Before the story: Thank you for all the reviews and all the lovely words. I've had a hard time actually stopping myself from reading a few of them again and again, so thank you for that.

Again, I have a few comments before the chapter. It was never my intention to make it seem like everyone blamed Ollivander for the actions of a murderer. Rather it was meant to be a loud minority. But looking back I can see why people got that impression, when I almost only have Harry defend him.

About the Weeping Angel thing. I actually used them and another monster from Doctor Who as an inspiration to the Ore Umbras, and I tried, of course, to add my own little spin to it.

And to the Guest. Ha. Well, this chapter speed things along a little. I try not to make things drag on unnecessarily, but it'll probably be a good ways out before this story ends. And the fun's in the journey, eh?

Again, to a lot of you, thank you – some of your words made me very happy.

Seems right. On we go.


The Boy Beyond the Veil

The night was clear and the wind was quiet and warm, welcoming in its embrace, almost settling upon the mind like a trap, a lie – and what a beautiful lie it was.

Harry could see the vast castle of Hogwarts miles upon miles in the distance, standing tall amongst the mountains that flourished and towered and pierced the inky, starry sky. The last trace of snow, of which couldn't have been seen in the dark, had melted away a fortnight ago under the weight of a summer in a full blossom.

Tranquillity. Bird sang the coming of dawn, and nothing, nothing of awry intent could be bred in a world such as this. It was a world of promise, of hope and aspirations, of adventures lurking in corners unseen, waiting to be had, to be discovered. To be sowed and endured – and loved with all of your heart–

Harry groaned in fucking agony, and enforced upon himself an obelisk, opaque and unyielding, of sheer will against the oppression.

None of it, none of the grandeur or the awe-inspiring nature of his world, mattered to Harry in that moment, for he was trapped, affixed beneath the weight of a colossal, tyrannical force that hammered against his mind with the force of a scorching, screaming, dying world.

Searching with an inhuman ease to map and unmake him.

And then with a mind at the edge of breakage, sweating profusely in the mild, pleasant night air, Harry reeled against the coming of the beast – a beast who was wearing a long beard, a purple wizard's hat, outlandish robes, half-moon glasses, and a damnable smile.

Always that easy smile…

"Legilimens can become an afterthought, a habit – something that occurs just as naturedly to you as breathing." Dumbledore smiled, hovering just above the surface of the Great Lake on a broom. "You've felt it. I know you have. The impulse… the forewarning of thought that allows you to gleam the edge of consciousness – it's a treacherous, filthy mistress, Harry – filled with promises that can unmask you. Do not succumb… do not give in. Such powers are a privilege that must never be sullied by ill intent." He smiled then, full of mischief and that same sense of old, perpetual wonder. Like he could – forever – see the world in a manner you couldn't.

Or maybe it was merely a choice? A choice to see the world in a certain way.

"It breathes like air in a tendril of magic," continued Dumbledore, "filing your head. Less than thought and more than emotion. And you see it, don't you, Harry? You see it. How extraordinary it is! How… easy it could be… easy… so easy… too easy…"

"Yes sir, I see… it," whispered Harry with supreme effort, hovering just like his Headmaster just above the waters of the Great Lake on his Nimbus 2000. He could see the starry, black sky reflected like a twinkle upon the quavering surface below. "I've seen some… thoughts of others…"

"Like what?" inquired Dumbledore, perfectly at ease, eyes bright and curious and unhurried in their resolve. Like he was merely having a conversation about something of little consequence. "What have you seen?"

Nobody wanted to be wet in their clothes in the middle of the night, did they? Harry didn't, either, and fought like all hell to keep his mind at peace, keep the imposing force of will at bay.

"Professor Flitwick, sir – last lesson he was hungry. I looked into his eyes and I think he overslept and missed breakfast. I dunno – not sure about the last part. It passed by so fast. He was hungry, though. Really hungry."

Dumbledore chuckled. "Filius is always hungry. But that's the gist of it – the surface, if you will." He smiled and his eyes twinkled. Harry thought it might just have been the moon reflected in his half-moon glasses. "Might I once more offer a word of admiration for your fine hat, Harry."

Harry almost laughed, then, and would have been done in by such an act of carelessness.

"You've teased me endlessly about the thing since I ordered it," said Harry tightly, and it was true. Two months had passed and Dumbledore never failed to bring it up. The auburn wizard's hat, secured with a Sticking Charm, was placed spectacularly atop Harry's black hair. "You're just doing it now to distract me, though."

A line of sweat cut across his forehead and down into his eye, almost breaking his contact with the old wizard, almost breaking his resolve. Harry could feel his hands shake, as though a physical manifestation of his mind's labour, and he almost slipped off his shiny broom and into the depths below.

Losing. So close. So easy. He would not.

"Alas maybe so." Dumbledore nodded, smiling broadly – too damn easily. "But my usual tactics does seem less effective than normally. You're putting up a commendable effort tonight. What do you use to centre yourself? All I see is… darkness." He paused then, and Harry watched him frown mildly. "My, is that it? Merely a trick, perchance?"

He seemed… disappointed, almost cross.

"I…" Harry's breath hitched, a force like a freight train unravelling him, and an echo of a thought, a memory – of his aunt yelling at him from the other side of the cupboard – screamed across the space between the Headmaster and the boy. The scream lasted for a moment of a second, merely a blink, and could only be heard inside the heads of the two opponents. Harry clamoured to take it back, to gain it back, but it only made it spring forth into stark, horrific clarity.

"WE DO NOT WANT ANY OF YOUR FREAKISHNESS HERE! YOU GOT THAT, BOY!" screamed Petunia, and god what a set of lungs the woman possessed. "IF YOU EVER USE IT ON DUDLEY AGAIN…two weeks in your room will be the least of your worries. You got that?"

