Christmas morning is as brilliant as it had been last year. Harry receives an equal pile of gifts, though several are fairly impersonal gifts given by his allies in Slytherin—candy from Warrington and Hussain, a bottle of Seeker's eyedrops from Higgs meant to keep his eyes from watering due to wind and altitude. Millicent gets him a book on Potions, which surprises him a little; he struggles enough with Snape that he wouldn't have imagined… but then, he does find the subject interesting, even if he's a bit pants at it. Theo and Blaise have both signed a letter wishing him a happy Christmas, and its envelope also contains a gift certificate of significant value for Gladrags and a handmade coupon promising an afternoon's worth of Blaise's substantial fashion expertise sometime over the summer. Harry also finds himself the recipient of a package of home-made cookies from Molly Weasley, and the note that comes with them says that she's sure Ron wouldn't have wanted to neglect sending his friends some sort of gift, despite his continuing unconsciousness.
Hermione sends a package of books, of course, though they're novels and not non-fiction for once; a series of magical novels that she'd read and very much liked when she first arrived in the magical world. Sirius has bought Harry a set of enchanted wand holsters, one for his wrist and one for a concealed carry at his thigh, which allow him to summon his wand from the holster to his hand or banish it back with a gesture. Harry immediately straps them on, getting Sirius to help him adjust the fit on the wrist holster, and then practices with the summoning gesture a few times until it feels smooth; it's an amazing gift. He'll finally be able to carry the secondary wand that he retrieved from the Potter vault; until now the rowan wand has lived in a compartment in his trunk. Remus also goes practical, gifting Harry a beautiful stationery set. He's the Heir of an Ancient and Noble House now, and needs to be able to write formal letters when necessary. The whole thing packs into a lap writing slope which has a miniaturization charm on it, activated with a tap of a wand.
Harry thanks them both, and presents his return gifts. For Remus, after hearing him complain a few times about the overly-strong scent of most air freshening products, a scent-neutralizing potion developed for people with pets, meant to keep homes from getting smelly without bothering sensitive noses (like the one Remus himself possesses). For Sirius, he'd found a few smaller, more miscellaneous items: a neat wooden hair slide for his long hair, carved with a barklike pattern, and a set of cufflinks set with garnets so dark they seemed black until held to light, at which point they flared like fire. All of the gifts Harry is giving are from owl order catalogues that Blaise and Theo had shared with him, and not the sort of catalogues that Sirius or Remus might shop in; they both seem surprised and pleased by the quality of their gifts, and he smiles back, accepts and returns hugs, and then all three of them proceed to the kitchen for a bit of breakfast.
After eating, Harry packs up his things—briefly regretting having left his dad's necklace in its safe hiding spot in his trunk, as he might have liked to wear it—and grabs his cloak. They decide this year to Floo to Saint Mungo's, and after the usual dizzying whirl through the fireplace, Harry stumbles out into the lobby of the hospital and is caught and steadied by Remus, who'd gone through first. Sirius comes through a moment later, and they greet the Welcome Wix briefly on the way up to the fourth floor. In the elevator, Harry says to Sirius, "Do you think we could try to go visit Ron, while we're here?"
Sirius makes a considering noise. "Certainly. I'm not sure exactly where he is, but all spell damage is treated on the fourth floor—we can ask a Healer once we're up there."
Harry nods, and once the elevator doors open, they do just that, grabbing one of the Healers in their lime green robes to ask about Ron Weasley. The wizard nods politely at them when Sirius asks, and says, "Friends, are you? Some of the family is there visiting now—just that way, and to the left." He gestures down the hallway, where a series of doors allow access to patient rooms, presumably.
"Is, um, do you know if he's going to be okay?" Harry asks tentatively. "He was in the infirmary at Hogwarts for a long time…"
The Healer nods again. "He'll be fine, lad; Madame Pomphrey is an accomplished Mediwitch to be sure, but we've resources at the hospital that she simply didn't have access to. He's not my patient directly, but what I've heard says he's on the upswing—might even be awake. Have a good visit."
Then he strides off with the air of someone who has somewhere to be—or at least is pretending that he does.
"Would you like to go there first?" Sirius asks. "It'd be no trouble; Lily and James will wait. And then you might be able to say hello to the rest of the family."
Harry doesn't really know the rest of the family, but that's alright—they might know more about Ron's treatment, and maybe when he'll be back at school. So he nods and lets Sirius lead the way down the hall, looking for a nameplate that they eventually find, Ron Weasley etched into the bronze. The door is shut, but opens with a push, not locked—Harry pokes his head inside and finds himself greeted with a veritable crowd of Weasleys. He'd known, of course, that they were plentiful and very redheaded, but the effect of them all (well, maybe; Harry still doesn't actually know exactly how many brothers Ron has) crammed into one room is really quite something. More so when he's spotted and there's a great clamour of greeting.
The twins leap up from where they'd been seated against one wall and immediately seize his arms on either side and steer him into the room.
"Mr. Snake!" cries the one on the left—George, Harry thinks; after two months' worth of fairly regular contact (as they'd refused to leave him entirely alone even after the end of the prank gambit), he's begun to be more able to tell them apart.
"Mr. Prince!" echoes Fred.
"Mr. Snake Prince!" they say together.
"Don't be rude," scolds an older woman, sitting beside the bed; this, Harry assumes, must be Mrs. Molly Weasley, though he's never met her before. "Honestly, you two."
"We're just greeting him!" protests Fred. "He knows—"
"—that we mean well by it," says George. "Don't you, Harry?"
Harry nods, somewhat longsuffering. "And it's not like anything will stop you."
"No way!" the twins say together, laughing, and finally release him when he's come to stand beside the bed, in the midst of the Weasley crowd. All of those Harry has met are there—Fred and George, of course, but also Ginny and Percy—as well as Mrs. Weasley, an older, slightly balding man with smile lines around his eyes who Harry assumes must be Mr. Arthur Weasley, and another man who looks to be a few years older than Percy, with his red hair finger-combed into a somewhat rakish mess and wearing what looks like a leather jacket and black muggle jeans, a stark contrast to the comfortable, if worn, day-robes of the rest of the family.
