Chapter 39
The Girls Are Going to Go Crazy
Harry Potter had a problem. Well, he had a number of problems, but one problem needed to be resolved quickly. He needed cash. With the end of January in sight, February's rent soon would come due, and he lacked British Pounds.
He could conjure the bills, naturally an illegal act. Moreover, conjured bills only last for a week or two before disappearing, which not only would be unfair to the landlord but likely would cause an unwanted visit. Only one option existed. Harry needed to visit Gringotts Bank, withdraw some galleons, and convert some of them to pounds. This presented the problem of how to accomplish this without being recognized. He could not avoid recalling his visit to Diagon Alley the previous August, when the crowd of well-wishers surrounded him. A repeat of such an event now could end in tragedy.
Finally Harry and Dobby developed a plan. The house elf briefly left the flat, satisfied that Harry would not harm himself, to inform the goblins at the bank of the imminent arrival of its reclusive customer. Say what you will about goblins, they know how to keep a secret, and they are discreet. Upon Dobby's return, Harry dressed himself in a thick black cloak, which would not look out of place on the brisk, cold, late January afternoon. Transfiguring his glasses into opaque sunglasses, pushing his long black hair over his forehead, and pulling the hood of the cape as far forward as he could, Harry satisfied himself that he would not be recognized during the short visit to Diagon Alley.
Naturally, a customer could not apparate directly within the bank, so Harry had to appear at the normal apparation site about two blocks from Gringotts. As soon as he arrived, he felt the cold air buffet his face, and he pulled the cape and hood around him more tightly. Glancing around the crowded street, for the public had returned with glee to shop at Diagon Alley, nobody appeared to be paying him any attention, so Harry strode forward as briskly as he could in his weakened condition.
Benjamin Duval walked leisurely in the opposite direction, carrying his camera equipment. One of the top photographers for the Daily Prophet, his spirits had never been higher since the defeat of Voldemort. Returning to his job on Diagon Alley, life finally started treating him well. He gained some notoriety the previous August when he took a spontaneous shot of Harry Potter and Hermione Granger gazing lovingly at each other, right here on Diagon Alley. One of his best photographs, he freely admitted, even if largely the product of luck. In normal times, it may have won him an award.
Approaching Gringotts from the other direction, the tall sandy-haired photographer noticed the unsteady cadence of a thin young man wrapped in a dark black cloak. Something struck him as familiar about the potential subject of his next photograph, which is how he considered everyone he observed. Professional instinct caused him to pull out his camera, but immediately he put it away, his current location too distant for a good shot. Instead, from his bag he quickly pulled out his omnioculars, not a cheap version like Harry's, but a professional unit. Unobtrusively he stepped to the side of the street and focused on his subject, deftly turning various dials. Who was this person? What was so interesting about him?
Luck blessed Benjamin Duval again. A frigid gust of wind directly into the young man's face blew the hood of his cape off of his head, revealing a tangle of long black hair. An instant later, the gust blew back his hair to expose the most famous mark in all the magical world. Duval could not breathe. Not more than two seconds later, Harry Potter recovered his head and could no longer be recognized, but the photographer knew he had the shot. This moment would change his life - a photographer's dream.
Harry Potter entered the bank, so Duval edged his way to a secluded nook across from the entrance to Gringotts and prepared his normal camera. After waiting for half an hour, he figured that the Potter boy should be leaving soon, but ten minutes later Benjamin still waited. Then from the corner of his eye he saw Harry from behind, already close to the apparation zone.
"The side entrance! He left by the side entrance!" The professional photographer kicked himself for not anticipating this, but no matter, he had what he needed.
Turning around, he practically ran back to the Daily Prophet's office on the far end of Diagon Alley to view his film. When a few colleagues and he watched it for the first time, they stood speechless. Could this truly be Harry Potter? The scar clearly indicated his identity, but the change in the boy almost defied belief. His already thin face had become gaunt, his high cheek bones protruding above his jaw, weariness etched into his forehead. The long black hair tussled by the wind set off the features of his face like a frame, and the dark reflective sunglasses cloaked him with mystery. Despite the hidden eyes, the face exuded a tortured soul. The Boy Who Lived may be alive, but he was suffering. And he was dangerous.
Publishing omniocular film rarely occurred. Special, expensive paper had to be used, coated with an especially complicated potion which allowed the image from the apparatus to be transferred to the page. The Prophet last incurred the extra expense for Victor Krum's famous dive at the last Quidditch World Cup. But the editors of the daily in this instance never considered the cost. Frantic staffers threw together a special edition in a matter of three hours, and a flock of owls began delivering them all over the country - right around supper time.
