Chapter 901 - Ch: 29-32 (endish)

Chapter 29: A Nice Cup of Tea

"…Again? Bloody hell, Harry?"

"Yeah—" Harry muttered, glowering, "Dunno why I've got to stay here all weekend though. I'm fine now!"

"You're not fine, Harry!" said Hermione reproachfully. "That was an absolutely terrifying experience last night! … The nightmares you've been having since your summer vision are bad enough, but I can't imagine how awful they're going to be now—you're lucky I was there and that Dora—"

Ron's jaw dropped.

"Wait!" he gasped. "You really have been staying with Harry at nights, then?"

Hermione's cheeks turned scarlet.

Harry groaned, palming his burning face, and heard Ron yelp, "Ow!"

From what he could see through the gaps in his fingers, Neville had given Ron a kick in the shin, and Lavender had swatted his shoulder.

The sharp click of a door opening caught everyone off guard. Madam Pomfrey emerged from her office, her features furious when she spotted the little group gathered around Harry's bed.

"Out! Out!" she snapped, flapping her arms at the four Gryffindors. "You can visit after lunch—now off to breakfast with the lot of you!"

Ron and Neville fled the hospital wing leaving behind Lavender and Parvati who hesitated, both of whom looked very upset. Madam Pomfrey's features softened.

"Go on to breakfast you two," she said gently. "Mr. Potter will be just fine, I promise! Miss Granger and I have him well looked after."

Parvati and Lavender nodded, sighing.

"Bye guys," said Parvati, "I hope you feel better, Harry."

Harry and Hermione heaved sighs of relief when everyone was gone, both of them feeling thoroughly embarrassed. Of course, it was obvious to Lavender and Parvati—they couldn't help but notice the nights when Hermione wasn't in their dorm. But they and the other girls were doing an excellent job of keeping mum about things so that the prefects didn't find out.

Ron and Neville on the other hand—well, mostly Ron—Harry just hoped that he didn't start blabbing to Seamus and Dean.

Madam Pomfrey seemed to be paying no attention to Harry and Hermione's red faces.

"Right then, Mr. Potter," she said briskly, "how are you feeling?"

"Oh, er… fine I guess," said Harry uncertainly, knowing it was no use to ask Madam Pomfrey again if he could leave.

"Hmm… Well, I am certain that Miss Granger would like some breakfast. I'll send for a house-elf to bring something up, and I'll leave it up to you to decide if you're hungry. … And if Mr. Potter starts looking ill again, Miss Granger—"

"I know the spell to stop Harry throwing up," said Hermione, "I watched to see how Dora and you performed the spell."

A little smile crept to Madam Pomfrey's features.

"Of course you did. Very well, I'll leave you both to it."

Hermione began hungrily digging into breakfast when it appeared a few minutes later on a silver tray atop the hospital wing trolley which Madam Pomfrey had left next to Harry's bed. The tray was laden with just about everything which usually appeared on the tables in the Great Hall. Hermione glanced up at Harry after every few bites to see how he was getting on.

Harry tried a bit of porridge to start, then pushed it aside, a crinkle forming between his brows. Then he took a bite of crumpet and set the rest down on his plate. He peered at the fried eggs, his frown growing deeper. Then he picked up a piece of bacon, his favourite, which he usually wolfed down with almost as much abandon as Ron, and he began gnawing on the end of it.

Harry turned green and heaved. Hermione's wand was instantly in her hand.

"Finite Vomite!"

Harry slumped back on his pillow, his forehead still beaded with cold sweat, a silent tear trickling from the corner of one of his eyes. Hermione felt a sharp pain in her chest. She didn't think she had ever seen Harry looking so miserable.

"Thanks, Hermione," he said after a moment passed. "It…it's horrid! I thought I was feeling better, but all I can see when I try to eat is… is…"

"It's alright, Harry," she said gently, "You don't have to explain. The shock of it last night—and then trying to blot it all out of your mind—that's all fading now, which is probably why it's only just now starting to really sink in."

"Yeah," Harry mumbled, nodding. "Dunno if I'll ever get over it—it was horrible."

They both heard the door of the hospital wing open and footsteps, and they looked up to see who it was. Dora was just returning after freshening up in her quarters and grabbing a quick breakfast, and Dumbledore was right behind her.

~o0o~

Snape glowered at the Gryffindor table while he ate breakfast, peering at the gap where Potter and Granger usually sat with their little harem, right across from the dunderheaded ginger boy and his dimwitted friend, Longbottom. He absentmindedly scratched at the sleeve covering the burning scar on his forearm until he caught McGonagall eyeing him suspiciously.

Snape was startled; he hadn't even noticed her late arrival for breakfast. Then Snape spotted Moody eyeing him too, looking like a hungry lion ready to pounce on its prey at the slightest hint of movement. He immediately stopped scratching and his scowl grew even deeper.

If Snape hadn't been certain before, he was now. The Dark Lord had returned to Britain and restored himself somehow. Had the Potter brat and his slutty little M… Mudblood—the word slipped out once more in his mind—the word he had vowed never to speak again had reared up for the second time in recent memory—something about Potter and Granger fornicating like bunnies with a harem of girls at their beck and call—it just wasn't right. Potter was wholly undeserving—why should he have a Mudblood all of his own, and bevy of bimbos besides?

But had Potter and the Mudblood been right, at the end of third year? Was Pettigrew truly back from the dead? Had he been the one to restore the Dark Lord? Was Black truly innocent of the crime? Snape snorted at the idea of Black being innocent of anything, his lip curling—suddenly he wasn't so hungry, and his stomach churned.

Regardless, the fact that the Dark Lord was back was now inescapable; the brand on Snape's forearm told him that much, though if the Dark Lord had called, it would have turned black. Snape had been planning on telling Dumbledore, of course, but he hadn't seen him since dinner last night, and breakfast would soon be finished.

~o0o~

"…So he was already gone then," Harry sighed.

"Unfortunately, yes," Dumbledore replied. "However, the excursion to Little Hangleton was not entirely unproductive."

Dumbledore opened his hand and sitting on his palm was a golden ring with a cracked obsidian-black gemstone glittering in the morning light pouring through the window. Harry peered at it, feeling mildly puzzled.

"What's that?" asked Hermione, giving voice to Harry's unspoken query. "I mean—obviously it's a ring. But what's its significance?"

"Ah—a very good question indeed, Miss Granger," said Dumbledore, his bushy white eyebrows rising up his forehead. "As it so happens, this ring holds more import than one might imagine, but for our purposes today its significance lies in the fact that it belonged to Lord Voldemort…"

Dumbledore glanced at Dora. Catching his meaning, she locked the door of the hospital wing.

"Pomfrey's gone to breakfast, Professor, so we're all alone."

"Thank you, Miss Tonks." Dumbledore turned his attention back to Harry and Hermione. "Now, what use do you imagine Voldemort might have for such an artifact?"

Hermione gasped.

"A Horcrux!" Harry blurted out, his eyes widening as it hit him. "It's a Horcrux, isn't it?"

"It was a Horcrux," Dumbledore corrected him. "Now it is merely a ring—well, 'mere' isn't quite the right descriptor, but that is a story for another time. I took the Sword of Gryffindor with me last night, on the off-chance that I might discover a Horcrux at the scene. And, as you can see, I did, which confirms my hypothesis that Voldemort had created multiple horcruxes. … There may be more, but thankfully, there is now one less. This one I destroyed in the small hours of the morning."

"Hmm…" Hermione frowned. "I wonder…" she murmured.

"Wonder what?" asked Harry.

"Well, last night, when you woke up and your scar was hurting horribly, you said it felt like it did when you stabbed the diary with a Basilisk fang."

"Yeah, it did." Harry rubbed absentmindedly at his scar again. "Wait, are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"Maybe," she said noncommittally before turning to Dumbledore. "Professor, what time was it last night when you used the sword on the ring?"

"Well now," said Dumbledore as he stroked his long silvery beard, looking immensely curious, "I would say it was nearing two thirty. Are you suggesting a link between Harry's sudden pain and my destruction of the Horcrux?"

"Yes!" said Hermione, almost looking excited. "It was two twenty-three when Harry woke up. There must be a connection."

"Two twenty-three?" said Harry in amusement. "And how many seconds?"

Hermione glared at him and he shut up.

"Fascinating," said Dumbledore. "Very fascinating indeed. Yes, that would seem to be a clear indication of a connection, Miss Granger—a fact that I should have considered myself, given that Harry too contains a piece of Voldemort's soul."

"Don't remind me," Harry grumbled. "It's horrible enough as it is being connected to Voldemort. I'd rather not be connected to all of his horrible Horcruxes too"

"Don't you see, Harry?" said Hermione eagerly. "This means that if there are any more Horcruxes, you might be able to detect them with your scar. Then we could hunt them all down, and once we've got rid of them, we can figure out a way to get that piece of soul out of you…"

"…and then Voldemort would be killable," said Harry, brightening up. "That would be brilliant! But first we need to know how many there are and at least have an idea of where they might be."

