Chapter Seventy-Two: The Prophetess Speaks
Buckbeak lost the appeal, and Malfoy nearly lost his life gloating about it. It was the only thing he had to gloat about, after Harry and company had thoroughly trounced Malfoy and his cronies in the last quidditch match of the season, thereby winning the quidditch cup for Gryffindor, at last. While this meant that the proverbial noose had loosened from around the collective necks of the quidditch team, it meant that Malfoy felt an increased need to vent his ire.
"But it's not murder if it's Malfoy," Harry protested, as Hermione glared at him, clenching her hand into a fist. "Besides, you slapped him; I don't see why you stopped Ron."
"Because Ron might have killed him, and you weren't stopping him," she said, rubbing her hand against her robes as if it stung. With a face as angular as Malfoy's, she might have poked herself. A glance over in Ron's direction showed him looking slightly sheepish, but not in the slightest bit self-conscious or remorseful. Harry couldn't blame him.
"We're going to end up killing Malfoy, sooner or later. Riddle is going to come back, and when that happens, Malfoy will waste no time signing himself up on the Death Eaters sign-ups list. Will you still defend him when you meet on opposite sides of the battlefield, I wonder."
"What do you know?" Hermione snapped, recovering almost instantly from Harry's mention of Riddle. Ron must have seen Harry's expression darken, because he shot him a look that Loki had had to use on Thor all the time. It was somewhat disorienting to have the tables turned, thus, and that disorientation was enough for him to get a grip on himself. He should probably thank Ron, but he didn't, because there was no way to do this without both arousing Hermione's suspicion, and sounding ridiculous.
But Hermione was still coiled as tight as a spring. "Oh, we can't let them execute Buckbeak! We all know that Malfoy was faking his injury, and that Buckbeak was just acting according to his nature—hippogriffs attack when provoked, and, when you look at those beaks and talons, Buckbeak really held back! There must be something…yes, I think that might work, but what about—"
She rushed off to the library at this. They would not learn what she was on about for several days, as was typical of Hermione.
"Did I get a trial?" Harry asked Ron. He'd gone all the way up to the Astronomy Tower to get away from everyone, so, naturally, Ron had followed him.
Ron frowned, but somehow knew precisely what Harry meant. He did look remorseful, now, corners of his eyes turned down, head bowed, shoulders even set in a sort of slouch. Harry wanted to snap that he didn't blame him for not knowing about the whole…Thanos thing, but suspected that if he said it flat out, it wouldn't help. Thor was a classic man of action, which seemed to mean that he believed something only if he saw it. This had often backfired spectacularly for him in the past, so this attitude was tempered somewhat by his previous experience with mortality on Earth. You know, the one that wouldn't happen for two decades.
"Ah…no," he admitted, after a moment's hesitation. He didn't ask why Harry had to ask; he must remember that Harry said he didn't remember anything after the end of the Invasion. "That is not how matters are settled in a kingdom. Father saw sufficient proof of your guilt to imprison you. It was not an indefinite sentence. Understand that he did not wish to do this, and that he fully intended to release you when he deemed that you were no longer a threat. He told me that it is one of the difficulties of being king—that the people must come first, before even those whom he loves, and that being just often gives the impression of cruelty."
"Ah," said Harry. "The difficult choices. That sounds an excuse. Did he ever even come visit?"
Thor's silence was answer enough. "It was not out of want of love for you, Brother," he said, at length. "There was but little time between your arrest, and the reappearance of the Aether. That was when they murdered Mother, and I—"
"Broke me out of jail to help you?" asked Harry. "Because you knew that I loved Mother, despite everything." He didn't remember the events, but he could guess, read between the lines.
"I needed to follow them, after they took Jane. I needed a means of traveling between the worlds without use of the Bifrost, and you…I knew that you had such a means. You knew secrets that none of us had discovered."
"A World-Gate," Harry said. "But I suppose you didn't ask your Father for permission—"
"He is your father, too," said Thor, all earnest enthusiasm and loyalty. "You know that he loves you as well as I."
Harry looked over the balcony, and realised that the ground was too far away. He had to turn away, with the stars shining bright overhead. There was too much bitter threat in their existence, so far removed from safety.
