Black and Potter | H. Potter

40 ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆ she knows.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:✧*⋆.*:･ﾟ✧.: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ☾

| SHE KNOWS |
song: dark red by steve lacy.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:✧*⋆.*:･ﾟ✧.: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ☾

THE DOOR OF THE OFFICE OPENED.

"Hello, Potter," said Moody. "Come in, then."

Harry walked inside. He had been inside Dumbledore's office once before; it was a very beautiful, circular room, lined with pictures of previous headmasters and headmistresses of Hogwarts, all of whom were fast asleep, their chests rising and falling gently.

Cornelius Fudge was standing beside Dumbledore's desk, wearing his usual pinstriped cloak and holding his lime-green bowler hat.

"Harry!" said Fudge jovially, moving forward. "How are you?"

"Fine," Harry lied.

"We were just talking about the night when Mr. Crouch turned up on the grounds," said Fudge. "It was you who found him, was it not?"

"Yes," said Harry. Then, feeling it was pointless to pretend that he hadn't overheard what they had been saying, he added, "I didn't see Madame Maxime anywhere, though, and she'd have a job hiding, wouldn't she?"

Dumbledore smiled at Harry behind Fudge's back, his eyes twinkling.

"Yes, well," said Fudge, looking embarrassed, "we're about to go for a short walk on the grounds, Harry, if you'll excuse us . . . perhaps if you just go back to your class —"

"I wanted to talk to you, Professor," Harry said quickly, looking at Dumbledore, who gave him a swift, searching look.

"Wait here for me, Harry," he said. "Our examination of the grounds will not take long."

When Dumbledore opened the door, another figure, who had apparently been leaning against the door and eavesdropping, stumbled inside.

Ara stared back at him with the most innocent smile she could muster, "Professor! I was. . .er—looking for Harry. . ."

"Ah, Miss Black, good thing that you're here, please wait with Harry until I return, I'm certain we have matters to discuss," said Dumbledore with twinkling eyes.

"Right," Ara nodded, and then she spotted Fudge and Moody, she scowled at the former.

"Pleasure seeing you, Black," said Moody as he shuffled towards the door.

They trooped out in silence past her and closed the door, now it was just her and Harry. After a moment or so, Ara heard the clunks of Moody's wooden leg growing fainter in the corridor below.

"What are you doing here?" questioned Harry.

"Damn, what a way to greet me," Ara feigned hurt. "But to answer your question, I'm nosey, besides, I figured your headache wasn't just that, and I assumed this would be where you'd come."

"Yeah, you're right," muttered Harry, referring to his headache.

"So, what did you see?" said Ara as she went to stroke Fawkes, Harry followed after her.

Fawkes, Professor Dumbledore's phoenix, was standing on his golden perch beside the door. The size of a swan, with magnificent scarlet-and-gold plumage, he swished his long tail and blinked benignly at Ara.

She let out a small laugh, and Harry couldn't help but stare at her as if she was the most interesting thing in the world, he momentarily forgot about the question she asked.

"Um. . ." he started, finally coming back to reality. "I saw a snake—" he didn't miss the way her body tensed. "—There was a man, he was short, I think it was Pettigrew, he was calling someone my Lord, the other figure—that was in a chair, he—he spoke to Wormtail and said he wouldn't feed him to the snake, he said; 'there is still Harry Potter and Ara Black', after that he used the Cruciatus Curse on him."

There was silence.

Harry glanced at Ara, her eyebrows furrowed a bit, her bottom lip tucked between her teeth, a clear sign that she was in deep thought.

"Do you. . .do you think the figure that was in a chair, do you think that was Voldemort?" said Ara, and although she masked it well, Harry could see the worry in her eyes.

"I think so," said Harry quietly. He momentarily hated himself for admitting it, he wished he could've said the opposite, he didn't want that figure to be Voldemort, he didn't want to go through all of this all over again.

Ara released a shaky breath and shook her head in disbelief, "We never get a break, do we?"

"It appears not," said Harry miserably.

As Ara continued stroking Fawkes, Harry sat down in a chair in front of Dumbledore's desk. He sat and watched the old headmasters and headmistresses snoozing in their frames, and running his fingers over his scar. It had stopped hurting now, he glanced at Ara, noticing that she was uncharacteristically quiet.

He felt much calmer as he looked at her, even if there was a deep frown on her face, somehow, even with an upset expression, she managed to make him feel at ease. Harry looked up at the walls behind the desk. The patched and ragged Sorting Hat was standing on a shelf. A glass case next to it held a magnificent silver sword with large rubies set into the hilt, which Harry recognized as the one Ara herself had pulled out of the Sorting Hat in their second year. He was gazing at it, remembering how it had come to their aid when they had thought all hope was lost. He looked around for the source of the light and saw a sliver of silver-white shining brightly from within a black cabinet behind him, whose door had not been closed properly. Harry hesitated, glanced at where Ara was with Fawkes, then got up, walked across the office, and pulled open the cabinet door.

"What are you doing?" Ara hissed as she made her way to stand beside him, Harry didn't answer.

A shallow stone basin lay there, with odd carvings around the edge: runes and symbols that neither Ara nor Harry recognized. The silvery light was coming from the basin's contents, which were like nothing Ara had ever seen before. She could not tell whether the substance was liquid or gas. It was a bright, whitish silver, and it was moving ceaselessly; the surface of it became ruffled like water beneath the wind, and then, like clouds, separated and swirled smoothly. It looked like light made liquid — or like wind made solid — Ara couldn't make up her mind.

Harry wanted to touch it, to find out what it felt like, but nearly four years' experience of the magical world told him that sticking his hand into a bowl full of some unknown substance was a very stupid thing to do. He therefore pulled his wand out of the inside of his robes, cast a nervous look at Ara, looked back at the contents of the basin, and prodded them.

The surface of the silvery stuff inside the basin began to swirl very fast.

"What the bloody hell. . ." said Ara under her breath.

"Come on," muttered Harry as he grabbed her hand.

Before Ara could protest, Harry bent them closer, their heads right inside the cabinet. The silvery substance had become transparent; it looked like glass. Ara looked down into it, expecting to see the stone bottom of the basin — and saw instead an enormous room below the surface of the mysterious substance, a room into which they seemed to be looking through a circular window in the ceiling.

The room was dimly lit; It might even be underground, for there were no windows, merely torches in brackets such as the ones that illuminated the walls of Hogwarts. Lowering their faces so that their noses were a mere inch away from the glassy substance, Ara saw that rows and rows of witches and wizards were seated around every wall on what seemed to be benches rising in levels. An empty chair stood in the very centre of the room. Chains encircled the arms of it, as though its occupants were usually tied to it.

Where was this place? It surely wasn't Hogwarts; They had never seen a room like that here in the castle. Moreover, the crowd in the mysterious room at the bottom of the basin was comprised of adults, and they knew there were not nearly that many teachers at Hogwarts. They seemed to be waiting for something; all of their faces seemed to be pointing in one direction, and none of them were talking to one another.

The basin being circular, and the room they were observing square, Harry and Ara could not make out what was going on in the corners of it. They leaned even closer, tilting their heads, trying to see . . .

The tip of their noses touched the strange substance into which they were staring.

Dumbledore's office gave an almighty lurch — Harry and Ara were thrown forward and pitched headfirst into the substance inside the basin —

But their heads did not hit the stone bottom. They were falling through something icy-cold and black, they kept a tight grip on each other's hands; it was like being sucked into a dark whirlpool —

And suddenly, they found themselves standing at the end of a bench at the end of the room inside the basin, a bench raised high above the others. Harry looked up at the high stone ceiling, expecting to see the circular window through which he and Ara had just been staring, but there was nothing there but dark, solid stone.

"What's happening?" said Ara nervously, she looked up at Harry, who was behind her, his chest pressed against her back.

"I don't know," Harry mumbled, looking just as anxious.

Breathing hard and fast, Harry looked around them. Not one of the witches and wizards in the room (and there were at least two hundred of them) were looking at them. Not one of them seemed to have noticed that two fourteen-year-olds had just dropped from the ceiling into their midst. Harry and Ara turned to the wizard next to them on the bench and uttered a loud cry of surprise that reverberated around the silent room.

They were sitting right next to Albus Dumbledore.

"Dumblewho—er—Professor?" Ara said in a kind of strangled whisper.

"We're sorry," Harry started. "— We didn't mean to — we were just looking at that basin in your cabinet — I — where are we?"

But Dumbledore didn't move or speak. He ignored them completely. Like every other wizard on the benches, he was staring into the far corner of the room, where there was a door.

Harry raised his right hand, hesitated, and then waved it energetically in front of Dumbledore's face. Dumbledore did not blink, look around at Harry, or indeed move at all.

"We're in a memory, Harry!" said Ara, her eyes wide as she looked around in wonder.

She glanced around more carefully. The room, as she had suspected when observing it from above, was almost certainly underground — more of a dungeon than a room, she thought. There was a bleak and forbidding air about the place; there were no pictures on the walls, no decorations at all; just these serried rows of benches, rising in levels all around the room, all positioned so that they had a clear view of that chair with the chains on its arms.

