On the appointed day, Harry loaded up his trunk and Hedwig, and joined Ron and Ginny in front of the Weasleys' large stone fireplace.

"You're coming, too, professor?" Harry asked as Lupin appeared. 

"Not to Diagon Alley," Lupin said. He had recovered from his ordeal with only another scar to show for it. "I have some business in London, though, and I will likely see you at the train station."

"I wish they'd offer you the job back," Ginny said. 

Lupin smiled. "Dumbledore has said he would, but even with things the way they are now, too many of the parents would object to my presence at Hogwarts. I think you'll like your new teacher."

"You know who it is?" Ron asked excitedly. "Is it Moody, the real Moody this time? Tonks? Who? It's not someone horrible like Umbridge, I hope."

"Didn't I just say that you'd like the new teacher? Now, if you'll let me cut in the queue, I'll get out of your way."

"Ah, yes, good, Lupin," said Mr. Weasley, coming in from the kitchen with Ron and Ginny's school lists in hand.
"Floo Powder's on the mantle. Off you go."

Taking a fistful of the Floo Powder, Lupin stepped into the flames. "Number Twelve Grimmauld Place," he intoned in a clear voice. The fire turned green, and with a spinning sort of flash, Lupin vanished. 

"Grimmauld Place?" Harry turned to Mr. Weasley. "Why'd he go there? I thought … wait, don't tell me. It's complicated, right?"

"Well …" Mr. Weasley tugged at his collar. "I'll tell you this much. The Order hasn't been using the house, so Dumbledore thought it might be all right if, under the circumstances, someone else stayed there."

"Who?" Harry asked, feeling a little indignant. He still couldn't believe that Sirius had left the house to him, and wasn't sure he'd be able to claim it anyway, but it would have been nice for someone to let him know if a stranger was staying there. 

"The … ah … new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher," Mr. Weasley said. He took the jar of Floo Powder and offered it to Ginny. "Here you go –"

"You mean, you've known, too?" Ron shook his head, exasperated. "I like that … weren't you planning to tell us at all?"

"Don't talk to your father that way, Ronald," Mrs. Weasley said, coming in with her purse over her arm. "Go on, Ginny dear."

First Ginny, then Ron stepped into the fire. Harry was next. He made sure to get a deep breath before throwing the powder, so as to be able to speak clearly when he announced, "Diagon Alley!"

Emerald flames whirled up around him. He spun and spun and was ejected, stumbling and dizzy, into one of the private parlors of the Leaky Cauldron. Coughing on smoke, he steadied himself on the wall just in time to nearly be bowled over by a large ginger cat with a squashed sort of face and a bristle-brush tail. 

"Crookshanks!" Hermione called. "Harry, I'm sorry … he's just so happy it's the start of school again."

"When did you get here?" Harry asked. 

"This morning. My parents dropped me off."

"And?"

"And what?"

Across the room, Ron and Ginny were leaning halfway out the window. "You should be able to see it from here," Ron was saying. 

"And aren't you going to yell at me?" 

Hermione peered at him, puzzled. "For what?"

"For having a Slytherin to tea."

"What?" she gasped. 

"You mean you didn't hear?"

Ginny quit leaning out the window. "Really, Harry, after the way you tore into us, did you think that we were going to 'run and tattle'?"

Harry felt foolish and ashamed. "Sorry, Ginny. Sorry to you, too, Hermione."

Mr. Weasley arrived next, patting clouds of green soot from his robes. His wife was right behind him. There were jolly greetings all around, and they trooped down to the Leaky Cauldron's common room to find a hearty lunch spread awaiting them. 

Awaiting them as well were Fred and George Weasley, both beaming broadly and looking prosperous in their dragon-hide jackets. They had opened their joke shop, Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, earlier in the year and were, as they said over lunch, doing a booming business. 

"And not just in the fireworks, either," George said. "The joke wands have been a huge success." 

"The Skiving Snackboxes didn't sell so well over the summer," Fred admitted, "but since Hogwarts students started turning up, they've been flying off the shelves."

"When can we see the shop?" Ron asked eagerly. "Ginny and I hoped to get a look from the window, but we didn't know which one it was."

"I don't think you need to –" Mrs. Weasley began, her mouth tucked with disapproval. 

