CHAPTER 5

Harry woke up late the next morning. His shoulder felt much better, if a little stiff. Pomfrey had popped it back into place with a frightening show of strength, and the slice, which had gone through deep muscle, was mending nicely. Rain was drumming on the tall, narrow windows of the hospital wing, and he could see cloud shadows scudding across the grounds, competing with struggling sunbeams. Madam Pomfrey was nowhere in sight, and he looked around blearily, wondering what he was supposed to do with his time while cooped up in the castle.

When his gaze landed on the teetering mound of letters on his bedside table, he groaned. It wasn't that he disliked correspondence, but after getting a look at the headline for the Daily Prophet, he had an idea that he wouldn't like what any of the letters had to say.

Resigned to his fate, he snagged the paper and snapped it open.

HARRY POTTER: VIGILANTE OR VILLAIN?

A Rita Skeeter Exclusive

Well that wasn't a leading question at all, Harry thought, snorting quietly.

With the Wizarding World on the brink of another catastrophic war, it helps us all to know that there are still a few beacons of light. A few Bastions of Hope for the common citizen to turn to, and take examples from, in these dark times.

But what if one of those so-called Heroes is not who we all thought he was? We have lauded his name since he was just an infant, and he has the Wizarding World's unflinching devotion (Harry had to pause a moment and stare up at the ceiling here, and count slowly to ten before continuing to read). Now, new details have come to light that cast a pall of suspicion and doubt over one Harry Potter's true motivations.

Just two days ago, during the widely covered Diagon Death March (July 16th, Rita Skeeter Exclusive) this reporter was up to her ears in destruction and devastation, when the most unlikely of shoppers appeared on the scene. Who other than Mr. Harry James Potter, looking dapper in an American baseball cap and obviously trying to avoid detection? He claims to have been helping to fight the alleged Death Eaters, but this reporter has her doubts. When asked what he had been doing in Diagon Alley in the first place, though a known recluse, Mr. Potter answered, "Er, shopping." Let it be noted that Mr. Potter was carrying no purchases (Harry cursed—he most certainly was carrying purchases, they were just shrunk!), and disappeared soon after.

Just yesterday, Mr. Potter was involved in a major investigation after his house was found destroyed, and inside sources have admitted that Mr. Potter had been charged with no fewer than 17 counts of underaged wizardry. An eyewitness claims that, though the house Harry shares with his aunt, uncle, and cousin was thoroughly trashed, Mr. Potter appeared before Ministry Officials acting as if nothing were amiss. Further inquiries—

Harry finally put the paper down with a growl. How could a reporter who seemed to be everywhere and know everything still get the story so wrong? Or was it just her venomous nature that delighted in turning everything into a scandalous, horrifying gossip-mongering disaster? She had the details; she simply decided to leave out just enough to make it sound suspicious. He scanned down to the bottom, where Skeeter presented the 'facts' and brought the article round to a question of whether he was helping or 'illegally hindering' known criminals.

In a flash of frustration, Harry flung the paper across the room, where it hit the door to Madame Pomphrey's office before bursting into flame. This only served to fuel his anger, and he snatched his wand from the bedside table to cast an "Aguamenti!" powerful enough to douse the newspaper and strip the finish from the bottom of the door.

He angrily tossed his wand aside, to hear it clatter away under one of the vacant beds, and flumped back on his pillows with a frustrated sigh.

In one last fit of pique, he wandlessly banished the pile of letters and watched them scatter across the room.

The hospital wing door opened just then, and Dumbledore stepped in, looking about. "I see you've received your mail," he said mildly, and stepped gingerly over several soggy envelopes to take a seat on the bed next to Harry's.

"More or less," Harry replied, glowering at the still smoldering remains of the Daily Prophet. "I really hate—" and then he broke off, because he couldn't settle on just one thing.

"Believe me, Harry, when I say that I understand," Dumbledore assured him. "Although it might be prudent to alert someone the next time you go out in public. While your actions in Diagon Alley were commendable, it was also rather reckless to put yourself in that position." Harry's expression darkened further, and seeing it, Dumbledore waved his hand. "Well, that is neither here nor there. I thought I'd drop by to see how you were doing, and to make sure you settled in properly, since Professor McGonagall, who would normally oversee such things, finds herself a bit preoccupied at the moment."

Thinking of the Deputy Headmistress led Harry to ask, "Are you going to be reinstated as Headmaster this year, sir?"

"As questions regarding my sanity have been summarily dismissed, happily, that would be an affirmative," Dumbledore replied with a smile.

'Yes' in old-man-speak. "So what's up with McGonagall?"

"Professor McGonagall, Harry," Dumbledore corrected him. He then hesitated, and immediately had Harry's undivided attention. "I only tell you this because you have been quite deeply involved. Under normal circumstances, I would prefer to bury this silently, and I trust you to act with appropriate discretion." He peered at Harry over his half-moon glasses, and waited until Harry nodded before continuing. "It was Professor McGonagall who attacked you in your home yesterday, Harry."

Harry simply let his mouth fall open.

"It has been confirmed that she was operating under a variation of the Imperius curse, a Confundus charm, several mind-wipes, and, as you are aware, a Polyjuice potion. As you might expect, when the Polyjuice wore off while she was detained at the Ministry, we were all rather out of sorts."

Harry just shook his head, trying to imagine it, and scrubbed his fingers through his hair. He couldn't get his brain around it. McGonagall? McGonagall had attacked him, looking like Dumbledore? "Who did this? Who got to her? How did they get your hair? What were they after?"

