The Twist of Time

by rwcr

Ch. 10, complete! AU, post HBP. On August 11, 1976, four teenagers appear in Dumbledore's office. With knowledge of the future they will never return to, they set out to cut the Dark Lord's reign short. Will they get it right? Dangerverse spinoff.

7. Getting Closer

Chapter 7: Getting Closer.

The next few days were absolute hell for Sirius Black. Remus refused to initiate conversation with him, look him in the eye, or even be in the same room with him for extended periods of time. Even after Sirius apologized, quite sincerely, all Remus would say was, "It's not me you need to be apologizing to." And he still said it without meeting Sirius's gaze.

Aletha Freeman, with whom he had nurtured a good-natured bicker-filled friendship ever since their dual third year appointment as Beaters on the Quidditch team, was even worse. She alternated between glaring fiercely at him and ignoring his presence completely. Oddly enough, this stung even more than Remus's attitude.

The rest of the group that knew the truth treated him similarly, but less severely. Harry, though, seemed almost remorseful, as if Sirius wasn't living up to expectations. And beneath that, an undercurrent of . . . well, Sirius couldn't put his finger on it, but it was vaguely disconcerting, almost as if Harry knew him, could see right through him . . .

No one in the rest of Gryffindor house knew the particulars of what had happened, but they all picked up on the animosity exuded by the ones who did, and they followed suit. For the first time in several years at Hogwarts, Sirius Black was not followed by a gaggle of giggling girls. And this was just one manifestation of the sickening truth:

He was cut off. From everyone.

Without my friendships, he realized, life gets pretty bad around here . . .

Profoundly enough, it was the first time Sirius had ever thought about it that way.

---

Remus stared at Harry curiously as he looked up from the homework he was doing in the common room. Harry is reacting the most weirdly of any of us to Sirius, he remarked mentally. And I can practically smell the disappointment coming off him, but not really any anger . . . The mental connection between him and Danger had not disappeared as the moon rose—indeed, it had strengthened, and they each now lived always with a bit of themselves in the other's mind. And I know this isn't usual. But what's usual about anything I do? Not to mention I like it. Remus was sure, though, that if it was anyone other than Danger, he would resent the constant presence.

Danger's reply to his query was simple—just I wonder why?—but their odd connection involved more context than speech, the sort of emotional elements that were impossible to mask and could indicat a lie from a mile off, and so Remus could tell that Danger knew why Harry was acting so oddly. He caught the edge of a quiet thought—something about of course he is, and a connection (he couldn't tell what) between Harry and Sirius—before Danger masked it . . .

What's going on here? he asked suspiciously.

Nothing, love. Danger tried to be placating in her mental tone, and failed miserably.

This connection isn't just speech, you know. I can tell your basic emotions, and I can tell you do know what's up with Harry.

Danger paused contemplatively for a second. I do, she said finally. But Harry told me in confidence, and I don't want to betray his trust. Can't you understand that? She seemed a bit testy.

Of course I can understand. I have my own Big Secret. But still, I can tell this is something big. Our connection feels incredibly stilted whenever Harry comes up . . . it's uncomfortable for me.

"Everything doesn't revolve around YOU, Remus!" Danger snapped out loud. Mentally, Remus winced as he felt an intangible door slam shut. Physically, he watched dejectedly as Danger snapped her book shut with a BANG and stalked up the stairs to her dormitory.

Danger . . . he tried to call, but no response was heard; Remus doubted she could even hear him. Nice one, Moony, he berated himself sarcastically. You just went and alienated the one person who loves you. Good job.

Saddened, Remus turned back to his reading, but his heart wasn't in it; he must have read the same sentence about the incantation to animate an object a hundred times without taking it in at all . . .

I've got to talk to Danger, he decided. This is impossible.

She's had time to calm down; hopefully she's not still mad at me, it was such a small thing . . .

I'm sorry, he said mentally, and was relieved to find their mental "door" open once again.

In fact, his voice was echoed by another saying the same thing.

God, I really made a fool of myself, didn't I? asked Remus rhetorically—just as Danger asked the same thing, in the same words even.

The double coincidence was too much, and inaudible laughter resonated across their bond.

I'm sorry for being so pushy, Remus said once they both had calmed down.

It's fine, Danger replied, and Remus was sure that if she was present, she would have waved a hand in dismissal. And I'm sorry for overreacting. It's just been a lot to take in at once lately, I guess.

Do you regret this bond? Remus asked, worried.

No, not at all! Danger's response was vehement. I love it. Just like I love you. Never forget that. People do argue sometimes, you know.

As I just found out.

Well, yeah. Anyway, I can't tell you what's up with Harry, but he can. Ask him. He likes you more than the other Marauders, if you haven't noticed.

Will do. A mental caress, and the connection dwindled a bit.

Remus stood up and walked over to the green-eyed boy. "Er, Harry?"

"Yeah, Remus?" he responded quietly, looking up from his textbook—looks like something on advanced Defense.

"I've noticed something's, well, up with you," Remus said quietly. "I asked Danger, and she said she knows about it, but she wouldn't tell me. She thought I should ask you—so, here I am."

Harry stiffened at this, but relented soon thereafter. "What caused your suspicions?"

Truth is more unbelievable than any lie, in this case. "Ever since that night, Danger and I have shared a— well, I guess you could call it a sort of bond. We can communicate mentally, sense each other's emotions, stuff like that. I made a mental comment about your attitude towards Sirius. Danger dismissed it, but I could tell she was lying, so . . ."

The black-haired boy smiled. "Far be it from me to interfere with a soul bond," he said lightly. "I'm kind of trying to finish this right now, so I'll explain myself fully tonight in the Den." He leaned forward and whispered, "stealth mode, thank you, Godric; an hour from now," in Remus's ear. The werewolf nodded his understanding. "Danger can fill you in on the basics until then . . ." he paused, then grinned wickedly . . . "Professor Lupin."

What's he talking about?

Short version: He's James and Lily's orphaned son from the future, born July 31, 1980. You were his third-year Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. As Remus heard this, he gaped, wide-eyed, at Harry.

"Danger told you, then?" Harry said with a chuckle.

"Y– yeah. How'd you know?"

"Apart from your gaping like a gormless idiot? Your eyes changed color for a moment."

Interesting . . . So, can you tell me more about his life?

Of course. It's not pretty, you know, Danger replied wistfully.

Mental conversation about the true Harry James Potter filled the next half an hour; by the time Harry got Remus alone in the Den to explain, there wasn't much left to talk about.

"So that's why you act how you do around James and Sirius," Remus said after Harry finished his explanations. "You know how they turned out, you miss them, you love them but you can't let them know that, you're disappointed in them . . ."

"Exactly," said Harry with a sigh. "And let me tell you, it hasn't been easy. Lily knows—she figured it out herself, in fact. James doesn't, nor does anyone else except Danger. Please keep it that way."

"Of course."

Remus walked up to his dormitory, still trying to get his head around the fact that he had taught Harry the Patronus Charm at thirteen—when at sixteen, he himself couldn't manage anything more than some mist.

Of course, I haven't tried it since I met Danger . . .

---

Sirius, meanwhile, continued his lonely existence, completely oblivious to the change in Remus's attitude towards Harry. Again, one day, he tried to apologize.

"Remus, I—"

"Save it, Sirius," the latter mumbled. "Like I said, it's not me you need to apologize to. Who did your little stunt almost kill again?" He walked off, not expecting an answer.

Snape.

Oh, Merlin, I have to apologize to Snape.

This is not going to be pretty, he thought with a grimace.

And yet . . . Sirius knew he would do it. Even if Snape made him get down on his knees and beg for forgiveness, he would. The prospect of humiliation in front of his worst enemy was jarring, certainly, but in the face of alienation it didn't seem all that bad.

Because I value Moony's friendship just that much.

Is this what James was talking about, how some things just seemed so petty to him now?

And it was for that reason, seeking Snape, that Sirius Black entered the library for the first time all term.

He was easy enough to spot—the Marauders' appellation of "greasy-haired git" did have some truth to it, after all—sitting at a table, going over potions notes with—

Sirius pinched himself to make sure he wasn't in some weird dream. Lily Evans? James's Chosen One helps Snivellus with Potions homework?

At this shocking revelation, a few thoughts warred for dominance in his head.

One: Snape can't be that evil if Evans works with him. That thought was silenced very quickly.

Two: I should tell James about this. Maybe he'll stop mooning over her. That, Sirius decided, wouldn't be a good idea either; he would likely decide Snape had somehow bewitched his 'precious Lily flower', and go back into an all-out crusade against the git. And considering that's what got me here in the first place . . . bad idea.

In the end, Sirius decided to do nothing other than what he had planned. He walked up to their table.

"Sn– Severus, could I speak to you for a moment?"

Snape looked up from his Potions homework, highly annoyed, and sneered. "I'm listening, Black, even though I somehow doubt you have the mental capacity to say anything that won't get me killed. Speak."

"In private, I mean."

Snape let out a single, harsh bark of laughter. "You expect me to fall for that? You're even thicker than I thought, Black. You have nothing to say that would interest me, so I'm sure you can say it in front of everyone."

Guess he's never heard of a Privacy Spell, then. However embarrassing this is . . . Sirius forced himself to remember why he was here. "Fine, Snape. I wanted to apologize to you for my actions on the seventh." Snape snorted; Sirius continued with an effort. "I didn't think—" (another snort, "Since when did you ever think?"—) "about the consequences. I may hate you, but I don't want you dead."

Snape scoffed. "And I'm supposed to accept that? With your reputation? Since when have you ever apologized to me?"

Sirius was rather peeved by now. I see what James meant . . . "What would you have me do, then?"

"On your knees, Black."

He sighed and, with a great effort, unbent his pride enough to get down on one knee. "Please forgive me," he said evenly, staring at Snape.

"Both knees."

Sirius did as he was told. I'm never going to live this down. Shouldn't've even thought it . . . "Severus Snape," he said formally, recalling the pureblood customs his mother had tried to drum into him just this past summer, "I beg your forgiveness for my hasty, ill-considered actions."

