A/N: I hadn't thought to update this pretty much ever again, but in lieu of NaNoWriMo this year, I've decided that November will be a month for taking care of unfinished business. In the spirit of my new resolution, I'm going to see Meta through until the bitter end.
Many thanks to Shezan, Aja, and everyone who's kindly prodded me (while not prodding me g) and gotten me to realize that some things need to be done, if not for the sake of one's sanity, then at least for the sake of others'.
+Mens mea cupit cantare formas versas in nova corpora.+
(Ovid)
CHAPTER ELEVEN
When Harry awoke the next morning, it was to coldness and a deep ache in his body. The stones, even through the thick padding of the sleeping bag, had proven too much for him, and rising was almost too difficult to be done. Still the crypt was, and cold as it had been the day before; the restive shifting of the grimoires increased as Harry rose and stretched, but other than that the place was quiet.
Harry shivered convulsively, peering about himself. Endlessly the columns marched in every direction; endlessly they rose up to the ceiling hidden in the blackness. Pulling his gaze away from the heights did not lessen his unease, for then he was looking down upon the still visage of Draco's effigy, the journal clutched in its carven hands.
Remembering the searing pain from last night - a pain that had left no scarring, no mark that it had ever been - he paused before setting his hands upon the effigy's. Resolutely, though, he slid his fingers over the finely-wrought wrists, lacing them through marble ones - thinking, for a moment, that perhaps they was not stone at all but real flesh, and responding to his touch, growing warmer with the flush of life beneath the skin.
He nearly did not pull away in time, so caught up in finding life in a place of death he was; heat flooded into the effigy, pouring through him like lava. At the last moment he jerked back; the effigy's hands again loosed their grip around the journal, elbows unbending, arms settling along the sides. Cautiously, wincing a bit at the phantom pain, Harry gathered the journal to him, searching for any fugitive warmth in the cracked leather, but it had faded. For a moment he stared at the book in his arms, trying to think clearly. Still tired as he was, it was difficult.
"Step one," he said, his voice very loud and echoing, "is to find a way out of here." In his wandering through the crypt the previous day, he had noticed that the light moved with him, as though it were a nimbus following his every step. Beyond the circumference of light, though, the darkness was absolute - the kind of darkness that is a wall, or an abyss. Glancing up once again, he realized the same was true; the pillars simply stopped where the light ended, no fading into grey and then blackness, but their lengths cut off as if by a knife.
And he thought of the surface of the lake, solid and yet endless, taking light and giving nothing back. /So I shall go back the same way I came in,/ he decided, trying not to think of the possibility of flying forever up and up through such a darkness. The decision galvanized him, despite the flash of hesitation; a charm helped him tear the hem of his robe loose, and he knotted the fabric about the journal as best he could. With a last look at Draco's effigy, still as death in its marble robes, he transformed into his hawk-self, took the ends of the fabric-straps in his claws, and launched into flight.
Determinedly, he banished the clinging tendrils of pain and exhaustion to the edges of his awareness. All his focus was now on the endless ascent into the darkness, for the light followed him no longer as he flew upward. The blackness was so absolute even his hawk eyesight could not penetrate it, and he fought against the instinctive urge to stop. The weight of the journal dragged at him, a formidable weight along with the fear that he would at any moment collide with an unseen barrier.
/Don't give up!/ he commanded himself harshly. /What would you do - stay here forever while Draco and Ron die? Is that what you want, Potter? *Keep going*!/ He would have screamed it if he had a voice; dimly he heard the angry, defiant shriek of a bird, but the darkness swallowed all sound. /*KEEP GOING*!/
And then he was free, breaking out into the light and open air. It was blinding, and he shut his eyes reflexively. The winds were up, blowing cold across the northern forests, and they buffeted him a moment until he could find his bearings. He saw the manor, grey and lonely, off to the east, and so he turned around, instinctively heading for Hogwarts. Victory slid sweetly through him and lent him strength - and, he thought as he caught the wind and let it carry him, it was cleansing, somehow. The first thing that had gone truly right since things had gone so wrong.
He coasted on the breeze and triumph as long as he could; the wind carried him effortlessly to almost to Hogsmeade, and it was no effort after that to coast on a downdraft to the castle, and into an open window low to the ground - his own, he knew, was closed and locked. It was one of the spare classrooms, and mercifully deserted. He changed swiftly back to human form and concealed the journal in his robes.
/I feel like it should be midnight, and Ron and Hermione and I should be trying to sneak back into our rooms after doing something that would have gotten us expelled,/ he thought, grinning a bit. He wondered what the general reaction would be to his return, and half-feared an inquisition by the other teachers and his students - but this fear was nothing like what he expected to find in London, when he returned for Draco's trial.
The halls were likewise empty, and silent except for the chattering of the paintings.
"I say, Professor Potter!" It was Hildegarde von Heft, a cheerful Rubenesque lady who had graced this particular hall since its restoration. "I must say, sir," Hildegarde said, fluttering as much as woman her size could flutter (and in a painting, no less), "none of us expected to see you here for quite some time! Sir Cadogan has been quite desolate."
"I didn't think I'd be here either," Harry answered.
"Oh, wait until - " Hildegarde's plump face had been underpainted with a vivid red blush, and for a moment the blush seemed to intensify.
