Chapter 4
"What do we do now?" Harry hissed, leaning in close to Hermione.
"I don't know," Hermione admitted. "We're running out of people we can trust."
At that moment, Ron shifted down the table. He'd stopped eating with them over a week ago, and as he filled the space that he used to occupy he looked sullen. He stared resolutely down at his plate, and when he spoke he muttered and forced Harry and Hermione to lean in to understand him.
"I'm going back to the Burrow over the break to see my family, and they invited you too, Harry." Ron glanced up, briefly meeting Hermione's gaze, and just as quickly returned to his inspection of his plate. "You too, 'Mione."
"Oh, uh..." Harry grimaced. With as strained as things had been between himself and Ron, he couldn't imagine a more awkward event. "Well, I don't think - "
"We'll be there." Hermione cut in, laying her hand on Harry's chest. "We'd love to, Ron."
"How will we even get there?" Harry frowned. "I mean, the train isn't going to take us - "
"We've set up some portkeys." Ron shrugged. "Dad worked it all out with McGonagall, I guess."
"Oh," Harry said, falling silent.
"What was that?" Harry asked once Ron had shuffled away. "Hermione, it'll be dreadful."
"We need people on our side, Harry." She hissed, cupping his face between her hands and drawing him in close. "We're all alone here. Moody was our only hope and now he's gone – dead, probably – everyone in this school is loyal to Dumbledore. Not Hogwarts, or the students – Dumbledore. We're surrounded by his own personal army."
"Moody's not dead," Harry said firmly. "He's too paranoid to let anyone near him. He probably ran."
"Regardless, Harry, we need allies."
"But -the Weasleys?" Harry looked over to Ron, who was gesticulating wildly as he presumably reenacted a Quidditch maneuver for Dean Thomas' benefit. "I can't think of anyone more loyal to him."
"We have to try, Harry."
Harry looked up to the head table, where the teachers were talking among themselves in hushed tones. No doubt, they were mulling over the surprising news of Professor Moody's departure. One figure, however, was not participating in the chatter; Albus Dumbledore sat quietly in his appointed place at the center of the table, and his pale blue eyes never left Harry. Yet, Harry realized, there was one other who did not participate; Professor Snape was stabbing at his food with an expression that Harry could only describe as fury.
"I've had an idea," Harry said quietly. "And I don't think it's a very good one."
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Snape had taught Defense Against the Dark Arts once before, in Harry's memory – in the previous year, when Professor Lupin had been too ill to teach. Harry later learned that Remus had been preoccupied with turning into a werewolf at the time, and Snape's entire lesson was a thinly-veiled attempt to reveal his condition. His new lessons were hardly an improvement; he taught Defense Against the Dark Arts with the same brutal efficiency and callous favoritism that colored his potions classes.
By the end of the first lesson, Harry was beginning to doubt his plan – but as the class concluded and the rest of the students began to file out, Hermione pushed him towards the front of the classroom and suddenly he had no choice. Snape looked up from his desk, his face twisting in the sneer he nearly always wore when he looked at Harry.
"Mr. Potter," he purred, his oily voice dripping with smug contempt. "Are you here to lodge a complaint? Was my method of teaching not up to your standards?'
"Actually," Harry swallowed heavily, "Sir, I was hoping that I could talk to you. Privately."
Snape stared at him for a long moment, greasy locks of hair falling before his eyes. Finally he sighed and combed his fingers through his hair, jerking his head towards the staircase that led to the office adjacent to the classroom.
Harry had seen the office undergo several transformations – Quirrel, then Lockhart, Lupin, and then Moody. Each time, the office had been a reflection of the person that inhabited it, a small window into their psyche. Now it was stripped bare, and it was as bleak and empty as a dungeon cell. Only the desk remained, and a single chair before it which Harry slowly sank into. Snape remained standing, leaning over his desk and peering intently at Harry.
"Speak quickly Potter," Snape said. "I'm very busy."
"Sir, I know you don't like me," Harry began, fighting to keep the sneer out of his voice. "And I don't like you very much, either. But I think you might be the only person in the school that will listen to what I have to say."
"Spit it out." Snape hissed.
"I think Dumbledore wants to kill me."
Snape went very still; he didn't blink, he didn't breathe, and after a moment Harry began to wonder if he'd been placed under some kind of paralysis charm. But then Snape sighed; a slow, weary exhalation that seemed to deflate the man.
"I will only say this once," Snape said, speaking very slowly. "You must never say anything like that aloud within these walls again. Is that clear?"
"Sir, I - "
"Is that clear?" Snape hissed, lunging forward and clutching the edge of his desk in a white-knuckled grip. "Say it!"
"Yes, it's clear!" Harry shrank back from Snape's oily visage, his heart hammering in his chest. "I don't understand, I - "
"No," Snape cut in, rising to his full height. "You do not understand. There are a great many things that you do not understand, and I am not about to explain them to you. You'd better leave, Potter – right now – and I will do you the courtesy of forgetting that you ever said those words. You'd best forget it, too, whatever it is you think you know."
"Professor – please – I need help."
"You'll not find it here." Snape was looking at Harry in a peculiar fashion, his eyes boring intently into Harry's. "Do you understand me? No one here is going to entertain these ideas of yours."
"Where, then? Where can I find help?"
"Get out," Snape spat. "You're just as stupid as your father was."
"Don't talk about my father like that!" Harry sprang to his feet, his face flushed with anger.
"Get out of my office." Snape's voice was dangerously low.
Harry didn't waste a moment more; he nearly fell over himself in his haste to leave Snape's spartan office. He shut the door behind him and paused in the corridor, catching his breath as he replayed the conversation in his head. What had he said? Why had Snape been so angry with him? It didn't make any sense; but then, Snape had always hated him. He had just hoped that if he went to him as a student seeking help, he would put aside the hatred that he'd held for his father.
Harry felt a stab of frustration; clearly, he'd been wrong.
