Everyone can master a grief but he that has it.

-Much Ado about Nothing 3.2.16

Hermione had no intention of telling Harry that his brother was a Horcrux while the others were around. It wasn't that she didn't trust them- she would trust Saysa, Daphne, Neville, and Blaise with her life and soul- but that she didn't know how the Parselmouth would react. Perhaps the news that his beloved brother was a soul vessel would break through the young wizard's emotional shields, exposing the terror and revulsion within.

If that happened, she knew Harry wouldn't want their friends to see it. He wouldn't want her to see it either, but she couldn't help that. And though he would try to drive her away, to hide his shame and grief from her… Hermione would help.

She'd seen his strong mask falter a few times before: last Halloween, when he'd told them about his memories; January, when he'd learned the true nature of his scar; twice that month, when he'd confessed to the werewolves and escapees and when he'd divined Voldemort's location. Yet each time he'd pulled himself back, stopped the walls from crumbling. And each time he'd done so, he'd come a little closer to the brink.

Soon Harry was going to lose his composure. He had to; if he didn't, he wouldn't be human. Hermione had a strong suspicion that he would lose control at news of Mark's status.

And so she walked with him to the top of the Astronomy Tower, where there were no eavesdropping portraits and ghosts rarely trod. He knew they weren't really going up there to look at the Forbidden Forest through the telescopes, but they spent a happy few minutes gazing into the woods, searching for Saysa or the centaurs or even acromantula. They didn't find any, but neither minded.

But searching in vain for the forest's more exotic inhabitants couldn't delay them forever. Finally Harry turned to Hermione and commented, "This was fun, but I get the feeling you had another reason for bringing me up here."

She nodded, not meeting his eyes. How could she begin? But he was looking at her, waiting, face open and curious and hopeful. The Ravenclaw bit her lip, tempted to lie, to put this off, to do anything but break his heart. But she couldn't. Harry had to know.

"It's about Mark."

The color drained from her friend's face. He gripped the railing, knuckles going white. She could almost hear the thoughts racing through his mind: memories of Remus's fear, of her promise to him, of how she hadn't yet told anyone Mark's status. He looked at her with huge, horrified eyes, and she knew that he knew.

"No…." Harry's voice was a whimper, tiny and terrified. "He can't- the Sorting Hat- he can't!"

"I'm sorry," Hermione whispered. "I wish he wasn't, but his scar… I'm sorry, Harry." She leaned over to hug him.

"No!" The boy jerked away, backing into the railing. His feet were mere inches from the ledge. "Not Mark, not Mark. I'd rather have two of them in my head. Please, Hermione, tell me you're joking!"

Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. "I'm sorry, Harry," she repeated. "I looked yesterday, and there's no doubt. He is."

The Slytherin shuddered. His face was the shade of cream cheese. His shoulders heaved in tiny spasms. Tiny choking noises escaped from his throat. He turned, faced the drop.

Hermione hugged him, arms around his chest, head resting on his shoulder. "He'll be fine, Harry."

"No, he won't," the boy sniffed. His thin body trembled in her embrace. "I can't even cure my own Horcrux, Hermione. How can I save my brother if I can't even save myself?" His voice cracked on the last word, and then he was crying, tears streaming down his face, shaking, doing his utmost not to sob aloud.

Hermione didn't answer. She just held him tighter, whispering worthless platitudes and squeezing his hand.

Oh, Harry. It's okay to cry. It's nothing to be ashamed of. I cried when I found out, and I'm not even his twin. Cry, Harry, cry, let it all out….

But he didn't. He shook, he made miserable noises deep in his throat, but no sobs escaped.

Finally Harry's trembles subsided. He straightened, quiet save for the occasional hiccup. "Sorry," he rasped. "Didn't mean to… to fall apart like that." He sniffled, wiped his nose across his arm.

His friend nodded. You didn't fall apart, though. You should have. She stepped back, releasing him from her embrace so they could talk. "I reacted in the same way. Are you…." She trailed off. No, Harry was not okay, and she was foolish to ask.

He smiled bitterly, shook his head in answer to her unasked question. His gaze became distant. "Why didn't the Sorting Hat mention this?" he whispered. "It Sorted him, too."

"I don't know," she replied.

He sat, leaning against the wall. His legs folded into an almost fetal position. His face crumpled. "Poor Mark."

