The Heart of Gryffindor
by SJR0301
Chapter Twenty-Eight
For the first time in weeks, Hermione allowed herself the luxury of sleeping in. When she went down for breakfast, Harry, Ron and Neville were already standing by the Castle doors with the rest of the seventh years who were going on the tour. Neville’s round face looked thin and drawn, the result of the last weeks of anxiety over NEWTs she supposed. Ron looked as he always did, solid and healthy and real.
He was keeping an eye on Harry, whose face expressed nothing more than polite interest in what Neville was saying, and whose eyes were utterly remote, focused on some thought far within that he would share with nobody. A faint worry tried to work its way out, and for a moment Hermione wavered and thought she ought to go with them after all.
She looked at Harry again and saw that some of the shadows beneath his eyes had lifted and that his face was not drawn into the tight lines that had so often lately betrayed his stress, physical and internal. He spotted her then and smiled and waved and he looked so normal that she fairly sighed with relief.
Ron’s face lit up when he saw her, and he strolled out of line to grin at her and say, “This is a first, Hermione. I was awake before you.”
“That’s because you have no trouble getting up to play, Ron Weasley,” she said tartly. “You only have trouble getting up to go to class. I expect it’ll be the same when you start work.”
Ron grinned at her some more and she thought he might kiss her, but Professor Sprout called out, “All right then, seventh years. All of you going on the tour please follow me out to the gates to board the Knight Bus.” He settled for another smile and a wave and the seven students – no, eight, as Draco Malfoy joined them at the last moment – followed the Professor out to the waiting bus. Hermione almost ran out after them, but she reminded herself that she had something important to do, something she had to do now, while Harry was safely occupied somewhere else.
“Are they gone?” Ginny asked.
Hermione turned and smiled grimly. “Safely gone. We’ve got most of the day now.”
“Let’s go now, then,” Ginny said. “I’ve got the morning off as Professor Sprout went on the tour, but I’ll have to show up this afternoon for Defense Against the Dark Arts.”
“I forgot you still have classes,” Hermione said. She started out of the Castle doors only to be hailed by Fred and George.
“What are you doing here, Hermione?” Fred asked.
“Yeah,” said George. “Ron and Harry just went off on that tour and you’re not going?”
“I’ve no interest in being a healer,” Hermione replied composedly. “Don’t you two have a class to teach?” she asked.
“No classes at this time,” George said. “Plenty of time to keep an eye on you two.”
”That’s right,” Fred agreed. “You’ve got the look of being up to something fishy. We can spot it a mile away, having been up to something fishy most of our lives.”
Hermione gave him The Look and said, “Ginny and I were going to sit out by the lake and talk girl talk. You’re not invited. And besides, students aren’t supposed to fraternize with the Professors.”
Fred howled with laughter. “Fraternize. What a word. Like you don’t spend hours hanging out at Hagrid’s and taking extra lessons from McGonagall, or just gossiping maybe, since you’re, like, her long-lost twin or something.”
“We don’t want you,” Ginny put in. “Every so often, we girls like to get away from guys.”
“You’re just sulking,” George said, “because you’re not a seventh year and can’t follow Harry wherever he goes.”
“Ha!” Fred said. “She manages quite well anyway, I bet.”
Ginny flushed red and looked like she would yell, but wanting to avert a loud Weasley fight, Hermione caught her eye and simply started walking toward the lake. Ginny followed and deliberately began talking about a particularly popular potion for keeping one’s complexion young and clear of blemishes. Hermione kept walking until they were at the farthest point of the lake and quite near the Forest. Unfortunately, Fred and George were not put off by the topic of conversation.
“You know, Fred,” George said meditatively, “we could branch out into a non-joke like of supplies for students. I bet we could sell tons of stuff if we made shampoos and creams just for students. Guaranteed to clear up your spots in record time! A shampoo called Snape’s Revenge! Certain to take the ugly oil and dandruff out of your hair and make you beautiful.”
“Go on,” Fred said. “You could never make Snape beautiful, not even if his hair wasn’t so….so disgusting, the slimy, ugly git.”
Hermione stared at the two of them and said, “You two are the limit. Peter Pan had nothing on you.”
“Peter Who?” Fred said.
Hermione rolled her eyes. “Peter Pan. It’s a Muggle story about a boy who lives in a place called Neverland and refuses ever to grow up. That’s you two.”
Hermione kept her ears open for any strange noises and watched Crookshanks to see if he reacted to anything. However, though she could feel the presence of many watchers, nothing bothered them, and the most annoying danger they had to deal with was the heat. Summer was about to arrive with a vengeance and even beneath the cool canopy of the Forest; the air was humid and still. Finally, they emerged on the other side.
“We’ve never been this far before,” George said. “What is all this?”
The estate agent’s caravan was still there, and two houses were halfway built. You could see their skeletons, like enormous animals decomposing, their glassless windows the empty sockets, and a path to the Forest had been laid and paved in grey stone. Hermione looked about and listened, and even called out, but no one answered. The tractor that had been there last time was gone, and it appeared as though building had been halted almost as soon as it had begun. Satisfied that they were unwatched, Hermione walked in circles a bit until she found the dirt covered entrance to the Chamber. Crookshanks darted forward and laid a paw on the key and the stone slab slid to the side.
“What the devil?” Fred exclaimed. “Another entrance to the school? You’ve found one that’s not on the map?”
“That’s right,” Ginny answered. “But then, the Chamber of Secrets isn’t on the Marauder’s Map, neither the front entrance, nor the back.”
“You are not going in there,” George said. “There could be serpents in there, another basilisk.”
“The basilisk is dead,” Hermione said impatiently. “And all the remaining serpents are stone.”
“Then what do you want with it?” Fred asked.
Hermione stepped down onto the stone stairway leading down and said, “I have to break a curse, and I have a feeling I may need your help after all, so watch your step and follow me.” Hermione led the others down the passageway and followed it until it reached the place at which it forked off in another direction. She turned down the other path, ignoring Fred and George's mutterings. Ginny, on the other hand, was silent, and Hermione worried that she shouldn't have brought the younger girl in.
She lit her wand as the passageway was dark and felt the whispers of dark magic shiver past, charging the air uncomfortably in the way that electricity seemed to pervade an area on the brink of a storm. Everyone fell silent until they reached the archway in which the great Egyptian-styled wall painting guarded the entryway to Slytherin's tomb.
"What is that?" Fred asked forcefuly.
"What is not the question," George said. "Why is. Like why are we standing here at a place that looks like some of the worst of the cursed tombs we saw in Egypt, Hermione? And what's it doing here in Hogwarts?"
"It's Slytherin's tomb," Ginny said quietly. "Look at the painting. It's Slytherin dressed as the emperor stamping on Gryffindor."
"You are mad," Fred said. "This isn't something for schoolgirls to mess with. Even a professional curse-breaker like Bill would think three times before trying to break into that."
"We've already been in it," Hermione answered. She traced the sinuous curves of the heiroglyphs that formed the serpent and the key to the crypt with the light of her wand.
"See that," she said. "That is the key to get in, but it's also the curse that Slytherin laid when he built this thing over a thousand years ago."
"What curse?" George asked.
"Well, I won't say the words," Hermione said, "but roughly, it lays a kind of geas, a fate, upon Slytherin's descendants, all those of his blood, to seek the death of Gryffindor, until the last shall perish, and Slytherin alone remains."
"And you think you're going to break that curse?" Fred asked.
"No," Hermione said. "It can't really be broken, because it's the kind of curse that only the original wizard who made the curse can undo. And Slytherin is dead." She contemplated the picture of the ancient, prideful man, dressed in the crown and trappings of an ancient pharoah with rising hate.
"No," Hermione repeated, "the only way to end the curse is to destroy the physical thing on which the curse is written, embedded."
"You think you're going to destroy a stone wall?" Fred asked. "And what makes you think that will get rid of the curse anyway?"
"Yeah," said George, "and why do you think you have to get rid of it?"
"Because of Harry, of course," Ginny cut in. "He's affected by it. If the curse is broken, maybe he really can defeat Voldemort."
