Chapter 18: He Who Walked Free
The following weekend brought another trip to Hogsmeade, and in contrast with the first, this one was highly anticipated not only by Hogwarts students but by their guests as well. Ron, Dean, and Seamus joined a large crowd of fourth and fifth-year boys following shamelessly in Fleur Delacour's wake. Not far behind were Cedric and his group of friends, noticeably larger than before, and Viktor Krum, pursued as ever by his chattering fan club. Ginny and Theo were whispering excitedly about something, but as they left the Great Hall, Hermione slipped away and doubled back. Harry was still sitting at the end of the Gryffindor table, alone aside from a few groups of younger students, staring into space and absentmindedly pulverizing a bit of egg with a fork. He didn't look up as she approached, and jumped half a foot in the air when she sat.
"Yes?" he said irritably, when he'd recovered.
"Going into Hogsmeade?" she asked pointedly. Harry rolled his eyes.
"Does it look like I'm going into Hogsmeade?" She sighed.
"It looks like you're moping around while everyone else enjoys themselves." Predictably, Harry was not amused.
"Well, gee, I wonder why that could be," he snapped. Perhaps it was the early hour, or the foul weather outside, or the mound of Potions homework awaiting her upstairs, undefeated even by Draco's best efforts, but suddenly, Hermione had had enough. She folded her arms and drew herself up to her full height, hoping very much that she looked exactly like Mrs. Weasley on the morning they'd left for the World Cup.
"You've got ten seconds to finish your breakfast," she told him, keeping her voice dangerously soft. "And then we're going. And all of this-" she broke off and gestured broadly toward his face, "is getting quite old, so if you're anything less than perfectly pleasant toward me today I'll make sure you regret it, and if you don't believe me just ask yourself which of us knows more hexes." Just as she'd hoped, the color drained from Harry's face and his mouth hung slightly open as if he'd suffered a stroke. With an impatient sound in her throat, she snatched the front of his sweater and yanked; it was no small source of satisfaction when he yelped and stumbled away from the table, panting as he fought against her grip.
"Hermione, I don't-hey-Hermione!"
"Your ten seconds are up!" she called over her shoulder, and took great pleasure in physically dragging him from the Hall. Harry clawed himself free as they reached the staircase leading out of the Entrance Hall, and threw himself from her with a snarl.
"You're cracked," he snapped, arms flailing in a violent and ineffective attempt to smooth his sweater. She waved this away.
"Come on!" She set off toward Gryffindor Tower without waiting for an answer, and with a moments' hesitation and a few choice words muttered under his breath, Harry followed.
"Er-Hermione?" he asked in an entirely different tone, as they stepped into the seventh floor corridor.
"What?"
"Well, it's just...d'you really think it's a good idea…?"
"Do I think what's a good idea? Balderdash," she added to the Fat Lady, and yanked Harry through the portrait hole after her.
"I can't go into Hogsmeade with you!" cried Harry. "That Skeeter woman, she's going to see, and I would've thought-I mean, you're the one who's…" he made a vague and helpless gesture at the air in front of him, and before she could think better of it, Hermione laughed.
"I'm really not worried one way or another about Draco at the moment." Harry froze, frowned deeply at her for what seemed a very long time, and then his face lit up.
"I've got it," he told her. "Wait here." Before Hermione could protest, Harry flew upstairs toward the boys' dormitory. Moments later, footsteps descended the spiral staircase, but Harry was nowhere to be seen. It was all Hermione could do to avoid groaning aloud.
"Oh, Harry, for heaven's sake, not the stupid Cloak!" she cried. "I can't talk to you in that thing, I won't know whether I'm looking at you or not-"
"Doesn't matter-"
"-People will think I'm talking to myself-"
"-Don't move your lips when you talk, then-"
"-And I'll look like an idiot, walking around on my own!"
But Harry wasn't to be dissuaded. And so, annoyed and relieved in equal measure, Hermione relented and set off back through the castle and down the familiar road into Hogsmeade, apparently quite alone.
