Chapter 15. Sunday December 1. Afternoon. Hogwarts Castle.

Harry had barely managed to stumble halfway back to Hogwarts when McGonnagal came running out to greet him.

"Harry!" She said in a frightened voice. "Where have you been? What on earth happened? The aurors said that you vanished, they thought you had been captured by Voldemort."

Harry groaned. He wanted to go to bed and sleep for a week. But he needed to see Dumbledore first.

"You look terrible, Harry." said McGonnagal, noticing the bruises and blood on him. "I'd best help you to the hospital so Madame Pomfrey can take a look at you."

"No. I need to see Dumbldedore." Harry said.

"You can barely stand, Harry. I'm sure whatever it is you need to tell the headmaster can wait for a few hours." McGonnagal pursed her lips. What was it about boys in Gryffindor that they continually confused stupidity with bravery.

Over Harry's protests, his head of house brought him to the hospital wing.

"Please." He begged. "I have to talk to Dumbldedore."

"I will go get the headmaster." Mcgonnagal finally relented. "If Madame Pomfrey says you are well enough to talk with him, then you may. Otherwise you will have to wait until you're patched up. You should see yourself, Harry. You look like death warmed over."

Harry lay down on a bed while Madame Pomfrey brought him healing potions and scourgified the blood off of him. She clucked over some of the odd things she saw.

"This is odd, Potter. How in the world did you manage to get both burns and frostbite on your fingertips? I've never seen the like before. Neither is really bad, but it's quite peculiar."

Harry tried to explain to her that he had burned his fingers on the rock wall, and probably frozen them in that horrible place the wizard had apparated them to. But the words got jumbled up in his head, and he could not properly explain to the medi-witch what had happened.

"Well, it doesn't make any sense to me." Madame Pomfrey shook her head. She cast some diagnostic spells over Harry. Very peculiar; there were numerous broken blood vessels in his nose, and on other parts of his skin, but no sign of bruising or curses. "Don't exert yourself talking Harry. Wait till I have you patched up, and then you can explain it to the headmaster."

Despite his awful appearance, Harry was not really hurt that badly. The broken blood vessels, though Pomfrey could not figure out just HOW they had broken, were trivial really, and easily dealt with. There were also residual effects from a few curses. Harry had babbled something about dueling with Voldemort, but Madame Pomfrey was skilled in dealing with that as well. She had seen far worse in Snape, when he came crawling back from meeting with the Dark Lord when he was in a bad mood. Which he seemed to be with greater and greater frequency these days. Little wonder the man was perpetually crabby. A person could hardly be expected to endure such constant abuse and be a cheerful Pollyanna.

The worst injury Harry had was a lump on his head. And even that wasn't very bad. There was a great deal of swelling, but the skull underneath was not even cracked. Madame Pomfrey rubbed some magical ointment on the swelling, making it vanish. There, other than his dirtied and ripped clothing, you would hardly know that Harry had ever been hurt. All in all, she had seen worse injuries from quidditch matches.

Just then, the headmaster came rushing in.

"Harry, thank goodness you are alright!" Dumbledore said. "The aurors told me that you vanished right off the streets in Hogsmeade Village!"

What aurors? Harry wondered. "It was a trap, headmaster. Voldemort had some people disguised as Ron and Hermoine. They tricked me down an alley."

Harry began telling Dumbldedore what happened in a rush, until the headmaster silenced him by raising his hand.

"Harry, please. What you are saying is no doubt important, but you are talking too quickly, and making very little sense. I think perhaps you are still overwrought by all of it. Perhaps we should go to my office and have a cup of tea, so that you can settle down. After that, you can explain what happened to you from the beginning. Do you feel well enough to floo?"

Harry nodded. He was bursting with the desire to tell someone, anyone, what had happened. It was a common reaction to trauma, found in war veterans and other survivors of traumatic violence worldwide. But a bit of tea would be good. He had not had anything to eat or drink in nearly 24 hours, since the butterbeers he had had with Ron and Hermoine. Had it been only yesterday? It seemed like an infinitude of time had gone past.

Dumbldore helped him over to the floo, and tossed a handful of powder into it. "Headmaster's office." He alone, and those he escorted could enter his office that way. Others had to use the stairs, and know the proper password.

