Harry brooded over what he had seen in the Pensieve.
How much of it was true and real? This question was a constant refrain in his thoughts. If it had been Dumbledore's Pensieve in which he had traveled through Merrythought's memories, Harry would not have doubted at all. But the Pensieve he had found in the hidden room in their new home was a more sinister magical artifact than what Dumbledore kept in his office. The old, old memories had been left in it so long that the memories had grown thorns and nightmares, which had seeped into the Merrythought memories that Harry had dumped in.
If it was true, surely the root of it was Tom Riddle.
Harry was sitting in his room – door properly shut, even though Remus Lupin was no longer in the castle – staring down at the Marauder's Map, thinking about the Imperius Curse and how likely it was for a student to use it on a professor. When the student's Tom Riddle, Harry thought, it's incredibly likely.
It seemed far more unlikely that Old Bones had Confunded Merrythought willingly. But still, after the Easter holidays, Harry could not look at Old Bones without questions rising up in his thoughts and spilling out of his mouth. It didn't help that he was clearly in the final stages of his illness: Part of Harry felt guilty at even suspecting a sick old man, whose bad days were worse and worse, and whose good days were further and further between.
HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP
After Easter break, after they were rescued from the cursed Pensieve by Arthur Weasley, it was odd to return to school. Harry found himself uncomfortable in his own skin, constantly looking over his shoulder, at turns both resentful and relieved that Dumbledore was so busy with other matters that he hadn't the time to explain to them exactly what had happened, other than to say that he would at some point in the future. Harry might have been even more resentful had he not seen the hollowness in Dumbledore's cheeks and the dull flatness in eyes that had nearly always twinkled. Whatever it was Dumbledore was searching for, it was taking its toll on him.
All through April, Harry chewed on what the headmaster had remarked upon their experience in the Horcrux pensieve. There was still little information on what a Horcrux actually was, and after Arthur's warning, he didn't dare ask. Nor did he ask Sirius, for reasons that Harry didn't want to examine too closely. However, by the time May was well-established, their upcoming examinations – which mattered, but also didn't at the same time – had crowded out other musings.
In his arms, Ginny stretched, shifting her body all along his in a way that made thinking about Defense Against the Dark Arts highly difficult. There, by the lake, underneath a spring sky dotted with puffy white clouds, Harry's thoughts had been drifting from Dumbledore's mysteries, Sirius's oddness, and ghosts. But now Ginny was pressed fully against him, hands resting on his thighs, stroking little patterns of stars on them. His vague and anxious thoughts dissolved one by one like so much soap bubbles.
Casting a glance around them, noting that this side of the lake was quite, quite private. They'd chosen this spot for its secluded nature so they could discuss things freely.
Harry stroked his palm up her thigh, tossing another glance over his shoulder, and cupped her — just for a second — where her heat was centered. It was impossibly daring, touching her like that out of doors, outside of the privacy of either of their rooms, and his heart sped up at his own action. Hand now on her waist, pressed there tightly, Harry listened intently to the rustling of the leaves of the forest behind them, the lapping of the water against the shore, and the loud shush of his own heart in his ears.
Then Ginny made a purring sound and shifted against him again. Heart thudding, Harry slid his hand into her robes. There were very few places on Ginny that he hadn't touched, but out here under the sky, it was new again. Finding her belly, Harry stroked it lightly with his fingertips, drawing the same star pattern that she'd just been drawing on him.
We're alone, Harry reminded himself, moments later. He had found the lace of her bra. Merlin, she was warm. And nearly boneless against him, head resting on his chest. From here, he could see the light dusting of freckles across her nose, and that her eyes were closed.
"Are you…?"
Harry wasn't certain how he wanted to finish that question, and he let his words trail off.
"Yeah," said Ginny, accompanied by another languid stretch against him. Now he could see the white of her teeth as she smiled up at him. "I think we're alone…"
"We are," said Harry, with another glance around to confirm.
If he had felt daring as he'd barely brushed his fingers over Ginny's vagina, it was nothing compared to how he felt when he slipped his hand inside the lace of her bra — which one was it she was wearing? He hoped it was the green one, the one that cropped up in his waking daydreams during particularly tedious classes. But no matter the color, his hand was under it, her breast cupped in his palm. Kneading it, gently, he felt her heartbeat quicken and her nipple grow to a hard point.
His penis twitched. There was a root pressing into his backside, and he shifted them a foot or so, further nestled under the tree, even more protected from view should a student come wandering along the secluded beach of the Black Lake.
Or Old Bones, Harry thought. They were very near to the place he'd collapsed…
"Harry?" Ginny asked, a little breathless.
"Sorry," he murmured with a hint of a chuckle. Her nipple was hard and needed his attention, and Harry banished all other thought in favor of giving Ginny what her body was asking from him.
His nerves mingled with his arousal, combining into something that he'd never felt before, not any of the other times they'd done this, not even that particularly brilliant day when they'd gone at it properly, staying in bed all day, Harry watching Ginny finish for him not just once but three times. But now he was somehow even harder, penis throbbing in such a way that he might have been rubbing it for a good while. Pulling Ginny tighter against him, he dipped his other hand downward, not hesitating when he came to the lace of her knickers, but made straight for her center.
Ginny made a strangled noise when — after only a moment of fumbling, it was tight inside her knickers — he found her clit and rubbed a circle around the sensitive little bud.
