AN/Uno: Here's the fourth chapter. Edited and betaed by the awesome enembee, so kudos and Diet Coke to him. Also, thanks to the people at DLP in general for helping with this story.
Biscuits and cookies to the person who can figure out what the Dagger's name is an allusion to.
Any reviews and constructive feedback are welcome!
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, or anything you can recognise from the books. The series belongs to J.K. Rowling and the people who publish the books and produce the movies
– CHAPTER FOUR –
The Grievous Gambit
.
-X-X-X-
.
It took a few seconds for the full implications of this statement to sink in. Meanwhile Flamel sipped his Gurdyroot Infusion again and smiled, almost as though he was expecting to receive an especially fine Christmas present any moment now.
Harry leapt to his feet, sending his empty tea cup flying.
"You're crazy!" he shouted. "How could you even think that? This is mental!"
"Contrary to popular belief, I do possess a modicum of both lucidity and sanity," Flamel said brightly. "Trust me when I say that I have thought this through. Would you like some more Gurdyroot?"
Flamel held the bottle of putrid, purple Infusion near Harry's face. Harry pushed it away with a growl.
"What you're suggesting would destroy my friends. They'll think I'm dead," he said. Harry's ten year-old body bristled. "And the Order, the Ministry, everyone– They're all relying on me to be the 'Chosen One' and fight Voldemort. If I die, they'd be crushed, and – "
Harry didn't finish the end of that sentence; both he and Flamel knew what would happen to the public if the Boy-Who-Lived died. Shock and panic would descend, like summer rain.
As Harry slumped his shoulders, Flamel snagged a pair of knitting needles and a spool of magenta yarn from beside a basket of dried flowers. The alchemist began to crochet the rose-coloured wool, which unpleasantly reminded Harry of Umbridge's vomit-pink cardigan.
"But if you do not hide the Alucards will kill you," Flamel said. The knitting needles made a rhythmic, clicking sound. "And then all hope is truly lost. The moment you leave the mortal realm forever, the magical world is forfeit to Voldemort. Only you can fulfil the Prophecy – not Neville Longbottom, not Albus Dumbledore. Only you."
Harry stared down at his feet and was amazed at how small they were compared to his mormal, sixteen year-old feet. The toes were so small, barely half the size of the originals; they painfully reminded Harry of his vulnerability and of his current weaknesses. He was just a kid and easy prey for the Death Eaters, a pig for an Alucard slaughter.
In this pitiful state, he could do nothing to protect his friends.
"How am I even supposed to fake my death, though? It's going to be impossible to fool Voldemort, let alone Dumbledore," Harry said weakly.
He pointed at his lightning-bolt scar. "I'm not exactly unrecognisable."
"Leave all that to me. I will craft you a new appearance, a new name, a new identity. You will be safe – no one will be able to find you."
Flamel slid over to the table suffocating under a plunge of lacy drapes. Opening one of the drawers, he withdrew a long, black object.
It was a sacrificial dagger, encrusted with a silvery slew of opals and moonstone. Dulled bloodstains clung to the dagger's serrated edge, giving the impression of a hound's teeth.
Two, intertwined, onyx snakes adorned the hilt, which had engraved the words: 'Olah et Akedah'
"Slice your hand with this dagger and draw blood," said Flamel. The alchemist adorned that eerie grin, the grin of a researcher about to exscind a dead body's stomach. "That is all you need to do. Just one simple cut, and all your problems will be solved."
Flamel handed the dagger to Harry.
Harry stared at it; his own reflection, pale and unnaturally young, gazed back at him from the serrated edge. Then, as Ron's bloodied face from that day at the Department of Mysteries shimmered in front of him, Harry dragged the dagger across his hand.
There was a searing pain, and a surge of red.
Flamel lunged towards him and pulled a crystal vial from the folds of his nurse's blouse.
"Well done, my boy, well done," said Flamel, collecting the drips of blood in the vial. After another minute, he capped the flask with an emerald stopper. "Your blood is worth a great deal, much more than mine or any others'. Yes, yes… a most fascinating specimen. It should be most apposite for our designs."
The alchemist pocketed the vial of blood. Then, he jabbed the tip of his wand towards the jagged cuts on Harry's hand.
"Erapevo," he said. "Epiaceso."
Harry's hand felt hot and then cold, as though it had been dipped in arctic water. The wounds knitted together, and with a flash of white, left behind a patch of sore but healed skin.
