Time of the Turning Chapter 18, Part Two
Disclaimer: Look at Part One
Dedication: To NaNoWriMo, for keeping me sane. To the memory of Brina Dreamweaver, I don't think I've missed you this much in a long time.
Written: Man, I think it was 2006. Oops.
Rating: Um, not for the weak of stomach.
Genre: Ugly
Type: Loong
Title:
Chapter Eighteen - Hiding in Grim Old Places
Albus Dumbledore had not had a good day so far. The visit to the Department of Mysteries which had begun the previous evening, had dragged on to past lunchtime the following day, and he did not manage to escape the Ministry without running into a very distraught Cornelius Fudge, who had babbled some nonsensical accusations at him before shuffling hurriedly to his office, a half-score insistent reporters following closely behind.
Albus had, however, managed to get a hold of a copy of the Daily Prophet, heard a disturbing tale or two, and even held a brief, yet very much informative talk with a grim-looking Kingsley Shacklebolt, who was on his way to one of the Auror Apparition Points, followed by a team of Hit Wizards headed to Inverarray. The Auror did tell him, almost in code, that they had managed to safely take Harry to Headquarters, where he was being presently tended to by Healer Tonks and Madam Pomfrey. He could not elaborate on Harry’s condition, but knowing the boy was safe sufficed for the moment.
Dumbledore, in turn, asked Kingsley to look for two fourteen-year-old boys in and around the McAlpin Estate, and to bring them to Headquarters if they were found alive. He could not provide much by way of useful information, however, other than their names, and that they had black hair and grey eyes. If Kingsley was confused by this, he did not show it, but assented by jokingly asking for the post of Defence Against the Dark Arts Master at Hogwarts.
“They are likely injured, and, as my sources have informed me, they shall not approach you willingly, unless you disclose your... other affiliation,” Albus said quietly, after chuckling and loudly offering the Auror some sherbet lemons. “Yes, Kingsley, I shall look into it, we have as yet found no suitable replacement this year,” he added loudly. “Do feel free to stop by for tea sometime, there is no need for you to owl beforehand,” he added, and both wizards took their leave from each other shortly after.
The return to Headquarters went smooth and quick, as usual. Albus apparated to the park outside the town house, entering it quietly so as to not disturb the portrait, whose curtains were open. Mrs. Black, however, merely sputtered and gibbered at him, as if shocked. The Hogwarts Headmaster raised an eyebrow, striding to the much more welcoming kitchen.
“Took you long enough,” Alastor greeted him impatiently, even as around him, Minerva McGonagall, Tonks and the Weasleys looked up from their respective drinks. They all looked tired, Albus noted. “Did you get stuck with the press mob that’s been pestering the Magical Law Enforcement Squads? We’ve been waiting for hours.”
“My apologies. I was... detained,” Albus replied, sinking into a chair with a sigh and conjuring some tea for himself. There was something tense in the air, however, and the way the grizzled wizard was staring at him did not serve to enlighten him beyond the fact that, there was indeed something further to discuss, something that likely had to do with Harry.
“I am all ears now, however,” Albus ventured after a moment’s silence.
“Good, because we have a fair bit to tell you. Angus McAlpin’s grandsons are here.”
* * *
“My Lord, you wished to see me?” The Death Eater bowed low before him. Voldemort waved a long-fingered hand in an impatient gesture of dismissal.
“Get up, Rasmus, there’s no need for you to do that here,” he hissed. “We have but six days left, what are the news?”
“I have gathered seven so far, my Lord,” Rasmus replied, taking a seat across from Voldemort’s own. “I am planning to bring you two more before the night is over. Nott and MacNair are looking into it already, I am confident we will have them all long before the deadline.”
“Where are you keeping them?” The Dark Lord inquired, pleased to hear the news. Six days to go, and less than half the elements left to gather for the party.
“The Dementor Pit,” came the reply. “Although I am confident Bella will keep them duly entertained for the next few days, if things become... overly dull.”
Voldemort smiled thinly, nodding his agreement. That particular project was coming along nicely, good.
“Have you heard any news about the Clan McFusty?” the Dark Lord asked next, in a conversational tone that was rarely heard by any Death Eater, save perhaps those few who enjoyed what could be termed a friendship with Voldemort. Such a thing did not exist, and neither of the wizards present in the parlour were fooled. They were friends as much as they were master and servant, titles which they honoured for mere form’s sake.
It was, however, a most excellent arrangement, which had so far, brought both sides enough satisfaction to continue pursuing an exchange.
“The eyes of the press are on them at all times, particularly since their heir has died,” Rasmus informed, summoning himself some wine. He was completely at ease, secure in his power. “We can strike on the day of the funeral, or the morning after,” he added, earning himself a pensive nod from his master. “They will be too occupied mourning to pay attention to what is important, and we will be able to help ourselves without interruptions.” An elegant little scoff and a roll of his eyes conveyed the rest of the message.
Voldemort chuckled. Rasmus went about matters in a thorough, methodical fashion, pinpointing the critical areas and offering immediate solutions to them without getting out of stride. If Rasmus said it could be done, it could be done... which was why Voldemort kept him around and made so many concessions to him.
“The Wandmaker will be pleased, he has been asking for conventional cores. When is the funeral due?”
“The date has not yet been set, but we are ready to strike even now,” came the confident reply. “Last I heard, the Hit Wizards had not yet managed to retrieve the corpses.”
“So we have an advantage.” Voldemort snapped his fingers, and a blood-red goblet appeared in his hand, filled with a poisonous-looking green liquid that steamed slightly. Serpente, a liquor made of the venom of thirteen different snake breeds, so rare and expensive it was thought not to exist outside legend. It served as a strong tonic, although anything over a mouthful would kill a fair-sized wizard in a heartbeat. Voldemort stashed the stuff by the barrel, his favourite aperitif as it were.
“I would ask something further of you, then, since you appear to have the time for it now.”
“Anything, my Lord, as long as it is within my power to provide.”
“I need a new body,” Voldemort mused. He had always confided in Rasmus, who, having no further interest in anything outside of his game, had no reason whatsoever to use this information against him. He gestured a long, bony hand at himself. “This one might be powerful, but it is ultimately flawed. The link with the Potter boy is getting stronger by the day, and the constant Occlumency needed to block him out is draining my strength.”
Rasmus nodded shortly. The link with the Potter boy was not the sole reason for this decision, he knew, but he was not supposed to be aware of the fact that Potter had managed to control Voldemort’s body for a brief period of time a few days ago, during the DalRiada raid. Over a distance of almost 700 miles.
“I have been feeding him dreams, but it does not seem to be enough,” Voldemort hissed, sipping his Serpente with relish. “Nothing ever is with that one. I want him, Rasmus, but for that I need to be rid of this connection... it is not worthwhile having if he can see through me but I cannot see through him at all.”
“What sort of body would Your Lordship wish for?” Rasmus inquired, tilting his head slightly in acknowledgement of the last statement. Voldemort’s eyes glinted red.
“A young body. A powerful one. Nothing less will do, a common body would die with ordinary possession, in a matter of weeks, maybe days. There is, however, one who would withstand the process, one whose body I could claim as my own without much problem.”
Rasmus thought he knew where this was going. He nodded patiently, however, allowing the Dark Lord to explain his plan before jumping to conclusions.
“Severus should start researching how to make the transfer, but you, my friend, are tasked with the more important part of the plan. I know who I want.”
Rasmus looked keenly at his master, not bothering to hide the glint of excitement welling up in his own eyes. “Who might that be?”
“One of those twins... I want one of the McAlpin boys.”
And there it is.
Rasmus felt a smile of triumph tugging at his lips. He did not bother to ask why the Dark Lord had come to this conclusion, Voldemort would tell him in due time, he always did. Sheer power of the McAlpin heir was not the sole backing for his reasoning, and Rasmus was well aware of it. He welcomed the opportunity of a hunt, however, the reasons for it would come to him in time, and he was nothing if not painfully patient.
“Find them, Rasmus, bring them to me, no matter what the cost. You may keep the spare in exchange, I just need one after all... undamaged.”
