Thanks for the reviews on the last chapter!

Yes, I know this chapter is early. That's because I won't be able to update tomorrow. So, early chapter. Yay.

Chapter Fifty-Two: Harry Plays the "Boy-Who-Lived"

"You cannot mean to do this." Snape seemed to be under the impression that if he said that often enough, then Harry would wake up from the spell Snape seemed to be convinced he was under, and decide not to do this.

"But I do." Harry looked aside from the conjured mirror and studied his guardian over his shoulder. "I admit, stepping into the storm is a risk, but it has to be in public, or I can't trust that the warning will get to everyone in time."

"And you think they will listen to you." That was flat.

"I do," Harry repeated. He looked again in the mirror, then gave a shrug, irritated at himself. He'd wanted to look appropriately warrior-like, so that those who listened to his press conference would take his warning seriously, but other than the grim expression on his face—that was no problem—he had to admit he didn't know what would make him look that way. He would be speaking to a mixed audience of Light and Dark wizards, too, which further complicated the problem. In the end, he'd gone for ordinary dark robes, though he'd left the Slytherin tie off, so that he wouldn't look like a schoolboy. He'd also bared his left arm, both because he liked the symbolic gesture of revealing he didn't have the Dark Mark and to emphasize his missing hand. If he could remind his audience that he'd lost some of himself to this war, they would be more likely to listen.

"I wish you did not have to do this," Snape muttered behind him. "Not only the storms might kill you. An Order of the Phoenix member with a knife—" Harry hoped he hadn't jumped at that, since Snape still didn't know about Digle "—a Death Eater with the Killing Curse on her lips, or someone determined to avenge Dumbledore's imprisonment would do just as well."

"I know," said Harry. "But I've explained the reasons why." He had, multiple times, including the reasons that Scrimgeour had added to his list when he first contacted the Minister and asked if he thought the press conference was a good idea. Snape was stubborn, but he was also, in this case, helpless to stop the conference from going ahead.

"You have. And I will be at your shoulder." That alone seemed to give Snape any confidence.

Harry just nodded and got ready to leave Snape's private rooms for the entrance hall. He'd tried to get Snape to stay here, since there really were Death Eaters hunting him, but Snape had just looked at him, and that was that.

They met Draco outside the door; he'd fussed himself into readiness in their bedroom. Harry almost envied him his deep green robes with the Malfoy crest, for all that they looked uncomfortable. They proclaimed Draco's status and allegiances clearly and undeniably. Lacking a last name and a Declaration for either Dark or Light, Harry's options were limited.

Of course, sending a mixed message is the only truthful thing I can do. I just hope that it doesn't dilute the impact of that message.

"Ready?" Draco looked at Harry's bared left arm, started to frown for a moment, then seemed to catch on to the gesture and nodded. Then he frowned anyway. "Do you think I should show my left arm as well?"

"It'd be a shame to ruin the robes," said Harry, less because he thought that was true than because he wanted no more fussing. It was already two-o'clock, and the press conference was at three. They had to get off Hogwarts grounds and then Apparate to the vicinity of the Ministry. Then, no doubt, the press of people would hold them up before they could get to the stage where the Minister had arranged for them to have the conference. "Let's leave."

Draco exchanged a look with Snape that Harry didn't bother to translate, since he knew it would be uncomplimentary to him. He led the way out of the dungeons, only to pause when he saw his brother waiting near the front doors, tugging at the collar of his own formal robes as if they constricted his breathing.

"Connor?" Harry could not imagine why Connor wanted to come. He'd offered his brother the opportunity to attend the press conference with him already, and Connor had quietly refused, saying that he thought people would get confused if the former Boy-Who-Lived appeared with the current one. "Have you changed your mind?"

"Not exactly," said Connor. "But I just thought of something I should do, and this is the best chance to do it. I want as many people to know as possible." His face was pale, but determined.

