Black Luminary

by YakAge

The war against the Dark Lord was the last straw. The oppressed, fed up with oligarchy, corruption, and injustice, sharpened their knives, rallying behind those who promised change. They won. Today, Magical Britain is a changed country – for the better. Hail and praise to our saviours! Finally, all is well. But listen! Can't you hear the grindstone turning still ...?

64. ML: Synthesis I

Synthesis I

---

'And that's Harper!' yelled Lee Jordan over the roaring crowd. 'The wimp all the blokes were secretly jealous of last year. Seriously – who would've thought those cold-blooded hotties from Slytherin could be so –'

'Jordan!' shouted McGonagall angrily. 'The match!'

'Right you are, Professor. And Harper's lost possession in the meanwhile, but I'm sure some of those knockouts will be happy to comfort him over it.'

'JORDAN!'

'It's Smith in possession now. Smith to Cadwallader. Oh – nice swerve! Back to Smith. Smith aims. Smith feints … and –'

There was a loud groan from three-quarters of the stadium, and Daphne fancied she heard a faint crack as Urquhart smashed with full force into Smith's back.

'FOUL!' roared Jordan as Madam Hooch zoomed towards Slytherin's captain, blowing her whistle with righteous fury. Meanwhile, Cadwallader – who'd had the presence of mind to dive the moment he saw the two players collide – was trying to get the wailing Smith safely to the ground, carrying him with one outstretched arm.

'I don't get why they make such a big deal out of it,' said Amy, slurping her pumpkin juice. 'I mean, Urquhart will do the exact same thing every time he gets the chance to. I would.'

Hermione, sitting by Daphne's left side, was about to speak up before she reconsidered. She glanced at her silver-green scarf and banner with a troubled expression.

'He'll be fine,' said Daphne soothingly, patting the Muggle-born's leg. 'Pomfrey's always there whenever we play.'

'He's faking it anyway,' said Amy.

'Excuse me?' Hermione blurted out, pointing at the crying and flailing figure of Zacharias Smith. 'He is not faking it!'

'Has the poor little Hufflepuff got an ouchy?' simpered Amy in a sickeningly sweet voice.

'Stop it,' said Harry, his suave way of speaking barely carrying over the noise. 'That voice.'

'Why?'

'It reminds me of your mother.'

Amy made a face. 'Urgh! All right.'

'Hey, look!' shouted Leo, pointing at a blur of green. 'Draco's taking a dive!'

Jordan appeared to have caught on, too. 'And while the rest of Hufflepuff's team worries whether their Chaser will ever be able to walk again or not, Slytherin's Seeker's off to a mad rush. Has that foul, lowly snake seen something? Diggory, I know you're worried, but get your broom moving already!'

'Isn't he supposed to be impartial?' asked Harry mildly.

'He doesn't like physical plays very much,' explained Leo. 'Somehow thinks they're cheating.'

'Well, they are cheating,' observed Harry.

'I mean, yeah, sure. But since the rules of Quidditch account for that, they're still part of the game, aren't they? They're certainly part of the rules.'

'You mean the part that expressly prohibits them?'

'Yes,' admitted Leo with a sly grin. 'That part precisely.'

Harry considered that. 'Fair enough.'

'AND DIGGORY'S FINALLY IN THE AIR, BUT THE SLIMY SNAKE'S GOT A MASSIVE HEADSTART,' shouted Jordan. 'AND THAT'S THE WHISTLE FOR THE FREE SHOT BUT – HONESTLY – WHO EVEN CARES AT THIS POINT?!'

'I certainly don't,' said Harry dryly.

'Shush!' hissed Daphne, her eyes glued to the race between the Seekers. She was prepared to die instead of ever admitting it, but the bleached ponce really did fly well.

'AND DIGGORY'S CATCHING UP, BUT THE GAP IS HUGE! MALFOY'S TAKING A SWIPE – COME ON, MISS! MISS! MISS!'

A wave of heartfelt groans resounded from across the majority of the stadium, but Daphne didn't care as she jumped up with most of the Slytherins, cheering loudly.

'And Malfoy catches the Snitch,' droned Jordan, his enthusiasm draining like Butterbeer in a punctured barrel. 'Final score: 130 – 210. Slytherin wins … I guess.'

Daphne was still cheering madly, jumping up and down and hugging Hermione and Harry both in a rush of exhilaration. 'We won! We did it! We actually won!'

'I know,' said Harry, one eyebrow raised, amused by her outburst. 'I was sitting right here, remember?'

Daphne laughed and – drunken from euphoria – pulled at her grumpy heart-throb's tie for a quick smack on the lips to shut him up. She had intended to go for a small bite of the cold hors d'œuvre only, but she lingered to savour every detail of all the different intermediate courses, seconds and minutes blurring into one vague moment of unbelieving amazement and blissful ignorance of her surroundings. Whenever she reached out to touch and feel his skin under hers, she feared that this must be too good to be true, that this elation, this exaltation she felt at doing what she had confessed to only during the loneliest of nights must somehow be fugacious in nature after all. Her heart, surely, would not stand these rampant, booming beats of ecstasy.

Someone pointedly cleared their throat next to them, ripping Daphne from her appetent revelry.

'What?!' demanded Daphne when she reluctantly re-emerged.

Leo and Hermione were awkwardly shuffling their feet behind Tracey, while her best friend gave Daphne a very pointed look. 'Let's go congratulate Draco. You two can continue your private celebration later!'

'Do we have to offer our congratulations?' asked Harry. 'Can't we just run back and pretend we didn't watch him win?'

'That's mean!' protested Hermione.

Amy sniggered gleefully. 'I'm all for it!'

Daphne, fighting her own grin, shoved Harry in the direction of the Quidditch pitch. 'Come on! I know you don't really mean that.'

They made their way through the crowd, following in Amy's wake. Despite the tumult, it wasn't as bad as one might have imagined; Amy had a way of making people get out of the way – fast.

'Would you … would you sign this, Draco?' asked a breathless Slytherin second-year.

'Sure.' Malfoy was about to scribble his name on the offered piece of paper, but then he faltered. 'Wait – isn't that one of Harry's photos?!'

Even through the forest of people, Daphne saw the girl blush a bit. 'You're his friend, aren't you?'

'I'm not signing that!' declared Malfoy categorically. 'Ever!'

'Hey. HEY, DRACO!' yelled Tracey, waving wildly to make herself visible with all the other people towering over her. 'Good job!'

'Nice catch!' said Leo honestly.

'I'm glad Slytherin won,' said Daphne, torn between gratitude and enmity.

'Wow – even Harry's here,' said Malfoy with a huge smile. 'Feels like the Minister's come to watch my match. It's an honour, sir!'

Harry merely smirked. 'Good one, Draco.'

'Thanks!'

'Party in the common room?' suggested Amy. 'I've got a stash of booze.'

'Nice!' cheered Tracey. 'What are we waiting for?!'

'Not again,' moaned Harry.

Maybe Daphne was just inferring from Harry's story, but it looked like the Muggle-born had gone a tad pale.

Amy, meanwhile, looked at Harry as if he were sick. 'Why not? It's weekend, gramps!'

'Didn't you want to take the Apparition test tomorrow, Tracey?' said Harry, who – Daphne suspected – probably wanted to avert another drunken disaster with Tracey first and foremost.

'Oh … right. But we can at least get Hermione drunk, can't we?'

'Excuse me?' spluttered Hermione when everyone turned to look at her. 'I want to take that test as well!'

'You're going to ace it anyway!'

'Who cares about tests?!' exclaimed Malfoy jubilantly. 'Twenty years from now, you're not gonna remember sitting in your room studying! But you just might remember the best party of your life! Or even better – you might not!'

'That doesn't make any sense,' muttered Leo half-heartedly without putting up a real fight.

In the end, they did have a party in the common room, though the prefects – for once – did their duty and spirited away Amy's supply of Blishen's Firewhisky – to enjoy it themselves at some later point in time, as they suspected.

Leo had already excused himself, and Amy was off Merlin-knew-where, leaving Hermione, Tracey, Harry, and Daphne to occupy the seating arrangement near the corner of the room. Two dozen empty bottles of Butterbeer were neatly lined up on the table between their seats. Malfoy was still with the rest of the team, basking in the shared glory of their first win in two years.

'And Dad got me an apron for Yule,' griped Tracey. 'An apron!'

Daphne laughed, images of Tracey's many burned, smoking and occasionally blazing attempts at cooking springing to her mind. 'That's hilarious!'

Tracey raised a cynical eyebrow, but that just made her look cuter. 'Stop it!'

'Maybe he meant it as a compliment?' suggested Hermione.

'You wouldn't think so if you'd ever tasted Tracey's cooking,' said Daphne, dodging her best friend's casually thrown crown cap.

'No, I'm serious!' insisted Hermione. 'You told us that you've been doing a lot of chores recently, right?'

'Right. And?' asked Tracey hesitantly.

'Maybe your dad wanted to, you know, gently encourage you?'

Tracey furrowed her brow, staring into the depths of her bottle of Butterbeer.

'I have to admit, your dad is that kind of nice,' said Daphne. 'I think it'd be perfectly in character for him to pretend to enjoy your charcoal cuisine.'

