The following week was a rather somber one. Old Bones's collapse, and the subsequent announcement of his illness rippled through the school. More than once, Harry spied the teachers talking to one another in hushed tones, ignoring the antics of the students eating their breakfasts or lunches or dinners before them. He found himself wishing Hagrid were back from helping out Newt Scamander: the friendly half-giant would be a good source of information.

The discovery of Old Bones's illness coincided with particularly grim articles in the Daily Prophet: three witches were attacked in Diagon Alley in broad daylight, just outside Ollivander's shop; February''s full moon — one that Remus spent on the grounds which Harry pretended not to notice — brought with it the report of two werewolf attacks; and the Dark Mark was seen in Northumberland, hovering over the home of a man who'd died with his wards and locks intact. Now that he knew Benjamin Fenniwick was a member of the Order of the Phoenix, Harry lingered over the article on the werewolf attack, reading and rereading it.

Remus caught him at it. "I read that one." His voice was rough, and there were fresh marks on the backs of his hands. There was also a faint, musty odor to him, like a whiff of a wet dog. It had not, Harry supposed, been an easy moon for him. "I wondered," he added, "which one I pity more. The one who died in the attack, or… the one who lived to be bitten."

There was nothing Harry could do about the bitterness in Remus's tone. A flush climbed up the back of his neck. Despite his threat at James and Lily's wedding, Remus had not attempted to broach any sort of private conversation, instead choosing moments like this to exude a sort of private intimidation.

Harry did not like this.

"I pity the man who died," he said firmly. "The one who lived still has his life ahead of him."

Remus made a faint sound of disgust, and shoved back from the table, abandoning the plate of beans, stewed mushrooms, and toast he'd just set down.

A far more welcome visitor arrived in a flurry of bright red hair, smiling lips, and a dark green cloak pinned at her throat. "It's here!" said Ginny.

She waved a bit of parchment at him. Harry shoved the depressing Prophet away and grabbed at it. It was exactly what he needed to forget the events of the last week. There, written in a faintly familiar scrawl, was a letter from Arthur Weasley, saying his schedule was clear the following Saturday, and asking very politely if he could meet them at their new home in order to assess what they might need from them.

Ginny brushed her thumb along the written words; she did it with near reverence. "Have I mentioned how much I appreciate you for this?" she asked, looking up at him; her expression was nearly as solemn as the mood of the entire castle. "I can't wait to see him." Excitement and sorrow twined together in her tone. "And it's only two days from now!"

"We'll be there," promised Harry, leaning back on the bench, taking his last bite of stewed mushrooms and chasing a couple of beans with his spoon. "We could bring him breakfast, you know—"

"Mum will have fed him," Ginny said with great amusement. Her body seemed to deflate for a moment, before she grew buoyant again. "We'll figure out something…"

Harry took this to mean that Ginny wanted every excuse to spend time with the father who would not even know of her existence for another two and a half years. He leaned across the table, forgetting the butter dish, which the arm of his robes dragged through. "We could ask him to build on, renovate all the rooms, pay him to spend every Saturday with us," he said staunchly.

"And then we'll have him do more!" she said with great enthusiasm, shaking her head back and forth so her hair swung out in an arc behind her.

"He'll get sick of us," said Harry, suppressing a laugh.

"It'll be worth it," she informed him.

Restless energy burned from her.

Harry dropped his voice. "I have a couple hours free," he said, tilting his head. "Can you skive off… we could go flying," he added, when she looked torn. "We haven't done that in a while." Leaning even further forward, he said in the lowest possible voice, hoping no one had found anything curious in their demeanor. "Or we could… you know."

It was an activity, now that term had started, they almost always reserved for night time, though two Sunday mornings had been impossible to resist. He hadn't seen her so burning with energy like this, and he longed to know how much that might translate once they were alone under her sweet-smelling covers, the ones that always managed to take on a lingering scent of their love-making, improving it.

"Oh, I can skive off," said Ginny, eyes gleaming. "But I want to spend it flying, and save the other for later. I think"—her grin widened—"I want a bit more time for that."

Harry, hoping her attitude would not change in the intervening hours of class and dinner and study, readily agreed, swung off the bench, and headed up to Gryffindor Tower to fetch his broom.

HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP

The day they were to meet Arthur finally arrived, and Harry was amused by Ginny's sudden activity. Instructions flew fast, she changed her mind every thirty minutes, and Harry got to the point where he just nodded and smiled. "Mum will have fed him," she said repeatedly, usually an hour before she insisted on ordering food from Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade, or Godric's Hollow. It seemed she was torn between providing her father with every single one of his favorite meals, and then would just as quickly talk herself out of it.

Harry's favorite bits were when she wanted to be distracted; he very enthusiastically distracted her three times the day before.

