Chapter 35
A/N: I haven't updated since…Jul 23, 2017? Today's date is…April 15, 2020?! Umm…I'm sorry? Please forgive me?
EDITED April 16, 2020 to correct typos and errors. I knew there would be some… :(
()()()()
"The tracking charms I told you about are no longer working," Albus Dumbledore told Amelia Bones through the open floo connection between his Hogwarts office and her sanctum within the Ministry building. "I tell you again, Amelia, something is dreadfully wrong!"
"And as I told you in our last in-person meeting AND the last two times you've called me on the floo!" Madam Bones replied, both sharp and impatient. "Tell me something that I do NOT know! Unless you have new eyewitnesses or fresh evidence, there is nothing more I can do. First, that VERY public dust-up in the park. Bloody hell, Dumbledore! Do you have ANY idea what a total cock up that was? Or how far the Ministry's had to bend over to preserve the Statute of Secrecy? I've had everyone from Minister Fudge and the muggle prime minister all the way down to the janitor at St. Mungo's on my back!"
"Dear lady, surely things are not all that—"
She silenced him with a predatory snarl and flattened his attempt to placate her.
"I'm nowhere near finished!" she shouted. "Top THAT with the incomprehensible weather events that I STILL cannot explain even with magic, the balls-up mess at the Dursley house, too many muggle witnesses to find and obliviate, deaths of and injuries to civilians, suspects and aurors, and all the rest that's happened over the last few days. With all that piled atop my normal duties, not to mention a hundred thousand disruptions within the Ministry, you must forgive me but I have all that I can handle. Unless you have something helpful to add…"
"Let me help you, dear girl!" Dumbledore said. Not for the first time did he regret his physical ban from the Ministry; his trust-me-bespelled ring did not work in conversations over floo fire. Even in person, its compulsion wasn't much but some help was better than none at all. "I have contacts, resources—"
"I have my own contacts and resources, thank you very much," she snapped back just as fast, "which I trust a thousand times more than I would trust whoever or whatever you would thrust upon me. Now, Headmaster," she stressed the title hard enough to make it an unmistakable insult; it spotlighted his loss of ministerial position without her having to actually mention it aloud, "if you will excuse me…"
"Madam, surely the life and safety of a child is worth relaxing your stern demeanor the slightest bit. I only want to—"
"As you do not seem capable of recognizing a soft suggestion," Amelia Bones barked, each word a staccato stab straight to the heart of the conversation, "I will say it as plainly as possible. Butt - out - of - my - affairs, Headmaster Dumbledore, both personal and professional! I neither want nor need your bulbous beak poking into areas where it is not wanted."
"Amelia, I only want to help find the boy."
Even distorted by the green fire, Dumbledore could not mistake the derisive expression on the director's face. Her monocle flashed sickly lime-yellow sparks even as her voice oozed contempt.
"To what boy do you refer, Headmaster? The 'Potter brat', perhaps?"
Dumbledore heaved a sigh heavy with regret, similar to one a kindly grandfather might offer a child who acted out despite his patient, saintly guidance. "Will you forever hold that slip of the tongue over my head? I was exhausted, famished, overwrought, and desperate to find an endangered child. I was thinking that Severus Snape might know something and remembering how he called Harry a 'brat.' My mind used the term before I could think to rephrase. I misspoke, nothing more!"
"That might be true, or it might not." Bones seemed to accept the explanation but with obvious disbelief. "It doesn't change the facts. I have too many people offering advice and help as it is. I do not need more." When Albus opened his mouth to continue his arguments, she growled out, "I mean what I say, Albus Dumbledore. Should you continue to pry, I may have to divert resources to investigate both you AND your previous Order."
Albus snapped his mouth closed, teeth clacking like two boards slammed together. "Very well, Madam. As I am not wanted, I will withdraw. However, in good conscience, I must tell you this. I intend to do everything within my power to find Harry Potter and return him, safe and sound. I will remain within the law," he affirmed in voice but not in truth, "and will send word to you should I find any 'new eyewitnesses' or 'fresh evidence' to present. Goodbye, Madam Bones."
Dumbledore pulled his head from the fireplace before the woman could respond, had she even wanted to do so. The emerald green flames vanished, leaving a smoldering, ash-heavy bed of coals in the stone cavity. A smothering silence filled the minimally decorated office. All of the major pieces of furniture—desk, chairs, bookcases, paintings, and the like—were there, but they made no noise. Even the portraits of past headmasters were eerily mute.
He instinctively sought out sounds that were at once familiar and comforting but found nothing. No sounds of burning wood. No wind-rustle of parchment. No puffs of smoke, showers of sparks, or whirs-clicks-whistles-hoots of his precious gadgets. No sleepy chirrups from Fawkes' empty perch.
