AN: Thanks to the people at DLP who looked over this chapter for me, and for their encouragement along the way. Not only would this story be garbage without them, it would probably also be abandoned.
Chapter XI
"Now you understand why I had you bring Professor Slughorn out of retirement. While his potions skills are undeniable, it's his past that makes him such a valuable asset. And target. His memories are one of the greatest, and only, threats to Voldemort's existence. One memory in particular."
The memory swirled in the pensieve as innocuously as any other. It gave no sign that it was little more than a crude forgery.
Dumbledore, by contrast, couldn't conceal his limitations; he gave off the air of a man who was fast flagging. The lines on his face had grown deep which, when combined with his increasingly sickly pallor and shaking hand, made him seem a better candidate for an extended stay at St. Mungo's than the head of a school and vigilante organization. If not for his grandiose reputation, which even the Prophet and Ministry together had been unable to destroy, Harry thought that Dumbledore would have been asked to step down months ago. Even the most unobservant student couldn't fail to notice his failing health now.
Fawkes rested on his perch. He was in the full splendor of his youth, with crimson gold feathers that caught the light and seemed to be blessed with an inner fiery nimbus. His eyes, Harry noticed, tracked Dumbledore's every movement, no matter how minute, as a worried parent watches their child. Every so often his eyes would flash, only for a moment, to the arm that Dumbledore had hidden within the folds of his robes.
"You want me to get this memory from Professor Slughorn," Harry said.
"Horace refuses me because he knows the desperation with which I seek this memory. You are not subject to the same suspicion, and I believe that he harbors a fondness for you that he does not for me. You've already demonstrated your ability to cajole him into things he would otherwise refuse."
"But won't he be suspicious as soon as I start asking about Riddle?"
"There is little advice that I can give you for this task. Had I been able to accomplish this through any means short of force I would have done so already," Dumbledore said.
"I'll do my best, professor," Harry said.
"This memory is the last puzzle piece to understanding Tom Riddle's search for immortality. Until you obtain it there is nothing more for me to teach you."
"I won't let you down."
"Of course." Dumbledore switched to a more pleasant voice, marking the end of their official business for the night. "And how were your holidays? I was remiss in not asking earlier. Or in thanking you for your gift. I haven't been blessed with such a colorful pair of socks in decades."
The pair that Harry had chosen were a shocking green that shouted out the names of different exotic candies every time that wearer took a step. The fact that Dumbledore had received an even more lurid pair of socks before made him question the kind of company the headmaster kept.
"Not a problem, professor. My holidays were…good," Harry said.
Fleur on the roof. Her body against his. His frustration when Bill returned.
"Time spent with those most precious to us is truly magical," Dumbledore said.
Harry nodded and, before his mind began to drift down a dangerous path, asked after Dumbledore's holiday.
"More excitement than I would have liked," Dumbledore said. "Tom hasn't attached much significance to Christmas in many years. However, I did manage to make the time for some traditions which demand to be kept."
Fawkes chirped, somewhat sadly, Harry thought.
"I did have one question before I leave, professor," Harry said.
"By all means."
"I've read through your notebooks a few times now and, in some spots, it seems like the handwriting changes. Along with the content. Like someone else was writing in them," Harry said. To say that the content changed was an understatement. The most violent, destructive spells in the notebooks, the theories that teetered on the edge of immoral, had all been penned by a different hand.
"I expected that you would notice that at some point," Dumbledore said. He leaned forward in his chair. His hand stopped shaking and he smiled, as if Harry had just answered a difficult question. "Those sections were written by Gellert Grindelwald."
Dumbledore said it so nonchalantly that Harry didn't react at first. There was a gulf between the words and the fact, which, when surmounted, only heightened Harry's disbelief.
"Gellert Grindelwald," Harry said. He tested the idea aloud, half-afraid, as if saying it would cement it into reality.
"I often think that my partiality toward forgiveness is nothing more than selfishness," Dumbledore said. "How could I forgive myself the mistakes of my youth if I were unwilling to extend the same opportunity to others?"
A morbid fascination with the idea began to sprout inside Harry. Dumbledore, working side-by-side with the fearsome Dark Lord. Did they argue like friends? Like rivals? How much of the notebooks was Dumbledore and how much had been tainted by Grindelwald? The idea that Harry had been learning as much at the feet of a Dark Lord as he had Dumbledore sent a chilling shiver through him which was only somewhat unpleasant.
"What happened?" Harry asked. It was too vague a question, but it was also the only one that came to mind. He was venturing onto the personal. Somewhere he had never gone with Dumbledore. But he couldn't stop himself from asking.
A Dumbledore that would support a Dark Lord was a Dumbledore he had to understand.
"I was humbled," Dumbledore said. "And I lost something precious to me. I was not as strong as you are, Harry. It took a great loss to set me on the right path."
Dumbledore kept his answer as vague as Harry's question, yet it somehow still made Harry uneasy; hinting at a great, hidden evil was no less unsettling than that evil in its fullness.
"I prefer not to dwell on the past when the present offers so many interesting challenges of its own," Dumbledore said. His smile finally gave way to an unconcealable weariness.
Harry felt guilty for pressing him. Dumbledore's unconcern had clearly been a pretense.
"Sorry for keeping you, professor," Harry said. He stood.
"Not at all, Harry. What you're doing for the Order, and for this country, has earned you the right to ask an old man a few questions."
Fawkes trilled and Harry left with less surety of who Albus Dumbledore was than ever before.
"It's supposed to come out this morning, right?" Ron asked.
"That's what Scrimgeour told me," Harry said.
"I wish you had let me read it over before you sent it in," Hermione said.
They had arrived at breakfast just when the food was appearing on the tables. Hermione had shepherded them out of the tower amidst her fears that the op-ed would spell Harry's public demise. Harry thought that her worry was endearing. Ron, whose shirt was buttoned incorrectly and whose bedhead was particularly savage, was less forgiving of the abrupt wake-up call.
"Fleur helped me write it so I'm sure it'll be fine," Harry said.
"Knowing the Prophet you won't even recognize it. I bet they had some hack work it so that it sells," Ron said.
"I don't think they're worried about it selling," Harry said.
"English isn't even Fleur's first language." Hermione nibbled at the piece of toast on her plate, more out of an unchanneled nervousness than any real hunger.
