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Beyond the chair, in a pool of light cast upon the floor by the candles, knelt a man in black robes.

“I have been badly advised, it seems,” said Harry, in a high, cold voice that pulsed with anger.

“Master, I crave your pardon,” croaked the man kneeling on the floor. The back of his head glimmered in the candlelight. He seemed to be trembling.

“I do not blame you, Rookwood,” said Harry in that cold, cruel voice.

He relinquished his grip on the chair and walked around it, closer to the man cowering on the floor, until he stood directly over him in the darkness, looking down from a far greater height than usual.

“You are sure of your facts, Rookwood?” asked Harry.

“Yes, My Lord, yes… I used to work in the Department after—after all…”

“Avery told me Bode would be able to remove it.”

“Bode could never have taken it, Master… Bode would have known he could not… undoubtedly, that is why he fought so hard against Malfoy’s Imperius Curse…”

“Stand up, Rookwood,” whispered Harry.

The kneeling man almost fell over in his haste to obey. His face was pockmarked; the scars were thrown into relief by the candlelight. He remained a little stooped when standing, as though halfway through a bow, and he darted terrified looks up at Harry’s face.

“You have done well to tell me this,” said Harry. “Very well… I have wasted months on fruitless schemes, it seems… but no matter… we begin again, from now. You have Lord Voldemort’s gratitude, Rookwood…”

“My Lord… yes, My Lord,” gasped Rookwood, his voice hoarse with relief.

“I shall need your help. I shall need all the information you can give me.”

“Of course, My Lord, of course… anything…”

“Very well… you may go. Send Avery to me.”

Rookwood scurried backwards, bowing, and disappeared through a door.

Left alone in the dark room, Harry turned towards the wall. A cracked, age-spotted mirror hung on the wall in the shadows. Harry moved towards it. His reflection grew larger and clearer in the darkness… a face whiter than a skull… red eyes with slits for pupils…

“NOOOOOOOOO!”

“What?” yelled a voice nearby.

Harry flailed around madly, became entangled in the hangings and fell out of his bed. For a few seconds he did not know where he was; he was convinced he was about to see the white, skull-like face looming at him out of the dark again, then very near to him Ron’s voice spoke, “Will you stop acting like a maniac so I can get you out of here!”

Ron wrenched the hangings apart and Harry stared up at him in the moonlight, flat on his back, his scar searing with pain. Ron looked as though he had just been getting ready for bed; one arm was out of his robes.

“Has someone been attacked again?” asked Ron, pulling Harry roughly to his feet. “Is it Dad? Is it that snake?”

“No—everyone’s fine—” gasped Harry, whose forehead felt as though it were on fire. “Well… Avery isn’t… he’s in trouble… he gave him the wrong information… Voldemort’s really angry—” Harry groaned and sank, shaking, on to his bed, rubbing his scar.

“But Rookwood’s going to help him now… he’s on the right track again…”

“What are you talking about?” said Ron, sounding scared. “D’you mean… did you just see You-Know-Who?”

“I was You-Know-Who,” said Harry, and he stretched out his hands in the darkness and held them up to his face, to check that they were no longer deathly white and long-fingered. “He was with Rookwood, he’s one of the Death Eaters who escaped from Azkaban, remember? Rookwood’s just told him Bode couldn’t have done it.”

“Done what?”

“Remove something… he said Bode would have known he couldn’t have done it… Bode was under the Imperius Curse… I think he said Malfoy’s dad put it on him.”

“Bode was bewitched to remove something?” Ron said. “But—Harry, that’s got to be—”

“The weapon,” Harry finished the sentence for him. “I know—”

The dormitory door opened; Dean and Seamus came in. Harry swung his legs back into bed. He did not want to look as though anything odd had just happened, seeing as Seamus had only just stopped thinking Harry was a nutter.

“Did you say,” murmured Ron, putting his head close to Harry’s on the pretence of helping himself to water from the jug on his bedside table, “that you were You-Know-Who?”

“Yeah,” said Harry quietly.

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