Thank you for the reviews! Responses will be in my LiveJournal (which is linked from my profile/bio; I had a few questions about that).
And I'm sorry for all the mysterious and new stuff in this chapter, but I'm really going to need it for the end of this book and the third one. Don't you want to drive yourself crazy with guessing?
Chapter Twenty-Four: The Past Comes Home to Roost
Harry let his breath out slowly, and didn't know if he was doing it in the physical world or in the dream. All he knew was that he was going to figure out what these two dark figures meant this time, or wake up trying.
Still they hovered before him, exactly the same as always—solid figures filled in with black, not silhouettes that might reveal details of their features, nor yet people that he could examine and identify. One curled into a small space and cried, his voice so wracked with pain that Harry thought he must be mad by now. Was that a vision of Azkaban?
If so, he didn't know why he would be having it, but then, he had never understood his dreams. He'd had dreams about Quirrell last year, too, and he had not understood why they would come to him and not Connor.
The second figure writhed on outlines Harry had finally decided, tentatively, made up a bed. His whimpers were louder, and he definitely had more room than the cramped figure on the left, but Harry could tell no more than that. What was he in pain from? Harry didn't know that, either.
Well, I have to figure it out.
If his dreams about Quirrell had been warnings, then perhaps these dreams were, too. And Harry was certain that he wanted to grasp the warning in time. It would do less than no good if he learned it too late. He would blame himself forever if something happened to Connor that he could have prevented.
The dark figures abruptly vanished. Harry frowned. Was he waking up?
But he remembered, then, when and how that had happened before, and he was ready when Tom Riddle came slicing into his mind like an angel of vengeance.
Harry ducked and dodged and rolled around him, in constant motion, luring Riddle towards the center of his Occlumency shields. He would prefer to bewilder the boy in fog than call up his magic and drive him out of his mind again. He had no wish to wind up in the hospital wing.
Part of him marveled at how calm he was being about it all.
Well. I can panic when I'm awake.
"Hold still!" said Riddle, his voice a whipcrack, as he flew around Harry, attempting to grab him. Harry ducked again, and he heard Riddle let out an audible, huffing breath. "Or are you too frightened to stand your ground?" he taunted.
"That only works with Gryffindors," Harry pointed out, and then called on Sylarana.
She was beside him in a moment, a hissing vibration that seemed to run all along the webs. Well, she was deeply entwined into them, Harry thought, as he stopped to catch his breath and rest his mind. She would be able to defend him almost as well as he would himself.
Sylarana lunged at Riddle, twisting the webs up around him. Riddle reached down as if he would shred and tear them again.
No, Harry thought, and the thought rang like a bell in his head. No. I cannot afford to let him do this, not again, not when I'm finally making some progress with Connor.
This time, it was not darkness but light that answered from the depths of his mind, red and gold like fire, and singing like—like nothing Harry had ever heard, but like something he wished to hear again. The light and the song together struck Riddle and simply blotted him out of Harry's mind. Harry was left alone, blinking, in his own head. Sylarana twined around him and hissed at him to wake up.
Harry sat up in his bed, feeling it wrong that the room was still dark around him. It had been so bright in his mind.
Sylarana stirred on his shoulder, and said, in a voice loud enough to wake his Housemates, "He came for the box. He was aiming for it."
Harry nodded. He had not been able to see that, not in the chaos of battle, but he had guessed it. He was more interested in something else, though. "What was that light and song in my head? Did you cause that?"
"I had nothing whatsoever to do with that," said Sylarana, and performed a looping motion with her head and tail that Harry had learned was her equivalent of a shrug. "I would not have arranged for a defense so showy."
Harry chuckled, but most of his mind was busy with the voice—the singing voice, not Tom Riddle's. There had been little surprise in Riddle's attack. Harry supposed it was valuable to know he was still there, still a threat.
"I know I've heard something sing like that before," he whispered. "What?"
"I don't know, and I don't care." He could feel Sylarana sliding gently through his mind, poking at the webs. "It doesn't look as though you've taken any damage. Go back to sleep. I certainly will."
Harry nodded, absently, and then lay back down. He would have to go to Dumbledore tomorrow, and tell him about the attack. Perhaps he could also ask the Headmaster what the flaring light in his mind might be. Snape could, possibly, know, but if he had seen this radiance before and simply refused to tell Harry that it was there, then he had his reasons for keeping silent. If he hadn't seen it…
Harry wondered where it could have been hiding, even as he fell back asleep at last.
