There was a knock on the front door. Bothari tensed – it was already growing too dark outside to see who was there, and even if the only people likely to come to visit were Cheiron or some of Snape's wizard friends, he wasn't taking any chances.

'Konstantine?' came Cheiron's voice. 'Could you let me in, please? My hands are rather full.'

Bothari opened the door to admit the centaur, who was carrying a wide, shallow, heavy-looking stone bowl, which he set down on the kitchen table. There were marks around the rim, obviously writing of some sort. They weren't Cyrillic, and didn't look much like Roman script either. The letters were all hard straight edges, sharp corners and crosses without a single curve, which must make them easier to carve into stone. Clearly, this was the Pensieve.

Cheiron didn't often bother with clothes, but now he was wearing a sash slung around his shoulder with pockets in it. He drew out a series of vials from the sash and laid them on the table. 'How are you feeling?' he asked.

'Not bad.' He was tired, but not ready to collapse just yet. 'I've got the General settled down comfortably. He ate his supper, and we talked for a while, until he was ready to sleep.'

'Well done. What did you talk about?'

'About our childhoods, mostly. And – he wanted to know if I could share a room with him. So – I told him about Elena. Elena Visconti.'

'That must have been difficult.'

'Yes. But – he needs to know.'

'This has been quite an emotionally intense day, hasn't it?' said Cheiron. 'Are you sure you're ready to start looking over the memories tonight?'

'I'm ready. What do I do?'

'You pour one of the vials – this is the first one – into the Pensieve, and you'll see what looks like mist swirling around. Then you just need to sit or stand at the table so that you can dip your head into it. At first, it'll feel as if you're flying above the scene the memories show, but as you duck your head further down, you'll be in the scene as if you were there. Of course, the people who were really there won't be able to see you, so it could feel strange, as if you're a ghost.'

The memories pouring out of the vial didn't look quite like ordinary mists. They writhed like snakes. As Bothari dipped his head into them, he could see plants that looked roughly green, like Earth plants, but with more silver and gold in their colouring. Sergyar – that turquoise sky was like nowhere else. He could see more mists as he bowed his head further, not from magical memories, but just because it was a misty early morning in the cloud forest.

It was more like a dream than watching a holovid, more like either than like a hallucination. Holovids just had sound and visuals, but here, he could feel the moist morning chill against his face and hands, and smell the Sergyaran mud and trees – and the distant stench of something burning. For years he'd had to train himself not to remember flashback dreams, to wake up suddenly enough that the dream was broken and spilt before he had time to think about it. Getting used to being allowed to remember again was hard. But this – this was someone else's memory.

Through the mists, he could see two figures, in tan Betan Astronomical Survey fatigues. One-colour uniforms, not camouflage gear – they hadn't come here expecting anyone to attack them. One of the figures was a young man with brown hair who looked somehow familiar from somewhere, the other a woman with copper-red hair. Lady Vorko- no, she hadn't even thought of being Lady Vorkosigan yet, not then. Commander Naismith.

He had thought that seeing through Lady Vorkosigan's memories would mean he was watching through her eyes. So why was he looking at her, as she adjusted the straps of her collecting gear? Unless there was some business with a clone that he hadn't heard about…

Naismith couldn't see him, obviously, as he wasn't really there. Or at least, this him, the older man watching, wasn't really there. His younger self would be – what was he doing, right at that moment? Telling Political Officer Radnov he'd killed Captain Vorkosigan before the man had a chance to turn round, and hoping Radnov wouldn't demand to see the corpse as proof? Shooting that blond officer, Naismith's second-in-command? Torching all the tents, after the surviving Betans had fled? Naismith and her companion were still gazing in wonder, first across at the next range of mountains, and then down at the clouds raining on the plains below. They hadn't yet realised what the smell of smoke meant.

Bothari realised he knew who the other Betan officer was. He had only seen the boy once before when he was in his senses, bravely leaping in front of his captain to shield her from the blast from Bothari's nerve disruptor. When Captain Vorkosigan had brought in the two Betans as prisoners, days later, the man – Dubauer, that was his name – had been vacant-eyed, just about aware enough of his surroundings to cringe in fear from anyone in a Barrayaran uniform and smile in relief when Naismith came into the sickbay to visit him, but not much more than that. Bothari, watching from the door in case Naismith tried to bolt – or in case anyone came in to attack her – hadn't had the impression that Dubauer noticed or recognised him.

