Posted 4/22/2014, edited 12/16/2014
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This is a work of fiction, based on the book series by J.K. Rowling. Neither do I claim ownership nor do I intend to.
Chapter Thirty-Three - The Small Comforts in Life
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"Mrs. Greengrass, how are you doing?" Professor Snape asked her with a raised eyebrow, turning away from Potter and his friends.
"Fine," she replied automatically, too surprised to think. The werewolf she could understand visiting or working with the resistance – he had been an old friend of Potter's father. The Weasleys would surely be working with Potter, so she wouldn't have been surprised to see one of them coming. The half-giant Hagrid was known to be close to Potter for some strange reason. Even Longbottom or Lovegood wouldn't have surprised Daphne much if they had shown up, ignoring for a moment that they were supposed to be at Hogwarts. In Lovegood's case, the only real surprise would have been if she had looked alert and focused. Surely the resistance had others doing the field work and running errands. But never would she have expected Professor Snape to be one of them – the same Professor Snape she knew had been entrusted with keeping watch over the school, without a doubt by the Dark Lord.
"So you're working for Potter?" she asked the assembled.
It was almost comical how both reacted to the thought – one sneering, the other rolling his eyes. It was Professor Snape, however, who answered. "I work for myself and no one else. I came here with business, some of which concerns you."
"You knew I was here?" Daphne asked.
"Naturally," Professor Snape smiled arrogantly. "Having seen you in acceptable health concludes the first part – ensuring your ability to cope with the other matters. Since you have chosen to defect from the newly established order in magical Britain, there are some issues that need to be addressed." He brushed off his robes. "I am here to inform you – unofficially, of course, since you are presumed to have died –of your expulsion from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for the unprovoked attack on another student."
"Unprovoked?" Daphne yelled, forgetting herself for a moment.
"Unless you want to dispute said claims put forth by both Mr. Malfoy and Professor Malfoy, yes, unprovoked." He raised an eyebrow. "If you do plan to challenge said accusation, please inform me of your preferred resting place in advance, as both Malfoys are still very much incensed and planning their revenge." That shut her up, and she felt herself blush. Of course they would be. Professor Snape continued. "It is also a clear case as far as anyone can see, and the statements of both Malfoys match the story already circulating at school, in the Ministry, and the general wizarding populace; that it is a story they put out in the first place doesn't matter. After Mr. Malfoy was hurt by you in an unprovoked and cowardly attack, you fled the scene of crime to escape justice; that is what will be remembered. You might be happy to hear Mr. Malfoy has recovered from the ordeal you forced upon him. Miss Parkinson took it upon herself to oversee the punishment of your unwitting helpers, Miss Davis and Miss Bulstrode. They were caught, naturally..."
"But they got off, yes, we know, Snape," Potter interrupted. "Anything new about them?"
"If there were, it wouldn't be your business, Potter." Professor Snape sent the boy a glare, but turned back to Daphne. "They have seen the error of their ways, endured their just punishments without undue complaints, and assisted in clearing out your space in the dormitories. Seeing as you were expelled, your belongings have no place there anymore. Since you were unavailable to have them handed to you, Professors Malfoy and both Carrows suggested their destruction. Since you were not on hand to disagree..."
"You destroyed her stuff?" Weasley asked. "That's low, even for you."
Professor Snape's lips curled. "I personally took care of it. Whatever remained after the fire will be unrecognisable." He pulled a shrunken trunk from his pocket and enlarged it. Daphne easily recognized it as her own.
"You saved my possessions?" she asked, blinking rapidly.
"I was once the Head of House Slytherin. I have a responsibility for the students under my care."
"Does that extend to all students now?" Potter asked, smirking. "Even Gryffindors?"
"I do not agree with your actions, Mrs. Greengrass," Professor Snape continued, ignoring the interruption. "Not in the slightest. You harmed Mr. Malfoy for petty reasons."
"Except that's not the truth," Weasley pointed out with a glare. "You know that."
"Only fools believe there is such a thing as the truth," Professor Snape replied. "Unlike you, I know better. Since there is no way of proving otherwise, Mr. Malfoy's claim of an unprovoked attack will be remembered and accepted as true."
"So he will get away with it? Everything?" Potter asked with a pointed look. "All of his transgressions?" His voice was calm, yet even Daphne could tell just how angry he really was underneath. She knew how he felt about Malfoy and shared the sentiment. Malfoy had attacked her twice on school premises, but since she couldn't provide evidence to support her claim, he would very likely go unpunished.
"Yes, Potter," Professor Snape said. "Mr. Malfoy is the victim, do not forget that, and unless he confesses to his crimes, voicing doubts about his version or investigating his actions would draw unwanted attention." He put the trunk next to the stairs. "I also feel obligated to tell you, Mrs. Greengrass, that both of your parents," he ignored the sharp gasps in the hallway, "have inquired about your well-being..."
