* * * Chapter 5: He's Back * * *

The Quidditch match went terribly. The weather had been abysmal, and by the time the dementors got to the field, Harry was about ready to fall off his broom from exhaustion in any case. Pepper-Up Potions were a lot better than caffeine or speed, but were not a substitute for sleep.

He was grateful, more than anything, that he had a better excuse for falling off of the Nimbus than that he was tired. It saved him some face in front of his teammates.

They had lost the match, but the Gryffindor Chasers were the best in the school, so the defeat had not been by much. They would be able to make it up against Slytherin and Ravenclaw, assuming that Harry thought to sleep before those matches.

As he lay in his hospital bed, Nimbus laying alongside him, he was more worried about the dementors themselves than the Quidditch Cup. There were hundreds of the things now, at least one for every student, always patrolling the grounds and the village and the forest and, every once in a while, the corridors and courtyards of the castle itself. Every time Harry walked by one, he felt faint. He was forced more than once to use Ron as a crutch as the dementors floated by, their dark hoods concealing the eyes that Harry knew were staring deep into his own. He felt like he'd been frozen from the marrow out whenever this happened.

The dementors were completely ineffectual as well: they had allowed two men to break in and muck about on Hallowe'en. It made him furious to think that the Ministry or Dumbledore or whoever was in charge of them thought that they hadn't worked simply because there hadn't been enough of them. How many had been in Azkaban? It should have been evident to anyone that Black had found a way to bypass the dementors, so how could they possibly justify unleashing more and more and more of the things upon the school?

The hospital wing was constantly full of people complaining of nausea and dizziness and blurry vision. His Paraphysiology instructors had taught them all how to cure patients with the symptoms, but Harry resolved to learn a more effective way of combating them than Professor R. J. Lupin and the Healers' suggested chocolate.

He piped up in his Paraphysiology class, a few days after his fall from the broomstick, "But, sir, isn't there a way to prevent the dementors from having such an effect?"

The instructor today was a stout little woman named Healer Egret Beckett. Out of the several healers that came around for lessons, Beckett, who primarily taught about herbal remedies, was Harry's least favorite: she was condescending and spiteful, and she assigned pointless homework. She told him, "Yes. Nothing that a third-year would be able to do, though," and continued with her lecture on chocolates.

The library was very forthcoming about dementors, and it didn't take Harry long to find exactly what he sought: the Patronus Charm.

Managing to pull it off was another thing.

Each night (for just a few hours: he was sleeping again now), Harry would sneak into some secluded alcove of the castle, map in hand, invisibility cloak on back, and attempt the spell. Each time, he did the exact wand movement, each swish perfected to within a millimeter of distance and a minute of angle. Each time, throat clear and watered, he would enunciate the spell pristinely. Each time, he thought back on when he'd found out he was a wizard, or when he'd won the House Cup first year. Each time, he could produce no more than a fog, when, if he had done it correctly, a silvery beast was supposed to erupt from his wand.

Hermione and Ron and the team had told him that Dumbledore had shot something silver at the dementors, back on the Quidditch pitch, which had caused them to disperse. Something solid had come out of Dumbledore's wand, there was no doubt. Did it take, then, someone as powerful as Dumbledore to cast the Patronus Charm? Was it a ridiculous post-post-N.E.W.T. spell that only the greatest wizards in the world could master? Or was Harry just very bad at it?

Or did he have no adequate memory? He wondered what Dumbledore had thought of when he had cast the spell. Maybe he thought back to when he'd discovered the uses of dragon blood, or when he had been made a member of the wizengamot. Perhaps he'd been married and he thought of his wife.

Harry's mental image of himself finding out he was a wizard was tempered by the presence of the Dursleys cowering in the corner, and the next thing he had learned about himself: that his parents had been killed by an evil sorcerer. When he thought of winning the House Cup in his first year, he couldn't help but remember what had happened the day before, when Ron and Harry had both been nearly killed.

After several weeks of daily practice, he progressed only from the shadow of a fog to a thick, hazy cloud, and he gave it up. He simply could not make it substantiate.

After weeks of fruitlessness with the Patronus Charm, returning again to things like the Blasting Curse and the Shielding Charm was a welcome respite, and Harry devoured those spells.

* * *

Sirius had let his target slip through his fingers. Peter Pettigrew had escaped, in rat form, through a crack in the wall.

Sirius had been terribly upset, and had run off almost before they could key their mirrors to eachother. That suited Tom, fine, however: he didn't want an audience.

