Through the Veil Strangely

by littlewhitecat

When Sirius falls through the Veil in the Department of Mysteries Harry attempts to nose-dive after him. A strange encounter for Harry radically changes his world view;why worry about a Dark Lord when there's a good book to explore?

3. Chapter 3

Harry Potter belongs to J K Rowling, the wonderful lady who has inspired so many people to try their hand at writing too. Warhammer 40k belongs to Games Workshop who have a very scary legal team. Please don't sue me, I'm not very well off and could only pay you in pictures. I only mean to pay homage to the wonderful, funny, baroque, gruesomeness that is WH40k.

I should also say a big thank-you to my very patient Beta Jacobus-minoris who has read and reread my writing, pointed out my grammatical mistakes, questioned the suitability of some of my wilder ideas as well as putting up with my long winded rants about plot ideas.

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Author's Note

It's finally here, the third chapter of Through the Veil, after a year of waiting. A big thank-you to all of you for your continued support and wonderful reviews. I enjoy reading everyone of them :-)

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Chapter 3

"…not enough copies of the introductory Arithmancy text, though we seem to have solved that problem," Flitwick squeaked on, "by rationing my Ravenclaws, only one copy at a time, only for a week and then they have to wait at least a fortnight before they can borrow it again. Some of my Claws can be ever so possessive when it comes to books," the small man sighed in exasperated amusement.

Snape rolled his eyes, shifting uncomfortably; he hated staff-meetings, they always dragged on, full of inconsequential waffle, as approximately nothing was achieved except raising his blood pressure.

"…retired another six of the school brooms; several of them acted rather oddly during the first broom-riding class of the year," Hooch was now saying. Snape groaned internally; the yearly whinge about the school brooms was now under way. Dodgy charms, splintered handles, split and bent bristles, blah, blah, need new brooms, blah, blah.

"…could really do with some new brooms to replenish our school broom cupboard…"

Snape stifled a yawn, as he rolled his eyes yet again. Why couldn't the Headmaster just admit the meeting had ended half an hour ago and let them leave, damn it!

"…really think young Mr Potter is beginning to bloom…"

"That's not quite how I'd describe it," Snape muttered; but nobody took any notice of him.

"Oh yes," Flitwick rambled on enthusiastically, "when he's properly focused and concentrating on the task at hand, Mr Potter has been an absolute revelation this past term, an utter delight to have in the classroom."

"As long as he's concentrating," Minerva sighed. "If he's distracted- and it can be by almost anything- well, we've all seen the results, haven't we, when he decides to start experimenting. Just yesterday, I had to stop him from attempting to see what would happen if he did the animate to inanimate transfiguration backwards. Silly boy could have blown his wand-hand off."

Considering the stupid brat had actually had a wand blow up in his hand with no ill effect, while giving the Defence classroom an extra though temporary window, Snape found that highly unlikely, but he could hope. He snorted derisively as some of his colleagues winced; and why did the dratted house-elves have to muck the sandwiches around? They always cut the crusts off, producing these ridiculous little triangles.

"…a jar of ashwinder eggs," Slughorn said glumly, "and they don't come cheap. So I've got him in detention for pretty much the rest of the year, and I've been forced to put a sign on the ingredients store cupboard explaining that the ingredients within are not for consumption…"

"Ashwinder eggs?!" Minerva exclaimed.

"Oh yes, half a jar too," Slughorn nodded. "You have to admit the lad has a phenomenal digestive system. I sent him to the Hospital Wing, but Poppy couldn't find a thing wrong with the lad."

"Well, I suppose that will save him a fortune in Bezoars in the future," Minerva said.

Snape gave Minerva a disbelieving stare, as the others began to join in. Was he alone in realising just what a dangerous menace the Potter brat had become? And that was before they got onto the vexing problem that somehow the brat wasn't quite human anymore. He wasn't quite certain, he'd have to find some excuse to cast some quite invasive medical charms to be absolutely sure, but there was no way his recent growth spurt was normal. And who knew what else was going on inside that blasted body. Iron-root tea? It wasn't even as if poisoning the bloody brat would work.

"…his morning swims to be extremely disruptive…are you listening, Severus?"

Snape jerked, glaring around him.

"Young Mr Potter's morning ablutions, Severus," Minerva frowned at him, "they're disruptive, aren't they?"

Flitwick actually scowled. "Some of my more enterprising students have set up their telescopes at their dorm windows, and are charging their fellows a couple of knuts for a look. Honestly, I've done my best to put a stop to it, but still…"

"Not quite as forward as some of the Hufflepuff young ladies then," Minerva sniffed. "Miss Bones, Miss Abbott and some of the older girls seem to have struck a deal with young Mr Potter, guarding his garments for him, and in return, he then has breakfast with them. They take a blanket and a basket of refreshments out with them for that very purpose."

"What?" Pomona exclaimed. "They must have been keeping very quiet about that one, so how did you find out, Minnie?"

Minerva, to Snape's amusement, went slightly pink. "If you must know, some of the Gryffindors have taken to lurking in the undergrowth along the lake…and watching, the absolute worst offender being Miss Brown. And the older Creevey brother has been taking photographs…"

"And then selling them to my students." Snape failed to hide his smirk. "Rather enterprising and opportunistic for a Gryffindor…rather Slytherin if you ask me."

Minerva growled.

"I confiscate the blasted things when I find them," Snape reassured her, "though I get the impression that the epicentre of all this is completely oblivious to the trouble he's causing. I take it the mess with the table is still unresolved?" He looked to Dumbledore.

The elderly Headmaster was watching them thoughtfully over his steepled fingers, the healthy hand contrasting sharply with the blackened and wizened appendage. "Indeed, Severus. Despite numerous experts examining Mr Potter's fascinating magical phenomenon, no one has been able to arrive at a viable or practical solution. It may very well become a permanent fixture. It's probably a good job we've finally managed to dissuade him from his little experiments at meals…" He paused. "It appears that Mr Potter's unprecedented and rather abortive trip through the Veil has had some rather curious effects on him. Whether these are…beneficial or not has yet to be see. I understand that his prodigious physical growth shows little sign of slowing, and he is already over six feet in height."

"He's already taller than James," Minerva frowned darkly. "What did happen when he went through the Veil?"

"Who's knows?" Flitwick shrugged. "I doubt he remembers what must have been an extremely traumatic experience in much detail."

"The poor boy," Pomona sighed. "It can't be too awful though," she added, "he's so much calmer and happier this year, and he's been much more sociable, making new friends and even mixing with the other Houses at mealtimes, it's been absolutely wonderful to see."

"Indeed he has," Dumbledore smiled, "which is why I think we merely keep a watchful eye on him for the moment."

"Or he's just not telling us," Severus muttered, "luring us into a false sense of security."

"Oh, Severus," Dumbledore sighed. Snape found himself under the careful scrutiny of those pale blue eyes, "I suspect Mr Potter will need new robes soon all things considered, so I would much appreciate it if you would again escort Mr Potter to a suitable establishment."

"Fine," Snape scowled. Why did he have to play nurse maid to the overgrown brat?

"And Severus," the Headmaster continued, "please endeavour to keep Mr Potter away from the Jade Radish. It is a most unsuitable establishment for such an impressionable young man."

"Severus!" Minerva glared at him.

Spluttering indignantly, Snape reeled at the unfairness of it all. "The little brat dragged me in there!" he exclaimed.

Dumbledore frowned disappointedly at him over the top of his glasses, but before he could finish his rebuke there was a frantic knock at the door.

"Goodness me," Pomona pulled herself to her feet, "what can that be?" She opened the door to find a couple of frantic Ravenclaws standing in the corridor who promptly began to speak over one another in a tumble of sound. Severus ground his teeth in irritation, though he should look on the bright side, at least his colleagues weren't all giving him funny looks now.

"One at a time please," Pomona admonished them.

"Professor," the duly elected spokes-student huffed out, "Ravenclaw tower…some sort of…of monster…and it attacked some…students in…one of…one of the dorms…came here as…as quickly as…as we could…" he heaved, his companion nodding frantically in agreement.

"Monster?" Flitwick squeaked scrambling down from his perch with a frown, "Waite, Thompson, thank you for informing me of this. I take it the prefects have taken suitable action?"

"Yes sir," one of the boys nodded, "Emily got everyone out and locked the door as best she could."

"Excellent, excellent," Flitwick nodded before taking off down the corridor at a sprint.

"I do believe," Dumbledore said, "that our presence is required. Minerva, Severus, if you would care to accompany me."

Snape resisted the urge to cringe at the Headmaster's penetrating stare.

oOo

It appeared that the entirety of Ravenclaw house was stood huddled together near the moving staircases, many with their wands out, all nervously watching the corridor that lead to the Eagle's Eerie. Emily Nichols, the seventh year prefect stood protectively at the front of the pack looking utterly frantic.

"Professors," she practically cried with relief. "There are still a couple of students trapped in one of the dorms. I…I think they managed to lock themselves in a wardrobe but…but…" she heaved a deep breath at the Headmaster's encouraging smile. "I tried to get to them," she pulled back a sleeve, "but…but it got me," she trailed off.

Snape peered at the marks on the girl's arm in interest. It certainly wasn't the sought of injury produced by a normal physical attack, no bleeding at least from the row of pale streaks that were surrounded by rapidly purpling flesh, almost like ghostly claw marks. "Maybe a wight or wraith," he speculated out loud.

