Trigger warning: Suicide mention
As the fragile sunlight, characteristic of late November, seeped into the Great Hall through its painted glass clerestories, Harry Potter frowned at his pile of sixth-year Defence Against the Dark Arts essays. His porridge, a sickly yellow, had solidified in the bowl, whilst his mug of murky tea had been abandoned as he attempted to pencil in suggestions or corrections. His notes had begun to lose their meaning, his mind dredging through what Minerva had disclosed to him, Neville and Teddy's hints and warnings and Albus' letters. Harry couldn't make sense of any of it, how Sky Ellis had come to be at Hogwarts when he'd seen the rigor mortis settling into his tiny limbs eleven years ago. That morning, he'd fought the urge to heave at the sight of the two splintered bodies and when he'd watched as the diminutive coffin - hardly two foot in length - was levitated into its final resting place after the Ellis family's funeral.
As he wiped his glasses clean with his shirt, his mind whirred through the events surrounding the murders. It'd been the year Albus was born, only a few months before he'd rushed to the kitchen to find his wife with a shaking hand over her enormous bump to see shell-shocked grey where Ginny's tender brown eyes should've been. It'd disappeared in a heart-beat. He'd stood in that kitchen after Molly had taken over, searching like a mad man for any of the pale grey colour he'd recognised, to no avail. The Healer had listed it as further evidence of the war coming back to haunt him.
But he knew the truth. He'd watched as that same grey flickered in Ginny's eyes three evenings ago as she scolded James for damaging one of the school gargoyles. He'd brashly protested, loudly mentioning Albus' fight with another Ellis and Harry hadn't understood why it'd reappeared until now.
His gut told him that the grey had belonged to that grisly case in March, set against gorgeous daffodils and the scent of muddy grass, both of which had no sense in existing in the gloom. The Prophet had reported on its second page, crammed next to a black and white photo of the Holyhead Harpies in York, that 'all but two members of the Ellis family had been systematically executed by a break-away group of fanatics', declaring 'a message to the rest of the world'. It had been a cruel blow as Julius' prodigal son had welcomed a baby boy he never got the opportunity to meet.
And he'd been late to help... Julius himself had declared the Auror department unfit for purpose under Harry's leadership.
Had Sky survived? Or was he somebody else, a mask for Julius' grief? If so, why had he broken into Minerva's Pensieve, taking Albus and Rose along with him? Was that an act of rebellion against an adopted grandfather who insisted he take the form of the grandchild he had to bury? Was Harry missing something that everybody else knew? The whole thing was a bloody puzzle.
As the first few students ebbed into the Hall, chattering about the upcoming Quidditch match at eleven, he folded the essays into a manageable pile to carry to his borrowed office, setting the chewed pencil behind his left ear. It was a habit he'd picked up whilst working for George in the joke-shop in Diagon Alley and it'd always served him well since. He strode through the Entrance Hall, taking two steps at a time, too absorbed in his thoughts to offer his scarf-wearing colleagues friendly hellos.
It had happened so soon after the first-year Ravenclaw's collapse too. Kavyansh Dewan. Minerva had summoned him and a select number of other senior staff-members to oversee her last-minute meeting with the Ward-Healer.
His disembodied face had hovered inside the fireplace in her office, with some sort of dark smudge on his cheek, as he recounted his doubts over whether or not Dewan would survive. Harry stood in the middle of the office, unsettled, his arms crossed as he listened attentively, watching with an analytical eye for any facial tics or dead-end sentences that might betray a different message.
Mullard was sat scrutinising the detention lists for that week when without warning, he looked up and met Harry's eyes, concern ingrained into the lines of his face. An unspoken certainty passed between them when Minerva asked that question.
"Has he regained consciousness at all?" Her gnarled hands clutched the edge of her oaken desk, her half-moon spectacles sliding down her nose. Dewan's condition had become so advanced he was lucky to have survived the trip to London. How had they missed it?
Leonidas inhaled sharply when his breath had caught somewhere in his chest, provoking a coughing fit. His deep face was sullied by the cimmerian black circles underneath his eyes. "No. Nothing. We set up rune limiters as soon as he came in… They've been picking up the smallest of signals so I think he's responding. But- Minerva, I almost lost an apprentice half an hour ago and - I- I can't understand why." The three of them shared pointed looks, Mullard's face contorted in concentration. "As agreed, if Dewan becomes alert and cognizant, you'll be among the first to know."
