"Can't now, Hermione," he said. "Harry's got a problem."

"I'm fine," Harry said automatically. 

He wasn't, of course … the nightmare wasn't fading the way dream images were supposed to, but remained clear and detailed in his mind. Jane … the Imperius Curse … the Death Eaters … Voldemort … the golden snake … his friends all dead … Snape …

"Fine?" Ron said, askance. "Not bloody likely."

"Really," Harry said. "You two go ahead and talk. I'll just go for a walk or something." He started for the door. 

"No, Harry, please, stay."

"It's none of my business. You and Ron need to work this out. My problems can wait."

"What is it?" Hermione asked. "What's happened?"

"Another vision," Ron said. 

"It wasn't a vision."

"Sit down!" She flicked her wand and a chair scraped across the floor. The edge of its seat hit the backs of Harry's knees and he plopped into it. 

"Hey!"

"A vision … like before? With the giant snake, and Ron's father?"

"Yeah," Ron said. 

"It wasn't a vision!" repeated Harry. 

"Or like with Sirius in the Department of Mysteries?" Hermione asked. 

"Could have been," Ron said. 

"Him, then? Voldemort? Invading Harry's mind?"

"One way or another, yeah, that's what I reckon."

Harry got out of the chair, brushed past them both, found a half-finished jug of room-temperature pumpkin juice, and swigged it right from the mouth of the jug. "I'm glad that at least this has got you two speaking to one another," he said sarcastically. 

"Matters of life and death are more important," Hermione said crisply. "What did you see?"

"He was yelling like someone was being murdered," Ron said. "And his scar's been hurting him again."

"It has? Harry, how long?"

"Only once, all right? Tonight. It hasn't hurt in ages." He touched it. "And then, tonight, it went off. Really quick, but severe. Then it was gone. So I tried to forget it and go to sleep. That's when I had the dream. But it was a dream, that's all. Not a vision. Nothing that … nothing that could ever really happen."

They stared at him incredulously. 

"Your scar hurt like that and you tried to forget it and go to sleep?" Hermione asked. "Harry, it could be a warning–"

"I know, I know, and you think I should see Dumbledore about it."

"Was it like before, when you could tell if …" Ron screwed up his face, "if … Vuh … Vuh … damn it … he was happy or upset?"

"I did have an idea," Harry said slowly. "About what it could have been. I didn't sense his feelings or anything, but…"

"What, Harry?" prompted Hermione. 

"This'll sound silly," he said, "but what if there is a curse on the descendants of Death Eaters? What if Voldemort cast it, and he was mad because I stopped Edmund Hawke from offing himself tonight?"

"Why would … Vuh … why would You-Know-Who want them dead?" Ron frowned. "They're his followers and all."

"I don't know," Harry said. "It was the only thing I could think of." He rubbed his forehead again and sighed. "But it doesn't make any sense, does it? Because nothing like that happened, my scar didn't hurt when I saved Jane …"

He heard what he was saying a moment too late to stop himself. 

"What are you saying, Harry?" Hermione asked. "What about Jane?"

"It's got to stay between us," he said urgently. "Promise me."

"We promise," she said. 

"Her … her father was one. A Death Eater."

"The vicar?" Ron said in astonishment. 

"No," Harry said. "He's her stepfather."

"Oh, Harry," Hermione said. "Please tell us you're joking."

"I wouldn't joke about something like that."

"How long have you known?"

"Suspected for a while, only found out for sure on Saturday."

"And you still –"

"Still what?" Harry challenged. "Still like her? Still kissed her? She hates that part of herself, Hermione, hates it. She's not like Malfoy. It's not like she ever knew him, or grew up in a house full of Dark magic."

"Hang on," Ron said. "So … this curse … you think that it was trying to take out Devona and Jane, but we messed it up?"

"Could be."

"Curses don't work like that, Harry," Hermione said. "I've read a lot about them in the past couple of years, not just jinxes and the Unforgivable Curses but as many books as I could get my hands on, and what you're describing is just not possible."

"Can you come up with a better explanation for what's going on around here?" he asked. 

