"Nagini?" Voldemort queried. "What is it, my sweet?"

At once he realized his troubles were worse than he'd thought. The silvery ribbon, the one Hermione had said was his lifeline, his safe path back to his body, had faded until it was the barest wisp. It reminded him of his first pathetic efforts at producing a Patronus. 

He sped toward it nonetheless. 

"Is something there?" Voldemort's voice sharpened, and Harry knew without looking that his hated nemesis was following the serpent's gaze. 

"I see nothing, my Lord," Wormtail said. 

"Revealarus!" Voldemort screeched. 

A soundless explosion burst from the end of Voldemort's wand and rolled outward in an expanding sphere. Harry felt a wave of turbulence catch him, toss him, and then he was plunging through blackness. 

Once, when he was four years old, Dudley had crammed him into Aunt Petunia's clothes dryer and pushed the button. That had been like this was, a disorienting tumble of painful bumping and jarring, and a blast of superheated air. 

And then, the barest glimmer – his ribbon, his lifeline. He found it and dove toward it, though it appeared to be dissolving all around him like wet tissue paper. He groped for it with his mind and snared something insubstantial but there, and it pulled him swiftly along. 

Suddenly he was spiraling down through the familiar space of the Gryffindor common room, spiraling down toward his motionless body. 

Ron was still there, and Hermione, both of them arguing anxiously over what they should do.

"It's all my fault," Hermione said, wringing her hands. "I never should have shown him that book! I never should have suggested it! I should have known that nothing would do but for him to try, and never mind that it's magic far beyond our years!"

"He'll be back," Ron insisted. "He's got to come back."

"He's lost out there!"

"Well, what can we do? Go after him?" Ron made to pick up Mind-Journeys, and Hermione batted it away. 

"No, Ron! We've got to get someone."

"Who? Madame Pomfrey? Dumbledore?"

If rising up had been like one of those glorious dreams of flight, descending into his physical shell was like one of those terrible dreams of falling, the kind that makes you jerk awake with a cry, certain you're about to land with bone-crushing impact. 

Harry dropped into himself and suffered a revolting moment of heaviness, weight, solidity, gross fleshy constriction. He had been weightless and airy and free, and now he was confined once more to this clumsy, earthbound mess of meat and bone. 

"Just let me think for a minute," Hermione said. 

"Hang on," Ron said. "Something's –"

"Ah!" Harry gasped, and opened his eyes. 

"Harry!" Hermione cried. "Oh, Harry, thank goodness!"

"You all right?" Ron offered a hand and helped pull Harry to a sitting position. 

"I feel … slow," Harry said. "Sluggish. It's really … weird."

A sharp blow struck the side of his head. 

"Ow! Hermione, that smarts!"

"What were you thinking? Scaring us like that!"

"But it worked. I went out."

"I know you went out! Why didn't you come back when I said?"

"Give him a break," Ron said. "Maybe he couldn't hear. Could you? What was it like?"

"I'll tell you, if Hermione promises to stop beating on me."

"I was just so worried!" she said. 

Harry got up and walked around the room, trying to re-acquaint himself with having a body. His arms and legs felt like padded, jointed sticks not really attached to him at all. He thought of movies Dudley liked, in which men sat inside of giant robots and controlled them from a special console in the head, and that was what this was like. 

"Blimey," Ron said. "Was it like Hermione said? With the auras and everything?"

"Exactly like she said." Harry flexed his fingers and blinked his eyes. 

"I can't believe you really did it," Hermione said. "Just like that, on your very first go?" She frowned at the book. "I thought it was supposed to be major magic, challenging even to the most experienced wizard."

"Sorry to disappoint you," Harry said wryly. "By the way, snakes can see astral forms. At least, Voldemort's could."

They went pale. 

"So you did find him?" Hermione whispered. "Did he catch you?"

"If he had, I wouldn't be here," Harry said. "I think I got out of there in time. But, listen! Nox was with him!"

"Nox?" Ron asked. 

"Nigel Nox, that seventh-year, the one who had his mum and dad come for him on Sunday! He was with Voldemort. Wormtail was there, too. Nox was joining the Death Eaters!"

"He what?"