“Certainly,” Rasmus conceded, bowing his head and steepling his fingers. “Do you have any preference as to which, My Lord?”
“I believe it is the firstborn, Rasmus. They are generally more powerful than their younger siblings... yes. Bring me the firstborn, whole, do with the other as you wish.”
“You are aware it might be a long-term project, my Lord,” Rasmus retorted, raising his eyebrows. “They might be with some of their old friends... Dumbledore might have already taken a hold of them.”
Voldemort nodded once. This turn of events was quite predictable, after all.
“I have waited for years, Rasmus,” he pointed out. “Time I have in spades. I need quality, not speed.”
Rasmus fell silent for a while, already pondering ways of action in this regard.
“The girl,” he mused aloud. “McAlpin’s granddaughter... what became of her, I wonder.”
Voldemort waved a long hand at him, the gesture bordering on languid.
“Bella kept her... as a personal plaything, I believe,” he commented offhandedly. Rasmus nodded again, an idea forming in his mind.
“I would wish to use her... as bait, perhaps.”
“If you can find a use for her, by all means,” was the unconcerned reply. “All my resources are, as per usual, at your disposition.”
“Thank you, your Lordship, you are most generous,” Rasmus replied, smiling coldly. “I do, in fact, believe she could be put to better use than Bella’s entertainment-I shall strive to duly compensate her, for the loss of such... rare a toy.”
Voldemort let out a chilling laugh. Today was a good day. Everything seemed to be running smoothly, and Rasmus was already thinking out a plan. He raised his gobletful of Serpente in silent toast, mirrored by the other wizard.
“Is there anything else you might need for this venture?”
“I should like to have a word with Severus, my Lord... I am not completely certain yet, but I do believe I shall devise a suitable plan after seeking his counsel.”
* * *
For the past half hour, Albus had been listening to a fantastic account. Angus’ ‘pupils’ were, in fact, his grandchildren. And they had arrived, half dead in the middle of the night, eluding Death Eaters and the rest of the wizarding world as they crossed half the country to reach Headquarters. Impressive as though the story might be, there was more to it, he could tell by merely looking at his long-time friend.
“I didn’t remember them at first, although Connor made it pretty clear he knew me,” Alastor continued with a growl. “It didn’t click until he told me he was-“ Moody made a choked noise in the back of his throat, tried again, with the same result. Everyone turned their heads towards Mad-Eye, who merely chuckled good-naturedly.
“That old sod McAlpin was a genius,” he commented, shaking his grizzled head. “I can’t tell you what the kid said... but I believe I can explain some of it.”
“Kindly do,” Minerva interjected, suppressing a yawn and looking strained. These past few days had been taxing for all.
“McAlpin was head of the Department of Mysteries until 1981. Late that year, he developed a variation of the Fidelius Charm, to protect his family from the Dark Side,” Moody informed in a grunt. “Few even know of them, and those who do... well, the charm comes coupled with a selective obliviation spell the old coot developed too.”
“How do you know that?” Albus enquired, frowning slightly.
“Because I taught those kids for two, no, three years, up until the time I went to Hogwarts to get stuck in my trunk,” Moody counters. “I only just remembered, when Connor lifted the memory spell and the Fidelius Charm for me.” If anything, he looked impressed and proud, not at all miffed that his memory had been tampered with.
“I agreed to it, you know,” he growled at the many confused looks shot his way. “It was a necessity back then. Still is, but I couldn’t tell you why if I tried. All I can tell you is there is much more to those two than meets the eye, they need our help and protection, and they need it yesterday.”
Silence greeted these words, while everyone present digested them the best they could.
The thoughtful, rather confused quiet pervading the kitchen was broken quite unceremoniously moments later, when Healer Tonks trampled down the stairs and flopped onto a chair, summoning herself some water. She looked worn out, and her robes were stained with fresh blood. Not that she seemed to mind about it.
“Well,” she stated, after draining a goblet of water and looking around. “They’ll live.”
“What are...?” Mad-Eye and McGonagall asked in tandem, both stopping short to allow the other to speak and neither finishing the question.
Healer Tonks laughed tiredly, launching into a rather clipped description of the boys’ conditions.
“The first one, Chris, has lost a lot of blood,” she informed. “He was hit by a shredding curse, a well-aimed one.” She paused long enough to allow everyone around to flinch and cringe in sympathy before explaining the remainder of his injuries, which included a few strike spells and a hurling hex. “He is worn to the limit, of course, which never helps. The other one, Connor, is not much better off. I am surprised they made it this far under such conditions,” she commented. “That alone will set the healing period back a few days, but they’re strong... they’ll pull through.”
Mad-Eye let out a sigh of relief, echoed across the room by everyone else present.
“Connor’s injuries are less grave, but more numerous, not to mention he hardly took the time to look at them, which leaves him in much the same state as the other one,” Healer Tonks added, not bothering to list off every broken bone, every gash she’d mended over the hours. “I’d be surprised to see him waking up in the next couple of days, he’s completely knackered.”
“What now, Albus?” McGonagall voiced rightly what should be their main concern.
Dumbledore exchanged a significant look with Moody, who spoke up once more.
“As I remember it, I was to take guardianship of the boys, should anything happen to Angus. I doubt that has changed in any way whatsoever. Given they’re the last living McAlpins, the matters of property and vaults and the such like are a no-brainer. What I am concerned about,” he stated, “is how to keep them safe from future attacks.”
“The can stay here over the summer,” Dumbledore replied in turn. “Along with Harry, they might just be the most sought-after by the Death Eaters at the moment. We can take them to Hogwarts in September.”
“If they agree to it,” Moody growled. Dumbledore did not have an answer to that.
“Albus’ plan would help us along, Alastor,” McGonagall pointed out. “Now, the matter of their custody is thankfully settled, but it reminds me of Harry’s custody. Who shall take guardianship over him now Sirius is gone?”
“I shall breach the subject to Harry,” Dumbledore retorted. “Once we have settled matters with the McAlpin boys.” He rose from his seat, McGonagall nodded in agreement. “Andromeda, may I see them? It will just be a minute.”
“They’re asleep, Dumbledore,” was the flat, rather unimpressed response. “But have it your way. You have ten minutes, they need to rest rather desperately.”
Albus nodded, bowing himself out of the kitchen. Moody followed, not bothering to get the Healer’s permission. Healer Tonks rolled her eyes tiredly, waving her wand at her robes to clean them of the bloodstains.
* * *
Harry wasn’t allowed back downstairs all day, nor the next, even if he didn’t feel half as weak and shaky as he did before.
Healer Tonks came in sometime before noon on the day the McAlpin twins arrived, her robes splattered with blood and what appeared to be potions, looking careworn and rather unapproachable. She took to checking him over, gave him a few strengthening potions, and changed the bandage she’d placed around his head; his scar had been bleeding since he had had that last vision of Voldemort in the McAlpin’s courtyard, and it kept opening at random times, accompanied by sharp jabs of pain whenever it did.
Harry asked after the boys, but she would not say anything; he chalked it up to her being tired and grumpy, as she had probably been up for days looking after him and now those newcomers, so he did not press the matter. She ordered him, as usual, to try and sleep as much as he could, encouraging him to use a bell she left on his nightstand if ever he needed anything.
He couldn’t sleep, however tired he was, his mind completely busy with the strange newcomers, or else plagued by nightmares of Trolls on a pier, of Dementors and burning houses, of the living dead walking towards him, drag-thump... drag-thump...
As if that weren’t enough, he tapped into Voldemort’s head a few times, yet the connection was too short, too vague to make anything out at all. Invariably, such visions were coupled with sharp burning in his scar, blood trickling down his forehead as he cradled it in his hands, wishing he could just tear his scar off and be done with it. The visions left him drained and gasping, and every time, the recurring nightmare of the dark, dank cave-like chamber followed, where he crawled over shards of glass, blindly looking for Sirius, whose voice kept impatiently demanding to know who was there.
