Author's Notes: See previous chapter notes for complete details. This fic should be considered an AU. I still own nothing. In response to my reviews from Cheddercheesepie2000, I wanted to make a couple things clear. Zulu is a military slang word meaning GMT. If it's 1200 zulu, it's 12:00 GMT. In the summer months (until the last week of October) the UK is GMT+1, after which it switches back to GMT. Japan is GMT+9. Hogwarts is in Scotland, not England. Also, Mega Man X indeed takes place in the 22nd century. It is Mega Man Legends that takes place in the 2700s. That's all for now. Again, thanks to Amber for beta-reading. Enjoy.
September 1, 1995
2000 Zulu (2100 Local Time)
Hogsmeade Station
Minerva McGonagall wasn't the type of person to easily admit to loosing control of a situation. It wasn't in her nature to show weakness or uncertainty. She had learned during the first uprising of Voldemort that to entertain either trait could be deadly. As the gouged and somber Hogwarts Express rolled into Hogsmeade station, however, there was no part of her remotely reluctant to admit that she had failed. She and Poppy Pomfrey had been the only two staff members on the train, and it wasn't the doctor's responsibility to keep everyone, especially Harry Potter, safe. It had been the first time in many years she had ridden with the students, as opposed to arriving early so that she could be in place in time for the Sorting, but she had to admit that she had been pleased with the thought of it. Though she would never allow herself to show it, she greatly enjoyed being amongst the students, watching them in their natural, non-stressed state. She suddenly thought of Malfoy, and her eyes narrowed. Well, most of them, at any rate.
As she watched the frightened and confused students filing off the train, she did her best to look at their current situation logically, but it was difficult. First years filed past her, seen but not watched, making their way to Hagrid. The huge groundskeeper was nervously ushering them on to the small fleet of boats, obviously anxious to get them to the castle. His crossbow was in plain sight on his belt. He was making badly veiled attempts to look through the droves of older students, and she had no doubts as to who the half-giant was searching for. A pang of guilt shot through her. He doesn't know. He wouldn't be nearly so composed if he did. And she wouldn't be either, just as soon as she could lock herself away in her quarters, free from the gaze of those who would be alarmed to see anything but their controlled and calm Transfigurations teacher. It had taken a supreme effort of will to pull herself together after she left George and his siblings, but she had done it by the time she made it to the train's miniature owlery, though she would never be sure how. She knew Dumbledore would have gotten her letter several hours ago and there was no doubt in her mind that he would already have a plan of some sort in place. She watched Hagrid lift a first year girl who was limping slightly into one of the boats. When's he planning to tell them? Surely not after the Sorting. But she understood the rationale for keeping Hagrid in the dark - for now, at least. She knew his sentimentality and temper quite well, and no student needed to see either right now. Every student that passed her was in deep conversation, trying to figure out exactly what had happened on the train. Someone would have to tell them something, soon. No, even that wasn't right. It would have to be tonight. To stall was to invite panic and mass confusion. The news that Harry Potter and Hermione Granger were missing and probably dead was spreading fast, but with no solid facts to back it up. It was a miracle, really, that she and Poppy managed to keep pure pandemonium from breaking out during the journey.
It had been a simple matter to instruct all the prefects and the Head Boy and Girl to ensure that order was maintained. They patrolled the train, making sure no one attempted to leave their compartment unless it was an absolute emergency. Gryffindor was, of course, short one prefect and the other was preoccupied, but all things considered, things went pretty well. Poppy, cursing furiously enough to make Minerva truly fear for Fred Weasley's survival, charmed him onto a stretcher and moved him to the front of the train, where she could work on him in a calmer environment. The remaining Weasleys were taken to the staff's compartment, where they could be insulated from the prying questions of their peers. When the train arrived, they were all unloaded and escorted to Poppy's before anyone else was allowed to disembark. Indeed, Hagrid hadn't even arrived at that point, obviously delayed by Dumbledore. And perhaps that was for the better. Last time she had seen Ginny Weasley, the girl had yet to compose herself, and her brothers weren't much better off…
It still amazed her that almost no one besides those involved in the incident even seemed to be considering there might have been a Death Eater on the train - yes, this was all a tragic accident of some sort, if the prevailing rumor was to be believed. (How there could be a prevailing rumor this soon, she didn't know.) After all, accepting the return of skilled and purposeful agents of Voldemort meant acknowledging the return of the Dark Lord himself, and she doubted, despite the Headmaster's words the previous year, that there were many people who were truly ready to do that. But she was one of them. She trusted Albus Dumbledore, would follow him to hell itself if necessary. And thanks to the actions of one man on this, the first day of September, it just might be soon enough.
Peter Pettigew. For Minerva McGonagall, the name evoked a mixture of burning anger (she would never admit to hatred of any man) and as of two years ago, shame. Up until Harry Potter's third year she had always believed with absolute certainty that Sirius Black, in a penultimate act of betrayal, had given Voldemort the Potters' location and murdered poor, innocent, naïve Peter, along with a number of defenseless Muggles. It was so easy to condemn him - Peter's rouse had been that complete, that believable. But she had been wrong - they all had - and an innocent man spent the prime of his life in Azkaban. Harry Potter was robbed of his godfather. Once Minerva learned the truth, she knew shame like she'd never felt before, along with a fair amount of guilt and all those other emotions that haunt the misdirected innocent. Peter, the cowardly, sniveling bastard, became the focus of all the fury and loathing she'd once reserved for the other, more capable former Marauder. For a precious little while, it seemed as if things were on the road to becoming the way they should be.
But Wormtail - it really was a far more fitting name for him, Minerva thought dourly - once again showed his true colors to the Wizarding world. He robbed them all of hope, and stole two innocent children's lives. He was a wretched man, and she suddenly found herself hoping he would soon burn in the fiery pits of hell. She quickly pushed the thought out of her mind … vengeance was not a proper motivator for a member of the Order. She silently left the platform and entered a small office not far from the tracks. She would floo to Dumbledore's office. There was much work to be done before any of them could sleep.
Assuming any of them would be able to.
Failure.
All things considered, it really wasn't something Albus Dumbledore felt like he was good at. Oh, he knew better than to buy into the impression people had of him as omnipotent uber-wizard, but he was of the opinion that there was no such thing as the unsalvageable situation. Or, at least he had been, until Marvin the owl came bursting through his window. Then, it had begun.
He had known something was very wrong the minute he saw the large, gold-breasted bird. Minerva would have only sent him something from the train if she had a real problem, something she couldn't handle on her own. His first thought was Voldemort, of course, but the optimist in him surged forth and told him not to jump to any extreme conclusions.
And so, with an air of practiced calm, the Headmaster of Hogwarts sat up in the chair behind his ancient desk, and pulled a small roll of parchment from Marvin's leg. Whatever the message was, it was short. The owl hooted, pleased, and didn't even wait for a treat before blasting back out the window, likely intending to return to the Express. It occurred to Dumbledore that Marvin must be an exceptionally fit owl. He unfolded the letter, pushed his glasses up on his nose, and steeling himself, began to read.
Albus,
Our worst fear has come to pass. The train has been attacked by a man Ronald Weasley identified as Peter Pettigrew. A battle of some sort ensued - I cannot yet say exactly what happened. The only witnesses are all currently in extreme distress, so details have been few and slow in coming. I do know that Pettigrew somehow entered into a compartment containing Mr. Potter, Miss Granger, and the Weasleys. He sealed himself inside. By the time I arrived he had escaped, but not before doing severe damage to the Express and badly wounding Fred Weasley. His purpose, apparently, was to attempt to assassinate Mr. Potter. Harry fought back with the aid of Miss Granger.
Albus, they've been murdered.
Minerva
Dumbledore'sDumbledore'sDumblefore's hands were shaking so badly by the time he finished the short letter that he
could barely make out Minerva's signature. For thirty full seconds, his mind seemed to stall. He couldn't form
a single useful thought. In the back of his mind, he knew what this meant. He didn't want to believe it - it
didn't make sense. If the prophecy was to be believed, only Tom could kill Harry. He had always believed that meant
one of them would slay the other in combat, but had he been too literal? After all, Pettigrew was Voldemort's
servant, but any plan or method to murder Harry would have come from and been organized by Voldemort himself. But
either way, Harry was gone. He had failed, not only as Headmaster of Hogwarts and leader of the Order of the Phoenix.
