Chapter Eight - Trickery

Harry brought his cousin Dudley to St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. They stepped up to the front desk.

"We would like to check in a patient, please," Sirius said pleasantly.

The man who was running the patient intake didn't raise his head. "One moment," he said, scribbling on a clipboard with his quill.

Harry and Sirius waited. And they waited. And they waited some more. Finally Sirius cleared his throat.

"One moment," the man said curtly.

He must have filled out a dozen pieces of parchment already. Harry was just about to speak up when the man finally set it aside and glanced up at them.

"Help you?" His tone was business-like, neither friendly nor rude.

"We have a patient who needs to be checked in," Sirius said, as politely as he could manage.

The man looked over at Dudley, dressed as he was, and his eyes widened.

"Muggles are not allowed inside!" he declared in a horrified tone.

"Not even ones who have escaped from Death Eaters?" Sirius inquired.

"No exceptions."

"Do you know who I am?" Harry interjected. Being kept waiting irritated him. He normally hated playing on his fame, but sometimes it needed to be done in order to get results.

The man's stricken expression flipped to one of adoration. "Mister Potter, sir! It's a delight to meet you. I want to help, but it's a strict policy. Saint Mungo's has never treated a Muggle. They're always dealt with in their own world with the help of the Obliviators."

"This is a hospital for the treatment of magical maladies, is it not? We think he may have had some magic cast on him."

"I can't do it," the man said flatly. "I could lose my job if anyone found out."

Harry didn't want the man to get the sack, but he just knew that Dudley needed the professionals to check him out. Aunt Andromeda was amazing, but Harry didn't want to take a chance that she might get hurt. Here in the hospital, there were protective spells in place to prevent magical mishaps.

He was just about to continue arguing when Sirius pulled him away. "There's a better way to solve this," he muttered.

Sirius stepped over to the guest Floo and called on Amelia Bones, Director of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. A few minutes later, a tall witch wearing grey robes entered the reception area. Her greying hair was cut to jaw-length, and she had a stern look to her. She had hard and piercing eyes, thick eyebrows, and an imposing monocle. She took in the whole room with a single gaze. She had always reminded Harry of Professor McGonagall. They shared a no-nonsense attitude.

"Mister Black," she said with a nod. "Mister Potter."

"Good afternoon, Director," Harry responded.

Director Bones got right to the point. "What's this about a Muggle?" she demanded.

Harry pointed. "My cousin Dudley. He says his house was attacked by Death Eaters. We need to make sure he's okay. They're not letting us check him in."

The director glared at the now cowering desk clerk. "What's the problem?"

"H-hospital policy, Director. No M-muggles allowed."

"Anyone who has escaped from Death Eaters needs to be looked at," she said decisively. "The tradition is overruled. Death Eaters despise Muggles, but they are not above using them in their plans. I want this boy thoroughly checked out, and a full report on my desk in a week."

"But Director!"

"Are we going to argue about this?" she said in a dangerous tone.

The man went pale. "N-no, Director. I'll just need you to sign a few forms, please."

"Fine."

Dudley answered the man's questions. Director Bones signed the documents in several places and then went to have a word with the hospital director.

"All right, Harry?" Dudley said anxiously. "I don't want to be a bother."

"It's all right now." Harry had decided a long time ago that Madam Bones was not someone he ever wanted to cross.

"She seems important," Dudley noted.

Harry nodded. "She's the director of all our Aurors, er- police officers."

"You know the top copper?" Dudley sounded impressed. "How'd you swing that?"

"It's a long story," Harry said dryly. "Go with these people. Do what they ask. We'll be back to collect you as soon as we can."

"Right-o." He hesitated. "Good to see you again. Really. I hope we can catch up once I'm through here."

Harry would rather chew glass. "I'm sure we have a lot to talk about," he said neutrally.

"Ready to go home?" Sirius said.

"More than ready."

The week flew by as Harry threw himself into training. He added several new curses to his non-verbal arsenal. He increased the setting of his wizard weights by a stone. He shaved half a second off his top sprint time. He drove himself to exhaustion so he wouldn't have any dreams or nightmares about Privet Drive.

Nine days after taking Dudley to the hospital, Sirius received an official-looking envelope from an official-looking owl. It refused an offer of bacon and flapped away, looking very official. Sirius opened the envelope and pulled out a thick sheaf of parchment.

"It's from Director Bones' office," he informed Harry. "Dudley is ready to be released."

"About time," Harry commented. Then he wondered, "That's a lot of parchment just for a simple notice, isn't it?"

"Apparently I've been appointed his guardian in the magical world."

Harry didn't like that news. He'd done his best to separate himself from the Dursleys.

"He's in top physical condition," Sirius read, "but the Healers did find a residue of Dark magic surrounding him."

