Master of Death

by deadwoodpecker

It is 1977, and He Who Must Not Be Named is ascendant. Hoping to lure out a mighty foe, he organizes a theft of Nurmengard. But as others have discovered before him, it is unwise to play with Grindelwald's possessions... This fic is H/G, and is set in a slightly-altered from canon reality.

12. chapter ten

There was little chance for action before the term ended. Harry wrestled with himself to the point that he was not sleeping very well, and taken to going on long walks, staring up at the skies with longing. If only he had a chance to fly… surely, that would help. Along with not sleeping, he developed a headache, palms that sweat at random moments, and periods where his heart would race for no reason other than that Harry was wanting to act and could not.

Thus, he considered it a particular irony that, the second week of December, it was announced that the Divination NEWT class would have a class that lasted overnight. Astonished, Harry stared down at the parchment that announced this fact. Old Bones was reading everything on it; all that was required of Harry was his signature, which he withheld for long moments.

"It's oneiromancy, mate," said James, nudging him. "We've got to get into a good, deep sleep for it to work."

"Why've we got to sign something?" Harry asked, suspicious.

James leaned back, raising his eyebrows. "We're using a potion that's got to be monitored," he said. "It's just acknowledging that we've agreed to be monitored by Old Bones. Merlin, you're suspicious!" This he said with something like admiration. "If you don't even trust your professors, who can you trust?"

Harry opened his mouth, wanting to tell him that, in his time at Hogwarts, at least two of his professors had wanted to kill him, personally, and he suspected Dolores Umbridge would not shed a tear at his funeral, either. But he hadn't decided how he wanted to act that would give his future the brightest possible glow, so he shut his mouth. "I guess I'm being silly," he said, pulling his parchment forward and signing it with a flourish. He only barely remembered to sign it "Peverell" instead of "Potter", which would have been a lark with his father looking on.

"Nah," said James, taking it with a grin, "not silly so much as… have you ever thought of going for being an Auror once you're done with this place?" He waved his hand around to encompass all of Hogwarts. "You're paranoid enough."

Harry chuckled, passed his parchment to him, and pretended like James's words had not caused a hugely warm glow to erupt inside of his chest. It carried him through the rest of the day, banishing the hand tremors and the oddly timed racing heart. It was still within him when he sat on the floor of Ginny's small room, talking rather rapidly, while she pored over both her texts and the Quidditch books she'd taken from the library.

"—and he really said it!" Harry enthused. "He thought I was paranoid enough to be an Auror!"

She looked up at him, a crooked smile lifting one corner of her lips. The warm glow in his chest heated, stoked hotter by the gleam in her eye. "Quite the achievement, Harry," she said. Then, her half smile blossomed into a full one, the one he liked, the one that transformed her entire face with delight. "I'm only teasing… I love that."

His heart sped up again. Harry dropped his gaze; while this had happened at odd times, he had an inkling of why it was doing so now. He toyed with his robes, waiting until the urge passed, focusing instead on what his father had said. Ron and Hermione would have responded differently… Ron, with a scoffing sort of agreement and a desire to be viewed as the same, and Hermione, with a stringent agreement. Not for the first time that fall, he could nearly hear the voices of his two oldest friends, whose absence these last months had been like the amputation of a limb.

And what would Ron be thinking about—

But Harry cut off that thought before it could become fully formed, flicking his gaze toward Ginny, who had gone back to reading, and over to his own pile of textbooks. One of Dorcas's books sat open. He was done with the analysis of her work, according to Old Bones, but he could not help reading more. "Speaking of paranoid…" he said, clearing his throat.

"Yes?" Ginny asked.

"I've been wondering… how we're going to act," said Harry. He stretched his arms over his head, twisting his torso. "You know, when we do."

"You know what I think," she said, flipping a page.

"Actually," said Harry, "I don't."

Her gaze caught his again. There was a line marring her brow. "You don't?" she asked, surprised. "I think the best way to act would be first to tell Dumbledore everything we know. And everything you know."

Harry's hand dropped. "Oh," he said. She still wanted that?

She made a face. "No, I haven't given up on that," she said, correctly reading his thoughts. She picked up an Ancient Runes text and set it aside with a thunk. "I still think you ought to do it… but it's your choice, Harry. I know it's mostly your story to tell."

"Mostly," said Harry, "except for the bit with the diary."

She made a little hum of agreement.

He sat back, watching her. Her loyalty to and faith in Dumbledore was impressive. But he'd come to know her better in the last months: Ginny was no Hermione, who placed her faith in professors as though they were solid rocks. Hermione's belief that authority figures was based on faith in the office itself, but Harry did not think Ginny trusted Dumbledore to do what was best simply because he was the headmaster, because he was head of the Order of the Phoenix, or even because he was the only one Voldemort feared. Cocking his head, he kept at it, trying to puzzle it out – why did Ginny, who had no great love for authority, trust Dumbledore so much?

"What is it?" she asked, combing her fingers through her hair.

"Just wondering," Harry said, "why you trust him so much. He – he kept things from me." The indignation at that was a faded thing: still felt, but not as strong.

She eyed him. Her gaze was steady on his, except for a brief flick to the desk, during which she smoothed shifted her legs, revealing a hint of creamy white thigh and the long shadows above it. Coughing a little, Harry tilted his head back.

"I trust him," she said.

"I know, but—"

"I'm getting to that." Her words might have stung, but for the warm smile that accompanied them. "I trust him because… after the – you know – diary, he came up to the hospital wing. And here he was – Dumbledore – who hated dark magic, who hated everything to do with that, and he listened to me and understood. He wasn't angry or—"

"Of course he wasn't angry," Harry said, indignant. "It was all Tom Riddle's fault, not yours. He almost got me, too!"

