"ɪ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʀᴀᴛʜᴇʀ ʜᴀᴠᴇ Qᴜᴇꜱᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ʙᴇ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ʙᴇ Qᴜᴇꜱᴛɪᴏɴᴇᴅ."
― ʀɪᴄʜᴀʀᴅ ꜰᴇʏɴᴍᴀɴ
Chapter Thirteen: The Witch of Godric's Hollow
A strange circle of chalk runes, and a broken baby mobile, lying amongst the blankets.
Tee pondered this.
"What are you?" Ruby was asking. He supposed he'd better pay attention to the conversation.
"An Animagus," answered Sirius, who was in the process of shaving his hair off nearly to the scalp with a Muggle electric razor. Tee had been relegated to patrolling the door and snapping at anyone who tried to open it. "It's how I kept sane in there... the Dementors, I..." He trailed off. "I knew I hadn't done what they said I did. I knew it. It wasn't a happy thought, it was dark and miserable and so the Dementors couldn't take it from me."
He stared emptily into the mirror, and Tee recognised the look on his face.
"How's Harry?"
It was Ruby's turn to look miserable.
"Alive, last time I saw him." She was drumming her fingers on the rim of the sink. "He's going to be okay."
The last statement seemed to be for the purpose of convincing herself.
"He's—"
"He's an Obscurial," said Ruby, her voice soft and quiet. "But he's alive."
Now, Sirius's voice was soft as it could be, too, and dangerous. "Anyone I really need to murder?"
Ruby shook her head, biting so hard on her lip Tee swore he could see blood beading.
And that was how they ended up with a third companion that night; a hulking black dog that came up past Ruby's waist and could comfortably rest his massive front paws on Tee's shoulders (and likely weighed more than him). In his dog form, Sirius was wolfhound-ish, with a friendly yet dignified appearance; more guardian than guard dog, Tee thought.
This, thought Tee, watching the dog lope ahead of them on the street, is absolutely ridiculous. Why couldn't he have been something reasonably sized?
At least the dog's presence would ward off... interlopers.
He rubbed his eyes in the darkness settling on the street, trying to assuage the cluster headache he'd developed after rendering the minute details of Sirius's memories for hours. And I haven't learnt anything. Ruby says their mother sacrificed herself to save Harry. But she wasn't the first to use her body to block a curse. Something else must have happened.
Grudgingly, he thought, I must have made a mistake.
I just wish I could make sense of it.
Why does everything have to be so difficult?
Just then, a light came on in one of the look-alike cottages, and the door creaked open. Ruby, in front of him, froze, tugging on the dog's leash (purchased three hours ago).
We're too conspicuous, thought Tee.
It was the old woman with the stropholos.
"Come in," she whispered, voice dry as bones. "Not safe out there. There's darkness out."
"I'll say," said Tee under his breath. "Not as batty as she looks, eh?"
Ruby shot him a cross look. "Who are you?"
The crone peered down at them through her enormous spectacles. "A friend of your parents. There's protection around this house, dear. Come inside and away from the soul-suckers."
"But this is a Muggle area," Tee protested. "Why would Dementors come here?"
A plaintive howl from an unmistakable source cut in. The dog startled.
"We'd better go in," said Ruby, somewhat fearfully, and they began to climb the steps, the dog leading the way. The old woman gave Tee a curious look as he went in, and then she shut the door. A subtle flash of silver light emanated from the frame as she did.
A wispy silver owl, made of pure light, was nestled inside its wings and sat upon the cluttered hatstand.
Protection, thought Tee. The strange old woman beckoned them to follow her through the narrow hall.
"Names?"
"I'm Tee, that's Ruby," he answered mechanically, and then the dog shot him a warning glance. "And that's, uh, Spot."
The woman gave him a hard look and he cursed himself for not thinking.
Luckily, Ruby cut in. "It's ironic, y'know?" she quipped, one hand on her hip and swishing her hair like the gum-popping teenagers he'd seen milling about in the larger cities.
"Yes, dear," said the old woman in a kindly voice. "I am familiar with irony."
"And your name?" asked Tee.
"Bathilda," she said softly, as they came into a warm, cosy sitting room with a fire flickering in the hearth. "Bathilda Bagshot."
"A History of Magic," said Tee under his breath.
