Chapter 36
"We're not talking to you," the man sneered at Lucius, looking down his nose at him through gaudily ornate eyeglasses. He nodded towards Dolohov. "We know his hand is up your ass, puppeteering everything you say. Everything's changed since he got there, when you threw all our careful plans out the window. Just to please this European, and his master. And he's the one who's fucked it all up now!"
Harry felt Dolohov stiffen next to him. There was a chorus of agreement.
Around them was a small gathering of prominent figures in the movement—ideologues, wealthy patrons, fighters. A handful of new faces joined the circle, the newly freed veterans of the cause. They had cleaned up significantly since their rescue, but still looked a little wild-eyed and jittery. Dementor exposure was not so simple to recover from.
Another man stepped forward, glaring at Dolohov.
"You're the one who had Black under the Imperius and lost him, after he'd seen our faces. He could expose every single one of us now, because of your stupidity. No more attacks, no more pushing—it's time for us to look out for our own safety. It's time for us to go to ground again."
The few ex-prisoners were sneering at the man, but many of the others present were nodding, particularly among the more extravagantly dressed. Harry held back a smile at the sight of Dolohov's strained face, clearly trying his hardest to control himself in the face of such blatant disrespect. He may have had de facto control over the movement through Lucius, but they still had to pay lip service to the egos of their wealthier sponsors lest they cut off their funding in a fit of pique.
"Yes, it was my spell that Black escaped from," Dolohov said, ignoring all the angry whispers that set off. "But it wasn't me that broke that curse. Instead of pointing fingers at me, you should be worrying that maybe you've already been compromised—think on who has reason to save Black, perhaps."
He dutifully ignored looking at Regulus, but the implication was enough to draw many of the stares in the room. Harry tamped down on his glee when Regulus cringed under the pressure, looking down and adjusting his sleeves while trying to maintain an unconcerned expression.
"But the situation is not out of hand yet," Dolohov continued. "The ministry is reeling, thrown off balance. They're too busy dealing with the fallout of the Dementor attack and sweeping their personnel for Imperius curses to organize against us. You're worried that Black is going to reveal your identities? I say we stop that before it can happen."
"You mean, remove Black?" the vocal man said, looking warily interested. "Do you know where he is?"
"As a matter of fact I do," Dolohov said with a smile. Harry suddenly felt his heart drop.
"And we have a way in as well."
The group muttered, excited glances shot between members.
"Sirius Black knows that we can breach its protections, so he abandoned his old family house, and fled to stay with his closest friend: James Potter."
Harry felt sick to his stomach. He could see the understanding start to dawn on the other faces in the room.
"And we just so happen to have one of our own who currently stays in their house," Dolohov said, pointing backwards at Harry.
"I understand that you are worried, and angry, but think on this. One more attack, on a single home. Our best wizards slipped straight past the protections. In and out. No one left alive."
He stepped forward, his eyes intense.
"And—think of the irony. The justice. It was the attack on James Potter that first scattered you to the winds—for those lucky ones—and sicced the ministry's dogs on the rest, rounding you up and throwing you into Azkaban to rot. Now you'll get Potter, and Black, sealing up all loose ends. You get your redemption, and ensure your future at the same time."
Harry could see by the expressions on the faces around him how tempting that sounded.
"But—what about the Aurors?" one cautious soul asked, "They'll be on high alert, especially Black. Won't they be waiting for us to make a move on him?"
"That is likely," Dolohov admitted. "So we create a distraction. One they can't ignore."
"What do you have in mind?"
Dolohov smiled a cruel smile.
"Your cellars are crammed full of Azkaban prisoners, the better half of them half-crazed, the rest muttering lunatics. You all know they're too damaged or dangerous to be absorbed into our cause. The Dementors made them more animal than man. So we give them wands and release them, like feral dogs into the streets. Of course, they'll be Apparated nearby to high profile targets. The ministry will have their hands full trying to round them all up."
"That—might actually work," someone said. Harry swallowed roughly.
There was a piece of parchment laid out on the top of the small table. Dolohov tossed a quill onto it.
"The private floo address, boy?"
Dolohov stared at Harry intently. Harry hesitated. The private floo was the one reserved to trusted friends and family members, and for the Potters, separate from the protections on the public fire. It was like having a password, or a key. If you knew the private address, you could floo into the house. Not all homes had them, but the ones that did kept it a tightly guarded secret, making sure there was no record of it to be stolen, and kept hidden from children until they were old enough to understand the importance of secrecy.
It should be perfectly secure. Unless you were betrayed by someone close enough to earn the address.
