Chapter 11

It was dark outside when Harry came back in through the back door. Dumbledore had finally arrived and was sitting at the kitchen table sipping a cup of tea and looking (to Harry's eyes) slightly put out at Molly's fussing.

"Ah! Harry, there you are," the headmaster exclaimed upon spotting him, pushing away his teacup and rising with suspicious haste.

"Harry, dear, what on earth have you been doing?" Molly asked in a chastising tone while simultaneously trying to offer Dumbledore a buttered scone, which Dumbledore was politely, if futilely, declining.

Harry looked down at his sopping wet, muddy clothes and hedged, "Er… I left a sweater outside—" Then, realizing he hadn't come in with anything in his hands, amended, "That is, I thought I had. But I guess I didn't. And then I sort of fell in the pond."

It was lame, he knew, but it would have been somewhat difficult to explain that he'd really been trying to convince a certain young pond spirit to travel to Hogwarts so he would have her help in figuring out this Other side business. Without a way to contact Karakash—yet—he'd realized having an emissary of sorts would be much better than just trying to wing it all alone.

Mud had finally agreed to the journey, but warned him it would take her 'a while,' and that the pond at the Burrow would dry up in her absence.

"Sorry Mrs. Weasley," he added, looking at each of them sheepishly. "Professor."

"Well, go on and change," Mrs. Weasley said, exasperated. "We'll just wait for you out here."

"Do be quick about it, Harry," Dumbledore added in a genial tone.

Harry had to hide a smirk as Molly once again accosted the headmaster with a plate of biscuits.

He changed hastily, grabbing someone's wand off the nightstand—Ron's, he thought—to dry the dirty clothes as best he could. The mud was still there, but at least now he wouldn't get the entire contents of his trunk soaked. He briefly wondered why Dumbledore or Mrs. Weasley hadn't simply spelled his clothes clean, but his intuition told him they might be using the opportunity to exchange words.

He made his way quietly back down the stairs, hesitating just in the shadows of the hallway leading to the kitchen.

It appeared that Dumbledore was saying something quietly reassuring, while Molly nodded and stared at the table. Harry hadn't noticed before how her hands shook slightly, or how her hair seemed to escape its bounds more than usual. How the skin around her eyes was tight, and the angle of her shoulders slumped. But Dumbledore talked, and Harry watched as something—hope? faith?—seemed to seep back into her, and she lifted up just a little.

Harry swallowed a lump in his throat and tried to push aside something bitter. He wished that Dumbledore could be that person for him. The unfailing pillar of hope, a shining light in the sea of darkness. But Harry didn't believe in the old man anymore, not like Molly Weasley did.

Not the way he used to.

Dumbledore patted Molly on the shoulder, eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles, and Harry backtracked a bit so that he could clomp loudly down the stairs to announce his presence.

"Are you ready, Harry?" Dumbledore asked him when he entered the kitchen.

"Yeah—I've just got to say goodbye to everybody."

It took only moments before everyone at the Burrow was cramming into the entryway to see him off. Fred and George put on a show of melodramatically hugging him and weeping as if they'd never see him again, before slipping him a fat little journal stuffed with loose parchments and drawings. He'd been talking with them on and off about his interest in spellsmithing, and felt a surge of excitement at what had to be their own scratchings on the subject. He nodded his heartfelt thanks, and they winked in unison.

Ginny gave him a hug and a grin, saying, "Take a real vacation for a while, Harry."

"I keep trying to," he said cheekily.

Charlie was there as well, and shook his hand warmly, as did Remus, who made him promise to write if he needed anything.

Molly drew him into a suffocating hug, but he didn't really mind—he thought she needed it more than he did, and hugged her back. Just before he drew away, he whispered fiercely, "I'll do whatever I can to help, Mrs. Weasley." She kissed him on the cheek, and he could see tears in her eyes before she moved aside.

"See you in September, mate," Ron said. His expression was subdued, and Harry could only meet his eyes, silently conveying his solidarity.

Hermione was last, and her hug was rather desperate, but her eyes were dry. "Be safe, Harry," she murmured.

And then they were out the door.

Dumbledore floated Harry's trunk along behind them, humming a quiet counterpoint to the rhythm of their steps on the gravel. Harry cleared his throat. He was fairly certain this was the real Dumbledore, but it couldn't hurt to be too careful. "D'you mind proving your identity, Professor?"

"Hm, excellent, excellent Harry," Dumbledore replied, a chuckle in his voice. "Ask me a question, then."

"Favorite music."

"Chamber. Although I could have lifted that answer off of my chocolate frog card, I believe," the old man said, tapping the side of his nose.

"All right. What did you tell me you saw in the Mirror?"

"Ah, myself—with a new pair of wool socks. One can—"

"—never have enough socks," Harry finished, smiling slightly. "End of summer vacation plans?"

