Harry Potter Mania

The Heart of Gryffindor
by SJR0301

Part III - Chapter Thirty-Six

It was going to be one of those days, Edgar thought, and they'd already had too many like it of late. It was only eight thirty in the morning, but Bentley was already demanding to know where Harry was and, almost as an afterthought, where Carter was as well. They were gathered around the conference table for the morning's post-op briefing on the previous day's riots and shootings and every one of them there was showing the stress of the recent events. MacCready, who was usually perfectly calm and phlegmatic had circles under his eyes and was drinking his way steadily through his third cup of coffee already. Brittany Halsey was also showing unusual signs of stress. While nothing could diminish her extraordinary beauty, she looked paler than usual and her lake blue eyes lacked their customary sparkle. Edgar glanced at her and lifted an eyebrow in silent inquiry as to Carter's whereabouts. He did not want to suggest that he'd gone off with Harry and gotten into trouble again as Bentley was still not particularly happy over Harry's refusal to disclose where he'd hidden Arthur's sword.

Brittany shook her head almost imperceptibly and grimaced at her own cup of coffee. "I've got to stop drinking this stuff," she muttered. "All the caffeine, it's giving me nightmares."

"I doubt it's the caffeine only," Edgar said just as quietly. None of them, he thought, could be so hardened that the deaths of small children could fail to cause bad dreams. He'd been plagued the same himself, only in his dreams, the child dying had been his own Matilda, her face as it was when she was ten.

"What are we doing for follow-up?" Bentley asked. "What about those lists of corporate workers Hayden's companies sponsored? Do we have anything on them?"

"I've got five of them located," MacCready answered. "All of them appear to be working quite normally and none of them were at the stadium or were spotted at the riots yesterday. You'll have to check with Johnny on the others. I think he was tracking down a lead last night. One of them was doing business with that old pub that used to shelter some of those gangs Hayden was running years ago."

"What about the shooters?" Bentley asked swiftly, looking at Edgar for a reply. As Edgar answered, "I've asked Masters to have the computer boys do a full run to see if any of them have priors," Bentley ticked off the subject from his list on the blackboard. The top of the list still had "Locate Hayden" at the top and "Locate Death Eaters" second. Edgar could not help feeling the oddity of a Muggle having Death Eaters on his list of problems even after all these years.

Brittany stirred restlessly and looked for the twentieth time at the clock. Edgar was starting to feel rather anxious himself as every officer on the team yesterday had given his or her word to be at the office on time for the morning's conference. And there was no question that Harry's and Johnny's absences were worrisome. Even Bronztein, who normally sat through conferences in silence locked onto the laptop screen and only speaking when his report was solicited, kept looking at the clock speculatively and giving Bentley the occasional querying glance, as though to ask when the Head would see fit to discipline the two tardy men for their disregard for the rules.

It seemed as though Bentley had been thinking the same, for he had started to speak and only stopped because Harry had appeared just then, out of nowhere, without even the faintest sound to signal that he had apparated, right on top of the conference table. Despite the fact that the weather remained quite chilly due to the late arrival of spring, he was wearing only jeans and a t-shirt. But that was the least of what drew one's attention. He was carrying Carter in his arms as one might carry a child and his face was icy white and terrified.

Brittany made a sound of distress and Bentley did yell then, asking what did Harry mean by it, showing up that way. But Harry simply knelt, laid Carter down gently, and said hoarsely, "Get a medic! Now!" Ignoring the sudden babble of the others, he added, speaking to the unconscious man, "Don't die on me, Johnny. Not you, too."

Edgar made an effort to speak to calmly. "Easy, Harry," he said. His voice wasn't nearly as calm as he'd hoped, but that was because he'd had a glimpse of the man's face, and at the rust brown lines of the Alliance symbol that now branded the handsome face right on the cheek. Carter's face was waxen and Edgar thought surely he must be dead already. No man could be so still, have no perceptible breath or pulse and yet live. He reached out to pull Harry away from the injured man, but Harry pulled back away again, reaching out to touch the artery at the neck, his face a study in horror.

"Let the medics get at him," Edgar said, and only then did Harry allow himself to be drawn down off the table. Edgar held him up with alarm as he could feel Harry's body vibrating with tension and shock.

Bentley asked, "How? How did it happen?" rather than who. They all knew who.

Harry shuddered and said, "He tailed one of Hayden's men last night to one of their hidey holes. They caught him at it and questioned him. That's how." "Were you with him?" Bentley asked.

"No," Harry answered. "No. I left with all the rest of you last night. I didn't know he'd go last night or I wouldn't have left." He shuddered again when the medic shook his head upon reading Carter's life signs on the portable machines they used when a victim was too injured to move. "He's not dead!" Harry growled. "Aren't you going to do something?"

"He's dying," the medic said flatly. "I can hook him up to a respirator, but that won't save him. His heart's failing and his brain's showing next to nothing."

Tears were sliding down Brittany's face and Edgar knew he must be pale himself. It was always horrible when a fellow officer died, but it was rare that the dying came like this, in front of them, and not in action.

Harry pulled away from Edgar again and laid a hand on Carter's face. "You have to try to save him," he insisted. "He's not dead yet. So long as he's alive, there's got to be a chance."

"Why don't you use your magic then?" Bronztein said from his corner. "You can do all those things, why not stop him dying?"

Edgar felt fury rise and Harry jerked as though he'd been whipped. "I'm not a healer," Harry answered. "I never really studied that." Feverishly, he swung around to look at Edgar. "I could take him to St. Mungos. They could -"

As Edgar shook his head, he was not sure who he felt sorrier for: Carter, who was dying, or Harry, who was falling to pieces before their eyes. "He won't survive being moved again, Harry."

"It's my fault," Harry said. He had begun to cry, soundlessly, as he went on, "It's always my fault. Cedric died because of me. I told him to take the cup. Sirius died because of me, because I was fooled. And Johnny, he … I taught him, but not enough. I should have made him learn more. I should have - he should have been able to defend himself better."

"That's ridiculous," Edgar said harshly, desperate to stem Harry's incipient breakdown. "These were Death Eaters, and Hayden. The darkest of dark wizards. My own father died at their hands and he was a great wizard, a fully trained auror. But that didn't save him. Johnny knew the risks. We all do."

"He mustn't die," Harry said. "Not now."

He drew his wand and everyone there shifted as though they wanted to flee. Hardly a surprise considering what Harry had done the last time he'd done magic in front of them. A flick of his wand transformed the conference table into a bed of grass and another made the potted plant on the window sill grow larger, twining long tendrils about the room and across the unconscious man. Another flick of the wand vanished the window and the sun burst through the clouds and shone on the dying man's face. Pure air swept through the stale air, refreshing the senses, caressing the cheeks with a soft warmth.

Harry turned and said to Brittany, "Get your Mum and your Grandmum. They can heal him. I know it."

But Brittany shook her head and said, "They're not here. They're in France somewhere and I can't reach them. And Harry," she added tearfully, "It's not the solstice or the equinox. It won't work."

"It has to," Harry argued. "You'll have to do it, if they can't."

"I can't," she wailed. "I don't have the talent. Johnny did, but I don't."