While Harry reflexively opened and closed his hand to test if it was fully healed, Flamel glanced at his Minnie Mouse wristwatch.
"Twenty past three. Already behind schedule. We must start moving now," said Flamel.
He stood up and waved his wand. Immediately, a bottle of heliotrope liquid soared from its place behind the bundled human fingers and a porcelain doll in a frilly bonnet. The alchemist caught the Summoned potion and thrust it into Harry's hands.
"It is Polyjuice potion. We will be travelling to a semi-public place, so you shall have to be disguised," explained Flamel. He picked up the crystal flask that he had set down earlier: the sallow nurse Polyjuice, from the Guilford Adventist Hospital. "Drink it now. Hurry."
Glancing at Flamel, Harry uncapped the bottle and took the heliotrope potion. His short, ten year-old body began to shift upwards, and the small 'Hello Kitty' sweater and jeans strained and pulled under the growth of transformation.
Two minutes later, Harry opened his eyes and looked at his Polyjuiced body. To his great horror, he was a wispy woman with frazzled, grey hair. She was rather short, not that much taller than his ten year-old self, and was slim but surprisingly sturdy, with firm, wiry legs. Harry tried to ignore those things nudging out from the middle of his sweater. Just being in a woman's body was giving him nausea and mental trauma beyond comprehension.
Flamel, in his disguise of the sallow, limp-haired nurse, straightened his blouse and moved his wand in a one, fluid motion. The tattering 'Hello Kitty' sweater and jeans lengthened and transformed into a purple sundress. With another flick of Flamel's wand, a stiff cardigan not unlike Umbridge's materialised over Harry's shoulders.
"Currently, you are Mafalda Hopkirk, a Ministry worker from the Improper Use of Magic Office," said Flamel in the nurse's scratchy voice.
Flamel eyed Harry lavishly, as though he was a particularly delicious, juicy steak. "She was one of Perenelle's favourite bodies when we used to include the Polyjuice Potion in our bedroom antics."
Flamel grinned; Harry felt as if he was going to sick up.
"Alas, however lovely Mafalda is to gaze at, we must take additional precautions," said Flamel, flicking his wand at Harry. Mafalda's wispy, grey hair became lustrous and bright-red, reminding Harry of the Weasleys. Harry's arms also changed, losing their pallor and gaining an orangey, fake tan. Splashes of freckles dashed across his face.
The alchemist was not finished; he tapped Harry on the head and said, "Dissimulso."
The not unfamiliar, cool feeling of the Disillusionment Charm settled over Harry, and Mafalda Hopkirk's body began to glimmer; splotches of colour trickled over him, a trio of splashing red, green and blue.
After three seconds, Harry had become like a Chameleon, blending into the wall.
"Are you sure that you don't need to be Disillusioned too, sir?" Harry asked in Mafalda's quavery voice, as he shoved his Holly wand into the folds of the cardigan.
Flamel transfigured his nurse's attire into a simple business suit and grey pencil-skirt.
"I have already cast an Imperceptible Charm among other precautions, but we shall cross that bridge when we come to it," said Flamel. "Place your hand over my arm, Harry. We'll be Apparating. Brace yourself: this will be a bumpy ride. On three… two… one…"
Flamel twisted on the spot, and once again, Harry's limbs jolted and squirmed, as though they were being forced through a tight, rubber pipe.
After another second of darkness, Harry heard an audible pop and found himself in a dumpster. Wading through the bags of garbage, he pulled himself out and onto the pavement.
"We are in an alleyway behind St Bathurst Avenue. Our destination, the morgue, is only around the corner," said Flamel from behind Harry. "It is nearly half past three; we must hurry."
They stepped out of the alleyway and scurried down the street. At the end of the road, a nondescript, brick-building stood bearing the sign: Davendash Medical Morgue.
Flamel followed a group of clean, smartly dressed men marching through the morgue. As he and Harry strode down the morgue's whitewashed hallway, not even one person – doctor or policeman – stopped or turned to them; they just blindly walked past, as though the two wizards were invisible.
In time, they reached a locked door labelled "Cold Chamber – Negative Temperature".
"Alohomora," Flamel said.
The door clicked open, and they walked into the room. The first thing Harry noticed was the smell. It smelled crushingly of Bleach, as though someone was trying to overcompensate and drown out a fetid stench with Aspetic. Despite the ventilation in the room, he had to labour to breathe. The room was also cold, colder than Snape's dungeons in winter. Harry felt like he had stepped into a meat freezer.
