"You're sure he won't wake up?" Draco whispered.
"Pretty sure," Weasley muttered. Potter and Eldest Weasley had been working on the Mark again today and somehow made it bleed. Potter had lost quite a bit of blood before they could get it to stop, and Black had dosed him up on blood-replenishers and a sleeping draught; he'd been out for a couple of hours now. "But here… Obsurdescere." Potter didn't even stir. Weasley waved his wand again and cast a quick Silencing charm on the room so their conversation wouldn't carry to Black or anyone else outside.
"Right," Weasley said, tossing his wand aside. "So, prophecies?"
Draco sighed and stared at the dark ceiling.
"Prophecies," he agreed. Weasley already knew that the Dark Lord had tasked Draco with finding out what the one about Potter said—that had been in his message after the Dark Lord's visit—but they hadn't had a chance to discuss things beyond that, though it had been a few days since Draco arrived. "My original plan was to make one up… throw in some omens from Unfogging the future and a rhyme or two in after the parts he already knows and let him chase his tail for a bit. Severus didn't like that though. He said it's too dangerous if I'm caught—"
"He's probably right," Weasley said. "If Voldemort somehow found out the real one…"
"I know," Draco said grudgingly. "But giving him nothing at all isn't really an option—not if I want to prove my value as a spy. And giving him the real thing is too dangerous—"
"Is it?" Weasley asked.
"Yes," Draco said, with an incredulous look that Weasley probably couldn't properly see in the dark. Weasley was silent for long enough that Draco thought he'd lost interest in the conversation, or perhaps even fallen asleep, but then:
"Everyone talks about how terrible it would be for Voldemort to have the prophecy," he said musingly. "But would it be? Really?"
"You're joking," Draco said.
"No," Weasley said. He sounded a little wry, but mostly thoughtful. "I'm not, actually."
"Then you're insane," Draco said.
"Too much time inside this summer, maybe," Weasley mused, and then huffed a laugh and seemed to grow serious again. "I've been thinking about this since your message. About what we do—" Despite the fact that Weasley was quite possibly unhinged, Draco felt heartened by the we and the reminder that he wasn't in this on his own. "—and you're right that you've got to give him something, so why not the real thing? He knows the first bit—that's why he went after Harry and his parents—"
"Exactly," Draco hissed. "He wants Potter dead and the prophecy could tell him how to do it—"
"It doesn't, though," Weasley said. "We know what it says, and it's pretty vague."
"Maybe not to him, though."
"He's looking for help after what happened the night of the fourth task, right?" Weasley asked. "But what he'd actually get is something that says Harry's an equal because Voldemort made him one, but that he also has some special power… How does that help Voldemort, or endanger Harry? It'd be brilliant."
"Brilliant," Draco scoffed. "What about the bit about one of them needing to kill the other… You think that won't send him right after Potter, or make the Dark Lord think he's untouchable except by Potter?"
"So we just tell him the bit about equals and power, then. That's the most useful part anyway—"
Draco rolled over to glare through the darkness:
"We don't want to give him anything useful here, Weasley, not with prophecies—"
"Useful for us, I mean," Weasley said.
"How? Other than that it makes me look good," Draco added.
"It protects you, too—you don't get caught in a lie this way." Weasley's blankets rustled as he rolled over. "But mainly I think it'll scare him," he said. "Obviously Voldemort believes in prophecy enough to go after Harry after hearing he might be able to vanquish him—"
"That wasn't out of fear, though," Draco pointed out. "The Dark Lord was—well, exactly that—while Potter was a baby. He was just trying to secure his own power…" Though look how that worked out for him…
"Maybe," Weasley said. "But it's fear now."
"I'm not sure the Dark Lord fears Potter," Draco said, frowning as he adjusted his pillow. "He hates him, certainly, but—"
"I saw Harry's memory of the night of the fourth task," Weasley said. "I think he might."
Terrifying was the word Weasley had used to describe Potter in one of his messages to Draco earlier in the summer. But Draco wasn't sure the Dark Lord would feel the same; as far as Draco knew, the only one the Dark Lord was afraid of was Dumbledore…
"Harry tried to kill him," Weasley continued. "And then he got into his head, threw off an Imperius curse, summoned the ghosts of his dead parents, and escaped through anti-apparition wards." Draco could suddenly hear the grin in his voice. "If he's not a little bit nervous about Harry after that, then he's thick."
