"Please open your textbook, Ancient Runes Made Easy to page 87. Ms Midwidgeon, would you please read the opening paragraphs on 'Runic Numerology?'" requested Professor Babbling.
"What about Justin?" asked Harry into the room without thinking.
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Potter?" Professor Babbling sounded more puzzled than annoyed at the interruption.
"You always call on Justin Finch-Fletchley to read these intro paragraphs. Since the first day," Harry explained.
"You must be mistaken, Mr. Potter. There is no student with that name nor has there been in this class," insisted Professor Babbling. "I'd certainly remember one as unique as that. Please read, Ms. Midwidgeon."
The Hufflepuff girl to Harry's far-left began to read, but he couldn't concentrate on the words. His mind spun, trying to determine the reason that Professor Babbling didn't seem to know Justin. Maybe he had transferred to another class? Maybe he was in one of Harry's other classes and he had confused it with this one? Somehow, neither of those solutions satisfied the worry that began to gnaw at his insides.
After Ancient Runes, he had a break, and since Justin was on his mind, he decided to take the parcel to Cedric that Justin had given him. He dashed over to Gryffindor Tower, marvelling at the ease with which he navigated the old castle now and how seldom he got lost. Then, he headed down to the hallway between the kitchens and the Great Hall where the Badger Den was located. He knocked.
The creaky door was opened unexpectedly by Cedric himself. "Harry! What a surprise! Welcome to the Sett." After his slightly-posh greeting, Cedric turned and Harry could hear the thump of his crutches alternating with the metallic scrape of his feet as they dragged on the floor with each step. Unlike last summer, however, Cedric seemed less self-conscious about how he walked and just got on with it. Harry followed, pulling the door shut behind him.
"The Sett?" he asked as Cedric sank into an easy chair with the kind of sigh that told Harry how much pain he probably experienced. Harry had sighed that way himself often enough. He gingerly located another chair with his cane and seated himself.
"The Sett is what we Badgers call our den," he explained with a grin. "Insider info for you."
"Brilliant," said Harry.
"What can I do for you?" Cedric asked, and Harry pulled out the parcel.
"Justin Finch-Fletchly asked me to give you this," he said, holding it out.
"Ta," Cedric said, taking it from Harry. "Some medicines I asked him to pick up in the village, and some sweets, of course!" he laughed.
Harry laughed with him, but he grew serious. "Has Justin changed classes?"
"I don't think so, why?" Cedric asked, the parcel rustling as he unwrapped it and shuffled through the items inside.
"This morning in Ancient Runes, Babbling had a different person read when she always asks him," Harry explained, aware of how silly it sounded.
"And?" Cedric prompted, his attention still on his parcel.
"Well, I asked her why and she said she didn't know who that was! But she has asked him to read every class period for three weeks now!" Harry spilled in a rush.
"Didn't know who he was?" Cedric asked with a frown, his hands now still.
"It didn't make any sense," said Harry miserably.
"Hmmm," said Cedric thoughtfully. Then, in a louder voice, "Hannah?"
Hannah Abbot, apparently sitting and studying at a table across the room, sat back in her chair with a rustle of robes. "What?"
"Have you seen Justin today?" Cedric asked.
"Who?" Hannah asked carelessly.
"Justin. Mr. Finch-Fletchly. Your best friend? That Justin?" Cedric's sarcasm was smoothed by his upper-class RP accent, but Harry still grinned.
"My best friend?" Hannah asked in honest confusion. "I don't know any Justin Finch… what is it?"
Silence hung in the room for too many seconds. Hannah, with a swish of her robes and a toss of her hair, went back to her book. Harry stared at the light blur that was Cedric's face, wondering if the Head Boy was staring back at him.
His stomach churned. Something was very, very wrong at Hogwarts.
[break]
It was probably karma for congratulating himself on finding his way so well the other day, Harry thought, as he found himself wandering aimlessly in a dim, upper corridor with twists and turns but no apparent way out. He turned to his right, but then stopped and reversed direction.
"You look a bit lost, sonny," observed a voice from a painting overhead.
"You sound American," observed Harry with surprise, stopping and squinting up at the wall, trying to pick out details of the woman who had addressed him.
She laughed. "Baltimore. Born and raised."
"What is your portrait doing here at Hogwarts?" asked Harry. "Who are you?"
