Harry Potter and the Slow Bloom Chapter 4: Internal Machinations
I am male Therefore I cannot be Joanne Rowling Therefore I do not own Harry Potter Happy?
Thanks for the reviews. For now we shall continue with the dark and nasty bits. The nice(r) bits are coming next chapter.
"…and that's how it is."
"…Christ."
"My God."
They were in Harry's room again, and Harry's watch glowed at the 2 am mark. Ron looked at him, flabbergasted. Hermione was frowning once again, her blasphemy forgotten. Harry had rushed back from Dumbledore's office, his parting words ringing in his ears. "Tell no one". He'd been afraid, something that Harry was sure that he'd never seen before. If Dumbledore was afraid, how badly did that bode for their own states of mind? And surely, surely he'd have known that Harry was going to tell Ron and Hermione the moment he got back? As long as only the three of them knew, then it was ok…wasn't it?
Hermione's frown deepened, the lamplight softly highlighting her hair as she shifted on the floor. Feelings for Harry aside – all right, for the moment at least she found herself still able to disassociate her personal feelings from her thoughts, but she knew that it wouldn't last long. Personal feelings aside, then, this put them all in even more danger. Lies and disinformation, hidden agendas and dark, hidden secrets. One enemy was starting to look very much like another. And yet there was something not quite right about it.
"It's possible that Dumbledore's got it wrong, isn't it?" Harry spoke hesitantly, unwilling to entertain the idea that was forming in his mind. "I mean, consider the facts. Ron, you have information that could – depending on which side certain people in the Ministry are on – ruin everything. And yet they didn't erase it. No-one performed a memory charm on you at any point. Isn't that strange? You'd think that they'd take any steps at all to wipe out any possibility of a leak, wouldn't you? After all they had you in the hospital wing for a while. It would have been perfectly natural for someone from the Ministry to pop in and see how you were getting on. And then…" He left the rest unsaid: Memory charms could be broken by powerful wizards, as Harry knew to his own cost. Had anyone from the wrong side of the Ministry managed to break into Hogwarts, covertly or otherwise, Ron for once would have been the target. They would have made sure that he wouldn't have been able to remember. They would have made very, very sure.
Hermione cut in. "Harry, there are other possibilities. One, Dumbledore's right and we're all in danger. Two, there are certain people within the Ministry acting alone, working for Voldemort. Remember Broderick Bode? Death Eaters killed him rather than risk a leak of any information. They could have come from inside the Ministry. From inside the Department on Mysteries itself. We don't even know who sent Bode Devil's Snare. It could have been another Unspeakable."
Ron and Harry turned fearful eyes upon Hermione. "This had better be getting better, Hermione. You're speculating - ." Ron was visibly unnerved.
"Three. Dumbledore tells Fudge about Trelawney's prophecy. Having captured those Death Eaters, and with Voldemort vanished who-knows-where, the Ministry decides keep tabs on the remaining ones. Their identities are known, remember? It imprisons those who aren't quick or smart enough to avoid getting caught. But those who were genuinely under the Imperius curse are let go, and the rest – Malfoy, NcNair, and the rest – are left to go to seed. Remember that at this point they know that Voldemort's only disappeared – not dead. So they hedge their bets and monitor the activities of the remaining Death Eaters. Malfoy's former position on the board of Hogwarts governors plus his frequent visits to coddle Fudge put him within easy reach. McNair's job as an Executioner for the Committee on Dangerous Creatures means that he's under total control. Neither can move. The rest were in Azkaban or dead, or under supervision. That left-"
"Pettigrew. I know. His Animagus form was unknown to anyone except Sirius, who was in Azkaban himself, and Lupin – and who was going to listen to a werewolf with friends known for troublemaking, and with one imprisoned for horrendous murders at that? They couldn't track him." Harry looked up, his face hidden and vengeful in the half-light. "Or wouldn't." His hair fell in front in his eyes as he went on. "You're forgetting something. Dumbledore was afraid. I've never, ever seen him like that, even last year when he was facing Fudge and his cronies in his office. He hasn't told them, Hermione. We know nothing about the Department of Mysteries. We don't even know how many could be on Voldemort's side. It could be all of them. It could only be a few."
Ron had calmed down, but all of this was bringing back…oh, no. Not here... He felt the images in his mind rise from somewhere deep inside.
Blood, black and thick, spattered and scribbled on a brick wall. A mess beneath.
Blazes of light arcing through the night towards unseen targets like the tracer bullets he'd seen in a muggle movie once.
Flares lighting up a group of black-cloaked figures swarming round two identical men duelling furiously back-to-back, sending actinic hexes screaming into the tightening circle to no effect. The sheer number of incoming spells finally cut them down without mercy.