Ignoring her protest, Harry waved his wand again. A mass of tiny white flowers appeared on Johnny's body, strewn all about the grassy pedestal and drifting in the gentle breeze; their fragrance so poignant, so delicious every man there sighed Harry scooped up the flowers and held them out to Brittany. "Moonflowers," he said huskily. "And Bloodflowers. You'll need those too." He took his wand and made a fine cut down his arm and blood dripped out, falling on the unconscious man's face and about the grassy table. Where it fell, small red flowers blossomed, and Edgar found himself shivering at their appearance. Harry looked expectantly at Brittany and at her cousin's dying face, but she only shook her head helplessly and no reaction came from the silent man. Yet peculiarly, Edgar could have sworn that the moonflowers continued to multiply and that the tendrils of ivy continued to spread.

Bentley and MacCready and Bronztein had all backed off into the corners of the room and looked as though they might flee for sure. Bentley, however, controlled his fear when Harry's hope dimmed and tears began to slide down his face again.

"He wouldn't want you to do this," Bentley said. "He wouldn't want you to blame yourself, to break yourself in this fashion."

Harry shook his head and said pleadingly to Brittany, "You can reach him, if you sing. That'll do it. I'll sing with you. Just try." He began to sing hoarsely, and Brittany hummed with him, but still no change came over Carter's still face, and they both faltered. Edgar thought then that would be the final blow, that Harry would, after all these years, after surviving so much and remaining somehow still strong and sane, be broken.

Just then, while the sweet scent of the flowers still perfumed the air and the soft breeze wrapped the soul in serenity, Ginny arrived and with her, walking hesitantly and with the aid of a tall staff, came Dumbledore. Brittany ran to Ginny and hugged her. The smaller woman hugged her back, but her gaze was only for her husband.

"He's dying," Harry said plaintively. "I tried everything I know for him. You can help him, Professor, can't you?"

Dumbledore waved his wand over the unconscious man and shook his head minutely. "Even magic can only cure so much," he said quietly. "You know this. You know, too, that death is not to be feared. You've told me so yourself."

"I know," Harry said. "But you don't understand. It matters. I've dreamed it. He has to live. Things will change if he doesn't."

"Such dreams," Dumbledore responded, "are only glimpses of possibilities. They are air, illusion."

"Not this kind," Harry answered. "They come, over and over, always the same, and I know they'll come true if we're not careful. He has to live, truly, sir."

Dumbledore sighed and the ancient wizard's look as he gazed upon the young man before him was so full of sorrow and sympathy and love that Edgar could hardly bear to look at him. "If it is so," he said, "then you have within you the power to heal him."

Harry frowned and said, "No, I don't. I've done everything I can think of already. I'm not a healer. I can't heal all those broken bones or stop the internal bleeding."

"You have only to transform," Dumbledore replied.

"I don't understand," Harry answered. Edgar didn't either. What on earth could the old man mean?

"What good would that do?" Harry asked. "And besides…" He looked around at the others there and Edgar understood that this was something Harry wanted kept secret. Something that perhaps would frighten and alienate the Muggles beyond repair.

"Do you not understand what you become when you transform?" Dumbledore asked curiously.

"Of course, I do," Harry answered. "I still don't see how that can help." His voice sounded ragged and his face was gray with exhaustion. Bones wondered how much longer he would last before he collapsed and he saw that Dumbledore was thinking the same.

"When was the last time you slept?" the old wizard asked.

Harry shrugged. "I dunno. I had about half an hour last night. And before that…" His voice trailed off. "I don't like to sleep lately. I have nightmares all the time. The same one, over and over." He glanced at Carter and said with sudden panic, "You've got to help him, sir. There's no time left."

With a sigh, Dumbledore lifted his wand, but the spell did not touch the dying man on the grassy pedestal. Instead, Harry's tall, lean form changed, blurred and transformed into a large swan-like bird with crimson feathers. Golden tail feathers shone in the bright sun as the bird took flight and landed on the grass beside the dying man. Edgar could only stare in wonder as the bird, who knew just what to do though the man had not, wept pearly tears on the face of his friend. As the tears landed one by one upon the bloody wounds, every mark, every hurt, disappeared. The beautiful face glowed unmarred and the dying man slipped from unconsciousness into simple sleep. Dumbledore lifted his hand and the phoenix lofted up to land on the ancient wizard's shoulder, tucked its head under its wing and went to sleep as well.

Edgar wanted to ask how such as thing was possible. It could not be, he thought. He had never heard of such a thing in all magical history. Yet even as he took breath to ask, Dumbledore cut him off with a warning look and said serenely, the twinkle in his eyes having returned, "It is a pity to have to undo such a lovely piece of magic, but I doubt your maintenance staff will want to bring a lawn mower inside to cut the grass."

He then waved his wand and the grass covered table and floor were restored to a gleaming mahogany and the tendrils of ivy that had climbed the walls and entwined themselves about Carter's body withdrew until they floated elegantly from the porcelain pot on the window sill. Edgar could have sworn that the ivy was much greener than it had been and he noticed that the sprinkle of moonflowers and Bloodflowers remained.

Brittany moved forward and touched her cousin's face and felt the beating of his heart. Delicately, she gathered up the scattered blooms and slipped them into a half drunk cup of water, where they swirled, and swelled, and began to dissolve into a pearly pink nectar. Carter woke, looking puzzled as he had every right to be. He scanned the room, his blue eyes dark as he swung off the table and appeared to be ready to run. He had recognized where he was, though, and he stopped, poised in the frozen stillness of a wary creature, ready for flight should the anticipated threat materialize. He touched his own face with a hand and then let it drop, and wrapped his arms about his midriff, perhaps checking to see that the bones were intact, or perhaps merely to hold himself up.

"How did I get here?" he asked. "Where did Harry go?"

Brittany pointed wordlessly at the crimson swan-like bird sleeping on Dumbledore's shoulder.

"That's not possible," he said, voicing Edgar's own thoughts.

"Well, it is, as he's an animagus," Ginny said coolly. "Only very few wizards can do that."

"What's an animagus?" Bentley asked.

"A wizard or witch who can turn into an animal at will," Ginny replied.

"So he could turn into a dog, if he wanted?" Bentley asked in fascination.

"Not exactly," Dumbledore cut in. "An animagus turns into the creature that most resembles the wizard's innate personality."

"That explains it," Carter mumbled.

"How so?" MacCready asked. Edgar had to agree. Nothing, he thought, explained how Harry could transform into that particular creature.

"It explains why he said flying was easy," Carter answered. "He really can fly and not just on a broom."

Edgar looked at Dumbledore and saw that the wizard was watching each of the Muggles there quite closely and when Dumbledore took a seat at the conference table, Edgar followed suit immediately. Bentley looked utterly perplexed and objected when Ginny sat down beside them.

"Look," Bentley said, "I don't understand what just happened here and I'm not sure I like it. I mean, I'm glad you're all right, Carter, but this magic stuff, here, it's got to stop. I thought we're keeping this quiet."

"We are," Dumbledore answered. "In fact, as of today, Harry will no longer be working here."

"Now wait," Bentley objected again. "That's not what I meant. He hasn't quit. And I'm not firing him. Looks like he needs a bit of rest, a few days off maybe, but we've got an agreement, Minister Macmillan and me. Not to mention the Prime Minister. He's got an interest in Potter here, too." Bentley carefully did not look at the bird resting on Dumbledore's shoulder and Edgar wondered whether Bentley had somehow blocked out the fact that Harry was actually sitting there, sleeping peacefully, right on the ancient wizard's shoulder.

"You may have," Dumbledore answered, "but you all conveniently forgot to include Harry in the agreement. He's done more than his share, for seventeen years, when he could just as well have refused."

