Sacrifice

Prologue
   She walked quickly along the dark, cobblestone street, clutching the paper bag to her chest with one hand and holding the small wrist of her oldest son, a boy of barely four, with the other. He was holding the hand of a barely walking two year old boy, which happened to be her other son. Shadows had crept out onto the stones in the road, stretching like gnarled fingers toward some dying soul, pulling it into the depths of Hell. Shadows had always frightened her. She knew this was no time of night to be out, what with the masked murderers, who called themselves Death Eaters, roaming the streets, just looking for someone to kill. Her heart pounded in her ears. She wished desperately that her husband had gotten the car fixed, or that rugs were still legal. She couldn’t take both of her children on a broom, unless it had baskets or rear seating, and her husband didn’t think they were at all safe. But, she thought, just about anything is safer than walking down an empty street these days. She held her son’s grubby hand tighter in hers, and pressed the bag closer to her chest, feeling the celery against her fingers through the thick, brown paper and prayed that the sun would come soon, and she would have more light than the fragile sliver of a moon, which vainly tried to throw some light from its cage in the dark night sky.
A quiet scratch of heavy boots on cobblestone caught her attention. Curious, she almost turned to see where it had come from. A terrified thought came over her suddenly: what if it was one of them? A ragged, raspy voice whispered, “Alohomora,” and she stopped breathing. A door creaked open in the dark, then shut with a click. She searched the house in the direction of the sounds, but saw no evil signs. Her eyes crept up the house’s yellow trim with the ivy, coming to the one lit window in the house. Cheerful orange played out onto the street below, and laughter was slightly audible from the bright room. ‘No.....” she thought desperately. “No.... they’re going to die!! Someone stop that man!” She felt like screaming, or apparating up there, to that happy room, saving those people up there.
   “Mummy,” the oldest boy pulled on the sleeve of her robe, “we have to go home. Daddy’ll be home soon.” Her children. She held the boy’s hand tightly in her own and watched the window intently. A dark silhouette appeared in the window, and screams came from the small room. A flash of green, the bright light extinguished. The paper bags dropped onto the cobbled street, their contents spilling over the deep greys and blacks. She grabbed her boys and ran behind an old, gnarled tree. A green mist crept along her ankles and legs, trying to swallow her into the deep void of death. She shut her eyes tightly, loosening her grip on her older son, and hoped that she wouldn’t hear what she knew what was next.
   “That was too easy,” A man sniggered. “Morsmodre!”
   She opened her eyes when she felt her older son leave. He was peering around the trunk of the old tree, back to her. She grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled him back. He landed with a thump on her lap.
   “Look, Mummy!” He said happily, “They know it’s my birthday. They drew me a picture. Look!” He pointed to a green skull hovering in the sky.

Chapter 1

****
Ron, I’m worried about Harry. He hardly responds to his owls. Usually just a few sentences. I know this whole... thing... has been tearing him apart... I just wish there was something we could do. I hope Dumbledore lets him visit you. He needs something to take his mind away from all of what happened.
Love,
   Hermione
*****

   “Although wizards knew the nature of the five elemental powers for centuries, they did not attempt to harness the power until the early 1900s.”
   Harry stifled a yawn, trying not to wake the Dursleys, who were not on good terms with him at the moment. They had not been pleased when they had received Dumbledore’s informative letter explaining Cedric Diggory’s death and the rise of the Dark Lord by a large and abnormally skittish owl at half 2 in the morning. Aunt Petunia had finally, a week later, given up hiding in Harry’s old cupboard and had resorted to sneaking into each room with a cricket bat gripped tightly in both hands. She had mistaken every person in the house for Voldemort at least once, and had repeatedly believed Harry a magical killer at first glance. For the first few weeks after the letter had arrived, Uncle Vernon was convinced Privet Drive was a much safer place for Harry and asked frequently how soon Harry could return to Hogwarts and if possibly he could be sent back for the remainder of summer holiday. The dreams had not helped. Harry now spent as much time outside as possible, climbing the trellis in the back garden to the roof with his books and wearing his invisibility cloak. However, Dudley had been sent a few days earlier (on Harry’s birthday, to be exact) to what Uncle Vernon hatefully called “Fat Camp.” Although Aunt Petunia now cried whenever a meal was served and continued to keep Harry on Dudley’s grapefruit diet, Harry was a good deal happier. His skin was no longer pale, but was almost beginning to tan, even through the invisibility cloak, and he was now taller than Aunt Petunia (which was no great feat, but marked a good start for Harry), and he was living again off his birthday cakes. However, he had noticed very little of this. He spent most of his time staring blankly at walls, trees, or anything that stood still. He thought of trivial things, such as the shape of his glasses, or his shoelaces. He liked those thoughts. They drove away the dread that tore at his stomach just before he went to sleep. He was mostly afraid of the dark, and constantly heard small noises around the front door. He was afraid of returning to Hogwarts as well, but not for his safety. It had been his only home, and everything had suddenly changed. He only wished everything would be the way it was before. But it never would be.
   Harry yawned and closed his Advanced History of Charms book in the flattened roll of parchment that held his half written essay, hoping the ink had dried, and slid it under his bed. He needed sleep; Mr. Weasley was coming the next day with a Portkey and it would take quite a bit of talking to the Dursleys about it, especially if Mr. Weasley didn’t remember the layout of the house, He turned onto his back, set his glasses on the nightstand, and fell asleep.