"The Phi Phi Islands, off the coast of Thailand." Dumbledore paused. "I dare say my memory isn't what it used to be—did I truly mention that to you?"

"No, I was just curious," Harry admitted. Wondering what the headmaster could possibly do in Thailand, he added offhandedly, "Reckon they have pretty good surfing there?"

"Indeed they do," Dumbledore said with an air of great certainty.

Harry squinted, trying to digest this dubious mental image.

"Harry," the headmaster said after a moment. His voice was solemn, in sharp contrast with the lighthearted tone of before. "Although Miss Tonks has given us a rather rudimentary version of events, based on your discussion, I would like to go over them in further detail with you. Would you be agreeable to talking in my office—?"

"No," Harry said without thinking. The last time he'd been in the headmaster's office had been right after Sirius had— well, he'd completely trashed the place. The idea of going there now, and sitting quietly in front of the massive desk among all those shiny little knickknacks and ancient books, like a chastised student—no, he couldn't do it. "That is—I mean, could we go to the Hog's Head or something instead?"

Dumbledore's beard twitched suspiciously. "I suppose that would be acceptable. After all, I make a point of never turning down the offer of a free drink." Before Harry could protest the old man's trickery, Dumbledore grasped him by the shoulder, and they disappeared with a sharp 'crack.'

The Hog's Head was nearly deserted at this hour, and if it weren't for the few low burning lamps, Harry might have thought the place had been closed for weeks. Cobwebs clung to the darkened corners, and dust made haphazard patterns over all but the most heavily trafficked areas.

"Abe," Dumbledore greeted the barkeep as they settled on a pair of stools up front.

"Albus," the other man grunted darkly.

Harry frowned after the man as he puttered around with bottles and glasses behind the bar. He felt a flash of recognition, but it faded after a moment, and Harry soon put it out of his mind. "Professor—not that I'm complaining—but why am I going back to the castle instead of the Dursleys'?"

The barkeep placed a pair of dusty butterbeers in front of them. "Thank you, Abe," Dumbledore murmured, before answering Harry. "I afraid that your relatives are still missing, my boy."

Harry paused mid-swig to give the headmaster an incredulous look. "Still? And… no one is worried about this?"

"It is quite worrisome," Dumbledore agreed. "The blood enchantments on Number 4 have been malfunctioning, as I'm sure you noticed, since the evening before Professor McGonagall attacked you in your living room."

"Then—" Harry swallowed. There was no love lost between him and the Dursleys, but… "Does that mean—are they dead?"

"I do not believe so," Dumbledore replied with a puzzled frown. "They are alive, according to several of my own tracking devices. No, there is something else interfering, a disassociation that I believe could only occur if—"

"They didn't think of themselves as the Dursleys…" Harry mumbled, mind awhirl. "The protections are tied to them—they must have been abducted and then obliviated; set loose somewhere…"

Dumbledore gave him a tight smile. "Very good, Harry. Yes, that is what I fear. A flaw in the enchantments which, unfortunately, I had not considered fifteen years ago."

Harry sat up a little straighter. "What if that's what happened to Mr. Weasley? That's why the Weasleys' clock knows he's not dead, but not where he is—he doesn't know he's Arthur Weasley anymore…"

Dumbledore's eyes grew weary. "A distinct possibility."

"We need to find them! This is all connected—first the Dursleys disappear, defenses at the house go down, McGonagall disguised as you tries to attack me and I manage to tie her up, which is why she didn't go missing later—then another of your doppelgangers shows up right around the time that Mr. Weasley disappeared—" Harry's thoughts raced ahead, while Dumbledore watched him intently. "These copies of you were being controlled, you said, by some artifact—whoever controlled them either worked for my abductor, or they were him…."

He thought back, trying to remember any similarities in speech or fighting style that might indicate a single operator, but his encounter with the second doppelganger was too brief. However… "The first one spoke a little bit more like how McGonagall might. I could almost imagine the second one as Mr. Weasley's version of you. Maybe the controller had some way of plucking their impressions of you out of their head, like a mix of the Imperius curse and Occlumency…"

Harry lapsed into silence. Whoever planted those bugs—he vaguely remembered a description of a gold and green lacquered insect on a short needle—had to have access to both Arthur and McGonagall, plus information on the Dursleys, and a source of Dumbledore's hair. Someone in the Ministry? Or—God forbid—the Order?

And then there was the ship itself, which was under the protection of the Fidelius charm. He remembered the first thing his captor had said after abducting him from the Burrow—"I just wanted to invite you to a little party." And then later, hadn't he said something similar? "Ever heard of the Fidelius charm? No, the Dark Lord will have his chance at you when I decide."

Had they been one and the same? Abductor, captor, and secret keeper for the ship? Harry's brow lowered. That suggested that whoever the secret keeper was for the Galloping Galleon was also, if not the mastermind behind the whole operation, in very deep. They would have to be the person writing the invitations in order to impart the knowledge of the ship's location… "Professor!" he blurted, turning to Dumbledore quickly, and found the old man waiting expectantly. "Do you still have your invitation to the Galloping Galleon?"