"They're here!" Mum said, making her way down into the kitchen with a bundle of envelopes in hand. Ron yawned around another bite of toast; he and Malfoy had stayed up late the night before, talking about prophecies and Voldemort. Ron thought he'd talked Malfoy around, though the whole issue was rather moot until they knew the outcome of Harry's visit to the Ministry tomorrow.
"Draco, dear, and Hermione…" Mum set letters down in front of them. "Fred, George… Ron, here's yours, and Ginny, and there you are, Harry."
Hermione shuffled the page of parseltongue notes she and Harry had been poring over to make room for her thick envelope. And it was thick; thicker than Harry's beside her, or the twins'... but actually about the same as Ron's.
It was heavier than he remembered, and when he opened it up and pulled out the letter, something small and heavy plinked onto the table.
"Oh no," Fred said.
"Not another one," George sighed, as Ron picked up a small, red and gold pin with dawning understanding, and no small amount of bemusement. He'd not even considered that going into fifth year would mean Prefect badges for someone, but if he had—
"Quiet, boys," Mum said sharply, and then leaned down to hug Ron over the shoulders. "Prefect, Ron, how wonderful!"
"Don't encourage him, Mum," Fred groaned. George jabbed a finger at Ginny:
"And you—don't even think—"
Across the table, Hermione caught Ron's eye and held up a matching pin. He mustered a smile for her, which was easier than he expected because she looked so genuinely pleased, and then looked to Harry:
Harry didn't look upset, though, or jealous; he was giving Hermione a one-armed hug, and smiling at Ron. Even so:
"I thought it'd be you," Ron said.
"Thanks," Malfoy scoffed, kicking Ron under the table.
"It's not that you wouldn't be good at it," Ron said, grinning at him. Malfoy gave him a warning look, as if he thought Ron might announce the fact that he was a double agent there and then. "But can you imagine having to tell your dad you'd been made Prefect of Gryffindor?" Ron thought that might be a bit much for Lucius Malfoy, even with Malfoy supposedly working as a spy for Voldemort.
Further down the table, Dora sniggered into her coffee. Malfoy huffed a laugh, eyes going to his booklist, and Ron turned back to Harry, who was watching Hermione show Dora her pin.
She'd be brilliant at it, Ron was sure, then looked down at his own pin, baffled. He wasn't a bad choice, he didn't think—definitely a better one than Malfoy, who had enough to worry about, and probably better than Neville, who was a bit too timid, or Seamus with his penchant for blowing things up and getting caught in broom cupboards with Lavender—but he wasn't sure he was the best choice, not when one of the other choices was Harry. Harry was a Triwizard Champion, had saved the school or people in it—including Ron himself—multiple times, was someone that people listened to—
Ron tried to keep that off his face, but it must have shown, or Harry must have smelled it, because:
"You're a much better choice for it than I am," Harry said. "The obvious choice, really."
"Again: thanks," Malfoy said, deadpan.
"Shh," Hermione said, leaning over to swat at Malfoy, who grinned. Harry laughed at them and then turned back to Ron, shaking his head:
"I've got enough to worry about without adding 'Prefect' to the list," Harry said.
"Always about you, isn't it, Potter," Malfoy said. "Have you spared a thought for the poor little first years, and the amount of courage they'd have to find to be willing to approach you to ask where to find a toilet or what the Fat Lady's password is?"
"I don't know that it'd be a big deal," Ginny said. "First year Gryffindors tend to be pretty bold—"
"If Harry had his look on, though," Fred reasoned.
"Terrifying, that," George agreed. "You're much more approachable, Ron."
Harry caught Ron's eye and grinned, and Ron glanced down at the badge in his hand a little more favourably.
"Can I see?" Harry asked, and Ron passed the pin across the table.
"That had better not be yours, Harry." Everyone at the table glanced up to see Sirius, Remus, and Stella coming downstairs, the first pointing at Ron's badge with a grim look on his face.