"It looks that way, doesn't it?" Flitwick frowned at the injury. "Miss Nichols, where would be the location of this wardrobe refuge?"

"Uhm," Nichols stuttered, perturbed by the intensity with which the Headmaster was inspecting her arm, "I think…I think it was the fifth year dorm, the girls…Sir."

Cogs whirled in Snape's mind as Minerva and Flitwick surged down the corridor to the Ravenclaw common room, the Headmaster strolling along in their wake. Fifth year…girls…Ravenclaw… "Where is Miss Lovegood?" he asked the assembled students as he tried to pick out that familiar head of pale blonde hair. The Ravenclaws looked at one another, their tiny minds obviously over-taxed by the evening's excitement.

"Lovegood. Where is she?" Snape snarled in frustration. This whole thing stunk of the Potter brat and his little shadow. What had they got up to now?

The Ravenclaws looked to one another, obviously confused; and this was supposed to be the House of Intelligence. Snape ground his teeth in frustration. "Someone go and get her, wherever she is," he snarled at the idiots, "the rest of you, Great Hall, now. At least then you won't be clogging the corridor up."

His colleagues were clustered around the stairs leading up to the girl's dormitories when Snape arrived in the common room, the sound of hissing wails drifting down the spiral staircase.

"Definitely sounds like a wraith," Flitwick commented.

"It certainly does," Dumbledore nodded in agreement.

Very human screams joined the wails.

"Sounds like those students are still alive," Snape smirked.

"Indeed, Severus," Dumbledore said coolly, "if you would do the honours. Oh, and might I remind you," Dumbledore smiled sweetly at him, "that young Harry didn't just visit the Jade Radish, my contact did in fact see him entering a certain bookshop of ill-repute in your company…"

Snape glared thunderously, thought of arguing, took in the Headmaster's raised eyebrow and turned, stamping up the blasted staircase grinding his teeth at the sheer unfairness of life, while as usual going towards a source of extreme danger. Wasn't life fun.

It was a wraith, a very, very angry wraith. He suspected it had been trapped in something for quite some time. Half-starved and extremely weak, it had now been let loose, which didn't meant it was at all safe. He eyed it warily as it snuffled at the crack of the door of a student wardrobe, scrabbling against it with skeletal fingers at the sound of the sobbing coming from within.

Fascinating; apparently the student wardrobes were proof against metaphysical creatures. Now, what could he trap the bloody thing in? A jam jar sitting a desk caught his eye; he unscrewed the lid and tipped out its contents, the collection of bright sparkly hair things spilling across the desk, hair bands decorated with improbably coloured animals, and clips smothered with flowers.

Now, how was he going to go about this?

Fortunately the creature looked half-starved and weak, which knowing his luck would mean it turned out to be even more vicious than normal.

He threw a lightning hex at the scrawny thing's back causing it to twist and scream slamming heavily into the wardrobe door. Shuddering, it turned obviously torn between its attacker and the terrified screaming of the wardrobe.

So he tried it again, the wraith lunged for him hissing in outrage, clawed hands reaching out for him. Well…shit, he thought as he dodged scrabbling fingers. A bludgeoning hex sent the creature slamming back into the wardrobe again, the heavy piece of furniture actually rattling from the impact.

The thing seemed slightly stunned now, so he sent another bludgeoner at it and then fried it with lightning, the wraith in spasms as blue light crackled over its being. It crawled towards him hissing angrily, so he grabbed a nearby chair, a plain pine affair, and slammed it down over the thing's head.

The wraith crawled along the floor, pathetically attempting to stuff itself in the narrow gap underneath, but failing miserably.

Snape kept a wary eye on it as he prepared the jam jar, drawing a runic seal of containment in the bottom and adding an unbreakable charm to the glass just so this stupid situation couldn't happen again. Placing the jam jar in front of him he began the complex series of wand movements to activate the seal, the wraith scrabbling desperately against the floor as it was dragged towards the jar, losing its corporality as it went, until, with a last shriek, it disappeared within, a seething mess of shimmering grey smoke.

Pouncing, Snape slammed down the lid of the jar twisting it on tightly. "Gotcha," he grinned gleefully at the rippling shimmering creature that was now slamming itself into the sides of its prison. A charm of permanent sealing (or at least good for ten years) finished the job; a nice paper weight for someone's desk if he did say so.

"The real mystery," Dumbledore said as he examined the jam jar and its seething contents, "is where did a student find such a dangerous creature, and who was irresponsible enough to let it loose?"

Snape crouched by a desk; considering the ridiculous radish and tinsel decorations hanging of the drawer handles, it could only be Lovegood's. Of more interest were the fragments of glass that littered the carpet beside it, which if he were any judge had originally been a jar of some kind and likely to be the Wraith's original prison.

"Oh Professor," a female voice sobbed, "I thought we were going to be trapped in there by that thing for ever…"

Snape rolled his eyes at the ridiculous emotional drama; it hadn't even been a particularly dangerous wraith.

"Miss Edgecombe, Miss Chang," Dumbledore said, his voice deceptively calm, "would either of you young ladies happen to witness the breaking of this container?" He gestured to the fragments of glass littering the carpet by Snape's feet.

The two young women fidgeted nervously, their eyes flicking back and forth, obviously trying to avoid looking at one another.

"No, no Sir," Chang muttered as she shuffled her feet.

"Goodness me…a shame," Dumbledore said as he idly gazed around the dormitory, "it does seem rather curious though, this is the fifth year dormitory, and you are both sixth years, yes?"

Snape had to stifle a snort of laughter as the two young women stared at the Headmaster like rabbits caught in the headlights as his old man used to say, may his soul rot in Hell.

Edgecombe broke first. "It's just a jar," she shrieked, "that weirdo Lovegood is always bringing stupid stuff into the dorms, going on about how it's this that or the other. It's all a pack of lies. So we decided to mess with her stuff a bit. Who cares? It's only Lovegood…" she trailed off under the Headmaster's forbidding expression, Flitwick beside him bristling with fury.

"I care," Dumbledore said softly, his eyes glacial.

The nasty little…the rest of Snape's thoughts descended into murderous diatribe, dark thoughts he rarely liked to acknowledge crowding up at the back of his mind, leaping up and down as they tried to snag his attention. Some of them looked suspiciously like a smirking James Potter.

"Absolutely disgraceful," Minerva snarled, her lips a thin disapproving line.

"And so you decided," Flitwick snarled, "to interfere with Miss Lovegood's belongings, irreparably damaging them even. I expect far better of my Claws. We are a family after all, a family united in our thirst for knowledge no matter how esoteric or strange it might appear to others…Chang, Edgecombe, detention and fifty points from Ravenclaw house each," he turned away fists clenched in barely contained fury, "and also, Chang, your status as prefect. You are now on probation until you prove to me that you're worthy of it."

"Ah, Mr Potter and Miss Lovegood," Dumbledore smiled, "I have a few questions for you."

At some point Potter and Lovegood must have crept into the room. Snape blinked in surprise; how did someone that large manage to go unnoticed for Merlin's sake? He watched as Lovegood took in the smashed remains of the jar on the floor, looking quite forlorn, Potter looming by her side glaring at Edgecombe and Chang, his robe sleeves, to Snape's utter annoyance, clearly far too short for him. He'd suspect some sort of magic but it was Potter, so maybe not…but he was being ridiculous, and he gave himself a mental kick. The old Potter was not in the least bit studious, happy to fool around with his friends and sponge off Granger, a mediocre talent at best. This new and troubling Potter on the other hand liked nothing more than tracking down some obscure and dangerous tome and then trying out the contents, just to see what would happen. Which meant he very likely had come across disillusionment charms and their ilk, or maybe something even more obscure.

"…enquire as to where you acquired such a fascinating object?" the Headmaster asked.

Lovegood looked quite dejected. "I found it in a cupboard," she sighed as she took Potter's offered hand apparently finding some sort of comfort in clinging to his massive paw. "We were going to study it, see what it contained," she said sadly.

"In the castle?" Minerva asked, looking quite alarmed.

"Yes, Professor." Luna nodded. "There's all sorts of interesting things in Hogwarts just waiting to be discovered." Potter nodded happily.

That was not reassuring, Snape thought. What would the inquisitive brats find next tucked away in a forgotten cupboard, an army of inferi, maybe?

"And so you left it on your desk in your dormitory," the Headmaster frowned.

Lovegood nodded. "It was so pretty, like glittering smoke. I thought it might be an Anti-Unicorn or something like that."

Anti-Unicorn? Snape frowned. What? Oh, the Quibbler.

"…reverse of a unicorn. They're insubstantial and can pass through walls, which of course aids them in their hunt for dark places stained by violent death…"

Definitely the Quibbler. Snape sighed, sharing an exasperated glance with Minerva. He looked down at the angry jam jar in his hands; it was probably a good thing this entire incident had happened in a way. The thought of what this new and unpredictable Potter would do with a captive wraith made his spine crawl.

OOOOOO

The house-elves huddled around the menu, excitedly muttering among themselves, occasionally jabbing at an item with long fingers to emphasise a point. So engrossed were they in this new problem, that some had even abandoned their preparation of the evening meal, their knives lying abandoned on chopping boards next to piles of carrots, leeks, potatoes and myriad other vegetables.