"Like that?" Harry asked, tightening his arms around her.
"You know I do," she managed.
Harry smiled against her sweet-smelling hair. It had taken a solid couple of weeks to get to this point – with her writhing in his lap after a gratifyingly short amount of time – but he'd been determined. I'm still determined, he thought, as she let out a sound that was half-moan, half-sigh. His finger had found her clit well and truly now, toying with it in the same way he'd earlier played with her nipple, fingers slipping against it. She was so wet, and he, Harry, had done that to and with her. A louder sound escaped her when he tightened his legs, allowing her less freedom of movement. Her body was tight against his, breath coming out in pants as he rubbed a little harder, with a little more purpose.
His own body was nearly as excited as hers – she was on the verge of coming for him – but it was a heady combination, touching her under her knickers on the bank of the lake, with only trees hiding them. His thumb firmly on her clit, pressing hard, his fingers finally found her opening, where she was so hot and wet that his teeth clenched. He wanted to be inside her, his penis, not his fingers–
Her clit jerked under his thumb and her body squeezed around his fingers as she came.
Harry gave her a minute, the small flutters against his hand signaling the length of her orgasm, still holding her tightly as her breathing evened out. But – he didn't want her growing too calm, too languid. His own body was one ball of need. Gently extracting his hand from her lace knickers, he shifted them so he could undo the buttons on his robes. She moved forward, their bodies no longer touching, and it was this that restored a bit more clarity to his brain.
"I – should check," he said. It was one thing, fingering her under a tree, it was quite a bit other to unfasten his trousers and have sex with her the way he wanted to: hard and fast and perhaps a bit loudly.
It didn't help when her hand came up to stroke him.
"You're going to make me come in my pants," he told her. This didn't stop her. "Just – give me a second." But her thumb was still stroking his penis as he managed to extract the Marauder's Map from the inside pocket of his robes. Despite his best intentions, his trousers were now open and his penis was poking out into the spring air. Distracted, Harry watched as her long hair swung over it, hiding it from view. Her lips were awfully close – but they'd never done that – their kisses had been reserved only for lips and sometimes nipples – both hers and his–
"Are you checking?" Ginny asked, drawing back in such a way that Harry realized that what he had thought she'd been about to do had simply been a particularly wild fantasy of his.
Focus, Harry thought. It was a bit cold, and this helped. He opened the Map to its fullest, hiding Ginny from his view. His thoughts were still in a bit of a whirl, though, so it took a moment before he reminded himself where they were, they were by the lake, why was he examining Gryffindor Tower? With a quiet sound of frustration, he forced himself to concentrate.
It wasn't easy, which was why his gaze flicked over the Map a couple more times, and why, at the moment of it happening, he saw the dot clearly labeled Old Bones disappear like a snuffed-out candle. One moment it was there, the next it wasn't. Blinking, Harry stared at it, now distracted in an entirely different way.
"Harry?" Ginny said.
"Old Bones," he muttered, brow furrowing.
Her hand fell away from him in alarm. "Is he here? Coming toward us?" Then, just as swiftly, she touched him again, this time to tuck his penis away back into his pants, and fastened his trousers with practiced fingers.
"No," said Harry, dropping the Map down to peer over it at her. "He's disappeared. It's like he's Apparated away, but–"
"You can't Apparate in and out of Hogwarts," they chorused together. A faint smile hummed between them; Harry knew they were both thinking of Hermione. But the brief moment flicked away. Harry's face fell into more serious lines.
"You can't just disappear from Hogwarts," he said, serious. "He was alone in his office – that Olive Hornby wasn't with him…" Swallowing, he said: "He might have… disappeared another way."
"You mean, you think he's died?" Ginny asked, incredulous. She was fastening her own robes now. Once done, she stood, and held out a hand to him. Harry took it and stood, leaving the Map open. Once more, he sought Old Bones's office. Once more, the old man wasn't there. His lips thinned. He'd known from Sirius that Old Bones didn't survive this year… but Harry had been hoping that something would change, that something would allow Old Bones to live just a little – or even a lot – longer… like Harry's grandparents, who had been saved from the certainty of their own deaths by Harry's own actions.
"I hope not," said Harry, swallowing past a sudden thickness in his throat. "I hope not, but…"
"You've got to check," said Ginny, flicking her long hair over her shoulder. "I wish we'd brought our brooms, you'd get back to the castle faster." She gripped his shoulder and gave him a light push. "Your legs are longer, you'll get back there faster than me."
"Ginny…" Harry was reluctant to leave her.
But her smile was genuine and warm. "Go check on him, Harry. Maybe… maybe it isn't as bad as that. And we'll come back here."
"We'd better," said Harry. Then, turning, he stretched into a run that ate up the distance between the lake and the castle with every step. The warmth disappeared as he ran, the wind making his eyes sting, even though he wore his glasses. Every step reminded him of not only how much he'd appreciated having a competent Divination professor, he knew how disappointed his father was going to be to lose such an important figure in his schooling. It was going to strike Sirius hard as well. Sirius the Younger, Harry meant. The elder version had already dealt with that particular loss.
