Chapter 15 : Aftermath
One advantage of talking to yourself is that you know at least somebody's listening. – Franklin P. Jones
Harry didn't really pay attention to the Portkey's sickening lurches, his feet slamming into the platform that they'd originally left from with a dull thud; he teetered briefly but remained on his feet; another time he might've been interested in how he managed that. "We left some behind!" He blurted, grabbing Snape's shoulder. "We left those-"
"I know." Snape said, looking away. His greasy hair blocked Harry from seeing the man's expression, but his voice sounded downright mournful. "It was – unavoidable."
"Damn it, Snape!" Harry snapped, suddenly furious "I put them under stasis! If that heat was what I believe, those two are buried in the rubble and they'll wake up to their death when the spell wears off! We can't just leave them there to suffocate!"
"What would you have me do, Black?" Snape snapped, shoving Harry away. "Dig them up with my bare hands? Risk capture by a foreign nation again?" Snape turned away, sneering. "Don't pretend to be so naive."
Harry shivered, looking over at the others, guilt practically choking him up as he was confronted with the evidence of how badly things had gone; someone had conjured a blanket and covered up the body, but the blood that was spattered on the ground under the stretcher made it all too clear what happened to Hestia Jones. Remus kneeled by her, anguished expression on his face. Fred and George were pale, their faces as serious as he'd ever seen them while Rafe was providing support for Dob and Charlie who looked on the verge of passing out.
"I'll take these people to St. Mungo's," Rafe said, catching Harry's eyes and nodding meaningfully, his expression betraying his own unease. "Black, I'd suggest you report to the Minister. I'll get Remus to do the same when we return." He gestured everyone along; Remus reluctantly picked one part of the stretcher, Rafe the other. "There's a floo through here, quickly now."
Harry didn't say any farewells; he didn't know if he could, as it seemed like his throat had closed up; his breathing became difficult and he supported himself against the wall, suddenly happy that the others had moved out of eyeshot. His trembling hands clamped around the decorative symbols of the Ministry of Magic's seal that stood out from the wall; he'd never noticed them before and for a moment he was transfixed. He shook his head, realizing that he was definitely not alright, his mind a chaotic mess.
The mission – it had been a trap, he realized now. The dragons were gone – if they'd been there at all. They'd been moved out of there through Portkeys or other means before the rescuers even made it close to the bunker. Charlie might have noticed more, but it didn't really matter; Voldemort had been aware that someone was going to attempt a rescue. He'd taken what he needed and left the rest to burn; it was through sheer luck that Harry'd even managed to get two people out of the bunker.
Harry found himself suddenly on his knees, tears forcing their way out as the situation caught up with him; his hands were blackened with soot and ashes, his robes singed by a stray spell or two, and he smelled like a forest fire. He's only barely made it out of that bunker – only returned two of the four missing people. 'Three people' Charlie's colleague had claimed – whatever he'd meant, at least one had burned to death in there, beyond saving.
Harry hadn't known Hestia more than vaguely; a member of the Order he's never really met or considered, and probably wouldn't have been able to point out on a photograph. Despite that, it felt like someone took an ice pick to his heart when he recalled that first moment he'd seen her laid out on the stretcher, dead. She'd died on a mission that he was supposed to be leading.
Perhaps more awful, Harry thought, was the fact that one of the first things he considered after that guilt over her death – was that he was thankful it wasn't any of the others. The feeling of disgust at himself was nearly palpable and he felt like he would retch; such an awful, self-centred thought to have at such a time.
He'd been inexperienced, taking things as they came at him; now he knew the price. He briefly considered stopping all of it; going back to Hogwarts, leaving the killing and dying to those fit to deal with it.
No. He shook his head in defiance, pushing himself up. He wasn't a Gryffindor for nothing. He'd have to face this – this thing that Remus had warned him about, but that he hadn't really tried to understand. He'd given lip service to the concept of people dying in war, but now that he stood before that spectre of death, he hesitated. Was he pathetic, for doing so? Should he speak to Remus about it? A shiver went through him, realizing that the man would instantly know what'd happened. He's see through him in an instant, realizing that Harry and the 'Regulus' he'd gone on a mission with were the same person. He couldn't let those lives intertwine.
Who, then?
Harry thought for a long time, hunched up against the wall; he didn't know anyone as Regulus; there was nobody he could just go to. He considered Snape but that image was too bizarre to even contemplate, and considering 'Regulus' was allegedly a former Death Eater, it'd tip that man off too. As himself Harry didn't have many people that would be helpful either, that wouldn't connect the dots; he could go to one of his Unspeakable colleagues that knew anyway, but he doubted many of those had any experience with Death Eaters at all. Rafe – perhaps, but he didn't know if that'd make things better or worse.
Finally he determined that he should go report; Scrimgeour was doubtlessly waiting and sooner or later someone would come looking if he kept away. He tiredly walked through the gloomy hallways of the Ministry building, putting up a disillusionment charm as he headed for the elevator. A quick Scourgify removed some of the soot on his clothes and hair, but it seemed like he was covered with so much there was dirt even on the dirt; he doubted the Minister would care much. He had a splitting headache, doubtless courtesy of his abuse of Occlumency – his limbs were protesting severely and it felt like he could collapse at any moment – Harry forcefully ignored it. Unspeakable Black had to be there now, not Harry Potter.
Arriving at the first floor, Harry found the door to the Minister's office was open, and neither Percy nor any other secretaries were present. He blinked and carefully walked forward towards the opened door, a flickering light visible from within.
"You can come in, Potter."
Harry hesitated. "Minister Scrimgeour?"
"I've been expecting you." Scrimgeour replied; Harry cautiously entered, noticing that Scrimgeour was all alone in his office, a single candle lit on his desk while the rest of the lights were dimmed. Harry raised an eyebrow at the strange atmosphere. Scrimgeour chuckled and gave a careless wave. "Necromancers came to visit – they do like their theatrics. Now, then - you have come to report."
"Right," Harry said, wincing as he lowered himself into a chair across from the Minister. He looked nervously at the older man, distractedly twisting his wand between his fingers. "I – I'm afraid that... it didn't go so well."
"I am aware." Scrimgeour answered disinterestedly. "My sympathies for the loss of Miss Jones, of course – a most tragic incident."