"This is ridiculous," she hissed in what she hoped was Harry's general direction, as they joined the crowd shoving its way into Honeydukes. "Just take it off, nobody's going to notice in here…"
"Don't be stupid, we won't have to pay," murmured Harry's voice from somewhere in the vicinity of her left arm. Hermione froze.
"You can't steal from-"
"I'm joking." He was. Even invisible, Hermione could sense the smile creeping its way onto Harry's face, probably in spite of his valiant efforts to squash it. She was seized by the strong urge to throw her arms around him, and instead coped by fighting the throng to buy him the largest bit of treacle fudge she could find, which she slipped under his cloak as they elbowed their way out of the shop.
"Let's go and have a butterbeer," said Harry, with a light tug on Hermione's jacket. "It's freezing."
Hermione gave him the slyest grin she dared under the circumstances.
"Of course," she whispered. "As soon as you take off the Cloak." Harry made an exasperated sound in his throat.
"Hermione, I already told you-"
"Well, it's bad enough walking around on my own, I'm not sitting alone in the Three Broomsticks as well," she hissed, lowering her voice substantially as a few older Slytherins sauntered past. One of them stumbled and swore, narrowly missing a fall to the sodden pavement.
"Watch it, Granger!" he snapped, hiding his crimson face as he rushed onward with his friends.
"Sorry," muttered Harry. "He's got really big feet, to be fair." Hermione sighed.
"That's it." She made a wild grab to her left and felt the familiar silvery fabric of the Invisibility Cloak. "C'mon." Ignoring his gasps of protest, she dragged Harry up the high street, out of the bustle of the town square, and into the secluded clearing frequented only by those who wanted a glimpse of the Shrieking Shack. Finding it mercifully deserted, they watched the wind blow a loose and extremely tattered bit of curtain in and out of a shattered second-floor window.
"D'you know, it's not very exciting to look at when you've been inside," mused Harry, after a moment. He was right, but she'd be damned if she admitted it.
"Thanks," she said instead. "For coming out, I mean. It's good for you, I think." Harry was quiet for a few minutes.
"I'm sorry," he said finally. "About the Prophet article, and…" he gulped. "Well, about everything, I suppose." Hermione frowned.
"Harry, that article isn't your fault."
"I know, but…" he paused. "You're not upset?"
"At you? No." Harry gave a dry attempt at a laugh.
"I reckon you're just about the only one." He was trying for wry humor, but the catch in his voice was enough to break her heart.
"Harry…" what on earth could she say?
Hermione had just begun to wonder whether Harry had slipped away when he gave a soft groan.
"You've got to be joking." She frowned.
"Wha-?"
"There you are," said Draco's voice, answering her question before she could ask it. "Ginny said you'd given her the slip, but I really didn't think it'd be to stare at an old house all morning."
"Get rid of him," snarled Harry's voice, inches from her left ear. She took a tiny step backward, relishing his sharp intake of breath as she trod on his foot.
"This happens to be a fascinating historical monument," she informed Draco, in the haughtiest tone she could summon. He smirked.
"It happens to be a deserted clearing," he said softly, taking her hands in his. "And personally, I think that's much more fascinating."
Before Hermione could react, something small and white sailed through the air and smacked Draco square in the side of the head. With a yelp, he caught it and whipped sharply around, casting about frantically for the source. Hermione glared in what she supposed must be Harry's direction, and Draco turned his attention to the object in his hand. Now that he held it still, Hermione could see it was a balled-up bit of parchment; Draco unfurled it, frowned slightly, and shoved it under Hermione's nose. She choked out a laugh. It was Harry's Charms homework from two weeks ago.
"Is there something you'd like to tell me?" he demanded. Hermione shrugged.
"I didn't say we were alone. You assumed."
"And everyone's favorite Champion is going to fail his next Charms test," Draco mused, scanning the parchment in his hand before crushing it back into a ball and tossing it over the fence toward the Shrieking Shack. "It's freezing. Let's go to the Three Broomsticks. Since it's just the two of us," he added with a smirk. Hermione laughed.
"All right, then," she said loudly, and a disgruntled sigh came from somewhere to her left.
"Harry, do you want to get out of the cold, or don't you?" There was a long pause, and then Harry muttered something profane under his breath and footsteps announced his trajectory back toward the village. Hermione glanced at Draco, who shrugged, took her hand, and followed.
