Legal: don't own the Boy-Who-Lived, The Chosen One, or even the Devil's Spawn, but I think I own The Golden Twit. I'll let you know if anyone else comes forward to claim that one.
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37. Without Harry
'If only I had figured out the secret of the Horcruxes sooner. I could have destroyed them while he was still a child. I could have been ready when Tom's spirit came to Hogwarts – we could have destroyed Tom then, and he would have been free to leave the Dursley's house. The Weasley's would have welcomed him, or perhaps even the Granger's would have fostered him. How different his adolescence could have been, if only this tired old man had been able to piece together the puzzle faster.'
The sound of a fist hitting his desk interrupted Albus' thoughts, and he tuned in to hear "—is why I must insist that you bring the boy up here right now!"
Without giving any indication that's he'd missed the largest part of the Minister's rant, Albus responded without missing a beat. "Now Rufus, be reasonable." He surreptitiously glanced at said boy, who was silently sleeping on the sofa. His eyes danced merrily at the irony that the boy Rufus was droning on about was just through that door; not that Rufus could see the open door, thanks to the notice-me-not charm he'd placed on it.
"I've been reasonable, Dumbledore, and it has gotten me nowhere," shouted the Minister. "I will talk to the boy ... today."
Dumbledore sighed as he leaned back in his chair. It was two in the morning; he was worn out from yesterday's activities and he needed to rest, but instead he was stuck here dealing with this. On one hand, he admitted to himself it might be easier to let the Minister just talk with him once and for all so the man would leave them alone. But he knew that his boy was in no shape for that kind of discussion today. What's more, he didn't want to see him being used anymore, and that is what the Minister intended to do. Oh, he may hide his purpose behind some patriotic speech or sentimental plea, but what Scrimgeour really wanted was to look like he had been involved in saving the school from an invasion of Death Eaters, rather than just a spectator. Boasting of private meetings with the Chosen One would certainly give that appearance.
His decision made, Albus began, "Rufus, you do not need to speak with Mister Potter, neither today nor any other day. Your current problems are the direct result of your own actions, and no publicity stunt – no matter how well played – is going to change that fact." Albus could see that the Minister was about to interrupt, and he gave him an over-the-glasses glare that seemed to freeze the man. "You overcompensated, Rufus. We went from Cornelius' unwillingness to do anything until it was almost too late, to your own over-zealous incarceration of anyone you could find to arrest. One wonders what Mister Potter's fate would be should he choose to turn down your most generous offer of becoming your spokesman."
Rufus straightened himself in his chair. "I do not think I like that insinuation, Dumbledore. I have no plans for the boy, other than to offer him my assistance. And as Minister, I have a duty to make certain he is being well cared for." He narrowed his eyes as he added, "I am beginning to wonder if there is a reason you have kept him from me." Practiced Politian that he was, he paused a moment, steepling his fingers for effect. "Perhaps Fudge had it right after all? Perhaps the child is disturbed … or even dangerous. Just look at his actions to date."
Albus' cold eyes were the only sign of his anger as he calmly asked, "And which actions are those, Rufus?"
Scrimgeour counted with his finger, "Running away from his family, leaving school grounds, breaking into the Ministry, a habitual use of magic in front of Muggles, using spells no school boy should know." He leaned forward, as if confiding a great secret. "You didn't see the body, Dumbledore. Nearly cut in two, it was. You still want to claim that Mister Potter needs coddled? Tell that to the dead man's widow."
Despite the seriousness of the moment, Albus couldn't stop himself from outright laughing as he replied, "So melodramatic, Rufus. One wonders if you thought of that line yourself, or if perhaps one of your marvelous speech writers came up with it for you?" Albus Dumbledore was no fool, he knew he was being played. The thought rather amused him. "Allow me to remind you, as you seem to have forgotten, that your grieving widow is herself one of Voldemort's most devout followers."