Harry wavered, taken aback by the Minister's casual mention of Hestia – then realized that he'd not even told him anything yet. A galling suspicion came to him and immediately he noticed what the man was covering with one hand - a very familiar dossier. The implications didn't take long to occur to him – emerald eyes focused harshly on the Minister who returned the look unflinchingly, even unemotionally. The minister tapped the report lightly, nodding.
Harry flew from his seat, grabbing the Minister by his robe in one movement, forcing him forward across his desk. "You KNEW this was going to happen, you inconsiderate bastard? You knew people would DIE and you let it happen? What kind of monster are you?"
"One with more information than you." Scrimgeour said simply, deceptively calm. He'd used that line before. "Time cannot be changed, Mr. Potter – that what has to happen, will – I can merely help things along, edging them in the right direction. This was such a case. The report I obtained reported than an Unspeakable Black was involved in this mission, and that his presence saved three lives, possibly more."
"Wha…?" Harry responded, blinking. "No – did it tell you about Hestia? About the others? You can't just throw people's lives away based on some future mumbo-jumbo!"
"Mr. Potter – calm down." Scrimgeour shrugged off Harry's hands, sitting down again. "Sit – I will explain. I couldn't prevent those deaths any more than I can prevent someone sending this report back in time – it's already happened, in a way. Where this report came from, Miss Jones died in an altercation with Fenrir Greyback, servant of Lord Voldemort." He grimaced. "The report said two people were rescued from a burning building – their identities weren't mentioned, I assume someone that went can fill me in. Other parts are vague – you saved the life of an 'associate' but we have no idea who that is. Though this is a script of the future, it is at times vague."
Harry snorted in derision, glaring furiously at the document. "I don't think I like having one's future written out like that. Burn it, destroy it. Come what may, we'll take it on."
"Very Gryffindor of you, but tactically suicidal," Scrimgeour observed. "Though many events in this dossier are unavoidable, the details are vague enough that we may well yet influence the near future. It will fit the descriptions herein – it has to – but we may make the future a more hopeful place than it may seem from reading only these words."
"You're playing games with your employees – with all the wizards and witches of this country." Harry narrowed his eyes at the older man. "Problem is – who are you playing against? Fate? Does she know your moves in advance?" He shook his head in exasperation. "You're in a very dangerous game, at least."
Scrimgeour nodded, piercing Harry with a sharp glare. "You had better get it through your thick skull that there are more people than you fighting for the good of the Wizarding world, Harry Potter. I have my reasons to keep you in the dark, and you will accept that – until such a time as this is all old news." He tapped the folder again. "There are things in here that would make you run home to Dumbledore's clutches in a heartbeat, and yet I need you here. You have too great a role."
Harry scoffed, raising a hand to his throbbing head. "Look – I didn't ask for this. You decided it was a good idea to send me off to that vampire nest over in the U.S. or this disaster – I'm not trained for this. You might have forgotten but I'm not Headmaster Dumbledore!"
Scrimgeour smirked, glancing at that awful report from the future, his eyes twinkling in a way reminiscent of the old Headmaster. "No, you're not – but I daresay… ah, let's not – spoil things. I understand your concerns, Potter- yet you have to trust me. I've asked you before, and I'll ask you again – trust me."
"I don't know if I can," Harry admitted. "You'll let people die, just so you can keep to your stupid script. I don't know what to say to that – I detest you for enslaving yourself to that… that thing." He snatched out, grabbing the report. "This shouldn't exist."
Scrimgeour shook his head tiredly, leaning on his desk. "I have made copies – I am not stupid. I promise you that I'm shaping a future that's the best possible as far as I can determine. The fewest deaths, the most victories. Trust me – I would give my very life to end this war."
Harry gazed at Scrimgeour, his mind filled with doubts; scenarios of Scrimgeour delivering the country in Voldemort's hands, of the Ministry falling before an onslaught of Death Eaters. Scenarios in which even the Department of Mysteries was ransacked, enemies of the new regime thrown through the veil. Scenarios of Hogwarts burning. Scenarios of himself, dead – unable to fulfil the prophecy and end the madness.
"Potter - - Harry, I must ask you to believe that I have the right intentions." Scrimgeour pleaded. "You may doubt my methods, and my choices – but never waver over whether or not we wish to accomplish the same thing. The end of this war." An unusually intense look made Harry pause; the Minister looked more regal than he ever had. "I will see to it that you have your chance to end it. I suggest training hard, honing your skills and making many allies – you will have to take that shot, and make it count."
Harry nodded, groaning as pain in his head and limbs became nearly unbearable to deal with. Ten minutes, maybe? Then he'd surely be unconscious. Scrimgeour gave him a worried look, taking the report with that Deathly Hallows symbol on the cover back from his suddenly powerless hands.
"I will debrief with Mr. Phelan and Mr. Snape – they'll inform me on all the details, I'm sure. You look exhausted – I'll arrange a few days off – perhaps take a trip home?"
"I don't have one," Harry answered, suddenly realizing how that sounded. He realized with a jolt that he owned Grimmauld Place now – he could crash there. He briefly worried about Order members being there – he knew Moody slept at the Ministry these days, but he had no clue about Remus – but pain distracted him. Right now it wasn't important. "Never mind, I'll do that. See you soon."
He didn't hear Scrimgeour answer as he stumbled off. He made it down the elevator and through most of the entrance hall – he kept his head covered, just in case – but he almost collapsed as he got to the area with the phone boxes, gasping and flopping down on one of the seats there with ragged breaths. This was getting ridiculous. He got back to his feet, putting up what feeble Occlumency he could manage to ward off pain and failing miserably. He realized that a trek through the entire city was out of the question. He briefly contemplated his broom, but that was probably an even worse idea. Then, an even crazier notion came to him.
Ultimately, Harry realized, he was probably too addled to really think things through – he found himself at the apparition departure point, forcing himself to walk straight as he quickly flashed his identification – Unspeakables thankfully got to skip ahead in line, as he'd probably pass out before long. He hadn't fully considered that this would be a first time for him – apparition was really discouraged for the drunk or wounded, too – but he did anyway; he had done shorter distances, after all. Concentrating on the room he'd slept in at Sirius' old house, he twisted and vanished with a crackling sound.
