ccxciii. the demon's eye

Harriet's memory of that evening in the Ministry reduced itself to brief snapshots of time.

She remembered people seeming to appear at all once, though she couldn't tell if that's how it happened, or if it was simply her failing perception. She remembered bright flashes of light, a ratchety click-whirr! noise bouncing through the alarmed shouting as her body tensed, expecting more spellfire. Professor Dumbledore's arm swept around her shoulders, cloak hiding her from the crowd.

She remembered Elara's trembling hand in her hair, pulling her head in against her chest, whispering, "I'm so sorry I'm late."

She remembered thinking, "You look awful," and didn't know if she said it aloud. Elara had looked ghastly—sickly pale and drenched in what looked like her own dried blood. The remnant felt tacky under Harriet's cheek.

She remembered the weight of Hermione's head resting in her lap, quiet moans rising from her best friend's mouth. She held her hand as the medi-wizards swept over, and they had a devil of a time finding where all the blood came from until they realized Harriet had been sliced open too and was quietly bleeding out.

"I have her," Dumbledore said to the witch who reached for Harriet. His warm hand wrapped around her upper arm, holding her up, anchoring her. "I have her."

She remembered the smell of soot, the heat of fire licking against her face. She flinched away from it, eyes shut. She flinched away from the loud crush of voice. She pulled away from the reaching, grasping hands, her heart racing—.

"You're safe, Harriet," Professor Dumbledore assured. "You're safe. It's all right."

She didn't feel safe. She didn't want to let go.

So Professor Dumbledore stayed with her. He followed until he could follow no more, and Harriet sank into something soft beneath blurry lights, and when the shadows bent closer, her unfocused eyes rolled into the back of her head, and she knew no more.

xXx

The sound of distant, muffled voices woke Harriet from the darkness of empty dreams.

She didn't recognize the ceiling above her, though the air had a familiar tang to it when it whooshed through her stuffy nose. She lay under crisp white sheets on a narrow bed, hemmed on both sides by floating curtains. Dim electric light coming through the far window gave relief to the otherwise dark room. She was surrounded by gentle, hushed breathing, and the magical chirp and chime of active spells.

Rolling her sore head on her pillow, Harriet glanced over her nightstand. A strange apparatus floated there that took her tired, groggy mind and fuzzy eyes several minutes to make heads or tails of. A series of potion bottles had been tipped and slotted into the device, and there were little brass levers and Charmed shutters that changed how and when the concoctions dripped from their bottles. As she watched, one potion dribbled, and the resulting droplets fell onto a flat, shimmering basin and disappeared.

"Fascinating contraption, isn't it?"

Too tired to startle, Harriet nonetheless tilted her chin and stared dumbly at the blurry outline of the Headmaster standing at her bedside. He reached out his hand, holding something, and though Harriet stretched for it, her heavy, numb fingers couldn't grasp anything. Dumbledore simply stepped closer to set her spectacles on her nose himself. His shape came into focus.

"Headmaster?" she croaked.

"Hello, Harriet," he said, lacking his usual twinkle and cheer. He sounded…tired. "You're in St. Mungo's. You have been here for a day and a night. I'm very glad you're awake."

She didn't feel bloody awake. Grunting, she tilted her groggy head again, staring at the potion device. "Wazzit?"

He followed where her attention had strayed. "I'm told it's similar to a Muggle intravenous line," Professor Dumbledore explained. "The needed dosage is deposited here, upon the basin here—and poof! It goes where it's needed inside your body." He nodded. "There's a very interesting discourse in the Potions community about the differences in brewing these 'bypass medicines,' as they are referred to, or the normal potions which pass through the gastric system and interact with the acids there. Naturally, you could ask Severus all about this when he wakes up."

The majority of what Dumbledore said passed right over Harriet's head—but she noticed where he directed his eyes after his last comment, and she twisted on her bed with a frown. Snape was passed out in the visiting chair next to her, legs stretched out in front of himself, long-fingered hands laced together over his middle. His chin drooped to his chest.

"He's here on Slytherin's orders, so he says," Dumbledore commented. "No need to worry—I placed him under a Muffling Charm. He can't hear what's happening in the room. Poor lad needs some rest."

Feeling a tad more alert, Harriet made an effort to sit up, and the Headmaster assisted her. She found it almost too difficult to bend at the waist, and her right arm wouldn't move at the elbow, so tightly bound in wrappings. "What happened?" she asked.

