Distant summers
Aenor poured herself another drink, her mood mirroring the thunderous storm outside. If nothing else, at least she didn't have to die sober. Crazy Blacks! she thought regretfully. But what other choice was there to make? Especially considering Lestrange's obvious problems with controlling her temper, it wasn't completely unthinkable that both women might have decided right then and there that she was a security risk if she had objected to the last vow. The Malfoy woman especially, while she was objectively not as magically potent as Lestrange, seemed to be the calculating sort. When her hand had brushed against the wall back when she'd arrived, she had immediately understood that while the wards tolerated her presence, she was, by all means, one spell away from total annihilation during her stay. They might be kind of crazy, but their wards were the real deal. And now this.
She took another swig, holding the crystal glass she'd conjured up in her right hand, inspecting its pure brilliance in the violet light that shone through the windows, her left arm dangling uselessly at her side. I'd really appreciate it if you didn't get lost in there and die on me, Harry...
Right then, a blood-curdling scream reverberated through the house, penetrating the silence, and she nearly spilt her entire drink again. At least half of the bottle she was currently relieving of its contents had already found its way like this into the depth of the sofa she was huddling on.
Should she have given him the last tip, too? But Harry was rather bright so, surely, he would have understood, wouldn't he? The problem was, Aenor thought with a sinking feeling, that calmly considering the task at hand while being tortured by a pack of Dementors which, while bound, had just enough reach to get within a hairbreadth of his skin, was probably a rather tall order.
She took another sip.
It was kind of amusing, really. Back when she'd suffered through the ordeal, she'd been as freaked out by the chains as Harry, not even considering that they were, in fact, for the participant's own safety. She had no doubt that, should Harry manage to move even one centimetre, the Dementors would swoop in to devour his soul that very instant. Azkaban was a picnic in comparison, she knew. Having not even an inch between your skin and about a dozen ravenous Dementors all around you was a hell she would be glad not to experience ever again, not to mention that those abhorrent abominations were quite starved by now; ever since he'd finished with his experiments, there hadn't really been any reason to keep them around; but, on the other hand, there hadn't been a compelling reason to let them run rampant again, either. To be fair, she admitted, prisoners in Azkaban would have to live with their smaller doses of torture their entire lives. Even the most organised mind couldn't take that sort of stress without relief. All in all, it was rather lucky that they were still around, she surmised.
Another heart-rending scream shattered her illusion of comfort, and Aenor gave, once again, a tremendous start.
Well, Harry might have problems appreciating the opportunity right now, she silently admitted. She could, of course, at any given point in time, silence the door leading to the spacious room under the roof, but-somehow-she just couldn't bring herself to sit down here and pretend everything was fine. Glancing at her left arm again, she refilled her glass.
It was better this way. The outcome of Harry's struggle would determine her own fate, after all. She produced Harry's wand from within the folds of her robes and gave it another inspection, taking note of the alluring power it bled willingly into her hands.
After a few minutes, she realised that the screaming had stopped, but that was still far from reassuring. Aenor knew that most lost their mind in what was to come now, never to emerge again, or, in most other cases, only as a broken mimicry of their former selves. Suddenly losing her lust for alcohol, she hurled her glass against the fireplace.
Come on, Harry! You're not meant to be defeated by something like this, and I sure as hell don't want to bite the dust because I was too prideful to take a step back!
~BLVoD~
Ash - all was fire and ash. He aimlessly scurried through a world of ruins, corpses and the ever-present torturing blaze. At first, he had tried to find a cooler spot and hide, but then those things had turned up, and he had had to flee once again. Sometimes, he would peek through the window of some half-collapsed building, but the horrors he witnessed there usually made him turn away again.
He ran and ran, long past the point of exhaustion, terror of what might lurk around the next corner gnawing at his sanity, dread of what he knew to be lurking behind forcing his feet.
The way ahead was barred; a huge mansion seemed to have collapsed, blocking the road. It was a funny-looking building with, so it seemed, more spires than windows. Fearfully, he looked around, searching for another way, but there was none to be had. With no alternative, he snuck towards the front door, which hung crookedly on its hinges as if blasted backwards. The insides of the once-proud home were a mess: nearly everything had been reduced to softly glimmering heaps of many-coloured ash, though a few items, like a giant cauldron in the centre of the room, seemed eerily untouched by the inferno. With the utmost care, he crept along the softly creaking floor, careful not to step on anything and alert his pursuers.
All at once, something shot out of the rubble and grabbed his ankle. Looking down in horror, he saw the remnants of something that was once proud and grey. His own eyes widening, he realised that the smouldering and reeking, half-molten and coiled-up lump of coal beside him must be human.
'Promise me!' it croaked, blood pouring from its mouth. He bolted, ripping his feet with all his might from the grip of the thing on the floor. Through the next room he ran, ignoring the vaguely familiar paintings on the walls, through the kitchen, through the living room, jumping with eyes shut over anything big enough to make him wonder what it could have been. Finally, he reached the back door. With all his might, he yanked at the doorknob, but it wouldn't budge. Without an alternative, he took a few steps back and jumped through the broken window...
...landing on a smooth floor with not a speck of dust in sight. He turned around. Behind him was just another impeccably clean corridor leading towards a set of stairs, peacefully snoozing portraits decorating the hallway. Turning his gaze to the front again, he realised that he was standing in an entrance hall, and shadows seemed to gather in front of the house.
A woman with long red hair and a baby in her arms appeared at the top of the stairs. 'Are we expecting visitors, James?'
Holding his breath, he reached for the door. It clicked with the soft promise of death...
'You will do as I say! No more wandering about the mansion at night!'
He whirled around. A plump older woman in a maid outfit was wagging her finger at him in a scolding manner.
'But-' he began.
'You will do as I say!' she said at once, sternly raising her finger.
'But what am I-' he tried again.
'You will do as I say!' Her voice easily drowned out his own.
