WIZARDS DUEL: SIXTH YEAR
by Patrick Drazen
a/k/a monkeymouse
3.1 The Slow Train
[If you found your way this far, you don't need me to tell you that JK Rowling created the Potterverse, and is still creating it…]
Platform Nine and Three-Quarters was very different this year. There was still shouting and running, laughter and shoving, but it was all subdued, quieter. A very large number of students and parents carried a special edition of the Daily Prophet, which was printed that day with a thick black border. From three feet away Harry could read the bold headline: Student Killed in Bomb Blast. He couldn't bring himself to look at the front-page picture.
He also noticed people would glance at him, recognize him, then turn away and find business elsewhere. He wondered what the article said about him and Cho, then decided he didn't want to know. In any case, everyone was giving him a wide berth. The way he felt, he was grateful.
He'd had no sleep in the past twenty-four hours. Arthur and Molly Weasley finally had to pull him away from Granny Li; he clung to her lap as if she was the last chance that Cho might still be alive. They got him back to Diagon Alley, to the Leaky Cauldron, where Arthur Weasley had a quick, hushed conversation with Tom. Meanwhile, Harry sat by the hearth in the dining room, staring at the table where he and Cho had had breakfast the day before. If anyone else came into the room, he didn't notice.
He didn't react to anyone or anything until Tom tapped him on the shoulder. "Ye'll miss yer train, Mister Potter." Harry started up the stairs to pack, but saw that his trunk was already by the desk, with Hedwig in her cage on top. "I hope ye don't mind; I took the liberty o' packin' ye up. I also talked to Gringott's; yer account's been taken care of. An' … we're all sorry fer yer loss."
Harry knew Tom meant well, and thanked him, but the last thing he wanted to hear–from anyone–was how sorry they were for his loss. All it did was rip the wound in his heart open again, forcing it to bleed again. Was this how Cho felt when Cedric died and her housemates and friends rushed to sympathize with her for her loss? Did she feel then the way he felt now–like screaming, or throwing something, or grabbing a broom–anyone's broom–and flying until he ran out of land and sky…
He found that the last compartment of the last car in the train was empty, so he dragged his trunk in there and waited. People passed by, looked in, and kept walking. Draco Malfoy, as usual backed up by Crabbe and Goyle, opened the door, but before Draco could say anything, Harry pulled out his wand. He didn't point it at them, he didn't even look at them; he simply said, "Just letting you know; I'm past caring about anything." Draco thought better of saying a word, and withdrew.
A few minutes later Hermione entered, alone. Her robes were new–not the ones she'd worn a few days earlier in the Leaky Cauldron. Also new was the Prefect badge pinned to her robes. She sat down on the seat opposite Harry, realized she was still holding a copy of the Daily Prophet, and hurriedly threw it to the other end of the seat. If she had something to say when she entered the compartment, she couldn't seem to remember it now.
"I just, that is, I wanted to see if you were…"
"Hermione," Harry said, in a low and tired voice, "I know you mean well, but I want to be alone right now."
"Maybe that's not such a good idea, though. Come sit with us."
"Trust me, there's nothing you can do."
"Perhaps I shouldn't say this…"
"Then don't."
"Why are you making this difficult? I'm trying to say I know what you're feeling."
Harry's eyes started to flare up again. "How do you know? What's death ever done to you?"
"Oh, nothing, I suppose, compared to you. But then it's not really about death, is it? Just that it didn't give you time to get ready for it. Bang, and your parents are gone; Bang and your girlfriend is gone. I have to watch it coming, spend weeks and months waiting for it…" Hermione suddenly realized that she's said far more than she intended, quickly stood and turned toward the compartment door.
Harry jumped up, barring the door with his body. "So you've got your own troubles?"
"Just let me go."
"No. You started to tell me something. So finish it."
"I swear I'll scream!"
"Then scream. I can tell you want to. But it's nothing to do with me, is it?"
Hermione turned away from the door, falling back onto a seat. Harry sat beside her, putting a hand on hers without even thinking about it. When she spoke, he could barely hear her:
"I…I met the Weasleys at St. Barts. They heard about you and Cho and got there as quick as they could. But I was already there, you see.
"After all these years, daddy has gotten quite used to owl posting. Mummy hasn't taken to it; I don't know why. Anyway, daddy sent an owl last spring just before the final exams. Mummy was feeling rather weak, had to take a few days away from the practice. You know they're both dentists, and they share the same… Yes, I suppose you do know."
Harry didn't like Hermione's lack of focus. It was very unlike her.
"The owl. The owl said. They wanted to put mummy in hospital back in June. She put her foot down. Said, 'I'm not going anywhere this summer unless it's with my family.' So they decided mummy wasn't too bad off. We were supposed to go for a month on the Mediterranean; she was the one who said, "Let's make it two'. Like she wanted to stand up to it, not let it stop..." Hermione couldn't go on; she fell silent.
