"There's no way that's right," Harry said again with a frown, and he slid the parchment over to Ron.
"Nah, that's mental." Ron shook his head firmly. "Dumbledore? The Dark Lord? Why not Harry, then?"
"We may have forgotten something, or missed another name…" Hermione was frowning as well, tapping her quill against her chin thoughtfully. "And...well, prophecies are mysterious. They don't always come true, or some say that they come true in a ways that we don't always understand."
"Well," Ron's voice was firm as he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "Whatever it is - Dumbledore can't be the bleeding Dark Lord. It doesn't make any sense."
Harry was inclined to agree. He'd known Dumbledore since his first year at Hogwarts, and he probably knew him better than any other student. He'd only ever seen the headmaster as a kind, fair, and just leader - powerful, of course, but simply being powerful didn't make one evil. Dumbledore had shown him more warmth than his real family ever had, and that counted for a lot with Harry. It should count for a lot with anybody.
And yet, a voice nagged at the back of Harry's mind. A quote he remembered hearing as a child growing up with the Dursleys. 'Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.' He knew Dumbledore better than most, it's true - but what did he really know about him? Harry didn't know where he was born, what his family was like - if he even had any family - what he did in his spare time, or any number of things that Harry knew about people he considered his friend. He was hardly privy to the headmaster's innermost thoughts and feelings.
Harry shook his head, as if he could physically eject such thoughts from his mind. He felt like a traitor even thinking like that, and that made him feel resentful. Harry snatched the paper from Ron's hands and crumpled it into a compact ball with as much ferocity as he could muster, then hurled it into the darkest recesses of the Forbidden Section.
"This is absurd. We shouldn't even be considering it. I'll ask Sarchanie, see if she has any more ideas. And maybe…" Harry paused, the words dying in his mouth as he spoke them.
"What?" Hermione peered up at him curiously.
"Well...I was about to say that I'd ask Professor Moody, but...maybe I'd better not." Harry wasn't quite sure why, but the thought of bringing the old auror in on their search filled him with unease.
"Up to you, mate." Ron shrugged as he stood, gathering his things. "But later. C'mon, let's get some food. I'm bloody starving."
It was a relief to get out of the library. After an entire day spent sitting in the uncomfortable chairs and peering into dimly lit tomes, Harry's back and neck had developed cricks so severe that he was beginning to wonder if he'd ever be able to look to his left again. Regardless of the reason, it felt good to be spending time with Ron and Hermione. Ron's jealousy over Harry's inclusion in the triwizard tournament had only grown, and although he was once again speaking to Harry he could tell that he still bore a grudge. Since the Yule Ball it had only gotten worse.
Harry finally found out why as they made their way towards the dining hall. Ron stopped just outside the great wooden double doors, forcing Harry and Hermione to stop with him.
"So, are you two snogging on the regular now, or what?" Ron's voice was conversational, but Harry could tell that something was bothering him. Hermione spoke before he had a chance.
"I don't see how that's any business of yours, Ronald." Hermione lifted her chin, but the faintest hint of a smirk played at the corners of her lips. Her first encounter with Harry after the Yule Ball certainly had not been her last.
"You are, then." Ron's lips pressed into a thin line, and he nodded vigorously as if agreeing with something. "Brilliant. That's brilliant. I'm happy for you two, it's brilliant, really."
"Stop saying brilliant," Harry protested with a frown. Ron wasn't making any sense to him.
"What should I say, Harry?" Ron held his arms out wide, inviting ideas. "You tell me."
"I don't know what you should say, Ron. Why are you freaking out?"
"I'm not." Ron shouldered his bag and shook his head firmly. "I'm fine. But I'm not hungry, so I'll just catch you later, yeah?"
Harry and Hermione were left standing there, watching Ron's back as he stalked away. Harry was fairly certain that he could hear him muttering 'Brilliant, brilliant' to himself.
"What was that all about?" Harry scowled; as if he needed one more problem to deal with.
"I have no idea." Hermione shrugged, but the way that smirk lingered on her lips left Harry with the impression that she might know more than she was telling him.
Whatever his thoughts were on the matter, they were washed away when Hermione tipped her head up and laid a gentle kiss on Harry's lips. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and Harry placed his hands on her waist - it all felt so natural, so easy that it was hard to believe that just a week ago he'd only seen Hermione as a friend.
"Don't worry about it," She said, her lips nearly brushing Harry's again.
"I've got enough on my mind," Harry agreed.
"I've been thinking," Hermione said. There was no reason for them to remain like that, but Hermione didn't seem eager to leave Harry's embrace. "Maybe you should ask Sarchanie about the Hallows. What did she say? Dragons trade in secrets, after all."
Harry nodded once. It was a good idea; why hadn't he thought of it before?
"Sarchanie, do you know anything about the 'Hallows' that the prophecy mentioned?"
The dragon looked up from her rest and blinked lazily. She liked sitting by the fire in the common room, especially late at night when the others had long since gone to sleep. Harry had taken to doing his homework well into the small hours of the morning to indulge her. He was sitting on one of the overstuffed chairs, tapping his quill against a piece of parchment that had been blank for over an hour.
"The Deathly Hallows? Not much more than you, I imagine." The little dragon tilted her head in a gesture that Harry knew approximated a shrug.
"I thought that was just a children's story," Harry felt his brow knit into a frown.
"And? Does that mean it's not true? You of all people should know that." Sarchanie yawned, her forked tongue rolling out of her fanged mouth.
"So…there are three, then, right?" Harry set his unfinished essay aside, forgotten. "The Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone, and the Shroud of Invisibility. And if I want to stop the true dark lord - whoever it is - I need to find them all. I don't even know where to start…"
"I'm not good at 'humor'. This is a joke, right?" Sarchanie fixed him with a look that he could only describe as incredulous.
"What? No, how would I have a clue?"
"You already have one. That seems like a good start to me."
