Disc: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
STILL ALIVE
12
Harry woke up like the smashing of a china plate. For the third time in four days, he was lying in an unfamiliar bed, but what occupied his mind that moment was the hammer that was drumming repeatedly on the back of his brain. He sat up, wincing, taking in the dark, dusty surroundings and realising slowly that he was in Mr. Jenson's bedroom. Or rather, Olivia Jenson's bedroom.
He could feel the dust on his face and arms. Shivering a little, he pushed the duvet aside and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His head continued to insist that movement was a bad idea, but he was used to his body hating him. He ignored it.
"Morning." He looked up. Draco was lounging comfortably on top of the wardrobe. Vague trickles of recent memory started to return. He groaned. "Nice place you've got here," the ghost continued, looking around. "Real aura of spookiness. I could haunt this, easy."
"It might already be haunted," Harry muttered. "Mrs. Jenson and her son died here."
"Oh."
Harry looked down at himself, realising he was still wearing the T-shirt and jeans that Hermione had lent him. Suddenly he felt sick. The headache faded away to be replaced by a moment of total dizziness and confusion. His arm ached, the burn-mark on his side stung. His right hand twinged painfully and he hissed, pulling it towards him and cradling the hand with its remaining three fingers to his chest.
Gasping, he staggered to his feet and found himself faced with a mirror. Reaching up with his good hand, he wiped away some of the thick layer of dust.
"Your scar's back," Draco said from behind him. "I saw it, last night."
The scar wasn't what Harry was looking for. He stared at his reflection, trying to pinpoint the source of the pain. There was none.
"Raging hangover?" Draco suggested. "There's a Potion for that, I think."
"Didn't drink anything," Harry argued. Suddenly there was a fire in his stomach. He ran out into the corridor and headed for the bathroom, leaving Draco behind him. He threw up violently into the sink, holding himself up by the basin. His vision blurring, he fumbled in the cabinet for the bottle he'd put there the night before.
A gulp of the liquid inside was warm and sweet, and it spread relief throughout his entire body. His breathing eased and the pain faded away. His legs strengthened. He turned on the tap and cupped his hands under it, splashing water onto his face to wash away the sweat. That was close. Too close.
In the bedroom, Draco listened to the unhealthy sound of vomiting and chuckled. Trust Harry to go out and get drunk his first night of freedom. Floating over the window he saw that it was still dark, but there were Muggle cars moving slowly down the street, and lights flickering on in windows of the surrounding houses.
oO0Oo
Dear Mr. Jenson.
I know it's none of my business, but I thought you might like to know that Professor Granger is pretty suspicious of you. I overheard her and Professor McGonagall – our Head of House - talking. I'm really sorry, but I had to tell two more people about you – two boys from my year. Believe me, this was not my fault, they're just nosy gits, really.
I hope you're okay. I hope the owls can find you – I guess you went home, but no one, even the teachers, seems to know where that is. I met your friend Malfoy. He is your friend, isn't he? Only my friend Quin reckons he's after you, and warns you to look out, although I don't think ghosts can do any real damage, can they?
Let me know if you need help. You probably think I'm just a silly girl, but I really want to be useful. Anyway… good luck, wherever you are.
Beth Green.
oO0Oo
She handed the letter to Quin, who read it, and passed it to William. William made a face. "Can you take out the part about me being a nosy git? All I wanted to do was fetch my book."
Beth looked a Quin, who shrugged. "It's fair."
"Good," she said, ignoring William's grimace. She folded the parchment and slipped into an envelope, and the large, intelligent-looking barn owl held out its leg obligingly.
"Please try and find him," said Beth, as she tied the envelope to its leg.
"Why do none of us own an owl?" Quin wondered, leaning back against the white-stained stone wall of the owlery. "We wouldn't have to come all the way up here, then."
"They're expensive," William pointed out. "Besides, I'm not that keen on birds. Except to eat."
The owl hooted at him haughtily and flew off. "How come you were so ready to do the bird-saving expedition last week, then?" asked Quin as they started the walk back to the Great Hall, and breakfast.
