Chapter 10
A New Direction
"RON! What a surprise! Ginny must have told you how to use the telephone. . . . . . I can hear you fine. You don't have to speak any louder. . . . . . Well, I think it's brilliant that you called. What did you need to tell me?. . . . . Well, I don't think I can go to the Burrow today. Is it really that important?. . . . . No, you're right, if it's that important, you shouldn't tell me over the phone. Look, I'll see what I can do. If I can't go today, I'll make it tomorrow morning for sure. Early. OK? . . . . . Great. We'll talk soon then. I need to leave now; I'm meeting . . . a friend in a few minutes. Say 'hi' to Ginny for me."
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Harry discovered one huge benefit of his rash decision to trust Evan Harrington - he no longer needed to take such care in hiding from the Ministry. Evan informed him that no other aurors could be spared for this English county, and that Evan was operating alone. Thus Harry would be able to walk around town freely and could meet with Hermione openly. The auror apparated back to his house late the previous evening, and Hermione apparated back to her home, anxious that her parents would be worried.
In the stress of the evening, Harry noted, she had not even wished him a happy birthday, but he could not blame her; he had forgotten about it himself. Once left alone in his room, he quickly showered and fell onto his bed, exhausted from his trip to Little Whinging and the confrontation with Evan Harrington. He slept better than he had in weeks.
Understandably, he failed to respond immediately to the rapping on the door to his room. When the knocking resumed, he rolled his head on his pillow and kick a bare foot from under the sheet. Still the fact that somebody stood outside his door did not register.
"Harry!" called a familiar female voice, "Let me in!"
The sound of Hermione's voice finally roused his consciousness enough to cause him to roll over.
"Wake up, Harry," his friend repeated, knocking on the door again, "It's nearly nine o'clock."
"Ah' righ', wait a secon'," he finally managed to croak, and he swung his legs over the side of the bed, pausing a moment to stretch his arms before stepping to the door.
"Good morning," Hermione greeted him brightly, and she intended to greet him with a hug, but she froze when she took a look at Harry. He slept only in a pair of old black shorts, exposing his thin white torso and long legs covered with a thin layer of black hair. Hermione had never glimpsed Harry in such a state of undress, and her cheeks involuntarily reddened. After Harry opened the door further, she had to step through, and she could only imagine what her parents would think if they knew that their only daughter had just entered a hotel room with a handsome seventeen-year-old boy clad only in a pair of shorts.
"Sorry I didn't answer, Hermione," Harry apologized while stretching his neck, "I haven't slept that well in a month at least." He returned to the edge of his bed, leaning against it while rubbing both hands over his face.
"No, I'm sorry, Harry," his friend countered, "I should have waited another hour, but I thought you'd be up, and I realized that I didn't even wish you happy birthday last night. When I went to bed, it dawned on me, and I couldn't sleep for an hour. I hope you'll forgive me."
Hermione's apology struck Harry as the funniest thing he had heard in ages, that with all of the problems facing him, he might actually feel offended by her neglect of his birthday. He smiled broadly, and Hermione could not help but laugh at how goofy he looked, seated in his shorts on the edge of the bed, his uncombed short blond hair pointing in a thousand directions.
Her laughter immediately ceased, however, when Harry stood and stepped towards her, his arms opened. Before she could react, Harry had his arms around her in a friendly embrace. Automatically, Hermione wrapped her arms around his back and found her face pressed against the bare skin of Harry's shoulder.
If Harry felt uncomfortable by his display of skin, he did not show it, and in fact over the past weeks he had spent hours dressed in exactly the same manner while passing time alone watching television in various cheap, non-air conditioned hotel rooms around Britain. He released Hermione from the embrace, the broad smile still on his face.
"Did you really think I'd care about that? After everything that happened yesterday?"
