Chapter 6
Harry had promised himself that he wouldn't get caught on his own words. He had promised himself that he wouldn't get choked up as he related what Dumbledore had revealed to him. He soon found that those were promises he couldn't keep. In the very least, he took comfort in the fact that his friends' reactions mirrored his own. Ron and Hermione had followed him wordlessly through the kitchen, where Mrs. Weasley had tried to fuss over Harry, but he had politely told her that he was fine. Harry led the way out the back door and through the garden. They settled themselves under the same shade tree again, with a flagon of pumpkin juice Mrs. Weasley had provided. Hermione had sprawled on her stomach with her chin resting on her hands while Ron had sat with his arms folded around one bent knee and his other leg flung to the side. Both looked expectant, but neither said a word as they waited until Harry was ready to talk. Harry leaned back against the tree trunk, and considered carefully how to begin.
"Hermione, how far have you gotten, reading that book?"
Hermione raised an eyebrow, and said, uncertainly, "Not too far. It's huge, and there's a lot of information."
Harry nodded. "What have you read about so far?"
"Well, it went through a series of Dark Wizards, dating further back than the first century. They were mostly brushed over lightly, not a lot of detail. There was one from during the height of the Druid period that was more in-depth. I've just begun a section on Salazar Slytherin. I skimmed forward. It looks like that section is huge." Hermione eyed Harry narrowly. "Why?"
"What did the book emphasize?" Harry pressed.
"It analyzed how those wizards gained power, but it mostly went over their weaknesses. Harry, where are you going with this?"
"Hermione, that book was written by Voldemort."
Hermione's looked as though she was about to choke. Ron had gone far beyond that and had fallen backwards, propping himself up with his elbows. Even his freckles seemed to have gone white. He whispered, "Harry? You- Know-Who wrote THAT book? And you've got it? What if it's like the diary? What if . . ."
"It's not like that, I don't think. Dumbledore wanted me to read it. I'm sure if Dumbledore gave it to me, it must be safe." Harry looked at each of his friends. Hermione was nodding resolutely, and Ron, in the very least, had sat up again. Harry continued. "Voldemort used those notes in that book to analyze how other witches and wizards gained and lost power so he could find the perfect way to gain power. Apparently, he thought he had found it."
Ron swallowed. "Please don't tell me what I think you're going to tell me."
Harry shook his head. How was he going to say this? "Do you remember who Grindelwald was?"
Hermione piped up. "He was a Dark wizard from just over 50 years ago. There isn't too much about him in the history books, just that he was involved in killing a lot of Muggles and that Dumbledore defeated him. Why?"
"Grindelwald was Adolph Hitler."
Hermione froze for a moment, but then she leaned back and considered this carefully, nodding her head and muttering, "Why didn't I see that before? How could I be so stupid?"
Ron scratched his head and asked, "Who's Adolph Hitler?"
Hermione immediately shot a glare at Ron. "Honestly, Ron! Don't you know anything about the Muggle world? Especially with what your father does for a living?"
"Well, sorta, I mean, well, I guess I don't." Ron threw up his hands in mock-surrender. "What's so important about that guy?"
"Ron, he was responsible for largest organized attempt to wipe out an entire race of human beings in the history of the planet! He hadn't planned to stop anytime soon, either." Hermione leaned back on her hands and rolled her eyes. "I would have guessed that even wizards would know about something that important."
"Well," Harry started, "apparently some wizards did know about it, because he wasn't a Muggle."
"That makes sense," Hermione said. "I remember reading in a regular Muggle history book that Hitler had some sort of fascination with magic, and that most people figured it to be some sort of bizarre superstition. Why do you think it isn't really mentioned in the wizard world?"
"I can tell you that one," Ron said with a smug grin. "Because people are still paranoid about anything having to do with the Muggles finding out about us."
Hermione smirked at him. "You don't think it would have anything to do with the idea of a dark wizard killing millions of Muggles and terrorizing the world, Ron?"
"Oh."
Hermione turned towards Harry. "Harry, what's this got to do with you?"
Just say it, Harry told himself. They've got to know. Stay calm. "Well, I was trying to get to that." Harry flicked his eyes between his two friends and continued. "Both my grandfather and Dumbledore were involved in bringing down Grindelwald. At the same time, Voldemort was looking for ways to gain power. For some reason, he thought my grandfather had some sort of magical ability that allowed him to control people's minds, called the Mind Touch." Harry shuddered slightly and took a deep breath. "He decided that I must have inherited that ability and wanted to kill me so that he could get it."
This time, both Ron and Hermione just stared at Harry. Ron broke the silence. "Harry, why would You-Know-Who think that?"
Harry closed his eyes for a moment. This was the part he didn't want to think about. Voldemort wiping the life from his mum and dad, and Snape at the bottom of it all. He opened his eyes and steeled himself. He said, "Voldemort sent a spy to get information about a particular wizard involved in defeating Grindelwald. He knew the person who had spied on Grindelwald must have had the Mind Touch, and that person was working in the United States at the time. My grandfather was working there at the same time. Voldemort's spy must have figured it was the same person."
Ron pursed his lips. "What kind of stupid prat would make a mistake like that?"
"Snape."
"WHAT?!?" Ron and Hermione yelled at once. Ron jumped to his feet, knocking over the flagon of pumpkin juice, and began pacing circles around Harry and Hermione, saying exactly what he planned to do to the greasy- haired Potions Master as soon as they returned to Hogwarts. Hermione sat there, looking stunned, although Harry wasn't sure if she was more stunned at the news about Snape, or at the incredible list of curses coming out of Ron's mouth.
"Ron, stop for a second," Harry said.
"Don't tell me you're going to DEFEND that slimy git?" Ron yelled. "That's all the proof we need! The man is as rotten as they come! How could Dumbledore ever let . . ."
"Ron, Snape defected from Voldemort just before my parents died, when Voldemort was the most powerful." Harry gritted his teeth against the tears that were once again threatening to spill over. "Snape risked his life for my mum and dad."
"Are you sure?" Ron looked like he didn't want to believe a word of it.
"I'm positive, Ron. I don't like it, but I'm positive." Harry sighed and dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. He really didn't want to talk about this anymore. "Want to go play a game of Quidditch? I feel like flying right about now. Besides, I want to have some fun on my birthday."
Ron nodded, but Hermione tapped Harry on the arm. "Harry? What was that ability called? The one that Voldemort wanted?"
"The Mind Touch. Don't tell me you've read about that too?"
Hermione shook her head. "No, I was just wondering. As soon as we get back to school, I'm going to have to . . ."
"Hermione!" Ron exclaimed. "If you mention the library, I'll hex you into next week!"
Hermione raised her eyebrows and shook her head. "Ok, ok, but I will, you know. For now, we can go play Quidditch." She held out her hand to Ron, and he pulled her to her feet. "Thank you," she said, and then turned to Harry, who hadn't moved. "Aren't you coming? You said you wanted to play."
Harry nodded, smiled, and then pushed himself up. Something dark and shiny in his breast pocket caught Hermione's attention. "Harry, what's that?" she asked, pointing.
"What? Oh, this. A raven gave me a feather the day before I got to the Burrow, and I decided to keep it for good luck."
Ron appraised Harry skeptically. "A raven gave you a feather?"
"Yes. I was talking to it about the Dursleys, and how I'd been working all day. I called it a crow . . . I think it told me to mind my manners."
"Harry, was that before or after you hit your head?"
Harry grinned at his friend and pushed him towards their makeshift Quidditch pitch.
An afternoon of Quidditch can fix anything, Harry decided. They had even managed to get Hermione onto a broom, and turned the event into a Chaser/Keeper session. Ron had taken up a place in front of the two tattered hoops at the far end of the field, apologizing for the one that had broken when Fred had smashed a Bludger into it a bit too eagerly. Harry and Hermione had each taken turns with the Quaffle, trying to get shots past Ron. Ron had certainly been improving, but what surprised both the boys was how well Hermione played. Harry only managed to beat her in two rounds, and when they finally stopped for suppertime, hot, tired, and thirsty, Ron and Harry swarmed her with questions.
"Why didn't you tell us you could do that?" Ron blurted, flabbergasted.
"Do what?" Hermione asked, her eyes twinkling mischievously.
Harry cut in. "Play like that! I mean, I'm not a Chaser, not really, but you're good! You've never played before?"
"No, I haven't, but when I was younger, my parents put me on a youth cricket team. I used to have quite an arm."
Ron beamed at Hermione with a whole new respect. "You've got to try out for one of the Chaser positions next year. Angelina, Alicia, and Katie are all 7th years. We'll be needing three new chasers."
"Hold it Ron, no way," Hermione stopped short of the back door and turned on her friends. "I played for fun, and because you and Harry wanted me to. I don't like the idea of being up there in front of the whole school. I couldn't possibly do it! I won't have time, with all the classes I'm taking. Besides, I have no real experience. I'd be a liability to the team! Harry agrees with me, don't you? Harry?"
Harry was looking at Hermione with one eyebrow slightly raised, scratching his chin thoughtfully. "Well, Hermione, we will need three new chasers . . ."
"Forget it. Not a chance," Hermione said as she pulled the door open and led the way into the kitchen. She didn't see Harry wink at Ron, both of them grinning fiercely. They were all greeted by the wonderful aromas of dinner, and a huge birthday cake sitting on the countertop. Ron put a finger to his lips, telling Harry and Hermione not to say a word as he reached over to steal a glob of icing.
