There was betrayal and worse than betrayal in Connor's gaze now, a kind of soul-deep horror that Harry knew he would have expressed, in a lesser form, towards anyone who had done something this heinous. But this was his brother who had done this.
You didn't do it! Sylarana was making his sleeve bulge and ripple with her dancing. Harry hoped that she wouldn't come into the open right now. The last thing that anyone needed to be reminded of was that he was not only a Parselmouth, but had a dangerous snake. Doesn't that matter to you? Don't you remember it?
Harry shrugged slightly. He would have answered her, but Connor stepped forward and spoke then.
"I don't understand," he said, his voice shuffling to a halt as he stared some more. "Harry—did you always hate me and want me dead? Or did you just start serving Voldemort this year?"
Ron jumped at the mention of the Dark Lord's name. Other students piling around the corner flinched. Fred and George Weasley were silent, looking from one face to another. Harry grimaced. He disliked their probing gazes most, since they would no doubt remember most of what was said here and then repeat it as the twisted gossip they delighted in.
"I don't serve Voldemort at all, Connor," he said. "I didn't do this. I came upon it as I was coming to the Feast."
"Good job, that," said Ron loudly, his face turning red as he strove to make up for his earlier fear. "Since this hall isn't on the way from the Slytherin dungeons to the Great Hall at all."
Harry shook his head. "I sensed Dark magic—"
"Stand clear, Mr. Weasley. The rest of you, stay back."
Professor McGonagall was among them then, like a cat among the chickens, Harry thought. Even Percy Weasley stepped back for her, his head bowed. She knelt beside Luna and checked her over, then stood and looked at the red writing on the wall. Harry saw her face briefly tighten with a spasm of some very old pain.
Her gaze slid to him, and softened slightly, which Harry didn't understand at all. "Always in the middle of great events, aren't you, Mr. Potter?" she murmured.
Harry blinked at her, and could think of nothing to say, though Sylarana was suggesting several ways of phrasing his innocence.
Professor McGonagall turned, moving in front of the writing and Harry both, shielding them from sight. But it was too late for that, Harry knew. If nothing else, the Weasley twins had seen them. It would be all over the school by the next morning—the writing, Luna, and how Harry had Petrified his friend.
He wished he could spare more time thinking of it, but the only thing he really wanted to pay attention to was Connor's words.
He thinks I serve Voldemort.
Harry looked up and tried to catch his brother's eye, but Connor had already turned away. Harry thought he was crying. Ron, extremely embarrassed, was patting his back and muttering something. When he noticed Harry watching, he gave him a glance that burned. Harry looked away.
"Proceed to the Tower immediately," McGonagall was telling the Gryffindors. "You are to stay there for the rest of the evening, unless you are a prefect specifically summoned by a Professor. No side-trips," she added, her gazing lingering darkly on the Weasley twins. One of them put his hands in his robes, while the other began to whistle in an innocent manner. McGonagall did not look impressed. "Yes, Miss Granger?"
Harry turned to see that Hermione had edged around the corner to join the gaggle in the hall. She had her head craned, as though trying to see past the edge of McGonagall's robe at Harry. "What do the words mean?" she asked now. "Who's the Heir?"
"All of that will be answered in the morning," said McGonagall briskly. She ignored the chorus of groans and the buzz of whispers from her students. She nodded to Harry. "If you will accompany me to the Headmaster's office, Mr. Potter."
She thinks I did it, then, Harry thought. Or she thinks there's a reasonable chance that I did it.
But he was still thinking about Connor.
My brother thinks I serve the Dark wizard trying to kill him.
Harry rubbed his face absently. Sometimes it would make things easier if he could cry, he thought. But he couldn't. So he followed the gentle grip of McGonagall's hand on his shoulder, towing him towards the Headmaster's office. Sylarana writhed out from under the professor's hand, but did not offer to bite her. Harry believed her too furiously in thought to notice.
"Harry."