Despite her words that Molly would have already fed Arthur, Ginny had ultimately insisted they get to their new house early and set up a bit of a snack table near the Apparition point, which was a small, dusty circle about forty yards from the main house.

"I suppose you know a Weasley appetite better than I do," Harry teased. He attempted to snatch a piece of ham, and she swatted at his hand. "Hey!"

"I know Potter appetites now too," she said.

Unbidden, a shiver went through Harry: It wasn't often that she said his true name, and hearing it out here, in the open, made his body tighten.

"You'll have half of it demolished in no time." She meant the food, but there was a devilish smirk playing about her lips that told Harry she knew what she'd just done. Then, to prove it, she added: "Later, Harry." Her fingertips pressed into the front of his heavy winter cloak.

"Promise?" Harry asked, catching her hand in his.

Her eyelashes flickered as she rolled her eyes. "When do we not?" she asked, laughing.

They were still standing like that, looking at each other, laughing, when a small pop announced Arthur's arrival. Each took a rather large step backward; Ginny had to reach out and catch her small tower of triangle sandwiches before it toppled over.

Arthur was immediately reaching forward with his hand. Ginny flung herself in front of Harry, taking her father's hand, and jabbering at her oblivious father in a way that warmed Harry from the inside, making him smile. Arthur, in contrast, was far more serious. He was a kindly man, and had always been so as long as Harry had known him. Now, though far younger, there was a seriousness in his demeanor that made Harry's eyebrows stretch upward to his hairline.

"I'm sorry it's taken so long for me to clear my schedule," Arthur was telling Ginny.

Now Ginny was reassuring her father, beaming, eyes shining. "No, no, I know you still work at the Ministry! And we know you're busy at home. We're just glad you could meet with us at all… and honestly, we don't need it. We're still at Hogwarts, you know!"

"And I appreciate you waiting for me," said Arthur, his gaze including Harry, and his sincerity reading clear. And yet… his smile was short, and his familiar, kindly face shifted into something more sober. "This is exactly the sort of project I like to take on, you know. Not had much of that, of course. Mostly, if you'd believe it, it's redoing kitchens."

"Kitchens?" Harry said.

"Yes," said Arthur. "It's mostly to do with the toddlers and the little ones… kitchens are generally the victims of willfully destructive baby magic." A smile lit his face again. "I have five myself, you see. After my oldest destroyed ours–"

"Bill destroyed your kitchen?" Ginny asked, astonished.

"Yes, but – nevermind — well, Bill is a responsible little boy," said Arthur in a rush, "but even responsible little boys can be less so when they've grabbed their father's wand and turned it on the kitchen." The smile was back in his voice. "But Molly and I redid the kitchen ourselves, and I quite liked the work. Then I helped some other friends… and others… now, it's a regular thing. But I've always wanted a project like this." He swept his hand toward the three-story house and the several out-buildings.

"You've got quite a haunting here," Arthur observed, gesturing toward the house.

"So we keep hearing," said Ginny. "But you know, we haven't even seen a bit of it." Giving him a curious glance, she asked: "How can you tell just by looking at it?"

Arthur smiled. "My wife charmed these for me, actually." He tapped the bridge of his glasses. "In my line of work – I work for the Ministry, you know, in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Division – it helps to be able to see enchantments and such. It's not for anything huge, of course… but Molly's an extremely talented witch."

"Spoken like a wonderful husband," said Ginny, smiling so wide her face threatened to split.

"It's easy, when I've got such a wonderful wife," said Arthur.

"What can we do?" Harry asked. "About the ghosts?"

"That's not really part of what I do here," Arthur said, now hesitant. "I'm a builder, and I can definitely help with warming up the place – there'll be cold spots, with so many ghosts here – but I can't help with banishing them." He looked torn and indecisive for a moment, then his face cleared. "Oh, but I've a friend… he recently transferred to the Spirit Division in the Department of the Control of Magical Creatures. Amos Diggory. I can give you his card. I'm sure he could help with a banishment."

"Oh, I didn't mean that," said Harry, surprised. "Seems like it's their home, too, doesn't it?"

This short conversation had seemed to lift Arthur's spirits; now, he regarded Harry with frank appraisal. "I believe it is," he said. "We've a ghoul who has lived in our attic since before we moved into our home… these ghosts will have been here a long time."

"Right," said Harry.

"I think what Harry meant," said Ginny, "is to ask if there's anything we need to do about living quarters. I don't mind living with ghosts, but I don't want them in my bedroom with me. Or the bathroom. More importantly, the bathroom." All three shared a brief chuckle.

"We don't need our own Moaning Myrtle," Harry muttered.

"Yes, that would be quite uncomfortable," agreed Ginny.