"Tell them I'm fine," Daphne said immediately.
"I will most certainly do not that," Professor Snape replied with a glare. "Do you think I am a fool? That I would willingly risk my life for silly errands? And do ignore that I came here out of my free will or saved your possessions. For the time being, you are dead to the world, and you better stay that way. Am I making myself clear?" He glowered until she nodded hesitantly. "Then I would advise you to clear away your belongings before I will indeed destroy them."
"No, you wouldn't, Snape, you old softy," Potter laughed. Daphne quickly swished her wand. Her trunk jumped into the air and followed her up the stairs. While walking, she still heard the Professor talking.
"Another matter I was asked to take care of concerns Miss Granger." Again there were gasps, and again the professor carried on. "Your mother has been found. She was apparently at a dentist's symposium during the time of attack. She has gone into hiding, from what I have heard, and might choose to leave the country for the time being."
Daphne smiled slightly, happy for the Muggleborn's luck.
"So she went to that symposium? Alone?" Granger asked, doubtful.
"She was at the symposium without her husband," Professor Snape's voice sounded up the stairs just as Daphne moved her trunk into her room. Once there, she kicked the door closed. For whatever reason, perhaps by a stroke of luck, she had gotten her possessions she had had to leave behind. Wasting no time, she put the trunk on the bed and opened it hastily.
They were there. Her toiletries including a decent shampoo she had missed in the hideout in the last few days were there as well as – and she felt her heart jump in joy, resisting the impulse to follow suit – her clothes. Real clothes, even if they were school robes and shirts and skirts and shoes and whatnot, but they were hers and new and they would fit. Her books had been included as well; stuffed between other odds and ends were even some pictures she couldn't remember possessing. Perhaps her friends had meant them as a parting gift? Daphne was tempted to send them a message, but fought down the impulse. She couldn't risk their safety.
And there was something Daphne hadn't expected at all, something she hadn't known existed in the first place. Stuffed between the socks and the ties, she found a picture of her wedding. Lost in thought, she ran her fingers over the photo. She really had looked beautiful that day, and she hadn't been mistaken, Potter had looked dashing as well, at least compared to his usual appearance. Yet she also noticed that even his picture self did not seem all that comfortable. What she had thought to be anxiety at first looked more like a general watchfulness. Had he expected an attack at the wedding? Looking back, it did seem reasonable, and he had been correct about an attack, he had only miscalculated the time.
Movement caught Daphne's attention, and she put the photo of her wedding down. Pushing aside some socks and a skirt, she found a pair of small girls of seven smiling up at her from within the a picture. As if burned, Daphne pulled her hand back, but she couldn't avert her eyes. Her younger self in the picture waved, and the other girl curtsied playfully in her summer dress. It woke Daphne from her spell; she quickly flipped the picture around. Astoria had to have put it there, a keepsake of better times, but Daphne couldn't allow herself to think of the past.
Glad to be rid of the borrowed robes, Daphne quickly changed. It felt good to be in her own clothes again. Not wanting to waste any time or stumble upon some other gift among her possessions and remembering her manners, she left her room.
The hallway was deserted, but she could hear voices coming from the dining room on the ground floor. She moved closer, recognizing Professor Snape easily.
"In short, yes. They are lying low and trying to lull the population into a sense of safety, but they are not inactive. They avoid open battles which is a relief. The best course of action might be the assistance in the evacuation efforts, yet I doubt you would be welcome there. It is entirely possible that the Dark Lord has infiltrated the groups moving about. He doesn't want people to escape, and keeping an eye on those who help in the evacuation might be a good idea. The spies might not hold back, however, if they see you, and might send for help or try to subdue you. Such a situation can quite easily escalate. If you desperately want to help out with the evacuation, send Weasley. You know where you can get a new one."
There was a scuffle and a bang, before Potter spoke up, his voice level. "Thank you, Snape, for that insight. If that's all?" Silence reigned for a moment. "All right. Another matter. The rat. I think he was behind the attack on me in August. I think he might have spied on me. It shouldn't be that hard to smuggle him in and..."
"He didn't spy on you, Potter, and it hadn't been necessary in the first place. Many people knew about your whereabouts that night. However, he was with the Dark Lord that evening."
"I guessed as much," Potter spat.
"Luck was on our side for once, though," Professor Snape added.
"You call that luck, huh?" Weasley said. "Harry barely making it out alive is luck for you?"
"Yes, luck. I wasn't informed about the attack, possibly to test my loyalty. Yet it failed, and you were prepared. It has removed at least some doubt from me, which I do call luck," Professor Snape pointed out. "Yes, Pettigrew was there as well and even proposed the attack in the first place; a plan I wouldn't have expected him to think of. He paid for it and lost many of his privileges."