He considered Thor's words. Love. The Sorting Hat had told him that love was his guiding force—the guidance of his mother, the authority of his father. It had seen what he had missed, what Loki had forgot. Father, always so distant, always so difficult to please; he'd felt he'd had to work harder at that than anything else, just to be noticed.
But, sometimes, he'd succeeded. He had forgotten that. And if Odin favoured his natural son, he didn't realise it. He meant to be even-handed and fair, but if there was a certain distance there, perhaps it wasn't even in the difference between adopted children and natural ones. Perhaps, it was something else. Perhaps, he'd thought that Thor needed him more, impulsive and reckless as he was. Perhaps, he'd considered Loki his ally in trying to rein in Thor's impulses. It was all hypothetical. He couldn't know for sure: Loki had never asked. But, what did he think?
He remembered Mother, thought of Mother, and was unable to doubt the sincerity of her love. It was her strength, more than that of anyone else, which had brought him through this year. But Odin couldn't measure up to Harry's scant knowledge of James Potter, who had died defending his wife, only for her to die defending their son.
Could he? He glanced around the room, but didn't see any of it. There were stars everywhere. He had to close his eyes.
"Thor, Brother, please," he begged. "I am still trying to comprehend everything else that has happened this year. It is very different from the last two years, is it not? Sirius, and Professor Lupin, Peter Pettigrew, the dementors…and then you. I have a father: James Potter. He may be dead, but all I know of him says that he deserves my respect. You seek too much of me, too soon. Give me time."
"He loved you no less than he loved me," Thor insisted, with that single-minded focus that often led him into trouble. Harry sighed, thinking back to all of those dangerous old memories.
"…I know," he said, his voice almost a whisper. "But, he is not here, now, listening to us. I have much to resent him for. Give me time, Thor. Are we not speaking now? Perhaps, in time, I will agree with your words, but for now…."
He spread his arms wide, and stepped away from the balcony, turning to face Thor. "Be patient. How often has haste availed you?"
Thor shook his head. "Then I shall ask you a question," he said, and Harry nodded. He knew the questions would eventually come. The chances that they were about anything other than the Invasion were infinitesimal. He braced himself, internally, whilst looking quite relaxed to all outward appearances.
"The Chitauri. Whence did they come?" This question had clearly plagued him for years. Harry looked back up at him, and the expression on his face could be mistaken for a smile, by those who didn't know him, who didn't know his background.
"What's this? Another way of asking who controls the would-be king?" he asked, tilting his head. He knew there were two ideas in Thor's head, two separate ideas, not quite touching. All Harry had just done was to bridge the two.
Thor recognised his own words, turned back on him once again. "'Controls'… then that means—"
Harry turned away, preparing for Thor to speak the name. He hadn't warned him yet that the danger was greater now than it had been before, with no thick barrier blocking off that corrupted part of his mind. But…it was only his mind. Why, then…?
Perhaps out of consideration to Harry, Thor did not speak the name. Instead, he took advantage of Harry's lack of attention to cross over, and rest a hand on Harry's shoulder. "I should have seen it before," he said. "But, that means…those dreams, in first year…."
A series of disjointed thoughts. Harry took some time sifting through them. He refused to look at Ron.
"He knows how to use the Infinity Stones," he warned. "You had best be more careful. His mastery over the Mind Stone enabled him to…broaden his victims' horizons, shall we say?"
Thor sucked in a great breath, and gripped Harry's shoulder tight. "…He brainwashed you?" Harry tried to shrug off that hand, but Thor, even in a mortal body, had an iron grip. He would not let the question go unanswered.
"Just like that friend of yours…what was his name?" The dreams were too sketchy here: he'd honestly missed the name, if ever it had been spoken.
"Clint Barton," Thor supplied, but his expression, when Harry chanced to glance at him, was distant.
"He will come to this world. He will come for me. I failed in the task he set to me, and he will not overlook the loss of the Mind Stone. Be thankful if Earth does not become his next conquest. He slaughters the half of the worlds he conquers, as if that restores some sort of cosmic balance, and calls it 'mercy'. He thinks that he is doing a good thing. He thinks that he is doing them a kindness. Do you think that you can stop him?"