Being summer, there was not even the distant laughter of children on the outer lawn. Even the portraits of past headmasters were eerily mute.
The only sound in the tower suite was one old man's hitched, pained breathing.
This is not good, Dumbledore thought even as he, from habit and without conscious thought, brushed silty, silvery ash from his beard. Not good at all. Before today, Amelia Bones was an irritant but not a serious threat to my plans. Now…If she digs too deeply into the Order, especially into its sources of funding or, even worse, my personal financial records, that will certainly change.
I can't afford the almighty shakeup in the Ministry that would occur if the head of the DMLE is assassinated. Neither can I let her carry through with her threat. What to do, what to do!
Before Dumbledore could rise from his aching knees, the dying coals in the hearth bed flared to fresh green life. The face of Rufus Scrimgeour formed in the verdant curtain of flame.
"Ahh, Albus. I'm so glad to have caught you. I've just this minute heard the most interesting news. A faction within the Wizengamot plans to call for a vote of no confidence on Minister Fudge at the next session, which is set for tomorrow!"
Dumbledore's mind stuttered, snagged by a dozen possible advantages and an equal number of disadvantages. If they voted Fudge out of office, there would be a ghastly shakeup in the Ministry. Depending on his current state of preparedness, Voldemort might well be able to take advantage of such a schism within the government. And yet…it would also be Dumbledore's kind of shakeup, one quite to his advantage.
I need more information, he thought.
Dumbledore studied the Head Auror's visage in the fireplace. Salted tawny hair could not be distinguished amongst the greens of floo powder and ash. Even so, Scrimgeour's bushy hair, thick eyebrows, and blocky face made him look to Dumbledore rather like an old, scraggly, flea-ridden lion that would soon pass beyond his prime. The headmaster refused to recall how the younger man moved with a feline, loping grace despite a permanent limp. Nor would he acknowledge the lightning-fast, cunning thoughts in the yellowish eyes framed by wire-rimmed spectacles.
"A call of no-confidence against CorneliusFudge, you say?" Dumbledore repeated. "That is most certainly interesting news. How large is this faction? Who seems to be leading it? Do they have the votes to pull it off?"
"I can't report for certain," Scrimgeour said, "but I would guess that they do, else they'd not risk speaking out. I've heard that the faction contains members from both sides of the hardline, both Light and Dark, and even some Neutrals, so that shouldn't be an issue in the deliberations. There doesn't seem to be any clear-cut leader, though I have heard rumors. Narcissa Malfoy nee Black has stepped forward to proxy the Malfoy seat. I strongly suspect she means to solidify her position and push to have her son, Draco, named the next Lord Black. After all, he is the closest male heir to Sirius Black, who I am given to understand has recently died?"
Dumbledore did not acknowledge the transparent dig for confirmation regarding the lordship status of the House of Black. Instead, he asked, "A Malfoy in the Black seat of the Wizengamot would not be good for the Light. We must do whatever we can to prevent such a move. Are any names being bandied about for Fudge's replacement? Or is it too soon?"
"Not too soon, no. So far, I've heard Bones. Ogden. Thicknesse. And myself, of course." The attempt at humility fell as flat as a soufflé after an earthquake. The predatory grin and brightened gaze were candid evidence of his true feelings on the matter. ". A few have put up Arthur Weasley, but I think that's more prank that not."
Not a good selection for me, Dumbledore thought quickly. Bones and Ogden are too stubborn to listen to my guidance, no matter how good or wise my counsel might be. Not to mention they're both trained to resist the mind arts. Only the smallest influencers, like my ring, can get through, and those fail more often than not if morals, beliefs or other influences are stronger.
Thicknesse—he's weak-minded enough that tiny doses of 'external persuasion' might work, but of those named, he has the weakest power backing within the Wizengamot. Arthur Weasley might once have been an excellent choice, until the attack on Hogwarts cost me the clan's loyalty.
But Scrimgeour… possible. Yes, possible, though I must be very careful to not tip my hand. He's devious enough to spot someone else's attempts at manipulation, but of all the choices mentioned, he has the most power and influence to keep the others out of the Minister's chair.
Dumbledore shifted to a less painful squatting position in front of the fireplace. Yes, this shakeup would fall to his advantage, and provide him with a logical, believable way to deal with that damnable Amelia Bones.
"You wouldn't have contacted me without reason, Rufus. I'm listening."
()()()()
After waking to birdsong and the clitter-clatter of a farmer's cart trundling down the road, Harry's sense of peace and safety had lasted until afternoon when it shattered into a million microscopic shards.