Fred and George looked at each other and Hermione had cause to wonder just how much they could communicate with each other without words. "Look," George said, "I don't think what you want to do is possible. Even if you attack the door, the curse could still adhere to the broken pieces. Not only that, it's possible there might be some trick in it that will cause other things to happen. Like the ceiling could cave in on us."
"We're not just going to break the door," Hermione said. "We're going to melt it down into its original elements."
"And how do you know that will work?" Fred asked.
"I've seen it work," Hermione answered. "We did a section on cursed objects in Defense class, and Harry melted a cursed knife and the curse was lifted."
"That doesn't mean you can do the same thing," George said bluntly. "I mean, we know you're clever Hermione, even brilliant; but you're not Harry Potter. And this isn't a knife; this is a solid wall of rock. None of us have the power to do a thing like that."
"Not even all of us combined," Fred said.
"We have to," Ginny said. "Harry is the Grydffindor. We have to break the curse, or maybe Voldemort will kill him, maybe not the next time, but maybe the time after that. Sooner or later; it's his only chance of surviving."
"You don't know that," George said. "I know you're scared for him," he continued. "I'd be terrified if I was him, always having someone after me. But he's managed so far, and the curse doesn't seemed to have stopped the Gryffindors from continuing on."
"He's the last," Hermione said. "And Voldemort is the most powerful Slytherin probably since old Salazar himself."
"If you're too scared to help," Ginny said, "You can go back out the way we came in."
"Don't be an idiot, Ginny," Fred said coolly. "Just because we don't want to bring the roof down on ourselves doesn't mean we won't help."
Hermione relaxed just a little, then she was sorry she had. "Yeah," George said. "The thing is, you're going about this the wrong way. You think in such absolute terms, you know. Here's a curse, we have to break it."
"Right," Fred said. "But the better thing to do is to make use of it. See, it's just like some of the things we use in our shop. Too much of something could be, erm, poisonous. But just the right amount, and you're laughing your ass off as you skive off of your least favorite class."
Hermione stared in horror at Fred and George, both of whom had that gleam of mischief they got when they were up to the worst of their jokes. Ginny, on the other hand, had lost her pallor and her brown eyes were gleaming with the same spirit of trouble as the twins'.
"What then?" she asked eagerly.
"We reverse the spell," Fred said. "Turn it around. We don't even need to know Egyptian or ancient runes to do it. A simple reversal spell ought to do it."
"I don't believe it can be that simple," Hermione said sharply. "If it were that easy, then Slytherin would have had safeguards built into this."
"But he did," Ginny said. "After all, so far as he knew, no one would ever get in here unless they spoke Parseltongue. He probably believed no one would unless they were his own descendants. Like Voldemort."
"Then maybe the reversal spell would need to be in Parseltongue," Hermione said. "And only Harry can speak it, like he did to open the door."
"Not necessarily," Ginny said dreamily. "Tell me the reversal spell," she said. Fred and George stared at their sister as if she had transformed into a snake for real.
"You cannot," George said.
"I can," Ginny said quietly.
"Very well," Fred said. He gave her the words, which she repeated quietly in Latin until she had gotten them right. Then she stared at the curving heiroglyphic snake, and hissed and spat. Hermione felt her hair stand on end, as though the electricity in the air had increased exponentially.
A rumble shook and the light from her wand flared without her intending it. When the rumbling ceased, the wall had cracks running through it and Slytherin no longer stood triumphant. Instead, the pharaonic figure lay prone, it's spear upraised from the floor; and standing over it, a heavy paw upon the prone man's neck, was the great golden lion.
***
Harry felt an odd shiver go through him. His hair seemed to stand on end and the temperature in the fifth floor coffee shop of St. Mungo's felt as though it had dropped precipitously. He wrapped his arms around himself and said, "It's cold in here, isn't it?"
Neville looked at him and frowned. "It's not that cold," he answered. His round face was preoccupied though and Harry thought that Neville would hardly have noticed if a whirlwind came through.
Professor Dumbledore was speaking to Professor Sprout at the other end of the lunchroom. At the front, one of the healers was addressing the students about her decision to be a healer. Her green robes were immaculate, and her violet hair was neatly coiffed.
"Being a healer is a wonderful career," the witch gushed. "One is able to help so many people. I, for instance, feel my greatest success was in helping a young spell-damaged girl regain her speech. She had come in here being able to bark like a dog, but she couldn't speak at all. Now, she is progressing very nicely, and we anticipate she will be able to attend Hogwarts by the time she turns thirteen."
Harry took a sip of his coffee and another bite of his sandwich. He was anxious to finish with the tour, which so far had contained the dubious highlight of several patients screaming upon seeing his face, and the healer who was their chief recruiter asking him numerous questions about why he wanted to be a healer.
Harry had stammered his way through that and finally, prompted by Neville, had said he thought it was a good thing to use one's talents to heal instead of harm. Malfoy had sneered the whole way through and Harry was hard put not to try a bat-bogey hex on the Slytherin just to find out if they knew how to reverse it at St. Mungo's.
Neville tugged on Harry's sleeve and said, "Do you think we can slip out of here and go to the restroom?"
"I'm all right for right now," Harry answered.
"Oh, go on with him," Ron said. "It's not like she's saying anything interesting. And besides, we're not supposed to go anywhere alone." He bit into his third sandwich enthusiastically and Harry shoved his own away in distaste. Ron had a point. The witch was a bit too perky when she described the various horrific consequences of spells that had gone wrong.
"And where are you going?" a healer trainee asked.
"The bathroom," Neville stammered.
"Well, it's not in that direction," the healer said helpfully. He pointed them toward a different corridor, down which Neville obediently walked. However, after only a few steps, he stopped and looked back to see if the healer was watching. Then he pulled Harry back again toward the stairs and hurried down to the fourth floor.
"Where are you going?" Harry hissed. Then he recalled that the fourth floor was where the Closed Ward was located. The one where Neville's parents resided because they were incurably insane, Neville said desperately, "I need to see my Mum and Dad. They...well they never recognized me as me, but they used to sometimes interact a little. You remember, don't you?"
Harry was surprised that Neville had actually mentioned the one time he had seen Neville's parents. It had been in their fifth year over Christmas. He had been there with the Weasleys to visit Mr. Weasley after he had been bitten by Voldemort's snake, Harry recalled Neville's Mum, speechlessly waving him back to hand him a wrapper from Drooble's Best Blowing Gum.
They had reached the door to the Closed Ward. A healer stopped them and then said, "Mr. Longbottom? Here to see your Mum and Dad, are you?"
Neville nodded. The healer waved them on through and Harry supposed that the healers must know the few people who came up there to visit. There couldn't be very many of them.
The closest ward was empty, so they proceeded through to the rear, where Mr. and Mrs. Longbottom were. Both of them lay still and unmoving in their beds. Mr. Longbottom's eyes were closed and he might have been sleeping. Mrs. Longbottom's eyes, so like Neville's, were wide open and staring at the ceiling. There were two goblets of potion on the table that separated the two beds. A blond witch reached over to pick up one of the goblets when Neville coughed gently.
The healer started slightly and stared at Neville. "This is a Closed Ward," she said primly. "You'll have to leave."
"You haven't been here long," Neville said daringly. "You'd know me if you had."
"You are?" the healer asked. Her blond hair was pulled back into a chignon and her eyes, unusually for a blond, were a dark color, almost black. Harry had a weird feeling that he had seen the woman before, but he couldn't think where. The witch's dark eyes widened and then narrowed.
"You're the son?" she simpered. "I'm so pleased to see you. "Why don't you and your friend wait outside whilst I give the dears their daily potion, and then you can visit, if you like."
"I don't have much time," Neville answered. "I'd like to see them now. So if you could just leave the potions there, I'll let you know when I'm done."
Harry was surprised again. Neville was far more firm and assertive than he'd ever seen him. The witch nodded reluctantly and withdrew, but Harry felt as though she were watching them and he turned to catch another look from the dark eyes.
"Look, Neville," he said, "I think we ought to..." Neville interrupted.