"Aw, Mum!" Ginny protested. "What if Ron and I solemnly swear that, no matter how great a shop it is, we won't expel ourselves from school and start a business?"

"You had better not!" choked her mother. 

While the Weasleys bickered good-naturedly, Hermione leaned over and whispered to Harry, "So … what was that about, upstairs? What's going on? What Slytherin?"

"You really don't know?"

"No, Harry, I really don't."

Ron, overhearing, shot Harry a worried look. It would be just like Hermione to blow her top. But Harry reckoned he would have to deal with her accusations and recriminations sooner or later, and wanted to just get it over with. So he told her the whole story. 

To his surprise, she did not immediately start scolding him. She sat thoughtfully, running the tip of her tongue over her front teeth – once prominent, but charmed to a more ordinary size by Madame Pomfrey – while Crookshanks curled on her lap making rusty purrs of contentment. 

"So?" prompted Ron, when the suspense must have become too much for him to bear. 

"Actually," she said, "I think it wouldn't be such a bad idea to have a friend in the Slytherin camp."

Harry and Ron both goggled at her.

"You're joking," Harry said. 

"Well, think it through," Hermione said. 

"I bloody well have!" Ron blurted. "Back last year, when the Sorting Hat made that big speech about all the Houses getting chummy. Like that'd ever happen. Not with the Slytherins. They'd just as soon backstab us as look at us, and if you think Harry should make friends with one, you might as well hex him now yourself and save us the wait."

"Ron, you're so narrow-minded!" Hermione said. 

"Oh, I am, am I? What, when every Dark wizard there ever was came from Slytherin House, I'm narrow-minded to distrust them?"

"But that's not true, is it?" Harry cut in. "Pettrigrew was in Gryffindor."

"Sirius was in Gryffindor, too," Hermione said. 

"Hang on, you know he was never a Dark wizard!" Harry said. 

"I know that, but think, Harry. At the time, everyone believed it. Even Hagrid and Dumbledore thought that Sirius had gone bad. But he wasn't in Slytherin. I'm sure people expected him to be. His family was probably horrified when they found out he got put in Gryffindor instead. But it's all the Sorting Hat, isn't it? The Sorting Hat looks inside you, and sorts you according to the characteristics it finds. It put all of us in Gryffindor, though in my case it was a close call between that and Ravenclaw –"

"And it was tempted to put me in Slytherin," Harry said.

"Right!" Hermione pounced. "And why?"

"Well …"

"The main traits of Slytherin House don't include 'evil,'" she said, making little quotes in the air. "Surely someone can be ambitious and cunning without being evil."

"What are you saying?" asked Harry. "That Jane's all right?"

"Let's not jump ahead," she cautioned. "I haven't even spoken to her, so how would I know? I'm just saying that it's a mistake to leap to the conclusion that all Slytherins have to be evil."

"But they are!" Ron banged his fist on the table, making the other Weasleys stop their conversation to look at him. "Sorry."

"What's the trouble, little brother?" Fred asked. 

"We're debating the nature of Slytherin House," Hermione said. 

George grinned. "We almost wound up in Slytherin, didn't we, Fred?"

Ron's eyes bugged. "You never!"

"Almost," Fred agreed. "The old Sorting Hat saw right away that we were as ambitious and cunning and crafty as they come. I wonder sometimes if it didn't put us in Gryffindor in the hopes of doing us a good example."

"The best-laid plans …" Mrs. Weasley muttered into her cup of tea. 

"I'm hurt, Mum, I truly am," said George.

"Wounded to the core," added Fred, laying a hand on his chest. "Imagine what we might have turned out like if we had gone in Slytherin."

"Imagine it?" George chuckled. "She would have disowned us our second year."

"So, you see, Ron," Hermione said, "it's possible for someone to be a Slytherin without becoming a Dark wizard. Maybe Jane's like that."

"Maybe, but maybe she's playing us all for fools," Ron retorted. 

"You're impossible, Ron Weasley." Hermione stirred her soup too vigorously, threatening to slop it onto her lap and the snoozing Crookshanks. 

"I thought sure you'd yell," Harry said. "I thought sure you'd agree with Ron and Ginny."

"Well, I'm happy I'm not so predictable," she said, sounding put-out. 

