A stone.
A leaf.
An unfound door.
The odd words in Harry's mysterious note had chimed in the back of Hermione's mind for two days, but like a thought caught on the tip of her tongue she had been unable to remember just where she had heard them before.
Deep within her trunk at the foot of her bed, she had spent the better part of the early hours of Sunday morning digging around for a collection of her favourite books from her life in the Muggle world. Logic and arithmetic texts, mostly, but there was a pocket of literature buried…
Ah.
That's the one, I'm sure of it.
She retrieved a leather-bound volume by an American author, Thomas Wolfe. The gold leaf on the cover was inscribed: Look Homeward, Angel. Scanning through the pages quickly, speed-reading more than just her forte, Hermione confirmed that the words in Harry's note matched the prose in the book and allowed a proud grin to spread across her face.
This would be useful, she was sure of it, and it may help cement her budding friendship with the Boy Who Liv—with Harry. Just Harry. He didn't seem too fond of his illustrious past.
It was just before nine when Hermione finished putting the contents of her mini-library back in the trunk. The sun disappeared behind some clouds, casting a pall of shadow on the room. She wondered if Harry were downstairs in the Great Hall for breakfast. Or where best to find him if he wasn't? Even after nearly five years in the castle, Hermione only had the vaguest idea of where to find the Ravenclaw common room.
Harry probably knew secret tunnels in and out of every room in the castle. She would have to ask him for a few tips getting from the Potions dungeons to the Transfiguration wing. It was always a mad dash on Monday mornings between those two classes.
Working her way down through the castle, Hermione tried to fit the words in Look Homeward, Angel, to the words in Harry's note. In the book, they seemed innocuous—however beautifully written—whereas in the note there had been a hint of something dire… something unhappy and cruel.
A riddle, Harry had said. He thought it a riddle. Was the answer to solving it in Hermione's book? She thought it might be.
It being the weekend, the Great Hall was only half-populated with students in no particular hurry to be getting on with the day. A quick glance up and down the Ravenclaw table showed Hermione that Harry wasn't there. She slumped, having been eager to share word of her discovery. Still, it was early.
She joined Ron and Seamus at the Gryffindor table.
"Mornin'," Ron managed, through a mouthful of scrambled eggs.
"Hermione!" Seamus seemed happy to see her. "Tell me, love, what's the deal with that Transfiguration theorem about transferring solid to liquid during motion, or something?"
Hermione sighed and helped herself to half a grapefruit. "You haven't started Professor McGonagall's essay then, have you?"
"Oh I never start that nonsense until I'm sure I understand it right, 'Mione. Can you help me with it?"
Hermione nodded. "Of course I can, Seamus. Read Frosp's Elements of Transfigured Acceleration. Chapter three, in particular. It's all there waiting for you."
Seamus lost his smile. "Or, you know, you could just tell me—"
Ron swallowed his food and laughed, slapping Seamus on the back. "I've been trying that for years, mate."
"It's not as if you don't have time to do the reading," Hermione remarked, buttering a piece of toast.
"Well, I beg to differ. What with…"
Hermione ignored the boys as they discussed the multitude of reasons why their timetables were too full to read one simple chapter. She tuned them out, and instead focused on her Thomas Wolfe book. The story was interesting, sure, and she could remember reading it years ago now.
She scanned the pages looking for any particular reference to dragonflies or queens, but to no avail.
When she finally looked up from the book, some twenty minutes later, she saw that Harry Potter had arrived and was seating in what she guessed was his customary spot at the end of the Ravenclaw table closest to the Entrance Hall. He was dressed in a simple pair of jeans and a black collared shirt. He looked… normal, without robes on. Somewhat more real.
Hermione saw her moment and decided to seize it. She snapped shut her book and was halfway out of her seat before—
Someone else stepped lightly into the Great Hall.
Almost as if it had been choreographed, a sea of heads rippled inwards from the apex of the Hall, cutting across Hermione, and a scattered low hiss of misheard whispers echoed back and forth.
