Harry opened his eyes, staring blearily around. His neck hurt terribly, and was bent at an odd angle. In fact, he was sitting upright in a chair, with his head twisted so that he could lie flat on a table. He could see nothing beyond the stacks of books in front of him.
He sat up and looked around, the previous night rushing back. It had seemed so important to understand the word he had written—so important that he had retrieved his Invisibility Cloak from the Tower and rushed back to the Library, looking frantically through books.
It had been a sort of frenzy; he had instinctively known that what he was looking for would be in the Restricted Section, and had looked for hours on end through the books he hadn't seen already, even opening the screaming one he had found in his first year and Silencing it, only to discover that the book was written in incomprehensible runes. He had moved on, occasionally being caught by surprise as the books tried to bite or speak to him, searching…
All of his research had amounted to one sentence.
Of the Horcrux, wickedest of magical inventions, we shall not speak nor give direction.
It must have been around that point that he had fallen asleep on the table, frustrated that no book could give him a more complete answer. The phrase 'wickedest of magical inventions' had not even made him pause; all of the Dark spells in the Hogwarts Library were preceded by similar phrases. But why on earth would a book mention the Horcrux only to state that it would say nothing on the matter?
He turned his head, feeling his neck crack several times, and looked at his wristwatch. He had an hour until classes started. As the previous day came back to him more thoroughly, he found himself filling up with a simmering rage at Albus Dumbledore.
He checked his schedule, smiling grimly at the empty space where he would have had double potions. Good. He had two hours in which to do what he wanted. And what he wanted to do right now was to get an explanation out of the Headmaster.
He looked around as he stood up. He was absolutely surrounded by piles of books; he felt like Hermione studying for a Transfiguration test, except for the fact that what he was researching was much more interesting, and much more inaccessible.
My money, my freedom, my LIFE…
He began striding purposefully toward the Head Office, ignoring the early risers on their way to breakfast. Several jumped out of his way, terrified by the expression on his face, but he paid them no mind.
Dumbledore almost never came to breakfast this year; most people believed it had something to do with the mystery of his hand. The Headmaster had made his opening speech the first day and revealed that his right hand looked gray and dead. Harry hadn't been paying attention at the time but had seen it on the few suppers that Dumbledore had eaten in the Great Hall. Harry frankly suspected the two things were linked as well; the hand had been perfectly fine when he had seen Dumbledore over the summer. It was astounding that no one was any more interested in this than to the point that there was idle speculation about it in the halls; Harry got an odd feeling when he looked at it, but he didn't think anyone else felt it.
He halted, breathing slightly harder, at the gargoyle. He had had this trouble before, several times, but he wasn't taking it this time. He narrowed his eyes at the stone statue and it flew against the wall, smashing into several different pieces. Harry took a quick step back.
All he had meant to do was speak loudly to the gargoyle. He was sure that Dumbledore had a way of seeing what was going on outside, and would see Harry and let him in.
He shrugged and clambered through the small hole in the wall behind the gargoyle, thankful that he had not yet had a growth spurt. He managed to get through to the staircase and stopped to catch his breath before climbing it.
The door slid open when he glared at it, and Dumbledore looked up from behind his desk, surprised.
"Harry! I didn't expect to see you this morning." His eyes flicked almost imperceptibly to the door. Harry raised an eyebrow. Had the Headmaster truly not known already what had happened, or was he just checking now on the situation outside of his office?
"I had a question for you," said Harry coldly, taking a seat without being asked. "Tell me, did Sirius leave a will?"
There was a long silence. Harry held Dumbledore's gaze, refusing to blink.
"Yes, he did," said Dumbledore. "I believe he left a small sum for you, but you were unable to collect it. I had it moved to my vault for safekeeping."
"Safekeeping?"repeated Harry incredulously. "You took my money and made sure I couldn't get at it. I don't think that falls under the definition of 'safekeeping'." The windowpane of Dumbledore's office exploded, sending shards of glass everywhere. The Headmaster stopped them with a wave of his arm.
