The Heart of Gryffindor
by SJR0301
Chapter Thirty
Harry pushed Neville's hand away and with trembling fingers pressed the vein in her neck. A faint bump beneath his fingers reassured him, and for a second, relief washed through him. It would be all right after all. Then he knew it would not be all right, it would never be all right, could never be, so long as Voldemort was alive. So long as Voldemort was alive, more people would be harmed. No one could be safe. Hogwarts could not be safe. All around him, bodies were strewn, some bloody, some unmarked altogether.
Many were dead. Goblins, humans, house-elves, trolls. What did it matter which they were? None of them deserved to be dead. None of them, he thought, would be dead today if he had done what he ought to have done months ago. Rage rose up in him: at Voldemort, for being the cause of it all; at himself, for failing to act when he should have; at fate, for choosing him. Grief came, too, for all that was lost, all that would be lost. But most of all, he felt a painful kind of love, for Ginny, for his friends, Ron and Hermione, and Neville, too. For Dumbledore for all his attempts to shelter Harry. For Mrs. Weasley. For this place of magic, Hogwarts, his home. He lifted Ginny up and placed her still unconscious body in Ron's arms. Then he picked up his sword and searched the lines of the enemy one more time for his destiny.
"Voldemort!" he cried out, as loudly as he could. His voice echoed across the field of battle, and as though the very word, the very sound of that name were an ill-wind, things seemed to still, combatants froze, noise hushed. There came no reply, however, so he called out again.
"Voldemort! Come out you ba*** stard!" But still, there was no answer, and no tall hooded form appeared. Fury surfaced once more.
"Come on, you coward!" he roared louder. His voice cracked on it, but he screamed again, thinking he would deafen the world, crack it in half, if need be, to summon forth his enemy.
"You want me!" he cried, "Here I am! Come and get me, you son of Muggle! Do you tell your followers that's what you are, Tom Riddle?" Yet, no one replied and no one appeared, and still the field of battle seemed frozen, though he knew it was not, and that only seconds had passed in truth. He stared down toward the burnt Forest, waiting, but still, no one came. He couldn't, Harry thought in disbelief, he couldn't have sent this huge army here and stayed behind himself. That wasn't possible. A murmur behind him turned him back. Ginny had woken and was struggling to be put down.
Harry stepped back to help her, and knelt as she wobbled downward, shaky from the stunning spell that had caught her. Harry touched her face, needing the contact of warm flesh to tell him again she was alive. Her face was pale beneath the always vivid red hair, which shone in the sunlight, alive with its own fire. When her eyes widened, he was slow to turn, being loath to take his gaze from her.
The sizzling green light missed him by inches as he turned just in time to catch the flash of Neville's impediment spell that spoiled Voldemort's aim and deprived him one more time of Harry's death. Neville struck again quickly, with the vicious purple light that had cut off Bellatrix Lestrange's arm; but the light was deflected off of a shield of light and Harry, and Ginny and Ron all had to duck in order to avoid its wicked slice.
Voldemort struck again, another Killing Curse, and Harry's scar was a knife splitting his skull apart. He could not have moved to defend himself, but Neville did, stepping forward to fling another impediment spell at the monster's glowing red eyes. The spell could not stop it, not the unblockable curse, and the light struck Neville square in the chest and he fell in one awkward swoop, his gray eyes empty before his body hit the ground.
"Are you brave now, Harry Potter?" Voldemort asked. "Are you ready to die, too?" The red eyes of his other glowed with pleasure.
Harry rose and lifted his sword to point at Voldemort and the red heart of the ruby glowed more true and brilliant than his other's eyes. "Are you?" he whispered. With a flash, Voldemort brought his own sword up, and Harry smiled. He knew exactly what he must do and exactly how to do it.
***
The world had stopped, Hermione thought. Time had stopped. Above, black smoke still clouded the sky and the sun shone brilliantly through, flashing off of the silver sword and making it run with fire. She blinked, but oddly, though she had thought it a trick of the eye, it seemed as though she could see, burning with its own red light, and partially obscuring the sun, the rocky dry landscape of Mars. She wavered, trying to decide whether attacking Voldemort herself would only distract Harry and make things worse. Ron, she saw, had not thought. He put Ginny to the side and raised his own sword. His eyes were flat and entirely devoid of any humor. But even as they moved forward to stand beside their friend, Harry flung his sword up high and cried, “Protego Maximus!” Golden light flew out and formed a circle about Harry and Voldemort. A gesture of his hand brought the light up, so that it formed a great globe or dome and enclosed them in entirely.
Inside the dome, Voldemort took one small step back. Harry smiled: such a smile that made her hair stand on end.
“Like it?” he asked. “It’s an invention of my own. I rather thought it might come down to this, just you and me, and no one else.”
“Let us in,” Ron cried. “You can’t do this alone!” Harry did not take his eyes off of Voldemort’s uncanny red ones.
“Well, I can’t do that you see. If I let you in, he can get out. So long as this stays, no one can get in and no one can get out.” He made a move with his sword, a small economical one that lightly caught Voldemort’s blade on his own. “You want out,” he added, “you’ll really have to kill me this time.” So the fight began.
Voldemort wasted no more breath, but responded to Harry’s move with one of his own. His sword lit up with green fire and Harry’s flared with a golden-red light of its own. The fight, she thought, looked much like a repetition of last year’s, with one exception. This time, Harry was truly in charge. He drove forward with precise movements and though Voldemort responded, he could not stop the flurry of lightning quick attacks. All he could do was defend himself.
The red eyes were slitted with monumental hate and Hermione saw, even through the fine haze of the magical shield that isolated the two, the very instant where Voldemort launched a different attack. Harry stumbled once and cried out in fury or pain. Voldemort lifted his own sword and stood nearly rigid. His red eyes had lost their glow and looked like the empty glass eyes of a stuffed animal, and she understood that he was gambling everything. If he came out the winner, there would be no Harry left; there would only Voldemort, in possession of Harry’s body and life.
She screamed then, cried out Harry’s name. Everything was there in that name. His life, his essence was bound into it, and if only she cried it out loud enough, he must respond. Perhaps it helped; she could not say. After a breath, then two, then three, the light was back in Voldemort’s eyes, and the fury and the hatred, as he stumbled this time.