"Professor Lockhart, I need to go see the Headmaster," said Harry in the middle of Defense Against the Dark Arts the next day, and yet another quiz on yet another one of Lockhart's interminable books.
The professor's head jerked up, and he stared worriedly at Harry. Harry blinked, then smiled. He probably thinks that I'm going to tell Dumbledore he's a fraud.
He looked back coolly, and gave the tiniest shake of his head. Of course, Lockhart would understand that Harry revealing the secret was an option, should Lockhart displease him.
Such as by keeping him in class when he asked to see the Headmaster.
Harry could see the exact moment when Lockhart figured it out. He waved a hand at Harry. "Off you go, then," he said. "But you'll miss the next exciting revelation from Year with the Yeti."
"I'll try to hurry back, then, sir," Harry said, not letting any of his sarcasm into his voice, and ignoring Draco's gaze on his back, too. He could tell Draco what was happening later, if and when the Headmaster said he could.
Harry was rather proud of himself for that thought, he acknowledged as he slipped through the halls towards the Headmaster's office. He was being more responsible, more like an adult than he had been in some time. He was letting Connor go on at his own pace with making friends in other Houses. He wasn't entirely pleased that the first Ravenclaw friends Connor had chosen were Gorgon and Jones, the bullies who had harassed Luna the first day Harry met her, but he could hardly forbid his brother from extending the hand of peace to certain people. They were responding better to him than they ever had to Harry, that was for sure.
Like calls to like.
Harry started, thinking that had been one of his own, angry, odd thoughts, and then recognized Sylarana's voice. He frowned. He hadn't known she could hide so deeply in his mind that she sounded exactly like him.
Stop that, he reprimanded her as he reached the gargoyle and began trying out various sweet names to open the door to the Headmaster's office.
Why should I? she asked. There are things you need to hear, things you will barely acknowledge when I say them. But when your own mind throws them at you, then you respond. He felt an odd rustle, as though her place in the webs was shifting. And there's that dark corner where you've been throwing everything lately. You're not to throw any emotion in there again.
Harry ground his teeth. His temper could still surge with frightening quickness, when he let it. "Fizzing Whizbees," he said, and the gargoyle leaped aside. He stepped onto the staircase. I have to get rid of them somehow, Sylarana.
Why? Because you might listen to them otherwise, and begin to make your own decisions?
You don't have the right to say what I should put where.
Yes, I do, she said, and then she shifted the corner where Harry had started to pile his irritation and anger, locked behind one of the Occlumency fog-shields in his mind, and he couldn't feel it anymore.
You're annoying.
I'm practical. And always right. You would do well to remember that.
Harry shook his head and knocked on the Headmaster's door. He had more important things to think about than an argument with his snake right now. He was being responsible. He was telling Dumbledore about something that might become a threat to his brother before it could manifest as a threat.
"Come in, Mr. Potter."
How does he do that? Harry wondered, but he knew a few simple spells on the staircase were all it would take. He dismissed the question as likewise unimportant and opened the door.
Dumbledore sat behind his desk with a Pensieve in front of him, and his beard dripping with the silvery liquid that filled the bowl. Harry smiled in spite of himself. He must have interrupted the Headmaster just as he was reliving a memory. Judging from the smile on his face, it had been a pleasant one, and not one related to the First War. Harry was sorry for stepping in, but he really didn't think he should wait.
"Sir—"
A trill interrupted him. Blinking, Harry turned his head and watched Fawkes fly over to him, landing on his shoulder and lowering his head so that his beak brushed Harry's chin. Sylarana complained and shifted out from beneath the phoenix's talons, but did not actually dare to bite him. Harry raised his hand and smoothed slowly down the shimmering feathers.
Fawkes chirped at him, eyes brilliant, and then abruptly loosed a short phrase of song that made Harry snap straight.
That was it. That was the voice that I heard in my head last night. It was a phoenix singing. Was Fawkes somehow watching over me in my sleep?
"My familiar seems to have taken quite a shine to you, Mr. Potter," said Dumbledore, chuckling. "He only lets people he likes touch him. Now, was there something you wanted to see me about?"
