CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

NEWT SCAMANDER

A winged cat came during a lull in the competition, which turned out to be fortunate for everyone in Britain.

Harry and Ginny were in the library. She had her head on his lap, and was reading about sirens. Harry was stroking her hair, and reading about patronuses. Ron and Hermione were in a similar state of relaxation. Earlier that morning, they'd silently agreed to a truce. Harry, who had spent all of yesterday creating a cozy replica of the Gryffindor common room, and then making love to Ginny in it, had to confess to some relief. Once Hermione had begun to create extra bedrooms, the competition had really heated up, and Harry was genuinely worried he was going to end up hurting himself.

So for the first time in over a week, all four of them were in the same room, dressed, and once more working on the task that lay ahead of them.

"There's a cat at the window, Harry," Ginny said absently, flipping a page in her book.

Harry looked up. She was right. There was a large, flat-faced white cat glaring at him from outside the second-story window. It was carrying a scroll in its mouth. Its wings were open; it was obviously using them to keep balance. Harry opened the window for it, and it leapt inside with the grace of cats, and tucked its wings against its body.

"You're acting like you never saw a winged kneazle before," said Ron, grabbing the scroll.

Harry, who had, in fact, never seen or even heard of a winged kneazle, just nodded.

"Oh, isn't he gorgeous?" Hermione said, sinking down to the floor, and holding out her hand.

It rowled at her, and flounced over to Ginny, who lifted its tail and said: "I think it's a girl, actually…"

The kneazle purred. It was a loud purr, louder than Harry'd ever heard, even from Crookshanks. Now that he looked closer, he saw subtle differences (aside from the wings). Her ears were large, almost elfin in shape; her whiskers were long. Her eyes were sort of… opalescent, he supposed was the word. Multi-colored and shiny. It was clearly magical.

"Who did she come from?" Harry asked Ron.

"Oh… it's from Newt Scamander," said Ron. He held up the scroll – it was at least thirteen inches long, and written in what looked to be tiny writing. "He's talking about the siren… he says he can try to help break that part of the curse—"

"YES!" cried Ginny. She sat up in jubilation, but the kneazle took a flying leap, landed against her chest, and knocked her down again.

"What does it say, exactly?" Hermione asked.

Ron read it.

Dear Mr. Potter and company,

My wife and I would like to offer our condolences to you and your friends during this time. While I cannot say that I have experienced exactly the same thing, I can tell you that I personally witnessed the rise and fall of the dark wizard Grindelwald, and knew of the many tragic things that happened to those caught in his wake. We would also like to express our gratitude in general for the sacrifice you made to rid the world of Tom Riddle. We also want to thank you, personally, Ms. Weasley—

"Me?" Ginny said blankly. "Why me?"

"Ms. Weasley. Our granddaughter was one of the students who stayed to fight at Hogwarts. She got hurt quite badly, and it was you who gave her comfort, and led her back inside where she remained safe. Holly said you helped her when she felt broken. So thank you.

I would have helped all of you regardless, but now it is an honor and a privilege.

As I have discussed with Eleison Clowder and Tulip Karasu, it is a delicate matter to untangle someone from a siren's song. It can be done, this I promise. But in order to do so, I need the object that the curse was housed in. I can offer some insight: it will be something musical in nature… an instrument, perhaps. It WILL be at Hogwarts. I have some ideas as to how to get you there without provoking suspicion.

"And then he gives us his address, and a detailed – very detailed explanation of how he'd break the siren's curse," said Ron.

"Any mention of the banshee?" Hermione said hopefully.

"Not a word," said Ron.

Harry felt both uplifted and letdown at the same instant. Yes, he was grateful that Newt Scamander had ideas as to how to untangle the siren's song from the banshee's corruption, but his instincts told him that even if that happened, the Weasleys and everyone else would still be cursed. The siren had created a bridge of sorts between banshee and mortal – she had been allowed to corrupt them outside of her territory. But she was already there, inside of them, her deathly power even now working on their patronuses.

"I think we should go see him," said Ginny. The winged kneazle was now in her lap, kneading her robes, and purring with content. Harry could not blame it.

"I agree," he said.

The address Scamander had given them was located in Dorset. It was the West Country… not too far from Devon, and the Burrow. The landscapes were similar enough that Harry felt a pang. Perhaps he and Ginny had even flown over Dorset during one of their excursions on their brooms.