Harry leaped back at him, pushing him back with the flat of the sword so that Voldemort was shoved right into the golden light of the shield, which continued to glow about the two men. A sound was wrenched from the dark wizard that resembled nothing so much as the furious wail of a two-year old having a tantrum. It was a high whistle, pitched like that of a teakettle on the boil. He flung himself forward off the shield, rebounding at Harry and driving his own sword up again so hard that Harry had to slide sideways to escape it.
There was no pause though, for even as Harry slid to the side, he recovered and leapt at Voldemort with the speed of a great panther. Whatever hurt he might have sustained from Voldemort’s mental attack showed not at all. The green eyes were perfectly cool and intent. He fought now, without rage, without fear, but with a cool and perfect precision that had one pre-planned result. Hermione could see that he was literally choreographing the movements now. Each movement of his own was designed to draw a particular response from Voldemort. And each led in a precise progression to the final conclusion. Or so she thought.
A neat twist of Harry’s sword, and Voldemort’s flew high and wide right into the shield of light. The golden web flared bright and the still burning green fire of the dark wizard’s sword exploded against it. The sword glowed blindingly greener; then with a white-gold flare as bright as an exploding star, it flashed into nothingness. Around them, onlookers cheered, even, astonishingly, some of those that had fought blank-eyed beneath the Imperious Curse.
Hermione did not, for Voldemort still stood and more astonishingly, Harry had not followed through. He had not made the final, strike that would take his enemy’s life forever. A high, triumphant laugh sounded. The red eyes were lit with an unholy glee and Hermione saw that Voldemort had drawn his wand.
“So here we are, Harry Potter,” the monster said coldly. “You called me coward, but it is you who cannot make the final end. You lack the strength to do it, don’t you? You can’t, in cold blood, go for the kill.”
He raised the wand, and Hermione felt as though her heart would explode. She wanted to cry out, to say, kill him, just do it. But she feared that any sound would be a distraction. Like every other person on the field of battle, she held her breath and prayed. Like every other watcher, she was altogether surprised when Harry laughed. It wasn’t like Voldemort’s though. No, it was rather more like a chuckle, as though he had heard a very good joke.
“I think, you know, that I was right in the first place.” Harry said. “You are a coward. It’s you who hesitate and I know why. You are afraid. You’re afraid if you use that spell on me, Avada Kedavra, you’ll fail again, just like you did last time.” The drawn wand, held high and ready, did not waver.
Harry smiled again and said in just the same defiant tone he might use to challenge Draco Malfoy, “Go on and do it. But I bet you won’t dare, will you?” He was still smiling and he made no move, none at all, to defend himself when the green light struck him. He fell. The lean body tipped and went down in a single piece. Voldemort gave a cry of unspeakable triumph but Hermione could not utter a sound of her own for she saw that the beautiful, brilliant, green eyes were open and empty.
The green light of the spell, that was as green as Harry’s own eyes, flared up again and in an instant, the rush of it had rebounded back upon its author, engulfing him completely. Voldemort’s cry of triumph altered to a scream of absolute rage, then absolute terror as he was flung back into the still shining dome of light. The green light flared and exploded into the gold. She could see the monster then, poised for one final second, as the light ate him up, dissolved him, dematerialized him into the same nothingness as his sword had been before. Then the light died and the golden web of magic with it, and all that was left was the still body of the one with the greatest heart of all. She understood then, quite clearly, that Harry had known the end all the time. He had made it happen, just so, knowing what victory must cost him.
***
With a thump, he was weightless, flying free. Below him, the light spiraled down in concentric circles and he seemed to be looking down into the very well of Time. Bits of time swirled below. In one circle, a tiny Harry ran from a barking dog. In another, a larger Harry flew on a broomstick laughing. In yet another, he swam up through a lake of water, struggling to drag Ron and Gabrielle Delacoeur along with him. He felt nothing at all until he saw in one circle the looming mirror in which his mother and his father and many Potters and Evanses stood waving to him.
Then he felt joy, for the light drew him up, and he saw that the frame of the mirror was not a frame at all, but the outlines of a golden gate, and he had only to push through the gate to be where he had yearned for so long. His Mum was there. She was more beautiful than he had imagined and her smile more filled with more love than words could say. His Dad was there, too, and with a jump of surprise, Harry felt as though he were truly looking in the mirror. It came to him with a start that his Mum and Dad had been hardly older than he was when they had died.
But they were not dead, were they? He was here, wherever here was, and so were they. His Dad held out his arms and said, “You did good, son. We’re so very proud of you.”
Harry’s heart filled then with joy and with peace. He pushed at the gate, wanting to get through, to be taken in the embrace that he had long desired. His Mum smiled tenderly at him reached a slender hand through the gate to caress his face.
“We love you,” she said softly. He did not understand why she wept until she said softer still, “It’s not time yet.”
His Dad protested, “It is. It is too late now for anything else.” His Mum shook her head and behind the two of them, Harry saw a greater light shining, too bright to look at.
“It’s not yet time,” his Mum repeated. He felt himself falling back through the well away from the light. Softly, whispering through the dark, the voice followed him, “We love you.” Then he was alone again in the dark and he felt and knew no more.
***
Without Voldemort, the compulsion that had driven so many to fight was ended. Men blinked and stopped to stare in bewilderment. Dark creatures turned and fled into the dark depths of the Forest, and the hooded Death-Eaters, those that were left, fled right behind. Hermione could not lift her wand. Ginny had thrown herself down and she wept. Her red hair cascaded about the still body, and she resisted when Dumbledore tried to pull her away. Hermione moved then and took the younger girl’s hand and held her, wondering why she could not yet cry herself.
The elderly wizard looked utterly spent and his blue eyes were filled with a grief and weariness that made her wonder whether he might soon follow where Harry had gone. He conjured a pallet and stooping, lifted Harry’s body onto it and crossed the thin arms upon his breast with the great Sword of Gryffindor clasped in the now lifeless hands. A flick of his wand lifted the pallet into the air and the great ruby heart reflected back the fire of the sun as they fell in behind the floating body.
“It’s not right,” Hermione thought. She said it out loud, bewildered, and because it seemed there was no justice. It was altogether wrong that Harry should be dead. The universe was changed, diminished, and nothing could be right again.
Another flash surprised her, but it was not the flash of a spell. It was the flash of a light bulb from Colin Creevey’s camera. She raised her wand and nearly killed him then, until she saw the rain of tears pouring down the younger boy’s face, for the loss of his hero. Other faces followed, also drenched with tears; but Hermione could not cry.