Harry blinks at the stranger slightly, and he winks, then waggles his fingers and says, "Hello there, Mr. Potter. I'm Charlie—Ron's probably mentioned me."
Right, Charlie; the one at the dragon preserve, whose friends had come to rescue Norbert last year. Harry nods back politely and says, "Hello," and then he turns his attention to the bed.
Ron looks… better. Well, mostly the same, in that he's still lying very still, sleeping, but there's more colour in his face, and his eyes flick beneath his eyelids, like he actually is just sleeping, dreaming instead of deeply unconscious. Harry finds himself smiling a little, relieved, and pats Ron's hand, which is lying limp above the blankets.
"He looks better," he says.
Across the bed from him, Mr. Weasley nods. "The Healer says he's on the upswing—they finally managed to work out the countercurse and he's recovering properly. Very nice of you to visit, Harry."
Harry shrugs. "Sirius, Remus, and I were going to visit my parents." He glances over at the door, where Sirius and Remus are waiting politely just outside.
This sets off another minor outcry as Molly jumps up from her seat and takes her own turn at towing someone into the room—this time Sirius, with and amused Remus trailing after. Clearly the twins had gotten their tendency toward manhandling from somewhere. There's another round of greetings, particularly warm from Mr. and Mrs. Weasley toward Sirius and Remus, and then Mrs. Weasley says, "Really so glad you could visit, dears; I'm sure you're eager to get to Lily and James. I admit, to my shame, I'd forgotten they were on this very same floor—perhaps I'll drop by there myself, a little later."
Sirius smiles gently. "You've had plenty else to worry about since the attack, Molly, though it's very generous of you to say you'll visit when you've your son in a hospital bed. But you did say he's getting better?"
"Yes," Mrs. Weasley says. "Quickly, even—he should be out of bed before the end of the break, and back to school not long after. Perhaps not quite in time with the other students, as we won't know what shape he's in until he wakes, but…"
Sirius ruffles Harry's hair and grins at his scowl, then says, "That's truly wonderful to hear. Though catching up will be a bit of a daunting task; six weeks of school is nothing to sneeze at, even in second year."
"No, but we wouldn't want him to be held back," Molly says. She sounds confident, but her hands twist anxiously in her lap.
"I'm sure Hermione will help," Harry volunteers. "She's brilliant, and very good at study schedules and tutoring and such. And between her, Neville, me, and—" he hesitates, and then decides that in such a crowd of Gryffindors, it's best not to mention his Slytherin friends by name— "some other folks we know at school, we'll be able to put together notes from all the classes, and so on."
"That's wonderful," Mrs. Weasley says, smiling brightly at him. Then she gets up out of her seat once more and gives him a hug, warm and encompassing. It might be the best hug Harry's ever had; for all that he hadn't been expecting it, he's a bit sad when it's over.
"Yeah, well," Harry says awkwardly, and rubs the back of his head. "We'll do our best."
"Thank you so much, dear." Mrs. Weasley sits down once more and grabs Ron's hand.
"I think we won't linger," Sirius says, his own hand coming to rest on Harry's shoulder. "But Harry wanted to say hello to Ron briefly. Very nice to see you all, especially you two, Molly, Arthur—we'll have to catch up."
"Certainly," Mr. Weasley says. He rises and waves Percy, who'd been standing back, into his seat. "Perhaps I'll walk you down the hall—I'd like a quick word, Sirius, if you don't mind."
Sirius raises an eyebrow, but says, "Not a problem, of course."
Harry says his goodbyes to all the Weasleys that he knows and a "nice to meet you" to Charlie and a "see you soon" to Ron, who may or may not be able to hear him, and then he, Sirius, and Remus leave the room with Mr. Weasley. They walk a distance down the hall, well out of earshot of the rest of the Weasleys, and then Mr. Weasley stops and turns to Sirius with a very serious look on his face.
"Lord Black," he begins, and Sirius straightens, his shoulders going back. It's a startling transformation, to see Sirius go from being just Sirius to being Lord Black, upright and stern and firm in his power. "I wish to make a formal apology on behalf of myself and my Family."
"Go on," Sirius says. Harry steps forward a little, trying to adopt some of Sirius's same stately posture. Mr. Weasley's eyes flick toward him briefly, almost startled, before looking back at Sirius.
"My Family has long harboured an enemy of your House," Mr. Weasley says. "I would apologize to you, for I consider my Family an ally to your House and that we did not know what we did is no excuse for betrayal."
"Arthur—" Sirius begins, sounding somewhat startled, and then he seems to remember himself and draws himself up again. "Arthur Weasley, Head of the Weasley Family, I acknowledge and accept your apology for harbouring an enemy of my House. As you said, you did not know what you did, and I trust in the bonds of friendship and allyship that exist between us enough to know that had you discovered that enemy, you would have done all you could to see him imprisoned or dead. Indeed, it was the actions of your sons which led to his discovery this past Halloween, and I would ask you pass on my thanks and my praise for their swift action to remedy the wrong inadvertently committed by your Family."
Mr. Weasley nods, bows, and then, once he's straightened again, lets out a breath. "Thank you, Sirius. I… I know there's never been much ceremony between us, but I wanted to convey how seriously I took what happened. I had originally intended to send a letter with that apology, but I thought I'd be better to do it in person."
"Of course, Arthur," Sirius says, and offers his hand. Instead of shaking, they clasp arms as Harry has seen wixen do in the past. "I really hope you will pass my thanks on to the twins—they put themselves in the way of considerable harm to try to be rid of that rat. And say the same to Ron, when he wakes up. You've raised some true Gryffindors."