Harry sat down with relief on one of the large chairs, while Dumbledore clapped his hands, making a tray with cups and a steaming pitcher of tea appear. It was sweetened with honey and lemon rather than sugar, and Harry sipped on it appreciatively. Dumbledore waited patiently until he had finished his entire cup and poured himself another one.

"Now tell me what happened, Harry. Begin at the beginning, and try to be accurate. Don't tell me what you believe happened, or your opinion of it, but only what you actually saw and heard with your own eyes and ears."

Harry nodded, and began describing the events of the previous day to Dumbledore. He started out with Ron and Hemoine being lured away, then interrupted himself to ask the Headmaster. "Where are they? Did the Death Eaters get them too?"

"Mr. Weasley and Ms. Granger are fine, Harry." Dumbledore said. "Attacking them in the middle of Hogsmeade village would have attracted far too much attention. The Death Eaters merely wanted them elsewhere, so that they could successfully imitate them. They are in the Gryffindor common room worrying themselve sick about you right now. Now do go on."

Harry then described how he had seen the Death Eaters who looked like Ron and Hermione seeming to be captured by the others, and how, upon stepping on a certain cobblestone in the alley, he had been whisked away to Lord Voldemort's lair. "I'm a bit puzzled by that, though, sir. I thought you actually had to touch a portkey with your skin to get it to work. Like what happened with the tri-wizard cup. This one worked just from my foot stepping on it, when I was wearing shoes."

Dumbledore was not puzzled by it at all. "There are many variations on magic, Harry. Most portkeys, it is true, are created to work when they are touched. Others work differently. This one apparently was charmed to work when enough weight was placed on it. It isn't a difficult spell, by any means."

"Alright." Harry accepted the headmaster's explanation, and then went on to describe his battle with Lord Voldemort, and how he had been so badly overclassed, and about to be killed, before the strange wizard had shown up.

"Yes, tell me about him." Dumbledore said with a strange gleam in his eyes. "You said something about him before, that he was Apparating around the room. Are you quite certain that was what he was doing? He wasn't just casting a Dissillusionment spell on himself, or making us of an invisibility cloak?"

"No, he was Apparating." Harry said positively. "You can't mistake the noise that makes for anything else."

"Indeed." Dumbledore looked thoughtful for a moment, then asked Harry. "Tell me, did this man speak with an Australian accent?"

"Yes, he did, in fact." Harry said with astonishment. "How did you know that? Have you heard of this man before? Who is he?"

Dumbledore said nothing, but got up from his desk and took a parchment envelope off a nearby shelf. He opened it and took out a yellowed newspaper that read "Aurora Australis" on top. There was large picture of a man standing on a platform in front of a crowd, apparently in the process of giving a speech. His head was bandaged, as was his left arm, but he looked quite cheerful nonetheless. Whatever it was he was saying to the crowd obviously met with their overwhelming approval, as the audience in the magically moving picture was smiling widely and no few of them were tossing an assortment of wizard and muggle hats into the air.

"Was this the man you saw?" Dumbldedore asked, indicating the bandaged man giving the speech.

Harry looked at the man in the picture. It was hard to tell for a moment, with that thick bandage wrapped around the top of his head, and his expression was far more cheerful and full of life and hope than the wizard who had taken Harry from Voldemort had been. But it was still the same person, nonetheless. "Well, it's hard to tell, with the picture so small and all, but yes, I think that is the same person. He looks a lot happier in the picture, though. Who is he?"

"His name, Harry, is Michael Von Richthoven. Does that mean anything to you?"

Harry shook his head. "No, he didn't tell me his name."

"Hardly surprising. Well, about 15 years ago, he was quite notorious for a short while. The Ministry of Magic actually wanted to extradite him from his native country and put him on trial for, let me see, what were the charges, ah, 'Grotesque misuse of Apparating spells'."

Harry blinked. "How do you misuse an apparating spell? By apparating into Fudge's bathroom?"

Dumbledore chuckled at this. "There is no such charge, Harry. The very fact that they were engaged in self-defense at the time would be enough to acquit them, even if there were. The Ministry officials who tried to press the charges were undoubtedly being bribed by Lucius Malfoy or some other wealthy Death Eater who was annoyed at the fact that Von Richthoven and his fellow apparators managed to defeat them when they tried attacking the Gibson Academy in Australia."

"He mentioned something about that, sir. But I don't see why the Death Eaters would go way over there to attack a school on the other side of the world. Don't they have enough to do, trying to conquer England?"

