Chapter Eight
"You don't think we could persuade Dumbledore to hire Snape as Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, do you?" Hermione asked Harry. They were strolling through Diagon Alley the night before the train was to leave for Hogwarts. Ron frowned but said nothing. "I mean we've gone and lost another one- Madam LeClair."
"She was good," Ron said, finally.
"Yes, but you have to admit Snape was better and he only taught the class for a few weeks," Hermione said. "This is our last year and it's important we learn all we can. We have to pass our N.E.W.T.S."
They strolled past Lavender Brown and Seamus Finnigan who were acting as their unofficial guard. Harry had a continuous Hogwarts' escort wherever he went while in Diagon Alley He thought he could protect himself and didn't like the idea of them putting themselves at risk although he knew it was useless to try and dissuade them.
He continued to struggle with the help he was given, feeling as if he didn't deserve it. Dumbledore's words kept replaying in his mind. He had to admit he never allowed himself to totally feel love for anyone. It was a risk he could not take, not after having lived without parents, having lost Sirius and knowing there was a strong possibility he would lose his friends. He felt himself distancing himself from them, wanting to be alone more.
He had left his Roma family and Nadya just two days before. The kumpania (company of wagons) would travel until fall and then camp in a village some distance from Hogwarts. He was going to miss her even as they were saying goodbye. Given the way his life was going he would probably be away from her many times in the future. This was there first separation but he began to think it was probably for the best.
His visit with Dumbledore weeks before had left him unsettled and angry. The mention of the headmaster's name made him feel grouchy. "I don't know, Hermione. Dumbledore has his own reasons for not having Snape teach the class. I guess we'll have to wait and see."
Ginny Weasley and Dean Thomas joined them and they all stopped to have chilled drinks. Harry wasn't listening to the conversation in the pub. The street had become very familiar to him in the six years he had come here to buy his Hogwarts school supplies. He kept thinking of his conversation with Dumbledore as he watched the witches and wizards pass him in the street. His thoughts wandered. He wondered if he was going to treat Neville any differently now that he knew what he truly was, his 'special position', as Dumbledore had described it.
It made him think of his father, who had been a Guardian, too. How had his father been chosen? How had Neville been chosen? Harry wondered. What does it mean to be Guardian? As Remus described it, the Guardian watched over some horrific evil, which if let loose upon the world, would make Voldemort pale in comparison. Harry didn't think Neville was the kind of person well-suited to such a task.
He drummed his fingers on the table and thought about what he knew. It made no sense to him. Then he saw her; Professor Trelawney, Hogwarts' Divination teacher was walking down the street. He had never seen her outside of Hogwarts and rarely out of the aerie loft in the tower. Strange thoughts immediately began to whirl in his head, thoughts about the prophecy she had made concerning he and Neville.
It all began with her, he thought.
Harry could remember the words of the prophecy and the conversation they had about it as if Dumbledore stood before him and was repeating it. He could also remember what he said about the prophecy, that a form of it was saved in the Department of Mysteries and it had been RELABELED after Voldemort tried to kill him. Neville had accidentally broken the glass bulb it was stored in during their fight in the Department of Mysteries and so it was lost to the world forever. Somehow, there was still a mystery surrounding the Prophecy and he still couldn't fathom it.
Trelawney passed them and turned her face away. It was obvious she did not want to be noticed. Harry watched her. She had made two true predictions in all the years Dumbledore had known her. Once to him and once to Dumbledore. The rest were phony- even Dumbledore had said so. It made him wonder what the natural rates of true predictions actually were for a genuine seer. It was all confusing to him and the answers to questions seemed to be just out of reach. It was when Trelawney passed into the street leading to Knockturn Alley and at the same moment Draco Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle emerged from the same street that Harry knew what he had to do.
"The Ministry of Magic is still a mess. Dad says that they have a temporary replacement for Fudge but…," Ron was talking to the small group.
"Ron!" Harry grabbed his arm.
"What Harry," Ron asked, glancing over, looking a little irritated at being interrupted.
"Come with me a minute." Harry said, stood and pulled him away from the others. "Listen Ron do you still have that mirror that we used when I went to get Snape at the Malfoys?" Harry asked.
