XXV. A Seat at the Grown-ups' Table
5 August, 1978
The stable wards blared, dragging Harry out of a deep sleep. Before he even opened his eyes, he had shot a silent Incarcerous as he rolled into crouch behind the side of his hay-bed.
"Ah! Excellent reflexes, Harry!" Albus Dumbledore chirped from his position on the stable floor, tied up in a great knot of ropes.
The fuck?
He heard the faint sound of footsteps coming down the stairs from the kitchen. Without turning, Harry called out. "It's okay, Guin, I've got this!"
The petite woman strode in, wand ready. "You do? The wards–Oh! Profess– Professor Dumbledore?"
"Good morning, Mrs. Dearborn."
Guin looked between Harry and Dumbledore, her face carefully blank. "Well. Well, then, I suppose I'll, uh...leave you to it. Let me know if you need anything, Harry." The door closed, though Harry suspected she would be listening in behind it.
"Forgive my intrusion, Harry–"
"It's fine, sir." The younger wizard wiped the crusted sleep from his eyes. "It's just really early." He shook his head to wake himself up. "But I guess I did say stop by any time, didn't I?"
The Headmaster looked contrite. "Again, my apologies. I was hoping to speak with you when we'd not be overheard."
"No, it's fine. Lemme just grab a pot of tea from the kitchen."
"Ah, Harry?" Dumbledore coughed awkwardly . "While I could extricate myself, it would take far more flexibility than I'd prefer, at my age…"
Harry looked over and was torn between guilt and laughter. "Oh, sure, sorry." He cast a silent Finite and headed up the stairs past Guin, who didn't bother to pretend shame for her eavesdropping.
Five minutes later he returned with a tea service and some of Guin's pastries.
Dumbledore sat on Goat's bed and took a scone. "Congratulations on inheriting the Hog's Head. I hope that everything is running smoothly."
"I'd rather have Ab," Harry shrugged, "but yeah, things are okay. It's great having Doc and Guin here with me. When I set up the money stuff I'm going to sell them a third of the pub."
"Ah yes, the Dearborns are a wonderful couple." Both sipped quietly for a few minutes.
You wanted this conversation sir, you woke me up for it. You're going to be the one that talks first. Even to himself it sounded petulant.
Finally, the Headmaster sighed. "I was very surprised to discover that you have magic."
Harry nodded awkwardly.
Dumbledore frowned. "I assume my brother knew, given that he left you the pub….You do know that he and I took great pains to protect you during your trial last year. Why, why, Harry did you not simply alert the Wizengamot to the fact that you have magic?"
Fair question. And Dumbledore did help me. A lot.
"There are things I can't talk about, sir. Ab knew, but we couldn't tell. It was, well, really dangerous for me. More dangerous than the Wizengamot, at least until I reached my majority. So we lied. But I truly appreciate you helping me then. Granted, it wouldn't have been necessary if we didn't live in such a fucked, er, messed up society, but still."
The headmaster looked at him in shock, and Harry suspected he wanted to protest that surely letting others know couldn't have been worth his life.
He was impressed then, when Dumbledore said no such thing. Instead, the hurt was clear in his voice when he finally spoke. "I–I am surprised that Aberforth lied to me." He shook his head. "No need to respond, Harry. Ours was not a relationship based upon mutual honesty."
There was nothing to say to that.
The awkward moment stretched on. Dumbledore smiled tightly and changed the subject. "I suppose those at the Hog's Head were surprised to learn the truth."
Harry smiled. "Yeah, that's one way to put it."
In fact, his identity as a wizard had been the talk not only of the Head, but of all of Hogsmeade. It was easier to count who hadn't been pressing him with questions and demands for explanations.
Rather than follow Ab's advice and craft a believable lie, he had decided to adopt a strategy inspired by Dudley Dursley, of all people.
When they were young, his cousin had delighted in hiding things in his chubby hands and forcing Harry to guess what they were, in a voice that little Dudders deemed terribly mysterious. He would play along for a while, but Dudley would never, reveal what it was. Soon enough, Harry would lose interest, no matter how fascinated he had been initially.
Now, whenever someone would press Harry for details of his past, the young man would simply ask them what they thought his secret was.
It had led to a rather impressive variety of theories–that he was the son of a dark wizard, that he was the secret magical bastard of the Queen, that he had been injured in an epic battle and lost his memory, and so on. His favorite was the one that had him hiding from evil pirates.
Whatever the theory was, however outlandish it was, Harry would immediately confirm that it was correct.
His interlocutors would, as a rule, say something in response like "Really?." Harry would then fix them with his most disgusted Aberforth Dumbledore-style glare and snort.
Just like little Harry's desire to know about Dudley's treasures had waned, their interest in his past was quickly replaced with annoyance.
