Posted 1/30/2015

.

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 Sixty-Three - Pansy's Night

.

It was almost a torture, Hermione decided, watching Ron settle in. Maybe it was a secret test of Harry's? Maybe he wanted to see how long she could keep her mouth shut and not act upon her first impulses to correct, to educate, and to have her way.

"So," she told Ron, pushing her thoughts aside, "the key to Occlumency is to hide, to distract, and to push out. You know as much from when Harry was supposed to learn it. Well, there are different ways to go about it, actually, and ideally, we would first see how your mind works. Some people are more orderly and able to keep their emotions in check. They'd basically force themselves not to think about something they want to hide. Others are more in tune with their emotions; they struggle with controlling what goes on in their heads."

From the way Ron froze mid-movement and narrowed his eyes, Hermione guessed he took offence with something she said, and hurried to add, "This is the reason why Harry had trouble with Professor Snape's instructions. It's trying to put an octagon in a square-shaped hole. Professor Snape tried a method that just doesn't suit Harry, but neither is inherently better or worse.

"As I was saying, ideally, we would try figuring out how your mind works first. However, I think we can speed the process up somewhat and just try redirection and overwhelming for your Occlumency lessons. Mind you, I loved figuring out how my mind actually works; it's part of learning the skill for a reason – you do understand yourself better. But not only does it take time we might not have in our current situation, it also requires a fair share of theory that won't help you all that much outside of the mental arts and other advanced fields of magic – and we both..." She broke off, pursing her lips as she chided herself for her relapse into her old mindset. " What I meant to say is that we can probably try the different styles from likeliest to unlikeliest."

"And you decided to start with redirection and... overwhelming?" Ron asked, frowning in thought.

"Well, I think I have a hunch about how your mind works already. I did watch you in school for over five years," she replied with a chuckle. A moment later, she fought down the impulse to clarify her statement – she hadn't watched Ron as such, she had seen how he had worked in class and how he solved his problems. "I did check your assignments a lot, didn't I? Anyway, yes, I think those two might be a good start. If you don't mind, I'd say we start with redirection first. Not only is it a style I considered myself, it's also something you might have the least problems with."

"And I'd have problems with the others?" Ron spoke up.

Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "The mind arts aren't fun and games, Ron. It's either learning to keep your head even when you know someone is searching your mind – and let's be honest, neither Harry nor you are that good with keeping control – or acting on impulse. From what Harry said, he taught himself to overwhelm anyone trying to enter his head with... Well... To be honest, I don't know what he'd show them, but it's likely some nonsense the intruders would have to sort through. We could try that as well, but I'm thinking redirection might be better for you. It's about giving the intruder something they don't want. Since we're on a tight schedule, either might work fine – instead of reworking the way you think, we might try some conditioning. The moment someone attacked your mind, you'd instinctively give them something else of little to no value. Chess, for example. Or Quidditch."

"'Of little to no value'?" Ron repeated, glaring at her.

"In a fight for your life? Yes," Hermione argued. "It's... Look, when Harry learned it, he didn't know he'd need it anytime soon, but he might have to use it one day. When I learned it, I thought I wouldn't need it, but I found it fascinating. Neither of us was in as much of a hurry as you are. You don't need to be an expert; all you really have to know is how to detect someone trying to enter your mind and some way to stop them momentarily to buy you enough time to avert your eyes and run."

"I thought this was about me learning to protect myself," Ron grumbled. "How's running away helping me?"

"It's about protecting the secrets in your head, Ronald," Hermione ground out between clenched teeth. A moment later, she sighed, relaxing slightly. "Harry and I told you as much. This isn't about months or years in the distant future. This is about preparing you as soon as possible. This isn't about you looking good or being courageous and facing the threat head-on. It's about Harry, you and I. It's about Moody, Tonks, your parents's involvement, about Professor Snape and our friends at Hogwarts. It's about keeping the resistance safe."

Ron narrowed his eyes in thought. It looked like hard work, a voice in the back of Hermione's head sneered, making her feel bad for thinking it.

"Redirection, then," Ron spoke up. He didn't look overly happy, but he seemed to have accepted Hermione's reasoning.