"Ron's," Harry said, passing it back.
"Oh, thank Merlin," Sirius said, pressing a hand to his chest. "For a moment, I thought I'd managed to raise a Prefect." He gave a little shudder, making Harry and Ginny laugh. Mum planted her hands on her hips.
"And what would be the problem with that, Sirius?" she asked.
"Indeed," Remus said mildly, glancing at Sirius. "I was a Prefect and James was Head Boy, remember."
"I remember you were horrified," Sirius shot back, and Remus smiled. "And I think James might have shed a tear or two in shame—"
Fred and George guffawed.
"Mum was both," Harry offered, and Sirius nodded, grave:
"I know—we've got lucky, that despite your parentage, you've turned out all right." But Sirius rubbed Hermione warmly on the back, a small smile on his face. She beamed and Sirius moved around the table to squeeze Ron's shoulder. "We'll do a big dinner tonight to commiser— I mean, to celebrate." He winked and Ron grinned. Sirius leaned over Harry's shoulder to read his booklist, then made a noise of disgust that was no longer playful: "Defensive Magical Theory?" He looked at Remus, who shook his head, frowning.
"That's on our list too," George said.
"And mine," Ginny said.
"The same book for fourth years through to seventh years?" Hermione asked, frowning. "Surely that's not appropriate?"
"Couldn't say—I've never heard of it," Dora said.
"Neither." That was from Remus, and Hermione looked between them, face falling even further:
"But we have our O.W.L.s this year!"
Ron's mouth twitched and he tried to catch Harry's eye, but Harry was too busy scowling at Sirius to notice.
"That's the face—imagine a scared little firstie trying to walk up to him when he looks like that," George muttered, making Ginny and Malfoy laugh.
After breakfast, Mum, Sirius, Fred, and George headed off to Diagon Alley with the booklists while Dora left for work, and Remus announced he and Stella were going back to bed; apparently she'd been up all night teething, and they both needed the extra rest.
"What do we want to do?" Ginny asked, as Kreacher tidied up around them. "House to ourselves, and all…"
"Potter and Granger will carry on with their research, I imagine," Malfoy drawled; Hermione was already hunched over their notes, hissing under her breath. Beside her, Harry's mouth twitched and he hissed something back. Hermione sighed and scribbled something out. Of them all, she seemed to be the worst at speaking it (or rather, mimicking the hisses Harry and Ginny made); even Malfoy, for all that he hadn't been at Grimmauld long, seemed able to mimic it (even if he couldn't speak it or understand it) better than she could. Ron had jokingly attributed his ability to his Slytherin ancestry, and Malfoy had gone onto suggest Hermione's muggle heritage was why she was so bad at it.
But she wasn't bad at all of it; when it came to designing and remembering the written side of parseltongue, Hermione was better than all of them. Ron watched her scribble away, muttering to Harry, and then pause and slide the parchment over to him.
"Makes sense," Ron said casually, "since tomorrow's not really an option for Harry."
As expected, Harry grimaced at the reminder about his trip to the Ministry.
"Of course," Malfoy said, nodding as if he'd forgotten.
"Do you know what you'll do yet?" Ginny asked quietly, which couldn't have been a better transition if she'd tried, despite her not having been in on Ron's conversations with Malfoy. Hermione straightened and moved the parchment aside, which made Ron wonder if the girls had had their own conversations about it all too.
"About the prophecy?" Harry asked. "Yeah, I've been thinking about it. Why?"
"If Dumbledore doesn't think the Ministry should have the prophecy, then they probably shouldn't," Hermione said, chewing her lip.
"Agreed," Ginny said, giving Harry a look.
"But I don't know that it's going to be particularly easy to keep it from the Minister if he's right there," Hermione continued. "And it's not really like you can tell the Minister no." Ron suspected Sirius would tell the Minister exactly that, but he wasn't all that sure it would be effective.
"Watch us," Harry said, with an expression that said he too was willing to deny the Minister what he wanted. Then he sighed and shook his head. "No, I know." He set his jaw. "I'm going to break it."
Silence hung over the kitchen for a moment, and then Ginny laughed. Her grin was one she must have learned from Fred and George.
