The Alchemist's Cell
by SJR0301
Chapter Twenty
On the first of March, they celebrated Ron's seventeenth birthday with quite a splash. Harry put on his Invisibility cloak and snuck out the tunnel to that led to Honeydukes to buy a whole stash of treats and a ton of butterbeer. Hermione persuaded Dobby to bring up all kinds of food from the kitchens, and the Gryffindor common room rocked with the festivities. Seamus had brought an old wizard's wireless with him, and they had the Weird Sisters playing as loudly as they could.
Ron grabbed Hermione and made her dance until she protested breathlessly, "You're making me dizzy, Ron Weasely!"
Ron turned quite pink and said daringly, "That's the idea, Hermione."
Harry grinned at Ginny and pulled her up to dance as well. Since their adventures with the veela, Ginny had been avoiding him. Every time Harry tried to talk to her alone, she had homework to do, or had promised one of her girlfriends to meet in the library, or...something. Harry supposed she was embarrassed, although he wasn't sure which bit of it was the part that embarrassed her the most. When he swung her around, she blushed a bit and avoided his eyes. He thought, at first, that his reactions on Valentine's Eve were all the product of the spell, and they might just go back to the comfortable old thing of being just friends. But when she looked up at him, he felt the wild shock go through him again and wondered if she felt the same.
Someone, Dean maybe, turned off the wireless with a wave of his wand, and the sudden lowering of sound was as jolting as a sudden bang might be in other circumstances. Harry stopped and tried to walk nonchalantly over to a chair, but he felt as though half the students in the common room were watching him and Ginny.
"Is your hand quite healed?" Ginny asked. Wordlessly, Harry held out his right hand, the one that had been slashed the worst. The gash in it had been so deep that even Madam Pomfrey hadn't been able to heal entirely at first. It had taken days for the gash to close up properly, and there was still a clear scar running right down his palm. He hoped he could avoid getting any other scars. The one he was famous for was more than enough by itself. Fleetingly he wondered whether he ought to think twice about being an auror. He seemed to be well on his way to being as scarred up as Mad-eye Moody.
"That's quite odd," Ginny said. She was still holding his hand and he found himself distracted by her touch. He noticed she was wearing some kind of scent. Something clean, like lavender.
"What's odd," Hermione asked.
"The scar on his hand," Ginny said. "It's right over where his life line ought to be. You can't see the original line at all." Harry expected Hermione to make fun of that. After all, she was the one who had walked out of Trelawny's class certain that everything to do with Divination, from star charts to palmistry to crystal gazing, was a fraud.
Ron came over and said, "That really is quite odd, Harry. But you know," he joked, "you can just show that to Trelawny now and she'll tell you you're going to live practically forever."
"I don't believe anything that old fraud says," Harry said firmly. "Besides," he added, "according to Firenze, all that stuff is nonsense. The fates aren't concerned with individuals. It's up to us to write our destinies."
"Do you really think so?" Ron said.
"Absolutely," Harry answered. He thought he might have been a bit too firm that last time. Hermione gave him a very thoughtful look, but she let the subject drop.
As the day after Ron's birthday was a Thursday, their first class of the day as Potions. Like several of the preceding classes, Snape ignored Harry altogether until the very end of class. For once, Harry felt he had done a good job on his potion--a powerful anti-venom that was supposed to slow down any poison's effects until the actual poison could be identified and the proper anitidote be given. He carefully poured his in his flask and turned it in, only to hear the sound of breaking glass just as his back was turned.
"I think you've been taking lessons in clumsiness from Longbottm, Potter," Snape sneered. "I'm afraid you'll have to stay after and clean up the mess." Harry turned slowly around, anger rising. It had been a few weeks since Snape had done anything so purely nasty and he had hoped it would continue that way. He could feel all eyes on him. The Slytherins particularly were waiting to see how he would react. He was determined not to let his anger show and concentrated very hard on keeping his voice as serene as Dumbledore might.
"Yes, sir. Professor Snape. Sir." He thought he had almost managed a respectful tone. Ron and Hermione gave him sympathetic glances. Harry waited for the rest of the class to go, and then started cleaning up the mess. He waited for Snape to lay into him more, but Snape said nothing until Harry had finished.
"You missed your lesson last night, Potter," Snape said coldly. "Do you think you have no more need of lessons? I don't recall Professor Dumbledore giving you permission to stop, do you?" As usual, Harry found his antagonism for the Potions Master overtaking his common sense. If he were truthful, he knew, he might admit that Snape was right. But he would never admit that to Snape, just as Snape would never admit Harry was anything but his father's duplicate.
"It was Ron's birthday," Harry said without apology.
"I see," Snape said. "And do you think that the Dark Lord will care about birthdays? Will you wave a white flag next time he attacks...as he will...and say, let's fight another time, I've got to party!" Harry could feel his hands clenching into fists, though he hadn't directed them to. He felt like smashing Snape's face in. He felt like screaming the great, enormous NO that lay so close to the surface always these days. But a tiny thought in his mind, that little voice of resistance said, don't, it's what he wants.