Harry opened his mouth to speak, shut again, and thought. How had he managed to slip past the spells that guarded the Ministry and the Department of Mysteries without so much as an alarm being raised? Invisibility cloaks didn't shield one from spells. Invisibility cloaks didn't last forever, and invisibility cloaks could be defeated by simple spells. But Death's Shroud was another matter entirely. Suddenly it clicked into place, and he silently berated himself for not seeing it sooner.
"My cloak…" he said aloud, so shocked that he slipped back into English without thought.
"I thought you knew," Sarchanie said with another shrug that wasn't quite an apology. "As for the others...well, time dilutes history into legend. The only way to really know the truth is to talk to someone who was there."
Dear Mr. Potter,
I don't often take the time to answer personal letters these days, my health being what it is, but when Perenelle showed me one with your name on it I couldn't help but read it. And I must say, you've piqued my interest.
The Resurrection Stone, if the legends are to be believed, was created even before my time. The Hallows are real, of course, but even during my childhood we heard the tales of the three brothers who defied Death and won her 'favor'. When I began my studies as a young man, I took a particular interest in the resurrection stone for personal reasons that I do not feel inclined to discuss in this letter. My search, thankfully, reached a dead end and I never found it. I discovered, by tracing the lineage of Cadmus, that the stone was most likely in the possession of the Gaunt family. In my day the family was quite powerful and obtaining any of their heirlooms would have been impossible for a man of my means, and these days the house of Gaunt is nothing but a memory. Their treasures have been sold or stolen, and I daresay that the Stone - if they ever even had it - would have been among those lost to the ages.
I will offer one final piece of advice, Mr. Potter. Do not seek the Stone. It promises to return the dead to life, but remember that it is an instrument of Death itself - and it exists only to serve its master.
Yours,
Nicolas Flamel
Harry set the letter down slowly, digesting the content of the letter as his mind churned with the possibilities. Nicolas Flamel's answer gave him a place to start, at least, but it was little better than a dead end. And then there was his warning - the stone exists only to serve its master. He wasn't sure how a stone that could return a soul from death's grasp could serve Death in any capacity, but for some reason the words sent a chill down Harry's spine.
"What's that, Harry?"
Harry almost instinctively moved to hide the parchment, but when he realized that it was Hermione he held it out to her after only a moment's hesitation. She collapsed onto the sofa beside him, lowering her heavy book bag to the floor with a grateful sigh. When she took the letter from Harry and read it, her face arranged itself into a familiar mask of concern.
"I didn't know you'd contacted Nicolas Flamel," Hermione said, her tone slightly hurt.
"I didn't think he'd write back," Harry said with a shrug. "Since he destroyed the Philosopher's Stone, I didn't even know if he was still - well, you know."
"The Gaunts…" Hermione frowned once more, tapping the parchment thoughtfully. "I wonder."
"What is it?"
"Well," Hermione bent double and reached inside her bookbag, at last withdrawing a heavy tome bearing the title 'A Comprehensive History of the Great Magical Houses of Britain'. "This book is a bit outdated…"
"Hermione, why do you even have that book?"
"Research," Hermione said. She glanced up at Harry with a sheepish smile as she cracked open the dusty volume. "It's for my History of Magic class."
"Blimey, Hermione, could you have picked a more boring subject?"
"Ah-ha." Hermione had ignored Harry's comment entirely, and she stabbed a finger at the page triumphantly. "It says here that the Gaunts owned property outside of Little Hangleton."
"I'm not sure that helps us." Harry looked down at the entry on the Gaunts, feeling a certain weariness at yet another mystery. "Like Nicolas Flamel's letter said, there's no guarantee that the Gaunts ever even had it, and if they did it's long gone."
"It couldn't hurt to go there. See if there's any clues, or - "
"I don't know, Hermione. I mean, don't you think that this is a little bit...bigger than us?"
Hermione looked at him for a long moment, before she very carefully closed her book and set it aside. When she turned back to him, her jaw was set.
"That is the most un-Harry like thing I've ever heard you say."
"Hermione, I just mean - well, chasing legends and prophecies - don't you think it'd be nice to just have a normal school year for once? I'm just…" Harry struggled for words for a moment, unable to meet Hermione's eyes. "Tired."
Hermione's expression softened, and she slid down the length of the couch until their thighs were brushing. She reached for his hand, intertwined her fingers with his, and laid her head gently on his shoulder. She smelled like honey and old books.
"Remember what you said to me? There's no one else to do these things, Harry. You're just...you. Things happen around you. Someone has to be the hero."
"I'm not a hero," Harry protested, but his voice had gone soft. He ran his thumb over Hermione's hand, a small smile spreading on his face.
"You are to me," she said quietly. "You are to most of us."
They were quiet for a long time. The only sounds in the cozy Gryffindor common room were their gentle breathing and the crackle of the perpetually-lit fire. She was right, of course. Harry couldn't simply ignore the clues that had been spread out before him, he couldn't ignore the danger that lurked in the shadows no matter how tired he was. He was simply Harry, and no amount of wishing for a 'normal' life would change that.
"You're not coming with me," he said at last. "There's no telling what we'll find there, and I don't want to drag you into this mess."
Hermione lifted her head from Harry's shoulder and met his gaze with a look that told him he'd already lost that particular battle.
The Gaunt shack was the very picture of dilapidated. Squat and squalid, the filthy little thing huddled amidst weeds and overgrown grass. There wasn't a plum line to be found; shutters hung crooked, the roof was peeling up, even the very walls fell against each other in diagonals as if they needed their mutual support to stay erect. The tiny hovel was well on its way to surrendering to the elements, and as Harry looked at it he marveled that it still even stood.
"Well, here we are." Hermione drew her cardigan tighter around herself to ward off the chill of the night. "I'm sure it's not nearly as spooky in the daylight."
Harry wasn't sure about that. The Gaunt's last home had the look of a place that spawned stories, the sort of residence that the locals gave a wide berth even during the day. Harry knew next to nothing about the people who had lived there, but just looking at the squalid little hut sent shivers down his spine and he could almost hear strange noises coming from within.