'But you're supposed to-'
'You will do as I say!' she said once again, her tone not changing at all.
'But who are you?!' he cried in desperation.
But it was hopeless. 'No more questions! You will do as I say!' she parroted again, her expression and inflexion eerily unchanging.
He turned around, stomping his feet, racing up the stairs.
'You really ought to do as Miss Miller says, ~#§§$,' a kind voice of no discernible origin advised him, though some of the words remained unclear to him.
He ran up the stairs, but, in his haste, he stumbled, and, as if time were suspended, he could see the carpeted steps gradually closing in...
Scenes flashed before him like a film out of control. A bathroom, a burning house, a book in a gilded casing, the door... The only thing all the images had in common was the underlying, looming sense of horror. He screamed, but the memories mercilessly continued to race in front of his eyes. The door again, a room full of moving shades, a group of Aurors firing indiscriminately... He couldn't take it anymore. With a monumental effort, he concentrated with all his might on the only image he thought he could stomach.
...And then he lay in an old storeroom, his whole body aching, blood pouring from his nose, ears and even his eyes. Confusion, panic and the feeling of helplessness paralysed his mind, and he could slowly feel his consciousness dimming, dully wondering if he'd bleed to death before someone would find him...
The world blurred.
'Good morning, Young Master!' greeted a crisp voice, and he could, even without opening his eyes, see the light flooding the room. 'Breakfast will be served in an hour. Your etiquette teacher will see you from eight till eleven-thirty. Dancing lessons will take place after lunch. In the evening, your presence is expected at Longbottom Manor. Angélique will be accompanying you.'
He heard the sound of a window opening, followed by that of a closing door.
Groggily, he got up, stumbling towards his desk where all his approved books had been sorted in towers as he was in the habit of doing. Taking one at random, he opened it just for something to do. It was children's book on animals.
Idly turning the pages, he peered at the pictures without really taking anything in. A cat, an owl, a toad, a raven, a dog, a rat, a snake...
He scrutinised the picture of the small reptile as it blinked at him lazily, showing off the pattern of its tail and its pointy fangs. For some reason, he found himself frowning and turning back to the pages at the beginning.
A cat, an owl, a toad, a raven, a dog, a rat...
The rat was merrily nibbling on a bit of cheese. The rat...wasn't as unimportant as the snake, but still – it was just a rat.
A cat, an owl, a toad, a raven, a dog...
This time, he examined the dog carefully. For some reason, he thought it should be darker, bigger and fiercer, not so small and spruce. No, this wasn't the dog.
A cat, an owl, a toad, a raven...
A raven.
It was a magnificent drawing, the animal nearly too big for the page. Its sharp-looking dark beak was turned upwards as it regarded him with a haughty look, showing off its softly shimmering pitch-black plumage.
The raven.
You could get the impression that it stared from the depths of the picture right back into your very soul. This one, he thought, they'd gotten right, at least.
The raven crowed softly. He softly caressed the picture of the bird. It closed its eyes and crowed again in a gentle and pleased manner, causing him to smile.
Then, he noticed the little capsule that the raven had attached to one of his legs. Curiously, he ran his hand downwards over the drawing. The raven opened its eyes, crowing in alarm, and then, as fast as lightning, pinched him harshly with its beak.
Totally bewildered, he retracted his hand, looking at his forefinger. A few droplets of blood ran down his hand.
He closed his eyes, leaning back in the chair that was much too big for him. Something about the raven was calling to him. He opened his eyes again, looking back at the book in front of him. It showed a medium-sized greyish bird perched on a fence post in front of a meadow – just like before. He blinked in confusion. Then, still staring at the picture of the wrong raven, he opened his eyes again.
Not only the picture, everything was wrong, he noticed with a jolt. The chair, the desk, the house; everything was so dead that it might not even be there in the first place! He alone felt real, if strangely out of tune. Neither Marietta nor Angélique, whom he could spy at through several suddenly not-so-solid walls, had any spark in them. The only other thing glimmering with any semblance of reality was...something outside of the house. Standing up, he walked unassertively towards the open window.
With every step he took, the world seemed to tremble with anticipation. When he passed by the large cupboard, he could hear the muted sound of a terrible, wretched scream.
But that couldn't be right. Standing next to the curtain, he couldn't see anything extraordinary outside of the house. The sun had long since arisen. A silky breeze of air wafted towards him, and not a single cloud darkened the sky.
'Young Master? Breakfast is ready! Please make yourself presentable at once!' shouted one of the maids.
He shot one last look outside again, but there was nothing. Shrugging, he was about to turn away when he spotted something that gave him pause; there was a considerable patch of hoar frost on the window sill.
Frowning again, he approached the window once more. He could feel the warmth of the sun even from within the room, so why exactly...
'Young Master? You need to come at once!' the voice shouted again, more urgently this time.
His first instinct was to obey, but then he remembered the ravens... Cautiously, he stretched his hand upwards, in the direction of the window. The rays of the sun still felt as good and warming as ever...until they didn't. Suddenly, his hand felt as if it was made of snow and ice, and he hastily drew it back.
'Young Master!' He heard someone climbing the stairs.
Making up his mind, he hastily ran across the room and dragged the heavy chair underneath the window.
Someone knocked on the door. 'Young Master? There will be no more of this nonsense, I'm coming in!'
In a hurry, he climbed the chair. He wanted to know, he wanted the truth!
'Young Master, you will come down from there at once!' Marietta said with a scowl. 'Don't you care about all the work we do for you? Don't you care about what your parents would have wanted for you?'
He stared at her, one foot on the window sill.
'You will cease this ridiculous behaviour! Your parents would have wanted you to listen to us!'
He continued to stare. Every fibre of his body wanted to obey, wanted to climb down, wanted to apologise - and yet he didn't.
'Don't you care about their memory? Don't you care about the Potters? Do you really want to sully their names with your insolent antics?'
'I don't care,' he said suddenly, his voice hoarse. All of a sudden, it hurt to speak.