He had failed James and Lily.
He locked his door then, and cried. Not because he now wondered just how they were supposed to truly and completely defeat Tom Riddle, though the thought was already assembling in his quick mind. Nor did he weep for the foolishness of the Ministry of Magic, which arguably contributed to this tragedy through its own collective ignorance of the truth. Indeed, from a purely emotionless, logical point of view, things were now horribly bleak for magical people everywhere. Their champion had been robbed from them before the war even began.
But Albus Dumbledore was very well attuned to his emotions, and had no problem displaying them when it was appropriate (and sometimes when it wasn't). All those things were indeed unfortunate and damning, but they weren't the issues filling his mind and heart at that moment. He wept for two innocent children he had failed to protect, for two parents robbed of their daughter on a madman's whim, an aunt and uncle who would never have the opportunity to reconcile their relationship with their nephew, and a pack of siblings forced to watch their best friends murdered before their eyes. It was always the victims, never the circumstances, that [the] affected him the most.
After several minutes, he sighed deeply, willing the tears to stop flowing, for now. There was no bringing back the dead, as he had told Sirius mere months before. Sirius. The mere thought of him sent a chill down Dumbledore's spine. He would have to be told. As much as Dumbledore hated to admit it, Black was the closest thing Harry had to a real, caring father. The trick would be keeping him from storming off in a rage and getting himself Demented. He would have to be … forceful … in his reminders that the Ministry had yet to clear him. And besides, I doubt we'll need to worry about Fudge sending Dementors after anyone soon enough. For the time being, there was work to be done. He wouldn't tell the staff yet, not until he had more complete information, and that meant waiting for Minerva to arrive. He hoped she was keeping things as calm and orderly as possible, and then scolded himself for even thinking she might not be. There was no stopping a determined Minerva McGonagall. He knew that. It was this little bit of knowledge that allowed him to safely assume that she had been forcefully prevented from entering the battle before Pettigrew was good and finished. Overwhelming Harry and Hermione, as clever and powerful as they both were, was nothing close to being able to take on an incensed McGonagall.
It occurred to him that she would be thinking her own, more modest version of those same thoughts, and coming to a similar conclusion. He would have to make sure she wasn't being too hard on herself. But that would have to wait until the train got to Hogsmeade. Right now he had work to do. The pupils on the Hogwarts Express would be confused and frightened, looking for answers. And he would give them some, just as soon as he and his staff had sorted out their current situation. Severus has volunteered to conduct the Sorting tonight, but I will need to speak with him beforehand, to get any information he might have. I wonder, could Tom suspect his true allegiance? Is that why he didn't know about any of this? Or did he simply want to keep them in the dark so that he could surprise and astound them with his power? Did he mean to intimidate them into continued loyalty? It didn't really matter, he knew. The point was that Harry and Hermione were dead. His mind kept trying to wander, to skirt around the issue, but he couldn't allow that. There needed to be no more mistakes today.
"Very well," he said finally. Fawkes turned in his perch to look at his master, immediately alarmed by his change in mood. The benign twinkle in his eyes was gone. Every wrinkle in his face looked deeper than it had mere moments before. Dumbledore turned to him, and managed a thin smile. "It would seem I have failed, old friend. I fear this is a blow we may never completely recover from, but we must try nonetheless." He would need to consider this evening's events, and what to tell the staff in the interim before he spoke to Minerva. He drew a piece of parchment from a drawer and began to write. His script was sweeping and smooth, completely masking the turmoil of his mind.
Minerva has just informed me through Marvin that there has been a Death Eater attack on the train. The perpetrator escaped, but not before inflicting a number of casualties. I do not have full details at this time, so I will not attempt to speculate on what exactly has happened. I will be meeting with her immediately after her arrival in Hogsmeade. As soon as that meeting is adjourned, I will request your presence in my office. We will have much to discuss. I trust that the prefects and Head Boy and Girl will be able to oversee the conclusion of the feast in your absence.
The students will have to be informed - I look for them to be in great disarray upon their arrival. Professor Snape will conduct the Sorting Ceremony as previously planned.
The feast will be held after The Sorting. This should give us at least an hour or two to discuss today's events and plan our next course of action. We will make the necessary announcements after the children are done eating. We will adjust this schedule if and as necessary.
Though I hate to quantify the value of one person's life compared to another's, I will leave you with this: Last year's tragedy was simply a prelude. Today, it has begun.
Albus Dumbledore
He carefully folded parchment into a simple glider, and tapped it with his wand, whispering a simple duplicating spell. When he was done, he was looking at a number of neatly lined up little paper airplanes, one for each teacher, Sir Nicolas, Argus Filch, and Dobby, the house elf. Oh, some of them aren't going to like him being there, he thought lazily. But it was necessary, just as it was necessary to have a representative of the local ghosts present. He would not have rumors flooding the school, and that meant informing the humans as well as the elves and those that had yet to completely sever their ties with the earth.
The Order of the Phoenix. They would have to be informed as soon as possible. This changed everything. But that meant telling Harry's godfather before all the details were known. He preferred to tell Sirius alone, especially considering most of his staff still considered the man a fugitive mass-murderer. Telling him in complete privacy meant getting him away from his current place of residence. He would have to bring the shape-shifter to Hogwarts before the train arrived. He looked at a small clock on his desk - he still had several hours. He waved his wand over the fleet of gliders and watched them zoom out a nearby window. He rose quickly, seizing a pouch of Floo powder and heading for his fireplace, ignoring the curious inquiries of the portrait-people. Within minutes, he would be in London.
"Hogwarts Castle, Office of the Headmaster." Minerva closed her eyes as she was spun through the Floo Network. This was never one of her favorite activities, and as weak as her stomach already was - well, she was almost happy when she found herself standing in Dumbledore's office. The portraits in the room seemed to be muttering amongst themselves, but stopped abruptly once she was on her feet. Dumbledore was seated behind his desk, hands folded serenely in his lap. Once she made eye contact with him, it took all her willpower not to break out in tears again. She had seen him look stressed before, had been close enough to him in the last war to see him terribly saddened, but never once, in all the decades she had known him, had she ever been able to see even a trace of defeat in his eyes. She had the strangest urge to suddenly turn around, throw some powder into the fire, and order it to take her somewhere very far away, but she stood her ground. "Hello, Albus." When had her voice gotten so hoarse? Damn.
"Minerva," he whispered, and the Deputy Headmistress had to strain to hear him. Not a good sign. When he spoke again, he had regained some control over his voice. "Please sit down."
She moved to the front of his desk, and took a seat in a dragon hide chair. It was soft, and she let herself relax into it, suddenly feeling very tired. "Oh, Albus … it was horrible …"
"Did they suffer?"
The tone was low, the voice hoarse enough to rival her own. Dumbledore hadn't moved. Minerva started. Who said that? She turned towards the sound and, looking behind her, realized for the first time they weren't alone in the room. Standing near a window, hidden in shadow, was Sirius Black. He stepped forward.
For the second time that day, a piece of her heart shattered. Sirius had been a gaunt man ever since his escape from Azkaban. The place had turned his skin sallow and robbed the youth from his face. But she had been pleased to see, despite his harsh living conditions during the past year, some of what was taken from him returning. The mark of Azkaban would forever be upon him, but he had learned how to smile again (and not just when he was about to attempt to kill a traitorous Marauder). He didn't do it very often - the truth was, he hated the restrictions on his movements and activity his fugitive status required. But every once in a while, if you caught him at just the right moment, his eyes would twinkle; a faint afterimage of his stolen life. Looking at him now, she wondered if this was the face Harry had seen in the Shrieking Shack. He looked ready to kill in cold blood, lapse into tears, and go on a bloody rampage all at once. But he exerted remarkable self control, and as he walked towards the seat Dumbledore indicated, Minerva could make out tear tracts running down his hollowed cheeks. He deserved an answer. The one she had for him, as far as she was concerned, was far from adequate.