Dumbledore put up his hands to forestall him. "All very good questions, Harry. Unfortunately, Professor McGonagall has been, as they say, put through the ringer. It may be a while before we have answers."

Harry sat for a moment, trying to think of something to say. "Bloody hell."

"Indeed," Dumbledore agreed, frowning slightly. "I am now faced with the unpleasant prospect of finding a new Transfiguration professor, as well as a new Deputy Headmaster, before the start of term."

Harry shot him a bewildered glance. "She's not teaching anymore?"

Dumbledore gave him a fond smile. "It is good to see you don't hold it against her, Harry. I'm sure that will go a long way toward putting her mind at ease. No, until this is all sorted out, I'm afraid she is still technically suspect, and her teaching duties have been suspended."

Harry fell silent, thoughts whirring. After a minute, he admitted, "I'm actually kind of surprised it took so long for something like this to happen." He looked up to see Dumbledore giving him an expression of consternation, so he elaborated. "Someone impersonating you, Professor. In case you hadn't noticed, you have quite a lot of influence."

Dumbledore's expression darkened fractionally. "Unfortunately, you are quite correct. That's a small part of why this worries me so very much." He seemed to realize whom he was talking to, then, because his face cleared and he gave Harry a smile. "I daresay there is a silver lining, however; I am again reminded of my own fallibility."

Harry slumped, feeling the weight of his previous carelessness. "So you never sent a note, then?"

"I'm afraid not, my boy."

"It didn't seem like you," Harry admitted. He then straightened with alarm. "If you didn't send it, then who did Hedwig take my response to? Can owls be Obliviated? Can we retrieve her memory? Maybe we can—"

"One thing at a time, Harry," Dumbledore interrupted gently. "I assure you, we have conscripted the very best minds to investigate what has transpired, and I shall make certain to bring your concerns to their attention. Now, enough talk of gloom and doom. I had better make myself scarce before Poppy forcibly removes me for harassing a patient. Do make yourself at home Harry, and don't hesitate to avail yourself of the library and the kitchens. I would prefer you didn't leave the castle unattended, but I do believe there are a few staff about who would be willing to escort you."

Harry just nodded, wavering between amusement and irritation. Dumbledore stood to leave, but Harry quickly spoke. "One more thing, Professor!" The old wizard turned back. "Would it be all right with you if I went to the Burrow next Sunday? Ron invited me, and I told him I'd ask you…"

Dumbledore paused, considering. "I will allow it on one condition."

Harry slumped, wondering with dread what it might be.

The Headmaster gave him a knowing smile. "A horse-trade, you might say. I will allow you one week at the Burrow. In exchange, you will consent to giving occlumency with Professor Snape one more chance."

Harry swallowed a flash of displeasure. "And by 'chance,' you mean…?"

"One more session, keeping in mind that your success or failure may directly or indirectly affect countless lives."

Harry twisted his mouth, defeated. "When you put it that way…"

"Very good," Dumbledore said happily. "I will inform Professor Snape of your acquiescence. I expect you will be seeing him very soon."

"Looking forward to it," Harry sighed, sinking further into his bedding and trying not to think about the consequences of not learning occlumency.

"Get some rest, Harry," Dumbledore told him.

As if summoned, Madame Pomfrey appeared just then, exclaiming over the state of the room, and the old man made good his escape.

After checking his bandages, Pomfrey declared Harry 'fit for the next round of punishment,' which he took to mean he was free to go. As if anticipating his thoughts, the nurse said, "Atata, you're not going anywhere until you clean up this mess! And don't strain that shoulder," she added on her way out the door.

Harry sighed, summoning his wand from where it had skittered under one of the beds. He snatched it from the air, and froze. Wandless summoning? It had felt so natural that he'd hardly thought about it—like reaching for a glass or pulling open a door. How many times had he done it? He couldn't recall when he'd started, but the habit struck him as unusual. Was this another symptom of his malfunctioning magic?

Feeling uneasy, he decided his sopping mail was a worthy distraction. The floor was flooded from his summoned fire-hose, soaking most of the letters through. He wracked his brain for a proper solution. "What I need is a dehydration spell," he muttered to himself. In the end he settled for a simple "Evanesco!" which vanished the water but left the envelopes rather damp. He pried them all open and set them out to dry on the empty beds, vowing to look at them later.

He decided to spend the day wandering the castle, and marveled at how strange it was to see it completely empty of living, breathing humans. His things had been placed in one of the empty suites in the staff wing, so he trotted on up to retrieve the Marauder's Map from his trunk. He was rather surprised to see that literally everything he owned had been brought up. To be fair, that wasn't really a great deal more than what he usually brought to Hogwarts every year, but he still shook his head in amazement as he left. It just wasn't practical. Witches and Wizards were crazy.

Map in hand, he set off.

Every once in a while he would cast a spell—something innocuous like a sonorous charm to make his voice echo, or a transfiguration that turned torch sconces into flying squirrels—just because he could. He was fairly secure in the belief that Hogwarts' wards would shield him from the wrath of the Ministry's owls, and it made him grin with quiet glee. He couldn't imagine how wizard-raised students managed to stay sane. He'd only known about magic since he was eleven, and it was maddening not being able to cast anything over the holidays. Growing up with it and not being able to use it must be torture.

