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Chapter 26: The Heart of Power

Seeing St. Mungo's so still was strange. The chairs were empty, the seating area filled with hollow silence. It was the first time he could remember the apparition zones being unattended, or the lobby being dimly lit. The faint glow of embers faltering inside their hearths was the only source of light but for an oil lantern on the reception desk he was approaching.

The receptionist looked up at him with bleary eyes. "We're not taking visitors until nine o'clock. Come back—"

"Do you know who I am?"

The woman shook out her blonde hair and focused on him. The change in her demeanour was immediate. "Mister P-P-Potter," she stammered. "I'm so sorry, I didn't see you there." It was such an easy trick. The only things he had altered were his glasses and the colour of his eyes. "Fourth floor — your father's in a private room at the end of the hall."

The door was locked and warded, but he flicked the Elder Wand and it clicked open. Harry was surprised to see no one standing guard outside, but he supposed their presence would have aroused unwanted questions. Nevertheless, he was pleased to be in disguise. He would have bet the wand in his right hand the room was being closely monitored. Had he not looked and moved so much like James, a squad of venators might already be descending on him.

He stepped inside the room and closed the door behind him, then studied the white curtains surrounding a large, four poster bed. Working up the nerve to approach was difficult, so half a minute passed before he flicked the wand a second time and parted the silk drapings.

The Lord Governor slept fitfully and without blankets, leaving his right side bare and ensuring it was safe from friction. That was wise. The fresh, pink skin spanning between Charlus's hip and shoulder looked thin and fragile, like parchment left out in the sun for far too long. It was easy imagining it all sloughing off at the slightest touch.

Harry let out the air he had been holding in. It was much better than it could have been and the sight was far less gruesome than he had braced himself for. The only hope for those exposed to Fiendfyre was to cut away the taint, then regrow whatever had been damaged during the operation.

And then you prayed, because there was nothing else to do. No matter how precise and thorough the healer's work was, there were no guarantees. Some scraps of the corrosive magic always lingered and ensured the wounds would never fully heal. Charlus might never move with ease again, and the stiffness and pain would grow worse as time went on. If he was lucky, the nerves might shrivel up and leave his right side numb and limp decades down the road.

Harry tried not to think about what might happen if the governor was unlucky. He had seen men escape with just a strip of blackened skin, only to require the entire limb be amputated less than a week later. And that had just been the beginning. It had grown far worse. The spreading never stopped and there was no way of counteracting it.

A long groan drew his attention. Charlus was looking up at him. "James?" Just hearing the man's voice made Harry feel as if he were rinsing out his mouth with dry sand. "There's… a vial on the table near the window. Fetch it for me? A teaspoon… a teaspoon will be plenty."

Harry crossed the room, picked up the vial, and poured out the clear liquid. The first trickle of sunlight through the window at his back caught the spoon and made its contents sparkle as if they had been silvered.

"Ah…" Charlus sank back into his pillows after swallowing the potion. "That's a good lad. James—"

"No." Speaking that one word ripped open the wounds of an eleven-year-old boy whose heart's desire had been a family that loved him, but Harry had to be hard. "Not James."

"Ah." The fog was fading from his grandfather's eyes. "So you're the Kalloway boy."

"Yes." A second word whose edges tore at him. The first proper conversation he had ever shared with his grandfather, and he was forced to lie. The things we do in war…

"I was skeptical, you know. Dorea… the plan was hers. The report said you hollowed out a section of Mount Othrys. I tried telling her that didn't mean you knew how to fight, but she insisted… said she saw it in you or some nonsense. Women's intuition, or some bollocks." Charlus rasped out a wheezing laugh. "I guess she was right, wasn't she?"

Harry massaged his right palm, where the Elder Wand had burned him in response to his own wrath. "I know how to fight, if that's what you're asking."

