Chapter One Hundred Forty-Two: The Room of Lost Things

Harry didn't seem to realise that his grip on her hand was now painfully tight. Strong as steel, she'd said before. How true. How strong were the bones in her hand? She wasn't sure. But, she knew that he didn't mean to hurt her, and Madam Pomfrey was a skilled healer, if all else failed.

"Ginny," he said again, with calm that even she could feel was forced, "where did you hear that name?"

"I—" she said, wondering how he knew it, when Ron had suggested that he didn't remember anything from the time he was possessed—anymore than she did, herself. "Just now, when you weren't yourself—I asked you who you were, if you weren't Harry, and you said—"

She was sometimes one step behind him if he led the conversation, but he was never even a step behind her. "My evil counterpart made an appearance, and it told you that it was called Loki," Harry said. He sounded disgusted. She glanced at him to see that he was staring straight ahead, unseeing, doubtless thinking over what she had just said.

There was a pause, and then he said, "Well, Ginny, rest assured, that thing is not Loki. It's a corrupted corner of my mind, apparently complete with delusions of grandeur. How typical. I suppose I should have asked Ron more about—"

"That's not all it said," Ginny whispered, other things "it" had carelessly thrown out at her brought to the fore of her mind by the loud claps of thunder overhead. They had to be loud, to be heard even down here. He flinched at the noise, and turned to her, raising an eyebrow, inviting her to continue.

"It said that Ron is—it said that Ron—it was a god. And, that Ron is a god. And, his brother."

"A corrupted corner of my mind would be plagued by delusions of godhead," he said. "That thing isn't a god, no matter what it might think."

"But, Ron—" she protested, and waited for him to finish her sentence, to contradict what she'd been told. "I mean, it said he was someone called Thor, the God of Thunder." She did her very best to scoff. Harry wouldn't look at her.

"Ron can't be a god," she said, with a little laugh. "I mean, I grew up with him; I'd know! He's human. He's—he's afraid of spiders, and I remember this one time when I was five, he got stuck in the apple tree in the backyard, and was too scared to come down—Mum had to borrow a ladder, and Bill went to get him, and—"

"That was all before his tenth birthday, though," Harry said, shoving his free hand in his pocket. "Ten is one and zero, two powerful magic numbers, and also the sum of seven and three, the quintessential magic numbers. It's also lodged in a transitional point of—"

"Harry, this is insane! No way am I listening to what that thing—to what Loki said—"

It felt wrong, calling a person a thing. Maybe it helped Harry to cope with what happened, or maybe—

"Don't call that thing Loki," Harry said. Almost snapped. "I told you before: it's not Loki, Ginny. I'm Loki."

She stared at him, as he resolutely stared everywhere else.

"What?" she managed to ask, after a moment.

"This wasn't the way I wanted you to find out, but I can tell we'll not have anything like a civilised conversation until I've got that out of the way. Besides, I spent enough years in denial. Fitting, for the 'God of Mischief and Lies'—even if I'm not a god anymore. Hmm."

Was it possible to stop the universe until it decided to make sense again? Ginny needed for that to happen.

"What?" she asked, as if her lexicon had been reduced to varying inflections of a single word.

Harry gave her a wry, almost sheepish, grin. It looked a bit like the photo he'd suffered to be taken of him for the article in The Quibbler—the one where Skeeter used her evil powers to sway public opinion and have her audience eating out of her hand for good, for once.

"Very sorry, Ginny," he continued, with the most unapologetic grin she'd seen from him, yet. She frowned at him. The things she put up with!

"You expect me to believe that you and Ron are gods?" she demanded, yanking her hand out of his, and turning to glare at him. Somehow, the corridor seemed narrower than it had thirty seconds ago. He glanced down at his empty hand, shook it out, and spread his hands, in his familiar what-can-you-do gesture that made people want to hit him. Including Ginny, sometimes.

But she thought back—far back—to the summer before her first year at Hogwarts—all those pranks Harry had played on her.