Harry had never heard of Healers using rune limiters in cases of magical-burnout. Without exception, their use had been reserved for the Auror Office and its arduous trap-setting missions. The things had been so complex to work with, inhibiting all magic within its vicinity, that Aurors had to rely on adrenaline and pureblood indifference to Muggle fighting techniques. What a life Teddy was getting himself into.
"It's still an if?"
"Can I remind you that- that this is the most severe case we've received? Mr Dewan is rewriting our textbooks. The textbooks that we've taught our pupils from for the last two hundred years." The Ward-Healer bellowed a string of commands over his shoulder at who Harry presumed was one of his apprentices before yawning. "Now, I've owled a Ngangkari Elder and a Canadian physician specialist to see if they've heard of this type of event or- or if this is a first."
Minerva stared into the fireplace, crestfallen. The underlying message was that if this was a first, they were on their own. "Thank you, Leonidas." He indicated an affirmative response before vanishing from the fireplace.
Albus had let Dewan's nickname slip in his most recent letter home, fusing his fears about the daemon he'd summoned at the first match into his confession. None of it fitted together; not the unseen damage Dewan had committed against himself, what the daemon had been doing within Hogwarts' boundaries or where it'd gone. Worse still, was its appearance allied to the sustained attacks on the North Tower defence enchantments and the boundaries' subsequent weakening? That was before he delved into his questions on Sky Ellis' identity.
Harry had been right in saying that his son was the midpoint around which all of it revolved from his second day.
Was there anything he could do about it? He was reluctant to become as calculating as his old Headmaster had been, as much as Dumbledore had inspired him to name his son after him.
"Bollocks!" he cursed loudly as he almost tripped over a student crouched over one of the steps. Withdrawing his wand from its holster to rescue the essays that were zooming through the air, that eerie, unmistakable sense of déjà vu burst through his mind. What the hell?
The pupil, one of the Ravenclaws, with a lopsided sequence of cuts scattered across his bruised face, straightened up, his wand already directed at the loose sheaves of paper. "Immobulus!" His tangle of dark brown hair divulged a pair of uneasy eyes that watched for his reaction.
He'd seen those eyes before.
"Sorry, sir. I should've shifted my arse, really-" How had he reacted so swiftly? Harry noted he wasn't dressed for watching the match, with his Gobstones fleece and jeans.
"Good charm," Harry smiled as he pulled each sheet of handwritten paper from their fixed places, offering quiet praise to ease his nervousness. "I won't ask who taught you that one..." A tepid warmth crept up his arm as he touched the place where the magic had suspended each item in mid-air. "Although... Could I ask what you were looking at, Mr...?"
"Ellis, Professor," he answered, pointing to the penultimate step. Those grey eyes- An educated guess told him this was Sky; his eyes had that cordial shade of grey he remembered from that cruel March day. They were bright, brighter than he'd expected. "I was looking through all of the names from everyone who died... Still haven't found my parents' names anywhere. I know it wasn't technically either of the wars, sir, but someone said they'd added the people from…after a few years ago..." He looked down and scratched the handle of his dark wand with a thumbnail. "There's two steps missing names."
Was that the story he'd been told? That his parents had been killed by Dark supporters? Harry supposed it was true, to some extent. The Ministry had never viewed it that way and against the Auror Office's recommendations, they'd ruled it a suicide.
"I'm sorry to hear that, Mr Ellis," he replied, hoping Sky would walk with him. He was too young to know the full details of what had happened. "If you ever want to talk to somebody outside your Head of House or any of your teachers, my office is next to the Transfiguration classrooms."
Sky acknowledged the offer but something in the stiff, self-conscious nod made Harry realise he'd never take him up on it. There was something more to it… Did he know more than he should, a grain of truth from McGonagall's Pensieve? Harry pushed his glasses further up his nose. "Have you been in any fights lately, by any chance?"
Sky afforded a small grin at the subtle joke. "It was a stupid one. I dunno if I've still got a mate left - it- it was me being an idiot as usual."
