Thank you for the reviews yesterday!

This is a transition chapter again: Lots of little plotlines are moving now. (Edited to fix typos and give some minor clarification).

Chapter Twelve: A Sound of Many Voices

Harry dreamed.

This time, he didn't have the odd cloudiness that had marked his vision of the attack on the Burrow. Harry found himself rather grateful for that as he crouched in his lynx shape on the floor of a cave he hadn't yet seen, and watched Bellatrix carving wood in front of him. She did it mostly with magic, but now and then she would slice a knife across a piece of wood. Harry didn't try to see what she was making. Instead, he turned and faced Voldemort.

The Dark Lord was speaking with someone else, whom Harry couldn't see until he shifted a bit to the side. Fenrir Greyback crouched in front of Voldemort, his head bowed and his long shaggy hair hanging over his face. He was saying, "…don't think that most of them will have any objection, my lord."

"Excellent." Harry wondered how the sibilance that had never troubled him in the voices of Argutus, Sylarana, or the Many could sound so ugly in Voldemort's. "Then travel to your kindred, Fenrir. Summon them to me when the moon grows full again."

Greyback bowed his head once more, and then turned and slipped towards the entrance of the cave. Harry saw a stir of motion where the dimness gave way to light. He suspected it was Cynthia Whitecheek, Greyback's consort and a new Death Eater, who had devoured a small boy in the graveyard while Harry watched.

He shuddered at the reminder, and crept into the shadows as Voldemort turned to Bellatrix. He didn't think that his enemy could sense him, or he would have attacked Harry by now, but he didn't know how these visions might have changed since Voldemort's resurrection, and he was in no mood for a head-on confrontation.

"Bella." Voldemort hissed her name, too, though with no sibilants in it, that didn't seem possible. "How goes your carving?"

"Almost finished, my lord," said Bellatrix, and went on chanting in a language that Harry didn't think was Latin. Voldemort watched her for some time, reaching out absently to stroke the head of the queen basilisk, who had slithered up beside him. Harry crouched further at the sight of her, but the snake didn't turn around. She merely coiled lazily at her master's feet and let the set of false eyelids that kept her gaze from killing fall over her eyes.

"Done, my lord," said Bellatrix abruptly.

Voldemort released a harsh laugh, and put out one white hand to take the collection of wooden circles that Bellatrix handed him. Harry squinted, but couldn't make out much about them. They were small, perhaps the size of Sickles, and they had elaborate carvings; that much he was sure of. But when he shifted to the side, Voldemort had scooped them so close to his chest that his fingers and robes entirely concealed them. Harry uttered a little growl, then remembered the basilisk and froze. She still didn't turn towards him, though.

"What should I tell them, my lord?" Bellatrix stood, her single hand, the one she had stolen from Harry, brushing at her robes. Her full attention was on Voldemort's face, despite the presence of a dark hole at her back Harry thought he saw the darkness in the hole ripple, and shivered.

"That we come up from beneath on the autumnal equinox," Voldemort whispered, never looking away from the wooden circles in his hand. "That my breeding of basilisks proceeds apace, and they may count on their help if they have trouble. That we will strike at the Muggles where they least expect it." He choked out a high, cold laugh that Harry had not missed at all, though it had been some time since he had last heard it. "Go, Bellatrix. This is the greatest plan of Lord Voldemort since his rising!"

"My lord," Bellatrix murmured, and strode around the brink of the hole, moving out of range of Harry's vision.

Voldemort laid the wooden circles on the ground, and Harry promptly inched forward to get a glimpse of the design on them. To his disappointment, it was nothing recognizable, only a tangled network of lines. Yes, they might mean something, but so might almost any random tracing if looked at with the right eyes.

Voldemort laughed, then, and touched the neck of the basilisk at his feet. "Come," he said in Parseltongue, and she lifted her head and gazed up at him with uttermost devotion. Harry winced. Of course, the Dark Lord must have told his pet not to hurt him, either. "I will breed you a mate."