   He was sitting in a cemetery. He knew by the headstones illuminated in some green light coming from far away. They stood in the dark clearing, spaced apart, revealing the emptiness of the cemetery, like a group of crazed monks on the floor of Hell, clawed hands clutching the wilting flowers left to remember the dead. He had no shirt, and his pants were soaked in blood and ripped around his knees. Rain pelted down on him. Except it wasn’t rain. He had the sinking feeling that what was falling from the sky was blood. The deep red clouds let no light in, but the eerie green glow was becoming more defined on the cold stones. It was coming closer. The green fingers crept along the red ground, slipping between the still monks and their dying flowers. His heart caught in his throat as a strangling fear consumed him. He didn’t want it to come closer. He had to get away. The wind sliced through the grass, whispering, “Rip you... tear you... kill you...” He tried to get up, but his legs hurt too much. The light advanced, its sinister mind reaching out, trying to twist his own, playing around his ears, echoing in his head, clouding his thoughts. He pushed the ground with his bleeding feet and tore at the grass with his hands, trying desperately to get away. The gravestones loomed in front of him, and sealed his way out. He screamed at them, and pounded his hands against the stone. His hands began to bleed, and vines crept around his wrists, cutting into his skin. He tore at them, trying to stop them, in vain. They coiled around his arms and pulled him to the cold rock. He tried to scream, and the vine snaked into his throat. His arm began to bleed, slowly at first, then pouring down his arm. The searing, burning pain began, travelling down his spine, along his arms and in his chest. Flames scratched at his eyes. He could see nothing. And he couldn’t get away....

   Aunt Petunia woke up to the somewhat familiar screams. She hurried out of bed and wondered how even after Harry’s first two years with them, even after this entire summer, how those screams could still terrify her. She rushed into the room and took in the scene: Harry was sitting straight up, his back rigid, almost arched, as if he were in physical pain. His eyes were rolled back in his head, but the whites of his eyes were clearly visible from his wide open eyelids. He stared through her with those vacant white eyes and shrieked, “NO!! I won’t! you killed my parents!” His scar had begun to bleed. The red stained his white skin and ran into his mouth. Petunia sat on the bed and grabbed his shoulders, shaking him. “Shut up!” she whispered furiously. “shut up!”
   His mouth closed, and his eyes blinked, then fluttered, and the green irises returned to their proper place. His eyes closed, and his dark eyelashes became wet with tears. He began to shake violently, and tears ran down his face, making white lines in the blood which lay there. Aunt Petunia loosened her grip on his shoulders, and he collapsed, sobbing, into her arms. She stroked his dark, tangled hair, and a strange, almost maternal feeling came over her. She looked back at Vernon, who was leaning on the door frame, watching with a mixture of concern and the ever prominent mixture of suspicion and disgust. She smiled, and he, approving of the situation, tromped back into the master bedroom.
   Petunia stayed there, watching the crying boy, until his breathing changed from ragged to calm, and his tears ceased. She lay him back on his pillow, brushing the tears and remains of blood from his skin. Her fingers brushed his scar and she shivered. She had read what had happened in that letter so many years ago. Even with an unbiased formality, the undeniable truths were terrifying. She wondered briefly, what it would have been like if Lily had survived. Her vision became blurry, and she blinked furiously, scolding herself for giving in. She kissed her fingers and put them to the jagged scar. He would not remember the nightmare in the morning. He never did.

Chapter 2

*****
Sirius--
Don’t worry. Everything’s fine here. I’m going to Ron’s in about a week, so I get to escape from the relatives. I hope you’re keeping out of sight and eating well. Sorry this is short, I’ve got a lot of homework.
--Harry
*****