"Count yourself lucky 'cos that's the subject I'm an expert in. For someone your age, that Freezing Charm was bloody good so I think you're less of an idiot than you make yourself out to be," he spoke, hesitating before he mentioned one of the things that had given him comfort in his early years at Hogwarts. "Have you tried looking your parents up in any of the awards cabinets or old class lists?"
Something within Sky's eyes ignited and he noted gratefully. "Thanks, sir… Er… I've got detention in a bit but I'll try that later."
Harry had the oddest sense he wanted to say something else but he turned and hurried into the Great Hall instead.
As the morning hours unwound, the weather conditions deteriorated. The figures that Harry had watched from his office windows diffuse the frost inching up the joints of stands had ordered the match to be postponed by an hour. At midday, almost reluctantly, he'd taken his place in the professors' dedicated stand, just as the sun gave way to a sullen and acrimonious wind that tore across the grounds. Spectating Quidditch was nearly as breathtaking as playing it and it was still a topic the Weasley clan were fond of discussing.
The Slytherins, although well-coordinated by their Captain, were fielding several inexperienced players against an intimidating Hufflepuff squadron enshrouded in their impressive black robes. According to James, their Captain, Yalden, with five golden stripes on her right shoulder to denote the five years she'd spent on the team, had memorised all seven-hundred fouls possible in Quidditch, rule-changes and their applications in order to deflect possible defeats. Concealing a grin, Harry wondered how long it would take Rose to become Slytherin's primary strategist with his best mate's constant pushing.
In his mind, it was hardly surprising that Slytherin had deployed delaying tactics to gain a foothold against Gryffindor but they were up against an imposing team.
A number of exuberant cheers had gone up from the Slytherin stands and their supporters as their Chasers achieved spectacular goals through the most microscopic of chinks in the Hufflepuff team's armour by the time Mullard had arrived from overseeing his Saturday detentions. Neville had notified him that Albus and Sky had been placed on the list because of their fight.
"Deader than a dodo," Seumas gruffly announced, rubbing his watery eyes. "Still no news on Dewan." His curly hair, flecked with silver, was knotted from where he'd run his weatherbeaten hands through it. Harry had observed that was his tell when the Northerner had things on his mind.
"No news is good news," he suggested as the Slytherin Chasers fashioned another ten points out of an impeccable Hawkshead Attacking Formation. They'd utilised their time well.
"It's bastard freezing- oh, for Merlin's sake, Julius!"
The Potions Master had emerged into the cold, brandishing his flask from underneath his coat. "Does anybody fancy a cup of tea? Anybody?" Breathlessly settling onto the hard wooden benches, he cast Muffliato, lowering his voice so only Harry and Mullard could hear. "I bring good news. The defence charms are finally holding on the North Tower… The attacks have stopped... Why have they stopped, more to the point? Seumas, are you sure you don't want some tea?"
"I'm alright, Ellis!" Mullard pleaded, whilst Harry grinned, fortified by the fact that Julius' tea had become the grizzled professor's undoing more than once. He'd ambled into the staffroom one late afternoon to find Arofan and Dillion chuckling over the news that his 'tooth' was sweeter than Honeydukes' storeroom.
Julius scowled at him, taking a sip of his tea. "The gargoyle was the foremost centrepiece of the enchantments, so the assailant, or assailants, weakened the defences at their strongest point…"
Harry nodded grimly. "Implying an insider."
"The charms were reinforced the moment that Dewan left the school grounds. Should we be looking at him? We should be questioning what he was doing to end up where he is now...and why he summoned that daemon, like you said, Seumas. Would it be possible to discreetly open an impartial inquiry amongst the first-years who know him?"
Once an Auror, always an Auror. Julius had been one of Harry's most reliable deputies when he was still full-time. The man's mind was mechanical, constantly sifting through processes, bylaws and every piece of written constitution he'd ever read. No wonder he was brilliant at delivering the Potions curriculum: he followed instructions to the letter, refining them with minute alterations that enhanced their effects.