It was Fleur Delacour, the Beauxbatons Triwizard Champion from the tournament last year. Even Hermione, who had avoided all the nonsense following the French witch around the castle, had noticed the entirety of the male population at Hogwarts had been besotted with her.
She was, it could be admitted, attractive. Her hair was so light it was almost silver!
And here she was now, approaching the Ravenclaw table. Harry stood to greet her, as if he had been expecting her, and the smile that lit Fleur's face was kind and warm. Like Harry without his robes, it made her appear real—less imposing.
Fleur and Harry embraced, and she kissed him softly on the cheek. There were tears in her eyes.
Seemingly oblivious to the stares of the entire school, Harry and Fleur linked arms and stepped out of the Great Hall together. Hermione contemplated following, but a gentle tug in the pit of her stomach made her feel as if she would be intruding.
Harry was not immune to the beauty and charm of Fleur Delacour.
But she was not here to have another fool pant and sweat for her affections. Nor would he dare—he valued her friendship, her presence, more than any flawed notions of romance. She had come to see him, given the events of the tournament last year. They had been in weekly correspondence since Cedric's death.
Still, she was beautiful, and the eyes of the entire school—including the teaching staff—were upon them both. Harry embraced Fleur, took her arm, and led her from the Great Hall and out onto the castle grounds.
He made brief small talk, mostly about nothing, as they ambled down to the lake together. The talk was about everything but what was important. Thin grey clouds overhead threatened rain, but not just yet. It was a cool morning. Harry could taste the stirrings of winter on the air.
"And you managed to get a portkey in?" Harry asked.
"I did," Fleur said, in careful English. She had been practicing, mindful of her heavy accent. "To Hogsmeade. There is a ban on portkeys into Hogwarts. Headmaster Dumbledore's expressed written order, apparently."
"Oh? I didn't know that." Harry guessed that the old man was more than a touch concerned for security, given the loss of a student under his watch. It had to weigh on him heavily. "And you graduated from Beauxbatons with flying colours, I hear."
"Top of my class," Fleur said proudly, and brandished her wand. "Even in Advanced Charms. Which I 'ave you to thank for. Watch this – Expecto Patronum!"
Two banded spheres of silver light flowed from Fleur's wand, reflected out over the waters of the lake lapping at the shoreline, and coalesced into a graceful, long-necked swan. It flapped its wings once, gliding along the surface of the water, and then disappeared in a shower of pristine argent sparks.
"Ha! I knew you could do it."
"I had a good teacher," she said, smiling and squeezing Harry's hand. "You and Cedric both helped me far too much last year. Thank you, 'Arry Potter."
"I learned just as much from you, Fleur. More, even. We helped each other. One of your spells kept me alive after… after what happened at the end of the tournament."
Fleur's smile faded away, just smoke on the wind. "There are so few details, and you told me even less in your letters. Is eet true? Has ze Dark Lord returned?" Her accent came through thick and strong, coated with emotion.
Harry nodded. He tried to say something—anything—but words seemed too small. How to convey the truth of the matter? The graveyard, the blood, the bone… "Our government doesn't want to believe it, but yes. He's back, Fleur. Cedric and I fought him, and Voldemort killed him—took a curse that was meant for me." Harry let out a deep, shuddering breath. "Merlin, do you believe me?"
"I believe you. And my father believes me. Which is part of the reason for my visit. He would like to meet you."
"Your father is an undersecretary for your President of Magic, isn't he?"
"Oui, he is."
Harry contemplated the implications of having someone in that position of power on his side. Did it mean that one man believed the truth? Or was he representing the belief of the entire French magical government? The implications of that could be huge… but it would also cast a lot of light on him, which given certain activities could turn ugly...
"I would like to meet him, as well."
"Then zis is settled." Fleur's smile returned. "How wonderful. He is a kind man, 'Arry. When do you think you can travel…?"
"We'll discuss that in a moment. I have a feeling this was more than just a social visit, Fleur. There is something you are not telling me." Harry squeezed her hand. "You have that same look of trepidation on your face that I saw before the hedge maze last year."