He squeezed her hand. "Is it very bad?"
"They said she had a low-level Stage I endometrial carcinoma. It's a fancy way of saying cancer of the uterus." Hermione delivered this news soberly, calmly, holding herself together by sheer will.
Harry was surprised for a moment that she didn't seem upset; he thought that, in her place, he'd be in hysterics. But then he was surprised that he was surprised; this was Hermione, after all. "Well, can't they … cut it out or something?"
"That's not it. I mean, yes, they can go in and cut out her womb. It's not as if my parents wanted me to have a younger brother anyway. And that's why we were at St. Barts; checking mummy in. The surgery will be in a few days. But with this kind of cancer, even if it's low-level, even if it hasn't spread to the rest of the body, it's fifty-fifty odds that she'll live longer than five years…
"Harry, I know I'm not the most fun person to be around. I've never been spontaneous; I've never had much imagination. Maybe that has something to do with why I took off all my clothes in front of you and Ron. It's funny: when I say it like that, I can't imagine ever doing it, but it felt almost normal at the time. But at that moment, I think I needed to go a little mad, or else fall apart altogether."
"Well, if you'd had that kind of summer..."
"But that's it, Harry; we did have that kind of summer. I think part of going without clothes in Diagon Alley was that I didn't want to admit the possibility of mummy not ever seeing another summer..."
"Listen, Hermione, I'm sorry I was short with you. When you said you knew what I was feeling; I guess you were right. Before you found me in the chapel the other day, I think I actually went mad for a bit."
Harry had been unconsciously squeezing Hermione's hand through this conversation. Now she didn't say anything; she simply pulled her hand away and squeezed Harry's hand in turn. They sat together silently for a minute.
Then the bell rang; the train was ready to leave. Hermione stood up, consciously straightening her robes and her Prefect badge, and adjusting the emotions off of her face as well. "I'd better look in on Ron and Ginny. Please don't tell Ron about the cancer. Let me do that in my own time." Harry nodded. "And do try to come sit with us, Harry. It just feels wrong without you."
"Maybe later. Right now, I don't think I could stand the looks, the questions."
"I mean it, Harry. At Hogwarts, too, if you want to talk about anything, day or night…"
Harry half-smiled. "Accio Hermione?"
She nodded, smiling, and left.
The train gave a shudder and started to roll. He settled in for the hours- long journey north to Hogwarts. As he did so, he noticed that Hermione had left her copy of the Daily Prophet on the opposite seat. It was turned to the back, where there was usually nothing but advertising, so Harry thought it was safe to look. Most of the back page was taken up with a picture. The caption:
"LAST KNOWN PHOTO OF VICTIM
This photo of Club MoshiMoshi was taken by its manager Zafar Ajneeri only minutes before the bombing. Miss Cho Chang, who died of injuries resulting from the blast, is seen dancing with Hogwarts student Harry Potter. A reliable source indicates that the two were to become engaged before the tragedy occurred."
There they were, Harry Potter and Cho Chang, young and healthy and in each other's arms, dancing forever to music that nobody else could hear…
"HARRY!" Hermione's voice came from the corridor. "I'm so sorry! I forgot my..." She pulled open the door, and saw Harry looking at the picture on the back. "Oh, Harry, I..."
She stopped when she saw that Harry had not fallen apart. He was looking at the picture in a detached, almost clinical, manner, the way she'd seen her parents examine the x-ray of a jaw. "Did you ever notice," he said, quite matter of factly, "that nobody likes the way their own pictures turn out? You look at yourself and say, 'Nah, that's not me; must be someone else; I certainly don't look like that.'"
"Are you...all right?"
"Of course; fine. Just thinking about the year ahead."
There was nothing else for Hermione to say, so she took the paper and left Harry alone. He stayed there for about an hour, when he realized that, as much as he didn't want to be bothered by anyone, he didn't really want to be alone either. He opened his trunk, found the Cloak of Invisibility and put it on for the first time in a long time. He told himself he just wanted to explore the train unbothered for a bit.
He immediately recognized the voice in one compartment as Ginny Weasley: "It HAD to be the Dark Lord!"
"But there's no proof, is there?" Ron replied. "All the Ministry knows is that some Muggle did it."
"And how do you know what they know?"
"Because of stupid old Pig there." Ron was talking about the little owl Pigwidgeon. "Never knows where to deliver the mail. Dad's written letters to Dumbledore, and I end up getting them."
"Then I'd stop calling Pig stupid, if I were you," Hermione interrupted. "He just might stop giving you all that special mail."