"Foolish, self-sacrificing idiots, you mean?" Mr. Weasley says, laughs, and then sighs. "They're good boys. I'll tell them, Sirius. Thank you. And…" He looks down at Harry and smiles. "You're raising a good lad yourself, Sirius. You've only had him a little while and I can already see your influence. Now, get on with yourselves—James and Lily will be glad of your company, I'm sure."
"Of course," Sirius says. "And I'll let the wix at the door know you and Molly are cleared to visit them, and to bring any of your brood, if you'd like."
"That would be wonderful," Arthur says. "I… suspect it won't be easy to see them. I've never gone, you know, but it's a shame on me that I haven't; I really ought to be less of a coward myself, for their sakes."
"Don't force yourself," Sirius says quietly. "They won't know the difference."
Arthur shakes his head. "No, no, my mind's made up. You tell that wix at the door to expect us; I've some lost time to make up with several dear friends, don't I?"
Harry glances up in time to see the briefest twist of sorrow in Sirius's face, before it turns to a wry look, and he says, "I suppose so. Good day, Arthur."
"And to you, Sirius." And then Mr. Weasley takes himself off back to the rest of his family, after bidding a polite goodbye to Harry and Remus.
"Well," says Sirius, and shakes himself, dog-like. "Off we trot, I suppose."
"Indeed," Remus says, and he comes forward to tangle his fingers briefly with Sirius's in a rare public show of affection before they start off down the hallway toward the Janus Thickey Ward. As with before, Sirius has to unlock the doors with magic before they're able to go in, and he pauses briefly to speak with the Healer on duty at the front desk before they proceed. It's the same Healer as last year, a round woman with a kind smile, and she nods and makes a note when Sirius tells her about the Weasleys being "cleared".
"What do you mean about them being cleared?" Harry asks, once Sirius has stepped away and they're making their way down the ward toward the curtained cubicles near the end that contain Harry's parents. Anything to distract him from the smothering quiet of the ward, disturbed only now and then by the murmurings of patients or Healers.
"Not just anyone can waltz into the Janus Thickey ward," Sirius explains. "For one, it's locked so no one can go a-wandering, but for another… well, many of the patients here are… vulnerable. And your parents are still somewhat high-profile from the war. Folk have to have clearance in order to come in and visit any patient, and the first few times usually have to be accompanied while visiting; it's only that Remus and I have visited so many times that we get free rein."
"Right," Harry says. It makes sense. Most of the wixen here wouldn't be able to defend themselves if anyone tried to harm them, and many wouldn't even be able to tell someone if they'd been harmed—including his parents. Suddenly he's very glad for the security, even if it means he won't be able to visit on his own for some time.
They arrive then at his parents' beds. This year, a little bit to Harry's surprise, the outer curtains to their small… apartment, he supposes, are open. Harry's dad is lying in his own bed, almost as if he hasn't moved at all, for all that a year has passed, but this time Harry's mum is sitting on the side of his dad's bed instead of her own. She's staring at her hands, her curtain of grey-streaked red hair hanging down to hide her face, but she's sitting up. Harry can't remember well enough to say if she's sitting up any straighter than last year; he tries not to read anything into the differences.
"Lils," Sirius says, coming to stand in front of her. "Happy Christmas. We've come to visit, Remus and I, and we've brought Harry back again."
After a moment, she looks up. Her gaze is hazy, distracted, but she does look at them briefly, and then away.
"Harry, why don't you tell Lily about your school term?" Sirius suggests softly. "I'm going to go say hello to James."
"Alright," Harry says. His voice is choked, and he clears his throat. He'd forgotten how it felt to see her like this. It makes him remember again the vision he'd seen in the Mirror of Erised last year: life in her eyes, in her face; colour in her cheeks; laughter on her lips as she smiled at him and touched her husband's shoulder fondly. He misses her, even though he's never really met her.
But this is what he gets to have: this empty shell instead of a mum. It's all he gets, and he knows he should take it. So he does as Sirius suggested, telling her all about Sirius having become the Defence professor, and his feud with Draco Malfoy. He leaves out Halloween and Peter Pettigrew, because if he tries to talk about the rat while looking at the evidence of his betrayal, the damage he did, Harry is going to start screaming. Even just thinking about it makes him want to break something. Eventually, he runs out of things to talk about, things he's willing to talk about. Maybe if it were just him and his mum, he thinks, he'd be willing to tell her more, more about what he's feeling about everything that's happened, because she's his mum and if he could talk to anyone about his feelings it'd be her. But Sirius and Remus are nearby, Sirius talking softly to James, Remus holding his hand, and Harry doesn't want to put any of it to voice right now. It's too much.
He trails off and watches his mum fidget briefly, and then jumps when she rises suddenly from the bed. Her movements are at once jerky and hesitant, like she's not sure how she should be moving and not quite in control of the motions once she chooses where to go; it's a little like watching a marionette walk. She goes over to her own bed and rummages around in the blankets and under the pillow, and Harry stands dumbly in the middle of his parents' little curtain apartment and watches her, feeling unmoored. When she turns around again, she just looks at him, and he hesitates. Then he realizes she's holding something in her hands, her fingers curled into fists, so he comes a little closer and, after a moment, reaches out and touches her hands. She doesn't blink, even, just stares at him and then looks away, down, but her knuckles press against his palms and then she opens her hands against his, pressing something into his hands. He grasps it—them—carefully, his fingertips trailing against her palms. The feeling of her skin is the same, papery and cool, but so very soft. And then she pulls her hands away and turns her back on him, her shoulders slumped. He doesn't know what to make of it, can't process it, and instead looks down to see what she's given him: three crumpled candy wrappers, just like the one from last year. One is another of those golden toffee wrappers, and two are silver on one side and patterned a bit like a strawberry on the other. Uncomprehending, he stares at the tiny treasure, and then his vision goes blurry as tears fill his eyes.