"I … don't know, Sirius. George Weasley burst into my compartment, yelling about a madman who appeared in his compartment and cast an Unforgivable on Mr. Potter, the Torturing Curse. I followed him back at once, and found the door sealed. By the time I got in," she reached into her robes, and laid Harry's glasses on the headmaster's desk a moment later with a shaking hand, "this was all that was left. Ron Weasley was the only one coherent enough to tell me anything, and all I got out of him was that they were … murdered … in the compartment. There was a large hole in one of the walls. At first, I thought Pettigrew had thrown them from the train, but it was apparently made in an attempt to throw Ginny to her death. That prevented Ron from joining the battle, as he had to keep her from falling, but he saw everything." She wanted to crawl under something and die - how was it that she could be so clinical? Had the first war with the Dark Lord really hardened her that much?
"I'm going to kill the bastard." No anger. No tremulous sorrow. Just a statement of fact. His expression remained serene. In that one instant, she was more afraid of Sirius Black than she had been when she thought he was Voldemort's closest lieutenant.
She waited for Dumbledore to rebuke him, to scold him against brash action, but when his response came, she was less than soothed. "Be patient, Sirius. His time will come." She was shocked, and turned her head to look at the ancient wizard. She finally saw the fury blazing behind his eyes.
I'm in a room full of people out for blood. This would be a problem if I wasn't one of them, she thought darkly. Sirius broke her train of thought when he spoke again.
"This is my fault." All eyes turned to look at Sirius. Dumbledore started to interrupt him, but he was cut off. "James and Lily died because I trusted Peter … the rat's still alive because I let Harry, in all his glorious moral correctness, talk me out of killing him. God, I should have struck him down. Now he's … killed Harry." Fresh tears started to flow, and his voice wavered, but he continued on. "And Hermione … poor girl. I know she would have stayed right next to Harry till the end. I can see it as clearly as if I'd been there. He would have ordered her to run, because he's too damned noble, then she would have refused, and stayed right there with him to get slaughtered. And I'm the reason that bastard was even there. I made it possible for Voldemort to kill Harry and take Hermione from her parents … God …"
"None of this is your fault, Sirius," Dumbledore said quietly.
The man known to some as Padfoot actually smiled. It was thin and sardonic, but it was there. "Fault and responsibility are two different things, Professor."
Minerva frowned. Well, technically, the scowl that was already on her face deepened by a few orders of magnitude. This conversation was going somewhere it really didn't need to be. "There are things we must consider before tonight's staff meeting. For example, when and how to inform Hermione's parents and Harry's -"
"Swine," Sirius grumbled. Minerva managed to only look slightly surprised at the interruption.
Dumbledore looked indulgingly at the fugitive. "Sirius, I realize Harry's treatment at the Dursleys' has been less … than what I hoped it would be. But, nevertheless, they are his family, he is - was - their nephew. No good man would wish for the murder of his own relatives."
Some of the anger had left Sirius' face, but the despondency that flooded his features then wasn't that much better to look at it. "I sincerely hope you are right, but I fear you overestimate them, Dumbledore."
The ancient wizard steepled his fingers. The thought had crossed his mind, but he chose to push it back as being
completely foolish. No guardians could truly hate their own blood, could they? And here was Sirius Black, a man who he
had learned to trust again, clever if quick to anger, throwing it back in his face. "We shall see soon
enough," he said finally. "But before we can deal with any of that, we must know exactly what happened in
that compartment. We need to speak with a witness."
"Who have we got to choose from?"
"Ron or Ginny," Minerva said shortly. "Fred is in no shape to talk right now. Poppy said whatever hit him badly fractured his skull. She isn't sure how much of the attack he'll remember. George won't leave his side."
Dumbledore nodded. His eyes hadn't twinkled in their usual way since he received Minerva's letter, but now they got just a little bit darker. "Who, then, would you recommend we talk to?"
"Miss Weasley is in no shape to talk right now, Albus. She's been given a dreamless sleep potion, and Poppy expects her to be out until sometime late tomorrow."
"Well," Sirius whispered, "that simplifies that decision."
"Indeed." Dumbledore got to his feet. "If the two of you would excuse me for a moment, I shall attempt to pry him free of Poppy's grasp."
Sirius smiled that eerie sardonic smile again. Minerva was really beginning to hate it when he did that. "Need some backup?"
Once Dumbledore was out of the room, Minerva found herself alone with a silent, now brooding Sirius. She suddenly found herself admiring the man for not giving into the mixture of pain and rage so obviously surging within him. Still, she knew it would only be so long before he lost control again. She didn't want to be around when that happened. "Sirius," she began suddenly, feeling the instinctive need to speak, "I cannot begin to understand the anguish you're feeling right now, and I'm not going try to get you to absolve yourself of all responsibility here - that's obviously not something you are willing to do right now. But please, be careful. We cannot afford to lose anyone else, not now."
"I have no intention of dying," Sirius intoned, face serene. Before Minerva could take comfort in his words, he added, "I won't leave this planet until I've made that traitorous rat pay for his crimes."
"Then you're only interested in living for revenge, Sirius?"
The sardonic smile. How she wished he would stop that. "What have I got left? My duty as godfather? That's done with, unless you count my obligation to see Harry's killer dealt with. And really, though I will forever trust in Dumbledore and his decisions, playing bed and breakfast host for the Order of the Phoenix isn't something I really just love, as I'm sure you realize. If that damned picture starts up again when I get home, I think I'll just blast the wall out. I'm not in the mood to have her rejoicing over my godson's death at all hours. And Hermione, she'll be just thrilled about that too. So, yes, I want revenge. But I'll settle for justice."
Minerva produced a genuine smile, her first in hours. "I'm glad to see that, despite everything that's happened in your life, you still understand the difference."
"The line gets ever finer," he hissed back.
The older witch nodded. "As long as you can still see it, that's all that matters."
For several minutes, neither of them said anything. When Sirius turned to her again, his eyes were moist. "You know, it just occurred to me that I won't even be able to go to his funeral. I'm still Sirius Black, man of doom. At the very best, I would be able to sneak onto the grounds as Padfoot, but it just occurred to me that Fudge is still in charge - the paranoid fool. He's likely to have the Aurors start throwing detransformation wards up everywhere, especially where there will be innocent, defenseless children: Hogwarts, Hogsmeade, Harry and Hermione's funerals … not a bad idea, really, but damned inconvenient." He trailed off, and Minerva suddenly found herself feeling a great deal of pity for the man. Try as she might, she couldn't find a single logical flaw in his theory.
"Perhaps we'll get lucky."
"Oh, yes, and Fudge will soon appear in this office asking for forgiveness and brandishing make-up crumpets."
Minerva couldn't stifle a dark giggle at the proffered mental image. "I admire Dumbledore for that," she said after a pause.
Sirius raised an eyebrow. "For what?"
"So easily resisting the urge to hex the man into a stylish wooden chair."
The bark-like laugh filled her ears. That was better. "He'd certainly be more useful that way."
"Indeed."
"Ron and his siblings will want to write their parents tonight," Sirius said suddenly, as though the idea had just occurred to him. "I doubt they'll want to wait until the Order's been informed. Though I'm not sure it would be good for the majority of them to hear the news the first time from Gryffindor's surviving prefect."
"And they shall not. I'm assuming Dumbledore plans to break the news to them tonight, when he … escorts you back to the manor. We will probably wait and inform their parents and … guardians tomorrow morning, though I cannot say for certain what Albus will want to do." She blanched, not catching herself until well after it was too late. Bracing herself, she waited for the small explosion that would come at the mention of his "captivity," as he sometimes called it. Sirius caught the expression, and somehow produced a smirk. "Don't worry. Right now, fuming about my living arrangements is the farthest thing from my mind." He cast a glance at the door. "Do you think he'll be alright? You know him much better than I do."