'Gotcha!' Harry thought dazedly as he was suddenly crashing into Sirius' bed after a few moments of dizzying horror, his body feeling stretched out and compressed at the same time. He'd landed haphazardly across the soft bed in a sprawl, his head comfortably on one of several pillows. It wasn't quite the room he had intended – and he wasn't sure all his hair had made the trip – but Harry was there. The dirt and the awful snake-themed ornamental decorations couldn't be from any other house, he figured. He smirked, mentally sticking his tongue out at Avicenna. Three months till blind apparition, surely you jest!
His snoring resounded loudly throughout the house – only one pair of pointed ears heard him.
The dishevelled bunch that sauntered into St. Mungo's raised a few eyebrows; Snape swallowed a bit of Polyjuice, his sharp eyes sweeping across the many patients and healers to find one that was free. He'd keep his fake identity until he got out of the company of the others, just in case there were any sympathizers of the Dark Lord among the Healers. Thankfully, several had already approached Rafe; Charlie and Dob were looking positively miserable, barely staying upright as it was and covered head to toe in a thick layer of soot and dirt, coughing loudly at the slightest provocation. Their breaths were visible, inhaled smoke and dust taking their toll.
"What on Earth?" A diminutive healer squeaked – he looked rather similar to Filius Flitwick, chipper attitude and all. Thankfully he didn't ask too many questions; charms were flying back and forth between the healers and their new patients, looks of concentration on a few faces. Rafe looked on worriedly as the stretcher with the remains of Hestia Jones was taken away, a distraught Remus looking after it.
Rafe sighed as the two he'd been dragging along were finally taken from him – he nursed his painful muscles and nodded at the healer who as usual merely responded with a compassionate, sad look – far too familiar. He'd gotten used to that with his Lycanthropy, let alone the rest of it…
"Black looked hysterical," Snape said neutrally, shocking Rafe out of his stupor. The greasy-haired man had a curious look in his eyes and the werewolf tensed. "He was disturbed that people had died – I'd never-"
"You haven't seen him for, what, fifteen years?" Rafe pointed out, worrying about the boy's well-being. Unlike himself, the boy didn't have ten years of experience. "He's been – safe, secure. He hasn't had to take a life in years… even indirectly. I've a suspicion he never thought he'd have to do so again."
Snape grimaced. "Black was never the most – malicious of Death Eaters, I admit. "He looked away. "Relations between him and myself have been strained – I'd assumed the matter laid to rest with his corpse. I'd – thought him loyal to the Dark Lord's cause. The revelation of that untruth…" He gazed at Rafe with intense eyes. "I wish to speak with him again, soon. Please arrange it."
"I'll do that," Rafe allowed, frowning. "Look – I can't tell you if he'll accept – I'm sure he's got other things to worry about. With those Death Eaters getting away, Voldemort –" Snape twitched, glaring. "He's going to know that Regulus is alive."
"He should've thought about that before running into battle with his own face," Snape muttered, stepping aside as a healer passed by him with a determined look and what looked like an eggbeater clasped in her hand.
Rafe shrugged, leaving the glowering man – rather less impressive right now without the sallow, hook-nosed face – and made his way to Remus, who had sunk into a chair flanking the edge of St. Mungo's emergency room. He stared blindly ahead, tapping his foot nervously.
"Rafe," Remus said dully. "How are the others?"
"They'll be alright," Rafe answered, putting a hand on the dishevelled man's shoulder, lowering himself in the next chair with an explosive sigh. "Healers are taking care of them – aside from the obvious, there's not a whole lot wrong with any of the others, I think."
Remus sighed, shaking his head tiredly. "I thought I'd gotten used to this last time around – this awful feeling. I can't believe we're back here again, back in another war. I'd hoped that death wouldn't come too close this time around." He sighed. "Hestia – I've known her for years…"
Rafe nodded in understanding, face downcast. "You said it yourself – it's happened before. Just – just keep on fighting for what you are fighting for, and it'll work out. You'll see. There are people that need you, I'm certain."
Remus nodded uncertainly, glancing up as he suddenly realized he was talking to an Unspeakable. "Rafe – how's Harry? He's safe, right? Safe in the Ministry?"
"Last I saw of him, he was unharmed," Rafe assured him uncomfortably. "I wouldn't worry about him, honestly. Look – that boy's no different than you and I now, you know. He might not be an adult in all respects, but he's been fighting this second war since its inception, before even Unspeakables got wind of it – have a little faith."
"Right." Remus shuddered. "It's just – I promised his godfather I'd take care of him – and now I feel like I've lost all track of him. At least in Hogwarts I had some idea of what was going on. Lately Harry's just … vanished. He's been so busy he's barely had time to write his friends."
"Doesn't sound like Hogwarts was the safest place either, if one can believe the kind of rumours I've been hearing." Rafe said, whistling. "I'd think he's safer here, considering the Minister seems rather fond of him."
"He does?"
Rafe grunted. "I've seen that kid head for the office after one summons or another a ton of times – and I've not seen him in some glossy advertisement for the Ministry yet – best guess, the old lion appreciates his input." He shrugged. "I only see the kid's face around dinner, probably not the best one to ask what he's up to."
"Alright." Remus sighed, glancing over the others of their little group, several of whom were getting treated; Fred and George unusually pensive as a Mediwitch dabbed some spell burns with a clear salve. "Why didn't Black come along?" Remus asked suddenly. "I could've sworn Severus said he was hit by the Cruciatus – did he just shrug that off?"
Rafe froze, thinking back to the strained movements that he'd seen Harry make; at the time he suspected he was just tired and sore from his mad dash through the burning bunker to save what he could. Did he do such directly after being tortured?
"He'll see someone on his own time, I'm sure," Rafe finally retorted with a shrug. He rubbed his wrist gingerly – it had been healed quite well on the field, but it'd be some days until the feeling that it was cut wide open would fade. His bracelet jingled slightly, looking decidedly unimpressive right now, despite its awesome power. He saw Remus look curiously at it and couldn't help sighing sombrely. "Ah. I figured you'd want to know about this. It's not a pretty story – probably best for another day."
"It's what allowed you to do those ridiculously powerful spells," Remus observed with trepidation. "I'd not expected the Ministry to have such – dangerous items. Imagine what Voldemort could do with one of those." He shivered.
"There's only the one," Rafe said with a shrug. "It's a couple hundred years old – has been in the Ministry's possession for the last eighty or so. You wouldn't want to use it, though." He grimaced, raising the innocuous-looking object. "It has rather – specific requirements, that aren't generally met. It's why Greyback was so soundly rejected."
