"No good sittin' worryin' abou' it," Hagrid said. "What's comin' will come, an we'll meet it when it does. Dumbledore told me wha' you did, Harry."
Hagrid's chest swelled as he looked at Harry.
"Yeh did as much as yer father would've done, an' I can' give yeh no higher praise than that."
-- Hagrid, in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire
*
Disclaimer: I hereby state and declare that Harry Potter, Hogwarts, and all other characters, situations, and items pertaining thereto are the property of J. K. Rowlings and whosoever may be her publishing companies. The text below is a work of fanfiction, dealing with the aforementioned world of Harry Potter, and the author is reaping no pecuniary advantages from the presence of this story on the World Wide Web.
A/N: I apologize profusely for the delay, but I do have some excuses. College is keeping me very busy, and this was a difficult chapter because it involved so many complicated explanations and lengthy conversations. In fact, this chapter consists almost entirely of dialogue, and I apologize for that, too. It is not the most exciting chapter in the story, though it contains a great deal of very important information … and a fair bit of angst … The next chapter, I promise you, will involve a fair bit of action.
Many thanks to all reviewers – due to time constraints, I am unable to list you all here, but rest assured that it is primarily due to your encouragement and admonishment that I've managed to get this chapter out at all.
~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
NO HIGHER PRAISE:
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"Well... Voldemort said that he only killed my mother because she tried to stop him from killing me. But why would he want to kill me in the first place?"
Dumbledore sighed very deeply this time.
"Alas, the first thing you ask me, I cannot tell you. Not today. Not now. You will know, one day... put it from your mind for now, Harry. When you are older... I know you hate to hear this... when you are ready, you will know."
~ Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore in Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone
* * * * *
"He said my blood would make him stronger than if he'd used someone else's," Harry told Dumbledore. "He said the protection my - my mother left in me - he'd have it too. And he was right - he could touch me without hurting himself, he touched my face."
For a fleeting instant, Harry thought he saw a gleam of something like triumph in Dumbledore's eyes. But next second. Harry was sure he had imagined it, for when Dumbledore had returned to his seat behind the desk, he looked as old and weary as Harry had ever seen him.
~Harry Potter in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire
* * * * *
Harry stared up at Dumbledore. "And then she sort of became normal again, and she couldn't remember anything she'd said. Was it -- was she making a real prediction?"
Dumbledore looked mildly impressed.
"Do you know, Harry, I think she might have been." he said thoughtfully. "Who'd have thought it? That brings her total of real predictions up to two. I should offer her a pay raise...."
~ Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire
* * * * *
James quickly realized that the situation was a little tenser than he had first believed. Sirius sighed and grimaced instead of laughing, Dumbledore turned and stared at him with a complete absence of twinkle, and Snape shot him a glare of concentrated hatred that he could almost feel like a physical blow. James dropped his eyes, suddenly feeling abashed at his admittedly childish remark. When he looked up, Snape had returned his black gaze to Sirius and was stalking toward him like the undernourished vampire he so strongly resembled.
"'Nutters' is not strong enough, Black," Snape hissed. "You are a bloody fool. Coming in here when –" He stopped short, narrowing his eyes and searching Sirius's face. "Or perhaps you know you have no reason to be afraid?" he said softly.
A little bit of color flushed Sirius's gaunt, pale face, and he smiled unpleasantly. "Why should I be afraid, Snape? I'm not a cowardly Slytherin … speaking of which, how was your … meeting?"
What? Clueless and irritated, James glanced from Sirius to Snape – who, astoundingly, looked even angrier than he had before – then back again. He halted briefly on Sirius's face, and his heart twisted painfully in his chest. Sirius … he looked so … awful.
He'd never thought he'd see his best friend again. For an eternity – at least, for fourteen years – James had assumed that Sirius was dead, tortured and killed by Death Eaters. An illogical assumption, perhaps, but a natural one if … well, if everyone else was dead. And now, miraculously, he was sitting in the same room as Sirius again. And all he could think about was how sick Sirius looked, how much older and unhappier he seemed. Irreparably damaged. It had to have been Azkaban.
Damn the bloody Ministry. Twelve years in bloody Azkaban, surrounded by Dementors, and he was innocent. It's a miracle he's even alive, but … oh, God, he looks so hurt. Haunted. That's the word I want. Like he's been through hell and isn't sure he's out of it yet. And so old. He's seen too much. Hell, he must be fourteen years older than me now. It isn't fair. It wasn't supposed to be like this. We were all supposed to get old together, brag about our kids winning the House Cup for Gryffindor twenty times in a row, celebrate four wedding anniversaries a year, have middle-aged crisis at the same time ... Not this. Not Sirius looking like a rage-filled corpse and Peter … Peter. Not …
"You want ME as your Secret-Keeper? James – James – that's ludicrous! Dumbledore – Sirius – why ME?"
"Look, Peter, we trust you as much as we trust them. It's brilliant, old chap, Sirius is right. This is the way it needs to be. You'll do it for us, won't you?"
"I … I … I don't know. I'll have to – to think about it. B-but I won't let you down, James."
WHY?!
"Enough!"
James's head jerked up as Dumbledore's strident voice broke the escalating argument between Sirius and Snape. He blinked, disconcerted to discover that he had completely spaced out for several minutes.
The Headmaster – who, thankfully, looked much as he had fourteen years ago – was glaring sternly at Sirius. Sirius dropped his head, briefly looking younger as a chastened expression chased the anger off his face. Snape folded his arms and directed his scowl toward the wall beyond Sirius's head.