It was enough to put anyone off sleeping more than strictly necessary, and Harry had gone on without a good night’s rest long enough to be used to this sort of arrangement, raw deal or not. He took to idly watching the sun crawl through the grimy windowpane of his bedroom, trying to figure out who the McAlpin boys were.
They looked entirely too familiar to be allowed, but he was certain they had never set a foot at Hogwarts; he’d remember them. He had the feeling that he ought to know them, a sense of having seen them before in the waking world, but by the life of him, he could not remember when or where. It intrigued him to no end, and he couldn’t wait to find out.
Mrs. Weasley, whom Harry had counted on for news, however, did not help him either. She brought him his meals, fluffed up his pillows and checked his bandages, but she was strangely quiet, with rings under her eyes and a certain distance whenever she addressed him that had not been there before. It made Harry not want to talk to her more than was absolutely needed. He knew by the look on her face she had been crying, and unbidden, the images of the boggart she had faced the previous summer came into mind, and he sipped his soup quietly, not daring to speak up.
Otherwise, he was left alone in the large chamber, listlessly staring at the dark red canopy of his bed and brooding in silence, which was near complete, suffocating. Apart from the black canvas of a thankfully empty portrait which he knew belonged to Phineas Nigellus-he had heard him sniggering a few times, but was thankfully spared from seeing him-there was no source of sound in the room.
The dedicated, constant care of Healer Tonks, Madam Pomfrey, and Mrs. Weasley, yielded results. He was indeed healing, and with an increase in his energy, the feeling of restlessness began to assert itself.
He left his bed sometime in the afternoon on the day after the McAlpin twins arrived, his third at Headquarters, and spent some time alternately glaring at every corner in the room and pacing around. The movement made him feel a little better, even if he tired quickly and it increased the feeling of confinement, but the effort helped distract him a little from the steady stream of bitter thoughts his mind was adamantly presenting him.
However, the thoughts won out as his eyes fell on something sitting on his bedside table. It was the mirror Sirius had given him, which he had taken out of the case he’d somehow managed not to lose sometime earlier, for lack of anything better to do. It had taken a simple repair spell to fix it, but he had not called into it again. What good would it do, except make him hope for what was not going to happen? He’d give anything, anything, to see Sirius’ face again, had long lost all hope of ever doing so.
Sirius... Sirius might have known who the boys were, why Voldemort was after them. Come to think of it, Sirius had usually been rather well-informed of, well, almost everything. He’d been a ready source of advice, but most of all, he’d trusted Harry, treated him as an equal and not like a child. He had been there for him, had had faith in him, never once lied to him.
And look where that landed him, Harry thought bitterly, glaring at the worn rug on the side of the bed. Azkaban, Merlin knows how many other places while he was on the run... sleeping in caves, or worse... only to end up in another, equally bad prison and... He gulped down the word, not wanting to even think of it, and resumed his pacing, jaw clenched. Suddenly the idea of seeing Sirius’ face again became less than appealing. What could he tell him? How could he even think of facing him again if he had as good as killed him?
“Sorry” did not suffice now any more than it had so far.
Harry took to pacing up and down the room again.
Despite the frequent wakings and unpleasant dreams, Harry did manage to rest some. Since his room came with its own bathroom, and his almost every need was being catered to, there was no real need for him to leave, even if he’d wanted to. Which he didn’t, not anymore.
When a very tired-looking Healer Tonks announced, while giving him his morning potions on the twenty-seventh, the third day after his arrival, that he would be ready to be about the house for a little while later that day, Harry was faced with mixed feelings. Part of him was itching for movement, particularly now the strength was returning to his limbs, and welcomed the opportunity to give more than a few paces in either direction at last.
Yet another part of him did not want to leave, however; as hateful as he perceived every minute he spent in Sirius' old bedroom - he still had trouble considering it his own - he had never been there long during his other stays at Grimmauld Place, and he knew that once he left the dubious safety it provided, he would have to see the rest of the house, and the memories would come flooding back, and once they did... He wasn't sure what he would do.
He did leave though, in time for a late breakfast or an early lunch, whichever way he looked at it. The oppressing sense of confinement proved more daunting than the memories for the time being.
He also found he had been right; even as he hobbled slowly across the old corridors-which, despite the visible efforts to clear them, seemed to be adamant on retaining the 'classical evil-wizard style' as Sirius used to put it-images, sounds, and even smells from his last stay there popped up around every corner, from every nook and cranny, only to disappear again and return to their dark corners to lurk and wait for another time when he could be caught unawares.
He stopped on the third floor landing to catch his breath, and there was Sirius, grinning at him while he told him of some mad stunt he and James had pulled at school, or else telling him with every detail how he had fooled Chinese Aurors while in Peking, or asking for a retelling of Harry’s escape from the dragon in the Triwizard Tournament... Harry looked away, tried to hurry up. His eyes fell on the corridor leading to the Master Bedroom, where Sirius had kept Buckbeak; it had been his favourite brooding place, when things were going less than well for them all... Gritting his teeth, Harry made his way downstairs, hoping for some distraction.
He sensed him before he entered the kitchen, knowing he was in there without needing to see.
His left arm was held in a sling, his forehead sported a bandage similar to Harry’s own, and he was sitting ramrod straight, wearing a set of Harry’s pyjamas and an old, threadbare bathrobe Ron had discarded the previous summer. Connor did not even look up from the newspaper he was reading as Harry entered, turning instead to hand Mrs. Weasley an empty plate.
She greeted Harry warmly, stifling a yawn as she motioned for him to sit. everyone else had apparently already left for the day. Harry took a seat, across from Connor, who seemed absorbed by whatever he was reading.
“Hello, I’m-” Harry began, deciding that introducing himself would be the obvious course of action, and possibly, a start to a conversation.
“Harry Potter, I know,” Connor mumbled absently, without looking up. For an explanation, he tapped his own bandaged forehead once, graced Harry with a glance right after. Harry frowned, slightly taken aback. He was used to people knowing who he was by now, but Connor had hardly glanced at him, even that night he and his brother arrived.
“I’m Connor,” he added, almost as an afterthought, resting the paper against the sugar bowl to carry on reading. Before Harry could say anything else, Mrs. Weasley placed loaded with food before each of them, and Connor tucked in like a starved man, turning his attention alternately to his food and the paper after thanking Mrs. Weasley profusely.
Harry reached for one of the old Daily Prophets scattered on the table, to give himself something to do other than stare at the boy sitting before him in silence. Someone had beaten him to the front page, though, but he wasn’t in a picky mood at the moment. He skimmed though most of the articles until one caught his attention.
July 26, 1996
Inquiry to be conducted at the Ministry of Magic.
The Ministry of Magic spokeswizard Stamford Jorkins, 57, said, in a statement deposed earlier this week after a Wizengamot hearing, that a full inquiry shall be conducted, regarding the alleged wrongful imprisonment of one Sirius Hellion Wilfred Orion Merlin Dexter Nestor Soren Pendragon Alphard Phineas Black (36, deceased), wrongfully believed for years to be He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s right-hand man, the alleged murderer of twelve muggles and three wizards, as well as the greatest threat to the Wizarding World after He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named himself, whose life recently was ended during the battle at the Department of Mysteries, in the heart of the Ministry of Magic. Black had, as per firsthand sources, gone to the Department of Mysteries to rescue Harry Potter and a handful of Hogwarts students held by notorious escapee Death Eaters.
The story, which struck the Wizarding World as unbelievable at first, has further been confirmed as the inquiry continues. Black, allegedly a prominent member of the legendary Order of the Phoenix, a secret organisation set to fighting the Dark Side during the First War (1970-1981), was never responsible for the charges imputed upon him. Spokeswizard Jorkins assured that “he is due to receving a full pardon soon.”
The conditions of his imprisonment in Azkaban, the lack of a trial upon his capture, his unprecedented escape and his outwitting of the Ministry’s top Aurors, as well as the conditions of his demise shall be fully revised, spokeswizard Jorkins, further stated, hinting that even awarding Black the Order of Merlin, First Class posthumously would not suffice to cover horrid mistakes and inconsistencies present in his case. “The man was a hero, and heroes should not be treated that way,” he said.
