A/N: I like writing Dumbledore. He's so friendly. (Sniff)
Important Author's Notes:
As a few of people pointed out to me, Harry would probably have grown up knowing that Lupin was a werewolf. He wouldn't be such a moron. I'm sorry that I overlooked that, I should have thought about it more. But Harry visiting Lupin in the full moon is a crucial part of the story and I guess I was a bit blind.
I could justify Harry's stupidity in a couple of ways: first, it's quite possible he didn't know it was a full moon, that it just didn't occur to him to check. Second, James might have told him "Uncle Lupin has Lycanthropy" but for a four year old boy, how much would it mean? Four year old children are only just learning the difference between males and females (I'm not making that up: young children judge whether a person is male or female by their clothes and hairstyle) so being a werewolf would mean very little, especially as Lily and James might well have told Harry "There's nothing wrong with being a werewolf, it's OK to be a werewolf." Harry might have been told that Lupin was very dangerous on the full moon, but for a child, it's not easy to believe that someone who loves you could become something so completely different.
Anyway, I don't really have any excuse for overlooking that. I really am sorry. Please continue.
I hurt from writing this chapter. I ache. I weep. I burn. Cheers.
Lost: Small Boy, Answers to Harry
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While Harry and Lupin were enjoying a Weasley lunch, with ten people crowded around the table at the burrow, in a distant castle on a hillside, there was less to celebrate.
The sun beamed down on the castle, but stone, as if itself in mourning, remained cold and grim as ever. As she walked, Minerva McGonagall checked off the jobs she had finished.
Fourth outer wards checked – done.
Dormitory wards strengthened – done.
House elves briefed for third time – done.
Paintings charmed to alarms, doors registered with new passwords, plumbing double-filtered with shields (to prevent what? Dark wizard sewage?) – done, done and done.
She'd finished all the tasks the headmaster had set for her. She had the hardest task now. Professor McGonagall paused in the corridor outside the hospital wing and took a quick moment to catch her breath and then opened the doors and stepped through into the rooms beyond.
The soft murmur of trained healers met her ears, and the quiet crying of a child from behind a curtain. There were twice as many beds as normal, extra ones having been conjured from all over the castle, and each one was filled. The stifled feeling of the room was increased by the many more students keeping vigil by their friends' or siblings' bedsides, determined not to leave their loved ones even when the teachers had tried to make them vacate by force.
A healer in green scurried past, carry a tall bottle on a tray and muttering to herself. Madame Pomfrey was bending of a small boy whose arm was swathed in bandages so thickly it looked like giant white club. McGonagall watched as Pomfrey ran her wand up and down the bandages, telling the boy quietly, "I'm afraid the rash is still there, Madoc, and we need to leave the dressings on so that is doesn't spread any further…"
It was a gladdening change from yesterday's scene. McGonagall felt a small lump clutch at her throat as she thought of this room yesterday evening, with Madame Pomphrey and four Hogwarts teachers trying to deliver urgent medical attention to over fifty injured children, most hysterical, many unconscious, some dying…
But Dumbledore had had the sense to summon healers within moments of the attack on the train reaching his ears, and they had arrived from St Mungo's within the hour, a dozen green-robed healers, skilled in saving lives and equipped for the emergency. Meanwhile the headmaster himself, along with the rest of the teachers, had already arrived at the stranded Hogwarts express, arms loaded with portkeys. They were joined at the scene by twelve aurors, courtesy of Alastor Moody. The aurors had driven off the remaining death eaters as the Hogwarts staff arrived. McGonagall had never been so thankful to Moody before, though she thought, a little angrily, that it had not been compassion that had moved him but ulterior motive. Dumbledore owed the impromptu Minister of Magic a favour now.
McGonagall had never been prouder of her seventh-years. They had apparated a great number of the children away from the train before the death eaters came on board, no doubt lowering the damage done.
But the damage was still unbearable. Eight students on the train had been found dead, and two more had breathed their last even as the aurors tried to revive them. Another, a fifth-year boy, had died as he was portkeyed into the hospital wing, carried in Dumbedore's arms. Altogether some seventy students had sustained injuries, most from cruel and damaging curses but some gained in the panic as people tried to flee. Many were superficial, others less so. There were about thirty still recovering in the hospital wing.
Now they had literally hundreds of owls to answer from parents desperate to hear that their children were well, and a school locked down because Dumbledore did not yet know why the train had been attacked. McGonagall knew he had his suspicions – he had muttered something to her about the Potters and the attack on the ministry, but how the two were connected, he had yet to clarify. McGonagall had, at present, not managed to corner him and find out what he knew. For now she had her hands full, as did Dumbledore himself.
