Chapter 2. The Prodigal Returns
Whatsoever I've feared has come to life
Whatsoever I've fought off became my life
Just when everyday seemed to greet me with a smile
Sunspots have faded
And now I'm doing time
Cause I fell on black days
Whomsoever I've cured I've sickened now
Whomsoever I've cradled I've put you down
I'm a search light soul they say
But I cant see it in the night
I'm only faking when I get it right
Cause I fell on black days
How would I know
That this could be my fate
So what you wanted to see good has made you blind
And what you wanted to be yours has made it mine
So don't you lock up something that you wanted to see fly
Hands are for shaking
No, not tying
No, not tying
I sure don't mind a change
But I fell on black days
How would I know
That this could be my fate
I sure don't mind the change.
"Fell On Black Days"
Soundgarden, Chris Cornell.
………………………………
She opened her eyes.
So that colour had been the insides of her eyelids. And that colour was…..?
Orange, hissed Hiss sweetly, like a lover seducing.
And this piercing, painful radiance?
The Sun, whispered Hiss lovingly, oh-so-gently. We're out. You're out. We're free.
Free. A derivative of 'Freedom', a word found under 'F' in the dictionary.
Medusa, surprisingly enough, didn't feel anything. She felt nothing at Hiss's devoted celebratory declamation. She was out of Azkaban. But once you'd been in Azkaban, freedom was never truly yours again, was it?
Medusa felt nothing, but she was dimly aware that, somewhere deep inside her, buried in a dark nook or cranny of her consciousness where it had retreated for privacy, Jabber was weeping.
So instead, with the clinical disassociation of those who'd seen too much and knew it, she began to conduct a sensory inventory of her physical self.
Alright, now this was surprising. Asides from a dull numbness in her joints, a bruise-like tenderness like a slight sunburn in her muscles, she felt….fine. Weak, heavy like she weighed a tonne, though she knew for a fact that malnutrition must have left her a waif by now, but…but…she could move. She hadn't been able to simply move in…forever.
She carefully rolled over in bed, still wary and expectant of shooting, punishing pains for her audacity, but pleasantly found nothing but that faint tenderness she'd experienced before, then froze in shock.
The room around her had no mercy on a soul that hadn't even had sunlight for close to two decades.
Firstly, her bed was covered in satin sheets of woven with dizzying, coiling patterns of dark green, silver and black, gleaming and swimming in the sunlight that kept shining then diminishing, peeking in and out of the room every few seconds.
And the sun's coy fluttering? Caused by billowing chiffon curtains in a light cream colour, that languidly filled then deflated like a boat's sails or giant lungs, with air that breezily belied the strong, shining heat of the dancing golden god, outside.
And the smell! The smell of sand, salt, childhoods in Africa, throwing mud, magically making seashell crowns for herself and Morgana, and blue water stretching for miles and miles and miles to the horizon.
Freedom.
And the sound….the sound came in from the open balcony windows. That sound, the sound of rolling, crashing waves and seagulls crying. It was like God…breathing….
Medusa lay where she lay and did nothing but function, her senses clamouring; breathe in salt, listen to the faint ocean calling her name from the balcony and watch the slow, luxurious sway of the canopy and nets spiralled and spread over the bed in rich stretches of mint and emerald green. She must have lay in exactly that same position for an entire hour when her overloaded mind began to actually form coherent thoughts again.
Her first thought was, Where am I?
Her second thought was, I want to be near…the colours…
………………………………...
She trailed her hand across the wallpaper, feeling the detail of the coiling gold wreaths on the silky underlay of forest green and white.
It had taken her time to get out of bed; it was bizarre but it almost seemed like she'd forgotten how to bend at the waist. When she'd finally gotten to her feet, though, she managed to take baby steps all around the room, running her hands up and down the walls, through the curtains, across the carved backs of the cherry wood furniture.
She'd also made more personal discoveries. Her finger and toe nails had been carefully clipped and the long black hair, though still ragged, had been preliminarily trimmed and spilled in well-combed waves down to her knees. She was wearing a long, elegantly embroidered gown of gold, cream and aquamarine, gleaming beneath the waves of vine-like, creeping ebony hair.
Seventeen years' worth of hair. She could strangle someone with it. She really had turned into a gorgon.
Someone's taken care of us, said Jabber. We've been cleaned and clothed…
And fed, added Hiss. We wouldn't be able to move right now if someone hadn't fed us.
Who? Jabber wondered hopefully. Who still loves us? Sirius?
No, thought Medusa. Sirius was dead. Remus had sent her a letter expressly telling her that. Her and Remus had never really liked each other, but he'd never been the type to wilfully lie. Not even to his enemies.
If Remus said that Sirius was dead, then Sirius was definitely dead.
Besides, she had known the moment she'd opened the letter. Something about the way it was written. Something about the way it had broken her weary heart, the final incantation in a long spell turning her into rock.
Medusa,
Sirius is dead. I thought you should know.
Remus.
She hadn't even cried. She'd simply dropped the letter and stared at a wall for days. She'd been beyond anything so therapeutic as crying. Crying would have meant that there was still space inside her for the grief to spill over.
No. The person who'd dressed her in silks was the only other person she'd ever truly cared about.
