As Harry held onto Gemma's elbow under his invisibility cloak on their way back to the lift to return to the Center, he heard the decisive footsteps punctuated by a metal tip cane that signaled that Augusta Longbottom was approaching them. Neville was talking with Gemma and didn't seem to notice.
Harry tried to alert Gemma by making the walking sign on her arm, but she must have thought that he meant that he wanted to walk faster because she sped up a bit. He tried to remember the sign for grandmother, but the gap had closed and suddenly Harry was aware of Mrs. Longbottom's presence by the prickle of little hairs standing up on the back of his neck. She had a unique aroma, too. It held the scent of the other older women he'd met… but it wasn't as strong as Aunt Petunias and it definitely had a more witchy flavor… more of cloves and oils than lotions and perfumes.
Under the invisibility cloak, he felt freer to really sniff and try to identify her odor than he would have knowing that she'd see him sniffing the air.
"Neville, where have you been? I told you to meet me at the floo at half-past eight. It's nearly a quarter to nine!"
Harry felt Gemma startle and he pulled back, worried that Mrs. Longbottom was going to tread on him as she advanced on Neville and Gemma.
"Oh, Gran. I'm sorry! I lost track of time!" Neville squeaked.
"And who is this young lady? I thought you were visiting your mum."
"Gran, this is Gemma Boot. She came with me to visit mum. She's a friend of mine from the Center… a friend of Harry's. Oh, oops. I probably shouldn't say that out here in the corridor. Su-su-sorry, Harry!" Neville stumbled.
"Neville, what are you going on about?" Mrs. Longbottom snapped.
"Gemma, this is my Gran… Mrs. Longbottom," Neville said, continuing the introductions. Harry lessened his hold on Gemma's arm so that she could sign more freely.
"Oh, dear. Well, it's nice to meet you—and nice of you to keep Neville company while he visits his mum."
"Gemma, my Gran said that she's pleased to meet you and that she thinks it is nice that you came with me to visit my mum," Neville translated for his grandmother.
"So, she can't hear? Or speak?" Mrs. Longbottom asked Neville. "Hmmm. Was it spattergoit? Ah, poor thing. What's the charm you used to make the papers?"
"Scribunt loqui," Harry filled in without thinking as he could hear Neville struggling to remember.
"Who said that?" Mrs. Longbottom said as she jumped back a step.
"It's just me, Harry," he said and he stuck a few fingers between the gap in the cloak and waggled them at Mrs. Longbottom. He had inadvertently reinstated the charm again and the paper was pressed between his cheek at the cloak. He ended the charm.
"Oh, child—you gave me a fright. How utterly ridiculous that you're still having to hide from that reporter! This has just got to stop. I'm going to owl Madam Bones as soon as I can, mark my words."
Neville was trying to repeat everything his Gran was saying so that Gemma could keep up with the conversation. Finally, Mrs. Longbottom stopped talking so that she could learn the charm and though she struggled to make it work at first, finally, Harry could hear the paper crinkling in the air by her head.
"Well, I suppose this charm will be handy when we visit tomorrow for family visiting. It was nice to meet you, Gemma Boot. Harry, we'll see you tomorrow."
"Bye, Harry," Neville whispered as he passed close.
"Bye," Harry said as Gemma started down the corridor.
oO0OooO0OooO0OooO0Oo
The next morning as he was using his toast to soak up the last bit of egg yoke off his plate, Harry heard someone at the table near him shake out a newspaper. The dining hall was pretty quiet… most of the residents were still sleeping on this Saturday morning.
"Hey—this is you, isn't it?" Gordon said—the paper rattling as if he were trying to get someone's attention.
Since Gordon was obviously showing something in the paper, Harry thought he must be talking to someone else, so he didn't respond.
"I'm talking to you, son!" Gordon said more forcefully in Harry's direction.
"Oh, excuse me, sir. I didn't realize," Harry said, sitting up a little straighter and using his napkin to wipe off his chin. "What were you asking me?"
"I asked if this photo is of you… er. Right. You can't see it. I'm pretty sure it is you. Ah, yes… the caption says, 'Harry Potter, the only known survivor of the killing curse, was grievously injured by an ancient serpent nesting in the dungeons of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in May. Read more about the events leading to the attack which unfolded over several months on page 2. To learn more about how and why these heinous events were covered up by Hogwarts, the Ministry of Magic, and other institutions, turn to page 5.' Well, if that doesn't take the caldron cake! So, how is it that you survived a direct assault from you-know-who himself, only to be blinded by some monster at Hogwarts? Hmmm?"
Harry was too shocked to respond.
"Feeling stroppy, are you? Well, no matter. I guess I can just read about it on page 2," Gordon said as the crisp pages rustled.
That shook Harry out of his stunned disbelief. "Where did you get the paper?"
"Huh? Eh, over there where they always are in the morning."