"We don't have much time. I have something to ask you. I should've before, but I was afraid you'd say no." Harry started to reply, but Neville cut him off again. "I want you to..." he whispered checking for the healer, "I want you to try to reach my Mum - with Legilimency. I want to know what's really wrong with her. She wasn't like this six months ago. She was getting better, I swear. Please, Harry!"
"But, Neville," Harry said quietly, "I'm not that good at it. And besides, what do you think I can do?"
"Fix her," Neville whispered urgently. "I know you can, they make her worse. There's something wrong with the medicine they give her. I always pour it away when I come and she's better. Then when I'm not around, she gets worse again."
"Neville," Harry said. "What are you saying? Are you saying they're keeping your Mum and Dad this way? And I'm not Madam Pomfrey. I'm no healer. How can you think I could do anything."
"There's no time," Neville said. "Please just try!" He picked up the two goblets of potion and poured them on the floor, where they ran down in green smoky gouts toward the other end of the room. "Hurry!" Neville said.
I must be mad, Harry thought as he moved toward the bed. He felt desperately sorry for Neville. It struck him again how much worse it must be to go through life year after year knowing your Mum and Dad and having them not recognize you. He looked at Mrs. Longbottom and a feeling of great pity welled up in him. The woman's once round face was now grey and sunken. She looked almost corpse-like and her round gray eyes stared into space, the pupils hugely dilated, so that the irises were tiny circles of silver around a pool of black. That was strange, he thought. She hadn't looked that bad two years ago. He looked into her eyes and drew his wand. Eye contact was necessary, usually, for Legilimency. The dark black pools drew him in. They were empty holes. He took a deep breath and prayed that he would be able to come out again. Fear crept up his spine, but he banished it and sought the well of calm that was his shield from Voldemort's encroachments.
"Legilimens," he breathed softly. The darkness was absolute, he thought at first. He fell into it and tried to keep in mind the direction from which he had come, from where light could be found. Light, he thougt, this is drowning in the dark. As if called by his thought, a faint glow appeared, and he found himself now in a gray landscape that was empty and dusty, littered with rocks, like the moon. He wandered this way and that, looking for some landmark in the nearly featureless territory, some thing to latch on to and say, Here I am. After a while, the rocks grew more frequent, and he stumbled painfully. A maze of channels appeared, but they made no sense. They were a patchwork, leading no where, turning in circles, leading back always to the beginning and never to the center. Fear shivered through him again, as he recalled the last time he had wandered through a maze. He did the four-point spell, and was less surprised than he should have been when the spell pointed him toward a new feature, a tall tower with tiny pinpoints forming the eyes of the windows. He peered into the light and nearly screamed. Dark hooded eyes bored into his. Once beautiful, they were filled with hatred and they were accompanied by pain unendurable. A river of pain ripped through him, bone cracking, boiling his blood and making him swim in fire. He remembered this, he thought. This was familiar. This wasn't now; this was then, after that other maze.
Not knowing how, or why, he commenced the labor of building a wall from the rubble. This was another familiar task. He'd done it so often. Lay one rock upon the next and the next upon that one. Make a row and another and cover them with cement. Seal up the pain. Seal up the fear. Block out the lies and the hate, More rapidly, he worked, moved by the need to finish before the other watcher could catch him. There were two walls to keep solid and as he built the new one, he could feel, gently at first, and then with a stronger knock or two, the closer presence of his unwanted twin. But light was growing. He said, "Lumos," wanting more, and he saw that the wall was high enough and the light was growing. He let himself drift upward, feeling weightless now, as he drew nearer to its reviving warmth.
"Harry?" Neville whispered. "I think someone's coming." Harry came to himself with a gasp. He was in the Closed Ward in St. Mungo's and Mrs. Longbottom's gray eyes were focused on him.
They blinked and Mrs. Longbottom said in a barely understandable whisper, "James? Is that you?"
“I’m not James,” Harry blurted out. Mrs. Longbottom’s gray eyes widened with doubt and confusion and he realized he might have made a mistake. Gently he added, “I am a Potter, a relative of his though.” The thin face relaxed a bit, but a frown creased the prematurely old face even further.
“I didn’t think James had any brothers or cousins.” She stared at him and Harry felt Neville stir anxiously beside him. They ought to have had Dumbledore there he thought. There should have been someone there she knew from before, to help her understand.
“You look like James,” she said accusingly. “You could be his twin; you look so much like him, except for the eyes. Your eyes are different. Your eyes are—“ Harry interrupted. If she recognized who he must be, she might be even more distressed. She might reject reality altogether again.
“You’ve been very ill, you know,” he said. “Perhaps we should call the healer?”
“I haven’t been ill,” she said with unexpected tartness. “I’ve been outside myself altogether forever. They’ve been keeping me that way.” This last was said fiercely, angrily. “Where’s my wand?” she asked. “I need my wand.”
“It’s safe at home,” Neville said.
“Who are you,” Mrs. Longbottom said. “I should know you, shouldn’t I?” Beside him, Neville froze. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
“This is Neville,” Harry interjected. “He comes to visit you here. Do you remember? He brings you Droobles Best Blowing Gum when he comes and you always give him the wrappers to keep.”
Her thin face crumpled a bit, then it cleared and she said, “I remember that. I used to smoke a pipe to annoy Frank’s Mum, but I quit because it tasted so bad, so I took up chewing gum instead. The bubbles annoy her almost as much.” Mrs. Longbottom sat up and looked about the ward. Her eyes fell on her husband, who was still lying quite still. He was either asleep, or comatose. Another, deeper frown wrinkled her face.
“Frank?” she said softly. “That’s not Frank, is it?” She looked back at Harry and at Neville and said, “He can’t be. He looks too old.” Panic was rising in her voice. She swung out of bed and stood shakily, and then clutching the table, she shuffled over to his bed and touched his hand.
“What about him?” Neville asked. “D’you think you can---?” Harry started to shake his head. Any minute, the healer would return, or Dumbledore would come looking for them and they would be in trouble. He glanced at his watch and was shocked to see that only ten minutes had passed since they had left the fifth floor coffee shop. Ron would still be eating and the recruiting witch would still be talking.
“Please, Harry,” Neville, said urgently. “Look at him! It’s his last chance. I know it.”
Mrs. Longbottom looked up at them and her round gray eyes focused again on Harry. She examined him closely, noting his perpetually untidy hair, his glasses, and his green eyes. She looked at his eyes, stared at them in appalled fascination, and then her gaze moved upward to the lightning scar on his forehead, which his fringe never quite covered completely.
“It can’t be,” she said. “Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived when James and Lily were killed.” Harry wanted to deny it. He had never wanted less to be who he was, because admitting it would hurt the poor woman more than anything else could. She would know almost everything then. She would understand and she would blame him, he thought, for everything.
“You are,” she said. “You have her eyes, Lily’s eyes. They’re just the same. I remember when you were a baby, everyone remarked on it. Little Harry has Lily’s eyes.” Her face crumpled again and she said, “But you’re not little any more. You’re quite old, aren’t you? Almost a man grown. How long has it been, then?” Harry stood rooted there, speechless, terrified. Neville laid a hand on Harry’s shoulder and then stepped forward to take his mother’s hand.
“Fifteen years,” he said gently. “But you’ve known that, haven’t you? You knew what was happening all along, didn’t you? You just couldn’t speak, or let anyone know how to help.”
“Oh, my,” Mrs. Longbottom whispered. “Oh, my. Oh, wonderful. How very…” Her gaze shifted from Neville’s face to track the movement behind them. Her eyes widened and became black holes again. “Oh, horrible!” she moaned. “Oh, no, no, no, please no.”
The brisk voice of the blond healer cut in. “We have been naughty. We must get back in bed and take our medicine, Mrs. Longbottom. Poor Alice has forgotten her potion and she’ll be so overwrought.” The healer’s dark eyes pinned the boys and noted the spilled green potion staining the floor.
“We all have been naughty,” she said coldly. “You will have to go.”
