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. Warning: slash themes (see previous chapters for detailed warning and summary of story)
C&C, R&R and any other derivation there of including flames will be appreciated.
Amaryllis Gilada, Alex Destine and Minerva-Severus-Dumbledor - thank you for your kind comments. Much appreciated and I hope you stick around as the story hits its stride. There's more to come, this bit is nothing compared to what's going to happen further on in Harry, Hermione, Ron and Draco's fifth year. ~grins~
I'm almost sure that the plot (of which you haven't seen much of yet but will eventually ^_^) has never been used before (somebody correct me if I'm wrong) so please read and review.
Author's notes after the story.
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Chapter Six - The Boy Who Saved the Day
Iridescent Malkin was scared; scared in a way that she hadn't felt since the last days of the Dark Time, when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and the Death Eaters had walked freely. She remembered that time not in the screams of the dying and the flashes of green that had marked the lucky who were not to be tortured. No, her memories were marked by the unlit windows that lined Diagon Alley. The empty stores, filled with rubble, and the dust that blew, ceaselessly.
Now, standing in her store, fifteen years of peace rounding her once-sylph like figure, the windows mocked her. He's back - he's back and it's all happening again -
"Please - please -" she wondered what she pleaded for - mercy was not a trait of Death Eaters.
If she was to be truthful, she knew what she sought - the lie. She wished this wizard to be insane. She wanted the peace Harry Potter's miraculous life had instigated to continue, untouched. She wanted the threat of war to be a nightmare figment.
"You won't be hurt." The wizard said; and now, when he knew she was scared, he spoke as if he were a kindly parent to her disobedient child, "Just do what we want, and you shall not suffer." He ran a hand down her cheek - the fingers were cold.
She shuddered, and the years fell away - she was twenty five again, the war was at its height, and the windows had been like dark, empty eyes.
"I'll - I'll do it -" her voice barely a whisper, "Please - please -"
The mask glinted, sightless eyes matching the hissing snake that twined through the skull on his arm.
"Good girl." The wizard whispered, "Very good -"
"Accio corpus!"
The voice rang out - loudly declaimed; Iridescent jumped - the wizard jerked forward, and kept going, feet dragging, face curled in shock, across the store.
"Finite incantum!" Iridescent realised the source of the voice - her eyes went to the pale face half obscured by the door of the change room.
Ronald Weasley - the youngest Weasley boy.
Though the charm had been ended, the wizard kept going, drawn - despite the cessation of the charm - by the force of the original pull.
He bounced off one of the mirrors lightly and turned, seeking the source of the charm; his gaze fell on Iridescent, "You -"
"Wingardium leviosa!"
And was jerked forward again, slamming into the mirror. The boy flipped his wand, tilting the wizard's body in clumsy imitation before gesturing once more. Wide eyed, Iridescent watched as the wizard - the Death Eater - was slammed against the mirror. Glass shattered as the charm broke beneath the strain of force. Her gaze followed the cracked reflections glaring angrily at her as shards of silvered glass tinkled to the ground. And still the wizard was swung against the wall, eyes rolling back in his head from a mild concussion.
"Ah - Madam Malkin?" the Weasley boy's voice was plaintive, "I don't think my petrificus totalis will hold him - could you -?"
In her memory, she could see the store windows - dark and empty; but before her, she could see the pale white face of the youngest Weasley boy, and the rather amusing sight of a grown Death Eater being swung back and forth against her store wall. On the ground, shards of glass reflected uncharmed images back to her shocked eyes.
"Madam Malkin?"
"Oh - oh!" Iridescent Malkin pulled out her wand and waved it at the Death Eater, "Petrificus totalis!"
The wizard was surrounded by a blue glare and then froze; eyes still rolled back. The body fell to the ground and Madam Malkin turned her eyes to Ronald Weasley, still on the ground, formal robes half unbuttoned down his chest. He stood up slowly, running a hand through his mused Weasley-red hair before flashing a happy grin.
They stared at each other for several seconds - silent in shock and perhaps euphoria. The pop of a wizard apparating into the store broke the silence.