"We're at a courtroom," she realised, looking closely at the scenery.

"But for who's trial?" questioned Harry.

"I don't know,"

Before either of them could say anything else, they heard footsteps. The door in the corner of the dungeon opened and three people entered — or at least one man, flanked by two dementors.

Harry instinctively pulled Ara closer to his chest when he caught sight of the figures.

Both Ara's and Harry's insides went cold. The dementors — tall, hooded creatures whose faces were concealed — were gliding slowly toward the chair in the centre of the room, each grasping one of the man's arms with their dead and rotten-looking hands. The man between them looked as though he was about to faint, and they couldn't blame him . . they knew the dementors could not touch them inside a memory, but they remembered their power only too well. The watching crowd recoiled slightly as the dementors placed the man in the chained chair and gilded back out of the room. The door swung shut behind them.

Ara looked down at the man now sitting in the chair and saw that it was Karkaroff.

Unlike Dumbledore, Karkaroff looked much younger; his hair and goatee were black. He was not dressed in sleek furs but in thin and ragged robes. He was shaking. Even as Ara and Harry watched, the chains on the arms of the chair glowed suddenly gold and snaked their way up Karkaroff's arms, binding him there.

"Igor Karkaroff," said a curt voice to their left. Ara and Harry looked around and saw Mr. Crouch standing up in the middle of the bench beside him. Crouch's hair was dark, his face was much less lined, he looked fit and alert. "You have been brought from Azkaban to present evidence to the Ministry of Magic. You have given us to understand that you have important information for us."

Karkaroff straightened himself as best he could, tightly bound to the chair.

"I have, sir," he said, and although his voice was very scared, Ara could still hear the familiar unctuous note in it. "I wish to be of use to the Ministry. I wish to help. I — I know that the Ministry is trying to — to round up the last of the Dark Lord's supporters. I am eager to assist in any way I can. . . ."

There was a murmur around the benches. Some of the wizards and witches were surveying Karkaroff with interest, others with pronounced mistrust. Then Ara and Harry heard, quite distinctly, from Dumbledore's other side, a familiar, growling voice saying, "Filth."

"Moody," muttered Ara to Harry.

They leaned forward so that they could see past Dumbledore. Mad-Eye Moody was sitting there — except that there was a very noticeable difference in his appearance. He did not have his magical eye, but two normal ones. Both were looking down upon Karkaroff, and both were narrowed in intense dislike.

Ara's eyes assessed him closely, she was finally able to stare at him unapologetically without him noticing but there was something funny. Her nose instinctively scrunched up when she stared him down, there was something curious about him; he seemed more. . .steady? If that could be used to describe someone, somehow he appeared less malicious, less slippery and mysterious, though Ara suspected it was because this was the first time seeing him with both of his eyes, it gave him a less threatening look.

"Crouch is going to let him out," Moody breathed quietly to Dumbledore. "He's done a deal with him. Took me six months to track him down, and Crouch is going to let him go if he's got enough new names. Let's hear his information, I say, and throw him straight back to the dementors."

Dumbledore made a small noise of dissent through his long, crooked nose.

"Ah, I was forgetting . . . you don't like the dementors, do you, Albus?" said Moody with a sardonic smile.

"No," said Dumbledore calmly, "I'm afraid I don't. I have long felt the Ministry is wrong to ally itself with such creatures."

"But for filth like this . . ." Moody said softly.

"You say you have names for us, Karkaroff," said Mr. Crouch. "Let us hear them, please."

"You must understand," said Karkaroff hurriedly, "that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named operated always in the greatest secrecy. . . .He preferred that we — I mean to say, his supporters — and I regret now, very deeply, that I ever counted myself among them —"

"Get on with it," sneered Moody.

"— we never knew the names of every one of our fellows — He alone knew exactly who we all were —"

"Which was a wise move, wasn't it, as it prevented someone like you, Karkaroff, from turning all of them in," muttered Moody.

"Yet you say you have some names for us?" said Mr. Crouch.

"I — I do," said Karkaroff breathlessly. "And these were important supporters, mark you. People I saw with my own eyes doing his bidding. I give this information as a sign that I fully and totally renounce him, and am filled with a remorse so deep I can barely —"

"These names are?" said Mr. Crouch sharply.

Karkaroff drew a deep breath.

"There was Antonin Dolohov," he said. "I — I saw him torture countless Muggles and — and non-supporters of the Dark Lord."

"And helped him do it," murmured Moody.

"We have already apprehended Dolohov," said Crouch. "He was caught shortly after yourself."

"Indeed?" said Karkaroff, his eyes widening. "I — I am delighted to hear it!"

But he didn't look it. Ara could tell that this news had come as a real blow to him. One of his names was worthless.

"Any others?" said Crouch coldly.

"Why, yes . . . there was Rosier," said Karkaroff hurriedly. "Evan Rosier."

"Rosier is dead," said Crouch. "He was caught shortly after you were too. He preferred to fight rather than come quietly and was killed in the struggle."

"Took a bit of me with him, though," whispered Moody to Harry and Ara's right. They looked around at him once more, and saw him indicating the large chunk out of his nose to Dumbledore.

"Ew," mumbled Ara, Harry shushed her.

"No — no more than Rosier deserved!" said Karkaroff, a real note of panic in his voice now. Harry could see that he was starting to worry that none of his information would be of any use to the Ministry. Karkaroff's eyes darted toward the door in the corner, behind which the dementors undoubtedly still stood, waiting.

"Any more?" said Crouch.

"Yes!" said Karkaroff. "There was Travers — he helped murder the McKinnons! Mulciber — he specialised in the Imperius Curse, and forced countless people to do horrific things! Rookwood, who was a spy, passed He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named useful information from inside the Ministry itself!"

Ara and Harry could both tell that, this time, Karkaroff had struck gold. The watching crowd was all murmuring together.

"Rookwood?" said Mr. Crouch, nodding to a witch sitting in front of him, who began scribbling upon her piece of parchment. "Augustus Rookwood of the Department of Mysteries?"

"The very same," said Karkaroff eagerly. "I believe he used a network of well-placed wizards, both inside the Ministry and out, to collect information —"

"But Travers and Mulciber we have," said Mr. Crouch. "Very well, Karkaroff, if that is all, you will be returned to Azkaban while we decide —"

"Not yet!" cried Karkaroff, looking quite desperate. "Wait, I have more!"

Ara could see him sweating in the torchlight, his white skin contrasting strongly with the black of his hair and beard.

"Snape!" he shouted. "Severus Snape!"

Ara's heart leaped in her chest and she whipped around to stare at Harry, who returned her gaze with wide eyes.

"Snape has been cleared by this council," said Crouch disdainfully. "He has been vouched for by Albus Dumbledore."

"No!" shouted Karkaroff, straining at the chains that bound him to the chair. "I assure you! Severus Snape is a Death Eater!"

I told you so, Ara practically wanted to scream at Harry.

Dumbledore had gotten to his feet.

"I have given evidence already on this matter," he said calmly. "Severus Snape was indeed a Death Eater. However, he rejoined our side before Lord Voldemort's downfall and turned spy for us, at great personal risk. He is now no more a Death Eater than I am."

Harry stopped looking at the back of Ara's head and turned to look at Mad-Eye Moody. He was wearing a look of deep scepticism behind Dumbledore's back.

"Very well, Karkaroff," Crouch said coldly, "you have been of assistance. I shall review your case. You will return to Azkaban in the meantime. . . ."

Mr. Crouch's voice faded. Ara and Harry looked around; the dungeon was dissolving as though it were made of smoke; everything was fading; they could see only their own bodies — all else was swirling darkness. . . .

And then, the dungeon returned. Ara and Harry were sitting in different seats, still on the highest bench, but now to the left side of Mr.Crouch. The atmosphere seemed quite different: relaxed, even cheerful. The witches and wizards all around the walls were talking to one another, almost as though they were at some sort of sporting event. They noticed a witch halfway up the rows of benches opposite. She had short blonde hair, was wearing magenta robes, and was sucking the end of an acid-green quill. It was, unmistakably, a younger Rita Skeeter. Ara refrained from gagging at the sight. Harry looked around; Dumbledore was sitting beside them again, wearing different robes. Mr. Crouch looked more tired and somehow fiercer, gaunter. . . . It was a different memory, a different day . . . a different trial.

The door in the corner opened, and Ludo Bagman walked into the room.

This was not, however, a Ludo Bagman gone to seed, but a Ludo Bagman who was clearly at the height of his Quidditch-playing fitness. His nose wasn't broken now; he was tall and lean and muscular. Bagman looked nervous as he sat down in the chained chair, but it did not bind him there as it had bound Karkaroff, and Bagman, perhaps taking heart from this, glanced around at the watching crowd, waved at a couple of them, and managed a small smile.

