19. Théatre Optique

Harry put down the book and stretched in his seat, letting his head recline slightly on the back of the armchair. Bookshelves covered the entirety of the wall, from door to window. He smiled to himself. This is Hermione's room after all. He knew the books were arranged thematically: magical books to the left, nearer the door, and non-magical books to the right, towards the window. Within each of the two zones, the books broke down by category: history, art, novels, spells (there were even a few muggle books of pseudo-magic), political theory, philosophy, architecture, archaeology, religion and folklore. Hermione had seemed a little embarrassed by the precision in her bookshelves when she had first shown him her room; her awkwardness had been rather endearing. We have time for these kinds of things these days.

He thought about getting up and having another browse through the shelves, but he was really too comfortable where he was sitting. He glanced round at Hermione's bed, with its mauve bedspread, her dressing table, which seemed as neat and well-ordered as her books, the posters on the walls, the pale blue sky through the window. This was the room she had returned to each holiday from Hogwarts; from this room she had fled to come and find him the night he left Privet Drive. He hoped it had been a sanctuary for her through all the dark times. Now she was probably just about to leave it for one of the last times: surely she would move into the Burrow before long, at least once she had finished her final year.

It had been her idea: come and help me pack up my stuff ready for Hogwarts. It was a good idea; he needed things to do those days, otherwise the memories would creep up on him. He was always worried he would forget someone when he went through the list of all the people he'd lost, all the people who'd died. Why am I here, and they're not? Ginny had said it was fine for him to go and help Hermione. It'll do you good, she had said. These past few days you've been letting it beat you. So little time has passed, he had said in his defence. I know, sweetheart, I know. Of course you would feel it so strongly. It's why you need something to do. So go and help Hermione pack.

It was an unseasonably mild morning for early January, perfectly clear and no more than crisp outside. He reached for the cup of coffee Hermione had made for him on her parents' new machine and took a long mouthful. It really was good coffee.

He got up out of his chair and went with his coffee to the window. The back garden was broad and quite long, a paved terrace giving way to a neat lawn with flower beds on both sides, and a wooden pergola leading to a further, slightly scruffier grassy area at the rear. Only the bare trees in their garden and the neighbouring ones gave any indication it was winter. He could hear faint voices: Hermione and her mother had come out into the garden, apparently to take some clothes off the washing line. Hermione stood sideways on from where he was standing, her back turned to him. She tugged at her ponytail with one hand as her mother unpinned clothes from the line, her free hand gesturing casually in the air as she told her something. She had come outside wearing only a white top and jeans, and he wondered whether she wasn't cold, however mild a day it was. Her wrist was exposed where the sleeve of her top had slipped down a bit: the wrist was slender and pale, unadorned. He smiled and stepped away from the window before she had time to turn around and see him.

Having drunk the last of his coffee, he eased himself back down into the armchair. Even now, months on, he still had pain sometimes in his limbs and down his back, random headaches and weird red blotches on his skin. It's psychosomatic, everyone told him. They were probably right. But today, the pains had all dulled to a distant ache that was almost pleasant.

He glanced at the clock on Hermione's bedside table: time was running on, her bags were nearly packed, they would soon have to set off for Kings Cross. It would be difficult to be on the platform, surrounded by everyone boarding the train, knowing that he could have been going himself, knowing what had happened there. You don't need to come with me onto the platform. We can say goodbye on the concourse, with all the regular people. But if he wasn't going to help her get her bags onto the train, he might as well not have bothered. He wiped the dust off his glasses, turning his head to the wall above her bed. His eyes alighted on a small raffia box on the dressing table: the curve of a silver bracelet was visible just over the top of the box's rim. He sat up straighter in the chair, running his hand through his hair as the idea he had just had started to take shape. Am I capable of it? I can learn. Should I though? Yes, definitely. She's worth it. He started to glance around the room again, on the lookout for pen and paper so he could start sketching ideas.

A noise at the window made him fold the paper and slip it quickly into his pocket. He looked up and saw an owl at the window. Pigwidgeon. He scrambled out of his seat, went to the window and opened it. The owl raised its claw and he unhooked the message, which he read at once. The writing was Ginny's:

I miss you.