"I must warn you, Harry, that these uncontrolled bursts of magic will not be tolerated for much longer. You could do an untold amount of damage if you do not learn to control your emotions."
"You sent Remus away and intercepted my letter so I couldn't get at the money!" Harry exploded. "What if I needed it for something? How many other people have you done this to? What are you using it for?"
"I assure you, your money will not be used unless you want it to. Anticipating your reaction, though, I have invested a small amount of it to help with Order business."
But I don't want to help with Order business!
"But I don't—" Harry stopped himself quickly. He didn't need to go there.
Yet.
"How dare you take anything of mine and use it for something I haven't agreed to! Who does the house belong to?" he spat the question, already having anticipated the answer.
"I believe Sirius left it to you. Of course, I am sure we will be able to continue to use it as Headquarters—"
"And what if I said no? What if I told you all to get out?" seethed Harry, of half a mind to do just that. He was sure that there was some old wizarding law that would force the Order out, should Harry want it.
"Are you intending to?" asked the Headmaster, sitting serenely behind his desk. Harry hated the fact that he showed no emotion, refused to feel anger, sadness or remorse even in the face of Harry's shouting.
How could he possibly respond to that question? It was the principle of the thing. He didn't want to take from the Order the one advantage they had, an Unplottable house defended by countless wards and spells. On the other hand, he wished someone had asked him, not told him. It was his money, his house; Dumbledore had pushed him around his entire life, and was now refusing to admit that anything was wrong.
That was the problem, of course. Dumbledore truly believed that he was doing the right thing. He wanted to be a hero, but he was also doing his utmost to assure the victory of the light side. He truly believed that the current government was better than any other could possibly be. The idea was cemented in his head the Voldemort stood for all that was evil, and anything that came of Voldemort's victories would be evil as well.
What could one say in the face of such belief? Harry knew that after over a century of life, Albus Dumbledore would not change his opinions for a sixteen-year-old, no matter how important he was.
Harry Potter was nothing but a pawn in this war, on Dumbledore's great chess board. The problem with Albus Dumbledore was his absolute refusal to sacrifice a single piece. He didn't understand that sometimes, to ensure victory, he couldn't have everything. And in this case, he was trying to keep Harry's trust as well as his material wealth.
"Have you meddled with my parents' money as well?" asked Harry challengingly.
"I assure you, Harry, I would not take any of your money unless you or your parents had given me permission."
That is no answer.Dumbledore was expressly refusing to give a straight 'no'.
"Can you tell me the truth, without avoiding the question for once?" shouted Harry. "Have you taken any more of my money?"
"Your parents left a sum in their will which they directed was to be given to the Order. I have used that sum to the best of my abilities."
To fund this war? You've been using my money to pay for this war?
Staring at the Headmaster, Harry saw nothing but well-meaning in his face.
He believes it! He really does! He thinks this war is actually necessary! I bet he didn't use the money for anything other than for his war effort!
"Are you trying to stop the war from coming?"
"All of us would like to stop war, Harry," said the headmaster slowly. "But my firm belief is that it will happen soon, and when it comes, we must be prepared. When two sides with radically different viewpoints both gather power, there must be conflict, especially when one refuses to see reason, like the Death Eaters. That is why I have devoted more time to preparation. I am sorry if it appears that your money has been wasted, but it has been for the greater good."
Harry scrutinized the man in front of him, who looked back patiently.
Plain selfishness was an easy concept to pin down. But this absolute conviction that the Light side had to win was something entirely different. Dumbledore had manipulated, lied, and cheated Harry out a normal life, and likely done the same to countless other people, but it was somehow discomfiting to know that he really was doing it all for 'the greater good'.
He's not a bad person. He's just wrong.