Dinner in the Great Hall of Hogwarts Castle neared its end when the owls arrived. Hermione, Ron and Ginny already finished their chosen desserts and had just left their bench when the flutter of wings halted them in their tracks. An old grey owl swooped down and dropped the special edition into Hermione's waiting hands. Other owls dropped their cargo onto other subscribers, and a hush fell over the hall. The news had been so positive these past weeks, but a special edition in the middle of the week could only mean one thing: bad news.
Hermione quickly sat down, and the two Weasleys filled the seats on each side of her. Ron cleared the plates and utensils from in front of them. Quickly breaking the seal of the rolled-up newspaper, she spread it out on the table for the three of them to see, as well as a small crowd of students peering over their shoulders. Hermione and Ginny gasped, covering their mouths with their hands. Throughout the Great Hall, similar gasps could be heard, followed by frenzied whispering. After a minute or so, a number of female voices also could be heard - appreciative female voices.
The Prophet devoted the entire special edition to the sighting of Harry Potter. About five seconds from Benjamin Duval's film played on the top half of the front page. Wind blew off the hood, revealing the face of their great friend. But what had one month of internal torture done to him? They stared at the scene, which repeated itself over and over. Ginny could not contain her emotions, and tears streamed freely down her face. Could this be the same person they last saw on New Year's Eve?
Ron grabbed the paper, stood up, and helped Ginny to stand. The three of them left to find a more private location, ending up once again in the Room of Requirement. They quietly studied the moving photograph and then read the accompanying articles. In reality, the Profit could report no news other than the fact that Harry entered Gringotts, presumably to withdraw money. Only two conclusions could be drawn: Harry still lived and he needed money. Yet the newspaper managed to fill four pages, reviewing the tragic and triumphant life of The Boy Who Lived, commenting on his changed appearance, and gently criticizing the Ministry for not doing more to help the boy who saved their world.
"He looks terrible," Ron commented for the fourth time.
"Yes, he does," Hermione agreed, "but he also looks fantastic. I mean, the girls are going to go crazy over this." Ginny nodded knowingly.
"You mean, they'll like this?" Ron asked incredulously.
"Look at that face," Ginny explained, "We know what it's supposed to look like, so to us it looks wrong. But if you don't know Harry well, then you see a handsome, mysterious, dangerous man. It's an incredible picture."
"The good news is that if he needed to withdraw money, he must not be thinking about killing himself, at least not for awhile." Hermione pulled the picture towards her again. "I know he looks terrible, but on the other hand, he doesn't seem to be terribly unhealthy. Look at how he walks and moves. Dobby must be keeping him in decent condition. Who knows where he would be without that elf."
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Benjamin Duval's photograph immediately turned into a cultural icon. Within days, owls delivered posters of the mysterious and dangerous Harry Potter all over the country. At Hogwarts, his wind-swept face adorned the walls of almost every dormitory room, and the girls unabashedly swooned over it. Hermione and Ginny could not prevent pangs of jealousy that so many girls drooled over Harry. Their Harry. Most of the female students behaved themselves when "Harry's girls" walked nearby, trying to avoid their wrath, but when they moved out of earshot . . . The boys admired the poster too, though more discreetly. They wished that they could be mysterious and dangerous too. Harry Potter's portrait became the wizarding version of Che Guevara's.
Owls swarmed the offices of the Daily Prophet and the Ministry with letters of support for Harry and demands that more be done to help him. After a short honeymoon, Kingsley Shacklebolt faced his first crisis as Minister of Magic, but unlike previous Ministers, he tackled it head on. He issued a statement explaining that the Ministry did not know Harry's current location, that Harry did not wish to be found, and that Shacklebolt would do everything in his power to help the young man. He ended with an impassioned plea directly to Harry to contact him personally.
Hermione, with assistance from Ron and Ginny, examined countless texts in the restricted section of the library, reading explanations of dark magic that made their skin crawl. After a few days, however, she became increasingly convinced that they were wasting their time.
"Nothing like this has ever happened before," she finally conceded, "We have to go back to what we know. Voldemort cannot stand the presence of love. Somehow that is how Harry has to get rid of him. The most important thing now is for us to find him. Any ideas?" The three sat silently for several moments.