"Insignificant exception."
"And now you've made me hungry. I need pancakes. And sugar, lots of sugar."
"No sugar for you. We have Potions first."
"Come off it! I'll need the sugar to keep me awake."
"You'll knock something over – something big or poisonous."
"When have I ever knocked something over in Potions?"
What are we? Beth wondered as she followed the two boys down the stairs. Last week we'd hardly spoken to each other, now they're talking like they've been friends for years. And me. No wonder half the school is staring at us.
Releasing McGonagall's birds had taken until nearly two in the morning, after which they'd brainstormed ideas about Mr. Jenson for another hour. Beth had to concede that the name 'Malfoy' was not what one would associate with Light-side rescue missions, but refused to accept that the haughty ghost had been trying to get Mr. Jenson recaptured, because Mr. Jenson had said that they were friends.
She'd been quizzed rather intensively on exactly what she'd heard when hiding in the hospital-wing wardrobe and had told Quin and William everything as best as she could remember. Why she told them, she didn't know. Quin Weasley was obnoxious and cheeky, and William Ross was a weed. A nice weed, though. And Quin could be agreeable too, like in Transfiguration. And they both kept surprising her, and she was getting almost used to it.
It was sort of nice.
Since that adventure, they'd gravitated towards each other in classes, surprising both their teachers and their classmates. To be fair, neither Beth nor William had actually being aiming for this; the whole affair was orchestrated by Quin, who had developed an annoying yet somewhat amusing habit of grabbing them both by the arm and dragging them to a spare desk. William had even started talking in ore than one sentence at a time. Beth found herself spending more and more time in the common room and less and less time in the company of her dorm-mates, for which she was most thankful.
Life at Hogwarts seemed to have changed for the better, thanks to Mr. Jenson.
oO0Oo
The week seemed to have passed in a blur. Harry had had two more visits from Aurors, intent on asking him increasingly difficult and painful questions. They also asked plenty of questions about his life prior to his capture, but luckily he had found a drawer containing most of the relevant information, in the form of birth certificates, school reports (Derbyshire Institution of Wizardry), Auror conscription records, and photographs. Harry spent many hours going through these. Like Draco when he'd been alive, Harry had never seen Mark Jenson, just heard his voice through the wall of his cell.
Mark was a thin, dark-haired man on of ordinary height – which explained why there weren't too many qualms about Harry's impersonation of him. His wife was small and blonde, and their little boy looked just like his father. Some of the pictures were blotchy in places, as if they'd been cried over and stained, but the happy couple and the cheerful infant waved cheerily on.
The Ministry, although Harry realised that his existence was not widely known about as yet, sent a couple of House Elves to clean the derelict property. The Elves were named Midge and Polly, and they had the entire house spotless in less than a day. Harry liked them very much – it was nice to have someone to talk to except Draco, who, now free to do as he liked as long as he didn't stay too far away from Harry for too long, was starting to fully discover the advantages of being a ghost.
"Are you sure you're not a Poltergeist?" Harry asked him, after his friend had burst out of a kitchen cupboard when he reached in for the teabags, causing him to drop a mug and scare Polly out of her mind.
"I don't think so," said Draco, hovering over the poor Elf as she tried to sweep up the mess with a broom that was much too big for her. "What's the difference?"
"Ghosts mope around," said Harry. "Poltergeists constantly act like a five-year-old on Christmas morning. Polly, let me do that."
"No, Mr. Mark, sir!" the elf squeaked. Harry had eventually gotten the two to stop calling him 'Master Jenson.' "It is Polly and Midge's job to look after Mr. Mark, sir!"
"Yes, well it's not your fault that having to look after me in a haunted house wasn't in the job description," said Harry, taking the broom.
