32: Truth and Consequences

Harry climbed the spiral staircase to his dormitory in silence. It was 2:30 AM and he had no desire to explain his whereabouts to anyone. He pulled off his Quidditch robes outside the door of his room so as not to wake Ron. He placed a Silencing spell on the door, on the odd chance that it might squeak when he finally pushed it open.

Ron's bed was empty.

Harry scoffed and went inside. So much for stealth, he thought. He tossed his clothes at the foot of his bed and was pulling on his pajamas when he heard footsteps on the stairs. He leapt into bed and drew the curtains, still struggling with his nightshirt as Ron threw open the door. "Harry! Wake up!" Ron yelled, then muttered a spell to light all the lamps. Harry barely had time to put his head on the pillow before Ron yanked the curtains open. He lifted it back up and blinked as if he'd been awoken from a sound sleep.

"You're not going to believe this, mate," Ron began, a huge grin on his face.

"Hermione and Viktor are getting married," Harry said flatly, dropping his head back onto the pillow.

Ron sputtered. "How'd you--?" He paused. "Ah, you and your Legilimency! Here I've been looking for you for half an hour and you already knew it. Where've you been all night? We have a right celebration going on over in the Ravenclaw common room."

"I went for a walk."

Ron's smile vanished and he climbed in and sat at the foot of Harry's bed. "What's gotten into you?" he asked.

"Nothing, Ron. I was asleep. I... I picked up on the engagement ring while we were all at the tea shop. I figured it was best if I just laid low until after he asked. Didn't want to ruin the surprise, you know."

Ron clicked his teeth. "Ever the gentleman, aren't you?" Harry made no response. "Well, it's all out in the open now--come on, get up and join the party!" He pushed Harry's feet toward the edge of the bed.

"No!" said Harry sharply, then lowered his voice. "Not tonight, Ron. I really need to get some sleep. I think I flew too high, maybe got a little altitude sickness."

Ron frowned, then shrugged. "Oh. Sorry to hear it. Well, we'll try to save you some fun for tomorrow night." Harry nodded gratefully, tugging the blanket up to his chin.

When the room was dark and quiet again, there was a familiar rustle overhead. Feathers brushed Harry's cheek as Fawkes glided down from the tester. He sat down beside Harry's pillow and crooned quietly, attempting to wriggle under the covers.

"Just go to sleep, Fawkes," Harry whispered, and rolled over to face the other way.

Harry slept fitfully, despite being treated to Fawkes's comforting hum every time he awoke. Ron bustled in sometime around four but Harry said nothing, feigning sleep as Ron settled into bed. Harry woke several times to the sound of soft snores, and irritably wished that he, too, could stay asleep long enough to reach the point of snoring. When he finally awoke to pale daylight filtering through the curtains, he climbed out of bed in resignation.

Fawkes followed him down to the common room, which normally would have pleased Harry, but it was an unwelcome imposition today. He frowned at the phoenix to no effect, then sighed. "You might as well sit," he grumbled, offering his shoulder. Better that than having Fawkes flapping around his head all morning.

It was far too early for breakfast, but he was too restless to sit around in the silent common room. Once through the portrait hole, however, he stopped short, for there was nowhere in particular he wanted to go. All he really wanted to do was get back in bed, but sleep was impossible. Finally Fawkes made the decision for him, pointing down the corridor with a flick of his beak.

Harry suspected that they were aimed at the Headmaster's Office, and he was correct. Fawkes squeezed his shoulder gently as they neared the stone gargoyle. "I really don't think McGonagall's in there at this hour," Harry said quietly, reluctant to break the almost eerie silence of the corridor. Fawkes paid him no mind and spread his wings, whereupon the gargoyle leaped aside with a bow and the wall split open to reveal the moving staircase.

Harry gazed sidelong at Fawkes, who tossed his bill toward the entrance meaningfully. "If you're sure," said Harry, who by no means felt at all sure about parading into the Headmaster's Office unannounced. "You'd better cover for me if I get in trouble," he added uneasily, then mounted the stairs.

Harry knocked on the polished oak door at the top and was not surprised when there was no reply. "See?" he began, but fell silent as the door swung open silently on its own. Once again he eyeballed Fawkes. "Did you do that, or is someone in there?" Fawkes fluffed up his feathers and sprang from Harry's shoulder to glide into the office, alighting on the huge clawfoot desk with a brisk flap. The door closed behind Harry as he followed.

