Disclaimer: Me no own. You no sue. Qui?
Notes: Alas, as a plot develops the story gets worse – somehow that's always been my problem. I wish there was a way for me to have good plots and a good story around it… maybe I should just kidnap a plot genius and hole them up in my basement, making them write plots and subplots on sticky notes until they die of exhaustion and I have a life-time supply of plotted sticky notes which I can use to make money money money. Urm, right.
People I'm Thanking:
Neverbird: Never change, seriously. I'm so glad you liked the bit about the weighing of the soul and all that – ah thank you Adolph Hitler for your never ending inspirations. The deegles will be making an appearance in this chapter actually, with any luck people will figure it out.
MooseonMars: Yes yes, I know it was short. This one's an extra 1000 words just for you (well, not really, it just worked out that way sorry…). Cheers!
Chapter 14: Giant Change
Weetabix dribbled down Dumbldedore's beard leaving oat colored particles from his lip to his lilac robe. Harry chuckled at the obscenely contradictory image that he'd been seeing for the last five years, the most respected man alive in all of wizardom, and he had breakfast spilling down his front.
Were Dumbledore's duties as Headmaster as taxing as Harry's duties as a student? Was school taking a back burner like it seemed to for Harry? Hermione was no longer forcing him to do his homework, though she had actually taken the time to glance at him this morning. She opened her mouth as if to say something, and then turned away, it was a start at least. She and Marjorie had been leaning on each other like a pair of drunkards stumbling from a bar, picking each other up when necessary and trying to avoid pissing on each other's shoes. Was Dumbledore simply choosing to ignore his work at Hogwarts in lieu of the war effort, or was he somehow managing both without seeming to turn a hair out of place? Harry couldn't handle school, it was a struggle to get out of bed every morning, a struggle to peel his eyes open, but what else was he supposed to do? School was his entire life, get up, get going, keep learning, motivate yourself to absorb enough information to fulfill your purpose. Then, and only then you can fall apart.
If he could ever work up the energy to fall apart, because sleep wasn't coming easy to anyone, and he was so tired that if this thing ever ended he could sleep for the remainder of his life. Or maybe it was all in his head and he had successfully isolated himself from the world once again, his paranoia having caught up to him. Maybe everyone else was really snoring in their beds, maybe Hermione wasn't talking to him because he simply wasn't a person to talk to. It would be nice if the entire Gryffindor dorm joined him in his sleepless nights, lying on his back staring at his respective square of ceiling, or watching Neville's eyes start to droop over his transfiguration homework, or listening to Dean snore in the next bed over, over the gap that used to be filled by Ron's chainsaw hacking. Harry shoved his glasses up his nose with his middle finger and accidentally smudged them near the bar – damn. He was so bored with his own head.
There was a soft sort of fluttering overhead that you more felt than heard because everyone knows that owl's make no noise when they fly, and Harry reflexively bent over his breakfast, protecting it from the stray feathers that floated down with the mail. Nothing came to him, it didn't usually, as there was no one left to write him, but a copy of the Daily Prophet was dropped near Hermione's sausage, and Marjorie received her weekly horoscope scroll, over which she was pleased – her child would probably be a Taurus, it was fun to see how it might turn out. She'd said as much repeatedly, and though they still weren't speaking, or weren't speaking yet, Harry knew from Hermione that she was concerned – Marjorie was placing too much faith in ridiculous stereotyping laws laid down thousands of years ago. Harry didn't care.
What did Malfoy think he was doing? The question popped into his head and refused to leave, what was Malfoy trying to accomplish by doing this to him? As if he wasn't busy enough, well, he hadn't been doing anything so he supposed he really wasn't busy at all, so much as incredibly entropic. He could have easily gone to Snape with his little problem, which Harry supposed to him was a rather large problem but he couldn't care less, and Snape would have hopped to his feet making suggestions, calling in his debts, all to get one spoiled boy out of his predicament. But no, the stupid blighter had come to him begging the most ridiculous favor imaginable – save my life, but I'll fight you every inch of the way for it.
