Ginny's words about missing her family were still echoing through Harry's increasingly guilty thoughts when he witnessed his parents' graduation from Hogwarts a few weeks later. Those were weeks, when Harry looked back later, that in many ways should some of the most relaxing he'd had in his spring term at Hogwarts: his dreams were quiet, his godfather was speaking to him again, Dumbledore was mostly absent from Hogwarts, there were no mysterious messages from Dorcas Meadowes, no Inferi, no dire illnesses, no further suspicions from Remus, and no madmen attempting to kill Harry.

And yet, apart from entirely pleasurable interludes with Ginny, Harry found himself in a state of increasing frustration, for almost those exact reasons. He was not quite convinced that the dreams of Ron were just that: Dreams. Nearly every night, he went to sleep wondering if he would see Ron in the Chamber of Secrets, and wondered how and why it had happened before and if there was anything he, Harry, could do in order to make it happen again. It would do him good to have news of the rest of Ron's family that he could bring back to Ginny, and even Sirius.

Sirius was another worry weighing on Harry as February shifted into March, James and Lily and their friends finally took their NEWTs nearly a year after they were meant to, and preparations for a feast for them were well underway. What information did Sirius need so badly that he was silent and gone for weeks at a time? Harry found it hard to believe that Sirius needed to dive into Jennit Alley in order to discover the truth about their forced time travel. It was Ginny who suggested, while Harry stewed, that Sirius was, in fact, doing something for the Order of the Phoenix.

But Harry could not ask Dumbledore whether this was true or not because Dumbledore had made good on his promise: He was gone, searching for Simon Burke and bits and pieces of Tom Riddle's past. Perhaps once a week, he would make an appearance, but he was there only long enough for Harry to see him conferring quietly with the professors before whisking away again. Merrythought's memories were buried in Harry's trunk, fading gradually in importance. Surely, if Dumbledore had thought Merrythought would have any memories he needed, Dumbledore would already have procured them, after all. Dumbledore knew far more about the young Tom Riddle than Harry did.

And Harry was learning more and more why the older members of the Order of the Phoenix had spoken so hushed about the man Tom Riddle eventually became. With every Daily Prophet, there came a battering of news. There were deaths everywhere: The darkness had spread in earnest to continental Europe. An entire French village of Muggles had been slaughtered by rampaging giants, and there were threats of more to come.

The day of his parents's graduation feast, Harry was reading one such article – written by Benjamin Fenniwick, who had traveled to France – and feeling a sense of gloom stealing over him. His orange juice and toast sat forgotten in front of him. His thoughts had wandered up and over a number of years, rushing forward to that horrible summer of 1995 when he'd been trapped at the Dursley's house, waiting to see news like this. It was more horrible than he'd imagined. He stared down at the moving picture of a little girl crying in the middle of a devastated street, unblinking.

Into this brooding solitude, Professor Dumbledore's quiet voice intruded. "Mr. Peverell," he said. "Do you have a moment?"

Harry turned to gape at him, nearly knocking over his juice. "Yeah," he said, standing, and abandoning his breakfast without a second thought. He had a moment in which he felt hunted, when he saw Remus Lupin lift his head and watch them leave, before he ignored it, shrugging, and following Dumbledore up past the head table and into one of the small side rooms.

"Ginny's in class," said Harry.

"Yes," said Dumbledore, who left the door conspicuously open, and did not enter the room all the way. Eyes behind his glasses were serious. "I wished to warn you of something, and you can pass it on to Miss Peverell."

"All right," Harry said warily.

"There is a… certain monitoring of spending," Dumbledore said. "I had it from the McKinnons — from your former professor, in fact — that her family received a request to declare anyone spending over 1,000 galleons at their store over the last six months. There was a pretense that it was from the Ministry, but having never received such a request before, they passed it along to me. I have been able to discover that the owl sent in reply — for the McKinnons complied with the request — was, shall we say, diverted."

Harry blinked at him. "What does that mean?"

"I think it was, in fact, Death Eaters who made the request," said Dumbledore. "They sent a copy to me as well, and your name was upon it, as well as Arthur Weasleys, as he bought their enchanted chain on your behalf. It was one of the most expensive purchases over the last months, in fact."

"Why is he doing that?" Harry asked.

Dumbledore gave his head a slow shake. "I have many guesses," he said, "but no firm answers. However, it would be wise not to attract attention–"

"-by spending that amount of money," said Harry. "Arthur… Mr. Weasley. Our builder. He won't be in trouble, will he?"