Behind Harry, Flamel whispered "Colloportus", and the door closed behind them with an odd squish.
"Hm. 'Male. Medium height. Caucasian. Cause of Death: Unknown'." Flamel held a piece of parchment in his hand and read it aloud. He examined the vault-like, metal doors attached to the walls.
"What are we doing here? Are we trying to collect something?" asked Harry, staring at the row of metal doors on the walls.
"Quiet, Harry. All will make sense soon. 'Identity Unverified and Unknown'," Flamel said, stopping at one of the doors. He brandished his wand. "We have a winner. Stand back, Harry. This is going to smell."
The metal door opened with a hiss. When Flamel waved his wand, a cloth-covered body emerged from the opened cache. Blue, splotchy hands poked lifelessly from under the blanket. A stench drafted from the body, reminding Harry of a festering, maggot-crusted wound.
Flamel took the covering off the body, aimed his wand, and said, "Geminio."
Another body, identical to the original, splattered onto the floor. After returning the duplicate to the cache with a Hover Charm, Flamel moved his wand in a fluid, sideward slash. The lank remains contorted into a horrible, human circle and shrunk downwards with a pernicious whoosh.
A second later, a smooth pebble sat where the body once lay.
"Alohomora," Flamel muttered, after pocketing the pebble in a small, beaded handbag.
The sealed door unfastened and flung forward, and Flamel and Harry slipped out the Cold Chamber. While Flamel closed the door behind them, Harry glanced around: men in laundered, laboratory coats were gliding through the many hallways, wheeling bodies in various states of death. Not one of them noticed Harry, or the intrusion into the Cold Chamber. Flamel had done his homework– Harry's tracks had been effectively concealed.
The two wizards walked out of the morgue with no incident. They returned to the same alleyway into which they had Apparated.
"Time to Apparate again. There is one more place to visit, before we can return home. Grab my arm – not so tightly, Harry," said Flamel.
Harry felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment, while he loosened his hold on Flamel.
"At the count of three… two… one…"
There was the familiar squishing sensation and a moment of darkness. Then, with a soft pop, Harry felt himself land on a turf of grass.
"Ow," said Harry, rubbing the back of his head.
He pulled himself off the ground and studied his surroundings. A cluster of old oaks and lofty maple trees bristled around a wire fence, while a small, summer wind passed through rusty swings. A slippery slide in the shape of an enormous Emperor Penguin stood proudly amongst a slew of playground equipment. Flamel was standing by this slide, and appeared to be rummaging through his beaded handbag.
"Begonia Park? What are you planning to do here, sir?" Harry asked Flamel. As he stepped out of the shade of a large maple tree and towards the slide, Harry felt the burning kiss of the afternoon sun against him.
"Why, fake your death, my young Skywalker. It shall be a most enthralling task to undertake," Flamel said cheerfully, a little too cheerfully when considering the gravity of the situation.
When Harry gave a disgruntled face, the alchemist turned his head. "Why that look? Do you not like Star Wars? More of a Dune fan, I take it? Or perhaps Tolkien tickles your fancy?"
"You're completely mental."
"Thank you, I consider that a compliment," said Flamel, while he cast the Alucards' vacuum spell over the playground. He then fished something out of the handbag; it was a clump of broken, spindly wood.
After throwing the wood fragments over the slide, he withdrew what appeared to be a long, scarlet feather from his suit.
Harry stared at the iridescent, red feather.
"A phoenix quill? Why do we need one of those?"
"It was a gift from Albus, a quill made with one of Fawkes's finest tail-feathers," said Flamel. He snipped off the nib and cast a Severing Charm to strip the feather down to its core.
"In order to plausibly fool the Alucards and the Ministry, remnants of your wand need to be found. With another application of the Reductor Curse and an Irreparable Charm, it would be as if your very own phoenix wand had been snapped."
Flamel muttered a few more spells on the phoenix-feather core, now decimated, and splayed it over the wood fragments.
Then, the alchemist pulled out the pebble and said, "Finite Incantatem."
The body from the morgue materialised.
"This is where it becomes a little tricky," said Flamel, removing a flask of murky, muddy liquid from the handbag. "I presume you recognise this gorgeous potion?"
"Polyjuice, before you add the essence of the person you want to turn into," Harry replied, remembering his Second Year.
"Not quite, young Skywalker. This is a Polyjuice Potion, but not your typical, garden variety. I have tampered with the formula, adding my own little amendments in order to augment its effects. If successful, this potion should last far longer than an hour," Flamel said.