Harry stared Snape in the eyes as he had the last time they'd had a confrontation, but he managed to say almost calmly, "And when exactly is the Dark Lord going to attack next? And where? No, doubt you know all his plans, now that you've proven your loyalty to him by accepting his mark again." Snape's face went quite pale, and his eyes were quite blank, empty tunnels, empty of kindness and compassion.
"When, is unkown," Snape answered coldly. "But it is coming. Will you be ready? Are you even trying to be ready?"
"Exactly how ready do you think anyone can ever be to die?" Harry asked bleakly. He spun away without waiting for Snape's reaction, scooped up his things and strode as quickly as he could for the door without actually bolting.
Snape's voice stopped him cold. "If you think that way, Potter, you surely will die. But," Snape added, "Since Professor Dumbledore desires that you continue this charade, continue it you will." Harry turned to stare at Snape and waited for the ending. "You will come for your regular lesson on Saturday, Potter, and for another on Sunday to make up for the one you missed. And there will be no excuses. I don't care if you are sick, or sad, or how much homework you have, or whether you've had a fight with your girlfriend, or whose birthday it might be. You will be there." Snape met his eyes coldly, with loathing, and said, "And if you are not, I will personally come and drag you there. Is that clear?"
Harry didn't trust himself to speak. He nodded and left. Thankfully, McGonagall said nothing to him when he arrived late. She gave him a sharp look, but went right on with the lesson. Harry sat through the lesson seething and trying wituout any success to pay attention. He tried to take notes, but all that came out was "I hate Snape. I hate Snape. I hate Snape."
He saw that Hermione was stealing a look at him and scratched out his notes until they could make no sense to anyone. He wished he could scratch Snape out of his life as easily.
"You're kidding!" Ron said, when Harry told them about the extra lesson.
"Two lessons in a row!" Hermione said. "What did you do?"
"What can I do?" Harry asked gloomily. "I did skip last night's lesson. Not that it seems to make any difference."
"Well," Hermione said hesitantly, "Maybe you should use the time between now and Saturday to practice. We could practice with you on Friday afternoon after classes."
"Yeah," Ron chime in. "We can all have a go at you again." Harry looked at Ron and looked away again. He wanted so badly to say no. He looked at Ron again and saw that he was quite determined. He had that dogged look he got when he would worry something quite to death.
"You know what you're in for," Harry said. "Are you really sure?"
"If you can stand it over and over again with Snape," Hermione said, "then we can, too."
"All right," Harry said abruptly. An awkward silence fell. He didn't know how to say thank you for putting up with him.
Harry went into Defense Against the Dark Arts class in a fighting mood. Fortunately, they were finishing up their last section on fighting against staffs. The Professor had made them defend against an opponent with a staff using their wands. But on the last few lessons, he had brought in an extra one, and they had had the opportunity to fight with one, too.
Unlike a wand, a staff could be used as a purely physicaal weapon, too. Harry derived a good deal of satisfaction from whacking Crabbe with the end of his, before he used a stunner from it to send him unconscious for the rest of the class. Professor Ribisi didn't even try to wake up Crabbe. Malfoy shot Harry a look of venom that quite outdid anything Snape had ever produced.
"Now," said the Professor, "we will start on our next section today." He waved his wand and produced a pile of what looked like padding and masks.
"What's this?" Dean muttered. "Are we playing rugby next?" A second wave of the Professor's wand summoned a stack of long, slender swords. Everyone stared at them in fascination.
"Are those quite real?" Parvati asked.
"Of course, they are real, Miss Patil," the Professor replied. "What good would it be if they were not? We have now dealt with wand defense, staff defense, and defense against jinxed objects. We will not be practicing defense against scepters as weapons because there simply are none available. The only two known to be in existence still are in museums in Egypt and France, and they are cursed as well." The Professor paused a moment, perhaps to collect his thoughts. Harry thought cynically that the Professor simply had a natural flair for drama. He paused at all the right moments.
"Our next section will take up some time. While the use of magic swords is not as popular as it once was, and no one actually makes them anymore, there are many still around. Some are heirlooms handed down among families with ancient wizard lineages. Others are cached at the Ministry and in other strongholds. Just in case." Harry stared at Malfoy. He had a feeling from the smirk on the blond Slytherin's face that the Malfoys might be one of those ancient families with a sword or two stashed away. It would be just his luck if Malfoy decided to "borrow" the family sword for an attack on Harry. The Professor divided them into pairs and had them put on the padding and masks.
"These swords are not actually magic ones," the Professor said. "Sword fighting as an art, and you will have to master the basics first before you can actually use a magic sword." For once, Malfoy didn't complain that the lesson was stupid or "Muggle stuff." He picked up his sword and swished it in the air quite convincingly. Or so one would think. Except that Harry had just enough lessons last summer to know that Malfoy knew absolutely nothing. That was good, he thought with pleasure. It gave Harry a head start on something for once. They lined up down the classroom in pairs, and practiced holding the swords, and simply lunging, over and over again. After a few minutes, most of the class was winded and moaning about the lesson.
"This is the worst Defense Against the Dark Arts class we've had since that werewolf taught us," Pansy Parkinson whined.