"Yeah, I think Hermione still has it," Ron replied.
"Listen Ron, I'm not going to make the Hogwarts Express and I may be gone for the first few days of classes. I'm going to get my mirror and I'll use it to make contact with you. I'll let you know where I am." Harry was speaking rapidly, suddenly in a hurry.
"Where are you going?" Ron asked, glancing over at Hermione.
Harry followed his stare and whispered, "You can't tell her or anyone. At least not for awhile."
Ron nodded.
"I'm going to Knockturn Alley," Harry said. He still wore his clothes from the Roma camp and his face remained transformed, his scar turned into a tattoo, "and maybe beyond that," he added.
"You're what?!" Ron exclaimed looking very pale all at once. "What for?"
"Shush!" Hermione's eyes were on them, "There's something I have to find out and, I can't tell you what it's about. Not right now." Harry looked at him with pleading eyes and then he smiled reassuringly at his friend. "I trust you to come and rescue me if I get in trouble, mate," he said, and added, "Look, I'll be okay."
"Oh great, Harry," Ron mumbled and rolled his eyes. "Thanks a lot. All right, go then. I'll get the mirror and tell... Hermione…something." He nudged him away and turned back to Hermione and the small group.
Harry nodded and hurried off without stopping to talk to the rest of them and headed to The Leaky Cauldron for his belongings. He told the innkeeper to have his trunk put on the Hogwarts Express and that his friend would have it taken to the school. Harry hurried to his room, grabbed his sack and stuffed items into it.
"What am I doing?" he said aloud. "I don't even know what I'm looking for."
"Can't help you there lad," the mirror said.
He covered himself in a cloak and slipped his broad brimmed fedora over his head, checked the sack and left the room.
He vaguely remembered the narrow dark street from a previous trip there as he made his way from the sunshine into the gloomy depths of Knockturn Alley. The shops were close together and dark, their windows dirty and grimy. The people on the street kept their heads down and stepped to the side, trying not to touch each other as they passed. Harry could smell the reek of mildew and centuries-old mold; refuse was piled in corners and maggots infested overripe fruit thrown to the pavement.
Harry stepped cautiously down the street, not peering into shops or lifting his head. He drifted as if he was familiar with the area and pretended he was tired. Several old witches passed, their clothes tattered and worn. Harry's nose stung with the smell of dirt and stench, stale ale and whiskey which drifted off of them as they passed. A pub opened up its' gaping maw onto the street and several hooded men stood talking quietly to each other near the entrance. Harry walked past while they stopped their conversation to stare and study him.
"Oye, you got a knut for an old man?" A beggar asked as he struggled up to Harry, his leg twisted cruelly into an s-shape. He was dragging it and supporting himself with a cane. He wasn't much taller than a child, but twice as heavy.
"Get away!" Harry growled, shoving the grimy, grabbing hand from his arm. He normally would not have treated the cripple this way, but knew he had to act the part of a resident of Knockturn Alley.
The man spat foul words at his back as he moved on. Several troll-like individuals passed him in a hurry, bumping his arm. They moved aside quickly when he turned. Harry kept his hand on his wand inside his cloak wary of every encounter but trying not to show fear. He stopped once, wiped his hand against the brick coming away with black soot and dirt, and quickly wiped his hand over his face and neck. It was obvious to him that he stood out; he was too clean.
He made his way down the street and then stopped to lean against a wall and study the area from beneath his hat. It was getting later in the day and more nefarious types of individuals were crawling the street.
"Hello, love," a witch stopped in front of him. "Ya interested in having a good time."
"Mook! (leave)," he spit at her in Romani.
"What's that yer sayin' in f'reign talk?" she snapped, "Whatchoo want to go actin' like that fer."
Harry raised hand as if to hex her.
"Pshaw!" she hissed and waved a hand and left, her black gown and cloak trailing through the dirt.
A voice whispered behind him in Romani, "Sar si to alav (what is your name)?"