The Three Broomsticks was packed, and Hermione sent Draco off to buy drinks while she ushered Harry toward a free table toward the back of the pub. This proved a monumentally frustrating task, as they were forced to stick close together and move at around half their normal speed lest someone bump into Harry and raise awkward questions. Quite apart from looking stupid, they found their table usurped before they'd made it halfway across the room by a harried-looking mother and her young children. By the time they managed to snag a vacated table from a group of boisterous Hufflepuff third-years, Draco was waiting for them with an expression clearly torn between amusement and annoyance.
"Watch your elbow," he hissed, slipping Harry a butterbeer. Hermione gave a start and glanced downward; sure enough, a sliver of Harry's jacket was just visible before he righted the Cloak with a disgruntled sigh. Draco turned to Hermione.
"I worked out the answer, by the way." He pulled out a roll of parchment Hermione recognized as their ill-fated Potions homework from the previous evening; feeling that at least one thing had gone right this morning, she seized it at once. A light nudge to her shoulder told her Harry was looking, and she took great pleasure in casually tilting the parchment away from him.
"Of course!" she gasped, scanning Draco's answer. "Boomslang skin would change the drinker's appearance, and the lavender would alter the effect just enough…" she looked up. "How'd you think of it?" Draco gave what he clearly considered a nonchalant shrug, but the ill-disguised grin on his face told another story.
"All we wanted to do was reverse the effects of a potion that changes the color of the drinker's face," he said lightly. "And that's why we use boomslang skin in-"
"Polyjuice Potion," growled a familiar voice from behind. Hermione jumped; Draco went white as a sheet and just managed to avoid falling out of his chair. "I see old Snape has got himself a star pupil," Professor Moody went on, limping around the table followed, to Hermione's astonishment, by Hagrid.
"All right, Hermione?" said Hagrid loudly, with a poor attempt at a surreptitious glance around the pub. She frowned.
"Er-hello."
"Nice cloak, Potter," growled Moody, and as Hagrid bent down over the third seat at the table, Hermione understood. Hagrid wasn't here to speak with her; he had a message for Harry.
"Bit advanced for a fourth year, isn't it, Mr. Malfoy? Polyjuice Potion?" Moody had turned his attention back to Draco's homework. Draco's eyes flitted between the tabletop and the bar, as though he couldn't bring himself to look Moody in the face.
"I wouldn't know," he said flatly. A smile came to Hermione's face against her better judgement, and she stifled it at once. In fact, Draco had never made Polyjuice Potion; she had, though, and it had nearly ended their friendship two years ago. She had a feeling Draco wouldn't appreciate the irony quite as much as she.
"Perhaps you would know what a spot of bother it gives to the Ministry," Moody went on. "Yes, assuming the likeness of another...you never know who might be skulking about where they're not wanted. Do you, Mr. Malfoy?" Draco's eyes flitted over Hermione's and she recognized a plea for help, but her mouth didn't seem to work. There was a curious look on Moody's face, not malicious, but far too intent for a passing remark on a student's homework.
"I...don't follow." Draco was staring steadfastly down at the table now, voice scarcely more than a whisper. Moody gave a harsh laugh.
"Don't you? Well, who am I, for instance?" Hermione found her tongue.
"What is it you're suggesting, Professor?"
"That you watch your back, Miss Granger," snarled Moody. "That we all do. Oh, if there's one thing I hate, it's a Death Eater who walked free." This pronouncement cooled the air around them markedly, and Hagrid, oblivious to the whole thing, gave Harry an extremely forceful pat on what he clearly thought was his shoulder (but what Hermione suspected was his head) and stood.
"Well, nice to see yeh, Hermione!" he boomed jovially, beaming around at the pub and sweeping Moody away with a wave of his enormous hand. When Draco looked up, he was white as a sheet.
"What the hell was that about?" Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but Harry interrupted.
"Hagrid wants me to meet him at his hut tonight at midnight," he hissed. "Says he's got something to show me." Draco rolled his eyes.
