39: Bubbles Burst

"Get out."

Technically speaking, everyone in the room outranked Harry, yet no one hesitated to obey his order. Hagrid paused only long enough to scoop Ondossi from the floor, folding her nearly in half in his massive arms to keep from smacking her on the door frame as he hustled out of the office.

"Everyone," said Harry, his eyes never leaving Dumbledore's portrait. Several former Headmasters eyed each other with varying levels of affront, but the majority beat an immediate exit from their canvases. Those remaining apparently decided that they were better off complaining about Harry's audacity elsewhere, and slunk off reluctantly to landscapes unknown. A brief scuttling along the baseboards suggested that even the mice knew better than to stick around.

When every living or magical being had left the room but Harry and Dumbledore, a brief puff of flame announced Fawkes's arrival. The phoenix settled gently onto Harry's shoulder, though Harry didn't acknowledge his presence. Indeed, the young wizard did nothing but stare at the portrait, motionless, the rasping of his breath the only indication that anyone remained. Dumbledore stood silently in his frame with his head bowed, his hands resting flat atop a small table.

"Were you on his side the whole time?" Harry finally croaked.

Dumbledore did not look up. "No, Harry. Never. I am guilty of terrible treachery, but not that."

"Treachery? Treachery? How DARE you?" Harry raised his wand as though he could blast the portrait to bits with intentions alone, but Fawkes squeezed his shoulder firmly. After a moment he set the wand upon the desk, still pointed at the portrait, and spoke in a deep, measured voice.

"You knew he was coming for them."

Dumbledore's head bowed further. "I studied the portents in the stars with Firenze for months. They all indicated that Samhain would mark either the beginning or the end of the world. I knew something crucial would happen that night, though not where or when, or what it would be."

"Is that why you stood by and let them die?"

Dumbledore's head snapped up at last. "YES!" he bellowed fiercely; the word echoed through the Headmaster's office. "What happened in that house was ordained by powers greater than you or I or Lord Voldemort! I couldn't stop the events from unfolding, any more than a butterfly could stop the Hogwarts Express by floating over the tracks and flapping its wings."

Harry's face distorted with fury and he vaulted over the desk to grip the frame of the portrait. "Don't you lie to me! You could have killed him and ended it all!"

"I could have killed him," said Dumbledore, his voice low and cold, "but that would not have ended anything. You know that."

He did know it, of course, but it didn't matter. His parents were murdered as their trusted friend stood by and watched. Harry took up his wand again and held it at the ready, stalled only by uncertainty as to which curse one should cast to destroy a magical portrait.

Dumbledore dropped his gaze to the tabletop and said quietly, "Before you lash out in anger, Harry, consider what happened the last time."

Fawkes's grip on his shoulder became painfully tight. Harry abruptly spun away to the window, shattering the glass with a wordless hex. The shards caught the moonlight as they tumbled like a brief waterfall, and Harry smashed his fists down upon the open ledge as the cool night air poured over him. He breathed in gulps, his body shaking, until at last he screamed, a terrible sound that rang all the way to Hogsmeade. Every owl in the towers and every thestral in the forest took flight.

From the grounds below, a wolf howled mournfully in response.

Remus. Harry listened and breathed, breathed and listened, as the fury gradually subsided. He leaned far over the stone ledge and found the wolf, a dark smudge against the thinning snow at the base of the tower. He reached up and took Fawkes from his shoulder, holding him at arm's length outside the window. Only then did he notice that Fawkes was crying.

"Oh, Fawkes," he said with heartfelt tenderness, "don't be sad. Hush now. Go to him, let him know I'll be all right." Leaning against the ledge, he kissed the top of Fawkes's crimson head, pressing flat the three errant feathers that always flipped up at the front. "Go on, now. The worst is over." With a tiny trill, Fawkes squeezed Harry's wrist gently with his mighty talons, then hopped into a slow downward spiral.

Harry remained in the moonlight long after the howling ceased. His skin finally felt cool again, then cold, but still he stayed at the window. When the chill began to annoy him, he knew the shock had worn off at last. He turned abruptly from the window and rounded the Headmaster's desk, pausing only to toss several logs into the enormous fireplace with a flick of his wand. He cast a Bellows Charm as well, which made the fire climb rapidly, throwing off plenty of light and heat.

Harry manually spun the tall Headmaster's chair around to face Dumbledore's portrait, then sank into it. He settled his head and back deep into the cushions and stretched his arms along the rests, his knees wide apart; he wouldn't be leaving any time soon. He drummed his fingers silently for a moment and studied the portrait.