"It is not," Neville said. "It's the best one we've had since Professor Lupin taught us." He lunged quite enthusiastically, but he nearly skewered Seamus Finnegan by accident. Malfoy laughed. Harry would have liked to skewer him, and not by accident, except he was having troubles of his own. Despite his lessons last summer, he was having trouble just holding the sword for any length of time. The scar on his hand from the veela slash was still not entirely healed, and it had been throbbing a bit already after his staff-fight with Crabbe. He gritted his teeth and managed to make it through the lesson, but he dropped his bag when he was packing up to go.
"Are you all right?" Hermione asked quietly.
Harry was looking at Malfoy though, when he answered. "Yeah. I'm fine," he said clearly.
Malfoy smiled at him anyway, and Harry was sure Malfoy knew his hand hurt. The whole class knew something had happened on Valentine's Eve, and they all knew Harry had spent the night in the hospital wing. Harry started to follow Ron and Hermione out of the class, but Neville stopped him.
"Is your hand still bothering you?" he asked.
"It's fine, Neville," Harry answered.
Professor Ribisi came over and caught Harry's hand. He turned it over and looked at the half-healed slash, which was looking quite red and nasty again. "Why didn't you say anything about this?" the Professor asked.
Harry shrugged. "I thought it was okay."
"I dunno, Harry," Neville said, “I've heard veela cuts never heal right."
Professor Ribisi stared at Harry. "That's true? You got attacked by veela's? I thought that was some stupid school rumor." Harry shrugged again.
"Yeah, it's true. Thanks to my own stupidity," he muttered. He sighed and added, "I guess I'll have to get some salve from Madam Pomfrey."
As he left, the Professor said, "Dio! Does he always do that?"
"It wasn't his fault," Neville said loyally.
"No," the Professor said. "I meant, does he always excape from what would be certain death for anyone else? Attacked by veela? On the night of the dance!"
"That's why he's the Boy Who Lived," Neville answered. Harry cringed. He thought, yeah, I was almost the Boy Who Died that night. If it wasn't for Ginny. Neville caught up with him.
"You know Harry, I might have something that'll help with that. So, you don't have to bother Madam Pomfrey again." Harry grinned at Neville.
"Really? I'll try anything not have her lecture me again."
On Friday, Harry woke up with a tangle of sheets and blankets wrapped about him. He struggled out of the mess and stumbled wearily to ease his his aches in a hot bath. He had dreamed of the old man again, and for the first time in months, he felt upon rising the ache in his bones that Madam Pomfrey had said was growing pains and that Harry knew instinctively was the old man's pain.
The only part of him that didn't hurt was his hand. Neville's ointment, made with mimbulus mimbletonia, had eased the pain instantly. Harry was astonished to see that the slash on his palm now looked well-healed and the thin line of the scar was fading down to a faint pink rather from an angry red. Despite his morning bath and two cups of coffee, Harry drifted through Alchemy class in a bit of a trance. He felt oddly as if he were still inside his dream from last night. The fire in the classroom crackled and the heat pouring out of it made the classroom uncomfortably warm. Each of them took it in turn to take the first step in the process of purification. When Harry's turn came, he raised his wand and with a gentle flick increased the fire's heat until the hot metal ran red and then white. Somehow Harry knew just what to do. He flicked the wand and reduced the fire, and the molten metal cooled, turning from white to the purest silver.
"Very good," Dumbledore said. "Very good indeed." Harry waited for the rest of the class to leave. When Hermione and Ron looked as though they would linger, Harry said quickly, "Go on ahead to lunch. I just want to ask Professor Dumbledore a quick question." Hermione looked like she would argue the point, but Ron gently pulled her along with him.
Harry turned back to Dumbledore and saw that the elderly wizard was waiting for him to speak. "It's about my dreams," Harry said. Dumbledore's blue eyes regarded him with heightened concern.
"I'm still having dreams about the old man. The one who's locked up." Dumbledore said nothing so Harry rushed on. "He's in pain," Harry said. "They're keeping him locked up. They're trying to make him do something, but he won't give in. Only they hurt him when he defies him."
Dumbledore sighed. "Have you been practicing Occlumency?" he asked gently.
Harry frowned and said, "Yes, I have." He went on impatiently. "But Professor, I'm sure this is real. Have you learned anything? Do you know who he is? Or where Voldemort's keeping him?" Dumbledore hesitated before answering. Harry frowned at him anxiously. He wanted to hear Dumbledore say they were taking care of the problem. He wanted Dumbledore to reassure him: To say they'd get the old man out.
"Harry," Dumbledore finally said, "even if there is this old man in trouble, you should not be having dreams about him. You should be blocking them out." Dumbledore looked at Harry searchingly and said more urgently, "You must not let Voldemort lure you into another trap. For right now, it doesn't matter whether the bait is real or not. You must block out these dreams."
"But," Harry said. He didn't know quite what to say or why he felt it was so important for Dumbledore to understand. "But Professor," he tried again, "if this man is a prisoner, if he's being harmed by Voldemort, don't we have to help him? What is the Order for, if we don't help him?" Harry saw, for just a moment, a bewildering array of emotions run through Dumbledore's face: sorrow, affection, pride, and fear.