With his head low, Harry trudged towards the great hall and lunch. He heard the buzz of voices long before he stepped through he massive double doors, a pleasant buzz of normalcy that seemed so out of place in the world that Harry had found himself in. He paused in the doorway, suddenly unable to face the people within – unable to feign interest in Seamus' latest tale of his exploits, or force laughter at Fred and George's jokes. He turned away, and instead found himself heading – almost unconsciously – for the Gryffindor common room.
It was deserted, just as Harry expected it to be. Everyone was in the great hall enjoying lunch, and each others' company. It felt lonely, and somehow the prospect of joining them felt even lonelier. He crossed the space and lowered himself into his favorite armchair by the fire, staring into the always-burning flames without really seeing them.
"I can make it happen, you know." Death was sitting in the armchair beside him, curled up with her white dress pooled around her.
"Make what happen?" Harry asked; he had ceased to be startled by her sudden appearances.
"What you're thinking," she said. When Harry turned to look at her, a slow smile spread on her face. "I can take it all away – Voldemort, Dumbledore...the coming war. Let it fall on someone else's shoulders, and you can be a normal student again."
"What are you, the ghost of Christmas present?" Harry cracked a smile at his own joke, but Death only stared. "I mean – you want to show me what it would be like if I wasn't here to deal with these things, right?"
"Things wouldn't be much different, Harry." Death smiled once more, her thin finger tracing the orbit of her skull. "Events would unfold much as they have...others would rise to shoulder your burdens. I can see it. I can change things for you – permanently – give you the life you're longing for right now."
"So you're saying...what? That I don't matter?" Harry frowned. "You're just about the worst at making me feel better."
"No one matters," Death said brightly, as if that was an improvement. "You could take any one person out of history, erase them completely...and things would more or less play out in the same way. Oh, there would be a few differences, of course, minor ones. But the course of history is driven by people as a whole, Harry; one person is largely inconsequential."
Harry was silent for some time after she spoke. That night, he wanted nothing more than to forget it all – let the responsibility slide from his shoulders and fall on someone else for a change. He was tired, he realized. Physically and emotionally exhausted by the constant fear and gnawing worry that lingered constantly at the back of his mind. This must have been what it was like for Moody, Harry realized – maybe this is how it started for him. Soon, Harry himself would be enchanting his dustbins to attack would-be-intruders.
"Harry?" Hermione's voice pierced his grim thoughts, and he looked up to see her slipping in past the Fat Lady. "Where have you been?"
"Just here." Harry looked to the chair across from him, but Death had vanished. "Felt like being alone."
"I can leave - " Hermione began, but Harry cut her off.
"No, stay." He managed a smile. "I'm just getting lost in my head again."
Wordlessly, Hermione crossed the cozy space, letting her bookbag slide from her shoulder as she came. She clambered onto the chair with Harry, and while the chair was large enough for them both to sit comfortably she curled her legs over his lap and pillowed her head on his shoulder. Unconsciously he slipped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her in tight. Such closeness had become routine for them, as natural as drawing breath. She sighed contently, nestled in his embrace, and for the first time all day Harry felt at peace.
"What are we going to do, Harry?" Hermione asked, her fingers curling into the fabric of his robes. "I feel like the walls are closing in around us..."
"I don't know. I just - " Harry's thought was cut short by Death, who whispered into Harry's ear.
"You're not alone." She was so close that Harry could feel her cool lips brushing against his ear. "Someone is waiting for you. In Hogsmeade, at the Hog's Head."
"How do you - " Harry began, but when he turned she was gone.
"What?" Hermione looked up at him with a frown.
"Nothing," Harry said. "Let's go to Hogsmeade this weekend."
"We're supposed to go to the Weasleys," Hermione reminded him.
"Oh, right." Harry sighed. "We can work both in. I just...want to get away. Even if it's just for an afternoon."
Wordlessly, Hermione nodded against his chest and Harry felt a curious sort of guild flow into his chest. Why hadn't he told her what Death had said? The longer he thought on it, the more uncertain he was; it was as if some part of him wanted to keep Death all to himself. Perhaps it stemmed from that surreal, rejuvenating kiss that she'd given him, but he as he considered it he felt a strange, irrational possessiveness towards her take root in his mind. It was yet another problem that he couldn't afford to dwell on; certainly not with the weekend that he had planned.
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The Hogs Head was unchanged since the last time Harry had visited. If anything, the run-down pub had only gotten filthier. Harry slipped through the door with Hermione in tow, blinking awkwardly in the doorway for a moment as their eyes adjusted to the dim light. There were few patrons – one winkled witch had settled herself in the far corner, nursing a dirty cup of some amber liquid, and a pair of greasy-looking wizards were having a heated argument at the other end of the room, hissing at one another in tones too low for Harry or Hermione to hear.
The chose a wobbly table near the center of the room, equidistant from the witch and the wizards. Aberforth wordlessly set a pair of butterbeers down before them, frowning at them silently as though he could evict them from his establishment with a glare. Hermione clearly shared his sentiment; she kept glancing longingly at the door.
"Why did you want to come here, of all places?" Hermione asked, leaning in close.
"I like it here, I guess." Harry lied, shifting on the uncomfortable wooden stool. "It has character."
"Right, character..." Hermione drew a finger over the rim of her glass, making a face at the thin layer of grime she came away with. "Let's just drink these and get out of here."
Harry nodded, but he barely heard her. He was looking around – looking for the person that was waiting for him. No one seemed to be a likely candidate; the witch seemed half-asleep, and the arguing wizards had fallen silent, glaring at one another as they drank large amounts of whatever was filling their tankards. Harry was beginning to think that Death had been wrong, when he saw the old witch staring at him; she was holding something in her gnarled hands, something round and electric-blue.
"Is that - " Harry peered closer at the object in her hands, and to his shock the orb rotated in her grasp, revealing a tiny white pupil that fixed him with a familiar glare.
Tugging on Hermione's sleeve, Harry stood and moved to the witch's table, butterbeer forgotten. His fingers grasped his wand in his sleeve as he slowly took his seat, his eyes flitting between the witch's face and the familiar artifact in her grasp. He waited for her to speak first, but when she didn't Harry indicated the object in her hand with a nod of his head.
"Where did you get that?" He asked, his voice hard. "That belongs to a friend of mine."
