Chapter IV

The Dance / A Diagnosis

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. If I did, I… I would mismanage him horribly, and people would beg to have J. K. Rowling back at the helm. Let's be grateful things are the way they are, Ron/Hermione and Harry/Ginny notwithstanding.

Author's Note: I have to say, this chapter holds a special place in my heart. It's definitely my favorite so far, not so much because of my own writing but because of all the scenes I got to relive in researching it. I hope you're as fond of it as I am!

Soundtrack Note: Potter Waltz from the Goblet of Fire soundtrack.


"Time flies like an arrow, fruit flies like a banana."

-Groucho Marx

The boy had his mouth open again.

The girl twirled around the Bulgarian again, the periwinkle hem of her dress spinning around her as she laughed. She looked happy.

The boy looked miserable. He would stare after the girl, a pained expression on his face, and when that became too much to bear, he would look for the Ravenclaw girl, dancing with the Hufflepuff champion, the one who had not much longer on this Earth.

Sitting beside him in the corner was his red-headed friend, who prattled on, and on, and on about giants, and with his mood already worsened by affairs of the heart, the boy looked like he wanted to start flinging incendiary spells around the hall.

Meanwhile, the Death Eater disguised as a professor leaned against the wall, flask in hand, awkwardly swaying back and forth the music, humming along to it gruffly, ensuring that the alarmed students dancing near him kept a wide berth. He appeared to be gazing around the hall, the ever-watchful chaperone, but to anyone who knew what to look for, his enchanted blue eye always swung around to stare on the boy.

It had taken her quite some time to figure out a way around the imposter. Wearing the Auror's eye as he did, he could see right through her invisibility cloak, and would no doubt investigate with extreme prejudice—no one that could interfere with his plans for the boy could be allowed to live.

But tonight presented her with a unique opportunity to get close to the boy and the girl without even needing the cloak. It had required much time and some complicated calculations, but she was able to incorporate multiple hairs into the Polyjuice Potion she'd decided to brew. The end result, when enhanced with conjured robes that matched those of the Beauxbatons girls exactly, made her look like a student of that school, without resembling any one of them in particular; she didn't want to have to worry about encountering the individual she was impersonating. As soon as she had brewed enough for the night, she strolled up to the nearest Durmstrang boy, and asked him to the ball.

Once within the hall, she promptly ditched her date, only looking for dancing partners insomuch as she needed to get closer to the boy and the girl. Right now she was dancing with a pudgy Hufflepuff boy with bad breath. She'd dressed rather plainly, not wanting to draw unwanted attention to herself, a simple white dress that could have been worn by any of the girls; the Hogwarts students would assume she was from Beauxbatons, and the Beauxbatons girls would assume she attended Hogwarts. The Auror's eye was a potent magical device, but in this form, she could hide in plain sight, just has the Death Eater had. She found the irony to be quite satisfying.

Across the room, the red-headed friend excused himself and got up, heading for the doors of the hall. She assumed he was off to the toilet.

Peering around the Hufflepuff, she watched the boy. His gaze was intense, his face turning red. The girl had nestled her head on the Bulgarians shoulder as the two danced, and the boy couldn't take his eyes off of her. It was obvious; he was jealous.

It was rather cute of him, she thought. Yes, the Bulgarian was attractive, and a gentleman, and most importantly he had been the first to ever show any interest in the girl in that way. But there had honestly never been anything for the boy to be jealous of. She didn't share with the Bulgarian what she shared with the boy, and the boy had so much more of those qualities that the girl was really interested in. His mind, bright and sensitive and inquisitive, his character, loyal and kind and full of valor, and his eyes, green and piercing and electric…

If he had bothered to ask the girl to the ball, well, she never would have spared the Bulgarian a second glance.

The Weird Sisters began finishing up the song, and the boy downed the rest of his Butterbeer and stood up. With his eyes set in grim determination, he strode across the dance floor, marching straight up to the two of them.

"May I cut in?" he asked stiffly as the next song began to play.

The Bulgarian's face looked as if he had been forced to swallow a lemon. Still, he could not very well refuse, given the occasion. "Ov corse," he nodded grimly, and he had the nerve to kiss the girl's hand in front of the boy. "I vill see you later," he told her, his eyes flaring at the boy as he moved towards the refreshments.

She steered the Hufflepuff boy around the other couples so she could get a better view of the two as the girl stepped up to the boy, wide-eyed, and placed her hands around his shoulders while he rested her hands on her hips. The boy looked particularly awkward as he realized that the next dance would be to a slow song.