"Hildegarde!" Harry managed to muffle his shout at the last moment. Hildegarde and her fluttering subsided. "Hildegarde," Harry repeated somewhat more calmly, "I would very much appreciate it if you could not spread the word of my getting back... I'd rather not have anyone know."
"Well, I don't see how that's possible to keep people from knowing," Hildegarde said grumpily, "but *I* won't tell anyone. Still, Professor Potter, if you don't mind my saying so, it would do the students a world of good to know you've gotten back safe and sound: some of them are quite worried."
For a second Harry couldn't speak. /My students, and they're worried about me,/ he thought, trying to envision his contrary, reluctant, and at times bumbling charges actually worrying about him.
"It has something to do with a rather... ribald poem, Professor Potter," Hildegarde explained. "One of the fourth years was reciting it nonstop, and another student turned him into - well, I'm not sure what it was..."
"Just don't tell anyone," Harry said.
"Of course," Hildegarde said airily. She reclined on an improbably lavish bed, all draped brocade and watered silk and waved a jeweled hand at him in dismissal.
Harry went on his way, not entirely convinced of Hildegarde's promise of secrecy. He took the back ways up to the professors' quarters, purposely avoiding the portraits wherever he could, or swearing them to silence where he couldn't. He made it to his rooms without molestation, however, and it was with a sigh of relief that he slipped through the door and shut it behind him.
He'd thought he was going to be exhausted, from two days of nearly nonstop flight and desperation, and then days before that of worry, but now in the privacy of his room and the knowledge of having escaped detection, he felt curiously excited. The weight of the journal against his body was solid and real and distantly exciting; he pulled it out and weighed it in his hands, running his fingers over the binding and the thick sheets of parchment. Such a plain and unpromising thing... but it held answers. It held *salvation*. He was sure of it.
Without a second thought, he double-checked the lock on his door and charmed it against unwanted intruders. He limped over to his bed and sat heavily upon it - after an uncomfortable night on the floor of the crypt, and an all-day flight, his body cramped unwillingly at the thought of his desk. Already the sun was westering, and the desultory light of late afternoon filtered through his windows. He could *feel* the hours running away. In two days he would be in London. In two days Draco would go before the judges, and Ron, and in two days he would know the fashion of the rest of his life.
/Don't give up./
Fleetingly he thought of an old man and a boy, both angry, and the boy spying on the memories of the man. There had been humiliation in that worst memory of Snape's, and humiliation and utter fury in Snape's face when he had found Harry in that memory, that day in the Penseive... He had not thought about it much, beyond a fierce satisfaction that his sadistic professor had suffered so, but now, many years removed from his resentment he could not help but think if this prying was as disregarding of Snape's privacy as that older one.
But this was Draco, he told himself, and Snape had been Draco's mentor. Do it. Don't give up.
He opened the book and began to read.
'Hello, Draco.
'I have buried these several books at various places in Hogsmeade, places that have, for various reasons, been important to my life at Hogwarts, and I am sure you know why. This page you are reading now is, in effect, my last will and testament, if you will, and it is the final thing I have left on record concerning my role in the cause of Albus Dumbledore and Harry Potter....
'... It goes ill for both sides this year so far, and we are only a week into the new year. January is greyer and colder than I can remember it being in my entire life. The entire school is very quiet; students are supposed to be returning, but none of my fellow instructors believe parents will be letting their children walk down the street, much less get on the train to Hogsmeade. A Gryffindor sixth-year was found, cursed, in Salisbury just last week. Aurors apprehended MacNair three days ago. I do not think MacNair is alive anymore.
'"All Giant-land groans." There are dozens of half-giants in Diagon Alley, they say, part of the general amnesty the Ministry has organized. What good they'll be for work other than smashing things, I have no idea. I have heard talk of frost-giants waiting in Scandinavia, but whether for Voldemort or Dumbledore no one knows. They are simply there, waiting. I have been waiting, too.
'Everything is set in order for a semester I am now fairly sure will never happen. The only sounds in the hallways are Peeves and Filch. For the first time in my teaching career, I actually wish there were students here; at least, I would have something to distract me from the fear that has grown with each passing day. If there were students here, at least that would be a sign that there is something normal, and that things have not gotten as bad as I know them to be. But that is denial, and useless. The students aren't coming this semester. They may not come in the fall. They may not ever come again.
'There is nothing to do, then, but to wait uselessly. The Order still does its work, and I do mine. My work right now is to sit in my office and stew and wait for the Veritaserum to reach maturity. There will be a time for action, and doubtless I will wish very much that I could be back in my office, when the time for action comes...'
Blinking, he realized it was dark. Someone had been knocking, but they had gone away. There'd been a voice, he thought, a woman's and anxious. But she had gone too, and it didn't matter. He picked up his wand and muttered a quick charm for the candles in his room to light, but his eyes never left the book.
'After the first uprising, after Voldemort was dispelled, I had found myself wondering many things. Really, it is rather marvelous how one can go so long seeing in black and white before coming around to the realization that grey is there as well. Oh, there are definitely things I still am not inclined to look upon with any degree of ambiguity, but more and more there were questions rising around me, and now in this war (so many years later) it seems I am surrounded by them.
'What brings a person to this realization? I am at a loss to explain it, but one day where I had thought to find a simple answer, there were instead shades of possibility. I remember it quite clearly: I was speaking with Sprout, of all people - more precisely, she was ranting about Death Eaters, and their uniform, hideous evil, and how a Dementor's Kiss would be too good for the whole lot of them.
