Chapter Eight

Harry's entire interest in Luna Lovegood had been her attitude toward life. He had found her so entirely different from the other girls at Hogwarts that it had made her attractive to him—she was so glibly capable and purposefully innocent. He wasn't sure how he could have explained that to Hermione when it had come up between them. What he did know was that there was nothing between the two of them now. And yet today, his respect for Luna's ability to roll with the punches in life had deepened. Today, he'd met Xenophilius Lovegood.

It was out of style to be a student of Deathly Hallows lore—at least in England. The best information, or so "Xeno" (as he'd insisted Harry call him) claimed, was still to be found in central Europe. Harry was inclined to believe him, since the first he'd heard of the Elder Wand was when living in Austria. Of course, it had been impolite to speak of it there, since that area had been so heavily affected by Grindelwald's reign of terror and it was rumoured that Grindelwald had possessed the wand.

Still, fashionable or not, Xeno Lovegood had been a veritable font of information. Harry had walked away from their meeting with a much better grasp on the Tale of the Three Brothers, and the symbol of the bisected triangle within the circle. Not only that, but a starting place, should he decide to seek for the wand.

It was that meeting that had led him to where he was now. He had another appointment to make today, back at Hogwarts, but his need to come here right away had been too much to ignore.

His hand brushed gently over the headstones, and he didn't care that his knees had gone numb with the cold. Sirius had never offered to bring him here. Perhaps he'd been waiting for Harry to ask him to. Or maybe it was something Sirius himself didn't want to see. Whatever the reason, this was the first time Harry had seen where his parents were buried. It was harder than he'd expected.

He'd thought that having Sirius was enough. It had always been enough, from the moment he'd known the identity of the ragged man on the back step.

Only now, it wasn't.

He wasn't crying. At least not for now. He was simply staring at those dates, those horribly haunting dates that showed how young they'd been. It wasn't fair, that he didn't know them. Not fair that they weren't here to see him. Not fair that he didn't still come home to them every summer and sneak out to let Sirius corrupt him on the weekends. He could picture the scene in his mind, of him and his little sister in the backyard of their house, shoving each other and making their mother roll her eyes as she walked past with a tray of drinks, while his father and his godfather were standing over the food on the grill arguing about whether or not Sirius should get married. It was what he should have had. He'd never needed it before. But seeing the place where they were buried changed something in him.

His eyes fell on the empty spaces around their graves. One was for him, and there were some for his children and grandchildren. But one day (if he himself was alive to make it happen) he'd make sure his godfather was put here, beside his friends. Harry knew without asking that it was what Sirius would want. And Remus? Fenrir Greyback and his little band of fighters were a constant menace to the community Remus led, and Harry was afraid a major attack was on its way. They would lay Remus, who was not welcome in his family plot, in one of these empty spaces only too soon.

He stood up, altogether too abruptly. He didn't realise that he'd clenched his hands into fists in the soil, not until he saw the little crumbles of dirt falling away from his fingers. Surprised, he relaxed his hands and wiped them on the legs of his trousers. He hadn't come here for this. He wanted information, if he could get it. He'd come here because of Xeno Lovegood.

He began walking the graves. If his family had been buried here for generations . . . he found it. He almost walked past it without stopping, so intent was he on continuing his search come hell or high water. He actually had to backtrack a few steps. He didn't kneel down again in front of the new stone; feeling was only just coming back to his knees. But it was there, and he felt something inside him clench up with a strange, anticipatory fear.

PEVERELL

So it was here.

When Harry had listened to Xeno talk about the Hallows, he'd allowed himself to think about each object individually. For so long, he'd only been interested in the Wand. But he found himself getting a queer tight feeling in his stomach as Xeno described the powers of the Cloak. It was like no other cloak in the world, the claim went, and so far as Harry knew, that was true. He'd only come across one that matched the description. He owned it.

And so he'd come to the graveyard, looking for Peverell graves. It made a lot of sense, now, that Dumbledore had kept it all these years and had been so slow to give it to him. If it was THE Cloak, Death's Cloak (and Harry had a strong suspicion that it was), then it must have been a very hard decision, on Dumbledore's part. He'd trusted James, but not Harry, not much. He did now, or seemed to. Maybe he was simply bowing to what he believed was inevitable.