Only by sheer will does he prevent himself from breaking down completely, and he's not able to prevent a few tears from falling, which he wipes stubbornly from his face with his shirtsleeves and then he sniffs back the rest. He sits down in the chair next to his mum's bed, which is opposite where she's still standing, now staring at her shoes, and he carefully smooths the candy wrappers and then runs them between his fingers again and again until they're completely without wrinkles.
"What've you—oh," says Sirius's voice from beside Harry, and Harry startles and looks up.
"Nothing," he says, and he tucks the wrappers into his pockets, feeling suddenly embarrassed by the care he's taken with what he knows, intellectually, is just garbage. Never mind that he still has the one his mum had given him last year, tucked carefully into the pages of the book on Animagi.
"Did Lily give you those?" Sirius asks quietly.
"Yeah," Harry says. He swallows, trying to breathe past the lump in his throat. "Like last year."
"Harry…" Sirius says. "It's—she's never given us anything like that. I can't know what's going on in her head, not really, but it must be more than any of us thought, because… Well. She clearly loves you."
Harry bites his lip hard enough that it hurts, hard enough to hold back the threatening tears again, and once he has himself under control again he says, "Okay. I… I love her too. I hope she knows."
"She knows," Sirius says, and lays his hand so gently on Harry's shoulder that it almost seems to hurt. "She knows. Do you want to say hello to James?"
"Okay." Harry gets up and goes over to see his dad, but his dad… it's just not the same. He's even more empty than his mum; he just lies there, blinking slowly at nothing. Harry can't decide if it's better or worse, because he feels sick and almost as empty as his parents, trying to talk to his dad. But it's also easier to push it down than it is with his mum, who knows him, somehow, so deep she can't forget it, even though she's forgotten everything else about herself to the point where her love for him doesn't matter anymore.
Still, Harry does his best to tell his dad about his term, as he had his mum. He has less to say, as if telling his mum all of this had drained the words out of him, and he runs out of things to say much fast this time, and just sits there, looking at his dad. Looking at the body that used to be his dad, still breathing but not any sort of person any more. Finally, he sighs and looks up—Sirius and Remus are both over with Harry's mum. He catches Remus's eye, and tries to convey with his expression that he's really done.
Remus seems to get the drift and touches Sirius's arm, who looks over as well, sees Harry looking at them, and nods. He says something softly to Lily, touches her shoulder with the same painful gentleness he'd touched Harry earlier, and then both of them turn and come over to Harry.
"You look tired," Remus says, when they're in easy earshot for a soft-spoken word. "Ready to go?"
Harry nods. "Back to Hogwarts, right?"
"Right," Sirius says. "We'll both escort you back, and then we're off to do a little more searching for that rat before term resumes."
"Oh, okay," Harry says. That's where Sirius has been for the whole break so far; it makes sense that Remus would join him now. Honestly, Harry is a little surprised he hadn't been along the whole time, but maybe he hadn't been able to get off work—especially with the full moon having been earlier this month. Hopefully the two of them together will have more luck than Sirius has been having on his own.
Harry gets up out of his chair and is received immediately into a hug from Sirius. He hugs back, slumping a little against Sirius's chest, and Sirius squeezes him.
"It'll be okay," Sirius says. "Come on, let's get you back to school."
"'Kay," Harry mutters. He allows Sirius to release him and then he follows out of his parents' curtain apartment. He wants to look back, to get one more glimpse, but doesn't let himself. He'll come back soon, he promises himself. And he'll be less of a crybaby about it.
They make their way back down to the lobby and then to the Apparition point. Sirius takes Harry with him side-along, and they reappear in a side-street of what Harry assumes is Hogsmeade. He's never actually been into the village before, of course; only third years and older are allowed to go on the weekends. But they emerge out onto the main street once Remus has popped in beside them and Harry can see shops around them that he's heard the older students talk about, and in the distance, up the road, the silhouette of the castle against the late afternoon sky. Later than he'd realized, in fact; they must have spent longer in the hospital than he'd thought. It takes about 15 minutes to walk from the village up to the castle, and Harry observes the walk as they go: it's pretty, the road edged with trees and well-maintained while also well-trodden. Everything is covered in snow, pristine and glimmering where it hasn't been broken by footprints, and it shines even in the patchy light of a mostly-overcast sky. He smiles, thinking about walking down this way with his friends to visit the shops in the village next year; it's an exciting possibility, enough to distract at least a little from the lingering miasma of sadness that visiting his parents had cast over his mood.
Sirius and Remus walk with Harry all the way up to the castle's doors. Both of them give him huge hugs, and when Sirius pulls away, he grasps Harry's shoulders and says, "Happy Christmas, Harry. Have fun until term starts, alright?"
Harry smiles back, nods, and says, "Of course, Sirius. I, um, I love you."
Sirius beams, hugs him once more, and says, "Love you too, pup."
"Bye," Harry says, and then waves at them as they begin their walk back down to the gates to Apparate away once more. He wishes they could have had the whole break together, but he's looking forward to seeing Neville and doing their gift exchange, and he focuses on that; better than dwelling, he tells himself.
He heads into the castle and down to the dungeons first, to drop off his things, and then he checks the Marauder's Map—Neville is in Gryffindor Tower. So he grabs his gift for Neville, already wrapped in silver paper, and heads for the tower; it's a bit of a walk from the dungeons, of course, and Harry takes the opportunity to pause in an alcove and Occlude. He's still getting used to making it a reflex, and right now, still feeling the lingering grief and frustration of being with his parents… well, he doesn't want any of that getting in the way of being with his friend, so he sorts the emotion away, packages it up to deal with later. In his mental construct of Hogwarts, his feelings about his parents lurk like a dark fog in the mental room where once Harry found the Mirror of Erised, and Harry closes the door on them firmly. Then he finishes his trek up to the Fat Lady's portrait and politely requests she let Neville know he's here, if he's in the common room.
