author's note: Thanks to an anonymous reviewer, I remember why I hated editing/writing/rereading book IV so much, and come beseeching you for your advice. The problem with book IV, other than I can't write romance, is that Ginny is kind of out-of-character for the entire book (most of the book). Instead of being her usual self, she stubbornly insisted on being a less logical version of Hermione. I'm at a loss.
Don't worry: she should be back in character by the end of the book. Thus far, my only plausible solution is to include some more scenes with her in it, to try, at least, to explain her inconsistencies in characterisation, which do have reasons for them. Sorry, Ginny lovers!
On the plus side, my chapter order for Book V seems to check out!
...Although, I still haven't edited it yet, so it's still once a week for me!
Chapter Eighty-One: This Year's Threat
This year, most unfortunately, they did not have insurance against Malfoy. No teachers were waiting in their usual compartment; they had it quite to themselves, just the three of them. Even Ginny had gone off somewhere else, with a smile and a wave at Harry.
Hermione tried to take the opportunity of the long train ride to speak with them about house-elf rights. Harry told her everything he remembered about Dobby, and then confessed,
"Hermione, I don't know anything about house-elves—and neither do you, really. Perhaps, before you try to change the world, you would learn how they feel about the matter."
He had no idea how she would accomplish this, of course, but it gave him the space to change the subject. Hermione must have known that that was what he was doing, but she spoke with him about her favourite class, Arithmancy, until Ron and Harry were both nearly bored to tears. He decided that he'd chosen his electives correctly. Although….
"What about Ancient Runes?" he asked, with a sidelong glance at Ron. He should know at least a little about those, right?
Hermione could go on about anything scholastic for hours. This might, however, even to help her get some of it out of her system, if that were possible.
They were interrupted by the appearance of Malfoy, come to gloat; this year would be standard fare, which meant that Harry should start peeling his eyes for the coming threat now.
"I assume that you found your wand," Harry said, cocking his head to the side, and studying Malfoy. He hadn't drawn, but the Malfoys would never send their young scion off without that most important tool.
Malfoy scowled at him, as if he'd said something wrong. "It has been confiscated for evidence," he said, stiffly, and, with a sigh, Harry understood.
Of course, it couldn't have happened to a better person. Malfoy must have a new wand, yet again—he'd never grow attached to any of them, at this rate. If wandlore were correct, he'd never bond with any of them. This pleased Harry rather, as it meant that Malfoy's path forward was on a steep incline. The only other person to whom that still applied, now, was Neville Longbottom. Harry would have to find a way to ensure that Neville pulled ahead of Malfoy in class. He'd consider it part of his revenge against Malfoy Senior, for what he'd done to Ginny.
Malfoy cast a dismissive glance around their compartment, taking in Ron's dress robes covering the cage of the unfortunately-named owl Pigwidgeon, Sirius's compensatory gift to Ron, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione themselves. Crabbe and Goyle seemed impatient to get back to their compartment, but Malfoy acted as if he had all the time in the world. He must be a horrible friend, and not just an annoying brat to those he hated. Of course, Goyle and Crabbe were mere lackeys…did Malfoy perhaps have no friends, only followers? Was that how Slytherin worked? Perhaps Harry belonged there, after all; he did come of a friendless background, after all, on either side of the equation.
"Look, Malfoy, just come to your point and leave us in peace, alright?" Harry asked, with a put-upon sigh. He missed the reprieve third year had offered.
"I suppose you're going to enter, aren't you?" Malfoy asked, staring at him intensely. "Anything to stay in the spotlight…I'm sure you'd love the fame and glory…."
"I wasn't planning on entering," he said, which was true, as he had no idea what Malfoy was talking about. But if it were something that would put him in the spotlight, he was sure he wasn't interested. Might be this year's threat, though…. "You might be seeking for a source of fame and prestige, but I have no need of them."
"Weasley's entering, then?" he asked, considering Ron, now. Harry was almost amused. Let no one doubt Ron's worth. "I suppose his family could afford the prize money, and they'd hardly miss one of their sons. Of course, it's supposed to be safer this year, all sorts of new restrictions."
