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Chapter 17
"What on earth would bring Cornelius Fudge to Hogwarts during the Christmas holidays?"
"I fear I know the answer," Albus said, his eyes on the unconscious youth around whom all the activity and angst centered.
"Harry," the Transfiguration Master agreed. She stiffened with alarm. "The Minister wouldn't demand we remove him to St. Mungo's, would he? Surely we have a greater say in the boy's care than he."
"We must be very careful, Minerva. The Dursleys are his legal guardians. If they side with the Minister and authorize alternative care, we will have no legal grounds to keep Harry at Hogwarts."
McGonagall grabbed the Headmaster's ash gray sleeve. Beneath her fingers, scarlet and pewter embroidery threads strained and creaked. Her eyes flew to the windows, where rays of the sun tipped westward.
"If they take him away," her Scottish accent grew more pronounced with increased worry, "we won't be able to get him the antidote in time."
"I know, my dear." Albus patted her hand in weak comfort. His expression was particularly solemn. "I know."
The Headmaster stood taller and studied the occupants of the room. Action was needed, not anxiety or panic.
"We must do two things, quickly. One, give Hagrid a task that will take him out of the hospital wing for the length of the Minister's visit. I fear he will react badly should Cornelius suggest removing Harry from our care."
"I'll take care of it," McGonagall promised.
"While you arrange that, I'll do the same with the Dursleys."
As she moved away, Minerva McGonagall cast an acid-laced suggestion over her shoulder. "Might I suggest food? Animals are so easily lured by the scent of fresh bait."
Before she walked away, she saw the Headmaster stifle a smile.
Minerva approached Hagrid as the half-giant trumpeted a hard, watery blow into a handkerchief the size of an average baby blanket. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot, his cheeks glassy with moisture. On his far side, Madame Pomfrey did her futile best to comfort him.
"Rubeus," McGonagall said, "might I impose on you for a favor?"
Hagrid wiped his face and sniffed back further tears.
"Certainly, Professor."
"I understand from Poppy that she's running low on feverdew, one of the main ingredients in many of the medicines we're giving Harry. Would you mind going to Madame Sprout's greenhouse and gathering some? I know she's not here, but I don't think she'd mind us raiding her gardens for supplies."
The mediwitch blinked in confusion but said nothing in contradiction.
"I'll be more than happy to do that for you, Professor." Hagrid perked up, grateful to be doing anything that might be of help. "I'll be back quick as I can."
The half-giant lumbered out of the room, headed for the greenhouses. Poppy studied Minerva from beneath gathered brows.
"I'm out of feverdew? Since when?"
"Cornelius Fudge is here. Albus doesn't want Hagrid to react to anything the man might say or suggest."
"Ah. I fully agree. And come to think of it, I really could use more feverdew. And as to our illustrious but bumbling Minister's visit . . ."
Poppy waved her wand. A white cloth screen that leaned against a far wall unfolded itself into four tall panels. At a whispered spell, the screen levitated and crossed the room. It came to rest on Draco Malfoy's right, effectively blocking the view of anyone standing in the doorway.
At McGonagall's questioning glance, Madame Pomfrey shrugged. "Any little delay will help."
###
Out in the corridor, before the now-closed doors, Albus Dumbledore stood with his hands buried in the full sleeves of his ash gray velvet robes. With each deep breath, embroidered dragons created in scarlet, pewter, and silver thread moved around as though the seamstress had captured fragmentary glimpses of the beasts in flight.
To his right, the Dursleys disappeared around a far corner, escorted by the Hogwarts caretaker Argus Filch and his cat Mrs. Norris toward one of the secondary guest dining rooms. No sooner had they vanished from sight than the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, stepped into view along a different corridor.
"Cornelius," Albus hailed his one-time friend. The puffy, portly Minister scowled when the Headmaster failed to present his hand for greeting as had once been his custom. "Merry Christmas and welcome to Hogwarts. To what do we owe this unexpected visit?"
"There are rumors around town, Dumbledore. Disturbing rumors. I've come to learn the truth of things before there is panic in the streets."
"Oh, dear. Panic in the streets." Albus responded to the doom saying with all the seriousness such a comment deserved. The subtlety of his irony flew far over Fudge's head. "That sounds most distressing. But, surely, nothing here at Hogwarts could create such a mindless rush of fear."
"It can if their previous Boy-Who-Lived doesn't live anymore."
Dumbledore arched back, for once allowing an honest reaction of indignation to show. "Cornelius, really. You sound almost as though you would welcome such a tragedy."
"Balderdash. I mean only that the boy's a national hero. Anything that affects him also affects the wizarding world, and thus it affects me in my capacity as leader of Britain's magical society. You can't deny that."