"I hope you weren't too bored by it," said Bathilda, already guiding Ruby into one of the feathery, plump armchairs. "I've got some hot cocoa on the stove, dears."
And then she disappeared down another hallway.
"I was thinking about the witch from Hansel and Gretel," said Ruby all of a sudden.
"She seems nice," said Tee rather placidly. He took his anorak off, folded it up, and sat. The chairs were nice, too.
"Oh, you just like her because she wrote A History of Magic, you swot." She had sunk nearly completely into the chair, the fire casting strange shadows on her face as she glowered at him from under her eyelashes, an anarchy of curls splayed out against the patched orange fabric.
"Well, if Baba Yaga decides to cook us, you get to say I told you so. Happy?"
Basking in the eminent pleasure of having the last word, Tee settled deeper into the armchair. Almost reflexively, he lifted the locket and put it inside his shirt, the heavy pendant unnaturally warm above his ribs, half unsure why he felt the need to hide it all of a sudden. 'Spot' looked quite drowsy himself, stretched out on the floor and eyes halfway closed.
Ruby had gotten up, and was peering at the silver-framed pictures on top of the mantelpiece. She picked one up which had two figures moving within it, and thrust it out at Tee.
"Doesn't that look like Professor Dumbledore? Wouldn't it be funny if it was?"
Rolling his eyes, Tee leaned forward and took it from her, holding it up to the light.
The shorter one was, unmistakably, Dumbledore; the same age as Tee, and his auburn hair nowhere near as long as Tee remembered it. The brilliant blue eyes were there; but it must have been before he'd gotten his nose broken.
Tee recognised the other figure, too, though he only remembered seeing him from a distance. Wide-eyed, merry, and roguish — Gellert Grindelwald.
Dumbledore and Grindelwald, he thought to himself. I was only joking when I assumed they had to have known each other. It looks as if they were... close.
"Hmm," he said out loud. "Why don't you put that back where it belongs?"
She said something under her breath which sounded suspiciously like why don't you bugger off and mind your own business?
Just at that moment, Bathilda returned with the hot cocoa, taking note of the picture Ruby was holding.
"That is indeed Dumbledore," she said, with a nod. "And my..." Her expression darkened. "... great-nephew. Long ago, when they were two arrogant boys who shared many key obsessions, including each other..."
"I don't s'pose you keep in touch?" asked Tee, transfixed by the recurring image of Grindelwald playfully ruffling Dumbledore's hair, unable to help the retort, then immediately ashamed. He couldn't remember ever being quite this rash. Bathilda turned towards him, and he held her gaze knowingly.
"Mail owls rarely find their way to the top of Nurmengard," said Bathilda absently. If she had noticed Tee's shock, she did not acknowledge it. Instead, she settled deeper into her chair, wisps of white hair sticking out from under her black shawl, her owlish spectacles glinting in the firelight. From here, Tee thought she looked particularly witch-like, with the light shining through her transparent skin as if she were nothing more than an apparition. To be old enough to be Grindelwald's great-aunt, she must have been very old indeed; quite likely nearly as old as Dippet.
Tee wondered if she'd ever dabbled in... unsavoury arts to extend her life.
It was a topic, he'd long ago surmised, that was inappropriate for polite discussion.
But everybody does it. Or, at least, everyone who can.
"Nurmengard?" Ruby was leaning towards Bathilda. "But we learned about that, that's..."
"Yes," said Bathilda simply, sipping her hot cocoa, and he could see Ruby trying to work it out to no avail.
"You said you knew my parents," said Ruby. Spot had opened his eyes, his shaggy ears alert.
"Yes, dear. Tell me; what answers are you looking for?"
Tee watched her unhook something around her neck and pass it to Bathilda.
"I want to know what happened," she said softly. "My mum knew she was going to die."
A storm seemed to pass over Bathilda's face. "Oh, child."
And then, she closed her eyes and began to speak in the low, smoky voice used only to recount a certain type of message. The fire seemed to flicker and dim, and her voice sent a strange chill through Tee.
"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies..."
"Lily showed it me," she said, in her normal, creaky voice. "Made from Sybil Trelawney to Albus Dumbledore on a cold winter's night, concerning the Dark Lord and an unknown subject. Or, at least, until Halloween of 1981. Didn't you ever wonder how your brother got that lightning-shaped scar?"
