The next morning, Harry woke earlier than everyone else in the entire Gryffindor dormitory. The sky looked as if it still could have been night, dark and saturated with stars, except for the lighter blue tinge touching the eastern horizon. Knowing it would be useless to attempt to go back to sleep, Harry dressed himself in the dark and on his way out nearly stepped on Dean, who was curled up on the ground underneath two of his black robes. Parvati was asleep in Dean's bed, and she hadn't bothered to shut the curtains around her.
Harry tried to ignore the new surges of grief that coursed through his chest as he left the room.
He wanted to go about his day as if it was just another first day of term -- a day searching for classrooms in the maze of Hogwarts' corridors and complaining about the first round of homework. The first round that he'd have to complete without Hermione's help.
When he reached the bottom of the second staircase on the way to the Great Hall, Harry heard his name called from the other end of the corridor. It was Professor McGonagall.
"The Headmaster has asked for you," she said softly. Harry was immediately angry with her for pitying him, and said nothing as he changed his course from the Great Hall to Dumbledore's office.
When Harry reached the place where he was to give the password, he had none to give, and since he was in no rush to see Dumbledore he didn't bother guessing. But after less than a minute of standing silently, the statue began to move on its own accord.
Harry entered Dumbledore's office silently. The headmaster was leaning up from his fireplace, obviously just finishing a floo-powder communication with someone.
Dumbledore asked him to sit, so he did. Harry tried to look bored, like nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
The headmaster began talking. Harry learned that Hermione, Lavender and the second year Ravenclaw – a boy called Paul – had been examined by Snape and Madam Pomfrey through the night; no antidote could be found, and they were proclaimed dead in the early hours of the morning. This was not a surprise to Harry.
Dumbledore was obviously expecting some kind of reaction; the headmaster stared at Harry anxiously for a long time before continuing his melancholy explanation. Hermione and the other students had been transported by floo powder back to their parents and their funerals would be held later in the week.
"Why are you telling me all this?" Harry interrupted, his voice more indignant than he actually meant it to be.
Dumbledore stopped. "I wanted to eliminate any feelings of…" he seemed to be trying to find the right word, "feelings of uncertainty about the future you might have had."
"You thought I wouldn't believe that Hermione was dead."
"In short, yes, that's what I thought. It's quite obvious now that I was wrong." Even as Dumbledore said this, his tone made Harry uncomfortable – as if his headmaster knew that on one level, Harry could never believe she was gone.
"I understand what happened," Harry emphasized loudly. "I'm not a little kid; I know what death is. I've seen it before." Harry rose from his seat to leave, turning toward the door. "I'm going to be fine."
Dumbledore's urgent voice halted Harry. "I can pretend to believe that you're accepting Hermione's death, but you're far from being fine, Harry."
"Why am I in here?" Harry said, turning. "What is it that you really want me to do?"
.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.
When Harry returned to the common room, he was in a very bad mood.
Ron, who had been waiting there since he'd awakened, was concerned immediately. "What's wrong… apart from the obvious? Did something else happen?"
"Dumbledore's forcing me to stay in a secret dormitory until The Visit date passes." Harry slumped into a chair crossly.
"Well," Ron said quietly sitting across from him, "maybe it's for the best."
That wasn't what Harry wanted to hear, especially from Ron.
"He just wants you to be safe, right?" Ron said.
Harry rolled his eyes. "He did a right good job of it on the Hogwarts Express."
Ron shook his head. "That wasn't Dumbledore's fault, though."
"Why are you sticking up for him?"
"Why are you so against having your own room?"
Harry didn't know, exactly, so he kept his mouth shut. Something about being confined to a secret room made him feel like a coward and a prisoner at the same time. Hadn't he been forced to stay at the Dursley's house the whole of his life? And that turned out wonderfully this summer, he thought to himself bitterly. He still hadn't told anyone why he'd run away to the Leaky Cauldron in the middle of the holidays, and planned on keeping it secret forever. Especially now that everyone wanted him dead anyway… he didn't need to give them a reason to hate him.
The more Harry thought about it, though, the less sense the Visit made. He believed that Voldemort had somehow retained a large portion of the wizarding gold, but there could hardly be enough for everyone in England to have a million galleons, could there? And even so, if everyone had a million, wouldn't that make the gold worth less in the long run?
He shared this with Ron, who shrugged blankly. To Ron, Harry thought, a million galleons was worth a million galleons – an unknown and unfathomable amount of money…
The day was a blur to Harry. He attended classes, and neither McGonagall nor Flitwick had a problem with him refusing to pay attention at all. In a very out-of-character move by McGonagall, there was no homework assigned at all for the first day, so Harry was left with an evening filled with nothing but trying to ignore how he was feeling.
When nighttime fell, Dumbledore himself entered the Gryffindor dormitory to escort Harry to his new, secret room. Harry said goodnight to Ron and climbed out the portrait hole.
He vowed to keep silent during the walk through the castle, only nodding at Dumbledore's instructions to keep the location and password a complete secret.
Then, unexpectedly, Dumbledore asked: "Why did you run away, Harry?"
Harry swallowed, his heart beating quickly. Dumbledore would know if he lied, or probably knew the truth already. Harry wanted to keep his vow of silence…
"I spoke with Ollivander, the wand-maker," Dumbledore said conversationally. "He saw you the day after you left your Uncle's house…"
"He told you I had a black eye," Harry interrupted shortly.
"I know that you have had a hard time there," Dumbledore said, sadly. "I wouldn't have expected you to stay…"
"Well then I'm glad I didn't," Harry interrupted again. It seemed like Dumbledore didn't know what had happened, and Harry wanted it to stay that way.
They arrived at a painting of a beautiful girl, about Harry's age, who smiled upon seeing them round the corner.
"This is Emilia," Dumbledore introduced. "She's deaf, so the password you use will be a hand gesture." Dumbledore raised his left arm, and waved his right hand over it, as if he was slowly fanning a burn on his inner arm. Emilia smiled again, and her portrait swung forward.
The tiny room smelled very old, but very clean. It was taken up almost entirely by the dark-wood bed and wardrobe. Dumbledore bid Harry good night, and Harry was left alone.
Imprisoned, he thought. Voldemort had figured out a way to beat him, if it wasn't getting others to murder him, it was torturing him with imprisonment and the death of one of his closest friends.
The long ropes that hung from the posts of the bed were very thick, and for an instant, Harry could see himself hanging from the end of one of them, putting himself and the wizarding world out of its misery.
He scared himself enough that he decided to go to sleep, hoping to feel a fraction of a bit better in the morning.
But the next morning brought news that was worse than any he could have hoped for.
The owls swooped in early during breakfast, dropping their parcels and letters and newspapers. Something on The Daily Prophet caught Harry's eye, and he grabbed Ron's copy.
It was a picture of himself, looking guilty and embarrassed, alongside another picture of his Aunt Petunia, who was sobbing into her bony hands. The caption underneath read: "Harry Potter, brutal abuser of female family member."
Ron looked horrified. "Rita Skeeter can'tve been up to something, can she? She's been banned from writing!"
But it hadn't been written by Rita at all, and Ron turned to Harry and asked: "What is this all about?"
Harry was silent, and could feel himself turning red as he heard his fellow students discussing the news loudly.
"Harry," Ron whispered. "You didn't actually hit her, did you?"
Harry started to shake his head, but closed his eyes, nodded, and said: "Yes."