TITLE: "THE GUNMAN"
AUTHOR: sordid humor
CATEGORY: Adventure
SUB-CATEGORY: Humor; Romance; Drama
RATING: fine, PG-13, et cetera...
DISCLAIMER:
I do not own them in a box,
I do not own them with a fox,
I do not own them while I'm bowling,
They all belong to J.K. Rowling.
-Realistically: no copyright infringement intended, sorry-sorry, et cetera, et cetera. You know the drill.
-text excerpt not mine (duh). If you don't know who it is, I'll gouge your eyes out with a a rusty lead spork... the dirty, "used" sort from untrustworthy public cafeterias... I'm kidding. If you don't know already, Harry finds out in chapter eighteen, anyway.
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
Glad to know you're satisfied, mazoku... ;;
count: 6400 running count: 17,000
... as though I'm bloody Faulkner, or Joyce! paid by the word... claps hands
Yes, I'm aware that we're not familiar with the idea of Fred and George hitting on an intoxicated Hermione—just because J.K. Rowling doesn't put it in a children's novel doesn't magically make it... no longer REAL! I'm a realist. I also believe in metaphor and effective articulation, but that's another story. People have different sides; Rowling paints a more public one. I intend to shed some light on the other dimensions of realistic humanity (for more, please see "On A Personal Note" in the Declarative Insert on my bio-ish-thingy around here somewhere, as there are no footnotes to the author's notes of unheard-of fan-fic writers somewhere out there in the internet). On a literary level, I believe that personal vices play key roles in plot escalation (Macbeth, Don Quixote, Romeo/Juliet); Fred and George's womanizing habits crop up again, and so do Harry's repeated "issues" with women, and so does alcohol (Yay! belch). GET USED TO IT! Literature is a reflection of reality, however distorted! It mirrors what we are as well as what we wish to become! DEAL WITH IT!
((kudos to those who believe in the intrinsic value of chaos))
((and kudos to those of you who are actually reading this))
PART I
CHAPTER III:
RIGHT.
Harry couldn't figure out what George Weasley's pants were doing on his bedroom floor:
At first, Harry had mistaken the pants for his own, too drunk or sleepy to tell the difference, really. He had tried to put them on before realizing that they were certainly not his trousers, indeed, because he was already wearing trousers: so; therefore, the trousers on his bedroom floor were clearly not his. Right.
Circumventing said atrocities and setting aside any further conjecture for a more appropriate time period, Harry stood up and fell over.
"Stop spinning," he commanded, moaned, crawling along his bedroom floor until he reached the door, which he nuzzled open with his head.
"This is not bloody funny," he insisted to Aunt Petunia's bunny-slippers, which lay abandoned at the crest of the staircase. Harry stood up slowly, bracing himself against the bannister as the whirling image of the bunny slippers mocked him. He extended a foot and commenced thundering down the stairs on his rear end. "Not bloody funny," he mumbled irritably.
Harkening back to the dilemma of the unmanned trousers, he entered the kitchen with the aid of a golfing umbrella he had discovered at the foot of the stairs. How would pants—not his pants—have the audacity to enter his room of their own volition without so much as a prior invitation?
"You," Harry swayed and pointed at his conspicuously corpulent cousin with the golfing umbrella, "they're your trousers, aren't they? Only knickers of your capacity would have the audacity—"
"Dad!" Dudley yelled, "He's awake!" Harry didn't notice.
"I rhyme." Harry was suddenly very pleased with himself for no apparent reason. He released his captive umbrella: it crashed to the linoleum floor as he made his way to the stove to poach an egg.
Vernon Dursley roared into the room wearing a golfing sweater and matching hat with an organge pom-pom seated at the top. Harry prodded his egg in the boiling water, nonchalant.
"BOY!" Dursley bellowed contemptuously, nearing. "DO YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS?"
"Breakfast," Harry smiled, indicating his egg.
"IT'S FOUR IN THE BLOODY AFTERNOON!" he thundered... then paused disagreeably. "What's that I smell?" He sniffed the air as though further investigating suspicions of a conspiracy via scent.
"Egg," Harry responded aimiably.
"BOY!" Dursley eploded, spit hitting Harry's hands and face as he guarded his egg with detatched nonchalance. "ARE YOU DRUNK?"
"Oh, no," Harry chided, "never, old chap," and he actually clapped Uncle Vernon on the shoulder like an old schoolmate, giddy. "I am not drunk," He clarified to no one's belief but his own, holding up a conciliatory finger. "I," and with convivial jovility, "have a hangover!"
