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   It was marble... everything was marble. The walls, the floors, the arched ceilings, the plants, the books, everything was stone –

   Except for her. A faint spark of vivacious life, descending the marble stairs, her curly hair unbounded and fluttering as she moved. Wearing a sheath of emerald green, her eyes the cracked mirrors so typical of her kind – cold and unfeeling, but just beneath the surface was so much feeling, so much passion, so much rage...

   He stood in the foyer, beneath the gold-and-crystal chandelier, his eyes flinty as he watched her every move. The bounce of her hair, the growing smile upon her lips, the heaving of her budding breasts, the breasts he had never seen exposed...

   Her hand graced the marble railing, and her smile grew insidious as she eyed him, her eyes looking like nothing more than flames bouncing between trees in a lightning struck forest...

   “You’re here,” she whispered, and yet it echoed across the hall. For a moment, he was confused – what exactly was here? But then he saw the crest – his crest, and he knew instantly where he was. He was home, and she was waiting for him.

   But there was something about her smile, something sneaky, something devilishly playful, so uncharacteristic of her. It was as if she knew something – no, she did know something, and she was waiting for him to speak –

   “But you’re too late.”

   He struggled for words, his eyes racing around the room. His robes were flapping around him as the wind increased, tearing at his hair and face.

   “For what?” His voice was ragged, but it rang out loud and clear across his foyer.

   Her smile was gone, and replaced with something implacable – something horrifying. There was no expression on her face now, she was becoming marble...

   And all around him, the marble was exploding into flames.

   But the voice was still there, even as the outlines of the crest erupted with fire, crumpling and twisting horrifically, the snake eating its own tail –

   “Too late for me, too late for here... and too late for you.”

   He could only scream as she erupted into flames, her dress going black as the flames licked it to tatters. He looked up and even as he wondered how marble could burn, he could hear the clinking of the chandelier chain warping and breaking –

   He looked up, the flaming crystals were rushing towards his face, and they were turning into cyan blue acid, but he knew it would burn just the same –

   There was a rush of hot, searing pain, and Draco Malfoy awoke in a hot sweat, his eyes wild with terror.

   He felt his gut churn. Hastily yanking up his pyjama pants, he stumbled out of bed, rushing towards the bathroom connected to the dank and humid Slytherin dormitory. He didn’t bother stopping at the mirror – he only just reached the toilet in time, purging whatever was left in his stomach.

   The vomiting soon passed, but he knew that he wouldn’t be able to sleep the rest of the night – hell, considering the rest of the castle, he was amazed he got any sleep at all.

   Rising shakily to his feet, he staggered past the mirrors that were once his vanity and now his bane, and picked up his wand, which had been sitting on his bedside table. He could hear a few uneasy murmurs as he passed by the beds in the dormitory, and he wrinkled his nose in disgust as he heard the rustle of a magazine page. Whatever puts them to sleep, Malfoy thought disgustedly, as he wiped the thin sheen of sweat from his forehead again and entered the Common Room –

   “Couldn’t sleep again?”

   Malfoy nearly jumped, but then he recognized Blaise Zabini’s snort of derision from his spot by the smouldering fire. “Nobody can, right now, as you perfectly well know.”

   Zabini shrugged and turned a page of his Daily Prophet. “I’ll live.”

   “We also know whose fault it is.”

   Zabini rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Nott’s, with this thrice damned plan that we’re in. You disturb the spirits –”

   “Blaise!”

   “Nobody’s here, Malfoy, so shut up,” Zabini snapped. “But the pattern’s not difficult to discern. We get back to Hogwarts, and on the very first night, while all the professors are distracted by H.A.I.T. and the Opening Feast, we instigate the Dark Lord’s plan.”

   “As much good as it’s done us,” Malfoy muttered without thinking.

   “What was that?”

   Malfoy looked around the room carefully before sitting across from Zabini. “I have to wonder,” he began in a very quiet whisper, “when we – as in my family – will receive just compensation for everything we’ve lost, everything we’ve sacrificed.”

   “The Dark Lord rewards his helpers –”

   “And what about collateral damage?” Malfoy retorted. “Everything that’s happened to me or my father has been brushed aside –”

   “Mostly because you were idiots,” Zabini interrupted crisply, turning another page of his paper.

   Malfoy felt a surge of anger at the black teenager’s words – how dare he demean what the Malfoys had sacrificed? “Don’t forget that you lost your mother too –”

   Zabini’s eyes flashed. “And I’m letting Nott handle my revenge, and so far, he’s doing a pretty damn good job of it. And sure, I want to make that miserable son-of-a-bitch Potter pay for what he did to my family, but I’m also saw what happened to you. I’m far from stupid, Draco – I’d prefer to confront Potter when I’m in the superior position.”

   “I didn’t think he’d attack in the middle of the Potions classroom!” Malfoy snarled through clenched teeth, his white-knuckled hands gripping the arms of the chair harder than he would grip a speeding broomstick.

   Zabini shrugged. “That’s why I’m not an idiot, and you are.”

   Malfoy abruptly stood. Zabini finally looked up from his paper, a bemused expression on his face.

   “Are you going to hit me?”

   “No,” Malfoy growled. “We’re going to go find Nott – I have a concern regarding our mission he needs to address, and I know for a fact he’s not in our dormitory – he can’t sleep whenever Crabbe and Goyle are trying to get off –”

   “That’s disgusting,” Zabini said with supreme disdain, “but I see your point. It’s regarding the Slytherin issue, I’m assuming?”

   “Yes, I want to know what he’s going to do –”

   “It’s already been solved.”

   Malfoy did draw his wand this time, but Nott only giggled as he stepped out of the shadows, raising his hands with a gleeful smile on his face.

   “Thought you told me the room was deserted!” Malfoy snapped, not taking his eyes away from Nott, who had drawn his own wand with a single graceful second.

   “I didn’t see him when I swept the room –”

   “Nor would you,” Nott said condescendingly, “because that spell is straight out of the Restricted Section – let’s you hide effortlessly wherever there’s a shadow. Truly a wonderful example of what the Dark Arts can provide a man.”

   Malfoy and Zabini exchanged tense looks – neither of them had heard of such a spell. Did Nott’s knowledge of the Dark Arts go deeper than either of them suspected? And what was it doing to Nott’s sanity?

   Nothing good, by the looks of him, Malfoy thought to himself as Nott gave another dry giggle as he began to aimlessly caper around the room.

   “Anyways, anyways, I found out the solution to your little Slytherin conundrum,” Nott said, slowing as he seemed to bounce into a chair. “I just so happened to overhear Potter muttering to himself as he headed up towards Ravenclaw Tower just a few minutes ago, and I heard him mention a certain name.”

   “And?” Zabini asked impatiently.

   “I figured that we can accelerate the cycle,” Nott said smugly. “A two-for-one in one, if you catch my drift. Fill the missing hole with an interpolation and then continue down the curve.”

   “Do you have the Dark Lord’s permission?” Zabini asked suspiciously.

   “Oh, I think I do,” Nott said with a wicked smile. “So let’s go!”

   “You mean now?” Malfoy asked incredulously. “It’s the middle of the night –”

   Nott’s wand snapped up, and before Malfoy could say another word, the wand was an inch away from Malfoy’s scarred nose.

   “I mean now,” Nott growled.

   Malfoy looked at Nott’s face. The normally weedy-looking Slytherin was now wasted, his eyes hollowed and dank within their sockets, red from lack of sleep and glazed by something Malfoy didn’t have any desire to experience himself. His cheeks were flushed, his teeth were clenched, and his hair was falling in lank, unwashed tangles around his face.

   He looks worse than me, Malfoy noted with astonishment. If this is what the magic he’s using is doing to him... the Dark Lord had a damn good reason for not getting me involved directly, to say nothing of Nott’s sanity...

   “What about the Hufflepuff?” Zabini asked curtly. “Will there be disruptions there?”

   “Oh no,” Nott said with a gleeful, maddened smirk as he gestured for the two Slytherins to follow him. “He’s just perfect, and I’m looking forward to when he comes into the sunshine.”

   I’m not, Malfoy thought to himself, restraining a shudder – he could only imagine what Nott was doing to him.

   One look at Zabini told him the other Slytherin thought the exact same.

* * *

   “It’s a time distortion, Luna,” Harry gasped, clutching the stitch in his chest as he leaned heavily against the wall, completely out of breath.

   Luna clasped her hands as she leaned against the opposite wall. “That’s interesting.”

   Harry gaped at her, completely astounded. “I thought... Luna, I thought this would be a bigger deal to you –”

   “It’s interesting,” Luna repeated, a hint of a smile growing on her face. “Thank you for telling me, Isabelle – it means a lot to me.”

   “Can you do... hell, I dunno, any research on it?” Harry asked desperately, knowing all too well that every second he spent with Luna, nearly five more clicked by outside Hogwarts. “Books, the library, anything?”

   “I can try,” Luna said with a wistful smile, “but I’ll only have so much time, if you catch my drift.”

   “Very funny, Luna,” Harry replied sarcastically. “Very, very funny. Well, since you’re not sleeping, can you try doing some of the research tonight? I’m sort of in a big hurry right now.”

   “Is that why you ran all the way up to the battlements to find me?” Luna asked, her smile slightly perturbed as she raised her eyebrows.

   “Well, I assumed you’d be around here,” Harry muttered. “And you still haven’t put any more clothes on.”

   “Harry,” Luna said patiently, “please don’t be dim. I already told you this is what I wear to bed.

   “But you’re not in bed!”

   “I could be,” Luna said with a wink. “You just can’t see it yet, Isabelle.”

   Harry shook his head. “My name’s not... you know what, never mind.” He turned around, walking as quickly as he dared across the slick and narrow battlements towards the secret door.

   “Harry?”

   “What?” Harry asked tensely, turning quickly and nearly slipping because of it.

   “You know there’s only one way they’ll let us be together,” Luna said quietly. Her smile was gone, and her blue eyes met Harry’s for a long, long second.

   “Huh? What do you mean, together? Luna, what are you – ”

   “Dead.”

   “What?”

   “I can’t put it any more plainly, Harry,” Luna replied solemnly. “You should hurry.”