Harry had a decision of his own to make. He had to decide if he believed in all this, in the tales of the Hallows and their power. Later, he wouldn't recall walking over there, but he was suddenly standing before the graves of James and Lily Potter again, staring down at them. Wondering if they were angry over their death, as he was. It was the Wand he wanted. At first, his thought had been to escape from the deathgrip that Voldemort and prophecy had on him. With the Elder Wand, he could win in spite of his shortcomings as the Dark Lord's foe, and he could do it on his terms. But it became something more as he stood there.

Voldemort had stolen his happy life with his family, and left him with this queer and lonely life in which few options existed. For that, he wanted to make Voldemort hurt. And he could. He could do it with the Deathstick.

On the day of Harry's first appointment to enter the lake, Reed had declared that he was not ready. His people would be impressed that Harry was so willing to try, he said, but Harry would look foolish to them. If he did not mind that, then he could go. Harry had declined, and had set himself to more intensive study of Mermish. The Merpeople did not celebrate Christmas, but Reed had spent enough time talking to Dumbledore and to some of the forest creatures, that he understood why Harry would not be able to try again for a while.

Today, a month after returning to school, Reed said that Harry was ready, and Harry agreed. He'd already informed Sirius and Dumbledore that he would likely be entering the lake today, so he wasn't worried about drowning or random underwater attacks. Those two would come look for him if he didn't come back. He had a small dueling sheath for his wand strapped to his arm, to renew the Bubble-Head Charm he planned to perform.

"Your preparation is complete but for one thing," Reed said, and held out his hand to Harry. In the webbed palm was coiled a slimy substance that Harry didn't immediately recognise. "Eat this."

Harry frowned. He liked Reed well enough, after a few months of weekly lessons, but really. "What is it?"

"So suspicious, Harry," Reed chuckled. Harry still hadn't quite accepted how funny his name sounded with a Mermish accent. "It is only gillyweed. When I spoke to Dumbledore, he assured me that you would enjoy this more than a spell."

Harry recognised the sketch from his Herbology textbook in that very alive-looking coil of slime, now. "Oh, right." He quickly scooped it up and popped it into his mouth. It tasted awful, but better than some of the things he'd tasted in the pursuit of advanced knowledge of Potions.

As soon as the gasping tightness in his chest began, he dove into the lake. He was not an excellent swimmer, but he did know how to dive without getting water up his nose. He saw the shine of Reed's scales as he went under, and oriented himself in that direction. When he turned, Reed was there, grinning with his mossy teeth and looking cheerful where he was normally rather sober.

"Will you follow me?" he asked, the musical tones dancing across the small currents created by his tail, spinning in little swirl of bubbles to Harry.

Harry gasped in delight. He never would have imagined how much better Mermish sounded when spoken in the proper habitat.

"I will, teacher," he said in a serious voice, but he was grinning in return.

Reed whirled with a flash of his tail, and the grace that belonged to the Merpeople became evident as Harry struggled to follow.

"I will take you to my home, where you can meet my wife," Reed called behind him as he swam deeper and deeper, with powerful waves of his tail. He did not concern himself with whether or not Harry could keep up. With him (and likely with his entire clan, Harry thought) you kept up or you didn't come. "Then I will bring you to our meeting place so that any who wish to meet you, can."

"I am honoured," Harry said, almost shouting to be sure his voice would make its way up to Reed. It was a strange and alien feeling, to be panting for breath and to feel water moving through the gills that had formed in his neck. His lungs tried to heave with effort, and the sides of his neck expanded and pushed the cold lake through. It was utterly amazing.

There was a small collection of huts at the bottom of the lake, formed out of stone and weed and bone. It was crude-looking, but somehow graceful and beautifully alien—like Reed himself. Harry had settled into a rhythm, and swam more casually now, giving him the time to look at the huts as they swam by. Some were more elaborate than others, with braided vine or branches forming arching doorways, or with stone of different hues creating patterns in the walls. Reed gave a last powerful stroke of his tail and pulled open the woven-branch door of the hut Harry guessed was his own. Delicate fronds of lake weed created curtains that Harry had to brush away as he followed Reed inside.