The conciliatory finger was waved lucidly for a distinct period of time before the puce man screamed.
Dursley leapt for Harry, who had calmly side-stepped to find a spoon for his egg.
"Kill 'em, Dad!" Duddley shouted from his typical spectator's stance; three fifths of the kitchen table.
Unfortunately for Vernon Dursley, that fateful leap for his nephew came a little too close to the pot of boiling water on the stove, which spilt out over the linoleum. Harry managed to—in a feat of unbelievable coordination that can only be attributed to his years of Quiddich—catch his poached egg in a ladle as it soared through the air. He munched contentedly as Dursley fumed from the other side of the boiling puddle.
"Boy, if you weren't leaving in a week, I'd wring your neck!"
The conciliatory finger emerged once more as Potter chewed, waving emphatically—most likely due to hot egg. Nevertheless, Harry mumbled around a copious amount of egg, "Fanks. Hi vill hallvays rehember hiss homent."
On that note, he returned to his room—skipping with convivial jovility and humming merrily—to read up on Tom Riddle's dirty little secrets. He giggled.
-
-
-
How praiseworthy it is that a prince keeps his word and governs by candor instead of craft, everyone knows. Yet the experience of our own time shows us that those princes who had little reguard for their word and had the craftiness to turn men's minds have accomplished great things, and—in the end—have overcome those who governed their actions by their pledges.
You must recognize that there are two ways of fighting: by means of law, and by means of force. The first belongs properly to man, the second to animals; but since the first is often insufficient, it is necessary to resort to the second. Therefore, a prince must know how to use both what is proper to man and what is proper to beasts.
Since a prince is required to know how to assume a beastlike nature, he must adopt that of the fox and that of the lion; for a lion is defenseless against snares, and a fox is defenseless against wolves. Hence a prince ought to be a fox in recognizing snares and a lion in driving off wolves. Those who assume the bearing of the lion alone lack understanding.
But one must know how to mask this nature skillfully and be a great dissembler. Men are so simple and so much inclined to obey immediate needs that a deciever will never lack victims for his deceptions.
A prince will not actually need to have all the qualities previously mentioned, but he must surely seem to have them. Indeed, I would go so far as to say that having them all and always conforming to them would be harmful, while appearing to have them would be useful.
It is often necessary for a prince to act against mercy, against faith, against humanity, against frankness, against religion in order to preserve his state. Thus he must be disposed to change according to the winds of fortune and the alterations of circumstance dictate. He must stick to the good as long as he can, but—being compelled by necessity—he must be ready to take the way of evil.
Harry read the page over again—the yellowed page that had been torn from a muggle book and tucked into Lord Voldemort's collection of spells.
The first part about the lion and the fox had been underlined, as had the last sentence. The printed page bore a heading of "Chapter XVIII." Harry was willing to bet his life that either a Death Eater or Voldemort himself had placed the page there. His gaze traveled down to the spell he had seen the night before.
The Lion & The Fox
Abandon mercy, abandon faith, abandon humanity, abandon frankness, abandon orthodoxy—take the way of evil, or feign all of the above.
To become the Lion:
Harry scanned further down the page. No good, he thought, I already am the lion, I need the fox! He turned the page.
To become the Fox:
Becoming the fox is infinitely more difficult than becoming anything else, for the challenge is to make an ethical man forget his morals. These types of men are very unlikely to be turned by any means without resistance. Yet note; above all else, the righteous man who would offer up his moral soul is a force to be reckoned with, indeed.
Harry was at once sobered and fortified by the words of the man he had vowed to kill. He wondered how a decent person choosing to become evil could possibly be "a force to be reckoned with." How could the idea give Voldemort such great pause? He read on to see what he would need.
"Draught of Chastity," he read aloud. "That's in Advanced Potion Making... what else?" Looking down the list, his eyebrows drew closer and closer together.
Strand of Werewolf hair (human form)
Breath of a Veela
Memory of a Traitor, Fox-like
Dragon's blood (mix 4:1 with Dementor's blood if possible)
Spit of a Giant (or blood) (use bohunk blood if Giant is unavailable)
Hex of a Virgin
Sword (older sword will be more potent)
Relic of a Fox
Wand of a Lion (preferably recently dead, better if killed, best if by a fox)
Grave of a moral Fox (preferably long-dead)
Muggle-born Virgin, Lion-like
Harry's furrowed brows rivaled Victor Krum's. Dementor blood, Veela breath, and Giant spit? Virgins? Harry was beginning to seriously doubt Tom Riddle's sanity... well, more than ever before, that is... he read on skeptically.
