Potter47
Part Two
The Shadow of the Present
"Not now. Not now. When it's all over. When it's behind us—then—"
Agatha Christie
Chapter Nine
Murder on the Hogwarts Express
Ginny sat on the couch, alone, and was quite sick of doing so. Where had Harry gone, anyway? He'd said that he'd be right back...but he hadn't been. He'd been gone for a while now.
An owl swooped into the room through an open window, taking Ginny aback—something unexpected...how unexpected for something to be unexpected.
It landed on Ron's shoulder, as Ron had just stepped into the room, having seen the owl fly in the window.
"Another one?" he said to the owl, as if expecting an answer. The owl didn't. Answer, that is.
"Who's it from?" inquired Ginny, curious. Someone was sending Ron letters—people didn't send Ron letters, unless those people were Harry and Hermione, half of whom were at the Burrow and the other half of whom did not belong to this owl. Well, neither did the first half.
"Luna," said Ron, and Ginny's brow furrowed. "And before you start going on about how Luna's never written me before, let me say that I get that, and I wish that everyone would stop mentioning it..."
Ginny's brow furrowed further.
"And it's really not anything, either. Luna's just trying to see how many letters she can write a single person in a single summer. At least that's what I think she's doing. It's hard to be sure, since the owl leaves so damn quick, and I don't get a chance to ask."
"Ron," said Ginny, but he didn't respond. He was staring at the unopened envelope, a faraway look in his eyes.
"Ron," she said again, and he looked at her this time, jerked out of his reverie.
"Yeah?"
"That's not from Luna."
Ron looked at her blankly, and his fingers lost their grip on the envelope; it drifted slowly to the floor, settling by his left foot. He sort of half-smiled in disbelief, sure that he'd heard wrong.
"What?"
The scene had not changed, the players had not moved. Harry was leaning over Malfoy's dead body, and the other three were around him.
"This is utter evil...?" Harry muttered, sounding confuzzled. Hermione probably would have questioned him about the statement, but at that moment Neville Longbottom emerged from the shadows.
He was sobbing openly, and his eyes could not be removed from Malfoy's form—in particular the stab wound that Harry know could see. He hadn't before, hadn't really—he'd thought that the blood would have been logical from a Muggle wound, but he hadn't noticed the wound.
"Neville, are you all right?" said Ron now.
"Did you see it?" Hermione questioned. "Did you see who killed him?" She made to move towards him, to comfort him most likely, but stopped dead in her tracks when the scarlet-silver flashed in his hand.
Drip. Drip.
Neville held a knife, dripping blood from its tip. He sobbed even harder as everyone's attention was drawn to it.
Drip. Drip.
Tears streamed down Neville's face as he looked up now, looked at the looks of horror on the faces round him. Hermione stepped back cautiously, and all the other faces came into focus, the rest of the school.
Drip, drip, went the blood, and drip, drip, went the tears.
"You killed Malfoy," stated Luna, though that wasn't exactly what had happened.
And Neville sobbed his hardest, most heaving sob yet as the words were said aloud. He stared down at the dagger in his hand and turned it round, facing it to his own heart.
"I didn't want to do it," he said. "He made me do it. I don't even remember doing it."
And he made to stab himself, but the knife never connected with his skin.
"What," said Ron again, "what do you mean it's not from Luna?"
"That's not Luna's owl. Her owl is black—named Snarky, because it sounds like Snorky but Snorky's her stuffed Snorkack." Ginny said this with the air of one who has been told this fact a thousand times, perhaps every time she'd seen Snarky, by one who has forgotten that she has told the story before—she sounded almost as though she were quoting someone.
"But I've been getting these all summer—since the day that—"
"—you went to her house, yes?" She shook her head. "Doesn't matter; they're not from her."
Ron's brow furrowed. "But who else would send me blank letters everyday? Why would anyone do that?"
And suddenly the two of them looked at each other, and looked at the letter on the floor, and looked back once more, eyes widening.
Ron dashed out of the room, calling for his mother or father—Ginny was close behind him, and nobody would be able to stop her; she scooped up the letter from the floor and ran.
"Accio knife!" said Luna suddenly. For some unbelievable reason, she had been the only one to come to her senses.
As she caught the knife that sped away from Neville, he looked almost relieved—almost. As though he hadn't really wanted to do it, not really.
Neville sobbed once more. He looked up at Luna, and Hermione, and Ron, but Harry in particular, and spoke hesitantly: "He tried to kill me—I really didn't try to do it. I just...it just happened. He was coming at me, and then I had the knife in my hand and...But I don't even remember stabbing him, it was like it was someone else who actually did it..."
Though none of them noticed it, Harry, Ron, Hermione and Luna all let out a breath of relief, of relaxation; perhaps they were thankful that Neville hadn't done what he'd done of his own volition, of his own intent. He hadn't tried to do it.
"It's all right," said Hermione. "It's all right."
Neville shook his head and tears flew in all directions. "No. No it's not."
"It will be," said Luna, and there was this indescribable sound of hope in her voice that everyone felt but could not reason.