"Quite more than enough to do, which is why they tried what they did. They came up with the rather clever idea that if they could not take over England directly, by use of violence, they could take over it indirectly, by use of economics. So they tried to conquer the Gibsonites, who provide a number of very necessary transportation services not only for England, but for a great many other countries, as well. They thought it would be easy, as the Gibsonites happen to have no government, and therefore no aurors, or other official means of defense. But, as the Gibsonites drove them off, it was not as easy as they thought."

"How? If they have no aurors, sir?"

"Harry, simply because a people have no OFFICIAL means of defense, does not mean they are helpless. Do you not recall what you did last year, when Delores Umbridge tried to prevent you and your classmates from learning anything useful in the Defense Against the Dark Arts class?"

"Yeah," Harry wrinkled his nose at the thought of the toad-like Umbridge. "We tried figuring out ways to teach ourselves how to fight against dark wizards like Voldemort."

"Precisely." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled behind his glasses. "The Gibsonites are more than willing, quite eager, in fact, to defend themselves against those who attack them. Indeed, it is their belief that people who are NOT willing to provide for their own defense and would rather have others do their fighting for them, are probably not fit to live."

"That's a bit harsh, sir."

"The Gibsonites are a harsh people. The desert they live in is a harsh place, and as a result they are unfortunately rather lacking a great deal of compassion. They are not, however, generally overtly violent, as you describe this wizard. Tell me more about what occured once he brought you to his home."

Harry described the peculiarly hot rock walls, making Dumbldedore nod, and murmur to himself. "Very clever. It would be nearly impossible to find, if you didn't already know where to look. Go on, Harry."

"Well, then he said that I owed him a life-debt for his having taken me away from Voldemort. And that I could pay it by answering his questions for him."

"I see. What did he want to know?"

"I'm not sure." Harry said. "I think he wanted to know something about where a dementor was. He thought I might know something about it, on account of me and Dudley being attacked by one last year. It was kind of hard to tell. He started going berserk about then. His eyes got all weird, and when I wouldn't answer him..."

Dumbldore jumped to his feet, reaching out to Harry with his withered arm, so great was his alarm at this. "What? You didn't answer him!"

Harry's eyes widened. He had never seen Dumbledore so frightened before. "No, I couldn't! He was talking about torturing people to learn what he wanted to know. Even though I hate Umbridge, I don't think it would be right to betray her to someone like that."

"Oh, Harry." Dumbldedore sat back down, shaking his head sadly. "Harry, Harry, you poor foolish boy. You can't simply refuse to pay a life-debt to someone. Not without consequences. Surely Professor Snape mentioned this in his Defense Against the Dark Arts class. Its generally mentioned in the first month of the 6th year class."

"Well, Snape says a lot of things. Most of them have to do with taking points." Harry said, somewhat rankled at the mention of his least favorite teacher.

"It's Professor Snape, Harry." Dumbledore chided. "You really should learn to listen to him. He does know a great deal about magic."

"Dark Magic." Harry said. "I expect he'd know a lot about this wizard, Richthoven. He had shelves full of books about the Dark Arts. And he wasn't even human anymore. He told me he took unicorn blood, to save his life. Just like Voldemort."

"He killed a unicorn?" Dumbldedore said, wrinkling his brow. "I find that hard to believe."

"Well, no. He didn't kill it." Harry admitted. "At least he said he didn't. He said he did something else, but didn't say what. He said that he thought he was being very clever, but that he wasn't, and that I should never do such a thing, no matter how badly I wanted to."

"Very good advice." Dumbledore said. He sighed. "I feel terribly sorry for Von Richthoven, Harry. It must be a truly horrible thing to be him."

"Sorry for him! After what he did to me?"

"Yes, I do, Harry." Duumbledore said firmly. "If we lose our ability to feel compassion, even for those we dislike, we become no better than they are. Try for a moment, to imagine what it must be like, to exist as Richthoven does. To have lost almost all his humanity through what he has done to himself, but to still retain just enough of it to regret what he lost. It must be nearly unbearable. To actually have killed the unicorn would be easier to bear. At least for him. Like Voldemort, he would no longer have the capacity to care any longer."

"And that's better?"

"Not better. Worse, actually. But more bearable, from his point of view."