Use a capture phial for Veela's breath and Virgin's hex. Add memory and (use wand to add) three drops Dragon's blood to breath before adding hex. Add relic and let sit at least two sunsets.
Heat Draught of Chastity. Add Werewolf strand. Add Giant's spit until draught becomes green (change will be sudden). Coat wand liberally in Dragon's blood and stir; Draught will remain green (black if Dementor's blood is used) and become poisonous in large quantity. Allow Draught to cool before use.
Four or more hours after sunset on a night without a moon, bring phial, draught, sword, wand and Virgin to grave. (Previously and out of virgin's sight) Using wand, trace draught as per Horcrux preparations.
Harry stopped reading, too shocked or frightened to go on.
Everything had seemed fine—a little eccentric, but fine—until... Horcrux. A Horcrux? Could he, Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, possibly wield the Dark Arts? This was... this is Voldemort's personal spell—how could the Boy Who Lived employ something so sordid?
Harry gazed once more at the spell, Voldemort's reminders and minor alterations scribbled hastily in margins and otherwise empty spaces. Am I ready to do this?...
The Dursley's doorbell rang, unexpectedly drawing Harry from his reverie. He pushed his dark books into his school trunk, locked it, and made his way to the front door to investigate... and possibly to get his mind off of Tom Riddle and the Dark Arts, but only possibly.
-
"And who're you?" Uncle Vernon asked through a tiny crack in the front door, golf club held menacingly behind his back, his face splotchy.
"Vernon Dursley?" A comforting, familiar voice inquired from the doorstep. "You are Mr. Vernon Dursley, Harry Potter's uncle?"
"State your business," Dursley muttered gruffly, adjusting his grip on the golf club as though one good swing might save him from anything and everything the wizard on his doorstep had against him.
"Mr. Dursley, I'd like to speak with your nephew if he's in."
"Well, he's not. Good d—" Dursley was slamming the door when Harry interrupted, bounding down the stairs in a rush.
"Mr. Lupin!" Harry shouted excitedly, "I'm here!"
Dursley muttered something menacing about Harry's neck as he yanked the door open and allowed Lupin in. He thundered off to join Dudley, slamming the kitchen door behind himself.
"Hi!" Harry shook Mr. Lupin's hand energetically, aware that he was wearing the same shirt and trousers as the night before, but not caring. "Come right in!" He gestured towards the Dursley's front room. Once they were seated, Harry asked the dreary Lupin, "So, what brings you here?" in a cheery voice.
"I have some news, Harry," Lupin said delicately, regarding Harry warily.
"Great!" Harry put his elbows on his knees and leaned forward with giddy eagerness.
"Harry?" Lupin seemed more worried than he had been a moment ago.
"Yes?"
"Exactly... how much did you have to drink last night?"
"Oh, no!" Harry said with convivial joviality, as though approaching the punchline of a great joke, "I'm just hungover!" And he smiled enchantingly. Three phrases chose that exact moment to flit through his semi-consciousness. Those three phrases were as follows: giddiness, recklessness, and dangerous overconfidence. They were totally and completely ignored.
"Are you sure someone didn't... put something in your drink?"
"Oh, no, no!" The dismissive hand waved again, transforming into the conciliatory finger from the earlier poached-egg-incident. "I was careful... I just have a hangover! Really!" Lupin smiled suddenly, almost wistfully.
"James was always funniest hungover..." Lupin's face dropped once he realized where he was, who he was, and exactly who he was speaking to. He blushed and cleared his throat. "Um... my news..."
"Yeah!" Harry leaned in again. "I'll take a guess: it's bad news, isn't it?" Harry appeared utterly unperturbed; unusual, considering the degrees of bad news with the potential to come his way.
"Yes," Lupin said soberly. "Last night... Bill had a relapse."
"What?"
"Near the end of the party last night—this morning—one minute he said he wasn't feeling well, and the next—he attacked Fleur." Harry was stunned.
"Is she alright?"
"She's at St. Mungo's right now, but she should be alright. Bill's not doing so well, though."
"But—has anyone figured out why?"
"No," Lupin sighed. "The Ministry is looking into it... but it's just too soon to know. Bill's case is so rare to begin with..."
"And the wedding?"
"Fleur postponed the wedding, at least until Bill's condition is stable, then... we don't know."