He turned away. Harry debated staying and witnessing the birth of this second basilisk, but he doubted that it would add anything to what he already knew. He had much more important information to provide to his allies: what sounded like notice of a major attack, and on the day when, of course, the balance between light and darkness would shift toward darkness—the day last year when Voldemort had yanked Regulus out of his head.

He pushed against the barriers of the dream until they split, this time becoming almost like the clouds of the last vision, and then tumbled back into his body.

Narcissa never had restricted his getting up early, and Harry had risen before the sun did and spent nearly half an hour pacing his bedroom. Both the pain and the amount of blood from his scar had been small, so he could concentrate on what "up from beneath" might mean.

Tunnels. Well, yes, tunnels, that's obvious, but where? I don't think there are that many tunnels under Hogwarts. Harry sighed, longing for a moment for the Marauder's Map, which he had not seen since Voldemort in Sirius's body had stolen it, along with his other maps, at the end of third year. But maybe I'm misremembering. And where would he want to attack but Hogwarts?

Then Harry halted, and drummed a hand against his forehead hard enough to make himself stagger.

He talked about Muggles, Harry, not wizards. He's going to attack Muggles. And the basilisks would certainly fit, since they could slither through tunnels and squeeze out of unexpected places. Isn't there a system of tunnels under London? At least, I think there is. Harry had to admit that he wasn't that conversant with most aspects of the Muggle world, but he was sure that he had heard his mother mention the "London Underground" once or twice. He bit his lip, wondering who would be the best person to ask for advice on that.

As if one insight had sparked another, it didn't take him nearly as long to come to the right conclusion this time. Griselda Marchbanks knows the southern goblins, and they know the tunnels under some parts of London, at least. They could probably figure out what portions connect to the Muggle ones and which would be in most danger. I'll write a letter to Madam Marchbanks immediately.

Harry did that, describing his reasons for believing that Voldemort was coming through the Underground. He hesitated for a long moment over letting Madam Marchbanks know about his visions, but in the end, he decided there was no other way to go about it. She wouldn't trust the word of Evan Rosier, not hardly, and it was absolutely imperative that Voldemort's attack on the Muggles be prevented. At least they had almost two months to prepare for it.

When the letter was complete, Harry hesitated again, and then called for Fawkes. The phoenix appeared with a soft warble of complaint, and ostentatiously checked his shoulders, head tilted to the side as he hovered.

Harry rolled his eyes. "Argutus is still asleep in the bed, Fawkes," he said. "And he's never bothered you, anyway." He found it odd that the phoenix, by so much the older and wiser of the two creatures, was the one who was having more trouble adapting to the situation.

Fawkes flicked out a trill that Harry knew meant basically the same thing as, "Hmmmph!" but settled on the bedside table and let Harry attach the letter to his leg. He vanished in a tiny ball of flames the moment Harry told him that the letter was destined for Madam Marchbanks.

"Why are you over there?"

Harry went back to the bed, and extended his right arm down for Argutus. The Omen snake, resting in the warmth of the depression he'd created in the bed, only looked back at him. His eyes shone with calmness. Harry could not decide if it came from natural serenity or a lack of knowledge about the world.

A moment later, he realized why Argutus wasn't moving, and put his left arm down. Argutus coiled happily about his left wrist, and Harry turned towards the door.

"You never answered me about why you were over there," said Argutus, looping a coil of his body around Harry's throat so that he could stay on for the ride.

"Attending to Fawkes," Harry said as he trotted down the stairs, wondering who he should speak to first. Narcissa, he decided. From the quiet in the downstairs rooms, Draco was still asleep, and Lucius would have next to no say in the decisions Harry now wanted made. Narcissa was the natural contact person for the rest of his allies, too. Even Laura Gloryflower had spoken first to her. "He doesn't want to come and sleep in the bed anymore, now that you're there."

"I would not eat him. He is too big. Can I have crickets for breakfast?"

Harry ignored the question as he opened the door to the morning parlor and found Narcissa there. She put down the Daily Prophet she was reading and stood at once, her face pale but courteous. "Harry. Has something happened?"

"I've just had another vision," said Harry. He told the details to her, as neatly and sparingly as he had related them in the letter to Madam Marchbanks. He didn't want Narcissa fussing over this, especially because he was about to ask her for a favor.