And oh, he knew it was a bad idea, but he turned and looked. Connor had broken away from Ron's grip again and stood watching him. His face had already gone beyond fear and horror, and into anger. The other emotions lingered behind his eyes, though. Harry wondered if they always would from now on.
"What, Connor?" he asked, when it became clear that his twin was waiting for a response. So was McGonagall, who had stopped walking. And the rest of the students, for that matter. Not even Percy or Hermione had moved. They stood as part of a silent tableau, waiting for what the heroic brother would say to the disgraced one. The Boy-Who-Lived speaking to the Snake Prince. Harry was not surprised that it made for good theater.
"When you can look me in the eye, and honestly tell me that you renounce all the Dark gifts that you have," said Connor, "then I'll trust you again. In the meantime, I'm going to do what I should have done when you started turning Dark. I'm going to catch and stop you."
He turned and walked away.
Harry closed his eyes. Now the shock came, and the weight of the pain. He wanted to crawl into bed and sleep again. He felt as if he hadn't napped at all.
"Come along, Mr. Potter," said McGonagall, once again unwontedly gentle, and led him off.
"Ah, Minerva, young Harry. Do come in. Have a seat. Lemon drop, Minerva?"
"I think not, Albus," said McGonagall primly, and gestured for Harry to take a deep-cushioned chair in front of the Headmaster's desk. She sat in another one, and divided her gaze between Dumbledore and Harry.
"Harry?"
Harry looked up to make sure the Headmaster was really offering him a sweet, hesitated for a long moment, and then took it. He hadn't eaten dinner at all, and he was starving. It was better not to be hungry than to be hungry.
Now you are thinking, said Sylarana. I will still want to know why you did not run away and hide immediately, but this is better than nothing.
"Now, Minerva, what seems to be the problem?" Dumbledore asked, sitting back and smiling at both of them. Harry kept his head bowed. He didn't really need to see the expression on Dumbledore's face. He could imagine how it would turn grave when McGonagall said he'd Petrified Luna.
As it turned out, the Head of Gryffindor House didn't say that, but whispered instead, "Albus, the Chamber of Secrets has been opened."
The Headmaster was silent for a long moment. Then he said, "Are you sure, Minerva?" There was a heaviness in his voice that pierced even Harry's daze of shock and pain. He blinked at the Headmaster's desk, without raising his eyes.
"I am," said McGonagall. "The message on the wall said that the Chamber was open, and that the enemies of the Heir should beware. Beneath it was a puddle of water, and Luna Lovegood, a Ravenclaw student, had been Petrified. All the signs are the same as they were fifty years ago." She was silent for a long moment, and then said, "Albus, I know how the problem was solved the last time the Chamber was opened. How could the same thing have happened now?"
"I don't know," said Dumbledore quietly, and then, "Harry?"
Harry blinked and looked up. The Headmaster leaned forward, staring deeply into his eyes.
He's a Legilimens, too! Sylarana did not sound pleased with that discovery. Out, you meddling old fool, out!
"I'll tell you, sir," said Harry, and glanced down, breaking the eye contact. "There's no need to read the information from my mind."
"I am sorry, Harry," said Dumbledore softly. "This is serious. I must know exactly what happened."
Harry nodded and told the story, including the way he had found Luna's body. McGonagall interrupted at that point to ask, "But why didn't you run? Why didn't you come and get a Professor?"
I like her, said Sylarana. She has sense.
"Because I thought that would look suspicious," Harry whispered. "Everyone was going to suspect me anyway."
"That much is certainly true," Dumbledore murmured. "And was there anything else after that, Harry?"
"No," Harry said. "I waited by Luna's body until Percy Weasley came around the corner."
"Albus," McGonagall said then, "I would wager against Severus that he did not Petrify the girl. He saved her from a pair of bullies in her own House the other day. Mr. Potter is innocent."
Harry closed his eyes, and felt as if he were falling. He had not realized how fervently he wanted someone else to say that.