He took out the vial of blood – Harry's blood – from earlier and added it to the murky potion. Immediately, the brown liquid bubbled and clarified, turning into a clear, bright gold.
"It should even transform dead bodies, a task which is impossible with ordinary Polyjuice Potion. All it needs is the purest and most potent essence of the person-to-be: your blood and a sample of your freshest magic."
The wide, enthusiastic grin unfolding on Flamel's face disturbed Harry.
"But that's Dark magic… That stuff is evil. How can you think– "
"Shouldn't you, out of all people, know that magic itself is a tool and beyond mere mortal labels such as 'good' and 'evil'?" interrupted Flamel.
He raised an eyebrow. "A Spell or a Potion is as 'Dark' as an axe or a sword. It is not the intrinsic magic itself, but the intent behind it which makes it wicked. Do your experiences with the Patronus Charm not attest to this fact?"
At Harry's downcast look, Flamel added gently: "There is little you need to do, Harry. Simply point your wand at this flask and say 'Appono'. It is for the greater good – you will save more people in the long run."
An image of Ron and Hermione from the Department of Mysteries shimmered in Harry's mind, like a mirage. The two of them were screaming, sweat pasted against their backs, while masked Death Eaters chased after them… laughing.
Nodding glumly at Flamel's words, Harry withdrew his wand from Mafalda's cardigan.
"Appono," he whispered.
A soft, white mist slivered out of the wand tip and into the flask of Polyjuice Potion. The golden liquid fizzed, like one of Ron's Acid Pops, and shifted into a lighter, lemon-yellow colour.
"Thank you, my boy, thank you," Flamel said to Harry, taking the potion. "Now watch this."
The alchemist walked over to the dead body from the morgue. Prying open the body's mouth, Flamel emptied the flask and poured in the sunshine-yellow liquid.
The body began to change. Its features bubbled and twisted, as though invisible insects were scampering beneath the skin. The long, blond hair shot back into the skull, while the slanted, black eyes grew pale and round. Harry looked away, rather nauseated by the transformation.
When Harry turned around again, there was a perfect replica of a sixteen year-old Harry Potter. However, this Harry's limbs were twisted at awkward angles, as though he had died in extreme pain. Unruly, black hair lay spread out in a blood-matted fan. His mouth was drooped in slack terror, glassy green eyes staring emptily at the sky. Harry could see a blackened, charred tongue lolling from the upper lip.
"How come this body is in its teens?" asked Harry thickly. His throat was parched; for some reason, he found it hard to speak. "Shouldn't it be around ten, like me?"
"Your magic recognises that your mind is sixteen, so the amended potion reflects that," Flamel answered. The alchemist removed the vacuum spell from the playground with a hasty 'Finite Incantatem'.
"That is why I brought you here and implored that you provide a fresh sample of magic."
Harry ran his fingers through his hair and tried to ignore the body in front of him.
"So now what? We're just going to leave, then? Let somebody find the body? How is that supposed to– "
Harry froze; a pair of voices was approaching from across the road. Flamel passed him a look of utmost exigency, and Harry understood. He placed his hand over the alchemist's arm and tensed as Flamel turned on the spot.
Just as he began to feel the apparition take him, Harry heard a familiar hoarse voice in the distance and his heart leapt into his throat.
"Dora, I don't understand; how could you let the Death Eaters ambush and Confound you like that? Harry could be anywh– what is that? Dora, over there by that Penguin Slide– "
"Professor Lupin," croaked Harry, but already he felt his body begin to compress, as though it was being squeezed through a small, metal tube.
Seconds later, the pressure around his chest ceased, and he opened his eyes: they were standing in a large, unkempt garden, which hosted a colourful assortment of fanged flowers. A spindly tree, bearing a plumage of black, spear-shaped fruits, leaned against a row of squirming, slug-like plants Harry identified as Bubotubers. Feathery flowers with white petals which glittered and hissed whenever a draft passed through them clung to a jolly Muggle garden gnome.
"Our house is right along here. Follow me," said Flamel, walking past three pink Puffapods, which whinged and grunted while they waddled higgledy-piggledy through the undergrowth.
Soon, a small, white house with blue shutters and a Cockatrice weather vane emerged from the plants.
When Flamel unlocked the door, Harry pushed past brusquely and ran into the threshold. He ignored Flamel's voice, dashing up the creaking staircase three stairs at a time and through the pink, beribboned hallway. As he scampered into the closest bedroom, he felt his hip bump against a doll ornament and heard it crash on the floor, into a thousand crystalline tears.
