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"You can't do that!" The words burst from Harry's lips. He regretted them instantly. But Snape's face had already settled into that cold, satisfied expression.
"Merlin, Potter. It's not yet your turn to instruct a professor on what he can or cannot do." Snape's voice was silk, pure silk over steel. "You seem to think your trifling fame makes the world your personal fiefdom…"
Harry sucked in a sharp breath. The scar on his forehead throbbed, a needle of hot pain. Stop. If he kept arguing with Snape, he'd just waste more time. He needed an excuse. A way out. Then he could run for Dumbledore. Dumbledore would know where Sirius and Professor Antony were. Dumbledore would listen.
"Why, hello there!" A voice, unmistakable and booming, came from behind him. Gilderoy Lockhart strode forward, beaming, and slung an arm around Harry's shoulders, pulling him close. "Been looking all over for you, Harry my boy—if you don't mind, Severus—"
"In fact, I do mind," Snape said, his tone arctic. "I was in the middle of reminding Potter that a dash of notoriety does not a god make."
"Splendid point, Severus!" Lockhart said warmly, missing the sarcasm entirely. "In that case, you can rest assured Harry is in the best possible hands for such advice. Come along, Harry, a quick word." He steered Harry away.
Harry glanced back. Ron and Hermione were hurrying after them. Snape remained in the corridor, a dark, watchful statue, idly turning the two-way mirror over in his pale hands.
"Now, I won't tell you your final Defense grade, Harry," Lockhart chattered, winking. "Though I must say, I was shocked to see you'd gotten the year wrong for my encounter with the Bandon Banshee. Mixed her up with the Wagga Wagga Werewolf, did you? Harry, Harry, how could you? But no matter! That's not why I'm here. Wonderful news! My new book, Hogwarts: A Portrait of Joy, is complete. And I've decided to gift a few early copies to my favorite colleagues and students. Your name, by the purest stroke of luck, came up this very morning when I was making my random selection. No thanks are necessary, of course, though a thoughtful review would never be turned down…"
The moment they were out of Snape's line of sight, Harry dug in his heels.
"Thank you, Professor Lockhart," he said, straining to extract himself from the man's grip. "But I really have to go. I'll collect the book later…"
Lockhart looked astonished. "Why, Harry, where are you off to in such a rush?"
"The Headmaster's office. I need Professor Dumbledore." The words tumbled out. "Thanks again for the help, Professor, I'm sure it'll be a great book—"
"But the Headmaster isn't in his office," Lockhart said.
Harry's stomach dropped like a stone. "He isn't?"
"No," Lockhart shook his head sadly. "I'd planned to give him a copy as well, but Minerva told me he went to St. Mungo's first thing. Likely not back yet. A pity. I'm certain he'd have adored Chapter Five, where I draw the parallel between the Forbidden Forest and my own thrilling escapade in the Black Forest of Bavaria…"
A coldness seeped into Harry's bones. Only the scar burned. Sirius was suffering. Maybe dying. Snape had the mirror. Dumbledore, the one person who might know, wasn't even here. He clenched his teeth, mind racing. What else? What else can I do?
Then, his scar erupted.
It wasn't just pain. It was an axe splitting his skull. He clutched his forehead. The corridor, Lockhart's voice—it all vanished.
He was walking. Thick, plush carpet underfoot. Closed wooden doors lined a long hall. Men and women in robes, faces blank, arms full of messy parchment bundles, murmured "Good day" as they passed. They didn't look at him. Didn't see him. He turned a corner. Opened a door.
A dim, empty meeting room. Curtains drawn tight. He took a seat at the head of a long table. Toyed with a familiar wand. Waited.
The door opened again.
A cloaked figure stepped into the sliver of light. Then another. He watched them from his seat. They froze, staring. The door opened wider. More figures entered, cloaked, masked. Two of them dropped to their knees the moment they crossed the threshold. They crawled forward, pressing fervent kisses to the hem of his robes. The first arrivals followed suit, scrambling to kneel.
"Up, up, Rodolphus… Rise, Bella…" His own voice, a soft whisper. One of them let out a choked, ecstatic sob. "Your loyalty deserves its reward… Sit. Here."
"Harry! Harry!" Someone was slapping his cheek.
The kneeling man's voice was a rasp. "Master, I knew… I always knew… You would return. You would deliver us…"
"I said, rise." Cold. Dismissive.
"Y-yes, Master…" The man clutched the robe, planting several more reverent kisses before stumbling to his feet and into the indicated chair.
"As for you, Macnair…"
"I came the moment I heard, my Lord—"
A raised hand. Silence. Macnair bowed his head, baring his neck. His posture grew rigid under the weight of silent scrutiny. The door opened again. More entered. More knees hit the floor, joining the circle at his feet. The Lestranges watched them with naked contempt.
"These past eleven years. What have you done? Swung an axe? Chopped the heads from beasts?" The words were slow, deliberate. "In all that time… did you ever long for more… interesting kills? For brighter days…"
"Every moment, my Lord," Macnair answered.