"There will be no more of these petty, immature arguments, gentlemen," the Headmaster said softly. "Remember that you have agreed to trust each other – to work together. To cease wasting your time and energy – and mine – with your childish rivalry." With sudden emphasis, he added, "Do you not see that divisions within our ranks will merely give Voldemort an advantage?"
Sirius hunched his shoulders slightly and let out a faint, defeated sigh. Snape, however, turned his scowl on Dumbledore – James had to admit that he'd apparently grown bolder as well as nastier over the years – and growled, "Which is precisely why he has sent Potter here, Headmaster. Surely you can see that."
James frowned, annoyed that Snape was still saying his name as if it was a curse word, even after all these years.
"I do, Severus," Dumbledore assured him, now sounding like his own mild self. "Nevertheless, I ask that you do not antagonize anyone over it. Sirius," he went on heavily, "I am … disappointed."
Curious and worried, James looked back and forth between them. Sirius now looked like a small child caught with both hands in the cookie jar – a jar of cookies reserved exclusively for the use of Professor Dumbledore, at that. And Dumbledore really did look disappointed … in fact, he was looking at Sirius with almost the same sad, reproachful expression that he had turned on a shrinking sixteen-year-old boy one full-moon night about twenty years ago … The only difference was the lack of anger. Apparently, whatever Sirius had done this time wasn't as bad as trying to feed Snape to a werewolf.
"I thought better of you than this, Sirius." He had said that then, too, and this time it seemed that Sirius made the connection as well. He swallowed and looked up, grimacing.
"I – I apologize, Sna – Severus – for … for … anything I said which might have been misconstrued …" James stifled a grin. Whatever had happened to Sirius, it apparently hadn't changed his reluctance to apologize to Slytherins. Specifically, one Slytherin.
"That is not what I am referring to now, Sirius," Dumbledore interrupted, still leveling the deeply-disappointed-and-grieved look at the taller wizard. "Why are you in here? I seem to recollect hearing you promise that you would stay away from this room."
What?
Sirius flinched slightly, then straightened his shoulders. A look of dogged determination settled over his thin face, and he gritted out, "I am sorry for – failing to keep – for breaking my promise, Headmaster. But I talked with Harry, and some of the things he said made me think that we might have been mistaken, so I came here. And I am sorry for going back on my word, but I'm not sorry I came, because Harry is right. This really is James, and –"
"What?!" James did not realize he had yelled the word aloud until he saw every eye in the room swivel and fixate on him. But once he had their attention, he decided it was too good an opportunity to pass by. He had questions, damn it, and he wanted them answered. "What are you talking about? Why – what – what do you mean, it's really me? Who did you think I was? Why –" He faltered and broke off, suddenly disconcerted by Dumbledore's intense, searching stare.
Silence cloaked the little room. Snape glanced uncomfortably between James and Dumbledore, Sirius stared at the floor, flicking sideways glances at Dumbledore, and Dumbledore simply kept his gimlet gaze on James's face. In less than ten seconds, James felt like squirming away and hiding on the other side of the bed to get away from the scrutiny. He forced himself to keep his eyes on Dumbledore's crooked nose, refused to drop his gaze. It was hard, though … a wave of unaccountable vertigo was sweeping over him, loosening nausea in his stomach and speckling his vision with black dots. His head began to pound. Maybe he'd been hurt worse than he thought.
Finally, Dumbledore deigned to answer. "It is not so much a question of who you are," he said mildly, "as of what is wrong with you." He tilted his head to the side; his hair and beard went with the pull of gravity and hung at an odd angle to his face. "We did a few tests last night," Dumbledore went on mildly, "and – I suppose I should tell you the simple truth – there are a number of dark spells on you, none of which we can identify or remove. We believe that Voldemort cast them on you while you were his prisoner."
James choked, clenching his fists on the edge of the blanket, and squeezed his eyes shut against both the dizziness and the truth. He had thought the nightmare was over now, thought he was free. But, no, of course not.
Grow up, Jamesie. This isn't like your old Hogwarts days, when everything turned out all right no matter how stupid you acted. This is the Real Thing, where nothing at all turns out right, no matter how hard you try or how much you suffer. At least, it doesn't turn out right if you happen to be a Marauder.
"None of them?" he said faintly.
"No," Dumbledore said, and James thought he saw something like sympathy behind the old wizard's glittering spectacles. "None of them. Which is why it is not safe for any of us to spend much time around you. We have no way of knowing what you may do, or what may be done through you. I am sorry."
Well. At least he's being honest about it. Brutally honest. A hell of a lot too honest.
"I …"
There really didn't seem to be anything to say. He dropped his head into his hands, clutching at his throbbing temples, and tried not to show how upset he was. Really, he ought to have a bit more self control than this. Damn it, Gryffindors didn't cry like little kids on the slightest provocation. They had stiff upper lips, and devil-may-care attitudes, and more courage than they could ever possibly need, and …
Why me?
Sirius looked sideways at the Headmaster, his fingers fidgeting nervously with his sleeves. "So … does this mean, Headmaster, that you really think it is James now? Not some … Death Eater trick?"
Dumbledore glanced sideways at Snape, who was scowling at the floor in much the same way he had previously been scowling at Sirius. "Yes, I think so. But, come, we should continue this discussion somewhere else. James needs his rest." The Headmaster glanced around, smiled vaguely, and added, "There is, also, a distressing lack of seating accommodation in here. I, for one, am growing old and do not wish to put unnecessary strain on my feet."
