Agitated, Ron paced and paced across the suffocating strait of the dungeons, his mind racing. The Death Eaters had called for an important meeting today where all of the members were required to attend, with Voldemort himself leading it, which was fueled his anxiety in the first place. Judging by the occasional murmur of the Death Eaters, Voldemort suspected one or many of the members to be traitors, and he knew, without doubt, that the "Dark Lord" suspected him above all else. He needed to find his dad soon. If what Harry had said was true, his dad was sick. And he needed help, and soon.
But Ron didn't have a wand on him.
Around him, the moaning and pleading of the imprisoned clawed at his heart. How could he possibly leave them here, wasted and begging while he returned to the comfort of his family? Hell, how could he even leave Harry here? No wonder Harry had changed so much. With a dark and musty place like this, what sane person wouldn't succumb to insanity? But where was Harry, anyway? Was he in trouble? Ron remembered leaving him to deal with Voldemort . . . then a horrifying thought crossed him.
With Voldemort still here, did that mean . . .
Was Harry–dead?
But no, that didn't make sense. Harry was famous both amongst the ranks of the Death Eaters as well as the Order of the Phoenix. No, he would've heard if Harry was in trouble, or even . . . outright dying.
Ron shook his head. He didn't want to think about it.
Breathing deeply, he stowed painful thoughts of Hermione and his kids away and turned to tread deeper into the dungeons, his eyes skittering quickly for any vacant cell. He didn't want to glance too hard at the prisoners, but he did catch glimpses every now and then: of sunken eyes, sallow and rotting skin, people clawing at their heads, some screaming their vocal cords dry. Most of them were middle-aged men, but he did occasionally catch a glimpse of a woman. But to his relief, there were no children.
But his dad . . . Did his dad somehow share the same distraught disposition as the prisoners? The thought made him feel nauseous, and a prickling feeling settled into his lungs. That bastard . . . He would rip that imposter apart for what he had done, if he so much as touched his dad!
Ron looked around, his searching slowly hastening–restless and desperate. He remembered, Harry had said that his father was under the Invisibility Cloak. He started hurling doors open, sticking his head for quick peeks, vaguely avoiding the Dementors in his tracks. He didn't want to know, but at the same time, he yearned to know. Finally, he reached the end of the dungeons far off from the Dementors and clicked it open. With trepidation and apprehension in his gait, some instinctual feeling told him that he had arrived.
Slowly, he approached, his heart leaping to his throat in fearful anticipation. Harry hadn't wanted to tell him what had happened to his father since Ron had needed to concentrate on saving the Order. That meant that it must've bad–horrible! Sinking to his knees, Ron reached a hand out. And it collided with something. Swallowing, his teeth clenched so hard that it hurt, he ripped the Invisibility Cloak off of the sprawled figure on the ground, and his heart lurched like a hoard of sea slugs.
"Dad?" he breathed, horrified.
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
Gellert Grindewald becomes Minister of Magic!
Briand Highwind
The previously appointed Minister of Magic, also known as the now resigned Head of the Auror Department, Rufus Scrimgeour, has announced his resignation last night, citing "personal troubles" and "family matters" as reason for this abrupt shift. This was announced last week, following the arrest of Harry Potter, also known as the Boy-Who-Lived or You-Know-Who's second in command (see pg. 4).
Gellert Grindewald, known for his infamous defeat at the hands of Albus Dumbledore in the First Wizarding War, announced his succession to the public last night following the massive outbreak of, what is formally known, as the Living Dead sickness, which is claimed by formal Ministry officials as a disease caused by Muggles, but can be transmitted by blood-to-blood contact as well as injection. This sickness causes the victims to share the characteristics and traits of the Dementor as well as the ability to administer the most potent and dreaded Dementor's Kiss. For more information on how to detect these individuals, see the pamphlet attached.
The outbreak of the disease was claimed to have started following the recent attack on Fraisdaill Village (see pg. 3). According to the Head of the Auror Department, Gawain Robards, a nefarious group known as the Order of the Phoenix, founded by the revered Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Albus Wulfric Dumbledore, claimed responsibility for poisoning the water with Draught of Living Death, a concoction which is widely known for causing permanent sleep if the dose is large enough. "By the time we arrived at the scene," said the Head Auror, Gawain Robards, "the entire village had already fallen dormant, the only survivors were the ones inflicting physical harm to both themselves and others and were immediately transferred to the Mental Ward in St. Mungos." The Aurors later investigated the Order Headquarters and found a stash of phials containing that the Draught of Living Death, most of which were confiscated for further investigation.
The rest of these victims, mainly the survivors, were transferred to the Department of Mysteries for further research on how to resuscitate these victims. After much deliberation, Gellert Grindewald, who was once renowned for his work as an Unspeakable, was called to assist the matter by Rufus Scrimgeour. The effort proved to be a success, and the victims were resuscitated and sent to re-assimiliate back with society with no consequences at all. This is, indeed, proof that even the worst of us are capable of redemption. Grindewald was even deemed by former Minister of Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour, as a "devastatingly misunderstood" figure, and that the people "ought to be glad" that the new Minister is a "honest" and "determined" man. We, the Daily Prophet Correspondents, congratulate Gellert Grindewald on his inauguration.
Next page: Attack on Diagon Alley: is the Order of the Phoenix responsible?
Incensed, Ginny slammed the paper on the scratched wooden surface of the table, trying to quell the feeling of disgust twisting in her guts. How could anyone possibly believe the perfidy of these claims? Sure, there was no evidence over who or what had poisoned the water in Fraisdaill Village with the Draught of Living Death or who had been responsible for burning it since there was no witnesses save for the 'accused,' but that didn't mean they had any basis for blaming the "nefarious" Order. Much less Dumbledore. Surely after incarcerating Grindewald, the next most dangerous man after Tom Riddle, he had proven his probity. But no, people now seemed to be sympathising with Grindewald rather than against him. They seemed so desperate for a strong and level-headed ruler that they actually bought into all the rubbish that Grindewald spouted about being a "redeemed man."
Hanging her head in her hands, she expelled a wisp of her stress, although the weight was unbearable. Just last week, her brother, Ron, and her father had been announced missing, or, as Dumbledore had told them, that Harry had ensured that they were still alive, but they still hadn't arrived. And with Harry threatened to receive the Dementor's Kiss, there was no way of knowing just what sort of rigmarole that her father and brother had induced just by being with Voldemort. There was no doubt where they were, and every second, every minute, that they were gone sent the quivers undulating under her skin. Her family was in trouble, and she had no way of contacting them. She didn't even have the strength to comfort her utterly distraught mother. Much less . . . Hannah. It had been difficult to divulge to the tender Hufflepuff just what had happened to her husband and who exactly was involved . . . Ginny hadn't checked up on the girl since Dumbledore had privately cornered her.
