"Oh, wow, I like your new teeth, Hermione!" Parvati Patil says as Hermione helps Harry pull his trunk up onto the train, and Hermione gives a little smile, letting go and standing back so that Harry can dip into a compartment and pop it up onto the luggage rack. Hermione's been receiving compliments on her teeth all week back at Grimmauld Place, but it's obvious she's enjoying the positive attention.

"You don't think my parents will be too mad, will you?" Hermione asks, sliding the compartment door shut and letting Crookshanks out of his basket. Hedwig had already begun the flight to Hogwarts by the time Harry had gotten up that morning, so her cage lies empty on the luggage rack above their heads.

"I don't think so," Harry says, shaking his head. "I mean, the other solution was to get braces, right?"

"Yeah," she answers, nodding her head. "They were always opposed to the idea of fixing it magically, but it's just so easy this way, and they look much better."

"I thought they looked fine before," Harry assures her, and by no means is he being untruthful: he hadn't really paid her teeth any heed, really, and although he'd had a vague awareness Hermione didn't love them, he'd never thought they were a big issue. Still, Hermione seems to be happier with them like this. He glances to the door as the Hogwarts Express starts to move, and then he leans forwards slightly. "Look, I didn't tell you back at the house because I didn't want Kreacher to see and tell Lucius," he murmurs, and he reaches up into his trunk, pulling out the catalogue he'd snuck into his bag from Flockhart's Locks.

"What?" Hermione asks, and then she gasps. The catalogue is about fifty parchment pages, bound with string and purple card, and she grabs for it. Harry lets her take it, laughing a little. He'd already looked through it - the catalogue itself isn't all too explicit, but tends to just imply things.

"They must have more than one," Harry says, "because this is all for sex books, lingerie and things like aphrodisiacs. I heard one of the lads talking about ordering some rope from them by mail order, and I know it's not in this catalogue."

"That one's probably a bit too dirty for a hairdresser's," Hermione says, and Harry laughs as she pages through the catalogue. At the back is a mail order form - Wizarding Delights, Harry knows, only takes orders made on its specific form, as usually only of age wizards and witches can get hold of one of their catalogues. "If we ordered something, though, we could probably get one of them." Harry and Hermione share a look, and then erupt into laughter.

It feels so ridiculous, having a catalogue full of pornographic booklets, enchanted posters, sex manuals and the like to peruse - but that isn't the least of it. "I've got a plan." Hermione glances up at him, tilting her head as she looks up from the manual. "We're going to need to work with Fred and George, but I think we'll be able to make a bit of money."

Hermione hesitates. She's normally opposed to anything that involves taking money from other students - Fred and George have been working on different creations over the summer, apparently intent on selling a few of them, and she'd expressed some disapproval, but even though she doesn't care for the profit, she normally enjoys the excitement of the plot. "Go on."

Harry grins at her.

---

"Here, let me help you, Colin," Harry says, shaking his head. Dennis, Creevey's little brother, is proving utterly useless, and Harry isn't entirely surprised by that. The little Gryffindor has managed to pin himself under his own trunk's weight while pulling it into his lap, and Harry pulls it off him.

"Oh, thank you, Harry! Thank-"

"Shut up," Harry says, and then adds, "Get one of the older kids in your house to cast a featherlight charm on it, okay?" He shakes his head, glancing around for one of the Slytherins in his year, but as he pulls himself out of the Creeveys' compartment, he staggers, clutching at his head. There's a sudden deep, burning pain that digs right into his skull, and he feels himself cry out, but he doesn't really hear it.

He goes faint for a few seconds, and when he blinks himself into seeing, Francis Drummond's hands are on his forearm, holding him up. He lets the seventh year support him onto the platform, and he lets out a quiet groan as a little more pain sings hotly through his forehead: it feels like it's coming from his scar of all things, and he has to grit his teeth to keep from screaming as the pain digs deep.

It passes as suddenly as it had started, and Harry sways a little on his feet, clutching absently at his forehead and wondering what the Hell just happened.

"You alright?" Francis asks, and Harry gives an awkward nod.

"Yeah, er, I think so. I don't know what that was - just a sudden headache, I think."

"You eat a lot of sweets on the train?" Francis asks.

"Uh, a few, I guess?"

"Probably that," Francis says lowly, patting Harry's back. "You going to be alright to walk to the carriages, Harry?"

"Yeah, Francis, I'll be fine, I think." He watches as Francis walks over, catching a few seventh year girls and walking with them towards the carriages. Harry waves to Blaise and Draco, going with them towards one of the nothing-drawn carriages and pulling himself up into it. He rubes absently at his forehead, checking his fingers for blood, but there is none.