'You will come down at once and li-'
'No,' he said flatly. For some reason, his mouth tasted of iron.
'Come down a-'
And then he jumped. Glacially slow, he flew through the air in a magnificent, heroic arc, his whole self revelling in the victory of this moment, the brightness of the sun, the freedom that lay beyond...
...until, still mid-jump, he came face to face with the grey-skinned, hooded, rattle-breathed abomination of utter despair.
~BLVoD~
It was now or never, Aenor decided. It wasn't quite dawn yet, but the vow, she realised angrily, looking down at the necrotic tissue that had just reached her chest, didn't leave her any other choice. If his mind was still trapped, she might be able to do something about it – hopefully. If, by some miracle, he had already prevailed, any more exposure to the hope-sucking fiends would be cruel and risky if effective training, but he could get more of that anytime.
Her own grandfather, she remembered with an angry scowl, had left her in there for nearly a day, even though she'd emerged from her delirium after only a few hours. She'd never been so angry with him in her entire life.
Taking two steps at once, she pointed her wand at the door with a certain amount of anxiety. The lock snapped open immediately, and the door swung wide open. With a lazy swish of her wand, she summoned her Patronus, siccing it on the Dementors that still surrounded their prey on all sides. They retreated with wailing shrieks, fleeing from the dauntless image of her little pet as if the sun itself was at their heels.
Paying them no further attention, she slowly approached the chair in the middle.
Harry looked as white as snow, his whole body cramped. His eyes were closed, but the heavy shadows and slight moisture around his eyelashes told her that he'd been crying. She didn't think any less of him because of it.
'Harry?' she called softly, struggling to undo the chains with one hand and keeping his body from falling over. 'Harry? Can you hear me?'
'…'
'Harry?' she asked again, gently running her hand under his chin to make him look up.
'bmb...' he mumbled, not opening his eyes.
'What?' she asked, holding her breath, hope spreading in her like fireworks.
'Bambi...' he muttered again, his voice rough and his trembling hand pointing towards the glowing Patronus in the far back of the room.
Aenor, despite herself, smiled widely at him. 'Come on, let's get you out of here.'
'Throat...'urts,' he murmured after a few coughs.
'Don't speak yet, Harry. You've likely injured your vocal cords. Let's get you sorted out before we depart for London. Your aunt will scream blue murder if she sees you like this.'
With caution, she carried him back down the stairs, closing the door behind her with a great amount of relief. It was a bit of work to get him downstairs without any use of magic and with only one hand, but, eventually, she heaved him into the large bed, removing his shoes and vanishing his robes, forcing Harry to drink a potion that would grant him dreamless sleep.
A cawing sound from above the bed startled her so badly that she nearly bumped heads with Harry. Looking up, she saw her raven sitting on the highest perch of the room, an ancient pier glass. 'When did you get here?' she asked, puzzled. 'No matter. It's a pity we can't stay to celebrate, but I guess his grandfather will be able to explain things well enough.'
The raven crowed softly in response.
'It seems that you've taken a liking to the boy, haven't you?' she asked with a grin as she deliberately flexed her left hand.
The bird blinked slowly. Then, he spread his wings and sailed down from the mirror and landed on the bed-head, his gaze fixated on the boy.
'Well,' she said in a low voice. 'I can't blame you.'
~BLVoD~
Hermione sat bent forward at her desk, her nose rather unnecessarily close to the parchment in front of her, her expression one of concentration. Raindrops pattered against her window. Very slowly and with the feeling of great satisfaction, she made the last period.
She'd made great strides in her homework, so from Hermione's point of view, everything was perfectly fine with her holidays. Her father had been a bit...smothering the first few days, but it was all good in her opinion. She really had missed her parents.
'Hermione, letter for you!' the voice of her mother called through the house.
She straightened up immediately. The letter from Harry!
Bolting down the stairs with a rumbling noise that elicited a reprimanding click of her father's tongue, she came upon a scene that strained her ability to suppress a laugh.
A giant eagle owl the colour of rust rested on one of the chairs, her wings slightly unfolded, lording over her mother, who seemed to be offering the bird a surprisingly varied assortment of snacks, all nicely presented on small plates. Sometimes, the owl would take a hesitant bite, at other times it would snap its beak judicially. It was true that Hermione had told her that it was considered nice to give owls a snack but...
'That's too much, Mum.' Hermione laughed. 'You don't need to make such a big deal out of it.'
Her mother smiled mysteriously. 'No, no, this really is fun. My, I've never had the chance to feed an owl. And this one looks like it might be aristocracy, too.'
Hermione couldn't argue with that. The owl in question seemed oddly pleased with being offered increasingly sophisticated snacks and nicely decorated dishes, after all. In her mind, there couldn't be a single doubt that this was, therefore, Harry's owl.
Without looking up from her serving, the owl casually held out one leg, where Hermione immediately noticed a small bit of folded parchment. She recognised the script immediately.
'It's Harry's!' she announced loudly.
'What's it say?' asked her mother curiously, offering her avian guest another plate with a few slices of their Sunday roast on it.
'He, er, asks if he can come over later today,' Hermione said, looking up from the short letter with a hopeful look. 'He apologises for the short notice, but...'
'I don't mind,' her mother responded with a quick smile. 'He seemed like a nice young man. Even his owl is well-mannered.'
Hermione beamed brightly at that. 'Thanks, Mum! I'll write an answer immediately, then.' She took the parchment and sprinted in the direction of the stairs.
'Be sure to tell your father about your guest!' her mother called after her, causing Hermione to groan softly. While she was thankful that her mother was apparently approving of Harry, her father had recently taken it upon himself to warn her about the dangers of men in general. Just because, he had insisted.
Dashing to her desk, she scribbled a few short sentences and raced back down, offering her 'letter' to the owl. Glancing towards Hermione's scrawl, the owl hooted indignantly, turning her back on her.
