Albus Dumbledore sat in his office, the smile lines on his face catching his tears. The famous twinkle in his eye was gone, replaced with dark bags under his eyelids. It was times like these when he felt the full weight of his years. His bones ached, a dull pain not eased by his cushioned armchair. The various instruments and trinkets scattered on his desk were in even more disarray than usual, pushed to the side in favor of a rocks glass filled with firewhiskey.
His mind was even more littered than his surroundings, bits and pieces of thoughts swirling around him, none acknowledged, but more than enough sticking. His heart hammered in his chest, stressed by the intensity of his grief. There was only one thing that could do this to Albus Dumbledore. The death of a student.
He replayed the moment Neville returned from the third task, desperately clutching the body of his competitor. If there was no twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes, there was nothing in Cedric Diggory's. No trace of the bright, charming, and enthusiastic boy described by his teachers and friends. Only a slight sheen that the eyes of the freshly dead developed. The sheen looked as if it were a mask, and underneath it lay the vitality of the person, waiting to be released. But it never was. Dumbledore had seen that sheen many times, in the eyes of enemies, friends, and even family. However, it was something he'd never get used to.
The cry from Diggory's father was heart-wrenching. Remembering it brought a vile, disgusting feeling into his chest. A resolute sense of responsibility. He'd failed two of his charges, both Cedric and Neville. His failure resulted in the first death of a new war, a loss of both life and innocence. Never again would Cedric's eyes light up in a smile, his hopes and dreams extinguished with the flick of a wand. And never again would Neville be unmarred from the harsh reality surrounding him.
He was roused from his thoughts by a knock on the door.
"In a moment," he said. He drained the firewhiskey, and cast a beauty charm to shield the physical effects of his emotions. He knew it was a losing battle. "Come in."
The door shifted open, but no one stood in the doorway. Ghostly footsteps rapped across the marble floor. Dumbledore smiled.
"Ah. Welcome, Harry."
A shimmer in the air coalesced into the form of a teenage boy, removing an invisibility cloak. The green and silver trim on his robes complimented his wild black hair, and a circular pair of glasses rested haphazardly on his sharp nose.
"Professor." he said, standing awkwardly. "You've looked better."
Dumbledore chuckled.
"I've felt better. To what do I owe this pleasure?"
"It's getting worse."
The momentary pleasantness dropped from Dumbledore's face.
"You are certain?" he asked.
Harry nodded.
"The last batch of potions didn't help at all."
"I'll speak with Professor Snape about increasing the dosage, as well as the potency. In any means, there's still much more we can do." said Dumbledore. His fingers tapped his desk.
"Does it have to be Snape?" Harry grimaced. "He makes them taste awful."
"I'm afraid I'll be too tied up to help." said Dumbledore. "Professor Snape will have them ready before the leaving feast, and I'm sure you know where to find him."
"How long do I have left?"
"I can't say for certain," Dumbledore frowned, looking Harry in the eyes. "But long enough for our plan to come to fruition. I promise you."
Harry nodded, accepting his answer.
"Until then, keep the cloak on as much as possible. Wear it while you sleep. Once you are out of Hogwarts, you are beyond my protection, and it is paramount that you take every precaution. Where will you stay?"
"I was thinking the Leaky Cauldron, again."
"I'll do my best to visit you. Send Tom my regards."
"Always."
"Then I shan't keep you," Dumbledore smiled. "Take care, Harry."
Harry walked towards the door, pausing before he made his exit.
"Professor… is what Longbottom said true?" he asked.
"Yes." Dumbledore's voice was hard. "Lord Voldemort has returned."
Dumbledore sank into his chair, waving his wand towards a glass cabinet. A bottle of firewhiskey flew through the air, leaping into his outstretched hand. He'd failed two of his charges, he'd do his best not to fail a third. He filled the rocks glass almost to the brim, raising it in the air.
"To Cedric Diggory."
"What do you think, Greengrass?" Malfoy asked, twirling a quill between his fingers.
Daphne was staring out the window, watching the Scottish countryside pass them by. She was flanked by Parkinson, and sat across from Malfoy. Zabini and Nott were beside him, and Crabbe and Goyle stood guard by the door.
"About what?"
"Longbottom. That the Dark Lord has returned."
Daphne did her best to look uninterested, but the story Longbottom had concocted was very compelling. Whatever happened in the maze, it resulted in the death of one of her classmates. It was natural to be curious, but she prided herself on measured reactions.