Ginny shook her head. She didn't want to think about that. It was bad enough hearing it last week. Right now, she needed to focus on how to get Ron and her father back, but with Harry's arrest . . . there was no way of knowing where they were. Heaving a sigh, she looked around. She was sitting in a dim corner of the Leaky Cauldron with her hands curled around a mug of butterbeer, on watch for any suspicious backstabbers. Ever since the attack last week, the bustle of Diagon Alley had mitigated dramatically as if someone had invited a hoard of Dementors in. There had been no evidence to who was responsible, though Dumbledore suspected that it was the Aurors since Death Eaters would have been immediately reported. But there was no telling for sure. Most witnesses had reported the suspects to be regular civilians, or, at least, dressed like it.
Impatient, Ginny started to tap her fingers against the chipped wooden surface of the table, pointedly ignoring the stares from the other side of the room. Her eyes darted over the dim and disheveled setting, her mind shrouded with thought. There was flimsy attempts at conversation throughout the place, but as fast as it started, it quickly subsided into silent contemplation. All around her were pale, withdrawn individuals, some with their head in their hands. In the corner, his face planted against the window near him, was, what seemed like a deranged, young man, who would collapse into forced chuckles every minute, almost like it was routine thing, even though there wasn't anything around him to laugh about. And it unnerved Ginny to her core. The place was very dark; the night dominating. She reckoned that there wasn't as much people as before since most people were too afraid to come here after that attack last week.
Many shops had either been ransacked or destroyed, not quite the buildings, but the gases that were expelled in there prevented people from entering. Whoever had done it had been subtle and silent. Nothing was outright destroyed. Instead, it had been discreet. Someone had set off Garrotting Gas in Gringotts, had poisoned the drinks of Ollivander's. Not to mention, there was a large amount of disappearance in the area. People lured into corners by, what they presumed, were potential dates, only to find themselves trapped in Death's embrace. Only, what seemed like, insignificant shops like Eeylops Owl Emporium, and even Fred and George's were ignored. Anything that contained school material were prohibited from entry, since they were deemed "dangerous" by the Aurors.
"Oi!" called a voice from the other end of the bar.
Bolstered from her trance, Ginny looked up. Near Tom the barman, who shot her a rather a sympathetic look, there was a rather drunken man leaning against the counter, his chair tilting back, a stubble on his face. He looked twice her age.
"What's a bird like you doing out on your own? Got a bloke?"
"Oh, shove off, will you?" snapped Ginny.
Taking the hint to depart, she stood up, adjusted her dark cloak around her shoulders, slammed a tip on the table, drew her hood over her head and stalked out of the bar, ignoring the cat-calls behind her.
As soon as she stepped out, a biting wind seized her lungs. Almost immediately, she felt as if she had been drenched in ice, a glacier of hopelessness settling deep in her gut. Her breaths escaped her lips like a trapped prisoner, even though it wasn't snowing. There was a large, opaque mist ahead of her as she traipsed down the row of shops. Everything felt dreary and cold; she could vaguely see figures through the mist, though they looked like ghosts with their absurdly wide eyes, peering almost into nothingness. Many people were sprawled along the walls, with their head in their hands, moaning and groaning, like they had a bad headache or something. Ginny blanched at the sight of one of the men crouched near the corner besides Gambol and Japes, his arms wrapped tightly around his waist, his groans droning in the quiet night. His lips were as black as charcoal.
Disturbed, Ginny hastened her pace. There was no moon tonight. Shivering, her teeth clattering, she drew her cloak closer to her petite frame in a fruitless effort to regain a modicum of warmth. But the coldness didn't seem to come from the weather. If anything, it seemed to have ensconced inside of her, as if her heart had been sealed in an ice chamber. Her nails turned blue, her hands and face almost stone with the chill of the air. She wondered where the Aurors were. Weren't they supposed to be patrolling the place, or was it really as Dumbledore said it? Were they really traitors? She hastily chanced a glance back only to hit something solid in front of her that knocked her right off her feet. She landed on the cobblestone path with a plonk.
"Oh, hello there, miss."
Ginny snapped her head up. Standing with a yellow umbrella and bright yellow robes was a man around her age, with sandy brown hair and wide, child-like hazel eyes. He was looking down at her with a bright, cheery look, seemingly unaffected by his gloomy surroundings.
"Er–hi," she greeted lamely. Ignoring the outstretched hand, she stood up and dusted off her robes, trying to quell her swelling irritation. "Don't apologise or anything," she added, disgruntled.
"It's a nice day, isn't it?" he said brightly, his eyes glowing like Christmas lights.
Ginny paused. She shot him a strange look, looking as though she expected horns to sprout out of his head. There was something eerie about his large, toothy grin. It didn't reach his eyes. If Ginny was honest with her herself, his overly blithe disposition seemed rather . . .
Fake.
"Er–" she said uncertainly. "Is it?"
As if addressing a silly child, he smiled and shook his head. "Oh, people are always so negative nowadays. Shame, how projecting any sort of negativity onto the world is favoured more than positivity. People should learn to appreciate the world for its simplicity. If the world is still spinning, is that not positive enough?"
"Well . . . I . . ." she shifted on her feet, not knowing why he felt the need to share that with her. "I suppose . . ."
Finally, he nodded and swept past her without another glance. "Good day to you, miss."
Ginny wanted to return the gesture, but her mouth felt as ineffective as a tree stump at the moment. Besides, he seemed to be having a good day as it was. Her eyes followed him until he was completely enveloped by the mist before she turned to traipse onward, reminding herself to be extra vigilant.
'What was that?' Ginny thought, baffled.
She continued to walk down the row of shops, her feet squelching against the drenched terrain. Throwing a hasty glance at her watch, she deduced that it was half past midnight. She still had another quarter of an hour of patrol. At the thought, she felt a sting of guilt in her chest, remembering how her mother clung to her before she left, begging her not to go looking for trouble. But Ginny was determined. She couldn't stay in one place. Her entire family was involved in the war, she couldn't just sit back and let it all happen. She wanted to help, too.
Suddenly, Ginny stilled. Behind her, there was a faint weeping sound coming from the doorways of one of the shops. With a jolt, she realised that it was Obscurus Books, a popular book publisher, that had stopped publishing after its owner, Felix Faust, was found horribly disfigured by the Transmogrifian Torture; distraught more over his work than himself, the man still lingered there, haunting the place as a ghost.
Drawing her wand, she hurried over to the shop. As she drew closer, the weeping amplified, and Ginny was reminded unpleasantly of Moaning Myrtle. She climbed the short steps and peered through the aloft door, finding a faint light coming from inside.
"Hello?"