"He wasn't!" Hermione looked shocked. "When he was so afraid of this make-believe curse Malfoy's been spouting off about?"

"Think about it," Harry said. "Nox believed in that curse enough to leave school … maybe he decided that the only way he could keep himself safe from it was by siding with Voldemort. Or maybe he just reckoned that if he was doomed anyway, might as well be doomed for being a Death Eater instead of just because he had an aunt who happened to be one."

"In for a Knut, in for a Galleon," Ron said. "Yeah, I can see that."

"You saw him? You're sure?" Hermione asked.

"I was there. In the room with them. Nox told Voldemort that he was of age and didn't need his parents' permission, and Voldemort offered him a glass of wine. It was drugged, and while Nox was addled, Wormtail grabbed him."

"Did they kill him?" Ron asked. 

"Worse. They were putting the Dark Mark on his arm." Harry shuddered. "It was horrible. Tattooing it into him, or burning it, like with acid and molten fire … and the way that he screamed …"

"We're lucky Dumbledore is still here," Hermione said. "Should we go now, or wait until morning?"

Harry tapped the book. "Remember when Lupin told us how my dad, Sirius, and Pettigrew turned themselves into Animagi illegally? I bet this spell is right along those lines. Isn't it, Hermione?"

"I don't know the laws specifically," she said. "But it's not sixth-year level, I can tell you that."

"So what?" Ron said, shrugging. "Harry can do a Patronus, and that's advanced magic. He doesn't get in trouble for it. Didn't you even get a bonus point for it on your O.W.L.s? And it was Dumbledore's idea you learn Occlumency, which is advanced magic, too."

"Both of those are defensive," Harry said. "All he wants me to be able to do is protect myself. He doesn't want me fighting back."

"Using Astralmency to spy on people probably does fall under the Misuse of Magic statutes," Hermione said. 

"Like it's a crime to spy on You-Know-Who?"

"A crime is a crime, Ron, no matter what the reason. No matter who does it, or whom it's done against. It's just as illegal for one of us to use, say, an Unforgivable Curse on a Death Eater as it is for them to use it on us."

"That's sure not stopping them," Ron said belligerently. 

"But we're different. We're the good guys," Hermione said. "We care about what's right and wrong, and about the law. The moment we stop, we become as bad as they are."

Harry, who had attempted the Cruciatus Curse on Bellatrix Lestrange a few months ago, shifted uncomfortably. "Then we are, aren't we? If I do something against the law, it's still just as much against the law whether or not I go and tell Dumbledore about it. Breaking the law doesn't have to do with whether you get caught or not. Face it, Hermione, we've broken the law lots of times."

"We have not!"

"Technically," he said, "in the eyes of the law, Sirius was a criminal when we helped him escape."

"He was innocent!"

"We knew that, but –"

"And Dumbledore knew it, too," Hermione said. 

"So Dumbledore was aiding and abetting us break the law," Harry said. "He was covering up for us. We did what was right … but it was still illegal. We broke into the Department of Mysteries. We've used magic away from Hogwarts. Always because we've been doing what was right and not letting something as stupid as the law get in our way."

"Well, what do you want to do, then, Harry?" She flung her hands in the air. "Do you want to go to Dumbledore, tell him, and get expelled?"

"Dumbledore won't chuck Harry out," Ron said. "I don't know what you're both so on about. Harry won't get in trouble. Harry never gets in trouble, not for anything big."

"And I hate it," Harry said. "Snape's right! I get away with things that no other student in this whole school could get away with, and why? Because I'm Harry Potter, and everyone thinks I'm so damned special! I'm sick of it! I wish I would get in trouble once in a while."

"You don't mean that!" Hermione said, aghast. "And everything you've gotten away with, as you put it, has been for all the right reasons!"

"You're the one who just said that a crime is a crime, no matter what the reason."

She stopped, nonplussed. "But I didn't mean …"

"Anyway, this is more important than whether or not we get in trouble," Harry said. "Dumbledore does need to know. What if Nox comes back to Hogwarts, have you considered that? He's still a student. He could come back, a full Death Eater right in our midst, and no one would know."