"The circumstances will conspire to make him look guilty, alas," said Dumbledore softly. "Harry, the Heir the message refers to is the Heir of Slytherin, the only one who can open the Chamber of Secrets." Harry lifted his head, since he thought this was important, and met the Headmaster's eyes. They showed nothing but fathomless sorrow and weariness. "Long ago, Salazar Slytherin built a mysterious chamber and buried it somewhere in the school itself. There is a legend that a monster lives in the Chamber, but it would only rise on the word of Slytherin or one of his blood descendants. The monster would stalk the school, killing children of Muggleborn descent—the ones that Slytherin did not wish to let into Hogwarts."
"That is another anomaly, Albus." McGonagall seemed determined not to be ignored. "Miss Lovegood is a pureblood, or at least a halfblood; I knew Aurelius Lovegood when he was a student here. Why would she have fallen victim to the Chamber's monster, whatever it is?"
"I don't know, Minerva," said Dumbledore, and turned back to Harry. "You must understand there will be a clamor against you."
"There already is," said McGonagall. Harry heard a faint noise that he couldn't identify at first, and then realized was her teeth grinding. "His brother has declared him guilty, and where Mr. Potter goes, a large portion of my students follow. To my shame," she added.
A shadow slipped across Dumbledore's face. "Please bring Connor to me when I am finished with Harry," he said.
"With pleasure," said McGonagall, and Harry glanced at her sidelong, in bafflement. Why was she so upset with Connor? He hadn't done anything wrong.
Dumbledore turned back to Harry. "We do not know what happened tonight. I do not know if perhaps there may be an ancient and unsuspected connection between the Slytherin line and the Potter line. That is one of the things we must find out. Your gift of Parseltongue argues that it is possible. Also, we must take every precaution that we can to minimize the level of fear that will now infect the school."
Harry nodded; he thought that was obvious.
"Do not go anywhere by yourself," Dumbledore said. "Do not speak in Parseltongue unless you must. Do not threaten anyone with Sylarana. Do not, especially, wield any Dark magic, Harry."
"I don't know any," said Harry in bewilderment. "Unless you count Parseltongue, sir."
Dumbledore nodded firmly. "We must, for right now." He paused, eyes darting over Harry's face. "I am sorry to do this to you, Mr. Potter," he said. "I for one do not believe that you opened the Chamber. But there are unanswered questions here, and we have to tread carefully or risk becoming enmeshed in the mysteries. Do you understand?"
"Of course, sir." Harry shook his head slightly. He understood the commands. He didn't understand, though he was grateful, why Dumbledore had explained the reasoning behind them.
"For now," said Dumbledore, "I will ask Professor McGonagall to escort you back to the dungeons. And I will ask that you attend a special Occlumency lesson with Professor Snape tomorrow. I will inform him of this."
"Thank you, sir," Harry whispered. It wasn't Sunday he was thinking of, but Monday. The school would get to stare at him, then if no other time.
"Is there anything else you can think of, Harry?" Dumbledore asked. "Anything else at all that might possibly help?"
"No, Headmaster," said Harry. "I wish there was."
"Thank you, my boy," said Dumbledore, and gestured to the door. "If you need to speak with me, the password is persimmon beans."
"Thank you, sir," Harry said, and stood, Professor McGonagall keeping close at his side, as they exited the office.
The Gryffindor Head of House was silent as she led him into the dungeons and paused outside the blank stretch of wall concealing the common room. Only then did she say, voice sharp as the point of a sword, "Mr. Potter. Harry."
Harry looked up at her, wondering if she was about to tell him that she didn't believe in his innocence after all. McGonagall knelt down next to him instead, and gave him a fierce hug.
Harry stood there, and tried to figure out what he had done to deserve this.