"I think it begs to be considered." she said.
Parkinson snorted, and Zabini looked unsurprised. Malfoy leaned forward, cramping their compartment even further. The gleam of excitement in his eyes was disturbing.
"If he has come back, do you know what it means? Dumbledore will crumble, he's too old to fight a war. We might finally get the standing we deserve!"
"And I would be happy with that." said Daphne. "But, we're assuming Longbottom isn't deluded, which is a risk I'm not willing to take."
Malfoy chuckled.
"If he truly has returned, my father will tell me."
"And if your father tells you, you'll tell us?" Parkinson asked.
"Only if I can."
"Come on, Draco." said Nott. "You can't keep the rest of us in the dark."
"Your father won't tell you?" asked Malfoy. "From what I remember, he's up there as well."
"My father won't tell me shit." Nott replied.
"Well, we can't all be so well connected." Draco smiled.
"Boys, quit playing games. Some of us are trying to think." said Parkinson.
"And do you do a lot of that?" asked Zabini.
Daphne decided to break up the conflict before it progressed further.
"Stop. You are conducting yourselves with the behavior of toddlers." she said. "Let's have a discussion, not a poorly disguised display of power."
She pointedly looked at Malfoy. The compartment acquiesced to her demands. Parkinson crossed her legs, pouting.
"Well, if you want to have a discussion, it would only be polite to share your ideas, Daphne. What begs to be considered about the Dark Lord's return?" asked Zabini.
Daphne gathered herself, considering her words. Her brow scrunched up, envisioning what the future would look like.
"No matter what, Dumbledore is still a powerful wizard. He might still be able to oppose the Dark Lord, maybe as an equal. And that would mean that there would be another war, and I know I'm not ready to fight."
"Please. Dumbledore is well past his prime," said Malfoy. "Not to mention that the Dark Lord has even thwarted death. The last war was won by a fluke. The blood traitors and mudbloods might as well have been bugs under his boots, and Dumbledore was twenty years younger."
"We don't even remember the last war," said Zabini. "So how can we draw from it?"
"Because all of our parents do." Malfoy smiled.
Daphne felt a glimmer of pride in her chest. Her father had fought for the Greengrass name, along with the parents of her friends, in pursuit of the true world standing.
"Ignoring violence, I must say I'm excited. It will be good to see the likes of Davis where they belong." she said.
"And Potter." said Malfoy.
"You never did tell us why you hate Potter," said Parkinson.
Malfoy's expression darkened. He drew the conversation back to topic.
"Imagine it, though. A world where purebloods are treated as we should be, and where we have a leader who actually represents the people. If we have to fight, all the better. We can say we earned it."
"I think Daphne's right, there." said Parkinson. "I don't really want to fight."
"That's alright," said Malfoy. "You can just sit there and look pretty."
Pansy blushed.
"If the Dark Lord has returned, I think the world is looking like a much brighter place." said Nott.
The compartment nodded in agreement. Pansy turned to Daphne, whispering in her ear.
"Is Astoria alright?" she asked.
Daphne had been hoping to avoid that subject.
"Yes. She just had a bad bout of dragon pox." she replied. "I'm sure she's doing better now. Mother and Father brought her to St. Mungos, and nothing in their letters have hinted that I should be concerned."
"It must have been really bad, then. She was withdrawn early this semester."
"She'll get through it."
Pansy sat back, satisfied with her answer.
The conversation drifted to other topics. Daphne sat back and took it in, only rarely offering her own words. She watched the window, seeing the green hills roll by, a hint of fog on the horizon. They moved through valleys, small towns with cottages and shingled roofs, gradually getting closer to London. She mused on the last year, and never let her thoughts drift too close to her sister. Her parents hadn't told her anything of substance in their letters, and Daphne was a lot more worried than she let on. If her disease had progressed even further, Daphne didn't want to think about what that would mean.
They rolled into the station just as the clock struck five. She bade farewell to her friends, and turned into the throng of people. The hallway was filled with students lumbering towards the exits, dragging their trunks behind them. She lifted her own, much lighter than her peers. Daphne wasn't inclined to hoard trinkets, and only kept what she needed. The platform was hectic, and she looked around for her house elf, ready to apparate back to her home. But, what she saw horrified her.
Her parents were standing with gaunt expressions. Her father wore a grey dress robe, slim and elegant. A silver bracelet adorned his right wrist A light, flowing cloak was clasped along his neck. Her mother had on pearls, complimenting her dark hair. Her blue eyes shown even from the space between her and Daphne.