"Found it," She rasped. Her voice sounded like it was being squeezed out of a broken accordion. "In the dirt. Someone didn't want it anymore, I think."
"I find that hard to believe," Harry said, his eyes narrowing. "My friend was rather fond of that eye."
"A mad eye for a mad man." She cackled, her wrinkled lips parting to reveal a single, rotten stump of a tooth. "And mad men do mad things."
"Where is Professor Moody?" Harry asked. He could feel his grip tightening on his wand.
"He disappeared," she crooned, drawing her frayed robes tightly around her shoulders. "Or – he was disappeared. Wasn't his choice."
"Dumbledore killed him," Harry said flatly, his voice lowering.
"Dumbledore doesn't kill anybody," the old crone spat, suddenly coherent. "Too good, too clean. Too many loose ends...no, no, Dumbledore didn't kill him. Worse, far worse."
"What could be worse than killing him?" Hermione asked, frowning at the woman.
"You can erase a man, without killing him." The crone nodded, her solitary tooth peeking out of her lips as she pursed them. "The right word to the right person, clues left in all the right places...it can all point to something dark, and Albus Dumbledore can weave a web so tight that no one can escape from it. Ruin, without raising a wand. Without even appearing to act."
"So – where is he?" Harry could feel his patience wearing thin. "Azkaban?"
"Gone," the crone said again. "He wanted you to have this."
She held out the eye to Harry, and when he hesitated to take it she pressed it into his palm with both of her hands. It was cool, like stone, and Harry could feel it whirling about against his palm. It was unsettling; he knew it wasn't a real eye, but he'd never seen it outside of Moody's head before. It felt like an invasion of privacy. Harry took it from her, peering down at it in his palm even as it peered back up at him.
"Why would he want me to have this? I'm not about to pluck my eye out and put this one in."
"Not the way it works, boy." The crone drew her shawl tighter around herself once more, as if she was unable to get warm. "See the unseen, touching it is enough. You'll learn; it takes time to get used to it."
Curious, Harry focused on the eye in his palm. For a moment, he could see himself – as if he were a fairy sitting on his own hand, a curious superimposed image of himself atop the crone's withered face. But there was more – so much more. That image held secrets, depths that he could uncover at a whim. He could see his pores, yawning open like great pits on his face – deeper, each individual cell that comprised his skin opening up for him like diagram on a chalkboard. Drawn by some unseen impulse, he pressed on, only to discover that the cells weren't still, everything that comprised them was vibrating, whirling in a chaotic orbit. Deeper still, and Harry saw the great expanse contained within himself, infinite space and time. He felt like he would burst, be torn asunder by all that nothingness, consumed -
The eye rolled across the table with a clatter, and Harry was suddenly aware of Hermione's hand on his arm. Her face was concerned as she peered up at him, but the crone was laughing so hard that she could barely breathe. She cackled as she caught the eye and rolled it back to Harry, who carefully caught it in his robes and managed to maneuver it into his pocket without touching it.
"Told you, it takes some getting used to." The crone was standing, sidling out from behind the table. "Now – I've spent too much time here already. Time for me to go."
"Please," Hermione said, clutching at her sleeve. "You have to help us. Where is Professor Moody?"
"You won't see him again." The crone's eyes flitted between both of them for a long moment, before she turned away. "And you won't see me again, either."
Harry and Hermione could only sit and watch as the old witch hobbled out of the Hogshead, leaning on a gnarled cane she'd kept concealed beneath her tattered robes. The wizards in the corner were arguing again, but Harry didn't hear them; he was simply staring at the door where she'd gone. The Mad Eye felt heavy in his pocket, and even there he could feel it whirling around, searching for something only it could find.
"Was that...?" Harry asked slowly.
"Yeah," Hermione said. "I think it was."
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Harry could remember the first time he'd seen the Burrow. It was during the summer just before his second year at Hogwarts, and at the time it had seemed like the most perfect place on earth. The ramshackle structure had the feeling of a much-overgrown cottage, and it was every bit as haphazard and welcoming on the inside. Yet now as Harry looked at the building, with Hermione at his side and Sarchanie coiled around his neck, he felt nothing but a growing sense of unease.
"This is going to be awful," Harry said with a sigh.
"Ron's still your friend, Harry." Hermione said, laying a gentle hand on his arm. "He'll come round, and so will the rest of the Weasleys. I know it."
Harry nodded, but he wasn't convinced. Ron had been nothing but cold to him since the first days of their investigation into Dumbledore's true identity, and the more Harry learned the further it seemed to drive them apart. Now he and Ron barely spoke, and Harry knew that his one-time friend had only invited him to dinner because his parents had insisted on it. It should have hurt to know that he was losing a friendship that he at one time had treasured, but perhaps Harry was just too tired.
"Promise me that you'll go in there with an open mind," Hermione said, taking his hand.
"Yeah, I promise." Harry nodded and forced a smile, but in his heart he knew that it was no use.
With that, they made the trek down the hillock and into the house. Harry knocked and was prepared to wait, but Hermione threw the door open and stepped inside. Molly Weasley was there, bustling about the kitchen in her apron, and when she saw the pair of them her face split in a genuine smile. The diminutive woman scooped both Harry and Hermione up in a hug, squealing with delight before she finally released them.
"Oh, it's so good to see you both." Molly said, clasping her hands together. "When Ron told us that you two were an item, well...it's just wonderful news."
"Oh, erm. Thanks." Harry forced out a smile.
"Sit down, sit down – you're just in time for dinner." She cupped her hands over her mouth and bellowed in the direction of the stairs. "Arthur! Ron! Dinner!"
There was only brief wait before Ron and his father trooped down the stairs. Arthur greeted them warmly, just as Molly had, but Ron had lost none of his surliness. He sat down on the opposite side of the table from them without a word, and he began eating as soon as the food was placed before him. The food smelled delicious, but Harry had come to expect nothing less from Mrs. Weasleys kitchen. This time she seemed to have puled out all the stops, and had made an entire ham, mashed potatoes, gravy, and even a home-made custard.