Her voice echoed back to her in the silence. Her wand arm outstretched, she illuminated the tip and stepped inside the shop and looked around, the smell of dust overwhelming her nose. Pages from torn books were sprawled everywhere, piled on top of tables, counters, even the wooden floor. Chairs were overturned behind the corners, chipped and blackened. Bookcases were knocked on top of each other, leaning heavily against the walls. Windows were broken, indicating some sort of squabble or robbery, Ginny inferred. All in all, the place was very grey and disheveled. She gingerly picked up on of the torn books on the floor and flipped hastily through it. That is, until one of the pages practically bellowed at her to shut the book.
"Shit," she cursed, her ears ringing. Startled, she quickly slammed the book shut, which, much to her irritation, blew a cloud of dust in her face.
And she cursed again.
But suddenly, there was a faint rustle behind her, and she quickly perked up. She whipped around, her wand aloft, scanning the room for the source of the sound. There was a faint light coming from a small room in the corner that looked something like a broom shed. Cursing Dumbledore for once again for letting her get involved with a hoard of nutty morons, she tentatively approached it, the weeping sound amplifying. It sounded like someone was breathing in short gasps, like their breath was being constrained or something.
She inched forward, expecting a hoard of Death Eaters. Her other hand was deep in her robe pocket, her fingers curled around the Dark Detector in her pocket. It didn't seem to react, which indicated that there wasn't any Dark wizards around, but that didn't alleviate her fear. Not with the sound of glass crashing from inside the doorway. Her chest constrained with fear, but she quickly brushed it aside, and approached, her inner qualms swelling. As she rounded the corner, however, she stilled at the sight. A middle-aged woman, her cheeks stained with tears, was crouched under a large oak table, her arms enveloped with two small children, a boy and a girl, that couldn't be older than five years. Above her was, what seemed like a deranged man, slamming bottle after bottle onto the table, leaving shards of glass shattering against the table.
"Oh, p-please help me," whimpered the woman, hugging her children closer to her chest. "please, my husband's trying to kill me!"
Snapping out of her trance, Ginny quickly strode forward and caught the man's arm, trying to stop him from hurling glass at his family. His hands and arms were bleeding, his skin littered with glass shards. His hair was untidy, his glasses cracked and lopsided. But the latter was of burlier stature than her, and quickly jerked his arm from beneath her grip.
"Oi," said Ginny loudly. "what do you think you're doing?" She quickly pointed her wand at his head, ready to stun him if necessary.
"They're demons–!" he shouted, his wand arm shaking uncontrollably. "Death Eaters –!" He was blinking rapidly, as if dispelling a distasteful image from his mind.
"Are you mad?" demanded Ginny, standing in front of the trembling mother. "They're just kids. What could they possibly do to you?"
"Inferi–devils–Dementors–oh, God, help me–"
Ginny's head was spinning. The man didn't seem to see the family. It was like he was in his own world, as if he was projecting onto his family what he was seeing in his own mind. Judging by his anguished expression, he didn't seem to want to hurt them. Was he Bewitched, or perhaps under the Imperius Curse? But victims under the Imperius never hesitated to cast a spell. She looked at him, ambivalent towards her next move. What could she do, Confund him, Stun him, perhaps? Regardless, she didn't want to take the chance.
She moved forward in front of the wand, blocking him from his family. "Hey, just put the wand down, okay? You don't want to hurt them. Just tell me what happened–"
"Stay back, demon!" he shouted, his wand positioned at her chest. Behind her, the whimpers of the children amplified, and she gained the courage to point her wand at him.
"All right, I'm really sorry about this, but–Stupefy!"
The man crashed into the wall and slumped unconscious. Breathing heavily, she looked around, trying to find the source of his insanity, but there didn't seem to be anything unusual. Then she turned on her heels and crouched under the table with a hand outstretched.
"It's safe to come out now," she said, trying to pry loose the mother's clinging fingers from her son. "Here, let me help."
With gentle prodding, she finally extracted the little boy from his mother and carried him out, leaving the mother more room to maneuver. The girl clung to her mother's cloak and kept throwing terrified glances at her father. But finally, they were all standing outside of the broom closet, looking at the slumped figure on the floor.
"He's been acting like this ever since we came back from Fortescue's," explained the woman, her body still wracking with sobs. "All I did was ask him about his work, and he started shouting and threw me through the window, I don't know what's happened. He's never been like this before."
Ginny rubbed the woman's arm, not entirely sure how to comfort her. "Look, if this happens again, just call the Aur–" she paused and inwardly grimaced at the thought. "Bugger. I mean, just strap him to a wall or a bed or something or just leave him here until he's calmed down. You've got a wand on you, haven't you?"
"Of course."
"Right, then," said Ginny, wrapping her cloak around herself again. "I've got to head off. Just shout for Tom if you get into any more trouble, he's at the Leaky Cauldron. He'll be happy to help. Take care of yourself, won't you?"
The woman's bottom lip trembled, but she still managed a small smile. Her arms were wrapped around her children, who gave Ginny timid yet grateful looks from beside their mother.
"Thank you."
Ginny forced a smile, though the muscles at her cheek felt tight. With a backwards wave, she thrust open the door and practically scrambled outside, expelling a sharp breath when she was completely out of sight. She didn't realise she had been holding it in for that long. What the hell was going on? Diagon Alley didn't even closely resemble the bright and bustling place that she had visited years ago. It had been warm and inviting, but now it was shrouded in gloom and mystery and . . . peculiarity. Sure, it was late at night, but there must be at least one sane person around this area. She felt like she was the only Healer in a mental hospital. Everything seemed forced and fake and unusual. Hurriedly glancing at her watch, she realised sourly that her shift had ended hours ago.
Sighing in frustration, she stomped down the cobblestone street, determined to ignore any idiot who passed her. That is, until she slammed right into a solid figure, repelling her slightly. But the latter caught her wrists and prevented from falling down–
Again!
She supposed that she had finally contracted the pestilential nutty syndromes of Diagon Alley, too. She was literally stumbling on everything. Or maybe she was just having a bad day, she didn't know. Regardless, she stowed those thoughts away and turned to thank her "saviour," but as soon as she lifted her head, her face drained of all colour. He was cold. The man's hand that was holding her wrist were like blocks of ice around her skin. His lips and fingernails were pitch black, and his breath billowed out like steam from his mouth, that none of the other residents seemed to share. Looking down, she spotted large black blotches near the exposed parts of his skin.
And when he spoke, his voice was raspy and hoarse.
"Hello there, miss."
She swallowed, her gaze pinned, almost rudely on the man. But she couldn't tear her gaze away from him, he was almost inhuman.
"Hello," she said flatly. Why was everyone greeting her today, of all days? They couldn't all know her, especially not with the hood of her cloak drawn.
Much to her displeasure, an ominous shiver ran up her spine as the man leaned closer, his hands tightening around her wrist. It was almost like he was leaching her confidence, leaving her to lament on her fear and misery.
Or maybe she was nutty.