Remus scowled. "Not enough – he got off one monstrously nasty spell, didn't he?"
"It costs him his hand, I doubt he thinks it was worth the price. I – I am using it to its full potential, and even I doubt it's worth what I pay for it – but I've no reason to hold back." He looked troubled, glancing at Remus uncertainly. "It's… difficult."
"What is this price?" Remus asked uncertainly. "I mean, it can't be that bad, can it?"
"The price is my life," Rafe said curtly, turning away from him; he stayed silent for a while, finally continuing with an exhausted expression. "Using it – the bracelet takes magic and expresses it far more powerfully that it normally would – it's one of the most powerful magical amplifiers anyone's ever seen. The problem is - what this thing takes, it never returns. With every use, one's magical capacity and lifespan decrease."
"It feeds on magical ability?" Remus asked, horrified. "That's dark magic – very dark magic. Permanent decrease of magical potential's supposed to be illegal under at least five different laws, not to mention common decency. What in Merlin's name are you doing wearing that thing? Using it?"
Rafe looked pained, glancing around himself before he nodded. "Alright… the reason is, it doesn't matter much, for me. The magic is classified as dark, sure – but only because of the fact that it shortens one's life. It takes intense use to get through one's magic, it's not instantaneous, and to even use this thing, you have to be pretty powerful already. I don't really have to fear shortening my life any more than other things already have."
"What are you saying?"
Rafe dithered nervously. "I'm dying." He wrung his hands, paling at Remus' horrified face. "Look – don't spread it around, alright? I've been to every healer that I could find, and it's - I've got a year, maybe less."
Remus didn't quite know what to say, slumping in his seat. Today was turning out to be a very bad day. Guilt at getting Rafe to confess such a thing to someone who was practically a stranger these days was instantaneous. "Oh, god… I'm so sorry that I got you to tell me –"
Rafe scoffed, snapping his fingers. "Hey, I've not croaked yet. Don't pity me now, man. It's not like you got it better. We're in a war, just like way back then; we could all die next week in a freak accident or an attack - I just have a more solid deadline." Suddenly he chuckled. "Hah, deadline!"
"You can't take anything seriously, can you?" Remus asked demurely as Rafe chortled over his own pun. "Sometimes you remind me of someone else I knew. He was also a foolhardy idiot."
Harry woke up with a start, groaning loudly as spasms ran through his arms and back, on top of an uncomfortable stiffness he immediately associated with the awful contorted shape he's slept in. He dragged himself upright, blinking blearily. This wasn't his room at the Ministry. Huh. Glancing around, he quickly identified his location as Grimmauld Place – Sirius' bedroom. He was, in fact, splayed out across his godfather's bed, covering it entirely in charcoal and soot. How the hell had he gotten here?
"Hello?" He called out weakly, but his voice refused service – he croaked like a strangled frog, parched throat screaming for relief. It took him a few minutes to find a bathroom, quickly cleaning himself up a little; after fishing his wand from the floor, he went about cleaning up himself and the bed, aware that it was taking quite a few more spells than usual – he was still exhausted, and it showed.
He remembered leaving Scrimgeour's office – he wasn't quite sure how he'd managed to keep up a façade of health as the aftereffects of his abuse of Occlumency against the pain finally started to make themselves known, but he'd stumbled down the elevator and ended up somewhere on one of the lower floors – everything after that was a blank.
Wandering down the stairs of the old Black residence, Harry wondered what he'd been thinking, coming here; pained memories flashed before him in every room, Sirius laughing, or playing as Padfoot, or tending to Buckbeak. The entire place was silent like the grave and smelled vaguely of decay – if anyone had been here in the last few weeks, he'd be surprised. Evidently the Order had abandoned it – or only used it sporadically at this time – since it'd switched ownership to someone who wasn't in the Order. Harry hadn't heard about it from Dumbledore, but supposed it wasn't really important, as this could hardly be the –only- home available.
When he arrived at the hall that led to the front door, it took him a moment to realize that something was off, besides the fact that someone had finally put aside that awful gaudy umbrella-stand. Sirius' mother, Mrs. Black, permanently irate loudmouth even in painting form, was gazing at him with wide eyes from her canvas, her mouth hanging open.
"R-Reggie?"
Ah. Harry realized that in his somewhat confused state, he's stumbled in here as Regulus – he hadn't cancelled the charms on himself. He still looked like Sirius' brother and this woman's – son. Tempted as he was to voice his disgust, he instead figured that getting on this witch's good side was probably a good idea; at least for his ears. "Mother."
"You – you live?" She asked loudly, raising a hand to her mouth in wonder; Harry hadn't ever seen her so animated – well, not in a positive way, anyway. "I thought…"
"You thought wrong." Harry retorted immediately. "It's been many years, Mother. How have you been?"
"How have I been – I'm dead, what do you think?" She grumbled noisily. "Traitors and Mudbloods took this house – your no-good brother came back and made use of the place, too. It's been a non-stop affront to any proper witch's sensibilities! Where were you?"
"I was working," Harry answered shortly, wondering what he should tell the painting. The fake history of saving himself by going to the Minister would probably make her mad – after all, being a Death Eater was doubtlessly what she'd expected him to be doing – but lying would probably lead to being found out pretty quickly, the first time Mrs. Black contacted any painting with even the slightest contact on Voldemort's side. He'd have to consider the truth. "I'd not given the house much thought over the years – I was in hiding."
"In hiding," the painting scoffed. "Such a plebeian thing to do, given that you are from the noble House of Black! Who could you possibly be hiding from?"
"The Dark Lord, of course." Harry shrugged. "I displeased him – he wished for my death. However much I treasure pure blood and superiority of magic, I could not stay with that hanging over my head, obviously. I found myself a way out and took it."
"You - you're a traitor?" Mrs. Black asked, gaping. After a few moments her expression changed to downright thoughtful, something Harry had definitely never seen on her face before. (Of course, the previous times she'd seen her had largely consisted of enraged ranting or cursing.) He suspected that between finding a child alive and him not being a Death Eater anymore, he'd probably broken the poor witch.
"If you wish to call me a traitor, feel free. I'm not the only one," Harry said finally, turning away. "The Dark Lord's – madness – is not a topic I wish to discuss. I didn't come here to speak to you at all – I required a place for the night. I'll leave - you won't see me again."