"That is good," Potter spoke up, "but not enough. This has gone on for too long, something needs to be done about him. He is too big of a risk to let him go unchecked. How are we supposed to know whether he is around and listening in on us? No offence, but he could have sneaked in here on your tailcoat or something. He could be in this room without us knowing. No, something needs to be done about him."
"Harry!" Granger interrupted.
"It might be possible to take him out of commission for a while," Professor Snape told Potter, "but an attack on him will not work. The Dark Lord is very careful with his followers, he suspected spies in the past. With the current climate, it doesn't matter, but he did kill two Ministry agents that had tried to sneak in. Unless I can make the rat look guilty of some offence against the Dark Lord, my hands will be tied in the matter. No, some permanent solution is not possible right now. But your fears seem to be unfounded; as far as I know, the transformation does not work anymore. The hand is not part of him, and if he tried his little trick, it would stay a hand of the same size. He cannot transform without losing his hand, which might be why the Dark Lord does not send him out any more."
"Or that's what they want everyone to believe," Potter pointed out. "Don't put all of your eggs in one basket, don't trust people with your secret weapons."
Daphne blinked. That sounded surprisingly smart of him. It was the mindset of Slytherins, in a way.
"He wouldn't make a good secret weapon," Professor Snape replied after a moment of what had probably been contemplation. "He is not the loyal type, for one."
Again they fell silent. "Well," Potter spoke up, "try to keep us updated on his movements if you can. I still don't trust your information that he really cannot transform any longer, and I don't want to take that risk."
"Very well," Professor Snape replied. "Even if I don't know what he was thinking, I will do as I was asked by Professor Dumbledore. I will be very displeased should you fail, though."
"We will see," Potter said casually.
Daphne jumped back up the stairs and waited. Finally, the front door downstairs opened, and she moved to walk downstairs with determination in her step. The first step to a successful lie was acting as if she didn't have anything to hide.
"Professor?" she asked, causing the man to turn around and glare at her. "I have a final question."
"I am busy, Mrs. Greengrass."
"Then I will be quick," she countered. "During my escape, while I was trying to get out of the boundaries, a spell missed me. It hit the gates, which crumbled and twisted in on themselves. I thought it was simply luck at the time, luck that such a powerful spell had missed me." She saw him narrow his eyes. So she had been correct in her thinking. It had been a spur of the moment when she had seen him stride to the front door. "You helped me escape, didn't you?"
"I am still the headmaster of the school. I cannot have a student be lynched on the grounds. I was once the Head of House Slytherin; I look out for the students under my care. I aim to avert harm from those under my care. Had I known the full extent of your misconduct, I certainly would not have been so lenient." He turned on the spot and walked to the door without a second glance.
"Strange fellow," Potter said, stepping to Daphne's side. Turning her head, she saw him frown slightly, deep in thought. Behind them, Weasley dragged a smiling Granger towards the kitchen.
Just like every day in the past two weeks, Petunia watered the plants in the tiny garden, enjoying the small piece of normalcy in her life. She missed her old home; she missed the neighbours and the excellent gossip they had meant to her. But she had been forced to leave her old life behind, and Petunia Dursley had dropped off the face of the earth. In her stead, Juliet Cross had moved into her new home, having bought a house about half a year ago in the village close to Kent. But people hadn't really seen much of her ever since she had arrived with her son over a month ago. Claiming shyness and sickness in the case of her son that ailed him on and off, the new family in town had avoided contact and notice wherever possible. Even their home spoke of the wish to be left alone. Hedges separated it from the other houses, and its blinds were often closed during the day.
All in all, Petunia had thought she had done a decent job of creating a hiding place. She had continued gardening, her one pastime she had found peace of mind with outside of the house. It had been a talent of her mother as well who had shown her daughters a lot. Petunia had also used the time to enjoy the fresh air. She had done a decent job, had created fake identities, a fake story to keep people away, and had changed her habits as much as she could in such a short amount of time. She had a decent back story for her family, had been very careful about not leaving any traces behind. She had even bought a used car as a new one would have drawn attention to them. Very little connected her to Petunia Dursley, and she had become Juliet Cross, the divorced housewife of a former construction worker and crook who was currently imprisoned for fraud.
Perhaps people were born with a purpose in life? Petunia didn't know for sure, but she supposed it might be the case. Dudley had been born to become a paragon of virtue, embodying everything she had taught him. He would one day be a loving husband, just like his father. Old Mr. Walker had been born to take care of his wife during her last years. Mrs. Number Eleven was probably well on her ways to become an influential politician, perhaps one day becoming Prime Minister.