Snape raised an eyebrow. If Sirius didn't know him better, he would have thought him impressed beneath his scowl. "Good enough, Black," he spat.

"Thank you, Severus." Sirius stood up and rushed out of the library as quickly as he could, trying to ignore the numerous stares he was getting.

I am never, ever doing anything to warrant that again.

---

The story of Sirius's rather publically humiliating apology spread like wildfire across the Hogwarts gossip network, and most of the Gryffindors who had scorned him espoused now a grudging respsect. He had lost most of his image as a 'bad boy,' though. "The Sirius Black I knew wouldn't have apologized like that," he heard one giggling girl say shrilly to another, a few weeks after the incident.

"Being famous—notorious, whatever—isn't all that fun, is it?" asked Harry, who was passing, with a wry grin.

"No," Sirius muttered darkly, "it isn't."

"People are so fickle. One day you're the hero of the world, the next you're a deluded attention-seeking psychopath." He winked. "I speak from experience, of course."

"Huh?"

"Oh, never mind. I'll just say this: never, ever, ever get on the bad side of a reporter named Rita Skeeter . . . or conduct any important conversations in the presence of a beetle. She's an Animagus. Been bitten by that particular bug more than I care to say."

"I'll remember that." And just who is this Harry Potter, to have been the subject of a reporter's attention? Especially when I'm sure nobody knows him from before this year?

Harry sighed, looked around, and furtively cast a Privacy Spell. "Listen, Sirius, I think you've learned your lesson. On, er, 'Moony's night' next week, be in the common room after your last class." He cancelled the spell and walked off.

And I think that makes everyone, Sirius realized happily. Lily had forgiven him the night of his apology; Ron, Hermione, and Ginny the next day, as it started to make the rounds of gossip. Peter had taken another day, and Remus two more than that. The latter conversation was rather memorable . . .

"Padfoot, we need to talk," Remus said quietly as they both walked up to the dorms.

Sirius sighed. "I'm so sorry, Moony," he said feelingly. "I don't know what to say to you. You're right, I did betray your trust. And I hate myself for that. I always treasured my friendship with you guys, especially because my family are such idiots, and now I've gone and done something stupid and it's not there anymore. I hate it, but I guess I deserve it."

Remus looked at him sharply. "Look at me, Sirius," he said. Sirius did so, meeting his gaze unflinchingly. "Listen. I've spent the last week thinking about this . . . incident. Ever since I was bitten, I've always believed I would be unable to have real friends. No real life, just sort of trudging along, trying to find work with the rare accepting employer, never with a girlfriend, never married, never befriended.

"Then, in second year, you guys confronted me about my condition. And for the first time, I had friends—real friends, who understood who I was and didn't hate me for it, who, really, would do anything for me. It was an amazing feeling.

"And then you went and told Snape. Part of me wants to believe, unrealistically, that you did it deliberately. That you were trying to hurt me. Because that's how everyone else feels about werewolves. Part of me wants to throw away this friendship, just pretend like the past five years didn't happen, because it wound up putting me at such risk." He paused for a long moment. "But, when it came right down to it, I couldn't do that. You guys are the three people who have stood by me when no one else did, and I can't just forget what you mean to me.

"And, well, everyone makes mistakes. You, Sirius Black the Great, are no exception. Yours was an extremely large mistake, an extremely high-consequence, foolish, hurtful one—but it was still a mistake. I know you, and I know you wouldn't have done something like that on purpose.

"So I guess what I'm trying to say is . . . against all odds, I forgive you, Padfoot. All I hope is that you've learned your lesson.

It had been, with absolute certainty, the best day of Sirius's life. It was a bittersweet memory, to be sure, tinged as it was with self-vilification for his actions . . . but it also echoed with the bonds of friendship that bound the Marauders together, and it marked what Sirius thought were some of the most important lessons he had learned.

Those thoughts stopped as another rose to the surface: Since when do I act so grown-up? Sirius laughed mentally.

Aletha gave him a scathing glare as she walked by. I think she's forgiven me too, to be honest. She just hasn't come right out and said it. That glare was positively tame for her. The two had risen to a mere "normal" low-point in their tumultuous relationship, and Sirius was confident they would recover.

In time.

---

The next full moon night was November 6. As promised, Sirius returned to the common room, along with James, Remus, Peter, and Lily, just after his last class (Transfiguration). Harry was there, and he smiled as he saw them. "Follow me, guys," he whispered. The six walked to the fireplace, and Harry cast a Privacy Spell around them.

"I'm going to say something to open the secret passageway," he said, mainly for Sirius's benefit. "You won't see it until you're in it. It's just to the right of the fireplace. Got it?"

Five nods answered him.

"Great." A wave of Harry's wand, and the foggy boundary of the Privacy Spell disappeared. "Stealth mode," he whispered, so quietly none of the Marauders except Remus heard it. "Thank you, Godric." He walked toward the invisible opening. "Wait at least twenty seconds between people coming down, unless you want to land on top of each other," he said with a wink—and disappeared.

With a bit of blind groping for the entrance, Sirius managed to find the large, well-concealed hole and make his way down it. Wheeeee! Partway down, he transformed into Padfoot, and wound up landing on all four feet. Padfoot barked happily, barely looking around the lavish bedroom he had landed in as he followed the trail of Harry's scent out the door and into a room with a padded floor and no furniture . . .

Huh? Padfoot retransformed and gave Harry a very puzzled glance. Harry ignored it. "Circle of eleven comfortable chairs, please," he said, and the room complied.

This place is wicked!

"Great, we're all here." Harry cleared his throat. "Be welcome, all, to this den-night," he said formally, then laughed. "In all seriousness, this place is officially called the Heart of Hogwarts, but we just call it the Den. Four bedrooms, a library, a kitchen (which the house-elves know about), a Quidditch pitch, and a bathroom." He pointed to each room as he mentioned it. "All of them lead somewhere in the castle; so far, though, the only ones we know are bedrooms to common rooms and kitchens to kitchens. To get out, you say a password: 'Thank you,' and the name of the Founder corresponding to the color of the room."

"And there's a portrait named Alex in the Slytherin bedroom," put in Hermione.

"Bloody annoying when you actually want to know anything," Ron muttered. "Speaks in so many riddles . . ."

"Well, it's more the fact that he's there, isn't it?" Hermione said, a bit shrilly.

Harry, who could sense another argument brewing, raised his voice slightly as he continued to explain. "Anyway, feel free to do whatever you want. Have fun. Though I do seem to recall an offer by the Marauders . . ."

Sirius looked at James, who moved his hands in Marauder hand-sign. Teach them Animagus, he signed. Lily made us.

Sirius shook his head bemusedly. "All right, Evans, you win," he sighed. "I still don't know how you managed to 'make' James do anything, especially that, but hey . . ." He trailed off.

Lily cleared her throat. "I think you mentioned teaching us something?"

"Er, yeah," said James. "Anyway. Animagus. Basic overview. Okay: there's a pretty simple scrying spell to figure out your form—I think it's part of the seventh-year Transfiguration curriculum. After that, you have to figure out some pretty long spells to change each part of your body—arms, legs, torso, head. That takes a while, because they're highly dependent on the physiology of your animal, which means a lot of research." He grimaced. "Then you have to come up with your final incantation, which basically ties everything together. You can use a premade one or do your own, and I think they're supposed to have a bit about your personality in them as well. Finally, there's a potion you have to make—most finicky thing I've ever done—"

"I can probably do it," offered Lily.

James's eyes lit up. "Actually, you probably could," he said, relieved. "You're the best potioneer we have here, though I think Aletha comes close. Anyway, that potion basically puts you into a state so you can make the transformation without your wand the first time. After that, you need the incantation but not the potion, and you can gradually start shortening it until you're transforming quickly and silently. Like this." He made a simple sign to the other Marauders—fist closed, thumb sticking out between index and middle fingers. Transform. Suddenly, in place of James, Sirius, and Peter were the stag Prongs, Grim-like dog Padfoot, and grey rat Wormtail.

"Amazing," breathed Lily.

"Wicked," was Ron's opinion.

The Marauders transformed back into human shape with a small pop.

"Is there any danger of getting stuck in your form?" asked Hermione.

"Only if nobody knows it's you," said Sirius. "If you mess up your head incantation, you can become an animal without a human brain, so that you don't know to change back. The changing back is really easy—it's just reditio ipse—but someone has to know to do it on you."

"Sounds good," said Ginny excitedly. "Let's get started!"

James conjured a simple mirror with a wave of his wand. Remus explained its use. "Look into the mirror, point your wand at it, and say, revelaro animalis." He handed it to Hermione.

"Harry, Ron, and I have already done it in Transfiguration," she said. "Black wolf, red hawk, and I'm a cat."

Sirius gave a short bark of laughter. "Professor McGonagall in the making," he snickered.

"Oh, shush, you. Anyway, Ginny, want to try it?"

Ginny took the mirror without a word. "Revelaro Animalis!" She stared at it, completely motionless, for about five seconds, then blinked a few times and smiled. "I'm some sort of big red cat with pointy ears and a short little tail."

"Sounds like a lynx," said Hermione absently. She suddenly seemed to reconnect with the situation. "Ginny, that's great!"

The red-haired girl smiled even wider. "Thanks, Hermione. Anyway . . . Remus, you next?"

Remus looked at the mirror a bit suspiciously before taking it. "Do werewolves even have Animagus forms?"

"Only one way to find out," said James with an adventurous look on his face. "Try it."

Remus took a deep breath and pointed his wand at the mirror. "Revelaro Animalis!" Again, the five-second blank stare was followed by a few rapid blinks and a smile. "I'm a lion," he enthused. "Looks like the Gryffindor mascot."

Danger was next. "Grey wolf," she said after scrying for her form. "Just like Moony, but without the werewolf features."

Aletha found her form to be a winged horse. "Not a thestral, just a normal horse with wings . . ."

"Darn," muttered Harry. "Guess you might still have to ask for directions sometimes, then." He winked at her.

"Do Animagi actually work that way?" Hermione asked curiously. "That you get elements of animal form in human form?"