    “Yeah, yeah.” Harry shook his head with growing confusion and disbelief. “I don’t understand half of what you – you know what, you’re impossible!”

   “No,” Luna interrupted, “just very, very unlikely. Good night, Isabelle.”

* * *

   “So?” Moody growled.

    “So what?” Harry returned, closing the door tightly behind him. “I told her, if that’s what you mean. She’ll research what she can find about the distortion, and then get back to me.”

   “And you trust her?” Moody asked sceptically.

   “Don’t understand half the bloody things she says,” Harry replied darkly, locking the door with a twist and crossing the room to slump into his chair, “but yeah, I trust her.”

   “You’ve made her a target, though,” Moody said curtly, slamming his book shut after finishing his note, “and given that we all now have a time constraint, we can’t afford to lose her. I’ll tell Flitwick to keep an eye on her, and I’ll do some of the research myself.”

   “If I can get to Cassane –”

   “That’s assumes he tells you the truth, that assumes he’s reliable, and from the article that you showed me, that assumes he’s still alive!” Moody snarled, slamming his fist on the table. “I don’t like relying on that man –”

   “I know, I know, but without Dumbledore, he’s the best chance we’ve got,” Harry replied, putting his hand to his forehead to fight back a rising headache. “Do you have any water?”

   “Why?” Moody grunted.

   “I’m thirsty. And not the charm this time, please?”

   Moody’s mismatched eyes both rolled, but a wave of his wand filled a glass with water, and he slid it across the desk to Harry, who drank it greedily.

   “You have proof about this distortion?”

   “Tonks and Sirius both confirmed it,” Harry replied between swallows.

   “And Rogan Wilson’s a Death Eater?”

   “According to Sirius, he is,” Harry said tiredly.

   “And Sirius was possessed because he held this rock?” Moody pursued, raising the little purple crystal and examining it critically. “Doesn’t look like much, but with Voldemort running things, you can’t be surprised.”

   “From what Sirius said, it just enabled the initial possession,” Harry said, running a hand through his hair. “Look, this just proves my point – who else, besides Malfoy, knows enough Black family history to orchestrate something like this? I mean, it was Malfoy’s grandfather on his mother’s side who possessed Sirius!”

   “We still can’t make a move until we know how exactly the possession works!” Moody snapped.

   “I know, I know, it’s just –”

   “Fortunately, I had an idea,” Moody replied, turning unexpectedly towards the door of his private quarters. “Come out, you two.”

   Harry’s eyes widened as the door creaked upon, to reveal two identical, hard-eyed twin brothers. Conflicting feelings of surprise, relief, and unexpected terror flooded through Harry as he saw them – he had never seen them look so...

   “Good to see you too, Harry,” George Weasley said with a grim nod, a forced note of his old cheerfulness in his voice.

   “Right...” Harry said, taking a deep breath. They don’t know it was your simulacrum, act normal or Moody’s going to suspect something! “You two –”

   “They’re of age, they’re smarter than most of this school, and they have the balls to go up against something they know absolutely nothing about,” Moody growled. “And they also don’t give a rat’s arse about missing classes, so they can tail Malfoy full time.”

   “Don’t worry, Harry,” Fred said with a fake smile, “we’ll keep that pesky ferret under wraps until we find out what he’s up to –”

   “Moody, can I talk to you for a second?” Harry interrupted, pointing towards the open door to the Auror’s rooms.

   Once they were both inside and the door closed, Harry took a deep breath. “This is a bad idea.”

   “I’m not the biggest fan of it either, but they’re the closest thing to the Order that I’ve got here, and I’ve got to make the best with what I have,” Moody replied curtly.

   “I know they can take care of themselves – no, actually, I can’t, because Charlie’s dead, and from what Ron told me, they took it badly.” Harry swallowed hard. “And they were unpredictable before...”

   “They’ll get the job done,” Moody said grimly, but there was something about Moody’s voice that sent a dark chill down Harry’s spine.

   “Are you...”

   “Am I what, Potter?” Moody growled. “I’m doing what needs to be done, with whatever I have at my disposal. Believe me, I don’t like this as much as you do.”

   “So you’re using the fact that they’re willing to do anything... t-to get revenge. You’re using that –”

   Moody’s hand grabbed the front of Harry’s shirt and before Harry knew it, he was very close to Moody’s furious face. “What choice do I have, Potter? They’re not afraid, they’re willing to fight, and they’re bloody competent. I’m not going to throw them away – and I’m not going to let them die either, if that’s what you’re implying. They’ll have my Invisibility Cloak –”

   “That’s good for one –”

   “And yours as well.”

   “What?” Harry exploded, as Moody let go of Harry to produce the Invisibility Cloak, folded neatly on a nearby table. “You had no right to take that – that’s mine!”

   “I need to keep them alive,” Moody snapped, “and since when did you get it into your head that you have a right to privacy?”

   “You still should have –”

   “Quit bitching, Potter, it’s unbecoming of you. And on the note of things you have that I could use, the twins also told me about a little something called the ‘Marauder’s Map’, so I grabbed that from your trunk as well.”
   Harry struggled to keep his fury under control as Moody picked up the battered scrap of parchment sitting next to the Invisibility Cloak. “I thought you said you wouldn’t interfere in my affairs –”

   “And I normally wouldn’t – even though I’d very much like to know what brand of arcane ritual you dredged up to sneak out of the school,” Moody growled. “But, as that’s irrelevant at the moment, I’ll let it slide. Let’s take a look at this map – you know how to activate it?”

   “Yeah,” Harry replied, taking the parchment and drawing his wand. Touching it, like he had done countless times before, he whispered, “I solemnly swear I am up to no good.”

   There was a flash, and Harry felt searing pain in his hand. He hastily dropped the Marauder’s Map and wrung his hand, blinking back tears against the horrific burning pain.

   “Fuck, what the hell was that? Not even when Snape –”

   “‘There is no good, or evil,’” Moody read, picking up the Marauder’s Map with interest. “‘There is only a line, and the time we choose to cross it.’” He looked up and met Harry’s eyes. “Guess we’re not going to be using this. Fucking glorified fortune-cookie paper...”

   Harry took the map from Moody’s hands and stared at the writing. It wasn’t his fathers, or Sirius’, or Lupin’s, or even Pettigrew’s. It wasn’t even Tom Riddle’s, the only other magical writing he was familiar with. This writing was jagged, as it the quill had a bloody edge and had sliced the words onto the parchment rather than have written them.

   “We’re out of time, Potter,” Moody growled. “You’re going to go find Cassane, correct?”

   “As quickly as possible,” Harry muttered, shouldering past Moody as he headed out of his quarters. “Time for some answers.”

* * *

   It was a strangely beautiful view from the sweeping patio of Nott Manor. The building was set onto a ridge, and the patio extended outwards from the ridge, held to the house by clawed beams and a considerable bit of magic. Even a Squib walking across the patio, shaded by many stone sculptures and hanging bolts of opaque cloth, could feel the power thrum beneath every step.

   To Lord Voldemort, it was an interesting place indeed.

   He eyed the sky to the east, the manor behind him. The raised patio surrounded the manor on all sides except the south, but he watched the sky to the east, where the flicker of sunlight turned the sky a deep red. He knew that some of the sky’s colours, at least around the manor, would be twisted by the net of magic surrounding the grounds, but he didn’t mind.

   Silhouetted against a bloody sky, but yet a sunrise, he knew the image would be most appropriate.

   “Bring him in.”

   He did not turn around at the scuffle behind him, but he heard the panting, and he could vividly smell the fear. It was a shame that he had to take time away from his experiments for this, but certain things were best accomplished in person – particularly things like these.

   “Have him sit down.”

   There was a crack, and the squeak of metal on wood, and Voldemort turned his head. Not enough to indicate that he was turning around, but to a mirror that he had placed and enchanted very carefully, where he could see everything behind him, yet the man being viewed could see nothing.

   Voldemort’s lips turned upwards into a tight, lipless smile as he saw the utterly terrified face of Barnabus Cuffe, editor of the Daily Prophet.

   “I trust you know why you are here.”

   He saw Cuffe’s white face nod quickly, and in the growing light, Voldemort could see thin streaks of tears trickling down the man’s pallid cheeks.

   “You printed an article written by Rita Skeeter, on the behest of Albus Dumbledore, Nathan Cassane, and Harry Potter.”

   Cuffe nodded again, and Voldemort knew that the man did not trust himself to speak, although he had already soiled himself.

   “This article is very dangerous, both to the Ministry, the bank in which you have backed, and your very paper. If anything, by allowing it to be printed, you have signed your own warrants for your complete destruction.”

   Another nod, another shudder bringing fresh tears, and Voldemort’s smile grew.

   “I only have one thing to ask you.”

   Barnabus Cuffe visibly trembled in his seat.

    “Do you want a waffle?”

   It clearly wasn’t the question that Cuffe had been prepared for, and his eyes widened comically wide. “I... I –”

    “I asked a question, Cuffe, I would like an answer,” Voldemort said sternly, turning around this time to emphasize his last word. Cuffe only barely stifled a scream, but Voldemort did not care – he had choreographed this very carefully. “I will ask again: do you want a waffle?”

   “I... I –”

   “Yes... or no?” Voldemort asked dangerously.

   “Y-yes! Yes, please, my Lord!” Cuffe said desperately, his handsome face filled with the anxiety of a man who knew that any wrong word would lead to his instant, horrifying death.

   But Voldemort had no intent of killing the craven lump of a man – at least not yet.

   “Felix, please bring Mr. Cuffe a waffle with three slices of bacon and freshly sliced strawberries,” Voldemort ordered coldly, approaching the table at a brisk pace. “And a glass of orange juice, if you so would.”

   “Of course, my lord,” Felix Nott said with a bow as he left the patio.

   “My Lord, I can explain – ” Cuffe began quickly, choking back sobs.

   “There is no need for an explanation, Mr. Cuffe,” Voldemort said calmly, reaching the table and towering over the terrified editor. “I know that you were simply a pawn – first of Lucius’ daring game, and then Cassane’s. Now, it is time that you played my game – except I will not have you as a pawn.”

    “I – I –”

   “Silence,” Voldemort ordered, and Cuffe shut his mouth so quickly his teeth clicked together. “Your waffle is here.”