All thoughts of the Burrow flew out of Harry's mind once he saw their destination. Instinctively, he looked around, aghast. Newt Scamander and his wife lived on a farm that housed animals Harry had never seen before; even Ginny and Ron hadn't, by the looks on their faces.

"That's an erumpent," Hermione said, shocked, pointing out a giant, grey creature that looked a little like an engorged rhinoceros. Harry could see its horn. It was glowing, even in full sunlight.

"Well, I suppose the author of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them knows what he's doing," said Ron.

They had no sooner entered the gate when a tall, older gentleman in tan and blue robes hurried out of the barn to meet them. Winged kneazle kittens flocked at his feet, making it rather difficult for him to walk.

"Sorry – pardon me," the man said. "They missed their mum while she was gone, you see."

The kneazle in Ginny's arms squirmed until Ginny let her go. She glided over to her kittens, and immediately rolled over onto her back. The kittens stopped bothering Newt, and gamboled over to their mum for afternoon luncheon.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Newt asked. He held out his hand to Harry. "You must be Harry Potter."

"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Scamander," said Harry.

Just then, a lovely older woman stepped out of the main house.

"Ah, that's my Porpentina!"

Despite her age, she carried herself as a much younger woman. She hurried over to Ginny and clasped her hands. "You must be Ginny Weasley! Holly told us about you… how you helped her get back to the castle when she was so hurt… Thank you!"

"You're welcome, of course," Ginny said warmly. Then her face fell: "Holly was at the battle, but was she… is she…?"

"Cursed? No, thank goodness. She was hurt badly enough that Rolf – he came to help all of you, and Holly – he didn't stay for the end, he said. He just grabbed Holly and got her to St. Mungo's as fast as he could. But we still are just… that grateful to you, Miss Weasley."

Harry could not help himself. "It's not Ginny Weasley anymore, though. She married me. She's my wife, so she's Ginny Potter."

"Well, congratulations are in order!" said Porpentina. "I'm shocked it wasn't in the papers. When did you…?"

"Just before Christmas," Ron said proudly, wrapping his arm around Hermione. "Mum was tracking me and Ginny with a werewolf charm, so we had to combine our magical signatures and throw her off the scent."

Newt and Porpentina exchanged a quick, amused look. Harry's cheeks heated.

"I think magical creatures have it so much easier than young witches and wizards," Newt said magnanimously. "Take our kneazle friends, for example. They engage in coitus without benefit of marriage, don't they? We don't make the bee marry the flower before pollination. It's just silly—"

"Newt," Porpentina said gently, as Harry wished he'd brought his invisibility cloak.

"Yes?" Newt said distractedly.

"The children got married, we don't need to examine their reasons—"

"But it's perfectly natural—"

"Newt."

"We might have used my mum's tracking us as an excuse," Ginny allowed. She gripped Harry's hand and entwined her fingers with his. "But truthfully, we would have gotten married at some point, anyway. I can't imagine ever not loving Harry the way I do right now… we've been through too much together."

"Ah," said Newt, nodding. "The bond is solid. I know something of that, actually."

"It's that way for us, too," said Hermione.

"Plus, Hermione and I were already having sex," Ron put in. "We didn't need to be married to do it."

Hermione squawked.

Porpentina shook her head. Her eyes were dancing. "Why don't you come inside and have some tea? That way we can discuss what you came here to discuss."

They ended up staying for hours, and Harry drank enough tea that he felt like he was about to pop. Newt may have been old, and slightly odd in a way that reminded him of Luna, but he was as sharp as Hermione. He explained what they had to do to unbind the siren's song from the amortal: "Unfortunately, that bridge was already built," said Newt. "Unbinding the song won't remove the curse, but it will lessen it, hopefully."

Harry's brain hurt. He'd barely understood what Newt was saying about the siren, though Ginny'd been attentive, and had asked clever questions. All he knew for certain was that before they could proceed, they needed to find whatever it was that housed the curse.

"I don't suppose you have any advice at all about the banshee?" Harry asked quietly, once the discussion had wound down. He realized now that it had been there all along in the back of his mind, just waiting for him to be ready to deal with it.

"What can you tell me?" Newt asked. He was an intelligent man, Harry thought.

"I can show you what Ekizdris showed me," said Harry. Hermione immediately dug into her beaded bag, and pulled out the telly spelly. She enlarged it, and floated it in the center of the elegantly appointed sitting room.