The portrait swings open only a few moments later, so Neville must have been nearby. He smiles when he sees Harry, but something is… wrong. His face is pale and there are dark circles under his eyes, like he hasn't slept; he didn't look half this tired when Harry had seen him only the morning before, and Harry frowns immediately, concerned.
"Neville?" he asks. "Has something happened?"
Neville nods. "Let's go somewhere else to talk. I'd invite you in, but I don't want anyone overhearing."
"Okay," Harry says. If Neville is concerned for secrecy, something serious must have happened while Harry was away.
The two of them trek down a few floors and find themselves an empty classroom. This one has a stained glass window depicting black roses twining around an obelisk depicted in clear glass, and there are no tables or chairs to be seen; Harry and Neville sit on the floor in the middle of the room, both cross-legged, so close that their knees touch.
"Alright," Harry says. "What's going on?"
Neville sighs. "I… had a dream last night. Or maybe a vision."
"Like a prophetic vision?" Harry asks. He doesn't know much about Divination—it's a third year class—but he knows it's possible for wixen to see the future, and that some have a real gift.
Neville shakes his head. A bit of brown hair falls into his face, and he brushes it away absently, his eyes haunted and distant. "I don't think so. I think…"
Harry waits, patient. Neville takes his time about things, sometimes, but he always gets there eventually.
"I think I saw Voldemort," Neville says finally, his voice nearly a whisper. "Not a nightmare—Voldemort now."
That isn't what Harry had been expecting, and yet it almost is. After last year's events, and with Sirius and Remus gone hunting, it's not like Harry doesn't know Voldemort is alive and seeking resurrection. He thinks about it often, in fact. And he knows that for some reason, Voldemort had gone after Neville when Neville was a baby, had tried to murder an infant in his crib.
"Okay," Harry says, when he's sure he can speak without his voice shaking. "What happened in the dream?"
"You believe me?" Neville asks, sounding relieved. "I… I almost thought I was going crazy. I can't decide if it's better that I'm not."
Harry shrugs. "Six of one, half a dozen of the other."
Neville snorts a laugh, and then seems shocked at himself. "Merlin, I shouldn't be laughing. It's Voldemort."
"Well, not laughing isn't going to make him go away," Harry points out. If he's learned anything from Sirius and Remus, and from the twins, it's that a laugh helps more often than it hurts. "Better to laugh and then strategize. So. Dream?"
Neville shakes his head fondly. "I'm glad we're friends, Harry. Anyway, yeah, so… I saw this… woman. She… I don't even really know what she looked like, it was like, to me, her features were sort of… blurred. And she had this dark shroud around her, all around her body, and when she spoke her voice was sort of doubled. And she was pregnant. She was talking to some people—I couldn't see them, but she was saying how she was awake now, and to continue their good work in preventing discovery, because the 'time was drawing near'.
"Then she sort of… snapped at someone else, said they'd been 'reckless and cowardly', and she cast Crucio." Neville looks down, swallows. "I felt… I can't even describe it. It felt bad, though. And then she said that he would be responsible for gathering the final ingredients, and…"
Harry leans forward and he grasps Neville's arms, firm enough to make Neville look back up. "Neville," he says. "It's okay."
"It's not," Neville whispers. And, no, it's not. None of this is okay, and Harry's mind is already spinning, trying to figure out what to do. He can't imagine how Neville must have been feeling these past few days, with no one to tell, nothing to do at all. What a mess.
"Keep going, then," Harry says, and he lets his hands slide down so that he's grasping Neville's wrists instead, but he doesn't let go. Whatever comfort the presence of his slim hands might offer, he'll offer it.
"Okay." Neville looks at Harry for a moment more, studying his face, then finally says, "And then she said, Fail me again, Wormtail, and you will pay the price."
Harry closes his eyes. He feels, almost like a dam breaking, the boundary his Occlumency placed between his emotions and his thinking fall apart, and he bows his head, trembling. He can feel Neville turning his wrists in Harry's grasp to grip back, so that they're holding tight to one another. Harry doesn't cry, but he feels his eyes burn, and he holds them tightly shut until he's able to take a few deep breaths and patch up his inner rooms again, shutting the door on the Mirror room. Then he has to shift to another part of his consciousness and build a new room, this one large and blank, because the rage he feels is too much, too specific, to put anywhere else, and too toxic to keep with his grief and his loneliness in the Mirror room. He slams that door hard, knowing that it's only a temporary measure, that he'll have to sort it better soon, but it's enough: he's calm again. He opens his eyes to find Neville looking at him helplessly, his brown eyes wide and scared.
"Are you okay?" Neville asks.
Harry shakes his head. "But Occlumency's enough to keep me from cracking."
"That's a good idea," Neville says, and closes his eyes for a moment as well. It doesn't take as long as Harry had thought his own reorganization had taken, but buried in his own focus as he had been, he can't be sure. When Neville emerges, he too looks more composed, and he sighs. "I'm not as good at Occlumency as you, I don't think—at least not for dealing with my emotions. I saw your face just then, Harry, and then it all just… went away. I don't think I could do that."
Harry shrugs. It's what he has to do, because he needs to be calm right now. If he had his way, he'd be calm all the time. Much as he wants to shout and rage and break things and hunt down Peter Pettigrew and tear him apart, he can't do that right now, and he's a Slytherin. He needs to keep it together—especially when Neville is here, and so clearly upset. He has to be here for his friend. "You can learn," Harry says.
"I'm not sure I want to," Neville murmurs, and then shakes his head hard, as if shaking away a fly. "What should we do?"
"Was there anything else you saw? Anything we could use?"
"Not really." Neville glances to the side as he does when he's wracking his memory for some detail while studying; it's such a familiar expression that even in this context it makes Harry smile a little. "Everything was sort of fuzzy around the edges, like radio with a bad connection—I could see the woman, I knew she was… indoors somewhere, maybe a house? And there were… I think three other people. But I couldn't see any of them, I just sort of knew they were there."