Draco made a little growling noise. Harry knew what he was thinking. Your brother shouldn't take over the spotlight. Of course he would be trying to do that. Just like a Gryffindor.

Harry spoke quickly, to cut the impending tantrum off. "You're welcome, of course, Connor." He glanced at Snape. "You can Side-Along Apparate Draco, and I'll Apparate my brother?"

Snape said nothing for long moments, and Harry wondered if he would send Connor back to Gryffindor Tower after all. The two of them were getting along a bit better in their practice dueling sessions, but it was still nothing to brag about.

"That would be acceptable," said Snape at last, and Harry relaxed. He would have to seriously reconsider having another of these conferences in the future. The sheer amount of fuss involved in them was making him allergic to them, and he hadn't even had one yet, properly.

They stepped out into the rain, and Harry tensed. It had been a week since the storm's attack. That didn't seem to make any difference to his jumpiness, though, especially now that he could hear the song and feel the magic behind the rain and thunder. His brain kept reminding him that they were now only ten days from Midwinter, and that all their preparations to counter the wild Dark's stroke might not be enough.

But nothing hit them. Snape cast Impervious Charms on their cloaks to keep the rain from soaking them through, and shields above their heads to keep them from being pelted. Harry nodded; he should have thought of that himself. He was going to arrive in public with his hair wild as it was, thanks to its refusal to obey a comb. He would at least like to avoid having it soaked and windblown.

"This way."

Snape led them towards the road to Hogsmeade. Harry found himself walking between Draco and his brother. Draco maintained a silence no doubt born of a superiority complex. Harry knew for a fact that he hadn't been in a public situation like this very often, either, but he acted as if he had, and that could make all the difference. Pureblood rituals were good at training a wizard or witch to maintain an uncaring attitude.

Connor, of course, chewed on his lip and did such a good job of messing his own hair up that the wind didn't need to help. Harry opened his mouth to say something, then shut it again and shook his head. Connor was nervous enough about—whatever this was. He assumed his brother didn't want him to know what it was, or he would have said something already. Scolding him would only raise his nerves.

Draco, of course, didn't know how to leave well enough alone. "Quit burrowing, Potter," he said, in a distant, lofty tone that almost perfectly imitated Lucius's. "If your thoughts aren't already in your head, pawing at your hair won't help you find them."

Connor, just about to run his fingers through his hair again, flushed and dropped his hand to his side. "You don't know anything about what I'm doing, Malfoy," he snapped.

"No, I don't." Draco was now wearing the politely neutral expression that Harry suspected both the elder Malfoys favored for boring dinner parties. "Why don't you tell me, and then I'll have some idea?"

"I would, if I thought that you could keep—"

"Enough."

Snape's pointedly single word put an end to the conversation, and after that they walked in silence. Harry had thought he'd be grateful for it, but he found the silence sharpening the thoughts in his head, sending them tumbling into one another, revolving in odd patterns. He wondered, as he had since he'd sent the letters to Skeeter and Scrimgeour asking about this, if it were really the right thing to do. The Ministry, after all, could have announced the facts about the wild Dark and told people to stay inside on Midwinter night as easily as Harry.

But people were used to ignoring the Ministry, treating their announcements as a bit of a joke; almost a year of Scrimgeour in office hadn't yet changed that. And a secondhand report that Harry planned to fight the storms wouldn't command as much credibility as a proclamation from Harry himself. He badly wanted to give what reassurance he could. By now, most of wizarding Britain would know these weren't natural storms—if only because it was the eleventh of December and no snow had fallen yet, only this constant, steady rain—and Harry would rather they realize the true cause than panic.

And know someone is doing something about it. There's that, too.

Harry shifted restlessly, which jostled Argutus, who was curled around his left arm and under his robe, the only concession he'd made to the chill of the air and the rain. He slid his head out the slit in the sleeve, and flicked his tongue at Harry. "Everything will be all right," he said. "I showed you in the vision."