Sure, he'd irritated a good number of people, but Guin and Doc had gotten in on the act as well and were having a grand time with it.
It'll pass. It's not like the wizarding world has a long attention span anyway. Pretty soon no one will really care.
"Well," Albus said crisply, bring Harry back to the present, "your OWL scores were excellent, especially given that you didn't have a traditional education. One of the reasons I wished to speak with you, Harry, was to ask if you would be interested in coming to Hogwarts this year for your NEWTs."
"What?" Harry choked out in shock. "Uh, thanks sir, really, but I don't plan on taking them this year. Maybe eventually, I guess, but I already have a job, so... And to be honest, I think I've been on my own for long enough now that I wouldn't, uh, acclimate well to being treated like a child."
Dumbledore nodded as though he hadn't been expecting anything else. "Should you change your mind, we would be happy to have you." The Headmaster sat back and looked around the stable, sending a vague smile in the direction of the sleeping goats. "Harry, I also came because I have a request."
"Oh?"
"As you know, we are at war. What you do not know is that Aberforth regularly provided me with information he overheard. The Hog's Head does attract a rather…diverse clientele, some patrons less savoury than others. I have been hoping that I could engage you and perhaps the Dearborns in continuing in Aberforth's footsteps."
"So you want me to play spy in my own pub?" Harry asked, keeping his voice even, though he was a bit rankled that Dumbledore thought Ab had kept secrets from him.
Dumbledore had winced at the word 'spy.' "Well, Harry, yes, I suppose you could describe it that way."
Harry mulled this over very carefully before responding. "Okay, I can't speak for the Dearborns, but I'm happy to help. I'll let you know if I overhear something that I think you should know."
Dumbledore nodded. "Thank you, our enemy has spies in the strangest of places, however, so I would appreciate if you do not mention this to anyone else. I know you are close with Mr. Pepst, for example, but–"
He could feel his face harden. Maybe he'd lived with Ab too long (or was it just long enough?), but he wasn't keen on anyone telling him what to do regarding his friends and family, and the Headmaster's prettied-up command rankled him.
"I'll be discrete, of course," he cut in, "but I won't be keeping things from Pel. And honestly, I think I can tell who to trust for myself, thanks." He paused. "Sir."
"Harry, I must insist–these are desperately dangerous times and we must place our trust–"
You fucking Obliviated me, and you want to talk to me about trust? Goddammit, Headmaster, please don't be like this!
"Let me be clear, Albus," Harry said, surprised by his own coolness. the coolness of his own voice. "I'll be your ally, but only that. You aren't my captain, or my boss. If that isn't okay with you then we don't have to do this at all."
If he Obliviates me again, Guin will figure it out, and I'll know whenever I next touch my wand.
Dumbledore stared at him for several heartbeats, his expression closed. Finally he sighed and sat back. He stretched out his hand, a genial smile growing on his lips. "Then let us be allies, Harry."
After they had shaken hands, with Dumbledore promising a letter outlining the best ways to send him information, the Headmaster departed out the stable door.
"You can come on in, Guin."
She entered and threw an arm around his shoulders. "Well done, Harry." Her laugh turned incredulous. "And I cannot believe you had the stones to call Dumbledore by his first name!"
xoxoxox
9 August, 1978
"This…this place is amazing," Harry breathed.
His eyes didn't know where to look as he stared at a shop filled with a museum's worth of curiosities. Hundreds of whirring, ticking, and singing contraptions in wood, porcelain, silver, gold, and gems filled the shelves and walls of Prewetts' Prodigious Clocks.
It was overwhelming; everything was beautiful, or fascinating, or both.
"You two…you seriously made all of this?"
"Of course!" Fabian Prewett enthused, grabbing Harry's arm to continue giving the tour of the shop.
Fabian and Gideon had been in the Head for lunch or dinner nearly every day since Harry's return, and they (well, Fabian), had been clamouring for him to stop in. Surrounded by the brothers' creations, he was reminded, for the first time in a long time, of how wondrous and whimsical magic really could be.
It's like walking into the Great Hall for the first time.
"You've got to take a look at this one! It's one of our newer inventions–we based it on the Americans' meter that's charmed to show the current threat level of magical exposure. You know, how close the Muggles are to finding out about us. We figured, sure, we could make one like the MACUSA has, but how boring is it to do something that's already been done, yeah?"
Harry studied the stately freestanding clock. In place of numbers it had a silver band bearing elegant script. Irritated, Anxious, Content. His brows shot up. Aroused?
"What–"
"Rather than reading how close people are to knowing something, we used runes and charms so that it would instead read the prevailing emotions of a place. It doesn't tell time, it tells the mood! Isn't that great? This way a person can come home and see what kind of day their spouse had by just looking at their clock!"