Harry managed to frown, roll his eyes and sigh all at the same time, and it was about all he'd done in a week. He got a near-daily lecture from Snape about not turning in his assignments, but it didn't matter because he'd be passed up to seventh year anyway. The Potions master was taking the opportunity to scowl furiously at the Ravenclaw table, they were ahead by 20 in his class, and Snape's house was Slytherin to the core. Over a seat was Professor Sprout and, to his great surprise, Lupin, though it shouldn't have been a surprise at all because somebody had to sit next to the sour old bastard. To his right was Dumbledore, whose hands were shaking, and Harry got no further in reviewing the breakfast seating chart. The headmaster had gone the color of Harry's oatmeal as his long nose peeked over the tip of a fluttering note, there was still Weetabix on his chin.
Seamus shot him a concerned look from across the table. Harry didn't see it, he was on the move already, running back to his room without bothering with the standard 'I forgot a book' excuse. No one cared what he was doing these days, and given the look on the headmaster's face, he would not be surprised if classes were canceled for an emergency meeting of the Order. Which Harry would be sneaking himself into in short order, at least until the old man called him on it, and listening in on any conversations pertaining to the obviously disturbing news Dumbledore had received.
Dumbledore's cat could have died, a tree limb could have fallen and crushed a relative's leg, but something about the pained expression and the sudden drop in color on Dumbledore's face made Harry wary of change in his own life. And this time he was going to find out what it was before he was called into that damned office to be summarily told about the people he was supposed to love.
The invisibility cloak smelled of the house in Surrey, it smelled like his trunk, and it smelled like it always used to; Dumbledore's office, a glass of water, a bit of sweat, and the inevitable panic that caused it. How often had he wondered at being seen? And for that matter, how often had people actually seen him? Most magic worked on the principal that 'if you believe it will work, it will work' and his invisibility cloak, as explained by Flitwick in fifth year charms, enabled people to wander where they were least likely to be seen. Invisibility cloaks, no matter how finely crafted were not infallible.
If you were specifically expected by a singular person of great power, he or she would be able to 'see you' or sense your presence no matter what cloaking devices were active. It was an entirely new avenue of business for espionage agents and spies who were sent to scout that very property, delivering the names of fellow spies to rich debutants that were wary of their alarm systems. The problem was expecting exactly the right person at exactly the right time, in a world full of names attached to a world full of such powerful devices, these methods rarely worked—perhaps the only saving grace of honor amongst thieves; if you weren't caught, you were never sold out.
It was a disturbing thought rather, all the places he'd been, and all the things he'd seen, knowing he shouldn't have – if anyone thought for an instant that he'd be there…. At the very least, most people were easily distracted and while Harry Potter was frequently the topic of discussion, he was rarely thought of to be trespassing onto those very conversations. There was an advantage to being the privileged 'golden boy Potter' if you didn't count the losses; at the rate they were piling up, he didn't bother estimating them in anymore.
Dumbledore seemed to float down the corridors, gathering to him the very arms of Hogwarts, sending painted neurons arching across synapses of space and time and into the living rooms of their counterparts. Within the hour he would have the most powerful forces both Ministry employed and quite the opposite, assembled in his office over tea. It was the best and safest form of communication in the world, because you couldn't trap and torture a painting like you could a person. Harry shook the thought off, and tried not to trip over a cobblestone.
Professor Snape came barreling down the hallway like the great bat Quirrel had labeled him nearly five years ago. Cloak flapping behind him like some vampire paradigm. Bloodsuckers United, this is the man we all admire, the very personification of our cause; regardless of whether he drinks blood, who knows what he gets up to in those dungeons of his, Thaddeus, could you please go on a scouting mission for the benefit of all? To better understand our god. Harry tried not to get caught in the back-draft of his cloak and carefully followed the man into Dumbledore's office, hobbling through in a half crouch just behind the tail of that whipping fabric.