Fleur bit her lip. "Oui, yes, 'Arry. I received a strange note… eet made mention of you."
"Oh?"
She slipped a hand into her coat and removed a creased scroll of parchment. The broken wax seal looked all too familiar.
Harry sighed as he unfurled the letter and read the missive:
Miss Delacour,
A mystic. A path. A river of glass.
The wild dreams of a lightning-struck scar. Consider this an invite to his memory.
Harry Potter killed our mother and I will kill him.
Warmest regards, beautiful lady,
The Dragonfly Queen
"Well…" Harry chuckled. "Suitably dramatic."
"You do not seem too surprised," Fleur said. "Those words are written in blood, 'Arry."
"Yes, I found a similar note not too long ago. Someone is playing a game with us, Fleur. I followed the blood on my note… it led me to a Muggle girl." He wrapped the scroll back up. "Which I don't know what to make of just yet. Can I keep this?"
"Oui."
Harry linked his arm through Fleur's again and they continued their trek along the lakeshore. "It is nice to see you. I may be visiting France soon, for the Floating Markets. We could have lunch?"
"I would like zat, yes. I will invite my father."
And then there was silence—a comfortable silence, as Harry and Fleur followed the curve of the lake along the borders of the Forbidden Forest. The castle looked dark and imposing in the distance, against the storm-strewn sky.
"Gabrielle sends her regards." Fleur shared a secret smile. "She is still quite taken with you."
"A shame for her that I'm madly in love with her older, beautiful sister."
Fleur laughed softly and kissed Harry on the cheek. "No, you are not. But eet is kind of you to say such nice things."
So…
Two notes. Deux notes.
And one sent to the last person Harry would have expected. Or, rather, the last person he had assumed anyone would have expected.
Fleur was his friend, as Cedric had been.
Together, the two Triwizard Champions had been the closest thing to friends Harry Potter had ever had. Which was how he liked it. People could be distractions, friends ever more so, but what had started out last year as a desire to learn from one another had…
Blossomed, Harry thought, and snorted laughter as he strolled up through the castle to the seventh floor. It seemed like a word Hermione Granger would use. He had caught her eye just before leaving the Hall that morning with Fleur. There was something she wanted to discuss. It could keep.
But Harry had thought his friendship with Fleur a secret thing. Well, not so much secret, as minor. Incidental. Did the Dragonfly Queen, whoever that pseudonym belonged to, think to attack him through his French companion? The idea was troubling. Harry realised with a start that perhaps he should be worried.
Not for himself, but for Fleur.
That was something that should have occurred to him before she walked back to Hogsmeade. He had already lost one friend due to not thinking fast enough. Perhaps he was more entranced by her charm and beauty than he realised.
Harry shook his head. Fleur was more than capable of looking after herself. Just the same, he would mention his concerns when he saw her next in France.
Headmaster Dumbledore was waiting in the corridor that led to Harry's balcony—the one he used to leap up onto the roofs and reach the Vault—as if he had been expecting him. But no, the old wizard couldn't know about what Harry got up to on the roofs. No one knew.
"Good afternoon, Professor Dumbledore," Harry said.
The headmaster turned from admiring a simple portrait of white lilies, swaying in the breeze next to some picturesque, ambling countryside river. He looked genuinely surprised at the chance meeting, but Harry knew he had had a century or more to affect such surprise. Four years at the castle had taught him to expect anything and hide everything when it came to Albus Dumbledore.
"Good afternoon, Harry. How are you today?"
"Well, sir. And you?"
"Fine, fine. Yes. I must admit I was pleased to see you in such happy company this morning, with Miss Delacour."
"Fleur and I are friends, yes."
"She was most polite in extending her visitors request to me. Please inform her, when you see her next, that no such formality need trouble her. She is welcome at Hogwarts, always."
"I'll do that."
Harry and Dumbledore stood in companionable silence for half a minute, the older surveying the younger from behind his half-moon spectacles.
"Healer Tenbrook came to see me yesterday," the headmaster eventually said. "She tells me you have been shirking your time with her."