If people really were born for a purpose, then Petunia had to have been given the skills to fulfil hers as well. In the past, she had always thought she would be a housewife. She knew how to take care of people, she knew how to organize. Hadn't she often heard the people compliment her on her marvellous work? She had, yes. And she had been justly proud of her accomplishments. Hadn't she raised Dudley to be a fine young man? And against her better judgement, she had taken her nephew in. Didn't that show just how loving she was? And yet, it seemed as if those weren't the important abilities she had acquired in her life. She could just imagine that dratted Lily being baffled by the very thought of Petunia's special talents, and especially the one she had perfected over the years.
Years of keeping up with people's secrets, of watching for any noteworthy information about her neighbours had given Petunia an awareness of her surroundings. She noticed when people talked about her behind her back, for example. She noticed when the cashier tried to charge her more than she should. She noticed when the mood around her changed subtly. Petunia also noticed when people looked around, checking whether someone was watching them. Petunia noticed when people were watching her. That was why she had seen them a week ago.
These men didn't quite fit in with the crowd or the neighbourhood. They weren't rude or obvious, but Petunia, used to keeping up with people's stories, recognized them, especially how they seemed to return after a while or switched, one set of men leaving while another arrived. She also noticed how they were conveniently checking the house every so often and how their clothes didn't quite fit in –almost as if they weren't used to wearing normal clothes. Most people would have shrugged it off, but not Petunia. She knew of people who didn't fit in. She knew what those men were. It had been at that time that her other skills and talents had come in handy.
Watering the last of her plants, she glanced up to the overcast sky. It would rain soon. She could taste it in the air. It wouldn't take long; she expected a downpour. Then again, rain wasn't that unusual in Great Britain and wouldn't have needed the glance to the clouds. Doing so had given her the opportunity she needed to check the surroundings, though. Another man stood at the corner, a bag pack over the shoulder, a walking stick on his arm, and reading a map. No hiker would ever try to look up street names, get lost in a suburb or take so long to decide whether to go south or north, never mind wearing such short and tight pants in October. No, he was one of them. And that woman reading a book on the bench over by the park had also not turned a page in a while. Another one of them Petunia could see standing on the corner.
So they had returned, and had come in force this time.
Petunia returned to the living room, feeling surprisingly calm. A Tuesday. There would be a show on later that evening, one she rather liked. She wondered how it would end. Would the female lead get the man? Most likely. Shows like that usually worked that way. Petunia liked the notion. No matter the hardships, in the end, love persevered. That was how she wished the real world would work. No matter what went wrong in the world, the good, the honest, and the beautiful should come out on top.
How had they found her, she wondered as she got to work, flicking the hidden switch. Had someone recognized her? She doubted it, but it made her nervous. What if Dudley had been identified? It was hard not to notice such a fine young man, after all, but she had to hope for the best. She couldn't think of her son for a moment, not when she didn't know how much time she would have left. She couldn't allow herself to waste any of it.
She checked everything. The windows were shut, the furniture as pristine as it should be. Absent-mindedly, she corrected the picture on the wall. It wouldn't do to have that one looking any less than perfect. A picture from happier times, from a short trip to the beach, just her Vernon, the perfect son Dudley and herself –her family. With a sigh, she traced the figures, wondering when it had gone wrong. Was it when they had taken Lily's child in? Or when they hadn't put up enough of a fight to stop him from going to that school of theirs?
Petunia became aware of the suddenly muted sounds of traffic. In fact, almost all sound was gone. So it began. She wished she had had more time, but there was nothing to be done about it. She peered out of the window.
Figures moved towards the front door –the hiker, the woman from before, and the one from the corner, hardly more than a child himself.
So she would miss her show, Petunia thought. Her time was up, it seemed. It didn't matter. With quick strides, she reached the vase on the small side table. She touched the rose, running her fingers over the flower. If only she had had more time, she thought, if only she had had more time.
She pulled the cable from the telephone socket. She couldn't allow it to go off.
The door burst open, and she whirled around. There they were, and they looked disturbingly happy. They stepped into the room, and one of the men, a broad-shouldered, ugly ruffian spoke for them.
"So there she is, didn't I say so?" To Petunia he said mockingly, "Good evening."
"I wouldn't have expected manners from you," she countered, stepping away from the rose. She only wished she would have had more time. "But then, I have rarely expected anything from you lot, and even rarer have I gotten anything but grief from you." She knew she was taking a risk, but she couldn't allow herself to die just yet. Her time wasn't up yet. She still had something to do.
"Talking, is she?" the other man, a thug with a big nose laughed as he dropped his walking stick. "He said it'd be easy, but she isn't even running away. Should we be disappointed?"
"Why should I run away?" Petunia replied, counting in her head. She needed a bit more time. "You have found me here, you would just follow me again. Running away didn't work the last time, it won't work in the future. But you haven't introduced yourselves. I will show you how it is done."
The witch slashed her wand, and Petunia felt the air whizzing close to her ear. Some hairs fell and a small cut appeared on her cheek, but other than that she wasn't hurt.