"You seem like a nice young woman," he rasped, rather nonchalantly. But she struggled under his grip.
"Well-spotted," she replied dryly. She started to lean her head away when he got to close and said cuttingly. "Do you mind?"
After much wrestling, she managed to wrench herself away from his iron grip. Stepping back, she started dusting off her robes when he stepped up again, much to her irritation, even closer than before.
She threw a hasty glance at her watch, trying to create the impression that she was busy. "Look, I'm a bit in a hurry, so if you don't mind–"
"Yeah, what for?" he said, what seemed to Ginny, as feigned interest.
He leaned forward, his eyes fixed on her lips. Her frustration gurgled at the surface, she suddenly had an image of beating him over the head with a Beater's bat.
"Never you mind," she said, her insides curling with irritation. But the man leaned closer, she could almost feel his breathe on her face. "Oi, what do you think you're doing? Back off, will you?"
"You're very lovely," he said, his eyes hungrily studying her.
"Look," she said firmly, inching back and drawing her wand again. "just step back, all right?" But he ignored her. Clearly, he was looking for trouble.
"I would very much like to kiss you," he breathed, looking at her if she was a maiden sent from heaven.
"No," she said sharply. "Look, I appreciate the compliments, but I've got to head off. My husband's waiting for me."
"Just once–just a small peck–just one will do–"
"No," she said vehemently, shoving him off by the shoulders and ducking under his grip. "I said shove off."
"Oi," shouted a voice from across the street. From above the man's head, Ginny caught a glimpse of a man with a bowled hat hurrying towards her. "Get off her, you plonker!"
But before he could reach her, Ginny fired the Bat-Bogey Jinx at the man, giving her the opportunity to slip away from his grasp. She quickly turned the corner and went scurrying off to the left, throwing hasty glances behind her. But as soon as she was alone once again, she stopped and tried to catch her breath, her hands on her knees. She could hardly believe it.
What was with everyone today?
Grindewald must have stimulated everyone's nutty syndromes, leaving not humans behind him but a hoard of moronic apes that didn't know the difference between their heads from their backsides. But that man . . . he seemed strange. Sure, maybe some men didn't mind for aesthetics and cosmetics like girls do, but the colour didn't seem . . . artificial. It looked real. His lips and nails had been pitch black, along with spots along his skin. Maybe make-up explained his lips and nails, but how did that explain why his skin was shedding, or why he seemed so desperate for a Kiss, almost like a Dem . . .
'No,' she thought firmly. It can't be. Not here in Diagon Alley . . .
Right?
Stumbling on her trepidation, she drew her cloak closer and continued on, trying not to pay too much attention to the faint moaning of the residents. On the way, she could see several people sitting on the steps near the shops, some outright bawling, some looking grim and paranoid. Many of the buildings, mainly the decrepit ones, were vibrating with restriction wards, preventing anyone from entry for their own protections. From down the cobblestone path, she could see that the misshapen silhouette of Gringotts, which was also restricted from public access. But curiousity gripped Ginny. She knew that the Ministry was still trying to rectify the damage to the bank along with dealing with the hefty amounts of Garrotting Gas in there, but with almost a week passed, she wondered if any of those claims were true.
Casting a furtive glance at the building, she walked past it, resisting the urge to go in and investigate. But she had promised her mother not to go looking for trouble; she certainly didn't want her mother to be even more upset, not after what happened to Ron and her dad. Hence, she stopped near the steps Flourish and Blotts, glanced impatiently at her watch, and started to tap her feet in a futile attempt to alleviate some frustrations. She received quite a few odd and vacant looks, but none approached her. To her right, a boisterous group of young men started to swarm like moths together. But she didn't care. She was waiting for two things: the latest edition of How To Charm Your Readers and her sweet and ever so very punctual husband of hers.
But there were too many people in there, buying whatever rubbish they needed before it closed at one. Like insects, people swarmed about, shoving into each other, but she silently stepped aside and waited for the crowd to abate before she walked in. But as soon as she made the decision, the last person, a man with a bowled hat, snatched the last copy and quickly and left without a backyards glance.
And Ginny's last bit of patience snapped. "Oh, do carry on," she said, incensed. "it's not like I was standing here waiting for it for half a bloody hour. Just prance off like a bloody ponce–"
"Ginny?"
Ginny looked up. There, with his cloak hanging over his arm, was her husband, Winston Bridges, a tall, thin figure with soft, neat brown-hair that looked slightly disheveled from his obvious overwork. An amused eyebrow was raised over his brown eyes. He was dressed in dark blue robes, which seemed appropriate for his work. He looked puzzled but amused by her outburst, and Ginny resisted the urge to flush in embarrassment. She was reminded sourly of the time that they had first met, when she had tripped over a woman's cat going to an interview only to find herself drenched in a foot-full of mud in front of a particularly dashing and charismatic genteel.
"Oh," she said lamely, self-consciously adjusting her cloak. "sorry. I was just coming to get you."
He shook his head, amused. Then he turned, drew his wand from his robes and muttered a spell at the door before turning to switch the sign to "closed." Satisfied, he shrugged on his cloak, tugged on the hood, and beckoned her to start walking.
"Might try to be a bit louder next time," he joked, rubbing his hands together in a fruitless attempt to gain warmth. "the blokes down in Knockturn Alley didn't quite catch your dulcet shout–" He puffed when she elbowed him roughly.
"Oh, sod off," she muttered; she moved to stand in front of him with her hands on her hips, shooting him an expected look. "And didn't you forget something?"
"Oh, right," he sighed and shook his head. "what's the name of your Pigmy Puff?"
"Arnold. How did your first cat die?"
He grimaced at the memory. "Got swallowed by a Nogtail. Poor bugger, wish I'd kept a leash on it, but I guess it got what came to it."
Feeling a little lighter now that she had company, she accompanied him down the cobblestone path, past Gringotts, which she shot another furtive glance at, before scurrying off with him, the younger men in the back cat-calling behind her.
"Well, I hope your day's been better than mine," grumbled Ginny, pointedly glaring at the boisterous group. "I've been wrestling with a hoard of idiots all day."
"Just ignore them, Ginny," he coaxed, squeezing her hand. "those blokes can't spot seaweed in sea water."
"You're still sane, then?" she enquired. "You didn't catch the nutty symptoms of Diagon Alley, did you?"
He cocked an eyebrow, looking quite unsurprised.
"Oh, you noticed."
"Who wouldn't?" grimaced Ginny, ignoring the cat-calls from the men behind her. "I didn't think it'd change this much after one attack."
Winston glared at the men and beckoned her to speed up her pace. He then leaned closer to her ear and lowered his voice. "After what happened to Gringotts, supposedly the next most secured place after Hogwarts, I'd be surprised if it didn't."
"Didn't someone let off Garrotting Gas at the entrance?"