What small amount of levity Professor Dumbledore had found in their discourse faded, and he fixed his gaze on the floating divider, sighing. "I believe I can only give you part of the story, Harriet, for that is all I know. At an imprecise hour of the night, Miss Black entered Grimmauld Place. She was not in good condition, and it took considerable time and effort on her behalf to summon Kreacher and send him to retrieve a member of the Order in residence." He paused. "I'm guessing you've heard of the Muggle game telephone? Sadly, receiving rushed news through a series of agents can often become such a game, in which the original message is confused, and it takes more precious time to figure out where it'd originated from. I did, eventually, unravel the mystery, but not before it was nearly too late."

Harriet winced and touched her chest, feeling the thickness of bandages there under her hospital gown. "What happened to Elara? Did Death Eaters—?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "The healers aren't entirely certain what she suffered from. Miss Black reported that she was attacked by Madam Umbridge in the Head's office when she attempted to use the Floo. The attack included the use of the Cruciatus Curse. A warrant has been issued for Madam Umbridge's arrest—but she seems to have fled and gone into hiding. So far, the Aurory has been unable to find her."

So that was what had delayed Elara. Merlin, she'd looked absolutely wretched in Harriet's brief recollection of her at the Ministry. What had Umbridge done to her?

"But, all will be well soon for Miss Black, and for Miss Granger. She suffered from the same curse you did." Harriet prodded again at her chest, remembering the feeling of her flesh splitting, blood rushing. "I would suspect you took the brunt of it, but the tail-end of the incantation—." Here, Professor Dumbledore's hand mirrored the motion of Gaunt's wand, slashing from left to right, angling down. "Caught Miss Granger in the abdomen. She—and you—will need more time in St. Mungo's to recuperate."

Harriet's mouth soured at the prospect of being in a strange hospital. "Is—is McGonagall all right?"

"Ah." Dumbledore's expression fell somewhat, and for one heart-stopping moment, Harriet feared the worst. "Minerva will recover. Her injuries proved severe but not fatal. Harriet, I…." The older wizard faltered, and when he spoke, it was in a quieter voice than before. "Thank you for protecting her."

"S'alright," Harriet replied, frowning.

"No, it is not all right, my dear girl." The Headmaster shook his head. "You should have never been forced to sacrifice your own well-being for a professor sworn to protect you as a student of Hogwarts. I know Minerva shares my thoughts on this sentiment. She is one of my oldest, most cherished friends, and as a selfish person, I can only be grateful for your actions. As someone charged with protecting you, I can only apologize for what has happened. Such a thing should have never passed within Hogwarts' walls."

Harriet shifted on her bed, uncomfortable. She kept thinking she'd done something wrong. She could have been faster, should have stopped the Death Eaters in Hogwarts, found another way to alert the staff, something. Then, McGonagall wouldn't have been hurt. She and Hermione and Elara wouldn't have been hurt.

Dumbledore continued his recounting. "While we attempted to puzzle through the bundled communication, Severus reported intelligence that something was amiss at Hogwarts. As he and I were both removed and banned from the premises, he had to utilize his own private means of getting into the castle, while I went to Grimmauld Place—wherein I found Miss Black. On Severus' side of the story, he arrived at the school and discovered your absence from the dormitory. He found Minerva and was able to bring her through to St. Mungo's. I came upon Miss Black in the care of an Order member, and though quite injured, she was able to relay what happened. We extrapolated from there and theorized Mr. Gaunt had removed you to the Ministry." His mouth twitched around a frown. "The young man we had stationed there for surveillance didn't survive."

Harriet shut her eyes. It seemed a lot of people hadn't survived that night. She remembered how callously Macnair had grabbed that wizard by the ankle to drag him out of sight. She remembered the Unspeakables, tossed aside like rubbish. She remembered the blood on the Watchwizard's desk.

"If you have the inclination to read the Daily Prophet any time soon, you're sure to discover that our esteemed Minister has been labeled a traitor to the state after his presence was discovered in the Ministry with the known terrorist Lord Voldemort." Dumbledore waited a moment for his words to sink in. "Marvolo has proven his capable of twisting perceptions and controlling the narrative in the past—but in this instance, the evidence is too damning for him to overcome. He has been removed as Interim-Minister, and much like Madam Umbridge, a warrant has been issued for his arrest." Dumbledore tugged at the end of his beard. The mischievous twinkle returned to his eye. "Quite an uproar you've caused, Miss Potter. Some would consider it revolutionary."

Harriet huffed a small, forced laugh, but she couldn't bring herself to do more than that. She felt numb, exhausted.