   Nott set the breakfast tray down on the table in front of Cuffe and left the patio. Cuffe stared at the food blankly, as if he had no idea what it was.

   “I suggest you eat,” Voldemor said dangerously. “I’m given to know that waffles are not as good when they are cold.”

   Cuffe picked up his fork with his left hand and awkwardly began to piece off chunks of waffle with the side of the fork. He kept his right hand still at his side, as if he was afraid to move it, something Voldemort found quite interesting.

   “Is it good?” Voldemort asked, his red eyes blazing, after the man had taken a few small bites.

   “Y-yes, my Lord!” Cuffe stammered. “B-best waffle I’ve ever tasted –”

   “Good,” Voldemort replied smoothly, uncaring whether or not Cuffe had lied or not. “I know that you have a waffle, with exactly three strips of bacon and freshly sliced strawberries every day, along with a single glass of orange juice – now what does this tell you about Lord Voldemort?”

   Cuffe’s eyes could scarcely grow much wider, but the utter terror on his face was unmistakable as Voldemort leaned over the table, closer and closer.

   “It should tell you that even the most menial of details I will notice, and I can find, and I will not forget,” Voldemort whispered, his eyes never leaving Cuffe’s. “What you eat for breakfast, how you go to work, what side of the desk you keep your quills, I have the capacity to discover, to know all of these things. This should demonstrate to you one truth: that you cannot hide from me, and that you would be wise not to attempt it.”

   Cuffe was hyperventilating now, and Voldemort found it interesting how the man’s eyes bulged ever so slightly when the Dark Lord seized the man’s arm like a striking snake.

   “You do not use your right hand, but the muscles show no atrophy. I wonder what –”

   “Please, no, please – AHH!”

   Cuffe began howling with pain as Voldemort drew his wand, probing the hand with interest. It seemed like something was crunching beneath his wand... interesting indeed.

   He slowly made an incision that he doubted Cuffe even noticed in the pain, and with a few muttered words, drew his wand back. A long, translucent strand, covered in sticky gore, erupted from the incision. Voldemort’s smile returned – a very intriguing bit of magic, but one he was familiar with – he had created it.

   “Reparo,” he whispered, and a second later, the liquid-like strand had reformed into an ink bottle, covered in blood, but intact. Not a single shard was missing.

   Cuffe had stopped screaming now, but was staring, wide-eyed and panting, at the bottle sitting on the table.

   “Who put that in your hand?” Voldemort asked conversationally.

   “Kemester,” Cuffe blurted. “D-Dmitri Kemester. Hit Wizard.”

   “Of course,” Voldemort said with a nod, another piece of the puzzle clicking into place. “You told him everything you knew, didn’t you – and he was going to warn Fudge, disrupt the press conference?”

    “Yes, yes!” Cuffe gasped. “But something went wrong – he didn’t get to Fudge, Umbridge caught up with him –”

   “And sent him to the one place he could be controlled and conveniently forgotten about,” Voldemort finished, turning to look towards the north. “Azkaban. The son has joined the father.”

   “Wh-what?” Cuffe stammered, looking down at his hand and carefully poking at it with his fork, with the motions of a man who didn’t quite believe what had just happened and was trying to confirm it however he could.

   “It complicates matters, but it’s otherwise irrelevant,” Voldemort said smoothly, turning around and stepping away from the table. “Who else coerced you while you were at the Ministry?”

   “Two lawyers,” Cuffe breathed, nearly choking on his words. “Nymphadora Vuneren and Clarissa Desdame.”

   Voldemort paused. “Foolish half-blood,” he whispered, immediately seeing through the comically thin fake name. “It would fool most, but not Lord Voldemort. But Desdame... where did Miss Nymphadora Tonks dredge up her? Intriguing indeed...”

   “My hand...”

   “It should work as before,” Voldemort said calmly, his mind carefully returning to the matter at hand, walking back to the railing and bringing Cuffe’s astonished face back into view with his mirror. He would not forget the name ‘Desdame’, though. “However, such a reward I have given you is not without a price.”

   “I – I’d do anything, my Lord –” Cuffe stammered gratefully as he stared at Voldemort’s silhouette, outlined against the bloody sky.

   Voldemort’s lipless mouth curled into a triumphant smile – that was all he needed to hear.

* * *

   “I’m going to be closing up soon.”

   Tonks waved her hand vaguely and set her drink back on the bar. “Yeah, good plan.”

   “That means,” Aberforth said sternly, rapping his knuckles on the bar, “that you have to leave, Miss Tonks. While I am gracious, I’m not superhuman – I need my sleep. And it’s seven in the morning – shouldn’t you be going into the office?”

   “I’ll – look, Aberforth, I’ve got everything under control here,” Tonks replied irritably, rubbing her eyes despite herself. “I sent an owl to Kingsley – I’m taking the day off. Merlin knows I need it.”

   Aberforth rolled his eyes. “I still need to close up the cabinets –”

   “I can handle it.”

   “You pay for any drinks you take while I’m gone,” Aberforth warned, his eyes narrowing. “But in the mean time, I’m going to bed – should have closed up hours ago...”

   Tonks grinned. Aberforth didn’t like turning down customers, and even though they hadn’t talked all night, Aberforth had still remained awake, scrubbing down glasses and rinsing out suspicious-looking flasks.

   “Mind checking on Sirius for me?”

   “Don’t waste your time, Aberforth, I’m here already,” Sirius grumbled, staggering down the stairs, his arms filled with books and papers. “And I’ll keep an eye on your booze.”

   Aberforth snorted. “Yeah, and I’m a dragon’s hind end. You think I trust you within a mile of my liquor, Black?”

   “Sure, why not?” Sirius replied cheerfully, sitting next to Tonks at the bar and dumping his books on the old wood. “Get some sleep, Aberforth – you’re getting old.”

   Aberforth glared at Sirius, but said nothing as he trudged up the stairs, slamming the door behind him at the top, leaving Tonks and Sirius alone in the bar.

   “You’ve been up all night.”

   “So have you, by the looks of things,” Tonks remarked, as Sirius reached behind the bar and pulled free a bottle of Firewhiskey. “You shouldn’t have been, with your injuries –”

   “I’m fine,” Sirius snapped, breaking the seal on the Firewhiskey and pouring a generous amount in one of Aberforth’s newly cleaned glasses. “After everything I’ve heard, it’s not like I could sleep anyways. What are you drinking?”

   “Goblin rye, nothing too special,” Tonks replied, pouring the rest of the bottle into her glass and taking a swig, wincing at the harsh bitterness.

   “Never knew you to drink hard liquor.”

   “Never knew you to stay up all night working on what looks like Arithmancy,” Tonks retorted, taking another swig. “Besides, it’s a bit of a rite of passage with Aurors and Hit Wizards – eventually, you get a taste for it.”

   “Not me,” Sirius replied with a shudder as he took a swig from his glass. “Hated that stuff...”

   “What did you find out?”

   Sirius sighed and ran a hand through his long, unkempt hair. “You know I haven’t done this sort of thing since Hogwarts, right? And that was almost twenty years ago?”

   “You were practically a Transfiguration prodigy,” Tonks replied with a snort, “so don’t tell me you didn’t manage through it.”

   “Some of it, yeah, but Tonks, this is magical theory that’s beyond me,” Sirius replied seriously, setting his glass down as he pulled a few papers free of the untidy pile. “Simulamancy may have a massive Transfiguration component, but I was never good at Potions – which happen to be a major component of this mess – and some of this magic goes beyond even the craziest Arithmancy calculations that I’ve ever seen. Factor in the spell I cast... Tonks, this is a problem for someone like Dumbledore to solve, not me.”

   Tonks let her hair go emerald green as she glared at Sirius. “You’re telling me that Sirius Black, who if I remember correctly scored ‘Outstanding’ on the N.E.W.T. level in Transfiguration, Arithmancy, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Charms –”

   “I’m not a genius, Tonks.”

   “Yeah, but I’m sure you could get through this junk a hell of a lot better than I could,” Tonks returned angrily. “Look, how bad is the Arithmancy – I can see the calculations from here, they don’t look that bad –”

   “Well, sure, maybe not those ones,” Sirius replied with a snort, yanking another heap of papers free as he drew his wand. “But as every other person who studies this garbage at high levels knows, the more complex the spell –”

   “Don’t tell me you ascribe to the belief that every spell has an ‘equation’ that can be solved,” Tonks said dangerously, “because even the Unspeakables don’t buy that.”

   Sirius took another swig from his glass and when he looked at Tonks, his expression was more annoyed than angry. “You took Arithmancy at Hogwarts, right? You know that it’s the study of how magic is tied to numbers and geometry and all that?”

   “Yeah,” Tonks said slowly, “and if I remember correctly, there’s a bunch of conditions that Arithmancy ‘dictates’, so to speak, regarding how powerful some types of magic can be. Like the number seven being the most powerful magical number.”

   “Right,” Sirius replied, downing the rest of his glass and quickly refilling it. “Well, what the Hogwarts curriculum doesn’t like telling Arithmancy students is that for the past five hundred years, there have been a large number of magical theorists who have been trying to find the ‘equations of magic’, just like those Muggle ‘Laws of Physics’. It’s controversial at best among magical theoreticians and downright heresy among most purebloods, so Hogwarts prefers to keep it quiet, but it’s still a legitimate approach to Arithmancy. Problem is, there are far too many variables to consider when you’re doing these calculations, and there are practically no observable trends beyond the basic ones they teach in Arithmancy, at least not for typical spells.”

   “Okay,” Tonks said warily, already knowing that the conversation was going to get worse. “But what do you mean by ‘typical spells’?”

   “Instantaneous spells,” Sirius clarified. “Ones cast with wands. Those are more of a matter of skill and emotion – they really can’t be quantified. However, in isolated cases, there have been people who don’t give a damn that there are no recognizable trends – they just try to stick with the basics they know and extrapolate like mad from there. Extrapolate badly, and you end up like any dozen of the wizard horror stories that old Flitwick and McGonagall like to tell when they tell people off for mispronouncing spells. However, if you go in the right direction...”