"No – no, stay." Mrs. Black asked sounding somewhat desperate. She dallied for a bit, before finally deciding on something, nodding forcefully. "Alright… you can stay, you can stay. Your room's how you left it, I'm sure…"
"My room?" Harry wondered, blinking. He didn't remember seeing any rooms besides the main bedroom and Sirius' – Regulus had been out of the house for a while, so he'd figured it had already been cleaned up and reused when the place was abandoned.
"Yes, yes, your room – it's on the second floor, third door on the right, where you left it. You're not that forgetful, are you?" The painting huffed, crossing her arms. Harry nodded uncertainly, edging away – it seemed that his alleged betrayal of Voldemort probably hadn't been the best of news for the old witch, but at least she'd not started screaming.
Harry quickly made it up to the second floor – he'd intended to leave, but the prospect of Regulus Black's own room was too tempting to deny, given the face he was currently using. Perhaps there he could find what had happened to the real one, discover what Dumbledore was on about when he asked for a meeting. He felt strangely giddy, the residual pain in his limbs nearly forgotten.
As he walked down the hall he met with a sight that caused him to stop, perplexed. There were only two doors in the hall. He could've sworn that the painting had said that Regulus' room was the third door…
He'd barely thought of it when quite suddenly the wall was squeezed apart, a door pressing itself into existence as a soft light shone from within. It took Harry a moment to understand what just happened and a chill ran down his back.
Fidelius.
He knew that Dumbledore had put a Fidelius charm on the entire house, but this he hadn't expected. Regulus' room, and only his room, was also hidden away. The Secret Keeper was equally obvious – Mrs. Black, who had casually blurted the location to him, thinking he was Regulus. Who would make a painting into a Secret Keeper? How was that even possible? Had Dumbledore done this, or perhaps Regulus himself?
"Is someone there?" A voice called from within the newly appeared room. "Is that you, me? My, that sounded strange…"
Harry blinked owlishly as he stood indecisively at the door for a few more moments before he walked in – the room was dusty and dilapidated, but had stood the test of time better than most of the rest of the house did, probably due to a lack of Kreacher's 'cleaning'. Harry quickly found the person who had spoken – or rather, the painting. Above a large bed hung a rather big and gaudy painting, its edged somewhat frayed and covered in dirty spots. It depicted an impatient and frowning young man; Regulus Black. Harry couldn't help a gasp.
"Well, that's one way to great yourself, I suppose," The painting supplied lightly. "Nice to meet you, me. It's been – well, a while. Didn't figure it would take quite this long to return home, I admit. How's life?"
"I – didn't know I had a painting," Harry stammered, uncertain on how to proceed – how did one talk to the portrait of a Death Eater? Not to mention one that also happened to be oneself?
"Ah, well, I suppose a decade has passed, and such a minor event as sitting still for a painting might not be the most likely to stick in one's mind," Regulus allowed. "So, what am I – you - doing back here, in this house? It's been abandoned for a long time, as far as I've been able to tell."
Harry frowned, frustrated. He knew quite a bit about Regulus- but not more than the guy himself. He'd mess up once, and the wizard would undoubtedly dismiss him as a fraud, and lock him out. Here was a great source of information – and he'd have to lie to get it.
"I've been away for a long time," Harry said. "I don't know how much you've followed what goes on outside this place, but it's been many years since the Dark Lord's first fall – he has only recently returned."
The painting-Regulus nodded, interested. "I have spoken to other paintings – there's a few that the bint downstairs told the secret of this room to, and they visit me occasionally. He shook his head in exasperation. "I never should've thought of using that portrait – she's only gotten crankier with age." He ran a hand over what was apparently permanent stubble and looked at Harry with a raised eyebrow. "Tell me, how much do you know about magical paintings like this one?"
Harry blinked. "Shouldn't you know what I know?"
"Though paintings can be made to resemble living people, more commonly they are imbued with whatever is available at the time of dying." He looked at Harry meaningfully and the hints suddenly fell into place. His shocked expression didn't elude Regulus. "I see that you understand - I quite distinctly remember the death of one Regulus Black. It's not a pleasant memory, but real; therefore, you cannot be him any more than I am my mother. To be fair, I had other advantages to figuring that out. You do a fair impression, though. My commendations."
Harry stammered for a moment, finally sighing. It seemed like the cat was out of the bag, and he was pretty sure memory charms didn't work on paintings. "Alright- I'm using your identity as a cover. You're dead – your human version, anyway - and nobody knows what's happened– they don't know that I'm not really you. It's been helpful, I hope you don't mind."
"Yes, very clever," Regulus agreed. "Masquerading as the reviled Regulus Black – I speak of the flesh-and-blood counterpart, of course - is a rather interesting choice, though. I'm afraid that, well, let's stick to 'he', for fear of confusing matters – was not the most loyal there, at the end of his life."
"Not at his most loyal?"
"He died betraying the Dark Lord," Regulus said, brow creased, gesturing vaguely in the air. "Expired trying to destroy an object that belonged to Him – a very important object. Though he didn't succeed, it was at least taken from the Dark Lord's clutches." He smirked. "As you can understand, that is not common knowledge."
"You betrayed Voldemort?" Harry blurted. He blinked. "Huh. I guess I have been following in your footsteps, then." Apparently his alleged ex-Death Eater version was a lot more accurate than he's anticipated, Harry realized.
"Well, If it counts for anything, I was as surprised as you," The painting said with a smile. Regulus squatted, gazing interestedly at his other self. "Feel free to drop your glamour spells, Mr. Potter – I already know your identity."
"H-how?" Harry asked, appalled. His mind raced as he tried to understand how a painting of all things knew about his alternate identity, given that it'd been locked in this house for who knows how many years.
"I know many things," Regulus answered mysteriously, still with that cheesy smile. Finally he relented under Harry's piercing stare. "This isn't really the first time we've met – oh, certainly not – so it's more of a reunion than a first meeting. Though I suppose from your perspective, this all hasn't happened yet."
"Oh, bloody hell." Harry exclaimed slowly. Rubbing a hand through his hair, he squatted down on his bed, stripping the glamour charm from his face; he left the rest, as he would still need to get out of here eventually. "I take it we're talking time travel again? I feel lately like everything important I'm to do in the future's already happened."