The words, her threat, had started in a shrill shriek and ended in a barely distinguishable whisper through the door of the cupboard, and Harry – the six-year-old boy hiding beneath his blanket – crept in on himself with a horror mounting in his eyes.

"Don't focus on the memory, Harry – you can't conquer it by willing it out of existence." Dumbledore's voice hovered inside the memory, and it took Harry a moment to realize he was no longer six years old and he was no longer scared of his family. He had moved on. "You can only let it go… by letting it go. Accept it. Move on."

Harry focused, not on the memory, but on his strategy coming into this duel of sorts. They'd allowed accesses into each other's minds, and now it was a battle of skills to see who'd come out on top.

And once more, as will manifested into something real, there was a great splash of darkness, of blackness everlasting, shrouded all round him.

He heard Dumbledore sigh, of what to make of that he didn't know, and soon the struggle began anew. And Harry fought back, silently and as calmly as he could, because…

Nobody wanted to walk around with wet clothes in the middle of the night.

"This will work for a time," said Dumbledore, and Harry could feel him throb and prop, pilling on pressure only to veer back and start over, like the spasm of a dying, defiant heart – all against the blackness he had veiled across his mind. "But against a skilled Legilimens, Harry, it will crumble. And I am more than merely talented…"

A pulse, like a piing, resonated like a battering ram against the edges of his sanity, in between the memories he knew belonged and the ones, the whispering, slithering, foreign voices he knew he had never had, but was there all the same – inside his head.

"Tricks like this, Harry, will never last," said Dumbledore. "Never. It's not really Occlumency you are employing; merely a projection of a thought you hope can fool those of lesser talents. It won't work on Lord Voldemort, and it is only a bad habit to acquire. A lazy habit. For no matter how deep a darkness you can imagine, there's always a way through – if you but turn on a light!"

A shriek of blinding light, electric blue and burning, screamed and forked like lightning across the darkness, and another memory slipped through the cracks in the dusty light of memory and forget – a memory of Harry making Dudley lose his pants as he was about to bully one of the younger, smaller kids in the schoolyard.

"The only way to defend yourself, to master Occlumency, is to know yourself so well that even the slightest form of intrusion is so clearly foreign. Only then can you shroud yourself so completely… that you disappear."

And then there he was – whisked away like nothing. Doing just as he'd described. One moment Harry had been teetering at the ragged edge of brokenness, clawing with everything to hold on to his fake memory of a swirling blackness and now…

Nothing.

And Harry fell forwards over his broom as the connection, as Dumbledore's mind, breathed out like smoke through his head – and he went tumbling into the cool waters of the Great Lake.

A moment later, gasping and wheezing and shivering, he broke the surface, broom in hand and a furious light in his eyes.

Unfortunately for him, Dumbledore looked equally displeased.

"Cheap tricks may impress your friends greatly, Harry – it doesn't impose upon me with any sense of awe. Merely envisioning a pit of darkness and thinking your mind protected will not be a solution against someone like Voldemort. It's idle and it's unbecoming of someone with your gifts."

Harry scolded his glare into something a tad less menacing. "Yes sir."

Dumbledore glanced at him appraisingly. "Swim into shore, cool your head, and meet me by the fire."

Harry nodded and stuffed his broom inside one of his enlarged pockets. He frowned, quiet unable to meet Dumbledore's gaze, and set about his long swim towards the coast. He wasn't a gifted swimmer, and the short trip took quite a while as a result.

"You've learned how to distinguish yourself," said Dumbledore a good while later, when they sat by the shore and enjoyed the flickering flames of the fire Dumbledore had conjured. A simple spell had dried Harry up right away, too. "How to tell yourself apart completely from your attacker. That is good, laudable. What – as far as I can tell – you seem to lack now is acceptance. You seem unsure of yourself, Harry. Afraid. How come?"

Harry leaned his back against the tree and stared out across the lake, wondering just how to broach this topic – of which had weighted heavily on his mind this past month. Ever since, in fact, he first started noticing it.

"Sir, you remember I told you about… the voices… and the memories I kept having that I couldn't recognize, yeah?"

Dumbledore sat up straighter, but otherwise showed no sign of outward worry. "Yes? Oh. You've begun to uncover more of them as you've delved deeper into your mind. How troublesome, Yes – I can see why that would hamper your efforts a great deal."

"Yes. And…" Harry hesitated. He had had these voices for quite a while now, rummaging, slithering, coming forth at the strangest of times. He had grown so used to them that they almost, almost seemed a part of him.

But they were not. Couldn't be.

"I don't think they belong to Voldemort, sir. I…"

"They're yours? Truly? How remarkable." said Dumbledore, frowning. Once more he didn't seem the least bit surprised. He held himself with the air of a man who had merely been confirmed upon his worst fears. "Yours and you somehow forgot. Or maybe you never remembered."

"Is that even possible?"

"Improbable, without a doubt. Highly unlikely and cause for concern, most certainly. But not impossible. Where you are concerned, not much seems impossible, does it?"

"It's little things, you know?" said Harry, then frowned and considered further. "And sometimes it's big things. Last time I stumble upon a memory of the Gryffindor Common Room, and I've been there – I know I have… but not like this."

"What do you mean?"

"I was there with Ron and… Granger. We'd all been sorted into Gryffindor, sir – and she put Longbottom in a Body-Bind right there in the middle of the Common Room, in front of the portrait entrance, and we left him on the floor, before we went out to do… something. I… haven't dared looking at the memory further. It's weird… like a dream, save it's not. It doesn't feel like it."

Dumbledore stared, fascinated and frightened in equal measures. "And there are a lot of these memories?"

