Chapter 51: The Last Day at Hogwarts
It was late that evening, and Amelia Bones was on her third pepper-up potion and fourth pile of paperwork when Alastor Moody arrived at her door.
She opened it with a wave of her wand, and though her room was highly warded, he cast several more privacy charms before either of them spoke.
"There will be another attempted bombing, twenty minutes from now," he stated wearily. "At Churchview and Mains."
Amelia sat up. "Has it been averted?"
"Aye, it has." He leaned heavily against his cane. "But just barely. They made us work for it."
There was silence as Alastor downed a pepper-up potion of his own.
"Damn terrorists," he muttered, vanishing the bottle. "So much for enjoying my well-earned retirement."
Amelia wasn't one for kind words, but she was suddenly struck by a wave of affection for him. She often felt as if no one else understood their burden. "I appreciate all your help, Alastor."
He waved his hand dismissively, taking a seat near her desk. "If you really want to thank me, then let me have my Apparition privileges back. It's almost impossible to navigate the corridors to your office."
The ordinance had gone through two weeks ago. No more Apparition would be possible within England, by anyone, portkey or otherwise. People travelled by broom, or they took some form of Muggle transport. The Floo network had also been temporarily disabled as well.
Amelia shook her head. "I can't, Alastor. When I start granting special exemptions, then I start opening up the possibility for exploitation. You know our enemy is cunning enough to take advantage of that."
"Aye," said Mad Eye, shrugging. "If I were you, I'd turn me down too."
"Tell me of your progress with Hermione," she said.
"It's going as well as expected. Her strength of magic is impressive, almost that of a full Auror. She's gotten more comfortable using offensive spells, at least against me." He chuckled dryly. "I do make her hopping mad, though."
Amelia's lips were a tight line. "Is she ready?"
Alastor turned both his eyes to her, the magical one piercing. "You know what I think about her. She's not cut out to be an Auror. A teacher, a healer, heck even an oracle, she'd do just fine."
"I don't need a healer, Alastor. I need a sword."
Alastor sighed. "That damned prophecy. The Hall of Prophecy was destroyed by Dumbledore, and yet they still rule our lives."
"What else would you have me do? Our resources are stretched so thin already, and our enemies are simply toying with us. They're working with the Priestess, Alastor! We're going to lose."
There was silence a few moments.
"The Priestess?" he asked doubtfully.
"Yes. My intelligence sources have confirmed it. Her powerful, ancient magic is keeping us from detecting the location of her people, from being able to prepare for her attacks. I fully believe that if we did have a snowball's chance in hell of defeating her, she would unleash her true power and crush us into the ground. This prophecy is the only defence we have that she hasn't calculated on."
"Really?" he said, raising an eyebrow. "So, there's no MacGuffins hidden in the Department of Mysteries? Supposedly we're hoarding them."
Amelia snorted. "No. And trust me, I know how crazy I sound. The Minister has already told me as much."
"The Priestess has never politically aligned with anyone before," said Alastor, frowning. "She's practically a myth at this point. Some say she was married to Nicolas Flamel, but no one ever saw them together, and some say she is an ancient being from before the time of Merlin. All we know for certain is that she grants favours at a price." Alastor's eye took in every corner of her room. "Why would she step into the picture now to help the dirty rebels?"
"I don't know," said Amelia. It was terrifying, knowing England had such a powerful, unknowable enemy. "The intelligence team is doing what they can, but they've discovered nothing about her except her name, and mostly due to sheer luck. The researchers in the Hall of Mysteries haven't come up with anything we can actually use against the enemy for weeks."
"Your man Harold Shacklebot has been working tirelessly, at least," said Alastor. "Every time I see him he's combing through another section of the archives."
"Yes, well, keeps him busy," Madam Bones stared at a document on her desk, reading the same line over and over. "Remus Lupin has been researching the Hogwarts quests."