"Professor!" a boy hopped off a chair where he had been speaking to a heavily bandaged girl and slipped over to greet her, "have you finished…?"
"Yes, I have a moment to spare, Bill," she said, putting her hand on the red-haired boy's shoulder. The fifth-year Gryffindor had acted as her messenger and gatherer of information since he had arrived the evening before with a gaggle of first-years he had found huddling in the forest away from the train. Definitely prefect material. Maybe even head boy, McGonagall thought to herself.
Bill took a quick glance around the room before he turned to McGonagall, "Professor, that girl who was hit by the Morcraven curse died about an hour ago. I'm sorry."
McGonagall closed her eyes and her grip on Bill's shoulder tightened, "laments can wait, Mr Weasley. Did you get the names of all the injured, like I asked?"
Bill nodded and pulled a long and crumpled piece of parchment out of his pocket, the names and the severity of their injuries printed in tiny, slanting writing. The parchment was packed.
"And the dead?" McGonagall asked quietly.
"Yes," Bill replied, "all but two – the bodies they couldn't identify. I'm trying to get a roster of each house so we can at least check off everyone who's fine, but you've been so busy, and Professor Snape says I can't go into the Slytherin common room to take a roll."
"I'll talk to him," McGonagall promised.
Bill lowered his voice, "Professor. Dumbledore will get them, won't they? They'll find them, and lock them away?" He looked away for a moment, blinking, and when he looked back, his eyes were fierce and cold.
"Everything that can be done, will be done," McGonagall said, not wanting to meet that blazing, icy gaze, "in the meantime, just do everything you can to help us deal with the aftermath."
"My best friend is dead, Professor. A little girl died an hour ago, screaming. Iolanthe could have scars on her face for the rest of her life," he looked over at the bandaged girl he had been talking to before McGonagall came in, "I'd kill them myself if I had the chance," Bill finished, then the blaze left his eyes, "I'm sorry, Professor. I actually wanted to ask, will we be able to send owls home yet? My parents must be really worried."
"Dumbledore didn't want any parents contacted until we were sure their child was alright," McGonagall told him, "but I assume it would be fine for you to send an owl to your parents if you can get a hold of one. I'm afraid all the school birds are gone for the moment. I know most of the other students have been sending letters home, even though we told them not to. Now I must go talk to Dumbledore about notifying the parents on this list," she waved the parchment he had given her, "thank you, Bill, your service has been invaluable."
"It's no problem, Professor," he said, and trotted back to the bedside of the girl, Iolanthe.
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McGonagall reached the gargoyle that hid the entrance to Dumbledore's office.
"Fudge Popsicle," she said, and the gargoyle stepped down to let her pass. She remembered Dumbledore laughing, not four days ago, when he told her the origin of this password. He had been resetting the password just as term was finishing the year before, when Peeves, chasing two second-years down the corridor, had dropped an enormous paint-filled water bomb right in front of the head master, spilling bright orange paint all over Dumbledore's second-best robes. Dumbledore had shaken his fist at Peeves, looking down at the glorious orange splash, "Oh Fu-" and then noticed the two second-years and quickly finished with, "-dge popsicle." The gargoyle, already half-enchanted, had taken this to be the new password and promptly reset itself. McGonagall had smiled at the story when Dumbledore had told it to her, but she didn't smile now.
At the top of the passage, McGonagall knocked and the door swung opened. The headmaster stood behind his desk, one hand on a stack of papers, his figure half-turned away from her to speak to two people seated just out of sight. McGonagall entered the room and saw that the visitors were Kingsley Shacklebolt, an important name among Aurors, and a stately woman wearing a green scarf and a face of grim resolve.
"…this is not a matter of personal choice," Dumbledore was saying to Kingsley, "I simply do not think we have any more chance with a direct assault than we did before the invasion of the Ministry. Do you think having their leader suffer a minor inconvenience will make the death eaters any less eager to defend him? We are not ready."
"I agree," Kingsley said, "no need to get angry, Dumbledore, I'm just the messenger for the Minister. I do think you must speak to Moody – I mean, the Minister – yourself, though."
The stately woman interjected, "you will do nothing?" she said sharply, "nothing! After what has happened in the last twenty-four hours, you are content to sit and wait? Perhaps, Dumbledore, it is not love of your students that keeps you hiding in Hogwarts after all, but a hint of cowardice?"