   Harry woke to the sunrise of a dreamless sleep and the faint feeling of terror in the back of his ribcage. He’d had another nightmare. He didn’t remember anything... except the green mist. His head hurt, and his body felt like he’d been running all night. He felt the blood caked onto his cheeks. He knew he’d had a number of nightmares that summer, each worse than the last, and he was starting to remember the horrors more and more. As his motor skills improved and his body woke up, his mind seemed to as well, and he felt that panicked hopelessness creep into him. He hated that feeling. More than the rage, more than the fear, more than anything. His closed eyes bore an image of the looming tombstones. He opened them quickly, but the image was not so easily lost. Though faded, it stayed close enough to his line of vision to haunt him.
   Harry pushed the covers off and got shakily to his feet. He stumbled blindly around his room, taking his nightshirt off and feeling in his dresser for another shirt. He found one, which looked like it was a greenish colour, and put it on. He’d taken several Galleons at the beginning of summer from his Gringott’s bank and exchanged it for Muggle money, buying himself clothes that actually fit him. It was a nice feeling, to have his own clothes. He found a pair of jeans and pulled them over his boxers, then returned to the nightstand and snatched his glasses. He shoved them on, and the room suddenly became one of defined objects and solid lines. Harry suddenly realised he had quite a bit of packing left to do. He looked longingly at the wand on his nightstand, but resisted the urge, stepping toward his dresser and the open trunk underneath it. He began pulling socks, trousers, and any other clothing left in the drawers and dropping them half heartedly into his trunk.
   Aunt Petunia’s voice shouted at him to come for breakfast. Hopping on first one foot and then the other, Harry successfully managed to put on both of his socks while jumping down the short hallway. He tramped down the stairs and walked into the kitchen. A grapefruit quarter waited impatiently at his place. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon ignored him, and continued discussing Aunt Marge’s next visit, a fun filled Christmas Harry couldn’t wait to miss.
   In the next second, two things happened simultaneously. A horn sounded from the driveway, announcing Dudley’s return, and a thump from above told of the much less welcome arrival of Mr. Weasley. Aunt Petunia shrieked and ran to the door, where she desperately tried to block the view of the inside of the house from the driveway with her body.
   Harry, forgetting his breakfast, raced up the stairs. He flung open the door to his room, barely missing Mr. Weasley, who looked around cheerfully and greeted him with a “Hullo, Harry!” His voice suddenly softened with his eyes, and he said quietly, “How are you? I mean.... how are you holding up?” Harry looked at him, confused, but nodded in the affirmative. Mr. Weasley, looking concerned and relieved, smiled. “Well, I hope you’ve everything packed; we’re going to make a quick stop at Hermione’s, and then it’s to the Burrow. Are you ready?”
   Harry grabbed his wand from the nightstand and the books under his bed and shoved them into the open trunk, closed it with a snap of the locks, and touched the rubber chicken Mr. Weasley was holding out to him. The familiar pull of the Portkey brought him dizzy and stumbling into the whitest room he’d ever been in.
   The look and the smell strangely reminded him of getting his cavities filled. From the walls to the floor and all that was in between, everything in the room was white, excluding a photo of a Parisian sunset, the dark cherry wood bookshelf it hung above, and the cherry table the bookshelf matched. Afraid to touch anything, Harry stood with a rigid back, keeping his trunk and Mr. Weasley close to him. However, at that moment Mr. and Mrs. Granger both walked in, and Mr. Weasley left Harry to fend for himself in the pristine house as he stepped across the room to greet both of them. They shook hands with the beaming Mr. Weasley, and Mrs. Granger looked at Harry, saying, “She’s in her room upstairs. Second door on the left.”
   Harry tiptoed up the stairs, trying not to disrupt the threads of the carpet. He heard Mr. Weasley and who he assumed to be Mr. Granger laughing behind him. The large hallway at the top of the stairs was as white as the rest of the house, with a photograph of the African savannah hanging between the first two doors on the left. Not thinking to knock, he turned the silver doorknob and walked in. The room was, again, a pristine white and deep cherry. Two tall, thin bookshelves stood against adjacent walls, full of both textbooks and fictional novels, which Harry would never have guessed Hermione read. She herself was standing at a dresser, also of cherry wood, pulling a shirt out of an open drawer. She looked up at the sound of the open door and glared somewhat annoyedly at him.
   “Harry, do you mind? I’m half dressed.”
   He glared back mockingly, then laughed. “Hermione, I’ve seen you in swimsuits that revealed more, and besides, we’re best friends; what does it matter?”
   She laughed as well. “All right, then. Just sit over there, I’m almost ready.” She waved her hand toward the white bed with silver knobs. He dawdled to the bed and sat down, watching Hermione, who was standing at an oval mirror hanging above her dresser. It had several bottles, tubes, and disks of every size. She adjusted her shirt, a white tank with thin maroon ribbons as straps which weaved along the top hem or the shirt and tied in the middle. She picked up one of the tubes and it looked from the back like she was jabbing at her eyes with the little black stick that came out of the tube. He looked on, silent but concerned, as she smeared a little bit of brown powderish dirt on her eyelids and something clear and gooey on her lips. She picked up a large bottle and squeezed some of its violet contents into the palm of her hand. She combed it with her fingers into her hair, which stayed as big as it had been before, puzzling Harry.
   “So,” he tried to start conversation as she began shoving the tubes and bottles into her trunk, “How was Bulgaria?”
   “Didn’t go,” she said promptly. “It wouldn’t have been much fun. Viktor’s nice and all, but he’s much too agreeable. We still talk occasionally, but we’ve decided to just be friends.”
   “Are you going to tell Ron?” Harry said, sensing a possible catastrophe.
   Hermione giggled. “Now, where would be the fun in that?” He looked up at her quickly in surprise, and she smiled, a mischievous light shining in her eyes. She pulled on the ends of her hair and let it fall onto her back, where it separated into contained ringlets and curls and settled, shedding its frizziness. She threw the top of her trunk shut, locked it, and began dragging it toward the door, motioning for Harry to follow. He helped her and her trunk down the stairs and into the living room, Hermione chattering excitedly about how much she’d done on her wormwood essay. Hermione’s parents both leaned into say a tearful goodbye to her, and she left them with a whoosh, a step into the fireplace, and a shout of “the Burrow!” Harry followed, stepping forward heavily but keeping his balance as he fell out of the Weasleys’ fireplace.

Chapter 3

*****
It keeps growing inside me. This feeling that I cannot control my actions. Like a virus. But it hasn’t gotten me yet. I wonder if he has something to do with this. I think my family is beginning to suspect. As long as they don’t find out why I’m really going...... Although even I don’t know that. It hasn’t gotten me yet.
*****