"Thank you for saying that, Harry," she said. "But there were things I could have – should have done. I got lucky that it wasn't worse… I was lucky I survived, and lucky that you survived. So lucky. But if I'd gone to Dumbledore…" There was a subtle shift in her tone, a thickness to it. Startled, Harry saw a bright sheen of tears in her eyes. Then her jaw tightened and they disappeared so quickly, Harry thought he might have imagined them. "Eleven year old me would have been horrified to take that mess to Dumbledore," she said, now with a real, genuine chuckle. "But if I had done… a lot of things would have been different. And you know, I really think – I know from when he came up to the hospital wing… he didn't judge me."

"It wasn't you, it was that diary," said Harry, stubborn. "I saw it myself; I saw Tom Riddle. I knew it wasn't him—"

"But Dumbledore wasn't down there," said Ginny, with a shrug. Red hair swung over her shoulder. "He didn't treat me any differently, then or after… the only other person who didn't was you, Harry. You and Dumbledore were the only two who went on like normal. Even my parents didn't."

She reached down and squeezed his arm, remaining close as they stared at each other. Harry hadn't been blind; he'd known that the other Gryffindors had given her a wary distance. It had been impossible to keep such a thing quiet, though no one had known all the particulars. Ron and her other brothers had loudly told off anyone who said anything, but even that was treating her differently, he supposed. He clapped his hand over hers, clasping it in his, not entirely knowing why, except that he wanted her to know he understood. He hadn't known how much it had meant to her, not until now, but… now, he had an inkling.

Their hands dropped away at almost the same instant. His arm tingled where she'd touched it, and he rubbed at it. Harry forced his thoughts back to Dumbledore, wary of the direction they had been going.

"Does that make sense, Harry?" Ginny finally asked.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah. It does."

Later that evening, as he prepared for bed, he stood under the warm spray of the shower. Tired now, his thoughts were scattered, but kept returning to the warmth of that moment between them. Harry lathered his hair, scrubbing rather vigorously at his scalp. But, even then, he could almost feel her hand on his arm; his stomach was swooping lower and lower. She's Ron's sister, he reminded himself. There was no reason for any part of his body to enjoy her touch so strongly. But Harry's resolve was weakening as heat spread through him, his body growing hotter by the moment, centering on one particular area. It had been quiescent while he was with her, but now he was alone, his thoughts grew wild, and he grew hard, remembering the swift sight of her thigh, and the feel of her small, cool hand tucked in his—

People think she's your sister.

The thought had the effect of a splash of cold water. Harry's hand, which had been washing his belly rather slowly and with a particular intent, dropped to his side. His eyes squeezed shut, not because of the shampoo streaming from his hair, but because of this rude, intrusive thought. Through no fault of Harry's own, the entire castle treated them as siblings, including his own damn parents.

Harry sped through the rest of his shower, annoyed now with Sirius and Dumbledore, who had decided that he and Ginny would share a godparent without thinking of the repercussions of that sort of lie. With sharp, jerky motions, he yanked his pajamas on and dove into bed. He stared into the darkness at his ceiling, trying to convince himself that it was for the best, that anything else might complicate things, that 1977 was not the time for this sort of frivolity.

He was still trying to convince himself that it was a good thing everyone thought he and Ginny were siblings when he drifted off to sleep.

HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP

Harry was the last to arrive in the North Tower. It was well past dark by the time he climbed the silvery ladder, grumbling to himself, still unsettled at the prospect of spending the night with his father, his godfather, and their betrayer. Now that Ginny was no longer there, patting him on the arm, his misgivings returned. What if he did have one of his strange visions of whatever Voldemort was doing?

But once he rose up through the trap door, his reluctance eased. There were Sirius and James, seated cross-legged side by side on a pair of plush, purple sleeping bags. They both wore very loud, matching pajamas, catching his attention at once. "You two have got matching pajamas?" Laughter rolled out of him.

"My mum picked them out for us over Christmas," said James, grinning. Across his shirt were three warbling reindeer, noses pointed upward, singing 'Hail the Holly King' in tiny, tinny voices. Beside him, Sirius's three reindeer began to harmonize.

"They've got a bit annoying," Pettigrew confided.

"You're just jealous," Sirius laughed.

"Hardly," he retorted. But his face flushed a mottled red.

Harry stepped further away from him, vowing not to think of Pettigrew. "Where's Old Bones?"

"He went to go get the potion from Lily," said James.

Harry grabbed a folded sleeping bag and put it on the far side of the room, well away from the other three. This sent them into a round of mirth. "What? Do you think we have nits? We've taken potions for them and everything!" Sirius called. James cupped his hands over his mouth and said, very loudly, as though from a distance of thousands, not tens, of feet: "YOU – CAN – COME – CLOSER! WE – DON'T – SHARE – OUR – NITS!"

"They'll make you pay for them," added Pettigrew, a beat too late.

Harry smiled at James and Sirius, buying himself a couple seconds for an explanation. "Erm, I just can't sleep near people," he said. Then, when they looked at him, confused, he added: "Consequence of growing up in a cupboard, I'm afraid. I just can't sleep if, you know… hearing other people breathe." This was not true; he'd long ago become accustomed to Ron's snoring, at least.

"Wait," said James, "go back to where you… grew up in a cupboard'?"

"Well, his guardian is a Black," Pettigrew said, tapping his chin. "Seems right to me."

"That wasn't it," Harry snapped.

"Whoa, now," said James, "no need to jump on him."

"Well, he wasn't terrible," said Harry. "And it wasn't him who did it." He looked from James to Sirius, avoiding how Pettigrew now preened after James had defended him. "My guardian is excellent, actually… it's just that I grew up away from him." Was there any danger in telling them these vague details? "My parents died when I was a baby… I didn't meet, uh, Sol Black until I was much older. I lived with my mother's side of the family."

"And they locked you in a cupboard?" Sirius said, still outraged.

"That's where I slept, yeah," said Harry.

"That is terrible," said James, shaking his head. His brow furrowed. "What sort of wizards were they?"

"Must be dark ones," said Sirius.

"They were Muggles," said Harry. "They didn't have any magic at all."