To change the subject, Harry told her about the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher staying at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. They had already sent an owl with the story of Lupin's injuries, wording it carefully to dance around mentioning Macnair, in case the owl was intercepted. As always, speculating on a new teacher brightened Hermione's mood. 

"I'm so glad they found someone," she said. "I'd wondered if Dumbledore might offer the job to Firenze, since Professor Trelawney probably has her Divinations job back. But I didn't think that he would. Now more than ever, it's important for us to really learn, and the centaurs don't cast spells." 

"They should have given Harry the job," Ron said. 

"Oh, come on, Ron! I'm just a student."

"Maybe they'll still let us keep the D.A. going," Ginny said hopefully.

"Maybe," Hermione said. "I hope so." 

"I just wish we knew more about this person they did hire," Harry said. "What if it's someone useless, like Lockheart, or worse than useless, like Umbridge?"

"It won't be like that," Hermione said with confidence. "Wait and see."

After lunch, they ventured out into Diagon Alley. The winding cobblestone street of wizarding shops was bustling with activity. Hogwarts students and their families rushed here and there, buying books, cauldrons, quills, potion ingredients, wands. Older witches and wizards went about their own business. Goblins scurried through the crowds, all of them looking shifty and untrustworthy. 

Harry saw many familiar faces. There were Alicia Spinnet and Katie Bell coming out of Quality Quidditch Supplies with new red Quidditch robes over their arms. Seamus Finnegan tensed up when his mother caught sight of Harry, their row from last year still fairly fresh in both boys' minds, but Mrs. Finnegan must have been convinced of the truth because she gave Harry a smile and a nod. 

Various members of the D.A. came up to him, all of them expressing Ginny's and Hermione's same hope that, whoever the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher turned out to be, they would be allowed to continue their meetings. 

His first stop was Gringotts, the wizard bank, where he withdrew a supply of gold Galleons and silver Sickles from his vault. He was relieved to see that the pile of coins was still substantial. Even with one more year to go at Hogwarts, he should have enough to start him off well on whatever sort of adult life he chose. 

The start-of-term anticipation in the air affected Harry, too. His earlier brooding about how school wasn't all that important in the greater scheme of things recurred to him, but it was hard not to get caught up in the excitement. 

He was not, however, able to overlook the more ominous indications around Diagon Alley, reminders that not all was well in the wizarding world. The front window of Flourish and Blotts was stacked high with a display of books on counter-curses and defensive spells. One shop was doing a brisk trade in various Dark magic detectors – Harry spotted a sign proclaiming that all Sneak-o-Scopes were "buy one, get the second for half price." 

The lampposts were once again plastered with wanted posters, but this time instead of the gaunt and unshaven visage of Sirius Black, the escaped Death Eaters snarled, sneered, and leered from the photographs. One image of Bellatrix Lestrange seemed to follow Harry with her hooded, sultry eyes. He shivered. 

One place where these foreboding and forbidding reminders held no sway was at Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. The shop was a crazy affair of mismatched bricks, gables that arched like surprised eyebrows, an upper story that looked in danger of toppling into the street at any minute, and two crooked chimneys sticking up at the sky like a rude gesture. The front steps tilted this way and that. At the top of them was a door painted bright orange with three interlocked W's done in gilding, and a plaque reading "Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, Number 93 Diagon Alley, Fred and George Weasley, proprietors." 

Flanking the doorway were two statues, three feet high and shaped like either imps or very devilish cherubs. These bore a strong resemblance to the twins, and both were indelicately spraying water. The twin streams splashed down onto the heads of fat-mouthed stone frogs that looked uncannily like Dolores Umbridge. The small fountain bases around these frogs were littered with bronze Knuts, and as Harry watched, four more students burst out laughing and added their own monetary contributions. 

Harry couldn't even get in the shop, it being so crammed with people. The best he could manage was a glimpse of Fred and George's best friend, Lee Jordan, manning the counter. 

As he was turning to leave, he saw Jane Kirkallen coming out of Gladrags Wizard Wear. Their eyes met, and Harry caught himself in the nick of time before calling out to her. Apparently realizing this, that same small hard-edged cynical smile twisted the corner of Jane's mouth. She gave him the barest of nods, and headed off toward Florean Fortescue's ice cream shop. 