The smile left his face as he continued, "Bellatrix Lestrange is a cold-hearted woman, who tortures and kills for no other reason than that she enjoys to do so. She and her deceased husband are both escaped convicts; criminals your Aurors are authorized to use Unforgivables upon on sight. Your insinuation that he has done something wrong is, quite frankly, offensive." Albus' body seemed to grow as his anger built, and Scrimgeour involuntarily shrank into his chair as the man continued. "He defended his relatives from imminent death. Your own Auror has confirmed this to be the case, having personally witnessed the killing curse barely miss Vernon Dursley." Gone was the eccentric old man the public loved, and in his place was the Defeater of Grindelwald, who coolly stated as fact, "You will not pursue this issue any further, Rufus."
Realizing he had crossed into dangerous territory, the Minister back-peddled. "Of course, Dumbledore, there is nothing to pursue. It was … as you say … defense." The Minister turned his attention to leafing through the papers in his lap for a moment, choosing his next move carefully. "I bring it up merely to point out the concerns that the public have regarding the boy. I myself never believed the things Cornelius had to say about him. But the public? They have no idea what to believe anymore. I have simply sought audience with the child to help him, so that I can reassure the public that the Boy-Who-Lived is well." Rufus leaned forward, pointing his finger accusingly; for the old saying is true, the best defense is a good offense. "And you have blocked me at every turn. You have sealed the records so I cannot even determine the identity, let alone the suitability, of the child's new guardian. And given that it was you, was it not, that placed the boy with his Muggle Aunt in the first place, your word alone is not good enough."
Instead of responding, Albus had a slow sip of his tea, and then shifted in his chair as if to make himself more comfortable. It was a tactic he liked to use when he wanted to reassert his control on a conversation. "That is your opinion, Rufus. But I assure you, speaking with him will get you nowhere. He does not want his guardian's identity known, and I'm afraid that when he makes up his mind about something, he will not be swayed." Albus took another long sip of his tea. "However, if what you really want is to help the boy, and not just use his goodwill to bolster your own slumping public opinion, I may be able to help you out. He is your Chosen One, after all. But you must be honest in your intent."
Rufus, being well verses in the political games, forced himself to smile. "His best interest is all I've ever been concerned with."
"Ah, good. I had so hoped that was your intent. You see, his best interests can be served by protecting those that he holds dearest to his heart. Those whom Lord Voldemort would most likely attack in his attempt to get to the young man. I do hope you have plenty of parchment and free time. I will be outlining my detailed plan, starting with the protection of the parents of his muggle-born friend, a Miss Hermione Granger."
Hours, and several reams of parchment later, Rufus left Hogwarts and headed to The Three Broomsticks. After that meeting, in which he was pretty sure he had agreed to have the Ministry arrange to hide the Granger family, increase funding for security at the dragon preserves, and turn over a list of all laws sponsored by Delores Umbridge, he needed a stiff drink before heading back to the Ministry. His last thought before slamming down the firewhisky was that Albus Dumbledore was a master of the game.
-0000-
At a small desk buried in the very back of the office for the International Magical Trading Standards Body, Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt sat hunched over several rolls of parchment. In the wake of the invasion the entire Department of Magical Law Enforcement was in a state of disarray. No one could believe that He Who Must Not Be Named had had the audacity to attack a school full of children. And not just any school, but Hogwarts! People could not stop talking about it, not even long enough to do their jobs, which was why Kingsley had sought out this particular desk. Buried in a dark corner of a department that had stopped working half a day ago, he could finally work without interruption.
And what a crazy amount of work he had to do. First, he'd had to write up his report on the fight at Privet Drive. He'd played up how he had arrived just in time to see The Boy Who Lived save Dursley's sorry hide. His description of the kid's next move – using a curse Kingsley himself hadn't even recognized against the Death Eater scum – had been purposely vague. He was certain the boy hadn't meant to kill the man, and so he'd written the report to make it sound more like a spell gone awry than a dark curse.
It was the least he could do for his star pupil. After all, Kingsley himself had been one of his private tutors this year, and he'd come to like and respect the kid. Today - or rather yesterday, judging by the clock on the wall - the poor thing had killed a man. Unintentionally, to be sure, but the man was dead nonetheless. And really, it had been inevitable, given the amount of fights that one had been and would be involved in. Yes, the killing had been justified, but a guilty conscious tended to have a hard time understanding that; something he knew only too well.