"Is there anything I can do?"
"Oh, Harry," Lupin gave him a tight smile. "You may be able to pay him a visit in a few weeks, but there's really no point in going now. He's not conscious..."
"This is... awful." Harry, who had been on the edge of his seat, leaned back into Uncle Vernon's favorite armchair. "You're sure there's nothing I can..." he trailed off.
"Perhaps there is something..." Lupin said after a moment of silence.
"What is it?" Harry asked. "I'd do just about anything!"
"Nothing drastic, Harry," Lupin told him, thinking. "I suppose you don't know much about weddings in the wizarding community..." Harry shook his head rather than break Lupin's line of thought. "There is a tradition that comes and goes with the times, you see, much like muggle traditions. Wizards usually exchange rings, and the ceremony is overseen by a Ministry official."
"Like a muggle vicar?"
"Yes and no, Harry," Lupin paused, contriving a more thorough explanation. After a few breaths and false starts, he informed Harry that while the Ministry manages the "record" of a marriage, someone called the "protector" binds the marriage with an incantation and a spell of blessing. The "protector" is often a family member considered to be the wisest or most powerful wizard present at the ceremony.
"You may have noticed that Bill and Fleur had a bit of a row with Fleur's mother at the party last night," Lupin added after his explanation.
"Yeah, I did." He hadn't. He had most likely been at Kavall's. "Did it have something to do with the protector for the wedding?"
"It did," Lupin confirmed. "Apparently, Ms. Delacour had already requested that Mme. Maxime do the honors, while Fleur had set her heart on asking someone else. Ms. Delacour didn't approve of Fleur's choice. You can recall the rest, perhaps."
"Yeah," Harry said mildly, clueless. Then he had an idea. "Hey! Maybe I can convince Fleur's mother that the other person would be okay!" That would be great! Except, "Um... who's the other person?"
"You, Harry."
Lupin watched Harry's eyes bug out behind his spectacles, hiding his personal amusement at the expression of slack-jawed disbelief of Harry's face. As Harry mouthed wordlessly, Lupin gave over to a little chuckle.
"Plenty of people have done it, Harry," Lupin reassured Harry after nearly a minute of silent mouthing shock. "Minerva McGonagall was protector for Molly and Arthur Weasley, Flitwick has protected at least a dozen times... your father was going to protect for me if I ever got married," he added lightly. "Traditionally, it has been someone old or powerful, but since You Know Who... more and more people have been choosing their friends, people they love and trust."
"Was, um..." Harry lost his nerve and had to start over. "Was Sirius the protector for my Mum and Dad?"
Lupin lost himself in memory for a moment before responding.
"He offered to—as a second," Lupin recalled quietly, "but he stepped down to be your father's best man when Dumbledore volunteered..."
"Dumbledore?" Harry choked. "He was their protector?" Lupin nodded. Harry was dumbfounded.
"Give it some thought, Harry," Lupin said while reaching to give Harry's shoulder a pat. "I'm sure it would mean a great deal to Bill and Fleur."
"I'll..." Harry forgot what he was about to say and decided it didn't really matter.
"Harry, I'd like to change topics for a moment, if you don't mind," Lupin shifted in his chair.
"Sure," Harry mumbled.
"What are you planning to do after next week?" Lupin appeared casual enough, but Harry seriously wondered what Lupin really wanted to get at.
"Um, I've got my Apparition Test scheduled for my birthday—Ron's got his, too. He invited me to the Burrow afterwards. I guess I'll go visit Bill then."
"Anything else?"
"Well... Ron, Hermione, and I were talking about heading up to Godrick's Hollow," Harry recalled. "I've always wanted to just... see the place, you know?" Lupin nodded.
"Then?"
"Back to Grimmauld Place, I suppose," Harry lied easily. "Maybe... apply to be an Auror..."
"Really? An Auror," Lupin nodded slowly.
"I think I'll stick with the Order, though," Harry added as an afterthought. "I'm not quite up to being the Ministry's new poster boy." Lupin chuckled appreciatively. "I'll stay in touch, don't worry."
Lupin stood up, signaling the end of his visit. Harry had mere seconds in which to make a decision.
"Mr. Lupin?"
"Yes?" he looked up from buttoning his muggle sport coat.
"I... was wondering," Harry looked away nervously, hoping Lupin would mistake his odd facial expression for suppressed emotion, "what happened to Sirius' wand."
