Disclaimer: All characters, situations, etc. associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J. K. Rowling and the following companies: Scholastic Books, Bloomsbury Books, Raincoast Books, Warner Bros. Etc. No money is being made from this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation. All original material is the property of the author.
Author's Note: A couple of things in this chapter—the Magestirium Heresy is an idea completely fictional and contrived by the author for purposes expressed below. Historical information concerning this bogus event in magical history (I know, made up history, snore! But I can't help it) is actual and not contrived in any way. The Jews were actually expelled from England by Edward the First in the year 1290. My information comes from a very excellent historical fiction on England—the Salisbury area in particular. The book is Sarum by Edward Rutherfurd and is actually a very good read, if you're into history. In this chapter, I have attributed the idea of the Magestirium to Mungo Hufflepuff, son of none other than Helga Hufflepuff. He is an original character borrowed from Tajuki's wonderful stories (and a soon to come tale on the Founders!), whose name is a bit borrowed from canon. Most names of Death Eaters listed in this chapter come directly from Goblet of Fire, although I have invented a couple and have given most bogus first names. Jean-Paul and Cordelia Lestrange, however, I have borrowed from Tajuki—her characters adapted from canon again borrowed from the same stories, her wonderful series! Check them out here: http://www.fanfiction.net/profile.php?userid=230886
And lastly, lyrics toward the end of the chapter sung by a character (I will not divulge here) are from Lithium, by none other than Nirvana.
Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Middle
'HeyYou know they're all the same
You know you're doing better on your own so don't buy in
Live right now
Just be yourself
It doesn't matter if it's good enough for someone else
It just takes sometime
Little girl, you're in the middle of the ride
Everything everything will be just fine
Everything everything will be all right'
Jimmy Eat World, The Middle
The tapping was steady and persistent. Knocking—someone was knocking at the door at…four in the morning. He grumbled and got reluctantly to his feet. The wooden floor was icy cold and bathed in a milky pallor from the half-moon peeking through the small window coated with the drab London grime. The knocking came again impatiently.
The door handle was cold beneath his fingers, brass and tarnished and bloody cold. He twisted it then stopped, mid-motion. What was it about being woken at an ungodly hour in the morning that made normally wary people to simply forget caution? He asked a bit tersely, even rudely, who was at his door.
The answer he received made him pull the door open quickly. It was Jude and she was seething with anger. He felt like a marked man.
"Well, this is a surprise—," he stammered, startled, before she cut him off abruptly.
She held up a crumpled piece of paper that looked like an unremarkable, very ordinary letter of some sort. He felt she thought he would recognize it. He looked at it curiously, gripped in her painfully tight fist. He hadn't the slightest inkling what this was all supposed to mean. This reaction seemed to upset her more.
"Who is she?" Jude hissed through clenched teeth.
He frowned, utterly bewildered. He couldn't have been more in the dark if she'd been speaking Polish. Grabbing her by the arm, he gently guided her into the room and closed the door behind her. "Who is who, Jude?"
She whirled on him and glared with barely controlled fury. "Don't play dumb with me, Remus. She had to find out from somewhere. And," she added, crossing her arms across her chest mock-casually, "since you two work for the same paper, I thought you might have tipped her off."
Remus stood, expression blank, and simply marveled at how strings of plain English could suddenly become so incomprehensible to him. "What the hell are you on about?" he countered, finally voicing a bit of his indignant confusion.
"Rita Skeeter!" Jude raged, flinging her arms down at her sides like a child throwing a tantrum. "I got a letter from her. She seemed to know quite a bit about me, yet surprisingly, I know nothing about her."
Not able to keep from breaking into an amused grin, he finally answered. "She's a reporter—not a very good one, mind you. But why on earth do you suspect what I think you do?"
"You write for the same paper," she repeated with only a fraction of her former anger. "I thought…" She began but did not finish her thought.
"She's freelance, just like me. The one who wrote those horrible articles about Harry, actually. To tell you the truth, I've never even met the woman, Jude. And it seems to me you are accusing me of selling you out to a tabloid artist." He rubbed a hand over his eyes wearily and shook his head. "I wouldn't do that, you know."
Jude dropped her gaze to the letter, a bit remorseful for having attacked him so harshly, but it was entirely possible…he was still a stranger, she argued mentally, trying to justify her thoughts. "So, you didn't…?"
He shook his head. "But someone obviously did. What does she want? If she was thinking of doing a story on you, I doubt she would be asking your permission."
Her forehead wrinkled a bit in thought, she looked at the letter then handed it to Remus, who looked it over intently. "Well, she definitely wants something from you. Information she thinks you have. And if you don't deliver, it'll be your story on the front page." He looked at the letter again and handed it back to Jude who was nervously biting her lip. "Are you going to meet her?"
Jude nodded slowly. "I kind of have to, don't I?" she snapped even though she no longer blamed him. How could this woman, whom Jude had never seen before, know all of this about her? How did she even know she existed? Only a steadily increasing circle knew of her, and her former indiscretions…maybe another teacher? She was too tired to puzzle it out at the moment. "I wonder what she wants? Nothing to do with me, unless I don't give her what she wants. I'm second choice, then, to…someone else?" she questioned, more to herself than to anyone else.
"That would be my guess." Remus gestured for her to take a seat. She was obviously exhausted and running on adrenaline alone. "When did you get the letter?"
She smiled dispassionately. "Just a few hours ago." Jude sighed heavily and looked at the letter. "I guess it was bound to happen some time or another. I mean, I couldn't go around with a story like this forever and hope no one would find out." With a smirk, she added, "At least if the woman's picking on me, she might leave Harry and his friends alone." And at a snap of her fingers, the crinkled paper of the letter ignited with an almost audible whoosh of orange flames. She threw the burning parchment idly into an empty wastebasket behind her.
Remus shook his head ruefully. "I hope that woman can handle what she's gotten herself into this time." He looked at her steadily and gave her a reassuring smile.
She glanced away first and stared at the smoldering ruins of Rita Skeeter's words. Feeling slightly terrible about having accused him of what she did, she strived to change the subject. Noting the untidy stacks of paper on the desk at her side, she looked up quickly. "So, have any of your articles made it into the paper? I don't really have a chance to read it every morning."
"Yes, actually. A few small ones. Nothing of Skeeter's caliber, mind you," he joked, "but The Prophet liked them. Last one ran a couple of weeks ago."
"You're probably less of a risk for The Prophet than Skeeter, anyway."
"Thanks, I guess," he muttered sarcastically as he rummaged through the piles of notes and papers next to her. "I write them all under an assumed name, of course, my last, er, resignation having been a little more public than I'm used to. So I don't blame you for not having seen them." He finally finished his rummaging and held a stack of papers close to his chest. "Those articles, however, are nothing compared to this." He smiled, handing her the stack proudly.
She shuffled through the parchment, her eyes growing wider as the stack dwindled.
"Those are just my notes, mind you. I haven't even begun actually writing the piece." He waited anxiously for her to look up from the papers. When she finally did, her face was a mask of disbelief. "So, what do you think?"
Finding her voice again, she smiled, astonished and simply asked, "You're really going to do this?"
He nodded in proud defiance. "Yes, I am."
She glanced over the notes again. There were lists of facts, dates and, more importantly, names. It was the bare framework on a startling expose on the previous reign of terror under Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Here was every name, those who'd been convicted and those who'd gotten away. If he could pull this off, she mused excitedly, this could possibly hold back the flood of support Voldemort could muster if He indeed made a second rise to terrible power.
Finally, she looked up and smiled, handing him back the information. "You know, you could catch a lot of hell for writing something like this. I'm glad someone's finally got the nerve to do it."
Taking the papers from her, he looked pleased with her reaction. "Thanks. It means a lot."