"No," said Dumbledore. "And you will get your product… it was an excellent suggestion of his… but I would advise being more cautious." He glanced over his shoulder. "I can help, too, Mr. Peverell. Perhaps this summer. I can begin some of the training you asked of me with basic and not so basic protection."

"I'd like that," said Harry, "and so would Ginny."

"Very well, then," said Dumbledore, tipping his hat to Harry, and stepping out of the room again.

Harry opened his mouth, about to call Dumbledore back, when he caught sight of the exhausted lines bracketing his mouth and the weariness in his stance. Whatever Dumbledore was doing, wherever he was searching, it was tiring him. It can wait, Harry reminded himself.

When he emerged, Dumbledore was already gone. The Great Hall was mostly clear of people, though the tables were still strewn with dirty plates and goblets and carafes of pumpkin juice with only the dregs left. After briefly considering returning to his own seat, Harry decided not to. It would be far better to head to the library and use this empty period for what it was meant for: Studying for his NEWTs. But just after his exit from the Great Hall, Harry skirted around a pair of gossiping suits of armor and nearly ran into a familiar figure.

"Peter!" Harry cried.

Short and watery-eyed, Peter Pettigrew turned around, swiping mousy hair out of his eyes. "Peverell," said Peter.

Harry shook his head. "I haven't seen you since the wedding," he said, smiling widely. "Did you come for the graduation?"

"Well, yeah," Peter said quietly, gaze flicking around the corridor and back to Harry. "But I came to see Old Bones, too."

Harry slumped a bit, shuffling his feet. "I'm sorry," he said, rubbing at the back of his neck. "D'you want some company? I could go see him, too."

Peter paused, then, almost begrudgingly: "Well, all right, then."

Harry matched his steps to Peter's, almost plodding along the corridors, riding in near silence on the moving staircases that looked out so splendidly on the rows and columns of portraits. Harry leaned against the bannister on a particularly slow ride, watching Nearly-Headless Nick in a friendly-looking argument with one of the portraits, while a tall, long-haired ghost watched on, pearly-white face pinched.

It wasn't long before they were knocking on Old Bones's door. For a moment, a cloud passed over his thoughts and Harry wondered why he'd followed Peter up here, when the other boy was reluctant, at best, to have him. A second later, Harry told himself it was because so little had been said of this one, who had been a great friend of his parents, but no one in Harry's own time had ever spoken of him. It bothered him a great deal, that, enough so that he stayed when Old Bones opened his door from where he reclined on a daybed.

Harry mostly remained quiet, brewing tea for the two others, pouring it, as they spoke of little things.

"Have you been able to find anything?" Peter asked at one point. "Anything at all that helps?"

Old Bones stirred his tea with shaking hands. The teaspoon clinked against porcelain. "It is funny you should ask," he said. "When I first discovered I was… ill… I had decided not to attempt to fight it. It wasn't worth it, then. But – Peter, you will understand this, how many years were you in my class? – then I started receiving visions. The future is, of course, fogged and clouded, even for one such as me. But every once in a while, the clouds would part, and show me visions of greatness." Old Bones raised the trembling cup; there was a yellowish tinge to his face, Harry realized, seeing it next to the bone white porcelain. "I hope," the old professor added, with no small amount of vulnerability, "that I can stay alive long enough to see the beginnings of it come to pass."

"What sort of vision?" Peter asked eagerly.

Old Bones laughed. "I'm too superstitious to tell you," he said, fondly. "Not everything is in place yet."

Peter shifted on his seat, swallowing the rest of his tea in one go. "Well, if there's anything I can do to help…"

"I have a friend who is helping me," said Old Bones, setting his cup in its saucer. "But I'll let you know if there's anything you can do for me."

"I could go out looking for Hufflepuff's Cup for you," joked Peter.

For a second, Old Bones's smile slipped. His eyes cast down, and the sallow yellow color in his face darkened. "I don't think," he said, "that Hufflepuff's Cup could help me now."

Harry felt a pang of pity for him. If he'd learned anything in the past, it was that the artifacts created by the four founders of Hogwarts were revered to the point they were nearly divine. Wizards really revere their artifacts, Harry decided, thinking of their own private quest to discover what sort of artifacts the Knights of Walpurgis had created. But not everyone had heard of that old society of witches and wizards; Harry'd never once heard them mentioned in the future. But the founders and their artifacts… people mentioned them as frequently as they swore in Merlin's name.

"Surely it could," Peter was saying robustly.

Old Bones shook his head. Slowly, his old humor returned; a smile banished the bleak look. "The Cup will have greater things to do than heal silly old me."