"What was all that about?" Blaise asks, and Harry shrugs his shoulders.

"Not sure," he answers. "Francis thinks it's from too much sugar." Draco and Blaise share a glance, seeming to think this is as good an explanation as any, and Harry sighs, leaning back in his seat to look out of the window. He'll make sure to drink a good deal of water at dinner, and hopefully that'll sort out his head.

---

"The Hogwarts Quidditch tournament will not be running this year." Beside him, Harry hears Draco groan, but he cranes his neck to try and get a good look at the Gryffindor table on the other side of the Great Hall - Ron and Ginny look positively dejected, and the chasers of the team - Alicia, Angelina and Katie - each look similarly disappointed. "Instead," Dumbledore says, "We will play host to the Triwizard Tournament." There are gasps of surprise around the room, and Harry glances at Draco, watching the excitement show on his features.

"You knew!" he accuses Harry immediately, shoving him in the side when he sees Harry's amused expression, and Harry laughs, not denying it. Sat at the table are a pudgy gentleman Harry vaguely recognizes as Ludo Bagman, and beside him Percy Weasley. Listening carefully to what Percy is murmuring to her is Amelia Bones, and Harry realizes with a sort of sick immediacy that she must be the new head of Magical Law Enforcement. At the very least, Percy isn't out of a job.

He zones out as Dumbledore explains about the Triwizard Tournament's new rules. Bill had already explained to Harry and Hermione that they were introducing a rule allowing only students of age to participate, and it had made a lot of sense to Harry: given the deadly nature of the Triwizard's usual tasks, putting forwards the name of a second year wouldn't exactly be fair.

He claps when Dumbledore introduces Cecilia as that year's Defence teacher, but despite himself he can't help but wonder what Remus is supposed to do in the meantime - Harry knows it must be hard for him to find employment, and with the danger abounding at the moment, he'd rather Remus was in Hogwarts with them than somewhere else. He thinks about Remus as he walks down to the common room that evening with the other Slytherins - everyone is talking rapidly and excitedly about the current Tournament, but Harry couldn't care less about it.

He's got a lot in his plate this year, with approaching his Animagus transformation and his studies, as well as devoting a little time to Occlumency and his scheme with Wizarding Delights. By no means is he going to waste any time worrying about the Triwizard Tournament.

---

He hears the clap and spatter of waves hitting the cliffside beneath them, and he looks around. His vision fails him, and he can barely see more than a few feet before the grey and black of the village and the sky merge together in blurs.

The bite of the chilly wind at Dover makes him shiver and huddle in the thick robe he's wrapped in: he has not felt such vulnerability, such weakness, for decades upon end, and it makes him angry. "Did I or did I not, Bella, order haste?" he snaps. She apologizes profusely, holding him that more tightly to her mercifully warm breast, and he feels the sensation of Apparition.

Malfoy Manor is as he remembered it years ago, when Abraxas first invited him: oh, how the light had shone from the moon that evening, illuminating the garden. He remembers clearly how Lucius, barely more than a babe in arms, had tottered in the garden after one of his beloved birds - how long ago it had been. He had killed the bird: the whisper of the Killing Curse had been a matter of ease, and oh, how the young boy's eyes had so swiftly filled with tears.

He tightens one of his too-weak fists as Bellatrix carries him into the Manor they have taken for their own. He will ensure the worthless slip of a Malfoy will pay for his disloyalty: he will kill the man just as he had that pheasant.

"Come, Bella," he orders. "To the drawing room: we have much to plan."

---

Harry wakes up in a cold sweat, feeling himself retch as he pulls himself out of bed: he's shaking with cold despite the pleasant warmth of his and Draco's dormitory, and he bends over, grasping at one of the posts of his bed as he steadies himself. Draco is fast asleep, buried under his blankets, and Harry sees the clock above his bed declares it to be coming up to four in the morning.

He swallows hard, stopping himself from retching again, as he considers what he'd just felt. It hadn't seemed like a dream, not at all - it had felt so real, and he had felt so weak, so strange, so... Not himself.

Barefoot and in sweat-soaked pyjamas, he coughs as he makes his way into the common room. Asleep in a little ball in one of the armchairs is a first year still in his uniform, and Harry taps his knee, gently coaxing him awake. The kid stares up at Harry, and Harry says, "You're Arden Tsui, right? Go to bed." The little first year drags himself up, rushing down the corridor, and Harry shakes his head as he slips into the corridor. He considers going to Snape, initially, but Snape is in a bad mood at any time of the day, and while he trusts his head of house implicitly he doesn't see the point in telling him this.

If it isn't important, Dumbledore will tell him so and send him back to bed. If it is, Dumbledore can tell all the right people directly.