   Tonks understood, and the thought gave her chills. “You’re talking about witches and wizards who invent their own spells. Like Snape, and Dumbledore, and –”

   “Voldemort,” Sirius finished darkly. “Scary as hell, I know – I lived through the First War, and I saw some of the nasty spells he cooked up, and it doesn’t help that Dumbledore’s dropped off the face of the earth. Either way, you go in the right direction with these sorts of... ‘calculations’, for lack of a better word, you get some pretty impressive results. But it’s painstaking, it takes a lot of experimentation, and it’s hard as hell to get right.”

   “So those that get it right –”

   “I don’t know if they have something we don’t, but either way, it scares the hell out of me,” Sirius finished grimly, downing the rest of his drink.

   Tonks’ felt her hair grow another few inches and darken to a deep teal. “But this doesn’t really seem to make a lot of sense – I mean, there were instructions in those books about the charms I needed to cast, and magical ‘calculations’ I needed to make –”

   “Keep in mind that Dumbledore wrote one of these books, and that on the scale of what we’re talking about, all those charms are a bit derivative,” Sirius said, wincing at Tonks’ indignant glare. “The man who thought up the combinations of all these spells was a fucking genius, but you were just following procedures and you made a couple of really lucky guesses. In all due honestly, both you and Harry are lucky the ritual didn’t blow up in your face the first time you did it.”

   “Love that you have such a high opinion of me,” Tonks said dryly, refilling her glass.

   Sirius smirked. “In any case, from the books and the notes you gave me – and this is some really screwed up shit, I might add – I parsed together some Arithmancy and...”

   He rose to his feet and tapped his wand on the paper in his hand, and before Tonks’ astounded eyes, a snarled mass of glowing numbers, letters, and symbols, all written in Sirius’ handwriting, leapt off the page to hang suspended in the air with multiple dimensions.

   Tonks whistled. “Yikes.”

   “You see what I mean?” Sirius said, shaking his head wearily as he walked around the glowing mass. “From what I can tell, this is what the simulamancy ritual’s ‘equation’ should have looked like, and I haven’t even solved for a tenth of the ‘coefficients’ in this nightmare. It’s ugly as fuck, but now it only gets worse. That shielding spell you cast – it changes the time parameter of this mess, and I don’t even know where to factor it in! To say nothing of solving this snarled nightmare...”

   “I get it, I get it,” Tonks said, as Sirius Vanished the glowing symbols with a wave of his wand. “Frankly, I’m amazed you got that far.”

   “I only did because you gave me a time parameter,” Sirius said tiredly, sitting back down and refilling his glass. “That’s the great thing about this sort of ritualized magic – it’s pretty damned primitive compared to spells cast out of a wand, but it takes time – it’s not instantaneous. Spells cast out a wand that are instantaneous apparently need to be ‘continuous’ under some sort of ‘time derivative’ and already I’m getting into terminology that I barely understand.” He took a heavy swig from his glass. “And right now, I don’t know how to fix it.”

   Tonks blew out a heavy breath. “Well, at least you tried. Do you...”

   “Do I what?”

   “Do you think it’s safe to try simulamancy again?”

   Sirius laughed, but it was the bitter laugh of somebody who was beyond helpless. “Tonks, if I knew, I would tell you, and as much as I love the slap-dash approach here, you’re gambling with high stakes – namely, Harry’s mind, and likely yours. And right now, you’ve both been through too much.”

   “So have you,” Tonks pointed out.

   Sirius stiffened, and looked down into his glass, his eyes haunted and filled with grief. “I... I really thought... goddamn it, I really thought...”

   “Sirius, I didn’t know about Lupin until he told me –”

   “He’s stronger than that,” Sirius whispered, slamming his hand on the bar. “Fuck it, he’s stronger than that! If he knew that Harry was with those god-awful Muggles, he should have done something, he promised James... he promised me –”

   “He’s blaming the lycanthropy –” Tonks began softly.

   “No, fuck that!” Sirius exclaimed, his eyes suddenly dilating with rage. “He’s better than that, he’s stronger than that, he never would have used that as an excuse! Where was his fucking pride? I knew him, Tonks! I knew him as well as he fucking knows himself! He would never have used the fact that he’s a werewolf as an excuse – James and I never let him –”

   “But neither of you were there,” Tonks said quietly, looking at her own drink now. “He was alone –”

   “Don’t you dare blame this on me or James!” Sirius snarled. “There was nothing I could have done, I was thrown into Azkaban without a fucking trial! If he knew that Harry was being mistreated like that – fuck, he promised me –”

   “I know, Sirius!” Tonks said forcefully, putting her hands on Sirius’ quaking shoulders and trying to meet his eyes. “But he was alone – and it’s hard to have that kind of strength when you have no one else!”

   “I have it,” Sirius spat savagely.

   “Yeah, but you’re one a fucking kind,” Tonks said, shaking her head as she let go of Sirius and turned back to her drink. “That’s why we can’t give up on Harry – not now. We can’t let him think that he’s alone in this – people do stupid shit when they’re on their own, and they lose hope. And I – I mean, we can’t let that happen.”

   Sirius looked at Tonks for a long few seconds, his eyes strangely filled with a bit of confusion. “Tonks...”

   “I’m handling it,” she interrupted viciously, draining her glass with a single gulp that caused her to cough and sputter, the harsh alcohol burning the back of her throat.

   “I didn’t expect there to be... well, something between you and Harry –”

   “I didn’t either,” Tonks replied curtly, refilling her glass, trying desperately to ignore the sea of roiling emotions filling her mind, and the images of her wrapped around him, images that felt so right and so wrong, so natural and so unnatural at the same time...

   “Tonks, I’m Harry’s godfather,” Sirius began slowly, with concern. “If there’s something between you two, I’m okay with it, but I’d like to know –”

   “There is something,” Tonks interrupted, her hair suddenly going matte black, “but I don’t understand it.”

   “Then talk to me, for fuck’s sake,” Sirius urged. “I’m good at this ‘relationship’ stuff.”

   Tonks snorted. “We both know that’s a royal load of bullshit.”

   “Well, I try,” Sirius said fairly. “So what’s up?”

   Tonks took a deep breath as she tried to bring her thoughts together, trying to parse together how she felt about Harry, trying to dredge something up that made an iota of sense...

   “We’re comrades, and friends, and I feel really happy with him,” she whispered, pink tinges returning to her hair as she turned towards the window, where the rising sun was finally peaking in. “I think we bring out the best in each other. Even when things are terrible... well, there’s something there, and I want to share that with him.”

   “That... that sounds awesome, Tonks,” Sirius said, patting her on the back. “You’re a lucky girl – so what’s the problem, then?”

   HIS NAME IS HARRY POTTER.

   “I wish I knew,” Tonks whispered as her hair returned to bright pink. “Merlin, Sirius, I wish I knew.”

* * *

   He arrived at Cassane Manor just as the rain began to fall. The gate was already open.

   “Son of a bitch,” Harry muttered, running his hand through his simulacrum’s long blonde hair before quickly throwing his hood up and pulling his cloak tighter around himself. “Just what I need right now...”

   He discarded the broken Butterbeer bottle that Tonks had turned into a Portkey and hurried towards the door across the slick cobblestones, all the while wondering why the gate had been left open.

   “He couldn’t have been expecting me,” he whispered to himself, as he rounded one of the trees. “And unless... oh god.”

   He could hardly believe his eyes, and he had to blink a few times before he fully comprehended what he saw.

   Two Muggle police cars were parked in front of the house.

   He increased his pace, cutting between the cars towards the front door, his stomach churning with a growing feeling of anxiety –

   The door opened the second his hand touched the knocker.

   “Ah, Miss Desdame, I’m glad you’re here,” Nathan Cassane said with a small smile. “Please, come in.”

   “I’m not catching you at a bad time?” Harry said warily, stepping inside, pulling back her hood and noticing for the first time three men in long overcoats standing in the foyer. All of them were eyeing her with marked distrust.

   “Not at all, not at all, they’re just leaving,” Cassane said with a nod towards the men. “Officers Finnigan and Riley have everything they need, and if Inspector Norton feels that INTERPOL needs to get involved –”

   He threw a sharp glare at the tallest and most primly dressed of the men, who returned the glare in full.

   “I’m sorry,” Harry said curiously, “but Mr. Finnigan?”

   “Aye,” the shortest, oldest, and roughest-looking of the men said curtly. “Pat Finnigan, Special Police Force, and that’s all you need to know, Miss...”

   “Clarissa Desdame,” Harry replied, immediately assuming a haughty demeanour and inwardly cursing his curiosity – of course it was Seamus’ father, the resemblance was unmistakable! “Barrister.”

   “You called an lawyer, Cassane?” Norton exclaimed angrily. “You sure aren’t behaving like someone who has nothing to hide –”

   “Until you have a subpoena, you aren’t getting near my property,” Cassane growled, his eyes blazing as he pushed the door wider. “Now I must respectfully ask you to leave, and if you have any more questions, you can speak to my legal team – I gave you all of their contact information.”

   “Oh trust me,” Finnigan growled as he strode out the door, “we will.”

   The other two officers gave Cassane deeply mistrustful looks before following Finnigan, and Cassane couldn’t slam the door fast enough behind them.

   “Just when I wished my life was a bit less complicated,” he murmured, wiping his forehead. “I’m sorry you had to see that, Miss Desdame –”

   “Oh, drop the act, Cassane, neither of us has time for it,” Harry retorted angrily, pulling off her cloak in one swift motion.

   Cassane cocked an eyebrow as he took Harry’s cloak. “Excuse me?”

   Harry took a deep breath – time to test his suspicions. “You know this is just a simulacrum – you know I’m Harry Potter.”

   Cassane paused for a few seconds, before giving a slight smile. “Well, I know now.”

   Harry’s mouth fell open. “But you told Tonks –”

   “I made assumptions, Harry,” Cassane replied as he moved towards the drawing room, Harry following right behind him. Strangely, the second they entered the room, the sound of pounding rain on the rooftop seemed to disappear, replaced by a strange whooshing noise as several brass instruments whirled through the air with a slight wave of Cassane’s wand. “Fortunately, since I have been forced to choose a side, your revelation to me is not suspect. I keep my secrets.”

