"We're going to have to find another means of getting our point across," I mention to Kingsley, leaning forward to pour him some more tea.
"oh yes?"
"There is only so long that Xenophilius can continue publishing the truth before some Ministry flunky gets him. We have to provide accurate and unbiased information around the clock. When publishing through Xeno no longer becomes viable, we have to find an alternative."
He puts the tips of his fingers together in thought, just the way that Albus used to.
"The only really public information service other than by published word is of course the radio."
"Radio." I whisper to myself. Of course. The more I think about it, the better it is. "You must speak on it Kingsley. This is vital- when all this is over, after we win, your voice will be famous! You'll be a hero and extremely useful!"
The last three words are entirely unintentional. Kingsley looks up, almost bemused.
"Extremely useful?"
"I mean... you'll be a boon to our side. You will be... an important part of... just plans."
He still doesn't look convinced of my honesty and I don't blame him.
"We need a name for this pirate radio station," I say, quick to change the subject. "It should definitely be more blatant in its support of Harry Potter, we need to up the game. Something something Potter."
"Potterwatch," he says after a minute's contemplation. "I think that would do nicely."
"It would. Like we're watching over Potter, as his guardian angels or something. Potterwatch. Very good then, Potterwatch it is. Now, we need to recruit people to help us run it. Order members preferably. We will need inventive minds to help us get on the radio wavelength."
"Fred and George Weasley," Kingsley says without hesitation.
"Good choice. I shall supply the information for your broadcasts and when the documents have run their course, I shall seek out news myself."
"You do realise how risky that is. The longer you are out in the open, the more likely it is that you will be found, tortured and killed."
I pause, teapot still in hand. "It is imperative that whatever the social situation, the news comes through. If we cannot tell the truth from a lie we are truly lost. If I die while out scouting for information, the loss is the information I have gathered that never was reported, not me."
"Shouldn't you prefer to tell you the news? You, who has so many opinions?"
"It is you they shall remember, Kingsley. Not me. I will stay the way I am, behind the stage, rolling the curtain and dancing to my own tune. I used to wish to be remembered, to be famous. But I have learned that it can often be far better to work unknown, to pull the strings of the stage myself. I will carry out my plans, you shall carry out yours. But the greatest glory is not boasted of, not blasted out with trumpets. The greatest glory is the kind that flames inside, that does not fade when the celebrations are over and the players are dead. The greatest glory goes unseen, but never dies."
1st December
I pace up and down the corridor, unable to occupy my mind with anything. Painting is fruitless, every brush stroke just feels empty, every line with a pencil simply morphs into a word.
I look back through old photographs, old diary entries, every memory I can. Their faces all come back; my mother, Albus, Scrimgeour, Moody, Cedric Diggory, Sirius, Tom, Joan, Jaina, Alysha, Branwell- even Broderick Bode makes an appearance. The path down Memory Lane is wraught with danger and fear. What did I do for them, really? Apart from stand back and watch them die?
The concept of Potterwatch does make me feel stronger somehow, like something is happening, going somewhere other than down. But for more, it doesn't feel enough. Certainly not enough to atone for all my mistakes. I am dogged by the urge, the inexplicable desire to help people. Maybe by helping people I can help myself.
Words. What Albus had faith in, always. Words would prevail with him, not wands. I've misused magic in my time and it has caused irreparable damage. But words will be my way to heal.
So I write. Not just in my diary, but whatever I can, whenever and however.
I start to receive letters, forwarded to me by Kingsley, from people all across the country. People who've lost relatives to the Death Eaters, people who are alone and just want someone to talk to, people living in fear or uncertainty. Pureblood, halfblood, squib or muggle born, I read them all. A morning's worth of letters, an afternoon scouting for news ready for the evening broadcasts. With a continual cycle of work the weeks blur into each other, drumming out the memories resurfacing like corks. Most nights I am too tired to dream. Work distracts from the yawning emptiness of having no money, no prospects. By burying myself in every useful occupation I can find, I forestall plans for the future. They can wait until the time is right.
Kingsley understands my letter writing. He knows I need a tangible way of helping people, not just distantly. He advertises my services as a "professional talker" and thanks to him my inbox steadily piles up.
I have yet to reward him for all he has done for me, but in time I will. I will give him the greatest reward I know.
Christmas Day 1997
Early in the morning, I switch on the light and bring out my photograph of Adelaide as a baby from under my pillow. In this light, I can't see the picture very clearly, but I don't have to. I carry the photograph near my heart everyday and bring it out whenever everything gets too much.
I roll over in my bed and cough over the side. Stupid cough, I've had it for a month now and it still won't go away. I drank almost an entire bottle of cough syrup yesterday and it did absolutely nothing.
It is around half past eleven when I have the vision. I was feeling a bit lightheaded and had made my way to the kitchen to fetch one of the mince pies Kingsley brought me when it comes.
It is the same one I had the night Adelaide was born. But just as it reaches its usual ending, it changes. The clouds recede, the blood fades into the river, the tears soak into the ground and spring new life in their wake. The chessboard shatters, black and white squares flying everywhere. And alone on the chessboard stands the last pawn, with the king lying at its feet. The last pawn, triumphant.
Neither can live while the other survives.
But who is the pawn and who the king?
This is the beginning of the end.
OK, dull chapter, but it was needed. And... less than ten chpaters to the end! more like five.