"Right," Hermione said, giving him what she hoped would look like an encouraging smile. "Well, what I had in mind is divided in two parts. The first part is about detecting the attack taking place, and the best I could think of is what Professor Snape tried with Harry."

"Forcing his way into Harry's head?" Ron asked, snorting. "Worked splendidly, didn't it?"

"Attacking, yes," Hermione replied with a carefully controlled voice. "However, the lack of progress with Snape probably resulted from the animosity towards Harry. And vice versa, of course. It has a lot to do with trust and respect." She gave Ron a look, daring him to contradict or voice his lack of trust in her. "Of course, it doesn't have to be quite as aggressive as Harry described it. It fact, I'm more worried about the subtle attempts. Even as you are now, I'd expect you to notice the metaphorical punch in the face. You might not notice the pickpocketing, though." From the way Ron frowned, he seemed to agree with her. "I could try telling you what it feels like or how to figure out whether someone's entering your mind, but... Well, when have you ever listened to one of my lectures?" She laughed, belatedly noticing how much it hurt to admit it. Once more, she pushed her thoughts aside, focusing on the matter at hand. "Well, you're more a show kind of guy, so I'll try getting into your head. The second part is having you immediately react whenever you notice a Legilimency attack."

"By giving them something about Quidditch or Chess," Ron finished the thought.

"Or something else any attacker won't have much use for," Hermione agreed. "I chose those two because you're familiar enough with both so that you can probably remember some detail about both at the drop of a hat. I wouldn't be surprised if you dreamed about either or both. There are also not really that many secrets connected to those two; anything you know about either can probably be found elsewhere as well."

"Right," Ron said, "so how do we do this, then?"


With a roll of her eyes, Pansy led the way.

"No, I'm serious," Macmillan insisted. "Don't ask me where she found it, she claims it had something to do with that dream, but it doesn't matter. You should have seen my uncle's face. Lost for centuries, sought by many, found by a three-year-old. Of course, we're talking about a three-year-old, so..."

"Shh," Pansy interrupted him, holding up her hand.

"Heard something?" Macmillan asked a bit too loudly for Pansy's liking. Then again, after hearing the boy prattle on for what felt like hours, any noise from him was too loud for her liking. Instead of answering, she sent him a pointed glare, which shut him up.

Straining her ears, Pansy listened, unsure of whether she had been mistaken. Her eyes darted around the corridor more out of worry than actual sense of duty. The students were already stressed out as it was, and accidents tended to happen when people were cornered. Hadn't Patil gotten into a tussle just three nights ago? And whatever for? Two love-birds who didn't want to be seen together. Pansy wasn't sure who she pitied more – the couple since the noise had made Professor Carrow come to check, or Patil for not only getting shouted at for wasting precious time.

When she felt quite sure she had been mistaken, Pansy relaxed slightly, sighing.

"Just your nerves playing you a trick?" Macmillan asked. The urge to curse him growing stronger than it had been for weeks, Pansy bit back the reply and continued on her path, not caring whether Macmillan followed.

"You know, Pansy –" Macmillan mused, scratching his cheek.

"Parkinson," she growled.

"Well, err, yes, Parkinson. You know," he said, only missing half a step before returning to strutting again, "when I got my badge, I was really happy. An honour, my mother said. My father was very proud, of course, as was my sister. But I didn't expect it to turn out like this. I thought I'd be..." He drifted off, waving his hands around uncertainly. "Well, respectable, if nothing else. Offering guidance to students in need, speaking out in their name to right some wrong, occasionally doing rounds. Occasionally, not constantly. And not hunting down fellow students who for the most part have done nothing worse than sneaking out or something."

As much as she wanted to disagree with his statement, if only out of principle, she couldn't. Ever since they had returned to school, things had gotten worse rapidly. While the initial plan for patrols all through the night had been rejected, the Carrows had extended the patrols to well after midnight. Security had increased significantly, with random searches of dorms taking place almost daily and following secret tips from snitches.

Or that had been the story the Carrows had put out, which had led to general mistrust. Everyone had suspected everyone else, with any form of friendships or alliances crushed. And naturally, with the Prefects working with – or for? The lines had become blurred around November – the Carrows who were seen as cruel and the enemy by far too many, no one trusted the Prefects any more. Even the first-years had avoided them, some even going so far as to glare. It had stung more than Pansy had wanted to admit, even to herself.