He'd been given some money – not much, but once they were apparently fairly certain of his identity as Mark Jenson the emergency-Auror, the Ministry decided he probably should be compensated for being caught and tortured in the line of duty, which in Draco's rather sarcastic words was 'pretty thoughtful of them, don't you think?' It was at least enough to provide food on a temporary basis, and some new clothes, since he couldn't bring himself to wear any of the old things still hanging in the wardrobe upstairs. He'd taken enough of Mark Jenson's life already. It was the first time he'd ever bought clothes for himself, and he spent a good fifteen minutes staring through windows of the High Street by the house, before actually daring to go in any of them. As a result of the ordeal, however, he had, for the first time in his life, Muggle clothes that almost fitted him. The shirts were a little baggy on his near-skeletal frame, but he overlooked this small detail with the help of some newly acquired blind optimism.
All he didn't have were his glasses and a wand. He hadn't the faintest idea where he was to get either of these things, since he wasn't even sure where he was, let alone where he could find the nearest opticians, and he couldn't even get to London, let alone Ollivander's. He could manage, however, so long as no one asked him to operate any heavy machinery.
The sunlight was like a drug. It scared him, but he wanted to stand in it, to walk in it, to let it soak into his pale skin and warm him from the inside. Lucky it was March and there was very little chance of getting burned from the minimal rays the sun emitted. He ate slowly but steadily, relishing every morsel of food and drink.
A St. Mungo's Healer was his only other visitor. The man had been given a copy of Madam Pomfrey's notes, and after a thorough examination and a redressing of the still-healing wound where his little finger used to be, he had left with a thoughtful frown. Harry waved him off with his left hand. Let the man wonder why he was recovering so quickly; Harry was content to enjoy the benefits.
The owl arrived in the afternoon, when he was half-dozing at the kitchen table. "Who would be writing to you?" Draco mocked from his current upside-down position on the ceiling.
The owl had a Hogwarts insignia tag on its left leg, and for a brief second, Harry thought it might be from Hermione, but the handwriting on the envelope wasn't hers. "No idea," he said, flipping it open. His eyes skipped immediately to the name at the bottom. "It's from Beth."
"Who?"
"The midnight visitor."
"Ah, the shy young Gryffindor."
Harry looked up from the letter. "She says she met you."
"Oh yes, did I not mention? Charming young conversationalists, the both of them."
"Well why didn't you tell me?" Harry growled.
"Oh, I'm sorry, I was too busy dragging you out of the gutter. Besides, it wasn't worth mentioning. Incidentally, is the girl related to Granger? Because the boy actually admitted to being a Weasley."
Harry froze. "Ron?"
Draco didn't appear to notice the catch in his voice. "Nah, he couldn't have been older than fifteen. Son of Xavier Weasley – he came into bags of money with his quill business just after you, er…"
"Died?" Harry suggested.
"Well, yes."
Harry sighed. "He must be one of the boys she's talking about. You didn't see a third one?"
"She told two people? It's true that Gryffindors can't keep secrets." Draco floated around so he could read over Harry's shoulder. "That's nice and vague," he laughed.
"Tempting, though," said Harry.
"What is?"
"Her offer."
"What – 'let me know if I can help you'? How could she possibly help us? Are you planning to set up a third-year spy ring at Hogwarts?"
"Don't be an idiot. I can't turn a thirteen-year-old girl into a spy."
"You're going to, though, aren't you?"
"…well."
Draco snickered. "No one's going to tell me anything," Harry argued. "I'm apparently a disabled ex-Auror whose family is dead – they won't tell me if anything's going to happen."
"But they'll tell this girl?"
"She's clever," Harry argued. "She sees things."
"She has eyes, yes."
"I meant, she's very observant."
Draco made a face that implied there was no point left in defending his argument. "She's nosy, you mean," he grumbled. "Spying on her own Professors. For shame."
Harry grinned in triumph and started to scribble on the back of Beth's letter.
"I can't believe Granger's teaching," Draco remarked after a while. If he noticed Harry's shoulders stiffen momentarily, he said nothing about it. "She must be the youngest Hogwarts Professor ever."
"One of them," Harry mumbled, apparently too concentrated on his letter to pay much attention. "Snape's been there for about twenty years and he's only about Lupin's age."
"Only?" Draco sneered.
"He's younger than he looks," said Harry. "If he's still alive, that is."