Albus. Not even I know what goes on inside his head. "I don't know. This is going to be harder on him than either of us can imagine." She drew in a calming breath. "But he will survive. We all will." Sirius nodded solemnly. It was, all things considered, the most reassuring answer he could hope to get.
A moment later, the door swung open, and to both Gryffindors' surprise, three people entered. Dumbledore, with his flowing silver beard and half-moon glasses, was the most prominent of the trio. His expression was largely unchanged from when they had seen him last, though unless Minerva was very much mistaken, she saw a hint of annoyance in his eyes. She chanced a look at Sirius, his raised eyebrows and slightly alarmed expression seemingly indicated that he had noticed the same thing.
She held that opinion for a half second, until a synapse fired and she recognized the unannounced new arrival as Poppy Pomfrey. She was gaping open mouthed at Sirius, apparently lost for words. Surprise, fear, and confusion all flashed across her face in rapid succession. Sirius began to tense, but relaxed a little when he realized her hands were flexing nervously. He looked at Dumbledore - who was currently holding a wand that was not his own - and breathed a sigh of relief. Being attacked by the matron right now might have led to him doing very bad things. Another half second passed, and then the mediwitch was shouting.
"Sirius Black! What? How? What do you have to do with this?" The accusation in her tone couldn't have been clearer.
All of the calm and self-control he had been working so hard to maintain shattered. He had his wand in his pocket, and for an instant, he felt an almost irresistible urge to rip it out and curse her into the next room. But he stayed his hand. He was better than that. He had to be better than that. Still, that didn't do much to dispel the anger building in him. He could feel his nails biting into his palms, and somewhere in the back of his mind a little voice suggested he let up before he made himself bleed. He rose, and turned to face Poppy. His fists fell to his sides, clenched. "What exactly are you accusing me of, madam?"
"You … you -" Poppy was slipping into a fury now. "You betrayed them. You might as well have killed them yourself!"
Minerva flashed an almost-alarmed look at Dumbledore. Why the hell didn't he tell her about Sirius before they got here? The question answered itself almost before she had completed the thought. Poppy would have exploded either way, and it was better that she do it in the magically sound-proofed Headmaster's office. They'd been back in the room for maybe fifty seconds, and things were spiraling out of control. The older wizard looked calm, if not highly annoyed, and cleared his throat to speak.
But someone else beat him to it. "Stop it." And for once in his life, everything else was abandoned, and all attention settled on Ron Weasley. He looked nothing like the happy young man that had embraced Harry mere hours before. He was pallid; most of his face stood out in stark contrast to his hair and swollen, red eyes. He had discarded his robes at some point, and was wearing khaki slacks (some of his Muggle clothes) that looked slightly too small and a white shirt. His expression was somewhat dazed, though it was obvious he was perfectly aware of everything going on around him. And right now, he realized suddenly, everyone was waiting for him to speak. He spoke softly, but there was an unmistakable edge to his voice that no one really liked. At the moment, he sounded too much like Padfoot. He fixed the matron with an emotionless glare. "Sirius would never hurt Harry or Hermione. And he had nothing to do with it. I know. I was there."
"The boy is correct, Poppy," Dumbledore said softly. He spoke quickly now, anxious to get through the bare minimum of explanations so Ron could be allowed to speak. "Sirius is Harry's godfather. He was wrongly accused of betraying James and Lily, and he hasn't [has he] committed any crime. I unfortunately, have simply not been able to gather enough irrefutable evidence to prove that yet. Peter Pettigrew … is most certainly not dead. It is he who betrayed us, so many years ago. It is he who murdered all of those innocents with a single curse, and it is he who attacked the Hogwarts Express today. Sirius would no more hurt Harry than you would willingly neglect one of your patients. He is just as attached to Hermione. And I must ask you - what is your opinion of me, if you think I would allow a mass murderer to lounge in my office while I wandered about the school?"
And just like that, the woman deflated. Ron's expression suddenly changed to one of alarm. The mediwitch seemed to be on the verge of collapse. Even Sirius' fury-charged face softened. "You would not lie to me, Headmaster?" The voice was pleading.
Dumbledore's eyes regained a glimmer of their normal twinkle. In their chairs, Minerva and Sirius smiled, though the latter's expression was highly muted. "Never, Poppy."
Poppy Pomfrey's gaze shifted to Sirius, and their eyes met. The former Marauder found himself looking into searching pools of surprise, muted pleasure, and far too much shame to leave him comfortable. "Then," she whispered, "you've always been … been …"
"Innocent," Sirius finished the sentence for her, his voice gentle.
This time, she seemed to really be about to fall over, but Dumbledore somehow managed to get her to a chair. "Oh, my God."
It always amazed Sirius how easily Dumbledore could convince most people (excepting Fudge, who didn't seem to have a fully developed brain) of the truth simply by means of the calm, rational manner in which he conducted himself. He knew it had more to do with the extraordinary level of trust most people placed in the man. It was really quite amazing, and any other time he would have allowed himself to enjoy the feeling of yet another small-scale vindication.
But not now.
"I will give you the full details at a more opportune time," Dumbledore said after a quiet pause, "but now is not the most appropriate time. We have … other matters … to discuss."
But Sirius suddenly had what he felt was a very urgent question. His eyes roamed over the youngest Weasley male, looking for any sign of serious injury. All he found was a wrapped up wrist. "Why did you come with Ron, Madam Pomfrey?" His tone turned dark, his eyes narrowing. "How badly did the rat injure him?"
Poppy blinked. Now there was something close to what she thought Black was supposed to act like. But despite the venom in his voice, she could find no trace of pure malevolence. She had seen enough in Voldemort's last war to understand the source of his anger. But to see such intensity - she averted her eyes, determined to answer his question. "He is, I suppose, the least injured of them all, but I prefer to keep an eye on him right now, seeing as …" she trailed off. She needed a way to say this gently.
Once again, Ron stole all attention. "She's trying to say she's very surprised I haven't lapsed into shock like Ginny yet, and wants to be on hand in case I do." His voice was acid. Minerva took in a breath, and Sirius narrowed his eyes.
This isn't good, he thought darkly. Dumbledore didn't react, but everyone in the room knew that didn't necessarily mean anything. After a few moments, the nastiness evaporated from his face. Sirius knew it couldn't have gone very far.
"Ah," Dumbledore sighed. "An accurate assessment, Ron, no doubt. Please sit down. I trust you know why I have brought you here. I was reluctant to discuss it in the Hospital Wing for fear of aggravating your siblings." The prefect took a seat next to Sirius as Poppy settled in next to Minerva. The fugitive put a hand on the boy's shoulder and squeezed lightly. Neither made any attempt to break the contact.
Ron's tone was low now; drained. It was obvious the full impact of today's events had yet to hit him. He wore the look of a man in a surreal dream world, waiting to get out. It wouldn't be long before he realized there was no escape. "I understand. You need me to tell you about … what happened to them."
"We need to know as much as we can," Dumbledore said gently, "but I would only have you speak now if you feel up to the task."
Ronald Weasley, Gryffindor prefect and best friend of Harry Potter, considered. There was a part of him that was still convinced none of this was really happening. This was, of course, all some horrible nightmare. He would wake up soon, safe in his own bed, his mother shaking him gently by the shoulder. It would be time to get dressed and head for King's Cross. And he would go, and Harry and Hermione would be there, safe and whole, smiling and waiting for him. And they would be happy.
No, you idiot, that's your fantasy world. Get out of there. Harry and Hermione are dead, remember? You watched them die. And this is certainly not a dream, otherwise you wouldn't have pulled every muscle in your forearm. And Ginny's not even that heavy. They're dead. You failed. What now? Now, Dumbledore needed his help.
"After we're done, can I owl my parents?" Suddenly, more than anything, he wanted his mother and father.
"Yes, of course," Minerva said gently. It was the first time she had spoken directly to the boy since he entered the room.
"Then let's get this over with," he said quietly. He took a deep breath, and began.
