A/N: This chapter took me unexpectedly long to finish: it got bigger, and bigger... So, a long wait, but here's a long chapter to compensate!

Thank you so much for all the reviews: they're my energy bars.

Chapter 18

After lunch, which they took outside in the lovely autumn weather, it was back to class for Harry. Ron, along with Dean, reported to the barn adjourning the greenhouses. They had ground maintenance duty. It was meaningless labour, no doubt intended as an exercise in humiliation for the students of un-pure blood and allegiance: Hagrid had always managed the grounds fine on his own.

While the 'commoners' were kept busy, Harry had a double period of Elemental Magic. As expected the group consisted mostly of Slytherins, and they acted like royals of court.

As the group trickled into the classroom on the fifth floor, Harry took a seat near the windows overlooking the courtyard. He listened to the roll call with only half an ear, which the teacher uttered in a slow, lilting voice. He was jolted from his dismal inner musings when the voice said:

"Mr. Potter?"

Harry met the impassive gaze of Gaius Finch. "Yes, sir?"

"I was just telling the class about your extraordinary dance with Death," he exhaled deeply on the last word, which gave it special emphasis. An expectant silence followed. Harry glanced around, feeling pressed to his chair by everyone's gaze. He noticed that the stocky boy from summer class who had spoken in accented English was present as well. "Yes, sir?"

"Well? What are your thoughts on the matter?"

"I was a baby, sir, I didn't have much in the way of thoughts."

There were some chuckles at that. Finch's posture didn't change a hairbreadth. This made Harry feel ill at ease, though he wasn't sure why.

"Indeed," was all he said. Harry had the sudden impression that the man didn't believe him.

Finch stood in one smooth motion and walked around his desk. "A large part of this class has already enjoyed an introduction a few weeks ago. Those who haven't shall need to catch up with their peers in their own time."

Some murmurings of protest sounded in the back. For the first time, an expression bled onto the teacher's pale face: a slight upturn of the lips that vanished just as quickly. "My colleague Mr. Malfoy has already covered the basics of entropy. Today I will cover the rudimentary foundation spells of magic. You will practice them for the next class. Do not lag behind, as this wastes both my time and yours." Finch's gaze swept over the class. "I am curious to see the level of magical proficiency of this class. After all, you set the standard of what this school can offer his Lordship."

Enough was said: they would practice.

Finch went over each foundation spell. His pace was measured, every move precise and calculated. For spells that were supposed to be the basic building blocks of current magical knowledge, they were much more complicated than Harry expected. He couldn't follow half of the wand movements. He wasn't the only one: a look around showed most of his classmates were frowning or narrowing their eyes at the teacher, while they attempted to mimic the man's movements.

Pronunciation was another problem: the spells were all in old Aramaic, the same etymology as the Avada Kedavra curse. The length and accent of vowels was tricky to get exactly right.

The class watched with a sharp focus as Finch came to the last foundation spell. What kind of spell could possibly be at the beginning of all curses and hexes in existence, they all wondered.

"The effect of the foundation spell," Finch began, "is simply the negation of all kinetic energy of living organic material on all levels: from molecular to cellular activity, to the flow of blood inside vessels."

This mother of all curses was so dangerous that its use had been forbidden since the seventeen hundreds. Which was why they were restricted to practicing wand movement and pronunciation separately. Harry saw a few shoulders sag at this point.

The professor raised his wand then, pointing it at Malfoy sitting in the front, who instantly shrank back.

"Whatever part of the flesh one aims at will, within a radius of about one centimetre, turn gangrenous." Finch moved his aim towards various parts of Malfoy's body as if to demonstrate. "It will become dead meat. Afterwards if not stopped, the decay will slowly spread. The spreading can be blocked but the initial damage is irreversible."

Finch quirked his lips at the tense huddle that was Malfoy. Then he stepped back and said, perhaps addressing their earlier disappointment: "You are required to learn the Dammāḵā, or the Mother curse as it is affectionately called, not to use it but in order to develop a deeper, more intuitive understanding of all other curses and hexes in existence."

Harry felt a shiver make its way to the back of his neck but was unable to pinpoint his discomfort. Finch's free hand went into an inside pocket and pulled out a life white rabbit, reminding Harry bizarrely of a Muggle magician. The rabbit sat docile on the desk, not sensing the tension in the room. Professor Finch clasped one of the rabbit's paws and pointed his wand:

"Dammāḵā."

The gleaming white fur of the paw turned a horrible black. Finch then cut off the cursed paw in one sweep like he did it every day (it hit the desk with a disgusting thud), following up with a wand movement that made something shimmer over the wound (or rather, absence of life).

One drop of blood had managed to touch the desk. Finch swiped it away with a finger. His low melodic voice swept through the wall of silence: "Even the smallest accident in this classroom would be a disaster, as you might imagine."

They practiced the wand movements. An hour later, the bell ruined the solemn weight in the air. No one dared to move for the door just yet.

The usual teachers' chair had been swapped for a tall straight-backed fauteuil. Gaius Finch sank into it like a king might, grasping the arms with his back rigid. "You," he said in a soft tone, "are the first class in three centuries to witness the Mother curse used at Hogwarts. I myself am one of a privileged few in the non-Arabic world allowed to use it. Do not ever practice the spell in its entirety. You may practice pronunciation or the wand movements, never both. Any misuse you see you may report to me, and you will get credit for it." A half smile again. "You may go."

888

The hours left until seven o'clock seemed to be inversely related to the level of anxiety burning in his stomach. The prospect of a junior Death Eater meeting didn't sound particularly child-friendly. He managed to shove down some cabbage – better to keep it light in case the program included torture practice.

His fork fell to his plate at that thought. His reluctant eyes found the banner behind the teacher's table, the new symbol of Hogwarts with a snake winding around the four Houses. What if he was going to be asked to share his experience in the subject? What if felt like to be tortured with the knife and the whip – purely for academic purposes of course? What if Lucius Malfoy taught the class?

He closed his eyes for a moment. He was being illogical. That bunch of demented sadists was not bothered by such trivial contemplations.