"Oh," Lupin seemed taken aback, as though he had been expecting a completely different question, like Where do babies come from? Or something slightly more embarrassing, like Did you ever want to snog my mother? He smiled warmly. "Actually, I have it. Would you like to have it?"
Harry nodded dumbly. "If it wouldn't, um, bother you?"
"Not at all, Harry," and Lupin placed his hands on Harry's shoulders, facing him squarely. "In fact, I think Sirius would have liked that very much."
Then Lupin did somethings unexpected: he wiped a tear from his eye before it fell, and he gave Harry a huge hug. Harry put his arms around Lupin awkwardly. Lupin gave Harry a squeeze: Harry realized his eyes had been closed and he opened them immediately. There, on Remus Lupin's shoulder was a short, grey-brown hair. Why not? The slippery slope had already begun, right? Right.
Lupin pulled away, offering Harry a hand, which he shook frankly.
"I'll owl it to you the first chance I get," he promised before releasing Harry's hand.
"Thanks," Harry said simply. Lupin smiled and disapparated. "Shit! Should have asked him what he knows about Horcruxes!" Recklessness. Dangerous overconfidence.
"About what, boy?"
"Nothing!" Harry scuttled up the stairs. Perhaps not...
-
"Dobby?"
CRACK!
"Harry Potter, sir!" The elf actually sprang forward and embraced his leg gaily.
"Er—something wrong, Dobby?"
"No, Harry Potter, sir!" Dobby squeaked, still clinging to Harry's shin like a sick parody of a toddler. "Dobby is so happy to be useful to Harry Potter!"
"Um, thanks? I think..." Harry dug Tom Riddle's book out of the trunk, asking, "Will the potion be alright if I call Kreacher and Winky?"
"Certainly, Harry Potter, sir! Dobby is watching it himself, as master asked, sir!"
"Oh, ace," Harry said in a monotone, distinctly reminded of a time when Dobby's looking after him has resulted in a severe bludgeoning, culminating in the de-boning and re-growing of his arm. He pulled his book out and riffed through it to find his spell. "Winky? Kreacher?"
CRACK!
"Yes, Mr. Potter, sir?"
"Hello, Winky," Harry gave her a nod as she curtsied. She had made a little dress from the curtains Harry and the Weasley's had de-doxied a while back. She actually looked clean, for the first time in a very long time. "I like your dress." She blushed up to her ears. "Where's Kreacher?"
"Kreacher is being a naughty elf, Mr. Potter," Winky informed Harry admonishingly.
"Kreacher is in his nest, Harry Potter, sir," Dobby said, "in the attic. Kreacher won't come out."
"Too bad," Harry admitted bluntly. "I need him. Kreacher!"
CRACK!
"Kreacher, do not move or speak unless commanded, got it?" Harry somehow knew Kreacher would terrorize every last object in the room if given the chance. He decided to save himself some trouble.
"Yes, master," Kreacher whined.
"Alright, everyone, I need supplies and information," Harry flopped down on his bed and anatomized his spell. "Raise your hand if you know anything about Horcruxes." Dobby put up a hand happily. Kreacher stared at Harry with an expression of pure loathing. "If you don't tell me exactly what I want to know," Harry threatened, "don't you doubt for a second that I won't make a cauldron of Veritaserum and dump every last drop down your miserable little throat." Kreacher sneered and raised an unbelievably dirty hand.
"Ace," Harry said dryly. "Winky, I want you to get back to Grimmauld Place and turn the place upside down until you find Dragon's blood, a Draught of Chastity, Giant's spit or blood, and Dementor's blood... if I have any of it, please bring it here." Winky nodded, seemingly overjoyed to be bossed around at long last. "Also, see if I have any books on symbols for spell casting—or anything at all about Horcruxes. Got all that?"
"Yes, sir!"
"Okay... and see if we have any Veritaserum," followed by a glance at Kreacher that made Harry's insides purr.
CRACK!
"Dobby. Everything you know about Horcruxes. Kreacher. Look at my owl again and I'll skin you alive with Godrick Gryffindor's sword." Kreacher's contemptuous gaze returned to Harry, who smiled seethingly.
Dobby told Harry some things he already knew: Horcruxes are made by killing someone and splitting the killer's soul in two: Horcruxes are linked to a relic or other object: Horcruxes are extremely difficult to make: Horcruxes are illegal under Ministry law ...
"Do you know how to make one? Or, um, have you ever seen one?"
"Sorry, Harry Potter, sir," Dobby squeaked, shaking his head.
