Chapter 37 is out! This one sure took a while; there were days in which I wrote thousands of words, and there were weeks in which I wrote none. However, as I said chapters ago, sooner or later, the motivation always finds me back.
Chapter 37 - The puppeteer's strings
For the hundredth time in the last ten seconds, Harry refrained himself from cursing his family into oblivion. Had she been there, Hermione would have complimented his incredible patience, because it took him a hell of an effort to stand his cousin Dudley.
True enough, that fat dunderhead did not give him as much trouble as he used to a few years ago, when no one knew about Harry's true nature; fortunately, fists had become foul words and nothing else. However, since his wand rested atop of his bed table, in his bedroom, and since they knew he could not perform any kind of magic during holidays, they could almost act as if he was another regular person. Almost, that was it. Harry always felt their eyes on his back; glances of dread and concern.
Still, it was a good sensation; at least, compared to those glances he used to receive when he lived under the staircase. Hell, he even had a little room all to himself! A room in which, with extreme caution, he could do the homework and read books about magic under the safety of the night and his blankets. A room with a large window to the outdoors, which had allowed Harry to get his first ever birthday presents at the age of thirteen.
He had received plenty of letters from his friends, carried by Hedwig and some other owls she had befriended—Neville, Ron, Hermione, Hagrid and even Tracey Davis had all taken their time to congratulate him. Hermione, ever the bookworm she was, had given him a book about Quidditch tactics, whereas Tracey had sent him a jumper of her favourite team, the Puddlemere United; a piece of black cloth with golden letters and the team's shield sewn over the left breast. On the contrary, the boys had been much more practical, for they had sent him a few bags of sweets from the Wizarding World, which Harry had attacked mercilessly. However, not all the gifts had been such a pleasant surprise. Harry didn't even want to think about Hagrid's Monster Book, which had tried to bite his hand off quite a few times.
Either way, he still had a few weeks left before he could enjoy and suffer those gifts to their fullest. After all, summer holidays surely took a long time to end.
The smell of nice food poured through his nostrils, but even the prospect of taking part in such a succulent feast could not raise his spirits. Tonight, Aunt Marge would visit them for dinner, and only God knew how much she disliked him. Hell, Harry still remembered, quite vividly, that time when he, accidentally, had stepped over Ripper's paw, her favourite bulldog, and that damned woman had refused to call him off until past midnight. His whole body still hurt when thinking about the tree he had climbed to escape from the dog.
Moreover, Marge would stay with them for a week! Needless to say was the fact Harry had been told again and again that he needed to behave like a proper muggle. Because of that, he had sent Hedwig away, to Grimmauld Place, where Sirius would take care of her.
All those thoughts were knocked out of his head the moment Aunt Petunia tried to make his hair flat. "I've already tried it!" The boy complained as he stepped away from her. To tame his unruly mass of black hair was impossible; even to make Hermione not do the homework for a week would be easier.
"Try harder, then!" Aunt Petunia barked back. "No, wait. Vernon must be around the corner, so just take a seat and only open your mouth when you are talked to. And remember, no word about-"
"Not a word about magic or whatsoever," Harry interrupted her with an annoyed huff. "I know, I know!"
Aunt Petunia sent him a murderous glare, but any threat that might have come out of her mouth died the moment the door was opened. In no time at all, Harry jumped to his seat, and Dudley did the same in front of him. He really looked like a greasy, blond pig dressed in fancy clothes.
As soon as Aunt Marge entered the room—a large woman almost as thick as his brother Vernon, with the same puffy cheeks and a way less noticeable moustache—Harry was told to get her luggage upstairs. All of it under her critical eye and foul comments, of course. On top of it, her dog stared at the boy as he walked through the corridor; that bastard sure remembered their past incident.
Still, Harry held his composure. She did not hold a candle to Snape and the hatred he professed to him.
At first, the dinner went nicely enough. Sure, Aunt Marge had believed Vernon's story about Harry assisting a first-rate institution for criminal children, and she had suggested the Dursleys a hundred times to write to them in order to increase how hard they beat Harry with the cane; it seemed the boy's tone was not of her liking. Despite that and many more foul comments, Harry controlled his temper, though his hands had trembled a fair amount of times under the table.
But then it all changed for the worse.
"Don't punish yourself too much about how bad the boy turned out, Vernon," Aunt Marge started. "It's one of the basic rules of breeding, and it works for humans as much as it does for animals. If there's something wrong with the bitch, there'll be something wrong with the pup-"
Her monologue was suddenly cut at that moment, when the glass of wine she held in her hand exploded in a rain of small shards. They flew in every direction, though they caused no harm to anyone but Marge herself, whose hand now showed a red line over the callus of her fingers.
Both Petunia and Vernon squealed, surprised and horrorized in equal measure, while Dudley almost choked with a sip of soda. On his behalf, Harry turned as pale as marble. He had felt furious, more than ever, and he had lost control. His family eyed him with a murderous look as they helped Aunt Marge, who laughed about the incident, arguing that it wasn't the first time she had gripped a cup so hard that it had exploded. Vernon and Petunia seemed to cool off a bit after hearing those words, but Dudley refused to acknowledge Harry's existence.
Harry decided that it was time to leave.
Outside, in the hall, he pondered about what he had just done. Making use of magic outside Hogwarts was forbidden by law to any underage wizard. It was the first time he broke the law, and that, maybe, could save him. However, he could not commit more mistakes. From now on, he would have to walk through a very slippery rope.
They all reached a silent agreement and decided to not talk about the matter. In fact, Dudley didn't even speak a word to him in the next five days. Harry was about to make it, he was about to survive Aunt Marge, but there still was one last obstacle left: the last dinner. That night, she drank enough wine to tumble Hagrid; her face turned all red and her eyes teary, while the words she spoke became even more venomous.
It all went to hell the moment she mentioned Harry's mother, but Harry, much to his surprise, managed to berate it. However, Aunt Marge did not stop there, and his father was brought up. "That Potter bastard," she grunted, a bottle of brandy seized in her hand, swaying from one side to another and spilling drops of liquor all over the place. "Oh, that's what I call bad blood! A lazy scrounger who didn't raise a finger his whole life." Harry was about to open his mouth, but he remembered he couldn't commit another mistake just in time. The boy just deviated his eyes as his fingers grabbed the tablecloth so hard they almost snapped it in a half. It did not stop her. "They got what they deserved, though. Dead in a car accident. Drunk, I expect. Good riddance, if someone were to ask me."
That did it.
Harry finally raised his head, his mind a storm of rage and fire. "Shut the hell up!" He shouted atop of his lungs. The bottle of brandy exploded, showering the thick woman on liquor. Though it did not stop there; not even close. The words she had in her tongue died out of the blue, when her face started to expand. Her tiny eyes bulged, and his mouth was enveloped by her red cheeks. Her stomach bulged out and the belt that contained it exploded. Soon enough, she rose from the ground like a balloon.
Dudley cried and shouted, while his parents ran to aid Marge. Instead, Harry was left rooted on the spot. He didn't feel furious anymore. No, all that hot rage had been replaced by a cold dread. For a few seconds, he felt dizzy, lost and without a clue about what to do next. Then his feet acted on their own. Harry ran upstairs, still no thought in his mind, and kicked the door of his bedroom open. Some of his books were scattered all over the place, some on the floor and others over the bed, while his vault was open and untidied. The boy just tossed as much as he could into the wooden trunk before grabbing his wand. "Wingardium Leviosa." Oh, for how long had he desired to cast a spell once again? Despite that, it only added to the heavy load he already felt over his shoulder, the one which was about to sink him.
Shouts and cries still reached his ears from downstairs, but Harry ignored them all as he levitated the trunk and made his way down. When he made it to the cupboard under the stairs, where the rest of his things had been stored on a larger trunk, he just exploded the lock with a very precise Exploding Charm. He had broken the law, and this time there was nothing that could save him—nothing of what he could do, at least. He needed to find Sirius, who had not answered his last two letters. He would know what to do—he needed to know what to do next!