They continued to comfort and console Neville—at least Ron, Luna, and Hermione did. Harry just looked down at Draco's body and sort of blocked everything else out.
Every year Malfoy played a part into his trip to Hogwarts—except second year, of course, (though one could say that Dobby was Malfoy's elf, who in turn necessitated the flying of the Anglia to school)—and that certainly was true this year. Just like old times, one could say, though of course they would be, in all other respects, absolutely wrong.
Harry didn't know why, but he reached down and ran his fingers just above Malfoy's wound, almost touching but not quite, not quite, not quite...he pulled back.
Something was wrong about this. About everything. And he thought, once again, that perhaps it was because Ginny was not there.
"Mum! Dad!" cried Ginny, running into the kitchen with the envelope in her hand.
"What is it?" said her mother. Ron had also just arrived, and both he and Ginny were out of breath, even from just the short distance. "Why are you running? Why aren't you lying down, Ginny?"
"I think Death Eaters are trying to find the Burrow," Ginny said. "Trying to find Harry."
"We know that," said Mr Weasley. "But don't worry, Ginny—they won't be able to. There are spells on the house—"
"But aren't those spells supposed to keep out unfriendly messages?" said Ginny. Ron was rather silent.
"Yes; yes, of course," said Mrs Weasley.
"Like a gam-spaurd," offered Mr Weasley helpfully.
"A what?" said the other three, even Ron.
"Er...it's something Muggles use on their tomcooters, to...keep out...unfriendly messages," he finished weakly.
"Whatever," said Ginny. "But then how did this get through?" She held up the envelope. Mrs Weasley snatched it from her hand in an instant and ripped it open.
"But Ginny, this is blank—"
"I'd never seen that letter's owl before," said Ginny. "And—"
"Ginny, I think you might be overreacting," said Mr Weasley, recovering. "Dumbledore assured us that no one can track messages sent to Harry here—or to your mother and I. And you as well, though he wasn't clear on that one—"
"But this was sent to me," said Ron, speaking up now, and their parents' expressions changed in an instant, considering.
"I...I'll be right back," said Mr Weasley, and he Disapparated before another word could be said.
"Dumbledore has to work out these dratted loopholes sometime," muttered Ginny, crossing her arms over her chest. First Privet Drive with the Dementors, and now this. What great plans he has..."
"That's Professor Dumbledore," said Mrs Weasley weakly. "Now you get back to lying down."
Harry and Ron and Hermione and Luna were back in their compartment; Neville was sitting up by the driver, alone, despite their attempts to stay with him. It was odd now, to be back just how they had been before, as though nothing had happened at all.
"This has been a lovely start to the year," said Luna, and for a moment Harry wasn't sure whether she was kidding or not—it was rather difficult to tell with Luna.
"The best yet," supplied Hermione wryly, peering round the door into the corridor, just to look for something to look for.
Ron sat silently, perhaps wondering when the witch with the cart would come by.
Harry missed Ginny.
...silence. Unbroken by even the students' breathing, for they could not hear that—the silence was far too loud. All they could think of was What is going on? and How did this happen? And then it—the silence—was broken.
"Wake me when September ends," said Luna resolutely, and she lay her head down on Ron's lap, asleep in a moment.
The others simply looked at her, particularly Ron, who didn't know what to think of this sudden action. And then they, one by one, lay their heads back against their seats and closed their eyes...not sleeping, oh no...just relaxing. And they didn't know why they did it.
The whole thing had resolved itself, really—no cause for alarm, essentially.
Of course, there had been Death Eaters attempting to use the letters to Ron as a means of finding Harry, but it didn't come to anything—when they were discovered, the two Death Eaters responsible—a pair of brothers, it was later disclosed—gave themselves up and turned themselves in. They seemed rather relieved, actually.
So there had been nothing to worry about, excusing the whole 'Death Eater threat' thingy.
Things calmed down round the Burrow after that...far too calmed for Ginny's tastes. When things had been resolved no one seemed interested in talking to her—after the initial explaining of what had happened—and she had been alone ever since. Of course, it had only been a day or so, but Ginny felt it had been years since she'd seen Harry. She wondered why he didn't come see her.
He had a very good reason. She was sure of it. Or at least she had convinced herself that she was sure of it—though she wasn't even sure of that.
He would be back.
Ginny let out a breath of frustration and leaned against her pillow. Her mother had relocated her to her room, and told her she wasn't to leave, apart from the loo—that had been an adventure in itself, convincing her mother that she could indeed get up to go to the loo. Ginny didn't want to imagine her mother's alternative.
He'll be back, she thought again now, staring off into the incredibly fascinating wall opposite her.
Of course he would.
Harry sat in his room, shivering. It was very cold in here. And somehow, Harry felt, it was warm at the same time.
Harry sat in his room, sweating. It was very warm in here. And somehow, Harry felt, it was cold at the same time.
He was torn, and he didn't know why, because all he wanted to do was go see Ginny. That was all he had wanted to do all day long, and he couldn't bring himself to do it.