"A bit," said Sirius. "I can smell things pretty well as a human. Generally lets me know when people are lying—they give off different scents. I'm pretty sure you two wolves will be the same. The others, no idea. It's not documented in any of the books."

"Let's see about me, then," Lily said as she took the mirror. "Revelaro Animalis!"

She was a tiger, and oddly enough, she blushed a bit as she said it.

James looked properly abashed, but Sirius cracked up laughing. "I knew—" gasp— "there was something—" gasp— "to James calling you—" gasp— "Tiger Lily!" Several other members of the group laughed at that as well. Sirius didn't stop for a full minute.

"Now that we've gotten all that out of our system," Remus said mock-sternly, "why don't we continue? Moonrise is in just a few hours."

"All right," sighed James. "Step two. The part we hated."

He paused dramatically and waved his wand at the door to the library. A few seconds later, a small stack of books came through.

"Research."

Hermione and Danger's eyes lit up; Remus smiled slightly; Ron just groaned aloud. "Let's see," muttered Hermione as she looked at the book titled. "Feline—that'd be me, Remus, Ginny, and Lily. Canine is Harry and Danger." She tossed them the second book. "Equine would be Aletha." Another book flew through the air. "And avian is for Ron." The last, very heavy book hit him on the forehead.

"Hey! What was that for?"

"Just seeing if you were paying attention." Hermione smirked. "Quidditch reflexes and all that." She paused and turned to look at the Marauders. "All right, now what?"

"Now you look up spells for your forms. Write down anything that looks appealing. You need incantations for your arms, legs, torso, head, everything. Good luck." He winked and headed out the door to the Quidditch pitch, Sirius in tow.

Harry could hear barks and yips coming from the green door for nearly an hour.

Ron groaned as he turned yet another page. "Merlin, it shouldn't be legal for words to have this many letters."

Hermione grinned benignly at him. "Oh, it's not nearly as bad as you say. Don't be such a hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobe."

Ron grimaced. "What the bloody hell is THAT?"

"One who fears long words," quipped Danger.

Aletha seemed to be trying valiantly, but in vain, to control her emotions. It was only a few seconds before she snorted and soon completely broke down laughing.

"Guess it could be worse," muttered Ron, a bit red around the ears as he returned to his reading.

---

As moonrise approached, Remus grew more and more nervous. He could acutely feel the pull of the moon just off the horizon . . .

Finally, three minutes before moonrise, the book on felines dropped from his hands and fell to the floor with a muffled bump. (Since there were four felines in the group, Hermione had managed to dredge up another copy of the book for Remus to read.) Danger, I—

"Come on, Moony," she whispered aloud, guiding Remus to the Gryffindor bedroom. I know you don't want to be in front of everyone while you transform. Come on, love. He followed tiredly.

Remus managed to stumble inside the red door before he collapsed on the bed. Danger shut the door gently and kneeled next to him, taking his hands and hers and waiting, stoically.

The moon rose. Animagus and werewolf bore the flashes of pain together, talking of everyday things for comfort, as Remus's body twisted and warped into the form of the wolf.

Finally, it was over. Moony gave a wolfish grin. Thank you, Danger, resounded his voice inside her mind; it sounded quite sincere.

You're welcome, she replied. I understand that this is a very private thing for you, you know.

It is. But not from you. Never from you.

Wolf and tamer returned side-by-side to the common room of the Den.

The remaining few hours of the day were spent in amicable relaxation. Ron had thought to bring his chess set, shrunk in his pocket, and he played a few games. Hermione read a bit as well. But best of all, upon suggestion by Ginny, everyone told stories.

When it comes right down to it, we don't know each other all that well, Remus realized. The Marauders had quite a deep bond, but they had known the time-travellers for less than two months, and one of those had been spent in ignorant hatred. Lily and Aletha, too, were new to the group, and they continued to be amazed at some of the things the others took for granted—for instance, James's Invisibility Cloak.

So they told stories. True stories, of course, though Sirius's and Ron's were sometimes a bit embellished—but entertaining ones all the same. Our lives are anything but normal. Remus noticed how Harry told as much as he could, going into quite a bit of detail about how he had, for instance, helped someone smuggle out a dragon—without mentioning that it was Hagrid who had owned the beast. He talked mostly of mundane things, funny things, the pranks more than the life-altering experiences.

But that's only because there's no way he could mention them without mentioning the future. Which I'm sure he will. Eventually.

The Marauders, in turn, shared some of their own stories; Ron in particular was struck dumb by the preparation and flawless execution that went into many of their escapades. "Fred and George could stand to learn a thing or three from you guys," he said at one point.

"Who're Fred and George?" Sirius asked.

"My prankster brothers." And, of course, this prompted another round of stories about the time when Fred had put a shrinking charm on Percy's underwear . . .

Finally, though, the store of stories was exhausted, the eyelids half-closed. Ginny closed the den-night, again in the formal voice that had become, somehow, not quite such a joke anymore. I think we all realize we're involved in something bigger and more important than ourselves, here . . . "I bid you good night and fair dreams," she said. "May this night rest us all, and we rise in the morning stronger for it." She smiled widely. "Good night, everyone."

Various mutterings of "Good night" were heard in reply as the members of what would become the Pack drifted peacefully off to sleep.

---

Sirius sighed and looked around the common room, trunk in hand. "Well, this is it," he said heavily. "Christmas break, and then only five more terms to prank the Slytherins before we're gone for good."

"Cheer up, mate," said James. "You are coming home with me, you know. Not to mention five terms is quite a while."

Sirius cracked a wide grin at that knowledge being brought back to the surface. "I know. Your folks have really been good to me. Completely unlike my parents; it's been kind of unreal, sometimes . . ." In truth, his sobriety had hardly anything to do with what he said; Sirius had just been a bit subdued ever since the incident with Snape and Remus. The forgiveness of his friends had meant quite a lot to him, and he still played more than his fair share of pranks—and got more than his fair share of detentions for them—but he couldn't seem to get rid of the niggling voice in the back of his mind that kept saying, you almost killed Snape . . .

Despite what some might say, Sirius Black did indeed have a conscience, and his brush with disaster had helped him to realize just how hurtful some of the Marauders' escapades had been. In fact, not one of his pranks in the past month and a half had specifically targeted Severus Snape.

For those who knew him, this was nothing short of a miracle.

The unthinkable has happened! Sirius Black is growing up!

I guess this was bound to happen eventually.

Smiling a bit more sincerely, Sirius followed the other three Marauders out to the "horseless" carriages and down to the train.

To his surprise, Harry, Ginny, Ron, Hermione, and Danger were waiting for them.

"We couldn't let you go home without saying goodbye, could we?" asked Danger with a smile.

Remus blushed a bit. "No, I guess not. I'll ask my parents if you can come over during the holidays; I would've invited you, but our house is pretty small and it might've gotten a bit cramped . . ."

"No worries, Remus. Until I see you again." She smiled and kissed him.

Remus hugged her tightly. "I love you, Danger," he whispered. "Stay safe."

"I love you too, and don't worry, I will." Besides, we still have this, right?

Indeed we do. "See you on the fourth, if not before!"

The train whistled warningly. "And that's our cue," said James. "Bye, guys!" he shouted as he rushed for the door of the train.

The five remaining on the platform waved at the departing engine, and the four Marauders inside it, as the Hogwarts Express made its way over the horizon.

---

The next few days passed rather like the time before September first for the five Gryffindor friends remaining at Hogwarts. Hermione researched the Founders; Ron played chess, Exploding Snap, and generally had fun; Harry practiced his spellcasting in the Room of Requirement and studied advanced Defense for the D.A. He planned to start them on Patronuses after the holidays; most of the members (including, since late October, James and Sirius, who had worked as diligently as anyone) had been quite excited to hear this.

There were only a few other students staying at Hogwarts, and none of them were Gryffindors; with the war in full swing, most parents wanted their children where they could keep an eye on them. This suited the five just fine; they wound up spending nights in the Den together, working some on their Animagus transformation spells (Hermione had managed both arms and legs, Harry just the arms) or exploring the Den . . .

Until, three days after Remus left, Danger woke up with a rash on her face and a blistering fever.

Hermione was the first in the Den to notice. Danger groaned as she tried to sit up. ". . .mione . . . I . . . Remus . . ." she mumbled feebly; it seemed to be taking all her effort just to say those few words.

"Danger, what's wrong?" Hermione asked shrilly, worriedly. Her father's wedding ring—the ring Danger had given her—was burning on its chain against her chest.

". . . hot . . . cold . . . can't move . . ."

"We have to get you to Madam Pomfrey!" Hermione shrilled. "Harry! Ron! Ginny! WAKE UP!"

"Wh't is't?" Ron mumbled.

"Danger is really, really sick!" Hermione was almost hyperventillating now.

The three woke up in a flash. "Calm down, Hermione," placated Ron, giving her a hug. "It'll be okay. You'll see."

Ginny went over to feel Danger's forehead. "She's burning up!"

"Really bad fever, feels like," said Harry. "Muggles get those sometimes, but I've never heard of one on a witch. Library's exit goes to the Hospital Wing. Let's carry her there."

"What's a fever?" Danger muttered. "Some kind of animal or something?"

It was only with a very sincere effort that Ron and Ginny reined in their laughter. "She's delirious," Hermione explained quietly as she continued to wring her hands anxiously, hoping not to elicit another strange reaction. "She doesn't know what she's saying."

Harry, Ron, and Ginny picked up the feverish girl—Ron almost dropped his hold as he realized how high her temperature was—and walked as quickly as they could to the exit from the library, concealed behind a bookshelf. At least Hermione had the presence of mind to open the door.

"Thank you, Rowena," Harry breathed as they reached the right spot. His heart sank as the opening was revealed. It was large enough for one person—and that person had to be conscious enough to jump. He set Danger down and told Ron and Hermione to do the same. "There's not enough room for one of us to carry her, and she has to be able to jump to go up . . . I don't know what to do."

"Danger?" asked Ginny quietly. "Can you walk in there and jump?"