"Oh, I guess they put my portrait here when they gave me an MBE," she said carelessly, as though receiving a Most Excellent Order of the British Empire, Britain's highest civil award for chivalry, was equivalent to receiving a dinner invitation.
"An American is an MBE?" Harry asked in wonder.
"Muggle award," she said with what sounded like a shrug. "They gave me a Distinguished Star before that, at the Ministry of Magic."
"I didn't know an American ever received a Distinguished Star. What did you do?" Harry asked curiously.
She didn't answer for a long moment. Harry supposed she was staring down at him: his tousled black hair, glasses, Gryffindor tie and the white stick he held in his left hand, vertically like a staff as he stood facing her, squinting slightly at the rectangular shape of the frame, which was all he could make out. He guessed correctly that she had been sizing him up, because she said, "You blind or something?"
"Or something," Harry answered, imitating her American phrase.
"We gimps gotta stick together," she said as if giving him a wink.
"We gimps?" Harry asked.
There was a hollow bang and she laughed. "My wooden leg," she explained. "I call it Cuthbert."
"You named your wooden leg?" Harry asked with a laugh.
"You haven't named your… whatever that is… cane?" she bantered back.
"I guess not," Harry said, who had honestly never considered such a thing.
"Since you're blind, I'll tell ya," she drawled in her thick American accent. "My name's Virginia. Virginia Hall. I worked with the SOE and the OSS in the war. You know what those are?"
"No," answered Harry honestly. He wasn't even quite sure which war she referenced. Without being able to see any detail in the painting he didn't know what era she was from: Regency, Victorian, or more recent.
"They were set up to fight the Nazis," she explained. "Churchill called us the Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare, and was he ever right!"
Churchill. World War II, then, Harry thought. At least he knew that much muggle history.
"Most of us were really working to defeat Grindelwald, you know," she added. "But this picture is just muggle rubbish. Can you see it?"
"Wish I could," answered Harry.
"I'll tell you about it then," she said. "It's one of those silly muggle radios they had us use in those days, and we're in a barn and powering the radio with a bicycle! How about that!"
Harry smiled weakly. "You were a spy?" he ventured finally.
"One of the best," she stated proudly. "Those Nazis, they were always looking for the 'Limping Lady' as they called me. But don't tell anyone I told you this. I usually keep a low profile."
"Err, all right," agreed Harry, wondering who he might possibly tell anyway.
"I just told you because you're a gimp like me. We're special, you know. Special brand of magic, disabled witches and wizards have."
"We do?" Harry asked. "But Professor O'Carolan says that superstitions about blind people are nonsense. Like seeing the future and stuff."
"I'm not talking about superstitions or heightened abilities given us poor wretches to compensate for our lost limbs or senses or any of that garbage," she said scornfully. "I'm talking about a deeper magic. Developed from pain and watching and noticing."
"I don't understand," Harry told her.
"I have a feeling you will soon," she said ambiguously.
"I'd better get back. I…err… kinda got lost," Harry told her.
"Not a lot of traffic on this corridor," she observed wryly, making Harry wonder if the paintings had a popularity contest based on their locations in the castle. "If you're headed back to Gryffindor Tower, go back the way you came, take two lefts and three rights, and then go down some stairs. Turn right again at the statue of the Questing Beast and you'll be on your way."
Harry thanked her. "It was nice to meet you," he said politely and sincerely.
"Come visit any time," she invited warmly, but he secretly wondered how he would ever find her corridor a second time.
He followed her directions, stopping at the statue of the Questing Beast. Running a hand over it curiously, he discovered that it looked a lot like a Basilisk. He shivered and went on. At last, he arrived at Gryffindor Tower where he found Ron and Hermione in the common room playing Wizard's Chess.
"What, not with Cedric tonight?" he teased.
"She is sticking her tongue out at you," Ron reported.
"Can't see it," said Harry with a shrug, heading upstairs to get his books.
[break]
The rest of the week seemed to grind along interminably to Harry. On Wednesday, he came out of Defence Against the Dark Arts even more concerned about Professor Umbridge. She had announced that there would be no practical spell-work in her class, which made him wonder how any of them would get practice duelling, but he hadn't said anything at the time because he had enough going on at the moment. Plus, he planned to ask Professor O'Carolan about the Guild of the Night and blind duelling as soon as he had a chance.
The chance came on Thursday, when Professor O'Carolan tracked him down to do a mobility lesson.