"Hermione," Ginny asked, "do the Muggles really hate us that much? I mean, your parents are nice and all, but…"
There was silence, and a deep sigh. "I've heard them talk about witches and wizards and magic all my life, Ginny, even before anyone knew I was a witch. And yes, some of them might as well be working for the Dark Lord. They accuse us of every terrible thing that's ever happened; they burn books about us that suggest we might be nice, or even that we might be human; and some of the things they say about us… Ron, I've made my mind up. I'm getting out of the Auror courses and going back to Muggle Studies."
"After what you just said?!"
"Especially after that. Somebody's got to tell them the truth, and I think I can do it in their own language. Somebody has to try, anyway." After a moment, in a softer voice: "It's not much of a monument to Cho, but it's the best I can do."
Good for you, Harry thought.
A few cars down Harry found one compartment filled to overflowing. Most of the Quidditch players, from most of the Houses, were there. At the moment, they were cornering Lee Jordan:
"Face it, Lee, you totally lost it!"
"Yeah, well, can you blame me?"
"That was some move; still never seen anything like it."
"And you never will again."
"I'm just lucky nobody from the WWN was there. I auditioned for them this summer, you know."
"Did they say anything?"
"Just the usual about 'come back when you're out of school'. But how much school do I really need to announce Quidditch matches? It's not like Hogwarts will teach it anytime soon."
"But if they do, we can all practice saying…"
As if they'd rehearsed it, everyone in the compartment shouted at the top of their voice:
"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT!"
They all laughed, and, as the laughter died down, Lee spoke up: "She was a fine little Seeker, though. Could have been one of the great ones."
There were a few grunts and murmurs of agreement. Harry moved on to another compartment.
In the next car he saw Crabbe and Goyle standing about in the corridor, so Harry felt pretty sure he knew who was inside that compartment. Maybe Draco wanted some time alone with Pansy Parkinson. That was an image he didn't want in his head: two of Slytherin's foulest students snogging. He was about to move on when Pansy's voice cut right through the door: "You promised! You promised me that nothing would go wrong!"
"I only told you what father told me," Draco replied. "I didn't promise anything."
"Well, I can promise you something, Draco Malfoy. I'm only interested in being on the winning side. And if it's not going to be the Death-Eaters…"
"Keep your voice down," Draco hissed, "and take it easy. We had some setbacks this year, but that's over and done. We've got a new source of information. We won't be taken by surprise any more; from now on, we do the surprising."
"You haven't had any luck so far. Hogsmeade was a failure, Fudge was a failure…"
"Don't lecture me, Pansy; it's not an attractive trait."
"…not even that hag in Privet Drive!"
Privet Drive?! Was there a witch living near the Dursleys all these years? Why hadn't she said anything to Harry??
"There's one consolation," Draco went on. "We get the spectacle of Pining Potter, moping around Hogwarts and completely off his game."
"I'm not talking about Quidditch."
"Neither am I. He's one less distraction for the Death-Eaters to worry about. Say what you will about the Potter, Dumbledore considers him as more than just a pawn in this chess game. Losing his little fortune cookie should distract him, and limit Dumbledore's options considerably. He'll be useless for, maybe, the rest of the term."
"Do you think the Dark Lord can pull it off by Christmas?"
"Either that, or he'll at least be strong enough that Dumbledore and Potter combined can't stand up to him. The plan is back on track."
Oh, is it now? Harry thought. Draco wasn't going to see him moping about Hogwarts; he wouldn't give Malfoy the satisfaction. Harry strode down the corridor to the compartment where Ron and Hermione and the others were. He could hear through the door; they were laughing about something, and Harry, with his hand on the door of the compartment, froze. Not yet, I can't have a party with them yet. It's too soon.
He went back to his compartment at the end of the train, still empty except for Hedwig. He was there three hours into the journey when his stomach started to growl. He tried to ignore it, couldn't, opened his trunk, took out the sausage and knife Ron had sent him. He was just about to cut into it when he remembered; he'd saved it all this time to be able to share it with his friends. He tossed everything back into the trunk.
Just then, there was a light tapping at the compartment door. Nobody came in, and after a minute Harry opened the door. The corridor was empty, but in front of the door was a paper bag. The hag who pushed the snack cart had left a few things in the bag for him.
This made Harry feel even worse. He didn't have the chance to thank her, and he still didn't want to be with Ron or Hermione or any of the others. He simply sat and looked at the bag. Minutes later, he reached in, took out a Chocolate Frog, unwrapped it and took a bite. It tasted as bitter as the vinegar-flavored Bertie Botts Bean he'd had earlier in the year, studying for finals with Ron…
He kept thinking about Ron and Hermione and the others in a compartment further up the train. He realized that he was actually trying not to think about Cho—but then, he'd thought of nothing else between the bombing and getting on the Hogwarts Express.