Bentley looked outraged and he stared at Dumbledore with all the force of his considerable personality. "Potter is employed here of his own choice and he remains so until he resigns or I fire him. And it so happens I won't accept his resignation even if he submits it as he's a vital and necessary member of one of our most important security teams. I haven't heard him saying he quits."

Edgar lifted his brows at that as he seemed to recall that Harry had attempted to resign some weeks before until the Minister of Magic had maneuvered him into returning. It was Ginny, however, who spoke next.

"Professor Dumbledore is right. Harry has given everything he had for you and more and you haven't appreciated it one damn bit. You've had him working here full time at the same time he was elsewhere, working undercover, and then officially as Headmaster. He's exhausted himself and bled himself dry for you and it has to end."

"Now wait a minute," Bentley said. "We expect the same of every officer."

"Not every officer is turning back the clock so he can work a full day here after working a full day elsewhere on the same investigation," Ginny said dryly. "It's a wonder he hasn't broken down completely."

"What are you talking about?" Bentley asked.

But Edgar understood then how Harry had managed to be at Hogwarts and at the office at the same time. "He's been using a time turner?" he asked. "Doing entire days over again?"

Ginny nodded and Dumbledore looked pensive as he added, "I gave it to him for emergencies, never thinking he'd use it so regularly. Doing time over again is a strain when it's merely a matter of an hour or two, here and there. It's not surprising he's been having nightmares and trouble sleeping. The amount of time he's forced himself to stay awake has interfered with his normal sleeping patterns. It has to stop, and therefore, he will stop working here."

"Perhaps you should wake him up and let him choose," MacCready said, giving the bird a fond look. Edgar was struck then at how far the Muggles had come that they wanted Harry to stay and work with them no matter how extraordinary and terrifying to them his use of magic must be.

"Let him sleep," Carter said. "The Alliance aren't going anywhere. They'll be back tomorrow or the next day with another plan and Harry won't refuse to respond when they are." He stared at them all, one by one, quite defiantly as he added, "Just as we all will do when the time comes."

Bentley coughed and said, "Under the circumstances, Carter, I think you ought to have a medical review before you go back on duty." He added almost grudgingly, "and the same goes for Potter."

"If you insist on having a wizard on your team," Dumbledore interrupted, "I believe I shall serve as well as Harry."

The Muggle all gawped and Edgar only kept himself from doing so out of habitual respect for the former Headmaster.

"With all due respect, sir, I think you are well past retirement age, and Harry is one of our best officers. Not," Bentley continued sternly, "because he's a wizard. Because he's dedicated and never gives up."

Dumbledore smiled then and said, "You're quite right about that. He is one of the most loyal, brave, persevering men I have ever known. But I assure you, we wizards have no retirement age." His light blue eyes twinkled again with amusement as he added, "And I believe I have more experience working in intelligence affairs for the Crown than all of you here together."

"Nonsense," Bentley said. Then he looked worried as he realized he might have offended the wrong person. Edgar could almost hear his thoughts, his wish to speak with someone more reasonable, like Minister Macmillan.

"Actually," Edgar interjected quietly, "Professor Dumbledore has worked for the Queen since the nineteen forties and even earlier than that. I've seen his file, sir."

The argument stopped, however, as the phoenix, Harry, Edgar thought bemusedly, woke and trilled softly. He noticed that the bird's eyes were the same emerald green as the man's and he could not help smiling as the sound of the bird's song lingered in the air, infusing them all with some added strength of heart. He lifted off from Dumbledore's shoulder and took wing, and for a moment, Edgar thought he would fly right out the window. Instead, the form blurred and changed and Harry stood there again looking rather tired still; but all the gray shadows of exhaustion were gone and he seemed quite calm and ordinary as he said, "All right, Johnny?"

Carter nodded wordlessly, but Harry did not seem to find that sufficient assurance, and he asked again, "You're sure?"

"Yeah," Carter answered. "thanks to .."

He was no doubt, going to say you, Harry, but Harry's glance had fallen on the cup in Brittany's hand, in which a few scattered moonflowers still floated in the pearly pink nectar.

"You did it, then!" Harry exclaimed. Brittany shook her head, denying it, but Harry's gaze returned from the cup to Carter's grave face and he asked more somberly, "So, what did they want?"

Carter frowned and his blue eyes grew dark and shadowed. "They wanted to know where Arthur's sword is. The same old thing, you know." He paused and said, "I told them it was gone out of their reach and no one could ever find it, but they didn't want to believe me. Not at first, anyway."

"And ..." Harry said encouragingly.

"And," Carter answered, "they wanted you. They wanted to know how to kill you. They wanted me to do the job for them, when you came for me. They knew you would."

Harry nodded, cutting off whatever Carter had been going to say about that, and he said calmly, with absolute certainty, "They couldn't make you, though. I expect your grandmum's blood makes you more resistant to things like the Imperius curse.

"They'll still be after you, Harry," Carter replied. "It's the one thing Hayden and the Death Eaters were in total agreement on - they want you dead."

Harry shrugged. "Tell me something new. It may even have its uses. If it comes down to it, I'll challenge the whole lot of them and you can swoop down and arrest them all when they come for me."

"You will not!" Bentley interrupted.

Dumbledore smiled slightly and nodded approvingly at the Head. "I agree," he said.

Harry stared at Dumbledore and started to object, but the old wizard went on, "You need rest and you will not throw yourself into needless danger when there are other means of trapping them."

"I haven't seen them working," Harry answered stiffly. "It's been months since they escaped and they've murdered too many people. Where are we? What have we accomplished? They're still out there and their next attack will probably be worse than any we've seen yet."

Dumbledore was not swayed. He held his hand out, a hand which was thin and shook slightly with age or illness, and said, "I'd like my watch back, please."

Harry looked as though he'd refuse, but he removed the watch - a wonderful thing with golden sands swirling through the face inside a dial of moons and stars -and handed it over to Dumbledore with the mournful look of a child deprived of its favorite toy.

"I'll never get everything done," he muttered.

"Quite true," Dumbledore answered. "No one ever does. But at least you won't drive yourself into a complete breakdown either."

"I'm perfectly fine," Harry replied.

Dumbledore rose a bit unsteadily, and said to Brittany, "Might I borrow that?" and he bowed slightly, a grave courtesy, when she handed it over.

"Drink it," Dumbledore ordered Harry.

Edgar was sure Harry would object, except that Ginny said softly, "Please."

Harry looked at Carter, who said, "I'm in better shape than you are just now." Edgar could not tell whether Harry felt embarrassed at being dosed in front of everyone there, including the Muggles, or whether he genuinely believed he needed no help at all. He took the cup, however, without further protest and took a swallow, leaving more than half the nectar in the cup. The faint shadows cleared from his face, so that he looked once more impossibly young. Then he looked at Dumbledore challengingly and said, "Now you. You need it more than I do."

Dumbledore sighed and said serenely, "Nothing can cure old age, Harry," but when Harry continued to look at him demandingly, he raised the cup and said, "Cheers!" and swallowed down the rest.

Harry was truly obsessed with time, Edgar thought, as he immediately looked at the old fashioned Muggle wall clock and said, "Damn, I'll be late." "Late for what?" Bentley asked quickly. "You haven't gone and set up another operation without team discussion, have you?" The Head was rapidly reaching his limits for absorbing the strange and the terrible for the day and Edgar hoped that Harry had the sense to recognize that.

"Not at all," Harry replied coolly. "It's the quidditch match today and I need to be there."

"Quidditch?" Edgar asked incredulously. "We've just had one of our team nearly murdered and you're worrying about a quidditch game?" Three Muggle heads swiveled from his face to Harry's.