"Oh, and that can't possibly be a waste of time," he muttered, stashing his Potions homework away. "Let's go. I've had enough weirdness for one day."
Hermione had to agree. Leaving their half-finished butterbeers behind, they struggled out the door and began their silent, pensive journey back to the castle which now felt hundreds of miles away.
Hermione spent Saturday evening fretting about the ever-encroaching first task and speculating as to what Hagrid could possibly need to show Potter. Try as he might to be sympathetic, Draco found this highly annoying for two reasons; as they had no way of answering either question, he couldn't see the use of dwelling on them, and the way he saw it, Hagrid wasn't the one behaving oddly at that table in the Three Broomsticks.
If there's one thing I hate, it's a Death Eater who walked free.
Well, Moody had made it clear immediately that he knew more about Draco's father than Draco did, and didn't intend to let him forget it.
You never know who might be skulking around where they're not wanted. Do you, Mr. Malfoy?
Again, the implication was crystal clear-a bit bizarre, but wasn't Moody famous for his paranoia? But then Hermione, for some reason, had asked what he was suggesting…
That you watch your back, Miss Granger. That we all do.
Obviously, Moody had been trying to tell Draco something. But was he trying, at the same time, to tell Hermione something else?
Watch your back, Miss Granger…
Perhaps it was time for another visit to Hogsmeade, this time without his unhelpful girlfriend and her surly invisible sidekick.
"Can't you find a better place to hide out?" Draco greeted Sirius, tossing a sack of pilfered food into the center of the threadbare rug.
"All the five-star hotels were booked," came Sirius's wry retort from the hallway. "You know what it's like this time of year." He rounded the corner and descended upon the sack at once, taking several ferocious bites of bacon before turning his attention back to Draco.
"To what do I owe the pleasure? I know you didn't come out here just to complain that the accommodations aren't up to your usual standards." Draco sank down on the moldy old sofa with a grimace.
"Tell me about Mad-Eye Moody." Sirius frowned.
"I've already told you about Mad-Eye Moody."
"Tell me again." Sirius gave him a patronizing sort of grimace.
"His teaching style isn't to your liking?" Draco rolled his eyes.
"Would it be to yours?"
"Wouldn't know, would I?" Draco sighed. Moody's lessons probably would suit Sirius, wouldn't they?
"His teaching isn't the point," he said shortly. "You said he was the best Auror the Ministry ever had-"
"And I'll say it again-"
"-so, why did he stop being an Auror?" Draco finished. "You never said." Sirius shrugged.
"Got old, didn't he? Happens to all of us."
"He's not that old," Draco countered, without an earthly idea whether this was true. "Something must've happened." To Draco's enormous annoyance, Sirius's eyes softened and a grin began to spread over his face.
"Draco, you know I think you're very clever..." Draco narrowed his eyes.
"But?" Sirius paused, and if he attempted to wipe the patronizing grin off his face it was a spectacular failure.
"I'm not sure," he went on. "Why don't you tell me what you're implying, and I'll fill in from there." Adults loved nothing more, did they, than being deliberately infuriating and using childrens' frustration to discredit them. Well, he wouldn't give Sirius the opportunity; he'd simply tell him what he was implying...as soon as he worked that out for himself.
He knows my father.
Yes, and clearly hated him. Nothing out of the ordinary there.
He was sneaking away from the school, that day in the forest.
For all Draco knew, he was the type to spend his free time out in nature.
He stole from Madam Pomfrey in the middle of the night.
Yes, how silly of Draco not to have taken his wealth of incontrovertible proof directly to the headmaster.
"He put the Imperius Curse on us," he said instead, cringing slightly even as the words left his mouth. "So we'd know what it feels like." Sirius looked nonplussed.
"I'm not sure I follow."
"I think he liked it." A shudder ran through him as the words slipped out, as if they weighed half a ton and his body wasn't accustomed to its newfound freedom. And then he felt sick, just as he had on that afternoon. The last remnants of mirth had gone from Sirius's face, and now he studied Draco with something like unease.