The day had started quite nicely, with no hint of any possible darkness. Captain Gilbreathe arrived shortly before high noon, driving the same peacock blue-and-black, two-wheeled curricle, though this time drawn by two high-stepping blue roans. Harry had enjoyed his promised lie-in yet still had time to eat a light meal, check the letter box for any reply from Luna (there was none), and put the shelter back to rights. He'd refueled the lamps' reservoirs, cleaned the ashes from both the large and small hearths, swept the floor, and wiped everything down.
He wasn't certain that he'd be returning come nighttime, so best to tidy up and pack. It was, after all, the courteous thing to do in return for the kindness received from the bothy's owner.
Daniel had arrived in time to help him with the few tasks that required two hands, such as rolling the mattress and placing it back in the oiled sack. They passed the long trip back to the capitol in companionable discussion, most of it the reaper captain's descriptions of the places and people they passed, the tasks they observed, or interesting minutia of daily afterlife.
Anissina DuLay met them at the garden gate and led Harry into the building then down two flights of stairs. A long elevator ride took them deep into the bowels of the medical wing. Her intent was to gather medical history information then begin a round of tests that would, hopefully, explain the odd responses she received when examining the mortal boy's forehead scar.
The trio gathered in a small counseling room outside the double doors that led to the vast and, to Harry, incomprehensible laboratory and examination wing. He had one glimpse of the long, long hallway, with dozens of doors branching off. Odd conduits that looked more living than mechanical created a tangled web on the ceilings and walls, occasionally pulsing like a pump or expanding as though transporting something larger than the "pipe" itself.
That one look was enough to raise every hair on his body and ratchet his fears up another level.
The counseling room was neutral in all respects, though the pale baby blue walls with white trim saved it from being boring and bland. The empty countertop of the room's small food preparation area was a tranquil cream and black marble that matched the tiled floor, while the table and chairs were a muted dusky rose. A curvaceous ceramic vase filled with cut flowers—mostly clusters of blue hydrangeas, multicolored freesia on tall stalks, baby's breath and pink lilies, backed by tall arches of decorative needle grass—provided a single splash of vibrant color to the center of the tabletop.
The trio sat at the table and enjoyed the last peaceful moment any of them had for quite a while.
What followed was hours of increasingly tense discussion that devolved into shouting, denials, accusations, demands and refusals. Healer DuLay needed answers to specific and oftentimes embarrassing or personal questions. Harry—being a mortal, a teenager, a wizard, and fearful of being ejected from Avalon—remained adamantly silent or obstinately evasive in his responses.
Gilbreathe watched the vicious dialogue as one might view an approaching collision—horrified by what was happening but powerless to stop it. By the end of the fourth hour, all three were exhausted, hungry and altogether unsatisfied with the events of the afternoon.
Even worse, neither Harry nor Anissina looked ready to surrender their positions. Until a compromise could be reached, the reaper healer refused to run any tests that might expose herself, her subordinates or her patient to an unknown, potentially dangerous energy form.
"Enough, the pair of you!" Anissina and Harry all but levitated from their chairs, both having forgotten about the third person in the room. "You're both acting like a pair of teething ninnies, too mulish to offer or accept any compromise. Can't you see? You both want the same thing—" he stabbed a finger against Harry's lightning bolt scar hard enough to rock the boy back in his chair and nearly drop him to the floor, "—that thing gone! That won't happen until the pair of you grow up!"
()()()()
Late afternoon sunlight bathed the oval chamber on the western side of the testing wing's ground level, turning white linen upholstery and tablecloths to butter yellow and blush peach; added hints of darker reds and tans to the wooden tables and picture frames; sharpened the darker reds, greens and blues of various throw pillows, lap blankets and afghans; glinted off glass, crystal and polished metal; and drew delicate traceries of light on the eggshell-white wallpaper above and golden oak raised-panel wainscoting below.
Healer DuLay led the weary* mortal teen into a comfortable waiting area where several people awaited the results of tests they never got around to performing. Among them were the majority of people Harry knew on this side of the divide between the Living and Afterlife Worlds.
Daniel Gilbreathe sat on one end of a long couch slipcovered in a white-cream-and-gold linen fabric woven in a tight herringbone design. Toshiro Hitsugaya sat on the other end. DuLay settled Harry on the space between them then occupied a blue-and-gold wingback chair set close in front of Harry. Ichigo Kurosaki and Rangiku Matsumoto rounded out the Soul Society contingent, while Giliad de Tournay, Aina Sigursdottur, and three of the doctors who were meant to participate in the earlier tests filled the rest of the available seating.
"Harry," Healer DuLay sighed and leaned forward earnestly, her long braids swaying before her even as the ends puddled on the cream-carpeted floor. "During the walk up, I had time to calm down and to think. I believe I understand what's happening here. You've been given precious few reasons to trust even adults that you know well. You certainly have little cause to trust virtual strangers." Her expression grimmed even further. "But please, please understand. I want to help you. I am trying very hard to heal you. But to do so, I need information. My tests yesterday told me quite a lot, but I need every tiny bit of data, no matter how inconsequential or immaterial it may seem. And, forgive me, no matter how embarrassing it may be. That one, unaddressed, unvoiced symptom could hold the key to a cure. Or failure of the entire treatment regime."