There were strange half-arches formed from the floor of the lake that were collected in a small ring of four in the middle of the room, weird depressions with high curving tops. Onto the walls had been fastened interesting creations of woven plant life and bone—wall art, Harry realised. There was another curtain of waving fronds that must be covering the entry to the rest of the hut.

A hand brushed aside this curtain, a hand that was small but too calloused to be considered delicate, and a Mermaid emerged. She was a tiny thing, compared to Reed, and very slender, but she looked strong for all that. Her hair was short, held back from her face with a comb of sorts made from fish bone. Her face broadened into a smile.

"Welcome. You must be Harry, Reed's wizard student."

She spoke in slow, careful tones for Harry's benefit. Harry followed the custom he'd learned from Reed, spreading his hands in front of him and dipping his head, a horribly difficult proposition when he was also frantically trying to keep himself in an upright position underwater. He was momentarily surprised by the sight of his own hands, webbed as they were, but he straightened up with admirable poise.

"I thank you for your invitation, lady."

Reed had confided to Harry that calling their women "lady" was likely a custom they'd picked up when they had more regular contact with wizards, but it wouldn't do to point out to a Merperson that anything in their culture had come from humans. They preferred to think wizards picked up habits from them.

"This is my wife, Sylphia," Reed said, sounding proud.

"Please, come in and rest," the small Mermaid said, gesturing at the weird shapes rising from the floor. "I have almost finished preparing some refreshment."

Reed laughed at Harry's befuddlement, and his wife's laughter joined his to create a night sky of bubbles instead of stars over their heads. He maneuvered himself into a sitting position inside the depression. The weird arch was over his head, and held him down so that he did not float into the ceiling. They were chairs!

He slowly figured out how to sit in one, and did his halting best to respond to Reed's steady, bubbling voice. This was normal, so he didn't feel embarrassed, at least not until Sylphia came back and began speaking in those same lilting, musical tones. Harry spoke with hesitation, wishing once more that there was someone back at school whom he could practice with. When he was with Dumbledore, they had more important things to do.

He was nervous about the "refreshment," thinking that he was going to be consuming a pile of fish gut and lake weed salad. Instead, he was given something that greatly resembled sushi. He even discovered that he had the linguical skills to inquire about the rice-like substance. The best he could figure out from the response was that the Merpeople cultivated it in the muddy bottom of the lake. Reed told him that his folk, here in the lake, had come from the great seafolk, and this was a dish they had been preparing since time immemorial. Sushi was something wizards had gotten from merfolk and then passed along to the rest of humanity.

Harry was positively gleeful about that—that was the sort of things he'd begun his studies with Reed to find out. His mind automatically began tracing a course of studying with the lake folk until he finished at Hogwarts, then moving to the Mediterranean coast where the Merpeople of the sea still flourished to study with them. They would likely speak a different dialect that he would have to adapt himself to, but the number of things he could find out . . .

Apparently, he'd been speaking aloud, because Reed and Sylphia were laughing at him. Which was strange, because he'd been speaking in English, so far as he knew.

"What is the reason for your laughter?" Harry asked. Mermish really needed to develop the word "why," in his opinion.

"You a scholar, as my husband," Sylphia answered in broken English. "You and Reed love study, the same way."

Reed began laughing, the sound flying in bubbles around the room. "As you can see, my wife is not the student we are."

Harry didn't feel right about laughing at Sylphia, but she was laughing herself.

"I do not have dedication such as you or Reed does," she admitted, switching back to Mermish. "But Harry," she said, her face growing serious, "even my husband, with his need to know all the history of our people, does not weary himself as I see you do."

"I don't understand," Harry said automatically. He was getting tired of accusations that he wore himself out too much.

Sylphia, perhaps thinking that he didn't possess the capacity for language to understand her, floated gracefully forward to trace the circles under his eyes with her strong, small hands. "This is not from study, though. I know what worry looks like. My husband has told me of what is happening in the above. The wizards are at war again. Is this your worry?"

Harry pulled his head back. "I'm fine, but I thank you."