Harry could have guided them in through Apparition, or through the public floo, across multiple trips—but apparently Dolohov wasn't taking any chances.
He picked the quill up with numb fingers. The nib pressed down into the parchment with a dry crinkle.
The implant in his mouth burned, urging him to write. Dolohov was looking right at him expectantly, eyes hard. Harry knew, if he refused, he would be dead. And if he lied, Dolohov would check, and then Harry would be dead. But the Potters would be alive, and Sirius would be untouchable. Sirius would go to the ministry and the movement would crumble around Dolohov's ears. Lily would be safe, and Jimmy could come home and get teased by Violet, little Edward hiding behind James in the background.
And if he dragged the quill across the parchment? If he obeyed the order? Images flashed through his mind, blood and violence, bodies strewn across expensive rugs, and a deep, quiet guilt, that would never leave him.
Could he risk that? His mouth went dry. If he couldn't stop Dolohov in time—could he stomach trading the slim possibility of getting back home in time to defeat Voldemort, for the death of the family that had taken him in with such kindness?
And then the memory hit him like a bludger, but sour and rancid, and dripping with hatred. He remembered small, watery eyes squinting over a pointed nose, cowering in the darkness, meaningless lies pouring from his mouth uncontrollably, willing to say or do anything to escape his fate.
Like betraying his childhood friends and their new baby to be murdered. Or framing another to send him to Azkaban for the rest of his life. Destroying everyone who loved him to save his own skin.
No.
He was not Pettigrew. And he would not be. This was his fight. Maybe it was finally time to see if Dolohov could activate the implant before Harry found a way to punch a hole through his skull.
The quill brushed lightly against the parchment as his hands squeezed. And then he froze, his body going cold, and numb, his vision falling away like his body was tumbling down a dark tunnel, the scene growing ever more distant, and yet, still remaining right in front of him.
"Is there a problem?" Dolohov asked, his tone dangerous.
Like he was in a dream Harry's head moved of its own accord, a strange smiling pulling itself across his face.
He heard his voice say, "No, of course not. I am just making sure I remember it correctly."
The quill scratched across the parchment, a series of words spilling out in a perfectly elegant scrawl. His hand lifted up with a flourish and handed the quill back to Dolohov.
"Excellent."
Dolohov eyed it briefly before handing it to the man next to him. It began a circulation around the room, each member watching in anticipation as their colleagues committed it to memory.
Like a sudden stop on an elevator Harry slammed back into his body. He swayed, blinking, fighting back nausea at the sudden change in sensation. He put a hand on the table to catch his balance.
"Something wrong?"
Harry looked up and met the piercing gaze of Dolohov. His body felt freezing cold. There was a crinkle of parchment as the address was passed to a new person and his heart started to beat like a piston in his chest.
"No," he managed faintly.
Riddle. Riddle had made the decision for him. He'd hijacked Harry's body and consigned the Potter's to death.
White hot fury flooded through Harry, washing away any disorientation. His jaw clenched, teething grinding into each other, as his magic roiled within his body. His instincts were screaming at him, demanding he pull his wand and disembowel every wizard in the room, before turning it against the man stuck to his chest. His fingers wrapped around his wand and magic kissed at his fingertips, eager for violence.
"Come," Dolohov said, beckoning with one hand. "We're going back to the house."
Harry blinked. The unexpected command curbed the rising tide of emotion, stymieing it with confusion. And then it was swept away by a wave of panic.
"We're—not participating in the operation?" he asked.
Dolohov stared at him consideringly. "No. I don't think there's a need."
Harry's protest died in his throat. His stomach lurched. He wasn't even going to be there? The tiny flicker of hope that still remained, that he could've replicated his success with the attack on Sirius and sabotaged them, faded with a bleak dread.
"And," Dolohov continued, a strange look playing across his face, "I'm not sure I trust you to follow through." His lips were tugged in what looked like something of a smile but his eyes were ice chips.
He's worried about the Imperius. Sirius breaking it must've created some doubt in his mind. He's not willing to risk it, because he thinks it might be enough for me to throw it off.
Dolohov threw a handful of powder into the fireplace. He nodded at it.
"Go."
Harry could feel the roomful of eyes fixed on his back, too many wands for him to surprise. He wanted to turn, desperately, and throw himself at their curses, wand out, his magic blazing. But what little that could've accomplished had vanished the moment Riddle revealed the address. It was too late.
The opportunity was lost. But if Riddle thought he was just going to sit around and let this happen he was wrong. Dead wrong.
He walked stiffly into the fire.