Without Question
By Tien Riu
tien_riu@yahoo.com
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Disclaimer:
Harry Potter and all characters belong to J.K. Rowlings. Plot (what little there is of it ^_^) and depiction of characters are mine.
C&C, R&R and any other derivation there of including flames will be appreciated.
Summary: With the threat of a resurrected Voldemort undermining the fragile peace of the wizarding world, the students of Hogwarts struggle with assignments, tests and runaway pegasuses (not to mention how to pronounce the plural of a peguses). Fifth year at Hogwarts, amidst the complications of full blown adolescent hormones, romance and finally, tragedy.
Main Characters: Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley
Relationships: HG/RW HP/Cho HP/DM
Additional Information:
The future of this piece of fiction will contain what is colloquially known as 'yaoi', 'shonen ai' and/or 'slash'. For the uninitiated, this refers to 'homosexual relationships'. Flames (in the form of constructive criticisms) are welcome, but not if the topic is an inclusion of slash themes in 'Without Question'. My response will likely be a complete disregard of the flame in question or some form of cutting rejoinder - increased response based on level of prejudice displayed in flame.
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Chapter One - Darkness
It began in many ways, with a moment so innocuous that no history book recorded its occurrence. The night air was frigid against the cheeks of the fearful. Sweetwater spray from their trip across the lake formed shards of melted ice against their cheeks, and the cold permeated their bodies despite the stout wool of robes newly donned.
Draco Malfoy, scion of the Malfoy House and sole heir to his family's name, fortune and honour, stared across the small crowd of eleven year olds that formed Hogwart's 1992 first year in-take. A boy was staring in awe at the castle, another on the 'miracle' of the boat trip.
Miracles - ? He scowled - mudbloods the lot of them if they couldn't distinguish between protection charms and divine intervention. Shoddy protection charms no less - it went against good taste to be so - showy with enchantments. He sneered at the two boys - pathetic, truly pathetic.
Father said I would learn control, patience and strength at Hogwarts.
He wondered if Lucius Malfoy had intended contamination to occur alongside control.
Years passed, four to be exact; and the seasons passed as were their wont. Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, stood on the platform watching as the Hogwarts Express left Hogsmeade Station with a shrill whistle. On it, he knew, were four hundred and twenty three students - first through to seventh years. There should have been four hundred and twenty four students.
Cedric Diggory's death lay heavy against Albus' shoulders - as did the burden of blame. How many more will die before this war begins? He had buried students, friends, colleagues - and enemies - in his long life. All victims - and sacrifices - to Voldemort's demented desire for ultimate power. And the end result -
The end result had been a generation of children fearful of the past, blinded to the future and desperately clinging to the present. Cornelius Fudge was a symbol of that futile blindness - but it was understandable. Fudge was not a coward - no Gryffindor was. An idiot perhaps, but even that came not from lack of intelligence but fear.
Living in a war zone does that to any child.
He felt tired.
Tired and very, very old. Three wars - two monsters - and all the weight of responsibility on his shoulders because there was no other to take the positions so desperately crying for their expertise. We are at war - and we neither have the resources, the desire nor most importantly, the people to reach our destination.
James Potter had the charisma to lead them all. An old thought - fifteen years of repetition and useless sorrow - had diminished the memory of the young man for so many others. Sometimes Albus wondered if he was the only one who still remembered not who James Potter had been but who he could have been. Who they all could have been.
Together with Sirius Black as a trusted second in command, Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew to temper their youth with maturity and Lily Evans and Severus Snape as tacticians, they would have been formidable. But there had not been enough time for the promise he had seen in all of them to be fulfilled. In a single night and day, it had been too late - and seven years of hope had been shattered. Lily and James dead, Black incarcerated, Pettigrew dead, Snape dragged into the darkness and Lupin fading to the background. And all that remained was little Harry Potter for all the hopes of our world to rest upon.
So little had changed in fourteen years. Snape had returned, true - but bitter, so very bitter and angry with himself and the world. The strain of optimism that had tempered his intelligence destroyed - drowned in blood, hatred and darkness. Lupin had followed - slowly - but without the support he so desperately needed, had lost the confidence to speak. And Sirius - Young Black - too brave by half, too sure of justice for the innocent. How we failed you.
Innocent, all these years. Too late for anything but the scattered ashes of a life shattered to be collected. And unlike Fawkes, even the indomitable Black could not birth himself unaided from the ruins of his life. And little Peter - what happened there? What did I miss?
