Chapter five: back to school

"Mr. Potter," the curt greeting addressed Harry as soon as he opened his eyes. "I must say I thought that I had seen you in these surroundings for the last time." A neat older woman in a green robe and spectacles swam into view. Minerva McGonagoll, headmistress of Hogwarts School of witchcraft and wizardry.

Harry was lying on his back in a bed, in a room filled with similar, yet empty, beds. It had been some time since he had been here, but there was no mistaking the hospital wing. He had spent more nights than he would have liked here during his school days. Harry unconsciously reached for his arm, where Natasha's blade had penetrated his flesh, but there was nothing but clean skin. The same was true for his other injuries; Madame Pomfrey was a miracle worker. Assuming she even worked here anymore.

"You have raised quite a stir, Mr. Potter, not unlike old times," said McGonagoll, not unkindly. "Disappearing from that conference, and then turning up a week later, stumbling out of the floo network half-dead, stinking with muggle radiation, into the Gryffindor common room. Some would certainly say that explanations are in order, and I am among them."

Harry nodded; he realized that he needed to recount his story. Still, he didn't want to talk about it. All he wanted to do was forget the events of the last twenty-four hours, if it had even been twenty-four hours. He didn't want to think that the Death Eaters were back, that Mundungus was one of them. He didn't want to talk about the girl, Natasha, and he especially didn't want to recount whatever sort of technological proving ground he had stumbled into. As primitive as they could be, muggles came up with more ambitious ways to kill each other than wizards ever could.

"How long?" Harry mumbled. He took a glass of water from the bedside table, and drained it.

"Two days. Since you arrived."

Harry began to swear, and stopped himself, remembering who he was with. Two whole days. "Ginny," he mumbled.

"We have sent Mrs. Potter notification of your condition, but have yet to receive any response."

"That doesn't sound like her," Harry mumbled.

"Nevertheless," said McGonagoll. "I am not the only one curious to recent events. There are two men from the ministry outside. I'll bring them in, as long as you feel up to meeting them of course."

Harry didn't want to meet with them, but he felt entirely up to it. "Bring them in," he sighed.

McGonagoll left and returned a moment later with two men. Both were dressed in dark suits, and had neatly trimmed dark hair. They reminded Harry of the men who had taken over the Lost Ark situation, after he had recovered it. The taller was named Smith, the other was Taylor.

"Professor," said Smith to McGonagoll. "Could you let us speak to Mr. Potter in private? Ministry secrecy, and suchlike."

"No, I don't believe I could." Said McGonagoll, "This is my school he's stumbled into, and I have a right to hear him out." Harry felt a surge of affection for her. Smith looked unhappy, but did not argue.

Taylor shook hands with Harry, Smith didn't. He got right down to business. He produced a day old copy of the daily prophet from his coat and dropped it in front of Harry. Harry picked it up and scanned the front page. The photograph was of a massive cloud, writhing in the air above London. It was in the distinct shape of a skull, a serpent rearing out of its mouth.

"The Dark mark appearing over central London," Smith explained, though Harry was already skimming the article. "Its enough to cause mass hysteria within the wizarding community. And that's not even mentioning the muggles. There are far too many witnesses for a massive mind-wipe, and they can't make hide-nor-tail of it. Probably blame it on global warming or something.

"And that's not all," Smith continued. "Its not as if it was some punk kid pulling a prank. There is evidence to back up the theory that you-know-who's old followers were involved. A break in to the Ministry of magic, to the Department of Mysteries, no less. The last time that happened it was the beginning of the second war.

"Significant damage caused to Ministry property and grounds. We're still cleaning up the warehouse, cataloguing to see what, if anything is missing."

"I could tell you that," said Harry.

"And you will," said Smith, holding up a hand. "But I haven't finished. There was evidence of a fight in both the warehouse and the lobby. And there were seven dead. Three are registered Aurors, killed by the killing curse. Four are unidentified men and women, brought down by various causes. I have personally seen the bodies and they all have one thing in common. The Dark Mark, scarred into their forearm just like the enemy did during the second war."

"Basically," said Taylor, "We're wondering if you could help us understand what the hell happened."