'Yeah,' admitted Tracey slowly. 'Yeah – he might. Maybe I shouldn't have shouted at him so much after all.' She downed what looked like half the bottle. 'Great. Now I'm starting to feel bad about it.'

'Thanks for the book, by the way, Harry,' said Hermione. 'That treatise about historical cross contact between Muggle and magical societies is fascinating!'

Harry nodded. 'Don't mention it.'

'Wait – Hermione got Yule presents from you?' asked Daphne.

'Well, I bought the book some time ago and thought it would be a waste not to give it away, and Tracey's present –'

'Let me get this straight: Tracey got a present, too?! You never mentioned that,' said Daphne, turning towards Tracey.

'Well … it was just some stuff. An obligatory present. Nothing grand,' said Tracey lamely.

'You didn't like it?' asked Harry.

'What? No, I … it was okay.'

'How come I didn't get anything?' demanded Daphne, rounding on Harry again. 'Seems like everyone got a present – except me!'

Harry scratched his cheek, looking away. 'Well, to be honest, I did get you something. But it was more of a … light-hearted present, and somehow it never felt quite right to hand it over with one thing and another.'

'What is it?' asked Daphne eagerly. In her personal opinion, there was no bad time for presents.

'Erm … robes.'

'Robes?' persevered Daphne. It was a bit strange that Harry acted bashful about something as ordinary as robes.

'Yes … robes. White robes.' He gave an adorably awkward cough. 'You know. They look a bit like linen.'

'Oh?' Daphne crawled on all fours closer to Harry. 'Any particular ideas how I should wear them?' she purred.

'We do not need to hear that!' said Hermione loudly. 'Next topic!'

Daphne pretended to pout at Hermione's vehement protest, sitting down like a well-behaved witch again. 'Fine.' Only then did she notice Amy approaching through the common room. 'Oh, hey! Where have you been?!'

Amy grinned mischievously, holding up several long, round objects wrapped in brown paper.

'You didn't –' began Daphne.

'Oh, but I did,' said Amy, tossing her the first bottle.

'Where did you get them?!' asked Tracey, impressed.

'Well, Rosier has some pretty serious spells on her door but –'

'This is probably where you should stop talking, Amy,' advised Harry politely.

'Fine!' From the inside of her robes, she produced a black velvet roll of what was undoubtedly a set of –

'Lock picks?!' hissed Hermione, her eyes darting nervously about the room. 'She's going to kill us!'

'Nah, it'll be fine,' said Amy dismissively. 'I wouldn't even have needed any of these. Honestly, a hairpin would do for any of those locks.'

'Harry?' said Hermione. 'You're likely the most sensible person she'd listen to. Say something sensible. Right now!'

Harry nodded. Daphne, recognising the twinkle in his eyes, had to suppress a grin.

'Well, I'd obviously advise against breaking into the Head Girl's private room. Especially this Head Girl's room.'

'Thank you,' said Hermione, gratified.

'Then again,' he continued, 'she really should have remembered to block the keyhole with some kind of spell.'

'Spoken like a true Slytherin!' said Amy approvingly.

'I don't believe this,' whispered Hermione. 'She is going to go spare. She is going to go completely Filch on us!'

'Even if she does,' said Amy, tearing the wrapping paper off her booty, 'everything's better when you're drunk. Especially a telling-off!'

'Come on, even you can't mean that, Amy,' said Tracey, laughing.

'But I do!'

'What about our tests?' demanded Hermione. 'Exams!'

'No nerves, more confidence, less stress. Perfect strategy!'

'Job interview?' Daphne threw in to play along.

'Fewer inhibitions, fluent speech, approachable winner attitude!'

'I think you should get into marketing, Amy,' said Harry. 'Anyway, I think I'll pass. I still need to write those letters.'

'Oh, you mean for the fairy-tale monstrosity and his canine sidekick?' said Amy.

'I'm telling you – marketing,' said Harry with a chuckle. 'You can be curiously articulate whenever you choose to be.'

'Harry,' said Amadina with the strained patience of someone explaining the elementary, 'I know I don't compare to Daphne, but I'm a girl. Since I will probably end up marrying some stupid wanker my family's picked for me, the least he can do to keep me from kicking his arse all over the place is to give me all of his money!'

'I think you'll have your future husband trained and on leash within the first two months,' said Daphne with a knowing smile.

'For sure!' Tracey chipped in. 'He might even shake paw! Though I'd appreciate it if you could get him out of the habit of sniffing strangers by the time I come around for my first official visit. Hey, there's that shop for leather goods in Knockturn Alley, have you been there? They sell some wild stuff! Whips, collars, stays, and all other sorts of fun –' Tracey faltered, turning towards the frantically coughing Hermione. 'Something the matter?'

Hermione really was innocent, thought Daphne, watching the Muggle-born hastily wipe her mouth. 'Er … no. No! No.'

Daphne barely noticed Harry's sleeve crease, but he had to have cast some spell as writing utensils and a few sheets of parchment came zooming into the common room. The ink pot and quill landed neatly at his side while the parchment – amazingly – folded itself with the utmost precision, piling onto a neat stack at his feet.

'You, Harry, are an incorrigible show-off,' said Tracey seriously.

'Excuse me?'

Hermione nodded. 'I think it actually makes it worse that he doesn't even seem to be aware.'

'Totally!' agreed Tracey.

Harry just shrugged as one sheet of parchment neatly floated towards him, remaining airborne at just the right height for him to write on.

'Er, won't it rip?' asked Daphne sceptically.

Harry grinned, picked up one empty bottle of Butterbeer, and made of show of putting it right on the floating sheet of parchment. The parchment didn't so much as quiver – hanging in the open air, held by whatever obscure charm Harry had cast.

'Neat,' said Daphne under her breath.

'Hey, Harry, I've been thinking,' called Amy from her seat opposite them.

'Hmm? What is it?'

'You're still much too civil to gutter trash like Lupin. Let me write that letter! It's just the date for a meeting, and he's bound to come anyway, isn't he? No matter how rude the invitation.'

'I suppose. Fine. I want to meet him in the Shrieking Shack six weeks from now. That's the Hogsmeade weekend after this one.' One sheet of parchment neatly floated towards Amy. 'Have fun!'

Amy's grin wouldn't have been out of place for a moustache-twirling movie villain. 'Perfect! Hey, Tracey, help me out here!'

Daphne was satisfied watching Harry write his letter to Uncle Sirius, resting her chin on his shoulder. The other girls were all huddled around his letter to Lupin, suggesting increasingly ridiculous ways to further 'improve' it. It looked kind of fun, especially when Tracey started drawing rather cute drawings of a mangy old ankle-biter all over the letter, but Daphne was content sitting right next to Harry. She even loved his handwriting. It made her smile, watching him scribble his almost indecipherable script. He was so often at or near the top of everything that he had any interest in, but despite his studious nature, his writing was as jagged and uneven as ever.

'Sirius,

I know you wrote in your last letter that you're still avoiding major settlements in Britain for fear of Aurors, but something very important came up that I can't postpone any longer. We need to talk. It's been months since your breakout, and we still haven't even seen one another! Are you safe? Healthy? What about a wand? Do you think we could meet up? Can we at least talk about it? I've got money, you know? You have your pride, I'm aware, but don't you think you've slunk in the shadows long enough now? Please write back soon!

H'

'He hasn't got any money?' asked Daphne absent-mindedly.

'He does have access to a stipend set up for him by another disinherited uncle of his, but he might very well be too cautious to get in contact with the goblins.' Harry sighed, rubbing his eyes. 'He might not know, Daphne.'

'Know what?'

'That I'm a Black. Remember? He was imprisoned before I was officially adopted by Grandfather. But I … don't want to inundate him with these things. You know he didn't get on well with the family.'

'So you're lying to him?'

'No! But … I think I'd better take it one step at a time. I've seen people come out of Azkaban, Daphne. They're in poor shape. Sirius' letters were reassuring, but he might still be an emotional wreck for all I know. I have to take it slow. Besides, I would have had some money even as a Potter, so it's all plausible either way.'

'Do you think he'll take it well? You being adopted by the family that cast him out?' asked Daphne softly, studying his ruminative expression.

'We'll see.' Harry kept silent for a while, lost in thought until Amy's gloating cackle caught his attention. 'Well?' he asked in their general direction. 'How are things on your end, ladies?'

'I think it's coming along nicely,' said Tracey, watching their letter with the look of a deadly serious cultural critic. 'But I feel like it lacks a bit of expression. A certain absence of … depth.'

Daphne reached over the table. 'Let's see!'

It was a letter – insofar as a toddler's attempt at abstract art might compare to a naturalistic painting or Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel ceiling. It did at least comply with the rudimentary requirements of a letter; it had a recipient, a message, and a medium. But that was about as complimentary as you could get. It was so laughably childish and nonsensical that Daphne had a hard time deciding whether to cringe or laugh.

'To Remus, the bestest boy there ever was

Pound Street 69

Woofstock, Toronto

Dear Sir or Madame,

Time is moony: As a distinguished person of breeding and ruffinement such as yourself will surely be aware, the country is cur-rently pawsitively going to the dogs. Coincidence? We, at the very leashed, think not. It's the dogmatism that's tearing our country apawt! Curs prowling the moonlit alleys, hounding honest and upstanding, com-pet-itive citizens who work their tails off in an effurt to lead a decent life!