"Yeah, too many to count, to… make sense of. I can feel them, whispering, begging for me to touch them, to see them, to… remember… almost like they want me to. It feels like they're alive, you know? It's me in them, I know it, I can see it, but it's not me, you know? It can't be. They can't be real."

"But you fear they might." Dumbledore sighed, smiling sadly – maybe even knowingly. "And it's hard for you to accept memories you cannot remember forging, and if you can't do that, then how could you close them off?"

"Yeah, and it's like… every day there's more of them. New ones. Always expanding. Always growing. Never stopping. I just… want it to stop. The more I learn here, the more I see, the less I understand… the more scared I am."

Dumbledore peered at Harry over his half-moon glasses, and he held him with his eyes for a long while. "Have you told you friends about it?"

"Are you kidding me? They'd think me mad!"

"I doubt your friends would desert you in your time of need." Dumbledore smiled. "You've the most remarkable friends, Harry…"

A silence settled, filled with stars and little sounds that sort of blended in with the world, and Harry busied himself with looking out over the lake. What was the time, anyway? Tomorrow marked the start of the exams, only a couple of hours away – Ron and Daphne had been so worried for them.

They'd never seemed the least bit important to Harry.

Why was that?

"I cannot imagine what it's like, Harry – your plight is beyond anything I've ever known," said Dumbledore at last, voice quiet and measured. "I wish I could tell you with utmost certainty just what you ought to do. But I simply cannot. I find myself questioning well-established rules of magic almost every time I'm with you. You're unravelling my reality from the inside out at every opportunity. So I can only offer this, if I may – as always to my growing shame – face your beast. You have the strength to overcome it. Accept them. Let them in. See them. Understand them. And know that they hold no power over you, if you so wish."

Harry blinked, a lance of fright wrought through his heart. "Won't that change me? Who I am."

"Maybe, but I shouldn't think so. Memories are a great part of who we are naturally, but more than that, more than simple experiences, we are made up of the ways in which we respond to the things we incur throughout our lives. Hardships only ever beat us the moment we find ourselves incapable of rising above them. Your choices, Harry, as always, are what will ultimately define you. Not what has happened or will happen. And remember, my boy, even if at times it may seem it… you're never alone."

Slowly, beyond the mountains in the east, the sky brightened ever-so-slightly for every passing minute, and it wouldn't be long before dawn was upon them.

"Who you are is what you do…" Dumbledore's smile wore an edge of pride. "I had a most illuminating conversation with Ollivander some time ago. Purely coincidentally, I'm sure, it was back around the time Severus accused you of stealing from him."

"Oh?" Reddening slightly, Harry scratched his neck, reaching for a disarming smile. "What did he have to say?"

"He was very infatuated with you. I must say, it's quite the impression you'd left with him, when you received your wand." Dumbledore smiled quite benign and mischievously. "It's been a while since I've ever seen him as excited as that evening. I suppose the only other time was when he thought he was on the cusps of making a wand with a Thestral core. Of course, he's now convinced such a feat is impossible, however, back then he–"

Harry laughed. "You really are a mad old man, aren't you?"

Dumbledore chuckled and together student and teacher beheld the rising of another day in a comfortable silence, sitting close together by an ever-burning fire. There was an air of finality about it, as they both knew that this would be one of the last times before the end of the school year, after which everything would change.

"You were right. Getting out of the office was the right choice. Nothing like the fresh wind and that flighty temptress, adventure, to replenish an old soul."

Harry smiled. "Yeah, I ought to get in bed soon, though."

"Oh." Dumbledore beheld Harry curiously. "Why is that?"

Harry arched an eyebrow. "My exams starts in the morning, sir – probably in about six hours."

Dumbledore blinked, then took out a funny looking clock that to Harry seemed to show everything and anything but what time it was.

Dumbledore chuckled, stroking his beard. "Ah – alas, I've been rather distracted with Cornelius and this whole transfer of power, haven't I? Why didn't you say anything?"

"My barmy Headmaster wanted to hold a lesson in the middle of night because he was busy – how was I to say no to that?"

"You should have protested in the strongest, most upset terms possible against your old Professor's eccentric antics."

"And miss this sunrise, sir?" Harry smiled and leaned back against the tree, but he quickly frowned in thoughts. "Sir – I've… are you really leaving Hogwarts?"

Dumbledore looked bemused. "You were there when I was let go from my position."

"I know – I guess I just thought, well – um, that you'd have something up your sleeve."

"No. I don't. I suppose I might, if I desired that, but times change and so must I – yet in some ways… I hope… I will always be the Headmaster."

"Yeah – you were – the best of them."

"Thank you, Harry," said Dumbledore, and the old professor turned his back to him, but not before Harry saw a smile and a tear on his wrinkled old face. "If only but a handful of students share your sentiment… I cannot imagine a greater gift than that."


"Four days in a row!" snarled Ron later that same morning. "Teachers are not humans, I'm telling you!"

"Ron, it'll be fine," said Harry, happily munching on his cake – it was a very good carrot cake, too. "You just use that new wand of yours and watch the magic fly."

"I haven't used it in class before, though. What if I can't use it?"

"Magic doesn't work like that," said Daphne, but Ron thought she looked just as nervous, just as pale and uncertain as he felt. "If you can do a spell with a wand that isn't yours, then it will be a walk in the park with your own."

"A cakewalk!" said Harry, twirling a piece of his cake around on his fork. "Ha!"

Daphne rolled with her eyes. "I'm more nervous about the theoretical exams, anyway. Remember the last Charms test we took? Who can remember all the laws of animation and which of them applies to making an object tap-dance?"

"And what uses does tap-dancing have?"

"Exactly!"