Newt and Porpentina raised their eyebrows, but sat down. Harry took off his glasses, not needing to see it — he'd lived it in ways that still disturbed him. Unable to help himself, he pushed up the sleeve of his robes, and looked at the scar. It was still raised and pink. It was the kind of scar that would last forever, he thought.

Harry sighed, called himself a coward, and put his glasses back on. Maybe he would see something new...

"He learned to turn Death to his own purposes," Porpentina murmured.

"That kind of death, yes," agreed Harry. "She's the... kind of death people get when they wander and get lost and can't find the way back out. That's her territory." Harry hadn't articulated that before, but the words felt right.

"I thought her territory was the bog?" said Ron.

"It's both," said Harry. "It's the same thing to her."

"The truth is, Harry, banshees are... forces of nature," Newt said gently. "I've heard of banshees being given an — an exorcism of sorts, and there are even legends of them being sealed away... out of mortal reach. But I've never heard of anyone surviving." He sighed. "But I've never heard of anyone surviving the Killing Curse, either."

"Didn't Gilderoy Lockhart kill a banshee?" Ron said. Then laughed.

Harry had to admire his friend's inappropriate humor.

Hermione swatted his arm. "Ron."

"No, no," Newt said absently. "Humor is necessary. Humor works against banshees."

"Besides," said Ron. "If it turns out we can't do anything, I'll just — just — I dunno — go back in time, or something." He looked at Newt. "No way any of us are just going to let some bog demon turn our family into Dementors, and — and drag them off. We don't let shit like that happen."

"That's the spirit!" said Porpentina.

"Gilderoy Lockhart," said Hermione. Her eyes were wide and unfocused. "He wrote a book about banshees—"

"Yeah," said Ron. "Buggering the Banshee, or something."

Harry and Ginny laughed.

"Break with a Banshee," Hermione corrected severely.

"But he didn't have anything to do with—"

"He'd still need to know how it was done, he'd—"

"—didn't he say the wizard who'd really got rid of the banshee had a cleft palate?"

"No, I think the witch who did it had a hairy chin."

Harry remembered that they weren't home at Grimmauld Place, and smiled sheepishly at Newt and Porpentina, who were looking back and forth between them as though observing a Quidditch match. "Sorry," he said.

"No need to apologize," said Porpentina. She gave him a melancholy smile, and Harry was horrified to see her eyes were glittering. "It's just..." she waved her hand, indicating all of them. "The four of you, you remind me of — don't they remind you of us when we were young?"

"I see a lot of Jacob in Ron," said Newt.

Tears spilled over Porpentina's cheeks, and she got up from her chair in a rush. "Her sister and our good friend... we are not free to discuss it. Literally. But you touched her," Newt explained quietly. "We'll all sit down and have a good chat about it in — oh — twenty years or so, once the spell binding us wears off." He stood to shake Harry's hand. "It looks like you've an idea where to go next."

"Oh but — you said you had an idea — we need to find the—"

Newt cocked his head, and gave Harry a penetrating look. "Come back once you've more answers. We can work out how we get rid of the siren part of the curse." He looked Harry up and down. "You've good instincts," he said. "Trust them."

Harry turned to leave.

"You may need all of them," Porpentina said from the doorway.

"Pardon?"

"Exactly what my wife said," said Newt. And then they both gave him identical blank looks. "You may need all three of them to defeat the banshee."

It was an odd way for Newt to tell him that Harry would need Ginny, Ron, and Hermione. Of course he needed them. He didn't want to imagine what this year would have been like without them. After one last goodbye, Harry shrugged it off and left. The list of things they needed to do had just doubled. He caught up with the others, already pushing that last, odd exchange to the back of his mind.

"So we're going to St. Mungo's?"

"And then to Hogwarts," said Hermione. "We need to find that object."

It was early evening by the time they made it to St. Mungo's. Harry'd been all for just going straight away, but the witches insisted that they needed to work out how they were going to extract information from Gilderoy Lockhart. Apparently, they needed props.

"Why can't we just go in there, I ask you," chuntered Ron as they headed in to St. Mungo's.

"Because he's in a delicate mental state – because of your wand, may I remind you," Hermione said impatiently. "Stop asking. This is going to work."

Harry, who privately agreed with Ron, bit his tongue.