"Ronald Wealsey!" his mother yelled, bursting into the kitchen. "Get your fingers away from that cake! You'll have plenty enough sugar when dinner is over. Go wash your hands!" She turned to Harry and Hermione, smiling sweetly. "How are you two dears doing? You might want to wash your hands before supper. Harry, are you ok?"
As wonderful as Mrs. Weasley could be, Harry began to wonder if there was such a thing as too much mothering. "Perfectly fine, Mrs. Weasley."
"Of course, dear," she said, although her expression said otherwise.
"Hello everyone," Mr. Weasley's tired voice said from the sitting room. "I think that's the last of it."
"I'm coming, Arthur!" said Mrs. Weasley.
Everyone followed her to the sitting room, where Mr. Weasley was going through his latest armload of boxes from his old office at the Ministry. Fred and George were already in the sitting room, helping their dad unpack. Possibly for the first time in their lives, the twins didn't seem to be in a joking mood. Mr. Weasley held up a three-pronged electrical plug on the end of a short length of frayed orange wire. It appeared to have once been part of a construction tool. "I was always particularly fond of this one. Don't you like it, dear? Hello, kids," he said, giving a small smile to Ron, Harry, and Hermione.
"It's lovely, Arthur," said Mrs. Weasley.
Mr. Weasley nodded as he handed the plug to George, who went to put it on the shelf. He reached back into the box for another carefully wrapped plug and said, "I saw Percy down at the office. Invited him to supper tonight, Penelope too, if he wanted, but he said he was too busy writing a report on dragon-hide gloves. He told me that he intended to keep his job, and I suppose he's right, in a way. With Fudge as volatile as he is, he's probably better off safe than sorry, especially as he's just starting out."
"Dad, he's a sell-out!" Fred exclaimed, livid. "I can't believe he's not sticking with the family at a time like this."
"Fred, you're brother is taking care of himself, and he's fairly good at that," said Mrs. Weasley, planting her hands staunchly on her hips. "Unlike you and George, he's got some ambition to make something of himself, not spend his life making pranks and jokes." Her expression became slightly pained. "But you're right. I wish he'd come home tonight."
She sat down next to Mr. Weasley, watching as he turned the next plug over slowly in his hands. "That's really all of it, isn't it? I can't believe all of this, all at once. What will we do now?"
"Dumbledore said he might have some work for me, Molly. He can't pay me officially, but given the situation, he can work it out." Mr. Weasley looked up with a forced smile. "Don't worry, this will all work out."
Harry had to fight to keep from looking as though he'd been punched in the gut. The Weasleys were already poor enough. The financial impact of Mr. Weasley's job loss hadn't even occurred to him. He watched Mr. Weasley examining the plug collection with nostalgia. Harry's mind drifted to the pile of gold sitting in his Gringotts's vault, and he gritted his teeth, knowing the Weasleys would never accept a Knut of it. He looked over at Fred, who had just placed a white-wired plug (apparently from a kitchen appliance) on the mantle. He made eye contact, and an understanding flashed between the two of them.
"Dad?" Fred sat down next to Mr. Weasley. "George and I have something to tell you."
"Fred, please don't tell me you blew up the shed again."
"No, Dad," George said, immediately realizing where his brother was going with this. "We actually have some good news. Fred, go get it, will you?"
Fred nodded and took off up the stairs. Mr. Weasley looked confused, but Mrs. Weasley seemed more suspicious. "If you boys tell me that you're still selling those ridiculous pranks of yours, I swear you'll wish you'd never played a joke in your lives."
"No, mum. We were planning on it, especially when we got ourselves a silent partner . . ."
". . . and managed to get enough money to really start the business . . ." said Fred, now coming back down the stairs, staggering slightly with the weight of a large bag.
". . .but now we figure the family needs it more."
Fred set the bag heavily on the table with a metallic clink. "There's enough money to keep things running for a while. Don't worry, dad. We'll be fine."
Mr. Weasley looked between Fred and George speechlessly. He reached over and pulled open the drawstring of the bag and looked inside. His eyes widened in shock. "There must be a thousand Galleons in here," he said with a strained whisper. "How did you boys get this?"
"We told you," said George. "Silent partner."
Mr. Weasley shook his head slowly, a warm smile spreading across his face. "Sometimes, I think it's better not to know how you two do it. Thanks boys." He pulled the drawstring shut and slid the bag to the side. "I think, now, we can all go enjoy a birthday party properly?"
He slapped his hands on his knees and stood, then looked over into the box he had brought back from the office. "Yup, that's all of it. Just as well. Perhaps things will just improve from here . . . wait a minute. Oh no."
"What's wrong, dear?" Mrs. Weasley asked.
"I must have left it in the bathroom at the office," he grumbled. "I had wanted to see how it worked, and I forgot it. I'll have to go back after supper to get it."
"What dad?" Ron asked.
"My rubber duck!"
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Holly could feel the tension in the ministry building, and she didn't like it one bit. It didn't matter. There wasn't a thing she could do about it. She hadn't seen or heard from Fudge for a few hours. Whether that was a good sign or not remained to be seen. In that time, she had tried everything she could think of to find a means of escape, but not one of those things had worked. She was also no closer to figuring out the riddle of the feather.
Bram had obviously thought the feather was important, but Holly couldn't see why. She had stared at it, poked it, and ran her finger along the rachis repeatedly. She had even tried talking to it, for all the good that would do. Finally, she stopped in frustration, occupying herself by nibbling on some of the nut mixes she still had hidden in her pack. "Hmm," she mumbled to herself. "The man at the store was right. The dried apples are really good."
Holly stood up and walked towards the window. It had definitely begun to get dark outside, and as though that didn't bother her enough, there was still no sign of Bram. She grimaced and turned her back to the window. Right now, it was just one more way she couldn't get out. She slammed her fist against the wall. She had to be missing something. There HAD to be a way out. Right now, she just couldn't think of it, and her aggravation was getting her nowhere. This wouldn't do at all.
She returned to the dresser where she had placed the feather and picked it up again. She brought it up in front of her face and narrowed her eyes. "A feather. It's just a lousy feather. What was Bram thinking?" She shook her head and whipped the feather away from her face in frustration.
The strange, warm tingling she had felt every time she had touched the feather must have magnified a thousand times. It crept up her arm through her whole body. What looked like a bright shower of sparks flew from the end of the feather. Holly froze, then slowly raised it back in front of her face, her jaw now hanging slightly open. Slowly, she moved backwards to the edge of her bed and sat down, never taking her eyes from the feather. It wasn't a wand, but something about it was certainly reminiscent of a wand. She turned it over and over in her hands. If anything from the past day felt peculiar, this certainly should have, but somehow, it didn't. Perhaps, just maybe, she could use it to open the door. She turned her eyes towards the ceiling mentally thanked Bram. Once again, Holly wondered where the raven had gone, and if she was coming back.
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Dumbledore untied a small roll of parchment from the leg of the hawk owl standing on his desk. He adjusted his spectacles and quickly unrolled the short note.
D - No luck yet. No records, V does not seem to suspect. Still safe. - S
He thanked the bird, who hooted softly before taking off out the window of Dumbledore's tower office. Snape knew he should not expect a reply. The notes he sent were enough of a risk for him at the moment. The potions master should be back for the start of the school year, but it was still uncertain. So many things were uncertain in these times. Dumbledore's conversation that morning with Harry had covered everything of immediate importance to the boy; those things which would help answer some of the questions that had been plaguing him. The last thing Dumbledore wanted to do was to give Harry information that produced more questions than answers. Unfortunately, most of the available information did exactly that. There were so many things Dumbledore still had to work out, and circumstances, he felt, made it necessary that he work out those mysteries sooner rather than later.
Dumbledore leaned his chin on his hands and thought carefully for a moment. In a swift motion, he stood, walked to one of his many cabinets, and opened the door. He put his wand to his temple and pulled it away, the wand now carrying a whitish, wispy cloud. He touched his wand to the surface of the shining contents of his Penseive, let the surface settle, and peered in. He spun around as he heard an anxious tone from Fawkes.
The phoenix was bobbing his head, swaying agitatedly from leg to leg on his perch. He sang another high note and flapped his wings once.
"Ah, Fawkes, what is it? Is something wrong?" the Headmaster asked evenly.
Fawkes didn't have time to answer before a mess of black feathers shot through the open window like a small rocket and skidded to a halt on Dumbledore's desk, sending parchments flying everywhere. It was immediately on its feet, clacking furiously. Surprise registered on Dumbledore's face for a moment before he managed to resume his typically calm demeanor.
"Slow down, my friend," he said, holding up a hand and leaning towards the obviously distraught bird. "I cannot help you if I cannot understand you."
The raven stared at him with her chest heaving. When her breathing slowed, she tilted her head, as though appraising the wizard standing in front of her. She opened her beak, and sang a long, vibrant note that resonated through the tower. Dumbledore was not often taken aback by things, but this time, he felt, was one of the exceptions. Fawkes immediately flew off his perch and Dumbledore watched as the two birds carried on one of the strangest conversations he'd ever witnessed. Finally, the wizard spoke.
"I regret to break up this merry reunion, but am I correct in assuming you had a something important to tell me?" he asked the raven.
The dark bird returned her attention to Dumbledore. She bobbed her head and proceeded to clack and call for nearly a minute, occasionally waving her wings and hopping nervously. Dumbledore listened attentively, with increasing worry. The bird abruptly stopped ranting, waiting for a response. Dumbledore nodded sharply.