"Quite so, Harry," said Dumbledore, looking rather impressed. "Quite so! For the moment though, your recovery, and seeing you safely through the rest of the Triwizard tournament is paramount. Leave the rest to me for the time being. … In the meantime, I would prefer it if you had some company at night, should you be taken ill again. If Miss Granger doesn't mind, perhaps it would be best if she stayed with you."

"Wait! What?" Harry's jaw dropped.

"Or, if you wish, perhaps you would rather have Mr. Weasley or Mr. Longbottom stay with you," said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling merrily.

"No," said Harry quickly. "I'd rather have Hermione…" His face grew hotter when he realized what he had just said. "Er… I mean, I'd prefer it if Hermione stayed with me, sir," then he glanced at Hermione worriedly. "You don't mind, do you? I mean, if you do, that's alright—I don't want you to do anything you don't want to do. I suppose I could ask Ron—"

"Don't be silly, Harry," said Hermione, cutting off his anxious babbling as her own cheeks turned scarlet; Dora tried unsuccessfully to stifle a giggle, "of course I don't mind!"

"Well then," Dumbledore beamed as he rose to his feet from his chair, "I do believe we are finished for now. I had best be off before Madam Pomfrey returns from breakfast to turf me out."

Dumbledore stood up to leave, then hesitated and turned back.

"There is one last thing—I know it is a bit too late to keep the cat in the bag entirely, as your dorm-mates and friends already know of your nightmares and potential connection to Voldemort, Harry, and that information may eventually spread…"

"They won't tell anyone, Professor," said Harry earnestly, "They would never—"

"Perhaps not, Harry," Dumbledore replied with a knowing, wistful smile, "Regardless, all I was going to say is that we should try to keep this information in as small a circle as possible for as long as possible."

~o0o~

Upon his departure from the hospital wing, Dumbledore's weariness returned in full force, having barely had more than three hours sleep. As he neared the gargoyle guarding the entrance to the stairwell leading to his office, he spotted Professor Snape approaching from the direction of the Great Hall. Dumbledore had been expecting to see Severus this morning, considering last night's events, and was glad that he had spoken to Minerva first in her office.

"Ah, good morning, Severus," he said cheerily, his weary demeanor vanishing.

"If you insist," said Snape. "You have been difficult to track down this morning."

"The busy life of a headmaster," said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling as he and Snape took their places on the bottom step of the staircase leading to his office, "it never ends."

"Quite!" said Snape dryly.

Once inside his office Fawkes let out a little trill of greeting and Dumbledore sat behind his desk, directing Snape to take a seat in one of the well stuffed chintz armchairs. Snape sat down stiffly, looking very out of place.

"Would you like some tea?" Dumbledore asked politely, conjuring up a tray with a blue-willow teapot and two teacups. Snape peered down his nose at the tea-tray disdainfully.

"This is a matter of some… urgency," he said, a hint of a sneer in his tone.

"Of that, there can be no doubt," said Dumbledore, pouring himself some tea and squeezing in a slice of lemon. "However, it is not so urgent, surely, that we cannot take a moment to appreciate the finer things in life," he added, stirring in a spoonful of honey.

"You think not?" Snape lifted one eyebrow.

"Unless you are here to tell me that Lord Voldemort has already sent for you, then I think we can spare a few more minutes for the niceties. However, I believe you are here to tell me that he has restored himself, but that he has not, as yet, called his Death Eaters to his side."

This time both of Snape's eyebrows shot up as he clutched his forearm.

"And you know this… how, exactly?"

"At this time, I think it wisest to keep that information to myself, lest it get into Voldemort's hands—I will only say what everyone will know within a few days. The body of a young boy was found last night—a victim of the Dark Lord—and that there is conclusive evidence that Voldemort has indeed returned and restored himself—with the aid of a certain Peter Pettigrew."

Snape's eyes widened and his sallow skin grew even paler.

"Then…then it's true…"

"Yes!" said Dumbledore coldly. "That which you refused to believe at the end of last term is true. Sirius Black is an innocent man, and Pettigrew is still alive, and Harry Potter and Miss Granger were being truthful."

"That hardly makes Black innocent," Snape hissed angrily through gritted teeth.

"That makes Black innocent of the crime for which he was incarcerated," Dumbledore retorted. "And we have already discussed the fact that you have no moral leg to stand on when it comes to your time at Hogwarts together."

Snape fell silent.

"Good!" said Dumbledore. "Now that we have cleared the air, let us move on. Alastor and I approached Igor last night—or very early this morning, if you will—and discovered him in a quandary as to whether to stay or flee. … We convinced him to remain, with the promise of protection. Now all that remains is to determine whether or not you are prepared… if you are ready to take up your task when Voldemort calls, as he is very likely to do within the next twenty-four hours."

Snape hesitated, his black eyes glittering.

"I am!" he said when the moment passed.

"Thank you, Severus," said Dumbledore, his demeanor softening. "Do not think that I don't appreciate the danger you will be walking into. Please be careful."

"Always!" Snape took Dumbledore's words of finality as a dismissal and rose to his feet, departing the headmaster's office in a swirl of robes.

Dumbledore sipped his still steaming cup of tea as he watched his Potions Master leaving, pondering his decision. Minerva seemed to agree that Severus might as well perform the task that he had actually been hired for, but she had made it clear in no uncertain terms that she did not trust Snape. And Alastor too had badgered him again about Snape's unworthiness. Dumbledore knew, of course, that which they did not—the reason that Severus Snape had switched sides.

But even knowing what he did, Dumbledore could not deny that Severus's ever-hardening attitude towards Harry was disturbing. There was no question of Snape actively rejoining Voldemort, of course; such an action would be unfathomable. But given his "unwitting" outing of Remus Lupin at the end of the previous year, it was clear that Severus was not beyond allowing his petty vindictiveness to get the better of him in disregarding the headmaster's wishes.

There was a distinct possibility that Severus might decide that seeking some redemption for Lily Potter's murder was not enough to make it worth his while to help bring down the Dark Lord and protect a boy he hated beyond all reason. The less that Severus knew to "let slip" should he choose to abandon his mission, the better.

~o0o~

Many hours later, shortly before dinner, Dumbledore received another visit he had been expecting, this one from a furious Professor McGonagall. She burst into his office, her features livid, and Fawkes let out a startled squawk when the door banged open.

"What is the meaning of this, Albus?" she demanded, bristling with outrage.

"Ah, yes…" Dumbledore sighed. "I had a feeling I would be seeing you soon. Some tea?" he asked politely, conjuring up a tea-tray again, this one adorned with a Belleek tea-set.

"I don't have time for this nonsense," McGonagall snapped, eyeing the tea tray with nearly the same look of disdain that Snape had given it that morning. "It has just reached my attention through the grapevine that Miss Granger is moving some of her belongings into Mr. Potter's quarters at this very moment."

"And the problem is…?" Dumbledore asked serenely, taking a sip from the delicate, shell-like teacup.

"What?" McGonagall sputtered angrily. "You know very well what the problem is—a teenage boy and a teenage girl—cohabiting in the same living space with no adult supervision. They could be getting up to all sorts of… hanky panky!"

"No more 'hanky panky' surely than they might be getting up to unsupervised in empty classrooms and broom cupboards, surely," said Dumbledore, amused now.

"Well, yes—but that's not the same thing as spending all their time together in the same living quarters where they can get up to things at any time they please.

"And what of all the teenage boys residing together in the boys' dormitories?" said Dumbledore pointedly.

"Well, they're all boys—" McGonagall halted in midstream when it became apparent where Dumbledore was going with this, and she switched to a different tack. "Now—that's preposterous, Albus. You can't seriously be suggesting that the boys might be engaging in sordid liaisons after lights out in the vicinity of their dorm-mates."

"Can't I?" said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling now.

"Er…" Professor McGonagall was caught off guard. "I didn't mean—"

"I know what you meant," said Dumbledore gently. "I know you better than that. I am simply pointing out what we both know to be true, that sometimes, boys and girls alike may indeed be getting up to some—hanky panky as you so delightfully put it—in their own dormitories under cover of night—in four-poster beds with curtains—and instructions for silencing charms readily available in the school library for those with the foresight to seek extra privacy."

"Yes, but—" McGonagall faltered, her best arguments vanishing faster than bats fleeing from the morning light. "—what about the potential for unwanted pregnancy?" she proffered after casting about for another objection.

"This is Miss Granger we are talking about, correct?" Dumbledore's eyebrows lifted and he gave his deputy headmistress a penetrating look.

"Point taken," Professor McGonagall sighed, then it struck her—her final, best argument. "But what about the Grangers? Surely they would not approve!"

McGonagall gave Dumbledore a smug look when he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his crinkled forehead.