Her first memory, holding someone's hand…looking up …to see another girl, only ever so slightly older, radiant face framed in long dark curls, smiling down at her…like her mother… but different…
The gleam of reflected light in her eyes called her attention to a mirror, like a doorway to an alternate universe, gilded in gold.
Except in that universe, someone was looking back at her.
The moment Medusa realised that she was looking at herself in the mirror was, perhaps, the most disconcerting of her experience so far. She'd gotten used to thinking of herself as formless, invisible, a ghost, a shadow and this undeniable reminder of her corporeal existence shook her.
She existed. She very solidly existed. Not only that, but the colour she'd missed so sorely, the life she'd thought had left her, had, all along, been in her! Why! Why! WHY were there no mirrors in Azkaban! That truly was the greatest torture the Aurors committed against their prisoners, more terrible than the Dementors and the dark.
Without a mirror, she'd never realised that colour had been with her all along, in the strange, sharp yellow of her eyes, life carried in the pigmentation of her face.
Hello, old friend…she thought as she put a hand forward and touched fingers with her reflection.
There she was, with a torn mouth, white running through her hair, the scar weeping from her right eye to her jaw, and deep, black bags under her startling eyes. Her skin was translucently pale, blue veined like a deep-sea fish despite her ethnicity, as if she'd been a pencil mark Azkaban had been gradually rubbing out.
She'd everything but wasted away.
She was still here.
I'm alive, she thought in amazement. I've made it. I'm really...really...out.
She heard the a click and squeak as the door at the corner of her eye suddenly swung open.
A woman, dressed in long black robes watched her for a moment, then languidly leaned against the door frame, arms crossed.
Medusa turned to look at her elder sister. A flash of that first memory blew into her mind like an indefinable scent. This was that girl, who'd held her hand and smiled…but she'd changed beyond recognition.
The years had been kind to Morgana. She still looked deathly beautiful, for a mother approaching her forties. There certainly was no white in her hair.
The Zabini sisters stared wordlessly at each other. There were too many things to say. Too many accusations, too much blame, too many apologies.
"I see you've found the mirror." Morgana finally murmured.
Medusa said nothing.. The mirror had gone a long way to restoring her sense of self, but she still wasn't sure she could actually conduct a conversation. Or even speak. She wasn't even sure whether, if she did decide to speak, it would actually be her speaking, or Jabber and Hiss.
"Are you going to stand there, looking like a startled deer for much longer?" asked Morgana, frustration seeping into her sarcasm.
Medusa hadn't realised that she was standing like a startled deer. She knew that it probably angered Morgana to see her little sister, once one to strike fear into many hearts, freeze in fearful expectation of violence, but Medusa couldn't help the hard-learnt reflexes she'd won in Azkaban.
So once again, she said and did nothing, except maybe, move her eyes from side to side as she wondered what exactly a startled deer might look like.
Morgana took a deep, bracing breath and let it out slowly, staring at her sister in burdened bewilderment. Perhaps she'd thought that merely doctoring Medusa physically would have cured her of all prison's ills. She must have worked hard to keep Medusa alive, but nothing could mend a cracked soul. Medusa wondered if her sister knew that.
"Come on," murmured Morgana, turning on her heel. Medusa watched her sister's black skirts twirl hypnotically. Somewhere amongst the folds, bells tinkled. Trust Morgana to wear bells in her skirts; how could any man resist that? "Dinner's on the terrace. We can watch the sunset, if your head doesn't explode."
………………………………...
Incidentally, Medusa's head didn't explode when she watched the sun set, but her eyes did widen considerably in panic at the concept of actually eating something….with cutlery.
Morgana stared at her in absolute disbelief, as she finally dared to reach forward, snatch a bread roll, and put it gently on her plate, then commence staring at it, as if it would get up and go home at any moment.
"You know, you're supposed to eat that," said Morgana.
Again, Medusa simply stared at her wordlessly, with that irritating blank expression, as if she was speaking another language.
Cursing colourfully, Morgana leaned forward and violently forked roast beef, potatoes, vegetables and more bread on to Medusa's plate, despite the almost comical look of terror the pile of food received from her little sister.
They stared at each other.
"Don't look at me like that; you've been eating it for weeks, now. And dessert. You've just been…unconscious…most of the time."
The concept of Morgana spooning Strawberry Torte into her indifferent mouth while she was unconscious was comedic, but Medusa didn't want to insult her sister further. She was obviously doing so well without even trying, and she'd missed her too much to wilfully mock her…just yet.
"Should I cut it for you?" asked Morgana, suddenly doubtful. Then, when Medusa again denied her any kind of answer, the older woman began to curse again, scraped her chair closer to her sister's, grabbed the fork and knife and began cutting up the roast beef into tiny strips, as if she were attempting to feed a child.
But halfway though slicing the second piece, Morgana's breathing became uneven, then she began blinking furiously, then tears began to unabashedly fall into Medusa's food as Morgana's composure finally buckled and she started to sob, hiding her face and her frustration in her hands.
Medusa looked on miserably, helplessly. She wished she could reach out and at least pat her sister comfortingly on the back, but she didn't want to pollute the one beautiful thing she had left in her life. So instead, she grabbed a fork, and awkwardly attempted to spear one of the escaping pieces of beef.
Morgana heard the clink of silverware on porcelain and raised her mascara smeared face above the shield of her hands to see her sister determinedly take the meat into her mouth and begin chewing with intense concentration.