"Ludo Bagman, you have been brought here in front of the Council of Magical Law to answer charges relating to the activities of the Death Eaters," said Mr. Crouch. "We have heard the evidence against you, and are about to reach our verdict. Do you have anything to add to your testimony before we pronounce judgment?"

"Bagman was a Death Eater?" said Ara in disbelief, her jaw slackened. She'd never been fond of the man, but the thought of him being a Death Eater had never even crossed her mind.

"Seems like it," Harry looked as if he couldn't believe his ears.

"Only," said Bagman, smiling awkwardly, "well — I know I've been a bit of an idiot —"

"That I can agree on," Ara whispered.

One or two wizards and witches in the surrounding seats smiled indulgently. Mr. Crouch did not appear to share their feelings. He was staring down at Ludo Bagman with an expression of the utmost severity and dislike.

"You never spoke a truer word, boy," someone muttered dryly to Dumbledore behind them. Ara and Harry looked around and saw Moody sitting there again. "If I didn't know he'd always been dim, I'd have said some of those Bludgers had permanently affected his brain. . . ."

"Ludovic Bagman, you were caught passing information to Lord Voldemort's supporters," said Mr. Crouch. "For this, I suggest a term of imprisonment in Azkaban lasting no less than —"

But there was an angry outcry from the surrounding benches. Several of the witches and wizards around the walls stood up, shaking their heads, and even their fists, at Mr. Crouch.

"But I've told you, I had no idea!" Bagman called earnestly over the crowd's babble, his round blue eyes widening. "None at all! Old Rookwood was a friend of my dad's . . . never crossed my mind he was in with You-Know-Who! I thought I was collecting information for our side! And Rookwood kept talking about getting me a job in the Ministry later on . . . once my Quidditch days are over, you know . . . I mean, I can't keep getting hit by Bludgers for the rest of my life, can I?"

There were titters from the crowd.

"It will be put to the vote," said Mr. Crouch coldly. He turned to the right-hand side of the dungeon. "The jury will please raise their hands . . . those in favour of imprisonment . . ."

Ara and Harry looked toward the right-hand side of the dungeon. Not one person raised their hand. Many of the witches and wizards around the walls began to clap. One of the witches on the jury stood up.

"Yes?" barked Crouch.

"We'd just like to congratulate Mr. Bagman on his splendid performance for England in the Quidditch match against Turkey last Saturday," the witch said breathlessly.

Mr. Crouch looked furious and Ara couldn't help but give a small laugh. The dungeon was ringing with applause now. Bagman got to his feet and bowed, beaming.

"Despicable," Mr. Crouch spat at Dumbledore, sitting down as Bagman walked out of the dungeon. "Rookwood get him a job indeed. . . . The day Ludo Bagman joins us will be a sad day indeed for the Ministry. . . ."

And the dungeon dissolved again. When it had returned, Ara and Harry looked around. Them and Dumbledore were still sitting beside Mr. Crouch, but the atmosphere could not have been more different. There was total silence, broken only by the dry sobs of a frail, wispy-looking witch in the seat next to Mr. Crouch. She was clutching a handkerchief to her mouth with trembling hands.

Ara looked up at Crouch and saw that he looked gaunter and greyer than ever before. A nerve was twitching in his temple, she quite liked how irritated he looked at the moment.

"Bring them in," he said, and his voice echoed through the silent dungeon.

The door in the corner opened yet again. Six dementors entered this time, flanking a group of four people. Harry saw the people in the crowd turn to look up at Mr. Crouch. A few of them whispered to one another.

The dementors placed each of the four people in the four chairs with chained arms that now stood on the dungeon floor. There was a thickset man who stared blankly up at Crouch; a thinner and more nervous-looking man, whose eyes were darting around the crowd; a woman with thick, shining dark hair and heavily hooded eyes, who was sitting in the chained chair as though it were a throne; and a boy in his late teens, who looked nothing short of petrified. He was shivering, his straw-coloured hair all over his face, his freckled skin milk-white. The wispy little witch beside Crouch began to rock backwards and forward in her seat, whimpering into her handkerchief.

Crouch stood up. He looked down upon the four in front of him, and there was pure hatred in his face.

"You have been brought here before the Council of Magical Law," he said clearly, "so that we may pass judgment on you, for a crime so heinous —"

"Father," said the boy with the straw-coloured hair. "Father . . .please . . ."

"— that we have rarely heard the like of it within this court," said Crouch, speaking more loudly, drowning out his son's voice.

"We have heard the evidence against you. The four of you stand accused of capturing an Auror — Frank Longbottom — and subjecting him to the Cruciatus Curse, believing him to have knowledge of the present whereabouts of your exiled master, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named —"

"Father, I didn't!" shrieked the boy in chains below. "I didn't, I swear it, Father, don't send me back to the dementors —"

"You are further accused," bellowed Mr. Crouch, "of using the Cruciatus Curse on Frank Longbottom's wife, when he would not give you information. You planned to restore He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to power, and to resume the lives of violence you presumably led while he was strong. I now ask the jury —"

"Mother!" screamed the boy below, and the wispy little witch beside Crouch began to sob, rocking backwards and forward. "Mother, stop him, Mother, I didn't do it, it wasn't me!"

"I now ask the jury," shouted Mr. Crouch, "to raise their hands if they believe, as I do, that these crimes deserve a life sentence in Azkaban!"

In unison, the witches and wizards along the right-hand side of the dungeon raised their hands. The crowd around the walls began to clap as it had for Bagman, their faces full of savage triumph. The boy began to scream.

"No! Mother, no! I didn't do it, I didn't do it, I didn't know! Don't send me there, don't let him!"

The dementors were gliding back into the room. The boys' three companions rose quietly from their seats; the woman with the heavy-lidded eyes looked up at Crouch and called, "The Dark Lord will rise again, Crouch! Throw us into Azkaban; we will wait! He will rise again and will come for us, he will reward us beyond any of his other supporters! We alone were faithful! We alone tried to find him!"

But the boy was trying to fight off the dementors, even though Ara could see their cold, draining power starting to affect him. The crowd was jeering, some of them on their feet, as the woman swept out of the dungeon, and the boy continued to struggle.

"I'm your son!" he screamed up at Crouch. "I'm your son!"

"You are no son of mine!" bellowed Mr. Crouch, his eyes bulging suddenly. "I have no son!"

The wispy witch beside him gave a great gasp and slumped in her seat. She had fainted. Crouch appeared not to have noticed.

"Take them away!" Crouch roared at the dementors, spit flying from his mouth. "Take them away, and may they rot there!"

"Father! Father, I wasn't involved! No! No! Father, please!"

"I think, Harry, Ara, it is time to return to my office," said a quiet voice in Ara's and Harry's ears.

They started. They looked around. Then they looked on their other side.

There was an Albus Dumbledore sitting on their right, watching Crouch's son being dragged away by the dementors — and there was an Albus Dumbledore on their left, looking right at them.

"Come," said the Dumbledore on his left, and he put his hands under Ara and Harry's elbow. They felt themselves rising into the air; the dungeon dissolved around them; for a moment, all was blackness, and then he felt as though he had done a slow-motion somersault, suddenly landing flat on their feet, in what seemed like the dazzling light of Dumbledore's sunlit office. The stone basin was shimmering in the cabinet in front of them, and Albus Dumbledore was standing beside them.

"Professor," Harry gasped, "I know we shouldn't've — we didn't mean — the cabinet door was sort of open and —"

"Being honest, Harry dragged me into this," Ara pointed a finger towards Harry, he looked at her in betrayal.

"I quite understand," said Dumbledore, looking mildly amused. He lifted the basin, carried it over to his desk, placed it upon the polished top, and sat down in the chair behind it. He motioned for Harry and Ara to sit down opposite him.

They did so, staring at the stone basin. The contents had returned to their original, silvery-white state, swirling and rippling beneath their gaze.

"What is it?" Ara asked curiously.

"It is a Pensieve," said Dumbledore. "I sometimes find, and I am sure you know the feeling, that I simply have too many thoughts and memories crammed into my mind."

"Er," said Harry, who couldn't truthfully say that he had ever felt anything of the sort.

"Yeah," said Ara with a frown.

"At these times," said Dumbledore, indicating the stone basin, "I use the Pensieve. One simply syphons the excess thoughts from one's mind, pours them into the basin, and examines them at one's leisure. It becomes easier to spot patterns and links, you understand, when they are in this form."

"You mean . . . that stuff's your thoughts?" Harry said, staring at the swirling white substance in the basin.

"Certainly," said Dumbledore. "Let me show you both."

Dumbledore drew his wand out of the inside of his robes and placed the tip into his own silvery hair, near his temple. When he took the wand away, hair seemed to be clinging to it — but then Ara and Harry saw that it was in fact a glistening strand of the same strange silvery-white substance that filled the Pensieve. Dumbledore added this fresh thought to the basin, and Harry and Ara, astonished, saw their own faces swimming around the surface of the bowl. Dumbledore placed his long hands on either side of the Pensieve and swirled it, rather as a gold prospector would pan for fragments of gold . . . and Ara and Harry saw their own faces change smoothly into Snape's, who opened his mouth and spoke to the ceiling, his voice echoing slightly.