The thought filled Harry with anger, that Dumbledore had always believed the same thing, that he had devoted his entire life to it, and had never once thought that he might possibly be giving his life for the wrong cause. It was a confusing thought, but the one thing that Harry knew without doubt was that Dumbledore was wrong.
The situation in the Wizarding world at the moment wasn't just bad; it was horrific, and only declining. Only the previous morning the Daily Prophet had run another story on Harry and how he was possibly their only savior. One moment a scapegoat, and next minute the only person left to turn to. The Dementors had entirely vanished from Azkaban; the only prisoners that remained there were the non-Death Eaters, the genuine murderers and rapists that were sent there for life regardless of their part in the war. With criminals running loose and the Dark Lord steadily gaining power and followers, the world was slowly going into a sort of lockdown; no one went outside except for when it was absolutely necessary, and everything was bought by owl order. The fact that Cornelius Fudge had managed to stay in power amid all this but had still done nothing for the war effort had cinched Harry's opinion that change was needed, a very drastic change.
Yes, Dumbledore was dead wrong.
I'm just not sure if the Death Eaters are right.
He turned and walked out of the office without a word.
He fell asleep in Transfiguration that afternoon, earning himself a detention with Professor McGonagall to be served the following night. She had looked more concerned than angry when giving him his punishment, though (Grading first-year essays for two hours).
Harry had shrugged it off to Ron and Hermione, saying that he hadn't been able to sleep the previous night. He hadn't, really; he had been kept up by the wild, unexplainable urge to find out what a Horcrux was.
Ron hadn't even noticed that he had been out of the dormitory; Harry strongly suspected that he had not been in it for much of the night either. His and Hermione's escapades were getting less subtle, and Harry knew his dorm-mates were beginning to make guesses as well.
He fared a little better in Charms, easily mastering theaguamentispell and hitting Ron in the face with a jet of freezing water. This had begun a full-scale waterfight in the classroom, causing Hermione to shake her head and Professor Flitwick to hide under a desk. Harry had retreated to a corner of the classroom, still not over the confrontation of the morning and not in the mood to get wet. The entire class had earned a detention for that, also the following night, though Flitwick had let Harry off, noticing that he had not taken part, and he needed to get to McGonagall's detention at any rate.
He wandered out to the lake after classes ended. It was an overcast day, and very few people were outside. He could feel a buzzing feeling of discontent beneath his skin; he had to go somewhere, do something,destroysomething…
It took him nearly an hour to walk all the way to the other side of the lake, equidistant from the Hogsmeade station and Hogwarts. It was a somewhat overgrown path, as no one tended to truly walk this far; most took the path to Hogsmeade and back, not straying further. Harry strode through the plants as though every one were a personal insult, stomping on the plants that wound around his feet and occasionally usingDiffindo.
He took a seat on a boulder beside the lake, and then stood up again, unable to sit still. He began pacing, the rage threatening to overflow…
A small frog skittered across his path. Harry pointed his wand at it.
"Crucio!"
It was a strange feeling of invigoration, watching the frog writhe on the spot, unable to scream or move beyond convulsing. The feeling was almost familiar, and he remembered the fight in the Ministry once again, that feeling of elation…he could feel it again, now, though not as strongly.
He watched the legs twitch with an odd fascination, wondering what the frog was feeling, wondering how long it would last before it died or lost it's sanity, as the Longbottoms had. It was enthralling, in a way, to know that something was within his power, his control…
What was he doing?
He stopped the spell with a harsh jerk of his wand and slumped down against the boulder. He had never been able to manage the cruciatus curse before, and he had just held it for nearly a minute. It hadn't been hard. It had been easy, and though it had given him that feeling of exhilaration while he held it, after it had done nothing but fill him with more rage than before…
He glared at a rock sitting across from him, imagining it had Dumbledore's face.