A burst of laughter escaped her, then she reached forward to cut up more of the meat.
She completely missed Medusa's first smile in seventeen years.
………………………………...
It took her an hour of trying, but Medusa also managed to speak that evening.
They'd been quiet for so long that Morgana had dozed off in her seat, wisps of hair whipping about her face in the powerful ocean breeze.
Medusa hadn't known how to wake her gently; in fact she hadn't been sure if she would even manage to say what she wanted, and what she had to say had become feverishly important in the space of time it had take her to actually perk up the courage to voice it. So instead of gently waking her sister, she simply said:
"Where am I?"
Morgana started awake, more out of shock that her sister had actually spoken, than actual startlement. She hadn't been completely asleep, just dozing, but she certainly hadn't expected to hear her sister's voice after the …charming dinner conversation.
Taking a moment to pull herself together, she rubbed her numb face , then replied, "Greece. Husbby number two's house."
Medusa wondered fleetingly how many 'late husbands' there had been up to date, but felt there were more pressing matters at hand.
"Why am I here?"
A flash of anger gleamed in Morgana's eyes. "You're an escaped Azkaban convict, and a former Death Eater to boot. Where did you want to be? Hogwarts?"
Silence.
"How did I get here?"
Again, Morgana look doubtful, as if she wasn't sure what to tell Medusa exactly. "Lucius…Lucius brought you here…in the middle of the God dammed night…three weeks ago."
Ah yes.
Lucius.
I suppose I owe him, now.
Bastard.
Silence. Then…
"How is Blaise?" asked Medusa hesitantly, then instantly regretted it. A child with the Zabini name meant the continuation of their line; Blaise translated literally into 'Life', in Medusa's head, and she saw herself literally as 'Death' personified, not so arrogant as to think of herself of the Scourge of Slytherin anymore, but a dead thing, a thing that probably would be sickly for the rest of her life and never truly whole again. Morgana, to Medusa, had always been a fertility goddess, an Earth-Mother, and Blaise…Blaise was ultimate proof of that. A healthy, male heir.
By mentioning him, Medusa somehow felt that she was tainting that life, as Death always hung in the shadows and breathed down Life's neck.
Morgana watched her sister steadfastly stare at the floor and guessed what was running through her head.
"He's fantastic." she said. Then, "Actually, he's not."
"Why?"
"He's turning into you."
………. "I don't understand."
"He's incredibly smart, incredibly arrogant, just plain incredible, and he won't listen to reason anymore." Morgana's voice cracked slightly. "He doesn't….he doesn't need me anymore. I'm not his mother anymore; I'm just…a silly woman…a woman who plagues him…and babies him when he wants to be a man and just…just gets in the way of everything! He…he wants to move out…"
Hiss suddenly came alive and laughed inside Medusa's head. Well, this is ironic. The one man she'd do anything to keep and he's leaving her…
But something else her sister said had caught Medusa's attention too.
And for the first time since getting out of prison, something a lot like 'Life' blossomed weakly deep in her bowls: Anger….
You see, Morgana had never been conservative in anyway; Morgana never gave advice to people because she didn't believe in vice to be adverse to it! Morgana Zabini had always believed that people ought to be able to do whatever the hell they wanted to do with their lives, no matter what society thought.
Except in one instance…The one time Morgana had tried to give Medusa advice had been the last time they'd seen each other, seventeen years ago. Needless to say, that goodbye had not been a loving one…
"He's making the wrong friends, Medusa," moaned Morgana. "He's making the wrong friends…"
A beast awoke inside Medusa and lifted its ugly head, grinning, a beast long chained and beaten by Azkaban. Like the smell of carrion on the wind, the mere mention of 'wrong friends' brought back snapshot montage memories of blood, bone and fire.
The remembered smell of burning flesh still made her saliva run…humans smelt no different than any other creature, cooked.
No, Azkaban had not managed to beat this devil out of her. Pull a vampire's fangs out and it still hungered for blood.
Death Eaters were no different.
"Wrong friends," she whispered. "Old friends?"
Morgana 's face contorted in wordless terror and Medusa's heart ached for her sister. She could completely understand how Morgana feared Blaise following in his aunt's footsteps. After all, look where they'd taken her….
"So we're still around," murmured Medusa. "And we must be powerful. Blaise wouldn't want to join unless we looked good."
"WE!" howled Morgana, vaulting to her feet. "WE! You're still saying 'WE'! Have you learnt nothing?! What do you mean 'We'!"
"Well, I am going back, Morgana."
This statement floored her sister speechless for an entire minute. Then, when she could speak again, she said, "Why!?"
"Because I owe Lucius…"
"Lucius?! Lucius isn't even a Death Eater anymore!"
"…..what?"
"What, you think he would've broken you out of prison if he were?"
Medusa remembered vaguely thinking this, that night Lucius had broken into her cell, but it was all so hazy.
"Wait, what?"
"In case you haven't noticed, the rest of your old gang 's been out of prison for a few years without you, now, Medusa," snarled Morgana.
"Believe me, I've noticed. Now, what's this about Lucius quitting the Death Eaters?"
"He didn't quit. They turned against him."
"They have a habit of doing that…"
"Tell yourself."
Silence.