Harry managed a tense smile. It was true that Argutus had managed to conjure a vision of what looked like Britain, and maybe even part of Europe, with a tracery of light across it, surrounded by intense darkness. Harry had given the description to his allies, in the hopes that someone might know something about it. Augustus Starrise had answered at once, saying excitedly that it resembled some cooperative rituals he knew of. Now he was organizing the Light wizards who were either allied to Harry or owed his Light allies favors. He was confident they would help Harry to resist the storm when it came.

Harry wasn't as confident. Argutus's scales showed what might happen, like a prophecy, rather than what would happen, with the sharpness and clarity of a necromancer's vision. He hoped they were doing the right thing, but he couldn't be sure. And none of his allies had felt the sheer screaming power of the wild Dark as he had. It had carried him like a child when they struck back against Voldemort at Walpurgis. It could do the same thing now, especially when it was angry and wanted to—play with Harry.

Henrietta had contacted him several times over the course of the last week, but had been unable to add anything to her original guess about why the Dark was after Harry. It wanted his attention, and it wanted to eat his magic if it could—Harry had seen that much in the lightning attack—and it could be miffed for its own reasons. Henrietta had argued that its motive mattered less than the fact that it was apparently drawing Harry into the dance it was doing with Voldemort, the same way that the other Dark storm had drawn both her ancestor and a powerful druid into a dance. Harry had reluctantly agreed.

Even if it wasn't pulling at me, I would still have to face it. I'm the only one who might possibly harness enough power to stop it.

He shivered. Snape gave him a sharp glance. "Do you need me to renew the charms on your cloak, Harry?" he asked.

Harry shook his head. "I'm fine," he whispered. He did feel a faint chill from the rain, in fact, but only now that Snape had called his attention to it. He felt a far greater chill from the fact that he would be going up against one of the mightiest forces of magic in the world, and that he was powerful, and backed by allies, but without the sheer strength the Dark had casually displayed to him.

And it would be stronger than ever come Midwinter, with the moon, which somewhat lessened its influence now, gone.

Harry shook his head and lengthened his stride. He had to stop worrying about what might happen. There was only what he could plan until he actually entered the battle, and then what would happen. He would control as much of that as he could, but he remembered Lily telling him that battle plans only lasted until the battle began. Then they shattered, always.

I'll do what I can. And right now, that's warn the wizarding public about what's coming.

Above him, the thunder screamed. It sounded smug.

"Welcome, Harry." Scrimgeour was rising to his feet, his face grave and his yellow eyes more intent than Harry had ever seen them. This was the Minister's public face, he thought, the one he would don in times of war and natural disaster. "Thank you for coming. I think this is the best solution."

Harry nodded. He was somewhat astonished the Minister had seen him in the midst of the dozen Aurors who'd met them at the Apparition point and escorted them to the platform. Perhaps Scrimgeour just knew he had to be in there somewhere.

He climbed the steps of the platform, feeling Impervious Charms and wards part for him and then slam back together again. He wondered, half-humorously, if there was one to prevent rotten vegetables or saliva from hitting him. The wizarding public in older times had sometimes been demonstrative.

He scanned the faces of the wizards already waiting and watching. The reporters were closest to the stage, of course; there was the flash of Skeeter's glasses, and several bursting lights registered the presence of photographers. Next to Skeeter was a woman with severely pulled-back hair and a practiced sneer, who seemed to spend most of her time sneering at Skeeter. Harry suspected she was Melinda Honeywhistle, Skeeter's most frequent rival for the front page of the Prophet. Next to her stood a somber man, and next to him a wizard in the tattiest robes Harry had ever seen, and then more men and women, professional or unprofessional as their papers, or perhaps their reputations, dictated. Harry didn't know any others by sight.