Sirius scowled, then hastily rearranged his face into his most convincingly pleading expression. "Headmaster, please … I wanted to talk to James some more, I –"
"Your promise, Sirius," the Headmaster said gently.
Sirius carried on, pretending to have been stricken unaccountably deaf. "I haven't seen him for fourteen years, and it really is him, you know. I'm sure he can hear whatever it is we have to say – or maybe I could come back after our talk, and –"
The Headmaster stepped toward Sirius and lowered his voice, but James still caught the soft words. "Sirius. How do you think Harry would feel if something happened to you? What if James is under the Imperius, what then? Be reasonable, my dear boy. We will get this straightened out, but for now you must heed my advice."
Grinding his teeth audibly, Sirius muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "Damned if I will," then jerked his head in an angry, affirmative nod. "Fine," he growled. "We'll go and … talk … about it."
James's heart sank. He lifted his head out of his hands, staring forlornly after them as they turned toward the door. His head was still spinning and throbbing unmercifully, and he briefly considered asking for medical attention. At the thought, his pride rose up in revolt, and he dropped the matter.
"Sirius!" he called. All three of them paused, and Sirius turned quickly back toward him, looking alarmingly eager and anxious. "Thank you," James mumbled awkwardly, wishing Greasy-Git Snape was not standing there listening. "For coming, I mean. I … Take care, will you? Of yourself and of Harry. And – and if you see Remus, will you tell him I'm sorry? Sorry for … for … just … tell him, will you? And don't …" His throat closed up for a moment, refusing to let the words out. "Don't come back until we know what's wrong," he finally managed, dragging each syllable out with painful difficulty. "Don't – don't take any risks. Please. Promise?"
One hand tight around the doorknob, Sirius stared at him through unreadable, cavernous eyes. "All right, James," he finally said, softly, as though trying to prevent Snape from hearing. "I'll tell him. And I'll be careful. You – just rest, and don't worry about it." He hovered for a moment; Dumbledore laid a hand lightly on his arm. He started, then offered James a strained smile. "Everything will come out all right. You'll see."
Dumbledore drew him away, and the door swung shut. James stared at it for a long minute, numb and still.
The dizzying pressure on his head lifted without warning; his vision and hearing cleared. Perversely, he wished the headache had remained. At least the physical pain might have distracted him from his emotional turmoil … at the moment, for instance, he was feeling much as though someone had offered him a ladder out of a pit of Dementors, then snatched it away again – or maybe offered him an antidote for a poison swirling through his veins, then dropped the bottle en route. On purpose. And laughed at him.
Dark spells. It had been too good to be true. Naturally, Voldemort had had a plan. He'd been right – he and Harry had been let to escape. Who knew what might happen if Dumbledore let him loose? It wasn't safe, not at all. He could go berserk, or act as an unwitting spy, or blow up, or … anything. Anything at all.
Miserably, James dropped back against the pillows, throwing an arm over his face to block out the orange curtains. They reminded him way too much of the orange curtains Lily had made for the kitchen back home. And thoughts of home were strictly taboo. That way lay despair, pain, and loss of control over his own actions. Maybe even insanity. He had no intention of finding out.
Rest, Dumbledore had said. Well, it seemed he'd have nothing else to do, so he might as well try to sleep.
The only comfort in this whole damned mess is that Voldemort is not going to be pleased.
I hope.
* * * * *
When the infirmary door swung open, Harry jerked his head around so quickly that he nearly gave himself whiplash. He had been on edge for what had felt like decades, waiting for Sirius to come back, wondering what was happening. And now …
"Sirius!" he cried eagerly, jerking bolt upright on his bed as his godfathered entered. "Did you –"
His words froze on his tongue, and his spirits fell. Sirius was not alone. Behind him came the stately (if bizarre) figure of Headmaster Dumbledore, and Harry gulped nervously. It occurred to him with uncomfortable clarity that Dumbledore just might not approve of the Let's-Prove-that-Dad-Is-Dad-by-Talking-to-Him plan of action. "Er … hello, Headmaster Dumbledore," he said nervously.
Then Professor Snape stalked into the room on Dumbledore's heels, and Harry's already-low spirits accelerated toward his toes and began leaking out. Manfully, he restrained the urge to clap his hands over his eyes and scream Just go away and let me talk with Sirius already!!!
"Hello, Professor Snape," he said with false sincerity. "How are you?"
Unsurprisingly, Snape scowled at him. Relived, Harry took that to mean that he could drop the effort to be polite to his least favorite teacher. Energetically, he changed the subject.
"Headmaster, can I go see my dad now? I feel fine, really I do."
Equally unsurprisingly, Dumbledore shook his head. "It would be unwise, Harry."
Stalemated, Harry began considering what other line of attack could prove effective. Thankfully, Sirius spoke up at that point, folding his arms and fixing Dumbledore with a piercing stare. "So you believe now that it really is James Potter, sir?"
Harry's eyes widened, and he leaned forward hopefully. "What? Do you? Is it true? Why? What happened? Sirius –"
Dumbledore sighed, and sat down in a chair by Harry's bedside. He instantly stood back up, and removed Harry's breakfast tray from beneath him. A few forlorn waves of his wand repaired a broken dish and removed any traces of consumables from his robes. "Glad to see you've been eating well, Harry," Dumbledore said kindly, and sat down again.