A hand descended onto his back. "Harry, are you alright?" Neville asked. Opening his eyes he saw that across from him, Ron and Hermione had pulled their attention from their discussion on the merits of the new teachers – he had already been subjected to a rigorous inquiry of Elemental Magic earlier.

The standard answer sat stuck inside his mouth. He knew he looked unwell, sweat beading on his forehead and hands.

"The meeting is tonight, right?" Neville said quietly.

Harry again was struck by the change in him. Neville, the would-be Boy-Who-Lived. His fellow Gryffindor had always been precocious and observant. But it was something internal, rarely reflected outwards. Just last year he'd been watching from the sidelines, as he had for the past five years – unless shyly answering a question from the Golden Trio. Neville and Ginny had been close, Harry reflected.

"Yes."

"It probably won't be as bad as you think. Just wait until you see what it's actually about."

Harry grimaced. "I know. I can't not think about it, though." Across from them a group of Slytherins left the table, among them Malfoy. It was ten to seven: time to go.

He stood. "See you guys later, I hope," he joked feebly before setting off after the Slytherins. A handful of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs joined as well, with a sneering Zacharius in the lead.

Their group trudged up to the seventh floor. They stopped at a set of double doors. He'd walked past it often on his way to the Gryffindor common room, but had never been inside.

Standing next to the doors was Narda.

She looked exhausted, with huge bags under her eyes. She seemed smaller than he remembered her, but that might be the way she held herself. Smoothing away his initial surprise at seeing her, he snuck close. Narda tensed at his approach. Harry was more used to ignoring the comments rising up behind them.

"Narda, how are you?" he asked. "When did you get back?"

After a second she lowered her eyes. "I've been back since this morning."

"How are you doing?" he repeated.

She shrugged. "Fine."

One hand subtly supported her weight against the wall behind. 'Fine' was such a useful word for whatever you were actually feeling, Harry reflected. For that reason he was very fond of it himself. He wanted to ask more, but Pansy already took over the conversation: "Narda! Welcome back. Where have you been all this time?"

Zacharius, standing close, scoffed and sent Harry a sneer. "Don't you remember? She snuck off with Potter. And, you know, whatever Potter touches ends up in a bad way." His eyes glided to Narda. "Didn't you?"

Narda averted her face as if to block him out. Harry felt his patience with Smith wearing thin already. He made it sound like they had gone off to snog or something. Zacharius' eyes gleamed hatefully as he studied Harry's reaction.

"Caught you in the act, did they?" Ernie asked, to make matters worse. Zacharius snorted. Narda seemed to be trying to press herself through the wall.

Harry felt the familiar itch for his wand. A bunch of ignorant teenagers they were, all of them. He focused on calming his breathing. He knew they were trying to make him do something foolish just when the teacher showed up. Imagining himself as someone else, an actor in a play, he turned his whole body towards Zacharius.

He allowed a smile to get through his stony stare and hoped it looked a bit like it had looked on Finch. "Don't bring Narda into this, Smith, we're just friends. Besides, I told you already I'm not interested in you that way. Now, is there anything else you wanted from me?" He knew it was a low blow, but the sight of Narda, barely recovered, shaking against the wall because of this pathetic little boy, made white rage melt into clear purpose.

The sniggering was much louder now. Zacharius' cheeks visibly coloured. Watching him, Harry couldn't keep his fake smile from turning into a real smirk. The Hufflepuff threw him a look filled with rage. The thought came to Harry that this was certainly a change in dynamics, to be fighting Zacharius instead of Malfoy.

"Gentlemen." The both of them turned at the sound of a soft-spoken voice. Takumi Watanabe stood a few paces away, a slight frown creasing his brows as he took in the scene. Harry felt some undefinable emotion pass through him at seeing the familiar face. Watanabe wore his usual loose attire, his scabbard sheathed in plain sight on his right leg. The man's gaze took him in like he was any other student. Harry did his best to look just as unaffected. He knew that for Watanabe it wasn't an act.

"Your energy would be better spent honing your magical skills than engaging in verbal brawling, wouldn't you say?" Watanabe went on. He stressed the words 'verbal brawling' like they represented something positively vulgar, making him feel like a boor. Watanabe himself was much too refined for that sort of things, of course.

Harry raised his eyes, determined to get a reaction. "Better than actual brawling, right sir?"

Watanabe just stared, the way Voldemort often did: without any expression on his face. Harry felt very small right then.

Watanabe turned to open the double doors and gestured the class inside. They stepped into a large space, about twice as big as a regular classroom. For all its size the room was mostly empty. A beautiful dark-red oval table that would be large enough to seat the class had been shoved in one corner, about ten upholstered chairs lined up next to it stacked in twos. The panelled walls, unusual for the stone castle, were richly decorated with typical English landscape paintings. The central panel above the hearth depicted Hogwarts castle in all its sun-bathed glory. There were no windows: four chandeliers cast their light down from the ceiling and torches burned along the walls. All in all, it seemed like interesting discussions must have taken place here over the years.

A few Slytherins already started towards the chairs, but Watanabe beckoned the group to the centre of the room.

They all looked around curiously. "Welcome everyone," Watanabe began with a nod. As if picking up on Harry's thoughts, he explained: "This room is one that students rarely get to see. It's been used as a meeting room ever since the age of the Founders – I have been told the Great Four gathered here to discuss the school's affairs."

Unlike the elder Malfoy's lecturing pace, Watanabe stood motionless except for his eyes. "Most of you know each other already from your summer classes. Those of you who were unable to attend: you are here on the Dark Lord's request. As promising witches and wizards of your generation, you have been chosen to receive extra training in the more advanced areas of magic, such as the class on Elemental Magic you had this afternoon.

"Now to the matter at hand. The Dark Lord has bestowed upon you all the great honour of serving him in a more direct manner than the context of your education allows. This is an opportunity for you to become acquainted with the ways in which you can contribute to the realm, and for your trainers to determine your skills and future career path.