"Your mum was a Muggle?" Pettigrew asked, astonished.

"Or a Muggleborn?" James suggested. "I'm partial to Muggleborns, myself."

Harry chuckled. "Yeah, she – she was a witch. It's just her family that wasn't." He fiddled with his sleeping bag, maneuvering it around, setting it longwise against the wall – as best as he could with the room being circular – putting the top of it behind a chintz armchair so he'd be hidden from view.

"What about Ginny?" Sirius asked. "Was she kept in the same cupboard?"

Harry was about to tell them no, when the trapdoor opened with a pop and Old Bones rose up on his flying carpet, smiling at them, and holding a tiny, corked bottle in his hands. He floated across the room in a gentle arc, then settled atop his desk. Without pause, he took out his wand, dimming the lights. The shadows congregated, growing deeper and darker. Tiny pinpricks of light, like stars, glowed upon the ceiling, preventing the room at the top of the North Tower from becoming impenetrably black.

"Let's not waste any time," Old Bones advised. "Come, get your drop, and then I want you to settle into your sleeping bags."

"You aren't going to tell us anything?" James asked.

"No." Old Bones shook his head; his shaggy, dandelion hair went everywhere. "I don't wish to influence what comes next."

"Then why are we here?" asked Sirius. "We could be in Gryffindor Tower?"

"No, this potion requires supervision," said Old Bones. "People have been known to sleepwalk whilst on it, and find they've Apparated hundreds of miles away. I myself once took it as a young man without anyone there to watch over me. I ended up naked in a hollow—"

"Godric's Hollow?" James asked, laughing.

"No, fortunately. A tree hollow. I had no idea how I got there."

"I hope the vision you had was worth it," Sirius said.

"Alas, I could not remember it," said Old Bones, with a shake of his head. "I didn't have my wand, you see, so I had far greater problems to deal with than deciphering the symbols in my dreams." He heaved out a sigh. "Alas." Then, clapping his hand, he said: "Come now. All of you. All you must do is open your mouths, and this potion will allow you to open your thoughts… Tomorrow morning, we will endeavor to decipher your dreams together."

Harry was last in line, quiet, uncertainty rising within him once more. "Lily really made this?" he asked, as his father opened his mouth.

"Lily's great at potions," said Sirius. "Old Slughorn loves her almost as much as James here does."

"Don't choke on that," Old Bones advised James, clapping him on his back, while he coughed. "Mr. Black, if you will." Sirius stepped in front of him, clicking his heels together. "Thank you. Now you, Mr. Pettigrew."

When it was Harry's turn, he was surprised to find the dream potion tasted well enough: like sugared grapefruit, tart and sweet at once. At once, he felt tired; all his limbs relaxed, and it took all he had to shuffle off to his sleeping bag. Harry rolled into it, and blinked up at the stars up above, mouth growing slack. It was not until he'd nearly drifted off that one of his lazy, sleepy thoughts gave him a sharp pinch. Harry rolled over on his side and squeezed his eyes shut. For the first time in months, he thought of his Occlumency lessons, those ill-fated things. Snape had been terrible. But what could it hurt, to empty his mind? What if he spoke in his sleep and Pettigrew somehow overheard it? It couldn't hurt.

One by one, Harry emptied his mind of thoughts, allowing himself to slip into his dreams unencumbered: he imagined a wall between him and the others… a magical barrier far sturdier and more difficult to get into than the barrier to Platform 9 ¾ or to Diagon Alley. Harry turned back, once, surveying his work. There was a castle wall behind him: there was no door. Beaming with satisfaction, he brushed his hands together. Then, without another glance, he headed up the path that appeared before him, convinced that he was late for something. There was someone waiting for him, wasn't there?

"Oh, it's just you," Harry said, coming to a sudden halt.

There, before him, upon a marble plinth was the Sorting Hat. It was slumped and silent until the clouds above them broke and sunlight fell upon the old hat, setting it to glow. Its mouth fell open:

Atop ol Gryffindor's head

Brushed over his hair

I sat there all silent

And completely unaware

But then that old wizard

Took off this same hat

And spoke some magical words

And then that was that

I had a mind, a mind of my own

I could see and talk and sing

And listen as well

And the others were smiling

Smiling… smiling… smiling…

The Sorting Hat's voice trailed away. Harry noticed, with a start, that the ones the Sorting Hat had sung of were here. Harry's mouth slowly dropped open as he saw the four Founders seated atop thrones on the dais at the end of the Great Hall. They sat frozen, still as statues, staring down at him. Gryffindor's sword was held aloft, catching the same light with which the Sorting Hat was bathed. The other Founders held glowing things as well: Hufflepuff had a cup in her hands; Ravenclaw had a glowing tiara atop her head; Slytherin, a silver necklace. But it was Gryffindor's sword that caught his attention, the metal shining. Harry's heart swelled in his chest, proud he was in Gryffindor…

The Founders were smiling, nodding their heads, very slowly. Harry kept trying to ask Gryffindor how he'd made his sword, but the famous wizard only shook his head and chuckled, and called him little cup-bearer.

"Bring me a glass of wine, little-cupbearer," he said. His words sounded like they came from underwater.

But the only cup was Hufflepuff's. Harry hesitated to ask her. And when he finally got up the nerve, she shook her head and said in a slow, watery voice: "It's too big to carry." For now it was the size of a bathtub. Someone had engorged it, for it kept growing until they were all swirling around in it, riding the whirlpool. Then, just as Harry thought he was going to drown, someone poured them out.

Harry landed with a heap in a London made up entirely of statues. And not for the first time, Harry found himself in the lithe, sinuous body of a snake, gliding graceful across stones. He was a snake as big as a mountain; he flattened the statues beneath him. None of them had a chance of penetrating his scales.

No.

A voice within him spoke.

No. I don't like this. I don't want to see this, don't show me this.