"Don't you think that's too-" Mullard began before Harry shook his head, leaning forward, commands on his lips, like his days in the Auror Office. He was interrupted by a gargantuan roar as the stands were enveloped in an abundance of black and yellow sparks. "God, that common room is going to reek of that shit for weeks now."
"We'll probably reconvene later with Minerva," Julius intoned, the corner of his lips twitching as he tried to suppress his laughter.
As usual, Ellis was right; Harry's makeshift office acted as their informal meeting place later that Saturday evening. The Hufflepuffs had thundered to victory with an eleventh-hour capture of the Snitch so it had become customary to see the castle's occupants filing into the kitchens. Once Julius had voiced his findings, the Headmistress paced in front of the temperate fire, distinctly reminding Harry of a war council. There'd been limited changes to Kavyansh's condition and the Ward-Healer, who looked more exhausted than before, remained convinced that it was still a matter of 'if'.
Seumas settled into Harry's only chair, creased copies of the day's newspapers dispersed across his desk, Harry's untidy pile of marked sixth-year essays momentarily shifted to the windowsill. As they waited for Minerva to detail their instructions, he tilted his head to read some of the titles, 'Riots in York' inscribed in a bold typewriter font in the one closest to him. Advertisements for package holidays to the oldest parts of the walled city blazed underneath, the irony clearly lost on the Prophet's editors.
"Seumas, Julius, construct the North Tower enchantments as if you have no idea someone's attacking them… Potter, talk to St Mungo's, they'll appreciate it if you speak with them… We'll meet again if there's any changes with Mr Dewan… I will otherwise resume my short-term absences with the Minister." What these day-long confrontations that verged on weeks sometimes, plunged into the crux of the Ministry were about, Harry didn't have the foggiest. That element of secrecy gravely worried him. The rest of the staff had been advised to approach him, Julius or Seumas if they'd seen or heard anything unusual in their weekly faculty meeting, having murmured their disapproval of Minerva's departures.
On Sunday afternoon, he stared out of his office window, keeping a watchful eye on the four first-year students that endeavoured to trek to the greenhouses to work on producing components of their coursework. Minerva's third crisis meeting of the week hadn't furthered their knowledge, frustrating him as Mullard had claimed his desk which barred him from planning a substitute lesson on Grindylows. The single-minded, dogged pacing from McGonagall was driving him up the wall and his only respite came in the form of Neville, a dense folder tucked under his arm.
"Cup of tea?" Julius asked, shaking his flask at the Herbology professor.
Neville's smile was affable. His eyes were focused as he rummaged through the file, explaining that Dewan's admittance to St Mungo's and the successive directions to keep their eyes and ears out had compelled him to go through the greenhouse sign-in sheets. "Each sheet's got Anti-Cheating Charms on it… Means I can keep an eye on those're struggling. Right, this is the week running up to Halloween," Neville positioned a time-sheet in front of Harry and Julius. "Read it out at the same time." He underlined a signed section, a line scratched through the 'K'.
"Half-past seven, dead on," Julius stated, a stern look on his face.
Harry shook his head. "No, it's eight fifty-six. I'm sure it is."
Mullard seized the lined paper, examining the handwriting under the late afternoon glow. "Clever bastard," he chortled, running his fingers over the ink. "I've never seen a student replicate runes so accurately." He grinned again, the academic inside clapping their hands in unrestrained glee. "Revelio! The German runic languages predate the Latin alphabet… If you use it in its purest form, in essence, a written spell, it can bypass charms that use Latin prefixes. Can you see how he's spelt it?" They leaned closer, the last of the sun's rays making the runes smoulder underneath the script. "It's not a lie. Not when it comes from the beholder."
"So whoever looks at it effectively does the lying?" Harry queried. "You see what you want to see?" Mullard nodded.
"You're not...surprised?" Neville asked Mullard.
Seumas smoothed the time-sheet and handed it back to him. "Dewan was the one who asked if he'd be able to create spells if he understood the roots in his first lesson. NEWT students struggle with non-verbal spells when they sit their practical exams and they're allocated two full years to nail it. This should be beyond a first year, which begs the question: what was he doing in these greenhouses?"
Harry gazed out of the window as they considered possible answers, that mournful grey reflected in his own eyes. There was something in the offing, once again. And he was tired.