Thank you for the reviews on the last chapter!

This chapter came very near pissing me off, as lots of things happened that were not supposed to happen.

Chapter Fifty-Five: Down, and Down, and Down

Harry dreamed.

"I am well pleased with you, Fenrir."

"Thank you, my lord."

Harry edged forward, light on his paws, watching every moment for some sign of a snake or Rosier. However, he could see only the man who must be Fenrir Greyback, in human form, kneeling in front of Voldemort's divan with a look of adoration on his face. This was the same room Harry had seen once before, from which Voldemort had sent Rosier to attack Lucius Malfoy. Harry stopped when he was next to the divan. Not only might Voldemort see him if he came around it, but Harry might see him, and he had no desire to do that.

Greyback sat on his heels and looked up at his master. Harry could see that his hair was heavily streaked with gray and hung in front of his face; his body was powerfully muscled, and his teeth were yellow. Harry bared his own teeth and spat a bit. Greyback looked far more like a werewolf than Remus did, but the comparison was flattering to Remus, not the other way around. Along with the wildness came a sense of mindless brutality, as though Greyback would be as likely to savage someone important as obey a plan.

"Fenrir has accomplished his mission," Voldemort announced in his high, cold voice to the rest of the room. "The three Light families who thought to defy me in secret have been taught how futile it is to oppose me."

Harry felt his heart bound, once and hard. It didn't sound as though the Ministry had managed to alert the right families when Greyback came hunting on the full moon, then.

"That is assuredly good news, my lord," said Rabastan, moving into sight and then kneeling. "What are their names, if a servant may be so bold as to ask?"

Voldemort must have made some motion for Greyback to answer, because he did in a low snarl. "Gloryflower. Griffinsnest. Opalline. They had been persuaded to withdraw from the war, but still they would not give up less active means of defiance. Now, when they have werewolves of their own—in the family, so to speak—to deal with, they will know the weight of my lord's hand." Greyback grinned, and then laughed, a laugh that trailed off into a howl.

Harry carefully committed the names to memory. He did not know any of the families personally, but he recalled Tybalt Starrise saying that his father had been a Griffinsnest. Perhaps he could use Tybalt as a contact to send the victims the Wolfsbane Potion they would need.

"But what is this, Fenrir?" Voldemort was apparently trying to sound playful. He only sounded like a half-strangled child, Harry thought. "You did not deliver all the bites yourself? You left part of the work up to someone else?"

"Yes, my lord," said Greyback, sounding unabashed. He reached out a hand towards a darkened corner of the room, and a woman Harry hadn't smelt before under Greyback's musk approached him. "Meet my consort, Cynthia Whitecheek."

Whitecheek knelt in front of Voldemort, her golden eyes upturned to him. Harry felt himself twitch at the sight of her. She had a fixed stare, only slightly less mad than Rosier's, and her movements were quick and lithe and too graceful, a predator's. Her heavy brown hair swung to one side, and revealed that her right ear was missing, evidently chewed off.

"You have not come to my side before," said Voldemort.

"I would have, my lord," said Whitecheek in a murmur, "but I was but newly turned that horrible night of your fall, and then I fell prey to the deceptions of Light wizards and Ministry officials for a time. Fenrir was the one to convince me that that defiance of their senseless edicts, not submission, was the best course of survival." She leaned against Greyback and closed her eyes. Greyback licked her cheek.

Harry grimaced. More werewolves. Great. Is he building a pack?

"Then welcome, Cynthia Whitecheek," said Voldemort. "I shall test you for loyalty later." Whitecheek merely nodded, and then crawled backward into her corner again. Voldemort turned and studied Rabastan. "And the books?" he demanded, voice turning into a hissing lisp. "You have the books for me?"

"We do, my lord," said Rabastan, inclining his head. "They were not as well-guarded as we assumed, and a single raid managed to snare them all."

Voldemort laughed. Harry winced. His scar felt like a burning brand. "Excellent," he said. "Meanwhile, Bella proceeds in her incantations, and our long wait is nearly done." Then he paused, and both the Death Eaters Harry could see seemed to shiver, as though Voldemort's expression had changed. "We have a matter of great importance to attend to now," he said, and raised his voice. "Walden, bring us the traitor."

A burly Death Eater Harry suspected was Walden Macnair dragged someone else into sight. Harry couldn't make out who it was until Macnair flung him on the floor in front of Voldemort.

Evan Rosier pushed his hair out of his eyes and raised his brows. "What is this, my lord? I was napping. I was also dreaming of a pie, a most delicious blueberry pie, and I was about to eat it."

"You are a traitor, Evan," said Voldemort, enunciating every word like a tap on a drum made of glass. "I know that you have been writing to Harry Potter and to Severus Snape. You have sent them information." His voice altered further, and Harry laid his ears against his head in protest of the pain. "You will tell me what you have told them, and immediately."

"I would rather that you pulled the information from my mind, lord," said Rosier. "That way, you may trust to its accuracy." He fluttered his eyelashes and leaned forward to lock gazes with the Dark Lord.

Harry watched as Rosier remained, motionless, like that, not giving the slightest wince, though he was sure Voldemort had accepted the invitation. At last Rosier sagged slightly, and Harry waited in the tense silence that followed for some declaration of death, or at least maiming. He was not sure that he should stay here to watch that, and not just because Rosier had demonstrated some ability to see him in the last vision.