Harry was definitely not entering himself. This sounded more like the annual threat by the moment. He glanced at Ron, to try to ensure his silence,
"Ron isn't entering, either. Unlike yours, his parents value his life." He gave Malfoy his pleasantest smile, and Malfoy recoiled. He got a hold of himself far too quickly.
"I was speaking to Weasley, not you, Potter," he drawled, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "Or do your cronies not have thoughts of their own?"
At that, Harry had to laugh. It was rare that anything Malfoy said could be considered genuinely amusing, but then, he had, as usual, no idea what he was talking about. "You'd know all about cronies, wouldn't you, Malfoy?" he asked, once he'd caught his breath. "You betray your own ignorance. I am not the leader of our group. If anyone is the leader, it's Ron. But it's beneath his dignity to answer a lowlife such as you are, yourself. That odious task falls to me. You must know that Ron is the most competent fighter out of all of us. Hermione is the smartest. It falls to me to be spokesman, and bodyguard."
For a moment, he almost wandered off into his memories, but he shook it off. "If you would take your cronies, and leave us be, I'm sure everyone would appreciate it—even they."
"Why, you—" Malfoy began, eyes narrowing almost to slits in his anger. Harry rolled his eyes at Malfoy's typical behaviour.
"Get lost, Malfoy," said Hermione, getting to her feet. "I haven't forgotten what you said during the attack."
Oh, look. Hermione was developing common sense.
"Did you know that we're allowed to use magic on the train to Hogwarts? Do you want a demonstration of some of the jinxes I studied?"
Malfoy backed away, waving his arms. "I just dropped by to have a civil conversation with you lot. I should have known better. This isn't over, Potter!"
In other words, trying to cover his ego after it got kicked by an unexpected opponent.
"I should have slapped him, again," Hermione muttered to herself. No one contested.
For once, he didn't have to wait to learn what the latest threat was: it was something called the Triwizard Tournament. Quidditch was canceled for the year, which was just as well: Harry rather suspected that he'd need to spend most of his free time practising both forms of magic, to even survive to the end of the year. He had forgot neither prophecy. The Dark Lord shall rise again… greater and more terrible than ever he was… And either must die at the hands of the other, for neither can live while the other survives…
The words rang in his ears as he listened to Dumbledore's announcement. This, then, the news that Malfoy was not supposed to have, but had nevertheless owing to his father's position and influence (read: bribery). A Tournament, meant to "foster good will and understanding" amongst the three oldest, greatest wizarding schools in Europe, the very three Hermione had casually mentioned the night of the attack. A month from now, the students of Durmstrang and Beauxbatons would arrive here at Hogwarts. The Champions would be chosen on Hallowe'en—which, all by itself, sent alarm bells ringing in his head. He made a mental note to corner Ron as soon as possible. The only thing he could do was start preparations as soon as possible.
He'd need to spend some time researching past Tournaments; if only he'd known before. If only he could have conferred with Mother about it, last night. And he could tell Sirius, but…. Sirius already knew that the Tournament was being held this year, doubtless. Mrs. Weasley had dropped plenty of hints about the special events happening at school this year. Everyone must have known, or everyone with any sort of connections, except for them.
His thoughts were interrupted when the double doors leading to outside burst open with a bang, and the Hall filled with the clank of wood on stone, as a stranger strode into the hall. The thunking was caused by his wooden leg colliding heavily with the floor. His mismatched eyes made even Harry uneasy. Apparently, he was their new Defence teacher. Harry was immediately inclined to be all the warier of him, given past experience. Of course, it was possible that the first two years had been anomalies, but….
So, this was the renowned Alastor Moody, Dumbledore's friend, one of the greatest aurors of the modern age. Aurors had a dangerous job, but, to Harry's understanding, they were the wizarding equivalent of police. For some reason, Harry could think of no better job to aim at. Even still, the appearance of Dumbledore's old friend was giving him second thoughts, for any of a number of reasons.