Harry forced his eyes open, flinging his arm off of himself. Dumbledore helped him clamber to his feet. Ron and Hermione threw themselves at him, taking turns to hug him, and demand to know where he'd been. When he was about to answer them, they turned to smoke and wafted away.

"HARRY!" shouted Ginny.

Spirits lifting, Harry turned to her. There she was, red hair shining, eyes nearly as bright. Above her head she held an ancient broom. "What have you got?" he demanded, striding over to her. He'd not seen anything like that broom before. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dumbledore turning to smoke just the same as Ron and Hermione. But Ginny was there, throwing herself into his arms, and yelling into his ear that she'd finally found it, she'd found Merlin's own broom.

"Well!" Harry said, beaming. "Let's ride it, then!"

It was large enough that it held both of them quite easily. From a distance, Harry realized that he was dreaming… and he could guide the dream. The sky shifted, threatening to shift him somewhere else, but he wrapped his arms around Ginny, holding onto her, silently ordering his dreams to leave him be. No more tumbling him about. He'd spend the rest of the night flying.

The wind sighed, pressing him even closer to her.

It took a moment for Harry to recognize the feeling welling up inside of him. The broom slowed. Merlin's own broom moved as gently as Old Bones's flying carpet, rocking back and forth. Harry shifted not because he was uncomfortable, but because he thought it rude to press his erection into Ginny's back. But then she wriggled back, not accepting the distance between them. Harry experimented, moving his hand to her thigh, and nuzzled the top of her head, breathing in the sweet scent of her hair.

"Is this all right?" he murmured.

She stretched, as languid as a cat. "Yes," she said.

Lightning flashed.

They were no longer on a broom, but entwined together under a tree. Ginny was straddling his chest, kissing him hard enough that he was dizzy from it—

HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP

Harry woke at a most crucial moment. The fog of sleep refused to dissipate. Dimly, he was aware of others speaking. For a few moments, he did not know if he was truly awake, or if he still slept. He knew exactly which part of the dream he wished to return to. With a small groan, he pressed his face into his pillow. There was no use: he was well and truly awake. At least his erection was deflating at the knowledge that he was not, in fact, snogging Ginny under a tree with most of their clothing undone – toward the end, she'd even—

"Oi! Peverell!"

Harry groaned into his pillow, ignoring James.

"Not much of a morning lark, is he?" asked Sirius, sounding much too cheerful.

"It can't possibly be morning yet," Harry grumbled. He gave himself another minute or so before he clambered out of his sleeping bag.

"It's not not morning," said James, jerking his thumb at the window. There was a faint, silvery promise of dawn limning the bottom of the night sky.

Old Bones came through an open door, riding upon his flying carpet. "You're all awake? Corking!" he said with a clap.

Harry blinked the last of his sleep out of his eyes, shivering a little, now he was outside the warmth of his sleeping bag. At least the aftereffects of his dream had gone. Not that he could help what he did in his dreams. He scratched at the back of his neck.

"—and your project for over Christmas is to recall as much as possible—"

It's not like he could control his dreams, otherwise he would have pulled away, not pressed closer.

"—will require you to use a bit of Baruffio's Brain Elixir – just a bit, mind you, mind the proper dosage on the bottle—"

As much as Harry didn't believe his dream to be particularly prophetic, he could not suppress a great leap in his belly as he wondered if that part would prove to be. And how could it, though? As he was increasingly aware, everyone thought she was his sister.

"Potter?"

"Huh?" said Harry and James at the same moment.

There was a split second of silence, then Sirius and Pettigrew began to laugh at him.

"Sorry," said Harry, cheeks flaming, "thought I heard 'Peverell'."

"Don't you worry," said Old Bones, clapping him on the shoulder. "It's the potion; all of you will be slightly discombobulated the rest of the day."

"I'll say," mumbled Harry.

But after that, he forced himself to pay attention to Old Bones's lecture. Thoughts of Ginny were pushed to the back of his mind. Old Bones continued to explain the project that he wanted from them; Harry was already realizing that he would have to amend much of what he'd dreamed, not just the last bit of it… but Ron and Hermione… how would he explain who they were? He chuckled a little, realizing he'd have to fall back on the old Divination stand-by: Make stuff up.

Ron would be proud of this, at least.

"And that's it!" said Old Bones, cheerful. "Not too onerous, is it, boys?"

"No," they chorused.

"Don't forget to take a book on dream symbolism home with you," he added, rapping his knuckles against his desk. "You'll not want to have to buy one…"

"We won't."

Harry remained silent. When Old Bones raised his bushy eyebrows at him, he explained, "I'm staying here over the holidays," he explained, "so I won't forget my book."

"You're what?" James and Sirius said together, astonished.

"And I think that's it," said Old Bones. "If you'll excuse me, I've got to sleep the rest of the morning… these 'old bones' need their rest." And then, laughing at his joke, he swept once more from the room, leaving behind the scent of patchouli and basil.

"Well, if he's going back to bed, I am too," said James, tumbling onto his sleeping bag. "Wonder if I'll dream some more?"

"I don't think I want to," said Sirius, but he, too, got into his sleeping bag.

Harry followed suit, over on the opposite side of the room. He could hear their murmured voices, but not what they were actually saying, though he thought he caught a word about an augury. Harry rolled over onto his side, fiddling with his glasses, suddenly wishing he could hear what his father and Sirius had dreamed, wondering if he would recognize any of it…

Another couple of hours of sleep claimed him. Still, Harry was quite tired and bleary eyed when he got out of his sleeping bag once more and stumbled to his feet. His mouth tasted like something had died in it.

"Here," said James, thrusting a cup into his hand. "Sirius brought coffee for us."

"Thank Merlin," Harry muttered.

As he sipped it, his thoughts cleared.

"You're really staying here over Christmas?" asked James.

"Yeah," said Harry.

"What about your guardian?" James persisted.

"Well…" Harry did his best to make a complex situation far simpler. "Our guardian will probably come see us Christmas day? But he hasn't really got a place, uh, big enough for all of us, so…"

"But what did you do last year? Or before you came to Hogwarts?"