But overhearing Draco gave Harry something new to think about. Voldemort was still out there somewhere; the Death-Eaters were out there, trying to bring the Dark Lord back to his old power. And they knew—Draco had admitted as much—that Harry Potter stood in their way.
And maybe it was his sleepless state, and maybe it was because of all that had happened, but he stared at the opposite seat, and thought about the Dark Lord, and he stared and he thought … until Harry Potter had what could only be called a vision. An image came to his mind of Cho Chang; not as he had last seen her in hospital, but standing, smiling, in the center of an empty Quidditch stadium. Then, just behind her, there suddenly appeared his parents. Others started appearing behind them: Cedric Diggory, killed on Voldemort's orders; Moaning Myrtle, who was killed when the Dark Lord was still a Hogwarts student named Tom Marvolo Riddle; dozens of other people—some dressed in wizarding robes, some of them Muggles—who had all been killed during Voldemort's first rise to power; and as Harry watched, the crowd of people grew and grew until it threatened to overflow the stadium…
And he came out of his trance. He came out of it with one clear idea in his head: that he, Harry James Potter, stood between Voldemort and thousands of new deaths. His birth, his education at Hogwarts—everything in his life led him to this realization. That was all he had to do; nothing else mattered. If he succeeded, tens of thousands of deaths could be averted. If he failed…then at least he'd join Cho in the Great Mystery beyond life. But he would have tried.
But how? What was there to try? He'd faced Voldemort before; a wizard who'd accumulated power for decades, who knew spells Harry didn't even realize were out there. And he was strong—fueled by greed and contempt and anger. Could Harry stand up to all that?
Then he realized: he HAD stood up to all that. He had been tortured by Voldemort in the churchyard where Voldemort had been reborn. Harry had been tortured, yet had survived. He and Cho actually fought off three Death-Eaters in the skies over Hogsmeade.
He closed his eyes, remembering –savoring—that victory with Cho over the Death-Eaters. And maybe he slept and dreamed, or maybe he had another vision. Again, Cho stood alone on a Quidditch field, smiling at Harry. But standing with her now was Albus Dumbledore, Rubeus Hagrid, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Hermione Granger, the entire Weasley clan…Hogwarts classmates, people he'd met only for a moment in Diagon Alley or even in the Muggle world; on and on, with the stadium again filling to overflowing…
And as he came to himself he knew. He knew that, regardless of the odds, he was not alone. Regardless of the size and strength of the enemy, he could match it—with the help of his friends.
But how? What was there to do? And why did both visions start with Cho Chang, forever lost to him?
Harry was sunk so deep in thought that he barely noticed when the train came to Hogsmeade. By now things seemed almost normal again, as students scrambled off the train; the first years following Hagrid to the boats, the rest piling into carriages.
Harry walked up to Hagrid, who was about to step into one of the boats himself. "There ye are, Harry. Erm, I guess yeh know what I wants to tell yeh…"
"Hagrid", Harry interrupted, "can I skip the carriage and just walk to the castle?"
Hagrid's brow furrowed. He laid a large hand on Harry's shoulder and led him away from the others.
"Known yeh a long time, Harry," he said; "first saw yeh as a babe in my arms, right after, well, that happened. An' I think I'm within my rights ter say this. Yeh wants ter be alone now; I unnerstan' that. But if yeh go walkin' down that road by yersel' an' all the others' passin' by in the carriages, ye'll jus' be makin' a bigger spectacle o' yersel'. If that's what yeh wants ter do, then do it. But ye're back among friends here; don' fergit that."
Harry looked up into the huge man's face, seeing Hagrid–for the first time–as a dark and scruffy version of Father Christmas. He smiled and took one of Hagrid's hands in both of his. "Thanks," he said, barely above a whisper. "Can I still get on a carriage, then?"
"Been holdin' 'em fer yeh," Hagrid beamed. Without another word he turned back toward the boats. Harry looked along the line of coaches; one stood with its door open. He walked to it, and there they all were: Ron, Ginny, Hermione, and Neville Longbottom who—like Hermione—wore the badge of a Prefect on his robes.. As he climbed in, Harry tried to stammer out some sort of apology.
Ron cut him off. "You don't have to say anything."
And Harry didn't, throughout the drive to Hogwarts, or in the Great Hall, or during the Sorting Ceremony.
At dinner that evening, Headmaster Albus Dumbledore rose: "It gives me only the smallest consolation to announce the suspension of classes for the next twenty-four hours, so that you may contemplate, in your own ways, the life and death of Miss Cho Chang. Be assured that all of us here at the Head Table will do the same."
But on this night, twenty-four hours after her death, Harry Potter wasn't thinking about Cho's life or death. He had set his mind on Lord Voldemort, on the Death-Eaters, and how to stop them for all time.
