Harry Potter and the Years of Rebellion

Chapter Eleven

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME

Dumbledore frowned.  There was no sign of a twinkle in his eye.  “I have been with the Board of Governors since the morning.”

He looked tired, and Harry thought that he looked old. He'd never thought of Dumbledore as old, not really. His blue robes seemed a bit too large for his frame, his hands seemed gnarled, and he seemed to lean into his ornate walking stick. 

As they began to walk slowly into the garden, Dumbledore flicked his wand to and fro; Harry watched with great interest.  The background din from the Weasley's guests disappeared.

“Perhaps we should dispense with your questions first,” Dumbledore suggested. “You still harbour concerns about what Professor Snape and I did or did not know in regard to Sirius fifteen years ago.”

“'Dispense', is it?  You think this is a trifle?” Harry snapped.

Dumbledore stopped walking.  “Must it be this way, Harry?  Must we fight each time that we converse?  I grow weary of it.”

Harry refused to look at him.  “I'm weary of the lies,” he said softly.

“What lies do you believe that you have been told?” asked Dumbledore

Harry spun to face him, prepared to shout.  He saw pain and regret in Dumbledore's eyes and on his face.  He saw an old man, slowly withering away.  He knew Dumbledore had bent the rules for him, had risked for him, and had supported him.  Harry saw imperfection, but he also saw love.  He wanted so badly to rage.  Instead he cried.  Dumbledore embraced Harry, his cloak billowing out to nearly wrap around both of them.  Harry's arms hung limply at his sides as he wept.

Harry slowly became aware of three-dozen pairs of eyes staring.  He stiffened, and the tears stopped flowing.  The anger found him, and he was overtaken.

Still in the embrace, he pounded his fists against Dumbledore's chest.  “How could you let him rot in that place for - twelve - years?” Harry seethed.  He roughly pushed away and stood firm, his fists clenched.

Dumbledore stared at him, and very slowly let out his breath.  After an uncomfortably long pause, he asked calmly, “Why was Sirius sent to Azkaban, Harry?”

“He didn't betray my parents!  He didn't!” Harry shouted.

“You are correct; he did not betray your parents,” Dumbledore acknowledged before asking again, “Why was Sirius sent to Azkaban?”

Harry thought for a moment, and then said firmly, “He didn't kill Wormtail, and he didn't kill those Muggles - Wormtail did.”

“Harry, I am going to describe a hypothetical situation,” Dumbledore said.  “I would like you to listen carefully.  When I am finished, I would like you to explain how you would deal with the situation.  Will you allow me that much?”

Harry nodded, his arms crossed.

“Very well,” Dumbledore began.  “Suppose for a moment that your friends Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger were in grave danger from Voldemort … is something wrong?”

“I'm not sure that `Ron' and `friend' belongs in the same sentence,” Harry fumed.

“I fervently hope you do not mean that, Harry,” Dumbledore said.  “In any case, I am only using names to make a point.  May I continue?”

When Harry again nodded, Dumbledore continued, “As I was saying, Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger are in great danger from Voldemort.  It is necessary for them to go into hiding.  You believe that… Neville Longbottom is their secret keeper.  You do not know that they have changed secret keepers from Mr. Longbottom to… Dean Thomas. Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger are subsequently found out and killed. Mr. Longbottom finds out what happened.  He attempts to involve himself in the aftermath, and then briefly disappears.  When he reappears, it is in a public confrontation with Mr. Thomas.  It appears that Mr. Longbottom murders Mr. Thomas and a dozen innocent Muggles in the process.  What would you conclude, Harry? What would you do?”

“But Neville wasn't the secret-keeper,” Harry protested.  “Shouldn't that make a difference?”

“You do not know that this was the case, and Mr. Longbottom is not particularly helpful in his own defence,” Dumbledore added.  “Furthermore, you are told plainly by the authorities not to interfere, and veiled threats are made against a dozen surviving friends.  In the end, Mr. Longbottom is not charged with regard to the deaths of Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger. He is convicted of killing Mr. Thomas and the Muggles, and the evidence points strongly to that fact.”