He knew the wizards and witches gathered beyond the reporters, though, or at least he knew of them. These would be the same kind of people who had come to witness his parents' trial—hungry for a hint of explanation, rejoicing in whatever came their way. They looked less eager now than they had then, more worried, but they still stared at him with open curiosity. Harry nodded. It would be the spectators who came to the press conference; more ordinary citizens would be content to read what he said in the newspapers.

Aurors moved through the crowd, registering wands and glaring at anyone who got too rowdy. It took Harry a moment to realize they weren't the only Ministry officials there. Wizards in nondescript dark robes slithered through the spectators more gracefully than the Aurors, and sometimes paused as if they were only ordinary people idly jostling for a better spot.

Harry raised his eyebrows. Unspeakables. Scrimgeour is taking my security seriously, it seems.

Well, it was in public, and the last time Scrimgeour had seen him, Digle had tried to kill him. Harry supposed he'd won the right to feel a little paranoid.

He glanced over his shoulder, to see how the others were settling. Draco had taken one of the chairs near the back of the stage and adopted a perfect pose and perfect bored face. Snape was sitting beside him, scowling as if he hated every foot separating Harry and him. Connor was talking earnestly to Scrimgeour. Harry cocked his head, then remembered Connor saying last summer that he'd written Scrimgeour several times about the trial and struck up a relationship with him. Harry supposed he was seeing the results of those letters now.

"Mr. Potter," said an unfamiliar voice.

Harry kept his head turned, as though he had no idea who that surname belonged to. A moment later, Skeeter's tone, honed to precise nastiness, said, "Really, Melinda, you might try reading the Prophet once in a while. It would enlarge your grammatical skills as well as your knowledge of current events. Harry renounced his parents' name at his parents' trial. Do try to keep up."

Melinda Honeywhistle growled under her breath and said, "Harry," in a tone that implied she hated it. She would be someone used to making formalities into a mockery, Harry thought distantly as he turned and faced her.

"Yes, ma'am?" he asked.

"Would you mind answering a few questions before the conference begins?" She beamed up at him—the expression was patently false; Skeeter was better at this, Harry thought—and tapped her quill against her notebook. "Strictly off the record, I promise."

Harry gave her an empty, polite smile. "Sorry, ma'am, I can't. I promised that I'd save all my announcements for the conference itself, and that doesn't begin until the Minister says it will." He turned back to the conversation between Scrimgeour and his brother. The Minister had bent down now, and was speaking in a low, rapid voice. Connor listened raptly, nodding now and then. Harry frowned. What in the world can he have planned?

"Oh, come, Mr. Potter—"

"Melinda, really," said Skeeter, her voice holding just the right amount of shock.

"Harry, I mean." Honeywhistle said that as if it were a talisman against her forgetting his proper name again. "Surely it won't hurt to answer just a few questions? Nothing about what brings you here today, I promise. I'm doing a human interest piece about victims of child abuse, and I'd just like to talk to both you and your brother quickly, not at all in-depth."

Harry could see Snape rising to his feet. Uh-oh. Tempting as it was to let Snape deal with Honeywhistle, Harry didn't want the press conference to start off with the kind of spell incident that would make headlines overshadowing his announcement. "I'm afraid that's impossible, ma'am," he said. "Here comes the Minister, anyway."

That was true. Scrimgeour had spun away from Connor with a nod, and Connor took his seat, looking satisfied. Scrimgeour did pause halfway across the stage to give Snape a look. It was a very clear look. Snape sat back down.

"Back a few steps, ladies, if you please," said Scrimgeour, his face tight and his eyes on fire. Harry wondered if he had a grudge against Honeywhistle in particular, or if he just hated people violating the proprieties at events like this. Both Honeywhistle and Skeeter stepped away from the stage, and Scrimgeour tapped his wand against his throat. "Sonorus," he said, even as he glanced at Harry.

Harry nodded, just slightly.

Scrimgeour faced the chattering reporters and crowd and coughed. The sound echoed several times around the expanse of cobblestones, warded with extensive charms to turn away Muggle notice and entrance, where the Ministry had chosen to build the platform. Most of the people who'd been talking jumped at once and turned their attention back to the Minister.