But he didn't care. All Harry could think of was Lupin and how, by a cruel twist of fate, he would be the first to discover the planted body. The man had lost his closest friend fourteen years ago, and had to witness the death of another friend a mere month ago. And now he was about to stumble across another of the dead.
Numb with emotion, Harry sunk into a frilly, pink bed and closed his eyes, embracing the blissful oblivion of sleep that came.
.
.
.
.
When Harry woke up the next morning, the Polyjuice Potion had worn off and he was once again in his ten year-old body. Not particularly eager to read about his own disappearance in the news, he spent the rest of the day in the bedroom, exiting only for bathroom breaks. Flamel, despite his madcap exterior, was considerate enough to not bother him. Harry saw little of the alchemist but noticed that goblets of Pumpkin juice and plates of food (cucumber and roast beef sandwiches, a quarter orange) were being surreptitiously placed at the bedroom door.
Harry ate the food and went back to sleep. He didn't want to think anything at the moment. Whenever Harry paused, his mind drifted back to Lupin and his best friends, Ron and Hermione. And that was just too painful, still too raw on his mind.
Their reactions to the dead body would have been denial at first. Ron would laugh it off as one big joke, while Hermione would staunchly insist that it was the least likely event. Then would come the anger; they would scream and shout… Afterwards, their faces would begin to crumple, and Hermione would start crying and –
Harry gritted his teeth and slammed his eyes closed, trying to stifle those thoughts and return to sleep. Eventually, lethargy settled over his limbs and oblivious sleep returned.
This aimless routine of sleep and loafing continued for two more days. By the third day, Harry finally slapped himself in the face and jumped off the bed.
"Get a grip of yourself, you've got to start moving on," he muttered to himself, as he shook his head and cleared his mind. He picked up his wand from the bedside counter, which was shaped like an overgrown Billywig. "Just milling about will do no good."
After taking a few deep breaths and running through Snape's Occlumency drills, Harry turned the burnished brass doorknob and stepped out of the gaudy, lace-adorned bedroom. The hallway was alight with a golden wash of sunshine, alerting him to a late afternoon. Paintings of ugly girls in petticoats glowed with a faint oil patina.
Harry strolled past the various porcelain dolls, many disturbingly without heads, and down the stairs. Straining his ears for any sounds, he followed what sounded like a woman's voice, though occluded by static, into a winding corridor. Within seconds, Harry entered the kitchen.
The room was rather small and cluttered with tattering books and silver cooking utensils. A rickety table, accompanied by a series of matching, creaky chairs, was thrust to the right, away from the stove upon which a black pot boiled. Wearing flowery robes much like Aunt Petunia's nightgown, Nicolas Flamel sat on one of those chairs, staring intently at a small radio.
Harry joined Flamel by the table. "Good morn – afternoon, I guess. Sorry, but what are you doi– "
"Shush, my boy," interrupted Flamel, tapping at the wireless. "As fantastic as it is to finally see you up and about, I am attempting to listen to the news. The WWNN is about to broadcast."
"The WWNN?"
"Wizarding Wireless Network News," explained Flamel. A cool, female voice began to resound from the radio again. Flamel adjusted the dials. "Ah, here we are. Just in time, too."
"…your usual program of 'Toots, Shoots 'n' Roots' with Tilden Toots shall now be interrupted by a very special bulletin from the WWNN."
"It's that voice from the Ministry of Magic, the one from the elevator," said Harry, frowning. "This must be official."
"…in breaking news, Meliora Bagshot has been found dead in her cottage at Upper Flagley. Madam Bagshot, granddaughter-in-law of the celebrated magical historian Bathilda Bagshot, was widowed only last month, while on a family holiday to Continental Europe. Due to the unprecedented absence of the Dark Mark over her home, the cause of her death is still unknown. Madam Bagshot leaves behind an eleven year-old son."
Harry remembered, with an unpleasant flinch, that Bathilda Bagshot was the author of his textbook, 'A History of Magic'. These deaths were getting closer to home.
"In other news, Muggle attacks continue. Following yesterday's murders of the Levski family, a family of five was found gutted and strung to the rafters of their own house in Carshalton. From the Dark Mark above their home, the family is speculated to be the victim of a Death Eater raid. Their only magical child, the Muggleborn Quinn Darby, remains in a critical condition at St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.