Arthur looked from one of them to the other. "I can do some research for you," he offered. "As I said, I've got a friend in the Spirit Division. He can have a peek at the Registry, let us know what kind of ghosts you're dealing with and who they were when they were one of the living. It'll add to what we've already agreed to–"

"That's not a problem," Harry said firmly.

"It's worth it not to have to think about it," said Ginny. "We've got NEWTs this year, and honestly!"

"It's a hard year?" Arthur said with sympathy.

Harry and Ginny made nearly identical sounds of beleaguered frustration. It wasn't feigned: the professors continued to pile on the work, all except Old Bones. Arthur offered them a few words of commiseration. Into this conversation, a mild storm began to intrude. Raindrops began to fall; with a flick of his wand, Arthur raised a shield above them.

As though the weather had caused a shift in Arthur's mood, his face tightened, and grim lines bracketed his mouth. This was followed by a long, searching glance around the grounds of their new home.

"It's a large property," he said.

"Yeah," said Harry.

"It's quite big," said Ginny. "At least, to us. It's something like thirty acres."

"I think thirty-seven," said Harry. It had surprised him, that figure. Having grown up in the suburbs, he hadn't had much experience with larger properties, though Ginny had informed him that the Burrow was situated on twice that amount.

"Nicely sized," said Arthur. He squinted off into the distance, as though looking for the edge of the property. There was an air of distraction about him: his business-like expression faded into more somber lines.

Harry shuffled his feet.

"And how," asked Arthur, clearing his throat, "do you plan to protect it?"

"Well," said Ginny. "We were rather hoping you could help us with that…"

"I can, actually," said Arthur. His attention pulled back to them, he glanced from Ginny to Harry and back to Ginny again. "You'll know that most wizarding houses will have wards and enchantments to protect from… anything that might happen."

"Yes," said Harry. "Dumbledore said this property has still got a bunch on it, in fact."

"Ah," said Arthur. "That's very good. But straight enchantments may not be as… permanent or effective." He hesitated. "You two are just kids," he added, "you probably don't need it, but… there are more effective steps you can take. Most charms will fall apart if battered, but there are a couple of different enchanted objects that can provide additional layers of security.

This sounded good to Harry, and he said so just an instant before Ginny.

Arthur mopped his brow with the sleeve of his robes. "It's good," he said finally. "It's a good choice."

"But…?" Ginny was staring at her father, arms folding.

"The people that do the best work are the McKinnons," said Arthur. "They can make a chain that can be buried along the borders of your property that will create that extra layer of protection. But it's very pricey. The cost is high."

"Do you have one?" Harry asked curiously.

"No, but…"

"But?" Ginny repeated. A flicker of her eyelash revealed that she was thinking much along the same lines as Harry: Arthur and Molly Weasley didn't have that sort of protection around their home simply because they couldn't afford it."

After giving her a brief, surprised flick of a smile, he said, "No buts. Please excuse me, you've made the right choice. McKinnon's does great work — they're artists, you know — and the protective charms are top notch. It's… great." The pause was tiny this time, but it was still there. Then, letting out a self-deprecation chuckle, and mopping his brow, he said: "Do excuse me, I'm awfully distracted today. It was a long night."

"Twins giving you a hard time?" Ginny asked, sympathetic.

Real shock tightened Arthur's expression. "You know about—"

"Yes, we've been to your home," said Ginny. "Almost a year ago now… we bought stuff from your farmstand. We met Molly, and met the twins. That's partly why we went with you, actually." Her smile was bright, genuine, and warm; Harry was not at all surprised with Arthur relaxed. "I imagine it's not easy with them!"

"They can be little hellions," Arthur admitted. "But they're good boys at heart. My family is… everything. I'm lucky to have them."

"I'm sure they're lucky to have you," said Harry.

"Ah." Consternation flashed in Arthur's eyes. He took off his glasses and rubbed them on the front of his robes, then put them back on. "Excuse me again, I forgot briefly about your situation."

Harry rushed to reassure him. "No excuses necessary! We liked what we saw of your family."

"Your wife is brilliant," said Ginny.

"And, you know, everything." Harry made an expansive gesture.

"It's just," said Ginny, "that you seem distracted."

Arthur sighed heavily. "I suppose I am," he murmured. Behind his glasses, his blue eyes were direct. "A friend of mine from school, Gary Buffin, he was killed yesterday."

Ginny clapped her hand over her mouth. "Oh, no!" she said. "Did you know him well?"

"What happened?" Harry asked, a second behind her.

"We were better friends at school," said Arthur. "But we both worked at the Ministry, so I saw him frequently. He was in the Department of Pox and Plague. There was a tragedy with his family a couple of years ago." Before Harry could ask what, he continued. "His lover was murdered, tortured, it looked like, at least that's what I heard. The Dark Mark was set over his house."