Every inch he moved was a struggle. The Snake-Horcrux was so fiercely loyal... unlike the Ring, it wasn't content to let him control. It kept pushing him to do wild things – throw his soul into a rock, cast a curse on himself, or go look for Voldemort. Her personality was hard to resist, even with the combined mental force of Tom and the Ring-Horcrux.

Like Tom, she had been keenly aware, enchanted by Voldemort to be alert and awake and thoughtful, rather than dull and featureless like the Ring. Unlike Tom, she had taken a keen liking to her master – she had absolutely no resentment for him, because while Tom thought of Voldemort as one who had imprisoned him, she regarded him as the one who created her. She loved him.

His every step and breath and thought was upstream, against her raging spirit. He could not contain her and he could scarcely enforce his will. He had a few advantages: this body was his and had been created after his mental self-image. While Nagini could see herself as a snake or as a fifty-year-old Voldemort, she could not see herself as a teenager, which made it difficult for her to control the body. Also, the Ring's spirit supported Tom, and although Nagini had a powerful personality, she could not defeat them both; she made everything Tom did terribly difficult instead.

She was so powerfully against absorbing the Diadem that he could not. Tom was so worried that it would align itself with her or else create a third individuality in his mind that he did not want to absorb it. So it sat in his sack, taunting him with the knowledge that could be gained....

Tom could not sleep. His fear was that if he allowed himself to drift into the calm waters of unconsciousness, Nagini's spirit would be free to take over. So he stayed in the torrent, keeping himself awake and alert with Pepper-Up Potions, unknowingly copying his cousin, and analyzed the tomes – as well as he could against Nagini's will – of Salazar Slytherin, looking for a spell to silence raging spirits without exorcising them.

"Nothing!" Tom screamed, kicking the ancient tomes that littered the ground. "Nothing! Useless!"

For all of Salazar Slytherin's wide range of interests, he had apparently not bothered himself to write a single word on silencing spirits. As Tom's frustration mounted, the Snake-Horcrux laughed in his head, mocking his attempts. This body will be mine!, he thought – but the thought came unbidden, like a foreign voice echoing around in his head. His wand snapped up, pointing itself at his face, and words tried to escape his throat --

He clamped his frustration closed and forced himself to calm, taking deep, steady breaths. By-and-by, the wand lowered to his side, and he signed.

Slytherin had no advice. Therefore, he had to look elsewhere.

Immediately, his thoughts leaped to the Hogwarts library. But, close as it was, it was out of reach. Even down in the Chamber of Secrets, below the deepest depths of the lake, he could still feel the dementors above, floating along the water, searching. There were so many of them, now: he'd had to vacate the forest, because even his Animagus form was no longer sufficient to hide from the things for long periods of time. He only went up to find deer or possums to eat.

The Central Wizards' Archive was tempting – there was a very large branch just in Hogsmeade – but it was extremely well-fortified, even when there weren't dementors patrolling the streets. He'd just have to find something else. In the meantime, he doubled back through all of Slytherin's hand-written tomes, searching for even the slightest, vague reference. He searched for weeks.

* * *

The small, groveling creature, begging to assist, and the dark, tiny thing that had laughed and laughed and said, "Bring to me my enemy from the old times...."

The tiny creature stood up on its haunches, and looked directly into the groveler's eyes – and its eyes were red, from lid to lid, with not a hint of white or pupil to be seen, and glowing with energy and a killing intent.

And then two boys woke up, screaming in pain.

One of them just clutched his head in agony, and then slowly drifted back into unconsciousness. The other one pulled himself out of his bed and took a mirror out of a dresser drawer. He said, "Sirius Black!"

A face appeared in the mirror, gaunt and pale, dark eyes made darker by their shadows. "Tom. It's been a while. How are you?"

Tom didn't answer. He said, "I know where your friend is going, Sirius."

* * *

The next night, Sirius crouched in a bush on the outskirts of the yard, waiting in absolute silence. The house was dark, with no lights on at all, even though it was only ten o'clock. It was in a Muggle neighborhood, and the owner had apparently gone all-out making it look Mugglish: electric Christmas lights were strung from the shingles already, although they were unlit. An ancient Toyota sat in the drive with two flats, looking like it hadn't been used in a century. A stack of unread Muggle newspapers lay on the porch, and plastic gnomes and flamingos were scattered all about the dusty yard. Someone had cast Silencing Charms on all the wind chimes.

For hours, he waited, the picture of patience in the frigid November air. Although his hair was gathering frost, he stayed perfectly still, not shivering and only very rarely blinking.

Then – pop!