Sometime during the day, Harry was in the middle of levitating all the nearby suits of armor, one at a time, so that they crowded around the entrance to the Divination Tower. He had a suspicion that Trelawney was up there, and that she would have to come down for a meal sooner or later. He figured he owed her for giving the prophecy that was making his life difficult, and thought the silent rabble of armor would properly freak her out, especially if she was coming out of one of her 'meditation sessions.' He chuckled while he worked, imaging her reaction.

He looked up as Peeves floated around a corner with an armload of what looked like squid eggs, and they both froze.

"Peeves," he acknowledged carefully.

"Pukey-Potter," the poltergeist replied, unusually stoic.

"What are you up to?"

"Nothin'," the poltergeist said, shrugging delicately, and the eggs shifted with a squelching sound. He seemed to be studying Harry appraisingly, which made Harry rather uncomfortable. "What might puny little Potter be doing?"

Harry gestured at the crowd of armor. "Pretty obvious, isn't it?"

Peeves cracked a grin. "Poor old Trelawney. Potter's got a mean streak. Maybe Peevesy should warn her?"

Harry, whose curiosity was overwhelming him, had a better idea. "Need a hand with those?"

Peeves looked momentarily as if someone had hit him from behind with a paralyzing curse—his wide mouth fell open, and he simply stared at Harry. A squid egg fell to the floor and bounced, unnoticed. Harry wondered briefly if any student had ever offered to help the poltergeist with a prank, before Peeves' expression turned positively giddy. He beckoned with a jerk of his head. "Follow me, Potter."

Feeling slightly apprehensive, but too curious to change his mind, Harry followed the little floating man through the castle, picking up the squid eggs that got dropped along the way. Peeves took the time to regale him with stories of past exploits, and proved to be a goldmine of knowledge about the professors and their embarrassing habits. Soon they had reached the dungeons, and Harry felt a sort of morbid anticipation. "We're not going to mess with Snape, are we?"

Peeves cackled. "Potter's got the right stuff. No, this scheme's the 'delayed gratification' sort." And he proceeded to tell Harry the plan. Apparently, the Giant Squid was actually a boy squid, and Peeves thought it wasn't fair for the poor cephalopod to be lonely. He'd managed to acquire these squid eggs through a contact—and here Harry shuddered at the idea of Peeves with contacts—but they had to wait to put them in the lake for the mermaids to take their biannual exodus.

"How do they leave?" Harry asked, who had been laboring under the assumption that the lake was…well, a lake. "And where do they go?"

"Keeps their secrets close, they do," Peeves replied with a shrug. "Dumblydore probably knows—speaks mermish, and all."

"Durmstrang had that ship that could travel underwater," Harry said thoughtfully. "Maybe that's the same thing."

They were nearing the very lowest levels of the dungeons, where the stone walls ran slick with condensation. At the end of one mossy passageway, Peeves phased right through a pair of heavy double doors, dropping his load of squid eggs. A second later he phased back, cursing colorfully.

Harry stifled his snigger and used his wand to open the doors. He was surprised to see the pebbled spit that he remembered from first year, when they'd rowed across the lake on their first day. The little beach deeply undercut the stone cliff upon which Hogwarts stood, and it was strange to see the bright lake beyond rimmed by the low ceiling of the cave.

He levitated the pile of squid eggs, following Peeves out onto the beach, and dumped them in one of the little boats that was pulled up near the cave wall.

The Poltergeist explained that the mermaids would be gone in about two weeks, and that, until then, they had to keep the eggs contained under the cliff, in the water. Then they would move the eggs into the deepest part of the lake, where they could hatch and have a chance to grow undisturbed. Harry was impressed, and a little frightened, by the sheer methodical plotting that Peeves demonstrated.

"And when the ickle firsties come over the lake in September, all unsuspecting, they'll be swarmed by dozens of squid, instead of just one!" the poltergeist finished triumphantly. "And the next year, there'll be even more of them…"

"They'll breed like rabbits," Harry agreed. It was brilliant.

They got to work on the underwater pen. By the time they'd finished, and dropped the eggs into the cold, clear water, the sun was dropping low over the mountains, bathing the lake in gold.

Harry thought he understood Peeves a little bit better. Doing things for the sake of chaos had its own sort of beauty—who was to say one purpose was more important than another? If there were no chaos, then order wouldn't exist to control it. It was like the need for shadow to demonstrate light. Or the need for evil to appreciate good. It was a necessary balance.

Plus, the mental image of little first years panicking while baby squids the size of porpoises swarmed their boats was way too precious.

After Peeves badgered him into promising to help with a different prank later in the week, Harry tromped up to the Great Hall, hoping there might be some kind of staff dinner.

He was rather disappointed to find out that there wasn't, and the feeling that he was completely isolated grew. What if Voldemort or one of his frighteningly creative new lackeys showed up? It would probably take a few days for anyone to notice Harry was missing, he thought with a snort. He redirected his footsteps toward the kitchens, casting a 'scourgify!' as he went, in an unsuccessful attempt to remove the smell of baby squid from his robes.

He was received enthusiastically by the skeleton crew of house-elves in the big kitchens—when he arrived through the painting hole, they seemed to be playing a game of cards, though they were quick to hide it. Harry didn't fail to notice that one of them seemed to be cleaning the rest of them out.

"Where is everyone?" he asked them, trying not to smile.

Six pairs of shiny, globe-like eyes stared up at him, and one responded in a high, oddly gravely voice, "Students is not coming back to Hogwarts until September, Harry Potter sir!"

"I know that," Harry responded, rolling his eyes and grinning. They thought he was some kind of idiot. "I meant the other house elves."