Kingsley had shoved that scroll aside and began the next report – a summary of the invasion. How he'd gotten stuck with that write-up was a mystery. Hell, he hadn't even been there for most of the action. But he was a ranking Auror, so his boss had asked him to personally write the official report. "Official"; the word had left a bad taste in his mouth. So he'd downed a glass or two of firewhisky to flush out the taste, and gotten to work.
He'd re-read his finished report twice to see if he'd missed anything. He'd covered how Professors and students had banded together to defend the school, aided by a small group of adults who just happened to be visiting at the time and several Aurors that had been dining at the Three Broomsticks. An astute person would surely understand that 'small group' meant members of the Order of the Phoenix, and 'dining' meant strategically stationed. To the average person, it would just seem a fortuitous coincidence.
Reading his own words, he couldn't help but think that it sounded like a solid victory for the good guys. After all, all the invaders had been either captured or killed, including the instigator Draco Malfoy. The deceased Malfoy had earned himself three full paragraphs in the report, describing how he had changed sides at some point during the battle. He'd been executed by his own uncle for that. Gibbons, a Death Eater about whom very little was known, had been struck down by the Killing Curse by one of his own. And of course, the male Lestrange had left mid-invasion, only to die on the front lawn of Number 4, Privet Drive. The others – Macnair, Rowle, both Carrows, and best of all Bellatrix Lestrange and Fenrir Greyback – had all been captured.
Alecto Carrow had been wounded, and therefore transferred to St. Mungo's, where she was to be kept under round-the-clock guard. Macnair, the slimy bastard that had insulated himself quite comfortably as one of Fudge's yes-men, had been captured in Surrey and immediately taken to Azkaban. Also safely transported to the prison was Rowle, the one whose height seemed to match his IQ. He was the one who'd been caught by four students defending the library. Honestly, what was the man doing attacking the library? Had he hoped to find The Boy Who Exceeds Expectations working on homework? Whatever had been going through his mind, it ended up being a good thing, for he had gotten himself captured. Then he'd loudly whined that he was in unbearable pain, and so the school nurse had doused him with a strong sleeping potion to shut him up, which is why he was in Azkaban now.
It was a well written report, excusing the few personal comments that thanks to the firewhisky had found their way into it. It should have closed the case.
But it hadn't, and that was what had him wanting to curse something into oblivion. Instead, he got to work on his third report, the one that answered the unasked question 'what about the rest of the captives?'. The answer to that bloody question was enough to make his blood boil. For while Rowle had been peacefully sleeping, his compatriots had staged a jail break. Oh yes, they had managed to capture three of You-Know-Who's best followers – Bellatrix Lestrange, Fenrir Greyback, and Amycus Carrow – but they hadn't been able to keep them. The three had managed to disappear from their make-shift prison – the very same tower room Sirius Black had once disappeared from. The irony hadn't been lost on the Auror.
How they had done it was anybody's guess. Albus had his money on bought-off guards, and while he was seldom mistaken in his guesses, Kingsley wasn't convinced. Bill Weasley had jokingly suggested a flock of Hippogriffs had flown them away, but anybody that hadn't known Sirius' story refused to take that suggestion seriously. Personally, Kingsley thought there were students involved. After all, they already knew that Nott Junior had purposely goaded Potter into earning a detention, seemingly for the sole purpose of setting him up for capture. Why couldn't he, or another of Malfoy's former cohorts, have been involved?
Of course, Kingsley was at least sober enough not to put his conjectures into the official report. Instead, he had to use phrases like 'leads of no significant value' and 'void of physical and magical evidence'. As he forced himself to write the words, he wondered how the kid was going to take the news. Snorting, he wondered why the Death Eaters would even want to return to their infamous leader, given their spectacular loss.
Tossing back another shot of whiskey, he decided to just finish the report as quickly as possible so he could head for bed. Or a shower. Or maybe a pub.
-0000-
Narcissa Malfoy watched silently and unseen from the doorway. She ignored the dark, unidentified lump near the Dark Lord's feet that was moaning softly and the shaky voice that was promising to do better. She was fixated on her sister, hardly believing what she was seeing; Bellatrix – strong, favored Bella – lying prostrate on the floor, her body twitching. Without warning, Bella was cursed again, and Narcissa decided she's seen enough. She retreated from her hiding place, careful to not make a sound and to stay in the shadows.