It was very beautiful, though Harry suspected a magical mood clock would spark more than a few household arguments.
"Of course, there are some kinks to work out still…" Fabian mused. "It can get a little confused if one person is randy, another is sleepy, and a third is irritated, but we're working on adding more hands."
"That's still really cool...Whoa, what's that one?" Although he assumed it was a clock, it was unlike any timepiece he'd ever seen. It was a set of overlapping gold-rimmed circles trimmed with runes upon which dozens of hands were ticking along at different speeds.
"Ah, that's a beauty! It's a planetary clock. Keeps track of all the planets, moons, the sun, everything in our solar system! Great for astronomers and diviners, but dead impossible for a layperson to read. Still, we've a few interested parties already–"
A blue clockwork bird suddenly landed on Harry's shoulder. "Hello. It is currently 4:19," it piped before flying off through the store.
Harry quirked an eyebrow at Fabian.
"We're still working on Chronitus there, he's just a prototype. See, he's meant to live quietly in a house and answer if asked the time by the occupants, but turns out he's more independent than planned. He just randomly inform us of the time whenever he feels like it. 'Least he tells the right time, I guess."
Because everyone wants a little bird that hangs out and tells them the time.
Harry paused.
Actually, I wouldn't really mind having a little bird that told me the time, come to think of it.
"That's a lovely idea," he decided. "Really magical."
Fabian grinned again–does his face ever hurt from smiling so much?–and led Harry to a long counter filled with every sort of wrist and pocket watch imaginable. "These are mostly just regular timepieces, though we have a ton of add-on charms to make them special."
Harry's eyes were caught by Fabian's own watch. It was rather plain.
"Oh, you noticed mine, huh?" The redhead looked a little embarrassed. "It's actually not one of ours–I know, I know, bad for business. But my dad gave it to me on my seventeenth, and he died not long after. It's not much, but it's from him, y'know?"
Harry nodded silently. He wouldn't have exchanged it either.
"Time for a customer!" A silken voice proclaimed to the store at large as Harry turned to see an older couple walking in.
"Oh, I should get this. Gid's a shit salesman. Why don't you go back to the workroom with him for a bit, yeah Harry?"
His eyes widened as he headed off through the indicated curtain at the back of the store. Everywhere he looked there were clock faces, many of them twisted in strange ways that spoke of magical experimentation. It reminded him a bit of a painting he'd seen as a child, though what had been disturbing in that picture was somehow strangely beautiful here.
A cacophony of crammed drawers, buckets, and jugs. Bookshelves stuffed with a hodge-podge of volumes. Unfinished wooden tables were filled with carpentry tools. The sweet smell of wood shavings filled the air. And scattered about everywhere mechanisms ticked away at different intervals, making Harry feel like the room existed in a place that was completely beyond the regular rules of time.
A place beyond time.
A good room for a time- and dimensional traveller, I suppose. Harry smiled to himself.
Gideon was bent over something spindly, quietly muttering while pointing a thin, short wand that looked rather like knitting needle.
Harry felt loath to disturb the man, and instead took a seat to quietly watch him work.
Minutes passed by, but the constant susurration of the clocks made time seem strangely fluid. Gideon muttered long string after long string of the tiniest of spells. The man's hands–rather skilful hands, he noticed idly–were in a constant stream of motion, but the motions were so small, so deft, that a casual observer might not even notice.
If he concentrated just right, he could feel the faintest whisper of Gideon's magic, but never more than that.
"Do you plan on staring at me much longer?"
Harry nearly toppled off his stool. The casting had stopped at some point and Gideon had turned to peer at him.
"Oh! Um, yeah, sorry about that, Gideon. I just…well, I've never seen magic like that before."
He eyed Harry for a moment before shrugging. "It's okay. I just get nervous when someone's watching me work." The sound of murmuring clocks stretch between them. "I have to kick Fab out all the time."
Harry took the comment as an opening for more conversation. "So you do most of the actual making of the clocks then?"
Gideon nodded. "Yeah, Fab's the ideas man–he's a real inventor. Comes up with all sorts of crazy possibilities. He's great at Charms and Transfiguration, so it's often him that plans things. I'm the one who makes them."
"Well…what were those spells you were casting? And is that your wand?" Harry asked.
"Uh, yeah, I've got a set of these. They've have cores and everything, but are designed to specialise in detailed spellwork. As for the spells," Gideon hesitated, "well, come and watch."
Harry approached and leaned over the worktable to examine a delicate wrist watch wrought in rose gold, its face unfinished. "I'm attaching the numbers to the clock-face, see ?"