Do you want to feel like the underdog whenever you slink out at night for a quick bite to eat?

It's getting out of hound! These mongrels are barking mad and must be chased down and brought to heel! This reign of terrier must end!

Some of you might say, "Well, it mutt be worse." but that's utter bull, and you know it! That kind of apologetic nonsense makes us sic!

We are appawled. These good-fur-nothing ruffians revelling in their subwoofers, going about their pug life – they must be dealt with – harshly. Once and fur all!

How'll you contribute? How'll you fight this indognity?

Whether you, dear Sir or Madam, are a lone wolf or a pack leader, no contribution will be forgotten, no donation – no matter how ratty – be sniffed at.

Stop fleaing from your responsibility to this great country – start showing teeth! You aren't more bark than bite, are you? Join us! Together, we will finally get the upper hound.

Petriotic greetings,

– the society of affurmative actions for concerned members of the publick

P.S.: 12 o'clock, six weeks from now, Saturday, Shrieking Shack. He says that's the only chance you're going to get.'

The rest of the page was crowded with innumerable drawings of dogs, dog biscuits, bones, kennels, moons, collars, and every other imaginable reference Tracey and Amy had been able to come up with. When Daphne finished reading, she exchanged a puzzled glance with Harry.

'And?' asked Tracey. 'What do you think? Needs more puns? More doodles?'

'The P.S. isn't bad,' suggested Daphne delicately.

'I wrote that,' said Hermione proudly.

'But isn't the first 98% kind of unnecessary?' asked Daphne. 'And what's a subwoofer?'

Next to Daphne, Harry was mouthing a few of the girls' more feeble puns. 'Ruffinement,' he read, grimacing. 'That's horrible!'

Tracey looked playfully hurt. 'Hey! A lot of work went into that.'

'Insulting that cretin is the entire point!' insisted Amy. 'I actually think it turned out a bit too bizarre. We kind of got lost looking for puns.'

'Ruffinement,' repeated Hermione with a silly giggle. 'It's adorable.'

'Tracey,' said Harry with a sigh, 'stop talking Hermione into drinking already.'

'What?! I didn't! I mean – why?!'

'Yeah, why?!' Amy joined in, giving Tracey a conspiratorial shove. 'Why in such a Black mood, Harry?! Bad hair-ry day?'

Daphne groaned, but the other girls – it would seem – were in that kind of mood again. 'Yeah,' her best friend said. 'It's entirely possible she'll drink us under the table, right? Truth is Lestranger than fiction, Harry!'

Harry stared for a full three seconds at Tracey and Amy, not moving a single muscle. Then, he turned towards Hermione. 'Would you please be so kind as to pass me the bottle of Firewhisky?'

'… and then I just gritted my teeth, held on for dear life, and – wham! – I had it.' Malfoy finished the noticeably beefed up recounting of his catch about two and a half bottles later. 'Damn – I wish I had a picture of Diggory's stupid mug to hang above my bed!'

The common room was decidedly emptier by now. Only close friends of the team and a few desperate hangers-on remained – not to mention the mess of bottles, pilfered food from the kitchen, and one or two trashed pieces of furniture. Daphne and the rest, with the addition of Malfoy, were still holding out though. Tracey had been struggling to shrug off her sleepiness for the better part of the last hour while Hermione was currently nigh hyperactive, laughing at perfectly ordinary things, pointing wildly at a bottle or chair with incomprehensible bouts of giggling.

'That's a bit … fabulous, Draco. Don't you think?' said Harry. 'I mean, to each his own – I guess. Best of luck, you two.'

Daphne smirked. 'I think you and Diggory would make for a cute couple, Malfoy.'

Hermione laughed shrilly, glancing at Draco with a slightly lop-sided look. 'Draco's not gay. He isn't, is he?' Her laughter slowly died away. 'You're not gay, Draco. Right? Right?!'

'NO! You're all gay! And drunk! You didn't even have the courtesy to wait for me to get started.'

'I'm awake!' shouted Tracey suddenly, almost jumping from her seat. 'I didn' miss it! Wait – did I miss it? Wha' happened?!'

Amy silently passed the bottle to Harry, who took a swig, handing it to Daphne in turn. But she'd learned how to play this game by now. No wonder Harry never got 'drunk'. She took another seemingly huge gulp whilst privately restraining herself. Another trick was to hand it over quickly after being very prominently seen drinking from it. Sometimes, she'd noticed, people just took a swig for no better reason than to have something to do. Amy did that all the time.

'Nothin',' declared Amy, making a dramatic sweeping gesture. 'Granger 'n Harry made out for a bit, but other than that …'

'Yeah, right. You gotta try harder than that,' mumbled Tracey, leaning back and closing her eyes again. 'But wake me if they do …'

'Harry didn't make out with –' began Hermione before comprehension dawned. 'Wait – I didn't … Did I? Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean anything by it!' she spluttered, bowing, to Daphne's amusement, to Harry and her both.

'Stop that, Hermione! Nothing happened,' said Harry. 'Amy's just horsing around again.'

'Your humour's always been almost as horrible as Harry's,' commented Draco, who obviously felt a lot safer and braver with the target of his taunt being about one bottle of Firewhisky behind current events.

'What was that?' mumbled Amy. 'Ah, whatever.' She forcefully kicked her shoes off in Draco's direction, who managed to avoid them by a hair's breadth.

'What the –! What was that for?!'

'Dunno. Kind of felt like it. Strange. Déjà vu, anyone?'

Harry, next to Daphne, put his hand over his face. 'Put your shoes back on, Amy! There's shards of glass everywhere.'

'Exactly!' yelled Amy. 'Yeah, it went pretty much like that. How did you know?!'

'Lucky guess?' responded Harry dryly.

'Hey, Harry,' called a nasal, sleazy voice that made Daphne's hairs stand on end. 'Where have you been all my week?'

'In class?' replied Harry reluctantly. 'Well, every once in a while.'

Parkinson gave a high, affected laugh. 'I saw your picture in the magazine. I thought it was … mmh … delicious.'

'Thanks?' replied Harry gruffly, nudging Daphne with his shoe.

'I could give you some of mine – you know, to get even. You just have to ask,' continued Parkinson.

Daphne idly wondered how desperate and slutty the other girl could possibly get. When Harry nudged her once more, she hissed, 'What?!'

Harry shot her a brief glance, widening his eyes and urgently mouthing something that looked suspiciously like 'help'. It was kind of amusing to watch his strained expression of polite indifference and Malfoy's grumpy jealousy, but Parkinson had been getting on her nerves; the woman just didn't know when to give up. And all the while, the Firewhisky burned in her stomach with impatience and lust, urging her to do something drastic to keep that bitch at bay.

Wordlessly, Daphne rose, ignoring Parkinson's and Draco's look as she took two steps to her left, lowering herself to straddle Harry, one hand running over his chest, the other cupping his face as she bent forward to launch a furiously immodest French kiss. After a few seconds of making out, she opened her eyes just long enough to smirk triumphantly at Parkinson. But in the end, nuisances as inconsequential as her upstart roommate ceased to matter, and Daphne simply let loose, desperately drawing even nearer, tuning out the sound of irate stomping and Amy's softly muttered, 'You know, I can't help but feel like I've seen something like this, too …'

'Okay, okay, you two can stop now,' called Malfoy from somewhere far off as Harry's hand wandered over Daphne's skirt. 'Oy!'

'What's the harm?' muttered another far-off voice. 'That's kinda hot …'

Harry pushed his forehead against hers, breaking their runaway kiss. 'Don't you think that's enough of a show already?' he murmured, his voice smoky and thick.

'Why?' breathed Daphne, feeling disappointed to have been interrupted so prematurely, but Harry raised an eyebrow in the direction of his torso, which Daphne had managed to undress almost by accident. With a frisky grin, she shifted her weight. 'Am I really the only one who got a bit overexcited?' she whispered.

'Stop that!'

Daphne's smile widened, and she leaned in for an encore. Eventually, Malfoy's far-off protests were ruining the mood though, and she teasingly twisted herself around in Harry's lap before she leant back, one hand slung around his shoulder. 'Sorry,' she addressed their gawping audience. 'Where were we again?'

Ultimately, only Harry and Daphne held out. Malfoy, in a misguided attempt to catch up to their level, got woefully drunk and was currently snoring on the floor in front of the glimmering embers like the slobbering Maltese that he was. Hermione had supported Tracey up the stairs and off to bed a few minutes earlier, despite the latter's feeble, unintelligible protests, and Amy had vanished roughly an hour ago.

Daphne was resting her head on Harry's lap, torn between the urge to relax as he gently ran his hand over her arm and fear of falling asleep as soon as she did so.

'Come on,' mumbled Harry. 'You don't have to fight it so badly.'

'I'm not fighting anything!'

'I can see your eyes drooping.'

'They're not!'

He chuckled, gently flicking her nose. 'Come on.'

'I don't feel like moving …'

She felt him dig one hand under her back while his second hand moved around the bend in her knees. 'What are you– eep!' Daphne clutched his shirt to steady herself as Harry stood up, scooping her up like a bride.