Harry peered over his shoulder attempting to act nonchalant. Why would a respectful Gypsy be down in these streets, he wondered. He saw the man, small and bent, his clothes black with caked dirt. He was bearded and had no teeth. "Who asks?" he questioned.
The man slipped closer and stared down the dank street when he spoke, "By me a drink Roma and I will tell you." Harry smelled the fire whiskey on his stale, stinking breath.
"I will buy you a drink if you will tell me where to find a room to sleep for the night," Harry said.
"I can do that, Chav (boy)!" The man said and grinned, pawing Harry's cloak with grubby, filthy fingers.
"Don't call me that, Laja! (shame on you), you speak Romani, but you are shameless." Harry scolded and pulled the man's hands from his clothes. He was referring to the fact that the Roma were known to beg but not from one another. The man had evidently fallen on bad times because of his drinking or some other cause, and now he had degenerated into a bum.
"Yes, yes," the man agreed and bowed his head, "I am akooshava (cursed)." He continued to scrape and bow.
"Very well," Harry said, wanting to stop the man from drawing attention to them; people were beginning to notice them. "Leave your hands off of me." Harry followed the man further down the street to a point where it was so narrow and twisted that people could only walk single file. The man stopped before a door and opened it, hat in hand, waiting for Harry to pass through. There was a grubby sign swinging overhead. The barely legible words painted on it said, 'The Painted Pidgeon'.
Harry stepped out of the dim sunlight into almost pitch dark. He had his hand on his wand and stepped to one side as the Gypsy closed the door and followed him in. After his eyes adjusted to the light, he could see the dim insides of a pub. The room was partly empty. People sat smoking and talking in rumbling whispers. Harry followed the man through a labyrinth of chairs to a bar where he sat at the counter.
"Fire whiskey for two." The man said.
"Don't dis man speak fer 'imself?" asked the bartender, eyeing Harry suspiciously.
"He speaks my tongue," the old Roma said. "You would'na understand him."
"Show me da coin and I'll give ya da whiskey," the bald headed man said. He wore an apron, stained gray with too many washings and not enough soap.
The Gypsy rubbed his thumb and index finger together to indicate to Harry it was time to pay. Harry dropped two coins on the scarred counter of the bar and swiveled his head to study the occupants of the pub. A few of the ragged customers returned the stare with interest. He peered at them with sneer which he thought Snape would have been proud of if he had been present.
A dirty glass was placed before him, half of the liquid sloshing out of it as it was clunked down before him. Harry put his mouth to it and pretended as if he were sipping. The old Romani leaned in and said softly, "This is the place. Ye ken get a room here." The black eyes glittered and the smell of his rancid breath drove Harry back.
Yes, and get my throat cut, too, Harry thought, but he nodded in agreement. "Tell him I want a room and nobody is to disturb me," he said in Romani. The man went to translate, and Harry grabbed his arm. "Tell him they will not wake up in the morning if they do."
The man nodded eagerly when Harry waved the bottle over his glass.
"He says he wants a room and he's not to be bothered. He's one of them Vardo gypsies, mates." The Gypsy's voice increased in pitch as if announcing it to the whole room, which in effect, he actually was, "You best know that he can turn ya into a donkey's ass with just a look." The Gypsy said i and then smiled at Harry as if Harry did not understand English. "Just look at the lad me fine fellas, he's got the looks of one of them rich gypsies. Maybe we should see if he has more gold in those pockets." The man drank down his drink and the bartender moved off down into the gloom and the dark.
A chair scratched the wooden floor behind Harry. He heard it and reached beneath his robe to place his hand on his wand. The move was cunning and stealthy. "Tell your mates, if they touch me I will do more than turn them into a donkey's ass," Harry murmured in Romani.
The man's face paled and he raised his hand. He smiled to the room and said very loudly, "No harm done, then. We don't abide by strangers down here much, but we do want to be friendly. No need for violence, Chav." The noise of retreating steps told Harry he could relax his grip on the smooth handle of his wand.
"I told you not to call me that," he said, his own voice cold and steely.
"'Course," the little man sputtered, spun the empty glass around in his cupped palms like a coin and stared at it.
Harry filled it and said, "Show me to the room."