Daphne approached them quickly. She felt a rise of bile in her throat as she prepared for the worst. She stopped tightly in front of them, the tension in her body almost unbearable.
"Is she okay?" she asked.
Her father's lips pursed.
"She is alive," he said.
Tracey stood in a black dress, by the side of her mother's casket. The day was too warm and bright for a funeral, the sun hung high in the sky as if taunting her. It beat down heavily on her head, and she was sweating. The graveyard was quiet as can be, and she was accompanied only by the priest and her landlord. Wind rustled the leaves on the ash trees, lined along the paved path. She looked into the hole where her mother would rest, the dirt dark and fresh, and the scent of earth filled her nostrils.
"Come, you who are blessed by my Father, says the Lord, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world." said the priest.
Her mother hadn't been religious, no witches and wizards were. But, she was having a muggle funeral, and was being buried in a muggle graveyard, forgotten by her former friends, former family, and the world that she was apart of.
"Lord Jesus Christ, by your own three days in the tomb, you hallowed the graves of all who believe in you, and so made the grave a sign of hope that promises resurrection even as it claims our mortal bodies."
Her mother had died alone. Tracey had known her health was poor, but not to this extent. If she had, she wouldn't have gone to Hogwarts the past year. She would've been there for her mother, held her close, and given her peace in her last moments. She should've been there, but now, it was too late. Just as her mother would be the solitary witch in the muggle graveyard, Tracey would also be alone.
The landlord was sniffling, but Tracey knew they were crocodile tears. The old lady had been a menace all throughout their stay in that disgusting flat, bleeding them dry of the little money they had. Tracey and her mother had been slaves to her whims, exploited for their situation.
"Grant that our sister may sleep here in peace until you awaken her to glory, for you are the resurrection and the life. Then she will see you face to face and in your light, will see light, and know the splendor of God, for you live and reign for ever and ever."
Tracey could feel her own tears running down her face, leaving trails of red, puffy skin. Her hands clasped together, and her knees grew shaky. The looked towards the other graves, some covered in moss, some well-kept, with blinding white marble and fresh flowers adorning the base. One gravestone was disturbed, pushed to the side by the roots of a flowering elder tree. The white flowers hung over the marker, obscuring the name.
"O God, by whose mercy the faithful departed find rest, bless this grave, and send your holy Angel to watch over it."
Her mother's casket was simple, made of dark pine. The wood was sanded but unfinished, and Tracey imagined that should she touch it she would risk a splinter. It was beautiful in its simplicity, and though it was little more than a box, Tracey didn't think there was another that would be more befitting of her mother. How she wished she could see her one last time, talk to her about her troubles, watch her warm smile light up her face.
She clutched her purse close to her chest, and breathed slowly in and out. She couldn't afford to let this destroy her. She had to think about what she was going to do, but for now it could wait. She needed to mourn.
"As we bury here the body of our sister, deliver her soul from every bond of sin, that she may rejoice in you with your Saints for ever. Through Christ our Lord. Amen." the priest finished.
The casket was slowly lowered into the grave, taking Tracey's world with it. The small glimmer of security she had was gone. The sharp noise of the shovel rose and fell, slowly covering the gaping mouth of the grave. Tracey's landlord wept, loudly blowing her nose into a handkerchief, the black veil on her head shaking. Eventually, the grave was filled, and the priest left with a word of support. It was just Tracey and her landlord, stood beside her mother's grave.
"I'm so sorry, dear." said her landlord. "I don't even know what to say."
"It's alright. I'm not sure how to feel."
"I hate to do this so soon, but are you still planning on living in the apartment?"
Tracey considered it. She wanted to get out, and didn't know if she was prepared to live in the place her mother died, but there was nowhere else for her to go.
"At least for the next few months," Tracey replied. "Why?"
Her landlords eyes turned sharp.
"Your mother was behind on her rent, by three months."
Tracey's heart sank.
"Can't you make an exception for me? Given the circumstances?" she asked.
Her landlord seemed to grow bigger, her hunched back straightening.
"I'm sorry, but there are no exceptions to the rules."
Tracey's nostrils flared.
"You would have me out on the street? Right after my mother has died?" she said, grinding her teeth.
Her landlord flinched.
"That's not what I'm saying. I need money to run your flat. It doesn't pay for itself."