Regardless of the awkwardness that had brought him there, Harry was determined to at least enjoy the food. Molly was the best cook he'd ever known, and he wasn't going to let her efforts go to waste. A silence settled over the table as they ate that was, if not companionable, at least comfortable. No one said much of anything at all until Molly set out the custard, and then Ron ruined it by speaking.
"So...this news about Moody is pretty wild, huh?" He said around a mouthful of custard.
"You mean that he resigned? I..." He glanced over in Hermione's direction, and sighed. "Yeah. It's wild, I don't think anyone saw it coming."
"No one did," Arthur said, staring down at his half-eaten desert. "And...well, I probably shouldn't be saying this, but it will be in the Prophet soon enough..."
"What is it, dad?" Ron asked, frowning.
"The aurors are looking for him," Arthur said, his voice dropping as if someone outside the kitchen might hear them. "He's wanted on...well, let's just say that they searched his home and found some things that paint him in a very different light. Dark stuff."
Harry and Hermione shared a glance. What's could be worse than killing him?
"Why did they search his house?" Harry asked, frowning.
"Anonymous tip from one of his students, or so I hear. Sharp-eyed pupil. That's the real reason Moody took off." Arthur sighed, and pushed his bowl away. "It's a damn shame. But...you spend enough time hunting dark wizards, you start thinking like them..."
"He didn't," Harry said, setting his spoon down. He'd heard enough.
"I beg your pardon?" Arthur asked.
"I mean, he didn't start thinking like a dark wizard." Harry clarified. "He was set up. Because he was about to - "
"I swear, Harry, if you start spouting this nonsense about Dumbledore again - " Ron had half-risen from his chair, but Arthur motioned for him to sit down.
"No Ron, it's all right. Let Harry speak."
"He was about to discover the truth," Harry said, ignoring the warning hand that Hermione placed on his arm. "About Dumbledore."
"So it's true, then." Molly was looking at him with a mixture of pity and horror. "Ron said that you'd been saying awful things about Dumbledore, but...well, we just couldn't believe it."
"What's gotten into you, Harry?" Arthur asked, leaning forward and propping his elbows on the table. "Dumbledore has done more for the wizarding world than anyone else alive. He's earned my loyalty a dozen times over, personally. And to you – Harry, he's practically been a second father to you. How can you say these things about him?"
"He lies," Harry said, more loudly than he intended to. "He uses people. He wants everyone to think that he's a force of good when he's really worse than any so-called 'dark wizard' that ever lived."
"I see," Arthur said, his eyes sliding over to share a glance with his wife. "And do you have any proof of this, Harry?"
"Yes," Harry insisted. "I gave it to Professor Moody. And he told me that he found something – something about Dumbledore – but he left because Dumbledore found out. I don't even know if he's really alive anymore..."
"You gave it to Alastor Moody," Arthur said carefully, "The target of a manhunt that involves aurors all over europe? I'm sorry, Harry, but don't you see how that's a little hard to find credible?"
"No – that's what I'm telling you. Moody was set up." Harry could feel that anger building up in his breast, the all-too-familiar sensation of knowing that he was fighting a loosing battle. "Dumbledore found out, and he set Moody up. He destroyed his reputation in an instant. He's probably been planning it for years, just in case Moody caught on to him..."
"I'm sorry, Harry." Arthur crossed his arms over his chest, fixing Harry with a stern look. "This just sounds a little far-fetched. I mean – you sound like you've gone off the rails. How on earth did you head get filled with all this nonsense?"
"There's a prophecy," Harry pressed. "I found it in the Department of Mysteries - "
"How on earth did you get in there?" Arthur asked, but Harry ignored him.
"It talks about a true dark lord. One worse than Voldemort, worse than Grindelwald. Only Dumbledore fits."
"I see." Arthur said. "And you didn't think that the Ministry would already know about this? Since it was, as you say, in the Ministry's possession?"
"No," Harry said. His face was starting to feel very warm. "It was bewitched so that it seemed to be about something else, something really boring - "
"Alright." Arthur cut him off, shaking his head. "I've heard about enough. Harry, you've got to stop this – you've got to realize that Dumbledore is the last, best hope we have against You-Know-Who. He's the only thing standing between us and the darkest future that the world has ever known."
"Exactly," Harry said. "There was a letter – Aberforth gave it to us,"
"Aberforth?" Molly rolled her eyes. "That man is a drunk, and a fool. He's never been right, not since his sister died."
"It doesn't matter!" Harry's voice was growing heated. "He stole the letter from Dumbledore during the first wizarding war. It was from Tom Riddle – Voldemort – and it was thanking Dumbledore for all of the help and private lessons. Don't you see? Dumbledore was grooming Tom – he wanted a threat that would let him take control of the wizarding world."
"Albus Dumbledore," Arthur began, half-rising from his chair in an unconscious imitation of Ron, "Is a fine teacher. I'm sure he helped many of his students, including Tom Riddle. Now Harry – I have been patient with you. I have tried to see your side and understand where you're getting these ideas. But if you continue to talk this way about a man that I respect and admire, under my roof, I'm going to have to as you to leave. I won't have it."
"Arthur – Harry – please." Molly had risen from her chair as well, her gaze flitting between the pair of them. "This has gone far enough. Harry and Hermione are family, and we don't throw family from this house. Now sit down, all of you."
"What about you, Hermione?" Arthur asked. He was still gripping his fork tightly, but his voice at least had calmed. "Do you believe all of this – this rubbish?"
"I mean - " Hermione's gaze flitted among the three Weasleys, and she seemed to shrink into herself. "I mean, the evidence - "
"What evidence?" Arthur asked, leaning in. "You've got the word of a boy – even if he is Harry Potter, he's still a boy – and Albus' drunken brother who's always hated him. It's absurd."
"The prophecy - " Hermione began, a frown creasing her brow.
"It could refer to anyone. Or no one." Ron cut in. "You said yourself that Divination is bogus, didn't you?"
"Yes, but - "
"It's okay, dear." Molly said, laying a hand on Hermione's arm. "Don't let Harry bully you. We'll help him through – whatever this is."
"He's not bullying me," Hermione said, her voice rising slightly. "I helped him do the reasearch on that prophecy myself."