The many strange silver instruments that had always cluttered the room in Dumbledore's time were gone. McGonagall's tin of shortbread now sat atop the desk, and indeed, Fawkes appeared most interested in it and was nudging it experimentally with his bill. Oddly, Fawkes's golden perch remained beside the door to the staircase, though to Harry's knowledge, the phoenix spent all his time on top of Harry's bed in Gryffindor Tower. Perhaps McGonagall kept it as a memento, he wondered, removing the lid on the shortbread tin before Fawkes managed to dent it.

"Don't tell me you brought me all the way here to steal shortbread." Fawkes peered at him and flicked a biscuit his way with a toss of his head. Harry caught it, but was in no mood to eat. He put it absently into a pocket of his robes, watching Fawkes dig into the tin with gusto. "You're going to make yourself sick, you know," he finally reprimanded, pulling the box out from under the scarlet head and replacing the lid. Fawkes bleated once in indignation, then turned away and plopped onto the desk to devour the pile of biscuits he'd pulled out.

"Now what?" said Harry. It felt very uncomfortable to be in the office without the Headmistress's permission, and Harry wondered if he shouldn't simply pick Fawkes up and carry him out. "I know you're up to something," he pleaded quietly. "Can't we just get on with it? We shouldn't be here."

"Indeed not!" Harry jumped. He glared up at the portrait of Phineas Nigellus. "You ought to be down in Slytherin House where you belong!"

Harry would have hexed the portrait right off the wall if such a thing could be done. He fingered the handle of his wand but said nothing.

"Why have you come up here?" asked Phineas lazily. "Your pet feels peckish for biscuits, so you just walk right in? I suppose the almighty Boy Who Lived need not respect the Head's privacy."

Harry refused to take the bait. "I don't know why I'm here. Fawkes will make it clear when he's ready."

"Ah, yes, Fawkes. You do own the place, don't you?" the portrait leered. The phoenix regarded it sternly but made no sound. "Did you know that, Potter--that Fawkes holds the allodial title to this institution? It's true. Prior to the building of Hogwarts, this land had no owner. The original tenants fled, leaving behind only the magic to keep it hidden; they will never return. The Founders stumbled upon it through pure luck and claimed ownership by building this magnificent castle upon the wild ground. That's known as 'adverse possession,' or some call it 'homesteading,' which sounds more benign. Your crimson friend was there at the time. The only remaining member of the original group. He truly has the right to pilfer Minerva's biscuits without even knocking."

Harry peered at Fawkes, who raised his wings in a sort of shrug. He turned back to the portrait. "How do you know that?"

"I know a great many things, boy, because I pay attention! For example, I know what you did last night." Harry's hand flew to his wand again, but Phineas merely scoffed in disdain. "Honestly, Potter. Acromantulas? Hardly worth the bother, though I can't say that they'll be missed."

Harry saw a smattering of movement out of the corners of his eyes, but he ignored it.

"Still, one must start somewhere," continued the portrait of the former headmaster. "You've resisted it for so many years, though, Potter. You wouldn't take the gift that the Sorting Hat offered, to put you in Slytherin's house amongst your peers. But it seems you have come around at last. Why, it's a wonder the stones of Gryffindor's tower didn't come tumbling around you in outrage last night."

"That's a lie," breathed Harry.

By now, every portrait in the room had crowded to the edges of their frames for an optimal view of Phineas and Harry--all except Dumbledore, who continued to slumber as he had done since his portrait first appeared. Harry and Phineas faced one another in a locked silence, until some other portrait finally piped up in a nervous squeak, "What's happened, Potter?"

He didn't reply at first, staring down the mocking sneer on Phineas's face, but then a chorus of voices broke out from every corner of the room: "Tell us, Potter." "What have you done?" "For Merlin's sake, Phineas, guide the lad, not aggravate him!" Phineas curled his lip and prepared to speak, but Harry silenced the entire room by raising his hand.

"I discovered how to kill last night."