"How are you feeling, Harry?" Sirius asked, briefly transferring his piercing stare over to his godson.
"Fine," Harry said shortly. "Even better than I was last time you saw me. Speaking of which – what's going on with my dad?"
He glared up at Sirius, feeling unaccountably – or perhaps very accountably, depending on one's point of view – angry, frustrated, and impatient. But the foul mood melted away as soon as Sirius smiled.
In fact, Harry's mood took a sudden, unprecedented swing from the going-to-start-breaking-things-any-minute zone into the happy-enough-to-run-around-and-kiss-House-Elves sector. Harry could count the number of times he had seen Sirius really smile, like he was actually happy, on the fingers of one hand. And here was Sirius with a true, delighted, almost peaceful smile showing off his teeth – which weren't as yellow as one might expect, considering the probable lack of tooth-cleaning materials in Azkaban. Harry blinked hopefully, and felt a tentative smile tugging at his own mouth. A lot of the anger had been leached out of Sirius's eyes; a few of the tight lines around his mouth and eyes had relaxed. True, he still looked tired, vexed, angry, and hurt, but … he didn't look as if he was going to blow up at any moment and start indiscriminately cursing either himself or everyone else in the vicinity. And that was assuredly a good sign.
The wide smile still in place, Sirius went down on one knee next to Harry's bed, thereby bringing himself about on eye-level with his godson. "Thanks, Harry," he said softly. "You were right. It's him. It really is." He caught his breath, and let out a soft, wondering laugh. "It's James."
In later years – heck, in later minutes – Harry would be heartily embarrassed by the memory, but at the time it seemed perfectly natural. He let out a yodel of joy, at the apex of which his voice cracked horribly, leaned forward, and flung his arms around his godfather.
Sirius had evidently not expected to receive an armful of fifteen-year-old wizard in his precarious half-crouching position, for he went over backward with a muffled exclamation that Harry decided to pretend he hadn't heard. Harry banged one of his elbows painfully on the tiled floor as he went down, dragging half the bedclothes with him. The bone stung like mad, but he ignored the sensation in favor of grinning like Dobby on an overdose of butter-beer. Sirius believed him. Sirius had gone and talked to James, and now he knew it was James, and surely everything would be all right now, because if anyone could tell, it had to be Sirius. And Sirius had believed him! Gratefully, Harry tightened his hug, and one of Sirius's arms slid half-hesitantly around him to return the favor. Apparently Sirius's other arm was trapped awkwardly beneath him, but Harry was too ecstatic to be bothered by only receiving 50% of a badly-needed embrace.
Then Professor Snape cleared his throat loudly, somehow managing to make even that brief, common sound emerge derisive and scornful. Instantly humiliated, Harry sat up and started disentangling himself from his sheets. Red-faced, he remembered that he was a dignified fifth-year student, a Triwizard Champion, a hero, and, most importantly, fifteen years old, darn it, and therefore he shouldn't go around hugging people. At any rate, not in front of an audience. That kind of thing should be left to six-year-olds. Besides, he'd just realized that the frightful "infirmary robe" Madame Pomfrey had provided him with gaped at the back.
At least he wasn't wearing that pair of red boxers which he'd charmed Golden Snitches onto.
Sirius rolled back up onto his knees, wincing slightly, and helped Harry bundle the sheets and blankets back up onto the bed. Then he stood up, throwing Snape a defiant look that clearly said, "Well, I may be an undignified, childish Gryffindor, but at least I've got someone who's not so utterly repulsed by me that they can't give me a hug. Which is more than you can say, you greasy, hook-nosed git."
Harry pushed his disgraceful exhibition firmly to the back of his mind, to later be mulled over along with other, equally humiliating occurrences such as the time he had fainted in front of the Dementors or the time he had asked Cho Chang to the Yule Ball.
In other words, he tried his level best to forget it had ever happened.
Resolutely, he turned to face Dumbledore, staying on his feet in the hopes that the Headmaster would realize he meant business. "Do you believe it's really my Dad, Professor Dumbledore?" he asked as respectfully as he could.
Dumbledore sighed again, firmly establishing a trend. "I believe there is a strong likelihood that, however it happened, James Potter was not resurrected by Voldemort or his Death Eaters. How he then has been returned to us, I cannot say, and I will not be wholly convinced that Voldemort had no hand in it until we learn why he is alive. However," he added quickly, raising a hand to forestall Harry's protest, "I am strongly leaning toward the belief that it is James. Truly, and not a doppelganger."
Harry beamed. "How – what changed your mind? I mean, why do you think Voldemort didn't do it, now?"
Dumbledore turned toward Snape, raising his eyebrows as if asking a question, and Snape shrugged in angry resignation. "You can thank Professor Snape for my alteration of belief, Harry," he said, and Harry felt his mouth drop open in astonishment. Wisely, though, he restrained his exclamation of suspicious astonishment.
Sirius was more vocal. "You?" he said distrustfully, eyeing Snape as he might have eyed a Blast-Ended Skrewt. An evil Blast-Ended Skrewt. "Why would you go to any trouble to –"
"If you cannot say anything intelligent, Black, pray keep your mouth shut," Snape sneered, and turned smoothly on his heel, his black cape billowing out behind him. "If you'll kindly excuse me, Headmaster, I have a great deal of work to do."
"Certainly, Severus," Dumbledore said cordially. "Catch up on your sleep, why don't you. No need to go into the school year exhausted."