"The last Gaunts to live here were Marvolo, and his children Morfin and Merope." Hermione's voice came out in a whisper, even though they were the only ones around for miles. "I did some research...Marvolo and Morfin both spent time in Azkaban, but Merope lived out her days here. They were all gone by 1943."
Harry nodded, barely listening to the facts that Hermione was reciting. They washed over him like a stream burbling over a rock. Something about this place had him on edge, made him feel like he was in danger just being there. With trembling fingers he reached into his robes and produced his wand; just holding it made him feel a bit better. With his jaw set, he slowly walked to the crooked door.
The battered wooden portal opened with the squeal of iron hinges that had been neglected for longer than Harry had been alive. It was pitch black inside the hut; but with an uttered spell Harry pierced the darkness with a shaft of light from his wand. Just behind him, Hermione did the same. Their twin beams of light illuminated the scene within.
It was difficult to tell how much of the filth inside was from the years of neglect, and how much was from the last occupant. Certainly, the dirty dishes piled here and there suggested a certain level of disregard for housework; bits of bone littered the floor. Harry could only imagine how it must have smelled forty years ago, but thankfully the years had stolen the stench from the place; now all he smelled was dirt and rust.
"I don't see anything," Harry said after a moment. It didn't take long to inspect the entirety of the one-room shack.
"Would you hide such a thing in plain sight?" Sarchanie hissed in his ear, her keen amber eyes peering curiously into the gloom. "There's...something here. Magic. I can feel it."
"What did she say?" Hermione peered at the miniature dragon curiously.
"She says she feels magic here," Harry said.
It took them hours. They opened every crooked cupboard, lifted every disgusting plate and bowl and overturned the poorly-crafted furniture. They climbed up on the counters to inspect the rafters, even went outside and examined the exterior of the horrid little home, and they had all but given up hope when Harry noticed something inside beneath his feet. When he put his weight on a particular spot on the floor, the creak of the floorboards sounded hollow, nothing like the dull 'thunk' of the boards that had been laid down on the bare earth. He tried it a few times, tapping his toe against the suspect board and listening to the hollow knock that it made.
"I think there's something here, Hermione."
Without waiting for an answer, he dropped to his knees and began looking for a way to prise the board up. He spent a moment feeling around the edges of the floorboard with his fingers, but he quickly realized that he'd need more leverage to lift it. Casting his wand-light around in haste, his gaze fell on a rusty iron fire poker. Armed with this tool, he wrenched the board free and cast it aside, shining his light down to see what it had hidden.
At first Harry saw nothing but a little hole in the ground, a bit of scooped-out earth that looked as if it had been dug by hand. But when he took a closer look, he spied a grubby little box. Caked with filth, it lay on its side as though it had been tossed carelessly into the hole and covered up with the floorboard with the express purpose of being forgotten. Harry bent to pick it up. It felt cool and metallic beneath the grime, and when he wiped a spot clean he saw the rich yellow gleam of gold.
"I think this is...something. I think this is something, Hermione." He fumbled with the latch and opened the lid while Hermione watched.
Inside there was a ring, lying in a bed of crushed purple velvet. Like the box it gleamed of gold, and though Harry knew little of jewelry he could tell that it was a fine piece. Delicate ropes of golden filigree looped around the band like a snake coiling around its prey. The stone was the deepest black, and engraved with a curious symbol - a circle, circumscribed inside a triangle and bisected by a line.
"This is...huh." Harry reached into the box for the ring, but drew his hand back with a yelp when Hermione slapped him.
"Harry! Don't touch it, it might be cursed." Hermione's voice was an urgent hiss, and she pointed her wand at the ring. "Incantatem Revelio!"
At first nothing seemed to happen, and Harry thought that - for the first time in his memory - Hermione had performed a spell incorrectly. But then, as they pair of them looked on in shock, the ring began to glow an angry red. Like a band of molten metal it gleamed brighter, until its core was burning white, and then slowly it faded. When the light was gone, the ring sat in its box as if nothing had happened at all.
"I don't even know what that means," Hermione admitted with a frown. "But it can't be good. Harry, don't touch that ring."
Even if Harry had wanted to, the display that he had just witnessed had abolished that desire.
"We'll have to find someone who can undo the curse," Harry said with a frown. There was only one person at Hogwarts he trusted enough with that task.
Alastor Moody's office was, to Harry's eye, a mess. Devices for detecting dark magic were strewn here and there, piled on his desk and lining the walls. Sheafs of parchment, everything from descriptions of possible Dark Wizards to ungraded assignments were arranged in haphazard piles, and Harry couldn't help but wonder how the old auror managed to get anything done in such a chaotic jumble.
The man himself was seated at his desk, rubbing at the knee above his false leg with a grimace. His real eye was looking down at the carved wooden appendage, but his magical one - that unsettling, all-seeing blue orb - was fixed unerringly on Harry's face. Harry shut the door behind him.
"So, Potter, what brings you here today?" Mad-Eye Moody took a sip of his ever-present flask, smacking his lips with relish as he replaced the stopper.
"Well, sir…" Harry hesitated. Moody wasn't like the other professors, but Harry did wonder if he would go straight to Dumbledore with what Harry had found. "I found a ring, and I believe it's cursed. I was hoping you'd look at it for me."
"A ring?" Moody's eyebrows shot up, and he leaned over his desk to whisper conspiratorially with Harry. "Owning an unlicensed magical artifact can earn you a hefty fine, but maybe this will be our little secret. Let's see it, then."
Harry hesitated only a moment more before he placed the grubby golden box on Moody's desk. He'd wiped the majority of the grime off, but filth still crusted the creases and lines of the filigree. Very deliberately, Harry opened the lid and revealed the contents to Moody. The old auror licked his lips once in a nervous gesture that Harry had never seen him make. His magical eye darted between the ring and Harry, almost faster than Harry could follow.
"Where did you get this, Potter?" Moody's voice had an edge that set off warning bells in Harry's head.