"The Department of Pox and Plague," said Harry, thoughtful. That was certainly a familiar Ministry department to Harry. Two years ago, Voldemort would have known that he was going to unleash the basilisk pox on the unsuspecting wizarding population, wouldn't he? That would have taken time to plan, to set things in place. What had Gary Buffin's lover died for?

"Most think it's something the lover was involved in," said Arthur. "Bit of an odd target, isn't it? If it was"—Arthur's voice dropped—"You Know Who, why target the Department of Pox and Plague?"

Harry, who could think of several reasons, most of which he could not share, said nothing.

"Well, what was she involved with?" Ginny asked reasonably. "The lover?"

"He was a writer," said Arthur. "He wrote books for the young ones. Hard to believe he'd attract attention from either — from anyone."

Harry frowned.

"I think he wants us to speculate," Arthur was saying. "It'll just drive us mad, you know, to wonder what they did to offend, and wonder if we're next. But – ah. You know. It's not why I came here today." He drew himself upward; he was as tall as Ron. With what seemed like real effort, he gave them a pleasant, professional smile. "You aren't paying me to worry over things; I shouldn't have even mentioned it–"

"We don't care about the money–"

"-but I care about doing the job," said Arthur, implacable. "Now… the chain will be linked into a circle once it's in place…"

Later, once they had returned to Hogwarts, were seated beside each other in the common room, and Harry had performed the Muffliato Charm, he said quietly, "I didn't know your dad could do all that. Or that he didn't just work for the Ministry."

"Well," said Ginny. "You heard my mum last year. And…" she cocked her head, and nodded toward the copy of the Evening Prophet they had spread out in front of them. Neither had read it yet, but Harry was keen to read about what the press would say about the death of the member of the Department of Plague and Pox. "I think with everything going on, I think that the Division Dad works for is pretty far down the Ministry's list of priorities."

"Makes sense," said Harry. "Well, we're just lucky, aren't we? We–" He was about to say that they were lucky to have Arthur working on their home for them, when his own father came to stand in front of them, hands on his hips, and a cheerful grin on his face. "Oh, hi," he said, forgetting the Muffliato. "What's up?"

"My ears are buzzing," James said rather too loudly, with great humor. "What's got you two so serious?"

Sheepish, Harry ended the charm. "Sorry, we were just having a discussion."

"I could see that," said James. His smile faded a little, replaced by a tiny flash of concern. "Everything all right, Peverell? Er, Peverells, I should say. You two weren't at lunch today?"

"It's fine," Ginny assured him.

"We had a meeting," said Harry, relaxing into his chair.

James flopped down beside Ginny, and ran a hand through his hair, making it even untidier than ever. "I'm sorry," he said, with a chuckle. "Remus said I've been clucking over everyone like a mother cockatrice." He jerked his chin toward the Evening Prophet, a gesture so reminiscent of Ginny's that Harry hid a grin. "All the paper writes about anymore are deaths and disappearances… I shouldn't have been worried when you didn't show up for lunch."

"It's fine, James," said Harry, and he meant it. Ginny was murmuring a similar reassurance. "We had to go… you know, we bought a house? Well, it's in a bit of a state… we had to find someone who could help us with setting it right before we move in in the summer."

James was looking at them, mouth slightly open. "You bought a house together?"

"Yeah, well, we didn't want to live with Sol anymore," said Harry.

"So we pooled our galleons together," said Ginny.

"How much was it?" James asked carelessly. "Was it difficult? Dad put up a house for us at Potter Gardens, so Lily and I didn't have to do anything like that… which is good, honestly, considering how mad it is out there."

"I know," said Harry. "It's not too hard." He grinned. "Dumbledore did most of the work, actually. We just paid the galleons. What was it, Gin? 32,000 galleons? That includes what the builder's doing."

James whistled. "That's quite a lot, actually."

Harry shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "Dumbledore suggested it as a good find. Again," said Harry, "he was the one who picked it, we just signed away the galleons."

"And we met with the builder," corrected Ginny. "Arthur Weasley, you know?"

"Oh, yeah, Weasley," said James. "Works for the Ministry? Figures out how to hoodwink the Muggles?"

Harry and Ginny both laughed at that.

"I tease, but Dad says that's one of the most important departments of the Ministry," said James. "It's a shame what they're doing to it."

"What's that?" asked Ginny, sitting forward.

"Well, the way Dad tells it, it used to be one of the most funded departments, its only competition being the Aurors," said James, briefly taking on the air of a professor. "It was prestigious to work there… but then Grindelwald came along, with his mad ideas of not keeping our societies separate for the safety of all, but to conquer the Muggles. Too many people agreed with him; every year, they crippled the department more and more, until now it's a shadow of what it once was. This is what Dad says, anyway."