"You aren't silly," Peter protested.

Old Bones cleared his throat. Harry stood up, Peter straggled after him, swiping straw-colored hair out of his face. His eyes, always watery, had genuine tears in them. Harry cleared his throat, looking away, eyes searching for something less awkward to look at, fixing on an ornately carved cabinet, tall enough to be an armoire, that stood in the half-open doorway that led to Old Bones's private rooms.

"-remember what I told you, lad," Old Bones was saying kindly, lifting his hand toward Peter as though in benediction, "It is not always our talents that make us the wizards that we are. It's who we choose to stand beside. I saw your potential from the first."

Harry shuffled toward the door, offering his goodbyes to Old Bones.

"And what of Peverell here?" Peter challenged, grinning a little. "See anything in him?"

Old Bones's gaze flicked to Harry. "Not everyone," Old Bones admonished, "has such a clear destiny. Now, if you two will excuse me, my destiny is having a good long nap. Give your friends my best, would you, as they graduate at last? Tell them I would be there, but…" He gestured around, smiling sadly.

It's good, Harry decided, a little while later, as they returned by the route they had come from. This time, the moving staircases were filled with students, and only the Fat Friar, Hufflepuff's ghost, bobbed in the air before them. It's good that Peter has someone like Old Bones. Harry tugged on his robes, wondering what Old Bones would say if he ever learned he was wrong about Harry, and that Harry had once found a prophecy with his name written on it, hidden in the Department of Mysteries.

HPHPHPHPHPHP

Over an hour later, in company with some of the others, Harry smiled to himself, reflecting on his own thoughts earlier that the wizarding world had somewhat of a shared obsession with the artifacts created by the four founders of Hogwarts. It was not Hufflepuff's Cup – rumored to heal any affliction – under discussion this time. Fittingly, it was the Sword of Gryffindor that had come up. His dream about Ron echoed through Harry: Find Gryffindor's Sword, the older, harder looking Ron had demanded of Harry. So when the subject came up, Harry turned attentively toward it.

"But it isn't real, is it?" Peter insisted. "I mean, it was real, of course, Gryffindor had it, but it – no one's seen it for centuries, have they?"

"As a matter of fact," said Fleamont, kindly, placing his hand on Peter's shoulder and squeezing, "I have seen it–"

Peter rounded on him, mouth dropping open.

"Where'd you see it?" Harry asked, curious, heart skipping a beat. Had he had this in common with his grandfather? Had Fleamont, too, reached into the Sorting Hat and pulled out the ruby-encrusted sword that had once belonged to Godric Gryffindor? Bouncing forward, he asked: "Did you pull it from the Sorting Hat?"

James boomed out a laugh.

Peter scoffed. "Pulled it from the Sorting Hat." Rolling his eyes, he said: "Honestly, Peverell, you say the oddest things."

But Fleamont wasn't laughing. Instead, he looked at Harry in a way that was familiar to him. The weight of Fleamont Potter's gaze settled over Harry, much like a sodden cloak. Once more, Harry had said something wrong, something that made Fleamont cock his head and study Harry, hazel eyes narrowed. But after a moment, while the other boys laughed and noticed nothing, Fleamont blinked, gave Harry a small, affectionate smile, and pivoted the subject.

"It's said that some Gryffindors – in times of trouble – will find themselves with the true sword," said Fleamont. "Now, how they came to find it has never been told… my own father told me that you had to battle through a maze of monstrous creatures to be rewarded it at the end"-Harry grimaced at the thought, thinking of the final task in the Tri-Wizard Tournament, and what he'd found at the center–"but most everyone I knew had a different idea of how to get it."

"I never heard any stories," asserted Peter.

"I did," James assured him.

"Perhaps it was more popular in my generation," Fleamont allowed, tossing an arm over his son's shoulder. "After all, I'm a lot older than any of your parents–"

"Dad!" James scoffed, shoving lightly at him. "You are not!"

"-but someone had found Gryffindor's sword, oh, three or so years before I went to Hogwarts… it was in all the papers. I became so obsessed that my poor dad – your poor granddad – tossed me story after story. Later, looking back, I realized he must have made most of them up."

Harry grinned.

"My oldest sister finally jinxed my mouth shut, and only let me off when I promised I wouldn't ask her any more questions," Fleamont added.

"Who jinxed your mouth shut?"

The women had returned, led by Euphemia Potter. Lily and Ginny were a step behind her, peering over her shoulders. All of them had done something with their hair… Harry blinked: There was something especially flowy about Ginny's hair, and there were tiny white flowers braided into it.