Harry looked rather annoyed, but he answered calmly, "It's Gryffindor versus Slytherin and I am going to referee. Rumor has it there's to be a possible showdown between certain team members and I intend to make sure it never happens. No one," he added, "will dare draw a wand or hex another person if the Headmaster is right there."

"Which team members?" Ginny asked, but Edgar answered before Harry could as he had remembered the bit of gossip Fay had related from Matilda's latest letter. "Your son, apparently."

"Exactly," Harry said. "James, I am told, and Narcissus Malfoy. Some things never change," he muttered at the end.

"Malfoy?" MacCready jumped in unexpectedly. "I thought he's one of those men who run with Hayden."

"His grandson," Harry explained. The green eyes darkened with some bitter remembrance as he continued, "I went to school with Lucius Malfoy's son. Narcissus is his son, Lucius' grandson, and apparently, he gets along with James even less than I did with Draco."

"I thought it was Sirius," Edgar said without thinking.

Harry stared at him a moment and asked, "How do you know that?"

"Matilda," Edgar replied. He felt a bit uncomfortable as the Muggles all looked at him with renewed curiosity. They all knew his daughter's name perfectly well, but he had never particularly mentioned that his only daughter was a witch and went to Hogwarts.

At Harry's stare, he continued, "She mentioned it in a letter to Fay, and Fay said something to me."

"Matilda wrote to Fay about James- no, Sirius, having a fight with Narcissus Malfoy?"

"They both have," Edgar clarified, feeling like he had stepped into a bog mined with traps.

"And why ...?" Harry had started to ask why Matilda would bother to write home about that at all, but Ginny interrupted, looking rather amused. "Well, she's dating James, isn't she? Only first she was dating Sirius and the two of them had a fight about it. They seem to have gotten over that though, and they are in complete agreement about Malfoy being as evil as his grandfather."

The amusement had passed from her face as quickly as it came only Edgar had no time to worry about whether she was more worried about Lucius Malfoy's grandson or about the two boys' disagreement over Matilda as Harry cut back in, looking rather sheepish and peculiarly, intimidated.

"You don't mind, do you?" Harry asked Edgar. "I mean, erm, I'll have a talk with James, if you like."

Edgar could not think of thing to say for a moment. He could not possibly tell Harry, whom he regarded as something close to a son, that the thought of any boy dating his daughter made him uneasy. Nor could he say that if it had to be one of the two, he was just as glad it was James and not Sirius, who in all likelihood was the son of his family's murderer. That was something no one could mention to Harry, for he regarded Sirius as entirely his own and seemed to have made himself forget that the boy had ever been anything else.

Abruptly, the thought of Harry trying to have a fatherly talk with James made Edgar terribly amused. He supposed it was because Harry still looked so young himself. In any case, he managed a quite creditable calm when he answered, "I shouldn't worry about it. Matilda knows her own mind and is perfectly capable of taking care of herself -- just like her mother."

Harry's eyes widened and Edgar was further amused as he had noted that Harry had always remained just a bit in awe of Fay, a vestige he supposed of the time they had arrested Harry and taken him to the Yard for questioning. Flushing just a bit, Harry turned to Ginny and said, "You knew?"

"Well, Lily told me," Ginny replied. Flaring up at Harry's accusing look, she said, "I'd have mentioned it to you if you weren't so busy all the time."

Which, of course, merely served to remind all of them of the reason Harry was so busy; and to remind Harry of his present difficulty.

"Right," he said decisively. "I'll be off then, but I'll be back tomorrow," he added defiantly. "We need a plan of action now that we've flushed out and cut off the Alliance's and the Death Eater's funding sources. We need to go after them before they decide to retaliate with an even bigger attack than ever." He glanced at the clock again and shook his head. "Ten minutes to match time," he muttered.

"How can you possibly make it?" Bentley asked. "It took hours to get to that school even flying."

Harry merely shook his head and moved toward the still empty space where the window had been. Smiling with sudden hilarity, he answered, "It's magic." He leapt unexpectedly, in an astonishing blur, straight for the window, and all of them there except for Ginny and Dumbledore gasped as he did for the window, after all, was some fifteen stories up. However, the blurring figure transformed once more into the swan-like crimson bird, and it sped out the window in a streak of fire, soaring high into the blue sky and swooping and circling in what must have been the sheer joy of flight before vanishing in a single flare of gold. Edgar shook his head in awe and picked up the single golden feather that had fallen in the bird's wake. It was oddly warm and seemed to radiate energy -- the energy of magic, he knew.

As the Muggles all stared after the phoenix's flight, Dumbledore raised his wand and said, "Obliviate!"

Edgar sighed with relief. Some things, he thought, should truly be kept secret, and this was one of them.

Harry transformed in the headmaster's chambers and stopped only to collect his broom before making his way out of the Castle to the quidditch pitch. The stands were filling up, but the teams had not yet assembled. Ignoring the double takes of passing students, who must have been surprised to see the headmaster carrying his broom, Harry looked for Professor McGonagall and Snape to let them know what he had decided. He also kept an eye out for James and Sirius, but he did not see them among the swirling crowd of students.

The air was chilly and Harry was already regretting not having stopped for his jacket and a cup of coffee. He forgot his discomfort, however, when he bumped into Professor McGonagall. Her mouth was set in a thin line and her eyes were at their beadiest.

"Whatever are you doing with that broom?" she asked, seeming to forget that Harry was no longer a student and was actually her superior as Headmaster.

"I was planning on being the referee," he answered calmly.

"Professor Snape has already told me he will referee," McGonagall replied. She appeared both annoyed and disconcerted when Harry raised his eyebrows and retorted, "I'd rather he didn't. Especially as there may be trouble between the teams today."

"That may be," McGonagall answered, "but the Headmaster should not step in unless it is truly necessary." She hesitated and added, "And Professor Snape may think you are interfering only because, well -"

"Because my sons are involved," Harry finished. "I know they are," he said, "and I think they are likely to take any discipline I dish out better than what Professor Snape does." He knew this had been a bit blunt and might be seen as taking advantage of his position, but he really did not care just then. "Look," he added, "I mean to speak to James and Sirius before the game starts and warn them off making trouble."

McGonagall gave him one of those looks, which even now had the power to make him cringe just a little. "I don't recall you ever listening when you were warned not to make trouble."

"I did not go looking for trouble," Harry started to say, but then he cut off and grinned sheepishly at the Professor. "All right, sometimes I did make trouble. It doesn't mean I can't learn from my own mistakes."

"Well, the thing is," McGonagall answered, "Professor Snape has already called the children into his office to discuss the matter." At his look, she elaborated, "All three of yours, since they are all on the teams, and Narcissus Malfoy as well."

No wonder, Harry thought, McGonagall was annoyed. She must have felt that Snape had tread on her territory by calling in James and Lily as well as Sirius and Malfoy. He considered only briefly before turning back to the Castle. "I think we'd better have a word as well," he said quietly. He knew he was being irrational, that he was blaming Snape for having carried out his own instructions, but he could not help feeling horrified at the extent of the damage done to Carter and he really did not want his children being subjected to Snape's ill humor and continued grudge.

The dungeon corridors were deserted as most of the students had already gone to the quidditch pitch to wait for the game to start. The torches cast light in pools every several yards, but in between the spaces seemed unusually dark. The door to Snape's office was slightly ajar and Harry felt a prickle of apprehension as he approached. He supposed it was because he could never go into that office without the recollection of the detentions he had done there, and more unpleasantly, of the Occlumency lessons he had been forced to endure, his mind being savaged over and over by a person who loathed him, his most humiliating moments and terrors viewed by the least sympathetic observer.