Ron seemed perfectly at ease, loading his plate with his usual greasy fare and taking appreciative mouthfuls with mechanistic regularity. Harry waited with his arms crossed over his chest; his plate was empty.
Any disinterest Harry was showing was entirely feigned. He had only felt this level of nervousness a few times in his life. The piece in the Prophet was his national debut. People knew of the Boy-Who-Lived, they had been fed false stories and outrageous myths, but they had never seen his words. If people were going to take him seriously it would have to be now, Harry knew.
Their arrival in the Great Hall had far preceded that of the owls, so the three of them sat and waited. Hermione and Ron conversed in low tones, with Ron trying to calm Hermione down and redirect her racing mind onto less fraught subjects (though he was failing quite ably at that). Harry stared at each person entering the Great Hall, wondering what their reaction would be. Hogwarts would be his litmus test for the country at large.
It might have been a less crushing sensation, the waiting, if Fleur had been there to share it with him. The letter was their joint creation, a product of his ideals and her rhetoric, so it was strange to be waiting for the reaction without her. When it came, he felt like he would be unfairly assuming all of the blame or acclaim. Harry would almost rather suffer through recrimination with Fleur than be showered with approval without her.
When the Great Hall was half-full the Prophet arrived. The owls descended like a swarm of locust; dozens of them, of every conceivable size and shape, all bearing the ubiquitous crest of the Prophet on their delivery pouches. A small tawny owl landed in front of Hermione and puffed out its chest to await payment. Hermione deposited the money hurriedly and snatched a copy of the paper out of the owl's pouch, jarring it in the process.
That, along with the lack of the usual breakfast tribute, led the owl to give a huff and steal Hermione's half-eaten toast before flying off with its flock. She didn't notice. Her eyes roamed the front page of the paper avidly. Ron was trying look over Hermione's shoulder to read the paper but Hermione was so hunched over it that he quickly gave it up as an impossibility.
"Do you think we could read it too?" Ron asked.
They didn't receive a response.
"She isn't screaming," Harry said.
"Or huffing," Ron said.
"It must be good then."
"One of the best things she's ever read."
"I was pretty pleased with it, myself."
"Fleur must be a fantastic editor."
"I never get any credit."
Abruptly, Hermione let the Prophet slip from her grasp and fall onto the table. Harry could just make out a flattering picture of him before Ron snatched it up.
"Well?" Harry asked.
"It's not bad. I think people will like it. Especially people who don't know you," Hermione said.
Ron seemed to concur as well. He was grinning as he handed the paper to Harry. The op-ed was almost exactly the final draft that he had sent into the Prophet. They had excised a few loose sentences here and there, and tweaked some of his phrasing, but the message remained the same. Harry was pleasantly surprised.
"This is pretty much what I wrote," he said.
The Great Hall wasn't full yet but the students were already passing around the Prophet and taking conspicuous glances toward Harry. His hard-won intuitive sense for the public mood told him that the glances weren't negative. Curious, approving, and, on the faces of the younger students, bordering on the worshipful, but none of the glances held the venom of a rebuke or anger. Years of oscillating between public adoration and scorn told Harry that this was a very good reaction.
"Some of them are looking at you like they want you to stand up and give a speech," Ron said.
"Mostly the younger ones," Hermione said.
As the Prophet made its way around the hall the noise increased until the entire room was utterly abuzz. Even the staff seemed entranced by the paper. McGonagall had been reading and rereading it since she had arrived. Flitwick and Sprout were sharing a copy, using it as cover to hide their faces while they spiritedly discussed it.
Hagrid didn't have a copy in front of him. He looked out on the rambunctious students with a carefree smile. As far as Harry could tell, Hagrid had no idea that there was anything out of the ordinary.
"I wonder if this will actually do anything," Hermione said.
"It will. People look up to the legend of the Boy-Who-Lived. Even after the mud the Prophet slung at him last year he's still the biggest name in Britain," Ron said. He had an uncharacteristically intense expression.
"We'll see," Harry said. Ron's confidence was flattering but Harry wouldn't be so quick to pronounce his victory. The public was fickle. Even if they liked his letter there was no guarantee that it would translate into results. Until Scrimgeour gave him the updated recruitment numbers he would withhold judgement.
Harry took another look at the faculty table. He knew she wouldn't be there but he was still disappointed when all he saw was her empty chair. Fleur had been away on Order business ever since they had gotten back to school. She wouldn't know whether or not the letter she had helped him with would be a success until she got back.
He felt a strange loneliness when he looked at her empty chair. It had only been days since he had last seen her, yet her absence seemed unusually sharp. Despite being surrounded by people -his classmates, friends, and teachers – it all seemed dreadfully shallow without her, like a cheap imitation that was so crass it bordered on the offensive.
When Harry stared at her chair it was almost like he could see her. She would be staring at the food with revulsion, no doubt lamenting the inferiority of English cuisine, while she ignored the hungry stares of the male students with her effortless poise. Then, after finally deciding on what seemed least offensive, she would fill her plate and finish her greetings to the other professors. If she were in a teasing mood she might even glance down at him with a look that seemed to express surprise that Harry was there in the first place.
It was routine played out dozens of times, yet each iteration was subjected to just the slightest permutation; enough for Harry to find it fascinating anew each and every time. He daydreamed about how it would change after the night they had shared.
"We should get out of here before people start mobbing you," Ron said. He was dutifully scanning the crowd like he could detect and analyze any threat before they appeared.
"You're right," Harry said.
Hermione wrapped up a few pieces of toast and tucked the Prophet under her arm. "Too late," she said.
Harry craned his head around. Neville was leading a pack of seventh years, all in the Dueling Club, over to Harry. They followed in his wake like a docile flock of sheep.
"We read your letter in the Prophet," Neville said. The entirety of the hall was watching them. It was unlike Neville to cause a public stir. Harry wasn't sure what he was trying to accomplish.
"It was brilliant," one Hufflepuff said.
Neville quelled the interruption with a look, and then continued. "If the Ministry is holding auror training sessions then we want to come. Seeing how the pros do things can only help. We're all tired of sitting back and doing nothing against You-Know-Who. We want to help you, Harry."
His words carried across the entirety of the Great Hall, which seemed to be holding its collective breath.
"I don't think that the Minister wants me inviting people along," Harry said.