"Weasley, R. -" the wizard glanced at the sheet of paper in his hand and shook his head, "You must be related to Fred and George Weasley then." He said, "It'll be your wand for the rest of the summer and two galleons as a fine for illegal use of magic -" he trailed off as he looked up and took in the broken mirrors, the body-bound wizard and Madam Malkin, "What happened -?"
"I was being attacked by a Death Eater - Ronald Weasley here saved the day." Madam Malkin said.
Ronald Weasley's pale face flushed red with pride; the colour clashed dreadfully with his hair, but the glow in his blue eyes did not.
*
This is all your fault. A conversational voice muttered in the back of Hermione's head as she stared, flabbergasted at her mother. You were the one you didn't want them to worry about You-Know-Who and Harry's habit of having near death experiences. Or the way you and Ron always end up getting dragged into crazy adventures. You were the one who decided to tell them about amusing sweets and annoying but adorable Oliver Twist type friends getting into amusing and easily forgettable pranks.
"I really don't see why you are making such an event out of this, Hermione, dear." Amanda Granger was saying patiently over the dinner table, "Your father will accompany you to this - 'important meeting'." The way she pronounced 'important meeting' underlined her scepticism, "Surely they can't expect two medical professionals to be able to take time off at such short notice?"
You were the one who made them think magic was useful for household chores and party tricks. The voice continued; Hermione felt like thumping her head on the table. I think I know why Ron found me so annoying in first year. And second year. And let's face it, third and fourth as well. There's something to be said for being too reasonably logical.
"Because it's important!" Hermione knew her voice had raised, she knew she sounded like a child - and yet could not stop herself.
"Well, your father will be there, and he can tell me everything I've missed." Amanda replied calmly, "Now, would you like more roast?"
Calmly, the older woman picked up the serving plate and walked over to the counter. Hermione let her head fall to the table with a soft 'thump'. And now you have two days to explain about Voldemort, Harry Potter, and Hogwarts - not just an amusing old castle with moving staircases and ghosts but also 'the last sanctuary of those who fight for Good, the Side of Light and other clichés'. The voice said, giving her the equivalent of a pat on the head. Hermione groaned and thumped her head several times.
*
There was silence - and then, there was not.
Draco jerked out of sleep with the first footfall and blinked, bleary-eyed at his father.
"Good morning Draco."
Moonlight shone through the windows - perfect imitation of his other room, the one he had yet to use these holidays. He wondered if it was morning outside - time did not always follow the same rules in his pictorial prison. Pictorial prison - nice phrase there. I should remember it for my next History of Magic essay. Draco thought sleepily as he rubbed a hand over his eyes. Pay attention!
Adrenaline shot through him; Lucius was waiting, and as he had been taught all those years ago, surprise was no excuse for bad manners.
"Good morning Father." Draco said, sitting up in the bed, hands folded over the edge of the quilt.
"Good." Lucius breathed - Draco ducked his head at the approval, it was a habit he had neither taught to imitate nor to forego, "The house elf will bring breakfast and the clothes you are to wear. Be ready in an hour." He said and waited.
"Be ready for what, Father?" Draco asked obediently - this was a routine, a practised set of commands and reactions.
Lucius nodded once more, and a slight smile creased his thin lips, "The Dark Lord will give you your first mission this day. Be proud - you are to join the ranks of those closest to He-Who-Is-Not-Named."
In the years to follow, Draco would wonder what made him speak out now - when he never had before. The bitterness and frustration were as much a part of his life as the endless lessons and strive for excellence. He had learned never to speak his mind - and never to consider the Dark Lord in any way but good let alone by name. But the words slipped out none the less, and in the silence of the room were not lost as whispers often are.
"Voldemort finally found a place for me in his arsenal of Unforgivable Curses."
At that time, he had been relieved that there had been no intonation - at least his control there had not slipped. The fear, anger and helpless rage at being made the mindless weapon rather than the brilliant tactician were his secret still at least. Unfortunately, so too was the slow, dawning wonder at finally joining the cause he had been born to serve - the emotions his father expected expressed - remained hidden as well.