“You could have stood up for him. He didn't even have a trial,” Harry said quietly.

Dumbledore acknowledged, “There were terrible abuses, at the end - retributions, lies, calumny… it was nearly as dark as the War itself, in some respects.”

“Why didn't you become Minister, after Voldemort disappeared?” Harry asked.

Dumbledore said, “Because of the prophecy, I felt that I needed to remain at Hogwarts.”

“You could have been the Minister for ten years,” Harry offered.  “You could have stopped… you could have required trials.  You could have done so much.”

“The Board of Governors would not have welcomed my return to Hogwarts,” Dumbledore pointed out.

“You would have been a good Minister.  They would have let you return,” Harry insisted.

“You should not assume that the Board conducts itself honourably.  In any case, what is done is done,” Dumbledore sighed.  “I am nearly ten times your age, Harry.  I lost count of my regrets long ago.  Let us return to my scenario, Harry.  What would you do?”

Harry hesitated.  “I think… I suppose that… Merlin!  I don't know!  Right, let's assume this isn't real - that should make it easier.  Wait - this is a `greater good' problem, isn't it?”

“What do you mean?” Dumbledore asked.

“Hermione was telling us once about a book she'd read - no surprise there,” Harry explained.  “It was about balancing the good of the individual against the greater good.  Your best friend is in the path of the Killing Curse, next to twenty people who are about to be crushed by a boulder - whom do you save?  Your scenario boils down to that, doesn't it? You could have fought for Sirius, but there was no chance you could succeed and others would have been hurt along the way.”

Dumbledore smiled slightly, and the familiar twinkle flashed in his eyes for a moment.  “Very well - using your scenario, whom do you save?”

“Deflect the boulder, and then jump in front of the curse,” Harry said.  “You save everyone.”

Dumbledore's smile faded.  “I see.  Did you share that solution with Miss Granger?”

Harry searched his recollection.  “I did,” he reported.

“What was her reaction?” Dumbledore asked him.

“Funny, I never gave it a thought at the time…” Harry began.

Dumbledore looked at him, puzzled, and Harry completed his thought.  “She said `almost everyone', and ran out of the common room.”

Dumbledore nodded.  “I was thinking much the same thing.  Your solution saves everyone but yourself.”

Harry frowned.  “I've had enough of this.  Look, I can't blame you for letting Sirius go to Azkaban.  I want to blame you… I want to blame someone, anyone.”

Dumbledore said, “After he was sent to Azkaban, I decided that Sirius was the last casualty of the War.  Despite subsequent events, that remains true.”  He added gently, “I remain troubled by your solution.”

“Why?” Harry asked.

“You make no allowance for yourself,” Dumbledore said.

“When has that mattered before?  I'm not supposed to do that, am I?” Harry fumed.

Dumbledore tried to stop him.  “Harry -”

 “You appear to like scenarios - here's a cracking one,” Harry raged.  “A schoolboy faces off against, what, the worst dark wizard in a century?  There are two alternatives, aren't there?  He wins, or I take him with me.”

“There is a third alternative, unquestionably,” Dumbledore insisted, “and you won't be a schoolboy.  You'll be a fully trained and well prepared wizard.”

“Do you know something I don't?” Harry asked with acid in his voice.  “Do you honestly believe he'll wait two years?”

Dumbledore reached out and clasped Harry's right hand with his own.  Harry resisted, but was surprised by the power of his grip.  “I cannot say how long it will be before you confront him.  I can promise that you will be fully trained, no matter what happens.”

Harry thought about what Dumbledore said. “What do you mean, `no matter what happens'?” he asked.

“As I said, Harry, the Board of Governors does not always conduct itself honourably,” Dumbledore answered. With his free hand, Dumbledore pulled two letters from his cloak.  “The first provides your OWL scores.  You performed very well.  The second is from the Board of Governors.  Harry, they have placed you on probation. I consider it a terribly inappropriate decision on their part, of course. In the event that this situation worsens for any reason, I do have a -”

Harry froze, and the world stopped.  Dumbledore's voice echoed in his frozen ears, but he was unable to speak or even blink in response.  The only thing he could feel was the rapid pounding of his heart.