"Oh, not everything," Regulus chided. "The two of us – you could say we're kindred spirits, perhaps? You'll find out eventually, wouldn't want to make things even more confusing. You'll meet the actual living, breathing Regulus eventually, and if I remember correctly, you'll even be at the creation of this particular painting. Riveting stuff."
Harry sighed. "I'm beginning to think going along with the Minister was a bad idea – I already can't make heads or tails out of all of this. Time travel's just going to muck up everything even more. What a drag…"
"Hmmm." Regulus said, frowning. "Future-you expressed some similar sentiments – though he was rather more, eh, impressive than you are currently." He gazed into the distance briefly. "Ah well, you'll get there, eventually."
"Please stop talking about things that I don't have any knowledge of," Harry begged. "It's bound to make me go mad. More so than now, anyway."
Regulus snickered, muttering something under his breath. "Well, I'd better tell you what I'm supposed to – no more silly games. Might just cause a paradox and pop us both out of existence, eh?. I'm supposed to fill you in on what I set out to rid the world of. Listen – the object I set out to destroy –" He raised his hands dramatically into the sky. "– was a Horcrux."
A silence fell over the two people. Harry scratched his head, confused. "What's that?"
Regulus groaned, dropping his hands and scowling. "Take away all my fun, why don't you? Do you have any idea how boring it is to be a painting in a closed room for years? Not to mention only having boring old Black patriarchs and such to speak to? Shocking people's a pastime." He turned, grabbing a book from a bookcase that was painted on his own canvas. "These books – they're helpful enough if I speak them out loud," Regulus noted. He held it up – it said in spidery writing 'Secrets of the Darkest Art'. Regulus pointed at the book with a disgusted expression. "In short, a Horcrux is a wizard's version of a Phylactery."
Harry stared blankly.
"A Phylactery – you must've heard the tales of Liches, undead ghouls that continue shambling long after they're supposed to have died? No?" Regulus sighed. "I can't believe you're such an idiot at this point – anyway, a Phylactery is a place where some ancient sorcerers stored their soul, so that even if their physical body died, the soul remained and resurrection in a new body or in an Inferius was possible." He tapped the book he was holding with a nod. "Though whatever process Liches used has long been lost, wizards replicated it – some claim Herpo the Foul was the one who discovered how - in the form of the Horcrux."
"Storage of the – soul?" Harry asked. "You mean Voldemort's carrying around his –soul- in some object, instead of his body?" He had the disturbing image of Voldemort strutting along, a little box with a beating heart under his arm.
"Yes, well, here is where the Horcrux gets a little creepier than the phylactery." He frowned and opened the book to a seemingly random page. "A Horcrux isn't the entire wizard's soul – instead, a piece of the soul is torn off and stowed away. Since only a full soul can move on – even if it is in pieces – it keeps the wizard bound to this world, effectively immortal. Only if all the parts are torn from their earthly bindings will the whole continue forward – well, unless it's maimed too far, in which case I'm afraid nothing can help. Ripping the soul apart is not a very healthy activity, as you can imagine."
Harry ran a hand over his scar, eyes wide. "That's how he survived when he tried to kill me – that's how he was able to get back – his soul was stuck here? Some part of him was still around, so the way onward was barred?" He gulped. "Does that mean he's truly unbeatable?"
Regulus scoffed. "A Horcrux is merely an object holding the soul sliver – hit it with something powerful enough and it'll give up the ghost – quite literally – like anything else. The problem would be to find the things." Regulus was briefly silent, eyes looking at something distant. "Flesh-and-blood Regulus tracked down one of these objects and took it, but was unable to destroy it."
"One of them?" Harry asked, paling. That had sounded far too ominous. "Voldemort made multiple?"
"I'm afraid Lord Voldemort's rather insane," Regulus retorted dryly. "I'm certain there's more than just a single one. Other people certainly know more about that than I do. Regardless, one of the Horcruxes is in this very house. Kreacher has it."
"Kreacher?"
Regulus looked embarrassed. "You'll know what happened with that object eventually, why Kreacher has it with him – don't think too badly of me, will you? I merely let thing happen as they should…" He turned away, ashamed perhaps? "The locket – you'll have to take it. Don't put it on – it's quite malicious."
"What do I do with it?"
"Take it to Dumbledore," Regulus said confidently. "He'll know how to get rid of it. Indeed, it'll be a great tool for getting him on your side in this whole matter." He frowned, looking over the illusions that Harry was still using. "You'd better make sure to stock up on Polyjuice, those illusions aren't going to fool that man. Just call Kreacher when you're somewhere private, my face should convince him well enough. Take my wand too, I'm sure it'll serve you well."
"I'll take that into consideration. You really don't mind that I'm using this – form? I could ruin your reputation…"
"Oh, I don't care, and I'm sure fleshy Regulus would find it downright flattering for someone to pick his face to mimic. Who knows, perhaps restoring the Black name's reputation is in your future? That'd be a nice repayment." Regulus smirked. "Now – I had some words from your future self – he figured it couldn't hurt if they were delivered via an intermediary. Seeing as we're both still here after all of what we just said, I assume it's possible."
"From my… future self?" Harry asked, blinking. "What could I have to tell myself?"
"Well, it went like this:" Regulus harrumphed, then started: "Though they go mad they shall be sane, though they sink through the sea they shall rise again; Though lovers be lost love shall not; And death shall have no dominion."
"That-" Harry said, cutting himself off. Why would his older self recite that poem? It took him a moment to understand, and it felt like someone had poured ice down his back. He remembered clearly his talk with Remus; his old teacher had warned him that casualties were inevitable, and that he had to deal with that – he remembered swearing to himself that he'd do anything to end this war, come what may. His future self was actually giving him advice on how to deal with yesterday's events? Reminding him of the convictions he'd stated during summer through that poem. He'd barely thought about that, lately… "Messages from myself - this is really freaky. I suppose I'll have to remember to tell myself that in the past – or future."
"You don't know the half of it," Regulus muttered. "Well, at least you know it's good advice – I mean, who are you going to trust if not yourself?"
Harry nodded mutely, his expressing darkening. "My future self thinks I should man up, despite everything. That's a tough order. He's got it easy, he's not the one that has to do it." He sighed forlornly. "Great. In the future I'm an asshole."
Snape was less than enthused when he finally returned to his dungeons, clothed once more in his long black robes and his own face. Students scurried out of the way the moment they saw his scowling face. He was perhaps even more foul-tempered than usual.