'Now, I bear no loyalty toward my old comrades; I am just as certain that they feel the same way about me, but that is the way of things. We can't all get along. But I know what it is to be deceived, and I also know what drove many to Voldemort: fear of Muggles, disdain of them, promises of a better life for many, power for some, glory for others. Many of them died, or were imprisoned; some died who probably should not have, and many lived who would be better off not being alive.
'And there *were* many evil people in the Death Eaters. There still are. Maybe realizing what evil truly is is what complicates things. It isn't merely doing something against the values of those in power, it is placing the goal - money, power, fame, control - before all else, so that even the innocent are plowed down. I do not know when I realized that, or even if it's explainable, but one only needs to look at Fudge to see that evil need not wear a dark cloak to walk the earth.
'But at any rate, I attempted to explain all of this to Sprout, who refused to hear any of it. I'm sure she will report her suspicions to Dumbledore sometime soon, if she hasn't already; in this world, to explain is to commiserate, and to understand is to be complicit...
'... Dumbledore asked me today if I would be willing to undertake a mission south to Cornwall. I will not leave for some time - indeed, Dumbledore himself does not know when I must leave, or anything more specific than the place. However, I'm sure he *does* know, but is choosing not to tell. Fine. I asked the nature of the mission, and it is (of course) 'Top Secret,' and that I shall be made aware of it at the proper time. Did I ever trust people, when I was younger? Strange, I have no memory of it; Dumbledore, the great grey warrior of our time, is no more trustworthy than Voldemort. But nonetheless I *shall* go....
'... I saw Draco briefly today in my office. We had words together, and they were not pleasant, but I expect that may be the least of what passes between us, should we ever see each other again. I could not go back to the Death Eaters - I *cannot*; that is plain fact, and no amount of Malfoy blustering will ever change that. I told him as much, and told him finally - I cannot put into words how wonderful this felt - what it is that Voldemort holds out to him, and what it will bring in the end.
'"'Do you think that the kind of power skulkers like Peter Pettigrew have is the kind of power you would want?" I asked, and he said Pettigrew will get what he deserves coming to him, and that Voldemort will "reward the cunning", and presumably he - Draco, I mean - will be among them.
'"Illusions," I said to him. "There's nothing behind them except broken promises."
'He did not believe me, of course; young people never believe their elders when they're told a truth they don't wish to hear. But that is the nature of young people, to be stupid and conveniently deaf. Draco, under his Malfoy arrogance, is not precisely stupid; I have hope for him. But I am not Trelawney (thanks be to the powers!), and hope is sometimes a cruel and horribly wrong thing.
'Still... these are uncertain days. I cannot even be uncertain of my old prejudices anymore. There are potions I know how to make, that can clear the mind and give it a glimpse of how things truly are - and how things may yet be, if the man has the strength of mind to look into such a terrifying place as the future. I do not, however, need a potion for this; hope comes very rarely to me now, so now when I *do* hope it is usually with some expectation that things may turn out as I anticipate...'
Blink,ing, he realized it was early morning. Someone had been knocking, but they had gone away. There'd been many voices, all clamoring for his attention. But they had gone too, and it didn't matter. He picked up his wand; the dawnlight was clear enough that he didn't need the candles anymore, and he muttered a quick charm to snuff them, and his eyes never left the book as they slid shut and Harry fell asleep.
'There is a line, a place one stands at which there is a choice to stay as one is and refuse all change, or to cross over and become something so wholly unfamiliar that the thought of doing so is incomprehensible. To stay on one side is like death, or a slow, rotting misery, but to cross and become the unknown is its own death. What am I, if I am not myself?
'I have come to that line now, I think. I stand at the very edge of it. The final step will take me over.
'These six years have worn hard - I hate admitting it, but there it is. Many of my former students have been killed, on both sides... I regret all of them equally. What is it that ever made me want what I did - the power Voldemort offered, the glory, a place at the side of the most powerful wizards of our time? I remember wanting these things so badly I ached for them. I would have killed - I *did* kill - for them. At least there is no blood on my hands so far, at least, not blood I have put there myself. For that, at least, I am grateful, even though that shall not be the case very soon.
'It has been a long journey to this point, and at times I am surprised it has lasted as long as it did - or, to be more honest, that *I* have lasted as long as I have. I've lost track of the times I should have woken up with destruction all around me, or in a cell at Azkaban, or not woken up at all. But this is the last step, over the line before me, and this is the hardest of all the many steps that have brought me to this point.
'These are very nearly the last words I shall ever write, I think. Dumbledore has told me all I must know about what I need to do. "I won't force you to go, Severus," he told me earlier, when he told me that it was time for me to go to Cornwall. After six years, I had begun to think he'd forgotten about it. Unfortunately, Dumbledore has a mind like a steel trap, and I am caught in it... But it may be that I will escape very soon.
'To what end these journals may be put - indeed, if they are ever found - I cannot say. I am not Trelawney. But it is my hope, strangely, that they *will* be found; they will decay over time, for the only things added to them are my little trade secrets to preserve my privacy and ensure only the one who needs to read them will be able to do so, if they can ever be found.... Of this I am most certain, and to express certainty in these days is either the sign of arrogance or great faith; many (myself included) would prefer it to be the former, for I am not given to faith as a general rule, but this belief came upon me without my knowledge - it came as I wrote these pages - and so I am left to subscribe it only to the latter.'