Harry guessed that Gordon was waving his hand as he could hear the weights that kept him from floating away plinking together.
Heart fluttering at the base of his throat like a trapped moth, Harry stood up on shaky legs. He shook out his staff and asked it to direct him to the stack of newspapers.
His staff tapped hollowly against a wooden box that he'd never noticed before and announced that he had reached his destination. He bent over with his hand outstretched and noticed the scent of ink and parchment before his hand found the paper. He felt around the package of papers until he located the fold, then grasped it, folded it in half, and tucked it under his arm, then navigated to the closest table. No one was seated at this end of the dining hall—the smattering of voices and clinking of silverware against porcelain came from across the hall.
As much as he wanted to deny the truth of the caption, a part of him knew that Gordon wasn't capable of fabricating such a story.
And why would he?
Despite everyone's best efforts, the reporter had been able to run the story. Harry collapsed his staff and pressed his hands against the table in an attempt to quell the tremors that were passing through him. He placed the newspaper down and felt around for a chair, pulled one out and fell into it.
He summoned the anagnóstis from his staff and turned the paper a few times, running the tool over the print until it was oriented in the right direction so that he could read it.
He found the headlines and almost lost his breakfast right there on the table.
Basilisk Blinds Boy Who Lived.
His hand holding the anagnóstis was shaking so badly that the words sounded tremulous and jerky… and it was hard to listen to Rita Skeeter's voice without being overwhelmed by the memory of her perfume. The schadenfreude in her tone was even harder to stomach… she seemed to take so much glee and vicious delight in the story she was telling.
His story.
And what was this "Boy Who Lived" rubbish?
Her tone reminded him of the way Aunt Petunia relished the juicy details of a neighbor's lurid affair or how Uncle Vernon would retell the financial ruin of one of his rivals—almost rapturous in his description of how the family had all their possessions chucked out on the lawn after they were evicted from their house.
Below the headline, there must have been a huge photo that took up most of the space as his anagnóstis just whistled as it passed over the page until he reached the caption that Gordon had already read.
Who took a photo of him? And when?
He pulled his digitus from his staff and ran it over the image. He hadn't used it yet to look at an image of himself except as a baby. Though he knew that he looked a lot like his dad and he'd spent a fair amount of time going through the photos in his albums (the one Hagrid made for him before he lost his sight and the ones that Hermione found in his vault), he was surprised by how much he resembled his dad at the same age—same messy hair, same thin face, same knobbly knees—though he understood why people always commented that he had his mum's eyes. He had seen that in Hagrid's album. And he knew as soon as he felt the mop of thick hair that stuck up in all directions and round wire-rim glasses that it was a photo of him… on the Night bus, leaning in defeat against his staff. Madam Pomfrey sat in the seat next to him, her visage one of abject misery.
Who else had been on the bus with them? Why hadn't Madam Pomfrey noticed that someone was taking their photo? The image included him groping around and stumbling on the bus as he tried to find his seat.
Gah—I look pathetic.
The paper had printed a photo of him at his worst possible moment: just told that he'd never see again and being shunted off to the Dursleys a month early—he hadn't even known how to use his staff properly then. And this morning, owls everywhere were delivering the paper to breakfast tables across wixen Brittain. He flinched thinking about how Lucius Malfoy would react to the news… and would no doubt share it with Draco. Harry remembered the sound of Uncle Vernon and Dudley's laughter when Dudley learned that Harry had been blinded at school.
But then, Dudley hadn't noticed he was blind for nearly two days. And Lucius hadn't figured out that Harry couldn't see when he'd freed Dobby. He had a flicker of warmth at the thought of a free Dobby, no longer forced to iron his ears.
Well, at least the Weasleys and Grangers aren't waking up to this… Oh, wait. I bet Hermione has figured out a way to read the Daily Prophet in Paris. The Dursleys… they won't see this. At least there's that.
Harry ended the charm that made the image balloon into a three-dimensional shape messy with clothing, hair, warm skin, and the grimy upholstery of the Night Bus seats. He ran his anagnóstis over the print below the caption, where he found a completely unrelated story about an inquiry into the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.
Harry turned to page 2. The parchment felt stiff and heavy under his fingers.
He sat for a moment simply breathing in through his nose and letting the air escape in a ragged breath out of his mouth as Ms. Midgeon had taught him.
He put the anagnóstis to the page and started listening to Rita Skeeter's caustic voice as she told the wixen world in what he soon came to associate as her uniquely distorted way about what had transpired in the Chamber of Secrets. Who had she talked to? Had she rounded up students at King's Cross Station and patched together all the rumors and lies that had blossomed and grown into outlandish tales as the student body—left with a month of school after the events, but no exams—had fabricated to feed their curiosity?