"Now that I know of his threat, I promise you this: We will stop him. Together. We have always had more success, working as a team than at odds with one another. Are you willing to help me?"
Harry closed his eyes, and bowed his head. "I will help, but the two of us won't be enough. We need the Avengers."
He hated voicing that admission aloud.
Things settled down with both Buckbeak's and Sirius's trials out of the way. But at the end of May, Buckbeak was slated for execution, which stirred Hermione into motion, offended by the mere idea of an innocent creature being murdered. The would-be executioner was on the list of exonerated Death Eaters, which inclined Harry towards assisting her, and Ron, of course, signed on to keep Harry out of trouble, to repay Hagrid, and just to placate Hermione, who seemed to feel a bit miffed, still, that she'd missed out on the Scabbers Incident.
Whatever Harry had been expecting of Hermione's big secret—and he'd given it little thought, with plenty of other things to occupy his mind over the course of the year—he hadn't expected it to be time travel. Perhaps he should have—how else could you attend three classes at once? But he hadn't expected it. And he'd even less expected Hermione to suggest that they break the law to save Buckbeak.
"He's innocent, just like Sirius," she said, with a somewhat wild-eyed expression. "He hasn't done anything wrong!" Now, she looked to be on the verge of tears.
"And time travel is the only way this can work?" Harry asked for what felt the hundredth time.
Hermione nodded vigorously. "I told you already, we need an alibi! Almost no one knows that I have a time turner, and everyone who knows me knows that I never do anything reckless or against the rules—although I sometimes get dragged into similar situations by my two best friends—" She shot them one of her patented, smugly superior looks. "They'd never suspect me!"
"They'd totally expect me," Harry said. "Perhaps you should just bring Ron with you. He's good at this sort of stuff."
No one in their right mind would choose Ron for a mission involving subtlety and care. Hermione narrowed her eyes at Harry, folding her arms. Yes, she was definitely spending too much time with Ron.
"Fine, fine. The year is not complete without us breaking the law, and a hundred school rules. I hope you've planned this thoroughly."
"Of course I have," Hermione said, smiling even as Ron looked down, as if it would tune out, and exempt him from, the discussion currently happening around him.
"Good," said Harry. "Because I have no idea where we could hide Buckbeak, or how to keep him from just returning to Hagrid's cabin, or how to explain to him that he has to go into hiding."
Hermione's mouth rounded into her familiar silent realisation. She almost never said the word, "oh", but it always accompanied her silently.
"Well, er," she foundered, searching for safe ground. Harry sighed.
"…I'll see what I can figure out," he said, running a hand through his hair, with a sigh. Of course, he'd have to do half of the work on Hermione's project.
But, he did figure out the answers to some of those problems. Sirius told them about a criminal friend of his, Mundungus Fletcher, who could take Buckbeak off their hands, and that Crookshanks knew the secret way into the passage under the Whomping Willow.
"It was built to help Remus with his transformations," Sirius said, in a low voice, as if the secret could still be kept. Judging by Snape's almost-smugness, he was the one to first out Remus as a werewolf. "We used it to sneak into and out of Hogwarts's grounds. I'll arrange for 'Dung to meet you in Hogsmeade. He may be shady, but he's loyal. Even if he gets caught, he won't sell us out. 'Course, I've been wrong about that before."
Harry left Sirius to his glum thoughts, torn between trying to figure out how to undo the damage Azkaban had caused to his soul, and who-knew-what-else, and trying to plan for the immediate future. Hermione was insistent that they had to save Buckbeak at the very hour he would otherwise be executed.
"Otherwise," she explained, with exaggerated patience, "The Ministry will think that Hagrid freed him."
Harry could have figured this out on his own, but he wisely kept that fact to himself. Most of his attention still was devoted to fixing the damage done to Sirius, although St. Mungo's was doing their best to treat him long-distance. Unfortunately, they had no prior experience to fall back on, and, worse, they didn't understand the effect dementors had on the soul. Harry thought a fix was probably up to him. He was forever cornering the resident expert (Professor Lupin), and Sirius, and then researching what had been discovered of the most similar symptoms he could find. But, Sirius Black was the first person to escape Azkaban, and the first to be left in their "care" (at their mercy) for an extended period of time, without losing his mind.