Harry grimaced. The counsellor was a kind woman, but she couldn't help with what had happened. Who could? "I was under the impression that those sessions were not mandatory."
"They are not, Harry, they are not. Yet I have always found that help is most forthcoming to those who ask for it, hmm. Perhaps go and see her, for my peace of mind if nothing else."
Harry held a profound respect for Albus Dumbledore. The old man deserved respect, more than any other man he had ever met. Still, this interference in his state of mind was grating. "I don't think I need to, sir. I'm handling what happened in my own way. If anything, I've already moved on. I'm over it."
A lot of blue potion, and a lot of avenues of study, had helped with that.
Dumbledore did not push the issue. "Well, if you do decide to go see her, I am sure her expertise may prove more useful than you may think." He paused. "There is another matter I would like to discuss, and if you are certain you are 'over it', perhaps it is time…"
"Oh?" For an awful moment, Harry was certain Dumbledore knew about the Vault. About his potions. About all the none-too-legal aspects of his magical education. That it was all about to come out, and he would have no recourse.
"I've delayed asking this of you, Harry, but I would like to request, and please feel free to decline, permission to view your memory of that night in Little Hangleton. Of Voldemort's resurrection."
Harry blinked. "Well, of course. I guess. If anyone should see it, sir, then you should."
"Thank you. Shall we proceed to my office?"
"You want to do this now?"
"Unless you have a prior engagement, my boy."
"No. No, of course not. Just detention with Professor Umbridge in two hours."
So Harry delayed his plans to begin work on the next batch of his blue potion. He had enough ingredients and cauldrons for three quarters of the next consignment, but given the timeframe and the afternoon he would have to sneak way from Hogwarts to France, work needed to begin now.
It looked like he had a late night ahead of him.
Once up the winding staircase and in his office, Headmaster Dumbledore retrieved his pensieve and set it down on his desk. Fawkes, the golden phoenix, sang softly from his perch. Harry spared the bird a quick glance and drew his wand.
"Everything you can remember, my boy. Every detail, no matter how small."
"Sure. No problem, sir."
Harry extracted the memory with the tip of his wand and let it float along the surface of the pensieve for a moment, before striking it from his wand.
A heavy moment waited to pass between the two of them. Harry cleared his throat. "Shall we?"
Dumbledore nodded, and together they slipped into the pensieve…
…and to the heart of the hedge maze, standing before the glittering Triwizard Cup. Harry and Dumbledore appeared behind a slighter younger Harry and a very much still alive Cedric Diggory.
"You should take it, Harry," Cedric said. "You saved me twice in this blasted maze."
Harry watched himself stare at the cup as if it mattered—as if the damn tournament meant anything. He had contemplated taking the cursed trophy for himself. If he had been just a touch more self-centred and arrogant, Cedric would still be alive. But also, it would be much more likely that Harry would have died in his place.
"Here comes the brightest idea I've ever had…" Harry whispered to Dumbledore.
"We take it together, Cedric. Seeing as how Fleur hasn't made it this far. A Hogwarts victory."
Cedric wiped a spot of blood from the corner of his mouth and chuckled. "So be it."
Harry just shook his head and Dumbledore sighed as the two memories grasped the portkey and were whisked away across the face of the country.
Only to appear in a dark, fog-strewn cemetery under a black sky.
Harry watched himself tumble forward out of the portkey vortex alongside Cedric. The mist was so thick and heavy that he didn't see what Cedric hit his head on, but it was most likely a worn tombstone. The Hufflepuff champion struck the rock hard, opening up a jagged and nasty looking cut across his forehead. His eyes fluttered up into the back of his head and he slumped, unconscious.
"I leave him there," Harry said to the headmaster. "Just like I told you, after it happened. Pettigrew has me bound to Riddle's father's grave, and if Cedric had just stayed down after the ceremony…"
"He saved you, Harry. Let us not forget that."
"No."
Together, headmaster and student watched the events unfold. Harry watched himself try and wake Cedric, only for his keen mind to kick in and realise that events had gone off script here. He left Cedric unconscious and concealed in the fog, wand out, and turned to face whatever had pulled them here.