He had buried so many of the children - teaching them, watching them grow, and loosing them. And this war - accelerated with weapons hidden and tempered by time and patience. They were out-matched before they begun, ill prepared - would be fought not on the battlefields of blood but in the darkness of the mind where light and dark were as one and impossible to separate.
This time, they would die not from the Unforgivable Curses - but from fear. Voldemort will win not through blood but through their minds.
A generation of darkness had already infiltrated, winding its cold way through the light - and the children of such an unholy creation would never know the difference.
He felt so very old - and tired. So very tired.
"Albus?"
Albus turned and nodded to Minerva McGonnagal, "Ah, Minerva - ready?"
She nodded, perhaps noting the worried expression in his eyes - but not commenting. That was her way.
"The carriage is here. Shall we leave?" she asked instead.
He nodded and followed her as they made their way through the deserted platform. On a rushing train, little Harry Potter sat, far older than his age intended. Another failure there - to keep him protected, allow the source of the story you created for our world's salvation the peace and normality that was rightfully his.
Little Harry had been forced to grow - too much his father's son in these times to remain in the children's protected corner as they had all tried so hard to keep him. Too much his mother's child to want to believe he has the right to stay protected when he should fight.
The carriage rocked back and forth in a smooth motion as it took off on its clawed legs. Minerva drew out a book, enlarging it with a wave of her wand and began to read. This was a custom they had fallen into - so long repeated it had taken comfort of routine despite its horrific roots. But Harry, you are neither your father nor your mother. And young Mister Weasley and Miss Granger are not Lily Evans or Sirius Black, nor is Draco Malfoy Severus Snape.
There was both good and bad to be found in the lack of replication in this generation's newest cannon fodder. Hope perhaps - despair certainly. And the sure and certain knowledge of uncertainty. That in itself was a sign of hope - though it was equally a double edged sword. Snape came back - but Malfoy did not. Evans died but Black did not. 'A deck of cards laid out on a table in a muggle game of chance. And who is to say that fate chose the hand - or chance.'
Albus Dumbledore watched the swiftly blurring landscape as the day wore from morning to afternoon. The past had been destroyed, the present was unprepared and the future was very bleak indeed. And he was tired. Two wars - a third to come. And the choice to leave was no choice at all, not when there was no other who could bear the burden.
Fudge was a poor substitute for James Potter. And Minerva, bless her, knows that she would do worse than Minister Fudge in my place. He wondered if it was a selfish wish to want Frank and Alice Longbottom healthy and well. The same players - the same pawns. The cycle repeats, endlessly, and with each turning of the wheels of fate the children die, and with them, our hope for change.
*
St. Mungo's was one of the few magical hospitals in England. It was a rare ailment that required the full attention of more than one trained medi-wizard, and even less accidents that an adult witch or wizard (or even a suitably advanced student) could not fix with the wave of a wand or judicious use of a potion.
Minerva remembered a time when St. Mungo's wards echoed - empty but for several unfortunates. But that had been before the last war. Before 'unforgivable' had become another word to conveniently forget.
The hallways were white as were the robes of the inmates. Every now and then, the sound of screaming, moaning and yells could be heard as a silencing charm collapsed briefly to allow the medi-wizards and witches to go about their work.
By now, she had memorised the route. How long has it been? The question was an old one - repeated with each year. Albus was silent by her side, even the twinkle of humour in his eye diminished. She would have worried - had so many years ago when this had first begun - but experience had taught her that Albus Dumbledore would not break beneath the weight he carried. Bend beneath his burden, and tire from the work he had to complete - but he would not break. Not till there is somebody to take his place.
Pang of guilt - long familiar. She was a good teacher, an adequate vice-principal and second-in-command, but she was not Albus Dumbledore and neither was she more than a mediocre headmaster. Certainly not the sort of headmaster Hogwarts deserved - no required in these dark times. And in many ways, Minerva McGonnagal was not unhappy at this fact - the responsibility Albus carried made even the courage that had placed her in Gryffindor all those years ago question the logic of moving forward.
The door was similar to all others in the ward. A small grilled window set at eye level that revealed a round table, several chairs and a large window - also blocked off with bars. The door was opened by the medi-witch who had followed them - that too was part of the routine.
"Thank you." Albus murmured as he stepped into the room, Minerva followed, closing the door behind her.
The medi-witch remained outside, watching carefully through the grill. She wouldn't hear anything - the silence charm was broken only when the door was open. That was against the rules - but nobody mentioned that fact.
"Alice. Frank." Albus said quietly, sitting down in one of the chairs around the round table.
Minerva took her usual position beside the door, wand at the ready - though it had never been used in all the years she had followed Albus for this rendezvous. The two other occupants did not look up or change expression in any way.