"Don't wanna," she muttered. "Hate bicycle pumps."

"I think we need another solution here," Ron noted. He would have been laughing uproariously had the situation not been so worrisome.

Harry ran a hand through his hair nervously. He thought for a few seconds, twirling his wand anxiously with the other hand. The simple, repetetive action made him wonder what Moody would say about 'elementary wand safety' if he saw it . . . Moody . . . Defense Against the Dark Arts . . . the—

"I've got it," he said, unsmiling. "Act now. Talk later." He pointed his wand at Danger, who didn't even seem to register the stick of wood now pointing in her direction, and concentrated hard. "Imperio!"

The other three stared silently, open-mouthed, as Harry supported a glassy-eyed Danger to stand, step inside the passageway, and jump very slighly. She was whisked away by the magic of the Den.

Harry smiled very slightly. "Success," he said, tiredness creeping into his voice. "Come on, everyone, let's go up."

Four people, four jumps, and all of them were once again standing around a prostrate, feverish Danger—but this time in a place where she could be helped. Harry ended the Imperius as soon as he saw that Danger had arrived safely in the hospital wing. Hermione caught her as she sagged to the ground.

"Madam Pomfrey!" shrieked Hermione. "Come quickly!"

The aforementioned matron burst out the door of her office, skidding to a stop as she surveyed the scene before her. "My goodness, what has happened here?"

"Danger has a really high fever," said Harry with more than a bit of worry in his voice. "We don't know what's wrong with her?"

"And how did you get her here? The doors are locked." Seeing their apprehensive faces, she quickly added, "Oh, it doesn't matter for now. Let's get her checked out." A wave of Madam Pomfrey's wand, and Danger floated onto one of the sterile white hospital beds. The matron cast a spell on her, and Danger's body glowed with various colors.

"Health Diagnostic Charm, I think," Hermione explained. "I've read something about them."

Danger's whole body glowed red, with pockets of magenta around her joints and small dots of it placed variously on her skin.

"Bloody hell," cursed Ron. "I don't know anything about that charm, but I think it's pretty obvious that doesn't look good."

"No," agreed Madam Pomfrey as she finished her examination, "it doesn't. Miss Granger has a fever of forty-three degrees. I do not know what is causing it, but if it continues for much longer, she likely will not survive." Four anguished stares met her gaze. "Also, the rash on her face is a telltale sign of something I need to check for." The matron took a small glass vial and used her wand to painlessly siphon off a bit of blood from Danger's right forearm. She walked over to her office, pulled down a box, and placed a few shavings of the silvery-looking substance inside in the vial.

The blood hissed and spitted slightly.

Madam Pomfrey sighed. "It is as I feared," she said. "Miss Granger apparently has a condition called lupus. I have no idea how she contracted it, since she tested normal last time she was in the hospital wing. Normally the disease is present from birth."

Hermione's eyes lit up. "And when was Danger last in here?" she asked.

"November the tenth," said Madam Pomfrey crisply. "I believe it was the result of an accident in Potions."

The bushy-haired girl sighed, defeated. I thought it might have something to do with her connection to Remus . . . oh, well, it was worth asking.

Suddenly, Danger stiffened on the bed. Five heads immediately turned in her direction, watching anxiously to see what could have caused the change.

A few seconds later, she started jerking spasmodically, her fisted hands bent back at the wrists. Hermione looked on in horror as Madam Pomfrey confirmed her fears. "She's having a seizure," the mediwitch said, forcing her voice to stay calm and professional. "There's nothing we can do about it, just wait for it to end."

Amazingly enough, it was Ron who had the presence of mind to cast Cushioning Charms on the area—a mere second before they were tested as Danger's head came into contact with the headboard on her hospital bed.

Hermione clutched at her hair in anxiety.

Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse.

It did.

Here's to hoping . . .

---

Meanwhile, Remus Lupin slowly woke up in his house at number seven, Leo Lane.

Merlin, I don't want to get up, don't have the energy . . . just want to sleep, and sleep some more . . .

He tried to move his legs in order to get out of bed, but he just couldn't muster the necessary force.

Oh, well. Staying here is fine by me, he thought groggily. After all, I've still got company. Danger?

No response.

Danger? Are you there?

Still nothing.

Panicking, Remus opened his mind to hers and tried to determine what was going on. What he found didn't comfort him at all. Danger's mind felt jagged, with rough edges and swirling colors and sounds that made no sense at all; Remus was sure the Danger he knew was in there somewhere, but confused, warped by some force outside her control . . .

He verbally characterized the situation with one short, pungent word.

At the same time as his mother walked in.

"Remus," she scolded absently. "Language." But as Katherine Lupin took one look at her son, the slightly stern expression faded into one of deep disquiet. "Remus, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," the werewolf mumbled. "Just tired, really tired, cold, and worried. Why d'you ask?"

"You're really pale, honey," his mother replied anxiously. "And this . . . you look like you've gone through a bad transformation or something, and I'm worried about you. What are you worried about?"

Full truth will cause questions. Best stick to partial. "Someone at Hogwarts named Danger—Gertrrude Granger—is really, really sick. Delirious, maybe a high fever. Could you ask Dad to Floo Madam Pomfrey and ask?"

"Sure, honey," Mrs. Lupin reassured, although she was frowning a bit in puzzlement. "John?" she called loudly.

John Lupin came running in. "What is it, d— oh my." Seeing Remus's condition had interrupted his earlier statement. "What's going on?"

Remus opened his mouth to reply, but his mother got the words out first. "Remus is really sick, like after a bad transformation, and he's worried about someone in the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts named Gertrude Granger. Could you Floo Madam Pomfrey and check?"

As John did so, Katherine sat down next to her son's bed and asked a few questions. "Can you check on Danger again? I don't know how you knew, but—"

Shrugging a bit, Remus obliged. He searched out Danger's mind and found it as before, but even less lucid. "She's a bit worse than last time," he muttered. "Less lucid."

Katherine's eyes shone with unasked questions, but she settled for just one. "What color are Danger's eyes?"

"Brown," Remus replied without thinking. Why do you want to know?

"Interesting," his mother beamed. "Very interesting indeed. Did you know your eyes got some brown in them when you checked on her?"

"No, I didn't." So I guess there is some physical manifestation of our connection.

"Is there anything you would like to tell me, Remus?"

"After I get better, Mum." If I ever do.

John removed his head from the fire and frowned. "Miss Granger is running a fever of forty-four degrees and is showing signs of a disease called lupus. She's in critical condition right now, and nobody knows what to do."

Upon mention of the word "lupus," Remus actually managed to sit up before lack of energy forced him back down again. "Get me to the Hogwarts Hospital Wing right now," he said fiercely, but internally he was wracked with anguish. This is because of me, I know it, lupus is related to lycanthropy . . . I never should've gotten involved with Danger, I can't do anything but hurt her! Hopefully I can at least make this better.

"Gladly," John said evenly. He threw a fistful of Floo Powder onto the flames. "Hospital Wing, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!" Again, he stuck his head into the flames.

Not a minute later, it came out again, this time with a slight smile. "Dumbledore will be here in a minute."

Good. At least I'll be able to help Danger now.

But he still couldn't shake the feeling that it was because of him she was like this in the first place . . .

Dumbledore and his phoenix arrived in a flash of flame. "Your curiosity could not have come at a more opportune time," he said gravely. "Please grab one of Fawkes' tail feathers and he will take you to the Hospital Wing."

Fawkes flew over to alight on Remus's shoulder. He tried to raise his arm to grab a feather, he really did, but he just couldn't muster the energy. "Can't," he whispered. "Too hard."

Katherine Lupin was at his side in an instant, supporting his arm up to grab onto Fawkes. "Thanks, Mum," he whispered, as Fawkes took him away in a whirlwind of fire.

When Remus opened his eyes, he was on a hospital bed next to—he turned his head slightly—Danger, with some sort of indicator spell on both of them. Danger was bright red and pink, while he was glowing faintly blue, with a grey patch on a familiar scar on his thigh . . .

"I'm going to push the beds together," Madam Pomfrey announced to the others; looking over, Remus recognized Harry, Ron, Ginny, and Hermione. "They're showing as practically opposite symptoms; let's see if physical contact helps." Suddenly, Remus found his hand in Danger's, and within a few seconds he felt normal again.

Not to mention hungry. A good sign, that. I never used to eat the day after my transformation.

But I still have to talk to Danger. I knew this was too good to be true.

Danger, too, was now better; she blinked a few times, groaned slightly, and fell peacefully asleep.

"Amazing . . ." breathed Madam Pomfrey. "Simply amazing. I've never seen anything like it in my life. Remus, do you mind if I take a blood sample to test something?"

"Not at all." When you're a werewolf, you get rather used to being poked and prodded.

The matron took some blood and repeated the silver test she had used for Danger.

"Remus?" she said, smiling. "You may want to see this. You're fine, by the way, you can get out of bed."

He did so, and walked over.

"Do you recognize the metal in this vial?"

Remus took a close look at it. It glinted in a way that was all too familiar—and frightening to him. "That's . . ." silver, but it can't be. "Is it really?"

"Yes, this is indeed silver, and your blood has indeed not reacted to it. You're not testing as a werewolf anymore. I believe you'll still transform, but perhaps without losing your mind . . ." She trailed off, apparently unsure of what to think.

"Interesting," Remus mused. "Talk to Dumbledore; he knows everything about my situation. And now, if you don't mind, I'd like to get out of here."

"Of course. Much as I'd like both of you to stay the night, I can't find any excuse for it, so you're free to go."

Remus whispered, "stealth mode," then said in a normal voice, "Thank you, Rowena."

"Young man, my name is not—" Madam Pomfrey stopped abruptly, for the object of her indignant retort was no longer in the room. "I'll never understand those teenagers, I swear . . ."

From just inside the entrance to the Den, Remus laughed quietly, before sobering as he remembered the reason he had come down here. Danger, we need to talk. Now.

It was an immense comfort when he heard the reply, delivered slightly groggily but with a mental smile: If you say so. Gryffindor bedroom, five minutes.