A slamming door was Snape's only response. Harry let out a relieved breath at the sound, then quickly tried to look as if he hadn't. The air felt clearer without any Slytherins breathing it, but Dumbledore might not look kindly on such a sentiment.
"What did he tell you?" Sirius demanded.
With calm deliberation, Dumbledore removed a small sack of lemon drops from one voluminous robe pocket and popped one into his mouth before answering. "You are both aware of what Severus does for me, are you not?"
"Yes," Sirius muttered.
Harry, less certain, hazarded, "Does … is he … er … is he spying for you again, sir?"
"He is indeed." Dumbledore's gaze moved from Sirius to Harry, then back again. "He returned to Voldemort on the night of the Tournament, and convinced him that the only reason why he had not come as soon as the summons arrived was that I would have been suspicious. Severus has not been particularly eloquent about the details of what occurred, but I know that Voldemort cast the Cruciatus curse on him at least twice."
Harry looked down at the bedspread, feeling guiltier than Sirius looked. They both might hate Snape … or, at least, loathe him with an unquenchable passion … but it felt rather wrong to think scornful things about someone who went through that much pain to help Dumbledore. If, of course, Snape really was helping Dumbledore.
"As a consequence," Dumbledore went on, "he is uniquely well situated to give me information on what happened that night."
Harry's head jerked up in renewed hope. "You mean he –"
Harry broke off, and Dumbledore, after pausing politely to see if he had more to say, continued. "Severus arrived here a short while ago, demanding to know if the Potters were at Hogwarts. Naturally, I filled him in on all that has happened, and, once he realized that we were unsure whether our surprise visitor was genuine, he demanded details." Dumbledore paused to cough, looking mildly regretful. "Severus has not grown any fonder of your father over the years, Harry, and, sad as it is to say, he appeared quite eager to believe that James Potter was not truly alive again. Apparently it had not occurred to him that there were any grounds for doubt. However, as you will no doubt be delighted to hear, he found our reasons insufficiently convincing in the face of his own knowledge – and he told me as much. He has assured me of three things that tip the balance in favor of James being genuine. First, he spoke to Peter Pettigrew –"
Sirius snarled suddenly, and Harry jumped in surprise. "What's he got to do with it?" Sirius demanded angrily. "What does he know? Why didn't Snape just kill the bloody –" He broke off, breathing heavily, and avoided Harry's eyes.
"Severus is convinced," Dumbledore went on mildly, "that Pettigrew, at least, believes that James is genuine. I will not go into the details of their conversation now, but believe me when I say that Severus is a good judge of character. After hearing the news, Severus went to Godric's Hollow Cemetery – something which I should have thought of," he added with a regretful tilt of his bushy eyebrows.
"So should I," Sirius muttered under his breath.
"Is that where my parents are – were – buried?" Harry asked cautiously.
"Indeed it is." Dumbledore leveled one of his patented slow, keen, considering stares on Harry, who might have begun to squirm if he hadn't been holding his infirmary robe together with both hands. "The cemetery is now considered a national wizarding memorial, and the Ministry - the Tourism Office, I believe – pays for its upkeep. At the moment, the caretakers are two elderly gentlemen who live in a cottage close by the cemetery. Severus spoke with them –"
Sirius muttered something under his breath, in which Harry caught the words "find," "bodies," and "hiring," but Dumbledore did not stop.
" – after examining the tomb and determining that it had indeed been damaged and repaired as the article in the Daily Prophet had said. From them, he learned that the damage to the tomb – and the disappearance of James's body – had occurred in the evening of June the twenty-fourth. Now, we know that Voldemort did not send any of his Death Eaters away while you were still present, Harry."
Harry nodded, tight-throated. In his peripheral vision, he saw Sirius glance at him anxiously, then reach out and rest a hand comfortingly on his shoulder. After a moment's consideration, Harry decided that he didn't mind being babied if Professor Snape wasn't there to sneer at him.
"Professor Snape tells me that he can vouch for the presence of every living Death Eater, save Karkaroff and those whom we know to be in Azkaban, after his own arrival that night. Since less than an hour is left unaccounted for – and since he tells me that Voldemort was still meting out punishment for incompetence and arranging for a quick removal from a compromised location –"
"Compromised location?" Sirius muttered derisively. "Since when does Snape talk like a Hit Wizard?"
" – and arranging for a quick removal from a compromised location," Dumbledore continued urbanely, "I think we may assume that no quick visit to Godric's Hollow had been paid in the meantime. This persuades me that there may, after all, be truth in Voldemort's story that he did not intentionally bring James back to life. This," he added with a courteous nod in the direction of the younger Gryffindors, "and, of course, your laudable beliefs in James's veracity."
Harry ignored the display of Dumbledore's extensive vocabulary in favor of grabbing Sirius's hand off his shoulder and shaking it jubilantly. Mindful of his dignity, he ducked Sirius's attempt at giving him a godfatherly hug, and turned eagerly back to the Headmaster. "Does this mean I can see him, then? Will everything be all right?"
Before Dumbledore even opened his mouth, Harry knew, from the expiration of the familiar twinkle, that he was not going to get the answer he wanted. "Alas, no," the old man sighed, and Harry dropped down on the edge of his bed, glaring morosely at the floor.