They all seemed baffled that he would care to ask, glancing amongst themselves, before the same one spoke up—an older male with washed-out blue eyes. "Some go help at Wizard hostels for the summer, Harry Potter. Lots go help on the wizard ship, Galloping Galleon. Nasty ship," he added, looking aside.

"What's your name?" Harry asked him, certain that he'd been one of the friendlier elves he remembered from last year.

"Harry Potter asks for name?" the house-elf repeated, blinking and looking inordinately happy. Harry nodded carefully, and the elf plucked at his tea-towel before responding, "Ha-Harry Potter must not try to free house-elves again this year…"

Harry blinked, and cringed when he remembered the somewhat catastrophic culmination of Hermione's efforts with S.P.E.W. "I promise," he assured him, and noticed that the rest of the elves relaxed noticeably.

"Pistol is at Harry Potter's service." The house-elf sketched a bow, large ears flapping.

Harry gave his head a shake, unsure if he'd heard correctly. "Pistol?"

Pistol nodded with zeal. "Pistol's former master was from Australia, Harry Potter sir. When Pistol was very young, he bought Pistol's ancestral home near Ballycastle. In Northern Ireland, Harry Potter sir," the little elf added helpfully.

"Wow," Harry said. That explained the elf's slightly strange accent. "What happened to him?"

"During last war, Pistol's master was… was…" the house-elf broke off, shaking his grizzled head, before trying to finish.

"It's okay, Pistol," Harry offered, patting the elf on the shoulder. He'd gotten the gist of it, and seeing those pale blue eyes water with tears was making his own throat close up. It was somewhat heartening to see a house elf in Hogwarts who hadn't been mistreated, though.

"Harry Potter is very kind," Pistol mumbled, clearing his throat. "Would Harry Potter like some dinner?"

Harry and the other house-elves all perked up at this suggestion, and when he nodded appreciatively, they all sped off like it was the start of a race.

While the house-elves watched him eat, and after he complimented them profusely on the meal, he asked about the Galloping Galleon. He remembered the ad he'd seen in Florean Fortesque's shop window, and wanted to know why Pistol thought it was a 'nasty ship.'

"Full of nasty wizards, it is," Pistol supplied.

"Like…" Harry paused to swallow a bite. "Death Eaters?"

"Some," Pistol agreed. "Some just not nice—gamble, drink; mean to house elves. Some nice wizards, though," Pistol added as an afterthought.

Harry was rather amazed at how free the elf was with his opinion, and the others all seemed to agree. But, he reflected, they were just 'rented' out to the ship; no one on board was their master. Unless… "Is Dumbledore on the ship?"

"Master Dumbledore will go on the ship while it comes by," one of the other house elves piped up.

"It's coming by the castle?" Harry asked, trying to imagine it. Would it arrive through the lake, like the Durmstrang ship?

Pistol shook his head, ears flapping. "Has to stay outside country—international waters."

Harry suddenly had a better idea what kind of ship this was, and what sort of people were on it. "When does it come by, Pistol?"

"Next month, Harry Potter sir," he said. His watery blue eyes turned down. "Poor house-elves has to stay on all summer, though."

Soon after that Harry thanked the elves for the meal, and left through the painting. It was getting late, but he decided to go peruse the library before heading to bed. He was itching to talk to Ron and Hermione—he had too many things on his mind, and no one to bounce his thoughts off of. He was getting tired of talking to himself.

The library was dim and dusty, and it felt as if it had been closed up for years, rather than just a month. Apparently Madame Pince went home for the summer, because there was no sign of her. The torches were all out, and the boiling clouds outside obscured all but a few scattered beams of aged sunlight.

"Lumos," Harry muttered, igniting the tip of his wand. He scanned through the normal sections, but held out little hope that there would be anything about squibs or malfunctioning magic in a school that taught magic. He also wasn't holding his breath for any books about what appeared to be either a crack-dream of his own imagining, or the bloody gate to the underworld contained in puddles and glasses of water. "Restricted section it is, then."

He had just stepped over the little chain that barricaded the section when a familiar voice behind him snickered. "What's pesky Potter up to at this hour?"

Peeves. "Looking for books about falling through rain puddles," he said tonelessly, hoping the poltergeist would simply think he was being difficult and go away.

The lack of response made him look back. Peeves floated there in the dimness, and that considering expression was back. Harry briefly wondered just how smart the spirit really was. Peeves regarded him for a moment more, before grunting a thoughtful, "Huh," and disappearing through the floor.

Harry shook his head and returned to perusing the books. He didn't find anything that seemed very helpful, and left the library feeling defeated and frustrated.

He realized he'd been putting an awful lot of faith in being able to find answers at Hogwarts, and he felt as if the castle were letting him down. He couldn't wait to see Hermione next Sunday.

But what if she didn't have any answers either? She was just a kid, too, and she'd never had access to more information than he. She was just better at recalling seemingly disparate bits of knowledge, in her never-ending quest to read everything. That didn't mean she'd managed to find that one obscure fact that he hadn't. He was actually looking, after all. Maybe he had too much faith in Hermione, too.

And what was he doing, anyway? He didn't have time to worry about such trivial things. He had to face down a Dark Lord. He should be spending his time training, or learning occlumency, or helping to fight. Instead he was stuck in this drafty, empty old castle while everyone else scrambled around trying to protect him.

And to cap it all off, he remembered belatedly, he still didn't even know where the Dursleys were!