   He straightened up in the Weasley front room, where he found immediately Hermione and Ginny talking casually. They both turned to look at him when he stumbled in, and hurried to help him with his bags. Ginny paused, giving him a hug and a soft, tentative, and concerned “how are you, Harry?” He was sure he mumbled a reply, but he wasn’t really paying attention to what he said. In fact, he wasn’t paying much attention to himself at all. He found himself focusing much more on Ginny, who had changed quite a bit over the two months of summer that had passed. Though still thin, she was looking less and less like Ron’s sister and more like... a girl. On that, she had shed her pigtails and let her fiery red hair hang straight down her back in a most enticing way.
   He shook his head, and Ginny looked at him curiously through wide blue eyes. “Ron’s in the kitchen,” she said, and added “we’ll take your things up to his room.” With this comment, Harry noticed something else about Ginny. She didn’t blush when she talked to him. In fact, she looked him straight in the eyes and addressed him quietly, as she did with most people. She picked up a side of his trunk and helped Hermione heave it up the narrow staircase.
   Harry walked into the kitchen. Ron was standing over a large pot, a potato peeler in one hand and half of a badly peeled potato in the other. He was tapping a bare foot onto the tile floor softly and singing “... if you still care at all, don’t go tell me now....” surprisingly well and on-key. He had also changed -- he no longer fit the description “gangly”, but now lingered near the line of “thin.” He had also tanned under his freckles, which were even present on his shoulders and feet.
   Ron looked up, and curled up a corner of his lip, stating indignantly, “I hate peeling potatoes.” Harry smiled, and moved over to his friend, picking up an extra peeler from the countertop. He glanced out the window to see a rapidly moving Quidditch game with more players than was usual for the Weasley house to carry. He looked out the window again and saw a familiar person playing Keeper in front of a few hula-hoops tied to trees. He squinted, then turned and asked, “Is Oliver here?”
   Ron grinned. “Oh, yeah. Fred and George are convinced I’m to be new Keeper, so they called in a ‘professional.’ I’m not sure how good all the practice has done me, but it’s wicked having him here. And besides, Bill and Charlie are here for the summer. And Bill’s got a girlfriend! Nobody knows who it is, but he says we’ll meet her soon.” He shrugged and said, “so, how’s your summer been?”
   “I’ve been having --” Harry stopped, pondering whether or not to tell Ron about his nightmares. He could imagine the uproar it would cause, and since he never remembered much of them, it would be pointless anyway. “-a better time than usual, as Dudley was off at fat camp for half of it.”
   Ron sniggered. “Surprised he wasn’t the only one to fit into the place! How many kitchens does this camp have?” They both laughed, and Ron threw the last potato into the pot of water. “That’s it, I’m giving up. What do you say we go out and play?”
   Harry agreed, and the two stomped up the stairs to get brooms, only to be stopped at the first door by an annoyed and much more evil looking Percy. He had bags under his bloodshot eyes, and his glasses were barely perched on his pale, thin nose. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in days.
   Ron curled his lip again and muttered, “ forgot to mention the troll’s home as well.” He then turned to Percy and put on a falsetto sincere look of apology, saying quickly, “Oh Percy, we are so dearly sorry, we didn’t mean to disturb you!” while grabbing Harry’s wrist and making a move toward the gap between Percy’s open door and the wall. Percy, giving up, shot one last glare at Ron and slammed his door shut.
Ron turned to Harry and said, “ Percy’s been really weird lately. He stays up forever and barely eats. Mum’s having a wobbly about it, but everyone else knows he’s just a workaholic.” He swung the door to his slightly de-oranged room open to the sight of two girls sitting on his bed, chatting happily, with an array of makeshift camp beds and mattresses strewn across the floor.
   “What are you doing in here?!” Ron cried indignantly. The girls looked up, obviously annoyed, and Hermione said, “Nice to see you too, Ron. Yes thank you, I’ve had a lovely summer.”
   “I’ll bet,” Ron muttered, but dropped the subject with an elbow in the back from Harry. He rolled his eyes and put on a sarcastic smile. “Hi, Hermione, how are you? And Ginny,” he glared, “why have you invaded my room?”
   “Well,” Ginny shot back, “There are no other rooms. Everyone else is bunked together, so Mum told us to sleep in here. Deal.”
   Ron heaved a largely ceremonial sigh and said, “Fine, you can stay in my room. But no making it girly or anything. Alright?”
   The girls nodded vaguely and continued to talk. Ron rolled his eyes, then opened his closet door. A shirt that had come off its hanger and several moth balls fell out, but Ron kicked them out of the way, grabbing a broom from inside the closet and closed the door. Harry took his from his baggage and they left toward the garden.

*****

   Harry yawned and rolled over onto the grass, leaving his books resting by themselves. He gazed just above the line of the sun as it set over the green hill. Ron shifted his weight against the old oak tree. “Harry,” he groaned, “do you get this DADA homework? What’s this about these elements?”
   Hermione sighed. “Alright, here’s the basic idea. The four elemental powers are earth, wind, water, and fire. The powers are controlled by the nature of a human being, but only someone pure of heart can receive the gift of life from them. At one point, they were free to roam the world and lived in harmony with humans. However, as the population of the earth grew, the elements fed off different human characteristics and became very unbalanced. Around 600 BC, a powerful wizard by the name of Maximus Brankovich III harnessed the power into the four elemental charms. Now the elements run by neutral emotion, because they have no owner or ‘feeder’. They cannot help as they once did, but instead follow a steady pattern that helps keep the world working the way it does. Get it?”
   Ron stared blankly at her for a little while. “Wait,” he said, “So anyone can get these powers? Why isn’t the world blown to bits already?”
   “No,” Hermione answered, exasperated, “only a really powerful wizard of pure heart can bestow them upon people. And the people who receive them also have to be pure. Evil can’t directly touch them, but the powers can use evil energy for their own gain.”
   “Hmm.....” Harry put his arm over his eyes and smelled the coming autumn. He loved life at the Weasleys’. Even doing homework was fun. In the distance, the sound of pots clashing and tables being moved flitted in the sunset between the fireflies. His stomach told him it as almost time for supper, but he ignored it, to hold onto the moment with his friends under the oak tree. His past year had reminded him of just how quickly he could lose the opportunity to live such moments. He kept his eyes open as much as possible to avoid the memory of Cedric’s blank eyes, his crying parents, Cho.... He rolled onto his stomach again and pushed himself into a sitting position with his hands. Oliver was walking up the hill toward them. He reached the top and crouched beside Ron.
   “Who’s ready for a before supper lesson?” He said enthusiastically. Ron groaned and shut his book. “I’m only joking. It’s too late. Food’s on the table!”
   Everyone gathered their books and trudged back toward the house in the approaching twilight. Harry looked beyond his friends and saw the two outdoor tables set with candles and plates of food. Mrs. Weasley was hurrying around, bringing trays of even more food outside and yelling for Percy to come down. A deep, almost black flame flickered desolately in Percy’s upstairs window. Presently, it was blown out, and Percy emerged from the rickety house.
   Oliver had just opened the small garden gate when Bill and Charlie came barreling out the front door and raced to two seats at the table. There they began speaking excitedly about Quidditch. Oliver joined them. Ron, Hermione, Harry, and Ginny sat at the far end of the table. Ron put his head on the table, thankful the plates weren’t in their places yet. Harry watched as Hermione glanced at Ron, and for a second her gaze softened. However, she had looked past him and to the other side of the table before Harry had time to justify that he’d seen it. Percy was on Harry’s right, sporting musty, ink-stained clothing. He tapped his fingers against the table skittishly, but did not show any other signs of life. Fred and George were talking animatedly to each other, making overly large and abundant hand movements and trying to get across to their parents the benefit in investing money into their joke shop.
   The plates were circling the table now, and Ron picked his head up to eat. He reached around Harry and pushed Percy’s shoulder, grumbling, “When are you going to tell us why you’re riding the Hogwarts train this year?”
   Percy glared through his hollowed eyes at Ron. “I’ll tell you when I’m ready. Besides,” he added with a bit of his old pompous air, “what business is it of yours why I go to Hogwarts?”
   “Aha!” Ron exclaimed. “So you are going to the school, then! What for?”
   “We’ll see,” said Percy, with the annoying, know it all sound in his voice. Ron sighed and started eating.