Pleasantries were exchanged between Moody and Dumbledore, which Harry ignored, introductions were given, which Harry barely heard, and then Dumbledore announced the Triwizard Tournament, which caught and held Harry's interest. He rather thought he'd have to be more proactive this year—and not just by setting up his Foe-Glass as soon as possible, to try to scout out the incoming threats. He'd have to set to building up his magic reserves. The healing practice Mother set him to wouldn't cut it. He'd have to ask Ron for his assistance. Wasn't that how he'd built up his magic before? Sheer necessity that came of being the younger brother of the troubleseeker crown prince?
He glanced at Ron, trying to decide how long he could afford to wait, how receptive Ron would be to helping. But, who was he kidding? Anything for a fight, right? And Harry could help him to better understand magic, which he also needed…and then, too, this training would help both of them to survive Riddle's inevitable resurrection.
Tomorrow, then. For now, Harry settled for watching Moody with eyes narrowed in suspicion. Friend of Dumbledore's or not, any Defence teacher was guilty until proven innocent.
There was a certain decrease of tension throughout Gryffindor House that Harry only slowly realised came of a change in "management"—namely, that Percy had graduated last year (as had Oliver Wood, but he was only a terror to the quidditch team, and they'd won last year, anyway). Harry found that he didn't feel the need to keep watch as much as he had before, that he no longer ensured that a room was completely empty before talking about sensitive information. Having his fellow students otherwise occupied on the other side of the room was enough for him.
He was still quiet when he took Ron aside to make his request. It came in three parts, and two of them were secret—those required the Room of Requirement that he had learnt of from Sirius. On the one hand, he needed to go back over everything he and Thor had ever learnt of fighting, make it fresh in his memory—his duels with Riddle always seemed to return to such "muggle" forms of combat. He fully expected for Ron to have the upper hand in this field, but he himself knew that he had greater skill with magic, and if Thor had any sort of interest in learning the other sort of magic—and perhaps he now did—Harry could give him some guidance, at least. For the most part, however, he suspected he'd be practicing that magic, alone, in the Room of Requirement.
Wizarding magic, however, required much less secrecy. They might even drag Hermione into learning wizarding spells meant for defence and offence…and maybe occlumency. But for now…he'd stick with the most important, fundamental things.
He needed to build up his reserves. He need to practice fighting. It was inevitable, foretold…inexorable. Last year the anomaly, the only time, perhaps, that they would not have their annual clash. The words of Trelawney's prophecy loomed large over his head.
"I have a request to make of you, Brother," he said, keeping his voice low, despite his comparative lack of caution. He was sure to be looking elsewhere when Thor turned his way, doubtless at a loss—why, now that he knew the rules of invocation, would Harry call him that?
"Something troubles you," he said, and Harry frowned, wondering if he'd somehow become so transparent that even Thor could read him without fail. Or perhaps, again, it was merely another case of him underestimating him. Perhaps, he was too predictable.
"A favour. There is time you would spend at quidditch practice. I ask for something I know will not disappoint you. What I said to Malfoy is very true: you are the strongest of us. Neither Hermione nor I could hope to match you in strength. In other circumstances, this would not trouble me. But two prophecies loom before us, still, and Riddle has had over half a century to study wizarding magic—and I shall study this, too—but he knows nothing of the other—of Asgardian magic." He couldn't resist checking again to ensure no one was listening. A surreptitious glance around the room confirmed that no one was nearby, and even the Twins were bent over a piece of parchment, arguing over its contents with Lee Jordan.
"More than that," he continued, turning to at last face Thor, "he does not have our training. But neither do I, when I have had no chance to practise—and no more have you. What would your father think? Mother once called you 'Asgard's quintessential youth'. Knowing you, part of your restlessness is just this—the lack of any ability to train, to prepare for combat, especially as you know it is coming. I think that it would be beneficial to both of us."
He did not want to admit that he could appreciate the challenge that came of battle, at the very least. Nor would he be bringing any weapons with him to the Room, save for his wand, of course (it would be quite the oversight to forget such, when danger was imminent, and war loomed on the horizon). He thought he was being quite open about his intentions, regardless.
Which did not stop Thor from trying to find ulterior motives. Harry sighed. He seemed to be doing much of that, of late.
"Meet me outside the Room of Requirement, tomorrow, after lunch. I think we have some spare time, then. Let us test the limits and uses of the Room of Requirement, shall we?"