"Yes, this is serious. I will attend to this matter immediately, thank you. You may rest here for now, if you wish," he said, indicating his phoenix's roost.
The raven shook her head, singing one final note of gratitude and tidings, then leapt from the desktop and soared out the window. Dumbledore watched the unusual bird leave, knowing that his curiosity would eventually get the better of him. For the moment, however, he would have to put that aside. He grabbed his hat and cloak from their stand and swept out the office door. As he left, Fawkes sang a single note, which echoed sadly through the tower.
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Outside the Ministry building, a single man emerged from the surrounding forest, shrouded in a dark robe. He surveyed the structure in front of him, picturing the revenge that was now within his reach. He held up his wand and began moving forward, signaling his loyal Death Eaters to follow his lead. One by one, the other men appeared behind him, walking silently in his wake. The Dark Lord would soon claim one of his largest victories. The Ministry, and Fudge himself, would fall to the Dark Lord. As he walked, his red eyes glinted with malevolent pleasure, and he laughed, a high cold laugh. It was not a pleasant sound.
Inside the building, Lucius Malfoy watched the oncoming wave of his fellow Death Eaters, led by the Dark Lord. The Ministry building wasn't full at this hour of the night, but it certainly wasn't empty. The purpose of tonight's mission wasn't purely to kill. The destruction of the Ministry would create such terror, panic, and chaos throughout the Wizard population that soon, ever so soon, everyone would bow in fear to Lord Voldemort. Malfoy's only regret was that Arthur Weasley had been fired. He had been hoping for the chance to finally kill that poor excuse for a pure-blooded wizard. Tonight, he would settle for a Weasley-junior. He turned towards away from the window. The onslaught would breach the magical barriers in a moment. He began to walk towards the stairs when someone caught his arm. Timothy Bowen looked him square in the eyes, plainly in a panic.
"Malfoy, what's going on out there? Who are those people? Malfoy?" Bowen was now looking in confusion at Malfoy. Malfoy was wearing a smug grin.
"Ah, Bowen, working late aren't you? Don't worry, that's just a little surprise party arriving for the Ministry. Unfortunately, I think you'll have to skip out on this one."
The last thing Bowen saw was Malfoy's wand whipping from his robes, and a bright flash of green.
Malfoy sneered, then stepped over the body now lying between himself and the staircase. It was time for him to release many years of pent-up frustration with the Weasley family. He had reached the top of the stairs when he heard a blast from the entrance. The attack had begun.
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Holly was leaning against the door, twirling the feather and racking her brain for ideas, when a wave of terror overwhelmed her. She doubled over with a gasp, clutching her ribcage. Fuzzy images and sounds brushed at the edge of her thoughts, and echoes of pain jolted her nerves. Through it all, an undercurrent of malice and twisted pleasure brought a sharp realization. The Death Eaters were inside the Ministry building. She pulled herself upright, struggling to clear her head and push back the panic rising in her chest. This was not the time to panic.
She gritted her teeth and squeezed her eyes tightly shut, trying to will her mind into peace and silence. Slowly, the mental howling subsided. She needed to open the door. It was the only way out. She had tried waving the feather at the door, hoping this whole magic-thing worked like that. Apparently, it didn't. Every time she had seen someone cast a spell, they had said something. Strange words that sounded a bit like Latin. Long, strange words . . . to open doors . . .
The Death Eaters who had broken into the inn had said something, but what? She sank to her knees, desperately trying to remember the impossible. She knew time was running out.
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Percy Weasley had spent the last three hours working nonstop on his report on dragon-hide gloves. Piles of parchment littered his desk, and he had worn through the tips of two new quills. Now, however, he was leaning back in his chair, with his feet on his desk, completely engrossed in studying the small book that was his constant companion. "Prefects Who Gained Power" had lent him so many insights into the means by which he, like his predecessors, could rise to the top. His ambitions seemed to impress Penelope enough, and she was a clever witch herself. He was reviewing the Ministry career of Martin Andrews, who had graduated in 1927, when the door opened abruptly.
"Malfoy!" Percy jumped up, irritated both at the intrusion as well as the identity of the unwanted visitor. "What are you doing here? I'm extremely busy and do not welcome. . ."
Malfoy silenced him by aiming his wand directly between the young wizard's eyes.
"I don't believe you're in much of a position to be asking questions, Weasley," Malfoy scowled. "It's a shame your father couldn't be here tonight. I would have preferred for him to witness this glorious event."
Percy whimpered, which was enough to prompt his attacker's continued monologue. "As we speak, the Dark Lord has entered the Ministry. The Ministry will fall. The Dark Lord himself will kill Fudge, as I will kill you."
Percy turned white as a sheet, shrinking back against the wall.
"It's almost a shame, really," Malfoy carried on, almost lazily, his wand still poised to attack. "Of your entire family, you nearly behaved like a real wizard." He looked down at the book Percy had dropped on his desk. "Excellent reading. Too bad your name will never grace the pages of future editions."
"Please, don't. . ." Percy choked, shaking violently. Malfoy leveled his wand. "I really enjoyed our little conversation."
"No, please!" gasped the younger wizard, bordering on hysteria. "I'll do anything, please don't kill me!"
"Avada. . ."
". . .Kedavra!" cried Voldemort. In front of him, a small wizard slumped at his desk, his bowler hat falling from his head and rolling across the floor.
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In a small, magically-shielded room, a petite witch in a deep blue cloak stood, facing a locked door. In her hand, she held a raven feather. Although her eyes were open, they were not seeing the door in front of her. Holly had retreated deep within her own thoughts, searching for a memory she must have hidden somewhere. She found herself walking the street in the tiny town with the inn. She watched as the Death Eaters appeared. They approached the door of the inn, and there was that word, that one word . . . and the door had burst open. In her mind, she walked closer to the dark men, and listened to them say it one more time. Almost. She peered closer, straining her memory, every nuance of her senses, and listened to the word one more time.
Holly's eyes snapped open, and with a certainty she didn't feel, she recited the word for herself. "Alohomora!"
She heard a clicking sound in the doorknob, and ever so slightly, the door swung open. Her immediate jubilation disappeared as quickly as it had come, the smell of smoke filling her nostrils. Pushing the door open, she tumbled out into a thick wall of smoke. She choked and coughed, but if she stayed, she knew she would die. She tucked the feather into her pocket, covered her nose and mouth with the edge of the cloak, and ran into the smoke without looking back.
The building was deserted, but flames were flicking around the edges of doorways and smoke was pouring thicker and thicker. Holly knew she had to get out, anyway, anywhere. Her foot struck something solid, and she fell hard. Feeling backwards with her hand, she found herself touching another hand. She didn't need to find a pulse to know the person was dead. Suppressing a shudder, she began crawling along the floor, beginning to cough violently. She felt her way along the wall, and finally her hand found a doorway. There had to be a window.
She moved into the room, and immediately she bumped into something small, rounded, and rather light. She picked it up and held it close to her face. It was a bowler hat. She grimaced, but threw the hat to the side. Reaching the far wall, she stood and found herself facing a large window pane that extended almost the full length of the wall. There were no handholds to pull the window open. She reached up for a latch, but found nothing.
Holly whipped around and looked back at the door, but flames had filled the hall, and the smoke was so thick that the fire looked dull and dark red. She could feel herself becoming light-headed from the smoke, and her throat was now burning violently.
She turned back to the window. There was no room for hesitation. A false move right now could kill her. She pulled her arms up in front of her face, closed her eyes, and crashed through the glass.
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Arthur Weasley Apparated just outside the Ministry's usual Apparition-free zone, in his favourite little clearing in the woods. Harry's birthday supper had begun with a somewhat somber tone, but soon Fred and George had produced several rounds of butterbeer, a box of Filibuster Fireworks, and their usual set of pranks and tricks. Even Mrs. Weasley had approved of the whole evening and was laughing along with everyone else. Arthur almost felt bad leaving while the party was still going simply to get his rubber duck, but he felt that perhaps he could convince Percy to join them. His son was sure to still be in his office, slaving away over a quill and parchment. Before he could take a step from where he had Apparated, the sound of many voices froze him on the spot.
He quickly ducked behind the nearest tree, flattening himself against the ground as closely as possible. As he listened, his hand moved protectively to the wand in his pocket. A cold, cruel voice met his hears.
"Ah, my faithful followers! You have done well, and you shall be rewarded. We have even found some interesting prizes to bring back with us. This day will be long remembered. Power, my Death Eaters, is ours!"
A series of faint pops let Arthur know that the group of wizards had Disapparated. He gasped as he released the breath he had been holding, then caught a faint smell. He sniffed the air. Something was burning. A sick, icy feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. The Ministry building.
Arthur tore through the underbrush, branches and leaves whipping against his face. He arrived at the edge of the clearing around the Ministry and caught himself short at the sight that met him. The building that had been his second home for so many years was almost completely engulfed in flames. He thought about that for only a brief moment before another realization, much more cruel than the first, swept across his mind. His eyes filled with tears and his knees shook, wavered, then completely gave out. He leaned against the nearest tree, only partially successful in keeping himself from slumping to the ground. He opened his mouth, which was suddenly very dry, and whispered aloud, "Percy. . ."