Finally Ron offered his thoughts, "Let's go over what we know. Harry is suffering but is being cared for. He must have some sort of shelter. Didn't look to me like he's been out in the open or living in a cave. Obviously he could be anywhere, but it's more likely that he's someplace that he knows. What are the possibilities?"
"Good, Ron," Hermione praised her great friend, "Where has Harry been before? Of course, his aunt and uncle's house in Little Whinging, but I thing we can rule that one out. We know he's not at Grimmauld Place or the Burrow. Where else has he been?"
"How about the Shrieking Shack?" Ron practically screamed, "He's been there before, and nobody ever goes inside of it. I bet you that he's there." Ginny's face brightened at her brother's optimism, but Hermione's lips gradually frowned.
"You could be right, but I doubt it. I don't think the Shrieking Shack would be secure enough for Harry. It's right next to Hogsmeade, one of the biggest wizarding cities in Britain. No, I don't think Harry is anywhere in the magical world. He's in the muggle world somewhere. Remember, he wrote his letter on muggle paper." She waved the letter at the two Weasleys who looked downcast at Hermione's logic, but they knew she was right.
"Where else has he been in the muggle world?" Ginny asked dejectedly, "We know so little about that part of his life."
"I don't know," a frustrated Ron replied, "I wish Dumbledore was still alive. He always seemed to figure these things out." Hermione jumped to her feet at Ron's statement.
"OF COURSE! DUMBLEDORE! How could I be so stupid!"
"What are you talking about?" the Weasleys asked simultaneously.
"Don't you remember? Harry told us Dumbledore lived in a muggle flat in London before he died. That's where Harry went to visit him all the time. If Harry didn't turn in the keys to the landlord, he could still use it. Maybe that's why he had to go to Gringotts. February is just a day away. He has to pay the rent. In muggle money. It all makes sense!"
Ron and Ginny smiled slightly at Hermione's enthusiasm, but they knew that they still had a long ways to go.
"You're probably right, Hermione," Ron admitted, "but that still doesn't get us any closer to finding him. Harry never said where the flat is. We don't have an address or even a description."
"I know, and I could be entirely wrong," the Head Girl conceded, "but at least we have an idea now."
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Calendars turned to the month of February, and Harry's volatile mood swings continued. For a few days after receiving the letters from his friends, he avoided the most extreme lows, but soon the boost provided in those letters evaporated. Continually nauseous, suffering constant headaches from his burning scar, and endlessly battling the remnants of Tom Riddle for control, Harry's life descended into a living hell.
In fact, the thought of his friends became an obsession. On the one hand, he would give anything to be with them again, to laugh with Ron, to embrace Hermione and Ginny. But violent thoughts continually plagued him. For brief moments, hatred broke though his controls, and he wanted to torture and kill them. He quickly suppressed these urges, but then again he lived like a hermit, specifically in order to avoid potential targets. Voldemort's thoughts became increasingly desperate and malevolent, and little by little they beat down on Harry's will.
During the first days of February, he came to a conclusion. He could not continue this way. Why should he? This was not a life, holed up in a tiny flat afraid to step out the door. Either he allowed his friends back into his life with the hope that their love would unlock the key to eliminating his uninvited guest, or he would not risk the possibility that he might harm them. Or even kill them.
He could not risk it. He could not place his life above theirs. He decided.
Dobby noted with desperation the darkening of Harry's mood. His master brooded continually, often times motionless for hours. The elf tried everything to raise his spirits. He begged his master to allow him to bring his friends so that they could help him. Harry consistently refused and finally forbade Dobby from mentioning it further. In fact, Harry began issuing orders to his slave more often, something he almost never did in the past. Dobby had no choice but to obey; the enchantment over him too strong to break.
Harry even refused to answer the letters from his friends, despite their requests and Dobby's urging.
"There's no need," the young wizard would repeat, "There's no use." The master was preparing to kill himself, and Dobby could do nothing to prevent it.
Finally one morning, Harry sat silently, ignoring Dobby's attempts to induce conversation. Once the young wizard completed his mental preparations, he turned to his friend and slave. His eyes betrayed his affection, but his voice sounded cold and firm.
"Dobby, leave me for two hours. I need to be alone. Come back in two hours."
"But Harry Potter, Dobby has much work to do here. Please allow Dobby to stay."
"I am not asking, Dobby. I appreciate everything you have done for me. You have been a great friend and companion, but I have to do this. This is an order. Leave me for two hours."
