Thank you for the reviews yesterday!

Note: This chapter is evil.

The lines of poetry quoted in this chapter come from Swinburne's "A Nympholept."

Chapter Sixteen: On This Day of Balance

"James, I wish you wouldn't do this."

James kept his back turned to Remus as he picked up a handful of Floo powder. "I know, Remus," he said quietly. "You've told me several times now that you wish I wouldn't do this, that you think it's the wrong thing to do, that it's only going to make Harry hate me." He paused and glanced over his shoulder at the oldest friend left to him now—unless one counted Peter, and James still didn't feel he could. Probably even less than before, after today. "But you don't understand. Harry can hate me. But at least he'll be alive. I'm going to take him out of Hogwarts and tutor him in Lux Aeterna for the year. Then at least Death Eaters can't attack him the way they always seem to at Hogwarts."

"And Severus?" Remus's hands were clenched at his sides, his amber eyes alive with the wolf. It made James remember the day Remus had tried to take Harry away from the house in Godric's Hollow, and James had come after him with silver. He bit his lip. He did not want to remember that day. "Do you think he'll hate you any less for this, James?"

"I'm rather hoping he won't," said James, and rubbed the powder between his fingers. "He shouldn't have tried to raise my son if he couldn't keep him safe. I'm going now, Remus," he added, and then tossed the dust into the fire. The flames flared green.

"I think you're making a mistake," Remus whispered.

James shook his head and took a single stride forward, calling, "Department of Magical Family and Child Services!" Remus kept trying to persuade him out of his chosen course of action, but he couldn't actually offer a rationalization of his arguments, other than that it was the wrong thing to do. James would need stronger arguments than that.

I should have done this before, he thought, as he whirled through the fireplaces. I never should have listened to Harry. He tries, Merlin knows, but he can't guard his own life the way that he guards others'. He's always going to take risks as long as he thinks that he should. So just restrict him from the outside world, and don't let him be around anyone he thinks he needs to save, and he should be safe.

It was such a simple solution that James was frankly surprised that it had never occurred to Snape. He had never thought the man was stupid. Stubborn, pig-headed, a bastard, yes, but not stupid.

That only proves that he doesn't really care about Harry, James decided as he stepped out of the Floo at his destination. There was a polite little carpet to catch the soot that came with him. If he really cared, he would have thought of this solution and asked me to take Harry back myself.

"Mr. Potter!" gushed the witch sitting behind the desk, rising to shake his hand. "We've heard so much about you! Please, won't you sit down and take a cup of tea? My name is Hellebore Shiverwood. Professor Snape and your son should be here in a moment."

James shook the woman's hand, and looked her over carefully. Hellebore Shiverwood looked a sensible witch in her early forties, in the kind of casual dark robes that most Ministry employees favored. Her green eyes sparkled at him with something near hero-worship, though. James supposed that was the cause of her gushing.

Well, never let it be said that I can't use that to my advantage.

Instead of letting go of Hellbore's hand when the shaking was done, he shifted his clasp to her wrist and raised it to his lips, kissing her palm. Hellebore blushed as he murmured, "Your pardon, madam. My shock overcame me, and led to ill manners. Such beauty can do that to a man."

The witch ducked her head and said, "Well, Mr. Potter, really." But she gestured him to a chair in front of her desk with a benevolent motion. "Now, are you sure that you won't take a cup of tea?"

"One would be lovely, thank you." James looked around the room. It was almost bare, with only one portrait in the middle of each wall. The portraits were all of children. James blinked when he realized that one child was dressed as if he came from a Dark pureblood family, one from a Light pureblood family, one from a Muggleborn one—that was reinforced by the Muggle bicycle next to her, which she kept idly kicking with one leg when she wasn't grinning out of the portrait—and one from a family of mixed heritage. I hadn't expected the office to be so open about serving all magical children.

Hellebore Shiverwood came back to her desk, and gave him the cup of tea. James accepted it, studying her the while. It would be a mistake to underestimate her. The witch who could decorate her office like this would probably take the duties of her position seriously, and if she thought Harry was better off with Snape, then she wouldn't hesitate to assign him there.

But Hellebore smiled at him, and James relaxed. She liked him, he reminded himself. Besides, she would have a natural prejudice in favor of blood family unless she was dealing with a case of abuse; most wizards and witches did.

"And here they are," said Hellebore, abruptly glancing up as the door of her office opened. "Ah, welcome, welcome! A happy late summer to you!"