"I am Petunia Dursley, but I guess you already knew that," she continued, counting silently.
The ugly ruffian chuckled. "Well then, I'm Marcus Flint. I met your nephew in school." He looked to the other wizard who fingered his wand nervously. Petunia didn't like the wary man.
"Corley. Too old for that." He glanced around, as if expecting an attack, there was nothing to be seen.
The witch spat on the floor. "Let's not waste any time here."
"She's Bryce," Flint introduced with a short nod.
"So you have come to kill me," Petunia said, surprised at the calmness in her own voice. But then, she hadn't asked anything; she had made a statement, and one she knew was true. She walked behind one of the armchairs and used it as support. The witch who had until that moment stood close to the door, shifted, walking further into the room, wand trained on Petunia.
"No," the ruffian Flint said. "No, killing you wouldn't help us any, would it? No, unless you force us to. I don't mind it, really. I would have preferred it even, but we have our orders. No, we are here to capture you."
Petunia nodded slowly. "It has to do something with Lily's son, then. I should have guessed. Everything always leads back to her, even if she walked out of my life years ago. She is dead and I still have to pay for her deeds. I never liked him, always causing me trouble. But I guess you are familiar with that. He does have a talent for causing trouble, doesn't he?
"Do you have parents? I had, and I had to bury both since my sister abandoned us." Corley made to use his wand, but Flint shook his head. "I had to take care of my father, had to listen to his ramblings and tales from the war. He taught me a lot. I must have inherited his talent in chemistry, I guess.
"And then I married and gave up my dream of going to university. A pity, really. Should I have gone despite my marriage?" Petunia blinked and shook her head. "But it doesn't matter anymore, does it? A question, though." She raised her hand as if warding the other people off. Not long now. "My husband. Were you there?"
Corley shifted on his feet, Flint shook his head. He couldn't be much older than Dudley, she mused, and thought about Flint's mother somewhere worrying about her son.
The witch in the room cackled. "The fat oaf? Ah, that was fun, he didn't even make it to his little contraption! Snick, and then the head was off. Ha, scared the other Muggles, doubt they had ever seen so much blood. So much fun! Would have loved to do it myself, but..." She drifted off.
"That is too bad, I had hoped whoever killed him would have come here to finish the job. But I guess your kind doesn't think like that. Well, I guess it's time to go." Again Petunia was surprised by her own courage. But then, her life had been over the moment she had made her decision –the moment she had realized they had been found. All that had mattered from that point had been to fulfil her purpose, to do what she could, to give Dudley a chance. She stepped away from the armchair, hands in the air and over to the old switch lying on the floor she had taken from a lamp. Freaks and their ignorance about all things normal, she scoffed, they probably hadn't noticed anything.
"That it is," Flint agreed while Corley tensed even more. Petunia didn't like him one bit, but at least he hadn't acted yet.
"Bryce, be a dear and fetch the son," Flint instructed. The woman walked further into the house.
Where was Dudley, Petunia wondered. Had he managed to get away? Had he used the days she had given him when she had sent him away in the dead of night? He hadn't called. Perhaps they had caught him, but she couldn't ask the intruders. She couldn't allow tipping them off. She would fulfil her purpose, the one role she was born to do; she would protect her son's life as long as she could. She had resented Lily and that Potter for burdening her with their unfinished business, their troublesome child, but Petunia had come to understand her sister better. Lily had been a mother as well and had done what she could to protect her son, even if it had meant dying in his place. Petunia could understand her decision, but she was eternally grateful she would never have to meet her sister again, for whatever came after the end, there was no way Lily would have gone where Petunia was headed. They were nothing alike, and Petunia was glad they were.
She felt calm, having finished her part in life. She had found a wonderful, loving, respectable man. She had had almost twenty years with him before he had been taken from her by those who had destroyed her life since her childhood. She had given birth to a sweet, brave boy, one of the best things to ever happen to her. She had endured the years with her parents and that freakish sister, had even looked after the child of hers despite all the trouble he had caused, despite all the freakishness he emanated. She had shown her kind side to him; she had even told him about his parents. She had been an honourable citizen. She had been the good, misunderstood daughter; she had endured the disregard of their parents without much complaint; she had stayed, unlike precious Lily who had abandoned her family. Petunia had taught Dudley well, she had even found it in herself to try to instruct Lily's son and guide him away from his appalling nature. And soon, she would be reunited with her Vernon, and together they would watch over the world.
She stepped on the switch and felt it click under her foot. She smiled, happy that she had outdone Lily for the first time. Petunia had never thought listening to her father talking all those times about his work during the war would have been useful later on. But it had. She had always been good in Chemistry. And having Dudley around had been a blessing as well, strong boy that he was. She would have struggled carrying all those bags downstairs. Had he understood what was going on? Would he feel it, deep in his heart, the moment her life would end?