References for even slightly similar events were few and far between.
Hermione continued to map out her plans for who would do what on the night of Buckbeak's "execution". Judging by her confidence, she'd run the plan past Dumbledore at some point. It was possible she hadn't, but Hermione's natural inclination was to obey authority figures, and she acted as if she had one backing her.
Of course, even as the execution crept closer, so too did final exams. They were the closer, and thus Harry spent progressively more of his time working on studying. He'd already reviewed quite a while in Ron and Professor Lupin's absence, but school still took precedence over his long-term project. Even as he studied, thoughts of his other research tended to intrude. It was while studying for History of Magic, after all, that he realised that legilimency would perforce be an integral part of any treatment program he might devise.
He came to the conclusion, sometime in the week preceding finals, that the closest they would come to an end-of-the-year threat or drama would be Buckbeak's rescue, although, as it turned out, Professor Lupin's obstacle course drove quite a few students to tears, including Hermione, who didn't quite manage to make her way through. Neither Harry nor Ron could work what it was that had so terrified her out of her, but thought that there might be some sort of hint in the way that she seemed reluctant to let either of them out of her sight for a second, over the rest of finals week.
Divination was a difficult subject to review for—there were no required materials for the course, bar the textbooks, which in turn made for no ability to practise. Only the true seers would be able to find a workaround; they scried in bowls and plates, doused with wands, read pumpkin juice or ordered tea from the kitchens (Harry hadn't realised that you could do this before, but anyone who could find the kitchens could make special requests of them, whoever it was, that worked there).
Despite his lack of practice, Harry had enough experience fabricating the sort of tale Professor Trelawney enjoyed hearing told to do well on his exam. He gave a long, intricate prophecy on the subject of Buckbeak, who often was on his mind owing to the fact that it was almost his execution date. If he was passing this class—and he knew that he was—he had also just passed his Divination exam. It wasn't that long, or that complicated, and hardly the sort of comprehensive test that you would expect from a competent teacher—but, as with Snape, while Trelawney clearly knew her stuff, she was a poor teacher of it. Of course, there was also the fact to consider that Divination was difficult to teach.
Harry shook his head to clear it. He'd already taken all the rest of his exams, and, combined with the perpetual haze of the Divination classroom, his mind was in a bit of a fog. It still occurred to him, as he was the last to take his Divination "exam", to stay behind to enquire as to the nature of prophecies, and prophetic knowledge.
Which was somewhat fitting, considering what happened next. He had packed his school satchel, and was slinging it over his shoulder, when Professor Trelawney spoke, in a harsh, guttural voice, quite different from her usual mystical whisper.
"It will happen tonight," she pronounced, in a deep growl of a voice, and Harry whirled back around to face her. He considered opening his seventh sense, would later regret not doing just that, for this was a unique experience. Trelawney stood there, unnaturally still, eyes rolled back in her head, and continued to intone her prophecy, for that was what Harry had swift realised that this was. "The Dark Lord lies alone and friendless, forsaken by his followers…. His servant has been chained these past twelve years…. Tonight, before midnight, the servant will set out to rejoin his master. The Dark Lord will rise again with his servant's aid, greater and more terrible than ever he was…. Tonight…before midnight…the servant will set out to rejoin his master…."
She trailed off, as if whatever had caused her to speak had left her, and Harry realised that he'd stood there, frozen, listening to her recitation, unable to move or even properly to think. He should have opened his seventh sense—it might have given him an idea, at least, as to the nature and source of prophecy.
Then, his mind caught up to his ears, and he realised what she'd said.
"What happened? Why are you looking at me that way, my dear boy?"
He just kept staring. "You don't remember?"
Problems concerning memory happened disconcertingly often around him. As did unique, once-in-a-lifetime opportunities—providing they were negative.
"Ah, I must have passed out for a moment—this heat. You're such a dear for worrying about me, but I'll be fine."