His cauldron was full of purchases, and he had lost track of everyone else. The last time he'd seen Ron's parents, they had been with Ginny in the back room of Flourish and Blotts, pawing through the second-hand books. Ron had said something about trying to find a handbook of Keeper tips in Quality Quidditch Supplies, and Hermione had wandered off in the direction of the shop selling Dark detectors. 

Therefore, feeling like he could use one of Florean's famous crushed-nut chocolate sundaes, Harry went to the ice cream shop. 

On the way, he ran into Neville Longbottom, who was proudly showing off his brand-new wand to Dean Thomas. Neville's nose had been broken during the fracas in the Ministry, and it had healed with a slight cant to it, lending an unexpectedly tough look to Neville's normally soft features. 

"My old one was my dad's," Neville said. "I don't think it suited me, really, but Gran wanted me to use it. This one, Mr. Ollivander says, is just right for me. Eight and a half inches, white oak, and a hair from a hippocampus' mane. Oh, hi, Harry!"

"Hey, Neville. Where's your grandmother?"

"She let me on my own for once," Neville said, as though he could hardly credit this amazing news himself. "Gave me my list, and money, and told me I was old enough that I should be able to do my own school shopping."

"Until he lost his book list and had to borrow mine," Dean said. "We're going for ice creams. Want to come?"

"Yeah," Harry said, spotting Jane seated alone. He gave Dean a handful of Sickles. "If you get me a chocolate sundae, I'll grab us a table."

As the two of them went toward the counter, Harry wended his way through the cluster of small tables and chairs that filled the patio. The table nearest Jane was empty, and he sat so that although their backs were to each other, she could hear him when he bent to rummage in his cauldron. 

"Hi, Jane."

"Where are your minders, Harry Potter?" she asked archly. "Do I have time to finish my float before they burst in here and wreck the place?"

"I'm really sorry about that."

"Serves you right, talking to a Slytherin."

"Look, Jane … I don't … I mean … they were only trying to … oh, hell!" He rummaged too vigorously, and knocked open a box of brown-banded crickets, which began hopping and skittering for freedom. 

"You don't need to explain anything to me," she said.

"But I do," Harry said, scooping up crickets. "I think you're all right."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

On his knees, crickets crawling around inside his cupped hands, Harry looked up at her. "You're not like other Slytherins. You're not like Malfoy."

Jane shuddered a little. "I hope not. He's the worst of them all. I don't want to be like him. I don't want anything to do with him."

"Hermione worked it out," Harry said, getting most of the crickets back in the box and closing the lid. "About what it takes to be in Slytherin House."

One of the escapees bounded onto Jane's shoe and she picked it up pinched between thumb and forefinger. 

"Everyone says she's the smartest student at Hogwarts," she said.

"Why are you there?" he asked bluntly. 

"Why are you in Gryffindor?"

"I asked you first."

"So?"

"All right," Harry said. One cricket had gotten away clean, but he caught the other moments before it could spring into a seventh-year Ravenclaw girl's banana split. "I guess … because I wanted to do what was right, to make a difference."

"I can understand that."

Dean and Neville had reached the counter and were placing their orders. Harry got back in his chair and waved when Neville turned to search for him. 

"So, what about you?"

"Oh, you know," Jane said lightly. "Ambition, cunning, revenge."

"No, really."

"Yes, really." 

"Revenge against who?"

"I already told you."

"Jane –"

"One chocolate sundae with extra nuts," Dean proclaimed, setting it on the table with a clunk, beside a drippy caramel-pineapple sundae of his own. "And your change."

"Thanks," Harry said. 

Neville, celebrating his new wand and his independence with a triple scoop of Pumpkin Surprise, Cauldron Cake Crunch, and Maple Ripple on a waffle cone that had been dipped in chocolate and rolled in colorful sprinkles, sat down opposite Harry. 

Behind him, Harry sensed the movement as Jane got up and gathered her things. He wanted to say more, but couldn't very well with Dean and Neville right here. She brushed past him as she left. He watched her go from the corner of his eye, acting like he was paying attention to Dean and Neville's conversation – Neville's confidence had increased tenfold since this time last year, due in part to having scored far better than he ever would have dreamed on his Potions O.W.L. exam.