Harry expected an outburst of shock and dismay, but there were only a few startled gasps here and there; most of the portraits seemed to take the news in stride, nodding sadly or averting their eyes. A petite blond witch in a high corner dabbed her cheeks with a kerchief. Fawkes seemed the most upset at his admission, laying his head on the desk with a plaintive cry.

"Tell them the circumstances, Potter. They're all intrigued, and it would be so much more interesting coming from you than me."

Harry shook the stray hairs out of his eyes and licked the front of his teeth, calming his temper. "You don't know anything. I don't owe any explanations, not to you, nor anyone else." He clenched his jaw tightly, with every intention of walking out of the room and never returning, but was stopped short by a quiet plea.

"I would like to hear it from you, Harry," said the portrait of Albus Dumbledore.

The sound of Dumbledore's voice immediately drained the rage and temerity from Harry. For a moment he was sent through time, back to his first trip to this office during his second year, miserable with the certainty that he was about to be blamed not only for opening the Chamber of Secrets, but for incinerating "Dumbledore's pet bird" as well. Harry swallowed hard against the lump in his throat, then raised his head and turned to regard the portrait.

"You can speak, then," he said quietly, ignoring Phineas's contemptuous snort.

"I vowed that I would not speak until the many affairs I set into motion were completed. I still have secrets I must keep, Harry," Dumbledore sighed wearily. "Even in death. But please tell me this, Harry. What happened?"

Harry's jaw fell, but he snapped it shut in an effort to keep from laughing. Not that there was even a drop of humor in the air, but the absurdity of the situation demanded it. What happened? Where should he even begin? Dumbledore must have realized the magnitude of his question; he nodded, peering poignantly over his half-moon spectacles. "Speak only of last night, Harry. Even without the historical details, I'm sure I'll get the gist of the story."

"Last night," Harry said, resisting a strong but childish urge to demand that Dumbledore pony up some details of his own before he would get a word out of him. "All right. This is how it happened. Last night, I was... with someone. A woman. I thought I knew her. I felt... close to her. She seemed to feel it too; it had been growing for a long time. But last night I learned something about her. Something she'd deliberately kept from me." He paused, glaring at Dumbledore meaningfully, and to his satisfaction, the old man winced in obvious regret. "She wasn't who she... who I..." Harry couldn't find the right words, though he searched for some time. He finally abandoned that part of the explanation; it was only "historical detail" anyway.

"I... hurt her, and I knew if I stayed, I'd do worse." Harry's brow broke out in sweat, but the words were steamrolling out of him. "I've been angry before, but never like this. Even when Snape--" Dumbledore raised a hand to halt him and Harry gnashed his teeth, but he rephrased himself. "I've been betrayed and attacked more times than I can count, but it was always someone I'd never really trusted in the first place, like Quirrel. Or someone that I knew had it in for me, like Snape or Voldemort. Even when Crouch passed himself off as Moody and pretended to be my friend, he never got that far under my skin, into my... heart. But last night... I believed in her." He had to pause again; his throat felt too dry and tight to speak.

"I finally knew what it meant--about needing the right intent to cast an Unforgivable Curse. I had it, and I knew I had it. It was time. So I went into the Forbidden Forest. She took me there once, to kill bugs and birds. It was too dark to find any of those, but I went to Aragog's old nesting grounds. There were plenty of... targets." Harry grimaced in disgust. "The ones that lived pounced on the dead ones as fast as they could, not caring at all that they were gobbling up their own brother or sister. They were probably grateful for the free meal." Harry sighed and slumped against the desk, suddenly bone-tired as though the night of lost sleep had finally caught up with him.

The portraits said nothing, which was fine with Harry for the moment. He rubbed his eyes and forehead, then his shoulders; his neck was stiff and aching. When he finally took a deep breath and looked up, he half-expected to find Dumbledore settled back to sleep. The old wizard was standing at the edge of his frame, however, seemingly wishing he could step beyond it. "May I ask you one more question, Harry?"

"What?" he said listlessly.

"Your scar. Did it hurt you?"

That jolted through the exhaustion. Harry sat up straight, his brow creasing in amazement. "No. Not at all. Not even a twinge."