True, once the students had realized it had been nothing more than a bunch of lies to keep them from banding together and potentially creating the snitches, making the lies come true, things had improved again, but only a bit.

Thinking about it, Pansy had to force down yet another wave of melancholy. She missed her friends. Daphne, who might still be alive somewhere, but likely hiding until no one was looking for her any more. Maybe she had gotten away and moved somewhere safe and sunny? And Pansy also missed both Millicent and Tracey. As much as they had annoyed Pansy from time to time with their quirks, they had still been quite close. But now, with both of them working with Longbottom and the other rebellious students, they had to be far too careful about what they talked about. Pansy couldn't complain to them about the many injustices she had to endure and take part in. She couldn't confide in them like she had used to, for fear they might one day get caught and interrogated. And worse, it wasn't just a question of trust. Pansy was sure neither Millicent nor Tracey would willingly give up any secrets, but as Pansy had learned, that didn't mean there weren't ways to extract secrets from people anyway.

With a shudder, Pansy pushed the memory of Wickson's interrogation out of her mind. No, she wasn't to blame for it. It hadn't been her fault, not her duty to step in, yet she couldn't quite shake the feeling that she should have. Maybe she could have...

The clatter of an armour made her stop.

She didn't have to try too hard this time – she could hear someone moving down the corridor.

"They're up and about," Macmillan said, his voice echoing in the hallway. Shock on his part? Or had he tried to warn whoever was about?

Pansy decided it had to have been shock. If she couldn't trust her fellow Prefects, how could she ask others to trust her? Macmillan was many things, and a pureblood was one of them. He wouldn't work against the pureblood movement. He wasn't a blood traitor. He had been investigated after Bones and Abbott had shown their true colours. Macmillan had been cleared of all suspicion, or he wouldn't have stayed Prefect.

"Might just be a rat. Or maybe someone's cat?" he added in more of a whisper. Still too loud, Pansy guessed, but an improvement.

It could have been a cat, she thought, but it hadn't been. She knew she should have gotten herself one of those Weasley sweets; it was better being sick in the hospital wing than having patrol duty while Potter's friends got up to some nonsense. Professor Carrow had been very clear about her threats to whoever failed her the next time. The subversive slogans had been bad enough, but when someone had managed to smuggle some kind of incendiary into the stack of classroom assignments, it seemed like Potter's lot had crossed a line. It had been a declaration of war, in a way.

"Come on," Pansy told Macmillan with a sigh. "We have to investigate." And do what, exactly, Pansy wondered in her head.

Reasonably, she knew she should hand everyone over they could catch in the act. It was why they were tasked with patrolling in the first place, after all – to catch any miscreants and see to it they were punished. However, the punishments left a bad taste in Pansy's mouth as of late. Seeing those who had slighted her in the past writhe in agony had been thrilling, but not the way she had expected it to. It hadn't been satisfying, for one – the nagging feeling had grown in the pit of her stomach until it had reached the point where she couldn't deny the truth any longer. Despite what she had wanted to make herself believe, she had gone down the wrong path, had allied herself with the wrong kind of people. The social hierarchy she had been taught to fight for – pureblood supremacy – preferably at the cost of those of lesser birth, had lost a lot of its appeal to Pansy after witnessing the price that some had to pay for it. Was it really worth it? Did it have to be that way? Using the detentions to teach those willing to do it how to torture and break people's spirit was... And she knew the kind of people who were drawn to that kind of power didn't necessarily bother justifying their actions before long. She had seen what that kind of freedom had done to some.

Sneaking down the hallway, Pansy let her eyes adjust to the darkness around her. They'd investigate, she decided. Of course they would, she corrected herself only moments later, it was their duty to. She only hoped it would turn out to be nothing more than some idiots not thinking about the consequences.