And now here he was, alert and cheerful and innocent and unharmed, the way Koudelka had been as well, then. With his pale skin, light brown hair and blue eyes, he didn't exactly look like Koudelka – except that he did.

Bothari wished he could shake his younger self and tell him, 'They're civilians. Don't use the nerve disruptor – stun them.' But he couldn't travel more than a few dozen metres from Naismith, and his younger self wouldn't be able to see or hear him, any more than the Betans could. All he could do was watch as Naismith and Dubauer tried to com-call their crewmates, got no response, and hurried down to base camp to find out what was going on. The walk must have taken them a couple of hours at least, but the memory didn't unwind in real time. It flickered through a few glimpses of moments that must have stood out in Lady Vorkosigan's memory, until they reached the melted remains of their camp, and ran into – him.

Bothari wasn't in the habit of looking into a mirror for longer than was necessary to check that he had shaved correctly (he didn't trust those creepy depilatory creams that ate away at your beard and, if you weren't quick enough to wipe them off, your skin), that his hair wasn't getting too long, and that his uniform was on straight. He knew he was ugly, but he wasn't weird-looking enough that he was frightened by his own looks, like the gengineered mutant in that Old Earth story who ran off in fright the first time he caught sight of his own reflection in a puddle. What he hated was the ugliness within him, not anything that showed up in a mirror or a holocube. But seeing his face in a mirror didn't give him that sense of this-is-me recognition that normal people apparently got.

Actually seeing himself, not a reflection, was different, though. A tall, deadly figure, cold-eyed and pitiless. The crackle of a nerve disruptor. Dubauer falling backwards, colliding with Naismith, his weight knocking her to the ground, the crack as she hit her head against a stone…

He didn't wait to see whether the Pensieve contained any more memories. He stood up, back at the kitchen table in the house he and Professor Snape (and General Skywalker, don't forget him) shared, back on the Rock, where Cheiron was watching him.

He tried to remember the drill that Cheiron had taught him and Snape. Acknowledge five things you can see, four things you can touch, three things you can hear, two things you can smell, one thing you can taste. You were supposed to take slow, deep breaths to calm yourself first, but both he and Snape agreed that this was the wrong order – first you need to look around to check for any immediate danger, before you know if it's the time to do relaxation exercises. So, first:

Five things you can see. The big downstairs room that was kitchen and potions lab at this end and living-room at the far end, with no sign of enemies. The door closed – some people were wary of closed doors, worrying about who might be lurking behind them, but a sturdy door that could be locked against enemies was reassuring. As long as it was locked from the inside, locking enemies out, not locking you in. Cheiron's face, looking sympathetic and concerned for him. The Pensieve, still full of writhing mists. His hands, clenching and unclenching.

Four things you can touch. The pressure of his fingertips against his palms. The dryness of his mouth, his tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth. His right eyelid twitching. No, it was supposed to be things you could touch, so the eyelid didn't count unless he reached up to touch it with his fingers. He forced his hands to unclench long enough to touch the warm, pitted wood of the table, the cold stone of the Pensieve, his burr-cut hair.

Three things you can hear. The steady flow of air from the breathing apparatus in Skywalker's room. A yelp from Snape, caught in some nightmare which he would refuse to talk about when he woke up. His own heart pounding.

Two things you can smell. Cheiron's sweat, like old Count Vorkosigan's horses. Dishes of herbs that Snape had left to marinate before using them in the next stage of a potion.

One thing you can taste. Bitterness.

All right, now breathe slowly in and out. No direct threat here, nothing you can make worse in the next few minutes. The damage is already done.

'Are you hurting?' Cheiron asked.

'Not – physically.'

Cheiron waited to give him a little longer to calm, looking directly into his eyes, before asking, 'Would you like something to drink?'

'Water. Please.' He could have fetched it himself, but Cheiron wanted to look after him, just now. He took a sip of the water, washing away some of the taste of guilt and self-hatred.

Cheiron waited a little longer before asking, 'Do you want to talk about what you saw?'

'Why – why didn't she hate me?'

'Who? Cordelia?'

'Yes.'

'Well, if her first encounter with you there had been her only experience of you, she probably would. Not very deeply, I don't suppose – she wouldn't have bothered to waste her life obsessing over hating you and wanting revenge. But she certainly wouldn't have been likely to think of you as someone she would want to be friends with, if it wasn't for the fact that she got to know you better, and found out that there was more to you than just being a murderous thug.'