Harry nodded, "Makes sense." It seemed they already knew much of the basics. The dark mark appearing over London was news to him, though he hadn't let it show. The last two times he had encountered the Death Eaters they'd been hiding, underground, secretly waiting for the opportune moment. These people seemed to have already found their opportune moment, and wanted the world to know it.

So Harry recounted his story, he left nothing out. Though he liked neither of the Ministry operatives, the Ministry needed to know what had happened, and he trusted McGonagoll.

"Well," said Taylor as he finished, "That seems to check out. Except for how you came to be in the Death Eater's custody in the first place."

"I told you," sighed Harry. "I was abducted, kidnapped, held against my will."

"Just like Mr. Fletcher," said Smith, piercingly.

"Mundungus was part of the Order of the Phoenix, I had no idea he would turn." Harry mumbled.

"I can vouch for Mr. Potter myself," said McGonagoll, who had remained silent during the conversation. "And think it is high time you answer some of his questions."

"He was there," Smith, growled, "He knows twice what we do."

"Actually," said Harry, "I was wondering who that girl was. She called herself Lestrange, like Bellatrix. Who was she, her niece?"

"We have no idea," Smith grunted.

"Natasha Lestrange," said Taylor, "is a legend. A myth among dark wizards. We've heard conflicting rumors and speculation, nothing more. It is fairly consistent that she is Bellatrix's daughter, however. There were even sources that believed that Bellatrix was pregnant at some time during the second war, which would make her the age of the girl you describe."

"What about her father," Harry asked, surprised he had not come across any of the so-called widespread rumors.

"We have no idea, conflicting accounts label him as anyone from Malfoy senior to the Devil himself. But what is sure is that she is made out as a powerful, almost messianic woman. To bring dark magic into a new reign, more reaching and lasting even than You-know-who's short-lived dispensation.

"Nobody we've spoken to has seen her, spoken to her, not first-hand. However, it seems to be wide spread belief that she is every bit her mothers daughter, the most notorious dark witch who ever lived. She is sought and spoken of with hope and fear, not unlike you, Mr. Potter." The last comment was said piercingly; as if Harry really had been the dark wizard the magical community had expected him to be. But Harry ignored it; he was too preoccupied with the information. And from what he'd seen, Natasha was her mother's daughter. From Harry's memories, without Voldemort, Bellatrix could have very well become the new dark lord, had she not been killed at the Battle of Hogwarts.

"What was in that steel box, the one they took?" he asked, phrasing his other question.

"Classified," said Smith, who glared at Taylor, obviously thinking the other man had said far too much about Natasha Lestrange.

"I know it's a body," Harry said quickly, "But what is it really. They acted like I should have seen it before, and said I had my memory modified. What's that about?"

Smith said nothing, looking away. Taylor also avoided Harry's gaze, but said softly. "We needed a second opinion, we didn't want another witness."

It slowly dawned on Harry, "You wiped my memory!"

"Modified, actually," said Smith.

"Still, what were you thinking? What can be that secret."

"The secrecy of the remains is very sensitive."

"Still, I mean, I'm Harry Potter. If the head of the auror office can't know about it-"

"Interestingly enough," Smith interrupted, "that brings us to our final order of business."

"The ministry on a whole," said Taylor, "has decided that it would be better, given the current situation and the sensitivity of the public, if you were temporarily relieved of your duties as head of the Auror office."

Harry said nothing, he couldn't think of anything to say. Heading up the auror office was difficult work, to be sure. But he was good at it, and he enjoyed it. And considering the current situation, he would need to be doing his best to find Lestrange, not sitting at home reading the prophet.

"I'm sure the situation will soon be stabilized," said Smith. "But until then, your relationship with Mundungus Fletcher casts suspicion upon you, even as far back as the second war."

"How can you question anything he did in the second war," McGonagoll exclaimed. "He killed Voldemort himself, for one thing."

"My thoughts exactly, Headmistress," came a new voice. All four of them turned to see the tall man striding toward them. He was black; his head shaved, and wore a red robe. Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister of Magic.

"Mr. Potter," said the Minister, joining them. "You're looking better, I see. Smith, Taylor." He shared a friendly handshake with both Harry and McGonagoll, ignoring the other two men.

"Mr. Potter, whatever these men have told you, I have rectified the situation. You will be appearing for work on Monday as usually, and will devote all your attentions to apprehending Natasha Lestrange and putting an end to her new Death Eaters."