Blinking, he realized it was late in the morning; the light was strong, pouring through the window and making him squint. His glasses were pressed uncomfortably against his nose, and he was stiff from sitting upright for so long. The book was spread open, the last written page facing him. There were several more following, all blank.
The woman's voice was back, and there was a distinctly impatient fist banging on the door.
"Harry! *Harry Potter*!" It was Lavender.
Moving as quickly and silently as he could, Harry slipped the journal under his bed and straightened his robes as best he could. He smelled terrible, he realized; he hadn't showered since leaving the Leaky Cauldron yesterday morning. Yesterday? No... his mind worked furiously. Two days ago it had been, one day and night in the crypt and then last night. Two days.
"Harry!" Lavender shouted again.
He could not move quickly at all, that was apparent. His hip objected strenuously to any sort of movement, and it was actually painful to limp the short distance to the door, undo the charm holding it shut, and open it.
Lavender stood before him, looking as badly as Harry himself felt. Her hair, usually pulled back in its severe bun, wisped untidily and her robe was skewed. But her face... the only time Harry could recall seeing her in such a state when she had learned of Parvati's death: her skin, porcelain and pale, was almost deathly white. Two feverish-red spots stood out on her cheeks, and her eyes... Harry shuddered at what he saw in them. It was desperation, and confusion.
That desperation and confusion both stilled the cutting reply he had been entertaining. Left suddenly without an opening shot, he found himself standing there in silence with her. She stared at him a moment, lost as well.
"Harry," she said, not shouting this time. Instead, her voice sounded inestimably weary, so far from the bitter threats of their last conversation. /This is only going to make things worse for you; I can promise you that, at least - and I don't think it'll go much easier with Ron, or Draco either./ No, not that at all. She slumped in the doorway; looking up, Harry could see the huge, frightening shadow of Fortius looming in the background.
His own voice sounded oddly tentative. "Lavender?"
"Fudge is..." Lavender's voice trailed off. She blinked - were those tears? - and swallowed. "Fudge," she repeated, "is starting Ron's trial today."
For a moment the floor dissolved beneath him in a rush of horror. "Today?" he whispered. "It wasn't... I was leaving today! They were to start two days from now." Four days Fudge had given Minerva, not the three he had originally intended. A scanty concession, but every day Minerva wrung from him would count. He had thought to use today to travel, and to think up some kind of character testimony for Ron and Draco, or to think up ways to break into the courtroom and save them.
"No, no... he called the council late last night. They're meeting in just a few hours. I was knocking... I tried to get in to tell you, but you had the door charmed and I couldn't break it..." Lavender shook her head; her gaze skittered left and right, not wanting to meet Harry's. But at length she fixed on him and when she spoke again, it was with desperate force: "I can't let Fudge do this... I thought I could, Harry, but I can't! When I heard what was happening, that Fudge had broken his word to Professor McGonagall - I don't think what Ron did was right, Harry, but I *am* trying to understand. I don't think I ever will, but..."
"Ron was... *is* our leader," said Fortius from the shadows. Harry jumped; even considering the size of him, Fortius' voice was deep, but surprisingly soft. "Undine doesn't agree with us, but she's agreed not to stand in our way. He's our leader, and we won't have him be brought up on charges like a common criminal."
It was very difficult to think. Lavender was now staring at him, as though Fortius' words had given her new confidence. Perhaps they had. Fortius had moved closer, and was now at Lavender's back; it would be difficult to fear much, Harry decided, with Fortius standing behind you. He had heard the specific omission of Draco - they would never make him any promises on that score, neither of them, but to save Ron... Hope touched him. He recalled Snape's words, very nearly the last he remembered reading: /hope comes very rarely to me now, so now when I *do* hope it is usually with some expectation that things may turn out as I anticipate.../ But then hope, Snape had also said, was cruel.
"Harry, we need to leave as soon as we can. We have transportation arranged from Hogsmeade - a Portkey, straight to Ministry headquarters," Lavender was saying. Her voice was still wavery, but authority had begun to reassert itself. She had, Harry thought unexpectedly, turned out much like Hermione - she might be shaken badly, but she would recover, and now with her leader's life at stake she was putting aside fear and concentrating on what needed to be done. He wished he could do the same.
Lavender's newly-regained command saw Harry showered, changed, and packed in a matter of minutes, and saw that Fortius guarded the hallway against intrusive students. Hildegarde or one of the other portraits had finally cracked under the pressure of their knowledge, and it had become general information that Harry Potter had returned, and those who refused to believe the rumor were clustered (a safe distance from Fortius) waiting to receive some confirmation that it was indeed true.
When Harry stepped out, there was a collective indrawn breath that immediately preceded a deafening cheer that rolled down the halls like a tidal wave. Mostly it was incoherent shouting, but a clear "Professor Potter!" broke out every now and then. He saw that Holly Ferrars and Elizabeth Sloane, mortal enemies, were standing next to each other, jumping up and down and shouting.
Somewhat overwhelmed, Harry walked slowly down the hall. Fortius heeled him, ominously black and silent, and Lavender fell in at his right side. The students stepped back to allow them to pass, but otherwise did not stop cheering.