As he placed the notes back on the desk, she glanced over at the small bronze clock on the table next to the unmade bed. It read four-thirty. She gasped and jumped up from her chair. "Sorry," she apologized hurriedly, "I had no clue it was so early, honestly. I'm really sorry," she babbled, heading for the door.
"Don't sleep much, do you?" he said perceptively.
She felt a momentary blush. No. The fact was that she didn't sleep at all. But admitting this fact was a completely different reality. Any normal person would be asleep at this hour. And she wished so much at the moment that she were normal…
"Just stress," she lied weakly. "With this bloody Tournament, the school infested with people who would rather I were dead and all that…I just can't." She shrugged, and shoved her hands in her pockets. She was not about to mention that her insomnia was by no means a recent development. "The Second Task is set for February the Twenty-Fourth, by the way. Could you pass it along to Black for me?"
He nodded, still studying her.
She turned to go. "I should let you get back to sleep at least," she stated bluntly and pulled the door open a crack. Turning back halfway, she stopped without knowing exactly what it was that made her pause. Before she knew it, she was speaking almost unconsciously as if in a trance. "And I'm sorry about not making it for Christmas, or New Year's. I'm not avoiding you, if that's what you think," she added hastily. She just wanted to leave but something held her there, making apologies for not trying harder to be a better friend.
He smiled and set a heavy hand on her shoulder. "I know, you're just busy." It wasn't said in a mocking tone, but Jude couldn't help but wonder if there was a bit of justified sarcasm behind it.
"And sorry about beating on your door at four in the morning accusing you of betrayal. You must think I'm mental," she said a bit self-depreciatingly.
He laughed a little. "Don't worry about it, Jude. If you remember, Sirius believed me capable of much worse only a year ago."
She smiled and then felt the expression falter and fail. Karkaroff's words came back with astounding force, almost knocking the wind out of her. Remus had never betrayed Sirius, or Peter or James. It was all her doing. And now Dumbledore, along with Karkaroff knew of this….and Peter. This confused her even further—why had he never hinted that he knew? Last year…the Shrieking Shack…he could have sold her out at the blink of an eye. But he didn't…it didn't make sense. But the angered Karkaroff had yet to make good on his threat, beyond telling her dirty secret to the Headmaster. Hopefully it would remain that way. But Dumbledore's words had been explicit—she had to tell him, and Black and, eventually, Harry. But the words shriveled and died in her throat. Eight days had already passed since her unpleasant encounter with Karkaroff, and yet the truth was still harder to reveal to these people who she'd become increasingly, dangerously reliant on. More time, she reassured herself. She had more time before she had to make it known. And it would get easier, she hoped.
She turned to go, but he held her back momentarily. Turning back to him, she noticed that his eyes had rested on a calendar tacked haphazardly to the wall, covered in his unmistakable scrawl. His lips twitched into an ironic sort of grin and he removed his gaze to rest on Jude.
After a moment of curious silence, he remarked simply, "Happy Birthday, Jude."
She blinked and frowned. "What?"
"January Fourth," he said pointing at the square marked with the number four and surrounded by his writing. "Today is your birthday."
"Oh," she replied a bit dumbly. It was odd, even surreal. The words hardly registered and she turned to leave once more, as if he'd never spoken at all. Then pausing, she added reluctantly, "How old would that make me?"
For all of her twenty-plus years, she'd had no recollection of birthdays, no marker on which to count her age. For all she knew, she was somewhere between twenty-four and twenty-five, but an exact date had never been in her possession.
He just stared at her, puzzled for the moment, before it melted into a sort of pitying curiosity. He'd never even fathomed that this small bit of her personality had been lost to her years ago. "Sorry, I forgot," he said cautiously. "Twenty-four. You're twenty-four years old, born on January Fourth, 1971."
Jude nodded absently and, without feeling, stepped through the door into the hall. She didn't get far before he closed the short distance between them and gathered her into a warm and comforting hug. She just stood there numbly for a moment before tentatively placing her hands on his arms. She felt him relax a bit and smile.
"You know, the last time I was allowed to do that, you were two?" he said lightly, letting her go reluctantly. She stepped back from him, torn between wanting to be as far away from him and the memories he brought flooding back—or the absence of memories—and wanting never to leave the safe and cozy embrace that she had been missing for twenty-two years. "Well," he said, feeling the awkward tenseness creep back between them. "I'll be seeing you soon?" he questioned. She nodded dutifully. "Don't kill Rita," was the command that put a slight smile back on her confused face as she took the steps away from the door two at a time.
"I'm not making any promises."
***
The weeks marched by with little hesitation between them and the Second Task loomed ever larger and formidable on the not-so-distant horizon. Her eyes were drawn to Harry and Cedric more than she liked to own to when she was in the Great Hall. Yet they both looked fine—both eager and ready for whatever lay ahead of them. Unconcerned. Jude knew that it was as much of a downfall to take things lightly as it was a relief. It could cause a problem. But Cedric…she couldn't bear to warn him what danger he might be in for simply being in close proximity to Harry. He would resent the kid, maybe, and it would ruin the Tournament for him, Jude could see that easily. But was it worse to let him walk blindly into danger?
Harry undoubtedly knew he was in danger—the kid dealt with it often, and Jude admitted, handled it admirably well. It was a reprieve to see him having fun and enjoying his friends. He probably knew better than to take things lightly, Jude reminded herself. And for all his appearance of a normal fourteen-year-old-boy, he had years of experience, years of burden that he shouldn't have. But she knew he was stronger for it. Watching him in the corridor, en route to his next class, the usual wingmen at his side—Ron and Hermione—she wondered if she and the boy were really that different at that age. She smirked and watched the kids disappear down the hall. The fact was that they were as different as night was from day, as east was from west. All her troubles she'd brought on herself. His were dealt to him as a baby, inherited from others. He was resilient and she had barely made it.
Shaking herself from her pointless ponderings, she turned back into her classroom, surprised to note that everyone had arrived right under her nose—as she'd been lost in thought and oblivious to the world around her. This had been happening too often, she chided herself. How could she manage to keep her promise and look out for Harry if she wasn't there half the time?
Forcing herself into the here and now, she addressed her class. Malfoy, she noticed, wore less of his accustomed smug smirk as of late. She couldn't pinpoint the exact instance when he'd become less of a hassle and more of a valuable contributor to her class. She brushed it aside as inconsequential—at least it was an improvement from the beginning of the year.
"Picking up the point made by Padma yesterday, let's discuss the issue of isolation further," she suggested equably. There was no dissent, so she continued. "Padma, would you care to pose the question once more for us?"
Padma beamed and then spoke in a clear and slightly haughty manner. Jude noted Malfoy roll his eyes in a minute gesture of distaste, but he made no sound of protest and continued to listen as the girl spoke.
"Yesterday, I wanted to know why Muggles separated themselves from our society in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries? What were the benefits they saw in isolation from the wizarding community that prompted them to perpetuate a complete isolation that eventually led to the total estrangement of both worlds?" She looked around the quiet room, before adding a safe, "in theory, at least?"
"Well," Jude took up the baton when it looked as if volunteers would be scarce at first. "As we discussed yesterday, the magical and Muggle worlds coexisted in peace—in a sort of symbiosis in England for hundreds of years. No distinction. In the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, after the founding of Hogwarts, there was a split in belief, a schism that seemed insurmountable. The Magisterium Heresy. There was a great debate over the place of magic within religion—specifically Christianity. Mungo Hufflepuff, founder of the Magestirium—the council on Magic at the time, a Ministry of the age, so to speak—deemed that magic had a vital and integral part in every aspect of life including religion. Being a monk, Hufflepuff drew much support from both sides, magic and Muggle, and many clergy endorsed his findings. But with successive plagues ravaging Europe, especially England, at the time, a scapegoat was needed. In times of strife, there has to be someone to blame—History has taught us this much. Typically, the finger would be pointed at the Jewish population, but thanks to Edward the First," Jude continued sarcastically, "they were expelled from England in 1290. Now during times of turmoil, the finger was pointed at those with magical abilities. Magic changed swiftly from a gift to a curse, thought to be the cause of God's scorn on the people of England—and, in a growing trend, Europe as a whole. The Church followed suit about fifty years later, and since magic is much more easily hidden than an ethnicity or a belief, they couldn't fully expel them. So they settled for outlawing the practice of magic as an affront to the Church and to God. This the Magisterium fought hard to reverse before it was outlawed as an institution…creating, the Magesterium Heresy.