Hogwarts had been built a millennium ago, by the four greatest witches and wizards of their time. They lived in a time of war, although it lay between the Norman Conquest and Viking raids (funny how the Norse kept showing up, wasn't it? Norman meaning what it meant, and the Vikings being who they were…he felt rather tangled up in the affairs of the time regardless of actual involvement). The Founders, it was agreed, were nominally Christian, but they would not have overlooked any potential defence for their school, as later generations would, on account of it being heresy, or sacrilege, or whatever name they would lay on it. They lived in a time before firearms, which meant that the muggle weapons they would have used were all different styles of familiar weapons from home. Regardless of whether the Room fabricated its materials ex nihilo (doubtful), or called them from some otherspace, or elsewhere in the castle, it could provide weapons.
He was confident about this argument. What remained was the limits of the Room to replicate or provide more obscure weapons. Well, they'd have to see.
-l-
See they did, as Harry had asked, in a free slot (with Hermione otherwise occupied with her favourite class). Harry only had a few days left before their first Defence class, next week. It was four days away, on the sixth of September. He was determined to have some measure of defence, if worse came to worst, against the new Defence Professor, by the time of his first class. If his motto was "CONSTANT VIGILANCE", Harry would follow that rather paranoid creed. If he weren't out to kill Harry, he might just be impressed, and Harry had his heart set on becoming an auror. Those were the best people to save the world—or even for those who strove for redemption to fix it in smaller ways.
The Room of Requirement did not disappoint. It was possible that it brought objects from even outside the castle, via some sort of spell like apparation, portkeys, and the World Opening spell. It was one of the single most impressive feats of magic he had ever seen, which was somewhat galling. The only other magical things that readily compared—that were actual works of magic—were those laid upon Thor's hammer, the World-Gates (whatever made them) and the ceiling of the Great Hall.
It did not escape his notice that two out of four of those—half—were here in Hogwarts. Of course, the Founders had worked together to create those two masterpieces. Out of respect for it, he decided against even trying to figure out how it worked by his usual recourse (opening his seventh sense, and studying the structure of the magic, itself). It deserved better.
He could tell, with his seventh sense partly open, that this space was full of what could only be described as potential. That was what the magic lent itself to, here. It was an ideal place for study, for learning is the process by which potential is converted into knowledge. Where it is realised, and given form. In short, the Room of Requirement was, among many other things, the ultimate classroom. If he wished to have Neville surpass Malfoy, Neville had best prepare to spend many long hours studying here. Not that he felt like sharing the Room, just yet.
For now, it more than fulfilled its function. The ability Sirius had shared, hiding the door, that none realise that the Room was in use, made it the most secure location to practise that he could think of. Then, too, there was the variable size indicated on the Map, enabling it to exceed its natural boundaries, occupying twice as much space as it was possible for it to occupy, given the floorplan of the rest of the seventh floor of Hogwarts. The Room of Requirement was ordinarily the size of a classroom, he thought he understood. Classrooms were not that big in Hogwarts. But it could expand to several times that size, as needed. The roof needed to be higher than it would ordinarily be possible at Hogwarts; the Room accommodated this. There was a certain impossibility to the structure of the Room, that might have given even him a headache to try to figure out.
"A wall of weapons," he said, instead, turning to the left-hand wall. "How clichéd."
"It is very convenient," said Thor, beaming, as if the two words were synonyms. …Come to think of it, did he know the meaning of the word?
Harry shook his head, and stared at the wall, looking for something that would be about the same size and weight as the Sword of Gryffindor. This was more difficult than it sounded, because the Sword of Gryffindor was goblin-make, so who knew what it was made of, and what sort of spells were built into it? Some of these weapons might have the same problem, of course…there was no real way to know; even his seventh sense might let him down, with such a vast amount of data before it. Operating by sight alone was risky, but his best chance.
Ron seemed puzzled by his choice, but Harry shrugged. He was not about to admit that he'd use the first excuse he got to acquire permission from Dumbledore to use the Sword of Gryffindor, anymore than he was about to admit that the Sword was still in his possession, and therefore the go-to weapon, when he'd yet to figure out how that part of him serving as his final defence against Thanos (or at least, it had had that function years ago) had managed to make weapons out of nothing. That was another trick to ponder, when he had the time. What was school to him, next to the weight of the prophecy?