"I admit," he began, "that question did give me some pause. But, in the end, I decided to leave that up to Miss Granger as to whether or not to inform her parents. She made the choice freely, without coercion, and Harry was offered the option of having Mr. Longbottom or Mr. Weasley keep him company instead. Harry was quite amenable to Miss Granger staying with him—"

"Of course he was," Professor McGonagall said dryly.

"Well, it was at your prodding that they entered into this relationship, was it not? Surely you could foresee the inevitable outcome?"

McGonagall groaned.

"My dear Minerva, please, do not be so distraught. You and I are both only looking out for the best interests of Harry and Miss Granger. Harry will need all of the loving support he can get to face the trials ahead of him, and have we not already agreed that their blossoming relationship may eventually be the key to ridding Harry of that infernal piece of Voldemort's soul which is now attached to his own?"

Professor McGonagall sighed again, this time looking positively tearful.

"Indeed, Albus! Indeed!" she sniffled, retrieving a lace hanky from one of her pockets and dabbing her eyes. "You are quite right. This is probably all for the best. That poor boy—I don't know what I was thinking—"

"There, there, Minerva," said Dumbledore kindly, "you were only thinking of your students' best interests after all. Now come, sit, join me in a cup of tea, won't you?"

~o0o~

The Senior Undersecretary hung her hot-pink cloak on the gleaming, golden coat-rack to the side of the front door as she stepped onto marble floor of the foyer. She beamed at the gracious hostess who beckoned her forth into the parlour.

"Thank you, Narcissa, for your kindness."

"Not at all, Dolores," said Narcissa warmly. "It has been some time since you last visited us, after all. It seemed to Lucius and me that discussing our way forward under the current circumstances might as well be done over dinner."

Chapter 30: The Informant

Kingsley Shacklebolt nodded his head in time with the throbbing rhythms of the earsplitting dance music. He chuckled when Dawlish massaged his temples, ordered up another fizzy water from the bartender, and tipped a vial of pain potion into it. Then Dawlish chugged it down in one swallow and let out a belch.

"You allm right there, John?" Shacklebolt shouted to be heard over the music.

"No!" Dawlish snapped. "I'm sick of staking out this bloody nightclub watching Gorhammer's flunkies conduct 'business'."

"Gorhammer's got to show up some time. Supposedly he drops in once a month to make sure operations are running smoothly."

Dawlish snorted, and the two Aurors fell silent again, peering through the dancing throng of posh looking Goblins and wizards, all dressed to the nines. They kept watch while the flunkies took gold and wrote down names in ledgers, and every so often they handed gold out to winners or surreptitiously passing envelopes—ostensibly containing drugs—to their clients.

Shacklebolt spotted a heavyset Goblin in a tuxedo strolling around the edge of the dancefloor and surrounded by an entourage of giggling female Goblins in sparkling evening gowns. He nudged Dawlish when he saw the Goblin making a beeline for the table of unlicensed bookies and drugs-dealers.

"That could be him right there."

"About bloody time!"

"Right then," said Shacklebolt, rising from his barstool, "Try and keep your cool. We don't want that lot doing a bunk."

Dawlish clambered to his feet, grumbling about "looking like a penguin" as he tugged the tight collar and bow tie, and adjusted the cummerbund of his tuxedo.

The pair of Aurors casually sidled around the edge of the crowd and approached the table. Several of the Goblins narrowed their eyes, hands hovering near their waistcoats, no doubt ready to pull guns if necessary.

"And what can we do for you gentlemen tonight?" asked one of the Goblin money-takers, "A wager on next week's quidditch match? …or something to make your evening a bit more enjoyable?"

"I was hoping for a meeting with Mr. Gorhammer," said Shacklebolt smoothly.

"Mr. Gorhammer is a very busy man," growled the Goblin. "What's this all about?"

"Ludo Bagman."

The Goblin glanced worriedly at his boss who gave him a slight nod in return.

"Very well, Mr. Gorhammer will see you now—wait for him in the private booth over there and he'll be with you shortly."

Dawlish and Shacklebolt made their way to the entrance of the booth, which was hidden behind a purple and gold velvet curtain. They both took seats on one side of a highly polished mahogany table and Dawlish tugged at his collar again. The sound of the music was muffled by the curtain, except for the thunderous boom of the pulsing beats.

Moments later the heavyset Goblin pushed the curtain aside and let it fall again before sitting on the other side of the table.

"So, you want to know about Ludo Bagman," said the Goblin boss warily, "Discussing other clients is generally bad for business. Why should I make an exception for you?"

"Because the D.M.L.E. is conducting an investigation into Ludo Bagman and his possible ties to one of the syndicates," Shacklebolt raised his eyebrows, "and we would hate to bring the National Inquiry Unit into this."

Morag Gorhammer narrowed his eyes and studied Shacklebolt and Dawlish for a moment.

"Very well," he said cagily, "What is it you want to know?"

"We already know that Bagman conducted business with you at the World Cup, and that some of your associates met with him in Hogsmeade a few months ago," said Shacklebolt. "That alone is grounds for an arrest and a heavy fine—but we believe that he is also involved in fixing the Triwizard Tournament and the attempted murder of Harry Potter. We have proof that Goblins were involved in the assassination attempt, and we suspect they belonged to one of the larger syndicates—very likely the Kruella Syndicate or the Magmatok Gang—possibly even the Ragnagorok Clan."

Shacklebolt noticed the twitch in the jaw of the Goblin boss when he mentioned the Kruella Syndicate. He could almost see the gears spinning in Morag Gorhammer's mind…

~o0o~

The Dark Lord strode through the grounds of a manor belonging to muggles who were now dead—a grand, sprawling estate surrounding an 18th century manor house—with Wormtail by his side. A home currently occupied by wizards would have been ideal, but at least it wasn't the decaying ruin of his muggle father's estate; and it had once been in the hands of a wizard family line which had died out a hundred years ago—which counted for something, he supposed.

The beauty of the gardens and lawns, the hedgerows and statuary, and the swan laden ponds abutted by evergreens and weeping willows, held little interest to him, but the opulence of the estate would no doubt impress any Death Eaters who returned to his side. Pink clouds drew across a purple sky and the cry of a peacock echoed across the grounds.

"Dusk approaches, Wormtail," he said in a high, cold voice. "It is time—now we shall see who is brave enough to heed my call... and we shall see who is foolish enough to ignore me…"

"Yes, Master," Wormtail replied, pulling a sleeve of his robes up past his elbow and holding out his left arm; he grit his teeth, preparing himself for the pain. The Dark Lord pressed a long pale forefinger to the red, inflamed brand on his forearm and he groaned as the searing heat coursed through his veins. Wormtail's Dark Mark turned black and another peacock cry seemed to echo his own need to let out a scream. Only the promise of a glorious future stayed his tongue.

"And now we wait!" the Dark Lord hissed, his red eyes gleaming in the darkening twilight.

Wormtail kept silent while his master paced, praying that the Death Eaters would soon appear lest his master take out his anger on him. He breathed a sigh of relief when the first pops and cracks of apparating wizards rang out.

The Dark Lord looked on as the hooded and masked Death Eaters took their places, warily encircling their master as if surprised and afraid. Good! Their fear was warranted, the Dark Lord mused. He narrowed his eyes when no one said a word, and finally one of the Death Eaters spoke, falling to his knees and prostrating himself.

"Master, you have returned…"

"Did you doubt that I would?" the Dark Lord hissed. "You did, didn't you?" Then he looked up and eyed each one in turn, noting the gaps in the ranks of his Death Eaters with displeasure.

"Some among you thought me broken and defeated," he said quietly, icily, "or you believed that I was dead and gone. You believed that a mere infant could vanquish me—the Dark Lord? … How you could believe that I—Lord Voldemort—the Master of Death—would not return, knowing that I had taken measures to guard against mortality, escapes me.

"You disappoint me."

Cries of, "Master, please…" and, "Forgive us, my Lord!" carried through the crisp evening air as more Death Eaters fell to their knees. One even groveled at his feet, kissing the hem of his robes. Only one had the fortitude to remain on his feet.

The Dark Lord regarded them with indifference, then spoke up once more.

"Alone among you, only Wormtail had the foresight and conviction to know that I would one day rise from the ashes—only he, the one whom I had mistakenly believed to be the least of my Death Eaters, had the courage and loyalty to seek me out and aid in my resurrection.

"Yes—he bided his time for twelve years, but it is clear now that he was waiting for the hands of fate to move him when the time was right. Wormtail risked my wrath and came to me in the wilderness—bearing a gift, a human sacrifice, a woman to carry his seed long enough to at least give me a form to inhabit, weak as it was—and in her death she gave me life, as my own mother did, oh so many years ago. … And it was he who restored me to my true form—the form which stands before you now—with yet another human sacrifice.