His response, meek as it was, only spurred Neville on. "The Ministry's going to need as many people as possible to fight against You-Know-Who. We want to show that we can fight too."
Harry hesitated, and Neville continued before he could think of a way to give an equivocal answer and escape without seeming a coward in front of everyone.
"I think that having us along will really show the public that everyone at Hogwarts is behind you, Harry. It would make a good article in the Prophet."
"He's right," Hermione said. "If people who are of-age want to go they should be able. You should owl the Minister, Harry."
"I'd better be allowed to come," Ron muttered. His hand was propped on his cheek and he had a gloomy look at the idea of being left behind.
"We all want to do our part," Neville said. The students behind him voiced their agreement.
Hermione's approval, Neville's boldness and determination, along with the demanding curious eyes of every student in the hall brought down the last of Harry's resistance.
"I'll talk to the Minister then," Harry said.
Neville didn't smile. He just gave a deliberate, fierce nod. "We won't let you regret this," he said.
The group behind him dispersed like they had been given some secret signal. Harry had no doubt that the entire school would know what had been said within the hour.
The reaction to his letter was positive. Harry could count that as a small victory, at least. He wasn't sure how he felt about bringing other students along to the auror sessions, and he wasn't sure that the Minister and Dumbledore would agree to the idea, but people were being inspired. Not that Neville had needed more motivation.
"Looks like even the older students are listening to Neville now," Hermione said.
"Better watch out, Harry. I think he's angling for your spot," Ron said.
Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…
"He's welcome to it," Harry said. "I'm going to head to charms now. Get some practice in before anyone shows up."
Hermione looked tempted to join him, but she glanced over at Ron, who was still dismantling the contents of his plate, and said, We'll see you there."
As he left the Great Hall, Harry thought that things were progressing somewhat differently than he had expected. He wondered if Fleur would be pleased with the development. It was, he supposed, the exact sort of thing they had been angling for with the letter.
Despite that, he couldn't shake the feeling that in the end it would prove to be a dangerous idea.
The students at Dueling Club practices had become exhaustingly enthusiastic. Harry's piece in the Prophet seemed to have driven his students to new levels of eagerness. Their showmanship was more prominent than ever, though Harry couldn't say that there had been a corresponding increase in their skills. This practice a gaggle of rambunctious third-year girls had staged a botched performance which was intended to show off their improvement. Instead, it had left long streaks of black scoring on the walls and floors and nearly taken off the heads of a pair of oblivious first-years. Only Fleur's timely intervention had saved them a trip to the Hospital Wing.
Now that the practice was over Harry busied himself with trying to remove the more egregious marks. They proved unnaturally resilient. Every method and spell he employed was fruitless. He had no doubt that Dobby or Mrs. Weasley would be able to banish the marks without any trouble but he found himself baffled and defeated. Harry left the damage alone. If he couldn't get rid of it then it would serve as a noticeable reminder of the dangers of overconfidence.
Restoring the room to its pristine state had been a plausible pretext for staying behind, but not Harry's actual goal. Fleur had yet to finish with a pest of a Ravenclaw who had developed the self-indulgent habit of staying after practice had ended to talk to Fleur. After a minimal amount of observation Harry had concluded that the boy's eyes strayed too often for his interest to be about dueling in particular. Fleur wouldn't be allowed to be blunt to the boy in her role as a Hogwarts professor but Harry was subject to no such restriction. He prepared to walk over.
"I should really be helping Harry clean up though," Fleur was saying. "If you're really interested in the practical application of what we discussed today then I suggest you go to the open auror training sessions. There's a group going this weekend."
Harry derived no small amount of satisfaction from watching the Ravenclaw blanch. With a stuttered excuse he departed.
"I wish my fans were as loyal to me as yours are to you," Harry said.
"At least your fans are staring at your face," Fleur said.
"It makes more sense for them to stare at you than at my scar," Harry said.
Fleur walked over to the tarnished section of the wall and prodded it with her wand. She frowned when the scoring didn't recede.
"I'll have to remember to ask what spell they used," Harry said. He felt almost like he was fumbling with his words. It was the first time he'd been alone with Fleur since their night on the roof. He was certain that their relationship had changed, that they would have to reach some new kind of equilibrium, but Fleur didn't seem to be sharing his mild discomfort in any way. She seemed distant, but not in a way that caused her any anxiety.
"They botched a spell and got lucky," she said.
Harry was becoming proficient in escaping the unintentional hazards that his students regularly inflicted upon him. Random explosions, uncontrollable fires, omnidirectional shrapnel, and crying first-years were only the most frequent challenges he had learned to overcome.
"Multiple incorrect castings can combine into a nearly impenetrable magical residue. It'll weaken and fade over time but there's nothing to be done about it right now," Fleur continued.
Magical theory was interesting but not why Harry had stayed behind.
"I missed you," Harry said.
"I read our letter while I was away. Read it a few times, actually. It got an excellent reaction," Fleur said.
Harry wanted to frown. It wasn't quite avoidance, and she said it too tenderly for it to be reproof, but he still got the impression that she was pulling away from him.
"It would have blown up in my face if you hadn't helped me," he said.
"You might need some polish but you would've succeeded without me, Harry," Fleur said.
She was still staring at the residue on the wall. One thumb traced along its winding length, pressing hard, like she could use force to wipe it away where magic had failed. She reached the end and let her hand fall by her side again. A silence between them grew.
They had only exchanged a few meaningless words in public since that night. Harry was struggling to place where they were with each other.
More than friends but less than lovers. Not student and teacher but not equals. They were a cruel secret without any of the lewd exciting details.
What was it that caused her to draw away? Voldemort? Their need for secrecy? His age? It could be any or none.
"Whatever you think, I'm grateful that you helped me," Harry said.
"Any time," Fleur said. Soft, but still not looking at him. Was she ashamed? Unsure? Never before had Harry felt so incapable of understanding what Fleur was thinking.
"Are you angry?" Harry asked.
"It would be childish to be angry. At you or myself," Fleur said.
That didn't feel like an answer. Harry didn't respond.
Moments like what they had shared on the roof were curious things. Like the acting out of a play or a scene from a movie. There was an implacable inevitability to their every action, and, in the moment, it seemed absurd to even consider that things could go a different way.