"Is this all you came here for? My mother and I have been some of your best tenants. Our money has kept you afloat!" Tracey growled. "I'd rather you'd stayed in that rat's den you call a home, than come to my mother's funeral to grab a quick quid!"
Her landlord glared at her.
"Rules are rules. Come up with the money, or I'll kick you out."
She turned, and left in a huff. She walked down the path towards the entrance gate, and didn't look back once.
Tracey didn't know what to do. She'd have to sell valuables, but anything of worth her mother was wearing in the grave. She followed her landlord's footsteps, towards the gate. She was at her wits' end.
The large door creaked open in protest of Harry's hand. He was hit with the warm air that only cramped spaces in the summertime have. The Leaky Cauldron was almost empty, the dinner rush yet to happen. Harry could only count to other patrons, both seated at the bar nursing their drinks. Light shown through the hazy windows, clouded from years of pipe tobacco, painting the room in a yellow light. Harry approached the stairs, turning only to give Tom a nod. He knew his room would already be prepared. He breathed in the dust drawn up from his feet, and softly smiled. The Leaky Cauldron was his home away from home.
He walked down the long hallway, counting the rooms. There it was. Room 11, where he'd stayed every summer since his second year. His hand brushed against the door knob, and he slowly opened the door. Just a bed, a wardrobe, a desk, and a mirror. All he needed to have a good summer. He put his trunk on the foot of the bed, and transferred his clothes to the wardrobe. He saved a black top and dark pants, and changed into them, dropping his dirty clothes on the floor. He continued to unpack his trunk, setting his school stuff on the desk. He reached into his trunk for the last time, and his hand was enveloped in shimmering fabric. He pulled out the invisibility cloak, and examined it. It had a silver sheen, and appeared to move like a fluid, like liquid mercury. It didn't chafe at all, and almost caressed him as he held it, warm where his fingers touched it.
He pulled the cloak on, and he disappeared in the mirror, nothing there to suggest a human presence. He moved back into the long hallway, down the stairs, and towards Diagon Alley. Like the Leaky Cauldron, the alley wasn't packed, but it was always subject to some form of hustle and bustle, and witches and wizards went about their business as Harry waded through them unseen. He walked with purpose, making his way towards Gringotts. The shining white bank never failed to astound him, its massive pillars run through with veins of gold, and precious jewels encrusting its walls. The only place more beautiful in magical Britain was Hogwarts itself. As he passed through the entrance, he shivered. He could feel the ancient magic settling over him. He took off the cloak, and found a teller.
"Name, please." the goblin said.
"Potter, Harry."
"And do you have your key, Mr. Potter?"
Harry gave the teller his key.
"Everything seems to be in order," he grimaced, flashing his sharp teeth. "Griphook will take you to your vault."
The teller waved his hand towards another goblin, hissing at him in Gobbledegook. The other goblin snarled back, and gruffly walked past Harry.
"Follow me." he said.
He led Harry past the desks into a narrow stone hallway, and fetched a cart.
"I'm sure you know the drill, Mr. Potter. Keep your hands and feet in the cart, lest you lose them to a dragon." he smiled darkly.
The cart ride was as exhilarating as ever, and Harry retrieved a handful of galleons from his vault. He was glad to be rid of the bank, for however beautiful it might be, he always felt like he walked on the edge of a knife with the goblins. He returned to the alley, once again drawing on his cloak. He walked along the cobblestone road until he reached a gloomy intersection past Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream. He turned into Knockturn Alley.
Knockturn Alley was as dark as ever, hags stumbling about like headless chickens. The whimsy of Diagon was gone, and in its place were cobwebs and puddles filled with rank, fetid water. The warm summer air was replaced by an omnipresent chill, biting into Harry's back. Harry moved quickly, not wanting to outwear his welcome. He came to a stop before Borgin and Burkes.
His destination was renowned for having some of the darkest artifacts accessible to the common wizard, and upon his entry he was astounded at how casually they were displayed. Ornate daggers, a werewolf's tongue, and a shriveled human hand were only some of the items available for purchase. But Harry wasn't there for any of them. The employee had looked up at the door opening, and was alarmed to see no one. Harry had no plans on changing that. He couldn't be seen.
"I wrote to you about a book." he said.
The employee jumped.
"Where are you?" he asked, his eyes shifting back and forth quickly. "Show yourself!"
"I wrote to you about a book." Harry repeated. "I mean no harm."
The employee wasn't completely satiated, but relaxed a bit.