All the way down the corridor, she saw nothing suspicious, but she couldn't quite shake the feeling something wasn't right. Some might call it a sense of foreboding or even attribute it to some form of precognition, but to Pansy, it was only reasonable. She knew someone was around. Whatever had caused the armour to rattle had to be around. It couldn't have been a cat or something equally harmless; not this night, not with her on duty. In fact, she wouldn't have been surprised if whoever was behind the trouble at Hogwarts – likely Potter's friends, but despite being watched and tailed for days, they hadn't been caught doing anything they shouldn't have – had picked the night, knowing Pansy would be on duty and get in trouble with Professor Carrow.

It took her a moment to realize Macmillan wasn't following any more. Annoyed, she turned around to glare at him for... Well, she knew she could always think about a good enough reason later on. However, she found him staring at a message on the wall. Or rather, Pansy noticed, part of one that moved like the advertisements from the Quidditch World Cup, but written in letters of dancing flames.

Partly and reluctantly awed by the impressive piece of magic, it took her a moment to realize she was watching a list of names, some of which she knew, others unfamiliar, each accompanied by what seemed birth dates. Many also had a date of death or what seemed like additional information.

Kenneth Parks, *19th of July 1934, +21st of December 1997. Killed in Ministry custody, falsely accused of crimes against Wizarding Britain.

Alicia Spinnet, *8th of March 1978. Freedom fighter. Arrested and held hostage. Imprisoned, but not forgotten.

Penelope Clearwater, *29th of May 1976. Arrested while warding Muggle dwellings. Imprisoned, but not forgotten.

Abigail Monroe, *3rd of February 1983, +early November 1997. Muggleborn. Freedom fighter. Possibly victim of a dark ritual.

Colin Creevey, *24th of July 1981, +17th of January 1998. Freedom fighter. Defended a Muggle settlement. Burned alive by drunken mob, two of which he managed to injure fatally during the initial struggle.

Millicent Bagnold, *1st of October 1941. Former Minister of Magic. Arrested to silence a voice of opposition. Imprisoned, but not forgotten.

Charity Burbage, *13th of July 1951, +17th of August 1997. Pro-Muggle leanings and too open-minded. Boiled alive.

Kevin Entwhistle, *10th of November 1979, + 11th of January 1998. Muggleborn. Fatally injured by werewolf.

Barnabas Cuffe, *29th of August 1961. Editor-In-Chief of the Daily Prophet. Arrested for subversive leanings after permitting an article about the Ministry's failings. Imprisoned, but not forgotten.

THE DAY OF RECKONING WILL COME.

VOLDEMORT WILL PAY.

FOR THE INNOCENTS. FOR THE FALSELY ACCUSED. FOR THOSE WHO SUFFERED FOR WHAT IS RIGHT.

THE RESISTANCE LIVES ON.

Pansy shook off her trance just as the last message flashed across the wall. Only when it was gone did she notice the shimmer of flames from outside. With a sinking feeling of dread, she glanced outside to see the message repeating itself on the walls of the school in giant letters. It really wasn't her lucky night.


With an annoyed shake of his head, Harry vanished the remains of the birds around him. Still not fast enough, he scolded himself. Deciding to focus elsewhere for the rest of the day, he amused himself with conjuring a target dummy and unleashing a torrent of dangerous spells that reduced the dummy to a smoking pile of ash before long.

Riddle had done all he could to learn as much about destructive magic as he could, and Harry had been quite satisfied to notice the Blackthorn wand was quite willing to use considerably darker magic. Maybe it was a sign, Harry mused as he replaced the dummy. Maybe he had needed to lose his old wand in order to grow. His old wand had been a match for his old self; just as he had been the anti-thesis to Voldemort - one fighting to destroy, one to preserve – so had their wands been on opposite ends. Yew symbolizing the end of life, holly representing life. The old wand had done what Harry had asked from it, but it hadn't responded quite so well to harmful magic. The Blackthorn wand was the weapon of a warrior, and dangerous and risky magic felt almost like running down a hill – the wand seemed to love the thrill of it.

The wand chose the wizard, Ollivander had said. Well, there was some truth to it, Harry decided. If wands had some kind of personality, it was perfectly logical that some wands simply didn't fit a wizard. Magic was odd that way, Riddle had learned during his travels to discover its secrets. Oddly enough, it had taken Riddle years to truly understand that magic was less about clear orders and more about intent – that wand movements and incantations were mostly chosen instead of determined by some mysterious force. Should Harry feel proud he had made that connection as a student? Dumbledore had said not many realized it so early in life.