"Break it?!" Hermione asked. She seemed to be struggling with the idea of destroying information, even if she didn't appear to actually disagree: "Harry, prophecy orbs are irreplaceable magical artifacts—"
"Exactly," Harry said, with a grim smile. "Once it's gone, it's gone. We don't need it—we know the prophecy. But the longer it's there, the more likely it is that Voldemort finds out what it says." Ron very deliberately did not look at Malfoy. "So I'm going to destroy it."
"Ah! Harry!" Fudge stepped forward, bowler hat twirling in his hands, while Dawlish stood behind him, impassive. People moved around them, casting curious glances in their direction; Fudge, after all, was the Minister, and Harry was still a favourite topic for The Prophet, which liked to cast theories around as to whether he was dead, in France, or in hiding. He adjusted his sleeves—long and baggy—to make sure his missing hand was hidden.
"Thank you for coming." Fudge held a hand out to Harry, and when Harry shook it with his right, grasped it firmly with both of his. "Thank you very much. And Auror Black."
Fudge released Harry but put what was probably meant to seem like a friendly hand on his shoulder. It felt like a restraint, and there was something expectant in his scent that made Harry uneasy. He looked at Padfoot, who wore a frown that meant he was aware of it too.
Then Padfoot twitched, hand jumping to the pocket of his robes. Fudge's scent turned satisfied, but even if it hadn't, the look on his face would have given away his involvement.
Padfoot's frown deepened and he withdrew his Sidekick.
"Do you mind if I answer?" he asked, and Fudge waved the hand that wasn't holding Harry.
"Not at all," Fudge said. "In fact, I'd encourage it—I wouldn't be much of a Minister if I told an Auror not to do their job, now would I?" He laughed at his own joke.
Padfoot's mouth turned down, and then he muttered the passphrase and flipped his Sidekick open.
"Black," he murmured, moving out of earshot for the others though Harry could still hear him perfectly well.
"We've got a breakthrough—" Harry recognised Robards' voice. "—in the Zabini case. Anonymous tip from someone in Zabini's network—submitted this morning, with details about previous murders and about this one."
"Blaise Benson gave us those," Padfoot said.
"This one confirms it, though," Robards said. "They knew how Benson died—the type of poison used, and the method of administration."
"How?"
"Shampoo, if you'd believe it," Robards said. "Gradual exposure."
"Premeditated, then," Padfoot murmured.
"Undoubtedly. Which means it's enough to bring her in."
"Only if we can link her to it," Padfoot said. "I'm inclined to believe it, but she could argue she's being framed by the actual murderer—"
"The tip also included the location of Zabini's poison stores," Robards said. "I've arranged a search warrant this morning."
Padfoot let out a string of curses under his breath, so low and angry that it almost sounded like he was speaking parseltongue.
"And this is real?" he asked, with a glance back over his shoulder at Fudge, who was oozing satisfaction. "You're positive that this isn't a false lead—"
"I'm positive," Robards said. "We've got her, Black, or will if we act quickly—"
"Right. Right, well, you're going to have to take someone else with you in my place. I'm tied up this morning—"
"So is everyone else," Robards said. "There's an all day trainee session today—"
Padfoot swore again at length and rubbed a hand over his face.
"It'll have to wait, then," he said. "A few hours, at least—"
"If Zabini gets wind of this before we can carry it out, it's all over," Robards said.
"I know. I know, but I need to be here," Padfoot said. "Harry's meeting with the Minister—"
"He's what?"
"Meeting with the Minister," Padfoot said. "And someone's clearly trying to make sure I won't be with him."
"Is everything all right?" Fudge called to Padfoot.
"Hold on," Padfoot muttered into his Sidekick. "Everything's fine," he said in a more carrying voice.
"If something's come up…"
"It can wait," Padfoot said firmly, though it looked like the words left a bad taste in his mouth. "Unless you'd be willing to reschedule until I'm able to join you—"
"Harry's perfectly safe with me," Fudge said, waving a hand. "I'm the Minister and we're in my Ministry. You can catch up with us once you're done."