“No,” Mrs. Longbottom whispered, “no, no, no, no, NO, NO, NO!” Her voice rose from a whisper to a scream, manic, horrified; a sound no human should ever produce; a shriek of despair and denial and rage absolute.
The healer drew her wand and pointed it at Mrs. Longbottom. “Madness must be contained,” she said coolly.
Mrs. Longbottom backed up and continued to moan, “No. Wand, please. Must have my wand. Hide the baby. They mustn’t see the baby. Hide baby.” The large gray eyes turned to light on Neville and Harry and she cried out again in earnest. “Run and hide!”
“Step aside, children,” the witch said coldly. “This is not unusual for such madness. They shouldn’t allow visitors here. See how you’ve gone and disturbed her.”
“No!” Neville shouted. “It’s you. She was fine until you came.”
“Little boys should stay home where they belong and not play in games they don’t know,” the witch said. Her dark eyes were cold and mocking and didn’t go with the bright gold hair at all. Her eyes, Harry thought, and her voice, mocking, they were all wrong. The witch’s wand lifted, pointing at Mrs. Longbottom.
“Go ask Alice,” she said, “but she’ll never answer. She’s crazy, Alice is. Mad and dangerous. She refuses her potion. She thinks she knows the truth but she’s lost.” Mrs. Longbottom screamed again and the witch’s hooded, dark eyes narrowed with pleasure. Without thought, Harry lifted his own wand and struck. The witch’s wand flew high and she stared in fury at Harry. Then her eyes sparked with recognition and she howled with a rage that was nearly as desperate and crazed as Neville’s Mum’s.
“What are you doing?” Neville asked in confusion.
“It’s her!” Harry bellowed. “Bellatrix. It’s her!” He flung a stunning spell at her but he was shaking with such anger that the spell missed and she dodged away laughing and reached for her fallen wand.
Neville drew his own and fired another spell at her, but the Death Eater had grabbed her wand and disarmed him instead. Immediately she fired another spell at Harry. Its green light missed him by inches as he dodged away and its passing nearly undid him completely. It blew a hole in the wall behind him setting off an alarm, which whooped like the cry of an angry hippogriff, piercingly loud.
Mrs. Longbottom shrieked again and jumped with astonishing speed for one who had been bedridden for the better part of fifteen years. Harry ignored her; however, as Bellatrix fired another Killing Curse his way. He flung himself sideways just in time again and Neville yelled,
“No! Mum, don’t!”
Sparing a glance that way, Harry saw that Mrs. Longbottom had pounced on Neville’s wand and even as Bellatrix pointed her wand again, this time at Neville, Mrs. Longbottom fired. The two spells met with a flare of power that came near to an explosion. The green one continued on, only deflected in its path away from Neville, and it landed instead on another person who had entered the room unnoticed from the far side. His blue eyes flown wide in a look of permanent surprise and forgetfulness, Gilderoy Lockhart fell backwards, and a sheaf of autographed pictures that showed every one of his many white teeth cascaded in the air to land beside him.
Mrs. Longbottom’s spell continued on, also deflected, but not enough. The purple light sliced through the Death Eater’s left arm, not in a neat hole, as it would have been had it landed unaltered; instead, it had fanned out and the purple light cut off the Death Eater’s arm in one clean slice. Bellatrix screamed and blood fountained everywhere. Others were running, yelling, confusion reigned. Bellatrix screamed again and lifted her still whole right arm, which still held her wand and said, “Master! I will not fail you!”
She backed away and blood spurted from her shoulder in great gouts. Harry could not believe the woman was still upright and conscious. He lifted his wand to stun her, to do something, but he found he was unable to whisper even the tiniest spell at the woman who stood there dying, so he thought.
Mrs. Longbottom had raised the wand again, but from the door, Professor Dumbledore roared, “Alice! Hold!” and she did. But as she did, the Death Eater’s wand lifted one final time and the green light of the curse swept once more at the frail woman’s form. Both Harry and Neville leaped at the same moment, knocking her to the ground and the light passed over them, so closely that Harry thought his head would split apart at his scar.
Mad laughter sounded. He thought at first it was Mrs. Longbottom, her damaged mind given way once more. He lifted his head with difficulty and saw that she had collapsed, though her chest still rose and a faint pulse showed in the vein on her forehead. The laughter, he realized had come from Bellatrix Lestrange. Dumbledore had drawn his wand, but as he spoke the word of the stunning spell, she laughed again and disapparated.
Harry struggled to his knees. A wave of pain sliced through his head and a fury that was not his own washed through him. He observed its passage almost dispassionately. So Voldemort knew then what had occurred. He flung the wall up between them fast and hard, hoping viciously that the other felt his presence as painfully as he.
Mrs. Longbottom’s eyes were open again. With dreadful effort, she sat up and cradled Neville in her arms, and wept and wept. Neville made no sound. His face was white and his gray eyes were terrified and tired and old as he looked at Lockhart, who lay dead on the floor, and his father, who had never woken, and who had died when the Death Eater’s last curse had passed over them and struck the comatose man instead. For a moment, the only sound in the room was Mrs. Longbottom’s quiet weeping. Then several of the St. Mungo’s staff, the recruiting witch among them, began to mutter furiously.
“What are they doing here...Students out of bounds…You assured us, Dumbledore, nothing would go wrong…Where’s the healer...” And when they entered and tried to move Mrs. Longbottom-- who clutched at Neville and would not be moved—they fixed as one, on Harry and his scar and whispered, “It’s him…The Boy…”
Harry looked at Dumbledore and he knew as he met the elderly wizard’s blue eyes that he would be blamed for this, for all of it. He had been out-of-bounds. He was in a closed Ward without permission and two patients had died. Miserably, he forced himself to hold Dumbledore’s gaze, but he could not find the words to speak to defend himself.
“Leave her alone,” Neville bellowed suddenly. The healers trying to get to Mrs. Longbottom jumped back as though they thought madness might be contagious. Neville rose and helped his mother to stand and he wrapped one arm around her frail body, sheltering her, as she had sheltered him.
“It’s not Harry’s fault,” Neville said coldly. “The fault lies here, with St. Mungo’s. The healer who was just here was a Death Eater, Bellatrix Lestrange. She came here to kill my Mum and Dad.”
The recruiting witch said in that very calm voice people use to deal with small children and the mad, “That’s not possible. Our security measures are most stringent. No one can pass through here without a thorough security check.”
“Analyze the spilled potion on the floor,” Neville snapped back. “It was poisoned. She’s been here for months, poisoning their medicines, making sure that they would never recover and that they would eventually die quietly in their beds instead of revealing what they know.”
“How do you know this?” Dumbledore asked.
“Their behavior changed,” Neville said, “from last summer. Before that, Mum would get up. She wouldn’t talk, but she would listen when Gran and I talked to her. And Dad would listen, too, even though he never got up. At Christmas, they were both catatonic, completely. That’s how I knew. Only I didn’t suspect until we visited at Easter that their potion might have been changed.”
“How would you know the potion had changed?” the recruiting witch asked. Her tone had an edge of polite incredulity. Harry supposed the only reason she wasn’t openly rude was because Dumbledore was there. Her disbelief woke him up and he felt anger rise.
“Of course, Neville could tell,” Harry, said. “He’s been visiting his parents since he was two years old. And his best subject is Herbology. He wants to be healer, that’s why he’s here for the tour.”
“So he’s good with plants,” the recruiting witch said. “Not as good in Potions though.”
“He had Professor Snape for Potions,” Harry answered. “A low pass from Professor Snape is the same as an O from anyone else. If Neville said the Potion changed, it changed.”
“How did it then?” the recruiting witch asked. Harry was starting to dislike the woman even more than Snape, and that was saying something.
“I know because I asked their previous healer what they were getting,” Neville answered. “They used to get the Draught of Peace twice daily, just as a calming aid, because supposedly there was no cure. I know what that potion smells like and tastes like and what its ingredients are. We had to learn it for NEWTs. I saw today the potion was different. It’s the wrong color and consistency and I can smell it’s got other things in it, lovage, and scurvy grass and ingredients that inflame, not calm. And I think, it had some small of amount of an undetectable poison, so small that it won’t kill all at once, but would over weeks or months.”