Five minutes of thumb-twiddling and solitary pacing later, Gertrude Granger fell out onto the crimson bed with a soft thump. She opened her eyes. "I love that slide. Anyway, Remus, what's up?"

Merlin, this is hard. "Listen, Danger, I knew this was too good to be true."

Danger's eyes blazed in fury. She had evidently caught the drift of his thoughts. "What?"

Remus gestured aimlessly. "This. Us. The taming. However hard I try, anything good I get always comes back to bite me in the arse." He sighed deeply and continued before Danger could retort. "Do you know why you had that fever, why you almost died? Do you know what Madam Pomfrey said?"

It took a few seconds for Danger to realize it wasn't a rhetorical question. "Go ahead, tell me."

"It's a disease called lupus!" he yelled. "Also known as the carrier form of lycanthropy! Now, where would you have gotten that except from me?" He was meeting her gaze fixedly now, almost daring her to contradict what he had said.

She shrugged her shoulders. "Why does it matter? I'm better now."

"Merlin, don't make this harder for me than it has to. I! Have! Hurt! You! Because of me, you got a disease that almost killed you. As much as I hate to say it, we're going to have to stop seeing each other. I don't want you to get hurt more by me!"

Danger, it seemed, had finally had enough. "Petrificus Totalus! God, men can be such IDIOTS! Consider this, Remus," she yelled, both mentally and verbally; if Remus had been able, he would have winced. "Do you remember what caused this? It was the SEPARATION! We've been like this for over two months, and it's never been a problem until now. The effects only hit after we had been APART for—what, three days? And in case you don't remember, it was MY CHOICE to wait for you outside that night, on the basis of a prophecy and a vision—because I love you, you idiot! And for the number of times we've said it, I damn hope the reverse is true!" She waved her wand, terminating the Body-Bind on Remus, and collapsed on the bed, breathing deeply.

Merlin.

She is thorough.

"Danger, of course I love you, and I mean it. And you're right; I didn't think things through. But try to see it from my point of view, will you? For ten years, I've been a bloodthirsty monster who can't get too close to people or he'll hurt them. Most people saw me as that all the time, and one night per month, it was actually true." His voice was sad by now. "Forgive me for noting the connection between my condition and yours and trying to act to keep you safe!" he snapped sarcastically.

"Look," he continued more softly after a moment's silence. "I'm sorry, and I suppose you have every right to hate me now. Please, though, try to understand."

A much longer silence followed. Finally, Danger spoke solemnly. "I don't hate you, Remus; never have, never could. I don't even hate what you did, because I understand why you did it—although if you had gone further pushing me away, I might not have been so understanding. And I definitely don't hate us, or our bond, or any of its consequences. Clear?"

"Crystal." Why do I always assume the worst in people?

"Glad we've got that cleared up," Danger said cheerily. She sighed. "I won't deny this is a lot to take in at once, or that it'll affect our relationship, but it's not an unwelcome lot, and I definitely hope it'll be a good effect."

Remus tried to smile, but it came out as more of a grimace. "To be completely honest, I think this is probably a sign or something; I mean, most couples don't have mysterious magic that saves one from a debilitating illness and will cause both of them to die if they're apart for more than a few days . . . really, as long as we stay together, this is a good situation for both of this. I just worry that you feel—forced into it or something, I guess."

Danger laughed. "Not at all, Remus! If I had found this out a while back, I can see how it might've been too much. But now?" Her voice dropped a bit. "It's not making us do anything we wouldn't do anyway."

Does she really mean . . .

Time enough to ponder that later.

"Thank you, Danger," Remus said as he gave her a hug highly remniscent of Molly Weasley, his voice dripping with emotion. I can't tell you how worried I've been about this.

"Saving you from your own idiotic impulses, that's my job," Danger teased.

Remus was content enough to respond in kind. "And a better person to do it, I couldn't ask for."

Here's to a 'future true', Remus thought quietly as they sat next to each other on the Gryffindor bed in silence.

Together.

---

Albus Dumbledore walked down High Street of Hogsmeade, his long white beard swaying slightly in the breeze.

An applicant for the post of Divination. Sibyll Trelawney, great-great-granddaughter of Cassandra Trelawney. And if Harry's future knowledge holds true, cerainly a Seer, though not a particularly talented one.

Madam Rosmerta, engaged as she was throwing out a rather boisterous alcoholic, caught his eye as he passed the Three Broomsticks. "Oh, hello, Professor!" she greeted jovially. "Would you care for a drink?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "Thank you, Rosmerta, but I am afraid I must decline. I have an appointment for an interview to fill a position on the teaching staff in just a few minutes."

Rosmerta smiled. "I understand, Professor. Any time."

He continued to walk down High Street, turning left onto a dingy side alley that led to his destination. The Hog's Head. Widely known as a rather dodgy bar, run by a rather dodgy man.

Also one of my greatest sources of information, considering the 'rather dodgy man' is my brother.

Dumbledore entered the bar, greeting Aberforth with nothing more than a stiff nod. It would do no good to invite unnecessary suspicion, after all. He ascended the stairs with muffled footsteps, reached the top, and walked to the door of room number seven. He chuckled softly at the number. Knowing Sibyll as I do, I would not be surprised if she asked for this room expressly.

He raised one hand and rapped on the flimsy door a few times. I should certainly hope this interview proves not to be so earth-shattering as it was in Harry's timeline . . .

Hopes, the aged Headmaster would soon discover, were such dangerous things.

The interview started ordinarily enough; Professor Dumbledore posed some basic questions about the principles of Divination, which Trelawney answered quite well, if a touch melodramatically. When he asked her to predict something, though, he received what would soon become a well-known indignant response: "The Inner Eye does not See upon command!"

"I see," Dumbledore said gravely, shaking his head slightly.

Trelawney seemed to sense the Headmaster's misgivings. "But wait . . ." she whispered, her voice even more misty and mysterious than before. "I see . . . death, lying ahead of you . . ."

Death lies ahead of us all, he thought with an inward grin. The "next great adventure," as it were. I must be honest with myself: I have seen no trace of the gift of Sight in Sibyll Trelawney thus far, and I certainly cannot make my staffing decisions on the basis of what could have happened.

After several more minutes of perfunctory questions that did no wonders for the faux Seer's prospects, Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Thank you, Sibyll. Your application is certainly appreciated. However—"

Whatever he was about to say, though, it never passed his throat, for Sibyll Trelawney had entered a trance-like state that warranted the Headmaster's complete attention. Her head lolled back, her eyes rolled in their sockets, and when she spoke, it was in the harsh tones he had heard just once before, in a memory . . .

"The One with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord emerges . . . born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies . . . marked for by the Dark One as an equal in a time out of memory, he will answer questions yet to be asked . . . and he will join unto eleven with power the Dark Lord knows not; but either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives . . . the One with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will emerge as the fourth moon wanes . . ."

As soon as Trelawney had said "The One—" in that harsh, mystic voice, Dumbledore had whipped out his wand and begun furiously casting a Silencing Ward around the room. If I had arrived here before her, I would have cast these then, but as I did not, I could not risk her suspicion during the interview . . . I can only hope they will not be tested. The wards flashed golden in activation just after "eleven".

Trelawney's eyes blinked, and when they reopened, they were back in their former positions. "So sorry, Headmaster, I think I must have dozed off . . ."

"Perhaps." I should not want to bolster her already highly inflated self-opinion, and the truth would only put her at greater risk. "Sibyll Trelawney, it is my pleasure to offer you the post of Professor of Divination at Hogwarts School of Witchraft and Wizardry. Winter term begins January the third; please be at the castle by the first so that you may organize your lessons." He stood in a clear dismissal.

"Thank you, Professor," Trelawney intoned as she also stood, shaking his hand. "I will see you on the first."

Remembering what had happened in the alternate timeline—at least, what he had told Harry had happened—Dumbledore surreptitiously cast a Silencing Charm on his feet as he walked to the door, then Banished it open with as much force as he could use without shattering it.

He was rewarded by a dull thud.

---

The brutish, shady man listening at the keyhole grinned excitedly. The Seer has made a prophecy, he thought with glee, and it concerns the Dark Lord. My master will reward me greatly for this information . . .

When the Seer's voice cut off, he thought nothing of it. Perhaps the old fool is just waiting for her to come out of her trance. Being a rather simple-minded man, the eavesdropper knew nothing of Silencing Wards; if he had, he might have known to quit while he was ahead.

As it was, though, he was struck completely off guard by the door thrust open with nary a sound's warning; the impact sent him careening to the floor, and as he struggled to get back on his feet, he found himself face-to-face with the business end of Albus Dumbledore's wand.

Not the best place to be, really.

"Walden Macnair," Dumbledore said levelly, though there was a hint of steel in his voice. "Taken to listening at doors, I see?"

Have to get out of here . . . no wards on this place, just need to Apparate . . .

"No matter." Dumbledore raised his wand slightly and said the first syllable of a spell. "Ob—"

Destination—the Riddle House. Macnair pictured the once-elegant manor house in his mind, the basement of which was now used as a safe house of sorts for the Death Eaters—

"—liv—"

Determination. He focused quickly on his intent to Apparate, to move through space to his destination, to do anything just to escape this bloody spell—

"—i—"

Deliberation. Turning on the spot, he forced himself into the compressing tube of nothingness—

"—ate!" The Memory Charm hit Macnair just as he disappeared.

A few seconds of compression later, Walden Macnair found himself between two shelves in the basement of the Riddle House—the only Apparation point in the building.

Why am I here, though?

Early in his career as a Death Eater, Macnair had made it a point not to seek out the Dark Lord's company any more often than absolutely necessary. The Dark One's temper could be volatile at best, and it was best not to brave his wrath without good reason—few survived.

As he wracked his brain, vague wisps of recollection drifted back to him . . . listening at the keyhole as Dumbledore interviewed a Divination candidate, learning something that would earn him great favor . . .

Now if I could only remember what it was!

Another idea floated into Macnair's rather empty head. The Dark Lord is the most powerful wizard alive . . . if my memory's been modified somehow, he could probably fix it.