He was certain his son had been in the building. There was no way Percy could have survived that attack. There was just no possible way. If only Percy had listened to him, had come home for supper that night, he would have been safe. If only . . . Arthur had seen his son just hours ago, and now, it was too late. He talked with Percy so seldom, and now, he would never get that chance again. Tears blurred his vision and his breath came in tight gasps, but there was nothing he could do.
Arthur forced himself to his feet, and he began circling the perimeter of the building. What he was hoping to see, he wasn't sure, but something . . . anything. He had walked for only a moment when he shook his head. This was ludicrous. There would be no survivors. He would have to tell Dumbledore immediately. He began walking back towards the perimeter when a loud crash shook him from his daze.
Arthur snapped around to see the form of a small person stumbling from a shattered window. Smoke poured out through the broken window, and Arthur could hear ragged, laboured coughing. The person took a few shaky steps and looked up. In the light from the burning building, Arthur could distinguish short, dark hair, a petite frame, and glasses. The image was strangely familiar.
The mysterious person must have seen him, and began moving towards him at a halting, weak jog. Between coughs, a voice called out, "Wait! Please, help me!" The voice was thin and scratchy from the smoke, and it was definitely the voice of a young woman. Arthur's eyes widened at the sight. "Oh my god," he whispered.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Holly had never been so grateful for fresh air in her life, but the smoke had already worked its way deep into her lungs, burning with every breath, even outside of the inferno that had once been the Ministry of Magic. She took a few shaky steps that brought her scarcely twenty feet from the building, trying to stop her head from spinning. She knew she wasn't getting quite enough oxygen. Also, she must have not covered her face nearly well enough when she had broken the window, and she reached up to wipe away the blood that was slowly dripping into her eye. At least she was alive, but she knew she needed help.
She looked around. The Death Eaters were certainly gone. In fact, the area felt deserted, except for one person. Across the grounds, by the wood line, stood a man in a robe and a tilted hat who didn't seem malicious at all. In fact, he seemed vaguely familiar. Holly set out towards him as fast as her unsteady legs could carry her, calling out for help.
She had covered more than half the distance between them when he finally began moving towards her. She had almost reached him when she recognized him, surprised, but very pleased.
"Arthur Weasley!" she cried out, feeling the words burn in her throat. She remembered her last view of the kind wizard just after Fudge had cursed him. "My god, it's you! You're ok!"
Mr. Weasley grasped her by the arm as she stumbled the last few steps to reach him. "Me?" he asked incredulously as he looked over the young woman. "Are YOU ok? By Merlin, you're bleeding! How did you get out? Who are you?"
He couldn't shake the feeling that he had seen her before, completely aside from the fact that she looked insanely like Harry. She was dressed in Muggle clothes, save for the dark cloak she had fastened at her throat. Her face was grimy with smoke and blood, her glasses were slightly askew, and her hair was standing wildly in all directions. She started to answer him, but was racked by another coughing fit.
Arthur took her by the arm and led her to a fallen tree trunk to have her sit down. When the coughing subsided, she grinned at him faintly and said, "Thanks. I needed that."
Holly reached up again to wipe the blood away from her eyes, then removed her glasses, which were thickly coated with smoke and speckles of blood. They were also broken, she realized, the left lens displaying a sharp set of cracks. She scowled, then returned her attention to Mr. Weasley, who was staring at her looking utterly confused. Shocked, she could understand, but why was he confused?
"Such a coincidence to meet twice under such lovely conditions isn't it?" she asked sarcastically, trying to sound amused.
His confusion increased at this statement, if anything, and finally Holly realized why. He didn't remember her. Whatever Fudge had done to him, Arthur Weasley had no memory, no authentic recollection of the previous night. Holly looked at him desperately.
"You don't remember me, do you?"
The Mr. Weasley shook his head meekly. "I'm sorry, I really don't. That's not important right now. We need to get you to a Mediwizard." He looked up at the blazing Ministry building, cringing as a large section of the roof collapsed. "We need to get out of here anyway."
"No! Wait a minute, you have to remember me!" Holly pleaded, grasping the cuff of Mr. Weasley's robe. She looked into his eyes, willing him to remember. Her voice shook slightly. "You have to remember, you just have to. . ."
Mr. Weasley's tense expression shifted slowly, his eyes widening. "Holly?"
She nodded vigorously. Mr. Weasley bit his lower lip. "How did you get here?"
A strong voice greeted them from the wood line. "That is what I would like to know as well."
Mr. Weasley's head snapped around in surprise, relief evident in his reaction. "Albus!"
Dumbledore's expression was grave as he approached the pair. The light from the fire shone off his half-moon spectacles and tinted his long white beard with glints of yellow and orange. "Arthur, were you here when the attack started?"
"No, Albus. I had returned to get something I'd forgotten when I cleaned out my office. I Apparated just in time to hear You-Know-Who congratulating his group of Death Eaters, then they Disapparated. I smelled the smoke, then found this," he said in a strained tone, indicating the crumbling inferno. His voice dropped to a whisper. "Percy was working late."
Dumbledore nodded sadly. "I'm afraid there is little that can be done, Arthur. Percy may not have been inside at the time. He was always very resourceful, he may have escaped. We cannot know for certain right now. I'm terribly sorry," he said, bowing his head slightly.
Holly pulled her knees closer to her body, taking in everything.
The Headmaster raised his eyes and surveyed the smoky, petite witch sitting next to Mr. Weasley. She had wrapped herself completely in her cloak, shivering in the night air. She was trying to clean her broken pair of glasses, coughing occasionally. Her hair was partially matted with blood. She wiped a trickle of the thick red liquid away from her brow with the back of her hand and looked back and forth between the two wizards. Despite her ragged appearance, her eyes were clear and unafraid.
"I've seen you before," she said, squinting at the elder wizard. "From a dream I had. You, and a large castle, and there was. . ." her voice was interrupted by another coughing fit. Dumbledore and Mr. Weasley exchanged glances.
"Albus, she was at the Muggle attack last night. Fudge must have brought her here after he altered my memory," Mr. Weasley explained, although he looked as though he wanted an explanation himself. "I'm also wondering how you knew to come here."
"Ah, that seems as unusual as the rest of this matter," said Dumbledore as he sat himself down on the tree trunk. "A very peculiar raven paid me a visit not more than fifteen minutes ago, telling me of a young witch who was trapped here."
Holly had stopped coughing and turned her attention entirely to Dumbledore, meeting his gaze directly. His bright blue eyes searched her deep brown ones intently as he mused aloud, "It appears she is no longer trapped. Arthur, you did not assist her escape, did you?" Dumbledore asked, not removing his eyes from Holly. She cocked her head, but did not flinch or break eye contact.
"No, I didn't," Mr. Weasley replied. "Incredibly, she got out on her own. I wouldn't have believed it, but I also couldn't believe it when she stopped the Death Eater attack last night.
Dumbledore almost seemed speechless as he considered the implications of that statement. Even in the flickering shadows, she looked so familiar. Her eyes seemed as though they could see through a person's soul.
"Bram found you?" she asked. "I wondered where she had gone."
Dumbledore chuckled at Holly's casual tone. "Yes, Bram found me." He turned somber again. "I only wish she had found me sooner," he said, indicating the Ministry building, or what was left of it. "I am still quite curious to know how a young witch such as yourself came to be in such a dangerous situation, not once, but twice in two days. Perhaps more importantly, I would like to know just how you survived. You seem to remind me of a young wizard I happen to know."
Holly raised her eyebrows, but flinched as the cut above her eye opened, trickling another rivulet of blood. She didn't want to give a full recounting of the events of the last twenty-four hours, not just yet. She wiped the blood again and asked, "So, I AM a witch? Is that what all this is? I was almost starting to think I'd been dreaming the whole time." She shuddered. "Some dream. Nightmare, maybe."
"Albus," Mr. Weasley interrupted. "I think she was raised as a Muggle."
Holly looked confused, but Dumbledore simply nodded. His voice was almost deceptively casual. "I do not believe I have seen her at Hogwarts, but why she never attended is a question that remains to be answered."
Holly spoke again, but her voice carried an edge of frustration through her exhaustion. "I've got some questions myself, if you don't mind, sir, like 'What on earth is going on here?'" She shivered again and pulled her cloak in tighter. "But first, can we go someplace warm?"
Holly felt as though she could trust these people. Mr. Weasley had come to her rescue, albeit late, twice now. He felt like how she had always wanted her father to be. Then there was Dumbledore. Something about the bearded wizard made her feel as though she could place her very life in his hands with complete confidence.
"Yes," Dumbledore agreed. "That would probably be best. We need to get you to a Mediwitch too. Arthur, I think I should bring her to Hogwarts for the moment. It's the safest place."
Mr. Weasley nodded, but Holly grabbed his arm, her exhaustion finally making a small crack in her emotional dam. "Will you come too?" she asked, her eyes worried.
"Should I, Albus?" Mr. Weasley asked the Headmaster, putting his hand somewhat protectively on Holly's shoulder.
"Actually, I will need to speak with the both of you, so yes." He smiled at Holly. "Before we depart, at least let me introduce myself properly. I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. And you are?" He extended a hand to her.
Holly closed her eyes for a moment, reaching up and touching the necklace still dangling from her neck. She remembered her grandmother's words, drawing strength from them. Perhaps, finally, she had found her place. She just needed the courage to take that place. She opened her eyes, placed her glasses on her face, and carefully appraised the man in front of her. Dumbledore was peering at her over the rims of his spectacles with an unreadable expression.
"My name is Holly." She clasped his hand with hers. "Holly Potter."