It was moments like that which were devoid of perspective, Harry thought. Like two people sealed in a painting without landscape or background.
But then time passed. Perspective reasserted itself. Suddenly those rash decisions didn't seem so inevitable. They might seem like a product of a passion that should have been ignored. Or so Harry feared.
"You've gotten so much better at convincing people to think a certain way," Fleur said.
"I've been practicing almost every day."
"Your results speak for themselves."
"They're definitely something to be proud of."
Most of the time talking to Fleur was a game that followed interesting, but conventional, routes. It was quick, pointed, and if you didn't stay lean and sharp you were sure to lose. This however, wasn't some teasing conversation. Fleur was as somber as Harry had seen her. There was no clear option for him to pick, no safe way of proceeding. He was on the brink of something, or rather Fleur was, and he couldn't predict what would bring her back or send her over.
For her part, Fleur seemed content to inspect him. She finally turned away from the wall and looked him up and down. It made Harry nervous, and excited, to be so closely examined.
"How was the rest of your break?" she asked.
"It didn't live up to what came before," Harry said.
She did smile a little at that. Some of her usual haughtiness returned. "Of course not. How could it?"
"And yours?" Harry asked. There was so much else he wanted to say that it felt asinine to be asking questions like that but he decided to let Fleur set the pace. If banalities were what she wanted then he would provide.
Fleur seemed to be weighing possible responses; he could see the exact moment she settled on a response. Her back straightened, involuntarily, and her eyes narrowed somewhat, giving her a smokier, more dangerous look.
"It didn't live up to what came before," Fleur said.
"Of course not. How could it?" Harry asked. His elation was unconcealable.
"Oh, I can think of a few ways," Fleur said. She passed by him, close enough that her shoulder almost brushed against his and he couldn't take her smirk as anything but a teasing challenge.
"Now that you mention it…" he said.
"I never got the chance to show you what I've been working on recently, after all," Fleur said, interrupting him.
"What you've been working on?" Harry asked. That…wasn't where he thought Fleur had been leading.
"Getting the opportunity to read Dumbledore's notes inspired me. I started working on some original projects that I'd like you to look at."
"Projects, huh?"
"It's nothing to get excited over."
"I'd love to take a look," Harry said.
"Good. I don't want to risk anyone else seeing it so why don't we meet in the Room of Requirement after dinner tomorrow night."
That was the best Harry could have hoped for; the antithesis of their spontaneous moment on the roof. If Fleur was willing to be alone with him in the Room of Requirement, a planned rendezvous, then she had decided that what they had done wasn't a mistake. He had overcome whatever misgivings she had been nursing, though he admittedly didn't know how. His blind stumbling had led him away from the obstacles in his path.
"I'll be there," Harry said.
"Don't sound so enthusiastic. This is just more work for you." Harry got the impression Fleur was counseling him not to think that their meeting was going to be more than she was saying. He was fine with that. It was a step in the right direction. "Your charms and transfiguration skills are nowhere where they need to be yet and this will help to develop them."
"I think your standards are just too high."
"That's why I'm your favorite professor."
"Snape will be disappointed to hear that."
"Despite his good looks and charm he just doesn't have the same investment in your future that I do."
"I hope you're not implying that I base my opinion of my professors on their looks."
"Of course not," Fleur said.
What were they to each other? What had seemed so simple on the roof, like some kind of biblical truth, now was clouded and fading. Harry could pretend that he understood and try to fall back into the same rhythms with her, but he had the suspicion that it would be a step backward; to pretend things hadn't changed would be an unsustainable sham.
"Are we going to start practicing now?" Harry asked.
"Not today. I have some work that I need to do," Fleur said.
"Right. No problem." If her amused look was any indication then Harry's disappointment was obvious.
Fleur left. It was the first time she hadn't stayed behind to train with him since they had started.
Harry wondered if, somewhere along the way, he had made a mistake. It wasn't a bad outcome, but Fleur had doubts. Was having doubts. Navigating the intricacies of his relationship with her was proving more difficult than he had hoped.
"Trade?" Harry asked. He shut the book and slid it over to Hermione, rubbing his index finger sensually along the gilded title, as if the book could seduce her into reading it.
"I was done with this one anyway," Hermione said. She passed him Pitiful Plagues and Paltry Pestilence. He searched through the index for anything even tangential to his topic.
Snape had decided that he had enough evidence of 'cheating' to warrant giving each student an individualized topic. Harry had been assigned an inquiry into the role of magically engineered diseases in the evolution of Ministry defence protocols. Malfoy's essay was on standard uses of the Shield Charm.
Sometimes Harry wondered whether Snape at least found his cruelty amusing.
Most of the other students in Snape's class were desperately, and in many cases fruitlessly, searching the stacks for the welcome volume that would save them from the dreaded P. The few that had found a somewhat suitable book were staring down at their papers with an expression of the utmost betrayal, their quills dangling limply in their grasp.
Hermione had gone over the minimum required length for her essay an hour ago. Harry wasn't even halfway there.
"Harry, there's something I've wanted to talk to you about for a while now," Hermione said. Her quill came to rest in its inkpot.
Copying the gesture, Harry put his own away. "About what?"
"Ron. I didn't want to worry you, because I know how busy you've been, but he's been studying spells that I know he shouldn't be. Dangerous spells. The kind that you only find in the Restricted Section. He got a pass from Professor Slughorn."
"Ron isn't the type to study anything dark."
"Not dark. Just…dangerous. I think he's trying to catch up to you."
It wasn't meant as an accusation, but it felt like one anyway. Harry was aware of the potency of Ron's jealousy. It had driven him to make mistakes in the past but Harry had thought that they were past that point.
"He hasn't been acting any differently," Harry said.
"Because it's not jealousy or anything like that," Hermione said. "I think he just feels left behind. He's trying to, I don't know, make himself useful. You've been improving so much this year between the Dueling Club, Fleur, and Dumbledore. And now there's all of this about the auror training. Ron has to deal with the fact that you and his family are working to contribute to the war while he feels stuck and useless. Every time I've tried talking to him about this he's blown me off. I think he might respond better if you tried."
Hermione looked so earnest that Harry felt uncomfortable telling her the truth. He disagreed. They were at war. Ron's family members were risking their lives every day. If that was what motivated him, if Harry's progress was motivating him, then that just showed that Ron understood the seriousness of their situation.