The voice of Vernon rumbled through the house at that moment. "Come back in here, boy!" He said as he stormed into the corridor. "Put her right at this very moment!"
Harry just pointed his wand at him, which was enough to drain all the colour from his face and to drown his shouts. "She deserved it," Harry said, coldly. The fury which had filled every inch of his body had returned, though a bit different. Back then, it had exploded like a volcano, a force which had taken over his body, but now he could control it. "She shouldn't have said all those things about my parents, and you should have stopped her. My parents were heroes! Heroes, you hear me!" Vernon took a few steps back, and Harry did the same in the opposite direction. He needed to leave Privet Drive and find Sirius.
The boy ran and ran until his legs gave up, the two heavy trunks still floating behind him. In the end, he collapsed several streets away from the house, exhausted and drained. The trunks fell to the ground with a dry thud, but there was no one there to see it. The alley was illuminated by a full moon and some lampposts; most of the houses had their shutters down, but from some windows still came light from their insides. Just another ordinary night in the most ordinary neighbourhood of the country. A couple of cats walked through the alley in front of him, but they knew better than getting close to the boy.
After ten minutes alone in the dark, stranded and scared, Harry thought about the future. Sure, many people would love to help him, but with Hedwig gone he had no way to reach them. Besides, what could they do against the weight of law? In the end, he just grabbed his wand and casted a Lumos to find the Cloak in his trunk.
Suddenly, there was a deafening noise, accompanied by a blinding light, and just because of sheer instinct, Harry rolled back onto the pavement. Where he had just stood, there was a large bus of gigantic wheels, of a bright shade of purple that it hurt the eyes. Some big, golden letters announced it as the Knight Bus.
What the hell? Though his shock increased even more when the doors opened and some tall wizard got out. He was young and lanky, with pimples all over his face and long ears and nose. Harry's hand moved by itself and pointed the wand at the man, who just raised a brow at him.
"Look at that, we have a feisty one here," he whistled. "Anyhow, welcome to the Knight Bus, boy—the best emergency transport for the stranded wizards and witches. My name is Stan Shunpike, and I will be your conductor tonight."
An emergency transport for the stranded? Indeed, that was all he needed at that moment.
Grimmauld Place was a cold house; it did not matter whether it was summer or if a thousand fireplaces warmed the corridors. And without Sirius there, it got way worse.
Harry was seated on a large couch of black leather, in the living room, trying to read the book about Quidditch that Hermione had gifted him. It was interesting and more useful than he first thought, with plays from the best teams and players of the world, which Wood would die to make them try and learn. Yet those words made no sense to him at that moment. In the first place, could he return to Hogwarts? Harry had broken the law, and he had broken it in a rather grave way; the boy suspected that turning a muggle into a human balloon would be enough to expel him from the school. No letter had found him yet, but that probably was because the Ministry was not aware of his whereabouts. It was just a matter of time for them to connect all the dots and find him.
A sudden noise at his back, from the main corridor, let Harry know that Kreacher was there. That damned house-elf was his one and only companion, and he hated the boy with all his soul. Kreacher's tiny eyes, two dark, emotionless pits, followed him everywhere, just as his foul comments did. To him, it was a very grave insult that a blood-traitor like Harry could roam Grimmauld Place as he pleased, profaning the old and noble seat of the Great House of Black. Just another bigot like Malfoy and other Slytherins, that was all.
Two days had passed since the Knight Bus had dropped him there, and Harry had already cleaned the house twice; at least, those areas he used the most. Certainly, it had kept him busy for some time, and the house had really needed it. His wand had been left forgotten at the end of his trunk, below a mass of robes and muggle clothes, as if that could hide the fact Harry was neck deep in problems. The only thing he needed was to find Sirius, and he was nowhere to be found! If only Hedwig could find him on time…
Suddenly, there was a knock on the door, a timid one, but it was followed by two more, stronger and more confident. Harry was left rooted on the spot, so surprised that the book fell from his hands. They had found him! His crime was so grave that no letter had been sent—instead, they had come in his search. A torrent of thoughts assaulted his mind. Maybe, he could still mount his Nimbus and disappear with his wand and most precious possessions. Perhaps, he could find Dumbledore and ask for his help. Yes, the Headmaster would understand him for sure!
It was then when the door was opened, and all those thoughts broke out through it. "Harry, are you there?" The boy was so shocked that it took him a few seconds to recognise that voice. It belonged to no other but Arthur Weasley! "You are not in trouble, that's a promise! I just need to talk with you. I swear this is good news that I bring you."
Harry just leaped onto his feet and ran towards the corridor, so fast he almost crashed against the corner. There, looking at the many portraits of Black lords and ladies which hung from the wooden, grey walls, stood Arthur Weasley, a tall, balding man who wore some robes of a very extravagant shade of purple. And he smiled at Harry. "So here you are, eh?" The man started. "I should have known, but I asked Sirius and he didn't answer my letters. By the way, is he here?"
"Ehm, no, and I don't have a clue about where he is," Harry answered, trying to calm his rushed breath. "To be fair, it is not his fault. I wasn't supposed to be here." Probably, his godfather had fallen prey to his emotions and had gone in search of Peter Pettigrew once again—yet that was something Mr Weasley did not ought to know. "I had to spend the entire month of august with my muggle relatives, but, well, something happened and I came to the only safe place I could think of." Why was Mr Weasley here? He worked for the Ministry, indeed. They could have sent him instead of another official, since a familiar face would make it all easier.
Harry was about to express his doubts, but the man beat him to it. "First of all, try to calm yourself, Harry. As I said, you aren't in trouble." Arthur made his way over the boy, and placed a hand on his shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. His eyes still went from one portrait to another. "This ain't what I call a very welcoming place, precisely. Oh, I knew that woman—what an evil witch was Walburga Black! Whatever, I'm sure Sirius will take care of it as soon as he's here." What he ignored was the fact Sirius had tried it many times, but as soon as he disappeared for more than two days, Kreacher took the matter into his own hands and hung all those pictures once again.
Mr Weasley walked him to the living room, and there he just took a seat on the couch, beckoning Harry to do the same in front of him. "What a nasty thing that happened to your aunt," he began with a tired sigh. "Honestly, I could not believe it when I heard about it. Wait, Harry, you don't have to explain yourself. Ron told us about how nasty your muggle relatives are, and I'm sure they must have done something very bad to anger you like that. However, it does not change the fact you broke the law, Harry."
The boy just cut in; he was about to pass out! "Mr Weasley, am I gonna be expelled from Hogwarts? Are they gonna take my wand away from me?"
That seemed to surprise Arthur. "What? No, they won't. In fact, I don't think that's even possible. It is more of a legend told to everyone so muggle-borns don't act foolishly and compromise the Statute of Secrecy, or so I think. At least, I don't recall a single time it happened. The very few times that specific law is broken, the students just receive a slap on the wrist and their wands get confiscated for as much time as needed." Instantly, a wave of relief fell all over Harry, so powerful it seemed to take twenty kilograms out of him. He wanted to laugh and smile. He was not going to be expelled! "Oh, I shouldn't have said that," Arthur groaned. "Promise me you won't share it with your mates. I don't wanna be remembered as the wizard who caused the fall of the Statute of Secrecy."
"Not a single word," Harry promised as quickly as he could. The boy knew a silly smile had formed on his face, yet he didn't care. He had lost his temper, sure, and even if he hated to admit it, Harry would have sent an apology to his family. And there would be consequences, of course. Surely, this matter would reach McGonagall's ears, and then it would be time to chin up and take the detention as best as possible.
However, Arthur did not stop there. "You were very fortunate, Harry," the man went on. "Not only did you perform magic in front of muggles, the worst thing a child of your age can ever do, but you even caused damage to one of them. Now, there were two points that saved you. The first one is the fact the damage you caused to your aunt, Marge, could be reverted with ease by the Ministry officials. Moreover, with the permission of your family, she was obliviated thus there will not be a lasting trauma. And secondly, it was your name. For the better or worse, you are Harry Potter, an iconic figure for this country, and so, the Minister himself turned a blind eye about this whole mess; as much as he could, of course." The man paused for a moment to breathe and to smile at him, softly but tiredly. "This was your last spell, Harry. The next time you poke into the dragon's cave there will be no saving you."