"It's coming back . . . Karkaroff's too . . . stronger and clearer than ever . . ."

"A connection I could have made without assistance," Dumbledore sighed, "but never mind." He peered over the top of his half-moon spectacles at Ara and Harry. "I was using the Pensieve when Mr. Fudge arrived for our meeting and put it away rather hastily. Undoubtedly I did not fasten the cabinet door properly. Naturally, it would have attracted your attention."

"I'm sorry," Harry mumbled.

"Sometimes we can be too curious," added Ara.

Dumbledore shook his head. "Curiosity is not a sin," he said. "But we should exercise caution with our curiosity . . . yes, indeed . . ."

Frowning slightly, he prodded the thoughts within the basin with the tip of his wand. Instantly, a figure rose out of it, a plump, scowling girl of about sixteen, who began to revolve slowly, with her feet still in the basin. She took no notice whatsoever of Harry, Ara, or Professor Dumbledore. When she spoke, her voice echoed as Snape's had done, as though it were coming from the depths of the stone basin. "He put a hex on me, Professor Dumbledore, and I was only teasing him, sir. I only said I'd seen him kissing Florence behind the greenhouses last Thursday. . . ."

"But why, Bertha," said Dumbledore sadly, looking up at the now silently revolving girl, "why did you have to follow him in the first place?"

"Bertha? Was that Bertha Jorkins?" Ara whispered, looking up at her.

"Yes," said Dumbledore, prodding the thoughts in the basin again; Bertha sank back into them, and they became silvery and opaque once more. "That was Bertha as I remember her at school."

The silvery light from the Pensieve illuminated Dumbledore's face, and it struck Harry suddenly how very old he was looking. He knew, of course, that Dumbledore was getting on in years, but somehow he never really thought of Dumbledore as an old man.

"So, Harry," said Dumbledore quietly. "Before you got lost in my thoughts, you wanted to tell me something, and was there something you wanted to discuss with me, Ara?"

"No," Ara said instantly. Truthfully, she didn't want to tell him about anything she'd discovered throughout the year; Atlas, her powers. . .much less her headaches and dreams, she'd trusted Harry and told him but she didn't view Dumbledore as someone she could go to with her problems. She never really got clear answers from him anyway, merely vague responses. It'd be pointless. "I was just looking for Harry."

"Well," said Harry, giving Ara a funny look. "Professor — I was in Divination just now, and — er — I fell asleep."

He hesitated here, wondering if a reprimand was coming, but Dumbledore merely said, "Quite understandable. Continue."

Ara snorted and raised a hand to cover her mouth when they turned to look at her, she sobered up her face and waved her wrist, "Ignore me,"

"Well, I had a dream," said Harry looking back at Dumbledore. "A dream about Lord Voldemort. He was torturing Wormtail . . . you know who Wormtail —"

"I do know," said Dumbledore promptly. "Please continue."

"Voldemort got a letter from an owl. He said something like, Wormtail's blunder had been repaired. He said someone was dead. Then he said, Wormtail wouldn't be fed to the snake — there was a snake beside his chair. He said — he said he'd be feeding me and Ara to it, instead. Then he did the Cruciatus Curse on Wormtail — and my scar hurt," Harry said. "It woke me up, it hurt so badly."

Dumbledore merely looked at him.

"Er — that's all," said Harry.

"I see," said Dumbledore quietly. "I see. Now, has your scar hurt at any other time this year, excepting the time it woke you up over the summer?"

"No, I — how did you know it woke me up over the summer?"said Harry, astonished.

"You and Ara are not Sirius's only correspondent," said Dumbledore. "I have also been in contact with him ever since he left Hogwarts last year. It was I who suggested the mountainside cave as the safest place for him to stay."

Dumbledore got up and began walking up and down behind his desk. Every now and then, he placed his wand tip to his temple, removed another shining silver thought, and added it to the Pensieve. The thoughts inside began to swirl so fast that neither Ara nor Harry could make out anything clearly: It was merely a blur of colour.

"Professor?" Harry said quietly, after a couple of moments.

Dumbledore stopped pacing and looked at them.

"My apologies," he said quietly. He sat back down at his desk.

"D'you — d'you know why my scar's hurting me?"

Dumbledore looked very intently at Harry for a moment then at Ara, and then said, "I have a theory, no more than that. . . . It is my belief that your scar hurts both when Lord Voldemort is near you, and when he is feeling a particularly strong surge of hatred."

"But . . . why?"

"Because you and he are connected by the curse that failed," said Dumbledore. "That is no ordinary scar."

"So you think . . . that dream . . . did it really happen?"

"It is possible," said Dumbledore. "I would say — probable. Harry — did you see Voldemort?"

"No," said Harry. "Just the back of his chair. But — there wouldn't have been anything to see, would there? I mean, he hasn't got a body, has he? But . . . but then how could he have held the wand?" Harry said slowly.

"How indeed?" muttered Dumbledore. "How indeed . . ."

Neither Dumbledore, Ara nor Harry spoke for a while. Dumbledore was gazing across the room, and, every now and then, placing his wand tip to his temple and adding another shining silver thought to the seething mass within the Pensieve.

"Do you think he's getting stronger?" said Ara at last. "Voldemort, I mean."

"Voldemort?" said Dumbledore, looking at Ara over the Pensieve. It was the characteristic, piercing look Dumbledore had given them on other occasions. "Once again, I can only give you my suspicions."

Dumbledore sighed again, and he looked older, and wearier, than ever.

"The years of Voldemort's ascent to power," he said, "were marked with disappearances. Bertha Jorkins has vanished without a trace in the place where Voldemort was certainly known to be last. Mr. Crouch too has disappeared . . . within these very grounds. And there was a third disappearance, one which the Ministry, I regret to say, do not consider of any importance, for it concerns a Muggle. His name was Frank Bryce, he lived in the village where Voldemort's father grew up, and he has not been seen since last August. You see, I read the Muggle newspapers, unlike most of my Ministry friends."

Dumbledore looked very seriously at both Ara and Harry.

"These disappearances seem to me to be linked. The Ministry disagrees — as you, Harry, may have heard, while waiting outside my office."

Harry nodded. Silence fell between them again, Dumbledore extracting thoughts every now and then. Harry felt as though he ought to go, but his curiosity held him in his chair.

"Professor?" he said.

"Yes, Harry?" said Dumbledore.

"Er . . . could I ask you about . . . that court thing I was in . . .in the Pensieve?"

"You could," said Dumbledore heavily. "I attended it many times, but some trials come back to me more clearly than others . . . particularly now. . . ."

"You know — you know the trial you found me in? The one with Crouch's son? Well . . . were they talking about Neville's parents?"

Ara nudged him to be quiet.

Dumbledore gave Harry and Ara a very sharp look. "Has Neville never told either of you why he has been brought up by his grandmother?" he said.

Both Ara and Harry shook their heads.

"Yes, they were talking about Neville's parents," said Dumbledore. "His father, Frank, was an Auror just like Professor Moody. He and his wife were tortured for information about Voldemort's whereabouts after he lost his powers, as you heard."

"So they're dead?" said Harry quietly.

"No," said Dumbledore, his voice full of a bitterness Ara and Harry had never heard there before. "They are insane. They are both in St.Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. I believe Neville visits them, with his grandmother, during the holidays. They do not recognize him."

"They were tortured into insanity?" Ara breathed out, suppressing the urge to shiver. She couldn't even begin to imagine how much pain they'd had to go through and endure in order for their brains to shut down due to the agony. She turned to look at Harry and saw that he looked just as mortified as she was.

"The Longbottoms were very popular," said Dumbledore."The attacks on them came after Voldemort's fall from power, just when everyone thought they were safe. Those attacks caused a wave of fury such as I have never known. The Ministry was under great pressure to catch those who had done it. Unfortunately, the Longbottoms' evidence was — given their condition — none too reliable."

"Then Mr. Crouch's son might not have been involved?" said Harry slowly.

Dumbledore shook his head.

"As to that, I have no idea."

Harry and Ara sat in silence once more, watching the contents of the Pensieve swirl. There were two more questions Harry was burning to ask . . . but they concerned the guilt of living people. . . .

"Er," he said, "Mr. Bagman . . ."

". . . has never been accused of any Dark activity since," said Dumbledore calmly.

"Right," said Harry hastily, staring at the contents of the Pensieve again, which were swirling more slowly now that Dumbledore had stopped adding thoughts. "And . . . er . . ."

But the Pensieve seemed to be asking his question for him. Snape's face was swimming on the surface again. Dumbledore glanced down into it, and then up at Harry and Ara.

"No more has Professor Snape," he said.

"How can you be so sure?" said Ara, her distrust clear. "What made you think he'd really stopped supporting Voldemort?"