"Hmm, I was right," murmured Ginny.

"Anyway," said James, plucking at loose threads on the seat of his chair, and jiggling his foot. "Sorry to interrupt you. Like I said, all these deaths… and all this stuff with Old Bones… spectris…"

"Old Bones," Harry said, wincing. "What Lily said… it's true? There's no cure?"

"Yeah," James confirmed, brow pinching together. "It's a wasting disease in the organs… no one knows how to stop it, really; once one organ is healed, it leaps into another and bides its time. He must've been ill for so long for it to be this bad…"

"And he didn't tell anyone?" asked Ginny, eyes round and sad. Harry would have taken her hand if his father weren't sitting right there. "That's so sad. I wonder why he kept it to himself? My grandmother had it, and we all took turns helping her. It's just awful."

James gave her a puzzled glance. "Your grandmother had it? And Harry's only just heard of it?" What went unspoken, but what Harry could clearly hear, was DIdn't you two grow up together?

Harry ignored the question, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling.

"Kept it private, then?" James asked.

"Mmm," mumbled Ginny, after elbowing Harry in the side.

Shrugging, Harry said, "Maybe I don't have all that good of a memory."

"Well," said James, after a short pause, "Old Bones hadn't told anyone. It's in its final stages, you know, name of the disease. I can't believe he managed to make it to my wedding and the reception…"

"He did seem rather quiet," said Ginny.

But Harry was looking at James. "He wasn't at your wedding," he said. "He was at the reception, but–"

"Yes, he was," said James, his lips quirked up in a smile. "We were just talking about it today, in fact, when I went to visit him."

Harry blinked at him, still quite sure that Old Bones hadn't been at the ceremony in the church, but had caught up with the bride and groom at the reception at Potter Gardens.

"You could visit him, too," suggested James. "He hasn't got a family, he told us that once. I bet he'd like it."

"I'll go tomorrow," Harry murmured.

HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP

But it wasn't for another three days that Harry climbed the stairs to the North Tower and Old Bones's rooms. He'd had good intentions, but first, Arthur had sent a rather urgent owl regarding the cost of the new windows along with a catalog providing different options. Instead of visiting, he and Ginny had spent a pleasurable several hours choosing not one set of windows, but deciding they wanted every window to be different. "It'll be more like the Burrow, that way," Ginny had said with great satisfaction. That had decided the issue. The second day, a Sunday, Sirius had come for a surprise visit, ostensibly to check on his godson and goddaughter, but really to let them know — since they were in touch again — that he was going to be out of touch for a bit, as he was trying to get information out of a couple of Mundungus Fletcher's associates, and that required living among them. Harry had been relieved enough that Sirius was confiding in him again that he hadn't questioned him too hard on what he was doing; there had been a very cold barrier erected when Harry had tried. Not wanting to risk another estrangement, Harry had given a mental shrug, and allowed his godfather some privacy.

But Tuesday, during the time when Harry was meant to be independently preparing himself for the Divination NEWT, but was really reading everything he could on Defense Against the Dark Arts, Harry decided then was as fitting a time as any to visit the ailing professor. Dodging Nearly Headless Nick and the Fat Friar, who were deep in conversation with each other and bobbing in the middle of one of the moving staircases, he continued upward.

At least he's not in the hospital wing anymore, thought Harry.

Coming out of Old Bones's private rooms was a tall, skinny woman with short black hair and a look of such apprehension that Harry dropped the book on numerology he was holding. "What's wrong?" he said, plunging his hand into his robes to hold his wand.

Bright red splashed across her face. "Nothing," she mumbled.

He peered behind her, into the open door that revealed a sitting room with other doors coming off of it: There was no sign of Old Bones. "Is… is he all right?" he asked, growing suspicious now. The witch was unfamiliar to him; why was she here?

"As well as can be expected," she mumbled, shoving her spectacularly unattractive glasses up her nose. "I'm his healer."

"Healer?" Harry asked, surprised.

"It's not my business to tell," she said, voice still low, eyes bouncing from left to right, and up and down, arms around herself, clearly frightened to the edge of her wits.

"What–"

"I hate being here," she burst out. "I hate it."

Harry had been about to ask what she was afraid of, but the hatred that stung out of her had him stepping back. Hogwarts had been the only true home he'd ever had; every stone of it was warm to him. But there was real, abiding loathing twisting the woman's face.

"Why?" he asked.

Her arms folded across her chest. She had to be older, approaching fifty, her face lined, but there was a sulkiness to the cant of her lips that reminded him of a twelve year old. "Someone who hates me is here."