He grinned down at her. 'See? No need to move.'

Nestling up against him, she breathed deeply, revelling in the glory of each heartbeat.

As he carried her up the stairs to the girls' dormitories, she turned to gaze up at him. He was stronger than he looked, she mused, as he shot some strange charm at the railing to allow his passing; despite his lean build, he didn't look exerted at all. In fact, he looked strangely at ease. Suspiciously so, one might say.

'Hey, you didn't cast a silent Feather-light Charm on me, did you?!' she asked, scandalised.

'Only a little bit.'

'Well, I'm so sorry!' she snapped, looking away. 'Bet you wouldn't have had this problem carrying any of the other girls!'

A hand ran along her chin, gently turning her head. She was floating, she realised with a jolt, seeing as she was still perfectly in Harry's arms despite him relinquishing his hold.

'Don't say something stupid like that, Daphne.'

'Well? Why not?! Since I'm obviously too heavy!'

'You aren't. Have a bit more confidence. Back at the ball, you know, even with everyone being taken aback by Hermione, I never could tear myself away from how gorgeous you looked.'

'You're just saying that now …'

'No, I'm really not. I thought you were ravishing.' He stroked her cheek. 'And still think so.'

To her delight, it was Harry who led into the kiss, and all the worries fell off her like tears down a jagged ravine.

'Should I worry about how casually you break into our dormitory?' she whispered as he laid her down on her bed. All the other drapes were drawn. 'Or should I be excited at the possibilities?'

He chuckled, sitting down as she slipped out of her shoes, but – to her disappointment – he didn't look like he was about to remove his own.

'Did you really buy me white linen robes?' she asked as she tossed away her skirt and flit underneath the blanket.

'I did,' he said, looking only slightly sheepish this time around. 'Well, they're made to look a bit like linen, but they're actually satin.'

'So not as scratchy on bare skin?' she teased with a playful smile.

Harry's ears coloured a bit as he flicked his wand. 'They shouldn't be.' Daphne's shoes snapped together, vanishing underneath her bed, and her skirt made a curious little roll in the air before it was magically ironed and made to hang over the drapes of her bed.

'Sleep now, Daphne,' he mumbled, his hands running along an errant strand of her hair.

'I could get used to going to sleep like this,' she mumbled, drawing the blanket close and sinking into her second favourite pillow, her other hand catching his.

He gave her hand a squeeze before he, once more, ran his hand so gently over her hair as if it were a treasure of gilded streaks. 'I'm not sure if this is good for my sanity …'

'Harry …?'

'Hmm?'

'I … I –'

He caressed her cheek, closing in to gift her one more kiss before he stood up. 'It's late, Daphne. We can talk another time. I'm not going anywhere.'

Memory Lane

Harry closed the door of the girls' dormitory, walked down the stairs, and cancelled his Freezing Charm on the railing before he got in trouble with any of the female prefects. During winter, the air was always cool at Hogwarts, but down in the dungeons, the chill was like thaw water dropping down your spine. And while that was undoubtedly a major inconvenience, the feeling of being quenched was exactly what Harry was looking for right then.

With an idle swish of his wand, he summoned a heavy cloak from his own wardrobe, threw it hastily over his shirt, and stalked out of the common room. It was just late enough that prefects and teachers wouldn't bother patrolling the corridors anymore while not being so early that you ran the danger of crossing some unhealthily overenthusiastic early risers.

Usually.

'What are you doing?' called a voice from down a corridor to his left.

It was the Head Girl, her prominent ponytail fluttering behind her as she strode in his direction.

Harry, his wand lowered, stood still. 'Going out.'

'It's still curfew!'

Harry shrugged. 'I'm aware.'

She boldly walked up to him, never breaking eye contact. 'Twenty points from Slytherin!'

Like had happened so often these past couple weeks, his conversation with Arcturus came back to his mind. Who else knows?! Harry stared back as she determinedly closed the distance. He idly wondered if Hogwarts had ever had a more menacing Head Girl than her, but he stood his ground, feeling as calm and collected as ice.

'Get back into the common room, Harry.'

'No.'

Her eyes narrowed a bit, but she didn't slow down even when she was almost within touching distance. But then, she simply walked past him.

'If you get caught, I'll double whatever detention you're going to get.'

'All right.'

'And if one of your little friends ever breaks into my room again,' she said without slowing down as she turned around the corner, 'I'm going to tear you a new one.'

Harry didn't reply. He slipped past the portraits and suits of armour, one shadow among the many, his footsteps and clothes muffled by a set of Silencing Charms. The faint indirect light of the widespread torches was more than enough for him. He took a slightly more complicated route than necessary to avoid the Great Hall, which – going by the noise – was currently hosting a bored Peeves. It was easy from there. Once, he hid in a small alcove when Poppy walked by, muttering under her breath, but the glow of her wand had given him ample time to melt with the shadows. The first floor was entirely deserted, but Harry had no plans to linger. The landing of the second corridor was equally forlorn, but Harry – unperturbed – turned left. He finally came to a stop in front of a door that very much looked like any other. No light shone from the small gap between the wood and stone floor.

Harry raised his hand and knocked: once, twice – short pause – and once more.

Immediately, the door was flung open. It was as dark as a pit of tar within the Defence teacher's office. Aenor, wrapped in an unassuming brown travelling cloak, looked him over.

'Are you sure about this?' she asked.

'Yes,' Harry replied.

'Good. Keep your wits about you, your mouth firmly shut, and follow me. We'll talk once we're outside.'

Without another word, they hurried down the way whence Harry had come. Unluckily and by some freak outlier of chance, the swinging staircase connected to a door that promptly swung open. Diggory stared incredulously at them both, his badge shining feebly in the gloam as if to remind everyone of his position and the authority it was supposed to entail.

Emphatically, Harry tugged at Aenor's cloak until she lowered her wand.

'No,' he hissed, feeling that Diggory really had no business looking naively surprised as if he was solving some trivial mystery, given that he'd just been spared magical lobotomy.

'What are you doing, Professor?! Did you just catch Black on patrol?'

'Harry, there are records,' said Aenor nonchalantly, glaring at the prefect as if he were a bug that had disturbed her Sunday picnic on the lawn. 'This'll get out!'

Her eyes flickered to the brink beyond the staircase as it began to move again. Harry followed her gaze. It was a long way down.

'No!' Harry declared with urgency.

'What – no?!' asked Diggory.

'Accidents happen all the time,' suggested Aenor.

'What are you both on about, Professor?' interjected Diggory, a hint of anger and frustration now definitely lacing his voice.

'I said no!'

'Memory Charms can be broken, Harry. This is an unnecessary risk!'

'So are corpses at Hogwarts!'

'Memory Charm? Corpses?' Diggory drew his wand. 'What's going on h –'

He didn't get to point his wand before Harry's and Aenor's spells slammed into him. He collapsed silently.

'Just … modify his memory, Aenor.'

She closed her eyes, sighing. 'Fine.' A barely perceptible flick of her wand later, and it was all done. It hadn't taken her a second, making Harry wonder why she had been so insistent. Aenor was so extreme in everything she did. Slowly, Diggory scrambled to his feet, his gaze glassy and unfocused. Without another word, he shuffled off, never looking back.

'You're a bad influence on me, Harry. I never would've taken that risk.'

Harry watched the Hufflepuff go. 'That's supposed to be my line.'

They continued their breakout in silence. Only when they'd passed the massive front door of Hogwarts Castle did Harry raise his voice again. 'Why would you even do that?'

'Do what?'

'Propose killing someone like that. That's something only a sociopath would consider.'

And my aunt, Harry thought with a pang of shock.

Aenor glanced at him. 'Well, well. Aren't we bold tonight?'

'Which part? The asking if you're a sociopath or the breaking into Azkaban bit?'

Her mouth twitched as she hastened her stride. 'No humour more befitting a Black than gallows humour, I suppose.'

'You know who that was, don't you?' persisted Harry.

'Of course, I do. In case you haven't noticed, I'm something of a teacher here. Cedric Diggory – Hufflepuff Quidditch Captain, competitive, diligent, fairly smart, popular.' She gave a supremely uncaring shrug. 'What about him?'

Harry pondered how to approach what he considered the fairly obvious elephant in the room. 'Doesn't it … bother you? To kill people?'

She didn't look at him, her gaze focused on the dark horizon. 'I suppose it's not pleasant. It's not like I go out for a Sunday stroll and off the first bugger I encounter to bathe in his entrails. But – at times – you've got to do what you've got to do.'

'Isn't it … unwise to up the ante?'

'Not really.'

Harry frowned. 'I think you lost me there.'

'People like Diggory – most people really – don't have the means to get back at me. Why should I worry about them? Their stories, their ambitions, their desires, their morals, their lives – they're all inconsequential to me. As inconsequential as an ant on my pavement. Sometimes I might go out of my way not to crush it beneath my soles; at other times, I just don't have the time to spare them the thought.'

'But there are such people,' insisted Harry. 'People of consequence. What about Dumbledore? This is his school!'

She groaned, throwing an angry glare back at the castle behind them. 'Don't mention his name to me right now. Did you know that crafty old codger is blackmailing me?'

'He is?'