McGonagall stepped forward, ready to defend her Headmaster, but Dumbledore's eyes flicked a warning in her direction and she halted. Dumbledore looked at the woman with compassion that was overlaid by a steel tone, "Emmeline, I will forgive you your words as long as you never utter such nonsense again in my presence. This tragedy has grieved me far more than you could believe. You have lost a daughter, so I understand that you are ready to throw yourself against the death eater ranks for vengeance, but I have hundreds more children I must protect, and I will not let any one of them be put at risk for a hopeless cause. Now, if this meeting is over, I must get back to the running of this school."
Kingsley stood and gave a short bow as he left, but Emmeline Vance did no more than nod her head before sweeping from the room.
Dumbledore slumped a little as the door clicked shut and he gave McGonagall a wry smile, "How fares the plumbing, Minerva?"
"Quite severely filtered," McGonagall said dryly, "I'm sorry to lay this on you now, Dumbledore, but the healers were not able to lift the curse on Marabel Rhys. She passed about an hour ago."
Dumbledore turned away from her and gazed up at the slumbering portraits on his walls, "I made a mistake."
"Doubtful," McGonagall wandered around the desk to stand beside them, "you've done everything you can to help the students. Speak to them again this evening, and you'll see there are no fingers pointed at you for bringing them here."
Dumbledore shook his head, "I made a mistake. I should have insisted that the Potters made me their secret keeper. All these deaths could have been prevented."
"This does have something to do with the Potters!"
Dumbledore nodded, "this has everything to do with the Potters. But I cannot yet understand how many had a hand in their murder. They were so sure of Sirius' loyalties…yet, if he was loyal, who betrayed them? And, as there was no mark in the sky, why did Voldemort flee, and where is his third victim? And was Harry on that train, and if so, where is he now…?"
"Not riddles I can decipher," McGonagall said apologetically, "I came to ask if we could begin sending owl to the parents now, Dumbledore. Those bodies we have identified have parents waiting to hear the fate of their children."
Dumbledore nodded, "yes, of course, I'm sorry I didn't send them sooner. I…" and he suddenly paused and looked round. One of the painting frames, which had been empty a moment before, was now filled by a puffing witch fanning herself with a laxative prescription.
"Headmaster!" the portrait gasped, "message from St Mungo's. A young auror named Hestia Jones has just arrived. She says she was captured when the ministry was attacked and has just escaped – she had a boy with her. A little boy. She says you must come at once."
Dumbledore's face registered emotionless for a moment, then he said, "thank you, Dilys. You can tell her I will come as soon as possible."
The portrait shook her head, "you're too late, Dumbledore. She's already fallen asleep on a chair in front of me. Poor little thing!"
"Well, I see she must be carrying knowledge of great import," Dumbledore chuckled, and turned to McGonagall, "begin notifying parents, Minerva, and let no one know I have left the school. If you need me for any reason, contact me at once at St Mungo's."
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Arthur Weasley was awake in a moment. He threw back the covers and swung his legs onto the floor as his son ran to his side, clutching his wand in one hand. Molly sat up, her hand to her mouth.
"Where's he gone?" Arthur asked quickly, his head thumping from his sudden revival and his daughter's crying, "how do you know?"
"I know because he's not in his bed," Charlie panted, "and I don't know where he's gone, but I know that the fireplace is blazing green and there's a box of floo powder spilled on the floor beside it!"
"Oh, God, he's gone back to Lupin's house. He doesn't understand…" Arthur stood up, grabbed his wand off the bedside table and summoned his dressing gown and slippers, "we have to stop him. Do you know when he left?"
Molly got out of bed and passed Arthur his glasses, then went to comfort the wailing Ginny.
"I think, about ten minutes ago," said Charlie, "why? What's at Lupin's house?"
"Lupin is at Lupin's house," his father told him.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
His mother and father both looked at the sliver of moonlight shining through a crack in the curtains. Arthur said heavily, "Lupin is a werewolf, Charlie. And right now, he wouldn't know a small boy from a hunk of steak."
"Arthur!" said Molly sharply, "don't say that!"
Charlie shook his head, "no way," he said, "he seemed like such a nice guy…"
"He is a nice guy," his father reprimanded, "don't think of him any other way, Charlie! He's just a nice guy who disappears once a month. Now please wait here with your mother until I get back."
Charlie chased his father out the door, "I'm not staying here!" he called. Percy stuck his head out of the bedroom, rubbing his eyes and asking what was going on, "I'm coming with you!" Charlie shouted after his father. Ron and the twins appeared at the door of their own bedroom and Ronald and the twins joined in the shouting.
"Hey, Dad, Harry's gone, Dad!"
"You most certainly are not," Arthur replied to Charlie as he ran hurried down the stairs, calling, "Percy, go back to bed, Fred, George, Ron, I know that already. All of you wait here."