Hermione's bedroom disappeared, replaced by the bare stone walls of a cell. Harry looked around, totally disoriented at first. The memories of the evening quickly came back to him: the confrontation in the cemetery, what Hermione had been ready to do, the witchfinders, the screaming woman. I'm a prisoner. We all must be. A strange, mid-pitched whirring, seemingly coming from the corner of the room, caught his attention. A small round device kind of like a drum was rotating in the corner, a dull light emanating from it. He remembered what the cell had looked like only a few moments earlier, and recalled the exact memory the device had been conjuring. It had been just as he remembered it, apart from one detail: the message from Ginny. That never happened: what really happened was that Hermione had come up to get the last of her things, then they had gone downstairs together. He looked down again at the whirring, rotating device, now seemingly ineffectual. It occurred to him that someone had tampered with the scene in order to wake him from it. Whether that person wished him well or ill was beside the point: he had to try and rescue the others. Reaching into his pocket, he found that he still had his wand. He went to the cell door and pushed it. It wasn't quite a surprise that it opened.

He stepped out into a poorly lit tunnel with earthen walls. Lumos. But the light that shone out from the end of his wand, instead of being bright white, was a diffuse, grey colour. He squinted as he advanced along the tunnel, putting his hand out the earth wall to guide himself in the monochrome light. After a few moments his eyes grew more accustomed to the bad light, and he began to move more freely. The tunnel turned a sharp bend and widened, and the light from his wand grew even duller. At the same time a sensation of melancholy and despair began to creep over him. He stopped and looked around him in the grey light. I'm walking in a mass grave. Yellowed bones and skulls seemed to protrude from the tunnel walls, and there was a taste in the air of churned-up mud and latrines. Covering his mouth, he pushed on down the tunnel, stopping at the first door he came to. He held out his wand and whispered Alohomora. The door rattled a little, as if caught in a draught of air, but didn't open. He frowned at the door, then on a hunch tried to push it open. With a little effort the door swung open. Maybe they don't need to lock the doors. Maybe no one even tries to leave.

The room he stepped into was nothing like a cell. He found himself standing in a long, high-ceilinged room, lined on both sides with cabinets and display cases. He set off cautiously, glancing into the display cases nearest to him. Arranged on shelves were all manner of what he took to be magical objects. Here were wands of shapes and designs he had never seen in Ollivander's, glass orbs, intricate pieces of machinery, even skulls, animal masks and shrunken heads. At one point he recognised a Cardinalius. He crossed to the other side of the room: here the cabinets contained displays of newspaper clippings and photographs, describing hauntings and other unexplained phenomena. This is a museum. Further on he found records of witch trials, some handwritten on ancient manuscripts. At the far end of the room, sitting at a desk with his back turned, was Henoc.

'Can you hear me?' said Harry, in a voice louder than he intended.

Henoc put down whatever he was looking at and turned around.

'Harry?' he said with surprise. 'When did you get here?'

'Just now,' Harry replied, noting Henoc's relaxed air.

'Feel free to take out anything you like,' said Henoc. 'Just let me give you a pair of gloves first.'

'Thanks, it's ok,' said Harry. 'Actually I just wanted to talk to you.'

'What about?'

'Well, about this place. Do you realise you're in a cell?'

Henoc looked at Harry with bemusement.

'A cell?'

Harry looked around the part of the room where Henoc was sitting. Down in the far corner, wedged behind the final display cabinet, was the little whirring drum he had seen in his cell.

'Actually, there's something really interesting over here,' said Harry, reaching round the side of the cabinet and giving the object a brief, but firm kick that propelled it against the wall. The drum broke in two, and the museum room was replaced by the bare stone walls of a cell.

Harry turned to Henoc. He was sitting on a bunk, looking rather confused.

'Sorry about that,' said Harry. 'I thought you ought to see where you really are.'

'Thanks,' Henoc replied. His expression darkened suddenly. That terrible sound in the cemetery… oh no, la veuve!'

