"He said I bore his mark. He said... he said that I was one of his creatures, I just didn't know it yet. That's why they didn't... that's why it was Calum's mother, that's why... He said I was his, he said..." Finally, she breaks down into incomprehensible sobs. The only gap in her account of that day filled in, at last: one week, three days and approximately six hours later.
Calum, six years old, the orphan boy, the only child, is still under the protection of the castle. He has become something of a mascot, for the Hufflepuffs in particular - a cheery little boy, despite being old enough to understand that his parents are gone and will not return. Dumbledore has told certain of the students that Calum shall be adopted, as soon as a suitable home is found; also, that the boy has likely blocked out the memories of that Sunday. They listen, and they tell their friends; and Calum has a bed in the First Year dorm, but every night he creeps out to sit at the top of the Astronomy Tower until Harry finds him, takes him in his arms and carries him back down: using the illicit knowledge gleaned from his co-carers to enter the Hufflepuff wing and replace him in the cot with a nod to whichever of the boys is awake.
The same way, now, that he takes her in his arms and gently rocks her until her sobs subside. He whispers nonsense words into her hair, newly cropped and dyed in what he thinks is a disguise attempt - useless if so, because his mark must be intangible, but perhaps without her glorious tail of bright hair she will be less obvious, less distinctive, less easily recognised by the riff-raff of the Dark Army - and he mourns the loss because it is trivial, and easily remedied. He strokes one hand gently, repetitively down her upper arm, attempting to soothe away the tenseness that has latched her hands firmly to his robes and the trembling that comes in the aftermath of an emotionally draining fit of crying. He wonders if he should wait until she falls asleep, if he could pick her up and carry her through the corridors - she is small and light, still, though she has grown enough that she is evidently not a child. But she calms, and pulls away, wiping her face with her sleeve and apologising quickly for breaking down on him. "We can talk about this later, right? What he meant," she says, and he nods wordlessly. She twists her mouth in what may be an attempt at a wry smile, and turns to walk sharply away.
He shifts to sit cross-legged on the floor, and draws his wand out of one pocket, setting it before him as he starts his meditations. His breathing slows, deliberate, as he blanks his mind of all the death he has seen and been responsible for. A breath in - salty taste of tears; a breath out - sweet memory of summer. A breath in - dusty taste of abandoned room; a breath out - ashes taste of failure. He breathes, and lets the magic flow. A sensitive observing him would, perhaps, witness the energy in the room gradually moulding to his will and the wand almost beginning to lift: before the meditation is broken by the entry of a tall red-haired boy with two school-bags slung over his shoulders.
"Hey, Harry, what did you do to Ginny?" is his opening effort. "We ran into her on the way back from the library - curfew's in ten." He jerks his head towards the door, indicating that they should leave, but Harry remains seated. "I have permission to be out," he states baldly, picking up his wand and running his fingers along the length of it. His friend grins. "Yeah, as long as you're... oh. That what you were doing?" he frowns, uncomfortable. Harry raises an eyebrow in wordless assent. Ron shifts, his frown deepening. "She'll get better, you know," Harry tells him with a sympathetic air. The frown on his friend's face turns to one of concern. "Yeah," he says. "Just wish... No offence, but I wish she'd talk to me." Harry shakes his head ruefully. "C'mon, Ron. You've been spending most of your time with Hermione, and... And this is a Voldemort thing. You know?" Ron snorts in mingled anger and disappointment. "No. That's the point," he states in an exasperated tone. He realises this is unfair, and continues apologetically. "Ah, shit, sorry. Not your fault. Anyway, you may be exempt but I'm under curfew, so I'll be off." He leaves abruptly, not acknowledging the seated boy's brief farewell.
Harry, his concentration broken, does not resume his meditations. Instead, he spends a little time reading yet another of the Dark Arts texts he has acquired from the library, and then gives in to his frustration. He removes his property to the edge of the room, and assumes a fighting stance. One of the more welcome lessons from Faber had been in non-magical combat. True, the stated reason for learning a martial form had been to concentrate his mind, but Harry finds the physical activity a release from the anxieties and fears that plague his life. Moving gracefully through the still-unfamiliar positions, he almost believes he can touch the currents of magical energy that flow through the room; and so, when he comes to the end of the pattern, he sits once more and drops into the meditation. This time, the wand lifts, and he controls its motion for a few crucial moments until he falls back, worn out. Eventually he stands, gathers his belongings, and sets off back to his room.
"What are you doing out after curfew?" the Fat Lady asks him pertly. He runs his hand through his hair impatiently and attempts not to glare at her. "Special permission, remember?" This has virtually become his personal password, as this conversation has been repeated six evenings out of the past nine. She sniffs haughtily, and asks for the password. "Semper fidelis" completes the ritualistic conversation and the door to the Common Room opens. He enters, and walks past the two crop-haired brunettes who are the only occupants. He considers reminding them of the curfew; but as he has only just returned he feels he cannot justify enforcing the rule. The stairs up to his dorm seem longer than ever before, though he knows this is not the case, and he collapses face-first onto his bed when he finally reaches it, not bothering even to remove his shoes. All the other boys are in their beds, but one has the curtains open - Ron, who sits up and leans his elbows on his knees. Eventually, Harry twists himself into a seated position and acknowledges his friend with a glance.