Dumbledore settled back into his chair, folding his hands into their customary position in his lap, but did not yet close his eyes. "That gladdens me, Harry. I think Phineas has been a bit presumptuous in his judgment. It is a terrible thing to kill, but even a Gryffindor must undertake it when the circumstances demand." He paused, and his eyes misted over with profound grief. "I'm sorry this has fallen to you, Harry Potter."

Harry was being dismissed. He nodded at the portrait and held his arm out for Fawkes, who took Harry's collar delicately in his bill for balance and scrambled up onto his shoulder. Harry didn't want to look at Dumbledore again, to see him close his eyes and leave the wizard world to its own devices once more, so he simply turned to go. Dumbledore's voice froze him at the office door. "If I may, Harry, one last thing?"

Harry left his hand on the latch and turned his head, but did not look at the portrait.

"You are the son of James Potter, and for that reason Severus Snape hated you." Harry turned further, his eyes flashing bitterly as he regarded Dumbledore once more. The old wizard's gaze held firm. "That, you did not deserve, Harry."

Harry lifted the latch, his lip curling with disgust. "Is that all?"

"Only one more," said Dumbledore quietly. "Miss Ondossi is not her father, any more than you are yours."

Harry stood in the doorway for a long time before stepping onto the spiral stairs.

He felt even more aimless than when he'd left Gryffindor Tower. Looking down the corridor, he realized that he wasn't far from the Room of Requirement. He strode purposefully to the entry wall and paced before it three times, saying, "I need a place to be alone." When the door appeared, it was made of thick steel with a locking wheel like a Muggle bank vault. "Perfect," growled Harry. He stepped through it into a windowless room containing only a cot dressed with unbleached cotton sheets and a tiny table bearing an oil lamp, the glass chimney so stained with creosote that only a dull sepia glow came through.

He flopped on to the creaky cot and put his arms over his eyes, though the lamp was hardly bright enough to be bothersome. It had been a relief to talk about what he'd done, though he was quite sure the rest of the world wouldn't take the news as patiently as the group of Headmasters. He could see the headlines in the Prophet already: Boy Who Lived Becomes Boy Who Kills, or some such idiocy. Even worse, once word spread that he could kill, he could no longer hide behind his youth. Every day he waited to confront Voldemort would be seen as an act of cowardice by sorcerers the world over. They knew nothing of the Horcruxes or the need to destroy them first; they would blame him for every atrocity Voldemort carried out from that day forward. "The Chosen One could have stopped him by now. Why won't he act?" they would demand, and the Prophet would hand them whatever explanation would sell the most copy.

Harry rolled onto his side, tucking his knees up to his chest, and closed his eyes.

"There you are. Harry!" Ron abandoned his post at the foot of the marble stairs, where crowds of returning students were stomping and spelling the snow and mud from their shoes. The prefects were supposed to keep the traffic moving, as the people still outside were in no mood to wait for the earlier arrivals to take off their coats.

"Where've you been, mate? Viktor's in a right state--I practically had to Stupefy him to keep him from telling Lupin you'd run off."

"I didn't run off," Harry snapped. "I was here, I just needed a little peace and quiet."

"Well, you don't have to bite my head off!" said Ron. "No one knew what to think, and Viktor felt guilty that he was busy proposing instead of keeping tabs on you, and that of course set Hermione off... I've been listening to it all afternoon, you know."

Harry stopped on the stairs and closed his eyes a moment. "All right. Sorry, Ron." He didn't feel particularly remorseful, but Ron had absorbed a lot of flak on his account.

Ron studied him carefully, then his expression softened. "Where've you been then? You don't look so good."

Harry shook his head slowly, his eyes still shut. "Not now. I just want to get to dinner."

Ron proved the depth of his friendship by dashing down the stairs and staving off both Hermione and Viktor so that Harry could slink into the Great Hall and find a red chair at a table in the back. Only three other students joined his table, all second-years who sat on the far side and spoke quietly among themselves, casting uneasy but admiring glances now and again at Harry. This suited him just fine; it gave him an excuse to spend the meal diligently staring at his plate. He was nearly finished with dessert before he realized that Ondossi was not at the staff table.

He made a point of ignoring that fact until the next morning in the common room, when a group of third-years passed his chair, discussing their Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson with Professor Moody. Harry's stomach clenched in near panic; had she left Hogwarts on account of what had happened? He jumped up and caught the nearest third-year by the elbow, startling her so badly that she squealed.