'Yeah, that statue of the old woman. It knocked us out and they brought us here to this prison.'

Henoc stood up and looked around.

'This must be the Pavillon de Vaux.'

'Is that a French wizards' prison?'

'No, France uses Azkaban for the most part. This is something more secret, and nothing to do with the French Ministry of Magic. I'd only heard rumours of this place, rumours that the witchfinders have their own prison. Turns out the rumours were true, just like with the veuve.'

'So you think that's where we are?'

Henoc nodded.

'From what I've heard, the Pavillon de Vaux is an old hunting lodge on the site of a World War One battlefield. The cells for wizards are underground, dug into the soil where the soldiers fell, because wizards' powers are weakened by all the dead soldiers lying all around them in mass graves.'

'That explains a few things,' said Harry grimly, looking around him. 'Do you have your wand, by the way?'

Henoc reached into his pocket and nodded.

'I guess they didn't think it was worth taking them off us,' said Harry. Henoc looked around the walls of his cell, a melancholic look on his face, as if he was searching for the room he had left behind.

'Yes, like we would never want to leave the… illusion made by that machine,' Henoc replied.

They looked at each other in silence.

'Wasn't it weird, sitting in that bar talking to me, knowing who I was when I didn't?'

A look of embarrassment crossed Henoc's face.

'Yes, it was weird. And I felt bad about it. But Ilaria said your mind was very fragile, so I didn't want to do any damage myself. I'm sorry.'

'It's ok,' said Harry, 'Let's find the others and get out of here.'

Henoc nodded. They exited Henoc's cell and continued down the tunnel, stopping at intervals to listen for the reverberations of footsteps or voices in the tunnels. There was no sound.

Soon they came to another metal door in the wall. A faint groan came from behind the door. Harry looked through the grate and into the cell. Inside he saw a balcony bathed in sunlight, overlooking a maze of red-tiled rooftops and in the distance a sunlit sea. Nodding at Henoc, he pushed the door open. Inside a man sat on a chaise-longue, looking out at the view. Hearing Harry's footsteps, he turned and began to address him angrily in a torrent of French. They walked into the room, and Harry headed straight for the corner, where he kicked over the same magical device. The rooftop scene disappeared, replaced by a small stone cell. The man's demeanour changed instantly and he looked around at his surroundings, a look of understanding dawning on his face. He began to address Harry in French. Harry shook his head and pointed at Henoc, who took over the explanations. The man was short, about five foot five, and had a straggly beard and thinning hair. He was wearing a grey tunic with a green cummerbund and had a distant look in his eyes. He certainly seemed like a wizard, another inmate of the prison.

'Tell him he's free to go,' he said to Henoc.

'I already did,' Henoc replied.

The little wizard looked at them for a few moments then suddenly embraced Harry before running out of the cell. Henoc kneeled down to examine the smashed magical device.

'It's called théatre optique, this device,' he said.

'For someone who calls himself a witchfinder, this Mr Bouquett makes rather a lot of use of magic,' Harry remarked.

'How else would he keep wizards under control?' Henoc replied. 'Just imagine, we were under its spell without even knowing. How did you break free of it?'

'I'm not sure,' said Harry. 'I think I had some outside help.'

Henoc picked up a couple of the smaller parts and put them in his pocket.

'I want one,' he said.

They left the empty cell and went on.

Twice more they came across cells occupied by wizards unknown to them. On each occasion they smashed the théatre optique pacifying the prisoners and let them go. Finally, they came to a section of the tunnel with doors on either side.

'Maybe this time?' said Henoc. Harry nodded and pushed on the door to his left. Inside was a cavernous dungeon, its subterranean character well suited to its location in the prison.

'It's the Slytherin common room,' murmured Henoc.

Harry recognised it even he saw that its walls were decorated in Slytherin colours. The dungeon was empty and silent, apart from the inevitable whirring sound.

'Do you mind if I go in alone?' said Harry. Whether Ilaria or Caius was inside, he wanted to speak to them in private.