"The Ministry officials said that the first three, Nott and Crabbe and Goyle, were suicides," Hermione said. "Devona Stormdark was an accident. And that poor little boy who tried to burn himself was … he cracked under the strain, Harry. He was suggestible. He believed that there was a curse, and almost turned it into a self-fulfilling prophecy, while thinking he was trying to avoid it."

"Then what about Harry's scar hurting?" Ron asked. "If it isn't because of the Hawke kid, what was it?"

"If Harry didn't sense anything, we might never know. Are you sure, Harry? Not an inkling?"

"Nothing. It just hurt, and then it faded."

"And the dream?"

"Had nothing to do with it," he said firmly. 

"It wasn't like the ones you had all last year, with the hallway and the door?"

"Hermione, how many times do I have to say?"

"What was it about, then?"

Harry paced in front of the fireplace. "I'd really rather not say."

"Well, how can we find out what You-Know-Who is up to?" Ron asked, not even trying to say Voldemort's name this time. "It's got to be connected, you know it has."

"And you never did go back to studying Occlumency," Hermione said. 

Harry tipped his head back and groaned to the ceiling. "Not this again."

"Dumbledore said how important it was that you learn to protect your thoughts," she said doggedly. 

"And Voldemort shut down his end of it anyway," Harry said. "So I don't have to bother with it, because he doesn't want me poking around in his head any more than I want him poking around in mine."

"Maybe that's what happened tonight," Ron said. "Maybe your scar hurt because he opened that link up again."

There was a brief silence while all three of them contemplated this. Harry would have liked to reject it out of hand, but what Ron said did make a certain amount of sense. 

"How would I know for sure?" he asked finally. 

"When you start having those visions again, mate, that'll be a pretty good clue."

"We shouldn't wait for that," Hermione said. 

"What, then?" Harry asked. 

"You could try to find out for yourself." She dug around in her book bag and came up with a thick volume bound in midnight-blue leather, the corners fitted with silver knotwork. Stamped on the cover in silvery lettering was Mind-Journeys: Legilimency, Occlumency and Astralmency. 

"Who thinks this is a bad idea, whatever it is?" Ron stuck his hand high in the air. 

"How long have you had that book?" Harry asked. 

"I special-ordered it from Flourish & Blotts last year – I got a permission letter from McGonagall, because it's not normally sold to underage wizards – and had it delivered owl post," Hermione said. "Right after you first told us that Dumbledore wanted Snape to teach you Occlumency. I'd only read a little bit about that branch of magic and wanted to learn more."

"And did you?"

"Quite a lot, actually, and it's pretty scary stuff," Hermione said. "If it ever goes wrong, you can end up a mindless husk, or swap minds completely with another person, or go insane."

"Who thinks this is a really bad idea?" Ron pushed his hand higher. 

"I know what the first two are," Harry said, rubbing his thumb over the lettering. "But what's Astralmency?"

"Astral projection," she said. "Sending your mind out of your body."

"Dunno if I like the sound of that," Harry said. 

"Apparently, it lets you instantly visit places hundreds of miles away," Hermione said. "You can observe, but you'd be invisible unless you willed yourself to be seen and heard. But it's very, very dangerous. If your mind gets lost, you'd wander forever and your body wouldn't be able to eat or drink, so eventually it would die. It takes a very strong sense of self and an iron will to be able to do it."

"And you think Harry should try," Ron said. "That's the craziest idea yet. Worse than the Polyjuice Potion, or going back in time. I never did fully understand how that worked."

"Do you think that I should?" Harry asked. He opened the book at random and saw a diagram of a man reclining on a bed, seeming asleep, while a ghostly image of himself floated up from his body, connected to it by a tether that looked like a balloon string. 

"I didn't say you should try Astralmency," Hermione said, alarmed. "I mean, a Patronus Charm is one thing … only a handful of wizards throughout history have ever been successful at astral travel."

"So what did you have in mind? Independent study in Occlumency?"

"It wouldn't hurt," she said. "I was also thinking that you could try getting into his thoughts. Voldemort's. Go on the offensive."

"Read his mind?"

"Legilimency isn't technically mind-reading –"

"That's what Snape said, but it sure sounded like it to me," Harry interrupted. "You want me to pry into Voldemort's thoughts and try to figure out what he's up to. How is that not mind-reading?"