Luck was on their side that evening. It was Rowan Khanna who sat behind the desk at the entrance to the Closed Ward. It was she who bent the rules, and allowed them onto the quiet ward, where Gilderoy Lockhart sat in mismatched pajamas. His top half had chickens, his bottom half fish. His bed was the only one occupied on that side of the ward. The other half was likewise empty, though a curtain separated a couple beds from the rest of the ward. Harry knew who was there: Frank and Alice Longbottom. Harry looked away, and back at his old professor.

"I don't know what you'll be able to get from him," Rowan whispered. "His memory's been shattered." A piercing ring sounded from outside the ward. "Oh, damn. I can't help. We've got an incoming patient." She hurried away.

"Let me try," said Ginny.

She sat in front of Gilderoy Lockhart, and her whole affect changed, bit by bit. She rolled her shoulders, simpered, and leaned forward fawningly. "Are you Gilderoy?" she asked breathily.

"I am! I am the famous Gilderoy Lockhart!"

"Oh, I can't believe I'm meeting you!" she cried.

Gilderoy leaned back, and smiled a smarmy smile. It was hard to believe he was sitting in the middle of the Closed Ward wearing mismatched pajamas. He had the countenance of a man who was having a busy book-signing at Flourish and Blotts. Harry felt an unexpected pang of guilt.

"Here," Ginny made a grand gesture of reaching into her bag. Hermione slipped the transfigured copy of Break with a Banshee into her other hand. Ginny presented it to Lockhart with a flourish. "This is my absolute favorite of yours," she gushed.

"That was — yes, quite," Lockhart looked at the book, non-plussed.

"You were so brave!" Ginny said, clasping her hands together under her chin. Harry privately thought she was laying it on a little thick, but Lockhart was lapping up the attention.

"I was just doing my duty!" Lockhart said with a staggering amount of self-importance. "But yes, I have been told by many people that they have never known anyone so brave."

"You know, I've heard about your bravery from so many people," Ginny leaned even further forward. "The village of Sorchaleigh still just raves about you."

Lockhart beamed. "Ah yes. They had a wee banshee problem. Ah yes. Yes, yes, yes. I gave her the heave-ho, didn't I?" He lifted his hands in a jubilant gesture. "They still remember me, do they?"

"Very much," Ginny said solemnly. "They said to send their regards to you, and their eternal thanks. Especially — especially... what was her name? Older. Hairy chin...?"

Lockhart's face sagged. "Hairy chin?"

"She said you were her hero!" Ginny clapped her hands and beamed. "She is your greatest fan?"

"Aiofe Finnegan is my greatest fan?" Lockhart said with wonder and doubt. "Really?"

"Got it," said Ginny, dropping the act and leaning back. Her voice went back to normal, for which Harry was fervently grateful. "Ee-fa Finnegan."

"Finnegan," Hermione murmured. "I wonder if she's related to—"

"Hellooooo!" Lockhart snapped his fingers, looking quite confused. "What about me? Didn't you want my autograph? I'm quite good at my joined up letters now!"

Ginny took compassion on him, and opened the book to the title page. "Yes, thank you. Thank you, Gilderoy." In large, childish letters, he wrote his name.

"Come back any time," he said cheerfully. "I am always delighted to meet—"

But Lockhart never finished his sentence. The door to the Closed Ward opened with a bang. Rowan Khanna fell in, wand knocked out of her hand.

"IT ISN'T ME THAT'S MAD! IT'S NOT ME!"

Harry knew that voice.

He surged forward, just as Rowan made it to her feet and flicked her wrist. The shouting stopped, and Neville Longbottom came into the room as though pulled by an invisible cord. Harry stopped and watched with horror. Neville looked awful: gaunt and haggard, furious and hurting. He fought against his bonds, like an wild creature in a trap.

His grandmother bustled in, tears streaming down her formidable face. "Thank you," she told Rowan. "He is quite — it has become too much for me to manage."

She saw Harry and the others, and her face crumpled horribly. "This — this curse. It's driven him — he's mad."

The two witches led Neville down to the end of the Closed Ward, and placed him on the empty bed next to his parents.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Not too happy with this chapter. It's difficult to write the middle of a story. Making the last three or four chapters better is going to be what I focus on once I get done with the whole thing.

As I was writing this, though, I had a truly crazy idea: that this could have been the lead up to Backward with Purpose. As a friend said, I had to perform some literary gymnastics to get BWP to where I wanted it to be with all the deaths (and trying to remain as canon as possible). Then I could have tied BWP's sequel in with the banshee or some other death omen.

Alas.

But so tempting.