"Your attendance in the summer months gave us, your teachers, the opportunity to assess your strengths and weaknesses. Based on the results of this assessment, you have all been assigned a personal instructor. He or she is specialised in the magical area that is your forte. From now on, each week you will receive training in this specific field. As for the late arrivals, I will be testing your skills today."

Excited whispering broke out around Harry. The late arrivals shared worried gazes.

He glanced at Narda. She was still trembling. He wondered why she had been discharged when it was obviously too soon. Maybe the hospital standard today wasn't what it used to be. Or maybe, he considered grimly, it wouldn't get any better than this. She was after all a Crucio survivor.

Narda caught his gaze and looked away, her jaw firming. Harry bit the inside of his cheek. Now she thought he was pitying her.

"Potter, your training schedule," Watanabe said to catch his attention, in the middle of handing out pieces of parchment. Harry's read:

Instructor: Severus Snape, Professor.

Field(s) of specialty: Legilimency, Dark Arts.

Harry crumbled the parchment into a tiny ball, a part of it ripping under the pressure of his nails. He became even angrier when he realised that apparently within the span of a minute, he had already, subconsciously, managed to get his hopes up. He had hoped to be taught by the man who had coldly passed him this note.

Snape. Why is it always Snape?

He froze as his quick temper made the Dark Marks around him stand out in stark relief, like fleas caught in a web. His eyes narrowed as he tried to hold on to the vision. Watanabe's Mark felt different from the others, warm and strong. It seemed to be pulling at Harry rather than the other way around.

Watanabe dismissed everyone with a note, and a majority of the class walked out, staring at their parchments or deep in thought.

In the corridor Harry realised he wanted to talk to Narda, help her if he could, but when she emerged behind her classmates she quickly turned the other way. Realising he was making a scene he got moving again, blindly stalking towards the staircase at the opposite end.

He stopped with his hand on the railing. He didn't want to face the busy hive that was the Saturday night common room right now – be it Slytherin or Gryffindor. Hermione, he considered, had told him earlier she was going to work ahead in order to get to the homework that she was barred from. She was probably busy reading in her old summer refuge on the sixth floor. That was just one floor down from here.

He descended the staircase. On the sixth floor he noticed that he was now in a completely different part of the castle. Nothing here looked familiar – he had never seen this pattern of tapestries before. If he extrapolated where he knew the Gryffindor tower to be though, going southwards would get him back on familiar ground.

He walked leisurely and took in his surroundings, enjoying the feeling of the unfamiliar. It was rare to come by nowadays, overbearing and restrictive as his daily routine felt to him. With each new portrait and scenery of the grounds that passed his view, he felt his mood calming. He loved Hogwarts. Even now it still felt like home to him. Especially now. He wondered what Hogwarts meant to Voldemort, then quickly stopped that train of thought. He didn't want anything to spoil this.

He heard a whoosh of a spell trail close by. That was when his legs flew out from under him. The back of his head bashed with a nauseating speed against the stone floor. His awareness blackened out, whether for a minute or ten he didn't know. When his vision came back it was all blurry.

He carefully turned his aching head, wondering how he had come to lay sprawled out on the floor. Had he gone to lie down? That didn't seem likely. The floor was hard and very cold. He felt the urge to throw up, but pushed it back with a will. He had lost his glasses, he realised. He groped about to find them, thinking they couldn't be far.

His ears caught the sound of footfalls drawing near. The shape of a person loomed in his vision. A crushing sound then, close to his left ear.

"Oops. Were those your glasses?"

Harry's whole body tensed at hearing that voice. He pushed away from the ground to a sitting position. The movement made his vague surroundings tilt crazily, and he was forced to close his eyes to keep the acid in his stomach down.

When the bout of nausea had passed he slowly tilted his head, which felt like a block of concrete had been attached to it, to stare into the vague features of his attacker. Zacharius Smith had aimed his wand point-blank. Harry could see it because it was about five centimetres away from his nose.

The dark lump lowered itself to Harry's height. Zacharius' other hand held something that sparkled in places – his broken glasses.

"Awww… and they looked so nice on you."

The vehemence in his voice was scary. Zacharius stood. "Get him up," he ordered to someone who apparently stood at his back. Harry's back spasmed with fear. The sheer powerlessness of his position was sinking in.

The second person walked around them both, then strong hands grasped below his forearms to pull him upwards. His vision threatened to tunnel in again. He gradually lost feeling in his limbs. The grip became painfully tight as one arm sneaked across his chest to press him against his second assailant.

They slowly went into motion, away from the light of dusk. His bearer pulled him backwards into a dark space. The constant feeling of sinking towards the edge of consciousness made it impossible to put up any resistance – he couldn't even feel past his shoulders.

His brain managed to process the dull thought that it was bad when you got dragged somewhere else. His panic peaked then, ruining his concentration.

The darkness around him was now complete. "No, don't throw it here, you idiot," Zacharius was saying.

"As if you're the expert on this." It was Nott who spoke from another part of the room. Harry inhaled sharply. Three, there are three of them.

Pain, out of nowhere, spread over his lower chest, leeching away his breath. Someone had punched him the Muggle way. Another punch against his cheek jarred his teeth. He tasted blood on his tongue.

No. This couldn't be happening. Was he– were they actually going to kill him? Did any of them have it in them, to kill him?

He was still being held upright. He lashed out blindly with unfeeling arms. The person to his back surprisingly let go, making the movement of air of the third punch rush overhead. Harry crawled forward. He was hit in the side next and fell to the floor.

"No," Zacharius spoke, "I want to see his face." They turned him over onto his back. "This," the boy hissed next, "is for my brother, Potter."

Zacharius lifted a shoe in the centre of his vision. Then he slammed it down hard on his chest.

Harry screamed, wheezing and curling into himself. Something tightened horribly then, and it was like breathing acid, like fire was licking his insides with each shallow breath.

The shoe swam into focus again.

It hit his head just like Malfoy's boot had done before, last year on the Hogwarts Express. His nose cracked. The sensitive spot on the back of his head exploded with pain. Then the boot switched smoothly back to his chest, crashing home like a hammer.

No. Merlin, no. Not like this.