"Is there anything else, Dobby? Anything at all?" Harry asked. Dobby continued to shake his head. "Okay. Kreacher?"
Kreacher took an agitated breath and was about to begin when Harry interjected a condition.
"Don't repeat any of what Dobby already said."
"Yes, master." Then there was silence.
"Kreacher," Harry said sweetly, concealing daggers, "have you ever seen the effects of a curse called 'Sectumsempra'?" Kreacher froze dead where he stood. "I suggest you start talking."
"Half-cruxes," Kreacher mumbled. "Separate the soul until a certain murder, then lose half the soul—sacrifice it to kill."
"Like the Lion and the Fox... right, Kreacher." Kreacher nodded and Harry's fears were confirmed in one giant title-wave. He would have to sacrifice half his soul to kill Voldemort. Okay, so that's where the slippery slope ends. Right.
"Did Voldemort put Wormtail under a Half-crux?" Harry asked suddenly, the kludge of his mind clicking awkwardly into place at last. "And Draco Malfoy, too," Harry realized. "Kreacher, what's the difference between someone who's forced into a Half-crux and someone who chooses it willingly?"
"Willing sacrifice is more powerful—less of the soul remains, but the other half cannot be stopped," Kreacher offered. He wasn't sneering or giving Harry murderous glares or gnashing his teeth or... anything, Harry found in shock. Kreacher was actually pleased to be chatting with his new master about destroying human souls with Voldemort's patented dark magic.
"Has anyone ever offered themselves willingly—that you know of?" Harry questioned, too deeply intriuged to bother with Kreacher's downright creepy behavior.
"The Dark Lord..." Kreacher replied smugly. "No other has been so bold."
"Let me guess: the murder's mine, right?" Kreacher displayed a rotten grin, fang-like and morbid. He nodded enthusiastically.
"Ace." Harry nodded too, playfully resigned to fate. "And Half-cruxes use relics as well, I take it?" Kreacher beamed, black gums glistening with spit and jagged teeth barred. Harry fell backward onto his bed with his hand over his eyes.
CRACK! CLUNK!
Winky had arrived with a whole bevy of crap in toe.
"Wha'ss-all-this?" Harry slurred, slack-jawed.
"Dragon's blood," Winky announced, lifting a jug the size of a bowling ball over her head so Harry could see more clearly. She nearly tipped herself over putting it down. "Dementor's blood in several forms," she gestured; bottles, cans and jars soared into the air, summersaulted, clanked against one another, and returned to their respective places. "Nothing from Giant, Mr. Potter, sir," she said, out of sight behind the lid of a small chest. "Books: spell casting symbols and Horcruxes," four dusty tomes flew out of the chest momentarily before zooming right back in. "No Draught of Chastity, but here are the ingredience—and a few empty phials and bottled!" The ingredience and the bottles danced above Winky's head. One large bottle of clear liquid danced above an iritable Kreacher's head. "Veritaserum!" Winky smiled, pointing over Kreacher's head.
"... Industrious..." Harry murmured, dumbstruck. "You wouldn't happen to have a capturing phial in there, would you?" Winky produced a small round bottle covered in engravings and stoppered with what appeared to be a piece of wood rather than a cork. "Ace," Harry said in grosse understatement.
"Anything else, sir?" Winky asked pleasantly.
"Um, my pensive?" Harry proposed tentatively, not sure how Winky would respond.
"Will you be traveling with it, sir?"
"Um... I—er..."
"Winky found a storage area disguised as a book, Mr. Potter," Winky explained. "It could make a traveling office, sir."
"—" Harry was confused. "How big is the space, exactly?"
"About twice this room, Mr. Potter, sir."
Harry swore very badly.
"The book is small, sir!" Winky offered despirately.
"Ah—er—um, no, Winky—it's fine... um," Harry felt his face go astonishingly hot. "Could you bring it... please?"
"Right away, Mr. Potter, sir!"
CRACK!
"Right." Harry reguarded Dobby and Kreacher. "Not a word of this repeated to anyone."
"Yes, Harry Potter, sir!"
"Yes, master."
"Kreacher, I have a proposition for you." Kreacher gave Harry a highly dubious look. "IF you come out of the attic and help Winky and Dobby," Harry said slowly and clearly, carefully, "then you may hurt Mundungus Fletcher as much as you please, should he show himself at Grimmauld Place. Don't kill him, Kreacher," Harry stipulated, and some of the elated glaze faded from Kreacher's eyes, but he still looked pleased. "Keep him around until I arrive. Do we have an agreement?"