"Yeah. Choked the whole lot of them. Even Goblins. I don't think anyone's been there since. They hardly had time to clean up the bodies. Gave us a right scare, it did. So many people lost their families that night. You should've been there, Ginny–women and children–"
Ginny's stomach sank, her face draining of all colour at the reminder. She remembered the horrifying sights of, not only the rotting and starving bodies of the sleeping villagers in Fraisdaill Village, but also the hundreds of bodies lined up along the entrance of Gringotts, the sights forever haunting her, making it a thousand times harder to sleep at night.
She swallowed. "I know. I was there, remember? I helped them clean up, after, you know . . . that fiasco last week."
"Some clever bloke thought up the brilliant idea to blow the gas away to the section by the vaults, but it was too late. It already filled their lungs–"
But they jolted at the sudden outburst of laughter coming from the direction of Knockturn Alley. They both threw wary glances at each other before Winston silently prodded her shoulder to keep walking.
"This way," he nudged her arm towards a decrepit looking building that looked black with soot. Ginny accompanied him, suddenly feeling a lot lighter, even though the subject of the discussion was far beyond her comfort. She shot him furtive glances, noticing, rather admirably, how he didn't seem affected by the cold chill of the night. In fact, there wasn't any hint of madness or melancholy at all in his expression. Nothing short of a trace of exhaustion, which seemed well-earned in her opinion. She hadn't seen him all day. Regardless, there was a familiar sort of charisma about him that she found oddly comforting. But soon, her curiousity got the best of her.
"Where are we going?"
"Food," he yawned, stretching until his joints cracked. Ginny wanted to comment him for being shabby already, but she didn't have the will nor strength for it. "I'm famished."
Ginny threw a wary glance at her surroundings. "You're sure it's safe to eat here?"
He stilled in his tracks, following her gaze with a raised brow. "You reckon it's worth the risk?"
"So long as you're not dead, I s'pose."
"That's putting it lightly," he said distractedly.
She couldn't help but notice how suddenly pale he looked after her suggestion, but she didn't comment. Instead, she let him lead her to a dilapidated building near the outskirts of Diagon Alley called Brews and Stews, which, when she entered, had a relatively warmer yet still empty feeling since there weren't many people around. A good place to have a controversial discussion, she mused, as she chose a seat in a somewhat isolated corner and waited for him to come back.
She looked around. There was a faint laughter coming from one of the open doors behind the counters, but she couldn't tell if it was genuine or not. To her relief, there were actually hints of normality in this place, people actually engaged in discussion, their faces not quite as grim as earlier. There were even two young men playing Exploding Snap, which mitigated the tension that she had been feeling since she was been assigned to patrol the place. But soon, Winston came back, and she quickly leaned forward to vent her inner qualms.
"Did you hear?" she said a low tone, looking around for scandalmongers. "They blamed the Order for the attacks, on the pretense of working against the Ministry, and people actually believe in that soddy pile of rubbish. How can they possibly be in two places at once?"
He shrugged in blasé. "They've got enough members. I'm not justifying it," he added hastily at Ginny's dark look. "I'm just stating the obvious. They'll buy into anything as long as they know who did it."
"But–we didn't–"
"Keep your voice down," he hissed.
"Who's taking over Gringotts, then?" shot Ginny. "Is it no longer operating?"
"They've opened up a new Department in the Ministry called the Department of Finance. They're in charge of the money."
"What's the catch?"
"The Goblins cut off relations with wizards completely, and they're not discriminating between friendly wizards or Dark wizards. I mean, it's not exactly surprising considering they're not the most friendly of creatures."
"They blame the whole lot of us for the attack?"
"Yeah," he said, troubled. "Laurie Babbertott, she used to work for Gringotts as a Curse-breaker, she said they thought of it as a ruse by wizards to claim the gold for themselves."
"That's rubbish!" she slammed her palm on the table, drawing a few distasteful looks. "If we cared about the gold, we would've done it years ago."
"I know," he placated, urging her to lower her voice. "but they're greedy pigs. They'll buy into anything as long as they get their share of the gold, too. And that's not the worst part. With the Goblins gone, the Ministry's taken the rights of the vaults. And with Grindewald in office, Muggle-borns lost the rights to own any Magical or Magically related possessions, and that's including their wands. Their vaults are sealed and accessed only by the Ministry."
"But that's not–" she caught herself when he shot her a warning glance. She leaned forward and lowered her voice. "That's not fair."
"That new outbreak, Ginny," he shook his head and leaned back, looking troubled. "that Living Dead sickness or whatever they've called it. It's giving them a reason to further this treatment. No one's going to complain about the Ministry when their loved ones are getting their souls sucked out by pseudo-Dementors. They're just going to do whatever it takes to protect their families."
Ginny swallowed, suddenly feeling nauseous, the laughter in the back almost non-existent. "You don't mean–they're not seriously killing them, are they?"
"There's no way around it," he said solemnly. When she opened her mouth to retort, he added. "They're taking matters into their own hand. They think it's the Muggles causing the sickness, that's why no one's tolerating them anymore. Everyone's just starting to believe whatever hogwash Grindewald spouts at them now. Everything's gone lopsided, Ginny, not that it wasn't like this before, but it's gotten a thousand times worse since Grindewald became Minister."
A stretching silence crossed the two; neither of which knew what to say. Everything seemed so hopeless. There was hardly anyone left that could fix this fiasco, especially with two masterminds in control. There was no Aurors to alleviate the situation, no sane Minister of Magic, the Order was becoming less and less trust-worthy. People were getting killed left and right, having their souls sucked, being driven insane, being drugged or poison or even having their inheritance getting robbed from them. Hell, even the last bit of hope that the Order had was now locked up in Askaban, awaiting his sentence.
Where had it gone wrong?
"I reckon they're trying and do in the Muggles," she said absently. "I mean, I've never even heard of this sickness before that Daily Prophet article mentioned it. I imagine it must've started from that incident in Fraisdaill Village."
"Well," he sat up and placed his hands behind his head, sinking down against the bench. "Snape did say they were mostly Muggle-born."
"You really think it's only Muggles carrying the disease?"
"Not likely," he shook his head, his eyes fixed on a spot above her head. "I reckon it's a ruse to try and get wizards riled up over the Muggles. Did you read the recent Daily Prophet article?"
She threw her fork down with a clang and leaned back with a disgusted look on her face. "Yeah, I did. A load of rubbish, if you ask me."
"Well, take my advice and take what you've got while it still lasts–"
"Even if they're a complete load of hogwash–?"
"I know what you're implying," he said grimly. "but at least we're getting news at all. Think about it, would you rather the fabricated truth or the blunt lie?"
"I'd rather not decide," she said, disgruntled. "I doubt it's as simple as either or."
"I know," he sighed, his eyes drifting across the bar, looking rather tired. "You're right."