"Did you just say that Moody's teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts?"

Harry had caught himself in time to keep from bellowing at the poor girl, but she still looked like she might drop all of her books out of fright. He realized a bit more explanation was in order. "I overheard when you walked by... did I hear you right? Ondossi isn't teaching Defense?"

The girl gulped, then stammered, "That's right. We had Professor Moody." She began to furrow her brow, slowly realizing that even though he was Harry Potter and a seventh-year, he really didn't have the right to make her quake in her boots.

Harry asked his next question even more mildly. "Did he say why?"

"He said he would substitute for a few days while she was in the hospital wing. He didn't say what was wrong."

Harry let her go, feeling the blood drain from his face. Why's she in the Hospital Wing? He looked down at his hand in horror, expecting to find it covered in blood. It was not, of course, but he suddenly found that he couldn't recall any specifics about what happened between her confession and his trip to the Forbidden Forest.

His distress must have showed on his face, as the incoming tide of students parted for him with subdued expressions as he strode from the common room. He froze, however, when he reached the great double doors of the Hospital Wing. "Miss Ondossi is not her father," Dumbledore's portrait had said. Of course she wasn't. Like a blow from a hammer, a deep and painful shame crushed his chest. She begged me to just let it go, but I wouldn't, I insisted she tell me...

Madam Pomfrey appeared in the door at that moment, jumping backwards in surprise. "Merlin's beard, Potter! You startled me! What are you doing, young man? Are you ill?" She narrowed her eyes, apparently deciding that he didn't look very healthy.

"No, no," he said. "I just... I heard Ondossi..." Mortified, he realized that Madam Pomfrey probably knew what he'd done!

She simply nodded, however, and pulled the door closed behind her. "Not to worry, Harry. She went into town last night and got into a little scuffle. A few non-magical injuries and quite a bit of frostbite, but nothing I can't set right. She's awake, you can go in and see her--"

"No!" he blurted, adding, "I've, ah, got to get to class," after seeing her puzzled expression. "Glad she's all right." He turned and dashed down the corridor without another word.

She lied! Why would she cover for me? Frostbite... He ducked into an alcove on the second floor to catch his breath and think. It all came back to him in a rush: his hand closing on her throat as the other struck her, struck her, every bit the vicious bully as Uncle Vernon or Dudley had ever been. He had seen her fall into the hammock as he turned his back; she was probably knocked out by the blow, left there to freeze in the winter night. He left her there and she could have frozen to death, and she hadn't told Madam Pomfrey it was his fault, that he had done this. "Tura."

Harry suddenly needed to be sick, and charged headlong to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom.

It was the closest, and therefore the best option, but Myrtle popped out of the U-bend with an indignant shriek while he was throwing up. "That's disgusting! You could at least give a girl a little warning before barfing on her head!"

Harry couldn't reply right away, but when he finally did, he wasn't apologetic. "Couldn't really help it," he panted, shivering.

Myrtle looked like she would sass him, but took pity instead. "There, there," she said, putting a spectral arm around his shoulders (making his chills even worse). "I suppose that's to be expected--you're really sick, aren't you, not just from taking a Puking Pastille?" He shook his head, unsure if he was finished or not. "Very well, then," sighed Myrtle. "I absolutely hate it when people come in and throw up on me, then it turns out they're just skiving. They know exactly when it's going to happen; you'd think they'd have the courtesy to leave a second or two earlier so they could make it to an unoccupied toilet!"

Harry sat on the stone floor and leaned his head back against the door, wishing he'd stopped on the third floor instead.

Myrtle sprang up and did a backflip out of the stall, swooping right through Harry as she returned under the door. Hovering over the toilet, she peered at him through her thick glasses and smiled in a not-quite friendly manner. "He used to do the same thing, you know."

Harry almost asked who she meant, but realized immediately that she must be referring to Draco Malfoy. "I'll bet he did," Harry mumbled.

"I helped him feel better, you know. Just by listening." The ghost eyed him expectantly.

"I don't need to talk."

Myrtle sniffed and turned sideways, her arms folded. She peeked down into the toilet and curled her lip. "'Course not. You could at least flush, though."