Already the charges of being in league with You-Know-Who and bringing about the escape of the ‘Deadly Dozen’ last January, which had previously been pinned on Black, have been dropped, spokeswizard Jorkins declared, pointing out that this is “One of the worst disgraces the Ministry of Magic has ever partaken in.”
Harry lowered the paper, feeling sick to his stomach. He could not read on; what good did it do to Sirius to clear his name now? He was gone, and Harry knew who was responsible for it. He picked at his food, all appetite gone.
“Harry, you do need to eat up, it’s getting cold,” Mrs. Weasley admonished, gathering the loose pages of the Daily Prophet and folding them neatly before placing them on the table. She did not, however, take the front page from Connor, whose eyes remained fixed on it even as he started on a third helping of breakfast.
“D’you mind letting me have a look at it?” Harry asked, gesturing at the paper Connor was still looking at while feeding himself right-handed.
Connor stopped chewing for a moment, and looked Harry over, as if appraising him... and not being at all happy with what he saw. Harry frowned in confusion, but just when he was going to comment about it, Connor gave him a half-shrug and handed him the paper, pulling another one towards him.
“Thanks,” said Harry, watching the boy closely. Once again, the feeling of almost-recognition crept over him. He’d seen that face before, and not in a dream either. He had seen the exact same jaw line, the nose, even the eyes, at Hogwarts... but... it couldn’t be. Connor turned back to eating, completely ignoring Harry.
Giving himself a shake, Harry looked at the front page of the Daily Prophet-and stared.
Over half the page was taken up by a picture of the Dark Mark, hovering over the smoking ruins of McAlpin Estate. He recognised it without a problem, remembered how it had looked, when it still was whole, what had made it into a smouldering heap of stone and wood.
Attack on Dal Riada Estate- Clan McAlpin Annihilated, the headline read.
At nightfall on the 24th, the estate was attacked by a great force of Death Eaters. The Clan McAlpin, one of the oldest wizarding families in the world, thought long disappeared, was annihilated. All its members, turned into Inferi. We are once more facing the same darkness as years ago, what will bring this madness to a halt?
Harry felt a wave of cold overcome him, chills running down his spine. How Connor could have polished off two plates of Mrs. Weasley’s English Breakfast while looking at that picture the way he had, was beyond him. He returned the front page wordlessly to the other boy, who gave another careless shrug and tossed the paper farther down the table, now apparently immersed in a cross-word puzzle.
He glanced at Connor every now and then, the sensation of being studiously observed and ignored at the same time increasing with every passing moment. By the time he had forced down the last bite of his sausages, he was convinced Connor felt nothing short of contempt towards him, but by the life of him, he could not fathom why.
He worked his way across the papers in silence. The news were no better than they had been so far, there were notes everywhere relating of disappearances of Muggleborns or their families, Dementor attacks, Death Eater sightings... nowhere did Harry see so much as a hint of news that someone had fought back. He reached for today’s paper, almost reluctantly.
This, too, was entirely too similar to the rest to be comfortable with. Apart from learning that today was July twenty-seventh, there was little difference from all the rest he’d read so far.
The reporters screamed for news of the ‘Chosen One’, who was, as per statement by Dumbledore himself, ‘in an undisclosed location, to ensure his safety’. Harry felt his stomach threaten to turn. People were pinning their hopes on him, and where three weeks ago they had been singing songs of praise about his ‘boundless courage’ as he faced the Death Eaters at the Ministry-his courage.
What did they know?
Courage. Right.
Stupidity, that’s what it was. Hermione had told him there was no way Voldemort could have kept Sirius of all people in the Department of Mysteries for hours, but he hadn’t listened, had he? He’d thought he’d manage to come out on top, like so many times before. But he hadn’t, and Sirius had died.
He glanced at the paper again. Now, people were nothing short of demanding to know what his plans were to battle Death Eaters, wanting to know why he was doing nothing about the disappearances.
What could he do? Survive? It certainly was the one thing he excelled at. Drop a bomb right on top of his head, he’d probably live to tell the tale. But, he argued with himself, that was hardly enough to face Voldemort. Why were people so adamant in thinking he was the hero they needed? Were they that desperate?
Harry sighed heavily, chewing on his bottom lip with apprehension. The prophecy came to mind, unbidden.
‘...neither can live while the other survives...’ He pushed the thought as far from his mind as he could, he wouldn’t ever be able to face Voldemort and hope to win, no matter how much the reporters clamoured that he would.
* * *
Connor rose from his seat and limped towards the door, after thanking Mrs. Weasley for her cooking. Snapping out of his brooding, Harry followed wordlessly, catching up with him by the foot of the stairs.
“Hold up, wait-”
Connor turned to look at him... and there was that cool look again, coupled with an indescribable, closed expression Harry could not place at all.
“I... I just wanted to ask...” For some reason, he felt nervous all of a sudden. Asking the boy before him who he really was did not seem the right question to ask, nor was asking how he knew him if he’d never seen him at all, and neither was demanding to know why Connor hated him so, even if all three were on the tip of his tongue.
“H-how is your brother doing?” he asked instead.
“Chris? He’ll live,” was the curt answer, delivered with a strong Scottish accent. “Or so Healer Tonks says. Hasn’t woken up much at all though.”
“Oh... Well I, I hope he gets better soon.”
“He will.” Harry didn’t know quite how to carry on this conversation. Connor’s tone brooked no uncertainty, no doubt. It was also final, indicating their exchange was over.
Harry nodded once, struck with the sudden urge to do something, anything to help.
“If you need anything at all,” he heard himself blurt, “anything... whatever you might...”
“We don’t.” The slightest hint of annoyance crossed Connor’s features, but when Harry looked again, it was gone, that impassive poker face back in place.
“The offer stands, I could-” Harry replied, before he was aware the words left his mouth. Connor cut him off with a disbelieving snort.
“Help us?” he finished for Harry, chuckling almost derisively. “What makes you think-”
Harry was about to reply to that, driven by the same impulse that had prompted him to offer his aid-whatever that might amount to. He had no time to respond, or indeed begin to ponder what he’d just done, though. As one, he and Connor looked up the stairs, in the direction of the room occupied by the twins.
“He’s awake.” Connor’s voice was a mere whisper, so low Harry wasn’t sure if he’d said anything at all or if it was his own mind voicing a thought; words weren’t necessary, however. Chris was awake, disoriented, confused. Harry had felt it as surely as Connor had.
That in itself was boggling.
Without another word, Connor climbed the stairs, disappearing behind the door. As it shut with a soft ‘click’, Harry snapped out of his daze.
What was that? He had no answer for this question, but part of him was certain that Connor knew. That same part of him also knew, but it was as if he’d been hit by a Confundus Charm; he didn’t know what he knew, or how he did. It had been almost... instinctive.
* * *
Night was falling, as was the eternal London drizzle, when Rasmus Thanatovich apparated in a dank, mist-covered alley close to the slum called Spinner’s End. He did not bother with Muggle clothing, even if he was striding purposefully down the street and looking for all the world as if he owned it.
Which, he mused absently, he very well could. He would have to contact his realtor.
Screwing up his nose at the smells reaching him from the overturned, overflowing rubbish bins scattered along the way, and sidestepping a rat or three, a few well-placed wards and a guardian bat statue, he stopped by a very much shabby-looking door at the shabbiest part of the street.
He kicked the door a few times, waiting rather impatiently for it to open.
Eventually it did, revealing a short, grubby, straw-blond wizard with overlarge front teeth who blinked at him with watery blue eyes. Rasmus looked haughtily down at him, his expression scornful.
“Let me in, rat. I have an important errand to see to and little time to waste with the likes of you,” he commanded.
With a squeak, the short man scuttled aside, watching him with wide, fearful eyes. Rasmus spared the double-crosser not a glance, striding into the dinghy front room. Snape’s hygiene seemed to have not improved one jot since he had last been here in 1982. He stood before the fireplace, hands folded behind his back.