What scar? Tee wanted to ask, picturing the boy in his mind's eye, sickly and skinny, skin bruised black from the Obscurus's inexorable greed. What power? The locket is right: Tommy dearest, who is Harry Potter?
Spot's ears pricked up.
He was right. Lightning was auspicious. Any pureblood worth their salt knew that.
"But..."
Ruby trailed off.
"What were the marks under the crib?" asked Tee, taking advantage of the lull in conversation.
Bathilda smiled, but it didn't come up to her eyes. "I'm not sure what you mean, dear. A good deal of things were thrown about in the struggle."
"They weren't Futhark or Ogham, not as far as I could tell."
"Perhaps not," said Bathilda, with a hint of a warning tone. And then, warmly: "You haven't touched your cocoa, dear."
No telling what she's spiked it with. Ruby seems alright though, I suppose. And there's always Spot, er, Sirius.
He gave Bathilda a weak smile and sipped the hot cocoa; it was creamy, sweet and still nearly piping-hot. Ruby was still repeating bits of the prophecy under her breath.
"Does that — does that mean," she began, in an atypically timid tone, "that Harry has to kill Voldemort?"
Tee started and nearly spilt the hot cocoa all over himself. Bathilda, who appeared to have been nodding asleep, shot up and let out a small gasp.
That sick, skinny boy... KILL ME?
"Oh, I wouldn't put too much stock into it all," said Bathilda absently, poking at the fire. From here she looked rather shadowy, and, well... witchy. "Trelawney is a notorious fraud, although a broken clock is right twice a day. The Dark Lord couldn't've seen any harm in going after Harry; after all, he was only a baby. You see," she said, shaking a bony finger, "it's fear he ruled by, fear and terror. Wouldn't be very terrifying if people started talking about a child with the power to vanquish him; and so he thought he'd snuff out any chance of it happening in the crib. Besides, your parents were on his list in the first place for various reasons."
"Why?"
"Born to those who thrice defied him," Bathilda emphasized. "Or else they wouldn't have fit the prophecy." She shook her head, stood with surprising agility, and adjusted her shawl. "Time for bed."
Tee couldn't recall the last time he had been ordered to bed. He'd stepped uneasily into the cold, ancient bathtub and scrubbed every inch of dirt and sweat off from all the walking and scoured the grit from his nails and between his toes until he was unrecognisably clean, soap-scented and almost shimmering in the the foggy bathroom mirror as he watched the brown water disappear down the drain.
His candle-lit reflection was that of a stranger's; older, with new hollows and shadows, hair longer than he ever remembered it, and last of all and worst of all, the scars.
The one on the belly of his forearm, at least, could be hidden from view if he tilted it away.
On the other hand, there was the newer one. For months it had been covered in bandages he'd magicked clean every night; now, for the first time, he saw it clearly. Sore and angry pink in the middle, jagged and scarring at the borders. It encompassed all of him. He'd been slashed from left shoulder to right hip; symbolically sliced in half.
His reaction was immediate and visceral. Vomit burned at the back of his throat.
He turned away from it.
Afterwards there were pyjamas; or, to be more exact, an ankle-length nightshirt, perfectly preserved from the turn of the century, which had sent Ruby (wearing a flouncy version with a little pink bow) into an undignified laughing fit when she'd caught sight of him in the hallway, peeping out from behind a door with her wand tucked behind her ear.
"Night," he said crossly, and stomped up the dusty steps to the attic.
The attic itself wasn't overly dusty; a few specks glimmered in the astral light dangling in front of the window. He shuffled across the rug, sat down on the iron bed, and pulled the ancient quilt over his head. The distant howls of the Dementors echoed against the walls, but the quilt muffled the sounds.
It was what they'd heard outside of Little Hangleton, he realised, shifting miserably under the sheets. But how did they get here? Why would they leave?
Suddenly, the locket began to burn against his skin, searing into his flesh. He withdrew it from inside the nightshirt, stifling a yelp, and murmured the passphrase.
The sides of the locket popped open; instantaneously, the apparition from before was sitting at the foot of the bed, robes thrown across the frame, in his shirtsleeves this time, rolled up to the elbow and worst of all, regarding Tee with a supercilious expression of an accomplished older sibling, his hand supporting his chin.
"What?" snapped Tee, after enduring a full minute of ceaseless, unnerving staring.