He shook his head with some violence. "You just gave a prophecy," he said, somewhat disappointed that she didn't remember. It would have been nice to have someone to confirm this news, which he knew had to be brought to Dumbledore's attention. And the Ministry's. There were plenty of "servants" of Lord Voldemort, even ones who had "been chained these last twelve years". It might not be Pettigrew.
However, given the Ministry's past record, he was the most likely to escape. The entire thing was bad, bad news.
"You said that You-Know-Who's servant would escape, and he would resurrect him—that You-Know-Who would 'rise with his servant's aid, greater and more terrible than ever he was'—"
"I think you may have fallen asleep, too," said Trelawney, her tone suddenly sharp. She sounded almost human. "I would certainly not presume to predict something as far-fetched as that!"
"You said yourself: you can't control what or when you predict!" Harry retorted, wondering as he did why he was even bothering. "Don't accuse me of fabricating this just because you don't remember it when you give major prophecies!"
For some reason, she did not appreciate his pointing this out to her.
"I think you had better leave, Potter. Get some air," she said, her voice so firm, for a moment she could almost be mistaken for McGonagall.
Sensing that she would not be willing to discuss this, or to back him up, he headed straight for Dumbledore's office, regardless.
It took him only three tries to guess the password, this time, and he barely noticed, reciting the lines over and over to himself, trying to engrain them into his memory. Dumbledore needed to know. He had no memory, later, of knocking upon the door, or of opening it, or of sitting down. He was fairly sure that he gave Fawkes an absent-minded wave as a greeting, but most of his attention was fixated upon Dumbledore.
"Ah, Harry, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit? Lemon drop?" Dumbledore asked, and Harry leant forwards, pressing his hands against the wood of Dumbledore's desk, heedless of any spindly silver instruments in his way.
"Professor Trelawney…" he began. "I just came from her final exam—it's my last exam of term, you know, and I was the last one she tested. And then, she sort of went all…rigid and strange… I thought she was going to have a seizure, at first, you know? But she was speaking, in a harsh growl of a voice…I've never her heard her sound that way before…. She said: 'It will happen tonight'…."
He shook his head, closed his eyes, tilted his head back, as if that would help him to recapture the memory. He recited the prophecy as best he could, eyes closed to avoid any distractions, but that just made him more aware of the little noises—the breathing of the portraits on the walls, the ruffling of Fawkes's feathers, the slight whoosh of air caused by the perpetual motion instruments. He thought he remembered the entire thing.
He opened his eyes to see Dumbledore's gaze fixed upon him with the gravest expression Harry had ever seen, from him.
"And to think, in the excitement of this year, I had forgotten what I promised to tell you at the end of last year, concerning the reason that Voldemort went after your family to begin with. You must forgive me, Harry, but the news you bring requires swift action. However…." He reached under his desk, and pulled out a silver basin, runes ringing the edges. On another day, Harry would have read them, and tried to discern their uses (if they weren't mere decoration; wizards too, did that, sometimes). For the moment, however, he just sat there, eyebrow raised, wondering what relevance this basin had. And what it was.
"This is a pensieve, Harry," Dumbledore said. The term sounded vaguely familiar, but he didn't know what it was. But he didn't say that.
"If you concentrate hard on a memory, and touch the tip of your wand to your temple, you will be able to extract that memory. If you put the memory in this pensieve, you will be able to view it as a detached observer, and even string such thoughts together…. If you would remember the experience you just had, if I could borrow your memory of what Professor Trelawney just said…it might help me to convince the Ministry to heed my warnings. They are less… reasonable, of late."
Ah. That was why. Harry closed his eyes, concentrating hard on the fresh memory of Trelawney, packing up to go, and then the way Trelawney had spoken….
He detached the memory, and, with a flick of his eyes to Dumbledore's watchful gaze, detached it from his head and put it in the pensieve.
"I will return this memory to you afterwards, of course. The Ministry will want to duplicate it for their records…they have an entire room devoted to prophecies in the Department of Mysteries. But I digress. Go back to your friends, Harry, and I will keep you informed. I must thank you for delivering this report promptly."
He reached into the fireplace, and pulled down a jar of bright green powder, of which he threw a handful into his fireplace, crying, "Ministry of Magic!"
He stepped through, disappearing, leaving Harry alone in his office.