“Call Severus. I have news for him.”
* * *
TBC.
Dedication: To NaNoWriMo, for keeping me sane. To the memory of Brina Dreamweaver, I don't think I've missed you this much in a long time.
Written: Man, I think it was 2006. Oops.
Rating: Um, not for the weak of stomach.
Genre: Ugly
Type: Loong
Title:
Chapter Eighteen - Hiding in Grim Old Places
Albus Dumbledore had not had a good day so far. The visit to the Department of Mysteries which had begun the previous evening, had dragged on to past lunchtime the following day, and he did not manage to escape the Ministry without running into a very distraught Cornelius Fudge, who had babbled some nonsensical accusations at him before shuffling hurriedly to his office, a half-score insistent reporters following closely behind.
Albus had, however, managed to get a hold of a copy of the Daily Prophet, heard a disturbing tale or two, and even held a brief, yet very much informative talk with a grim-looking Kingsley Shacklebolt, who was on his way to one of the Auror Apparition Points, followed by a team of Hit Wizards headed to Inverarray. The Auror did tell him, almost in code, that they had managed to safely take Harry to Headquarters, where he was being presently tended to by Healer Tonks and Madam Pomfrey. He could not elaborate on Harry’s condition, but knowing the boy was safe sufficed for the moment.
Dumbledore, in turn, asked Kingsley to look for two fourteen-year-old boys in and around the McAlpin Estate, and to bring them to Headquarters if they were found alive. He could not provide much by way of useful information, however, other than their names, and that they had black hair and grey eyes. If Kingsley was confused by this, he did not show it, but assented by jokingly asking for the post of Defence Against the Dark Arts Master at Hogwarts.
“They are likely injured, and, as my sources have informed me, they shall not approach you willingly, unless you disclose your... other affiliation,” Albus said quietly, after chuckling and loudly offering the Auror some sherbet lemons. “Yes, Kingsley, I shall look into it, we have as yet found no suitable replacement this year,” he added loudly. “Do feel free to stop by for tea sometime, there is no need for you to owl beforehand,” he added, and both wizards took their leave from each other shortly after.
The return to Headquarters went smooth and quick, as usual. Albus apparated to the park outside the town house, entering it quietly so as to not disturb the portrait, whose curtains were open. Mrs. Black, however, merely sputtered and gibbered at him, as if shocked. The Hogwarts Headmaster raised an eyebrow, striding to the much more welcoming kitchen.
“Took you long enough,” Alastor greeted him impatiently, even as around him, Minerva McGonagall, Tonks and the Weasleys looked up from their respective drinks. They all looked tired, Albus noted. “Did you get stuck with the press mob that’s been pestering the Magical Law Enforcement Squads? We’ve been waiting for hours.”
“My apologies. I was... detained,” Albus replied, sinking into a chair with a sigh and conjuring some tea for himself. There was something tense in the air, however, and the way the grizzled wizard was staring at him did not serve to enlighten him beyond the fact that, there was indeed something further to discuss, something that likely had to do with Harry.
“I am all ears now, however,” Albus ventured after a moment’s silence.
“Good, because we have a fair bit to tell you. Angus McAlpin’s grandsons are here.”
* * *
“My Lord, you wished to see me?” The Death Eater bowed low before him. Voldemort waved a long-fingered hand in an impatient gesture of dismissal.
“Get up, Rasmus, there’s no need for you to do that here,” he hissed. “We have but six days left, what are the news?”
“I have gathered seven so far, my Lord,” Rasmus replied, taking a seat across from Voldemort’s own. “I am planning to bring you two more before the night is over. Nott and MacNair are looking into it already, I am confident we will have them all long before the deadline.”
“Where are you keeping them?” The Dark Lord inquired, pleased to hear the news. Six days to go, and less than half the elements left to gather for the party.
“The Dementor Pit,” came the reply. “Although I am confident Bella will keep them duly entertained for the next few days, if things become... overly dull.”
Voldemort smiled thinly, nodding his agreement. That particular project was coming along nicely, good.
“Have you heard any news about the Clan McFusty?” the Dark Lord asked next, in a conversational tone that was rarely heard by any Death Eater, save perhaps those few who enjoyed what could be termed a friendship with Voldemort. Such a thing did not exist, and neither of the wizards present in the parlour were fooled. They were friends as much as they were master and servant, titles which they honoured for mere form’s sake.
It was, however, a most excellent arrangement, which had so far, brought both sides enough satisfaction to continue pursuing an exchange.
“The eyes of the press are on them at all times, particularly since their heir has died,” Rasmus informed, summoning himself some wine. He was completely at ease, secure in his power. “We can strike on the day of the funeral, or the morning after,” he added, earning himself a pensive nod from his master. “They will be too occupied mourning to pay attention to what is important, and we will be able to help ourselves without interruptions.” An elegant little scoff and a roll of his eyes conveyed the rest of the message.
Voldemort chuckled. Rasmus went about matters in a thorough, methodical fashion, pinpointing the critical areas and offering immediate solutions to them without getting out of stride. If Rasmus said it could be done, it could be done... which was why Voldemort kept him around and made so many concessions to him.
“The Wandmaker will be pleased, he has been asking for conventional cores. When is the funeral due?”
“The date has not yet been set, but we are ready to strike even now,” came the confident reply. “Last I heard, the Hit Wizards had not yet managed to retrieve the corpses.”
“So we have an advantage.” Voldemort snapped his fingers, and a blood-red goblet appeared in his hand, filled with a poisonous-looking green liquid that steamed slightly. Serpente, a liquor made of the venom of thirteen different snake breeds, so rare and expensive it was thought not to exist outside legend. It served as a strong tonic, although anything over a mouthful would kill a fair-sized wizard in a heartbeat. Voldemort stashed the stuff by the barrel, his favourite aperitif as it were.
“I would ask something further of you, then, since you appear to have the time for it now.”
“Anything, my Lord, as long as it is within my power to provide.”
“I need a new body,” Voldemort mused. He had always confided in Rasmus, who, having no further interest in anything outside of his game, had no reason whatsoever to use this information against him. He gestured a long, bony hand at himself. “This one might be powerful, but it is ultimately flawed. The link with the Potter boy is getting stronger by the day, and the constant Occlumency needed to block him out is draining my strength.”
Rasmus nodded shortly. The link with the Potter boy was not the sole reason for this decision, he knew, but he was not supposed to be aware of the fact that Potter had managed to control Voldemort’s body for a brief period of time a few days ago, during the DalRiada raid. Over a distance of almost 700 miles.
“I have been feeding him dreams, but it does not seem to be enough,” Voldemort hissed, sipping his Serpente with relish. “Nothing ever is with that one. I want him, Rasmus, but for that I need to be rid of this connection... it is not worthwhile having if he can see through me but I cannot see through him at all.”
“What sort of body would Your Lordship wish for?” Rasmus inquired, tilting his head slightly in acknowledgement of the last statement. Voldemort’s eyes glinted red.
“A young body. A powerful one. Nothing less will do, a common body would die with ordinary possession, in a matter of weeks, maybe days. There is, however, one who would withstand the process, one whose body I could claim as my own without much problem.”
Rasmus thought he knew where this was going. He nodded patiently, however, allowing the Dark Lord to explain his plan before jumping to conclusions.
“Severus should start researching how to make the transfer, but you, my friend, are tasked with the more important part of the plan. I know who I want.”
Rasmus looked keenly at his master, not bothering to hide the glint of excitement welling up in his own eyes. “Who might that be?”
“One of those twins... I want one of the McAlpin boys.”
And there it is.
Rasmus felt a smile of triumph tugging at his lips. He did not bother to ask why the Dark Lord had come to this conclusion, Voldemort would tell him in due time, he always did. Sheer power of the McAlpin heir was not the sole backing for his reasoning, and Rasmus was well aware of it. He welcomed the opportunity of a hunt, however, the reasons for it would come to him in time, and he was nothing if not painfully patient.
“Find them, Rasmus, bring them to me, no matter what the cost. You may keep the spare in exchange, I just need one after all... undamaged.”
