Sleep is Death Being Shy

Harry awoke to a scream of anguish. Sheer, heaving agony, of which rumbled ominously in the darkness of his thoughts. There was fierce hatred and olden desire - all of it rushing through him at once, making it impossible to grasp any of it. Numbly, as if perceiving it through the scope of another world, he realized that the screams belonged to him. All of it belonged to him.

Somehow, even knowing it was him screaming – not knowing why he was screaming or why it hurt or why anything! – Harry couldn't bring himself to stop. There was no pain… only the lingering hint that he'd just walked through the fires of hell… only the lingering hint that there should have been a world of pain.

I am still there

Always and forever. Burning. Forgotten. Remembered. Awash in memories that ran in the eternity of a creature beyond death itself.

No pain was present, yet he felt anguish he'd never known before, anguish that shouldn't be…

Someone – Ron, Harry thought and held the thought of him in his hearts of heart, wherein something resembling courage arose – hit him hard on the side of his face, and Harry turned blind eyes and screamed at him. Only the screams had died on the edge of his lips, and his face was caught in the soundless horrors of nothingness.

No sound escaped. His sightless eyes found no light. Harry felt as though he could hardly breathe – as though someone – or something – had put a stopper on his throat.

And that was not all, he realized – somewhere

It was as if he was walking inside a thought that walked inside him, aside his own thoughts… Harry could be it, but he couldn't conceptualize it in any real meaning. On the verge of consciousness, at his lowest possible point, monsters on all sides beset him.

He couldn't trace it back to him. He couldn't think it through all the way – from beginning to end. In fact, Harry couldn't think the thought at all. It just resided in him, like a growing infant in the womb of a mother. It was in him, but it wasn't me…

Harry was it, but it wasn't Harry…

No. That wasn't right. What the hell?

It spread like a disease. Harry couldn't see the sky – it had turned crimson like a vast ocean of blood. He couldn't touch a thought other than the one – and that one he couldn't touch at all.

It filled him; and hid everything else in darkness never-ending.

Horcrux

Horcrux!

He's still a Horcrux!

It doesn't matter – best we can do… he will succeed. He must. He must. He's… the last of us.

What the hell is a Horcrux, wondered Harry, but the thought smouldered at the coast of an infernal sea of green fire. Of fury and rage and ice and eternity – of the beginning and end of all creation.

Of destiny itself – where things begin and thing die – and begin again…

He was beyond madness, beyond mere fury, beyond simple fear… this was a hatred of a divine. This was of an otherworldly creature of which he'd become caught within.

Of which destiny's paths broke unto.

And there was agony in its hatred. His hatred. Their hatred.

Let it burn, Harry thought – let it run its course… but, please… let it have an end.

The best at hatred, boy, are those who preach loveBeware the preachers, Harry Potter. They are afraid of what you may know–

Please… Let it end…

There was a choir of screams – this time not merely his own – and he yanked himself free of the thought. Horcrux! Yanked himself out of the void and into existence again. You are a – HORCRUX! Into Hogwarts and into Ron's arms.

"Harry… please…"

"Mr Weasley! You shouldn't be on your feet. Your spine isn't healed yet."

It was Ron, breathing his name as if to check if it was truly Harry. He sounded… scared?

Of me?

Why?

And who did the other voice belong to?

Harry tried to speak, felt a bile of illness rise within, and turned sideways and spilled his guts all over the pristine, white floor of a room he'd never before seen in his life. His sight, though still limited, almost like an opaque curtain flowed in front of him, found the walls shaking and the stones almost crumbling. And it wavered in and out of focus as his eyes gained a sort of – if only for the briefest of moments – watery focus of the world.

"Fuck!" screamed Ron, terror evident in his voice.

"Language, Mr Weasley!" That sounded almost compulsory. Like it was brought on merely by reflex.

"Merlin's balls, then!"

"Mr Weasley!"

"That's blood, woman! And magic!" snarled Ron. "Stop scolding me and help him!"

"I would if I knew what was wrong with him!"

"You're a healer, aren't you? Heal!"

Harry slipped out of consciousness again, and the thought – the thought he couldn't quite touch, the thought that resided within but belonged to another man – creature Horcrux! – slipped away from his mind as if he was grasping at smoke.

Everything slipped away – into the darkness of the void… beyond the veil.

Sleep is merely Death being shy.

Dreams, thus, must be the words of Death.

And there was… a boy – a something – beyond the veil.

And the creature was screaming.


When Harry came to later, there was light in his eyes, sun bathing them all with its grace as thick ropes of it shone through the windows in the rows above his bed.

Shaking his head slowly, tenderly, expecting to be wrought with old agony, of which was the only thing that lingered in memory, he found to his surprise none forthcoming. Somehow, his body wasn't crawling and mending all over the place. Somehow, everything seemed all right.