Dumbledore held Ara's gaze for a few seconds, and then said, "That, Ara, is a matter between Professor Snape and myself."

Ara and Harry knew that the interview was over; Dumbledore did not look angry, yet there was a finality in his tone that told them it was time to go. They stood up, and so did Dumbledore.

"Harry, Ara," he said as Harry and Ara reached the door. "Please do not speak about Neville's parents to anybody else. He has the right to let people know, when he is ready."

"Of course," nodded Ara.

"Yes, Professor," said Harry, grabbing Ara's hand and turning to go.

"And —"

Harry and Ara looked back. Dumbledore was standing over the Pensieve, his face lit from beneath by its silvery spots of light, looking older than ever. He stared at them for a moment, and then said, "Good luck with the third task, Harry, I'm sure we can count on Ara to help you overcome any obstacle."

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"DUMBLEDORE RECKONS YOU-KNOW-WHO'S getting stronger again as well?" Ron whispered.

Everything Ara and Harry had seen in the Pensieve, nearly everything Dumbledore had told and shown them afterwards, they had now shared with Ron and Hermione — and, of course, with Sirius, to whom Ara had sent an owl the moment they had left Dumbledore's office. Ara, Harry, Ron, and Hermione sat up late in the common room once again that night, talking it all over.

Ron stared into the common room fire. Ara thought she saw Ron shiver slightly, even though the evening was warm.

"And he trusts Snape?" Ron said. "He really trusts Snape, even though he knows he was a Death Eater?"

"Yes," said Harry.

"I don't want to say I told you so. . ." Ara dragged along, ". . .but I told you so!"

"We know!" said Harry and Ron together, Ara had been bothering them with the knowledge of Snape being a Death Eater since they got back.

Hermione had not spoken for ten minutes. She was sitting with her forehead in her hands, staring at her knees. Ara thought she too looked as though she could have done with a Pensieve.

"Rita Skeeter," she muttered finally.

"How can you be worrying about her now?" said Ron, in utter disbelief.

"I'm not worrying about her," Hermione said to her knees. "I'm just thinking . . . remember what she said to Ara in the Three Broomsticks? 'I know things about Ludo Bagman that would make your hair curl.' This is what she meant, isn't it? She reported his trial, she knew he'd passed information to the Death Eaters. And Winky too, remember . . . 'Ludo Bagman's a bad wizard.' Mr.Crouch would have been furious he got off, he would have talked about it at home."

"Yeah, but Bagman didn't pass information on purpose, did he?"

Hermione shrugged.

"And Fudge reckons Madame Maxime attacked Crouch?" Ron said, turning back to Harry and Ara.

"Pretty much," said Ara, "but he's only saying that because Crouch disappeared near the Beauxbatons carriage."

"We never thought of her, did we?" said Ron slowly. "Mind you, she's definitely got giant blood, and she doesn't want to admit it —"

"Of course she doesn't," said Hermione sharply, looking up. "Look what happened to Hagrid when Rita found out about his mother. Look at Fudge, jumping to conclusions about her, just because she's part giant. Who needs that sort of prejudice? I'd probably say I had big bones if I knew that's what I'd get for telling the truth."

Hermione looked at her watch. "We haven't done any practising!" she said, looking shocked. "We were going to do the Impediment Curse! We'll have to really get down to it tomorrow! Come on, Harry, you need to get some sleep."

"I think I'll stay here for a bit," said Harry.

"You mustn't—"

"I'll keep an eye on him, Mione, make sure he doesn't pass his bedtime," Ara teased, making Harry roll his eyes fondly.

Hermione seemed to hesitate for a moment before giving in, "Fine! But not so late! We have to study for the third task tomorrow!"

"Yes, Mum!" Ara called out as she watched Hermione walk upstairs to their dormitory. Soon enough, Ron yawned and muttered a quiet, "Good night," and walked up to his dormitory as well.

After a few moments of being alone, Ara rose from her armchair and went to sit beside Harry on the sofa. She gave him a small nudge, noticing his fallen face, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I was just. . .thinking about Neville," said Harry softly, he stared into the fire in a daze.

"I can't imagine what it must be like for him," Ara muttered. "Having your parents but—them not recognizing you. . .or in how much pain they had to be in to end up like that."

"I hope we never find out what it feels like," said Harry, tilting his head down slightly to look at her face.

"Yeah," Ara mumbled as she felt Harry's finger trace the constellation on her ring, she subconsciously stared down at his wrist, admiring the stag that pranced in between the numbers of his watch. "I mean. . .we've had our fair share of bad injuries over the years but the Cruciatus Curse. . .it must be agonising."

Harry said nothing as they both continued to lean their backs against the sofa, staring into the almost dead flames of the fireplace, and hearing the occasional crack of the wood as it burned.

"I think. . ." Ara started as she took a deep breath, "I'm going to tell Atlas."

"What?" Harry stopped playing with her fingers and turned to look at her, baffled.

"That I'm his sister," she clarified, running a hand through her locks of hair. "I can't stand it any longer, he's going to live at the Burrow for a while and it'll be more difficult to keep it a secret—"

"Wait—he's going to live at the Burrow?"

"Oh," Ara's eyebrows shot up. "That's right, I haven't told you, he's going to live with us for a while, only Molly and Arthur know."

"But. . .why?"

"Um. . .personal issues," Ara winced. "I'm sorry but I can't tell you everything, it's not really my place to tell."

"That's fine," he smiled at her in understanding. "So, how are you planning on telling him?"

"I don't know, I'll do it directly, straight to the point," she shrugged.

"Well. . .I hope it all goes well," said Harry, not really knowing what else to say.

"Me too," Ara muttered, she stared a few moments into the fire and then her face lit up suddenly. "I want to show you something! But you have to promise to not tell anyone yet."

Ara raised her pinky finger.

"Um, alright." he laced his pinky with her, his expression confused.

Ara looked around for a moment, then she spotted the pillow that sat on the sofa, she grabbed it and started cutting into it making the feathers fall out. Harry made a sound of protest but Ara quickly shushed him, she laid them on the sofa and then looked up at Harry, "Ready?"

Harry nodded hesitantly, and then he watched in amazement as she raised her hand and held it above the feathers, not a second later all of the feathers started floating around them, she made them dance in the air as Harry watched with fascination, his lips parting.

"Y-you can do wandless magic." Harry stared at her through the feathers in between them.

"Something like that," Ara shrugged and lowered her hand, however, the feathers still hovered. "It's more like an elemental thing with the wind, that's how I confirmed that Atlas' my brother, he can bend water."

"You're magic," said Harry breathlessly as he stared at her like she was the most fascinating thing in the world, dismissing her mention of Atlas as he focused solely on her.

"We're all magic here Harry," Ara chuckled.

"Yeah I know but—you're magic," he repeated as Ara lowered the feathers.

You're my magic.

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ARA, RON, AND HERMIONE WERE SUPPOSED TO BE studying for their exams, which would finish on the day of the third task, but they were putting most of their efforts into helping Harry prepare.

"Don't worry about it," Hermione said shortly when Harry pointed this out to them and said he didn't mind practising on his own for a while, "at least we'll get top marks in Defense Against the Dark Arts. We'd never have found out about all these hexes in class."

"Good training for when we're all Aurors," said Ron excitedly, attempting the Impediment Curse on a wasp that had buzzed into the room and making it stop dead in midair.

"Impedimenta!" chanted Ara as she pointed her wand at Ron, it hit him in the head, successfully making his movements slow. It took a while before he could get his expression to form into a scowl, making Ara, Harry and Hermione laugh.

Ron continued to make slow and furious expressions, trying to speak.

"Okay, Okay," said Ara in between laughs and pointed her wand at him once again. "Various!"

The counter-curse worked effectively and made Ron's movements normal again, he grumbled at Ara, "git,"

"Prat," she fired back.

"Tosser,"

"Skiver—"

"Alright!" Hermione interrupted, scolding them, "Let's concentrate on working!"

The mood in the castle as they entered June became excited and tense again. Everyone was looking forward to the third task, which would take place a week before the end of term. Harry was practising hexes at every available moment with the help of Ara, Ron and Hermione and while he tried to control his anxious trembles, Ara caught them easily and each time she tried to give him comfort with a reassuring smile and nod.

Tired of walking in on Harry, Ara, Hermione, and Ron all over the school, Professor McGonagall had given them permission to use the empty Transfiguration classroom at lunchtime. Harry had soon mastered the Impediment Curse, thanks to Ara's great teaching; the Reductor Curse, which would enable him to blast solid objects out of his way; and the Four-Point Spell, a useful discovery of Hermione's that would make his wand point due north, therefore enabling him to check whether he was going in the right direction within the maze. He was still having trouble with the Shield Charm, though. This was supposed to cast a temporary, invisible wall around himself that deflected minor curses; Ara managed to shatter it with a well-placed Jelly-Legs Jinx, and Harry wobbled around the room for ten minutes afterwards before she had looked up the counter-jinx, not after having a good laugh however.