"Tell it."

Dumbledore nodded. "Where would you have me begin?"

"When you condemned them to death."

Sighing, Dumbledore, too, pulled up a chair from the back of the portrait. "That would be the day Sibyll Trelawney delivered to me the Prophecy. Of course, I had no idea at the time that they were the ones it named, or that a spy had overheard it. Or that there was a traitor so close to them within the Order, who would--"

"Enough," breathed Harry. "Why did you hide them, if the stars had already told you they were doomed?"

Dumbledore nodded. "You know the portents weren't that specific. I knew that if you were indeed the One, then it wouldn't matter if I interfered. Your fate would not be thwarted by any puny effort I might make. But if you were not the child in the Prophecy, hiding you away might spare your family from being struck down incidentally by the powers at play. It seemed like a worthwhile effort."

"You didn't hide the Longbottoms."

"They refused. They didn't put much stock into Divination, rather like Miss Granger. They were also trained Aurors, with tools from the Ministry at their disposal. They believed they could protect themselves and their home. And against a typical sort of attack, they certainly could; they were a very powerful team."

Harry's lip curled in disgust. "Too bad they were fighting the Ministry that night, not just Voldemort."

Rubbing his forehead, Dumbledore winced and shut his eyes a moment before continuing. "Quite true. We had long suspected certain people in the Ministry were Death Eaters--though we couldn't prove it, of course. The Longbottoms thought they knew who could be trusted and who couldn't. Just as young Sirius thought he could trust Peter. Betrayal is a terrible thing."

"Do go on," Harry spat.

Dumbledore clenched his fists and held them before his chest, but he set them back down on the tabletop slowly and controlled. "You must listen to me, Harry! I had few choices that night, and I did what was within my power. I hid your parents to keep them out of the magical crossfire if possible. I told the Longbottoms what I could and urged them to fortify their defenses. But Harry, any number of things could have happened that night--it was to be the beginning OR end of the world! Voldemort might have launched an attack on Hogwarts, or he might have revealed the wizard world to the Muggles in some horrendous fashion that couldn't be erased. The portents in the stars might have had nothing to do with the Prophecy. I simply didn't know!"

He slumped in his chair. "I've never felt so helpless, Harry. All the scrying and Divination I attempted were for naught; the future was too uncertain. So I did what I could to protect the children of the Prophecy, and then I went back to Hogwarts to protect the others in my care. The Centaurs were on guard that night, and certain of the staff, but I couldn't even trust all of them! There was an unknown traitor in the Order, and it might have been Minerva. Or someone very close to her."

"But you left Hogwarts, to go to Godric's Hollow," said Harry quietly.

"I did. And to the Longbottoms. And a few other places as well. The waiting was terrible, Harry. I made Portkeys, that I might check in for just a moment. I couldn't risk being seen away from the castle, in case Hogwarts was the true target. I asked your father to lend me his Invisibility Cloak that afternoon, that I might move about in secret."

Dumbledore's eyes welled up, and he paused to wipe them with the heels of his hands. "I stopped in Hogsmeade first. I'd heard a sound, which turned out to be some foolish Halloween revelry, but it came from that direction and startled me. I spent but a moment investigating, then returned to the castle. I picked up my next Portkey and went to Lancashire. The Longbottoms were bidding goodnight to the last guests from their Halloween feast. I went back to the castle again and took the next Portkey to your parents' home. I arrived just as James cried out, 'I'll hold him off!' And now you have seen the rest."

Harry's blood threatened to boil once again, but he closed his eyes and breathed deeply. "Too late to save my father. But you could have saved her."

"I could NOT! When Lily burst into the room with Tom but a step behind her, I had to let the events play out. 'The Dark Lord will mark him as his equal.' I didn't know how he would do it, but I had to let it happen, Harry. If you were the Chosen, then he had to leave his mark."

"And if I wasn't 'the one,' you would've watched me die," said Harry quietly.

Dumbledore wrung his hands. "I couldn't interfere! Not to save James or Lily, or you. 'The beginning or end of the world,' Harry. No man should knowingly face such a moment!"

Harry closed his eyes and let his head fall back into the chair. Sirius's memories of that same Halloween played through his mind: the panic, not knowing whether James was alive or dead, then the paralyzing knowledge that one of his remaining friends had betrayed them. It was nothing like facing Voldemort head on, where friend and foe, good and evil were clearly defined. Sirius even had to sit down and write out a list in order to plan his next move.