Gadgets whirred and clicked on shelves that were stocked heavier than Honeydukes in late August. Snape was gesturing violently overhead, arms lifting and falling dramatically, though he hadn't actually managed to get a word past his wildly flapping lips. From his position crouched beneath the dead gaze of a suit of armor Harry watched Dumbledore sigh in the face of this unheard tirade. It must have been difficult to appear so omnipresent, or at the very least dramatic with soot in one's beard. There was a loud thud that shook the floor as the door banged open to admit Alastor Moody, who glowered across the room, eye rolling like a loose marble in its socket.
Harry jolted, if he were discovered here, the consequences… probably wouldn't be that serious. Surely he would get a furious lecture from Professor Snape, smug approval from Moody, and quite possibly a disappointed frown from Professor Dumbledore, which he'd gotten so many of lately they were no longer a valid form of punishment. Still, being caught out under a suit of armor would be awkward for the entire room, so he stayed as still as possible in his niche, and took some calming breaths, remarkably unnoticed by the esteemed personages in attendance.
"I have called to order, this meeting to discuss the news I received just this morning." Harry hated being right, more often than not, when he was it turned out all wrong for the entire world; he preferred being the village idiot, letting Hermione correct his every mistake. But he'd been wrong about so many things; his allowance must have run out. It couldn't have been, 'This opens the perfectly routine debriefing number seven hundred and thirty three of the Order of the Pheonix… Nothing to report, sadly, my poor cat Fifi has passed away." Harry had nothing against Fifi, imagined or not, but he preferred a cat-funeral to the inevitable bad-news they would be receiving today.
Minerva McGonagall emerged from a door Harry had never seen before, and went to stand behind the headmaster, peering through the room. Harry flinched before he realized that she was actually glaring at Mundungus Fletcher. "I'll be blunt ladies and gentlemen," She began once the muttering and coughing from every corner of the room had ceased, "I have some terrible news. It would appear…"
"It would appear that negotiations with the Giants have broken down," Dumbledore continued in her stead, thumbs locking themselves together over the table as he fought to maintain control of his voice. "While our operative was attempting to convince the Giant Council to support us in the coming war, the local politicos, who had formerly associated with Lord Voldemort, have usurped the throne."
There was an alarmed crescendo from the portraits on the walls that took the Order members a moment to echo, having had to translate that into Giant terms. Some thug had bludgeoned the current king and sided with the Death Eaters after the promise of unimaginable amounts of wealth, land, and power. They'd lost the Giants? The Giants, who were the only remaining non-Wizard organization of any size that could possibly help them in the war, were now an official adversary. A year ago it had been stupid to send Hagrid to the mountains, a long shot even then. Making him return, trying to win over the new giant leader – what had Dumbledore been thinking? Was this an attempt to verify his previous failure, or just a massive oversight on Dumbledore's part? It was hard to imagine the idiot that would send his most loyal follower to a certain death, but no part of Albus Dumbledore need be imagined – he was sitting three feet away.
Harry's brain ground to a halt, he was sure the entire room could hear the gravely squeal of his mental processes hitting the brakes. Not only had the Giants been apathetic to their cause, they sided with Voldemort. Hadn't Hagrid explained to them that if Voldemort won the war they would be slaughtered? Giants, centaurs, werewolves, merfolk, vampires, everything not-human would be used for manual labor, building an empire to honor the reigning conqueror until they dropped dead of exhaustion. Harry could see a picture from his primary school history text burning behind his eyes; "Arbeit Macht Frei" Work will set you free.
"Our last contact from Hagrid, was over three weeks ago. The chain of informants has reported that they have not received word from our operative since. He is presumed dead." Dumbledore delivered this final ultimatum with solemn candor, the final blow against an already punch-drunk audience. Mundungus Fletcher looked sober for once, McGonagall was crying into her hand, all around the room faces reacted violently to the news, Hagrid had been a friend to all and one of the best ever to have graced the doors of Hogwarts. A sentiment that would later be expressed at his memorial service.