"I wouldn't be too hopeful," Draco shrugged, displaying a hardly out-of-character disregard. "But if he is… well. He might come in handy, I suppose."
"What's that supposed to mean?
"Well, you've got this burr in your feathers about telling your friends who you really are, but, well…"
"What – you reckon Lupin'd be way more accepting because of how he took Sirius back without a second thought?" Harry shot back.
"Jolly decent of him, wot?" snickered Draco. There was little the tactfully-challenged ghost didn't know about Harry's relationship with the former Professor Lupin – that sort of thing tended to come out when, after two years of being cell mates, one runs out of subject matter.
"The word is idiotic, Draco."
Draco raised a silvery eyebrow, finally realising he was touching some nerves. "Well, it had somewhat influenced my reasoning, yes."
Harry glared at him. "Lupin was one of Sirius' best friends for eight years, remember? He barely even knows me – the only time we really spent together was when he was teaching, and that was eight years ago. Why should I trust him any more than Dumbledore, or Ron or Hermione?"
"Oh, it's a trust issue, is it?" Draco mused. "I'm so glad we have these little talks – I learn so much. Glad we're finally sharing."
"Go share with someone else for once," Harry growled, sealing the letter and giving it back to the owl. "I'm done talking.
"But you were doing so well. Fine, let's go back to talking about Granger."
"I don't want to talk about Hermione, or anyone else!" Harry shouted, causing the poor owl to tumble backwards out of the window and fly off in a flurry of feathers, screeching curses. His head pounded and it was suddenly hard to breathe. He realised he was standing up, and he reached out a hand to the table to steady himself.
"Why not?" Draco demanded, unshaken by his outburst.
Harry turned away. After a while the silence made his ears ring.
"It's getting worse," he whispered, feeling his knuckles turn white as he gripped the table-top. "The forgetting. I can feel the memories… slipping away. And when I try to get them back…" He shuddered.
"I remembered Hedwig," he continued, feeling the cold as Draco came up behind him. "My owl. The first night I came here. It was like… like she'd just been erased from my whole life – but there was something left. It just dropped into my mind. I grabbed at it, and – it hurt. I collapsed. That's why I was at the bar."
Mustering all his courage, he looked back at the ghost, who was watching him with an unreadable expression. "I forgot her," he said, ignoring the pain in his head despite its worsening. "Apart from Hagrid, she was my first ever friend, and I couldn't even remember she existed. Who knows what else they took from my mind?"
Draco shook his head. "Doesn't mean they won't believe you." They both knew he was talking about a different 'they', but to Harry the fear was the same. He laughed bitterly.
"It does. I knew it, as soon as I saw them. Nothing I can say will make them take me back." He walked to the door, knowing that continuing to stand was a bad idea. He had to get to the bathroom, fast.
Draco had one more thing to say before Harry could make good his escape. "Then it'll have to be something you do."
I won't go back, Harry thought, as he dragged his protesting legs up the stairs. I can't. Not yet.
oO0Oo
Two weeks after Harry Potter became the first person ever to escape from Ynys Addoed, Ron Weasley, as luck would have it, was late for work on what would most probably turn out to be the most important day of his career at the Academy. When he eventually arrived in the Apparition point, his ears were assaulted by the sound of a hundred young adults talking at once. It sounded like someone had streaked across a packed Quidditch pitch (a sound he was, unfortunately, acquainted with). His breathing already heavy from the rushed apparition, he opened the door onto a corridor filled with what looked like most of the Academy – third years and up – moving mob-like in the same direction.
To Ron's relief, he spotted Beau, standing near the wall on the other side of the crowd. "Hey!" he called to his friend, diving headfirst into the throng and shoving his way through to the older man. "S'going on?"
"Meeting in Lecture Hall Five!" Beau yelled back over the noise. "It's a call to arms, Ron! All men needed – all the Senior Trainees!"
Ron's stomach dropped suddenly, and he stopped trying to reach his friend and let himself he swept along by the crowd. Ron was no coward, or he would never have survived the Academy this long, but a mission of the size that this entailed meant the Department of Magical Law enforcement was expecting heavy casualties.