“Certainly,” Rasmus conceded, bowing his head and steepling his fingers. “Do you have any preference as to which, My Lord?”
“I believe it is the firstborn, Rasmus. They are generally more powerful than their younger siblings... yes. Bring me the firstborn, whole, do with the other as you wish.”
“You are aware it might be a long-term project, my Lord,” Rasmus retorted, raising his eyebrows. “They might be with some of their old friends... Dumbledore might have already taken a hold of them.”
Voldemort nodded once. This turn of events was quite predictable, after all.
“I have waited for years, Rasmus,” he pointed out. “Time I have in spades. I need quality, not speed.”
Rasmus fell silent for a while, already pondering ways of action in this regard.
“The girl,” he mused aloud. “McAlpin’s granddaughter... what became of her, I wonder.”
Voldemort waved a long hand at him, the gesture bordering on languid.
“Bella kept her... as a personal plaything, I believe,” he commented offhandedly. Rasmus nodded again, an idea forming in his mind.
“I would wish to use her... as bait, perhaps.”
“If you can find a use for her, by all means,” was the unconcerned reply. “All my resources are, as per usual, at your disposition.”
“Thank you, your Lordship, you are most generous,” Rasmus replied, smiling coldly. “I do, in fact, believe she could be put to better use than Bella’s entertainment-I shall strive to duly compensate her, for the loss of such... rare a toy.”
Voldemort let out a chilling laugh. Today was a good day. Everything seemed to be running smoothly, and Rasmus was already thinking out a plan. He raised his gobletful of Serpente in silent toast, mirrored by the other wizard.
“Is there anything else you might need for this venture?”
“I should like to have a word with Severus, my Lord... I am not completely certain yet, but I do believe I shall devise a suitable plan after seeking his counsel.”
* * *
For the past half hour, Albus had been listening to a fantastic account. Angus’ ‘pupils’ were, in fact, his grandchildren. And they had arrived, half dead in the middle of the night, eluding Death Eaters and the rest of the wizarding world as they crossed half the country to reach Headquarters. Impressive as though the story might be, there was more to it, he could tell by merely looking at his long-time friend.
“I didn’t remember them at first, although Connor made it pretty clear he knew me,” Alastor continued with a growl. “It didn’t click until he told me he was-“ Moody made a choked noise in the back of his throat, tried again, with the same result. Everyone turned their heads towards Mad-Eye, who merely chuckled good-naturedly.
“That old sod McAlpin was a genius,” he commented, shaking his grizzled head. “I can’t tell you what the kid said... but I believe I can explain some of it.”
“Kindly do,” Minerva interjected, suppressing a yawn and looking strained. These past few days had been taxing for all.
“McAlpin was head of the Department of Mysteries until 1981. Late that year, he developed a variation of the Fidelius Charm, to protect his family from the Dark Side,” Moody informed in a grunt. “Few even know of them, and those who do... well, the charm comes coupled with a selective obliviation spell the old coot developed too.”
“How do you know that?” Albus enquired, frowning slightly.
“Because I taught those kids for two, no, three years, up until the time I went to Hogwarts to get stuck in my trunk,” Moody counters. “I only just remembered, when Connor lifted the memory spell and the Fidelius Charm for me.” If anything, he looked impressed and proud, not at all miffed that his memory had been tampered with.
“I agreed to it, you know,” he growled at the many confused looks shot his way. “It was a necessity back then. Still is, but I couldn’t tell you why if I tried. All I can tell you is there is much more to those two than meets the eye, they need our help and protection, and they need it yesterday.”
Silence greeted these words, while everyone present digested them the best they could.
The thoughtful, rather confused quiet pervading the kitchen was broken quite unceremoniously moments later, when Healer Tonks trampled down the stairs and flopped onto a chair, summoning herself some water. She looked worn out, and her robes were stained with fresh blood. Not that she seemed to mind about it.
“Well,” she stated, after draining a goblet of water and looking around. “They’ll live.”
“What are...?” Mad-Eye and McGonagall asked in tandem, both stopping short to allow the other to speak and neither finishing the question.
Healer Tonks laughed tiredly, launching into a rather clipped description of the boys’ conditions.
“The first one, Chris, has lost a lot of blood,” she informed. “He was hit by a shredding curse, a well-aimed one.” She paused long enough to allow everyone around to flinch and cringe in sympathy before explaining the remainder of his injuries, which included a few strike spells and a hurling hex. “He is worn to the limit, of course, which never helps. The other one, Connor, is not much better off. I am surprised they made it this far under such conditions,” she commented. “That alone will set the healing period back a few days, but they’re strong... they’ll pull through.”
Mad-Eye let out a sigh of relief, echoed across the room by everyone else present.
“Connor’s injuries are less grave, but more numerous, not to mention he hardly took the time to look at them, which leaves him in much the same state as the other one,” Healer Tonks added, not bothering to list off every broken bone, every gash she’d mended over the hours. “I’d be surprised to see him waking up in the next couple of days, he’s completely knackered.”
“What now, Albus?” McGonagall voiced rightly what should be their main concern.
Dumbledore exchanged a significant look with Moody, who spoke up once more.
“As I remember it, I was to take guardianship of the boys, should anything happen to Angus. I doubt that has changed in any way whatsoever. Given they’re the last living McAlpins, the matters of property and vaults and the such like are a no-brainer. What I am concerned about,” he stated, “is how to keep them safe from future attacks.”
“The can stay here over the summer,” Dumbledore replied in turn. “Along with Harry, they might just be the most sought-after by the Death Eaters at the moment. We can take them to Hogwarts in September.”
“If they agree to it,” Moody growled. Dumbledore did not have an answer to that.
“Albus’ plan would help us along, Alastor,” McGonagall pointed out. “Now, the matter of their custody is thankfully settled, but it reminds me of Harry’s custody. Who shall take guardianship over him now Sirius is gone?”
“I shall breach the subject to Harry,” Dumbledore retorted. “Once we have settled matters with the McAlpin boys.” He rose from his seat, McGonagall nodded in agreement. “Andromeda, may I see them? It will just be a minute.”
“They’re asleep, Dumbledore,” was the flat, rather unimpressed response. “But have it your way. You have ten minutes, they need to rest rather desperately.”
Albus nodded, bowing himself out of the kitchen. Moody followed, not bothering to get the Healer’s permission. Healer Tonks rolled her eyes tiredly, waving her wand at her robes to clean them of the bloodstains.
* * *
Harry wasn’t allowed back downstairs all day, nor the next, even if he didn’t feel half as weak and shaky as he did before.
Healer Tonks came in sometime before noon on the day the McAlpin twins arrived, her robes splattered with blood and what appeared to be potions, looking careworn and rather unapproachable. She took to checking him over, gave him a few strengthening potions, and changed the bandage she’d placed around his head; his scar had been bleeding since he had had that last vision of Voldemort in the McAlpin’s courtyard, and it kept opening at random times, accompanied by sharp jabs of pain whenever it did.
Harry asked after the boys, but she would not say anything; he chalked it up to her being tired and grumpy, as she had probably been up for days looking after him and now those newcomers, so he did not press the matter. She ordered him, as usual, to try and sleep as much as he could, encouraging him to use a bell she left on his nightstand if ever he needed anything.
He couldn’t sleep, however tired he was, his mind completely busy with the strange newcomers, or else plagued by nightmares of Trolls on a pier, of Dementors and burning houses, of the living dead walking towards him, drag-thump... drag-thump...
As if that weren’t enough, he tapped into Voldemort’s head a few times, yet the connection was too short, too vague to make anything out at all. Invariably, such visions were coupled with sharp burning in his scar, blood trickling down his forehead as he cradled it in his hands, wishing he could just tear his scar off and be done with it. The visions left him drained and gasping, and every time, the recurring nightmare of the dark, dank cave-like chamber followed, where he crawled over shards of glass, blindly looking for Sirius, whose voice kept impatiently demanding to know who was there.