She made a noise of disbelief, and gave his cheek a maternal pat. "Reed should have told you, you cannot lie to me. I always know."

He tried to smile at her, and found that he had to revert again to English. He hoped she would understand. "I've been told that I take too much on myself. What can I say? I do it on purpose, so I have no reason to complain."

"This makes sense," Sylphia said frankly, "but is not an excuse to kill yourself for the world."

Harry shrugged, understanding her Mermish well enough to know what she was getting at. "The world needs saving. If not me, then who?"

She had no response, and floated back to her seat. "I like him, Reed."

Reed grunted, busy with eating a piece of his wife's cooking. He'd heard this from Harry before. "I said you would," he muttered. "I've liked him for months. I have the responsibility of ambassador for our people, and I do not invite wizards down here if I do not like them."

"You let those foolish children down here," she said primly. "That bird girl nearly got killed."

"I did that for Dumbledore," Reed said dismissively. "They didn't stay long, and I knew Pesca and Murk would love threatening them. Harry is different."

"I am?" Harry said.

"You are here to learn," Reed shrugged. "We are a culture that appreciates such things. We are entrusted with ancient secrets and knowledge that wizards have forgotten, but you have come to find out. As I told you, when we first began to meet, you have a responsibility now. To my people. You must hold our secrets as close as we do, but you also must find one person you trust, to pass the knowledge along."

Harry had thought, when Reed first said this, that it was sort of a symbolic thing, or a tradition. He could see now that Reed had meant it. And suddenly he realised what his desire to learn meant to Dumbledore. Dumbledore had been entrusted with the knowledge of the Merfolk, and he had to find someone to pass the knowledge along to. Harry had come along just when Dumbledore had probably begun to believe that he would fail to keep that trust.

"Is the origin of sushi a secret?"

Reed didn't laugh, as Harry had thought he would. "It is knowledge of my people, and you must hold it with care. Can you think of problems it would cause if this became common knowledge? Or if people knew that we can sing the fish to us, or that we still know secrets about wizards and other humans from long ago?"

Harry began to see Reed's point. He had a brief image of flocks of people standing on the shore of every major body of water in the world, begging the Merpeople for every secret they had—or terrorizing them in a malicious battle to prove the legitimacy of their claims. Or killing them to cover up information about their ancestors. He shuddered.

"I understand my responsibility," he said humbly.

Reed nodded curtly. "I knew that you would, or I would not have taken you as my student."

Harry thought about that for a moment, and a small smile spread over his face. He liked being this trustworthy. The burden of the things he was learning, of all the things he was trying to learn, was very heavy. But it helped, to know that he had this burden because he'd earned it.

He took a second dose of gillyweed before Reed took him to the meeting place for his tiny village. It was the same place, he said, that the "hostages" had been held during the Triwizard Tournament. The entire community turned out to meet him. They were all intensely curious about whether or not their village scholar was touched to be teaching a teenaged wizard from above the secrets of their people. Harry did his best to reassure them. He was at his most charming, but didn't make the mistake of joking around. They were a serious people and he didn't have a handle on their sense of humour yet.

But he'd get it eventually, because he'd be back. As cold and foreign as it was, he liked it down here. Or maybe he liked it because it was cold and foreign. It brought to him the same feeling of relaxation that he had when he was in his Animagus form, and when he'd lived as a Muggle. He was someone else, then. He got to be nothing more or less than who he wanted to be.

Harry was feeling weary as he made the cold trudge back to the castle. He had dried himself off quickly with his wand, but it was February and being dry didn't mean it wasn't cold out. He picked up his pace, but he wasn't all that eager to get back inside. He'd missed a DL meeting because he'd spent so long under the lake, and he'd have to face Neville's disappointment. Neville sort of counted on him, as the still-undefeated champion of DL ambushes (which had mostly died out by now, except the attacks on him) to be there to keep morale high. Ron and Ginny would probably pester him about where he'd been, as well, which would be difficult to explain since he didn't ever talk about the Hallows or his Mermish studies.

It was a Saturday night and there weren't many students in the corridors or on the stairs in the castle. He made it up to Gryffindor Tower unmolested and entered it with his mood bolstered by not having to fight for his life on the way up.