She hadn't wanted to believe when her husband had come to their bedroom and told her their son – her son – was dead. At least, that's what the returning Death Eaters had claimed. No doubt, they had been trying to deflect the Dark Lord's anger at their own failures by pointing out poor Draco's. So she'd sought out the audience room, hoping to hear that Lucius had been misinformed or had somehow misunderstood. Instead, she'd heard the story being repeated with her own ears. Her Draco was dead.
As she put as much distance as possible between herself and her Lord, she wondered how her family had fallen to shambles. They were the faith. They believed in the blood. Yet, they were the ones paying the price. When he'd left her to get pissed in the library, Lucius had been rambling about it being Potter's fault; that Potter would pay. But he'd said that before, and the boy was still free and alive, wasn't he? And that was more than she could say for her own precious son. Even an Unbreakable Vow had not been able to help her little prince.
Perhaps … just perhaps … Potter had the right of it, and they had made a terrible mistake by throwing their lot in with the Dark Lord. Her sister was being tortured; her brother-in-law was missing; her husband was a laughing stock; and her son – her baby – was … gone. Why, oh why, hadn't Snape been able to save her Draco? And why had she ever let Lucius lead her down this foolish path?
-0000-
Severus Snape was many things, but drunk was never one of them. That is why, although he was holding a glass of Ogden's Best Gold Label Top Notch Volcanic Firewhisky (guaranteed to set your toes on fire!), he was not really drinking it. Over the years, he had found that a few swallows would make him just mellow enough to examine thoughts that he normally kept buried.
But ever since that bloody fireball Albus called a bird had found him in the Chamber and returned him to his rooms, those thoughts revolved around Potter. The-Brat-Who-Lived. The Chosen Idiot. Dumbledore's Pet. The Devil's Spawn. Well, he had more names for the trouble-maker than he had black robes, and that was a rather large number.
For sixteen years, Severus had been perfectly happy to hate the child. Seventeen, really, as he had hated the brat from the moment he knew of his existence, far before his actual birth. Hating him was easy – all one had to do was think of the little monster's father, which was beyond easy given he was a near-perfect replica of his sire. Or think of his mutt of a godfather. Or his pet werewolf. Or his propensity to find and/or cause the maximum amount of trouble, all while getting nothing more than at most a slap on the wrist, but most likely a pat on his head, from his greatest cheerleader, the grand Dumbledore himself. Really, how such a brilliant man could be taken in by such a conniving miscreant!
The problem was, Severus had come to realize that it might be in his own best interest to let go of the hatred. Oh, but he didn't want to. It cannot be said enough that he loved hating the boy.
Nonetheless, he could no longer ignore the metaphorical writing on the wall. For the seventh time this evening, he ran down his mental list:
1. The Dark Lord had stood again a mere babe, and had been reduced to a literal whisper of a man for thirteen years.
2. Quirrell had stood again an eleven-year-old child, and had his face burned off for the hassle, the rest of him dying from the effect.
3. Lockhart had stood against the boy on his foolish quest to slay Slytherin's beast, and he had lost his mind for his trouble.
4. Crouch the Junior had stood against the teen, and was ultimately left a mindless, soulless waste of skin and bone.
5. Umbridge has stood against the brat, and she was fed to the centaurs before being publicly denounced, and eventually labeled a criminal for her treatment of said boy.
6. The Minister for Magic himself, Fudge, had stood against the boy, and though at first it looked like he was going to succeed, eventually even he fell, being sacrificed to the alter of the Chosen One when he was found to have 'been too mean' to the brat.
And what did he learn from this list? That eventually, everyone paid a price for going against the boy. Even Rita Skeeter paid; her stories were rarely front page anymore. No, if he was honest with himself, which he always was, things did not bode well for him. After all, he had probably personally caused the boy more grief than all the others combined. Well, maybe not the Dark Lord, but he was definitely a close second.
Severus was well aware of his own crimes against the Boy Wonder. He had humiliated him in front of his would-be admirers on his very first day of school. He had convinced the then-Minister that Potter and his cohorts were 'confused' about Black's innocence. That one had been particularly satisfying. Then there was the letter of complaint he had sent to the school's Board of Governors – ah, but he probably didn't know about that one. Well, he certainly knew about the unearned failed grades, the undeserved detentions, and the ignored attacks by others. Granted, not all of that was unjustified. Sometimes, the boy would ruin his school work all on his own, and he really was disrespectful and unruly at the best of times. But as often as not, things were done at Severus' whims, and surely the brat knew that.