Motion returned abruptly.  He seized the letters, let the first fall to the ground, and tore open the second.  He scanned the contents, taking in only bits and pieces.

 

… repeated instances in which you have endangered the lives of your fellow students …

…while not always of your own volition, the Governors cannot overlook …

… heroism is creditable, but does not outweigh the responsibility of the Governors and the Headmaster to all of our students and staff…

…Therefore, the Board of Governors orders the Headmaster to place you on probation, effective immediately …

Harry dropped the letter from the Board.

“This was planned - of that I have no doubt,” Dumbledore said.  “There were clearly Galleons behind this, and I am certain that the same Galleons lay behind the decision to restore Sirius' legal and property rights.”

“I don't understand,” Harry said.

Dumbledore explained, “Both the restoration of Sirius' rights and the decision to place you on probation took place with very little reasoned consideration, and both took place in the hands of persons with certain interests in…”

“I can't… I can't handle this right now. I've had enough.  I'm leaving.”  Harry wrested his hand away from Dumbledore, and bumped into an invisible barrier.  It dawned on Harry that Dumbledore had cast more than a silencing charm at the outset.  He glared at Dumbledore, and then shouted Finite incantatum!  There was a small flash, and Harry kept walking.

Dumbledore's eyes widened slightly.  “Harry, where is your wand?”

“In my back pocket…” Harry's voice trailed off.

“Your wand was not used to destroy the Dursley's cellar.  You were on the telephone with Miss Granger immediately preceding her frightening episode, were you not?” Dumbledore stroked his beard thoughtfully.  “The Ministry misunderstands your so-called `control problem'.  We must discuss this -”

“I'm leaving,” Harry said.

“Harry, please -”

“Do you think you can stop me?” Harry asked coldly.

“The action of the Board of Governors is only a modest disruption. I am simply trying to keep you well informed -” Dumbledore called after him. 

Harry was already near the house.  He stopped, and yelled back, “Don't worry - I'll still do what I have to do!”  He rushed into the house past a bewildered Mrs. Weasley, and ran to the fireplace.  He found a small container of Floo powder on the mantle, and threw a pinch in the grate.  He thrust his head into the emerald flames, and yelled, “Number twelve, Grimmauld Place!”

He opened his eyes and looked out into the Drawing Room.  “Dobby!” he shouted.  “Dobby, are you there?”

Dobby came bounding into view.  “Harry Potter, sir!  Can Dobby help you?”

“Dobby, I want you to disconnect the house from the Floo Network and seal the doors.  No one besides me is to enter the house.  Do you understand?”

“But Harry Potter, sir -”

“Dobby, I don't have time for this.  Do you understand?”

“Dobby understands what Harry Potter wants, but does not understand why Harry Potter wants it done,” Dobby squeaked.

“Dobby, I just want you to do it,” Harry ordered. 

“It shall be done as you request,” Dobby said, and he bowed slightly.

Harry pulled his head from the fire, and nearly tripped over Hermione. 

“Why did you have Dobby seal up Grimmauld Place?  Why were you yelling at Professor Dumbledore?  What's happening?” she asked.

“I have to go,” he said flatly.

Hermione clutched at his arm.  “Harry, tell me what's happening,” she insisted.

“I'm leaving.  I've been put on probation at Hogwarts,” he said, looking toward the door.

She loosed her grip.  “Probation...?” she said blankly.  Ginny was a few feet away, and her jaw dropped.

Mrs. Weasley was standing in the doorway.  “Dumbledore's lost his mind!” she exclaimed.

“It was the Board of Governors,” Harry explained.  “Dumbledore thinks it was a set-up.  I don't care.  I'm leaving.”

“On that motorbike?  It's not safe,” Mrs. Weasley protested. 