God of Mischief and Lies, though….

Ron took that opportunity to appear, as if out of nowhere. He'd come from the Room of Death, with the archway containing one hole-in-the-Veil. He'd almost snuck up on them: Ginny hadn't noticed his approach, and Harry had been distracted by the conversation at hand. But, he'd pulled the Sword of Gryffindor out of nowhere, shooting her a crooked grin when he saw that there was no real threat.

"Ah," he said, sheathing the sword again. "Now, you will call me paranoid."

Ron eyed the sword with the wariness it deserved, but didn't seem unduly troubled by the thought of Harry with the Sword. Perhaps, because he'd sheathed it once he'd seen who had (almost) snuck up on them.

"Harry, are you well?" asked Ron. He turned to face Ginny, checking for injuries, and, upon confirmation that she was alright, returned his focus to Harry. Ginny was almost inclined to pout.

"Due to some rather extenuating circumstances, Ginny was able to call me back. 'Love, my guiding force', I can only suppose. You should probably hit me over the head when we get back to safety. Have you seen Sirius?"

Ginny blinked, staring at him, and wondering how he could sound so casual about it all.

"Ginny?" Ron asked, and she found herself now a bit irked, feeling as if she'd been dismissed in favour of Harry. (But, he was my brother first, came the echo of that almost-familiar voice, in the back of her mind.)

So, instead of telling him not to worry about her, she threw back her hair, folded her arms, and rounded on Ron. "Are you really a god, Ron?" she demanded. Her eyes were narrowed, feet spaced in a battle stance. Tonight was one, neverending, battle.

"Where is Sirius?" Harry asked, almost plaintive, in the background, but that was lost in Ron's fidgeting, his sharp intake of air, the way he wouldn't meet her eyes.

"I intended to tell you, tonight."

"You will insist upon not learning from your mistakes," Harry cut in, as if he were required by script to contribute his lines in the debate (but good luck getting more from him). "Perhaps, we could have this debate later?"

"How is it even possible?" Ginny persisted. "I knew you when we were still really little!"

If it were possible, Ron's nervous fidgeting increased its tempo. "It is—a very long and complicated story, one better told at Hogwarts, where—oh, look, Sirius!"

He could not have made it more obvious that he was casting about for any distraction. This was the best kind-Harry'd been sulking, and fretting over what might have become of his dogfather. But then, Ginny had also to wonder just how many other people knew these big secrets that had been kept from her, of gods and family and the true nature of Harry's oddity. Wasn't Ron her brother?

Was he? She had to admit, it seemed almost selfish, if what Harry (no, not Harry, a thing pretending to be someone Harry used to be?) had said were true—if Ron were a god.

She cast him a surreptitious glance, ignoring Harry fussing over Sirius, as if Harry were the one in charge of looking after Sirius, and not the other way around. Then again, Azkaban had done a number on Sirius, and if Harry had ever been a god….

Maybe they were crazy, instead?

Hermione was dating Ron. Did she know?

Ginny shook her head, watching the scene play out before her, but it was alright, now, they were safe, and maybe they could just go back to Hogwarts and forget all of this….

The Minister of Magic himself, as it turned out, had seen a reconstituted Riddle fleeing the Ministry with Bellatrix Lestrange, his right hand, and the only Death Eater of the ambush to escape Azkaban. Fudge was obliged to admit that he'd been wrong, and spent the past year slandering (and libeling) the true heroes of the situation—Harry and Dumbledore.

The tale of what had become of Umbridge during their absence was almost too gruesome to speak of. First, she'd gone under her own Cruciatus (that was how Harry had left her), and then she'd tracked them down to the Forbidden Forest, with the help of some aurors, and the curse had kicked in. How else could you explain her reaction to the appearance of the centaurs? They'd carried her off amongst a fit of her accusations of them being "dangerous, filthy half-breeds" of "almost human intelligence". Perhaps, it was in part the effects of the Cruciatus upon her mind. It couldn't be known.