"Reducto!"the rock shattered. Smiling grimly, he pointed his wand again, cast the blasting spell again…
After six rocks, the Reductor spell no longer sated his anger, and he aimed his wand-tip at a tree, using a spell he had discovered only three nights before, which stripped the recipient of most of his flesh. In the tree's case all the bark was suddenly violently ripped off it, leaving bare light brown wood. Harry finished it with a Blasting curse and a frustrated scream.
A twig snapped behind him and he spun rapidly, brandishing his wand.
It was the stranger who had visited him the previous night. He was wearing all black today, matching Harry's mood. He leaned against the boulder casually, a cold smile on his face and his hand out, offering…
A white mask.
"Who are you?" Harry whispered, gazing into the empty holes of the mask where the eyes would fit, wherehiseyes would fit. He had had suspicions for awhile now, but there was something inside of him denying them...
The man stood, towering over Harry. "You left Hogwarts grounds, Harry. I'm here in person now."
"Who are you?" he repeated.
"I'm just someone who is here to offer you freedom. You were hesitant of Daphne's assurance that the Dark Lord would make you his student? Here is your proof." He held out the mask, more insistent now.
"Voldemort has been trying to kill me since I was a baby," said Harry weakly. "He doesn't want to teach me. He wants to murder me."
"He has realized…certain things. That it would be a disadvantage for him to kill you. As it would be a disadvantage for you to attempt to kill him, as you would almost certainly die in the attempt. This is his offer.
"You become his student. You will be taught magic, in all its facets, not just the limited sides presented by the side that has taken you in and abused you for years. You will command his forces, fight for him, and help him change the Wizarding World into what it deserves to become."
"And then?" Harry asked hoarsely. "What do I get out of all this?"
"The world," said the man, drawing closer. "The Dark Lord offers you the world, with an unlimited quantity of power at your command. He offers you your freedom, from oppression, from lies. He offers you immortality. The means by which to achieve it." The hand holding the white mask drew closer to Harry, almost touching him. He drew back.
"What does he want with me? Why me, not someone stronger, faster, better trained? Is it just because of the prophecy?"
"So much you will be able to do, once truly trained," came the harsh voice. Harry was still staring at the mask. "This aptitude of yours, this ability to channel your rage and perform feats of wandless magic impossible to a normal wizard…it would be an honor to train it, to teach how to use it properly. The Dark Lord makes you this offer."
"I…can't make a choice right now," said Harry, buying time. "I need time to think, to consider…"
"Think all you want. This mask is a Portkey. To accept this offer, all you must do is hold onto it and say, 'accept'." Harry watched as the white mask was dropped on the ground in front of him, still unable to tear his eyes away.
"Take time to think, but not too much. War does not wait. Neither side will." Harry heard an inrush of air behind him as the man Apparated away. He picked up the mask and stared at it for a long time before pocketing it and beginning the long walk back to the school.
What do I get out of all this?
The world…
The words played over and over again in Harry's mind as he numbly sat through Professor McGonagall's detention, mechanically marking first-year essays for her. It was mindless work, once he was shown the formula that the professor used to mark, and he could after one hour do it with his mind wandering to entirely different things.
Things such as the previous night's conversation.
Professor McGonagall had asked him concernedly if he was all right, and whether he was losing sleep over Sirius' recent death. This had brought Harry's mind right back around to Dumbledore again, but he had contained the rage, tempering it by thinking of his outburst the previous night, the feeling of casting and Unforgivable on a living creature...
It had been terrible but wonderful at the same time. And the wonderful had significantly outweighed the terrible.
As he blew dry the ink on the last essay, he remembered something that had been said to him over five years ago.
He-who-must-not-be-named did great things. Terrible, yes, but great.
Ollivander had known what he was talking about. Harry was feeling exactly what he had described; all of Dumbledore's warnings about the horrors of Dark Magic seemed superfluous now.