It was enough to put anyone off sleeping more than strictly necessary, and Harry had gone on without a good night’s rest long enough to be used to this sort of arrangement, raw deal or not. He took to idly watching the sun crawl through the grimy windowpane of his bedroom, trying to figure out who the McAlpin boys were.
They looked entirely too familiar to be allowed, but he was certain they had never set a foot at Hogwarts; he’d remember them. He had the feeling that he ought to know them, a sense of having seen them before in the waking world, but by the life of him, he could not remember when or where. It intrigued him to no end, and he couldn’t wait to find out.
Mrs. Weasley, whom Harry had counted on for news, however, did not help him either. She brought him his meals, fluffed up his pillows and checked his bandages, but she was strangely quiet, with rings under her eyes and a certain distance whenever she addressed him that had not been there before. It made Harry not want to talk to her more than was absolutely needed. He knew by the look on her face she had been crying, and unbidden, the images of the boggart she had faced the previous summer came into mind, and he sipped his soup quietly, not daring to speak up.
Otherwise, he was left alone in the large chamber, listlessly staring at the dark red canopy of his bed and brooding in silence, which was near complete, suffocating. Apart from the black canvas of a thankfully empty portrait which he knew belonged to Phineas Nigellus-he had heard him sniggering a few times, but was thankfully spared from seeing him-there was no source of sound in the room.
The dedicated, constant care of Healer Tonks, Madam Pomfrey, and Mrs. Weasley, yielded results. He was indeed healing, and with an increase in his energy, the feeling of restlessness began to assert itself.
He left his bed sometime in the afternoon on the day after the McAlpin twins arrived, his third at Headquarters, and spent some time alternately glaring at every corner in the room and pacing around. The movement made him feel a little better, even if he tired quickly and it increased the feeling of confinement, but the effort helped distract him a little from the steady stream of bitter thoughts his mind was adamantly presenting him.
However, the thoughts won out as his eyes fell on something sitting on his bedside table. It was the mirror Sirius had given him, which he had taken out of the case he’d somehow managed not to lose sometime earlier, for lack of anything better to do. It had taken a simple repair spell to fix it, but he had not called into it again. What good would it do, except make him hope for what was not going to happen? He’d give anything, anything, to see Sirius’ face again, had long lost all hope of ever doing so.
Sirius... Sirius might have known who the boys were, why Voldemort was after them. Come to think of it, Sirius had usually been rather well-informed of, well, almost everything. He’d been a ready source of advice, but most of all, he’d trusted Harry, treated him as an equal and not like a child. He had been there for him, had had faith in him, never once lied to him.
And look where that landed him, Harry thought bitterly, glaring at the worn rug on the side of the bed. Azkaban, Merlin knows how many other places while he was on the run... sleeping in caves, or worse... only to end up in another, equally bad prison and... He gulped down the word, not wanting to even think of it, and resumed his pacing, jaw clenched. Suddenly the idea of seeing Sirius’ face again became less than appealing. What could he tell him? How could he even think of facing him again if he had as good as killed him?
“Sorry” did not suffice now any more than it had so far.
Harry took to pacing up and down the room again.
Despite the frequent wakings and unpleasant dreams, Harry did manage to rest some. Since his room came with its own bathroom, and his almost every need was being catered to, there was no real need for him to leave, even if he’d wanted to. Which he didn’t, not anymore.
When a very tired-looking Healer Tonks announced, while giving him his morning potions on the twenty-seventh, the third day after his arrival, that he would be ready to be about the house for a little while later that day, Harry was faced with mixed feelings. Part of him was itching for movement, particularly now the strength was returning to his limbs, and welcomed the opportunity to give more than a few paces in either direction at last.
Yet another part of him did not want to leave, however; as hateful as he perceived every minute he spent in Sirius' old bedroom - he still had trouble considering it his own - he had never been there long during his other stays at Grimmauld Place, and he knew that once he left the dubious safety it provided, he would have to see the rest of the house, and the memories would come flooding back, and once they did... He wasn't sure what he would do.
He did leave though, in time for a late breakfast or an early lunch, whichever way he looked at it. The oppressing sense of confinement proved more daunting than the memories for the time being.
He also found he had been right; even as he hobbled slowly across the old corridors-which, despite the visible efforts to clear them, seemed to be adamant on retaining the 'classical evil-wizard style' as Sirius used to put it-images, sounds, and even smells from his last stay there popped up around every corner, from every nook and cranny, only to disappear again and return to their dark corners to lurk and wait for another time when he could be caught unawares.
He stopped on the third floor landing to catch his breath, and there was Sirius, grinning at him while he told him of some mad stunt he and James had pulled at school, or else telling him with every detail how he had fooled Chinese Aurors while in Peking, or asking for a retelling of Harry’s escape from the dragon in the Triwizard Tournament... Harry looked away, tried to hurry up. His eyes fell on the corridor leading to the Master Bedroom, where Sirius had kept Buckbeak; it had been his favourite brooding place, when things were going less than well for them all... Gritting his teeth, Harry made his way downstairs, hoping for some distraction.
He sensed him before he entered the kitchen, knowing he was in there without needing to see.
His left arm was held in a sling, his forehead sported a bandage similar to Harry’s own, and he was sitting ramrod straight, wearing a set of Harry’s pyjamas and an old, threadbare bathrobe Ron had discarded the previous summer. Connor did not even look up from the newspaper he was reading as Harry entered, turning instead to hand Mrs. Weasley an empty plate.
She greeted Harry warmly, stifling a yawn as she motioned for him to sit. everyone else had apparently already left for the day. Harry took a seat, across from Connor, who seemed absorbed by whatever he was reading.
“Hello, I’m-” Harry began, deciding that introducing himself would be the obvious course of action, and possibly, a start to a conversation.
“Harry Potter, I know,” Connor mumbled absently, without looking up. For an explanation, he tapped his own bandaged forehead once, graced Harry with a glance right after. Harry frowned, slightly taken aback. He was used to people knowing who he was by now, but Connor had hardly glanced at him, even that night he and his brother arrived.
“I’m Connor,” he added, almost as an afterthought, resting the paper against the sugar bowl to carry on reading. Before Harry could say anything else, Mrs. Weasley placed loaded with food before each of them, and Connor tucked in like a starved man, turning his attention alternately to his food and the paper after thanking Mrs. Weasley profusely.
Harry reached for one of the old Daily Prophets scattered on the table, to give himself something to do other than stare at the boy sitting before him in silence. Someone had beaten him to the front page, though, but he wasn’t in a picky mood at the moment. He skimmed though most of the articles until one caught his attention.
July 26, 1996
Inquiry to be conducted at the Ministry of Magic.
The Ministry of Magic spokeswizard Stamford Jorkins, 57, said, in a statement deposed earlier this week after a Wizengamot hearing, that a full inquiry shall be conducted, regarding the alleged wrongful imprisonment of one Sirius Hellion Wilfred Orion Merlin Dexter Nestor Soren Pendragon Alphard Phineas Black (36, deceased), wrongfully believed for years to be He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s right-hand man, the alleged murderer of twelve muggles and three wizards, as well as the greatest threat to the Wizarding World after He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named himself, whose life recently was ended during the battle at the Department of Mysteries, in the heart of the Ministry of Magic. Black had, as per firsthand sources, gone to the Department of Mysteries to rescue Harry Potter and a handful of Hogwarts students held by notorious escapee Death Eaters.
The story, which struck the Wizarding World as unbelievable at first, has further been confirmed as the inquiry continues. Black, allegedly a prominent member of the legendary Order of the Phoenix, a secret organisation set to fighting the Dark Side during the First War (1970-1981), was never responsible for the charges imputed upon him. Spokeswizard Jorkins assured that “he is due to receving a full pardon soon.”
The conditions of his imprisonment in Azkaban, the lack of a trial upon his capture, his unprecedented escape and his outwitting of the Ministry’s top Aurors, as well as the conditions of his demise shall be fully revised, spokeswizard Jorkins, further stated, hinting that even awarding Black the Order of Merlin, First Class posthumously would not suffice to cover horrid mistakes and inconsistencies present in his case. “The man was a hero, and heroes should not be treated that way,” he said.