Narcissa smiled slightly. "A good thing that I was planning to send letters to most of your allies today anyway, reminding them of certain obligations they are committed to," she murmured. "And what else do you want me to do, Harry?"

Harry blinked. "Is it that obvious?"

"Written all over your face."

Harry nodded, deciding that he would worry about it later. "We should visit Grimmauld Place. Anything else there that's a weapon, or even useful knowledge, should be gathered up, and we should start preparing the house as a base. I know that we said we'd do that, but we haven't so far."

"You know why, Harry," said Narcissa, in a motherly way. "You've been—indisposed, and there were other things to worry about. I still don't think that going outside the wards is safe for you."

"I'm going to ask Regulus to lower the wards on Number Twelve for us, so that we can Apparate directly to the house," said Harry. "Then we'll be inside the wards there, and we should be able to get back here before anyone else notices us, don't you think?" Regulus hadn't been in his head much lately—the closer McGonagall got to re-Transfiguring his body, the more time Regulus found himself obliged to spend in the little wooden dog—but Harry reached out for him now. Regulus?

There was a long moment of silence, and then Regulus answered, voice weary. Yes, Harry?

Would you lower the wards around Grimmauld Place for us? Voldemort is preparing for his first major strike in this war, I think, and we need all the weapons and knowledge we can get.

Regulus took another long moment to answer, but his tone was warmer when he did. Of course, Harry. It's done. It might not take that bitch Bellatrix long to notice, though, so please go quickly.

Of course. Harry opened his eyes and smiled at Narcissa. "The wards are down. Can we please go?"

Narcissa frowned and tapped her wand against her palm. Harry could see her weighing the risks in her mind.

"Why couldn't I go there alone?" she asked, as Harry had expected she would.

"I can strengthen the house with my own magic," Harry said calmly. "There's one particular technique I used to ward my parents' old house at Godric's Hollow when I was there that would work especially well. And, of course, I might see something valuable that you don't recognize, even though you're of the Black bloodline. I've had training in that kind of thing."

Narcissa considered some more. Harry sat on his impatience, and put it behind steel bars. Yes, he wanted to go quickly, so as not to risk Bellatrix getting in, but Bellatrix was busy informing Voldemort's allies of his plan, and at least this waiting would have better consequences than some of the hasty actions he'd come up with last year. He was being an adult, and mature, and responsible, in consulting his allies. He knew he was.

At last, Narcissa nodded. "Let me send the letters, and then I will accompany you, Harry," she said.

"Excellent," Harry said, and couldn't stop his satisfied smile, nor the foot he tapped on the floor until Narcissa was finished. He did somewhat soothe his impatience by answering Argutus's questions about owls, and the rustling things humans attached to them, and why people would eat things other than crickets for breakfast.

Harry heard the song the moment he entered the house at Grimmauld Place. This time, it even overrode the surprisingly cordial greetings of the portrait of Capella Black in his ears.

Let me free. Let me go. I am meant to be free. We are meant to be free, in the manner of other creatures that you have loosed. Wake me, vates. Wake us, unbinder.

Harry was halfway up the stairs before he realized what was happening. Narcissa's hand came down on his shoulder, and then she cast a spell that Harry didn't recognize, but which made the song cease. He realized after a moment that she hadn't cast a spell to end the song, which might be impossible, but to muffle all sound from reaching his ears.

Narcissa lifted a brow and traced glowing red letters in the air with a wand. I am sorry to do this, Harry, but after how close that creature came to snaring you last time, I think it better to take no chances.

Harry nodded shakily. The creature trapped upstairs at Grimmauld Place was unique in his experience—something that fed only on the magic of powerful wizards, and which only an average one was able to bind or contain. Its song was the subtlest form of compulsion he had ever encountered, far stronger than Dumbledore's. Even when he thought he was free from it, it twined about his mind in silver strands and dragged his thoughts to its own purpose. The only things Harry knew about it other than that were the location of the door it was trapped behind and the sound of many legs scrambling together that he'd heard when he ventured to that door last time they were in the house.