…to be continued…
by Patrick Drazen
a/k/a monkeymouse
3.1 The Slow Train
[If you found your way this far, you don't need me to tell you that JK Rowling created the Potterverse, and is still creating it…]
Platform Nine and Three-Quarters was very different this year. There was still shouting and running, laughter and shoving, but it was all subdued, quieter. A very large number of students and parents carried a special edition of the Daily Prophet, which was printed that day with a thick black border. From three feet away Harry could read the bold headline: Student Killed in Bomb Blast. He couldn't bring himself to look at the front-page picture.
He also noticed people would glance at him, recognize him, then turn away and find business elsewhere. He wondered what the article said about him and Cho, then decided he didn't want to know. In any case, everyone was giving him a wide berth. The way he felt, he was grateful.
He'd had no sleep in the past twenty-four hours. Arthur and Molly Weasley finally had to pull him away from Granny Li; he clung to her lap as if she was the last chance that Cho might still be alive. They got him back to Diagon Alley, to the Leaky Cauldron, where Arthur Weasley had a quick, hushed conversation with Tom. Meanwhile, Harry sat by the hearth in the dining room, staring at the table where he and Cho had had breakfast the day before. If anyone else came into the room, he didn't notice.
He didn't react to anyone or anything until Tom tapped him on the shoulder. "Ye'll miss yer train, Mister Potter." Harry started up the stairs to pack, but saw that his trunk was already by the desk, with Hedwig in her cage on top. "I hope ye don't mind; I took the liberty o' packin' ye up. I also talked to Gringott's; yer account's been taken care of. An' … we're all sorry fer yer loss."
Harry knew Tom meant well, and thanked him, but the last thing he wanted to hear–from anyone–was how sorry they were for his loss. All it did was rip the wound in his heart open again, forcing it to bleed again. Was this how Cho felt when Cedric died and her housemates and friends rushed to sympathize with her for her loss? Did she feel then the way he felt now–like screaming, or throwing something, or grabbing a broom–anyone's broom–and flying until he ran out of land and sky…
He found that the last compartment of the last car in the train was empty, so he dragged his trunk in there and waited. People passed by, looked in, and kept walking. Draco Malfoy, as usual backed up by Crabbe and Goyle, opened the door, but before Draco could say anything, Harry pulled out his wand. He didn't point it at them, he didn't even look at them; he simply said, "Just letting you know; I'm past caring about anything." Draco thought better of saying a word, and withdrew.
A few minutes later Hermione entered, alone. Her robes were new–not the ones she'd worn a few days earlier in the Leaky Cauldron. Also new was the Prefect badge pinned to her robes. She sat down on the seat opposite Harry, realized she was still holding a copy of the Daily Prophet, and hurriedly threw it to the other end of the seat. If she had something to say when she entered the compartment, she couldn't seem to remember it now.
"I just, that is, I wanted to see if you were…"
"Hermione," Harry said, in a low and tired voice, "I know you mean well, but I want to be alone right now."
"Maybe that's not such a good idea, though. Come sit with us."
"Trust me, there's nothing you can do."
"Perhaps I shouldn't say this…"
"Then don't."
"Why are you making this difficult? I'm trying to say I know what you're feeling."
Harry's eyes started to flare up again. "How do you know? What's death ever done to you?"
"Oh, nothing, I suppose, compared to you. But then it's not really about death, is it? Just that it didn't give you time to get ready for it. Bang, and your parents are gone; Bang and your girlfriend is gone. I have to watch it coming, spend weeks and months waiting for it…" Hermione suddenly realized that she's said far more than she intended, quickly stood and turned toward the compartment door.
Harry jumped up, barring the door with his body. "So you've got your own troubles?"
"Just let me go."
"No. You started to tell me something. So finish it."
"I swear I'll scream!"
"Then scream. I can tell you want to. But it's nothing to do with me, is it?"
Hermione turned away from the door, falling back onto a seat. Harry sat beside her, putting a hand on hers without even thinking about it. When she spoke, he could barely hear her:
"I…I met the Weasleys at St. Barts. They heard about you and Cho and got there as quick as they could. But I was already there, you see.
"After all these years, daddy has gotten quite used to owl posting. Mummy hasn't taken to it; I don't know why. Anyway, daddy sent an owl last spring just before the final exams. Mummy was feeling rather weak, had to take a few days away from the practice. You know they're both dentists, and they share the same… Yes, I suppose you do know."
Harry didn't like Hermione's lack of focus. It was very unlike her.
"The owl. The owl said. They wanted to put mummy in hospital back in June. She put her foot down. Said, 'I'm not going anywhere this summer unless it's with my family.' So they decided mummy wasn't too bad off. We were supposed to go for a month on the Mediterranean; she was the one who said, "Let's make it two'. Like she wanted to stand up to it, not let it stop..." Hermione couldn't go on; she fell silent.