"So? We get a lot of people writing to us about a lot of things." he said.
"I wrote to you about a particular book. Moste Potente Potions."
"Ah." said the employee. "We might have that."
"I know you have it."
"That's a very… interesting book. Are you sure you can handle it?" he asked.
"If I wasn't sure I wouldn't be buying it."
"It will cost you."
Harry threw the galleons on the desk. The employee looked pleased.
"One second." he reached below the desk, and pulled out a book that looked like it came from the middle ages. It was bound in leather, and the spine was cracked. The pages were yellowed, and it smelled musty. "Take it."
Harry pulled the book from the employee's hands, and made the long walk back to the Leaky Cauldron.
Even the floo seemed to take forever. Daphne was bristling with thoughts and emotions, but questions most of all. Why was this happening to her sister? What had Astoria done to deserve this curse? Would she survive the next school year? Or even the summer? She didn't want to wait for her answers, and she felt like she was about to burst. Uncharacteristically, she fell out of the fireplace, crashing onto the hardwood floor.
Her parents followed, stepping into their home with ease. Her father took off his cloak, and draped it over a plush armchair. Her mother moved past him, and left the room. Her father gestured for Daphne to sit down.
"Astoria is resting upstairs. I expect you not to disturb her."
Daphne nodded.
"What happened?" she asked. "Why'd she have to be taken home?"
"Do you remember what I've told you about Astoria's curse?" her father responded.
"It's a blood curse. It weakens her significantly, and is causing her own magic to turn against her." Daphne whispered.
"Ignoring the mechanics. I told you that it was cast on our family by mudbloods and blood traitors, for our part in trying to save this world from itself." he said.
"What does this have to with what's happened?"
"I didn't tell you the full story. I thought you were too young to hear it, and I did not want to burden you and Astoria with the knowledge. I know who cast the curse on Astoria."
Daphne felt a twinge of hope in her chest.
"If you know who cast it, then we can find out how to reverse it! Surely we could afford to pay whatever they'd want," she said.
"It is impossible, child. They died." her father lifted his chin. "Just before your school year ended. The healers say that it is what caused Astoria's reaction."
"Who did this?" Daphne breathed heavily, shaking. "Who did this to her?"
"I told you in your first year to avoid Tracey Davis. It was her bitch of a mother, and from what you tell me, the apple hasn't fell far from the tree."
"I'll kill her." said Daphne.
Her father laughed.
"Not yet. We must begin to make plans for a greater revenge." he rubbed his left forearm. "Something tells me that we will not have to wait long for a new age."
"And what of Astoria?" Daphne asked.
"I'm sorry, Daphne." her father's forehead creased. "With Davis, died all hopes of a cure."
Daphne could feel her pulse quicken.
"We can't give up," she said. "I won't give up."
"There's nothing more we can do," said her father. "The curse is eating away at her as we speak. She doesn't have long left."
"How could you say that?" Daphne gasped. "We must still try to save her."
"We've done all we can." her father wryly smiled.
"You knew." Daphne's mouth twisted. "You knew who did this to her. We wasted years going to all those healers, when we could've spent time fighting at the source."
"You do not know Davis as I do. She never would've told us anything of substance."
"We could've tried! You could've tried!"
"I took Astoria to the best! The best healers, the best mediwitches, wizards with the knowledge of the arcane and the dark. Do not tell me I did not try." her father hissed.
"And now, you are giving up. Pathetic," said Daphne.
Her father crossed the distance between them and grabbed her by the shoulders.
"You do not talk to me like that." he whispered in her ear. "Do you understand?"
Daphne could only nod, her flesh harshly pinched by his fingers.
"Go to your room, now. Think of what you've said." he released her.
Daphne rose from her seat, and whipped her robes. She calmly walked up the stairs, giving no hint of the turmoil she was in. Her room was large, and beautiful. It had a queen sized bed with intricate carvings over the headboard, a chandelier over it, and two mahogany vanities to either side. Windowed doors opened onto a balcony, and at her desk was a candelabra. She sat on the bed and took off her shoes, feeling the Persian rug under her feet.
She sat in silence, amongst the numbness of her own mind, every thought she had clouded like a fog over the moors. Her sister's curse had leeched her own emotions over the years. She had always known something was wrong with Astoria. Even when they were little, she could never keep up with Daphne without breaking into a sweat, and it seemed like it hurt her to follow along as they played.