It wasn't until the memory of Harry saw the name on one of the nearby gravestones that a flicker of true fear rippled across his face.
Tom Riddle
1905 – 1943
"I knew then. I honestly did." Harry spoke quietly within the memory. "Look, I even make to turn back to Cedric and the portkey, what I should have done in the first place, but…"
Cords of purple magic, of malice, came spinning out of the fug and wrapped themselves around the younger Harry, slamming him against the grave of Voldemort's father and binding him in place.
"…but it was almost like this was meant to happen, Headmaster."
What happened next Harry had explained to Dumbledore more than once. Wormtail slithering out of the darkness, an abomination in his arms. The bone, the blood, the flesh...
The Dark Lord reborn.
Harry and Dumbledore watched the whole ghastly affair unfold. Voldemort's yearlong plans come to fruition. They watched him revel in his new body, tenderly stroke his wand and finally turn his pale and snake-like head upon the small, quiet boy lashed to the headstone.
The pain.
"Crucio!"
The mocking, the humiliation.
"The Boy… Who Lived. How lies have fed your legend, Harry!"
And Harry watched himself steel his courage, his determination, and spit in the face of the Dark Lord. Dumbledore placed a gentle hand on his shoulder as Voldemort's servants apparated to his side, and Voldemort asked him if he were ready to die.
The memory of Harry seemed to ponder the question for a long moment, as the Death Eaters sneered and laughed.
"I spoke at length with your shade in the Chamber of Secrets," Harry said. "His… your… arrogance was astounding."
Dumbledore murmured something below hearing at the look of surprise on Voldemort's face. Harry wasn't sure what to make of it, but he filed away the connection for future reference.
"My… what?" Voldemort whispered, casting a look at Lucius Malfoy behind his mask.
"Oh yes, oh yes." Harry laughed. "Now release me and give me my wand, Lord Voldemort. You killed my mother, and I will send you back to whatever hell you just crawled out of!"
Even Dumbledore seemed to be holding his breath as Voldemort stared down at the Harry tied to the gravestone. It was a tense, violent moment that could have gone either way. At long last, Voldemort waved his wand and the bindings around Harry disappeared.
He got to his feet and tore his wand from Wormtail's grip.
And the rest played out spectacularly. Harry used what little skill he had, compared to Voldemort, to dodge and weave around the 'playful' spells sent his way. The Death Eaters jeered from the sidelines. Despite his brave words, this was a fight that could only end one way.
"Avada Kedavra!"
"No!"
And as Harry dived behind a tombstone to avoid the green light of death, Cedric emerged from the fog, blood running down his face, and cast his own Killing Curse.
Thick coils of sparkling emerald light erupted from Cedric's wand, coursing through the air toward the Dark Lord. Harry watched from behind the tombstone as Voldemort stepped aside and the curse struck one of the masked Death Eaters—he did not know whom—and cries of shock and surprise erupted from the crowd.
"He was fiercely loyal, wasn't he?" Harry said to Dumbledore from their perspective. "He not only died, but killed, for me."
"You would do well to think of Voldemort as a creature beyond redemption, Harry. What was once a man is now the broken thing you see before you. I would not have reprimanded young Mr Diggory if his curse had hit the proper target. It would have been a kindness."
"I'm not sure I could ever use that curse…"
Dumbledore knew this part of the story, as well, but said nothing as Harry emerged from behind the tombstone and together, he and Cedric, shot wild curses at the Dark Lord.
Voldemort laughed—cackled—high into the stagnant air. He seemed to pay Cedric no attention whatsoever.
Then, with stunning ease, he disarmed Harry, ripping his wand from his grasp with a swift spell. It stuck tip first into the muddy earth.
"Avada Kedavra!" The next curse would have ended Harry's life then and there, but the Dark Lord, duelling the both of them, had anticipated Cedric's move even before he made it.
Cedric stepped across and in front of Harry, who was bereft of his wand, to cover a retreat. It cost him his life. In the space between heartbeats, Harry saw what Voldemort had done. A victim of his fierce loyalty.