"Evening," he said to the room at large, and sauntered over to where his roommates were working on a Transfiguration essay. He felt a prickle on the back of his neck that meant he was being watched, but he ignored it. It was sort of his job to look over everyone's essay before they turned them in, so they were likely waiting for him. "Can I join you lot? I still have to finish my essay."

The tension in the room was creeping over him. He put his hand on his wand, which still rested in the arm sheath. His roommates all looked up at him simultaneously, with expressions that he absolutely couldn't read. He felt queer, like someone had died—oh god someone had died—

"Is someone dead?" he said aloud, his voice sounding stupid.

"We thought you might be, mate," Ron answered, his essay forgotten.

"Me?" Harry said, startled. "Why?"

Seamus, for once, did not poke fun at him or call him Great One. "You've been gone all day, Harry, with not a word of where you were goin' or why."

Harry slowly turned to see nearly every eye in the room firmly fixed on him. "So you thought I was dead?" he asked. This is their first and best guess?

Neville gave him a very sober look. "It's not beyond reason, is it? Considering who you are and what you're involved with."

Harry was stopped in his mental tracks. For a moment, he didn't know how to respond. Then he abruptly sat down, feeling queasy and pale.

"You thought I'd gone to Voldemort?" he said, his voice hushed, hoping to keep this conversation at least nominally private. "And that I'd been killed?"

Dean spoke up when the other three seemed to be too uncomfortable. "We didn't really think so, or we'd have gone to one of the adults—well."

"Well, what?"

"Ron said only a minute before you walked in that if you weren't here by the time he finished the next paragraph, he was going to find your godfather. So we didn't really think you were dead, but . . . well, okay, we were worried."

"If you had gone to Sirius, you wouldn't have been. He knew where I was."

"Where were you?" Ron challenged.

Harry shrugged. "I was talking to a couple of experts about some of the subjects I'm studying."

Ron knew better than to press him for details at this point, but he did give him a look that communicated repressed anger. "Next time you decide to disappear for an entire day, would you mind telling someone?"

Harry experienced another moment of being too stunned to come up with something to say. Why were they so concerned as to his whereabouts? Did they really think he was so foolish that he'd go haring off to take on Voldemort's entire army without even telling anyone about it?

Okay. He might be able to think of a few circumstances in which he'd want it to be a secret, like if he was planning to infiltrate Voldemort's stronghold or something. But he probably wasn't going to do that. And they ought to know he wasn't ready to try. Besides, he wasn't entirely sure he liked how upset they were. He was so tired of being a symbol or whatever he was.

"You guys really need to figure out that if I'm gone, someone else can take care of Voldemort. I don't see myself dying anytime soon, but even if I do, I assume you're planning to keep fighting."

The other boys gave each other very odd looks.

"What?" Harry snapped.

"Of course we'd keep fighting," Ron said. "That's not really the point I was trying to make. We were concerned because you're a friend of ours."

"Oh," Harry said, only just beginning to understand.

"I might even be sort of sad if something were to happen to you," Ron said in a dry tone. "Not that I'd miss you or anything, you great prat. Who would miss someone so completely clueless?"

Harry wished he was dead. This wasn't exactly a comfortable moment for anyone, least of all him. He was a secretive and emotionally distant bastard, wasn't he? He didn't contribute anything to this little group but mental stress and stringent standards of personal discipline. They humoured him, but he couldn't imagine they'd miss it if he wasn't there. The only thing he could conceivably be good for, as a friend, was that he could always be counted on to correct their essays.

"You forgot short-tempered," he joked. "Seriously, I do still need to finish my essay, so I'm going to run upstairs and get it. Will you still be a while down here, or should I head to the library?"

The others looked like they wanted to say they were done, but Ron spoke first.

"I still have quite a way to go. You know me and essays."

So Harry stood up, with a desperate desire to get away from the table for a moment and get his mind into some semblance of order. His day had been intensely up-and-down, and riddled with moments of self-doubt and feelings of being the only one of his kind in the world. He hadn't been prepared for this.

He almost laughed as he headed for the stairs. Apparently he wasn't the undefeated champion of ambushes, after all.