"I saw that… at least I think I did. The lightning…" Charlus coughed. "There was so much of it. Was it you? I thought…" The man's breathing had slipped out of his control and grown ragged, so he paused and wrestled it back into line. "I thought it might have been a dream."

"That was me." Harry knew lying was the wisest course, but there was a high chance Charlus would not recall the specifics of this meeting and it felt nice to tell the truth. "I've always been good with things like that."

"Funny… elemental magic has always been my forte, too. But it wasn't enough." Somehow the governor crooked a bitter smile. "He was ready for me this time."

"Not as ready as he'd have liked to be, judging by how tired he was when I turned up." That part was what frustrated him most. Not only had he blown a perfect opportunity to best Riddle while he was fatigued, but the state he had been in left his capabilities open to interpretation.

What would have happened if they had fought with Riddle at his best? Harry wished he had at least found that out. Voldemort had been too much for him, even with the Elder Wand, but Harry was stronger now and this Riddle was not Voldemort.

"Bugger him." Charlus bit into each word as if expecting an offensive taste. "I could have won if I'd held out longer."

"What happened?" This was one of the reasons he had come, in hopes of salvaging some scrap of advantage from the night's events. "How did he fight?"

"Cleverly," the Lord Governor admitted. "The air… it fought against me. That mark… it must have warded it somehow."

"I doubt it." Riddle had probably permeated the air with the intent of sparing himself and then fuelled it with both will and magic. Such feats should have been impossible against a formidable opponent, but Voldemort possessed more raw power than Harry had believed possible. This was merely further proof of that. Just imagining the strain involved in what Riddle had done brought a phantom ache into his legs.

"He was clever," the governor went on. "Everything was measured and all of it was designed to beat me, but you knew that already." There was a short pause as Charlus repositioned himself to get a better look at Harry's face. The man's right side brushed the blanket, but he must have had an iron will because there was no sign of pain in his expression. "You know him." It was not a question. "I saw… the rocks. The floor and grass had all been burned, and we had shredded up the clay. There were only rocks, and they had cooled. But when you came…" A cough rattled in the man's throat. "They… were smoking. It was like… like your anger burned them." All signs of vacancy had fled from Charlus. "You know him. There's history between you."

What was he supposed to say? Congratulations on figuring out my story is a heap of rubbish? How many people at least suspected so, at this point? "You could say that."

"Who is he?" Charlus grimaced as he forced himself to sit and clutched at Harry's sleeve. "You have to tell me. I can stop this. I can—"

"You can't do anything without proof."

"I'm a Lord Governor," Charlus insisted. "I—"

"He's not the kind of man you can just make disappear without questions being asked." Harry's grandfather opened his mouth to argue, but he pressed on before the man could gain a foothold in their debate. "There's going to be a breach in our ministry late on Friday."

Charlus tried using Harry's arm to rise, but his body failed him and he crumpled back onto his pillows. "Crouch… I have to tell Crouch. We need more security. we—"

"No." Harry did not raise his voice, but the force of his reply struck Charlus still as stone. "Extra security isn't going to stop the breach. Nothing short of the emperors will, and it's not worth their involvement." At least he hoped it wasn't.

There was a long pause as Charlus's unsteady breathing evened out. "What are you asking me?"

"Don't let innocent men get in the way." This was the best he could do after the last time. "Keep them away from the Department of Censure and Circenses."

"But the breach—"

"Is inevitable. The best thing you can do is minimize the damage." Harry had to convince Charlus it was true. Otherwise he would be responsible for another massacre, and he was unsure if he could bear that. "Talk to Lady Dorea, I think she'll understand."

"Yes." The strength was leaking out of Charlus. "She always understands the greater good… she's too bold. Power, it's… it's…" The governor's eyelids drooped and remained closed.

"I understand," Harry murmured, moving the covers to ensure Charlus did not rub against them in his sleep as words from his old mentor echoed through the vaulted halls of time.