Dumbledore had retrieved her (after the battle of the Ministry had ended, and the Ministry Six (as society and the press insisted upon calling Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Luna, and Neville) had been returned safe to Hogwarts), and had returned to Hogwarts, with Grawp and Hagrid in tow. Umbridge was almost frothing with rage. Everyone gave her a wide berth.

They arrived back at Hogwarts at different times. Cedric Diggory served as escort for the stragglers who had escaped Kingsley Shacklebolt's watchful eye.

The Six got checked over by Madam Pomfrey, save for Harry, who was called away to speak with Dumbledore in his office.

Dumbledore took Harry aside, accepted the relinquished prophecy with the promise to hide it somewhere out of all knowledge. Phineas Nigellus was very nasty at this, eavesdropping as he was from his portrait, interjecting something snide to the effect that Dumbledore was humouring Harry's petulant childishness.

It occurred to Harry that Loki couldn't have been much more than the equivalent of a couple of years older than Harry was now, himself, when he'd died. He supposed he had no experience of adulthood to fall back on, to judge his own behaviour. Perhaps, he had been childish, but Dumbledore had kept vital information from him, information he needed for his plans for the future, information that could save his life—and Sirius had almost died.

Dumbledore had, as it felt, hidden behind Sirius as a human shield. Only Stephen (when had he learnt how to turn invisible? Harry would have to ask when they had time to speak, later) had kept a disaster—the disaster he'd warned them about, over a year ago—from happening.

Not Dumbledore. Not Harry and Ron.

Now, Harry owed him, but perhaps this could have been avoided, if Dumbledore had thought to bring Harry to the Ministry—not once it had entered its state of denial, but back in third year, when they were still in awe of Dumbledore. Back when Dumbledore had first mentioned the prophecy.

Harry reminded himself, only half-listening to Dumbledore's apologies, whose sincerity he couldn't judge, regardless, that he was trying to be more grateful. He would just celebrate the fact that Sirius was still alive, and that the future could be changed. Perhaps, they stood a chance against Thanos, after all.

Ginny was not distant or cold to him following the Incident at the Ministry, when he rather had feared that she would be. Indeed, she cornered him almost as soon as he'd left Dumbledore's office, (it was the very next day), grabbing hold of his robe-sleeve as if he'd vanish otherwise. Her grip was so tight that he was fairly sure that it would tear out a patch of the fabric, if he moved. He decided to speak with her, instead. She looked haunted, and world-weary, but determined.

"I've decided. You can keep Ron. I have five older brothers—four without Ron or Percy. That's more than enough." Percy was still not about to own up to his mistakes. He stuck to the hard line about the Ministry's righteousness, and still wouldn't speak to his family. Harry hadn't realised just how much the Weasley family had shrunk until Ginny gave him the number. Four older brothers—"After all, he was your brother first, right?"

Ginny was fast, quick to adjust, unlike Hermione, who clung to as many beliefs as she could, still hanging on, even, to some she'd held before ever learning of Hogwarts. Looking for logic in magic. But, Ginny was more flexible. She hadn't come to terms with the revelation of last night, yet, but—

"I know you wanted to tell me," she said, with a dim smile. "I don't hold it against you. But, last night was—"

She trailed off, or cut herself off. She was right. There were probably not words to explain just what last night had been.

"I stuck with you," she said, as if this thought had just occurred to her. "I think I will, no matter what. It's like what I said at Hogsmeade."

"It won't always be that easy, Ginny," he warned her, sticking his hands in his pockets as if apathetic. She scoffed.

"'Easy'! You only say 'easy' because you don't remember! But, Harry—I know what I'm in for, now. I'm sticking with you. You keep talking about loneliness and love, and being alone—I'll never abandon you. No matter what. I can say that now. I know."

He did not know how to reply, except to take his hands out of his pockets, and stare at her. He would never understand Ginny.

But, perhaps she understood him, and perhaps that was most important. She'd be his guide.