His time at the Ministry had been nearly pointless – aside from adding some minor details, Scrimgeour had largely been filling in both parties on what happened, having already heard from the two Unspeakables about all the important things. The most grating was hearing that Regulus Black had not told anyone about saving him from two Death Eaters that would've surely killed him otherwise, whether or not they knew his identity.
Slamming his quarter's door loudly he found three of his potions beyond repair – being hours later than he anticipated, two were a pale green – where they should be emerald – and one was entirely gone, dissipated due to overheating. With a swish of his wand he vanished all three solutions, thankful that at least the Wolfsbane had survived the lack of attention.
Losing another member of the Order – he was used to it, by now. During the first war, it was practically a weekly occurrence, and in his time as a Death Eater he'd seen numerous things as well – he wasn't surprised in the least. Dumbledore would doubtless have a big ceremony, and he grimaced even thinking about attending. He detested the concept of public grieving, particularly when grief is barely present.
Far more occupied was he with the plans of the Dark Lord; he'd clearly had some intention with luring the Order to Romania, setting up a trap, if a rather lacklustre one considering how few casualties there were. The presence of two Unspeakables had likely been the factor that hadn't been taken into account - Snape had to begrudgingly admit that from what he heard, both had been a great help.
This left a disquieting notion – if the Dark Lord was attempting to take out the Order by trapping them, the drawn-out testing that had been going on most of the summer – small attacks to figure out what the Order would do – were likely at an end. Future attacks were bound to be far more serious. A shiver ran down his back as he dropped into his comfortable chair, gaze fixed on the ceiling. This could very well be the true opening shot of the Second War.
Someone knocked on his door – it was late, and Snape irritably looked over, shoving several big tomes on potions ingredients off his table by accident – he groaned as he noticed placeholders dropping out. "Go away." He barked.
Another knock came, more insistent – if it had been Dumbledore, Snap thought, he'd simply have opened the door. There was no reason anyone had to bloody knock on his door in the middle of the night while his head was pounding like a drum.
"If it's not a matter of life and death right this mute, go away." Snape snapped. He heard a shuffle on the other side of the door, before silence returned. Snape sighed, muttering under his breath. "Good."
Another knock. Snape groaned in irritation, stomping over, wand in hand. "Remove yourself. Right. Now."
"Severus?" came Dumbledore's concerned voice. "Is everything alright?"
"Albus," Snape said, blanching, lowing his wand instantly. He had to be pretty tired to snap out like that. "I – I apologize, my day has not been the most pleasant…" He quickly opened the door to find the old man clothed in an awful mismatched purple-and-green robe, glancing behind himself with a puzzled expression. "What can I do for you, Headmaster?"
Dumbledore didn't answer immediately, quickly entering Snape's quarters and shutting the door. "I noticed your return; I've just returned from meeting with the Weasley family – I considered it prudent that I retrieve your recounting of events now that recollections are still fresh."
"Of course," Snape murmured, walking back to his chair. "You've doubtlessly already been informed on the generalities…"
"Mr. Fred and George Weasley did indeed elucidate what transpired, yes; I'm afraid Mrs. Weasley was quite distraught and expressed strong opinions regarding their inclusion in the Order." Dumbledore agreed, sinking into his own seat which he's just conjured. "Of course, the two of them had other ideas."
Snape grunted. "I'm not the one to ask, I barely saw what they did."
Dumbledore nodded. "I would like to hear what occurred from you, though – a far more disciplined and observant mind than theirs. You were with Mr. Black throughout, and he is of great interest, as you can imagine."
Snape muttered something unflattering under his breath. "I can do better than telling you – I have this here." He tapped his desk and with a shimmer Snape's pensieve appeared. Raising his wand to his temple, a long and thick silverfish strand dropped into the bowl with a plop. "All the relevant details are there – I was not present for the remainder. Take them and leave."
Dumbledore nodded. "Severus – before I go - I know what you think of funerals-"
Snape turned away, ignoring him. This wasn't something he was going to discuss now, he decided; not when his eyelids were drooping and his mind fuzzy. "Take the memories and go."
Dumbledore didn't answer for a time, his expression pained as he looked again at Severus, his lanky frame silhouetted against the flames below softly bubbling cauldrons. "Don't… shut everyone out, Severus."
"That is hardly why I refuse," Snape answered. "Good night."
The door closed with finality.
Harry had cleaned up Regulus' room a little and spent most of the rest of the day speaking to him; a wide variety of topics passed by, interspersed with all sort of personal details. Harry figured that after this, he should be able to fool anyone; half the stuff was barely known by anyone living; details of a lost life.
Regulus was incredibly willing to help – Harry had asked him suspiciously what he got out of the deal, but the painting had simply shrugged, pointing out that he'd known that Harry would come looking for it eventually; he knew he'd already told all this stuff to future Harry, so had no reason to hold back. It was, Harry thought, one of the most mental justifications he'd ever heard.
The Horcruxes were the topic he most returned to; Regulus had few insights on where to find any of them, save for what was apparently a relic of Slytherin's: a locket. He didn't even know how many Voldemort might still have – two, three? He briefly considered how lucky it was that he'd already destroyed one, unwittingly.
The topic of Tom Riddle's diary had popped up eventually; a part of Voldemort, independent of him, locked in an inanimate object. The diary had been a Horcrux, perhaps the oldest - it had been confirmation of the concept that Voldemort had made more than one of them, a truly disquieting observation.
"It's time I leave," Harry said, glancing outside. "I can't just stick around here forever, even if you're great to talk to." He smiled at Regulus. "You should consider becoming a teacher or something."
"History, perhaps?" Regulus wondered wistfully. "Between being an unchanging portrait and my contact with time-travellers, I probably have the qualifications for something like that – and I can't be much worse than Binns, can I?" He snickered. "I'm fine, here – just come visit sometime."
"I will." Harry promised. "If you weren't attached with a permanent sticking charm, I'd give you a nice place at the Ministry…"
"I doubt they'd enjoy you owning a painting of a Death Eater," Regulus pointed out.
"Yes, yes…" Harry sighed, putting up his concealment charms again, two identical faces staring at each other briefly. "See you later, then."
"Sure. I'll stick around." Regulus answered, smirking. He ignored Harry's groan as the latter moved away, shaking his head. "Good luck – you'll need it."