"Poor Harry," Hermione shot back.

He nodded, snorted. "Poor Potters."

He sat there for a long time, gazing towards the forest without seeing anything. Hermione sat, too, close enough to support him but far enough away to give him space. She remained quiet, letting him grieve.

It was harder than she'd thought, remaining silent. She'd never thought of herself as a chatterbox, but she was accustomed to speaking, to filling up the empty spaces with words and questions and observations. Many times she opened her mouth to make some inane comment, only to close it again at the last second.

Finally she couldn't take it anymore. "We'll figure something out, Harry."

The Slytherin bared his teeth in a bitter grin. "Like what? Voldemort and I have more knowledge of Horcruxes than anyone alive, but I can't think of anything that will destroy a soul fragment and preserve the living vessel. Unless Voldemort is suddenly overwhelmed by regret for his actions- which isn't bloody likely- Mark and I will stay this way until we die."

Hermione flinched. "I- but we can't give up trying, Harry. If we don't try, we'll never accomplish anything."

"I know that!" he snarled, jerking to his feet. "But even though we are trying, we haven't accomplished anything except chronic exhaustion. The idea of Horcruxes is that they can't be destroyed. They're bound so intimately to their vessel that- I'm not killing Mark!"

"Of course you're not!" she cried, standing. "Killing Mark was never an option, just like killing you was never an option. We've discussed this, remember? If we can't find a way to destroy the Horcruxes without hurting you, Saysa will Petrify Voldemort and kill him after you're dead."

"That's fine and dandy, but it won't stop us from living our lives with him in our heads!"

"What do you want me to say? I don't know what you're going through, and I admit it, Harry, but that doesn't mean I can't at least try to help! Would you rather have me abandon you to your misery and let you drown in self-loathing?"

"Yes!" he snarled, throwing up his arms. "Better to abandon than to lie! Besides, I don't need you."

"Yes," she growled, "you do. You need me, and Blaise, and Neville, and Daphne, and Saysa, and Sisith, and everyone else. You need us, Harry… just like Mark needs you."

He slumped, anger evaporating as quickly as it had appeared. "Thank you for telling me first, Hermione," he said dully. Then he turned and jumped off the tower.

Pinions flew, relishing the play of wind against his feathers, the way his body moved so easily, so instinctively, through the air. He'd loved flying since his first broomstick lesson, and now that he could fly of his own power…. It was exquisite.

He was vaguely aware of Hermione shrieking behind him, above him, so he caught an updraft and rose. He cawed once. Their eyes met, and she nodded. A relieved smile bloomed across her face. The Ravenclaw raised one hand in farewell and watched him fly away.

He wheeled to the forest, the abode of centaurs and acromantulas and unicorns and all sorts of creatures, dark and light and neutral.

His thoughts tumbled, tripping over each other, congesting his befuddled mind. Only a few facts penetrated his fog of misery. Mark was a Horcrux. Mark was cursed. He and his brother were the only reason their parents' killer was alive.

At least Mark didn't have the memories. He wouldn't have been able to handle them; Harry had had trouble handling them at first. He still did, if a particularly unpleasant recollection snuck up on him.

Why hadn't the Sorting Hat told him? The stupid headpiece had to have known that Mark, too, had a gift that was a curse; that Mark, too, had unwelcome company in his own skull; that Mark, too, was irrevocably tied to the man who had killed his parents, the monster who had wanted to kill two innocent babies….

He had to find a cure, but what could he do? There was nothing, nothing! The only way to destroy a Horcrux without harming its host was for the vessel's maker to feel regret, genuine regret, for what he had done. Voldemort wouldn't feel regret if his miserable half-life depended on it.

Harry shrieked in impotent rage. His raven's caw tore through the forest air. It was not the call of a scavenger, a searcher after corpses; it was the cry of a predator rendered helpless by its prey.

It was not right, it was foul, it was wrong on the deepest level possible- what had they done to deserve this? What had his brother done?

He screamed again, louder this time, and pumped his wings, harder, harder, ascending above the shadowed forest, into the sky.

He flew for a long, long time, driving himself to exhaustion, burying his misery and helplessness and rage under a veil of bone-deep weariness.

When he came to himself again, the sky had faded to orange and pink and purple. Sunset painted the west, and the first stars flickered weakly on the eastern horizon.