Harry guessed that was some kind of saying wizards had—what mattered was the fact he had understood he would not have a second chance. For the first time since he entered the Wizarding World, his name had done a good thing to him. "I get it, Mr Weasley, really," the boy sighed. "Look, it is true that I lost control, but I had my reasons. I swear it won't happen again." No matter what the Dursleys did, no matter how gravely they insulted his parents, Harry needed to be better. It wasn't about them, but about his new life in the Wizarding World—that special life he had been blessed with.
"I know you won't break your promises," Arthur continued. "But, unfortunately, my opinion barely matters to the Ministry. In fact, I was sent here, in your search, because Cornelius Fudge himself ordered me to do so. He wants to speak in private with you, Harry. I guess he just wants to tell you face to face how dangerous what you did was. Again, had it been another student, this matter would have fallen into the hands of a regular official, but Cornelius is a… He is a very peculiar man, Harry, and he might have felt the need to become a bit closer to you."
The Minister in person wanted to meet him? That was unexpected, to say the least. From what little Harry knew of him, based on that time he came to Hogwarts, the Minister was a coward who thought he could blame Hagrid for all the atrocities the Heir of Slytherin committed. And the worst of it was the fact his hand had not trembled the slightest. A weak and cowardly man, he was. Still, Fudge was the Minister, and Harry had no other option but to run to him like some lost puppy. Hogwarts and the Wizarding World were worthy of swallowing his foul emotions towards that man.
"When and where?"
"Tomorrow, at the first hour of the morning, at the Ministry," Arthur said as he stood up from the black couch. He sent one last look around the large and austere room, his eyes showing clear disgust at some of the elves' heads displayed over the walls. Obviously, Harry had tried to put them away, but those trophies were under protection of some unknown spell. "Well, since Sirius is nowhere to be found, I will accompany you to the Ministry. Merlin knows that man likes to disappear when he's needed the most!"
Mr Weasley left shortly after that, with a furious Kreacher throwing a barrage of old objects, like rusty cutlery and dusty picture frames, at him. On his behalf, Harry just tried to ignore all of it. In the end, he ate a bit of cold pizza and went upstairs, to his bedroom, some large room with very little furniture which included a large bed, some empty bookshelves, and some pictures of he and his friends at Hogwarts or he and Sirius in Africa. He really needed to make it look warmer and more comfortable, to make it look like it was home, but Harry had yet to unpack all the things he had taken to Privet Drive for the last month of holiday.
Why on earth was Dumbledore so firm about Harry having to spend time with the Dursleys when Sirius was his godfather and legal guardian? As per usual, that was another piece of information the boy ignored. And he would dance to its tune as best as he could.
The dawn made an act of presence as the first rays of sun seeped through the shifted curtains, shedding a bit of light into the room of dark walls. Harry refrained from a yawn as he got up. His stomach roared in protest since he had not eaten a single bite of food that night, yet he also ignored that sensation. He felt as if he would throw up as soon as any food fell into his stomach.
In theory, there was no point to feel so nervous and anxious, for Harry was not in much trouble—just a slap on the wrist, Mr Weasley had told him—but through his two years at Hogwarts he had learnt to always expect the worst. No matter what, he always ended up at the medical wing by the end of the year. This was the same, though he could end behind bars rather than on a bed. "Stop it," Harry told himself as he slapped his own face with two hands. "Just some silly meeting, some words of apology and repentance, and all will be forgotten." Unless he lost control and screwed it all up for a second time, he was safe. It was all he needed to think about.
Harry got closer to the window above his desk and looked through it. It was still very early since the lampposts still shed light over the large street, but dozens of muggles already minded their business at such an early hour. Up there, from his bedroom, it was incredible to see how two worlds could almost collide yet still be so far from one another. Grimmauld Place was a wonder, one of the very few magical settlements that could touch the muggle world. Something which still greatly baffled Harry, given how strongly the Great House of Black supported the blood supremacy and the hatred towards muggles, who were considered much inferior beings.
Some noise from downstairs pulled him out of his thoughts. Most likely, it was Kreacher trying to steal another item of value to add it to his collection. Harry just took a slow breath and readied himself for the day. There were times in which one could only run forward. His breakfast consisted of some cold bowl of milk and cereal, and it worked to ease his stomach, much to his surprise. Harry's eyes were focused on today's copy of The Prophet—which, thankfully, did not mention his name and the crime he had committed—yet he could still feel some eyes glaring daggers at his back. He really needed to talk with Sirius about Kreacher.
In the end, just as he had promised, Mr Weasley arrived by the time Harry was finished, dressed and ready. The man got into the house without further preamble and waited for Harry at the entrance; one of his feet tapped, quite frenziedly in a very rhythmic sequence, against the wooden floor. It only fuelled Harry's anxiousness.
He wore some light cloak of a very flashy shade of purple over his black robes; it had been so long since they last met that Harry had almost forgotten how poor his sense of fashion was. However, it was a trait most wizards and witches shared, and this time, now more than ever, Harry needed to fit in with them. Such was the reason why he had decided to wear one of his Hogwarts' cloaks, some heavy and long piece of black silk, over his white shirt and black trousers. It felt very weird and uncomfortable—especially, given the fact it was a piece of cloth far too heavy for summer—but the fact it had Gryffindor's crest sewn over his left shoulder gave the boy a bit of peace. Also, he had managed to tame his hair and style it into a fringe—or something akin to it—to cover his scar. At Hogwarts, everyone knew that Harry Potter could be found there, but the boy did not want to be stared at by dozens of people who would recognize his scar with ease.
"I'm ready," Harry said as soon as he felt strong enough. Long gone was that confidence he had felt the past night. In his mind, images of the Minister breaking his wand was all the boy saw. "Let's get moving before I change my mind."
Arthur just placed a comforting hand over his shoulder. "Just take a breath and enjoy the day, Harry," he started. "Take this as a trip to the Ministry and nothing else. I believe this is the first time you visit it. Anyway, just grab my hand as tight as you can. We are gonna apparate there, and it ain't a pleasant experience for the first time. Oh, and don't even think about letting go of my hand. Trust me, the consequences would be horrible!"
Before Harry had time to ask about those consequences, the world around him spiralled, so fast all the colours got mixed up and all sources of noise got extinguished; the darker shade of the wooden slabs joined that of the colourful pictures and the golden from the relics displayed over the walls of the corridor. He closed his eyes and contained the retching, and by the time he opened them, after what felt like an eternity, the rumbling of a thousand voices had already filled the place.
Harry stood in the middle of some gigantic and splendid hall, with a floor made of stone slabs of a raven-black shade, so polished and clean it almost reflected the light that came from the countless bright torches and lamps which hung from the walls and ceiling. When he looked upwards, he could do nothing but open his mouth in awe. The ceiling was a curved surface of a peacock-blue with thousands of moving, golden spheres, which resembled a rain of stars amidst the sky. Sudden noises pulled the boy out of his amazement; they came from his sides, where many fireplaces embedded into the walls exhaled wizards and witches amidst a flash of green flames.
This was the Ministry of Magic, and it was much more incredible than Harry had first expected.
"Well, I warned you," Mr Weasley smiled in an apologetic way as he patted the boy's back. "Normally, it is not possible to apparate neither inside nor outside the Ministry, but since today's events are, well, let's just say they are special, Cornelius has granted me a special pass. He really wants to meet you, Harry."
Those words did not relax him, precisely.
Still, Harry followed Arthur as soon as the man took the first step. Many people crossed their path; most of them just got out of the way without sparing a single glance in their direction, but a few did look at them, and the whispers did not take long to follow. Everywhere he went, those damned whispers pursued him—just like the scar on his forehead. Harry prayed for them to be because of another reason, but he did not have so much faith in it.