She reached for her side and gripped her wand through the fabric of her dress, whispering a quick Supersensory Charm upon herself. The noise became deafening, but if she closed her eyes and focused, she could tune out most of it and listen to just the boy and girl.

Both their heartbeats were fast, wild. The girl because of who it was that held her in his arms, and the boy because… Did he feel the same way? Or had that come later?

"I like your teeth," he whispered in the girl's ear. "They really look nice, I can't believed I hadn't noticed before."

The girl blushed furiously. "Thanks," she murmured.

Eyes closed, and pressed up against the Hufflepuff boy, she smiled involuntarily. Until he stepped on her foot. She glared at him, and attempted to keep her eyes open to avoid a repeat of the incident while still listening in on the boy and girl.

"I'm sorry Ron's being such a git," he said, raising his voice to be heard over the music. "I think he was just shocked, to see you tonight, looking so… so…"

"Yes?" the girl said, cocking her head and looking at him curiously.

"Beautiful," he told her simply.

The girl leaned her head on his shoulder, afraid he'd see the look on her face. With her eyes now open, however, she could see her face clearly, flushed pink with excitement, eyes twinkling ecstatically, her mouth open in an irrepressible smile…

Her teeth really are much nicer, she thought.

The girl shook her head and pulled back so she could look at him again. Her face a stern mask, she told him, in her best Professor McGonagall voice, "Well it's his own fault, for not asking me sooner. And he's only surprised because he didn't think I could look this nice anyway!"

The boy blushed, and looked away. "You're right about him not asking you sooner. But about being surprised… it's not entirely his fault, 'Mione."

She shot him a look, but he only smiled. "You've always been beautiful," he told her seriously, and the girl could see in his eyes that he meant it. "But tonight… even I can't believe how amazing you look tonight. You're breathtaking."

The girl didn't say anything, just buried her face in his shoulder again so that he wouldn't see her face as she tried to process what he had said, wondering if she'd heard him properly over the music.

She knew that the girl was going through a difficult period in her relationship between her two best friends, one that was only going to get more difficult in the years to come. Her feelings for the boy were confusing to her, painful even, and she didn't dare bring it up with him for fear he did not feel the same way. At the same time, she began to see their red-headed friend as more than just another member of the trio. The boy was so burdened, so out of her league, so in need of her friendship and support that she felt guilty for feeling about him the way that she did, and the redhead… he was funny, and brutally honest, and clueless, in an endearing sort of way, and sweet, when he didn't make her want to shout at him and berate him for being such an ass…

The girl had always felt that the boy would never return her affections, not in the same way, not when he could have any witch he wanted, and it sometimes seemed as if the redhead was the only other one who paid her any heed at all… but every once in a while the boy would say something like this and reduce her to a nervous wreck trying to parse out the meaning of his words.

The two swayed closer together, and with the Supersensory Charm enhancing her vision as well as her hearing, she could see the boy's nostrils flaring, mere centimeters from the girl's hair. Better to look at them then at the Hufflepuff boy, whose pores were distressingly large now that her visual acuity had been enhanced…

The girl still had her head buried in the boy's shoulder, not trusting herself to avoid giving her feelings for him away as soon as she looked at him. Likewise, the boy looked terribly embarrassed, as if he had regretted saying as much as he had.

The song continued and as the two rocked back and forth slowly, their bodies moved closer together, until they were pressed flush against one another, not an inch of space between them. From her vantage point, it didn't look as if either of them had initiated the increased closeness. Subconsciously, they both wanted as little distance between them as possible.

By now the girl had lifted her head, and leaned forward so that her forehead rested against the boy's, her brown eyes starring into green ones.

She should've just kissed him and gotten it over with, she mused, attempting to ignore the sound of the sweat sliding down the Hufflepuff's forehead and neck.

The boy's smile was brilliant. He looked so… content, with her arms wrapped around him, as if this was all that he needed, just them, together, nothing else.

The girl's smile was a little sadder. She'd realized that the boy would not be kissing her, that he'd just wanted to dance with a friend and maybe cheer her up a little after the argument she'd had earlier with the red-headed one. As the song gradually came to a close, she was unable to hide the disappointment in her eyes from him, and startled, he opened his mouth, about to ask her what was wrong…

"Herm-own-ninny?"