Harry did not understand this particular distinction. "He's a monster, headmaster. After he started screaming at me, he grabbed me, and apparated me to this horrible place. It was so cold, and I couldn't breath. I thought it was the moon, but that can't be right. No-one can do that. Can they?"

"Actually," Dumbldore said quietly. "There are a very few wizards who can. Most of them Gibsonites, like Von Richthoven."

Harry was stunned by this. "I've never heard of that before. How can they do that? Can you?"

"I probably could have, at one time." Dumbledore said. "Though I never had the inclination to try. I'm afraid I'm a bit old to attempt it now, Harry, and not in the best of health."

"And they can? How can they, if you can't anymore?"

"The Gibsonites are very skilled apparators, Harry. They specialize in it. As I told you before, they provide transportation services for England, and many other countries. This wizard, Michael Von Richthoven, was the head of the Gibson Territory Appartor's guild, at one time. Which meant he was, and probably still is, the best Apparator in the entire world. Including myself, I'm afraid."

"And he can really go to the moon?"

"Going to the moon." Dumbledore said solemnly. "Is, in fact, the test required of Master Class Apparators in Gibson Territory. Though there are others who are capable of it. Such as Wilkie Twycross, the ministry's instructor for Apparation classes."

Harry looked frightened by this. If this Von Richthoven was better at something than Dumbledore, would the headmaster be able to protect him against both the insane Apparator, and Voldemort?

"Now, this is very serious, Harry. I need to know everything else that Von Richthoven told you. He must have been furious when you refused to answer his questions. The consumption of unicorn blood, by whatever means, has a very poor effect on the temper. I'm surprised he didn't do far worse than take you to the moon, to learn what he wanted to know."

"I think he was going, to. He was having the most horrible fit. He talked about how the Death Eaters who had tried to kill him had fed his wife's soul to a dementor, and that he was going to get it back."

"They did what, to who?" If Dumbledore had been frightened before, now he was more angry than Harry had ever seen him.

"His wife, sir. He said they fed her soul to the dementors. He was really mad, sir. He said she was a muggle, and couldn't have hurt them, even if she wanted to."

"His wife. Oh dear." Dumbledore got up and began pacing. "This is very bad, Harry. Far worse than I thought."

"How can it be worse? He's already said that if I don't change my mind within a month, he's coming after me."

"Gibsonites despise dementors, Harry." Dumbledore said. "They hate them with a passion. They exterminated every last one in their country over a century ago. And they despise those who use them, such as us, only slightly less. I think that it has been tried once or twice before, people sneaking dementors into Gibson Territory. When they were caught, well, let's just say that being crucio'ed and enervated at the same time is an exceedingly prolonged and painful sort of way to die. It can take months."

"They can't do that!" Harry protested. "The crucio spell is illegal."

"The crucio spell is illegal in England." Dumbledore corrected him. "It is not necessarily illegal in Gibson Territory, depending on the circumstances under which it is cast. Dementors, on the other hand, are not permitted in Gibson Territory under any circumstances whatsoever. No excuses allowed."

Dumbledore paced for a few moments longer, and seemed to come to a decision. "I'm going to have to leave and make some arrangements to protect you from this wizard, Harry. And to protect you from Voldemort as well. The fact that you refused to pay a life debt has made you far more vulnerable to him than you have ever been in your entire life."

"I don't understand. What does my life debt to Von Richthoven have to do with Voldemort?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "I don't have time to explain, Harry. You're just going to have to trust me."

He raised his wand and cast a Patronus, a silvery phoenix that seemed to converse with him for a moment in a tinkling, musical tongue, and then flashed away through one of the walls.

"I've just sent a message to Professor Snape, explaining the situation. I want you to go down to his office and talk with him. Listen very carefully to what he has to tell you. He knows a great deal about the Gibsonites. But hold on a moment, there is something I must give you." Dumbledore rummaged around in a collection of small bottles that was on his shelf as well, finally taking one out and handing it to Harry, along with his penseive. "Take this memory and my pensieve with you to Professor Snape. He will know what to do with them."

Harry set his lips sullenly. He hated having to go and talk to Snape and endure his inevitable snide comments, but knew better than to argue. He had gotten himself into trouble far too many times during his years at Hogwarts by not listening to Dumbledore. He took a lemon drop to suck on, and headed out of Dumbledore's high office for the depths of the dungeons where Snape made his home.