'Yes!' After a moment, she added, 'He was really insistent about finding out what I've been up to. And Snape … that slimy piece of phlegm is getting on my nerves.'

'Well, where have you been?' asked Harry, lunging at the opportunity.

'Abroad, looking for answers. And luckily,' she said with yet another sidelong glance and the barest hint of a smile, 'I found some. Anyway, how the devil did Dumbledore know where I was?!'

'He's Dumbledore,' Harry pointed out patiently. 'Grandfather detests the man, loathes him – really. But even he's willing to acknowledge him.'

'I suppose … Hey, come to think of it, you should be able to tell where the ward lines end, right?'

Harry scowled. 'Yes?' he volunteered reluctantly, but there was little sense in pretending otherwise at this point. In any case, it wasn't difficult to see Hogwarts' blazing wards; the difficult bit – for Harry at least – was to unsee them. They tended to give Harry a headache. 'A few dozen yards behind Hagrid's hut.'

She condescendingly patted his head. It really irked Harry that she was still a touch taller than him. 'I can already see that's going to be useful. Good job!'

'By the way,' said Harry, 'just so we're clear; I don't want to go into Azkaban wands ablaze.'

'What?!' she came to a stop, looking at him with a pout of mock disappointment. 'Whyever not?! And here I was, practising my mad cackle all week long!'

'Firstly, because I don't stand a chance against a mob of Aurors?' grumbled Harry. 'Secondly, because I want our little irruption to remain secret. And thirdly … because I don't want you to kill anyone whenever it's convenient.'

She shrugged. 'I suspected you might say something like that. Don't worry, I've got it all figured out.'

'You're actually going to do as I want?'

'Of course! This is one of your demands for the oath, so we'll be doing this according to your preferences.' She took a few last steps before slowing down, looking at Harry, who nodded back. They had passed the wards. Most of them.

'In any case,' she continued, 'I'm not averse to admitting that I'm far from perfect. I'm no Merlin reborn and – loathe as I am to admit it – someone like Dumbledore could wipe the floor with me blindfolded. This apprenticeship, it's not for your benefit alone. You realise that, don't you? I'm doing things my way because it's always worked out for me. But I'm not arrogant enough to pretend that I couldn't learn a thing or two from someone else.

'I'm not unlike you, Harry. I've always done things alone.' She turned to look back at the castle, and Harry followed suit. Tonight, the moon was casting long and mournful shadows from the ancient walls. 'There were people who professed to care about me, who styled themselves friends, lovers but – in the end and for some reason or another – I always left them behind. I don't see anything wrong with that; bonds mean weakness. But my grandfather used to say that strength is merely weakness perceived from another perspective … and I defer to his wisdom.'

The indignity burned in Harry's stomach as he remembered Arcturus, Daphne, and everyone else constantly reminding him not to attempt everything by himself. And yet, despite Daphne's unwavering, unquestioning loyalty, here he was – without her. Again.

'It's not the same,' he said strongly and louder than necessary. 'I don't want to risk my friends. That's not the same as not trusting them.'

'But you risk me? I'm hurt, Harry!'

Harry rolled his eyes. 'I'm more worried for the Azkaban guards than you. In any case, we are still doing this with the two of us, aren't we? Stop pretending like you're on your own.'

She blinked, looking surprised. Then, with a brief smile, she ruffled his hair. 'I suppose you're right. First things first – drink this.'

Harry inspected the offered elixir wearily. 'What's that?'

'A complicated little brew I paid an arm and a leg for. For all intents and purposes, you'll magically age a few months for a few hours. And since your Ministry's incapable of detecting this brew –'

'And has thus likely declared it forbidden,' Harry cut in with a grin as he drank the tasteless elixir.

Aenor grinned playfully. 'Quite. Anyway, it makes you invisible to the Trace. Come – take my hand.'

'Er, aren't there Anti-Apparition wards surrounding Azkaban?'

'Yes, but – in contrast to Hogwarts – they aren't maintained by a prodigious and notoriously ingenious master of obscure spellwork with almost disturbing amounts of power. Those old, Ministry-serviced wards around Azkaban might be good enough to pound the animals that wither away in there, but they're nothing to someone with a wand, a bit of talent, and enough determination to push her way through by force.'

'Sounds … uncomfortable.'

'It might get a teeny bit rough. Don't worry, I've done it before. Ready?'

Harry didn't get to answer her question. With the next beat of his heart, he felt Aenor's magic twist them both away.

Memory Lane

Harry's knees slammed against jagged, hard stone, and he barely managed to bring out his elbows so his face wouldn't be next in line to meet the rocky ridge. The world spun, and it kept on and on …

'A bit rough?' he spat, fighting for breath. Wheezing, he closed his eyes and bit his tongue. Even now, dark spots were flashing in his vision. 'A bit rough?!' The air was salty and cold, but he couldn't remember ever tasting anything so sweet. The Apparition had taken a long time, longer than anything Harry had ever endured before. For a few dreadful seconds, he had feared he would asphyxiate in traverse.

Next to him, he heard the rustling of clothes. 'They added new wards and extended the range of the old Apparition Wards. Better ones, too. I barely punched through.' After a moment, she took his arm and dragged him to his feet. 'Behold, Harry – Azkaban Island.'

Harry, casting a silent Healing Charm on his knees before flicking his wand once more to burn his blood on the ground, hesitantly looked up.

Azkaban was … dreadful beyond words.

A forest of twisted, winding turrets, like the heads of a dozen rabid hydras, rose from the foetid tar pitch at their base like parasitic tumours from a cadaver. The withered walls of the bodeful fortress were as darkly unsettling as their distorted shape, unfathomably black with a hint of a greenish, sickly, and somehow otherworldly sheen. Some of the distorted, bone-like towers wound through one another in a maddening display of insanity. The entire complex was gigantic, overwhelmingly, common sense defyingly huge; Hogwarts might fit into the structure a dozen times over, yet there was not a single window to be seen. And at the periphery, an endless sea of spires, spikes and bladed fences – a material echo of the deathly promise this accursed place augured.

But the worst, worse than the disturbing physical impossibility, worse than the feeling of revulsion and wrongness, worse even than the screams, were the eerily silent spectres looming like a swarm of frozen crows above the wind-tousled keep. If the air in the Slytherin common room had been cold, here – like the architecture – it defied reality, freezing Harry's lungs like the nameless void beyond the veil.

Horror clung to this place so thickly that Harry felt like he could almost touch it. It made his skin crawl.

He shivered, drawing his cloak tighter. 'I need to have a shower.'

'Yes, it's quite something, isn't it?' muttered Aenor almost admiringly. 'Ekizdris must have been exquisitely insane. Even without the Ministry, it's one of the few places on Earth to naturally attract Dementors. I'm itching to find out what secrets this place holds but … alas … it's inevitable that one turns just as unhinged as this place's creator should one stay for an extended lapse of time.'

'So … what now?' asked Harry. 'I assume we didn't come here to revel at the scenery?'

'Very astute, Harry. Do you see the drawbridge? That's where security's camped up. They've got some protection from this place's cursed aura, but I imagine it's not too friendly a resting spot all the same. We can easily get by with minimal fuss. They rely on their wards and the presence of their Dementors to detect intruders.'

'That's where I come in, I assume?'

'Precisely. You will point out the remaining ward lines, and I'll deal with them so we can slip in unnoticed.'

'But they're all over the place. Dozens. Hundreds! In fact, we've already crossed a handful.'

She shook her head. 'We only need to deal with those added by the Ministry. I dare say it's not in our best interest to mess with whatever Ekizdris set up here.'

'What if a prisoner spots us strolling through the place?'

'We should probably avoid that.' She flicked her wand, covering both of their faces with dark leather hoods that vaguely resembled British DMLE uniforms.

'And the Dementors? We might as well shoot sparks into the air if we're forced to conjure a Patronus. And there are hundreds of Dementors. Thousands maybe!'

'Yes.' She faltered, patting her cloak. 'This is where it gets a tad unpleasant again.' She produced two crystal phials, holding one out for Harry to take. 'Normally, we wouldn't be able to get any closer without arousing their appetite but with this –'

'What is it this time?' asked Harry, eyeing the bubbling, rusty slime within with apprehension. Little puffs of smoke rose from the sulphuric bubbles, and they looked remarkably like skulls. Potions had never been Harry's forte, but he could tell at a glance that this was not something you ordered in the apothecary. At least not any apothecary he cared to frequent.

'Diluted Essence of Nightmare,' said Aenor bluntly.

'You've got to be kidding me!'

'It's the only way! We'll be fine as long as we're careful; Occlumency will diminish the effect.' She hesitated for a second. 'Somewhat.'

'Somewhat?!'

'It's the best deal we're going to get!'

'There's just one problem,' said Harry. 'I can't See anything if I clamp down on Occlumency with all my might.'

Aenor snapped her head around, her eyes widening. 'Oh.' A few moments passed by with Harry staring at the phial in his hand and Aenor staring at him in turn. The song of the wind and tortured alike wailed over the hellscape, a symphony of terror and pain.

'Maybe we should head back,' said Aenor finally. 'We don't need to do this tonight. I'm not willing to risk meddling with your Occlumency, especially under these circumstances.'

'Do you have some other idea how to get past the Dementors unnoticed?'