Nothing hurt. As if nothing had ever been amiss.

And yet… Ron.

Harry blinked his eyes open completely against the intrusion of light, and beheld Ron at the bed beside him with blurry, glass-less vision. Harry couldn't see if his chest was rising or not, but knew that it must, for his snores seemed so great that they could topple Hogwarts itself.

Harry exhaled a great sigh of relief, closed his eyes, and fell back onto the bed – truly at ease and too tired to care where he'd ended up or how. Greatest relief he'd ever felt. He was alive! They were alive. He'd thought…

"Curious thing, friendship. Wondrous, even."

Harry blinked, jolted out of his mind, turned his head, eyes wide open, and found the ancient, jovial face of their esteemed Headmaster, Professor Dumbledore – knobby, slightly askew nose that bore all the signs of having been broken more than once and brightly coloured robes. Everything Harry had come to associate with wizardry and magic personified.

"Good morning, Harry," said the Professor kindly, concern touching his eyes. "How do you feel?"

"O-ah…" His voice died mid-word, throat dry as if it hadn't seen water in days. It could very well be the case. He looked at the bedside table, found and grabbed his wand and swished it, summoning a glass. Grasping it mid-air, he tapped it with the tip of his wand, and smiled as a gentle stream of water flowed from the tip into the water.

"Oh!" True joy touched the old man's eyes, filled his voice. "Very impressive, my boy. How very wonderful."

Gulping it down, Harry answered the old man's question, "Okay. I'm okay, Professor." As awareness came to him slowly, so too did the nervousness that seemed to follow him whenever he was in the presence of Dumbledore.

"I can alleviate your concerns for young Mr Weasley here," Dumbledore said after the silence had stretched for a moment, as he came to stand in-between Ron and Harry. "Madam Pomfrey has already mended his bones, as she did yours, and he's merely sleeping off last night's hardships. He should awake in a few hours."

"Professor," said Harry, as memories began to coalesce. "There was a man – on the grounds – there was a man. He attacked us. He was wearing dark robes and he–"

"I know."

"He was saying all sorts of strange things and"

"I know."

"And he – you know? How? I thought it was Voldemort, but now I'm not so sure. You see, he – he really couldn't have been – could he? No. I mean–"

"Harry." Dumbledore held up his hands. Harry paused. Dumbledore looked… worried. Harry had never seen Dumbledore look anything but benign. However, truth be told, he'd had rather limited experience with the old Professor. "What made you think that Lord Voldemort had returned in the first place?"

Harry considered the old man before him for a moment, but it didn't take long for him to come to the conclusion that, of course, Dumbledore could be trusted. If not him, then who? Harry remembered a conversation a couple of months ago between Ron and him. He had implored Harry to tell someone about their grievances. Harry had answered that there was no one who'd listen, but maybe this man would – this old, great man…

"Professor, Ron and I – we know that you're hiding something on the third-floor." If he was surprised by Harry's statement, he didn't show any sign of it; his face never shifted. "We think that Voldemort might be after it – I know Voldemort is after it. But that man last night, he wasn't"

"One thing at a time, Harry – please." He smiled cheerfully, and somehow that set Harry at ease immediately. "You know Voldemort is after it? I must admit, Harry, I have so many questions. First, tell me – why do you think I have something hidden in the castle?"

Harry looked at him incredulously, as though Dumbledore had confessed a particular nasty secret.

"Err – we thought it pretty obvious, sir."

"Why Harry? I believe and I'm guessing here, yet I believe I'm right – that you and Mr Weasley have done quite a bit of… leg work, I dare say. Why is it obvious?"

"Hagrid," Harry said at once, feeling a little bad about it the moment his name left his mouth, but somehow he was sure Dumbledore wouldn't punish Hagrid for whatever mistakes the big man had made. "He – you know he took me to Diagon Alley."

Dumbledore nodded. "I asked him to. Really, he asked me. He had a – rather vested interest, you might say."

Harry nodded. Hagrid had told him as much. "Well, in Gringotts he – he collected an item for you. I never got a good look at it; it was quite small, but Hagrid refused to tell me what it was. Maybe he didn't know – I assume he didn't."

"And you believe that this item – of which you never got a good look at – is being held on the third-floor?"

Harry frowned; Dumbledore made it sound so flimsy. "Yes."

Dumbledore, smiling broadly, took out his wand – Harry felt a beat of his heart still, then it resumed a second later – from his robes and gave it a small flick, conjuring a rather squishy, comfortable-looking armchair. Sitting down and pocketing his wand, he turned his gaze back to Harry, earnest interest gleaming in his old kind eyes.

"This, Harry, seems a bit of a reach." There was a twinkle of mischief and old but eager interest in his eye as he leaned closer to Harry. "Surely, there must be more."

