If Harry thought he couldn't be more miserable, that was before he visited the centaurs. Now he could find no reason to go on living. As he lay in bed to sleep and walked alone in the garden with depressing thoughts, Cheiron's words echoed in his ears: "I don't sense the slightest hint of magical power in this man."
Sometimes he heard the words Eisenbein had said to him after casting the Fourth Curse, in those terrible moments when he discovered Hagrid's cold, lifeless body. "You were a wizard, Harry," Eisenbein whispered, his voice mechanical and cracked. "Not anymore."
The other members of the D.A., who had been diligently monitoring various places associated with the Wizarding world, were just as lethargic, if not more so, than Harry. Not even a shadow of the Dawn Breakers could be found, let alone their current plans or the location of their base. The uneasy peace lasted a long time, but the tension that weighed on them all did not ease, and Dumbledore's Army was in a stagnant mood, unlike the first day when they had all been so eager and determined. Then one day, Neville and Hannah Longbottom prepared something special for the members.
"Alright, everyone pay attention." When everyone gathered in the drawing room for the weekly meeting, Neville stood up and said.
"I realize that our efforts have not yet yielded significant results. That is why Hannah and I have built a new facility in this mansion to support our hard-working members."
In the sunny room by the stairs where the Longbottoms led them, a bed with crisp white sheets sat in the center of the interior. On one side of the wall was a wooden cabinet containing flasks, cauldrons, and various ingredients for simple potions.
"Ta-dah! Isn't this cool?"
"Wow, when did you finish this?" Ron was the first to enter the room and peered into the bubbling cauldron. "So you can make potions in a bright place like this? I thought they were always made in dark and dreary places like Hogwarts. . . "
"Me too," Neville said with a broad grin, then looked back at his wife, Hannah. "If you ever need anything, just let us know. I can get you any magical herbs, and Hannah's trained as a Healer, so she's good at making a healing potion."
"That's great!" said Hermione happily. "I thought we could use some Polyjuice Potion. . . I'll see if I can get the ingredients soon and try it myself."
The other members of the D.A. looked around the room and smiled as it reminded them of the warm, cozy hospital wing at Hogwarts. But Harry still couldn't shake his gloomy mood. . . . Now, seeing anything that reminded him of the days when he could use magic, especially his time at Hogwarts, didn't make him feel nostalgic. Instead, it only seemed to increase his sense of loss.
After a few more days, Harry became even more downhearted. In order to avoid running into anyone who might visit the manor, he woke up early in the morning, brought food to his room, and ate alone. Every time someone knocked on the door, he held his breath and pretended to be absent. Harry spent most of his time hiding in his room, sipping firewhisky. For the few hours that he remained sober, he walked around the empty mansion, avoiding Malfoy's eyes, examining various rooms.
One day, he unexpectedly obtained a harvest. As Harry crept through the corridors of the second floor, he felt a movement inside a room and quickly ducked around the corner to hide behind it. The door swung open and a grumpy looking Draco Malfoy stepped out and disappeared down the stairs. Harry waited patiently until his footsteps were completely out of earshot before stepping out into the hallway. Out of curiosity, he pushed the door to the room Malfoy had just left. The door creaked open and Harry stepped inside. The room, with a spacious bed on one side, had clearly not been used for a long time, and dust had settled white on the floor. However, the large windows facing the front of the manor let in plenty of light, so the gloomy atmosphere that usually pervaded a room whose owner had been lost was not as severe.
Harry looked around the room and wondered if this was what Hermione's room would have looked like if she had been sorted into Slytherin. The wallpaper and curtains, neatly tied to one side of the window, were emerald and silver, the colors of Slytherin House. The walls were lined with bookshelves that reached to the ceiling, crammed with books of all kinds, barely enough room for a finger. Scorpius must have been studying his schoolwork just before he had been taken, and on the desk in the middle of the room was an open copy of Bathilda Bagshot's A History of Magic textbook, and next to it was a long scroll of paper with scribbled notes that stretched to the floor.
Harry slowly made his way to the window and looked around until he spotted a small object gleaming in the sunlight on one of the bookshelves and approached it: It was a shiny gold coin. Harry picked it up and examined it, looking at the serial number and realizing that it wasn't real money, but a fake Galleon used by Dumbledore's Army for communication. He remembered giving this to Scorpius when he and Albus had visited the Potters a few months ago. Harry sighed sadly as he remembered the happy day when the whole family and Scorpius had dined together, a day that could not have been more peaceful or carefree.