"I'd prefer not to say, sir." Harry's hand inched closer to the box. He was beginning to think that coming to Moody had been a mistake.
"Do you know…" Moody laughed, almost cackled, as he tried to get his words out. "Do you know how close you came to ruining everything?"
Quicker than Harry could react, Moody snapped the box shut and pulled it towards him. The old auror heaved himself to his feet and, to Harry's shock, his wand had appeared in his hand. Harry backed away slowly, but before he had taken five paces he found his back up against the far wall of Moody's office. The shapes in Moody's foe-glass writhed and swirled, menacing without form.
"I came here for a purpose, Potter, but this...this is more important. He'll reward me beyond my wildest dreams for this." Moody was raving, now, stumbling over his words as he advanced on Harry. His wand hand was trembling. "You always manage to be in the wrong place at the wrong time...but no, not this time, boy. You're coming with me, we're ending this right now."
"Professor - what - " Harry's mind whirled, trying to make sense of Moody's babbling.
Harry didn't have time to react. Moody had grabbed him roughly by the arm and was yanking the door of his office open. He stuffed the golden box into the pocket of his overcoat and pressed his wand into Harry's ribs so hard that the boy winced.
"We're going for a little walk, you and I." Moody's voice had taken a manic edge, and his eyes - real and magical - were darting around wildly. "Just outside the grounds where we can apparate. Say so much as one word and I'll kill you where you stand."
To punctuate his point, the old Auror dug his wand into Harry's ribs as he yanked on Harry's arm and led him from his office. Harry had come to Moody late in the evening, and the corridors were deserted. Harry's mind was spinning with possibilities, what he could do to free himself, but there was no solution that he saw as viable - perhaps once they were outside Harry could wrench free of Moody's grasp, escape into the Forbidden Forest and lose him there…
"Alastor." Harry immediately recognized the voice of Albus Dumbledore.
Moody froze in his tracks, and once again he licked his lips in that nervous gesture that struck Harry as so odd. Then as Harry watched, Moody carefully rearranged his face into a more familiar expression and turned around to face Dumbledore with a respectful nod.
"Albus," Harry could hear his voice quivering.
"Where are you going with Harry, Alastor?" Dumbledore was stepping closer, that serene expression on his face never changing - yet Harry could feel the power that welled beneath that placid surface. Moody hesitated for only a moment before he responded.
"I caught Potter here wandering the halls," Moody gave Harry a little shake as if to demonstrate his mischievous ways. "I was bringing him back to his dormitory."
"The Gryffindor dormitory is in the other direction, Alastor." Dumbledore was close, now. Harry felt Moody's wand leave his ribs, slowly inch upwards.
"Professor, watch out - " Everything happened at once.
"AVADA KED -"
"Expelliarmus!" Dumbledore's voice snapped with power as he unleashed his spell.
The force of Dumbledore's spell had knocked both Moody and Harry from their feet at the same moment that Moody's wand was torn from his grasp. The wand sailed in a graceful arc, and Dumbledore plucked it from midair effortlessly. Harry landed behind Moody, placing the old auror between himself and Dumbledore. The little golden box had tumbled from his pocket, blocked by his body from Dumbledore's sight - without thinking, Harry snatched it up and stuffed it into the depths of his robes before either Moody or Dumbledore could notice.
"I'll ask you again, Alastor." Dumbledore was looking at Moody's wand curiously as though it were some manner of fascinating insect. "What were you doing with Harry?"
Mad-Eye Moody began to cackle once more, unleashing that same crazed, bubbling laughter that had so unnerved Harry in his office. He groped about in his coat pocket, searching for something - searching for the box that Harry had taken. When he found it missing, he whirled on the Boy Who Lived and scrambled to his feet. His scarred face was a mask of rage, his eye whirling madly in its socket.
"You're a clever boy, Potter. Stand with us against the true Dark Lord and my master may even reward you, too. Just give it here, and we'll figure this out."
"Step away, Harry." Dumbledore's voice was calm, and the hand holding his wand was rock steady. "That is not Alastor Moody."
Moody licked his lips once and whirled on Dumbledore, his hands clenched into fists. The hate that twisted his expression was terrible to behold.
"What was your first clue, old man?" More mad laughter bubbled out of him. "Bask in your victory, now, but your time is coming. Everyone will know soon enough what - "
Dumbledore didn't speak a word; his stunning spell erupted without warning, striking the Moody imposter square in the chest. He crumpled like an empty sack, falling in a tangle of limbs and clothes. Harry and Dumbledore looked at each other for a long moment, before Harry finally found his voice.
"What was he talking about, Professor? About the true Dark Lord?" Harry felt his heart pounding in his chest.
"I don't know, Harry. Just the raving of a broken mind, I expect." Dumbledore's face was unreadable, and he paused for a moment before speaking again. "What did he want from you? He said, 'give it here'."
In an instant, Harry made a choice.
"I don't know, Professor." Harry lied, and felt only the smallest pang of regret. His eyes never left the headmaster's. "Just the raving of a broken mind."
Dumbledore and Harry looked at each other for a long moment, and for the briefest moment Harry feared the man that he had once considered his friend and mentor. But then Dumbledore smiled, that same placid, kindly smile that had anchored Harry for three years. For the first time, it was like looking at a stranger.
"No doubt. Return to your dormitory and try to get some rest - I'll sort this out." When Harry didn't move, Dumbledore's bushy brows raised. "Now, Harry."
"What? Old Mad-Eye? No way." Ron was staring at Harry gape-mouthed, his jealousy forgotten for the moment as Harry related his encounter with the Mad-Eye imposter.
"That's...that's really scary, Harry." Hermione had been listening with her hand over her mouth, and she reached out to touch Harry's arm when he finished his tale.
"He mentioned the true dark lord." Harry's voice was a whisper, even though the noise in the Great Hall would have prevented them from being overheard even if he'd shouted. "And Dumbledore just...brushed it off."
"You can't be...I mean, you can't actually still think that Dumbledore was the one that prophecy was referring to." Ron glanced between Harry and Hermione, half-eaten sandwich poised in midair in his disbelief.