A short human figure appeared on the street, then disappeared just as quickly. Sirius wasn't quite sure if he saw the rat fly up the yard or not.

There was a very long silence – and then a sudden cacophony of shouts and crashes and explosions – and then a shorter silence.

The front door opened, and three men came out. The oldest man was leading the way, floating gently on his back, unconsciousness, bound with ropes and a Petrifying Curse. The next man was the youngest, gay yellow hair bouncing as he stepped, a wide grin plastered across his face. His wand was on the man in front of him, apparently in control: every now and again he would give the wand a little flick, and the old man's head would start scraping across the dusty yard, or knock into the Toyota's tire.

The last man was squat and miserable. He flinched and jumped at every sound the birds made. He hunched over so much that he appeared to be trying to look behind him through his legs. He hugged himself in the cold, and shivered.

Sirius slowly took the wand out of his pocket – a fine length of ash that he'd taken from a poor old man. He wasn't proud of thieving, but he'd done it before and, after all, his life was at stake. He took careful aim, and shouted, "STUPEFY!!"

A bolt of red light issued out from his wand, and the man in the back of the line dropped like a sack of potatoes. The youngest man broke into a run, his quarry bouncing and tumbling on the yard in front of him, and then grabbed the other's hand and disappeared with an ear-splitting crack.

Sirius leaped out of his bush before the pair had even disappeared, and ran right up to the unconscious man. His wand was on the Stunned man's face in a flash, and a flash of blue light illuminated the entire neighborhood.

* * *

Voldemort laughed at the young man standing before him. He said, "You are not the one I send out for this job ... but, perhaps you are an even better candidate. Yes ... now, stir the brew, boy, I have such a treat in store for you...."

The young man sycophantically rushed to stir the enormous cauldron, which popped and sizzled and bubbled nastily.

"My Lord, my Lord," he said, working the enormous lead stirring rod. "I have dreamed of nothing but your return for all these many years...."

"Let it simmer, now... I will need you to follow these instructions, my servant so loyal."

"Yes, my Lord."

The young man read the instructions dutifully, and Voldemort watched him as he did so. The boy did not flinch or twitch in the slightest when he came upon the second step, which had caused Pettigrew to practically spasm. Instead, he grinned gleefully, and said, "I am glad to have this chance, which so many of your servants would die for, to help restore you, my Lord... I never thought that I, worthless Barty Crouch, would have such an opportunity...."

* * *

Harry woke up early the next morning, a Saturday and the last day before term ended, drenched in sweat, and could not get back to sleep even though he had gone to bed only four hours before. He took a long, hot shower and tried to rub his soreness away under the hot water. What a strange dream he had had last night – and a horrible one. The words of the spell still echoed in his mind: Bones of the father – flesh of the servant – blood of the enemy. Renew your son – revive your master – resurrect your foe. And the man, tall and skeletal, rising from the cauldron.

He hoped dearly that the dream was just that: a dream. He could not convince himself, however. It had been so real, the colors so bright, the words so sharp, the voices so distinct. If it was a dream, it was like no dream he had ever had before – except one. The dream from just one day before, when he had seen the hunched little man, and the red-eyed infant-beast, who had said, "Bring me my enemy."

This dream was almost like a sequel, with the blood of the enemy being one of the key ingredients in the potion – the man not screaming, but staring, resigned and deeply sad, as his arm was sliced open and his blood was taken into a vial. Harry had never had a dream with a sequel before.

He toweled off, he decided to just put it out of his mind. It was already fading away from him, just like any other dream, fading into the abyss of thoughts forgotten and ideas lost.

He had awoken so early that he found himself forced to wait around in the Entrance Hall for the huge doors of the Great Hall to open up. When he started muttering disgruntledly about his hunger, a House-Elf appeared with a few slices of toast for him to hold him over, and he thanked the little creature profusely.

Although he was the first student to arrive for breakfast, he was not the first to leave. He stayed for a long time, eating plate after plate of eggs, black pudding, toast and waffles. Something about the Pepper-Up Potions made him very hungry all the time, and he had received a incredulous looks from Ron whenever they ate together, because each time he ate around twice as much as his taller friend. So, Harry was still there when the mail arrived, and he borrowed Hermione's paper from her, because she wanted to eat before she read it. The article on the front page leaped out at him so much that he nearly had a heart attack:

BARTIMUS CROUCH MISSING

By Noreen Humdinger

After the Head of the Department for International Cooperation did not report for work this morning, nor respond to floo calls, an Auror team was dispatched to his residence in Nottingham. The man who led the struggle against You-Know-Who so fiercely that he came under criticism, was gone.