As he put the gold coin back in its place, he suddenly recognized his name on one of the books on the shelf, pulled it out and looked at the cover. The thick volume bore the author's name, Eldred Worple, under the title, Harry Potter: How the Boy Who Lived Lived. Harry remembered how, when he first became an Auror, he had reluctantly agreed to months of interviews, much to the annoyance of his fans and Worple, the professional biographer. Since the publication of his biography, Harry had been satisfied that reporters were no longer prying into his private life and had thrown away the book Worple had sent him without even reading it.
Harry grabbed his own biography in fascination and pulled it out, realizing that every single shelf in the bookcase was either about him or mentioned his name at least once: Modern Magical History, The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts, and Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century. . . . Harry flipped through the books one by one until he spotted a thin, faded magazine and pulled it out. It was a copy of March's edition of The Quibbler, with a picture of his younger self, smiling awkwardly, from his time at Hogwarts. Written across the picture in large red letters was "HARRY POTTER SPEAKS OUT AT LAST: THE TRUTH ABOUT HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED AND THE NIGHT I SAW HIM RETURN."
Harry realized it was the same magazine he had given a secret interview to, revealing the truth about Voldemort's return at a time when all of Hogwarts was suffering under the tyranny of Dolores Umbridge. Tears welled in his lined eyes as he looked at his younger self, the boy who had had the courage to stand up to a world that didn't believe in him. Young and immature as he might have been, the Harry Potter in his fifth year was in every way a better person than his present self. Harry picked up the magazine and left the room, along with a few thick volumes of his own biography. For the time being, it was a small comfort to have something to immerse himself in and read.
Over the next week, Harry immersed himself in new ways to forget his pain other than firewhisky. He read biographies vividly describing his own feats, such as guarding the Sorcerer's Stone from Quirrell with Voldemort attached to his head, battling the fearsome Basilisk and saving his future wife, and summoning the Patronus to rescue his godfather, Sirius Black. Sensitive information, such as that involving the Deathly Hallows, was deliberately omitted, and occasionally Ron or Hermione's contributions were slipped in as his own achievements. Nevertheless, most of the events described in the book were real.
Harry read through them day and night with a pounding heart, following his transformation from an ordinary teenage boy to a great hero. He found himself laughing out loud or even crying, recalling his past experiences. Sure, Harry still drank more Firewhisky than water, but what was more addictive than alcohol in blunting his inner pain was his own past. But sometimes, when he had to come back from the past and return to his miserable reality, a bitter pain would suddenly wash over him, as if he had been thrown from a great height onto a hard concrete floor. This day, too, the harshness of reality came in the form of a crisp knock at the door.
"Harry!" came Hermione's voice, followed by another knock. "Harry, it's Hermione. Open the door!" Harry, who had been lying face down on his bed reading his biographies as usual, quickly hid the thick volume under his pillow and staggered to his feet.
Having consumed nearly two bottles of firewhisky, Harry's feet were unsteady and his eyes unfocused, but he managed to make it to the door. Opening it carefully, he saw Hermione's face, dressed in her formal robes.
"Harry, have you been drinking?" she asked, wrinkling her nose.
"Just a little," Harry replied, slurring his words. "What's going on?"
"Teddy and Faraday have arrived. Faraday doesn't mind working for free," Hermione said, leaning in closer and adding in a whispered tone, "If you don't mind, I can cast some spells for you. Honestly, you're in a terrible shape. . . "
Harry nodded and Hermione cast two spells, one on his face and the other on his body. As the redness from the alcohol faded from his face, his baggy pajamas turned into a sleek black robe. Finally, Hermione pointed her wand at Harry's glasses and whispered "Oculus Reparo," causing the fingerprints and dust to disappear, leaving them sparkling like new.
"Okay, you're ready to meet the guests," Hermione said, opening the door and leading him into the hallway where Teddy Lupin and Faraday Prewett were waiting, their travel bags at their feet.
"Hello, Harry!" Teddy ran up to him and gave him a quick hug. "How have you been?"