Dobby had to leave. As a slave, he had no choice. The enchantment could not be broken. But if he left, Harry Potter surely would kill himself. Looking up at his master, he saw a face pale as the moon and eyes glazed with death. What could he do to prevent this? What could he do short of disobeying a direct order?
"Leave now, Dobby. That is an order." The diminutive elf did not move. Harry's eyes glared at his slave with increasing intensity. "GO NOW!"
Dobby took a step back as if ready to disappear, but instead he grimaced and mouthed shakily, "I will not, Harry Potter. I cannot allow Harry Potter to do what he plans. Dobby will not leave Harry Potter."
"I GAVE YOU A DIRECT ORDER, DOBBY. YOU ARE MY SLAVE. YOU MUST DO WHAT I DEMAND." Harry's voice shook and did not sound like his.
"Harry Potter must not kill himself. Dobby will not permit it!" The elf trembled violently from the effort to disobey Harry and the fear of how his master would react.
"You disobeyed me. You disobeyed a direct order," Harry whispered in astonishment, "Do you love me so much that you can disobey my order?"
"Dobby loves Harry Potter that much. Harry Potter is the greatest wizard Dobby has ever known. Harry Potter must not give up hope. Please. Let Dobby contact your Granger friend and Weasel friends. Dobby knows that they want to help you. Harry Potter cannot kill the dark lord by himself. Please Harry Potter. Let your friends help."
Dobby's disobedience shocked Harry to the core, and he staggered to the sofa, falling into it. His suicidal resolve evaporated.
"But I can't go on, Dobby. I can't get rid of him. It's hopeless. Sooner or later I will hurt someone. I'll kill someone. I can't let that happen."
"Your friends do not care. They want to help Harry Potter. Let them come." Harry fell sideways onto the sofa.
His will wavered, but he whispered, "I can't. I can't."
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After Hermione's deduction of Harry's probable hiding place, the three friends rapidly determined that they lacked the means to locate the needle in the haystack. Mostly out of desperation, Hermione entered the headmistress' office in order to run her ideas past McGonagall. Perhaps she could help, though Hermione could not imagine how. To her surprise, she did not find the headmistress in the office. Hermione should have turned around and returned later, but off to the left she saw Dumbledore's library. Only rarely had she browsed among the professor's volumes. Could there be anything there that could shed light on the problem?
For several minutes she walked among the rare, valuable books, occasionally paging through a volume, but she saw nothing even remotely of use. She jumped when she heard a familiar voice from the far wall, her heart leaping into her throat.
"Can I be of any service to you, Miss Granger? I am, of course, intimately familiar with this library."
"Professor Dumbledore!" the witch gasped, her hand jumping to her chest, "You're awake!" From across the office, the ancient wizard with the long white beard and half glasses gazed down benevolently from his portrait.
"Indeed, Miss Granger, I came to life, so to speak, some time ago. I could not help but notice that you are searching for something in my library. Perhaps I could be of assistance."
Recovered from her shock, Hermione quickly walked over to the portrait, which hung high above her, and explained, "I came here to see Professor McGonagall, but when she wasn't here, I checked your library because . . . because we're desperate, Professor. Harry is going to kill himself if we don't find him." Her voice choked. Concern creased the portrait's face.
"What would push Mr. Potter to such drastic action?"
Hermione regained her composure and realized that before her stood exactly the person she needed to consult.
"Professor, do you remember being with Harry before you died? I mean, before you really died, not what happened here at Hogwarts with Draco Malfoy."
"Miss Granger, I am but a portrait, as you are aware, imbued with the characteristics of Albus Dumbledore and with some of his memories. However, a portrait does not contain all the thoughts and recollections of the wizard himself." The portrait paced the confines of the frame deep in thought. "That said, I do have some visions of meeting with Harry in a small flat shortly before my death. Is this important?"
"It's more than important, Professor," Hermione urged, her neck tilted back, "Harry's life depends on it. After you helped Harry destroy the final horcrux, the Hogwarts medal, you died. Harry then killed Lord Voldemort on New Year's Eve at Godric's Hollow, but whatever was left of the spirit of Voldemort entered Harry's body. Harry had a piece of Voldemort's soul inside of him from what happened when he was a baby, and Voldemort had nowhere else to go. We think Harry is holed up in the flat where you lived last year, but nobody can find him. He sent us a letter a week ago, and he can't take it anymore. If we don't find him, he's going to kill himself, but he won't tell anybody where he is because he's afraid he'll hurt them." The words cascaded uncontrollably from the Head Girl's mouth. "Do you remember the address of your flat?"