"Thank you for coming," said Scrimgeour. Even with the charm amplifying his voice, it was just the right volume, Harry thought, grave and courteous without being overwhelming. He'd obviously learned public speaking along with every other Ministerial duty that mattered. He paused for a moment, as if measuring up the threats that the Aurors and Unspeakables might have missed, and then continued. "This is a press conference arranged through the Ministry, though with the cooperation of Harry, who until recently was Harry Potter. He has an announcement that concerns the safety of the whole of wizarding Britain. With that in mind, here he is, to make his announcement. Questions will only be permitted after he has finished speaking." He said the last with a significant glance at Melinda Honeywhistle, and then tapped his throat to silence his own voice, nodding at Harry.

Harry was not going to trust to Sonorus; he didn't have the Minister's experience with it. He used a charm he'd found during his research on Ariadne's Web, instead, when he'd had the idea, born from a half-crazed lack of sleep, that he might be able to send a wind through the lightning ward around Durmstrang.

"Insusurro," he murmured, and the air near everyone's ears altered, vibrating in tune with his voice, carrying it to them as if he were standing next to them and speaking at normal volume. More than one person jumped when he began giving his prepared speech, but at least they wouldn't miss anything important.

"My name is Harry, as you know," he said, turning his head from side to side, meeting as many of their eyes as he could. His heart had begun to pound a few minutes ago, but now it retreated into a hard, steady beat. This really wasn't much different than addressing his allies, especially since he didn't need to raise his voice to insure he was heard. "Until recently, as the Minister says, I was Harry Potter. But one thing about me has not changed, and that is the extent of my magic and my commitment to using it to guarantee freedom for as many wizards and magical creatures as I can."

He let a few of the restraints on his magic slip. Harry heard people gasp as they felt his power for the first time. He let it flurry above their heads, an invisible presence for the most part—unless someone else saw it visually, he supposed—but transforming the rain into soft flakes of snow.

The thunder screamed at him, the Dark magic feeling and responding to his strength. Harry let a grim smile pull at his lips as he brought down the barriers on himself again, and it promptly began raining harder than ever. He couldn't have proved his point better if he tried.

"The wild Dark has been provoked," he said. "This is the magic that opposes the Light, that runs in the dark spaces between the stars, that dances on Walpurgis Night." The majority of the people in the crowd looked frightened, and Harry didn't blame them. They were Light wizards. The wild Dark was the stuff of nightmares to them, or stories their parents had used to frighten them. "It intends to come sweeping in on Midwinter night, the solstice, when the moon will be dark. That is a time of power for it. As a prelude to that, it has hatched these storms, but all of these storms are nothing next to what it intends to bring down on Midwinter."

He heard murmurs of rising panic, and knew he didn't dare let them advance too far. He held up his left arm, and saw multiple eyes fix on it, noting the missing sleeve and the missing hand. Argutus was, thankfully, keeping out of sight.

"I intend to fight it," he said quietly. "If it were only hunting Voldemort, I would not condemn it, but it will destroy anything in its path. And I challenge power that does that." He turned his arm over. "No matter what it costs me. No matter what kind of power it is, Dark or Light. I will protect you as best as I can. I must ask that you take precautions that night. Do not travel if at all possible on the twenty-first of December, and set up your strongest wards. Beware of Dark magical creatures; they may become bolder as the wild Dark nears. Do not go outside."

They stared at him, their mouths slightly parted. That had happened to even Skeeter and Honeywhistle, Harry saw with a gush of amusement.

He turned and looked upwards. As they'd planned before he left Hogwarts, Fawkes chose that moment to appear, flaring into being above the platform with a ringing cry that challenged the Dark and negated it. The rain around him turned into a corona of steam as he coasted down and landed on Harry's right arm, upraised to receive him. The phoenix tossed his head back and loosed a deep, thrilling song. Harry could see it strengthening and comforting the people who watched the platform, much as it had done for him in the Chamber of Secrets.