“Then why didn’t you come and say something to us right away?” the witch asked.
“You don’t believe me when you saw Bellatrix Lestrange in here killing my father with your own eyes. Why would you have believed me then?”
Neville spoke angrily, more angrily than Harry had ever seen him, but coldly, and Harry could see that whatever his age, Neville had passed entirely into the realm of adulthood. “I know you wouldn’t have, because I’ve seen it, that you think I’m rather addled myself. You think maybe I was damaged by the same spell as my Mum and Dad, or that I saw something and was harmed by it.” The hospital staff all looked uncomfortable and yet they watched Neville carefully as if they were only waiting for him to start acting hysterically.
“And why is he here?” the witch asked. “The Boy, I mean.” Her glance lit on Harry, and he could tell that she thought he must be rather crazy himself, and probably dangerous. She must have believed the articles from his fifth year that had painted him as disturbed. Indeed, her gaze returned again to his scar, which he knew must be showing rather more clearly than usual, as he could feel the regular pulse of pain there.
“I asked him to come with me,” Neville answered coolly. “I wanted company when I went to see my Mum and Dad.” He hesitated and added, “I thought maybe he could tell if they were being affected by a dark spell, something that would make them worse, something that was keeping them as they were, apparently insane.”
“Apparently?” Dumbledore said.
Neville’s face drew tight. “Yes,” he said defiantly. “They were never insane. They were made to look that way and kept looking that way.” Dumbledore looked at Harry and Harry could see that he wanted to believe Neville and yet he could not, not quite. Bracing himself for the storm he would unleash, Harry nodded reluctantly.
He turned to Mrs. Longbottom and said quietly, “Neville’s right. Isn’t he, Mrs. Longbottom?” Mrs. Longbottom had long since stopped weeping, but no one had noticed as they were all focused on Neville’s accusations. She lifted her head and her round gray eyes met Harry’s. They were weary and sad, but not mad at all.
“Yes,” she said firmly. Everyone there stirred. Mrs. Longbottom, he realized, had not actually spoken aloud in fifteen years. “The boys,” she said as coldly as her son, “are not to blame. The woman here today was Bellatrix Lestrange, one of the Death Eaters who tortured my husband and me. They damaged Frank’s nervous system so badly that he could never walk afterwards. And we always had special staff here, not regular hospital staff.”
Dumbledore’s blue eyes sharpened with interest. “Where there special staff?” he inquired.
“Yes,” the recruiting witch said impatiently. “They needed twenty-four hour supervision, something most families can’t afford. Fortunately, an anonymous donor kindly paid for the extra staff and has done so for fifteen years. Otherwise, we could never have kept them here for so long with such constant supervision.”
“A rich donor,” Harry said slowly, “like Lucius Malfoy, maybe?”
“Mr. Malfoy gave to many charitable causes,” the witch said stiffly. “Why last week, he gave a large donation for a brand new children’s ward.”
“He’s a Death Eater,” Harry said incredulously. “You’re still taking money from a Death Eater?”
“Accused, only,” the witch said defensively. “Running a hospital’s expensive.” She looked at Harry with annoyance and said, “Another wild accusation? Perhaps Mr. Malfoy was paying for the staff so that he could keep the Longbottoms from – what? – Revealing something? That he’s a Death Eater?”
“Yes,” Alice Longbottom said coldly, “since he was one of the ones who tortured Frank and me. They wanted to know where You Know Who was. They knew we were friends with James and Lily Potter. They thought we knew what enchantment had been used to protect Harry from You Know Who. They thought we might know the spell to reverse the protection and bring the Dark Lord back. Of course, we had no clue, but they didn’t care. They enjoyed it, hurting us. After a while, they just kept on with it for the fun of it. They wanted to see how long you could go before the heart simply gave out.” For a moment, her gray eyes widened and the pupils were black pools of terror and agony again.
Then she shook herself and said, “Lucius had everything to lose if we could speak. He pretended he was respectable, didn’t he? He gave to charity, didn’t he? The rich gentleman, Oh yes, he had everything to lose if we could speak.”
“Why didn’t he just have you killed then?” the recruiting witch asked. She was back to using that super-calm sensible voice: the one Harry hated.
“He was still convinced we might know what we had refused to reveal,” Mrs. Longbottom replied. “He kept us alive, so that one day, if needed, He Who Must Not Be Named could question us himself. That’s what they said, you see. ‘Just wait, one day the Dark Lord will return and you will speak. You will tell him what he needs to know to destroy the brat of Gryffindor forever!”
The recruiting witch shook her head. “I think you should have your potion, Mrs. Longbottom. A nice Draught of Peace to calm you down. But not here.” The witch’s eyes took in the splashes of blood that had congealed on the walls, on the sheets on the table in a random splatter.
“I don’t think so,” Neville said coldly. “She’s checking out today and you can send the last bill to Mr. Malfoy along with a challenge from me. Tell him, I’ll fight him anywhere, anytime, with any weapon. He can even bring You Know Who along for back up. And let him pray he ends up as well as Bellatrix Lestrange.” He led Mrs. Longbottom toward the door.
Dumbledore stepped back courteously and held out an arm, and she took it as gracefully as though she were being led on the arms of two gentlemen to a very fine ball. Just behind them, the other students had gathered in a knot, summoned by the disturbance. At the front, Ron stood and his pale face relaxed when he saw Harry was safe, and then flushed again, so that Harry knew he was going to get an earful when they got back, or maybe sooner. Beside him was Draco Malfoy. Mrs. Longbottom faltered when she saw him.
She stared at him in horror, but Draco put out a hand and said in his usual cool drawl, “Don’t worry, Mrs. Longbottom. If my father shows up to answer Neville’s challenge, I’ll be fighting alongside Neville. With any luck, the Dark Lord will show up too, and we can get the two beasts in one go.”
“I don’t need your help, Draco,” Neville said coolly.
“Yes, you do,” Draco answered. “My father is the sneakiest, most poisonous toad alive. You’ll need all the help you can get. And if you don’t want it, then step aside and let me have a go at him first.” Mrs. Longbottom let go of Dumbledore’s arm and said, “You’re Narcissa’s boy, then? All grown up, all of you are all grown up and I’ve missed all of it.”
“At least you’ll see the ending,” Draco said. “My Mum never will now, since the Dark Lord killed her and my father watched.” Harry had the oddest sensation then, as he looked at Malfoy’s pale gray eyes: that they were turning into the same black pools of horror as Mrs. Longobttom’s.
“You can come and stay with me,” Mrs. Longbottom said. “My brother Lucius was poison even as a child.”
“Thank you, Aunt Alice,” Draco said gravely. “But as I’ve just finished my NEWTs, I’ll be taking an apartment of my own until I can dislodge my father from the house grandfather Black left me.” Neville looked terribly relieved at that answer. His gray eyes – how had Harry never noticed that they were nearly the same shade as Malloy’s? – Met Harry’s with one thought: Malfoy was not to be trusted.
Harry was surprised when Neville and his mother returned on the Knight Bus to Hogwarts until he realized Dumbledore must be afraid that Mrs. Longbottom would be vulnerable to another attack. And then there was Neville’s challenge to Lucius Malfoy and the Dark Lord. Somehow, Harry thought, it would not go unanswered. Nor would Voldemort be likely to let Bellatrix’s injuries go unpunished.
They arrived at Hogwarts with the usual jolt. Due to the inhibiting presence of Dumbledore, Harry had been able to escape Ron’s lecture on the ride, and as Dumbledore called Harry to his office while Neville was assisting with settling his mother in, he was able to dodge Ron’s growing frustration (signaled by how red his ears had gotten) a while longer. As he followed Dumbledore to his office, Harry thought he would probably be better off being read a lecture by Ron.
“I want the whole story,” Dumbledore said without preamble. The various portraits of Headmasters and Headmistresses sat up and stopped pretending they were dozing. Harry flinched and his insides were squirming with guilt as he told the full tale without sparing himself or Neville. He was startled, however, at Dumbledore’s reaction to his use of Legilimency.