"So he was telling the truth about Death Eaters attacking his house," Remus said.

"He was," Sirius confirmed. "Director Bones dispatched Aurors to Number Four to check on the status of things there. It's pretty gruesome. The whole house was burned to the ground. There wasn't a single beam left standing."

"How'd it burn so completely?" Harry inquired. "Shouldn't one of those nosy neighbours have called the fire brigade?"

"The Aurors found a Notice-Me-Not Charm." Sirius' voice was heavy. "This was no simple accident. It was murder. The remains recovered from the ashes were charred skeletons. Apparently the taint of Dark magic was everywhere."

Those details raised many conflicting emotions in Harry. He hated Vernon and Petunia, hated them for how they had treated him, what they had concealed from him. That didn't mean he wanted them dead.

Sirius looked at the next page. "The Healers also found evidence of a Tracking Charm on Dudley, as I suspected. Per my request, they transferred it to a rock instead of dispelling it entirely. Voldemort was probably hoping we would take Dudley to an Order safehouse, or maybe even headquarters."

"Would that let him penetrate the Fidelius Charm?"

"Nope. If it would, we would have put one on old Snape at some point to get into the old prison."

Harry nodded. "So what are we going to do with it?"

"I was thinking of dropping it into an active volcano," Sirius said lightly. "If Voldemort ever tries to follow it, he'll get a nasty surprise."

"You have a very devious mind," Harry said with admiration. "Has anyone ever told you?"

Sirius beamed. "Several people."

"Was there just the one Tracking Charm?" Remus asked.

"They found two. I'm willing to bet that there's at least one more. Director Bones said she would release Dudley to me. Shall we go fetch him?"

Harry tried not to sigh too loudly. "If we must."

Dudley was waiting in the reception area. The same man who had been so insistent on enforcing hospital policy was at the front desk again, and he was considerably more friendly. He gave Harry a small wave.

"I have the discharge papers here," he said, holding out a clipboard and quill.

Sirius took them and signed with a flourish.

"Ready to go, Dudley?" asked Remus.

"I've been poked and prodded for over a week," Harry's cousin complained. "More than ready. Where are we going?"

"Somewhere safe," Remus promised.

"What about my mum and dad?" Dudley demanded. "Nobody would tell me anything in there."

Harry hated being kept in the dark about important matters. He glanced at Sirius and nodded.

"It's not good news, I'm afraid," Sirius said gently. "Maybe you should sit down."

Dudley swallowed hard and set his jaw. "Tell me."

"There was a fire," Sirius said softly. "Neighbours never called to report it. The house was destroyed, and the investigators found the remains of two adults in the ruins. I'm sorry, Dudley, but they're dead."

Harry felt a twinge of something. It wasn't sympathy or sadness. He hated Petunia and Vernon. He wasn't terribly fond of his cousin either, but he could feel empathy for someone who had lost his parents. Awkwardly, he placed one hand on Dudley's shoulder.

Dudley just sat there, staring into nothing. His breathing slowed. His jaw clenched. He shrugged off Harry's hand as he stood up. With a yell of grief and rage, he put his fist through the wall.

"I'll kill them," he swore. "I don't know how, but I'm going to make them pay!"

"You can't fight these wizards, Dudley," Harry said. "They'll turn you inside-out before you even get close enough to hit them."

Tears began to stream down the big boy's face. "Then you have to do it, Harry. Get revenge for me. Please!"

Harry didn't know how he could deny that agonised plea. If anyone could understand, Harry could. Dudley had been a bully and an arse, but none of that mattered now.

"I will, Dudley. I will."

"We should go," Remus advised. "We're starting to get some looks."

"I'll take Harry. You've got Dudley."

The two men Side-Along Apparated the boys to a safehouse. Lucius was waiting for them.

"We don't have much time before they track him," Lucius warned.

"That could be a problem," Remus said. "If the Healers couldn't find it in a week, what chance do we have in half an hour?"

"They might have stopped looking after they found the first one, but they kept at it," Lucius said. "When they found the second, they probably thought that was it. There's only so many places these things can be attached."

True to Lucius' prediction, they did indeed find a third tracker. It was centred in Dudley's brain.

"An unusual hiding spot," he noted. "I'm not surprised the Healers didn't find it."

"We are fortunate to have someone on our side who knows so many of Voldemort's tricks," Harry said.

"Yes," Sirius said blandly. "Fortunate."

That comment might have set off an argument, but Dudley's stomach rumbled at that moment. He flushed.

"Sorry. They didn't give me lunch before they let me go, and their food wasn't the best anyway."

"Now that we have the trackers removed, we can go to the real safehouse. This is just a stopping point. After we've eaten, I'll take a quick jaunt to Öræfajökull."

Dudley blinked. "Where?"