Thepower…
It had felt good, and Harry was having difficulty justifying the fact. Light magic had never given him that feeling of…invigoration, so fascination that that very morning Harry had used a light memory curse on one of the first-years, designed so that he would be unable to retain any of the knowledge he gained in the next few hours. The feeling had been significantly less, though still there; the spell was classed as a non-dangerous Dark spell.
This very classification had led Harry to another question. Was there a genuine difference in the type of magic used to power Light and Dark magic? If spells could be Dark but not dangerous, why were they still forbidden? Was it the fact that casting them caused an odd euphoria, as Harry was discovering? Was he now tainted?
The next time Filch prodded them with Secrecy Sensors, would it glow red when it touched him?
He had secured the mask at the bottom of his trunk, casting a strong concealment spell he had asked Hermione to teach him on it. He wasn't sure how he felt about it, but what he absolutely knew now was that he needed to learn more Dark magic, to use more…
Halloween came, and Harry dragged himself down to the feast. He had no interest in the troupe of dancing skeletons that Dumbledore had apparently hired, but he had decided that he had better make an appearance, if only to stop the world from worrying about him.
He could feel himself changing, growing more introverted. He rarely spent time with Ron and Hermione anymore, spending his time brooding, working on schoolwork and, at times, looking further into the Restricted Section. It had proven very disappointing, not having nearly the variety that Grimmauld had, and it was unable to hold Harry's attention for long. He was surprised that Dumbledore had ignored the cache of Dark magic books at his own Headquarters; Harry strongly suspected that there was some sort of spell on the room that prevented people from coming in who had the wrong intentions.
The press had somehow gotten wind of the distance he was putting between himself and his friends, and a headline had appeared only the previous week shouting, "Potter: shunned by his friends?" Harry had rolled his eyes and tossed it aside as rubbish, but Ron had been rather offended and was loudly denying that he and Harry were anything less than best friends, only causing people to whisper more.
Harry had gotten up the courage by the first week of October to stay after Defense class and ask Professor Snape exactly what the difference was between Light and Dark magic. The man had obviously been sternly admonished by Professor Dumbledore to be civil toward Harry, despite Harry punching him in the face over the summer. His expression had been similar to that of Uncle Vernon on Harry's first day back, but it had faded when Harry had asked his question, to be replaced with suspicion and some interest.
"Does the Headmaster know that you are asking me this question, Potter?"
Harry had shrugged. "He isn't the Defense Teacher."
Snape had stared at him for a moment, and then took a seat. Harry knew that he loved to speak about the Dark Arts, and had hoped that this would help the man get over his hatred of Harry. As well, Harry frankly suspected that the man was on Voldemort's side, as a sort of decoy spy. He knew he was playing with fire by using to his own advantage the fact that most servants of the Dark Lord here at Hogwarts were trying to change his allegiances, but the question had been burning within his for quite some time.
"I don't believe that your question is covered under the syllabus, Potter."
"But I believe that you know the answer," said Harry, matching the Potion Master's gaze. "And I believe that I have a right to know, to help me with certain choices." They locked stares for a moment before Snape sat back, smiling grimly.
"The Dark Arts, it was discovered long ago, are used in a different way than any other type of magic." Snape steepled his long fingers together and scrutinized Harry. "While most spells take their power from the magical core of the user, Dark magic tends to require more. It needs the user to put a bit of their soul into the spell—not removing it, of course, but the user needs more power, and feels the spell within themselves significantly more. The Dark Arts were banned because, once used, the user will not be content until they have used them again, not unlike some Muggle drugs. At least, that is the story that the Ministry put forth. I am personally of the opinion that anyone with a strong will should be able to resist the urge to perform more Dark magic, unless it is necessary. The Dark Magic should be controlled, not the controller." Snape leaned forward over his desk, his hooked nose nearly touching Harry's. "Do you have a strong will, Mr. Potter?"