Harry had promised himself that he wouldn't get caught on his own words. He had promised himself that he wouldn't get choked up as he related what Dumbledore had revealed to him. He soon found that those were promises he couldn't keep. In the very least, he took comfort in the fact that his friends' reactions mirrored his own. Ron and Hermione had followed him wordlessly through the kitchen, where Mrs. Weasley had tried to fuss over Harry, but he had politely told her that he was fine. Harry led the way out the back door and through the garden. They settled themselves under the same shade tree again, with a flagon of pumpkin juice Mrs. Weasley had provided. Hermione had sprawled on her stomach with her chin resting on her hands while Ron had sat with his arms folded around one bent knee and his other leg flung to the side. Both looked expectant, but neither said a word as they waited until Harry was ready to talk. Harry leaned back against the tree trunk, and considered carefully how to begin.
"Hermione, how far have you gotten, reading that book?"
Hermione raised an eyebrow, and said, uncertainly, "Not too far. It's huge, and there's a lot of information."
Harry nodded. "What have you read about so far?"
"Well, it went through a series of Dark Wizards, dating further back than the first century. They were mostly brushed over lightly, not a lot of detail. There was one from during the height of the Druid period that was more in-depth. I've just begun a section on Salazar Slytherin. I skimmed forward. It looks like that section is huge." Hermione eyed Harry narrowly. "Why?"
"What did the book emphasize?" Harry pressed.
"It analyzed how those wizards gained power, but it mostly went over their weaknesses. Harry, where are you going with this?"
"Hermione, that book was written by Voldemort."
Hermione's looked as though she was about to choke. Ron had gone far beyond that and had fallen backwards, propping himself up with his elbows. Even his freckles seemed to have gone white. He whispered, "Harry? You- Know-Who wrote THAT book? And you've got it? What if it's like the diary? What if . . ."
"It's not like that, I don't think. Dumbledore wanted me to read it. I'm sure if Dumbledore gave it to me, it must be safe." Harry looked at each of his friends. Hermione was nodding resolutely, and Ron, in the very least, had sat up again. Harry continued. "Voldemort used those notes in that book to analyze how other witches and wizards gained and lost power so he could find the perfect way to gain power. Apparently, he thought he had found it."
Ron swallowed. "Please don't tell me what I think you're going to tell me."
Harry shook his head. How was he going to say this? "Do you remember who Grindelwald was?"
Hermione piped up. "He was a Dark wizard from just over 50 years ago. There isn't too much about him in the history books, just that he was involved in killing a lot of Muggles and that Dumbledore defeated him. Why?"
"Grindelwald was Adolph Hitler."
Hermione froze for a moment, but then she leaned back and considered this carefully, nodding her head and muttering, "Why didn't I see that before? How could I be so stupid?"
Ron scratched his head and asked, "Who's Adolph Hitler?"
Hermione immediately shot a glare at Ron. "Honestly, Ron! Don't you know anything about the Muggle world? Especially with what your father does for a living?"
"Well, sorta, I mean, well, I guess I don't." Ron threw up his hands in mock-surrender. "What's so important about that guy?"
"Ron, he was responsible for largest organized attempt to wipe out an entire race of human beings in the history of the planet! He hadn't planned to stop anytime soon, either." Hermione leaned back on her hands and rolled her eyes. "I would have guessed that even wizards would know about something that important."
"Well," Harry started, "apparently some wizards did know about it, because he wasn't a Muggle."
"That makes sense," Hermione said. "I remember reading in a regular Muggle history book that Hitler had some sort of fascination with magic, and that most people figured it to be some sort of bizarre superstition. Why do you think it isn't really mentioned in the wizard world?"
"I can tell you that one," Ron said with a smug grin. "Because people are still paranoid about anything having to do with the Muggles finding out about us."
Hermione smirked at him. "You don't think it would have anything to do with the idea of a dark wizard killing millions of Muggles and terrorizing the world, Ron?"
"Oh."
Hermione turned towards Harry. "Harry, what's this got to do with you?"
Just say it, Harry told himself. They've got to know. Stay calm. "Well, I was trying to get to that." Harry flicked his eyes between his two friends and continued. "Both my grandfather and Dumbledore were involved in bringing down Grindelwald. At the same time, Voldemort was looking for ways to gain power. For some reason, he thought my grandfather had some sort of magical ability that allowed him to control people's minds, called the Mind Touch." Harry shuddered slightly and took a deep breath. "He decided that I must have inherited that ability and wanted to kill me so that he could get it."
This time, both Ron and Hermione just stared at Harry. Ron broke the silence. "Harry, why would You-Know-Who think that?"
Harry closed his eyes for a moment. This was the part he didn't want to think about. Voldemort wiping the life from his mum and dad, and Snape at the bottom of it all. He opened his eyes and steeled himself. He said, "Voldemort sent a spy to get information about a particular wizard involved in defeating Grindelwald. He knew the person who had spied on Grindelwald must have had the Mind Touch, and that person was working in the United States at the time. My grandfather was working there at the same time. Voldemort's spy must have figured it was the same person."
Ron pursed his lips. "What kind of stupid prat would make a mistake like that?"
"Snape."
"WHAT?!?" Ron and Hermione yelled at once. Ron jumped to his feet, knocking over the flagon of pumpkin juice, and began pacing circles around Harry and Hermione, saying exactly what he planned to do to the greasy- haired Potions Master as soon as they returned to Hogwarts. Hermione sat there, looking stunned, although Harry wasn't sure if she was more stunned at the news about Snape, or at the incredible list of curses coming out of Ron's mouth.
"Ron, stop for a second," Harry said.
"Don't tell me you're going to DEFEND that slimy git?" Ron yelled. "That's all the proof we need! The man is as rotten as they come! How could Dumbledore ever let . . ."
"Ron, Snape defected from Voldemort just before my parents died, when Voldemort was the most powerful." Harry gritted his teeth against the tears that were once again threatening to spill over. "Snape risked his life for my mum and dad."
"Are you sure?" Ron looked like he didn't want to believe a word of it.
"I'm positive, Ron. I don't like it, but I'm positive." Harry sighed and dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. He really didn't want to talk about this anymore. "Want to go play a game of Quidditch? I feel like flying right about now. Besides, I want to have some fun on my birthday."
Ron nodded, but Hermione tapped Harry on the arm. "Harry? What was that ability called? The one that Voldemort wanted?"
"The Mind Touch. Don't tell me you've read about that too?"
Hermione shook her head. "No, I was just wondering. As soon as we get back to school, I'm going to have to . . ."
"Hermione!" Ron exclaimed. "If you mention the library, I'll hex you into next week!"
Hermione raised her eyebrows and shook her head. "Ok, ok, but I will, you know. For now, we can go play Quidditch." She held out her hand to Ron, and he pulled her to her feet. "Thank you," she said, and then turned to Harry, who hadn't moved. "Aren't you coming? You said you wanted to play."
Harry nodded, smiled, and then pushed himself up. Something dark and shiny in his breast pocket caught Hermione's attention. "Harry, what's that?" she asked, pointing.
"What? Oh, this. A raven gave me a feather the day before I got to the Burrow, and I decided to keep it for good luck."
Ron appraised Harry skeptically. "A raven gave you a feather?"
"Yes. I was talking to it about the Dursleys, and how I'd been working all day. I called it a crow . . . I think it told me to mind my manners."
"Harry, was that before or after you hit your head?"
Harry grinned at his friend and pushed him towards their makeshift Quidditch pitch.
An afternoon of Quidditch can fix anything, Harry decided. They had even managed to get Hermione onto a broom, and turned the event into a Chaser/Keeper session. Ron had taken up a place in front of the two tattered hoops at the far end of the field, apologizing for the one that had broken when Fred had smashed a Bludger into it a bit too eagerly. Harry and Hermione had each taken turns with the Quaffle, trying to get shots past Ron. Ron had certainly been improving, but what surprised both the boys was how well Hermione played. Harry only managed to beat her in two rounds, and when they finally stopped for suppertime, hot, tired, and thirsty, Ron and Harry swarmed her with questions.
"Why didn't you tell us you could do that?" Ron blurted, flabbergasted.
"Do what?" Hermione asked, her eyes twinkling mischievously.
Harry cut in. "Play like that! I mean, I'm not a Chaser, not really, but you're good! You've never played before?"
"No, I haven't, but when I was younger, my parents put me on a youth cricket team. I used to have quite an arm."
Ron beamed at Hermione with a whole new respect. "You've got to try out for one of the Chaser positions next year. Angelina, Alicia, and Katie are all 7th years. We'll be needing three new chasers."
"Hold it Ron, no way," Hermione stopped short of the back door and turned on her friends. "I played for fun, and because you and Harry wanted me to. I don't like the idea of being up there in front of the whole school. I couldn't possibly do it! I won't have time, with all the classes I'm taking. Besides, I have no real experience. I'd be a liability to the team! Harry agrees with me, don't you? Harry?"
Harry was looking at Hermione with one eyebrow slightly raised, scratching his chin thoughtfully. "Well, Hermione, we will need three new chasers . . ."
"Forget it. Not a chance," Hermione said as she pulled the door open and led the way into the kitchen. She didn't see Harry wink at Ron, both of them grinning fiercely. They were all greeted by the wonderful aromas of dinner, and a huge birthday cake sitting on the countertop. Ron put a finger to his lips, telling Harry and Hermione not to say a word as he reached over to steal a glob of icing.