As much as Harry wanted to hate Dumbledore at that moment, he couldn't.

Suddenly weary, Harry opened his eyes again but did not raise his head. "Why'd you just leave me there, after I was marked?"

Dumbledore set his jaw, shifting in his chair. "I had just seen a miracle. The Killing Curse, repelled by a baby, right before my eyes. But what did it mean? You were marked, all right... but his equal in what?"

Dumbledore paused. "I watched you fulfill Tom's foremost wish, Harry: to cheat death. That was the moment I realized that the Prophecy never said you would save us from darkness, only that you had the power to vanquish it. And a wizard who was Tom's equal might not choose to simply depose him. He might prefer to take Tom's place."

"Of course," said Harry. "Useless field, Divination, if you ask me. After all it had told you about the future, you still didn't know if I was the beginning or the end of the world, or if I deserved to live or die. So you ran."

Dumbledore bit his lip. "I wouldn't put it quite so harshly, Harry, but in summary, yes."

"And then you sent Hagrid to do your dirty work, knowing he might be facing

something worse than Voldemort?" Harry's words were filled with venom. Dumbledore straightened his back angrily and responded in kind.

"I am no coward, Harry Potter! I sent Hagrid because I learned something about him long ago. Hagrid, for all his faults, has a rare talent: he can, when he applies himself, tell good from evil. As simple as that. He can see beyond the layers of ego and deceit and find the truth deep within any being. That's why he's so fearless, Harry. He can identify his enemies, no manner how kind or flattering they might act, and he can also see past the most terrifying exterior to the noble heart within." Harry's mouth fell open, for he had been in Hagrid's mind and knew precisely what Dumbledore was talking about, though he hadn't taken proper note of it before.

Dumbledore nodded. "Like you, Harry, Hagrid grew into his magic. It began with animals. That's why he befriended Aragog, who truly was a fine arachnid, even if his children turned out to be ruffians." Harry sneered; those same ruffians nearly proved their quality by eating him and Ron alive.

"He was in his forties before he could read people the same way," the Headmaster continued. "Had it come earlier, he might have seen Tom Riddle for what he really was. Of course, that business with your godfather cost him a great deal of confidence; when Sirius was convicted and sentenced, Hagrid was convinced his magic had failed him. Yet another mistake of mine, I fear, Harry, for I, too, doubted Hagrid's magic, instead of doubting the verdict of the Wizengamot."

Harry marveled for a moment. When he first met Hagrid, Uncle Vernon had hidden the entire family from Harry's repeated invitations to Hogwarts. Hagrid had walked into the hut as though he'd known all of them his whole life. Right away he'd had no use for the Dursleys--even called Uncle Vernon an old prune. And he'd recognized Harry from Dudley without hesitation, even though they were the same age. "So you sent him to look at my heart."

Dumbledore sighed, the slightest twinkle sparkling in his eyes for the first time. "I did, Harry. All the Divination in the world is no match for a man with the ability to see the truth." He frowned. "Though I was annoyed with him for surrendering you to Sirius Black. I still didn't know if he'd betrayed your parents in the first place! And even if he were loyal, I knew your story would fuel the Prophet like none other, and Sirius does tend to ham it up in the limelight."

"Which brings us back to why I'm here in the first place," said Harry. "The traitor in the Ministry. He told the Prophet that Voldemort was dead, and tried to turn Neville into the 'Boy Who Lived.' If it hadn't been for Sirius, he might've succeeded, too."

Dumbledore raised his brows. "I think not, Harry; I would not have allowed that deception. Unfortunately, I didn't bother checking with the Prophet that night, or the next morning, or I would have put a stop to it myself. I'm afraid I was preoccupied at that time."

Harry's palms and soles suddenly tingled. "So let me guess," he said in disgust. "You have no idea who the traitor is, either."

"Alas, Harry, I do not." The Headmaster sighed miserably. "I should have suspected foul play when Hagrid told me about the driver, and the theft of the body. I should have known this accomplice was important and tracked them down. But I assumed that the driver was one of Tom's cronies, who hid the body for reasons of his own--most likely to keep the news from spreading until he could take advantage of it. He was irrelevant, I thought. The real miracle of the evening was that you'd survived the Killing Curse, and I needed to plan for your future. I spent the next twenty-four hours researching ways to protect you and your Muggle relatives. Then I recognized that your mother's love had already warded you more securely than any spell I could cast--if, that is, I could convince your aunt to take you in.