Fascinated, awed looks had already appeared on their faces, even before Fawkes began to sing. Harry suspected few of them would ever have been so close to a phoenix before, and they would be remembering that Fawkes was a creature of ultimate Light.

"I am going to fight this," said Harry. "I promise you. I am not a Declared Lord, but I have the power of one. That power is now turned to protecting you, defending you, serving you—healing you if necessary when the storm has passed." He tilted his head, aware of a quiet strength rising in him. He wasn't sure if it'd come because he called it, or if it came from the trust growing in their faces, or if he was starting to believe his own carefully orchestrated show. "I will defeat it, with the help of the Light."

Fawkes spread his wings and sang again. His feathers were not quite burning, but shifting from color to color, red on gold on blue. Harry had to tear his eyes away before he was mesmerized along with all the other spectators. Fawkes seemed to be taking the approach of the wild Dark quite as seriously as he was. The phoenix had grown brighter and brighter in the past few days, and he sang more often.

"I am doing this because I am vates," Harry added. He suspected that at least a few questions would concern what he had to gain from this, when he was neither a Light Lord nor a Dark one. "I still support the rights of magical creatures, and would like to see all of them free. I still support the repeal of the anti-werewolf laws, among others." He felt Scrimgeour's quick, stabbing glance, but didn't look aside from the crowd to meet it. It was remarkable, really, how he felt right now. These were his people—his to serve and defend and protect, since they couldn't do it themselves. A sweet shiver ran down his spine. If he fought the wild Dark, he would only be doing what he was supposed to be doing, what he had wanted to do ever since Narcissa had written to him in the persona of Starborn and suggested that a powerful wizard need not become a Lord. "But I count wizards and witches as among those I protect. And the wild Dark is no one's friend now that it has started hunting. I will oppose it."

He waited a moment longer, his arm uplifted beneath Fawkes's body, the rain around them hissing away before it managed to touch them.

Then he dropped his arm, and Fawkes rose above his head, hovering with wings spread like an eagle's, singing with all his might. A burst of radiance traveled from him over the heads of the crowd, and then he settled on Harry's shoulder, head bowed so that his plumes brushed Harry's neck. Harry raised his hand and scratched gently at the downy breast feathers.

"I will take questions now," he said quietly.

Skeeter tried, she really did, but Melinda Honeywhistle still managed to ask the first one. "Does this mean that you're Declaring for Light, vates?" she asked, apparently deciding that she preferred that to his first name.

Harry laughed. "Did I say I was?"

"You have a phoenix on your shoulder," said Honeywhistle, even as her Quick-Quotes Quill stabbed and rustled over the paper. "You said that you were going to use Light magic to fight the Dark. I think it's a reasonable assumption."

"Reasonable assumptions are often wrong, ma'am." Harry found that he was enjoying himself. He'd told the truth, and what dramatic elements he'd used were really part of him—no borrowed phoenixes here. "In this case, Fawkes has been bonded to me since this spring, and that was his choice. He used to belong to Albus Dumbledore, but abandoned him when he started disapproving of Dumbledore's choices." Mouths opened at that, and quills rustled faster. Fawkes crooned to confirm it. "And I said I would be using Light magic because one uses Light magic to fight the wild Dark. It would simply absorb and consume Dark Arts. That does not mean I am loyal to Light to the exclusion of all else, as a Declaration would imply."

Honeywhistle tried to ask something else, but this time, Skeeter managed to get in. "Do you intend to stand poised between Dark and Light the rest of your life, Harry?" she asked. Her eyes gleamed with interest. Harry was sure that she was dreaming of the front page of the Prophet again, though what headline she'd use, he didn't know.

"As long as I live, yes," said Harry. "A vates must, and I'll only Declare for Dark or Light if I fail as vates. I don't intend to fail."