Harry frowned at them. "It's important because it allows you to impose your intention upon an object in a very narrow, very specific manner – in this case making a small object tap-dance. The object is small, which already makes it seem surmountable, the complexity of the task, again tap-dancing, rather simple and limited. Consider the enormity – the sheer amount of skill – it will require for you to make… let's say one of the armours in the hallway follow you around for a day. How many things you have to impose upon it, all at once, just for it to trod along… the juxtaposition of these two cases is huge, but they come from the same place – err, what's wrong with your face?"

Ron blinked. "My face? Oh, nothing – this is just the face of someone who didn't understand a word of what you just said."

"I don't think he really said anything." Daphne smiled and leaned over the table to ruffle Harry's hair. "I think he was just trying to sound really clever. Are you going to wear your stupid hat to the exams?"

Harry pouted and crossed his arms. "No. Wasn't allowed."

Ron laughed. "It was McGonagall, wasn't it? I bet it was. Could you imagine her having to sit with Harry while he was wearing that stupid hat? She'd be all fuzzing and moaning." Ron cleared his throat and took on a grave, severe voice. "Mr Potter, never have I ever seen such a slight against common sense and basic courtesy as that stupid, ugly hat."

Daphne giggled. "Imagine Snape's reaction, Ron."

"I'd rather not. He'd kill Harry." Ron sighed dreamily. "To think, one exam with that bugger and we've survived him. Next year is going to be so great!"

The summer had come to Hogwarts, smouldering her hallways in a shimmering haze of heat – the large classrooms were especially insufferable and clammy as they sat down for their written papers.

Ron, often sweat stained, found Harry, at every exam, staring blankly out into space half way through, his papers finished – a few times he even rose and left. Never looking at all troubled. Ron would then sigh miserably, share a look with Daphne, wherein a shared suffering was dealt between two friends, and then go back to his papers and labour with the unmanageable task.

When they asked him where he went, he'd tell them that he went to the Great Lake and had a refreshing swim in the cool waters.

They'd then hate him immensely for that.

They had practical exams, too. Slytherin had been paired with Gryffindor, and Ron stood outside the classroom, nervously as the rest of them, waiting for his turn.

Hermione Granger seemed the most nervous of all. Oftentimes, she'd walk back and forth and mutter everything she'd read about a particular subject and which spells were most likely to come up. Occasionally, she'd ask others about their opinions, but most seemed too nervous to have anything to offer.

Ron, trying not to let her concern bleed onto him, would silently wonder why she never seemed to ask Harry.

And as for Harry… he quickly and swiftly established himself as nothing short of the most gifted student to go to Hogwarts in at least a centaury – as Ron and Daphne had known he would. Even through the door, you could hear the teachers sing his praises as he elated them with his effortless talents.

Flitwick, the Charms Professor, had even walked him out and flaunted Harry as he made not just the requested pineapple tap-dance, but also animated a large variety of different objects, having them do a host of different things. Ron even saw a piece of chalk juggle itself, breaking itself into smaller and smaller pieces to add to the circuit. It looked like a miniscule caricature of one of those Muggle circuses that his dad was so fond of.

And when he had exited his Transfiguration exam, a horde of mice, which he apparently had conjured, had scrambled out with him, only to be turned, all at once, back into snuff-boxes at a wave of a wand from Harry – without so much as a syllable from his lips. Daphne even claimed afterwards that she saw the usual stern and stoic Professor McGonagall crack a slight smile at that.

And Harry would laugh, as he always seemed to do, at it all with the same kind of secret smile. Most students, even Hermione Granger included, would stay behind after their exam, just to bear witness to what new exasperated magic the Boy Who Lived would pull off at a happy little whim.

At the Potions exam, however, they all took it together. And here both Daphne and Hermione Granger outperformed Harry, making their Forgetfulness potion both better and faster. And though Harry wouldn't complain about it – he didn't even mention it afterwards – some part of the blame probably laid on Snape, who had spent the entire examination breathing down Harry's neck and critiquing his every decision.

History was the one subject in which Ron felt he was equal to Harry… because they were both equally terrible at it. Daphne was only marginally better.

Hermione Granger, however, seemed to talk about it as though it was her favourite subject afterwards.

"That was far easier than I thought it would be," said Hermione, as the Slytherin and Gryffindor students joined the crowds flocking out into the sunny grounds. "I needn't have learnt about the 1637 Werewolf Code of Conduct or the uprising of Elfric the Eager."

Harry blinked at her, smiling bemusedly. "Okay – you made that last one up, didn't you?"

Hermione looked at him, as though she couldn't quite believe he was speaking to her. "Oh no," she said quickly, breathlessly. "He was a Goblin, one of the founders of Gringotts as we know it today, who led the revolt against wizard monopoly on wealth. He's largely responsible for the monetary system Britain's wizarding world uses today, inventor of the Knut, Sickle and Galleon in, err – in 1494! I think."

"No more revision, Hermione," said Ron tiredly and happily, leading Harry and Daphne and her towards the lake. "I don't think my brain can handle more – and you, Harry – stop looking so cheerful. It makes me nervous."

"You wanna come?" asked Daphne, looking at Hermione. "The boys want to have a swim in the lake."

"Oh no." She eyed the lake warily. Or was the look directed at Ron and Harry? Daphne couldn't tell. "I still have some revision for the Defence Against the Dark Arts exam tomorrow."

And like that she was gone.

"Huh?" Daphne blinked, staring after her, then joined Harry and Ron, stretching out on the grass beneath the hot face of the sun as the boys took a swim in the waters.

The next day came their last exam, and the students were split in two camps. The teachers, when no solution had been forthcoming, had split the subject of Defence between them. Flitwick had taught First through Third year, McGonagall had had Fourth and Fifth, and Snape had taken Sixth and Seventh.