Dumbledore floated the pallet with Harry’s body into the Castle and up the stairs. When he reached the Great Hall, he gestured for those following to remain behind, but continued up the stairs toward the entrance to the Headmaster’s office. She thought, he ought to have gone to the infirmary. It’s all wrong, all wrong. She followed behind him and after a brief hesitation, so did Ron and Ginny. When the revolving stairs opened, they followed behind and Dumbledore did not prevent them. The office door with the griffin doorknocker opened on its own, and Dumbledore moved the body to a cushiony daybed that sat under one of the large leaded windows.
The mellow afternoon sun glowed on Harry’s quiet face, illuminating the fine bones and wings of his brows. The lightning scar that had stood out so vividly, like a lurid banner inviting the wonder of all, was no more than a fine, nearly invisible shadow, a mere memory of the curse. It seemed impossible to think that he was dead. Someone had closed the green eyes, so it appeared as if he was only sleeping. All the taut look of strain that had haunted him lately was gone. But she could not, would not accept that it was over.
A soft trill from a corner of the room thrilled through her. She lifted her head with wild hope, only to have it dashed once more. The so familiar sound came from Fawkes, not Harry. Fawkes tipped his head and sang a single note again, almost questioning, and Hermione was reminded painfully of the mornings she had woken Harry, and he had tipped his bird’s head in just that fashion and looked at her with brilliant, inhuman, green eyes.
In the background, the portraits of old Headmasters were talking, but Hermione could not make out a word they said. Dumbledore had said something and Ron responded, but she could make no sense of it. Only one thought possessed her. Unthinkable, impossible. She dared not. And yet if she did not dare, and soon, it must truly and really be too late. Taking no time to reflect, she drew her wand and spoke the words of the animagus spell.
Ron gasped and Dumbledore shouted, but she simply did not take in what they said. The spell worked its magic, as she knew, hoped, it must. The body on bed the changed, like a film speeded up, and the youth became a bird once more. Like the youth, the bird was dead. Its red-gold feathers shone in the sun. Then suddenly, as though the sun were envious of the pure gold tail, the feathers fell all at once and the bird burst into flames, disintegrated into a small pile of ashes. Sound came back and sense.
“What have you done?” Dumbledore roared. “He’s dead! Can you not leave him in peace?” Out of the ashes, a bare, ugly baby bird poked its head. Its eyes were a brilliant green and on its chest and face were faint shadows of scars. She ought to have felt joy, but now she felt only terror. What had she done? Both Ron and Ginny were looking at the bird with the same astonishment and disbelief and superstitious awe.
“Bloody Hell!” Ron whispered. “I dunno whether that’s bloody brilliant or bloody mad?”
“Reverse it!” Ginny begged. “Bring him back, now. I want to see him now!”
Hermione lifted her wand, but Dumbledore seized her hand. “Not yet,” he said. The blue eyes were suddenly alive again. “Not yet. He has to grow back to his proper size before you change him back.” He paused, with a curious expression on his face. Then he turned and said quietly to them, “Listen, all of you. You must say nothing of this to anyone. I don’t know, Miss Granger, whether this is indeed your most brilliant endeavor to date, or whether it is just, as Mr. Weasley said, plain mad.” He paused as if to collect his thoughts and went on.
“Well, I have a fair reputation for eccentricity myself.” Then more soberly, he added, “But you must know, there is a possibility that you may still not have your friend back. I know of no other such thing in wizarding history. We shall not know the result of this, for several days, and I fear, it would do great harm and put…him in danger, if anyone were to know of this.”
Tenderly, Dumbledore reached out and lifted up the tiny bird in the palm of his hand. He set it on the perch next to Fawkes, who tipped his head and covered it with one large wing. Then he lifted up the Sword of Gryffindor, which had fallen to the side during the transformation, and set it into the glass case where it had lain for so many years awaiting its heir. The light picked out the letters on its side, HARRY POTTER and GRYFFINDOR. And the golden lion seemed to smile in the light.
For several days, they were hard put not to visit the Headmaster’s office. Three times a day, one or the other of them would say, “I can’t stand it. I have to go see him.” Then it would be up to the others make the third see sense. The last days of school drifted by slowly, unreal.
They kept busy most of the time, for there had been many injured and too many killed. And far too many of the dead were those they knew. Neville and Padma Patil and Terry Boot and, of course, Luna Lovegood. Seamus had spent days in the infirmary and might have a permanent limp as a result of the goblin arrow.
On the morning after the great battle, the Daily Prophet had huge headlines. DARK LORD DEAD: THE TRIUMPH OF THE BOY WHO LIVED. And then there was the one that read simply, IN MEMORIAM, HARRY POTTER.” Hermione had stopped reading then, for the picture of him as he lay on the pallet, still and unbreathing with his hands clasped on the sword like an effigy of some ancient knight brought her finally to tears.
The Castle was ghostly quiet. They ought to have been joyous, rejoicing at the end of Voldemort’s terror. Instead, they could only tell over and over, tales of those who had fought bravely. Worst of all was Hagrid. He went about the Castle and the grounds with a lost look, often bumping into people and knocking them over. Tears would leak out and drench his moleskin coat, and he would howl and then retreat to his Hut in misery. None of them could bear to say anything to him for fear he would be unable to keep their secret in his happiness. And they were too terrified that their hopes would be shattered when they attempted to reverse the transformation.
On the last day, the Hogwarts Express took off without them. Ron had made some vague excuse about the Headboy and Headgirl having to stay to help the injured and no one had the energy to question them. It was not until the next day that Dumbledore summoned them into his office.
Two birds were perched side by side on the one bar. Two crimson feathered creatures, swan-like and lovely, but only one had green eyes, like emeralds. Dumbledore reached out and tapped the green-eyed one on his legs and the bird stepped onto his arm as if by reflex.
“Please,” Ginny said. “We can’t wait any longer.”
Without reply, Dumbledore tossed the bird in the air. It flapped its wings a bit and hovered as if unsure where to go. The spell struck it and the bird transformed. Its body grew taller and its legs reached down to the floor. Wings shrank into arms and tail feathers disappeared. Only the green eyes remained the same, jewel-bright and inhuman. No one spoke. Harry stared at them and said nothing. His eyes seemed to be looking inward, into some far distant place that none of them could reach or know.
