Eight: Berlin
Harry's first and foremost impression of Berlin was the mist. It didn't feel to him like the mystical, thrilling mist of mystery stories or the Hogwarts grounds at morning practice. This here was the dull fog of sleep and damp, of it being too early for anything to open, of dawn breaking painfully slow and inconsequential in the dim of a city covered with grey clouds.
They brushed their teeth in the men's room of the station, which smelled of piss and cigarettes. Snape checked every cabin, then took out his mirror and spoke to Dumbledore about what they should do: there wouldn't be any trains to Stockholm for hours, and Snape didn't want to alter their itinerary. Around the time Harry had finished gurgling and was trying to pry some of the crusted gunk from his eyes, it was decided they weren't risking too much by waiting until the ten o'clock train to Stockholm.
With nowhere to go, they treaded through the morning fog, aimless and quiet. Even though the bobbing of the train had eventually sent Harry to sleep, he'd caught maybe two hours all in all, and he felt so worn out after everything that had happened the previous night that talking, or thinking, or even feeling one way or the other seemed like too much effort. His brain was a fog, too. Everywhere he looked, he saw shuttered doors, and graffitied concrete, and strange people in leather and fishnet swaying on their feet as they made their way home after a night of clubbing. He hated Berlin.
If he hadn't been so stupid, maybe he could be back in Amsterdam right now, sleeping soundly in a real bed, and then after that, maybe he could get more of those little doughnuts if he told Snape he'd pay him back later. As it stood, there was no bed and no doughnuts, and everything was horrible. Harry wanted to sleep and he wanted to eat and Snape didn't seem to care about either, probably because he was a vampire and didn't have human needs, or maybe he was still angry with Harry and intended to starve him half to death in retaliation.
Around eight, they made their way back to the train station. To one side of the building, a café had just opened: it stood as a barrack made entirely out of corrugated sheet, and the tables set out in front were marked with paint and old grease. But the smells were terrific.
Harry deliberated on his choice long enough for Snape to grow impatient and just order for him again, exactly as planned. He'd got fresh buns and ham and cheese and strawberry jam, and once he'd started on them, he decided maybe things weren't as horrible as he'd thought. At least he seemed to have figured out how to manage Snape a little better. And even though he was exhausted, it would take eighteen hours on the train to get to Stockholm, Snape had told him, so he could sleep plenty there; and he knew where he was, he realised, and where he was going, and Snape seemed pretty on top of things so maybe the wizard police wouldn't catch them after all.
'I'm going to go in and buy our tickets,' Snape told him once the waitress had collected their plates. 'Stay here and try not to fall asleep.'
Harry straightened in his chair. Maybe his blinks had been coming in a little slower than usual, but hey. 'I'm not falling asleep.'
'Oh? Does that mean you want to come with me?'
Harry was wide awake, but he also really didn't fancy moving. 'I can stay,' he said.
'As I thought.'
Snape stood, then deliberated a moment before pulling out his mirror. He slid it across the table toward Harry. 'Keep this with you. You're unlikely to need it at all, but in case of emergency, call the Headmaster.'
'But I thought I wasn't supposed to do magic?'
'This is ancient magic. I don't know of a single Auror with the skills to trace it, and waking the mirror requires only a sliver of your magic to work. It's similar to the wandless magic you caused mayhem with before you came to Hogwarts, and as you know, accidental magic isn't traceable.'
Harry hadn't known that, actually, but he tried to make his nod as sage as if he had.
'Uh, how do I turn it on?'
'You don't turn it on, Potter, you wake it. Just put your hand around it with the intention of establishing contact with Professor Dumbledore and it will listen to you. But be warned that if I find out you've been using it for any purpose other than emergencies, I will be severely displeased. Is that clear?'
'Yes,' Harry said through clenched teeth. All of this asking if things were clear was getting pretty annoying: Harry wasn't a complete dolt, he understood what Snape was saying when he actually took the time to explain things properly. Also, what did he think? That Harry would use this ancient magic mirror to make prank calls?
That was a funny thing to imagine now that he'd thought of it. He and Dudley had played like that sometimes when Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had gone to the cinema and they were home alone. They would call a bunch of random people from the yellow pages to tell them stupid things, like that Harry and Dudley were the person's lost twins or illegitimate children or pizza delivery guys. He and Dudley didn't tend to get along, and even saying that much was an understatement, but Dudley thought Harry had the best ideas for who they could pretend to be.
He rocked on his chair back-and-forth as he waited, pleasantly full and drowsy, and wondered if Snape would be a good person to prank call. Some people got worked up over the phone and threatened them with terrible repercussions, and those were the best kind of calls; Snape was especially talented in coming up with creative threats, Harry thought, but when it came to it, he didn't follow through on them much, which meant he would probably be a good pick.
The mirror was warm in Harry's pocket. Berlin was waking up, and with it, some energy in Harry: it felt snug and sparkly, especially where his feet touched the concrete. The sun drew shapes on the back of his eyelids.
'Excuse me. Are you here alone?'