"Alone among you—of those who did not sacrifice themselves to Azkaban for me—it was Wormtail who held onto his faith—and for that he shall be rewarded."

The Dark Lord dangerously eyed the one who was still standing.

"And here is another with courage," he said softly. "Why—I wonder—does he have the mettle to not throw himself at my feet, begging my forgiveness, as the rest of you wretches are so doing?"

"My lord," the standing Death Eater replied, "I too, was waiting for the right moment. In these last thirteen years I have been watching those who would move against you upon your inevitable return. I ventured into our enemy's encampment and convinced him that I had turned against you, and I eventually earned enough trust to become a valued asset in his inner-circle. I knew he had hidden the boy, and that the boy would eventually arrive at Hogwarts.

"The information I have gathered on Dumbledore and Potter since will no doubt prove invaluable, but even more importantly, my current position will allow you access to their movements and most closely guarded secrets."

"I see," hissed the Dark Lord, "What then of Quirrell, Severus? Why did you not aid him in his quest to restore me?"

"I was mistaken, my Lord," said Snape. "I did not know. I believed him to be seeking the Philosopher's Stone for his own aggrandizement. Forgive me."

"Ah, I see, Severus. Of course! Indeed, I took much caution to avoid raising Dumbledore's suspicions until I could no longer hide my presence. If I had only known—you could have brought the boy to me in Crouch Junior's stead. Very well, you will return to Hogwarts to keep your eye on Dumbledore and Potter. … Do not move against them until I give the command."

"Of course, my Lord!" Snape gave a curt little bow and was gone in a swirl of robes and a popping sound.

"Now, as to the rest of you," said the Dark Lord, speaking to his prostrate followers, "get up and remove your masks, that I may see who has refused to return to my service."

They all clambered back to their feet, relieved that the Dark Lord had not tortured them—and concerned that he still might. The Dark Lord moved among them as they took off their masks one by one.

"MacNair—Good," the Dark Lord said, nodding, "you shall soon have better victims than that which the Ministry could provide. … Nott, Goyle, Crabbe—" He looked them over appraisingly. "You have children at Hogwarts, do you not?"

"Yes Master," said Crabbe, bowing his head; the other two nodded.

"You will do better henceforth, lest I see fit to replace you with your sons."

The three Death Eaters all gulped and gave each other fearful looks as the Dark Lord continued down the line.

"Avery—Mulciber—" He halted when he came to a man and a woman, and he smiled thinly, as if amused. "Ah, Alecto, Amycus, still posing as husband and wife, are we?"

The siblings flushed and several other Death Eaters allowed themselves a chuckle or a snort of derision. The Dark Lord carried on, and when he had finished inspecting the ranks the curtain of night had fallen, stars twinkling in the blackness; his eyes glowed red in the light of the silvery moon.

"Well, this is most disappointing," he said, a strong hint of anger in his voice. "Karkaroff—I knew he would be too cowardly to return, but I had not expected that Lucius and Corban would defy me. … They shall pay dearly for ignoring my call, and when they do, let their punishment be a reminder to all who would betray me. In the meantime, see what rewards loyalty can bring you—Wormtail here shall be my second in command."

~o0o~

When Harry came to, Madam Pomfrey, Hermione, Dora, and Fleur were all hovering above him looking very concerned, and his forehead was cold and clammy except for his still throbbing, burning scar.

"It happened again, didn't it?" said Hermione. "Another vision."

"Yeah," Harry nodded and winced. He really had to stop doing that after a vision.

"Well, at least you aren't throwing up this time," said Madam Pomfrey.

"That's because he wasn't eating any hearts or drinking blood this time," Harry muttered darkly.

Madam Pomfrey frowned, noticing that for the second night running he had barely touched his dinner which had been sent up to the hospital wing.

"Regardless," she began gently, "you will have to eat something again sometime, Mr. Potter, and I cannot simply keep you in the hospital wing until you do."

Madam Pomfrey handed him two vials.

"A calming draught—the strongest one available—and an appetite stimulant."

Harry drained the two vials without question.

"Very good, Mr. Potter. … Miss Granger, I will be giving you a week's worth of both—"

"I'll make sure he takes them," said Hermione earnestly.

"I know you will, dear. … Okay, Mr. Potter, now why don't you try eating your dinner. Those potions should be working already."

They were. Harry was already beginning to feel hungry, and a haze in his frontal lobes began to blot out the horrifying images and sensations which had plagued him since Saturday morning. But there was still a sense of urgency.

"Dumbledore—I need to talk to Dumbledore."

"I expect so, Mr. Potter. But I would like to see you eat first."

Harry sighed and nodded, wincing again. He picked up a fork and knife and began to eat his shepherd's pie, wishing that everyone would quit staring at him. He soon got his wish when Madam Pomfrey seemed satisfied that he was actually going to finish his dinner and departed. Dora and Fleur had already returned to their own, leaving only Hermione to watch him.

When he was done, Hermione passed him some of the chocolate frogs that Luna and Ginny had brought for him earlier that afternoon. As he ate them, Harry felt better than he had thought he could feel after only two days.

"I really need to talk to Dumbledore," Harry said quietly after eating four chocolate frogs.

"He'll be here soon, Harry," said Hermione, smiling at him sadly.

True to Hermione's word, Dumbledore appeared five minutes later, a somber expression on his face. He sat down next to Harry's hospital bed and peered at him intently with his piercing blue eyes.

"Voldemort—he has called his followers to his side." It was a statement, not a question, and Harry couldn't help feeling a surge of anger.

"Yeah! And Snape was there," he growled.

"Professor Snape," Dumbledore gently admonished him.

"More like Spy Snape!" Harry retorted. "The only reason he hasn't done me in yet is because he knows Voldemort wants me for himself."

"You are correct in one regard, Harry. Professor Snape returned to Lord Voldemort's side—but only at my request. He is to spy on Voldemort for us."

"But how can you trust him?" Harry argued. "How d'you really know he is on our side?"

Harry's chest tightened, disconcerted when he saw hesitation in Dumbledore's eyes. He desperately wanted Dumbledore to prove him wrong or prove him right, one way or the other.

"I trust this much," Dumbledore said, so softly it was almost a whisper, "I trust that Professor Snape will not willingly act against me or you on behalf of Voldemort. As to why, I am afraid that is the one thing which I cannot reveal to you—now, do you have any more information to impart?"

Harry grit his teeth in frustration. If it weren't for the calming draught, he thought he might explode. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes until the feeling passed, then began to tell Dumbledore everything he knew.

"…but I don't have a clue where the manor is," Harry concluded ruefully.

"No matter," Dumbledore sighed. "Now that Voldemort is fully restored and has most of his inner-circle back, the advantage of knowing his location is minimal at best. He has no doubt has warded his location with numerous protections and enchantments, and he will show himself soon enough. More importantly, do you believe that he is still unaware of your presence in his mind?"

"Yeah—actually," said Harry, surprised at himself. "Yeah! The Occlumency really seems to be working—he didn't seem to notice me at all. … I'm not so sure about the Legilimency though—I still can't really see a whole load in his mind—just a few bits and pieces—that's why I couldn't figure out where he was this time—he was just so sick of his father's house before… Mostly I just get his feelings and see and hear whatever he sees and hears."

"Which is more than enough," said Dumbledore, beaming proudly at him. "You have done splendidly indeed, Harry! … If you wish, you may take some time off from classes—The horror you have endured this weekend is far beyond what most can imagine—"

"No," Harry shook his head, "I just want to focus on schoolwork and try to forget about it."

Hermione frowned, looking like she might object, but she kept quiet. Dumbledore peered at Harry for a moment, then sighed and nodded.

"Very well, Harry. But if you find yourself experiencing any distress, do not hesitate to inform Professor McGonagall or Madam Pomfrey. No one will think any less of you if you need some time off."

"I'll be okay—really!" said Harry firmly.

Once Dumbledore had said good night and departed the hospital wing, Hermione climbed onto Harry's bed and lay down beside him, wrapping an arm around his middle and resting her bushy head on his shoulder. They lay like that for a while in silence. Between the extra-strength calming draught, a full stomach, and Hermione's embrace, Harry felt much better.

Eventually Hermione spoke up

"I wonder what he meant," she murmured, "when he said that Professor Snape wouldn't willingly act against you and him on behalf of Voldemort. Dumbledore was very careful how he worded that."

"Huh!" said Harry, feeling a bit puzzled. "Dunno really. I thought he just meant Snape was on our side."

"He hesitated just before he said it," said Hermione, "and he sounded like he didn't trust Snape completely."

"Yeah, I guess I did notice the hesitation, come to think about it—that did seem weird. He sounded pretty certain to me when he said it though."

"It just made me think," Hermione mused aloud, "It reminded me how Snape 'just let it slip' that Professor Lupin was a werewolf last year. That was obviously acting against Dumbledore's wishes."