"Finally, more news concerning the shocking death of Harry Potter has emerged, as of today. I am pleased to be joined by Pius Thicknesse and Special Correspondent, Rita Skeeter. Good afternoon, Ms Skeeter, Mr Thicknesse."
"Hello, Lenore," said a girlish voice.
Thicknesse's gruff voice sounded: "Afternoon, Madam Edgecombe."
Harry frowned, bemused. "Pius Thicknesse?"
"The new Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement," Flamel elucidated. "Amelia Bones's successor."
"Ms Skeeter, what are the new developments to the Harry Potter story?" intoned Lenore Edgecombe's cool, clipped voice. "Currently, the only information available on this shocking death is that the Boy-Who-Lived's body was found in Little Whinging, Surrey, and that it was Albus Dumbledore who reported the death to the Ministry of Magic."
"My, my, Lenore. You must get with the times, sweetheart," trilled Rita's saccharine voice. "Much more dirt has been dug up over the past few hours. Indeed, the mysterious tale of Harry Potter's death is becoming quite the sordid affair, as Pius will undoubtedly tell you."
"Mister Thicknesse? Is it true? Has the Ministry uncovered more evidence surrounding the Potter case?"
Thicknesse spoke slowly, much like the automated voices from Dudley's Vocaloid video games: "The Ministry of Magic has discovered new information concerning the Boy-Who-Lived's death. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement has received clearance to announce that a suspect has been determined."
"Oh, do go on, Pius. You haven't even gotten to the best part yet," said Rita, her voice dripping with poorly concealed glee. "Tell the public who the scoundrel is."
"Please restrain yourself, Ms Skeeter; this is a national broadcast," Madam Edgecombe deadpanned.
"Thank you, Madam Edgecombe," Thicknesse said bracingly, while Rita cleared her throat with a cough and quietened. "As the representative of the DMLE, I am officially obliged to tell the Wizarding public, that the suspect concerned is none other than former Hogwarts Professor, Remus John Lupin."
Harry tightened his grip on the patio; Flamel twisted the dials of the wireless, turning up the volume.
"Yes, Remus Lupin! Isn't it just divine? A former teacher of Harry and, according to my sources, a school friend of James and Lily Potter!" said Rita, clapping her hands together. "I can already see the backstory of jealousy, old rivalries, family feuds, intertwining in a juicy, dirty tapestry."
"Are there any further details regarding the Harry Potter case, and Mr Lupin, which can be released to the public?" asked Madam Edgecombe in the usual cool, crisp tone, her voice betraying no shock at this unexpected development.
"Remus Lupin is a registered werewolf, and was spotted carrying Mr Potter's gnarled body in Begonia Park, Surrey, hours before Albus Dumbledore's reporting of the death at the Ministry of Magic. This, along with the testimony of Albert Runcorn, is enough to declare Mr Lupin a suspect."
"That doesn't quite explain why the DMLE is currently detaining Lupin, though, does it?" Rita said. Harry could imagine her pulling out that gaudy, green Quick-Quote Quill, jotting down the lurid details. "Not Azkaban, but a small Ministry cell? On the fourth floor? Without a trial, too."
"Mr Lupin's imprisonment is officially permitted under the Umbridge-Scamander Werewolf Regulation Act of 1993," Thicknesse said dully."Clause Seven of the Act states that the DMLE can, with the explicit permission of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, detain any werewolf who has a criminal history indefinitely, until the appropriate investigation is concluded."
An arrow of anger and shame shot through Harry. Had Lupin known that his false imprisonment was because of Harry? Because of his own weakness, in this stupid, young body.
"Since Mr Lupin has been gone on record for attacking two Muggles in 1992 and two wizards in 1994, Clause Seven can be applied," finished Madam Edgecombe. "That makes sense. But Mr Thicknesse, do you think that the imprisonment of Mr Lupin will appease the Wizarding public? The Ministry of Magic must be aware of the Diagon Alley Riots from two days ago. With the death of such a cherished public figure, fear is spreading through the populace."
Flamel snorted at the term "cherished public figure"; Evidently, the alchemist was aware of the antics of the Daily Prophet the year before, when everyone was claiming that Harry was a "schizophrenic attention-seeker".
"The Ministry is cognisant of the riots, and is doing everything within its power to conclude the Harry Potter case," said Thicknesse. "The Minister for Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour, would like me to remind our listeners that our Aurors and Hit Wizards are working around the clock to capture the remaining Death Eaters and resolve the current civil unrest. There is no need to panic, or to flee the country. Everything is under control."