And Peter Pettigrew would lose a mentor. For a moment, just at the bottom of the stairs that led to the giant wooden doors, Harry paused, one foot on gravel and earth, the other on an ancient stone stair. At first, Harry hadn't liked the boy; it had been instinctive and based on nothing Harry could pinpoint. But there had been something in him that had rankled at Harry, perhaps because he'd met his father's other two close friends, but had heard nothing of this other one. Resentment, perhaps? But gradually, Peter had stopped annoying him. Well, not gradually. It had happened in an instant, like lightning; one morning, he'd walked into the Great Hall, and instead of irritating Harry, instead, Peter had reminded him of Neville Longbottom. Something approaching affection had sprung up in him.
Harry didn't think Peter had much beyond James Potter, Sirius Black, and Remus Lupin. He mentioned his mother very seldom, and his father not at all. Neville's parents had been tortured into insanity and – while still alive – unable to parent their son. Had Neville a parent figure, it might have been someone like Old Bones, a kindly professor at school who used his own aging contacts to help a young wizard in need.
Peter, Harry thought, is going to be heartbroken.
This thought put new speed in his step. Perhaps it wasn't death that had overtaken Old Bones, but a deep unconsciousness… one that he could wake up from.
HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP
Expecting to find a body, Harry was surprised instead to find a very cluttered room empty of its inhabitant. Shelves were everywhere, even above the untidy bed. Wrinkling his nose at the smell of sweat and sickness, Harry stepped further in. A large, ornately carved cabinet stood with its door slightly open. Harry skirted around it, wondering if Old Bones's body was behind it.
But no one was there.
"Old Bones?" Harry said hesitantly. His voice was oddly muffled.
No one replied. Harry took out the Marauder's Map again, peering down at it. "The map never lies," he muttered. But there had been times during his fourth year, when Harry hadn't truly understood what was happening, not knowing that Barty Crouch Jr. had stolen Mad-Eye Moody's appearance. Old Bones had been standing just in this room and had vanished from the map. The only problem was that this should not have been possible.
Perplexed, Harry peered under the bed, then behind an overly stuffed chair. The room was not overly large… where could he have hidden himself?
He isn't here, he thought. There was one more place to look. Harry opened the cabinet door wider, only to find it empty of everything and smelling of must and darkness. It was odd, that, considering how full every other space in the room was.
Perhaps it was remembering Barty Crouch Jr., and what he had done to his father – murdered him and then transfigured him into a bone – but Harry drew out his wand. "Revelio," he muttered. Light flashed from his wand.
An already cluttered space was made even more cluttered by the appearance of another shelf attached not to the wall, but dangling from the ceiling.
Glancing around the room once more, more confused than when he'd entered, Harry's eyes caught on something winking at him in the dim light creeping through the narrow slit of a window. There, on the shelf his charm had just revealed, in a place of prominence, were Moaning Myrtle's glasses. Not, of course, the pearly and transparent pair that the ghost now wore, but the real pair. Having now crossed the room, Harry picked them up and examined them. They were ugly and distinctive – there had been a reason why Moaning Myrtle had been made fun of – and there was a tiny symbol etched on the right side of the frame.
This, too, Harry recognized.
In his hands was yet another creation of one of the Knights of Walpurgis. The symbol was unmistakable, just as the glasses had unmistakably once sat on the living Myrtle's face. How had they gotten here of all places? And how had Myrtle found herself in possession of them in the first place?
Harry replaced them rather carefully back on the black velvet pillow and backed out of the room, muttering the counter to the revealing charm as he did. The shelf disappeared from view once more. He had gone to Old Bones's room expecting to find the body of a rather beloved professor. Instead, he'd found an odd mystery, and one that made him faintly ill.
On his way back out, wishing Ginny were not in her class, Harry bumped into something tall and solid.
Blinking, he turned around.
Olive Hornby made an annoyed sound. "Watch yourself," she sniped, lips turned downward. Her fear was still there, and she cast a glance behind her into the empty corridor. Tall and harried-looking, she ran her fingers through short-black hair. Upon her wrist was an ugly, clunky bracelet that looked more like a manacle than a decoration.
"New bracelet?" Harry asked.
"I had an alchemist make it for me," Olive said shortly. "It's meant to keep her away from me."
"If you're here for Old Bones," said Harry, "he isn't here."
Her face twisted in displeasure. "Well, where is he?"
But Harry had thought of something. "Olive," he asked. "Do you know where Moaning Myrtle got her glasses?"
Now mottled with fury, Olive snapped: "Don't speak of her to me–"
"But I just wondered–"
"I don't care where she got them," said Olive. "I don't care. I don't care. I wish I'd never met her, I wish I'd had the sense to stay away from her. I wish she'd never existed. Do you hear me?" Her voice was loud and strident. Her manacle-like bracelet was trembling. "And if I could scrape up the galleons to get an alchemist to do more than make me a protective bracelet, I'd get her wiped from existence."
Harry stared at her. There was no fear in Olive's expression now, but something dark and unpleasant writhed on her features. Rarely had Harry seen a hatred so pure, but there it was. "You could've been a bit more pleasant to her," said Harry. Tom Riddle was the one to blame for Myrtle's death. But Olive Hornby, if she'd been as cruel to Myrtle as she now sounded, had a wisp of responsibility.
"Myrtle," Olive countered, "could have been born without magic and never set foot at Hogwarts, or – better yet – could never have been born at all. All our lives would have been far more pleasant."