"Ronald Wealsey!" his mother yelled, bursting into the kitchen. "Get your fingers away from that cake! You'll have plenty enough sugar when dinner is over. Go wash your hands!" She turned to Harry and Hermione, smiling sweetly. "How are you two dears doing? You might want to wash your hands before supper. Harry, are you ok?"
As wonderful as Mrs. Weasley could be, Harry began to wonder if there was such a thing as too much mothering. "Perfectly fine, Mrs. Weasley."
"Of course, dear," she said, although her expression said otherwise.
"Hello everyone," Mr. Weasley's tired voice said from the sitting room. "I think that's the last of it."
"I'm coming, Arthur!" said Mrs. Weasley.
Everyone followed her to the sitting room, where Mr. Weasley was going through his latest armload of boxes from his old office at the Ministry. Fred and George were already in the sitting room, helping their dad unpack. Possibly for the first time in their lives, the twins didn't seem to be in a joking mood. Mr. Weasley held up a three-pronged electrical plug on the end of a short length of frayed orange wire. It appeared to have once been part of a construction tool. "I was always particularly fond of this one. Don't you like it, dear? Hello, kids," he said, giving a small smile to Ron, Harry, and Hermione.
"It's lovely, Arthur," said Mrs. Weasley.
Mr. Weasley nodded as he handed the plug to George, who went to put it on the shelf. He reached back into the box for another carefully wrapped plug and said, "I saw Percy down at the office. Invited him to supper tonight, Penelope too, if he wanted, but he said he was too busy writing a report on dragon-hide gloves. He told me that he intended to keep his job, and I suppose he's right, in a way. With Fudge as volatile as he is, he's probably better off safe than sorry, especially as he's just starting out."
"Dad, he's a sell-out!" Fred exclaimed, livid. "I can't believe he's not sticking with the family at a time like this."
"Fred, you're brother is taking care of himself, and he's fairly good at that," said Mrs. Weasley, planting her hands staunchly on her hips. "Unlike you and George, he's got some ambition to make something of himself, not spend his life making pranks and jokes." Her expression became slightly pained. "But you're right. I wish he'd come home tonight."
She sat down next to Mr. Weasley, watching as he turned the next plug over slowly in his hands. "That's really all of it, isn't it? I can't believe all of this, all at once. What will we do now?"
"Dumbledore said he might have some work for me, Molly. He can't pay me officially, but given the situation, he can work it out." Mr. Weasley looked up with a forced smile. "Don't worry, this will all work out."
Harry had to fight to keep from looking as though he'd been punched in the gut. The Weasleys were already poor enough. The financial impact of Mr. Weasley's job loss hadn't even occurred to him. He watched Mr. Weasley examining the plug collection with nostalgia. Harry's mind drifted to the pile of gold sitting in his Gringotts's vault, and he gritted his teeth, knowing the Weasleys would never accept a Knut of it. He looked over at Fred, who had just placed a white-wired plug (apparently from a kitchen appliance) on the mantle. He made eye contact, and an understanding flashed between the two of them.
"Dad?" Fred sat down next to Mr. Weasley. "George and I have something to tell you."
"Fred, please don't tell me you blew up the shed again."
"No, Dad," George said, immediately realizing where his brother was going with this. "We actually have some good news. Fred, go get it, will you?"
Fred nodded and took off up the stairs. Mr. Weasley looked confused, but Mrs. Weasley seemed more suspicious. "If you boys tell me that you're still selling those ridiculous pranks of yours, I swear you'll wish you'd never played a joke in your lives."
"No, mum. We were planning on it, especially when we got ourselves a silent partner . . ."
". . . and managed to get enough money to really start the business . . ." said Fred, now coming back down the stairs, staggering slightly with the weight of a large bag.
". . .but now we figure the family needs it more."
Fred set the bag heavily on the table with a metallic clink. "There's enough money to keep things running for a while. Don't worry, dad. We'll be fine."
Mr. Weasley looked between Fred and George speechlessly. He reached over and pulled open the drawstring of the bag and looked inside. His eyes widened in shock. "There must be a thousand Galleons in here," he said with a strained whisper. "How did you boys get this?"
"We told you," said George. "Silent partner."
Mr. Weasley shook his head slowly, a warm smile spreading across his face. "Sometimes, I think it's better not to know how you two do it. Thanks boys." He pulled the drawstring shut and slid the bag to the side. "I think, now, we can all go enjoy a birthday party properly?"
He slapped his hands on his knees and stood, then looked over into the box he had brought back from the office. "Yup, that's all of it. Just as well. Perhaps things will just improve from here . . . wait a minute. Oh no."
"What's wrong, dear?" Mrs. Weasley asked.
"I must have left it in the bathroom at the office," he grumbled. "I had wanted to see how it worked, and I forgot it. I'll have to go back after supper to get it."
"What dad?" Ron asked.
"My rubber duck!"
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Holly could feel the tension in the ministry building, and she didn't like it one bit. It didn't matter. There wasn't a thing she could do about it. She hadn't seen or heard from Fudge for a few hours. Whether that was a good sign or not remained to be seen. In that time, she had tried everything she could think of to find a means of escape, but not one of those things had worked. She was also no closer to figuring out the riddle of the feather.
Bram had obviously thought the feather was important, but Holly couldn't see why. She had stared at it, poked it, and ran her finger along the rachis repeatedly. She had even tried talking to it, for all the good that would do. Finally, she stopped in frustration, occupying herself by nibbling on some of the nut mixes she still had hidden in her pack. "Hmm," she mumbled to herself. "The man at the store was right. The dried apples are really good."
Holly stood up and walked towards the window. It had definitely begun to get dark outside, and as though that didn't bother her enough, there was still no sign of Bram. She grimaced and turned her back to the window. Right now, it was just one more way she couldn't get out. She slammed her fist against the wall. She had to be missing something. There HAD to be a way out. Right now, she just couldn't think of it, and her aggravation was getting her nowhere. This wouldn't do at all.
She returned to the dresser where she had placed the feather and picked it up again. She brought it up in front of her face and narrowed her eyes. "A feather. It's just a lousy feather. What was Bram thinking?" She shook her head and whipped the feather away from her face in frustration.
The strange, warm tingling she had felt every time she had touched the feather must have magnified a thousand times. It crept up her arm through her whole body. What looked like a bright shower of sparks flew from the end of the feather. Holly froze, then slowly raised it back in front of her face, her jaw now hanging slightly open. Slowly, she moved backwards to the edge of her bed and sat down, never taking her eyes from the feather. It wasn't a wand, but something about it was certainly reminiscent of a wand. She turned it over and over in her hands. If anything from the past day felt peculiar, this certainly should have, but somehow, it didn't. Perhaps, just maybe, she could use it to open the door. She turned her eyes towards the ceiling mentally thanked Bram. Once again, Holly wondered where the raven had gone, and if she was coming back.
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Dumbledore untied a small roll of parchment from the leg of the hawk owl standing on his desk. He adjusted his spectacles and quickly unrolled the short note.
D - No luck yet. No records, V does not seem to suspect. Still safe. - S
He thanked the bird, who hooted softly before taking off out the window of Dumbledore's tower office. Snape knew he should not expect a reply. The notes he sent were enough of a risk for him at the moment. The potions master should be back for the start of the school year, but it was still uncertain. So many things were uncertain in these times. Dumbledore's conversation that morning with Harry had covered everything of immediate importance to the boy; those things which would help answer some of the questions that had been plaguing him. The last thing Dumbledore wanted to do was to give Harry information that produced more questions than answers. Unfortunately, most of the available information did exactly that. There were so many things Dumbledore still had to work out, and circumstances, he felt, made it necessary that he work out those mysteries sooner rather than later.
Dumbledore leaned his chin on his hands and thought carefully for a moment. In a swift motion, he stood, walked to one of his many cabinets, and opened the door. He put his wand to his temple and pulled it away, the wand now carrying a whitish, wispy cloud. He touched his wand to the surface of the shining contents of his Penseive, let the surface settle, and peered in. He spun around as he heard an anxious tone from Fawkes.
The phoenix was bobbing his head, swaying agitatedly from leg to leg on his perch. He sang another high note and flapped his wings once.
"Ah, Fawkes, what is it? Is something wrong?" the Headmaster asked evenly.
Fawkes didn't have time to answer before a mess of black feathers shot through the open window like a small rocket and skidded to a halt on Dumbledore's desk, sending parchments flying everywhere. It was immediately on its feet, clacking furiously. Surprise registered on Dumbledore's face for a moment before he managed to resume his typically calm demeanor.
"Slow down, my friend," he said, holding up a hand and leaning towards the obviously distraught bird. "I cannot help you if I cannot understand you."
The raven stared at him with her chest heaving. When her breathing slowed, she tilted her head, as though appraising the wizard standing in front of her. She opened her beak, and sang a long, vibrant note that resonated through the tower. Dumbledore was not often taken aback by things, but this time, he felt, was one of the exceptions. Fawkes immediately flew off his perch and Dumbledore watched as the two birds carried on one of the strangest conversations he'd ever witnessed. Finally, the wizard spoke.
"I regret to break up this merry reunion, but am I correct in assuming you had a something important to tell me?" he asked the raven.
The dark bird returned her attention to Dumbledore. She bobbed her head and proceeded to clack and call for nearly a minute, occasionally waving her wings and hopping nervously. Dumbledore listened attentively, with increasing worry. The bird abruptly stopped ranting, waiting for a response. Dumbledore nodded sharply.