Rumours had begun to run adrift, when the solution had first been implemented. Would the curse that rested upon the position include all three of them, or had it been satisfied with merely one death?

It seemed the latter, because here they were, at the end of the line, and all three of them perfectly healthy and alive. And although Snape, of course, would be leaving shortly, it wasn't contributed to the curse because that decision had been made before he was given the subject.

And this time, at this subject, Ron shined beyond many of his peers. The year, especially the first half of it, had necessitated that he and Harry had read ahead on a lot of jinxes and curses, which bore fruit today.

They were called upon to perform the Full-Body Bind Curse, Petrificus Totalus, and Ron did so masterfully, to the squeaky joy of his small teacher. When he added the Stunning Spell at the end, just for the hell of it, he knew that there was at least one subject here in which he had gotten a straight Outstanding in.

Of course Harry had outperformed him greatly here, too, doing things with his wand that Flitwick loudly proclaimed would be enough to impress even the strictest examiners at an O.W.L exam. Maybe even beyond that.

Daphne had been first of the three, though, and had done reasonably well, she thought. But like Ron, she'd had enough now and wanted some time for herself.

The exam had taken place at the seventh floor, far and removed from the goings of the rest of the students, and the whole floor seemed empty as Daphne moved unhurriedly through the corridors, greeting every portrait that waved at her as she passed. She smiled slightly to herself, a skip to her step, glad that the year was about to find an end, but knew that she'd miss it all terribly when she had to return home.

Miss them. Yeah. She'd miss them something fierce–

And then, out of nothing, she heard a loud clatter as something metallic struck the stony floor – and then a loud whine, almost like a fearsome bellow, pierced the air.

Daphne blinked and looked around, seeking some measure of help, but she was alone in the corridor – alone with the portraits, who all seemed horror-struck – and she wringed her hands uneasily. The voice, the scream, had been forged in pure agony – she was sure of that.

What to do? What to do? What to–

She ran towards it, not quite sure where she'd lost her common sense, but quite sure it was all Harry's fault. She rounded a corner, streaking onto another corridor, wand at the ready, and found–

A teacher sprawled out on the floor. Her head seemed covered in multiple shawls, her robes disbelieved and dirtied. Daphne even thought they looked slightly stained with some liquid at places. And she had the most peculiar, strong smell about her, making Daphne frown and almost gag in disgust.

She had seen her before, of course. She taught Divination, a fascinating subject from what little Daphne knew of it, but at that moment she couldn't quite recall her name.

"Hi, Professor," said Daphne, trying – failing – to inject some of her former cheer in her voice. "You, err, need a hand?"

But the Professor didn't seem to hear her, didn't seem to notice her existence. In fact, to Daphne, she seemed to look beyond all sense of reason. She still lay all sprawled out on the floor, as her eyes started to roll about, whirling and quacking. And then her whole body started convulsing shortly after, and Daphne felt a panic so fierce it threaten to topple her resolve settle in the pit of her stomach, like a brick of insurmountable weight.

"P-professor?" said Daphne, gaining control of her legs and stepping up to her. She stooped down and turned the Professor's whirring head with her small hands, making eye contact.

And as though her touch was wrought with a profound healing Charm, the Professor stilled at once, for a breathless moment everything was quiet, and then she went rigid. Her eyes zeroed in on her, unfocused and pale, and her mouth slackened as though she'd lost control of it.

And then she spoke. And her voice her changed, must have changed, because it wasn't the voice of a human being anymore. It was harsh and trembling, echoic and full of certainty:

"It will happen by his hand," she boomed. "You will burn, Child of the Cursed. You will stare, caught aflame, into the open wound of his soul… the soul of the Boy Beyond the Veil, and you will burn. He lives at the heart of Creation and he can feel the turn of all things… And he's… extraordinary. His pure soul will thwart yours and tear it asunder beneath the gaze of the Founder. Your mind will wither, and your heart will die at the hand of the Boy Beyond the Veil… the boy you Love…"

Daphne swallowed – only to find her throat was dry. "W-what was that?" she said, voice whisper-thin and young. Frighten.

The Professor blinked, casting her eyes about as though she'd come out of a trance. "My goodness, what am I doing here?"

"You – you okay?"

"Yes, dear – yes, thank you. Why, you look quite pale, everything all right?"

Daphne blinked, staring with globe-like eyes at the mad woman as she gained her feet. "You don't… you said some crazy things just now…"

"Oh, dear me, I must have drifted off for a moment. I do that at times – the heat of the castle this time of year, you know?"

Daphne shook her head, almost giggling despite herself. "No, no… you weren't asleep – you spoke… you said that I was – that I would… burn."

"Well, dear, in this heat we all burn." The Professor laughed. "You ought to go out and get some air – you know what? I think I'll do just that, too – err, can you tell me where I am?"

"You don't know?" asked Daphne, incredulous.

"It seems not. How peculiar."

"Seventh floor," replied Daphne, feeling dazed, feeling something cruel lurking about. "You're on seventh floor."

The Professor – Daphne really wished to know her name – whisked off after a muttered thank you, and Daphne was left quite alone in the silence.

What? Just… what? What was that? Who? How? Daphne blinked, swallowed thickly, rooted to the spot in a stillness that seemed intent upon her suffocation. This was – it couldn't be real. It couldn't. What sort of joke was this? What sort of woman – teacher – would do this to a student?

Was it some sort of cruel prank?

What sort of school was this!

"Child of the cursed…" whispered Daphne, fighting tears, fighting fright. She'd burn – burn in his soul? Madness. What the hell was that? It couldn't be real – couldn't mean a thing.