Mind spinning down familiar circles, it took Harry a long time to get to sleep that night, and his dreams picked up where his thoughts had left off.

The next morning, Harry thrashed awake in a spectacular fashion, sweating and breathing hard and very nearly pitching off the bed. It took a moment for him to remember where he was, but putting on his glasses helped quite a lot. The unfamiliar stone and heavy drapes of the guest room met his gaze, and another teetering pile of mail greeted him from the little table by the window. He noticed someone had also brought up the mail he'd already opened and set out to dry in the hospital wing, and had stacked them up helpfully next to the new ones.

Harry scrubbed his face vigorously and ran his fingers through his hair. Cursing quietly, he summoned the mound of letters, and cursed a bit harder when they scattered across his bed like a stack of cards.

Half of the letters were from random people telling him he was doing a damn fine job, and to keep after those 'murdering bastards.' Harry couldn't help but smirk, both at their enthusiasm and the simple irony. Another few were from people who thought he was still touched in the head, and he quickly banished these to the dustbin. There were a couple from the adults in the Order who had taken it upon themselves to knock some sense into him—namely Molly Weasley, Remus Lupin, and, surprisingly, Mad-eye Moody, who had some helpful tips on spotting intruders. A few methods were rather extreme, and Harry reluctantly filed them away under 'possibly useful information.' The rest were from his friends, and Harry read them over with faint pleasure, but also slight impatience. It was hard to take any of them seriously when he was facing problems that they had no inkling of.

It made him sad to realize that, though he'd shared nearly everything with them for the past five years of his life, there was suddenly a barrier between them that Harry didn't know how to breach, or whether it was even possible.

There was a letter from Ron, asking again if he could come and stay on Sunday. There was even one from Luna, who made him laugh by insisting he 'give 'em hell!' though it wasn't really clear who she was referring to. Hermione had sent two; the first one in response to his request for help. She'd agreed—hesitantly—but reserved the right to try and convince him to go to Dumbledore. In the second, her tone was slightly hysterical, asking if the destruction of his aunt and uncle's house had anything to do with his 'problem', and why hadn't he just asked her sooner?

Twisting his mouth, Harry set about penning responses to all of them. To Ron he said 'yes,' to Hermione, he said 'no, and I'll talk to you about it this weekend,' to Luna and the other members of the DA he wrote 'thank-you's, and to the rest he wrote placating or assuring letters. These he didn't spend too much time on, because they made him grit his teeth in annoyance. Did they honestly think he got into these kinds of messes on purpose? Maybe he should start really trying, and then see what they had to say.

He was just finishing up when a scratching sound drew his attention to the window. There was Hedwig, a letter in her bill, poking the glass with one downy foot. He tossed aside his covers, stretching his popping joints as he rose, and went to let her in. She hopped into the air, dropping the letter on his head, and flapped over to his bed, settling down and looking for all the world as if she meant to stay. "You're a strange bird," he told her, turning the note over in his hands.

It was from Dumbledore, asking if he would like to have tea the next day down in Hogsmeade at the Three Broomsticks. Harry read it very carefully, trying to decide if this time it really was Dumbledore's writing. He didn't like this, not being sure if he could trust people, and especially the old man. He already had enough trust issues with Dumbledore.

"What do you think, Hedwig?" he asked the owl. She blinked her luminous yellow eyes at him and chattered in a thoughtful way. "Well, if you think it was really him, then I guess I'll go. Although you were wrong before, you know."

Hedwig shot him a reproachful glance, ruffling her feathers. Harry wrote out his agreement on the back of the note, and set it by the window. "Take it back to him when you like, Hedwig," he told her, patting the bird on the head before pulling on some jeans and a t-shirt and heading for the door. He caught himself raising his hand to summon his wand, and paused. He took a step toward where it sat on his bedside table, and paused again. He wrestled with himself, before finally murmuring, "Accio." The wand flew to his hand, and he left the room.

He had the Spellsmith's Almanac in his pocket again, and stopped by the library for a few books on magic theory. Reading about how these exemplary wizards had created their spells left Harry feeling as if he'd missed something in his years at Hogwarts, and he'd decided to solidify some of his basic knowledge. He wanted be able to not only perform the spells he was reading about, but maybe try to puzzle out some of his own.

He wasn't expecting anything very groundbreaking, to be sure. But he felt he should be doing something, and his gut was telling him that if he wanted to be good, he needed something different. Anyone could pick up a book and learn the things written there, and if everyone was learning the same spells, then they were likely all learning the same counter-spells and strategies. He knew Dumbledore was a pioneering spellsmith, and likely Voldemort was as well. Obviously they were doing something right.

So he shrunk down half a dozen likely books, and tromped out to the sprawling steps in front of the castle doors to sit in the morning sun. The Almanac talked about things like 'vectors' and 'arrays' and 'variable modifiers;' things which, at first glance, he could glean partial meaning, but in a practical sense he didn't even know where to begin.

So he started at the beginning. Piece by piece, a picture began to form of the things between the lines; the things that everyone was saying but no one was really paying attention to. Wingardium Leviosa was a mould—a shape for young students to fill. Somewhere in all this muddle of knowledge were the universal truths that he needed, and the basic rules that he had to understand before he could build anything.

He sat on the stone steps, totally immersed, for hours. The sun was high in the sky the next time he really looked up, and he became aware of the uncomfortable feeling that was his stomach trying to eat itself. He'd forgotten breakfast, and was well on his way to missing lunch as well.