"I can't imagine the Dark Lord will be pleased when he finds you've been depriving me."
His own voice; pitched slightly deeper, richer, the indignance and origin tuned out of it, like an orchestra to the call of an oboe.
"I can't imagine the Dark Lord will be pleased when he finds out how feeble and pathetic you are," Tee retorted.
The wraith stood up and began to pace, flickering like a flame in a breeze. His soundless feet seemed to hover slightly above the floor.
"Stop that, it's making my head spin."
"Good!" snarled the wraith.
Tee bolted upright. "What do you want from me? You want to harvest a soul, do it yourself! Why should I stick my neck out for you?"
"As if your hands are bloodless, you ignorant whelp." Tee inched away, taken aback by the scorn in the elder's voice. "There are only a few murders between you and I."
He greeted his older self with a wry, sick smile, and pulled out the remainder of the nigredo from where he'd tucked it under the pillow. "I've seen my own self, Tommy, and I'm alright as I am. How can I be substantial if I do not cast a shadow?"
"I must have a dark side also if I am to be whole," finished the wraith, tone equally delicate and menacing. He regarded the waxy black substance, ever so slightly wetting his lips as if longing for a taste. "Where did it come from?"
Unflinchingly and holding the wraith's gaze, he loosened the first few buttons of the nightshirt, so that the other could see the tip of what had been a deep, lightning-shaped gouge peeking out from its bandages.
"Magic won't heal it. It's got to grow back naturally."
And then, Tee thought grimly of Bathilda's words earlier. Didn't you ever wonder how your brother got that lightning-shaped scar?
The Dark Lord will mark him as his equal.
"What power can you give me that I don't already have?"
The wraith studied him.
"A return to your senses. Your connection to the master soul is clearly weak. You've lost your way. You can meet your destiny, that is, if you still wish to be great."
He gazed up at his older self, leaning back on his hands, head cocked to the side.
"If you meant what you said, you'd take me to him," he whispered. "Take me to him, and he'll decide if you deserve to eat." The wraith's eyes widened; how long had it been since he'd heard Parseltongue, Tee wondered. "Where is he?"
"Going home — but remember, hatchling, you're nothing compared to him," hissed the wraith. "Nothing but a mistake!"
Tee was left alone with his thoughts, suddenly cold even under the quilt. What does he mean by a mistake?
Slanted shadows fell across the dungeon hallway in the waning light of the evening. Harry Potter shuffled out of one of the classrooms lining it in which he had just finished scrubbing a multitude of pewter cauldrons spotless with nothing but steel wool and elbow grease, with a cursory glance at the tangle of paths off to the right and leading down into the damp belly of the school, submerged completely under the lake.
Since the Theodore incident, he'd been wary. The Slytherins, or at least the pro-Umbridge Slytherins, seemed to have it out for him after he injured their precious little prince. He'd found earthworms in his scrambled eggs at breakfast, and a poisonous-looking salamander paddling about in his glass of pumpkin juice less than four hours ago. Fred and George had offered to drop fireworks down Nott's robes, which Percy had loudly vetoed.
Fireworks, besides, would not get rid of weedy little Nott being seen around corners and behind suits of armour, his beady eyes glimmering under his sharp eyebrows, the pale blue nearly swallowed by his enormous pupils.
He'd take Malfoy over Nott, any day. Nott had dedication. Brains.
Too busy thinking about Nott, Harry stepped forward and nearly tripped over something soft; he was rewarded with a furious yowl and a slash that miraculously didn't make it through the thick socks Hagrid had gifted him last year.
"Sorry, sorry!" he muttered, lifting his hands in surrender. "Look, at least I'm not Umbridge; she'll make you into a handbag if she sees you."
Hephaestus haughtily rejected the offer to sniff Harry's hand, and began grooming his whiskers while giving him an offended look.
"Fine, then. Stay here."
Nonetheless, the cat followed him all the way up the stairs to Gryffindor Tower.
"Long night in detention, dear?" asked the Fat Lady warmly.
"Yeah," said Harry shortly. "Same as usual. Waxing gibbous."
For a second, he panicked. Was that last fortnight's password?
The portrait hole swung open, and he climbed inside, Hephaestus scampering in after him.
Exhausted, he stumbled over to the nearest armchair and sunk deep into it; the warmth of the fire was soothing after hours in the damp, cold dungeon with Snape glaring at him.