Halfway through the Atrium—as Mr Weasley had referred to that large hall—stood a magnificent fountain, a pool of water crowned by five golden statues. Atop of them all, over a white platform, were a noble-looking wizard and a very beautiful witch, their wands crossed and pointing to the sky-like ceiling, from which two thick currents of water fell down. Under them there were the other three; a centaur, a goblin and a house-elf which looked upwards in adoration at the humans.
"That's the Fountain of Magical Brethren," Mr Weasley said without slowing down. "A monument built to represent the harmony of the Wizarding World."
That last part was accompanied by a funny grimace, and Harry could understand why. From what little he knew about history, both goblins and centaurs thought of themselves as equals to the magical race, not below them; countless conflicts had shed enough blood from all the sides to reach an equilibrium in the present. And Harry guessed that ignoring the existence of such statues was part of that agreement. Goblins controlled the banks and the currency in many parts of the world; centaurs controlled the wildlife; and wizards controlled all that was left of the world. That was how the world worked, and everyone knew it.
It was at that moment when Harry realised they had reached the end of the Atrium, where a set of golden gates delimited the entrance to another hall, one much smaller than the former. There also was a security stand, where some poorly shaved wizard stood. His robes were of a dark blue, the same shade as the hat he wore; both pieces of cloth had the Ministry's logo sewn on them. "It's good to see you, Arthur," the guard said. "Didn't expect you here today, though."
"Good morning, Eric," Mr Weasley replied with a nod of his head. "I'm here because of some…, unexpected business. Some silly nuisance, that's it." He beckoned Harry to step forward, and Munch just pointed some golden antenna at him. "He's a friend of Ronald, my youngest son. A muggle-born who needs help with some paperwork. You already know how this goes, Eric—work is work and it needs to be done."
"Oh, that I know very well, indeed," the guard grunted in response. He had stored the golden antenna back into his robes as fast as he had pulled out. And just as fast as he took Harry's wand out of his robes' pocket. The boy was about to protest, but he thought twice about it just in time. Today, he needed to be obedient and docile. "Unless we start shitting gold, we'll be trapped here until our retirement." He gave the wand back to Harry. "All seems to be in order. You can get inside."
Munch allowed them into a replica of the Atrium, though much smaller, both in height and width. Still, it was big enough to host dozens of people, who waited at eight different lines; four at the left wall, and four at the right. It took Harry a few seconds to understand what they waited for. Very silently, making almost no noise, one elevator reached the hall, and more than twenty workers jumped inside.
Arthur made no comment as he made his way towards the first elevator of the left side, and Harry followed him as his eyes tried to scan every detail from all those wizards and witches he saw there. He had never thought about it, but at that moment, the boy felt really curious about the Ministry and how it worked. By a large margin, their line was the shortest one, yet the workers still raised their voices when they walked past them. However, Mr Weasley just showed them some piece of parchment and they closed their mouths.
"Out of all the people who work here, those who had their offices at the First Level, where the Minister and his entourage operate, are the worst lot," the red-haired man whispered into Harry's ear once they stood at the front of the line. "They know very well who I am, and that I would not come here unless I was called by an official of importance. Yet they complain at me, can you believe it? Hmpf, as if I wanted to be here!" Those words, said a bit louder than the rest, caught the attention of those ears who waited behind them. On his behalf, Arthur just set his eyes on the hole for the yet-to-come elevator and lowered his voice again. "Anyway, I need you to be ready, Harry. Just be yourself, but, ehm, a bit more…, docile? Yeah, that might be the word. I have no idea about what Cornelius wants from you, and although it worries me a little, I can see where the bludger is headed to. Smile at him, nod your head at his words, and swear as many apologies as you deem necessary. Fall into that man's good grace and you'll be fine."
During his monologue, the elevator had reached the Atrium, and Harry had been the first person to jump inside; though quite absently, for his head was still pondering about what fate had in store for him. Once full, the elevator went upwards, slower than he thought it would go, and under the tune of some melody sung by a woman. Around him, people talked about mundane matters; some wizard whose son was about to start his seventh year of school; a woman who complained about how expensive the books were; a group of three wizards who wore red tunics and laughed about some joke about a goblin, a bear and a giant… And just like that, the elevator reached its destination.
Unlike during the way up, this time it was Harry who waited for the others to hop out. His legs felt heavy, and he could not find a reason to urge them to move. Unfortunately, Arthur made him walk out of the elevator, and the boy was welcomed into a very peculiar place. In front of him there was a large corridor covered by thick, purple carpets; from time to time, a part of the carpet turned golden as it went to the sides, where doors of dark wood delimited the many offices of that floor. All over the place and next to the doors, there were countless couches and springy chairs of gaudy colours, from a bright azure to a deep scarlet.
It almost hurt the eyes.
"You must be Harry Potter, I presume," a sudden voice pulled the boy out of his thoughts. It belonged to a tall man, who probably needed to lower his gaze in order to look at other people's eyes, and build like a mountain troll, with broad shoulders and some calloused hands. Harry would not have considered him a handsome man, though his pale eyes, blue like the sky and cold like steel, were quite noteworthy. His head was shaved, but the hair had started to grow back. "I see that you have decided to cover your scar," he said as one of his fingers tapped his forehead. "That was clever, boy." Then his eyes finally fell on Arthur. "Hell to you too, Arthur. I heard that your son is fully recovered from his petrification."
"Oh, hello, Gareth," Arthur smiled at the tall man. "It took him a while, but Ronald is indeed fully healthy once again. Although I've noticed he is much more serious than before." He blinked, and realised that Harry was also there, standing like a fool and not knowing where to look and when to speak. "Oh, of course, silly me! Harry, this man right here is Gareth Marshall, one of the best Aurors of the country. I guess he's been tasked to guide you to the Minister."
Aurors, the police and armed forces of the Wizarding World—a fallen corp who lost their best names at the War, from what Ron had told him. Still, the redhead had told him tales about Madeye Moody and some others he once idolised. Besides, if physical appearances were to make an impression, Gareth Marshall's sure demanded respect. "Hello, sir," the boy ended up saying. Moreover, the man had complimented his brains, and that definitely helped.
"Follow me," the Auror said as he started to walk through the corridor. "Cornelius has been waiting for you for a while, and a meeting with a Minister is not something you wanna arrive late to."
Harry shared that opinion—especially, given the fact it was his future that would be decided on that meeting—so he followed the Auror. The people working on that level certainly knew who had an special appointment that day, because their heads turned the moment Harry walked past them; this time, no covered scar could save him. The corridor seemed endless; maybe, because it all looked the same to him, let it be the purple carpet or the wooden doors with the golden plates over them. However, it took them less than thirty seconds to reach the end of it, where a double door stood in their way. In the golden plate could be read: 'Cornelius Fudge, the 32th Minister for Magic.'
Not bothering to even look at Harry, the Auror opened the door without further preamble. Harry just gulped down the knot in his throat and followed him inside. It was a small room he found, with walls made of black bricks and the floor covered by the same purple and golden carpet from the corridor. There were couches of black leather near some small tables, but what caught his eyes were the two people who stood in the middle of the room.
One he could recognise with ease, Cornelius Fudge himself, who was dressed in that purple silk he liked so much, and some short witch who wore full pink robes, and that included the woollen hat that crowned her curly hair. Her face reminded him of a toad, a wrinkled and pale one, maybe because of her bulging eyes and slack mouth.
"Harry Potter is here," Gareth Marshall announced the moment their eyes fell over the newcomers. "I'll be outside in case I am needed." A man of few words and gestures the Auror was, indeed.
The seconds after he left the room seemed endless; he had become the prey of two hungry eyes, the boy could tell. However, that predatory look was quickly replaced by a warm smile on Fudge's face. "Oh, dear Harry, it is a pleasure to finally meet you!" The man shook his hand with enthusiasm. "Not in the most adequate situation, I must add, but a pleasure nonetheless. Come here and let me introduce you to my wonderful secretary, the one and only Dolores Umbridge."