Then Voldemort began to laugh.

Harry cowered. This was worse than the last time, and not least because the other Death Eaters joined in—except Rosier. He kept hopeful eyes fixed on Voldemort's face, stroking his left arm as if caressing the Dark Mark, but had only a small, tranquil smile.

"Are you going to kill me, my lord?" he asked. "Will it be in an exciting way? Please tell me it will be exciting. I all but perish from boredom here."

"I can see that you do, Evan," said Voldemort, wrestling his merriment back under control at last. "And you have been playing a game."

"Everything," said Rosier, his eyes flashing intently, "is a game."

"Nevertheless," Voldemort said, as if he hadn't heard him, "this is a game that benefits me. So I will allow you to continue. Do speak your mind on paper to Harry Potter and Severus Snape. They will never learn the rules of your game until too late, and if my enemy and his pet traitor shiver in anticipation of their inevitable end, so much the better."

Rosier simply inclined his head, and then stood and moved behind the divan. He promptly grinned and waved at Harry.

Harry crouched, ready to rip out of the dreamscape, but Rosier didn't alert anyone else to the fact that he could see him. He just moved his lips, mouthing several words so quietly that Harry knew no one else would see them if they weren't looking at his face.

"I am mad because I see what's really there."

He turned away after that, and ignored Harry entirely. Harry shivered and returned his attention to Voldemort, though he kept one ear cocked for the sound of Rosier whispering his name or location to someone else.

"The time of waiting is nearly done," said Voldemort, "the time when we wake the sleeper and set our plans in motion. However, before that, there is one more great opportunity to raise our power. The night will be wild. I wish you to be on hand with some of the treasures that you brought us from the Ministry, Walden. Capture as much magic as you can."

"My lord," said Macnair with a bow.

The night will be wild, Harry thought. What night does he mean?

Abruptly, the answer occurred to him. Walpurgis. Walpurgis Night is coming up, and there will be wild Dark magic there.

He could not tell exactly what Voldemort planned to do, but he knew that he had heard enough information for now—especially as Rosier was now crossing his eyes at him, and someone would be sure to notice any moment.

Harry jumped and lunged, and the dream fractured around him. This time, he didn't hesitate before he found parchment and quill and began writing a letter to Tybalt Starrise. He did have to swat at the blood that ran down his face from his scar, but that was just so that he could see.

Maybe he can help, maybe he can't, but at least he might act as my go-between. No one will suffer unduly from being a werewolf if I can help it.

This time, because he knew what to look for, Harry saw the stirrings of Walpurgis Night before they properly began. A few days before, most of the students in Slytherin were lifting their heads higher, answering questions in class more crisply than usual, and laughing for no particular reason at meals and in hallways between classes, their faces bright with undefined excitement. Harry saw Pansy clutching her books to her chest and smiling as they walked to Defense Against the Dark Arts, and abruptly decided that he might as well talk to her. She might know more about mysterious magic than most of the students, since her father was a necromancer.

"Just a minute," he mumbled to Draco, and broke away to talk to Pansy before Draco could react.

Pansy looked up as Harry neared her, and her face rearranged itself in a mask of respect. Harry smiled slightly. Most of the Slytherins had reacted like that since he came back from the Maze. They could feel his new sense of self-direction, if nothing else, Harry thought, and there had been no more Dungbombs in his bed, though Howlers were still a daily occurrence.

"Pansy," he said, "do you know what kind of artifacts someone would have to use to capture magic on Walpurgis Night?"

To his surprise, her face turned utterly pale, and she snatched his wrist in one hand and dragged him a short distance away from the flood of students. Curious eyes turned towards them, as they always did towards Harry, but Pansy gave them a glare that would have done Medusa credit and got them to look away.

"Where did you hear that?" Pansy whispered. "What do you think you're doing, Potter?"

"I'm not going to do it," said Harry, shaking off her grip. I understand her panic, but there's no reason to let her hurt me. "I've received information that indicates Voldemort's going to try, though."

Pansy's face gained a high tinge of color along the cheekbones. "It should be impossible," she whispered. "But the Ministry's always meddling with things they shouldn't be, and if he got a hold of some of the devices they have…"

"We think that's it," said Draco over his shoulder. Harry reached back and held his hand. Draco gave him a reprimanding squeeze on his wrist. After all, Harry had told him about the dream, so, said the squeeze, there was no reason to try and talk to Pansy in private. "Through Walden Macnair, he has some, but we don't have any idea what they are or what they do."

"This is bad," Pansy muttered. "If he does try to capture the magic on Walpurgis itself, then he'll disturb the natural order of things. That magic is always supposed to be free, and you don't control it. That's the point. That's what makes Walpurgis different from other holidays. You go dancing naked in the wildness and trust the magic to take care of you." Pansy closed her eyes and stood still for a long moment. "I'll have to talk to my father," she said at last, shoving away from the wall. "I know that it's bad, and why, but I don't know what the actual consequences would be." She locked eyes with Harry. "You're absolutely sure of this information?"

Harry couldn't blame her for distrusting him. He took a deep breath and lifted his fringe, tracing the lightning bolt scar with one finger and watching as Pansy's eyes widened. "I'm very sure," he said.