'You really should have taken the time to write it down neatly. If even Harry's owl disapproves, what do you think his opinion will be?' teased her mother.
'It will be perfectly alright,' said Hermione forcefully.
In the end, Hermione's mother managed to persuade the owl to take the parchment with another bit of their Sunday roast.
'Have you told your father yet?'
Rolling her eyes, Hermione replied, 'I'll do so in a minute!'
Her father was sitting in the living room, a large newspaper in his hand, his attention captured by the TV.
'Dad?'
'One second, Hermione.'
'...already the fourth case of fishermen gone missing near the Danish, German and Dutch coasts this last week. Independent investigators and governments alike are baffled by the sudden spike in disappearances. Meanwhile, Eco-activists around the globe are pointing towards the increasingly unpredictable weather patterns and incalculable risks of global warming.'
'Just more of the same,' her father said heavily with a sigh, turning down the volume. 'What is it you wanted, love?'
'Oh, er, I just wanted to tell you that Harry will be coming today,' she said uneasily and with the intention of getting the worst out of the way as fast as humanly possible.
'Will he now?' her father asked, an eyebrow raised, folding his arms.
'Mum said it was okay already!' Hermione huffed, crossing her arms likewise.
Mr Granger sighed again, leaning back in his chair. 'Are you sure this is such a good idea, love? You wrote us that he's some kind of...political pariah, didn't you?'
'It'll be fine, Dad! Besides, he may be a pariah, but as far as I can tell his family still has a lot of political pull.'
'Old money?' her father asked shrewdly.
This forced Hermione to laugh, the tension leaving her body in a second. 'Definitely. And loads of it, I bet.'
'I see,' he said neutrally. 'Well, alright. If you feel like you can trust him, who am I to disagree.'
'Thanks, Dad!' she squealed, hugging him in a storm.
'It's alright, Hermione. You're my only daughter; you have to understand that I'm only worried about you. It's...difficult, letting you go nearly all year to some place we're not even allowed to visit.'
'I know,' she hummed, not breaking the embrace. 'Thanks for being so understanding...'
'So?' he said eventually, beaming at her. 'When can we expect your fancy friend to arrive?'
'Uh, now that you mention it, I really don't know wh-'
Knock, knock.
Hermione's unassertive guess for an answer was interrupted when someone knocked politely on the entryway door.
Daughter and father glanced at each other wordlessly. As if to fill the sudden void, the TV seemed to blare despite its relatively low volume.
'So what do you have for us, John? Still more of the same? Heavens, I could use a bit of sun!'
'Wouldn't object to that either, Matthew. Alas, the most rain-intensive summer of the last eighty years continues to impress with bouts of rain, storms and just a bit more rain.'
'So still no worrying about watering the garden plants?'
'If I were you, I'd start worrying about your sunflowers not getting enough light. But in all honesty, the next few weeks...'
Knock, knock – there it was again.
'Why is that person not using the doorbell?' her father asked, puzzled.
It couldn't be...Could it? thought Hermione. 'I'll get the door,' she volunteered, wanting to make sure – just in case.
She sprinted towards the front door, overtaking her inquisitive-looking mother. She came to a sliding halt, her socks carrying her a few feet after she'd stopped running. Taking a breath, she opened the door.
A thunderbolt flashed across the sky, dousing the person in front of her with dazzling light. There, looking as if he'd just strolled out of his private office on the management storey of some rather posh bank building, stood Harry, wearing a heavy anthracite loden coat over a tight-fitting business suit with a silken dress handkerchief, a remarkable silver-green cravat and sparkling clean black leather shoes that looked like they were handmade and, quite possibly, Italian.
'Good day, Hermione,' he greeted her formally, bowing ever so slightly.
Hermione just stared at him. Somehow, she just couldn't juggle the distinctly magical Harry with loden coats and business suits. It was even worse since he looked rather comfortable in his outfit.
'Mind if I step in?' he asked politely after a while, a small smile playing about his lips. 'The weather's not holding up, I fear.' His left hand pointed, quite needlessly, towards the dark grey sky, where sickly violet light occasionally shone through the thunderclouds, water curtains and occasional strikes of lightning.
Hermione, blinking rather frantically, finally came to her senses. 'Oh! Ahem, yes, of course. Hi, Harry!'
'Thank you,' he smiled gratefully, smartly stepping over the threshold, where he came face to face with Hermione's mother. 'Ah, Mrs Granger. It does my heart good to see you again. Thank you again for the great pleasure of your generous invitation.' In one fluid motion, he produced a small and very tasteful bouquet of flowers from the depths of his coat. Hermione could see her mother's face lighting up at once. 'To show my appreciation, I thought a small display of flowers of the summer season during these dreary days might be a welcome change of pace.'
'Oh, you needn't have bothered, dear. You're very welcome here.' Her mother beamed at him. 'And please call me Mary! Since you're so early, would you like to have lunch with us?'
'That would be delightful, Mary,' declared Harry smoothly, kissing her hand again. 'But I'm afraid that I may not have planned for this eventuality. Some other time, surely, I would not be able to resist. Something to look forward to, mayhap?'
Her mother laughed surprisingly girlishly before she vanished in the direction of the kitchen again, causing Hermione to raise an eyebrow.
'Harry, what are you doing?' she hissed, narrowing her eyes.
He looked at her, confused. 'What do you mean?'
'Why are you acting like this?' she demanded.
'This is how I always act during formal greetings though?' he said, now looking like an actor who'd lost his script.
'Casual! You need to be more casual!' she whispered urgently.
'Casual, alright. I, er, haven't actually introduced myself to any Muggles before. Casual, okay. No problem.'
Just then, Hermione's father came around the corner, likely looking for the source of all the noise.
Harry, with a look of determination, slowly raised his hand. 'What's cracking, Granger,' he drawled in a very lazy and disinterested manner that didn't resemble his usual speech at all.