Snape knew, for certain. Harry wondered if the man had acquired some sort of affinity for the Dark arts, some ability to notice when people had been using them. And control? The man spoke of the Dark Arts as others would of their lovers, a gentle caress in his voice. Was he controlled, or the controller?
He had mumbled something and fled, contemplating what he had been told. So Dark Magic could not kill him, if he was willing to trust Snape. It could not even harm him, if his will was strong enough…
The Great Hall was decorated with floating pumpkins, gruesome faces carved on them by one of Snape's classes practicing precision cutting spells. Harry wandered over to the Gryffindor table and sat down at his usual place, listening to the chatter but not contributing until he noticed something odd.
"Where's Neville?" he asked abruptly. Hermione turned toward him.
"He got called to Dumbledore's office." She lowered her voice. "We think there might have been another attack last night, on his grandmother. They've been targeting Order members."
"Have they attacked anyone but Order members?" Harry asked curiously.
"Not that I know of," said Hermione, looking thoughtful. "Not yet, at least. I'm sure they'll start attacking in earnest once all the opposition is gone. Not that I'm saying that that will happen," she added hastily.
Harry recalled something that Daphne had said to him in passing the previous week, in one of their many quick conversations. She had cornered him at least three times a week since their last long conversation, telling him interesting facts and items that he knew, deep down, were leading him further and further from his friends and from Dumbledore.
"Do you realize," she had said, as she pressed him against the wall in an empty hallway, "that every 'attack' that Dumbledore cries are so unjustified and a means to have every Death Eater exterminated, every one, is a strategic attack on someone who is in the way of our effort? We take no lives needlessly. We do not kill wizards for pleasure."
"What about muggles?" Harry grunted through gritted teeth.
"You know as well as I do that muggles and mudbloods have no place in this war. We shall ignore their world until we have fixed the problems with our own, and then," She shrugged, "who knows?"
Harry found that he was looking forward to those times when she cornered him, when she helped him justify to himself that he would be doing the right thing by using the Portkey. Daily he removed the white mask from his trunk, stared at it, and wondered.
What would it be like, to live in a world ruled by Voldemort? Daphne had given him a good idea, and he knew there were advantages. If he could keep his friends out of the fight until the battle was over and there was order in the world once more, they could finally live in peace, in an uncorrupted world; perhaps a world that was more liberal with the Dark Arts that Harry had come to love over the past six weeks…
The spells he cast were never the truly bad ones; he normally practiced on small conjured creatures, basking in the feeling of euphoria and power that the spells presented him with.
He knew he couldn't stop practicing the Dark spells, no matter what the penalty was.
"Harry, are you coming to Hogsmeade with us this weekend?" asked Ron, looking at him intently. Harry shrugged noncommittally.
"I dunno. I don't really feel like going."
"What's with you lately?" asked Ginny. "You don't even talk to us anymore. What do you do for all that time when you're away from the common room?" six faces looked at Harry expectantly.
He shrugged again. "Just looking at some things," he said. "Nothing that you would be interested in."
"I'm pretty interested if it involves Daphne Greengrass," spat Ron. "I've seen you talking to her at least three times since September, and that's more times than you've had a conversation with us. Are you too good for us now? You just want to hang out with your new Slytherin girlfriend?"
"She's not my girlfriend," said Harry, irritated. "Can you just leave me alone?"
"We're your friends," said Ron aggressively. "You're supposed to tell us things. You haven't even told us what the Prophecy said."
Harry took in a sharp breath. "How do you know I've heard it?"
"We had to hear it from Dumbledore!" shouted Ron, his face reddening. "We deserve to know things like that, Harry!"
Dumbledore.The rage welled up in him, and it took a conscious effort to keep himself from unleashing it on his so-called friends.
I hate these people.
He frowned at the thought, wondering where it had come from.
He didn't need to tell them everything that happened to him. Especially something as important as the prophecy. And they certainly wouldn't understand what he had been doing.
They hadn't even bothered to tell him that they were a couple until a week ago. Why would he tell themanything?