Gideon murmured an incantation over a minuscule blob of metal, drawing the numeral in the air. The tiny V drifted into place and hardened as if it had always been there.
"Wow," Harry breathed, "that's really cool."
The redhead looked embarrassed, but the corner of his lip twitched. "Nah, they're not that difficult."
"Really? Could have fooled me."
"No, seriously, it's nothing special." Gideon moved suddenly to grab his arm, but then drew his hand back. "Let me show you. Actually, come outside so we don't hit anything in the shop."
He led Harry into the back garden and over to a small shed at the edge of the property. "Okay, doing it with a material is more difficult, so let's just do the engraving spell–that's the most basic. The incantation is Epigrapheo, and write in the air with your wand what you want to appear on the shed wall, then finish with an even jab. Watch."
He said incantation, and then Gideon Prewett was suddenly carved into the shed's wall.
Harry's eyes widened. "You did the engraving on my watch!"
Gideon gave him look clearly stating of course. "Now you try."
"Okay…Epigrapheo."
He was tracing the second of the two Ts in his surname when he remembered it wasn't Potter anymore. Fuck!
Instead of the even jab at the end he made a panicking slashing motion, resulting in an ugly gash in the shed's stone wall.
"Well, that's a little more violent than necessary," Gideon remarked blandly, as Harry gave a nervous laugh. "Try again."
When was the last time I messed up my own name? Harry grumbled as he did so. This is so embarrassing.
He finished his second attempt and chanced a look.
Ugh, and so is that.
Well, it's my name.
It's just nearly a foot high and looks like a four-year-old wrote it.
Gideon smiled though. "Not bad. You'd have to practice to make it look nicer, but not bad."
He turned his head and grinned back at the man. Harry's stomach fluttered oddly.
"Oi, Gid!" His brother's voice from the window had Gideon jumping back a few inches. "You going to help me close up or not?"
"Yeah, Fabe, on my way!"
Harry walked the short way back to the Head, doing his best to ignore the little hop in his step as he wondered if Gideon and Fabian would come to the pub for dinner again that night.
xoxoxox
14 August, 1978
The ancient woman hobbled steadily into the bar. Harry, who was quietly enjoying his morning cuppa and a few kippers, stared at her blankly.
We're closed was on the tip of his tongue–really, it wasn't gone nine in the morning yet–but the woman's set expression and formidable stride conspired to give the impression of a person who didn't care much about regular operating hours.
Instead, he slipped behind the bar.
She maneuvered herself onto another bar chair and looked at him expectantly.
"What'll it be, ma'am?" he asked, trying to keep the amusement out of his voice.
"Tea with honey and a nice splash of Firewhiskey, young man. And some conversation, if you please."
A few minutes later she delicately sipped and grimaced into the steam. "That hardly constitutes a 'nice splash.'"
He topped her off with silently, though the corner of his mouth curled into a smile.
"Much better. Now I don't suppose you know who I am, do you?" She glanced at him before he could answer. "No, I can tell you don't. I am Griselda Marchbanks, the current Head of the Wizarding Examinations Board of Great Britain, and a member of the Wizengamot."
The name was vaguely familiar to Harry. Wait– "You're one of the few who voted in my favor at my trial, aren't you? I think Ab mentioned your name."
"Indeed, Mr. Aberforth," her voice and smile alike were tight, "ridiculous farce that it was. A comedy of errors made all the more ludicrous by recent developments, or so I've heard." She drank deeply. "Imagine my shock at the novelty of it. A wizard pretending to be a squib, keeping his secret despite the threat to his life! It's very modern and avant-garde, I suppose."
"I take it that reports of my status have gotten around the Ministry then?"
Marchbanks made an indelicate noise. "Don't flatter yourself, young man. You're hardly newsworthy these days. I'm simply notified of all exam scores for British students, and your OWL results–really, Belgium of all places?–caught my eye when they came across my desk. After that, it wasn't difficult to figure out your identity. Lovely choice for a surname."
Harry was mostly certain she wasn't being sarcastic.
"So, are you here because I'm in trouble for lying? I know the law, ma'am, it's not illegal to–"
"Merlin's sake, calm yourself. I don't care what you did or why you did it. A woman my age can only care about three things at any given time. Right now, I'm concerned with this war, the students of Great Britain, and enjoying a bowel movement that has proven, alas, quite intransigent. You, young man, simply don't make the cut."
Well then.
"Um…good luck with all that, ma'am?"
Marchbanks clucked in disapproval before settling back into her bar chair.
"You were impressive at your trial, you know," she remarked, tracing the rim of teacup with an idle finger. "Fierce. Bold. Too self-righteous for my taste, but such is youth. Your trouncing of my colleagues was rather the highlight of my year." She pursed her lips and scrutinized him. "Tell me, Mr. Aberforth, do you approach all things in your life that way?"