"And I suppose you checked every wizard born after it was made, living and dead?" Arthur asked, scooping up a bit of custard on his spoon.
"Of course not, that's impossible." Hermione replied.
"And I suppose that you yourself have seen Dumbledore do something – dark?" Arthur pressed, a small, dismissive smile tugging at his lips.
"No, but I trust Harry." Hermione said, though some of the conviction had left her voice.
"We trust Dumledore." Arthur said firmly. "Every good witch and wizard in Britain trusts Dumbledore."
"But..." Hermione glanced between the three of them once again, grasping for something to say.
"Harry has been under so much stress," Molly said, her voice sympathetic. "More stress a than any grown man should bear, let alone a boy. We're not angry with you, neither of you, we want to help you Harry."
Hermione turned to look at him, and in her eyes Harry saw the one thing that he couldn't bear to see – doubt.
"Finish your custard," Molly suggested gently. "We'll all talk more after dessert."
"Actually," Harry said, shoving his chair back from the table. "I think I should be getting back."
Harry left without another word, and after a moment's hesitation Hermione followed him.
The portkey deposited them at the edge of the castle grounds, just outside the protective enchantments that would have prevented them from appearing inside the castle proper. Harry and Hermione made the walk back to the school in silence. He was still angry – he could feel his hands curling into fists of their own accord, and it took a conscious effort and several deep breaths to calm himself enough to relax them.
"Harry," Hermione pleaded, just before they entered the castle. They were in the same spot that had been turned into a garden during the Yule ball – the same spot where they had shared their first kiss.
"What?" Harry asked, rounding on her more fiercely than he'd intended. He felt a pang of guilt when she shrank from him, but it as quickly replaced with anger.
"Harry I'm sorry," she said. "I just – I couldn't - "
"Couldn't stand up for me?" He shook his head slowly. "It's fine, Hermione. Forget it."
"No, Harry, I wanted to - " She tried, but Harry was already cutting her off.
"It's fine," he repeated firmly, looking away from her. "I'd rather figure out who I can rely on now, rather than later."
"Harry..." He could hear the tears in her voice, and a part of him wanted to go to her – fold her up in his embrace and apologize.
Instead, he turned away and walked into the castle alone.
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The next few days passed in a blur. The days blended into one another in a haze of anger and impotent frustration that seemed to have bound up his heart in iron chains. He felt like he was a automaton, stumbling from class to class, manufacturing the correct words to respond when he was spoken to, but there was no thought involved with any of it.
He didn't see Hermione. They knew each other well enough to know their schedules by heart, and it was easy for Harry to avoid the places where he knew she'd be. In the classes they shared he sat apart from her and left as quickly as he could when it was dismissed; he ate alone. He knew he should talk to her, sort it all out, but he couldn't. The thought of facing her filled him with a weariness that was bone-deep.
She'd hurt him – badly. There had certainly been times at Hogwarts where he'd felt isolated, but Hermione had always stood by him. Ron had long been his friend as well, but his loyalty was more conditional – he'd proved that with his refusal to see past Dumbledore's manufactured reputation. Hermione was the one person who had always been there, and never doubted him.
Until she had. There was no mistaking what he had seen on her face, and he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to forget that look of uncertainty she'd given him.
As Harry made his way back to the common room from his Herbology lecture, he did his best not to think about it. He drifted along in the sea of students, even spoke with some of them and laughed at their jokes. It was an odd kind of isolation that he felt now; in the past he'd been shunned by his classmates, or ignored altogether. Now, no one knew what was keeping him apart – the terrible secret that isolated him from them. And they couldn't know.
"'Arry!" A familiar, thickly-accented voice called out. "Oh, 'Arry! I've been looking all over for you."
"Hi, Fleur." Harry said, sidling to the side of the corridor to allow the flow of students to pass. "What's up?"
"We never got a chance to talk," she said breathlessly, slipping in beside him. "After ze second task. You saved my sister, 'Arry."
"Oh," Harry said, a frown creasing his brow. "It's fine. I mean – you're welcome."
"Oh, Madame Maxine would kill me if she knew I was 'ere," she said, and hid a giggle with a press of her gloved hand to her face. "We're supposed to be studying. Oh – is that – is that 'er?"
Sarchanie had unwound herself from Harry's neck, craning her serpentine neck to see who Harry was talking to.
"Yeah," Harry nodded. "This is Sarchanie."
"She's so small," Fleur whispered, reaching out one finger to touch her.
"I wouldn't," Harry warned. "She bites."
"Oh," Fleur looked slightly crestfallen as she withdrew her hand. "'Ow did you do it? Tame 'er, I mean?"
"I don't know if she's tame," Harry said, meeting the miniature dragon's gaze for a brief moment. "I just talked to her. I'm a parseltongue – I can talk to snakes – and I guess dragons can, too."
"Not all of us," Sarchanie corrected him with a hiss in his ear. "It's a gift among dragons, just as it is among wizards."
"What's she saying?" Fleur asked, her eyes alight as she watched the exchange.
"She just said that not all dragons can talk to snakes...it's rare for them, too." Harry said.
"This one is very pretty, hmm? She's practically salivating over you, Harry." Sarchanie nipped at Harry's ear the way she did when she was teasing him, but he felt the color rise to his cheeks regardless.
"What's she saying now?" Fleur's smile had taken on an impish quality as Harry blushed.
"Erm – she just said that you're very pretty, is all." Harry managed a smile that he was quite sure looked more like a pained grimace.
"What a sweet creature," Fleur beamed. "Ah, but I must go. Meet me tonight – won't you? On the north shore of the great lake. I'll be waiting for you."
She leaned in and planted a kiss on his cheek, and then she turned and was gone, lost in the press of students that still flowed down the hall. He watched her go until long after she was out of sight, his hand lifted to touch the skin of his cheek where her lips had brushed. It was because she was part veela, he knew, that she had such a profound effect on him. He also knew that he should probably not go to the lake that night – not when things with Hermione were so unsettled. And he knew that, despite knowing these things, he would go regardless.
"I told you," Sarchanie hissed, smugly curling her neck round his once more.