'Hello?' her father asked, stumped, obviously not able to cope with Harry's impeccable appearance and the rather underwhelming greeting.
Hermione, fighting the rising sense to flee the scene and deny any involvement, coughed meaningfully. 'Dad? Can you please go see Mum? I need to have a few words with Harry.'
'Alright?' he said, looking from his daughter to her guest a few times, before following after his wife.
'Harry?' she growled. 'Are you doing this intentionally?'
'This is ridiculous!' he exclaimed innocently. 'First, I'm too formal, and now I'm too casual? Pick one or the other already!'
Hermione groaned, rubbing her temple. 'I give up. Just...just do your thing. Please don't ever do the second one again, though.' Looking him over again, she asked, 'Where did you get those clothes anyway?'
'Anything wrong with them?' he asked in a hurt voice. 'I was told this was an adequate way to dress up as a Muggle. Am I mistaken?'
'What? No, it's just... Ah, why am I even bothering? Isn't it a bit too warm with the coat and all?'
'Why would it be?' he inquired, bewildered. 'It's charmed to be temperate, after all. I still prefer robes, of course, but-I have to say-Muggle fashion isn't half as bad as I thought.'
'Fashion...right,' Hermione said with a sigh. 'The kitchen's through here.' Eyeing his suit again, she shook her head.
'Lead the way,' he said with a small grin.
When they arrived, her mother seemed to be glaring at her father. Given Harry's subtly different introduction to the two, it wasn't too hard to guess the topic of their conversation.
'Are you sure you don't want to stay for dinner, Harry?' her mother asked hopefully.
Harry smiled charmingly at her. 'I'm sure I'll regret passing this invitation up, but Hermione and I have to be on our way momentarily.'
'How are we going to travel then, Harry?' Hermione asked curiously. She had been wondering all summer long.
He, however, just grinned mischievously at her, causing Hermione to look at him askance.
'I think Hermione raises a fairly important question,' opined her father, crossing his arms again. 'I hope you plan to travel safely?'
'Never fear, Mr Granger.' Again, that grin. She remembered him grinning like that during their train ride, back when she'd just met him. It didn't bode well, she decided. 'We will, in fact, be travelling with...' on cue, he procured a broom stick the size of Hermione's thumb, '...this!'
Hermione stared unblinkingly at the misshapen matchstick Harry held high like the Holy Grail.
'Oh! That does look interesting.' Her mother chuckled.
'Is it shrunk? How will be both fit, Harry?'
'You've got the wrong idea, Hermione. Take my hand!' he directed her.
She did, feeling as if the situation was spiralling somewhat out of control. 'A-And now?' she asked, taking note of the glare her father sent Harry's way.
'And now,' Harry said, tapping the miniature broom with his wand that was suddenly in his hand, 'we're gone.'
From one moment to the next, the whole kitchen was bathed in garish white light, while the eardrum-shattering ringing of a whistle permeated the neighbourhood.
Hermione spun through space, Harry's hand her only anchor, her only orientation in a wild carousel of jerky movements. Estimating herself to be rotating at least four times a second, she shut her eyes and mouth as tight as she could. A few seconds later, everything came to a sudden halt, and Hermione nearly fell over, only Harry's doughty actions rescued her from further embarrassment.
She looked around. It was fairly obvious they weren't anywhere near her home anymore. In fact, the only thing both places seemed to have in common was the perpetual downpour of rain.
'Harry...? she grumbled, holding her head to make the spinning cease. 'Did you just abduct me by Portkey?'
'I certainly did not!' He smiled winningly. 'We had an appointment, after all.'
'B-But my parents! I don't even have my wand or a jacket!'
He waved her concern aside like an irksome fly. 'Hardly a problem. It's still summer, and you couldn't do magic without getting a warning at any rate.'
'You just did magic!' she hissed angrily at him.
'What unsustainable accusations!' His pupils wandered to the upper left corner of his eyes for a second. 'Mostly,' he amended thoughtfully. 'But I just activated something already cast.'
'What am I supposed to do about the rain?' she shouted at him indignantly.
'Oh! I've acquired this mechanical rain-repellent device!' He opened his coat a bit, drawing out a huge, black umbrella. Then, to Hermione's amazement, he pointed it straight at the sky in a dramatic fashion.
After three painful seconds, he directed his gaze towards the Muggle implement in his hands. 'It seems to be faulty,' he observed calmly.
Snorting at him, Hermione wrenched the umbrella out of his hand and pressed the discreet button near the handle.
Without a hitch, the brolly unfolded at once. Harry watched her like a cat, tensing a bit, but, ultimately, looking a bit disappointed. 'Shouldn't it improve the weather?' he asked sceptically. 'What good is a bit of cover?'
'I don't think Muggles have such a thing,' she responded, rolling her eyes.
'Oh,' he said, clearly taken aback. 'Well, let's get on with it, then. I promised my aunt that I'd only be away for an hour or two.'
'So that's why you didn't want to continue flattering my mother and irritating my father?' she inquired scathingly.
'Well, yes,' he said with a grin. 'My aunt made me two Portkeys specifically as a bit of a favour, so I don't really want to go against my promise in this.'
'I knew it! So you were doing it on purpose! Please tell me they were Ministry-approved, at least,' she groaned.
'They're Ministry-approved,' he replied with a gentle smile.
'Really now?' she asked pleasantly surprised.
He laughed. 'No, they're definitely not. They're perfectly illegal, naturally, but don't concern yourself with such trifling matters. Come on, this way.'
Not one year ago, she'd have given Harry the dressing-down of the year, but now, she could only sigh with pronounced frustration and jog after her friend, who had started off with a brisk pace.
'Where are we?' she asked as soon as she'd caught up with him.
'Eastern Wales, the exact location is hardly relevant.'
Hermione looked around for real this time. They were on some kind of forest gravel path, and huge lime and beech trees surrounded them on all sides. And that was it, she decided. There was just a lot of wood and the winding path that crept along a mild slope.