In the distance, the faint laughter from behind the counter became a drumming sound in Ginny's ears. So engrossed in her thoughts, she didn't even startle when the young men who had been playing Exploding Snap earlier got an explosion to the face, which singed the younger one's hair, causing the other one to burst with laughter. It was almost as if she was in a different world, the world that Grindewald and Voldemort had built in, what felt like, twenty-four hours, but was actually a stretch of ten years. And no one had noticed the snake that slithered out of its nest, the sly predator whose prey never knew that they were attacked until they were actually dead. The predator that lay dormant in its nest until it was the right time to pounce then returned to hibernation.
Voldemort had played it subtly, starting from the Aurors, to Harry Potter, to the entirety of the Ministry, then the Muggles and the civilians. It was brilliant, and so like the Tom Riddle that had been so charming, so patient with her in her First Year, offering benign assurances until she was stable enough for him to overcome her insecurities, then back-stabbed her like the ruthless snake that he was.
So perfect. So patient and endearing, like the sweet cadence of a wedding bell slowly and steadily sinking into the deep, ominous bong of a funeral bell . . . and no one noticed.
And then the entire Wizarding World faltered.
Ingenious.
"They've taken down the Department of Misuse of Muggle Artefact," stated Winston, jolting Ginny out of her thoughts. She snapped her eyes up, horrified.
"Those arses –!" she hissed furiously. "Who do they think are?"
"Men in power," he waved a hand and leaned forward again. "You don't understand what's going on–"
"Like hell I don't," she said loudly, drawing annoyed glances at her side of the table. "I don't think my brain stands a fat chance against those pea-sized brains of theirs–"
He laid his hand on hers in an attempt to placate her. "They've taken down all Muggle and Muggle-born rights almost overnight. You're lucky Hermione's taken the week off, otherwise, they'd have her cornered faster than you could say 'sabotage.'"
Ginny felt a pang in her chest at the thought. Hermione had only taken the week off after Ron's disappearance, choosing instead to remain home with her kids and her newly born son. From the corner of the room, the laughter of the man amplified like a drumming sound in her ears. It sent the hairs on the back of her head on end. Without realising it, she tightened her hand around his at the thought.
"I don't understand," she shook her head. "I thought they wanted to kill Muggles, not make a bad image out of them."
"Grindewald never wanted to kill Muggles, remember?" he pointed out. "He just wanted to prove that Muggles were inferior to wizards. And besides, there's too many Muggles in the world to control, it's best they tarnish their name and let the wizards living with them to do their dirty work for them."
"Surely not everyone's that dim-witted?" she asked weakly. Though a part of her already knew the answer.
"Is that a question or a fact?" he said dryly. "That sickness is enough to get people riling. What's stupid is that people are assuming that everyone who's carrying the disease is of Muggle descent when they could very well be half-blood or pure-blood. You'd think they'd have a little more sense–"
But suddenly, they were interrupted by a hysterical shout of laughter coming from behind the counters. A man emerged from behind the ajar doors, stumbling back against a cabinet of glass, hunched over, hands on knees, laughing his spirits away. The entire room stared at him, none of which seemed keen on joining in his absurd bouts of laughter. Instead, they all watched him with fear and bewilderment in their countenances.
Ginny watched, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on edge. Whatever was wrong with the man, it didn't seem intentional.
She felt her mouth move without her consent. "What's wrong with him?"
"Laugh-Inducing Potion," muttered Winston out of the corner of his lips. 'Someone must've spiked his drink."
She felt a dew drop of disturbance ensconce deep in her gut as the man's laughter drummed like funeral bells in her ear.
"Is there a way to stop it?"
He shook his head. "I'm not certain."
Ginny stared. There was something unsettling about the man's hysterical bouts of laughter that sent a chill oscillating under her skin. Tears sprung in rivulets down his face, his body wracking with a series of jolts, his fingers clawing desperately at his cheeks. It suddenly occurred to Ginny that the man was having trouble breathing. He was drawing in short gasps in between his laughter, yet his mouth remained twisted into an ear-to-ear grin. The others around him, mainly men, tried to hold him down, shouting at each other to distract him with something, but they were all looking quite as shell-shocked as she was. He must have been fed a boatload full of Laugh Inducing Potion, and no one seemed to have a clue how to cure it.
Finally, one of the men decided to hold out his wand and fire the Stunning Curse, which immediately tamed the dull droning of the laughter. The man's eyes rolled backwards, and he collapsed into the arms of, what seemed like, his brother. The latter looked quite pale and shaken, but the others quietly muttered something to him. He nodded, carrying his brother on his back. Ginny watched his retreating back with a hollow feeling in her stomach. She supposed that he was going to take his brother to St. Mungos. But she vaguely registered the increasing muttering that rippled across the room just as the older brother departed. In a fit of paranoia, she reverted her attention to her drink with a hint of grimace. Vowing constant vigilance, she abruptly pushed it away.
"Merlin," she sucked in a breath. "Guess I'd better take a leaf out of Mad-Eye's book. Got a spare drinking flask?"
From across the table, he shot her a half-amused, half-exasperated look before he reverted his attention to the departed men, looking quite solemn and exhausted. They didn't feel like newly weds. In fact, her wedding felt like a dream from a far-off land that couldn't possibly been part of this new reality. They could hardly even think about their future with all this mess of a Wizarding World.
And to think . . . Dumbledore was still alive. Even with all his strength, neither Voldemort nor Grindewald seemed to consider him as a larger threat anymore. Irresistibly, she wondered what would happen if Dumbledore somehow . . . fell over and died? What would happen, then?
Armageddon?
But the thought was so horrifying that she strapped it in steel chains and stowed it away, determined to trounce the lingering bleakness of Diagon Alley.
Naturally, she sought a distraction. "Did you hear?" she began, trying to look composed by hiding behind her mug. "Hannah quit her job."
But he didn't look surprised. "Can't blame her, really," he shrugged, an underlying concern in his tone. "With all that's happened to her, and the attack on Diagon Alley last week . . . "
Ginny didn't bother hiding her bitterness. "You'd think they'd have learned a lesson or two about fraternizing with the Dark Arts."
"People are scared, Ginny," he replied seriously. "They'd choose whatever would keep them protected and fed and whatever harm away from their loved ones. I mean, you'd do that for your family, wouldn't you?"
"Actually," she set her mug down with a loud thud. "I'd rather they died fighting for what's right, quite frankly. It's like Dumbledore said, isn't it? Someone's got to stand up them, we can't just lay back and pretend it's never happened."
He sighed. "I know, I'm just speaking from their perspective. You'd know that better than anyone, I s'pose."