If he thought it was an unexpected question, the old wizard didn't show it. "I'm sorry, Harry, but the invitations self-combust after being read by the recipient. Why do you wish to know, if I may ask?"

"Do you remember who writes them?" Harry asked urgently. Everything hinged on this.

Dumbledore hummed for a moment, squinting thoughtfully. "I believe he is the captain's first mate, aah… My memory is not what it used to be. A Mr. Bahari, I believe."

Bahari. He had a name.

Noticing the white-knuckled grip he had on his butterbeer, he tried to relax. The promise of vengeance, now that he had a focus, made it difficult. But there were other things that he needed to address. Taking a deep breath, he said quietly, "Professor… Why didn't you tell me that the imposter situation was unresolved? Why didn't you tell me to be on the lookout?"

"I apologize, Harry," the old man said, eyebrows drooping. "I was not my intent to—"

"Is anything being done about any of this?" Harry interjected, his frustration boiling over. "I mean, half the time I have no idea what's going on, because no one will tell me anything. And honestly, I think I have the right to know—I haven't seen anyone else getting batted around like a ping pong ball lately, have you?"

"Harry…"

Harry's temper was jumping quickly. "How could you let them do that to me, Professor? How could you let Fudge and the bloody Wizengamot do that? As if I were the one who were doing evil things—you don't know what goes on on that ship, I—I was—" He wanted to spit at the flood of remembered rage, helplessness, despair… "You failed me. You all failed me. The bloody Ministry failed me, how can I… I don't have anything to trust anymore." He grimaced at his own melodrama, rotating his bottle on the dusty countertop.

In a flash of rage, he slammed his fist down. "And I was punished! I'm being punished for—for surviving! For doing the only things I could do to not die!" He looked at Dumbledore, and nearly choked on the surge of betrayal that burned through him like acid. "Where is the justice in that? How could you abandon me to them?"

"Harry," the old man said, voice laced with compassion and regret. "I am not abandoning you. But you must understand that the situation is more complicated than you perceive."

Harry just stared at him, jaw clenching.

"The laws governing International Waters are always difficult to deal with, even in muggle situations. Add to that magical bylaws and the overlapping territories of wizarding governments, and suddenly the right to jurisdiction becomes a convoluted mess indeed."

"I thought no one had jurisdiction out in the ocean," Harry returned stiffly.

"And many people would agree with you, Harry," Dumbledore said patiently. "But they would be wrong. There are, unfortunately, several different ways to determine who has that right. Sometimes it is given to the nation of the injured party—Altair Mengal, the captain of the ship, is an Indian national. Arguably, for the myriad charges of property damage, India would handle your prosecution. Lucius Malfoy is… or was, a British national, which might give Britain the right to prosecute. Often it is determined by the flag the ship is flying—it would be registered under that nation. If the vessel is proven to be involved in piracy, slavery, or some other sort of trafficking, then it is within the domain of any nation to prosecute."

Harry swallowed. "So… so the Ministry really could charge me for those crimes, if the ship is in the British registry?" Dumbledore nodded, and Harry exploded, "But there was slavery on that ship! That troll was a captive, and they were using prisoners from Azkaban for sport!"

"Which is why, I imagine, the captain agreed to drop the charges against you for the time being," Dumbledore said heavily. "He likely doesn't want a full-scale investigation launched on his ship until he can clean things up."

Harry rubbed his forehead. "Then why charge me in the first place?"

"There are many possible reasons. Ask yourself: who stands to gain from putting you in this position? For all intents and purposes, you are trapped until this is all resolved."

Who would stand to gain? Anyone who wanted to do him harm… and that list was quite long these days. "So he can just decide when…?"

"With the proper coercion, he can likely speed things up or slow them down as he pleases," Dumbledore sighed.

"But—what about Lucius' disappearance? Don't they have to have access to the ship for that?"

"Yes," Dumbledore mused. "And I imagine the investigation will be held up for a rather long time." He fixed Harry with a piercing glance. "Harry, if you have any idea where Lucius is…"

"I don't know, Professor—I don't. He was alive when I left him." And that was the truth. "It was self defense against a convicted Death Eater—surely that means something?"

"Without access to the ship, without a body, and only eye-witness accounts, it will be difficult to prove, Harry. If it turns out that Mengal is flying India's colors, we may be barred from investigating all together. The British and Indian Ministries do not get on well at all."

Harry felt a growing despair. "If there's slavery on the ship, doesn't that mean that any nation can jump in at any time? Why doesn't the Wizengamot just bypass all the posturing and go after this guy?"

"I suspect," Dumbledore began darkly, causing Harry to straighten, "that there is a rather sizable amount of grease on the wheels at the Ministry these days."

Harry frowned. "You suspect?"