Harry furrowed his brow. What is she on about? "I, well–"
"Aberforth was quite taken with you, of course," she spoke over him. "He's always been the harder Dumbledore to impress. Reflects well on you, I suppose. I examined them both, you know, back when they were students. Albus was beyond brilliant, but Aberforth…he was always the one with clearer eyes, so to speak, the one who saw the world as it actually was."
With that Harry had had enough. He wasn't interested in listening to someone reminisce about Ab this early in the morning.
"Madame Marchbanks. I think it's time you stop talking around things and start actually talking about them, if you really want to have a conversation."
The ancient woman laughed. "Oh yes, you are Aberforth's aren't you? Ah, very well then. I doubt you are aware, but he and I corresponded before his passing. I did a bit of digging, you see, and discovered that he was likely involved in the disappearance of some of our Muggleborn students last year, students who randomly reappeared in the colonies and in France some time later. Do you know anything about this?"
I don't–should I?–it won't hurt Ab, but the others–
Harry opted to say nothing. The truth could implicate Myrtle, Caff, and the rest of Platform Nine, and he suspected that a woman like Marchbanks would have little trouble catching him in a lie.
She stared him down for several moments, and Harry fought not to squirm. Marchbanks finally sat back with a satisfied smile.
"Good. You can keep your mouth shut. Very good."
Harry shrugged. "I'm a bartender, ma'am."
The woman hummed. "Suffice it to say I've been informed, in very general terms, of Platform Nine and their efforts to ensure the safety of vulnerable students and their families. And I very much appreciate that result." Marchbanks sighed. "But I fear that worse is yet to come. It was about this that Aberforth and I corresponded."
She...she wants help.
"My department at the Ministry is hardly secure. There have been at least two attempts to access–not sabotage, mind you, just access–the book that keeps information on current and former students. As it stores addresses, it is hardly difficult to divine why they would want the book. It stores addresses. It's also connected to the Trace used to track underage magic."
Bloody fucking hell. The Death Eaters could do a ton of damage with that.
"I can see by the look on your face that you realize the implications. Indeed, the DMLE is monitoring the situation and searching for the would-be thieves, but I have little confidence in their success. For all I know, the enemy has managed to copy it without our notice after all." She sniffed in disdain and motioned for Harry to get her another drink. "No, skip the tea young man. Two fingers of whiskey and honey only, please."
The woman drank deeply from her tumbler.
"The Muggleborn and their families are the lowest priority for the DMLE. When Muggleborn are the victims of attacks, I doubt they'll respond as quickly as we would like. Indeed, in many cases their families don't even have the ability to contact Aurors. We only learn about attacks when their inexplicable deaths are reported in the Muggle news. Already we've had a number of such confrontations this summer."
Harry's eyes widened.
"Yes, it hasn't been publicly reported, and current students were thankfully uninvolved. Thus far only adult Muggleborn have been attacked, most of them living in the Muggle world. I suspect that these raids have been initiations of some kind. The important point is that they are localized attacks that seem to occur randomly, unlike the previous attempts to target students as they returned from school."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Aberforth hinted that Platform Nine had a way for Muggleborn and their families to call for help should they suffer an attack. I want you to spread this method to as many students and their families as you can. Graduates as well, if possible. And I want you and your allies to answer when they call."
The dog tags. She means the dog tags that I helped Myrtle make.
"Why not someone—"
"Someone else? The DMLE is compromised and overtaxed. They will not come in time. While there may be…other covert organizations, their priorities are also different. This would be the province of your group."
She fixed him with a hard look.
"Make no mistake, Mr. Aberforth, promulgating this method of contact and engaging in hostilities with other wizards in the Muggle world occupy legal gray areas at best. If you expose our world, you may well be charged with breaking the Statue of Secrecy, and if anyone is killed you would likely face trials, perhaps even convictions, for murder as vigilantes."
Marchbanks' expression darkened. "And should any of you be caught, I will deny having anything to do with any operation."
"So you want us to stick our necks out–" Harry began indignantly.
"But I won't stick out my own. Correct." The woman's eyes were apologetic, but her voice was as hard as steel. "The balance in the Wizengamot is shifting more and more towards our enemy. There are few courageous enough to stand up in those halls and vigorously oppose them. I am proud to say I am one of those few. After all, I can't live all that much longer anyway, now can I?"
Harry didn't join in as she cackled out a dry laugh.
"We need every vote against that man, Mr. Aberforth, else he will run roughshod over Britain with the law as his shield and his sword alike. I cannot sacrifice my position to protect yours, no matter how much I may wish otherwise. If you agree to help in this, you and yours are on your own. I will get you the information, and nothing more."