"You're still doing really well, though," Ara said encouragingly, as Hermione looked down her list and crossed off those spells they had already learned. "Some of these are bound to come in handy."

"Come and look at this," said Ron, who was standing by the window. He was staring down at the grounds. "What's Malfoy doing?"

Harry, Ara, and Hermione went to see. Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were standing in the shadow of a tree below. Crabbe and Goyle seemed to be keeping a lookout; both were smirking. Malfoy was holding his hand up to his mouth and speaking into it.

"He looks like he's using a walkie-talkie," said Harry curiously.

"A walk—what?" whispered Ara.

"A Muggle thing that lets you talk with others," Harry said quickly.

"He can't be," said Hermione, "I've told you, those sorts of things don't work around Hogwarts. Come on, Harry," she added briskly, turning away from the window and moving back into the middle of the room, "let's try that Shield Charm again."

"It's my time to hex you," said Ara happily as she twirled her wand.

Harry gulped nervously.

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SIRIUS WAS SENDING DAILY OWLS NOW. Like Hermione, he seemed to want to concentrate on getting Harry through the last task, and keeping Ara out of trouble. He reminded Harry in every letter that whatever might be going on outside the walls of Hogwarts was not Harry's responsibility, nor was it within his power to influence it. He never failed to ask Ara about her day and how she was doing at school, always reminding her to be safe, he also asked daily questions about Atlas, like how he was doing, and if she had told him the truth yet.

If Voldemort is really getting stronger again, he wrote, my priority is to ensure your safety. He cannot hope to lay hands on you while you are under Dumbledore's protection, but all the same, take no risks: Concentrate on getting through that maze safely, and then we can turn our attention to other matters.

Ara's letters always came separately, Little wolf, I won't ask you for much but all I want right now is for you to be safe, don't leave the grounds alone, and always stick with your friends or Harry. Please listen to me on this one. Also, have you spoken to Atlas yet? Told him the truth? Make sure you do it soon, keeping it a secret of that magnitude won't help anybody. Stay safe.

Harry's nerves mounted as June the twenty-fourth drew closer, but they were not as bad as those he had felt before the first and second tasks. For one thing, he was confident that, this time, he had done everything in his power to prepare for the task. For another, this was the final hurdle, and however well or badly he did, the tournament would at last be over, which would be an enormous relief.

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ARA HAD NEVER FOUND IT HARD TO SAY WHAT WAS ON HER MIND WHEN THE TOPIC DIDN'T REGARD ONE OF HER PERSONAL EMOTIONS. Yet she slightly fidgeted with her rings as she stood outside of the common room, a few couple of metres away from the Portrait Hole. She'd thought about the conversation she'd soon start in a few moments various times in the last couple of days; how she'd word her sentences, how she'd deliver them. . .but her anxiousness was persistent.

She'd sent Atlas a letter earlier that evening, asking him to meet her where she now stood, telling him that they needed to talk. She assumed he thought she had more questions about their magic but truthfully, she'd shoved that topic into the back of her mind for the time being.

It was true what Dumbledore had said in his office, sometimes Pensives came in handy when one had too much occupying their mind. Ara certainly wished she possessed one at the moment. Her brain was collapsing from the amount of things it mulled over each day and night, she was growing restless and her headaches intensified, only adding to her misery.

Ara looked around the corridor, exhaling a heavy breath when she didn't see Atlas approaching yet. It was a foreign feeling to her, insecurity wasn't something she was familiar with but that was exactly what she was feeling as she balanced on the ball of her feet. In fairness, she was already expecting what type of reaction Atlas would have and the only word that came to mind to describe it was explosive. She wouldn't blame him if he lashed out or rejected the truth despite its logic because she would understand.

Suddenly, a familiar ringing started to sound in her ears, making her groan in despair as she rubbed her right temple, "not now." Her jaw ticked and her fingers pressed tighter against the skin. She shut her eyes, taking long and calming breaths, performing the slight routine she'd built up over the months of experiencing her migraines.

She stood there for a few minutes before the pain faded away and just as she let her hands fall to her sides, a familiar voice called at her, "Evening, grumpy."

Ara whipped around and found Atlas finally strutting towards her, her eyebrows furrowed at the nickname but she decided the discussion of it was irrelevant, "Evening, git," she rolled her eyes.

"So what is it that you want to talk about?" Atlas questioned as he went over and leaned sideways against the wall. Before she could get a word out, he gave a dramatic gasp, surveying her with teasing eyes. "Don't tell me you and Potter are finally a thing. . .if that's it I want to hear all the gossip you have—"

"It's not that!" said Ara exasperatedly, her cheeks turning a pale shade of pink.

"Aww, you're blushing," Atlas cooed as he poked her face.

"Stop that, I'm not blushing," she slapped his hand away, shaking her head, "Godric, you're so annoying."

"So I've been told," he smirked.

Ara inhaled a long breath, looking at him sternly, "Listen. . .I really need to talk to you."

Atlas' features went from playful to serious in a millisecond and his back straightened as he regarded her, his words careful, "is something wrong?"

"Well—not wrong, just—I'm not sure how to tell you—"

"Just blurt it out quickly," Atlas shrugged, extending his hands in front of him in a calming manner.

Ara was sure that the story was too complicated in order for her to just 'blurt it out quickly'. "I've been doing some research on the Black family tree as well as the Auclair family—"

"Why my family?" Atlas' tone turned a bit sharp as his eyebrows drew in together.

"I have this issue with new people where I have to know more about them in order to trust them so—"

"So you decided to investigate my family?" Atlas questioned in disbelief.

"I don't expect a lot of people to understand!" snapped Ara, huffing as she buried her hands in the pockets of her jacket. "Listen—trusting doesn't come easily to me and in my defence, every information I found about the Auclairs was public, and well. . .I found interesting things,"

"For example?" prodded Atlas as he crossed his arms.

"I'll start with what I found about the Blacks first, I discovered that my parents had another child before me, a boy," Ara started off wearily, she couldn't exactly tell him that she found out about that piece of information by her Dad when they'd met in a cave so she decided to lie a little. "The night he was born, the healers told my parents that he'd died but. . .he didn't. A particular healer lied about his diagnosis."

"Why?"

"Trust me, I'd love to know," she sighed. "The thing is, that boy was thought to be dead until my suspicions grew."

"Suspicions about what?"

"You,"

"Me?" Atlas spluttered, pointing towards himself, "What do you—?"

"I don't think—no, actually, I know you're not an Auclair," she went right ahead and dropped the bomb.

"What are you even on about—?" Atlas' voice rose.

"The healer that tended to my parents that night was named Antoinette Martin," Ara said firmly, her tone rising as well. "Who you told me was your mother! And when I was reading about the Auclairs—the book had photos, and you look nothing like them—they've been blonde or brunette for generations on end and you so happen to be the odd one out—?"

"So you're basing your theory on some pictures—" Atlas scoffed, his expression turning heated.

"No, actually, not just some pictures, if I were to put you beside a photo of Sirius Black when he was younger people wouldn't be able to spot a difference! Our magic is a clear sign to our shared blood—your age—your name—your mother's name—all of you, those are all factors that point towards the truth!"

The silence was deafening.

"If this is some joke, you haven't got me laughing, Ara," Atlas' icy voice broke through the air.

Ara couldn't contain the scoff that escaped her, her gaze turning almost desperate, "It's not a joke, trust me, I wish it was so I wouldn't have had to drive myself insane by thinking how to break it to you. You are a Black—"

"Stop! Just shut up for a second!" Atlas finally exploded as he pointed an accusatory finger at her. "You're lying, this is just some sick skeem to get something out of me!"

"Your so-called mother ripped you from our Mum's arms—she looked into her eyes and told her her son had died! She stole you and her name is proof of that, she was a nurse, wasn't she?" Ara shouted back, trying to drill her words into his head.

He stayed silent.

"See? You can't even deny it!"

"It's not possible," Atlas continued to shake his head, the muscle in his jaw ticking. "They can't have—"

"Atlas," she coaxed. "I know this is difficult to grasp but the similarities are too much! You have to believe me—"

"Well I don't," Atlas said slowly. "And even if I did, I wouldn't care! Maybe you wanted another brother, but let me make this clear, I never wanted a sister, and I'll never want one, so don't waste your breath, we're done here."

And without uttering another word he turned on his heel and hurriedly made his way through the corridor and out of sight.

Ara was left alone in the corridor, her posture rigid, and lips pressed into a thin line. She understood his reaction, of course she did, she had expected it. If someone came up to her and told her that her entire life was a lie, she'd dismiss them too. Though she couldn't deny the slight pang that she felt at the rejection, she let out a defeated sigh and climbed into the common room, ready to just hit the pillow and fall asleep.