Harry's walk back to the Ministry – no way was he going to try apparating blind again, not until he had his license – was quiet and uninteresting; he counted the cracks in the sidewalk idly as he passed from street to street, trying to recall where he'd entered the Ministry before; there were a few entrances, but he'd only ever used the same one. He'd made sure that his clothes looked sufficiently Muggle, though he kept his wand close at hand, just in case.
It was strange, really – his impromptu unconsciousness had robbed him of most of a day, and he had no clue exactly what time it was; he just figured it was somewhere in the afternoon by the sun's place in the sky. It was sometime yesterday then when he returned – he'd skipped out on Rafe and the others as soon as he could, and he had no idea where any of them were or their health – he felt completely out of the loop.
Finally, after two unsuccessful attempts to dial the Ministry in public payphones – there were rather few of them left, it seemed – he was pleased to hear one announce his arrival at the Ministry – this one went slightly westward as it descended; a different one from before, then.
"Unspeakable Black?"
Harry blinked as he left the elevator; a young woman, apparently an Auror, was waiting for him. She was evidently stationed at the entrance on the off chance he should come in today. "Yes?"
"I was told to deliver this to you," the Auror answered, handing him a neatly sealed letter. Suddenly, Harry recognized her - she didn't have multi-coloured hair or was pulling strange faces, so he almost missed it. He'd seen her before, joked with her before. "Nymphadora Tonks?"
Tonks did a double-take. "How do you know my name?"
"Well, I'm not sure if you'd know me," Harry answered with a friendly smile. "I suppose with the worst people knowing already, you can't hurt." He stuck out his hand. "Regulus Black, nice to meet you."
Tonks grabbed his hand, blinking confusedly. "I suppose that it wasn't a codename then – you're an actual Black. Though…" She paused, raising an eyebrow. "Regulus? Aren't you a Death Eater? A dead one?"
"Evidently neither," Harry answered smugly; he felt quite a bit surer in his borrowed skin now that he actually had permission! "I work down on Level Nine – it's been ages since I even saw daylight, it seems. It's nice to meet another member of the family."
Tonks didn't seem to have parsed the situation yet, as he was still gaping; Harry checked the letter she'd handed him, and immediately realized what it was about. Doubtlessly owls couldn't find his new name – the real Regulus was dead, after all. Dumbledore would assume it the Ministry's doing – much like the post to Harry Potter was rerouted – and had decided to deliver a message in person – or as close as he could.
"Wait, you're mum's cousin?"
"Yes –" Harry answered, "In fact, I had intended to send your mother a letter one of these days. Since my brother's untimely demise, responsibilities as the head of the House of Black fall to me. I'd wondered if she would reclaim her birth right."
Tonks practically squealed, almost bowling herself over as she tried to hug him. "You'd bring her back into the family? She always did hate that the only decent Black was kicked out – no offense, of course."
"None taken." Harry smirked, gingerly removing her arms – it was somewhat uncomfortable to realize that nobody else knew that he was nowhere near the thirtyish that Regulus looked. "Keep in touch, will you? I have to get going."
"Of course, I'll tell mum about you – I didn't even know I had any decent cousins – do you count as my cousin, by the way? She'll be really excited, I'm sure…"
Harry snickered; Tonks very much seemed a bubbly teen rather than a proper Auror, but he rather liked the light-hearted side of her. Perhaps he should consider visiting her on the second floor sometime? Despite his discomfort, he couldn't help but part with one of Regulus' common phrases, if the painting's stories were anything to go by. "Well – see you later, beautiful."
He smiled widely all the way to his room as he stored in his memory the moment she blushed so hard even her hair turned red.
Harry slumped down on his bed, exhausted; though he knew he really should visit a Mediwizard about the Cruciatus he'd been under and his impromptu defence, he couldn't be bothered right now; his mind was way too focused on other things. Between the immediate aftermath of the mission and his time with Regulus' painting, he felt like he had way too much in his head to actually focus on.
Mostly, his mind kept returning to what were evidently sentiments from himself; he himself apparently thought that he should shrug off what happened, or at least get on with it. He knew Remus would say much the same thing. He considered going to Rafe, but realized that he was really just putting off accepting that they were right, and he was being stubborn.
His future self could be a real smartass.
If he was going to continue this, things had to change. Harry grimaced, thinking back to his battle with the Lestrange brothers; his desperate gambit with the Deprimo spell and his feeble and untrained wandless abilities had saved him, but they'd hardly been skill; the fact that both Lestranges underestimated him was likely the reason he survived. He'd need to buckle down and get some serious spells in his repertoire – nasty ones, if need be. Perhaps he should suffer the humiliation of asking Snape for that slashing spell?
Whenever he thought back on his fight with Rodolphus, he recalled the brief conversation he had with the man – he wondered if anything would come from it. He'd put out an olive branch, a would-be connection with someone that the actual Regulus had known quite well. Perhaps, in time…?
Potential connection with one of the Lestranges aside, he knew full well that his current combat spells were insufficient. If he'd ever come to face Voldemort again – well, he only got away with luck last time, and he'd probably not get that chance again. Tomorrow he'd go to Burbidge, and plead a temporary assignment with the Aurors, to get his combat up to speed. He was well aware that the timeframe for a Death Eater attack was growing short, and he suddenly felt quite vulnerable should that happen.
None of that anymore, he decided. He'd get himself some proper preparation with the best he could find – go to Scrimgeour himself if need be – and next time, there would be deaths on his account. It wouldn't be due to his inaction.
"Potter?"
Harry blinked, glancing around.
"Potter, are you there?"
He realized he recognized that voice – it was coming from the bookcase, where he'd put his manual – and a certain mirror.
"Malfoy?"
Author's Note : Quite a big chapter there - this marks the end of this little arc; We'll get to Malfoy next time, as well as Harry's meeting with Dumbledore; Harry also returns to the Department, only a short time left before Voldemort's inevitable attack happens - and now the Dark Lord has two targets down there.
Hope you put up with the brief spikes of Emo Harry - he's not quite grown out of his OotP-ness quite yet. ^^
Some of the events alluded to in the author's note of last chapter will still happen, but they're put off a little due to the fact that this chapter's events took up quite a bit of space. Harry's dinner with the Weasleys will come soon enough, in all its uncomfortableness. (Though writing the whole redhead clan, or at least the non-Hogwarts part of it, should be fun; last time any of them were prominently in the fic was back at the train station. :P
Cheers.