"How is that in any way a good idea?" Ron said. "If he's so great at this, wouldn't he notice if Harry went rummaging in his head? Wouldn't he snap shut on him, like a Venus Flytrap?"

"Well, it was only an idea," Hermione said. "After all, if he was able to get into Harry's mind so easily, and he gave Harry some of his powers – like the Parseltongue – all those years ago …"

"Maybe he gave me Legilimency, too?" Harry finished. 

"It's possible." She took the book back, shaking her head. "But forget about it, Harry. Ron's right. It's much too risky. I had been assuming that Voldemort would be too confident to even bother putting any mind-shielding spells on himself, because who would dare try to get at him that way? But after last year, he's probably gotten more cautious."

"I want to try anyway," Harry said suddenly, before he could lose his nerve. "If I could learn something, anything about what he's doing –"

"Harry, no! It's a terrible idea and I wish I hadn't even brought it up."

"Think about it, Hermione. Even if he's got nothing to do with what's been happening here at Hogwarts, you know he's behind Fudge's murder. He might have even done it because he knew that the Ministry would want Dumbledore to take over."

"Yeah," Ron said, "and get Dumbledore out in the open, where they could have a better chance at him."

"Or get him away from Hogwarts, where they could have a better chance at us," Harry said. "Either way, it can't be good."

"But surely Dumbledore already realizes that," Hermione said. "He's got the Order, remember? We shouldn't go interfering. We don't know what they're doing, and if we start stirring things up, it could ruin their plans."

"If it wasn't for my scar hurting again, I'd agree with you," Harry said. "I want to know why. I want to know what's going on."

"You could ask," she said with gentle reproach. "Ask Dumbledore. He'd tell you. He'd tell you anything you wanted to know."

"I can't do that."

"You mean you won't."

"Same difference."

"Harry, what's happened to you? You used to trust him."

"I do trust him. I trust him to do what he thinks is best. The problem is, Hermione, what he thinks is best and what I want don't always go together. I'm tired of him protecting me and running my life. Even if it is for my own good. I'm sixteen, I've been through more than any twenty other people, and …"

She held up her hands. "All right, Harry."

"So, will you help me?"

"What can I do?"

"Talk me through it," he said, stretching out on one of the couches. "I don't have time to read an entire book."

"You can't be serious! Harry, Legilimency takes years of study to master! You can't possibly do it right off the bat. Remember how long it took you to learn the Patronus Charm?"

"I'm not talking about Legilimency."

"Well, what then?"

He sat up and flipped the book open to the page showing the man's ghostly form drifting up from his body. "This."

"Astralmency … Harry, no!" she gasped. 

"Are you mad?" Ron blurted. 

"It makes perfect sense," he said. "You said it yourself, Ron, that Voldemort would be expecting someone to try and get into his head. He'd be ready for that. He'd have traps set. But he won't be expecting this, because it's so hard. If I can find him, if I can see and hear what he's doing without alerting him that I know, that could be the edge we need."

"Harry, you can't!" Hermione said. "You're not prepared. It's too dangerous."

"More dangerous than what? Dementors? Dragons? Fighting Voldemort face to face? I wasn't prepared for any of those things, either."

"Just because you scraped by in all of that doesn't mean you'll be okay this time," Ron said.

"I'll do it no matter what," Harry said. "But I'd rather have your help. What do you say, Hermione?"

She looked at him for a long time and he looked back, his green eyes grave and determined, and finally she relented. "If you're sure, Harry."

"I'm sure."

"But here? Now?" sputtered Ron. 

"Getting in trouble from McGonagall is the least of my concerns," Harry said. He leaned back, getting comfortable. "Let's hurry."

"We shouldn't hurry something like this," Hermione said, turning pages. "Hold your wand loosely clasped in both hands with your arms across your chest."

"Like this?"

"Good."

"Hermione," whined Ron. "Should we really be helping him?"

"You heard what he said. He's doing it either way."

"That's right," Harry said. "What next?"

"Close your eyes. Relax your body and try to clear your mind. The incantation is Astralio. Don't say it yet!" she added hastily. "If it works, you should feel like you'll be able to float right up from the couch. Most people fail when they get partway out, see their own body beneath them, and get frightened."