'Where are we headed?' she asked, trying to weasel a bit more information out of him. She'd had enough surprises for one day.
'It's not far, you'll see. No need for concern either, there's absolutely no danger lurking ahead,' he added with a gentle and, she guessed, sincere smile for once.
Realising that this was probably all she could hope for at this time, she decided on a different approach. 'Having a good summer, Harry?'
'Oh, quite nice, really. Of course, I nearly got killed on accident that one time. Right, and I've also narrowly escaped becoming a soulless husk. It was quite alright apart from those bits.' He glanced at her incredulous expression. 'Bit rainy, though,' he supplemented his summary with a small smile.
'Your attempts at humour are still as terrible as ever, Harry,' she said with exasperation.
He looked into her eyes. 'This time, however, I was being honest.'
Hermione blinked, faltering in her steps. Harry did not seem to notice or care, and Hermione had to run for a few seconds to catch up to him again.
'Are you alright, Harry?' she asked in a small voice.
'I'm fine,' he returned unimpressively.
'Do you want to t-'
'I'm fine, Hermione,' he repeated more forcefully. 'Look, let's not get into that. I'm a bit stressed out, but there's no real problem besides a lack of sleep, so let's just pretend I made a little joke and you found it hilarious.'
'That seems unlikely,' she replied, sighing.
'You'll learn to appreciate it, I'm sure,' he responded with a lopsided smile.
What followed were ten minutes of walking in silence. Harry's mood seemed to darken with every step he took; where he'd been playful and mischievous at the start, he was now absorbed in thought and rather grim-looking.
'Why was it necessary to approach from so far away?' she asked eventually.
'Wards,' he grunted, scowling at something at the side of the road.
Curiously, Hermione followed his gaze, spotting a broken-down swing and some sort of camping ground.
Her attention might have been better served elsewhere, though, as she unceremoniously stumbled into Harry. 'Oof!' she exclaimed, rubbing her stinging nose. 'What's the m-'
'We're there,' he said curtly.
But there was nothing, of course. The "road" continued to be a useless dirt track of no purpose or destination. The most remarkable thing to speak of, if there was such a thing, was the inconspicuous meadow that spanned about a few dozen yards. A few of the trees at the edge of the clearing seemed to have been struck by lightning or burned by something else – but that was really it.
'There's nothing,' Hermione summed up her observation.
He wordlessly grabbed her sleeve and marched towards the field of grass. 'Really,' he said without any amusement. 'You might want to look again properly.'
With the next step, she felt as if her body had passed through a bubble. Her hair was charged, she felt her knees and elbows itching, and an annoying beep like tinnitus rang in her ears. When she opened her eyes again, she found herself facing a derelict ruin of a formerly splendid mansion. The whole front entry seemed to have crumbled, and all the windows facing their way were broken. A few of the erstwhile beautiful and colourful wooden blinds hung loosely and sadly off their hinges, swaying gently in the breeze, though most had come crashing down. A great fissure ran through the building, nearly splitting it in two. Most tiles on the roof were broken, and all that remained were heavily overgrown with moss. Creeping leaf tendrils had, at some point in time, also managed to get a hold of the house, attacking it in what seemed like an effort of the forest to overcome civilisation.
It was, Hermione decided, a really spooky sight. 'What is this?' she murmured.
'Welcome, Hermione,' Harry spat, pointing towards the ruin with a grand and sarcastic gesture, 'to Potter Manor.'
Her thoughts were racing. She looked from the prized exhibit of a haunted house to the black marks on the lawn. Nothing seemed to be growing there. 'What happened here?' she asked in a hushed voice. 'This place looks like it's been attacked.' She took a few hesitant steps forward, her fingers gently caressing the part of the wooden fence that did not seem to have been burned down.
'It was,' Harry replied curtly. He had not moved from the spot.
She strode across the grass until she had reached one of the dark spots that had sparked her curiosity. Slowly, she reached down with her hand.
'I'd keep my hands off that if I were you,' Harry said with a definite tone of warning.
She turned around, frowning. 'What happened?' she asked again.
He stared at her, his face completely blank. No matter how hard she looked, she couldn't see a single impulse, not the most minuscule of movements of his eyes or mouth. Harry, it seemed, was neither his roguish, his political, nor his insecure self. Right now, he was just like a sheet of polished stone: enduring, lasting, unmoving – and, she wagered, brittle. 'At this site, Harry Potter was born to James and Lilly Potter close to fifteen years ago,' he began with a cold tone. 'And this is also the site where James and Lilly Potter died when Harry Potter was not even two yeary old.'
'What happened?' she whispered for the third time.
'Uncertain. They were attacked, and everybody except little Harry died. That is all I know.'
'They were killed?' Hermione asked in a shrill voice.
'Yes. The Ministry was in an uproar afterwards. After all, one of their most popular families, the heir of heroes from their war against Grindelwald, had just been nearly wiped out when everybody had finally thought they were safe from the last remaining fanatical followers of the Dark Lord.'
'I'm so sorry,' she said softly, bringing her hand to her mouth in shock.
'Harry Potter was, according to the last will of the parents, released into the care of close friends of the family; a pair by the name of Remus John Lupin and Sirius Black,' he continued mechanically. 'They were warm and caring people and did the best they could - for a while.'
'For a while?' Hermione asked, feeling a vague sense of dread. She shouldn't have asked Harry to recount his tale. All of a sudden, her idle curiosity did not seem a very good reason to demand him to relive these no doubt painful memories. 'Harry, you don't need t-'
'Yet there was a small problem with Harry's parents' plans. You see, Remus Lupin had a bit of an issue: he was a werewolf, you see, even though he knew how to keep his inner demon in check.'
'Harry, listen, you do-'
'The Ministry, meanwhile, was in a bit of a bind. With the Blacks threatening to break the stranglehold the Pillars had on the Wizengamot, it was deemed unwise to allow the Potter family to fall into disarray, particularly so when one of the guardians of young Harry was a Black himself, no matter how estranged.'