It was Ron, of course, who broke the silence. “Harry?” he asked.
The green eyes blinked and focused. “I had a dream,” he said vaguely in the huskiest voice. “I had this dream that you and Hermione were wearing crowns and Draco Malfoy was riding on a dragon.” Then he tipped his head, just like the bird and said, “Was it a true dream, do you think?”
Ron said nervously, “Well, close. It was Hagrid how rode the dragon. Do you remember?”
He nodded, and the untidy black hair flopped over his face as it always did. Very softly, then, almost plaintively, he said to Hermione, “Why’d you bring me back?” Hermione was silenced utterly. Her throat closed up and she thought, I will not cry. I won’t.
It was Ginny who answered, “Because we love you, you great stupid git.”
He opened his mouth in an “oh” of surprise, and said, “I forgot. How could I forget that?”
Then Ginny hurled herself at him and so did Hermione and even Ron. She looked up and saw to her everlasting astonishment that tears were running down Dumbledore’s face. Fawkes trilled another long, liquid note and she thought: it’s finally over.
Harry wobbled beneath their combined hugs, and Hermione stepped back and said in her most severe voice, "Give the man room to breathe!"
Ron obeyed and slung an arm around her neck. He was grinning madly and knuckling his eyes with the back of his hand to conceal his tears.
Only Ginny still held on to him, and he swayed a little under her tight clasp. Harry wobbled a bit more, and then sat on the couch. His shoulders were slumped and his green eyes were glazed with exhaustion. "I'm awfully tired," he said, and he seemed quite puzzled about it, like a child who had played longer and run farther than he should have.
Dumbledore moved forward then and gently urged him down. "Sleep, then," he said softly, "No dreams will mar your sleep this time." With the softest of sighs, Harry closed his eyes and slept once more.
Dumbledore frowned and felt his pulse and waved his wand over Harry's lax form. He picked up Harry in his arms, a feat that quite astonished Hermione, and carried the sleeping young man toward the door.
"What's wrong?" Ron asked. "Why is he so tired when he just woke up and where are you taking him?"
"I don't know exactly," Dumbledore answered. "But in truth, Mr. Weasley, I don't really know why he's alive at all." He glanced down at Harry sleeping face and tightened his grip on him almost imperceptibly. "As for where, I'm taking him to the infirmary. The other students have all left by now and I think it would be best if Madam Pomfrey checked him over."
"He hasn't slept well in ages," Hermione blurted out. "I started changing him, you know, because he couldn't sleep. He was roaming the common room all night, and when he didn't...well, Ron told me he woke the others with nightmares."
"That's true," Ron said. "But that still doesn't explain how you knew the spell and how you knew what he'd change into, and..."
Dumbledore gave Hermione a sharp look and said, "You may explain everything to Mr. Weasley and myself shortly. But first, Madam Pomfrey must have a look at him." Harry did not stir, not even when they pulled his boots off to slide him under the sheets in one of the hopital wing's beds.
Madam Pomfrey gave a cry of shock when she saw him there and kept saying, "Oh, my! Oh, my! Oh, my!" until Dumbledore said calmly, "Now, Poppy. We're keeping this quiet for the moment. We don't want any Death Eaters coming after him when he's in no shape to defend himself."
Recovering, she muttered, "Always doing something dangerous. It's always the delicate ones that insist on getting into trouble."
"He is all right, isn't he?" Ginny asked anxiously.
Madam Pomfrey tsked, and felt his pulse for more than a minute. "There's nothing physically wrong that I can see," she said after a bit, "except his pulse is not as steady and regular as it should be."
She looked back at Dumbledore and said, "Well? What ought I to know that you're not telling me?"
Dumbledore answered with only the briefest of pauses, "There's nothing really, Poppy. It's only surprising he's alive, considering his heart stopped cold and we had a time of it getting it going again."
Hermione felt Ron and Ginny stare at the Headmaster in surprise and only kept herself from doing the same by staring at Madam Pomfrey's wand, which hovered over Harry's chest and quivered slightly. "Nobody's heart gets going again after being struck by the Killing Curse," the healer responded.
"No one but Harry Potter," Dumbledore said calmly and very dryly. Madam Pomfrey shook her head and bustled away. She returned quickly with a beaker of potion and quickly administered it and still Harry did not wake. Afterwards, she sat on the edge of his bed with her hand on his chest like a mother hovering over her sleeping child, checking to feel the rise and fall of his breath and the beating of his heart. Hermione would have offered to stay, but the healer gave them all her fiercest glance and sent them all off, even Dumbledore.
They took it in turns to watch him as he slept all of that day and all of the next and all of the one after that. Madam Pomfrey would dose him with potion and he still would not wake. She shook her head more each time and Hermione had begun to worry that he would never wake again, but would simply drift away from them, forever. Perhaps, she thought, he was simply too tired to carry on.
On the third day, they had argued over whose turn it was, until by common consent they had all stayed. Ginny was curled up on a chair and Ron had taken to pacing the floor and staring out of the window from time to time. Hermione alternated watching them and observing Harry's sleeping face. The bones showed sharp beneath his skin but his jet-black hair fell about.
“What are you doing here?" The voice was razor sharp and belonged to Professor Snape. Ron drew his wand, but it was too late. Snape had seen the sleeping form on the bed. She could never after describe the look upon the Professor's face upon seeing Harry sleeping there in the bed. Certainly, it must have been the first time in his life that Snape had ever been rendered entirely speechless.
Finally, just before Ron actually hexed him, he asked, "How is this possible?"
Then he shook his head and completely ignoring Ron's wand stared at Hermione, waiting for an answer. Hermione stared back at Snape. A thousand answers flashed through her mind, none of them acceptable. She settled for some portion of the truth. "We don't really know, Sir," she answered. "It's a mystery."
“He was dead!" Snape said. "I saw it. A hundred people saw it!"
"His heart stopped," she replied. "We don't know why it started up again," she added. And that was true, she thought. She hadn't really believed the transformation would work, had she? She'd been grasping at straws, desperate to change the outcome. Why had it worked? Snape stared at Harry, but she could not interpret his expression.
Hesitantly, he reached out and grasped Harry's wrist, feeling his pulse, as though he would not believe the thing was true without confirming it for himself. Ron raised his wand and pointed it at Snape. "Leave him alone," he said. "You've harmed enough already."
