Aberforth Dumbledore stood behind the bar at his pub, The Hog's Head. It had been a long night, and he was just now getting a chance to polish some mugs with a rag that didn't look much cleaner than the glassware he was supposed to be cleaning.
He looked warily at the door, setting down a grimy glass. It was raining, and heavily, but that it was really just the sort of night that attracted the customers that frequented his pub. They were normally people who didn't want a lot of attention, or didn't want to be asked any questions, and this sort of weather usually suited their moods exactly.
In the back room, however, something very different was going on. Aberforth allowed himself a small grin at the thought of it. Dumbledore's Army, a group that hadn't met for – was it really eight years now? – was sitting around a table, talking in quiet but urgent tones about the rumors that had been rushing around the British wizarding world for the past few months, rumors of disappearances, and of a Dark Veil hanging over what used to be Azkaban Prison.
It was the first time they had all seen each other in a very long time, and Harry, in fact, had been doubtful that the coins would still work. He was still as tall as he had been at seventeen, but less gangly. His black hair was no less unruly, but it seemed to suit him now, and his face and body had filled out, giving Harry an aura of masculinity that he had never retained in his school days. No one was quite sure what he did for a living; after he had defeated Voldemort, Harry had retreated into himself, rarely keeping in contact with even Ron and Hermione.
Those two sat across from him, close together, a worried expression on Hermione's face and a stoic expression on Ron's. Ron had almost lost Hermione when they where destroying the fifth Horcrux – Nagini had been harder to kill then they had ever imagined. She had bitten Hermione, and the poison had almost killed her. Ron had wanted – had needed – to get her out of there, but Harry was determined to finish the job. The rift had begun to tear them apart right there.
On Hermione's right side, a couple of feet away, sat Neville Longbottom. As Harry had become more muscular, Neville had lost his extra fat, and was almost painfully thin to look at now. His cheekbones stuck out of his face, and his elbows created a right angle to his body as he crossed his arms in front of him. His expression contained traces of his devotion to Harry Potter, but he was now wary. Everyone, it seemed, had lost something in the Final Battle, and Neville Longbottom had lost his innocence. Killing Bellatrix Black had taken much more determination than Neville had ever thought it would. He could remember a brief feeling of anger, and then something deeper… hatred. Pure, unadulterated hatred for the woman who had tortured his parents into insanity made Neville Longbottom into a killer, and he was not unaware of this fact.
There were a few empty spaces at the table as well. Ginny Weasley's space was vacant – she had been murdered by Voldemort himself. It was as Harry had predicted; the Dark Lord had gone after those he had been closest to. The fact that he had not reconciled with Ginny before she was taken… but Harry had not let himself think about it, really. It was one of the reasons that he wouldn't talk to anybody after it was all over. After he had seen the marks of torture on her delicate body… nothing could be said to redeem himself. Perhaps, he had thought, if she had been with him, it wouldn't have happened. If she had come with them, for the Horcrux hunt, she would still be alive, and he would be holding her now, just as Ron was holding Hermione tightly across the table.
But it was not worth thinking about.
Two more spaces – Padma Patil. Cho Chang. The names rang in Harry's head, echoing over and over again in harsh, chastising tones. Harry shifted his eyes over and nodded slightly at Parvati, who nodded back. She had been devastated at her twin's death, and would not leave the body, but she was here now.
Luna Lovegood was patting Parvati's shoulder, as if she knew that Parvati was again thinking of the final battle. Harry smiled slightly. Luna was now pursuing her lifelong dream of going after her impossible creatures. She seemed to be the only one unchanged. There had been a week after the Final Battle where she descended into a dark depression, talking to no one, and wearing all black. But then… it was as if nothing had happened. Luna had redonned her radish earrings and begun talking about Flibbing-Footed Babcocks again, as if she hadn't just taken part in the most bloody battle in wizarding history.
That was all of them. There were more that had fought, of course, but these were the only people that had responding to the coin's call, yet again. The rest were too busy spending their rewards, for the Ministry of Magic had given each of the DA one million galleons, an enormous sum, for fighting against Voldemort. As far as Harry knew, those of the Order that had survived had got nothing. But that was for thinking about at another time…
Harry spoke now, his voice slightly trembling. He wasn't quite sure if he was ready to step in this role again. "I don't know if you've heard what's been going on," he began, "but there have been movements… strange movements around what used to be Azkaban."
"What d'you mean, 'movements?'" Neville asked, placing one of his arms on the table and leaning in.
Hermione answered. "There was a party of sight-seers, last month. They wanted to see where the prison was, but they weren't able to find it. They followed the directions, exactly, directions given to them by the Ministry. They used maps, they thought they were standing straight on top of it… but it wasn't there," Hermione looked diagonally over into the crook of Ron's elbow. "The whole Azkaban prison was gone."
"That's impossible," Parvati exclaimed. "When they moved all the prisoners, they put enchantments on the place just so that sort of thing wouldn't be able to happen!" Everyone looked toward her, and she added, "My uncle worked in the committee that helped to hide it. No other party should be able to make that place Unplottable, or invisible, or… or any other of that type of spell!"
"I've rather learned," Luna said in her soft voice, "that 'impossible' isn't really as impossible as it seems."
Harry stared at her for a moment. "What we need to figure out, though… is what they're doing."
Ron spoke for the first time, "And who they are."