"Harry," Dumbledore said - and Harry could see that he was choosing his words carefully - "the Order's purpose is to defeat Voldemort forever. We are trying, always, to stop him, in both large matters and small. And," he added, "I'm afraid that we have been quite unable to find any information about this old man you dream about. I fear...I fear that Voldemort is trying to trick you again. Now that the prophecy is broken, you see, he wants to be done with the problem you present. He will stop at nothing to get at you. You must practice blocking him out. It is the most important thing you can do."
Harry picked at his chicken absently and let Ron and Hermione's bickering wash over him. He felt chilled and quite miserable, more so than he had for weeks. How long was he supposed to go on this way, having dreams that were so real he felt them in his bones. Not knowing the difference between life and dreams. A fleeting memory struck him. Dumbledore's voice saying gravely to him as he had sat before the Mirror of Erised, "It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live."
Was that what Voldemort was doing to him now? Burying him in dreams so real that he could no longer distinguish between life and dreams? Was he going to slowly lose all sense of reality, Harry wondered, until he no longer knew whether the Great Hall and the people with him were real or phantoms? With a faint noise of disgust, Harry flung down his fork.
"Shut up and listen," he said softly to Ron and Hermione. They swiveled around to look at him, those anxious looks he hated tightening the corners of Ron's mouth and creating the faintest crease between Hermione's brows. "I've decided to take you up on your offer," he said. "Is tonight okay?"
"Our offer?" Ron asked.
"The occlumency lessons," Hermione supplied hopefully. Harry nodded. He got up restlessly and said, "Meet me in the Room of Requirement at eight o'clock. I'm going on ahead to set it up and get myself ready." He swung away from the table before the old fears could rise up and weaken his resolution. He needed practice and help, or Snape was going to flatten him again the next day. And he didn't want to dream anymore.
The Room of Requirement looked much as it had when they had held the D.A. lessons there last year. But there were cushiony chairs and pillows and some kind of incense that left a clean fragrance in the air. Harry sat in one of the chairs and breathed in deep, seeking to control the panic that had simmered at the edges of his consciousness since his talk with Dumbledore. Of all the things Harry thought he would hate the most, being truly batty was probably top of the list. He thought with sympathy of Neville growing up with his severe old Gran and visiting his parents in the closed ward at St. Mungo's. He'd rather die, he thought, than live like Neville's parents: out of all contact with reality; not even knowing their own son. Harry concentrated on building up the wall in his mind. He imagined it thicker than the walls of Hogwarts itself. He imagined the wall being fused into a single, impenetrable mass, without a single chink to let a stray thought in or out.
At eight o'clock, Ron, Hermione, Ginny and Neville came in. Harry stared at them a moment and said, "Are you sure you want to do this?"
They all nodded and Hermione sat down in one of the cushy chairs. She looked at the others for a second and then said quietly to Harry.
"We've been trying to practice a bit ourselves, but we're not getting anywhere. It's much more difficult than we realized." Her voice trailed off and the others nodded.
"All right," Harry said abruptly. "The first thing you have to do is to prepare your mind for attack. You want to try to make a kind of wall in your mind, and keep the stuff that matters, the private stuff, the stuff that can hurt you, your feelings, behind that wall." The other four sat down and nodded, but they all looked rather puzzled.
Harry tried again. "Try, if you can, to see it in your mind. You need a place in there that's like a fortress. No one can get in." They all nodded again and they all had looks of intense concentration on their faces. Neville's round face was taut, as it got these days in Defense Against the Dark Arts, when he was really working hard. Hermione seemed almost serene, but she had always had the gift of concentration. Ron and Ginny looked strangely like twins for a moment. Their freckled faces were screwed up in identical looks of grim determination.
"Right," Harry said. "Now I want each one of you to try to attack me. The spell is Legilimens! Neville, you go first, then Ginny, then Ron, then Hermione." Neville swallowed and raised his wand. He said the spell, and Harry was surprised to find Neville had reached into his outermost thoughts. For a moment they hung there, Harry's surprise and Neville's satisfaction in balance. Then Harry pushed the wall forward, and Neville was out again.
"Very good, Neville," Harry said. Neville flushed just a little.
"I've been practicing with Hermione and the others," he said. Ginny raised her wand and on the count of three she had said the spell. Harry felt a shock, a tingle, as her mind made the quickest touch of contact with his. He pushed her out hastily, far more quickly than he had with Neville.
"Not bad," he said calmly. She looked away from him and frowned faintly, but said nothing.
He turned to Ron and said, "On the count of three. One. Two. And three!" He was picking at his chicken and worrying about his dreams.
A shiver ran through him, and Harry flung Ron back out again, a bit more fiercely than he had planned. Ron picked himself back up off the floor and said, "Did I do it?"
"Yeah, you did," Harry said.
"But you pushed me right out again, didn't you?" Ron said. "That's good, Harry."