"Okay," Harry says. "Okay." He rubs his face briefly, nearly knocking off his glasses; that doesn't really matter. He rights them absently on his face, and then says, "We have to tell someone, but… I don't know who."
"The Headmaster?" Neville suggests. "I know he's in the castle."
"Yeah," Harry says. He's still not sure he entirely trusts Dumbledore, but he knows he's probably the most capable wix in the castle. "I guess so."
Neville sighs. "I just… if I am seeing visions of Voldemort, do I try to make them stop? But… what if I saw something important? Something useful?"
That's a hard question. Harry's impulses war with each other as he considers how to answer: the growing Slytherin impulse, the one that says to take whatever advantage you can get, to take shameless advantage; and the protective impulse in him, maybe a Gryffindor one, maybe more like a Hufflepuff one if he's being honest, the impulse that tells him to preserve his friend's safety even if it means giving up an advantage. If Neville is seeing Voldemort, that might mean Voldemort can get into Neville's head, and that's bad. Harry doesn't want to see Neville get hurt.
"I don't know," Harry says finally. "I don't know what the risks are. Hopefully Dumbledore will tell us."
"Of course," Neville says. He takes a long, deep breath, nearly a sigh, and then says, "What if he doesn't?"
Frowning, Harry says, "I wondered the same thing, but… I thought you trusted him."
"I do," Neville says with a shrug. "I mean, I trust him to want the best possible outcome for everyone. But he doesn't always… share information. My gran has talked about that a bunch—Dumbledore likes to hold all the cards, she says, and doesn't like to show his hand to anyone, even his allies."
Harry, who has gotten the same impression even with much less experience of the Headmaster, nods. "So if he doesn't tell us, we'll have to ask someone else. I don't think this is the sort of thing we can look up in the library. Or we try to handle it ourselves."
At that, Neville immediately shakes his head firmly. "No, this is too big—even if no one will help me, I still at least have to share the information I might get from these visions, right? If they continue? So we have to tell someone."
"Dumbledore first," Harry says. "Then we could try Sirius. Or… or Snape."
"Snape?"
"Yeah," Harry says. "Remember, he offered me some extra lessons in Occlumency. He said he was a master too, like Sirius or Dumbledore, but differently from them. Maybe he'll have some advice."
"I don't want to ask him," Neville says, sounding nervous. "I don't know if I could learn from him like I can from Sirius."
"Alright," Harry says reluctantly. "But I could talk to him, at least. Even if you don't take lessons from him, maybe I could pass on whatever he says."
"Sure." Neville lets out a short breath. "Yeah, that would be better."
"Okay." Harry sits back then again lets go of Neville's wrists, finally, and he stretches. They've been sitting on the hard stone floor long enough that it's started to get a bit uncomfortable, and he scoots back to uncross his legs, then decides to stand up all the way. He offers a hand to Neville to help him get up, which his friend takes. "We should go now."
Neville agrees, and the two of them set off, trotting along the corridors toward the entrance to Dumbledore's office. Harry, as he has gotten into the habit of doing, catalogues the hallways and doors they pass as they go; his mental map of Hogwarts is larger and more complex all the time, and if his earlier experiment with locking away his anger—still seething behind its shut door—is anything to go by, he'll soon need many more mental rooms to successfully hide his thoughts and feelings so deep that no one will ever find them. Hogwarts is complex and maze-like even in real life, but he's determined that his mental version of it will be truly labyrinthine. The Mirror room and the library are already there, of course—the former for his grief, the latter for school knowledge—and the rage room, but he wants soon to have all his thoughts and memories and emotions divided up and squirrelled away into hidden corners and behind locked doors. And, he thinks, behind passworded areas: this occurs to him when they arrive at Dumbledore's gargoyle and both he and Neville realize as one that they don't have the password.
They stand there a moment, exchanging an uncertain glance, and then the rumble of shifting stone alerts them to the fact that the gargoyle is moving. It bends its long neck to look at them, and then steps aside, opening the way to the rising spiral staircase. Harry and Neville both hurry to climb onto the steps before they can get too high, and ride the staircase up; it's only a few seconds more before they're arriving at the simple wooden door that hides Dumbledore's office from view. From within, a voice calls, "Come in, Mr. Longbottom, Mr. Potter."
Neville presses the latch on the door and opens it, and the two of them step side-by-side into Dumbledore's office. Harry is struck all over again by the quantity of knick-knacks and thingamabobs sitting in a clutter on every surface, many of them gleaming gold or silver, others moving or projecting light. It's dazzling, even in the fading afternoon light that shines in through the tall windows to the left. And, of course, Dumbledore himself, sitting behind his broad dark wood desk in a high-backed chair; his robes today are a rich dark purple with swirling silver patterns like smoke. It's impossible to tell if they move on their own, or if it's an illusion created by the way his robes shift when he moves his arms. And behind him, the towering wall of portraits of past headmasters, rising above a built-in bookshelf; many curious faces peer down at them from on high as they approach the desk.
Dumbledore has his hands folded on top of his disk and a patiently inquiring look on his face, but he doesn't wait for them to speak before he says, "What can I help you boys with on this fine Christmas afternoon?"
Harry and Neville trade a look, and then Harry shrugs to indicate that Neville should go ahead and speak, which he does.
"I… I think I had a vision," he says.
There's a shift in Dumbledore's expression—something subtle moving under the surface of the frown that appears. "What sort of vision?" he asks.
"I think I saw Voldemort," Neville says. He sounds more nervous that he did earlier, and he sounded very nervous then, but he recounts what he told to Harry earlier, including all of the details that he can remember. Dumbledore listens carefully to the whole thing, his frown growing as he does until his brow is furrowed. His eyes, though, are still sharp behind his half-moon spectacles, right up until Neville finishes; then Dumbledore closes his eyes briefly and sits back in his chair, his hands coming to rest on its arms, and he sighs.