"I lost the prophecy," she confessed to him. "Down there in that—bloody maze of a department. There was this statue, and—well, I guess it doesn't matter, does it? I doubt anyone's going to get it back."

Dumbledore nodded, humming softly in thought, though the sound resonated on a low, sad register. "I will tell you what it said. Not right now, but at a more appropriate time. I…have something else I must discuss with you."

Puzzled, Harriet watched as Professor Dumbledore reached into the pocket of his robes and removed a familiar strap, her many trinkets hanging from the end of it. He settled it on the top sheet so the trinkets spread themselves out, and he could select one in particular.

"Could you tell me about this piece here? Where you received it?"

Harriet scrunched her nose, but she extended her sore hand all the same, accepting the bit of Druid's glass. "I got it from Mr. Flamel for the holiday. He said it's Druid's glass. Hey—the color's gone off." Indeed, the glossy black sheen with veins of rich amber had dulled to a lusterless gray. "That's odd."

Behind his half-moon spectacles, Dumbledore's eyes squeezed shut as if in pain, and then opened again. He acted as if she'd confirmed something terrible. "Do you recall coming into contact with anything odd in the Department of Mysteries?"

Harriet had the rare privilege of looking at Professor Dumbledore as if he was an idiot, because that had surely been the dumbest question he could have asked. "Everything in the Department of Mysteries is odd, Professor."

He conceded her point. "Anything dangerous, then?"

Harriet almost opened her mouth to rehash her statement and say everything in the bloody Department was dangerous—but the flicker of a memory touched her mind, and Harriet recoiled from it, her body as tense as a violin's string. The feeling was only an echo of what she'd experienced at the moment, but the dread that had overcome her as the green light washed over her body still brought tears to her eyes.

The potions above her dripped, the droplets splattering on the basin before disappearing. Snape continued to breathe at even intervals, the quiet sound as constant as a metronome. A horrible, prickling sensation began to climb Harriet's spine, and she suddenly didn't want to hear another word out of Dumbledore's mouth.

"Gaunt tried to use the Killing Curse," she said, her throat growing tight. "I thought it—I thought it hit me, but it must have missed, right?" When Dumbledore didn't reply, Harriet's voice faltered to a quiet, featherlight volume. "Right?"

Dumbledore gently pried the trinkets from Harriet's tight grip. "Though it is often mistaken as such, this is not a Druid's glass. This is what is called a Demon's Eye."

"What is that? What does that mean?" Harriet demanded, her panic growing. "Professor?"

"I will spare you the particulars on how it is created. For Nicolas' sake, I would ask you not to look into how it is made, but I—. The purpose of a Demon's Eye is—." He hesitated, clearly torn, and Harriet heard him take a gusty sigh. "It acts as a trade, of sorts. It will protect the wearer from death, but at great cost to the creator."

"What—." Harriet had to swallow, as her mouth had gone suddenly dry. "What are you saying, Professor?"

Dumbledore studied her with sad eyes. "Nicolas has passed away. He died on the night you were taken to the Ministry."

Harriet stared at him. She heard the words—but they made no sense. He had to be speaking Gobbledygook. "You're lying."

"Harriet." Dumbledore sounded almost disappointed. "I would never lie to you, and never about such a thing—."

"You're lying!" The scream tore through her as rattled the unlit lamps in their sockets. He must have laid a Silencing Charm over the whole ward, as no one came running from the corridor beyond the ajar door. "You're lying! He can't—! No! No! Take it back! Please—!"

Then, she was wailing, and she tried to throw herself off the bed, but Dumbledore caught her by the arm and held her there.

"No! Let me go! It's not true!"

"It will be all right, Harriet. I promise it will be all right."

"It won't!" she shouted, tears burning a scalding path down her cheeks. "It won't! It's my fault! It can't be real, or it's my fault for being there! For this happening! No!"

"It is not your fault," Dumbledore told her, his own eyes wetly gleaming. "It was never your fault."

But no matter his assurances or her vehement denials, the truth didn't change, and the Headmaster's didn't retract his words. Nicolas has passed away. He died on the night you were taken to the Ministry. Again and again, Harriet saw the green light meant to end her life strike her in the chest—and again and again, she relived her own relief that it had missed.

Relief she felt, unknowing the light had found a different target instead.

Harriet continued to sob, and Dumbledore held her as she did so, both lost to a deep, painful grief born of recognizing that a dear friend had been stolen from them, and had somewhere they could not follow.