Harry ceased blinking at the phoenix for a moment and sat down in one of the chairs in front of Dumbledore, Fawkes a warm weight on his shoulder. "Yes, sir. Tom Riddle attacked me again last night."
Dumbledore's face became grave at once, and Harry was surer than ever that he had interrupted a happy moment. The Headmaster sighed, and his blue eyes pinned Harry with the gaze of an old warrior. "I see. And were you able to send him from your head again? Or do you fear that he remains lodged in your thoughts?"
Harry shook his head. "Something else sent him away from my head, sir. A flash of flames, and a voice I didn't recognize until I heard Fawkes sing." The phoenix gave another trill, as though responding to his name. Harry found his hand rising to stroke the feathers again. The warmth they gave was deep and subdued, like a room where a fire had burned for a long time. "I wanted to ask what it meant, if you knew, sir. Perhaps Fawkes was somehow watching over me in my sleep? Or could another phoenix have been doing the same thing?"
Dumbledore closed his eyes. Harry was surprised to see that his face took on an even heavier look, as though the news were unwelcome.
"I do know what it was, Harry," he said quietly. "But I cannot tell you what spell it was for right now. There were—spells of protection that your mother asked me to place on your brother when we first understood that he was Voldemort's destroyer. They are not to activate except in the last extremity, since they have dangerous effects on the world around them. We thought you had escaped contamination by them, but it seems you have not." He sighed and opened his eyes again. "I am sorry, my boy. This is yet another burden that you must bear in an overcrowded brain. I would spare you it if I could. I think a Locusta and Tom Riddle's attacks and Occlumency shields quite enough."
Harry nodded slowly. "Can you tell me why it had a phoenix's voice, sir?"
Dumbledore nodded at Fawkes. "As Fawkes is my familiar, he had some influence on the spells as they were cast. There is a remnant of that influence within you, Harry. It will be even stronger with your brother, of course, given that his wand actually contains one of Fawkes's feathers, and so does Voldemort's wand. I am sorry," he repeated. "We wished to preserve you from the possible dangers of sharing this kind of bond with your twin, but since you are twins, and not only brothers by blood, the connection is extremely hard to block. It seems so far that the bond has protected you only, and for that I am pleased and grateful. But please do not rely on it."
Fawkes uttered a low croon this time. When Harry looked at him sideways, he found the phoenix's head bowed, pressed against his neck so that it was difficult to see anything but his beak. A moment later, gentle wet drops fell onto Harry's neck.
"Fawkes?" Harry asked, wondering if he had somehow hurt or upset the phoenix. He didn't think so, as he'd only been sitting there, but he didn't know very much about phoenixes, either.
Fawkes lifted his head, and Harry could see that his eyes were filled with tears. They fell on his shoulder as he watched in fascination, warm and soft and smelling slightly of spring flowers. Fawkes laid his head against Harry's temple and wept.
"A phoenix's tears heal," said Dumbledore quietly. "I believe that Fawkes is attempting to heal you of spell contamination."
The phoenix gave a low musical sound that might or might not have been agreement, and shifted a little closer to Harry. Harry turned his head slightly away. This close, the heat was stifling, and Fawkes's golden tail-feathers brushed along his cheek like the very touch of fire.
"Not too close, Fawkes," said Dumbledore. "Mr. Potter needs to be able to breathe."
Fawkes uttered a loud chatter that Harry couldn't take for anything but a scolding, and continued to weep for a few moments. Then he lifted and flew back to his perch. Harry rubbed his shoulder gingerly. It wasn't scalded. He hadn't thought he would find it so, but the imprint of the phoenix's talons lingered anyway, as though Fawkes were still sitting there.
Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Given that we cannot trust the spell contamination to protect you again, Harry, I think it is time to turn to weapons that can." He leaned forward and stared intently at Harry. "You must understand how important this is. Voldemort must not be able to turn you against your brother."
Harry opened his mouth to say that he would never turn against his brother, then shut it again. That was the whole point of Dumbledore phrasing his statement the way he had. Voldemort had proven that he could turn Harry without Harry knowing in his conscious mind that he was being turned.