One Auror anonymously reported to the Prophet that there appeared to be signs of a struggle at the Crouch residence. According to the Auror's candid account, the furniture in Headman Crouch's bedroom had not only been destroyed, but in many cases incinerated. The kitchen and dining room suffered severe fire damage, although the fire appeared to have been put out magically.

Most tellingly, our Auror source tells us that Headman Crouch's House-Elf was found dead in the sitting room. The cause of death is unclear, but our source speculates that it may have been the Killing Curse.

No official statement has come from the Ministry, but it is reported that Minister Fudge is in an uproar. Our Auror source tells us that search teams area already hard at work locating the missing... story continued on pg. 2.

There was a little picture of Crouch at the top of the article, and Harry felt a dreadful sense of recognition. His immediate thought was to go to Dumbledore – but the Headmaster was not at the staff table like usual. He was about to flip to page two to continue reading about Crouch's disappearance when something else caught his eye:

PETER PETTIGREW FOUND?

By Rita Skeeter

Peter Pettigrew, the wizard of famous misfortune, who was long believed to have been murdered by his own best friend, Sirius Black, in 1981, may not have been at all.

A man was found early this morning by Hogsmeade resident Rosmerta Maddox, beautiful and popular proprietor of the the Three Broomsticks Inn, who gave the Daily Prophet an exclusive on the details.

"I was just starting to sweep the walk," says the lovely Madam Rosmerta, "and right when I turned on the entrance light, I saw a man laying on his face, not a foot from my shoe.

"It's not really unusual, to see people laying about the streets, but it's concerning considering the weather. The owners of some establishments in this town just don't care about their customers' well-being. So I nudged this man with – Here, Harry had to flip to page eight to continue the story – my shoe and I told him to go sleep in front of the Hogshead. He didn't respond at all, and I took a deep sort of breath and made a big breathy cloud, if you know what I mean, and it was at that time that I noticed that this man wasn't breathing. No clouds, see. I called the Aurors at once, then came back out.

"The man was still laying on his face, in the mud, so I thought to turn him over and shutter his eyes. When I did, I saw on his chest a wooden sign, tied around him. And on that sign it said, in capitals, I AM PETER PETTIGREW. I would have scoffed, but I recognized the man – it looked just like old Peter, who I knew, although much older and beat up."

The Ministry has declined an official statement as to whether or not the man is indeed Peter Pettigrew, although they say that tests are under way to verify. Aurors at the scene said that the man, who ever he was, appeared to have been killed by a Heart-Starting Charm, an extremely useful medical spell which, if used inappropriately, can stop a beating heart just as easily as it can start one that isn't beating. The Charm was incidentally invented by Lord Hunfrio Blæc in 1048, a direct ancestor of Sirius Black.

All he could think was, what a news day.

Ron shocked him when he said said, "Do you want to come over for the holidays, Harry? All my brothers are coming home to the Burrow."

Harry thought that that sounded like a horrible idea. Even if Ron, Fred, George and Percy didn't blame him for what happened in the Chamber, what if Bill or Charlie, who he'd never met, or Ron's parents, did? Even if they didn't, it would be so terribly awkward that he just knew he would regret it. He told Ron, "I'm sorry. I've got a lot of studying to do over break and I need to stay here."

"Studying!" Ron balked. "Only Snape and McGonagall hand out homework over winter break."

Harry paused briefly, considering. Then he told Ron in an undertone, so that Hermione wouldn't hear, "You remember when McGonagall caught me and forbade me from going out to study at night? Well, long story short, I've been doing it anyway."

"You could be expelled!" Ron hissed at him, and Harry wondered at his uncharacteristic reaction.

Harry thought otherwise: although no one had expressly told him so, he greatly doubted that Dumbledore would expel him for any reason. Not one but two Voldemorts were coming back to power now, and Harry sincerely doubted that Dumbledore would want him anywhere except right under his nose. What he said was, "I'm being careful. I've been at it again for more than a month and no one's caught me."

Ron stared at him for a long time, then nodded slightly, obviously disappointed. He asked Harry for the paper, and after a while, said, "Oh, no. I bet they're going to double the dementor detail again. I'm not wandering a foot away from Lupin if they do."

Harry gave him a perplexed look. "Lupin? Does he carry chocolate around all the time?"