"I understand what you're saying!" Harry dug his fingers deep into his unruly hair and pulled. "It's not just embarrassing! I wouldn't hold anything back just because it makes me uncomfortable!"
Anissina did not rise to his furious rebuttal, only met his gaze and quietly asked, "Then what is it?"
After an eternity of war between faith and doubt, trust and suspicion, Harry Potter's heart told his mind to shut up and made the decision for him.
"I get…headaches. Blinding headaches, worse than migraines. And they always start here." Harry rubbed his lightning bolt scar hard enough to momentarily redirect blood flow away from that portion of his forehead.
Once begun, the words gushed forth in a near babble. Everything he'd withheld throughout the long afternoon poured out of Harry in a torrent almost too fast to understand, carried on a wave too complex to separate into a single, recognizable emotion.
"And…and…visions," he said, voice trembling with unfettered fear and anger. "Nightmares. Both awake and asleep. Voldemort, he…he has some way to get into my head. Feeds me images. Emotions. Once he even…in the battle in the Ministry, he…Voldemort, he possessed me, used my body to speak and move and try to kill!"
"Oh, Harry." Daniel gripped the teen's shoulder in sympathy. "Why didn't you want to tell us this before? Didn't you think we'd understand?"
"Yes, you'd understand," Harry replied. "Understand how…how dangerous I am to have around."
Harry's shoulders hunched over, his body curling into a defensive posture as though prepared for a blow. It might be verbal or physical, but he braced for some form of assault.
The gathering of reapers, both of Avalon and Soul Society, looked among themselves. Some faces registered understanding. Others reflected confusion.
Ichigo Kurosaki, one of the understanding ones, put Harry's tangled fears into words. "You're afraid that your personal demon and his merry band will follow you here. They'll threaten, maybe even hurt or kill, someone here just because we dared to help you. Is that right?"
Harry looked at the floor but offered a single, miniscule nod of his head.
Ichigo carried it even further, saying, "And you were afraid, if we thought that, we'd send you away, dump you in someone else's territory and wash our hands of you."
Again, a tiny nod aimed at the carpet.
Anissina DuLay whimpered once before she threw herself from her chair and onto her knees in front of the coiled mortal. She threw her arms around him and squeezed tight, alternating between stroking his sweat-damp hair and pulling him close against her for comfort. The slender healer murmured an unending tide of words barely loud enough for him to hear, each one an offering of care, strength and benediction.
Harry stiffened, unprepared for the gentle healer's touch. Except for an occasional Hermy-hug from Hermione Granger and smothering bear-hugs of Molly Weasley, Harry had never felt such…such…He couldn't settle on one word to describe the feeling. Warmth flowed around him, both physical and magical energies that soothed away the torment and blanketed his soul in support.
Other hands stroked his shoulders, his arms, his knees, his back, hair and hands. Wherever they could touch, they did so, adding more heat and comfort.
Here, in this place, in this group, Harry James Potter found unconditional love. For the first time in his life, he let himself accept it without reservation. Without doubts or fears. Without regrets.
He wasn't certain whether he spaced out having lost himself in the communion, or if he fell asleep. According to Harry's conscious point of reference, he went from a room suffused with light from a golden-russet sunset to a room bathed in full artificial illumination, the blackness of full night beyond the windowpanes. He came to himself again, still wrapped in the senior healer's arms, though with his head on her lap and body stretched out on the long couch, covered by a plush, white velvet blanket.
Of the previous occupants, only Anissina DuLay and Daniel Gilbreathe remained.
"Feeling better?" DuLay asked.
"Ummm…" Harry queried his body but couldn't understand its response. "I guess?"
The healer asked, "Do you feel up to eating something?"
Harry's stomach flipped. That body response he understood. "I don't think I could eat anything, at least not yet. If I tried, it wouldn't stay down for long."
"While you were out," DuLay said, "I had my team bring in portable scanners to take the readings that I needed. The results aren't as precise as they would have been down in the examination labs, but they provided enough information to answer the major questions. The results came back. Are you—"
Harry sat up on the couch and wrapped the blanket around his shoulders. It was no substitute for the healer's embrace, but for this news he needed to brace himself, not rely on outside support.
"Tell me," he said.
"Very well then." Anissina assumed a purely professional demeanor. "There are three main points to cover. First, has anyone explained a mortal's Chain of Fate to you?"
Harry shook his head negative.