Dumbledore reached behind him and drew forth a long, slim sword from a glass case on the wall that Harry hadn't even noticed. He held it solemnly towards Harry. "This is the Sword of Gryffindor," he said. "When Tom Riddle was a student here, he several times took books from the library that contained information on the Founders' artifacts, and I believe that he tried to, ah, acquire the sword several times before he was finally convinced not to try again." Dumbledore's eyes gleamed, and Harry wondered for a moment just who had convinced him; he thought he knew. "I believe he was interested in it for a reason. It is a powerful artifact. Do you think you could use it to defeat him?"
Harry hesitated for a long moment, meeting Dumbledore's eyes, then reached forward and curled his hand around the hilt of the sword.
He snatched it back a moment later, gasping, and stared at the red center of his palm. This time, he thought grimly, he knew the difference between the gentle heat that Fawkes shed and true fire. His hand was already beginning to blister. He shook it and tucked it into his lap, shaking his head at Dumbledore.
Dumbledore's eyes were narrowed speculatively. "I see," he said quietly. "Well. I am sorry, Harry. I am not entirely sure what happened." He turned and put the Sword carefully back in the glass case. "Perhaps it would not be a good choice, anyway, given the damage that Tom Riddle has already inflicted on your mind and how close he has come to winning over you. It would not do to give him what he wants."
Dumbledore was diplomatically not mentioning how much the sword had hurt him, Harry thought, and certainly not why. He gritted his teeth. He thought he knew. I'm not meant to be a Gryffindor.
"Sir," he said, "Sirius gave me a gift for Christmas that he found among the Black family treasures. He said it was an armband that was supposed to amplify a Parselmouth's power. He did say that the Order of the Phoenix had tried to use it during the First War, against Voldemort, and it didn't do anything." Harry let out a long breath. "But I'm a Parselmouth, sir."
Make sure you remember it, came Sylarana's stern voice in his head.
"Could I try that?" Harry asked.
Dumbledore regarded him for a long moment in silence. Harry could almost feel the tenor of his thoughts. A Slytherin, with serpent magic. That does not mean he is evil. And yet, the Sword of Gryffindor burned him.
Dumbledore nodded in the end. "Yes, I think that would be an excellent candidate, Harry," he said cheerfully. "I don't think Sirius is busy right now. Would you like to go to his office? I will grant you special permission to be out of classes myself."
Harry thought about it, then decided he had better. He had an Occlumency lesson with Snape that night, and most of the material they were covering in their other classes was what he had already learned on his own. "Yes, sir. Thank you."
Dumbledore smiled and waved him on his way. Harry slid out of his seat, inclined his head, and set off.
Fawkes trilled once more to him before he left the office. Harry met the phoenix's dark eyes and saw they were sad again, glimmering with tears that Fawkes did not seem inclined to let fall.
He certainly is a sorrowful bird, Harry thought as he shut the door behind himself. Not at all what I expected of a phoenix, and especially Dumbledore's familiar.
"Protego!"
Harry waved his wand and cast the spell perfectly, enunciating every syllable with what he knew was total control. The armband was clasped snugly around his upper left arm. He could feel it as he waved his wand.
Nothing happened. The shield simply snapped into place and hovered there in front of him.
"Finite Incantatem," said Harry, disgusted, and watched the shield fade.
"Well, not defensive magic, then," Sirius murmured soothingly from the other side of the office. "We can try medical magic next. You said that you knew a few of the spells for that?"
Harry nodded. He was becoming more and more frustrated. No matter which spell he cast, the armband did nothing to help his magic—or to hinder it, from what he could see. He performed every spell exactly as normal.
So far they'd gone through hexes, jinxes, simple household cleaning charms, most of the spells that Harry knew to affect someone else in a gentle way such as sending them to sleep, and now most of Harry's defensive spells. He supposed medical magic might be it. For all they knew, Sirius's ancestor who was a Parselmouth could have been a Mediwizard.
Not much use in battle, though, unless Connor falls dying at my feet, Harry thought morosely.
Before he could begin the spell to remove boils, he heard a grumbling sound. Surprised, he looked down and blinked. He supposed he had missed dinner, but usually his stomach didn't complain so loudly about it.
"Thought that might happen," said Sirius, and ducked, rummaging behind his desk. He came up with a pair of apples, one of which he bit into himself. "Catch," he added, and tossed the other in an arc that Harry knew would fall far short of him. His godfather's idea of a prank to lighten the mood, probably.
Irritated, Harry cast Wingardium Leviosa, both wandless and nonverbal, to pull the apple to him.