   “But how did you figure it out?” Harry demanded anxiously. “If you figured it out –”

   “Ah, but I used the clues I was given, and the fact that you weren’t very, ah, good at being a woman the first time you entered my house,” Cassane replied slyly, sending the brass instruments into a tornado of motion as he turned and leaned against the table. “You’ve improved significantly, I might add, and I must congratulate both you and Miss Tonks for the ambition of your scheme – most would have been content with Polyjuice Potion, but you went the extra mile. I’m more than a little impressed.”

   “Uh, thanks, I think,” Harry said, frowning as he watched Cassane scan a massive parchment filled to the edges with scribbling on his desk. “Really, Tonks did all the work –”

   “If your consciousness hadn’t been malleable enough to leap across the band of magic into your simulacrum’s body, Harry, you would be worse than dead,” Cassane interrupted, shrugging as he continued to scan his parchment. “Not to mention that you and Miss Tonks are the first magic-users to successfully perform simulamancy in centuries, and that the Department of Mysteries would pay dearly to get their hands on you now if they knew.”

   “Then why did the Ministry place the books at Hogwarts in the first place?” Harry asked, bewildered. “There’s some dangerous magic in those books –”

   Cassane rolled his eyes. “Harry, we’re talking about wizards in the sixteenth century, a time when Metamorphmagi were considered less than human and exceptionally dangerous, and while the Unspeakables may have examined those books, they are, and remain to this day, extraordinarily paranoid, even of their brethren. They examined the books, cited ‘extraordinary limitations,’ and sent everything to Hogwarts under the belief that the Headmaster would protect it. Eventually, simulamancy was forgotten – a far better defence than any spell or curse.”

   “Then how do you know about it?” Harry asked sharply.

   “I’ve done a lot of research, Harry,” Cassane said distractedly, “and there’s another copy of The Book of Inversion and Duplex sitting in my library as we speak. Don’t ask where I got it – while I’ve spent the last decade searching for beautiful things, I did not find any there.” He shuddered, and returned to his paper, leaving Harry to try and process the information that Cassane had just given him. Finally, he decided to change subjects.

   “What were the Muggle police doing here?”

   Cassane paused for a few seconds, and slowly ran a hand through his silver hair. “It’s a bit of a... bit of an awkward situation, Harry; I’d prefer not to discuss it.”

   “Are you in trouble?”

  “Not... exactly, per se, but just the same, I’d rather not talk about it,” Cassane said uncomfortably.

   Harry was perplexed – Nathan Cassane, a wizard who usually had such aplomb, seemed visibly disconcerted about a few innocent questions – what was going on?

   “I’m concerned that –”

   “Harry, please,” Cassane said quietly. “It’s not relevant.”

   “I’m concerned that you might be in danger,” Harry continued, placing both hands on the table and fixing Cassane with a steely glare. “That newspaper article –”

   “It does exactly what you and I both want,” Cassane finished smoothly, dipping his quill in some ink and scribbling a few notes on the very edge of the paper. “Stalling the Ministry, giving us time, and hopefully making Fudge and Voldemort’s lives a little more complicated. It places me in a bit of danger, but I’m fairly confident I can handle it – Voldemort won’t dare show his face now, and because of my statements, I’m in a position to call in all manner of... ‘reinforcements’, so to speak.” Cassane gave Harry a tightly confident smile. “The second you become a man exposing truth, it becomes a dangerous game indeed to attack you.

   “Maybe for you,” Harry muttered darkly. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you and I ran the last time the Death Eaters attacked –”

   “Because I hadn’t taken a side at that point,” Cassane said, his voice abruptly chill. “But this forced my hand.”

   He pulled a folded piece of parchment from his jacket and passed it to Harry, who read it, and then reread it before crumpling it into a tight ball in his fist. What the hell was she thinking, trying to interfere in this... compromise everything –

   “As you can see,” Cassane said calmly, his voice filled with an edge, “if that message had been intercepted, I would have been placed in an uncomfortable situation. So I chose to take a side in this, and it’s a good thing I did – otherwise, you and Tonks wouldn’t have gotten out of the Ministry alive. Scrimgeour’s been asking questions.”

   “But why would he have any reason to suspect you?” Harry asked with bewilderment.

   Cassane let out a long breath before setting his quill down and staring at the calculations. “Rufus Scrimgeour and I... well, we have a history.” He straightened slightly and walked around the table, scanning the paper from a different angle. “Hmm... interesting.”

   “The writing is upside-down,” Harry said helpfully.

   “I’m looking at things from a different angle, Harry, which becomes essential in these problems,” Cassane said with a hint of a grin. “Particularly with as many variables as we have in this case...”

   “What is it?” Harry asked curiously, moving next to Cassane.

   “A rough approximation of the enchantments I know to surround Hogwarts, courtesy of some old paperwork Dumbledore provided for me in the First War,” Cassane replied smoothly, drawing his wand and tapping it twice on the paper. Before Harry’s astonished eyes, the entire mass of ink lit up and rose off the paper, forming a massive three-dimensional diagram of Hogwarts itself. It was like the Marauder’s Map, but a much more detailed scale. Lines of every colour swirled and shifted around the diagram as Cassane prodded it with his wand. “We were trying to defend the school, and we needed to identify the areas where reinforcement was required.”

   “Is this... current?” Harry asked, mystified as Cassane slowly rotated the diagram with a wave of his wand. “I mean, could I use this to –”

   “Find and stop the spiritual attacks?” Cassane finished, weariness moving onto his face. “No. This was only the Hogwarts Dumbledore knew – and even he does not know the location of the lock that was broken, letting those spirits free.”

  “Does... does this mean you’re going to try and help us?” Harry asked, sudden hope welling up inside of him. “I mean, if you’re on our side now –”

   “And you know, given my position, I cannot do anything overtly,” Cassane interrupted tiredly, “but I might be able to help you understand the magic compelling the spirits – and with that, we might be able to trace their location.”

   Harry heard every note of hesitancy in Cassane’s voice, and he frowned. “Then what’s the problem –”

   “Harry, keep in mind that even the Headmasters of Hogwarts don’t know every secret of that castle. The sort of projection that I have created here is only a fraction of the true magic vested in the school, and even the best of wizards couldn’t tell you everything about it.” Cassane sighed as he waved his wand, sending the diagram back onto the paper. “And I’m sorry, Harry, but I cannot easily forget what memories I have left of the last time I took a side in this war.”

   Harry didn’t know what to say to that, but all of a sudden, he remembered the flames inside the Ministry, the screaming, the single one-armed figure falling through the smoke –

   “I understand,” he murmured. “And I’m sorry.”

   “While I appreciate your feelings, you don’t understand,” Cassane said quietly, his eyes fixed on the paper. “To lose those closest to you, knowing that they died cursing your name for failing them, knowing that you could have saved them, and then the hell you charge into when you realize the darkness was on either path...”

   His voice trailed off, and Harry swallowed hard, not knowing what to say, feeling more and more uncomfortable with each second of silence...

   “Does...”

   “Does what?” Cassane asked.

   “Sorry, does that map of yours specify all the enchantments on Hogwarts right now?” Harry asked quickly.

   “It doesn’t automatically update, if that’s what you’re referring to,” Cassane replied, turning to Harry. “Why?”

   “So it doesn’t include the time distortion?”

   Cassane abruptly stiffened, his eyes flashing. “What?”

    Harry swallowed hard again – Cassane’s expression wasn’t angry, but the sheer intensity of the stare unnerved Harry, much like Dumbledore’s ‘X-ray’ stare once had. “Th-the time distortion – it’s getting worse –”

   “What direction?”

   “Huh?”

   “What direction, Harry!” Cassane exclaimed, grabbing Harry by the shoulders. “Faster or slower inside Hogwarts?”

   “Slower, slower!” Harry replied hastily.

   “And you performed your first simulamancy ritual inside the school?” Cassane continued, his eyes blazing with sudden elation.

   “What does that –”

   “Yes or no, Harry, we could have something here!”

   “Yes, yes!” Harry said quickly, breathing fast as Cassane released Harry’s shoulders only to yank the image of Hogwarts into the air again with a frenzied slash of his wand. “What do you think –”

   “Time distortion allows us a tracking measure,” Cassane breathed quickly, sketching flaming characters into the air with his wand faster than Harry could write. The brass instruments around the room leapt into full action, surrounding the characters and twisting them into shapes that Cassane shot onto the image with a jab of his wand. “The more the magic is activated, the more the time slows along the defined curve – but the distortion has a curve of its own, and one must take into account any discontinuities –”

   “Mr. Cassane, what are you –”

   Cassane’s smile had fully blossomed now, and the image of Hogwarts seemed to get brighter to mirror it. “We have patterns, Harry – and you gave me a piece of what we needed. The key was simulamancy – Nimue fuck us both, we’re lucky men!”

   “I’m sorry, you’re losing me,” Harry said, putting a hand to his forehead.

   “Simulamancy, Harry!” Cassane said, his face filled with a mad elation that Harry found strangely thrilling. “Magic’s built on patterns, Harry – it’s the only way magic of this scope could have worked, and Voldemort knows it too! It would have taken a phenomenal amount of will and power to compel those ghosts, and thanks to your simulamancy, we have a way of tracking and seeing it!” The older man was panting now, his sheer excitement animating his every motion, and Harry couldn’t but feel a little excited as well – it was like watching genius unfold, a sudden revelation. “Every time a ghost is unleashed, the temporal distortion gets stronger.”

   “But why would simulamancy –”

   “Because both types of magic – at least symbolically – break the rules of time, which are powerful restraints upon any type of magic,” Cassane whispered, waving his wand and causing the image of Hogwarts to reappear again, rotating slowly and gleaming brighter than before. “Reversing death in two different forms – one by body, one by soul. Both require exorbitant amounts of energy, but they cannot occupy the same temporal space...”

   Cassane’s voice trailed off, and a second later, he snatched up Hermione’s crumpled letter, unfolded it and scanned it quickly. “It’s not ingenious, but it is a pattern,” he whispered, crumpling the paper. “And if we are to believe it, it confirms my hypothesis regarding time, or at least supports it.”

   “You’re talking about Hermione’s theory that this simulamancy ritual is following some sort of life progression?” Harry asked incredulously. “Are you serious?”