He squeezed her hand. "Is it very bad?"
"They said she had a low-level Stage I endometrial carcinoma. It's a fancy way of saying cancer of the uterus." Hermione delivered this news soberly, calmly, holding herself together by sheer will.
Harry was surprised for a moment that she didn't seem upset; he thought that, in her place, he'd be in hysterics. But then he was surprised that he was surprised; this was Hermione, after all. "Well, can't they … cut it out or something?"
"That's not it. I mean, yes, they can go in and cut out her womb. It's not as if my parents wanted me to have a younger brother anyway. And that's why we were at St. Barts; checking mummy in. The surgery will be in a few days. But with this kind of cancer, even if it's low-level, even if it hasn't spread to the rest of the body, it's fifty-fifty odds that she'll live longer than five years…
"Harry, I know I'm not the most fun person to be around. I've never been spontaneous; I've never had much imagination. Maybe that has something to do with why I took off all my clothes in front of you and Ron. It's funny: when I say it like that, I can't imagine ever doing it, but it felt almost normal at the time. But at that moment, I think I needed to go a little mad, or else fall apart altogether."
"Well, if you'd had that kind of summer..."
"But that's it, Harry; we did have that kind of summer. I think part of going without clothes in Diagon Alley was that I didn't want to admit the possibility of mummy not ever seeing another summer..."
"Listen, Hermione, I'm sorry I was short with you. When you said you knew what I was feeling; I guess you were right. Before you found me in the chapel the other day, I think I actually went mad for a bit."
Harry had been unconsciously squeezing Hermione's hand through this conversation. Now she didn't say anything; she simply pulled her hand away and squeezed Harry's hand in turn. They sat together silently for a minute.
Then the bell rang; the train was ready to leave. Hermione stood up, consciously straightening her robes and her Prefect badge, and adjusting the emotions off of her face as well. "I'd better look in on Ron and Ginny. Please don't tell Ron about the cancer. Let me do that in my own time." Harry nodded. "And do try to come sit with us, Harry. It just feels wrong without you."
"Maybe later. Right now, I don't think I could stand the looks, the questions."
"I mean it, Harry. At Hogwarts, too, if you want to talk about anything, day or night…"
Harry half-smiled. "Accio Hermione?"
She nodded, smiling, and left.
The train gave a shudder and started to roll. He settled in for the hours- long journey north to Hogwarts. As he did so, he noticed that Hermione had left her copy of the Daily Prophet on the opposite seat. It was turned to the back, where there was usually nothing but advertising, so Harry thought it was safe to look. Most of the back page was taken up with a picture. The caption:
"LAST KNOWN PHOTO OF VICTIM
This photo of Club MoshiMoshi was taken by its manager Zafar Ajneeri only minutes before the bombing. Miss Cho Chang, who died of injuries resulting from the blast, is seen dancing with Hogwarts student Harry Potter. A reliable source indicates that the two were to become engaged before the tragedy occurred."
There they were, Harry Potter and Cho Chang, young and healthy and in each other's arms, dancing forever to music that nobody else could hear…
"HARRY!" Hermione's voice came from the corridor. "I'm so sorry! I forgot my..." She pulled open the door, and saw Harry looking at the picture on the back. "Oh, Harry, I..."
She stopped when she saw that Harry had not fallen apart. He was looking at the picture in a detached, almost clinical, manner, the way she'd seen her parents examine the x-ray of a jaw. "Did you ever notice," he said, quite matter of factly, "that nobody likes the way their own pictures turn out? You look at yourself and say, 'Nah, that's not me; must be someone else; I certainly don't look like that.'"
"Are you...all right?"
"Of course; fine. Just thinking about the year ahead."
There was nothing else for Hermione to say, so she took the paper and left Harry alone. He stayed there for about an hour, when he realized that, as much as he didn't want to be bothered by anyone, he didn't really want to be alone either. He opened his trunk, found the Cloak of Invisibility and put it on for the first time in a long time. He told himself he just wanted to explore the train unbothered for a bit.
He immediately recognized the voice in one compartment as Ginny Weasley: "It HAD to be the Dark Lord!"
"But there's no proof, is there?" Ron replied. "All the Ministry knows is that some Muggle did it."
"And how do you know what they know?"
"Because of stupid old Pig there." Ron was talking about the little owl Pigwidgeon. "Never knows where to deliver the mail. Dad's written letters to Dumbledore, and I end up getting them."
"Then I'd stop calling Pig stupid, if I were you," Hermione interrupted. "He just might stop giving you all that special mail."