He was jerked out of his thoughts as Neville walked into the room, his face ashen. The conversation around Harry stopped as the boy walked over to the table quietly and sat down.
"Neville?" asked Hermione tentatively. "What happened?"
Neville turned to her, his eyes red and haunted. "Gran. The Death Eaters came—" his voice broke, and Lavender began to rub his back gently.
"They said she didn't suffer. Just…the killing curse. She didn't suffer," he repeated, as though saying that would make it better.
Harry raised his eyes and scanned the room for Daphne. He met her eyes and she smiled grimly.
He knew, undoubtedly, that Augusta Longbottom, as someone who counseled Albus Dumbledore, had been in the way.
"What did the Order do about it?" he asked, feeling as if someone else was speaking for him. He ignored Hermione's sharp glare at the word 'order' and Lavender's askance look.
"They didn't get there until it was too late," said Neville, staring off into space. "But they caught one of the Death Eaters when he was setting the—the Dark Mark." His voice trembled. "Dumbledore said they were planning a counter-strike."
"Damn right," muttered Ron. "It's about time that we started fighting back."
The following day, as Harry glared at his Transfiguration textbook, Ron came and sat down next to him.
"What's the point of memorizing all this bollocks anyways?" Harry asked irritably. "If I can do the spell why should I have to know who invented it?"
Ron glanced at the book distractedly, then back to Harry. "Listen, mate, have you talked to Neville?"
"No," said Harry flatly. "Not since yesterday."
"Dumbledore was right. They finally struck back," said Ron, his eyes glowing.
"What? What happened?" asked Harry, straightening.
"The Goyles. Dumbledore went into their house and tried to talk to them, apparently. They wouldn't listen. The Professor backed off, and the Aurors went in." the redheaded boy's voice lowered dramatically. "They're dead. Both of Goyle's parents."
"Dead?" asked Harry incredulously. That didn't seem like the type of action the light side would take.
"Dad said Dumbledore pulled some strings at the Ministry. Made it so that the Aurors had the right to kill anyone bearing a Dark Mark." Ron's eyes glittered with fervor. "I'm telling you, Harry, I can't wait until we can get out and join them. Get revenge, finally."
"Get revenge for who?" Harry asked quietly.
"What do you mean? Asked Ron, looking taken aback. "Everyone killed in the war, everyone the Death Eaters killed without cause…"
"How do you know they don't have a cause?" asked Harry. "Do you think they just got out of bed one morning and decided to kill people?"
"They kill muggleborns just because they're muggle-born," said Ron dangerously. "What are you saying, Harry?"
"Nothing," Harry muttered.
"No, really," spat Ron. "Are you trying to tell me something?"
"All I'm saying is that none of the last few murders have been muggle-borns," said Harry. "Are you sure they don't have another purpose? That Dumbledore isn't completely right about their aims?"
"I think you should stop talking about that sort of thing," said Ron warningly. "I think you should stopthinkingit. Seriously, Harry. You don't want people thinking that you might be turning dark."
Harry almost laughed. "You're right," he said. "I don't."
So Dumbledore was finally learning that to win a war, he would have to fight. And the Aurors had been given the authority to kill bearers of the Dark Mark. Not ordinary criminals, murderers, but people with the Dark Mark on their arms.
Harry watched his former friend walk out of the common room, thinking. So Ron couldn't wait to be able to leave and be able to kill Dark wizards as well, regardless of what they had done.
How did that make them any different from Voldemort?
"Your friend doesn't know the whole story."
Harry looked around warily. He was in the white room again. After several hours more work on his transfiguration, he had given up and fallen asleep at the table. The now-familiar tall, dark man was standing in front if him, leaning against the white wall.
"What are you saying?" he asked. "The whole story of what?"
"Gregory Goyle isn't an only child. And his mother isn't Marked."