"Come into Minerva's classroom, Harry," he said before dinner. "I need to at least pretend I'm earning my keep around here."
Harry laughed and followed him into Professor McGonagall's room.
"Remind me… it's been about six weeks since you had the procedure on your eyes; is that correct?" he began, finding the corner of a nearby desk and perching on it.
"Almost seven, sir," answered Harry.
"Do you find that the vision you regained helps you?" queried the Professor.
Harry sat silently, trying to frame an answer.
"Honestly, sir, not really," he said, a little timidly. "The light hurts so much it kind of washes everything out. I'm not sure how to explain that to people who think seeing is always better."
"Your experience is your experience, Harry. They aren't looking through your eyes," said O'Carolan gently.
Harry didn't answer. He felt his way to a chair and sat down morosely. Professor O'Carolan allowed a quiet silence to remain, giving unspoken comfort to ease Harry's disappointment.
Then he spoke. "Since there are many times in your day when you cannot rely on vision to navigate, I will train you in more advanced nonvisual skills in preparation for nonvisual duelling."
Harry looked up. "The Guild of the Night. Tell me more about that."
"It's an organisation of blind witches and wizards. Started in Japan a hundred years ago, and has since spread to China, Thailand, Burma, and into India. The original concept combines elements of several martial arts: Karate, Tae Kwon Do and Judo, techniques of wizard duelling and spellwork, and using a group of sighted assistants as a Battle Guard, as well as various imperfect forms of magical sight replacement such as charmed amulets and so forth."
"Interesting," said Harry thoughtfully.
"As I said, I studied some of their methods and techniques, and I've also developed my own methods over the years that dovetail with their practises."
"Such as?" Harry asked.
"One example is learning echolocation and aiming by sound," explained the Professor.
"Aiming by sound! Professor Lupin was teaching me some of that two years ago," put in Harry excitedly. He told the Professor how he cast the body-bind curse onto Peter Pettigrew in the Quidditch team room.
"Well done!" praised Professor O'Carolan. "You're certainly ready to begin learning this technique. Since I believe strongly in practical application, tell me, is there a location where your eyesight hinders you more than you'd like?"
"The quidditch pitch," Harry said before he thought, then wished he could take the words back. Surely Professor O'Carolan would rather work on something more serious and academic.
To his surprise, however, Professor O'Carolan exclaimed, "Perfect! Let's go out there now."
"How will quidditch help with duelling?" Harry asked, sceptically.
"All of life is intertwined," said the old professor cryptically.
They walked through the castle corridors and out into the courtyard to cross the covered bridge. Harry never ceased to enjoy watching Professor O'Carolan navigate. He didn't move like a sighted person, planning a path between approaching obstacles; rather he seemed to take a "damn the torpedoes" approach and just go for it. He wasn't reckless, however; he chose a direction and route carefully. He listened to the minutest echoes and air currents; he observed changes in pitch and texture of the floor beneath his feet; he held his cane with delicacy, reading every vibration and the clear path it did not touch as much as the obstacles that it did. He walked swiftly, stopping every now and then to determine the best path around a barrier based on the sound of space and the direction he wanted to go. As far as Harry could tell from his not-very-visual observation, the man moved as though he were dancing through a world with which he was very much familiar.
Harry wondered if he'd ever be that good.
They arrived at the quidditch pitch, and Professor O'Carolan asked if he'd meant the stands. Before Harry could answer, he corrected himself. "No, you're a player. You meant the pitch itself."
Harry told him briefly about the pickup match and losing to Ginny because he was afraid of running into a pole or the other players. He described how he'd run into the wall shortly after losing his sight, and about accidentally flying through the dementors.
Professor O'Carolan laughed. "You have had some adventures out here!"
He walked across the grass to where the first of the three poles were planted firmly in the ground.
"How did you do that?" Harry asked, amazed. "And I don't need that 'blind seer' stuff either."
"Impertinence," muttered the Professor. He reached out and touched the pole. "I'll show you, but let's begin with something easier."
He led Harry to the wall that divided the raised stands from the grass of the pitch.
"I'm sure you're accustomed by now to using a little passive echolocation; am I right?" he asked.
"What?" Harry asked, lost by the unfamiliar phrase.
"If you stand here, facing me, you can tell which side of you the wall is on just by listening, correct?"
"Yes, but I can see the shadow of it, too," Harry said, not sure how this would help him.