Ron, Ginny, Hermione, and several other Gryffindors joined them as Harry was spooning up the last few gobs of nuts, chocolate sauce, and melted ice cream. For a while, surrounded by his friends, he almost forgot about the wider-world troubles that had been plaguing him all summer. 

The good mood continued through dinner, which took place in a dining room of the Leaky Cauldron, and lasted most of the evening. Only later, as Harry climbed the stairs alone to his room, this the last time he would sleep without the accompaniment of snores from his fellow sixth-years, did his fretful melancholy return. 

He lay wakeful, hands folded across his stomach, not bothering to remove his glasses as he traced the pattern shadows on the ceiling. 

Somewhere out there, Voldemort was plotting. Somewhere, his Death Eaters were gathering strength, recruiting new members, perhaps planning a raid on the now woefully underguarded Azkaban to free Lucius Malfoy and the others. If they hadn't already. Harry had the glum feeling that it would be just like the Ministry to hush up any further escapes. 

And he had no sense of it at all. No clue as to what Voldemort might be doing. Not even a glimmer of a hint as to Voldemort's mood. 

Was he angered at slow progress? Thrilling to a murderous victory? Gloating even now over some helpless captive? Killing? Raging at his underlings? Gathering allies among the goblins and giants? 

Harry had to know. He wasn't going to let Voldemort win. Voldemort had killed his parents over a prophecy, butchered James and Lily Potter solely because Sybil Trelawney had told Dumbledore that a boy child born to thrice-thwarting opponents would be his downfall … and in so doing, had only fulfilled the conditions of the prophecy himself. 

It made a closed loop, the foreseen future blending with the current present as seamlessly as when Hermione had used the Time Turner to blend the present with the past. Time couldn't be changed. The past couldn't be altered, and apparently neither could the future. Voldemort should have known that. Maybe he had, and had just been too arrogant, too confident, to believe it. 

All he had done was forge a lifelong bond between himself and Harry. A bond that, if Harry understood correctly, would only be broken when one of them killed the other. Or something to that effect. The wording of the prophecy had been so strange. 

"Neither shall live while the other survives," he murmured into the darkness of his room. 

What, really, did that mean? It didn't make sense. It didn't say that they had to kill one another … and if one of them did, would they both die? Was Harry, therefore, immune to death in all other ways? If he took another fall from his Firebolt, or was struck with the Avada Kedavra curse by someone else, or was hit by a Muggle car crossing the street, would fate somehow have to intervene to make sure that Harry lived? 

Did it mean that the only way to win, to truly triumph over Voldemort once and for all, would necessitate Harry sacrificing his own life? Would he have to die to save everyone else from Voldemort's evil?

Or, in the end, would it simply mean that everything would come down to a final confrontation between the two of them? 

Another final confrontation, his mind amended bitterly. He had already had so-called 'final' confrontations with Voldemort on multiple occasions. 

As he lay there, staring up at the gloomy ceiling and listening to the night-sounds of Diagon Alley through the window, he wondered what would happen if either he or Voldemort should seek to commit suicide. 

If he, Harry, killed himself … would Voldemort, wherever he might be, fall down dead in that same instant?

Harry shut his eyes, a rash of goosebumps prickling his skin as a chill ran through him. 

He did not want to die. Not by his own hand, and least of all by Voldemort's. 

But if it would be an end to all this … if it would save untold lives … end the Second War before it could really get started … preserve his friends … wouldn't it be for the best? In the long run?

Throwing back the blankets, which were doing nothing to combat the chills, Harry got out of bed. He crossed the room barefoot in his pajamas, feeling the drafts seeping through the uneven floorboards and under the slightly crooked door. Hedwig, snoozing in her cage, opened one golden eye halfway, uttered a sleepy hoot, and closed it again. 

At the window, pushing aside the curtains, Harry looked out at the moon-silvered roofs and gables of Diagon Alley. 

Even at this late hour, it was not deserted. Cats slunk in the shadows, owls glided silently between the chimneys, goblin dustmen emptied bins. A few couples sat at small tables-for-two outside of Madame Morgana's Wine and Spirits, conversing by the romantic rainbow glow of candles in multi-colored votive glass holders. 

Most, though, of the midnight activity took place down by the disturbingly mouth-like entrance to a narrow side-street, Knockturn Alley. Harry saw hunched and hooded figures going to and fro. Coins and other items changed hands, heads leaned together in conspiratorial whispers. 