"Not too bad," Harry replied briefly, his voice hoarse from disuse.
"Hi, Harry," Faraday approached with a smile. "At first I was tempted to return to the Muggle world, but I kept thinking about you . . . I couldn't bear to leave. Besides, my family owes you a debt."
"Thanks, Faraday," said Harry stiffly. He looked at his visitors and suddenly felt a grumpy urge to wipe the smiles off their faces. As if on cue, Teddy and Faraday's grins faded and awkward smiles stiffened at the corners of their mouths.
"I'll go back then," Harry told Hermione. "I have some reading to do."
He slammed the door harder than necessary, leaving the other three in the hallway. Right now all he wanted was for the distractors to go away. But as he stood alone in his bedroom, he strangely felt an urge to put his ear to the closed door and did that.
". . . is he still like that?" said Teddy worriedly.
"There must be a reason," said Hermione reassuringly. "He'll get over it eventually."
"I don't know," said Teddy gloomily. The voices on the other side of the door grew fainter as they moved further down the passageway. "Sometimes I wonder if the thoughtful, brave godfather I knew is lost forever. Will I ever see him again?"
Harry had heard enough and turned his back on the door. Hearing what he feared most directly from his godson's own lips filled his heart with deep sadness that made his whole body tremble. It was his greatest wish to leave this world, to be remembered by all as the brave and heroic Harry Potter. But now that he couldn't die and was living a meaningless life, he was tarnishing the precious memories his loved ones had of him. Harry pulled his biography from under his pillow, cradled it in his arms like a child clutching a teddy bear, and sobbed for a long time.
The next morning, Harry awoke to the sun beating down on his face. His head throbbed as if he hadn't slept a wink due to the hangover from Firewhisky; the scenery of the room around him spun before his eyes. He rolled over and reached for the liquor on his nightstand, but his fingers slipped and the bottle fell to the floor, shattering with a loud clatter. Harry cursed under his breath and unconsciously reached for his wand under his pillow, only to retract his hand. Sometimes he forgot he was a Muggle when the alcohol hadn't worn off like it did now.
Like any Muggle who breaks something, Harry knelt on the floor, sweeping up the glass shards of the broken bottle and throwing them into the trash can next to the bedroom door. He grabbed a rag to wipe up the spilled whiskey, but as he did so, he felt his throat burn with a thirst for more alcohol.
"The spilled whisky will dry up soon," murmured Harry. "What I really need is something to quench my thirst. . . ."
Harry staggered out of the bedroom to get a drink, doing what the newborn monster inside him told him to do. Harry wondered what the other members were saying about him behind his back. They probably wouldn't say anything nice, not even remotely. . . .
What a mess the great Harry Potter has become, said a dark voice in his head. Look at you, chasing a bottle of booze, hiding from your family and friends. . . .
Harry shook his head vigorously to get the little voice out of his head; now there was another reason why he needed to be drunk. He stumbled precariously down the steep stairs to the cellar and finally pushed open the door. But what he saw was a despairing sight. Every kind of liquor, from wine to whiskey to rum, had been cleared from the shelves along the wall. Harry groped at the empty shelves in vain, unable to believe what he was seeing. This had to be Malfoy's doing. . .
Cursing, he ran up the stairs and into the dining room, where he knew Malfoy would be. But the room was empty, except for a small note taped to the table. The note read:
Potter,
I got rid of all the alcohol. First, your friend Mr. Faraday Prewett wants to use the cellar as his workshop. Second, even with our family's generous wealth, it's becoming a burden to help you quench your thirst with anything other than water. If you wish to drink, do so at your own expense.
Harry tore up the note, which had no name on it but was clearly written by Malfoy, and threw it on the floor in frustration.
"You smug, pompous, selfish fool. . . "
Harry panted, unleashing a barrage of swear words at Malfoy that would have shocked anyone who heard them. When his anger finally subsided a bit, the monster in his stomach that had been dormant for a while began to howl again. If he didn't drink soon, his insides would twist and his throat would dry up to the point of death. . . . Harry went into the kitchen, opened a cupboard and found a black bottle of cooking sherry, which he hastily uncapped. He swigged the sherry and wiped his mouth with his hand. Then he spotted Faraday standing wide-eyed in the kitchen doorway, wearing a pink floral shirt and shorts as if he were on vacation.