Alastor snorted. "The children's game? Come on…"
"I was sceptical too," said Amelia. "But the more I see in his reports, the more I'm convinced there's powerful, ancient magic hidden in Hogwarts. Magic we thought was lost forever." She sighed. "But the portal still won't open for him, and it's hindering his work. I'm giving him another two months to figure it out, and then he'll resume research in the Department of Mysteries."
"Isn't that when the school year ends? Convenient timing." Alastor shifted his position in the chair. "You know, Amelia, we're doing the best job we can on our own, and normally I prefer handling business in house. But we're in over our heads, and as much as it pains me to say this, we need to ask for help."
Amelia, her jaw set in a hard line, pulled out a memorandum from her desk. It was a copy of the letter she'd sent twelve hours ago to several foreign ministers.
"I'm going to meet them myself personally, at a special council session tomorrow morning."
Alastor read the letter, his frown shifting to a scowl. "Kubor, Dimitri, Francois, Igor…none of these cowards helped us in the last war, and a few actively worked against us. Damn it!" he swore, handing back the letter. "I'm glad it's you going, and not me. I suppose a few of the newer politicians might be receptive, and Madam Olympe will support us, as long as a few others do as well."
"I can only hope, but Minister Fudge still sees this as a temporary problem. Politically, it doesn't look good for me to publicly disagree with him."
"Well," Alastor grinned sardonically. "Good thing we all know you're the real brains around here."
As soon as Mad Eye walked in, Hermione fired.
Mad Eye dodged another hex as Hermione raced in circles, countering hers with one of his own. "Well, good afternoon to you too."
This quip was ignored.
"Protego!" she screamed, just as one of his blasts burned through her shield. In almost the same breath, she threw a strike spell in his direction. She never saw it land, her vision fading to black as a slice ran through her whole body. Hermione ran away blindly, desperation forcing her to cling to the wound, her fingers grazing parts of organs that shouldn't be outside her body.
A second strike went through her, cutting her almost in half. She collapsed against the wall, curling up as a futile defence against her attacker. When the darkness spell released her, she looked down and saw her ravaged torso. Sobs wracked her body, even though within a matter of seconds, her wounds began to mend.
"You're fine," sighed Mad Eye. "You ought to know by now, nothing I'm casting can really harm you. You need to get used to fighting while injured. Now let's clean you up."
Her hands were slick with blood, but she stubbornly pressed them against her face, refusing to look at him. She felt like a bottle that had been shaken up, or a window about to fracture.
It wasn't like she was made of playdough—pull it apart and mash it back together. It required energy to knit her body back together, and cleaving her in half was the sort of thing that could leave her feeling out of sorts for days.
Mad Eye said nothing, which was smart, because she might have hexed him just for breathing too loudly. When she finally felt tired of sitting in her bloody tattered robe, she fixed herself up with a swipe of her wand and glared at him.
His gaze met Hermione's glare, his face impassive and calm. When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly gentle. "You have questions for me, don't you?"
She nodded.
"Very well, then." He conjured himself a cup of water. "Ask."
The first question was easy. "How long have you known that my powers came from dark magic?"
"As long as I've known you," said Mad Eye.
She was silent a few moments. "Why am I like this?"
He shrugged. "I don't know any more than you do, only that it was not some divine gift, like the papers claim. Madam Bones and I chose not to tell anyone, as the fiction made a more comforting story than the truth." Mad Eye set his gaze on her. "So yes, the magic that created you is a dark ritual. It mixes a troll's body and a unicorn's body into yours, changing your DNA. Normally this change would last a day at most, and then you would morph into an Inferius. For some reason, that change was halted in you, and we don't know why. It may have required a human sacrifice, which would explain the Death Eaters all dying at once."
Hermione's stomach lurched, but she tried to remain calm. "Who did it?"