"By … by the time I got Ginny back up, they were almost gone. I could see though them both; they were fainter than ghosts. I could have sworn … Harry, he was looking at me. I couldn't see Hermione's face. Then there was a bright flash … and they were … were …" he trailed off, damning himself as he did his best to force back the tears brimming in his eyes. There wasn't much of a point to it, he knew. McGonagall and Sirius were weeping openly, Pomfrey [Pompfrey] was a blithering mess, and Dumbledore - he preferred not to think of or look at Dumbledore right now. The transformation was slow; it took place over the course of his recount of events, but Ron understood now. This man sitting behind the desk, this was the man the Dark Lord feared. He did, however, wonder why a man who could look so angry, so unutterably powerful, couldn't have defeated the monster years ago.
"I believe Professor McGonagall found you shortly afterward," he said darkly.
God, when has he ever sounded so angry? Did Harry see him like this last year? Indeed, for the Headmaster, sorrow had given way for a while to a burning fury. "Yes, sir. She told George to stay with us, then she went to … owl you. Then she came back with Madam Pomfrey. She put Fred on a stretcher and took us to the front of the train. She decided to sedate Ginny, she wouldn't calm down … and that was it."
All was silent. Dumbledore nodded. "Thank you for talking to us, Ron. I know it has been very difficult for you to relive all this so soon. You have shown remarkable bravery today, whether you yourself think that to be the truth."
Ron certainly didn't believe that was the truth. "But I failed. I couldn't do anything besides watch Harry and Hermione die."
"I do believe," Dumbledore said evenly, "you prevented your sister from falling to her death."
Ron blinked, feeling better in spite of himself. Damn it. He has mind powers. "Better than nothing doesn't feel right, Professor."
"Indeed, my boy. And it shouldn't. The three of you fought a battle today, and Harry and Hermione fell. But through your actions, you prevented the death of another. We must never dwell on those we were not able to save, Ron. Despite all our effort and goodwill, there are some situations in which there can be no completely happy outcome. Be that as it may, we must always do our best to protect those we can. Do you understand?"
Ron nodded, wiping a few stray tears from his cheeks. "I do." He was silent for a few moments. It was obvious to everyone around him that he was trying to collect himself. "Professor?"
"Yes?"
"If you don't need me anymore … I think would like to go back to the Hospital Wing now." He didn't say it, but it was quite obvious he wanted to get back to George, Fred, and Ginny. He felt horrible leaving George by himself to sit alone with his two unconscious siblings. It was not lost on him that only one of them was likely to wake up any time soon.
Dumbledore smiled kindly at the boy. "Of course. Though I must ask that you and George attempt to eat something; you're missing dinner." He couldn't bring himself to use the word "feast" right now. "In fact, I believe I will have something sent up to both of you, if you don't mind."
Even if he had a problem with that, now was not the time to mention it. "Thank you, Professor."
"You are welcome, young man. If you need anything from me, anything at all, please let me know."
"Yes, sir. Thank you." Exhaustion rolled off the youngest conscious Weasley in waves. Poppy, tears still running silently down her face, seemed suddenly energized.
"Come, young man. You need to rest now." She took his arm and began leading him out of the room. He was almost to the door, when he suddenly stopped. He turned back around, and addressed them all with a calm, quiet voice. "You'll get him, right? Pettigrew? For what he did?"
"There will be no escape for him," Sirius growled before anyone else had the chance to speak. "Not this time. I promise." Ron seemed placated, and left the room with Poppy. Once again, Sirius, Albus, and Minerva were alone. No one spoke.
Sirius hung his head. "Damn it."
"I don't understand," Minerva muttered, ignoring Sirius, "why Pettigrew just didn't use the Killing Curse. I've never heard of the incantation Ron mentioned."
"Perhaps he felt there was a chance Harry would survive the curse again," Dumbledore said quietly. "And as for the incantation … no one can deny Voldemort his brilliance," he finished sadly.
"You've heard of it, then?" Minerva thought it was strange, how calm and clinical each of them was being. It'll wear off soon, she thought. Best to get through this while we can still think.
Dumbledore nodded gravely. "The Time Banishment Curse. Truly powerful Dark magic; a spell with no countercurse. Pettigrew would have had to practice intensely for weeks to learn the weak form of it he used against Harry and Hermione."
Sirius looked severely nonplussed. "That was a weak form? What the hell is that curse supposed to do, then? Besides incinerate people?" He had turned slightly green.
Dumbledore's voice was suddenly hollow. "It doesn't incinerate people, Sirius. It doesn't kill its victims, not in the literal sense, though they are forever lost to us." That got a pair of confused faces, both suddenly looking just a bit more hopeful than they had before. Albus cursed himself for his choice of words. "It removes them from time. Whoever or whatever is struck by will cease to exist. And that, unfortunately, is the best way I can explain it. The stronger form of the curse allows for more specific targeting, like the Stunning Spell, or the Killing Curse itself. It is also instant in its effects. Most wizards cannot aim such a powerful weapon effectively and hope to actually cast it at the same time, so they settle for using the blue wave Ron Weasley described. In that form, it effects whatever it may happen to hit."
Sirius' face was a study in abject horror. "You mean … they're still alive somewhere, suffering in some timeless hell for all eternity?"
"They are not suffering, Sirius." Minerva gasped, but Dumbledore didn't give her time to speak. "One cannot exist outside of time," he said quickly. "Without time, there can be no awareness. The moment that you are born, the moment you cease to exist - it all melds together into a horrible nothingness. They are not suffering. They are not aware of their situation, or of any thought at all. They have simply … ceased."
"Is there any possibility of bringing them back?" Minerva asked, suddenly hopeful.
Dumbledore sighed again, shaking his head. "That is why victims of time banishment are considered dead, Minerva. It is impossible to rescue someone from a place without dimension, and the sea of time has none. Wizards have been trying for a millennia [millinia] to create a countercurse, but none has been devised." A wretched finality filled consumed his voice. "Harry Potter and Hermione Granger are dead. It must be kept that simple if, for nothing else, the sake of the people who love them. Do you understand?"
It occurred to Albus Dumbledore then that at some point he couldn't determine, his life had become a succession of frightened, heartbroken people nodding grimly at him as he forced reality upon them, with the occasional battle or happy memory woven in between. He was tired.
"Now, we must get Sirius back to London. I will return, then it will be time to summon the staff."
The Hospital Wing was quiet, but complete silence was not to be had. In Ron Weasley's very biased opinion that was unfortunate … total quiet would have suited him quite well. It was very late now, he knew, even though he didn't care to go in search of a clock. His watch was somewhere in a pile of soiled robes. It had been ages since Dobby, looking confused and worried, had brought him and George more food than two reasonably normal teenage boys could ever hope to eat. The elf looked strained. Ron remembered the little magical man bursting in, supporting no less than seven separate dishes with a Hover Charm. Madam Pomfrey had been seeing to Fred at the time. He greeted the Weasley prefect warmly, even going so far as a tight, quick hug around the abdomen. He said that he was glad to see "Harry Potter's friend," then, ignoring the pained look that flashed across the human's face (or maybe he didn't ignore it … sometimes it was impossible to be completely sure with clever elves like Dobby), swept his gaze across all the beds in the room. Ron had no doubt who he was looking for; no doubt that he wouldn't find them. Eventually, he had turned back to Ron, and their eyes met. Understanding flashed wordlessly between them. Dobby suddenly nodded solemnly then, quickly turning his back to the boy. He remembered his words clearly. They were laced with quiet sobs. "It is true, then. Harry Potter is gone. Harry Potter's other best friend is gone." Silence. Dobby stiffened, and without looking back, said flatly, emotionlessly, "I is supposed to see Dumbledore now. Friend of Harry Potter's and his brother should eat." And he left.
He and George had eaten, more out of reflex than anything else. Indeed, Ron couldn't recall actually being hungry. They had talked very little - Ron was quite reluctant to go over everything again so soon, and George was in too much shock to press matters. The older Weasley had stared at his twin and Ron set his eyes on Ginny, both of them trying to rouse their siblings by effort of will. Ron knew better - after all, Poppy Pomfrey had told him herself that his sister would be out for a minimum of eighteen hours, and Fred, well … Fred wasn't dead, at any rate - but the alternative was more talking. Talking was bad.