"But–"
Before Harry could press further, the sound of a wheezing cough from the other room came through the cracked door. "Is someone there?" came Old Bones's querulous voice.
"Liar," Olive spat at him, and turned her back. The door between Old Bones's receiving area and his private rooms slammed shut. Harry stared at it, thoughts crowding in his mind. It took a moment to sort through them, but when he did, he had one task: Find Moaning Myrtle and ask her his questions.
HPHPHPHPHPHPHP
But instead of sprinting straight for the girls' bathroom on the second floor, Harry turned the corner, paused, and once more withdrew both the Marauder's Map and his invisibility cloak. He'd heard Old Bones's voice, but – thoughts once more landing on Barty Crouch Jr., and his disguise – that wasn't necessarily verification.
What would Hornby have to gain by participating in a ruse? Harry asked himself as his eyes scanned the Map. His confusion mounted as he saw two dots exactly where they were supposed to be: Old Bones and Olive Hornby, the latter of whom was moving about jerkily in the inner sanctum of Old Bones's rooms, where Harry had found the glasses, and the former stationary. He's not dead. But he did disappear. And he has Moaning Myrtle's glasses…
Tucking the Map into his robes once more, Harry strode off down the hall, confident in the Cloak keeping him invisible.
The restroom in which Myrtle made her home was not out of order as it had been in Harry's time – he understood now that the ghost had been responding in part to the Chamber of Secrets being opened again, and that was why she had been flooding the place every hour. Still, even in 1979, few witches chose to use it, and only did so sparingly, and most moved as though it might be an emergency. Harry sat under his Cloak, stubborn, silent, and certain.
If he had learned anything about Voldemort, he did not kill at random. There was always a purpose. Riddle seemed even less likely to risk exposure, to risk the facade he had spent years crafting, the facade that drew people in like moths to the flame. So why had Riddle risked it? Years ago, and far in the future, Harry had thought nothing of it: Myrtle had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. She'd gone into that restroom, little knowing that it was the entrance to a monster's lair, and she'd died because of it.
But if Riddle had intentionally lured her there to kill her specifically… what was his reason? She had been Muggleborn, sure, but there were others at the school. All Harry knew was that she'd run here, sobbing, because her friend had made fun of her glasses.
Waiting until just before dinner, when Harry could be sure that no other witches were experiencing bathroom emergencies that would send them running for this particular bathroom, he strode forward, looked quickly over his shoulder, and strode in. Wishing Ginny were there, he shut himself into the gloomy room.
"Who's there?" Myrtle cried out, rising up to the ceiling from where she'd been moping in one of the stalls. "I can hear you. Peeves… come to torture me again?"
"No," said Harry, pulling off his Cloak, and holding out his hands. "I've just come to ask you a few questions–"
Myrtle screeched at him. "You were the one with Dumbledore! You trapped me!"
Harry held his hands up higher, hoping he was not about to be doused again. "I didn't know he was going to do that," he said truthfully, though privately, he did not blame Dumbledore. "And I won't do that to you." Harry did not know how. If owning a haunted house had taught him anything, it was that he was woefully unprepared to deal with ghosts. "I just want to ask you a couple of questions."
Moaning Myrtle hovered there, suspicious. When Harry didn't say anything more – or draw his wand – she slumped downward toward the sink.
"It's – uh – terrible what happened to you," said Harry. "You were – are – awfully young. Er, how old were you?"
"Fifteen," Myrtle sniffled, pushing her pearly white glasses up her nose. Harry squinted at them. They were definitely the same shape as the pair he'd seen in Old Bones's office.
"I knew someone who died when they were young," said Harry, thinking of Cedric. "I bet all your friends were traumatized. I know it was awful." Frowning, he wondered if Dumbledore would have toasted her the way he had Cedric. The differences between them were obvious: Cedric was a Triwizard competitor, Myrtle had been – according to Samuel Hornby – neary friendless after her falling out with his sister. But he didn't think the differences would matter to Dumbledore.
Both of them had been murdered by faithful pets of the same man.
While Harry had been thinking, Myrtle had been preening. "Oh, they were traumatized," she said, with great delight. "I made sure of it, too!"
I bet you did, Harry thought silently. "You wanted them to remember you," he said instead.
"Of course, and, oh, they did remember me!" This was said with such glee that Myrtle turned nearly solid, for just a flash of an instant. "They remembered me, even the little first years, they never forgot."
"Nor should they," said Harry; this time he meant it. No one should have had to die by Riddle's hand; his victims should be remembered. "You didn't deserve to die like that, Myrtle. I'm sorry." Then, before she could get distracted, he said: "You know… that's what I've come to talk about. You know. If you're willing to talk about it."
Her eyes were round behind her lenses. "Talk about what?" she asked in a fervent whisper.
"The day you died," Harry said. He leaned up against one of the stalls and crossed his ankles. "You remember it, don't you?"
"So vividly," she said in the same whisper.
"Tell me what you can," Harry encouraged.
"Well, I woke up early because Peeves was blowing in my ear, making me scream, and Olive Hornby told me to either shut up or get out…"
Myrtle took Harry through her day with a truly dizzying amount of detail, beginning with sitting in the Ravenclaw common room. Harry let the words wash over him, not sure how another brief confrontation with one of the girls from her dorm could have any importance, but focusing on it nonetheless. Myrtle, oblivious, prattled on until she got to lunch.