The damned Bulgarian was back. He did not looked pleased with the physical proximity of the two friends. Embarrassed, the girl broke away as if burned, while the boy just stood there, bewildered. The girl took the Durmstrang champion's hand and led him away, as the Weird Sisters kicked up a more upbeat, faster-paced song.

Gratefully, she canceled the Supersensory Charm and bailed on her dance partner as well, taking up a position along the wall. She was covered in sweat, and she was uncomfortably certain that most of it had been his.

Making his way back to the table, the boy reached it just as the redheaded friend returned. The two sat and talked for the rest of the evening, and while the redhead would stare at the girl unabashedly, a scowl on his face, the boy was unable even to look at her, averting his eyes whenever she threatened to pass through his line of sight.

He didn't ogle the Ravenclaw girl for the rest of the evening either, she noticed. When he did catch sight of her, laughing at something the Hufflepuff champion had just said, he no longer seemed distracted or bothered by the two of them.

But he couldn't bring himself to look at the girl for the rest of the night.

When the band finished playing at midnight, everyone gave them a last, loud round of applause and started to wend their way into the entrance hall. Many people were expressing the wish that the ball could have gone on longer, but both the boy and the girl looked eager to be done with it.

She swept after them, watching the girl bid the Bulgarian farewell without so much as a kiss on the cheek, sweeping past the boy and the redhead on the staircase. Unable to look at the boy herself, the girl settled for glaring at the redhead and departed for the common room.

She hung back, eavesdropping on the conversation the boy had with the Hufflepuff champion, who gave him the clue he needed to solve the golden egg puzzle, then followed him as he too headed up to the seventh floor and the portrait of the Fat Lady.

Instead of following him in, however, she went to recover the Time-Turner and invisibility cloak from the empty classroom she'd hidden them in. She'd remain with him for the night again, to insure that he wasn't assaulted in his sleep, but once again she doubted that she'd chosen the right moment. He wouldn't have gone after him at a crowded ball, and the two would not be together again this night…

It was always the same mistake, she mused, choosing moments that had been of greater importance to the girl than the boy. No, next time she'd go somewhere that would have been one of the most important nights of his life…

She vanished the leftover Polyjuice Potion and disappeared beneath the cloak, reminding herself to pay attention to how she grew and changed beneath it as the shape-shifting brew she'd already ingested gradually wore off.

Her hand reached for the Time-Turner, turning it back so that she could follow the boy into the common room and his dormitory. And come morning, she would be moving on ahead.

She knew where to look next. She should have thought of it before, really. Though there had been countless moments the boy and the girl had spent together, they all revolved a few critical hubs, moments of such great importance that they came to mind instantly, literally changing the course of their lives. It was to one of those moments that he would have traveled.

And few nights had been more important in the lives of the boy or the girl than the night he had first told her he'd loved her. The night his godfather had died…


They sat on either side of him in silence. Occasionally he would moan or mutter things in his sleep, his voice barely audible even in the complete quiet of the hospital room.

She had never felt this helpless in her entire life. She wallowed in the feeling, hating herself for being so completely useless, so completely unable to do a damned thing to make Harry better.

She had the sudden, powerful desire to see her husband, to have Ron walk in the door and take her into his arms and kiss all the fear and helplessness away…

But a part of her knew that the real reason she wanted him here was so that she wouldn't be alone with Harry and Ginny. So that she would have something to look at other than his wife holding back tears as she sat at his side, praying desperately. So that she wouldn't have to wonder what she would do if their positions were reversed, if she were Harry's wife and had to see him lying there in that bed…

She shook her head, startled. She had meant, if their positions were reversed and Ron was lying in that bed and Harry was off in Ireland fighting giants.

But she knew, deep down, that that wasn't what she had meant at all.

Harry's lips started moving again. She needed to do something to help, even if it meant straining to hear what it was he was saying so she could understand what it was he was experiencing. So she listened, hoping to uncover some clues, enough information to make it all make sense, solve the mystery so she could make Harry well again, so that they could all return to their normal lives.

His words weren't audible, but his lips kept forming the same words over and over again, and it wasn't too difficult to figure out what it was he was saying.

"I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry…"

What had he to be sorry for? None of this was his fault.

She didn't know why, exactly, couldn't have put the feeling into words, even, but somehow, she knew it was hers.

Ginny was holding one of Harry's hands tightly between both of hers, as if afraid that if she let go he might slip away and not come back. Hermione wasn't sure what drove her to grab his other hand and squeeze it tightly in her own, not exactly; she told herself that she was just being there for a friend, in the only way possible, lending him her support the way she'd lent it to Ginny by holding her hand in the corridor more than an hour ago.