“You did what?” Dumbledore roared. Harry gawked at him. The Headmaster had been entirely calm and composed until then, although Harry knew he was not pleased. “Have you any idea how dangerous that was?” Dumbledore shouted. “Did you not consider the risk at all?”
“I…” he stammered over his words, trying to explain, “that is, Neville’s my friend. He asked me for help and I…well, I could see he was desperate. And I could see his Mum was changed. The last time I saw her, she was able to walk around and communicate with gestures even if she couldn’t speak.”
“Did you plan this in advance?” Dumbledore asked more quietly now. Harry was not fooled into thinking the elderly wizard was placated though.
“No,” he answered. “I didn’t know. I don’t think Neville really knew until we got there and he saw his Mum that way.”
“And it didn’t occur to you,” Dumbledore asked, “not once, that you might have ended up as insane as she was, going into her mind like that?”
“It was worth it,” Harry answered. “She would have been dead if we hadn’t gone. I bet Neville’s right and there was poison in the potion.”
He met Dumbledore’s angry blue gaze and said, “I know you want to make sure I live long enough to fight Voldemort again, but you can’t deny she had a right to be helped. They stole fifteen years of her life and fifteen years of Neville’s life, when he could have been with his Mum and Dad. I may have taken a risk doing it, but it was worth it. And neither of us knew Bellatrix Lestrange would be there. How could we?”
“I know you did not,” Dumbledore answered. He looked terribly old then and his thin shoulders seemed bowed, almost frail. “It worries me that you think so little of your own life, Harry, that you risk it so casually, no matter how worthy the cause.” The blue eyes searched his and Harry felt shamed to have thought that Dumbledore’s displeasure was about petty power or about defeating Voldemort only.
But Dumbledore had caught his thought or understood the substance behind Harry’s answer. “It is about defeating Voldemort, of course. It has always been so.” The old man paused and said with terrible softness, “It is your misfortune, Harry, your fate, if you will, that your life, your choices, may change whether there are a hundred Alice Longbottoms in the future, or a thousand, or none.”
“Then maybe I’m not strong enough or smart enough,” Harry answered, “because I can’t think about the other hundred or even thousand in the future. I could only see the one in front of me who was in pain. I’m sorry,” he added drearily. “It’s how I am.” He turned to go out then because he couldn’t bear to see the disappointment in the old man’s eyes.
He thought he must be mistaken after, when he heard Dumbledore say, “It’s what makes you a great man.”
***
The whole school was talking about Neville's Mum. Hermione could not help it. She was absolutely furious with Harry for getting into trouble without her. She was furious with Ron for sitting and eating sandwiches whilst Harry and Neville were fighting Bellatrix Lestrange. And she was absolutely wild to get a hold of Harry and find out everything. Except that he had gone to Dumbledore's office directly after getting off the Knight Bus and then he had disappeared altogether again. He had not come to dinner and he had not come to the common room. She had even checked the Room of Requirement and he wasn't there either.
She had pestered Ron to go look for him, but Ron had said simply, "No." When she had argued, he had walked away from her, and when she followed him right up to the boys' dormitory, he had said again, "No." He had stared at her and she had been tempted to storm at him, to tell him he was being unreasonable because Harry had slipped away and done something without him. He had put that notion to rest, too.
"Leave him alone, Hermione," he had said with some force. "Sometimes a bloke just needs some space, you know. I was mad at him, too. Only, I figure, what's the point? He's probably off in some corner somewhere blaming himself for Mr. Longbottom's death and for silly old Lockhart as well."
"Was it?" she found herself asking. Then she was so horrified, she burst into tears and fled. All she could think of that night was that she was the one to blame. She had tried to break the curse, only a new one was now in place, and Harry was already paying for it, wasn't he?
In the morning, Harry showed up for breakfast. He seemed to be moving in his own dimension again. The rest of the school was talking and laughing and eating and going about their normal activities; talking about Harry being one of them. But he took no more heed of the chatter, the hellos, or even the barely concealed frightened withdrawals than if all of it were happening in some far distant world, whilst he was alone, altogether alone.
When he said, "Hullo, Hermione," he sounded so normal it was shocking. Only she saw right away that normal was a mere pretense, a show. His complexion, which was usually quite beautiful -annoyingly, so for a man--was pasty and gray, and his eyes were shadowed and tired. There were hollows at the base of his throat where his tie was pulled loose, and his long fingers drummed restlessly on the long table in between lackadaisical bites of egg and toast.
"Shall we go for a walk," she asked quietly. She was debating whether to cross-examine him about the previous day's events or to tell him about her own adventures, but Ron, most annoyingly, interrupted.
"Sorry, Hermione," he said, not sounding sorry at all. "We've got quidditch practice and all this morning. It's our last game coming up and we want to win. Go out with a bang, if we can."
"Right. Practice," Harry said tersely. He got up, leaving half his breakfast behind and sloped off with Ron looking as little interested in quidditch as he was in anything else. Hermione walked after them wishing Ginny at least were available to chat with. She cheered up when she saw her friend's long red mane flying behind her as she trotted down the stairs toward the Castle Doors. Then she saw that Ginny, too, was dressed for practice, only she looked much more excited about it than Harry had.
Things continued as they were through the weekend. Harry would disappear for much of the day and all of the night, and Hermione had no clue where he was going. She checked the Room of Requirement early each morning, but he was not there. She quizzed Ron every morning at breakfast, but each day it was the same: Harry had never gone up with the rest of them and was not in his bed in the morning when they woke.
When she suggested confronting him, Ron’s answer was the same, “Let him be.” She wondered what Ron knew now that she did not, or if he was simply in some peculiarly male fashion, letting go, now that the end of school was approaching.
On Monday morning, she rose extra early and spent a good deal more time than usual dressing. They had on-campus interviews with the Ministry that day, or at least some of the seventh years did. The final interview list had come out, and Hermione had been relieved to see her name was still on it. Harry’s was first. Ron’s was last. She noticed with surprise that Draco Malfoy’s was not.
She checked the Room of Requirement again that morning, not really expecting to find Harry. However, when she opened the door, she saw with relief that the red bird was sleeping on his perch with his head tucked under his wing. He lifted his head up, gave her a sleepy glance, and tucked it back under his wing again.
“Wake up,” she said with exasperation. He lifted his head up again and gave a grumpy sounding trill. “I know,” she said sympathetically, “but you’re first up this morning for your interview. You want to be decently dressed, don’t you?”
The bird lifted up and transformed. Harry lifted an eyebrow and said, “You sound just like my Aunt Petunia. Do you think they’ll refuse to hire me if my hair won’t lie flat?”
“Idiot,” she said. She couldn’t say why, but she felt enormously relieved that he had grumped at her. She hoped it meant he had gotten over whatever it was that was bothering him and would be willing to talk again. Going down from the seventh floor and back toward the Gryffindor tower, she ran into Ron, who was on his way to breakfast.
"I got an interview!" Ron said immediately.
"Good morning, Ron," Hermione said. "Did you sleep well? I slept fine.”
She would have gone on a bit, but Harry cut her off. " 'Course you did," he said calmly. "You're a headboy."
"Well, it was good for something then," Ron answered. "Cause if you want to know the truth, the whole headboy thing is overrated. A lot of work running around after snot-nosed first and second years, you didn't miss a thing."
Hermione snorted with annoyance. She knew perfectly well how chuffed Ron had been to get the honor. Now he was pretending to be cool about it; that it didn't matter; and to Harry, who would have gotten the honor in any other circumstances.
Harry merely grinned, however, and Ron, that annoying man said airily, "Did you hear teapot whistle? I dunno about you, but I want a proper breakfast before I have to meet with some Ministry official."
"So do I," Harry said.
He turned and started down to the Great Hall until Hermione coughed and said, "You're not going like that. You're wearing the same clothes as yesterday."
"How observant of you," Harry said.