"Agatha," Fleamont informed her. "I was asking her too many questions."

"She always was a sensible woman," Euphemia teased. "What brought that on?"

Fleamont gestured toward the towering portrait of Godric Gryffindor who smiled benignly down upon them. The figure caught Harry's eye – was it now winking at Harry? – and pressed its lips together. The rubies in the hilt were also winking at him in the low light of the candles.

"The boys were asking about Gryffindor's sword," he explained.

"Ah," said Euphemia. "The great love of your life."

As though tugged by an invisible string, Harry shifted his gaze from the portrait of Gryffindor to Ginny. Her eyebrow twitched. She was likely thinking that he had brought it up, pursuing the task the older, battle-hardened Ron Weasley had given him in his dream. Lifting his shoulder in a slight shrug, he smiled at her as Fleamont rather eloquently professed that Euphemia was the great love of his life. There was a tiny white flower tucked just above Ginny's ear; it seemed to bloom and close as she breathed.

"Well," said Fleamont, clapping his hands. "Shall we get these children feasted and graduated?"

HPHPHPHPHPHPHP

Two hours later, after Hogwarts had sent them off to their adult lives with tables heavily laden with food and cheers from the younger students, Harry followed the graduating students down to the Black Lake. He could not help but note that it mirrored the way new students arrived. Two boats bobbed on the edge of the lake, waiting for four adults to step into them. The sun was setting over the mountains; for once, it was not raining. Even the giant squid seemed merry: it was waving its tentacles and splashing about, as though saying goodbye to some of its favorite students.

Tucking his hands in his pockets, Harry hopped down the last two stone steps. "I didn't know we leave the same way we came," he observed. "I like that."

"What do you mean, 'we'?" Peter scoffed. "We came here on the boats in our first year. You were, what? Sixth year?"

James shoved Peter's shoulder.

"Well, I heard of it, anyway," mumbled Harry, casting a quick glance over his shoulder. The look Ginny was giving him was one of warning.

"C'mon, I want to get some pictures," said Sirius, squeezing Peter's shoulder. "You'll stand with us, won't you?"

Now placated, Peter moved off with the others, flinging his arms around his tall friends' shoulders, beaming as they lifted him off the ground. Once more, Harry wondered why he had never heard of Peter. Lights flashed as his grandparents and Remus's father took pictures. James and Sirius took it in turns to make silly faces and different colored lights explode from their wands. The four of them were close… as close as he and Ron and Hermione had been at school… and yet, neither the older Sirius nor Remus had ever mentioned him.

"OI!" Fleamont whistled right in Harry's ear. "Settle down, boys!"

Wincing, Harry pressed his fingers against his suddenly throbbing temple. More lights flashed. Now it was his parents posing together beside the lake. His father, now suddenly acting the grown up, bent Lily over his arm and bestowed upon her a rather romantic kiss. Then, as Harry laughed, Lily did the same to James as he squawked for her not to drop him.

"Wonderful, darling!" Euphemia called to Lily.

"Only you three," Peter said, shaking his head, grinning a little, "would have your own private graduation."

"I'd rather have graduated with you," said Sirius, tousling the shorter boy's hair. "You know that, Pete."

"Get off me," he said, though he seemed pleased.

"And Pete," said James, throwing his arm over Peter's shoulders, "have you not learned to count yet? There are four of us…"

"Geroff me," muttered Peter, shoving James off, "You know I only meant, you know, three of you–"

"I knew what you meant, Pete," said Lily.

Slowly, the boats revolved in the water. Their prows were now pointing the way back to Hogsmeade. The small crowd quieted as Dumbledore spread his hands. Harry barely heard the speech he made; it washed over him, leaving behind an impression of warmth. His parents, Sirius, and Remus had made a friend in the headmaster, who was now shaking their hands, smiling, and saying he was certain he would see them do great things.

An ache tugged at Harry. They should have been able to go on to do great things. Nodding at Ginny, who was tactful enough to distract James and Lily, Harry stepped to the side, wandering off the stone staircase that went straight into the water – Harry wondered if it led straight to the home of the tribe of mermaids that lived there – and into a patch of cold earth. A few yellow flowers had hoisted themselves up to the surface and drooped back down to the dirt, as though wishing they could climb back in. The four graduates teased each other as they got into the boats: James and Lily in one, and Sirius and Remus in the other.

Harry was only alone for a moment.

"A word, Harry?"

Harry turned to his grandfather. The little boats bobbed their way across the Black Lake. Now, only the lanterns were visible, like twin stars in the night sky.