Hermione averted her eyes and returned an embarrassed smile, answering, "No, I didn't think you'd mind, but I felt badly about it anyway. You should have had a huge party for your seventeenth birthday, and then I didn't even say, 'Happy Birthday.' " She turned away from her nearly naked friend. "Why don't you get dressed, and I'll take you out for breakfast. And then I'm going to buy you something for your birthday. Now that Mr. Harrington is not following us, we can actually walk around town together."
Harry expressed his agreement, and he moved to the white dresser to pull out a t-shirt, then turning around to look for a pair of pants, which he had thrown haphazardly over a white padded armchair to the left of his bed, just next to the bathroom door. While he gathered his clothing, Hermione could not help but stare at the body of the young man. To the best of her recollection, she had only seen Harry shirtless once, briefly at the Tri-Wizard Tournament a couple of years before, when he emerged from the frigid waters of the lake next to Hogwarts Castle. But immediately tournament officials wrapped a towel around him, and in any event, her worry over his well-being prevented her from taking much notice.
This time fate afforded her a full minute to study Harry's damaged torso, marked with scars visible on his back, side and stomach. She wondered what caused them all, and she almost asked, finally deciding that she should not. Of course, the dragon gashed him; that would be one. And the basilisk. Pettigrew stabbed him in the graveyard. And how many quidditch injuries had he suffered? Mercifully, Harry stepped into the loo, closing the door behind him, allowing Hermione to relax.
She half made Harry's bed so that it would not look so messy when the maid cleaned the room and then sat down to wait. Strange, she thought. Harry did not seem to care in the least about his state of undress. Certainly in the past, he would have slipped on a shirt before answering the door, or at least covered up right away thereafter. Then again, she could not know for sure, having never faced the situation before. Still, she believed that she knew Harry as well as anyone, and his behavior yesterday and today just did not seem consistent with her best friend of six years, with whom she spent thousands of hours. Could she really have misunderstood Harry so fundamentally? Or was this all caused by the stresses of the past two weeks?
The door to the loo opened, and Harry emerged fully dressed, to Hermione's relief. His arrival snapped her out of her musings, and moments later they left the hotel room to eat their breakfast.
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"Keep quiet! Last time you caused such a racket, they apparated away. We need victims this time, understand?"
Draco Malfoy nodded mutely as he followed behind the masked Bellatrix Lestrange and next to another death eater by the name of Alexander, a tall, lean man whose surname Draco never learned. The tiny patrol in Voldemort's small army crept towards a farmhouse in rural northern England, their target a family of four. The blood-traitor witch married a muggle, producing two tainted offspring. According to the philosophy of the dark lord, none of them deserved to live.
"Remember, attack the woman first. The man is a muggle and cannot apparate or protect his children. Kill the woman immediately. We can have some fun with the muggle." Excited by the thrill of the kill, Bellatrix spewed out the instructions. She lived for this.
The three death eaters, clad entirely in black and virtually invisible in the darkness of the night, approached the old wooden structure from the rear. No light could be seen through the windows.
Alexander removed his wand and whispered, "Alohomora," pointing at the lock on the back door. Suddenly the three intruders flew through the air backwards, blasted unsuspectedly by a hidden jinx. The house never existed; it disappeared, and in its place an old abandoned shack appeared. Someone previously performed some highly advanced magic on the hovel, causing it to take on the appearance of an old farm house, and jinxing it to react to any form of magic performed on it.
Through a stroke of good fortune, Draco crashed to the earth between two trees, partially padded by matted leaves. Even still, he badly bruised his left shoulder and ribs, and he instantly curled up in pain, moaning. A minute passed before he gathered enough composure to seek out his companions. He realized that he lay on the ground in complete silence.
He sat up and took stock of his physical condition, shaking from fear. How did this happen? Were not death eaters always successful? Obviously not, for this counted as his second consecutive failure. The dark lord most certainly expressed his displeasure the previous evening. How would he react this time? Draco shook even harder. He touched his hand to the left side of his face, and realized for the first time that cuts and scratches covered it.