Daniel took up the narration, saying, "The Chain of Fate binds a soul to its living body. For most people, the chain is anchored here, on the chest. When a mortal dies, part of that chain—its anchor point and a number of links in the chain—go with the spirit. If the spirit—called a plus—doesn't pass over to one of the Seven Heavens, the links slowly erode. The longer the spirit remains on the mortal plane, the more links are lost. When the last link is gone, the plus becomes a minus, otherwise known as a hollow. In other words, a spirit demon."
Harry shuddered in atavistic fear and, almost against his will, asked, "What does that have to do with me?"
"At some point in your life," Anissina said, "most likely when you were quite young, your Chain of Fate was severed, yet you did not die. It most likely happened the night this Voldemort attacked your home, but that is speculation at best. I also speculate that…something else happened that night."
Harry caught the flick of her gaze toward his forehead and made the connection. "He gave me the scar. And what else?"
"This is the second point," she said. "By either accident or intention, the mortal known as Tom Marvolo Riddle left a portion of his soul lodged in the magical residue surrounding your scar. This soul sliver gives him an entry point into both your mind and your physical body. It can be resisted, redirected, even blocked for a short time. It cannot be permanently blocked."
"But Occulmency—"
"Only blocks outside intrusion," Daniel replied. "You can't shield against something that's already inside. Your mind is your 'home territory,' as it were, so you currently have a slight home field advantage. When you were younger and before he knew of the link, you felt him only rarely and even then mostly via powerful emotions. As you aged, the more you interacted with each other. The breach widened and Riddle discovered it. He is not strong enough to overcome you, not yet. But soon. How soon will depend on how diligently he searches for ways to utilize the link. We calculate that you have two or three years at most."
"If I can't block him or stop him," Harry whispered under a weight of despair, "what's left?"
"This is the third point. We have two options for you." At his burst of wide-eyed, slack-jawed hope, Daniel and Anissina both held up warning hands. Gilbreathe continued, "There are tremendous risks to whatever we do. Before we do anything, you have to know and fully understand both the benefits and risks of each option."
"Okay." Harry reined himself in with a stiffened spine and a deep breath. "I'm listening."
"Put succinctly," the male reaper captain said. "Option one: we can attempt to remove it, though you would be risking permanent physical disability, anything from slight to complete mental collapse, or death. Option two: leave it alone while we search for alternative methods. The main benefit to this option is hope for a less risky procedure. The main negative—and it is a very large one—is the two-year time limit that I mentioned earlier. That is just an estimate based on limited empirical evidence, past activity patterns and historic responses."
Gilbreathe's voice fell to an ominous timber. "Voldemort can take over at any time. Harry…understand this if you understand nothing else. The Seven Heavens cannot allow this to happen. If Voldemort finds a way to take you, we will have no choice but to stop him. Your life and soul are precious, yes, and we will do everything in our power to protect them. But Voldemort threatens three realms—mundane, magical and spiritual. If he wins the battle between you, Avalon will have no choice but to stop him by any means possible. Even if it means…forfeiting the soul of the mortal Harry James Potter."
()()()()
"Hello, Harry," Luna Lovegood chirped through the soul phone's speaker. "I received your letter. Thank you so much for remembering to write to me. You sound like you're having an exciting time there, though I imagine the loss of your shoes must be making things difficult. I will be most gracious and NOT say anything even remotely similar to 'I told you so'."
Harry's face flamed even as he grinned at the soul phone. He glanced around the waiting room, grateful to find it unoccupied by anyone save himself. After a long afternoon of drama-laden conversation with DuLay and Gilbreathe, he needed something light. To keep from losing his mind, Harry needed Luna's brand of crazy.
"I really should know by now to listen when you give me advice. It would've saved me a lot of trouble."
Luna giggled. "Lesson learned, then?"
"Yes, Ms. Lovegood. The lesson is well and truly learned."
"Do you have any message for Hermione or the Weasleys?" she asked. "Your afterlife letter didn't say. I live close enough to the Burrow to carry a message. Or if you want me to send a letter to Neville, I can do that easily enough."
"Thanks for that," Harry responded. "I would love to tell them 'hello, I'm safe and healthy, doing this and that.' It's just…the risk is so high. Dumbledore and Snape can read minds as easily as they can a textbook. Voldemort can, as well, and who knows who else among the Death Eaters can use legilimency? Hermione and Ron are known as my best friends, so they will certainly be the target of repeated telepathic scans by anyone who is trying to find me. You and Neville are somewhat protected. You got involved in my adventures only recently, but the others? Nnnn." He shook his head even though she could not see the movement. "Unless the information is urgent, it's best they stay ignorant of things."
"They worry awfully, you know. Especially now that they've heard about the three-way brawl in the park. The Daily Prophet didn't list you by name, but the location alone, being so close to your home, told them you were certainly involved."
Harry sighed in regret. "Yeah. But anything else is just too dangerous for them."