   “A valid theory in the absence of any others,” Cassane murmured. “But her argument, while technically sound, is flawed – her hypothesis that something before conception is intriguing, but lacking in that she thinks it is some metaphorical state. In reality, we both know it’s something far more circular.”

   Harry’s mind raced as he tried to follow Cassane’s logic: reversing death in two different forms...

   “Death,” he blurted, his eyes wide with sudden realization. “Death before life.”

   “The great circular nature of it all that men have tried to circumvent for centuries,” Cassane said darkly, “and even I cannot claim a lack of temptation...”

   “But what would symbolize death at Hogwarts?” Harry asked bewildered, moving closing and scanning the image. “Not even the Chamber of Secrets –”

   “That, Harry, becomes the question,” Cassane interrupted, giving Harry a small smile. “You’re thinking, and I like that. The only massive problem is that there are no tombs in Hogwarts – there never have been, not even of Headmasters. Figuring that with the vast number of irreverent students in this school, it has always been assumed that a tomb would become too great a target.”

   “That – that’s great, then!” Harry exclaimed. “A tomb in Hogwarts – we just have to find it and stop the reversal from there! I found the Chamber of Secrets, it can’t be –”

   “In the mean time, however,” Cassane interrupted, his face abruptly serious again, “if we proceed by all our theories, Hogwarts is in grave danger.”

     “What? But I thought you said –”

    “The natural cycle of life, Harry, only has so many stages,” Cassane said grimly as he raised his wand. “Birth, and childhood – two stages gone already.” He tapped the image of Hogwarts at Ravenclaw and Gryffindor Tower respectively. “If we follow our theory, what will happen when the final stage is reached?”

   Harry froze, and all of his wild hopes hit a screeching halt as he stared at the image of Hogwarts, and Cassane’s curiously flat eyes behind it. “I... I dunno.” He was suddenly acutely aware of the pounding of the rain on the rooftop, a sound he had ignored for the past few minutes – it was no longer excitedly muted.

   “Time slows down with each stage, Harry,” Cassane whispered. “So what will happen when we reach Death again?”

   “I... I...”

   “Nothing more than the nightmare that undoubtedly Voldemort fears beyond all telling,” Cassane said quietly. “A time stop – the ultimate singularity. Hogwarts will become lost in time – and everything with it, and the greatest storehouse of ancient magic on this island will be gone forever.” Cassane dissolved the image with a wave of his wand and fixed Harry with a cold stare. “And this is not something I believe Voldemort desires.”

   Harry swallowed hard. “But... but what can we do?”

   “We have to meddle with the system, disrupt the cycle, and the best way to do it is to get the ghosts out of Hogwarts entirely,” Cassane said, turning on his heel and walking straight out of the room, Harry hurrying behind him. “Suck them out, get them contained until we can find the tomb. The damn things contribute more to this mess than anything else, and we need them out. When the attacks come, we don’t destroy the souls like Dumbledore did, but contain them, bring their images into a place where we can take control, so whatever energy composes them can’t be fed back into the perverse cycle that compels their actions.”

   “I’m sorry, what?” Harry asked blankly.

   Cassane sighed exasperatedly. “Harry, I need you to concentrate here as I’m going to ask you a very strange question, and I need an honest answer: from entering the Great Hall, what is the order of the tables?”

   “What does that –”

   “It’s a pattern, Harry, and one of enormous importance here!” Cassane snarled. “The order is still Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin, correct?”

   “Y-yes... wait a minute!”

   “Ravenclaw girls first, followed by Gryffindor boys,” Cassane said smoothly as they arrived in the sitting room. All of the trinkets, Harry noted, had been restored to their proper places on the old wooden shelves. “Voldemort needed every pattern he could exploit here to power this magic – the next target will be a Slytherin girl I’m suspecting, and woe betide us if it’s not.”

   “Because if the pattern’s broken –”

   “The magic will destabilise,” Cassane finished grimly, settling down in his armchair near the fire and fixing Harry with a steely gaze. “The temporal distortion will accelerate, and the damage to our target’s sanity will be immeasurable.”

   Harry paused, and tried to collect his thoughts. It all made sense – and frankly, he was surprised at all the patterns that Cassane had pointed out. The man’s bloody good, I can give him that... makes me wonder how long he was working on this problem before I arrived...

   He took a deep breath, and then let it out slowly as he sat down opposite the older wizard. “So what do we do now?”

   Cassane put a finger to his lips, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Dumbledore still has an agent in the Department of Mysteries, correct?”

   “Yeah, Broderick Bode, I think,” Harry replied quickly. “I was actually planning on seeing him so he could help –”

   “I’ll take care of it,” Cassane said with a nod, his finger still on his lips. “Fortunately for the both of us, the method of extracting ghosts from a dwelling, even one as filled with magic as Hogwarts, is a tried and tested practice with the right materials. I bet that Dumbledore likely already contacted Bode to get everything ready before he disappeared – our job is probably half done. Some equipment will need to be installed at Hogwarts, but I don’t think that will be an issue. The real problem,” he continued, leaning forward and folding his hands, “will be finding the tomb in Hogwarts. Fortunately, the same method that gave us our clue might help us solve the riddle.”

   Harry’s eyes widened. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Simulamancy?”

   “You see images – strange images, almost of the future – every time you use that magic, don’t you?” Cassane asked, not meeting Harry’s eyes.

   Harry was lost for words – how in all of the bloody hells did he know that? “I... I don’t know how... you know what, after this meeting, I can’t even begin to guess how you figured that out –”

   “It’s common, actually,” Cassane said with a smile. “You’re meddling with time, Harry, with that ritual – so you see hypothetical visions of the future, partially defined yet unclear. The point is that with the right augmentation to the simulamancy ritual – which, if I receive enough notes from you, I can potentially implement – we could get a glimpse into where the tomb lies.”

   “Really?”

   “It’s worth a shot, and it would save us some time, at least,” Cassane replied easily, “and you get a third simulacrum.”

   “Something went wrong last time, though,” Harry blurted, trying to meet Cassane’s eyes. “Sirius attacked us...”

   And he proceeded to explain Sirius’ situation, everything from his innocence to the possession. By the time Harry was finished fifteen minutes later, Cassane had risen to his feet, poured himself a small glass of whiskey, and was staring to the flames.

   “Incredible,” he whispered.

   “Sorry?” Harry asked. “I thought we were talking about the possibility of the simulamancy going wrong again!”

   “No, it appears I underestimated the sheer guts of Peter Pettigrew,” Cassane mused. “The man has more cunning and nerve than I ever gave him credit for... regardless of that, this at least explains how our suspect managed to get his possession mechanism working.”

   “But wouldn’t it require energy for the ghost to possess Sirius over such a distance?” Harry argued. “A huge amount of it?”

   “Not as much as we’d think,” Cassane replied, raising a finger as he turned away from the fire, a small grin on his face. “He wouldn’t have to worry about the necessary patterns required to work within Hogwarts, and if the ghost was mentally strong enough, it could have easily been the displacement from equilibrium that our suspect needed to break the barriers required to operate in Hogwarts.”

   “I... I guess,” Harry admitted, running a hand through his hair. “I just thought –”

   “Aha!” Cassane exclaimed, his eyes bright with pride. “You’re thinking – I like that!”

   “I’m also realizing that I don’t have the money for simulamancy this time,” Harry replied.

   Cassane’s face fell slightly as he sat back down. “Well, you know I can’t just transfer it to you, Harry. It’s not that I don’t trust you, and it’s not that we couldn’t do a very good job making it untraceable –”

   “So you’ll give me the money –”

   “Harry, the amount of scrutiny I am under is immense, and I am quite certain that the majority of my overseas private accounts have been noticed,” Cassane said seriously, “and the last thing I need is questions from Rufus Scrimgeour. Besides, if I remember correctly, the gold invested in this ritual – it is symbolically important it comes from you.”

   “But Tonks partially paid for the simulamancy last time!” Harry protested.

   “And it might have been one of the reasons it went wrong,” Cassane retorted. “But that doesn’t matter – I suspect you already knew I wasn’t about to give you the money, so what is it?”

   Harry took a very deep breath, praying with every second that this would work, that he would finally get some answers. “You... you told me, before we went into the Ministry, that you knew my father.”

   Cassane’s face went abruptly blank before he sighed heavily. “I did, and your mother as well. You cannot begin to believe how much you are like James and Lily, Harry.”

   “Right,” Harry said uncomfortably. “Anyways, according to everything I found out, the Potter Vaults – any sort of family money I might have – were closed by a judge named Claudius Kemester after my parents died... and I wanted to know if you knew why.”

   Cassane closed his eyes, and a look of tremendous agony crossed over his face, as if he was remembering great pain.

   “Harry,” he said very quietly, “I’d like for you to go to the far shelf, closest to the window, and take down the framed photograph at the very top. Please?”

    What the... Harry rose to his feet and standing on his toes, pulled down the small, silver-framed photograph. In a way, it almost reminded Harry of the picture Sirius and Moody had shown him of the Order of the Phoenix... but it was different.

   “Come here, Harry.”

   “I... I see you in this picture,” Harry whispered, not looking up from the image as he handed it to Cassane, who took it in his slightly shaking hands. “And I see my mum... and my dad... hey, is that Sirius and Lupin?”

   “Yes,” Cassane said quietly. “Next to Lupin is Dorcas Meadowes – which, as I’m sure you have not been informed, was Dumbledore’s first spy within the Death Eaters.”

   “What?”

   “Yes, that, among other things, were the reasons that Lord Voldemort killed her personally,” Cassane said quietly. “She never saw eye-to-eye with Dumbledore, joined my little group out of protest... but that’s hardly important. Look, there’s an interesting face you won’t see in many respectable pictures: Antonin Dolohov.”

   Harry’s brow furrowed as he regarded the handsome man with the twisted smile. “Seems quite the character... why does that name sound familiar –”

   “It should, he’s a Death Eater.”

   Harry’s eyes widened with shock. “Then what’s he doing in your –”

   “He wasn’t a Death Eater when they took this, no,” Cassane said, a trace of deep sadness in his voice. “The woman next to him – that was his wife, Regina. She died in an accident that involved the Ministry, though it’s always been suspected Voldemort was behind it. Blinded and maddened by grief, not to mention blamed for his wife’s death, Dolohov joined Voldemort’s order with open arms.” Cassane shook his head bitterly and ran a hand through his silver hair. “We lost a good wizard that day.”