It was a woman, dressed in dark blue like a security guard or a train conductor or some such thing. Harry quickly stopped rocking the chair.
'Uhm—I'm waiting for someone. He's just gone to get tickets.'
'Do you want to come and wait inside? They need the table for the other customers.'
She had a nice, deep voice and a warm smile, so Harry wanted to do as she'd asked. However, he also wanted to not get strangled. 'I'm supposed to stay and wait here,' he explained. 'Maybe I can just go sit on the kerb if—'
'Nonsense. How about you come with me to the security booth at the station? It's right by the exit. If this person you're with heads out, we'll spot him easily, alright?'
Realising she wouldn't relent, Harry nodded lamely. 'Yeah, alright.'
'Come on then. What's your name?'
'Harry,' he told her as he followed. Something compelled him to slow his steps as much as he could. His brain replayed, unprompted, the whole of the exchange, over and again like a damaged tape.
Wasn't it strange, that she'd known straight away that he didn't speak German? Her English was very good, too: she had some sort of accent, but she didn't break between words or say them in the wrong order the way Ms Hetzel had done sometimes. And when she referred to Snape, she'd said, the person you're with, not your dad, which would have been the thing that most people assumed.
Individually, any of those were probably not so odd, but together, they were a persistent itch. Just as they'd approached the main door to the station hall, Harry drew to a complete halt, feeling stupid but also like he was doing the right thing in the circumstances.
'I really think I should just wait outside,' he said, looking back at the café bustling with people. 'I'll just—'
A man emerged from behind a pillar. There were people in the café outside and there were people inside the station, but here, in this tiny strip of no-man land between one and the other, the three of them were hidden from view by pillars and banners and the shade, and it made it all too easy to—
He kicked out just as the woman pinched his elbows together, pulling him flush to her with a hand on his mouth. It muffled his scream well enough.
'Bloody hell, Lamotte, help me, will you?' she was saying.
'He's half your size, Adeyemi. Just drag him in here and I'll bind him—someone might still see if I pull my wand now—'
'Kid, relax, okay? We're not going to hurt you—' Harry kicked again. 'Quentin, I swear, if you don't take him from me—'
With a sigh, Quentin made a motion as if to help, but he was too late: Harry had found enough purchase on the ground that when he jerked his head back, it made contact with Adeyemi's nose with an audible thwack, and her arms unwound on instinct.
He jumped between Quentin's grasping hands, then slipped in his haste and fell face-forward, catching himself on the kerb with a wheeze—he yanked the mirror out of his pocket, clamped his knuckles around it and said it in his head, please Dumbledore I need to call Dumbledore wake up wake up—
The mirror shattered into a dozen pieces.
For the length of a breath, Harry stared at what was left of it in his hand, nothing in his mind beyond the sinking feeling of dread. Then, the breath left his lungs and he realised someone was grabbing his shoulder—so he turned and threw the shards into Quentin's face.
'Ah, damn it—bloody hell—'
'Potter, we're not going to hurt you, we just need you to come with us and have a little chat with the Minister, alright?'
'No, thank you,' Harry said, scrambling up and then lunging into a sprint, even as Adeyemi reached for him again—she got only the zipper of his knapsack, and Harry loosened his shoulders so it could be wrenched off his arms, leaving it in her clutches as he sped forward, not really knowing where he was headed—
But there was sun here and there were people, and Harry yelled, 'Help!' because then, surely, if all these muggles were watching, they couldn't pull out their wands.
'Stop!'
Harry zapped between cars. He heard them honk behind him, and he heard voices yell out things in German, and then he jumped over a little terrier held on a leash by an older woman with a huge nose, and then he felt a rush of hot air—
'What the—what the hell are you doing, Quentin?!'
Harry turned. The dog had collapsed, stock-still and unblinking like Neville had been when Hermione cast a Petrificus Totalus on him that time.
'It wasn't me!'
'You've literally got your wand out!'
'Yes, but I didn't use it—'
Quentin reached him first, his legs longer and faster than Harry's. Harry stumbled to get away and his head conked against the lamp post, but he clutched the pole and held himself up, and then as Quentin reached for him again, another rush of hot air and—
'Quentin!'
—a rubbish bin just to the side of Harry exploded—
'Okay, that one really wasn't me!'
Harry steadied himself, aimed, and kicked the wand straight out of Quentin's hand. It made an arch in the air before falling into the middle of traffic, under the wheels of a passing motorbike, to screams and yells and sparks—
But Harry never saw what happened next, because just then, out of nowhere, arms snaked around his torso and stomach, and he was being pulled back against someone's body, and then pulled somewhere else: up, down, through the eye of a needle and inside out, his breath clutched in his throat and his stomach in a knot, until Berlin was no more.
Thank you to everyone who has left comments or followed the story! And an extra thank you to guest reviewer James Birdsong - I'm glad you've enjoyed these chapters!
I'm not telling where we're going on Wednesday, but it's fair to say we're veering wildly off Severus's ideal itinerary...