"So, are you saying that Snape might sort of let something slip to Voldemort then, even if he's still working for Dumbledore?"

"Maybe—I suppose. That's just what Dumbledore's wording seemed to imply. We'll just have to be very careful around him—just in case."

"Well, we can both do Occlumency reasonably well now," said Harry, "so even if Snape's a Legilimens, he'd have to use a wand on us to get anything useful out of us. But I was just thinking—what if there's another way to interpret what Dumbledore was saying? What if he meant that Snape might act against him and me on his own behalf? … I don't necessarily mean directly against us—but maybe if Snape is sick of working as a spy, he'd just ditch Dumbledore too—not work for either side. Snape obviously hates me—he might not want to do anything which helps me."

"Hmm…" Hermione frowned thoughtfully. "Well, neither idea is mutually exclusive. Snape could just opt out altogether I suppose—assuming he could avoid being killed by Voldemort—and let something slip too. … Or, maybe I was just overthinking everything to begin with, and we should just take what Dumbledore said at face value."

"But you don't really believe that, do you? I've never known you to over-think anything, Hermione—if you think something could be true, it usually means that it probably is true."

Hermione turned a bit pink and beamed at Harry. The next thing Harry knew, he was on the receiving end of a heated kiss.

Chapter 31: The Nobleman

Grimnut paced back and forth; he was almost as anxious as he had been after the Second Task—maybe even more anxious. This was potentially worse. If Boss Gorhammer was correct, the entire Kruella Syndicate was potentially at risk. Grimnut tried to reassure himself that this time, he had played no role in the events. Chief Bloodaxe could hardly hold him accountable for the Auror Office's investigation of Ludo Bagman, right?

While he waited for the Chief to read the memo, Grimnut decided he needed something to take the edge off. He picked up the little spun-silver bell sitting on the oak sideboard and shook it.

"Goblin Ale and two drams of Firewhisky," he called out, "No—make that three drams."

Moments later, a tall tankard of ale and three silver shot glasses magically appeared on the surface of the sideboard. He downed the contents of the shot glasses first, then chugged down the ale. Feeling much better, Grimnut was just wiping the frothy moustache from his upper lip with the back of his hand when Chief Bloodaxe arrived with Accountant Gutripper and several bodyguards.

"Nice and relaxed, then, are we?" Chief Bloodaxe eyed the shot glasses and the tankard; Grimnut gulped. "Good! Because we've got some planning to do!"

Grimnut let out a sigh of relief.

"So, let's review the situation," the Chief growled as he took a chair on the other side of the table, "Bagman's square with us, but now we've got the Aurors breathing down our necks. Bagman's also in the tank for the Senior Undersecretary. And now Voldemort is back in the game. Does that about size things up?"

"Yes Chief," said Grimnut quickly, nodding. "And I already have an outline for a crisis-response plan. I was thinking that we should continue to make arrangements with Bagman for the Third Task to sink Harry Potter. Bagman is sure to be adding more dangers to the Task at the behest of the Senior Undersecretary.

"But this time, instead of putting our own team in, we should use a third party to hire a team from the Burning Crow Gang in Bagman's name. Then we can send in an anonymous tip to the Auror office—leaving Burning Crow and Bagman, er… holding the bag, so to speak."

Chief Bloodaxe pursed his lips, his brow furrowing, and stroked his jowly cheeks with one hand. He pondered for a moment, then he slowly nodded.

"I like it," said the Chief. "So, Bagman goes down, and we take out Burning Crow at the same time. … Good! They've been cutting into our bottom line recently—better to take them out before they get too big. Magmatok and Ragnagorok will be just as happy to cut 'em off at the knees, so we won't catch any grief from them."

"My thoughts exactly," said Grimnut, thrilled that the Chief seemed happy with the plan. "I was also thinking…" Then he paused, wondering if he should continue to push his luck.

"Go on!" The Chief's wispy eyebrows rose up his forehead.

"…I was thinking we should only take even money bets from clients betting for Potter to win—then, say, give them three to one for Potter drawing for first or taking second place—then ten to one if he takes third, and fifteen to one for last.

"And we should put ½ of our own discretionary funds on Potter at seven to one to win—those are the current odds against that licensed bookmakers and Magmatok's and Ragnagorok's bookies are listing for Potter to win outright—they're giving even odds if he draws for first place or takes second, so we'll be scooping up most of those bettors—and we hold the other ½ of our discretionary funds in reserve—just in case."

"Hmm…" The Chief went back to pawing at his cheeks; Accountant Gutripper adjusted his glasses, narrowed his eyes and began twirling his pointy goatee.

Grimnut swallowed nervously while the Chief and the Accountant took their time thinking about things.

Then the Chief finally asked, "You really think Potter's going to take the Third Task?" looking slightly skeptical.

"I do," said Grimnut. "Potter tied with Krum for first in the First Task. The only reason he tied with Delacour for second place in the Second Task was because our Kill Team held him up—he made short work of the creatures, even Bagman's Sea-Serpent—and he took out our Kill Team like a professional.

"Burning Crow's teams are good enough at kneecapping your average wizard, but they don't stand a chance against Potter—he'll go through them like a hot knife through boar's-fat. And I think he can take anything that Bagman will throw against him—Potter's got a real pro coaching him—a Master in wizard and non-magical combat skills and tactics. He should outmatch Krum easily three months from now.

"Anyone betting that Potter will win outright won't even bother betting with us when Magmatok and Ragnagorok are giving seven to one, and most will be betting on Potter to take second or to draw for first, and only lunatics going for a real longshot will be betting that he takes third or fourth, so…"

"So, at worst we should still come out ahead," said Accountant Gutripper gleefully, his eyes lighting up like Christmas trees, "and at best we should make out like Gringotts."

~o0o~

"How do I look?"

"Like a new man!" said Lupin as he adjusted Sirius's Windsor knot.

Kreacher began setting plates full of scrambled eggs, bacon, and crumpets in front of Sirius and Lupin, and poured them both cups of tea.

"Master looks most Noble," Kreacher croaked ingratiatingly as he absentmindedly fingered the gold locket dangling from his neck.

Sirius shook his head, smiling wryly at his house-elf's choice of words.

"Thank you, Kreacher. Now, I'll be gone most of the day—be nice to Remus, okay?"

"Of course, Master Sirius." Kreacher gave Lupin a little bow. "Kreacher will obey Master's friend as if his orders were your own."

"That's not really necessary, Kreacher," said Lupin, flushing slightly.

"Mister Lupin is convincing Master Sirius to let Kreacher keep Master Regulus's lockets and Miss Bella's and Miss Cissy's pictures. Mister Lupin's kindness to Kreacher must be rewarded," Kreacher insisted.

"Quite right," Sirius beamed at Lupin. "That was an excellent suggestion on his part—I'm just sorry it took you so much work to convince me, Remus. It was certainly worth it."

"Yes, well, you and Kreacher both deserved a bit of peace and happiness in your lives."

When breakfast was finished Sirius washed it all down with his tea and Lupin followed him to the foyer to see him off to the Ministry.

"Now remember, it's very likely that Lucius Malfoy will be at the Ministry to oversee your exoneration and your installment as Head of House Black in the Wizengamot, so keep your emotions in check and don't give anyone a reason to send you back to Azkaban," Remus admonished him.

"Yes, Remus!" said Sirius, rolling his eyes. "I've got it—don't tip Lucius off to the fact that I want to murder him!"

~o0o~

Draco scowled at his owl as it flew back to the owlery, and he wiped scrambled eggs off his copy of the Daily Prophet. If he didn't know better, it was almost as if Abaddon was dropping his mail on his breakfast on purpose.

Then Draco saw the headline on the front page of the newspaper and gasped.

YOU-KNOW-WHO BACK FROM THE DEAD!

And further down the page was another, smaller headline.

Peter Pettigrew alive, Sirius Black innocent

Draco wasn't really sure what to make of the second headline, but the first one made him feel almost giddy with glee and he very nearly let out a whoop of delight. He glanced across the Hall at Potter and his pet Mudblood blithely eating breakfast with the rest of their Harem.

"Hah!" he said aloud to himself, grinning from ear to ear.

Then Draco rose to his feet. "Crabbe, Goyle, I think we should pay Potter a visit."

"Wh'for?" Crabbe mumbled, his cheeks bulging and scrambled eggs and bacon spilling from his mouth.

"Because I said so," Draco snapped.

Crabbe stood up, looking a bit disgruntled, and Goyle hastily shoved a whole piece of toast and several sausages into his mouth. They obediently followed Draco across the Hall.

~o0o~

"Oh look," said Luna matter-of-factly with a sausage dangling on the end of her fork. "Draco Malfoy looks really happy for a change."

Ginny looked up and snorted. "Happier than he's been since before Christmas, anyway."

Ron glanced over his shoulder, his cheeks stuffed with bacon and eggs, and everyone else peered at the smug, swaggering Slytherin approaching the Gryffindor table with his two thuggish lackeys trailing behind him.