"Then what?" asked Harry. 

"Once you're all the way out, you should be able to send yourself anywhere," Hermione said. "It's easiest if it's a place you know well. Or a person you know well … you can … home in on them, basically, like they're a beacon."

"Okay."

"Now, this part is vital, Harry, so pay attention. While you are in astral form, you'll be able to perceive things that you won't normally see. Other astral forms, magical energy, people's auras."

"Auras?" Ron echoed dubiously. "You don't mean like that stuff Trelawney's always spouting."

"Not at all," Hermione said tartly. "This isn't about Divination and someone having 'a troubled aura' –" she mimicked Professor Trelawney's ethereal voice. "It's about the energy our bodies give off. Supposedly, you'll be able to tell the difference between a wizard and a Muggle just by looking at them. Or, say, an Animagus in animal form, or a person in disguise, would still have their own same original aura."

"You mean that when we took the Polyjuice Potion," Harry said, his eyes still closed, "someone seeing our auras would have known it wasn't really us?"

"That's only a physical transformation," she confirmed. 

"So if someone had been doing this in our fourth year, they'd have known Moody wasn't really Moody?" Ron asked. 

"Other beings can perceive auras and astral forms, too," Hermione said. "Dementors, probably … we know that they don't see the way that we do. So if he's got dementors with him, you'll have to be extra careful."

"Don't worry about that," Harry said. "What about animals? I always had the idea Mrs. Norris could see through my Invisibility Cloak."

"Cats, yes. I don't know about other animals."

"Like snakes," Ron put in grimly. 

"Some kinds of magic will detect an astral form, too," she said. "Professor Moody's eye, for instance. But in general, those kinds of enchantments are pretty rare."

"I'll be careful, I'll be careful, let's get on with it," Harry said. 

"One of the things you should see once you're out is a silvery string, or cord, or arrow," Hermione said. "This is what leads you back to your body, Harry, so it's the most important thing of all. Lose that, and you might never get home. The longer you stay out, the farther away you go, or the more tired you get, the fainter that band will become."

"Okay."

"You won't be able to touch anything," she said. "Which means you can pass through solid objects, but you won't be able to move them. You won't be able to cast any other spells, because of course your wand will be here. That means you'll be vulnerable."

"To what?" Ron asked. "If he's not solid –"

"Other astral beings," Hermione said. "They'll seem very solid, and able to hurt you. Now, the book says that sometimes, experienced Astralmens can make images of themselves appear, or speak to people, but they still cannot physically affect the real world. Since the last thing you want is to be seen, we don't need to bother with that."

"Anything else?" Harry asked. 

"Only that I really don't think you should do it."

Without opening his eyes, he grinned. "Well, if I get lost out there and my body's an empty husk, you can say I-told-you-so."

"This isn't funny, Harry."

"I'm going to try now," he said. 

"How will we know if it works?" asked Ron. 

"We'll know," Hermione said. 

"Right." Harry took several slow, deep breaths and tried to blank his mind. He found this to be considerably easier without Snape standing in front of him, smirking, about to dive into Harry's memories. 

Ron and Hermione went quiet, and all he could hear was the crackle of the flames. With his eyes shut, he became more aware of what he could feel – the warmth from the fire on the half of his body nearest the hearth, the couch soft and lumpy beneath him, the texture of his wand and pajamas. 

"Astralio," he whispered. 

At first he felt no different, but gradually a weightless sensation came to him, like half-remembered childhood dreams of flying. It was nothing like being on a broomstick, or riding a hippogriff or thestral. It was a subtle, wafting-upward feeling, as if he were made of some substance only slightly lighter than air. 

Harry opened his eyes, and was shocked to see the ceiling of the Gryffindor common room only inches away. He wheeled and looked down. 

There, below him on the couch, was Harry Potter. 

It was like the episode with the Time-Turner, seeing himself from outside, seeing himself almost with a stranger's eyes. That was him down there … tousled black hair, scar, glasses … fitter-looking than when he studied himself in the mirror … he was lean, not so skinny after all.

But the Harry on the couch lay seemingly lifeless, his mouth slack, fingers curled loosely around his wand. A softly glowing silvery ribbon extended up from that slack mouth to where the Harry above was, undulating faintly as if in a breeze that no one could feel. 