He found it hard to ignore a magical creature's appeal to him in the name of vates, but he knew the consequences of unleashing that creature would be neither moral nor ethical. Besides, Narcissa was keeping a close eye on him, and had already traced the words I'll take the higher floors in the air.

Harry nodded sheepishly, and waited until she was up the stairs before he closed his eyes. Last time, he had come to Grimmauld Place specifically to look for Regulus. With him found now, Harry had a compelling motivation to look in other ways.

He could sense other people's magic, when he grew sufficiently familiar with them; he knew some of the characteristics of Draco's power, and Snape's, and James's and Connor's power had caused him fits last summer when he found it pressing on him in Lux Aeterna, leaving him unable to concentrate. Now, for the first time, he relaxed and tried to sense any trace of weaknesses in the wards of Grimmauld Place, or any unusually powerful magic. Perhaps it would lead him to something that Narcissa had overlooked, or something hidden in a place she'd never known about. Technically speaking, though Narcissa was of the Black line, she wouldn't be its heir unless both Regulus and Bellatrix died.

He gasped when he felt an old, odd echo of a familiar presence almost at once, dark and foreboding. And then it changed, and turned gray in his mind, overlaid with melancholy so strong that tears were burning his eyes when he opened them.

Harry let out a breath, and went slowly towards the kitchen. The portrait of Capella Black was probably still murmuring greetings and welcome. Harry didn't care. He walked through the kitchen as if he were dreaming, and then reached out and laid his hand on a portion of the wall that looked no different from all the rest.

A ward sparked softly at him. Harry hesitated, and wondered what he would have to do to get through it.

But even as he waited, the ward stopped sparking. Harry looked down to see a snake of light coiling around his hand. The silver tongue flickered out, touched the back of his wrist once, and then vanished, along with the rest of the serpent. Harry shivered, wondering which one of the mingled presences here had left the ward, and which the snake had recognized him as tied to.

The wall folded neatly out in a panel. Inside was a space about the size of a cupboard. Harry's chest tightened when he saw the familiar sheaf of paper on the top shelf, and he reached out and clasped it.

"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good," he said.

Nothing happened. Harry snorted, then reached into his pocket, levitating the map in the air, and drew out his wand. A touch of the wand and a whisper of the words worked, and he watched the familiar lines of the Marauder's Map race across the parchment. His chest ached fiercely for a moment. Voldemort, in Sirius's body, must have come here just after he'd stolen the maps and hidden them in a place he had reason to believe only he would have access to. Or perhaps he had sent Kreacher, the Blacks' old house elf, to bring them here.

For a moment, even though he knew he shouldn't feel it, a surge of fierce satisfaction coiled in Harry's heart. He'd destroyed Kreacher in the confrontation with Voldemort at the end of his third year, and he could not feel that bad about the death. It had been a just return for the danger the elf had caused both him and Draco during the year, and might have gone on causing them if he'd lived.

He looked up from the Marauder's Map, at the second shelf of the hidden cupboard. A Pensieve sat there, and Harry's chest tightened for a different reason this time. He'd had some bad experiences with Pensieves in the past. And considering who had last touched this cupboard, he wondered about whose memories this one might hold.

Inevitably, of course, he had to reach out, draw the Pensieve forth into the light, and carry it over to set on the kitchen table. It was brimful of silvery thoughts. Harry hesitated for a long moment before he lowered his head and plunged it into the liquid.

Almost at once he found himself in a dim place. He looked around, and, with a little shock, recognized the meadow at Godric's Hollow. His younger self was sprawled with a large book in one corner of the lawn, of course, and Connor and James were flying a kite in another. It was a scene Harry had seen several times in his own memories. But he knew it happened on a sunny day. A Pensieve memory, even filtered through Sirius's perspective, should have retained that light. Instead, it looked as though a murky gray mist had covered everything.

He understood after a moment's consideration, and after turning and seeing Sirius behind him, gaze desperate and haunted. Pensieves showed only the objective truth. This was the way things had really looked on that particular day; it was Harry's own memory that was false. The presence of Voldemort was in the back of Sirius's mind even then, though not the same piece of it that had controlled him just before his death. Evil magic slithered under the wards and tainted the air with its slime. And under Sirius's thoughts were the pained screams of Regulus. He had lived with his brother's torture in his head for twelve years. Everyone else, of course, thinking Regulus dead, had believed those were only nightmares.