The dungeon floors bite at his feet as he makes his way up to the entrance hall, and then begins to climb the stairs. The castle is eerily quiet, and the only people wandering the halls are the house ghosts, who peer curiously at Harry but apparently aren't interested in talking to him.

"Ooh, ickle Harry Potty!" Peeves cries with delight. "What-"

"What's the password to Dumbledore's office, Peeves?" Harry asks shortly. Peeves peers down at him with his big, ugly eyes, swaying in the air and seeming surprised by the question.

"I don't have to answer you, ickle Harry!" Peeves decides, and Harry pulls his wand out of his pocket, looking at Peeves with a grim expression on his face.

"You don't have to, Peeves," Harry replies. He doesn't feel bad about threatening the poltergeist - Peeves is a twat at the best of times, and Harry isn't interested in his stupidity. He's exhausted, and he's irritated, and he just wants to tell Dumbledore right now that Voldemort is back in the country. Or- maybe. Maybe he is, maybe he isn't. "But you're going to be in a few more parts than one if you don't help me right now."

Peeves lets out a shriek, rushing off in the direction of Dumbledore's office, but by the time Harry gets to the gargoyle Peeves is nowhere in sight, and Harry sighs. The cool stone underneath him bites at his bare feet, and he wishes he'd put on slippers before he'd come this way. Besides, he didn't think this through - he has no way to-

With a quiet grind of stone, the gargoyle shifts to the side, allowing Harry to the stairwell, and he stares at it for a second. He frowns suspiciously at the stone monster, but the gargoyle remains utterly still - it can't be alive, can it? It can't have known he was here? Shaking his head, Harry rubs at his dry eyes and begins to walk up the stairs, his feet padding quietly on the stone.

Dumbledore's office is already warm, and Harry sees that he has a fire crackling away, but the headmaster had been asleep, Harry is fairly certain: he's wearing a long, star-decorated nightshirt and a matching hat, complete with silver tassel. "Mr Potter," Dumbledore says quietly, peering down at him from behind his glasses. "How might I help you at this hour?"

"I had a nightmare," Harry says. "And I think it's important."

---

Harry finishes speaking as soon as he says, "So I came to see you." The room is beautifully toasty now, and he can't help but bask somewhat in the wonderful heat, leaning back into the padded chair before Dumbledore's desk. Dumbledore frowns, looking very thoughtful: Harry had done his best to include every detail he recalled of the dream, and of Voldemort, and he thinks he's included everything.

"You took ill this evening, did you not, Mr Potter?" Dumbledore asks, his eyes focusing on Harry's, and Harry, for a reason he can't quite fathom, recalls Snape's words in Grimmauld Place: Occlumency is a process of mental defence against a magic called Legilimency. He looks away.

"Yes, Professor, I did," Harry says, reaching up to ruffle his hair as if he'd turned his gaze away to scratch an itch. "Had a splitting headache as I stepped off the train." He feels like an idiot for not having connected it before - he dimly recalls the pain in his scar in first year when Quirrell got too close to him, and he says, "It must have started hurting when Voldemort came closer." Dumbledore is watching him carefully, his blue gaze almost piercing, and Harry traces the lightning bolt shape of his scar under his thumb.

Dumbledore reaches for a few pieces of parchment, writing down a rapid set of notes in his neat, looping handwriting, and he passes them all to Fawkes, who disappears with an immediate squawk and a burst of sparks. Harry watches as he begins to write a few more, and then he asks, "Is there any way I can stop this?"

Dumbledore pauses, glancing at Harry once more.

"It's just- this isn't like Quirrell being in the corridor, Professor. Malfoy Manor is in England, for Merlin's sake - it's miles away. I don't want to feel what he feels."

"For the time being," Dumbledore murmurs, looking at Harry seriously, "I think it best we bide our time. We must better comprehend the connection between you and Lord Voldemort before we can attempt to sever it." Harry shifts his jaw: it's not the answer he wanted, but nor is it an answer that seems unwarranted or untruthful, so he nods his head, pulling himself up.

"Sorry for waking you up," Harry says. "I'm gonna head back down to the dungeons."

"By all means, Mr Potter," Dumbledore assures him: there's no twinkle-eyed lightness in his face, nor his grandfatherly humour. "If you have even the slightest suspicion of Lord Voldemort's actions, feel free to come to me, Minerva or Severus immediately." Harry nods his head, making his way to the exit of the headmaster's office, and then he turns back, watching the old man.

"Do you think he'll come here? During the tournament?"

"I cannot say," Dumbledore says, which isn't actually an answer. Harry nods his head, slowly, and leaves the room.