The curse struck Cedric just below his hairline. The Hufflepuff champion fell dead to his knees and then forward onto his face.
Harry dived for his wand.
The Dark Lord was no longer smiling.
"I think he was bored at this point," Harry said to Dumbledore. "He'd had enough of this."
"Avada Kedavra!"
The memory of Harry managed to cast the first frantic spell that came to mind, as he clenched his wand and a handful of mud. "Expelliarmus!"
The spells collided midair.
"And here we have that brother wand magic I don't quite understand."
"Priori Incantatem." Dumbledore stepped close to the memory of Voldemort as the rare magical effect took place, scrutinizing his face. Whatever conclusions he came to were not shared with Harry.
The memory had nearly run its course.
As he had explained many times, the shades of Voldemort's murders shimmered from his wand, distracting the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters long enough for Harry to summon the portkey and, dragging Cedric's body with him, return to Hogwarts.
The memory ended. Student and headmaster emerged from the pensieve and stood in companionable silence for a long moment. Burnt orange light streamed in through the window. They had spent the better part of the afternoon reliving a nightmare.
"Thank you for sharing that, Harry." Dumbledore clasped his shoulder. "Yes, thank you."
"Of course. Good evening, Headmaster," Harry said, and excused himself from the ornate study.
Hermione idled outside of the Defence room, swinging her feet back and forth under a stone bench beneath a portrait of Falion the Prolific—a goblin who, in his time, sired a supposed thirteen hundred offspring—and wondered just how long detentions usually took.
Having never received one, of course, she was a bit in the dark when it came to such things. No matter, she was sure Harry would be done with whatever foolish punishment Umbridge had come up with soon. She had tried to speak with him at dinner, but he had been in and out of the Great Hall within five minutes.
Next to her was Look Homeward, Angel by Thomas Wolfe. Hermione had spent the last few hours bookmarking the various sections she thought pertinent to Harry's bizarre note. She had colour-coded them, naturally, in order of significance.
At quarter to nine Hermione was about to give up. What with curfew in fifteen minutes and a long hike back to Gryffindor—
The doors to the Defence room swung open with a bang and Harry Potter emerged, a look of grim death on his face. For a moment Hermione was taken aback. He looked frightening. All shadows and hard, emerald eyes.
Then he saw her and his expression changed in an instant—it was like magic. He smiled. "Hermione, what a pleasure."
"Hey, Harry. I knew you'd be here… Oh my, what happened to your hand?" There was a scrap of white cloth wrapped around his right hand. It was slowly turning red.
"Detention." He chuckled. "You want to talk, I guess? Let's step out into the cool air on the next level up. I'm sure it's a nice night out."
Hermione let herself be led up the nearby staircase and out onto one of the many castle balconies overlooking the grounds and the bailey courtyards far below on the seventh floor. It was a nice night. A million stars were strewn across the sky, amidst clustered interstellar darkness…
"That's a nice breeze," Harry said. He looked a touch flustered. "If you'll give me a moment."
Hermione was silent as Harry dug through his battered satchel. He removed a corked bottle of thick, yellow sludge and proceeded to rub it into his bloodied hand. Whatever it was, it stank. "Ah… that's better." He sighed with relief.
"What does that woman have you doing?" Hermione asked, her tone furious.
"Lines. Just lines. With a blood quill."
"A blood quill? That's wholly barbaric!"
"Indeed, but she has to think she's winning, remember. This," he waved his ruined hand, "is a victory for me, Hermione."
"But Headmaster Dumbledore wouldn't stand for it! He'd kick her out, if he knew. You should tell him."
Harry shook his head, placing a foot on the rampart and gazing into the night. "I believe his hands are more tied than we'd like to think. The Ministry will have his job before the year's out. That is, if they don't accept that the Dark Lord is back."
"Well, then we should do something," Hermione insisted. And then, as if the idea had just occurred to her, "Like train in secret, perhaps. All the spells we should be learning in her class. We could learn them ourselves!"