He tried to gather his magic, willing the image of power to present itself. But he couldn't think, couldn't even pull a decent breath. Knowing he had little time, he tried to focus on finding a Mark. A pained moan left him as he realised that no one in the room had one.

No. No. NO. He was unaware of his head shaking a useless denial while his body swam in layers of pain. A twinge passed over his scar then. Something tickled inside his skull.

888

The French, eternal enemies of the United Kingdom, were getting bothersome. That was to be expected, but recently their ambitions had become too large to ignore: an upcoming alliance with Germany was being formalised at this moment.

"Content?"

"A joining of armed forces for the purpose of infiltrating Ireland."

From his high vantage point, Voldemort noted with some contentment that his servant's hair was in complete disarray. Devoted to personal care though Lucius was, he had not wasted any time to seek him out.

"How is Huber these days?" Lea Huber was the German ambassador of the French Minister for Magic and, accidently, a close friend of the Malfoys. Bowed down on the dark green carpet, Lucius answered: "She is delighted to be of service, my Lord."

"Does he suspect?"

"Not a thing, my Lord." Versed as she was in court politics from an early age, Huber's judgement had been spotless over the years. Based on earlier experience Voldemort had decided to grant her this sensitive task.

"You will be in daily contact from now on."

Subterfuge was actually more Severus' forte, but his talents were required for the current domestic problems. As Voldemort mentally browsed through the growing list, he became aware with some chagrin that he felt… relieved for the excuse to engage with a common enemy again.

When it came to ruling, the finer details proved to be more annoying than anticipated. Taking power was so much more satisfying than maintaining it. The thrill had been the chase, the droplet of his strength that broke the political system of the last fifty years. He had known this, yet had not foreseen his own aversion against dealing with what he thought of as trivial internal skirmishes, and what is advisors told him were propelling movements in society that needed to be nipped in the bud. Sometimes repression was most efficient through the use of force; often, it was honey that did the job better.

The last time he'd resorted to flattery he was just shy of twenty.

Isn't that what servants are for?

A slight movement – it was the hunching of Lucius' shoulders – brought him back to the matter at hand. The corner of his mouth curled in mild amusement. Lucius was frightened by his silence.

His hand gestured a dismissal. "Go, Bella shall be - "

He broke off midsentence, narrowing his eyes. Something was amiss. After a beat he realised it was the headache forming at the back of his skull. He hadn't had a headache in fifteen years.

Except for that time in the Ministry when he had possessed… Potter.

He waved Lucius off impatiently – the man fairly ran out the door – and focused his attention inwards. The boy had had the audacity to contact him through the link before. If Potter thought he could call upon him any time he felt like it…

No, a clear thought came through. The desperate tone told him it was not in answer to his own musings. Sticky, mind-numbing panic bled through the link. The force of it made Voldemort's eyes snap wide open.

No, it cried again, NO.

He sneered, imagining several ways in which to return the favour – a nice view of the Muggle border surrounding London would teach the boy to keep his pathetic adolescent wailings to himself.

It was Nagini who managed to seep the malice from his ire. Sensing her master's restlessness, she came to lay her head on his lap. He exhaled, letting her unassuming mind calm him.

Ten minutes into reading the report from Huber, Nagini hissed at him to stroke her scales. He became aware, as he did so, of a lack of pressure. The headache was gone. It had been replaced by a queer, enclosed feeling.

The connection - for the first time it was blocked. Potter, he knew, had not become a master Occlumens overnight.

Emerging from his reverie he absently noticed he was already standing, his wand drawn. A wisp of thought took him to the entrance hall of Hogwarts, the wards recognising their true Headmaster. Someone yelped in surprise. He looked up and noted the lone student on the grand staircase, who ran at meeting his gaze. He could always punish him later for breaking his concentration, he considered as he drew inwards once more.

While the connection was blocked the mind-path still drifted, lifeless, as if dislocated. He traced a trail of Legilimency along his share of the link. At the border it lay scattered. It took an effort then, to once more un-focus his attention. A thought snagged at him: it was a careful study of a tapestry pattern, which he knew hung on the sixth floor in the north part of the castle.

Torches flared to life around his next spot of Apparation, illuminating the same tapestry pattern he'd seen in his mind. This part of the castle was uninhabited by night, and rarely used by day. He wondered fleetingly what had brought Potter here.

"Point me, Harry Potter." The spell was reliable now that the subject was within a hundred meters. His wand stirred, then pointed further down the corridor.

He took up a swift pace. His wand soon jerked aside to point to a door close by. The handle turned under his touch. His Lumos illuminated an assortment of school materials stacked haphazardly in the small room.

He threw the ball of light into the centre. A human form was revealed in the back corner. The Identificator spell first flashed grey for unconsciousness, then orange and blue, indicating cranial damage and broken bones. He snarled, crouching down to feel along the back of Potter's head. The hair was caked with dried blood. The spell, annoyingly, could not tell him anything about the severity of the damage.

Fear, absent ever since he'd crippled Dumbledore beneath his boots like the minor nuisance he was, now stabbed in slow pulses in his chest. His wand sizzled where he held it, projecting the frustration of its owner. He had never been proficient in the magical art of Healing. He didn't need it, in any event, being immortal himself and seeing no use in healing anyone else.

A form-locking carrying charm came to mind, but there was a risk that the external magic would throw off Potter's own. He stilled, frozen with indecision.

To have to actually …

Think of it as inanimate. It cannot touch back.

His annoyance at the situation spiked, and the overflow of magic made the nearby wall groan as if alive.

Think of it as Nagini.

Drenching his thoughts with her familiar features, he braced an arm under Potter's neck and knees. Then he lifted the boy in one smooth motion against his chest.

He looked down at his charge. Potter was lighter than Nagini. His head hung at an unhealthy angle. Spidery fingers kept a tight hold as he shifted the head more securely into the crook of his arm. With that he slipped away.

He appeared soundlessly in the middle of the waiting area. A pile of charts fell out of the arms of a male nurse walking in. His colleague behind the long visitors' desk stared at Voldemort with a gaping mouth.