Pansy locked her mouth into a thin line. "I don't know all your secrets, Potter, and I don't want to know them," she said. "But I'll do what I can." She turned and almost ran down the corridor, calling over her shoulder, "Tell Professor Karkaroff that I'm sick and won't be able to attend class today."

Harry nodded, and ushered Draco along. Draco did give him a punch on the shoulder before they entered the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, though.

"I already know everything," he whispered. "You could have just taken me along to talk to Pansy in the first place."

Harry gave him a faint smile and a shrug. As the days slid past since the Maze, the answers he had received there had lost some of their power. Most of the time, he still remembered—as he had when he told Draco immediately about the dream—but old habits were reasserting themselves.

"Potter, a moment, please."

Harry turned, and forced himself to wait patiently. Over the two months since Moody had been exposed as Mulciber, he and Karkaroff had had several of these little chats. Draco would linger near the door, as much to make sure no one else would come in as to oversee Harry. Karkaroff had his hands folded in his sleeves this time, and was shivering, making Harry sure that something about this conversation was unusual even before he began.

"I plan to attend the celebration of Walpurgis Night," said Karkaroff, letting the sentence fall like a hammer. "Do you believe that I would be welcome there?"

Harry opened his mouth as he thought about it. He knew that many others would distrust a former Death Eater, especially one who had such a reputation as a coward. On the other hand, from what he knew, Walpurgis was a celebration for any Dark wizard, regardless of his affiliation. Certainly, the witches and wizards who had not been Death Eaters had not flinched last year from the ones who had been.

Harry looked into his eyes and gave a small shrug. "I think the magic would welcome you, sir," he said. "Perhaps not all the other celebrants, but who cares about them?"

Karkaroff didn't look reassured. "That was what I meant, Potter," he said, leaning nearer to whisper urgently. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Draco take a few steps closer. "I told you once that you are one of the two wizards setting Dark magic on fire all across Europe. You…know who the other is." He shivered again, and his hand hovered protectively over his left forearm. Harry inclined his head in a short nod. "I need to know if you think I would be safe there. This Night will already be wilder than the others. I can feel it." Karkaroff bowed his head and said no more.

Harry blinked. Is that the reason I'm sensing it so much more than I did last year? I thought it was just familiarity and the anxiety of thinking about what Voldemort might do, but maybe I am sensing something that wasn't there before. Of course, if Dark magic is really on fire, in Karkaroff's words, then it might be more violent than last year.

Hesitantly, Harry reached out towards the Dark music for the first time. He had a sense the song was always there, not just when webs were tearing, but most of the time, he didn't try to hear it.

Now, though, he did, the chorus echoing in his ears the moment he reached for it, and he knew at once that something had changed. The music had always been frenzied, but now it played so fast that Harry could barely distinguish individual notes. Throats screamed it, and Harry could hear the voices changing often. It sounded as though the singers were frequently collapsing in exhaustion, while others took their places.

Or they are dying, Harry thought, queasily, and fixed his eyes on Karkaroff's face.

"I can't say that it's safe," Harry whispered. "But then, I don't think that this holiday was ever safe. It's wilder this time, though."

Karkaroff gave a choked little sound, and bowed. "I shall rethink whether I want to attend, then," he whispered back. "Thank you."

Harry nodded to him, and then stepped out of the classroom. Draco's hand was firm on his shoulder, and he said, "I saw your face, Harry. You think there's some danger on Walpurgis, something even stronger than what the Dark Lord's planning, don't you?"

Harry nodded, though he checked up and down the corridor automatically to make sure that no one was near them. Draco rolled his eyes at him. "I already did that, Harry," he said. "Now. Tell me about this. What's the matter?"

"Wild music," said Harry. "Dark magic isn't just singing, this time, it's screaming. Something is going to happen on Walpurgis that I don't think Voldemort is controlling, just planning for." He squashed the yearning he could feel in his heart to give himself over entirely to the music. That was not a strong temptation for him any more, not since Christmas night and the last time it had been, but still… The vision of what it must be like to dance along to this kind of music was imperative, tugging at him.

"But you plan to attend the celebration anyway," Draco finished in a resigned tone.

Harry nodded at him. "I do. I'm sorry. I know that you don't like it, and that you won't go with me—"

Draco snorted at him. "I am coming with you."

Harry frowned. "Why?" And then he felt stupid at the look that Draco gave him.

"To protect you, of course." Draco linked his hands together behind Harry's head and briefly drew his face to his, so that they rested forehead to forehead, in a gesture he'd been using lately. Harry almost thought Draco was trying to take some of the pain away from his scar. "I am never letting you walk alone into danger again if I can help it. And this time, since you've done me the courtesy of letting me know about it in advance, I can help it."

"You're an empath," Harry whispered in concern, "and this night is wild. Are you sure that you can stand it?"

Draco gave a half-bitter, half-wry smile. "I'm a better-trained empath now, thanks to you," he said. "And yes, I'll stand it. I trust you to protect me if something goes that badly wrong." He gave Harry's head a little shake. "We protect each other, Harry, remember? The shielding doesn't just go all one way. I know that you learned that in the Maze, and I'm not about to let you forget it."