He sighed, and wrapt his arms around her, and she leant her head against his chest, and they stood that way for quite some time, as if they had all the time in the world, because the world had worn them both down, but they could keep each other standing.

In all the activity at the Ministry, Harry had forgot that Hermione had wanted him to help her find the list with the names of the members of the Defence Association writ on it.

"We shan't be needing it now," she said. "Not with Umbridge at St. Mungo's, and the Ministry pulling out its hooks from Hogwarts, and an actual, competent teacher maybe teaching next year. Well, alright, probably not, but one who at least tries, and from whom we learn something, unlike Umbridge."

He managed not to say "Or Lockhart." It took quite an effort.

They spent over an hour forcing the Room to generate Room after Room. They started off with the Room usually used for Meetings of the Defence Association.

Harry tried to call the chest with the list in it, as he had called the whistle (he had called that, hadn't he?) on their first visit. No matter what he did, it refused to come. In some ways, this made complete sense—Umbridge, if she'd found the room, could have done the same thing. He'd ensured that the list couldn't leave that trunk as best it could, and then must have protected it so that it couldn't be summoned. That left one other option.

He needed to find where the Room kept its Real Objects. He needed the Room where the Real Things were. Hermione, when he said this, cast him a sceptical glance, but stepped back, washing her hands of the entire idea, and watched him pace thrice before the stretch of wall.

It gave him a Room unlike any he'd seen before. It was like a dragon's hoard, if dragons hoarded rubbish. A floor littered with papers and books and quills and ink bottles, lined with cabinets and sculptures and were those weapons?

Something hummed at the edge of his awareness. He ignored it. It put him on edge, and he needed to focus. He wished Ron's finding spell worked on this. Not that it mattered, as Ron wasn't here.

He and Hermione slogged through piles of parchment and contraband—what seemed to be illegal potions ingredients mixed in with forbidden tomes, lost wands, forsaken potions (including some curdled batches of Polyjuice) trying to get to the wall, where the furniture and weapons were. They then had to walk the perimeter of the room.

Hermione found it first, because, as Harry traveled along the wall to the side of the room facing the door, he grew ever more distracted by that mounting wariness. Something set his teeth on edge. At last, he could stand no more, and had to seek out the source. He did not even warn Hermione.

He should have warned Hermione. It came from a magical artefact radiating corrupted magic, with a sheen underneath of something more benign—what, he couldn't tell, as it was hidden under that corruptive overlay.

A crown rested atop a statuary bust of some vague figure Harry neither recognised nor cared to try. It was probably too worn down, anyway. The crown, by contrast, seemed in excellent repair, albeit with an odd, oily sheen to it. He reached out to it, as if he couldn't help it, and frowned, folding his arms, and opening his seventh sense to track down the wrongness of the diadem.

Said wrongness huddled itself into a single gem set into the metal. Harry's eyes narrowed, and he frowned. He'd know that magic, if ever he felt it. He'd know that spirit, if ever he encountered it. He reached out—

You write in a diary. You wear a locket, or a crown. He should be safe as long as he didn't try to wear the thing.

He transfigured the bust into a glass case, very like the one that had held a boa constrictor, but much smaller. He knew that it would be more difficult to carry, thus, but he was not having physical contact with that crown until he was sure that it was safe.

And, he wasn't sure that he trusted the ever-curious Hermione to hold herself back. He picked up the glass case, and turned back to see a beaming Hermione as she spun to face him.

"There you are, Harry! Where's the key? I found the chest!"

A pause. Her smile faded. "Harry, what is that?"

"A fragment of Riddle's soul," he said, ignoring her flinch. "I think Dumbledore had best be made aware of this."

He absently reached into his pocket for the key with his left hand, and threw it at her, too focused on the diadem to realise that he might be considered rude.

"Harry—" Hermione began, in a warning growl.

"I'll fill you in later," said Harry in his voice of false cheer, before turning and striding out the Room of Requirement, thinking that Dumbledore had best be made aware of this, as he hadn't the locket. Who knew what import he would make of it?

{end Knights and Lords}