Men, she thought. Boys, rather, since they were both acting as though they were twelve again. And how galling to have Harry saying that to her in that excessively polite voice he used sometimes in lieu of the nasty sarcasm he probably meant. She gave him her nastiest version of The Look and noticed that he looked as though he were wearing the same clothes he'd been wearing on the day of the St. Mungo's tour. She started to say something and then thought better of it as he gave her a warning look and stalked off toward the tower as if he'd always meant to go there.
"I told you, Hermione," Ron said, "lay off him."
"What is this?" she asked. "All of a sudden I'm not good enough to talk to? No longer to be trusted?" she asked. She felt truly hurt and insulted, but Ron laid a hand on her arm and pulled her to him.
"You don't understand," he said.
"And you do?" she retorted.
"No," he replied. "But I know when to back off. You weren't there, so you didn't see it, what happened. Sometimes, things can just be too much and the mind has to shut off for a bit."
"You're saying that's happened to Harry?" she asked.
"Yeah," he answered. "How many people can you stand to see die or be maimed, before you just have to shut down altogether? I didn't even see all of it," he added, "but what I saw, I'm seeing at night, over and over again. And you know what, I don't have to share the occasional living space in my brain with Lord Voldemort either. So if it's bothering me, think what it's doing to Harry." She felt quite sick then and ashamed.
"I didn't realize," she said. "You didn't tell me what happened, either of you."
He sighed and kissed her lightly and said, "You should have been there. It wouldn't have gone so badly if you had been."
***
Freshly washed and dressed, Harry presented himself for his interview with the Ministry with his hair lying as flat as it ever got. When he entered the classroom that had been converted into an office for the interviews, however, he thought he might as well not have bothered.
Minster Fudge was seated behind the ancient desk. His lime green bowler resting to one side, and a large leather journal was open in front of him with notes written in violet ink in a tiny crabbed hand showing on the creamy parchment. And in a chair to one side dressed in a Muggle suit was Inspector Bones. Harry glanced warily at Bones and waited for Fudge to say something. Fudge gestured to Harry to sit and examined him with little enthusiasm.
"Well, Harry," Fudge said. "There was a time I'd have sworn you'd never be sitting in that chair across from me, but it just goes to show, doesn't it?"
Bones made no comment, but Harry thought he could detect loathing for Fudge in his silvery eyes, though it was quite well concealed. Harry did not respond to Fudge, as he could not think of a single thing to say that would be remotely polite.
"Yes, well," Fudge began again, "we have reviewed your application and everything is in order. We have the certification from the examiners that your NEWTs were sufficient and the certification from Professor Dumbledore that your classwork has all been completed." He coughed and shifted uneasily in his chair.
Harry ought to have felt relieved that he had passed his NEWTs, but Fudge being there had thrown him. He had not expected the Minister himself to come to the interview. And he could not imagine what the Scotland Yard Inspector was doing there either. He settled for nodding politely and saying, as Uncle Vernon might, "Very good, sir."
Bones gave him a quick glance, but said nothing still. Fudge harrumphed again and said, "I'll get straight to the point, then. We, that is to say, the Ministry's hiring committee, have accepted your application. You will be assigned to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement as an auror, and you are to report to work on the first of August promptly at eight am."
"Really?" Harry asked. "Just like that? I thought, you know, you were going to ask further questions. I mean, it says it's an interview?" He was astonished and though he was trying to be happy, he thought there had to be a catch in it somehow. He caught Inspector Bones looking at him and thought that the emotion in his silvery eyes was pity, and that didn't bode well at all, never mind that he had just been given exactly what he had wanted.
"You don't want the job?" Fudge asked.
"Of course, I do," Harry, answered. He was reminded of the time he had run away from Privet Drive and Fudge had greeted him at The Leaky Cauldron. He had been expecting a reprimand that time and got none. There had to be a catch to it, he thought.
Fudge breathed a sigh of relief and said, "Yes, well," again. "You'll have noticed that inspector Bones is here, too." Harry nodded and waited again.
"The thing is," Fudge, said, "we're assigning a few of our aurors to a special Task Force. I've been in close communication with the Muggle Prime Minister for many months and what we've decided is this. The members of the Task Force will be officially aurors in our Ministry, but they will be assigned to train and work directly under the Prime Minsiter's Department Number 7. Inspector Bones is going to be the liason. The Department's primary assignment will be to go after the any dark wizards that commit acts of magical terror against Muggles. But you will, of course, do whatever you are assigned by your immediate superiors. Is that clear?"
"I'm working for Muggles?" Harry asked. "I'm not really working for the Ministry at all, then?" Fudge looked irritated and wiped his forehead with a snowy, lace-edged handkerchief.
"That's right," Inspector Bones said calmly. "Welcome to the world of high politics and secret agencies. You'll be required to sign the Official Secrets Act and you'll receive your pay from Her Majesty's government. You start as a civil servant, junior grade, and will receive the
appropriate rises in salary as you complete training and receive promtions in grade."
"You're joking," Harry said.
"Not at all," Bones said. "They've gone and sold you down the river, which Dumbledore has been delaying for the last ten months. At least you got to finish your training at Hogwarts and take your NEWTs. And who knows, maybe someday You Know Who will become allergic to his own posion and some more decent Ministry will remember how many times you've done their dirty work for them, even though you weren't even of age."
Harry could not think how to react. He was to be an auror, but not an auror at all. He was being handed over to the Muggle Prime Minister to placate the government, to make them think that the Ministry of Magic was "cooperating." And in reality, the Ministry was ensuring that he would be out of the way.
Harry stared at Fudge accusingly. "What if I don't want to be in this Task Force?" he asked.
"Then you have no job," Fudge answered. "And I can guarantee you, no one else will hire you either. No one else will be willing to take the risk that The Boy Who Lived isn't really a dark wizard after all. No one else wants to take the risk that You- know-Who will show up at work one day and kill a whole lot of valuable employees just to get at his rival."
Harry stared at Fudge and thought this was worse than being attacked by Death Eaters. What good was it standing up to them, standing up to Voldemort time after time, only to be treated as if he had the plague? His disillusionment must have showed, because Fudge looked abruptly embarrassed.
He wiped his face again and said, "Look, I know I've not always done well by you. I've made some mistakes. But you have to see, Potter, that the future of the wizard world is riding on this. The Statute of Secrecy will be repealed, and not by us wizards, but by the Prime Minister's announcement on the Muggle news, if I don't give them something. They want you, so I'm doing what's best for everyone."
"I see," Harry said. "But I am officially to be an auror," he said.
"Yes, yes," Fudge said.
"And I get a Ministry I.D. and all," Harry continued. Fudge nodded nervously.
"And," Harry said, thinking he'd learned a thing or two from Uncle Vernon after all, "I'll have a rise in my Ministry of Magic grade each time I get one in the Muggle department?"
"Certainly," Fudge said smoothly now. "And if," he added, "You Know Who is dealt with, who knows, perhaps the Muggles won't want to be bothered with us wizards again?"
Harry stood and bowed just a little to Fudge, as he might to an enemy with whom he had just dueled. "Thank you, sir," he said.
Bones followed him out and said, "I'm sorry."
"Yeah, I know," Harry, answered. "Lucky you, you get foisted with a walking time bomb. I don't know why I accepted."
"You didn't have any choice," Bones replied. Harry shook his head. He never had, had he?
By lunchtime, the interviews were complete, and the seventh years that had applied to the Ministry were divided into three groups: those who had been hired; those who had been rejected; and those who were still under consideration. Of those who had been hired, some knew what department they would be in and spoke excitedly about it; others either did not know, or like Harry, did not want to discuss it.
Dean Thomas had been taken on for the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Department, which had never replaced Mr. Weasley. Harry thought Dean was disappointed though he did not say so. Ernie Macmillan was attached to the Minister’s Office as a Junior Undersecretary, a posting that he was thrilled about as he thought it was the quickest road to being Minister himself. Susan Bones had been brought in to her Auntie Amelia’s Department of Magical Law Enforcement, though she had no idea what her duties were. Neither Ron nor Hermione had said what they were doing, though both admitted briefly to being hired.