Ginny wanted to bite back with a retort, but her words got caught in her mouth, her expression resembling something like a codfish as the waiter in question stepped up to them with a splitting, ear-to-ear grin that Ginny thought ought to be fined, in her opinion. She looked fit to burst into laughter if Ginny so much as flicked her off, which she respectively refrained from doing, more out of respect for her husband than anything else. But the woman's startling buoyancy caused a chill up her spine; like the others, the woman's beaming smile didn't seem to reach her eyes.
But they quickly ordered their meals, both uncomfortable under her jolly disposition. It seemed oddly out of place, especially when there was a cloud of misery hanging over the whole chunk of Diagon Alley that didn't seem to affect this woman.
"What's she grinning about?" muttered Ginny out of the corner of her lips, as soon as the woman was out of hearing range.
Out of the corner of her eyes, she noticed Winston's face darkening. "They've been spiking their drinks with Cheering Potions to try and stop themselves from feeling utterly miserable."
"As if that'd help!" she said loudly, but he quickly threw her a warning glare to keep her voice down. "They're only delaying the feeling, not stopping it."
"It helps them cope, I think," he mused, his eyes pinned on the absurdly cheerful woman. "But most people have taken it too far, there's only so much happiness you could fake."
"You're kidding."
"You feel that coldness in the air, don't you?" he said in a low tone. "Almost like a Dementor's nearby."
Ginny blanched. "What are you playing at?"
"It's not just because it's winter," he said grimly.
"You're joking," she said weakly. Suddenly, she remembered the Dementor-like individual that she had met earlier. How fast was this sickness spreading?
"I wish I was," he grimaced. "It's been spreading everywhere. You do remember Sarah Nairn, don't you? A friend of mine, used to work for me." Ginny nodded. "Her husband came by today, said she poisoned herself while he was out visiting his parents. He was quite distraught. She was always bright, always helpful. It's a shame what happened to her, quite frankly."
"Merlin," she breathed.
"Or even worse," he muttered, looking troubled. "they've have been erasing their memories of any loved one they know that's passed. You know, pretend like it's never happened."
"They're that skilled with Memory Charms?" demanded Ginny.
He shook his head. "Not necessarily. They could buy or brew a boatload of Forgetfulness Potions, it's not that difficult, really."
Now she was really nutty enough not to find the words to describe how utterly cowardly that sounded. To erase memories of loved ones in order to make yourself feel better, she couldn't imagine forgetting all the peace and joy that she had felt for her family or Ron or her dad, no matter what happened to them. She wasn't going to forget those treasured memories of them, even they were making her miserable.
Her fork clattered loudly on the table. "So what if you're miserable without them?" she said indignantly. "At least you knew them at all, isn't that why you're missing them?"
"See?" he noted, with a hint of amusement mingled with exasperation. "Now you're being sensible."
"Oh, sorry," she scoffed, throwing her hands up. "Can't have that, God forbid having a bit of sense in your life."
And for the first time that night, he smiled but didn't interpose. Instead, a lighter silence enveloped them as he turned his attention back to the people surrounding while she made a mess with her salad. Her mother would have a fit if she saw what she had done to her food.
"I've got to say," she began, drawing his attention again. "I'm glad I found you first because, otherwise, I don't think I'd have married at all."
"Oh, come on, there's still good people in the world–"
"I'm starting to doubt it."
"That's exactly what they want you to think, Ginny," he said firmly. "You can't let them get to you, where's your Gryffindor spirit?"
Ginny's hands clenched around her mug, failing to keep the bitterness out of her tone. "It's gone with my dad and brother."
His face softened at her downcast expression. "You haven't heard from them yet?"
"No," she said sullenly, her nails digging into the mug, her strength mellowing out into a bleat of despair. "Nothing."
From across the table, she could feel his eyes boring into her, but she couldn't meet his eyes. She often wondered if he was a Legilimens with his knowing and sympathetic glances, but she guessed that some people just had a natural affinity to understanding others.
"Listen, Ginny–" he began, reaching for her hand.
She jerked her hand away. "If you're going to get on my back over it, I'll stab this fork in your finger–"
"Why would I say something like that?" he said defensively. He shook his head and reached for her hand, looking rather hesitant. "Listen, I was going to suggest–well, if it isn't any trouble–your mother's quite distraught–"
She blinked, suddenly feeling stupid for her rudeness earlier. "You think we should help her out?"
He nodded. "We'll stay the week with her, and hopefully, your dad and your brother will be there in time, perhaps before Christm–oof!"
He was cut off when she threw her arms around him from across the table, ineffably touched by the sensitivity. He laughed when she placed a kiss onto his tousled brown hair.
"She'll love it," she mumbled. "She doesn't like to be lonely."
"It's settled, then," he replied, pulling himself out of her grip. He stood with a hand outstretched. "Let's head off, shall we?"
She nodded, gratefully took his arm, and allowed him to lead her out of the shop. "You're a sensitive git," she said, poking him hard in the ribs. But he simply chuckled in return. "Must be why I'm always the one overlooked."
"Overlooked?" he said, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and placing a kiss on her forehead. "Not a chance, love."
And despite the bitter coldness, an accumulation of warmth purred in her chest. Maybe the world wasn't so bad, after all, she mused, and the thoughts of a nutty and a less hopeful future subsided as she leaned into the embrace. Together, they departed, leaving a spiral of dead leaves whistling behind them.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
"It is the end of the world as we see it."
Albus looked up. From above the rim of his half-moon glasses, he watched the irritated Potion's Master pacing up and down the circular room of his office with vague awareness. The Portraits regarded the black-haired man with poorly concealed annoyance and distaste; clearly, they didn't agree with his rather hasty conclusion. From beside him, Albus caught the soft mewls of Fawkes from beneath the ashes whose burning day was always a source of fascination and contentment for the old man, but he couldn't seem to the strength nor motivation to stand and watch him, certainly not tonight, particularly not after the enchantingly nasty Daily Prophet article that he had just received tonight.
"What a cynical observation, Severus."
Severus glared.
Heaving a sigh, Albus shuffled the parchments to the corner of his desk and stood up, ignoring the weariness of his frame. Feeling like he was trapped in a world of his own, he rounded the desk, past the disgruntled Severus, and stood in front of the usual arched window where the last rays of the light twinkled in the fleeting sunset.
Severus halted abruptly in his tracks and shot him a rather irritated look. "Humour me, Headmaster. What could possibly be done against wizards of such eminence?"
But Albus didn't meet his annoyed look. He simply stood watching the last batch of students disappear indoors as the sun sank beneath the horizons, leaving behind a faint red glow that seemed to reflect off the water of the lake. Irresistibly, he wondered if there was ever a difference between the sky and the ground. Was everything just a reflection of its opposite? But then the tapping of Severus's impatient foot reminded him that Severus was still expecting a response.
Reality was always a strange place to be.
"Oh, many things, Severus," said Albus pleasantly. "Strikes, rebellion, protests, very common results in the face of injustice. It is as Voldemort wisely foretells it: for every ruler, there is an adversary."