Harry nodded, and they stood there like that for a moment more before the hallway filled with hurrying students. Harry slipped away from Draco before murmuring, "Come on, let's see what Pansy's found."

Draco held his left arm lightly as they sped back to the Slytherin common room. Harry didn't have the heart to tell him that he was holding it in the exact place where the Dark Mark would be put on, if Harry was ever to be branded like that.

On the other hand, he thought, as Draco's thumb ran over the skin, his father wears one. Perhaps he does know.

"He says it's bad, Harry."

Pansy kept her voice low. They were sitting in a corner of the Slytherin common room, not far from the fire that Pansy had used to speak to her father. She'd been done before Harry and Draco arrived, but even though the conversation hadn't been long, it had obviously shaken her. She clasped her hands together, and her gaze couldn't seem to rest on one spot for long, darting around in dizzy, butterfly-like circles.

"Voldemort could try to take some of the magic that naturally runs free on Walpurgis Night," Pansy whispered, "the magic of dead witches and wizards which comes back to us. There are—boxes—that will let him do that. My father hates them. He speaks to the dead and moves freely among them, and he hates the thought of anyone caging them. He says it's a slim chance that Voldemort could actually use that magic, but even his trying to capture it will be like breaking a dam and causing a flood. And the magic is already wild."

"Did he say why that is?" Harry asked, wondering if he could calm down the magic in any way when Walpurgis happened.

Pansy gave him a level glance. "There are two Lord-level Dark wizards in Britain right now, Harry," she said. "The magic is excited about that. It's going to dance around you and—the Dark Lord both, and be attracted to you, and try to be friends with you, as my father put it. But this is Walpurgis, and that means the magic is strong not in the sense of compulsion or deception or solitude, but in the sense of wildness, like it was with the dragons in the First Task. So an attempt to control it is going to distort that naturalness, and anger the magic. And this on a night when it's already wilder than normal because it's so excited." She took a deep breath and clasped her hands until her knuckles whitened. "My mother doesn't think you ought to go to Walpurgis, Harry."

"And your father?" Harry asked.

"He says you should go," Pansy murmured, bowing her head. "He says that you have to be there as a counterweight, to keep the magic from hurting other people. But he also says that the distortion is so great that this isn't going to be a normal Walpurgis. He doesn't know what the hell is going to happen when we start trying to travel to the silver fire. The rituals that normally happen won't, because the magic is shaking itself out of all those old ordered patterns. They'll probably come back next year, when the Dark's had a chance to get used to both of you, but for this one…there's no telling." Pansy spread her hands. "So, the choice is yours, I suppose."

Harry closed his eyes. "Your father didn't know what exactly I could do to counter these boxes, other than being there?"

Pansy said nothing, but when he looked at her again, he saw she was shaking her head. "He had no idea. He thinks your going is necessary, but—well, even if he knew more than that, he might be forbidden to tell me."

Harry nodded. Necromancers were full of secrets, one of the sacrifices they made in order to be able to speak to the dead and know so much. They saw the death of every wizard and witch they met, but were forbidden to tell them about it. Dragonsbane might well have seen something which the dead would reveal to him but no one else.

"I'm going," he said.

Pansy nodded slowly. "I thought you would," she said. "Even Mum thought you would, and she's planning to be there, too."

Harry made a mental note to ask Hawthorn if she'd heard anything of Fenrir Greyback's building a werewolf pack—always assuming he had the chance in the midst of the wildness.

"How are you going to get Professor Snape to let you go?" Draco asked, into the silence.

Harry let out a slow breath. "I don't know."

"Absolutely not," said Snape, not even looking up from the potion he was stirring.

"But, sir—"

"No."

Harry controlled his temper, and stepped forward with a deliberate pace that forced Snape to look at him. One hand kept up the stirring, though, and Harry wondered how long it had taken Snape to acquire instincts like that.

"Sir," he said quietly, "even if I stay here, there's no guaranteeing that I'll be safe. The Dark magic might reach me anyway, and the backlash from the spell that Voldemort intends to perform could, too. That's one thing Millicent thinks will happen." Millicent had been in contact with her parents, and though they didn't plan to attend the celebration because of Marian, they'd given her what information they could. "Once Voldemort gets the magic angry, it'll race away from him and to the next strongest target." He took a deep breath. "Me."

Snape remained silent for a long time. Then he ceased to stir the potion, and leaned forward. Harry braced himself for a lecture or some sort of lament about how often he got in trouble.

"Then I shall have to come with you," said Snape, without changing expression, and picked up a vial of delicate flower petals to scatter into the liquid.

Harry blinked. "Sir?" He found it impossible to imagine Snape at Walpurgis Night. His guardian was too strict, too stern, too controlled. The mere expression of emotions was still incredibly difficult for him. To attend a celebration where he would be expected to dance, to whirl around with partners of many different kinds, to lie on the grass and laugh…

Snape glanced up, and Harry froze. In the face of that direct dark glance, he felt his protests turn into ice, and shatter, and fall away. Snape looked fiercer than he had ever seen him, even when he was facing Neville Longbottom's potions in their classroom. He looked as if he had been gazing into a mirror full of horrors, in fact, and Harry wondered what the hell he'd seen.