"Well...I mean you have to admit it looks suspicious…" Hermione was grimacing.
"No," Ron said firmly. He dropped his sandwich back onto his plate. "I won't hear it."
"Ron, no one's saying that he is or isn't." Harry said diplomatically. "Only that it bears looking into, right?"
"No, it doesn't." Ron shook his head, his expression twisting into disgust. "I don't believe what I'm hearing from you. Dumbledore has always been there for us. He's your friend, Harry, and he saved you from - from whoever was pretending to be Mad-eye. If he's a dark lord, than so's my mum."
"Ron - "
"You know what, I've got somewhere I need to be." Ron piled some more food on his plate and left, shouldering his bag as he went.
"Potter." An all-too-familiar voice made Harry jump and whirl around. Hermione screamed.
Alastor Moody was standing behind him.
"Relax, it's me." The old auror glanced left and right, and bent his head to let Harry see the patch of hair that was missing. "See? Bastard took it for the polyjuice. Come to my office - we need to talk."
"No," Harry said. "Not until I can be sure it's you."
"Good," Moody growled. "If you'd taken my word for it I would've smacked you upside your fool head."
"Come to the library," Hermione cut in, eyeing Mad-Eye carefully. "We'll sit for three hours. Then, if you don't turn into someone else, we'll know it's you."
Moody opened his mouth as if to protest, but finally he heaved a sigh and offered a weary smile. He nodded once in approval.
"Constant vigilance, eh Granger? Fine. Let's get this over with."
Harry had never realized exactly how long three hours could be. Hermione seemed content enough; she was always at home in the library. She busied herself with schoolwork, and when she finished that she opened up a book and read quietly. Harry, on the other hand, didn't take his eyes off of Moody even once. He had made the supposed auror give up his wand to Harry; it was safely tucked away in his pocket while Harry maintained a grip on his own. By the time the sand had run out for the third time in Hermione's hourglass, his fingers were sore.
"There," Moody said. It was the first time he'd spoken in three hours. "It's me. My wand, please."
He held out one callused hand, and Harry hesitated. Only when Hermione offered him a curt nod did he relinquish the wand; Moody snatched it and replaced it in his coat.
"Hope you realize how difficult that was for me, Potter." He growled. "I'm not used to being defenseless."
"I'm not used to being attacked by my professors," Harry injected a bit more venom into that statement than he truly meant to.
"Fair enough." Moody shrugged and stood, stretching the knots out of his shoulders. "My office, Potter. Like I said, we need to talk. Just you - thank you, Miss Granger."
Harry and Hermione exchanged a worried glance, but with a small shrug Harry moved to follow the Auror. He wasn't aware of any magic that could transform someone's appearance permanently, and he knew that if Moody tried to attack Harry a second time there was little he could to do prevent it, in any case. With a small wave for Hermione, Harry followed Moody from the library and up to his office off of the second floor corridor.
The office looked quite a bit different than the last time Harry had seen it. The dark detectors still covered almost every available inch of wall and desk space, but gone was the clutter and chaos. Moody - the real Moody - apparently valued order. It must have taken him ages to set things straight. As soon as they entered, Moody sank into his chair with grateful sigh, and spend a moment watching Harry as the boy slid into the chair across from him,
"I'm supposed to be retired, you know." Moody sighed and produced his hip flask. He opened the top and, sensing Harry's apprehension, held it out for his inspection. Harry recoiled immediately; whatever was in that flask was so potent it made his eyes water.
"Scotch whiskey," Moody explained, and he tipped the flask upwards for a deep drink. He smacked his lips with real relish when he was done. "I'm too old for this."
"Begging your pardon, sir, but...who was that?" There was no need to explain who Harry was referring to.
"This doesn't leave this room." Moody screwed the cap back onto his flask and tucked it away in his coat as he regarded Harry with a very serious expression. "As far as anyone knows, it never happened. That clear?"
"Yes, sir." Harry nodded once. "Only I already told - "
"Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley, of course. I'll talk to them, too. But what I'm about to tell you can't be shared with anyone."
"Alright."
"It was Barty Crouch's boy. Bartemius Jr." Moody paused to let that sink in. "We interrogated him when the polyjuice wore off. He was working for You-Know-Who, of course, but we found out that he escaped with old Barty's help. It's...it's a mess, Potter. But don't worry about it, we've got it locked down. He's the one who shoved you into this blasted tournament, and his plan was to help you win it. The Triwizard cup would have been a portkey, teleported you straight to him."
Harry shivered. The plan had very nearly worked.
"Anyway. We learned a lot from him. The Dark Lord is back, Potter. He's days away from regaining a physical body, if he hasn't got one already. Dark days are ahead."
"I see," Harry said, letting the new information percolate in his brain.
"Mostly, I wanted to thank you." Moody watched Harry closely, his unblinking magical eye fixed unerringly on his face. "If not for you, I'd still be stuck in that trunk right there. If there's anything I can do for you, Potter, you just have to ask."
"Actually, sir...there is one thing." Harry reached into his pocket and withdrew the grubby golden box. "This is why I came to you - well, who I thought was you - in the first place."
"Professor," Moody had reached for the box, but Harry laid his hand on top of it before he could grab it. "I need this to stay between us. Strictly between us, and no questions. If you can't do that…"
"You've got my word, Potter. I owe you that much." When Harry moved his hand, Moody opened the box. When he saw what was inside, he whistled low. "Where did you find this, Potter?"
"I'd rather not say," Harry replied evasively.
"Hmm." Moody looked up at him, but true to his word he didn't pry. His magical eye swiveled downward to inspect the ring. "This is...blimey, Potter, there are some potent curses on this ring. Right nasty magic. I assume you want me to remove them for you?"
"That's the idea," Harry replied with a nod.
"It will take me a few days. And I can't guarantee that the thing will even survive the process." Alastor Moody snapped the box shut and sighed. "But I'll do what I can for you."