The figure in the portrait scratched his chin in deep concentration.
"Regrettably, I do not recall the specific address. Such minute details are not imbedded in a portrait's memory. However, I do have a general recollection of the flat and the area of London where it is located. Perhaps that would be of assistance."
"Anything, Professor," Hermione pleaded, "Any information at all. Right now, we have no where to begin."
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Ron, Ginny and Hermione watched as their taxi driver briefly waved and sped away. The Head Girl's hand held a small pad on which she had written the information provided by Dumbledore's portrait. Based on this data, Hermione determined that the flat had to be located in the southeastern part of London in a working class residential area. The painted figure remembered a few street names and provided a reasonably detailed description of the flat's building - a brick-faced three or four story structure on a tree-lined street close to a Chinese restaurant. Based on this information, Hermione narrowed the probable location down to a three or four square mile area. She hoped.
The three teens looked around in all directions, the two Weasleys feeling the nerves of standing in an entirely muggle neighborhood. The weather could have cooperated better. A freezing drizzle floated in the air, blending in with the grey clouds to create a dreary, depressing atmosphere. The wizard and witches dressed warmly in muggle clothing, wearing several layers. Ron wore no hat, but the girls pulled wool coverings over their hair and ears. None of them commented on the uncomfortable conditions.
The muggle-born witch took charge, "Right. Ron, we're here," Hermione indicated on a London street map. Each of them carried one, and after Hermione spent a good hour back at Hogwarts teaching the pure bloods, they all knew how to read it. "You cover these streets over here. Ginny, take the area just north of us, and I'll check to the west. Keep track of where you've been so we don't walk the same streets twice. Remember, if you think you've found the building, don't go in! Tap the medallion, and we'll meet back here. In any event, we'll meet back here in three hours." The other two nodded their heads nervously, but all three of them felt a sense of relief that finally they could act instead of talk.
"Don't get discouraged," Ron added, "This could take a long time, but sooner or later we'll find it."
Three hours later, six tired feet reunited. After exchanging their findings, they stopped for a brief lunch, enjoying the respite from the wet weather, before embarking on their assignments for the afternoon. Finally, late in the afternoon Ginny thought she may have found it. In front of her stood a three-story brick complex of flats on a tree-lined avenue. Race walking up the street, she searched for the Chinese restaurant. There it was, just a block away. It all fit. The sixth year shivered momentarily, realizing that Harry Potter, the boy she knew she still loved, almost certainly occupied a flat across the street right at that very moment. She marked the location on her map and then tapped the special medallions that Hermione had created. All three immediately broke into a jog to meet at their original site. An hour later, they stood in front of the brick-faced complex.
Finding the building itself rated as a great accomplishment, but gaining entrance into Harry's flat presented another problem altogether. Hermione reached into her purse and removed two more pads of paper - muggle paper. She also pulled out two muggle ball-point pens and handed the pads and pens to her companions.
"These work a lot better than parchment and quills for something like this," she explained, "Now, this is what we're going to do."
Deep down, each of them feared their reunion with Harry. Most definitely, he would be displeased at being found, and who knew how he would react. Nevertheless, they could not turn back now. Each of the three stationed themselves at a strategic point on each of the three floors, having first performed disillusionment charms on each other. Standing still by the wall, the residents of the flats could not see them. On their pads, they sketched a map of their floors, showing the hallway and each of the doors with their numbers. The plan was simple. When an occupant entered or exited a flat, that number would be scratched off. Sooner or later, by process of elimination, Harry's flat would be determined.
It was cold and boring work. From late afternoon until midnight, they watched normal muggle folk come and go. Some left only for a few moments to take their rubbish to the bin. Others left well dressed for a night on the town. Little by little, they crossed off numbers on their pads. At midnight, Hermione left her post to gather the others. Pooling their information, they narrowed the possibilities to four flats. Exhausted and freezing, they intended to return to Hogwarts to collapse in their beds, when Hermione had one last thought.
"Just a second. Let's check their mail boxes. Usually the boxes have their names on them."
Sure enough, along an interior hallway on the first floor, they found a long row of metal mailboxes. Checking the boxes for the four possible flats, they found three mailboxes with names. Flat 316 had none. The three teens stared wide-eyed at the missing nameplate. They had located their quarry.