James smiled grimly as he rose to his feet to face the thief of his son. It is too much to hope that he might come to his senses as on his own, or I might have been content to handle this a different way. But Snape always did have to be cowed by a show of naked force.

"Ardesco!"

Snape nodded as Harry's Intense Flame spell caused the nearest wooden figure to take fire from the inside, consuming itself in a burst of flames and ashes. Harry stepped back and turned calmly to face him. Harry was almost always calm lately, Snape had noticed, the turmoil in his mind that Snape could feel through the passive link soothed into silver silence. That was obviously a sign that the treatment was working. Harry also seemed to have adapted to the partial loss of Draco, and no longer pestered him. Everything was working.

Of course it is, said the voice of the scorpion of ice inside him. When you go cold, then everything makes much more sense, and everything is for the best.

Snape could not understand how he had endured before, when every attack on Harry made his heart stutter and race. Now he knew about them, and how to prevent them, before they happened.

"Better," he allowed. "But you will need to be quicker. I saw that you could not choose your target for several seconds. When many enemies are charging you at once, you must choose at once and cast to kill."

"Yes, sir," said Harry, and Snape could feel his thoughts turning inside his head, as excited as they ever got, pulling down the information, studying it, and shoving it firmly into place. He relaxed in the next moment and dipped his head. "Isn't it almost time for the meeting with Madam Shiverwood and my father, sir?"

Snape sneered in spite of himself. "Do not call him your father," he said, turning towards the cauldron in the corner. Yes, the potion with the candle floating on it was ready. Snape scooped out a ladle full of it and dipped it into the vial he had ready, then tucked it into his robes. He could feel the spike of Harry's startlement, but by the time he turned back, his charge had his eyes on the floor again.

"Yes, sir," he said.

Snape gestured ahead of him. "We will take the Floo from the Headmaster's office to the Minister's," he said. "He evidently wishes to speak with us before we meet with Madam Shiverwood and Potter."

"Yes, sir," Harry repeated, almost the only words he used around Snape these days, and then turned and walked ahead of him.

Snape let the cold rage fill his own thoughts until they were slick and glittering, like ice. The vial in his pocket might have burned a hole there, which would have been a good joke, considering what it was meant to do. Snape had not yet decided on a name for this particular potion, and he considered that, in the frozen rationality of his mind, as they waited for the gargoyle to leap aside and rode the moving staircase upward.

A name came to him, a myth, a legend, a story, and Snape felt his lips curl in grim amusement, the only kind he felt these days.

The Meleager Potion. Yes, I think that will do quite nicely.

Enjoying his private joke, Snape almost did not notice that they had entered the Headmaster's office until Albus's voice surrounded them. "Ah, boys," he was saying, as he handed a pinch of Floo powder to Harry. "Off to meet the Minister, then?"

"Yes, sir," said Harry.

Snape narrowed his eyes. Why does he sound almost the same saying that to Albus as to me? What is wrong with the boy? I know that he does not trust Albus, and I had thought he trusted me.

He made a mental note to speak with Harry later, and sneered at the twinkle in the Headmaster's eyes as he watched Harry cast the Floo into the flames and call, with no prompting, "Minister Fudge's office!"

The flames turned green, and they were through.

They emerged in a room far, far too overdecorated for the man it was meant to serve, Snape thought, sneering in a circle. It had portraits of former Ministers on the walls—gilded ones. It had a large chair behind the desk—large and comfortable enough to hold the half-breed gamekeeper. The desk itself was made of polished ironwood—a luxury for someone like Fudge. Snape touched the vial in his pocket again, and slid the stopper off with long-practiced fingers. The Meleager Potion seeped out slowly, thick and viscous, coating his fingers. That was all right. This particular potion, unlike the one he had given Potter, had to be ingested to be effective.

And it smelled like chocolate, so that was not a problem.

"Ah, ah, Professor Snape, Mr. Potter!" Fudge was coming around his desk towards them, his hand already extended. "So nice to see you again, and under more auspicious circumstances than the last ones were!" He nodded to Snape with a foolish beam.

Snape simply sneered at him, but reluctantly extended his potion-smeared hand to be shaken. Fudge shook it, then blinked and peered at his fingers.