"There is." Harry nodded, and he was a tad embarrassed by how quickly he nodded. There was a sort of need in him to prove his theory, to prove himself to Dumbledore, to appear smart and capable – and above all right. "That same day, there was a break in at Gringotts. Someone had tried to steal something – from the same vault Hagrid and I visited. Breaking into Gringotts… it's dangerous."

"Breaking into Gringotts equals death for but the most skilled of wizards, Harry. Not an endeavour, I think, one undertakes lightly." Dumbledore nodded, tone of voice somewhat severe but encouraging. "Whoever did that is very capable… and very motivated. As you no doubt already guessed."

"Yes, which means whatever it is Hagrid picked up, it was worth the risk of going into Gringotts. So… it must either be something valuable or something powerful – or both."

"Impressive, Harry. Truly. You're, of course, correct. I am protecting something – for an old friend of mine. It is a complete secret, only known to a few." He leaned forward, looking at Harry with a furrowed brow over his half-moon glasses. "I'd like to keep it that way. I ask that you do not share this freely – however exciting all this must be." Harry nodded quickly and Dumbledore, seemingly satisfied, continued his inquires, "What makes you believe it to be the workings of Lord Voldemort, though? I've had a rather difficult time convincing the world that he is not yet passed, that he still walks amongst us… that he's still clawing for his way back… into the light. But you, Harry, you seem to have accepted this on your own accord."

It wasn't really a question, but Harry still felt compelled to answer. He hesitated for a moment, though, wondering. Should I?

YES! Harry was tired of going alone with these thoughts. So very, very tired – and scared. Scared out of his mind. Thoughts not his own had been mounting, growing in these past months. There were times where Harry was… unsure where his thoughts ended and where…

He needed to let go – at least a little.

"My scar, it – sometimes it hurts, professor." Harry touched his hand to it, as if to make sure it was still there. "Before I found out the truth that I was special." Something indiscernible, like a shadow, flashed across Dumbledore's features, but they were gone a moment later. Gone so fast that it made Harry question if it was even really there. "Before I found that I was a wizard," Harry continued, "I almost never felt it. It barely ever pained me in any manner. Only whenever a small memory… a fragment… And now… now it happens all the time. And sometimes I see things too. Feel things. Things I don't understand, sir."

"What things, Harry?" whispered Dumbledore, light blue eyes narrowed in thought. Or worry – Harry honestly couldn't tell. The man was impossible to read.

"Feelings mostly, sir. Feelings I… don't – they're not my own. And magic, at times. Sometimes it's as if I know things – things I've never heard of before. Is that normal for wizards?" Harry asked, hurriedly. He didn't think it was, but how was he to truly know? He hadn't even been part of this world for half a year. He hadn't dared asking Ron if this was something he, too, experienced.

"No," Dumbledore said, his eyes never leaving him – something in his gaze made Harry shiver. "That's not normal. Not normal at all."

The way he looked at Harry, the way he answered. It made Harry very glad he hadn't brought it up with Ron.

"I think it's connected to Voldemort, sir," Harry said, at last voicing his greatest fear, finding himself unable to stop now that he'd started talking about it. "He's the one that makes me feel this pain. His mind is the one that I see. My instinct… is his knowledge. I do things at times – magic. Magic I've never heard or read comes to me. Sometimes…"

"Harry…" Dumbledore said, almost breathed, and to Harry's utter shock he found the Professor's eyes almost watery. Quickly, as if pained, Harry looked down to his hands in his lap. "I promise you… as you grow older, we'll make sense of this. All of my considerable resources shall be made available to you. In due time, I'll guide you – when you're older… and ready. Together. I promise."

"Thank you, sir," Harry whispered after a moment's silence, looking into his eyes again. There was something there still, beyond – words unspoken. Harry got the sense he knew more than he was letting on. He decided for now not to dwell on it. "Professor," Harry said instead, "the man that attacked Ron and I wasn't Voldemort. I'm sure of that."

"I know."

Harry furrowed his brow. How did he know that? "Who is he, then?"

"That… I fear I do not know. What troubles me is that he left behind no evidence of his presence, no sign of magic – as if he wasn't there – as if he'd never been… But, alas, I've kept you for far too long already." He stood and looked down at Harry, smiling – it didn't quite touch his eyes. Only worry or something resembling it touched those ancient blue eyes. "Age is foolish and forgetful when it underestimates youth, Harry, but I must ask you to let this be – I fear there exists mysteries in this world where only time can reveal the answers."

He turned and walked to the door, but stopped momentarily, half-turning to Harry again with his hand on the doorframe. He was smiling, looking at Ron, and this time it did touch his eyes. They almost seemed to twinkle with – happiness? As if a fond memory suddenly found his mind.

"Curious thing, friendship. Wondrous, even," he repeated, looking between Ron and Harry. "There's magic in that far greater than anything that has ever been taught in these halls. Get well, Harry – stay safe, please. And tell Mr Weasley that… his parents would be proud to learn how he stood up for a friend."