"Those with magical abilities learned the value of secrecy, and within a century, magic was only a storybook idea—something old ladies feared and children whispered about. Still, the Heresy remained on Church record in startling detail. In 1452, at the urging of the Bishop of Canterbury, the manuscript recounting these strange and, in themselves heretical events were burned. This effectively completed the separation. For their safety, those who did not wish to give up their unique abilities flocked together and isolated themselves with magic beyond the reach of the Muggle world that had convinced themselves that such people no longer existed. It has been this way ever since."
Jude fell silent and looked around. A few of the students had reverted to doodling with quill on parchment and a few more gazed up at her with glazed eyes. Jeez, she thought smiling sheepishly, since when did I start to sound like Binns? She had gotten a bit involved in the historical implications of the question and sought to bring the topic back to a more lively and engaging track. "So, Muggles shunned those who were different, which culminated eventually in the denial of the existence of magic. They, in a sense isolated themselves, as Padma stated. But witches and wizards either complied to Muggle demands or retaliated by counter-isolation—closing themselves off from a world that rejected them as heresy and eventually myth."
A hand shot up. Jude smiled. It was Neville. "But there still exist Muggles who believe in magic, right?"
Jude nodded, immediately conjuring a memory, half-forgotten in the back of her mind. She thought of teens dressed in black, wandering through the warren of tents at the Midsummer's Fair in Cambridge. They certainly believed in the existence of magic—among other things—even though they were most definitely Muggle. Then, as quickly as the memory had come unbidden to her mind, she pushed it aside, feeling the tense, bitter sensation in her stomach. Memories of Cambridge, of him, were too painful, too costly. She refocused her attention on Neville and forced herself to give him an honest answer. "Yes, there are some who believe in magic, but they are by far in the minority. Muggles have dealt with this by simply stigmatizing those who challenge the mainstream."
"Meaning…they think those people are nuts," Malfoy chimed in happily. With a smirk, he added, "They probably are."
Jude laughed a little. "Yeah, most think they're nuts, or at best a little unrealistic. Science has prevailed in the Muggle mind and if they can't understand the mechanics behind a force, such as magic, it might as well not exist." Staring pointedly at Malfoy, she decided to try something that could give her beneficial insight, or could blow up in her face. "Draco, what do you think about this denial and isolation imposed after the Magesterium Heresy? Do you think it was self-preservation, or stubborn, willful removal of magic from the Muggle world?"
The boy blinked and then simply stared at her blankly for a moment. He seemed to falter ever so imperceptibly at her address. It was true—she just realized she'd used his first name instead of the formal address he was used to receiving from her. It was not intentional, but he seemed not to mind at all. In fact, he appeared to be pleased with the casual title. Thinking carefully and speaking with more care, Draco began to divulge his view on the matter. To Jude's surprise, it was not haughty or superior, but honest and telling.
"Muggles have always been the majority, even in England, the country with the highest magical concentration. If the situation was reversed, if the wizarding community had the upper hand in terms of numbers, I think the results would have been the same. Had catastrophes such as plague troubled our numbers to the extent it had theirs, I believe we would have sought to blame them in the same manner…and to exact retribution in the same manner. Hell, if it had been up to me, I would have done much worse than that." He smiled slyly as a few shocked gasps swept the room and a few giggles punctuated the sound. His remark had elicited reaction as he'd intended. In casual thought, he nodded. "I think it was a matter of self-preservation, not some sadist's revenge against those who have by those who have not."
It was a good answer and Jude was pleased that he seemed to believe in what he said. Still…
"Ernie," Jude called to the boy in the back of the room, "if you had the chance and the power, would you go back in time and change the decision?"
The boy smiled and nodded judiciously. "I think I would. The separation between the two could have exacerbated the problem between magic and non-magic…could have made it more apparent, more glaring. I don't know, maybe if their had never been a split, Muggle-born students might have faired a bit better with the other students at least."
"Please, MacMillan," Draco drawled lazily. Now this was the Malfoy Jude was familiar with. "That would be the ideal solution to you wouldn't it? Just change the past because you're feeling a little insecure today. A million things would be different because of the, oh, I don't know…seven hundred and fifty years of contact! Come on, just think about it a little, will you? The world you know, the one you envision Muggles skipping hand-in-hand with wizard, wouldn't be here. It would be unrecognizable. You may not even have existed with the years of Muggle taint in the wizard blood—it would be even worse than it is now, if you can imagine that. Hey, who's to know…they could have killed each other off two hundred years ago in some mass cataclysmic war. That would make this discussion almost as pointless as it is now."
Ernie was about to speak, but refrained from his comment as Jude spoke. "Draco, I asked a hypothetical question. I didn't expect the answer to be practical. But I got the answer I was looking for nonetheless." She surveyed the kid. The question was a trap. She had been bating him. The dogma, the ideals of pure blood still remained, however they were dampened in their extremity. She sensed he was reaching for another point or idea, but had just reverted back to the comfortable litany of racism and purity. She was pleased.
"Well, now that you have the floor, what do you think?" she asked Draco neutrally.
"There's no point in discussing this really, but if I had the chance, I wouldn't change it. Who's to say what was best—coexisting or isolation? The situation works now, for the most part, so why change it?"
It was a bland statement, fraught with a hopelessness that hid well beneath the surface. A futility that was unbecoming of Draco's active stance in her class. She was saddened a bit to see the flames of his conviction falter. The turmoil of beliefs within the boy was almost palpable to Jude. There was a time she'd had that same struggle. Hers, however, had occurred in a blinding flash of realization, a jarring jolt of reality. His, she perceived, would be a long and laborious struggle. And eventually a toss-up.
She dismissed class, watching Draco as he mimicked the rest of the students, gathering his books and heading for the door. The urge to pull him aside and badger him into her confidence or make him angry with her was strong, but she fought it. The last thing he needed now was someone pushing his buttons. Beside that, she had somewhere she needed to be.
Everyone was gone and Jude was about to follow suit when she was stopped suddenly at the classroom door. Moody stood directly in her path, blocking escape from the room. Great, Jude thought, another stirring lecture on loyalties. "Move aside, Moody. I don't have time for this shit today." She stepped closer, scowling with impatience but he didn't budge. She frowned her disapproval. There was no way she could move the grizzled old Auror by force of strength. She relied on force of will. Placing her hands on her hips, she settled for glaring belligerently at the man.
In a flash, he'd seized her left wrist and held it fast. Complete surprise was not a comfortable feeling for Jude and she quickly became incensed. The old man was asking for it and he was about to get it. "Move aside," she warned again through gritted teeth.
"Aw, lass, now is that any way to treat an old friend…a veteran of the same war—albeit on opposite sides?" He twisted her hand painfully, jamming the sleeve of her sweater up to her elbow. The silver of the bracelet seemed to wink and glint malignantly, threatening to divulge her identity. But it was no secret to this man, she knew. So what was he on about…what did he want?
"I'm no friend of yours," she
taunted, hoping to lead him into revealing his aims. "Never have been. So if
this is another one of your rant sessions about how I've always been on the
wrong side…"
He twisted her wrist
harder and she bit her lip, fiercely determined not to make a sound. Raising a
grizzled, rough hand, he touched the silver and smiled cruelly. "I know he
calls for you. He's been calling all of his followers. Karkaroff, Bagman,
Snape…you."