She polished off the rest of her whiskey.
Harry wanted to bite at her for her cowardice, for valuing her position over theirs. We'll be the ones risking our lives, dammit!
But then he remembered the four lone wand lights raised in support of him at his trial. He'd been devastated by the number and focused entirely on his own fear, his own life. Looking back, he realized he'd never stopped to think about the guts it must have taken those four to stand among their peers and publicly vote their conscience rather than their politics.
We do need people like her in power. We need them desperately.
He turned and studied the old woman who was staring at him without a hint of apology.
She knows what she's asking of us.
Ab's voice intruded, I reckon war's about hard choices. She's made hers. What's yours, lad?
His eye caught on the figure surmounting her cane, a great cat rendered mid-pounce.
Fitting, that.
"I understand," Harry finally responded, holding out his hand. " I can't speak for the others yet–it's their choice. But I'm in."
Marchbanks' smile was no more than a slight twitch at the corners of her mouth as she retrieved a book from her handbag and unshrunk it. "Here is a copy of the book. Keep it secret and safe. And pour more whiskey, Mr. Aberforth, whiskey for us both."
xoxoxox
24 August, 1978
Harry looked over at Doc and Guin. Their wide eyes matched his own.
They felt it too. It's not my imagination.
Holy shite, already? It's not even been two weeks!
He shook off his surprise and jerked his hand away from his chest. It's my turn in the rotation. Shite. This is really happening. "Oi, Doc! I'm gonna check on the stock of Steaming Stout. You got up here?"
Doc nodded slowly while Guin tugged nervously at her apron.
From his seat at the bar Pel tipped him a wink. Well, at least there's a solicitor on hand if this all goes pear-shaped.
Harry headed to the stable rather than the cellar, and Apparated to Myrtle's warehouse for his first night with a team from the re-formed Platform Nine.
Myrtle, the Dearborns, and the others involved in the group's activities the previous year had agreed to organize again to protect the Muggleborn. Word had spread, and new faces became regular sights at the warehouse. Most were other Muggleborn, while some were simply eager to make a name for themselves as mercenaries.
All had sworn an oath to keep the other members' identities a secret and not to reveal their activities to anyone but their solicitors.
Harry swallowed hard and looked around. My first night as a vigilante.
Myrtle was holding court around the table. Harry recognised Will Armstrong, the dark-skinned wizard who had been in the original Platform Nine, nodding back in greeting. The other two were strangers.
"Well," Myrtle said calmly, "as expected, I did a wonderful job with these."
Modest, Myrtle, Harry thought. But they are awesome.
The enchantress' new and improved dog tags were the cornerstone of their plan to protect the Muggleborn. Unlike the earlier model, the ones given to families weren't restricted to only calling blood relations, while each member of Platform Nine had their own master tag that was connected to the massive map of Britain in Myrtle's warehouse. Whenever someone called for help, it would grow warm and the address of the distress signal would appear on the tag's silver face.
Nonetheless, convincing the Muggleborn families to either leave Britain or to at least accept the dog tags was not an easy task. Some were uninterested, or even too scared of the Nines (as the group now called itself) to even speak with them. Most took a fair amount of time to convince of both the group's trustworthiness and the severity of the situation. With spokespeople like Myrtle, Harry couldn't blame them, though Guin was having unprecedented success.
Maybe it's because she takes home-made pastries with her. Maybe people believe scary wizarding messengers telling them that they're going to be targeted for extermination more easily when those warnings come with blueberry scones.
All told, they'd persuaded almost two dozen families to leave thus far, and about the same number to take the dog tags.
And we're not even halfway through the list of current students. Harry was astounded and rather sickened by the number of Muggleborns here compared to the number in his own world. My God, how many people really died in the war in my world, anyway? Where did they all go?
Come to think of it, did I ever even meet an adult Muggleborn back in my world?
Jesus…
He'd had to constantly shake off those thoughts as a bad job and focus on the task of getting the helpless either out of Britain or wired into the tag network.
But tonight was their first time receiving a distress call.
"All right, dears, you know the drill." Myrtle pulled him out of his thoughts with a voice that was a strange hybrid of breathy girl and seasoned drill instructor. "Glamours on, Apparate to one hundred meters outside the property, and we'll quietly see what needs doing before moving in. Anyone gets hurt bad enough, they come back here. I've got Pierce on standby"–Myrtle nodded towards the man in the corner who had some healing training–"for that. If we capture anyone, we bring them back here for interrogation."
She didn't have say what would happen to those captured afterwards. Out of fear it might be an undercover Auror, Gigi the once-licensed Obliviator had been recruited from Caffrey's crew. Anyone who could prove they were an Auror would get to leave, minus several hours' worth of memories.