Chapter 4

****
Crabbe-
I am Malfoy. I am writing to you. My summer was good. How was your summer? Can you read this? I hope so. I am using small words so you can read this. Words are the things on this page. They are the things you are reading. “Word” is even a word. “Evil” is a word. Are you wearing your READING glasses? I hope you are. I have to go now. Goodbye.
   --Malfoy
****

   Harry groaned as a hand pushed his shoulder. “Harry, wake up,” Hermione’s groggy voice reached his ears. Her hand left his shoulder and he opened his eyes. Stationary blurs of orange, white, and a deep blue were broken by moving blurs of black, pink, and yellow. Somewhere to his right, Ron mumbled a weak protest to Hermione’s whispered demand. Harry groped for his glasses and found them on the wood paneled floor. He shoved them onto his face; suddenly, the blurs defined, and he distinguish the yellow to be the color of Ginny’s shirt and the pink of Hermione’s pyjamas against the orange and white of Ron’s room. The deep blue of the sky had lost its scattering of stars and had faded in the East, a sign of the impending morning. Harry pushed the covers off him and sat up. Downstairs the symphony of clanging pots and pans sang to him of breakfast, and the smell of bacon reached his nose. He stood and pulled a shirt over his head. Around him, Ron and Hermione were also getting dressed. Ginny was apparently wandering aimlessly, picking various items up and then setting them down in different places, with no attention to order or organization. A loud fist banged on the door, followed by a series of thumping feet down several flights of stairs.
   Once dressed, Harry followed Ron and Hermione downstairs and into the kitchen, where food was waiting impatiently for them. Every person in the room chose that exact moment to lunge for the chairs. Harry managed to sit with Ron on one side, Charlie on the other. Oliver immediately began hassling Ron about eating early so they could get one last practice in before they had to leave for the train. The past week had been a hectic one, with not one but two trips to Diagon Alley, because Ron had forgotten several of the books he was supposed to buy. Arthur had come home stressed and tired for the last three nights in a row due to increasing exploding tea kettles. It had taken a week for the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts department to track down the original suppliers, who then had their powers restricted for an entire month, a tricky business with more paperwork than it was worth.
   Ron shoveled down his food and ran outside with Oliver, eager for one last practise opportunity.
   “Ronald Weasley, you haven’t packed! What do you think you’re doing? And it’s pouring outside!” Molly yelled after him, but the demand fell on deaf ears as Ron and Oliver banged down the hallway and out the back door.