•I•I•I•I•I•I•I•I•I•I•I•I•I•I•I•I•I•I•I•I•I•I•I•I•I•I•I•I•I•I•I•I•
"Hello?" Harry whispered, slipping the hood of his invisibility cloak down from his ears. "Fleur?"
It was a chilly night by the lake, and unusually still. The only sounds were the crickets singing to one another in the tall grass that rimmed the water, and the sounds of the water lapping against the hull of the magical ship that the Durmstrang students had arrived on. There was no sign of Fleur, though with the moon barely a sliver in the sky it was hard to see much of anything. He was beginning to think that she'd played a trick on him when he heard a rustle in the grass behind him.
""Arry!" Fleur whispered, a slightly alarmed look on her face. "Where's the rest of you?"
"Oh, right." Harry shrugged out of the cloak, draping it over one arm with a sheepish smile. "Sorry."
"An invisibility cloak?" Fleur smiled, and reached out an uncertain hand. "May I touch it?"
"Oh, erm – sure." Harry held the cloak out for her to feel.
"It's so soft," she sighed. "I've always wanted one, but zey are 'ard to get at Beauxbatons. Forbidden."
"I'm not technically supposed to have this, either." Harry looked up, and shared a conspiratorial smirk with Fleur. "And I'm definitely not supposed to be out of the dormitory at this hour."
"Oh..." Fleur glanced up at the castle. "Yes, Madame Maxine would be very cross with me if she knew I was out 'ere with you."
"So, erm...what did you want to talk about?" Harry asked, suddenly feeling rather awkward.
"You," Fleur said, a small smile tugging at her lips that she quickly hid behind her hand. "Come, sit with me."
Fleur spread out a soft blanket that she'd brought, and they sat down beside one another on the shore of the great lake. She sat rather close to him, he noticed; her thighs brushing his as she lay back and supported her upper body with her hands. She was looking out over the water, where the reflection of the scant moonlight sparkled like little diamonds sprawled out over a field of black velvet.
"So?" Fleur asked, her small smile barely visible in the gloom.
"So...?" Harry echoed, clearly not knowing what she expected him to say.
"Tell me about yourself," She laughed, leaning into him. "I mean – of course, I know what's in ze books. What everyone says. But tell me about the real 'Arry Potter."
"Well...erm..." Harry frowned; no one had ever asked him to explain himself in that way. "I grew up with my aunt and uncle. They're muggles, who live outside of London. Um...I didn't find out I was to be a wizard until I was eleven. I didn't know about...well, anything, until then."
"You grew up as a muggle?" Fleur's surprise was palpable. "That's...well, it's 'ard to believe. Considering who you are."
"Dumbledore said he didn't want me growing up as the 'boy who lived'. That he wanted me to have a normal childhood." Harry couldn't help but laugh, as it suddenly occurred to him to wonder if that was just another move in one of the old wizard's schemes.
"What is funny?" Fleur asked, frowning.
"Nothing – just, I don't think I had a very normal childhood," Harry said. "I don't like my aunt and uncle very much."
"Why not?"
"Erm...well, they just aren't very nice to me. They always go out of their way to make sure I know that I'm a burden. And they hate magic."
"That's 'orrible," Fleur sighed. "You deserve better."
"I don't know about that," Harry said with a frown. "I mean, things are rough with them, but the wizarding world has been good to me. I have a lot of people who care about me here...at least, I did."
All at once, Harry frowned. He wasn't sure if that was true, anymore. He'd considered the Weasleys family, at one time, but now he was afraid that he'd all but severed that tie. Hagrid, one of his closest friends, was so loyal to Dumbledore that Harry would never even consider bringing his concerns to him. Sirius was about the only person he had left who Harry was sure would be loyal to him – and with his godfather in hiding, it was difficult at best to communicate with him.
"You did?" Fleur laid a hand on top of his; her skin was warm. "What 'appened?"
"I..." Harry sighed, tearing his gaze away from Fleur to look up at the rigging of Durmstrang's ship. "I'd rather not talk about it. It will work itself out, it always does."
"But zis time is different," Fleur prompted, her pale eyes searching Harry's intently. "I can see it. Why?"
"It's just...big," Harry said, groping for words. "Bigger than anything I've ever dealt with. And I have to deal with it alone."
"You are 'Arry Potter," Fleur chided him gently, her hand slipping into his. "You never 'ave to be alone if you don't want to be. People flock to you – zey're drawn to you. Even dragons. If you need aid – all you 'ave to do is look in ze right place, and allies will always be zere."
Harry was silent for a time as he thought on that. She may have been right; yet he couldn't deny the fact that he'd been losing allies left and right ever since he'd found out the truth about Albus Dumledore. Yet, perhaps he hadn't been looking in the right places. Since he'd been introduced to the wizarding world, Harry had been surrounded by the people that Dumbledore had chosen – people loyal to him. Maybe all he had to do was look for help among those who already had a reason to distrust the venerable headmaster.
"Yeah," Harry said slowly. For the first time in weeks, he felt a tiny ray of hope pierce his black mood. "Maybe you're right."
"Of course I am," Fleur preened, but her vanity was tempered with a small smile. "You're a strange boy, 'Arry. Why must you take ze weight of ze world unto your own shoulders?"
"It just doesn't seem like anyone else will do it," Harry shrugged. "And I can't just let things...happen. If I see chance to make things better then I have to take it."
"Zat is what makes you noble," Fleur said. She lifted her hand to his cheek, the touch of her warm skin sending tingles throughout Harry's entire body. "It is why you saved my dear Gabrielle."
"I just did what anyone would have done," Harry insisted.
"No," Fleur countered firmly. "Viktor did not. Cedric did not. Zey thought only of zeir own success. Only you cared for ze innocents."
"They were the smart ones, anyway." Harry said with a self-deprecating smirk. "I should have known that they would have been safe."
"You do not take risks with people's lives," Fleur said. "And ze warning in ze egg was dire. You did ze right thing, 'Arry."
"Well...I'm glad I could." Harry said. He was starting to feel quite uncomfortable with all of the attention Fleur was giving him.