"After I had you settled safely away, I desperately needed rest. When I awoke the following morning, the Ministry had recanted their claim of having a 'boy who lived' in custody, Sirius Black had been convicted of treason and murder, and Hagrid was adamantly denying that the first of November had ever happened." He sighed. "I thought the dear chap was being metaphorical--that he didn't want it known he'd turned you over to Sirius, even though you were later recovered safe and sound. As I said, it was a terrible blow to his confidence, believing he'd been deceived about Black's character. I assumed it was just too painful for him to talk about, and left it at that."

"Pity he never took a good look at Peter Pettigrew," muttered Harry. "Or that we can't haul the entire Ministry in front of him for an assessment. I don't know how we're going to find this traitor."

Dumbledore rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I might suggest, Harry, that the traitor had many errands that Samhain. The body had to be hidden, many Aurors had to be Obliviated, and of course the traitor had to kidnap young Neville and take him to the Ministry."

Harry sniffed. "I know. I thought about that too. The Longbottoms probably know who it was, if only they could tell it. And they've suffered so much, I didn't want to force them into Legilimency. Especially since the traitor probably used the same blocking curse on them as he put in Sirius's memory. I'd just be kicked out of their heads without seeing anything useful."

"Ah, Harry," said Dumbledore, tapping his fingernails on the tabletop, "I agree it would be cruel to impose your magic on poor Frank and Alice Longbottom, but they were not the only ones the traitor visited that night."

Suddenly all of Harry's weariness disappeared, and he sprang from the chair. "Neville."

Harry took the spiral stairs two and three steps at a time, bursting through the office door at full speed. Ron, Hermione, and Viktor were seated on the floor of the corridor, leaning against the wall with their legs out straight. All three looked up in surprise, but Harry didn't even slow down, just waved an impatient hand as he headed toward Gryffindor Tower. "Come on!" he shouted over his shoulder.

Viktor caught up first, just as Harry reached the portrait hole. The Fat Lady was nowhere to be seen; a pink sheet of parchment inside the painting proclaimed, "Back in a Trifle," in frilly cursive handwriting. Harry swore.

"Portraits are all in library vith Headmasters," Viktor explained. "Whole castle is vagging tongues. Fat Lady vill return as soon as vord spreads that you haff left office." Harry responded with an irritated grunt.

"Harry, what's happened?" Hermione panted, nearly skidding into Viktor's back.

"Neville. I can't believe I never thought of it! Neville saw the traitor the night he was kidnapped. He must have! And he was just a little baby, why bother Obliviating him, right? He wouldn't remember anything, and even if he did, he wouldn't know what any of it meant. Just someone taking him to Mum and Dad's office for a little while. Oh, where IS she?" Harry snarled, peering into the portrait from a steep angle as though he might spot the Fat Lady dawdling by her vanishing point.

"Is good she is not here," said Viktor, earning a dirty look from Harry.

"What?"

"Professor said this kind of memory leads to madness. Vould you haff Neville joining his parents in St. Mungo's?"

Harry stopped in mid-retort, his mouth hanging open. Hermione glanced back and forth between the two of them. "Is this true?" she asked, in a way that suggested Harry might as well start apologizing up front, to save time later.

He cleared his throat. "I kind of forgot about that," he said, cringing instinctively. "I'm so glad I have friends around to remind me," he added hopefully, just as the Fat Lady entered the portrait through a door in the distant background. Hermione gave him a searing look, but aside from that and a noisy flounce, he escaped without further chastising.

The Fat Lady made a show of sauntering to the foreground as though her absence from her post was commonplace, but when she recognized Harry's tousled head, she hoisted her petticoats to mid-calf and broke into a sprint. "Harry, dear, what happened?" she said tearfully as she filled the frame, completely ignoring Ron, who had given the password seconds earlier.

"It's all right," Harry said. "It wasn't as bad as it sounded. But we really need to get in, if you don't mind."

She stared at him blankly for an instant, then sheepishly swung her canvas aside. "Sorry, dears, sorry," she mumbled. "We were all so worried."

Hermione waved the wizards to go ahead through the portrait hole, pausing to smile and pat the Fat Lady's frame reassuringly. "Don't feel left out, he hasn't even told us yet. Only we've got to speak to Neville just now."

The Fat Lady took out a kerchief and patted her forehead daintily. "He's inside," she said, adding, "You young people switch to new topics much too quickly for my taste."

