It would, of course, have been foolish to think that Snape could give in with anything resembling grace. But Harry was determined to win the dour Potions master's reluctant trust once more, and he pursued the partnership with all the stubbornness of the relentless predator that symbolized his House. And so it was an odd sort of happiness that he felt when an ill-tempered Snape conscripted him one wintry afternoon to brew fire-and-ice sherry for the Christmas feast—to be entrusted with Potions classes on the day Snape returned from one of Voldemort's failed missions barely able to stand—and later, to be given the spells that revealed the most precious books in Snape's library.

And then came the Christmas that broke the world apart and changed everything.

Harry could not later recall how he spent that year. All he knew was that Hogwarts echoed with an emptiness he had never before known within its walls, as if some unnamed creature of dark magic from a student's nightmare had stolen all the warmth from its halls.

He taught classes, refereed Quidditch matches, and trained a few students in advanced Defense spells that he hoped they would never have to use. He sat in on meetings of the Order of the Phoenix, which acquired the grim, tense atmosphere of people bracing for a terrible storm. He pored through spell books—ancient, modern, whimsical, proscribed—for an idea of Voldemort's intentions, but still found himself unable to sleep, hounded by a caged energy that would not let him rest.

He began to take long walks at night, with no destination and no purpose but the illusion of freedom that came from movement. He sought to lose himself in the cool darkness caught within the protective walls of the castle that was his first and truest home, emptying his mind of all thought until the memories came rushing in with emotions so jumbled and melded together that he could only circle above them over and over like a bird too lost to find its way home.

There was worry in Ron and Hermione's eyes when they saw him—he knew it, but how could he articulate for them his need for solitude when he could not explain it to himself?

[[center:***]]

The combined meeting of the Order of the Phoenix and the Ministry of Magic that August was long, grueling, and ultimately pointless. Even Albus'—Harry shook his head, hard—McGonagall's spacious office was crammed to capacity with the Order and many of the Ministry's top officials who had gathered to share intelligence on Voldemort's latest activities. But there was precious little information from either the Order or the Ministry, as Harry already knew. Voldemort and his Death Eaters had somehow succeeded in disappearing from the face of Great Britain for the past eight months, and none of them could guess what he was planning. Even the abductions of witches and wizards had ceased; in desperation, the Ministry had begun to track the unexplained disappearances of Muggles. But it was an impossible task, since no pattern had emerged from a world where someone could disappear by simply changing their name on a piece of plastic identification. The homeless disappeared from the streets of London every day without anyone knowing or caring. If Voldemort was truly conducting experiments on Muggles, he had a virtually unlimited population to draw from which even magic could not trace. They could not afford to simply wait for Voldemort to slip up and make a mistake, but what else could they do?

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his hard-backed mahogany chair yet again, wishing he had thought to conjure himself something more comfortable—or thought of a cushion, at least. The thin, Sonorus-enhanced voice of the Grand Meermupple for Strategic Magical Defense droned on, and Harry sighed in frustration. No matter how many times they tried to explain to the Ministry, those officious fools could not seem to understand that Voldemort would much more likely infiltrate the Ministry's defenses by stealth than mount a frontal assault. Like the attack in his Sixth Year, which had nearly cost them everything, and again this Christmas, which perhaps really had... Harry bit his lips, pushing those thoughts forcibly out of his mind. He had grown adept at it during the past months, though he could not seem to keep them from resurfacing at the least opportune moments.

No one from the Order tried to interrupt the Grand Meermupple this time. They had learned that he would simply proceed as if he had not heard their comments until he had read the last word on his report. And then he was likely to sit down in his chair and go straight to sleep.

Draco, he saw out of the corner of his eye, was staring fixedly at the speaker—which probably meant that he had dozed off, the little bugger. Somehow he had acquired the knack of sleeping with his eyes open—without the use of an illusion—and used that talent judiciously while the rest of them were left to stew in their boredom.