Harry pulled his head out of the Pensieve, and closed his eyes. A surge of pity and renewed grief for his godfather touched him. Sirius had betrayed his friends and Connor and Harry near the end, but that was after more than a decade of fighting against Voldemort's mental pressures, suffering torture secondhand, and suffering from the guilt that sending Peter to Azkaban and claiming his brother was dead had caused. That he had broken only then, and kept on fighting to the point that Voldemort had to fight back to claim his mind, bespoke enormous strength. His greatest faults had been the pride and the guilt that wouldn't let him tell anyone the truth, not weakness.

Harry gently levitated the Pensieve into the air, and floated it behind him, along with the Marauder's Map, as he went towards the front door. He could sense the weaknesses in the wards more easily if he were just outside the house's magic, he thought.

I'm not going to forget you, Sirius, he thought, even as he worked to link Protego charms together and hang them around the house. What happened to you should never have to happen to anyone. Thank you for reminding me of part of the reason that I'm fighting Voldemort. And I'll look through the memories in the Pensieve, too, when I can bear to. Your life shouldn't go unshared any more.

Despite the tears he'd shed earlier, Harry felt stronger and more centered than he had since the interview with Madam Shiverwood. There was ground he was still uncertain on and must trip over when he walked—the ground of his healing was one patch, where every step he took seemed to be wrong, and to require ten more—but with defensive magic and what he was most committed to, he could dance.

Harry returned to Malfoy Manor a little more hopeful than when he'd left it. He'd almost completely re-warded the house at Grimmauld Place, with some lines of defense that were keyed specifically to him and would yield otherwise only to Regulus—since he was the Blacks' heir, nothing Harry could do to the property would ultimately override his will. Narcissa had found a few more objects that might be weapons, and several books hidden in the walls. The song of the creature had not bothered him again. All in all, Harry thought, they might manage to launch this war on firm footing after all.

Then he entered his room, and saw Draco waiting with a set face, and saw the pile of letters on the table next to his bed. Harry hesitated, glanced at Draco, and waited.

Draco said nothing, simply stared at him. Harry decided to deal with the letters first. He picked up the first one and turned his back to Draco, frowning at the handwriting on the envelope. It looked familiar, but he couldn't remember where he'd seen it. Likewise, the letter at first afforded him no clues.

August 7th, 1995

Dear Harry:

I'm sorry that it took me so long to write you. I had no idea what to say. And then I realized that was stupid, because this is a letter to you and not a three-foot essay for Professor Snape, so I sat down and just started writing.

I mean—it's not that I don't think you're important. Of course I do. But I think you'll still forgive me if I say something stupid or wrong.

I'm so sorry for what you suffered at the hands of your parents. I really should have seen the signs of it, but I didn't. If you want books about it, just ask me, and I'll be happy to owl them to you. And of course I'll be happy to bring you books about it when we come back to school, too. I saw the announcement in the Prophet yesterday that the trial wouldn't be until the sixteenth of November. It'll feel like forever, I know.

And there I am, making pompous declarations again. I'm sorry. This is the kind of thing that comes out when I try to write a spontaneous, emotional letter.

I especially want to apologize for believing in Professor Dumbledore so much. I thought he must be wonderful, since he was in so many books and he had such an enlightened attitude about Muggleborns like me. But then I heard what he did, and…just because you have enlightened attitudes doesn't make you a good person. I'm so sorry, Harry. I hope you can forgive me for believing in him like I did.

I don't know how to end this, so I'm just ending it.

Sincerely,

Hermione Granger.

Harry closed his eyes. He didn't have any suspicions of Hermione, that she was only saying this to make herself look good or somehow get into his good opinion, or that she had some stake in making him admit that he'd been abused. That made her different from everyone else who'd tried to interview or write him. She deserved a careful, thought-out response that he would make later. He set her letter gently aside, and opened the next one.