"Er – I dunno," Ron said, looking just as bewildered. "What would he need chocolate for? No, I mean that spell he has for fighting dementors. Don't you remem – oh, yeah, you weren't with us on the train! You didn't see! It was like a silver dog or wolf or something, just leaped right out of his wand and --"

"Professor Lupin?" Harry interrupted, disbelieving. Professor Lupin was a good teacher, and very adept at handling hinkypunks and Red Caps and grindylows, but whenever anyone mentioned the dementors in front of him, he just suggested chocolate. Maybe, like Healer Beckett, he just believed the Patronus Charm to be too difficult for third years.

Ron reeled the conversation back in. "Are you sure you don't want to come to my house, Harry? Maybe you could use a break from all your studying."

"No," Harry said regretfully. "I'm working on the Repelling Spell, and I need as much time as I can get."

Ron told him, thoughtfully, "Maybe you should work with Hermione. I'm sure it'll go much faster with her around."

Harry had thought of that: of course it would be easier to learn spells with someone to either cast them on, or to observe his progress, correct his wand movements, and so on. Not to mention, it would probably be safer: back when he was practicing the Reductor Curse, he had collapsed the secret passage he was in, a connection between the dungeons and the fourth floor, barely managing to escape without being crushed – if he had had someone else with him, the risk would have been much smaller. On the other hand, Hermione seemed so frazzled and exhausted all the time that he couldn't bare asking her to do more.

He told Ron, "No need, really. There's a Cannons game on in ten minutes – you want to go watch?" and led the boy up to the dormitory to watch the match on the little miniature field Hermione had gotten for him.

After the Cannons had lost by over five hundred points, Harry excused himself, and set off down to the third floor and, when he got there, knocked on an office door.

"Come in," a muffled voice called from within, and Harry grabbed the knob and quietly entered.

Lupin's office was filled with filing cabinets and crates and fish tanks. One tank held a variety of brightly-colored slugs crawled around on sticks and rocks within – they seemed to change hue every time Harry glanced at them. Another tank held what looked like the tragic crossing of a lizard and a squid, which glared malevolently at Harry with little yellow eyes. The weird animals were at least a step better than Lockhart's portraits of himself, however.

"Ah, Harry," Lupin said, sounding like he was genuinely glad to see him. "Please sit. Tea?"

"Oh. Yes, please."

Lupin tapped a kettle with his wand, and immediately it started whsitling. He made another little gesture and the boiling water shot right out of the spout and into the little green glass tea pot. Lupin didn't wait for it to seep at all, immediately pouring it out into two matching little green cups, but Harry's tea was dark and rich anyway. Lupin retrieved some cream from a box that had evidently been enchanted with a Cooling Charm, and offered it to Harry.

When sugar and cream were dealt with, Lupin smiled and said, "Now, to what do I owe this pleasure, Harry?"

"Professor," Harry began uncertainly. "I – my friend Ron told me that you worked the Patronus Charm on the Hogwarts Express."

Lupin nodded slightly, peering closely at Harry.

"I've – er, I've been practicing it, but I haven't gotten much, and I was wondering if you could give me some pointers?"

Lupin took a long sip of tea and said, "I imagine I could. Let me see what you have so far."

Uncertainly, Harry stood up and walked to the little clear area in the middle of the room. He closed his eyes, thinking about his first Quidditch match, and said the incantation.

A thick fog appeared before him, obscuring Harry's view of the professor, but not so much that he could not see the wide eyes and raised brows. He canceled the charm, and the haze was gone in an instant.

"Sit back down," Lupin instructed, and then was silent for a very long time. Harry drank his tea. It was real cream, not half-and-half, and he thought it was delicious and finished it very quickly. But then he wished he hadn't, because it gave him nothing better to do in the world while Lupin sat there thoughtfully than to stare into the tea leaves at the bottom of his cup. He remembered, dimly, from Unfogging the Future, which he had read when he still thought he was taking Divination, that the future could be revealed through tea leaves... he thought he saw a goat in the leaves, but it was hard to say for certain.

Presently, Lupin said, "You are putting more than enough power into the spell, Harry. Much more. You see, your own strength is what causes that fog to appear – and that was an extremely powerful fog, Harry." Harry would have perked up at the praise, but something in Lupin's eyes made him feel low. He thought he saw pity, or regret, or something else. He set down his teacup on the desk.

Lupin continued, "What makes the fog solidify into an animal-shape isn't the strength of your magic, but the strength of your memory. You are doing the spell absolutely perfectly – except the memories you choose are just not potently happy enough. Look deeper. That's all I can tell you."