"Dumbledore would –"

"Maybe, Ron," Harry said, "the reason that Dumbledore seems to know most of what goes on around here isn't because he's a powerful wizard, but because he's got so many people around him who can tell him things."

"Harry, I'm so ashamed," Hermione said, looking at her feet. "Of course, you're right, this isn't about detention, or losing points, or even being expelled. This is bigger than just Hogwarts. Bigger than us. I'm sorry. I don't know what I was thinking."

"It's all right," he said. 

"I've just been so …"

"I know."

"What?" Ron asked. 

"Upset," Hermione said in a small voice. 

"Oh," Ron said. "Oh. That."

"We'll go see Dumbledore," Hermione said. "And –"

"No," Harry interrupted. "I'll go see Dumbledore. I was the one who used the spell. So if anyone's going to get in trouble, it'll be me."

"But it's my book, and it was my suggestion, and I talked you through it!"

"But I did it," Harry said. "What you can do, you and Ron both, is sit down and talk to each other."

Ron, who had been looking ill at ease, now looked positively horrified. "What, now?"

"Yes. Now."

Leaving them no more room for discussion, Harry crossed to the portrait hole and went out into the hall. 

"Oh, bothersome boy, where are you going at this hour?" the Fat Lady asked irritably. "Don't expect me to wake up and be all cheerful just to let you back in."

"Sorry," Harry said. 

"You shouldn't be wandering the halls in the middle of the night anyway," she said after him as he started away. "If the caretaker catches you, he'll give you something to be sorry about!"

"I'm sure he'll try," Harry replied. 

He did not harbor much hope that Ron and Hermione really would talk over their personal troubles, but he intended to give them plenty of time for it if they actually did. Ten minutes later, he was at the stone gargoyle, having been fortunate enough not to encounter Filch or Mrs. Norris. He had seen Peeves at one point, hard at work loosening the doorknobs on all the classrooms on the fourth floor so that they would fall off as soon as anyone tried turning them, but Peeves was happily engrossed in his mischief and didn't notice Harry. 

"Pepper Imp," he said. 

The gargoyle didn't move.

"Cinnamon Chew?" Harry tried.

Then he hit himself in the forehead with the heel of his hand. He had forgotten – it seemed like the memorial service had been weeks ago – Dumbledore was in the hospital wing with a broken hip. 

Madame Pomfrey wouldn't be about to let Harry in to disturb Dumbledore in the middle of the night. He milled around for a while, trying to think of what else he could do, but no brilliant ideas came to him. 

Finally, he gave up and trudged back to Gryffindor tower, reluctant to walk in on a scene between Ron and Hermione. He listened, didn't hear any shouting, and approached the portrait hole. 

"You again," grumbled the Fat Lady. "What ever happened to a good old-fashioned curfew? A portrait used to be assured a decent night's sleep around here …"

But when he gave the password, she swung open and let him in. 

Hermione was sitting by the fire, her eyes red-rimmed as if she'd been crying. Mind-Journeys was open on her lap. There was no sign of Ron. 

"How'd it go?" she asked breathlessly.

"Not so great … he's in the hospital wing. I couldn't even get in to see him."

"Oh, that's right!" sighed Hermione. 

"I'll try tomorrow." He sat down. "You're reading up on Astralmency? Planning to try it?"

"Not me," she said. "You know I hate flying."

"It's not the same as flying on a broom."

"Still, it would scare me to death."

"Where's Ron?"

"He went to bed."

"So you didn't talk? Hermione …"

"We tried to talk," she said. "But what was there to say, really?"

"A lot! Did you work it out?"

"Work what out?" She made a helpless little gesture. "He knows how I feel. I told him that the next step was up to him. I said that if he didn't like me, he should just say so and that would be the end of it."

"And did he?"

"He said he didn't not like me, and went into the usual stuff about how was he to have known, I never let on, he had no idea I fancied him." She sniffled. "He's so hopeless, Harry, and I don't know what to do."

Unfortunately, Harry didn't know what to do either. His headache had returned, as much now from lack of sleep as anything else. He longed for his bed – not even the thought of the nightmare recurring could deter him – but couldn't very well walk off and leave Hermione sitting here miserable.