Snape looked at Ron coldly. "As ever, Mr. Weasley, you think with your ass instead of your brain."
He turned back to Hermione. "How long has he been like this? Has he woken since?" Hermione frowned at him. She wondered if Dumbledore knew he was there. She wondered if Dumbledore would have wanted Snape to know that Harry was alive. She also remembered that Snape had made the potion that helped keep Harry alive the year before.
"Once," she said. "Very briefly." then she rushed on, "Professor Dumbledore wants this kept secret. He doesn't want --"
"Any Death Eaters learning he's alive?" Snape said. "Certainly not when he's this weak, in any case," he added.
"How weak is he?" Ron asked anxiously. His wand drooped back down. Perhaps he had recalled that Snape had fought with them. Perhaps he hoped that Snape would help, even if for his own reasons.
Snape shook his head. "His heartbeat is not altogether steady," he answered. He drew his wand and waved it over Harry's chest, though what he could learn from that Hermione did not know. She would have to read up on some healing manuals, even though she had no desire to be a healer. Snape pocketed his wand again and turned to leave. Ron's wand came up again, and Hermione drew hers as well.
"What is this nonsense?" he asked. His black eyes were dark with offense and he looked as though he smelled a particularly offensive odor.
"Swear you won't tell," Ron said.
"Wizard's word," Hermione added. For a moment, she thought he would refuse.
Then he shrugged and said, "For what it's worth, since you don't trust me, you have my word." He stared at them both and continued, "And I don't think you can find anyone who ever accused me of breaking it. Not even his father."
He turned on his heel and left, either trusting that his promise had been enough to placate them, or daring them to attack. From the look in Ron's eyes, and the red of his ears, he had come close. Hermione sank down on the bed and placed her hand on Harry's forehead.
"Did I do wrong?" she asked. "Was I going too far?"
"He'll be all right," Ron said. "He will."
***
Voices woke him, but at first he could not open his eyes. His lids felt weighted and movement of any kind was impossible. A cool hand rested on his forehead. He was almost sure it was real. His Mum perhaps? She had touched him, hadn't she, caressed his cheek, and her green eyes, his eyes, and had shone with tears and love. The voices came again, but the tone was rancorous, not loving. He shrank back into himself, and wished he could stay sleeping, but the mundane ache in his stomach prodded him awake.
He opened his eyes, and reached for his glasses. He had been in the infirmary so many times he knew instantly just where they would be. For a moment, he thought he was back in the well, in two places all at once. In one place, he was in the hospital wing at Hogwarts. Hermione and Ron and Ginny were there, and Professor Snape.
Snape was holding a beaker full of ruby colored potion and Ginny was reaching for it, saying, "I'll give it to him. It's the same as last year, isn't it?" In the second place, the light was more pure than any perfect summer day and his Mum and Dad were smiling at him. He looked at them and smiled back, thinking, I can be there, if I want to.
"Why don't you ask Harry if he wants any potion?" Ron said. The sound of his voice, pugnacious, and biting, brought Harry back entirely. He looked back to where his Mum and Dad had been, but the other place had vanished, except as a reflection in the sun.
"I don't want any potions," he said. He had tried to speak firmly, but the words came out more like a whisper. The others jumped as though he bellowed anyway. He tried to sit up, but couldn't do it. Ginny sat down beside and him and carried the beaker of ruby colored potion to his lips.
He wanted to refuse, but the look on her face, joyous and scared and pleading all at once, was too much for argument. Obediently, he sipped the potion. It slid down his throat, cool and reviving, and he felt as though the world had steadied and all of the lingering other times, places, dimensions had snapped back into one.
~~***~~
"Where is Minister Fudge?" the Prime Minister asked angrily. "I find it quite insulting that the man will not meet with me. We have the largest, most menacing criminal organization ever created in this country backed up with black magic and the Minister of Magic can't be bothered to meet with me?" Bones winced. There was nothing like the offended pride of a powerful man for making problems grow worse.
"Yes, well," Arthur Weasley coughed. "The thing is, Minister Fudge has, erm, resigned. We think. The fact is, he ran away when we had intelligence of You Know Who's latest attack." Weasley's freckled face was pale and apparently embarassed, but that was nothing to the weariness and sorrow that shadowed his eyes.
"Who is Minister, then?" the Prime Minister asked more moderately.
"There isn't one just yet," Weasley replied. "The Wizengamot hasn't met since the battle as many members were injured or killed." That silenced the Prime Minister, but only for a moment.
"Very well," he said. "In that case, since you are here and were appointed by the prior Minister to deal with these matters, I shall appoint you to be the Interim Minster of magic, Mr. Weasley. I'll have the Queen counter-sign your appointment." Weasley looked thoroughly alarmed and offended.
"You do not have authority to appoint the Minsiter of Magic, Prime Minister. With all due respect, the Minister of Magic is selected upon application by the majority of the Wizengamot."
"Are you saying that the Ministry of Magic owes no allegiance to the sovereign monarch?" the Prime Minister asked silkily. Weasley was momentarily silent. I would not want to be in his shoes, Edgar thought.
"No," Weasley said. "This authority was delegated to us directly by the Crown over a thousand years ago. It remains with us and we must follow our protocols, Mr. Prime Minister."
"I am not saying you shan't," was the courteous reply. "However, there is an unacceptable vacuum of leadership now. As Prime Minister, that is, head of all the Crown's Ministers, I believe I have the power to appoint an Interim Minister. It is within your power, Mr. Weasley, to step down so soon as the situation is resolved and your people can exercise their ordinary protocols. But for right now, there must be a spokeperson, and since you, at least, have not run away and are willing to speak raionally with us "Muggles" on these matters, I am appointing you."
Weasley looked as though he would like to run away too. Then he swallowed visibly and squared his shoulders. "I will do this on the understanding that it is only temporary and only because of the extreme instability of the situation. However --" He paused and went on with a cool determination, "it is to be understood that the wizard community retains its separate power to govern itself and its affairs, to legislate its own laws regarding all uses of magic, and to prosecute those of its own that break those laws."
"You are not saying that your laws supersede those of the Crown?" the Prime Minister asked.