She clenched her teeth, but did not answer with a taunt of her own.
"Funny thing, though. Karkaroff, he's running scared. It wasn't hard to get him to talk."
His weathered fingers moved over the clasp, finally making the decisive motion, removing the band. "Question is, lassie, what does e want with you anymore?" He eyed her suspiciously and calculatingly. The Moody she remembered was thorough, to be sure, but quick and precise. Now he seemed manipulative, searching, stalking like a cat, slowly encircling the prey instead of making the daring leap for it right away. He had been one of her chief adversaries and she knew his methods well. He seemed altered though, through age…or caution. The Dark Mark burned black on her pale forearm, undeniable. But she was denying nothing.
Still he searched. "You're planning something, I can feel it," he hissed close to her ear.
She snapped to attention and faced him ruthlessly. "What do you want me to tell you?" she spat venomously. "That I'm the one trying to kill the boy? That I'm still Voldemort's right hand?"
The shuffling of feet coming to an abrupt halt mere paces away made the rest of her indignant speech die on her lips. Moody and Jude's heads whipped around to face the sound.
"Oh, God," Jude gasped. "…Neville!"
Neville stood stock-still, staring in horrified shock at his teacher and the livid brand on her arm. Jude looked on at the boy despairingly, not trusting herself to speak, not daring…
Regaining his self-possession, he looked up to her face, blinked, hopelessly bewildered, before he fled down the hall. She called after him frantically, but Moody held her fast, deriving some semblance of pleasure from her shattered composure, relishing her distress. Garnering all her effort, she managed to muscle by the man, grabbing her silver bracelet from him with angry force, and ran down the hall in pursuit of her student. She had to explain…she had to tell him…
He was nowhere in sight as she rounded the corner. She heaved a heavy sigh and let her head slump forward, and cursed quietly. Still, unable to piece together what the boy might have seen or heard, how long he'd been there, all the particulars that only Neville could fill in, she headed to the only person she knew who could set this whole fucked up situation to rights. She hoped against hope that Dumbledore was in his office.
***
A round, sullen face poked through the door cautiously. Jude felt the nervousness in her stomach flutter into action. After she'd burst into his office railing wildly about Moody and her inevitable resignation, the Headmaster assured her that everything could be put to rights, but she would have to let Neville in on her secrets. Not all of them. No, just the ones concerning him and his family.
She never wanted any of this to happen. But it seemed as if her fears were being realized in a quick and fearsome succession.
"Mr. Longbottom, please," the professor said kindly, beseeching the boy to sit. He obeyed, but sat close to the door in a squashy and slightly dusty armchair, casting apprehensive and betrayed looks in Jude's direction. She felt them like a hundred pinpricks. "I believe you may have a few questions for Miss Elliot."
Neville glanced cautiously between the two, obviously torn between speaking and remaining silent. His voice was small, quiet, thin. "I saw…I know what it means."
Dumbledore looked from the boy sitting nervously in the armchair to Jude. She stood fidgeting by the window, her shifting stance giving her the appearance of a trapped animal. The professor was obviously calling on her to voice what the boy could not or would not say. She sighed. It seemed she had to tell this story quite frequently in the past few years. It didn't get easier with practice though, she thought ruefully. But Neville's dejected, deceived demeanor prompted her to be completely frank with him, to tell him everything…to make it better if she could.
"It's been…over thirteen years…since I was…" but she couldn't finish the sentence. He wouldn't even look at her. She endeavored to get the better of herself and brave whatever it was she sensed would come of this. Forcing her voice to remember its purpose, she struck down a different path, hoping to gain some semblance of confidence. "I ran away from the orphanage where I was raised at the age of…six…or seven, I can't really remember now. I came to London. I had nothing, no one. And He found me, gave me a place to stay, something to belong to."
He looked down, examining his shoes with little interest as she spoke. At the last few words, he looked up sharply, tensing before dropping his gaze once more, returning to the bland subject of his shoes.
Swallowing hard, she continued. "Thirteen years ago, I was shaken from my daze…something happened to make me…betray Him."
Neville was staring unabashedly at her now, brow furrowed in concentration. He seemed to have a million questions, thoughts, accusations swimming just below his stricken façade. Finally, he ventured forward. "What would make you turn on him? Betray the…the person who took you in?"
"It doesn't matter," she answered quickly. Dumbledore made a slight movement that caught her by surprise. He'd been standing on the periphery, not interfering in the conversation for a second before these words had summoned him. In an instant, Jude knew his wish. He didn't want her to keep anything from the boy. She had to tell him.
The window caught her reflection. She could no longer look at her student, as she spoke the words, sung her own condemnation. The landscape beyond the castle was much easier to focus on than the angry and hurt expression diffuse over Neville's face. "I killed a man," she said, slightly surprised by the numbed, cold and sharp tenor of the words. She felt detached from it, like reading a novel aloud—surreal and empty. "The man I killed was James Potter."
The words left her before she was aware of it. Without feeling, she pressed on. "Harry's father. It was simply an order and I followed it. His mum ran with him, but He followed. I tried to help her, but…then something happened and it was over. I took the baby out of the house before it went up in flames. It was the least I could do for him. I still see that night every time I close my eyes.
"For the seven years after that, this was my home." She'd been blunt, maybe harsh but she couldn't quite gage it. This story was her—it was like explaining away a scar. Still, she was amazed at the detached, aloofness she could maintain while relating the one cataclysmic event that had wrecked her life—like the doctor that spoke in quiet, reverent tones, making comforting gestures to her and Lex as he'd told them they'd just lost their best friend, her only anchor to a life that was better. Remorse, she reasoned, should be the tone to affect while recanting her secrets, her sins. But she didn't want to put on a charade, especially not now. It was no longer an option.
"I haven't told Harry any of this." She looked down at her hands, still fidgeting. "He knows what I was, but not what I've done. In fact, no one really knows except the Headmaster and you. I know I haven't really the right to ask anything of you but…"
"I won't tell anyone," Neville said abruptly, but not unkindly. It was a reluctant bit of forgiveness. There was still something bothering him. It was a moment more before he spoke up. "Did you…er…know everyone who worked for him? Did you know who was on his side or not?"
It was an odd question and it took Jude a bit by surprise. But she answered honestly. She did know.
"When…when You-Know-Who was finally finished, why didn't you tell the Ministry who to look for? There were still some out there," he choked out, returning his eyes to his shoes.
A sick feeling crept up on her. She knew where his thoughts had headed. A deep breath was insufficient to calm her.
"Mr. Longbottom, I believe you would like to know why Miss Elliot, while possessing the names of Death Eaters still at large, did not denounce them…possibly deterring what happened to your parents?" Dumbledore interceded.
Neville brushed a hand across his eyes quickly and nodded. "If they had been caught before…and she knew."
"I did, Neville. No one was prepared to believe me, not the Minister…no one," Jude managed weakly.
"I believe there is something I must show you, Mr. Longbottom," Dumbledore intoned, retrieving a largish looking metal dish from his desk. Jude knew what it was. A Pensieve. Neville needed convincing and Dumbledore had already guessed the only way to offer that proof. She watched from the window as the professor poured a silvery liquid into the bowl, shimmering as the light caught the pearly liquid. Taking the boy's hand, Dumbledore and Neville stood over the bowl, transfixed. They were deep inside a memory now. And Jude had a good guess as to the content of that preserved thought.
She sat on the wooden bench next to the Headmaster, swinging her shoes that were several good inches from the ground and biting her lip nervously. So, this was a courtroom. She'd never been in one before. An official-looking man beckoned to her and she looked to the professor. He nodded and she got up from the bench, making her way tentatively to the man. He was wearing the same uniform-looking robes as the two other men standing by the door. She stared up at him and he shoved her through a door behind a wooden railing and a dias with a gleaming wooden lectern. Dragging her feet, she looked back at the professor. Dumbledore smiled reassuringly, reminding her that he was right behind her. She wouldn't go into the room alone.