An ancient and enormous black motorcycle barrelling straight towards him through a red dawn, the rider's long raven hair and coat streaming out behind him, spells streaming from his wand towards someone to his left faster then he'd ever seen. Asphalt was left cratered, smoking and bubbling as the rider re-holstered his wand and shifted his weight, flaring the back wheel into a slide. He couldn't move. The bike shuddered and roared, unstoppable. He felt his legs snatched from under him in a blaze of pain and he was thrown to the ground, bouncing along the road as he heard the engine cut out and the bike come to rest on the cold, hard asphalt. Behind the pain of his shattered legs he heard the stand being kicked into place.
Footsteps crunched on gravel. He couldn't see, his forehead was a wall of fire from where it had hit the road. The footsteps paused, and he heard two almost simultaneous clicks. They echoed in the still dawn air. Some kind of weapon? Painfully he tried to remember where his wand had landed. There was silence, punctured by blubbering, the sound of someone begging. The silence spiralled away horribly.
An explosion rent the morning, flat and sharp. A settling of air. The footsteps crunched again and came to a halt in front of him. He raised his head, conscious of his shattered legs. He couldn't run. Damnit, nothing left. No wand, no way to move. Only one thing to do, then.
He opened his eyes and looked into the handsome and stone-cold face of Sirius Black.
Another memory. The auditorium in the Veil Chamber. Wizards and witches dressed in black robes sitting on stone benches. No Dumbledore. No dad. Four wizards flanking the front half of the dais. He was in the ranks along with the rest of the…court?
The air was cold and dry, wrung out and frozen in place. The atmosphere in the chamber was unbelievably tense; he could feel it creeping against his skin, a breath waiting to be exhaled. The veil looked as it had always had; still, grey, tattered. He knew what was behind it and it chilled him to the bone with fear. What was happening?
There was movement at the back. A middle-aged man, shackled, his face pale and sunken, was being led to the front by two more black-robed figures. His own robes were clearly Azkaban material, and he looked thin to the point of being emaciated. His hair was grey. There was defeat in his face, and anger and contempt too. He had the look of a man who knows that he is beaten but keeps on fighting out of sheer principle. By the looks of things it hadn't done him much good. Maybe, once, there would have stood a man to be feared. But in his place stood a man with a scowl and hunched shoulders. A wasted man.
The oaken doors thumped shut. The procession advanced up the aisle, footsteps echoing off the granite slabs, shackles grating with the harsh whisper of steel upon stone. They reached the dais. One step, two. Oh no. Nonono. They stopped, and the guards peeled away. The original four took positions akin the four points of a square. The man was in the middle, his back to the veil. There was silence, then a voice. It came from the front, from a figure in front of a granite lectern. Not one he recognised. Cold. Detached. Professional.
"Zachary Tobias Saint. You have been charged with and found guilty of the murders of Fabian Prewett, Michael Vaunt-Staffton, James Vance, Zoë Heidegger, Rufus McAbbot and sundry others. You are guilty of using an Unforgivable curse on sixty-three occasions. You are guilty of crime beyond imprisonment and your sentence is to be carried out forthwith. Do you have anything that you wish to say?"
The man looked up at the room, his expression neutral. His eyes came to rest on Ron's. Patience, Saint. We will find a way to bring you back. You were his most faithful. We shall not forget you. Stay silent and all will be well. The thought rose unbidden in his mind. From Saint, a small, bitter smile to the court at large. "I am ready. I will not be forgotten." The voice was deep and hoarse, despite the man's average size.
"Very well."
Another black – robed man stepped out from the ranks below him. Standing in front of the lectern, he withdrew his wand and took aim. The whole room held its breath. Ron's heart was hammering against his ribcage. Surely not?
"STUPIFY!"
The jet of light hit Saint straight in the chest. His body seemed to rise slightly as he was blasted backwards off his feet. On his face, a look of surprise mingled with sheer terror. It was over in the blink of an eye. There was a swishing noise as he passed through the veil, a fluttering as it settled back into place. Ron felt a wrench deep inside that had nothing to do with his own feelings. No!
We will have you for this, you meddling fool. We will make you beg for his punishment. And you, you turncoat. Do not think that we have forgotten your treachery either.
A moment. Then it sunk in. Shit. The room exhaled quietly, as if something poisonous had been expunged from it. In the cold silence, the black-robed figures filed out a few at a time, all unspeaking. Two remained, the orator and the executioner. As he passed by, he glanced at them under their hoods. The orator, already turning old, with greying hair, was unknown to him. He glanced at the second man and his brain froze. Bode.
The sallow face that Ron had seen once in St. Mungo's was definitely there, although here he looked a decade or so younger. Their eyes met. In that instant, Ron saw a look of hate and fear cross Bode's face. He knows, thought Ron. He knew about the infiltration. Maybe it's still going on… But he died…A horrible thought struck him. I bet my host sent him the Devil's snare. But the Ministry pulled the plug on him too, otherwise I wouldn't be here. Hell, nothing makes sense. Maybe Hermione's right and the Ministry did let some of them go. But who? And why? How bloody deep does this go?
Ah, Broderick. Your time will come one day. You will pay for your treachery to the Master. Who knows, you might even have a chance to serve him once more before the end. We do not forget, Bode. And neither do we forgive.
Dear God. I have to tell them.