The armband grew warm around his skin, and then the apple soared across the office and smacked into the wall beside him. Harry turned to stare. He found the fruit actually embedded in the stone. He lifted a hand and tugged gently at it. It was no use. It didn't move.
Harry stared some more, then licked his lips. He glanced at Sirius, who had his mouth open, some pieces of half-chewed apple still visible within it. When he became aware of Harry looking at him, Sirius shut his mouth and shook his head.
"Well," said Sirius. "I suppose we know what kind of magic your armband works with now."
"Wandless," said Harry. "Or is it only wandless and nonverbal?" More carefully this time, he looked at the apple in Sirius's hand. "Accio Sirius's apple."
Once again, he felt the warmth, and then a wild surge of power. The apple darted out of Sirius's hand and towards him. Harry barely caught it in time. He bit into the side that Sirius hadn't touched, feeling vindicated.
"That's mine," said Sirius, but it was a mild protest. He was still staring cross-eyed at Harry. "That's it, then," he breathed. "None of us thought to try it with raw magic, or wandless. Of course, none of us could perform wandless magic but Snape anyway, and like we were going to trust him with something like this. And perhaps it really does work only for wandless magic performed by Parselmouths."
"Yes," Sylarana said abruptly, making Sirius jump badly as she emerged from the collar of Harry's robe and slithered under his sleeve to nudge at the armband. "It is no accident that it bears the image of a serpent, and that the black coating is made of scales. It was made to call only to the magic that other wizards considered Darkest and most primal, magic performed without a wand in the minds of those who could speak to beasts." Sylarana flicked her tongue out, and Harry felt it against his skin, still warm from the armband. "But that is only the knowledge that comes from the thing itself. Beasts, indeed. Something like the basilisk is. But some of us are more civilized."
"What did she say?" Sirius's voice was still incredulous, as though he couldn't believe he was asking what a snake had to say.
Harry translated, looking away from Sylarana so he couldn't accidentally speak Parseltongue. "She says that—that the serpent in the band is calling out to the serpent in me," he added, as Sylarana hissed at him again.
Sirius sighed and closed his eyes. Harry tensed, wondering if his godfather was about to say something about no Potters before him ever having a trace of serpent in them. Hard as Sirius was trying to understand, Harry didn't trust him not to make an unfortunate remark.
Sirius came forward abruptly and embraced him. "Don't look at me like that, Harry," he whispered into his ear. "Lily explained everything to me. It's fine. I'm living proof that you can grow up with a touch of the Dark in you and still turn out fine. And Peter came from a good home, was wonderfully taken care of and pampered and spoiled and had all our friendship, and look where he is. In Azkaban." His hands tightened on Harry's shoulders. "I won't reject you again, I swear it."
Harry breathed out shallowly and nodded, daring to hold Sirius back. He forced his mind past the moment, to concentrate on what really mattered.
At least I have a weapon to use against Tom Riddle.
The boy was unusually distracted tonight, Snape thought, which was probably the reason that he was able to push past Harry's defenses and enter his mind so easily. That was no longer a simple task. Of course, part of that difficulty came from the composite state of Harry's mind, both so wounded and so healthy, and Snape didn't wish to encourage Harry to keep it that way. His compliments were few and sparse.
This time, he dodged past the shimmering golden thread that kept the Locusta in touch with Harry's thoughts at all times, only noting that it now lit nearly all the webs with its fire, and the locked box, and the simple well of webs that led downward to Harry's ultimate goal of protecting his brother. He wished to see how well the specific wounds that Tom Riddle had left in his battle with Harry were healing.
One of them was nearly gone, he thought with subdued pleasure. The Occlumency fog had provided a gentle, cool place for the webs to connect and heal, and if Harry had lost any of his memories there, he would not be able to tell now. Better an oddly seamless summer or birthday party, with the nagging feeling that he had forgotten something, than the sheer gap that it would have been otherwise.
Snape swam on to the most chewed web. This one, the Locusta had taken it on herself to repair, and that, Snape was not so pleased with. She was too much a part of Harry's mind, had made herself too integral, for him to be easy with her. Not even wizards who had familiars let them this far into their heads.
Perhaps it is a special case for Parselmouths and magical serpents, Snape thought, absently dodging a whirlwind of false memories that Harry wanted him to look at. But still, I must speak with the boy about it. When he can hold all the other wounds shut, then he must learn to unwind her and function without her help. She is not a good enough guard against the Dark Lord.