"I am going," said Snape quietly, every word loud as a knock on the door of death. "I will make sure that you are safe, Harry. By blood and bone and breath I have sworn it, and I shall keep that vow."

Harry swallowed. "Sir," he said. "I—thank you, but why?"

"Because I know more about what you have suffered now," said Snape. "It is enough, as you yourself are fond of saying."

Harry bristled, wondering if he was about to start talking of Lily again. Since the Maze, Harry had been more reluctant to discuss her than ever, because he didn't see the point. He knew the truth now, all the truths that Snape and Draco had been pushing so hard to teach him. What more did it have to do with him? He'd made his peace with his past. Let it go and die in the grass like a beheaded worm.

But Snape said only, "I would not see you suffer again," and then stirred his potion sharply three times counterclockwise. The potion gave a puff of purple smoke, turned blue, and then lay calmly in the cauldron.

Harry nodded, a bit mystified, but willing to comply. He had thought this conversation would end with his having to lie to his guardian and sneak away again. "Thank you, sir."

Snape nodded at him, and watched him out the door. Harry couldn't help looking back at him before he left.

By blood and bone and breath. Honestly.

That vow was the older one, the one that the vow by Merlin and magic had replaced. Breaking the vow to Merlin would imply intense dishonor, but not consequences in the way the old one would. If harm happened to Harry that Snape could have prevented, Snape's blood would boil, his bones would snap, and he would stop breathing.

If one believed in the vow, at least. Plenty of wizards did not.

He's just a bit paranoid. Harry shook his head. I need protection, Merlin knows, but not that much.

Snape closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall when Harry had gone. It had taken all his effort to keep brewing the potion as usual when Harry had explained what he meant to do, and requested his permission to go. Of course, the only reasonable thing to do under the circumstances was to go with Harry, but Snape knew it would be hard.

Even harder, though, was seeing the things that he did in the Pensieve Potion day after day. He faced them, and he transcribed them, just in case something ever happened to that vial of the potion.

He had not known, though, just how many memories of Harry's training would be dragged forth from Dumbledore's head, and he had not know how they would enrage and sicken him, or convince him that Harry had already suffered enough without suffering more in the future that Snape could prevent.

Enough, he commanded himself, opening his eyes. Harry does not know that you are seeing these memories of the past, and he will not understand your behavior in that light. You have to present him a calm mask.

Snape composed himself, and went back to his potion, tamping down, as usual, the horror he felt when he looked at those memories…

And the howling desire for vengeance that they inspired. Harry did not want him to take revenge right now, so he would not.

Right now.

If that ever changed, if he was ever allowed to share his horror and make sure that everyone knew the pain Harry had suffered…

Snape snarled softly to himself. Dumbledore, James, and Lily Potter would never know what had struck them.

Harry shivered slightly and stamped a foot on the floor. He stood in the Slytherin common room with the others going to Walpurgis Night. This time, he was able to see that a few Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff students had joined them, and even one Gryffindor. He noticed more than he had last year, especially because he was over the newness of what had happened then, and because his eyes were running nervously in every direction, trying to guess what would happen next.

Snape stood at his right shoulder, arms folded, waiting in silence. Draco stood next to him, one hand around his. Harry squeezed back when Draco's grip tightened, seeking reassurance. Draco had received permission from his mother to go. Harry didn't know what Lucius's letter had said, but it had turned Draco white around the lips. Harry suspected that the man didn't approve of a Malfoy, and in particular his son, attending a celebration as wild and against supposed pureblood dignity as this one.

Wilder than ever, tonight, Harry thought, and squeezed back one more time. And yet, Draco agreed to come with me. He loves me. I may trust in that, in him.

Millicent was holding the dark green stone that had transported them last year. Harry noticed that her face was pale, and she kept looking at him even as she extended her hand, palm flat, before her. He raised his brows, and Millicent flushed and looked away. She obviously hated being caught out in a weakness.

Harry knew exactly how she felt.

He watched as the green stone began to glow with silver light. He felt a faint touch of coldness on his skin, as if the silver light were frostfire—

And then the magic seized them, and everything changed.

Harry felt the hair on his arms stand on end as the silver light grew dazzlingly bright, instead of falling into a cage around them like last year. They were caught in the middle of a sunburst, if any sunburst had ever been this pale and this cold. Harry saw his breath plume in front of him, and then that vanished. He could see nothing but eye-watering silver light which he could not even blink against. The stone had frozen them all entirely.

Nevertheless, he had the sensation of being borne along at a great rate, whirled through space, tossed from point to point.

Then they sagged as the light released them, and Harry felt Draco's grip on his hand, tight enough to numb him even when the cold was gone. Snape's hand clamped down on his shoulder.

"Is that supposed to happen?" he demanded.

"No," Harry gasped, and looked up, wondering where they were. Last year, the magic had brought them to a clearing where a silver fire blazed in the dark green grass, and he had been filled with a dizzy, giddy laughter.

This time, things had changed. Harry saw that they stood in a field of silver flowers, so thick that they obscured all sight of any grass below. The flowers brushed against his arms, insistent, and left a faint, tingling chill in their wake. Harry glanced at them, and realized each blossom was shaped vaguely like a snowflake, though no more like the others than one snowflake was like another.