"So then, no messages unless absolutely necessary." There was a pregnant pause, then, "Now why don't you tell me why you really called."
Grimacing, he muttered, "It's that obvious?"
"A little bit, yes. I could try and guess. Bad news, obviously, something you don't feel comfortable talking about, but what kind? Is there trouble with the training? Someone hurt? Were you hurt at some point, either in the park battle or during the escape? Did you meet someone you weren't expecting in the Afterlife? Are there snorkacks there, and you don't want to tell me because I will be sad to not be there to see them for myself?"
"It could be any one of those," he admitted seriously despite a short urge to laugh, "but this is…I guess I have to give you a bit of background first."
The teenage wizard spent the next half-hour explaining, as best he could, the history and workings of the Seven Heavens, the function of soul chains, and the problems his broken one presented. He revealed, in spurts and starts, the presence of Voldemort's soul fragment in the curse mark.
He then documented his three-hour discussion with the two reaper captains, the choices he'd been given, and the benefits and risks for each. Harry relayed the facts as he knew them, drawing heavily on Daniel and Anissina's specific wording, much of which still felt far outside of his understanding. He grasped the bare essentials and accepted the clearly presented warnings about what could happen, up to and including the threat to Harry Potter's immortal soul.
After all points had been exhausted, the reapers had left him to think everything over and make his decision. Just before he'd left, Daniel had provided Harry with a soul phone, along with instructions on how to reach the one held by Luna back in the World of the Living.
Harry's options were clear enough; only the details that led up to those options remained murky within his mind.
At the end, both teens fell into a long, lumbering silence. Harry broke it by whispering, "Luna, I don't know what to do."
"I can hear that. And I can understand why it's a hard decision to make," she replied. "I wish I could help you in some way. I'm sorry that I can't."
Harry filled his voice with wan humor, inviting her to join in. "No vision, then? Helpful feelings, maybe?"
She answered with an impish lilt of her own. "No visions, not this time. Though maybe a feeling. Normally, people tell you to look to the future in these sorts of situations, use how you want things to turn out as a guide. In this case, I think you should look to the past for your answers. I don't know what you'll find, but it should be new and exciting, at the very least. And avoid wrackspurts."
"Will do. And nargles?"
"Yes, definitely avoid nargles. Nasty creatures."
"Thanks, Luna." His tone carried his true message, and thanks for her help far beyond the obvious.
"Anytime. Well, I should go help Daddy finish his front page article. He always has trouble finding enough colorful metaphors so that he doesn't repeat himself."
"Okay. I'll let you know as soon as I decide what to do."
"Don't worry, Harry. There'll be rough times ahead, and I'm sorry to say that I can't predict how they'll end, but you have so many people helping you, I can't see how it could end any way but good. Can you?"
Harry's lips turned up in a reluctant grin. "You're a glass-half-full kind of girl, aren't you?"
"No, not really," Luna replied. "I'm more of a the-glass-isn't-full-yet-but-it-will-be-very-soon kind of girl."
"Gotcha." Harry snickered. "Bye, Luna. Take care."
"You, too, Harry. Toodles!"
Harry ended the call with a firm press of a thumb against the correct button then flipped the soul phone closed and slipped it into his pocket. He leaned back on the waiting room couch, head resting on his flattened palms, and mulled over the recent conversation.
Look to the past for my answers. In what way? Do I examine my memories?
Should I seek out someone in the Afterlife? Sirius? Mum and Dad? Hey, I could go all the way and ask Merlin or the Four Founders! Would they have the answers? Daniel said it isn't allowed to mix mortal and after lives, but if some of them can help me make the right decision, shouldn't I be the one to say whether or not I meet them?
Isn't my situation unique enough to earn an exception to the rules?
Harry's thoughts chased themselves around and around until he lost all trace of their original paths. With a tight groan and a brisk scratch of his scalp that left his hair even more untidy than usual, the young wizard leaned forward fast enough to almost throw himself off the sofa. Desperate for something, anything, to offer answers, he stared at the forest green, chocolate brown, and black carryall that lay on the floor beside his feet. For lack of anything better to do, he rummaged in the sports bag and pulled out a much-worn photo album, the one gifted to him by Hagrid at the end of his first year at Hogwarts.
While the album covered much of Harry's life memories since entering the wizarding world, the forward third of the photo collection centered on two specific people with familiar yet also unfamiliar faces. Familiar in that he knew their names and some about their personalities and histories. He'd even viewed short snippets of memory in Snape's pensieve. Unfamiliar, because he didn't know them, personally. Lily Evans Potter. James Potter. His mother and father. His parents, whose deaths caused so much heartache and pain.
"Interesting reading?"