   At 9:45, no less than seventeen suitcases were stacked at the front door to the Burrow. Rain, which had only accumulated in the last 20 minutes, pelted the windows with a vengeance. Ron was running around looking for umbrellas while Ginny had been appointed the task of checking all the windows. Mr. Weasley was standing near the kitchen table, shaking his head and murmuring his surprise at the sudden onset of rain.
   “Mum!” Ron hollered from the hallway. “Mum, I found the brollies!”
   “Well, bring the bloody things out to the front room then, will you?” She bellowed back, then shook her head. “That boy, can’t ever do anything without yelling his head off,” She sighed in a kind yet scolding voice, as if she were complaining to Harry. He nodded, though he knew it would go unnoticed.
   Ron burst out of the hall closet covered in dust, triumphantly clutching four mismatch umbrellas to his grey-blue shirt. A flurry of dust bunnies and mothballs scattered underneath his feet, which he promptly kicked back into the closet and slammed the door. Fred and George went through him like a battering ram, each grabbing an umbrella from him arms. He staggered an had barely regained his footing when Hermione and Ginny brushed past. Hermione threw his raincoat over his umbrella laden arms and tossed Harry’s over his shoulder. Mrs Weasley grabbed one of Ron’s two remaining umbrellas and called, “We ready, then?” Oliver and Charlie (Bill had left earlier that week to visit his girlfriend in France before returning to Egypt for work) thundered down the stairs, each holding their own umbrellas. Percy appeared with a pop between Harry and Oliver; calm, wearing plain, draping black robes and holding a stately black umbrella to match. Harry decided Percy was either the most professional he had ever looked or the most morbid.
   Together, dragging their luggage, they stepped out the door into the pouring rain. Every umbrella opened in unison. Harry quickly found refuge under Oliver’s large umbrella. The moment Ron had opened his, he had realized there was a large hole in it. Hermione had not seen this until too late, as she had tried to share Ron’s umbrella.
   “Oh,” she cried, as a torrent of rain attacked her. Ron unzipped his jacket and held his arm up to shelter Hermione. She huddled underneath, colour rising slightly in her cheeks. His ears turned red as well, and he tossed the useless umbrella aside. They all reached the taxis and hurried inside, luggage and all. The taxi driver transporting Harry was particularly ruffled about Hedwig; he told Harry in a thick cockneyed accent that he’d had bad experience with large predator birds. Harry apologized and assured the driver that Hedwig would remain in her cage.
   “All the same, she scares me,” He glanced at her nervously.
   “Would you feel better if I put my jacket over her?” Harry offered.
   “Well…. Yeah, alright.”
   The drive over was mostly silent. Hermione, the only truly dry person in the car, was wedged between Ginny, who was almost comatose from her last night homework, and Percy, who glanced around the cab suspiciously all trip and leaned precariously on his dark umbrella with one hand. The taxi crept along the crowded streets, past Harrods's and the Heathrow airport, finally reaching King’s Cross. Everyone pushed out of the taxis and clawed for their luggage. The large clock above them read 10:50. Once the luggage was out and onto the trolleys, they ran toward the platforms.
   Mrs. Weasley tried desperately to give each of her children last goodbye kisses, but she only reached about four of them and Harry. They each sprinted through the barrier and loaded onto the train. Ron, Harry and Hermione loaded their luggage into the luggage car and shoved their way onto the crowded train just two minutes before the train left. Harry peered into the first compartment, looking for an empty place where he, Ron, and Hermione could sit. Dennis and Colin waved to him cheerfully, and he got his head out of the compartment just in time to miss the snap of Colin’s camera.
   “Oy! Over here!” Ron shouted, waving his hand to Harry and sticking his foot in the door of an empty compartment. Harry and Hermione began to push their way through. Harry was all the way to Ron when he realised Hermione wasn’t with him. He turned around and saw Hermione just a few feet behind, back to him and facing Malfoy. Ron had stormed up to Hermione, acting like her bodyguard.
   “Better look out, Mudblood,” Malfoy drawled. “You never know what superior may be in your path.” He spit on Hermione’s face and she gasped, letting out a small cry. Ron’s eyes blazed, but no one saw his punch coming. Suddenly, Malfoy was doubled over, clutching his stomach, and Ron was straitening back up, a triumphant smile on his face.
   “Better look out, Malfoy,” he sneered. “Never know who’s gonna be there to catch your tongue.”
   Malfoy swiped with his long, clawlike fingers at Ron’s face and cut him in several lines under his chin. Ron yelled and lunged at him, but was struck back by an “Expelliarmus!”
   Percy, dark and brooding, stepped up to the scene. He glared at Malfoy with deep loathing, then shook his head scoldingly at his younger brother.
   “At this time,” he said scathingly, “I do not have the power to punish either of you. However,” he directed his glare fiercely toward Malfoy, “When I do, I will be watching closely for any type of misbehaviour, and I will distribute the maximum extent of punishment for every crime. So behave,” he sighed, exasperated, and stepped over Ron and Malfoy.
   Ron pushed himself quickly to his feet and walked over to Harry and Hermione, who was still passing a tissue over her perfectly clean and dry face, with tears brimming in her eyes.
   “You alright?” He said, and Harry watched his face soften slightly. Huh, he thought, Ron’s never really looked at her like that before…. But shrugged the thought that had begun to grow in his mind.
   Together, they returned to their compartment. Harry sat next to Ron, who was looking gloomily out the window. Hermione sat opposite Ron, glaring intensely at him. Harry shifted uncomfortably, glancing from one to the other.
Ron looked from the window to Hermione, and saw her glare. “What?” He growled.
   “You know perfectly well what!” Hermione snapped back. “I can’t believe you, getting into a fight with Malfoy in the middle of the train like that!”
   “What, and let him insult you like that?! What would you have done, just stood there and taken it? I thought you were strong, Hermione.” Ron turned back to the window, fuming.
   “I never said what you did was a bad thing,” Hermione murmured, eyes glittering with the still unshed tears. She looked down at her hands. Ron looked up sharply from the window, and his expression softened again.
   After a few silent minutes, Harry tentatively suggested a chess game, to which Ron eagerly accepted. They were still playing fifteen minutes later when the food trolley stopped at their door.
   “Check,” Ron said calmly, moving his bishop forward and to the left.
Harry frowned and moved his king to the right. Ron moved his king’s side castle one space forward.
“Ha!” Harry said. “Your queen’s next!” He moved his knight in position to take Ron’s queen, which had no other move except into the path of either his castle or his bishop. The bishop shouted something about the taste of blood and victory in its little voice. Harry looked at Ron. Ron’s eye had caught the chess gleam, and Harry saw his strategy fail. Ron moved his queen’s side castle to Harry’s knight. The castle quickly and effectively pounded the knight into unconsciousness, then turned toward Harry’s king.
“Check mate!” Ron exclaimed. Harry’s king surrendered his miniscule sword, then fainted in a ripple of small, white stone robes. Ron’s pieces cheered and gathered in the centre of the board as Harry’s dejectedly gathered their injured and hobbled toward their box.
“How do you do that? Here, I didn’t even think you were paying attention.” Harry shook his head, then said, “Three chocolate frogs, a pumpkin cake, and an Every Flavour Beans,” to the woman impatiently tapping her foot against her trolley.
“A chocolate frog,” Hermione spoke up from behind a large volume about mind control, handing over a knut. Ron looked up at the woman as she handed Harry and Hermione their food, but said nothing.
   “You better change, love,” The woman said to Harry. “Your friends, too. We’re almost there.” She skated off with her trolley, screeching to a halt at the next door.