They found Neville in the common room studying for the N.E.W.T.s, and hauled the bewildered fellow out of his armchair. "Steady on!" he protested, unable to make sense of three insistent voices demanding that he get up. "Is there an attack? You want me to what?" Neville brandished his wand, ready for any challenge, but stood his ground.

Harry quickly explained the plan as Neville's expression grew more and more dubious. "You want me to let Professor Ondossi into my mind? What in the name of Merlin for?"

"Because you're the only one who might have seen the kidnapper, and not been Obliviated!" said Harry.

Neville frowned even harder. "What kidnapper?"

"The one who--oh, never mind! Just..." He cupped Neville's chin in his hand and peered into his eyes, letting his magic pour into this other mind, filling it with images and concepts, not mere words. It took but seconds to convey everything Harry had learned about that Halloween night. When he broke the contact, Neville's mouth fell open and he went pale.

Oops. He patted the dumbstruck wizard apologetically on the shoulders. "Sorry. That was a bit quick. But it wasn't all that bad, was it?"

Neville blinked a few times, still processing the information. "Quick, right. Pity you can't do that for exams. I was kidnapped? Mother of Merlin, Harry, I might have ended up in your shoes!"

"Exactly," said Harry. "Someone set you up to attract all the attention, so meanwhile he could sneak about and take advantage of Voldemort's death."

Scowling, Neville rose to his full height. "And he set up my parents. We're so doing this, Harry."

They rushed to the library, still crowded with gossiping portraits. Madam Pince would have torn her hair out on account of the noise, but thankfully she closed the library early during holidays and was nowhere to be seen. Professor McGonagall leapt to her feet at the sight of them, deep concern lining her thin face, but Harry rushed right past her to Hagrid's side. "Tura! Wake up!" he said to the limp bundle tucked protectively in Hagrid's elbow, then pressed his hand to her forehead. Tura, you've got to come out of it. We went after the wrong memory--Neville saw the traitor that night!

Did I say you could come in here? Tura's angry reply blew through him like a bitter wind. To Harry, it seemed as though he'd unexpectedly walked into an enormous vaulted chamber made of blinding white marble, or perhaps ice, with a gaping black pit in the center of the floor. He had never encountered her unguarded mind before. The "ceiling" stretched so high he couldn't see it, but he knew it was there, finite, limited. But so much was crammed into the space--how many memories, lifetimes had she witnessed and made her own? Harry perceived that the whiteness was made up of many colors; it refracted into scintillating bursts just outside his focus.

Enough rubbernecking, chump, she said all around him, and the doors of Occlumency slammed down, leaving him in darkness. He stumbled at the sudden return to his own mind. She was looking at him though. Your mind will be the same in time, she projected. Except yours is red, like Fawkes.

"Will you help me with Neville?" he asked aloud.

Bring him here.

Propped up against Hagrid, she wordlessly entwined her fingers with Harry's and placed them on Neville's forehead. Before touching his mind, however, she broke her silence. "Neville Longbottom. This is a dangerous task. The memory we seek is part of your very foundation, the anchor upon which all other memories are built. It was not meant to be recalled. You saw what such recollection did to Harry Potter: nightmares, obsessions. You might suffer the same, or worse. Is it your will that we find this memory?"

Neville's voice was firm and determined. "Yes, Professor. Do it."

She smiled before they dove together into Neville's consciousness.

The recent taste of real Legilimency that Harry had performed on Draco Malfoy had left him hungry to release his magic, more than he'd been willing to admit. What had once felt awkward and out of control now seemed the most natural thing in the world. Free from the confines of his own mind, he could revel in the power and strength of pure sorcery, and the rush made him want to throw back his head and arms and shout his joy to the heavens.

Then Tura piped up. "Yeah, yeah. Rein it in, hotshot."

"Have you ever blown up a balloon and just let it go before tying it?" Harry grumbled.

She laughed. "Sorry to deflate you, baby, but we're here on business. Besides, this is my second time going deep in one night, and you don't see me soaring around all puffed up."

He couldn't see her at all, or even hear the words she was saying; her meaning simply poured into him. Harry realized that she was really performing Legilimency on both him and Neville at the same time. With a metaphorical sly grin, he withdrew just enough to feel her hand entwined with his, then let his magic flow along her arm and into her as well. Sure enough, she too was brimming with elation, just carefully concealing it within herself.

"Busted!" announced Harry mischievously.

"Fine, ya got me. Now can we get to work here?" She wasn't fooling him, though; he could see the sparkle of gaiety behind her grudging concession. Cheerfully smug, he wove into her mind and returned to Neville.