However, woven in between the outrageous tales were threads—the barest threads—of the truth… things that only he and Ginny had witnessed, though they had both told their stories. The sword pulled from the sorting hat, the epic battle with the serpent, the diary phantom taunting him about his muggleborn mother, then the death of the diary—pierced by a Basilisk fang, and the use of Phoenix tears for healing. First they shared their story in Professor McGonagall's office, then with their respective mind healers, and some of it had come out in Council and private conversations with friends.
Well, I shouted it out across the lake in anger.
He gulped air, realizing that he hadn't been breathing. Ginny was not mentioned by name.
At least there was that…
The other victims of the Basilisk—the petrified—were alluded to, but not named. The story was about him… in a cringingly sensationalized drama that pulled in details from the day his parents had been murdered. He learned that their house which had been blown to pieces in Godric's Hollow had been converted to a memorial of the war.
There was mention of an evil soul-stealing phantom hidden in a long-forgotten diary, but without a hint of a connection to Voldemort and, of course, the whale-sized serpent lurking in unknown chambers beneath the school for centuries. He read back through the story… how was it that no one had told Skeeter about his parseltongue abilities? Or the fact that for a good part of the year everyone thought he was the Heir of Slytherin?
There was no mention of the Center by name or even that he had been seen at St. Mungo's, though there was a vague mention that he was an invalid in a care facility, though expected to return to Hogwarts in the autumn "in his diminished state."
He lay his head down on the table, covering the paper with his arms. He wanted to dig a hole deep into the earth and lay hidden there forever.
He started at the sound of Healer Jordan's footsteps approaching him at a faster than usual pace from behind him.
"Harry," she said as she swept into a chair next to him. "I just read the paper. I was hoping to prepare you for it before you saw it."
"Gordon told me about it," Harry said, dully.
"I've already contacted our legal counsel about the Daily Prophet. They have done a fine job of skirting around the patient confidentiality restraints, though I've contacted Professor McGonagall to see what Hogwarts can do to protect your privacy… but I'm afraid that the Hippogriff is out of the cage. I want you to know that no one who signed the privacy agreement with the Center has violated the terms… that includes staff, residents, and their guardians… though there was the breach with Ms. Skeeter… and it may be that she was able to conceal herself in the Center for longer than we realized… but still, she seemed wary of the threats enough to avoid naming the Center or the specifics of your training here. I know it is small consolation," she added as Harry shifted and huffed an exasperated sigh.
"She should not be able to enter again and we know she's no longer here. Though we are still trying to determine how she was able to avoid detection for so long. Do you know… is there anything you can tell me that you've noticed that might help us figure out how she hid from us while she was at the Center?"
"No, I never smelled her perfume except that time she was in your office… but she knows things she shouldn't know… like how did she know about Riddle calling my mum a…" Harry stilled. "She had to be at the lake that day—that's the only time I've mentioned that…"
"Mentioned what?"
"About Riddle calling my mum a mudblood."
Healer Jordan gasped at the word.
"When Tony … well, we had an argument. I shouted it. He was really apologetic. I don't think he would have told her that and I'm certain that Hermione and Neville never would."
"We know that the Center's residents weren't informants… the privacy spell is binding. We would know if it had been violated."
"She can't have been invisible… even then, I'd have been able to smell her, hear her. If she was visible in some way, then Gemma would have known—she is really observant. She has to be able to present without being noticeable… I mean even with ghosts—I can feel the change in the atmosphere."
"And all the areas around the Egresses are protected… so as long as the wards are up, no one should be able to enter the space that you're using while you're there."
"What about animals? There were lots of birds flying around."
"Hmmm. You mean like an animagus?"
"A what?"
"I believe that your Professor McGonagall an animagus. She can change into a domestic cat."
"Oh, just a cat? I thought she could transform into anything she wanted."
"An animagus takes one form—it is like their spirit animal—a representation of their core magic… their soul, like the Patronus. Often they are the same animal form."
"Could she be an ani- what was it?"
"Animagus? Well, she should be registered if she did it legally—it's very dangerous to do it without guidance and supervision and people have been known to suffer permanent injury or in the worse cases, die. We've worked with a few here over the years. I'll look into that. That could be… though you'd think we would have noticed a bird flying through here… " Healer Jordan had gotten up.
She leaned over, putting her hand on Harry's shoulder briefly.
"Are you all right? The timing of this is awful. Let me know if you need time in the treehouse or if you need to talk more, okay? Your friend Neville is coming today, right?"
"Yeah."
"I'm glad you'll have a friend here. And of course, you've made some strong friendships among your peers in the short amount of time that you've been here. Don't be afraid to lean on them if you need. You don't have to participate in the weekend activities."
Harry shrugged. He really wanted to get away from all of this. His hand felt tingly with the urge to summon his broom out of his staff and fly through the corridors to an Egress… something with a lot of space. Maybe instead of the lake this time—he'd go to the ocean… that felt like a huge expanse of space where he could fly and fly and fly.