Chapter 5
****
Dear Viktor,
   I really am sorry to be writing you this letter, but I’m afraid I won’t be coming to Bulgaria to see you. The truth is, I don’t feel the same way about you that I used to. I think you’re a wonderful person, and you’ll make someone very happy some day. But it isn’t me, and it isn’t now. I apologise for doing this to you through owl, but I can’t think of any other way to tell you. I hope you can forgive me and that we can remain friends.
Sincerely, Hermione
****
   Harry stepped out of the light drizzle outside and into the Great Hall. He breathed in the familiar smell of Hogwarts and looked at the thousands of candles hovering around the tables. He finally felt home, safe, and secure, inside the school’s protective walls and within earshot of all his closest friends.
   Hermione’s sharp intake of breath startled Harry out of his dream. He noticed a tall figure walking past them and coming nearer. Just before the person overtook them, Harry realised it was not one person, but two, and they happened to be Oliver and Viktor Krum.
   Oliver stepped right up to them. “Ron! Harry! How was the train? Bet you didn’t expect to see me here, did you? Oh by the way, this here’s Viktor Krum. On the Ireland team.”
   “We’d noticed,” Ron snarled in an undertone. Viktor, however, did not seem to notice. He stepped up to Hermione, who was staring at her feet. She looked up for a brief moment to kind of squeak an “Oh! Viktor! Hello,” but she was interrupted by his, “Ve need to talk.”
   She walked away with him, still looking at her feet. Ron glared after them, but Oliver didn’t seem to notice. He began talking about the next Quidditch season and how he was going to get to help with the Gryffindor tryouts (to which Ron groaned despairingly).
   They meandered in the general direction of the Great Hall, but had only gotten halfway there when Hermione came walking briskly out of the large open doorway, head down and shoulders pulled forward in what seemed to be some attempt to protect herself. She pushed past the group with barely a chin tilt in acknowledgement. Ron, however, reached out and stopped her with the crook of his right arm. He held her by the arms and turned her toward him, bending his neck down toward her, head tilted slightly, trying to look into her face. He wore a worried expression. She looked up, and Harry saw why she had kept her eyes on the floor: her eyes were brimming with tears. She looked down again quickly, and then leaned into Ron, shoulders beginning to shake. His eyes doubled in size, and a blushing pink spread from his ears to his cheeks. He nervously patted her on the back and glared at Fred and George, who were trying desperately not to laugh.
   He motioned for Harry to come with him, and then led Hermione into an empty corner. They sat facing her, waiting for her to look up or say something , of which she eventually did both.
   She rubbed her eyes furiously with her hands, and sniffled a low, “I’m sorry.... I don’t know...”
   Ron looked up furiously. “Did Viktor Krum do this?” He said in a low, wavering growl.
   She nodded, but then looked up, alarmed, and said, “Oh, no, it isn’t his fault. It’s..... well, I suppose it’s mine.”
   Ron, with a nudge from Harry, stopped grinding his knuckles into his open palm. Harry put his hand on Hermione’s shoulder reassuringly and said, “It’s alright,” in a way that he hoped was convincing. He could tell that Ron was hoping for at least a little bit of explanation, which Harry had already guessed at. However, Ron wouldn’t get his wish, because Hermione promptly dried her tears and stood up, saying, “Well, I’m better now, and we’d better get going before we miss the Sorting.” With that, she picked up her bag and breezed past the two of them and into the Great Hall right behind Fred, George and Oliver, who had conveniently waited by the doorway to catch a glimpse of what had been said. Ron looked at Hermione, then back to Harry, an expression of complete confusion on his face. He sighed, shrugged his shoulders, and followed Hermione’s path with Harry, though they went much more slowly and held a serious discussion about Quidditch.

   When they entered the Great Hall, the Sorting Hat had only three more students in line. They sat down, Harry by Hermione and Ron between Harry and Ginny, who was chatting animatedly with Colin, who was enthralled by what she said only because she was the person saying it. When the Sorting Hat had finished the last student (Wallace, Matthew -- Ravenclaw!), Professor Dumbledore stoood up and motioned for silence, which he immediately received from the already quiet hall.
   “As you all have no doubt gathered from recent events,” he began, “Voldemort has indeed returned.” A murmuring gasp echoed through the hall, though most of the students already knew. “Many of his Death Eaters,” Dumbledore continued, “have returned to him, and there have, in the past few days, been reports of attacks just north of Knightsbridge.” This news came as a shock; the whole of the student body gasped with alarm and began whispering furiously.
   Ron leaned over to Harry. “Mum told me about one of those. Nasty attack, a little old witch, who was feeding her cats, when her house just blew into the sky! She wasn’t killed, luckily, but a few of her cats... well...” Hermione gasped and looked concernedly toward the Gryffindor Tower.
   “Anyway,” Ron continued, “Right before the Aurors came, the old bat swears she saw a hooded, masked person disappear. So Dad says --” but he stopped speaking suddenly when Dumbledore resumed his speech.
   “However,” he continued to the quickly silenced crowd, “I assure you that you are safe at the school. Every possible precaution has been taken to protect the students and staff at Hogwarts. As long as the school stands together, as a family...” he paused, looking at the determined faces, “as an army... we will succeed. We will triumph.” A thousand heads nodded silently.
   “On a lighter note, we have added new staff to our ranks. Though they could not be here this evening due to an urgent meeting, I’m sure many of you will soon meet them.” He winked at Ron. “Also,” he continued, “we will be holding a Yule Ball again this year, due to the success of last year’s, and to help support the Purple African Rabbit Refuge. Hogsmeade trips will also be open to all third years and above. Thank you, and that is all.”
   Dumbledore settled into his chair, and a sudden burst of noise filled the Hall. “Professor,” Professor McGonagall turned to Dumbledore, “Have they...”
   “Yes,” he nodded. It should be almost complete now. I believe we have chosen wisely; they seem to be accepting their hosts readily.”