"If you do not want to go to the Headmaster," said McGonagall, "please come to me. I do not believe that you have done evil, and today I saw you face both accusations and your brother's words with courage worthy of someone in my House. I would welcome the opportunity to talk to you." She stood up and stared down at him. "You are going into darkness," she whispered, "and you are unarmed. I would change that, if I could."
"Why?" Harry whispered back.
McGonagall blinked once, and then her face hardened. "What will be done to you is neither right nor fair," she said. "I remember how cruel children can be." And then she turned and was gone, her robes swirling determinedly around her, before he could say anything else. Harry watched her stiff back, and hoped that Connor wouldn't catch it too badly from her. He hadn't done wrong, had only spoken what he thought.
He murmured the password to the door—pureblood valor—and stepped into an immediate onslaught of questions and murmurings. Harry answered all those he could, with Sylarana tightening steadily around his arm until she said, That is enough. You need to sleep.
Again? Harry protested, but he knew that he wouldn't be able to keep up the mask for much longer. He nodded to the questioners and made his way to his room. He could feel eyes on his back. He walked tall under them anyway. None of them were as bad as Connor's accusing gaze had been.
He stepped into their room, and Draco grabbed him and spun him around twice, then pulled him close and held him there. Harry blinked. He seemed to be getting an unusual amount of hugs this evening. Unlike Professor McGonagall, though, it felt safe to embrace Draco. He tentatively stuck his arms out and hugged him back.
"I thought something had happened to you when they said someone was lying there Petrified," whispered Draco. "I thought you were in the hospital wing, that your brother had done something to you, that you were dead, oh Harry…"
Harry patted his back gently, and felt an echo of sadness, that so few people cared about Luna her name had not even survived the exchange of gossip. "It wasn't me. It was Luna."
"The mad girl?" asked Blaise from his bed in surprise.
Harry glared at him, and then came and sat down on his bed for a gentler round of questioning. Luckily, his roommates were much more inclined to let him go to bed when he wanted, not least because Draco sat there with an arm around his shoulders at all times and keenly watched his face, and announced that he had to sleep halfway into Blaise's fourth question.
Harry lay down gratefully. At least he might find some refuge in his dreams, as long as he didn't dream of the screaming and writhing dark figures.
You will not, said Sylarana, slithering into his thoughts. Trust me to guard your sleep tonight.
And he did, and he passed into slumber and darkness.
"Mr. Potter. Come in. Take your place in front of the mattress."
The office looked much the same as it had for the last lesson, but though Harry took his place in front of the Transfigured stretch of floor, Snape did not at once move to practice Legilimency on him. He spun his wand in his hands instead, and stared moodily at Harry. Harry blinked at him. Always before, Snape had attacked him, and then they had discussed what defensive strategies Harry could employ to counter the attack. A patient Snape was an oxymoron.
So was an uncertain Snape, Harry knew, and yet that was what he thought he saw after a few more moments. Snape paced back and forth, his robes snapping, and then spun and launched—not a mental push, but a question.
"Mr. Potter. Are you aware that there is a box in your thoughts, one which you open several times a session so that you may slip your anger into it?" His eyes were narrow, his voice clipped, but not icy with the rage that Harry would have expected about such a question.
Harry froze. Snape could sense the box? He had been sure it was a private part of his mind, that his movements were so swift and well-trained that Snape couldn't actually sense where the anger went.
"Mr. Potter."
Harry took a deep breath, lifted his head, and nodded. "I am, sir," he said. He waited, then. If Snape wanted to talk to him about the box, then he would have to ask. Harry was not going to volunteer anything.
Snape clenched one hand around his wand, but asked the next question in an almost neutral tone, perhaps because of its rapidity. "What do you put into the box?"
"Anger, mostly, sir," said Harry. "And sometimes other emotions that I don't want to feel."
"What are those?" Snape asked, after another staring contest.
"Resentment," said Harry. "Jealousy. Envy, sir. Anxiety. The unattractive emotions." He shrugged. "The box contains them all."
