Chapter Three: A Unique Connection

The weeks that followed Voldemort's rampage were some of the worst magical Britain could remember. After years of peace, there was no question that they were now at war. Lines were being drawn, the Ministry as usual floundered under intentional uselessness, while the Order grew in numbers. Clara Davis, the Abbotts, Augusta Longbottom, Lee Jordan, Oliver Wood and more families that had been under their protection that night swore allegiance to the Order.

But the Death Eaters were also growing in numbers and confidence, or at least that was what the rumours said. There were cries for international aid and, as was expected, plenty of nations were happy to say that they would blacklist the old families associated with Voldemort, but they didn't actually do anything. Partially because they were scared and partially, in a rare stroke of genius from the self-proclaimed Dark Lord, because they were too busy dealing with their own issues.

The head of International Cooperation in China had been assassinated, while the Aurors in America were dealing with an outbreak of religious extremists armed with suspicious magical weaponry. And there was more. There was always more. No-one could trace it directly to Voldemort, but it was obvious where these sudden insurrections had originated. It was another smokescreen to delay matters and, annoyingly, it was working.

And even if they hadn't been so distracted, Daphne doubted they would have helped. Minister Runcorn, in his infinite wisdom, was about as useful as a Hippogriff in a bookshop. All proud blustering and self-importance, but no real help on how to do anything.

They were, for the time being, alone. Alone to count their dead, to mourn those that had passed too early. The muggle Prime Minister had managed to wave away talks of attacks with forest fires and gas leaks, it was only a few hundred people and not a few thousands. The infrastructure of the stadium was blamed, architects were fired (and readily compensated for their troubles) and all was, if not well, explained.

The magical world grieved in a very different way, for they knew who was truly responsible. The Abbott family had survived, so too had the Longbottoms, while Amelia Bones, like Harry, was recovering in St. Mungo's. She wasn't aware yet that her niece had died in the attack. Susan. The girl who had been brave enough to stand up to Umbridge, kind enough to not turn Daphne away and loyal enough to fight for what she believed in. She had not gone looking for trouble, but just because of who her aunt was, she had found it anyway.

Daphne didn't tell Harry any of this. In fact, Harry wasn't allowed to be told much about what was going on outside, since Healer Shafiq insisted that he wasn't up to it. Daphne was hard pushed to disagree with him, and as much as it broke her heart, for once she did what she was told.

She didn't want to and her shouted cries of loathing at Dumbledore still rang in her head, but that all died away whenever she looked at Harry. It wasn't so much as he appeared unwell, in fact he was probably less skinnier than normal thanks to all the potions he was taking. No, it was the way he spoke, the way he would drift in and out of conversations that worried her.

But he couldn't know that, and so every day at visiting hours she would head to St. Mungo's and do most of the talking for him. She'd talk about their future, gossip about who would be the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, wonder idly if Tracey would get kicked off the Quidditch team. Sometimes Ron and Hermione would join her, Ron doing his best to be larger than life, while Hermione would cajole him with her latest studies. He had plenty of other visitors all lining up to see him, but Shafiq insisted that he not be overwhelmed.

He seemed to be getting better. But there were some days where his mood would be far too low for him to be pulled out of it. She wouldn't tell him yet, not while her words could break him. But the moment, the second, they got the all clear if Dumbledore didn't tell him then she would.

They were the only trips she was allowed out of Cliffeside, except to Grimmauld Place to help research just what the hell they could do to help Harry. Sirius became almost obsessed with the quest they had set themselves. His hopelessness seemed to have vanished, replaced instead with a furious, burning fire that forced him to continue asking Dumbledore for books and delving into Black family relics. He refused to be beaten. When he wasn't reading, he was divvying up tasks for the Order as they tried to cement some kind of foothold for themselves, but it was slow work.