To his right he glimpsed the slumped outline of the man, Alexander, either unconscious or dead. Draco searched for his aunt, Bellatrix, but did not immediately locate her. He crawled forward a few feet and to his right barely saw what appeared to be a boot. Sure enough, he found her foot and moved his way to her head. Again, either unconscious or dead; Draco could not be sure in the dark, but he refrained from lighting his wand, unsure of other potential dangers in the woods.
Still in considerable pain, he dragged himself to the tree next to his aunt, and leaned against it, staring back at the dark outline of the shack. This should not be happening, he argued to himself, people should fear us. They should not be fighting back like this. Yet every day, the death eaters returned from their terrorist missions with mixed success. The Ministry's efforts to educate the public in means of protection had shown results. Many households designated secret keepers for their homes, meaning that the death eaters could not locate their targets. Other houses had been protected by various forms of protective wards, or in this case, jinxes. Draco's short life as a death eater so far had been a huge disappointment.
What should I do now?, he considered, as he glanced back at his unconscious (perhaps deceased) partners. He came to realize that for the first, and perhaps only time, he had the opportunity to escape. Why should he remain with the dark lord? All of them agreed that the master had been acting erratically lately, completely distracted by something that he would not relate to his followers. Every night, the death eaters attempted to create terror throughout the country, setting off the dark mark whenever possible, yet it all seemed rather pointless. The dark lord appeared to have no goal in mind, no overall strategy to defeat the Ministry and to assume control of Britain. After all, that should be what they all desired so that they could then rid the magical world of the impure.
I never wanted to be a part of this. I never had a choice. But he remembered his mother's words: You have chosen your path, as did your father and I. It's too late to back out. Once in the service of the dark lord, you cannot change your mind.
Should he return, or should he flee? Draco pushed himself up with difficulty, but managed to stand, one arm leaning on the trunk of a tree. One way or the other, he had to decide. Now.
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"Ron called you?" Harry asked incredulously, "by telephone?"
"Yep, and he didn't even shout. At Hogwarts, I explained to Ginny how to place a call and told her she didn't have to scream," Hermione explained as the two friends enjoyed a late breakfast at a small restaurant not far from Harry's hotel.
"What did he say?"
"He wanted me to apparate to the Burrow today. Says it's something important. He sounded a little strange. It's hard to explain, but he seemed extra excited for some reason."
Harry munched on his toast, commenting flippantly, "He probably wants to declare his undying love for you." He took another bite, not finding anything unusual about his statement.
Hermione's insides, however, nearly jumped right out of her. Did Harry say what she thought he did? Did he break an unspoken but inviolate rule among the three great friends? Never did they speak of romantic feelings that might exist among them. Why would Harry say such a thing? Did he not realize how bringing this into the open might permanently damage the special friendship that the three of them enjoyed? Apparently not, for Harry merely took a sip of orange juice, and continued to dig into his scrambled eggs.
"What did you say?" she asked disbelievingly, allowing Harry the opportunity to explain away his comment.
"Hmmm?" he responded distractedly, "Oh, that Ron may want to declare his undying love for you. You heard me the first time." He smirked, finding his comment humorous. Mostly he remained focused on devouring the food on his plate.
His friend, on the other hand, suddenly forgot her breakfast, and stared wide-eyed at the boy across the restaurant table.
"Why would you say that, Harry?" she sputtered nervously, "Ron and I don't have anything going."
"Right!" he laughed, "Except of course minor things such as cheating at quidditch tryouts (though I'm glad you did), Ron's little tryst with Lavender, attack birds. Right, you two don't have anything going. Why would anyone think that? Hah!" His fork shoveled another portion into his mouth.
Hermione's mouth gaped at Harry's blunt assessment of their sixth year, but Harry did not seem to notice. When did he become such an insensitive git? Finally, she could not contain herself.