“I'm no longer a child.  I appreciate your concern, but I'm leaving,” Harry said firmly.  When she could see clearly that Harry was willing to push her out of the way, Mrs. Weasley stepped aside.

Dumbledore was nowhere to be seen.  Mr. and Mrs. Granger walked briskly toward the house.  Harry fished for the motorbike in his jacket pocket.

“You said you were leaving.  You didn't say that you were going home,” Hermione said quietly from behind him.  Harry set the Bonneville on the ground and returned it to its normal size, without saying a word.

“Talk to me - please?” Hermione asked.  Harry enlarged the saddlebags and began to strap them to the seat. 

Mr. Granger held out pieces of parchment, and said awkwardly, “I, erm, believe you left these.”

“This is madness,” Mrs. Granger said, confirming for Harry that they had at least read the letter from the Board of Governors.

“Where are you going?” Mr. Granger asked.

“Back to London, I suppose,” Harry said.

Mr. Granger looked at him with concern.  “It's getting late.  Are you in a state to ride that distance?”

“I'll manage.”  Harry enlarged one of the helmets, and mounted the motorbike.

Hermione hesitated for a moment, and then hopped onto the Bonneville behind Harry.

He looked over his shoulder.  “Wha -”

“I'm not letting you leave here by yourself,” she said.

“Please get off,” Harry said politely.

“I agree!” Mrs. Granger added in a shrill voice.  Mr. Granger shot her a cross look.

“Mother, drop it.  Harry, you're not going anywhere without me,” Hermione decreed.

“Hermione!” Mrs. Granger exclaimed.

“Get off the bike,” Harry ordered.

“No,” Hermione insisted.

“You'll freeze in that shirt,” Harry protested.

“I don't care,” Hermione said.

“Get off or I'll remove you,” Harry warned her.

“You wouldn't dare,” she wagered.

Harry looked at Mr. Granger imploringly.  He didn't get what he'd hoped for in return.

“I know that you'll take no chances with Hermione riding pillion,” Mr. Granger said.  “She can direct you to our house.  We'll await you there.  I expect you'll travel at a reasonable speed, and make frequent stops.” Mrs. Granger protested with her posture, but said nothing.

It was clear to Harry that he was expected to acquiesce.  It was also clear that he would now be returning to London whether he wanted to or not.

“You'll need two helmets,” Mr. Granger reminded him, “and take this, would you?” Mr. Granger slipped off his light jumper and slipped it over Hermione's head against her mild fussing to the contrary.

“Perhaps Bill and Charlie should follow?” Mrs. Weasley offered.  “That might offer you a margin of protection.”

“We can defend ourselves, if the need arises,” Hermione said.  “I have faith in Harry.”

“Defend yourselves?” Mrs. Granger screeched. Mr. Granger said nothing.

“You insist on coming, then?” Harry asked once more.

Hermione nodded, and donned her helmet.

Shacklebolt, Lupin, Mr. Weasley, Mr. Tonks and Mr. Lovegood all appeared at the head of the path leading to the shed, as they headed toward the house.  Dumbledore suddenly appeared directly in front of the Bonneville.  The motorbike and its riders shot straight upward, and then raced northeast away from the Burrow.

Hermione clutched Harry tightly, crouching out of the wind. He let the Bonneville slow until it drifted high over the village, much higher than he had gone with her father. “You're shaking,” he said.

She shrieked, and nearly lost her grip on Harry. Once she regained her hold, she clung to him. “You didn't tell me that the helmets were charmed!” she cried.

Harry started to slip off his jacket. The Bonneville rocked from side to side as he pulled at the sleeves.

“What are you doing?” Hermione yelled. “Stop moving about!”

“I'm taking off my jacket, and we're only rocking a bit,” Harry said. “Can't you see what I'm doing?”

“I haven't opened my eyes since we took off,” Hermione snapped. “Why are you taking off your jacket? It's freezing!”

“I twiddled a warming charm earlier,” Harry admitted. “You need to warm up, and I'd rather not set you on fire.”