A distant voice, tinny and unreal: "No need for Madam Pomfrey, Mr. Weasley, Miss Granger, I've handled this sort of thing before…"
"Good," he said. "And yet. You never sought me, did you? While the Lestranges proved their loyalty in Azkaban. While young Barty Crouch died in that prison… I find many of my old friends were all too happy to bury our glorious past." A pause, heavy with disappointment. "I am disappointed. In the state of the world, which now preaches forgiveness for Mudbloods, fraternization with Muggles, intermarriage. I am, of course, disappointed in you. You swore oaths. You fled them. But that is not the greatest disappointment."
He leaned forward. "I am disappointed in myself. I told myself your betrayal was born of… shaken faith. You did not believe I could rise again. That I could fly beyond death. Did I not say that killing made me stronger? That death itself served me? That I had achieved immortality? Perhaps… you came to believe other tales. That a power existed, greater even than Lord Voldemort, strong enough to vanquish him… I am disappointed I could not make you believe."
"Forgive us, Master! Merciful Master! We failed you—forgive us!"
"Forgiveness? Hmm." A cold laugh. "Crucio!"
"NO! Professor Lockhart! Harry, HARRY! Merlin!"
"I believed, my Lord!" Bellatrix shrieked over the agonized wails, leaning forward, eyes burning. "I never stopped believing you would return!"
"What did you do, Professor?"
"Now, now, children, screaming is a normal reaction… It means, ah, the pain is being released…"
"Normal? You're barmy! Hermione, forget him, help me! I can't carry him to the hospital wing alone!"
"No, no, just leave him be…"
The pain in his head was splitting. A terrible scream echoed in his ears. After a moment, he realized it was his own.
Harry cracked his eyes open. Ron and Hermione were on either side of him, struggling to haul him off the cold stone floor of the empty corridor. He blinked away tears, squinting. Lockhart stood a few paces away, wand pointed in their general direction. Harry's heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, guilty beat—as if he had been the one casting the curse.
"See? He's better already," Lockhart said brightly. "Stopped screaming."
"Yeah," Ron grunted, heaving Harry up. "I reckon he passed out. Madam Pomfrey's going to love you for this."
Lockhart sounded flustered. "Now, now, you mustn't misunderstand. I only wanted to help… In fact, if you're going to be like that…"
The torturer. It was the same one who'd fought Sirius and Professor Antony. The one lifted by the snake. It was Voldemort. The realization hit Harry like a physical blow. He'd been inside Voldemort's head. Seeing through his eyes. Enjoying the torture of his own godfather, his professor, his Death Eaters. Bile rose in his throat. He choked it down. Focus. Sirius. Think about Sirius. During the fight, Voldemort had seemed weak. Frail. But the hand holding the wand now, the voice casting the Cruciatus… they were stronger. Had he taken something from Sirius? Had killing made him stronger?
"What are you doing, Professor Lockhart?" Hermione's voice was a sharp blade.
Harry forced his eyes open a slit. Lockhart's wand was now pointed at Ron. The man's lilac robes swished as he took a step closer.
"I am sorry, children. But I really can't have you spreading such… unfortunate rumors. Not with my new book due for release. I'm sure you understand I mean no harm, but a simple Memory Charm is necessary."
"You can't cast spells on students, Professor!" Hermione cried.
"Oh, just a little tweak, Miss Granger," Lockhart said soothingly. "You won't remember a thing, so it will be as if it never happened. Quite tidy, really. Now then, Mr. Weasley—Oblivi—"
"Wingardium Leviosa!"
"Petrificus Totalus!"
Ron and Hermione shouted almost in unison. Lockhart's eyes went wide. His body stiffened. He toppled over like a felled tree, hitting the floor with a solid thump. Harry, half-supported, landed beside him in a heap.
"Harry!" Hermione gasped, dropping to her knees beside him. "What was that, Ronald?"
"Like you didn't let go—!"
"Did you need your left hand for the spell? And what good was a Levitation Charm?"
"He reminded me of a troll—!"
"I'm fine," Harry grunted, grabbing Ron's proffered arm and hauling himself up. His head swam. "Listen. Voldemort—" ("Don't say the name!") "—tortured Sirius. Might have—" His throat closed. He forced the words out. "Might have killed him."
"What?"
"Voldemort said killing makes him stronger," Harry rushed on. "He's stronger now… I saw it. I saw him aiming at Sirius…"
"Didn't know you had the Sight," Ron said, his voice edged with worry.
Harry looked at his friend's freckled face, and a hot wave of frustration and anger washed over him. "You don't believe me? Think I've gone mad? Banged my head?"
"Harry, you fall off your broom, wake up talking about Sirius being in danger, needing Dumbledore," Ron said, counting off on his fingers. "Next minute, you're collapsing in the corridor, screaming your lungs out. Now you're telling us You-Know-Who is back and he's killed Sirius… He's been gone eleven years."
"And even if it is true, Harry," Hermione cut in, holding up a hand to stop his retort, "what's the plan? Are you going to run to St. Mungo's to find Professor Dumbledore? And then what? Where would he even start looking for Sirius—or You-Know-Who?"
"He's in a meeting room," Harry said, straining to remember. "Long corridors. Thick, purplish-red carpet. Wooden doors with little plaques… I couldn't read them…"
Ron's mouth had fallen open. He was staring.
"What?" Harry snapped. "I know what I'm talking about, alright?"
"No, I mean…" Ron swallowed hard. "I know that place."
"You do?"
"Been there," Ron said, his voice hushed. "Dad took us a few times, when we were little… That's the Ministry of Magic. First floor."
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