'… No. Any conventional type of concealment is ineffective. But they don't care much for nightmares or horrors. Not as tasty, I dare say.'

'I see,' murmured Harry grimly, staring at the phial.

'Harry,' said Aenor patiently, but there was a hint of alarm lacing her voice. 'Even diluted, that little potion is no tonic for your health. It's a class B non-tradable dark object, and it is – for all intents and purposes – a poison. I don't need a gibbering loony as an apprentice. Or a corpse!'

'How long will it take you to short-circuit the wards?'

'Individually? But a moment, only –'

Harry uncorked the phial, chugged the whole thing, and threw the crystal over his shoulder. 'Then let's get this over with.'

Memory Lane

Aenor watched with barely concealed panic as Harry downed the entire contents of the potion, aware of the stinging pain in her arm, of the promise she'd made searing her flesh.

'FUCK!' she screamed, shaking his shoulder. 'You're not supposed to stop using Occlumency! Spit it out! SPIT IT ALL OUT RIGHT NOW!'

His shoulders didn't feel like they had any bones left in them. 'Did you just curse?' he asked teasingly even as he sagged in her grasp. 'How unbecoming of a lady.'

Aenor drew her wand. She was just about to point it at his stomach when she became aware of a sting near her collarbone. Harry's dark wand was pointed at her, searing her cloak. 'No,' he croaked.

'Harry, don't make me hurt you!'

'I don't think you will,' he mumbled, swaying.

For a second or two, Aenor hesitated. Then, she snorted, swatting Harry's wand away with an idle slap of her hand. It fell to the ground with a sad little click of wood on rock. 'Don't you dare act tough and threaten me when you're barely holding it together!' she hissed irately.

Harry had the gall to throw another waxy, sweaty smirk her way. 'I wonder what your fan club would say if they saw you throwing a hissy fit like now. Things not going the aloof pure-blood princess' way?'

She stared at him, eyes wide. Then, she picked up his wand, thrusting it at the boy so hard that he took two stumbling steps back. 'You'll rue those words, Harry, I vow it!'

Time was wasting. No matter how far Harry had come, she estimated he wouldn't be able to endure the potion for more than twenty minutes with minimal levels of Occlumency before slipping away, and maybe another fifty afterwards with his full concentration – in case they didn't suffer another 'incident' with Harry's gift, which – at this point – was her biggest concern.

She uncorked her own bottle and drank the disgusting swill, vanishing her own phial and Harry's shards with a whip of her wand. Wiping her mouth, she frowned, brutally banishing the white noise, the smell of fresh snow, the dark, untouchable chuckle from her mind. She had about half a minute for each ward. When she had drawn up the plan, she'd estimated to have a least five times as much.

'Well,' she muttered, dragging Harry along and biting down her fury, 'let's get it over with.'

The first few wards didn't prove problematic or a challenge; Aenor had barely even taken note of the age-old Ministry wards when she'd wreaked havoc on Azkaban a few months back. They'd been pathetic, fully confirming her views on the state of magical education, kindling her hope that they might be able to finish before it all turned pear-shaped after all.

With a derisive scowl, she flicked her wand on the feeble Detection Ward to fry it up like the last few.

'Weird,' muttered Harry, swaying next to her while staring through unfocused eyes.

'What?'

'Nine other partially overlapping wards interconnecting with this one. They look new, strong.'

Aenor froze, ceasing all action. 'What do they look like?'

'Royal blue with a hint of mint,' he mumbled authoritatively. Considering his findings with an air of calm rumination, he added, 'They smell like the sound of pines dancing in their dreams.'

'Right,' said Aenor slowly.

She sighed. It was a good thing, of course, that Harry was – for the most part – still keeping it together, but at the same time, his feverish descriptions were practically incomprehensible. 'Liken them to something you've seen before,' she commanded. They had had some limited success with that at least.

He squatted down, the vague smile vanishing as he shook violently, closing his eyes, flinching from whatever visions he had received. Thick beads of sweat were running down his temple, making Aenor shoot him a wary glance whilst being careful to avoid his eyes. He was suffering worse than he let on. 'They taste like …' He paused, prodding the air above the ground. 'Like planets.'

'Planets,' repeated Aenor, deadpan.

'Yes … planets,' mumbled Harry, losing balance and falling clumsily on his behind. 'Or a galaxy. Same difference.'

'Planets … planets,' mumbled Aenor. Just where had they seen planets in combination with magic? She had little patience for Astronomy, and as far as she could recall, they had never really discussed the movement of the stars either. Maybe not the actual, literal planets, then?

So young, the voice in her mind chuckled smugly. So naïve. So … ignorant.

A jolt ran through her spine, an impulse stronger than the nightmarish potion's effect. 'Harry, you don't mean the room in the Department of Mysteries, do you?'

Harry had collapsed into a lop-sided sitting position, shaking his head as he rocked backwards and forwards. 'It burns … brightly …'

'Harry?' She knelt down, putting one hand under his chin and forcing him gently to look at the wards. 'Harry, focus!'

He only stared blankly. 'Light … radiance … dark … gravity.'

Aenor cursed, jumping to her feet again.

With mounting apprehension, she stared at the wards she couldn't even see. Oh, she could feel them, sense the presence of magic in the air, but without Harry's help – no matter how inane his ramblings – most of her time would have been spent trying to pinpoint the defensive magic.

Nine wards. Nine planets – if you counted Pluto. Or maybe it was eight planets and the sun? She really should have kept up with British Astronomy.

For a second, a landscape covered by snow supplanted her vision, and in the wake of eternity's passing, she felt the snow piling up higher and higher, burying the frozen, barren soil, the grave, and all the memories of –

Aenor shuddered. 'Harry. Harry! Which one is the sun?!' But the boy only groaned, crouching in a ball.

'I promise,' he whispered. 'I promise.'

'Harry!'

'I promise, Regulus …' he croaked, his voice breaking. For a second, Aenor faltered, taken aback by the self-loathing that pervaded his words.

She clenched her fist before she slapped him across the face. 'The sun, Harry!' she yelled. 'Which one!' She was running out of time. 'The sun! Which one is it?!'

'I'm sorry,' he whimpered. 'I'm so sorry, Daphne. I'm sorry. Please … I'll do it, Regulus.'

Her left arm gave a painful throb as she felt her fingers going numb. 'Which one is it, Harry?! Regulus needs to know!' she shouted, shaking him violently.

She didn't know who Regulus was supposed to be, but his name roused something within Harry's tortured mind, as a trembling finger was pointed twenty feet ahead and a few paces to the left – well within the protected area of the other wards.

The sun – the centre. She couldn't detect any sign of magic from where Harry had pointed, but she nevertheless carefully aimed her wand.

This had better work …

Her Withering Curse cut through the air, promising sizzling death as it slammed into the rocky ground. The bedrock cracked, creaked, groaned as the decay spread outwards and downwards. And then – the sound of glass breaking. She waved her wand and – to her incredulous disbelief – most of the magic, not just the wards, began to fade even as she reached out with what pitiful senses were at her disposal.

'The ward anchor,' she muttered, exhaling softly.

Her apprentice-to-be, however, had gone silent, had even ceased his rocking and pleading. Summoning a Patronus was tantamount to announcing their intrusion. Having him swallow the antidote would mean giving up. She hadn't lied to Harry about paying an arm and a leg. In fact, she'd meant it quite literally. It just hadn't been her limbs. She couldn't help herself, trusting strangers was foolish! Any reboot of this endeavour would naturally have to begin with her looking for another competent back alley Potioneer, and she was slowly running out of those. Apparently, people were starting to get cautious.

'Harry, Occlumency!' Aenor continued to shake his shoulders. 'We're more or less clear. Occlumency! Regulus wants you to focus on Occlumency!'

It didn't work. He was slipping, losing to his nightmares, going paler by the second.

Clenching her teeth, she tried to ignore the desolate tundra, the wasteland of ice that swam before her inner eyes. Failurefailurefailurefailurefailurefailurefailurefailurefailurefailurefailurefailurefailurefail...

She shook herself. Whatever she was dealing with, Harry had to have it a hundred times worse by now. She couldn't conceive why Harry seemed to be giving in voluntarily to his nightmares, but at this rate, the potion would end him. She needed to do something. Anything!

Aenor crouched down, wrapped one arm around Harry's neck, lifted his head to make those dazed, unfocused eyes look at her, cut down the unexpected and cumbersome feeling of guilt, and pointed her wand.

Legilimens!

Memory Lane

There was no resistance. The foolish boy, in an effort to be helpful, had obviously relaxed his mind as much as possible. The stony ground and the swarm of Dementors on the horizon vanished within a second as matter, mass, and time lost all meaning.

Instead of holding Harry's seemingly boneless body, Aenor found herself standing in what appeared to be a welcome hall of a grand – if surprisingly cosy – home. The front door behind her was open, but beyond the threshold, there was nothing, only nebulous clouds of distant memories. Likewise, the stairs and the portraits lining the wall ended in a solid wall of black that indicated the boundaries of the recollection she'd apparently entered.

Her eyes were drawn to the pools of blood on the carpet and the trail that made her immediately think of something heavy being dragged.