Caius was lying on a divan pushed up against the wall on one side of the dungeon, seemingly asleep. Harry leaned over him and peered down at him. He looked pale and had an ugly scar on his cheek. I did that to him. Harry shook Caius by the shoulder and his eyes flashed open.

'You're not supposed to be in here,' he said firmly.

'Wait there,' Harry replied, and he hurried off to look for the device creating Caius's illusion. A few moments later the sound of machinery being smashed could be heard from the far corner and Slytherin common room vanished from sight. Caius was sitting up when Harry returned, looking much more alert.

'Sorry to tear you away from your school years,' said Harry. 'Didn't realise Slytherin common room held such happy memories.'

Caius looked brightly at him.

'That was how I liked it the best,' he said. 'Empty.'

Harry grinned.

'Yeah, I can see the appeal.'

He sat down on the bunk next to Caius.

'Sorry for almost killing you.'

'Ah forget it. You were right: I did deserve to be put out of my misery. I was being a raging idiot. A super idiot in fact. I owe you an apology too.'

'No you don't.'

'Ah, but I do. Not just for this evening, if this is even the same day.'

'Good point,' said Harry. 'Who knows how long we've been in here?'

'First things first, Harry. I've got to get this off my chest. I'll have to tell Hermione too, if she ever speaks to me again. If I were her I wouldn't, that's for sure.'

'She'll be alright,' said Harry.

'Maybe. Thing is,' Caius continued, 'that night with the drinking game... I was partly responsible for setting you on your way to your subsequent misadventures.'

'No, you had nothing to do with it. I chose to take part, I chose all the rest too.'

'Not all of it. The drinking game was a bit more premeditated than you know. I arranged it with Ilaria beforehand.'

'What do you mean?'

'Ilaria brewed the Dementico. She thought it would be interesting to see what effect it had on you. I didn't realise her ulterior motive, mainly because I'm stupid and unobservant. I saw it as just a bit of childish fun.'

Harry was silent.

'You're entitled to be angry. You lost a year of your life, and it's partly down to me,' said Caius.

'It's not you I'm angry with,' said Harry. 'I'm not even angry with Ilaria.'

They both lapsed into silence.

'One question,' Caius began. 'Where are we?'

'A prison for witchfinders.'

'Oh. I thought Hermione had a point when she said the witchfinders had no power to arrest us.'

'I'm sure she did,' Harry replied.

'Did you find her?'

Harry shook his head.

'No, not yet. I haven't found Ilaria yet either. Henoc's outside though.'

Caius jumped to his feet.

'So we're fighting our way out, yeah?'

'Almost certainly,' Harry replied. 'Sure you're up to it?'

'Ah come on, you didn't do me that much damage.'

Harry followed Caius as he limped across the room

'One down, two to go,' said Harry to Henoc once they were out of Caius's cell.

'I think Ilaria's in there,' said Henoc, pointing to the opposite door. 'I think I heard her crying.'

'Don't be too hard on her,' said Caius.

Harry looked at them both with what he felt was a slightly awkward expression. Then he nodded.

'Keep watch. I'll be back soon.'

The din of a noisy classroom hit him as he crossed the threshold. It looked like an ordinary school, not so different from the primary school he once went to, but obviously not in Britain. A young schoolteacher was trying to keep order in a classroom of what looked like 11-year olds. The children's voices mingled with that of the teacher, all of them speaking in Italian. Where is she? Ilaria sat disconsolately on her own at a desk in the corner. Her eyes were red from crying, and she was so intent on following the class that she seemed not to notice him. He continued to look at her from the doorway, following the gestures and facial expressions that were so familiar to him. Glancing to the opposite corner to where Ilaria was sitting, he could see the theatre optique at work as usual. He crept across the far side of the classroom and threw the device against the wall, shattering it. Ilaria looked around in shock. When she saw Harry, the look of shock on her face only seemed to increase.

'I've come to get you out of here,' said Harry. 'But first I think we need to talk.'

She nodded. He sat down next to her on the bunk that had replaced the classroom desk.

'I don't know where to begin,' she said, 'What I've done is unforgivable.'

'I just want to hear your side of the story,' he replied, his voice calm but firm.

She reached out her hand and touched his arm.