A very serious man stood and shook his hand, Dumbledore returning the gesture civilly. The Headmaster called him Mr. Crouch. He looked boring…and stern. Like McGonagall, Jude thought.
The boring man spoke as if he were in a hurry to move things along. "Honestly, Professor, I don't think her testimony will be admissible. But it would be advisable to question her nonetheless. Minister Jennings has advised against it. Still, it would be a good thing to get the names she has for us, I guess."
The official wizard who'd beckoned her into the room showed her to a seat facing the boring man and a slew of other people, all armed with quills and parchments. Dumbledore took a seat next to them. Two more uniformed wizards stood by the doors.
Jude sat and stared at the man called Crouch. He turned to her and favored her with a depreciating smile and an unenthusiastic air. "I'm going to ask you a few questions, is that all right?" he asked blandly.
Jude nodded, folding her hands over her black robes, feet swinging nervously, inches from the floor.
"You were in the service of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named for three years. Is this correct?"
Another nod.
"In those three years, you must have met a lot of people. Do you remember the names of those people? Any at all?"
She looked to Dumbledore before she nodded this time.
"And will you tell us those names?"
Jude pressed her lips together into a thin line, seeming to give this much thought. Voldemort kept a zealous secrecy among his ranks, no one was aware of the identity of most fellow followers at their sides. Some select few were aware of the identity of a small group, but only one person besides the Dark Lord new everyone by sight…and by name. She didn't want to tell…
Dumbledore told her that this may save yet a few more lives if everyone involved was caught and held responsible. Yet she'd not been held responsible. It still didn't seem fair to her. But it could be something more than just fairness at stake. They earned this, she reasoned.
"Well?" Crouch said, raising an eyebrow impatiently.
She stared for a moment at the ground. There were a lot of people staring at her and she didn't like it.
"Dolohov," she said in a hollow voice.
"I'm sorry?" Crouch said, pretending that he hadn't heard her, prompting her to speak up. Jude gritted her teeth. She didn't like this man.
"Antonin Dolohov, Evan Rosier, Roger Avery."
"Avery," Crouch said, looking up sharply. "Avery is an upstanding citizen, by anyone's standards. Are you sure of this?"
She furrowed her brow, a bit perturbed at the censure. Of course she was sure. She nodded.
"There's also Julius Nott, Michael Moon, Steven Travers, Troy Mulciber," Jude continued, finding it harder than it seemed to sort between who was still alive and who had already been killed or captured by Aurors, "Jean-Paul and Cordelia Lestrange, Ludo Bagman…"
A general murmur went about the room as she said that name, almost an electric shock. Hushed words were exchanged between the people who'd been staring at her rudely just moments before. They were doing it again. Only now they didn't seem to harbor fear or resentment in their eyes…no, they were looking at her as if she were crazy.
"Ludo Bagman is a world-renowned Quidditch player, you know that, don't you?"
Jude remained quiet and still.
"This cannot possibly…" Crouch said, shaking his head and making slashing marks with a quill over his parchment. Apparently her list was being edited.
"Any more?" he asked briskly after a few moments of tense, charged silence punctuated by scandalized whispering.
She took a deep breath. Might as well…
"Dale Donovan, Daniel Crabbe, Gerald Goyle, Walden Macnair, Agustus Rookwood…"
Crouch slammed his fist down on the table with a loud thud. He was glaring at her through a mask of rage. "I will implore you to take this seriously, young lady. These are people's lives you're messing with. Rookwood is no Death Eater. He works for the Ministry, as his father has before him. Loyal family. He would never…"
"He was a spy inside the Ministry. Our informant."
"That's enough," Crouch bellowed, but Jude continued to shout over him.
"Lucius Malfoy and Peter Pettigrew!"
"Ludicrous, simply impossible. Pettigrew was killed by Sirius Black two weeks ago. This is quite a story you expect us to believe, Miss Elliot. A fine, upstanding citizen and head of the prominent wizarding family in all of England and a dead man! Well, we thank you for your cooperation," he bit off sarcastically and nodded curtly.
Jude narrowed her eyes at the man in front of her. He was gathering up his papers, preparing to leave the room. She couldn't guess what made her say it—anger, frustration, pure malice. But instead of remaining silent, leaving her scant list uncompleted, she spoke. "Bartimius Crouch, Jr."
In a swift and precise motion, Crouch stopped and turned sharply to face the girl staring with stony features back at him. He said nothing before he gathered his list and stalked out of the room, glaring momentarily in Dumbledore's direction.
Jude sat, gripping the sides of the wooden chair with white-knuckled fists, grinding her teeth and staring after the man, seething with anger. It was a spiteful and malicious thing to do yet she did it with little regard to feeling. Denouncing a son to a father came surprisingly easy to her. Another may have hesitated to give such news so frankly. It would have been a kindness of sorts to remain silent, but she had never been taught to be kind. In her mind, he deserved the shock the news gave him. She knew that it was a long shot that she would be taken seriously. He hadn't believed a word she'd said and he'd mocked her. .
As the rest of the watchers filed out of the room, many didn't hesitate to toss their parchment into the bin by the door, an open denial of the truth and an affront to her personally. But if they thought she cared, they were wrong. It stung, but she knew this was her lot—she'd bought it with the black mark on her arm. No one would really believe her again, never take her at more than face value. Every trust gained would have to be fought for.
Dumbledore's cool fingers prying hers from the iron grip she'd unconsciously clamped on the chair brought her out of her dark thoughts. He took her hand and they Apparated.
Neville straightened up after what Jude estimated was five or so minutes. Dumbledore soon followed.
Jude bit her lip, trying in vain to gage his expression, but Neville remained closed, silent and reserved. "I'm so sorry, Neville." It felt inadequate even as she said it.
To her great surprise and immense relief, he nodded dully.
She shifted from foot to foot, not knowing exactly what to say next. "I don't blame you if…well, I'm sure it would be alright with the Headmaster if you withdrew from my class, since he's not allowing me to resign," she said, a smile tickling the side of her mouth as she looked to Dumbledore. He was unmovable on the subject. She would not be leaving on any account.
"No!" was the swift and resounding reply Neville gave. Then he added, more moderately, "I don't want to leave the class. It's my favorite."
"Really?" she couldn't help but ask, delighted by his words.
He nodded shyly.
"Well, as long as you're comfortable staying…oh, I'm so glad, Neville. You're one of my best students." Jude felt a wave of relief wash over her. She hadn't lost him after all.
"Mr. Longbottom," Dumbledore said suddenly, commanding both of their attention. "Today you have learned many things about many people. I must ask you not to speak of this to anyone. All will be dealt with accordingly in time. But secrecy may prove to be of the utmost importance. Can I rely on you to keep our confidence?"
"Yes, sir," he nodded gravely.
"That is all I ask then, Mr. Longbottom. You may return to class," Dumbledore finished and retreated behind his desk, clearing the Pensieve and returning it to its place.
The boy turned to go, but glanced over his shoulder one last time at his teacher. With her arms crossed over her chest, staring out the window with a frown tugging the corner of her lips down, Jude did not note his curious stare. He was gone before she turned around.
***
"You're late," a clipped, singsong voice chimed from a booth by the door the moment she stepped through into the Three Broomsticks. Jude turned immediately to see a middle-aged woman in horn-rimmed glasses staring pointedly at her. Jude stood where she was and looked the woman up and down before she let a smirk replace her frown. The woman known as Rita Skeeter was more of a caricature than a person—the very image of someone of her career and moral fiber. A fraud, a hack, a joke. Jude took the seat in front of the woman with more confidence than she'd come with. This would be a walk in the park.
"Lovely to meet you, too," Jude said bluntly. Rosmerta sauntered over to their table and, after a few minutes exchanging friendly greetings with Jude and a frigidly civil one from Skeeter, asked if she could get anything for the two.