Tread carefully. We don't want her to clam up, advised Hiss as Jabber squeaked excitedly in the background.
Medusa kept her gaze level with her sisters. She was simply trying to read where this conversation might go if she pushed it, but Morgana felt like a rabbit pinned to the ground by a wolf. Medusa had always had the uncanny ability of pinning people down with her gaze…it was the strange eyes….the strange, liquid amber eyes…
If she thinks I'm going to go back to the Death Eaters to relive my glory days she's sorely mistaken, thought Medusa.
N o one would want to relive YOUR glory days, jittered Jabber. No, no. We're going back for Blaise, and Lucius…
And us… giggled Hiss sensually. Teach them to leave us rotting in jail…
"Oh my God, you still do it."
Medusa jumped and blinked in confusion. "Do what?"
Morgana was staring at her with an expression fluctuating between disgust and awe. "You had that frightening vacant expression on your face; The 'Empty Windows' face."
"Empty what?"
"'Empty Windows'. I used to call it that, whenever you were thinking with…the others. You'd freeze and stare off into space, and your eyes would be open but I'd always get the distinct impression your were somewhere else. Like a house with all the windows lit, but no one home…"
"That's…I didn't know I did that. You never told me…"
"Are…are those two still with you?"
Medusa raised her eyebrows at the question. Both Jabber and Hiss fell over each other laughing.
Still with you! What kind of question is that? Howled Jabber.
Where else would we be? wheezed Hiss .
"What were their names again?" asked Morgana, fascinated.
"They don't really have names. They're…more….allocated roles…" Medusa pinched the bridge of her nose. Trying to describe what it was like to live with Jabber and Hiss to someone else was like trying to nail Jell-O to a tree. It hurt her head.
"You know, I once tried to tell Narcissa that the reason you were great at school was because you actually had three people in your head as opposed to one."
"Yeah?"
"She laughed at me and told me I was jealous."
"You were."
"I was. But I wasn't making things up, either. It's what made mother a powerful voodoo priestess…"
"It's also what put her in St. Mungo's."
"Well, she had about twelve people in her head…"
"And I have two. Now tell me why Lucius got kicked out of the Death Eaters. What did he do?"
"Lucius made….Him… angry."
Voldemort.
Chills ran up and down Medusa's spine, but there seemed to be a giddy heat in her blood too, that was just as powerful. The same giddy heat a sabre tooth tiger must have felt coming face to face with an angry, tusked mammoth.
Voldemort.
Riddle.
Tom….Riddle….
The-Man-Who-Lived.
"How?"
"I'm not sure. But…it was huge….the mistake, I mean."
"It would have had to be. Tom always liked Lucius…"
"Please! Don't address him so lightly. It's 'He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named' now. I feel more comfortable with that."
"I prefer just 'Tom'. Anyway, what did Bella say about Lucius being …"
"I don't talk to Bellatrix anymore." snapped Morgana, turning away from Medusa.
Strange, said Hiss.
Very Strange, wailed Jabber.
"Why?"
"The Death Eaters…they broke into the Ministry a few years ago and they…she…" Medusa couldn't see her sister's face, but she could see Morgana's hand grip the back of the chair, knuckles white with strain. "Bellatrix pushed… someone…. through a mirror…"
What is she babbling on about? wondered Hiss impatiently.
"And they died." presumed Medusa.
"Yes…they…he…died…." stuttered Morgana. "A pureblood…"
A pureblood? Died? Falling through a mirror? Hiss was disbelieving. Did he fall in aorta first, I wonder?
Hush, don't be petulant, tutted Jabber.
Seriously though, so what? Bella's been killing people, even purebloods, left, right and centre ever since…well her eleventh birthday party, the crazy bitch… Hiss stated, matter-of-factly. Remember what she did to the Longbottoms?
"And this person was….important?" wondered Medusa.
"Yes," whispered Morgana raggedly. "Someone…important."
"Who?" asked Medusa, getting a sudden feeling of foreboding.
Morgana whipped around. "I don't want to talk about this anymore."
What?! She can't do that, whined Jabber.
Oh relax, purred Hiss. who could it be anyway? Who cares? Another hapless idiot who probably didn't scramble out of Bella-The-Bull's way fast enough…
"Alright, Morgana. It doesn't matter." Medusa hadn't realised that she'd leaned forward until now, as she leaned back. She suddenly felt very, very tired.
"Medusa, are you feeling alright?" Morgana knelt by her.
"I think….I think I might just sleep for a while, now, Morgana…I have a lot to think about…"
"I suppose there's no point in begging you not to get involved with your old friends again?" Morgana whispered, in a tone that expressed the very definition of helplessness and hope, rolled into one.
She'd never understand, said Hiss bitterly. She'll think we're just arrogant…
And maybe we are, murmured Jabber in a rare instant of calm. But it's not like we have anything to live for…
"I'll think about it, Morgana. After all, it's not like I can go anywhere, just yet. I can barely chew my food…"
………………………………...
McGonagal looked at Potter and developed the sensation of a weighted stone in her stomach.
The boy sat in the chair, flanked by Weasley and Granger, crumpled, bent, head lowered, staring at limp hands, barely clasped in his lap.
Minerva knew, of course, why Harry was steadfastly staring at his hands; this office, so recently belonging to one Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster Extraordinaire, must have appeared so unfamiliar to him now that it bore the décor more suited to McGonagal's taste.