Dumbledore favored him with a dry smile. "I'm afraid I was kicked out of that august body last year, and haven't been asked back. I have only my suspicions."

Harry raked his fingers through his hair. "Nightmare," he muttered. "This is a nightmare. Why would the Ministry do this? What do they have to gain by dragging me through the mud?"

"Everything, Harry," Dumbledore sighed. "If you could be shown as an unsympathetic character, then it would go a long way toward reestablishing some credibility for both the Ministry and, unfortunately, the Prophet. I know—it doesn't make sense to you and me," he added in response to Harry's mutinous look. "But even though they were wrong about Voldemort, this goes toward showing they weren't wrong about you. If the public doesn't have you to rally behind, then they can only rally behind the government. You see?"

"People don't rally behind me," Harry muttered bitterly.

"Oh, but they do, my boy," Dumbledore said, smiling sadly. "And the Ministry knows it. The only way for them to gain credibility in the public's eyes, other than to sway you to publicly endorse them, is to make you look like the villain. And Fudge knows he will never earn your support."

Harry snorted at that.

"Harry," Dumbledore said after a short pause. "If there is anything else you know about the occurrences of the past few weeks—anything you haven't told us—please don't hesitate to inform me. It could make all the difference."

"Like informing me could have made all the difference?" Harry snapped before he could stop himself.

"Harry, you must trust me—"

"I can't trust you, Professor," Harry said, feeling his chest constrict at the words but knowing them to be true. Dumbledore did not respond, but a certain weariness seemed to settle around his shoulders.

For a little while, they were both silent. The place was quiet—the other patrons had cleared out, and the only sounds came from the guttering lamps and the night pressing in from outside.

The barkeep walked past them once or twice, eyeing them from beneath gnarled brows, as if trying to decide what to make of them.

"So you're really not on the Wizengamot anymore?" Harry asked abruptly.

Dumbledore gave a short laugh. "No. But I shall let you in on a little secret, Harry. Though I may not have the political clout that I once did, I now find myself with the time and freedom to see to certain things which would have been impossible before. It rather reminds me of the old days," he added wistfully, gaze going distant.

Harry stared at the Headmaster. He studied the familiar weathered features and deep, wise wrinkles—the crows-feet around those pale eyes which studied something buried or forgotten that Harry couldn't see—and he wondered how many of those long decades Dumbledore had spent alone. Trying to do everything by himself, never sharing the weight or responsibilities of leadership with anyone. Was it hubris, or nobility? "Have you always been like that?" he asked without thinking.

He realized with a thrill of horror that it had been a terribly forward question, which was not the sort of thing he said to anyone, let alone the Headmaster of his school. But, with an air of puzzlement and infinite patience, Dumbledore answered him anyway. "Have I always been like what?"

Harry cleared his throat. "You know, gone your own way. Played everything close to the chest."

"Hm," Dumbledore said quietly. And even more quietly still, he murmured, "I suppose I have."

Harry took a deep breath, and stared fixedly at his butterbeer. "I think you need to have someone you confide in, Professor. Someone you're completely honest with, who knows all your plans and plots and secrets. I'm not saying that's me, obviously; I know there are loads of really intelligent and talented witches and wizards in the Order you can trust. But you just can't go on waging this war all on your own. People want to help, and keeping secrets and—and trying to handle everything just means more chances for you to mess up. And I can't afford for you to mess up anymore." He set a sickle onto the bar for the drinks, and quietly walked out of the pub and into the night.

"Careless!" Harry shrieked, sweeping aside the contents of the stone table in a fit of unrestrained rage. "How could he simply let the boy slip away?"

"He is taunting you, my Lord," purred the low, sycophantic voice of Bellatrix Lestrange. "We should kill him—we have no need of his little games—ugh!"

The irritating drone was quickly silenced when Harry took her by the throat and yanked her close. Fear and desire warred in her dark eyes, and Harry whispered, "Do not speak of that which you do not understand, woman. Vexing as our benefactor may be, he is yet of use. Can you say the same of yourself?" Harry tossed her away roughly, and she caught herself on the table edge.

"Forgive me, my Lord," she demurred, eyes down and trembling slightly.

"Fah," Harry growled at her, turning away. He was surrounded by incompetence, and at this moment would have liked nothing better than to kill them all and be done with it. But no. He remembered patience with reluctance. He could not be everywhere at once. Bellatrix still waited, cowed, and it filled him with irritation. Could she find nothing more useful to do than hover? "Get out," he spat abruptly. "Tell the map-maker that her presence is required."

Bellatrix scurried out the rough stone doorway. Harry poised over the ruined collection of maps and parchment, but his mind was elsewhere. How could he have escaped? Out in the middle of the ocean, surrounded by Death Eaters… Harry lunged forward, overturning the table, and roared.

"Guh!" Harry jumped, heart racing as he woke abruptly. His fists were twisted in his sheets, and his face was buried in his pillows. He pushed himself up on his forearms, breathing harshly and raking his fingers through his hair.