Weasley considerd that and said, "No." he shook his head and said more confidently, "I'm saying that in all those areas that govern the use and the conduct of wizardry, the Ministry of Magic and the Wizengamot have ultimate authority. In all other matters, as has always been, we acknowledge the Crown's and the Parliament's ultimate authority."
"But you do acknowledge the ultimate authority in the end derives from the Crown?" Edgar stared at the Prime Minister. He was astonished that the elected representative who stood for the power of the Parliament should insist on the ultimate authority of the Monarch. Weasley inclined his head.
"Very well," the Prime Minister said and Bones thought that he could see the slight sheen of sweat and hear the faint exhalation of relief at the wizard's acknowledgment that they would not declare themselves utterly outside the confines of the nation's laws and authority. It came to him that the Prime Minister might have been thinking of conducting a different kind of war upon wizard-kind, if they would not acknowledge the government's ultimate rule. He looked at Weasley and saw that the wizard had been aware of that as well, all the time that he had been negotiating with the Prime Minister. It occurred to him that the Prime Minister had made a better choice than he knew, for the wizard community, and in the end, for everyone.
“Report, then, Minister Weasley,” the Prime Minister said.
“Right, then,” Weasley answered. “You Know Who is dead. His army dispersed at his death. However, in the confusion, a number of his most powerful supporter – they call themselves Death Eaters – also escaped. We also have rather a large number of dark creatures on the loose that will have to be subdued and controlled or killed. And the Ministry is in chaos due to the flight of Minister Fudge and the injuries and deaths of those who fought.”
“And You Know Who? Riddle? How was he killed?”
“He was defeated by Harry Potter.” Weasley faltered there and Bones could hardly blame him. He had sent the thing himself and still could hardly believe it had happened.
“Potter?” the Prime Minister said. “That’s the boy Fudge dragged to our meeting last summer. He’s a kid, barely more than a child!”
“He was,” Bones said.
“Was?” the Prime Minister asked. His face changed and his eyes now looked as weary and sorrowful as Weasley’s, so you could see that underneath the politician’s mask there still existed the decent man of ideals who had sought power to do good in the first place. Weasley looked more than tired. For a moment he hesitated, as though afraid to say what must be said. The sweep of thought showed clearly on his honest face and indecision as well. He was, after all, only new at real politics, and might never master the real politic as the Prime Minister had.
“Well?” the Prime Minister pressed. He knew only too well how to take advantage of an opponent’s weakness and indecision.
Reluctantly, and as if against his better judgment, Weasley answered, “The papers printed it that he had died, and we’ve left it that way.”
“But he’s alive?” the Prime Minister asked.
“How is that possible?” Edgar asked, interrupting the Prime Minister.
“We don’t know,” Weasley said even more reluctantly. “Harry’s heart stopped when You Know Who’s Killing Curse hit him, but the Curse rebounded again on Voldemort again and he was utterly destroyed. When Dumbledore took him up into the Castle, everyone assumed he was dead.” Weasley stopped there again and Edgar could have sworn he was about to cry. He sniffed, in fact, and said, “Well, it appears Dumbledore was able to get his heart going again and that he’ll live, but his health is quite fragile right now and we don’t want any of You Know Who’s followers coming after him for revenge….or to prove they’re stronger so they can be the new Dark Lord.” The Prime Minister’s head whipped up at that.
“Another?” he asked.
Weasley said with the greatest reluctance he had shown yet, “We fear, that is, well, Dumbledore and I have spoken of it, we fear that since some of the Death Eaters were exposed and cannot return to the regular community as they did last time, that they will be looking for a new leader now. They’ve gotten the taste for power and terror and they’re not likely to want to give it up.”
Weasley looked at the Prime Minister with resolution and continued, “We plan on going after them as hard as we can as soon as we can. They are leaderless now and the organization is splintered. And they are divided, like hungry wolves looking to feed on one shared carcass.” Weasley looked at the Prime Minister and said, “We’ll want your support in this. Especially in dealing with any incidents in which they attack non-magic folk. I believe you are in no more hurry to announce our existence to the rest of the people than we are.” The Prime Minister looked thoughtfully at Weasley and then at Bones.
“Our arrangement will stand then. We’ll look for those students you had selected to join our special intelligence unit to begin their training on August 1. Inspector Bones will be our officer in charge of the unit when it is fully up and operational and he will act as their mentor in their standard police and intelligence training.” Weasley’s mouth opened as though he would take everything back.
He looked even more weary and burdened when he said, “I don’t know –Potter was one of them. I don’t know if he’ll be ready. And I think all of them should be given a proper choice this time.”
The Prime Minister looked suddenly very happy. “We’ll make allowances if Potter needs more time to get his strength back. But I’ll be expecting the trainees on August 1. If your Ministry cannot keep its side of the bargain, then the bargain may have to be changed.”
Weasley looked simply furious. His face flushed and his ears turned red. Bones was certain he would explode, and he understood, as Weasley himself must, that such an explosion now could mean a disaster for the wizard community that would be worse than anything You Know Who had done. Though it would be You Know Who’s fault for creating the situation in the first place.
“I’ll look out for them,” Bones said, “Wizard’s word on it.” He saw the red recede and added, “Just think of it this way, Arthur, it’s really just an auror’s department that’s working out of a different government building. It might,” he added thoughtfully, “be best this way. MI-7 is under the Official Secrets Act. And we can continue to keep it Harry’s survival secret until he’s fit for it to come out.” Weasley considered him then, and Bones saw that there was a strong and potentially dangerous man beneath the outer layers of good humor and whimsy.
“I’ll rely on you in this, Bones.” He closed his eyes and said to the Prime Minister, “Minister Fudge gave you more than a bargain, sir. He gave away the store. He gave you the best we have, and one of them is my own son, and the others are as good as my own daughter and son. You will answer to me if they are not treated well, I can tell you that.” He paused, and a smile tugged at his lips. “Worse than that, you’ll answer to my wife, and I can tell you, dragons duck when my wife gets upset.”
~~***~~
Dumbledore's office was as marvelous as the man himself, though just at this moment, Bones was wishing he were anywhere else. The Headmaster had not liked any of it: but most of all, he was seriously displeased at the news that Potter and his friends were going to be sent off to the Muggle Ministry to work after all.
"You gave in to him, Arthur?" Dumbledore asked. His voice was not raised at all, but that didn't matter. It was the look in those light blue eyes that mattered, not the volume of his voice.