Snape was drifting towards the third wound when Harry hit him with his most powerful attack yet, a flung hammer of remembered pain from Tom Riddle's cutting spells that drove Snape downward. Before he could recover himself, he found the dark well of the boy's magic before him, the place all the webs spiraled inward to meet. Snape hurriedly shielded himself from the pain with a darting, slicing push from his Legilimency, and floated away from the hole. He had no wish to go into the blackness, not after feeling the barest part of what Harry could do when he had battled Tom Riddle in December.
Yet, for a moment, he was looking straight down, and he caught a glimpse of something that was not darkness. It took his breath.
A glorious web of light ran deep beneath the surface of Harry's thoughts, glittering with red and gold and sometimes flashes of blue and white as if it would imitate fire. Snape noticed its intricacies, its dense patterns, as well as he could while Harry was trying to push him out of his mind, and thought the web was at least as complicated as all the others combined.
Then he landed in his chair, sent staggering by Harry's push, and thought, No. That is the guide for Harry's mind. It anchors the webs above it. It shows them where to run, like ley lines beneath the surface of the earth.
Snape found himself immensely curious about what exactly that made the web of light, especially since he had never seen it before. He recovered himself, and found Harry's face gone shuttered and wary, his head lowered and his eyes a dark instead of a brilliant green. Snape nodded. He had no chance of fighting his way in again tonight. That was all to the good.
"What is the web of light in your thoughts, Potter?" he asked.
Harry blinked. "You saw it?" he blurted.
Snape sneered. "Control, Mr. Potter, control," he said. "Yes, I saw it. If you reveal it when you lower your guard, then I can only instruct you not to trust me. We must guard your mind at all costs if Riddle is attempting to find his way in again." We cannot have Voldemort taking over the body and magic of the Boy-Who-Lived, he added, but only inwardly. He was glad that he had made the choice not to try and convince Harry of that again. Harry had dedicated a good portion of his time lately to making sure everyone thought his brother deserved the title.
But Harry was shaking his head. "I don't know what it is," he said. "It showed up in my dream last night when Riddle attacked, and drove him away. It was gold and red, and sang like a phoenix—like Fawkes." He hesitated a long moment. "Headmaster Dumbledore said it was spell contamination, from magic that they cast on my brother to protect him," he said at last, a question in his voice.
Snape stared at him. Spell contamination? With the web running at the deepest levels of his awareness? Not bloody likely.
But, of course, Dumbledore would have known that. He was a Legilimens himself, a better one than Snape. He would have seen the web of light long since, and understood its significance if not its full meaning or origin.
And yet, he had told the boy this.
Snape wrestled with himself for a long moment. If he spoke the truth, said exactly what he had seen, he stood some chance of building trust with Harry. And perhaps he could encourage the boy's mind to heal further if he told him about this important part of it.
On the other hand, he would be acting against what the Headmaster evidently wished Harry to believe. He would encourage Harry to distrust Dumbledore, when that could lead to utter disaster. And he could not say beyond all doubt what the web was. Perhaps it truly was spell contamination, from a spell that Snape had never heard of. Dumbledore was a more powerful wizard than he was, by several orders of magnitude. Perhaps he was only telling the truth.
Snape met Harry's eyes, and chose the middle road.
"I would not say that is what it is," he said carefully. "On the other hand, I have never seen anything like it before." He did not need to view the web again, he knew; the sight was burned into his memory. "You say it sang like a phoenix?"
"The flash that showed up in my dreams did, sir," said Harry, head tilted to the side, watching him carefully.
"And you have never seen it before?"
Harry shook his head.
Snape nodded. "I will research this, and offer you further answers when I find the information out. I have none at this time."
Harry stood watching him for a moment longer, then said, "Am I dismissed, sir?"
"You are," said Snape, and watched him leave. Then he sighed and turned to the shelf of books behind his desk. He doubted he would find anything, but he felt compelled to start the research he had promised Harry.
Every time I think this is becoming easier, it becomes harder instead. Who would have thought a Potter could be so complicated?
He scowled as what Harry had said about Dumbledore's words returned.
"Old friend," he whispered as he opened the first book, Side-Effects of the Dark Arts. "What have you done now?"