"Again, no idea. The Aurors conducted an investigation, but you're the only living witness of that slaughter, and you remember nothing. My guess, though? Most likely, Voldemort wanted to turn you into his new minion. He failed when someone killed him, and as you likely slept through the whole thing, that person was probably not you."
She blushed, her heart sinking as he admitted the truth she'd suspected all along. "Was it Professor Quirrell who saved me?"
"No," said Mad Eye, shaking his head. "At that point, he was far too weak. The real hero left the scene of the crime. If he were smart, he would Obliviate himself and stay low for a while. With no witnesses or leads, we'll probably never find him."
Hermione was silent again for a few moments, staring at a fixed point on the wall. "Can my powers be removed?"
He shook his head.
"Then what…" she swallowed. "What about if my magic fails? Will I turn into an Inferius?"
He snorted. "No. Trust me, that's not going to happen. You've lived four years with this, and that's over 1000 times as long as anyone ever has."
"How would you know for sure it won't fail, if it's never gone on this long before?"
"Fair point," said Mad Eye, shrugging. "If you want to go on living your life in fear, I won't stop you. But there's nothing you can do about it, one way or the other. Might as well just enjoy the gift."
"I don't care if it's a gift, Mad Eye." Her eyes were stormy. "Someone altered my body without my consent, and you lied to me about it for years. I don't understand why no one would just tell me the truth."
Mad Eye finished his water, vanishing the cup. "How old are you? Fifteen?"
"Sixteen."
He nodded. "That's why. For one thing, the dark ritual is only taught to Aurors who have reached their third year of study. You would have been told eventually, after entering the force. For another thing, I think it's actually illegal to teach dark curses of any kind to someone under the age of 17."
"Then…why did you tell me now?"
"Honestly, I thought you deserved to know. No need to pussy foot around the truth when we could well be risking our lives for each other in a few weeks. So, let's recap. Someone remade your body using dark magic, and probably took a few lives trying to do it. We don't know who, but our main suspect is Voldemort. He probably wanted to make you his minion before he died. Can you live with that?"
Hermione shrugged, resisting the urge to wrap her arms around herself. "I guess I have no choice."
"Sure you do," he said. "You don't have to be so willing to accept the lies we told you, or that we're training you to use these ill-gotten powers in battle. Now that you know the truth, you can decide if you want to be a heroine or not, without feeling compelled to by a sense of duty. There's no fate here, just some fucked up magic rituals. If you wanted to, you could quit at any time, and no one will stop you."
Hermione considered what he was saying, then shook her head. "You know, I've thought a lot about what it means to be a heroine, and I don't think it has anything to do with magic powers or destiny. It's the determination to do what's right, to help others as best I can. If this is where I can be most helpful, then that's where I'll be." She smiled slightly. "I appreciate that you told me. Thank you."
Mad Eye muttered something and drained his cup. "Well, don't tell Madam Bones I did. This is a secret, and don't need her on my case about it."
"I won't," said Hermione, then frowned. "I'm still furious at you, though. You're not off the hook."
He grinned, leaning against his cane. "See, there's a reason people call me Mad Eye Moody. I've lost count of the number of times I've been hexed because someone was annoyed with me."
Hermione didn't react to his joke. "You could try being less irritating."
Mad Eye's smile faded. "Listen well, Hermione. If being an Auror is what you really want, then I'll train you. But I won't coddle you, I won't be nice to you. If you want hugs, go ask your mother. I'm here to make you a warrior, and to make sure you can handle whatever a dark wizard throws at you. So if this is what you really want, you're gon' ta have to be tough enough to not get weepy over a few cutting hexes. Is that clear?"
Hermione looked at the ground, her heart sinking. She nodded, but didn't say anything.
Mad Eye sighed. "But I can see it was a bit cruel to give you a kill strike today. So, just this once I'll be nice. Want to take a free shot at me?"
She blinked. "No, I don't want to hit you."
He raised his hands, in an expression of 'suit yourself.' Hermione rose to her feet before conjuring her own cup of water.