Charlie ran down the stairs, leapt past his father and stood between Arthur and the still-blazing fireplace, "you can't face a werewolf by yourself. I'm coming."
"No, Charlie, you are not," said Arthur briskly, gently pushing his son aside. He took a deep breath, put one foot in the fireplace and said loudly, "Remus Lupin's Cottage."
Percy, the twins and Ronald were standing on the stairs looking down at Charlie, "what's going on?" wailed Ronald in a tiny voice.
"You're all going back to bed," commanded Charlie, pointing his wand at them, "I'll be back in a few minutes," and he, too, put his foot on the fireplace.
"Dad said you mustn't!" Percy yelled, but Charlie was already spinning away.
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Arthur emerged, coughing, into a room lit only by moonlight, and whispered, "Lumos," as he steadied himself, raising his wand. He had visited this small cottage only once, but it was no larger than he remembered. He felt his heart pumping fear through his veins, his eyes flicking into the dark corners of the room.
A growl rumbled through the air and made him jump as he spun to face it. To his right, a large wardrobe had been dragged away from the wall to reveal a darkened doorway, the door thrown open to show deep scratches down its length. Trying to hold his shaking arm as still as possible, Arthur forced himself to approach the doorway. Another low growl, and as the room beyond was lit by the light of the glowing wand, a small lump came into view. Arthur realised it was a child's foot, attached to a leg, the rest of the body hidden from view. Trying to quell his urge to run back to fireplace, leap into his bed and pull the covers over his head, Arthur took another step.
He jumped as the fireplace behind him burst into flame, and spun around to see Charlie stagger out onto the wooden floor, waving his hand in front of his face.
Arthur bellowed. "Get back to bed, young man, or I will…"
"Dad!" yelled Charlie, pointing. Arthur leapt around and the glint of two moon-blue eyes shone out from the darkness of the doorway, a huge paw visible below them. Arthur saw the paw tense and cried out a spell as the wolf leapt out of the darkness. Flames shot out of his wand, and the wolf twisted in mid air and landed on its feet, growling. It wasn't quite a true wolf: there was something human about the fluidity of its body, the shape of its face. But its teeth, huge and white and dripping with something dark, were neither wolfish nor human. They were the teeth of an abomination.
Arthur moved sideways, shooting a second jet of flame out of his wand, forcing the werewolf to back away and step sideways, away from the doorway, the smell of singed fur meeting Arthur's nostrils. He could feel Charlie quivering behind him, emitting soft moans of terror. His son's fear sent a thrill of boldness through Arthur's limbs. He stepped closer to the werewolf, shooting more flames at it and forcing it into the far corner of the room. The werewolf brushed one of the shelves and books tumbled onto the floor.
"Charlie, get to that door," he called, without taking his eyes from the glowing blue pupils of the wolf.
"Oh, I don't, I don't know any spells," Charlie sobbed, unable to leave the shelter of his father's body. The wolf suddenly tipped back its head and howled. It was not the chilling but beautiful howl of a true wolf. It was a horrible, malignant wail, like a banshee bringing tidings of death.
"Get to the door!" Arthur roared, "get Harry!"
"Harry?" Charlie seemed to have forgotten the original purpose of their mission, "oh, right…" Arthur heard him scamper across the floor towards the doorway.
The werewolf whined and tried to leap forward again, and yelped as Arthur drove it back once more. It began to growl and bark, pacing back and forward, trying to surprise this intruder that had interrupted it's revel. Arthur looked over his shoulder and saw Charlie running back towards the fireplace, already crying a spell to set the hearth ablaze, carrying something in his arms, a limp bundle of blood and torn pyjama fabric…Arthur felt bile rise in his throat…
The werewolf howled and rushed at Arthur, and Arthur forgot that it was Lupin, forgot that it couldn't help its savage nature, forgot that he had once defended a man called Remus when others had called him a monster. He bellowed and an inferno whirled out of the tip of his wand, and he heard the werewolf whine and screech as flames licked across its back and face. It slipped, knocking over the couch as it fell, and rolled over and over at Arthur's feet, trying to extinguish the flames, which were already dwindling. Its white teeth, stained red by blood, glinted in the moonlight as it snapped at the burning flames on its flank.
Charlie was standing in front of the blazing fireplace, staring at the werewolf with horror on his face. Arthur took a handful of floo powder from the box on top of the mantelpiece and hurled it into the flames.
"Home?" Charlie croaked, tears running down his cheeks. Blood, though not his own, was smeared across his shirt.
"St Mungo's," said Arthur, grabbing his son by the scruff of the neck and pulling the two of them – and the limp bundle in Charlie's arms – into the fire together.
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TBC