Day after day the same pattern repeated itself. Daphne would visit Harry, steal some books from Grimmauld Place and then lock herself away in her room. Occasionally Astoria would join her, trying to figure out what was making her so withdrawn. It didn't work. It wasn't that she didn't trust Astoria, it was simply that this wasn't her secret to tell. There were lives on the line. It wasn't a classic schoolgirl crush or some stupid rumour. This mattered, but Astoria seemed content enough at 'Harry' as a reason.

"Is this it then?" Melissa Greengrass asked at dinner one evening, they had been eating in stony silence, enjoying the meal that their mother had asked Mopsy to prepare for them. Astoria was not her usual chatty self, hidden behind a shell of misgivings and confusion.

"Is this what?" Daphne asked. She knew the question was directed at her and had a horrible feeling she knew what it was about.

"My dear, I raised you better than to hide behind inane questions," Daphne struggled not to snort in derision at that.

"If you mean is this what our days are like," she set down her fork, no longer hungry, "then I guess so."

"Funny, I always imagined you would choose better."

"Better?"

"Than Potter. Oh, I'm sure he's lovely," Melissa waved her hand, as if who Harry was mattered about as much as if he owned a broom or had a fondness for ice cream. "But I never dreamt you would be so foolish as to force your family into hiding."

Daphne blinked, taken aback by how combative her mother was being, but not really surprised. "I didn't force anyone. You chose to let Dumbledore put you here."

"Given the choice between torture and safe haven, it was hardly a choice." Her lips curled at the words 'safe haven' as she regarded the small kitchen-cum-dinning room. "I sided with Dumbledore because it was the only way I could protect my family. But it was you that forced my hand. I have already buried your father, I do not intend to bury you both as well."

"You don't have to always drag dad into this," Daphne snarled.

"Don't I? You seem intent on living up to his legacy."

"Mum!" Astoria shouted, but Melissa ignored her.

Daphne, calmer than her sister, said, "Dad wasn't weak, and neither am I. At least we know who we are."

The family motto that had been burned into her since she was a child had never felt so important. Sure, they were just some random scraps of inspiration designed to give her family some kind of point, but they worked. Know yourself. And she did, she always had. It had been those words that had dragged her through Slytherin house without becoming a sycophant, those words that had caused her to seek out Harry's defence club, and those words that couldn't - no matter how difficult it was - let herself abandon him. It was sick that a few hastily written words had done more to shape her than her mother ever had.

"You can invoke dead words all you wish, it does not change the fact that your infatuation with Potter affects us just as much as it does you."

"Don't you think I know that?" Daphne asked, not shouting like Astoria. Her voice was tired, as tired as she felt. It was the kind of exhaustion that seeped into her bones, into her very being. "Don't you think I know it would be easier to like someone else? To love a good little pureblood that will go off and slaughter muggles? Don't you think I wish I could be like you and sacrifice everything I believe in just to get one foot on the ladder?"

Astoria was looking at her with tears in her eyes, whether grieving for their slowly shattering family or sympathising for her sister's plight, Daphne wasn't sure. "But I can't, dad taught me better than that. You say you love us, say you love me. So how about instead of judging me, just for once, you actually support me?"

"I believe I made my opinions on the Potter boy quite clear," Melissa Greengrass' glare was enough to make some people quail, but Daphne just smirked.

"Yeah, you'll like him when he's winning. Just like you loved Umbridge until she decided to make me cut open my own hand." Daphne sighed, pushing her chair away from the table and getting to her feet. "But to answer your question, yes. This is it. This is who we are now. And I'm sorry if that's not good enough for you, I'm sorry if I'm not good enough for you. But I love Harry and I'm not going to apologise for that."

"Then you're a bigger fool than your father."

Daphne could have screamed. Could have thrown her plate at her mother's stupid, placid face, but that's what she wanted. She wanted to be superior, needed to be right. Daphne knew because she was the same. It was a trait that they annoyingly shared. So instead of raging, instead of screaming, Daphne simply said, "At least I know what it's like to love someone."

Daphne didn't let her mother reply, she was too sick of listening to her bilge. Too sick of hearing her try to convince herself that she loved Daphne, that she was doing what she could to protect her and save her daughters from their father's fate. Astoria didn't visit her room that night, probably under Melissa's instruction, but when they saw each the following morning, her sister just hugged her and said "I love you."