This one had an actual seal on it, one bearing a cup in yellow wax. Harry frowned when he saw it, and again when he saw the handwriting—only vaguely familiar, though who was writing it became clear sooner.

August 6th, 1995

To Harry Potter, elder son and by all rights heir of the Potter family, balancer between Light and Dark, from Zacharias Smith, heir of the Smith line, last descendants of Helga Hufflepuff, Declared for Light.

I am writing to express my formal sympathies for your abuse, and for the current undignified way it is being played out in the papers. If there is anything I can do for one who has emerged from such tainted heritage so nobly shining, do not hesitate to let me know.

My Declaration for Light was a month ago, as I turned fifteen at that time, and my family holds to the older view of wizarding adulthood. As heir of my family, I have access to a good deal of money, and some small political capital that I intend to increase. For what good it might do, I am also Helga Hufflepuff's heir. All of this, or any other form of aid that you desire, may be asked for.

Sincerely,

Zacharias Smith.

Harry blinked as he laid that letter down, and only partly at Smith's pomposity. He had heard, years ago, of a witch named Hepzibah Smith who was Hufflepuff's heir—the last formally acknowledged as such, since the cup that was the last of Hufflepuff's heirlooms vanished after her death. Harry didn't know if being a Founder's heir carried any weight now, but at least he had it on his side if it did.

He had to admit that Zacharias's offer of monetary aid was even more tempting. Harry had no idea of what he was going to do for money if he exceeded the small store of Galleons that James had left for him in a personal vault at Gringotts. He wasn't the officially acknowledged Potter heir, no matter what Zacharias said, and so he had access neither to the main Potter vault nor any money that might be at Lux Aeterna. He would have to use his Galleons on his books and robes and other supplies for this year. At least Lily and James had paid for both he and Connor to attend Hogwarts in advance.

The last letter had handwriting that was very familiar, but not writing that Harry had ever expected to see again. His heart began to pound crazily as he read it.

Potter:

Please, please help me. Dad's gone crazy since the Dark Lord returned. He wants me to kill for him, and I don't want to. This note is dangerous, and I don't care. It's the first chance I've had to write all summer. Next year he wants me to attend Durmstrang, and then I'll be out of reach from you.

Please, help me somehow.

Vincent Crabbe.

Harry didn't stop to think, with this one. He drew out a sheet of parchment from his bedside table and scribbled as fast as he could, to try and keep up with his racing thoughts.

Dear Vince:

Hi. I was worried about you. I haven't heard from you in so long. How have you been?

I've been kind of bored this summer, with only Draco to talk to. I'd like to see the other Slytherin students, too, like you and Blaise. Could you meet me in Diagon Alley on the fourteenth of August? That's the day I'm going shopping for school supplies. I should be there between ten and eleven in the morning, and I'll probably stay for several hours. I'd love to talk with you.

Hope to see you soon,

Harry.

Harry folded the note and carried it over to Hedwig's perch, which was in the corner of his room nearest the window. She sat up and ruffled her feathers as she saw him, obviously noting the urgency of his stride.

"Carry this for me, girl," Harry murmured, levitating the twine that he needed to bind the letter firmly on without a second thought. "It needs to go to Vincent Crabbe, and it needs to go as soon as possible. Wait for a reply."

Hedwig gave an important hoot, and then swooped out. Harry clenched his hand and watched her dwindle in the sky, hoping against hope that Vince would understand his words. Harry didn't think it likely that a letter from Harry Potter would escape detection by Mr. Crabbe, and, in fact, he didn't want it to. The whole point was to let him know that Harry Potter was going to be in Diagon Alley on the morning of the fourteenth of August, and that he would be looking to meet his son there.

Harry had to get Vince close to him to help him, and he thought this was the best way to do so. Yes, he was using himself as bait in a trap, but it wasn't going to be a sacrifice. If everything went well, no one would even be wounded. Yes, Crabbe might pass the letter, and thus the privilege of killing Harry, on to someone else, but whoever else came would still have to escort Vince, to allay suspicion, and no one else would do that like his own father. If Harry didn't see Vince at all, Mr. Crabbe would think, he would have no problem simply Apparating out if someone tried to kill him. All that speculation rode on Vince's letter having escaped his father's detection, but then, so did Vince's plea for help.