"Wait," said Harry, holding up his hand. "Who did you say you were sitting next to?"
"Simon Burke," said Myrtle. "Terrible shame what happened to him, wasn't it? Not as terrible as what happened to me." Her tone implied there was nothing as terrible as that, and she was happy about that.
"But wasn't he in Slytherin?" Harry asked. Did they not sit according to house back then? "You were in Ravenclaw, weren't you?" Why would they have been sitting at lunch together? He blinked, confused.
"Oooooh," said Myrtle. "Dumbledore was trying to get us all to cooperate better. Slytherin was just awful, you know, half the students were happy that some monster was threatening Muggleborns. Mudbloods, they called us." Harry resisted the urge to hurry her along: He knew all of this. "So once a week, he made us mingle together. Simon sat with us a lot, he was a nice boy, Olive was his cousin, you know, so they knew each other. Obviously."
Forcing the houses to mingle together sounded like something Dumbledore would do. "Right," said Harry, leaning back against the stall door.
"He noticed my glasses," she said very proudly.
Harry nodded, starting to wonder if this was a waste of time. "Were they new?" he asked.
"Oh, yes," she said. "No one else noticed, even those awful boys who destroyed my other pair–"
"What?" Harry asked sharply. "What boys?"
Her face went uncertain. "It was Nott. Or Avery. Or… no. Perhaps it was Abernathy. I was studying in the library, and took them off for a minute… and, well, I fell asleep. When I woke up, they were smashed." The wounded tone of her voice told Harry that she was still upset about it thirty-five years later. "But those three were closest to me, and I didn't just roll over and smash them, no matter what he said."
Harry was about to ask who 'he' was, when Myrtle well and truly caught his attention without him having to force it.
"But when I found my new ones–"
"You found them?" Harry interrupted, confused. "You didn't buy them?"
She nodded, wiping her eyes and sniffling. "I found them. Of course I was lost, upset, hungry… I was trying to find Ravenclaw Tower, clinging to my broken glasses, terrified… I kept getting turned around – the suits of armor were no help at all, they were mean, and laughing at me. Everyone always laughed at me. But then… I stumbled into a door and fell through it, and I found my glasses! Just like that!"
Harry was stunned. "Myrtle," he said, cautiously, not wanting to set her off into fresh wails. "Were you on the seventh floor?"
"Yes," she said, "which I knew as soon as I put them on."
Harry slumped against the stall door, thinking quickly. Just as the Room of Requirement had once provided Dumbledore with a room full of chamber pots, it had provided Moaning Myrtle with a pair of glasses. The symbol etched upon them was familiar to Harry: the much-mocked pair of glasses had been an artifact created by one of the Knights of Walpurgis. And Old Bones knew that. Harry's thoughts were moving quickly now.
Less than half an hour later, Ginny found him on his knees in his room, with nearly everything in his trunk strewn on the floor, the bed, and even the windowsill: A pair of socks dangled over it, threatening to fall to the stones below.
"I couldn't find Dumbledore," she announced. "I tried Madame Pomfrey, too, but–"
"He was fine," Harry mumbled. Another book was thrown over his shoulder and slammed against the wall, falling with a splat.
"Fine?" Ginny echoed, shocked.
"Yeah," said Harry. "Sort of." He looked at her, telling her exactly what he'd seen. He was still rummaging through his trunk when he finished. His fingers finally found what he was looking for, the small coin that had been buried there since it had been given to him. Holding it up, triumphant, he gave Ginny a grin that was as far from cheerful as it was possible to get. "He's always been reluctant to talk about him, you know. Edgar, I mean. There was a falling out, they were estranged, but whatever it was about, neither one of them had said. "I think it's related," said Harry, staring down at the coin the Edgar had given him. It would allow Harry to ask his questions; surely, Edgar would be duty-bound to answer.
"So now what?" Ginny asked, folding her arms.
"So now I go to London," said Harry. "And get some answers out of Edgar Bones.
"And after that?" she pressed.
"After that," said Harry, "we'll see."
HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP
Harry leaned against the wall just outside the lift, waiting for his appointment, wondering, idly, why Alice Longbottom was down here. She was an Auror like her husband – an immensely popular one – but there she stood in the Department of Pox and Plague, feet planted, as though she belonged there instead of in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Her eyelid flickered as though she wanted to wink at him: By no other gesture did she betray she had ever seen him before.
"Can I help you?"
An elderly witch – nearly as old as Galatea Merrythought – peered at him with rheumy eyes.
"Erm," said Harry. "I was hoping to see Edgar Bones. Mr. Bones."
It was just then that Bellatrix Lestrange swept out of one of the offices, a pleased little smile on her face, and a heavy, cloying scent that hung about her like a cloud. Harry's entire body tensed, ready to take flight, his heart threatening to leap out of his chest before he could leap with it. All his instincts screamed at him the danger – of all of Voldemort's lieutenants, she was the most lethal Harry had met. And here she was, in 1979, without even a hint of Azkaban about her.
Fortunately for him, he did not attract her notice.
Just as quickly as she'd come into view, she was gone, the lift doors flinging themselves open at her approach as though they, too, were worried she might take it upon herself to torture them into opening.
If she had seen Harry, if she had known–
But she couldn't know. Harry repeated this to himself.