With a swish, Harry sent a sweeping cutting curse at the dummy, slicing it in half.

If only it were that simple with Voldemort. If only it would have come down to learning a single spell, but Harry knew he couldn't plan around that. And he still wasn't any closer to coming up with something to make Riddle come out of hiding.

What would make Harry leave Grimmauld Place? He wasn't sure about it. Rescuing the twins had made him storm into action, but Riddle didn't care enough about anyone to come to their aid. He might come if Harry and his friends attacked the Ministry, but only if the Ministry couldn't deal with it. Did the Order have the strength to take on the entire Ministry? Harry doubted it.

With a sigh, he vanished the remains and glanced at his watch. If he hurried, he might get a bit of reading in before dinner. Or maybe if Daphne wasn't busy...

Casting a quick Homenum Revelio, he noticed two other people in the house. Hermione was in her room where he had last seen her. Ron was in the kitchen, probably eating his fill. Daphne wasn't to be found. He tried the spell once more, but the result didn't change. Odd, he mused. She couldn't have left, he knew as much. In the months she had stayed at Grimmauld Place first as his reluctant guest, then as his friend, lately as more than that, she hadn't once left the house.

And then, he remembered something else. Yes, the spell checked everywhere in the house, everywhere but the compressed space right next to the drawing room. Was it possible that some kind of magic hid it from Harry's spell? It sounded reasonable, at least. Magic was strange sometimes. Or maybe not, he realized. The compressed space would perhaps also distort the magical core. Or perhaps the library didn't follow the same rules, much like a house under a Fidelius charm couldn't been seen.

How did that work, Harry wondered, casually strolling through the hallway. Reasonably speaking, the house was still there, so the two or three steps from Number Eleven to Thirteen should actually be around a dozen or more. Had no Muggle ever wondered how long it took to get from one house to the other? Did they forget walking past Number Twelve? Or did the spell somehow twist space to allow people to walk past in a single step? And what if a car was parked outside? Would it be stretched so front and rear could be in front of Numbers Eleven and Thirteen? On the other hand, maybe Number Twelve was actually hidden in compressed space that only those who knew the secret would see unfold? And what did it look like whenever someone entered said space?

But then, Harry thought with a chuckle, if he had learned anything from the memories he had absorbed from Riddle, then that magic didn't make sense. It just was a form of chaos, and looking for rhyme or reason was futile.

Walking to the picture and entrance to the hidden library, Harry forced himself not to grin. Daphne being in the Library seemed reasonable. Both Ron and Hermione were busy elsewhere, which meant he'd be alone with his wife and likely uninterrupted for a while. It had been far too long since they'd last had such an opportunity for a bit of snogging, and he was quite sure Daphne wouldn't mind rectifying that. He wouldn't, at least, and he wouldn't mind a bit of unwinding.

Since the library consisted of only two floors with few hiding places, he didn't have to look for long. Daphne lay in one of the chairs in the working area snoring lightly, an open book lying on her chest. She looked quite peaceful, if a bit uncomfortable.

He chuckled and debated over waking her up. In the end, he walked over and picked up the book first. It was about complicated charms, he noticed, but not combat spells. It was about colour-changing clothes and items, about the intricate relation of magic and mind and senses. The basic idea – and he had to admit it sounded interesting – was to create items that changed colour to reflect the person touching it. Even though Harry doubted the example from the book of a colour-changing robe to share between two sisters with different preferences was the best application, he already started wondering about other possible uses. A ball could be spelled to change colour with the player who touched it last. Even if the eye wasn't fast enough, the magic would tell who played it last, settling some disputes. Or the spells could be used to assign certain colours to people, for example blue for Hermione. If applied to a doorknob, it would suddenly be possible to tell just who was at the door. With an added Protean, he could know just who had entered the house or room without checking first. Or it could be made into an identity check. Instead of asking security questions of which the answers could be guessed or forcibly extracted, people would use the charm, only trusting those who were identified by the magic.

But could it be tricked? He didn't know. Maybe Daphne could tell him, or they might have to sit down with Hermione. Between the two witches, they'd come up with an answer, he guessed, putting the book down.