"That's a good idea. You should run with that."
"Yes." Hermione was more than a touch pleased. "Would you like to be involved?"
Harry shrugged and Hermione decided not to push the issue. He looked tired, tense…
"Was there something you wanted to see me about?" he asked.
"Hmm? Oh yes. Yes. Look at this." She offered him her copy of Thomas Wolfe's book and flicked to her most prominent blue bookmark. "That's what your strange note said, wasn't it? A stone, a leaf—"
"—an unfound door," Harry muttered, scanning the page. He cleared his throat, wincing. "Yes, yes it was. How did you find this?"
"I must have read it years ago, which is why it took me a day or two to recall exactly where I'd heard those words before. I'm usually much quicker. Do you think we could solve the riddle with this?"
Harry stumbled, swaying on the spot, but caught himself on the parapet. "Yes… I imagine the answer will be in there. Good work."
"Are you alright? You look a touch pale."
"Just the hand, most likely. I…" Harry frowned. "Thank you for this. Would you like to meet me tomorrow for lunch? We can discuss possible solutions?"
"Harry, you have a nosebleed!"
"Yes, I'm sure I do." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I believe I may have been poisoned, Miss Granger."
"What?"
He drew back the sleeve of his robes and uncovered his forearm. Hermione gasped at the network of black and bruised veins stretching up towards his elbow from his wrist. Something as slick as oil was moving under his skin!
"Harry!"
"If you'll excuse me…"
If Hermione was merely alarmed by the poisonous spikes working their way up Harry's arm, then she was flat-out astounded at what he did next. She watched as he stepped up onto the crenulated wall, grasped the stone drainpipe overhanging the courtyard fifty feet below, and clambered up onto the castle roof.
Where was he going?
Harry could taste blood on his lips and fire in his throat. He coughed and stumbled along the roof, heading to the Vault as fast as his weak knees could carry him.
His vision had blurred. The lights from the many windows around him swirled and spun like dancing stars.
Had Umbridge done this? It did not seem likely. Even in his somewhat frantic and hurried state, Harry's logical mind thought it extremely doubtful that the Ministry woman would poison him during a scheduled detention. Suspicion would immediately fall upon her. No, while it was a possibility, this could have been anyone. But how? But when?
He made short work across the roofs. It was only because he had done it so many times before that he didn't fall to his death.
Stumbling into the Vault, Harry splashed through the curtain of magical water and slipped out of his robes and shirt as quick as he could. His satchel fell to the floor. The black veins had spread beyond his elbows, on both arms now, and across his shoulders. It was a short, sudden trip to his heart from there.
"Bother," he mumbled. It was getting harder and harder to draw a proper breath. He lurched across the circular room and into his laboratory annex. Torchlight sprang to life along the walls.
With a flick of his wand Harry unlocked his potions stores and scrambled amongst the shelves for his curative stock. He found a box of bezoars and swallowed two.
Just to be safe, he uncorked a few vials of broad-spectrum antidote he had prepared earlier for an occasion such as this. Well, not entirely such as this. He had been more concerned about accidentally poisoning himself during his experiments, but attempted murder was still a justifiable use of the expensive and rare ingredients.
Someone will pay for this…
The world was still spinning around his head. He was sure that his partially digested dinner was about to make a reappearance. Harry blinked and found himself back in the main room of the Vault. He was hot. Sirius floated indifferently to his violent shaking and bleeding across the way.
Harry took a few deep breaths.
Then he realised he could take a few deep breaths, and took a few more. Something was working. But he felt lightheaded. Mixing remedies may have been an inspired but foolhardy venture.
"Harry…?"
Through the pain and the nausea he managed to focus on the entrance to the Vault. Hermione Granger stood there, arms wrapped about her chest, staring at him with all the apprehension of a fifteen-year-old girl happening upon a secret lair full of foreign and outlawed contraband.
Not to mention soulless, mass-murdering godfathers.
Harry began to laugh. He took a step forward, another, and then slumped to the floor.
The encroaching darkness claimed his vision and all thought faded to black.