Snape hissed air in and then out. "Are you aware, Mr. Potter, that keeping so many of your emotions closed off from the rest of your mind is extremely dangerous? The theory of Legilimency and Occlumency explains why it should be so. The mind is a moving thing by nature, with memories and thoughts free to come and go. When one part of it is constricted—as by an Obliviate spell, or by the Imperius Curse—then that part cannot move as it should. It will settle into place, and do, potentially, massive damage when disturbed. The rush of returned memories after someone has been Obliviated, for example, has driven some wizards insane."
Harry blinked. "But that's only if the constructs are disturbed, sir, isn't it?"
Snape bared his teeth. "Did I not just say so?"
"So as long as I don't disturb the box, then, I should be safe." Harry shrugged. "It seems simple to me, sir. I can keep the box locked up. I've had lots of practice. It's been with me for a long time."
Snape took a single long stride forward. "So imagine what is in there now, Potter," he whispered. "Years of, as you put it, 'the unattractive emotions.'" His voice edged the words with acid. "Imagine what will happen when the box shatters, as it must with the pressure that you put on it. Imagine what will happen when those accumulated years of rage flood your mind all at once. They could ignite your magic, and perhaps damage your sanity beyond repair."
Harry shivered at that. He didn't want to be left unable to help Connor. But, at the same time—
"But if I open the box at all, Professor," he asked, "won't the same thing happen?"
"Not if it is drained slowly," Snape answered. "One emotion at a time, one memory at a time. Put them back into your mind, allow them to mingle with your other thoughts, and they should dissipate their force on their own." He narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. "Of course, that does mean—"
"That I would be angry with Connor," said Harry. He shook his head. "I'm sorry, Professor, but I can't do that. I would have to stop using the box in the future, wouldn't I?"
"That is precisely the point of this exercise," Snape began.
"I can't," said Harry firmly. "I don't want to be angry with Connor. If I really were above all the petty emotions, then I shouldn't feel it, and that would be the best solution. But since I keep failing to do that, due to defects in my training or defects in myself, then the box is the best solution. That way, I can protect my brother without fearing that I'll suddenly break out in hostility towards him."
He breathed more easily as he pronounced the words. Yes, this was the best solution, the first time he had ever justified it aloud to himself. He would be no use to Connor dead, or brain-damaged, or raging at him. Confining his emotions and memories like this was the best thing he could do.
"You fool."
Harry blinked and dragged his attention back to his Professor. Snape had his wand out and a bone-deep rage on his face. Harry stepped back warily.
"If you do not drain that box," Snape whispered, "it will burst open someday. Some crisis will come upon you, or you will attempt to tuck one fury too many into it, and it will break. I will not have that. I will not see you broken beyond repair. And what if it happened in Hogwarts, Potter? Would you see your precious Boy-Who-Lived in such danger?"
Harry recoiled. "I—I can't be a danger to him, Professor," he said. "I have to be there, with him, beside him—"
"Legilimens!"
Harry found himself staggered, thrown, whirling hard. Snape pushed into his mind and turned in the direction of the box.
Harry fought. He hid the box behind curtains of drifting mist the way Snape had taught him, tossed memories into the air to distract him, and thought deliberately of what had happened with the Chamber of Secrets, though Snape must know that by now. Professor McGonagall had told him this morning that the professors knew, and that Luna would be in the hospital wing until the mandrakes they were growing in Herbology were ready to be harvested and heal her.
Snape strode through the puffing mist of that memory and knelt beside the box, reaching out to grasp its lid. Harry thought of suddenly suffering the strange thoughts he'd had about Connor yesterday—that it was unfair of Connor to put him in that situation with Draco and Ron—and panicked.
He didn't know what he did, but in the next moment he heard Sylarana say, On your word.
Harry opened his eyes. Sylarana was coiled around Snape's throat, her fangs glistening like Veritaserum a few inches from his skin. Snape stood very still, his head tilted back to accommodate the snake. His face wore an expression of utter disdain. Only the sweat on his forehead betrayed his fear.