Lucius turned, and his face was unreadable; he rarely hid his thoughts from his son.
"Have a care, Draco, how you speak of our Master. There is a reason why his name is never spoken - even by we who are his trusted servants."
"Why?"
"Respect for power, little dragon. Even we fear that the name will draw the attention of the owner." Lucius walked through the door and it clicked shut - not locked though it might as well be.
Draco had long since discovered the secrets of his 'training rooms' (better be called prison, for that was what it was). His mother had never told him the truth - but he had discovered the truth there as well. He had come very close to living his life within the specially charmed portraits as so many other Malfoy children had throughout the generations. Fail, bring dishonour to our name, and this will be your punishment. A silent threat - one of many - that had formed him into the man he would one day be.
He wondered what it would have been like to be one of the poverty-stricken Weasleys - with no family honour to uphold despite their pure-blooded lineage. Is it disloyal to call it a curse?
The mirror caught his reflection: hair perfectly arrayed, clothes mildly mused but still falling in perfect lines, body arranged in a composed, perfect manner. Perfect.
Father's perfect little dragon.
Master's perfect little weapon.
Out of nowhere, he wandered where his mother was. Usually by this point of the vacation, Narcissa Malfoy had managed to convince her husband to allow Draco out - if only to work for a while with her in the gardens.
I miss the lilies. They had been his project last summer - the creation of a lily that would bloom in shadows, without the aid of the sun.
*
Harry -
You won't believe what happened to me yesterday! I tell you I'm never getting mad that you get to do the exciting stuff after this. When that Death Eater was just standing there and threatening Madam Malkin I completely froze. Never been so scared in my life - good thing Hermione made me learn wingardium leviosa and accio till I could do it better than I can avoid Fred and George on guinea pig recruitment drives. Or I'd probably not be here. Or maybe I would be - but Madam Malkin wouldn't be. . . Well she'd be here too but she wouldn't be letting muggle-borns buy robes from her shop anymore. Not as impressive as killing the basilisk or stopping You-Know-Who from getting the philosopher's stone but at least Hermione won't start a society for equal robe-buying opportunities right?
Anyway - I was in Diagon Alley getting new formal robes (more on that later) when
Ron stared at the sentence he had been writing, frowning. Should I tell him? Hermione did say that we shouldn't make Harry worry about all the Death Eater attacks this summer. Especially with Cedric and all that.
It seemed a shame not being able to share this adventure with Harry - especially since Hermione had sent a note saying she was going to be on a 'plane' (some muggle thing that was like a broom but could hold more than a hundred people) and wasn't able to receive letters for a while. Besides, after four years of watching Harry save the day, stop You-Know-Who's latest insidious plot and altogether be Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, it was sort of. . . Well, nice to be able to have done something vaguely equivalent. I'm a prat. An absolute prat. There's Harry probably still completely arse-over-head in guilt over Cedric Diggory and I want to boast. No wonder Hermione wouldn't go to the Yule Ball with me.
Ron stared at the letter, crumpled it up and tossed it into the corner of his room. It bounced and landed amidst the pile of school robes, books, parchment and quills. I'll write Harry a letter tomorrow. Not as if he can read it anyway - those muggles probably stopped him reading his mail again or something.
It would have him wicked telling Harry though. Ron sighed and leaned his head on the table. Damn.
Something went 'boom!' somewhere in the Burrow, and canary feathers exploded over Ron's head.
"Fred! George! You get down here this instance!" Molly Weasley's voice roared, amplified by a charm.
Ron closed his eyes. I wonder what Hermione's doing in a 'plane' anyway.
*
It was, Hermione Granger realised, unnerving to suddenly find your world rocked on its hinges. The disorientation was akin to suddenly discovering that up was not as one had expected, directly overhead, but to the right. And then, the ground comes hurtling sideways - and all you can do is wait for it to end.
She recognised a few of the other students in the room. All of the Gryffindors of course - Dean Thomas had waved briefly at her from the other side of the office when she had entered. A few Ravenclaws - though as there were none from her year she mostly knew them by sight - more so of the Hufflepuffs. There were no Slytherins. No surprise there really.