I don't need to talk, thought Harry, hoping to convince himself. Truthfully, he wanted very much to talk about what had happened, what he'd done, but absolutely not to Myrtle. Even though she loved secrets and hoarded them greedily, he couldn't face her if she knew what he'd done. And since she resided throughout the Hogwarts plumbing, it would be very hard to avoid her forever.

He got up, a bit unsteady, and tottered to the sink to wash his face. Myrtle followed him lazily, floating on her back at his shoulder level, using her crossed arms as a pillow. "Poor Harry," she said, not sounding particularly sympathetic. "Carrying around secrets too important to tell even a ghost. Well, if you change your mind, I'm only a tinkle away." With a sniff, Myrtle tesselated into a long, thin version of herself and dove down the drainpipe in the next sink, leaving him with no other company but his reflection in the mirror.

Harry didn't bother to look closely at himself very often, but it struck him at that moment that he seemed very ugly. Not just his scar, or his messy hair, but all of him, even his "mother's eyes" that everyone went on about. How do I even pass for human? he wondered bitterly.

"I can't do this," he said aloud.

"Do what?" said Myrtle, poking her head unexpectedly through the door of her stall. Harry nearly leaped out of his skin, having assumed she'd plumbed off to some other part of the castle.

He felt like screaming at her to go away, but something inside him gave way just a little. "I've done something, Myrtle. Something really stupid, that hurt someone else. And I don't know how to... make it right."

Her eyes lit up behind her thick glasses and she swooped through the door to his side. "Was it an accident, or on purpose?"

He stared at her a moment. "A little of both," he admitted, both to her and himself. "I mean, I did it, but I hadn't meant to be so... harsh."

She nodded sagely, gazing off in the distance as she processed the information. "Have you said you're sorry?" she asked at last, focusing again.

"Umm... No. This isn't something I can fix by saying 'sorry,' Myrtle."

She made a face. "Oh. So NOT apologizing will fix it?"

He had no answer for that, and sputtered a bit. "Well, no, not exactly. I mean, it might help, a little anyway, but--"

"But what?" she interrupted. "But it won't be enough? Maybe not, but it's a good place to start, don't you think? Because if you don't start somewhere, you'll never finish it, that's for sure." She nodded cockily, daring him to contradict her.

Harry had never thought of Myrtle as being particularly wise or thoughtful before, but it dawned on him that she had been around the castle longer than most of the people he knew. He gulped and stared at her a moment.

"Go on, Harry. Go take care of Step One and come back and tell me how it went, and we can think of the next step together if you want." Her eyes glittered at the prospect of setting up regular "dates" in her bathroom again.

Harry chewed his lip thoughtfully. He had no intention of taking Moaning Myrtle's advice on a regular basis, but this time she may have nailed it. "We'll see, Myrtle," he said, and headed toward the hospital wing.

Harry's resolve began to crumble even before he reached the top of the stairs, but he kept walking. When he reached the doors, he profoundly hoped that Ondossi would be asleep, and it took him a few minutes to gather enough nerve to push them open. She'd been tucked behind a screen at the far end of the room; he had a long walk ahead before he could even tell if she had any other visitors!

It was quiet. Harry wasn't sure if he should knock on the screen or just poke his head around it.

"That's close enough," she said. Her voice sounded strange, raspy and nasal.

Harry swallowed, trying to find some moisture in his suddenly dry mouth. "I can come back later," he blurted, backing away.

"Don't bother."

The order didn't surprise him, but her tone did. It was the same dismissive contempt with which she spoke of the Ministry, and it angered him. At least he was trying to make peace, after all! Harry stepped around the screen, determined to say what he had to say and get it over with. "Tura, look--"

The words shriveled up and died in his throat. He hadn't expected this. Her fingers and toes were black, reminiscent of Dumbledore's burnt hand, while her swollen hands and feet were many shades of purple and red, all coated with a clear yellow paste that left smudges on the bedlinens. He'd meant to look her straight in the eye, but he couldn't; both eyes were bruised shut, blending into a blackened nose which was covered in the same paste. What upset him the most, however, was the nearly perfect outline of a hand across her throat, a greenish-purple shadow that he could see, even from the end of the bed, was his own.