"So, I remind you of the Potter boy, huh?"
She almost choked, then wiped at the water dribbling down her chin.
"Legilimency." He shrugged. "Sorry, but we were discussing Voldemort, and I had to be sure you weren't hiding any memories of that night. Constant Vigilance, you know."
Hermione blushed. "I understand. And umm…I guess sometimes you do act a little like him."
"Well," said Mad Eye, his expression neutral. "I'm nothing like Potter, but that's beside the point. I noticed there's a bit of lost time in your memories. Any idea what happened there?"
He could see that? How? And what else could he see? She glanced at the floor. "Harry and I were Obliviated of about an hour yesterday. Professor Sprout thinks it was caused by magical experimentation gone awry. Harry doesn't buy it, thinks it was something worse."
Mad Eye grunted, nodded approval. "The boy is right, Constant Vigilance! You never know where dark lords could be hiding. It's not like they announce themselves, and sometimes they don't even realize they're dark until it's too late. But Harry is only a student, and you are an Auror. As far as you should be concerned, your enemies are legion, and they are hiding behind every corner."
He gave her a significant look she couldn't quite parse out, and then glanced away.
"Anyway," he said. "If you're not going to hit me, then I think we're done for the day. Go and enjoy your last day at Hogwarts."
Without another word, she ran away.
By the time Harry arrived at the train station, he was in what his mum would call a 'mood.'
That morning he'd woken from a restless sleep to realize he had three mock OWLs, each one taking over an hour of complicated spellcasting to complete. He'd staggered out of his transfiguration test with quite possibly the lowest score of his life, and he was so tired he barely cared. There was a great feast for lunch which he didn't get a chance to enjoy because he was racing up to his room to pack.
While Harry was trying to find where the stairwell moved to this time, Mad Eye decided to pop out of a corner and fire a slashing hex at him. After the shortest, most embarrassing duel of his life, Harry was grilled over his lackluster performance and ordered to work on his Constant Vigilance.
"I swear to Merlin and all things magical, Mad Eye," Harry seethed from the ground. "I will hex you into an Interdimensional plane someday."
"Boy, you couldn't even hex the flies off my Aunt Mabel's pumpkin bread if she dumped it in your lap. Constant Vigilance!"
But this was not the final straw. No, that came later at Hogsmeade station, when he realized that—even though he was a mere twenty minutes early—he could not actually get on the train car yet. He had to wait in the middle of an outdoor station, listening while the milling students beside him talked about all manner of fascinating subjects such as Quidditch goalkeeping and who's-the-best-beater outside the B&I leagues and how cold it was outside but that was perfect weather for the World Cup and wouldn't it be so great if they brought the veelas back.
By the time Hermione found Harry, he had found the smallest pocket of space to hide himself in, staring at ants on the ground and restraining himself from using them as target practice.
"Hi, Harry," she called out, stopping short. "I hope you haven't been waiting long, I was looking all over for…"
Hermione must have caught something from his murderous expression, because she asked, "You look exhausted. Bad day?"
"Let me put it this way," Harry said icily. "If I was given the option on whether to be force fed hot coals or listen to another word spoken from the Gryffindors about Quidditch, I think I'd ask them to have mercy and burn my ears as well."
Reeealll classy, Harry, said Hufflepuff. Why don't we talk about sautéing more body parts?
But it was like a train. Once he'd started, he just kept right on going. "This is what our education is paying for," he said, pointing at the crowd. "This is what our families fought and died for, so that we could spend our days debating whether to use the leather or metallic Quaffle! When the single most important thing they still have not done is run down to the general store and buy a clock! Did the dark lord know this was to be the fate of wizard kind? Did he predict this using his dark arts, and did it drive him to madness? For this reason did he cull the herd? Did he—urrk—"
Harry found he could not speak due to the chocolate in his mouth.