"Oh that reminds me, I want you to wear a blindfold for this exercise." He took out a silk scarf and placed it in Harry's hand.
At once, Harry's mind flashed to a graveyard in a forest, and a red silk scarf lying crumpled on the ground. Then, as if in a nightmare, the red silk was tied around his throbbing and bloodied hand.
"Err… I…" he dropped the square of silk on the ground when his fingers convulsed and refused to grasp it. Panic washed over him in a cold wave.
"You don't want to wear a blindfold?" asked Professor O'Carolan gently.
"It's not that," said Harry, sucking in a lungful of air. "It's just… may I wear my blackout lenses instead of that handkerchief?"
"I suppose so," agreed the Professor, not understanding Harry's distress.
"All right, yeah. Thanks," Harry said, turning to place both hands on the solid wall above his head, trying desperately to ground himself and bring his spinning mind into control.
Professor O'Carolan hadn't heard the scarf drop silently to the grass, so he said with a smile, "in that case may I please have my handkerchief back?"
"Yeah," Harry replied tersely, stopping to grab it and hand it back to his mentor, who stood with a hand out for it.
Harry took another steadying breath, and then drew his wand, tapping his glasses until the lenses and protective sides were opaque black. As usual, the relief from the light was immediate, as was the disorientation of total darkness. With his mind still reeling from the panic attack, he found it even more unsettling.
"I'm sorry I've disturbed you," said the Professor kindly.
"It's ok. I'm alright," said Harry, not wanting to talk about it.
"Then back to our lesson," said Professor O'Carolan. "Using the principles of comparison, we can cast a sound at the surface and determine if there is space, an object, an edge, and sometimes even the size or shape of that object."
He clapped his hands. Then he clicked his tongue.
"Many short, sharp sounds will produce a good echo. It's like using sonar or navigating like a dolphin," he said with a smile. "My cane tip is made of Goblin silver which gives a nice, crisp sound. Some blind people like to use a tongue click because you can cast it from you in a certain direction. Personally, I don't like going about clicking my tongue all the time but that's my own opinion." He chuckled. "Still, every now and again, it's a handy tool, particularly when you're flying along toward a narrow post! Come, give it a try!"
Harry found himself so fascinated by this lecture that the last of his panic melted away. He imitated the tongue click that Professor O'Carolan showed him. First, he aimed it at the wall on his right and at the empty space on his left and listened to the difference. The space sounded soft, whereas the wall sounded… dark somehow. He began exploring the pitch, sending echoes around and listening to what they hit. He found he could identify the opening of the doorway by the slight change in the sound of the wall. He walked toward where he thought the posts were, clicking and listening as hard as he could.
"Ouch!" Harry exclaimed when his forehead found the post. "I couldn't hear that one."
"Patience, lad," said the Professor. "It takes a lot of practice to be able to pick out something that narrow."
"I think I figured that out," said Harry, rubbing his forehead.
"You've taken a good first step. Come along. It's about time for dinner and I'm hungry!"
[break]
On the following Saturday morning, Harry stood at the window of the boys' dormitory in his Quidditch livery, his eyes closed against the intensity of the morning light. He wondered what the weather was doing, but there was no one to ask as the other boys had all gone down to breakfast. There was not even an orange cat on his bed; Feliss Eliot was gone, apparently off on auror business.
Today, the Gryffindor team faced Ravenclaw, and after losing to Ginny in the pick-up game a few weeks ago, Harry felt his stomach tighten with worry.
He went down to the Common Room where he found a gaggle of angry and excited Gryffindors all buzzing with talk.
"Harry!" Ron said, coming over and grabbing both of his friend's arms above the elbows.
"What is it? What's going on?" asked Harry, perplexed.
"She's cancelled Quidditch!" Ron shouted, shaking Harry. "The old hag."
"Who could do that? Who would do that?" Harry asked in disbelief.
"Umbridge did," Hermione chimed in, approaching them from the side. "There's a notice on the board. For our own safety," she said angrily.
"No!" Harry yelled. He tore away from Ron and stomped upstairs.
[Author's Note: Virginia Hall was a real person, and the painting I'm referencing hangs in the CIA headquarters in Langley, VA. I "met" Virginia in Sonia Purnell's wonderful biography of her life and work (and she really did receive an MBE!). I hope her friends, fans and family will graciously allow me the fun of bringing her into our story and into the wizarding world. I intend absolutely no disrespect by fictionalizing her. Erin]