And he was lost.

The Animagus had been so focused on escaping his treacherous emotions that he hadn't paid attention to his location. Now he found himself in the depths of the forest, far from human habitation, a stranger in a strange land.

The bird perched on a branch. His wings ached with unaccustomed exertion. His arms would be sore tomorrow, possibly for the next week.

Harry shifted back to human form. The ache eased somewhat, though he still rubbed his shoulders to force the pain away. He panted, chest heaving, sweat beading on his forehead. It traced his lightning-shaped scar, falling between his eyes, stinging them like the tears he had shed.

He sat there for a time, watching as the sun faded further, as pink and orange darkened to purple and indigo. Then, with a heavy sigh, he reached into his robes and withdrew a green serpent ring.

"Hope," he hissed, reflecting bitterly on how ironic, how untrue, the activation word was.

The Chamber of Secrets was pitch-black and silent as a tomb. He removed his wand, whispered the incantation, and light flared at its tip. Then he realized that it wasn't his wand he'd used, but Voldemort's.

Harry smiled darkly; Voldemort's wand and his wand were brothers. Yet Mark's wand was not. What did that mean? Was it simply because Harry had acquired his wand first, or was it because he was so much more like the monster: ambitious and powerful and cynical? They shared so much, he and the Dark Lord….

"But this," the Lightning Speaker whispered, withdrawing his own wand, "is mine alone." And its light was bright, brilliant, like everlasting lightning in the dim Chamber.

He touched the Portkey once more and smiled.

He faced the south, sun burning above him, crossroads at his feet. The land was bleak and barren, a desert of shifting sands and sweltering stone. Lizards and snakes basked around him, soaking up the heat. Somewhere nearby, a lion growled.

A great wind picked up, swirling the sand into fantastic patterns. He thought he saw shapes in the whirling sand- a hand, a horned man, an intricate twisted braid. The shapes brought him joy.

But no shape brought him as much joy as the source of the stormy wind. It was a raven, tall as a house, black feathers blazing with purple and blue and green. Its eyes shone like lightning, and it flapped its powerful wings again and again, forcing the dust of the desert to flee.

Then there was a scream that was somehow many cries woven together. He turned again- and trembled.

The phoenix was large as a castle, a behemoth of bloody red. Its crest was like a tree, its wings wide as a bridge. It flapped those wings, trying to force the sand back into place… yet despite its size, its power, its rival held his own.

The red bird's cruel eyes smiled. Kill the first to break the Stormson's wings, it said in a multi-tongued voice. I know who the first is.

You know not, the raven laughed. You know nothing, foul ancient spider. Air may be first, but it is not First. He is safe, beyond your reach.

The phoenix opened its knife-sharp beak. Yet without the air to breathe, without the wind to whisper in your ear, you cannot hope to defeat me. The beak opened wider, and wider, and wider. It sucked in a deep breath, deep as the sea, and sucked up the sky.

The watcher choked. Earth and fire and even water remained, but the air was gone. Without it, they would die.

Blaise jerked awake, gasping and panting. The room seemed cold after the fiery desert, cold and damp.

He understood a lot of what the dream was about- some of the symbols were fairly obvious- but the devil was in the details. Why had the birds spent so much time blathering on about air and firsts? What, if anything, had he really seen in the shifting sands?

And what in the name of Merlin had the phoenix done to the atmosphere? The air had been gone. Above them, the sky had opened to the utter blackness of space.

"I hate prophetic dreams," he muttered. "Give me a nice piece of the past any day."

He considered waking Harry up but decided against it. His roommate had been exhausted when he went to bed earlier that night, worn out in mind and body. Besides, Hermione had requested a meeting in the Chamber the next day. He could tell everyone then.

The Slytherin tried to return to sleep, but it was futile. He tossed and turned, images swimming behind his closed eyelids: the desert, the phoenix and raven, the pictures in the sand…. He gave up around three a.m. and Portkeyed to the Chamber, where he spent the next several hours combing the prophecies for any reference to a First or to air.

There were quite a few, it turned out. Three verses seemed to refer to Daphne's weather witch abilities, calling her the "commander of the waters of the skies." Several others referenced storms, which seemed to be a metaphor for tumultuous change in the Wizarding world.