"I had hoped…" he murmurs to himself, and then he shakes his head and opens his eyes again to fix them both with his bright gaze. "Alas, for we live in dark times indeed. I had hoped to protect you—you both—from this more effectively, or at least for longer."
Harry and Neville exchange another glance. "It's war," Harry says, after a moment. "No one's safe. We just need to know what to do now."
Dumbledore nods. "Indeed; you are a very practical young man, Mr. Potter. I wonder, if you would—what would you do in this situation?"
Harry blinks, taken aback. "I… I don't know, sir. I mean, if Neville can find something out about where Voldemort is and what he's doing, maybe we can stop all this before it starts. But Sirius warned us about how dangerous Legilimency can be, if that's what this is, or if it's something worse… well, we learned Occlumency because we know how bad it can be to have someone else get into your head. So I don't want anything bad to happen to Neville, even if it means losing the information."
Dumbledore gives him a long look. Almost, Harry wants to squirm, but he restrains himself. He knows he's being evaluated, that what he was just asked was probably a test, but he doesn't know what he was being tested for. He hopes he passed.
"Well reasoned," Dumbledore says, finally. "Indeed, it is a difficult balance—but I will insist that we protect Mr. Longbottom's safety first and foremost." He looks over at Neville and offers him a gentle smile. "Although I am confident in your ability to provide useful information, I would much prefer that you not be at risk. If indeed Voldemort does have some manner of link to your mind, we must take all measures that we can to prevent him from becoming aware of it and attempting to use it against you.
"For now," he continues, "go on in your lessons with Professor Black. He seems to have been a good teacher for you. However, I will ask that your progress be assessed from time to time by a third party, either myself or Professor Snape—Severus is a highly proficient Legilimens and more familiar with Voldemort's methods than I, so perhaps would be the better choice."
Neville looks a bit crestfallen, but nods. "Okay, though… I don't think Professor Snape likes me much."
Dumbledore's smile widens. "Unfortunately, your professor does not like very many people at all. However, I am confident in your ability to work with him on this topic—it is, after all, of vital importance. I will impress that much upon him, as well."
"What about me, then?" Harry cuts in, and then realizes he's been rude and says, "Sorry, sir."
"Not a problem, my dear boy," Dumbledore says. "You should continue your Occlumency training as well. It is not so vital for you, but still a very useful skill to have. Sirius is an adequate teacher, certainly, though of course you may also seek tutelage from Professor Snape if you believe he would grant it."
Harry shrugs, unwilling to admit that Snape had already offered his help. "I'll ask," he says.
"Excellent," Dumbledore says, still smiling. It's a little unnerving, given the seriousness of the conversation, though Neville seems to find Dumbledore's unperturbed manner soothing; he's relaxed considerably as the conversation has gone on. "I wish the two of you the best of luck. Please, feel free to contact me again if there is any further information, or anything that you believe I might be able to assist with—for now, I find myself needing to reach out to the teams searching for Voldemort, including Sirius and Remus," he says, with a nod of his head toward Harry, "thanks to your information, Neville. Anything helps, of course; now, however, you must worry about safeguarding your thoughts, and the rest of us will concern ourselves with the information game."
Harry and Neville both nod, and, as the implied dismissal was fairly clear, make their way out of Dumbledore's office. They ride the spiral staircase back down and the gargoyle shuffles back into place behind them, and then Neville rubs fiercely at his face with his hands until his cheeks are pink from it.
"I… I need to go outside," he says. "I need some air."
Harry nods. "D'you need company?"
"If you want."
Harry considers it for a moment, and then decides, "If it's alright, I'm going to go back down to the dungeons. I think I'd better talk to Snape now, rather than later."
"Good idea." Neville turns to Harry and, out of the blue, throws his arms around him. The hugs is over as quickly as it began, before Harry can marshal himself to hug back, and he blinks at his friend.
"What was that for?"
"Just… thanks, for all this, Harry. I was scared, but I feel a lot better now."
I don't, Harry thinks, but decides not to say it. If anything, he feels more scared than ever. But he understands well enough where Neville is coming from, and he doesn't want to put his anxieties on his friend's shoulders; Neville has plenty to worry about already. "Of course," he says, instead. "Enjoy your walk, okay?"
"Yeah. Good luck with Snape."
Harry snorts. "Thanks. I'll need it."
Snape's office door is closed when Harry arrives, which is the usual state of affairs and to be expected, but a minute after he knocks a voice, already sounding irritated, calls from within for him to enter. He pushes open the heavy door and makes his way down into the office proper, finding that it's as dimly-lit and crowded as ever, though still filled with interesting things—if he dared to take his attention away from the professor enough to stare at them. However, Snape is already looking up from whatever he had been working on when Harry steps into his line of sight, and is immediately caught by his glare.
"What, Potter?" he demands, as Harry approaches the desk. "Is it not enough for you to waste my time during the school term?"
He's in an awful mood. Wonderful. Harry restrains a sigh and says, "I apologize, sir, but I thought you might appreciate a head's up before the Headmaster ambushes you with the news later on today."
"What news?"
"Neville had a vision," Harry says, then clarifies, "of Voldemort. Dumbledore wants him to step up his Occlumency, and have his progress verified by someone else—yourself, sir."
"Oh, brilliant," Snape sneers, leaning back in his chair to look down his long nose at Harry. "Yet more time pandering to the Boy-Who-Lived and his inability to master basic concepts."
"Occlumency isn't basic," Harry points out. "And Neville's doing pretty well, or at least Sirius says so. Dumbledore just wants you to check."
"You will find I am a harsher judge of progress than your precious mongrel," Snape says. He rises abruptly from behind his desk, and even with the physical barrier between them, he looms effectively enough to make Harry shrink back a little. "And what does Black have to say about your progress, Potter?"