She certainly couldn't blame him. If the 'flipping' process had not been an automatic and magical one, long ingrained into Hogwarts' wards and walls, she herself would have preferred to have left the office the way Dumbledore had had it.
She'd gotten the fright of her life, walking through the door the first day after the funeral to have the walls squeal a squeaky comical fanfare and the walls move of their own volition to different locations, rugs simultaneously springing forth from the ceiling to dangle down heavily, pictures flipping over and rolling around, Dumbledore's tick-tocks and gadgets vanishing to be replaced by dark candelabras, a burning fireplace wreathed in gargoyles and unicorns.
So all in all, although she felt most at home in her new office, she still felt slightly ashamed of how much darker and more austere it was, compared to Albus'. Even if Granger seemed to approve.
Now, standing over The Boy-Who-Lived, she braced herself for another difficult task she was about to put to this poor child and decided to dive right into it.
"Potter," she began strictly, she'd always done as his Transfiguration professor and his Head-Of-House. Then, "Harry…" she said softly, putting a hand on his bony shoulder.
Good gracious, thought her maternal side. Doesn't this boy eat? He'd certainly stretched some, since his first year, but had he thickened? No!
A cough behind her reminded her to get a move on. Trust Kingsley Shacklebolt to have his eye on the time.
Aurors - they were all the same. And right now, Minerva had about five of them crowding her already cozy office.
"Harry, I trust your over-informed friends…" she momentarily flashed a sharp eye at Weasley and Granger, who tried to look innocent, or justified, respectively. "…have informed you of a few crucial historical facts that you may need to be informed of during this meeting…"
Minerva, you've used the word informed about four times in that sentence! Pull yourself together!
Another auror coughed again behind her, which irritated her further. But she went on. "You've, no doubt, heard something about Medusa Judasine Zabini, by now…"
"Yes," muttered Harry.
"What do you know?" asked McGonagal.
"I know that she was the worst of the Death Eaters. Voldemort trusts her beyond a doubt. She's out of prison. She probably knew my parents, was there when they were killed and is probably going to be coming after me to finish the job her master couldn't, now that she's out of jail…" he whispered, not evening flinching.
There was a deathly silence in the office. Minerva took a moment she seriously believed she was entitled to, to process the fact that she was about to force this…damaged young man….to do something he would loathe.
"Mr. Potter, that was a very correct, very accurate summation of something that has been troubling me and the Ministry ever since the news of Zabini's escape broke out," she said.
"The Ministry?" snorted Ron Weasley. "Since when does the ministry care?"
"Since now, Ron," said Kingsley stepping forward. "And Arthur would be disappointed to hear you speak that way about the Ministry…"
"No, he really wouldn't." snapped Ron, with some contempt, making Hermione very proud of him, but Shacklebolt went on, regardless.
"Harry, despite anything that might have happened between you and the Ministry previously, Minister Scrimgeour wishes to make it painstakingly clear that our number one priority right now is your protection…"
"I don't believe you." snapped Harry.
"Would it help if I explained that we're not doing this for you?" Kingsley snapped back. "As far as we're concerned, Voldemort even managed to get Dumbledore in the end. Everyone the Ministry had hope in opposing him has gone down…except you. You're our last hope, as far as we're concerned, Harry. We're protecting you for our own good as well as well as yours. Until we can find a way to utilise you to your fullest potential."
" 'Utilise' me to my fullest potential…" Harry couldn't even muster the engery to sound too disgusted.
"Well, we don't want you to die either. You've come too long a way to simply get assassinated by one of Lord Voldemort's minions now," Shacklebolt softened his tone.
"What are you suggesting?" asked Hermione, voice shivering.
Harry turned around in the seat and gave her a betrayed look.
"Please, Harry, they have a good point." Her brown eyes were tearful as she said it.
He sighed and turned back to stare at his hands again.
"A secret location and…a secret keeper…" Kingsley winced.
"WHAT?!" screamed Ron and Hermione in unison. Harry simply sat there, open-mouthed, staring at Kingsley as if the Auror had suggested beating Voldemort to death with a cherry.
"A secret keeper." he stated numbly. "A secret keeper. Are you fucking serious?"
"Language, Potter," Minerva growled.
Harry ignored her. "Kingsley, let me tell you a little story you might not know about a man named Sirius Black and a rat named Peter Pettigrew and the nice young couple called the Potters who also decided to have a secret keeper…"
"Don't be patronizing!" cried Shacklebolt as the other Aurors began to shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other and look sheepish.
"You want me to have a secret keeper? I mean, let's pretend for a moment that Voldemort has no idea that my two best friends are Ron and Hermione, despite the fact that he's tried to get to me through them several times; what's to stop him grabbing one of them?"
"Potter," interjected Minerva, suddenly. Really, when had he become such a smartass?! Good, let him be a smartass. Smartasses are hard to kill… "I've considered all this and I have a plan…"
"Professor…" began Harry.
"I have a plan, Potter!" she snapped.
"Well, alright, then, let's pretend you've thought of everything I've just said! Where?! Where would I go?" he yelled, leaping to his feet.
"POTTER!" roared Minerva. Then, calming down, she said, "Have a biscuit, Potter."
"…what?"
"Shut up, have a biscuit, and listen…"
………………………………...