"Who–"

"Olive?"

A querulous voice, one Harry barely registered as belonging to Old Bones, interrupted his question. Olive.

"The pain is already back, Olive, can you stay just a bit longer?"

Olive turned away from Harry.

"Olive," Harry muttered. "Are you Olive Hornby?" he asked. This was the witch who had sent Myrtle sobbing into a girl's loo? Harry relaxed, realizing he still had his hand on his wand.

"Yes," she said, warily, pressing her back against the wall right next to the open door. She seemed utterly terrified that Harry had recognized her first name enough to come up with her last. "How do you know that? Did he tell you I was his healer?"

"No," said Harry. "I met your brother the other day, and I've heard about you from Moaning–"

"Don't!" she snapped. "Don't say her name!"

Harry's mouth dropped open. Instead of red, her face was now livid – he'd seen this look on people's faces before, most often when he said Voldemort's name. Slowly, his eyebrows raised. "You're scared of her?"

"She ruined my life," Olive hissed. "You have no idea – no idea – what it was like, what she did at my brother's wedding." Her words cut off as abruptly as though snipped. "It doesn't matter," she said, drawing herself up to her tall, spindly height. "It's over, thank Merlin. I just hate being back here where she is. Now, if you'll excuse me…"

She spun on her heel, gave the surrounding room one more terrified look, and then went into Old Bones's sitting room, slamming the door behind her.

Harry stared at the closed door for some time. James had described the illness with the barest of bones, but Harry knew from working with Fleamont so closely for so many months, that the damage such illnesses could do could be quite severe. This was the first time that Old Bones had not been able to teach one of his classes. Stomach sinking, Harry wondered if this was the beginning of what James had called a final decline.

The door opened again before Harry was ready for it – he hadn't even picked up the text on numerology – but fortunately, Olive's back was pointed toward him.

"Well yes, sir," she said, quite astonished. Her hands were no longer empty: In one was a small vial of a brackish blood with a great clump in the middle. "I'll get this to St. Mungo's right away, but I can tell what it is! This will help greatly!"

"I was lucky," said Old Bones.

"You have a very good friend," said Olive.

"I do indeed… I've been a professor so long… I've made a lot of good friends."

"Not just anyone is so well-loved of his students that they would donate this," said Olive.

Harry stooped down, grabbing his numerology book. There was a sympathetic warmth in his gut: nearly everyone who knew Old Bones loved him… Harry was not surprised that a former student had provided the elderly wizard with whatever it was in that vial. Seeing him, Olive huffed, and tucked the vial in her pocket, cheeks burning red and eyes roving anxiously.

Thoughts wandering, his feet carried him of their own accord to the second floor. Slowing, Harry shoved his hands in his pockets. Different concerns filled his thoughts, blotting out the plight of one of his favorite teachers. February was passing quietly – at least, the days did. The nights with Ginny were an altogether different matter; a few weeks ago, they'd had to laughingly research better versions of silencing charms. But despite the pleasure and warmth, once a week – or perhaps once every two weeks – Harry's thoughts slid down a vast pipe and landed in a dark, skeleton-strewn tunnel, where he found himself anxious and in the dark, looking for Ron and never finding him. But Harry knew he needed to…

But this was his waking life, not one of his nightmares.

Harry did not enter Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. Ron was not down in the Chamber of Secrets, trying to excavate a caved tunnel, no matter how vivid the dreams were. That was long ago; even before Harry had been whirled back to the past, it had been three years since two adolescents had gone down to rescue Ginny from Tom Riddle's diary. That same diary had already been destroyed; what need would Ron have to be rescued?

They're just dreams, Harry told himself. It was a product of missing Ron, of seeing Ron's father, hiring him, realizing how much the two looked alike. Never mind that the dreams had started before they first met with Arthur at their haunted house. They didn't mean anything.

"What are you doing here?"

Harry heaved an inward sigh. There was Moaning Myrtle, eyes behind silvery glasses narrowed in hate, the petulant tone in her voice like scraping fingernails up a chalkboard.

"Nothing," he said honestly.

"I don't believe it!" she shrieked, coming all the way through the door to float in the air close enough to him that he could feel the cold emanating from her.

"I'm not, I'm going–"

An inhuman screech interrupted him.

For one blind instant, terror seized him, shaking him about the neck, before he shook it off. This was just a ghost; this was just Moaning Myrtle, who, frankly, Harry had viewed mostly as pathetic. He took a step away from her and pointed his finger. "No wonder you were hauled up here," he informed her, "Haunting poor Olive Hornby…"

She appeared dumbfounded. Light sparked off her glasses.

"She was just telling me how awful you are," said Harry.

Myrtle dropped three feet in the air. "Olive told you?" she said, with great interest.