Hermione watched with fascinated horror as Harry kept on rambling, his eyes stone cold, his face expressionless, his heart, she feared, not as much.
'It is unknown to me who approached Mr Lupin, but it hardly matters, in any case. The message was as follows: "Do as we say, or your little secret will be leaked." Considering this might possibly have had legal implications regarding the will of James and Lilly, Mr Lupin struggled, but-in the end-submitted to the will of the Ministry.'
'But that's extortion!' Hermione shouted over the pattering of the rain.
'With one half of the guardianship under their thumb, the Ministry quickly moved to place Harry in a more suitable environment. They dismissed his elves, fired the old staff and hired new, Ministry-approved maids to care for the last of the Potters. Sirius, bewildered and perplexed about the ability of the Ministry to enforce such radical changes, tried to fight against the new appointments, but the public emerged as the critical factor; with the recent and horrible attack on one of their beloved Pillars, they demanded that actions be taken so that Harry, at the very least, was safe and sound. Thus, Sirius' objections were overturned.'
'But couldn't he have done something?' she asked, her eyes wide. 'He had one half of the legal guardianship, didn't he?'
He neither nodded nor did he shake his head. He just went on. 'Magical Law isn't anything like what you're familiar with. With, effectively, both halves of the guardianship locked in dispute, the Ministry and the public itself were consulted to reconcile both parties. In this case, this meant that "Mr Lupin's demands" were all deemed prudent and enacted.'
'Couldn't Sirius Black ha-'
'What you also fail to realise,' he continued, mercilessly speaking over her again, 'is that the ultimate representative or claimant in Magical Law is decided by magic. The moment the relatively uninformed half-blood Mr Lupin signed a little sheet of paper that essentially reduced his role in the guardianship to ceremonial duties, magic identified the Ministry as the rightful second party of interest. Not that either Sirius or Mr Lupin ever discovered that little fact until much later.'
'So, you were a ward of the Ministry?' she whispered in horror.
'In essence, yes. And how triumphant they were in their victory. Young Harry was still given proper education, of course, but now the education was a bit more...selective. The illustrious Ministry, the fabled House Potter, the duties of every decent witch or wizard, those were the lessons their young charge was taught.
'Sirius, of course, tried to resist, and he fought many a time with his old schoolmate over these strange decisions he still thought were his friend's. In fact, despite his relative political irrelevance, he became such a nuisance that the Ministry eventually banned him from visiting, citing obscure reasons, alleged inappropriate behaviour and pointing towards past misdeeds and supposed criminal actions.'
Hermione, still staring at her friend in horror, took a few stumbling steps in his direction, her mind desperately trying to keep up, her heart aching with the pain Harry refused to reveal.
'Desperate, Sirius confronted Mr Lupin one last time. Their confrontation ended with wands being drawn. Shortly before the werewolf fled, he confessed his mistake, before vanishing from Britain in shame.
'Sirius, outraged and horrified at the same time, came to realise just how helpless, how powerless he truly was. A lone wizard, all but banished by his family, no friends in high places except for a somewhat sketchy friendship with his old headmaster, Albus Dumbledore. And yet, the wise and all-powerful Chief Warlock decided not to intervene. "The tidings were grim," he said. "The Wizengamot is split," he relayed. "The judicial implications are diverse," he cautioned. Albus Dumbledore, for all his might, for all his pull, for all his wisdom, did not see the need to act.'
Hermione finally came face to face with him and, without thinking, embraced Harry. He did not move to respond in kind. Strangely, she realised after a second, he also did not seem to shy away. It was as if his rage had killed the fear or uneasiness she'd always suspected he had of women.
'And so, Sirius Black turned towards the last person he would ever want to turn to – towards his grandfather. The very man he'd cursed as an old fool living in the past, the same man who'd proclaimed him to be no heir of the family. And his grandfather, Arcturus, the man he hadn't shared a word with for more than five years, nodded and said, "I will help."'
'What did he do?' she asked in awe.
'Sirius had neither spoken or even sent greetings or salutations to any family member for years, except for one who'd been cast out in shame. And yet, within five minutes of him explaining the situation to his grandfather, of him begging for help, he, Arcturus, and Sirius' brother, Regulus Black, another person he hadn't spoken to in years, left their family manor, wands in their hands, determination in their hearts.'
'They attacked this place?' she asked in shock. 'Couldn't they have done something legally? Even with all the pull of your family? I know your grandfather was once Chief Warlock...'
Harry jerkily shook his head. 'At the time, there was nothing to be done. The case was simple and clear: the Ministry had gotten hold of one half of the guardianship, and through public approval and by the grace of its own jurisdiction, this meant that it had the sole deciding power left. The only option at that time would have been for Mr Lupin to publicly prove that he'd been coerced. A difficult venture, but the moment the werewolf fled, it was all but a distant dream,' Harry spat with ire.
Hermione kept silent. She felt a certain amount of sympathy for the tragic figure of the werewolf. Forced to comply, discarded and forgotten, she could only imagine the amount of grief and pain that person would have had to endure.
'And so, three people, three Blacks, came to this place to take back what did not belong to the Ministry. Three Blacks against the wards, against the personnel and, eventually, against two full corps of battle-hardened Aurors. The fight lasted nearly all evening. Regulus and Sirius were critically injured, three Aurors died. But in the end, the Blacks prevailed against twenty-three opponents, against all the might the Ministry could point at them, against the injustice and the hypocrisy of those currently in power. Three people against twenty-three – and they won.'
Hermione remained silent, squeezing Harry a little harder. After a painful moment for the both of them, she hesitantly raised her voice. 'So that's how you became a Black?'
And Harry, incredibly and unfathomably, began to chuckle. 'Oh, no! That's how Harry Potter came be the ward of Sirius Black. But he was definitely still Harry Potter back then.'