"But how can our listeners be certain that they and their families will be safe? A werewolf, one of the darkest creatures in existence, has killed our supposed Saviour, the Boy-Who-Lived!" added Rita in a soft, breathy tone, which reminded Harry of toady Umbridge when she had caught the DA. "Who is it to say that another dark monster or follower of You-Know-Who wouldn't off one of us in our beds?"
"In light of recent events, most prominently the Harry Potter Murder, the Ministry will be taking further steps to safeguard the lives of magical British society," answered Thicknesse.
"Further steps? What sort of changes does the Department of Magical Law Enforcement have in mind?" asked Madam Edgecombe.
"My sources imply that a curfew may be on the horizon, along with tighter regulations of werewolves and other Beasts and Beings," said Rita.
When Harry bit his lip, her syrupy voice added: "Perhaps martial law will be on the Ministry meeting table?"
"I am not authorised to confirm or deny any of those allegations," said Thicknesse stiffly. "Minister Scrimgeour has stated yesterday, though, that the murder of Harry Potter has shined light on the gaping holes in Wizarding security and the current war effort. I reiterate the Minister's words that the Boy-Who-Lived's death may prove to be the impetus for drastic, wartime legislation."
"The WWNN would like to remind our listeners that the Wizengamot is currently in session, and may be discussing the legislations mentioned by Mr Thicknesse," said Madam Edgecombe.
"Shouldn't you mention the body, Pius?" Rita said abruptly. "The DMLE has Harry's body, doesn't it? When is the body going to be released to the Boy-Who-Lived's custodians? Surely a funeral must be in our upcoming calendars!"
Harry felt his heart pound against his chest, as he remembered the false body with its glazed eyes and gnarled limbs. Flamel gave Harry a strangely excited, conspiratorial expression.
"Further testing on the body is required until we can determine the cause of death. We do not expect to conclude the analyses for another three days," replied Thicknesse. "The body will be in stasis at the Department of Mysteries in the meantime. The Minister of Magic himself will announce the prospective date of the boy's funeral at a later date. No further questions."
Rita was not easily deterred. "Surely the hero of modern times, the Chosen One who had endured so much for such a tragic end, deserves a state funeral in the upcomi– "
"And we appear to have reached the end of our bulletin," interrupted Madam Edgecombe, cutting off Rita's agitated voice. "Thank you very much to Pius Thicknesse and Rita Skeeter for your time and words."
Reluctantly, Rita grumbled something under her breath, while Thicknesse said, "You're welcome, Madam Edgecombe."
"The WWN advises our listeners to stay indoors and read the new leaflet from the Ministry of Magic: 'PROTECTING YOUR HOME AND FAMILY AGAINST DARK FORCES'. Remember to set security questions for all family members and to contact the Magical Law Enforcement Squad at the first sign of trouble," said Edgecombe's clipped, cool voice.
"The next WWNN broadcast will be at seven o'clock, Saturday evening. This is Lenore Edgecombe, Senior Liaison for the WWN and Secretariat of Magical Media Management at the Ministry of Magic."
The standard orchestral overture resounded in the background, as Madam Edgecombe said, "The WWN and the Ministry of Magic wish you a pleasant afternoon."
The bulletin ended and the tinkling soundtrack associated with 'Toots, Shoots 'n' Roots' returned to the wireless. Flamel twirled the tuning dials and switched off the radio.
"That was most enlightening, was it not?" said Flamel brightly.
"Fantastic," said Harry bracingly. "I've learnt everything I wanted to know: the Ministry is experimenting with my fake body, people are rioting and oh, Professor Lupin is in jail. Because of me."
Flamel seemed to notice the bitterness unfolding across Harry's face. He turned around and squeezed Harry's knee.
"It is for the best. You're far too valuable to die, and this is the best way to protect you," Flamel said. "You know that."
"But the Ministry has Lupin. I can't forget that easily," said Harry hotly.
He stared at the floorboards. "He's the last link I have to Sirius."
Flamel's dark eyes flashed. "Harry, you're our only hope against the Dark Lord. You cannot die to the Alucards, not yet."
"Until you are better trained and your– " Flamel motioned at Harry's tiny body "–condition is reversed, we cannot afford risking the exposure of your survival. The Alucards will find you again."
"I've lived through them once, who says I can't deal with them again?"
Flamel snatched a spool of pink wool from the kitchen-table and threw it at Harry's face.