It had eventually been decided that Ron would write their parents, seeing as he was the one who was actually present for the entire fiasco. So, hours after the older Weasley had fallen asleep watching over his fallen siblings and long after Madam Pomfrey had retired for the evening, Ron Weasley was still up, trying to decide how best to word his letter. Time was of the essence. He knew Dumbledore would be spreading the word around to his allies soon, his parents included. Somehow, he just couldn't let them find out like that. He wasn't sure he could make it through the epistle if he tried to explain every detail - his mind simply locked up when he considered doing that. Writing everything down would be admitting it actually happened; casting off the vestiges of denial. He didn't want to do that. Right now, he was somewhere in the middle region of grief, somewhere after shock but before complete acceptance. It felt a lot like walking on air. Everything seemed brighter, louder, more noticeable than it should have. Unreality.
It'd be easier to explain it to them if they were here, in the room with me. But how could I get them here without telling them everything? He knew they would have to come anyway, considering more than half their children were hurt in some sort or another, one of them possibly suffering from some sort of permanent injury. He knew the mediwitch well enough to know she wasn't being completely honest with them about Fred. He grimaced, imagining his mother's reaction to that news. So, the trick was getting the two of them to Hogwarts without completely alarming them. Then the solution occurred to him. It was so simple, so obvious - any other time he might have laughed at himself.
He wanted his parents. He would ask for them. It was completely abnormal for a student to write home requesting his parents to come to the school. It would raise their curiosity enough without necessarily alarming them, as long as he kept the details to a minimum. He dipped the quill Madam Pomfrey had given him into the ink bottle on the table at the foot of his bed, and began to write.
Mum and Dad,
Hi. There's been a Death Eater attack on the train. I suspect Dumbledore will be telling you both about it shortly, but I wanted to be the first you heard it from. Fred and Ginny are in the Hospital Wing. We'd all like you to come to Hogwarts as soon as possible. They might be in there a little while. Can you come tonight?
Ron
Good. Could have done without the damned tearstains, he dashed furiously at his eyes with his free hand. How dare they betray him when he was trying to appear calm and urgent. The letter was simple enough to make them wonder, short and abrupt enough to make them worry just enough to want to comply with his request as soon as possible. He felt bad for playing them against their emotions like this, but it would be much easier, in the long run. He folded the letter carefully and rose silently. Pigwidgeon would be waiting for him in the owlery. He sent up a silent plea to whoever was watching to keep Filch out of his way. Not that he would be stopped. At that moment, he had no problems with the thought of stupefying the man.
He was halfway down the first hallway when the hair on the back of his neck prickled. He turned around and beheld the slender form of Sirius Black. The fugitive was regarding him carefully. "Owlery?" he asked, after a short silence. Ron kept walking, but beckoned the man to follow him. "Not in the mood for Filch?" There was the barest hint of humor in his voice. Ron latched onto it.
"Not really. Knowing him, he'd try to have me expelled. Again."
"He's not good at much else. I hope that little slip of parchment isn't all you're planning on sending your mother," he said suddenly.
Ron looked down, cheeks suddenly burning with something very close to shame. It was funny … he wasn't that attached to Sirius, not like Harry had been, or even Hermione, for that matter, but he valued the man's opinion. He wasn't like a teacher … more like an older cousin of sorts. He'd discussed it with Hermione once - there was something about the man that made you want him to respect you. "It's not like that," he said finally, passing the small parchment to the Marauder, "I couldn't tell them in a letter. I mean, it's not just Harry and Hermione - Madam Pomfrey's lying about Fred. I know it. Something's very wrong with him. She's too worried. George knows it too. He's a wreck. And Ginny … you know, Pomfrey and McGonagall had to pry her off me? She was hysterical. Hell, Sirius - they had to sedate my sister."
Sirius sighed, laying a calming hand on the boy's shoulder. It was more awkward than he would have liked - before long, Ron would be taller than him. "I know." Blessed are the departed, forever spared the pain of the living. He unfolded the parchment, reading silently. After a moment, he handed it back to Ron. "That will do nicely. A bit underhanded of you, considering what you're going to drop on them, but I understand your reasoning. After all, you've got be able to talk when they get here."
Ron nodded. "How are you doing it?"
Sirius raised an eyebrow. "What?"
"Staying so … composed."
The man known as Padfoot sighed heavily. "The knowledge, my boy, that very soon I will be alone in a place where no one will be able to see me. Azkaban is patience, Ron. Let's get that letter off."
"Think Dumbledore will be upset by my approach?"
A bark of a laugh filled his ears. "You think he didn't anticipate exactly what you were going to do?"
A grin. How Sirius liked seeing that. "How does he do that, anyway?"
Sirius felt an impish impulse invade his raddled brain. "Magic."
The sun shined brightly in Severus Snape's eyes. He felt them watering, but was quite sure the light had nothing to do with it, and he couldn't blame it completely on lack of sleep, much to his own fury. Somewhere deep in hell, he thought bitterly, an especially hot fire is waiting for me. He tugged at the black jeans he was wearing. He felt absurd, but knew his robes would have earned him more attention than necessary from the good people of Privet Drive. This was it. "Dumbledore?"
The older wizard, clad in blue jeans and a white Oxford shirt, nodded. Normal as his clothing was, the effect was ruined by his magnificent hair. "Are you ready, Severus?"
"Does it matter?"
Dumbledore frowned. "No. Let us go, then."
"It is time, then. I assume you know why I have asked the four of you here. I will not inform two families that their children have been ripped away from them by owl. A great war is coming, and many will die, but our humanity must survive. This morning I will need volunteers to carry out our final obligations to Harry and Hermione. I trust the four of you more than any other people I have ever met. I am asking that you assist me in this grim endeavor.
Hagrid, I will first ask you to go to the Hospital Wing. Do not intrude on the Weasleys more than you need to, but see to it that they have everything they need."
"Yes, Headmaster."
"I shouldn't be here, Minerva." Miles away from the Albus and the Potions Master of Hogwarts School, Sirius tugged at his tight t-shirt and black jeans, unused to feeling so … confined. But truly, his qualms with his current clothier (the Muggle Studies professor had been kind enough to "fit them out," as she called it) had very little to do with his current discomfort. "I don't belong here."
Minerva, wearing a simple black dress, looked sympathetically at the man she still thought of as young boy. But then again, she was getting up in years … everyone was starting to be a young boy, or girl, as the case sometimes proved to be. Then her eyes met those haunted, tired orbs, and she scolded herself. Sirius Black was a boy no more. "You understand why Dumbledore didn't want you speaking to Harry's aunt and uncle?"
Sirius smiled sadly. "Because if I'm right about how they'll react, I would deserve to be in Azkaban by the end of the day?"
Minerva shook her head. "Close enough." She stopped at a house their records indicated belonged to the Grangers. "This is it."
"Severus, you and I will travel to Surrey. We will inform the Dursleys of the murder of their nephew, and offer to assist them with funeral arrangements." His eyes darkened. "We will not mention Harry's vast wealth. I have reason to believe knowledge of its existence … might adversely effect their priorities."
Severus Snape smirked, a dry chuckle escaping his lips. "Truly, Dumbledore, it's amazing how you constantly manage to sidestep those filthy Muggles' lack of …" his smirk turned into a sneer, "any redeeming qualities whatsoever."
"Careful, Snape," Black muttered. "Keep it up, and you might find me agreeing with you."
"A true tragedy indeed, Black."
Dumbledore seemed to ignore them both, though for an instant, his eyes twinkled with something close to amusement. "Minerva, take Sirius and travel to the Granger residence. I assume you know what to do?" Two sets of nods. "Sirius, I am taking a great risk sending you out into the public, but I think Lucy and Scott will benefit from talking to a relative of Harry's. Be careful."