If Fudge's smile had been warm, hers looked forced and dry, which accentuated the wrinkles on her face. Still, she also shook Harry's hand. "The pleasure is all mine, Mr Potter. I've heard many wonders about you, just as many as the adventures you had at Hogwarts. Because only in two years you had plenty of them, right?"
"Ehm, I guess so?"
Cornelius just cleared his throat to get their attention. "As static as I am to meet you, Harry, you must understand that I am a very busy man. Let's get straight to the point, shall we?" The man pulled his wand out of his robes, and with a simple flick of it, he conjured some individual couches so the three of them could take a seat. "You broke a very important law, Harry, and law is to be respected by anyone, no matter who they are or what they did. However, I firmly believe that context is of essence when discussing legal problems, and yours is to be taken in mind."
"It has reached our ears that the muggle you hurt, Marge Dursley, had shown a rather aggressive conduct towards you in the past," Dolores Umbridge took the word. Her smile was long gone. "To a point in which, once, one of her dogs caused harm to you. Now, I would never consider yours a case of self-defence against a life-threatening situation, one of the very few exceptions in which magic can be used against muggles, but it is true there was a certain amount of stress that could have influenced that episode of accidental magic. Which, if I may add, is another extenuating circumstance."
Harry would have never considered his encounters with Ripper as situations in which he had needed to look out for his safety. Either way, if they wanted to treat it as such, he would welcome the good news with open arms. "I mean, that dog sure has sharp teeth," he added. The instant after those words left his mouth he understood he had reached too far. At least, it was what Umbridge's cold glare let him know.
"As I was about to say, details matter here," the witch went on. Out of nowhere, a steaming cup of tea had appeared in her hands, just as some kind of hip flask did on Fudge's. Of course, Harry was not asked about it. "So, maybe, we can navigate through the law, looking out for that legal loophole that will allow you to attend Hogwarts."
"The citizens of this country love you, Harry, just as much as they feel grateful for what you did as a baby," the Minister said. "If your name appears on the front page of the newspaper for such an awful reason, they will all feel scandalised. I cannot allow that—for their own good, and because I do not think it would be fair and just towards you. However, as much as I want to help you, going against the Wizengamot is not an easy feat, Harry. They are a bunch of serious eminences, and they never make any exception."
Harry was not a Ravenclaw, and neither was he a Slytherin, but for a Gryffindor, he had been told quite a few times that he was good at reading between lines. Also, he had been warned about Fudge's nature. All the dots connected, so the boy went straight to the point. "What do I need to do?"
For an instant, Umbridge's eyes seemed to glisten. "What a clever boy we have here. I told you, Cornelius, you should not underestimate him."
The Minister looked a bit uneasy, but when he spoke, the words came out firmly and without any hesitation. "Look, Harry, I hope you can agree with me on this: what happened last year at Hogwarts was inexcusable. The Heir of Slytherin, someone who killed a student back when Dumbledore was a Professor, came back from the grave and almost killed six students under the so-called Great Sorcerer's eyes. Had it happened at any of the other Eight Schools, heads would have rolled, starting with that in charge of the student's safety, the Headmaster. But here, in this country, Albus Dumbledore has gathered far too much power for that to be possible. Do not get me wrong. He is a great man and an even greater wizard, but it has been proven that not even he is above all dangers. Excuse me for my foul tongue, but, hell, even someone like you was severely wounded, Harry. And from what I have heard, so were two of your best friends, Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger. Madness, that is what I think."
"Over the past few years, his poor management of Hogwarts has become evident to the world," Umbridge cut in. "Once, we were the School everyone looked at with envy. Now, however, we have been surpassed by the likes of Ilvermorny, a School built by an irish witch who just wanted to educate her children, and Beauxbatons, of which management is in the hands of half-breeds. The Board of Governors has expressed their doubts again and again, and with each year we leave behind, more and more parents have joined them. Because of that, the Ministry has finally decided to act before it all gets to a point of no return."
"This year, Dolores will be my eyes and hands within Hogwarts, under the title of First Counselor," the Minister proclaimed. "But I know very well that she will be treated with the utmost mistrust by Dumbledore and his entourage of Professors—some of which, if I may add, are very under-qualified professionals and have only got such a prestigious position because Dumbledore said so." Fudge shook his head in disbelief. "What a shame, indeed. Do you get it now, Harry?"
The boy almost jumped from his seat. He had been so focused on their shared speech, so surprised because of what they wanted him to do, so furious because of how easily they thought he could be used, that the world had been reduced to the events of that room. "You want me to spy on the Headmaster," he muttered.
"Perhaps, that is not the most adequate word," Dolores Umbridge piped in with a soft voice. The witch left her cup of tea on the floor, carefully so no drop would be spilled over the carpet, and grabbed Harry's hands between hers. They felt cold. "We want you to join us in our venture of making Hogwarts great again. It is for the good of all the students, let it be those who already attend the school or of those who will in the future. It is for your safety and your friends', so no Heir of Slytherin can terrorise the school again. Help us, Harry Potter, and, in exchange, you will become a friend of ours."
The forthcoming minutes became a blur—so much that he could not remember anything from the way back to Grimmauld Place but the conversation he had with Arthur Weasley. "So, what did he want from you, Harry?" The man had asked him.
When they got out of the Atrium, using one of those fireplaces of green flames, a cloudy sky welcomed them to the outside. Still, some rays of sun could seep through the dense carpet of clouds. "He wanted to be sure that I understood there would not be any third chances," that had been his reply. Harry had been put between a wall and a sword, with no other path to follow but one he felt repulsed at. They wanted him to act against Albus Dumbledore. They thought he was so scared of them that he would accept without a second of hesitation. They thought he could be manipulated so easily…
If Fudge and Umbridge wanted to play those kinds of games, Harry would teach them that he and his people were not to be messed with. His third year at Hogwarts just could not start soon enough.
From what little Shana recalled of her childhood, full moons used to scare her a lot. Pure nonsense, details which, had they been brought up in public, it would have caused her a lot of embarrassment. It had something to do with the many tales Grandpa used to tell her, scary tales so his silly girl would finally close her eyes and go to sleep. In those stories there had been monsters, like vampires and werewolves, and she had always run away from them. Who would have told that silly girl that, some day in the future, she would be the one to hunt those monsters down? And most importantly, that those monsters were of flesh and bone like her, that spoke her same language and that felt as many emotions as she did.
Almost unconsciously, her fingers tossed some metal coin up, again and again, as she observed the bright moon. Did it really use to scare her so much? What were those stories compared to a madman like Isaac the First? What were vampires and werewolves compared to people who had anchored their souls to this world? Madness, that was it—utter and complete madness.
Up there, seated atop of the manor's rooftops, a large and curved surface of black tides, a fresh breeze made her long braid of red hair flap to its tune. It also made those little spirits of nature which danced over the lake, like a bunch of colourful fireflies, perform a very chaotic dance. Shawn Manor was a very austere and serious place, but no one could deny how beautiful its exterior was.
"I knew you'd be here," a sudden voice almost made her jump out of surprise. It belonged to Alexander, Elend's son, a very witty and nosey kid who Shana had taken quite a liking to during her long stance at the manor. The boy climbed up to the rooftop through the cornice, quite expertly, with the confidence of someone who had taken that route a hundred times, and made his way towards Shana. The bastard wore a funny smirk on his face. "You spend all the nights here, in my favourite spot. I would gladly share it with you, of course, but you'll need to ask nicely enough." Shana just sent him a sharp look, with one eyebrow arched like a bow. "I was just joking. There is no need to glare daggers at me, woman!" He wore some black shorts and a jumper of the same colour; a much more adequate attire than hers, some white, loose nightgown.
"What do you want?" Shana asked with a tired sigh as she laid back on the cold tiles.
"I couldn't sleep, so I came here," Alexander answered with a shrug of his shoulders. He chose to remain seated, with his eyes set on the dark sky full of stars. "I didn't want to wake up Shadow, my personal house-elf; he'd hear all I have to say, no matter how many hours it would take, but even elves need their sleep. You know, on nights like this one, I really miss Ilvermorny. I had my ups and downs with my friends, but they sure know who to make fun of every situation."