Even though she would have to grudgingly admit that her own worst nightmares did, in fact, not concern the past, it came as no surprise that this wasn't the case for Harry. Still, it was a discouraging thought that what Harry feared the most was something he would never shake off.

Aenor realised that she had no wand on her, something that hadn't been the case since she was four or five. Then again, dreams and minds were curious things, metaphoric and inscrutable; she wasn't sure what might happen if she decided to blast apart Harry's trauma. She severely doubted the result would be desirable.

Making up her mind, she followed the trail of blood, something that didn't prove particularly challenging; copious amounts of gore had defiled not only the pristine carpet but the walls, too – even the ceiling. The hall resembled a slaughterhouse more than anything. In the corner of the stairs, she spotted what looked suspiciously like a dismembered hand.

The tracks ended at a door with a tacky little Griffin holding a sign in its talons: cloakroom. Aenor opened the door.

'Open his eyes! Make him see!' cried a voice with utter glee. 'Make him look!' called the voice of manic sadism that Aenor loathed the moment she heard it. 'Even this lavatory is so wretchedly cheerful and bright,' the voice continued. 'It makes me sick. Sanctimonious Samaritans! Prude philistines, the lot of them! This place stinks of hypocrisy! But don't worry, little Harry. We'll improve it. It'll all be better, you'll see.'

Harry – a boy who couldn't possibly be older than two – was surrounded by a flock of hooded, veiled figures that remained unclear and unfocused, shrouded by the permanent haze of dread and terror the poor brat must have felt. On the other side of the immaculate, classic white restroom hung two figures from the wall, stakes driven through their hands and ankles, subjected to unspeakable torment as gravity tore at their wounds. The resemblance left no room for speculation – Harry's parents.

Aenor walked right through the circle of jeering, leering onlookers, right towards the panic-stricken, hyperventilating boy.

The female figure at the far end raised a ceremonial knife with a distinct recurve. 'His eyes open, Antonin? Good! Good. Come, Harry; let's see how muddy your dear mother's blood really is! As they say – blood will out!'

What a sick bitch! Aenor walked through another discarnate assailant, stepped in front of the madly shaking boy – and smacked him one.

The powerful green eyes shook, turned to her, uncomprehending. All movement froze, the bathroom lost colour, the screaming and jeering stopped in an instant. Finally, with the spark of recognition, the room collapsed like a house of cards.

Memory Lane

Harry came to with someone shaking him incessantly. Why did his head hurt so badly? Forcing himself to open his eyes, the first thing he saw was the nightmarish vista of Azkaban.

Oh … right.

'How are you feeling?' asked Aenor somewhere above him.

'I'm fine,' he mumbled. 'Just a bit of a headache …'

'Headache?' Aenor took a step back. She was still holding her wand, he noticed, and – curiously – she seemed to be avoiding his gaze.

'Just a headache,' he mumbled, picking himself up from the ground. 'Sorry about … you know.'

'How's your Occlumency? Any trouble concentrating?'

'I said I'm fine!' Harry bit his tongue, taking a few calming breaths, trying to shut out the derisive screams of sadistic joy and his guilty longing to succumb to the temptation of diving into the memory again. 'Mostly fine,' he added, a touch more composed. 'The potion isn't … helping.'

Aenor relaxed a bit, though she was still refusing to catch his eye. 'I know.' After a short pause, she asked, 'Who's Regulus?'

Harry rolled his eyes. He wasn't that out of it. 'Who's your grandfather?'

For the first time in a while, her signature smirk resurfaced. 'Touché. Come on, let's get this over with – if you still feel like going through with this, that is.'

Harry nodded, gripping his wand.

'Well, I'm glad my future apprentice isn't some wussy-boy at least.'

Harry was about to roll his eyes again, but then another vision of the defiled bathroom flashed before his eyes. He flinched. 'Let's just get it over with,' he said, aware how hoarse his voice sounded.

Aenor didn't comment.

Walking into what might have been the greatest congregation of Dementors anywhere in a state of mild insanity, Harry soon decided, was probably the most foolish thing he'd ever done. Progress was slow, even now that they'd made it through the wards; the area was huge and Harry was still rather shaky on his feet. The nagging, simmering visions of his nightmares didn't help, but – at least – he was able to mostly concentrate on the here and now for the moment.

After what felt like an endless trudge through the swamp of his past, they finally arrived at the drawbridge.

'Seven on duty, fourteen in a separate resting area,' whispered Aenor next to him.

'And how are we going to get there unnoticed?! The bridge is the only way inside!'

'We should probably refrain from doing any more magic than necessary. How good are you with heights?'

'Okay, I guess?'

She pointed her wand at their feet. 'Let's find out then.'

Five minutes later, Harry – hanging from the underside of the drawbridge with his feet sticking to the wood – considered taking back his earlier optimism. The jagged ravine spanning underneath their heads was an extremely unwelcome sight.

'Better out than in, I suppose,' whispered Aenor cheerfully. If she looked inconvenienced at all by dangling headfirst from the underside of the drawbridge, it was only because her hair kept blowing into her eyes.

Harry stared after the contents of his stomach as they zoomed out of sight underneath him. 'Not helping,' he mumbled. It wouldn't have been so bad if he couldn't feel the pull of gravity, if he could just pretend to walk on the upper side of the bridge. But every fibre of his body kept telling him that he should – by all rights – be falling instead of walking.

'Come,' said Aenor not unkindly as she took his hand. 'It's not far now.'

'How come you're totally fine with this?!' he griped, reluctantly closing his eyes and allowing himself to be dragged onwards.

'Oh, I've done this dozens of times back at school,' she said chattily.

'I don't think I would've liked your school much.'

She sniggered. 'It wasn't bad, really. And it's not what you think; it was just the most convenient way to bunk off.'

'Attending class seems better than this …'

'The school has its good sides. Anyway, it can't be that bad if you've still got enough energy to give me some lip. How about this? If you make it across without fetching up again, I'll take you there. Oh, but if you befoul my clothes, there'll be an accident with your OWL papers. Just so we're clear.'

'Why would I want to go to a place where you have to endure this?!'

'As I said, it's got its good sides. The library is ancient, mostly unsupervised, and – best of all – completely uncensored. You'd love it!'

Three minutes later, Harry collapsed into a boneless pile of relief on the other side of the chasm.

'Well,' said Aenor brightly, her voice still lowered, 'next time I'll know how to motivate you. You okay?'

'Fine.' Harry coughed. His vision was swimming in and out of focus, flickering as if unable to settle on one reality. 'Why's it smell of smoke?'

'It doesn't,' replied Aenor, her grin freezing, staring at his ear. 'Harry, your Occlumency –'

'It's fine! Just … another memory,' he shot back, trying to shut out Daphne's screams of rage and grief as they twisted away from the scene of Regulus' death. 'Just another nightmare.'

He stood up, looking at the black stone that rose endlessly from the salty, barren ground, piercing through the rank, viridescent fog that stung in his eyes.

'This was such a bad idea,' he mumbled.

'It was your bad idea,' Aenor pointed out.

'I'm aware.' He stared at the tremendous cleft in the fortress that led further into the structure. 'Is that the entrance?'

'It is.'

'It looks like a breach in the fortification.'

'It is a breach in the fortification. Ekizdris, apparently, wasn't fond of visitors – or doors for that matter.'

'What did he do in there anyway? It must have taken years to build this – even with magic and minions aplenty.'

'Decades,' said Aenor, nodding. 'No one knows, really. Maybe we'll find out?'

Harry gave that some thought. 'I'm not sure I've got the stomach for that tonight,' he said cautiously. 'So, are we just going to stroll in there? Just like that?'

'Yes, we are. The wizards stationed here don't wander inside unless it's absolutely necessary.'

'I wonder why,' said Harry, eyeing the decorative arches that resembled giant-sized blades drilling into the ceiling. 'Any idea where Pettigrew is?'

'Most of the fortress is abandoned,' said Aenor, readying her wand. 'Prisoners are holed up not far from here. We might have to look around for a bit. Better stick close though. Just in case.'

Harry stumbled after Aenor, who apparently knew where she was going. If the outside of the prison had been a bodeful warning for one's sanity, the inside was an abomination of pure madness; the air was thick with the sickly sweet stench of death, coiling around Harry's guts like a constricting knot of affliction with every breath he took. As spacious as the fortress had appeared, as alarmingly narrow its corridors now turned out to be, often forcing them to walk in a single line with Harry toddling behind, making sure not to touch the poisoned, sully stone that thirsted for what feeble light the scattered torches struggled to produce.

Most of the cells, barely more than cavities in the walls, were empty. But even what few prisoners remained spared them no attention. Most were indistinguishable from the dead, motionless and silent – until they would suddenly screech until their vocal cords snapped. A few sat hunched in the grisly corners of their cells, shaking or rocking or cackling insanely.

Death, Harry thought, was kinder than this.

Harry followed Aenor as she took another turn to the right. He was having difficulties recalling how many junctions there had been, let alone remembering which directions they'd taken. Just as they passed another screamer, Aenor suddenly held out her hand, stopping Harry in his tracks.

'What?' he hissed.

Wordlessly, she pointed towards the torches further down the corridor. For a second, Harry failed to understand what he was supposed to be seeing, but then he noticed; one by one, the torches dimmed, the ones at the far back were spluttering, flickering, waning as if some invisible draught was blowing their way.