It broke her heart, but Daphne hugged her back and from then on Astoria played go-between. It wasn't a perfect solution, but it worked. There were some bridges that couldn't be rebuilt. She just hoped it was worth it. More than ever she dove into her reading, trying desperately to find some way to help Harry, to make sure that when he was ready to talk, ready to listen, and that it wouldn't be for nothing.

The answer to what to do about Harry came, naturally, to Hermione.

"Daphne," the girl said, for Hermione refused to use shortenings of names, "look at this."

Daphne, who had been struggling to focus on the ramblings of a fifteenth-century hag called Margaret the All-Seeing, dragged herself from the workspace Sirius had created for her in the Drawing Room and joined Hermione. The Gryffindor girl had made herself a small nest of books, sheltering a large armchair beneath hovering candles Sirius had enchanted. The light flickered, toying with Daphne's shadow and making it appear as though she was looming over Hermione's nestled form.

"It's not exactly the same situation," Hermione began, passing Daphne the old battered book, whose spine looked as though it would collapse from any serious reading. "But I think we could be onto something. We've been thinking of how to destroy the Horcrux, but we can't without…" she paused as Daphne's jaw clenched. "Well, what if we didn't destroy it? What if we just moved it?"

"But this is for," Daphne checked, "Baku? What is a Baku?"

"It's a Japanese name, I suppose the best translation is nightmare eaters," Hermione said, flicking over the page and tapping a small section at the bottom. "Legends say that the baku will come into the child's room and devour the bad dream, allowing the child to go back to sleep peacefully. However, calling to the baku must be done sparingly, because if he remains hungry after eating one's nightmare, he may also devour their hopes and desires as well, leaving them to live an empty life."

"Sounds lovely, but what's this got to do with Harry?"

"They flit from child to child," Hermione explained, "and that got me thinking. What if we just move the horcrux? They go into literally anything, that's how Voldemort could use the diary and Harry. They're not fussy, they just want to be safe. Now," she dragged a very thick, dusty tome from a pile to her right which wobbled dangerously, having had its delicate balance unexpectedly disturbed. "This book has all sorts of details on horcruxes, to be honest they're a bit bleak, but there was something somewhere."

She began opening heavy page after heavy page, one particularly nasty one on the nurturing of horcruxes let out a shriek before Hermione slammed it viciously onto the previous page.

"Here," she flattened out the page in question and began running her finger along the lines until she stopped at what she was looking for. "It says: 'for those in dire straits, whose objects have been discovered, fear not there is salvation. Tarasque heartstring, you will need, to complete this loathsome task.' Then it's just a load of nonsense about living after death. Ah, 'Take the heartstring and the blood, of your enemy most foul,' that's Harry, so that should be easy enough, 'form a path and open the door, then your soul will be protected once more.'"

"I got most of that," Daphne nodded, it was after all relatively straightforward. "But what the hell is a Tara… thing?"

"Tarasque," Hermione said, "and that's where it gets tricky. They come from Southern France and there's not very many of them left, I'm not even sure where we'd start looking. They all belong to private collectors now, but it's something!"

Her face was brimming with pride and excitement. Daphne, who had been raised with disappointment around every corner, was only just able to manage a small smile. A rare, legendary and endangered magical creature and what did they need? It's hair, that'd be easy. Even a toenail or claw would've been good. But no, a heartstring. A bloody heartstring. Why were these things never simple? But Hermione was right, it was a start, and a lot more than they'd had the last few weeks.

She just hoped it was enough.

oOo

Harry hated St. Mungo's. He hated the stupid bed he was forced to sit, hated the ward with no windows or real sunlight, hated the inquisitive looks and the intrusive questions. The only thing he liked was visiting hours, and even they were too short. Healer Shafiq was nice enough, but even he was starting to lose energy.

Whatever was wrong, whatever reason Voldemort had been able to see in his mind, was clearly proving difficult. So, when Healer Shafiq came into his room and said he could return home, Harry was more than a little bit confused.

