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Chapter 28 –
Poison
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The rain fell as a light mist, covering the emerald grass in tiny diamond drops of water. The sky was grey and cold, hanging low, weighed down by the meaning of this day. As if it was dragged down by the multitude of salty tears. The ground was flat and hard, scattered with cement blocks and statues, sitting in parallel rows that stretched far through the moist fog like spectral figures, hunched and straight-backed.
A soft wind blew through the leaves and branches of trees, bordering the humped landscape as ancient guards, whispering secrets that would never be heard. The breeze whistled through the stone blocks, carrying with it the haunting sounds of someone crying.
Up three rows and across two, through a small iron gate with a faded and rusty sign stating a family name, the whimpers grew louder and more pained. Inside the confides of the iron fence, many cement blocks sat with grass growing at their bases, and flowers sprouting from the muddy earth like tiny rays of hope. But the rain cascaded atop their coloured tops, taking their life, smothering the light that they wished to bring.
They had no right to be in this place.
Statues loomed in the fog. Some of creatures, sitting straight or rearing on hind legs with their mighty legs growing from cement blocks beneath their feet. Some of men and women, standing tall and proud, faces forward, chins up, smiles on their cold lips, and their eyes set to forever stare at some unseen spot in the distance. Watching for an unknown place. Waiting for a nameless person.
An eternity they had to wait.
One tall figure stood above the rest, grey arms poised on his hips, face forward, lines circling once kind eyes. They were now blank, cold, and unseeing. Beneath his large, booted feet with laces that would stay tied forever, was a plaque. It was shiny and slippery with the rain, the engraved words now filled with water, giving it a somewhat hazy appearance. The words, printed into the hard brass, were still readable.
In front of this noble form, was a group of figures; wet and drooped much like the flowers at their feet. The rain fell down atop them, drenching the thick clothes they wore. But they couldn't feel the cold through the pain that riddled their bodies. It struck at them in fierce bouts of sorrow and fear, tearing at their hearts that were already broken.
Shattered.
Shattered into thousands of tiny pieces.
They would never be whole again.
There would always be a piece missing.
Through the group of people, all staring at the plaque with wet eyes, were heads of red hair. It used to shine so brightly, drawing attention in crowds, and being the source of much humour. It was now faded, dark, and blank. It stuck to heads as if painted on in a murky brown, almost completely unseen against the white fog surrounding them.
And the faces.
Faces of haunted souls, of broken hearts, of undecipherable loss. Eyes stared out swamped with salty tears, slipping down rain-washed cheeks, spotted with faint marks that were previously freckles. Bodies were hunched, shaking, and defeated. Everything was black; superstitious, evil, death.
Death.
A woman stood between many red-haired men, her face covered in tears and rain. Her brown eyes were bloodshot and red, with thick lines running beneath them. They were the eyes of a heartbroken woman. Of a friend having lost her companion. Of a lover having lost her partner. Of a wife having lost her husband.
They were the eyes of Molly Weasley, staring painfully at the grave of her husband, her friend, her love. Arthur.
Then there he was. A dark figure, staring with a pair of haunted green eyes, with his hair draped across his face like a black curtain. A veil. The fog rolled around him and the rain cascaded down ... down ... down. And still the tombstone sat before him, solid and cold, a reminder of he who was lost. It loomed in front of them, the stone statue staring down at them with eyes supposed to be his. But they weren't. They could never be. Never.
Harry looked at the grave of his old friend. And he read the words spoken about him, describing the man buried beneath the hard earth.
Here Lies
Arthur Harold Weasley
1953 - 2002
Husband of Molly
And Father of Seven
All Loved Equally and Without Spare
Arthur
You are a leader
A father, a husband, a friend
You are the one we will always love
From now, until the end
Arthur
May You Rest In Peace
Eternally
The words brought no comfort, no reprieve from the harsh reminder that was war. Arthur was gone. Yet another fallen pawn in the giant chess game that was life. Harry Potter stared at the tall man standing on a block of stone, face set in gentle kindness, eyes staring blankly forward. They would never see again.
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He jerked awake with a painful sob.
It was so white. The corridor stretched far on either side of him, a loud beeping resonated from a distant room. It was thick with the dreaded silence of sickness and death. The air smelt of potions and soap, it tickled at his nose with daring vulgarity. He sniffed, ridding his body of the stench of the hospital and the much despised emotion that threatened to take over. A nurse walked by, the soft falls of her feet reverberating down the long hall. She gave him a small, sympathetic smile, before continuing along the corridor.