"Thank you, sir." Harry stood and pushed his chair back, but he paused before he left. "One other thing."
"What is it?"
"It's nice to meet you, Professor Moody."
Moody was as good as his word. Three days later, he called Harry to his office and set the golden box down in front of him. When Harry opened it, he wasn't sure if he was pleased or disappointed to see that the ring was still intact. For some reason, a part of him had hoped that Moody's efforts would have destroyed the thing entirely.
"There it is, Potter. Every harmful curse stripped away." Moody paused, clearly trying to find something further to say.
"I don't know what it does." He admitted at last, his brow furrowing with concern. "There's powerful magic woven into that thing, no doubt about it, but for the life of me I can't determine why. Just be careful. This goes against my better judgment, Potter, but a promise is a promise."
"Thank you, sir. I'll be careful." Harry carefully replaced the box in his cloak, but didn't turn to leave just then. "May I ask you a hypothetical question?"
"You may ask," Moody replied, his tone making it clear that he wasn't committing to an answer.
"If you wanted to find the Elder Wand, where would you start looking?"
"Ha!" Moody barked a laugh. "Storybooks, Potter. It's a myth."
"Assuming those legends are facts, though…"
"Well," Moody let out his breath in an explosive sigh. "If I was looking for the most famous wand in history, I'd probably start with an expert in wands."
Ollivander's shop always reminded Harry of a particular tiny bookstore that he used to visit in Little Whinging. The proprietor never cared to organize his books in any particular fashion, instead preferring to stack them haphazardly on every shelf and surface. The floor was not exempt, and the stacks of books made maneuvering around the shop a challenge. Yet the old shopkeeper knew exactly where every title was without fail, as if the chaotic explosion of literature was somehow an exact reflection of the organization of the man's mind.
It was much the same at Ollivander's. Hundreds, if not thousands of little rectangular boxes were stacked from floor to ceiling, and arranged in no particular order that Harry could discern - yet the old wandmaker seemed to know each and every magical implement intimately, as if they called out to him when they wanted to be found. It always made Harry uncomfortable - he felt like he was intruding on the man's private sanctuary, a little corner of his brain that had been given form in the physical world.
"Ah, Mr. Potter!" Ollivander's reedy voice greeted him warmly, as it always did. "What brings you in today? Nothing wrong with your wand, I hope?"
"Oh - no, sir. It's been wonderful." Harry shut the door behind him with the soft tinkle of a bell.
"Good. I've always found that phoenix feather makes for an exceptionally reliable wand, if a bit more difficult to master. So - what can I do for you?"
"I was wondering if you know anything about...well, about the Elder Wand."
The kindly old wandmaker froze, and for a moment an expression
flickered across his lined face that Harry could have sworn was fear. It was gone as abruptly as it arrived, but it left Harry feeling tense.
"Why would you ask about a thing like that?" Ollivander's silver-eyed gaze was intense.
"I'm doing a research paper for Professor Binns," Harry lied smoothly, pretending to ignore the strange expression he had seen on Ollivander's face. "Anything you could tell me about the story would be helpful."
"Story?" Ollivander leaned closer, elbows propped up on the counter. "Some might consider the tale a mere story, but to those of us that have studied the wandlore it's far more than a story."
The wandmaker paused again, but the way he was looking at Harry made it clear that he had more to say. At length, Ollivander stepped from around the counter and came to stand before Harry. He placed a hand on his shoulder, regarding him seriously as he spoke.
"Harry...I wouldn't discuss this with just anyone, but you're a bit of a special case. Before I tell you anything, I need you to promise me that you won't go looking for the thing. The Elder Wand has a history steeped in blood, and no good can come from its use. Will you promise me that?"
Harry hesitated for only a moment.
"Of course, Mr. Ollivander." Harry felt a slight pang as he lied to the kindly old wandmaker a second time, but it passed quickly. "It's just for the paper, I promise."
"Alright, then." Ollivander nodded once, and stepped back. "Give me just a moment."
He disappeared into the back room, and Harry could hear the sounds of drawers being opened and shut as he searched for something. After a few moments of this Harry heard him exclaim in victory, and he returned to the main room of the shop bearing a leather bound notebook. It looked old - when he set it on the counter, Harry could see the cracks in the leather binding and smell the dusty scent of old parchment. It creaked when he opened it.
"As I said," Ollivander said, his voice hushed. "Its history is steeped in blood. You see, like any wand the Elder Wand chooses its master - but it chooses based on strength alone. One must defeat the current holder of the wand to claim it."
"I thought the wand made you unbeatable," Harry said, frowning.
"Not quite," Ollivander corrected, holding up a finger. "It's like a painter who, his entire life, has been painting with a broom. If he doesn't know any better he makes do, but give him a real paintbrush and suddenly he can do so much more. But...in the hands of someone who doesn't know how to paint, it isn't going to do him much good."
"So...it enhances your powers, then?" Harry was trying to wrap his head around it, and he thought he was starting to understand.
"To simplify it slightly, yes. The Elder Wand turns mediocre wizards into formidable duelists, and it can turn a truly powerful wizard into something nigh unto a God." Ollivander tapped his notes, watching Harry with a particular gleam in his silvery eyes. "I've tracked it as far through history as is possible. There are certain things to look for, you see, certain patterns that those who study the wandlore learn to recognize. The trail ends with a wizard named Loxias, who coined the name 'Deathstick'. Unfortunately, sources disagree on who ultimately defeated him, and the wand has been lost to us in recent years. There have been no sure signs for a hundred years, only rumors."
"Rumors?" Harry prompted. He had learned that rumors and hearsay were often all that pointed to the truth.
"Gregorovitch," Ollivander scoffed. "He fabricated a rumor that he'd found the thing back in the forties, to boost his sales. Just as quickly, he claimed someone stole it."
"Gregorovitch," Harry mused. "Where can I find him, sir?"
"I don't see why you'd want to," Ollivander sniffed, "But if you truly want to entertain his absurd lie I suppose you're in luck. He's retired, and the rumor is that he bought a flat in Carkitt Market, above Concordia Plunkett's."