"Yes, master!" Kreacher chortled merrily. "And may Kreacher add, master shows excellent taste." Kreacher gave a little bow. Harry was pleasantly surprised.
"Um—thanks?"
CRACK!
Winky came skipping towards Harry, bearing a very battered copy of Hogwarts: A History. She placed it on the bed next to him.
"So, how do I, uh, open it?"
"Page 723, Mr. Potter!" she squeaked. "Master must trace his wand down the crease," he did so, "tap the word 'Headmaster' three times and say his full given name." He did so.
"Harry James Potter."
Hogwarts: A History opened from the spine outwards to reveal darkness. Harry stuck his wand hand tentatively down the hole and was sucked in, as thought through a pensive. He landed with a soft thud and looked around a room that was made entirely of grey stone, reminiscent of the stone that made up Hogwarts. Dumbledore's pensive sat on its pedestal in the far corner... oh, no... it was his pensive now. The room was otherwise bare, but he could surely move a few things into it before leaving Privet Drive.
"Winky?" he called. "This is all great, but how do I get out of here?"
Harry felt a stomach-wrenching snap and found himself sitting on his bed once more.
"Mr. Potter must only decide to leave," Winky said.
"Any other surprises with this thing?"
"It slows down time, Harry Potter!" Dobby added excitedly. " Time inside is slower than time outside!"
"You've seen one of these before, Dobby?"
"Yes, sir!"
"The Malfoys?"
"Yes!"
"Do you know the ratio?" Harry couldn't believe his luck.
"Five minutes inside, one minute outside," Dobby recalled.
Harry sat quietly for a few minutes, letting everything he'd just discovered wash over him.
"If Mr. Potter won't be needing anything else..."
"Oh—sure," Harry had forgotten about the three tiny creatures in front of him. "You can go if you like..."
CRACK! CRACK!
"Kreacher will be watching for Mundungus Fletcher!"
"Good luck... and give 'em hell—"
CRACK!
Harry stroked the cover of Hogwarts: A History. Maybe he should read it, after all this time...
Later. He had a Draught of Chastity to brew and a letter to write to the Weasley's.
-
-
-
Harry had all of his accumulated ingredients laid out on his work table by the fireplace. He was in his office. The stone walls were now almost completely covered in wooden shelves; shelves that were currently bare but would sooner or later hold so much more than The Standard Books of Spells, Grades One through Six and their counterparts in Charms, Potions and the like.
One of the shelves near his working table bore potions ingredients. His brass scales and several fine silver knives had been pushed to one end of the long wooden table to make room for an assortment of things at which Harry was now staring at from across the room. He was seated at his handsome oak desk strewn with papers—his lists—and books. Two fine candelabrum shed light on his work from their posts at opposite corners of the desk, white candles burning low and dripping wax on embellished, silver family crests. The same crest was repeated on several small trunks on the floor behind his desk: the trunks were empty as well, but Harry intended them to hold money and disguises in the very near future. On the shelf behind his head was what must have once been a muggle tabernacle, gold and adorned with jewels and crucifixes. The doors of the box would open only at the touch of Sirius' wand. Harry used it to store his treasure from Kavall's shop. A little mattress covered in a dark tangle of blankets lay on the floor beside the large stone-work fireplace, in which Harry's Draught of Chastity was now brewing.
Harry pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders—while he loved his office, he hated how cold it always was despite a roaring fire. He stood up, and hand on the hilt of his sword to keep it from hitting the desk as he rose. The more time he spent with Gryffindor's sword at his hip, the less-inclined he became to take it off—he kept it by his pillow when he slept, right next to his pensive. He kept the pedestal in a corner by the Mirror of Erised.
He used his office for researching and for sleeping. He spent his nights in his office, accomplishing the work of several days in a single night he would have otherwise wasted on mere sleep... and he could always nap in the corner by the fire. And he did. Quite often.
But more importantly, he had learned worlds about talismans, illusions, spell forms, and evasion. He had become a formidable expert on disguises. He decided he would have to learn Occlumency, if only to keep the Ministry from arresting him for just plain knowing too many dark and illegal curses; he felt more than a little sordid.
Pulling his cloak around his body, he picked up list and quill and headed for his work table, pausing to warm his fingers by the fire. He set the list down on the table and considered the items before him.
"Draught of Chastity, check," he crossed it off his list. "Warewolf hair, check," he used his quill to tap the tiny phial with Lupin's hair before crossing it too off his list. "Dragon and Dementor's blood... check and check."