Harry was taken aback. It seemed as if Lupin had crossed some line, had said something both deeply personal and humiliating. It made him furious. "Thank you, Professor," he said, and stood up so quickly that he knocked over his teacup and it shattered on the ground.

"Please sit down, Harry," Lupin said imploringly. Harry stared at him darkly, but did as he was told. After Lupin spelled Harry's mess away, the professor said, "I have something else to discuss with you. Forgive me, but it will take some time. I'm sure you've heard most of this before, so I apologize if I bore you.

"Harry, when your father was at Hogwarts, I was in his same year and house, and I was among his closest friends. His very best friend, however, was Sirius Black."

Harry started. His father was friends with a criminal? Why was Lupin telling him this?

Lupin said, "Your father trusted Black so much that when he went into hiding with you and your mother, he entrusted Black to keep himself and his family safe. They were hidden under a charm, called the Fidelius Charm, which makes it impossible for anyone to find them unless one specific person, their secret-keeper, discloses their location.

"Eventually, of course, Voldemort came. We all thought that Sirius had betrayed your parents.

"The next day, Sirius cornered our other friend, Peter Pettigrew, in a crowded Muggle street, and killed him along with a dozen Muggles. Peter was heard asking Sirius, 'How could you betray Lily and James?' shortly before Sirius blew him up."

Lupin paused for a long time. Then, he indicated to the Daily Prophet and asked Harry if he'd read it that morning, and Harry nodded. Lupin said, "Obviously, that wasn't what really happened. What did happen, we cannot be sure – but I want you to realize, Harry, that there may be a chance that Sirius Black is innocent. I was down in Hogsmeade this morning, and I saw the body, and I really do believe that it was Peter. If it was, then it appears that he faked his own death – which has significant implications, as I'm sure you can see."

Harry nodded very slowly. He had never heard before that Sirius Black had betrayed his parents, or that his parents had been his friends, so he wasn't extremely attached to the idea. He said, "You think that he wasn't actually the secret-keeper."

Lupin only said, "There is a chance."

* * *

Sirius retrieved the mirror from his chest of drawers, and said, "Tom Gaunt!"

After a minute, Tom's face, young and handsome but very strained, appeared. Sirius asked, "Have you read the paper this morning, Tom?"

Tom grimaced. "No. I'm rather – indisposed. Theres a lot of dementors around, these days."

"I heard. That's what I called about, in fact. Tom, I'm going to hide out in my old house, the ancestral House of Black, and I wanted to know if you wanted to hide there as well."

Tom looked at first as if he was going to decline, but then his face changed, and he said, "Definitely."

"Meet me at the stile at the north end of Hogsmeade's main street. I'll be there in one hour."

At the appointed time and place, a runty goshawk alighted on the stile. After a moment, it heard a small bark coming from some near-by bushes, and flew off into them.

Suddenly, two men stood together in the bushes. One grabbed the other's arm, and sucked him through the dark, squeezing tunnel of Apparation.

The pair landed outside a decrepit, but extremely large building of brickwork, terraced to its smaller neighbors on either side. It cast the other houses around it in a shadow, looking like a spire rising above the walls of an old castle. None of the Muggles gave the bizarre tower so much as a passing glance as Sirius led Tom up to the front door.

"I haven't been here yet," Sirius said, "so be prepared for anything. I read my mum croaked it from dragon pox just a few days ago, so take some of this." He handed Tom a vial of purple fluid, then downed a matching one. Tom hesitated for a moment, then took the leap of faith and downed his vial as well. The Snake-Horcrux didn't even attempt to stop him, apparently thinking Sirius was trying to poison him. It tasted like an orange right after you brush your teeth, and made his nose burn like horseradish.

Sirius opened the door, and they came face-to-face with a young man in a terrible condition. Blue pox covered his arms, hands, face, and probably everywhere else. Smoke issued from his ears. His hair had mostly fallen out. Worst of all, his mouth, nose, and jaw had been replaced with a long, fanged, reptilian snout, which issued smoke continually.

Sirius's eyes were extremely wide as he said, "Regulus?"

The other man snorted, shooting little licks of flame from his nostrils, and said, "Shee-ree-aaaaashhhh...!"

Sirius moved to embrace Regulus, who stumbled back frightfully. "Contaaagooouuushhh!" he said.

"I've taken a potion, Regulus. Come here." They embraced tightly. When Tom realized that Sirius was sobbing and Regulus was puffing large plumes of fire rhythmically, he turned away in embarrassment. Eventually, Sirius said, "Tom Gaunt, meet my younger brother, Regulus Black."