"Yes, this is serious. I will attend to this matter immediately, thank you. You may rest here for now, if you wish," he said, indicating his phoenix's roost.
The raven shook her head, singing one final note of gratitude and tidings, then leapt from the desktop and soared out the window. Dumbledore watched the unusual bird leave, knowing that his curiosity would eventually get the better of him. For the moment, however, he would have to put that aside. He grabbed his hat and cloak from their stand and swept out the office door. As he left, Fawkes sang a single note, which echoed sadly through the tower.
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Outside the Ministry building, a single man emerged from the surrounding forest, shrouded in a dark robe. He surveyed the structure in front of him, picturing the revenge that was now within his reach. He held up his wand and began moving forward, signaling his loyal Death Eaters to follow his lead. One by one, the other men appeared behind him, walking silently in his wake. The Dark Lord would soon claim one of his largest victories. The Ministry, and Fudge himself, would fall to the Dark Lord. As he walked, his red eyes glinted with malevolent pleasure, and he laughed, a high cold laugh. It was not a pleasant sound.
Inside the building, Lucius Malfoy watched the oncoming wave of his fellow Death Eaters, led by the Dark Lord. The Ministry building wasn't full at this hour of the night, but it certainly wasn't empty. The purpose of tonight's mission wasn't purely to kill. The destruction of the Ministry would create such terror, panic, and chaos throughout the Wizard population that soon, ever so soon, everyone would bow in fear to Lord Voldemort. Malfoy's only regret was that Arthur Weasley had been fired. He had been hoping for the chance to finally kill that poor excuse for a pure-blooded wizard. Tonight, he would settle for a Weasley-junior. He turned towards away from the window. The onslaught would breach the magical barriers in a moment. He began to walk towards the stairs when someone caught his arm. Timothy Bowen looked him square in the eyes, plainly in a panic.
"Malfoy, what's going on out there? Who are those people? Malfoy?" Bowen was now looking in confusion at Malfoy. Malfoy was wearing a smug grin.
"Ah, Bowen, working late aren't you? Don't worry, that's just a little surprise party arriving for the Ministry. Unfortunately, I think you'll have to skip out on this one."
The last thing Bowen saw was Malfoy's wand whipping from his robes, and a bright flash of green.
Malfoy sneered, then stepped over the body now lying between himself and the staircase. It was time for him to release many years of pent-up frustration with the Weasley family. He had reached the top of the stairs when he heard a blast from the entrance. The attack had begun.
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Holly was leaning against the door, twirling the feather and racking her brain for ideas, when a wave of terror overwhelmed her. She doubled over with a gasp, clutching her ribcage. Fuzzy images and sounds brushed at the edge of her thoughts, and echoes of pain jolted her nerves. Through it all, an undercurrent of malice and twisted pleasure brought a sharp realization. The Death Eaters were inside the Ministry building. She pulled herself upright, struggling to clear her head and push back the panic rising in her chest. This was not the time to panic.
She gritted her teeth and squeezed her eyes tightly shut, trying to will her mind into peace and silence. Slowly, the mental howling subsided. She needed to open the door. It was the only way out. She had tried waving the feather at the door, hoping this whole magic-thing worked like that. Apparently, it didn't. Every time she had seen someone cast a spell, they had said something. Strange words that sounded a bit like Latin. Long, strange words . . . to open doors . . .
The Death Eaters who had broken into the inn had said something, but what? She sank to her knees, desperately trying to remember the impossible. She knew time was running out.
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Percy Weasley had spent the last three hours working nonstop on his report on dragon-hide gloves. Piles of parchment littered his desk, and he had worn through the tips of two new quills. Now, however, he was leaning back in his chair, with his feet on his desk, completely engrossed in studying the small book that was his constant companion. "Prefects Who Gained Power" had lent him so many insights into the means by which he, like his predecessors, could rise to the top. His ambitions seemed to impress Penelope enough, and she was a clever witch herself. He was reviewing the Ministry career of Martin Andrews, who had graduated in 1927, when the door opened abruptly.
"Malfoy!" Percy jumped up, irritated both at the intrusion as well as the identity of the unwanted visitor. "What are you doing here? I'm extremely busy and do not welcome. . ."
Malfoy silenced him by aiming his wand directly between the young wizard's eyes.
"I don't believe you're in much of a position to be asking questions, Weasley," Malfoy scowled. "It's a shame your father couldn't be here tonight. I would have preferred for him to witness this glorious event."
Percy whimpered, which was enough to prompt his attacker's continued monologue. "As we speak, the Dark Lord has entered the Ministry. The Ministry will fall. The Dark Lord himself will kill Fudge, as I will kill you."
Percy turned white as a sheet, shrinking back against the wall.
"It's almost a shame, really," Malfoy carried on, almost lazily, his wand still poised to attack. "Of your entire family, you nearly behaved like a real wizard." He looked down at the book Percy had dropped on his desk. "Excellent reading. Too bad your name will never grace the pages of future editions."
"Please, don't. . ." Percy choked, shaking violently. Malfoy leveled his wand. "I really enjoyed our little conversation."
"No, please!" gasped the younger wizard, bordering on hysteria. "I'll do anything, please don't kill me!"
"Avada. . ."
". . .Kedavra!" cried Voldemort. In front of him, a small wizard slumped at his desk, his bowler hat falling from his head and rolling across the floor.
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In a small, magically-shielded room, a petite witch in a deep blue cloak stood, facing a locked door. In her hand, she held a raven feather. Although her eyes were open, they were not seeing the door in front of her. Holly had retreated deep within her own thoughts, searching for a memory she must have hidden somewhere. She found herself walking the street in the tiny town with the inn. She watched as the Death Eaters appeared. They approached the door of the inn, and there was that word, that one word . . . and the door had burst open. In her mind, she walked closer to the dark men, and listened to them say it one more time. Almost. She peered closer, straining her memory, every nuance of her senses, and listened to the word one more time.
Holly's eyes snapped open, and with a certainty she didn't feel, she recited the word for herself. "Alohomora!"
She heard a clicking sound in the doorknob, and ever so slightly, the door swung open. Her immediate jubilation disappeared as quickly as it had come, the smell of smoke filling her nostrils. Pushing the door open, she tumbled out into a thick wall of smoke. She choked and coughed, but if she stayed, she knew she would die. She tucked the feather into her pocket, covered her nose and mouth with the edge of the cloak, and ran into the smoke without looking back.
The building was deserted, but flames were flicking around the edges of doorways and smoke was pouring thicker and thicker. Holly knew she had to get out, anyway, anywhere. Her foot struck something solid, and she fell hard. Feeling backwards with her hand, she found herself touching another hand. She didn't need to find a pulse to know the person was dead. Suppressing a shudder, she began crawling along the floor, beginning to cough violently. She felt her way along the wall, and finally her hand found a doorway. There had to be a window.
She moved into the room, and immediately she bumped into something small, rounded, and rather light. She picked it up and held it close to her face. It was a bowler hat. She grimaced, but threw the hat to the side. Reaching the far wall, she stood and found herself facing a large window pane that extended almost the full length of the wall. There were no handholds to pull the window open. She reached up for a latch, but found nothing.
Holly whipped around and looked back at the door, but flames had filled the hall, and the smoke was so thick that the fire looked dull and dark red. She could feel herself becoming light-headed from the smoke, and her throat was now burning violently.
She turned back to the window. There was no room for hesitation. A false move right now could kill her. She pulled her arms up in front of her face, closed her eyes, and crashed through the glass.
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Arthur Weasley Apparated just outside the Ministry's usual Apparition-free zone, in his favourite little clearing in the woods. Harry's birthday supper had begun with a somewhat somber tone, but soon Fred and George had produced several rounds of butterbeer, a box of Filibuster Fireworks, and their usual set of pranks and tricks. Even Mrs. Weasley had approved of the whole evening and was laughing along with everyone else. Arthur almost felt bad leaving while the party was still going simply to get his rubber duck, but he felt that perhaps he could convince Percy to join them. His son was sure to still be in his office, slaving away over a quill and parchment. Before he could take a step from where he had Apparated, the sound of many voices froze him on the spot.
He quickly ducked behind the nearest tree, flattening himself against the ground as closely as possible. As he listened, his hand moved protectively to the wand in his pocket. A cold, cruel voice met his hears.
"Ah, my faithful followers! You have done well, and you shall be rewarded. We have even found some interesting prizes to bring back with us. This day will be long remembered. Power, my Death Eaters, is ours!"
A series of faint pops let Arthur know that the group of wizards had Disapparated. He gasped as he released the breath he had been holding, then caught a faint smell. He sniffed the air. Something was burning. A sick, icy feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. The Ministry building.
Arthur tore through the underbrush, branches and leaves whipping against his face. He arrived at the edge of the clearing around the Ministry and caught himself short at the sight that met him. The building that had been his second home for so many years was almost completely engulfed in flames. He thought about that for only a brief moment before another realization, much more cruel than the first, swept across his mind. His eyes filled with tears and his knees shook, wavered, then completely gave out. He leaned against the nearest tree, only partially successful in keeping himself from slumping to the ground. He opened his mouth, which was suddenly very dry, and whispered aloud, "Percy. . ."