Shana just closed her eyes and listened to the boy. She had never attended school, and neither had she made any friends. The Tower of Merlin had always been home to her, and Lawrence the Third her professor and companion.
"Father has decided, once again, to spend the night at work," Alexander went on. There was a very evident lilt of frustration in his voice, but the red-haired witch did not make any comment about that. "It has gotten worse since that night you all came back like a bunch of stray dogs. I don't know what happened back then, but what I know for sure is the fact you won't ever answer my questions. So, because of that, you'll have to hear my ramblings as punishment." This kid really had a nerve! "You all scared the hell out of me that night, you know? My father was a shadow of the man I knew, and uncle Nalar was badly wounded. On the contrary, you looked different, but in a positive way. My father and uncle looked at you when you spoke, and they actually heard your words. Since then, you've sounded much more confident and proud, and, hell, even I myself feel the need to do whatever the hell you command."
Shana couldn't help herself but to cut in. "Say, if I told you to bark like a dog and jump like a rabbit, would you do it?" The sour look he sent in her way was enough to make her laugh. "Sorry, you can continue now."
"Whatever," Alexander huffed, though he also looked a bit amused now. "That was the very last time I will ever compliment you, that's a given." A comfy silence fell all over them as they observed how the nature spirit danced over the lake. Some night birds joined the spectacle, and their singing put voice to the piece.
"Maybe, some day in the future your father will tell you what happened that night," Shana broke the pause. When she was his age, she had never been given any kind of explanation; she had done as ordered and there had not been other plausible scenarios. Whatever problem there was in Elend's relationship with his son was his matter and only his. However, a little touch of feminine sympathy would be very appreciated by Alexander. "All I can say is that Elend really loves you. I know he is not the best at showing it to you, but believe me when I say that all he does is with a prospect of a better future for you and your sister. Be patient with him. He's your father, and there is only one of them."
Alexander seemed to ponder about her words for an entire minute, and then he just nodded in response as he stood up. "Thank you, really," he mused, so faint that Shana would have missed it had it not been for her augmented senses. As he walked down the tiles, about to jump down the rooftop, he made a brief stop near the edge. "Hey, will you spend a bit of time with me tomorrow afternoon? It is my day free of training, and I would love to visit the Emerald Valley. There is a duelling competition there, and I've heard that Leon Krause himself will participate."
A day to rest and free of worries? She would welcome it with open arms—if taking care of a kid did not count as a problem itself, of course. "Sure, count me in," Shana said, instead. "Tomorrow, I'll have a very busy morning, with plenty of boring and unpleasant things to take care of, but if I'm finished by lunch, you and I will have a date." The letter she had stored in the inner pocket of her night robes became much heavier. One more time, Shana cursed the day she decided to rebel against the Order of Merlin, and, over all, the day she decided that joining them was a good idea.
The boy, that damned brat, just smirked at her as a response before jumping down.
Shana huffed, a bit indignant, yet ended up shaking her head; that kid had just looked at her with sad eyes and she had given up. Oh, one day she would show him modals!
Morning came, announced by a bright sun whose rays easily seeped through the thin curtains of her bedroom. For a few seconds, she almost gave up and turned around to keep sleeping. Almost. In the end, Shana just let out a long yawn as she got up from the bed.
The witch just performed her usual routine in the morning: taking a cold shower and drinking a cup of coffee as breakfast. She had her sweet tooth and liked eating like anyone else, but an empty stomach meant a sharper mind; just what she needed that morning. In the end, she decided to wear some simple yet elegant robes: a long, blue tunic adorned with an overcoat of a darker shade, and some wide-brimmed hat of a black tonality. Those robes were light, which was greatly appreciated in summer.
Neither Elend nor Alexander were around to question her leaving, and those house-elves she found did nothing but showing courtesy in the form of exaggerated bows. Quite interesting creatures they were, if someone was to ask her about them. Back in the Tower of Merlin, all the domestic tasks were carried out by human hand, and no house-elf had been seen in the last few centuries. From what little she knew, one of Isaac's predecessors had banned them from the Tower, and that rule had not changed in all those many years which had followed it.
Anyway, Shana pushed those thoughts out of her mind as she stepped outside, walking through the gate of the manor; two large planks of black wood with a huge phoenix carved onto them, which was splitted into two symmetrical halves each time the gate was opened. Thanks to her hat, the sun, bright as a thousand torches, did not blind her sight; still, the witch needed to let her eyelids drop a bit. In front of her there was a long, wide staircase, made of grey and simple marble, and delimited by each bannister of the same material, which welcomed her to the gardens; her favourite place of the estate.
Then, out there, Shana finally pulled out the letter which had been stored in the inner pocket of her dress-like robes. Her magic roared to life, and it touched the letter, which resounded to it, yet it did not stop there. Many wards protected the estate, and those that prevented a person from using any kind of magical transportation, let it be to get out or in, were included into that vast list. However, it was long ago when Elend granted her permission to move as she pleased. The wards set around the manor recognised her magic, and a faint sensation of warmth enveloped her; brief and subtle like the breeze.
In the blink of an eye, the portkey Lawrence had sent her flared, and the world started to spiral around Shana. Colours got mixed up and became one, while all the sounds were suddenly muffled. She landed on a soft surface, and the smell of salpetre filled her nostrils to the brim; it was quite a change when compared to the fragrance of those flowers and plants she was so used to. Her eyes took time to get used to an even brighter sunlight, but the azure water and pale sand of the beach were unmistakable. The cawing of some seagulls could be heard; a melody which accompanied the comings and goings of the waves.
Once Shana's eyesight got used to the light, she scanned her surroundings. There was no one around, and nothing, let it all be said; just a deserted beach and she herself. This old man will never change! Shana really wanted to put her hands around his neck, or, at least, to slap his old wrists hard enough to make Lawrence regret his games. If he wanted to meet with her at one of those muggle terraces he liked so much, he should start preparing a safe area for her to arrive, instead of dropping her off at some nearby place—or so she hoped, at least—where muggles could not see her.
Still, Shana just let out a very annoyed huff and started to walk towards the sun, where some wooden structure, surrounded by high, thin palms could be seen. Even with her increased eyesight the red-haired witch had found it difficult to spot the place, so a long walk was in order for her. And certainly, with how deep her feet sunk into the sand with each step, it would also be tedious.
Thanks to the bright sun which shone atop her, sweat did not take long to start dampening her forehead and armpits. Usually, she did not care much about sweat, but just like any other lady when wearing some fancy attire, Shana liked to look and smell good. Because of that, she resorted to Occlumency. Certainly, it did not make any miracle, but it helped her to fight the heat away, to turn it into a weaker and more tolerable sensation; just a bit, at least. It was said that the most proficient occlumens could banish every trace of heat or cold from their senses if they focused enough. Obviously, it would not prevent dying from hypothermia or dehydration, but things like sweat or shivering could be ignored with ease.
In any case, Shana's Occlumency was far from that point, so she would work with what she had.
After ten minutes of walking, Shana finally reached that solitary building. A large arc, made of light wood, welcomed her into a grass corridor which led inside. Over it, some black letters had been painted: The Golden Whale, had been written in Greek. There were many hamacas, of red, yellow and blue silk in the back garden, with round, wooden tables between them. Most were empty, but a few waiters, wearing some white shirts and black trousers, carried drinks and food to the customers.
She followed the grass corridor, and told the receptionist, in a very rusty Greek, that she had a reservation under the name of Lorenzo—such was the name Lawrence had given her. The man just smiled at her as she nodded his head, beckoning her to come inside.
It was crowded to the brim. Countless people from many countries laughed, shouted and even danced; she recognised some languages, like Greek, Spanish or Arabian, and words from many conversations stormed into her mind. Shana shut them down with ease. This wasn't the time to learn whatever she could from them. No, Lawrence was her one and only objective. Numerous scents came to her, that of delicious food and aromatic fragrances, but Shana also ignored them all as she made her way towards the far end of the place.
Lawrence's magical aura was what guided her to him.