Hushed voices could be heard from the room behind him. He stood silently, images of the dream floating in his mind like a terrible horror movie that would never leave his conscience. It would always be there, sitting beyond his sight, mocking him, a vision of what may come. He rubbed his hands on his pants, trying to wipe away the sweat that coated his palms. Everything was so surreal. The door was partly open, allowing the sounds of voices to float through in different octaves, on invisible currents of air. He pushed open the door and slipped in unnoticed.
The scene would forever be with him.
A hospital bed sat against one wall that held framed photographs that were now still. In the bed lay a man. His face was pale and a light sickly green, hair faded, grey, and in places missing. The sheets clung to a frail body, slowly deteriorating and thinning. Soon, it would be no more than the sheets that tried so desperately to cover it.
Around the bed were many people. Their own faces were pale and drawn, eyes red, puffy, with no more tears to fall. A woman sat on a chair by the man's head, her hand clutching his while she spoke in soft tones to ears that could no longer hear. A young women stood against the far wall, her hair shriveled and hanging in dank curls around a pained face. Her head turned to the side when Harry stepped closer to her. Her brown eyes spoke volumes of the pain she felt. Her heart was breaking, splintering into tiny fragments of the full family she once had. When he reached her, she collapsed into his arms, her sobs silent, only known by the shaking of her back.
Harry looked around at the family he called his own, all crying and hurt by the tragedy that had befallen their father and husband. Arthur was dying, slowly and painfully. The poison was coursing through his veins like venom from a snake. It plagued his body, attacking his weakening heart, strangling his lungs that struggled to bring in oxygen. It was a failed attempt.
It had been three days since news came of the sickness plaguing the Minister. And it had been three days – three torturous, frenzied days – of trying to find a cure that didn't exist. Potions were brought in and given to the dying man. And potions were taken out, useless as the words spoken to lesson the endless pain. No one wanted to give up the miniscule piece of hope that still resided in each of them. No one wanted to listen to the Healers, saying that their cause was useless, that Mr. Weasley would not make it through the next week.
They wouldn't listen. They wouldn't.
Harry held Ginny in his arms, feeling the wetness of her tears touch the skin on his shoulder. He felt her small body shake in anguish and pain. He held her, knowing it was all he could do. Emotion tumbled down on him, wanting release. But he had to be strong for them all. He had to be the one to stand tall, the one that they could rely on and lean on. His eyes stung with tears but he demanded them to go away. He didn't want or need them.
A hand touched his shoulder. He looked up into them defeated face of Bill Weasley, his arms open, Harry nodded and let him take Ginny from his arms. The girl moved over to her eldest brother where she dissolved into tears once more. They moved into the semi-darkness by the wall, two siblings trying to survive through the pain.
Harry was left alone in the very picture of misery. He didn't belong here with a broken family. So he left them, the Weasley's, the family he loved as his own, once he was out in the white corridor, he let the tears takeover. He turned to the wall, swallowing the sob that wanted to erupt from his mouth. His eyes stung and cheeks tingled with the salty tears that ran down them. He thumped the wall. Once – twice – before he felt another hand on his arm. He opened his eyes and turned to find Hermione standing beside him, her face a reflection of his. She pulled him into a hug, which he returned forcefully.
There the two of them stood, in an embrace in the corridor of St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. The two of them. Those who weren't part of the broken family in the room behind them but felt the shards of pain just as much.
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"There has to be something we can do!" Harry said angrily, turning sharply to Hermione. It was slowly dragging into the thirteenth day of Arthur Weasley's sickness. The Head Healer at St Mungo's said that the poison would take the Minister's life by the twentieth day, in which his heart would just stop beating. Hermione looked sadly up at him, her brown eyes damp with defeat.
"We've looked, Harry, there's not –"
"I'm not just going to sit here while my best friend's father dies!" he shouted as a grotesque glass vase that had been sitting on a far table, exploded. Hermione flinched but only dropped her head. "There has to be something!"
"We looked –"
"We haven't looked hard enough!" Harry said painfully. "We know what the poison is! Why can't we research it, find out its properties, and do the opposite! That's how antidotes are made, aren't they? We can do that!"
"Harry, no! We've looked up the poison, and there is no antidote, no cure. The Draught of Eternal Death is just that! There is no escape from it! It was made so no one could survive it, no one could be resurrected if they died by drinking it! The chances of Arthur surviving this are infinity to one! Harry, he will die. There's nothing we can do."
That was Hermione. Smartest witch of her age, bookworm, teachers pet. And she was always right. Always.