Atum watched them expectantly. "If you like I could always order a take-away from them and then eat it in here so you could examine the various options more closely," he offered.

"No need," the house-elf he suspected was in charge squeaked sternly, "we's provide what you desire, just knock on the table." He glared up at Atum.

"Of course," Atum nodded, "I part…"

"There you are," Luna skidded into the kitchen, wand tucked behind her ear, looking unusually excited, "plotting a house-elf uprising?" She looked round the kitchen at the bickering elves and their copies of the Jade Radish take-away menu.

"Only of the culinary kind," Atum said.

"That's all right then," she nodded happily, "I've found the perfect place for us to set up a laboratory. Come on, you've got to see it, it's brilliant!" she grabbed hold of his hand and attempted to tow him out of the kitchen, an utterly futile act on her part. Atum was pretty certain that if he wanted to he could just lift up his arm and Luna would end up dangling from his hand.

"As long as everything is all right here," Atum edged reluctantly towards the kitchen door.

"Yes, yes, go, go," the elf in charge shooed him away, now definitely looking more than a little huffy.

"So where and what is this place?" Atum asked as Luna led him away from the kitchens and past the Great Hall down the corridor he had thought just led towards the Staff Room. But instead of going straight on, she came to an abrupt halt. Dodging behind a tapestry of kneazles among irises, she tapped rapidly on the wall while hopping on one leg, diving through as a section of the wall opened up. Atum followed her into a dusty narrow passage, which then led onto a wider corridor, plainer and more ramshackle than most of the Castle, lined with small leaded windows, the floor a hodge-podge of colourful tiles.

"I'm not sure if the hopping is strictly necessary," Luna explained, "I only discovered it last night when the nargles me trapped behind that tapestry. I got bored," she shrugged.

Nargles, what were nargles? Atum thought. And were they any good to eat?

Luna skipped gaily ahead, stopping with a gleeful grin by a small wooden door. She flung it open as he approached. "Ta da!" she announced, throwing her arms wide.

Atum stifled a laugh as he hunched down to peer through the door. Beyond was a large cobbled courtyard, a little weedy and overgrown, peeling wooden gates at one end, and on the other side a brick lean-to outbuilding, partially open to the elements. He eased his way through, looking round with interest. It was a generous space, not too overlooked by the rest of the Castle either, so potentially much more private, and he'd got a possible place to set up camp in with his experiments. He peered into the gloomy outbuilding, full of junk, all of it festooned in spider webs, all sorts of abandoned junk and furniture, and beyond lurking right at the back in the shadows was a forge. Atum beamed with delight; this was absolutely perfect.

"This is a blacksmith's yard, isn't it?" he exclaimed.

Luna nodded happily.

"Well, we've got all day, haven't we, what with it being…Saturday?" he frowned questioningly. He had to admit he was still grappling with this particular ancient calendar system, the fact that part of him was familiar with it only adding to the confusion.

"Indeed it is," Luna said as she rooted around in her book bag. She pulled out a leek like plant and began waving it around in the air experimentally. Atum watched her a moment, he was sure she would explain in time. Shrugging, he pulled off his robe, hanging it on the branch of a scrabbly tree attempting to establish itself in the corner of the courtyard. "Let's have a closer look, shall we?" he muttered to himself, pulling free the mutilated carcass of a chest of drawers. It looked as if an enormous predator had shredded it with its claws; and then to add insult to injury, the wreckage had then been set on fire. The only thing it was good for now was fire-wood, so why would anyone wish to horde it away? Atum sighed as he set it to one side with a splintering crash; he doubted he'd ever find out.

The sun had crept round and behind the bulk of the Castle by the time he reached the forge itself. It looked in reasonable condition, though he suspected there was more than a few birds' nests up the chimney…and he was going to need fuel to fire it and running water and…he brushed away some clinging cobwebs. There, carved in the lintel of the forge were a series of unfamiliar sigils. Atum examined them carefully, brushing away more of the clinging dirt. What were these? Did they relate to the operation of the forge itself? Would they have an effect on whatever he made here? What if he decided to enhance his creations with magic? This required a trip to the library and much research! He sighed happily.

"Ohh, we could do all sorts of rituals in here," Luna cooed behind him, "there's so much room."

"We could actually set up a permanent circle," Atum suggested, "once all this is cleared; then we can start thinking about continuing with our experiments...and our newest project."

Luna nodded slowly. "Our chance to do something to put a stick in the Dark Lord's plans?"

"Exactly," Atum bared his teeth in a snarl. Luna smirked up at him as she drifted past brandishing her leek like plant. "Oh look, a sleigh," she exclaimed, peering at a strange form hidden underneath a pile of broken laboratory stools before sidling past into the dusty shadows. Pulling the stools away, Atum had a closer look at this peculiar conveyance. He had odd memories of a fat blonde boy, a young Dudley he supposed, sitting on a bright red plastic thing being towed by an angry man with a bristling moustache along a street, the snow on the ground turned to dirty slush.

This sleigh bore little resemblance to that bright red tray, it's still solid wooden frame finished off with metal runners that were beginning to show signs of rust.

"Oh, Merlin confound it," Luna muttered as she rattled something, "it's locked."

Atum peered over the pile of broken stools to see her pulling her wand out from behind her ear, placing the tip into the lock of drawer in an old dresser that was scarred from potions accidents and spilt ingredients. A softly muttered spell and the drawer clicked open. "Oh," her face fell as she eyed the contents, "just some old lines from the look of it." She poked them with her wand, leaping back as an angry doxy buzzed past her nose.

Atum snatched it out of the air, easily crushing the back of its head between fore-finger and thumb, shoving it in his mouth with a happy sigh. He hadn't realised how time was going, his stomachs rumbling in protest at the lack of food, his body still demanding regular nourishment to sustain his rapid growth and development.

"Is it that time all ready?" Luna cast a quick tempus charm. "Oh look, we've missed lunch." Atum's stomachs growled angrily again.

OOOOOO

That had been a so-so raid of the library, he'd managed to find the references for the Transfiguration homework with little difficulty, beating several very annoyed Ravenclaws to the target as it were, simply because of his longer reach. He'd made quick work of Advanced Theory of Transfiguration and The Natural Science of Switching.

Much to the Ravenclaws' disgust Hermione and Ron had appeared and borrowed the books (well, Hermione had) when he'd finished with them.

"You utter git," one of the Ravenclaws had hissed as he'd stormed back in among the shelves. His friends had followed him, glaring over their shoulders. Atum shrugged, completely nonplussed at their behaviour; after all, there were more than enough books to go round.

He'd had a rather fruitless search for texts on the use of magical forges; he'd found An Enchanting History of Enchanting that listed several very famous forges and their (quite often) eccentric owners, like Matilda Smythewick who'd made a swarm of silver bees that had caused considerable distress for a local muggle family. Thinking they had been cursed they had hung wreathes of yew, garlic and thyme over all the doors, which had interfered with the delicate enchantments of the bees, and also proved in Atum's opinion, that squibs and those with very low level magical abilities were rather more common than the Wizarding World wanted to admit.

At a loss he had actually enlisted the help of a highly suspicious Madam Pince and explained what he was after. Very grudgingly she had led him away from Enchanting and Spell-Crafting and into the Handicrafts section, which was normally almost exclusively populated by Hufflepuff girls.

In among the books on knitting, rag rugs and alteration charms were sections dedicated to woodwork, interior decoration, for some reason miniature furniture, and to his utter delight metal working. He'd tried thanking Madam Pince, but she'd just glared and harrumphed at him.

If only he could find something to cheer Madam Pince up with and show her just how much he appreciated her hard work. Atum sighed heavily; at least he had Light My Fire: My Journey in Smithing by F Y Ring, Maintaining Your Forge by P Haynes, which was filled with fascinating and useful diagrams, and also a very battered copy of The Art of Pattern Welding. The back had fallen off, it had been read so many times (the sign of a good book in Atum's opinion). Madam Pince had demanded that he bring it back in the condition that he'd borrowed it in and Atum intended to do so right down to the last little bit of foxing.

"He's up to something," he distinctly heard Madam Pince hiss from behind some shelves as he left. "He's always up to something," her male companion who sounded distinctly like Professor Snape commented darkly.

He couldn't wait to get started. He'd made some headway with the Dark Lord's soul fragment using it as a conduit to the man's mind, and already they had made several attempts at planting suggestions, but it wasn't the same as making things. All he needed to do now was find Luna who was generally getting out of Arithmancy about now, and then they could go and have fun with runes, and seals and formulae and…

It was with some surprise he noted the distinctly masculine timbre to the quiet sobbing coming from the girls' bathroom…and this was the second floor too. Did whoever it was realise that they were in fact feet away from the entrance to Slytherin's fabled chamber or that that particular lavatories was haunted by a particularly annoying and persistent ghost? Actually they probably had realised that, considering Harry's memories of Myrtle. Curious he put his head around the door.

Eyebrows raised in surprise he quietly slid into the room, its occupant far too occupied with his own misery to notice. Myrtle who'd been trying to comfort him did though, flushing almost opaque, as she squeaked and bolted for the nearest toilet with a splash.

Draco Malfoy whirled on the spot, his pale face tear streaked, dark shadows ringing his eyes. Wand drawn he actually tried to curse Atum who merely swatted it away.

Malfoy's eyes went wide and fearful, his back hitting the porcelain sink with a solid thunk.