He turned, searching, trying to ignore the murmurs of rising panic around him, and finally saw a dark green fire blazing in the distance. It didn't look as though anyone else was there yet. Harry took a deep breath, about to suggest they should move nearer the fire and wait there as the best plan.

The magic swept him up.

Harry gasped. His own magic, so carefully tamed to his body, abruptly escaped its confines and bounced up and down around him the way it used to do. Harry reached out a hand, hardly knowing what he did, and felt a brush of alien power. The Dark magic, gone mad on Walpurgis Night, rubbed against him, and then shot away and formed itself into a dark horse galloping across the silver flowers.

Harry stared, thinking that this was another manifestation of the power of the dead that had showed itself forth last year. This time, though, the shape didn't remain a silhouette, but gained definition, and it didn't turn around and fill him with the memory of some miraculous long-dead wizard's work. It really was a dark horse, without wings but nevertheless skimming the silver flowers with only the tips of its hooves, and it had a rider. The rider wheeled around and came charging back towards Harry, tall and clad in pale silver clothing. His skin was dark green, though, and his face, though changed to something far more elegant than it had been, still familiar.

"I welcome you, Harry Potter," said the elf who had been Dobby, pulling up so that he hovered above the flowers and nodding to him. "And the others who have come with you." His gaze darted between the motionless Slytherin students who had gathered behind Harry, Snape, and then back to Harry. "It is wild tonight," said Dobby, "and once, this would have been a holiday of my people just as much as yours."

"Do you know where we are?" Harry asked, looking around again, just in case something else known to him revealed itself. It was getting harder and harder to speak in English, though, or look through ordinary human eyes. The magic was calling him, tugging him, urging and coaxing him to fly.

"Within the magic," said Dobby simply. He tilted his head and fixed Harry with one eye. "And you can feel it."

Harry swallowed. "You could say that." The magic filled his head with images of dark wings, and how he could fly with them if he wanted to.

"May we all be unbound," Dobby murmured. "Your wizards say that this night, though they think they are referring merely to the night. They are not. You were right, Harry Potter. There may be a vates for witches and wizards as well, though you will be liberating them from the webs of their misconceptions and not from slavery inflicted on them by others." His eyes sparked violently for a moment, but he seemed to regain control of himself in the next. "Do you accept that responsibility? Will you allow yourself to be bound so that others can be unbound?"

"I always have," said Harry, ignoring the way that Snape and Draco both pressed down disapprovingly. "I accepted that fate long ago."

Dobby tilted his head further to the side. "Then this night will be more temptation than gift to you," he said, and reared his horse. Harry saw that its hooves shone moon-pale, just like its eyes and mane and Dobby's clothing, and then he followed the way it pointed, like an arching blade, into the sky.

Harry looked up.

There was a maelstrom moving there, a deep pool of blackness, upside-down, so that its surface was closer to the ground and its depths extended back into the sky. Or perhaps they were the ones in the pool, and the maelstrom was only normal land, Harry thought, dizzied by the perspective. He clenched his hands together and tried to breathe normally, but it was hard.

"The Dark One is drawing on all the magic," whispered Dobby, though Harry couldn't take his eyes from the pool. "He can destroy this place, and send the dead witches and wizards into violent anger. He can make you suffer, Harry Potter. But there are two things he does not know."

Harry managed to yank his gaze away from the pool and return it to Dobby. "And what are those things?"

"That I am free," said Dobby, and stroked his hands across his horse's neck. It tossed its head, and the moon-pale mane blew behind it. "That will make a difference. As you helped me with freedom, I will help you."

Harry inclined his head, accepting the information. "And the other?"

"You do not want to bind the magic," said Dobby softly. "You must ride it, Harry Potter, and not attempt to hinder it in any way. It will be angry when the Dark One reaches out and begins to bind it. It will recoil in its anger, and you must show it that, to you, its freedom matters."

Harry was not entirely sure that he understood what Dobby was saying, but he nodded. "And everyone with me?" he asked, squeezing Draco's hand and leaning back against Snape.

"They will—they must—let it remain unbound as well," said Dobby. "It will be a great temptation, the magic passing through them, but if they attempt to grab it and understand its secrets, they will be torn apart. They are used to being the children of the wild this night. May they remember it." He eyed the other witches and wizards sternly. Harry glanced back, and saw a chorus of nods racing through the students like wind through the flowers.

"Harry!"

Harry blinked and looked around. Hastening through the blooms came Hawthorn Parkinson, clad in a gown similar to the one that she had worn last year. Behind her were Arabella Zabini and others Harry recognized from last year. He bowed to them, and then Hawthorn was at his side, kneeling down to take Pansy in her arms.

"My husband has felt the call of his magic," she whispered. "He and every other necromancer in Britain. He told me they must let the dead run through their fingers, so that they do not damage other people."

Harry nodded. He had expected something like that. His fear was falling away, and what was left was only anticipation. He looked up at the maelstrom, and felt it stretch its claws, prancing, not yet touched by anger against Voldemort.

Wild does not always mean the same thing as free, he thought. But it does this night.

"All of you," he said, and his voice was louder than it would have been normally. "Listen to me. You must let the magic pour through you, and not attempt to restrain it. For tonight, you must be purely Dark, in the sense of wildness, in the sense that dragons are. Do not fight it. Do you hear me?"