"You know what, Amelia?" Alice Longbottom was saying to the elderly witch sat at the front desk. "I bet I know why he's here, he's looking for an internship out of Hogwarts. You know Edgar will want to meet with him… I'll take him on through, shall I?"
"Aye," grunted the witch, shooing them with her fingers.
"You'll have heard all about this office, I'm sure," said Alice, steering him without touching him. "This is the Commons, where the interns are kept… you've got to be prepared to receive owls and howlers and worse from St. Mungo's. Through that door is Rodolphus Lestrange, that was his wife you just saw. He's a new hire, but quite good, we've heard."
"Are you one of the interns, then?" Harry asked, cutting a glance at her, wondering if she would tell him why she was there instead of on another floor, working to keep witches like Bellatrix Lestrange out of the Ministry.
"No, I'm on loan from another department," said Alice, quite breezily. They came to a solid wood door, and she gave it a swift rap. "Mr. Bones? I've an intern possibility from Hogwarts. You did say you were short-handed."
"That's an understatement," said Edgar, opening it from his heavy desk.
"Mrs. Hobblewhim is… tired today," said Alice, still straight-faced and clear-eyed. Harry wondered if it were possible that her son, Neville Longbottom, could learn to lie with such convincing ability. "But I know you wanted to have a look at the latest crop."
"Well, send him in," said Edgar. One eyebrow rose when he saw Harry. "But you must know that I can't hire you until we see your NEWTs." Neither Edgar nor Alice made a move to close the door, but – looking between them – Harry thought he caught a whiff of danger.
"As I'm told, sir," said Harry. He feigned a laugh. "When I came here today, I didn't think I would get to meet you." He cleared his throat, wishing he were as good an actor as Alice was an actress.
"And I'm afraid that I haven't much time before I've got a meeting with Circe Newton over at St. Mungo's," said Edgar.
A quill scratched close enough to Harry that he caught sight of the words: Leave as quickly as you can. Meet me where we spoke of builders. An instant later, the words vanished. Alice was chatting about how she'd gone to school with Circe Newton's daughter, and was it true Circe was thinking of retiring?
"Oh, I am sorry," she said, flustered. "You wanted a word with Mr. Bones, didn't you? And here I am, chattering on."
"I'm very interested in interning here," said Harry. "After I've got my NEWTs, of course, but what can I expect out of the position?"
Edgar launched into a quick explanation of what the work would entail, while Harry's mind glossed over it. He was not truly seeking a position here: He did not want one. He'd rather a position with the Aurors. But neither had closed the door, and both were hurrying him along with the sort of competence that dizzied him. Harry had learned very little about the internship he was supposedly seeking, and quite a bit about how paranoid the older members of the Order of the Phoenix were.
Harry could not blame them. After all, that was Bellatrix Lestrange's husband just down the hall, his door open. Alice escorted him to the lift doors after Edgar said a quick goodbye and grabbed his cloak, heading toward the fireplace at the back of the office.
Harry might have asked a question once they were at the lift, but Alice gave her head the tiniest of shakes, wished him luck in a loud voice, and practically threw him into the lift.
Ten minutes later, Harry was on the Underground. The back of his neck itched. And he wished Ginny had not had horrid cramps today of all days. But then I might never have gone to Old Bones's office, Harry reminded himself. It was that sort of loneliness while Ginny slept off her pain that had led him there on a Saturday, hoping to keep the old man company during the final stages of his illness. But then he'd seen…
What had he seen, exactly? Just an old, familiar-looking pair of glasses, with a symbol on them that Harry recognized through his own reluctant dealings with the Knights of Walpurgis. And from the pensieve… Old Bones had been wearing them… They were just glasses – and yet, Harry had felt oddly sick at the sight of them.
Harry looked over both shoulders, switched trains three times, and finally leapt onto the train that would take him to the abandoned Highgate Cemetery platform that had been repurposed for the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix. Alice and Edgar's paranoia had rubbed off on him enough that he ducked behind some long-haired boys with unlit cigarettes dangling from their mouths and leather jackets. The three of them were only involved with each other: It was easy for Harry to crouch behind them and pull his invisibility cloak over himself.
And so, invisible, he waited for the doors to slide open onto the platform no one visited.
Alice and Edgar were waiting for him, seated in two of the plush armchairs, a purple fire crackling in the air between them. They hadn't noticed him, of course. Harry sidled behind a concrete pillar and swung his cloak off himself in the same motion.
"Hello," he called.
Both surged to their feet, wands out. Harry raised his hands.
"It's just me," he said, staring between the two of them.
Alice stowed her wand away; Edgar did a moment later, shaking his head.
"Didn't see you get off the train," he said, rueful.
"Well, here I am," said Harry.
"Sorry about that down at the Ministry," said Alice. "But over the last couple of months–"
"-the Department of Pox and Plague has been fairly well infiltrated," said Edgar, rubbing his face with his hands. His hair was long and even slightly unkempt.
"How?" Harry asked.
"It's been happening all over," said Alice, "for several years now. A worker will move on – will be promoted – will have personal calamities, and someone else will slip in. Dumbledore worked out a pattern; he saw it before anyone else did."
"But we've had three since the New Year," Edgar said grimly.