"Oh," said Harry, "we… uh, he had a house. He did used to have a house."

James eyed him. Even Sirius was joining in. "What happened to it?"

Harry folded his arms across his chest. "It's no longer safe," he said, in a tone that he hoped would not invite any more questions. Besides, it was true. Grimmauld Place was no longer available because, presumably, Sirius's parents both still lived there. "Hogwarts is the best choice," he said, shrugging. "It's safe."

Sirius and James drew away, shrugging. It looked as though Sirius had something of import to say: he was speaking very swiftly, waving his hands, and smiling; James, however, was shaking his head, though also smiling. It took a minute to realize Pettigrew still stood there, a little glint in his watery blue eyes, and a smirk on his face.

"If my sister looked like that"—the pink and moist tip of his tongue flicked out, just briefly, to touch the corner of his lips—"I'd want to be protective as well."

A surge of something went through Harry: rage combined with something else, something even darker. It had grown into a real annoyance, all these people insinuating Ginny was his sister. Silently, he cast Muffliato. "Stay away from her," he said, quietly enough that no one – not his father, not Sirius – could hear him.

Pettigrew took a half step back, lifting his hands. "It was a joke, mate," he said, eyes edging first toward one mate, then the other. Neither one glanced his way.

"Stay away from her," repeated Harry.

Pettigrew's face flushed an angry red. "What's it to you?" A nastiness crept into his tone: it was both obsequious and snide. Harry saw him as his older self, balding, watery-eyed, and the author of a betrayal that had darkened Harry's own life. "Even—"

But whatever he was about to say was lost as the bell gave a clanging ring.

Harry stepped back from the edge; cold washed over him. Pettigrew sidled away, not looking at him. You might have the freedom to act, Harry reminded himself, but you've got to be smart about it. He couldn't just curse Pettigrew into forgetting his own name – he couldn't do it, and not just because there were others there, including his father and Sirius and Old Bones. This would be the wrong way to act… he couldn't just curse someone because they'd said something about Ginny's figure, especially if it was true…

Ginny.

Harry ducked next to his desk, shoving his pajamas into his bag. While many of the details of his potion-induced dreams were lost, there were several that stood out in his mind as though emblazoned there. Harry paused, one of the Dorcas Meadowe' s books half in his bag and half out. Of course he'd noticed her figure; how not? They may have been the focus of confusing, incomprehensible magic, but Harry was still male. An altogether different sensation went through him; a moment later, he was grateful that he was crouched over, his memory of the dream was that vivid.

There was nothing brotherly about these feelings.

HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP

Harry did not know if he was quite prepared to see Ginny just then, so instead of heading off to lunch, he trudged down from the North Tower, and then a full seven stories up the moving stairs. He took them in a slight daze, alternating between reliving the best parts of the dream and trying to stop himself from doing so. It felt slightly dangerous to return to his room, not with these thoughts coursing through his brain and body, not when there was a bed there, and the possibility of taking things into his own hands. So instead, he went to the Room of Requirement. As he paced in front of it, he turned his thoughts very firmly to Quidditch… he could at least continue their search for a charm that would make flying possible.

Instead, when he opened it, he found a darkened room.

"Oi!" said Harry. "What're you doing here?"

Sirius half-stood from his chair beside the fire. Then, with a flop, he sat back down. There was a glint of silver beneath him, which Harry took a moment to recognize as the so-called crown of wisdom Sirius had found the last time they were there.

"I needed a minute," muttered Sirius.

"You should've told me," said Harry, "I'd've come up here earlier." He pulled up a chair and followed Sirius's suit, flopping into it. This was an excellent distraction; Sirius's presence was exactly what he needed today. "Where've you been?"

Sirius looked at him, smiling a little. "I've been thinking," he said. "After that… my head feels so much clearer."

Harry nodded. "Yeah," he said, "Dorcas changed things, didn't she?"

"Dorcas," said Sirius, with a faint tone of surprise. "Yes. She did. You know, it reminds me of a piece of wisdom… wherever you go, there you are," he said. "To be honest, Harry, I've been thinking of little else. I've barely even gone to the flat! And—"

"You've been living here?" Harry asked, astonished. "And you didn't say anything?" I thought you didn't want to be anywhere near Hogwarts.

Sirius seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "To be honest, I slept for quite a bit," he admitted. "And it's not that I was here the whole time." He spread his hands. "Don't you ever need time to just think, Harry. Just by yourself?"

"Yeah," he said, mollified. "And what've you been thinking about?"

"First steps," said Sirius. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "How to act… what to do first… and I know what we both want to do is rush in headlong, but I still think we've—"

"—got to be cautious, yeah," said Harry. "I still don't like it."

A smile flickered across Sirius's face. "And it doesn't suit either of us," he pointed out.

Harry chuckled a little. "No," he said. "No, it doesn't. I almost cursed Pettigrew today…"

When Sirius demanded it, Harry told him everything, leaving out only the finer details of the dreams and the role Ginny had played in them. Sirius showed appropriate disgust that Pettigrew had expressed attraction toward Ginny, muttering about him under his breath. It was freeing, to release that sort of anger; Harry felt lighter for it, and even lighter still when Sirius stood, sending the tiara to the floor, and came to stand behind Harry, his hand clasped on his shoulder.

"So what've you thought we should do first?" Harry asked. "Something to do with Pettigrew, then?" He hoped their thoughts were aligned in that regard. Surely there was a way…

"Something like that," said Sirius, squeezing his shoulder. "Listen, Harry, I've had an idea…"

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"I wondered if I might have a word, Mr. Peverell."

Harry started. He had not even known Dumbledore was there; he had been too lost in thought, staring out at Hogwarts grounds, thinking idly of frogs and the smell of snow that hung heavy in the cold air. He perhaps did not need the frogs to tell him that the time of autumn rains were over, and winter snow was gathering itself in the clouds above. "I – okay," he said, instantly wary. "Here, or…?"