"That could destroy us," one of the adults complained.

"The other option surely will destroy you," said Harry. "At least, this way, we have a chance of surviving."

Dobby nodded at him, and then hit his horse with a silver whip. The horse reared, and carried him into the sky, towards the dark maelstrom. Harry saw him rising up a silvery spiral, as though his steed's hooves froze the air behind him. The spirals traced straight into the heart of the dark maelstrom, and then vanished within it. Though Harry could no longer see Dobby, he trusted him to keep his word.

He could hear Hawthorn speaking to Pansy, Arabella speaking to Blaise, and a few other adults murmuring comfort or questions to their children. Snape and Draco were still with him, but neither tried to talk. Harry wondered if they, like him, were lost in the wonder of it all, if they could feel the magic pressing around them like newly-hatched dragons, or if they were afraid, and sought merely to remain close.

There came a breathless pause.

And then Harry felt someone, far away, reach out and try to snare some of the maelstrom circling above him.

The magic screamed in rage, stirred, like the dragons, to pride and fury the moment someone contradicted their will. Harry took a deep breath, and spread his arms, inviting, accepting, welcoming what would happen next.

The magic boiled, and then lashed down and towards him, tracing the silver spiral that Dobby had made. Just before it struck him, Harry had time to see that it was not really black, as he had assumed, but dark green, like a reflection of the fire that blazed in the distance.

"Ride it!" he remembered to shout.

And then the magic hit him.

Harry felt his feet leave the ground, though he had no idea if they really did or if that was just the impression he received. Then he was aloft, borne and ripped about by the wind. That wind reached into him, anxiously seeking, trying to find out if he wanted to cage it like Voldemort did.

Harry shook his head and let his fingers fan apart, presenting no obstruction to any power that wanted to pass that way. He tilted back his head, and looked into the heart of the storm with eyes open.

The magic sang to him, a fierce and frenzied symphony, demanding some sign that he was like the Dark Lord.

Harry did not give it what it wanted. Instead, he gave it what it needed, unbound channels to sweep through and around him, the assurance of freedom, his sweetest memories—of breaking webs and waking from his own phoenix web—the steady repetition, over and over, of what he was.

Vates, vates, vates.

The magic reared and coursed around him, and Harry caught a brief glimpse of Dobby, wielding his whip. That seemed to call the winds to him instead of keep them away, and his horse's mane was a cocoon around its head. Dobby met his eyes and nodded to him briefly, and then he was gone, racing into the dark as steadily as if there were a stone road in the sky.

Harry felt the magic lift him and cast him out over the sea. He looked down and watched the waves leaping—dark green, of course, capped with silver foam—and the magic offered him the power to control it. He could make great waves rise and inundate his enemies. Didn't he want that? Didn't he want to destroy things? So many wizards believed that Dark magic was purely evil, and used it for evil purposes. Didn't he want to?

Harry only bowed his head, in awe of the force as he would be before a storm, and replied that its will was its own.

In the distance, he felt Voldemort try to trap more of it.

The magic shuddered in repulsion, and then drove into him, ripping up memories and scattering them in front of his eyes as it tried to dig out a home for itself in the midst of his heart.

Harry watched the memories, and made no attempt to subdue the magic or tell it to back away. He only hoped the others were remembering to do the same, but he thought everyone was caught in the midst of his or her own isolated trial now, and it was all he could do to stand his own.

Draco eyeing him speculatively on the Hogwarts Express that first year, seeming to know more about him than Harry did about himself…

Harry casting a wandless charm successfully for the first time, and dropping to the grass outside Godric's Hollow exhausted, but also with a definite sense of accomplishment…

Harry swallowing a jolt of envy that he could not be like Connor and relax more often…

Lily holding him and stroking his hair, teaching him to repeat his vows for the first time when he was three…

A flash of green light and a raging scream that he had not known he remembered…

The magic paused, and then it dug at that memory, grabbed it in its teeth and hauled it around like a dog with a rat. Harry gave the image up to its hold, catching only distorted flickers as it swung in circles. The magic looked at it, and then turned and plunged into his head and came up with his memory of Voldemort's Pensieve, what had happened when he came to Godric's Hollow on that Halloween night when Harry and Connor were a year and a half old.

The magic uttered a triumphant scream, and then it boiled away from Harry, dragging him with it into a new perspective. Harry didn't think he was in his body anymore, but flying as though held in the teeth of a gigantic beast, more furious and swifter than any dragon.

The air around him roiled and churned, and then the magic dived out of it and into a place that looked halfway normal—part of the Britain Harry knew, he thought. It spread enormous dark wings, and the two wizards beneath looked up at it and let their mouths gape in witless surprise. They both held small black boxes, Harry saw, each with its lid open, each ornamented with silver filigree. The top of each box appeared to contain a miniature lightning storm, though when Harry looked closely, he could see that the clouds of those storms held the shapes of the creatures he had seen last year, the memories of dead witches and wizards. The Death Eaters had snared some of the magic of the dead, then.

Not for long, Harry surmised as the magic rolled straight down and raked over the Death Eaters' heads, bearing towards something just beyond them.

There was a small, throne-like chair, and in the chair sat something swaddled in blankets, something that made Harry shiver in disgust. It lifted its head, and cold pain ran through him, and he knew this was Voldemort.