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BREAKFAST WAS A VERY NOISY AFFAIR AT THE Gryffindor table on the morning of the third task. The post owls appeared, bringing Harry a good luck card and a short letter for Ara from Sirius. Harry's was a piece of parchment, folded over and bearing a muddy paw print on its front, but Harry appreciated it all the same. Ara's short letter asked about how it went with Atlas, and she decided that she was going to write back to him after the task. A screech owl arrived for Hermione, carrying her morning copy of the Daily Prophet as usual. She unfolded the paper, glanced at the front page, and spat out a mouthful of pumpkin juice all over it and some on Ara's arm.

"I'm sorry, Ara!" Hermione apologised as Ara grabbed a napkin to dry herself, she gave her an it's okay look.

"What?" said Harry and Ron together, staring at her.

"Nothing," said Hermione quickly, trying to shove the paper out of sight, but Ron grabbed it. He stared at the headline and said, "No way. Not today. That old cow."

"What?" said Harry. "Rita Skeeter again?"

"Ugh, I don't need this today," Ara put her head on her hands.

"No," said Ron, and just like Hermione, he attempted to push the paper out of sight.

"Give me that—" Ara snatched the paper from his hands.

She read over it and Harry saw her gritting her teeth in anger.

"It's about me, isn't it?" said Harry.

"No," said Ron, in an entirely unconvincing tone, at the same time that Ara said, "Yes."

Before Harry could demand to see the paper, Draco Malfoy shouted across the Great Hall from the Slytherin table.

"Hey, Potter! Potter! How's your head? You feeling all right? Sure you're not going to go berserk on us?"

Malfoy was holding a copy of the Daily Prophet too. Slytherins up and down the table were sniggering, twisting in their seats to see Harry's reaction.

"Let me see it," Harry said to Ara.

Ara handed over the newspaper. Harry turned it over and found himself staring at his own picture, beneath the banner headline:

HARRY POTTER "DISTURBED AND DANGEROUS"

The boy who defeated He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is unstable and possibly dangerous, writes Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent. Alarming evidence has recently come to light about Harry Potter's strange behaviour, which casts doubts upon his suitability to compete in a demanding competition like the Triwizard Tournament, or even to attend Hogwarts School.

Potter, the Daily Prophet can exclusively reveal, regularly collapses at school, and is often heard to complain of pain in the scar on his forehead (relic of the curse with which You-Know-Who attempted to kill him). On Monday last, midway through a Divination lesson, your Daily Prophet reporter witnessed Potter storming from the class, claiming that his scar was hurting too badly to continue studying.

It is possible, say top experts at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, that Potter's brain was affected by the attack inflicted upon him by You-Know-Who, and that his insistence that the scar is still hurting is an expression of his deep-seated confusion.

"He might even be pretending," said one specialist. "This could be a plea for attention."

The Daily Prophet, however, has unearthed worrying facts about Harry Potter that Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, has carefully concealed from the wizarding public.

"Potter can speak Parseltongue," reveals Draco Malfoy, a Hogwarts fourth year. "There were a lot of attacks on students a couple of years ago, and most people thought Potter was behind them after they saw him lose his temper at a duelling club and set a snake on another boy. It was all hushed up, though. But he's made friends with werewolves and giants too. We think he'd do anything for a bit of power."

Parseltongue, the ability to converse with snakes, has long been considered a Dark Art. Indeed, the most famous Parselmouth of our times is none other than You-Know-Who himself. A member of the Dark Force Defence League, who wished to remain unnamed, stated that he would regard any wizard who could speak Parseltongue "as worthy of investigation. Personally, I would be highly suspicious of anybody who could converse with snakes, as serpents are often used in the worst kinds of Dark Magic, and are historically associated with evildoers." Similarly, "anyone who seeks out the company of such vicious creatures as werewolves and giants would appear to have a fondness for violence."

Albus Dumbledore should surely consider whether a boy such as this should be allowed to compete in the Triwizard Tournament. Some fear that Potter might resort to the Dark Arts in his desperation to win the tournament, the third task of which takes place this evening.

"Gone off me a bit, hasn't she?" said Harry lightly, folding up the paper.

Over at the Slytherin table, Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were laughing at him, tapping their heads with their fingers, pulling grotesquely mad faces, and waggling their tongues like snakes.

"How did she know your scar hurt in Divination?" Ron said. "There's no way she was there, there's no way she could've heard —"

"The window was open," said Harry. "I opened it to breathe."

"You were at the top of the North Tower!" Hermione said. "Your voice couldn't have carried all the way down to the grounds!"

"Well, you're the one who's supposed to be researching magical methods of bugging!" said Harry. "You tell me how she did it!"

"I've been trying!" said Hermione. "But I . . . but . . ."

"Bugging. . ." Ara repeated airily, her eyebrows furrowing in thought as she tried to make sense of it all. "Bug. . .what if she's a. . ." she and Hermione locked eyes.

An odd, dreamy expression suddenly came over Hermione's face as she stared at Ara. She slowly raised a hand and ran her fingers through her hair.

"Are you all right?" said Ron, frowning at her.

"Yes," said Hermione breathlessly. She ran her fingers through her hair again, and then held her hand up to her mouth, as though speaking into an invisible walkie-talkie. Harry and Ron stared at each other.

"Ara, I love you," Hermione said, gazing at Ara with a gleaming face. "I feel like I could kiss you right now—"

"—Don't—" Harry said hastily.

"—Just give me two seconds in the library — just to make sure!"

With that, Hermione seized her school bag and dashed out of the Great Hall.

"Oi!" Ron called after her. "We've got our History of Magic exam in ten minutes! Blimey," he said, turning back to Harry and Ara, "she must really hate that Skeeter woman to risk missing the start of an exam. What're you going to do in Binns's class — read again?"

Exempt from the end-of-term tests as a Triwizard champion, Harry had been sitting in the back of every exam class so far, looking up fresh hexes for the third task with Ara, who didn't mind missing the lesson, by his side.

"S'pose so," Harry said to Ron.

"We need to practise the Protego Charm, it's what you'll use the most in my opinion," said Ara, taking a sip from her tea. Harry was about to ask if she was feeling alright since she had been uncharacteristically quiet but just then, Professor McGonagall came walking alongside the Gryffindor table toward him. "Potter, the champions are congregating in the chamber off the Hall after breakfast," she said.

"Damn, Minnie, not even a good morning?" Ara raised her hand towards her chest in false offence.

McGonagall sighed heavily, "Good Morning, Black,"

Before Ara could tease her any further, Harry spoke, "But the task's not till tonight!" He said, accidentally spilling scrambled eggs down his front, afraid he had mistaken the time, Ara shoved her fist in her mouth to stop herself from laughing.

"I'm aware of that, Potter," she said. "The champions' families are invited to watch the final task, you know. This is simply a chance for you to greet them."

She moved away. Harry gaped after her.

"She doesn't expect the Dursleys to turn up, does she?" he asked Ara and Ron blankly.

"I think they'd rather throw themselves in front of a moving train," Ara said, finishing her food., giving Harry a nudge, "No offence."

"Dunno," said Ron. "Harry, we'd better hurry, Ara, we're going to be late for Binns. See you later."

"See you later," said Ara, she gave a smile and followed after Ron, and even though it was a small gesture, it made Harry incredibly warm inside.

Harry finished his breakfast in the emptying Great Hall. He saw Fleur Delacour get up from the Ravenclaw table and join Cedric as she crossed to the side chamber and entered. Krum slouched off to join them shortly afterwards. Harry stayed where he was. He really didn't want to go into the chamber. He had no family — no family who would turn up to see him risk his life, anyway. But just as he was getting up, thinking that he might as well go up to the library and do a spot more hex research, the door of the side chamber opened, and Cedric stuck his head out.

"Harry, come on, they're waiting for you!"

Utterly perplexed, Harry got up. The Dursleys couldn't possibly be here, could they? He walked across the Hall and opened the door to the chamber.

Cedric and his parents were just inside the door. Viktor Krum was over in a corner, conversing with his dark-haired mother and father in rapid Bulgarian. He had inherited his father's hooked nose. On the other side of the room, Fleur was jabbering away in French to her mother. Fleur's little sister, Gabrielle, was holding her mother's hand. She waved at Harry, who waved back, grinning. Then he saw Mrs. Weasley and Bill standing in front of the fireplace, beaming at him.

"Surprise!" Mrs. Weasley said excitedly as he smiled broadly and walked over to them. "Thought we'd come and watch you, Harry!" She bent down and kissed him on the cheek.

"You all right?" said Bill, grinning at Harry and shaking his hand. "Charlie wanted to come, but he couldn't get time off. He said you were incredible against the Horntail."

Fleur Delacour, Harry noticed, was eyeing Bill with great interest over her mother's shoulder. Harry could tell she had no objection whatsoever to long hair or earrings with fangs on them.

"This is really nice of you," Harry muttered to Mrs. Weasley. "I thought for a moment — the Dursleys —"

"Hmm," said Mrs. Weasley, pursing her lips. She had always refrained from criticising the Dursleys in front of Harry, but her eyes flashed every time they were mentioned.

"It's great being back here," said Bill, looking around the chamber (Violet, the Fat Lady's friend, winked at him from her frame). "Haven't seen this place for five years. Is that picture of the mad knight still around? Sir Cadogan?"