"What's gotten into you, Harry? You've been acting awfully strange lately."
"Me? Strange?" he asked jokingly, "When has anyone thought I was strange? Doesn't everyone have a lightning-bolt-shaped scar on their forehead? And a dark lord trying to kill them? And the Ministry trying to arrest them without charge?" Within five seconds, Harry's mood changed from amused to irate. His eyes suddenly glared at his friend. "I thought everyone had those little problems," he spat, "Of course, who doesn't have to find and destroy a few horcruxes? I'm about as normal as a person can be. Why do you think I'm strange?" Just like the previous evening, Hermione shuddered involuntarily at Harry's sudden and inexplicable mood change. Moments before, he seemed in such good humor, and now he appeared ready to hex the next person to walk by.
"You just haven't been yourself," she replied defensively, trying not to anger Harry further, "I mean, I know you have these problems, but that's not new. You just don't seem like yourself. I mean, talking about Ron and me that way. That's not like you." Despite Harry being her best friend, she could not help but experience a new sensation in his presence. Fear.
Harry paused for a few seconds to consider her opinion, and forced himself to calm down. He had been a little snippy lately, he conceded, but she could cut him a little slack, in his opinion. She had not been forced to cris-cross the county for two weeks, staying one step ahead of the Ministry. Why shouldn't I be a little snippy?
"Well, I guess this is the new me," he declared defiantly, though with less rancor in his voice, "so everyone can get used to it." As soon as the words left his mouth, he wished he could retract them, and he cringed when he saw his best friend's hurt reaction. Quickly he apologized, "I didn't mean that, Hermione, not the way it came out. Just . . . try to be patient with me for awhile. I don't know what I am anymore. With everything that's been happening, I feel like I'm in a room with all the walls moving towards me, about to press me into a pancake." He set his fork down, and leaned back in his chair.
Hermione's facial muscles relaxed, and her mouth formed a sympathetic smile. Finally the Harry Potter that she considered her best friend made an appearance, and a sense of relief passed through her. Perhaps all of her concerns would prove to be groundless, merely a byproduct of the undeniable stress of the past weeks.
"All right, Harry. I'll be patient; I'm just not used to this side of you." The two friends smiled at each other and took a few more bites of their breakfasts before Hermione added, "Anyway, I don't think that's what Ron wants to talk to me about."
"Why not? I mean, he does like you. You know it just as well as I," Harry asserted, adding, "And you are looking pretty hot nowadays, especially in these new clothes that you just bought." Again, Hermione flinched from shock at Harry's unusual bluntness, but she merely closed her eyes for a moment to calm her nerves.
"Maybe," Hermione responded noncommittally, ignoring Harry's opinion as to her looks, "but remember, I'm a girl, and girls have better instincts about these things than boys do, or need I remind you of your little escapade with Cho Chang." Harry shivered.
"Don't remind me!" They both laughed at what now seemed like ancient history. As quickly as he had fallen into a state of base anger, Harry snapped out of it and once again seemed in a playful mood.
Hermione continued, "No, it's nothing to do with that, but Ron's worked up about something. He made it sound important. I'll have to go out there, but it can wait until tomorrow morning. Today we're celebrating your birthday, a day late, and I'm not letting anything get in the way. We have all day until Mr. Harrington returns this evening."
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Kingsley Shacklebolt greeted Cho Chang warmly as they passed each other in the Ministry, the two briefly hugging each other. Nobody noticed the small envelope that Cho slipped into the tall black auror's pocket. After a few gracious words, they parted.
Shacklebolt returned to his cramped office, intending to create a dent in the mountain of paperwork on his desk. First, however, he pulled out the envelope and opened it silently, always vigilant of passersby. A brief note from Cho emerged.
The Minister is planning a new strategy against You Know Who. I don't know what it is, but the office has been especially busy. I saw a document about Harry. They think he may be in Essex, where his friend, Hermione Granger, lives. An auror, Harrington, is after him. If they capture Harry, they plan to hold him prisoner, without charge. We have to help Harry!