And with that he exited the room, humming a merry little tune all to himself. Harry shook my head, smiling to myself.

"Crazy old man!" He laughed.

Laughed and laughed and laid back in bed, waiting for Ron to wake so they could get out of here.

He took a look around the room, reckoning that he must be in the Hospital Wing. There were twin rows of beds after beds, placed along the walls beneath the lines of windows above them from which the sun punctured through, touching every nook and corner. All beds were draped in white sheets, and privacy screens stood by every one of them, though none seemed to be in use at the moment. The floor, marble and white as pure snow, was impeccably taken cared of. The walls – Harry paused, something jolting along the edges of his memory – it swaggered off as he tried to grasp at it. The walls were of light brown stones and seemed entirely unblemished by time – and yet…

Something told him it really ought to have been touched by something. Someone.

Ron awoke a couple of hours later, and quickly started spewing nonsense about crazy nocturnal behaviour on Harry's account.

"I'm telling you, Harry, you were screaming! And throwing up blood! Your magic…" He fell silent for a moment, skin pale and eyes wide, going over the memory. "At least, I think it was your magic – Merlin, it was powerful! It was going crazy, and Madam Pomfrey didn't know what to do with you at all. She almost didn't even dare go near you!"

Harry raised an eyebrow – what was he on about? "Sure you were not dreaming? I can't remember any of this."

"Ask Madam Pomfrey, then, if you don't believe me. C'mon! Go on! You were mumbling and screaming on and on about the same thing! And the walls were cracking!"

Weird, Harry thought, looking at Ron. There was no trace of deception on his face. So why, he wondered, couldn't he recollect any such events? It did, however, explain his fascination with the walls.

"The same thing?" Harry asked. "What was it?"

"What?"

"You said I kept mumbling about the same thing?"

"Oh – something."

"Very helpful, Ron."

"I don't know what it was, okay? I'd never heard of it before – and you barely made sense to begin with! What with all the puking and"

"Well, what did it sound like?"

Ron shrugged his shoulders, pulled a face, and shook his head – as if to exaggerate just how confusing Harry had been. "I don't know – horses or something alike."

Harry closed his eyes, breathed a sigh of mild exasperation. "Horses?"

"Yeah, but not horses, obviously," he said, voicing it like Harry was being particularly slow. "Just… something sounding like… horses."

Harry looked at him as if his skin was turning green before his eyes. "Well, I suppose that does narrow it down somewhat. You sure it wasn't a basilisk I was dreaming of? That'd be cool. Awesome." He'd just read about them, after overhearing Malfoy and Goyle talk about them in the common room one evening.

"Harry, don't be stupid. Everyone knows that the basilisks died out a long time ago."

"So you tell me, but it could still totally be alive; you know, in hiding somewhere in the wizarding world."

"Yeah, I suppose." Ron looked thoughtful for a moment. "Fred and George say the Forbidden Forest is filled with all manner of dark creatures. I suppose basilisks could live there."

He shivered for a moment, and seemed frighten by the mere prospect of it.

"We ought to investigate one day," Harry said, laying back in bed and staring up at the ceiling, though he kept a close look at Ron in his peripheral vision. "The Forbidden Forest, I mean."

"Harry," Ron said slowly. "I don't want to meet a basilisk. Ever."

"Why not?"

"I mean, I suppose it has some merit. For one, I'd no longer be in Slytherin – cause it will kill me upon sight!"

"No – forget about the snake. I meant we ought to investigate the Forest," Harry said, laughter colouring his tone of voice. "See it for ourselves, you know. Like your brothers."

"I don't think that's a good idea. We can barely get around the castle as it is – we really need to do something about that – and I think even Fred and George keep away from it most of the time."

Harry smiled. "I don't mean now – in the future. When we're better, more capable wizards – oh! Speaking of which, Dumbledore was here while you slept."

"He was?" Ron peaked up, always readily impressed by the old Professor. "What did he want?"

Harry told Ron of his conversation with Dumbledore, leaving nothing out. "He basically confirmed our suspicions, Ron." He paused, twirling his wand, golden and red sparks trailing the tip. "All of them. There is something here. It is being guarded. And Voldemort wants it – whatever it is."

"And Dumbledore didn't think the man that attacked us last night was You-Know-Who?" Ron asked, eyes narrowed in thought, tapping his wand to his chin. "Then who was it?"

"He…" Harry blinked, drawing letters in the air with the sparks, then whisked them away with a twitch. "He said he didn't know. He left behind no trace of his presence. I got the sense that Dumbledore can detect magic just by feel. Have you ever heard of that?"

"No. But it wouldn't surprise me if Dumbledore does things a little different than the rest of us."