/Hope,/ a voice said, from a quiet place in Harry's mind, /can be a good thing, too./
He held to that thought as he walked through the corridors of Hogwarts and into the bright sun of the morning.
Many thanks to Shezan, Aja, and everyone who's kindly prodded me (while not prodding me g) and gotten me to realize that some things need to be done, if not for the sake of one's sanity, then at least for the sake of others'.
+Mens mea cupit cantare formas versas in nova corpora.+
(Ovid)
CHAPTER ELEVEN
When Harry awoke the next morning, it was to coldness and a deep ache in his body. The stones, even through the thick padding of the sleeping bag, had proven too much for him, and rising was almost too difficult to be done. Still the crypt was, and cold as it had been the day before; the restive shifting of the grimoires increased as Harry rose and stretched, but other than that the place was quiet.
Harry shivered convulsively, peering about himself. Endlessly the columns marched in every direction; endlessly they rose up to the ceiling hidden in the blackness. Pulling his gaze away from the heights did not lessen his unease, for then he was looking down upon the still visage of Draco's effigy, the journal clutched in its carven hands.
Remembering the searing pain from last night - a pain that had left no scarring, no mark that it had ever been - he paused before setting his hands upon the effigy's. Resolutely, though, he slid his fingers over the finely-wrought wrists, lacing them through marble ones - thinking, for a moment, that perhaps they was not stone at all but real flesh, and responding to his touch, growing warmer with the flush of life beneath the skin.
He nearly did not pull away in time, so caught up in finding life in a place of death he was; heat flooded into the effigy, pouring through him like lava. At the last moment he jerked back; the effigy's hands again loosed their grip around the journal, elbows unbending, arms settling along the sides. Cautiously, wincing a bit at the phantom pain, Harry gathered the journal to him, searching for any fugitive warmth in the cracked leather, but it had faded. For a moment he stared at the book in his arms, trying to think clearly. Still tired as he was, it was difficult.
"Step one," he said, his voice very loud and echoing, "is to find a way out of here." In his wandering through the crypt the previous day, he had noticed that the light moved with him, as though it were a nimbus following his every step. Beyond the circumference of light, though, the darkness was absolute - the kind of darkness that is a wall, or an abyss. Glancing up once again, he realized the same was true; the pillars simply stopped where the light ended, no fading into grey and then blackness, but their lengths cut off as if by a knife.
And he thought of the surface of the lake, solid and yet endless, taking light and giving nothing back. /So I shall go back the same way I came in,/ he decided, trying not to think of the possibility of flying forever up and up through such a darkness. The decision galvanized him, despite the flash of hesitation; a charm helped him tear the hem of his robe loose, and he knotted the fabric about the journal as best he could. With a last look at Draco's effigy, still as death in its marble robes, he transformed into his hawk-self, took the ends of the fabric-straps in his claws, and launched into flight.
Determinedly, he banished the clinging tendrils of pain and exhaustion to the edges of his awareness. All his focus was now on the endless ascent into the darkness, for the light followed him no longer as he flew upward. The blackness was so absolute even his hawk eyesight could not penetrate it, and he fought against the instinctive urge to stop. The weight of the journal dragged at him, a formidable weight along with the fear that he would at any moment collide with an unseen barrier.
/Don't give up!/ he commanded himself harshly. /What would you do - stay here forever while Draco and Ron die? Is that what you want, Potter? *Keep going*!/ He would have screamed it if he had a voice; dimly he heard the angry, defiant shriek of a bird, but the darkness swallowed all sound. /*KEEP GOING*!/
And then he was free, breaking out into the light and open air. It was blinding, and he shut his eyes reflexively. The winds were up, blowing cold across the northern forests, and they buffeted him a moment until he could find his bearings. He saw the manor, grey and lonely, off to the east, and so he turned around, instinctively heading for Hogwarts. Victory slid sweetly through him and lent him strength - and, he thought as he caught the wind and let it carry him, it was cleansing, somehow. The first thing that had gone truly right since things had gone so wrong.
He coasted on the breeze and triumph as long as he could; the wind carried him effortlessly to almost to Hogsmeade, and it was no effort after that to coast on a downdraft to the castle, and into an open window low to the ground - his own, he knew, was closed and locked. It was one of the spare classrooms, and mercifully deserted. He changed swiftly back to human form and concealed the journal in his robes.
/I feel like it should be midnight, and Ron and Hermione and I should be trying to sneak back into our rooms after doing something that would have gotten us expelled,/ he thought, grinning a bit. He wondered what the general reaction would be to his return, and half-feared an inquisition by the other teachers and his students - but this fear was nothing like what he expected to find in London, when he returned for Draco's trial.
The halls were likewise empty, and silent except for the chattering of the paintings.
"I say, Professor Potter!" It was Hildegarde von Heft, a cheerful Rubenesque lady who had graced this particular hall since its restoration. "I must say, sir," Hildegarde said, fluttering as much as woman her size could flutter (and in a painting, no less), "none of us expected to see you here for quite some time! Sir Cadogan has been quite desolate."
"I didn't think I'd be here either," Harry answered.
"Oh, wait until - " Hildegarde's plump face had been underpainted with a vivid red blush, and for a moment the blush seemed to intensify.
"Hildegarde!" Harry managed to muffle his shout at the last moment. Hildegarde and her fluttering subsided. "Hildegarde," Harry repeated somewhat more calmly, "I would very much appreciate it if you could not spread the word of my getting back... I'd rather not have anyone know."