There couldn't be more, could there? she thought, horrified. She wanted to ask, but how could she? The words died in her throat, yet Harry still did not need her encouragement, and he continued his story in the same uncaring tone.
'You know, Hermione, people in power do not like the taste of defeat. They do not like losing – at all! Even though Arcturus left little to no evidence, they suspected the Blacks had openly defied them; had, so they publicly claimed, attacked the home of the Potters, had killed the innocent Aurors, had destroyed the heritage of poor little Harry. What an uproar it was! Riding the wave of what was once approval and now only blind rage, the Ministry retaliated. First, by public denouncement. Later, by legislation. And lastly,' he said, his voice for the first time showing any hint of emotion, 'by force.' It was anger, she realised. Pure undiluted, hatred directed at those who had wronged him.
'One day, when Sirius was running errands in Diagon Alley, he was confronted by four corps of Aurors, which, incidentally, is a major portion of the Office's forces, and was ordered to submit. In a matter of hours, Sirius was facing trial under the old laws that were meant as a last resort against the supporters of the Dark Lord, convicted of murder, sent to Azkaban for a lifetime. He did not even enter the halls of justice; he was tried in both his own absence as well as that of the Wizengamot.'
'Is he still in prison?' she asked huskily.
Harry did not even seem to hear her. 'Arcturus received word of the proceedings within hours. Too late to help his first grandson, but maybe not to save his second. He himself vanished within minutes, as did all those speculated to be connected to the Blacks. It had been, Arcturus had realised, a mistake for the Blacks to resurface after the Grindelwald trials.'
Her tears fell on Harry's robes and mixed with the rain. The umbrella lay a few feet away, forgotten and ignored. 'Does that mean that you are still, technically, a ward of the Ministry?' she inquired cautiously.
'No. The moment the Black family legally adopted me, that claim ceased to be of relevance. And even if they disputed the fact, I voluntarily discarded the name of Potter, threw it away and spat on it – good riddance!'
'Well,' she said with a shaky smile, 'at least you were safe.'
And Harry exploded with rage. 'SAFE?' he shouted, his voice radiating wrath. She'd meant it as a soothing comment, but Harry roughly shoved her aside and drew his wand.
Hermione stood rooted to the spot, eyeing the wand that was sure to be pointed at her. And yet, to her complete bafflement, Harry quickly strode towards the umbrella that had carelessly been tossed in the mud and directed his wand at it. 'Portus,' he snarled.
Hermione held her breath. 'Oh my god!' she cried out. 'Harry, what about the Restriction of Underage Wizardry?!'
Just that moment, an owl swooped down at them with a loud popping sound. Harry, with a gaze full of hate, viciously slashed his wand at the bird. 'Diffindo!'
A bright green streak of light, a ghastly shriek, and then there was only the half-split carcass of the bird plummeting towards the ground. Harry turned around and, without looking back, levelled his wand in the direction of the dead bird that was still in the air. 'Incendio!'
Hermione shrieked, watching in horror as the owl burst into fire, the dark-blue flames incinerating her once beautiful feathering and the letter in her clutches both in a matter of seconds.
Harry gruffly grabbed her hand and touched the umbrella with his wand again, just as Hermione could hear the faint sounds of even more pops and cracks in the vicinity.
Immediately, the world started spinning again. This Portkey was even worse than the last one, Hermione decided. Not only because Harry wasn't gently holding her hand, or because she was distinctly frightened, but also because the movements were increasingly jerky, irregular.
Nevertheless, they eventually arrived. This time, Harry wasn't holding her up, and so she fell into the mud. Looking up, she saw Harry standing in front of yet another ruin. This mansion, however, seemed to have been burned to the ground, though a few explosions seemed to have destroyed part of the leftmost wing, and most of its many spires.
'Oh, how safe I was,' he continued sardonically as if nothing had interrupted them, pocketing his wand again, his voice an angry hiss. 'When Sirius was abducted, I was with his brother and his family. And you know what happened? The Ministry TORCHED the place,' he screamed, 'WHILE REGULUS, HIS DAUGHTERS AND I WERE STILL INSIDE!'
Hermione, who'd stopped crying out of shock, felt new tears gushing down her cheeks, but this time, she knew better than to embrace Harry, who still looked to be on the verge of going berserk.
'His wife ran towards the Aurors, tried to reason with them when they arrived,' he recounted, mysteriously defying Hermione's expectations, as Harry's expression froze as if the temperature had dropped a hundred degrees. 'They battered her so badly that she was at St Mungo's for months.'
Hermione abandoned any pretence and crouched down in the mud, hugging herself.
'When Regulus did not give me up, they set the whole mansion on fire, knowing full well that three children were inside. I escaped, so did the girls, but only because Regulus sacrificed himself, fighting them off; him, alone, against more than a dozen. And his prize?' Harry asked rhetorically with a ruthless edge to his voice, clearly adamant about finishing his story, despite Hermione sobbing and shaking her head. 'The moment he saw us escape, the moment he'd all but won, the moment the Aurors lost their immediate justification for their attack, a stray Hurling Hex flung his body into the house where he died in the flames. A regrettable accident – or so the Ministry later claimed.'
'Please stop, Harry,' Hermione implored.
'Oh, I see you want me to wrap it up. Smart, too, seeing as the angelic and lion-hearted Aurors that were dispatched might be able to find the traces of this sorry excuse of a Portkey. So, let's get straight to the punchline!'
Hermione, sobbing uncontrollably, continued to shake her head. 'Please, please stop!'
'But, surely, you want to know the name of the squad captain in charge? The name of the person whose wand let loose the hex that killed Regulus?'
Hermione, snivelling, shook her head hard, and yet she couldn't quite look away from Harry, as he kneeled down in front of her and looked her straight in the eye.
'Rendall Prewett,' he breathed with the finality of a falling axe.
Two minutes later, Hermione was back home, where her bewildered parents would end up needing four hours to drag their still crying daughter out of the room she shut herself in.