"No," Albus said. "I can't deny it. To some extent, Harry Potter's health and well-being might be of newsworthy interest to some people. However, I seriously doubt it could cause the suggested riots and chaos."
"You never know. This is why I must learn the truth of things. I must be prepared for all eventualities once news of anything dire at last leaks out."
"You could stay out of the matter entirely and thus claim a true innocence of knowledge."
"No one ever believes the 'I was never aware of this' argument, Albus. The more one protests, the more certain people become that something is being hidden away. Usually something nasty or embarrassing. You know what those reporters for the Daily Prophet are like--if they can't find a true scandal, they'll make one up out of whole cloth. No, no. I want to know what, if anything, is happening to Harry Potter."
Unwilling to be deterred or redirected, Cornelius Fudge moved around Dumbledore and stepped into the hospital wing. He frowned to see Arthur and Molly Weasley whispering with Minerva McGonagall. What was Arthur doing here--were the rumors more about their son Raymond than his friend Harry? Madame Pomfrey made notes on a scroll at her table in the back corner. A strategically situated screen hid the only occupied bed from immediate view.
"Albus, you must tell me the truth. I will find it all out eventually. Don't you think it would be better if I heard your side first?"
Dumbledore thought furiously before accepting Fudge's argument. "Very well. You are right, Cornelius. You see, Prof-"
A loud bang of wood against stone brought everyone's attention to the doors. Vernon Dursley powered his way through the double-paneled portal. So great was his speed that he stumbled to keep from plowing into the Minister of Magic.
Petunia slid into the room to stand partly behind her husband's shoulder. Dudley, apparently, had decided to carry on to the promised food.
Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, hid his dismay behind a blank, almost vacuous expression. Only the momentary slump of his shoulders betrayed his disappointment.
"Thought there must be some reason you wanted to hurry us out of the room. I'm not as dumb as you seem to think." Vernon Dursley sank beefy fists on his hips. "Who are you?"
The Minister huffed twice, murmured a, "Well, I never," and bristled at the newcomer's overbearing tone. The pose had the unfortunate side effect of thrusting his overly rotund stomach into greater prominence. The jeweled buttons of his gold waistcoat strained in their holes.
"If it is any concern of yours," he said, "I am Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic."
Dursley ballooned in triumph. His piggy eyes glittered. Behind him, Petunia thrust her pointy chin high in the air and pinched her lips tight, as though she tasted something foul on the air.
"Someone in charge. Finally! I demand to be compensated for the pain and suffering of my wife's nephew. It's obscene the way you wizards treat your children. I'll be wanting real money, not whatever funny stuff you wizards use amongst yourselves."
Fudge looked away from the officious Muggle as though the man were a particularly ugly species of slug.
"Dumbledore, what is going on here? Who is this man?" He eased farther into the room in spite of the Headmaster's delicate attempts to impede his progress. "As I said, I've heard disturbing rumors and I came to see if they were-"
The Minister observed Lucius Malfoy's boy--Dragon? Drago?--seated in the nearer chair. Before he noted anyone else, his gaze settled onto the occupant of the only used bed. His eyes widened and his jaw dropped.
Under layers of blankets raised to his chin, Harry Potter lay frightfully still. Only by hard study could a visitor note the fragile rise and fall of his chest.
"Merciful Merlin. It's true. He's dead."
"No, he is not dead. He's unconscious!"
Molly Weasley placed herself between Fudge and the bed. She crossed her arms around her midriff, thrusting her breasts up and out, and glared at him down the long line of her nose. The Minister, instantly intimidated, took a hasty step back.
Vernon glared at everyone around the room and objected, saying, "He's dying, and no mumbo jumbo or cauldrons of smoking goo will save him."
"Dying?" Fudge gasped. "Dying? Dying, Albus?"
"Harry was accidentally struck with iatis septra raz."
Cornelius Fudge squeaked and hopped in place. His complexion lightened seven shades. His eyes rounded to the size of saucer plates, and his jaw dropped a good three inches.
"The Devourer's Curse? There--there's no cure for that. The boy is dying."
"There is still hope. A party is even now procuring the activating ingredient for the antidote. They should be returning within the next few hours."
"I may not be a master of the cauldron but I know enough about certain potions, Dumbledore," the Minister said. "The activating ingredient is extinct. Has been for almost 100 years."
"A supply has recently been discovered. Severus and his team should be back-"
"Severus! You mean to say you sent Severus Snape to acquire the Dawn's Glory?" Fudge examined his erstwhile friend as though he'd lost what little of his mind remained. "You sent a Death Eater to find an ingredient to save one of the Dark Lord's victims?"
"Severus is no more a Death Eater than I am, Fudge."