"Oh yeah," said Harry, who had met Sir Cadogan the previous year.

"And the Fat Lady?" said Bill."She was here in my time," said Mrs. Weasley. "She gave me such a telling off one night when I got back to the dormitory at four in the morning —"

"What were you doing out of your dormitory at four in the morning?" said Bill, surveying his mother with amazement.

Mrs. Weasley grinned, her eyes twinkling.

"Your father and I had been for a nighttime stroll," she said. "He got caught by Apollyon Pringle — he was the caretaker in those days — your father's still got the marks."

"Fancy giving us a tour, Harry?" said Bill.

"Yeah, okay," said Harry, and they made their way back toward the door into the Great Hall. As they passed Amos Diggory, he looked around.

"There you are, are you?" he said, looking Harry up and down. "Bet you're not feeling quite as full of yourself now Cedric's caught you up on points, are you?"

"What?" said Harry.

"Ignore him," said Cedric in a low voice to Harry, frowning after his father. "He's been angry ever since Rita Skeeter's article about the Triwizard Tournament — you know, when she made out you were the only Hogwarts champion."

"Didn't bother to correct her, though, did he?" said Amos Diggory, loudly enough for Harry to hear as he started to walk out of the door with Mrs. Weasley and Bill. "Still . . . you'll show him, Ced. Beaten him once before, haven't you?"

"Rita Skeeter goes out of her way to cause trouble, Amos!" Mrs.Weasley said angrily. "I would have thought you'd know that, working at the Ministry!"

Mr. Diggory looked as though he was going to say something angry, but his wife laid a hand on his arm, and he merely shrugged and turned away.

Harry had a very enjoyable morning walking over the sunny grounds with Bill and Mrs. Weasley, showing them the Beauxbatons carriage and the Durmstrang ship. Mrs. Weasley was intrigued by the Whomping Willow, which had been planted after she had left school, and reminisced at length about the gamekeeper before Hagrid, a man called Ogg.

"How's Percy?" Harry asked as they walked around the greenhouses.

"Not good," said Bill.

"He's very upset," said Mrs. Weasley, lowering her voice and glancing around. "The Ministry wants to keep Mr. Crouch's disappearance quiet, but Percy's been hauled in for questioning about the instructions Mr. Crouch has been sending in. They seem to think there's a chance they weren't genuinely written by him.Percy's been under a lot of strain. They're not letting him fill in forMr. Crouch as the fifth judge tonight. Cornelius Fudge is going to be doing it."

They returned to the castle for lunch.

"Mum — Bill!" said Ron, looking stunned, as he joined the Gryffindor table. "What're you doing here?"

"Come to watch Harry in the last task!" said Mrs. Weasley brightly. "I must say, it makes a lovely change, not having to cook. How was your exam?"

"Oh . . . okay," said Ron. "Couldn't remember all the goblin rebels' names, so I invented a few. It's all right," he said, helping himself to a Cornish pasty, while Mrs. Weasley looked stern, "they're all called stuff like Bodrod the Bearded and Urg the Unclean; it wasn't hard."

"Where's your sister? I thought she would be with you?" said Mrs. Weasley, looking around.

"Which one? Ara?" said Ron, Mrs. Weasley nodded. "Said she needed to do something, she'll be here though."

Harry couldn't help but feel uneasiness, Sirius said to always stick together, never wonder alone. . .

Fred, George, and Ginny came to sit next to them too, and Harry was having a good time. He felt almost as though he were back at the Burrow, however there was a big part of him that was practically screaming for him to look for Ara. Hermione turned up, halfway through lunch, and he remembered that she and Ara had had a brainwave about Rita Skeeter.

"Are you going to tell us — ?"

Hermione shook her head warningly and glanced at Mrs. Weasley.

"Where's Ara?" she asked.

"Looking for that bloke, Atlas, I think," said Ron.

Harry felt some of his anxiety lower, knowing that at least she wasn't alone.

"Hello, Hermione, dear," said Mrs. Weasley with a warm smile

"Hi, Mrs. Weasley," said Hermione, grinning.

Harry zoned out most of the time, wondering where his favourite brunette had gone.

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ARA MUTTERED PROFUSELY UNDER HER BREATH AS SHE WALKED DOWN A DESERTED CORRIDOR trying to ease her mind. She'd lost track of time while she walked, she'd hoped a small stroll would help calm her but she'd forgotten to check the time and now she was running late. She couldn't get Atlas' reaction out of her head no matter how much she tried to, she wanted to focus solely on Harry today and yet that memory and the feeling of nonacceptance kept returning.

She hadn't seen him at breakfast nor the corridors where he usually walked on so she'd given up. She would deal with this storm tomorrow, today she needed to cheer her best friend on until her lungs gave out and she lost her voice.

She couldn't wait to get to lunch, which she knew had started already given the time, she was undeniably starving and she wanted to see Harry, she wanted to be with him, talk to him before he was taken away and swept into the task. She'd remained as optimistic as she could during the course of the Triwizard Tournament but she suddenly felt the need to keep Harry with her, keep him from going away. . .and so she increased her speed, her footsteps echoing on the walls loudly.

She halted into a stop when Professor Moody suddenly appeared in front of her as he rounded a corner.

"Black," he greeted gruffly, walking closer, "shouldn't you be at lunch?"

There was something in his tone she didn't like, "I'm going there right now."

Moody grunted as he opened his flask, taking a big gulp and mistakenly spilling some of the contents onto the floor.

Ara's gaze instinctively darted towards the liquid and her heart flinched as her eyes narrowed, making sure she wasn't imagining what she was seeing. She had to keep her face from contorting into horror as she came to a realisation. She knew exactly what that was, she'd brewed it herself a few years ago. She'd be able to spot Polyjuice Potion anywhere.

Polyjuice Potion had one use and if Alastor Moody was drinking it, it was because he was utilising it for its magical properties, which consisted of changing one's appearance into anyone they wished. Ara could hear her erratic heartbeat in her ears and her stomach gave a lurch as she connected the dots of what was happening right in front of her. Someone was pretending to be her teacher. She didn't even know how long this had been going on.

"Not good to be wandering alone,"

Her head snapped back up and she saw that Moody had walked significantly closer, she discreetly took a step back. She didn't know who she was talking to, but she knew that it wasn't Alastor Moody in front of her.

"Strolls clear my mind," Ara said blankly, for each step she took backwards, Moody would take two forward. It seemed that they had a silent understanding, he knew that she knew he was an impostor, though neither acted.

"Ah yes, that mind of yours, it can be inconvenient," Moody gave a dark chuckle and Ara knew that he wasn't bothering by pretending to be the person he was supposed to be impersonating anymore. "Intelligence is dangerous, Black, someone might find it threatening enough to deal with it."

Ara's breath hitched, he was three metres away from her. She subtly reached for her wand in her pocket. His eyes caught her movements and he smirked. They both drew their wands at the same time, pointing them at each other.

"Where's Alastor Moody?" Ara sneered, her fingers were wrapped around her wand so tightly that her knuckles were turning white.

"Taking a nap," Moody raised his wand higher. "You'll join him soon, don't worry."

"Incarcarous!"

Moody deflected Ara's spell, glaring as he muttered a hex towards her. Ara managed to get her protection charm up just in time. If she didn't get herself out of the predicament she found herself in, she didn't know what would happen to her. What did this person want? Why her? What was the end goal here? What had she missed?

"Cru—!"

"Confringo!" Ara made a part of his robes catch fire. She took advantage of his momentary distraction and ran to hide behind a pillar, holding her breath as her grip slightly shook.

A hex flew just millimetres past her head. She felt something hot slightly graze her skin. She hissed and quickly raised her wand behind her as aimed cluelessly, "Expulso!"

There was the sound of a small explosion. Hurried footsteps and then a chilling laugh.

"I need you in one piece, Black, don't make it hard. I don't suppose Potter would appreciate seeing you mangled."

Sweat trickled down her forehead as she gathered the will to raise her hand again and aim a curse. She was too slow this time, he managed to aim a hex her way, hitting her hand and splitting her flesh open, making her drop her wand.

She stumbled due to the pain, holding her hand to her chest as she puffed out breaths. Besides feeling fear, she was undeniably furious and she could feel it in the wind that flew around her and in the sound of windows rattling.

"Incarcarous!"

She was unable to do anything as harsh ropes tightly wrapped themselves around her body, making her lose her balance and fall on the floor painfully hard. She raised her head, giving Moody one last glare before the world faded around her.

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HEYYYYYYYY

FINALLY UPDATED!

Tell me what you think of this chapter!!

I love that even when Ara's scared she still glares, scowls, etc. Like, her opponent wouldn't know it if she was terrified. Girl does not gaf and it's great.

qotd: what's a book you're afraid to start? I really want to read The Poppy War and Heartless. . .but I know they'll destroy me lol.

Remember to COMMENT and VOTE!

Ily and see you next chapter!! <33