Priorities, priorities. Past experience told him that his life was liable to be in jeopardy several times this year. He was going to prioritise defending himself.
"Just pick something," he said, with a sigh.
Because he'd picked a sword, Thor did the same. That was Harry's explanation for why Thor lost. Although, of course, there were also the facts that he wasn't used, yet, to fighting as a mortal (semi-mortal?), and the fact that Harry had been the only one to fight for his life in the past three years. Still….
He remembered a time before, victory where he'd expected only defeat. Onlookers he'd persuaded that they had misread the situation. And he could believe it then; he could believe it now.
"I suppose I have had more practice than you," he said, thoughtful. "And this is not your weapon of choice, after all. It is hardly surprising, if you lose when you do not fight with your best."
Strange, what memories linger for some, and not others. Perhaps it was only that compression of memories, covering the span of half a year, that made him remember that one at all. Thor had clearly forgotten it. Very well, he felt no need to remind him.
Just because it was a memory of better times did not make it worth dwelling upon.
"You're just a bit rusty, is all," he said, with a smile. It was not a mocking smile—he injected as much reassurance as he could into it. He held out a hand. "And you too little understand how to fight as a mortal. Do try to keep your own limitations in mind. Let this not be another New Mexico."
Thor glowered at the reminder. Harry paused, thoughts derailed. He had to ask the question.
"What became of Jane?" he asked, because if Thor were here, then he was not where she was. Why hadn't he thought of it before? That and…something about Hermione?
"Our differences were too great for us to overcome," Thor said. "Also, a year is much longer for humans. She believed that I had forgotten her, because I failed to… 'keep in touch'."
Harry sighed, because that was the most diplomatic response he could come up with. "You mean you didn't call her, or send her an e-mail, or anything."
He had no idea how he knew what e-mail was, but decided that thinking about that was probably not worth it.
Thor looked sheepish, and fidgeted, as if he had been caught doing something he should not be doing. "I should have visited more often," he mused. "But our worlds have very different technologies. I had little else in the way of recourse."
"You're supposed to at least remember to stay in touch. That's fundamental to any sort of relationship," Harry said, leaning against the wall. He was unable to keep all of his exasperation from his voice.
"But we…split up, and decided to be friends. After you died, I was not as I was. I needed time to recover. I believe she may also have blamed herself for your death. These were issues that were too difficult to work through."
"…I see," said Harry. This somehow tied in with the memories he'd known all along were missing. He hated to be reminded of that gap, and therefore sought for a different topic of conversation, while they were both still trying to catch their breath. Ah, yes. Hermione.
"And what of Hermione?" he asked, turning to face Thor, who blinked, as if startled. Right.
"Hermione?" he repeated, and Harry sighed.
"Yes, Hermione Granger. Our mutual best friend, the smartest witch of our year, took every course on offer last year. Perhaps even smarter than Jane," he said, a finger at his chin as he considered the idea, and the paths it opened up. Hmm.
This merited further thought. He frowned. "She does seem to value your opinion… and she does seem to volunteer to go out of her way to spend time with you."
"And what of you and Ginny?" asked Thor, so abruptly that it couldn't have been clearer that he was trying to avoid that line of thought. Hmm.
"What of me and Ginny?" asked Harry, in a deliberately bored voice that Sirius would have been proud of. "Last I checked she had just barely ceased from her anger following the attack at the World Cup. Or did she say something to you?"
There was a further tell to add to an already impressive list: Weasleys tended to turn red down to their ears when under pressure. It made it a bit too easy to tell what they were feeling. But Thor knew better than to even try to lie to him. Not that he would succeed, even if Harry had been normal, and not possessed of a lie-detecting sense (a sixth sense).
Thor did not seem to appreciate that Harry was not as upset by his enquiries as Thor had been when the tables were turned. There is no satisfaction in turning tables when the recipient does not lament their plight. Harry very nearly took pity on him, but as he wasn't receiving any response….
"Shall we try again, then?" he asked, with a smile.
Thor might be more impulsive, but he fought harder when angry.