Kingsley read the note three times before tapping it with his wand. The note vanished in a puff of smoke.
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While walking about Hermione's home town with her, Harry could not help but reflect back on the last time he spent a day walking with a pretty girl: Melissa Montgomery in Liverpool, just two weeks earlier. Walking with Hermione felt different, more comfortable and less tense, but also less exciting. She had dressed up a little, he noticed, wearing a navy blue skirt and white blouse, and her bushy brown hair fell to her shoulders tamely. Though the skirt may not have been quite as short as the one worn by Melissa in Liverpool, nor her legs quite as shapely, Harry approved nonetheless, and he could not help but notice how nicely his best friend was filling out. The two friends enjoyed themselves fully, and Hermione insisted on buying him a birthday present. Harry needed clothes, so they ended up buying a few shirts. Hermione preferred to purchase something more exciting and less utilitarian, but given Harry's current status as a vagabond, clothes made the most sense.
In the afternoon, Harry insisted on buying lunch, sandwiches and drinks from a deli, which they carried with them to a local park. Seated on a bench amid mature magnolias, they unwrapped their sandwiches and began to eat. During their silence, Hermione recalled the events of the previous evening.
"Harry, why did you tell Ginny?" she asked suddenly, and Harry could sense an accusatory irritation in her voice. Hermione did not elaborate; she knew Harry understood her question.
In truth, Harry did not know. At times he wished that he had not, but when Ginny and he walked together at Hogwarts, holding hands, hugging, he seemingly could confide anything to her.
"It just happened; I never planned it," he explained quietly, setting his sandwich on its paper wrapping, "I shouldn't have, but . . . I felt like I was in love. I'd never felt that way before, and it seemed like I should tell her everything." Hermione's eyes softened, and she gazed sympathetically at her friend, recalling the sudden romance between Harry and Ginny.
"Do you still love her?" asked Hermione before she could catch herself. They looked at each other for several uncomfortable moments, and Hermione wondered if she should retract the question. But she remained silent.
The question hit Harry like a reducto spell to the stomach, practically knocking the wind out of him. It forced him to confront the issue that he studiously avoided since his brief moments with Melissa Montgomery, so soon after breaking-up with his girlfriend following Dumbledore's funeral. Did he love Ginny Weasley? The answer could be avoided no longer, and he knew it immediately.
"No, I don't," he answered in a sad whisper, "I know it now. She'll always be special to me, but I don't love her." He bowed his head a few inches, his sandwich momentarily forgotten, but he offered no further explanation.
The answer surprised Hermione, as much for its tone as its content. Harry stated it firmly, completely sure of his answer. She assumed that he would have more ambiguous feelings.
"I think she still loves you. That might make things difficult."
Harry nodded his head but otherwise did not respond, his eyes and face tightening. After a few seconds, he took another bite of his sandwich, and Hermione knew that this topic of conversation had been completed. For now.
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"I have come to a decision as to how we must confront this situation."
Rufus Scrimgeour faced six of his top ministers in a top-secret meeting, already thick with tension. Rumors bounced around the Ministry as news of a "New Direction," as the Minister of Magic referred to it, spread rapidly. Many theories emerged, but Scrimgeour himself remained mute, even to his closest advisors. He shut himself in his office and living quarters trying to consider all angles of his new plan. On August first, he decided the time had arrived to announce his plan.
"Let me say first that I have analyzed this new direction from all sides, and I am well aware of the controversy it will create. I remain convinced, however, that the measures which I am about to announce are necessary and appropriate. Extraordinary times call for an extraordinary response."
The Minister of Magic paused to allow his words to sink in. In general, he did not prefer half measures or subtlety, and his new plan contained neither.