An hour later, though, they had batted around useless ideas and come up with no solutions, and the only thing they knew for sure was that Ron had to be the one to decide what he wanted.

"We need to get some rest," he said to Hermione. "Maybe things will look better in the morning."

"It is the morning," Hermione said, pointing at an eastern window, where the sky was already a paler shade. 

Harry groaned, and dragged himself off to bed. His head had no sooner hit the pillow, it seemed … his eyes had no sooner shut … than Neville was shaking him awake and telling him he had missed breakfast and was going to be late for Charms.

All day, wherever he went, he heard people talking about what had happened in the chapel the night before. Edmund Hawke had been taken away to St. Mungo's, none the worse for wear from his burns but apparently in such great mental distress that the Healers had to keep him in a Full Body-Bind. 

After classes on Wednesday, Harry went up to the hospital wing, only to be told by Madame Pomfrey – with an indignant sniff that said it had been very much against her orders – that Dumbledore was back in his office. 

This time, the stone gargoyle opened, and the spiral stairs revolved, carrying Harry up. A bright golden light and heat grew as he ascended, so he was not surprised when one of the aureliphim blocked the final doorway. 

"I need to see the headmaster," Harry said. 

"It's all right, Asaad," Dumbledore said. "Let him in."

The fiery lion-man stood back to allow Harry to pass. Dumbledore, wearing a silk paisley dressing gown and – strangely – bumblebee slippers just like the ones Colin Creevey owned, was propped on a couch with his leg elevated in a complicated network of straps that looked like a hammock woven by a drunken moth. A single candle provided unnecessary illumination on top of the light shed by Asaad's flaming wings. 

Dumbledore was reading A Treatise on the Treatment of Magical Non-Humans, holding the book and turning the pages with his wand while he sipped from a mug of warm milk with a cinnamon stick in it. A plate of chocolate cookies sat on a table beside his couch. The surface of the desk was covered with get-well cards, flower arrangements, and baskets of treats from members of the Ministry, faculty, and students. 

As Harry came in, he marked his place with a discarded phoenix feather. 

"Hello, Harry."

"Hi, Professor. Or should it be Minister?"

"Either will do, I think."

"How are you feeling?"

Dumbledore scowled at his elevated leg. "Madame Pomfrey mended the bone in a thrice, but she's very strict about me keeping off it for a few days. Please, sit down. Cookie? Spiced milk?"

"No, thanks." Harry sat in the chair Dumbledore conjured, feeling more awkward now than he had when he'd been in here the other day with Ron, Luna and Jane. He decided to just get it out in the open and over with. "My scar hurt last night. First time in ages. It hurt fit to split my head."

"I see. Was the pain accompanied by any other experiences?"

"A dream, but … not one of those dreams like I had last year. And that's not what I came to talk to you about. It's Nigel Nox, Professor. From Slytherin? He's joined Voldemort."

Above his half-moon spectacles, Dumbledore's eyebrows rose. "You're certain?"

"I saw him."

"In this dream?"

"No." Harry regarded Dumbledore levelly. "Through Astralmency."

To Dumbledore's credit, surprise only flickered briefly in his eyes. "Astralmency, you say."

"I thought that since my scar hurt, it had to mean that Voldemort was up to something," Harry said. "So I went out, using Astralmency, to try and find out. I still don't know what set my scar off, but I saw Voldemort. Pettigrew was with him, and his snake, and Nox."

He related what he had observed, and every word that they'd said. Dumbledore listened in grave silence. When Harry finished, for a long time Dumbledore said nothing, dunking a cookie into his mug of milk until it crumbled wetly apart. 

"Well," Dumbledore said at last, "It is unfortunate, but not entirely unexpected."

"You knew he'd go to Voldemort?"

"I've feared all along that certain students might be drawn over into his support, yes. For some, it is a strong family tradition. For others, the temptation of power, wealth, personal gain, or revenge prove adequate reasons."

"Why do you let them come to Hogwarts, then?" Harry asked. "Why do you let them stay, and learn to use their magic, when you know they're only going to use it against you?"

"Because I believe that we all have, within ourselves, the ability to rise above our bloodlines, or our base greed and ambition. I believe in the good that lies in each and every one of us, and that it is, as I've said to you before, the choices that we make that determine our future."