But the longer she stood there, alone in the corridor, the longer the feeling – of certainty and of fear – festered in her mind at the ragged edge of her defiance, upon a place wherein she quivered and broke. She was alone… alone and afraid, and she was breaking.

She turned on the spot and ran back towards where she came. Time had passed, however, and most of the students were finished with their Defence exam, including Ron and Harry.

"Hi Daphne," said Pansy, looking up from her perch against the wall – she seemed to be in the middle of a conversation with Millicent Bulstrode. "I thought you'd – hey, are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah." She cleared her throat and willed away the tears behind her eyes. "Where's – where're Harry and Ron?"

Pansy rolled with her eyes. "At the Stadium. Some of the boys wanted to go fly – hey you, something wrong?" she yelled as Daphne turned on the spot before she could finish.

She ran through the castle. Down the winding, moving staircases she went, through the corridors she hurried. Past ghost and students, who strode round her, laughing and talking cheerfully amongst themselves, enjoying their hard-earned freedom at last – never had she felt as disconnected, as utterly alien as she did now.

She felt marked. Like she no longer belonged…

Ten minutes later she hit the grounds running, following round the castle, until the stands of the stadium mounted before her like a looming cathedra. It was eerily quiet now, abandoned and haunted, and Daphne almost stumbled over her robes, skating to a stop. Her thighs burned with exertion, her heart seemed intent upon leaping through her chest, and sweat stained her heated face in thick rivulets.

At least they hid her tears, she thought almost aside all rational thought. Her mind seemed to only carry the strength to focus upon one thing, one single thought.

The prophecy.

And she was sure that that was what it was, and that it was real, and that she was destined – what did burn even mean?

She strode onwards and pierced the entrance, normally reserved for the players, and ran out onto the field. Harry, flying on his Nimbus, had the Quaffle in his hands and was sweeping past Blaise Zabini in that moment, only to miss a shot on the Keeper.

"HARRY!" she bellowed before she could stop herself.

Harry – along with everyone else – glanced at her with startled eyes. A moment later both he and Ron had landed beside her.

"What's – eh?"

She wasted no time, dragging them by the sleeves of their shirts off the pitch.

"Accio," said Harry as he raised his wand, then he quickly tapped the pocket of his jeans – after which he began stuffing his broom down said pocket. Daphne would've gaped at how bizarre it looked, but then two sets of robes, a bag, a wand, and a pitcher of what looked to be iced tea aligned with him and hovered along.

"Thank you," said Ron, snatching the wand. "Could you give me a cup?"

Harry waved his wand and a small pebble zoomed off the ground and into his hand. With another wave, there was a small pop and in his hand was a large cup made out of glass.

"Cheers." Ron grabbed the pitcher with the tea and poured himself a glass as they walked. "What's wrong, Daphne? We won't get our result for another week – no need to be so worried already."

"That's not it," she said, feeling the sickness of it all slowly settle upon her. She wanted, needed to throw up. She led them to the river, steering clear off all the other students, who seemed to lay sprawled out over the grounds, enjoying the sun and the sense of freedom that the last two weeks of Hogwarts always gave.

"Daphne…" Harry had suddenly stopped smiling. "Something's wrong, isn't there? Something happened."

"Yeah."

They found a tree by the lake, reasonably secluded, and sat down beneath its shade.

"Do you know the Divination's Master?" asked Daphne, and watched as her two friends blinked stupidly at her. "Thought not. I can't remember her name, but I just ran into her. She… fell into a trance, see, and–"

"Made a prophecy," said Harry, nodding. "Trelawney does that – or so I've been told."

"Trelawney, that's her name!" Daphne ran a hand through her sweaty, damp hair, only now noticing just how hot it was – she pulled off her robes quickly and discarded them in her enlarged bag. "And yeah, she made a prophecy – it was terrible! And she couldn't even remember anything after!"

"What did she say?" asked Ron. He lay out on the grass and had his head propped up on his own bag.

"She… said I would burn…" she glanced at Harry, racking her brain. "That I'd burn beneath the gaze of the founder… by the hand of some boy beyond a veil – I don't know – it was weird!"

"Dumbledore says prophecy a notoriously unreliable," said Harry quickly, "that the Ministry has an entire Hall twice the side of the Great Hall, filled to the brim with them – most of which never came into fruition."

Ron blinked at Harry, and even Daphne felt a momentary sense of bewilderment.

"You talked with Dumbledore about prophecies?" said Ron, staring confused at him.

Harry nodded and Daphne saw his lips thin in something akin to frustration.

"Why?"

"Err – I was just curious, I guess. Be nice to know your own future."

"No." Daphne shook her head. "It's not."

"But that's my point. You don't. Look, Daphne." He raised himself and turned her by the shoulders to face him, staring intently into her eyes. She couldn't, even if she wanted, look away from his gaze. "The consequences of our actions are always complicated, you know? What did he say – yeah, predicting the future is very hard, almost always wrong–"

"But not impossible," whispered Daphne.

"Look at who you're friends with," said Ron, gaining her eyes as he gestured at Harry. "Nothing's impossible."

Harry smiled. "No. Nothing. But I think it far more likely that you're gonna be just fine."

"But – but I'm cursed, Harry," said Daphne, with a voice made of paper, of glass, ready to break at the slightest tremor. "It was right. It's inherited, you see…"

"What, prophecies?"

"No." Daphne shook her head, eyes glistening. "I never told you how my mother died. Why I'm so good at Potions… It's because of her. She was sick, ever since I can remember. A blood Curse runs in her family, my family, and has done for generations. Nobody knows what it is or who cursed us. Rumours had it that it was Grindelwald himself, but mother doubted it. There's a potion – the Maladay Potion – that can keep the symptoms at bay. I always helped her with it – ever since I was old enough. When she got too sick, I did it all save for the few things you had to use a wand for… but there's no cure and she died…"

Daphne found her voice unhurried, unbroken, and the tears seemed to stop, held at arms length as the story – the story she'd never shared, had never intended to share – broke like a dam over her lips.