But so what? Why would it matter that he hated the boy with a passion only equaled by Albus Dumbledore's love of Sherbet Lemons? Apparently, it mattered for the afore mentioned reasons. And because of a stupid prophecy. Severus didn't know the full contents of the prophesy, but the part he did know, combined with the actions of both his leaders, lead him to believe that the world was doomed, because That Brat was the one that was supposed to save them all.
Except he didn't really believe that anymore. Albus' short note, outlining the invasion and Four Eye's part in stopping it, seemed to fit the pattern he so wanted to ignore. But after further contemplation (not to mention a sip or two of his whiskey) and reviewing his list for the eighth time, he was lead to believe that, as unlikely as it seemed – and that was very, very unlikely – the Potter Spawn would ultimately triumph over the Dark Lord. And that would leave him in a bit of a spot, now wouldn't it?
Because therein lie his dilemma. The Boy Savior had no use for him; saw Severus as an enemy, someone who was working against him. And what happened to people who were against Potter? A quick review of said list, for the ninth time, answered that question nicely.
Downing the rest of his glass in one go, and kicking off his shoes as his toes started to smoke, he rose and strode to his fireplace. In one quick motion, the glass was thrown into the fireplace, where it shattered into thousands of pieces. Well, hundreds maybe. Damn, he'd had more to drink than he'd thought; he was being overdramatic in his own mind.
It all came down to this. If he wanted to live a peaceful existence after this war, he would have to play nice with The Golden Twit. Or move to America. Which really didn't sound that bad, except that whole coffee instead of tea thing. Although, he had it on good authority that they didn't wear robes much over there. Ugh. And so, like the man that had to cut off his own foot to escape the dragon, he made his choice. He would have to play nice. Except, he really hated that boy! Oh, and his annoying sidekicks too.
-0000-
Hermione found Ron sitting by himself in the library. A rather odd place for Ron to be as he would normally never dream of spending his free time there, which was exactly why that's where he was. The Gryffindor's (minus one) had already discussed the invasion amongst themselves before getting to sleep last night, but there was one more thing that she needed to address with one of her oldest friends, privately this time.
Using the Muffliato charm she'd learned from her other oldest friend, Hermione dropped into the chair across from Ron, waiting for him to look at her before starting.
"There's one thing I need to know," she began, in what Ron recognized as her no-nonsense voice. "How could you do that to them, Ron? He's supposed to be your best friend, and she's your sister."
That wasn't even close to what he'd been expecting, and his confusion was clear on his face as he asked, "Do what?"
"Oh, don't play stupid," Hermione huffed. "I know how Professor Flitwick found them in that classroom last month. I was there too when Dean told them about it. So tell me, what was the goal? To get them in so much trouble that your parents would forbid her to see him anymore?"
Ron shook his head, hoping his face wasn't as red as it felt. "There was no goal because I didn't do anything," he denied. For good measure, he added, "and if he hadn't been practically molesting my sister neither of them would have been in any trouble."
Hermione would have none of that. "Ron, just stop. Who else could have done it? Or what, you expect me to believe that Dean set them up? Because that is utterly ridiculous. I happen to know for a fact that Dean is quite upset that the room is now unusable. Will you please just tell me what is going on in that little mind of yours?"
Ron couldn't stop himself, he finally said what he'd been thinking since Christmas. "He shouldn't be wasting his time with her, alright? He needs to focus on getting ready to fight You-Know-Who. You heard that prophesy. You know as well as I do that he's got to be the one to do it. So what is he doing, huh? Is he spending his free time learning new spells? Or how about the DA … has he come to a single meeting, let alone teach again? No, he's off playing suck-face with my sister. People are getting killed out there, and he's letting her distract him. The guy I knew would have never let a girl get in the way. He would have been pounding on Dumbledore's door demanding extra lessons."
Hermione could hardly respond, she was so flabbergasted. "Wait, let me get this straight. You want to break up your best friend and your sister because she's distracting him?"