"Yeah." Harry nodded, already curious just how much Dumbledore saw that the rest of them didn't. "But still, Ron, he – Dumbledore, that is – he knew things about last night. About the man in black."

"What things?"

"That's the thing," Harry said, frowning with growing suspicion as he thought it through. "He knew all that I knew. He knew of all that had happened – all he had said and all he had done – didn't ask any questions about it, because he didn't need to. He knew what the man had looked like, he seemed to know exactly what had been said… as if…"

"As if he was there," Ron said, and now it was his turn to throw himself back in bed, contemplating the ceiling. "But why would he be there – in the middle of the night no less?"

"Taking a stroll perhaps? Ever dance with the devil in the pale moonlight?"

"What?"

"Er – I just like the sound of it." Harry laughed, recollecting the movie – it had been one of the few he'd managed to see without being caught by the Dursley's, sneaking out in the middle of the night for a bite to eat, when hunger became so great sleep was impossible. "Muggle film, Ron."

"What's a muggle film?"

"Forget it." Harry rolled his eyes. Wizards. "Explain later."

"Okay – why… never mind. Why would he be taking a stroll in the middle of the night – don't, Harry! It wasn't for the pale moonlight – it wasn't that nice out."

"I don't know, Ron. At least he didn't mention anything about breaking curfew."

But why, indeed?

A couple of minutes later, as conversation slowly ebbed out into a somewhat uneasy silence between friends who knew they had matters to discuss, Madam Pomfrey stepped out to see her patients. And within minutes, they were declared good to go after a small check up. Harry found her silent display of magic, wand hovering above different points of their bodies, quite fascinating, but now was not the time for such pursuits.

As they set to leave, Harry turned in the door much like Dumbledore before, realizing something. He let his eyes travel back to the bustling figure of Pomfrey, who'd already busied herself with some potions at her workstation. He felt Ron, eyes quizzical and on him, come to a halt behind him.

"Madam Pomfrey," Harry said, polite as can be. She turned to him with curious eyes, smiling in a way that told him she'd like very much to be left alone now. Harry persevered. "If you don't mind me asking, who brought us in last night?"

"Why, the Headmaster no less! He came in all wet with you two floating before him." She shook her head, her face a mask of half frustration, half admiration. "There's really nothing that escapes that man's attention, is there?"

Harry smiled, and it was entirely faked, never so much as reaching his eyes – never even contemplating it. "No," Harry said, turning, turning, turning – thoughts spinning away. He gazed at Ron and he, too, seemed confounded. "It would seem not."

They found the corridors empty, except for Madam Pomfrey's voice, which echoed behind them, telling them that there was still time to make it to class.

Ron and Harry shared a look as they walked through the empty hallway, trotting towards the dungeons as if they were of an equal mind. They had no intention of going to class now, no intention of talking, for talking was loud – and could be heard by even the dullest of senses in a vast, reverberant place like Hogwarts.

Ron whispered the password to the Slytherin entrance and – with the greatest of haste – they hurried to their dormitory for the much needed privacy.

"Okay," Ron said, voice whisper-thin as Harry closed the door behind him, silently thanking Merlin that the common room had been empty. "What the hell is going on?"

"I don't know. I really don't." Harry sat down on the floor, leaning against the foot of his bed as Ron did the same before him, by his own bed. "Something is clearly wrong, though. Agreed?"

"Agreed. Definitely. What was Dumbledore doing outside at that hour? Watching us? Did he know about Norbert?"

"I don't know!" Harry said, frustrated. They needed answers. Maybe it was the adolescent part of his mind, of which is to say most of it, but he was beginning to question his entire conversation with Dumbledore, rewinding it through his head – thoughts of clandestine conspiracies and madness running amok. Going over clues as to where he might have slipped and revealed… something worth of note.

There was nothing – at least, there was nothing Harry could comprehend, could see. All that was clear was that it was something of a coincidence that the old Headmaster would happen to be at the exact spot when they needed him the most.

"What did Dumbledore say – specifically?" asked Ron, clearly running along the same thoughts as Harry.

"Not much. He let me do the talking. But… he – he seemed genuinely concerned for us – even a little proud. I got no sense of hostility from him."

"He's hiding something, Harry – protecting it and using the school to do it. That's beyond hostility in my book."

"Okay. Okay… let's – let's break it down." Harry stood up, went to the single window by his bed, and looked out into the lake, thinking, thinking, thinking… "Why would Dumbledore hide something here? And what could it possibly be that it would attract the attention of someone like Voldemort."

"Don't forget about the man in black," said Ron, coming to stand beside Harry, leaning with his back to the window. "What's his part in all this? Pawn? Or another king?"

"Definitely another king, if you ask me."

"I was." Ron, half-laughing, furrowed his brow in thought. "Look – one thing at a time. Why or what?"

"Why," Harry answered, feeling they were most likely to get something of an answer with that. The what of it was simply too vast to decipher without more information.