Harry didn't wait to see what else would be said, he didn't want to listen to endless debates on 'what to do' when there was nothing to be done, he didn't want to suffer the mind-numbing mutual sorrow, and he certainly didn't want to hear Dumbledore make yet another speech at how it would all turn out right in the end. He'd most certainly had enough of that, or at least enough to know that he couldn't stomach it again. Presumed dead could mean a number of things, but in Hagrid's case, Hagrid who had never concealed anything in his god-given life, it was a sure bet. He was yet another name to add to his growing list of war-heroes and dead friends. The whole world was stupid.
Harry shot to his feet, stumbling over the edge of the rug and bursting through the door, just as Nymphadora Tonks shot to her feet and knocked her chair backwards, bellowing something along the lines of "That's not possible!" through a sheet of tears. No one noticed his absence, which made Harry wonder if he'd been there at all.
He was prepared to fight dragons, prepared to battle ogres and demons if the need so arose. He was not prepared for this. No one could be, not the best strategist, nor the most divine, Merlin himself couldn't have predicted this happening, because every once in a while life throws you a loop and you are expected to ride it out.
Before him stood Harry Potter in a towering rage, but he wasn't swinging a fist or his wand, wasn't spitting, or cursing, he was just standing there like Galleta himself, unspeaking. Draco would never admit it, in fact, he didn't think it was possible, but for a split second, he'd been sincerely afraid, and he couldn't say anything in his defense. "What did…" was as far as he got before Harry cut him off with, "You're late."
Potter sent him a note through a very discreet house elf with instructions to meet him here at precisely one am. He'd been here only once before and was never allowed inside, but he got the distinct impression that it did not typically look like this, nor was it usually this cold. No room so deep within a castle could possibly be so cold and windy, he felt like his skin was being stripped from his bones, or that he could fall over at any moment, the wind was quite literally strong enough to throw the words back in his face, he felt every sound wave smacking against his cheeks like tiny pieces of sand caught in the draft and seeking solace on his face. He felt Potter's words too, and shuddered. He hadn't been able to find his way here very easily, the room kept moving away from him, and every time he tracked it down, a distraction spell would cause him to forget the password. The room didn't like him, and neither, he felt, did its occupant. "Just a little payback." He said, and very seriously doubted that Potter could hear him.
Draco sat up in the silence of the Slytherin 6th year dorms. Crabbe was snoring like a hacksaw two beds down, his constant counterpart making no less noise between them. Draco's skin itched furiously, it was freezing below ground, and wind was howling in through the high vents, adding to the bedroom cacophony. Bloody Potter.
There was yet another announcement, another moment of silence, another stifled sob in the back of every classroom. Hermione was doubled over crying through lunch; Marjorie was rubbing her back consolingly, unable, because of her growing child, to embrace her best friend.
In the melodramatic aftermath of Dumbledore's public announcement, Harry could feel the fickle eyes of the student body fall away from him and slide across the polished floor to the Headmaster. It was a strange sensation, one of relief, and sorrow. Harry had resigned himself to a life of constant surveillance, he resented every moment of fame he'd ever suffered since arriving at Hogwarts, but the sudden redirection of attentions had been a clear indication of humanity's lack of faith in him.
The pressure was off, he was free to do anything he wanted, catch up on school work, dance a jig, crack a smile… grieve. His scar itched, he hadn't paid attention to it yesterday, but surely it had been irritated then too and he was only now taking the time to notice it. What did that mean? He didn't have Ron to complain to, Hermione was unavailable for comment, Hagrid couldn't make him a stoat sandwich while Harry took him for granted, it was all very strange, surreal even, that this should happen now. When he least needed it, or when he most did; Harry frowned contemplatively and pushed soggy roast beef around his plate, carving mindless squiggles in the lumpy gravy. The house elves too, were in mourning it appeared, because the potatoes were half mashed and still had thick garlic cloves in them: no one was eating.