"Harry," said Hermione, breaking off another piece. "I don't know if you're hungry or demented, but either way chocolate helps."
"Grrr," said Harry as he chewed and swallowed.
"Fortunately," she said, reaching into her bag. "I happen to have plenty of chocolate and other snacks with me. I also brought a few blankets if you want to take a nap."
Harry was fairly certain he wasn't demented, as the thought of cuddling up with Hermione was so perfect he actually felt happy for a second.
"That…would be nice," he said, glancing at her. "You don't mind?"
"Not at all. Just as long as you're respectful and keep your rampant social critiquing to yourself."
"I can't promise," he grumbled, chewing another piece of chocolate. "Sometimes it just has to be done."
She smiled at him and said, "We'll see about that, Mr. Potter. Is the chocolate helping yet?"
"I'll feel better once we're away from all these people," he glowered. "Come on."
As they pushed their way through the crowd, Harry found he was impressed with Hermione's high level of skill with social manipulation. Once they were alone in the empty train car, he wanted nothing more than to eat whatever she fed him and fall asleep on her shoulder. Or maybe he'd politely ask if he could just kiss her already. But before they'd even put away their luggage, some idiot who wanted to die opened the door.
"Hello," said Luna from the doorway. "I won't stay long. But I wanted to talk to you, if that's alright."
Harry carefully said absolutely nothing, but Hermione responded, "Hi Luna! Please, come sit, there's plenty of room."
Luna closed the door, but did not sit down. "Things will be quite different in Hogwarts soon." Her lilting voice was grey, tinged with sadness. "My spirits say everything will work out, but they're not always right. So I wanted to wish you luck. I don't think I will see either of you again for a long time, and I just…want you to know we're in this together, and I hope you like the pictures."
"What?" Hermione frowned. "What do you mean? Why wouldn't we see you?"
She smiled softly. "Because it's time for me to start my next adventure. It's going to be quite exciting, and perhaps very dangerous, but I have to take it alone."
Luna turned to gaze out the window. She always seemed to be looking far into the future, never in the present moment.
"Studying the portraits together was quite fun. I would have liked to do more experiments with you. Like learning to cast the Patronus, although I suppose it makes sense that I was never able to cast one. It just wasn't safe to talk to you before, and now there's no time."
There was an uncomfortable silence as Luna stared down at her hands, a frown forming on her features. She looked so very small and alone, like a tiny bird under the weight of a mountain.
"Anyway, you're covered with wrackspurts, so I won't bother you. I just…wanted to say hello and goodbye."
"Wait, Luna," said Harry, as she opened the door. "Why don't you stay?"
If she runs off to commit suicide and I don't at least try to help her, I'll be the worst servant of light who ever lived.
"Yes," said Hermione. "There's plenty of room. Don't worry about Harry's wrackspurts, he kind of enjoys having them around to be honest."
Luna laughed, and it sounded just like how a bird would laugh if they could, a small hiccup of joy and a smile. "Oh, I understand completely," she said. "Wrackspurts are parasites, you know. You have to think positive thoughts to get rid of them, but most people prefer to just stay upset. It's really quite interesting."
"Tell me more about them," said Hermione. "And what's the other thing that lives in plants…nargles?"
Luna nodded, sitting down. "Nargles are the worst," she said. "They steal anything they can get their hands on, worse than nifflers. Papa invented a draught to eradicate them, but nobody took it so they're still around. By the way, did you figure out why the portraits got created, Harry?"
"Not yet," he responded. "Have you?"
She just smiled. "Perhaps. Also, have either of you ever seen a Crumple-Horned Snorkack? I've been looking all over for one, and I'd really like to see it once before I go."
Harry stared out the window of the backseat of the car, watching the fields pass by. All around him was silence—his parents were quiet as his dad drove down the nearly empty highway, and even the radio wasn't playing.