"Currant Wine," Rita said sharply, her glare having not left Jude for one second since she'd arrived.
"Your usual?" Rosie asked, surveying Jude and concluding that the situation definitely called for gin.
"Yeah," Jude said blandly, watching as Skeeter removed a large quill and stack of parchments from a faux alligator bag. "Better make it double, Rosie."
"Right-o," Rosmerta chirped with a knowing glance at Jude.
Skeeter was organizing papers in front of her. "Well, now that you're finally here, I'm glad you've finally seen reason and have decided to cooperate—," Rita schmoozed before she was cut off most ungraciously.
"I have agreed to nothing, Skeeter. And quit whining about me being late. It's not my fault you've felt the need to drag this farce out for an entire month. Why the wait, huh? First letter in January demanding I meet you at a place to be named by you…later. Why wait till the middle of fucking February?" Jude was staring steadily at the woman in front of her.
Rita smiled an oily smile, the kind usually reserved for politicians, lawyers, and used-auto salesmen. "Just thought it was only customary to give you a bit of time to think things over."
Jude laughed dryly. "There's nothing to think over. You're a hack and you need someone to give you information. You know, real journalists do something called investigating."
Rita maintained the car-salesman smile, but something sly, something cunning now lay beneath the surface. "Oh, but I do investigate. How do you think I found out who you are?"
"Blackmailed it out of someone, probably," Jude spat contemptuously.
"Close, but no. Not this time at least." It was clear to Jude that she loved this. That would change. "And don't call people hacks, dear. It's not polite."
"About as courteous as splashing someone's life around as if it were entertainment," Jude replied acidly. Rosie came back and set the drinks in front of them then scurried away as quickly as possible. Jude fingered the glass of clear liquid as Rita watched her.
"Oh, now dear, you know it doesn't have to be that way. All you have to do is tell me what I want to know."
Jude narrowed her eyes at the insipid woman and drained the glass of half the contents. She wasn't about to bend to some conniving rag reporter's whim, but she was curious nonetheless. "What do you want to know?"
"The truth about Igor Karkaroff," Rita announced, watching Jude greedily, anticipating the story she was about to unfold.
"Is that all?" Jude replied, unimpressed. She could have guessed that this was the way it would go. Karkaroff was a big fish—a well-known name. She, on the other hand, was a nobody…at least to the majority of Rita's readers. That meant that Rita had not delved too deeply into her past. Jude was relatively safe…for now. "Well, Igor was a Soviet circus clown who made his money by trading government secrets with the Americans…"
Jude watched as Rita's quill quickly took down her words, in a convoluted and trumped-up style—not really what she'd said at all. She tried not to laugh as Skeeter looked up abruptly from her parchment. She narrowed her eyes dangerously as Jude tried to suppress another giggle.
"Listen here, missy," Rita hissed at the girl across from her. "If you think this is a joke, it could easily be your name in the paper. Don't think I…"
"My name? Don't be ridiculous, Skeeter. Only a handful of people know my name. I'm not worth writing about, at least not what you know anyway." Jude drained the rest of the first gin in front of her.
"I know plenty," hissed Rita. "I know you were one of them, a Death Eater, a minion of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. I'm sure that would be interesting to the parents whose children you teach."
Jude didn't quail at this. "The Board who approved my appointment at Hogwarts already knows. Dumbledore knows, the staff knows. It's not exactly breaking news, Skeeter."
"But the parents…"
"Don't you think it odd," Jude interrupted the insufferable woman, "that only a few people outside of Hogwarts know who I am? There's a reason for that, Skeeter. It's not by accident that my life is a secret."
Rita Skeeter slammed both fists down on the table hard and glared malignantly at Jude. "I don't think you know who you're dealing with."
"And I don't think you have any clue who you're messing with, Ms. Skeeter. Because if you did…"
"Are you threatening me?" Rita gasped dramatically.
"Do I have to?" Jude asked blankly, without the caliber of drama conjured by Skeeter. "Look, Rita. I'm going to give you some advice. You won't get anything from me, so go ahead and print your fabricated fairytale about me. But you'd better get your facts straight. If not, I'll have your job for it. And if I don't like what you've written, I'll simply throw the article away…"
"Well, that's very noble of you," Rita spat caustically.
"And I'll find you," Jude finished matter-of-factly. "You have an inkling of what I am. But, from the look of things, you have absolutely no clue what I'm capable of." Jude finished her drink and rose from her seat. Heading for the door, she glanced back at the gaudy reporter. "If I were you, I'd write about something else. If not, I look forward to seeing you soon." Without another look back, Jude left.
***
The air was cold, very cold, but still. Crisp, crackling with the electric feeling of something in the atmosphere, Jude walked on, slicing through the dense, cold, charged air. Green leaves rose up all around her, blocking out everything but a small sweep of deep indigo-black, studded with pure white pinpricks. Stars. It was night, yet the scenery seemed alive with color, not muted by the low light of night. Her hand trailing the leaves, thick and waxy leaves, broad and weighty. It was a hedge…a tall, elegantly manicured hedge. Perfect walls all around her of the glossy green leaves, leading away to the right and to the left. Ahead, the way was clear for several feet, but halted abruptly at another wall of the same vegetation. Jude took a step forward toward the wall of leaves, feeling the soft grass on her bare feet.
As she neared the wall, she noticed that it met with the wall on her left at a sharp, ninety-degree angle. The wall on her right stopped ten feet short of meeting the same wall, forming a bending path, forcing her to turn right and continue on. It was a maze. She followed. The air was cold, but she was not. She knew the air was cold not by sense, but by a simple knowledge that it was so…like knowing that the ocean is salty without ever having visited the seashore. An intellectual knowledge.
The path continued to bend in on itself at square angles, meandering and winding back again, the same leafy expanse to her right and left the entire time, punctuated only briefly by breaks, leading to other green corridors in the vegetation. She did not turn into any of the side corridors, sensing always that something was ahead, not to the side, or behind. Always ahead, lead on by the charge in the air and the surreal drive to find something she was not aware she was looking for in the first place. Another twist, another bend. Jude stopped suddenly, inwardly satisfied for some reason that she'd ended up where she'd intended to be.
A shadow in the grassy path before her prompted her to look to the right. There was a break in the leafy wall, leading off into another wildly snaking corridor of greenery. In the gap stood a tawny colored creature. The silky, flax fur gliding over the graceful, cat-like movements of a feline—it was a lion. But, no, Jude corrected her errant thought. It wasn't a lion entirely. The head was not framed in a thick mane. Rather, a woman's frank and purposeful face stared back at her from a border of intricately woven braids of the same flax color as the silky fur. It lounged in the lazy, yet ever-watchful manner of the Great Sphinx Jude had seen in books standing guard over the Pyramids in Giza. Jude froze, transfixed by the beast-being, intent on speaking yet not daring to do so.
"You seek something," the great lioness-woman spoke, her clear, resounding voice vibrating the still, electric air. "Something lost?" it asked, flicking its tail with languid purpose.
A nod was all Jude could manage in reply.
"But you do not know of what you search for?"
"No," Jude answered weakly.
"Something of great importance. For you and for another." The Sphinx blinked, her eyes were heavily lidded as if weary of her post.
"But where…"
The Sphinx growled low, a rumbling hum that intoned a mild censure for her interruption. "Ask not that question. For you already know the answer."
A riddle. Riddle. The Sphinx only spoke the language of cryptic questions. Jude was frustrated. Still not knowing what she searched so earnestly and intently for, she felt that her time was running out. She needed to find it fast. The Sphinx was only slowing her down.
"How do I know the answer when I don't know what you're talking about?" she yelled at the woman-beast, her hands clenching into fists at her sides.