Silence reigned; the absence of sound plucked at his nerves, more jangling than voices raised in argument could ever be. He pushed open the office door wondering why James, at least, was not protesting loudly whatever sanctions Snape proposed. Beside him, Professor McGonagall gasped loudly as the door opened on the wreckage of the office. Shards of glass from shattered bottles coated the floor, desk and walls, and puddles of liquid from the preservatives Snape used were filled with dead beetles, roaches, red poppies, sprigs of lemongrass, and all over, streaks of brownish red were spattered.

The light from the fire place glittered on all the glass and pooled liquid, but no light glittered in the cold black eyes of the Potions Master, nor would any ever again, not in anger or fear, loathing or pleasure. Snape's body hung from a hook and his face had been branded with the triple A sign of the Alliance on one cheek and with the Dark Mark on the other. He had been hung after death, Harry noted in shock as none of the signs of strangulation were there. Without the brands, in fact, his face would have been simply expressionless and perhaps just a little surprised. The blood still dripped, but sluggishly, from the truncated limb where his right hand had been cut off. Harry shuddered as he saw that the hand rested on the desk beside the Quidditch Cup, its fingers open to create a shallow receptacle, a gruesome message box in which a single piece of parchment rested. He shivered again as he realized that none of his children were there.

With a shaking hand, Harry plucked the note from the dead hand and as its meaning became clear, a sound escaped him, involuntarily, a sigh of terror that exceeded any he had ever breathed before.

"What is it?" Professor McGonagall asked. Her voice shook and cracked, with age, and with horror.

Harry shook his head, frozen momentarily and incapable of reply. The professor slid the note from his nerveless fingers and read:

This is what happens to traitors, Potter. This is what will happen to your children unless you deliver the Sword of Gryffindor to me at once. The Quidditch cup has been changed into a portkey to take you to the place for the exchange. Come alone or they die.

The note was signed simply, The King Hereafter.

With a howl, Harry ran for the Headmaster's office, ignoring Professor McGonagall's admonitions. He had never moved so fast in his entire life, taking every shortcut, racing up stairs three and four at a time, and returning the way he had come with the Sword dragging behind him, its glory a weight he couldn't wait to shed. He hurtled back into the dungeon office and seized the quidditch cup without even noticing the wreckage, though the dead man's dark eyes now seemed to hold some forbidden knowledge, a warning Harry had no time to decipher.

The howl of wind and color and the eerie sensation of being jerked by one's navel resolved into a strange landscape of megalithic pillars circling an ancient, empty lakebed as the portkey reached its destination, slamming Harry into the very middle of the circle. With the quick reflexes that had always been his saving grace, Harry rolled up and drew his sword all at once. Recognition came and with it a renewed feeling of terror as he saw that he was in that place they called Merlin's Cup, the place where the Death Eaters had tried seventeen years before to bring Voldemort's dead soul back to possess a mortal infant and to be reborn once more. Unlike that dark night, however, the sky was a clear blue and the place had a wild and windswept beauty that would have induced awe at any other time.

Each of the three children was held at wand point and bound to one of the tall stone pillars. Hayden was there and Lucius Malfoy. But the presence that startled Harry was that of Narcissus Malfoy, not held as a prisoner, but clearly one of the conspirators. It was Narcissus who held his wand on Sirius.

"Surrender the Sword," Hayden commanded, "or, as you see…" With an actor's gesture, Hayden pointed to Harry's bound children, leaving the threat unspoken.

Harry made a move to throw down the sword, yet some lingering spark of curiosity made him say, "I don't know what you want with it, anyway. It's not as if it's Arthur's sword and you could claim the throne with it."

"The Muggles won't know that," Hayden answered. "It's a sword of power, all they will see is the magic when I light it, and how I draw it from the fire unharmed." He smiled, his chilly blue eyes taking on a softness peculiarly like the look of a lover about to embrace his beloved. "Throw it down, then," he said, "or are you truly so bent on keeping your reputation as the greatest wizard, the Boy Who Lived, that you will keep your glory and watch your children die?"

"I don't give a damn for my reputation," Harry said furiously, "and I'm not the greatest wizard - that's always been Dumbledore. Release my children and you'll have the sword, wizard's word on it."

"Foolish boy," Lucius Malfoy said suddenly. "That's all you are still - a foolish boy. Do you really think we'll release them until we have what we want? Surrender the sword and be sure to remove all the protections that keep another from using it first."

Harry glared at Malfoy with hatred. His formerly blond hair hung long and white and his face was scored with a bitter unhappiness. But Harry could not help noting that the glance he gave Hayden was not much friendlier than the one he had for Harry.

"And what then?" Harry asked. "You bow to him, like you did to Voldemort? Is he your new Dark Lord?"

"I will be King," Hayden cut in. "The first true and pure King since the Normans invaded."

Harry barely restrained a snort of derision. The man was so obsessed by his fantasy that nothing could pierce the illusion he had constructed. He wondered, too, just how much longer Malfoy would tolerate him - especially since his financial resources had been cut. He realized, however, that Hayden was entirely capable of murdering his children just to prove his power, to demonstrate that he could. Harry drew his hand down the long length of the silver blade that had served him so well, removing every protection that would prevent another from wielding it, and he tossed it down without a shred of regret. A lightning quick glance at his children's pale faces told him they were not as happy with his decision as he was. James shook his head as though they were all doomed now and Sirius looked at him with something close to anger. They'll kill you now, his blue eyes said, though he did not voice the thought. Harry had little doubt that they would, but that meant nothing if his children were freed and saved.

Not one of the men on the other side moved to pick up the sword. Harry took a step forward, wanting to close the distance between himself and his children. That was important, he thought, to be near them, near enough, if necessary.

"Stay back," Hayden ordered.

Harry stopped and said, "Let them go now. I've done what you said. I've kept my word."

"Pick it up," Hayden ordered Malfoy. The Death Eater's pale grey eyes narrowed in anger at the order, and instead of reaching for the sword himself, he jerked his head at Narcissus and said, "Get it, Narcissus."

The boy, who looked enough like Lucius to be his younger twin, stepped away from Sirius and pounced on the sword, grasping it greedily. He flourished it smoothly, moving through the first several movements of their daily warm-ups. Then he saluted Harry, an ironic, disrespectful gesture, and pointed the sword straight at him, as if to say, death waits. Draco, he thought, had never been that free of fear or of all moral restraint.

Harry sought to keep his calmest, most neutral expression; he would not give them the satisfaction of seeing his fear. He took another step toward the children, and again, Hayden said, "Stay back!"

"He's disarmed," Narcissus said. "What can he do, weaponless and at our mercy? I say, kill them all and be rid of them. No more Gryffindors and no more heirs of the Dark Lord all in one go."

Ice filled his veins and Harry prayed that the children had not understood that reference. Desperately, almost without volition, he took another step forward, and for the third time, Hayden shouted, "Stay back!" He even gestured at the two Malfoy's and at the other men, wizards, perhaps, from the Continent, to move back.

"What can he do?" Hayden echoed. "Plenty and he needs no magic to do it. He is himself a weapon, trained by the Security Services. He's quite capable of killing with his bare hands alone, which you would know if you had the least concept of what Muggles can do. It is a terrible error for wizards to disregard Muggle tactics. There's a reason they rule the world now and not wizards."