Fudge gave Harry a genial smile that might have been reassuring if Harry wasn't certain he was involved in this attempt to separate them. Maybe Zabini was a Death Eater, or maybe she wasn't—she hadn't been there in the graveyard, after all—but she certainly moved in pureblood circles, had killed Mr Benson because he was a muggle, which meant an anonymous tip from someone in her network had probably come from someone in one of those circles, someone she'd trusted, or at the very least, someone she didn't believe would incriminate her for what she'd done.
But someone had.
At the Minister's request, perhaps, or maybe for their own purposes that just so happened to align with the Minister's. It wasn't hard to guess what that purpose might be; the Minister wanted to know the prophecy, intended to use Harry to get it, and no doubt expected that it would be easier if Padfoot was not there with him.
And once the Minister knew it… Harry suspected it would be easier to get the prophecy out of him than it would out of the Department of Mysteries, or out of Dumbledore. And Voldemort—or whoever was acting on Voldemort's behalf—clearly agreed enough to trade Giovanna Zabini for the chance.
Fudge gave Harry a little squeeze:
"You'd be all right with that, wouldn't you, Harry?"
Harry frowned and shrugged his hand off.
"Actually, I'd prefer Pad—"
"Harry! And Sirius." Dumbledore emerged from one of the many fireplaces around the Ministry's atrium and swept over to them in navy robes covered in glittering golden stars. "Cornelius."
"Dumbledore," Fudge said, and Harry suspected if he and Padfoot hadn't been there, Fudge might have ignored him entirely.
"What brings you here?" Dumbledore asked Padfoot.
"Harry's meeting with the Minister," Padfoot said, rather stiffly, still holding his Sidekick.
"Ah, yes," Dumbledore said. "I'd forgotten that was today—"
"You knew perfectly well it was today," Fudge snapped.
"Yes, but in my old age, I've found I'm unfortunately prone to forgetting—"
"Don't bother, Dumbledore," Fudge said tersely. "I haven't got time for this today. Potter and I—"
"And me," Padfoot said sharply.
"I thought you had other matters to attend to," Fudge said, frowning.
"Other matters?" Dumbledore asked, frowning now, as he glanced between Harry and Sirius. "Is there a problem?"
"There's no problem," Fudge snapped. "If you'll excuse us—"
"If you have to go, why doesn't Dumbledore come with me," Harry said to Padfoot, who frowned.
"That won't be necessary—"
"I don't have to go," Padfoot said, looking at Harry. Harry gave him a look back and Padfoot's mouth turned down, but Harry knew he understood; it was one thing to stay with Harry when there was no alternative, but now that there was…
"Robards said this might be your one chance to get her."
"I'm sure the Headmaster has plans, Potter—"
"None that can't be pushed back," Dumbledore said cheerfully. Fudge's expression spasmed. "I'd be quite happy to accompany you, Harry—"
"Harry doesn't need accompanying—"
"I'll decide that," Padfoot said curtly.
"What was that, Black?" Robards asked through the Sidekick.
"Not you, hang on—"
"He's sixteen—"
"Fifteen," Harry said, over the top of Padfoot and Fudge. Fudge's knuckles whitened on the rim of his hat. "And I'd like to be accompanied, thanks."
"That's settled then," Dumbledore said into the tense silence that followed. "As long as Sirius approves, of course." A long look passed between them and then Padfoot nodded. "Wonderful. Lead the way, then, Minister."
With one final look at a very unhappy Padfoot, Harry fell into step behind Fudge and Dawlish, with Dumbledore at his side.
"Did you know this was going to happen?" Harry muttered.
"I did not," Dumbledore murmured back, and Harry believed him. "I didn't know what might happen, which was the reason for my presence at the Ministry, but—"
"In," Fudge said, with a sharp wave at one of the Ministry's lifts.
"After you, Harry," Dumbledore said. Fudge pursed his lips as Dumbledore stepped in after him. "And then perhaps, Cornelius, you'd like to tell Harry why he's here, before he begins to think he's on trial…" The lift dropped. "The last time he was down here would have been for Sirius' trial, I think."
Harry, who knew perfectly well where they were going and why, gave Fudge an innocent look that he hoped seemed both curious and concerned.