"I find that many minds make light work of trouble," Atum commented taking in the many sheets of parchment that littered the floor of the bathroom. Folded many times, they had the distinct look of letters to them.

Shifting the books under an arm Atum strolled forward, "may I?" he asked Malfoy as he stopped by one of the missives. The handwriting of this one looked jagged and awkward, changing size repeatedly as it meandered across the page.

Malfoy silently nodded, his eyes never leaving Atum.

Scooping up letter after letter Atum rapidly read them, a confusing and contradictory picture slowly revealing itself. "It seems to me that you have something of a problem," he commented as he looked over a particularly disturbing rant from Lord Voldemort himself that seemed to be implying that he believed he'd ascended to godhood, but it was so rambling and confused that it was hard to tell. The handwriting wasn't helping either.

"I thought…I thought I could restore glory to my family," Draco laughed, the sound harsh in the small space, "it started off okay…why am I telling you of all people this?" he snarled as he jammed his fingers through his hair.

"A sympathetic ear," Atum shrugged, "sometimes it can make all the difference."

Malfoy gave him a dubious look. "Right," he muttered, obviously not convinced.

"In fact you seem to have two problems here," Atum flapped the letters a little.

Malfoy sagged against the sink, "yeah, something like that." He drooped further down, sprawling inelegantly on the floor. Atum hitched his robes up, settling cross-legged in front of the other boy, his books settled safely in his lap.

Malfoy laughed. "You and your books," he shook his head, "trying to get an honoury Ravenclaw membership like Mudblood Granger. Honestly," he sneered.

Atum shrugged. "Just expanding my interests. Your problems?" He gave the letters a rather pointed look.

"Fine, fine…seriously, you have turned really weird you know," Malfoy whined. "I grew up on tales of the amazing Dark Lord and how he had done amazing things and was just on the brink of ushering in a new age for the Wizarding World, before you, err…cut him down…and then he returned…and my father returned to his side, and suddenly the Manor was full of these really creepy strange people who I'd heard so much about…but they were really sick in the head…Aunt Bella…" he shuddered, "it wasn't what I imagined Death Eaters to be like at all, but after Father was arrested," he glared at Atum, who just blinked back at him, "I was offered the…honour of joining their ranks. I jumped at it, to become a Death Eater, it was supposed to be the pinnacle of what I could achieve...but I just feel like a house-elf being ordered around, the threat of punishment always hanging over me," he snarled, screwing up a nearby letter and throwing it as hard as he could. It bounced off a cubicle door spinning to a halt by Atum's left foot.

"My first mission from the Dark Lord was supposed to be really important," Malfoy ranted, "I was supposed to…assassinate the Headmaster, but then he changed it!" He angrily shook one of the letters full of incoherent scrawl. "What am I supposed to do with this," he cried shaking with frustration, "it doesn't make any sense at all. I mean, one of these," he scrabbled on the floor a moment, grabbing another letter, "one of these, he demands a "turn-wise quill" of all things. Totally crazy," he snarled," and he's supposed to be the best of us?" He looked up at Atum desperately.

"And then there's Aunt Bellatrix…" he shivered, "I thought she was interesting at first, dangerous and exciting…taught me some really nasty curses…but now…she threatening to set Greyback, Fenrir Greyback, on my mother if I don't continue with my original instructions…though I think she's more interested in killing Dumbledore herself," he breathed heavily, "why am I telling you this stuff? You'll just go and blab to Dumbledore, Potter the goody little two-shoes Gryffindor," he snarled throwing another screwed up letter at Atum's head.

Atum caught it neatly, carefully pulling the crumbled ball apart and flattening it. The angry vindictive hand of Bellatrix Lestrange zig-zagged across the parchment, threatening and sadistic, causing Atum to frown. "Lestrange is threatening to maim her own sister to make you comply?" He glanced questioningly at Malfoy.

Malfoy nodded mutely, plucking at lint on his robe.

"And are you going to?" Atum asked.

Malfoy froze.

"Assist them…or her into the school," Atum explained.

Malfoy snorted with laughter. "What choice do I have?"

"I don't think Lestrange will be content with just killing the Headmaster," Atum said thoughtfully, "I suspect she would quite happily give the same treatment to much of the student body, regardless of house affiliation or parentage."

"So," Malfoy shrugged hopelessly, "what can I do about that? She's crazier than a blood-starved vampire."

"I might be able to help you there," Atum said slowly, "just give me, say, twenty-four hours notice of the time of their entrance to the school and I will deal with it from there."

Malfoy stared at him open-mouthed for a moment. "You're just as crazy…crazier," he eyed the books in Atum's lap, "than they are. Okay then. It'll be hilarious watching you get slaughtered by Auntie Bella and her friends. Still doesn't help me with this." He gestured to the Dark Lord's ramblings.

Atum considered the problem for a moment. "Give him what he wants. Get a quill, a good quality one of course, and give it a label saying "Turn-wise Quill". I believe in this case the simple solutions will work the best." He gave Malfoy a reassuring smile. "Now, I do believe I should go and find Ms Lovegood. Things to do, you know, daemons to summon." He nodded politely to the bewildered Malfoy, and stood up, brushing off his robes.

"I wish you all the best with your endeavours," he said as he swept out of the bathroom, leaving behind a puzzled and panicking Slytherin.

OOOOOO

The Twins had actually written back to him, and it was all useful stuff too; Ron blinked in wonderment at the letter yet again. No pranks, no trying to tease him, no sending him off on a wild goose chase. Who were these people and what had they done with his brothers? Hermione had even approved of the book list they'd sent, pointing out the ones she'd found most helpful and even making note of the ones she'd not read. Apparently So You Want to Fly With Fairies: A Guide To Antidotes by T Beecham was going to be potentially helpful for the extra essay she was writing for Professor Slughorn. But joking aside, he had to admit it looked like he was going to be spending the evening in the library. He glanced sideways; maybe he could persuade Hermione to join him.

To his puzzlement, Hermione was staring intensely across the table, shoulders hunched at (Ron sighed) Harry. Of course it would be, wouldn't it? The cause of so much trouble this year as well. Though Harry was normally in trouble, but mainly because it happened near him or to him, not because of an insatiable urge to know what would happen if he poked something he shouldn't, usually aided and abetted by his new little shadow, Looney Lovegood.

Wincing, Ron looked over in horrified fascination to see what his hulking best friend was up to now…and then seriously wished he hadn't. Instead of the usual hearty Hogwarts fare, there were an array of unusual dishes in front of Harry, most of which Ron was pretty certain should not be consumed by humans, normal sane ones, that was. Apparently, Harry didn't agree with him as he was currently tucking into what looked like…oh, that was just…Ron's stomach gave a nasty heave…spider…Harry was eating a spider…pulling the legs off, oh, he couldn't watch, sucking the…he turned away, face pale and sweaty, stomach churning.

How could he? Did he not realise what he was eating or did he just not care, or…or…his eyes drifted back in horrified fascination. No, they weren't deceiving him, Harry was tucking into his weird meal as if he was actually enjoying it. And next to him, Loony was, oh Merlin, his stomach clenched painfully, talk about birds of a feather. She was sat there looking as dotty as ever with her upside down magazine and her wand behind her ear, eating a skewer of insects, like cricket things.

Oh, Merlin. He wasn't sure he could take much more of this. His appetite certainly hadn't, having decided to go on holiday somewhere remote and exotic. He wished it had told him, he'd have gone too.

Ron couldn't believe how relieved he was when Professor Snape loomed up behind Harry. He could almost kiss the man…almost.

"Mr Potter, causing trouble as usual, I see." Snape glared at possibly his least favourite student. "Do try not to poison the rest of the table…and, no, I would not like a …semi-live tentacled thing to eat."

"Is it still alive, sir?" Harry rumbled.

Ron cringed in disgust as his friend pulled a tentacle out of a bowl, watching in fascination as it writhed between his fingers. He heaved painfully, as Harry popped the morsel in his mouth and chewed blissfully. "It could be an autonomous nervous reaction, I suppose," he said thoughtfully, ignoring Snape's disgusted sneer.

"Be that as it may, you have a missive from the Headmaster." He slapped a piece of folded parchment down next to Harry's bowl. "Don't be late," he snarled.

oOo

Mr Potter was actually waiting for him outside his office, leaning over the gargoyle, utterly engrossed in something he could see on its back. Dumbledore waited a moment, fascinated to see what his oddest student was up to. Young Harry seemed to be considering something quite intently, lips pursing as he squinted at something only he could see (budding mage sight perhaps?), a large digit reaching out to touch it.

He cleared his throat loudly, watching in amusement as Harry jerked upright, whirling round, his expression changing from furtive to guilty to embarrassed, his coppery cheeks flushing even darker.

"The gargoyle is indeed fascinating, a quite wondrous piece of magic," he smiled up at his tallest student. "Shall we adjourn to my office?" He gestured towards the now revealed moving staircase.

Had this been a good idea? he thought to himself as the staircase swept them upwards, Harry's broad back completely blocking his view. It was too late now, he sighed to himself, as he swept into the office behind Harry. At least Fawkes was in a condition to aid him if things became difficult.

"I'm sure you have many question as to why I have asked to see you," Dumbledore smiled up at the young man now seated opposite him. "I must admit that I rather intended to have this talk with you rather earlier in the year, but," he smiled sadly, "various events have rather got in the way, haven't they?"