Without Veritaserum if was futile to try interrogating real Death Eaters. The group had been sharply divided over their plan for the captured. Many, led by Myrtle, had advocated for simply executing them, while others, especially Doc, resisted the idea entirely.
"It just doesn't sit right with me to play judge, jury, and executioner," Doc had said.
The vote had been close, but Doc's faction narrowly prevailed. After having any memory of the Nines Obliviated, the prisoners, stupefied and bound, were to be portkeyed directly to the Ministry with an anonymous note explaining the circumstances of their capture. Myrtle didn't seem to think that it would accomplish much of anything, but the hesitancy of the group wore down her opposition.
Harry…Harry didn't know what he thought.
Half the time he could only think of Sirius, his Sirius, and worry that somehow they'd harm an innocent who just seemed guilty. The other half the time, Pettigrew's face in the graveyard mocked him, reminding Harry of the dangers of letting a known enemy go.
In the end, he had abstained from voting and silently went along with the majority's decision.
As he began applying his glamour for the Nines' first foray against Death Eaters, a thought struck him cold.
People are probably going to die tonight.
His stomach contracted.
I've been in lots of fights before. I've had to kill people. What the hell is wrong with me?
. . .
Yeah, I've had to do this before…but I've never gone purposefully into a fight like this.
. . .
This is the first time I've gone hunting for war.
Harry looked around at his now-glamoured teammates. Some he knew, others were strangers. All looked grim and determined.
It's a job that needs doing.
"You about ready, Harry?" Myrtle asked, now looking fifteen years younger and very blonde.
And it's a job I can do.
"Yeah. I'm good to go."
She nodded once and surveyed the group.
"Go."
xoxoxox
All told, no one would ever sing songs of the battle at the house of a second-year Ravenclaw called Margaret Kincaid, Harry mused as he watched the family pack up their car.
It hadn't really been a battle at all. Within minutes of their arrival at the secluded cottage, it was clear that the Death Eaters torturing Miss Kincaid's father were hardly seasoned veterans. Four were young men, there was a paunchy older one, and only the final two, who were giving the orders, seemed like they could present a challenge.
Marchbanks was right. This is an initiation for the younger ones and the older bloke.
And honestly, Harry concluded as he thought through the fight, they were kind of a joke.
So confident in their invincibility, the Death Eaters hadn't bothered to set charms that would monitor the property, and all were facing towards the bound Muggleborn girl and her family.
The Nines hadn't needed to do much to defeat them.
"As one we Stupefy five of them. Armstrong and I will get the leaders, the rest of you go after three of the younger guys. Whoever's done first will get the rest," Myrtle had ordered.
In the blink of an eye five bodies slumped to the ground. Both Myrtle and Will Armstrong nailed the older recruit, but the final man surprised them all by blocking the three stunners sent at him. Harry had spied him reaching into his pocket–Portkey! his mind screamed–while simultaneously moving to grab Miss Kincaid.
Oh no you fucking don't!
He had been planning on casting a Fire Whip to keep the man's hands off the terrified twelve-year-old. His instincts apparently had other ideas, as he cast Tweeny Twig's vegetable-peeling curse instead.
It was shockingly effective. The world seemed to pause for a moment as the top several layers of flesh on the man's arm were audibly ripped away. Screaming, he made a valiant effort to grab his portkey but was hit by a stunner even as he disappeared.
"Fuck, Harry," Myrtle had murmured. "Another spell may have been smarter, but flaying a man's arm might make some of his mates think twice about becoming Death Eaters."
The clean-up had taken less than ten minutes. Myrtle and the other two Apparated the unconscious prisoners back to the warehouse while Harry and Will took charge of the Kincaid family. Only the father had been subjected to torture, and the Death Eaters hadn't had time to do permanent damage. Harry had healed the man's lacerations in a heartbeat.
The Kincaids, who had been reluctant to even accept the dog tag, were now quite convinced that leaving Britain was in their best interest. Five minutes later the family had loaded up their car to head for the Birmingham airport. From there they were on to, well, wherever.
Mrs. Kincaid hadn't been able to look at Harry after she spied the Death Eater's peeled skin still lying in her front garden.
I can't really blame her. With a flick of his wand he burnt the flesh to ashes.
As they watched the car pull away from the house, Will sighed. "We're going to be getting more of these calls, aren't we."
It wasn't a question.
"This war, everything, it's all such rubbish."
Harry nodded. "But that girl and her family would have died if we hadn't helped. Gotta be worth something."
The two men stood silently until the headlights of the family's car faded into the horizon.
"Well, I'm for home then, Harry. My girl's a Muggle and probably thinking I'm stepping out on her. Let's get out of here in case the Aurors actually show up."