"My apologies, Minister," said Snape smoothly. "I was called…rather abruptly from my work, and I am afraid that some of the products of my brewing were still on my hands. I have a bit of cloth that—"

"No, no," said Fudge, with a faint, faraway look in his eyes. The potion's scent has some intoxicating properties when it is ready, Snape noted to himself, as he watched Fudge happily lick the potion from his fingers. It was something he had suspected, but hadn't been able to test, for obvious reasons. "I rather like chocolate," Fudge said, with a wink at Snape, when he was finished. "And, of course, you can't make poisons all the time, no matter how grim! Eh? Eh?"

Snape merely stared at him, and Fudge's smile withered. He turned to Harry. "Hello, young Mr. Potter. Quite a mischievous article you published about me, really!" He shook his head and clucked his tongue. "You like making up fabulous stories, don't you?"

Harry's mind remained calm. Snape narrowed his eyes. How did the boy do that? Occlumency, obviously, but I had not thought him so far advanced. I must remind him to tell me everything.

"They weren't stories, Minister Fudge," said Harry. "They were true. You know it. You were there, even as I was."

Fudge's smile withered again. He tried to recover by replacing it with an even wider, brighter one, but the effort was obviously strained. He walked behind his desk and shuffled some pieces of parchment, looking at his hands as though they were going to give him an answer any moment now.

"The fact of the matter is, Mr. Potter," he said at last, looking up, "I've had some—unpleasant letters as the result of your article."

"Howlers, Minister?" Harry asked, as though he were genuinely interested.

"Not only Howlers, not only Howlers," said Fudge, and coughed. "Others. There are apparently, ah, many citizens of our fair island who take a great deal more interest in our government than I ever knew. There is, in particular, one assault—that is to say, one series of forceful messages coming from one section of them, suggesting I resign." He leaned forward and stared directly into Harry's eyes, as if he thought that would make a difference. "The Dark pureblooded families."

"Fancy that," said Harry politely.

"It's, well, rather been taking up my time lately, and Madam Umbridge's," said Fudge, with a fake laugh. "I would appreciate it, Mr. Potter, if you could tell them that there's really nothing to be concerned about. It would mean a lot, if you could stand at my side for one of Ms. Honeywhistle's articles and reassure them that what you said happened really wasn't as bad as all that."

"But it was, Minister," said Harry.

Snape stared at him again. The boy was an absolute wall. His shields weren't letting any emotion through except calm, polite interest, not even a hint of amusement. Snape frowned. I know he can shield well, but to do it this well, he must have some hidden motivation. And he hasn't discussed that with me, either. The ice in him rattled.

Fudge's mouth opened, and hung there like that for a moment. Then he closed it with a little click. "You aren't, ah, you won't change your mind, then?" he asked.

"No, sir."

Snape watched Fudge attempt to stand up straight and give Harry a stern look. He might as well have been giving a cloud a stern look. Harry just watched him, and then the Minister turned away and pouted, like a child.

"Fine, then," he said. "Go to your meeting with your father and Madam Shiverwood, Mr. Potter. I hope that you'll find more there to content you than you can seem to find here with me."

"I'm sure I will, Minister," said Harry, so smoothly that Snape didn't even notice the vicious insult until they were almost out of the office. Then he shook his head and caught up with Harry as his ward studied a map on the wall, locating the Department of Magical Family and Child Services.

"Why are you shielding like this?" he hissed at Harry, just to make sure they weren't overheard. A wizard was walking down the hall behind them, heading for Fudge's office.

Harry turned to him. "I thought about what you said, sir," he said, also keeping his voice low and carefully correct. "That I should have some trust in you, and spend some time apart from Draco. But I can't spend all my time apart from Draco; sometimes he wants me there. So I've been shielding the emotions that would keep me from achieving those goals, and only letting through the ones that would help." He shrugged and gave Snape a small smile. "You were right, sir. It works much better. And I've been more productive and happy since I started doing this."

He certainly had been, Snape had to admit, with some trepidation that he couldn't place. Draco had been thriving, talking to other Slytherins besides Harry about some of the subjects he'd uncovered in his research, happily monopolizing Harry's time when he did want him there, and occasionally coming to Snape to demand extra books that Hogwarts's library didn't have. And Harry had been practicing his Dark Arts spells with more determination and dedication, and not asking Snape nearly as many questions, which in turn left him more time to go on with the potions and other methods of defense that would secure Harry's life.

He supposed what had disconcerted him was the completeness and swiftness of Harry's change. But when the boy decided he was going to do something, he did it.

He nodded to Harry and stepped back. "So long as we are agreed that that is the only reason you are shielding," he said.

"Of course, sir," said Harry, looking puzzled. "I only want to make you and Draco happy, to make up for some of the worry I've put you through."