The Sphinx rose from her careless, lounging stance and stood to her full menacing height. The low rumble of a growl was louder this time, more prominent in the thick, cottony silence. "You already know the answer," the creature repeated amidst the angry growls. It stood over her for a moment and then turned on its softly padded feet and stalked away down the deep green shadow of the corridor she guarded.
Green, thick and waxy leaves remained. Downy silence drowned the echoes of the beast as it rounded the corner in the maze. She stood alone once again. Looking behind her, in front of her…the paths were the same. She didn't know whether to go backward or forward. A ringing in her ears was the only sound she heard, coupled with the sound of the Sphinx' words. The cold, stinging and prickling air made the words sharper. She already knew the answer.
Throwing her hands out as if to stop herself from falling a great distance, she was startled to feel the familiarity around her. It was her own bed, her own pillows. She was in her own room—not a foliage-clad labyrinth with riddle-speaking creatures impeding her quest for…she couldn't remember. The bare threads of the dream were already slipping from her grasp. She was breathing heavily now, trying with all her might to recall it. Nothing was coming back to her. It remained in fragmented, puzzling pieces. This dream was always the same, but it was coming to her now with frightening clarity and frequency.
In the wash of moonlight Darcy's eyes glinted as she watched her master rise shakily from her bed and wrap herself in her robe. Heading for the door, Jude allowed the hound to pass through in front of her before she left, the door snapping closed behind her. Patrolling the halls, Jude thought, might calm her down. The dream she chalked up to nerves. The Second Task was tomorrow. But there was something still—she felt she should have gleaned something from the dream. The monster had said something, but she couldn't remember. Shaking her head, she resolved not to think on it any further. The fact that this dream was a vague apparition, not of a past experience as every other dream had been, caused her to give more weight to its portent…pretended or otherwise. She didn't really even believe in dreams having meanings.
She walked further through the silent halls, Darcy following and every now and then darting off to search a shrouded corner. Silence gave way for a moment, Jude thought, to a sound. She strained to hear it above Darcy's loud sniffing along the ground. It was music, faintly floating on the cool, undisturbed night air of the castle. Whether the source was close or far, Jude couldn't tell. She quickened her pace, striving to still the sound of her feet on the stone floor. Closer, she heard the combined sound of a guitar and a voice and…Nirvana?
"Sunday morning is every day, for all I care. And I'm not scared."
In a small nook off of the hall, there was a barely noticeable break in the stone masonry, just big enough for one person to slip through. Winding, narrow stone steps rose from the floor behind the passage. Jude followed them up, knowing exactly where they led. The castle was riddled with secret passages and small, tucked away crannies just waiting to be discovered. Jude couldn't remember in what year of school she'd discovered this one.
Halting just inside the doorway, she placed a hand on Darcy's head and commanded silently that she be still. Shrouded in shadow, she looked into the small room, tucked away and secluded from the rest. Forgotten by most…even her, but someone was now making use of it in the small hours of the morning. Pale moonlight melded with warm candle glow, casting flickering shadows on the walls. A lone figure sat in the middle of the room, leaning over a guitar, adjusting his fingers, trying different chords every now and then. Jude listened, mesmerized by what she was hearing…by what she was seeing. Intent upon his guitar, the player hung his head letting his pale hair catch the silvery moonlight as it flooded in through a small window. It was one of her students, she was astounded to realize—it was Draco.
A small smile pricked the side of her mouth as she stood in the darkness listening. He played remarkably well, she noted wryly, and had a voice that reminded her a bit of someone. Her heart sank as she listened. He sounded just like Rhys. Closing her eyes, she could almost hear him again and it brought the familiar, aching feeling back to her, throbbing in her chest. A constricting, tight feeling that was always there. It was just easier to ignore it sometimes more than others. Just a year and a half ago, he was with her…
She bit her lip, hoping to control what she was fast fearing was beyond her. Hot tears threatened, stinging her eyes and she couldn't breathe. Blinking, she dispelled them, beating them back viciously, and took a deep breath, turning to leave. Before she'd pushed away from the wall, however, the musician looked up suddenly then frowned.
"How long have you been there?" he asked, his voice infused with sufficient scorn and contempt. Darcy jumped to her feet, recognizing the voice as the boy who'd thrown sticks for her Christmas evening, trotting over to him. A grin played at his lips as the dog came to him. He set the guitar aside and held out a hand to her, rubbing her ears.
"Not long," she managed to answer after a moment's pause. "I was up…walking the halls with Darcy. I heard…" she stammered, gesturing to him. He paid her only minimal attention, reserving most for the dog, or so he engineered it to seem so. "You play well, Draco. How long have you…?" She bit her lip and looked down at her feet after it had come out. "I'm sorry, it's not my…"
"Not your business, that's right," he said blandly. He looked up quickly and saw her step back a little, head still down. It was enough to make him feel slightly bad for snapping. He let a few moments pass in awkward silence. "Two years," he said succinctly.
She looked up, surprised. "Wow. You sound as if you'd played for longer than that. Do you practice often?" She smiled and shook her head. The questions just came out, one right after another, and she couldn't help but be curious about his odd pastime. She didn't expect an answer.
He expelled an agitated breath and left Darcy to explore the new space. To her surprise, though, he answered. "Every night, almost. Well, when I'm in school."
Jude smiled wryly, stepping further into the light of the room, still careful to keep to the walls. She didn't want him to feel she was intruding, when she in fact had. "Aren't you afraid someone will find out…Filch, I mean."
"Nah, he and I reached an…er…agreement years ago," Draco smirked. "He's not telling." He looked at her suspiciously, picking his guitar up from the cold floor again.
"Don't worry. Secret's safe," Jude reassured. "Does your father know?" She shook her head. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't ask."
Draco shrugged. "Why not?" he consented blandly after a bit of thought. "No, he doesn't, actually." Then narrowing his eyes, he asked caustically, "Why? You're not going to tell him, are you?"
Jude smirked. "Yeah, because your dad and I are such great friends."
"Still…" Draco continued, suspiciously.
"No, Draco. I promise I won't tell anyone," she placated. "If…you play something for me." She raised her eyebrows and smiled at the boy conspiratorially.
"Really?" Draco asked, furrowing his brow, a hint of pride lacing an ample amount of apprehension. "It's crap, you know."
Jude shook her head. "Not what I heard. Didn't know you were a Nirvana fan," she said, slyly grinning.
"Yeah, well." He placed his fingers, ready to play, yet bent over the guitar in thought. Drumming his fingers on the smooth wood, he pressed his lips together. Suddenly he smiled, raising one eyebrow artfully. "I got one for you."
She leaned against the wall and crossed her arms over her chest, watching as he brought his fingers down over the strings once, striking an unmistakable chord. Jude smirked and nodded her head. The last time she'd heard this song, it was in Rhys' voice. Swallowing, fighting against the lump in her throat, she endeavored to remain unchanged, disaffected.
"Hey, Jude," he sang.
"That was written about a chap, you know," she said incredulously, hoping that her voice hadn't faltered as she'd feared it had. It was agonizing, but he shouldn't have to know that.
He simply shook his head at the comment and pressed on.
Jude stood, the wall being her sole support, drowning in a hundred uninvited memories of him, of Cambridge, of Adda. She wondered what it would be like if he were still here with her, if anything would be the same, different, wonderful, terrible. She tried to recall if anyone's voice had struck her in such a way before, if anyone's sheer presence had affected her the way his did…
Most of all, she wondered if he still loved her…still hated her. But then, she knew he was gone and so this wondering, this remembering didn't matter. Whether he still loved her at all or truly hated her for what she'd done to him, it was obsolete.
"Was it really that bad?" Draco asked, startling her.
She jumped a little and then shied at her reaction. Forcing herself to give him her full attention, she apologized weakly. "No, it was wonderful, Draco. It's just the last time I heard that song…You remind me of a friend is all."
He stared at her unreservedly, discerningly. She looked away, examining her hands, fidgeting. "Is this the same friend who gave you Darcy? The same chap?"