"What advantages would you say that using both Dark and Light magic offers?" Skeeter asked.

Harry cocked his head. He could give a light, easy answer about his range of magic being greater, of course, but that wasn't what he wanted to do. He wanted to say something that would make people understand how he truly felt, and not just the practical advantages of it. Then, they might see their way clearer to following his ideals, and not just following him.

"It lets me be without fear," he said, knowing she would hear him thanks to the charm guiding the words to her ear. "Not that I'm never scared, of course, but it means that I don't have to fear Dark or Light because I don't understand them, the way that can happen when a Declared wizard becomes too invested in his own allegiance. In some ways, it's not much different from being undeclared altogether, but I understand that most undeclared wizards still don't use Dark Arts."

"Are you saying you do?" That was the wizard in the tatty robes, leaning forward intently.

Harry lifted his eyebrows. "I have, yes."

"Can you give some examples of places and times where you think Dark Arts are permissible?" That was a witch standing behind Honeywhistle, bouncing up and down on her toes to be noticed. "After all, the Ministry has banned them, and for good reasons in most cases."

"In most cases," Harry agreed. "But I have used what is classified as Dark magic to cut some of the webs on magical creatures, and in battle against Voldemort." It was rather funny to see the witch stop bouncing and shiver, as though Voldemort would appear and hex her for listening to his name. "I've also been the victim of curses like that. It helps to know what your enemy's going to use against you."

"Would you advocate the Ministry lifting the bans on Dark Arts?" the witch pressed, apparently over her fear of the Dark Lord.

"I would not advocate the Ministry doing anything in particular about them," Harry murmured, aware that Scrimgeour was watching him. "Taken together, they're too broad a category to simply ban or lift the ban on. There are some individual spells I might lobby for, yes. Certainly not the Unforgivable Curses, and not most of the spells Voldemort's Death Eaters use."

The witch tried to ask another question, but a wizard using Sonorus bested her. "Harry!" he boomed. "Is it true that you consider the rights of centaurs and werewolves more important than the rights of wizards and witches?"

Harry bowed his head. "Thank you for letting me know of a deficiency in my spell, sir. I shall correct it right away."

"What?" The booming voice was baffled now.

Harry looked up and smiled sweetly in his direction. "I cast a charm that would enable everyone to hear me during my speech," he said. "But it must have a weakness in it, because you didn't hear me say that I count wizards and witches among those I protect. I'll look into that before I cast the spell again."

Snickers interrupted the wizard's attempt to bluster through that, and someone else called out, "Do you see yourself bound to oppose Voldemort because you're the Boy-Who-Lived?"

Harry snorted. "I'm bound to oppose him because I have the power to do so, and I see that there's a problem. The person who sees the problem and can correct it has the responsibility to do so, in my view."

"But what about the prophecy that says you're supposed to defeat him?" the same reporter, probably—she was far enough back that Harry couldn't see her in the general press—persisted. "The one you spoke about in your parents' trial?"

Harry cocked his head. "That is perhaps a reason, but only a secondary one. My parents counted on that to save them and excuse their actions. I plan never to do so."

There were a few more questions, but most of them were repetitions of what had gone before, or far enough away from the topic at hand that Harry turned them aside with a light jest and refused to answer. At last, the reporters looked at each other and apparently had no more to say. Harry smiled. That was one of the advantages of being as straightforward and speaking as much truth as possible. It left few holds for anyone to grab his words and try to spin them, though he was sure some of the stories they published about this would manage to do it.

"If that is all?" Scrimgeour, who'd cast Sonorus on himself again, asked, and was answered by nodding heads. "Then Mr. Connor Potter would like to make an announcement."

Harry stepped aside, and watched curiously as his brother marched to the front of the stage. He was probably chewing his lip again, and his voice was a bit too loud when he spoke. But the content of his announcement would take attention away from the way he said it. It certainly snared Harry's.