Other than their houses and ages, there was nothing to connect any of them to each other. There were very few sixth years (seventh years in the new school term). Less third years (fourth really) and very few second years. Most of them were fifth years, like Hermione. The greatest amount of coverage. We are the year who will fight beside the Boy Who Lived. There were slightly more females than males. Somehow, she had always thought that when the war was proclaimed, it would be the boys who would go. Sexist though that be, her mind had brought forth visions of regiments of soldiers, marching in old world war one and two uniforms to defeat the German threat.
The distinction of power does not come from gender. You are deluded if you believe otherwise. A familiar voice and phrase, she wondered which of her professors might have said such and realised she was remembering something Grandmother Granger had told her (the year before she had entered Hogwarts as a muggle-born eleven year old).
There is one thing we have in common. Though she had not known this fact of most of the other children in the room till today. They were all muggle born. Every single one of them. So Grandmama, the distinction of power comes from knowledge. Knowledge of the difference between muggles and wizards. Knowledge of what it's like to live in two worlds.
And now - knowledge of how to save one of those worlds.
"As you can see, what I ask of all of you is a heavy task indeed." Professor Dumbledore said solemnly, "If you choose not to accept, then you may do so now. Your memory of this invitation and this meeting will be oblivated by the Professor of your house -" Hermione's gaze went, unasked, to the professors standing behind the headmaster. Snape was missing, she noted - because there were no Slytherins or for more sinister reasons? " - and you will not remember any of this. There is no shame in refusing." Dumbledore continued, "Nor is there any shame in leaving. But," he paused and the twinkle in his eye had vanished - he looked to Hermione, for the first time, like an old man with grave responsibilities, "Do know that you are needed. You are the best, the greatest hope our world has of survival against Lord Voldemort." He paused and added, "When you are ready, enter the room. If you refuse, the Professor of your House awaits." He stood and left quietly through a door that Hermione had not noticed previously.
It was small, a plain door with a wooden frame.
She never knew who walked through that door first - though logic stated it had likely been one of the future seventh years. A Ravenclaw, memory suggested. She never remembered half of the confusing arguments her bewildered mind had suggested other than that logic and fear had agreed on the danger of entering the war against Voldemort. She did remember the voice that had shrieked: There's still time! Still time to run away. Still time to hide. This is a war! It's not a game - you don't need to fight -!
She wondered, in the years that followed, what made her take that first step towards the door. The girl that she had been - the smart, bookish girl - would have known all the arguments against entering that door and the war. And yet - she had taken that first step - illogically, dangerously, emotionally. She did know, however, what made her continue walking towards the plain wooden door - and what made her walk through the door and into the room on the other side. And in the years that followed, she knew the reason why the Sorting Hat had placed her in Gryffindor on that long ago day.
Professor Dumbledore smiled as the last of the students entered the room. The Professors of the three assembled Houses filed in behind them, Professor McGonnagal closing the door and locking it with an inaudible charm. There were thirty students all together: seven had chosen to leave - and thirty had chosen to stay.
"Well then." Professor Dumbledore said, "Thank you and allow me to welcome you to the Order of the Phoenix."
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Author's Notes:
Yes - I know. The number one greatest cliché of fifth year stories: the dreaded 'Order of the Phoenix'. One day, I want to see a fanfic written that has the 'Order' created and used by Voldemort rather than Dumbledore. After all, Voldemort does resemble the phoenix (he died and was thought gone, but from the ashes of his destruction, returned). And the idea and name, in the hands of 'Evil' would not only be a great morale booster (for the 'Evil' side) but also confuse and alarm the 'Good' side of the war.
Also - yes, Iridescent (first name of Madam Malkin) is a joke. Not everybody in the wizarding world has a strange name, but so many original characters seem to. When I found myself searching for Madam Malkin's first name, and found myself coming up short, I couldn't resist. Thus - Iridescent.
A/N: Review? Please? If only to point out plot holes? Or out-of-characterisation? (Look, it'll take a few seconds, just click - right there. Below. Yup. Right there. . . [mopes] Please?)
- Modified 19/08/2002 for various structural problems.