Harry slumped into one of the mismatched chairs, wriggling so the spring wasn't threatening him with a probity probe experience. "Gary Tiffin?" he asked, remembering. Gary Tiffin had been a friend of Arthur's. He'd died, been murdered. "Arthur Weasley thought his partner was involved with something no one knew about, and maybe Tiffin knew something about it."
"That's the prevailing theory," agreed Edgar. "And I believed it myself until another one of my workers – you don't know him – was promoted two levels above where he was at. Believe me, the promotion wasn't based on merit, and Rodolphus Lestrange–"
"-is someone who may not be involved with You-Know-Who, to be fair," said Alice.
"A pox on being fair," muttered Edgar.
Harry could have told them that Rodolphus Lestrange was almost certainly a Death Eater, or would be soon. Brooding over it, he came to the conclusion that just having Rodolphus Lestrange in the office had spurred them into heightened security. Drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair, he sighed. "Which positions have they been placed in?" he asked.
"Nothing too powerful," said Edgar. "One is just filing, another is a liaison between our office and Gringotts–"
"Gringotts?" Harry asked, puzzled.
"It's expensive, keeping the wizarding population healthy," said Edgar. "And then there's Lestrange, who took over as my operations manager. It's going to force me to work weekends, trying to keep things from him." Looking thoughtful, he said, "Emily might leave me."
"Oh, she wouldn't," Alice said, amused.
"Of course," said Edgar, "the biggest thing we need to keep from them, considering what happened to our last fellow, is you, Mr. Peverell."
Unable to help himself, Harry gave Alice a fleeting look.
"I had to tell her," said Edgar.
"Oh – right," said Harry. "Dumbledore asked for permission… I didn't know it was you, though," he said to Alice.
"It was me," said Alice, "which explained some things as to why he… well, we don't have a lot of young people. Or we didn't until a few weeks ago." She smiled, round face friendly.
Harry shifted on his feet. As intriguing as it was, this was not why he had come: He had come because Edgar Bones owed him a favor for Harry becoming the sacriphant.
"What did you need, Harry?"
Harry tucked his hand in his pocket. The coin he'd received from Edgar last year was in it. If Edgar was just as reluctant to speak of Old Bones as he had been several months ago, Harry would have to call it in. "I have a couple of questions," he said, "about one of the members of your family."
Edgar blinked at him, clearly disconcerted.
"Old Bones," Harry clarified.
"Harry, we don't—"
Harry drew out the coin.
Edgar blew out a breath. Flicking a glance at Alice, he finally gave a shrug. "This is what you want to use it for?"
"I need information," said Harry. "And the two of you have got the same name. I assumed you were related. If you aren't…" His voice trailed off. Uncertainty hit him.
"What you have to understand," said Edgar, settling in one of the chairs and taking out a pipe, "is that all of what I'm about to tell you happened before I was born. He's old, you know. He was repudiated before my parents even married." He made a little grimace of displeasure. "My dad was still young, actually."
"So you are related," said Harry.
"Indeed," said Edgar, "he's my grandfather's cousin." Smoke wound upward from the lit end of his pipe. "I told you, when I gave you our family emblem, that we had some estranged members in ours. Everyone does," he said swiftly, shifting in his chair. "No family all gets along, there's always going to be someone who leaves, or is forced out. Or… you know."
"I know," Harry said, wondering where this was going. But he could easily picture the Black family tapestry, and the burn marks where Walburga Black had riven someone from her family. "I know it happens."
"Well, this one was particularly bad. Oh, two hundred years ago, maybe longer, we had a witch in the family who created the quill you've seen Dorcas Meadowes use. It's very powerful, that. And imagine how competitive everyone got when the quill was about to be passed down to the next generation."
Harry nodded. "I can imagine. And she's been hunted for it, hasn't she?"
"Yes," said Edgar. "She's been on the run nearly as long as she's had the quill."
"I take it Old Bones was jealous?" Harry asked.
"Unfathomably so, from what I've heard. I've barely met the man; I've only seen him when I was attending Hogwarts. And even then, only at a distance. I suppose I saw him, briefly, at the Potter wedding, but... I've never had a conversation with the man. I was never much interested in Divination. Fortunately for me, I suppose, should Dorcas have named me her heir. I would've inherited the whole mess."
"You think," Harry said, pushing for clarity, "that it was — it is — Old Bones doing this?"
"Everyone in my family thinks it. Well, all the older ones. Sort of, anyway. Old Bones is a gifted Seer. He expected the quill to pass to him. He was shocked when his grandmother handed it down to Dorcas, who was not even a grandchild or child of hers, but a cousin. She claimed she'd seen Dorcas was the rightful heir on the day Dorcas was born…"
"Old Bones didn't like that," Harry murmured.
"No," said Edgar.
"And then Dorcas's family was killed?"
"Yes, but first there was a series of accidents," said Edgar.
"What sort of accidents?" This was from Alice, who'd sat up sharply.
"The sort you know all too well," said Edgar. "Old Bones's grandparents died within days of each other… we believe poisoned. And then, another family member had a broom accident. There was never any proof. But Old Bones was heard at the pub, loudly maligning the newly dead, claiming it could not have happened to better people. Things calmed down, but none of my older family members were happy."
"But wasn't it Grindelwald who wanted the quill?" Harry pressed.