What he said was, "I'll talk to him but I can't promise anything. Ron can make his own decisions."
If his ambivalence showed in any way Hermione didn't seem to pick up on it.
A loud shuffling of books in the stack behind them drew the pair's attention. Neville hobbled out of the stacks with a half-dozen books straining to escape his grip. Quite literally, for one of them.
Neville was intent on his books so he didn't notice them. Harry gave a low appreciative whistle. Not loud enough to unbalance the delicate ecosystem of the library and bring about the prowling wrath of Madam Pince, but enough to get Neville's attention.
When Neville took a seat, Harry said, "I'm trying to get an idea of how many people are coming to the auror training. You seemed pretty friendly with the upper years. I was wondering if you had any idea."
A year ago Neville would have stuttered and bumbled his way through a labored explanation about how he didn't really know the upper years all that well and how Harry would be better off asking someone else. Now he just answered with the assurance of someone who was used to being consulted, and then listened to.
"It's hard to say right now," Neville said. "Some people aren't interested at all and others want to come but are too worried about reprisals from You-Know-Who. I'm sure that there will be at least a few who are willing to come no matter what. I couldn't really give you a number now though."
Harry hadn't expected more than that but he was still disappointed. The auror training had briefly been the sole topic of conversation at Hogwarts but, like even the most exciting gossip, it had faded out with the same rapidity that it had spread. Given that it only applied to of-age students the general enthusiasm for it was negligible.
"Repairing Magical Artifacts. Vanishing Cabinets and Causal Necessity. What are these for, Neville?" Hermione asked.
Neville laughed in a sort of embarrassed way, like he had been caught doing something he would have preferred remain hidden. Not guilty, just uncomfortable. "Gran found this old thing in the attic and she wants me to fix it. Apparently it belonged to my dad. I don't know anything about it so I thought that I'd do some research."
That was a topic of conversation that both Harry and Hermione knew to be leery of. Even allusions to the tragedy that had befallen the Longbottoms were enough to send a pitiless chill through Harry. Even though Neville said that it was his Gran who wanted him to fix the artifact, Harry could tell just by looking at him that it was important to him too. Restoring something that belonged to his dad would give him the same sort of feeling that Harry had every time he threw the invisibility cloak over his shoulders; like he was shouldering the past and the pride and the expectations of his father.
"If you ever need help just let us know," Harry said.
"We don't know much about vanishing cabinets but we'd be happy to help," Hermione said.
"Thanks," Neville said. "I doubt I'll be able to figure this out myself so I'll probably take you up on that."
"It does sound interesting. I've never gotten to work on a magical artifact before," Hermione said.
Neville laughed. "I've still got to finish Snape's essay before I worry about this."
"I've been working on mine for hours," Harry said. Neville looked at the leaning tower of books next to Harry, then down at his half-blank sheet of parchment, and sighed.
"There goes my night. I'll see you two later," Neville said. He carted his books over to Pince's desk and earned himself a stern rebuke when he let them thump too loudly.
"Poor Neville," Hermione said.
"I guess Ron's not the only person we should worry about," Harry said.
The Room of Requirement gave Harry a sense of vertigo when he entered. It was an endless saturated white that was broken only by Fleur's pale blue robes and the wooden desk she was sitting at. After taking a moment to let his sense of perspective balance itself, Harry walked over to her.
She noticed his approach, he was sure, but was too engrossed in her writing to pay him any mind. There were a few reference books stacked neatly on the table, and a dozen pages of handwritten notes scattered in a way that apparently made sense to Fleur. Harry gave the notes a once-over as he waited to be acknowledged. They were written in a hurried shorthand that he had to struggle to decipher. The handwriting was sloppy, as if her hand had struggled to keep pace with the surging stream of her thoughts.
There was a thrill in being alone with Fleur in the Room of Requirement. There was no chance of being discovered. It was a place of the most inviolable privacy. As Harry stood unoccupied and looked down at Fleur he struggled to suppress the less wholesome thoughts that had been pressing him since her return. He shifted uncomfortably. With one hand he tried to subtly readjust his robes.
"This is what I've been working on for the past couple of weeks," Fleur said. She picked up the thin cloth notebook that she was writing in and passed it to Harry.
Flipping through it, Harry saw a plethora of messy diagrams, cramped notations, and haphazard addendums. It was an even more impenetrable notebook than Dumbledore's. Fleur may have been inspired by the content of Dumbledore's but she hadn't taken any notes on layout.
"Is there a key?" Harry asked. He turned back to the first page and started studying it more closely.
"If you can't understand this simple thing then there's no way you'll actually be of any help."
That was a challenge that Harry wouldn't back down from. He refocused on the notebook and ignored Fleur's characteristically pleased reaction. At her unspoken behest the room supplied another chair for him. He sat down at the other side of the table, directly across from Fleur. Her leg was swinging idly under the table, coming close, but never quite brushing up against his leg. It was distracting.
As far as he could tell, the notebook was an attempt at providing a sound theoretical basis to a more streamlined mass animation spell. Not exactly an entirely original work, but rather adjusting the difficulty of an already existing spell. Masters, like Flitwick and Dumbledore, could pull off multiple simultaneous animations without much trouble, but learning how to do so was more a question of individual trial and error that required both time and talent, rather than a standardized spell like something that could be learned at Hogwarts. Mass animations were far out of reach of the average wizard.
The style of her notes was derivative of Dumbledore's notebooks. The more similarities that Harry found the more easily he was able to parse her writing. Due to the complexity of the base magic involved, it was an ambitious undertaking. Not, however, something that was out of her reach.
In fact, the deeper Harry got into the notes the more he doubted that she needed his help at all. There were too few corrections, and almost no mistakes to be found. It wasn't the ineptly executed work of someone fumbling toward the right answer. Fleur had known exactly where to start and where she needed to take her work. It was all done with an elegance and succinctness that Hermione would have admired.
Fleur didn't need his help, so why had she asked him to come? A test of his capabilities, in her guise as his teacher? An attempt to keep him involved and close by? Or even, and this Harry hardly dared to think, the spell had been nothing but a suitable excuse for her to get him alone with her in the Room of Requirement.