"My sister, Astoria, has already shown some signs she bears the mark of it–"

"What about you?" asked Harry quietly.

"Not yet. Not everybody gets it. And some barely show any signs… but one thing is certain… it might take years, even decades… sometimes half a life, but in the end, if you get it, it will kill you."

"I'm sorry, Daphne." Ron had gained his feet and hugged her tightly. "So sorry."

She felt Harry's small hand squeeze her shoulder awkwardly, and saw him trying to offer her a small smile – it almost brought her to tears again.

She wiped her eyes fiercely as Ron let her go. "I don't know why I'm telling you all this…"

"And there's no cure?" asked Harry.

"None that we know of." Daphne shrugged. "My father kept saying there's always a solution – we just haven't found it yet. He still says it even now."

Harry nodded. "He's right."

"I know," snapped Daphne, then bit her lip. "Oh sorry, Harry – it's just… I'm scared."

They sat there for quite a while, and Harry transfigured a few glasses out of stones for Daphne and himself, drinking the ice tea that Harry had apparently created. And soon, chatter bloomed between them and went on to lighter subjects, and when the sun seemed to have reached its highest point on the sky, they were joined by Hedwig, Harry's snowy owl – on which Daphne bestowed many a praise.

They laughed and talked and tried to forget the day away and a week later they would learn that all three of them passed every class – Harry was even called to the Headmaster's office to receive some diploma for extraordinary magical achievements. It wasn't long before the newspapers had started writing about his results and his first year in school. Daphne had read the article with great interest, noticing that some teachers had even been interviewed for the piece.

"They never contacted you, though, did they?" asked Ron, when Daphne read it aloud.

Harry shrugged. "Haven't heard from anyone."

"Weird."

"Probably Dumbledore thought it best that way."

A couple of days later came the last night before the end of the year, and with it came the end–of–year feast. Daphne sat and chatted happily with the rest of the girls of her dormitory, swept up in all the excitement, but noticed as a hush rushed through the Great Hall, when Harry and Ron stepped in – and then, as though all at once, loud voices coalesced upon each other and reached as though in a crescendo of noise for the enchanted ceiling above.

Harry smiled, almost grimly, and sat down, even as Ron gave a flourish and a friendly, exasperated wave to the Hall before sitting down as well. Harry and Ron, close but still rooms apart from the other boys, sat and talked quietly, and Daphne thought it plain that Ron was trying to distract Harry from the fact that there were students all over the Great Hall that had stood up to get a closer look at him.

"You know what I heard?" said Tracey Davis in Daphne's ear. "Hannah Abbott told me Parvati Patil got lost the other night – ended up in the dungeons. She ran into something down there, called it a Boggart."

"A Boggart?" asked Daphne, frowning – she'd heard of them before, though, she was sure.

"Yeah – never heard of them, either," said Tracey. "Apparently they're dark creatures – shape-shifters – that will transform into whatever you fear most. It was a mummy for her."

Daphne raised an eyebrow. "What did she do?"

"Screamed, I imagine." Tracey smiled and nodded towards Harry and Ron. "Or she probably would have – if not for Harry."

"What happened?"

"Suddenly Harry was just there to save her. He knew a spell that turned it into something else apparently, and then he laughed at it."

Daphne smiled; that sounded like Harry. "He laughed at it?"

Tracey shrugged and smiled, too. "He's a little barmy, isn't he? But that's not even the best part. Afterwards she was a little scared so they led her back to Gryffindor's Common Room. And get this–" Tracey leaned in close, as though to share a great secret, "–she didn't even need to show them the way. Like they knew it. You know anything about that?"

Daphne shook her head, smiling still. "No. Wouldn't surprise me, though."

"Isn't it something, though?" continued Tracey, her eyes curious and full of intent. "Every time something happens, every time something's wrong or whenever disaster comes, he's there. Always there. Like he just knows."

Daphne hummed in thought, but before she could answer the other girl, she noted a hush blanket across the Great Hall. Looking up, she saw that Dumbledore had gained his feet and spread his arms.

"Another year gone!" said Dumbledore cheerfully, his voice echoing across the silence. "And what a year it has been! I hope you'll leave with your heads a little fuller than when you came… I am sorry that I must trouble you with an old man's wheezing waffles before we sink our teeth into our delicious and well-earned feast…"

Daphne saw the old man smile gently, and he lowered his arms, taking with the movement the last syllable of sound with it.

"Now, as per tradition, the House Cup needs awarding and the points stands as thus: in fourth place, Hufflepuff, with three hundred and fifty-two points; in third, Ravenclaw, with four hundred and twenty-six; Gryffindor have four hundred and thirty-four and in first, with six hundred and eighty-six, Slytherin."

A sound like thunder broke out over the Slytherin table. Cheers so loud they threatened to spill out over the ceiling and out into the world, as students laughed and hugged and danced in their seats. Daphne even thought she saw Snape crack something that resembled a smile, before she was swept up in the jubilations of her peers.

"Yes, yes, well done, Slytherin," said Dumbledore. "However, recent events must be taken into consideration, before we can begin our last feast."

Quiet ruled. Quiet was all they were. Daphne hardly dared to breath. Everything. Quiet.