How fast could freaks run? Faster than fire?
She lifted her foot off the switch and heard it click, but no light went on.
Harry wiped his face with a towel, glancing at the clock. Had he really been at it for over two hours? He felt as if he had run a whole day, but also knew it to be expected. His training had taught him as much. Wandless magic did cost a lot of concentration and tired out as well. Yet he felt far better than he had earlier. Hours of focusing on his magic had meant blocking out the truth; the memories he knew he couldn't run from forever. And if he ever wanted to use his skill at wandless magic as a surprise, he really needed to have it at his beck and call. It had taken months to get a feeling for it, yes. He had worked hard on it, day and night sometimes. Numerous times he had been close to giving up, but he had continued because he had known deep in his heart it would be worth it in the end. And finally, shortly before the summer break, he had done it. Since then, he had worked on the finer points, had expanded on his spell repertoire. Disarming had been important, of course. But he had also attempted summoning and banishing objects – wands weren't the only thing that could prove useful – and had tried shields. Unfortunately, they had proven quite tricky to pull off. If he had asked Hermione about it, she would have researched the matter and might have come up with an explanation. Since he hadn't – she was still sore because he could do some wandless magic already – he could only guess something about the different nature of spells.
His first thought had been along those lines – he had guessed influencing matter was easier than creating something. Disarming, summoning and banishing all affected something physical. He had tested his theory by casting a light spell. As predicted, it hadn't worked properly. He had advanced to transfiguring a needle into a matchstick and had found it tricky and taxing. So maybe changing an object was also difficult, he had reasoned. More out of curiosity than anything else, he had continued his tests, only to be disproved. Fire, it seemed did not follow the rules. Creating it was surprisingly easy, controlling it another matter, though.
After an hour of handling a flame, of lighting candles with it and hovering it above Harry's hand, of changing the colour, he had a feeling for the magic involved. True, he didn't see himself as a pyromaniac, but he could also see why Lupin had chosen it as a source of light in Harry's third year. Once the caster had an understanding of it, keeping it going was child's play. Unlike real fire, Harry's flames gave off no warmth, instead sending a shiver down his back the longer he kept them going.
Putting the towel down, Harry thought about other possible spells. He liked the idea of using wandless magic, yes, but it would work best as a surprise, no doubt about that. Only the memories of Tom had helped him learn it at all in such a short time, and even the self-proclaimed dark lord hadn't delved too far into the matter to make do without a wand. But what should Harry learn to do without a wand? Stunning? It might be worth a try. Conjuration was out of the question. Ron would certainly approve of it, but it didn't have much use. What was he meant to do with that? Conjuring a flock of birds wasn't really that useful in battle. Neither would a knife do much good. Yes, it would be useful under certain conditions, but if those were not met, what then?
The Tom in the back of his head, the personality that was now his, knew exactly what he could and should focus on – offensive, deadly spells. And Harry could understand the train of thought, but he was also hesitant. Yes, he could see the advantage; he could understand the possibilities in times of dire need. But then, it was something Voldemort would do, wasn't it? Bloodshed and murder with a swish of the hand. And if he listened to Tom on that matter, shouldn't Harry also take the other advice? If he gave in one time, why not the other? The reasoning was sound, it was tempting, but it was something the monstrous Voldemort would do, someone Harry fought against.
He who fought monsters, Harry thought with a dejected chuckle.
He delayed the decision for the time being and instead focused on the upcoming night. Where and when should he begin? With Tom's years up until shortly after the twenty-fifth birthday as well as the list of Death Eaters and some additional information about them integrated, he could allow himself a peaceful night. Hermione would certainly agree; after almost a week of restless sleep, of naps in inconvenient spots and bad temper, he might just try to focus elsewhere for a day or two. He needed some peace and quiet. He needed the rest.
Arithmancy had been a pain, and even after going through everything Tom had learned about it in school, even with knowing it, Harry still couldn't figure it out. It was there, he could see it, but at the same time, he couldn't use it. A tool he simply couldn't handle, it annoyed him with its taunting presence. Somewhere along the way, he always made some miscalculation.
But perhaps he could start on Runes? He had stayed away from it not out of disinterest, but because he hadn't felt ready. It was one thing learning something he had already some idea of. Advanced charms were easy if one knew more basic spells. It hadn't taken long to relearn them. Transfiguration wasn't as difficult once one knew how to work it. Similarly, healing spells required detailed knowledge of the body –how else would one know how to fix an injury? Magic couldn't help there, unfortunately. Defence was easy, full stop. In fact, Harry found both to his delight and dismay a surprising talent for darker spells as well. As Hermione had pointed out with a very sour face, defensive and offensive spells were flip sides of each other. True, Harry was exceptionally gifted at Defence, but at the same time, his fierce nature also made him adapt at offensive magic as well. With the added insight of the memories, he had gained another boost. And the replacement wand seemed almost eager to cause as much harm as possible – a troubling trait, especially since the wand seemed to grow on him, matching him better each day.