He must have managed it, because Fudge's frustration seemed to fade a little:
"We'll be visiting the Department of Mysteries," he said.
"I think I've heard of that," Harry said, pretending to frown in thought. "I think Padfoot gets their newsletter." Fudge hummed in a non-committal way and Harry could smell amusement on Dumbledore. "But what's that got to do with the information you think I have?"
"Not here," Fudge said. "Not yet."
They rode the lift the rest of the way down without speaking, though not in full silence; Dumbledore was very quietly humming what sounded like the Hogwarts school song. He appeared oblivious to Fudge's occasional, irritated looks, but he had a twinkle in his eye that made Harry think he knew full well what he was doing.
When they arrived at the plain black door to the Department of Mysteries—the door Harry'd been dreaming of, or, rather, the one Voldemort had been—Fudge gave a nod to the hooded figures guarding it and then waved a hand at Dawlish.
"Keep an eye on things out here while we're inside," he said, and Dawlish nodded, though his scent was strangely annoyed or unhappy, like he wasn't pleased with being left out. "And Headmaster, if you'd like to remain here as well, while Harry and I—"
"You'll be perfectly fine without him," Fudge said, turning to Harry. "As you can see, the Department of Mysteries is exceptionally well guarded, and therefore very safe. There won't be anyone inside except us and the Unspeakables—"
"Wasn't it an Unspeakable who pushed Padfoot through that Veil and almost killed him a few years ago?" Harry asked with a polite frown. Fudge went red and Dumbledore's beard twitched.
"Very well, then," Fudge said stiffly, and led the way inside.
The room was circular, with a dark marble floor and twelve identical doors, none of which had handles. As Dumbledore closed the door they'd come in through, all twelve doors spun around. Harry glanced around, uneasy.
"To leave, one must simply ask," Dumbledore said, as a door on the opposite side of the chamber opened. Dawlish glanced inside and at Fudge's gesture, frowned and shut the door again. "But to access any of the Department's other rooms, one must know where they're going and how to get there."
"How?" Harry asked, voice hushed; it seemed like speaking loudly here would be inappropriate.
"This room and these doors work a little like a certain other Room," Dumbledore said, with a twinkle in his eye, "in that it will take you to the place you require… But it also works a little differently; for one, the rooms here are not created but rather become linked, so there are only so many possible rooms you might find yourself in. For another, the Department of Mysteries is a place of learning and discovery, and so, often your journey through the Department and its chambers is just as important as your final destination." He smiled around at the doors in a way that was almost fond, then frowned thoughtfully. "Of course, it's also possible to cheat; with enough time and exposure to different schools of magic, one can learn the feel of them. This door, for instance, has the feel of—"
"He's not here for a tour, Dumbledore," Fudge said. He frowned, eyes flicking between two doors, before he stepped forward to push one open. Bright, rather dazzling light gleamed out, and from within came a soft but steady ticking, and also a sound like falling sand. Fudge sighed, squinted ahead, and then seemed to brighten. "Ah! Yes, this way."
"This is the Time Room," Dumbledore said to Harry, as they entered. A pop had Harry twitching and drawing his wand, but it was only a wooden bird bursting from a large clock. "Miss Granger would find it of particular interest, I'm sure." Harry thought this was a rather strange thing to say—Hermione found everything interesting, after all—but then Harry spied a glass cabinet filled with several familiar golden objects; timeturners.
"This is where they're made?" he asked, wandering over to look at them, before his attention was captured by a large bell-jar that was the source of the sparkling light; inside it was a bright orange butterfly.
As Harry watched, its wings folded down and dulled, and then it was a cocoon which slowly came to life as a fat caterpillar. The caterpillar shrank and shrank and then curled into an egg which sat still for a moment and then hatched.
"Harry," Dumbledore said softly, and Harry let himself be led away from the bell-jar and over to another door. Fudge opened this one into an enormous room lit by cold blue light.
"Welcome to the Hall of Prophecy," Dumbledore murmured.
Sorry for the lateness on this chapter - I'm safe and well, have just been busy over the holiday period!
I hope all of you are also safe and healthy, and have had a good start to the new year. :)
I'm hoping to have the next chapter up in the usual fortnightly period.
MarauderLover7