Harry wiped moisture from his eyes and looked up. Daniel Gilbreathe stood in the doorway, a soft expression and gentle smile on his face.
"Not readying. Looking. At pictures."
"May I join you?"
Harry really was not in the mood for company, particularly someone he'd met so recently and, in all honesty, knew next to nothing about. Their recent discussion also played merry hob with his feelings regarding the slender, brown-haired reaper captain.
Even so, being alone wasn't getting Harry any answers, and it would be the height of rudeness to growl "go away and leave me be" to someone who only wanted to help. Considering the fact that Harry would not have escaped the Dursleys, would not have ever reached Avalon, without this man's long hours of hard work, the teen simply nodded and shifted to the left to make room on the couch.
Even as the grim reaper captain settled onto the couch cushion, Harry had the distinct sensation of someone tying himself into a Gordian knot. Waves of discomfort flowed from the reaper hard enough to literally vibrate the furniture.
What's wrong? Harry wondered, a dark suspicion rising in his mind. Is he hiding something? Did he lie to me or—
"Harry, I…well, I have to…that is to say, I was…oh ruddy blasted hell, how can I even begin to tell you…"
Harry throttled the knot of mistrust and unease that threatened to choke off his breath and tried hard to be uncaringly flippant when he said, "One word after another until everything is out usually works."
Gilbreathe whispered low on his breath, "If only it were that simple."
"Is it about what Captain DuLay said? Did you find something in one of the tests? Did you lie about something? Will I still—"
"Whoa, hold on, lad! Everything's fine in that respect." Daniel's expression pinched. "It's more…well…I should have told you long ago, but I…the term 'cowardly' comes to mind, and for that I most sincerely apologize. Both for the length of time it has taken me to say anything and for…"
I was right. Ruddy bastard! A lie of omission is still a lie!
It took all of Harry's willpower to hide his rising anger. "Sir? You're rambling and, well, not making any sense."
"I am, aren't I?" Daniel laughed, chuckling without a trace of humor, then forged ahead, saying, "I suppose you could…you could call me the father of the Boy-Who-Lived mythos. After all, I am partly responsible the direction your life has taken. I…I was there…that night…the night he came after you."
Unable to either sit beside Harry or meet the boy's enormous, green, horror-filled eyes, Daniel hoped to his feet and paced from the couch to the door to the night-blackened bay window and back to the door.
"At that time…to understand everything, you have to know how things were back then. Voldemort's first reign of terror was so deadly, even officers were called to deal with the uncommonly large number of unsettled spirits—what non-magicals call ghosts, the afterlife souls of non-magical beings, and magical spirits who, for whatever reason, don't move on. As we told you earlier, the non-magical ghosts are plusses, or plus spirits. If left to roam the mortal earth, a plus will eventually transform into a minus, or a hollow—bone-masked, vengeful, angry, destructive, and murderous monsters. The older the hollow, the more intelligent and dangerous it becomes."
Harry's expression grew alarmed even as his entire body tensed. "Does that mean…the Hogwarts ghosts will become hollows? We have to warn—"
Daniel patted the air several times, a gesture for the mortal boy to calm down. "No worry, no worry. You see, the odd thing is, only non-magical ghosts are at risk. For some reason that we don't yet understand, ghosts borne of magical life essences either move on automatically or remain as more substantial and permanent shades, such as those you know in your school. When they pass into one of the various heavens, these magic-origined spirits have the potential to become reapers capable of using spirit energy, what Toshiro's people call kido."
Harry slumped against the couch back and heaved a grateful sigh.
"A grim reaper has two primary tasks," Gilbreathe continued. "The first is to find plus spirits and perform holy judgment on them." Seeing Harry's pinch-browed look of confusion, the reaper added, "We open the door to the afterlife, help them to move on to the heaven of their choice. There are seven options, just so you know, Avalon being the one most accessed by spirits from this region of the planet. The second task, as you've probably guessed, is to find hollows and send them on also, though their destination is often to a place less…ummm, idyllic…than Avalon, Seireitei or the other heavens."
"I understand what you've said so far, but how does that link you to me?"
"On that October night, I was on patrol around Godric's Hollow. I was a lieutenant at the time, second-in-command of my division and a half-year or so shy of my promotion to captain. It was Halloween, so all available reapers were called to duty. I was on the south side of the village, almost atop your family's home, when I felt an extremely negative energy pulse. A putrid green light poured from an open doorway. I hurried inside and found a man laid on the stairs, body dead even as his spirit began to form nearby. I heard a woman's voice, pleading, begging, and a man's in argument. I ran up the stairs and entered a nursery just as a man in black robes aimed a wooden rod at a red-haired woman. Another flash of negative energy and green light. The woman collapsed to the floor, dead, and a man moved toward a tall crib that contained a crying toddler."
Harry whispered, "Me."