I cannot find anything wrong with that, Snape thought, a tension he hadn't realized was there falling from his shoulders.

"Excuse me," said a voice from behind Snape's shoulder. "I hate to intrude, but I felt the boy's power just now, and he does look familiar from the newspaper articles. I thought I should introduce myself."

Snape turned and sneered at the wizard automatically. He had long golden hair braided with golden bells, and his robes were thick and heavy, elaborate with golden sigils in a language that Snape knew was one of protection. His eyes were blue, and startlingly direct. He met Snape's gaze without blinking before he looked at Harry.

"My name is Augustus Starrise," he said.

Harry dipped his head in a polite bow. "How do you do, sir?"

Starrise nodded back to him. "We have received your reply," he said. "We are considering how to respond. You truly are a master of the written word, Potter. I congratulate you." He smiled, a sharp expression. "That does not mean, of course, that we will stop advising the Minister. I hope that your meeting goes well, and that you are back in your blood father's custody by the end of the day. A child should be with his parents." His eyes raked Snape up and down, and his eyebrows rose. "Not with someone who might teach him Dark magic, however well-intentioned."

Snape fought the urge to snarl. He hated Light pureblooded wizards even more than Dark ones. They were far more open with their opinions, since they considered it a matter of honesty and honor to be.

"You were the one who arranged this, then?" Harry asked, and his emotions briefly stirred.

"Of course. Fudge is not clever enough to come up with this plan on his own." Starrise shook his head, making the bells in his hair clang. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a meeting with our dear Minister to get to."

He turned and walked off down the hall. Snape clenched his hand on the vial of Meleager Potion and regretted that he did not yet know what would happen if he spread it to a second subject before it had taken effect on the first.

"Let's go, sir."

Harry's hand was on his arm, his voice pitched low enough to soothe. Snape let himself be soothed, and drawn along. He wondered when their positions had reversed, and Harry had become the one to offer him comfort.

When he made his change, I suspect.

They found Madam Shiverwood's office easily enough, and entered. Snape could see James Potter rising to his feet as they did, a hard smile on his lips.

It was time. Potter would have absorbed the potion through his fingers when he read Snape's letter, and it had had a few days to settle inside him—inert until its creator spoke the operative spell, of course.

Snape laid his hand on the wand in his robe pocket and whispered, "Augesco."

Then he watched in contentment as the potion took effect.

Harry had braced himself for the first sight of his father. It hit him like a knife blade between the shoulders, like Madam Umbridge's Lamina Alba hex, but thanks to his shields, he was able to part the surface of his mind, receive the shock, and then absorb it again, swallowing it like a stone dropping into a pool.

"Hello, James," he said, remembering just in time that Snape had said he wasn't to refer to him as his father.

James drew breath as if to reply, and then sealed his lips together. A weird, high-pitched giggle edged out of his mouth.

Harry blinked and glanced at Snape, only to find his eyes half-shut and locked on James's face. An expression of lazy pleasure was there, though someone else would have known only that Snape was smirking, Harry was sure.

"Mr. Potter?" the witch behind the desk asked worriedly.

"My name isn't Mr. Potter," James said, tossing his head, as though he were a child. "My name is Mr. Ragglemuffin, King of the Raggles, and I insist that you treat me as such. Where is my throne?"

Harry swallowed. That would be Snape's plan, then. I suppose he couldn't pass up a chance to humiliate his old rival.

Then he scolded himself for thinking that. He didn't know Snape's motivations, not all of them, but he knew one of them was his protection. He ought to be grateful for this, not complaining about what it could not be.

The witch stared again, then glanced sternly at Snape. "Professor, if you have cast a spell on Mr. Potter—"

"I assure you, my good woman," said Snape, "you may examine my wand, and Mr. Potter as well. I have not cast any spell that would harm him." He drew out his wand and pressed it into Madam Shiverwood's hand.

"Where is my purple cat?" James was peering about the room, and his hands were patting his knees as though to summon a reluctant animal to him. "Come here, kitty kitty kitty!" Abruptly, he caught sight of Harry, and his face brightened. "A silver cat! That will do instead."

He bounced towards Harry and held out his arms. Harry took a step backward, unsure of what would happen if he allowed himself to be embraced, and not really wanting it, anyway. He'd got used to Draco touching him in the past few weeks, when he wanted to, and Snape putting his hand on Harry's shoulder to guide him occasionally. Otherwise, no one else had, and Harry was fine with that.