He lay back against the headrest, frowning. On long drives, Harry often felt peaceful, alone with his imagination. But today, a knot was working its way into his heart. There was vague sense of unease that Harry couldn't identify.
His mind shifted through possible causes. Was it stress from dealing with the terrorist attacks? As difficult as it was to admit this, none of that felt real yet. He was doing what he could to gather intelligence and prepare himself, but until the enemy struck, his level of concern remained manageable.
Was it disappointment he hadn't won over Hermione? He didn't think so. He'd been a fool, anyway, for thinking the courting process would be easy enough to resolve within a time frame, like one of his projects. Today she was busy with Luna, even going so far as to call McGonagall and Flitwick to keep an eye on her. Relationship stuff wasn't the priority for either of them right now.
Perhaps it was guilt? He couldn't help wondering if it was his fault they ended up in the infirmary the other day, and he had this constant, underlying fear that she was only in real danger when he was involved. He knew that was partly hubris; Hermione had problems that didn't involve him, and she didn't need his protection from them. Still, that didn't stop him from worrying.
So maybe…was it fear?
He considered this, his brain making quick associations between fear and the last time he'd felt truly afraid.
He'd been afraid when she'd collapsed in the Slytherin quest, and then again to the Gryffindor quest where the game shut down with them inside. In his first year, he'd been terrified when Hermione had died, bleeding to death in his arms, and for a long time that was his most painful memory.
But not anymore.
No, his new worst memory was the night he'd turned the full force of his dark side on his best friend. Everything about it was a nightmare, and thinking of it made his chest feel like it was being crushed. The worst part was knowing that this was something he was capable of—that he wouldn't even feel bad about it until later—and how easy it was to completely lose control, like he was perpetually on the edge of that cliff.
The sense of wrongness twisted in deeper. But why? He hadn't fallen into his dark side since then—at least, not with Hermione. He'd slipped up once with Dean, but there'd been extenuating magical circumstances and he had worked hard to control his temper. The sun would freeze to minus Kelvin before he ever let Hermione down like that again.
Another thought rose to the surface like a dead body. Yesterday. If you hurt Hermione during that lost hour…wouldn't you want to forget it? To make it all go away?
That's not what happened.
Then why does it have you scared to death? Why do you feel guilty?
He didn't know. But he hadn't slept well since then. He woke with his heart racing, and his chest hurting, and feeling like it was all his fault…
You didn't have a bite mark on your lip. If someone Obliviated you, you would have done it, so you could remember later. But if you Obliviated yourself…
That doesn't mean anything! You're just pattern matching to find a reason and you're pinning it on my worst fears! I would never hurt someone and then Obliviate myself of the responsibility! I would never hurt Hermione!
Is that what you really think?
What is that supposed to mean? Yes! Now leave me alone!
Harry shut his eyes and tried his hardest not to think at all.
And yet, in spite of his protests, the disquiet in his heart remained.
When he got home, he took his trunk upstairs and unpacked a few things—clothes, pillows and blankets. Descending into his trunk, he searched for his star orb, touched it for just a second, wishing for nothing more than a moment alone in the stars to think. But that was selfish. His time would be better spent if he worked on his research. He needed to use the internet to keep himself informed about world affairs while he had the chance.
Also, how could he forget to check the warding on his house? Seriously, was he trying to be like one of those heroes in books who let the bad guys walk right in?
He went downstairs, half expecting to see his mom asking for help cleaning, or his dad calling him over to ask questions about his college plans. But when he made it down, he saw that both of them were in the living room, having a heated conversation. They stopped when they noticed Harry, turning to look at him.
"What's going on?" Harry asked.
His mum tried to smile and distract him, but his father shook his head, turning back to his book.
It was in that moment that Harry knew.
Oh, I do not need this right now. I really, really don't.
"Just tell me, Mum," he said, his heart sinking.
Her smile became bitter, but still gentle with concern. "Sweetheart, come here. We need to talk to you."