He sat down with a defeated sigh, placing a shaking hand to his head which was spinning much like his world at the moment. Grimmauld Place was cold and empty apart from the few scattered Order Members that were trying to keep working without many of their number. The entire Weasley family were at St Mungo's, at the bedside of their father and husband, waiting for the ghost of a chance of his recovery. Harry and Hermione sat in one of the old, discarded bedrooms, scraps of paper and quills littering the floor, a sign of their hopelessness.
"We need to keep searching. We can't give up. We can never give up," Harry said, breaking the heavy silence. Hermione sidled over to him beside a large, chipped wooden desk. She put a hand on his shoulder and he could feel her nodding.
"Never," she whispered.
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Harry and Hermione continued teaching at Hogwarts, the days molding into one long nightmare. Each day they feared that news would come via owl, telling them that Arthur was gone. They continued their search for an antidote. For anything that would help Mr. Weasley. They spent most of their free time in the library, like their own school days. Back then they would search for information on a curse, or the Philosopher's Stone. Harry would give anything to go back to his first- year. Everything was so much simpler. But he couldn't. He was stuck here, in this war-torn world, wondering when the day would come when everything would fall apart.
One morning an article appeared on the front page of the Daily Prophet. Everyone had feared this day, when a reporter would get wind of the true nature behind the Minister's sickness. And today, it came.
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POISON AT THE MINISTRY
For many days we have been wondering where our dear Minster had gone. His closest advisers and family members told us that he had caught a bad case of wizard's flu. We believed them, knowing one's so close to the Minister would never lie. But today, fellow readers, the truth has been found.
On the 21st of November Arthur Weasley was admitted to St Mungo's Hospital, suffering symptoms none had ever seen. The Healers were baffled as to what illness was ravaging his body. His family stayed at his bedside, telling him not to worry, that all would be fine.
All is not fine, as we discovered early this morning. Our Minster for Magic has been poisoned. But not by just any poison. By the Draught of Eternal Death. Arthur Weasley is now lying on his death bed, slowly fading, taking with him the love of an entire nation and his extensive family. In just days he may fall into the darkness, leaving behind a growing war and his post as Minster for Magic.
At this moment, his son, Ronald Weasley, is filling in his post as High Ruler. Many feared he was inexperienced and a bad choice as our leader, but as time passes, we have found that the youngest son of Arthur Weasley has inherited more things from his father than appearance.
Many have been asking who is responsible for this heinous crime. But as we are in the middle of war, all are suspects, even the trustful servants of the Minister, who have thus far stayed silent. Could this be the latest attack from the new Dark Lord? Has he decided that now is the time to strike? When the nation is in devastation over their Minister and suspicion is thick in the air.
We at the Daily Prophet send our deepest sympathies to the friends and family of Arthur Weasley, and we hope that the world can recover from his passing in time to face the Third War.
By Rita Skeeter
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"They make it sound as though he's already dead!" Hermione said in a distraught voice, as she and Harry quickly left the Great Hall. The students could be heard chatting excitedly over this new information even from behind the closed double doors. Rage was slowly building inside him. He clenched and unclenched his fists as the two of them walked out of the castle and down the front steps. The sky was grey, full of looming clouds that threatened rain. Harry glanced at it and immediately remembered his dream. His rage was replaced with fear.
"What if they try to overthrow Ron?" he said, turning quickly to Hermione. She looked him curiously.
"They can't, he was chosen by the Minister to replace him if – something ever happened to him," she said softly.
"No, but what if they find a way to get him out of office. What if they poison him as well, to try to get a Minister they want!" Harry said quickly, his panic building. Hermione was still looking at him in confusion, before her eyes widened.
"Oh, no! You're right! They poisoned Arthur so he couldn't be Minister and they could put one of theirs in his place, but now that Ron is Minister –"
"They might try to get rid of him, too!" Harry finished for her with sudden fear. "We need to warn him!"
"But we have classes!" Hermione said distractedly, as Harry stared at her.
"You would rather teach classes than go to your best friend and see if he's alright?" he said in disbelief. Hermione looked at him for a moment before she shook her head as if trying to rid it of a certain thought.
"You're right, sorry. Let's go."
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"I've already thought of that," Ron said the moment they cornered him as he entered his office that morning. The redhead was looking incredibly pale and drawn, his once sparkling eyes now vacant and sad.
"Oh, really?" Harry said, looking at him in relief. Ron nodded seriously.