"Yes." Dumbledore sighed and smiled, maybe a touch sadly, maybe not. It was hard to say so very far away. "Lots have happened this year. Lots more than perhaps have been revealed. I shall stride to shed at last some light tonight. To Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley–" Daphne, stomach aflutter, felt as thought the stillness would grow and drag her down through the floor, "–who came to the aid of this school in its greatest time of need last Christmas, I've nominated them for the Award for Special Services. It's a small thanks, less than they deserve – far less than most of you'll probably ever know."

He paused for a moment there, sighed deeply, and seemed to be weighting something troubling for a heartbeat.

"Lord Voldemort–" a collective shriek of terror went through the hall like a tremor at the mention of the accused name, "–attacked our school and sought to gain that which I'd hidden. Despite the sacrifice made by Mr Weasley and the best efforts of Harry Potter and myself, he escaped with it victoriously. There'll come a time soon, I fear… where he'll use that which he gained to return to his full strength. I'm telling you all this now, in spite of what the Ministry wishes… I'm telling you now because I believe that each of you, alone and together, have the strength and the right to know the truth. Lord Voldemort… will return."

There was a murmur that rippled through the crowd as everyone turned to each other and whispered, and Daphne, half-listening to Tracey's worries, glanced back on Ron and Harry, noting their grim, stony faces.

"I'm telling you this now," said Dumbledore further, his voice rising above the noise, "because I have faith in you – and perhaps in small part because I have little left to lose." He chuckled slightly at that, and Daphne saw McGonagall dap at her eye, sniffling loudly along with a few of the other teachers. "I can only ask that you go on from here, on the strength of all your beliefs and all your courage, together… and prove that I am not wrong in my faith – in you. It has been a privilege serving you and this school – it has been… the best thing I've ever done. And I thank you… for everything you were to me. And now, I daresay, we have heard enough from the batty old man. So for one last time: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!"

A pause, every breath held at the back of the throat, drinking in with their eyes the merry old fool that was both at once a barmy old man and the greatest wizard they knew, standing before them for the very last time.

"As they say, do your thing…" he whispered with a mysterious smile.

And then the table was besieged with foods of all variety, and everyone clapped and cheered and dug in at last.

Another year had ended at Hogwarts, the first year of Harry Potter and the last of Albus Dumbledore, and nothing would – forever – be the same.


"You know, I think I'm gonna miss this place," said Ron quietly, and Harry could feel his gaze burn at the back of his neck. "But probably not as much as you."

Ron and Harry were sharing a carriage, which were being pulled by nothing apparently, and Harry was gazing out the window with longing, already dreading the next month.

"Look, Harry – it's only a month, eh?" said Ron. "Dumbledore's gonna pick you up and you'll get me and Daphne and we'll all go to Paris to see the ICW. Think of the things we'll see!"

"Yeah." Harry smiled, and felt a little cheered at the thought. Still. Two months to Hogwarts. He frowned again quickly, however, and rubbed at his scar – his famous lightning scar – once more.

"You've been rubbing that scar the entire morning, Harry."

Harry nodded. "It started hurting last night."

Ron blinked, and Harry saw a frown of worry crease his brow. "You… you think it's got something to do with him?"

Harry shrugged, rubbed the scar again. "I dunno."

But it was a lie and he knew it. Because deep within, deeper still than memory and experience, in a dark pit wherein nothing had been found in a very long while, remnants of a battle, of a madness, long since forgotten, had woken from a slumber like the dead with a single, earth-shattering sense of elation, like it was drunk on life renewed.

And none of it belonged to him…


Thirty-first of July – one month later

Harry was running for his life – of that there could be no doubt.

The bleeding, screaming wound, like a maw in the fabric of reality, oozed with blood in the side of his abdomen, and he felt dizzy, lightheaded – muscles all over quivering at edge of breakage with the exertion of just standing up.

He had lost far too much blood already.

If it wasn't for the girl dragging him by hand he'd been caught a long time ago by the darkness chasing them. He glanced up through bleary eyes, as though waffling through a drunken stupor, and caught sight of her shiny blonde hair in the dark – watching it flow behind her like a halo as she ran and dragged him along.

Why hadn't she just left him? Saved herself?

He could barely think anymore.

Memories he'd wrestled with for the better part of a year were starting to come alive in the agony, at the edge of the Precipice in which they found them caught upon. They were coming in white-hot now, a mind unmade by the Man in Black – the Master – and he almost stumbled beneath the sheer magnitude of the memories that were siphoned through the deluge of filthy intent and awry regret.

They stumbled around a corner, then, just the two of them, and hid in the shadow of an alcove, holding their breaths and clamouring together, listening as the footsteps – clap-clap-clap – resounded and abounded through the darkened corridor, until their enemies were gone and they were all alone.

Harry, almost slipping into the welcoming embrace of unconsciousness, then, turned to his panting companion.

"I'm about to do something incredibly stupid…" Ha, stupid! He could barely speak anymore – just where the hell was Dumbledore? But he knew – knew that Dumbledore was a couple of floors and days away, when they were this close to the Precipice. "But before I do, I need you to promise me something."

She nodded frantically, her blue eyes scared and disbelieving.

"No matter what happens, no-one can know any of it – what you'll see me do."

She blinked. "Arry, you can't–"

"No!" snarled Harry, his expression darkening with every laboured, dying breath. Breathe, Harry, breathe… "Listen, miss Delacour – Fleur, listen! – you cannot tell anyone about this. About what I'm about to do. Not a single one, okay?

"Not even me…"


End of Chapter end of Year One

Took a while, but I got us there in the end. First year at Hogwarts done and dusted. A nice little teaser there at the end, too, about how Harry's gonna spent his summer and his birthday. Not looking too good, though.

I realize that right now a lot of different things seem to happen, most independently of one another. I've it all planned out, and hopefully I'll make sense of it.

Leave a thought behind. Let's break that hundred review mark.

Hope you'll have a good day. Bye.