"Well, yeah," Ron replied more casually, thinking she understood him. Apparently, he had missed her tone. "I mean, before they got together, he was much more focused. Last year he helped form and run the DA, and remember Fourth Year, and all that reading and practicing the three of us did to get him through the tournament?"
Hermione suddenly reached across the table and cuffed Ron on the side of his head. "Ron, you idiot! Where do you think he's been going every Sunday morning? Wildlife walks with Hagrid?"
Ron shrugged, one hand reaching up to touch his stinging head. "He's here in the library working on Arithmancy, isn't he?"
Hermione shook her head, "No, Ronald. He's meeting Order members for extra training. And one of the reasons he plays Battleball is so he will be in shape physically. And he worked directly with Professor Dumbledore to not only thwart Malfoy's little invasion plan but also save Professor Snape's life. But you're right, Ron. Ginny does distract him. And given everything that he has to deal with, don't you think he deserves a bit of a distraction?"
Ron was turning red again, only this time from anger. "Why didn't he tell me he was doing all that? I'm supposed to be his best friend!"
"Oh, that's rich. He's not treating you right? And just how good of a friend have you been to him? Tell me Ron, when those nasty rumors were going around after Christmas, was he right? Were you behind them?"
Ron squirmed in his seat, looking down as he explained. "Not exactly. I just made one off-hand comment to Dean and Seamus about how they were acting on their date, and Seamus asked if I thought he was getting some, and I said no way was Ginny giving out, and then Dean said something about how he must be awful frustrated, and I said more like horny, then Dean added that either his hand was worn out or he was real desperate. But it was just the three of us, and I never meant for anyone else to hear it or repeat any of it."
As Hermione listened to the explanation, she could well imagine that Ron hadn't meant for the rumors to fly. But the idiot shouldn't have been talking about his best friend like that in the first place! She calmed herself; giving in to her frustration would just aggravate the problem. She decided to ignore the details, and get to the heart of the problem.
She reached her hand across the table, lightly touching Ron's arm. He flinched, expecting her to hit him again, but when she didn't he looked up, and she softly spoke. "Ron, you need to decide what you want. Are you still even with us? Because it doesn't seem like you are. You say Ginny distracts him, but where have you been this term? I know you tried to include Lavender in our group, but that's never going to work. She doesn't have what it takes to be best friends with the Chosen One. I mean, can you really imagine her taking on a troll or breaking into the Ministry? And truthfully, I don't think she's mature enough to handle the every day stuff … the rumors, the constantly shifting attitudes, the expectations. I think you already know that, and that's why you haven't been around much."
She watched his face to see that he understood what she was saying, or at least wasn't going to argue. With a sad sigh, she added, "We're falling apart Ron – the three of us. He would never tell you this. He wouldn't want to come between you and your girlfriend. But … it needs to be said, so I'll say it." She paused, and was glad to see that Ron was still paying attention, "He needs friends he knows he can rely on. He doesn't need someone who's only there half-way. I think he had enough of that during that awful tournament. Ever since Christmas, you just haven't been there, and he's pulling away from you because of it. You're going to have to decide between them. Is what you have with Lavender really worth what you're giving up?"
He shyly looked at her, and moved his arm so that his hand was touching hers. "And what about you?"
Hermione smiled sadly. "I'm his best friend. I always will be." She gave his hand a light squeeze before letting go and standing up. Before leaving, she added, "No matter what, I'll keep your secret. Ginny would never forgive you if she knew. I think he might, but he would never trust you the same again. Do yourself a favor, Ron. Go off somewhere and do some soul-searching." And with that, she left her beloved library, having never once opened a single book.
** end chapter **
Notes: OK, so Snape is going to 'play nice'. The problem is, I don't think his idea of nice is quite the same as everyone else's… And too bad for Ron that Hermione misunderstood his question right at the end.
So what does 'Without Harry' mean? Three things: First, it shows what's happening while Harry takes his eight-hour nap, so he isn't involved in any of the scenes. Second, it's a nasty (and somewhat childish) prank on the people who read all the chapter titles before they start reading a story. But last, and most importantly, if you didn't notice, the name 'Harry' doesn't appear anywhere in the body of the chapter. And that was not as easy to do as I thought it would be.