"But my scar still hurts?" Not as much as the previous year, but he could still feel… something. There had been flashes of things a few weeks ago, some kind of tiara thing and a locket and then fury, real true fury. Then just bits and pieces, like static on a radio.

"And it will for a while," Healer Shafiq admitted, "but we have done what we can. I recommend these once every night," he gestured to a small box of potions that had been placed on the chair normally reserved for visitors. "They should help keep the dreams at bay."

"And if they don't?"

"Then we will try something else," the healer's voice was calm, Harry supposed he had to be. He dealt with patients who were dying, had literally pulled Harry from a mental oblivion, he was not the type of man who could afford to be flappable. "But before you leave, you have one final visitor."

There was no mistaking the violet robes or white beard, no-one else could dress like that and get away with it. Dumbledore's smile was warm, but there was something else there. Something Harry couldn't quite place. Was it fear? No trepidation?

"Are they alright?" He blurted, "Daphne? Sirius? Her-"

"They are all quite safe," Dumbledore told him, removing the potions with a wave of his wand and taking a seat. Healer Shafiq, intent on giving them a measure of privacy, left the small private room they'd given Harry. He hovered outside, as though scared about what was going to happen next. What was going on? There had been times, when Ron or Hermione had visited, that he'd thought they were being weird too. But he'd put it down to the state he'd been in or, more often than not, the never-ending spiral of negative thoughts that tried to drag him down. But maybe he hadn't been imagining it.

"I must commend you, Harry," Dumbledore began, "to fight off Lord Voldemort as you did was no mean feat. And I must also apologise. For not being here sooner, for not helping you this past year as you needed me to and for not telling you what I am about to divulge. Before I do, Harry, I wish you to know that I kept this from you with your best interests at heart. I saw a boy who had already lived through so much heartache and I wanted to spare you from any more pain. I was wrong, Harry. I do hope that when we are through here that you can, in time, forgive me."

Harry frowned, he didn't know what he'd been expecting but it wasn't this. Dread, all too familiar these days, clutched at him, beginning to ensnare his heart. "Sir?"

"Let us start with the Department of Mysteries. Your dreams were, as you now know, not dreams, but visions. You have a unique connection with Lord Voldemort, which I will come to later. For now, let us discuss a prophecy. It concerns you and was presented to me by Sybil Trelawny before your parents died."

And so Dumbledore told him, told him exactly what it said and that, a few weeks ago, he and Voldemort had fought for the prophecy and that Dumbledore had destroyed it. Harry knew he should've felt upset, even angry, but all he could feel was resigned. Wasn't it always going to end this way? Prophecy or not, Voldemort had chosen him, had picked him. And Harry wasn't going to just walk away. He couldn't let his parents die for nothing, or Cedric, or anyone else that Voldemort had killed.

Neither can live, while the other survives. That was true when Dumbledore had walked in, it was just as true now. Voldemort was never going to stop, he would always be hunted, marked for death. The prophecy had just been the reason, or maybe it would have happened anyway.

"That's why he was so angry," Harry commented, "I felt it, sir. When you did, whatever you did, he was angry. Really angry. And I saw these things, a… a locket and this tiara, thing? It was on a bookshelf, at least I think that's what it was."

"They are what I wish to discuss," Dumbledore said sadly, "but tell me, where did you see them?"

"I dunno, it was really fast. Er, the locket was in this kind of basin? I think. In a cave." Dumbledore nodded, clearly it meant something to him. For once, no longer out of the loop and rather keen to stay there, Harry pressed on. "And like I said that tiara was on a bookshelf, but it was messy. And the place it was in was huge and full of junk. Professor, what are they?"

"They're called horcruxes," Dumbledore explained, he was resigned now, slightly slumped in his chair. Despite how long they'd been talking, Shafiq hadn't moved. Even though he had other patients to attend to, he still stood outside. "They are incredibly dark magical objects, they are, in short, a means with which a witch or wizard can protect themselves from death. They split their soul, by committing one of the most heinous we can, and when they have done so that part of their soul can be… secured.