The other verses were more cryptic. Wind beneath the owl's wings/ Flows through the tree of death/ Kindles flame, wakes water, comforts earth/ Supports the stormy clouds. It could just be another reference to Harry, but Blaise doubted it.

Skies above him, earth below him/ Flame and water, his right hand and his left.

Why in the name of Merlin were these prophecies so confusing? Did ancient Seers deliberately put their predictions into the most obnoxiously cryptic language possible? And Ravenclaw's Book of Hope and Despair, where these oracles had come from, was the worst of the lot.

One prophecy seemed to be all about the First, who or whatever that was. First to go, first to come/ First to love the silver dome/ First to change, first to choose/ One of the only ones to lose. Saysa's notes indicated she thought this stanza was about Harry, the first among the five companions, but Blaise didn't think so. The raven in his dream had referred to this First as something completely separate from himself.

The First is the beginning/ Of the end of shadows/ Of ancient curses lifted/ Of allies brought to heel. Ravenclaw again. This one also seemed to be about Harry, but Blaise couldn't fight the feeling that it wasn't.

"Stupid prophecies," the Slytherin growled, slamming shut Gryffindor's Book of Battles.

"What were you looking for?"

Blaise started; he hadn't heard Hermione arrive. The Ravenclaw graced him with a tiny smile. "Perhaps I can help find it."

"I had a prophetic dream last night," Blaise sighed.

Her face lit up with interest. "Did it have anything to do with retrieving the Chalice?"

"Nope. It was more of a nightmare, actually."

Hermione shuddered. Prophetic dreams were good. Prophetic nightmares were not.

"A warning," he continued.

Hermione grimaced. "That's awful," she sympathized, "especially now. We don't need any more bad news."

His heart sank. "What do you mean, 'any more bad news'?"

"That's why I called the meeting," she replied quietly. "I just wish we could have contacted Saysa. She should know this, too."

Blaise muttered the first half of a curse word before changing it to something less offensive at the last second. Hermione loathed profanity. She frowned at him, not certain if she should pursue that line of conversation, when Daphne appeared. The weather witch tucked her snowflake pendant into her robes, took one look at their faces, and observed, "This meeting will be filled with bad news, won't it."

"Yes."

"Yup."

She closed her ice-blue eyes and sighed heavily. "I shouldn't be surprised."

Neville and Harry popped in almost at the same moment. Fortunately, none of the Portkeys transported to the exact same space- too much risk of collision- so they were safe.

Harry looked awful. It wasn't anything physical- no dark bags under his eyes, no unnatural paleness or wounds- it was his aura, his attitude. Gloom shrouded him like a cloak. Evidently, he knew what the meeting- or at least Hermione's portion of it- was about.

With a sinking feeling in his gut, Blaise realized why the meeting had been called.

"I looked at Mark two days ago," Hermione whispered. "With the serpent sight, that is. He's… he's a Horcrux." The girl looked ready to burst into tears.

Blaise looked toward Harry. His friend's shoulders were stiff, uncompromising. His face was blank, but he kept his eyes averted, pointed toward the ground, hiding the emotion behind them.

"And," Hermione continued, blinking back tears, "I think that Dumbledore knows about Mark's… condition… but not about Harry's, and that's why he told everyone that Mark is the Boy-Who-Lived. He doesn't know any different."

Harry looked up. That, apparently, had been news to him as well.

"But why didn't the Sorting Hat say anything?" asked Neville. His round face had turned white. "It's been in his head, too. Why didn't it say anything?"

Hermione flung up her hands. "I don't know. All I know is that his scar is cursed, too, so we have even more motivation to find a way to destroy these things!" Her voice had risen by the end of the rant, filling the Chamber with echoes.

"If there is a way," muttered Harry.

"There is." Surprisingly, this came from Neville. His face had regained its color and hardened, making him older than his twelve years. "I don't know what it is or how to find it, but there is a way to destroy the Horcruxes without killing you and Mark. We just have to find it."

Poor Harry. Poor, poor Harry.

Anyone have guesses about the dream? It will be the subject of much discussion next chapter, so go back and reread it. Also, if you haven't read Behind and Between, go do that. It's part of this series too, though not an official book, and it has some pretty essential information.

Just a reminder- vote for Neville's Animagus form on my profile.

-Antares