They walked up a narrow stair and down a hallway which reminded Harry of Sirius' home, the Black family mansion, before it had been cleaned. Dusty, black drapery covered the doors that lined the hall. Porgy, the bartender, pulled one aside, inserted a key and held the drape as Harry ducked under. He handed Harry a lantern to illuminate the small dark room he entered. Harry glanced around and stepped out into the hall once again.
"We have one meal a day served in the pub that comes with the room," the bartender instructed and then left him.
The grubby little Gypsy stood in the hallway.
"What do you want?" Harry asked.
"Jus' waitin' to see if I can be of service," the man replied. The stench emanating from him in such close quarters was overpowering.
"You are nothing more than Gadjo," Harry sneered. It was the worse insult he could give and he watched the little man to see if the tough act was working. The man groveled again and nodded. Harry stepped into the room, the smell of the man's sour sweat drifted in with him. Harry's eyes watered and moved to the window. The glass was black and let in no light. Harry took out his wand and heard a gasp from behind him. "Don't worry, I just want the stink out of this room," he explained and waved his wand, WINGARDIEM LEVIOSA. The window screeched upwards. It had not been opened, in perhaps, a century.
The little man behind him scuffled, stepping from one foot to another.
Harry was aware the man was surprised at his use of a wand. The Roma did not use wands to perform magic. It cast a special aura around him, a symbol of a Roma with higher powers.
Harry studied the room in more light. It was worse than a rubbish bin. Azkaban is probably better than this, he thought. He was intentionally ignoring the Gypsy but finally spoke to him, "What is your name?"
"I am Marcuso of the Lovorato tribe," he answered slowly.
"No old Gypsy, you have lost the road," Harry said in Romani and shook his head. "Go and bring me fresh water and bread." Harry tossed him a sickle. "Mind that it not moldy and the water is fresh and cold."
The man left, shutting the door. Harry used his wand to clean the room of dust and dirt. "SCOURGIFY," he said and then surveyed the cleaned area. Not as good as you would do Hermione but it's a step. He sat on the edge of the bed keeping his robe between him and the dirty coverlet. What am I doing here? he wondered.
He had acted impulsively and yet he also acted instinctively feeling that he was taking the right road. Dumbledore, Remus and Snape would not tell him anymore than he already knew and no one knew where Voldemort was. They expected him to just wait, to go to Hogwarts and start the school year and wait. No one would even tell him what progress was being made in finding Percy and Shacklebolt.
Although he had feigned ignorance when Dumbledore spoke to him Harry actually did understand what the old man was trying to tell him. He wanted him to open his heart. But he couldn't do it. He gave as much as he could to Nadya and to Hermione and Ron. They were at the most risk of being hurt by Voldemort or one of his DeathEaters. Harry felt that leaving them behind was the safest thing for them even if it meant he placed himself in danger.
I'll just have to hope I can stay out of sight and maybe find out what is going on, he thought.
...
The Hogwarts Express left the station at exactly ten o'clock. Hermione had gone to one end of the train and Ron to the other to patrol the corridors as part of their Prefect's duties. They met halfway.
"Ron?" Hermione began. She was frowning.
"What?" Ron snapped. He was standing staring out the window and glanced over when she walked up beside him. One glance at her and he straightened to his full height so he could tower over her and hopefully have an advantage. He didn't like it when he saw the look on her face.
"I didn't see Tommy on the train," she whispered, referring to Harry's alias name. "Was he down at the other end?"
Ron remained silent staring down at her.
"Ron?" she snapped. "Ron!" She was now glaring at him with her hands on her hips.
"He's not on the train, Hermione."
"What do you mean he's not on the train? We saw him only just yesterday." Her eyebrows went up. "All right, where is he? You two were talking and then he left. He wasn't at supper and you lied about it. Where is he?" she demanded. "I know you know."
"He asked me not to say," Ron replied innocently and turned to look out the window again.
"Ron Weasley!" Ron cringed. It sounded very much like his mother's voice.
"All right, but not out here," he whispered. "We could be overheard." He opened the door to their compartment; it was empty. He followed her in and squared his shoulders.
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