Weasley looked embarassed and unhappy and very grim. "Unfortunately, Albus, yes."
"Explain," Dumbledore said.
Oddly, every portrait in the office sat up, every snoozing face was instantly alert and a single very dry voice added, "I hope it's a good one. Really, you ought to know when a Slytherin is called for. If you want subtlety, Gryffindors just can't cut it."
"Phinneas," Dumbledore said warningly.
Weasley glared at the portrait. His ears were red again and this time he bellowed, "Slytherins are the reason for all of this. If it weren't for the Slytherin, You Know Who, I shouldn't have had to let the Muggle Prime Minister blackmail me into being Interim Minister of magic. And I shouldn't have had to let them have my own son and Harry and Hermione as the price of our secrecy!"
"Dramatics," the dry voice said. "Lots of roaring about a perfectly sensible trade." Dumbledore looked for one moment as though he would through the very large crystal ball that sat on his desk at the portrait of the former Headmaster. The long slender fingers actually hovered over the glass ball and the clear center flled with mist. The Headmaster, however, breathed in deeply and looked up at the others in the office.
Before he could speak, another cutting voice broke in. "Under the circumstances, Headmaster, it might be advisable to tell the Muggle Minister that Potter is dead after all, or simply far to damaged to be of any service to them."
"Go on, Severus," Dumbledore said politely. Bones could not tell what Snape's motivation might be. The voice was as snide as every other time he'd heard it and beneath it was the subtext of every wizard ever: wizards serving Muggles were beneath contempt.
"It's obvious that Potter is incapable of fighting anything more dangerous than a kneazle at the moment. He's barely managed to stay awake for half a day since..." Snape paused there and for one moment, the unpleasant sneer disappeared and he knew that even the sarcastic and cynical teacher had been affected by the boy's defeat of Riddle and astounding survival after his apparent death. "There's only one place that's remotely safe for the moment and that is Hogwarts," Snape added.
”What do you propose, then?" Weasely asked angrily, "He's passed his NEWTs. You can hardly justify failing him now. And it's not as if you haven't tried getting him expelled often enough in the past."
Snape waved a hand airily and said, "I must have done better than I thought at convincing everyone, including the Dark Lord, of my loathing for Potter."
"You did loathe him," Weasley added. "You still do."
"Our personal dislike for each other is irrelevant," Snape answered. Bones noted that he could not bring himself to call Weasley Minister.
"And I think it's quite simple. We shall have an opening on the staff here. Appoint Potter to it. It will keep him here under your eye, Dumbledore, and inside this Castle, which is still the safest place in the wizarding world for him."
"What position did you have in mind?" Dumbledore asked calmly. However, his blue eyes were both interested and amused as he added, "You cannot mean for Harry to teach Potions?"
Snape glared at them all impartially. "Potter couldn't prepare a Potion if his life depended on it. Not that. There is, however, a vacancy in Defense Against the Dark Arts." Dumbledore stared at Snape and said; "I had thought you would want to continue in that post now. Your performance there was more than adequate."
Snape considered the Headmaster with narrowed eyes. "There are only two possibilities. I can teach Potions and you can hire a new Defense teacher; or I can teach Defense and you can hire a new Potions teacher. Out of the two positions, the only one Potter can remotely qualify for is the Defense position." He held the headmaster's gaze as if it was a challenge and the outcome of the decision was a duel won or lost.
Bones coughed. "There's only one problem, Snape. If Harry teaches here, a thousand students will write home the first day and inform two thousand parents who will then inform everyone in sight that Potter is alive and here. And every Death Eater left will be after him within hours."
"Do you really think there's one of them that won't be just as afraid of him now as they were of the Dark Lord?" Snape responded.
Dumbledore sighed and said quietly, "I fear there are two or three that are so beyond rational thinking now that fear will will not matter. Bellatrix Lestrange and Lucius Malfoy will stop at nothing to get revenge on Harry now." He sighed again and said, "I fear you are right Inspector. Let him stay dead to the rest of the wizarding world for now, and let him recuperate in secrecy in the one place no Death Eater will think to look for him."
"He'll hate it," Snape said. "And it won't be long before he disobeys and does something ridiclous and risky. He’ll think you're doing to him what you've always done to him - sacrificing his happiness and personal desires for your politics and the uses to which he can be put."
Dumbledore looked quite tired as he said softly, "Better safe and alive and unhappy then."
The door had swung open soundlessly. Potter stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame as though it were a necessity to hold him up. But the green eyes were aware and sharp--disconcertingly so. "Happiness is a relative state of mind," he said softly. "So," he added, "will you break my wand then?"
"Don't be an idiot," Snape answered instantly. "The Muggles," he said with distate, "have decided they want a pet wizard or two and you've been elected. That means you need a wand."
The emerald eyes looked at him and Bones squirmed beneath their gaze. "The Prime Minister," he said blandly, "wants the Ministry of Magic to keep its bargain. The position Minster Fudge assigned you is open and you start work on August first. If you are fit?"
"I'm all right," was the automatic answer.
He turned to Weasley and looked for confirmation. Weasley looked as though he would like to sink into the floor and disappear. "I'm sorry," Weasley said hoarsely. "I had no choice. They'll overthrow us all together if we don't give them a few concessions. They've been scared and realize now what a danger we present. We need to let them know that most of us are just ordinary, honest, law-abiding people who happen to have a few talents they don't. And that we stand with them, not against them."
The boy - no boy any longer - considered that and nodded calmly. "It makes no difference," he said quietly. "I have to do something, I suppose. And it's no worse than lots of things I've ever done and probably a lot better than most."
"Ron and Hermione will be assigned there too," Weasley said. He sounded no happier about that.
"So will I," said a small voice from behind the boy.
"You will not!" Weasley said sharply.
"Why not?" the small red haired girl asked. "George and Fred left school before they finished their NEWTs. And someone has to look after Harry." Weasley had opened his mouth, no doubt to lay down the law to his rebellious daughter, but Potter got there first.
"I do not need looking after," Harry answered. "And just because Fred and George didn't finish doesn't mean you shouldn't."
It was Snape, of course, who ruined it all. "Of course, you need looking after, Potter. There was never anyone who needed it more than you."
The professor's tone was sarcastic, insulting. Bones could hardly believe this was the man who had insisted Potter ought to be teaching at Hogwarts for his own safety only moments before. Something about the young man's actual presence seemed to bring out all of the acid in the man.