"Why it is, then." Ron went silent for a moment, though Harry could tell that he was just piecing things together in his mind before he spoke, and thus Harry waited.

"He's the greatest wizard of our time, yeah?" asked Ron, though Harry sensed it was entirely rhetorical. "If it's something dangerous – and we can assume it is – then it makes sense that Dumbledore would be the one to protect it."

"With you so far."

"And if you'd ask Dumbledore to protect it, then we can assume it is something dangerous."

"Agreed."

"And it can kinda make sense that it can only be at the school he can protect it, because that's the only place he himself can keep an eye out on it – plus Hogwarts itself is like… crazy protected."

"Maybe." Harry wasn't completely sold on that. "He's risking endangering the lives of every student here, though. And he knows it. Would he willingly do that? And if yes – why?"

"Maybe…" Ron paused, thinking, thinking, thinking 'till it hurt. "Whatever it is he's guarding – maybe it's something so dangerous, so powerful that Dumbledore thinks it's worth the risk just to keep it out of You-Know-Who's hands."

"Maybe… I mean – it's certainly possible. I can't think of a better theory. What can it be, though?"

"I don't know, Harry."

"Surely you must have some ideas."

Ron frowned, a wry smile playing on his lips. "Why?"

"I don't know – don't you people have… legends or something? Stories. Artefacts with great, terrible powers?"

"Stories? You want to learn about fairy tales in order to learn what Dumbledore has hidden from You-Know-Who? How should that help? We have thousands of those!"

"Yes! No… maybe. I don't know!" Harry said, voice raised in frustration. There was a sort of irrational excitement growing inside, a whiff of destiny perchance glowing in the distance – only illuminated by his will alone. "Don't you see – things are already spiralling out of Professor Dumbledore's control! He didn't know who the man in black was… Maybe – maybe it was even himself!"

"No, Harry – it wasn't. It really wasn't." Ron shook his head, looking almost angry by the mere speculation. "I agree that it was weird that he was there – even suspicious – but we should be happy he was. He saved us."

"How do you know that?"

"Because he's the greatest wizard of our time. He was the only one that gave us hope during the war with You-Know-Who."

That was new. Ron, not really knowing a whole lot about it, never spoke much about the war with Voldemort.

"Did they ever fight each other during the war? Dumbledore and Voldemort, I mean."

"You mean duel?" asked Ron, his gaze travelling back to Harry. "I don't think so, no – not anything I've ever heard of."

"Isn't that a little strange? The two greatest wizard of opposite sides in a war spanning – what, a decade? – never meeting in battle?"

Ron shrugged. "People said he feared him. That he avoided a confrontation with him at all cost." Harry wasn't sure which of them had been afraid of the other, but found no time to voice his confusion, for Ron rounded on him, accusation touching his rather fierce blue eyes. "And I can't see the point – Dumbledore is barmy, but he's not evil – and if he was, he'd be much too smart to be caught by the likes of you and me."

Point to Ron. Harry, begrudgingly, conceded.

"And if he wanted the thing for himself, he'd just take it, wouldn't he?" Harry sighed, tracing the tendril of paranoia within and trying to exist above it. "And it makes no sense for him to smash us to pieces as the man in black and then save us afterwards, does it?"

"No. It definitely doesn't, Harry."

"So the man in black is someone Dumbledore doesn't know – or anticipated!" Harry's eyes widened, excitement renewed. It was all a grand rush. "But he did anticipate Voldemort. He was surprised that I knew of it, but not surprised by the fact itself. He said – what was it? That he'd been trying to convince people for years that Voldemort was still alive."

"What-"

"This is it, Ron! This is the way he can convince them – with undeniable prove of his existence. Can't you see it? Can't you see it!"

"You mean – he's baiting him?"

"Yes – he must be. He must have let it slip somehow that he was in possession of… whatever it is. He must have been subtle about it, too." Excitement gleamed so bright from his eyes, it made Ron take a step away from him. "Ron, we have to learn what it is!"

"Harry – but why? What exactly can we do? And why should we do anything? We're First-year students. How can we possibly be of any help?"

He had a fair point, but Harry was beyond the powers of fair points.

"Probably nothing," he answered truthfully. "But I still want to know what's going on around us – don't you? Even if we can do nothing, we can still at least know. Know as much as possible. Plus we were attacked last night. Attacked! Don't you wanna know why?"

"Okay," Ron said, though he looked none too please. "But how?"

Harry smiled, flopping down in bed, reaching for his wand and notes of spells, readying to practice some of them. "We'll have to pay Hagrid another visit."


But as it turned out, paying Hagrid another visit was more difficult than he'd expected. Classes had started to pick up somewhere towards the start of December. Christmas was coming, and Ron and Harry had missed a bunch of classes over the year already that they had to make up for before the holidays.