Before he could totally commit himself to packing up and going to hunt for a meal, Hagrid appeared around the curve of the castle wall, great bushy head bobbing up and down as he hauled something large and ungainly over his shoulders.

"Hello Hagrid!" Harry called, feeling an overwhelming rush of fondness for the half-giant.

"Hullo Harry," Hagrid panted in reply, twisting slightly beneath his burden to look at him with a crinkly smile. "Wouldn't mind comin' ter give me a hand, would yeh?"

Harry, who had been wondering what the groundskeeper had been up to and mildly curious to boot, didn't mind at all. He shrank down his books and stuffed them in his pockets before jumping up to follow. "What—" Harry began, before realizing with a start that the thing on Hagrid's shoulders was looking at him.

"This 'ere's a wooly aurochs calf. Distant relations o' the Re'em, if yeh heard of 'em," Hagrid told him, hefting the solid beast as he walked. It gave a low grunt and a half-hearted twist, as if it had been trying to escape for a while now, and given up.

"That's a calf?" Harry asked doubtfully. Hagrid was having trouble with the beast for good reason—it had all the mass of a well-fed Angus bull, and the approximate conformation of a young American bison. It came by the tag 'wooly' honestly, as it was covered in thick, downy fibers the color of pale caramel. Its dewy snout and waving hooves were a spackled grayish-pink.

"Aye," Hagrid huffed. They were nearing his hut, and he looked like he was nearly spent. "I'm weanin' the little buggers at the mo', which would put this guy a' righ' abou' four months."

"Four months?" Harry repeated. He was beginning to feel like a parrot, but he couldn't help it. "How big are the adults? Where are you keeping them?"

"Oh, righ' around ten hands, I'd say." He paused, and added, "Ten o' my hands, tha' is." He held up one of his giant paws to Harry's, which was dwarfed three times over.

"Bloody hell," Harry breathed. Thirty hands would be twice as tall as the average thoroughbred stallion.

"Anyway," Hagrid grunted, as they reached his hut and he leaned over to deposit the aurochs calf on the grass. "I need yeh to watch the lil fellow while I grab some stuff fer 'is leg, all righ'?"

Harry immediately froze as Hagrid stepped inside his hut and the calf gained its feet. He put out his arms lamely, hoping to God or anyone that would listen that the giant calf didn't decide to try and go through him.

To his relief, the beast simply stared at him warily, favoring its right front leg, and appeared to be too tuckered out to move.

A moment later Hagrid reappeared, arms full of jars and bits of gauze and syringes. Harry moved to get a good look at the beast's injury, and hissed in sympathy. A flap of skin hung loose from its shoulder, and rivulets of blood were running down its knee.

"How did this happen, Hagrid?" Harry asked, feeling a surge of pity.

"Like I said, I'm weanin' 'em from their mums, and this guy didn' like it too much. Tried ter go through the fence an' got a bit tangled up." Hagrid set out his tools on the cabin steps, passing a big hand over the calf's snout and murmuring something to it. "Harry, if yeh would, could yeh hold this closed?"

Harry swallowed and moved forward, gingerly pushing the flap of skin closed, and trying to ignore the sticky blood flowing over his fingers.

"Thank yeh, lad. All roight." Hagrid pulled out a wand that was easily the length of a golf club, and about as thick as Harry's wrist. Harry's eyes bugged out, but Hagrid was too busy casting to notice. Tendrils of flickering blue enveloped the wound, knitting the tissue together like some kind of ethereal stitching. The calf's shoulder shuddered, and Harry saw little ice crystals forming. "There yeh are, good lad," Hagrid murmured, and Harry realized he was talking to the beast.

"This kind o' injury is always difficult, yeh know," Hagrid informed him. "S'not just a slash, see? There's a whole plane o' flesh tha' needs repairin'. This'll hold fer now, but it's always best ter double up, yeh know. Hand me tha' blue jar, an' the dark orange, will yeh?"

Harry complied, amazed at Hagrid's skill. "Next time I get thrashed, you can heal me instead of Pomphrey, okay?"

Hagrid chuckled, dousing the wound with orange liquid. "Prevents infection," he explained. He then applied some of the blue goop liberally, saying, "Promotes tissue growth. Hand me the syringe, and tha' small, ligh' green bottle."

Harry handed them over, trading for the first jars and setting those aside. Hagrid measured out the pale green fluid with the syringe, sans needle, before coaxing it into the corner of the aurochs' mouth and holding the beast's muzzle closed while it swallowed. "Tha's a good beastie," he told it, patting its flank. "Figured I'd worm 'im while 'e's ere," he said to Harry.

Harry just nodded bemusedly, and handed Hagrid the gauze and tape.

After he finished wrapping the calf's shoulder, Hagrid stood with a grunt and patted Harry on the back hard enough to knock the wind out of him. "And tha's all there is to it!"

Harry coughed and asked, "Are you going to take him back, then?"

"Nah," Hagrid replied, looking slightly embarrassed. "I'll give 'im a day or so to recover."

Harry suspected Hagrid simply didn't want to have to carry the half-ton beast all the way back. "Why don't you just levitate him?"

Hagrid gave him an affronted look. "How do you like bein' levitated?"

Harry blinked. "Point taken."

"Well, thank yeh for your help, Harry," Hagrid told him sincerely. "I could show yeh the herd tomorrow if yeh'd like."

"I'm having tea with Dumbledore, but I'd really like to if you have time later in the day."