Daphne shifted in her sleep, frowning and stiffening slightly. It made Harry take a closer look at her. Her eyes seemed to jump behind her lids, and her hands were balled up at her side.

She had a bad dream again, Harry guessed, wondering for a moment when he had learned to read her like that. Maybe it had to do with his own experiences with nightmares. While his had gotten less common over the last few weeks, he still had a lifetime of memories from Harry to draw from.

Despite himself, he couldn't help but smile slightly at her quivering lower lip.

Bending low over her, he whispered her name and gently touched her shoulder. She blinked blearily at him for perhaps a second before she jerked back, and with something of a gasp or breathless scream, she kicked out, pushing as far back in the chair as she could.

Harry stumbled back. Her kick had hit his left thigh, luckily, instead of elsewhere, but it had been a close call and quite forceful. Catching himself, he looked at her and found her staring back with wide eyes. Unbidden, the image of cornered prey came to his mind. He doubted she really saw him, until something shifted in her expression and the fear was replaced by shock.

"Oh," she gasped, her eyes jumping between his face, his hands, and the leg she had hit. "Oh, I'm sorry I... You startled me," she said, sounding both apologetic and slightly accusing as she jumped to her feet. "I'm sorry, Harry, I..."

"It's... no, not all right, but don't worry about that. It's... you startled me," he told her, ignoring the pain in his leg to put on a brave face. He laughed, scratching the back of his head. "I've had worse, you know?"

"I... Well, still, I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to," she repeated, taking his arm to lead him to one of the chairs. Though needless, it seemed to calm her to do something, and Harry wasn't about to complain about having her close either.

Being close to her also gave him another opportunity to get a good look. She seemed pale – not surprising after months in a gloomy house – and tired, but more than that, she also seemed … distracted, he decided in the end. Or troubled? Yes, troubled was the better term. There was a hint of the Daphne she had been during her first week at Grimmauld Place, which in turn made Harry uneasy.

"I can see that, Daphne," he tried, giving her a smile she answered with a shaky one of her own. As if to make it even worse, she tried a laugh, but only managed a nervous, unconvincing titter.

"I... it was a bad dream, nothing more," she replied with a sigh. "Nothing for you to worry about, Harry."

"Too late for that. I've seen you be jumpy before, you remember? I know there's some reason for it, even if you haven't told me about it." When she tried to disagree, he raised his hand. "I'm not complaining, just stating a fact that something's missing. I know you have nightmares occasionally. Or had them, at least. They were the reason you learned Occlumency. But I thought you had them under control now. If this is how you usually wake up..."

"I do," she told him, not quite meeting his eye. "It's gotten better, it helped me. I just... Nevermind."

"Daphne..."

"Don't 'Daphne' me," she pleaded. "It's... look, not everything is... it has nothing to do with you, and I'm sorry you... I'm sorry, all right? It's just..." She sighed, pursing her lips. "You should focus on what's important. You're at war with the Ministry; you're vilified as an enemy of the state. In a way, that is."

Harry sighed, considering his words carefully. "I still care about you," he told her. "We're friends. We're..." he hesitated, unsure how to put it. "We're also something else. You are a pretty nice girl… woman," he amended, "and I like you and want to help you. Just because there's a war going on, just because I have other responsibilities that are important doesn't mean you aren't or that I can't take a few moments for... bad dreams? And I certainly don't want to scare you accidentally, but unless I know what it was, how can I be sure it won't happen again? And don't try blaming the dream for all of it, I can see there'S something else there."

"I'm sorry I kicked you, I..."

"This isn't about the kick, Daphne, far from it. What do I care whether you send a kick or two after me? But if something as small as me waking you up from a dream can cause this..."

"You're the one to talk," she interrupted. "You blasted me across the room, remember?"

"Ah, that, yes. I didn't recognize you and believed you an attacker. I can't allow myself to be killed like that. So is that it? Did you confuse me with an attacker?"

Her left eye twitched, but she kept quiet for a moment. Harry felt like an idiot for not seeing it before – Malfoy. The anniversary of their first run-in on St. Valentine's Day was drawing nearer. Had it really been a year already?

She frowned at him. "Who is Tom?"