Hermione frowned, hoping he wasn't going to ruin Harry's appetite and concerned that Harry might be goaded into revealing too much. She leaned over and whispered in his ear, "Don't forget, you can't let him know what you know."

Harry sighed and nodded. He would have loved to wipe that smile off Malfoy's face by informing him that his father had "disappointed" Voldemort. But he hadn't even told anyone else about last night's vision yet. The only people who knew, besides himself and Hermione, were Dora and Fleur, and he reckoned that it was probably safer all the way around to keep what he knew between them for the time being.

"Seen the morning paper yet, Potter?" Malfoy drawled as he flung the Daily Prophet on the table. "I told you you'd picked the wrong side—remember? When we met on the train, on the way to Hogwarts? I warned you not to hang out with these losers!" He gave Hermione and Ron a nasty smirk. "Too late now, Potter! Now the Dark Lord is back, your peasant pal and your pet Mudblood will be the first to go!"

Crabbe and Goyle chuckled sycophantically and cracked their knuckles. Ron nearly leapt to his feet to punch Malfoy, but Neville kept a tight grip on his arm. Everyone at the table glared viciously at Draco, and some even had their wands out.

Harry looked at Malfoy for a moment, then smiled blandly at him, much to the bewilderment of many Gryffindors.

"Well, Malfoy—seems to me that your lot are the ones who should be worried," said Harry quietly. "What d'you reckon is going to happen to anyone who sides with Voldemort when he gets killed again? … I expect the Dementors'll be happy to have a few more Death Eaters like your daddy to babysit in Azkaban—assuming he survives, of course."

A number of Gryffindors winced at hearing Voldemort's name, but there were a few guffaws and sniggers as well—Fred and George were chortling with laughter. Malfoy flinched and what little colour there was in his pallid features drained away before his cheeks turned a shade of red that Uncle Vernon would be proud of.

"We'll see who survives, Potter!" he snarled. "You'll want to keep your eye on that one," Malfoy jerked his head towards Hermione.

Harry raised his eyebrows and gave Malfoy a cold look, then glanced past Draco.

"What're you looking at, Potter?"

"Me!" snapped McGonagall, who had just come up behind the three Slytherins.

Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle, all spun around, shocked to see the irate looking professor glowering at them.

"Let's see if another week's worth of detentions for the three of you—perhaps scrubbing toilets the muggle way—and another fifty points from Mr. Malfoy here—can't keep you from making death threats," she said severely. "If it were up to me, you would be sent packing, Mr. Malfoy. Now back to your table, and don't be late for class!"

~o0o~

Sirius felt a bit strange as he rode the lift from the telephone box down to the Atrium. He rubbed at his freshly shaved face and trimmed goatee; his head felt a lot lighter thanks to the haircut which Remus had given him; he felt like a real human being. It all seemed so surreal after twelve years as a prisoner in Azkaban and a year and a half as a fugitive.

When he stepped out of the lift and merged into the visitors' queue, he was nearly blinded by the glare of numerous flashbulbs going off in his face. Sirius supposed he really shouldn't be surprised that the Press had been eagerly awaiting his arrival.

The security wizard quickly pushed the other three visitors ahead of Sirius aside and waved Sirius on through to where he saw Fudge and several Aurors waiting to escort him.

"Sorry folks," said the security wizard, "very important person..."

"Of course 'e is!" squealed a pretty blonde witch pushing thirty. "'E's Stubby Boardman! ... Stubby, can I get your autograph?"

Sirius chuckled; after all these years he was still getting mistaken for the lead singer of the Hobgoblins.

"Sorry, Miss," said Sirius, "It's Black, Sirius Black!"

"Oh blimey!" The witch turned pink and batted her eyelashes, looking no less excited to see him. "Sorry! But still... look me up if you'd like a bit o' company, will you? I'm Ellen Price... I was a couple years behind you—Hufflepuff. I always said it was a frame-up."

"That's true—she always did," said Ellen's curly haired friend, nodding vigorously.

"Well, I'll have to see what my partner thinks about that," Sirius responded with an easy grin and a wink.

"Okay now, make way, make way," said Minister Fudge, smiling broadly, trying to look as patient as possible. "Sorry, but Mr. Black has waited far too long for justice as it is, and it's time to make it official."

"Thanks for the save, Minister," said Sirius as Fudge led him toward the lifts on the other side of the Atrium, both of them flanked by the Aurors who were busily keeping reporters from the Daily Prophet and other wizarding magazines and papers at bay.

"Please, no need to stand on formality just because we're in the Ministry, Cornelius will do," said Fudge warmly. Then Fudge leaned in closer to speak in a hushed tone which nobody else could hear. "Sorry about all the fuss last year, what with the Dementors and such, but—you know…"

"Quite understandable," said Sirius, "I was a fugitive, after all."

"Er… yes! And keeping Harry safe was paramount, of course. But we'll discuss this a bit more in my office, in private, before the official proceedings begin."

Fudge gestured toward an open lift and Sirius followed him in along with their escorts. The gate rattled shut behind them and Sirius hung on for dear life as the lift hurtled upwards at breakneck speeds. The lift eventually came to a screeching halt and the same female voice which had addressed Sirius in the lift to the Atrium from the telephone box in the Whitehall region of London announced the floor.

"Level One: Administration: Including offices of the Minister for Magic and the Senior Undersecretary and the offices of Administrative Support Staff."

"Well, this is rather... elegant," Sirius remarked as he stepped out of the lift onto the plush purple and gold carpet, peering up and down the corridor at the ornately framed portraits on the pastel blue walls and the well cared for ficuses spaced at intervals between highly polished mahogany office doors.

Fudge smiled wryly at Sirius's comment. Moments later they were both seated in Fudge's office in well cushioned patent leather chairs, leaving the escorts to wait in the office lobby with Fudge's secretary.

"We have some time before meeting with Madam Bones, and then with Lucius and the Wizengamot Administration Services, would you like some tea?" Fudge asked politely. "Or a brandy? I know it's a bit early in the day for libations, but it's not every day that one receives full exoneration of all charges and a Wizengamot seat all in one go."

"Good point!" said Sirius with a grin. "How about a bit of both then? Tea with a splash of brandy sounds just about right."

"Yes, yes! Quite!" Fudge chuckled amiably. A golden tea-service arrived with a wave of Fudge's wand and he poured a capful of brandy into each steaming teacup.

"Well, Mr. Black," said Fudge after taking a sip of his own spiked tea, "from fugitive to Warlock in one fell swoop—that is quite a feat, I must say."

"Now who's standing on formality, Cornelius?" said Sirius, smirking slightly.

"Touché! Sirius it is then." Cornelius took another sip of brandy enhanced tea, then continued. "Now that we have a bit of privacy, we can speak more openly, Sirius. I rather think I should apologise on behalf of the Ministry for your incarceration without a trial—"

"There's really no need to apologise, Cornelius," said Sirius, taking a sip from his own teacup. "You weren't Minister at the time, and I hardly led anyone to believe I was innocent. ... Screaming in the streets that I had killed the Potters and laughing manically while twelve muggles lay dead made it all too easy for Bagnold and Crouch to lay it all on me—I gave no reason for them to believe otherwise."

"True, true!" Fudge agreed. "And finding one of Pettigrew's fingers certainly didn't help matters. Nobody presumed he could still be alive…"

"And there was no reason to believe that Peter Pettigrew had framed me," Sirius added. "No reason to suspect that he could have possibly been a Death Eater. Everyone underestimated him, including myself, unfortunately—and he clearly took advantage of that when he joined the Dark Lord. Maybe if I hadn't been so dismissive of him during in our school days… But looking back now, thinking about things since I saw him at Hogwarts last year, I'm not so sure.

"I honestly can't imagine how anyone could switch sides and betray all their friends merely for the sake of cowardice, when it was clearly the more dangerous of the options. A coward would have fled Britain altogether and just left us all to sort it out ourselves, and I can't see why anyone who had truly been afraid of Voldemort…"

Fudge winced and nearly spilled his tea.

"Sorry," said Sirius, "As I was saying, I can't imagine why anyone who was truly afraid of You-Know-Who would want to restore him to full strength. It doesn't make sense. … In retrospect, I have to think now that it was envy. Peter had always wanted everything that James had—power, talent, charisma, glory, gold, girls—but Peter always was a bit lazy… never wanted to do the hard work.

"But basking in James's presence, hoping for some of it to rub off on him clearly wasn't enough. I think he reckoned that he could get loads more by sucking up to Voldemort and having a free pass to just take whatever he wanted, and... well... the rest is history."

"Yes!" Fudge nodded. "Sadly, there was a lot of suspicion to go around in those days, and you're quite correct—nobody would have thought that Pettigrew had it in him. I know I certainly didn't."

Fudge shook his head and sighed heavily with regret.