"We could," Dumbledore suggested, "take a walk."

Harry nodded, suddenly wishing he had not avoided Ginny after the sleepover with his Divination class, wishing she were there to provide him the support he had grown accustomed to from her. He had, he noted with some surprise, grown to rely on her at least as much as he had done Ron and Hermione. How had he not noticed that before? He walked silently beside Dumbledore down the stairs and out one of the doors leading to the courtyard. Remus was there, sitting quietly with a book, but he blinked up at them as they passed, nodding a hello. Harry nodded back, and then they continued on.

Dumbledore, it seemed, was content to amble along, choosing a long, slow way to the shores of the lake. It was cold enough they were alone; none of the other students or professors wanted to suffer the bitter wind come flung out of the mountains. Still, Dumbledore did not speak.

It was not until a fog rose up – too swift to be natural – that he cleared his throat. "It is not easy to be a prophet, Mr. Peverell," he said.

Harry blinked at him. "What?" he said, blank and confused.

Dumbledore tipped his head at him. "I know which books you've chosen to study; and now you have met her. You see what Dorcas's life is like: not all Grindelwald's followers were captured and detained with him. What may seem like paranoia—"

"It doesn't," Harry said, thinking of Grimmauld Place, and the many enchantments done to it. "It doesn't seem like paranoia; there are people out to get her, aren't there?"

"There are," said Dumbledore, "and there are people who think her security measures are… shall we say… mad."

Harry shrugged. "She's still alive," Harry pointed out. "And so is her cat. And her niece."

Dumbledore sighed. It was very quiet, and Harry did not think he was meant to have heard. "And so they are. But many of her family did not survive. It is rather unfortunate that prophets – whether learned or natural – are not often left to their own affairs and allowed to live their lives unmolested. True predictions are highly sought after for a multitude of reasons: desire for wealth, desire to know the best path to take… desire for power."

"Desire to know when it's going to rain?" Harry suggested with a small laugh, remembering how Dumbledore had asked Old Bones to create an almanac for him.

"I suppose so," said Dumbledore, having clearly forgotten. "But – any reason – any reason at all… people will not allow a prophet to rest."

"That doesn't sound comfortable," said Harry.

Dumbledore looked at him. There was that familiar, piercing look in his eyes. Harry fought not to look away, simply raised his chin and stared back. "I think you could be qualified as a prophet yourself, Mr. Peverell," said Dumbledore.

Harry scratched the back of his neck. "I guess I don't understand," he said, adding a belated: "Sir."

"What is a prophet if not someone who knows the future?" Dumbledore suggested. "Mostly they know brief flashes of it, enough to show the shape of something: like something shown in a flash of lightning. You know rather a lot more than that. As do Mr. Black and Miss Peverell, of course."

"That's if I don't change anything," Harry said.

"You heard Dorcas," said Dumbledore, "it is rather harder to change the future than one supposes."

Harry turned, looking out across the lake. It welled up in him again, a sharp desire to tell Dumbledore everything, from his parents' murder to everything that had happened to him at school in the future, from the other talks they had had to his dream that was still haunting him. In fact, he looked across the lake, to the door that had been open on that stormy night… but surely Voldemort could not have come to Hogwarts without Dumbledore knowing… not as himself, not leaving everyone unmolested.

Mary MacDonald's toad did die…

Harry quelched that thought.

"I guess I had thought," Dumbledore said gently, "that there was something you wanted to tell me."

Tears stung the backs of his eyes, horrifying him.

"No," he said, forcing them down. "Not really."

"Ah," said Dumbledore. He clasped his hands together. "You will have to forgive an old man. But, you see, I have known Sirius for several years now. There are few people to whom he defers. And yet, he defers to you. As does Miss Peverell."

There was a hidden question there. Harry chose to ignore it. "I wouldn't know about that," he said.

"I see," said Dumbledore.

Harry suspected Dumbledore knew he was not being truthful. But the courtesy emanating from him did not lessen in the slightest. He thought again of Old Bones, and the almanac of the weather as foretold by the frogs living by this very lake. "If you wanted to know one thing, what would it be?"

"Is he gone? Is he defeated?" Dumbledore asked, without hesitating.

"He was gone," Harry said carefully. A hint of anguish crept into his tone. "Now he's back, but I don't know how."

Dumbledore's level gaze did not move from his, though it sharpened. Harry could almost see the gears at work in his head; he was silent as Dumbledore thought. It was, in fact, like watching him wield magic. Harry took in a deep breath, preparing to let everything loose, and let it out on a sigh.

"How long?" asked Dumbledore. "How long was he gone?"

"More than a decade," said Harry. If he stayed any longer, he would tell him everything. "I ought to get back up to the castle… Ginny will be wondering where I am… I haven't seen her since last night…" It was the best excuse he had. Dumbledore did him the courtesy of allowing it, lifting the fog that must have concealed them from any sort of magical prying, and waved him along. Harry hurried back the more direct way than the way they had come down, shaking his head, shoving his hands in his pockets and scowling against the wind.

Why did I tell him that?

Harry continued to kick himself across the courtyard, moving faster than he normally did, nearly plowing into a couple of first years, hunched up against a pillar.

"HARRY! OVER HERE!"

And then there was Ginny, shouting across the way at him, waving, her vivid hair making her stand out against a sea of black robes. She held both of their brooms aloft.

Harry was smiling even before he realized his foul mood had lifted. He changed course to stride toward her. "What's going on?" he asked loudly, when he was still feet away from her. "You haven't-?"

"I DID IT!" she shouted, hopping up once before settling back down.

"You – no!"

"There I was, studying for Ancient Runes with Lily, and then it struck me – c'mon!"