Harry turned his head minutely towards Ron, who was sitting to his right. Ron, too, seemed to have fallen into a stupor—but unlike Draco, he was unfortunately anything but subtle about it. Even as Harry watched, a thin trail of drool appeared from the corner of his slack mouth. It seemed that the Grand Meermupple had outdone himself; maybe they should consider conjuring some real beds next time so that they wouldn't have bruised behinds while they were indulging themselves.

Harry idly touched the wand holster-strapped to his thigh. The Grand Meermupple was currently going in painstaking detail over the wards the Ministry had hired some self-proclaimed Defense Expert from America to place over the ministry's lifts. He considered throwing a hiccupping hex just to see if he could wake anyone, then caught McGonagall's gaze from across the room and guiltily took his hand away.

A half-hour later—according to one of Albus' whirling silvery contraptions gently winging through the office—the Grand Meermupple finally came to the end of his report. He blinked slowly and turned his scroll over twice. Harry held his breath, almost certain that the old wizard would start the report once more from the beginning. If that happened, he might well be tempted to relocate the man somewhere directly above the center of the Hogwarts lake.

Fortunately for the already-strained relationship between the Order and the Ministry (not to mention the repose of the Giant Squid), the Grand Meermupple muttered with a puzzled air to himself for a moment, but sat down obediently as Minerva McGonagall rose. Those who had not roused themselves at the sudden silence abruptly sat up very straight in their chairs when she tapped her wand on the table with a gong-like sound. Harry hid a smirk at seeing Draco in the latter category. "The Order has nothing further to add to the Ministry's exemplary report," she said gravely. "Therefore, may I suggest that we adjourn for the night and retire to our well-deserved rest?"

"Now wait a minute," complained a voice Harry didn't recognize from the back of the room. "You've got to have more than that to give us!"

"Scrimgeour's flunky," Ron muttered in a low disgusted voice at his elbow. "Got promoted to the head of the Ancient Magical Artifacts division of the Aurors a few years ago and been kissing Scrimgeour's arse ever since. Absolutely worthless—must be a relative of Fudge's."

A protruding bookshelf blocked his view of the speaker, but Harry didn't like the tone of that voice at all. McGonagall peered over her half-moon reading glasses at the Auror. "Auror Ademeus, was it? I am afraid that at the present time, we have given you all the information the Order has been able to obtain."

"Now that I don't believe," the Auror said, with a falsely hearty laugh. "Come now, the great Headmaster of Hogwarts and the legendary Order must have more to impart than the rest of us ordinary mortals."

McGonagall looked at Auror Ademeus sternly. "And from where would we have obtained such information?" she asked calmly.

"Oh, I don't know," the Auror replied casually. "From your pet Death Eater, perhaps? Or are you going to say that you have not heard from him at all in the last eight months?"

McGonagall replied with a seldom-heard edge in her voice, "It quite alarms me that the Ministry would so carelessly expose one whose life may be at risk from remarks such as these."

"Oh, but you really must credit the Ministry with a few brains—like our strategic genius, Mr. Ronald Weasley there, for instance," Auror Ademeus replied condescendingly. Beside Harry, Ron flushed in anger. "Surely you cannot have expected all of us to ignore the fact that a member of the Hogwarts faculty—one with a rather questionable past, shall we say—went missing soon after—or perhaps even on the night of—the legendary Albus Dumbledore's tragic death? Oh, I know what the mediwitch at the scene said. But who better to infiltrate the halls of Hogwarts than one of its own faculty? And who better to fool you all with false symptoms of a heart attack than a Potions master?"

Harry went cold. He stood and turned, finally getting a view of Scrimgeour's flunky. The man was tall, his blond hair swept rakishly back. He was leaning back with his feet propped on a small writing desk, balancing his chair on two legs. Harry engraved the arrogant face into his memory. "And what proof do you have to back up your accusations?" he asked the Auror, his voice gone much too soft. Ron placed a hand on his elbow.