"So you give people like Snape a second chance," Harry said bitterly. 

"Professor Snape, yes," Dumbledore said, giving Harry a pointed look. "And people like Remus Lupin. I admitted him to Hogwarts as a student, I brought him back years later as a teacher, knowing he was a werewolf but trusting in his better nature to help him rise above his unfortunate circumstances."

"You knew he was all right, though," Harry said. 

"People like Rubeus Hagrid, as well," Dumbledore said. "I petitioned with Professor Dippett to have him admitted to Hogwarts as a student, knowing he was half-giant. I brought him back here as groundskeeper when he was released from Azkaban –"

"But you knew he hadn't been responsible for the basilisk!"

"At the time, I had only Hagrid's word for it. There were those who seriously questioned my decision."

"That's different!"

"How is it different, Harry?"

"Because Lupin and Hagrid are good! Snape is –"

"Professor Snape," Dumbledore cut in, stressing the title strongly, "has demonstrated his loyalty to me time and again."

"How?" Harry asked bluntly.

"That is between the two of us."

"He was a Death Eater!"

"I must ask you to let this matter drop, Harry. Suffice to say, I have no reason to suspect that Severus Snape is anything but true to the Order, and to me."

"You always defend him!"

"Funny," Dumbledore said, though he hardly looked amused. "He accuses me of doing the same for you."

Harry rose. "Fine. I didn't come here to talk about Sn – about Professor Snape anyway. I came to tell you about my scar, and about Nox. I've done that. So, good night, Headmaster."

"Sit down, Harry."

"Why? You've got what you needed from me."

Asaad rumbled low and menacing in his throat, and the flaming corona around him brightened.

"I remember when I used to have your trust and liking as well," Dumbledore said softly. 

Guilt and pain pierced Harry, but he struggled not to show it. "Yeah … I remember that, too."

"You feel badly used."

"I wonder why."

"I'd like the opportunity to explain."

"You don't need to explain," Harry said. "I understand. Maybe you think that I can't, since I'm only sixteen, too young to be burdened, too young to be able to cope with the ugly truth. Too young to be of any real help to anybody."

"Harry, sit down."

"I should go to the library. I have homework."

"Everything I've done, I have done with your best interests at heart," Dumbledore said. 

"No." Harry looked him squarely in the eye. "You think you have, you think you're doing me a favor by protecting me. I may only be sixteen, but I'm not a child."

"You're acting like one. Again."

"Phineas, please," Dumbledore said, not looking up at the portrait. "Stay out of this."

"Why you let that insolent pup speak to you in such a tone …" Phineas Nigellus said. "If I were headmaster and got that kind of lip from a student, I'd switch him within an inch of his life, and then hex him for good measure."

"Phineas, hush!" Dilys Derwent snapped. "He told you to stay out of it!"

"What can I do, Harry, to convince you?" asked Dumbledore, now ignoring all of the portraits as several other headmasters and headmistresses woke up and began bickering and scolding Phineas. "How can I make up for last year? How can I win back the regard you once held for me?"

Harry saw genuine, heartfelt sorrow in Dumbledore's expression. He wanted to be able to give an answer, but there didn't seem to be one. 

"It can't be the way it was," Harry said. "Too much has happened. Too much has changed. You spent all last year ignoring me for my own good, when you could have at least let me know why. You keep things from me until I find out for myself, and then make excuses to justify why you never told me before … when I know that, if I hadn't found out on my own, you might never have told me."

"That isn't true. I would have when the time was right."

"When you thought that the time was right. Because no matter what I do, no matter how much I accomplish, it'll never be good enough. You'll tell yourself that I'm still too young, or that it would hurt me too much. But didn't you ever think that it hurts worse to find out later that people have been keeping things from you? Because they – people you cared about, people you loved and respected and trusted – didn't think you could handle it?"

"Harry, as I tried to tell you at the end of last year, I am deeply sorry for that. I have apologized. Is it so hard to gain your forgiveness?"

"Why is it so important to you? My forgiveness … why do my feelings count now? I told you about my scar and what I saw, so it's not like you're missing out on any information."