She remembered when Astoria had her first bout of accidental magic. She had been told it was time for her bath, her mother pointing at an old grandfather clock. Astoria had cried, and the glass on the clock had shattered, letting the ticking sound escape fully. Astoria had screamed, and dropped to the ground, convulsing. She was sick for days afterwards. Daphne had been seven, and Astoria only four.
Her parents hadn't told either of them of the curse until Daphne left for Hogwarts. Astoria had already been shipped there and fro from healer to healer, in England, France, and Germany. It left a bitter taste in Daphne's mouth to know that all that time was wasted, and her sister was laying in her own room, dying. It hadn't needed to be this way.
Before she knew it, it was dark. She grabbed the candelabra, and lit it. The soft light shown through the room, making the shadows dance. Once she couldn't hear any movement in the house, she moved toward Astoria's room.
She opened her sister's door only a crack, and peeked in with one eye. Astoria was sleeping, just a bundle of blankets on the bed. She noticed the rise and fall of her sister's chest, and knew she would do anything it took to keep Astoria breathing.
"I promise you. I promise you I'll save you."
Tracey's flat was as disgusting as she remembered. The tiles were coming off the floor, revealing the dirtied concrete underneath. The walls were unfinished, the pink insulation bare in its glory. They'd had problems with cockroaches coming out of the walls, and her mother had been well-versed in the banishing charm. The sink was rusted and leaky, and the stove was suspect in its ability to contain the gas it held.
She went to her mother's bedroom, pulling open the drawer of the nightstand. As expected, there was nothing in it. She wracked her brain, trying to think of any place her mother would store extra money, but came up blank. There were no floorboards in her flat to hide things under. She went to the bathroom, checking in the toilet tank. Nothing. She looked under both beds, the couch, and behind the dressers. Still, she couldn't find anything.
She plopped down on the couch, considering her options. Asking for more time wasn't an option, her landlord had made that very clear. She had nothing to sell, and getting a job would take more time than she had. Her mother had been buried in some very fine jewels, family heirlooms. If only Tracey had thought that decision through, she wouldn't be in this position. She knew her mother would rather have her be secure in her living situation than worry about what she was wearing in the grave.
She knew what she had to do, and it made her feel sick.
She grabbed her coat, and was out the door. She passed her landlords door, and kicked it. She was in the stairwell before her landlord was in the hallway. It had started to rain, and Tracey put the her hood up. The cold rain was welcome, washing away the heat of the day, and seeping into the fabric of her clothes. Tracey liked the rain, and the droplets seemed to shine like diamonds in the sky under the light of the street lamps.
She reached the graveyard in fifteen minutes. The gate was closed, the black metal rising into the air, towering over her. There was enough space for her to slide under it, and she got mud all over the front of her body. She went down the paved path flanked by the ash trees, and they seemed to grasp out at her, trying to pull her closer to them. Their branches looked like claws in the dark, and she suppressed a shiver. She passed by the tree of elder, getting closer to her mother's grave.
She saw it, the stark white tombstone standing out in the night like a beacon. She knelt in fornt of it, grasping a handful of dirt and running it through her fingers. The rain had made it clump together, and brown water ran down her arm. She ignored the voice in her head that said what she was doing was a travesty, and reminded it that she was doing what was necessary. She stood back, and drew her wand.
"Wingardium Leviosa."
The dirt rose, in a great rectangle. Bits of it would seep out of the bottom, mirroring the rain that fell around it. The mass was barely controlled by Tracey, and with great effort, she hurled it out of the way. It splashed against the ground, in a great wave. It was a snapshot of the funeral, the hole in the ground waiting to be filled, and the great pile of dirt beside it.
Tracey looked into the hole, once again seeing the dark pine of her mother's casket. It looked peaceful, unaware it was about to be disturbed. She slid down into the hole, her feet not touching the ground as she grasped the ledge. She was lucky not to twist her ankle as she hit the ground. It wasn't a tight fit, and there was plenty of room for the casket and her to share space. She raised her wand again, considering her next spell. She didn't want to damage the casket, but would this work?
"Alohomora."
The nails slowly slid out of their places in the casket, rising out and falling on the dirt beside her. She opened the door. Her mother looked just like she remembered her, the scourge of decomposition not having touched her composed features. Her nose was slight, and aristocratic. Her lips were small, and closed in a small half-smile. Her hair was dark as the night, and cascaded over her shoulders. On her hands were three rings of gold, garnished with the most beautiful jewels she had ever laid eyes on. Emeralds and diamonds glinted, even in the night. Tracey took them one by one, grasping her mothers hands as she did. They were cold to the touch.