'But I am a murderous thug, all the same.'

'Yes. Sometimes. Or you have been, sometimes. The important thing is who you choose to be now.'

'Is it me choosing, though? Admiral Vorkosigan said once – I'm a mirror. I'm a pair of hands for whoever chooses to wield me. I can't ever be normal.'

'There isn't a dividing line with normal people on one side and non-normal people on the other,' said Cheiron. 'In practically everyone, the unconscious part of the brain decides what to do before reporting to the conscious brain what it has decided to do. And everyone is influenced by the people around them.'

'You?'

'Yes, even me. I'm illegitimate, like you, and my mother abandoned me at birth because I was a centaur. If my niece and nephew, Artemis and Apollo, hadn't adopted me when I was still a young foal, I don't know what I'd be like. But as it was, Apollo taught me music, healing and prophecy, and both of them taught me how to shoot and hunt, and I grew into someone so different from most centaurs that I was never going to fit in with the herd. But being a centaur, and the illegitimate son of a deposed ex-ruler of the gods, meant I didn't fit in with the gods either. It took me a while to realise that the people I felt most at home with were humans. And in the same way, it took you a while to find people you belonged with. There's nothing to be ashamed of in that. When you find where you belong, then you have a chance to grow.'

Bothari wasn't sure what to say to that, so just watched Cheiron's face until the centaur went on:

'Thinking back to your situation, though: what did you do, before Cordelia and Dubauer ran into you?'

'Shot Captain Vorkosigan with a stunner and hid him where the mutineers couldn't find him. Told Radnov he was dead.'

'Do you think everyone in the crew believed you were on the mutineers' side?'

'Yes.' He thought for a moment. 'Maybe not Koudelka. I didn't talk to him or look at him, in case he guessed. And Vorkosigan would have guessed, but he was out cold before he knew I'd shot him.'

'So there was no-one there to decide for you that you were loyal to Aral Vorkosigan. You decided that for yourself.'

'Y-yes.' It hadn't felt like deciding. It had just been – obvious. Just as siding with Lady Vorkosigan about protecting baby Lord Miles had been obvious, or offering to look after General Skywalker, now. It was just what needed to be done. Was that what it had felt like for Darth Vader, suddenly killing Emperor Palpatine to protect Luke?

'So you know that you are more than just a reflection of other people's expectations. Sometimes, to achieve something good, you have had to pretend to be a worse person than you really are, just as Severus has, in his work as a spy. Whatever Aral meant about you being "a mirror", he wasn't suggesting that you aren't a real person who is capable of making moral choices – only that you don't always have a clear idea of what sort of person you are. It's something you've needed to work on a lot – especially in the past few years, here, where you've had time to think about it, instead of continually needing to get on with the job in hand. It's something that Anakin is going to need to think about, in the next few years. You'll probably be a great help to him because you know how it feels.'

'But if my good actions are truly mine, so are the bad ones. And – I don't always know which is which.'

'No. But that's true of everyone else, as well. Do you think Cordelia didn't worry about whether keeping Dubauer alive, when he was so badly brain-damaged that he was likely to be a helpless invalid for the rest of his life, was the right thing to do? Do you think Aral didn't worry about whether executing Carl Vorhalas for killing a man in a duel, when Aral himself had killed men in duels when he was younger, was the right thing to do? Being uncertain isn't a sign of being insane, it's a sign that you are a lot saner than you think you are. If you didn't ever worry about not being sure whether something was right or wrong, that really would be a problem.'

'So – nobody knows what the right thing is to do? Even you?'

'Even me. I don't know whether having Anakin convalescing here, rather than in a hospital, is the right thing to do. I think you and he seem to be good for each other, but I don't know whether it's going to make life too stressful for Severus. For now, I can keep an eye on the three of you, and see how it goes. Now – are you okay with letting Severus and Anakin watch the memory you've viewed so far tonight?'

'Yes. They need to know what I'm like.'

'Do you want to talk any more about these memories?'

'Need to check on Skywalker first. But then, yes. Please.'

Author's note: I had hoped that they would get through at least the first four vials of memories tonight. These vials generally contain about fifteen to twenty minutes of viewed memories, even if they cover a period of hours or days, so in theory it should be possible to watch one, go and see if Anakin is okay, come back and watch the next one, and get through several in an hour. But the first half of the first vial was about as much as Bothari could cope with, and even if he thinks he ought to press on, Cheiron isn't letting him dive back into them straightaway.