Harry drifted outside and sat down under the beech tree where they had sat so often, to study, to complain, to plan their latest adventures. Hermione and Ron followed after. Characteristically, Hermione sank down economically and sat with her arms wrapped about her knees. Ron slumped down and leaned back against the tree and sighed. They both looked at Harry as if they wanted to ask what had happened, but were afraid to find out how bad it was.
Finally, Ron asked, “Well? Are you in, or not?”
“Yes, and no,” Harry answered. He transferred his gaze to the lake where the giant squid was sunning its tentacles out of the water and a group of first years were tossing stones in trying to make them jump.
“What does that mean?” Ron demanded.
“I’m hired,” Harry answered shortly. He didn’t want to say how badly he felt, as he knew it would seem ungrateful and he didn’t want to take away any of his friends’ pleasure in their appointments.
“I got in as an auror,” Ron said abruptly. “I didn’t expect it really. Not that department.” He shook his head almost in wonder.
“Me, too,” Hermione said. She cast an expectant glance at Harry, waiting for him to explain.
“You’re an auror?” he asked Hermione. “I thought you didn’t apply to that department?”
“I didn’t,” she answered. A frown creased her forehead. “I gather they need aurors rather desperately on account of the Death Eaters and I’ve got the grades in the subjects they want. They said I could transfer to another department later if I want, if things quiet down someday.”
“If I kill Voldemort, you mean,” Harry said.
“That’s not what I meant,” she exclaimed.
“No,” Harry answered, “it’s what they hope. They hope we’ll kill each other off and get rid of all their worries.”
“That’s just…” Ron sputtered, “It’s crazy. Don’t be such a git. Nobody wants you dead. Except Voldemort, I suppose.”
Hermione, however, did not say anything. “It’s awful, isn’t it,” she after a moment, “You’ve fought him off so many times, and now they think you must be as bad as him or you wouldn’t have survived. It’s so stupid! They don’t think Dumbledore’s a dark wizard.”
“Dumbledore never survived the Killing Curse either,” Ron said quietly. Harry shrugged. “You do know how bloody annoying that is,” Ron said. “I wish you’d talk. Get mad. What did they say?”
“It was Fudge,” Harry answered. “Did either of you two meet with him?” They shook their heads no and it confirmed what Harry had thought. He must have been the only student to be interviewed by Fudge directly. “Well, I’m officially an auror,” he said.
“That’s brilliant,” Ron said. “Then we’ll be working together!” Harry shook his head.
“No, we won’t.” He plowed on, seeing the shock on their faces and said, “I’m officially an auror, but I’m being sent to work for the Muggles.” He grimaced. Just saying it still left a bad taste in his mouth, the sour taste of betrayal.
“How?” Hermione asked.
“It’s a Special Task Force,” Harry said sarcastically. “Minister Fudge’s own gift to the Muggle Prime Minister, His charity sale like an Oxfam attic clearance. It’s to keep them from letting the Muggles know all about us; to protect our so-called secrecy, what Voldemort hasn’t destroyed already.”
“Wait a minute,” Ron said. “Special Task Force? It’s to fight Voldemort, isn’t it? And the Death eaters? Right?”
“Supposedly,” Harry said.
“But that’s where they’re assigning me, too,” Ron said. “They said, a Special Task Force. Only they didn’t say anything about Muggles.”
“Me, too,” Hermione said faintly. Harry stared at her and she said, “No, no Muggles mentioned to me either. How odd.”
“I don’t see why it’s so bad,” Ron said.
“You don’t get it,” Harry said. “It’s the next thing to expelling me altogether. If I work for the Muggles, I won’t be allowed to use magic, except in the most extreme and dangerous circumstances. It’s the next best thing they can do to actually breaking my wand. It’s a kind of exile, until I kill Voldemort. Or he kills me. Or…”
“Well, at least we’ll be together,” Hermione, said quietly.
“How do you reckon that?” Harry asked.
“How many Special Task Forces can there be?” Hermione replied. “It makes sense, too. They get rid of us along with you, so we won’t make a stink. And they present it in such a way that we can’t object, because, of course, we’ve been hired. And we have to accept whatever assignment we’re given, don’t we?”
“My Dad would love to have this job,” Ron said with a sudden hoot of laughter. “Just think. His all-time ambition, to be directly involved with Muggles and see their world, how they live.” He laughed again and said, “Cheer up mate. It’s not nearly as bad as you think.”
“Oh?” Harry said.
“Yeah,” Ron said. “I mean, most Muggles wouldn’t recognize real magic if it hit them slap in the face anyway. And if we’re supposed to be fighting Voldemort, then some of them will have to know what we are and what we’re up to. And just think, we won’t have to see Percy every morning after all.” Harry found a small grin sneaking up on him at that, and Hermione looked daggers at Ron, and then relented and laughed a bit, too.
“It’s too bad Ginny’s only a sixth year,” Hermione said. “She’ll have a fit when she finds out we’ve been assigned together and she’s not included.”
“Don’t say anything,” Ron said. “She’ll quit school like Fred and George and try to join us and Mum’ll never speak to me again.”
***
From the windows in Dumbledore's round office, Bones watched the three friends, but mostly the untidy black headed one who was at the heart of it all. His slumped posture spoke of exhaustion and perhaps despair, So Bones was startled when laughter floated up along with a lazy summer breeze to make itself heard through the open window. A girl whose vivid red hair matched that of the other boy raced out to join them. She bestowed a fleeting kiss on the boy’s cheek and said something that made him laugh.
They all laughed and Bones said quietly, “What can they be laughing at?”
Beside him, Dumbledore watched the scene with a peculiar mixture of pleasure and sorrow. “I can’t imagine,” the elderly wizard said. “I seem to have forgotten it more and more lately.”
“Forgotten what?” Bones asked.
“What it’s like to be that young,” Dumbledore replied. “The extremity of it,” he added, “that change from despair to dizzying happiness all in a moment, with nothing false about either feeling in the instant it’s felt. I watch them sometimes and try to recall it. But I can’t recapture it.”
As if he had felt them watching, the black head turned and a pale oval lifted to look up in their direction. The lean boy stood in a single fluid movement and the coiled tension in the poise of his stance was that of a hunted animal, always wary and on the alert. He shook himself lightly and then spoke a word and the others followed him back to the Castle with casual shrugs that said they would do whatever the boy did, go wherever he led, if only to humor him, or provide company to lighten his dark perceptions.
Bones thought back to the brief interview with Fudge, and to the even briefer one he'd had earlier with the Prime Minister. He wondered if either one of them truly realized what they had done or what they had gotten. He wondered whether he, along with them, would be punished in some way by fate for having a hand in shoving the boy on toward his destiny. He looked at Dumbledore and saw that the old man's sorrow was such that he must be eaten by it inside, for being one face of fate himself.
***
All through dinner, that casual kiss hummed through him, and Harry fled from the common room as early as he could, seeking to avoid the need, the desire for solace that he thought must be controlled. When he entered the Room of Requirement thinking that he might at least get another night of nightmare free sleep, he found it was, in fact, occuppied.
"What are you doing here?" he asked. He could not tell whether he felt anger or delight that his deepest wish was answered.
"I followed you last night," Ginny answered calmly. "I wanted to know where you go when you disappear like that."
"I come here to be alone," he said. "I don't want people hearing me. I want to be alone when I sleep."
"You should never be alone," she answered. "You've been left alone too much, for too long."
"You don't understand," he said desperately. "I'm dangerous. I'm dangerous to you most of all, because I lose control when I'm with you." She looked pleased at that. Then she reached out a hand, but did not touch him.
"You know what I think," she said, "I think that's the one thing Voldemort can't abide. I think it's the thing he fears the most of all. More than Dumbledore, he's afraid of you escaping him, of you being free of him. And you're never more free then when you surrender everything to someone else, instead of him."
Hope leapt inside him and he moved then to kiss her. He said softly into her ear, almost as a prayer, "Do you think I will be punished for this, for daring to love?" He didn't wait for an answer though. He would take what punishment might come in exchange for one untrammeled night of freedom.