The rings were pedestrian by wizarding standards, but the muggles wouldn't know what hit them. She paused on her mother's neck, noticing a silver locket. She undid the clasp, and took it as well. She opened it, and knew she would be keeping it for herself. There was a picture of her and her mother on Christmas Eve, snuggled together besides the tree. The picture moved, Tracey and her mother turning towards each other in a warm embrace. It was before her mother's health had taken a turn for the worse, and Tracey looked like she was about eleven. The love that was captured was pure, and unfettered. She pulled her mother's body into a hug. It was rigid, and stiff.
"I love you, mum."
She pulled herself out of the hole, and spelled the dirt back in. It was like she wasn't even there. The gravity of what she had done wasn't lost on her, and her shame was thick, her guilt biting in the back of her head. She would pawn the rings off, and make a small fortune. It would definitely be enough to make rent, and would probably last her well into the next summer. Was it worth it? To have vandalized her mother's grave? She hoped, wherever her mother was, that she understood.
Tracey turned on her heel, and walked the path with the ash trees overarching.
He was in the woods, and darkness was encroaching. The trees were tall, magnificent in their scope. Ivy vines grew up them form the gnarled roots. The forest floor was clear, no bushes or plants growing around him. Under his shoes he could feel the ground was hard, unforgiving if he fell. The world seemed to spinning, and he scratched his arm to center himself. Whispers seemed to echo out from the trees, starting softly, but growing in volume. He realized they were moving closer to him. He had to start moving. He knew that bad things would happen if he let the whispers reach him.
He took off at a run. His robes waved behind him, and he prayed they wouldn't get caught on any errant branches. He dodged roots, quickly jumping over them whenever they came into his path. Still, the whispers were moving closer. He sharply turned, and noticed a clearing. Perhaps he could draw them into the open, see what kind of beast he would have to face. Still he ran, but he didn't notice the final root, and tripped, falling into the clearing.
Suddenly, the whispers stopped. He heard the running of a stream, softly bubbling, cutting through the clearing before him. He thought he saw something beside the stream, and the whispers were back, right beside him, a cacophony in his ear.
Harry woke up in a cold sweat. He took the cloak off, having slept in it as Dumbledore ordered, but it wasn't enough. He had a splitting headache, and was feeling nauseous. He would attend to it later. First, breakfast.
He threw on some clothes, and went to the dining room of the Leaky Cauldron. Only he and Tom were there, it being around six AM.
"Morning, Harry."
"Morning, Tom."
"What can I get for you?"
"I'll take some coffee, and a pumpkin pastie."
"Black?"
"Please."
Harry sat down, mulling his dream over sips of the scalding hot coffee. It had been awhile since he'd had dreams so vivid, and he was alarmed by its intensity. Usually those types of dreams meant bad things. He decided to monitor the situation, as there wasn't much he could do about it.
"Some mail came for you," said Tom, handing him a letter.
Harry would recognized Dumbledore's wavy script anywhere. It was later in the summer than he'd expected to receive correspondence, and he had been eagerly awaiting Dumbledore's contact. Maybe he would get information on his next tutoring session.
Harry,
I regret to inform you that I will not be able to see you this summer. Unforeseen circumstances have arisen that require my immediate attention. The ministry has shackled my hands in ways I could not imagine, and my summer will be filled with mindless bureaucracy. We shall continue our studies together during the upcoming school year. Until then, I hope you stay well and keep out of trouble. I know it has a way of finding you.
Albus
That threw a damper on Harry's day. He crumpled the letter, and went back to his breakfast. His headache was showing no signs of going away, and he felt it was time to use his potions book. Snape might be the better brewer, but Harry was determined to have a more pleasant experience than the sludge he received. He knew Snape purposefully combined the ingredients in a way to make it the most disgusting experience possible. His spite knew no bounds.
Finishing his breakfast, he retired to his room. He opened the potions book, and the spine moaned. He found the section on healing potions, and set up his cauldron. He laid the ingredients he needed out on the desk before him. It had taken several more trips to Knockturn Alley to compile them, as many were restricted substances by the most difficult to find had been the powdered unicorn horn.