She sighed heavily and nodded reluctantly. "Yes. He played the guitar as well. You sound a bit alike."
"He died, didn't he?" Draco said matter-of-factly, jarring her a bit. "You said, 'He's gone,' but what you really meant was 'He's dead.'"
She frowned. "When did I…"
"After the Yule Ball, remember?" he clarified a bit tersely. "I can tell. He's dead."
The room was spinning, she couldn't breath, and she held out her hand to catch the wall. Hearing it was another matter for her, especially hearing it discussed so dully, so clinically. "How did you know that," she said just above a whisper, reminding herself not to react harshly…that he was just a kid and that he didn't know anything about it.
"The way you talk about him. You said 'he played,' past tense."
She nodded. The pain, tense and constricting in her stomach, was unbearable. "Yeah, I guess I did say it like that," she said with a smile that felt more like a grimace, hoping that he would change the subject or that she would gain the strength to leave. "Hey, Draco. You don't think we could change the subject, do you?" she ventured, the chill of the stone against her had the only feeling in her body.
"Okay," he said shortly, a bit put-off by her serious tone. "I was just trying to make conversation. You don't like talking about him, do you?" he commented archly, smirking at her.
She shook her head.
"You must have liked the bloke an awful lot to make you act like such a sorry sod at the mere mention of him," he said, strumming the guitar idly.
She expelled a deep breath and laughed half-heartedly. "Yeah," she consented with little enthusiasm. She called Darcy away from the opposite side of the small alcove. Pushing away from the wall, she surveyed the boy as he played absently, an amused smirk fighting for dominance on his face. With no other recourse, she reverted to her teacher-and-authority tone. "You should get some sleep soon, Draco," she ordered dispassionately, turning to head back down the narrow flight of steps. She felt no anger toward the boy surprisingly enough. However, she blamed herself completely for the way she felt currently. It was her fault to intrude on the boy, to heap her guilty conscience on him and then snap at him for showing an interest, however sardonic and mocking that interest may have been, in her eventful past. She had only herself to blame.
Draco looked up at Jude as she turned to go. "I'm sorry, Jude. I didn't mean to be a prat for once. I guess I can't help it." He didn't sound remorseful, but Jude knew he was trying to be.
Jude paused and stared at him. She answered Draco honestly, no more or less than he deserved. "You have nothing to be sorry for, Draco. It's me." She patted Darcy at her side, feeling the weariness of countless nights of interrupted sleep weighing down on her. "Thanks for the song, though."
***
Midday. And it was cold. February Twenty-Fourth. The Second Task.
Jude's nerves threatened to tear her to shreds. Moody had stuck to her like glue the entire damn day, hassling her more than normal. She watched the water tensely, as if she could make it part with her eyes. Underwater. The Second Task took the Champions underwater, for Christ's sake! Jude wondered whether everyone and their Uncle Joe was involved in the conspiracy to do Harry in. Dumbledore seemed to think it a splendid idea to have the Champions undergo a challenge of this fashion. And what's worse—it involved even more innocent students. And she couldn't see a damn thing that was going on down there.
She'd strongly cautioned Dumbledore, presenting her misgivings in a very rational manner…for about five seconds before she reverted to ranting wildly about all that could go wrong. Of course he listened to her points one by one as if her opinion concerning Harry mattered, and then proceeded to do the exact opposite. Now not only were Harry, Cedric, and Krum down at the bottom of a bloody lake, but Ron, Hermione, Cedric's Cho, and a little French girl waited for them…unconscious. And she couldn't see them!
At least someone was sharing her anxiety. A few minutes ago, Fleur, the Beauxbatons Champion, emerged like a bedraggled mink from the lake screaming about some gridylows and crying. She knew her sister waited for her at the bottom of the lake and time was ticking down. Madame Maxime was by her side trying to calm her, telling her that the time didn't matter, that her sister would be fine. But the girl would have none of it. She continued to sob and pace by the lake's edge.
The others, Jude assumed, were doing fine. Yet she mimicked the girl, pacing like a caged tiger on the shore. Harry, Jude noted at the beginning of the Task, looked confident and as the whistle was blown, and ate something that looked utterly repulsive. Professor Snape, who now stood behind her, his eyes following her manic motions with apprehension, informed her sourly that it was gillyweed. He'd been fuming ever since.
Cedric had executed a Bubble-Head Charm, the same as the French girl, yet no gridylows had snagged him as of now. Now. It was twenty minutes into the Task. Nothing. Not a ripple. Jude glanced up at the Judges. They looked unconcerned, bored even. Karkaroff glanced at her less since the Yule Ball. Hopefully, he'd finally put two and two together to figure out she was not in league with any dark lord, especially not Voldemort. But still he saw her as a threat and maintained a nice distance.
A half an hour had now passed. Dumbledore had assured her that only a select few knew of the task ahead of time. Bagman was one of them. Jude looked up at him now. He seemed excited, nervous and cheerful. But unconcerned of any danger. Jude was not worried on that end. Dumbledore himself knew of the Task since the idea was envisaged. He wasn't telling, Jude knew for a fact. And Ludo Bagman. Jude had already checked him out. Nothing since he'd been acquitted of involvement in the Death Eaters all those years ago. A gambler, but that was nothing new. He'd lost his zeal for a fast-paced life of crime. Betting against goblins was all he had the energy for these days.
Jude ran through the possibilities in her head as the time wound down. Forty-five minutes. It was getting close. Who else was there? Maybe they weren't among the line-up Jude had in front of her for the last two tasks. Maybe it was someone on the outside somehow weaseling their way in. Or maybe it had all been a fluke? Nothing really to get excited over—perhaps some kid played a joke on Harry and was just having a laugh at the kid's expense?
Fifty-five minutes. There was a ripple on the surface, or it could have just been her imagination. Jude watched intently as the surface seemed more disturbed, more agitated. She was right—it was something. Cedric, in fact, with Cho. She watched as the students trudged out of the water, shivering. The crowd cheered. Jude didn't look away from the water's shimmering surface. More ripples. Jude hoped that it was another person…Harry. And it was another person, she noted with some relief. It was the Bulgarian kid, Krum with Hermione.
An hour. It had been an hour now. Jude bit her lip and watched, not daring to blink.
The water stilled and settled to its undisturbed mirror sheen.
Jude turned swiftly to Professor Snape. "How long should gillyweed last?" she asked tensely.
He looked at her steadily. "An hour, maybe a little more," he said. She knew he was being optimistic for her sake.
The gillyweed would be wearing off any time now. She looked to Dumbledore. He was watching the water as intently as she had been. It still glistened in the sun, smooth and stagnant. She held her breath.
A tickle at the surface caught her attention, but soon it faded with a few ripples into nothing.
And the crowd waited, watching.
She released her breath and smiled, finally. A head poked above the glassy water sending ripples enough to be unmistakable. It was Harry and with him, Ron…and the little French girl?
So that's what had taken him so long. Jude shook her head. Bloody Gryffindors. She almost had a heart attack because Harry was playing the noble sodding hero. The crowd seemed to eat it up though. The judges gathered in conference with Dumbledore and numerous screeching merpeople. It appeared that even though he'd come in past the allotted time, his chivalric performance was noted by a few of them. Karkaroff looked less than pleased, though, and noted it in his score after loud and cacophonous words were exchanged between Dumbledore and a merman…or mermaid…she couldn't tell. Jude wasn't really paying attention. She watched as Fleur ran to her sister, shaking and crying, and wrapped her arms around her. She watched as Ron socked Harry on the shoulder and berated him for coming in last. She watched as Harry gratefully listened to Ron's mock-lecture with a smile.
The Second Task was over. She could breath again. At least until the final task, she thought. But she was willing to push that to the back of her mind for now. Sirius would be expecting word from her as soon as possible on how it had gone. And for once she had good news to tell him. Harry had tied for first place with Cedric.