The moment her skin touched his, Harry began to mutter, no longer just moving his lips silently, but actually speaking audible words.

"It wasn't a lie, it wasn't a lie it can't have all been a lie…"

"Harry?" Ginny was staring at her husband. "What is he talking about?"

Hermione just shook her head, her mouth hanging open, unable to say anything. She suddenly felt very, very wrong. She slipped her hands out of Harry's, drawing them back quickly as if she'd been burned.

"Hermione, wait, don't go…"

Ginny stared at her.

Hermione could hear the pain and abandonment in his voice, and instantly felt revulsion. Not for him, but for herself. She shouldn't be here, she told herself. She could do nothing for Harry right now, and all that her presence here was accomplishing was to drag up old feelings that were better left buried…

There came a knock on the doorframe at that moment, and an old Indian wizard entered the room, coffee-colored eyes staring ahead relentlessly over a rather severe looking nose and a thick, grey beard.

"I am Healer Chatterjee," he told them, his voice heavily accented and ancient-sounding. "I would like to take a look at your husband," he said, looking directly at Hermione.

Startled, she turned and looked at Ginny, who was still staring at her after Harry's last words. The redhead, not breaking her eye-contact with her sister-in-law, spoke.

"Please, anything you can do to help."

The Healer nodded and moved to Harry's side. Hermione stood up, taking several steps back to give him room to examine his patient. A part of her wanted very, very badly to turn and flee the room, to go get Hugo from Arthur and Molly and hold him tight and smother him with kisses.

But she couldn't leave yet, wouldn't forgive herself if she left without finding out more about Harry's condition. Chatterjee was an expert on memory magic, called in to consult on a possible treatment. If anyone could find out how to help Harry, it would be him. She needed the Healer to help him, needed him to get better. She wasn't sure what she would do if he didn't get better.

And when it did come time to leave, it was not to the Burrow that she would be going.

There was no one in Harry's office right now.

Something had caused all of this, something dark, something dangerous.

She would end it.

Chatterjee made an "Mmm-hmm" noise as he held his wand to Harry's temple.

"Yes, yes, yes yes yes," he said, nodding sagely.

"What is it?"

"This is indeed a very potent Memory Charm," said the Healer. "Possibly the strongest I have ever seen."

"Who could perform such a spell?" Ginny asked.

"I can count on one hand the number of wizards I know that could cast a charm this strong," said Chatterjee. "To my knowledge, none of them have ever met your husband, with the exception of the late Albus Dumbledore."

Dumbledore?

She refused to believe it.

Chatterjee had them describe in great detail Harry's behavior over the last several weeks for him. He nodded in understanding as they told him about the way he'd been acting. Wanting to give him whatever piece of information might help Harry, Hermione told him everything, revealing to Ginny for the first time the way Harry had looked at her the night he had first started behaving oddly.

"And after that it was like he couldn't look at me at all," she told him.

The Healer nodded. Turning, he summoned a large stone bowl, encircled in runes. To Hermione's surprise, she found that several of them she did not recognize. Those she did, however, allowed her to understand the basin's purpose.

"That's the bindrune for 'Memory'," she said softly. "That's a Pensieve."

"Indeed. In my line of work, it is useful not only as a device for contemplation but as a diagnostic tool as well. With your permission?"

Ginny nodded her assent, and the old man touched his wand to Harry's temple again. Slowly, he withdrew it, a strand of wafting silver thought trailing after it. He placed it into the bowl, and then repeated the process several times until the empty bowl had been filled with a cloud of gleaming silver memories.

"I can't extract the modified memory, of course, but I have been able to identify others that are all associated with it in his mind. In some way, they all have something to do with what was erased. Viewing them may reveal a pattern, and give us a vague idea of what was tampered with."

He stirred the Pensieve briefly with his wand, then withdrew it and tapped the surface of its contents gently.

Up from it rose the image of a young Harry Potter in miniature, dressed in plain Muggle clothes. He was looking at something in what appeared to be great expectation.

"Oh, are you doing magic?" came a voice from the Pensieve. "Let's see it, then."

Hermione went as pale as a sheet.

The ghostly silver image of an eleven year old Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley rose from the bowl, sitting next to Harry in the train compartment they had first met in on the Hogwarts Express like tiny, animated statues of silver. A miniature Neville Longbotton stood at the door of the compartment. All were looking at Ron expectantly.