A look toward Fleur revealed nothing. She was paging through one of her books and making the occasional note. His pause was either unnoticed or ignored. Harry, once again, decided to let Fleur lead. She had a reason to invite him and with time it would be revealed. If he was lucky then her intentions would line up neatly with his.
"This reminds me of the charms used on the portraits that allow them to interact with their painted environments," Harry said.
"That spell was one of the first I looked into but the differences between permanent enchantments and temporary animations were too great for it to be a stable foundation. It was useful as a reference point but nothing more."
"Studying the suits of armor around the castle might be helpful."
"I thought I would do this without using any existing work. Why so eager for me to find an easy solution elsewhere?" Fleur asked.
"The base for this spell still hasn't been simplified enough. It's above N.E.W.T. level," Harry said. "If the point is to make multiple animations useful to people who aren't charms prodigies then we'll need to tone it down much further."
"I know. This is just a rough draft."
Harry had concerns outside of just the theoretical aspects of the spell. "Have you thought about the potential for abuse that this kind of spell could bring?" he asked.
"Any spell can be abused," Fleur said.
"But this is the kind of magic that Dumbledore used against Voldemort. Abusing Cheering Charms isn't exactly the same thing."
Fleur didn't seem irritated by his point, but neither did she look inclined to stop her work. "This spell hasn't even made it past the theoretical stage yet, Harry. If it does, and you're still worried, then we can talk about it."
"Have you told anyone else about this?"
A pause. "Only you," Fleur said.
That had to mean something, Harry thought.
"It's probably better if we keep it that way," Harry said. He thought he did an admirable job of keeping his voice steady.
"If you insist," Fleur said. Her wicked amusement had Harry putting his head back down to the notebook.
When he finished reading he started over again. He wanted to make sure that he understood everything perfectly. Fleur wouldn't let the usual thoughtless mistakes and conventional suggestions slide when it came to her original work. If Harry wanted her to treat him as an equal on the project, or something close to it, then he absolutely had to act like one.
As Harry read through it a second time he began giving his thoughts. Gratifyingly, Fleur took notes on a number of his suggestions and corrections as he went. Soon the pages that scattered the table were split equally between the two of them.
It was distracting just being around Fleur. It seemed that he could only focus on the work so long before he was drawn back to her. His eyes traced her lips, the hollow near her collarbone, and even lower with greater regularity as the night went on. Fleur noticed, Harry knew, and she had a small, self-satisfied smile that lasted the entire night, but she never made him feel like the bumbling schoolchild he knew he was acting like. It was childish to stare; no different from the Ravenclaw at the Dueling Club, or any of the hundreds of male students who would kill to be in his position. Still, he couldn't help himself.
It seemed like the more he had gotten to know Fleur, the more he had confessed to her and grown comfortable around her, the less he was able to control herself around her. It might be different if she discouraged his behavior. A cutting phrase or displeased look would quell his roving eyes.
She never did. On the contrary, the more Harry looked, the less able he was to focus on providing useful feedback on the notes, and the more pleased Fleur grew. It was an indulgent pleasure she was showing, far from her usual haughtiness and condescending humor.
After he spent nearly a full minute stumbling through a suggestion about how they could incorporate Didier's Theory of Retrograde Animation, Fleur suggested they take a break.
"We don't have to," Harry said. His pride stung. Half of his suggestions were useless because he couldn't produce a coherent thought with Fleur in front of him.
"I like to take small breaks. It keeps me sharp," Fleur said. She put her quill down and assembled the notes into one neat pile. "You've been very helpful, Harry. Thank you."
"I'm sure you could've thought of all of that on your own," Harry said.
"It's interesting what kinds of connections other people make. It makes your mind work differently than it would have on its own."
She could be telling the truth, or she could just be humoring him. Harry couldn't tell. "Why are you trying to do this?" he asked.
"Why? I wanted to," Fleur said.
He gave her a sour look and nudged her under the table with his leg, perhaps letting it stray too far and linger too long to really qualify as a nudge.
"It's a creative outlet. Those are good things to have. They keep you interested. And away from other, more dangerous, outlets."
Fleur was looking directly in his eyes and Harry was glad that the desk was concealing his lower body. Somehow, holding Fleur in his arms on the roof had seemed more innocent than just sitting at the same desk was now.
"I guess I'll keep helping you then. For a creative outlet," Harry said.
Fleur was playing with the end of her quill, running her index finger from the top to the bottom in sweeping hypnotic motions. "For creative outlets," she agreed.
"Oh, and I almost forgot to tell you. I got another letter from Gabby the other day. She went on for pages about her amazing hero, Harry Potter. Apparently what I've written in my letters has made her become quite taken with you," she went on.
Fleur laughed and Harry started to blush with pleasure. It had nothing to do with Gabrielle Delacour.
Harry was early. The hallway outside McGonagall's office, rarely used at the busiest of times, was empty. There was another twenty minutes until the portkey for the auror training would leave but Harry had decided that, as the person who had supposedly put all of it together, he should arrive first. Fleur had spent the better part of an hour lecturing him on the importance of appearance and how even the most seemingly inconsequential details could tarnish a once first-rate reputation.
There was no finalized count for how many students would be attending. Dumbledore had given his permission for of-age students to attend at dinner one night and announced the date and time that the portkey would be leaving, but he had left the rest in Harry's hands. Once he had that leeway Harry had taken the liberty of getting special dispensation from Scrimgeour for Ron and Neville to join the session, despite not being of-age. They would never have forgiven him if he had let them stay behind.
Neville had dedicated himself to keeping the session as fresh in people's minds as possible. He had gone around the school trying to rally the of-age students to join. Results, he had claimed, were mixed, but he held out hope for a good turnout. Harry hoped that he was right. The Gryffindor crests on the wall seemed to loom over him, like they were judging whether or not he was worthy to bear their likeness.
Training with aurors would be stepping into the real world. They would be suddenly shorn of the coddling that Hogwarts offered and treated like prospective weapons to be wielded in war. Teaching students in the DA or Dueling Club was juvenile compared to most of the things that Mad-Eye had told him about auror training. Half of what he had praised so effusively was later decreed illegal, according to Tonks.
Even beyond the training itself, Harry knew that the wizarding world would be looking to him. Some because they wanted him to succeed, and others because they were praying for his failure. He had no choice but to live up to the mantle of the Boy-Who-Lived. The mantle he was, for the first time, adopting voluntarily. The mantle that he would give meaning beyond an infant's coincidental vanquishing of the Dark Lord.