"Why bother with wizards, then," Narcissus sneered, "if you are so enamored of Muggles? Go rule them, if you can, and leave the wizard world to us."

Lucius Malfoy made a gesture as thought to hush the boy, but it was stopped, useless as Hayden replied grandly, "I will rule both worlds. Now, release Potter's children; we will keep our word."

Hardly daring to believe it could be so easy, Harry watched eagerly as Narcissus shrugged and slashed the ropes binding James and Lily. For a moment, the sword point hovered right at James's neck; but it lifted, the expression in Narcissus's eyes a promise of death to come. With terror, Harry saw a sudden resolution in James' eyes, a calculation that he could take the sword and do something against his enemy, one, Harry knew, that failed to take into account the other drawn wands. "Come," he said, and they ran to him, obeying their parent's command.

Narcissus, however, had not released Sirius. "I want all of my children," Harry demanded. He turned to Hayden, and added, "You gave your word. You said you keep your word. If you want to be King, your word is everything. Let my son go!"

Sirius's face was colorless now and his eyes, those pale eyes that were his godfather's, moved from Harry, to Hayden, to Narcissus, questions and doubts blossoming in an instant.

Unexpectedly, Lucius Malfoy replied. "We have given you back your children. The other, we shall keep."

"Sirius is mine," Harry responded savagely. He moved forward again, but Narcissus raised the sword and lit it.

"I don't see why you want him," Narcissus said coldly. "Why would you want the Dark Lord's bastard anyway?"

The look of doubt on Sirius's face had given way to horror. He stared at Harry in disbelief and with a betrayal so profound that Harry cried out again, "Sirius is my son. Release him now!"

"Of course, he's not," Lucius Malfoy said. "You weren't even out of school when he was born. I was there, at his birth. My wife Narcissa died bearing him."

A silence settled on the ancient circle. A lone songbird sang a single liquid note, then ceased, and Harry thought his heart might crack at the sight of Sirius's desperate, denying shudder when Lucius continued, "I never did understand how even you, Potter, as noble and foolish as you are, could take your enemy's child in and claim him as your own."

"It's not true," Sirius said, but his face broke as Narcissus laughed.

"I claimed him," Harry said finally, "he was an infant, alone and abandoned, and I claimed him."

"Not abandoned," Lucius Malfoy spat suddenly. "I put him there, safe, while Bellatrix took the other babe to be the bait for you. I knew you'd show, I knew Pansy had got Draco to send you that owl, summoning you there, I knew the Dark Lord would possess you, rather than either of the babes, and I was right. How could I know you would risk your life, your earthly existence to dispossess him? How could I know you'd find him - my son - who my wife died bearing, and that you'd take him and adopt him as your own? He's mine, and he will stay with me."

"What are you saying?" Narcissus interrupted. "He's the Dark Lord's bastard. The others all told me that. Goyle and Crabbe, they told me."

"The Dark Lord could not have created a child," Lucius Malfoy answered. But his words were directed at Harry, not Narcissus. "He possessed a created body, a golem, he could not have been fertile, not even with magic as great as his. The boy is my son. He has my wife's eyes. I will make him my heir and teach him everything I know. He is a pureblood, of an ancient line, my only living son."

"No," Harry said. "Sirius is mine. I named him. I raised him. He is fine and gentle and clean of any of your dark wizardry." He turned once more to Hayden and repeated, "Let my son go as you promised."

"He is not yours, according to Lucius," Hayden responded, "and I am not disposed to let a child of the Dark Lord live to challenge my rule."

At his word, and without waiting for a response from Lucius, Narcissus moved toward Sirius and struck at him with the Sword of Gryffindor. As though he had known it would come to this all along, Harry flung himself forward, reaching for the Sword and throwing himself in front of his son. The sword pierced his side and darkness overtook him.

* * *

The world seemed to have contracted into a tiny space and time had slowed, so that James felt separated from the reality in which Narcissus Malfoy thrust the glowing Sword of Gryffindor at Sirius' heart and his Dad threw himself in front of Sirius and at Malfoy so fast he could almost have apparated. He cried out at the very same moment that Lily screamed, their voices sounding as one. The Sword pierced his Dad's side and blood sprayed out in a scarlet arc. He had the strange notion that the blood was composed of fire, not liquid, for, even as his Dad fell, a fiery light burst back from the wound, and the Sword's light swept back up its hilt, along Malfoy's hand and arm, and flung Malfoy back. The Sword dropped from his hand and landed on the ground near his Dad, still glowing. The Death Eaters and Hayden backed away from Narcissus and the Sword and Dad in terror; all except for Lucius Malfoy, who knelt and touched his dead grandson with a trembling hand.

Sure that his father must be dead, James sprang forward without thinking and seized the still glowing Sword. The Sword seemed to sound a funny song, one that gave him encouragement; yet it seemed to him the Sword could only accept him if his Dad were truly dead. He raised the Sword and pointed it at the Death Eaters and Hayden, but no words could escape the constriction in his throat and heart. They all disapparated, leaving only Lucius Malfoy behind; but as he remained kneeling by his dead grandson's side, James concluded he did not pose a threat just then. Grief and fury consumed him and he lifted the Sword, not quite sure what he would do. Narcissus, after all, was dead.

A small sound drew his attention back to Sirius, who remained bound to one of the great rocks. His brother's face was as he had never seen it before. The pale blue-grey eyes were so dilated they seemed almost black and James almost feared to release him from his bonds. Had James not heard his Dad admit to having found Sirius and having adopted him, James would have been sure Malfoy's accusations about Sirius's true birth were false and generated by his pathological hatred of Sirius. Yet even knowing what he knew, James could not bear the sorrow and horror on his brother's face, and he turned away from the crouching Death Eater to cut his brother's bonds.

Sirius tore himself from his bonds and drew his wand. His hand shook violently and James thought disbelievingly that Sirius would attack him. Instead, Sirius pointed the wand at the Death Eater and said, "You lied! Tell me the truth, tell me you lied!"

The white head lifted and pale grey eyes locked on Sirius's face. A strange, bitter hope bloomed in the dead eyes and the creased face took on the ghost of its former beauty.

"I did not lie," Lucius Malfoy said quietly. "You have my wife's eyes. Hers were that very color."

"No," Sirius responded. James was astonished that he had replied quite calmly. As though the discussion had become an academic one, the kind in which Sirius so excelled.

"No," Sirius repeated, "My eyes are just like my father's godfather whom he named me after. Mum's family is related to his - Sirius Black's."

"An oddity of inheritance," Lucius Malfoy acknowledged bleakly. "Sirius Black was my wife's cousin. She was a Black, Narcissa Black, before she married me. I can see why Potter would name you for Black. You do look a great deal like him."

The temporary calm was swept from Sirius's face by the return of horror, now combined with a desperate self-loathing.

"Who was my father then?" he demanded harshly. "Is it true he was the Dark Lord?" When Malfoy did not immediately respond, he added, "I'll have the truth, and I'll know if you lie."

A flicker of fear sped over the Death Eater's countenance and the moment of hope fled. "He may have been," Malfoy whispered, "but I believe it more likely you are mine."