"Relic of a Fox, check," Harry glanced at Salazar Slytherin's ring. "Sword, check," he crossed it off, muttering, "that illusion from Darkest Room should cover it well enough." He regarded the list. "Wand, check," placing a hand on Sirius' wand—tucked neatly inside his sword's sheath in a little space designed to hold a wand of about that size. "What's left?" He picked up his list and paced the room—a well-worn track after nearly a week's use.
"Giant, Veela, Memory, Grave, Virgins," he began his regular mantra. "Giant, Veela, Mem—"
CLICK! CLICK-CLICK! C-L-U-N-K!
Hedwig was back from the Burrow and pecking on Hogwarts: A History with a vengeance. Harry had learned from her that the book would close when he was down in his office. She learned very quickly where he was, and discovered even more quickly that pecking on the cover of Hogwarts: A History created the most god-awful racket down in her owner's office. Harry had to hand it to her—she was determined. Harry snatched a letter for Fred and George from his desk and went up to meet Hedwig.
-
Dear Harry,
Arthur and I were so touched to receive your letter! Fleur is out of St. Mungo's and is staying with us for the time being, and Bill is looking better every day. The Medi-Wizards still aren't sure about anything, but we're all very hopeful just the same.
Yes, the wedding has been postponed for now, but some of the guests have started showing up already! Just the other morning I was out in the garden and who should apparate behind me but Hermione and Victor Krum! They'll be staying here for ... I don't know how long, actually. With Hermione's parents arriving this evening and Fleur's extended family, and Bill's colleges from Egypt as well, the Burrow's going to be rather full!
We're all very eager to see you, Harry. Charlie will come around with Hermione and Ron to pick up your things on Friday. Best of luck on your Apparition Test, by the way! I'm sure you'll do just fine.
Love,
Molly
Harry squinted at the signature for a moment; it appeared that Mrs. Weasley had first written Mum, then used Molly to cover it over. He smiled.
"Mind going to Diagon Alley, Hedwig?"
She responded with a mild glance of indignation, beak buried in her food dish.
"Please?"
Whoooo...
"I'll be at the Burrow, so you won't have to go so far... please?"
Hedwig munched several more owl treats cholericly. After having her fill and then pausing to prolong her master's sufferings, she consented with a bow of her head.
"Thanks a million," Harry said, smoothing the feathers on her back and tying the parchment to her leg. "This one's for Fred and George, alright?" She whoo-ed again. "See you soon."
After watching Hedwig disappear into the early sunrise, Harry shuffled back to his office with Mrs. Weasley's letter and a change of clothes. He intended to spend several more hours in full-fledged academic review—Hermione would be proud—then catch a bit of sleep by the fire. Yet once in his office, he glanced again at Mrs. Weasley's letter... and something in his sleepy, paranoid brain went click.
Krum ... he's Bulgarian!
And Fleur's grandmother is a Veela!
"YES!" He shouted; his voice reverberated around his lair, echoing distortion rattling jars on the shelves. He ran to his list and checked off "Veela's breath" and "Giant's spit" with fervor. He scanned the list excitedly, "Hex of a Virgin, Grave, and a Muggle-born Virgin." He had decided to use his memories of Snape as those of the traitor; Snape was certainly "fox-like" enough. Abandon mercy, abandon faith, abandon, humanity... that sounded like Snape, alright.
Harry paced his usual route.
"Grave of a Moral Fox..." He pondered aloud. "Hex of a Virgin... Muggle-born Virgin... Lion-like," he paced. "Grave... Hex... Hex... who do I know with a great hex?" he pondered. "Hermione's good, Ron's awful..." Harry sighed. "Ginny." Her Bat Boggey Hex had impressed even the likes of Slughorn! He'd have to use her. "Won't be that hard to get her to hex me, though," he realized pointedly, "she already hates me." He doggedly crossed "Hex of a Virgin" off the list, disallowing himself to question Ginny's virginity; he couldn't bear the thought.
"Muggle-born Virgin... Grave of a Moral Fox..."
More Pacing.
And pacing.
And frustrated ruffling of hair.
And pacing...
Harry tripped over his own foot. That's it! he thought, and made his way to his mattress. He was of no use to himself when half asleep.
The best place to hide is in the open... was it something Voldemort had said? Or Sirius? Or Snape? Or Dumbledore? He couldn't remember... in any case, what he needed was probably hiding right in the open, too... Right.