"Yes. You." Daniel squirmed in place and carried on with his tale. "You see, Harry, reapers are not supposed to interfere with the world of the living in any way whatsoever. It's one of our highest laws and applies to all Seven Heavens. Yet, if I could have saved the woman, I would have, and accepted any punishment. When I saw the man raise his rod toward the child…toward you…and start the same incantation…I acted without thought." He laid fingertips along the grip of his sword. "I tried to block the spell with Teines Sionnach. I had no idea what the light was or how it killed, and I certainly had no notion whatsoever how such energy would react when it connected with a spirit sword like my Fire Fox."
"What…what happened then?"
Gilbreathe shrugged. "I'm not entirely certain, but I've researched as best I could since that day and can make an educated guess. Teines Sionnach blocked most of the killing curse but a bare bit got through, enough to cut your Chain of Fate but not enough to rip your soul free of your body. My sword reflected most of the curse back to its caster, but in reverse. It did not disconnect his Chain of Fate but did tear his soul free of its body. This next is total supposition, based on logical reasoning but very little fact: I believe that, as the reflected spell connected, Fire Fox sliced off a tiny portion of Voldemort's spirit, enough for his Chain of Fate to remain in the mortal realm. My sword may even have modified the spirit in some way that allowed it to attach to you."
Gilbreathe finished his tale with, "I heard someone downstairs and, knowing that the new arrival might well be magical and thus able to see me, I hid in another room. A tall, dark-haired man came into the nursery, removed you from your cradle and stumbled out, crying. Once he was out of sight, outside, I addressed your parents' spirits. Your father reassured your mother that the man, Sirius, would take care of you. With that comfort, they accepted holy judgment and stepped through to Avalon. I followed you outside, still uncertain of how my interference might have affected you, only to see a giant riding in the air on a motorcycle, and the dark-haired man twist and vanish. By the time I found you again, weeks had passed and you were already in your relatives' house."
Harry rubbed his chest, even though he could neither see nor feel the location of the soul damage. "That would explain the broken Chain of Fate, and why I survived an AK but never anyone else."
"Contact between a powerful spirit sword like my Teines Sionnach and a malevolent spell like the Killing Curse would certainly have unpredictable and unforeseen consequences. The sensation was…most unsettling for both myself and the fire fox spirit. As I conjectured earlier, it is possible that my sword sliced away a sliver of Riddle's soul at some point, probably after the Killing Curse reflected back on its castor but before Riddle's soul could completely separate from his physical body."
"A soul needs a container, a living vessel," Harry carried the reasoning to its logical conclusion. "And it needed a way in. I happened to be there with a fresh cut on my forehead. Blood is one of the strongest catalysts for magic that exists. The fragment anchored itself to the only possible vessel…me."
"I've asked Teines Sionnach if he knows anything more. He tells me that, for an instant, the four of us were connected. You, me, my spirit sword, and the mortal named Tom Marvolo Riddle. It's a law of physics in both realms that energy must follow a path, usually the one of least resistance. In our case, I blocked the spell at the exact instant that it reached you, though a ragged edge of its remnant gouged that mark into you. The power of the curse and my spiritual force created a loop, a continuous feed that flowed around us four. The fragment moved as part of this circuit and would have recognized the remnants of Tom Riddle's spirit signature in the magic residue surrounding the cut. Such a residue would have given it more than enough purchase."
"It makes sense now," Harry said. "Finally, it all makes sense."
The mortal boy raised his gaze and met the eyes of the distressed reaper captain. All hatred drained away. All doubt. All suspicion. This was the final piece of Harry Potter's story, the one element of his life that had, until that moment, gone unexplained. It hadn't been Harry's doing, or Lily's. It had not been an error by Voldemort. Harry was not a freak with an unfathomable ability to cheat death.
He had been a child, a normal…if magical…toddler who happened to become embroiled in a brief battle between Tom "Lord Voldemort" Riddle and a grim reaper with a spirit sword.
Harry Potter was not…is not…a freak.
"Captain Gilbreathe," he said at last. "If it's not too late, please call Healer DuLay. I have my answer."
()()()()
A/N: May I direct your attention WAAAAAY back to chapter 11? Field Marshal de Tournay tells the story of the "Avalonian lieutenant" who interfered in Voldemort's attempt to kill Harry. Now you know that lieutenant's identity. I'm curious…did anyone put together the crumbs I dropped—de Tournay's statement, Gilbreathe being a new captain, his squirms and reactions when the incident is mentioned, his broken-off attempts to tell Harry, etc.?
*A/N: Short note of little consequence. I've seen so many misuses of the word "weary" that I want to explain my particular use of it. "Weary" means tired. "Wary" means alert/suspicious. In this case, I mean tired, exhausted. There. English lesson complete.
Ja ne!