His mind made up, Macnair walked to a stone in the corner of the basement surrounded by an iridescent, shimmering green barrier. He passed through it with nothing more than a slight shiver, knowing as he did that it would painfully kill anyone not Marked, and placed both his hands on the orb wedged between the walls, swirling with sickly dark green vapors. "I, Walden Macnair, do hereby request an audience with the Dark Lord."

The answer shot into his mind, a probing, high-pitched voice accompanied by no insignificant degree of pain. "Granted—at our meeting tonight, Macnair. You can wait like everyone else." A cackle, another, sharper burst of pain, and his mind was once again his own.

For now, I've done my part.

And with that thought, he Apparated back to his rural home.

---

Sleeping in his own four-poster bed for the first time in a week, Harry dreamed.

He was in a gleaming replica of Hogwarts, in a room off the Great Hall, with a man who looked like Scrimgeour telling him he must accept his heritage, and he would, if only he knew what it was . . . but this was a simple dream, forgotten long before sunrise.

Suddenly, the scene changed, and Harry found himself in a dark room lit by torches of green flame, sitting on a thronelike chair with what he knew to be dozens of his followers kneeling before him. "Rise, Macnair," he said, and when he spoke, it came out as a high-pitched, cruel sound . . . there was something wrong with this picture, but he couldn't figure out what it was . . .

Macnair rose.

"You asked to speak to me?" Again, the cruel voice almost daring one to contradict, to cower, to do anything not allowable—and suffer the consequences.

"Yes, my Lord." Barely a hint of nervousness in his voice, but his pitifully weak mind shows the truth. I am not impressed. "I have come because I have information that you should find most valuable."

"No, you have come out of fear of my wrath. But do tell. What is it that has made you single yourself out in such a dangerous way?" The last sentence was almost sarcastic.

"M– my Lord, I— don't remember."

"You don't remember. How amusing. There are ways to reverse a Memory Charm, you know . . . a potion, which I do not have and which takes days to make . . . and two faster methods: the finicky way and the painful way. Can you guess which I will use?"

It wasn't a rhetorical question. Lord Voldemort never asked rhetorical questions. "The first one, my Lord?"

"Tut, tut, Macnair." How amusing indeed. "You should know me better by now." Harry felt himself raise his wand; he was watching rather detachedly at the moment, neither knowing nor caring why "he" was doing what he was; he wasn't even sure time was passing normally. "Legilimens!"

A spiky, barb-covered mental probe penetrated the flimsy barrier of Walden Macnair's mind. It ground through images of no importance, searching for a suspiciously blank, smooth area—and finally found it. Digging very painfully through the nothingness, Voldemort's probe finally recreated the connection to the memory Dumbledore had partially suppressed. Sibyll Trelawney's harsh tones resounded through his mind, and through Harry's. The scene suddenly seemed to slow down as the words, repeated over and over, ingrained themselves into his memory . . .

The probe withdrew, barbs catching all the way out, and Macnair fainted. Harry surveyed him dispassionately. "I would torture you for your stupidity, but it seems I already have. Nott! Return Macnair to his home."

"Yes, my Lord," said one of the youngest Death Eaters there.

Harry felt himself snap his fingers, and he was suddenly in a closed room with no windows, no doors, and only a white circle on the stone floor. They will never suspect, he thought. They see me silent and simply wait, thinking I am simply testing their patience, never even considering that I have replaced myself with an illusion. The pitiful fools.

But that was of no importance. He had sought out privacy for a simple reason. My greatest treasures . . . Layering the room with layers upon layers of wards, activating the Incineration Curse on the walls, floor, and ceiling, he finally felt assured of his privacy. No precaution is too much for this.

Voldemort unlocked the huge mental vault door behind which he hid his most precious secrets, allowing the details of their existence, location, security, and his plans for them to fill his thoughts. If this upstart hero has the power to "vanquish" me, he must be able to destroy my Horcruxes. I shall have to make that impossible by hiding the two I keep with me where no one would find or suspect. The locket of my ancestors, in the cave perhaps . . . the diary I could entrust to Malfoy . . .

As he pondered the five facets of his immortality, the self-styled Lord Voldemort thought savagely of this "One" who could defeat him. As if! Even Dumbledore could not defeat me now. I'll have to kill him, of course, once I figure out who it is . . . and I will make my final Horcrux with his death instead of Dumbledore's; it seems fitting, after a fashion. Then, none will stand in my way!

Realization of what he had witnessed set in, and Harry pulled his mind away from the connection and woke with a start, his scar burning as it had not for nearly a year and a half.

---

Harry sat bolt upright, clapped a hand to his scar, and tried for a few minutes to get back to sleep . . .

Until he remembered what he had seen.

I can't believe it! I know all the Horcruxes now!

He couldn't hold his elation in anymore. "YES!" he screamed at the top of his lungs.

The noise even woke up Ron. "Whassa matter?" the red-haired boy mumbled sleepily.

Harry's grin threatened to extend past his ears. "I just had another scar-dream, only I actually found out something really important from this one."

Ron opened his eyes fully. "What?"

"Take a guess, Ron. What Voldemort-related things have I been worrying about for the past six months?"

"The Horcruxes?"

"Exactly!" Harry laughed. "All five of them! Ring, diary, locket, cup, and his wand. And I know where they are—well, where they are now, since Voldemort was planning on hiding a couple of them better. I'll explain more tomorrow; for now, I need to write this down before I forget it."

"That's great, mate! Really lucky."

"I don't think it was luck," Harry said levelly. "I think the emotions associated with finding out about the prophecy probably opened the link . . ."

"Prophecy?" Ron mumbled on the edge of sleep. "What prophecy?"

But he was snoring before Harry could answer.

Weird how that worked. Now that I think about it, I probably did hear Voldemort's thoughts from past dreams; it's just that none of them were worth remembering. And all that protection for the memories of the Horcruxes made them that much more distinct once he finally released them . . .

Harry had grabbed a quill and parchment and was scribbling, by wandlight, every detail he could remember from the dream. He paid special attention to the Horcruxes, trying to write down even the faintest thing he could remember—but the memories were fading fast, and he was sure he was forgetting a few details. Better than nothing, at least. The locket and diary had been kept at Voldemort's side in the past, but he now had plans for them—plans having to do with Bellatrix and Malfoy, Harry thought, but it didn't really matter, since he remembered those from the future. The ring, similarly, had been hidden at the Gaunt hovel for quite a long time.

It was the other two Horcruxes for which the information was most welcome. The cup, interestingly enough, had been hidden in the orphanage, concealed in the very wardrobe Dumbledore had set on fire. And the other one was Voldemort's wand.

The earliest part of the dream was hazy recollection of a recollection, but the connection seemed to have solidified just as Voldemort heard the prophecy, and as he played the words over and over in his mind, so too had Harry . . .

Maybe, Harry thought as he wrote, maybe we finally have a chance.

---

December 20 dawned like any other day on Christmas break in Potter Manor: very quietly. The kids were still sleeping, after all—

—until, around ten o'clock, two heavy-footed blurs known as James Potter and Sirius Black came barreling down the main staircase.

James's mother, Paige Potter, was waiting for them. She laughed softly and shook her head in bemusement. "I don't suppose I'll ever get you two to stop doing that," she said with an almost Dumbledoreish twinkle.

The two Marauders sported identical grins as they replied in unison. "No, we don't suppose you will."

Paige raised her eyebrows. "The two of you never cease to amaze me. Normally I'd only expect that sort of unison from twins. But that's beside the point." Her slight smile changed into a wide grin. "Happy birthday, James."

James grinned too. "Thanks, Mum."

"So, shall I ask Mopsy to fix your favorite breakfast?"

"Sounds good."

The house-elf in question needed no further prompting; she appeared with a pop, squeaked, "Your breakfast is being ready in just a few minutes, Master James, Siri!" and disappeared again.

Sirius laughed. "I've probably said this before, but your house-elf is so much nicer than Kreacher. Even if she does call me 'Siri'."

"Ah, Sirius, I don't think you've told me this one," said Paige eagerly. "Who is Kreacher?"

Sirius frowned in remembrance. "My family's house-elf. Used to follow me around constantly, muttering stuff designed to convert me to the family's elitist point of view." He mananged to smile. "Failed miserably, of course."

"Well, we're glad you're here now. Anyway, shall we go into the kitchen? Mopsy will have your breakfast done soon, and after that, James, there's something your father needs to talk to you about." Her voice was stern, but there was a teasing glint in her eyes.

James adopted a worried expression as they walked. "Good something or bad something?"

Paige gave a short bark of laughter. "Good something, definitely. Has to do with your coming of age. But an important something, serious something."

"Oh, so it has to do with me?" Sirius piped up.

Paige groaned. "That joke is dead, trampled upon, and buried. Please don't make an Inferius of it."

"Fine, fine. I'll leave James and Mr. Potter to their Seriously Serious Now-That-You're-Of-Age Discussion. For now—"

Charles Potter, James's father, walked into the kitchen, cutting off whatever Sirius might have had to say. "Good morning, boys. Happy birthday, James."

"Thanks, Dad."

Four plates appeared on the table as they sat down. "Breakfast!" shouted two voices.

Teenage boy, noun. A stomach on two legs, thought Charles as he ate with a smile.

The family ate in contented silence. Of course, I doubt those two have any room for words between their enormous bites . . .

Finally, four plates were polished off, the table was cleared, and father and son were walking into James's bedroom. Charles shut the door and layered the room with wards.

"What was that for?"

"That," Charles said heavily, "was to protect us. Now that you're of age, there's some information you need to know. Some of what I'm about to tell you is common knowledge, at least if you look in the right books, but there's an important bit that must be kept secret, not just for your sake but for your descendants'. Trust me, you'll understand when you get to it."

"Understood."

"All right." Charles conjured two chairs and sat in one of them; James took the other. "What do you know about the Hogwarts Founders?"

The apparent non sequitur took James completely by surprise. "Um. . . they founded the school, and Slytherin hated Muggle-borns? Not much more than that, to be honest."