Harry tilted his head in curiosity, his long black locks shifting around his shoulders.

"I…can't and won't be here for ever to protect and guide you, and so I decided that it would be beneficial if we met regularly over this school year so that I can discuss various things that will assist you with events to come," Dumbledore sighed. He'd rather expected Harry to protest over his inevitable demise, but there was not a single word of protest. The young man watched him carefully, expression solemn, a note of understanding in his eyes. Yet another inexplicable way in which the Veil had affected him then.

"Do you remember what Voldemort's followers were so determined to retrieve from the Ministry last June?" he asked.

Harry nodded slowly. "Indeed sir, a glass globe containing the record of a true prophecy."

"Exactly," Dumbledore smiled. A true prophecy, eh? Interesting, he thought as he retrieved his pensive depositing it in the middle of his desk, the contents sloshing noiselessly. "When the prophecy was broken, it was not completely lost. I personally witnessed it, and so…" He tapped the edge of the pensive with his wand.

A ghostly miniature of Sybil Trelawney slowly rose from the silvery liquid. "The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches…" the tiny impression of the Divination Professor intoned in an unnaturally deep voice, "…born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not…and either must die at the hand of the other for neither an live while the other survives…the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies*…"

The office descended into silence, the slight rustling from behind him indicating that the portraits of previous incumbents weren't quite as asleep as they liked to pretend.

"I'm afraid Harry," Dumbledore carefully watched the young man, "that you are the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord. Your parents defied him three times before their untimely demise, and you were born as the seventh month died, and of course Voldemort himself marked you, with that…scar," which now he came to think about it really wasn't anywhere near as prominent as it was, "that you have born for so many years. The power that he knows not? I must admit, for many years I believed it to be love, something that Voldemort had no knowledge of at all, but you do in spades…"

Harry really didn't seem upset, rather more accepting of the situation he found himself thrust into. Maybe he just hadn't realised the seriousness of his situation; when the other shoe as it were dropped it would not be a pretty picture at all. He sighed softly to himself, it wasn't as if he was likely to live long enough to do anything about it, unfortunately.

"Well now, I have a series of memories that I have collected over time that I'm intending to show you throughout the year and which I believe will assist you in your endeavour," he said as he cleared the pensive into a large cut-glass bottle, "hopefully, they should give you something of an insight into Voldemort and his background." He pulled a glass vial from a drawer and poured its contents into the pensive, Harry leaning forward watching closely.

"This very first one I acquired from one Bob Ogden who for much of his life was employed by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. This particular memory is interesting for the glimpse it gives us of Voldemort's parents."

Harry raised a questioning eyebrow, obviously interested.

"Voldemort was once a young man as normal as you or I, before the War, before he inflicted terrible magic on himself in his quest for power. In fact he was s student here during the thirties and forties, though he was in Slytherin…I taught him Transfiguration, but I digress…" he slowly stirred the memories with his wand, watching sadly as various images came to the surface. Hogwarts on a rainy day a century ago, Tom Riddle taking notes in class, the Marauders in trouble yet again, Harry as he lined up for his sorting, far too small and scrawny for his age, and then again as he was now inexplicably large and studious…

"Tom Riddle's mother was a Gaunt, one of the last direct descendants of Slytherin himself, though they had fallen on hard times due to gambling and other vices. Her name was Merope, and the only real light in her life was the occasional moment where she happened upon to gaze upon Thomas Riddle, the only son of wealthy muggles who lived on the other side of the valley.

"Well, I do believe I have spoken long enough. High time we had a look." He gave Harry a small smile. "All we have to do to view the memory is to touch our faces to the surface of the liquid."

Harry eyed the pensive and its swirling contents warily, a note of intense curiosity in his eyes as he gently ran a finger around the runic inscription on the rim. Dumbledore gave him a reassuring smile which the young man seemed to accept, leaning forward and dipping his face to the surface of the swirling memories, and then he was gone.

Dumbledore sighed; he hoped this was the right thing to do he really did. In for a knut in for a sickle, he thought as he dipped his face into pure memory.

The rushing disorientation caught him, spinning him round as he fell into a summer afternoon long gone. The country lane he landed in was a rough, pot-holed affair, hemmed in at both sides by tall hedgerows, the sky above a delicate cornflour blue, unmarred by even the smallest of clouds.

Bob Ogden appeared with a pop in all his glory, his thick glasses giving him an unfortunate mole-like appearance. He strode away unseeing up the lane in his muggle ensemble, frock-coat, striped bathing suit and spats. Everything was as it should be, but where was Harry? Dumbledore slowly turned on the spot in growing concern.

He did a double take; what in Merlin's name was that? The rust coloured giant figure strode towards him, its appearance fractured and broken, robe flapping and snapping around it. On closer inspection what looked like gaps in the giant…golem…were in fact filled with Harry. Harry as he'd know him these last few years, the edges between the two flowing and blending together in places.

What in Merlin's name was going on here? He'd never seen the like.

"Professor," the figure asked, "should we follow the gentleman? I do believe the memory will force us this way as it closes up behind us…or it might not," the figure looked over its shoulder, glowing eyes glittering in the bright sunlight for a moment.

"Of course," Dumbledore began to briskly follow the memory of Bob Ogden glancing at the strange figure at his side. Every so often he would catch another glimpse of Harry. It was rather disturbing to say the least, rather like a bad jigsaw puzzle. Two people cut up at random and then the resulting pieces rammed together to form something vaguely humanoid. From what he could actually see of Harry he didn't appear to be in any pain or distress and had no obvious injuries. In fact he seemed rather cheerful, gazing around in curiosity at the hedgerows that were teeming with life. A butterfly flittered across the lane momentarily, "Harry" watching in delight as it went.

Whatever this was, Dumbledore thought, it didn't appear to be quite as sinister as he'd thought, not in the way he'd been worrying about anyway. Should he keep to his current course with young Harry, watching him carefully while he was still able? He just hoped it would be long enough. He sighed to himself as the lane dipped down and turned a corner, giving them a view of a lush green valley covered in fields, a village nestling at its bottom, the spire of the church clearly visible even at this distance, the sunlight glinting off its gilded weathervane. Across the valley a large and impressive Georgian house sat, surrounded by trees and carefully tended gardens. Harry stopped, looking around with intense interest.

No, he would continue to observe Harry and his actions.

They ducked through the hedge just past the curve and followed Mr Ogden up a narrow dirt track rutted and pot-holed from lack of maintenance, brushing past stinging nettles until they reached a small dilapidated shack hidden in among trees.

The giant that was sort of Harry gave him a questioning tilt of the head. "This is the Gaunt Abode?" he enquired.

"This is indeed the place," Dumbledore gave him a reassuring nod.

Not-quite-Harry stared intently at the little hut with its filthy windows and derelict roof. "From humble beginnings, great and terrible things can grow," he muttered.

Which seemed rather apt, all things considered, Dumbledore thought.

The memory proceeded as Dumbledore had seen on numerous occasions; the confrontations between Bob Ogden and Marvolo and Morfin Gaunt, Ogden managing to talk his way into the decrepit hut, Marvolo's grandstanding, a pauper king of all he surveyed. Merope looking as careworn, desperate and mousey as he remembered. Harry seemed to pay her particular attention as he strode around the hut, carefully examining everything he could.

Thomas Riddle made his appearance on the lane in all his glory, he and his lady friend dressed for a ride, their horses beautifully groomed and cared for, their tack gleaming.

"Voldemort always did look rather like his father," Dumbledore commented sadly, "both a blessing and a curse really."

The memory ended ejecting them both back out into the office in a disorienting swirl of motion. Dumbledore settled back into his chair with a tired sigh; he really didn't have the energy he was used to thanks to the wretched curse, it was both annoying and frightening in its way, and just as he needed to be on his mettle as well, and with this new variable that Harry now presented, well...he looked across the desk. Harry was currently gazing thoughtfully out of the window, seemingly unaware of the Forbidden Forest in all the tattered remains of its autumnal finery. Once upon a time he'd have had a pretty shrewd idea of what was going on in the lad's head, but now? Merlin only knew.

"Merope Gaunt fed Thomas Riddle a love potion when a suitable opportunity presented itself," Dumbledore said into the silence of the office, "from what I gather Mr Riddle was a keen horse-man, and while on a ride one day stopped at the Gaunt abode and asked for a glass of water as people often did in those days. His fate was sealed."

Harry stared at him intently, his green eyes almost glowing in contrast to his coppery face.

"From what I've been able to put together, they eloped soon after and, soon after that, Merope fell pregnant. I'm not sure when, but at some point Merope stopped giving Mr Riddle the love potion. He abandoned her in London, a heavily pregnant young woman with no resources, and no way to support herself. She died soon after Voldemort was born, living only long enough to name him Tom, after his father, and Marvolo after her father." He smiled sadly.

"Merope Gaunt wasn't always a victim," Harry said slowly.

Dumbledore looked at him questioningly.

"She was putting ground glass in their food. I saw her do it. In the memory, the quickest slip of the hand, but it was there," Harry sighed as he stood, beginning to pace. "I'm sure she would have made a decent cut-purse given the opportunity, but I suspect being rejected by the man she was so obsessed with sent her into a downward spiral of depression."

"That…that is rather what I suspected," Dumbledore said. As soon as young Mr Potter left for the Gryffindor common room, he was going to have another viewing. How could he have missed a detail like that?