As Hermione had warned, it was a bizarre, terrifying feeling and his first impulse was to rush back to the known safety and comfort of his body right away. He mustered his will and held fast, maintaining his spot by the ceiling, until he was fairly confident that he was all right, and then looked down again. 

Ron and Hermione were beside the couch. Hermione had her hands locked together and pressed to her face, and was nervously biting at her knuckles. Ron peered into Harry's face, looking worried. 

"Harry?" He reached out, and Hermione pulled him away. 

"Don't touch him, Ron. Don't do anything."

"But he looks dead!"

"I think that means it worked."

"You mean he's …" Ron slowly turned and looked up, searching all around the room. His gaze slid right over Harry where he watched from his high vantage point, and saw him no more than Ron had seen the thestrals. 

"He must be," Hermione said. "Harry … if you're there, if you can hear me, come back. This is too dangerous. Come back now."

The room looked much the same as it always did, except for odd little glows here and there that he understood without explanation to be the residue of various bits of magic. He saw the auras enveloping his friends, too … like sparse clouds of tiny dust motes or sparks of light. Hermione's was a faint flicker of turquoise, and Ron's was a dark olive green. 

The Harry Potter on the couch had no aura at all, but on closer look Harry saw that his wand did. Just a bit, barely noticeable, but there, a brushing of iridescent amber like the powder from a moth's wing. He knew, again without explanation, that his wand was so much a part of him, so much an extension of himself, that it had absorbed this echo of his aura over the years. 

"Come back, Harry," Hermione urged. "You've got to come back."

But this … this was fascinating. 

He found that he could move quite easily, just by thinking about the direction in which he wanted to go. He floated toward the fire, and the flames held no heat. He floated through a chair – he was, for a moment, swallowed up in the dark puffiness of its stuffing, and claustrophobia clutched at him – and came out the other side. 

"What do we do if he can't get back?" Ron asked anxiously. 

It was such a wonderful, unfettered sense of freedom that Harry didn't really want to return. He could go anywhere like this, absolutely anywhere. Hogwarts was more open to him now than it was even when he used the Marauder's Map and the Invisibility Cloak. He could spy on the teachers, see what Snape was up to.

The thought popped unbidden into his mind that he could probably even tour the girls' dormitories, undetected by the Chastity Charms. 

He could, in a wink, be at the Ministry of Magic. Even into the Department of Mysteries. 

Could he … could he, this way, go through the veiled archway and back? Could he see what was on the other side and still come out alive?

But that wasn't why he was doing this. Not now. Not yet.

Hermione had said that if he knew a person well, it would be like following a homing beacon. Harry decided to test it. The people he knew best were all here in Gryffindor tower, so he concentrated on Jane Kirkallen. 

The common room vanished. Stark fear seized him, but the next thing he knew, he was floating in a darkened room. He found that his astral eyes could see perfectly well even without light, letting him discern his surroundings. 

It was one of the Slytherin dormitory rooms, the same size and shape as Goyle's but with the furnishings arranged differently. There was a girl on the bed below him, sleeping in a dusty burgundy-colored aura. 

He drifted lower. It was Jane, her wooden snake-shaped ponytail ring on the nightstand and her dark hair spilling loose over her pillow. She looked peaceful and pretty. 

His dream recurred to him, and Harry would have shuddered if he'd had a body. What was he doing here? What was he doing in her room? Peeking at her while she slept … and after that horrible nightmare, no less. 

Harry soared up and away from her, retracing the silvery ribbon that shimmered in the shadows. 

So, he had indeed been able to find a person he knew. But what about a place?

He had no sooner thought of it than he was there, in his unoccupied bedroom at Number Four Privet Drive. 

Finding himself in that room appalled him even though he had done it himself. It was his room all right, barren of his trunk and Hedwig's cage and all the wizarding things that made his stay with the Dursleys almost tolerable. He could hear Uncle Vernon snoring down the hall, and the sound of a television in Dudley's room. 

Going there had been a mistake, but he had at least proved that he could do it. He was tired, though. It didn't seem like such a thing, requiring the barest effort of thought, should be tiring at all … but it was.