"What are you doing here, Harry?"
"I'm thirsty," Harry said, hiding the sherry behind his back. "And you, Faraday?"
"I came here for the same reason, to drink something cool," Faraday said, then shook his head. "But I just realized you guys don't use refrigerators."
"Well, we can use magic to chill drinks on the fly," said Harry. His chest hurt whenever he talked about magic.
"But what's that thing behind your back?" Faraday demanded, and before Harry could stop him, he snatched the bottle and examined it. "This is fine Spanish sherry! Were you gonna drink this precious thing all by yourself?"
"No, please have some," said Harry. He felt a little better knowing that Malfoy would open a cupboard to cook and find an empty bottle of sherry some time later. They took out two glasses and sat down at the table, facing each other, and sipped the drink. As Faraday put down the sherry and took out his phone, it suddenly dawned on Harry that he was a Squib.
"Hey, Faraday," said Harry quietly. "I don't know if I should ask, but . . . how did it feel like when you found out you were a Squib?"
Faraday took a long sip of sherry before speaking. "What can I say, I was devastated. . . . I didn't even know I was a Squib until I was eleven; actually, before that, I used my mother's wand in secret to practice small bits of magic."
"You ever used magic?" said Harry in amazement. "But how could a Squib —"
"Wizards are surprisingly ignorant of us, even those with Squibs in their families," said Faraday stiffly, crossing his arms. "Squibs are no different from Muggles under normal circumstances, but we're still not Muggles. We can see dementors, for example, although I'm not sure that's a good thing."
Harry nodded. It was a fact he knew well, ever since Arabella Figg, a Squib, had testified for him at the hearing after he and Dudley had been attacked by two dementors and he had used the Patronus Charm.
"And contrary to popular belief, we can use magic in exceptional circumstances. If we live in the same house with a Wizarding family long enough, we can become imbued with magical powers, even to the point of performing feeble tricks with our wands, just as iron that has been in the presence of a magnet becomes magnetic for a time."
"So you were eleven when you . . . "
"You're right. A normal wizard or witch would have received a letter from Hogwarts at that time," said Faraday gloomily. "But my letter didn't come at the end of the summer. At first I thought it was some kind of misunderstanding or mistake because I had never thought I was a Squib. So, my father sent a letter himself, and the reply was. . . . Well, you can guess what happened next."
"That must have been tough for you," said Harry. It was hard to imagine having to face the pain he was now experiencing at such a young age. Faraday sighed long and hard, then put down the glass of sherry he was sipping and turned to face Harry.
" I was always an imaginative child. . . . I used to imagine myself flying around Hogwarts on a broomstick, or bravely facing a giant troll with only a wand. But all those dreams became impossible in an instant!"
Harry thought about how similar the struggles of Squibs like Faraday might be to what he was going through now. Perhaps he wasn't the most unfortunate person in the world after all, although he was certainly one of them.
"So, you went to Eton instead of Hogwarts?" Harry remembered his earlier conversation with Faraday. "What was it like there?"
"Miserable at first." Faraday offered a wry smile. "Well, a boy who'd spent his whole life thinking he belonged in the Wizarding world suddenly living among Muggles, how could it have been easy to settle in? What made it worse was the way my family and relatives treated me, either looking at me as if I had some sort of disease that was going to kill me, or forcing me into some sort of counseling program every chance they got. Still, there were some relatives like Fabian or Gideon who always treated me fairly. . . ."
Faraday swallowed his words. It must have brought back painful memories of Fabian and Gideon Prewett, Molly Weasley's late brothers who had been killed by the Death Eaters.
"And what did you do after that?" said Harry. "You don't seem so depressed now."
"Well, after a few years at Eton, I went through a phase that everyone goes through after such an event." Faraday shrugged. "I got over the pain. I'll never forget the bitterness, of course, but I had to find other meanings in life."
"And what were they?" said Harry, leaning in.
"Technology and science!" said Faraday, grinning. "Wizards like you may find them trivial, but they have enormous potential." Faraday pulled out his own smartphone and waved it in the air. "Look at this! When you were a kid, mobile phones were brick-sized devices that could barely make and receive calls, but Muggle engineers and scientists didn't stop there, they kept adding new features, and now you can fit the whole world into one tiny machine."