Already the charges of being in league with You-Know-Who and bringing about the escape of the ‘Deadly Dozen’ last January, which had previously been pinned on Black, have been dropped, spokeswizard Jorkins declared, pointing out that this is “One of the worst disgraces the Ministry of Magic has ever partaken in.”
Harry lowered the paper, feeling sick to his stomach. He could not read on; what good did it do to Sirius to clear his name now? He was gone, and Harry knew who was responsible for it. He picked at his food, all appetite gone.
“Harry, you do need to eat up, it’s getting cold,” Mrs. Weasley admonished, gathering the loose pages of the Daily Prophet and folding them neatly before placing them on the table. She did not, however, take the front page from Connor, whose eyes remained fixed on it even as he started on a third helping of breakfast.
“D’you mind letting me have a look at it?” Harry asked, gesturing at the paper Connor was still looking at while feeding himself right-handed.
Connor stopped chewing for a moment, and looked Harry over, as if appraising him... and not being at all happy with what he saw. Harry frowned in confusion, but just when he was going to comment about it, Connor gave him a half-shrug and handed him the paper, pulling another one towards him.
“Thanks,” said Harry, watching the boy closely. Once again, the feeling of almost-recognition crept over him. He’d seen that face before, and not in a dream either. He had seen the exact same jaw line, the nose, even the eyes, at Hogwarts... but... it couldn’t be. Connor turned back to eating, completely ignoring Harry.
Giving himself a shake, Harry looked at the front page of the Daily Prophet-and stared.
Over half the page was taken up by a picture of the Dark Mark, hovering over the smoking ruins of McAlpin Estate. He recognised it without a problem, remembered how it had looked, when it still was whole, what had made it into a smouldering heap of stone and wood.
Attack on Dal Riada Estate- Clan McAlpin Annihilated, the headline read.
At nightfall on the 24th, the estate was attacked by a great force of Death Eaters. The Clan McAlpin, one of the oldest wizarding families in the world, thought long disappeared, was annihilated. All its members, turned into Inferi. We are once more facing the same darkness as years ago, what will bring this madness to a halt?
Harry felt a wave of cold overcome him, chills running down his spine. How Connor could have polished off two plates of Mrs. Weasley’s English Breakfast while looking at that picture the way he had, was beyond him. He returned the front page wordlessly to the other boy, who gave another careless shrug and tossed the paper farther down the table, now apparently immersed in a cross-word puzzle.
He glanced at Connor every now and then, the sensation of being studiously observed and ignored at the same time increasing with every passing moment. By the time he had forced down the last bite of his sausages, he was convinced Connor felt nothing short of contempt towards him, but by the life of him, he could not fathom why.
He worked his way across the papers in silence. The news were no better than they had been so far, there were notes everywhere relating of disappearances of Muggleborns or their families, Dementor attacks, Death Eater sightings... nowhere did Harry see so much as a hint of news that someone had fought back. He reached for today’s paper, almost reluctantly.
This, too, was entirely too similar to the rest to be comfortable with. Apart from learning that today was July twenty-seventh, there was little difference from all the rest he’d read so far.
The reporters screamed for news of the ‘Chosen One’, who was, as per statement by Dumbledore himself, ‘in an undisclosed location, to ensure his safety’. Harry felt his stomach threaten to turn. People were pinning their hopes on him, and where three weeks ago they had been singing songs of praise about his ‘boundless courage’ as he faced the Death Eaters at the Ministry-his courage.
What did they know?
Courage. Right.
Stupidity, that’s what it was. Hermione had told him there was no way Voldemort could have kept Sirius of all people in the Department of Mysteries for hours, but he hadn’t listened, had he? He’d thought he’d manage to come out on top, like so many times before. But he hadn’t, and Sirius had died.
He glanced at the paper again. Now, people were nothing short of demanding to know what his plans were to battle Death Eaters, wanting to know why he was doing nothing about the disappearances.
What could he do? Survive? It certainly was the one thing he excelled at. Drop a bomb right on top of his head, he’d probably live to tell the tale. But, he argued with himself, that was hardly enough to face Voldemort. Why were people so adamant in thinking he was the hero they needed? Were they that desperate?
Harry sighed heavily, chewing on his bottom lip with apprehension. The prophecy came to mind, unbidden.
‘...neither can live while the other survives...’ He pushed the thought as far from his mind as he could, he wouldn’t ever be able to face Voldemort and hope to win, no matter how much the reporters clamoured that he would.
* * *
Connor rose from his seat and limped towards the door, after thanking Mrs. Weasley for her cooking. Snapping out of his brooding, Harry followed wordlessly, catching up with him by the foot of the stairs.
“Hold up, wait-”
Connor turned to look at him... and there was that cool look again, coupled with an indescribable, closed expression Harry could not place at all.
“I... I just wanted to ask...” For some reason, he felt nervous all of a sudden. Asking the boy before him who he really was did not seem the right question to ask, nor was asking how he knew him if he’d never seen him at all, and neither was demanding to know why Connor hated him so, even if all three were on the tip of his tongue.
“H-how is your brother doing?” he asked instead.
“Chris? He’ll live,” was the curt answer, delivered with a strong Scottish accent. “Or so Healer Tonks says. Hasn’t woken up much at all though.”
“Oh... Well I, I hope he gets better soon.”
“He will.” Harry didn’t know quite how to carry on this conversation. Connor’s tone brooked no uncertainty, no doubt. It was also final, indicating their exchange was over.
Harry nodded once, struck with the sudden urge to do something, anything to help.
“If you need anything at all,” he heard himself blurt, “anything... whatever you might...”
“We don’t.” The slightest hint of annoyance crossed Connor’s features, but when Harry looked again, it was gone, that impassive poker face back in place.
“The offer stands, I could-” Harry replied, before he was aware the words left his mouth. Connor cut him off with a disbelieving snort.
“Help us?” he finished for Harry, chuckling almost derisively. “What makes you think-”
Harry was about to reply to that, driven by the same impulse that had prompted him to offer his aid-whatever that might amount to. He had no time to respond, or indeed begin to ponder what he’d just done, though. As one, he and Connor looked up the stairs, in the direction of the room occupied by the twins.
“He’s awake.” Connor’s voice was a mere whisper, so low Harry wasn’t sure if he’d said anything at all or if it was his own mind voicing a thought; words weren’t necessary, however. Chris was awake, disoriented, confused. Harry had felt it as surely as Connor had.
That in itself was boggling.
Without another word, Connor climbed the stairs, disappearing behind the door. As it shut with a soft ‘click’, Harry snapped out of his daze.
What was that? He had no answer for this question, but part of him was certain that Connor knew. That same part of him also knew, but it was as if he’d been hit by a Confundus Charm; he didn’t know what he knew, or how he did. It had been almost... instinctive.
* * *
Night was falling, as was the eternal London drizzle, when Rasmus Thanatovich apparated in a dank, mist-covered alley close to the slum called Spinner’s End. He did not bother with Muggle clothing, even if he was striding purposefully down the street and looking for all the world as if he owned it.
Which, he mused absently, he very well could. He would have to contact his realtor.
Screwing up his nose at the smells reaching him from the overturned, overflowing rubbish bins scattered along the way, and sidestepping a rat or three, a few well-placed wards and a guardian bat statue, he stopped by a very much shabby-looking door at the shabbiest part of the street.
He kicked the door a few times, waiting rather impatiently for it to open.
Eventually it did, revealing a short, grubby, straw-blond wizard with overlarge front teeth who blinked at him with watery blue eyes. Rasmus looked haughtily down at him, his expression scornful.
“Let me in, rat. I have an important errand to see to and little time to waste with the likes of you,” he commanded.
With a squeak, the short man scuttled aside, watching him with wide, fearful eyes. Rasmus spared the double-crosser not a glance, striding into the dinghy front room. Snape’s hygiene seemed to have not improved one jot since he had last been here in 1982. He stood before the fireplace, hands folded behind his back.
“Call Severus. I have news for him.”
* * *
TBC.