"I'm going to Declare for Light," said Connor. "I just wanted everyone to know that. That doesn't mean my brother is," he added. Harry wondered, through his daze, if it was instinct that led him to think the reporters would try to link their announcements, or if he just wanted to make absolutely clear that his actions didn't control Harry's. "But I am."

The reporters threw questions at him, of course. Connor rode most of them out admirably, though once or twice he stammered. Harry watched his back thoughtfully, but managed a smile when Connor turned to him.

Of course he has the right to make whatever Declaration he likes. And I can't say it's a surprise, really. Connor's always been more Light-minded. If he's spoken with Scrimgeour and Remus and others who are loyal to the Light over these past few months, it's not surprising they've convinced him.

I just hope this doesn't put a rift between us.

Connor finally stepped back from the edge of the platform with a defiant little toss of his head that Harry recognized; it meant that he was going to go ride his broom, and nothing Lily or James said would stop him. But that was all right. It was probably the attitude he would need to weather the storm his announcement would cause.

He caught Harry's eye, and smiled uncertainly. "We're all right?" he whispered, then winced as he realized he hadn't taken Sonorus off. He quickly removed it.

Harry nodded to him. "Of course."

Connor smiled in relief.

Harry glanced around one more time, but the crowd was already dispersing—the wizards and witches who had come in search of entertainment to look for something more entertaining, the reporters racing to write their stories first and launch them on the wizarding world. Harry relaxed and glanced up at Scrimgeour, who had come to a stop next to him, frowning.

"You meant what you said about Dark Arts and anti-werewolf laws, didn't you." Scrimgeour's voice was more resigned than anything else.

Harry arched his eyebrows. "You know I did."

Scrimgeour nodded. "I have a few pieces of information for you," he said. "The first is that one of our Muggleborn Aurors located the place you were looking for. The graveyard where Tom Riddle is buried is in a town called Little Hangleton." He handed Harry a sheaf of parchment. "Here's the map and the information on how to get there. It turns out there are Apparition points not too far from it. The Ministry actually handled a murder case there about fifty years ago. Strange case," he added, with a shake of his head. "A wizard named Morfin Gaunt confessed to the murder of the Riddles."

Harry swallowed, his hand closing convulsively on the parchment. "I don't think it was him."

"Probably not," said Scrimgeour dryly. "The second piece of information is that I questioned Digle, and he confessed to letting a woman named Hestia Jones in to see Dumbledore."

"He did?" Harry blinked. From what he had seen of Digle, he hadn't thought a wild elephant could drag a confession out of the man.

"Yes. Strangest thing, really. He was willing to talk after he had a bit of pumpkin juice with breakfast."

Harry narrowed his eyes. Scrimgeour looked a bit too innocent. Before he could say anything, though, the Minister went on. "We've confirmed that Hestia Jones has connections with Order of the Phoenix members. We'll be bringing her in for questioning today." He looked straight at Harry. "She was the only one who helped Dumbledore cast the compulsion spell, from what Digle said, but she can lead us to others. We'll have the rest of them yet."

Harry nodded slowly. "Thank you."

"Digle shouldn't have done what he did," said Scrimgeour, narrowing his eyes in turn. "I dislike attempted murder, Harry, and just because it's attempted murder on you doesn't make it any less serious. Rather the opposite, in fact."

"What."

It wasn't a question. Harry froze, then turned his head slowly, inch by inch, to meet Snape's eyes. He hadn't heard his guardian come up behind him.

"I had heard nothing of this," Snape said. Draco stood next to him, looking equally furious.

Harry looked around for help, but Scrimgeour had discreetly stepped away, and Connor just happened to be facing the other direction. Fawkes cocked his head and crooned as if to say that Harry really should have known better, then took off in a flap of wings. Argutus was silent.

"You will be explaining on the way back to Hogwarts why you failed to inform us of this," said Snape, even as their escort of Aurors came forward again.

Woefully, Harry bowed his head and followed.