Tom turned around, and he saw Regulus's profile for the first time. A tail was visibly making a bulge in the back of Regulus's robes. He said, "Nice to meet you, Regulus," but wouldn't shake the other's hand, potion or no potion.

"Nishe to meet shoo," Regulus said.

"Sirius," Tom said. "This man needs to go to Saint Mungo's immediately."

Sirius nodded grimly, his smile disappearing as swiftly as the light of a candle in the rain. "Yeah. I'll take him," he said, and started helping his brother out of the house.

"No!" Regulus exclaimed. "Deathhhh Eeeeatersshhh! Thhhey'll kill me!"

"You'll die like this, for sure," Tom said. "You'll just have to risk it."

Sirius nodded in agreement, and didn't give his younger brother a choice in the matter, dragging him against his will out of the house and into the drive. "I'll be back in a jiffy," he said unconvincingly.

"Sirius," Tom said. "That's a bad idea. Let me take him. They're not looking for me."

"He's my brother, Tom."

Tom almost told Sirius, and you're my friend, but made himself not. Instead, he said, "You'll be sent back to Azkaban."

"So what!"

"What about Harry?"

That made Sirius give pause. Eventually, grudgingly, he nodded. Tom took a hold on Regulus's shoulder, and dragged him the rest of the way to the street.

Regulus said, "I'm go-eeeng to die."

Tom couldn't help but agree. Regulus was past the point where modern medicine could help him. Instead, he said, "You'll be just fine."

"No. Leeeshen. I aaave a locket. It waaash thhheee Dark Lord'sh. I neeeed you to continuuuee what I shhtarted. Deeesh-troy thhheee locket for meee."

"Sure, anything," Tom said, not really listening. Then he took the dragon pocked man through the dark tunnel, and out into Saint Mungo's quarantine area.

* * *

Eventually, a solution was found for Tom in the tomes of the House of Black. He did not trust himself to think too much on his plan before he did it. He went two whole days without thinking about it at all, and then, suddenly, without the slightest preamble, with no thought as to what he was about to do, but as if he had planned it from the day of his birth, he turned his wand upon himself and shouted the Peacing Spell, "Pectuspax!"

And instantly, not only the Snake, but the Ring as well, fell dead silent within his head. His whole body felt spry and limber and light as a feather – the weight of the Snake had been on him so long that it was a great relief to finally be free of it – that he jumped and ran up and down the stairs of the house and laughed with the joy of liberty.

After a while, he calmed himself down and sat himself in one of the little old chairs in the library, and closed his eyes and thought about himself, not years in the future, but a year in the past, and wondered, what would I think if I was a year younger?

In that way he called forward the spirit of the Ring, which slowly and unsteadily awoke. They greeted each other, and Tom offered his apologies to the calm, quiet spirit of the Ring, which had never had a body or charms of thoughtfulness and was only slightly more sentient than the average silver ring. The Ring accepted his apologies, and, in his head, he had the idea that the Ring was putting itself on his finger and settling down to sleep.

Free, now, from the oppression of the Snake-Horcrux, Tom turned to the Diadem of Ravenclaw, which he had recovered so many weeks ago from the Hiding Place, the same day that Sirius had first met with Pettigrew. The Snake had for too long prevented him from taking the Diadem in, from basking in its wealth of power and knowledge. So long he had waited, and so miserably, the object of his desire feet away from him, but he unable to take it.

The Snake had been Voldemort's trick. He had taken his most valuable Horcrux, and had willingly imparted it upon his enemy – but on his own terms; intricately seditious Memory Charms, designed to destroy one's knowledge and memory without taking their loyalties or their personality, had been cast upon the Snake.

Voldemort had delivered this Snake-Horcrux to Tom, and Tom had taken it in thirstily. The power that he had discharged upon Voldemort had only served to make the phantom more powerful, closer to a real being. The soul that Tom had taken had been a plant, designed by Voldemort to take over Tom's body and bring it to kneel to the phantom; to turn Tom into a servant.

The Ring had been steadfast, however. Tom had put the Ring-Horcrux in its first living body, and, for that, he received in exchange a loyalty equal to the Snake's. If it had not been for the Ring, Tom's own spirit would have been the one Peaced.

Now he was free from that Snake.

"ARRIPANIMAM!"

The knowledge that flowed into him from the Diadem was beautiful.

* * *

By the time Tom got to the cave, it was already too late.

He treated all of the booby traps like what they were: relics of his youth, of a time long past. He no longer felt young, and although his body had not changed, his mind had aged decades. The Diadem had been made into a Horcrux so much later than the Diary and the Ring that his entire perspective changed when he took it in. He remembered old friends that he at the same time could not recall meeting; he was adept at spells that he never learned.