He shook his head, and pushed himself off the bed—physically pushed himself, yes. He didn't really think about it, about how hard it was to stand, not right then.
He walked over to the window and opened it—it was too hot in here, yes, far too hot—and a cool breeze of fresh air made him shiver slightly.
He walked to the door and lifted his hand slowly...he grasped the doorknob, determined.
Oh no you don't, said a voice in his head, and Harry's hand dropped to his side, almost painfully, it was so violent a motion. Harry blinked his eyes.
What? he thought rubbing his arm. What did you say?
Of course this was a silly thought, as no one had said anything—
I said you're not to leave the room.
Harry sat back down, and he felt light-headed, tormented by this voice that he had only heard twice...right? Because the voice seemed almost familiar, though...distorted.
Quite frankly, Harry was sick and tired of hearing voices—the kind inside his head, anyway.
Ginny sat in her room, pouting. She was sick and tired of being cooped up in this place, her 'room'—sure, she supposed it was her room, so there was no reason for her to have made the quotation marks with her fingers that she had made when she thought the word 'room'...but still.
All right, that's it, Ginny thought, and she stood, making her way to the door. She placed her hand gently, gingerly upon the doorknob, turned, and peeked her head into the hallway—
"Oh no you don't," said her mother's voice from the direction that Ginny hadn't looked first. Wasn't it always that way?
Ginny let out yet another moan of frustration—it seemed that was all she did, nowadays—and turned on her mum.
"But mum, I just wanted a bit of fresh air—"
"Open the window, then. I said you're not to leave the room."
Ginny's mum gave her a look then that made Ginny pull her head back into the room glumly and slammed the door.
The train jolted now, in such a way that is clearly normal but makes everyone worry dreadfully—it brought Harry, Ron, and Hermione, students to attention, making them alert once more, 'awakening' them all even though they had not fallen asleep—except for Luna, of course, who was still calmly dreaming on Ron's lap.
They all breathed in and out harshly a moment before, one by one, determining that nothing was wrong. Then they looked between each other and wondered why they had been doing what they had been doing...relaxing. It seemed now an odd thing to have been doing—Luna had started it, after all, and since when did they emulate Luna?
And so the three of them were awake, truly awake, and alone. Harry realised that it had been quite a long time since the three of them had been together alone—before the bell jar had fallen, before Harry had seen Sirius in the Department of Mysteries...before everything, it seemed.
He missed them in an odd sort of way, the way he felt he would miss a limb—That's an odd way to think of it, he thought. But it was true: he didn't really feel as if they had been gone, been not-there...a sort of phantom-friend syndrome. And yet when he thought of it, of course they had been missing, and it was quite difficult to do without them.
And, all of a sudden, they were alone no longer.
"And so, at last... we finally meet," said a voice from the compartment door, an odd sort of voice—deep in both meanings of the word—and oddly hesitant, as though the man had trouble...phrasing his words just how he wanted them.
"Who are you?" said Hermione, the first to turn her head. "What are you doing on the train?"
The man smiled grimly and stepped into the compartment, sliding the door closed behind him in a manner which recalled his speech—slow and halting. They could see him better now: he was tallish—Harry would place him at Snape's height—and his hair was longish—shorter than Snape's, longer than Sirius's had been on a good day—and Harry thought that perhaps this man was simply -ish—never quite anything, but...almost, yes, almost.
His hair was brown, eyes so small that Harry could not tell their colour... his eyebrows were prominent, though not nearly as noticeable as the cleft on his chin, which was of caricature proportions and slightly off-centre.
"Professor...Morgen," said the man—said Professor Morgen.
"Professor?" said Ron. "The new Defence teacher?"
"Yes...Ronald Weasley," Morgen said. "To answer your...second question, Hermione Granger, I am not on the train. I am...in the train. More specifically, I...am standing in the train."
This was the type of thing that most would—incorrectly—interpret as a joke. Morgen, however, seemed—and, indeed, was—entirely serious.
"So...I came here for a reason...and though I won't be able to fulfil that objective..." —he glanced down at Luna for some reason then— "...I do believe that the three of you can...illuminate me on something."
Hermione looked glad to be of help; Ron looked confused; Harry didn't know what he felt about this man.
"Yes?" said Hermione.
"Who was...the boy that was murdered?" Morgen asked.
That's an odd question to ask, thought Harry, though perhaps it wasn't; perhaps Morgen was simply new round here, and curious. Perhaps...not.
"His name was Draco Malfoy," said Hermione, her voice a humour-less parody of her know-it-all self.
Morgen nodded, as though he had asked the question just to make sure that they knew the answer, and not for him to find out himself.
"And...the boy with the knife...who was he?"
"N-Neville Longbottom," said Hermione, and the man nodded once more.
"Just...checking," he said, looking at Harry very deeply for reasons the boy could not understand. He turned back to Hermione: "I'm sorry for your loss," he said, and he left the compartment without another word—as the door slid shut, a slow screeching announced that they had arrived at Hogsmeade Station.
Next Chapter
"All the flowers of tomorrow are in the seeds of yesterday."
--Italian Proverb
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