"Yes," said Edgar. "Which is why we merely repudiated Old Bones rather than tried to have him sent to Azkaban. As far as we know, he's never had any dealings with Grindelwald… or Voldemort."
"But could he have?"
Edgar blinked at him, genuinely surprised. "I suppose so," he said cautiously. "Merlin knows you can't trust anyone these days. Or back then, when Grindelwald was at his zenith. But he was already a professor by then; seems he was a bit busy for it. What he certainly was was jealous and hateful. When Dorcas's family… when it happened, he came to the old house and said he had Seen that if he was given the quill, the curse upon the family would end."
"You refused," said Harry.
"Dorcas refused," Edgar confirmed, sighing. "Other than this, as far as I know, there's never been any sort of black doing by Old Bones. And we don't know if the series of accidents were his doing at all. What we do know is that he was the one who exposed Dorcas to Grindelwald's evil methods of gaining what he wants. And we know he never made any apology over it. The quill was a secret; only we Bones knew it was with us."
"But people must have known it existed," Harry pointed out, tapping his chin. "It's in the almanac, I'm sure."
"But they wouldn't have known where it was," said Edgar. "Or who had it. Old Bones never should have exposed Dorcas to that."
"No," agreed Harry.
"But again… he's very well liked."
"What do you think would have happened," said Harry, "if Old Bones had found something else? Another artifact of the Knights of Walpurgis?" Myrtle's glasses might have been something Old Bones couldn't ignore.
"I think," said Edgar, tipping his head, "that he would have done anything to get hold of them. But I've seen too much darkness lately, I'm afraid."
Harry nodded. There was a slight pause. "Here," he said, holding out the coin. "Thanks for answering my questions."
"Keep it," Edgar said roughly. "This was hardly the sort of favor I was expecting you to ask. What you did — saving the wizarding world — was bigger than a few questions about family drama."
Harry nodded his thanks, said his farewells, and caught the next train that rushed past the abandoned platform by Highgate Cemetery that had been appropriated by the Order of the Phoenix.
HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP
As soon as Harry told Ginny what Edgar had told him, they agreed to contact Sirius then and there. This was too big for them both to handle: They needed an adult, and Dumbledore was gone.
It would have to be Sirius. With a tiny pang of reluctance, Harry contacted him via the two-way mirrors.
They didn't have to wait very long at all.
It was less than thirty minutes before the door to the Room of Requirement opened and Sirius strode in. Harry took a moment to think on how long it had been since the three of them had been in here together.
"Sirius," Harry said immediately, rising just an instant before Ginny did. Quickly, urgently, he told him everything he'd learned both today and in the cursed Pensieve. Sirius's face slackened with shock as he went on. When Harry told him what Edgar Bones had told him of the estranged family member, he sank into a chair and put his head in his hands. At his side, Ginny was a silent, comforting presence, having taken his hand and squeezed it in both of hers. By the time he was done, Harry felt ill enough to go to the hospital wing for a potion. "What do you think? Any of it? Could he be… could he actually be…?"
Sirius was shaken. It was another two minutes before he spoke, but when he did, he did not answer Harry's question. "But he is ill, it could look…"
"Look like what?" Ginny asked, trading a glance with Harry.
Sirius shook his head as though to clear it.
"What do you think, Sirius?" Harry demanded.
Sirius raised his head, revealing a face that was set and white; hard gray eyes looked beyond Harry's shoulder. "He was never suspected of having anything to do with him," Sirius murmured. "We all went to his funeral. Loads of people went. There was never any sign… but he must have been very, very careful."
"You really think he could be his?" Harry asked. "His servant? Old Bones?" Shaking his head in bewilderment, he added: "We like him. You like him. Dad likes him."
There was a trace of pity in Sirius's expression, like a softening of granite. "We've been betrayed by people we like before, Harry."
That was a jab, reminding him of what Sirius thought was Harry's betrayal in Nurmengard.
"So yes," said Sirius, "I can definitely believe it. May I see the map?"
Harry pulled it out of his robes and handed it to him. "It's the reason why I even went to his rooms," said Harry. "I had my eye on, you know, his dot. And it just disappeared." He stared at Sirius. "How do you think he's leaving? His flying carpet can't just make him vanish."
"The map doesn't lie," Sirius said quietly, tapping it. "He might have had a Portkey. There's no floo in his room?"
"No," said Harry. "And he's ill."
"Unless all that's a lie, too," Ginny pointed out. Her cheeks were a bright, sunset red, and there might have been fire coming from her eyes, she was that angry. "He's a professor. Imagine all the access he has, to students, professors, to Dumbledore. If he's been a traitor all this time. God."
"And everyone loves him," Harry pointed out, his own anger rising. "He's managed to do it under everyone's nose… he might even suggest people for Riddle to snap up for his Death Eater friends."
As happened more and more these days, understanding flowed between them. They would have to tell Dumbledore as immediately as they could; they would go to the Owlery, write him a note, and tell him everything. "If we go now, we can send it before dinner," said Harry. "Surely, wherever he is, he'll get it before–"
"And I think," said Sirius, discordant, and in such a way that Harry knew what was coming before Sirius said it, "that I will go find out for myself exactly what Old Bones has been up to all these years he's been a wolf among the students of Hogwarts."
HPHPHPHPHPHPHPHP
Author's Note: Next chapter goes up on Tuesday, as promised!