So much older and wiser than he'd been when he'd cast these defensive enchantments, how could they pose a real barrier to him now?

So he slipped in to the island on the inner chamber quickly, and knew at sight that the locket he found there was only a locket, and not his Locket of Slytherin. He knew the second he laid his eyes on it that Voldemort had come through here and had replaced it – tauntingly leaving a false locket behind. It was cruel and it was just like something Tom himself would do.

He nearly threw the locket angrily into the water to let the inferi wrestle each other for possession of it, but something made him pause. He opened the little locket, and found a note.

To the Dark Lord

I know I will be dead long before you read this

but I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret.

I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can.

I face death in the hope that when you meet your match,

you will be mortal once more.

R.A.B.

R.A.B.

Regulus Black.

Tom laughed. He felt like a fool. The Diadem had filled him with so much new knowledge that he had nearly forgotten everything he'd learned before. Hadn't Regulus said something about Voldemort's locket? It was so obvious, now.

He left in a hurry, and was back at the House of Black in minutes.

* * *

Harry walked up to the gargoyle and rapped on its head furiously.

The gargoyle stared at him blankly. He said, "Let me in! I need to speak to Professor Dumbledore!"

The gargoyle tilted its head slightly, as if considering. Then, it took a slow step to the side, and Harry ran past it, up the spiral staircase, and barged in to the office. "Voldemort is back," he gasped. "I – oh!"

The room contained not only Albus Dumbledore, but also the Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge, who was staring at Harry as though he were insane. Harry said weakly, "Minister Fudge! I – er, I'm Harry Potter. Pleased to meet you?"

Fudge let his amazed expression melt into a pleasant smile. He extended his hand for Harry to shake, and said, "The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Potter."

"Harry," Dumbledore said. "What did you say a moment ago?"

"I --" Harry glanced at the Minister, embarrassed. "I – er – Voldemort is back, sir."

Fudge's pleasant smile twitched into a condescending baring of teeth. He said, "Please don't use his name, Harry. And what would make you say that he's back?"

Harry glanced between the two men and cleared his throat. He spoke stoutly, "I had a vision." Fudge broke into a fit of coughs, and Harry raised his voice to speak over him. "And it wasn't the first time," he said, now with eyes only for Dumbledore, who showed no signs of amusement. "I had another the other night. I saw Voldemort telling someone – I don't know who – to go and capture his 'enemy from the old times.' I didn't think anything of it then; I thought it was a regular dream --"

"And then you read about Bartimus, and assumed he was whom You-Know-Who was referring to," the Minister finished for him.

"No," Harry said broadly. "I had a second vision last night, before I read the paper this morning. I saw Voldemort --"

"Don't say that," Fudge interrupted. The Minister looked like he was starting to get angry, and Harry was feeling very foolish.

"I saw You-Know-Who come back. He used 'the blood of his enemy' and the 'flesh of his follower' and something else. And his servant called himself Barty Crouch."

Fudge looked stunned. "You think that Barty ran off to join You-Know-Who?" he asked, looking amazed at Harry's audacity. "Do you have any idea who you're talking about?"

Harry didn't say anything as Fudge stared scornfully at him.

Fudge turned to Dumbledore, and said, "This boy is the one who told you about the Horcrux? I knew I was right to not believe that load of dragon dung. This is absurd."

Dumbledore looked pained. He asked Harry to step outside for a moment, and Harry got up angrily and waited in the other room. He heard a brief snatch of the Minister, shouting, before someone cast a silencing spell. He muttered to himself angrily, "Hermione's right. I should transfer to Durmstrang."

After several moments, he heard Dumbledore call from the inside of his office, "Harry. Come in, please," and he did. He sat down hard in one of the squishy chairs in front of Dumbledore's desk, and it let out a little puff of air.

"Harry, first let me say, thank you for coming to me directly about this. Your vision – it's making me concerned in more than one way.

"When your scar was made, a connection between you and Voldemort was created. You're seeing through that connection when you have these visions. I'm worried that Voldemort might be able to see visions of you, as well.

"I've arranged private lessons for you with Professor Snape. Every Tuesday and Thursday night, you are to report to his office at six o'clock sharp. He will be instructing you in Occlumency, which will help you control your connection with Voldemort."

Harry glared. Do the right thing, and this is what you get: a Minister who thinks your mad, and extra lessons with Snape. He said, "Yes, sir," and left the office in a hurry.