The old mas was seated at one of the last tables, near the edge of the wooden floor, of white planks, and right under the white canopy. Lawrence wore a very simple attire: a blue shirt, that of Greece's national football team, and some black shorts and flippers; a master of stealth, indeed, though fashion was a word which did not figure among his vast lexicon and wisdom. Hell, he had even hid his long, white hair under a black cap! His posture could not look more relaxed to other's eyes, and the way he drank his coffee and bit some toast only added to it. That old man knew she was there, yet he did not raise her eyes to meet hers.
Shana just dropped herself on the seat next to his, and she did not utter a single word. "Always the late bird, eh?" The man had the nerve to smile at her!
"You dropped me at Earth's seventh hell," Shana coldly replied. The former Master took off her wide-brimmed hat and cleaned a bit of sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand.
"You, the youth, sure are exaggerated! The portekey dropped you a few kilometres away from here, at maximum. What is that to your young and strong legs?"
Shana, who had never been the most patient person, reached her limit. "I don't know about you, Master Lawrence, but I'm quite busy these days, so you better start talking before I leave this place."
"I know, I know," the old man said after taking a sip of his coffee; the last sip, hopefully. "To think I thought I could leave formalities aside with you. Oh, what a shame, indeed! Though I'm glad to see life couldn't change your character, girl—a spitfire until your last day! Anyhow, congratulations are in order, I guess. You did the impossible! You did what centuries and mighty, foolish wizards could only dream of. You, Shana, a former Fifth Master, destroyed the Order of Merlin for good!"
For a few seconds, Shana was left speechless; totally and utterly speechless.
"The day I had dreaded for so long finally came: Isaac the First has lost his head," Lawrence went on as if her confused face was the most natural reaction. "I do not know what happened that morning when he left the Tower in search of you and some secret treasure, but, oh, his failure broke him for good! His High Inquisitors are sent away every day; their role reduced to that of a hired wand, just as it happens to Jin the Stranger. Aura the Fourth stands by his side, but she does nothing but wait and wait. And in regards to Xaladir the Second, that damned bastard finally grew bold enough to confront Isaac, ha! Disaster can be felt at every tile of the Tower, like a silent and cold embrace, and the more you think about it, the colder it gets. A total mess, indeed."
Those words only fuelled the storm of doubts which laid siege to her mind. The board had changed—old pieces had either crumbled or switched positions, while those newer had altered the course of the game. What did Xaladir want? That was nothing but an old question Shana had erased long ago from her mind. Back then, Isaac's plan had looked the more approachable and dangerous of them two, but it had been those cold, blue eyes of Xaladir that had caused most of those sleepless nights.
"What do you mean by saying Isaac has lost his head," Shana asked, instead.
"I meant the obvious, girl; that he is gone," Lawrence huffed in response. "His eyes shine with a glint of madness; the words that come out of his mouth are venomous and make no sense; his decisions, rushed and stupid, taken in the spur of the moment, fuelled by emotions rather than logic. He does not care about the weight of his actions anymore. Hell, the International Confederation of Wizards, led by that nosey witch of Cynthia Mahomes, has once again asked us for explanations. It already happened last year, after yours and Isaac's sides clashed in Dakovo, sowing nothing but destruction and threats to the Statute of Secrecy." He took a moment to breathe, though he had yet to break his calm semblance. "An arm is not all Isaac lost that day, Shana. You and your friends took away something very dear to him—something he had desired to possess since I met him, whatever it might be. Isaac saw himself with his coveted crown atop of his head, and that can make an unstable man lose his way."
Whether those were good or bad news was something Shana ignored. A furious and impulsive version of Isaac could cause his own fall, let it be in search of them, the Wings of Liberty or even Xaladir the Second. However, it could also take them all out with him.
"Where do you stand in this mess, Lawrence?" The question came out by itself; there was no point trying to figure out what only the future could shed light upon. Instead, it was better to discover what were the intentions of the man seated in front of her.
"I am just a mere observer, Shana; always been, always will," the old man replied, still calm and collected. "I am very old, much older than you can imagine, and my time will come very soon. I have eluded death for so long, but we shall all walk by its side once time passes the sentence. We all must die one day, girl, and it was long ago when I came to peace with that truth. You already know who I am—you already know what I yearn for. I want to be remembered as an erudite, and I want my books to be read in all the magical schools of this world. I had the honour to belong to the Order of Merlin for more than a century, to become part of its rich history; part of this world's story. Before I finally close my eyes for good, I want to see how my dear Order ends, to know its final chapter, of which you and Isaac are the main characters. To be able to write its final would be the ideal last wish for this old soul of mine, and I am ready to speed that fate of us for my own sake."
Under the table, Shana tightened the grip on her wand. Lawrence would never sell her, right?
Much to her surprise, it was the old man who took the word once again. "Don't look at me with those cold eyes, girl. I mean no harm to you—never have, never will." He said it all accented by a tired sigh. "However, I also mean no harm to Isaac the First, for I cannot, under any circumstance, alter the course of events. True enough, I must confess that, if some of you must die for this story to conclude, I really hope it is him the one to perish, because you are young and special, Shana, and this world needs you more than it needs any of us, old and selfish souls." That made him smile a bit, though it did not reach his eyes; more than a smile, it was a faint curve of his lips. "All in all, I just wanted to see you one last time. As I just said, I do not wish to alter the course of events, so I must take one step back to look at the bigger picture, to not miss any detail. I did not want to silent myself without bidding farewell to my favourite student. Otherwise, she would, maybe, think that I am plotting against her."
The man rose to his full height; his back was not as strong as it used to be, but even his old age could do nothing against such a proud bearing. This time, Lawrence did smile at her. "I am afraid this old game of ours must die today, Shana. There will not be more exchange of information. From now on, it is you and your decisions alone that will write the final chapter of a long story. Be wise, embrace life for as long as you can and take care of those who you love. It is the best advice this old man can provide you with."
Shana observed him as he disappeared through the entrance arc. Out of all the outcomes she had expected for the meeting, this one had not figured among them. Still, the witch felt grateful for it. After all, she had taken a liking to old Lawrence during her years as his apprentice. She did not want his blood on her hands.
He deserved a peaceful end, far and safe from that violence he had always abhorred. Although, oftenly, life was not merciful and beautiful enough to grant people such a wish.
Ronald Weasley tried to make his way out of the crowded shop. It was no easy task, with all those people trying to push forward, and with a very delicious ice cream in his hand that, under any circumstance, could meet another end but to die in the pits of his stomach. In there, at the parlour of Florean Fortescue, it was much cooler than outdoors, where a hot sun shone atop of Diagon Alley. And that, along with the fact the ice cream sold there was known to be delicious by every citizen of the country, only added to it.
Behind him, Hermione also had trouble walking out, trying to follow all the steps Ron took. On the contrary, Tracey had been able to get out quite effortlessly; that damned girl had moved through the sea of people like air itself! Someone bumped into him, shoulder against shoulder, and the redhead almost fell down, onto the floor of white slabs. He buried the curse that was about to leave his mouth. He needed to get out of the parlour alive, and then he would just buy those things he needed for his third year at Hogwarts. Quite an easy goal, to be honest.
It took him quite the effort, but Ron finally managed to open enough space for he and Hermione to get out of the parlour. He welcomed the hot day with a bright smile, which died the moment Tracey's laughter echoed around the street. "That was not fun at all!" Hermione groaned in protest, still with a ragged breath.
"Maybe, but this ice cream deserves the effort," Tracey replied with a smirk. "Come on, follow me! Now we can start buying all we need for Hogwarts."
That was the one and only reason for their visit, and, unfortunately, loads of people seemed to share it, for Diagon Alley was full to the brim. To be fair, Ron did not have much to buy; as per usual, he would inherit the books his brothers once used. Still, third year was when electives were chosen, and the two he had decided to take, Care of Magical Creatures and Study of Ancient Runes, had both changed their syllabus as well as the Professors who taught them. From what little he knew, the book of Creatures was quite expensive, enough to make him grimace at the mere thought of it.