"Yeah. I have Aurors guarding every entrance and exit in the Ministry. Plus, I have Kingsley and Tonks as my guards in case these people strike again. I want to catch my father's attackers, if it's the last thing I do." A strange fire was burning in Ron's eyes. A light of vengeance. Hermione and Harry left the Ministry not long after, spinning through the floo network to arrive in Harry's room at Hogwarts.
"So, now that we now Ron is safe, we can get back to seeing what we can do for Arthur," Harry said, pacing the length of the room while Hermione sighed.
"We've searched through the entire castle, Harry, there's nowhere we haven't looked!" Hermione said in defeat as Harry turned on her. He creased his brow, trying to grasp a memory that had been triggered by her words.
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"Here, Harry, take this." The headmaster placed a chain in his hand. Attached was a silver key, no bigger than his little finger.
"What is it for?" Harry asked, staring into Albus Dumbledore's clear blue eyes.
"I can not tell you that, but one day, when the time is right, you will know what to do with it and what lock it fits." said the old man, smiling in that familiar way.
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"I know where we haven't looked," Harry said, looking up at Hermione with a bright glint in his eyes. Minerva McGonagall was the Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and in her current position she was allowed the head office, situated in the middle of the school. But, haunted by memories, and pulled back by emotion, she left that particular office alone, instead making one beneath it. It was not her office and never would be. It would always belong to one Albus Dumbledore.
The stone gargoyle was stained with age now. Guarding a bare-patch of wall with its large, stone form, it had not moved in over five years. Harry stood before it, caught in memory, trying to remember the last password that had been used. After a moment, it came to him, like a wave crashing upon a sandy shore.
"Sugar Quills," he said softly. The stone gargoyle slowly grinded to motion, springing aside with a loud groan. The wall behind it creaked open, revealing a staircase that no longer revolved. Cobwebs hung across the walls in peculiar patterns that Harry would have found amazing on any other occasion. He and Hermione began their slow trek up the stairs, their steps soft, leaving imprints in the thick dust. They reached the top, and were now facing a pair of double doors; they were still open from the day the headmaster had rushed through them upon hearing a commotion in the school grounds. With a deep, shaking breath, Harry stepped through.
The room was exactly as he remembered it.
Tables around the room were sitting with silver instruments atop them, now dangling with cobwebs and coated in grime. Books sat on shelves, spines covered in dust, their titles hardly readable. At the far end of the room was a large desk, its surface covered in parchment and a dry pot of ink with a long eagle-feather quill stuck in the middle. A glass jar sat in its centre, filled with stale lemon drops.
And behind this desk was a bare perch that once housed a majestic phoenix. Fawkes had burst into flame the day Albus Dumbledore died. He didn't rise back from the ashes.
Harry fingered the key hanging from his neck, looking around the office with a thumping heart. Hermione was standing at a bookcase, scanning the titles of a few tomes after she had wiped them from dust. Along one wall was a row of empty canvases, their occupants long since gone. But one portrait was not empty. It looked new, with a backdrop of Hogwarts castle and its emerald lawns. Standing in the middle of the portrait was an old man with blue eyes that twinkled with life.
"I know what you are looking for, Harry, and I believe it is in a cabinet behind my desk," said Albus Dumbledore with a small, painted smile. Harry bit back the urge to shout; instead he nodded once, feeling a great weight settle over his heart. He knew what he would find in this office, and who he would see sitting on the wall. He couldn't let himself believe in something that was gone, and cry over someone who was no longer there. He had cried too much.
He walked over behind the headmaster's desk, feeling Hermione's eyes on his back. He found the cabinet he was looking for and pulled it open. Inside, sitting on the first shelf, was a glass phial filled with a clear liquid. He reached out and picked it up, wiping away the dust that was covering the label. He read it and smiled. Written in black, curly writing, were the words, Phoenix Tears.
He turned back to thank the painting of his old headmaster . . . but the frame was now empty.
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Disclaimer – I do not own Harry Potter and never will.
Surprise, surprise. I bet many of you thought that Harry's key would open the cabinet and you would all find out what Dumbledore's last secret was. But, alas, it is not true.
But, guess what the next chapters called?
Chapter 29 – Dumbledore's Last Secret.
Duh, duh, duh! LOL. You all found out what is hidden in the headmaster's office, behind a locked door, with a lock that only one key can open. But, I have to tell you, two MAJOR things happen in the next chapter. And I mean major. This story will only have a few chapters left, maybe five, at most. I think. I'm not sure. We'll see when we see.
Ok, I wrote all this today, yes, I know, I'm slack. But at least it's out.
Please review and all that, and thanks to those that have so far!
Later Days...
DW