Where to begin? Much of Neville's inner world was organized and logical, the mind of a scientist with a huge fund of knowledge in plants and taxonomy. The patterns of study and memorization were everywhere, clearly developed when he was very young and honed to precision over time. Harry let Tura lead, but he could grasp the trail she was following, spiralling inward along the the path of his intellect to a younger, unschooled time.

The further they went, the more he saw the footprints of Neville's grandmother. Neville was never good enough, smart enough, talented enough; in short, he was not her son. He was not the man she'd already raised, the man who had been cut down, and she had forced much of her grief onto her grandson.

At a tender age, he lacked his father's sensibility and his magical prowess, and Gran bitterly pointed that out at every opportunity. But unlike wisdom and sorcery, intelligence manifests very early. A burst of shame (or at best a hollow disappointment) always followed even the most sincere attempts at magic, but whenever he recited a fact from a book, Gran would show at least a modicum of approval. Young Neville instinctively grasped such rewards and punishments, and became a performing puppet for her, memorizing and regurgitating whatever he could find.

A wave of compassion came from Tura, but to his surprise it was not for Neville, but for his grandmother. "I've seen this before, with aanaruabiik. Her grief for her son cost her the pleasure of her grandson as well. My father's gift just keeps on giving."

"Neville's the one you ought to feel sorry for," Harry said pointedly. "He's the one that had to fill a grown man's shoes when he was just a tot."

"True, but he also had you, Harry, and Hogwarts. You guys liked him even when he wasn't a walking encyclopedia. That helped him get past it; he'll be all right. But his grandma... She'll never get past her loss."

"There," she said after a poignant silence, steering them into a fog of memory. "We're getting closer."

To Harry, it felt like the Triwizard Tournament all over again, sinking into the unknown depths of the lake. "It's like soup in here! How'd you ever find my memory of that night?"

"Wasn't me!" came her reply. "The Dementors found it. That's what they're made to do. Then the Dark Lord spent a year tugging it to the surface. I just followed the trail. But here I'm trying to tread a little more lightly!"

"Fine, tread as light as you want, but teach me as you do it!" Sometimes the woman could be as thick as a fallen tree.

Contrition. "Oh. Yeah. All right, I think right now we've gone back too far. This is entirely preverbal stuff. It's much harder to trace anything here; words do so much toward organizing our memories. But by fifteen months a baby knows some words, even if he can't say them. He was only weeks old when these memories formed."

She pointed out a current that he could barely see. "That's a pattern of some kind. A strong one. Probably some sort of mother-child attachment." Pulling Harry along, she let herself be drawn into it, a whirlwind of images and emotions carrying them forward through time. Presently shapes began to coalesce around them: Mum, Dad, bed, bear. Tura pulled him aside, clinging to a memory of a fuzzy blanket. "Now we're in the groove. This is the age for an avalanche of language. We have to move slow and look through every memory, or we'll get sucked off into some nuance of meaning that'll drag us right back to adulthood."

Harry didn't have the foggiest idea what she was blathering about, but he sensed they were at a cusp between the infant and the boy. It was far, far greater than any changes between boy and man, the formation of a separate identity that was and always would be Neville Longbottom. He stayed close to Tura, suddenly appreciating her earlier cautions about shaking up Neville's foundations.

Excitement. "Birthday cake!" Tura tugged him toward it, a single candle flickering curiously atop vanilla frosting. "Halloween had a party as well, Harry--we need to find engrams like anticipation, decorating the house, celebrating, things like that."

Candles. Neville watched them in the jack-o-lanterns just as he had watched the one on his cake. He blew several of them out and was quite surprised to find that, rather than clapping and congratulating him, Dada put the pumpkin up high and handed him a toy. "I have it," Harry whispered to Tura, as though afraid to startle the fragile memory into flight.

Guests came, bringing in a gust of chill autumn air that made the candles flicker enticingly. The house filled with good smells and soon Neville was in his high chair, devouring dinner and marveling at all the faces around the long table. All too soon Mum took him to bed as he howled in protest; he knew something interesting was happening with all those people there and he wanted to be part of it. But he couldn't resist the warm lap and shoulder and the motion of the rocking chair, and soon his heavy eyelids betrayed him and fell shut.

When they opened again, they fixed on the sweaty, filthy face of Cornelius Fudge.

Patience. Harry wanted to leap out of Neville's mind and into the nearest Floo, but he felt Tura's admonishion and stayed with her. "Don't assume. This is too important for mistakes. Neville may have woken up after he'd been handed off to the Ministry; we have to be sure."