If he wanted to get himself killed, it'd be easy enough out there. His one previous visit to Knockturn Alley had shown him that much. 

He remembered being pawed at by snaggle-toothed hags with long black fingernails, remembered emaciated wizards covered with running sores like lepers. There had been crones of the stripe who had in storybooks lured Hansel and Gretel with a cottage made from sweets, and hulking men whose ancestry seemed even more dubious than that of half-giant Hagrid. 

Even the animals of Knockturn Alley had been not-quite-right … scarred old tomcats missing ears or eyes, horned poisonous-looking lizards, ravens with peculiarly human faces, two-headed snakes, flying monkeys with leathery wing-flaps stretched under their scrawny arms, spiders with too many legs, slimy toads like enormous flabby bladders. 

Standing there, shivering from the cold, Harry realized that not all the evil in the wizarding world stemmed from Voldemort. Knockturn Alley had probably been there long before the birth of Tom Riddle, and it had thrived just fine during the years in which Voldemort had been reduced to a near-revenant. 

Harry sighed and leaned his forehead against the breath-fogged glass. It felt soothing to his scar, even though his scar hadn't been bothering him. 

When he looked up again, he was just in time to see a girl emerge from the shadows, shaking back the hood that had been covering her head. Her ponytail flipped back and forth as she did so. It was Jane. 

Had she come from Knockturn Alley? He hadn't seen for sure. But few other places were open this late, and Madame Morgana had an Age Line across the entrance to her Wine and Spirits shop. He knew this because earlier at dinner, Fred and George had mentioned celebrating their grand opening. Ron had gone green with envy just hearing about it. Hermione, of course, had tutted when George told how Lee Jordan had gotten completely soused and thrown up in the gutter outside. At that point, Mrs. Weasley had stepped in and told them that it was hardly fitting talk for the dinner table. 

So, Jane could not have come from Madame Morgana's. He didn't want to think she had been in Knockturn Alley. He wanted to believe his instincts, and Hermione's supporting logic. 

She was coming toward the Leaky Cauldron. 

Of course. She must have taken a room, too, perhaps getting here by way of the Knight Bus. Harry couldn't very well see Vicar Kirkallen going out of his way to drop her off at King's Cross Station with the rest of "those folk." He spared a moment to imagine Uncle Vernon's reaction if, when he came to pick Harry up at the end of the year, he spotted the vicar there to meet Jane. 

Then, moving hastily, he threw his robes on over his pajamas and stuck his wand in his pocket. Still barefoot, he crept out into the hall and down the stairs. 

The common room was lit only by the sullen red glow of embers in the fire, but it was enough to let Harry navigate his way around the many tables, benches, and stools. The scents of strong tea and savory lamb stew rose from a brass tea kettle and an iron cauldron, both hung on long swiveling hooks over the coals. There was a loaf of hard bread and a wedge of harder cheese on a nearby cutting board, the cheese knife stuck into the wood. A pair of large eyes threw back eerie green reflections from one of the rafter beams. 

"Psst, Crookshanks," Harry hissed, and the eyes blinked shut and then vanished as a low, quick shape slunk away. 

The door inched open and Jane came in, easing it closed behind her. In the red light, she looked tired and unhappy. She carried a parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with black string. 

"A bit late for shopping, isn't it?" he asked. 

She whirled, clapping a hand to her chest. The parcel dropped to the floor and the paper split, revealing what looked like a carved box of some dark wood. Ebony, maybe. 

"Harry!" Jane gasped. "You startled me. What are you doing, skulking down here in the dark?"

"I could ask you the same question."

She raised an eyebrow. "I asked you first."

He wanted to think well of her, but she wasn't making it easy. Clandestine midnight trips to Knockturn Alley, mysterious parcels … "Jane, I –"

"No!" she cried, eyes suddenly wide and wild. She pulled out her wand. 

Harry reached for his own, inwardly calling himself a hundred kinds of fool for ever thinking he could trust any Slytherin, that he should have known better, that –

Something small but heavy dropped onto his back from above, something wrinkled and scabby. A wash of foul-smelling, hideously warm breath blew into his ear. 

Then pain tore through Harry as something sharp and steely plunged into his back. 

**
Continued in Chapter Seven: Night of the Knife.