"Binns hasn't gotten any more interesting, I see." Charles laughed slightly. "Each of the Founders had a special talent for wandless magic: Slytherin could speak to snakes, Hufflepuff could make plants grow, Ravenclaw had a wandless Healing power, and Gryffindor could control fire."

James said nothing, simply waited for his father to continue, as it was clear he had plenty to say.

"Furthermore, each of these talents was passed down to their descendants."

"Why isn't it easier to identify the Heirs, then? Just look for people with a certain ability . . . wait, do all the lines still exist?"

"Various reasons, and yes, they do. Would you ever think to just try to 'convince' a plant to grow, or try to heal someone with just a touch, if you didn't know you had the ability? Or if you never were around snakes, would you ever realize you were a Parselmouth?"

"Makes sense." That's Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Slytherin . . . what about Gryffindor? James voiced his question, and his father's eyes lit up.

"Ah, but Gryffindor was different. Fire is a basic element; it's rather chaotic, exactly the sort of thing suited to accidental magic. Now, would you like to be around a baby that threw fireballs when it was upset?"

James laughed outright.

"Didn't think so. Now, for this reason, Gryffindor's power was generally bound at birth by blood relatives; the tradition is to unbind it around the time of someone's majority."

"Why are you telling me all this, Dad? I mean, it's interesting, but—"

Charles's voice dropped. "Everything before now is no secret—few people know it, but it's described in all sorts of books; the one I know of is The Life and Times of the Hogwarts Founders. And now . . . well, I'll just demonstrate." He held out his hand.

James blinked. When he opened his eyes again, the hand was filled with a ball of fire. Gaping, he managed to stammer, "You're— I'm—"

Charles smiled genially and extinguished the flames. "Indeed, James. You are the Heir of Gryffindor."

Wow.

I just can't believe this. Who would?

And it's true. Amazing.

"Now, the binding is easy to undo, but tradition is for the father to say a few words beforehand. So, here goes. Quite honestly, I'm proud of you, James. I know you've always been a bit of a joker—the letters from McGonagall were quite entertaining sometimes—but you have a good head on your shoulders, strong values, and you're willing to act to defend those you love. It's a magnificent trait to have, and precious few do. So I guess what I'm trying to say is . . . James, you did well by us. Your mother and I couldn't have asked for a better son. I know you're going out into the world soon, and I'm confident you'll make a difference, because that's just who you are."

The sincerity of this little speech brought tears to James's eyes—a rare occurrence. "Thank you, Dad," he said thickly, walking over to give Charles a hug. "I'll do my best."

"That's all I ask. And now . . . listen closely, because you'll have to do this for your own children someday." He stood up and, motioning for James to do so as well, placed his hands on his shoulders. "By the power within me and the blood we share, I do hereby release any bindings that may be on the power of the line of Godric Gryffindor within you, James Tiberius Potter, my blood son. I charge you to use this power always for good, never for evil, and to remember that even the very wise cannot see all ends." Charles's hands tightened for a moment. "And also to remember that I love you and I couldn't be prouder of what you've become. Receive that power which is rightfully yours."

Later, James would be hard-pressed to find words to describe the experience. It felt as though some sort of inner flame had been awakened in him, filling his body to the tips of his fingers and toes with oddly comforting fire, then almost instantaneously fading but remaining as well . . .

He looked at a torch on the wall. Go out.

It went out.

Relight.

It lit up.

"Amazing. Thanks, Dad."

"As I said, it's rightfully yours." Charles sighed and adopted a serious expression. "Do you understand why this has to be kept a secret?"

Oh, yeah. That part. "Yes—it gives us an advantage if others don't know about the power, and if someone knows I have it they can trace it to my children, and theirs. But still—what good is a power like this if you can't use it?"

"That goes to your own good judgement. Which, against all evidence, I am still convinced you possess."

"So I can tell my friends, then?"

"If you would trust them with your life—and you mean that—then yes, you can trust them with this. If not, think hard before saying anything. And you should tell your wife, if and when you get married. As for using the power—if it'll save your life, obviously, use it. If you can use it without arousing suspicion, feel free. Again: good judgement."

"I understand, Dad."

"All right. One more thing." He took a ring James had never seen before off his right hand ring finger and held it out for him to take. It had a gold G engraved into some sort of opaque red stone, set on a gold band. "This is the Gryffindor signet ring," Charles explained. "I would advise against wearing it in public, since some people might recognize it. Whatever the circumstances, it's yours now."

"Thank you," James said sincerely.

"Hey, you only come of age once. And now for the less earth-shattering part of your birthday: Presents!"

James smiled as he left the room to rejoin Sirius and his waiting gifts. He would have so much to tell the Marauders when he got back to school . . .

---

Later that day, after all presents were opened and a few games of one-on-one Quidditch dutifully played, Charles took James aside again. "I want to show you something," he said, steering him in the direction of . . .

The family tapestry?

"Here we are. Look next to your name."

The Potter family tapestry was done in a light yellow with red writing (and now I know why), and rather like the ones owned by most old pureblood families, it listed names and dates of birth and death in a family tree.

One element of it, though, was unique to the Potter family: each name had a small symbol next to it—a cross, a star, or a hollow or filled flame. James's eyes were drawn to the symbol next to his own name (James, 1959–) as it morphed into the last of these.

I never asked what those meant, but I guess I know now.

"The tapestry is enchanted only to change when someone looks at it," Charles explained. "So you actually notice the changes."

"I wonder where Harry is on here . . ."

"Harry who?" Charles asked sharply.

"Harry Potter, one of the new kids at Hogwarts this year." James looked the tapestry up and down. "The only Harrys, Harolds, and Henrys on here are all long dead . . ."

"Same here. I don't know of anyone named Harry in our family, sorry."

"That's—" James stopped short. The tapestry was changing again.

Ever so slowly, a line of embroidery was stiching its way horizontally to the right of his name, as if to form a connection.

"What's that?" James whispered.

"Well, I certainly hope it's not what I think it is." Charles was frowning.

The line of stitching made a right angle turn after about an inch, so that it was now travelling down.

James's father fixed him with a piercing stare. "James Tiberius Potter! Did you do anything you shouldn't have—in that way?"

James knew exactly what way his dad was talking about, and he certainly knew that wasn't the cause of this problem. "No, Dad! Of course not!" He was horrified at the very thought. "Can we just wait for the tapestry to finish stitching? We don't even have all the information yet."

Having traveled another inch, the line of stitching stopped. Just below it, letters formed simultaneously.

Harry, and a hollow flame next to it.

And then, just below that, the life dates:

1980–.

"I think that's our first clue that something strange is going on here."

Charles sighed and forced a smile. "Well, James, I guess you're not at fault for this one. Not yet, at least."

The answers weren't all there yet, either. Continuing the horizontal segment of the line extending to the right of James's name, an inch of dashes formed more rapidly, and another name was magically embroidered into the tapestry at the end of it:

Lily Evans.

James burst out laughing. "SIRIUS VALENTINE BLACK!" he yelled. "COME HERE RIGHT THIS INSTANT!"

The sound of four padded feet running furiously echoed through the halls, and Sirius skidded around the corner in human form some ten seconds after James called for him.

Charles raised an eyebrow. "That did not sound like human footsteps." James gave him a Look that said quite clearly, there are some things better left unknown, and he finally relented. "All right, fine, I won't ask."

"Sirius," James half-snarled, half-laughed. "What did you do to the family tapestry?"

"What?" Sirius was bewildered. "I didn't do anything to it, I swear! I didn't even know you had one!"

"Oh yeah? Look at the last line, next to my name!"

Sirius did so, and cracked up just like James. "I didn't do it," he gasped, "but whoever did was brilliant! You and Lily Evans, honestly!"

James was smiling too, but when he spoke, it was in a level voice. "Look down, Sirius."

He did so, and stopped laughing, though a few chuckles still escaped. "Harry Potter? Your and Lily's son? That's impossible!"

"The tapestry doesn't lie, boys," Charles interjected. "And as far as I know, it can't be fooled. We don't know anything more than what's on it, but I'd say a thorough questioning of Harry is in order after you get back to school. Are you friendly with him?"

James grimaced in memory of their initial tension. "After some initial pratlike behavior, yeah. Come to think of it, he always seemed disappointed in us when we acted up, which would definitely make sense if he was my son . . ."

Another day, another time.

And yet another big thing to tell the rest of the Marauders.

---

On December 25, Lily Evans woke at the crack of dawn.

Christmas! Presents! Family!

For as long as she could remember, Christmas Day had been an especially well-celebrated holiday in the Evans household. Her parents Harold and Chelsea obliged the children's insane hours of sleep the night before, often waking up as early as three o'clock in the morning . . .

Petunia hasn't gotten up early on Christmas for five years. The thought saddened Lily a bit; Petunia was her sister, three years older, yet the two could hardly stand to talk to each other anymore. Everything changed after I got my Hogwarts letter, she remembered.

Forcing such thoughts from her mind, Lily bounded out of bed and ran down the stairs two at a time. Her parents, awakened by the noise, were down a minute later.

As for Petunia . . . if she didn't hate magic so much, I bet she'd ask me to put a spell on her room to prevent any noise getting in. She'll probably wake up early, fall back asleep within a minute, and just tack it onto the list of reasons to hate me. Her list of grudges is second to none.

"Happy Christmas, sweetheart," said Chelsea lovingly.

"Happy Christmas, Mum, Dad. Any owls come?"

"Why, yes, some did," answered Harold. "I believe there were six last night."

Lily smiled in anticipation.

"Presents are on the table, dear," her mother said. "Go to it."

Another one of the Evans Christmas traditions, and the one Lily used to hate most: No opening presents until Mum says so!

Rummaging through the dozen or so packages, Lily picked out one medium-sized one that looked as though it had been jostled a bit in flight. She opened and read the card attached aloud (yet another tradition).

"Lily, I remember you telling me you liked these. Enjoy, preferably in class! —Prongs (James Potter)" Ripping open the wrapping paper eagerly, she found a box of—

"Oh, James got me some Sugar Quills!"