Harry turned, swinging his legs around until he was facing her. She protested through the entire manoeuvre, grabbing at his arms and torso and pulling at his shirtsleeves.

“Open your eyes,” Harry said.

“I can't,” Hermione insisted. “I might lose my balance and fall.”

“You're not clumsy, and I've never seen you become dizzy. Are you afraid of heights like your mother?” Harry asked.

She clutched his forearms, her eyes still squeezed shut. “Where did you hear that from?” Hermione wondered aloud.

“Your father told me,” Harry explained. “I'm guessing at the rest from your aversion to brooms and the way you're latching on to me.”

“I'm not afraid of heights,” Hermione said. “I'm fine in the Owlery, or the Astronomy Tower. I walked the steps at the Eiffel Tower. I've skied in Switzerland. What I'm afraid of is flying. Not just brooms - I don't care for airplanes, either.”

“You seemed fine riding with me on Buckbeak,” Harry recalled.

“That was a life-or-death situation,” Hermione reminded him. “I just put aside my fear.”

Harry said, “Just put aside your fear all the time, then. Everything with us is a life-or-death situation.”

“That's a comforting thought,” Hermione shivered.

Harry wrapped his jacket around her. “Just try opening your eyes. What if I need your help watching out for, I don't know, oncoming birds or something?”

She laughed. “You won't let go of me?”

“I'd never let you fall,” Harry promised.

Hermione scowled. “I know that! I still want you to hang on.”

“You're the one digging your fingers into me,” Harry pointed out. “I promise I won't pry off your hands - is that sufficient?”

“You don't have to be a prat,” Hermione protested. “What's so important about opening - oh!”

Hermione looked all around, delight instantly evident on her face even through the helmet shield. It was a crystal-clear night, with only a quarter-moon and a scattering of lights from the village casting a faint glow. From one horizon to the other, the sky exploded with stars.

She bubbled, “It's this dark at Hogwarts, but I don't believe I've ever seen it quite this clear. You can make out all the major constellations so easily - there's Scorpius, and Sagittarius, and… what?”

Harry shook his head. “Stop thinking for one minute, just one minute. Don't think - just look.”

“What's wrong with thinking?” Hermione protested. “I… fine, then. No thinking, just looking.” She flipped up the shield, and slowly took in the star field from east to west.

“What am I looking for?” she asked.

“You're a hopeless case, aren't you?” Harry said, exasperated. “How does it make you feel?”

“What, seeing the stars like this? I don't know - I've never considered it,” Hermione said.

“Don't consider it - just say something,” Harry insisted.

“It makes me feel small,” she decided, “and very glad that I'm not alone. You?”

“It makes me feel connected to something bigger, in a good way,” Harry said. “There are times that I sit in the dormitory window or up in the Owlery and watch the night sky, just to feel that.”

They fell silent for a time, and then Hermione whispered, “I like your answer better.” She leaned back to look directly overhead, and the aviator jacket slipped off her shoulders. She reached for it unsteadily, and Harry lunged at the same time. The Bonneville rocked, and the jacket tumbled off.

“Bollocks! Hang on!” Harry exclaimed, quickly swinging around. Hermione hadn't completely wrapped her arms around him before he pointed the motorbike straight down and gunned the throttle. She screamed and burrowed into him. He engaged the invisibility charm without warning her; he felt assured that nothing short of a bomb would dislodge her. Harry saw his target as surely as a Snitch. He pulled out of the dive no more than ten feet from the ground, snatching the jacket two feet above an elderly man walking along the village green.

“Blasted birds!” the man shouted at the air, shaking his fist.

“You can loose your hold a bit,” Harry gasped as they gently climbed away from Ottery St. Catchpole.

“Never - do - that - again!” Hermione shouted.

“Let up a little,” Harry suggested. Instead of releasing him, she wrapped her arms even more tightly around him. He could feel her helmet settle against the back of his shoulder. He thought about asking her once more to relax her hold on him, but she was keeping him warm and it felt pleasant. With one hand, he roughly rolled up the jacket and jammed it in front of him. He ended the invisibility charm, and took to the road.