"Hermione," Ginny asked, "do the Muggles really hate us that much? I mean, your parents are nice and all, but…"
There was silence, and a deep sigh. "I've heard them talk about witches and wizards and magic all my life, Ginny, even before anyone knew I was a witch. And yes, some of them might as well be working for the Dark Lord. They accuse us of every terrible thing that's ever happened; they burn books about us that suggest we might be nice, or even that we might be human; and some of the things they say about us… Ron, I've made my mind up. I'm getting out of the Auror courses and going back to Muggle Studies."
"After what you just said?!"
"Especially after that. Somebody's got to tell them the truth, and I think I can do it in their own language. Somebody has to try, anyway." After a moment, in a softer voice: "It's not much of a monument to Cho, but it's the best I can do."
Good for you, Harry thought.
A few cars down Harry found one compartment filled to overflowing. Most of the Quidditch players, from most of the Houses, were there. At the moment, they were cornering Lee Jordan:
"Face it, Lee, you totally lost it!"
"Yeah, well, can you blame me?"
"That was some move; still never seen anything like it."
"And you never will again."
"I'm just lucky nobody from the WWN was there. I auditioned for them this summer, you know."
"Did they say anything?"
"Just the usual about 'come back when you're out of school'. But how much school do I really need to announce Quidditch matches? It's not like Hogwarts will teach it anytime soon."
"But if they do, we can all practice saying…"
As if they'd rehearsed it, everyone in the compartment shouted at the top of their voice:
"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT!"
They all laughed, and, as the laughter died down, Lee spoke up: "She was a fine little Seeker, though. Could have been one of the great ones."
There were a few grunts and murmurs of agreement. Harry moved on to another compartment.
In the next car he saw Crabbe and Goyle standing about in the corridor, so Harry felt pretty sure he knew who was inside that compartment. Maybe Draco wanted some time alone with Pansy Parkinson. That was an image he didn't want in his head: two of Slytherin's foulest students snogging. He was about to move on when Pansy's voice cut right through the door: "You promised! You promised me that nothing would go wrong!"
"I only told you what father told me," Draco replied. "I didn't promise anything."
"Well, I can promise you something, Draco Malfoy. I'm only interested in being on the winning side. And if it's not going to be the Death-Eaters…"
"Keep your voice down," Draco hissed, "and take it easy. We had some setbacks this year, but that's over and done. We've got a new source of information. We won't be taken by surprise any more; from now on, we do the surprising."
"You haven't had any luck so far. Hogsmeade was a failure, Fudge was a failure…"
"Don't lecture me, Pansy; it's not an attractive trait."
"…not even that hag in Privet Drive!"
Privet Drive?! Was there a witch living near the Dursleys all these years? Why hadn't she said anything to Harry??
"There's one consolation," Draco went on. "We get the spectacle of Pining Potter, moping around Hogwarts and completely off his game."
"I'm not talking about Quidditch."
"Neither am I. He's one less distraction for the Death-Eaters to worry about. Say what you will about the Potter, Dumbledore considers him as more than just a pawn in this chess game. Losing his little fortune cookie should distract him, and limit Dumbledore's options considerably. He'll be useless for, maybe, the rest of the term."
"Do you think the Dark Lord can pull it off by Christmas?"
"Either that, or he'll at least be strong enough that Dumbledore and Potter combined can't stand up to him. The plan is back on track."
Oh, is it now? Harry thought. Draco wasn't going to see him moping about Hogwarts; he wouldn't give Malfoy the satisfaction. Harry strode down the corridor to the compartment where Ron and Hermione and the others were. He could hear through the door; they were laughing about something, and Harry, with his hand on the door of the compartment, froze. Not yet, I can't have a party with them yet. It's too soon.
He went back to his compartment at the end of the train, still empty except for Hedwig. He was there three hours into the journey when his stomach started to growl. He tried to ignore it, couldn't, opened his trunk, took out the sausage and knife Ron had sent him. He was just about to cut into it when he remembered; he'd saved it all this time to be able to share it with his friends. He tossed everything back into the trunk.
Just then, there was a light tapping at the compartment door. Nobody came in, and after a minute Harry opened the door. The corridor was empty, but in front of the door was a paper bag. The hag who pushed the snack cart had left a few things in the bag for him.
This made Harry feel even worse. He didn't have the chance to thank her, and he still didn't want to be with Ron or Hermione or any of the others. He simply sat and looked at the bag. Minutes later, he reached in, took out a Chocolate Frog, unwrapped it and took a bite. It tasted as bitter as the vinegar-flavored Bertie Botts Bean he'd had earlier in the year, studying for finals with Ron…
He kept thinking about Ron and Hermione and the others in a compartment further up the train. He realized that he was actually trying not to think about Cho—but then, he'd thought of nothing else between the bombing and getting on the Hogwarts Express.