He was suddenly aware of just how close Harry was standing to him, staring intently at his cursed hand, far too close. He opened his mouth to object but Harry reached out lightning fast. "What?" he yelped.

"I will not let this continue," Harry growled.

"It's incurable," Dumbledore glared up at him, "there is nothing that can be done."

"That is not true," Harry said with tomb like finality.

Of all the ridiculous things, Dumbledore berated himself, letting his guard down just because this was Harry, someone he should be able to trust. He struggled with all his might, but his captor was inhumanly strong, his arm barely jerking with the movement.

Harry sighed heavily, obviously exasperated. "I'm very sorry Professor, but this needs to be done, and you are being quite difficult about it."

Dumbledore glared up at the impertinent brat, a little fear beginning to niggle at his gut, and then large steel strong fingers jabbed at his neck and he knew no more.

oOo

Atum sighed heavily; it was sad he couldn't have the Headmaster's cooperation for this, but he really couldn't sit by and watch Professor Dumbledore die like this, not when he could do something about it. He laid the elderly gentleman down carefully, and pulled back Dumbledore's sleeve to further examine the cursed right arm. It was worse than he thought.

The whole limb was going to have to come off if he was going to save the Headmaster; he just hoped the knife he'd brought was up to the task. It cut potions ingredients just fine, and if he took the arm off at the shoulder joint…yes, that should work.

Happy with his decision, Atum laid out his impromptu tools; the knife, needle and thread he'd begged off Luna, fresh bandages he'd acquired from a highly suspicious Madam Pomfrey, a saw he'd very carefully transfigured, a new quill and a little jar of ink, unopened.

With a jab of the knife into the side of his finger he succeeded in depositing several drops of blood into the ink before the small injury could heal itself completely.

Picking up the quill, he began to inscribe the seal he had devised around Headmaster Dumbledore's bicep. This was going to be a tricky little bit of magic, seals such as this one being normally meant for use on a flat surface, not at all like this. He'd tweaked it a little bit so hopefully it would work as he expected, assisting in forcing back the curse and trapping it completely in the arm. If it didn't, and he was lucky it would simplify the process of amputation somewhat. If he was unlucky…

The last rune in place, he carefully inspected his handiwork for errors. Everything seemed to be in order. Reaching out a finger he opened his internal eye ready to pull the threads of the Empyrian towards him, to shape them into a blade to cut out this curse, to stop its spread above the elbow.

A large and furious weight hit his back, flapping its wings angrily, shrieking and howling in fury.

"Fawkes, Fawkes!" Atum tried to get the attention of the distressed phoenix. Sighing in exasperation, he reached round, trying to get hold of the thrashing bird without hurting him. Fawkes latched onto his finger hard, and had he still been in anyway normal, Atum was certain he would have lost the appendage. Cradling the incensed bird to his chest, he tried to sooth it as best he could, all the while watched by seething beady eyes.

"Fawkes," he murmured softly stroking the shivering bird's head, "I mean the Headmaster no harm…I know this looks very bad, but I'm trying to help him, by removing the curse that is slowly eating away at him. But because of its' very nature, it's going to require some rather esoteric sorcery to do so. I don't mind you watching at all, but I'm going to need all my concentration to do this right. Okay?"

Fawkes eyed him balefully for a moment before squawking indignantly, wrestling his way out of his temporary captivity. Perching on the edge of the desk, he ruffled his feathers and began grooming them vigorously, his back very firmly towards Atum.

"I'm assuming that that is a grudging yes," Atum smiled at the bird. Fawkes huffed, and tugged at a feather.

Settling back into his meditation, Atum once again reached for the threads of the Empyrian, his inner eye guiding him as he began wrapping the curse taint, hooking a multitude of blades into it, pulling it back into the forearm bit by bit. Fortunately, it didn't seem to have entered the Headmaster's blood stream yet, and just to be sure he neatly cut it off at the elbow while he searched the rest of the elderly man's body for signs of its influence.

It hadn't affected the nerves in the Headmaster's arm at all, meaning he must be in considerable pain. Horrified, Atum cut through those too, the loss of sensation in the arm apparent as Dumbledore visibly relaxed; even unconscious, he must have been in agony.

Certain there was nothing more he could do, Atum activated the seal, the runes blazing into life with a blue actinic glow, and trapping the curse in the now useless appendage, the arm blackening and shrivelling as the tissue died in seconds.

Still in his trance Atum reached for the knife. With two quick strokes, he cut through the flesh of Dumbledore's arm just below the shoulder, deep enough to hit bone. He switched to the saw. Hopefully his transfiguration was strong enough to hold up. The sound of rasping bone gradually pulled him from his trance state. With a snick the saw was through the bone; grabbing the cursed limb, he hurled it into the fire, heaving a deep sigh of relief as it burst into vivid purple flames, and producing thick foul smoke.

But he wasn't finished yet; now to clean up the wound. Fortunately Horemheb had had some basic battlefield medical training, but it was mainly for those like himself. He was just going to have to do the best he could and hope Madam Pomfrey could improve on it.

Getting the remains of the humerus out of its socket was a little trickier than he'd expected, the tendons being tough and fibrous. He put the bone to one side in a sticky pool of blood. Maybe the Headmaster would like to keep it, it might very well make an excellent wand-core for him. Atum sighed as he looked at the grizzly mess that remained of Dumbledore's shoulder; somehow he needed to make a flap to close off the wound. It turned out the knife had lost its edge, further complicating his task. He sighed heavily to himself as he dropped lumps of flesh onto the carpet; he knew he should have brought his whet-stone with him. The flap came out slightly wonky, but, he held it in place, it should cover the injury.

With needle and thread, he began the laborious process of stitching it in place, Fawkes hopping onto his shoulder for a closer look. It really didn't look good at all, puckered and lumpy and ugly; he really hoped Madam Pomfrey could do something with it, otherwise poor Professor Dumbledore was going to spend the rest of his life with a wonky shoulder. Fawkes hopped down to the floor holding his tail plumes clear of the gory mess, leaning forward, his tears dripping onto the gory mess, the rawness gradually disappearing in its wake.

"Fawkes, that's brilliant," Atum grinned at the bird, angling the Headmaster's shoulder to make the phoenix's task easier. Fawkes gave him a sarcastic stare as if to say "well, what did you expect?"

Atum sat back on his heels, heedless of the blood as he wiped a stray lock of hair from his eyes. All he really needed to do now was bandage the injury and call Madam Pomfrey; but didn't the Headmaster look rather pale, and he was cool to the touch too, his heart beat rapid and thin.

Oh no, oh no, why hadn't he thought of this? Dumbledore needed blood now. He looked around urgently for something, anything he could use. Grabbing the cushion off the chair, he pulled out his wand, and transfigured the soft furnishing into a length of clear tubing with a hollow needle at each end.

Grabbing one needle he pushed it carefully into a vein in the crook of his elbow, hoping it would be strong enough to puncture his toughened skin. To his relief the tubing began to fill with rich red blood. As it began to spurt from the other end he quickly inserted the needle into Dumbledore's healthy arm, praying to whatever and whoever might be listening that that was a vein he'd just stuck it in and that there weren't any air bubbles.

All he could do now was wait, watched by an anxious phoenix who had moved back to his shoulder and was now fussing in his ear. Slowly Dumbledore's colour improved, a slight flush returning to his cheeks. Atum checked his temperature again, much better. So did he stop now or did he wait just a little bit longer? He checked the Headmaster's temperature again, and then his pulse, both of which seemed much more normal.

Maybe he would be better now to just leave this to a professional. He pulled the tubing out of the Headmaster's arm, the blood rapidly clotting leaving a bead of bright cinnabar red on his arm. Yanking the tubing from his own arm, he tossed it into the fire, watching it rapidly melt then burn in the heat.

"Fawkes would you go and fetch Madam Pomfrey, please?" Atum asked his new friend as he bandaged the headmaster's shoulder as best he could. "I don't think I can do much more to help the Headmaster, and he probably needs more blood too," he sighed.

Fawkes chirped reassuringly in his ear, giving his earlobe an affectionate tug, before launching himself into the air, disappearing in a ball of flame.

Atum blinked, suddenly realising what a mess he was. Blood caked his arms up to the elbow and his school robe was crusted and shiny. Underneath him, the Headmaster's no doubt prized carpet had become a gore soaked squelching mess, and with that incredible ability of blood to spread it had crept up the skirting-boards, splashed over books and sprayed up the walls.

"Oh…oops," he grimaced as he took in the mess.

"I should think so," a furious voice announced from above.

Atum's gaze jerked upwards to find the portraits of previous head-teachers staring at him opened mouthed eyes wide in horror, some of them looking rather pale and sickly, except for one.

"That has got to be the most entertaining thing I've seen in years," a thin and harsh looking Headmaster with a goatee beard said, giving him a toothy grin.

"Oh, do be quiet, Phineas," a Headmistress snapped, (Dilys Derwent the brass plaque on her frame announced). "Honestly, boy," she leaned forward in her frame the better to glare at Atum, "your career as a healer is over before it even began. Talk about a hack job."

oOo

"It's nice to know you're healing up all right." Aberforth gave him a smirk. "Well, I must be going, got a business to run and all that," he gave Dumbledore's hand a friendly pat, "I'll see you tomorrow, brother."