James grabbed him anyway, practically crushing Harry's face into his shoulder. "No," he said. "You aren't a silver cat, are you? You're a bunny rabbit, a sweet little bunny rabbit!" He kissed the top of Harry's head. "Do you want some carrots, little bunny?"

Harry unobtrusively forced magic into his muscles and managed to tear out of his father's grip before he could feel too uncomfortable. He skipped a few steps backward and looked helplessly at Madam Shiverwood.

James lay down on the floor and began to pull off his robes, singing a nonsense song as he did so. "As I was walking among the lettuce, up came the chief of owls and he said, he said to me, oh nonya nonya no—"

"I—" Madam Shiverwood shook her head and performed a spell on Snape's wand that Harry recognized as Prior Incantato. A ghostly image of a giggling child welled up, confirming that Snape had cast a Cheering Charm on himself. Madam Shiverwood shook her head again, and then gave the wand back to Snape. "You were worried about this meeting, Professor Snape?" she asked.

"I was." Snape nodded and stared at James, who was struggling and kicking at his robes as if he had forgotten all about buttons. "I see that I need not have been." He looked at the witch and sneered. "Unless you will commit a child to the care of someone who clearly has something loose in his head?"

He doesn't have something loose in his head, Harry thought uneasily. Except what Snape put there. If they think Dad's somehow crazy, then he might lose custody of Connor, too, and who would Connor go with? Remus legally can't take him, and Snape would never agree to.

He forced down the panic that wanted to burgeon. Snape had said to trust him. Harry had to. And Snape had said at the end of May that he cared for Harry just as he was. Surely that meant that anything he did out of that affection could be excused? That it would have to be?

"Look at me!" James shouted, flipping his robes up towards his head. "Look what I can do!"

Harry swallowed his embarrassment at his father's actions and looked at Madam Shiverwood, to see her watching him.

"How do you feel about going home with your father, Harry?" she asked carefully. "The claim he filed included a petition to remove you from school, so that you might finish out your education at your family home. He said it would be safer for you than the school."

Harry sighed. "With all due respect, madam, my safety there depends on the wards," he said, looking at James. "And the wards answer to James. I don't think he can keep me safe if he's acting like this. He might let Death Eaters through under the impression that they were the Chief of the Rabbits."

"Have you ever known him to act like this before?" Madam Shiverwood asked.

Harry shook his head.

The witch looked hard at Snape, who returned her scowl with a perfectly bland expression. Then she sighed. There was anger and disappointment and disgust in the sigh, but also resignation. "I cannot send a child home with someone who acts like this," she agreed. "You may retain temporary custody of Harry, Professor Snape. We—"

"Have to pee!" James shouted.

The strong smell of urine a moment later confirmed that he wasn't kidding. Harry tried, desperately, not to look in his direction.

The witch blinked a few times, slowly, then said, "I think it best if you leave now, Professor, Harry. I shall make sure to escort Mr. Potter home." She nodded rather helplessly to Harry. "I hope that you will be happy with the professor, Harry, and that this problem will be solved as soon as possible." Her eyes slid to Snape.

Snape simply stared back, then turned and marched out of the office. Harry scrambled to catch up.

"Is it permanent, sir?" he asked, when he was sure they were far enough from the office that Madam Shiverwood couldn't hear them.

"I don't wish to tell you," said Snape.

Harry flinched from the coldness in his tone, and reminded himself, again, that he'd resolved to stop asking Snape so many questions. His guardian was busy, and always had his best intentions at heart. He took the concern and slid it under his shields. It was up to him to make sure that James wouldn't be hurt permanently by the potion. Snape couldn't be bothered.

He waited for relief and joy to bubble up, since he was still under Snape's guardianship.

When it came, it was…rather muted, really.

Harry sighed and looked away from Connor's stricken face. "I don't know," he said quietly. "I'm just going to make sure that it 's not permanent, that's all. I think I know some of the ingredients that Snape used in the potion. I recognized them by scent, and you know that he taught me about Potions theory this summer. I'm fairly sure that I can mix up an antidote soon." He turned a hopeful grin on his brother. "But, of course, Snape might even reverse it before then, once he's decided that James isn't going to come after me again."

Connor shook his head slowly and leaned against the wall outside the Great Hall, closing his eyes. "I still don't understand," he whispered. "I—you've taught me, Harry, never to take pleasure in someone else's suffering. How could you just leave him under the potion, smarting and humiliated like that?"