He opened his mouth and Harry was sure Ron was going to ask him, "what dreams were you worried about," so he cut him off and said quickly, "Hermione?" Harry took a deep breath and strengthened the wall further. Hermione's spell felt like the merest tap. A far away knock that could hardly trouble him. Hermione looked both disappointed and pleased.
She bit her lip and said, "I don't know what you've got to worry about with Snape, you know. You've gotten better at this, haven't you?"
Harry shook his head. "It's different with him. He's a full-grown wizard. And he's a lot more powerful than you realize."
Ron and Hermione glanced at each other and Hermione said, "Why don't we try it the other way, then. You'll need to be able to attack back yourself, if you ever come face to face with Voldemort." Harry stared at her, trying to remain calm.
"I don't want to hurt you," he said.
"How else are you going to practice?" Ginny said bluntly. "We volunteered. We know you're afraid Voldemort will possess you and then attack someone through you. But you'll never master this and be able to defeat him if you don't stop worrying about hurting us and really try." The others nodded again.
"I'll go first," Neville said. He gripped his wand and narrowed his eyes into tiny slits.
"All right," Harry said. He raised his wand and attacked.
He was eleven years old and it was his first day in Potions class. His cauldron was melting and Professor Snape was calling him stupid, clumsy. Snape was even scarier than Gran. He was in St. Mungo's and his Mum didn't know him. She never knew him. Dad never knew him. Dad mumbled nonsense. "La la la. Sa sa sa. La sa la sa. Put out the light, Alice. They're here Alice. We'll be safe in the dark. Da da. La da. Sa da." Tears rolled down his face, down his Dad's face. He was in the dark. There were holes in the dark and a huge hedge of brush. The hedge's roots sank deep in and little cracks led away from them. Thoughts fell into the cracks. Things he was supposed to remember seeped away into the cracks.
Without really knowing why, Harry ripped at the hedge, at the roots. There was something there he had to see. He had to know. He hated the dark. He needed to know. The hedge had been there forever, hadn't it? He ripped the roots out, one by one, by one, and behind the hedge there was a wall nearly as strong as the one he'd built. He found a chink. And another. He got a hold of a chink and smashed at it. He had to get the wall down. It crumbled and he was only two. He was hungry and wanted Mummy to feed him, but she was holding him and saying, "Hush, darling, hush." Daddy's voice was saying, "Hide him, Alice! Quickly! Someone's here!" There were four someones. They arrived with a loud crack and they were all black. They were the black men. They were bad. He was scared. One of them cooed. Was that his Mummy?
"Poor widdle baby!" the voice cooed, but it wasn't Mummy's voice. No, Mummy's voice had changed. She was screaming and Daddy was screaming, but he was too terrified to cry himself.
"Where is he?" the voices kept asking. Where. where. where. where. where. Harry backed away slowly. Again, without knowing why, he burned the roots and hedges as he went and everywhere he found those cracks, he filled them in, smoothing over the cracks until they blended seamlessly with the rest. The tears he wept were a lake of grief that drowned out the cries and left behind a well of calm.
“Neville?" Harry whispered. He was shaking violently. "Neville? Are you all right?" He thought he was going to throw up, but that wouldn't do.
The others were looking horrified, frozen. Neville stirred. He looked at Harry and tears were running down his face. "I remember," he said. "I remember."
"Bellatrix, her husband, and Barty Crouch, Jr.," Harry said. "Who was the other man? I couldn't see his face. I...couldn't stand to stay and look."
Neville shook his head and brushed his tears away with a strange dignity. "I dunno," he whispered. "They were all hooded, weren't they?"
"I'm sorry," Harry said. "I should have known better. I shouldn't have done that. It's... this...it's no good...it's something no one should be able to do." He couldn't stop the trembling. He told himself sternly, get a grip. It's Neville's memory. It happened to him. But Harry felt like the memory was his own.
"You're wrong," Neville said. Harry stared at him.
"How can you say that? I just made you remember the worst thing that ever happened to you. How can you say that? It's like I'm turning into a dementor. Doing that to you. It's horrible!"
"You gave me back something," Neville said. "I don't know how you did it, but you gave me back something someone stole from me. Someone made me forget. Someone made me forget so good that I've always had trouble remembering anything. You fixed it," Neville said. "I remember." Harry stared at Neville. He's going mad, Harry thought, or I am.
"You mean," Hermione said hesitantly, "Harry fixed your memory problem? With legilimency?" Neville nodded.
"That book you had is right. It can be used to heal." Neville wiped his face again and said, "Harry, you can't stop now. This could be the answer to so much."
"No!" Harry said. "No. It can do too much harm."
"I want to learn," Neville said, "and no one else will teach me. Maybe," he added, and his voice shook and his round, pleasant face was drawn and scared and determined all at once, "maybe I can heal my Mum and Dad someday, if I can learn this. Just maybe..." But Harry was thinking, not of Neville's Mum and Dad; no, he was thinking of the other man. Who was it?