"Well, I don't see how that's possible to keep people from knowing," Hildegarde said grumpily, "but *I* won't tell anyone. Still, Professor Potter, if you don't mind my saying so, it would do the students a world of good to know you've gotten back safe and sound: some of them are quite worried."
For a second Harry couldn't speak. /My students, and they're worried about me,/ he thought, trying to envision his contrary, reluctant, and at times bumbling charges actually worrying about him.
"It has something to do with a rather... ribald poem, Professor Potter," Hildegarde explained. "One of the fourth years was reciting it nonstop, and another student turned him into - well, I'm not sure what it was..."
"Just don't tell anyone," Harry said.
"Of course," Hildegarde said airily. She reclined on an improbably lavish bed, all draped brocade and watered silk and waved a jeweled hand at him in dismissal.
Harry went on his way, not entirely convinced of Hildegarde's promise of secrecy. He took the back ways up to the professors' quarters, purposely avoiding the portraits wherever he could, or swearing them to silence where he couldn't. He made it to his rooms without molestation, however, and it was with a sigh of relief that he slipped through the door and shut it behind him.
He'd thought he was going to be exhausted, from two days of nearly nonstop flight and desperation, and then days before that of worry, but now in the privacy of his room and the knowledge of having escaped detection, he felt curiously excited. The weight of the journal against his body was solid and real and distantly exciting; he pulled it out and weighed it in his hands, running his fingers over the binding and the thick sheets of parchment. Such a plain and unpromising thing... but it held answers. It held *salvation*. He was sure of it.
Without a second thought, he double-checked the lock on his door and charmed it against unwanted intruders. He limped over to his bed and sat heavily upon it - after an uncomfortable night on the floor of the crypt, and an all-day flight, his body cramped unwillingly at the thought of his desk. Already the sun was westering, and the desultory light of late afternoon filtered through his windows. He could *feel* the hours running away. In two days he would be in London. In two days Draco would go before the judges, and Ron, and in two days he would know the fashion of the rest of his life.
/Don't give up./
Fleetingly he thought of an old man and a boy, both angry, and the boy spying on the memories of the man. There had been humiliation in that worst memory of Snape's, and humiliation and utter fury in Snape's face when he had found Harry in that memory, that day in the Penseive... He had not thought about it much, beyond a fierce satisfaction that his sadistic professor had suffered so, but now, many years removed from his resentment he could not help but think if this prying was as disregarding of Snape's privacy as that older one.
But this was Draco, he told himself, and Snape had been Draco's mentor. Do it. Don't give up.
He opened the book and began to read.
'Hello, Draco.
'I have buried these several books at various places in Hogsmeade, places that have, for various reasons, been important to my life at Hogwarts, and I am sure you know why. This page you are reading now is, in effect, my last will and testament, if you will, and it is the final thing I have left on record concerning my role in the cause of Albus Dumbledore and Harry Potter....
'... It goes ill for both sides this year so far, and we are only a week into the new year. January is greyer and colder than I can remember it being in my entire life. The entire school is very quiet; students are supposed to be returning, but none of my fellow instructors believe parents will be letting their children walk down the street, much less get on the train to Hogsmeade. A Gryffindor sixth-year was found, cursed, in Salisbury just last week. Aurors apprehended MacNair three days ago. I do not think MacNair is alive anymore.
'"All Giant-land groans." There are dozens of half-giants in Diagon Alley, they say, part of the general amnesty the Ministry has organized. What good they'll be for work other than smashing things, I have no idea. I have heard talk of frost-giants waiting in Scandinavia, but whether for Voldemort or Dumbledore no one knows. They are simply there, waiting. I have been waiting, too.
'Everything is set in order for a semester I am now fairly sure will never happen. The only sounds in the hallways are Peeves and Filch. For the first time in my teaching career, I actually wish there were students here; at least, I would have something to distract me from the fear that has grown with each passing day. If there were students here, at least that would be a sign that there is something normal, and that things have not gotten as bad as I know them to be. But that is denial, and useless. The students aren't coming this semester. They may not come in the fall. They may not ever come again.
'There is nothing to do, then, but to wait uselessly. The Order still does its work, and I do mine. My work right now is to sit in my office and stew and wait for the Veritaserum to reach maturity. There will be a time for action, and doubtless I will wish very much that I could be back in my office, when the time for action comes...'
Blinking, he realized it was dark. Someone had been knocking, but they had gone away. There'd been a voice, he thought, a woman's and anxious. But she had gone too, and it didn't matter. He picked up his wand and muttered a quick charm for the candles in his room to light, but his eyes never left the book.
'After the first uprising, after Voldemort was dispelled, I had found myself wondering many things. Really, it is rather marvelous how one can go so long seeing in black and white before coming around to the realization that grey is there as well. Oh, there are definitely things I still am not inclined to look upon with any degree of ambiguity, but more and more there were questions rising around me, and now in this war (so many years later) it seems I am surrounded by them.
'What brings a person to this realization? I am at a loss to explain it, but one day where I had thought to find a simple answer, there were instead shades of possibility. I remember it quite clearly: I was speaking with Sprout, of all people - more precisely, she was ranting about Death Eaters, and their uniform, hideous evil, and how a Dementor's Kiss would be too good for the whole lot of them.