Many evenings were spent in detention. Many nights spent on boring, long-winded essays that neither Harry nor Ron found any pleasure in.

The rumours of their trip to the Hospital Wing had found the ears of every student in Hogwarts, too. Though Dumbledore had told nothing of the night, their year mates – finding them missing in the morning – had found them sleeping in the Hospital Wing. And from there… things turned to rather wondrous stories of the imagination.

Though none even so much as touched a note of truth. For, as it often is, the truth was so much madder than anything an adolescent mind could come up with.

Most days Harry replayed that night, replayed what the man in black had said – what he had whispered in relish to his ear.

Beware, child, for the gateway straight down to hell opens on the day of Christmas. And the devil will be seeking you.

Harry had told neither Ron nor Dumbledore about this. Why he wasn't entirely sure. Ron had been nothing but loyal to him – in a way he deserved to be told, for it would most likely touch him to.

He will be there, Harry often thought, looking at him as they sat in silence and studied. Sometimes he felt as if a weight was placed on his chest as he contemplated it, constricting his breath – never had he had a friend before and then the first one he happened upon would willingly give his life for him. The thought alone was almost too much to bear. Such was his gratitude.

Why Harry hadn't told Dumbledore was more easily explained, though to an outsider looking in, it might not make too much sense.

It was all because a lack of trust. He couldn't shake the felling that there was something vital that Dumbledore knew – something he knew that Harry ought to know, as well.

A fortnight passed by before another chance to visit Hagrid happened. McGonagall had called in sick the day before – so class was cancelled, leaving them with a hole in a tight schedule.

"Daphne said she'd heard talks from some of the older students that Dumbledore might be taking over until McGonagall recovers," said Ron, glancing hesitantly at Harry as they trod across the grounds towards Hagrid's hut at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Snow lay in a heavy sheet on the grounds, making the journey rather more arduous than usual. Somehow, Ron had gotten it in his head that Dumbledore was a sore subject between them.

Though they both agreed upon that he was hiding something, Ron believed he did it for their own good, whereas Harry, probably in a fit of adolescent arrogance, still held onto the notion that he was involved in something shady.

"Really?" Harry said, not having to feint the enthusiasm. "That'd be awesome."

"Yeah. I thought so, too. But apparently he was needed in the Ministry today – or so Fred told me. Their period was cancelled."

Harry blinked. "He's not at Hogwarts?"

"No – I think he spends a great deal of time at the Ministry – what, with Fudge being the useless twat he is."

"Fudge?"

"Dad's boss. Minister for Magic, Harry – sometimes it shocks me what you know. And sometimes it shock me what you don't know. Dad says Fudge is always worried that Dumbledore will take his office, yet he keeps asking for advice."

"I have a hard time seeing Dumbledore anywhere but Hogwarts." Harry laughed, but it was true – the man seemed to belong to the castle. There was no Hogwarts without him – and Hagrid, Harry thought as they stepped up to his front door, shaking their legs to clear off the snow. There was no Hogwarts without those two.

Ron knocked on the door. No one answered. Frowning between them, he knocked again, and still no one answered. Listening intently, ear almost pressed to the door, Harry heard no sound from inside the hut – everything almost eerily quiet.

"Hagrid!" Harry called, looking in through the window – the flimsy curtains, though not opaque entirely, hid most of his hut in feeble shadows. "You there? Hagrid! I can't see him, Ron."

"Go back?" asked Ron, voice rather hopeful.

"No." Harry cast a glance around and lowered his voice. "Let's go see Norbert – see if he's there."

"Why did I know you were gonna say something like that."

But as they approached the caverns, where they'd hid Norbert about two weeks ago, Hagrid, fierce fright in his big, round eyes, came running to meet them.

"NORBERT!" he screamed, as if he was trying to alert the whole castle. "Norbert's gone! Someone 'ave taken him!"

Ron and Harry, standing in a small clearing wherein a measure of sunlight shone through in thick, dusty pillars of light, found each other's eyes. Reading the dread in them, mirrored like two souls bound in unfolding tragedy, they turned back to Hagrid as he came to them. Panting like a wild dog, he bent over as he came to stand with them in the column of light.

Ron was the first to find his voice.

"Taken? How? The enchantment – wasn't it supposed to protect against something like this?"

"YES!" Hagrid shouted, snarling roughly. He looked beyond mad, as though becoming the sort of beast Malfoy and his group thought him to be before their eyes. "HOW'S THIS POSSIBLE! YEH DONE SOMETHIN'!"

He looked at Harry, and there was a great compulsion lurching through him to take a step back. His accusation was clear. He thought Harry capable of something akin to treachery, which hurt more than Harry cared to admit – even to himself.