"It would not be wise, Harry – and that goes for you too, Sirius. Even if Voldemort did not plan James's return – and I shall not know whether he expected it or not until I find explanation of that spell which he claims to have used – I have no doubt that Voldemort took full advantage of the incident. Sending James to portkey you into his stronghold was only the beginning of his plan, Harry, I am certain of it. There are spells on James which we cannot remove, and until I know what they are and how to get rid of them, it is not safe for either of you to be near him. Do you understand me?"
"How soon do you think you can get them off?" Harry asked stubbornly.
"I do not know," Dumbledore answered mournfully. He held up another lemon drop between his thumb and forefinger, gazing at it as if it could comfort him. "If we knew what they were … but James is the only one who could tell us that, and then only if he were awake while they were being cast. And if he was, Voldemort would have cast a strong memory spell on him. The only effective way to remove a memory spell is with the application of an Unforgivable Curse, which puts that option out of the question."
Sirius's shoulders slumped. "That's no good, then. Because Voldemort already cast the Cruciatus on him."
Dumbledore raised his eyebrows in faint surprise. "Good heavens, is that the truth? Why would Voldemort do a thing like that?"
"Harry said it was because James criticized some prophecy Voldemort was babbling – Headmaster?" Sirius's voice caught in alarm at the blank mask that had suddenly descended over the Dumbledore's face. "Is something wrong?"
The odd expression vanished, and Dumbledore's normal courteously vague smile reappeared. "Not that I know of, Sirius," he replied. "I merely remembered something. Sirius, my dear boy, would you mind going and apprising Remus of these new developments? You will find him in the library, researching Dark curses with a view to finding this one that James is suffering from. I would like a word with Harry alone."
Sirius frowned, obviously hesitating between curiosity and indignation. Ultimately, he decided on restraint. With a quick, "I'll be back soon, Harry," he stalked out of the infirmary and shut the door behind himself rather more loudly than necessary.
Slowly, Harry turned to face Dumbledore. The old man was directing a concerned, sympathetic smile at him. "What prophecy would this be, Harry?"
Harry swallowed hard, unsure whether he should panic and flee the room, or break down in tears and confess everything. Neither option seemed like something any of the true Marauders would do, so he opted for a middle course. "Just some prophecy," he muttered, shrugging. "About Voldemort being all-powerful. It was really dumb. I don't remember it well at all."
"I see." The semi-jovial smile died away, and Dumbledore inserted the lemon drop into his mouth with a heavy sigh. "It would, not, by any chance, be a garbled prophecy promising Voldemort ultimate victory if 'the ancient blood of Salazar Slytherin is no further diluted by the tainted bloody of Muggles'? Or anything similar?"
Harry thought for a moment that his heart had stopped, but the moment of frozen time passed, and the organ in question began to hammer frantically and painfully against his rib cage, assuring him that it was alive, if not well. "W-what?" he faltered, clutching at the edge of the bed in near-panic. "You … know?"
Dumbledore gave him a slow, solemn nod, then sighed again, still more heavily. "Do you remember, Harry, the question that you asked of me in your first year at Hogwarts which I did not answer?"
For a moment, Harry simply stared at him, lost by such a turn in the conversation. Then his tired mind slipped back to a functional state, and he nodded slowly. "I asked you …" He hesitated again, his throat tightening in an undefined mixture of alarm and pain. "I asked why Voldemort would want to kill me in the first place. And you said I would have to wait to know."
"Indeed. I believe the time has now come when you need to know – if you wish to. Depending on what Voldemort told you which you have not seen fit to tell me –"
Harry blushed hotly.
"– you may have already guessed much of it. In fact, you may even have some beliefs about it which are incorrect. I hope I will be able to set any worries you have to rest."
Dumbledore's eyes took on a faraway expression, and he gazed distantly past Harry's left shoulder (at a painting of an desperate-faced patient currently knotting his bedsheets together into a rope ladder). After an appropriately ominous pause, he began to speak. "I do indeed know about that prophecy, Harry. It was spoken by Sybil Trelawney about thirty years ago."
"But I thought –"
"Patience, if you please. All shall be explained in time." Dumbledore swallowed his lemon drop, and continued. "I thought nothing of it at the time – not even enough to write it down, which I now regret greatly. As dear Sybil – then a young and flightly lass of about forty – had yet to make a prediction worth taking seriously, I, alas, assumed this to be another mistake. Fifteen years later – just few months after you were born, actually – Severus Snape (who had recently begun spying for me, at great risk to his own life) came to me and told me that Voldemort had set one of his most trusted Death Eaters to researching the lineage of Salazar Slytherin, with emphasis on branches of descendents who were alive today. He told me, further, that he believed there was a link between the recent murder of the McKinnon family and the even more gruesome destruction of the entire Prewett clan. Curious, I did some research myself, and found that both of these families were, in fact, descended from Slytherin – but they were different from the other families that claim such descent only because they also had Muggle blood in their background. At that point, partly because of this research and partly because of a few other things Severus had told me, I realized that Voldemort must be aware of the prophecy, and must take it to mean that he is in great danger from any less than pureblooded descendent of Slytherin. I researched further, and found that the only descendents remaining who were not unimpeachably pureblooded were … the Potters."
Harry's eyes widened slowly. An odd, disbelieving joy was rising in him; Dumbledore knew, and he was not recoiling in horror. If Dumbledore didn't mind … if he already knew … Harry could tell him everything, and he would make sure everything was all right.
But Dumbledore was still talking, his voice now reassuring and gentle. "I know that comes as terrible news to you, Harry, but there is no need to be worried. It is not true."