'Now, I bear no loyalty toward my old comrades; I am just as certain that they feel the same way about me, but that is the way of things. We can't all get along. But I know what it is to be deceived, and I also know what drove many to Voldemort: fear of Muggles, disdain of them, promises of a better life for many, power for some, glory for others. Many of them died, or were imprisoned; some died who probably should not have, and many lived who would be better off not being alive.
'And there *were* many evil people in the Death Eaters. There still are. Maybe realizing what evil truly is is what complicates things. It isn't merely doing something against the values of those in power, it is placing the goal - money, power, fame, control - before all else, so that even the innocent are plowed down. I do not know when I realized that, or even if it's explainable, but one only needs to look at Fudge to see that evil need not wear a dark cloak to walk the earth.
'But at any rate, I attempted to explain all of this to Sprout, who refused to hear any of it. I'm sure she will report her suspicions to Dumbledore sometime soon, if she hasn't already; in this world, to explain is to commiserate, and to understand is to be complicit...
'... Dumbledore asked me today if I would be willing to undertake a mission south to Cornwall. I will not leave for some time - indeed, Dumbledore himself does not know when I must leave, or anything more specific than the place. However, I'm sure he *does* know, but is choosing not to tell. Fine. I asked the nature of the mission, and it is (of course) 'Top Secret,' and that I shall be made aware of it at the proper time. Did I ever trust people, when I was younger? Strange, I have no memory of it; Dumbledore, the great grey warrior of our time, is no more trustworthy than Voldemort. But nonetheless I *shall* go....
'... I saw Draco briefly today in my office. We had words together, and they were not pleasant, but I expect that may be the least of what passes between us, should we ever see each other again. I could not go back to the Death Eaters - I *cannot*; that is plain fact, and no amount of Malfoy blustering will ever change that. I told him as much, and told him finally - I cannot put into words how wonderful this felt - what it is that Voldemort holds out to him, and what it will bring in the end.
'"'Do you think that the kind of power skulkers like Peter Pettigrew have is the kind of power you would want?" I asked, and he said Pettigrew will get what he deserves coming to him, and that Voldemort will "reward the cunning", and presumably he - Draco, I mean - will be among them.
'"Illusions," I said to him. "There's nothing behind them except broken promises."
'He did not believe me, of course; young people never believe their elders when they're told a truth they don't wish to hear. But that is the nature of young people, to be stupid and conveniently deaf. Draco, under his Malfoy arrogance, is not precisely stupid; I have hope for him. But I am not Trelawney (thanks be to the powers!), and hope is sometimes a cruel and horribly wrong thing.
'Still... these are uncertain days. I cannot even be uncertain of my old prejudices anymore. There are potions I know how to make, that can clear the mind and give it a glimpse of how things truly are - and how things may yet be, if the man has the strength of mind to look into such a terrifying place as the future. I do not, however, need a potion for this; hope comes very rarely to me now, so now when I *do* hope it is usually with some expectation that things may turn out as I anticipate...'
Blink,ing, he realized it was early morning. Someone had been knocking, but they had gone away. There'd been many voices, all clamoring for his attention. But they had gone too, and it didn't matter. He picked up his wand; the dawnlight was clear enough that he didn't need the candles anymore, and he muttered a quick charm to snuff them, and his eyes never left the book as they slid shut and Harry fell asleep.
'There is a line, a place one stands at which there is a choice to stay as one is and refuse all change, or to cross over and become something so wholly unfamiliar that the thought of doing so is incomprehensible. To stay on one side is like death, or a slow, rotting misery, but to cross and become the unknown is its own death. What am I, if I am not myself?
'I have come to that line now, I think. I stand at the very edge of it. The final step will take me over.
'These six years have worn hard - I hate admitting it, but there it is. Many of my former students have been killed, on both sides... I regret all of them equally. What is it that ever made me want what I did - the power Voldemort offered, the glory, a place at the side of the most powerful wizards of our time? I remember wanting these things so badly I ached for them. I would have killed - I *did* kill - for them. At least there is no blood on my hands so far, at least, not blood I have put there myself. For that, at least, I am grateful, even though that shall not be the case very soon.
'It has been a long journey to this point, and at times I am surprised it has lasted as long as it did - or, to be more honest, that *I* have lasted as long as I have. I've lost track of the times I should have woken up with destruction all around me, or in a cell at Azkaban, or not woken up at all. But this is the last step, over the line before me, and this is the hardest of all the many steps that have brought me to this point.
'These are very nearly the last words I shall ever write, I think. Dumbledore has told me all I must know about what I need to do. "I won't force you to go, Severus," he told me earlier, when he told me that it was time for me to go to Cornwall. After six years, I had begun to think he'd forgotten about it. Unfortunately, Dumbledore has a mind like a steel trap, and I am caught in it... But it may be that I will escape very soon.
'To what end these journals may be put - indeed, if they are ever found - I cannot say. I am not Trelawney. But it is my hope, strangely, that they *will* be found; they will decay over time, for the only things added to them are my little trade secrets to preserve my privacy and ensure only the one who needs to read them will be able to do so, if they can ever be found.... Of this I am most certain, and to express certainty in these days is either the sign of arrogance or great faith; many (myself included) would prefer it to be the former, for I am not given to faith as a general rule, but this belief came upon me without my knowledge - it came as I wrote these pages - and so I am left to subscribe it only to the latter.'