Albus' voice took on a hard edge. The tone warned anyone that they trod on dangerous ground. Fudge, apparently, failed to catch the warning.
"The man is a menace. More than one parent has petitioned me to have him removed from this school."
Vernon Dursley thrust himself back into the conversation.
"Not only is this professor they sent the one responsible for Harry's illness, but he's got two other students with him. This man has put a slipshod teacher and two students in charge of Harry Potter's life."
"The one responsible--I must say, Albus, I am most disappointed. The situation is far worse than I'd imagined."
"Oh, it's worse than your darkest nightmares," Vernon said, " and it's only going to get worse, especially if I have any say in the matter. You lot will pay for what's happened to that brat. You'll pay until your purses squeal."
"Now see here, who are you to be demanding such things as payment?"
"Heaven knows I wish I weren't," Petunia said, "but that little freak is my sister's son. We never asked to take him in. Vernon opened the front door to bring in the milk and paper and tripped over the dirty, scarred thing. He's been tied around our necks like an iron ball and chain ever since."
"And it's about time we got something for all our hard work," Vernon said.
"What kind of animals are you? Demanding a reward for doing the decent thing," Molly Weasley said. "And to speak of your own sister's son that way. Your own flesh and blood!"
"That freak is no blood of mine," Vernon glowered.
"Nor mine," Petunia said before anyone could say another word. Her voice dripped more potent venom than the deadliest viper. "He's my precious sister's get, not my own. If she wanted him raised by one of your kind, she should have arranged for it before blowing herself up. There is not one drop of freakish magic blood in my son or me. When Harry dies, it dies with him."
###
Ron Weasley glared poisonous daggers at the arguing adults. Though the argument raged on the far side of the chamber, they could not miss hearing every word.
"Bloody hell, I've half a mind to turn them all into snakes."
"Please don't," Draco said. "I happen to like snakes."
Ron grimaced. "Yeah, well, so does Harry. Bloody 'ell. You're right. A snake wouldn't be low enough."
Malfoy's expression turned distinctly Slytherin. Narrowed eyes studied the offending adults with a particular attention to detail.
"I do agree they deserve a curse," he said.
"We could change them all into slimy slugs."
Draco's mouth arched upwards into a vague smile. His gray eyes danced. "You wand isn't broken, is it?"
"No, so don't get me angry, Malfoy. My spell won't backfire this time."
Draco waved away the toothless threat. "What say we save our disagreements for later and find a suitable reward for Potter's family?"
Ron looked ready to continue the comfortably familiar sniping. Instead, he released a hard breath that vibrated his lips and murmured, "Agreed."
They bandied ideas back and forth for five minutes before Draco stopped, mid-sentence, and smiled. The last time Ron had seen that particular expression on Malfoy's face had been during their second year at Hogwarts. Ron and Harry had entered the Slytherin common room, their appearances changed by the polyjuice potion, in hopes of learning the name of the Heir of Slytherin. The two Gryffindors heard the pale boy voice a wish for the first dead "mudblood" to be Hermione Granger.
His smile had been uniquely vindictive, then and now.
"Why are you grinning like that?"
"I know the perfect curse."
"What is it?"
"My father taught it to me, and she," he pointed toward Petunia Dursley with his chin, "gave me the idea."
"Well, you obviously don't mean to tell me what it is, so cast the damn thing and be done with it."
"It's as well the Sorting Hat put you in Gryffindor, Weasley," Draco Malfoy said as he slid his wand from the sleeve of his robe. "As impatient as you are and with that temper, you wouldn't have lasted a day in Slytherin."
After a final look to be certain that all the adults were occupied with their very loud argument, the pale boy murmured a long, complicated spell beneath his breath. Ron, standing only a foot away, heard only a sibilant whisper.
Weasley waited and watched, breathless. He wanted the rush of gratification guaranteed to come when the Muggles got what was coming to them. He waited. And waited.
"Nothing's happening," he said, to be answered by a truly malicious snicker.
Draco's wand disappeared back up his sleeve.
"Yet."
"What do you mean, 'yet'?"
"Precisely that. Think about it a moment, Weasley. Even you should be able to figure it out. Sure, we could turn them to slugs, grubs, or monkey-faced jackasses. Dumbledore or one of the other wizards might enjoy it, might even wish they could've done it themselves, but they'll be forced to counteract any curse we use. Most of them are do-gooding Gryffindors, after all. The incantation I used--let's just say it's a delayed-reaction curse."
"Dammit, Malfoy, what did you bloody well do?"
Draco's voice oozed malevolent satisfaction. "I'll say only this: find some way to be nearby during the next new moon. The magical blood that Muggle bitch is so proud to deny is going to brighten up her day. Her and her lard of a son."
TBC