Harry felt coldness seep down his spine. "You mean—"
"They didn't directly kill her and the eight-year-old. They just…blasted the roof down on top of them. No one survived it." The man shrugged, his features twisting into a grimace. "She was quite a promising little girl. Her name was Hilary."
"Stop," said Harry roughly. How did this man know the details? How had he found out?
"Why? It's the truth, the truth you deserve to know. What you will find out, Harry, is that in my service, I do not keep secrets as Albus Dumbledore does." The man walked slowly toward Harry, smiling.
Harry took a step back and found himself against the wall. "You're Voldemort." He felt cold sweat pouring down his back. It wasn't unexpected. Far from it, in fact. But still...
"I thought it was past time that you knew," came the response, in a hissed whisper. "You cannot bar me from your dreams, Harry. You cannot stop me from coming near you. I need you to make a decision. Soon."
"Or you'll kill me," said Harry, his voice shaking. He had no weapons in the white clothing that he was swathed in. He was at the mercy of the man in front of him.
"If I had wanted to kill you, I would have, long since," said the man Harry now knew to be Tom Riddle. "Things have come to my attention since the Department of Mysteries."
"What things?" asked Harry, his fear slowly melting. "You mentioned them before."
"Horcruxes." The word was spat. Harry jerked. Was this the answer he had been looking for? Had the word been planted in his mind by Voldemort, all those weeks ago, causing him to search frantically for the meaning?
"What is a Horcrux?" he asked quickly.
"Allow me, Harry, to take you into my memory, as I did four years ago," said Voldemort, looking intently at Harry. "A long time ago, when I was your age, and searching for the very thing that you are looking for now. However, I had one…resource at my disposal which you have, regrettably, pushed away from yourself."
"Horace Slughorn," Harry whispered.
"Of course," whispered Voldemort. "Allow me to show you…"
The room swirled, and Harry found himself in a different room with Slughorn and the younger Tom Riddle…
"That's it, then?" Harry asked hoarsely. "You have seven Horcruxes?"
"Six," came the answer quietly. "One piece, of course, still resides within my body, anchoring me to this world."
"And you can travel wherever your pieces of soul are," Harry said, fearing that he knew where this was going.
"Certainly."
"And you can appear in my dreams because…"
"I believe you have been able to deduce that for yourself," said Voldemort, smiling. "I believe you know exactly why."
"I'm a Horcrux," whispered Harry dully. He sat down on the floor, his legs weak. "You put part of your soul into me."
"Of course. It was an accident, at first. I had no knowledge of it, before it came to my attention this summer that Dumbledore was looking to destroy my soul, and had already succeeded twice. At that point I had to find out how secure the rest truly were, and this unexpected fact came to my attention."
"And now you want me to become your student, just because you can't kill me."
"You are a remarkable young man, Harry," said Voldemort, choosing not to answer the question. "As I searched for a way to remove my soul from yours, I discovered this remarkable ability of yours, buried deep. Wandless magic. It has been decades since I last saw one with your capabilities."
"My capabilities?"
"Yes. Of course, moments later I discovered that something had been done with your ability at birth. It had been suppressed."
"Suppressed?"asked Harry, getting the feeling that he knew exactly what had happened.
"By a very familiar magical signature. I suspect you do not need me to name anyone. Of course, I removed this suppression. You may have been finding your magic a bit uncontrollable lately."
Dumbledore.
"But now, of course, it is time for you to wake up. Time to live in a world that you are growing frustrated, disgusted with, even. At one word, you can change this life completely. Your friend Daphne would see you as much as you like, and of course, once we win…the world."
The white room was suddenly gone, replaced with the red walls of the Gryffindor Common Room. Harry felt a sharp pain in his left hand, and realized that he was clutching the white mask so hard that it was pressed into his palm. He stared at it for a moment, wondering how it had gotten into his hand, and then walked slowly up to the dormitory and replaced it in his trunk.