"Er—all right."

The memory of Ron cleared its throat and waved its wand.

"Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow,

Turn this stupid, fat rat yellow."

The tiny rat in the memory's hands remained asleep and unchanged.

"Are you sure that's a real spell?" said Hermione's younger self. "Well, it's not very good, is it? I've tried a few simple spells just for practice and it's all worked for me. Nobody in my family's magic at all, it was ever such a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course, I mean, it's the very best school of witchcraft there is, I've heard…"

The memory collapsed into the Pensieve, and Chatterjee tapped it again, drawing up another strand of thought into coherent shape.

A very, very irritated Hermione glared at them, bushy-haired and buck-toothed. "I hope you're pleased with yourselves. We could all have been killed — or worse, expelled. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to bed."

This memory, too, collapsed into the bowl, only to be replaced by another.

A skeptical looking Ron and Harry stood in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, looking down at a tiny silver Hermione who was flipping through a large book, which she snapped shut.

"Well, if you two are going to chicken out, fine. I don't want to break rules, you know. I think threatening Muggle-borns is far worse than brewing up a difficult potion. But if you don't want to find out if it's Malfoy, I'll go straight to Madam Pince now and hand the book back in—"

"I never thought I'd see the day when you'd be persuading us to break rules," said the image of Ron. "All right, we'll do it. But not toenails, okay?"

Hermione felt a wave of dread wash through her as an older, more mature version of herself rose once more from the Pensieve, accompanied by a replica of Horace Slughorn, their one time Potions master at Hogwarts.

"It's Amortentia!" the memory of Hermione called out, looking down at a bubbling cauldron. "It's the most powerful love potion in the world!"

"Quite right! You recognized it, I suppose, by its distinctive mother-of-pearl sheen?" Slughorn asked.

"And the steam rising in characteristic spirals," said the memory enthusiastically, "and it's supposed to smell differently to each of us, according to what attracts us, and I can smell freshly mown grass and new parchment and—"

She cut off suddenly, blushing furiously.

"May I ask your name, my dear?" said the memory of Slughorn, ignoring the other's embarrassment.

"Hermione Granger, sir."

"Granger? Granger? Can you possibly be related to Hector Dagworth-Granger, who founded the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers?"

"No, I don't think so, sir. I'm Muggle-born, you see."

"Oho! 'One of my best friends is Muggle-born, and she's the best in our year!' I'm assuming this is the very friend of whom you spoke, Harry?"

"Yes, sir," came Harry's voice, though his duplicate did not rise up out of the bowl.

"Well, well, take twenty well-earned points for Gryffindor, Miss Granger," said Slughorn's doppelganger genially.

The silver girl turned and looked right at them, a radiant expression on her face. "Did you really tell him I'm the best in the year? Oh, Harry!"

The memory lost cohesion and dropped into the bowl. Chatterjee did not stir it up again. When he spoke, his voice gave no indication that he was aware of or cared in the slightest about the intense uncomfortableness that had settled about the room.

"Well, we now know the topic of the afflicted memory," he said calmly.

Ginny stared at Hermione, her expression unreadable.

"I would like to attempt a second diagnostic test. Mrs. Potter?"

His voice made the red-headed woman reel, snapping her out of whatever thoughts she had been thinking. "Yes, do whatever you need to do."

The old Healer vanished the Pensieve and summoned a medical bag, through which he began going through.

"Something caused Mr. Potter to begin fighting the Memory Charm," he explained. "Even if it was on a subconscious level, he realized something was missing or had been modified, and reacted with aversion to any triggers of the target memory."

With a chill, Hermione realized that she was the trigger he was referring to.

"The question is, what caused him to become aware that his memories were not accurate? I wish to administer a potion to Mr. Potter that may allow us to question him, so that we may formulate an effective treatment."

"You have a potion that will wake him?" asked Ginny, shakily.

Chatterjee shook his head. "Nothing so miraculous, I'm afraid." He removed a small stoppered bottle from the bag and a longer, more ornate bottle. Holding up the first, he said, "This potion is a unique mixture that I have developed for patients rendered catatonic by… traumatic memories. While it will briefly render him lucid enough to speak to us, it cannot make him wake."

"What is it?"

Vanishing the bag, he removed the stopper from the first bottle. Hermione could immediately detect the smell of frankincense. "A restorative draught mixed with a memory enhancing potion and a powerful truth serum," he told them.

"You want to give Harry Veritaserum?" Hermione asked him.