   “Who... who are the rest of these people?”

   “That’s Galahad and Isabelle Vuneren,” Cassane said, swallowing hard as he pointed at a blonde couple near the back of the photo. “Voldemort destroyed the entire family with the willing aide of the Malfoys – they’ve wanted that family gone for years. That’s Warren Helms – extraordinarily powerful wizard, taught Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts for a year before he died saving the Muggle Prime Minister’s life from a Killing Curse, though the man never knew it. That’s Barronfellow Pomfrey – we all called him Buck, he was our Healer until the Lestranges ripped him in half vertically during an ambush outside of Westminister... and that’s Carson Thomas –”

   “Wait a second,” Harry said, taking the picture from Cassane’s hand and looking closer. “I know that face – that, that’s Dean’s dad! He always said his dad left, and that he wasn’t sure if he was a Muggle or not –”

   “He was a wizard, and he was a damned good one,” Cassane whispered, pulling the photograph slowly from Harry’s hand. For a second, Harry thought he saw Cassane’s eyes moisten slightly before hastily wiping them dry. “He – he wanted to protect the family, he said he’d come back... but he couldn’t. I... I remember when he made the decision to leave... hell, I was there...”

   “Mr. Cassane... Nathan?” Harry asked slowly, looking down at the picture and trying desperately to avoid looking at Cassane, fearing that it would make the lump in his throat get even bigger. “Who is that woman standing next to you?”

   Cassane closed both his eyes and sighed with a heavy finality that was filled with unresolved, deep grief. “That, Harry Potter, was my wife, Cassandra Cassane.”

   He was wrong – he didn’t need to look at Cassane for the lump in his throat to get worse. “W-what did you do?”

   Cassane gave Harry the photograph and rose slowly to his feet, turning to stare into the fire. “Harry, we were a special team, under the direct jurisdiction of the Minister herself. We had special orders, special directives, and very special jobs. I was the leader and the recruiter of the entire team, and despite whatever some might tell you, we were a legitimate part of the Ministry.”

   “But what did you do?” Harry asked curiously. “My father worked for you?”

   “So did your mother and Sirius, until we were disbanded, in February of 1980,” Cassane said, his voice uneven. “As for what we did... well, from what I can remember, we were a plain-clothes group, used for gathering intelligence, procuring information, and tracking down and eliminating servants of Lord Voldemort. A... detective group, if you will.”

   “A detective group,” Harry repeated incredulously. “The Ministry wouldn’t have shut down the Potter Vaults because of that... wait, you said ‘that you can remember’? Are there things you can’t remember?”

   “We all forget things,” Cassane murmured distantly.

   “Not you, and not this!” Harry said angrily. “This group meant something to you, you wouldn’t have chosen to forget –”

   “Oh, really, Potter?” Cassane snarled, spinning around and rounding on Harry. “Do you really have the slightest damned idea what we did, what your parents did – all under my orders?”

   “You still wouldn’t voluntarily forget,” Harry spat. “Not you. You care too much.”

   Cassane’s eyes flashed, and Harry felt a surge of very real terror, but then Cassane shoved past Harry and reached to the very top of the shelves, plucking down a single, tightly sealed crystalline vial.

   “These are memories, Potter, as you well know,” Cassane snarled, tossing Harry the vial with a short hard motion. “There’s no need for me to show you these – I lived them, and I have no desire to see them again. But they are incomplete – there are several blanks that even I cannot fill in, up to and including my final mission, after which I woke up in the long-term ward of St. Mungo’s Hospital, two and a half years later.” As Harry raised the tiny vial to the light to get a closer look, Cassane seized control of his hand, with the strength and speak of a striking viper. “Watch them when you have time, and you’ll understand exactly why I didn’t want to enter this war to begin with!”

   Harry swallowed back the lump in his throat again – this time, it was from fear. “And this’ll explain the Potter Vaults –”

   “It might give you the clues you need,” Cassane said, his tone icy as he let go of Harry’s hand. “Keep in mind, though, I was in a coma when the vaults were closed. All I know is that four people were involved in everything. Two are dead, one is in Azkaban –”

   “Claudius Kemester,” Harry hissed.

   “ – And Severus Snape,” Cassane finished. “If anything, the easiest thing to do is begin your inquiries with him.”

   “He betrayed my parents!” Harry exclaimed furiously.

   “And next time you encounter him, ask him why,” Cassane replied with a twisted smile. “I’d love to see him explain that –”

   It was chilling in its suddenness, but Cassane’s voice stopped, as if someone had rammed something in his mouth. He didn’t choke, but his eyes widened slightly as he closed his mouth, his mind racing, and from the look on his face, Harry wasn’t sure he wanted to know where it was going...

   “We made a mistake,” he whispered.

   “What?” Harry asked, a note of fear creeping into his voice. “What mistake? What’s going on?”

   “The pattern doesn’t make sense!” Cassane said, anger and fear warring for dominance in his voice as he strode right out of the room, his jacket flapping behind him. “It goes from seconds to minutes between attacks – that makes sense. But now... Harry, what time was it when you left Hogwarts?”

   “I dunno, some time at night,” Harry replied anxiously.

   “It’s midmorning,” Cassane breathed, fear finally winning over anger in his voice as they reached the foyer, a crack of thunder shaking the house as he stopped below the chandelier. “That’s over six hours, probably closer to eight –”

   “But that doesn’t make any sense!” Harry argued. “When I met with Tonks and Sirius earlier, the time separation was about four or five hours...”

   The same horrible realization sunk into Harry’s mind as he realized the likely truth.

   “There’s been another attack,” he breathed. “Oh fuck.”

   “There’s no time, you have to get back to Hogwarts,” Cassane said quickly, conjuring a block of wood out of thin air with a wave of his wand. “Portus – go, Harry, hurry!”

   He felt the jerk beneath his navel even as another crack of thunder split the air, and the last image Harry saw before everything began to swirl was Cassane’s agonized knowing expression.

* * *

   The sturdy, oaken door of the high-rise flat in Diagon Alley had taken a lot of damage over the years – unsurprising, really, considering Rita Skeeter’s career of ferreting out secrets – but even it couldn’t withstand the four Blasting Curses that struck it in rapid succession. The hinges groaned as the door was ripped free, slamming to the floor like a thunderclap, mimicking the tremors in the storm outside.

   Into the flat came two men. One was wearing the crisp, dark robes of a professional Auror – one of the two reasons nobody had stopped them on the way up the stairs. The other reason was the other man. Robes ragged and frayed, his eyes hardly seen beneath a heavy hood and cowl, there was something feral about the way he walked, as if he was stalking an invisible target at all times. The stench of sewage and rotting meat only enhanced the image.

   The hooded man sniffed twice. “It reeks in here.”

   “What do you expect from Skeeter?” the Auror snapped irritably, lighting his wand and carefully stepping into the room. “It’s a mess in here too – whore probably fucks half her informants and lies about the ones who she doesn’t screw.”

   The hooded man gave a low growl from the back of his throat. “Doesn’t smell like that. More like bad perfume... bad consciences.”

   “Says Fenrir Greyback,” the Auror muttered, barely audible.

   “Fuck off,” the hooded man spat. “Despite what you might think, I have standards. There are predators, prey, and those maggots that aren’t worth hunting. She’s in the last category.”

   “Either way, she’s not here,” the Auror hissed, biting back a curse as he lowered his wand. “I just checked – no human presences here.”

   “Good,” Greyback said curtly. “Then let’s torch this place and leave – I’m hungry. We should probably take some of the papers here –”

   “The Dark Lord doesn’t need any of it,” the Auror interrupted, drawing his wand. “He already knows everything she could possibly know.”

   “Are those orders?”

   “What do you think?”

   Greyback bared his teeth. “Then I get to burn this place.”

   “We’ll do it together, just to be sure,” the Auror said with an air of finality, pulling a flask of tightly sealed Combustion Concoction from his cloak and setting it on the small table in the room.

   Stepping out of the flat with Greyback, after carefully verifying that nobody was in the hall, the Auror carefully raised his wand.

   “Atrum... chain... LEVITAS!

   Twin streams of lightning erupted from their wands, striking the flask, igniting the potion within –

   Both of the wizards Disapparated with loud cracks – cracks obscured by the thundering explosion that rocked the entire building that consumed everything within the apartment with a rush of hot flame. The windows exploded, the building trembled from the force, and the few remaining occupants inside screamed or jumped with shock.

  Nobody noticed the beetle that had darted through a crack in the floorboards and skittered away.

* * *

   The storm had finally begun, and Moody was nowhere to be found.

   Harry staggered slightly as a crack of lightning exploded against the sky, the thunder shaking the stones beneath his feet. He regained his balance quickly, but his mind was racing with incomprehension – no storm could shake the castle –

   “Oh, I think you’ll find that it can.”

   He looked up, and just like every other time before, Peeves was hovering there, a supremely satisfied smile on his twisted incorporeal face, gleaming all the brighter in the sputtering torchlight.

   Harry’s wand was out in a flash, shakily pointing at the poltergeist. “Why this time, Peeves?” he gasped, putting a hand against a wall to steady himself as another crack of lightning shook the floor. “What... the fuck did I do this –”

   “Harry, Harry,” Peeves said with a infuriatingly condescending smile, “it’s not always about you.”

   “Then who the fuck is it this time?” Harry shouted, his patience spent as he poured every ounce of his frustration and hatred into his glare. He didn’t care that Peeves was only the messenger, unrelated to the attacks – he just wanted the ghost to fucking die. “Who did they take?”

   “That... that would be telling, wouldn’t it?”

   The thunder shook the castle, and the torches rattled in their brackets, but Harry didn't stagger - fury gave him stability, even in the worst storm that Hogwarts had seen in decades.
   "Does it distress you, Harry?" Peeves said, with his best devilish, impossibly wide smile. "Does it disturb you that without your interference, none of this would have happened? Nothing like this is coincidental, you know."