"Don't be ridiculous," he said shortly. "That's the point of Defense, isn't it? To prepare you for what's out there." Draco glanced up at the ceiling, and immediately wished he hadn't. Thick ribbons of dust swirled about in the dim shafts of light from the grimy windows, and worse, cobwebs festooned the rafters as generously as moldy old lace in a widow's attic. Dammit, there was something to uncover about Professor Moody; the sneaking around, the loathing in his face when he looked at Draco, the bizarre conversation in the Three Broomsticks...it all added up to something, but for the life of him the answer remained infuriatingly out of reach.
"Of course you think that," he snapped. "You weren't there, he...he gives me the creeps, that's all." It wasn't, but what could he say? Sirius laid a placating hand on his shoulder.
"Dumbledore happens to trust Mad-Eye Moody," he said firmly, as if this settled the matter.
"Dumbledore trusted Professor Quirrell before," Draco retorted, "and look at how that turned out." Sirius laughed.
"Yes, well, if you find out Moody's hiding Voldemort in his left shoe, send me an owl." Draco rolled his eyes, and Sirius's expression softened considerably. "Don't worry," he went on, in an entirely different tone. "Moody's a bit rough around the edges, I don't think you'd find a soul to argue with you there. But it's not for nothing Dumbledore asked him back, and when the time comes, you'll be glad he did." He paused just long enough to allow this pronouncement to cool the air around them by fifteen degrees, then clapped Draco on the shoulder.
"Now, it's good you dropped by to complain about the ambiance. If I have to look at these blasted wall hangings another minute, I'll really turn into a mad mass murderer."
September 1st, 1964
Most people imagine drowning to be a loud, extravagant affair complete with thrashing and cries for help; in reality, it takes scarcely thirty seconds, less than a liter of water, and is quiet enough to be covered by the sound of the current stealing the victim's last breath. You could be enjoying a lovely day at the beach, toes in the sand, sun agreeably high in the sky, basking in the salt air and the sound of the waves and blissfully unaware that, a few feet away, today marks someone's last visit to the sea.
Andromeda used to love the sea. She'd relished the sand, warm and inviting under her feet as her mother implored her to put her shoes on. She'd craved the sound of the water lashing the cliffs below, dangerous and inviting in equal measure; in summer she slept with her bedroom window thrown wide open, lulled to sleep by the low, ever-present reminder of the incomprehensible power of water. Power she'd always dreamed she'd one day possess. Power she'd never imagined could be so easily turned against her.
I gave him a test.
This morning, the salt air caught her in throat and the sea lapped greedily at her from the bottom of the cliff, ever more insistent as she resolutely turned her face away. She wouldn't have come. But before she went away, there was something she had to do.
Unfortunately, sand was not the most pleasant soil to dig into. She had no trouble slicing into its surface, but the moment it sensed the absence of a shovelful, the remaining grains would act as one to slip and shift and collapse until the hole was all but filled in again.
I gave him a test, and he failed.
She shouldn't have come. The roar of the sea drowned out the scrape of her shovel against the sand, and she held her breath for a moment, suddenly sure that if she dared to breathe her lungs would fill and she, too, would find herself at the mercy of thirty seconds and a liter of water, never to be heard from again. She shouldn't have come.
I gave him a test.
She dropped to her knees, heedless of the dull thunk as the shovel toppled behind her. The sand always felt so soft on her feet, but it scraped every inch of her hands, rubbed them raw, dug into every crevice until she was sure she'd bleed. But it didn't matter, she'd dug her hole, and now there was something she had to-
"What are you doing?"
Did the ocean freeze, or was it only her?
"Go inside, Cissy."
"It's half-past ten."
"I'll just be a moment."
Slowly, ever so gently, she opened her palm. A single appleseed, slipped unseen from the breakfast table and smuggled away in the sleeve of her dress. Behind her, a sharp gasp she might've mistaken for the wind.
"Bella says you're going to miss the train." Her wrist gave a single involuntary twitch, scarcely anything but nonetheless enough to knock the seed from her hand and, miraculously, into its intended resting place. She turned, at last, to face her sister.
"You'll care for it, won't you? While I'm away?" Already, at nine years old, Cissy's expression never shifted for anything.
"It won't grow."
I gave him a test.
"It will. He will. Promise me, Cissy."
Silence.
"No."