In ten seconds the waiting area behind him cleared of people and blessed silence ensued.

"Get your best Healers," he whispered to a nearby healer who stood as if rooted to the floor.

"Cer- certainly, my Lord." The female's expression turned from fear to surprise when she gazed down at his burden and the famous scar. Then she took on a professional air, turning on her heels.

She gestured him into a spacious room, with racks of potions and equipment meticulously shelved against the white walls. One operation bed was stood lengthwise in the middle of the room.

In the space of two heartbeats she had managed to gather another healer and two nurses into the room, who all started pulling on white gloves. One of them sped towards him as he lowered Potter to the bed, intercepting his hold on the boy's head to place it sideways on the cushion.

"Thank you, you can now wait outside please," she murmured, absorbed in studying the head wound. She must have caught the flash in his red eyes, because in the next moment she was looking anywhere else and stuttering: "Mr. You-Know- I mean Lord Voldemort, I…"

He straightened and gestured towards Potter with his now free hand, letting an edge into his tone: "Do continue."

This made the nurse snap right back to her duties. He put some working space between him and the bed. The personnel went to attack the boy, or so it looked like. From all across the room equipment came hovering around the healers and nurses and Potter´s body vanished behind a sea of lime green coats. Quiet descended as the team bustled about with wands and equipment.

He waited with parchment-thin patience for their assessment.

"Pupils unequal and reactive." A Sterility charm was uttered, followed by an Ennervate.

"Mr. Potter, welcome back. Do you remember what happened?"

The sound of vomiting, then: "Evanesco. Calming draught, now," the man ordered. "Mr. Potter, you are in a hospital. You have a concussion. We are giving you a calming draught in order to treat you better." He went on for some time with calm reassurances while he worked, but the patient remained eerily silent.

Voldemort narrowed his eyes as the male healer bowed towards his female colleague to whisper something too softly for even his sensitive ears to catch. His magic, held close with a will, begged him to let loose. He contemplated the type of curse that would make them aware of the stakes without impeding their work.

At that precise moment the door opened and a man wearing a Head of Department badge came in. He went straight to Voldemort and ushered a quick bow. "My Lord, we are honoured with your presence…"

The man trailed off, a frown marring his bald head as if he had forgotten his lines.

"And?"

The bowed form appeared to shrink even further. "We would appreciate it if you could perhaps… well, wait outside. For the benefit of the patient," he added hastily.

The Dark Lord merely stared. The man avoided this, his wringing hands turned into stiff knots. "They are not used to having an audience, my Lord. It is standard procedure that the patient's relation waits outside."

Voldemort tuned him out. "Alright, speculate," he heard the woman say and, dismissing the man's presence completely, he slipped into a spot between the nurses. Potter's eyes were vacant. He tilted the boy's chin and peered into the glassy stare. There was no recognition.

The eyes slid closed and the head fell lax to the side.

A this the male healer started chanting something in Latin. "My Lord," the woman stressed from annoyingly close. "Please wait outside and let us treat him."

His anger flared in sparks along his skin. She jumped back with a shout. His left arm came up and he fisted her tight bun between long fingers. The hair was soft and smoked where he caressed it.

The sounds that now came out of her throat soothed his frayed nerves. "Ms…." – he read her badge – "Garron, do remember your place." She gave a tiny nod, her eyes scrunched up. He retracted his fingers and she stumbled away. Large chunks of burned-off hair fell from her head to land on the spotless floor.

He threw the assemblage a rigid stare. "I am confident there will be a complete recovery," he whispered in a glacial tone.

He Disapparated. There was punishment to be doled out.

888

Someone was touching his head. Harry flinched, wide awake in the space of two seconds.

Around him the darkness was absolute. There was a stabbing pain at the back of his head. He felt along his scalp. Gauze was pressed firmly against it. His brain felt parched, like cerebrospinal fluid was being tapped off and now the dried-up content was grinding against his skull.

The hands stilled. "Mr. Potter?" a woman whispered close by. "Are you awake?"

He quickly closed his burning eyes, feigning sleep. He then noticed the dull pain that radiated from his chest. It felt aflame with each breath. He tried to recall what this was all about, but he failed miserably.

A cold pressure at the back of his head, then the fabric was tightened once more. The woman's footsteps walked off and the door closed. He waited, concentrating on the tiniest sound. He decided it was safe to open his eyes after a minute.

A vast blackness pressed around him.

On the verge of panic now, he felt around himself. He wore a loose-fitting shirt and he was covered with a thick blanket. He couldn't find his wand on the night stand, but he hadn't really expected to. He sagged against the bedstead. Either the room was windowless, or he was in a dungeon.

He imagined a Lumos charm and went through the motions with his wand. The flow of magic up his arm surprised him. Warm air touched his hand but there was no light hovering over it. He shook away the spell. At least it was a start.

He hunched in on himself, trying and failing to dismiss the nothingness around him, which was like a near-physical presence, a silent witness bearing down over his shoulders. He gnashed his teeth, then swung his feet over the side of the bed. Dizziness made him loose his balance and he nearly fell over. He sat very still for a moment, drawing slow breaths.

Fresh air hit is face from somewhere and he turned his head towards it. Some kind of window or exit was nearby. He ought to scout his surroundings while he could. Grabbing the bed with both hands, he touched down to the floor. The cold was a shock to his warm feet. He shuffled to where he thought the wind came from and soon felt a wall. He stopped when he found the ridge of the window ledge. It was partway open. Conversations and car noises floated up from the street below.

He couldn't see it. Not even a patch of grey. Everything. Was. Darkness.

His anxiety made the pain in his chest worse. He again felt at his eyes. They were open. He carefully touched an eyeball, then cried out as a bolt of pain cleaved through his head. The touch had set of an electric charge in the centre of his skull. He grasped at the wall, gasping.

The clacking of footsteps again, now much faster than before.

"Mr. Potter!" the same voice exclaimed. Harry shrunk back from its volume.

"What's going on?" His voice trembled.

The woman's voice softened. "You are in St. Mungo's. You are being treated for a severe concussion."