"You know, I never got to thank you," Fleur said, lowering her eyes to where her hand was still intertwined with Harry's. When she met his gaze again, there was something alluring there. "Properly, I mean."
"Oh, you don't have to - " Harry was suddenly having difficulty speaking.
"You don't want me to thank you?" Fleur asked. Her free hand lifted to Harry's chin, and with the lightest touch she drew him in.
Kissing Fleur was altogether different from kissing Hermione, or even Death. Fleur was confident, urgent, even demanding. She kissed him hungrily, open-mouthed, and the moment that their lips touched Harry was hers. There was none of the comfort that he felt with Hermione, none of the warm familiarity or easy intimacy. Fleur was dangerous and new, exciting and terrifying. In her grasp he was an animal, acting only on basic instinct.
They pawed at each others bodies, divesting one another of their clothes with the sort of haste that only lust can impart. Her body was perfect; smooth and pale in the thin moonlight, and as Harry's hands traced her every curve he slowly forgot about anything that existed outside of that embrace. He didn't care if it was just Fleur's veela charm, or if he was simply lonely and searching for any kind of companionship that he could find – he didn't care, in that moment, that he was betraying Hermione. All he cared about was the feeling of Fleur's body beneath his.
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The next morning dawned rather early for Harry's liking. He would have liked to fall asleep, naked next to Fleur on the shores of the Great Lake, but the risks were too great for both of them. They had parted reluctantly just as the faint streaks of red began to appear in the sky, both uttering promises that they would meet again. Yet despite the bliss of that perfect night, Harry awoke hating himself.
He had betrayed Hermione; there was no way around that fact in his mind. Never mind that he had felt betrayed first, never mind that she had hurt him worse than he'd ever been hurt – it was wrong. The wrongness of it settled on him like a mantle, somehow more burdensome than the weight of all the troubles that Harry had to face. This was personal, a direct result of his actions, and from the moment he awoke it began to crush him.
"Good morning, Harry." Death was sitting at the foot of his bed, watching him as her finger traced little patterns on his quilt.
"Morning," Harry said, fighting off the fog of sleep.
"I...saw you last night." Death said at once, not meeting his gaze. "With Fleur. I didn't watch...but, I saw you."
"Oh," Harry felt like his heart had become frozen in his chest. "Um. I..."
"I thought you said that you only do that with Hermione?" Death asked. There was no judgment in her voice, no accusation – just a kind of morose curiosity.
"I do – I mean, I'm supposed to. It's...it's complicated, I - "
"You just said that because you didn't want to kiss me again," she interrupted. She lifted her gaze to meet his, eerie white eyes searching his. "Didn't you?"
"No," Harry said, suddenly defensive. "No – I just made a mistake last night. You can't tell Hermione, OK?"
Death simply looked at him, and then she was gone.
Harry ventured into the common room reluctantly, not eager to start his day in the slightest. He'd already decided that he'd skip breakfast – he didn't want to risk seeing Hermione there, or anyone else for that matter. If he'd had his way, he would simply crawl back into bed and stay there until everything sorted itself out – but that didn't seem like a very viable solution in his mind, attractive though it might have been.
"McGonagall was looking for you," Hermione's voice nearly made Harry yelp – she was ensconced in one of the large armchairs, her form hidden from him. "She said...she said that Dumbledore wanted to see you in his office."
Hermione turned to look at him, leaning around the back of the armchair. Her eyes were red, and Harry immediately knew that she'd been crying. Seeing her upset was a vice that was slowly squeezing his heart – and knowing that what he had done would crush her only squeezed it tighter. It was a moment before he even realized what she'd said, and when the words finally hit his brain he felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.
"Oh," Harry said. There wasn't much else to say.
"Don't go," Hermione pleaded. "Don't. Just – run away, hide with your aunt and uncle, go find Sirius – please, I don't want - "
"Hermione," Harry cut in, speaking as calmly as he could manage. "Relax. He is not going to kill me right here in the middle of the school. That's not how he works. I'll be fine."
All at once, Hermione threw herself at him, clutching him so tightly that he thought his spine might crack. Her whole body shook as she wept into his chest. Harry felt like an imposter as he held her – some vile creature who had stolen Harry Potter's skin to trick Hermione. It made him feel like he needed a wash, as if he could cleanse his sins from his very skin.
"Be careful," She whispered, and when she finally let him go she was wiping at her eyes with the sleeve of her robe. "Please, please, be careful."
"I will," Harry said.
He had a long time to think on the way to Dumbledore's office. His first thoughts were those of defense – how he might thwart an attempt by Dumbledore to take his life. Harry had to laugh out loud, at that – the mere thought of crossing wands with the greatest wizard who ever lived was simply absurd. No, if Dumbledore wished to murder Harry right in the middle of the school, there was very little that he could do about it.
He didn't believe he would, however. Harry knew Dumbledore rather well – and the more he thought about it, the more Dumbledore's terrible secret lined up with what he'd already known. Dumbledore was a schemer, a man who valued a cunning plan over brute strength. There were a million ways to dispose of Harry that would never implicate the headmaster, and Harry firmly believed that Dumbledore would have picked any one of them ahead of simple murder. By the time Harry arrived at the gargoyle sentinels that stood watch over the Headmaster's office, all he felt was curiosity.
He spoke the password and ascended the staircase. He'd done it many times before, of course, and in a strange way this time felt no different. No matter how fond he'd once been of his headmaster, there was always a certain sense of trepidation when Harry entered his office. Every time he'd been there, something grave had either happened or was about to happen. In that, this instance was par for the course.
He found Dumbledore seated at his desk, scratching at an unrolled parchment with an absurdly large quill. When he saw Harry enter, he looked up at him over his half-moon spectacles and smiled. The old wizard laid down his quill, and for a moment Harry was struck by how familiar he was – the very picture of the kind headmaster who'd always been there for Harry. When Dumbledore drew his wand, Harry tensed – but then he set it down at the edge of his desk and leaned back, placing the Elder Wand out of his reach.
"Hello, Harry," Dumbleore said with all the gravity one would expect if they'd passed one another in the corridor. "Please, sit down."