Harry nodded again, and the two Disapparated.
The Aurors never arrived to find a deserted cottage and small pile of ashes in the front garden.
xoxoxox
17 September, 1978
A few weeks later, Harry was burying bones underneath a tree.
Eleven of them this time.
. . .
They sent more. And there were some more experienced people with the recruits.
They know they're being hunted, and they're starting to take it seriously.
Since that first distress signal, the Nines had responded to eight more calls from Muggleborn families. They had hoped that the activity would die down once the children who were remaining in Britain returned to Hogwarts, but instead the Death Eaters actually started targeting more families. Myrtle guessed that news of murdered families would spread fear throughout the halls of Hogwarts like nothing else could.
Harry suspected he was correct.
Thus far the Nines had been victorious, to varying degrees, in all but two of the emergency calls. They discovered they couldn't effectively combat attacks on apartment buildings without violating the Statute of Secrecy, though Myrtle assured them that she was working on the problem. It did little to assuage their guilt that they got to both families far, far too late, or that they were left to bury three of their own.
After their first few battles, if they could be called that, the Death Eaters had finally started fighting more intelligently. They set perimeter charms, stationed guards, and became less assured of their invulnerability when in the Muggle world.
And so they became much more dangerous.
Everyone in Platform Nine looked grimmer these days. Theirs were now fights that couldn't be ended with a Stupefy. In the last three raids they hadn't been able to capture more than one alive.
It had been Harry's bright idea to transfigure the corpses of slain enemies to bones.
Easy. Quick. Clean.
He tried very hard not to remember that he got the idea from Barty Crouch Junior's disposal of his own father.
He wasn't successful.
Harry himself had only been present for five of the battles, as he and the Dearborns continued to observe a rotation so as not to arouse their patrons' suspicion.
The fighting was one thing, but the aftermath…
Doc's idealistic plan to hand over their prisoners to the DMLE had failed entirely. On their fourth raid the Nines had captured two Death Eaters, only to realize that they were the same men that had been captured at the Kincaid house.
Myrtle had interrogated them–Harry didn't want to dwell on how she probably conducted those interrogations– and called another meeting.
"The Ministry released everyone we've sent to them. Most don't have Dark Marks, most didn't get a chance to actually kill anyone, and there aren't any complaining witnesses since their victims have all left the country. They can also tell they've been Obliviated, so they trust their word even less."
Everyone had known what she was going to say next.
"We give them to the Ministry, they'll just be back on the streets, trying to kill us and the Muggleborn a week later for lack of evidence."
Another vote was taken.
The captured would no longer be leaving the warehouse alive.
Doc had raised his hand, his face frozen and dull.
Harry hadn't felt much of anything as he did the same.
I hate this war.
Myrtle had pulled him aside after the vote, her expression set. "You aren't going to be involved in interrogations or what happens after."
"Why? I'm a part of this just as much–"
"You're a nice kid," she had interrupted in a flat voice. "You're permanently assigned to the cleanup crew."
"But it isn't fair to the others!"
Myrtle had just raised an eyebrow, her jagged silver glasses gleaming in the fluorescent lights of the warehouse. "Nope. Probably isn't. But you're a damn fine fighter, and a clever kid. You're more valuable to us out there than you are broken down to nothing by what's going to happen in here. I saw your face tonight, and I don't need that drama."
Before he could protest again, Myrtle had shaken her head and planted a firm kiss on his lips. "Shut up, Harry. It's decided."
He had sputtered at that kiss. "Uh, Myrtle, no offense but I can't tell if you're seriously flirting and I'm, well, I'm not interested–"
"Harry, you're adorable and quite as bent as a butcher's hook. Now, off you go. I have things to do."
His stomach had lurched for a reason entirely unconnected with executing illegally-captured war criminals.
Christ, is it obvious then? Does everyone know?
So in addition to fretting about his apparently evident queerness, Harry had been left feeling like a little kid who received special treatment. He was now permanently assigned to clean-up duty, which typically involved burying transfigured bodies and helping the survivors escape.
Tonight he stared at the newly-disturbed earth under an old ash tree, below which rested all that remained of eleven people who had chosen to put on masks and become murderers. Some had died quickly, others had suffered, but all had ended up here in a small hole in a Muggleborn's back garden.
And I'm a killer in a mask now too, he thought as he rubbed his glamoured face. I'm different from them, I know. But sometimes it doesn't feel like I'm different enough.
With a sigh he idly wondered if Lily, James, and the other members of the Order of the Phoenix were standing beneath the same moon as he was and thinking long thoughts as they buried dead enemies.
xoxoxox
Thanks to my amazing beta AverageFish, who saved all of you from reading a wretchedly bad scene filled with my very poor decisions. Seriously.