Harry blinked. "Tom? Where... Why are you asking that?" He was about to run a hand through his hair, but stopped himself at the last second. Instead, he scratched his cheek to explain the raised hand.

"You mentioned him during your talk with Granger. 'If Tom can do it, so can I,' you said. I hadn't thought about it too much at the time, but... Well, there isn't much to do around here, and with everything going on, I started wondering. So who is Tom?"

"He's just someone I know," Harry tried.

"I only know two Toms. The barman of the Leaky Cauldron is one, but I cannot see him working for either side. He's a businessman, at most he will be inclined to worry about his income, should he work for either, even in secret. He cannot risk opposing the Ministry. The other one is Tom Riddle, and I doubt you'd work with him. Also, you had mentioned the Dark Lord before, saying he had done that replacing of limbs in a graveyard. The one you were brought to after the Third Task?"

"That one, yes," Harry confirmed. "A hand for Pettigrew."

"You said that already. Pettigrew, Peter?"

"Err, yes. I told you that already," Harry replied.

"You called him Pettigrew. I just never really thought much about him. Not my place since he seems to be more your business anyway. But you mentioned him in your interview with that... the Quibbler. Escaped justice by blaming his supposed friend Black for the betrayal?"

"That's the one, yes. When Sirius escaped and caught him, he fled to his master's side almost immediately. He's been busy for Riddle. Once a cowardly henchman, always a cowardly henchman, I guess."

"He cut his hand off just because he was asked to? Or ordered, more likely?" Daphne mused.

"You don't refuse orders from the Dark Lord," Harry agreed with a shrug. "And Pettigrew isn't courageous. Strange that he got into Gryffindor, the spineless piece of –"

"Where should he have ended up, then?" Daphne asked with a raised eyebrow. "It doesn't seem like he was loyal or hard-working."

"Not really, I guess," Harry conceded. "And apparently not particularly bright either."

"Which only leaves Slytherin or Gryffindor. Thanks, but no thanks, Slytherin doesn't really need his kind. We've got a bad enough reputation as it is." She shook her head. "So, Tom then."

Harry shrugged, secretly trying to think of the best way to avoid outright lying while still not telling the truth. "Tom is just someone I know. More of an advisor than anything. Not really taking part in the actual war, but quite talented with magic of all sorts and inquisitive, so it's likely he could figure out Riddle neat trick with those replacements."

"If he's to learn one of the Dark Lord's pieces of magic no one has heard of before, I think he has to," Daphne agreed with a nod, still contemplating Harry's words.

"But it doesn't matter right now," Harry told her, in part to stop her from asking more questions he didn't want to answer honestly and in full. "You claimed that I had enough to do with the war. If so, then figuring out how to replace my arm doesn't seem as pressing a matter right now. There'll be enough time to look into it after the war, assuming... Well, that that nothing else comes up, I guess," he finished, not wanting to voice the possibility of his death. "For some reason, there always seems to be something just popping up. Who knows, maybe there'll be... oh, how about a dragon rampage? That'd be something new, right? Something the great and powerful Chosen One might be asked to help with?"

"Or they'd ask you to help them rebuild the Ministry," Daphne replied with a raised eyebrow. "Months of boring desk work, thousands of memos on Pixie droppings in Muggle food to take care of..."

"Well, or that, yes," Harry laughed.

"You'd replace it?" Daphne asked, glancing at the hand sticking out of his sleeve.

"Not sure, really," Harry told her.

"If you did, it wouldn't be yours any more, would it? Just a piece of... of whatever that hand of Pettigrew's is made of. Are you sure it's even a proper hand?"

"He crushed a twig with it," Harry answered. "He could grab and use tools with it, so I'm guessing it does work properly."

She reached out to take his scarred hand, gently brushing her fingers over the skin. "You feel that?" she asked with a sad smile.

Harry fought down the grin he felt threaten to appear on his face. "I do, yes. You know, I –"

"Can you say the same about Pettigrew's?" Daphne interrupted, letting go of his hand. When he didn't answer, she nodded slowly, pursing her lips. "Then it might not be working as well as you think."


Colin's courageous battle - The greatest story never told.

.

Corrected Riddle's wand.