He knew that he should go back, that he was pushing himself. But he couldn't quit. Not yet. 

After checking to see that the silvery ribbon was still there, rippling in his wake, Harry steeled himself for what came next. He concentrated on someone he knew all too well, better than he'd ever wanted. Someone to whom he was bound by the chains of destiny. 

The house on Privet Drive dissolved around him just as Jane's room had done. 

"So, you wish to enter into my service," said the thin, chilling voice of Voldemort. 

A titanic shock of fright went through Harry. His initial thought was that the words were addressed to him. 

"I … I do, my Lord," a second voice answered. 

Reeling, Harry tried to recover his wits. 

He was in a long, narrow stone chamber with high, steeply-slanted ceilings and arrow-slit windows. Musty old tapestries hung on the walls, and the furniture was all heavy oak, claw-footed tables, and deep wing-back chairs. The whole place gave an impression of brooding age and great weight. 

At the near end of the room was a fireplace big enough to roast a hippogriff whole, though the flames were burned down to dull red embers beneath a bed of ashes. 

Coiled in front of the fireplace was a serpent, fifteen feet of patterned scales and supple strength. The serpent's eyes were open, fixed unblinkingly on a thronelike chair where Voldemort sat. He wore a simple loose black robe, and toyed idly with his wand. 

"Do your parents know that you are here?" he inquired, sounding amused. 

Harry's attention shifted to the second man, who swallowed and cleared his throat before speaking. 

"No, my Lord, but I am of age and not subject to their permission."

Another shock walloped Harry as he recognized Nigel Nox, the seventh-year Slytherin boy who had left school on Sunday. 

"And you hope," said Voldemort, red eyes sweeping over him from head to toe, "to become one of my Death Eaters."

"Like my Aunt Lethia before me," Nox said. 

"Ahh, Lethia." The sickly tone of nostalgia dripped poisonous honey from Voldemort's lips. "She was most dedicated to her work. The Angel of Death, they called her in the papers. So kind and loving as she put the Mudbloods out of their misery."

A third man shuffled into view – Wormtail, Peter Pettigrew – balancing a tray against his body with the silver hand that Voldemort had given him after taking a pound of flesh. On the tray was a dark bottle, two smoke-crystal goblets, and a large silver coffer with a clasp shaped like the fanged head of a snake. 

"Wine, Mr. Nox?" he offered as Wormtail poured the goblets to the brim. 

"Thank you." Nox took one, and waited as Voldemort raised the other. 

Harry watched in silent horror as they clinked glasses and both drank. Moments later, Nigel Nox staggered, and fell to his knees. 

"Tsk, tsk," Voldemort said. "Trusting fool. Luckily for you, I have need of you. Wormtail, his sleeve."

Nox made a feeble protest as Wormtail shoved the sleeve of his robes up past his elbow, baring his lower arm. Voldemort snapped open the silver coffer to reveal an array of what looked like torture implements or dental tools, and several small vials. 

"What … no, don't …" moaned Nox. 

"But you wanted to become one of my Death Eaters," Voldemort said. His flat tongue slicked over his lips as he made his selection from the coffer. "And so, you must bear the Mark."

He waved his wand, and the picks and needles flew up from the velvet lining of the coffer. They dived into the vials, emerging wet with ink, and darted into the tender white flesh of Nox's arm in a blurry succession of short, sharp jabs. Smoke rose from the wounds, cauterizing them before blood could even begin to flow. 

Screaming, Nox tried to pull away, but Wormtail held him. Harry dropped lower, hating the fact that he could touch nothing, do nothing to stop this. The Dark Mark, the skull with the snake protruding from its mouth, was being brutally burnt and tattooed into Nox's arm. 

Harry watched it take shape, its colors blood red, bile green, deathly black, sulfurous yellow. The ink did not seem so much to color Nox's skin as eat into it like acid, and sink deep. 

A slow, sinuous, rising movement distracted him from the awful spectacle. He saw the serpent, Nagini, swaying up from her coiled resting position. Her tongue shuttled the air, and her flat, reptilian stare had switched from Voldemort to … 

She was looking directly at Harry, and he had no doubt that she could see him. 

**

Continued in Chapter Twenty-Six -- Unresolved Issues.