"Sure," he said easily.

"It'll only be a moment," Fleamont promised.

"I have time," said Harry.

Curious, he followed Fleamont off to the side, off of the sunken stairs, and into a tiny after-thought of a garden. A brisk wind blew in off the lake; despite its noise, Fleamont's voice was very quiet when he said: "Harry… you have to be careful."

Harry pulled back slightly.

Fleamont repeated himself. "You have to be careful."

"What… what do you mean?" Harry asked, cautious.

"I mean that the fact that the Sorting Hat has anything to do with finding the sword is not known, Harry," Fleamont said gently. "In fact, it's one of our world's most tightly kept secrets. I only know because my grandfather told me, just before he died, and swore me to secrecy. Most people believe that it is passed through the blood, that only people born from Gryffindor's line can find it, and that is the fiction that everyone has stuck with."

Harry blinked at him. "No one told me that," he said. Wouldn't Dumbledore have told him in his second year that he wasn't meant to tell anyone how he'd got the sword?

Fleamont huffed out a laugh. "This is what I meant." A gust of wind snatched his wizard's hat away; Harry caught it and handed it back to him. "You don't… Harry, did you draw the sword out of the hat yourself?" His eyes were gleaming. "Did you?"

Harry cast a glance over his shoulder. Everyone else were merely silhouettes against the lake. In the distance, even the lantern-light coming from the two boats that carried his parents, Sirius, and Remus, had vanished, having been swallowed up by the night.

"I think you did," Fleamont said slowly. "But when would you have… I'd have heard if it had been drawn again… it's like a thunderclap, the sword is." He was speaking mostly to himself, staring at Harry all the while. It felt almost like his grandfather was peeling away the layers of his disguise. The stone embedded in Harry's wrist throbbed. Then, straightening, Fleamont said in a sharp, though low, voice: "This is why you need to be careful. You invite questions. You're in no danger from me, but…"

"Not everyone is you," Harry finished for him.

A smile flickered on Fleamont's face. "Precisely."

The consensus, from both his grandfather and Dumbledore, was that Harry needed to maintain his disguise a bit better. He was still thinking of it a few minutes later, absently rubbing the stone in his wrist, when he and Ginny caught up with Dumbledore halfway back to the castle. Once he explained to them the encounter with his grandfather, he said:

"I think they're starting to… suspect something," said Harry.

"It'd be difficult not to," said Ginny.

"You have been doing rather large things," said Dumbledore. "You're leaving change in your wake. It is gathering notice, as we have spoken about."

"But I can't," said Harry, brushing his hand against Ginny's, "think of anything I regret doing. The big stuff, I mean. Not the pox, not the draught."

"It makes you stand out," murmured Ginny. The bud at her ear drooped in a flowery sleep. "Like when you told off that Slytherin last year in DADA."

"Light," said Dumbledore, "blazes ever brighter in the darkest of times. It draws both the good and the bad. Fleamont was right to caution you, Harry."

"But there's a balance," said Ginny, taking his hand and squeezing it. Harry knew they were both thinking exactly the same thing: They did not want to go back to how it had been in the beginning, with Sirius afraid for them to draw any amount of attention to themselves. Harry did not want to go back and hide in that cave again, surrounded by Inferi, and left in the dark.

"We have to find that balance," said Harry. "I mean… I won't make any more huge purchases, but if I see something like the pox, I'm not going to cower."

Dumbledore eyed him with a faint smile. "Nor do I think could you," he said with warm approval. "Either of you."

"You could teach us, like you promised," said Ginny.

"I know," Dumbledore said. "I am sorry that I have not been available to you as much as I have been in the past."

"You did warn us," murmured Harry.

"Instead, I am wandering around, looking for patches of darkness and cold," said Dumbledore. "You've only a few months left here, at Hogwarts. I do not think that you have anything to fear. I think that whatever Fleamont and Euphemia suspect, they will keep it to themselves."

"I know," said Harry. But there was a part of him – a large part of him – that wanted his grandparents and parents to land upon the right suspicions. "I wish…"

Dumbledore waited patiently for him to continue, but Harry did not.

"I wish for a lot of things," said Ginny. "Not least of which is a snack."

Harry's shoulders loosened and he chuckled along with Dumbledore. "Right," he said, relief flowing through him. Dinner in the Great Hall seemed a while ago. Perhaps they could find a snack and then celebrate the common room being empty now of Remus, his sharp nose, and even sharper questions.

"It'll be all right, Harry," murmured Ginny.

"I hope so."

"And hope is a very powerful force indeed," said Dumbledore.