Dumbledore watched his retreating back mutely. How had everything managed to go so…not wrong precisely…strange, and definitely not the way he had planned. Young Harry had managed to completely obliterate so many carefully laid plans in the fight against Voldemort. He sighed softly, running his left hand down his beard, fidgeting against the mound of pillows at his back. He felt so lop-sided and slightly off balance. Who knew missing an entire arm would have such an impact?

"…come in lad," Aberforth was saying, "I'm sure he'd be delighted to see you."

"Thank you Sir," Harry's now familiar voice rumbled.

"Just Abe lad, just Abe," Aberforth chuckled as he turned back and gave his brother the most evil grin, disappearing into the main hospital wing with a smirk.

Dumbledore frowned. When he got out of here, he was going to sneak into the Hog's Head and turn all his blaster brother's best brandy into cream tea…or something, he hadn't quite decided yet. Frankly, Fawkes's attitude wasn't helping matters either. His blasted familiar, who was supposed to protect him from physical assault among other things, was currently looking smug and very pleased with himself as he perched on the headboard, strutting up and down, preening his feathers and very so often breaking out into joyful song. That was, when he wasn't trying to settle in his lap for a cuddle.

"Hello Sir," Harry rumbled as he ducked through the door sidling into the private room, smiling shyly. Dumbledore could quite honestly say he was not in the least bit impressed.

"I've come to see that you're all right," Harry said, as he approached the bed, looking a little uncertain, "I, err…" his cheeks flushed, "we made you a card." He dug around in his ridiculous looking shoulder bag, pulling out a folded piece of parchment.

Dumbledore accepted it gingerly, opening the slightly unevenly folded creation to find…a trio of dancing psychedelic hedgehogs in a meadow who, on seeing him, began to caper excitedly chanting "get well soon" in shrill voices.

The hand of Luna Lovegood was much in evidence.

"Ah…thank you," he finally said as he attempted to silence the irritating little beasties, but they were quite persistent.

Fawkes took off directly behind his head, warbling and trilling before finally breaking out into song like a peal of bells on a beautiful summer's morning as he circled madly around Harry's head. Dumbledore quietly fumed to himself; traitorous bird. He glared as the phoenix settled on Harry's broad shoulders, snuggling up against his neck.

"I…I'm very sorry about how I had to grab you like that," Harry said, green eyes solemn, "…you were being uncooperative though," he sighed before suddenly brightening up, "Madam Pomfrey said that you'll most likely make a full recovery, though you'll need to take potions to aid your kidneys for a while…and that reminds me." He began rooting around in the ridiculous shoulder bag again, triumphantly pulling out a wooden box. "Here you go, sir!" He handed it over with a shy smile.

Feeling rather hesitant, Dumbledore opened it; inside, carefully wrapped, was the top six inches or so of a bone, an arm bone if he was any judge. He glared suspiciously at the looming giant of a lad.

"I saved it for you," Harry smiled at him kindly, "it's the remains of your humerus. I thought you might like it, in case you need a new wand, say…might be good material for a core."

Dumbledore glared at the remains of his arm. He couldn't remember being less "humorous" in his entire life.

"So, when's the next private class Sir?" Harry asked brightly.

OOOOOO

The room was heaving with people, students as well as interesting individuals Professor Slughorn had invited to his little gathering, his "Slug Club".

Atum had to admit, they weren't as bad as he'd been expecting. Evidently Horemheb's social skills were rather more developed than Harry's, allowing him to actually relax a little and enjoy himself. It also helped that he was able to bring Luna with him too; at least he always had someone he actively liked to talk to.

This particular evening Luna was wearing a long white tiered dress to which she had applied blue magical flames, carefully frozen. She claimed it was her Ice Queen costume. Atum wasn't sure of the reference, but he did feel it complemented his own deep red velvet robes rather nicely, the embodiment of fire and ice…

"…lost in thought again Not-Harry," Luna tugged at his elbow, smiling up at him, "were your two halves having a conversation again?"

"Something like that," Atum admitted, ignoring the suspicious stare of an elderly gentleman in dark green robes, whose beard was almost as magnificent as the Headmaster's.

"I hope it was interesting," she smiled fondly, "I've been talking to Mr Scrivener about the Crumple Horned Snorkack. Daddy and I are planning on going to Sweden this summer. So what do you think our chances are Mr Scrivener?"

The elderly gentleman eyed them darkly for a moment. "Remote," he growled, melting back into the crowd.

"Well," Luna said brightly, "that was considerably better than the occasion that vampire attacked you."

"True, true," Atum said, his eyes sweeping over the gathering. No matter how crowded Professor Slughorn's little gatherings got, he and Luna always seemed to have their own space. He gave Ron a cheery wave as the red-head peered out from behind a rather portly witch attired in pink ruffled satin. The other Gryffindor froze, face colouring as he ducked back, a guilty expression on his face.

Ron and Hermione had been guests at the last few Slug Clubs, Professor Slughorn picking up on their superior performance in potions. He and Luna would always chat with them, it seemed the friendly thing to do, but it always felt so stilted and strained. He just had so little in common with them these days; even Hermione struggled to keep up with him. It was all rather sad really.

Luna tugged his arm again. "Shall we go and chat to Neville?" she asked. Neville Longbottom (apparently his name and his talent for plants had gained him entrance to the party) was busily talking horticulture with a small group of Ravenclaws, one of whom was taking notes, his usual stutter noticeably absent.

"Yes, why not?" Atum said.

"There you are," Professor Slughorn's jovial voice stopped them in their tracks, "have you met Ethel Simpkins yet?" he waved a hand towards a tall and rather put-upon looking witch, who was tightly clutching a glass of punch in one hand, her eyes roving over the gathering.

"We haven't been introduced," Atum smiled politely at Simpkins who was now looking up at him, her eyes wide.

Slughorn seemed delighted. "Well, Mrs Simpkins is an editor for The Prophet. Used to be a student of mine back in the day, very talented at runes you know," he said conspiratorially. Mrs Simpkins rolled her eyes.

"Ethel, may I introduce Luna Lovegood and Harry Potter. Young Mr Potter doesn't need an introduction of course, while Ms Lovegood, why, her father owns the Quibbler."

They eyed one another warily, Slughorn beaming happily, bouncing on his heels. "Ah, I've just spotted Alice Flyndburn. Holyhead Harpies you know, one of their best beaters. I'll just leave you to get better acquainted, shall I…" he bounced away calling out to his latest victim.

Simpkins scrutinised them for a moment. "So your father own the Quibbler, huh?"

Luna nodded happily. "I help out every so often. I've even written articles for him on creatures, impossible runes…all sorts of things…" she smiled sweetly at the Daily Prophet editor.

"So you're Anul Doogevol," Simpkins said. "Huh. And you're Harry Potter. You don't look much like your picture," she glared up at Atum.

"I grew," Atum said solemnly, "it was puberty."

"Right," Simpkins said slowly, obviously not believing him one bit.

"So…runes," Luna said brightly, "we love runes."

Atum nodded eagerly. "They're so fascinating and versatile. I've got a little something we've been working here somewhere," he searched in his robe pocket, "here it is," he said as he pulled out a small stone tablet holding it up for Mrs Simpkins' admiration.

She frowned as she took in their handiwork. "What in Merlin's name…did you just decide to scribble runes at random, of all the ridiculous things?" she snapped.

Atum reared back, deeply offended. Luna apparently didn't feel much better as she loudly began to explain the groupings of sigils, and the theory behind their placement and interaction. Mrs Simpkins tried backing away, but they managed to corner her by the buffet table as they explained the grounding qualities of Hagalaz when combined with Ingwaz.

"Utterly ridiculous," Mrs Simpkins spluttered, clutching her punch glass to her chest, "everyone know Hagalaz represents hail, a destructive natural force. Young people nowadays," she muttered as she shouldered past Luna, rather rudely too, Atum thought.

The sound of a familiar throat being cleared came from behind them.

Turning, they found Professor Snape standing there, glaring at them, his hand held out. Atum stared at it blankly, nonplused as to what the Professor could possibly want from him.

"That tablet or whatever it is, now," Professor Snape snarled impatiently.

Atum looked aghast. "But it took us hours to make it, sir," he sighed, his eyes wide and sad.

"I don't care," Snape snarled up at him.

Sighing sadly, Atum handed it over. It was annoying, but he'd still got all their notes, so they could always make another one, and maybe he could try and translate the whole thing into cuneiform. That would be interesting, he thought as Snape strode away.

"After all our hard work too," Luna sniffed. "Oh look, mistletoe! Someone's getting into the festive spirit early." She gave Atum a small grin.

"Festive season?" he asked in puzzlement. Now that he thought about it…oh- "Christmas!" he said.

Luna nodded as she ladled punch into a glass, handing it to him. "That's right, faerie lights, tinsel and plum pudding, and best of all presents!" She smiled happily.

"Presents," Atum echoed. He had faint memories of such things courtesy of Harry's memories, but they came tinged with resentment and resignation. It seemed that this was yet another thing his family had excluded him from, and his only really "normal" experience of this annual celebration was here, at Hogwarts, which was rather sad.

"Yes, presents." Luna gave him one of her dreamy smiles. "Traditionally, they're meant to be a surprise, specially chosen for those close to you, family, friends, people you care about or respect highly, though if you have something specific you would like I'm willing to consider it."