This time, as Harry headed away from the castle, he followed Ginny rather than Dumbledore. She did not lead him to the lake, but to the Quidditch pitch, where Harry had spent some of his best times at Hogwarts. Ginny chattered the entire way down; Harry's cheeks stung not only from the cold, but from smiling. He hefted his broom, spinning it above his head, excited that he might finally get back on a broom again without embarrassing himself.

The conversation with Dumbledore was not forgotten, but receded in importance until Harry could not quite imagine that less than an hour ago, he'd been quite close to cracking, to crying, to telling Dumbledore everything.

"So what was it?" he asked.

"It's not what we were thinking, it's nothing to do with the braking charms," said Ginny, shaking her head. "At least – you know – I haven't actually tried it! I could be wrong – I'll charm mine first, so you'll—"

"Absolutely not," Harry said firmly. "What if you fell?"

"What if you fell?" Ginny challenged. "Again?"

He eyed her, then their brooms. "What if we do it together? Slowly."

A smile bloomed across her face. They huddled together, and Ginny tapped both of their brooms with the tip of her wand. "It was the runes that made me think of it," she said. "They were big in the 80s… everyone wanted to use runes to anchor their charms… They started carving them into the handles of broomsticks. Ours in – you know – where we're from have them, but these"—she handled the tip of hers lovingly—"wouldn't. So I've just got to – there!" A small rune was now etched into the handle. "It should work!"

"I'm impressed," said Harry, meaning it.

"Trust me?" Her eyes were very bright as she looked at him.

Harry pretended to think it over, then allowed her to etch the same rune on the end of his broom handle.

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"And here I thought you didn't know how to fly," said Peter, hands tucked in his pockets, mouth slightly open. He immediately looked to James. "Didn't you think that?"

"I don't know that I thought he didn't know how to fly," said James, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "I just thought he didn't know how to land."

Harry chuckled. Warmth that had nothing to do with physical exertion filled him. His dad and his mates were looking at him with approval… this was what he'd wanted from that first day, hadn't he? "No… it was just something about the broom," he said. "Ginny figured it out… our brooms had a different charm on it."

James's brow knit. "Really?" he asked. "I wonder why."

Harry shrugged.

"I know lots of people who charm their brooms one way or the other," said Peter. "My mum, for instance. When I was about seven, and trading my training brooms for the real ones…"

"What was that?" Harry asked, interested.

"Erm," said James, giving him a wary look, "you know… parents putting charms on kid brooms to keep them from… you know. Getting hurt. Because, um—"

"—they don't know the backs of their brooms from their fronts," said Peter, defiant. Harry was reminded of Neville, standing up to his friends.

Harry chuckled, thinking of training wheels on bicycles that Muggle parents used – Dudley still had his on his bike, though that might only be because he hadn't ridden it in six years. "Didn't work in my case," he said, cheerful. "But we've got that sorted, and I can finally get up in the air again." He pointed upward into the sky, beaming.

James and Peter exchanged a confused look.

Harry shrugged. "I'm happy about it," he said. In fact, he was ready to get back up in the air again, where Ginny was flying loops around them, long red hair streaming out behind her like a banner. It was an invitation. "I think I'll get back up there, in fact…"

He swung his leg over the broom and shot upward once more, feeling the cold air stinging his ears and the wind on his face, in his hair, and tugging at his robes. It was among the best feelings in the world; for another hour, Harry reveled in it, until thirst drove him back downward, performing his fourth Wronski Feint in a row. This time, he flung himself into a loop at the last second, sped forward low on the ground, only slowing when he approached the stands.

There was a lone figure standing near his things. Harry was brought up short, surprised to see James standing alone, without his mates. He faltered, nearly tripping off the broom, but managed to catch himself. Hoping it looked smooth enough, he straightened, slinging his broom over his shoulder. They were nearly of a height; Harry was only an inch or so shorter.

"You're good on that broom," said James. "You've got to be a Seeker?"

"I've played it before," said Harry.

"You'll try out next year, I suppose," said James. "It's too bad we didn't have you this year; Nebbins is a mess."

"I had my broom issues to sort out," said Harry.

"What was that about?" James asked, curious. "You're clearly no novice, so…?"

A thought struck him. "My godfather likes his pranks," said Harry. "I bet he thought it was a laugh to hex our brooms and ground us until we sorted it out."

James huffed out a laugh. "I too know a Black who likes to have a laugh," he explained.

Harry remembered Sirius's story from Halloween night, when they'd all sat around trying to scare each other. "Maybe it's the fourth, untold curse from the Augury," Harry suggested. "In every generation, they'll have a mad one, one who dies, one who can see what's coming, and one who just wants a laugh, no matter the cost."

James's eyebrows flew upward, and he let out a bark of laughter. "Yeah," he said, beaming, "I'm going to have to tell Sirius that one."

Harry grinned at him. "Go ahead," he said. "It's true enough."

James shook his head; the laughter faded away. "You're different today," he said, tilting his head.

"I'm happy to be up in the air," said Harry.

"And with W—Peter," said James, eyeing him. "Have you gotten over whatever he did to bug you? Lord knows, he can annoy me, but he's a good sort."

"I don't really know him well enough," said Harry, "but he seems a decent bloke to me. He reminds me of an – an old friend, actually."

James kept eyeing him.

Harry scratched the back of his neck. Above them, Ginny whooped.

"You're staying here over Christmas," James said abruptly. "Hardly anyone stays over Christmas… there won't be many students. It'll be boring."

Boring was better than captured or dead, but Harry decided not to mention that. "I've been worse places," he said honestly. He'd rather an empty Hogwarts than the Dursleys. And besides, Ginny would be there. A small tingle of excitement – one that was growing much too familiar – went through him. There were far worse things that contemplating that.

"Well… you know, my family lives in Godric's Hollow," said James. "Lots of wizarding families live there, we've all sort of congregated on one side of the town… we've got Muggle-repelling charms, so we can all be ourselves, you know?"

Harry did not know this. A niggle of impatience to get back up in the sky with Ginny was pushed down. "That sounds interesting," he said. "Is it like Hogsmeade?"