"Not quite. The truth serum in this potion is not intended for interrogations, as is Veritaserum, but was designed for use in therapy, allowing the recipient to be honest with themselves. It is quite useful for having patients confront unpleasant or traumatic memories."

"But it won't restore Harry's lost memories?"

"I'm afraid not, Mrs. Potter," the Healer told Ginny. "The Memory Charm is too potent to be undone by a simple potion, or even a complicated potion such as this one. However, it is possible that in fighting the Memory Charm he may have restored portions of the afflicted memory himself. This potion will allow us to speak to your husband and hear his responses. And it will only work once. We need to know what caused him to begin resisting the charm, and also what, if anything, he's remembered."

The old man paused for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was grave. "Given the ordeal he has been through, it is very likely that whatever memories he has uncovered are… disturbing, to say the least. It may be necessary for us to administer a Calming Draught," he said, indicating the other bottle.

Ginny nodded fearfully.

"There is also a chance that in speaking with him we may be able to coax him out of the coma," he told them. "I make no promises, though. It all depends on how distressing the lost memories are. Given his obvious suffering, I am not overly optimistic."

"Give him the potion," Ginny said firmly.

"As you wish," replied Chatterjee. He inhaled deeply from the open bottle, then closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he turned and gently opened Harry's mouth before tipping the potion down his throat. He dispensed it slowly, giving time for the last dash to be swallowed before pouring the next gulp. Finally, the bottle was emptied and Chatterjee stepped back.

"It should not be very long, now," he told them.

They waited for several moments. Hermione could see no change in Harry's appearance—his breathing rate did not change, his face did not relax, he did not open his eyes.

"Please, Harry," she whispered. "Give us a sign."

Harry snapped bolt upright in bed, his eye wide open, his face twisted into an expression of horror. He gasped, and stared straight ahead, his eyes gazing sightlessly into space. He looked as if he was experiencing a terrible agony.

"The Calming Draught!" cried Hermione. Immediately Chatterjee grasped Harry by the jaw, forcing the tip of the bottle into his mouth and angling it so its contents slid down his throat. Harry gave him no resistance. A few moments later, his eyes drooped, and he gently slid back down onto the bed with a sigh.

Newly relaxed, Harry's eyes focused on Hermione. It was the same intense, alien gaze he had fixated on her with on the night that this had all begun.

Ginny began to softly cry.

"Mr. Potter," called the Healer. "I am Healer Chatterjee. You are at St. Mungo's. You were attacked by dementors. Do you remember?"

"I remember," said Harry, his voice coming out in a dull monotone. His gaze never left Hermione.

"Can you tell me what happened?"

"I was going to see Aberforth Dumbledore in Hogsmeade," came the reply.

"Why?" asked Hermione, unable to help herself.

"I needed help repairing a magical item," he said mechanically. "I knew Aberforth had purchased items from Mundungus Fletcher in the past. I needed to see about having him contact him for me."

"Why did you need Mundungus?"

"The repairs weren't going well, and he has more criminal contacts than anyone I've ever met in the wizarding world. I was hoping he could find me an artisan who would make the repairs for me, no questions asked."

"What is it you were repairing? Is it a dark artifact?" asked Hermione.

Harry did not reply. He only stared at her.

"It's what's responsible for this whole thing, isn't it?" she demanded.

The silent stare was the only answer he gave her.

Chatterjee took charge. "What happened in your encounter with the dementors?"

Harry shuddered, though when he spoke, his voice was emotionless. "They showed me my worst memory, and it was so bad I blacked out before I could conjure a Patronus."

"Your parent's deaths?" asked Ginny, wiping away her tears.

"No. They showed me something much worse."

"What?" asked Chatterjee.

"The truth."

"We won't be able to question him for very long," the Healer told Ginny and Hermione. "We need to find out more about the Memory Charm. Mr. Potter, a powerful Memory Charm has been placed upon you. We believe you have been fighting against it recently. Is this true?"

"Yes," whispered Harry. "I've been trying to remember."

"What was it that made you realize that something was wrong?" Chatterjee asked him.

"It was what I saw in the artifact. That's what the dementors showed me when they attacked me in Hogsmeade."

"What did you see, Harry?" asked Ginny.

He did not answer.

"Harry… please," begged Hermione. "I need you to tell us."

"It… it was you…" Harry said suddenly, his voice no longer impassive. He sounded anguished. "It wasn't… it wasn't supposed to be you! Why was it you?"