The words reminded Harry of Faraday's gift to him. He pulled his smartphone out of the pocket where his wand usually resided and turned on the screen. Come to think of it, he'd done some pretty amazing things with that little gadget this year that no amount of powerful spells could have accomplished.
"If everyone had access to magic, I wouldn't have thought to develop something like this." Faraday fiddled with the phone in his hand. "Innovation is born of incompetence and frustration, not innate ability."
As they sipped the last of the sherry in silence, a voice suddenly called out from the hallway outside the kitchen.
"I'm starving," said Teddy's voice.
"Me too. I'd eat a whole cow," said Ron's voice this time. "If Malfoy's capable of thinking, he'd've prepared some food, wouldn't he?"
"You didn't come here to eat, did you?" Hermione's voice was heard this time.
Before Harry could do anything, the kitchen door burst open and Ron, Hermione and Teddy walked in. All three looked equally confused and took turns looking at Harry and Faraday who were sitting across from each other with their glasses in front of them.
"What are you doing here, Harry?" Teddy asked, raising his eyebrows. "You having a party or something?"
"What are you drinking, Harry?" asked Hermione, frowning and sniffing the air.
"Cooking sherry." Ron grinned as he walked over and picked up the bottle. "You smell like that old fraud Trelawney."
"Ha, ha," said Harry sarcastically. "What are you two doing here?"
"Well, we were on a mission," said Ron. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he opened several cupboards against the wall and pulled out a basket of bread. "The three of us checked Diagon Alley today and there's no sign of anything yet."
"Yeah, the Dawn Breakers stole enough money, maybe they went on vacation somewhere tropical." Teddy picked up a loaf of bread and muttered.
Faraday was deep in thought, and suddenly he began frantically fiddling with his phone, searching for something. He looked up and said, "Hear me out — there's a limit to scouting by visiting multiple places one at a time like this."
"We know that too, Faraday." Hermione sank into the seat opposite Harry with a grimace. "But we have to try something. Maybe one day we'll find a clue. . . "
"Yes, but the Dawn Breakers have enough money to buy all of England," said Faraday, his face serious. "Time is on their side, and if you continue to dawdle like this — "
"Dawdle?" Ron and Teddy shouted at the same time, looking annoyed.
"Right, we're not just fooling around!" snapped Hermione.
"It's been weeks and there's still no outcome, hasn't there?" Faraday pointed out and Hermione bit her lip. "So I thought we'd do it my way."
"What do you mean, your way?" asked Harry. Faraday grinned and turned his phone to show them.
"In other words, using a scientific and rational approach. . . . This is the Government Communications Headquarters, or GCHQ, in Cheltenham suburbs." Harry looked at the small screen, which showed a flat, circular white building with a hole in the middle that reminded him of a donut. After showing the screen to everyone, Faraday continued, "It's responsible for ensuring information security throughout the United Kingdom. They collect and analyze all kinds of data in cyberspace, legally and illegally."
"Speak English, can't you?" grunted Ron.
"Then let's get down to business. You all know what CCTV is, right?"
"Yeah, you mean those cameras that Muggles stick like barnacles wherever there's a wall?" said Teddy.
"Exactly, and I strongly suspect that this facility has access to CCTV information from all over Britain. We'll find out when we break in."
"Break in? With a bunch of wizards who don't even know what cyber means?" said Hermione skeptically.
"Yeah, sure, security will be tight. . . . But even if they were defended against all kinds of terrorism and hacking, they wouldn't be prepared for one thing," said Faraday casually, then gestured to the rest of the group except for himself. "That's right — you! They wouldn't even imagine wizards and witches like you coming for them."
"So what do we get if all works out well?" asked Ron, taking a bite out of his bread with a grim look on his face.
"Well, we'll have hundreds of thousands of extra eyes all over the country, and it'll only be a matter of time before we catch one of the Dawn Breakers."
"All right, let's give it a try. We have a lot of experience in infiltrating places," Hermione said, taking a sheet of parchment out of her bag and spreading it out on the table. "So let's make a plan, shall we?"
"A plan? We don't have time for this kind of table talk." Faraday stood up, clearing the piece of parchment off the table with his hand. "We're leaving right now."