"Öræfajökull," Sirius said, managing not to dislocate his jaw. "It's on the southeast coast of Iceland. It's the closest active volcano to London. We're going to drop your Tracking Charms inside and hope the Death Eaters try to follow them."

"Good!" Dudley said with satisfaction. "Kill them all!"

"Any requests for lunch?"

Once they had eaten, they brought Dudley to a safehouse. He only had the clothes on his back, and, to Harry's surprise, he actually expressed gratitude for everything he was given.

"Take care, Dudley," Harry said.

"You too, Harry. Thanks for everything."

"No problem. See you around."

It had been three weeks since Tonks had baited Voldemort with her fake prophecy. He was quite distracted by it, spending hours upon hours studying the words. He poured over his books, trying to find some hint that might propel him to victory. He was neglecting his plans for conquest, delegating most of the terror operations to Rabastan Lestrange, the new head of the Inner Circle.

Tonks was required to be in his presence at all times. She tried not to let her boredom get the best of her during the long, silent hours. She had taken up knitting, knowing that the real Sybill thought excessive reading could cloud the Inner Eye. At present, she was working on a hat.

"Sybill, how often does the voice of prophecy speak through you?" His sudden question startled her.

She hummed to herself. "It is difficult to say, my lord. I spend so many hours in solitude. As you know, I am not aware of when the voice graces me. It's entirely possible that I speak one every three hours."

"Is this likely?" he pressed. "What of other Seers?"

She considered the idea for a moment. "I don't think it is terribly likely, my lord. Even my great-great-grandmother, the famed Cassandra Trelawney, only gave prophecies a few times per year."

Voldemort nodded. "I see. So there is no way to know when you will give another?"

She shook her head. "No. These things are always so nebulous."

"A pity." He turned back to his book.

"Since I cannot be of immediate use to you, will you now have me killed like that poor man the other day? Will I be tortured first for your amusement? Oh, woe is Sybill. I'm afraid I shan't last long at all."

He laughed dryly. "No, Sybill. Fear not. I would not waste a valuable resource."

"Is that all I am to you, my lord?" She forced a sad tone. "I thought we were well on our way to becoming friends."

"I have no friends," he scoffed, "nor any need for them."

She sighed. "Such a shame. I have never had a friend before. I was quite enjoying it."

He was quiet for a long moment. "You think of me as your friend, Sybill?"

"Of course!" she said, as though it were completely obvious. "The only other person who believes in me is Albus Dumbledore, and he's never been interested in socialising with me. He's a busy man, to be sure, but you'd think he could call on me once in a while or invite me to tea. You believe in my Sight, my lord. We take our meals together. We discuss all manner of subjects. Is not shared interest one of the bases of friendship?"

Voldemort was troubled by that thought. "Yes, I suppose it is. I wouldn't really know about that sort of thing. I never had friends growing up."

"Nor I, my lord," she admitted. "That is why I have so enjoyed our little chats. When you are not denouncing Muggles or Muggle-borns, you are quite the conversationalist. I have discovered in myself a hunger for good talk with intelligent people."

"I also enjoy our chats," he confessed. "I cannot talk to my Death Eaters. It would never do to have them think of me as anything other than their master. Casual conversation would erode the esteem in which they hold me."

"And the fear," she added.

He actually smiled. "And the fear. If they did not fear me, they would not serve me so well."

"I would not presume to tell you how to run your little gang," she said loftily. "These are matters that I know nothing about. While I did once have a few favourite students, they too saw me only as a resource to learn how to see with their own Inner Eyes."

"Did any of them have the Sight?" he asked intently. "If so, I will invite them to join me."

She shook her head, sending her earrings jangling. "A few have had touches of it. Most any witch or wizard can learn to perform tasseomancy, cast the runes, deal the cards, scry the crystal ball, or take the auspices. Sadly, I have never found one with the true gift. None of my students has ever given a true prophecy."

"All the more reason for me to keep you near me, Sybill," he proclaimed. "True Seers are as rare as hen's teeth."

"I once knew a witch who owned a set of runes carved from hen's teeth," she said. "She was frightfully good at casting them and reading them."

Every so often, Tonks had to make off-the-wall comments to keep up her façade of an eccentric kook. Voldemort never seemed to know how to respond when she did so. Every time she reduced him to silence, she smiled inside.

"If it will make you feel better, you may continue to think of me as a friend," he said at last.

"I am honoured, Lord Vol." In a perverse sort of way, Tonks actually did feel honoured. It wasn't just anyone who could call the most evil Dark Lord since Grindelwald her friend.

"I don't know if I think of you as one," he continued. "As I said, I have no real experience with friendship. Growing up, it seemed to me that being friends meant teaming up to bully weaker children. It was always easier to do in plural."