He stayed like that until his pulse had eased, and then he reached blindly for his bedside table, taking up his glasses, a quill, and a bit of parchment. He scratched out everything he could remember from the vision—most importantly that Voldemort seemed to be looking for something but didn't know where it was, and that it must be someplace remote if he needed a map-maker—and then set it all aside to flop back on his pillows, clutching his head.

He'd woken up with headaches before, but this was something else. Now it wasn't just centered in his scar, but also pulsing like a jackhammer behind his left eye. He hissed through his teeth, pressing the heel of his palm into his eye, until slowly the pain eased.

He looked up to meet Hedwig's bleary gaze—she was hunkered down at the end of his bed like a faithful hound and appeared to have been awoken by his thrashing. "I hate mornings, Hedwig," he told her flatly. She blinked in a noncommittal sort of way.

"Well, I suppose that's your opinion, then," he grunted, and swung out of the big bed. A large stack of mail sat by the window, and he scowled at the familiar scene. "I hate mail as well," he added half-heartedly, and wondered how the envelopes came to be so carefully arranged every morning. House elves, perhaps? He was just glad there weren't a score of owls sitting outside his window.

He set aside letters from anyone he knew personally, and all the rest—a frightening number of people who either encouraged his "life of crime-fighting," or gave him a round scolding for acting like a hoodlum, and even a handful of shady sounding invitations to "exciting opportunities fitting your unique skill-set"—received a quick immolation with a snap of his fingers.

When a particularly thick set of letters began to burn a little out of hand, Harry instinctively reached for his wand—only to remember he didn't have it anymore. "Dammit," he cursed, dashing for his trunk. Where had he packed the blood wand—? The drapes caught fire almost spitefully, and he cursed again, abandoning the search in favor of darting back to put the small blaze out with his trainers. "The house elves are going to murder me," he mumbled, stomping feverishly.

"Argh," he burst when the hem of his jeans started smoldering. "Oh hell—aguamenti!" He twisted his mind around the incantation, hand outstretched, forcing the magic to bend to his will—his muscles shook and the fixtures rattled, the air rippled and—

A fine spray whirled into being, slightly less impressive than the misters in the produce section at the grocery store.

Harry groaned in disbelief, muscles going slack. "That's it?" Hedwig twittered disapprovingly, and Harry scowled at her. "Well, let's see you try it then."

She met his gaze coolly, and if he didn't know any better, Harry would have thought she was scoffing at him. Quickly, he snatched a pillow from his bed to smother the flames before they consumed the whole room. The sad result was a charred length of drapery, a blackened pillow, and a scorched spot on the rug.

"Reparo?" he tried half-heartedly, wiggling his fingers at the destruction. Nothing happened at all, and he sighed, truly recognizing for the first time how difficult things would be without a wand. Unless he was alone, he wouldn't even be able to use his blood wand. There was no way it would fit in his pocket, and swinging around a hacked off table leg wasn't exactly inconspicuous. It would not be a fun year.

Dutifully, he sat down and answered the rest of his mail—trying to ignore the faint atmosphere of smoke in the room—assuring a great number of people who had evidently heard about the attack on the Dursleys' and following abduction that he was indeed well, that no, he would not teach anyone how to shoot nails at people, and no, he had not orchestrated the whole thing in order to off the Dursleys.

At the behest of a note from Madam Pomfrey, the next order of business was a trip to the hospital wing for a checkup—the nurse seemed to think it was necessary after his ordeal, and Harry grudgingly agreed that it might be a good idea.

She shrieked, "Dear Merlin, you've dropped a stone!" when he ambled through the door, sending Hedwig bolting from his shoulder and back down the hallway. Harry privately thought this was a gross exaggeration—he'd just spent an entire week under Mrs. Weasley's cooking regiment, after all.

But he sat patiently while she hovered about, muttering things like, "Already naught but skin and bones," and, "spine poking out your stomach," and "carve out that man's eyes with a spoon, I will," all of which left Harry feeling mildly insulted. She finally let him go with a potion supplement, and an admonishment to drink lots of fluids and get at least three square meals a day.

Just as he was standing up to go, Pomfrey took his face in her calloused hands and kissed him on the cheek. "I'm glad you came out of that mess all right, lad. Now do an old girl a favor and stay out of here, you understand?"

Harry, so surprised he actually blushed, could only stutter, "Thank you, Madam Pomfrey…"

She shooed him away, and he went.

After the obligatory breakfast cum supplement potion, during which his owl somehow found her way into the kitchens and raised hell until the house elves brought her some bacon, Harry dashed back up to his room in the guest wing for some books and parchment.

There was work to be done.

Hedwig perched on his bedpost and watched as he chewed the end of his quill pensively, staring at a blank bit of parchment.

Research, he wrote first, and underlined it.