Even with all his practice, Harry spent a restless night. He dreamed he was on tiral before the Wizengamot, but he had no clue what his offense was. The jury was filled with Death Eaters who kept chanting, "Throw him through the Veil! Throw him through the Veil!" On one side of Fudge sat Bellatrix Lestrange, and on the other, Dolores Umbridge. Bellatrix's husband sat behind her, and next to him was his brother. Draco Malfoy was taking notes instead of Percy and as the verdict was read, the courtroom was filled with the high, cold laughter of fifty Voldemorts.
Harry sat up. His scar was burning and he could feel an odd flash of pleasure that had nothing to do with his own fear. Voldemort, he thought, must be really happy about something. Harry shivered and tried not to think about the kind of thing that might make Voldemort that happy. He felt, as he sometimes did, contaminated by the connection between them. He wondered, would Voldemort's evil somehow slowly creep into his own mind and soul and poison him, inch by stealthy inch, so that there was nothing left of himself, of Harry. Harry shook his head and thought, I won't. Be calm. Build the wall. Shut him out. He lay back down and tried to find a place of calm.
He had almost ceased to shiver when a thought struck him. Lestrange's brother. He had been the fourth man at the trial. He must have been the other man in Neville's memory. But Harry had the uneasy feeling that he had missed something. He had been so horrified by the memory and Neville's pain, that he had pulled out of the memory before it had run its full course. Had he missed something? Was there something more? He took several more deep calming breaths and considered asking Neville if he remembered. But that, Harry thought, would be too cruel. Bad enough he had given Neville back the worst nightmare of his life. As he slept, the memory played back through his mind, but as it did, it transposed itself into his own. James cried to Lily, "Take Harry and run," and his mother's voice pleaded, "Not Harry! Take me instead!"
The last thing Harry really wanted to do on a sunny Saturday morning in March was have an Occlumency lesson from Professor Snape. However, something about last night's dream still lingered: the foul taste of Voldemort's happiness, the feeling of contamination. So he dressed and went for his lesson grimly determined to suffer whatever insults Snape might hand out in the hopes of mastering this skill and blocking out his nemesis forever.
Harry knocked at the door of Snape's office and was surprised to find the door open and the office empty. Snape was nearly as paranoid as Mad-eye Moody when it came to the security of his office. Harry stepped cautiously in and tried to decide what to do. As he stepped in further, he spied a slip of parchment resting flat on Snape's desk, held down at the edges by a sliver paperweight in the shape of a serpent that read, Slytherin's Head. The paper was written in Snape's spiky writing and said, "Remedial Potions Lessons will be cancelled for Saturday morning. Students whose lessons are cancelled should see me tomorrow morning for their make-up assignments."
Harry was both relieved and disappointed. Having screwed up his courage and determination for the lesson, he felt slightly put out at the Professor's absence. He also couldn't help wondering what might be keeping Snape. Had Voldemort called his Death Eaters? And did Snape's absence have anything to do with that odd lurch of happiness he'd felt in the night?
Harry went back toward the common room hoping to find Ron and Hermione. He wanted to talk to someone quite badly about Snape's absence and what it might mean. As he passed the Great Hall, however, it was Ginny who called to him, not Ron or Hermione. That was fine with Harry.
Sometimes Ginny had her own thing to say that no one else had thought of. "Hi," he said smilingly. He felt quite glad after all that Snape was out.
"Don't you have a lesson this morning?" Ginny asked.
"Snape's got something else to do," Harry answered. "He left a note."
"He did not!" Ginny replied.
"Yeah, he did," Harry said. "Remedial Potions students --erm, that means me," he said just a bit sarcastically, "should return tomorrow instead."
"That's a bit odd," Ginny said.
"I thought so, too," Harry replied. There was the tiniest of pauses, and then Ginny said,"I wanted to talk to you anyway. Could we...well...go somewhere else, where we won't be overheard?" Harry led Ginny into the nearest empty classroom and waited curiously to hear what she had to say. Sunlight slanted in through a dusty window and burnished the vivid copper in her hair. She flushed a little and seemed to be having trouble finding words for what she wanted to say, but Harry was in no hurry.
She looked at him resolutely and said, "The thing is, I owe you an apology. And I think we ought to...break up. I mean, I think the joke's gone on long enough." Harry stared at her. He couldn't think of a single thing to say. This wasn't what he had expected. She flushed further and pleated the sleeve of her robe abstractedly.
"If it weren't for me," she rushed on in a low voice, "if I hadn't lost my temper with Dean and dragged you into it, Malfoy wouldn't have done that. He wouldn't have been able to play that trick on you. He wouldn't be spreading all those lies about you." Harry still couldn't think of anything to say. And she rushed on again before he could.
"I pulled you into my stupid prat joke, and you got hurt because of me." She looked at him again and said, "So I think we should just stop the joke. And I'm really sorry." She turned away and started to leave, but Harry finally found his voice.
"What makes you think Malfoy wouldn't find something else to make fun of me for if he didn't have this? He's always making fun of me. And it's not the first nasty trick he's played on me either. So you're hardly to blame because he used you for the bait and I was stupid enough to believe it."
"Well he won't be using me to get at you again," Ginny said. "The joke's over, okay. You can tell everyone that you decided I'm...too wild, or whatever."