Lecture Hall Five was build to accommodate three hundred people – the Academy had been a lot bigger in the old days – but with all the senior classes at the Academy as well as some of the current soldiers of the department, almost half that number again was fighting for standing space. It was a giant indoor amphitheatre, with twenty rows of seats surrounding a central dais.
Ron heard someone call his name and made his way over to where Jeanne had saved him a seat, causing those nearby to glare at her. "Where are the Aurors?" he panted, dropping into a seat beside her.
"No idea," she said her face grave.
Silence eventually settled as three men walked onto the dais. Ron jumped when he saw the third man, smoothing his long white beard to his shiny violet robe. It was Dumbledore.
"Listen up, lads and lassies," began Mr. Connolly, the Deputy Head of the Department, his voice magnified a hundred times by the Sonorus spell. "Ye all know why ye're here. Ye've a mission to fulfil. So here's the long an' the short of it. Any of ye ever heard of a place called Ynys Addoed?"
A few tentative hands were raised. Ron raised his own hand, drawing stares and whispers from all around him.
"Aye, well," Connolly continued. "Ah'm not surprised. Up till now, most would have preferred teh believe that such a place was a mere myth. Ynys Addoed is an island fortress where He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is supposed to hold prisoners, have meetings, house his most prized Death Eaters and so on. It's also meant to be his secret headquarters and his own private bolt-hole." He sniffed. "Or at least, it was during the last war."
"Is it like Azkaban, sir?" someone called out.
"Just like," said Connolly, apparently not vexed at the interruption. "Ynys Addoed was supposed to have been modelled on Azkaban."
"We have reason to believe," he raised his voice, so Ron had to fight the urge to cover his ears. "That the 'Island of Death', which is the very rough Welsh translation," he scowled, "is not such a myth as people such as the old Minister tried to encourage it to be."
"Your think there might be prisoners there now, sir?" called someone else. This time Ron saw who it was – Susie Rainer, whose older brother had gone missing a month ago. Looking around, he saw a number of faces light up with hope of missing family and friends. He clenched his fists with anger. Whether he'd meant to or not, Connolly ha d just given hope – false hope! – to all those people.
"It seems," shouted the second man on the dais, quietening the sudden wave of frantic whispering which had spread through the Hall. He was an ex-Auror like Roswell, Joseph Blueman, the Headmaster of the Academy. "It seems," he repeated, "that a recent escapee of the fortress has provided the Ministry with enough information to attack it." In the silence which followed, Ron realised Blueman was talking about the man Hermione had spoken to him about after Harry's Death-Day, the man who had come to Hogwarts. No wonder Dumbledore's here, he thought.
"It's also rumoured," Blueman continued his tone of voice making it clear how much he disapproved of basing the important element of a dangerous mission on a 'rumour', "that up to a hundred Death Eaters – including the Azkaban escapees of a few years ago – are currently living in the castle."
"Ye're task is to take the castle," Connolly continued. "It's that simple. Kill or capture any Death Eaters ye find, and find and release any prisoners."
He looked around with large black eyes under thick eyebrows. "Now I know three and a half to one is good odds, but, well…" he paused, as if struggling with how to tell the bad news of the morning.
"We won't have an Auror force," said Blueman, looking angry. "None of them can be spared, and neither can most of our Law Enforcement forces. Of those of you who are here, almost a third are trainees, young and inexperienced. Due to the probably non-existence of the place, only a small force could be requisitioned for this, and we're forced to add our Senior Trainees to the effort. Now – although you all knew this was a danger when you signed up," he sighed, "I've decided to give our third and fourth years a choice. Should you feel you are not sufficiently prepared for battle, stay behind."
Ron and Jeanne looked at each other. Neither of them were going to stay behind while their friends were killed in an attack against an invisible castle. No one else volunteered to remain, either.
"Very well," said Connolly, firmly. "Be ready to leave here by this afternoon. We attack at midnight."
oO0Oo
9. Two Weeks On - Learning How to Swim – Lonnie Gordon