Harry sat, his eyes darting to the wand that lay between them.
"Relax," Dumbledore said, smiling that same kindly smile that he always did. "I did not ask you here to duel you."
"That's a relief," Harry said drily.
"I asked you here so that we could talk." Dumbledore picked up a jar from the corner of his desk, opened the lid, and offered the contents to Harry. "Chocolate frog?"
"Why not?" Harry asked. He took one of the squirming, enchanted chocolates and popped it into his mouth.
"If it tastes funny...just ignore it." Dumbledore smiled at the alarmed look on Harry's face. "That was a joke, Harry."
"Funny," Harry said. "Can we just...get on with it, headmaster?"
"Very well," Dumbledore sighed, and leaned back in his chair once more. "You're right, of course, Harry. About everything."
"So you're admitting that you're a dark wizard?" Harry asked, swallowing the last of the wriggling chocolate.
"Well," Dumbledore pursed his lips. "I wouldn't call myself a dark wizard, exactly. My intentions are pure. But – it's semantics, of course. I am plotting to seize control of both the Ministry and muggle governments all over the world, with the ultimate aim of installing a system of magical rule over the entire human population."
"Why?" Harry asked, frowning.
"Progress." Dumbledore said simply tenting his fingers. "Did you know that the Muggles actually put a man on the moon? Several of them, in fact. They flew there in something called a rocking ship."
"A rocket," Harry corrected with a frown. "And they did that in 1969. What's your point?"
"Imagine where we could go if that – rocket – was powered by magic. Imagine what wondrous discoveries wizards could make if we weren't preoccupied with hiding from Muggles. Humanity would be unstoppable, Harry – the things we would build, the power we would wield. It would be a new golden age, peace and prosperity all over the globe, united under one common goal."
"It's a nice idea," Harry said, frowning. "But that's not what you're doing. You're creating war – people are dying – so that you can take over. That's not peace, that's murder."
"Yes," Dumbledore admitted, his voice grave. "People have died. More people will die – many, many more. Do you know why I encouraged Tom Riddle to follow the path that led him to become Lord Voldemort?"
"Because you want to take over the muggle governments using the Frownden Act," Harry said, unable to keep the smugness from his voice.
"My, you are well-informed." Dumbledore smiled at him, the proud smile of a teacher whose favorite pupil had just impressed them. "You are half-correct, Harry. You see, when people are at peace – and I'm talking about a lot of people, like a whole country – they grow stagnant. They find reasons to fight one another and halt progress. It is only in adversity – when people can see a common threat – that they truly band together and achieve great things."
"So you're – what?" Harry could feel his voice rising. "You're starting a war so that people will band together? That's absurd."
"Have you heard of the second world war, Harry?"
"Of course I have," Harry scowled. "It was probably the worst thing that ever happened."
"No," Dumbledore corrected. "It was the best thing. The muggles nearly tore themselves apart fighting one another – but it brought so many together. It ended a time of crushing poverty that had swept the globe. And even after the war, it led to competition between the States and Russia that, ultimately, spurred the muggles to go to the moon. That war brought humanity together in a way that we've never seen before."
"But what's your plan?" Harry said with a frown. "Use Voldemort as an excuse to take control of the muggles, and then what – start a war with them, too?"
"Not quite." Dumbledore smiled again. "I'll try to simplify it – it's quite a complicated plan, you see – but Voldemort is just the first step. With him as a threat, the Ministry of Magic can take control of Muggle Britain. Covertly, at first, of course; but with a few key Muggles under the Imperius curse, we'll have things running our way in no time."
"And then?"
"And then the real fight begins. Using the armies of Muggle Britain, we spark a conflict unlike this world has ever seen. A conflict that will push us over the precipice, and into greatness."
"So you set up World War III...millions of people will die. Hundreds of millions."
"Muggles," Dumbledore said, though his voice was not unsympathetic. "Yes. Wizards will be protected from the fighting, as will talented muggles – scientists, and so forth. Those that die will give their lives to propel mankind into a golden age of peace and advancement. We must break the world to fix it, Harry – that is a burden I am prepared to shoulder."
"And what happens when this new war ends?" Harry said, suddenly seeing a flaw in his plan. "Start a new one? Do it all over again?"
"At the end of the war, wizardkind will hold dominion over the globe." He explained, smiling softly. "No more hiding. Every man, woman and child will benefit from magic, and every wizard will benefit from muggle technology. The best of both worlds, united. Like a phoenix, our world will rise from the ashes of war reborn."
"Why are you telling me this?" He asked after a moment of consideration.
"Because I want you to help me," Dumbledore said simply. "I want you to stand at my side when I usher in this new age. And when I'm gone, I want you to continue my work. That is what I've always wanted, Harry. From the moment you threw a wrench into my plans by defeating Lord Voldemort, I knew it had to be you."
Harry opened his mouth to speak, but Dumbledore held up his hand for silence.
"Don't answer now. Think about it. I never meant for you to find out this early in your life, but I am pleased to say that I underestimated your resourcefulness." Dumbledore smiled again, beaming proudly. "Think about it, and return to me with your answer. Take as long as you need, Harry."
Harry left the headmaster's office in something of a daze. He had to admit that Dumbledore's plan had a certain appeal. He had said that he wanted to break the world in order to fix it – manufacture not one war but two, create death on a scale that the world had never seen. Could it be worth it? Harry tried to imagine a limit on what mankind might accomplish if wizards and muggles worked together towards a common goal, and came up blank. No illness would be incurable, no star too distant – they would be like gods.
Yet even as Harry mulled this over, he was moving. He had a destination, someone that he knew would listen to him. Someone who may even help him. Fleur had been right about on thing – Harry had been looking for aid in the wrong places, and if he had to swallow his pride to build his army, he would do it. He found Draco Malfoy lounging at the Slytherin table, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle as usual. The white-haired boy sneered as he approached, elbowing Goyle to make sure his henchmen was glowering appropriately.
"Wrong table, Potter." Draco spat, glaring at Harry as though he were a piece of dung stuck to his shoe.
"We need to talk, Malfoy." Harry said, swallowing heavily. "In private."