"It is a truly terrible thing to make a horcrux, Harry. To Lord Voldemort, who fears death, the ends justify the means and so he set about protecting his soul, or destroying it. It is a matter of perspective, as all things are. His first horcrux, I believe, was his diary."

"So, Tom Riddle? That was really him? Not just a memory."

"Correct, when you presented me that diary I knew then how Voldemort had survived the night of your parents' murder. Given that he returned, we know this was not his only horcrux. Precisely how many times he has split his soul, I am not certain. But it is up to us to destroy his remaining horcruxes, only then can Lord Voldemort truly be stopped."

"You mean killed." The words were cold in his mouth, but there was no denying the fact of them. Voldemort wasn't the kind of man you just locked up for years on end. He'd broken Death Eaters out of prison, cheated death and killed hundreds. Prisons wouldn't stop him.

"Yes, I mean killed," Dumbledore sighed.

"So where are the others? We can just destroy them right? Use the basilisk venom, there's loads of those fangs in the Chamber."

"The sword of Gryffindor is imbued with basilisk venom," Dumbledore told him, "and has performed quite admirably. I have destroyed two more of his horcruxes. His snake and this ring." Dumbledore withdrew his hand from his robe and Harry gaped as he saw the wizened black flesh, decaying, almost rotting, beneath the polish gold of a cracked ring.

"Professor, your hand!"

"A story for another time, Harry, but your concern is appreciated. And to answer your question, I fear it is not that simple. For one, I have no idea how many horcruxes Voldemort has created, although your vision proves there are more, and for another…" he paused, unable to meet Harry's gaze. "For another, I know of a horcrux that I fear I cannot destroy."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked slowly. Sick rose in his throat. Sweat stuck to his palms. Every second felt like an eternity. Every moment Dumbledore's eyes stayed cast to the floor his heart seemed to race faster and faster. Denial was trying to find logic as a friend and drawing a blank. He had to be wrong. He was wrong. That couldn't be it. It was just some object, something impossible, something they'd find and they'd just destroy. That was it. It had to be.

But the memory of that cold laugh, of being trapped in his own head, of watching everyone loved die, kept forcing its way to the surface - no matter how much he tried to drown it. It was a unique connection after all. Wasn't that what Dumbledore had always said. No. Just no. But when Dumbledore didn't speak, the answer was as obvious as breathing.

"It's me," Harry said dully, the words sounding as if they were coming out of someone else's mouth. "Isn't it?"

"Harry -"

"ISN'T IT?" He hadn't meant to shout, but that one word had been all the confirmation he'd needed. Beside him the vase that Hermione had bought with flowers exploded, as fear-fueled fury replaced the anxiety that had been gripping him for the last year. All that time he'd spent feeling trapped, all that time he'd been confused, scared, and Dumbledore had the answer just sitting there.

Outside Shafiq made to come in but with a wave of his wand, Dumbledore sealed the door, making it plain to the healer that they were not to be disturbed.

"How long?" Harry asked. His voice shook more than his hands, which were trembling more than if he'd just fell off his broom.

"I suspected since you showed me the diary," Dumbledore answered, "I was fairly certain when you began seeing visions through the eyes of Nagini."

"Two years," it seemed impossible. He'd trusted Dumbledore, looked up to him even and he'd just lied. He'd something so basic, so fundamental to who he was and what he could do. He couldn't have a life, not when he was going to die. Because that's where this all led? A grave with his name on the tombstone. "You've known for two years and you didn't tell me? Why?"

"I wanted you to have a normal life," Harry laughed at this, hysteria mingling with his anger. A normal life. Like he could ever, like he had ever. The only glimpse of normality he had had were the few weeks before Daphne had been forced to choose between him and her family. Then, for the smallest, briefest window he'd felt normal. Like he could just live his life, get the girl, maybe even grow old - hopefully with her. He'd dreamt of their future, her the Curse Breaker she dreamed of being and him the teacher he was realising he could be. But it was all just another lie, wasn't it?