"Sugar quills?" Harold asked curiously. "I don't think you've mentioned those."

"Oh, they act like normal quills, except they're made of sugar so you can suck on them while you're writing. They're one of my favorites from Honeydukes; to be honest, I'm surprised James remembered I liked them. I only mentioned it once."

"So he's 'James', not 'Potter' now, is he?" her dad teased.

"Oh, shush, Harold," Chelsea said. "And attentiveness is the mark of a gentleman, you know."

Lily blushed. It was somewhat of an open secret now among her family that she did, in fact, like James; when he wasn't being a prank-happy idiot, he could actually be quite sweet . . .

Petunia still doesn't know, though. Good for her; all she does is go on about her boyfriend Vernon and the nice pearls he sent her. Doesn't mention he's an idiot, I notice; birds of a feather flock together, I guess. Lily had felt particularly uncharitable toward the once and future Dursleys ever since she learned how they had treated Harry, though so far she had managed to refrain from any actual violence. That would be hard to explain . . . what would I say, "I hexed you because you might treat my kid like dirt five years from now"?

The next present she opened was one from Harry. Again, she read the card aloud before tearing off the wrapping paper. "Lily, this is a magical communication mirror. Sirius and I have them, as does James, wink, wink, nudge, nudge. To use it, just grab it and say the name of the person you want to talk to; their mirror will vibrate, and if all goes well you can talk to each other. Use it well. —Harry"

There was another line, too, that Lily didn't read out loud. Call me on this thing in private as soon as you get a chance, it read in a different ink; she suspected it had been charmed to only be visible to wizards and witches. There's more to this mirror than meets the eye.

"Who's Harry?" asked Harold.

My son from the future, Lily was very tempted to respond. Instead, she settled for, "Harry Potter, one of the new kids this year. I'm pretty good friends with him."

After opening all her other presents and spending some rare quality time with her parents, Lily retreated to her room, supposedly to start reading one of the books her parents had given her (The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe). It wound up being about nine o'clock when she took out her mirror and said clearly, "Harry Potter."

The surface of the mirror, which had a second before shown her own face, swirled with inky black for a few seconds, then showed Harry's. "Hi, Lily," he said, smiling. "In a place where you can talk?"

"Yes, quietly. Mum thinks I'm reading."

Harry dropped his voice. "Fair enough. Anyway, for your other present, open the little catch at the bottom of the mirror's handle."

Lily did so, and a golden ring fell out.

She gasped as she saw the inscription. JTP + LCE. "Is this—"

"Yes," Harry said softly, "it's your wedding ring from the future. I thought you might want to have it."

Overcome, Lily found her vision blurring a bit. "Thank you, Harry, so very, very much," she said with a beatific smile.

Harry smirked back at her. "Just be sure to replace it with one from this timeline sometime soon."

"Oh, you—" Lily slapped the mirror, then realized what she had done and laughed.

Despite everything, life is good.

---

After he and Danger discovered the consequences of their bond, Remus stayed at Hogwarts for the rest of the holidays. His parents had received their promised explanation, and had taken the news with, overall, surprising equanimity. "I'm just glad you're happy," was what Katherine Lupin had said. Remus had fallen into their routine almost instantly; he, too, felt a sort of attachment to the Den, and like everyone else, he spent all the time he could there without arousing suspicion.

Today, though, December 26, Harry needed to have a long-overdue talk with someone.

"Mars Bar!" The gargoyle moved aside; Harry climbed up the stairs it revealed and knocked.

"Come in, Harry." Always knows it's me, somehow.

Harry did as requested, sitting down in the chair in front of Dumbledore's desk.

"What can I do for you this fine morning?" the Headmaster asked, eyes at full twinkle.

In response, Harry handed Dumbledore the memory vial and piece of parchment in his hands; Dumbledore pushed them to the side of his desk and continued to look at him questioningly. "My scar tends to act up when Voldemort is feeling strong emotion," Harry explained. "Finding out about that prophecy apparently qualified. To make a long story short, I know where the Horcruxes are, at least some of them—Voldemort has this elaborate mental "safe" for those memories, but that just made it that much easier to see them as he took them out—and I'd like to hear the full prophecy."

"This is fortuitous news indeed, though I certainly believe you should try to learn to control your connection. If Voldemort finds he has access to your mind, terrible things could result."

"Didn't you say something about that at the end of my fifth year?" Harry asked. "'In the end, it mattered not that you could not close your mind; it was your heart that saved you'?"

Reminded of this, Dumbledore smiled. "Ah, yes. Voldemort will probably be unable to possess you for any extended period of time, possibly unable to delve into your mind, but he could still insert false visions—which, as your fifth year proved, could be disastrous." He sighed. "But first, the prophecy." Dumbledore prodded the silvery contents of his Pensieve with his wand, and the figure of Sibyll Trelawney in a trance rose out of it.

The words were just as chilling, just as memorable, the second time around.

"Voldemort knows it up to 'eleven'," Harry said.

"Ah, yes, the Silencing Ward. I started casting one as soon as I heard the beginning of the prophecy, but it took until then to activate. I also tried to Memory Charm Macnair, who was listening—"

"It worked. Sort of, at least. Voldemort was able to reconnect the memory with Legilimens." Harry shuddered in remembrance. "The pain made Macnair pass out." Both were silent for a few seconds.

"Do you have any ideas about interpreting the prophecy, Professor?" Harry finally asked.

"Indeed I do," Dumbledore said gravely. "The parts that are the same as the prophecy you remember, I shall skip over, as I believe I have already explained those to you, correct?"

Harry nodded.

"Excellent. The prophecy refers to your 'emergence', as the 'fourth moon wanes'—this would be sometime mid-April. Do you have any idea what might be approaching to cause this?"

"Not really, sir, but I have some ideas about the rest: the third part is a pretty clear reference to my coming from the future, I think, but I'm confused by the 'for by'. And the 'joining unto eleven' is probably with, let's see, James, Lily, Sirius, Aletha, Remus, Danger, Peter, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and I guess Rachel."

"I have my suspicions about both points of confusion, but they are just that—suspicions, not certainties. Please keep that in mind; powerful though I may be, I am not omniscent. Would you still like to hear them?"

"Of course, Professor."

"Very well. 'For by' is, I believe, a reference to the spell that creates a Horcrux; you were marked for the splitting of Voldemort's soul by him. In short, he probably intended to create his final Horcrux by killing you."

Harry gulped. This was rather disturbing information. "Did he succeed?"

"Quite possibly, but it is no worry of ours. The spell—which is bright green, by the way, exactly the color of the Killing Curse—kills the target, then rebounds in the direction of its caster, tearing out a part of his soul and forcing it into an object directly behind him, one that must be prepared beforehand. When it bounced off you without effect, Voldemort became both the murderer and victim; I believe he wound up, completely by accident, using his own death to create his final Horcrux."

"Would that even work?" asked Harry.

"Certainly not in a predictable fashion. In this case, I believe a very small sliver of the extracted soul piece was thrown off and formed your scar."

"WHAT?" Harry nearly shouted, appalled. "My scar's a Horcrux?"

"No, no, not at all!" He had never heard a stronger denial in his life. "The soul sliver—it would be far too small to call a fragment—would retain a link that was tenuous at best to Tom Riddle himself. If the rest of his soul died, the sliver would not be enough to anchor it to earth; it would simply 'snap'."

"That makes sense. Quite a lot of sense, in fact. I've always wondered how I can speak Parseltongue—are you saying that's a part of the 'sliver' I got?"

"If my suppositions are correct, it is—and probably the only part. If you actually had a significant piece of Tom Riddle's soul within you, no matter where, it would show; that fragment would guide you to act in such a way that was beneficial to Tom. You have certainly not done so—indeed, you have foiled his plans at most every step—so please stop worrying about it."

Harry sighed deeply in relief, finally able to relax. I know he said 'just a sliver', but it still was far too worrying . . .

"Okay, so we've figured out 'for by'. You mentioned another unclear bit—what is it? I didn't notice any."

"To be brief, I believe your 'emergence' is the same event as the 'joining unto eleven'." Dumbledore's eyes had risen to extra-high twinkle.

"You mean, like some sort of bond?" It makes sense, but what could we do?

Dumbledore sighed heavily, as if he wanted to say much more than he could. "Indeed—the same bond, in fact, that my brother and I made. And I am afraid I can tell you no more; one of the rules of this bond is that those using it must discover it for themselves. Do not think overmuch on it; if it is meant to happen, it will. And I certainly would not tell your friend Hermione; it is not the sort of thing one finds in a book."

Harry blinked a few times. "Thank you, Headmaster; you've given me quite a lot to think about. Is there anything you would suggest I do about my connection to Voldemort?"

"Why, indeed, there is. Have you ever heard of Occlumency, Harry?"

Harry groaned. "Yes, I have. I think I've developed a permanent aversion to it thanks to the so-called 'instruction' of Severus Snape."

At this, Dumbledore actually smiled. "I would certainly love to see your memory of that incident sometime. However, I was actually hoping to teach you myself."

"Oh, in that case, definitely!" Harry's facial expressions had done a complete about-face. "I'm sorry, sir, I've just had very bad prior experience in the subject. I would trust you to teach it well, though."

"Thank you, Harry. Shall we say Monday nights at seven o'clock, then?"

"Sounds good. I'll be there then."

Student and headmaster stood up. "Good night, Harry," Dumbledore said softly.

"Good night, Professor."

Harry walked back to Gryffindor Tower, pondering what he had heard.

My life is never normal.

Just yet more stuff to discuss on January den-night . . .

---

(A/N: I sincerely hope this winds up being my longest chapter. My plotlines are ballooning at a rate I had no right to expect.

The Animagus process belongs to Anne Walsh / whydoyouneedtoknow. Sirius's apology to Snape is based on a scene in her story "A Little Slice of Heaven."

Next chapter: "Life Goes On," in which just that happens, taking us through the relatively fluffy and uneventful months leading up to April 14, a date which Dangerverse readers should recognize . . .

Between one and four Pack members are going to die over the course of this story. When you review, feel free to tell me who you want it to be / not be.)