'Unfortunate,' muttered Aenor dryly as she dragged him into a small nook someone had chiselled into the stone. 'Stand as close to the wall as possible, don't speak, try to hold your breath, and whatever happens, don't touch them under any circumstances!'

'I thought this wretched potion was supposed to keep them away!'

'I said no such thing! I said it helps not attracting them; that's not the same.'

Harry was feeling it now, the unnatural creeping chill that seeped into his bones like airborne poison. They were close.

'Bloody hell!' Harry gripped his wand, the dull static in his mind growing in volume. 'Shit!'

'Cursing, Harry?' whispered Aenor with a smirk. 'How unbecoming of a spoiled little princeling.'

Harry pressed himself against the wall, scowling.

As the freezing cold engulfed him like an icy mantle of hoar, they appeared, condensing from the darkness like dew from mist – two hovering, dark shades of despair and misery.

'Are we expecting visitors, James?'

'Not right now,' thought Harry desperately, struggling to keep his calm. 'Not this time!'

As the two Dementors approached, he tried to keep his mind blank, tried to tune out the nightmarish visions of horror that seeped into his sight. Each rattling breath those monsters drew drained his resolve, his strength, his grip on reality. He was getting a headache again, feeling queasy and – strangely – famished.

Hoping for dear life Aenor's potion would shroud them from their sight, Harry watched with a sinking feeling of dread as both of their hoods turned simultaneously in their direction. Harry gulped, eyes wide.

For a second, the mindless monsters faltered, hovering in mid-air.

And then – miraculously – they retreated, black tatters billowing behind them until they blended with the darkness of the corridor once again. Only seconds later, the torches regained what spark of life they'd lost, and their feeble crepuscule was as welcoming as the dawn of day.

'Curious,' mumbled Aenor, lowering her wand. 'Have you ever seen Dementors act like that?'

Harry was strangely reminded of Peeves' apologetic stammering. He rubbed his temple in a way he hoped would alleviate the pain. This place was really getting to him. What were Poltergeists and Dementors supposed to have in common?!

'No,' he said aloud. 'But I'm hardly an expert; after all, I'm not some nutter who's got a pack locked up in his attic.'

'True,' conceded Aenor playfully. 'Your family likes to tinker with Lethifolds instead. Anyway, those weren't mine. They were –'

'Your grandfather's?'

She didn't respond. 'Come on, there'll be time for pesky questions later. We've got your inconveniently incarcerated criminal to attend to.'

Harry's headache was getting worse with each step he took. Strangely, the sinking feeling, the random flashes of his nightmares were getting rare now. Maybe the potion was losing its effect already?

Rubbing his temple again, he followed in Aenor's wake.

'What's he look like again?' asked Aenor after a while. Her complexion had always been light, to begin with, but now she looked distinctly pale. It was kind of surreal that this place even got to someone like Aenor.

'Mousy brown hair with a bald patch, big eyes, round face, hairy and thick arms. Looks like a cross between a second-rate broom salesman in Knockturn Alley and a drunken ape.'

'Like that one?' Aenor pointed at a shivering form huddling in one corner of a filthy cell.

The person was reed-thin, almost entirely bald, and whimpered hearing the sound of their voices. The arms, though, were still thick and strong, and patches of the grubby beard reminded Harry of Pettigrew's original hair.

'It seems Azkaban hasn't improved him much,' said Aenor conversationally. 'I certainly wouldn't buy a broom from a guy like that.'

'No,' agreed Harry. 'Definitely not.' He took note of the shackles around Pettigrew's ankles. A precaution, he mused, against the man's transformational abilities.

Harry flicked his wand, blasting the lock to smithereens, his eyes greedily fixed on the hapless man in the corner. The sound made Pettigrew wince, and he pressed himself further against the wall.

'Well, this is your show now,' said Aenor. 'I've done my part. Be quick about it, won't you?'

Harry nodded, entering the cell. It had to have been occupied before its most recent resident, nothing else could explain the stench that clawed at Harry's headache.

Wand in his right, he stopped one foot in front of the weasel of a man who'd abandoned his birth parents for a mess of pottage. Harry felt no particular attachment to the Potters, but betraying your best friends like that was well worth Azkaban in his opinion – or worse.

'Hello, Peter,' he said softly.

The man flinched and shied away from him. It looked as if he was ready to dig into the stone with his bare hands to flee.

'Peter,' said Harry again. 'Do you know who I am?'

The man scratched at the stone, his eyes blank and frenetic, lost in whatever nightmare this place had locked him in.

Pointing his wand, Harry's magic bound most of the starving inmate's body, freezing his nervous twitching. Harry was feeling increasingly impatient. This felt like it might take longer than he would be able to stomach. He was starved for answers. 'Look at me, Peter. Look at me!'

The man gave a terrible start. 'Harry?' he croaked, staring at the floor.

'That's right. Look at me!'

Reluctantly, the man raised his head. 'Blimey! Gone mad, me. Must've. I reck–'

Their eyes met – unplumbable, luscious green and watery, misty brown.

A skull-shattering sting of pain, the sound of a waterfall rushing, the vision of plunging into some murky well – and then the world shook, dislodged, lunged at Harry.

There was Pettigrew, young, plump, excited, chasing after three taller people, his eyes filled with admiration. There was Pettigrew, watching from behind a statue as a juvenile Sirius Black made a scornful joke about leaving the losers behind, which a devastated Peter obviously took to mean him. There Pettigrew was again, older, more confident, but also less childishly excited and somehow more bitter, drinking with some people wearing green scarves in the Hog's Head, accepting gold for whispered secrets. But there – look! – the remorse, the self-loathing. But then again there, not much after that, Peter hanging out with James Potter, Sirius Black, and Remus Lupin, laughing along with some silly joke, his eyes ruminative, detached.

There he was again, training, trying to get some muscle on his frustratingly plump body, being laughed at by Sirius when he was discovered, staring resentfully at the roaring youth who so effortlessly attracted all the girls' attention.

There, Pettigrew – and here, another one! Thousands of scenes, big fights, idle chatter, his first kiss, his meanest pranks, his most cowardly, spiteful moments, his love for the glamour and wealth he'd been denied his entire childhood.

More, more! There was more, much more. MORE!

There it was, the drunken argument with James Potter in his kitchen, throwing mean, hurtful words, watching with satisfaction as James Potter flinched back from Peter's shedding of his meek boy shell. And here, the stranger in the pub, with almost star-like, mesmerising eyes twinkling from behind his hood like sparkling ice, speaking with some accent Peter couldn't place, offering gold – mountains of gold – for leaving Britain without any questions asked, the honeyed words and his companionable voice eating away at Peter's self-esteem, innocently baring the hateful, festering wounds like a true master.

A revelry, debauchery – binge and booze to forget the pain.

The one time he returned, reluctantly following his guilty conscience like a stray tottering home – only to be confronted with the twinkly-eyed stranger from before, who now didn't seem even remotely companionable, whose presence alone bent perception and space, whose polite words sent shivers down Peter's spine.

The news of James' and Lily's death the very next day, remorse dulled with pain and conserved in alcohol.

And here, reading the Daily Prophet by accident, Remus, Sirius, little Harry! An idle interest, an outwardly exuberant, inwardly dead-feeling Peter following the papers to keep in touch with old times, good old times, simple times, sober times.

More reading: Harry's upbringing, Harry's escape, the attack on the Blacks! Sirius' arrest. Remus' flight.

More alcohol, more sex, more blackouts – less thinking.

The images grew grey, out of focus. They were as fast as before but they somehow increasingly lost their liveliness.

Years of drink, years of waking at some point, of grabbing the bottle from last morning and continuing to burn through his ill-gotten gold with professional ease.

The letter, here, from an old drinking mate. The schadenfreude, the pittance he paid. The disbelief.

The pictures began to flicker before Harry's eyes, speeding up to a blur that left most of its meaning unclear, accelerating with each fraction of a moment, stilling some nameless, abyssal craving.

Another paper. The Azkaban breakout. Remus. Sirius. The research. Truth. Betrayal! Fear. Struggle. Forced sobriety. Worry. Opportunity. Letter. Harry. Ministry–

Harry was spat out, taking two tumbling steps back from the force he had felt subjected to. Looking around with confusion, he recognised the dingy cell and Pettigrew's convulsing form. Aenor, her eyes terribly wide, stood a few paces behind him, her bright wand pointed his way. She immediately averted her gaze when he turned her way.

Feeling disoriented and perplexed, he looked towards Pettigrew instead. He, too, had his bloodshot eyes wide open – so very, painfully wide – his mouth gaping in what looked like a scream frozen in time.

But now he didn't move.

For a few seconds, Harry stared, his thoughts racing along impossible ideas. The scenes were still vivid, still there, even the last ones. He felt like he could reach out and taste them, disassemble them, investigate every nook and cranny for anything important. Despite the passing of these ponderous moments, Pettigrew still failed to move a single muscle, gaping at him with accusingly wide, misty eyes. Harry bent down and placed a finger on his throat. Then, he shifted his touch. And again. And again. Again.

Yet no matter how long he searched, there was no pulse.