"Take Lucius Malfoy, for example, I couldn't see what should have been self-evident—I didn't want to see it. It was easier to believe that he had been imperiused than it was to challenge him—Britain's wealthiest and most influential Warlock.

"That's really why we're having this little chat. Lucius is not one for participating in Wizengamot proceedings—that's what his proxy is for—but when it comes to having a say in who is allowed to be seated, he takes his role as head of Wizengamot Administration Services a bit more seriously. If he can find a reason, he may raise objections to seating you."

"Then I shall have to see that he doesn't," said Sirius dryly. "I'll play nice with Lucius, if that's what it takes."

"Er, yes, very good then," said Fudge. "I was about to say that Lucius is currently under investigation at my orders, now that I have… er… seen the light, so to speak. But, in the meantime, until the D.M.L.E. has enough to charge him, his decisions still carry some weight."

"Understood, Cornelius," Sirius drained the rest of his tea and brandy with a single gulp, thinking it best not to let Fudge know that Dumbledore had already told him everything. Being in contact with a fugitive, even one who was being considered for exoneration, could have strained recently repaired relations between Fudge and Dumbledore.

"Well then," said Fudge, beaming and looking very relieved, "we still have ten more minutes before meeting with Madam Bones and then Lucius—another tea with brandy?"

Sirius thought for a moment.

"I think I'll just have the brandy—no tea!" Sirius said with a grin. "And make it a double! I'll need all the help I can get to stop myself from smacking Vol… You-Know-Who's ex-poodle upside the head and getting myself landed right back in Azkaban."

Two hours later after meeting with Madam Bones and submitting to a Veritaserum confirmed interview (with Cornelius Fudge present) which invalidated his all too public "confession," and signing numerous documents, Sirius Orion Black exited her office a legitimately free man with his record completely expunged and a Ministry settlement of several hundred thousand galleons for time served in Azkaban.

Sirius had lunch and some more shots—this time of Firewhisky—with Cornelius Fudge, and then spent most of the afternoon "making nice" with Lucius Malfoy, sitting in meetings with the Wizengamot Administration Services and the Office of Estate Adjudication Services, and signing many more official documents.

At the end of it all, Sirius Orion Black exited the Ministry a legitimate Warlock—Head of House Black, with a seat on the Wizengamot—just as dusk began to settle over the streets of London.

He snorted and shook his head, unable to get the uncomfortable comment that Lucius Malfoy had made out of his mind, referring to Sirius as one of a dying breed, a Nobleman. He couldn't wait to tell Harry all about it. But as it grew darker and began to rain again, Sirius decided to walk home from Whitehall to the Islington Borough of London, just happy to be able to walk freely in the world once more, without the threat of Azkaban hanging over his head.

Chapter 32: Harry's Torment

The small measure of satisfaction which had come from wiping the smug look from Draco's face at breakfast faded away during History of Magic when Harry remembered that his next class was Double Potions. His stomach knotting with anxiety, he found it nearly impossible to concentrate—which was admittedly not unusual for him during Professor Binns' lectures. But unlike Ron, Seamus, and Neville—who were all snoring—Harry was wide awake.

Nonetheless, he was so lost in his own little world that he didn't notice the nudges until he felt a sharp poke in his ribs. He turned to look at Hermione who was frowning at him.

"Harry," she hissed under her breath, "are you sure you're up to this? Maybe you should take a few days off like Dumbledore suggested."

"I'll be fine," he said curtly before catching himself. "Sorry—it's just..."

"...Snape! I know—and Potions is next. That's what I meant."

"Oh!"

For a moment, Harry seriously considered taking Hermione's and Dumbledore's advice. Then he shook his head.

"I'm going to have to see him sooner or later. I might as well just get it over with."

Hermione lifted her eyebrows at him. Harry sighed at her dubious expression.

"I'll be fine," he said again, "I swear! I can handle Snape."

Hermione still looked skeptical, but she seemed to know it was no use pressing him further because she returned to taking notes without another word. Harry started to feel guilty when he saw a tear trickling down her cheek, but he was determined not to let Snape and his questionable allegiance get to him.

He started to have second thoughts again on the way to the dungeons after History of Magic was over. Groggy though he still was, Ron seemed to notice something was wrong.

"You okay, Harry?" Ron asked quietly. "Maybe you should skive off Potions—"

"I'm fine," said Harry through gritted teeth, trying his hardest not to let his irritation show when he spotted Lavender and Parvati looking at him worriedly too; and he was more determined than ever not to let anyone see how feeble and pathetic he felt, "Really! I'm all right."

"If you say so," said Ron, sharing a skeptical look with Neville.

There was silence the rest of the way as Harry and his friends trailed behind the other Gryffindors who had no idea that anything was amiss. He ignored Draco's dirty looks when they finally arrived and took their seats. The Potions classroom seemed somehow darker and more ominous than usual when Snape scowled at Harry and sat behind his desk.

~o0o~

It took every effort for Snape to restrain himself from provoking Potter and Granger into giving him a particularly good reason to dock a whole load of points from Gryffindor and give them detention. He had—as had the other Heads of Houses—been informed that Granger would be sharing Potter's quarters indefinitely for the foreseeable future. Snape had complained vociferously to Dumbledore, but his objections had fallen on deaf ears.

Dumbledore's decision was absurd and unfathomable. All he had said was that it was for Granger's safety. Snape snorted bitterly at the headmaster's transparent ploy to indulge Potter's every whim. From Potter's very first year Dumbledore had pampered him, turning a blind eye to his rule-breaking, rewarding Potter with points at every turn instead of giving him the punishments he so richly deserved.

Clearly Dumbledore had allowed his sentimentality to get the better of him, as if dead parents and being hunted by the Dark Lord were worthy reasons for coddling Potter. Utter nonsense! Potter should have been expelled many times over, not exalted for his misbehaviour.

Still, Snape's curiosity had been piqued. He wondered what Potter had said to convince Dumbledore to give him the opportunity to cohabitate with Granger. He caught Potter's eye and decided to take a peek inside. It should be easy enough to rummage around in Potter's empty head without a wand, he reckoned.

What on earth? Snape scowled at Potter, perplexed when he found that the entrance to Potter's brain was blocked.

Potter couldn't possibly be an Occlumens. There was no way Potter could have learned Occlumency without a teacher, and there was no such teacher at Hogwarts. Occlumency was not part of any school syllabus, as it was far too advanced for most underage wizards.

Only the brightest and oldest of teenagers had the potential to learn it, and Potter hardly qualified as a bright pupil, no matter what Dumbledore claimed, as far as Snape was concerned. It was only in comparison to Longbottom and Weasley—the dimmest bulbs in the class—that Potter appeared in any way intelligent at all, thought Snape.

It had to be a fluke, some sort of instinctive reaction to the invasion of Potter's mind. It was unlikely in the extreme that Potter could give a repeat performance. Snape tried again, certain that this time he would penetrate Potter's feeble mind with ease.

Potter glared at him, and Snape was shocked when he felt a pricking at the back of his own eyeballs. It had not been a fluke after all. Potter was an Occlumens, and a Legilimens to boot—one who was stronger than he had any right to be at his age.

Fortunately, not even the Dark Lord could invade Snape's mind, and Potter was certainly no Dark Lord. … Perhaps Granger's mind would give up the information he wanted. Snape was just about to call out Granger's name to get her attention when she looked up of her own accord to see what was upsetting Potter.

When Snape discovered that Granger's mind too was impenetrable, he inwardly groaned. Of course! Undoubtedly Granger had come across some books about Occlumency and Legilimency in the school library and been practicing with Potter.

Unless… Perhaps Dumbledore…

Somehow the thought that Dumbledore himself might be teaching Potter and Granger Occlumency and Legilimency was even more unnerving than the idea of them learning on their own. Potter's life was an open book, splashed across the headlines of newspapers and magazines, so what was Dumbledore trying to hide?

~o0o~

"He must be spying for Voldemort," said Harry quietly, trying to restrain his anger as he and Hermione trailed behind the others after class, hanging back so they couldn't hear. "Why else would he try to Legilimens me the day after he told Voldemort he was going to keep his eye on me and Dumbledore?"

"I don't know," moaned Hermione, looking extremely distraught. "It is awfully suspicious. He tried it on me too."

Harry had a sudden, terrible thought, and the blood in his veins turned to ice.

"What's wrong now?" asked Hermione anxiously when she saw his expression change.

"Er..." Harry tried to think of something to say.

He was regretting now that he had agreed to let her stay with him in his quarters. If Voldemort ever found out she was his girlfriend… Then he remembered Rita Skeeter's articles. What had he been thinking, asking Hermione to be his girlfriend, when he was quite literally a marked man?

"Harry! What is it? What's wrong?" she asked again, sounding frightened when he didn't answer right away.

"Er… Just worried about Snape, really," he said evasively.