"Ah," Dumbledore said. "I see. You think that I only care about what you can tell me, that I'm interested in using you to keep tabs on Voldemort and little else."

"Essentially, yes," Harry said. "Yes, sir, that is what I think. And I don't mind, but I'd rather we were honest about it! Let me just be your informant and we can drop the rest of the pretense."

"It is no pretense. If you were not special to me, would I allow you the lenience that I have? The preference I've shown you has drawn its share of criticism over the years."

"I didn't ask for preference!"

"Yet you have never hesitated in taking advantage of it," Dumbledore said. 

Harry looked away, knowing it was true. He had grown used to the idea that he could pretty well do as he pleased and not get in too much trouble for it. Going all the way back to his first year, when Dumbledore had known about his efforts to unmask the would-be thief of the Sorcerer's Stone. He, Ron and Hermione had broken rules right and left in the pursuit of that goal, and Dumbledore had rewarded them for it in the only way that had mattered to them at the time – by giving them enough points to win the House Cup … better, to wrest the House Cup away from Slytherin. 

It had been the same, over and over, ever since. He tried to tell himself that it was because Dumbledore knew that Harry was, when all was said and done, only trying to do the right thing. But there had been times when Harry had acted for purely selfish reasons … when Snape had been right about him. 

"I would like you to trust me again, Harry," Dumbledore said. "If that is not yet possible, I would at the very least like you to stop being so angry with me."

"I'll try," Harry said, head down. 

"And I, for my part, will try to be more forthright with you in the future. Are we agreed?"

"Yes, sir."

When a lengthy pause ensued, Harry looked up and saw that Dumbledore was holding out one long-fingered hand. He noticed how old and frail that hand looked, how old and worn Dumbledore looked, lying there wizened and sickly, and the feelings of guilt stabbed at him again. 

Didn't Dumbledore have enough problems? Voldemort returned, Death Eaters and dementors on the loose, the entire wizarding world in an uproar … and then Hogwarts students dying hideously … the Minister of Magic murdered … Dumbledore himself forced to step in at the Ministry right at a time when Hogwarts needed him … a broken hip … and here was Harry, adding to his woes with a great bitter unloading of bile.

Harry clasped that old, frail-looking hand. It felt fragile and brittle in his grasp, like hollow bird-bones encased in a dry glove. 

"I'm sorry," he murmured. 

"So am I," Dumbledore said. 

Something in the way he said it gave Harry a chill. It sounded almost like a good-bye. 

"Um … about the Astralmency …" he ventured as he let go of Dumbledore's hand. 

"I'm sure you don't need me to tell you to exercise all due caution with it," Dumbledore said. He smiled. "And well done, Harry. It never would have occurred to me to suggest you explore that branch of magic. So few wizards have ever made successes of it that it has become something of a lost art."

"Why? I mean … it wasn't hard at all. How come so many people have trouble with it?"

"Fear, I imagine. Fear is the greatest chain we have, holding each of us back in different ways. For you, Harry, fear became something you long ago learned to face, overcome, and set aside. You've never let it stand in your way. Not since you faced the true horror of the dementors, and found that even they, the embodiment of fear itself, can be dealt with."

"So I was able to do Astralmency because I wasn't afraid?"

"Were you afraid?" Dumbledore asked. 

"Not really. It sounded dangerous, but –"

Dumbledore raised one thin finger. "There you have it. You did not let the risk stop your attempt."

"Does that make me brave, or stupid?" Harry asked. "Or just overconfident?"

"Some of all three, I would say." Dumbledore's smile widened. "And now, Harry, we should say good night. Enjoy your dinner. Myself, I have Mother Hazel's Finest Marrowbone Broth to look forward to. Madame Pomfrey insists that it strengthens the bones. It also, alas, has all the zest and flavor of bilgewater."

Harry moved past the stern Asaad, feeling the lion-man's burning eyes follow him with a focused intensity that reminded him of a time Dudley scorched him on the arm with a magnifying glass one hot summer's day on Privet Drive. 

He let himself out of Dumbledore's office and headed for the Great Hall, not sure if he felt better or worse. 

**

Continued in Chapter Twenty-Seven -- The Dark Arts Club.