Neither of them said a word until he stopped near Sedgemoor, at the Welcome Break off the M5. By then, he was cold and she was shivering fiercely. He bought her hot chocolate and stretched his legs. Before they left, he insisted that she wear the jacket and she didn't protest.

With Hermione ensconced in the jacket, Harry flew higher and faster. In about an hour, Harry returned to the motorway and exited at the Welcome Break near Swindon.

Harry reviewed the food options warily. “Are you familiar with any of this?” he asked Hermione. “I haven't eaten since this morning.”

“Most of it will make you feel full, at any rate,” she said. “Get one of these sandwiches… the soup is passable, and it's warm… and hot chocolate. You don't want the tea, trust me.”

Harry did as she said, and they found a table. “Are you certain that you don't want anything?” he asked.

She glanced around. “I do see one thing that looks interesting. Do you mind? I'm good for it, when we get to my house.”

He said, “I'm not worried. Here - this should cover it.”

Hermione looked at the 50-pound note. “I should say so,” she said. “I'll be back shortly.”

Harry wolfed down the sandwich and the soup, and his stomach was left growling but full.

Hermione said from behind him, “Happy birthday, Harry.” She walked around the table, holding out a plate with a large piece of cake. Two lit candles were stuck in the icing.

She set the plate in front of him. “It wasn't much of a birthday party, was it?” she said. “For that matter, this isn't exactly a splendid birthday cake.”

“I haven't had many of them,” Harry told her, “and Hagrid made the first - you can imagine what that was like. I think it's wonderful, but I don't understand why there are two candles, though. Don't the candles represent years - you know, sixteen candles for sixteen years?”

“Adults don't get a candle for every year - it would be impractical,” Hermione observed. “You'd need a bucket of water to douse Professor Dumbledore's cake.”

Harry chuckled at the image.

“Blow them out, then, and make a birthday wish,” Hermione instructed.

Harry looked at the cake blankly. “Pardon?”

“A birthday wish - that's the Muggle… erm, I mean, the folklore behind candles on birthday cakes. When you blow out your candles, you're supposed to make a wish,” she explained.

Harry quickly blew out the candles, and plucked them from the cake. “Would you like some?” he asked, proffering a fork.

“No, thank you,” she said. “What did you wish?”

“Im dursnt muddr kurz ins wohn habbin,” Harry muttered through a mouth full of cake. Hermione rolled her eyes.

“Sorry,” Harry said. “It doesn't matter because it won't happen.”

“You shouldn't waste a wish,” Hermione said. “I'll help make it happen, if I can.”

Harry choked on a second mouthful of cake. Between fits of coughing, he managed, “I won't let you.”

Hermione lit into him. “Stop talking in riddles, Harry! What happened to you this summer? What are you hiding from me?”

“What about you?” Harry asked. “You didn't tell me that you're still injured from the Ministry. I had to hear it from Shacklebolt.”

She shook her head. “I'm just a little sore from time to time. It was a deep wound, as it turned out. Don't avoid my questions.” Harry said nothing, and impassively ate his birthday cake.

Hermione pleaded, “Tell me what you're thinking - please?”

Harry stacked his plates, bowl and cup on a plastic tray. “You know what I'm thinking?” he asked. “I'm thinking `happy birthday to me'. Happy bloody birthday! We should move along. Your parents will worry.”

“My father's expecting us to keep at motorway speeds and stop regularly. We've plenty of time,” Hermione insisted.

“Your mother's probably expecting that I'll keep over 100, never stop, and spirit you away somewhere before taking you home,” Harry fumed.

“That's an excellent suggestion,” Hermione said, in the tone she used when she knew that she had the upper hand. “We're going to Grimmauld Place first. You're going to talk to me, Harry. You're going to talk to me, or I'll stay in your house all night and let you explain that to my parents in the morning.”