Harry shrugs, trying for nonchalance. He can feel the tension in his shoulders, though, and knows he probably falls short of 'unconcerned'. "Mostly the same," he says. "It took me longer to choose a shielding construct, but I've got one now. I'm pretty good at using it to shut up my feelings."
Snape gives him a dirty look, then says, "We'll see about that." In the next moment, his wand is in his hand; he summons it with such a swift, deft motion that Harry barely catches it, and has no time to call his own wand from its new sheath before Snape's wand is pointed at his face. "Legilimens."
Something stabs into Harry's mind, brushing past the net of loose shielding Sirius had taught him and Neville to build first, a sort of early-warning system meant mostly to inform him of an intrusion more than keep anyone out. And then Snape is plunging into the halls of Harry's internal Hogwarts, his presence blooming into Harry's mind. There are a few seconds where he's trapped, stuck wandering the halls, and then it feels almost as if he reaches through the walls of the construct and pulls out the first memory that comes to his grasp: Aunt Petunia looming over a younger, smaller Harry much the way Snape is now, brandishing a frying pan.
"Stop!" Harry shouts, but he doesn't have the focus to kick Snape out using his Occlumency, he can't slam a door that doesn't even exist. Instead, he flicks his hand, his wand falling easily into his hand, and at the same moment raises it and cries, "Flipendo!"
The connection between them breaks, Snape forced back far enough that the backs of his knees strike his chair, and he falls into it. He shakes himself and rises again, which gives Harry just enough time to lower his wand and avert his gaze, ready for a reprimand—or a hex.
Neither comes, to his surprise. "You are clearly unpolished," Snape says, "but you have potential. Continue refining your construct, and come to me again in two weeks. If you have not, by then, figured out for yourself how to firm the walls of your protections, we will begin work there."
Harry risks a glance up, and finds that Snape is studying him with a much calmer look on his face than he'd had earlier. His fit of temper had been worked out, apparently, and now he just looks cool and considering.
"Your caution is warranted," Snape says, catching Harry's careful look. "But I will not attack you again. Not without warning, at least; I wanted to see how you did when unprepared."
"Better than you expected, I take it," Harry says, and then mutters, "Not that that would be hard."
"Quite," Snape says, to his surprise. "But from now on I will cease underestimating you, Mr. Potter."
Harry will believe it when he sees it, but at least Snape seems to be taking him seriously now. "Thank you, sir," he says. "I do think that Sirius is a good teacher for me, but… respectfully, he's neither vicious nor subtle, and you're both."
Snape's smile is narrow, almost cruel, but to Harry's eye seems genuine. "Indeed," he says. "Black can certainly teach you the basics, how to organize your mind and manage your emotions—certainly the latter is a skill he has needed in order to become Lord Black; in school he was vicious—a vicious brat with an overflowing temper. He may even be able to teach you to withstand an assault, even of the caliber the Dark Lord himself could muster. But he cannot teach you how to make an intruder believe that they have grasped your true self, when your real thoughts are still hidden."
"And you can, sir?"
"Yes," Snape says. "I can. You will have to earn the privilege, however."
Harry nods. "I'll work hard." He knows the skill Snape is offering is of incredible value, and he'll do whatever he needs to to learn it. The only question is… "Why are you offering this to me?"
Snape gives him another of those considering looks. His eyes are black as obsidian and gleaming, impossible to read, even more than Dumbledore; his expression is neutral. Harry's good at reading people—he learned how to be, with the Dursleys, and honed the skill in Slytherin—but Snape is a real challenge. What might be going on in his head, what he might see when he looks at Harry, Harry can only guess.
"You are a growing power," Snape says finally. "Do not think my silence on the topic means I am ignorant of what occurred between yourself and Draco Malfoy in the fall, and what it means for your standing in my House. It is in my best interest to keep my eye on you, Mr. Potter, Heir Black, and I intend to do so."
"So these lessons are a way to have me under your thumb," Harry says. It's more than that, he knows, but Snape isn't being so blatant about it, so Harry won't either. "Fine, sir. Keep tabs on me if you have to."
Snape gives him another of those thin smiles. The expression transforms his face—certainly it's nothing like joy, which would transform him even further, Harry thinks, but a cruel or calculating smile makes something entirely different of Severus Snape than a sneer or a scowl.
"I shall," Snape says. "And be warned now, Potter: if you use the knowledge I now offer you for ill, you will pay for it."
Harry bows his head briefly in acknowledgement, and says, "Of course, sir; I would expect nothing less."
"Get out. You will hear from me about when you are to return for a second assessment, and we will begin our lessons from there." There's a pause, and then Snape adds, "And tell Longbottom that he need not worry—I am confident that I will not be conducting the Headmaster's little checkups. If he is so worried about the dog's ability to teach, he can verify your mediocrity for himself."
Harry nods. Implicit, he thinks, is to make sure that no one else knows that Snape will be providing lessons on the side. He's not even sure if it's a good idea to tell Sirius—he'd flip, of course, and probably forbid Harry from receiving any sort of extra tutelage from Snape, which would only mean Harry would have to be twice as careful about sneaking around as if Sirius never knew about it in the first place.
He slips out of Snape's office and heads back to his dorm. Neville is outside, having a moment to himself; Harry wants the same, but instead of going out into the cold sun and shining snow, he goes straight to his dorm room and, impulsively, lies down on the floor, flat on his back, and watches the dancing patterns of light cast through the lake to reach their dorm room window. He has two weeks to refine his Occlumency enough to impress Professor Snape. He has a good mental construct, with a structure that he knows he can use, but he needs to make it strong, and he needs to make it complicated and deceptive—the latter will come with time and practice, he thinks, but the former…
Well. No time like the present. Harry closes his eyes and sinks into his mind, and sets himself to wander the halls of Hogwarts, determined that what he builds inside his head will be as real and as solid as the stone his back is pressed against.