   After dinner, the Head Boys and Girls of each house signalled for their houses to stand, and they began to file out of the Hall. A large shuffle and line shifting was made, mostly by the first years, and many seventh years glared, some doing so much as to shove them back in their places in line. Harry was at the beginning of the line, chatting to Fred, George, and Lee Jordan about the impending Quidditch try outs.
   Hermione turned to Ron, and began to say something, but he cut her off, saying, “Hermione, I have to go take care of something. I’ll be back in the Common Room later, alright?”
   “Okay...” she consented uncertainly, “but don’t get yourself into any trouble.”
   He turned and shoved his way through the crowd, earning many more than one rude comment or gesture. He pushed through a side door that lead to a dank hallway. He walked brusquely through it, then found the hall he was looking for. Dumbledore was walking down that hallway toward a stone gargoyle.
   “Professor Dumbledore,” Ron gasped, “wait!” Dumbledore turned around and smiled inquisitively at him. “I’ve something I need to talk to you about,” Ron said, trying to calm his ragged breathing.
   “Should we step into my office?” Dumbledore asked. “Ah, yes,” he answered himself, searching Ron’s face, “I suppose we should, if it is of that importance. Fizzing Whizbees,” he murmured to the gargoyle, which sprang to life and leaped to the side, revealing a large, slowly revolving staircase. Ron looked curiously, though he had seen one before. He stepped onto it, a few steps below Dumbledore, and after the fist turn, thanked his stars that he had developed a strong stomach. They reached the top, and Ron gasped at the most gadget-filled room he had ever seen. However, Dumbledore, motioned curtly for Ron to follow him to a thick, heavily bolted door.
   He held his finger to a nail on one of the locks and muttered, “subsentio quemadmodum oris nunquam amoveo.” He then moved his finger to touch the keyhole on the smaller lock. “Paene,” he said, and the door creaked open. He pushed the heavy door and went into the dark room. Ron followed him. The air around him weighed thickly on Ron’s arms and eyelids. The room was lit only by the dying light from the closing door. Dumbledore sparked a pale blue light onto the wick of a short, melted candle with his wand, and Ron looked around the room. The ceiling vaulted into a high black nothing. Up to the line of visibility loomed large, withering books; row upon row of leather and metal bounds tomes, ancient words forgotten by all but the select few.
   Dumbledore stepped to the books and stated in a serious voice, “Am I right Mr. Weasley, in assuming you are looking for something of a spell or charm in which you could protect Harry?” He did not look back to see Ron nod, dumfounded. Dumbledore pulled down a relatively thin blue book and opened it on the small ledge-like table. “Now, if I remember correctly...... Aha! Here it is!” he turned to the back of the book, to a page written completely in Latin, in a scrawling, illegible hand.
   Dumbledore looked up at Ron, eyes wide and drilling into Ron’s own. “Do you understand, Mr. Weasley,” he began solemnly, “The immense importance of the task you have chosen to accept?” Ron nodded silently. “And of the ramifications of every action you make, every choice you take, if you should move or choose wrongly?” Ron nodded again, uncertainly. The cold from the stone walls was creeping slowly under his skin.
   “Good,” Dumbledore nodded, satisfied, “because this, as I recall, is a particularly unstable spell. Do you read Latin?”
   “No, sorry sir,” Ron muttered, rubbing his arms in a futile attempt to regain his warmth.
   “The name of the spell is Vitualamen. It means sacrifice, or offering. The spell is very simplistic at its roots: Any physical ailment or pain to the veil is directly translated to the anchor.” He was murmuring, almost to himself, and Ron wasn’t understanding a bit of it. Dumbledore looked up, suddenly acknowledged him, and said, “In basic terms, it means that any physical injury the veil, or Harry in this case, would receive would be relayed directly to you. It’s a very dangerous situation, however, as the sets seem to be hooked directly to the human emotions, as opposed to something more stable. Well, wizards back then didn’t have the technology we do now, I suppose. Ron,” he said, “You aren’t..... courting anyone, are you?”
   “Excuse me, Professor?” Ron asked, confused.
   “Courting, you know..... oh, what do they call it nowadays..... going out?” Dumbledore nodded. “Yes, that’s the one. Are you..... going out... with anyone?”
   “Not at the moment,” Ron shifted uncomfortably, blushing.
   “Good.” Dumbledore nodded again. “Keep it that way. The wizard thinking up this spell has set an escape route, apparently, which means he probably had to use the spell for himself. Anyway, what it means to you is, no display of any romantic feelings. To say it in short, no kissing.”
   “Um,” Ron stuttered, shivering, “Sir, do you mind if I ask why?”
   “The escape route, something often found in the more complex spells, is that of romantic love. A kiss would transfer some of Harry’s pain to that person. However, instead of the pain attacking the escape’s physical form, it would directly attack the soul of both the escape and the anchor. Meaning,” he glanced at Ron, “whomever you may choose to woo and yourself, respectively. And trust me, Mr. Weasley, souls are not things so easily repaired by medicine. Souls must return of their own free will, and once most get a taste of the Summerland, they never want to return.”
   “I understand, Sir -- I’ll do it,” Ron said, setting his teeth determinedly.
   “Alright. I might give you some positive news, though -- it seems that, should nothing fail, yyour physical body, will not die, though something such as betrayal could cause the soul to die. Well, anyways,” Dumbledore straightened up, smiling, “If you’re sure, we should begin.”
   Ron nodded.
   “Very well. The first stage is an absorption process. If your body does not reject the treatment in a week, we’ll be safe to continue to the next step. So, here we go.” He conjured three candles in a triangle around Ron. Their small lights each glowed a different colour: one red, one purple, and one blue. Dumbledore turned the page of the book and began to read.
   “Annuo fabela absorbeo repino.” Suddenly, Ron’s eyes flashed past the room, the school, and into a small, blurred memory. A flash of green. A scream. A blinding pain.
   “agmen intus corpus sanctus.” Another memory. A chamber. Fire. Red stone, a mirror, yards of purple cloth -- a hideous, greedy pair of eyes. Such red, bloodshot eyes.
   “Licet is ea id instruo sanctus,” gravestones. And the stench of death. and the terrible fear. And the looming cloaks. And the eyes, and the blood.
   Dumbledore grabbed Ron’s hand. His head was lolling back on his shoulders, eyes wide open, irises hidden in his skull. Dumbledore dipped the small athame in each of the three candles. He then raised the blade to Ron’s pale palm. As he traced the small curved line in the white skin, the beams of light centred on the thin blood lingering in the wound. He stepped back, and resumed his post behind the large volume. “Requiro viaticus de vitualamen, piaculum!” he finished. The candles flared and went out. Ron fell, unconscious, to the floor. Dumbledore dragged him away from the candles and propped his back against the table.
   A few minutes later, Ron’s eyes opened tentatively. “Is it... done?” He asked in a shaky voice.
   “The first stage, yes.” Dumbledore replied calmly. “You will most likely have many varying symptoms, from common sickness to periods of unconsciousness. However, if your fingernails turn dark purple, come immediately to me. Other than that, you’re free to go. See you again about this time next week?”
   Ron nodded and headed for the door. At the handle, he turned. “Professor, I feel like I’ve forgotten some of the memories.”
   “That’s expected,” Dumbledore smiled. “They will return to your conscious within the week. Oh, and Ron?” Ron turned to look at Dumbledore as he opened the door. “You can’t tell anyone about this, or the spell will break. And you’re very brave,” he added, eyes twinkling as he opened another book. “I’m glad Harry has friends like yourself.”
   Ron nodded to himself and stepped out of the doorway, closing the door behind him. He looked at his right palm, into which a design of curved lines had been recently etched. He pressed his fingers onto it and pulled down the sleeve of his robe, hoping that no one would notice the blood on his hand.