What?
"WHAT?!" Harry bolted to his feet, blood pounding in his ears. "It's – it's not???"
Dumbledore looked slightly concerned. "No, indeed. Pray sit down, Harry – Poppy would have my head, beard and all, if she caught you jumping around like that." Harry collapsed back onto the bed, and Dumbledore wordlessly offered him a lemon drop, which Harry quickly waved away.
"No – no thank you, sir – please, can you finish explaining?" He tried hard to keep his voice from quivering, but between hope and fear, it was very difficult.
"Certainly." Dumbledore retracted the bag and tucked it into his robes again. "You see, Harry, I was at school with your great-great grandmother, and … ah … dear me, how shall I put this?"
He mused for a moment, while Harry wondered desperately what on earth his great-great-grandmother had to do with anything.
"Well. Let us say that the depth of her love overpowered the extent of her morals – which were sadly curtailed to begin with – and her unwitting fiancé did not realize, Slytherin Head Boy though he was, that her sudden haste in marrying him was due to a certain indiscretion and its consequences."
Harry blinked in complete incomprehension. "I – I don't understand. Why does it matter when my great-great-grandmother got married?"
"Let me try again," Dumbledore sighed. "It is, of course, your father's mother's grandmother of whom I speak, and the husband in question is the link with the line of Slytherin. Before that marriage, your great-great-grandmother's line was quite bereft of any connection with that blood. And, sad as I am to cast discredit on a lady's name, I must say that my own knowledge from my school days leads me to positively conclude that, even after the marriage, the line was still bereft of any such connection."
"What?"
Dumbledore sighed again. "You see, Harry, James's mother's father was not actually the son of James's mother's grandmother's husband. I was acquainted with the – actual father, shall we say, and while he was not a particularly admirable young man, he was, at least, no relation to Salazar Slytherin. So, you see, Harry, you are not actually Slytherin's descendent … Voldemort, sadly, is unaware of that. All genealogical records show that James's mother was a definite pure-blooded descendent of Slytherin. Then she married the Muggle Potter, meaning that James was – is – a halfblood, and as his wife was also a Muggle-born … well, it is for that reason, I assume, that Voldemort attempted to exterminate your family."
He paused briefly, looking at the dumbfounded Harry, and went on sadly. "I blame myself, in part, for your parents' deaths. For many months, the Death Eaters made no move against James and Lily, and I thought that perhaps Voldemort knew of the error in the records – knew that James and his mother were not, in reality, of Slytherin blood. I should have known he was simply biding his time, and gone out of my way to make it known that James was no threat to him … at least, not because of that prophecy. But I did not, and I have regretted it often."
The Headmaster fell silent again, and Harry stirred himself to speak. He felt as if he had been pushed off a cliff and had yet to hit the ground. His chest ached painfully, and he wished Sirius was there. "So … my – my dad's mother was descended from Salazar Slytherin, only she wasn't really because her father was a bast – er, wasn't really what everybody thought he was – and Voldemort didn't know about it, so he attacked my dad because my dad's father was a Muggle named Potter?"
He must have sounded odd, for Dumbledore was giving a curious, troubled look. "That is the gist of the matter, Harry."
"And so I'm not really any relation to Voldemort."
"That is correct. You need not be worried."
"So you weren't lying to me on purpose when you said I was a Parselmouth because Voldemort put part of himself into me."
"True."
"And the fact that he couldn't kill me didn't have anything to do with the prophecy."
"Not that I know of," Dumbledore agreed gravely.
Harry blinked hard. He had a vague feeling that he should be simulating happiness, but he was trying too hard not to cry. His eyes felt hot and prickly, but he was too proud to rub at them. "Well, that's a relief," he said tonelessly.
I should have known better than to hope. He doesn't know the truth - he just thinks he does. He thinks that Voldemort thinks that my dad's mother was descended from Slytherin, and that's what makes me a threat. He'd still hate me if he knew what I really am. He thinks I'm perfectly normal and mostly Muggle.
It isn't fair!
"Harry?" Dumbledore's voice broke solicitously into his bitter thoughts. "Is something wrong, Harry?"
"No," Harry said quickly, looking down at his bare feet. "I'm just really relieved. I don't want to be related to him."
There was a brief silence, then Dumbledore said comfortingly, "The prophecy is actually a good thing, Harry. If Voldemort somehow heard it during his travels abroad – and Trelawney predicted the same thing independently – then there may be truth in it. And if it is so, Voldemort has violated its conditions himself. When he took your blood in June, Harry, he added a great deal of Muggle blood to his own veins. That is what I believe the prophecy means. I believe he has weakened himself by his actions, caught himself in a net of his own plots. Your sufferings were not all in vain."
"Thanks," Harry mumbled, twisting the sheet back and forth between his hands. "That's a great comfort."
I don't have as much Muggle blood in me as he thinks I do. A lot of what I have is Slytherin's blood. For all I know, he may have made himself stronger. Unless he was lying to me! Maybe Dad's not really his son, and he's lying to get us to – no. Dad wouldn't lie to me, and he said his mum told him about it before Voldemort ever started after him. It's true, and I can't tell Dumbledore about it because then he wouldn't trust me. He only trusts me now because he thinks I'm not descended from Voldemort because one of my ancestors was a bastard. Well, that's just wonderful.
When he looked up, Dumbledore was surveying his watch with a concerned expression. "I have little time left," the old wizard explained when he caught Harry's eyes on him. "Is there anything else you wish to say or ask, Harry?"