Blood magic went second.

Wizarding Law.

Magical theory.

Spell construction.

Wild magic.

River spirits.

Ghosts.

Dementors. He pondered over this one for a long time, before adding, creation, control, destruction. Other dark creatures associated with water.

Prophecy, he added last of all, with that familiar feeling of ice in his gut. Whatever the problems in his life, it always seemed as if Voldemort had a hand in everything. He wondered cynically if he would get bored after he offed the Dark Lord.

He sat back and looked at his list with a faint sense of dismay. It was a lot to take on all at once, and almost read like a class list except for the last few topics. He clenched his jaw in determination. He would find his answers, and do what he needed to do. That was all there was to it.

He snatched up the list, a few books, and his book-bag, and swept out the door with Hedwig hot on his heels.

Several hours later found him hunched over like an old man, nursing a headache and a goblet of pumpkin juice that Pistol the house elf had been good enough to bring him. "What miss Pince don't know can't hurt," the old elf had said with a distinctly sly wink. Hedwig had taken her leave out through the tall library windows early on, and aside from Peeves, who popped in and out unpredictably, Harry was quite alone.

He had started out with Wizarding Law, but it was all so convoluted and outdated that he couldn't make heads or tails of anything—in fact, he wasn't sure if Hogwarts (or the Ministry, for that matter) even had updated versions of the various branches of law. Some things were just plain contradictory, which he might have chalked up to differences in era, had it not been for the fact that often times it happened in the same book.

"Show me a wizard with a head for law, and I'll show you a freak of nature," he muttered to himself.

He had, however, managed to glean some fairly useful information about the ways a witch or wizard could break the law. He'd smirked to himself when he imagined Hermione praising him for being a conscientious citizen, when in truth he was more concerned with knowing just which lines he was crossing when he came to them. Because lines would have to be crossed; he was fairly certain of that.

Wizarding Law segued easily into the subject of blood magic, but here he ran into much of the same problem—the field of blood magic was so broad and old that there were literally dozens of books devoted solely the topic in the Restricted section, and hundreds more that mentioned various permutations of it—all with contradicting ideas about its morality and usage.

It seemed that blood magic had seen fairly common use for most of magical history, and it hadn't been until relatively recent times that it had taken on its dark stigma. Blood in spells, artifacts, or rituals served as a potent focusing agent, as well as a key component to some of the more powerful or ancient magic processes. It seemed the majority of magical nations had little or no restrictions on its use, but Britain had seen an outbreak of hostile blood magic when the old Houses began imploding on themselves during the last few centuries. Since most Houses shared some blood ties, they had turned blood magic against each other—sometimes even within their own families.

It figured, Harry reflected, that pureblood nobility had been at the root of the trouble.

Throughout his foray into the complexities of blood magic, Harry became more and more certain that this would be something he could and should use. The Ministry was foolish and backwards for throwing out an entire branch of magic—more than just one branch really, as it applied to enchanting, spellcasting, potion making, warding—it was mind boggling.

Anything he cast upon himself with his blood wand would be many times more potent than normal—a simple levitation charm could send him skyrocketing, or a disillusionment charm could render him almost flawlessly invisible. A shield charm could be nigh impregnable.

If he could make another blood wand that was small enough to hide up his sleeve, then once he got his old wand back, he could switch off casting, perhaps… That is, if he got his old wand back.

He copied down anything that caught his fancy, racking up long scrawling lines of ideas and thoughts, but soon his search turned toward finding any sign of what the Other side could be, and why he seemed to be the only one aware of it.

His leads all seemed to point to dead ends. The most obvious one he'd thought of, involving the Durmstrang ship and how it had emerged from the lake, turned out to be a complicated process involving corresponding runes and plotted trajectories and folds through space which required prior setup in order to function.

That theory exhausted, Harry moved on. Remembering how he had seen the bobbing lights of magical souls from the Other side when he'd been evading those wizards on his first journey through the puddle, Harry pursued the afterlife angle. Predictably, all he could find on the subject remained hazy and philosophical; if the ghosts knew anything, they weren't talking, and obviously no one else had seen life after death.

"Oy, Peeves," he called out, eyes glued to the text.

The poltergeist, who had been industriously sticking book pages together with chewing gum up and down the aisles, poked his head out. "Aye?"

Harry put the book down. "What is the afterlife like?"

Peeves considered him for a second, before breaking out into a grin. "Ickle Potter's thinkin' morose thoughts these days, is he? Thinkin' about tottering off the mortal coil, boyo?"

Harry let his chin fall into his hand, and regarded the poltergeist flatly. "More interested in staying on it, at this point, Peeves."

Peeves barked a laugh and zoomed in a loop until he poked halfway up through the table to regard Harry with a sly grin. "Peevesy's a poltergeist, Potter, not a ghost. Haven't got the foggiest, smoggiest idea what the afterlife looks like!"