"They will hail you when I'm gone, and more after you have defeated Voldemort. They will place the hopes of our world upon your shoulders. The power to shape its future will hang just beyond your fingertips, ripe for the taking if you should ever reach for it.

"You must not. If you learn one thing from me and my mistakes, let it be this. I was offered the post of Minister for Magic not once, but several times. I refused not because I was uninterested, but because I had learned that I was not to be trusted where power was concerned."

The lesson was clearer than polished crystal — those best-suited for power were not those who had earned it, but those who treated it with a respectful wariness.

In that, he had failed. The plethora he knew about Riddle granted him the power to shape events in certain ways, and he had misused it. In his haste he had acted rashly, and his own loved ones had paid for his mistakes when all he wanted was to keep them safe.

Harry headed for the exit. Recent events had shown off his limitations. He had to be stronger so he could stop relying on assumptions and end this before anyone else was hurt.

The week passed in a blur of shadowed bookshelves and strong spellfire as he pressed his nose into the proverbial grindstone. Marlene sought out his presence often, but he evaded her the best he could. There was no time for distractions, and if he ever thought otherwise he need only look at Lily. They had not rowed since returning to the castle, but their exchanges were stilted and uneasy. Each day left him feeling as though she had drifted farther off.

James's resentment was equally painful. Harry had been given the cold shoulder throughout the entire week. It inspired a different kind of worry — the worry that his blunder on the solstice might have forever ended their fledgling friendship. The fear put down deep roots, but he never approached his father in an attempt to fix things. James had the right to feel whatever way he wanted. It had been Harry's job to help keep the Potters safe, and he had failed.

Friday came too fast. Before he knew it he was sitting on his shuttered bed with a bone-white masked resting in his lap and a sheet of parchment clutched between his fingers.

We ask that you breach the Department of Censure and Circenses this Friday evening. Knowing as we do how difficult a task this is, we promise payment twice what you received when working with us last.

Sealed documentation is attached to this missive. It is our hope that it be placed on the desk of that department's head.

Activate the mask the same way you did last time.

The Knights of Walpurgis

Harry had been perplexed to find the note underneath his pillow Monday morning. The puzzlement had quickly faded, to be replaced by grim anger. Riddle had a spy in Gryffindor — it was the only way they could be slipping him these missives in the dead of night.

But who? Pettigrew was the most glaring candidate, but he lacked the skill to slip even a piece of parchment past his wards.

The clock clicked and he looked up. Both hands were hovering over the number eleven.

Harry slid the parchment back under his pillow. Whoever the spy was would not matter much longer. Completing this assignment was sure to earn him a significant amount of favour. Not only was it difficult, but it was dangerous. Even just accepting it showed strong commitment.

Donning his white mask, he drew in a long breath and released it only when he felt prepared. "Morsmordre."

When his feet came down on smooth asphalt, he wondered where he was. Surely somewhere in London if they intended for him to breech the ministry, but the road was not one he recognized.

He looked to where the phone booth should have stood had he been outside the ministry and realized that was exactly where he was. In the phone booth's place was a marble building with its arching entry way and rows of pillars.

It baffled him for a minute or so before he understood. Without the need for covert tiptoeing, the empire had been free to mark the ministry using an impressive landmark.

The foreignness of it consumed him as he edged closer and probed the wards with psychic fingers. They were as unyielding as Dudley's impromptu tantrums when he wanted things his way. Their strength was unsurprising, but a part of him had hoped he might be able to escape via apparition if push came to shove.

Harry crept toward the front steps on silent feet and under the protection of a perfect disillusionment. Neither of the red-robed guardsmen flanking the short staircase felt him coming as he approached. One was young and badgeless, which meant he was a trainee. The other was among the oldest men he had ever seen filling the post.

Concentrating his will so a single charm would do for both men, he waved the Elder Wand in a broad arc. Confundus.

His nerves prickled as he slipped silently inside the building. Things were too quiet. The lobby reminded him of the one at St. Mungo's the morning he had snuck in, and the lack of hardened guardsmen heightened his unease.