Wary again, Harry took another step back. "Maybe not," he said.

"Liar," she said, incredulous. "Is she here?" There was malice and madness in her tone now; Myrtle was brighter, more solid. "She's here, isn't she? Olive Hornby, finally come back… I hope she hasn't forgotten me–"

"She hasn't," said Harry, hasty, "She was just telling me how awful she felt for how she treated you–"

"No she didn't!"

Without warning, Myrtle zoomed down the hall with the speed of Peeves, cackling.

"SHE'S ALREADY LEFT!" Harry bellowed after her, hoping it was true, that he'd been lost in thought long enough while he wandered here from Old Bones's classroom that Olive Hornby had had a chance to leave and not to face what had seemed to terrify her so much: an angry, vengeful Moaning Myrtle, who was not so much moaning right now as she was shrieking.

Shaking his head, shoving aside a bit of guilt – after all, what could Myrtle really do to Olive aside from yell at her? – Harry checked his watch, realized he was nearly late for Defense Against the Dark Arts, spun on his heel, and sprinted down the hall.

"Everything all right, son?"

Galatea Merrythought looked, if anything, even older than she had last week.

"I'm fine," said Harry, sliding into his desk just as the bell chimed. Ginny nudged him in the side, her eyebrow quirked. "Got held up," he whispered.

"By…?"

"Moaning Myrtle," Harry said honestly.

He was restless and fidgety during class, his frustration growing when Merrythought, in her quavery voice, lectured them.

"I'm going to ask her."

Ginny eyed him. "All right," she said.

The other students left the room in something of a rush, eager to get to their lunch. Harry and Ginny trailed behind, slowly packing up their school bags, waiting until the room was empty in order to approach the desk.

"Professor," Ginny said forthrightly, "we had a couple of questions about our textbook."

"Demystifying the Darkness," supplied Harry.

"Oh?" Professor Merrythought asked, looking from one to the other, in a voice that shook with age. "What is it, my dears?"

"It's about some of the latest chapters," Ginny told her.

"Like this one," said Harry, opening his textbook very carefully so that it did not fall apart to the chapter that was the most heavily censored. "Almost nothing in this chapter is readable."

"And we were wondering…" Ginny gestured toward Professor Merrythought and then to the book. "If you could tell us why."

"Oh," said Professor Merrythought, eyes watery and unfocused. "It's… Dumbledore doesn't want that subject taught… he did this when… well, I bought all these books off a collector, you know. We don't teach… no, we don't."

"But–"

"It's Dumbledore's orders," Professor Merrythought told Ginny. Then, a great look of confusion crossed her face and she cocked her head at Harry. "But you were asking about them already, weren't you?"

Harry actually looked over his shoulder to make sure someone else wasn't standing behind him. "I asked Madam Pince, but…"

"No, no," Merrythought continued in her shaky little voice. "A few years ago… you asked me about them." Giving Harry a fond look, she continued: "You're a bright young man… you'll do well with the Aurors, given your understanding…"

Trading a deeply confused look with Ginny, Harry said cautiously: "Professor… what did I ask you about?"

"Oh, you know, you left your friends behind at their tables and came to my desk and asked about–"

Something shifted in Merrythought's eyes, and she became less vague than she'd been the last several minutes. "You asked about Herpo the Foul," she said. But, frowning, she said, "Dumbledore… he said not to talk about it." Growing fretful, she said, "Oh, I hope… But we mustn't talk about it. We mustn't teach about them at Hogwarts." Giving him another fond look, she added: "There will be time enough when you're older, if you do join the Aurors, Tom"-beside Harry, Ginny jerked–"because Dumbledore's right… and you're still young…"

Professor Merrythought thinks I'm Tom Riddle, Harry asked in disbelief. Tom Riddle had been one of her students. "Becoming an Auror isn't in the future for – for Tom Riddle," he said with great surety.

"Professor," said Ginny, dragging the gaping Merrythought's attention back to her, "We had a little incident with a memory charm, and – and my friend here he's forgotten a lot of your class. If you gave us some of your memories, especially of times you've taught, uh, Tom, and had conversations with him… that would be so helpful."

Professor Merrythought was not the only one gaping at Ginny.

"Memories?" Merrythought asked, voice shaking harder. "That will help Tom?"

"That will help us immeasurably," Ginny said firmly.

Ten minutes later, they left the DADA classroom with a large bottle of silvery memories hidden in the pocket of Harry's robes. Once they were certainly beyond Merrythought's hearing, Harry let out a low whistle. It had taken him a minute to realize that Ginny was continuing Dumbledore's project in his absence: Her interest in Merrythought's memories was not simply to solve a mystery, but to add to their knowledge of Tom Riddle's time at Hogwarts.