"You have my word I won't be killed or Demented until I've put Pettigrew in his grave."
"Well … on that note, let us go to work." Dumbledore rose from his chair. It was time.
The woman's toe caught on the side of the coffee table, and she nearly tripped. She managed to right herself quickly though, a scowl flashing across her face. "Damn it. That hurt!"
Scott Granger narrowed his chocolate eyes at his wife and ran a hand through his short, brown hair. "Lucy, are you alright? You don't look like you slept too well."
The woman sighed, adjusting the straps on her yellow sundress. Not exactly the most professional looking clothing she owned, but she would be covering it up with a lab coat soon enough. "No … I guess I didn't. I kept having these strange dreams."
Scott was fiddling with his tie, now. It was a red and gold one Hermione had gotten him. The thing never wanted to stay knotted, it seemed. He raised an eyebrow. "You too? What about?" Not about the kids … that'd be too freakish.
"Hermione."
Whoever's up there, thank you for not listening. "Me, too. What was yours about?"
"I can't remember all of it." She sighed. "I remember it was dark, and I was terrified. It was raining. Hermione was holding Harry's hand, telling me not to worry, that she had to go away with him, and we would never see her again. Harry didn't say anything. He just stood there and grinned at us. Then he wrapped an arm around my baby and started leading her away. It was … just unnerving."
Her husband frowned. "That's … that's really lovely, dear."
Lucy stuck her tongue out. "I thought so. How about you?"
"There were[?] gerbils. I hate gerbils."
Lucy giggled. "I'm not even going to ask."
Scott grinned. "Well, good lady, like I said, you've outdone me."
"Do I get a prize?" Scott leaned over slightly on the couch and pecked her cheek. "I thought I was supposed to be getting those for free anyway. You know, I was thinking about it this morning, how much do we actually know about Harry? I mean, we see him what, five minutes a year? Same thing with this … oh, what's his name … Ron Weasley. The two closest friends our daughter has, and we've never spent more than fifteen minutes at a time around either of them."
"There was that whole … ahem … incident at the book store in Hermione's second year," Scott suggested quietly.
Lucy narrowed her eyes. "Oh, yes," she hissed, "let's bring that up. Lucius Malfoy calls both of us and our daughter glorified dirt, and ends up in a fist fight with Arthur Weasley as a result. How did that teach us anything new about Harry or Ron?"
Scott floundered, regretting bringing the whole thing up in the first place. "It … uh … uh … at least they weren't the ones that attacked the bastard," he finished quickly. It was obviously time to change the subject. He smirked. "And while we don't know that much about Ron, I think Harry's the one we should be focusing on." The smirked turned into what could only be classified as an evil grin. His wife returned it in force.
"You think she likes him, too?"
"It's a bit obvious, isn't it? Well, to everyone but the two of them, at any rate. And I imagine that Weasley boy's in denial too. I saw one of the letters he wrote to her. He's got it bad. The sad thing is I don't think she even realizes it. She's too busy gushing over Harry." He grinned. "Unless it's suddenly become normal behavior for one's daughter to fill her letters home with information about the boy's latest exploits and her involvement therein."
"The ones she feels aren't alarming enough to make us order her onto the first train back to King's Cross, you mean."
He nodded. "Exactly. To be young again."
Lucy was suddenly assaulting him with a pillow. "We aren't that old yet, Scott. I don't know about you, but I intend on turning thirty-six several more times."
"Noted," her husband answered, quickly scooting out of range. He glanced at his watch. They would need to be at work in about forty minutes. He sighed, his face suddenly dark. "I wished she had agreed to be a little more careful this time around."
"I know. I do too. But you have to admit we were a little … broad with our suggestions. And she made a very good point."
"I know she did, but she's our responsibility, not Harry. It's not fair. I just … it's just … well, all you and I have ever wanted was a normal, healthy daughter. I remember when we found out she was … magical. I was scared then, but not of her. It was wonderful, amazing and unbelievable, but I couldn't help think of all the people that would hate her if they knew what she was, all the people that would want to keep her in a padded room so they could perform experiments on her. It was very sobering."
"You've seen too many bad movies, Scott," Lucy said flatly.
"Tell me you didn't have the exact same thoughts."
"You know I'd be lying if I did," she said thinly.
"Exactly. But I figured, you know, there have been wizards and witches around for thousands of years, and no one thinks they're real, so it couldn't be that dangerous. Of course, then she had to go and hook up with the miracle child. That boy has nearly gotten her killed every single year for the last four years. And don't say the third year was uneventful. She's hiding something about the end of it, and you know it. As smart as she is, she's not a very good liar."
Nodding. "I know." Just then, the doorbell rang. She raised an eyebrow. "Expecting someone?"
He shook his head. "You?" She swayed her hair from side to side. "That's odd. I wonder who it is. I'll get it." Scott rose, smoothing out his khaki slacks. He wasn't even at work yet and they were already wrinkling. Sometimes he wondered why he even tried. When he got to the door, he threw it open. The people waiting for him couldn't have been more of a surprise. He didn't recognize either of them, but they struck him as being somehow out of place, like they didn't belong there.
Indeed, the man kept darting his eyes around, almost like he was expecting someone to jump out from behind a bush and attack him. He had thick black hair that stopped somewhere between his shoulder blades and hung languidly over his forehead. His skin, more than a little unhealthy looking, would have caught Scott's attention, if it hadn't been for the dark eyes that were set in the man's skull. Somehow, just looking at them made him feel uncomfortable.
The woman was shorter, with black hair tied back in what looked to be a very painful bun. She was an older woman with dark, beady eyes set behind a pair of small, square spectacles. He wasn't sure why, but in the instant before he greeted them, the hairs on the back of neck sprang to attention. It was then that he noted the wooden stick protruding from one of the man's pockets. Unconsciously, he stiffened. "Hello? May I help you?"
Minerva cleared her throat, suddenly feeling a tremendous urge to hex Sirius through a wall for talking her into speaking first. "Yes, we are looking for Scott and Lucy Granger," she said crisply. "Do we have the right house?" There was a note of urgency and nervousness in her voice that Scott didn't like. At all.
"You do," he said briskly. "I'm Scott Granger. And you are …"
"Oh!" Minerva couldn't believe she'd forgotten to introduce herself. Get it together, McGonagall … you've done this too many times before to be having trouble now. "How rude of me. My name is Minerva McGonagall," she said, offering a hand, "I'm the Deputy -"
"Headmistress of Hogwarts School," Scott said abruptly, eyes wide. "I've seen your signature on Hermione's school letters." Something was very wrong here. Every parental instinct he had was on high alert. On reflex, he took her hand, shaking it lightly. He turned to Sirius, suddenly wondering if he hadn't seen the man's face on one of Hermione's Daily Prophets … it was an old one …
Sirius seized his hand (which was still outstretched, much to the dentist's surprise) and shook it vigorously. He was a bit more prepared than Minerva. "Hello, Mr. Granger. I'm Magnus Grim, but please, call me Padfoot. Everyone else does. I work with Minerva." And I'll be much more likely to realize you're speaking to me that way. "May we come in? We really need to talk to you."
Scott's voice had suddenly deserted him. All that was left was a dry, hoarse thing. "This … this is about Hermione, isn't it? Something's happened to her." The woman he knew as Minerva McGonagall nodded gravely.
"It is urgent," she said softly, "that we speak to you and your wife."
"Come in," was the only response he could manage.
When the three of them made it back to the sitting room, Lucy Granger sat up sharply. Her husband was wearing an almost alarmed expression. He gestured haphazardly at a pair of chairs next to a glass coffee table. "Sit down, please," he said quietly. "This is my wife Lucy. Lucy, this is Professor McGonagall and Magnus Grim. They've come from Hogwarts." He fell onto the couch next to her.
Lucy looked from the older woman to the slightly unhealthy looking man and back again, focusing on their eyes. Her mother had always said the quickest way to ascertain how serious a piece of news happened to be was to watch the eyes of the messenger. She felt panic rising in her heart, and bile rising through her chest. "What's going on? What's happened to Hermione?" she demanded after a moment of charged silence. Her voice was suddenly full of steel. It was brittle, but it was there nonetheless.