Harry took a step closer to her and said, "Are you sure it's because of Malfoy you want to quit? Or is it because of what happened? Because if Snape hadn't come..." He stopped there. He hadn't meant to bring that up. The color flooded through her face and washed away again as quickly.
"That was just the spell from the circle," she said. "And anyway, nothing happened." She stared at him and said slowly, "I don't want to lose you as my friend because of my stupid temper. Because of a stupid joke. I'm really sorry, Harry. I really am." She turned and fled and Harry wondered why he didn't feel happy or relieved. And he couldn't help wondering who she was dating now. Was she back with Dean? Or had she found someone new?
Harry stumped into the Great Hall and sat down to lunch feeling thoroughly out of temper. His mood wasn't improved when Malfoy came seeping in, still in his quidditch practice clothes and stopped by to get his digs in.
"So you've finally come to your senses, Potter, haven't you?" Malfoy sneered. "Dumped another girl, have you? Really, it's a wonder anyone will go out with you though. Who'd want to go out with someone who's got a deformity, I'd like to know." Pansy Parkinson shrieked with laughter and Crabbe and Goyle lumbered in with their chortles a half a beat too late. Harry ignored Malfoy. He was quite sure if he actually answered, he was going to end up punching the sneering git in the face, and that had landed his Firebolt in Umbridge's office last year and got Harry kicked off the Gryffindor team. Not that he thought McGonagall would do that, but... Apparently Harry's refusal to answer had irritated Malfoy, for the Slytherin wasn't quite done.
"Perhaps you dumped her once you had the only bit of her you really wanted? Or maybe she dumped you when she found out just how much of a man you are. Couldn't quite make the grade, could you, even with a bit of veela madness to get you started?" Harry turned at that and found his hand had shot out of its own accord. He grabbed Malfoy by the neck of his robes and pulled him right up so he could stare him in the face.
"Fighting again, Potter?" Snape's voice grated at him and Harry had a glimpse of the Potions Master's greasy head just behind Malfoy's sleek blond one. Involuntarily, Harry's hand tightened further on Malfoy's robes. Malfoy was turning bright red and a choked sound escaped him as he tried to jerk out of Harry's grip.
"That's twenty points from Gryffindor," Snape snarled, "and I'll see you in my office right now, Potter, to discuss your detention. And let him go." Harry shoved Malfoy away, straight into Snape. Every bit of his anger over Malfoy's trick, every bit of his long held fury at Snape's unfairness flared in his furious response.
"I'll let him go," Harry said, "For right now anyway. But don't worry, someday he'll find out what it's like to really have a fight with me." Malfoy paled and Snape looked positively furious. But Harry didn't care.
"You won't be having a fight with anyone, Potter," Snape replied, "or I will see you expelled, even if you are Professor Dumbledore's golden boy."
"Expelled?" Harry echoed. "You think that's what this is about? You think my being expelled will make any difference?" He strode forward again and grabbed Malfoy's left arm. Malfoy tried to pull his arm away, but as Snape was restraining him from behind, the Slytherin was caught. Harry yanked at Malfoy's sleeve to expose his left arm.
"What are you doing?" Malfoy yelled.
"No dark mark, yet?" Harry asked. He had half expected there would be one. "Daddy hasn't taken you to any of their meetings yet? Or are you not quite big enough for Voldemort? But I'll bet you'd like to be. I'll bet you're practicing. Are you ready, then? Or do you have to pass a test to get in? Use Avada Kedavra, maybe? Or just a little sample of the Cruciatus curse? And what would you practice on? Should we check if anyone's missing a pet or two?" Malfoy's gray eyes widened and the pupils dilated wide so that only the thinnest sliver of silver gray could be seen around the great black centers. The hall had fallen utterly silent at Harry's shouted accusation.
"You're mad," Malfoy sputtered.
Harry let him go. He smiled at Malfoy, but without any pleasure and said, "I'm not nearly as mad as you wish I were, and I'm not half as mad yet as I will be."
"Enough!" Snape's shout silenced the watching crowd, who had started to whisper again at Harry's last statement.
"You, Mr. Potter, will come with me. And you, Mr. Malfoy, will return to your common room. I will call you if Professor Dumbledore feels it's necessary to speak to you." Malfoy threw Harry a look of purest hatred as he left. Harry straightened his robes back up with an annoyed shrug of his shoulders and followed Snape wordlessly to his office.
Harry faced Snape defiantly. He knew quite well he was in for a lecture. Snape rounded on him and the look in his eyes was exactly the same as the one Malfoy had thrown him just seconds before. Harry crossed his arms and leaned against the wall of shelves that contained dead things pickling in some sort of preservative. They reminded him of the tanks of brains in the Department of Mysteries and he had an idle flash of himself in a great tank being pickled whole, just like the spiny purple sea urchin on the shelf nearby.
"I had never thought you could actually top your father for pure, stupid, rash, arrogance, Potter, but you have just done it," Snape said icily. "Have you any idea, any at all, just how close you came to ruining all of Dumbledore's plans? If you were anybody else, you would be expelled this instant. You ought to be, just for your stupidity alone."