In fact, his second defeat came only moments later. Hermione was sitting very near the stairs, with Parvati on one side, and a seventh-year named Jonny Burgar from their Ancient Runes class on the other. Her eyes were red and she was in the classic "being-comforted" pose. And it was Burgar. Sitting there patting her hand. So he finally understood why Hermione got so cheesed about seeing him talk to Luna once in a while.

She looked up at him, and suddenly stood up and walked over to him. They were all watching, but Harry's glare took care of that, and every student in the room was immediately very interested in their games and homework. Except Jonny Burgar, who watched him with a worrisome intensity.

But he didn't care about Burgar, he cared about his ex-girlfriend. Her still-wet eyes undid him completely. "Hermione, are you all right?" He reached out to her, unable to help the compulsion to comfort her.

She flinched, but allowed his hands to rest on her shoulders. "No."

"What's wrong? Can I help?"

She seemed to steel herself, and her red-rimmed eyes ceased to be pathetic and became a sort of weapon. "They were saying something had happened to you."

"I know," he said, feeling embarrassed all over again.

"I felt so . . ." She trailed off. "Harry, I couldn't bear it if it were true. Even thinking about it has got me so upset that I burst into tears over some ink spilled on my translation. Jonathan is oblivious of course, he thinks it's my time of the month or something, but I'm sure Parvati knows why I'm so upset."

"What are you trying to say?"

"I'm not trying to say anything. I just said it. I care about you a great deal, and I would be very upset if you were hurt or killed. Please don't let that happen."

"I'll do my best," he said, not without some exasperation. He didn't think this day could get any weirder, for one thing, and for another, why did everyone seem to think he was that anxious to throw himself into the jaws of death? He didn't want to say any of that, though, so he just said what was on his mind. "I miss you, Hermione. You're the best friend I've ever had."

"I miss you, too," she whispered.

"Are you still angry with me?"

"No. I don't think I was to begin with."

Then why in hell did you freak out and proceed to break up with and isolate yourself from me? "I want to be able to talk to you again."

She didn't respond to that. Harry felt that pair of watchful eyes keenly.

"So you and Burgar . . . you're together?"

"I have been on a date with Jonathan and allowed him to hold my hand," she said. "Does that count?"

"With you, it does."

"I suppose we are, then."

"I don't think he likes me."

"I think he knows you hold a much larger place in my heart than he does."

"You look good, Hermione. I don't want to get in his way. But we should partner up again next DL meeting, we were pretty unstoppable last time."

She smiled. "I'd like that."

"Well, I have to go get my essay and finish it up. I have a lot of other studies tonight."

If they were still as close as they'd been, he'd tell her that he was trying to track the location of the Elder Wand. In fact, if they were still that close, she'd have already known. She'd probably have gone to the Lovegood house with him. But here in the common room, with Burgar waiting for her, he couldn't do that.

"So, I'll see you around," he concluded.

"Yes, because we don't see each other around all the time," she retorted.

He chuckled. "Okay, that was lame. But I do have to get to work, and it looks like your boyfriend is getting a bit worried."

Hermione sniffed. "Let him worry. I don't answer to him. But if you have things to do, then go on. But promise me you'll get some sleep, Harry. You look—"

"Tired, and stressed out," he finished for her. "I know. Gee, wonder why?"

She gave him a disapproving look.

"Don't worry about me, I'll be fine."

"Yes, I know," she murmured, as he went upstairs to retrieve his essay and join his roommates. "I believe in you." But she was troubled. Because she believed that he'd do anything it took to make himself into what he wanted to be. He'd push himself far beyond his limits to gain the knowledge and ability he craved, and he'd break himself for it. He wanted so much to find a way around this prophecy, yet still stand up to Voldemort, and she believed in him so much that she knew he'd do it. And when he came to the other side, he'd be a used-up shell of a person with nothing left to give and no one in his life to give it to after he pushed them all away to keep them safe.

Jonathan Burgar was polite and complimented her taste in clothing and lavished praise on her skill with runes. He was a perfectly good boyfriend. But if it was between the security of a polite boyfriend, and the heart-poundingly risky venture of saving her best friend from himself . . . She'd given herself time and space to think, lots of it. It was time to reassess that decision.