It didn't seem like they were at the Ministry; in fact, it did seem as though they were in an automobile, but it was impossible to tell. Neville kept falling back to sleep, waking for a few seconds at a time, never long enough to take in the surroundings. If Harry had been entirely in his own body, he would have been pacing back and forth and wringing his hands.

At last Neville was plopped rudely onto a cold desk and woke in earnest. Now he was on Level One of the Ministry, being ogled by dozens of strangers and portraits. He became upset and began to cry, but snatches of conversation filtered through the sobbing. "... killed You-Know-Who ..." "... just a baby ..." and other unrevealing comments. Some matronly witch finally picked him up and sang him a soothing song until he calmed down. In the meantime, Fudge had disappeared.

"He's probably off trying to track down the real me," growled Harry.

"Then we'll wait until he gets back," said Tura. "We might not be 100% sure until he takes the baby home, but if that's what it takes..."

Neville soon grew tired and cranky, and the witch rocked him to sleep despite his unwillingness to settle down for a stranger. Flash bulbs popped him awake later; the Prophet had showed up to photograph the Boy Who Lived. Harry noted with pleasure that if the scam had continued until the afternoon edition, the front page would have been covered with a furiously sobbing miracle baby.

It seemed the night would never end, with the poor toddler being constantly jostled into semiconsciousness by strange hands, but at last he woke to sunlight streaming through the rear window of an automobile. A telephone pole passed swiftly through his vision; they were moving. The traitor was bringing Neville home.

"Any minute now, I'll have you," Harry breathed.

There was a man's voice droning in the front seat, almost like the radio but too erratic. He was talking to himself. It sounded like Fudge, but not quite right. Tura noticed it too; he could feel her trepidation.

"Something's strange here. I met Fudge--he's the one who insisted I needed a work visa. He's a jerk, but he's a slick jerk. This person is strung out and rattled--he's talking to himself, for cryin' out loud. Maybe he's under the Imperius?"

Neville sat up, curious for the moment about being in an automobile. Fudge kept muttering, his eyes on the road, unaware of the observer in the back seat. His pinstriped suit was rumpled and dirty, and his everpresent lime-green derby lay on the floor of the back seat. Harry groaned inwardly; had they chased down another dead end?

"Merlin's beard, I'm glad I didn't kill them," Fudge said. With Neville sitting up, the words were clearer. "I drop off the boy and give them a quick wipe, and all's well on that score. Then it's but a matter of waiting at Hogwarts. Dumbledore can't hide him forever, not from his staff. Impossible! Even in a castle that size, the staff will know if there's a baby. Argus will tell me, I can always rely on him. And that blabbermouth giant, I can rely on him as well, the big idiot."

Growing hungry, Neville whimpered, attracting the gaze of the driver via the rear-view mirror. "You're up, then? Well, you'll just have to sit tight, won't you? You're lucky I don't dump you in a ditch, you know. But I can't have two Aurors and their son just disappear after all the press last night." This did nothing to ease the discomfort in Neville's tummy, and his whimpering became more vehement.

"Oh, you rotten brat! Be still! We're almost to your house, then you can cry to your mother! Believe me, I'd much rather Apparate you there, but I can hardly leave the Master's body alone in the trunk, can I?" Tura gave Harry the psychic equivalent of a high-five, clearly delighted that Voldemort's remains had suffered the indignity of being carted around the countryside like luggage.

By the time Fudge parked the automobile, both he and the baby were crying. He yanked the boy from the back seat and hauled him up the cobbled path to the Longbottom's front porch. Neville's parents were poised like statues just inside, obviously frozen by a Body-Bind curse in the act of defending their home. "Here's your mummy, then!" Fudge screeched, his voice breaking shrilly. "Imperio! Finite Petrificus!" he added, his wand pointed at Alice Longbottom. She slumped stiffly to her knees, but Fudge must have sent a nonverbal order, because she immediately picked up Neville and tried to soothe him.

Harry felt Tura yank away for an instant.

"Someone's shaking me," she said. "My body must be dying. We have to go, Harry. Now."

"Oh, no. Not after all this! I'm not going anywhere until I--"

He felt a sudden, irresistable tug back toward his own mind, and realized someone was shaking his body, too.

"We'll try again," Tura began, but both focused again on the scene as Fudge collapsed into a chair and began to bubble and quiver. Harry recognized it instantly: the effects of Polyjuice Potion wearing off.

"Go. I'll be right behind you," he said.