While the weather in Greece was ominously balmy , thunder rumbled openly in England. Hermione stared out of the window, lost in thought, looking at her own reflection in the darkness, through the running streams of rain on glass.
"Think they're almost done?"
Hermione jumped, her train of thought interrupted. Then seeing it was Ginny, she gave the other girl a small smile and considered . "Probably. "
"So who is it?"
Hermione frowned. "What?"
"Who's the Secret Keeper? You? Or Ron…"
"Don't be ridiculous, Ginny," snapped Hermione.
Ginny blinked and backed away. "I….I'm sorry….that was stupid, wasn't it?" She turned to go.
"Ginny, wait!" Hermione cried. "Come sit with me. I…I need to talk to you…"
"I've changed my mind, actually." said Ginny, her face contorting with such an expression of abject misery that for a moment, Hermione felt ill on her behalf. "I'd rather not talk about any of it…"
"Oh." murmured Hermione.
A dead silence hung in the air between them.
"You look terrified." whispered Ginny suddenly.
Hermione's laugh was unnervingly desperate. "I am."
Ginny nodded to herself, thinking things through. "You're in a position of danger now, aren't you? Whether it's you or Ron who's the real Secret Keeper. Kind of like Sirius. He wasn't the Potters' Secret Keeper, but because people suspected he might be, his entire life got…well…screwed over, I guess…" She paused, taking a good long look at the speechless Hermione. "Infact, that's why you're terrified isn't it? It's not you….the Secret Keeper's Ron…."
"Ginny, please…" Hermione breathed, looking like she was going to topple over in a dead faint. "You're not helping."
"Sorry, Hermione," Ginny came and sat next to her. "I just… Maybe…if Harry and I were still together….I'd share the burden too. People would think it was me, because I'd be the girlfriend."
"Trust me. You don't want this kind of attention."
"I'm not scared, Hermione," said Ginny so softly the other girl hardly heard her. "I'm not scared at all. I wish you'd let me help."
"Oh, Ginny!" moaned her friend. "Ginny, it would end Harry if you got involved. He couldn't bare it. Ron and I doing this is putting him at his wit's end as it is…"
"But I am involved!" hissed Ginny savagely, leaping to her feet, and rounding on Hermione. "I've been involved for years! The moment Lucius Malfoy put that damned diary in my…" She stopped, took a deep breath and regained her composure. "Tom Riddle and I have our own very special relationship, Hermione. At least…we had…I don't care if Harry doesn't want me around anymore…"
"Ginny, he loves you!" pleaded Hermione, eyes brimming hopelessly. "Harry loves you…"
"Doesn't matter. This isn't about him." said Ginny. "He's cutting me out and he doesn't have the right to. I deserve a share of this…of your work…"
"It's not my bloody work, Virginia! If I could quit this today and go back to being a muggle high school teenager believe me I would!"
"Then why don't you! Maybe Harry' ll need me then!"
"I thought this wasn't about Harry!"
Silence.
"Why don't you leave?" asked Ginny again, but this time it wasn't a spiteful dig; it was out of curiosity.
"Because it wouldn't help to. I'm Hermione Granger, Harry Potter's best friend and no matter where I go, even if I'm amongst muggles, wizards will always recognize me. Trying to hide from Voldemort would be a waste of time. And because…"
"Because of Ron."
Hermione sighed, defeated. "Yes, Ginny. Because of Ron. I can't leave Ron in this alone. He's a good friend to Harry, Lord love him, but he can be so useless…"
Ginny's lips drew back from her teeth sharply as she strode forward with enough force to create wind currents around her. Hermione almost shrank back in fear, before the redhead went down on her knees in front of her and grabbed her hand.
"Then why…why…WHY is it so hard for you to understand that I have to help Harry! Hermione! You have to let me in! You have to let me help Harry!"
"Why m-me?" whimpered Hermione. "Why are you asking me? Ask Ron! Ask Harry, damn it, he dumped you!"
"You're a girl. You understand. You understand how I feel…"
"I….I…oh…" Hermione had no idea what to say to this.
"Please, Hermione. Pleeeeeaase…."
"Ginny, you don't want to be part of this…"
"Yes I do."
"But…what do you expect me to do?"
"Talk to the boys. They listen to you."
"Ron would never allow it. Harry knows how strong you are and how much this is hurting you, he might come around. But Ron…Ron would rather die then see you involved in anything we do. And if Ron won't have it, Harry won't have it either."
"Then…then let me help you out secretly. In the library or …something…"
Hermione bit at her lip, frantically trying to find a mote of cowardice, a spec of second-guessing in the other girl's face, but her lip bled and still she found nothing but unwavering determinacy.
And being Hermione Granger, she also began to fear that if she didn't let Ginny in on everything…or somethings, at least… Ginny would find a way to get involved all on her own. At least, if Ginny could trust her, then Hermione could keep an eye on her and make sure the girl didn't do anything rash.
Now…how to tell Harry and Ron…or…more accurately…whether to tell Harry and Ron.
"Alright," murmured Hermione. "Alright, Ginny."