Gregorovitch was, in many ways, the antithesis to Ollivander. While the wandmaker that Harry knew was soft-spoken and gentle, Gregorovitch was brash and loud. Even his appearance was a stark contrast to the slight, neatly-kempt Ollivander. Gregorovitch was tall and broad and bushy-bearded, and he completely filled the side of the booth that he shared with Harry and Hermione. He reminded Harry very much of a miniature Hagrid, if Hagrid had been about thirty years older. He'd agreed to meet them on the condition that it was at his favorite pub.
"I had it!" He boomed. His voice was thickly accented, and Harry found that he had to hang on his every word to have any hope of understanding the man. "I touched the Elder Wand. I performed magic with the Elder Wand. It should have been the crowning moment of my life, and instead it's made me a laughingstock. No one believes it."
"How did you get it, Mr. Gregorovitch?" Hermione leaned in close. Harry wasn't surprised to see that she was taking notes.
"Call me Mykew," he said, and paused for a drink. He'd ordered a tankard of something dark and pungent. "And don't ask questions to which you already know the answer. If you know anything about the Elder Wand, you know exactly how I got my hands on it."
The implication hung over the table like an unspoken threat, but Gregorovitch didn't seem to notice. He buried his nose in his tankard once more and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand when he set it back down.
"How did you lose it?" Harry pressed. Knowing where the wand had come from was purely academic, as far as Harry was concerned - what mattered was where it went.
"It was stolen," he muttered darkly. "From my very workshop, by a thief and a coward too afraid to face me down like a man."
"But how? By who?" Hermione's quill paused, poised to jot down his answer.
"If I knew that," he growled, "I would find the man and take it back. All I know is that he crept into my workshop and stunned me while my back was turned. I saw a flash of blonde hair, and then I was out - when I awoke, the Wand was gone."
"And when did you say this was, again?"
"A day that will be burned into my memory until I die. It was August the eighth, 1903."
"Harry! Harry, wake up!" A feminine voice startled Harry awake, and he opened his eyes to see the form of Hermione crouching by his bed.
"'Mione?" Harry's voice was thick with sleep, and he'd spoken a bit too loud - Neville muttered something and rolled over, and then was still again. Harry let out his breath slowly. "You're not allowed in here."
"Shh," she flapped a hand at him, silencing his protests. "I know who has the Elder Wand, Harry."
"What?" Harry was suddenly wide awake. "Who?"
"Gregorovitch lost the wand in the summer of 1903 to a blonde young man. That same winter, Gellert Grindelwald began his reign of terror in Eastern Europe. His rise to power was incredible, both in the scope of the magic he performed and the ease with which he defeated his enemies."
"Grindelwald was blonde?" Harry frowned.
"Yes! Harry, Grindelwald stole the wand from Gregorovitch."
"But Grindelwald was captured after he was defeated by…" Harry felt his blood turn to ice as he finally caught up to Hermione and connected the dots in his mind. "When he was defeated by Dumbledore."
It was a week before Harry got his chance. He had never realized how rarely Dumbledore left his office, and how unlikely it was to catch him alone. It didn't help that Harry didn't particularly want to go through with his plan, and it certainly didn't help that with each day that passed the little worm of doubt and fear gnawed a deeper pit into his belly. When his chance finally arrived, Harry was shaking like a leaf.
He knew that he wasn't safe, even beneath his invisibility cloak. Dumbledore had seen through it before, of course, without so much as waving his wand. The headmaster was dangerous, whether or not he was the Dark Lord, and what Harry was planning to do bordered on suicidal. He had no choice, he realized; if Dumbledore was who Harry truly hoped he was, Harry would be forgiven. And if he was what Harry feared he was, he would be doing the wizarding world a great service.
Any number of things could go wrong, of course. If Dumbledore caught him, he would be hard-pressed to explain why he was following the headmaster around beneath the cover of his cloak. If his spell failed to stun the Headmaster as he intended, he would be faced with the very real possibility of dueling Albus Dumbledore - not a possibility he relished in the slightest. The chance of Harry emerging as the victor in such a contest - even if Dumbledore didn't possess the Elder Wand - was so remote as to be considered absurd.
Still, Harry saw this is the final test. After tonight, he would finally know once and for all whether or not Dumbledore was the man he thought he was, or if he was the Dark Lord of prophecy. If nothing else, Harry took comfort in that fact.
When he saw Dumbledore striding down the corridor that led to the headmaster's office, Harry's blood turned to ice. He knew - or rather, Hermione had told him - that the gargoyles by the entry were enchanted to remove magical protections from anyone who passed. He also knew - again, from Hermione - that the Headmaster of Hogwarts was protected by extremely powerful magic while they were actually inside the office. He had a very narrow window - he had to stun the headmaster after he passed the gargoyles, but before he passed the threshold of the Headmaster's office.
Dumbledore was coming. He was humming to himself as he strode down the corridor.
"Chocolate Frog." Dumbledore's clear voice spoke the password, and the gargoyles stepped aside to allow him to pass. Harry raised his wand, the incantation already taking shape in his mouth.
"Hello, Harry." Dumbledore had just stepped past the Gargoyles when he turned to look directly at Harry with that familiar, placid smile. "I do hope you don't intend to attack me with that wand."
Harry froze. Several terrifying moments passed during which Harry found himself completely incapable of moving; at first he feared that Dumbledore had cast some manner of silent hex on him, but he soon realized that it was simply fear that had paralyzed him. Dumbledore was waiting patiently, expression unchanging. Feeling more than a little foolish, Harry shrugged out of his cloak and let it fall to the floor. He still held his wand tightly in quivering fingers.
"Hello, headmaster." Harry willed his voice to sound casual, and was surprised when it actually did.
"May I ask what you are doing?" Dumbledore asked politely, clasping his hands behind his back as he waited for Harry's answer.
"I was going to try to stun you and steal your wand," Harry admitted. It seemed as though there was little point in lying at that point.