He lit the fire under his cauldron, pouring in the acromantula venom. His head was pounding. He stirred counterclockwise three times. The cloudy yellow liquid turned green. Now the two drops of dragon blood. The fumes rose in the air, a royal purple. He quickly mashed the juniper berries, adding them precisely thirteen seconds after the dragon blood. Next was the rose petals, to preference. That would improve the flavor. His nausea had worsened, and he felt like he was about to wretch. Clockwise, four times. Finally, he added the three spoonfuls of powdered unicorn horn. The potion turned to a light pink color, signifying it was ready.
He killed the heat, and poured the potion into a flask. Waiting for it to cool was excruciating. He hadn't had a day this bad in a long time, and it was evident in his reflection. Dark bags hung under his eyes, and his face was jaundiced. He had long since accepted his state, and didn't have any reaction to his appearance.
The potion was cool, and he downed it. The closest comparison he could think of was cough syrup. The relief was instant, and both his headache and nausea were vanquished. His immediate health returned, he thought more about Dumbledore's letter.
It was hard to go about Diagon Alley without seeing the Daily Prophet plastered everywhere, and he knew their slander campaign against Dumbledore and Longbottom was in full swing. The idiocy of the masses knew no bounds, and while he was used to acceptance, the people were not. Dark times were coming, and the wizarding world had to prepare. If they didn't, at least he would. He had much to do, but first, practice.
He went to the Leaky Cauldron's basement, where Tom had set up his usual haunt. Bags of unused flour were lined up against the wall. He pulled out his wand, levelling it at the first unlucky bag.
"Sectumsempra."
The steam billowed out of the locomotive's chimney. The Hogwarts Express was awaiting it's students, parked on the platform. The summer had passed quickly, and the platform was alight with life. The squeak of trolley wheels, the laughter of people, and the train's whistle were only some of the sounds echoing through the little world. The innocence had not been lost, yet.
Harry was sitting alone in a compartment in the back of the train, the doors locked. Tracey was doing the same in the middle compartment. Daphne was leading Astoria through the hallway, making sure she was okay before finding her friends. Each of them looked forward to the year ahead. No matter what went on in the students' personal lives, Hogwarts had a universal charm which ensnared each and every one of them.
The ride went smoothly, and the first years embarked upon their rite of passage. The rest of the students were passed onto the carriages, the thestrals working hard with the straps on their backs. The welcome feast was prepared, waiting only for Dumbledore's summons. The house elves had toiled diligently to craft food worthy of such a grand institution.
But all was not well.
As the sorting ceremony began, Delores Umbridge overlooked the malleable children, hoping to instill her propaganda deep in their hearts. Dumbledore hoped to combat this, a setback in a war that was creeping on the horizon, infecting the world like a slow-acting virus. It was dormant, at an impasse, but he was dreading the day symptoms would present.
He rose for his speech.
"Welcome, students and staff!" he looked over the tables, feeling hundreds of eyes drift to him. "I would like to congratulate the first years on their sorting. I know all of you will succeed here at Hogwarts, and the castle loves seeing new faces. I beg a few moments of your attention for the usual start-of-term notices,"
Of the hundreds of eyes, the only ones he could feel were staring into his back.
"The Forbidden Forest is as always, forbidden. Any students caught out of bounds will be assigned to detention with Mr. Filch, to do a myriad of unpleasant tasks. Mr. Filch would also like me to let you know that magic in the corridors is much like the Forbidden Forest. Forbidden."
"We have had two changes of staff for the upcoming year. Professor Grubbly-Plank will assume the position of Care of Magical Creatures, and Professor Umbridge-"
"Hem, hem," said Umbridge from behind him. He turned, and saw her rise from her seat. "I would like to talk to the students."
Dumbledore gestured for her to assume the podium.
"Thank you, Headmaster," she said. "For the kind words of welcome. I am Professor Umbridge, and I will be your new Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts."
She waited, and the students gave a polite applause.
"The Ministry of Magic has always considered the education of young witches and wizards to be of vital importance. The rare gifts with which you were born may come to nothing if not nurtured and honed by careful instruction. The ancient skills unique to the wizarding community must be passed down through the generations lest we lose them forever. The treasure trove of magical knowledge amassed by our ancestors must be guarded, replenished, and polished by those who have been called to the noble profession of teaching." she said, as if reading from a book.
"I have been placed here to further that goal, and I intend to make some changes. I have been informed of your rather," she searched for a word. "Turbulent, experiences with Defense professors, and I assure you that I will be here for the long haul."
"I'm so happy to be back at Hogwarts, and I look forward to working with you all."