Harry had his back to Ron and Hermione when they turned the corner. It took a tap on the shoulder from Ron to draw him from his thoughts.
"You alright, mate?" Ron asked.
"Nobody's here," Harry said.
"There's still fifteen minutes and you know that Neville is going to bring people," Hermione said.
"If we can't get a big enough group together then I'll be the failed showoff that this country's always thought of me as," Harry said.
"The Prophet isn't going to print anything bad about you now," Ron said.
That didn't do much in the way of making Harry feel better but he gave Ron a terse smile anyway. He was grateful for their support, if not the words themselves.
"It's not only about the numbers. The important thing is that this is happening at all," Hermione said.
Harry tried to force himself to relax. He couldn't shake the feeling that out of everything he had done on the public stage, this was the most momentous. The DA, Dueling Club, Prophet op-ed; those were nothing more than appetizers to entice demand for the main course.
"I'm sure the aurors will be impressed with what we've been doing," Hermione said. "Professor Flitwick said that this is the most advanced class to come through Hogwarts in decades. A lot of that is thanks to you."
"Well, none of this would have happened in the first place if you hadn't given me the push to start the DA," Harry said.
"Yeah, Hermione. If you had kept quiet we could be playing chess right now." Ron let loose a sigh of mock lament and earned a lighthearted elbow from Hermione in return. He gave an even more dramatic grunt in response.
Their antics were a good distraction. At least until Neville came down the corridor, entourage in tow.
Harry counted. One. Two. Three. Four.
Four including Neville. That was worse than he had expected.
Harry greeted them cordially and made the obligatory round of introductions, even though they were all Dueling Club members. He didn't let the panic he was feeling show. Was this the best that Hogwarts had to offer its country?
When he had a moment, Harry drew Neville to the side. "Is this it?"
Neville's expression was a unique look, one that only he could pull off; a bewildering amalgamation of shame, self-loathing, and determination. "This was the best I could do. People are frightened."
Even though he understood the pervasive atmosphere of fear that had settled over Hogwarts, and the country, Harry was alarmed by the turnout. Only two other volunteers from the House of the Brave? It was disgraceful.
"Seven of us," Harry said. "Maybe I should have tried recruiting people myself."
"No." Neville's response was immediate and forceful. "You're the one behind all of this. You have to be above it. It would come across as pathetic if you started begging people to come to something this important."
"You're right. Still…so few." Harry looked at the assembled students. They were talented, he knew that from experience, but the caliber of the wizard wouldn't come across clearly on the front page of the Prophet. Quantity, or the lack thereof, would.
However, the more Harry thought about it, the more he was confident that the Prophet would be able to work its mendacious magic to make it seem like the whole of Hogwarts was clamoring to support their adored Boy-Who-Lived. He had to remember that the Prophet specialized in spinning a story, rather than reporting the facts. The thought filled him with disgust.
He paid minimal attention to the conversations around him. It was almost time for their portkey. McGonagall's office was still closed.
"Who's taking us there?" Ron asked.
"It has to be a professor, right?" Hermione said.
"I don't actually know. Nobody told me," Harry said.
"Are you even the one who organized this?" Hermione said, just loud enough for him to hear.
It was two in the afternoon exactly when the office door opened. Instead of being greeted by McGonagall's ever-present severe green robes and stern face, Harry caught a whiff of some inexplicable but delightful scent and a flash of silvery-blond hair.
"Is everyone ready to go?" Fleur asked.
Harry gaped and before he could catch himself, said, "You're taking us?"
Fleur kept her cheery demeanor. "I asked to switch with Professor McGonagall. That's not a problem, is it?"
"Of course not!" the sole Ravenclaw shouted. Everyone stared at him and he gave an enormous blush.
Fleur continued as if there hadn't been an answer. Harry thought that the question might have been rhetorical in the first place. "We'll be travelling by portkey there and back. It goes without saying but don't embarrass yourself or the school. The Prophet will have a team there so even your worst moments are likely to be recorded and distorted. Any questions?"
Harry was caught at an intersection of emotion. He was happy, thrilled even, that Fleur was the one coming with them. She was wearing a particularly tight set of cream dueling robes that contoured to her lines, only distorted by padding on her chest and thighs (which by no means detracted from her appearance). Down her back was a half-cape which brushed just below the small of her back. If not for her decidedly feminine appearance, Harry would have thought that she looked like a plucky squire prepared to dash to the rescue.
The downside to the situation was that Fleur hadn't told him she was coming. Because she knew that he would object.
Honestly, Harry wasn't sure that he could keep his eyes off of her for the entire duration of the training. The last thing his reputation needed was for an unscrupulous Prophet reporter to leak photos of him leering at her chest when he was trying to marshal support for the war effort.
He tried to glare at Fleur when no one else was looking but she just carried on with the same effortless unconcern, as if there was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing dangerous, in her subbing for McGonagall at the most crucial point in Scrimgeour's plan.
Fleur had everyone stand around McGonagall's desk. She produced the portkey, a balanced wooden baton, with a dainty flourish. Harry could hardly recall the last time that he had seen her in such an effervescent mood. He was about dismiss it as just a passing temper, one which required no further explanation, when she looked directly at him and smiled. It was a smile he was familiar with.
She was challenging him.
Harry put a grudging hand on the portkey. He was pressed between Neville and the sweaty Ravenclaw. Fleur said, "Tinkerwell."
They were wrenched off their feet in the typical dizzying blur, suspended and yet moving at a critical speed. Harry wrestled against the onrushing nausea. It wouldn't do for his entrance to be preceded by a spray of sick. As much as he wanted to check on the reactions of the others, Harry couldn't seem to lift his eyes from the vibrating portkey.
With a monstrous lurch their ride was finished. The group landed on their feet, albeit unsteadily, in the midst of a grassy expanse.
"All right. You're representing Hogwarts today. Behave accordingly," Fleur said. Harry saw her eyes stay on him for just a moment too long. She wanted a reaction? If that was her game then he wasn't going to give her one. On another day he would be more than happy to play along but not today. Although, on reflection, the inappropriateness was probably what had enticed Fleur in the first place.