The Auror smiled thinly. "None. But I merely state what all of you seem to have ignored in your...laudable trust in a comrade."

Harry stiffened. So help him, he was going to choke the man with his own self-satisfied smirk. He started to reach for his wand, but Draco beat him by split-seconds.

"Really, Auror—what did you say your name was?" Draco asked.

"Naius Ademeus," the Auror supplied proudly.

"Auror Adumbeus," Draco drawled, "I'm sure my esteemed colleagues here would agree with me: you are an ass." He hit the Auror with a Confundus Charm before the other man had a chance to react.

Auror Ademeus stared around him for a few moments, then tried to move out of his chair and fell over with a crash. He got up on all fours, snorted, and walked on hands and knees out of the chamber. Several people clapped—not a few of the Ministry officials among them, Harry noted. People sitting around Draco clapped him heartily on the back as he grinned cheekily at McGonagall and tucked his wand away with a flourish. McGonagall frowned disapprovingly at him, but Harry could see the corners of her lips twitching upward. In the middle of the ruckus, the Grand Meermupple snored loudly and then blearily opened his eyes when someone shook him awake. "Meeting over already, then?" he clambered to his feet and let the other members of the Ministry lead him towards the fireplace. "Jolly good, jolly good." He saluted Albus' sleeping portrait on the wall before disappearing in a puff of violet smoke into the Floo.

Harry sat back down into his chair, sighing heavily. Merlin's bones, he was tired. Another meeting wasted, and they were no closer to tracking down Voldemort's location.

A hand abruptly landed on his shoulder, and Harry jumped nearly a foot up into the air, a curse on his lips. He whirled and stared at Ron wild-eyed. "Don't do that!"

Ron raised his hands good-naturedly. "Sorry, mate. You just looked really out of it there." There was an uncharacteristic hesitation when he continued, "Harry, if there's something on your mind, I'm here to listen to you any time."

Harry smiled at the earnestness in Ron's voice and replied, "Thanks, Ron."

Ron punched his friend's arm lightly. "Hey, I mean it! And I won't make you lie down in a couch like in one of those brain-shrinking sessions that you read about in those Muggle magazines either."

Harry laughed—and Merlin, when was the last time he'd done that? "Only if you can translate my snores," he quipped.

Ron grinned. "What's say we go grab a few butterbeers? I could sure use a drink after that meeting."

Harry's smile froze. "Ron—I don't think I can," he said slowly.

All levity fled from Ron's face as he caught the edge of desperation in Harry's voice. "Why?" he burst out in frustration. "What harm is having a few butterbeers going to do?"

Harry shrugged helplessly. "I just feel like I need to be here..." he replied.

"Harry, you've hardly been out of the bloody castle in eight months!" Ron retorted heatedly. "Is You-Know-Who going to sneak into the castle and kill everyone in their sleep if you're not here to pace the halls?"

Harry shook his head. "No, that's not it—"

"Then what?" Ron demanded. "Is it that damned Prophesy? Do you really believe that you, alone, have to kill Voldemort? No matter what anybody says, Harry, you know we'll be here with you every step of the way."

Harry nodded. "I know, Ron. I'm okay, really. It's just that I feel like I need to be here, or I'll miss something really important."

Ron sighed. "It's not good for you to be always stuck here in the castle," he persisted stubbornly. he looked away and continued more softly, "Hermione and I are worried about you, you know. Even Hermione says that you're spending too much time in the library. That's supposed to be her job, remember?"

Harry stepped forward and hugged his friend. "I know. But I can't just sit around doing nothing. I need to be prepared for whatever's coming. And I'll take better care of myself, I promise."

Ron looked at him skeptically, but sighed again and said, "Then I'll see you at the next meeting?"

Harry nodded, and silently apologized for the hurt he saw in Ron's eyes as his best friend turned and walked away.