"That's why I can't see, because of the treatment?" he blurted.

She paused on her way out. "Mr. Potter, please return to the bed. I will get the healer. It is probably a reaction to your treatment and nothing to worry about." She took his arm and returned him to his bed, tucking him in as if he were an infant before strolling away.

Concussion. That was probably why he couldn't remember.

After about ten minutes someone came in. A second woman's voice introduced herself as his healer and asked him to relax and keep his eyes open. He did, immensely relieved when she didn't make a move to touch them. She whispered an incantation, probably an indicator spell.

"Strange," she murmured, then she said: "There is a spell woven into the tissue layers of your eyes that is currently transforming their shape. It's not something we usually scan for, which is why I didn't detect it before."

"You mean I'm going blind?"

"No," she quickly assured him. "We scan for any traces of malignant magic. This is benign."

He sagged back into his cushion, already drained of energy. "So someone from the staff-"

"This is very advanced magic, Mr. Potter," she interrupted, "Magic that we would only entrust to an Oculist, and only with explicit permission from the patient." He probably looked confused, because she clarified: "An eye healer."

"Ah. Has… has anyone come to visit me?"

Her next words made his chest tighten with fear.

"I completely understand your suspicion, but no one wanting to harm you could have entered this room. It is actually drenched in advanced wards. They were placed here by the Dark Lord himself. He was busy for a full ten minutes, in fact, before he deemed the place sufficiently secure for your transfer."

As if this was all perfectly ordinary, she continued: "Mr. Lomberlay is our resident Oculist. I will ask him to examine your eyes." Then her footsteps receded.

She doesn't really know what's going on, does she, if she needs to get a specialist. The foggy terror he had managed to keep at bay thus far flared again, like a Dementor had turned its head to send its hollow stare right through him. Unable to sit still, he rocked back and forth.

Voldemort must be very displeased, to mutilate his eyes like this. It had to be the Dark Lord, he just knew it. It was his style. The man surely knew his way around the standard medical detection spells. It was already too late now to stop the effects of whatever curse this was. He didn't doubt that was exactly the way Voldemort intended it.

He would have to learn Braille. That wasn't so bad. He frowned as he considered the little raised dots he'd seen on paper in primary school. Maybe they only had that in the Muggle world. He rocked a bit harder, trying to still his jumpy thoughts. Don't be so dramatic. Wait until the healers return. Just don't think, just wait a little.

"Harry!"

He jumped, jerking his head so fast he pulled a muscle in his neck.

"Neville?"

Judging from the boy's tone Neville was probably grinning. "I heard you were here so I thought I'd stop by."

"Neville…" Harry muttered, stretching out a hand.

"Are you alright? What happened? Did you hit your head?"

Neville came to stand next to the bed. After a few more seconds of blindly sticking his arm into the darkness, it was gently clasped and the bed dipped to his right as Neville sat down.

"Harry?"

Harry was distantly aware his body was still moving slightly back and forth. He stilled himself and let go of Neville's hand in order to wrap the blanket tighter around himself.

"I- I can't see right now."

A pause. "Alright. I suppose that makes sense."

Wizarding logic. Harry's lips turned into a grimace. "Actually, no. They're going to send an expert to take a look at my eyes."

"Oh. That's awful Harry."

"Are you here because of your parents, Neville?" Harry asked to change the subject.

"Yes, I visit them once a week on Sunday."

"You're allowed to leave the grounds for that?"

"No, but there's a secret way to get out of Hogwarts."

"One of the passages into Hogsmeade, you mean? Wait, never mind. It's best that I don't know." He had briefly forgotten that little fact, funny enough.

They turned the conversation to sharing memories of the good times in the little wizarding town, and wondering if they would ever be allowed to go there again. The warmth of Neville's shoulder next to his had soothed away the edge of his panic. This was real. There was just something blocking him from seeing it. The expert would come soon.

"You wouldn't say it, but business is booming actually," Neville was saying. "Voldemort has revoked a lot of the old trading sanctions on all kinds of things. It's a lot of Dark Arts now, though, my Grandma says."

My Grandma says. Not a passage into Hogsmeade then. "How is she?"

"She's fine. She's helping out with Muggle support, warning them and helping them to move away from wizarding areas. Especially at the border it's very dangerous for Muggles right now."

Harry swallowed. "How are they doing, the Muggles?" It was plain ridiculous, how he had no clue at all of what was going on. Obviously the papers were being filled with nationalistic drivel. Voldemort didn't want the public to become restless. But since Harry was sleeping in the lion's den, you'd think he would pick up on some of it at least.

"Not good. There are a lot of disappearances reported by the Muggle authorities. We don't know where they are being taken." His tone became firm. "But you'd be surprised how little support there is for these abductions, on all levels. Right now, although I think most people agree that this serves no purpose at all, no one is lifting a finger to intervene."

By the end there was clear anger in his voice. Harry felt chilled as he remembered what Hermione had said about breaking wheels. If that's what happened to Muggleborns who tried to escape, what happened to the Muggles?

His hand was clasped again. "I'm sorry Harry. Here I am, trying to cheer you up and of course the opposite happens."

"Not at all Neville, I'm happy you're here. And I always prefer knowing things. So thanks."

Neville squeezed then let go of his hand. "I have to go now Harry. I need to be back for dinner, or they're going to notice I'm gone."

Harry thought he was taking a huge risk every week, coming here to visit his parents. Of course, he would've done the exact same thing in his place. "Say hi to Ron and Hermione for me."

Neville rose. "Sure thing. Hang in there Harry. St. Mungo's is supposed to be the best hospital in the country now. They'll know what to do."

"Right. Thanks."

Neville's soft footfalls went across the room. "I'll be back next week in any case, if you're still here."

"That's great. See you soon, then."

"Bye," Neville whispered near the door.

Harry curled into himself and closed his eyes, trying hard not to think of anything in particular.