"Cosy?" asked Ron, unwrapping a Chocolate Frog and offering Harry a second one.
"Very," he agreed, his glasses sliding down his nose as he watched the fire crackle. Harry turned his card over; it depicted a wizard with an unpleasant expression and an ogre-like green tinge; under his likeness, it read: Merwyn the Malicious, inventor of many a nasty jinx.
Ron made a pleased sort of noise. "Got Morgan le Fay," he said, holding the card up so Harry could see. "They don't do batches of Dark witches and wizards often."
"Want mine, then?" asked Harry. He was not an avid collector of Chocolate Frog Cards, unlike Ron.
"Meow," said Hephaestus, a struggling mouse between his delicate little black paws. The cat let it escape a few feet, then sprung on top of it, scraping at its feet with sharp claws, then nosing the top of its head just as the mouse started up a fearsome cacophony of squeaks.
"Oh, stop bloody playing with it and just eat," groused Ron. "I hate cats."
It's how they hunt in the wild, Ron, honestly! Harry imagined Hermione saying, but she wasn't here, and the common room was unusually quiet. We're all on edge.
They could all hear the Dementors howling outside, their bony fingers scrabbling at the walls.
We're sitting ducks. That's what we are.
Thinking suddenly of Lupin's Boggart, he said: "We've got to figure out how to make them leave."
"Make who leave?" asked Dean from the other end of the rug, where he was losing a game of Gobstones to Seamus and Neville.
"Dementors."
Ron let out a half-snort, half-choke in disbelief; Neville nearly fell over.
"Well, me mam told me about that one," said Seamus thoughtfully, rubbing his nose. "You've got to summon a guardian. Reckon Lupin could do it?"
"How many Dementors could one Patronus even chase off?" asked Ron. He jabbed a finger in the direction of the window. "We've got a serious problem out there! Unless every single one of us could summon one at the same time, we'd never have a chance! Let's face it! We're stuck here forever!"
The thought was chilling. Not one of them spoke.
Forever is a long time. A long time to never see anyone on the outside again.
Harry stared at his hands, imagined them jagged and sharp. "Maybe..."
"No," said Ron, horrified. "You can't take them on by yourself. Are you mental?"
"Someone has to!" said Harry. "What happens when they get a brick loose? What happens when they squeeze in through the cracks and start eating us? No one's got an answer!" His voice had risen to a shout. "Have they?"
He was trembling. Other people had looked towards him to see the commotion, and turned away when they realised it was only crazy Harry Potter.
They weren't just going to go away. And he hated being trapped.
"Well," said Neville, fidgeting with a Gobstone, "we've got to find out how they left Azkaban in the first place. And how did the Ministry even tame them in the first place? Gran says they're natural allies of the dark and twisted."
Azkaban, the wizard prison. Harry shut his eyes, and the faces of Death Eaters swam behind them.
"Then they're with — with You-Know-Who!" Ron stammered out. "Think about it! Who's more dark and twisted? He's just like them!"
So the Dementors and Voldemort had some kind of understanding. It made sense, perfect sense. And if they were surrounding the school, under the sole command of Voldemort, he was the only one who could get to them.
Any minute now, he'll be at the door.
Just then, a deafening clap of thunder struck the sky; the whole castle rumbled and shook in the sudden storm. Cold, early March wind and rain sheeted against the windows.
It was one of the older students who rose first, stumbling to the window, for the first time in months, pulling the curtains back.
Surrounding them from all sides were the Dementors; humming in the air like a murder of crows, black and sharp and violent.
Something else tainted the dimming twilight sky. It sparkled in the heavens, a constellation of emerald stars wreathed in glittering green smoke like a dragon's breath over the village of Hogsmeade in the distance.
The skull stretched larger across the sky than any constellation Professor Sinistra had ever pointed out to him on clear nights atop the Astronomy Tower. No constellation Harry knew had a snake slithering out of his mouth, even more vast than the basilisk, coiling above the school like a python squeezing its prey...
Everyone gaped at it in utter silence.
Now would be a good time, Dumbledore, thought Harry, saying nothing, too, his fists clenched at his sides and stomach turning cartwheels, only staring out at the foreboding image of the Dark Mark.
"But what does he want with us?" asked Dean.
Not us. Me.