"And," Dumbledore continued, "because I feared that Lord Voldemort would discover the truth."

"Until the right time, you mean," Harry ground out, "until he killed me. Neither can live while the other survives, remember? So that's it, isn't it? I have to…" His voice cracked. "Die."

"Harry -"

"Just tell me! Or are you scared he's going to take over again? Scared he'll kill you through me?"

"I am not scared of you, Harry."

"Oh yeah? Then why haven't you looked at me? Why wouldn't you talk to me?" He hurled the first thing he could lay his hands on, which happened to be his pillow. It slid rather anti-climatically down the window, but scared the life out of Shafiq. "Just tell me! For once, for once, Headmaster, don't lie to me. Am I going to die?"

"I believed so, yes," Dumbledore almost whispered, the shame of it making his words seem like the rustling of pages in the hurricane that was Harry's rage.

"Believed?"

"Miss Granger made a rather interesting discovery. With no shortage of help from your friends and myself." Harry scoffed at this but tried to keep his temper in check. At least for now. If there was a way out of this, anything, he'd take it in a heartbeat. "There might be a way to remove the horcrux. Hagrid is already in France searching for the very object we need to complete a ritual, similar to the one Lord Voldemort used in the graveyard on the night he returned. It is all hypothetical, I informed Healer Shafiq of the procedure and he believes, with some alterations, there is a chance."

"That's it? A chance." Harry repeated before his brain picked up on the first part of that sentence. "Wait? Hermione knew? And the others?"

"Do not blame them, Harry, they were simply doing as Healer Shafiq instructed. You were not ready. Although, I believe if it were up to Miss Greengrass she would have informed you the moment she discovered what had transpired. But you suffered an incredible ordeal at the hands of Lord Voldemort."

"They might not have had a choice," Harry conceded, "but you did. You knew before any of this."

"I am not infallible, Harry, although many may believe I am. I am capable of mistakes and I have made many. But do not mistake my silence for malice. I did what I thought I should to protect you."

"That's not enough," tears were welling in his eyes, as the sheer wave of adrenaline and anger that had crashed over him, began to flow back to its shore. He wanted nothing more than for Dumbledore to leave. He never wanted to see his face, or hear him speak again. Because how could he know, really know, that it wasn't just another lie. Another ploy to help him beat Voldemort. "You didn't protect me, you just gave me a life to lose. I mean this is just a chance, isn't it? It's just a long shot, it might work, but it might not. You let me have friends, you let me…"

Flashes of Daphne's smiling face, of her laugh, of her snide remarks and and sarcastic teasing, of her love forced the tears he'd been hiding to trickle down his face. "That's not kindness. That's cowardice."

"Harry -"

"Say one more word, just one, and I'll…" The threat died on his lips. He couldn't even bring himself to waste his energy. "Please, headmaster, just leave me alone."

For once, Dumbledore obeyed, leaving Harry to be coddled by healers. They tried to force him to stay, but he refused. There was only one place he wanted to be, one person he wanted to see. No more tests. No more lies. He just wanted to be the only person who could make it make some kind of sense.

The journey was easy enough, after he figured out that Kingsley was following him. After a brief plea with his former professor and a quick bit of side-along apparition, Harry found himself on a windy cliff overlooking the sea. The waves crashed against the rocks and the blustering breeze made his hair messier than ever, but he didn't care. The cottage sat near the edge of the cliff, either resigned to the fate of erosion or simply choosing to ignore it, Harry wasn't quite sure. Both seemed plausible. Kingsley said he would return for him in an hour and, with no time to lose, Harry hurried to the door, hammered on it for a few seconds and when a middle-aged woman answered, he forced himself to try and smile.

"Hello Mrs Greengrass," Harry said, trying not to sound like he was out of breath and to ignore how much his hair stuck up in the wind, "sorry, I know we haven't met. I'm Harry Potter. If it's okay, I'd really like to see Daphne?"