Ginny burst into tears and leapt up, enveloping Hermione in a bear hug that would've rivalled one of Hagrid's. "Oh thank you, Hermione…" she blubbered. "Thank you…"
"Hush, Gin, it's alright." Hermione rubbed her back soothingly, wondering just how long it had been since Ginny had let herself have a good cry. She'd seemed so calm when Harry had split up with her, last spring. She'd even known it was coming. Poor thing…
The door to the room suddenly imploded inwards with a resounding crash. Both Hermione and Ginny sprang apart and backwards, shrieking. Incidently it turned out to be Ron Weasley, alternately flushed and pale with emotion and exertion.
"RON?!" Hermione got to her feet, realising, as she put her hand to the floor for support, that she'd reflexively pulled her wand out of her robes. "Ron! What happened? Was it the Secret Ceremony?"
"Where's Harry?" breathe Ginny.
Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione was mildly surprised to see that the redhead had her wand out too. Maybe it wasn't such a bad thing to have Ginny as back up… After all, the Weasley's youngest hope WAS known for her nasty Charm casting ability…maybe a bit of Malfoy blood, there…
"Oh thank God you 're okay." Ron virtually melted against the doorframe, gasping in relief.
"What's going on?" demanded Hermione firmly. The hairs on the back of her neck were standing on end and a huge, abyss seemed to have opened somewhere in her gut region. Death Eaters? More Death Eaters?
Ron stared at her for a moment. He barely seemed to see his sister, now that he was sure they were both alive and well. He seemed listless, crushed, and that more than anything frightened Hermione. "Come see." he murmured.
………………………………...
It took Hermione all of three seconds to realise that Ron was leading them to the boys' room. There was a flurry of panicked activity in the common room, though, people stopped to stare when the three of them appeared out of the girls' wing and walked to the boys'. There was a look of fear, of foreboding on a lot of people's faces. Hermione could hear murmurs of, "Get McGonagal….go get McGonagal…"
"Ron," said Hermione in a small voice, as they climbed the stairs to their room. "Ron, is Harry alright?"
Dean and Seamus had been running down the stairs towards them, but stopped and stood aside, looking anywhere else but at her and Ginny's faces. The boys smelt of smoke and were covered in black soot…
Then, they were at the door before Ron could answer her.
Or what was left of the door.
It had been blown completely off its hinges and shattered into matchstick fragments all over the room. There was a nasty green tinge to the lighting to the room, but Hermione couldn't tell where it was coming from till she actually stepped into it.
The fire in the grate was a nasty neon green, flames burning in the shape of a leering skull, serpent winding repeatedly out of its gaping maw.
"Oh my God…" croaked Ginny.
Harry was sitting on the charred remains of his blasted bed, looking dejectedly at the floor. His gigantic clothes' chest had been heaved across the room, his things vandalised and strewn all over the room, sticking to the ceiling, hanging off the other four poster beds, torn scratched and wasted.
The album with his parents' pictures lay soaking in something foul. The letters from Sirius were in tiny little bits. A myriad of sweaters with giant letter 'H's on the front, handmade lovingly by Molly Weasley had been very deliberately unwound magically.
"Harry…" wavered a voice from behind them. They turned. It was Neville, face lined with soot and tears. "Harry…" he said again, but could say nothing more.
Harry took a deep, deep breath. "Guess, what they took." he whispered.
"Th-they t-took something?" stuttered Hermione through her sobbing.
"Of course they did," replied Harry numbly. "They never waste malice…"
"What…what…they take?" Hermione could hardly form words; her mouth seemed to want to shape itself into a formless howl.
"The locket. The fake Horcrux."
This time, Hermione did wail.
"Now, they know that we don't have a Horcrux. Now, they know we're not dangerous…" Harry went on voice almost inaudible.
Ginny took a sleepwalker's single step forward, but didn't seem to find the strength to go on. A soiled picture of Lily Potter floated in a steaming pool of goo at her toe, like a ward against love's entrance.
"I've stayed too long." murmured the Boy-Who-Lived. "I'm going to have to leave sooner than I thought."
………………………………...
Medusa looked in the mirror.
It was amazing what a little food and sunlight could do in two weeks. She seemed to come back to life more and more everyday, like a skeleton regaining its muscle, then its skin, then it's very life.
She still looked hideously gaunt. She doubted she would ever not look malnourished again; but it didn't look like you could cut cloth on her nose, chin and cheekbones anymore, and the dead, lack of energy once clearly visible in her gaze had been replaced by something else…a hunger and vitality that had nothing to do with food. That and the scar still marking a pathway for tears down her right cheek were gifts, souvenirs, reminders of a time that had swallowed her whole and spat her out.
Tom Riddle.
She could write volumes on him, but was lucky enough to have never been asked to. Mr. Tom Marvolo Riddle.
People had, over the decades, developed many a theory over why Riddle turned into the all-devouring, black hole he'd become. 'Oh he was traumatised as a child' and 'Oh, it's genetic; his grandfather was quite mad, you know…and if his uncle hadn't been born 'simple', he'd have been mad too…'.
Crock-shit, the whole load of it. A sack full of theories made by people who'd never even met him…
Medusa knew what fuelled Tom. She always had, she now realised, just never wanted it to be so simple.
As a young pureblood, Medusa had always wanted to believe the nobler reasoning behind the death and destruction she'd dealt out in his name.
But all this, the wasted lives , the fear, the coming end…all this wasn't for any noble cause, she now admitted.
This war was started because his muggle father had rejected Tom.