James thought about it. "More like Diagon Alley," he said. "But we do a panto every year—"

"Wizard panto?" Harry said, mouth falling open. "A wizard pantomime?" A vivid memory from when he was five, and the Dursleys couldn't cajole Mrs. Figg into taking him on Christmas Eve, and he'd gone to watch Dudley in the local panto. He'd been a great, round angel complete with feathery white wings and a halo made of aluminum foil.

"Yeah," said James, waving his hand. "It's a family tradition… my mum, dad, and me all help out with the little magic kids… well, now that I'm older, I help. When I was younger, it was me performing. But it's always a fun time; my parents have a big party after it at their house every year. You're invited, Harry."

Harry's mouth had dropped open. "I… it's in Godric's Hollow?" Would Dumbledore even let him go? Would Sirius? "I'll have to ask…"

"And Ginny's invited, too... you both should come out to the Hollow over Christmas break, if your guardian will let you." His lips twitched, and he pointed upward, to where Ginny was now doing corkscrews on her broom. "And if you can get her off that Thunderstick… I have to say, it's nice to be seventeen and not have to worry about permission. But if you can come, remember my parents have an open house on the solstice: mulled wine, bonfire, the works."

"After the panto?" Harry asked.

"After the panto," James confirmed. "It's a short event. Blessedly short. Not a lot of parents want so many magical children in one room together. If you know what I mean." He laughed a little, shaking his head. "If you come early, I can show you the graveyard… a lot of Peverells lived in the Hollow! But if you can't make it early, just meet us."

"Where would we meet?" Harry asked.

"Oh, right, yeah, of course," said James, with a bit of a chuckle. "It's on the magical side, of course. Big building, a bit crooked. It's the town hall. It's right next door to St. Galina's Free Clinic. Honestly, you can't miss it. Other than a couple of stores, and pubs, those are the two biggest buildings in town."

"We might be able to do that," said Harry, wanting to go more than anything else. He expected that Ginny would be more interested in going to the Burrow, though did not know how they would pull that off. He had no idea what Sirius's preferences would be. But surely it would be okay if they went for an hour or two…

James looked at him another second. "All of us will be there: Sirius and Remus. Lily and Mary. And Peter." There was a subtle hesitation before his name. "Mary's still in mourning… we're hoping to go hunt about for some toads, if it isn't too freezing for them. She needs a new friend."

"It could be fun," said Harry, shuffling his feet.

"Well… send me an owl if you decide," said James.

Then he strode off down the pitch leaving Harry behind. Once he was out of sight, Harry huffed out a chuckle. Ginny would agree to go, he thought. What a strange divergence his life had taken. His thoughts strayed to Ginny, and he felt himself smile at the thought of celebrating the season with his family when he had so often celebrated with hers.

"Up," he commanded his broom. It leaped into his hand. Harry kicked off and sped straight toward the distant figure of Ginny, who was now doing gentle rolls over the lake. He followed her for a bit, waiting for her to notice him. She slowed a bit. He sped up until they were side by side. A great clump of her hair was poking out of the strap from her goggles; this, for some reason, made him smile so widely he might've worried about bugs flying into his mouth if it weren't winter.

"What's got you so happy?" Ginny shouted over the wind.

Harry motioned for them to slow down. He told her of the invitation from his father, speaking quickly, tripping over his words. "And I know you'd rather see your family, but—"

"Can't really do that at the moment," she said, grimacing. They hung there high above the lake, which glinted a flinty grey in the wan sunlight.

"Right," said Harry. "He invited you, of course."

She eyed him.

He eyed her. He could see the same doubt he felt reflected back at him.

There was, of course, the very real possibility that – for reasons of their own safety – they would not be allowed off of Hogwarts grounds. They had, after all, only been allowed one outing this entire term, and that with both Dumbledore and Sirius along. Harry did not think that either one would be willing to allow them to go, not for something so frivolous. Likely, the next time they'd be allowed out would be to infiltrate Nurmengard – if they were even allowed to do that at all.

"Fred and George have always said," said Ginny, with great dignity, "that sometimes it is easier to ask forgiveness than to ask permission."

Harry looked at her. There was a slow smile stirring in his belly. It spread outward, warming him, doing things to his body that suddenly made his broom less comfortable. Stop it, he ordered, shifting backward. "You think we shouldn't… ask?"

Ginny shrugged. "I don't think they'd let us."

"They'd think it dangerous," said Harry. "But what do you think?"

She shrugged. "There will be a lot of witches and wizards there, and I've never heard of anything happening in particular on that day in Godric's Hollow. And besides, we haven't got the Trace on us…"

"We could take care of ourselves," agreed Harry. "And we wouldn't have to stay long." He eyed her. "You wouldn't mind? Dumbledore would not want us to do this."

"I've told you I trust Dumbledore with my life," Ginny said tartly, "I never said he gets to dictate what I do with it."

Harry laughed out loud. The wind rose, snatching the sound away. "So we're doing this? We'll figure out a way to sneak out of Hogwarts for an afternoon?"

"Something tells me," said Ginny, her smile answering his, eyes alight with mischief, "that it isn't going to be too difficult."

They left it at that moment of perfect accord, both swerving at the same time, ducking into a side-by-side flight that pushed their Thundersticks hard enough that Harry's was vibrating in his hands. But there was no threat of it exploding into small pieces; Ginny had fixed that. She was brilliant that way, Ginny was. A chance glance out of the corner of his eye showed her bent over her broom, hair streaming behind her, face blazing with determination.

Harry dropped and then did a barrel roll up and over her while she squealed.

Here, in the air, was freedom. His burdens had dropped away, and all there was now was the excitement of the flight and the upcoming promise of being with his parents for Christmas – or at least a day very near Christmas - for the first time in his memory…

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Author's Note: Well, there's this arc done. Hope you enjoyed! Thanks go to Bum and Willow, who helped with these chapters, despite their very busy lives. You are very appreciated!