"Harry!"

She glared at him, and, feeling more horrible than ever, he was glad when Ron turned around and called out, "Oi! What's going on back there? You two coming to lunch or what?"

"Yeah! Of course," said Harry brightly, speeding up to catch the others. "I'm famished."

But over lunch, he found himself staring at his plate, avoiding Hermione's gaze, and feeling like he was going to throw up.

"I'll be right back," he muttered, rising to his feet. He spun around and quickly fled the Great Hall as Hermione and his friends gaped at his backside.

~o0o~

"'S'okay! I got this," said Dora, getting up to follow Harry.

Everyone else turned to stare at Hermione and she felt like she had been punched in the stomach. She didn't know what to say. Her eyes brimmed with tears and her nostrils flared with emotion.

"Maybe he's anxious about you moving in tonight," Neville suggested after a few moments of silence.

"Of course," said Parvati. "I'm sure that's all it is, Hermione."

"Right!" said Hermione, her voice brittle as she stood up and tried to control her anger as the realisation washed over her. She didn't need to be a Legilimens to know that Harry was having second thoughts because of Voldemort—not due to a fit of nerves. "Well, I'm going to go and set things straight."

"Wait, Hermione—" said Ron.

"No! He's just being stupid..." Her voice cracked, and then she too was gone.

She made her way to the boys' bathroom on the ground floor to check for Harry there first; she didn't even register Ron's footsteps echoing behind her as she marched through the stone corridors of the castle. When she spied Dora standing guard up ahead, she knew she was right.

"He's in there," said Dora unnecessarily, but looking very sympathetic.

"Thanks," said Hermione shortly, throwing open the hefty oaken door, struggling to contain her roiling emotions.

"Hermione," panted Ron as he ran up behind her, "that's the boys' bathroom—"

"I know!" she snapped, trying to keep from crying. "I've got eyes, Ron!"

They both entered the bathroom and heard the sound of retching coming from within one of the stalls. Hermione burst into sobs and with her trembling hand she opened the door to see Harry hunched over the loo, heaving.

"F-f-finite Vomite," she stammered, waving her wand over him.

Harry stopped retching, then slumped back against the wall of the bathroom stall, sitting on the tiled floor and wiping his mouth with his sleeve. He rubbed at his scar, which was blazing crimson against his clammy pale forehead, and she knelt down beside him.

"Hermione? Wh-what...?"

"Harry, don't," she cried, putting her hand on his shoulder and giving it a squeeze. "Don't do this to yourself."

"D-do what?"

She had to restrain herself from snapping.

"Don't try to push me away," she said as gently as she could. "I know you're thinking about breaking up with me."

"But… but I wasn't—" He looked confused, torn between denial and admission.

"Don't lie, Harry. I know you're afraid for me, because of Voldemort. But I'm not going anywhere."

Harry looked like he was about to object to the truth again, then he sighed.

"No! Hermione, please. It'll be safer for you—"

"Are you mental?"

Hermione turned towards the sound of Ron's voice and shot him an exceedingly grateful look.

"What?" Harry glowered at Ron, who was crouching now.

"I said, 'Are you bloody mental?'" Ron retorted. "You need her, mate. Even if Hermione wasn't your girlfriend, you'd still need her. … You know you do."

"I don't—I mean, what I need isn't important. I don't want anyone else to die because of me—especially not Hermione..."

"Huh? Because of you? What?"

"He means like his mother," sniffled Hermione, taking one of Harry's hands between her own heated palms; it felt like ice. "He doesn't want Voldemort to kill me just to get to him. Isn't that right, Harry?"

Harry ran his other hand through his damp, messy hair, sighed again, and nodded.

"Yeah," he admitted, "it is."

"Oh, Harry, don't you see? Voldemort doesn't need an excuse to kill people. I'd be a target eventually, even if you weren't around, just because I'm a muggleborn."

"She's got you there, Harry."

Harry glared at Ron again, but there wasn't enough anger behind it this time to have any real impact.

"I suppose," Harry grumbled, "but it feels different somehow."

"That's because you love Hermione," said Ron sagely.

Despite her distress, Hermione smiled to herself; she rather thought it was because Harry knew it was a bit different being targeted by Voldemort specifically to get at him, but she wasn't going to tell Ron that.

"Anyway," said Hermione, "I love you too, Harry. How do you think Ron and I would feel if we let you die for us? We're not going to let you throw your life away, any more than you would ours. We're all in this together."

She raised her eyebrows at him until she felt the tension in his hand slacken and saw a sheepish little smile on his face.

"Got it now?"

"Got it!" he said quietly, giving her a look which almost made Hermione want to cry again.

"Come on, Ron," she heard Dora say. "Let's give these two a bit of space to themselves."

"Yeah, okay. ... See you guys later. Hope you feel better Harry."

And then Hermione was alone with Harry. She leaned in and gently pressed her lips to his. She felt him relaxing, and when the kiss was finished she led Harry to the sink where he washed his face.

"So, Harry..." she began, giving him a pointed look.

"Yeah—okay! You win," he replied, picking up on her unspoken admonition. "I suppose I probably should take some time off..."

~o0o~

"Good call, Potter," said Professor Moody, his voice surprisingly gentle; his gruffness was far more muted than Harry had thought possible from the battle-hardened ex-Auror. Harry, Hermione and Dora were in his office, having told him about their latest encounter with Snape.

"I've seen a lotta rough stuff in my time," Moody continued, "but that scene at the Riddle place was a real horrorshow. I can't imagine witnessing it first hand in real time—through Voldemort's eyes no less. Good t'see that Granger can get through to you at least."

Moody's electric-blue eye swiveled to briefly land on Hermione and she reddened.

"Not soon enough," Harry muttered, his cheeks flushing.

"Regardless, you listened eventually. That's what counts. … Your head's not gonna be great any time soon, that's for certain, but a couple'a weeks away from that nightmare'll at least give you a chance to pull yourself together a bit.

"Mess around a bit—you can do a bit of training and homework on your own too. Should help you keep your mind off things without havin' t'deal with the pressure of classes and cretins like Snape.

"Speaking of which, I'll be watchin' him a lot more closely. You're bang on about that—It's mighty suspicious that he'd try an' look into yours an' Granger's noggins the first chance he gets after getting back with Voldemort."

"Anyway, I'll check back in with you soon enough, and we'll get you back on track with preparin' for the Third Task. For now you might as well go on and fly around a bit—or whatever…"

That sounded like a good idea to Harry, and ten minutes later he was on the Quidditch pitch with his Firebolt. He felt much better in the air, swooping around the goalposts. The rushing wind seemed to clear his head, and the bright sun swept away his darkening mood while Hermione watched from the stands with Dora, looking much happier.

After classes let out for the day, Dora helped Hermione bring her things down from her dormitory, and between the three of them they carried the lot to Harry's quarters, Crookshanks trotting along beside them.

Once inside, Harry pulled up short and gasped when he entered the bedroom; Hermione ran right into him when he halted.

"Oof!" she yelped. "What's up, Harry?"

"See for yourself," he said, bemused, and he stepped aside for her to get a better look.

"Oh!"

The room seemed slightly larger, and there, next to Harry's bed, was another four-poster with his mahogany nightstand in between.

"Hmm..." said Dora, unable to help herself, "can't see that bed getting much use."

Harry and Hermione both blushed furiously.

Dora chuckled and shook her head. "I'll leave you both to it then."

As soon as she was gone Crookshanks jumped up on the new bed and purred, as if to claim it for his own. Hermione soon had her clothes arranged neatly in the wardrobe and chest of drawers next to Harry's, and he helped her organise her books on his—on theirbookshelf.

"Shall we go down to dinner now?" asked Hermione when they were finished.

Harry thought for a moment, then shook his head.

"I'd rather just have Dobby bring us some here tonight, if that's all right with you."

"Of course, Harry." She smiled and gave him a peck on his cheek.

Not long after dinner, Harry sighed happily, lying on his bed with Hermione nestled beside him, her arm curled around his waist and her bushy head resting on his shoulder. He was starting to drift when he heard it—a little voice he recognised coming from the nightstand calling out his name. He woke right up and excitedly reached for his mirror as Hermione stirred.

"Sirius!" Harry practically yelled.

"Good to see you, Harry," Sirius beamed from the other side of the mirror. "I just called to let you know that it's official, thanks to you. I'm a free man. … I'm just sorry it cost you so much horror."

"Yeah, it was pretty horrible," said Harry ruefully. "I don't think I would've got through it without Hermione."

"So I hear." Sirius shot her a grateful look. "Thanks for looking after him so well, Hermione."

Her cheeks took on a rosy hue.

"Hi Sirius," she said, seemingly unable to conjure up any further response in her embarrassment.

"Anyway," said Sirius, "now that I'm fully exonerated, I'll be able to pay you a visit and make sure Snape isn't giving you too hard of a time..."