"Yes, sir," Harry said, grinning.

"I apologize I can't stay," said the Minister, "I am required at a press release concerning the recent developments at the Ministry, as are Smith and Taylor required to return to investigation of the intrusion. I hope to see both of you again, Headmistress, Mr. Potter." And with that the Minister left, taking Smith and Taylor along with them. Neither of them looked pleased at being interrupted.

"Well, I suppose that's that," McGonagoll, sighed. "Good man, Kingsley. I expect there'll be hell to pay at the Ministry for this. Anyway, I doubt you want to stay here much longer. The Hogwarts express is leaving at four this afternoon, taking with it the students returning to London. You can be on it, if you wish."

"I think I will," sighed Harry. "But I'll rest here a little while longer."

"Alright," said McGonagoll, getting up to go. "Call for Madame Pomfrey if you need anything."

"I will," Harry lied, watching her leave. Within moments he was asleep.

Harry found himself once again in the warehouse portion of the Department of Mysteries. It was deserted, the stacks immaculate and ordered, as it had been before he had caused the domino effect.

Harry drifted down a series of rows, to find himself facing, in the middle of the aisle, the steel box. It slid open slowly, as he approached it. Inside was the inhuman body, as Harry had remembered it. His skin prickling, he reached out to touch its face.

At the brush of his fingers, the rubbery covering unraveled, falling away. Underneath was the face of Ginny Weasley. Her eyes closed, unbreathing. Dead, a serene expression on her face. Harry bent down over her, his lips brushing against hers. They were cold as metal.

Harry jerked away as the body before him changed again. He found himself inches away from Natasha Lestrange, a cruel smile on her face. Her long fingers curled around the back of his neck, and though she held him with only a single hand, he was unable to move, unable to cry out. Natasha laughed, a high cold laugh, not her own, but Voldemort's, as she slid her knife into his heart.

Harry woke up sweating, clutching at his chest. After a moment he realized he was still in the deserted hospitol wing. Judging by the sun through the window, it was nearly time to depart, if he wanted to catch the Hogwarts express. Despite the uneasy dream, which he found himself unable to quite remember, he felt well rested.

Harry washed his face, and dressed in the same clothes he had worn when he had appeared at Hogwarts, which had been laid out of him. He left the hospitol wing, bidding farewell to Madame Pomfrey, and her assistant, whom he had never seen before.

The castle was deserted, so Harry couldn't have asked for directions, even if he needed to, even so, he remembered the way out. Being at Hogwarts again brought back memories, good and bad. The castle had been his home for six years, some of the best years of his life. However, he had had anything but a normal youth. Even before Voldemort's return there had been the Chamber of Secrets, the Dementors, the Triwizard tournament.

As he walked through the grounds, toward the entrance to Hogsmeade, Harry realized why the castle was nearly empty. It was, coinciding with the beginning of the Easter holidays, a Hogsmeade outing.

As Harry walked briskly through the streets of the wizarding town, which was quite as he remembered it, Harry glimpsed students from all four houses. Shopping, eating, laughing, just as he had all those years ago.

Harry boarded the red steam engine just as it was blowing its final whistle. The Hogwarts express was plenty full, and he felt a bit awkward about being the only noticeable adult aboard. Harry leaned against the wall beside the window. He sighed; it would be good to be back home, back with family.

"Dad!" Harry straightened up. There were very few people in the world who called him that. However, they were all very important to him.

"Dad, Harry!" That sealed that it was him. Harry peered back through the window. As the train began to chug slowly out of the station, a boy rushed onto the platform. All of thirteen years old, he wore the long dark coat of a Hogwarts student, printed with the seal of Gryffindor house, over jeans and a plain black t-shirt. He was tall for his age, and slim. With brown eyes, and untidy black hair.

His name was James Potter.

James sprinted down the platform, alongside the retreating train, until he was jogging beside Harry's window.

"Dad!" he said again, panting.

"James, what?" Harry shouted over the increasing roar of the train.

"They got mom."

"Who does?"

"Them, the same ones who have professor Longbottom. They're gonna kill her."

"THEY"RE WHAT!" Harry shouted, and the train was gone, speeding away down the track.

As the smoke cleared, Harry Potter got to his feet, rubbing his elbow as James hurried to him. "We need to talk," said his father.