But overhearing Draco gave Harry something new to think about. Voldemort was still out there somewhere; the Death-Eaters were out there, trying to bring the Dark Lord back to his old power. And they knew—Draco had admitted as much—that Harry Potter stood in their way.
And maybe it was his sleepless state, and maybe it was because of all that had happened, but he stared at the opposite seat, and thought about the Dark Lord, and he stared and he thought … until Harry Potter had what could only be called a vision. An image came to his mind of Cho Chang; not as he had last seen her in hospital, but standing, smiling, in the center of an empty Quidditch stadium. Then, just behind her, there suddenly appeared his parents. Others started appearing behind them: Cedric Diggory, killed on Voldemort's orders; Moaning Myrtle, who was killed when the Dark Lord was still a Hogwarts student named Tom Marvolo Riddle; dozens of other people—some dressed in wizarding robes, some of them Muggles—who had all been killed during Voldemort's first rise to power; and as Harry watched, the crowd of people grew and grew until it threatened to overflow the stadium…
And he came out of his trance. He came out of it with one clear idea in his head: that he, Harry James Potter, stood between Voldemort and thousands of new deaths. His birth, his education at Hogwarts—everything in his life led him to this realization. That was all he had to do; nothing else mattered. If he succeeded, tens of thousands of deaths could be averted. If he failed…then at least he'd join Cho in the Great Mystery beyond life. But he would have tried.
But how? What was there to try? He'd faced Voldemort before; a wizard who'd accumulated power for decades, who knew spells Harry didn't even realize were out there. And he was strong—fueled by greed and contempt and anger. Could Harry stand up to all that?
Then he realized: he HAD stood up to all that. He had been tortured by Voldemort in the churchyard where Voldemort had been reborn. Harry had been tortured, yet had survived. He and Cho actually fought off three Death-Eaters in the skies over Hogsmeade.
He closed his eyes, remembering –savoring—that victory with Cho over the Death-Eaters. And maybe he slept and dreamed, or maybe he had another vision. Again, Cho stood alone on a Quidditch field, smiling at Harry. But standing with her now was Albus Dumbledore, Rubeus Hagrid, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Hermione Granger, the entire Weasley clan…Hogwarts classmates, people he'd met only for a moment in Diagon Alley or even in the Muggle world; on and on, with the stadium again filling to overflowing…
And as he came to himself he knew. He knew that, regardless of the odds, he was not alone. Regardless of the size and strength of the enemy, he could match it—with the help of his friends.
But how? What was there to do? And why did both visions start with Cho Chang, forever lost to him?
Harry was sunk so deep in thought that he barely noticed when the train came to Hogsmeade. By now things seemed almost normal again, as students scrambled off the train; the first years following Hagrid to the boats, the rest piling into carriages.
Harry walked up to Hagrid, who was about to step into one of the boats himself. "There ye are, Harry. Erm, I guess yeh know what I wants to tell yeh…"
"Hagrid", Harry interrupted, "can I skip the carriage and just walk to the castle?"
Hagrid's brow furrowed. He laid a large hand on Harry's shoulder and led him away from the others.
"Known yeh a long time, Harry," he said; "first saw yeh as a babe in my arms, right after, well, that happened. An' I think I'm within my rights ter say this. Yeh wants ter be alone now; I unnerstan' that. But if yeh go walkin' down that road by yersel' an' all the others' passin' by in the carriages, ye'll jus' be makin' a bigger spectacle o' yersel'. If that's what yeh wants ter do, then do it. But ye're back among friends here; don' fergit that."
Harry looked up into the huge man's face, seeing Hagrid–for the first time–as a dark and scruffy version of Father Christmas. He smiled and took one of Hagrid's hands in both of his. "Thanks," he said, barely above a whisper. "Can I still get on a carriage, then?"
"Been holdin' 'em fer yeh," Hagrid beamed. Without another word he turned back toward the boats. Harry looked along the line of coaches; one stood with its door open. He walked to it, and there they all were: Ron, Ginny, Hermione, and Neville Longbottom who—like Hermione—wore the badge of a Prefect on his robes.. As he climbed in, Harry tried to stammer out some sort of apology.
Ron cut him off. "You don't have to say anything."
And Harry didn't, throughout the drive to Hogwarts, or in the Great Hall, or during the Sorting Ceremony.
At dinner that evening, Headmaster Albus Dumbledore rose: "It gives me only the smallest consolation to announce the suspension of classes for the next twenty-four hours, so that you may contemplate, in your own ways, the life and death of Miss Cho Chang. Be assured that all of us here at the Head Table will do the same."
But on this night, twenty-four hours after her death, Harry Potter wasn't thinking about Cho's life or death. He had set his mind on Lord Voldemort, on the Death-Eaters, and how to stop them for all time.
…to be continued…