Frank Longbottom was thirty five - but he looked younger. He had been twenty when the Cruciatus Curse had ripped his sanity away - it sometimes seemed as if time had stopped then for him. No lines lined his face to give it that distinction of age; and though some fine white silvered the light brown of his hair, they were barely noticeable. He looked - young. And as Neville Longbottom would in several years. How time passes.
She could remember him as he had once been - could remember the slow steps in his courtship with Alice Jenkins. The gradual growth in confidence as he had grown - and the confident young man he had become. How time passes - and the steps we take mirror those we took so many years ago. Neville was very much like his mother and father.
"Neville is doing well at Hogwarts." Albus continued, his voice conversational.
At the familiar name, Alice Longbottom looked up - her yellow hair was dry and splintered in the busy ward, somehow lending age to her. Something sparked in her eyes, "N - Neville."
It had excited the medical witches and wizards when Alice had first started to speak again, five years ago. They had hoped that perhaps recovery would be possible. But improvement - if any - was slow. The first few years, during the first visits, Minerva had watched, silently, as Albus conversed to silent bodies lying still as corpses on beds.
"Yes, Neville." Albus said, and smiled, looking over to Alice, "He is growing into a fine boy, Alice."
Alice stared at the older man, then turned back to the table; they were drawing Minerva realised. Random scribbles scratches with Google's Magic Crayons. Little stick figures jumped up and down on the discoloured paper.
There was silence filled only with Albus speaking of Hogwarts - the changes and incidents through the year that had passed, always intersped with comments on Neville. Albus somehow managed to keep an eye on all the students; the same conversation with different parents would have created a different slant, a different view point specifically for the student in question.
In time, Frank looked up, staring at Albus with dull eyes. He was usually more verbose then Alice - on some visits, he would ramble continuously. It always made sense without context: a treatise on the ability of unicorn blood to heal, lectures on derivatives of polyjuice and occasionally questions - which he immediately answered - on various transfiguration charms.
Albus was speaking of his worry for the children - a talk they had shared in the staff room many times before. The children - who, in the war that was coming, would be in one of the safest and most dangerous places in the wizarding world. Hogwarts. . . There was only so much magic could do before stone too failed.
"I worry on how we can protect the children - even if the restrictions on what we can teach them were removed they would still be unprepared for what happens in a war zone." Albus continued quietly, "But there is no where in the wizarding world that is safe - so we do what we must do."
Frank stood up abruptly, walking to the window. It had grown dark while they had been in this room. The sun had set, and the first stars rose in the dark sky. The room was lit only by a few dim lamps - pre-set lumus charms, Minerva knew. It was possible to see several muggle villages from the window during the day. In the darkness, they were nothing but pinpoints of light.
"The stars are pretty." Alice said suddenly, not turning from scribbling on the paper.
She was drawing tiny stars - six lines intersecting. They twinkled as she raised the Magic Crayons and continued, filling the discoloured paper with the tiny lines till the page shone.
"Yes. Yes they are." Albus said softly.
Frank tapped the window suddenly with one hand. He slammed against it once - almost as if he was testing the strength of the glass. He stopped and stared out, still and silent.
"The stars are everywhere." Alice said; there was no blank space left on the page.
"Look at the darkness." Frank said suddenly.
Minerva glanced out the window; the sky was filled with stars. How did one look at darkness? It was not an object, it was an environment. She glanced away and noticed that Albus had been staring out the window as well.
Frank began hitting the glass again - and again. It was a continuous steady beat; the medi-witch opened the door, stepping inside with a worried frown.
"I'm afraid visiting hours are over." She said - that was a lie, visiting hours had ended a long time ago.
Albus nodded, "Thank you." He said, and left the room, Minerva following again.
They sat in the coach and began the trip back to Hogwarts. Outside, night had firmly fallen and the road they travelled on echoed with the sound of the coach's clawed feet and other night noises.
"A wise man once said that the wheels of fate were moved by small hands." Albus said quietly, "Another once was asked to plot, with diagrams and charts, the exact chain of events leading to his death." Albus continued, "But it was the simpleton who looked up at the stars and pointed out the darkness."
"Large events, though significant do not always change the future." Minerva mused, "Seventh year divination and the theory of time turners. What did the simpleton see in the stars?"
"Nothing." Albus replied, "The simpleton saw nothing and the wise man saw only stars." He smiled.
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Note (15/08/2002) Update for minor changes in canon continuation and sentence structure.
A/N: Review? Please? If only to point out plot holes? Or out-of-characterisation?