"That was quick thinking," Harry said, glancing down at her. The sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose stood out against her pale skin. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," said Ginny.

He bumped her lightly with his hip, then took a large step away, putting plenty of space between them. "You tricked an old lady out of her secrets," he said, grinning.

Giving him a sideways look, Ginny gave him an answering smile. "Just don't tell my dad," she said.

"I'll try to restrain myself," he said. They would be seeing Arthur the very next day for a second visit.

HPHPHPHPHPHPHP

Even before he opened his eyes, Harry knew he was in the Chamber of Secrets again. The smell of dank walls, reptile, and stale air assaulted him until he sat up. His robes were drenched, and his steps were shaky as he staggered away from the dark pool and the statue's gaping mouth. For a brief, disorienting moment, Harry stared down at his own hands, wondering at the size of them, and the scar on the back of his left hand reading I must not tell lies.

I'm dreaming again.

The idea soared toward him, and Harry seized it as he might have once seized a golden Snitch. He was no longer twelve years old. This was not real, but a dream…

…and one he'd had before. It was more real this time than it usually was. Mostly, his recent Chamber dreams were nearly formless. Now, it felt like he was there.

Without even thinking about it, Harry whirled and strode toward the entrance. The Chamber blurred by him; the statues seemed to be moving. He might have been traveling as swiftly as the Hogwarts Express did as it was pulling out of King's Cross station. Heart pounding in his chest, robes now dry, discomfort fading, Harry was now running.

The dream version of Ron had cleared away a lot of the rocks in the tunnel.

"Ron!" Harry shouted. "Ron! Where are you?" Urgency had flooded into him.

"I'm right here."

And there, sitting cross-legged atop a great pile of rocks, was Harry's oldest friend in the world. Just as he had before, he appeared much older than he had been when Harry had last seen him, just before he'd been pulled into the Veil at the Ministry.

"How's Ginny?" Ron demanded. "Is she…?"

"She's… she's okay," said Harry, neglecting to mention he was sleeping beside her just now. "She misses all of you."

Ron nodded, eyes tear-bright. "That's… God. That's good to hear."

"Are you… er, okay?" Harry asked.

Ron avoided the question. "It's a lot of work, getting here," he said.

"How do you do it?" Harry asked.

Ron waved his hand. "It's a bit of magic that Dumbledore's portrait worked out."

"Dumbledore's portrait?" Harry demanded.

"Look, I don't have a lot of time," said Ron. There was an intense, burning look in his blue eyes. The scar on his face was reddened and puckered. "We know you're in the past and we know you're changing things. It's made everything unstable and we've no idea how everything is going to fall out–"

"I've got to change things," Harry interrupted, even as he wondered what Ron meant by unstable. "You can't know what it's like… I can't just–"

"-sit by and let things happen," Ron finished for him, impatient. "I know, Harry, you don't need to waste time we don't have by telling me what I already know. None of this is your fault. But listen, I need you to do something."

"What is it?" Harry asked.

Ron eyed him. "Find Gryffindor's sword."

"Don't you already have that?" Harry asked.

"It's one of the reasons why everything is unstable," said Ron. "But you need to find it. I know you can do it, Harry." His lips ghosted upward in a smile. "Find it in your time. I mean, find it where you are now. Look for it as though you've never looked for anything before." Ron was now fading from sight. "That's what I had to say to you… I have to go…"

Then it was Ginny's face appearing in Harry's sight. Abruptly, he was warm. Back in Ginny's bed, it was her flowery scent that filled his nostrils.

"Harry."

She was shaking his shoulder.

"Harry."

Harry blinked at her. "I was dreaming about Ron."

Ginny sat back on her heels. She'd been kneeling next to him, her face pale and worried in the lamp light. "You were dreaming about Ron? Because you were thrashing all about, talking about the Chamber."

An image of Gryffindor's sword flashed through his mind, accompanied by a sharp, stinging pain in his scar. Rubbing it, Harry muttered, "I was talking to Ron, and he's said we've got to find the sword."

"The what?" Ginny asked, Batting his hand away, she touched his forehead as though checking for a fever. "Ron told you that you have to find Gryffindor's sword?" Her forehead creased.

"Seemed so real," Harry said.

"But why would Ron need it?" Ginny pointed out reasonably, settling in beside him once more. A great yawn split her face, and she no longer seemed worried. In fact, she settled her head on his chest, and slung her arm over his stomach. "You got it, didn't you? When you rescued me in the Chamber."

Eyes wide, staring up at the soft, bobbing lights above them, Harry tried to convince himself that this second dream of Ron had, in fact, been a dream.

"I miss him too," said Ginny, long after Harry had thought she'd fallen back to sleep. "I miss them all so much."