A loud and rancorous protest had arisen from Slytherin, Harry recognized the nasal whine of more than one of his classmates across the hall, how tragic it would be for them to miss a single meal for someone else's pain. The thought brought a wry smile to Harry's face, beside him, Neville choked on a lump of starch, "My Grams' is worse." He said by way of explanation, and turned back to his plate.
"Young Mister Potter." Greeted him from just down the hall, most students were on the pitch enjoying a rare sunny moment, taking a reprieve from the convenient grief that plagued their lives when it suited them. Two weeks after Hagrid was pronounced dead, every student in Hogwarts had stopped wearing their house arm-bands, Harry shrugged them off into the bottom of a trunk like all the rest, assuming they'd be brought out and dusted off at some juncture.
"Alastor." Never before would he have thought of addressing Moody this way, he wasn't precisely sure why he was doing so now, possibly because Alastor Moody had become such a recognized figure in his life he was no longer in awe of his seeming omnipresence. Dumbledore had hired him on, part care-taker, part-guardian, part paranoid entertainment – let's remind ourselves that not all is as bad as it could be, Students, let me re-introduce you to Alastor Moody, he's going to be our dancing bear this term, isn't that exciting? Harry chuckled and didn't know why he did that either.
"Is there something on your mind Mister Potter?" Wasn't there always? Was it possible to be completely devoid of thought; was it possible to not have something on your mind? Yesterday's breakfast, your third grade primary teacher, tomorrow's socks, there was always something floating around in the murky grey-matter of a human being's mind.
Harry vaguely wondered if things would be better if it were possible, to completely clear your thoughts, to empty your head into a glass jar for a rough scrubbing while your body sat back and drooled. "Nothing at all."
"Why aren't you outside with the other students?" What he didn't say, but clearly meant to, was "it's difficult to keep to the herd when stray sheep insist on wandering," Dumbledore's sheep herders would just have to accommodate a few errant individuals, Harry among them. Besides, what safer place was there than Hogwarts?
He considered coming up with a cock-and-bull headache story, but thought it was too much effort to waste on such an obvious cause. He was doing nothing wrong by being in the halls on a Saturday afternoon, so he got straight to the point, "Is there something you needed?" Such an interesting expression, 'get to the point' 'cut to the chase' like someone fast-forwarding a videotape of life, cut to the chase scene, move on to the interesting bits and for god's sake, leave out what you had for an afternoon snack unless it was poisoned or otherwise important. CUT!
Moody was taken aback, or at least that's what Harry read the twisted grimace on his face to be. He imagined it was a bit like a watchdog being handed home-made peanut butter cookies by a criminal: confusion, a little indignation, and the slightest bit of gratitude. "Potter," he said gruffly, putting on the stern, probably-practiced professor's face, he must have picked it up from McGonagall, "if you're planning something, and I know you are, because you're always planning something, don't. Or at least before you do, tell Dumbledore will you?"
Well that was the bit of fatherly advice for the day, it had been Dumbledore yesterday, Flitwick the day before, Harry was so full of fatherly advice it was as though one of his many father figures had been reincarnated for the sole purpose of giving those necessary 'becoming a man' speeches that every normal boy goes through. Harry couldn't understand how they kept a straight face; he certainly couldn't, or wouldn't have if his face hadn't been straight for months before.
He considered telling Moody that it was never his plan. He had half an idea, Ron built it into something grand, Hermione refined it and got them through it, but it was never Harry with the plan. Never Harry that managed to get the secrets out of the staff, never Harry that did the research, never Harry that did anything but be Harry Potter and that seemed to work. He survived because he survived before, not because of a plan, not because of heroic effort, just because he was. He didn't have a plan, he had the opposite of a plan: entropy personified. He considered telling Moody all of this and more, but all that came out was, "Will do, Alastor."
And we're done! Review if you will… (You know you desperately want to) I'm thinking of a "review for new chapters" scheme you see, and so new chapters will be posted a good deal faster if I get lots and lots of your lovely reviews.
Later Days!