Runes, however, Harry had avoided looking into. A part of him feared what he might learn about himself. What if he had a talent for it, but had wasted it years ago when he had chosen Divination? And what if he didn't have the talent? An important discipline in defensive magic, but him unable to work it right?
He put his robes back on and left the room feeling both tired and wide-awake. And yet, his worries came back to the forefront of his mind as he stepped into the hallway. How much longer until they could make a move? How much longer until they could make a difference? While they were safe within the walls of the house, people were suffering in the war Harry hadn't seen fit to end already. Maybe he shouldn't take it easy that evening, after all. Wasted time, wasted lives. More suffering for others. Wouldn't it be partly Harry's fault for not acting sooner? For not doing what he could? For not doing what needed to be done, the voice in the back of his mind added.
And he was the leader; he had to think of the small matters as well. Ron had done a lot for Hermione, had helped her come to terms with the separation of her parents. The sudden reappearance of Hermione's mother from a conference had been a small ray of hope, but it couldn't improve the mood much. Even Ron and Harry couldn't help with the likely divorce looming ahead.
Hermione had tried to keep up her usual standards. She had worked tirelessly, had researched and read as much as she could, but she was also running out of motivation. They were stuck, both in the house and in the war. Nothing good happened. Hadn't Snape's news been proof of that? How were they to help the Muggleborns trying to escape if they stayed hidden in Harry's house and waited for the day they were ready to put a stop to it? They needed to do something, but he wasn't sure what he could do. And it didn't help that Hermione was also running out of reading material as well. If only Harry could remove the protections around the library! Maybe he should work on that instead, he wondered. True, the last time he had tried to carry a book out of the room, it had taken three days for the burns to start healing, but maybe he would have more luck this time?
With little else to do around the house to pass the time, Hermione and Ron and begun renovating the house. If cleaning had been a fight, renovating seemed more like a full-blown war. Whatever the Blacks had done with the house over the years, some rooms actively opposed any attempt to rework them. Hermione had once fallen down a floor through a suddenly opening hole in the ground, Ron had been nearly strangled by curtains that had sneaked up on him, and only Hermione's timely fire spell had saved him. The paint in one room caused poisonous fumes when targeted with magic.
Meanwhile, Greengrass seemed to have taken to preparing as well. As far as Harry could tell from the sound of it, she spent most of her time working on more or less harmful spells, but she had a long way to go. Maybe it had to do with having done it all his life, but Harry could see just how inexperienced she was from the way she held herself and moved through the house. At first, he had thought he had seen a hidden talent. He had thought she had something to her. But he had soon realized his mistake – Greengrass wasn't secretly competent and trained, but merely wary. She didn't stay ready to fight, but to escape. Something was off with the girl, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.
Then there was Kreacher. He had improved again, had begun doing his duty, albeit reluctantly. Slowly, but surely, the elf did what he was meant to do, cleaning the house, cooking better each passing day and actually trying to be less impolite to Harry and his friends. Perhaps all it had taken was a reminder of what he was and what he had to do. In any case, Harry was happy with his change.
The most pressing issue, however, proved to be their supplies. Even though Kreacher had been ordered to organize food every once in a while and had even done so reasonably well, with each passing day their reserves dwindled. There was only so much a house-elf could buy without drawing attention. Soon, they would have to venture out and resupply on their own. Hermione had predicted it, Ron had talked about it every once in a while. Kreacher had informed his master of the problem as well, but Harry kept delaying it. Even after well over six weeks, Death Eaters or Ministry personnel kept their guard up, watching the space between Number 11 and 13 of Grimmauld Place. How long until either side made a mistake? Or perhaps the first step?
Harry was deep in thought when he heard someone clear their throat. He whirled around and found himself face to face with the painting of Phineas Nigellus.
"Jumpy?" the man in the painting mocked.
"You are lucky I don't destroy this piece of garbage as well," Harry replied.
"You wouldn't. I am one of the best communication channels for you," the late wizard said matter-of-factly. "And you do wait for news, don't you?"
Harry felt a sudden jolt go through him. "You've got news? He found the rat?"
Nigellus pursed his lips. "How unseemly for a Black. Really, this once mighty family has fallen in such a short time."
"Well, if you have something to tell me, do so and don't waste any more time. I'm not in the mood for your usual games." It was hard not to rip the painting to pieces, but Nigellus was right. It was one of the better channels into the castle.
"Well, I don't know what you might mean. Perhaps I just came over to see how you were doing? This was once my house, you know? Once it was my kitchen you are eating in, my drawing room you lie around in."
"If you change your mind and feel you might want to deliver the message, you know where to find me," Harry told the painting and turned to leave.