"Your daughter has no doubt told you of the recent resurgence of the Dark Lord?" Minerva asked finally, breaking the silence again.
"Yes," Scott said flatly, dreading where his subconscious knew this was going. His wife was clutching his hand so tightly he was sure he would feel things snapping very soon. "We've heard of him. What has he done?"
"There was an attack on the Hogwarts Express. A very dangerous Death Eater managed to get aboard."
"The Death Eater was after Harry Potter." Sirius jumped in when Minerva stalled. He was doing his best to keep his voice even and face expressionless, but he wasn't sure how well it was working. "There was a fight in a compartment containing Harry, Hermione, and the Weasley children."
Lucy was tearing up now, and Sirius was lamenting his lack of subtlety. For someone who had been a covert agent once, he was surprisingly lacking. "Harry and your daughter," he began again, softly, "were forced to defend themselves after the other occupants of the compartment were knocked unconscious." He paused, letting this sink in. He traded a glance with Minerva and awaited the inevitable question.
"How … how badly … what happened to my baby?" Lucy's voice was small now, nearly broken. Sirius knew that within seconds, it would be gone entirely. He felt a sudden wave of anger at Dumbledore for asking him to do this, then a quiet sadness overtook him - if he hadn't been asked, he would have volunteered, and he knew it. Still, he couldn't help the nausea welling up in his chest.
He and Scott locked eyes, and Sirius knew he wouldn't be able to mask the truth. It only took five seconds (Sirius knew, for he counted them as he waited) for the synapses in the dentist's brain to fire. His eyes widened and he the hand his wife was holding began to shake. The truth was his. Sirius was glad. He didn't think he could say the rest of it, not with them staring like that, boring into him with pleading eyes. Luckily for all involved, Minerva McGonagall had reclaimed her voice.
"The attacker sealed the compartment doors. They could not escape. Our witness, Ron Weasley, told us that they fought with great courage." The parents were shaking now, Lucy was sobbing openly. They understood in all likelihood, but Minerva pressed on. It was her duty to finish. "But … but … before we could penetrate the compartment," she paused for a second - this was it, "both of them were killed. Your daughter is gone. I'm so sorry."
Time wasn't supposed to stop. Sirius Black knew this. As far as he knew, there weren't even spells that could do it. Yet, as he sat there, watching the pair of dentists, he knew that had to be what was happening. Minerva's voice was still fading from the air, and no one was moving. He knew, in the back of his mind, that only one second had passed, but it felt like an eternity. It was the void between the before, when everything was happy and right, and the now, when the world as it was known was torn asunder. He knew; he'd crossed the line the first time in 1981, when his own life had been brutally ruined.
Second two. Time returned to its normal pace. "No!" Lucy screamed, tears flying from her eyes as her head snapped up to look at them. "No! You have to be lying … she can't be dead!" Scott just stared, as though his mind had yet to realize exactly what was going on.
"I assure you," Sirius said quietly, "we would not play such a cruel prank. We are not lying. We would have been here sooner, but it's taken all night to figure out exactly what happened. We didn't want to come to you with half-complete information." Okay, so that's a bit untrue. We knew pretty quick once we talked to Ron. Figuring out how to handle it was another matter entirely. Hell, it still is another matter. The woman didn't say anything else as another wave of sobs seized her. She leaned into her husband.
"Oh, God." Scott's voice was barely above a whisper. His eyes were brimming with tears, but they had yet to flow in earnest. Neither Minerva nor Sirius showed it, but they were both surprised. They had figured it would be the father who was the louder, more irrational of the two. But then again, what did they really know about Hermione's parents? At any rate, the man was still in shock, suffering from that lovely unrealism the animagus himself knew so well. That much was obvious. It occurred to the shape-shifter that that would make him easier to talk to, and he scolded himself. "They … she was … murdered?" Sirius nodded. Then, there was silence. Minerva and Sirius traded glances, each wondering who would speak next. They knew it wouldn't be either of them.
"When can we see her … her body? She's at that school of yours somewhere, right?" Lucy asked. "We'll need to bring her home so we can … bury her." Sirius blanched.
Minerva sounded strained when she spoke again. "I am afraid that will not be possible, Lucy."
"Well, why the hell not?" the other woman burst, anger in her rapidly reddening eyes, "What do we have to do, fill out some sort of paperwork or something before you'll let us see her?"
Minerva sighed. She usually didn't let these things get so out of hand, but she had to admit that right now, she wasn't at her best. The deaths of Harry and Hermione had hit her harder than she wanted to admit. No, that wasn't really the truth. Their passing had effected her more than her position permitted her to admit. She envied Sirius for his ability to burst with emotion without seeming deranged. If she dared show her inner turmoil to anyone but Albus, they'd look at her like she'd grown a third head. "We would never prevent you from seeing the remains of your daughter, Mrs. Granger."
The younger woman blinked. "I don't underst - oh God." She clapped her hands over her mouth. "There's nothing left, is there? Oh, my God. Those bastards!"
"It's not so gruesome as that," Sirius said softly, praying that what Dumbledore had told him the night before was true. "They didn't suffer. There aren't any remains because at the moment of their deaths, their bodies ceased to exist." He was careful to leave out the part about Harry and Ron making eye contact while he was in the blue energy bubble. That would mean their daughter was still alive when she was being torn apart molecule by molecule, and quite possibly was in a lot of pain. If there was one outright lie he was willing to tell these people, it was this: Hermione Granger felt no pain.
"And you got this … Death Eater. The man that killed Hermione and Harry?" Scott was pale now; tears were streaking down his face. It wouldn't take much more to put him in a similar state as his wife.
"We will," Sirius said reassuringly, and no one in the room missed the flash of anger in his eyes, or the resolve in his voice. "I promise the both of you, I'll get him." Minerva glared at him. Now was not the time to show his vengeful side, but there was little to be done about it now.
"The day before she left, I told her to stay away from him." It seemed Hermione's mother was talking more to herself than anyone else now. "I told her it was dangerous to be so close to someone a maniac wanted dead. But she wouldn't listen. She said she wouldn't betray his trust like that. That she was his friend, and she wouldn't give that up because she was afraid. I … I gave in. I just told her to be careful, and we sent her off."
"You couldn't have changed anything, Lucy," Sirius whispered. "Pettigrew sealed the doors. She couldn't have left if she wanted to."
"Still," she responded stubbornly, "I'm her mother, I should have been able to make her stay away from him, where it was safe."
Minerva watched Sirius interestedly. She had not expected him to take the lead the way he had. Whether he was naturally so eager to interact with grieving people, or was simply seizing the opportunity to interact with people who weren't members of the Order without them screaming in terror, she had to admit that it was a relief. He was doing a good job, and she was tired. "I doubt," Sirius said finally, after a moment of contemplation, "you could have kept her away from him for any significant length of time if you'd gotten on the train with her."
"You sound like you're quite familiar with our daughter's behavior, Mister … uh … Padfoot." That tone was a bit too harsh for the Marauder's liking. He would have to do something about it.
Sirius put on his most winning smile (which, quite honestly, he thought looked much more winning before Azkaban yellowed his teeth, but it was still worth a try). "Just Padfoot, please. And yes, I met your daughter a few times. When I was visiting Harry." Minerva flashed him a warning look, but he ignored it. They could swear them to secrecy on everything important before they left. If Minerva was really worried, she could cast a Memory Charm. "I don't know if she ever mentioned me, but I am Harry's godfather." He was unable to keep his voice perfectly level when he said it - he could have sworn.
"Oh." Scott suddenly looked quite taken aback. Lucy was looking at the fugitive intently, new tears flowing down her cheeks. There was something close to sympathy in her eyes. Then she said, voice full of a new, morbid understanding, "You'll get him, then?"
Sirius' voice was ice. "Indeed."
"There are," Minerva said, as though the woman had not indirectly expressed her desire for revenge, "other things we need to discuss."
The clock ticked on.