When the group started moving Harry looked at the surroundings. He recognized where they were. The field was overgrown and the once magnificent stadium had faded and become strewn with debris, but it was undoubtedly the home of the Quidditch World Cup final. With such a small group, and given the neglected appearance of the place, Harry thought that it gave off a borderline post-apocalyptic feeling, like they were wading into some nightmare better left forgotten.
Fleur was leading them over to the auror trainees. They were a brow-beaten lot, with slumped shoulders, trembling legs, and sweat dripping from forgotten orifices. Harry didn't recognize any of them but he knew their instructor.
"Hello, Kingsley," Fleur said.
"Fleur," Kingsley said, inclining his head politely. Harry had never thought of Kingsley as being in the mold of Mad-Eye but judging from the fact that not a single one of the trainees was staring at Fleur, Harry decided that Kingsley had pushed them to the very edge of sanity.
The group of trainees was smaller than he had expected. Scrimgeour had told him that the auror office expanded in times of national emergency but there couldn't be more than thirty trainees present, and Harry knew that not all of them would graduate. Scrimgeour's desperation for support was becoming more understandable.
Even more unnerving was the knowledge that any one of the recruits could be a spy for Voldemort, or under the imperious. They all looked normal (relatively speaking), and acted normal, but at any moment they could prove to be just as vicious and underhanded as the average Death Eater. It had gone unsaid that Harry was risking his life by leaving Hogwarts. The only protection he was afforded was the knowledge that Voldemort wanted to kill him personally.
Which, when Harry thought about it, wasn't that comforting at all.
As a whole the trainees seemed apathetic to the appearance of the Hogwarts students. They gave off an air of being prematurely jaded and war-wearied. It went beyond simple exhaustion and dealt more with the fundamental mentality of the average Ministry worker toward the war. Even the aurors seemed hard pressed to envision victory.
A flash of light caught Harry's eye. He had missed a handful of cameramen and a reporter from the Prophet loitering along the sideline of the stadium. They fired their cameras as quickly as the shutters could operate. Harry gave a small smile and wave, keeping Fleur's advice in mind, and the reporter gave him a grateful thumbs up.
"Showing off for all of your adoring fans?" Ron said.
"That's why we're here," Harry said.
"That's why you're here," Ron said.
Kingsley's wand produced a loud retort that silenced everyone.
"We'll be splitting into groups to work on a rotating set of activities," he said. "Counter-Ambush tactics and Multi-Target Engagement will be the primary focuses. Each Hogwarts student will be paired with a trainee and is expected to keep up. If not, you'll be asked to step aside." With that Kingsley produced a list and rattled off the names of students and aurors. The trainees came forward to collect their charges, neither welcoming nor stony.
Ron had been paired with a woman who had a long scar running from the top of her temple in a jagged line to just below her left ear. Every now and then a sickly light pulsed underneath the scar but, given that nobody else was panicking when it happened, Ron seemed to accept it with the same equanimity that he had come to treat Harry's scar with. The woman spoke economically to him and he responded in kind. Hermione had already lead her auror, a short man who seemed to be faring better than most, over to their assigned spot. She had wasted no time in questioning him and he seemed slightly disconcerted by the rapidity and intensity of her interrogation.
It seemed that Kingsley was putting the five groups in different spots around the stadium and having them work on exercises both theoretical and practical. Eventually, Harry and Fleur were the only two left standing of the original Hogwarts contingent. The Prophet's cameras continued to blink, like so many nervous eyes in the background.
"What're we supposed to do?" Harry asked.
"Officially? Work with each of the groups," Kingsley said. "Unofficially the Minister wants you to look good for the cameras. You might give the reporter a few words. Nothing too heavy." Kingsley looked as taken with the idea as Harry felt.
"Don't worry, Kingsley. I'll handle Harry," Fleur said. "You focus on doing something useful."
Kingsley nodded and walked over to his trainees. His relief at not having to babysit was palpable.
"What are you trying to do?" Harry asked.
"I'm just doing my best to act as any Hogwarts professor should. Keeping an eye on my students and all of that," Fleur said. Unintentionally or not, she looked halfway between striking a pose and standing straight. Harry was no longer sure whether the cameras were flashing in his direction or hers.
"If you're going to play games at least help me," he said.
"All you had to do was ask."
The crack of Kingsley's wand signaled the end of their training. All of the other students, Harry saw, looked as exhausted as the trainees had when they arrived. He felt somewhat guilty about not taking part with them before deciding that his own ordeal had been far worse than anything they could have gone through.
"Looks like our time's up," the reporter said. "Thanks for the interview."
Harry nodded and walked in the direction of the other students. Kingsley had started talking but his voice didn't quite carry to where Harry and Fleur were.
Fleur had spent the duration of the interview far enough away to seem separate from Harry, but close enough that he couldn't ignore her. She had occupied herself with trying to provoke him. Long stretches that emphasized her outfit, loud yawns when he was spending too long on any one topic, and unsubtle embellished giggles whenever he said something foolishly patriotic. Harry would have accused her of trying to sabotage their plan if she hadn't been so convincingly innocent each time the reporter had turned around.
"You're a menace," Harry said to her.
"You love that about me."
He thought for a second and then said, "Yeah, I guess I do."
Fleur seemed taken aback by what he said, and some of the teasing was gone from what she said next. "I thought you did well for the most part. If the Prophet picks the more plausible things you said and stays away from the blatant idiotic lies then the public is going to love it."
"That'll almost make this worthwhile."
"Don't say that. I had a good time."
"The cameramen were certainly happy that you came along."
"Don't worry, Harry. They can take pictures but they can't touch." Fleur laughed but Harry wasn't sure what about that was supposed to have been funny.
The Hogwarts group was waiting wordlessly for their arrival. Even Ron, who had seemed like he would easily possess the fortitude for auror training, looked about ready to collapse.
Neville was the only exception. He was staring around at their surroundings, and the people there, with a serene, pleased look.
"Ready?" Fleur asked merrily. She got a few scattered murmurs of assent in return so she held out the portkey.
When they got back Harry thanked everyone for coming and gave them the date and time of the next session. He wondered if they were all going to come again. It was unlikely.
"Harry," Fleur said before he left. "Don't forget about our meeting tomorrow night. You can't start slacking on me."
"Trust me, Fleur. I've got some ideas you're going to love."
"I'm looking forward to it. Don't be late."