"Fine. The noble headmaster sent me with news for you. No, not about that rat you asked about. Professor Snape hasn't found a clue about him. You might be interested to hear about the new policy being prepared at Hogwarts, by the way – harsher punishments for disobedient children. It seems your rebellious companions have caused a bit too much trouble. Someone has created self-duplicating frogs, they are swarming all around school and any attempt at removing them has only sped up the multiplication. The boy, Longbottom, is rumoured to have painted subversive slogans around the school. Professor Snape tries to smooth it over, but with three professors calling for it, he won't have much choice in the matter."
"Glad to hear he tries to keep the students safe," Harry pointed out. "So what is this news you were sent to me for?"
"Patience. Professor Snape was called to his master's side during the night. He came back both in bad shape and surprisingly cheerful mood. This morning, he ordered me – ordered me! Can you imagine that? – to tell you about what he had learned." Nigellus paused, stroking his chin importantly. When Harry didn't speak up, he huffed and continued, "Your aunt died yesterday. The Dark Lord's followers had found her a while ago, it seems, and wanted to capture her, likely to lure you out of hiding. Yesterday, they decided to act."
"So he's finally turning his attention in my direction, is he?" Harry concluded. "Well, about time, I'd say. He had enough time to strengthen his grip on the nation. So they killed her?"
Nigellus frowned. "No, they didn't. Whatever she did, it proved to be effective. The house she lived in had been turned into a trap, it seems. Somehow, either she or someone else set it off. It caused considerable damage –the house is nothing more than a ruin – and killed two Death Eaters and seriously injured a third, ripping them apart with some Muggle contraption."
Harry gaped at the painting. "She... Petunia? She killed Death Eaters? She took three of them with her?" He laughed at the absurdity.
"Two, with a third seriously hurt. It seems so, yes. Why do you and Professor Snape find that to be funny? We are talking about the deaths of upstanding, proper citizens, butchered by a mere Muggle."
Harry shook his head. "Sorry, I'm sure it is tragic and all, but I try to imagine Petunia Dursley actually doing that. Unbelievable. I guess I owe her an apology sometime." He chuckled. So his aunt had had more backbone than he had given her credit for. He also realized the last time he had seen or talked to her, she had struggled to do the right thing as well. No matter how much it had cost her or how many years too late it had been, she had told Harry about his mother. So somewhere deep in that blackened, vile heart had still been a spark of courage.
With another jolt, Harry jumped as he thought of something. "What about his husband? Or her son?"
Nigellus rolled his eyes. "Do they really matter?" Seeing the look on Harry's face, the late headmaster sighed. "The husband was killed in late July, trying to escape his workplace, from what I remember."
"And you didn't feel the need to mention that?" Harry asked, glaring at his ancestor. No matter how despicable Vernon Dursley had been in life, he had still been Harry's uncle. Had Nigellus really not cared about passing on the news about the man's passing?
"He was a Muggle," Nigellus answered. "There are far too many of them to keep track of each and every little creature on earth or in the ground. And he is a bit of both now." He paused, thinking about something Harry wasn't sure he wanted to know. "You also asked about her son. He stayed with her, so he was killed as well. The headmaster wasn't concerned with him, and I don't see any reason why you should."
"So they are all dead," Harry thought, but secretly, he doubted it. Petunia Dursley would never have killed her son. So Dudley was likely somewhere else. He had escaped and might be hiding somewhere. "Well, that's..."
"... how it is. Life goes on," Nigellus finished. "Well, not theirs, obviously. Since I am already here, tell that wretched house-elf to do his work properly. This is still a Black property, and he is obligated to keep it in shape, even if a half-blood is currently the Head of House."
"I can see why you were the most unpopular headmaster the school ever had," Harry told the painting, frowning. "How could someone like you ever become a headmaster in the first place?"
"No doubt that ungrateful Sirius has been filling your head with his stories?" Nigellus sneered. "I became headmaster not only because did I help improve the school, I also abolished the practice of having separate living quarters for those of impure descent. Who do you think disliked me? The purebloods were furious at first, having their children sleep in the same room as Mudbloods. Not that I had any choice in the matter – what were we supposed to do with them and their increasing numbers? – but it was still my name that was associated with it."
"You really don't endear yourself. You know that, don't you?" Harry asked rhetorically. His fingers were itching to burn the painting. If it had worked for Mrs. Black, why shouldn't he try it again with Nigellus?
"I had no use for Muggles when I was alive. I see no reason to now. And why should I particularly care for their spawn? Without a name for themselves or gold in their vaults, they're a drain on our resources more often than not. Tell me, foolish boy, are you really upset about those dead Muggles? Do you regret their loss? Be happy at least one of them didn't prove to be completely useless to your cause."
Well, that's it for Petunia.
.
Corrected a small mistake.