It was not until stepping into an elevator labelled Visitor's Entrance that he calmed down. The world he came from had been frought with violence and dissension. The opposite was true here. Someone sneaking into the Ministry of Magic while the Order of Merlin ruled over the world must have been unthinkable, and so fhe few guards on duty were nothing but a formality.

Or so they thought.

There was a soft chime and the same female voice from his own world asking for his name and business. "Malcolm Renn," he murmured, rubbing his left hand along the length of the Elder Wand, "doing what I must."

The first thing he saw were the golden symbols dancing across the pale blue ceiling. Seeing them relaxed him further. They were a welcome norm after being so thrown off outside. The feeling strengthened when the elevator halted with a ding and admitted him into the atrium. It had the same dark floor, polished to a shine, and was lined in open fireplaces just like he remembered. A cursory inspection revealed only a single striking difference.

The golden statues of a witch, a wizard, a goblin, a centaur, and a house elf remained around the fountain's rim. The difference began in their joined hands but was more obvious in the fact there was a sixth among them. Shorter than the wizard and without a wand, the statue must have been meant to represent a muggle. Through the trickling water he could see the outline of words carved into the marble pool.

What Gives Great Might Its Grace and Glory Is Its Power For Good

The sight elicited a small smile. It was a symbol of peace and a better showcase of it than Britain had erected in his own world.

Harry stepped into the lift and scanned its buttons. Almost none of the departments he had grown accustomed to were there, but he spotted what he was looking for and pressed the number seven.

The descent paused soon after it had started. There was a soft ding, but the doors stayed closed as the melodic voice announced, "Level One, Chancellor and Support Staff."

It struck him then that he had no idea who the chancellor of Great Britain was. So consumed he had been by grander histories that he had not polished up on the events of recent years. It had been an oversight on his part.

Harry watched the doors in case some poor employee forced to stay late into the night attempted to gain entry, but the rest of him was busy worrying over whether Charlus had passed along orders for the building to be sparsely populated. Had the absence of a security guard up in the atrium been a kind coincidence?

He had not intentionally been keeping track of how many times the lift rattled to a halt, but he knew when it was his stop. "Level Seven," the melodic voice intoned, "Department of Censure and Circenses."

The Elder Wand shuddered in his grasp as he stepped out into a dark corridor, empty but for himself and a single auror standing guard outside an ornate door.

Three steps down the corridor, he paused. Was that the sound of a breeze, this far underground and in tight quarters? He turned his head in its direction and felt the breath freeze solid in his throat when he saw the narrow staircase leading down into what appeared to be an empty void.

The Department of Mysteries.

His entire body tingled. At long last he had found it — the Hogwarts library had been a dead end, but if anywhere had information about the intricacies of time, it was the maze of rooms just a single floor below him.

It required all his will not to change directions. A mere stone's throw from him was the answer he had been searching for since the beginning of September. Through the plain black door with its brass handle was a way back home, or at least the scattered fragments he could use to shape one.

But it would have to wait. Harry doubted any orders Charlus might have given about keeping the building quiet extended to the Unspeakables, and testing their defences without proper planning would be suicidal. The only reason Dumbledore's Army had ever breached the inner halls was because the Death Eaters had got there first and dismantled the wards through long, exhaustive efforts and a heap of inside knowledge.

Hairs prickled along his arms and across the nape of his neck. Breaching those wards at all might be beyond his skill. There was always Fiendfyre if the situation grew truly desperate, but the mere idea of that was almost laughable.

Almost.

If it secured him a way home once Riddle had been dealt with, Harry would burn down most of the known world and consider it his obligation.

"Either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives."

He shook his head and turned to face the corridor's only other occupant, then raised the Elder Wand. The things we do in war. "Imperio."

"What gives great might its grace and glory is its power for good; strength to harm is simply pernicious force."

— Seneca the Younger

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