He was certain his son had been in the building. There was no way Percy could have survived that attack. There was just no possible way. If only Percy had listened to him, had come home for supper that night, he would have been safe. If only . . . Arthur had seen his son just hours ago, and now, it was too late. He talked with Percy so seldom, and now, he would never get that chance again. Tears blurred his vision and his breath came in tight gasps, but there was nothing he could do.
Arthur forced himself to his feet, and he began circling the perimeter of the building. What he was hoping to see, he wasn't sure, but something . . . anything. He had walked for only a moment when he shook his head. This was ludicrous. There would be no survivors. He would have to tell Dumbledore immediately. He began walking back towards the perimeter when a loud crash shook him from his daze.
Arthur snapped around to see the form of a small person stumbling from a shattered window. Smoke poured out through the broken window, and Arthur could hear ragged, laboured coughing. The person took a few shaky steps and looked up. In the light from the burning building, Arthur could distinguish short, dark hair, a petite frame, and glasses. The image was strangely familiar.
The mysterious person must have seen him, and began moving towards him at a halting, weak jog. Between coughs, a voice called out, "Wait! Please, help me!" The voice was thin and scratchy from the smoke, and it was definitely the voice of a young woman. Arthur's eyes widened at the sight. "Oh my god," he whispered.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Holly had never been so grateful for fresh air in her life, but the smoke had already worked its way deep into her lungs, burning with every breath, even outside of the inferno that had once been the Ministry of Magic. She took a few shaky steps that brought her scarcely twenty feet from the building, trying to stop her head from spinning. She knew she wasn't getting quite enough oxygen. Also, she must have not covered her face nearly well enough when she had broken the window, and she reached up to wipe away the blood that was slowly dripping into her eye. At least she was alive, but she knew she needed help.
She looked around. The Death Eaters were certainly gone. In fact, the area felt deserted, except for one person. Across the grounds, by the wood line, stood a man in a robe and a tilted hat who didn't seem malicious at all. In fact, he seemed vaguely familiar. Holly set out towards him as fast as her unsteady legs could carry her, calling out for help.
She had covered more than half the distance between them when he finally began moving towards her. She had almost reached him when she recognized him, surprised, but very pleased.
"Arthur Weasley!" she cried out, feeling the words burn in her throat. She remembered her last view of the kind wizard just after Fudge had cursed him. "My god, it's you! You're ok!"
Mr. Weasley grasped her by the arm as she stumbled the last few steps to reach him. "Me?" he asked incredulously as he looked over the young woman. "Are YOU ok? By Merlin, you're bleeding! How did you get out? Who are you?"
He couldn't shake the feeling that he had seen her before, completely aside from the fact that she looked insanely like Harry. She was dressed in Muggle clothes, save for the dark cloak she had fastened at her throat. Her face was grimy with smoke and blood, her glasses were slightly askew, and her hair was standing wildly in all directions. She started to answer him, but was racked by another coughing fit.
Arthur took her by the arm and led her to a fallen tree trunk to have her sit down. When the coughing subsided, she grinned at him faintly and said, "Thanks. I needed that."
Holly reached up again to wipe the blood away from her eyes, then removed her glasses, which were thickly coated with smoke and speckles of blood. They were also broken, she realized, the left lens displaying a sharp set of cracks. She scowled, then returned her attention to Mr. Weasley, who was staring at her looking utterly confused. Shocked, she could understand, but why was he confused?
"Such a coincidence to meet twice under such lovely conditions isn't it?" she asked sarcastically, trying to sound amused.
His confusion increased at this statement, if anything, and finally Holly realized why. He didn't remember her. Whatever Fudge had done to him, Arthur Weasley had no memory, no authentic recollection of the previous night. Holly looked at him desperately.
"You don't remember me, do you?"
The Mr. Weasley shook his head meekly. "I'm sorry, I really don't. That's not important right now. We need to get you to a Mediwizard." He looked up at the blazing Ministry building, cringing as a large section of the roof collapsed. "We need to get out of here anyway."
"No! Wait a minute, you have to remember me!" Holly pleaded, grasping the cuff of Mr. Weasley's robe. She looked into his eyes, willing him to remember. Her voice shook slightly. "You have to remember, you just have to. . ."
Mr. Weasley's tense expression shifted slowly, his eyes widening. "Holly?"
She nodded vigorously. Mr. Weasley bit his lower lip. "How did you get here?"
A strong voice greeted them from the wood line. "That is what I would like to know as well."
Mr. Weasley's head snapped around in surprise, relief evident in his reaction. "Albus!"
Dumbledore's expression was grave as he approached the pair. The light from the fire shone off his half-moon spectacles and tinted his long white beard with glints of yellow and orange. "Arthur, were you here when the attack started?"
"No, Albus. I had returned to get something I'd forgotten when I cleaned out my office. I Apparated just in time to hear You-Know-Who congratulating his group of Death Eaters, then they Disapparated. I smelled the smoke, then found this," he said in a strained tone, indicating the crumbling inferno. His voice dropped to a whisper. "Percy was working late."
Dumbledore nodded sadly. "I'm afraid there is little that can be done, Arthur. Percy may not have been inside at the time. He was always very resourceful, he may have escaped. We cannot know for certain right now. I'm terribly sorry," he said, bowing his head slightly.
Holly pulled her knees closer to her body, taking in everything.
The Headmaster raised his eyes and surveyed the smoky, petite witch sitting next to Mr. Weasley. She had wrapped herself completely in her cloak, shivering in the night air. She was trying to clean her broken pair of glasses, coughing occasionally. Her hair was partially matted with blood. She wiped a trickle of the thick red liquid away from her brow with the back of her hand and looked back and forth between the two wizards. Despite her ragged appearance, her eyes were clear and unafraid.
"I've seen you before," she said, squinting at the elder wizard. "From a dream I had. You, and a large castle, and there was. . ." her voice was interrupted by another coughing fit. Dumbledore and Mr. Weasley exchanged glances.
"Albus, she was at the Muggle attack last night. Fudge must have brought her here after he altered my memory," Mr. Weasley explained, although he looked as though he wanted an explanation himself. "I'm also wondering how you knew to come here."
"Ah, that seems as unusual as the rest of this matter," said Dumbledore as he sat himself down on the tree trunk. "A very peculiar raven paid me a visit not more than fifteen minutes ago, telling me of a young witch who was trapped here."
Holly had stopped coughing and turned her attention entirely to Dumbledore, meeting his gaze directly. His bright blue eyes searched her deep brown ones intently as he mused aloud, "It appears she is no longer trapped. Arthur, you did not assist her escape, did you?" Dumbledore asked, not removing his eyes from Holly. She cocked her head, but did not flinch or break eye contact.
"No, I didn't," Mr. Weasley replied. "Incredibly, she got out on her own. I wouldn't have believed it, but I also couldn't believe it when she stopped the Death Eater attack last night.
Dumbledore almost seemed speechless as he considered the implications of that statement. Even in the flickering shadows, she looked so familiar. Her eyes seemed as though they could see through a person's soul.
"Bram found you?" she asked. "I wondered where she had gone."
Dumbledore chuckled at Holly's casual tone. "Yes, Bram found me." He turned somber again. "I only wish she had found me sooner," he said, indicating the Ministry building, or what was left of it. "I am still quite curious to know how a young witch such as yourself came to be in such a dangerous situation, not once, but twice in two days. Perhaps more importantly, I would like to know just how you survived. You seem to remind me of a young wizard I happen to know."
Holly raised her eyebrows, but flinched as the cut above her eye opened, trickling another rivulet of blood. She didn't want to give a full recounting of the events of the last twenty-four hours, not just yet. She wiped the blood again and asked, "So, I AM a witch? Is that what all this is? I was almost starting to think I'd been dreaming the whole time." She shuddered. "Some dream. Nightmare, maybe."
"Albus," Mr. Weasley interrupted. "I think she was raised as a Muggle."
Holly looked confused, but Dumbledore simply nodded. His voice was almost deceptively casual. "I do not believe I have seen her at Hogwarts, but why she never attended is a question that remains to be answered."
Holly spoke again, but her voice carried an edge of frustration through her exhaustion. "I've got some questions myself, if you don't mind, sir, like 'What on earth is going on here?'" She shivered again and pulled her cloak in tighter. "But first, can we go someplace warm?"
Holly felt as though she could trust these people. Mr. Weasley had come to her rescue, albeit late, twice now. He felt like how she had always wanted her father to be. Then there was Dumbledore. Something about the bearded wizard made her feel as though she could place her very life in his hands with complete confidence.
"Yes," Dumbledore agreed. "That would probably be best. We need to get you to a Mediwitch too. Arthur, I think I should bring her to Hogwarts for the moment. It's the safest place."
Mr. Weasley nodded, but Holly grabbed his arm, her exhaustion finally making a small crack in her emotional dam. "Will you come too?" she asked, her eyes worried.
"Should I, Albus?" Mr. Weasley asked the Headmaster, putting his hand somewhat protectively on Holly's shoulder.
"Actually, I will need to speak with the both of you, so yes." He smiled at Holly. "Before we depart, at least let me introduce myself properly. I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. And you are?" He extended a hand to her.
Holly closed her eyes for a moment, reaching up and touching the necklace still dangling from her neck. She remembered her grandmother's words, drawing strength from them. Perhaps, finally, she had found her place. She just needed the courage to take that place. She opened her eyes, placed her glasses on her face, and carefully appraised the man in front of her. Dumbledore was peering at her over the rims of his spectacles with an unreadable expression.
"My name is Holly." She clasped his hand with hers. "Holly Potter."