Harry narrowed his eyes at the rotund little spirit. "You're lying," he said evenly.

"Tisn't a lie! Cross my heart and hope to die!"

Harry grunted. Maybe Peeves was telling the truth. Or maybe he wasn't asking the right question. "What about… the underworld?" Peeves went rather still, so Harry elaborated. "Really dark, glowing stuff everywhere… guardians and water spirits? Lots of dementors?"

Harry could see the poltergeist visibly swallow, and his normally clever gaze darted about nervously. "How's he know about that? Who told 'im? Bad place. Bad place." He actually shivered, before dropping out of sight.

Harry expected the little man to come out on the other side of the table, but after a few moments he realized that the poltergeist wasn't coming back at all. "Thanks, little buddy," he muttered dryly, and tried to shake of the sudden chill that ran up his spine.

His next literary foray—into corporeal magic—rerouted him into discussions on spell intensity and arithmantic modifiers for spellsmithing, when he'd really been trying to figure out if being able to see the wards and spell residue on the Other side might be a clue.

Magical properties of water got him nowhere.

Water spirits were mentioned in some very old texts, but referred to more as mythical figures rather than something you might run into in your best friend's backyard swimming hole.

Evening shadows were creeping across the floor by the time Harry pulled out what he could find discussing dementors and the variety of dark creatures associated with water. The library was dusty and silent, except for a very faint sound that came and went so fitfully that Harry was at first uncertain if it was just his imagination. After a still moment, he shook his head at his own folly, and pulled the books closer.

Dementors were… abhorrent creatures. Their origins were very vague, with most sources stating that the most complete information could be found filed away deep in Azkaban itself. The most explicit accounts (and these took on a certain vibe that reminded him of muggle UFO sightings) talked about how the Patronus was the only spell given for civilian use to defend against the creatures, but that the Ministry had more decisive methods. Unfortunately, these accounts also insisted that the Ministry kept that sensitive information in Azkaban as well, and so there was no way to prove its existence beyond word of mouth.

Descriptions and symptoms of encounters with dementors were much more comprehensive, and Harry found himself growing cold as he read. No one knew where the souls of the dementors' victims went, but details about the process were vivid and gripping. How the victim first lost control of their motor functions, then their higher thought processes, and finally all bodily functions as the monsters opened a black void into which all warmth and spark was greedily consumed.

How the rotting, spectral figures would flock, gently, steadily, inexorably, and run their victims down for miles.

How the air around them would burn with grasping, choking cold.

Harry shoved the books away, hand going up to rub his eyes beneath his glasses. His left eye was aching again. He was tired, and the back of his neck had a fantastic crick in it, and after pulling out every single damn book in the library, he was no closer to finding out what he was dealing with and why it was happening to him. There was nothing. No connections. No mentions of anything that sounded remotely familiar. How was that even possible? He kicked the table leg and scrubbed a hand through his hair.

His frustration exploded. In a flash he was on his feet, and violently chucked his chair into the end of the nearest aisle. "It makes no bloody sense!"

How could there be no evidence—no connections? What did it mean? What was it about him that separated him from every other witch or wizard in published history? His anger petered away, leaving behind the bitter ashes of disappointment. Absently, he licked his thumb and tamped out the edge of his notes, which had caught fire in his short outburst.

"This is crazy," he muttered, shuffling over to retrieve his overturned chair.

With a sigh, he sat down again and grabbed a book on dark creatures, but his movements halted halfway. There was that sound again.

He looked around the empty library, scanning carefully, but saw nothing. What could—?

It brushed against his ears again—whispers. He stood carefully, stepping sideways to get a look down the adjacent rows of books. The shadows were long and deep now, broken only by dusty shafts of orange sunlight.

Turning in a slow circle, trying to pinpoint the direction of the source, his gaze landed on his goblet of pumpkin juice. A shiver shot up his spine. Surely not…

He crept closer, so that he was leaning directly over the innocuous looking liquid. Yes, it was clearer now… It sounded like the constant groaning, wailing, crying whispers that carried on the breeze when he was on the Other side.

"No way," he whispered aloud, too horrified to censure his words. He wasn't on the Other side; he shouldn't be able to hear those voices here… things were not supposed to come across that divide unless he brought them.

He was leaning close now, so close that his breath was causing the surface of the liquid to ripple. The whispers grew louder, moaning and hissing and snarling, and… that wasn't Harry's breath moving the surface, it was—

The pumpkin juice froze with a sharp snapping pop, and Harry's entire body jerked with pure fright-induced adrenaline.

He stumbled back with a gasp, heart pounding, and one thing ran through his mind over and over: they're trying to come through, they're trying to come through….

He bolted from the library.

Part of him knew he was overreacting—part of him knew he didn't react this strongly when he was on the Other side with those creatures. But the other part of him couldn't shake the feeling that there were things skittering along behind him through the darkened hallways. That part of him couldn't stop repeating over and over that if those things came across the divide, that he wouldn't be able to get away anymore.