Blinking, he realized it was late in the morning; the light was strong, pouring through the window and making him squint. His glasses were pressed uncomfortably against his nose, and he was stiff from sitting upright for so long. The book was spread open, the last written page facing him. There were several more following, all blank.
The woman's voice was back, and there was a distinctly impatient fist banging on the door.
"Harry! *Harry Potter*!" It was Lavender.
Moving as quickly and silently as he could, Harry slipped the journal under his bed and straightened his robes as best he could. He smelled terrible, he realized; he hadn't showered since leaving the Leaky Cauldron yesterday morning. Yesterday? No... his mind worked furiously. Two days ago it had been, one day and night in the crypt and then last night. Two days.
"Harry!" Lavender shouted again.
He could not move quickly at all, that was apparent. His hip objected strenuously to any sort of movement, and it was actually painful to limp the short distance to the door, undo the charm holding it shut, and open it.
Lavender stood before him, looking as badly as Harry himself felt. Her hair, usually pulled back in its severe bun, wisped untidily and her robe was skewed. But her face... the only time Harry could recall seeing her in such a state when she had learned of Parvati's death: her skin, porcelain and pale, was almost deathly white. Two feverish-red spots stood out on her cheeks, and her eyes... Harry shuddered at what he saw in them. It was desperation, and confusion.
That desperation and confusion both stilled the cutting reply he had been entertaining. Left suddenly without an opening shot, he found himself standing there in silence with her. She stared at him a moment, lost as well.
"Harry," she said, not shouting this time. Instead, her voice sounded inestimably weary, so far from the bitter threats of their last conversation. /This is only going to make things worse for you; I can promise you that, at least - and I don't think it'll go much easier with Ron, or Draco either./ No, not that at all. She slumped in the doorway; looking up, Harry could see the huge, frightening shadow of Fortius looming in the background.
His own voice sounded oddly tentative. "Lavender?"
"Fudge is..." Lavender's voice trailed off. She blinked - were those tears? - and swallowed. "Fudge," she repeated, "is starting Ron's trial today."
For a moment the floor dissolved beneath him in a rush of horror. "Today?" he whispered. "It wasn't... I was leaving today! They were to start two days from now." Four days Fudge had given Minerva, not the three he had originally intended. A scanty concession, but every day Minerva wrung from him would count. He had thought to use today to travel, and to think up some kind of character testimony for Ron and Draco, or to think up ways to break into the courtroom and save them.
"No, no... he called the council late last night. They're meeting in just a few hours. I was knocking... I tried to get in to tell you, but you had the door charmed and I couldn't break it..." Lavender shook her head; her gaze skittered left and right, not wanting to meet Harry's. But at length she fixed on him and when she spoke again, it was with desperate force: "I can't let Fudge do this... I thought I could, Harry, but I can't! When I heard what was happening, that Fudge had broken his word to Professor McGonagall - I don't think what Ron did was right, Harry, but I *am* trying to understand. I don't think I ever will, but..."
"Ron was... *is* our leader," said Fortius from the shadows. Harry jumped; even considering the size of him, Fortius' voice was deep, but surprisingly soft. "Undine doesn't agree with us, but she's agreed not to stand in our way. He's our leader, and we won't have him be brought up on charges like a common criminal."
It was very difficult to think. Lavender was now staring at him, as though Fortius' words had given her new confidence. Perhaps they had. Fortius had moved closer, and was now at Lavender's back; it would be difficult to fear much, Harry decided, with Fortius standing behind you. He had heard the specific omission of Draco - they would never make him any promises on that score, neither of them, but to save Ron... Hope touched him. He recalled Snape's words, very nearly the last he remembered reading: /hope comes very rarely to me now, so now when I *do* hope it is usually with some expectation that things may turn out as I anticipate.../ But then hope, Snape had also said, was cruel.
"Harry, we need to leave as soon as we can. We have transportation arranged from Hogsmeade - a Portkey, straight to Ministry headquarters," Lavender was saying. Her voice was still wavery, but authority had begun to reassert itself. She had, Harry thought unexpectedly, turned out much like Hermione - she might be shaken badly, but she would recover, and now with her leader's life at stake she was putting aside fear and concentrating on what needed to be done. He wished he could do the same.
Lavender's newly-regained command saw Harry showered, changed, and packed in a matter of minutes, and saw that Fortius guarded the hallway against intrusive students. Hildegarde or one of the other portraits had finally cracked under the pressure of their knowledge, and it had become general information that Harry Potter had returned, and those who refused to believe the rumor were clustered (a safe distance from Fortius) waiting to receive some confirmation that it was indeed true.
When Harry stepped out, there was a collective indrawn breath that immediately preceded a deafening cheer that rolled down the halls like a tidal wave. Mostly it was incoherent shouting, but a clear "Professor Potter!" broke out every now and then. He saw that Holly Ferrars and Elizabeth Sloane, mortal enemies, were standing next to each other, jumping up and down and shouting.
Somewhat overwhelmed, Harry walked slowly down the hall. Fortius heeled him, ominously black and silent, and Lavender fell in at his right side. The students stepped back to allow them to pass, but otherwise did not stop cheering.
/Hope,/ a voice said, from a quiet place in Harry's mind, /can be a good thing, too./
He held to that thought as he walked through the corridors of Hogwarts and into the bright sun of the morning.