"We shall declare Martial Law. All authority shall reside with the Ministry of Magic. The Wizengamot shall be disbanded until such time as He Who Must Not Be Named is defeated. The Ministry shall order all wizarding publications to cease operations. The Daily Prophet shall remain in operation under the sole control of the Ministry."
Scrimgeour anticipated the widened eyes of his advisors, astonished by the audacity of the Minister's decision. Even during the first war some twenty years earlier, when the situation had reached levels far more dire, the Ministry had not attempted such a sweeping consolidation of power, and many measures that had been ordered created vociferous opposition. Would the wizarding population agree to Martial Law? Would the employees of the Ministry, especially the aurors, agree to implement it? The Minister could order the moon to turn red, but that did not mean that the Ministry could cause it to happen.
However, the ministers had not heard anything yet. Scrimgeour intended to issue a completely unprecedented order.
"The main problem we face, as we have discussed at great length, is our inability to protect the wizarding population in their homes. We have no means to determine when or where the death eaters will next attack. While measures to protect our homes have in fact yielded some successes, every day brings new reports of murders, new reports of the dark mark. And every time we arrive too late. Thus I have reached the conclusion that we cannot pretend that these reactive measures can ultimately lead to final victory. No! Such measures will merely prolong the agony of our defeat."
The six ministers listened intently in their expensive black robes, not sure where the Minister intended to lead them. The Minister paused again, knowing how controversial and difficult the next part of his "new direction" would be.
"Thus we must remove the prey from the predators, hide the sheep from the wolves. I intend to order that all wizarding families in Britain shall forthwith abandon their homes and move to several designated sites where they can be protected by the Ministry. We must quickly determine these details. Certainly Hogwarts Castle will serve as one site, as hundreds of families can be comfortably housed there. Other castles and mansions can also be pressed into service. Our numbers are not so great that we cannot house all of the magical population into four or five locations. No doubt many families will opt to flee the country, which serves our purpose just as well."
He paused again, and this time the widened eyes of his ministers betrayed panic as well as concern. Did the Minister understand the consequences of his plan? Did he understand the incredible logistical difficulties involved in involuntarily moving several thousand citizens spread throughout England, Wales and Scotland to four or five sites?
"I see from your expressions that you have serious concerns, and I understand. However, I see no other viable options. We are NOT here to drag out this struggle. I intend to take this war to You Know Who. This plan serves several purposes. Of course, it provides for the protection of our citizens, but it also prevents You Know Who from his source of recruits. We have reports that death eaters are renewing their efforts to build the size of their forces. Our intelligence, which admittedly is spotty, does indicate that You Know Who's forces are still quite limited in number. If we can dry up his source of potential recruits, then we have a true chance to defeat him once and for all. Moreover, with the ability to protect our population with fewer resources, we free up our forces to fight You Know Who and his minions head on. THAT IS MY INTENTION! I INTEND TO FIGHT!"
Silence greeted Scrimgeour's pronouncement. The six ministers, four wizards and two witches, knew that argument against the plan would be futile. For better or worse, the Minister had spoken. But his orders created so many issues to be discussed and resolved. It would take weeks to put together even the semblance of a workable plan. Finally one minister spoke.
"This will require a tremendous amount of planning, Minister," softly commented Catherine Mosley, the Minister of Muggle Relations. A plump and efficient half blood who largely grew up in the muggle world, Mosley immediately recognized the difficulties she would face in disguising the movement of thousands of wizards and witches, many of whom no doubt would not act cooperatively. "We'll need time."
"How much time?" asked Scrimgeour in a tone of voice informing her that the amount had better not be excessive.
"A month, at least," commented the Minister of Defense, "The ramifications of your plan are numerous and enormous, Minister. Even one month is hardly enough time to accomplish such a huge undertaking."
Scrimgeour narrowed his eyes and stared at each of the six ministers one by one while considering.
"Two weeks," he responded firmly, "I will make the announcement in two weeks."