"Yeah," Harry said. "Well maybe I'm sorry I stopped Professor Dumbledore from expelling Malfoy when he would have. Maybe I'm sorry I didn't just let you twist in the wind before your master. Is that where you were this morning? Celebrating his most recent murder? Or whatever it was that made him so happy last night? What abomination was it this time? Did you participate? Did you enjoy it?"
Snape backhanded him across the face as fast as any striking rattler. Harry thought afterward that he ought to have seen it coming. But the blow caught him by surprise and he reeled into the shelf and from there onto his knees on the floor. Something about the shadow of the man looming over him sparked a rebellion he hadn't known existed. He was on his feet in an instant wand drawn in his shaking hand.
"Don't you ever, ever dare hit me again," Harry growled. "I'll not take that from anyone any more. Not from you. Not from Uncle Vernon. Not from anyone." What he might have done, or what Snape might have done, Harry never knew.
Dumbledore's voice interrupted sharply "Put your wand away, Harry."
Harry froze and turned to look at the elderly wizard. Dumbledore's blue eyes were coldly angry, and behind him, Mcgonagall was looking as severe as Harry had ever seen, her mouth thinned down to a line that was almost non-existent, and her whole face was drawn tight over the bones.
"What is going on here?" Dumbledore asked.
"He's been fighting with Malfoy again," Snape answered coldly. "He practically choked him and virtually accused him of being a Death Eater in the Great Hall. In front of half the school. And,” he added, "It seems his occlumency lessons are utterly useless, as he will not trouble himself to even try to control his temper."
Dumbledore looked at Harry. "This is true?"
Harry shrugged. He couldn't think of a thing to say to defend himself and he didn't particularly care to.
"Any other student would be expelled after something like this," Snape said. Harry stared from Snape to Dumbledore to McGonagall and he could feel again every bit of his resentment churning about, consuming him from the inside; the poison working through him clouding his vision almost.
"But I won't be expelled, will I?" Harry said. He felt as if a stranger, some other Harry was saying things. "You won't expel me because you need me. Because I'm your weapon against Voldemort, aren't I?" He could see them all flinch very slightly. "All last year, you had people watching me, guarding me, but that wasn't just because of the prophecy. The prophecy wasn't the real weapon the order was guarding. That just might have given Voldemort the information he needed to destroy the weapon - me. No," he said bitterly, "you can't afford to expel me because you'll lose control over your weapon against him. And that's what the occlumency lessons are all about too. So you can strip me down, so you can finish me off, sharpen me to a killing point, and turn me into a magical killing machine for Voldemort's destruction."
Harry waited for them to deny it. McGonagall looked altogether horrified. But Dumbledore looked only tired. Well, why be surprised he didn't deny it, Harry thought - Dumbledore had virtually told him that himself last year. Though not in quite those words. As for Snape, Harry couldn't bring himself to look at him. The lack of an answer was more than he could bear.
"What about me?" Harry asked. "Don't I get to have a life? Haven't I got a right to feel, to be like anybody else? Why should I bother with anything, then? What does homework matter or exams or anything, if all I am is...my aunt's unwelcome burden, or... your weapon?" Harry looked at them, hoping they would give him something. Some answer that he could believe in. Some...hope. But he saw by the sorrow in Dumbledore's eyes he wasn't going to get it.
"I see," Harry said. "So what it comes down to is, I get to be your weapon. And if I don't try hard enough to become it, I get to be Voldemort's."
Finally, Dumbledore responded. "You see, now, why I told you last summer, that you were not nearly angry enough with me yet."
"Rubbish," McGonagall said suddenly. "Utter rubbish. How could you let him think his whole life is governed by some stupid prophecy? When all of us know how unreliable such things are? When we know, how every minute the future may shift in shape as events unfold. He should be angry with you, for not explaining things better. The future is only, ever, possibilities yet to take shape. You cannot know, he cannot know, that any of this will be."
"There is always hope," Dumbledore said, "but it does not do to rely on false hope. He must know the truth, and I erred greatly last year by not telling him."
Harry looked from Dumbledore to McGonagall and to Snape once again. Snape spoke, and for once, despite their previous conrontation, his voice held no trace of his usual loathing. "You miss the point now, both of you. It no longer matters whether the prophecy is true. It doesn't matter whether Potter can defeat the Dark Lord or not. What matters is that the Dark Lord believes the possiblity may be true. And he will act accordingly." Snape turned to Harry and spoke to him directly. "I have warned you several times this year, and you have not listened. There is nothing the Dark Lord wants more than to see you dead. If you will not work at controlling yourself, if you will not learn to block him out, if you let yourself be governed, as your godfather was, by your foolish temper, then he will win. You can feel as sorry for yourself as you like, but if you won't learn, you assuredly won't have that life you are so dramatically whining about."
"Well, that's news," Harry said, not nearly as sarcastically as he would have liked to. "I can guarantee you one thing, though," he added defiantly, "Occlumency lessons or no occlumency lessons, the one thing Voldemort will never do is control me. He might kill me, but he'll never control me. And I will die before I ever bow to him." He didn't wait to see the effect of his words. He left and hoped deep down that his bravado was true.