Even more oddly, it was Dumbledore who decided it. After an almost imperceptible glance from Potter to the girl, the Headmaster said serenely, "She is of age, Arthur."
The small girl glowed with relief and said cheekily, "I am that. And besides, the training we had in the last two years, was more like advanced auror training than the regular Hogwarts curriculum. I reckon I've had more training already than Bill and Charlie and Percy did even after their NEWTs."
"Well, don't get too excited," Harry, said dryly. "You've no more knowledge of Muggle things than Muggles do of magic. And most of what we'll be doing is Muggle stuff. Right, Inspector?"
"I'm afraid so," Bones answered. Weasley frowned and Bones shrugged slightly as he explained. "I should think, really, the less magic you do in front of the Muggles, the better. You'll have regular training, like everyone else in any of the Force. And then there'll be the Special Ops training. That'll keep you well occuppied for a while." he considered them all and said deliberately, hoping it would calm their fears, "The fact is, our department will be ultra-secret. None of the others will realize we are a separate, special department of our own. The Prime Minister and I discussed it. We're to be considered a smaller group within MI-5, supposedly devoted to domestic terrorism. Sort of an outgrowth of the cover story we had for Riddle's lot last year. Only when your training is complete, we'll be assigned to deal with any activity that appears to be illegal magical activity." Weasley's face looked fascinated now instead of distressed.
"So they truly will be an auror department inside the Muggle Ministry. You'll have to learn how to use those Muggle computers, won't you?" Bones thought with amusement that Weasley knew more about the Muggle world than he would have expected.
"Right," he answered. "It's one means of investigation."
"What did you mean by Special Ops training?" Dumbledore asked.
"Ah," Bones answered, thinking furiously. "Similar to auror training. Tracking, various means of securing the suspects, weapons use, vehicle training."
"Vehicle training?"
Bones nodded. "Autos, obviously, and depending on which unit you're assigned to, possibly helicopters or small aircraft for chases and tracking suspects."
"We'd get to fly?" Potter asked. For the first time, the green eyes gleamed with curiosity and interest. "Of course, it's not like a good broom, or my bike, but..."
Gawd help Her Majesty's Ministry, Bones thought, when that one wakes up and decides things are okay again. Feeling things slipping out of his control already, he said firmly, "Perhaps. And don't think you'll enchant them."
Dumbledore rose and moved rapidly over to the doorway where Potter was still leaning, apparently lounging against it like any proper teen; except it was readily apparent that he was leaning against it for support, not for attitude.
"Harry won't be enchanting anything for awhile," Dumbledore said quietly, "not until he's fit again." The Headmaster reached for his arm and the youth did not resist when the old wizard placed a hand under his elbow to support him and guide him out.
Bones could not help but wonder whether he would ever be fit again as he was rail thin and his face, though perfectly unlined and young, looked strangely old. Perhaps it was the weariness in the eyes, or the hollows beneath them and under the cheekbones, but Bones had the feeling that something truly had died in the boy when Riddle had been killed.
"I'm all right," the boy said. But it was an automatic response, Bones thought, the response of someone so accustomed to having no help at all that he was unable to admit to need no matter how great it might be.
Another voice broke through, and this one was so full of sorrow, the sound of it could stop the heart, so dark and deep was the chasm of grief beneath it. "You're all right," the voice lamented, "but my Neville isn't. He'll never be all right again." A small woman with a prematurely old face and enormous round gray eyes stood in the hallway. Though she was actually an inch or so taller than the small red-haired girl, she seemed tiny, shrunken into herself.
Harry stepped back into the room to let the woman in. He wobbled and might have fallen had it not been for Dumbledore's support, but Bones saw that the thin face had changed again.
The green eyes were no longer weary. Instead, they reflected every bit of the woman's sorrow, as if he felt the entirety of it. He reached out a hand and said very softly, "But Neville is all right. He's with his Dad now. It's we that will never be all right again for the lack of him."
The woman stared at him and whispered, "How do you know that? How?"
The black head tipped fractionally and the boy simply repeated, "He's all right, Mrs. Longbottom, really he is." The woman blinked and reached a slender hand to touch the boy on the face and then turned away with quiet dignity.
***
In sleep, he could become the bird again, even without transforming. He winged his way high, higher, and higher, into the moonbright, star strewn sky, and was free once more of earthly constraints. The warm summer air drew him south, and he soared and dipped in its dizzying currents. Then a downdraft brought him spiraling down toward the myriad lights of the great Muggle city. The current rushed him through an open window where floating globes filled with blue light illuminated the nursery.
Golden letters on the wall spelled out The Lucius Malfoy Infant's Ward. Only one crib was occupied and only one Nurse was in attendance. The Nurse lifted out the tiny babe and gave a bottle to still the babe's hungry cries. Her hooded dark eyes were full of a fierce exhultation, not the soft tenderness that a nurse might have. The babe was cradled in the Nurse's right arm and the bottle held in the shining silver hand that extended from a shining silver arm.
The babe drank hungrily. Its soft thatch of hair was a pale gold. One tiny hand wrapped itself onto the silver one; the other made little waving motions in the air as it ate. Then satisfied, the babe turned its face from the bottle and burped and its eyes flew open in surprise. Silver pale, they reflected the moonlight, and the babe cooed happily now that its tummy was full.
The wind caught the bird and he flew high and again. Below him, the earth turned in a stately spin, one more body flying in the great dance. Softly, in his ears, the music of the spheres played on with infinite, eternal beauty. Music, he remebered hearing once, is the greatest of all magics.
Once again, he felt himself falling, spiraling downward and landing with a thump. He breathed in deeply and opened his eyes. Dawn was just breaking through the infirmary windows. In a chair nearby, Ginny was curled up like a cat, sleeping noiselessly. He moved silently, slipping out of the hospital bed so as not to wake his drowsing sentinel and padded over to the window to look out on the grounds below. To the west, the sky was still midnight blue and Venus shone, the bright morning star. To the east, the sky lightened to gold and struck shining rays off of a unicorn colt gamboling at the edge of the Forest. Harry was struck then with wonder at the magic of it all, of life's beauty, and he thought, it was all so lovely, so evanescent, of such richness beyond measure, and was glad in that moment simply to be alive after all.