"Hagrid, I swear Ron and I have done nothing but trying to help you–"

But Hagrid wasn't listening anymore. His eyes, filled with horrors and awry ideas, were looking through them – as he kept mumbling to himself, "Shouldn'ta trusted 'em. I shouldn'ta trusted 'em. Slytherin! They – yeh Slytherin to the bone!"

Harry shivered as he noted the level of boiling malice that filled Hagrid's voice, and a thought occurred to him in that instant. Was this how every Slytherin were treated by others? Blind mistrust. Was that level of suspicion really warranted?

He shelved the internal question for later introspection – now was not the time for silent contemplations.

"Hagrid – listen to me! Please…" He, it seemed, noted the note of plea not just in Harry's words, but in the very tone of voice he used. Because he lost the murderous edge in his eyes, the dark, wild shadow that had cast its claws into his very desperate soul. "We didn't do anything. You have my word."

"Yeh word?" Hagrid said. "The word of a Slytherin!"

If tone of voice could manifest in curses, then the way he'd said Slytherin would surely result in death itself.

"Enough!" said Ron suddenly – so suddenly it made Harry jump – equal measures of aghast and anger, if his face was anything to go by. Pale as pearls, all blood drained as fierce fury had arisen within. "Hagrid! Harry's trying to help you – he's been nothing but helpful towards you, and… err, and he will help you again. We both will – but you must let us. Listen to him!"

There was a tense moment of silence, filled with the sound of Hagrid's raggedy, heavy breathing – of which within there could be felt a fury so heavy it could only be wrought by desperation.

"All right." He guarded his countenance – with herculean effort, it seemed – into something that resembled neutral features, which almost broke asunder immediately. "All right. Sorry. I, err – was mad at yeh… scared… what if… what if they – hurt 'im!" he said, almost howled, great tears gathering at the edges of his watery eyes. Somehow, Harry felt, it didn't look as graceful and endearing as when Dumbledore had shed tears a fortnight ago.

He's shown his hand, Harry thought bitterly. He had shown his face. How he really felt. Burrowed beneath the reflexed pleasantries, there was a great mistrust – maybe he even harboured a silent dislike for them.

For what they now were.

For what, Harry realized, they weren't.

Not Gryffindors. Slytherins.

Not for the first time, Harry swore against the will of the Sorting Hat. Hated it. In some moments, wherein he was alone and his thoughts wandered as thoughts are wont to do upon lonely moments, he wished a great deal of harm upon it – in some fantasies, vile fantasies, it was by his hand, as well.

But, he would then often think, if this was his destiny, then he must accept it. Face it. He could wonder how strange it all was. Why an artefact sorted children at all? And why were they sorted so early, when they'd barely had a chance to develop into the kind of person they were, and – more importantly, Harry felt – could become.

Was it a great seer, as well? Was it capable of seeing your choices at every turn of life? Or was it just as the rest of us, guessing because it was put in a position where it was forced to do so?

Harry didn't know, and it didn't matter. Either way, he was a Slytherin… either way… he'd have to live with the uncertain, appraising eyes that even most teachers favoured him with. And, in a very few students, he saw fear, too – fear that swelled and raved with misconceptions and acid history.

For there had been a war. And Slytherin had been on the wrong side. More than once, it seemed. There was no running from that fact. And he could even understand, seeing the Slytherins around him, where the fear and outright dislike came from.

But it sorted him in Slytherin, too, Harry thought. And Ron – the best boy he'd ever known. How could Slytherin represent everything bad and still harbour a pure, albeit flawed, soul like Ron Weasley?

Harry looked at Hagrid, and felt the hurt in his heart, not knowing if it was wrought by the Hat, or if Hagrid alone should shoulder the burden of blame for it.

But one thing he knew – Ron was wrong, for he was, at heart, a better soul than Harry. Had assumed too much of him. He wasn't planning on helping Hagrid for Hagrid's sake. He had shown how he really felt, how fickle his loyalty really was. For all Harry cared he could burn in the flames of his own doing.

He'd help him for his own sake. For Ron's sake. Because if word got out that Hagrid had housed a dragon for over a month, had stored it in one of the caves and sealed it away with magic. Questions would arise.

And Hagrid, even if he didn't want to, would break.

And Ron and Harry would have their wands snapped.

That could not happen.

"Hagrid, I can only see two possibilities," Harry said at last, voice barely louder than a murmur. "But first, you need to tell me everything about how you acquired Norbert."


End of chapter

Author's note: This chapter definitely came the long way around. Life's been hectic these last couple of years and sucked away my attention and desire to write for a time almost completely. It has changed, however, in the last couple of months. I've plans for this story, plans that began all the way back when I first started this story. The next chapter is already half written, and the outline for the next few years of Harry's and Ron's adventure has been laid out.

I hope there still exist some interest for this story and this fandom in general.

Thank you for your attention if you're still reading. You're awesome and I hope you leave behind a thought before you go.

Good day.