"I see," Dumbledore said, using the same tone of voice he might have used if Harry had told him he was going to the bathroom. "Well, I must say that I'd rather prefer it if you didn't. May I ask why you feel as though you need to do this?"
"I think it's the Elder Wand...and I want to see if you're the true Dark Lord." Harry said. It sounded absurd, even to him, when he said it aloud.
"Ah," Dumbledore nodded. He hadn't moved from his place, just remained standing there calmly with his hands clasped behind his back. "That. I thought that you might feel the need to investigate young Barty Crouch's parting words to you."
"I knew about it before he said anything," Harry told him. His grip on his wand was weakening; Dumbledore's calm voice was stealing his resolve. "I found the prophecy, and it points to you."
"I see," Dumbledore said again, though this time his words were spoken with a bit more care. "In that case I can assume that you've examined this prophecy of yours against every living witch and wizard, and determined that only I fulfill it."
"All of the important ones, yeah." Harry felt a stab of irritation; Dumbledore was mocking him, he realized. Despite himself, he felt doubt knaw at the back of his mind. "I just - I just need to know for sure."
"I am not a Dark Lord," Dumbledore said simply, spreading his hands wide as if to show Harry that he wasn't working any nefarious spells behind his back.
How could he be? Dumbledore, the wisest and most powerful wizard Harry had ever met. Dumbledore who had watched over him from the very beginning, the same Dumbledore who had helped Harry through the difficult times he'd faced in his first three years. For a moment, Harry felt like a foolish child - ungrateful and disloyal.
Until he saw a centimeter of polished wood protruding from his sleeve. Harry had never noticed the clusters of elderberries that decorated the dark wood of Dumbledore's wand.
Harry shouted 'Expelliarmus!' at the same moment that Dumbledore dropped his wand into his hand; the headmaster's wand clattered to the floor between the two wizards. For the briefest of moments, Dumbledore's placid expression flickered into something else - something hateful and angry. Just as soon as it had appeared, Dumbledore's face rearranged itself into a more familiar configuration. It left Harry with that same chill from before - Harry very much doubted that he could defeat even a wandless Dumbledore in a duel. Fortunately for him, he wouldn't have to.
"What the blazes - " Professor McGonagall came jogging around the corner with her skirts held in one hand, wand held at the ready in her other. "Who is casting charms in the hallway at this hour?"
"No cause for alarm, Minerva." Dumbledore smiled. "I was simply giving Harry some pointers on the Disarming Charm. He seems to have mastered it, as you can see."
Dumbledore stooped to retrieve his wand at the same time that Harry reached down to snatch up his cloak; Harry didn't miss the way the headmaster's eyes met his own as he arose.
"Well, practice is always encouraged, of course," McGonagall was replacing her wand inside her robes, but a confused frown lingered on her face. "Perhaps next time we might find a more appropriate place for Mr. Potter's studies than the middle of the corridor?"
"You're quite right, Minerva, as usual." Dumbledore agreed readily.. "It seems I was caught up in Harry's enthusiasm for self-improvement." Dumbledore nodded, and it seemed to be the cue for Professor McGonagall to move on.
"Well, then, if everything is - "
"Professor!" Harry practically yelled over her as he replaced his own wand. "Would you mind walking with me? To the dormitory? I wanted to ask you about - erm, about the assignment."
"And which assignment would that be, Mr. Potter?" McGonagall fixed Harry with a withering gaze. "If I recall correctly, you don't have any outstanding assignments for my class."
"That's just it. I...I was hoping for something extra, that is to increase my Transfiguration skills…"
"Ah, I see Ms. Granger must be rubbing off on you." Professor McGonagall's face brightened. "Of course, I'm sure I can think of something - off we go, then, Mr. Potter."
"Harry," The headmaster cut in before he could leave, fixing him with the same kindly smile that he always seemed to wear for the Boy Who lived.
"Yes, headmaster?"
"I underestimated you," he said, nodding towards the legendary wand that he held between his fingers once again. "I daresay that your enemies will only ever make that mistake once. Do keep that in mind."
"I will, headmaster." Harry returned Dumbledore's piercing gaze unflinchingly even as he felt icy terror shoot through his veins.
Harry didn't dare look back, but he could feel Dumbledore's eyes boring into him long after he and Professor McGonagall left.
The entire way back to his dormitory, Harry had to fight the urge to vomit. He was trembling so badly that Professor McGonagall twice asked him if he was feeling alright; despite his assurances that he was, she sent him up to his bed with some hot tea that she conjured for him. Harry clutched the mug to his chest, more to stop the incessant tremors in his hands than for any real need of it. He was having difficulty thinking; fragmented thoughts drifted unbidden through his mind, refusing to come together in coherent combinations.
He knows I know. Does he? That was the Elder Wand. He has it, and he knows. I have to do twelve inches on Transfiguration for McGonagall.
Dumbledore is the Dark Lord.
Harry sipped his conjured tea as he climbed the steps to his dormitory. His limbs were leaden, heavy with fatigue and fear. There was nowhere in Hogwarts that was safe, now - nowhere he could go where Dumbledore couldn't reach him. Would he try to kill him? Silence him? Harry could only guess. He didn't know Dumbledore; only the man that he had pretended to be.
He did his best to force such thoughts out of his head, and with a sigh he set his bag down on the edge of his bed carefully to avoid disturbing the girl who was lounging there.
Harry froze. There was a girl on his bed.
She was lying on her belly, wearing a white dress that reminded Harry of something his grandmother would have worn, but she couldn't have been much older than he was. Her hair was long and black, caught in braids that neatly framed her pale face, and she was idly flipping through Harry's copy of Transfiguration Today. Her wings - only now did Harry notice them - looked as if they were made of blue fire, flickering and shifting but more or less maintainig a constant form. She looked up when Harry set his things down.
"Oh, he's here!" The girl smiled; she seemed to be speaking to a grinning white skull that was propped up next to her, and when she looked up at Harry she wore a brilliant smile. "Hello, master."