"If you don't come now, you might not have a body to return to!" He felt a deep wrenching and nearly lost the memory.

"No!" But he couldn't resist the combination of her fierce guidance and the primal instinct to preserve his own life. He focused on the memory, dragging it along with him as far as he could, then let it go.

Harry snapped awake, weak, cold, and gasping for air. Fawkes was clawing frantically at his forehead. When he tried to touch his familiar's mind and reassure him, Fawkes slammed him back into his body with such intense magic that Harry could see it, a glowing red stake driven through his heart. He couldn't speak, but he reasoned that Fawkes would be most comforted to see the color restored to his flesh.

Harry yeilded to the numbing calm and willed his body to recover. There was no need for haste. He'd held the memory long enough to find the answer he sought, and the traitor would not escape. Not this time.

In an unused ward of St. Mungo's Hospital, a green-robed Healer guided Alice Longbottom to a chair. She complied with the gentle tugs as always, allowing herself to be steered into place; she had no impulse to fight. Alice generally took in very little about her surroundings, being far too busy fighting with the demons within her mind.

Who is he? What does he want? What's he saying? A chorus of voices muttered somewhere behind her, whispering most of the time, sometimes talking, sometimes shouting. They never shut up, even though they never said anything useful, just questions, questions, stupid questions, constantly, one after another so quickly that there was never any time to answer any of them and yet they kept asking and asking--

Oh, there's a man here. I think I know him. He called me Alice. How did he know your name? Who is he? Why is he sitting on your bench, did he just say Neville, how does he know about Neville when's Neville coming--

Her thoughts were truly broken, displayed like bits and baubles in a kaleidoscope, fleeting fragments reflected upon themselves so many times that their original, complete shape was utterly lost in the collage. She had no order, no path to follow, no history--and only a snip of the present, before the voices would blur everything into chaos.

The man regarded her kindly, as though he understood the act of will required to pull herself out of that miasma, to focus even for a second on the here and now. There was no beginning, no end, just an ongoing battle with madness and voices. Hopeless, unbeatable. Why bother trying? Why fight it? Why not just give up, why not fold into yourself and die, why not quiet us once and for all why keep living--

Sirius Black patted her hand gently. "Just hang on a little longer, Alice. We're going to try to break the curse."

What does he want? What curse? Who is he... The voices were impossible to ignore, like sitting on an anthill, yet Alice always did her best. She knew if she fought them, she could remember her son, her little boy. He seemed to be quite big now, but she could never be sure in this timeless place until she saw him. She always tried to tell him that she was still within, watching him and loving him. That was why she handed him old gum wrappers like treasures. I'm trapped in this bubble, each wrapper said, though she wasn't quite sure they really conveyed the message.

There's another one, and another. Who are they? Alice had seen the young man with glasses once before. Was it yesterday? No, no, it must have been long ago; he was younger that time, thinner and more worn-looking. He had grown, too. That meant Neville must be older too.

Their words were meaningless to Alice, but she perceived the anger behind them. Suddenly she realized there were a lot of people in the room. How did they all get in here? Why do so many of them have red hair? What are they saying to that one, are they angry with you what did you do wrong now you stupid stupid woman-- Alice wanted Neville to be there. No one but Neville ever came to see her, now suddenly there were all those people. Surely Neville was one of them?

There was too much anger, too much hatred in the room. Alice began to sing a tuneless song, hoping to block out some of their ambience, as they were only making the voices louder and more agitated. She looked up at the one with glasses, the one who spoke the softest, yet with the most intensity. He'll get the message, she suddenly decided, and softly padded to his side.

Harry turned when he felt the lightest tap on his shoulder. Alice Longbottom had come up behind him and was earnestly offering him a gum wrapper. He took it delicately and, placing a steady hand about her waist, pulled her gently to stand beside him. "You'll start by removing the curse you placed on her memories," he said.

"And if I refuse?" sneered the traitor.

Ondossi knew Harry was in no mood for taunting. She stepped forward before he could answer. "Then I will compel your cooperation." She emphasized her point by snatching the traitor's left wrist and revealing the Dark Mark above it, which promptly began to blister.

That the Master's Mark responded to Ondossi's magic was more than the traitor could bear. Dolores Umbridge raised her wand. "Finite Compescogito," she sobbed.

For the first time in sixteen years, all was quiet in Alice Longbottom's mind.

* * * * *

A/N: The voices in Alice's head spoke in color, but the text color command doesn't seem to work here on TPP. So it's a little trickier to read. *shrug*