Hagrid's black eyes were sparkling with anticipation. "Ah, yeh're in for a treat, Harry! They're righ' beau'iful beasts."

The half-giant's enthusiasm was contagious, and Harry grinned back. He wondered why Care of Magical Creatures wasn't usually so engaging, and chalked it up to the fact that during school they were usually just oohing and aahing at unicorns or bowtruckles, and that idiot Malfoy was always causing some kind of trouble.

Hagrid invited him in for lunch, to which Harry heartily agreed, and they sat for a long time just discussing things of little importance. The topic of Sirius never came up, and Harry was shamefully grateful. Hagrid understood that he would bring up the topic if he wanted to, and respected him enough to leave it alone. To be honest, Harry had had enough of people trying to get him to open up about his feelings on the subject, and what he'd really been aching for all summer was just a bit of lighthearted, pointless conversation. Which of course, meant it wasn't pointless at all.

Afterwards, Harry and Hagrid each carried a sack of cow hearts laced with vitamins out to the forest to feed the thestrals. Hagrid explained to him along the way that the skeletal, winged horses did most of their own hunting, but he liked to supplement their diet when he could. Harry learned that Hagrid liked to supplement the diets of all the creatures in the Forbidden Forest, whether it was staking out sugar drips for some of the fairy varieties, or tossing a wooly aurochs to the acromantulas.

"Doesn't it bother you to patch them up one day, and then lead them to slaughter the next?" Harry asked as they took turns tossing hearts out to the thestrals. He was quickly loosing any last vestiges of squeamishness.

"Nah," Hagrid said. "Well, it does, I suppose. But I can' be picky abou' who needs wha', yeh know. It's all abou' balance. If one o' the nifflers has to go to feed one o' the hippogriffs, well then tha's wha' has ter happen."

Harry considered this soberly, thinking about that idea in the context of his own life. "Balance, huh?"

"It's a lot o' work managin' this forest, yeh know. I'm qui' well known in some circles, in fact," Hagrid told him with a puff of pride. "S'why I'm lookin' after this aurochs herd; a high profile job like this needs a professional's eye."

"High profile?"

"Aye, they're booked for entertainment on one o' them wizard ships. The wizard ship, I s'pose yeh might say."

"The Galloping Galleon," Harry hazarded a guess, while patting a thestrel who had decided to come up and say hello.

"Tha's the one," Hagrid agreed, pleased that he'd heard of it. "Bull figh'in' or some such. How they'll ge' those big softies ter charge anyone is beyon' me. Well, they are a bi' easily offended, if yeh go about things the wrong way."

Harry tried not to smile. Hagrid had a soft spot for every beast, and it hardly mattered if it was covered in fluff or leaking, poisonous pustules. He was forcibly reminded of the fiasco with Buckbeak and Malfoy. "So what's the secret?"

"Well, all yeh have ter do is presen' the back of yer neck, yeh know. Sor' of like with the hippogriffs, 'cept yeh have ter really get down so they can ge' a good look at yeh. Then they'll return the favor, and everybody's friends."

Harry just laughed. It was so simple to Hagrid, but so flabbergasting to everyone else.

When they ran out of cow hearts, Harry headed for the castle to wash up, promising again to come see the herd with Hagrid tomorrow. He was feeling much better about things, despite the fact that he hadn't really gotten any further in any of his goals. He remembered a time when the idea of tromping across the grounds after Hagrid and carrying his bags was just about the worst fate he could imagine, but it was obvious that Hagrid was very highly skilled, and very much enamored with what he did. Maybe if he had time, Harry could convince the half-giant to teach him a bit of what he knew.

After showering in the little bathroom in his guest suite, Harry spread out his books again. Hedwig was still there, having fallen asleep in a little nest she'd made of his covers, so he was careful not to whack her with any of the dusty old tomes. When it came time to grab some dinner, he poked the owl and she stared at him reprovingly, until he offered to take her down to the kitchens.

She happily flapped up to his shoulder then, and the house-elves, though initially uncomfortable with an owl in the kitchen, eventually warmed up to her. The poor bird probably ate more scraps than she could handle, and when they went back up to the room, Harry had to actually lift her onto his shoulder himself.

"Poor, gluttonous bird," Harry sighed, and laughed when she bit his ear.

Tea the next day with Dumbledore was brief. The old wizard either had nothing to report with relation to Voldemort's movements, or he was being less than forthcoming. Harry found himself becoming frustrated with him once again. It was good to be able to talk to the Headmaster, but if Harry was to be excluded from what was going on, they should just all dispense with this farce of him being a member of the Order and get it over with.

They did briefly discuss the continued missing status of the Dursleys, but Harry found it difficult to take it seriously. The wizarding world didn't know the Dursleys like he did; it was very likely they had simply jetted off on some family vacation without telling him. It seemed reasonable. They would have heard something otherwise.

Dumbledore also spoke in vague terms of the problems they were still unraveling from Professor McGonagall's romp through the ministry under the guise of the Headmaster. Evidently Harry was not the only one who'd been screwed with, but perhaps his case was the most spectacular. Harry did get a sense that Dumbledore was still privately seething about the whole thing; whether it was from embarrassment or something else, Harry wasn't sure.

Since he'd never known the Headmaster to seethe about anything, Harry had very nearly assumed it was another imposter at first. He'd seen the old man angry, sure, but this was different. It was like a constant irritation was wearing him down, and he was letting it show without even being aware of it.