Tracey led them through the crowded streets as she chatted with Hermione. There was none of that girl talk Ron dreaded so much, just a conversation about how the holidays had gone. It seemed that Hermione had travelled to some tropical destination, as her tanned skin showed very well, while Tracey had visited the Alps. And when they asked the redhead about his summer, he answered quite happily. His father had won some well earned money thanks to a promotion within his department in the Ministry, and that had granted the family a few caprices, like a new broom, a Nimbus 1990, which had caused many fights among the siblings to see who could mount it; the happiest to fly atop of it had been Ginny, just as they had all expected. Also, Ron had attended some of the Chudley Cannons' preseason games, courtesy of Tracey's dad, lord Marc Davies, who had pulled a few strings from some people that owed him a favour.
To sum it all up, it had probably been the summer he had enjoyed the most—a very useful thing to bury that hell the Heir of Slytherin and the Chamber of Secrets had made him go through.
Finally, they made it to the library, known as Flourish and Blotts, where Hermione's parents waited for them. The girl left to join them, and Tracey went in search of the books she needed, which resulted in Ron standing in the middle of the shop like a buffoon. Usually, it was his mother who brought everything, but since she wasn't there to do it, the responsibility fell over his shoulders. It made him way more nervous than it should have, but it was way different, and easier, to see how his parents did it rather than being the one to use the little money the Weasleys had.
As it always happened in those late days of august, the two stands where Flourish and Blotts charged their clients, two ladies in their mid fifties who had always run the library with warm smiles and fond eyes, had a line longer than a giant's bed. However, there was a third stand, a new one, in which some old wizard, of grey beard and almost hairless, attended to some girl that looked oddly familiar; an older student from Hogwarts, probably. He was dressed with the same green tunic the owners of the shop wore, but the fact she left with a weird face should have let Ron know that something was wrong. But whatever it may have been, it couldn't be worse than waiting an entire hour to be attended to.
In the end, he walked towards the old man, pulling out the list of books he needed to buy from the pocket of his black robes. "Hello, sir," the redhead said as he gave the list to the man, who eyed it with a keen eye.
"Third year, eh?" He hummed in response. "And you only need the books for Runes and Magical Creatures, eh? What an odd combination, hmm." He left and walked into the store room without a further word, and Ron could do nothing but to raise a brow at him. So far, so good. It took the librarian less than a minute to come back; his hands carried a large book, one completely covered by some brown piece of cloth which was strapped to it by three leather cords. He left it on the table with a loud thud, and the book seemed to move in protest.
"The hell?" Ron grunted as he took a few steps back. "Did it just move? Or am I making things up?"
"It moved, indeed," the librarian snorted in response as he placed another book over the table, a smaller one, with strange symbols written all over its cover. "And it can do way more. This bastard can scream, jump and even bite. What a wonder, eh?" To make a point, he hit the book with a wooden ruler, and for a few instants, Ron thought it was about to break free from those leather cords that kept it closed. "It seems the new Professor is not good on the head. Who could have thought? Another madman at Hogwarts. It seems that Albus Dumbledore has taken a liking to them… Oh, it really pains me to see how low the school has fallen. And now that I think about it, tell me, boy, aren't you and your mates tired of the way Dumbledore has been managing the school? From what little I know, the last two Professors of Defence have met a rather tragic end… I mean, one has been hospitalised for more than a year, and the great Gilderoy Lockhar, may his soul rest in peace, could not recover from the horrors he saw when the Chamber of Secrets was opened. Hmn, not good at all."
To say Ron was left speechless was an understatement. "Well, I mean… How much do I owe for those books?"
The librarian sighed in defeat. "Ten galleons for the wonderful one, and six galleons for the one of Runes. Which means a total of sixteen galleons." Those words hurt more than a stab in the ribs. How could a piece of leather and paper be so bloody expensive? The redhead just counted the golden coins and practically threw them on the table. He did not want to look at them. "Thank you very much," the old man said. "Here, boy, take these two coins back. I've seen that look in many faces—these books are not cheap. Take it as some special discount, courtesy of mine. We, the good citizens of this country, shall all row in the same direction, even if a strong current tries to sink us down. Do you agree with me, boy?"
Ron thanked the man with a nod of his head and stored the two books in his old bag. Then he got out of there with a quick stride; another person must have taken his place since the old librarian had already resumed his speech, but it only made him speed up. What a weird bastard? What was the point of that? He did not fancy pondering about it, and after realising that Hermione and Tracey would still need more time to get their purchases done, he just walked out of the library in search of fresh air.
"Not the most pleasing experience, eh?" A voice suddenly said the moment he stepped outside. Ron did not need to turn around to see to whom it belonged. There were very few people in the world who could sound as sarcastic as Daniel Williams with so little effort. The soon-to-be seventh year prefect stood with his back leaned over the library's wall; there were two bags full of books at his feet. "It's been a while, Ronald. Anyway, I had the same idea, to skip the long lines in order to finish the purchases as fast as possible. However, foolish me, I should have imagined that something was quite wrong. If not, why on earth would that man have so few customers? What a pestering bastard!"
Ron just took a seat by his side, on the ground. "What was he about? I mean, what did he hope to accomplish with all that nonsense?" From that spot, under the shadow of the building, he could observe the entirety of Diagon Alley with ease. It looked way less crowded now that the sun had started its way down, but there still were far too many people to count them. "Not gonna lie, I agree with him about the book for Magical Creatures; whoever thought it was a good idea to use such a savage ain't good on the head. However, I just lost it when he started to ramble about how poorly things have been done in Hogwarts. Was it my impression or did that geezer have something against Dumbledore?"
"You could say so," Daniel snorted. "I've talked with other students, and all who were attended by that geezer told me the same: he did not shut up for a second and spoke badly of Hogwarts. What's funnier, it also happened to me in other shops. At the Apothecarium, there was a young woman, a new employee, who shared his beliefs. And so it happened at Gringotts, though I didn't give it a second thought since, well, you already know how low do goblings think of us."
"That's so weird," Ron hummed in response. What on earth was happening? Had everyone lost their heads out of the blue?
"I don't think so. Let me ask you something—when a tragedy occurs or some important decision needs to be taken, to whom do all the eyes look?"
"To Albus Dumbledore; who else?"
"Right on the spot. Say, if so, why do we even have a Minister? What's the point of it if no one pays him any attention at all when the need arises? We might as well just give Dumbledore the position and save ourselves all the money that man earns from the public funds."
"From what my father once told me, Dumbledore has been offered the position of Minister for Magic many times, yet he refused them again and again."
"That does not matter," Daniel said. In front of them, at the entrance of the Apothecarium, some parents talked with the new employee, the young woman Daniel had mentioned; they seemed to nod their heads to her words, quite thoughtfully. "Anyway, my point is dear Cornelius Fudge has finally exploded, and he's using all the available cards on the deck. He wants to reduce Dumbledore's influence, and he's decided to attack where it hurts the most: the public opinion. Honestly, I find it quite interesting, not gonna lie. Perhaps, just as much as I consider it dangerous. What's clear to me is that Fudge is really, really desperate, for this can backfire quite hard."
Ron just raised his eyes to look at the prefect, surprised. "That makes a lot of sense!"
"Of course, it does," Daniel laughed as he bent over to grab his bags of books. "It was a pleasure to see you again, Ronald, but I must go now. I've been waiting here for my mother and little sister to finish their tour around Diagon Alley, but it seems that, again, they've lost track of the time, so I need to go in their search." That seemed to amuse him rather than anything else. "Though who can blame them? The Wizarding World is truly a wonder, and they can only enjoy it so few times. Anyhow, see you at Hogwarts, Ronald."
The prefect walked away and entered the mass of people, getting lost in the crowd with ease. On his behalf, Ron remained there, seated on the cold ground, as he waited for Tracey and Hermione to finish. Meanwhile, he observed the lady from the Apothecarium, who entered the shop after bidding farewell to those customers she had been talking to for a while.
A new year of Hogwarts was about to come, and it seemed that it would not be an easy one, just like always.