She paused a moment, her head tilted thoughtfully. "I'm taking it part of you is unfamiliar with the tradition."

Atum looked around the crowded room. Hermione and Ron were still watching them, bless them; he smiled at a suddenly very pink Hermione.

"No, he wasn't, though he and his brothers kept various feast days and celebrations. They just don't correspond to anything here at all."

Luna nodded thoughtfully. "It'll be like your very first Christmas then. I'll pick something extra special for your present…such a shame we missed Halloween," Luna said as she sipped her punch.

Atum gave her a questioning look.

"We were in the library at the time…those Sumerian tablets," she elaborated, "so we completely missed the feast; the decorations are always fun."

Oh yes, the Sumerian clay tablets. The one that got away.

He'd found them, poked high up behind a couple of books on material transfiguration, a couple of clay tablets covered in the angular forms of Sumerian cuneiform.

Excited by this unexpected find, he and Luna had taken them over to a desk to begin the exacting process of transcription and translation. Initial indications were that this was a description of a ritual of some kind, something to do with opening a doorway. Was it a doorway at a specific location or something that could be applied to multiple locations? Was it in fact referring to a doorway in the normal sense at all?

Unfortunately they never got to find out. Madam Pince had appeared from seemingly nowhere and confiscated their prize, storming off with them, muttering about idiot students, portals, the Underworld, and (for some reason) orang-utans.

Fortunately Luna had hidden their notes. It was such a shame that they never got to complete the transcription.

OOOOOO

The hissing rant reached a teeth hurting pitch and Snape winced as he did his best to keep his face averted head down from the disturbing scene that was busily unfolding around him.

"…can't follow simple instructions properly," the Dark Lord screamed, "crucio!"

The unfortunate target of his rage writhed and howled on the floor. "Ple…plea…please," he gasped, "let…let me try…try again…"

Beside him Snape felt Malfoy Senior cringe. They all had strong stomachs for torture, death, and all sorts of other abuse. They had to around someone like the Dark Lord, but this, this was one of them at the end of his wand, not treachery or betrayal or some serious infringement of their beliefs, but merely because Mortimer Hewley wished to go home to his family, his wife and children.

oOo

Atum adjusted the rune inscribed mirror carefully one more time. They had discovered a small room off the forge area and decided it was just perfect for this most secret of projects, the manipulation of Ravenclaw's diadem and the fragment of Voldemort contained within it. It looked like it might have been an office at one point; certainly, they had found a desk inside. Now cleared of rubbish, they had sealed off the small window and ritually purified the space from outside influence, charming and warding the doorway so that only they could enter or even find it.

Getting the table in had been a little tricky until Luna had had the good idea of charming the thing apart and then sticking it back together. Now they were all ready to continue with their enquiry into just what made this Dark Lord tick. Their initial forays had met with some limited success as they attempted to break through barriers and protections in his mind, something that would be impossible with a normal person, but thanks to the fool's destruction of his own soul, their task had been made considerably easier.

It had been rather gratifying reading Malfoy's correspondence and seeing the scope of their initial success; but now they had a wonderful opportunity to set something more permanent up, a conduit if you will, directly into Voldemort's mind.

oOo

If Snape had thought the Dark Lord paranoid before, it was nothing to his behaviour over the last month or so. The increasing number of full meetings, once a rare thing, were now almost weekly events, the Malfoy's ballroom having been commandeered for the purpose. The Dark Lord would make demands and give out orders before the evening degenerated into a welter of torture and blood and mutilation as muggles especially captured for the occasion were murdered for entertainment. Even Lucius Malfoy was beginning to find it unsettling, the smell of blood that was now permeating his home increasingly hard to stomach.

Personally, Snape had a feeling that if things continued like this he was going to end up addicted to sleeping draughts. It was currently the only way he was getting any sleep at all, as the nightmares were becoming so intense.

"…lazy…incompetent…stupid…" the Dark Lord snarled whirling round on the rest of the gathering a moment, "when I say you have to stay, YOU HAVE TO STAY!"

Muttering harshly, he turned back to his victim. "Crucio," he hissed vindictively, Hewley's limbs now only feebly twitching.

"He was a new "in" at the Planet," Lucius muttered beside him, "what a waste, and with some of the old crew retiring soon."

Snape could only agree; yet another young life wastefully snuffed out.

oOo

Luna checked the runic circle they'd burned into the top of the old table one more time. The diadem of Ravenclaw lurked in the centre, its increasingly tarnished surface glinting ominously as Luna lit the ritual candles.

"Ready?" she asked.

"Ready," Atum nodded firmly. He raised his hands, Luna watching in fascination as he formed signs, his eyes beginning to spark with blue fire, the runes on the table bursting into life, as the diadem began to vibrate and spark, lifting into the air, almost seeming to struggle against its imprisonment.

oOo

"…and that goes for the rest of y…" the Dark Lord's rant abruptly halted as his body jerked and stiffened, his eyes flickering wildly as he began to stutter, falling to the floor in a graceless jumble of limbs.

"My Lord," Bellatrix shrieked as she leapt up, racing to the Dark Lord's side.

Snape rolled his eyes; the silly bint, as if the Dark Lord was actually capable of caring for another person.

"Get off me, you stupid whore," the Dark Lord screamed as he hauled himself to his feet, "crucio."

Bellatrix screamed, babbling and begging for mercy. Well, that was predictable, Snape thought as he watched the vile woman jerking and twitching on the floor, feeling quite unsympathetic to her plight.

Done with the sobbing wreck of Bellatrix Lestrange, the Dark Lord turned on them, his wrath even greater than before, his eyes promising nothing but pain and humiliation. Snape hunched his shoulders ducking his head lower. There was not a kneazle's chance in hell he was going to return to Hogwarts without some sort of injury tonight.

He winced as fresh screaming started.

oOo

"Hmmm," Atum frowned at the image in the mirror.

"It's not particularly clear is it?" Luna commented by his elbow, "maybe if we move this Sowhilo through ninety degrees," she pointed, "and then maybe add…Hagalaz for clarity?"

"And if we alter this hieroglyph…"n" water…if I add another one here…" Atum muttered as he carefully inscribed the glyph with a pencil, "let's see if that improves matters."

oOo

Snape watched in horrified fascination as the Dark Lord's eyes rolled back in their sockets, his limbs twisting and spasming disjointedly as a strange stuttering scream forced its way past his clenched jaws, the wand in his hand flaring wildly with magic, a jet of light slashing out across the crowd of horrified Death Eaters.

Instinctively ducking, Snape winced at the desperate scream that erupted mere feet away as Goyle Snr flopped on the floor, his movements becoming weaker and weaker as his skull melted away into a sticky puddle on the marble floor.

Lucius was actively shaking now, as he watched the slowly cooling corpse of his life-long, not friend precisely, more a close acquaintance and supporter. All this violence did not suit him at all. Snape watched his sort-of-friend with carefully concealed concern; he needed to get him away from this before he drew attention to himself and got killed…or maimed.

oOo

"No, no that's not right," Luna scowled as she peered into the mirror, "here, let me try something." She plucked the pencil from Atum's fingers.

oOo

The Dark Lord began to giggle hysterically, high pitched and almost girlish, a most disturbing sound that rang around the high ceilinged room.

"Come on," Snape hissed as he tugged at Lucius's elbow, "we need to leave before he kills us too."

Lucius made to stand. "No," Snape snapped rather louder than he'd meant to, but it was too late. The Dark Lord loomed over them, red eyes wide, a crazy smile stretched across his face. "Going somewhere, gentlemen?" he hissed, "Crucio!"

The scream tore from Snape's throat before he could even think of stopping it.

oOo

"Well…almost," Atum said as he scrutinised the mirror carefully, "maybe if I try this…amplify Tyr…and bring the Eye of Horus closer to the centre…"

"Oooh, and then you could place an extra Sowilo there," Luna pointed, "and that should balance and enhance the Eye of Horus…that's if our theory of complimentary runic systems is right."

Atum nodded in agreement; it was a sound idea.

oOo

Drawing in a shuddering breath, Snape gasped for ait, suddenly aware of Lucius's groans of pain beside him. He'd packed spare pain relief philtres hadn't he? Now all he needed to do was persuade his limbs to move.

Painfully, slowly, he rolled onto his stomach.

oOo

"I think we've got it," Atum beamed with delight as Luna clapped her hands gleefully.

"His mind is ours!" she crowed. "Do you think we could enhance his abilities to see nargles?"

Atum tilted his head thoughtfully; it would be an interesting first experiment.

oOo

The Dark Lord…the Dark Lord was crawling on his hands and knees, watched by the few Death Eaters left who were still conscious or who hadn't outright fled. Snape watched in horrified fascination as he grouped blindly at the floor with long pale fingers, apparently searching for his wand, occasionally swiping at an invisible something, shaking his head dazedly. "Stop it…stop…mustn't linger…nargless…bothering me…nargles…need to stop…" his hand slapped down, far too close to Snape's face for comfort.

Where had he heard of nargles before? He frowned as he dragged himself slowly and cautiously away from the insane Dark Lord. It was niggling away at him, he'd certainly heard the word before somewhere…the Quibbler, Luna Lovegood!

Which led him directly to…oh, hell. Harry Potter, a monster in his own right.

OOOOOO

*Prophecy quoted from, p741, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix by J K Rowling, Bloomsbury (2003).