"The girls still down there?" Ron asks quietly, avoiding disturbing any of the others. Harry nods, furrowing his brow slightly as he wonders why Ron cares. "She can talk to Hermione," Ron muses, "and she can talk to you, but she can't talk to her own brother. What's that all about?" "That was them?" Harry asks, dumbfounded. A wary nod from Ron makes him feel like a fool. "I didn't even notice," he spits, disgusted with himself. Ron tries to comfort him by pointing out his exhaustion and the fact that the girls probably would not have welcomed his company.
Harry lies back down, dangling his feet over the edge of the bed to avoid damaging the covers. "Y'know, mate, you're supposed to get changed first," Ron jokes, settling down himself. Harry sighs, and turns his head to look across the gap between their beds. "Got to fetch Calum in an hour or so," he says. "No point." Ron nods at the ceiling. He offers a game of chess, but Harry declines.
They lie there making desultory conversation until just after midnight, when Harry rouses himself to perform his self-appointed duty. He carefully scans the Common Room as he passes through it, but it is deserted. The Fat Lady shakes her head disapprovingly as he exits, but he whispers the name "Calum" and she smiles sadly, for the child has captured the hearts of most of the inhabitants of the castle with his cheerful disposition and tragic story. The other two orphans, now gone to stay with distant relatives in the north of the country, did not inspire this affection - they kept their distance from everybody except each other, the older girl protecting her brother from anyone who approached.
The long walk to the top of the Astronomy Tower is almost enough to drain Harry's reserve of energy, and he does not wonder that Calum is asleep on the floor after the exertion. Being six years old and slightly chubby, the child is not particularly light, but Harry hefts him in his arms and stumbles off to the boy's temporary home. "Esperanza" is the password he gives to the portrait, and this stimulates a memory from the day before - Hermione's outburst on the 'patriotic' nature of the passwords, changed every two days. "All an intruder would have to do would be to try "hope" "faith" and "courage" in a few different languages, and they'd be all set! Does the word "originality" mean nothing to these people?" Harry smiles both at the memory of her indignant expression and the knowledge of the new Gryffindor password - "invention". The portrait frowns back at him, knowing that he does not belong in Hufflepuff, but the child in his arms is token enough to gain entry. Harry finds his way down to the dorm with relief, and sets down his burden with a sigh of gratification. Simon, the boy on watch tonight, raises his eyebrows in question, but a silent shake of the head leaves him tucking in Calum and then himself. Harry trudges back up to the Hufflepuff Common Room, and refuses once more to satisfy his brief twinge of curiosity.
The corridors to his own House seem longer than ever before, and it is indeed possible that they are. Reflexes hide him in the shadows as footsteps round a nearby corner - but they die away, following the prescribed patrol route, marking the owner as a senior prefect. Intellectually, Harry knows that he would be wiser to walk openly, as he is easily recognised and has a permanent hall-pass to further his studies; and the panicked response of a patroller to a mysterious figure in the shadows could easily harm him. But old habits die hard, and he is not yet quite convinced that he will not be punished under this more-strictly enforced curfew.
The reasoning behind the heightened security is, of course, sound - though it seems the Dark Army is heading in a different direction. Three days ago, a Muggle was killed in a village forty miles south of Hogsmeade. It is too early to see if this is the beginning of a trend, but Harry's scar has been hurting less recently. Also, from past form, such a large attack will be followed by a period of regrouping and reflection on both sides. Harry is using this time to work harder than ever before. Only those closest to him suspect the true reason for this - that he can only sleep with a semblance of peace when he is totally exhausted. Others take his determination as a source of comfort, believing that this preparation will serve to defeat the Dark Lord when the time comes. He sees it as a means to an end, yet he avoids contemplation of that end in any way he can, fearing that too-close inspection of the coming duel would cause despair to overwhelm him. Besides, there is enough speculation from wizards and witches all over the world - his must surely be superfluous, no matter that he is far more informed than anybody else.
He knows too much for a fifteen-year-old boy. And so he hoards those precious twilit moments immediately after he wakes, before he remembers who he is and what he must do; when he is merely a boy. But every morning consciousness breaks over him, and he shoulders the burden and carries on with his work.
On Thursdays, as this is, his last class-hour is free. It is his favourite hour of the week. Rationalisations on the part of his friends and himself tell Harry that flying is a very useful skill; and, as such, he has managed to set aside this one hour to practise his broom-skills. People watch him in the air: but people are always watching the Boy Who Lived, and when he is in the air he can pretend that their attention is elsewhere, and he is too far away for his eyes to dispel this illusion. He flies with an easy grace and an unforced style, revelling in the freedom of the air. He enjoys himself.
His sense of duty is too strong for him to allow himself to extend these sessions, however, so at the end of the hour, puts his broom away, and longs for the next week to pass. He returns reluctantly to the earthbound round of classes and meals and practice in the room he has annexed and collecting Calum from the Tower at quarter-past midnight. Still, weary though the routine may already be, he cannot wish for it to end. He is not yet ready for the final confrontation. And everybody knows it.