888

The next time someone walked in it was to bring him dinner, plane hospital fare. Careful not to spoil the food on himself he ate slowly and mechanically, interested in nothing but waiting out the hours for the Oculist to show up. After dinner he was directed by a staff member to the bathroom facilities. The woman described the smallest details of his surroundings in a manner that made him feel like a small child. He supposed it couldn't be helped.

After a restless night that seemed to drag on forever, when breakfast came it was still a surprise. He noted with relief that overnight the painful burning of his airway had been reduced to a mere dull ache.

His jaw clenched hard along with his nerves when the nurse announced the Oculist. He was instructed to lay back. The man interrogated him on the changes in his eye sight and the manner of his headache. Lomberlay then murmured a spell that glued his eyes wide open. He tensed. Something icy cold touched his eyes, but it didn't hurt as expected.

"I see," the man said, straightening. "It's the scenario I was hoping for. You, young man, have been blessed with the perfect sight, or visionem perfectamas we call it. It is a complicated and powerful Transformation spell, with a notorious history – many who have attempted it have become permanently blind. However-" he quickly went on at Harry's sharp intake of breath, "if performed correctly, the retina reforms in the second or third day after incantation. This is the case now. The focus and shape of your retina are already at a higher acuity then they were, based on what you say to be your former vision."

Perfect vision? No more need for glasses, was his first thought. Then another thought came right after. Voldemort was as likely to grand him perfect vision as he was to take him for a trip to the zoo. But then, who else could have gotten past the wards?

The man went on and Harry focused back to the sound of his voice. "You will have a visual acuity superior to that of most people. If my extrapolation is correct it will stabilize at the limit of acuity in the human eye. To speak plainly, it means you will be able to see details from six meters away which people with a normal eyesight can see from three meters away."

"When do I know if it has worked?" In this case the idiom 'seeing is believing' was an apt description of his predicament.

"It takes about four days until the transfiguration of the eye is completed. Until that time the spell ensures that the transfiguration, while it takes place, is protected from any outside interference. As a precautionary measure it therefore blocks all visual cues from reaching the brain. This is why you have become temporarily sightless."

Harry took that in with a frown. "Why are so many people wearing glasses then, if this is the perfect solution?"

"It takes a witch or wizard of exceptional skill and power to pull of such a feat, Mr. Potter. I can't perform the spell, although I wish I could." He chuckled a moment. "I would be instantaneously famous. In fact," Mr. Lomberlay added in suppressed excitement, "I rarely encounter it. Do you have any idea who the benefactor might be?"

Harry had his suspicions, but he didn't trust this man to tell him anything – he hadn't even seen him yet. "I have no clue, Mr. Lomberlay."

"Hm, shame, shame." the man muttered. "Alright, this is all for now. Do you have any questions?" His tone had turned dismissive along with his interest, and Harry already liked him less.

"No sir, thank you."

"Not at all, Mr. Potter." The man walked off with instructions to the nurse nearby, which were simple: he needed rest and regular check-ups as well as access to a radio, for some reason.

His blood was circulating so fast he could hear the rhythm in his neck. Someone from the Order had visited him, to give him this, a perfect sight. Or someone loyal to him. This person had probably also rescued him from whatever trouble he'd gotten into in the first place, the mystery that made his head pound and his airways burn. Perhaps it was Dumbledore! Maybe, just maybe, he was waiting for an opportunity to get him out of here right now!

The rest of Monday dragged on at a frustratingly slow pace. He half expected someone from the Order to come and snatch him away. He was restless as a result. The music from the installation they brought in didn't manage to hold his attention, and the talking programs made it clear that the radio had been reduced to the sole purpose of being Voldemort's mouthpiece. It was disgusting and depressing, so he switched it off.

The door opened. He tensed. It was right after lunch, not a logical time for the staff to enter. Someone took a breath as if frightened of what they saw. Harry's heart leaped.

"That bad huh?" he joked.

The chuckle that followed, he knew it like his thumb. "Hermione!"

The door closed. "Shhh! Oh I hope they didn't hear that." She murmured a Silencing charm, reminding him that she carried a second wand. She drew near to sit down where he padded the bed, in the same spot that Neville had.

"Hermione, are you skipping class?" Harry asked with fake wonder. He got a hair ruffle for his trouble.

"I'm not skipping class, I will have you know. I'm skipping administration but I'll make it up tonight." He knew she was now waving her arm dismissively. "Oh Harry we were so worried!" She hugged him, careful not to press too hard. "You didn't show up for Quidditch. A whole day, nothing."

She fell silent, probably reliving that day, but she quickly ploughed on like the old Hermione he knew. It almost felt like everything was alright between them again.

"Then Neville returned at dinner and told us where you were. Then, Monday morning, the pictures… they were awful. I came as fast as I could. I'm sorry Ron couldn't be here as well. He has Charms now. Along with the Slytherins, so it would be too conspicuous. I mean, they've become like a plague, you know. They're suddenly all studious and showing up for all the classes."

When she finally stopped her nervous babbling to take a breath he quickly cut in with: "Pictures? What pictures?"

Hermione froze in the middle of straightening. Then he felt her shift to lean against the headboard, unfolding her legs next to his. She sighed. "You don't know."

"What don't I know," Harry demanded in a low tone. He had his eyes closed – he would explain about them later.

There was a sound of fabric shifting, then the cracking of paper. "Here."

"Can you read it for me? My eyes are a bit sensitive now, because of the concussion."

"Of course. It's the front page of the Daily Prophet. There's a picture of you, unconscious, being… carried, by… by Volde- I mean Riddle."

"What?!"

The effect was rather like turning a beautiful stone and finding a cockroach underneath.

"It's true Harry. He found you actually, you were in a very bad condition. He carried you to St. Mungo's. And there's more-"

"A condition he put me in!" Harry fumed at the mere idea that Hermione could be contemplating this farce. He would need some time to figure this out, but whatever it look like, Voldemort coming to the rescue wasn't it.

He'd put Harry under some kind of torture, of course. Along with a round of Legilimency since Harry couldn't recall any of it – although he'd riled the man plenty of times, and the Dark Lord never needed any reason anyway. Maybe it was exactly because someone had done a kind, caring thing for Harry for once like, say, granting him visionem perfectam,that Voldemort went berserk... After all, he was 'not to be touched'.