Sirius laughed suddenly, a laugh so devoid of humor and joy and so full of hatred and despair that James could only stare, and Lily, who had watched the conversation in the same stunned silence cried out, "Don't!" The laugh was cut off abruptly as Sirius stared at Lily and then at his own hands and at the wand in it. "Does it matter?" he asked. "Either way, I am tainted, the son of a murderer many times over, not fit for anything." Then he turned and ran, weaving around the stone megaliths with no apparent purpose or destination, and Lily ran after. Before she could reach him though, he stopped and disapparated; and James knew with a certainty that Sirius had to be stopped before he could harm anyone else, or most likely, himself. He drew in a breath and considered how he might return to Hogwarts as quickly as possible- even if it meant apparating without a license - for that was surely where Sirius would go. A sound, however, startled him: his own name spoken in his father's voice.

James rushed to his Dad's side and he saw that the green eyes were open. A new grief filled him when he saw the amount of blood drenching the thin t-shirt and staining the comfortable old jeans. He dropped the Sword and clasped his Dad's hand and said, "Hang on, Dad. We'll get help right away." "You must help Sirius," his Dad replied. He took a breath with difficulty and added, "Nothing is more important. You have to remind him who he is … that he is his own person … and your brother. Tell him he is still loved … and we don't care about his parentage."

The green eyes closed again, and were it not for the slow and difficult rise and fall of the thin chest, James would have been sure that death had finally taken him. He looked up at Lily and saw that her green eyes, the same as his father's, were filled with tears. "You go," he told her. And when she shook her head and knelt beside their father, he said almost angrily, "You have to go. You're the only one Sirius will listen to just now. He loves you better than anyone except Dad. You have to stop him."

"But Dad…" she protested.

"I'll take care of Dad," he said. "I'll make sure he doesn't die."

He could not imagine why she would believe that, but she nodded and disapparated with a pop just as he was about to remind her that she could use the quidditch cup to return. Not knowing why, James picked up the Sword of Gryffindor and thought, if only the Sword could heal instead of kill. He touched his dad's face with the other hand and felt with renewed terror that it was so very cold. He would have to use the port key himself to get his Dad back to Hogwarts and hope that Madam Pomfrey could help. His mind shrank at the thought of returning back to Snape's office where the Potions professor's body hung. The memory of Hayden's face as he had murdered Snape, calling him traitor, nearly undid him then. There was a grim satisfaction in the thought that Hayden had been denied the Sword, a satisfaction he grabbed hold of to strengthen him. The Sword seemed to ring with that same sound again, only it was much louder, a trill that fed his heart and made him feel much the same as when his Dad had tucked him in at night when he was small.

The trill sounded again and he looked up in wonder at the bright crimson bird which had settled on his Dad's shoulder and was weeping pearly tears on the hole in his side.

* * *

In all my life, never did the balance of my reason slip so entirely out of my grasp as it did on that terrible day. I would not, could not believe that anyone but Harry Potter was my father; I could not help but know that it was so. The Dark Lord was my father; or perhaps Lucius Malfoy was my father. The truth was simply a question of which murderer fathered me, and so not one I desired to know. And yet, in the farthest reaches of my heart, below thought, beyond any rationality, I needed to know.

My disordered senses could hardly register the flash of the great Sword coming at me, nor the swift fury of movement that took my beloved and loathed parent in front of me, nor the shocking flare of blood and light that rushed from the wound in Dad's side (for so I still thought of him), striking my nemesis and killing him instantly. I hardly noted his identity when James cut my bonds, and so great was my horror and despair that I drew my wand, and for a moment, I stood right on the brink of murdering him and everyone else living in my path. Yet even as the thought emerged, a greater despair seized me, as I felt, saw within myself my kinship with my murdering parent. A terrible laugh spewed from my throat, one that died nearly as soon as it was born as my beloved Lily cried out and I knew with certainty that I should never know joy or laughter again because the evil that was in me made me unfit for her and made her even more forbidden to me than I had previously understood.

I ran then, from the sight of her fearful green eyes; from the eyes that were the duplicate of the ones that I was sure now were devoid of light and life. And I could not tell which was greater: the sorrow that the only father I had known was dead; or the fury that he had died, depriving me of the chance to revenge myself upon him for a lifetime of lies. It is true, that I stood on the edge of madness that day, perhaps even succumbed to it entirely for some brief while. So I ran through the ancient megaliths, which had in some ancient past seen other blood spilled in other sacrifices, and then fled for the only place that I now could call home with any justification - Hogwarts.

I apparated just outside the gates and sped through them, careering my way past students still milling about the Quidditch pitch, ignoring the calls of teachers and friends, whose voices struck me as insensibly as the buzzing of insects. I flung myself upstairs, jumping trick steps without thought, switching from corridor to corridor with each moving staircase, always moving up and up, always away from the dungeon dormitory I had slept in for seven years, never noting who I passed nor staying for the reaching hands that sought to help or slow my desperate progress, until, at last, I reached the topmost tower in the Castle and stood looking down from the ramparts, intending to fling myself into space and to seek that utter dissolution that I saw as the only answer to my present torment.

I was not dizzy at all despite the height. I only turned back from the edge because Lily seized my arm and I could not have borne to take her with me, there into my own dark night.

Lily's green eyes were filled with tears, but her voice was full of anger, not fear. "How could you?" she cried. "Don't you dare …don't you dare throw your life away now, when it cost so much to save!" I stepped away from the edge and seized her arm in a brutal grip. "A cost too great for so worthless a thing," I replied coldly. "What do you care, why should you care, now that you know what I am, who I am?"

"You are my brother, Sirius," she answered. "Nothing has changed. Nothing."

"I am NOT your brother!" I roared then; and all the full fury of my rage and despair and horror on account of THE LIE swept through me and I shook her and did the one thing I felt at that moment was the worst, most terrible, most forbidden thing I could do short of murder: I kissed her. You may think it romantic; but it had nothing to do with love and everything to do with shame and the desire to make her feel the same shame and rage as I did and a peculiar intuition that I might somehow become less tainted if only I could get close enough to her purity to absorb it.

Shock, I suppose, prevented her immediate reaction. This was followed, indeed, by outrage for she struggled against my grip, quite unsuccessfully, until I stopped only for air to breathe. Not surprisingly, she slapped me the moment I gave over. Were I a better man, I suppose, I would have released her then and begged her pardon and then thrown myself off the ramparts as I had intended. The evil rage that had seized me and the promptings of my long suppressed desire drove me to repeat the offense and I kissed her once more, furiously, desperately, as though I might, somehow gain both revenge and redemption all in one. My feelings when she ceased to struggle and suddenly returned my embrace cannot be named. Relief, exhilaration, excitement, a savage satisfaction, joy, one succeeding the other, all thoroughly confused. And something unnamable, unknowable - a strange grace. How long we would have continued so, or how far our embraces would have led will never be known as a sound penetrated my consciousness, a sound I had never thought to hear again in life, Dad's voice.

So far in that state of wildness had I gone that I did not understand his words, if he even spoke any. We sprang apart, and for an instant I felt as I had as a child when we had been caught in some small prank. Instantly, this reaction was supplanted by joy that he was alive, and then, with the reminder of reality - THE LIE - anger rose in me again, reminding me of my evil genesis and his deception.

He was ghostly pale and the bright sunlight seemed to shine through him. I fancied that the man standing there was after all a ghost, or something else inhuman - - unlike a ghost, he was not silvery pale. Indeed, his torn t-shirt and jeans were sodden with crimson blood; his untidy hair was black as any raven's wing; and his eyes, which now looked on me most accusingly, were brightest emerald green.

"How could you?" he whispered. "Your sister!" he added.

I started to shake again, though whether with fury or shame or fear I could not tell.