The magic dived at him, and then Harry began to whirl round and round, as though he were a pendant on a chain. Then he was flying, and Voldemort was growing closer and closer, his pale eyes filling all the world.

Harry, or the thing that had been part of Harry, struck Voldemort, and the memory blazed in his head, reminding him of the person he hated the most in the world, the night he hated the most in the world, the night he had been defeated by a baby.

Voldemort screamed, and tried to snatch at Harry, or whatever part of him the magic had brought here, and Harry found himself abruptly back in his body, letting Voldemort's grip slide through him even as the magic had. Laughter like thunder cracked in his head. He knew it was the magic itself, as it resolved into the music of the Dark, laughing to see the Dark Lord so disconcerted.

Perhaps there was Dark magic that Voldemort had made purely his own, but Walpurgis Night was not full of it. There were different kinds of Light, Harry thought, as he felt the power gathering itself in him, using him as a launching point. The Maze was the definition of honesty, while the webs were the definition of tameness. And there were different definitions of Dark magic, and Voldemort wielded the gift of at least one of them, compulsion, very well.

This was wildness, though, and it did not take kindly to being restrained. It snarled at Harry, and a question formed quickly in his mind.

Help us?

Harry nodded, and put his own magic behind the blow.

The Dark leaped, striking at Voldemort, rending him apart with its claws. Voldemort screamed, and his pain flowed out and through the Dark Marks on his Death Eaters' arms. The magic boiled along that pathway, too, and the dark boxes in their hands shattered. The power of the dead flooded free and back into the sky, where it belonged.

Harry rode with it.

His head filled with churning memories, the discovery of spells and the creation of half-thestrals and the miracles of necromancy, but all of them whirled away as soon as they came. He had no care to hold them, so they would not remain.

The Dark magic hovered over them, still in the shape of an enormous beast with wings and talons, and asked Harry if he would not join it. Its voice was crooning music now, soft, far more compelling than the song he had heard from Grimmauld Place's wards or on the night he had freed Dobby, because it asked him, rather than demanded that he come along.

Harry slowly shook his head. He still had a will of his own, for all that he had let the magic have its way with him, and he wanted to return to his body and the mortal world. Nor did he have a desire, like Voldemort, to wield the magic for any particular purpose, or to ride the storm and see people cowering in terror of him.

The magic nudged at him, and sang one more time, but, when it saw that he was firm, it bowed its head and flung him down a long, whirling silver tunnel. Harry saw dark green and silver flash past him, and caught a glimpse of Dobby with his whip raised in salute. He nodded back. He knew that without the elf, this night would have been far worse.

The Dark spoke one more time, in an enormous voice, before Harry dropped back into his body.

Perhaps one day, when your task is done, you will come with us.

Perhaps, Harry answered, and then fell down, and down, and down.

He opened his eyes to find himself lying on thick, dark green grass, not far from a silver fire. He jerked his head up and breathed, deeply, trying to get used to both the familiar sensations of having a body once more, and the inevitable sense of loss and disappointment that the fading of the magic had given him.

I can't believe you did that.

Harry snorted when he felt Regulus whisper into his head. He'd been gone the last several days, trying to figure out any more clues that he could about where his body was hidden. Harry drove his hands into the grass and forced himself to his feet, which was easier than he would have thought, as the usual joy of Walpurgis Night was bubbling up in him. "You can't believe I do lots of things," he said. "The Maze, and now this. Why would I go into the heart of the Light and refuse to go into the heart of the Dark?"

Usually people choose one or the other, said Regulus, voice tipped with acid.

"Don't want to," Harry murmured, and rubbed his face, looking around for Draco. He found him lying on the grass, and went to him. Draco sat up at once, blinking, his eyes fixed on Harry's.

"That was—that was incredible," he whispered.

Harry smiled slightly. "You weren't overwhelmed by the emotions involved?" He leaned forward and peered into Draco's face, but saw none of the tight lines of tension around his eyes that would have indicated a headache from the empathy.

Draco shook his head. "Harry…this is going to sound strange, but I don't think anyone was overwhelmed, and no one died," he murmured. "We were all riding with you, part of the magic that burned through you. I could see and feel what you did, and so could the others. I spoke with Snape at least a few times about it, as odd as that sounds. I don't know if he'll remember all the conversations. I'm already starting to lose the memory of them," he added. "But we were there. You protected us by going in front of us."

Harry froze, and glanced around the clearing. The other witches and wizards who had been lying motionless were waking up, Snape included. He, of course, said nothing, only sat up and fixed Harry with an inscrutable gaze.

The others were looking at him.

Harry forced himself to hold his head high. It wasn't as though he could have planned this, either to gain or avoid attention. This was an experience so vast and strange that he didn't think many of those here would quickly find it a way to turn it to political advantage, either. He would not worry about what they had seen, whether many people now knew he was the one who had deflected Voldemort's Killing Curse or not, until someone actually approached him about it.

Besides, there was the joy waiting, the magic once again settled back into its predictable wild patterns.

"Come on," he said, extending a hand to Draco and pulling him from the grass. "The night isn't done yet." He felt a smile breaking across his face in spite of himself, as the magic went to work on making him happy. "Let's dance."