And then, he'd taken Harry to St. Mungo's, the slimy cutthroat, proclaiming himself Harry Potter's great protector.

Hermione's quite voice slowly seeped through his turmoil: "Maybe it's better if I just read the paper."

Harry jerked a hand upwards to say, go ahead.

"The title reads: 'Harry Potter rescued last minute from deadly plot'." She scraped her throat. "'His Lordship was on a regular inspection of the goings on at Hogwarts castle last night, when he became aware of an unusual disturbance on the sixth floor. He was quick to discover, our correspondent is shocked to say, none other than Harry Potter, trapped away in a closet, unconscious and with a severe head wound. Our sovereign wasted no time in taking Mr. Potter to St. Mungo's himself and alerting the Aurors. Due to the use of exceptionally sensitive tracing spells, the culprits were quickly found to be three Hogwarts students.'"

Harry sagged back against the cushion. The man had clearly made it up. But then, why would he need to? Good press? That was ridiculous.

"You don't remember any of this, do you?" Hermione asked sadly. She went on to quote the paper: "Next paragraph: 'The offenders, whose names shall remain undisclosed for privacy reasons, have been charged and found guilty of aggravated assault and murder to the second degree. A conference was held in the morning at Hogwarts castle to assuage the students and the press. Our Lordship made a quick appearance, honouring the reporters with a short speech before he went to check up on his charge.' Quote of the speech: ''Yesterday's events are an unfortunate blemish on Hogwarts' near-spotless and thousand-year record of keeping its students safe. I will personally see to it that'-"

Harry jerked his hand again and Hermione abruptly stopped. He didn't need to hear Voldemort's slippery words coming from her mouth. "What else does it say?"

"In general? That security at Hogwarts will be reinforced. That you are recovering remarkably well, and that there will be a public punishment dealt somewhere next week. That's the gist of it."

With a sinking feeling, he considered that at this point, the possibility that Dumbledore, or anyone else from the Order, had rescued him was becoming very unlikely. Had that been the case, the papers would be screaming bloody murder, claiming his old mentor had kidnapped him or some such.

"I don't get it," Harry whispered. "Why would Riddle set all this up? And the wards… I can't figure out what he gains by doing this."

"What do you mean, the wards?"

"The healer told me that Voldemort came by for a visit. He warded this room to the nines. Actually, I'm surprised you got through. But of course you don't mean any harm, so …"

She took this in for a moment, then touched his arm lightly. "It's not a lie this time, Harry. Riddle didn't set it up. Two whole common rooms were witness to the capture of your attackers, and two out of the three immediately confessed."

Harry jerked his head. It was unlike Hermione to be so gullible. "He made them confess, of course."

"Harry," Hermione interrupted. "Did you lose your glasses?"

Glasses.

He remembered, suddenly, a fragment of sound, the sound of glasses breaking beneath someone's boots. Zacharius. And Nott, in the little room. And a third.

With the names, recollection flooded back, like a tidal wave of Legilimency. He jerked upright. They held me down so he could kick me.

Someone touched his chin. He jumped, then forced himself to relax. "Don't," he began shakily, "don't touch me please."

He felt for her hand to soften the harsh words. "Yes," he answered after a moment. "Zacharius crushed them."

"He set it all up, right?"

"Why are you here?" Harry returned suddenly. "Isn't it very dangerous? What's the punishment actually, for a Muggleborn student to be caught outside of Hogwarts grounds?"

Silence for a few beats. "Expulsion," she said. "Probably more."

"You're risking… expulsion, to come here?" Harry gritted his teeth, inexplicably annoyed. It was obvious now that she had taken Neville's route. Neville should have known better than to show her. A pureblood would have nothing to fear from a little rule-breaking, but a Muggleborn… And it was absolutely forbidden for students to leave the grounds. Or had the Order found a passage that only they could use and no one else? It had to be that. Harry couldn't imagine Hermione risking expulsion in any situation.

"Why aren't you-" running away, he wanted to ask, but he caught himself just in time. She may have escaped the grounds before, she may be doing it all the time for all he knew. The point was, whatever the situation, he couldn't afford to be witness to the answer.

But then actually…

"This is great Hermione, just great," he snarled. "He will know now, won't he? Sometime soon, he will see this in my mind."

"He can't kill me, I'm too useful," Hermione stated. Her voice was weird, emotionless.

Harry felt his hands start to shake in anger. If she was so brilliant, how could she be so stupid?

"Harry," she cut into his frenzy, "There's something you're not telling me. I mean, it's obvious that right now, you're completely blind."

His hand came down to knot tightly in the coverlet. What a low blow to turn the conversation. "Yes," he hissed.

"Did the staff say- "

Harry wanted to snap at her, but his anger left him like a gust of wind. He could never be angry at Hermione for long. "Before I was brought here someone had fixed my eyes. I think someone from the Order or loyal to it, who had taken me to St. Mungo's and noticed my broken glasses." Or it was a member of the Harry Potter fanclub: from what Ron's good-humoured taunts had told him, the club was still going strong.

"Then Voldemort got wind of it, and he took all the credit," he finished.

The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Although it seemed like there was no way anyone would fall for it, Voldemort had been corrupting the Daily Prophet for some time now - so who knew what people actually thought of him nowadays? The public opinion was fickle: he had learned that the hard way. The only people who knew the real Dark Lord were the handful of his most devoted followers and enemies.

"Can you tell me a bit more about what the Oculist said?"

He described the check-up he'd had that morning with the specialist, repeating the Oculist's words about his soon-to-be perfect vision.

Hermione remarked, quick as ever: "Visionem perfectam, you mean?"

"Exactly."

He felt her hand slacken in his grip. "Hermione?" He asked after the silence had become too pressing on his ears.

"Harry," she said with a tremble in her voice. "Harry, I think you're a Horcrux."

* Dammāḵā: several meanings, including: to die, to be motionless, to put to sleep. (I don't know anything about old Aramaic conjugation, though).

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