"She is no sister of mine," I shouted, "and you - you are no father of mine! What have you to say to me, when you LIED, all these years." I wept and turned once more toward the rampart, not sure what I would do. I could not look on his face nor at all those accusing eyes, knowing eyes, eyes that saw my true nature revealed, a son of evil, indelibly stained with my real father's darkness.

"I don't know what to say," he replied, "except - I am sorry."

I swung back around, so angry I came quite close to striking him, though I knew he must still be in danger of his life, despite his astonishing survival. "Sorry!" I echoed. "Sorry! What difference does that make? Who cares if you're sorry?" I snarled. "What d'you think it's like, to know this, to have to live with this, to know I'm so filthy you can't stand the sight of me touching one I love? You should have left me to die or drowned me. Why didn't you tell me the truth at least?" I felt utterly bewildered, most of all, I suppose, because I had always believed, been certain, that Dad was a most truthful person; true, in fact, to his very core.

"Why should I ever listen to you again?" I asked and I was certain in my own mind that I never would so great was my sense of betrayal.

Others had come up behind Dad, though I had taken no note of them. My last comment was too much, I suppose, for James, who stepped forward and pointed the Sword of Gryffindor at me.

"He saved your life, you ... you bastard!"

"Oh, I am that," I said hotly, "You Know Who's, and it's only too bad he bothered, isn't it? Better I had never been born," I added.

"Don't say that!" Dad shouted. "Never say that!" He pushed James back and took a step toward me. "I do know how you feel," Dad continued, "better than you know. I know exactly how you feel, because every bit of it is what I've felt about myself."

This, I felt, was another lie, a false attempt at empathy. I could not fathom why he had done what he had done, not any of it. "Liar," I snarled. Oh, it is true, I acted despicably. He had saved my life twice over and I wished he had not. "You - you're the great Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. You're the greatest living wizard, the hero who defeated the Dark Lord. What would you know about how I feel? How could you know what it's like to feel so -"

I stopped there as I could not begin to name how I truly felt, the depth of self-loathing, the fear that deep down I might be one step away from becoming the murderer, the evil demon that my real father had been.

"Unclean," he said, finishing my thought.

"Unfit for human company. Like all the world is looking at you and waiting for you to do something awful. Oh, yeah," Harry said painfully, "I know exactly how you feel, and more. Because you've never done anything in your life, Sirius, to warrant that. But I have."

He stared at Sirius' tormented face and wondered how on earth he could ever have averted this moment. Had it always been waiting to happen, or was it like all the other events that had flowed from the Prophecy, the result of so many choices, each taken one by one, but leading, inevitably, to the next and the next. He forced out of his mind the sheer fury he had felt on seeing that strange embrace, and focused every bit of his being on reaching the boy who stood on a precipice so shaky that Harry could not see how he could yet be saved.

Harry held out his hands, which were stained with his own blood; he could not quite control their trembling and did not know whether he meant the gesture as a plea or as a prayer; yet their condition represented a terrible truth to him.

"When Voldemort was alive," he said, "there were times I knew his thoughts and he mine. We shared an odd connection, forged by the Curse That Failed. After he got his body back..." Harry faltered there, as he had rarely talked about this to anybody, and certainly not in many, many years. But Sirius was looking at him again, so he forced himself to continue.

"There were times I was so close to him, I felt as though I was him. Times when he tortured people, times even when he killed, and I felt his evil was in me, a part of me. And when he knew and understood that connection existed, he used it to plant illusions in my mind, and I acted on them, and my actions led to my godfather's death." Harry held Sirius's eyes and ignored the movement from behind him, where Dumbledore cleared his throat as though to speak.

"I killed Voldemort," Harry said clearly. "I did it on purpose. I acted, in the end-- the last time, I challenged him -- and I caused him to do the final thing that I knew would cause his death. Some people would defend that because he was trying to kill me and I knew it. He was going to kill lots of other people and I knew it. He would have enslaved everyone, and I knew it. So I killed him. Deliberately. Whatever justifications there are, they don't matter. Because I know, my hands are bloody. I know that I have the same capability for evil that he had. I know that we all have that capability, given the right circumstances. So yes, I know exactly how you feel. Only I have reason to feel that way; whereas your feelings are born merely of imagination, because you've never done any act yet that makes you guilty, as I have."

Harry could not recall ever feeling so cold, as he saw, with despair, that he had failed to reach his son. "You have to understand, Sirius, even if you are Voldemort's son, and we don't even know that for sure, you are yourself, you make your own choices, and you don't have to become him." He stared at the blue eyes and fancied there was some doubt, some lightening of the fury and self-loathing.

"I believe you will make your own choices," he added urgently, "I believe that you are utterly different from him, because I know you as well as I knew him. I raised you. I've watched you grow and I know your heart. I know that you can never be evil like he was because I knew him from the inside, and he had no heart at all, in the end. He had completely erased from himself the ability to love. And that's not you."

Exhausted and at the end of his resources, Harry sank to one knee and whispered, "I should have told you the truth. But I hoped it would be forgotten and I'd never need to. I just wanted you to be happy. When I found you," he finished painfully, "you looked at me with Sirius's eyes, and I didn't care then who your father was. I thought you were a kind of miracle, that it was meant for me to take you, and that was why I survived."

* * *

It was time, Dumbledore thought, to stop things: there was nothing more Harry could say that would reconcile Sirius now, when the shock of the revelation was still so great; and the most likely outcome was that Harry would be broken by his grief and guilt, something Dumbledore could not abide. He moved forward and caught Harry by the elbow, lifting him to his feet, and providing badly needed support. Despite having been healed, Harry shivered, the weakness brought on by loss of blood and distress. Even knowing him as he did, Dumbledore was still surprised at Harry's final words.

"You may never speak to me again, Sirius, and I suppose I'll have to live with that. But you know, and I know, that you have made a promise that is binding. I made you the key, Sirius, and if the time comes when I call, to tell you the door must be unlocked, you will come, and I won't take no for an answer."

Surprise flitted across the boy's handsome face, and the icy anger in the blue-grey eyes was supplanted by shock, and then doubt, and then pride; and finally anger again.

"I keep my word," he answered, "I don't lie."

Harry turned away then and started to push his way past Dumbledore. Having reached his limit, however, he stumbled and went to his knees again, only this time, he continued down, and mercifully, he lost consciousness. Seeing his father go down, James lifted the sword again and made as though to attack Sirius, and Dumbledore had to shout to stop him. Lily flew to kneel by Harry and cast a look of furious reproach at Sirius, who spun away and moved toward the edge of the tower once more.

"Take your father to the hospital wing," Dumbledore ordered harshly. "Mr. Potter, Ms. Potter, Go!" He seized Sirius by the elbow, much as he had Harry, and said quite cruelly, "If you throw yourself off this tower, you will break your word, won't you?"

It took nearly all his meager strength to hold the boy when he jerked away vainly seeking the precipice, and when the slim body shuddered, and the boy wept, Dumbledore found himself astonished by the sudden swell of sorrow and sympathy and self-accusation that rose inside him. "Come, Mr. Potter," he said quietly. "There are things you ought to know that I don't think Harry can ever bring himself to tell you."

"My name is not Potter," Sirius responded. Another shudder took him, convulsive, and strong, like one that might shake someone dying of a fever or poison. "I don't know what my name is," he added.

"Ah," Dumbledore said softly, turning the boy so he could look in his eyes. "I was there at your naming. It was the first thing Harry did after he found you. He took you to the Church and interrupted the Dean and made them do the christening right then and there. Sirius Albus Neville Potter, he named you, and it's right there in the book at York Cathedral."