She huffed. "Many children distort the meaning of friendship, my lord. In truth, were one of these children to make some mistake or error, the others would turn on him with viciousness. Bullies have no true friends, for they do not understand what a friend is."

"That tone in your voice," he wondered. "You seem as though you speak from personal experience."

"My Sight has always frightened others, even at a young age. I was different, and children abhor differences. Those who are not the same are mocked, ridiculed, and made outcast. Such is what happened to me. I gave my first prophecy at the age of seven."

"What was it about?" he asked intently.

"I can tell you the words, if you like. 'A girl child flung into a far-off land. Three companions she will have, each broken. Two great evils she will face. The deceiver shall be exposed. Winds return the traveller home.'"

He nodded slowly. "I can see where they might think the girl child was one of them. Did this ever come to pass?"

"Who can say, my lord?" she said carelessly. "None of those children ever went away, to my extreme regret."

"Was this prophecy ever placed in the Hall of Prophecy?"

"It was. The orb still glows brightly, so I am told."

"Along with thousands of others," he noted. "Is there any limit on how far into the future a prophecy can reach?"

"Not as far as I know, my lord." This was dangerous ground. If Voldemort decided that her prophecy didn't apply to him and this moment in history, the situation might get a little dicey.

"The oldest prophecy that ever saw fulfilment was over five hundred years old," he said. "With how much the world changes in only ten years, I wonder how much those who heard it would have been able to understand even possible interpretations. Would the words be in terms of that time or the time of those who saw it come to pass?"

Tonks considered the matter. "I've never thought about it. What a fascinating question. Oh, I do enjoy talking with you, Lord Vol. I don't know anyone else who has ever wondered about prophecy like you do."

He smiled thinly. "Thank you. What do you think?"

"I would think it would be in language that could be understood by those who see it fulfilled," she said speculatively. "After all, a prophecy isn't much good to anyone if they can't understand it."

He tapped a finger on his chin in contemplation. "So a prophecy might even be in a different language."

"Entirely possible," she agreed. "And the Seer wouldn't need to be able to speak that language. The voice of prophecy is its own."

"Has anyone ever investigated what that voice is or from where it comes?"

"There was one wizard who did. Over three thousand years ago, Thutmose of Northern Egypt made it his mission to speak to as many Seers and oracles as he could find. It was widely accepted that prophecy came from the gods, but he wished to know more."

"Was he successful?"

"In a manner of speaking." She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "Accounts are conflicted, but they do agree that the voice eventually spoke to him directly."

"Yes?" Voldemort said eagerly. "What did he learn?"

She shrugged. "No one knows, my lord. He was driven insane by what he heard. He spent the rest of his life in solitude in the desert. Anyone who ever saw him after that reported that he had cut out his own tongue."

Voldemort grimaced. "That sounds unpleasant."

"I can only imagine," she said with a shudder. "I'm sure you'd know better than me about body mutilation."

"A bit," he said modestly.

Tonks tied off her yarn and held up the product of her labour. "There. Finished. What do you think, my lord? Do you like it?"

He glanced at it. "It is very nice," he said absently.

"I'm glad you like it, my lord. It is for you."

He started. "For me?"

"Yes. I know it's the middle of summer, but you know how quickly the warm weather fades. I can't help but notice that it's always very cold in your fortress. Those awful dementors, no doubt. So, I made this for you. It wouldn't do for you to catch a cold, would it? How ever would you maintain your aura of invincibility if you had a case of the sniffles? Nobody would follow a Dark Lord who was blowing his nose all the time. Here. Try it on."

He took the misshapen thing from her and turned it over several times in his hands. She had truly tried her best, but she was still new to knitting. Even she knew it wasn't very good. She waited for him to make some scathing remark, but it didn't come.

"Thank you," he said at last. "No one has ever given me such a gift."

She didn't have to pretend to be sad. "No one gives you gifts?"

He waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, many people give me things of great value, rare books and the like, but always they want something from me. Always they seek to curry favour. This feels very genuine. I don't know how to respond."

"Try it on," she suggested.

He put it on his head, black hair peeking out from underneath the dark green yarn.

"How do I look?" he asked hesitantly.

"Vanity, my lord?" she asked archly.

He shrugged. "As you said, my followers must fear me. Can they still fear me if I wear a hat?"

"There are some hats that add to how much one is feared," she said. "Some hats proclaim loudly without words that one should not trifle with the wearer."

"Is this such a hat, Sybill?" Now he sounded amused.

"Well, I wasn't intending it as such. I could try to make you one if you like."

"That will not be necessary. This hat will do just fine."

"I could make you a scarf to match." Tonks could only keep her composure by resorting to her Metamorphmagus skills.

"That might look quite dashing." He seemed to be considering it. "So long as you have the time."

"For you, Lord Vol, anything."