"I want to kill him,"said Sylarana. Her voice lacked the teasing tone that Harry had heard her use every other time she said that. "He should be dead now. What he did was stupid and dangerous."
Harry swallowed and shook his head. "Don't kill him," he whispered, and heard Snape draw in a sharp breath. It probably sounded like hissing. Harry didn't care. "Come back, Sylarana, please."
"You are sure?" She was already uncoiling, however, and making her way gracefully across the floor to him. Harry knelt and put out his left arm. She coiled around his wrist and laid her head out along the back of his hand. Her eyes stared directly into his. "I would have killed him."
"I know," Harry whispered back, and glanced up at Snape.
"We are done for today, Potter," said Snape, betraying nothing by his tone. "You will return for your lessons this week at the same time you always have."
Harry nodded, not daring to say anything, and slipped out of the room. It seemed Snape would pretend the next lessons were normal, and Harry saw no alternative. Death had been with them in that room. It was not so easily dismissed, but it could be ignored by mutual effort.
One thing was certain, however. The box was not going to be enough anymore. Harry had to find something else.
Harry sighed softly and slumped back in his seat. He'd been in the library for the past three hours, and hadn't found any spells that sounded like what he was looking for, even granted that he was looking through spells intended for use by adult wizards.
Then he turned the page.
Fugitivus Animus.
Harry let out a small gasp and slid closer to the page. The description of the spell lay there invitingly, as if waiting for him.
Fugitivus Animus, or the Fugitive Soul, is a spell designed for concealment in particular difficult situations outside of battle. Its limitations make it impractical for use in a battle environment, unless one has a target already chosen and highly visible.
With this spell, the caster transfers attention from himself to someone else. He does not become invisible, but slips from the grasp of all thoughts in the area. Thus he reorders the perceptions of those affected by the spell, so that he drops from whatever position of importance he may originally hold to lowest priority, worthy of less notice than a fly that wanders through the room.
There are two orders of this spell. The first is Fugitivus Animus Cogitatio, which is performed with three sweeps of the wand to the left at brow height, emphasizing the three words of the spell, and transfers attention from the caster to one person in the immediate area. The caster may leave unnoticed, as everyone else in the vicinity will begin paying attention to the target. Anyone who departs the area of the target, however, will remember the caster, often quite suddenly.
Fugitivus Animus Amplector will permanently transfer attention from the caster to the target, and last as long as both caster and target are alive. It is performed with three sweeps of the wand to the left at brow height, as its lesser cousin, and then a sweep of the wand to the right at heart height. The caster must use much more of his will in casting it, as it is a harder spell by three degrees of magnitude.
The counter for both spells is the Finite, or Reparo Mentis. However, in dispelling the Amplector spell, the caster must use as much strength as the original wizard who created the spell.
Because both versions of the Fugitivus Animus spell interfere with others' thoughts and feelings, this spell is classified as Dark.
Harry let out a small breath and closed his eyes. He was sure the spells would be difficult to perform; if not, this book would be in the Restricted Section, rather than kept in the open for students to research spells they would never be able to cast.
But it was what he needed. It was perfect.
He could keep people from looking at him while he struggled to deal with whatever emotions he was currently experiencing, if they couldn't go in the box. And if Connor was in the same room, then Harry could make everyone else pay attention to him, as befitted the Boy-Who-Lived.
This is a bad idea, Sylarana hissed at him. It is Dark magic.
Are you afraid? Harry challenged her.
Of course not! It's just a bad idea.
Harry went to put the book away, ignoring the small part of his mind that agreed with Sylarana. He had to do something. It seemed that the world was closing in on him, not letting him do anything right. Every move he made was anticipated, tracked, and turned aside.
He needed to figure out some way of keeping his vows, and until he came up with a better one, the Fugitivus Animus spell was it.