"My naive boy, don't be such a fool! You survived only through sheer dumb luck," he said. "The Alucards believed that their 'perfect' little poison would not fail to kill you. They were too arrogant and did not deign to check if you were truly dead. You shall not be so fortunate the second time."
Harry processed Flamel's words. He knew that the alchemist's logic could not be faulted. But still–
"Do I have your word that you will not risk your cover and go looking for trouble?" Flamel asked, after Harry, for a moment, did nothing but glare at his clenched fists. "Such as chasing after Remus Lupin at the Ministry of Magic?"
Harry bit on the inside of his mouth.
"You have my word," he said grudgingly, after a painful pause. He couldn't involve any more people in his own problems again; risk Ron and Hermione's lives. Not again. Lupin would just have to wait. This was all his fault, all his fault…
"Good! I'm relieved to see that you still possess some modicum of self-preservation," said Flamel sunnily. "For a moment, I thought all those years of reckless heroics had abraded your basest sensibilities."
The Alchemist rose from the table and with a twirl of his floral dressing gown, sauntered to the stove. From a kettle, he poured hot water into a bowl and added a sachet of black powder. Harry was caught off-guard by pungent wafts, much like those from one of Hagrid's "baking" monstrosities.
"Dried Screechsnap soup," offered Flamel, pushing the black liquid towards a grimacing Harry. "Tastes like Doxy droppings, but it will invigorate you. You must recover your strength, little one, unless you harbour a secret desire to be eviscerated by Death Eaters."
When Flamel grinned toothily at the mention of evisceration, Harry hastily grabbed a spoon and pulled the bowl towards him. He choked down the horrible soup, which burned at his tongue with a horrid, acrylic taste.
"If you are feeling better, let's discuss the subject of disguise," said Flamel. "The Alucards would be looking for a dark-haired boy with green eyes, so we will have to change those features first."
"Disguise? I don't understand."
"For your new identity. In order to maintain this ruse, we must make you a completely new person. Granted, the deaging has already done half the work for you, but a little more tweaking is necessary."
"Huh? What are you saying?"
When Harry gaped at him, Flamel raised an eyebrow. "You can't stay in my cottage forever. Eventually, you will have to return to the Wizarding world in some form to receive training. Intensive tutelage will be required to match the powers of Lord Voldemort."
With a wince, Harry sipped more of the Screechsnap soup. He hated it how Flamel was invariably right, as per usual.
"Would you like brown hair or blond hair?" asked Flamel, withdrawing his wand.
Harry contemplated his choices.
"Blond," he said, after deciding against red hair; it reminded him too much of the Weasleys. "The more different from my usual looks, the better, right?"
Flamel smiled and cracked his knuckles, as though he was about to undertake an extremely interesting science project.
"Too right, my boy. Now, now, let's get started, because we have an awfully long way to go."
He pointed his wand at Harry's head.
"Blue eyes or brown eyes?"
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AN/Dos: I'm very happy that so many people have put this story on Alert and Favorited it, but it is a little weird that I have three times the Story Favorites for HP&TT than reviews. I know that they can be annoying, but just a minute or two out of your life to give me a comment, positive or negative, would help me a long way. Both as a motivational tool which proves that I actually have readers out there and also as a means of improving my prose.
So please, review!
Apropos Olah et Akedah: Calm your farts when it comes to the Dagger, btw. It will, like Mr McGregor, be a Chekov's Boomerang and not be some cliche Magic Weapon/Solution to Everything/Deus ex Machina. As I've told enembee, its proper purpose will be better explained in further chapters, by Flamel.
C'est le message personel que j'ai envoyé à mon ami: My view of Deus ex Machina, though, is that it's only terrible if the hero gets a use out of it, because it not only defies the logic of the story but also tips the scales too much in the hero's favour. If the villain gets a use of it too, then that's a different story, right?
Long story short, the Dagger simply extracts the purest possible sample of blood and increases the blood's intrinsic magical potencies, if it has any. Flamel used it merely to increase the magical properties of Harry's blood, in order to increase the possibility of success of the amended Polyjuice potion. That's all. So the Dagger is pretty useless except in potion making, to extract any animal blood. Even then, it's not the Hand of God, Athena's Potionstick, or whatever you call those Deus ex Machina these days.
Voldemort and/or Alucards, as competent as villains are, might get a use out of it, however...
btw, my French sucks, as you could probably tell. Hey, at least I didn't use babelfish, or an online translator. xP