The two men stared at each other for a few seconds, and then turned their eyes away.
ooooo
She is running through rain and trees. She is barefoot, and the sticks on the ground are puncturing her feet, and scratching her legs, but she doesn't care, it isn't painful.
She has made a huge mistake.
Her blue dress catches on the branches, and she can feel it rip and tear, and there is growling, and there are jets of light rushing past her, and there is shouting, but all she can do was run. Sprint for life, move for freedom, run. Run!
The wind is making her hair whip around her face; it is falling out of the elegant bun she has so carefully placed it in. She feels the diamond brooch she held it with scratch her back as it fell to the ground, the priceless heirloom her grandmother had given her, and she actually thinks for a second about stopping to pick it up, but a red jet of light grazes her cheek and she runs on.
So tired… her legs are aching, the muscles crying out for rest, the rain keeps falling, cold piercing bullets of ice that mingle with her frustrated tears. She dodges tree after tree, this forest is endless, she will have to stop soon, she will have to give in soon, it is not fair, there are so many of them and only one of her, why was she so stupid?
But then: hope. She makes out a light in the distance, and with one last burst of energy her legs pump and she is moving faster, faster toward the light, and the shouts are angry now, they cannot follow her here, she is sure. The trees are thinning, and there is the light, it is coming closer, or is she getting closer? She can no longer tell, she needs to breathe, she needs oxygen. She stares at the light, and cries out as it grows dimmer… and dimmer… and the light goes out.
ooooo
Aberforth Dumbledore was polishing his last glass, and was extremely annoyed that the little "meeting" was taking so long. It might have been a mistake to help the young ruffians back when You-Know-Who was in power, Aberforth thought, after all, my dear old brother had just kicked the bucket, one might have mistaken it for sentimentality. But no… Aberforth, old chap, you're one of self-reliance. You've got to make that quite clear the next time they come calling for a hand-out. None of this namby-pamby "seeing the good in people," people might mistake you for addle-brained Albus.
Aberforth was just finishing this thought, a self-satisfied grin on his face, when he set down the glass with a little "thump." He was very surprised, then, when it was echoed with an even larger "thump" against his doorway. Experimentally, Aberforth picked up the glass and set it down again, but did not hear the echo this time. He looked curiously at the polished glass. Aberforth scratched his head with a long fingernail.
He did not have to wait long, though, for a confused-looking Neville to come bursting through the doorway to the back room. "Dumbledore, did you hear something?"
Aberforth winced at the name. That's what people called his brother, and he resented being related to the old coot extremely. "I was just polishing my glass, nothing to worry about," he gestured to the mug and reset it on the bar, repeating the "thump."
"It was quite a bit louder than that," Neville began, when Harry pushed past him and went straight to the door of The Hog's Head, unlocking it. Harry raised his eyebrows at both Neville and Aberforth. Neville flushed a deep scarlet and Aberforth said absentmindedly, "Well. That would make sense then."
Harry rolled his eyes and opened the door, stepping back immediately at the shock. There was a woman there, crumpled in a heap. Her blue dress was soaked to her skin, and there were bloody scratches all over her legs, arms, and chest. Harry gasped at the sight, and instinctively kneeled to the floor, pressing his fingers to her neck to check for a pulse.
"She's alive," he croaked, and took his fingers away. They were tainted red from a gash on her neck. He sat there, staring at his fingers, his mind whirling.
"Come on, Harry!" Harry faintly heard Neville's voice, as if it came from far away, and felt Neville push him aside. Neville was picking up the woman, under her knees and armpits, and she lay inert there. "Clean off the bar, come on, hurry up!" Neville shouted.
It took a moment for Harry to comply. This sudden jolt back into the world of blood, and injury – not to mention the shock of hearing Neville giving orders, made him hesitate, and Neville gave a sort of growl before using his elbow to sweep all the glasses of the bar, causing them to crash to the floor. Aberforth gave an indignant shout, but Neville sent him a look of such anger that he quickly shut his mouth again.
Neville then gently lay the woman on the bar, placing her arms at her sides and carefully arranging her dress so that she was covered. Harry had never seen him so… tender. He suddenly came to his senses, still sitting on the floor by the doorway, and shouted, "Hermione, Ron, Luna, Parvati! We need you out here!!"
The four quickly came out of the back room, and Parvati rushed forward. "My God… look at her feet."
Harry, who had now stood up, walked over to the end of the bar and glanced at the woman's feet, then quickly turned away. They were a raw, mottled red, so bloody… Harry felt as if he were going to vomit. He chastised himself. He was supposed to be used to this kind of thing, wasn't he? He was the war hero, the Man-Who-Lived! This was not supposed to make him want to run away and start crying!
A new voice made Harry turn back around. "…Run…! …no… can't stop…. Light." The woman was attempting to sit up, her eyes were rolling wildly, and Hermione and Luna were on either side of her, each having a gentle but firm grip on an arm.
"Shush, shush, it's all right, you're among friends, we're taking care of you. Please, calm down, you're awfully hurt, we're going to help you," Hermione was keeping up a steady stream of soothing words as the woman tried to move her arms.
The woman stopped speaking for a moment; the gentleness seemed to shock her. "Maxim…" She said it longingly, wearily, and lovingly, all at once. Was it a cry for help, or a condemnation? Harry wasn't sure. All he knew was that he wanted to know what a "maxim" was.