Harry winced. He wondered what he could have done to both keep Snape's trust and avoid hurting his brother. It didn't seem there was anything, so he would have to live with this consequence, too. "I'll reverse it," he said. "I promise."

Connor opened his eyes and gave him a bleak look.

"Do you still want me to give you those lessons, tomorrow?" Harry asked him softly.

"Yeah, I guess," said Connor, and shuffled into the Great Hall. Harry watched him go with a faint frown, then turned his head. The Slytherin table was filling up for dinner, and he wandered over to it with a slight feeling of disorientation. Everything had gone so well for a few days, and now…this. First failure.

Snape's an idiot, Regulus volunteered.

Harry smiled a little in spite of himself, if only because it was so like something Sylarana would have said. What about this time? he asked, as he sat down next to Millicent and reached for the plate of bread.

Because he must have known that you'd have questions about the potion, but he didn't bother to answer them. Regulus made what sounded like a noise of deep disgust in his throat, and Harry wondered how he could do that, since he didn't have a throat to make it with right now. What kind of responsible adult does that?

A busy one, Harry said back, and distracted Regulus. Most people liked to talk about themselves more than they liked to talk about other people's problems. Besides, this was a problem that needed attention. When are you going to drop the wards and let Narcissa into Grimmauld Place to search for you?

Sullen silence.

Harry sighed and spread butter on his bread. You know that you have to, sooner or later.

Peeved silence.

Harry shook his head, and looked up as he saw two post owls flap in through the windows of the Great Hall. It was almost sunset, the enchanted ceiling reflecting the shine of red and gold light through the window, and it made the owls glow as they both swooped towards him.

Harry murmured his thanks and fed the ordinary barn owl before he accepted the letter from the other owl with a grave nod. This was Julius, Lucius Malfoy's truce-owl, and it would have been an insult to feed him. He ruffled his feathers at Harry instead, and soared out the window, followed quickly by the other owl.

Harry opened the truce-letter first. It was a short message, as he had expected it would be. They were near the end of the dance.

Harry:

I look forward to seeing you again on the longest night. Meanwhile, on the night of mingled light and dark, in perfect balance, I ask you for a favor. I shall not demand that you fulfill it yet, but I ask that you keep it in mind. My gift is the chance for you to owe me a debt.

Lucius Malfoy.

Harry nodded. He would ask Mr. Malfoy for a favor in return, but he would wait and think about it before he sent the letter making the formal request. After all, if he found an immediate use for the favor, he might as well use it instead of just asking for one. And he had until winter solstice, and the end of the dance, to reply.

He opened the other letter, which bore only his name on the envelope, and froze when he recognized the handwriting.

Dear Harry:

There was a Muggle poet, once. Or so they say. In truth, his family line carried wizarding blood from France, through a distant cousin of mine. He himself may have been a Squib. His minor magic doing its best to protect him would have explained how he stayed alive so often when he seemed so determined to kill himself. There was nothing he would not try: scaling Culver Cliff, swimming in cold northern waters, drinking himself nearly to death, visiting flagellation brothels.

He wrote of many strange things, strange and fabulous, but none stranger than he did long after his supposed cure and taming, his turning from Dark wildness to Light domesticity. He called it a vision, a nymph-frenzy. I think he may actually have met Pan in the woods.

Lord God of life and of light and of all things fair, he sang.

Lord God of ravin and ruin and all things dim…

There are some who watch, Harry, and know that one in power may be both "of life and of light and of all things fair," and "of ravin and ruin and all things dim." Never think to evade our eyes.

Evan Rosier.

Harry shook his head and put the letter on the table. Millicent snatched it up at once, and Harry couldn't even find the strength to stop her.

"Strange," Millicent commented, and then stopped when her eyes alit on the signature. She frowned at Harry. "Why do you accept post from people who tried to kill you?"

Harry shook his head and started to respond, but in that moment, most of the last colors of sunset drained out of the sky, and pain exploded in his head, his scar.

Harry gasped, bowing his head, too startled to try and hide, and felt hands clamp on his shoulders. But that was nothing compared to the grip in his mind, squeezing and pulling as though someone would yank his brain out through the back of his skull.

He heard Regulus scream, once, in a voice so horrified and devastated that Harry tried to reach out to him, tried to follow that connection that he'd never been able to sense.

Then Regulus was gone.

Harry lay with his head on the table, panting, trying desperately to soothe the jumbled pain in his head, and hang on to his sanity, and figure out what in the hell had just happened.