There were many things Harry wanted to ask Albus Dumbledore. He wanted to ask him about building spells. He wanted to ask him about malfunctioning magic, and dark, frightening mirror worlds. He wanted to ask him about helping with the resistance. He wanted to ask him to teach him how to fight. He wanted to know how Harry, not-quite-sixteen-years old student wizard, was supposed to kill Voldemort.

But somehow, the cozy atmosphere of the Three Broomsticks didn't seem the right place, and the middle of the afternoon wasn't the right time. And Dumbledore, who seemed weary and distant, and who Harry still wasn't sure whether to trust or not, didn't seem like the right person.

He walked back to castle alone, feeling restless and dissatisfied. He wanted to crack open his trunk and fly his Firebolt as high as it would go; above the castle, above the mountains, and above the dark, rolling clouds. But he knew he wasn't supposed to, and for now he would try to keep doing as he was told. It was too much of a bother going through all the admonishing mail he received when he didn't.

He met Hagrid on the front steps, and they hiked around the perimeter of the grounds, toward the side of the castle that faced away from the lake. The terrain was rougher back here, and the Forbidden Forest seemed to have a hard time deciding where it began and where it ended. They took a path through the scrubby trees that eventually wound its way around the curve of a steep ridge. Harry began to recognize the area—they were close to where the Hogwarts Express tracks ended.

As they came around the foot of the forested ridge, Harry caught sight of their destination. Nestled in a cleft between ridges, there was a monolithic timber structure, with many smaller additions and two very long, narrow barns. On what little level ground there was around the buildings, there were pens and corrals, all arrayed around a central drive.

"Stable and Yard, Hogwarts School," Hagrid announced as they trudged up the cobbled drive. There were bits of grass and weeds growing up through the cracks, and the fences along both sides were looking rather droopy. Ancient oaks leaned over the road like grizzled sentinels; in places the trees had grown right around the fence-wire.

"I never even knew about this place," Harry marveled, staring up at the monstrous building. It was just an A-frame barn in basic principle, but, much like the Burrow, it had been enlarged and built upon and propped up and extended in just about every direction. The loft alone seemed like it could house an entire wing of the castle.

"Used ter be, kids would ride ter the castle on horses, yeh know, and they'd keep em 'ere fer the school year. Tha' was before the train, see. Used to have hunts and excursions an' all. I think in my time, there were still a few o' the more rural families who kept horses 'ere, but before I started rennervatin' abou' ten years ago, it'd fallen into total disuse." Hagrid held up his hands expressively. "Yeh shoulda seen some the whoppers I found in there, Harry. Yer friend Ron'd have kittens, he would, an these were jus' normal kinds o' spiders."

"This is quite a project, Hagrid," Harry said, looking around wide-eyed.

Hagrid pointed out the several pastures, the stock pens, the loading chutes, and the utility buildings. They poked their heads into the heavy sliding doors of the main barn, and Harry gaped at the vast distance to the dusty rafters. There were several partitions inside, with cattle style feeders, and several drop chutes for feed from above. The wings on both sides and to the rear of the main barn were stalls, Hagrid said, and even further in the back there was a modest indoor arena. Harry imagined modest by Hagrid's standards, in this case, were likely anything but.

Hagrid insisted they climb up to the loft, and Harry actually got a bit of vertigo climbing up the dusty ladder. In his own defense, it was probably nearing three stories up.

The loft was piled high with several varieties of hay, which Hagrid helpfully identified and Harry cheerfully forgot as soon as he heard them, as well as pallets and pallets of grain bags. When he asked how Hagrid had managed to stock the place by himself, Hagrid told him, "Well, yeh jus' open the upper doors over there where the hay elevator would go, and chuck 'em up. Bales only weigh abou' seventy kilos each, yeh know. Like tossin' hacky sacks, is all."

Harry shook his head before they climbed back down, and Hagrid cheerfully dragged him out and around to see the long, narrow stock barns, and finally the wooly aurochs herd in the back pasture.

"Aren' they beau'iful," Hagrid sighed, leaning on the log-post fence. With the mass of the barns at their backs, the pasture was framed only by the steep, forested ridges to either side, and the stormy sky above. Harsh yellow light managed to slip in from the west, lending everything a fiery outline.

"Yeah," Harry said, surprised to find it completely true. The beasts were huge, even from this distance. He might have been tempted to even say 'elephantine.' The younger ones, separated in an adjoining pen, were all tawny gold, but the adults were blonde, bordering on white, with massive, curling horns.

"This all used ter be a track," Hagrid said, waving a hand around. "I read tha' the students used ter race Arabian Zephyrs ou' here. Course they're endangered now, what with Zephyr tendons bein' an importan' component of the older racin' brooms…" He cast Harry a furtive glance. "Was thinkin' I migh' try and nab a few if I could, maybe star' somethin' up again." He seemed to be awaiting Harry's approval.

"That would be brilliant!" Harry told him enthusiastically. He wasn't quite sure what an Arabian Zephyr was, but it sounded fast, and that suited Harry just fine.

"Though' yeh might like tha' idea," Hagrid said with a hearty laugh. He sobered after a moment, and looked around a bit wistfully. "I still go' my work cut ou' for me, tha's for sure. How would yeh like givin me a hand wi' things this summer, Harry? I'd really—"

"Of course I will, Hagrid," Harry cut him off. Hagrid's ideas were great, and he was already doing so much. "Would you teach me some of the stuff you know?"

"Harry, if we ge' though all the stuff I'm plannin', you won' be able ter help learnin' it."