"No." Harry kept staring at his toes.
Dumbledore paused a moment, perplexity and worry warring on his face. "Well … I have some good news for you at least, Harry. Remus and Sirius will be remaining at Hogwarts at least until Christmas, unless I need to send them on brief errands."
Harry's tight throat loosened unexpectedly, and he looked up, surprised at the depth of pleasure he felt. "Really?"
"Yes indeed. They can help me keep an eye on things here, help keep an eye on you, and assist in keeping James secret and safe."
Though still unable to smile, Harry did feel considerably better. His godfather would still be around, even if he couldn't visit James.
"And," Dumbledore added impressively, "I have something else for you. This is, after all, yours." With a flourish, he produced a worn piece of parchment from the sleeve of his robe, and held it out to Harry.
"The Marauders' Map!" Harry cried in surprise and delight, snatching it hastily. "Thank you, sir."
"Remus assisted me in making a copy for my own use, earlier," Dumbledore explained. He cocked one white eyebrow, and added, "I trust you will not be abusing this trust in order to sneak down and see James before I consider it safe?"
A red flush rose in Harry's cheeks, but he couldn't quite bring himself to admit that he had been planning such a nefarious action. He mumbled something non-commital, and tucked the parchment carefully under his pillow.
"One last thing," Dumbledore said as he rose to leave. "You mentioned that Voldemort threatened your friends?"
Cold fear washed back into Harry's mind. "Yes," he said woodenly.
"I see. I will arrange for wards to be put up around the Weasley and Granger residences, and I will see to it that other protectionary measures are taken. You need not worry, Harry – your friends will be quite safe."
"Thank you," Harry whispered.
Dumbledore paused again at the doorway, looking sad and old. "If something is troubling you, Harry," he said gently, "I am always ready to listen, as is Sirius."
Harry did not look up. "I know."
Another brief silence, then a brief draft and a soft click announced Dumbledore's departure. Harry threw himself down on his bed, burying his face in his pillow. One of his hands brushed a corner of the Map, and a grim resolve grew in his mind. Dumbledore and Sirius weren't the only ones always ready to listen. Dad was there too, now, and no matter what Dumbledore thought or wanted, if the Map could help Harry get down to see his dad, he was jolly well going to use it.
Even if it is a very Slytherin-ish thing to do.
END OF CHAPTER THIRTEEN
~~~~~~~~~
Responses to Reviews:
Because of my great lack of time, I decided to limit myself to ten minutes' work on this. That means I'm only managing to answer a few questions. Apologies to those of you who don't get answers to your queries; I figured you'd rather have the new chapter with fewer notes than nothing at all.
Jeva: Thank you for the long review! 'Twas great … and I promise you, Grandaddy Voldie will make an appearance in the next chapter.
Shei: Well … I'm all about the big happy families too … I'll admit it before it's too late. I mean, before it's too obvious. And you are right: it is Dementor. I don't know what's wrong with me. Thank you very much for pointing that out. I'm afraid I haven't got time to fix it in anything I've already typed, but I WILL get it right in forthcoming chapters. Ah … don't get me started on real people who resemble the book characters … there are two boys at my school (friends!) who look so much like the teenaged versions of James and Sirius that I swear it scares me. I probably freak them out by staring at them whenever I see them. It's eerie.
Kitana: Voldemort has no concrete evidence, but he definitely doesn't trust Snape. He has grave suspicions, and … let's just say things aren't going to get any better for Severus in the foreseeable future.
Indigo Ziona: Like Harry, James has an odd preconceived notion that his friends will recoil in disgust if he tells them who he is. You'd think, after one of his best friends turned out to be a werewolf, that he'd have more trust. But … knowing human nature … maybe he isn't so very wrong after all.
Whisper: Thanks for the review! Dumbledore is being difficult because he – well, he is difficult. He's running a war; it's his job to be suspicious. Harry and James are keeping quite about their relationship to Voldemort because they know the general public will tear them into small, unidentifiable pieces if it gets wind of that fact. Remember how terrified Hogwarts got when it though Harry was the Heir of Slytherin? As for James being older … sorry. I did want him to be, but it just didn't work out with the spell that I chose. He's mentally somewhat older than he looks, though. I mean, he had fourteen years to think, and that's got to make a person smarter.
Andromeda: Thank you! I always appreciate advice and analytic comments. I'm glad you approve of the length and relatively slow pace; character development is actually the part of the story that interests me the most, though I have difficulty making the story progress at all when I work on it too much. Harry will be making plenty of mistakes in chapters to come, and James will find out that his son had a far from idealistic youth. Snape will not be "redeemed" in the sense that he turns into a nice guy, but he may grow slightly less vindictive, depending on where the story goes.
SilverDawn: Why would Lucius hate Severus? They're both intelligent Slytherins … they both despise Weasleys … they were both Death Eaters … they both loathed James Potter … Severus is nice to Lucius's son … they may even be friends! I wouldn't call Voldemort "soft," for he does have evil ulterior motives, but you must remember that he is human. If barely so.
Ron's Secret Admirer: Thank you for the many reviews! I'm thrilled that you're enjoying the story. Hmm … it never occurred to me that Voldemort might have had some other motive for giving Peter a hand made of silver. That could be interesting later.
Hex: Whoa, watch it with that stick! But, look, I've posted. :^) Your review inspired me to get the chapter done today, as opposed to next weekend. Thank you.