And they could come through just about anywhere. There was a great big lake right outside that would fit anything that wanted to climb out of it.

Harry's pulse didn't start to slow down until he'd climbed into his four-poster bed—like a little kid afraid of the dark—and he convinced himself over and over that there was nothing to be worried about. There wasn't anything on the Other side he couldn't handle.

He sat there for a long time, fingers buried in his hair, staring down at the pages of the Auror's Starter Companion, trying to take his mind off of what had happened.

A flicker of movement caught the corner of his eye. There was a glass of water on his bedside table.

Long, bloodless fingers came grasping over the rim of the cup, slowly, feeling around like blind, hungry maggots.

Harry shouted, a cry of senseless, primal fear, and lashed out. He struck the glass, sending its contents into the air, and for just a split second in that curtain of water before the droplets separated from each other, he could see a face beyond those still-reaching fingers—pale as an eggshell, lumpy and blind, and a mouth that stretched wide, yawning and boneless.

And then the water splashed across the rug, the glass bounced once and rolled, and the creature was gone.

Harry leaned back, trembling from the shock, and let out a quiet moan. He needed help.

Hedwig flew in the window on quiet wings, and landed less than gracefully on the end of his bed. "Keep watch for me, girl," he told her. She cocked her head, but twittered agreeably.

Exhaustion caught up with him, and Harry slipped into oblivion.

Harry spent the next few days doing everything he could to not think about what had happened (except when he was researching it), and worked until he was so fatigued that he dropped immediately into sleep every night (until he woke up sweating from dreaming about it). Working with Hagrid during the afternoon certainly helped. Having been holed up in the library that first day back, Harry hadn't a chance of seeing the big man, but Hagrid sent him a note the very next morning inviting him to tea.

On the way down to Hagrid's hut, Harry practiced wandlessly casting Aguamenti at his owl, who was dodging back and forth overhead. Harry was able to cast his jets of water further and further with every attempt, and Hedwig, for her part, couldn't seem to decide whether it was all great fun or entirely undignified. She finally seemed to get fed up with the game and dropped a bomb on Harry as if to say, "Dodge that!" which Harry neatly did.

"Bloody bird," he muttered fondly, watching her wing away over the Forbidden Forest. She was likely hungry—she'd stayed and watched over him all night instead of going hunting, and his breakfast scraps likely hadn't cut it.

"Harry!" Hagrid boomed, coming around the side of his hut. Harry was alarmed to see the half-giant's eyes glittering with moisture, before he was swept up in a bone-crushing hug. "Damn it all if yeh don't know how ter get yerself in trouble!"

Harry coughed when Hagrid put him down, trying to get his breath back. "Well, like I told Hermione, I always get out of it again," he said weakly.

"That yeh do, lad," Hagrid agreed, slapping him on the back (which was like being whacked repeatedly by a slab of bedrock) and sniffling loudly. "I'm jes' glad ter see yeh're okay after all that. I tell yeh, those thestrals over on the north slopes have been in a right snit since yeh left."

Harry smiled up at the big man while he talked.

And so it went.

Harry fell back into his duties with Hagrid as if he'd never left, and if not having his own wand made things difficult, it simply spurned his efforts at wandless magic on all the more.

He hadn't seen hide nor hair of Dumbledore since their long discussion and Harry's brazen declaration. Harry thought, somewhat bitterly, that the old man was likely out and about, exercising his newfound political freedom to pull strings and poke his nose into more distant and far-flung matters.

Harry didn't have any more encounters with creatures trying to come through his teacups that week, aside from the occasional whispers, but he was constantly on his guard. His research was enlightening, and his studies in magic theory made his understanding of what he read more and more thorough, but he still hadn't found what he was looking for. With Mud still on her way from Ottery St. Catchpole, Karakash unreachable (no matter how many times he stuck his face in the Black Lake and called for him), and Peeves unwilling to discuss the matter, Harry wasn't making much headway.

He focused instead on beginning spellsmithing (tricky business without a proper wand, to say the least) and found that between the Almanac, the texts he could find in the library, and the twins' own surprisingly thorough notes, Harry could put together and execute very basic spells. Only simple things like colored lights or streams of sparks, but they were based on his own designs, and he had nowhere to go but up.

His other focus was one that consumed his thoughts but left him unable to act.

Bahari.

He needed to find the man who had abducted him—who knew where Mr. Weasley and the Dursleys were. But in order to do that, he needed help. Help on the inside. He needed Tonks.

But how could he approach her about it? She was an apprentice-Auror, an employee of the Ministry. He couldn't just say, 'help me find this man.' But he also couldn't go with, 'hey, let's meet for tea!' What would she think? She'd think it was suspicious, or weird, or—God forbid—creepy.

Harry spent the better part of a day wondering how to procure her help, but in the end, it didn't matter.

She wrote to him.