"I said that's close enough," she said quietly, and Harry suddenly recognized that this wasn't her voice of contempt for the Ministry, it was the one she used when she found Voldemort laying in wait for her, back in her little cabin. A voice of bravado to mask the desperate fear inside.

Harry backed away until he bumped the screen.

"Are you going to tell?" she asked.

"Tell?" he said incomprehendingly.

"Regarding my heritage."

Oh. He'd forgotten about her "dirty little secret;" it didn't seem so dirty anymore in the light of day. She thinks I'm going to ruin her. Harry realized that his hands had wrapped protectively around his own belly, as if he had anything to fear. "No," he finally said.

She shuddered in relief, which made him feel even worse. "You didn't tell," he added, as much a question as a statement.

"Tell? You mean about this?" She raised her arm to indicate her injuries with a sweeping motion, but winced and set it right back down instead. "No, I didn't tell. I need this job."

He blinked, shaking his head. "What?"

Ondossi sighed impatiently. "Just what I said. I need to stay here. To get you ready to take on the Dark Lord. I can't go home again until he's dead."

Harry was utterly boggled that she would remain at Hogwarts, much less continue to teach him, but it still wasn't adding up. "Why wouldn't... What does telling have to do with that?"

"Oh, come off it, hotshot! Are you really that stupid? Let me ask you something, Potter. Do you know the penalty for assaulting a professor at Hogwarts?"

Harry pulled his chin up and back, frowning. "Um, not exactly... probably being expelled, or--"

She scoffed. "You don't know. But let's review a little history. Your first year, you assaulted Professer Quirrell. Struck a mortal blow, I believe. And what consequence did that have, Potter? If memory serves, and it must, since it's your memory I picked through, you were given enough house points to win the annual trophy. Right? And then your second year, you put some pompous windbag into the Gork Room at St. Mungo's. Won the trophy that year too, I believe."

"Now just hold on--" Harry began, but she was only getting started.

"Then third year. That time you goaded your friends into becoming your accomplices, throwing Professor Snape against a wall and knocking him out. Fourth year, I'll give you that one, since Barty Crouch Jr. wasn't, technically speaking, a professor, he was just disguised as one. Then your fifth year. Let's see, you launched a Stinging Hex at Professor Snape again, and violated his mind with Legilimency. You didn't actually attack Professor Umbridge, but you led her into an ambush. I'd say the intent to harm was there, which is what counts.

"But your sixth year takes the cake, doesn't it? Slashed open another student like a hog at the slaughter. Fed the Headmaster a deadly potion, that left him weak and defenseless at the castle's worst hour. Then you took some more potshots at Professor Snape--even tried a few Unforgivables. That's a lot of assaults, Potter. And you don't even KNOW what the punishment is. What do you suppose that means?"

"You know what the circumstances--"

"Oh, of course, circumstances," she spat. "The great Albus Dumbledore, the only wizard Lord Voldemort ever feared, managed to let all of those bad guys infiltrate the castle right under his very nose. And he never caught on to a single one of them, either--not until you went out on a limb and dispatched each and every one. Isn't that amazing, Potter? You gotta wonder if the old man was losing touch, don't you? Or maybe, just maybe, he was crazy like a fox. Honing you into a weapon all on his own, right from day one. Ya think?"

At that moment, Harry couldn't think at all.

"And you are a weapon, Potter," she continued coldly. "Ruthless, calculating, powerful--and without any fear of recrimination. Because punishments are for other people, aren't they? People who don't have special circumstances. No one would ever dream of expelling the Boy-Who-Lived from Hogwarts, not when he's right on the cusp of taking on the Dark Lord once and for all. That would be insane! Far better to just can the Dark Arts professor; they have a limited shelf-life anyway."

She pushed herself up onto her elbows and peered at him through puffy eyelids. "No, Potter. I'm not telling anyone you did this. As soon as the FrostBreak salve is done, Pomfrey can heal up these bruises and it's back to the classroom. Gotta get you fine-tuned, boy! Besides, the other Ess-kee-mohs would laugh me out of town if they heard I got frostbite at this latitude." She dropped back onto her pillow, and undoubtedly would have rolled over if she could. A short time later, she demanded, "Are you still here?"

Harry turned woodenly and shambled out of the hospital wing, not looking or caring where he went next.