Rejected by a muggle.
A muggle's rejection had fueled the longest, largest bleeding of Pure Blood ever to have been seen by the wizarding community. And the tragedy was that most of the blood-letting had been done by the Pure Bloods themselves.
Medusa smiled at herself in the mirror. It wasn't a happy smile; it was an amused one, and if anyone out of her old crowd had seen it they would have shuddered.
Only the highly ironic ever amused Medusa. Sirius had always accused her of having the humour of an executioner, and when Bellatrix Lestrange stared at you for finding something hilarious when you shouldn't, you could start to think that maybe….just maybe….what people said about you was true.
That you weren't 'all there'…
That you revelled in the site of blood…
That you were Death's Virgin…
Death's Mary…
Death's womb…
Once upon a time, such talk had hurt Medusa, had cut her to the bone. Hogwarts had not been as much of a haven for her or her sister, as it had been for others.
Now? Well, she knew herself better now, didn't she? And if you know yourself well, if you know what you are and what you're capable of, it really doesn't matter what people used to say, does it?
Medusa now accepted that she really probably wasn't 'all there'. How could you have lived the life she had and be completely sane? And who said insane was so bad? Her mother had definitely liked it…
And, no, she didn't revel in the site of blood. She certainly saw a lot of it, but that didn't mean she revelled in it. It didn't repulse her, that's for sure. Blood was just an inconvenient result of her interaction with people, sometimes.
At least it was a pretty colour…till it dried.
And being somehow a lover of death? That was the greatest lie of them all. Medusa, of all people knew that she had no power over death and desired none. Rudolphus and Bellatrix loved death ; it's why they'd made it linger, or held it back, thinking to control the uncontrollable. McNair loved death, with his heavy axe and his gig beheading for the ministry. Dolohov, Mulciber, they all developed a taste for death eventually.
Thinking the name 'Fenrir Greyback' and the words 'Taste for death' in the same sentence simply made her amused again.
Medusa was indifferent to death. Some people thought that was worse, and they were entitled to their opinion, but she knew better than to assume she had any control over The Reaper. Death came to people whether they willed it or not. Just because she'd dealt it out a few times hardly meant that she had a taste for it. It wasn't a food, after all, or a drink, or an action. It was a thing to be given or received and when you gave it, something else acted through you. You could Aveda Kedavra or Crucius someone all you liked, but they would not die unless they were meant to.
The Longbottoms had proved it.
Harry Potter was the ultimate proof.
And even Tom Riddle.
But Medusa knew, everyone died in the end.
What mattered was when….and how.
………………………………...
Morgana watched her sister tug the last laces with practiced force, so that the two sides of her high, black collar came together flawlessly, meeting beneath her chin to cup her jaw like lover's hands. It was an austere garment, with a tight waist, restrictive chest and heavy skirts, almost like a priest's robe, but dotted down the front with two lines of silver buttons and , if one looked close enough, swirling with sheened embroidery that only appeared in moving light.
Morgana watched the severe clothing, juxtaposed by the long curling hair, now untangled, cleaned and rid of its split ends, pouring down her sister's back. This Medusa looked so different than the pink lipped child Morgana had been forced to abandon so long ago. That Medusa had had a round cheeked face, and wide, vulnerable eyes…Not anymore.
Not anymore.
"Well? What do you think?" asked Medusa turning to face Morgana, hands brushing down her front.
"You look like Snape," sulked the elder woman.
"Huh." Medusa smiled her lopsided smile and suddenly, Morgana could see her again; that young girl from so long ago.
Still smiling, Medusa looked down at the long , light box her sister had placed on the boudoire, wraped in black satin ribbon.
"How did you…"
"Lucius isn't the only pureblood with connections at Azkaban. Besides, no one ever believed you'd make it out of there, so instead of destroying it, they sold it to an anonymous bidder…" sighed Morgana. "Paid a lot of money for it. A lot of money I couldn't exactly part with, at the time. I was between husbands…"
"Sorry…" Medusa 's small hand reached forward and pulled the ribbon apart. The top fell off the box, revealing a long, pencil-thin, black wand. Medusa's smile became a pained smirk. "Yew…and cobra venom…remember?"
"How could I forget. Mine is cherry wood and cobra venom. Mr. Olivander, God rest his soul, thought it increadably quaint that I was taking you wand shopping in your first year. He told me I was a good sister for doing so. He wasn't surprised we had turned out with the same wand-centre."
"Pity he never told me that Tom Riddle's wand was made out of Yew too. I might have been warned…"
Morgana shook her head. "No one could have warned us." She sighed. "Your wand… was my last piece of you I could keep, as far as I was concerned, back then. I'm ridiculously rich, now, but…but I don't want to have to buy it back again, Medusa…"
"Morgan…"
"Dusa…please don't go. Please don't start this again."
"I have to."
Silence.
They embraced ceremonially, then hung on desperately.
"Medusa…" breathed Morgana. "Come back to me. Please come back to me."
Medusa thought hard about her reply. Then, she said, "I can't promise you that. But I can promise you that Blaise will."
Then, pulling away from her sister, Medusa swiftly left a kiss in the corner of Morgana's mouth and headed towards the fireplace. Floo fire flickered in the grate. Taking a deep breath as she stepped into the flame, Medusa named her destination .
"Malfoy Manor."