   His heart was hammering in his chest with sudden terror. His wand was shaking in his trembling hand. Was it possible it was his fault this time -
   "This time, though, there's no Dumbledore to save you," Peeves said gleefully. "Not this time - no, the odds are far more even - and by even I mean precipitously stacked against you. But you're the Boy-Who-Lived - I'm assuming you're used to it."
   
"Peeves, I fucking swear -"
   
"After all, you'll need to be - if you want to save her."

   The jet of blue-white light erupted from his wand, but Peeves shot backwards, letting the bolt strike a nearby torch, gutting it in a shower of sparks. The laughter was ringing down the hall, mixing with the thunder in an insane cacophony -
   
"Oh, don't worry, I'll let you climb the lightning-struck Astronomy tower," Peeves said, his eyes widening diabolically. "And that's the point, you know. She's there, surrounded by the intangible - the things that like to make minds a bit more malleable."
   
"Then get the fuck out of my way before I incinerate your soul myself!" Harry shouted, his voice raw against the thunder. Hogwarts shook again. “I know the fucking spell –”
   
"But just a friendly warning, Harry," Peeves said, suddenly only inches from Harry's face, "I'm no prophet, but I play the odds, and no bookie’s going to be knocking on my door. And the stakes are high - one of you is going off the tower tonight, and you’ll have to choose. One is going to die - and the other's going to wish for a death denied. Hope you like rolling dice with Death, Harry - he always rolls snakes' eyes."

   He ignored the cacophony of echoing laughter – he just ran like he had never run before, sprinting towards the nearest stairwell, racking his brain with every step. Why the fuck would anyone be up in the Astronomy Tower now in this storm? What’s the significance of this...

   His hand slipped on the railing as he pulled himself up two stairs at a time. Ignoring the growing tightness in his chest, he charged down the seventh floor corridor towards the narrow rickety stairwell that led to the top of the tower. Through the windows, he could see the madly twisting net of lightning breaking and buckling against the sky, cracks splitting the air like so many shattering trees –

   BOOM.

   Harry fell this time, slapping his hands to his ears against the rushing pain, but he only stayed down for a second, scrabbling up the stairs, running faster and faster, the sweat beginning to slick his brow and his fingers. But he wasn’t going to stop – he wasn’t going to let another ghost destroy another girl. Not if I can stop it –

   He hit the door running, and to his shock, it fell open beneath his wait. Awkwardly avoiding a fall, he snapped his wand up, prepared for the horror of –

   “L-Luna?

   The circular room was filled with sextants, astrolabes, telescopes, and charts, but where Professor Sinistra’s desk once was, in the center of the room, was a charred spot – and Luna Lovegood was hovering inches above the floor.

   Her blonde hair fluttered gently around her head, bowed as if in meditation. Her eyes were closed – and from every inch of her body, she glowed with a soft aquamarine light, the only light in the room. Flickering between blue and green, it drained any colour or hint of life from her face, and made the blue of her tie and trim of her robes gleam all the brighter...

   But she wasn’t wearing robes the last time I saw her... Harry thought, breathing fast as raw panic set in. I need to figure out a way to get her out of this – it’s not fair, it’s wrong that they’re attacking her –

   “Luna?”

   Everything went deathly silent, and Harry’s wand snapped up – he couldn’t even hear the thunder...

   She looked up, her eyes still closed, and Harry held his breath. Maybe he’d have a chance...

   And then her eyes opened.

   “You’re not my loved one.

   The light around her went bright acid green, but Harry had seen her eyes – pure white, as if blind, but he knew she could see. Around her, he could hear a hissing... a hissing he could understand –

   “Daughters misbegotten, daughters betrayed, they both sought death denied –”

   “LUNA!”

   The scream split his eardrums, and he immediately started moving even as the hisses turned to incoherent howling. A second later, lightning erupted from a wand Harry didn’t see Luna draw, and struck the door that had been behind where he was standing.

   “LUNA, IT’S HARRY!”

   The howling was ear-splitting, and Harry could see another wand slide into Luna’s opposite hand. Instinctively, he threw himself sideways –

   Pain exploded across his body, and he smelt the sudden sizzling of charred fabric and burning flesh. He hit the ground hard, and it took everything he had not to scream as he desperately tried to ignore the pain in his abdomen –

   The light grew brighter. He looked up, and saw Luna’s face, her innocence twisted into a visage Harry didn’t recognize. The whispers had gone silent again – the room was silent again.

   “You’re not my loved one...

   “Luna, snap out of it!” Harry pleaded, choking back a gasp of pain. “This isn’t you – get the fuck out of her head!”

   Her visage changed – abruptly cold, dispassionate, inhuman – and the whisper returned. It wasn’t from her lips, and he could understand it – it was Parseltongue.

   “My head now, bitch. AVADA KEDAV-”

  NO!”

   The dust cloud rocketed across the room as Harry felt the shockwave of the lightning. He felt himself flying, slamming into an astrolabe and collapsing against a table, the pain hitting his brain like a tidal wave, the wand slipping from his fingers –

   He rolled onto the floor to grab his wand – a move that saved his life, as another blast of lightning from Luna’s wand struck the table and smashed it into cinders.

   “Pathetic, what your generation has become,” the whisper hissed disdainfully. “Three hundred years ago, your type wouldn’t have survived – the other one in here is living proof of that – why don’t you TAKE HER!”

   It was something out of a nightmare, and Harry couldn’t wake up. The acid green glow had become a fiery white-blue, and Luna, taking both wands into one hand, was digging into her scalp with the other, pulling tendrils of blue-white mist free of her hair – and suddenly the mist had coalesced and was speeding towards his head –

   CRACK.

   It wasn’t lightning, not this time, but he could see the white-blue comet ricocheting away from him, dizzily spiralling upwards. He could see gold lines cross his vision, this time criss-crossed with edges of tarnished silver. But this time, he knew what had happened – the simulamancy had protected against the possession, and now he had a second –

   “EXPELLIARMUS!

   The spell blew both wands out of Luna’s hand. The milky white eyes fixed on him – and then the whispers turned to screams again – but this time Harry was on his feet and ready.

   “MENS FRAGOR! DAMN IT, MENS FRAGOR!”

   Twin spheres of blue-white light erupted from his wand, and struck Luna straight in the head, propelling her across the room – where he heard a sickening crack.

   The howling stopped.

   His heart nearly stopped with sudden terror.

  Oh no... not again. I couldn’t have –

    She still was glowing through the sparking mist and dust cloud, and he ran to where she was slumped, her head at a horrifyingly awkward angle.

   “No,” Harry whispered with panic, panting and choking as he frantically felt for a pulse. “No, damn it, no, not like this, no –”

   And then he felt the grip on his wrist, and he saw the milky eyes snap open.

   “Nice try.”

   “What the –”

   Her other hand seized him by the throat, and he couldn’t even make a sound as Luna lifted him, thrashing madly, above the ground, crushing his windpipe with her tiny hand and impossible strength. She was smiling a ghastly smile – it wasn’t Luna’s smile.

   “A fine specimen indeed. I can hear her calling for you – it’s beautiful, almost touching. But nothing’s getting into your head, SIMULAMANCER. No, you may have shielded me, but you’ve left a single doorway open –”

   He could hardly breathe, his thoughts flaking away like dead leaves in a cold autumn breeze. But the rage was coming back in force. It’s not Luna, it’s this deranged monster, I can’t hold back –

   “- but I’ll leave that for later, my part is nearly completed – at least for now. You’ll see me again, Potter – in Hell.”

   His hand clenched into a fist, and was already rising with the strength borne of desperation –

   “Harry?”

   CRACK.

   The light was gone, plunging the room into lightning-lit blackness, and Harry fell to the floor – and so did Luna, her eyes abruptly normal.

  Except for one, blackened by Harry’s fist.

  A rush of horror surged through him – what had he done? He desperately scrabbled for his wand, lighting it with a whispered word, only to see Luna slowly sitting up, tears trickling down her cheek –

   “Oh god, Luna, you – you’re –”

   “Why did you hit me, Harry?” Luna asked in a quavering voice. “Why did you hit me? What did I do?”

   He crawled across the floor and pulled Luna into his arms, desperately choking back his own fear and the horrible feeling of guilt welling up inside of him. “I didn’t mean to – the, the ghost was strangling me, I was hitting her, I’m so sorry –”

   She pulled away from his grasp, and before Harry could scream out her name, she had run up the stairs, towards the open observatory –

   “LUNA!”

   He could see her robes, now ragged, fluttering behind her. He reached out to grab a hold, to pull her back, to somehow explain –

   The sleet hit him like an iron curtain.

   Most of the ceiling of the top of the tower had been blasted away, and Harry wrapped his robes around him tightly as he staggered onto the landing. The wind was howling now, ice cold and tearing at his robes like so many grasping tentacles...

   And there she was, standing at the edge of the tower, where the railing had been blown to fragments. The rain, the sleet, the shrieking of the gale, the calamitous bangs of the lightning, none of it moved her. None of it fazed her. It was like she was a statue, looking out into the storm, her hair soaked back like that of a drowning ghost, lost in the depths of the storm.

   ...a drowning ghost, lost in the depths of the storm...

   Fear gripped him, along with the horrifying feeling of déjà vu, that he had seen it all before, that he knew what was going to happen, what she would say –

   “No,” he whispered, now knowing the reason behind the words, as he watched her bare foot step ever closer to the broken ledge. “Please...

   “We’ve both come too far to back out, Isabelle,” Luna whispered. “You know that as well as I.”

   “Please...” Now he understood why it had come to this – but he wasn’t going to let it end, he had to do something!

   “Don’t feel bad, Harry, it’s not the end.”

   He could somehow hear her, despite the storm, seemingly muted as he tried to step closer against the wall of wind. He wasn’t going to let this happen –

   Then Luna turned, and Harry could see the livid bruise outlining her sky-blue eyes, but there was something wrong about them, something otherworldly, something possessed –

   The mist had been another ghost – and it’s still –

   “The boundaries are down,” Luna said, her eyes flat and blank, and Harry felt true horror pounding in his heart at the off-key, sing-song words. No, no...

    “So I merely... cross over.

   “NO!”

  Her bare foot slipped on the wet stone of the edge -

  He ran, his shoes skidding on the slick and icy stones –

  She fell –

  And he could only see her face as he followed her.