Harry considered the risk that he might have to deal with multiple Death Eaters. He accepted it. Vince's situation was currently several degrees more desperate than his own, especially since Harry had no idea where the Crabbes lived, and, while he might possibly be able to pass letters on to Vince at Durmstrang if the Rosier-Henlin children would agree to it, it would be much harder to actually remove him from the school.

"Now will you talk to me?"

Startled, Harry turned around, and found that Draco's face had gone more and more stone-like. He blinked. "You didn't seem to want to talk to me," he said. "So I waited. Was that the wrong decision?"

"Yes." Draco bit off the word. "The monitoring spell told me that you'd left the house, Harry, but not in time for me to stop you, because you were Apparating. You should have come and told me."

Harry blinked again. "I went with your mother, Draco."

"You still should have told me."

Harry braced himself. He'd thought he would hit one of these fences with his allies sooner or later, but he could have wished for anyone other than Draco to experience it with. Still and all, it was here, and he would have to face it. "I agreed to the monitoring spell because it was the punishment you wanted to impose," he said quietly. "I never said I thought it was a good idea."

Clouds moved across Draco's face, and then settled and darkened into a thunderhead. "You were humoring me?"

"Yes."

Draco shook his head. "This is something I've been meaning to discuss with you anyway, Harry," he said. "I don't feel that you give me enough. You do what I want only when it isn't really inconvenient. You never give me something just because you want to give it to me, other than birthday and Christmas gifts. I've given you an awful lot." He leaned forward and stared into Harry's eyes. "I don't even know if you're really in love with me, even though I've taken the risk of telling you that I am with you."

Harry waited. He expected to feel resentment or anger building in him.

Instead, he felt the same strange excitement he'd experienced the other day when Draco had said he would push Harry more, and he smiled. Draco stared at him, looking caught off balance, and then annoyed for having been caught off balance.

"I'm glad that you've decided to push," said Harry. "It'll make things more honest. And the last thing I want ever again is a relationship where I or the other person or both of us just ignore what's lying at the bottom of it." Because of the Pensieve, his mind went first to Sirius, but then he thought about Connor, and his parents, and Dumbledore, and Snape, and even Draco sometimes, and how much trouble had come from just not saying things. "I'm glad," he repeated.

Draco reoriented himself with what looked like an effort. "I am angry with you," he said.

"Good," Harry replied. "That means that I can say that I think the monitoring spell is a silly punishment. I'm not sneaking off anymore, Draco. I've kept that promise for nearly four weeks now, and I haven't complained about it before. But if you're going to get upset every time I leave Hogwarts or the Manor without asking you, specifically, even if I'm in the company of someone else, then it's not doing either of us any good. Think of something else that you want."

Draco's eyes narrowed. "I want you to think of something that you want to give me, and then give it to me, freely."

Harry felt a tremble of possible panic. He suppressed it. Draco was doing something that Harry respected him tremendously for, and it was the kind of challenge that Harry couldn't resist in other possible arenas. He would conquer it in this one, too. This was something he did want, no matter the obstacles in the way. He would jump them, because it was what he did.

"All right," he said. "Will you take the monitoring spell off, now?"

Draco eyed him cautiously, but drew his wand and did it without pause, to his credit. Harry sighed in relief when it was gone, though it hadn't been much more than a small chill presence he only noticed sometimes. He looked Draco in the eye when it was finished.

"When we're done walking some of the more difficult paths, you won't need something like that ever again, because I'm going to show you that you can trust me completely."

Hope like a slender ray of sunshine parted Draco's clouds. He did say, "It'll be hard."

"Good," said Harry, with a dryness he hadn't known he was capable of. "I don't know what I would do if it were easy."

And with that, Draco smiled, and Harry found his breath catching, almost in spite of himself.

But not quite.

I do, he could repeat to himself, and at the moment, the future looked as fiercely green as a summer meadow after rain. I do want this, and I'm going to fight the things that might get in my way, and I'm going to win.

No. We're going to win.