"This will not bode well for my position, as you have, most likely, deduced," he shot Albus an expected but irritated look. "Nor yours for that matter."
"Yes, I understand, Severus," replied Albus wearily.
He removed his spectacles from his face to rub at his eyes, keenly aware of the curious looks from the Portraits around him. But as he placed them back onto his nose, he moved past Severus once again to the perch where Fawkes was. All the while, he could feel Severus's dark gaze boring into his head, but he didn't look up. He knew why Severus was irritated with him . . . but he had already made his decision clear.
"You still believe that there is love left in the world?"
"Certainly," Albus replied simply. Ignoring Severus's glare, he reached out to pet Fawkes's head with his dead hand. "these people are simply misguided, disillusioned, or desperate for the wellbeing of their loved ones. They simply need someone to help them past it, rather like you, Severus. Did I not offer you a chance to fix yourself which you willingly, and not forcibly, accepted?"
Severus's glare faded as abruptly as it occurred at the reminder. Irritated but stubborn, he nodded. "Of course, Headmaster," he said firmly, drawing himself to full height. "I am no coward to deny it."
"No, you are a brave man," he affirmed gently. "far more than anyone could ever dare to imagine. These people simply need a source of guidance, and mine alone will not suffice."
"Who is it, Dumbledore?"
Albus waved a hand airily. "It could be any of us. Whoever it is, Severus, as long as there are those who continue to believe there is hope, hope will always continue to exist."
Silence befell them as each became engrossed in their thoughts. Albus felt the immutable feeling of restless overcame him. In an lazy effort to alleviate it, he replaced Severus in pacing the room in thought as the younger man absently watched him. A part of him was, he had to admit, unnerved and unsettled. Everything wrong had started after Harry's disappearance, for the sole reason of his failure to protect the boy. As soon as Harry disappeared, and Voldemort had finally claimed him for himself, everything started to fall apart like a building balanced on one trembling pillar as its foundation. Voldemort, rather unpredictably, had sought help from someone else, even though it was still for his own gain. He had actually allied with Grindewald and had been discreetly battling the Ministry for ten years.
Now Gellert Grindewald was back, the man he feared above all else for the truth regarding his dear sister's death. He knew he had to meet him soon, but a large part of him was still the frightened, cowardly, irresponsible young man that he had hoped he had long out-grown.
As if he knew where Albus's thoughts had strayed, Severus spoke out carefully, with a hint of wariness in his tone.
"Headmaster, if I may ask–"
Albus halted in his tracks. "Have I ever refrained you from asking anything, Severus? You are always permitted to question my judgements, which, as you know, are not always as meticulous as I sought them to be."
After a short pause, Severus forced a brief nod. "Of course, Headmaster. Why don't you try to reason with him, surely he will listen to you–"
"I am powerless against the Ministry," he replied grimly.
"If you had simply diminished your absurd sense of modesty and agreed to become Minister," snapped Severus. "none of this would have occurred."
Albus waved a hand and walked slowly to his desk, travail in his tracks. "Is it wise on dwell on possibilities, Severus? If there was a way to rewrite all of our wrongdoings, why, it would be as if we never lived at all."
Ignoring the quietly fury of the Potion's Master, he rummaged through his desk and pulled out his travelling cloak. Regardless of what he thought himself as, he was still capable of fixing this, with the glorious gifts of wisdom and intellect that he was given. And he liked to think that he had good intentions. No, he wanted to help others with the gifts that he was bestowed. And it was always best to start from where it had all gone wrong. If what he suspected was true, Voldemort was planning on rewriting destiny–the Prophecy by destroying Harry's sanity, morality, humanity. Why else would he keep the younger man alive, especially after that fierce duel they had shared?
No, Harry was proving to be more benefit than harm for the dreadfully efficient Dark Lord. The Ministry had once been intending to administer the Dementor's Kiss to Harry; they had claimed to follow up on it, but Albus had yet to hear anything about it. He would have to wait and see . . . if, in fact, the Ministry did not schedule a sentence for Harry Potter soon, then everything that Albus suspected was true. Voldemort was, in fact, planning to rewrite the Prophecy through the Chosen One. He would not kill him, just destroy his true essence. The part that kept him fighting Voldemort.
The thought disturbed him. He would prefer to see Harry dead rather than watch the discreet meltdown that he was so close to having. He saw hints of it last time that they had spoken.
But the worst part . . . the thing which he feared the most . . . the thing which he could never bring himself to admit that he had seen when Harry had awoken after the battle, the terrifying realisation when he looked into Harry's mind to see glimpses of a memory which struck him like a knife to the chest . . .
Was there a part of Harry that had actually meant it? That actually sought pleasure from the terrible and despicable things that he was doing to others.
Had Harry actually, perhaps unknowingly, made . . .?
No, he thought firmly. Harry was still the kind and noble young man that he was as a young boy. It was appalling for him to even consider such a terrible thing onto his former student. But then an irritating part of him acknowledged that Tom Riddle was also one of his gifted and possibly the most brilliant student he had ever taught. But he quickly stowed that thought away.
He didn't need a distraction. He needed to focus. He turned to Severus and gave him a firm nod before he clicked the clasp of his cloak shut and swept past the Potion's Master towards the door.
"I must speak to the Minister," he muttered as he thrusting the door open. "I trust that you will remain here at Hogwarts until I return," Severus nodded. "Very well, watch over the students for me while I am gone, and take care of yourself, Severus."
Grim but determined, Severus offered another nod. Albus smiled in return, feeling a rush of gratitude for his ever-faithful companion. Then, as the red glow from above the mountains faded from view, Albus stepped out and let the door close behind him with a soft click.
And he was off.
A/N: I was going to make this about Hermione, but I have a strong dislike for that character. On top of that, I didn't want it to be super serious, and Ginny fit that role (her character was wasted potential, I actually liked her in the books). I know not to make it too depressing, because that's just unrealistic. There's always some fun and hope, even in the worst stories.
I just want to be clear that I don't care about pairings at all, I just want to get the story out. Personally, I don't think that Ginny would wait for Harry forever, nor even hold a crush for that long. So yeah, it doesn't make sense for her to be single.
Harry will most likely not be paired up in the story. He might or might not develop a certain liking or distant intimacy (I haven't decided yet) towards certain characters later on, but he will not outright be in a relationship. He needs to fix himself. He has way too much going for him. Plus, I just hate romance in general. It's just very unnecessary to me.
And I know, I hate OC characters as much as anyone, but I only introduce when it's absolutely necessary. They won't get in the way of the other characters.
Yes, DC is my biggest inspiration (hint, laugh gas, fear gas, sound familiar?)
A few words make my day . . . leave a review (please). Thanks to all those that do, btw (I often forget to offer my thanks).