'Harry, despite what it looks like, my feelings for you have always been genuine.'

'I know,' he said gently.

'I just wanted to keep you for myself. I know it was wrong'

'I understand.'

She paused for a moment. He wondered what he would have done if she had told him the truth at some point.

'Ilaria, if it wasn't for you who knows what would have happened to me,' he began. 'I'm not here to have a go at you, I've got enough on my conscience. I just want to understand what happened this past year.'

'Ok.'

'First of all, Caius said that the drinking game was actually your idea?'

She looked disconsolate.

'Yes, I suggested it to him.'

'Why?'

'Harry, you know why.'

'That doesn't justify …'

'I know. All I wanted to do was to have a glimpse of what your true feelings were. I could see that you were unhappy and I wanted to know … had to know … whether it was because you were unhappy with Ginny Weasley, whether I had a chance. And that enchanted alcohol grants the person who brewed it access to the thoughts of those who drink it.'

'It also causes hallucinations,' he remarked.

'It can do. I'm sorry.'

'So the voice I heard in my ear, that was you?'

'No, no. I didn't hear any other voice.'

'I heard a woman ask my name.'

'It wasn't me. But I've heard that some people, when they drink Dementico, hear a woman's voice speaking inside their head. Some call her the Lady of the Bottle.'

'Oh yes, Caius said something about that in the cemetery.'

'Whether she's part of a hallucination or something else I don't know.'

'And what did you see after that?'

'I saw what you saw, or some of it. The images were fuzzy, as if I was seeing them through a kind of veil. I saw that you were suffering, that you felt lost and isolated. I saw the island.'

'You saw the island?'

She nodded.

'And the dark woman, was that you?'

'No, I was just an onlooker. The dark woman and the injured girl, they must have been your creations, like the island itself.'

'And then what happened?'

'The next thing I heard was that you had disappeared. The rumour was that you had beaten up Ginny Weasley and walked out into the night.'

He shook his head. For a moment he thought he could see the look of disgust on Ginny's face just before she had disapparated from the flat. He imagined her apparating suddenly in her parents' house in the middle of the night, the tense postmortem around the kitchen table in the Burrow, Ron's anger, Hermione's disappointment at his dim-witted and pathetic act of violence. Finally he looked up at Ilaria, his expression grim.

'If you knew me to be so violent, why did you come looking for me?'

'I told myself that for one thing, you weren't yourself that night. That was partly my fault anyway. But I also told myself you must have been provoked. And all of a sudden unattached. I just wanted to see you again.'

'And how did you find me?'

'By chance. One night, a few weeks later, I went to the cinema in the West End with some friends. When I came out of the cinema, I saw you on the other side of the street. You had obviously been sleeping rough. I was shocked that you didn't recognise me. That's when I saw that something was very wrong. I thought maybe your girlfriend had cursed you.'

Harry frowned.

'No, I cursed myself. Even now, I can barely remember those first weeks. What was I thinking of, casting that memory charm on myself? One of the first things I can remember is how you came up to me on the street. You offered to buy me dinner. I couldn't believe my luck, such a nice girl speaking to me, wanting to help me. In spite of everything, I really am grateful to you, Ilaria.'

She smiled at him, her eyes filled with tears.

'I tried dropping a few hints, to see if you would remember something of your past life, but you really seemed to remember nothing. As time went on, it seemed actually impossible that you would remember anything, and by that time I was in love with you. I told myself that even if you never remembered who you were, I would still rather be with you.'

Harry said nothing. What a nice version of events.

'This will sound strange,' said Ilaria, 'terrible even, but I think I'm going to mourn for James. He lived with me for a year and now he's never coming back.'

'No he isn't,' said Harry.

'I know,' she said sadly.

'We should be going,' he added.

She nodded, a tear rolling down her cheek. He reached out and stroked her arm. She seized his hand, held it against her cheek for a moment then kissed it once.

'I'm so, so sorry, Harry'.

She gave him another searching look of contrition. He managed a half-smile in reply.

'I'm a terrible person,' she added with a trembling voice.

'No you're not.'